My quiet was interpreted as surrender by them. They were unaware that quiet in my universe is target acquisition rather than surrender. I simply latched on.
The smell of wet concrete, oxidized motor oil, and the sour, lingering stench of bad lager that appeared to permeate the house’s pores made the garage a sensory graveyard. I was just Frank, the shuffling, almost unnoticeable old man who lived in the converted apartment above the office, to the untrained eye. I was the relic in the corner, dressed in pants that had been washed a thousand times and flannel shirts that had seen better days. My eyes were nearly always fixed on the ground, my gait was a cautious limp, and my hands were gnarled with arthritis.
My son-in-law, Mark, thought I was a leech. In addition to my daughter Sarah’s small life insurance policy, he inherited a biological debt.
“Hey, Frank! Are you both useless and deaf?
Like a dull blade, Mark’s high-pitched, irritating voice cut through the muggy Sunday afternoon. I was whittling a piece of pine while seated on a rusty folding chair. Although it was a form of meditation, its main purpose was to serve as a tactical cover for observation. Slowly, I raised my gaze. With a half-empty aluminum can in his meaty hand, Mark stood in the boundary between the kitchen and the garage. The bloated, combative heat that comes from drinking in the middle of the day had flushed him. The house behind him was a clamor of suburban revelry. The air smelled like manufactured joy and buttercream, and balloons swayed against the ceiling. Leo, my grandson, was celebrating his fifth birthday.
Mark scowled and flicked his wrist, saying, “I need ice, Frank.” He threw the empty can in my direction.
It was a disrespectful and indolent throw. Even before it left his fingertips, I could see the trajectory. I didn’t wince. I let it drift past my left ear and heard it splatter stale foam over my workstation as it struck the cinderblock wall with a hollow click.
“You missed,” I said. My voice sounded like the distant idling of a tank engine, a low, gravelly rumble.
Mark laughed an unpleasant, watery laugh. “You old burden, don’t make me seem bad in front of the neighbors. You should be thankful that when Sarah’s heart stopped beating, I didn’t throw your wrinkled ass into a state home. With the odor of unwashed ambition, he entered my personal space. He was a petty tyrant ruling over a very small country, a man who cheated on his taxes and harassed servants. “Get the ice. Additionally, keep out of sight. Nobody wants to attend a five-year-old’s party and stare at a ghost.
I nodded slowly and thoughtfully. I whispered, “Happy birthday to Leo.”
Mark slammed the door after rolling his eyes and muttering an epithet. I didn’t move right away. Checking my worn Timex, I delved into my breast pocket. 1400 hours. It was the last stage of the party. My hand then moved to my jacket’s secret inside pocket. It came into contact with an Iridium satellite phone wrapped in military-grade rubber, which was frigid, heavy, and definitely not appropriate for a suburban garage.
I wasn’t incarcerated. I served as a sentry. I had portrayed the broken grandfather for three years. Because I had promised my daughter on her deathbed that I would protect Leo, I had let Mark steal from my social security payments and denigrate me. I had been gathering information about Mark, a hostile element, in anticipation of the moment when his careless hostility would unavoidably exceed the line.
With a dull, familiar aching that I mentally filed away under “irrelevant,” I rose up, my knees snapping. I moved in the direction of the deep freeze. The music abruptly stopped through the thin drywall. The visitors’ babbling died. For a heartbeat, there was a thick, pregnant silence, and then a child’s frightened cry ripped through the garage. There was no shout of astonishment. It was the scream of an agonized human being.
My hand’s whittling knife stopped moving. Instead of racing, my pulse calmed. My eyesight became a crisp, high-definition tunnel. They had recently revised the Rules of Engagement.
“Drink!” The sound of Mark’s words echoed through the wall. “Drink it, I said!”
Protocols were turned on. An expert’s neurology quickly overshadowed an elderly man’s biology. I made my way to the kitchen door. Running is for the terrified, so I didn’t run. I walked with the stealthy, raptor-like gait I had mastered in jungles that aren’t depicted on maps used by the general public.
The kitchen was a frozen scene of dread when I forced the door open. Drinks half-full, a dozen neighbors stood frozen in place. Leo’s little face was pushed down toward the kitchen sink as Mark held him by the scruff of his neck in the middle of the room. The hot water was running at its scorching limit, and steam was rising from the faucet.
“Want to splatter my rug with juice?” Mark let out a yell and shook the boy. “After that, you can sip the water! Sip it!
Male hostile threat. about 220 pounds. Scalding water is an environmental weapon. A civilian child is an asset. Status: Aggression is active.
Mark was unaware of my approach. The Reaper was standing at his shoulder, but he was too inebriated on his own petty power to recognize it.
I said, “Mark.” It wasn’t a yell. The flooring vibrated at a certain frequency.
With furious and bloodshot eyes, Mark whirled his head. He held onto the youngster tightly. “Old man, get back in the garage! Unless you also want to taste this! Leo’s head was pulled toward the steam by him.
The guard has vanished. The operator was here.
Mark made the amateur error of presuming that my pace was determined by my age. With one hand, he let go of Leo and gave me a clumsy, open-palmed shove to the chest. Instead of retreating, I intervened. In midair, I grabbed his wrist. Normally beset by tremors, my grip was now a vice of iron. I rotated his radius against his ulna instead of just holding it.
Like dry wood splitting in a dead forest, the snap was sharp.
Mark howled right away. Leo scampered off in the direction of the pantry once he let him go. I turned and positioned myself between the youngster and the danger. “Leo, close your eyes. Remain down.
Mark charged, blinded by anger. He swung a haymaker telegraphed and wild. His lungs collapsed as I dodged the arc and rammed my knee into his solar plexus. I took hold of the back of his head and pushed his face against the granite countertop as he folded. It was a final thud. His nose broke and blood spattered a bowl of birthday fruit. Gasping for air that his paralyzed diaphragm would not take, he slipped to the linoleum.
I fell to one knee and pinned him by placing my shin over his throat. With the exception of Mark’s moist, desperate wheezing, the kitchen was completely quiet. My face was just inches from his ear as I bent over.
In a terrifyingly composed voice, I muttered, “I spent six months in a hole in Nicaragua in ’85.” “I discovered that while waterboarding is an art, drowning is panic.” Mark, should we switch places? Should I demonstrate what actual drowning feels like to you?
“He’s killing him!” cried a lady. When the neighbor’s voice broke the enchantment, commotion broke out as everyone rushed to grab their phones. I didn’t raise my eyes. I watched Mark’s carotid pulse while maintaining my weight on his windpipe. It was quick and thready. He was rendered ineffective.
I took the rubberized satellite phone out of my jacket with my free hand. I turned the antenna in the direction of the ceiling. I said into the receiver, “This is Eagle One,” in a steady enough voice to silence the room. “Code Red.” The asset is safe. Forward my coordinates to the extraction crew. I have a prisoner, so bring the military police.