Blood and Sand Read online

  Dad grabs me and arrests my fall. He comes away with his hands covered in blood…my blood. He looks at his hands, shocked to see the red liquid staining his skin, but I don’t let him ponder it. I shove him towards a nearby luggage window and dive in.

  We land with an awkward thump and its then I realize that the conveyer belts have stopped. A precaution due to the sirens, I guess. But honestly, I don’t care, we just scramble to our feet and run.

  The baggage sorting area we just entered is a maze of conveyer belts and other machinery. We run on a ramp that is ten feet off the ground and unfortunately it’s full of stalled bags. So I guess running isn’t the right word, it’s more like we are very bad Olympic hurdlers.

  We take a step and leap, take a step and leap and take another step and leap. I’m exhausted after thirty feet of this crap. Dad, on the other hand, was done after less than half that distance. He stumbles over a golf bag and goes ass-over-teakettle slamming into a large hard plastic suitcase. He hits the bag and rolls off of it with a groan, laying on his back panting for air like a tired dog.

  I bend down next to him and start hauling him back up. He struggles to get back to his feet but jumps up when a door slams open nearby and we hear people screaming. The worst part is, they don’t sound friendly.

  We are about to continue our mad dash to safety, but I look down at our feet and smile. Dad notices the change in my expression.

  “What the hell are you so happy about?” He asks.

  I look up at him, “Do you prefer woods or irons?” I ask, a smile forming.

  Apparently my humor doesn’t really work in a live-or-die type of setting, because I don’t exactly get the reaction I’m looking for. Let’s just chalk this one up to bad timing, I guess.

  “Are you kidding?” Dad hisses.

  I’m obviously not since I now have a set of golf clubs strapped to my back.

  “We don’t have time for this Harrison, we need to leave!”

  I’m about to agree with him and tell him it’s a precaution. I truthfully don’t want to be unarmed. This is just in case we run into anyone who wants to shoot us.

  Another door about fifty feet to our left is slammed open. We hear more voices speaking in hushed tones. I recognize the language, Arabic. I look over at Dad.

  He once had a fellow researcher who was on loan to the Smithsonian from a museum in Egypt. They became good friends, and Dad learned a bit of Arabic in the process.

  Lucky us, I think.

  We kneel behind a couple of large rolling suitcases and look down towards the door as he quietly translates for me.

  Three men, all armed, burst through the doorway and stop. Two of them turn and begin to speak to the third man in the group.

  “Hassim, do you see them?”

  “No,” another voice answers. “What about you? Did you see where they went?”

  “Holy shit,” I whisper. “They’re looking for us?”

  “What could they possibly want with us?” Dad asks.

  “You don’t think it’s because of the site, do you?” I ask. It’s a farfetched idea, but the fame and potential fortune this could bring may be enough to kill for.

  “If it’s what we think…” he answers letting his thought hang in the air for a moment. Then he continues, “It might be enough. People in these parts of the world are desperate and have killed for less.”

  I look back at Dad and hand him a five wood. “Here, take this.”

  He looks over the large boulder shaped head attached to the flexible graphite shaft.

  “Five wood?” He asks with a raised eyebrow.

  “Yeah,” I reply, a hint of a smile on my lips. “Your short game sucks.”

  Ω Ω Ω

  Just before the Boyds entered the sorting room via the luggage ramp, the Operations Captain, a man named Ahmed, keyed his earpiece, calling his Field Commander. A voice immediately boomed through his headset, startling the otherwise stoic killer.

  “Do you see them?” asked Ahmed’s superior.

  “No sir, but Karakura and his team are tracking them down as we speak.”

  “Karakura?” Asked the other man.

  “Hassim, sir.”

  “Ah yes, Hassim. Very good then, Ahmed,” said the man on the other end. “Call me back as soon as you have what we need. Is that understood?”

  Ahmed Hajjar, also known as Viper to the others within his mercenary team, hated dealing with his field commander, an American. He knew little about the pig, except his callsign, Wolf. He also believed that like most American’s he had dealt with in the past, Wolf had no respect for him or his fellow team members, which is why he was called by his first name and not by his operations name. But, Ahmed also knew how dangerous the man was and that he was not to be toyed with. There were rumors he was in the United States Special Forces at one point, but he wasn’t sure if those stories held any water, or if they were fabricated as a scare tactic.

  “Yes sir, not a problem. You’ll be the first to know.”

  The call ended and Ahmed cursed the man’s existence. Hopefully, this job would be over…quickly. He would hate to see what Wolf did to the men who failed him. If the stories were true about the man having an affinity for using less-than-humane interrogation practices… Ahmed shook the thought from his head. He really didn’t want to find out.

  He keyed his mic again, “Karakura, have you found them?”

  There was a momentary pause over the air waves and Ahmed heard what sounded like the pounding of boots and heavy labored breaths coming from the other end. Then the man called, Karakura, named after a Turkish demon, answered breathing heavily, “Viper…we are heading for the sorting room…we think…they may have ducked inside…trying to escape.”

  “Do not let them elude us, is that understood?” Ahmed said with a little bit of a bite at the end. He would not go back to Wolf with bad news.

  “We won’t,” Hassim confidently answered. “They are unarmed and scared. We will find them.”

  Ahmed liked the certainty in the man’s voice—not a hint of doubt.

  He signed off, bringing his attention back to his own whereabouts. He stood over the body of an airport security guard. The man had been shot twice in the chest by one of Ahmed’s men and was lying up against the mangled ATM he was trying to use for cover. He stepped over a bloodied body seeing that the victim was a civilian and not a member of the opposing force. The man had tried to grab some of the money being spewed by the machine, Ahmed remembered. Fool.

  A groan sounded from behind the machine, alerting Ahmed. He strode to the other side of and found the voice’s owner behind an overturned table, lying in a pool of blood and Dinar. He looked down at the pathetic man, watching his life drain away little-by-little.

  Feeling a small amount of pity for the man, Ahmed turned away to let him die in peace, he had no qualm with him, it was just business. As he rounded the ATM he saw the dying security officer had raised a pistol towards him, pain etched on the guard’s face at the effort of holding the weapon steady while slowly bleeding out from his wounds.

  Ahmed kicked the weapon from the man’s hand then drew his own sidearm, aiming it. Without even blinking, Ahmed, the Viper, pulled the trigger. A .45 caliber bullet drove through the security guard’s forehead, splattering pieces of brain matter and fragments of skull on the hard floor beneath the man’s head, killing him instantly.

  The assassin holstered his gun and turned, leaving the carnage through the gaping hole in the wall he had only just a few minutes earlier blown open.

  10

  With nine iron in hand, I lead us off the belt system and down to ground level where travel will be much faster. My goal is to skirt around the men trying to kill us and get Dad and me to safety. The golf clubs are a contingency plan just in case we have to fight back, even though I pray we won’t have to. I can’t imagine a scenario where a set of Ping’s can out do a bullet.

  “Stay low and follow me,” I whisper. “Oh, and try to keep up, I’
m not slowing down.”

  Dad looks terrified, like he’s about to mess up his shorts and I can’t blame him. I’m not doing much better, but I’m holding it together better because quite frankly, I have to.

  We tip-toe behind some heavy machinery—what looks like a massive instrument panel or control station of some kind. I hold my hand up telling Dad to ‘wait’ and flip open a cover. It’s the main power breaker for this section of conveyers. I also notice that it has a set of manual override switches. Like in Jurassic Park, I think. Then I get an idea.

  “Diversion,” I say to myself

  “Diversion?” Dad asks, hearing me.

  “I’m going to throw the override switch for this section. Everything will turn on and draw our friends over. While they come this way to check it out, we will circle around the other way and do our best to avoid them. All we need to do is find a safe route out to the tarmac and signal for help.” I look over for agreement, “Sound like a plan?”

  Dad shrugs, “I don’t like it, but it’s better than anything I can come up with.”

  “Good,” I say. “Let’s tee it up and stay out of the rough.”

  “Are you about done with the golf jokes?” Dad retorts.

  “Almost,” I reply. “I’ve got a few more in the bunker for later.”

  Dad rubs his forehead like he’s warding off a migraine, “Any more of this and I’m going to beg to be shot and taken out of my misery.”

  I’m about to comment but I get cut off.

  “Dammit, just flick the switch already will you?” Dad growls.

  I give him a toothy smile and activate the manual override system, flipping on the red switch. This quarter of the room blinks to life with a cacophony of lights and sounds. The overhead conveyer belts whirl to life, as do the large fluorescent ballasts hanging from the metal utilitarian ceiling.

  Shouts from across the room spur us into action as we duck around a corner into an unlit section of the room and wait. The only problem with my plan is exactly what I hoped didn’t happen. I hear the shooters agree on a plan of their own.

  “Split up and stay quiet. They are unarmed. If they don’t come willingly, shoot him in the leg and we will drag him out.”

  Damn, I think.

  “What of the son?” Another asks.

  I get the answer that makes me almost pee myself.

  “Kill him. We only need the old man.”

  Double damn.

  There’s a tap on my shoulder that awakens me from my stupor.

  “Now what?” Dad asks in a hushed tone.

  I try to think, but nothing new comes to mind, “Same plan but this time if we run into anyone swing away and don’t miss.”

  I’m surprised when he says nothing, but nods in agreement, gripping his club handle tighter. He knows the stakes as well as I do. If we don’t succeed, I’m dead and he’s in a whole heap of trouble.

  I jab a thumb over my shoulder and we set off—away from the newly awoken machines. We zigzag our way through without following a certain path. The only constant is that we are moving toward the facilities outer doors and away from the gunmen.

  I rush around a corner and come face to face with a man dressed in black-on-black military gear. It matches nicely with the easily recognizable soviet-made AK-47 pointing at my face. I yelp and bring up my club in a skyward arc—trying at the very least to disarm the man.

  He blocks my attack and rams the stock of the rifle into my gut, sending me to my knees. While I gasp for air and wait for death, I hear a yell and a thwack. It’s followed by a wet splat and a thump. I look up and see dad standing over the prone man with a killer glare. I also see his broken five wood, blood dripping from its face.

  It’s only when I look at the man lying on the ground behind me that I see the damage. His face is a mess of blood and gore. His nose was driven into his face with such force that it looks like a cheap B-rate Halloween mask.

  “What…happened?” I say in a shaky breath.

  Dad bends down and helps me up.

  “You went around the corner before me and evidently he didn’t see me. When he hit you I popped out and swung as hard as I could.”

  I look back down at the blood-soaked scene.

  “You obviously didn’t miss, did you?” I say.

  He gives a shoulder shrug as if to say, ‘guess not.’ Then he looks away from me almost embarrassed.

  “What?”

  He stammers and then answers, “I may or may not have closed my eyes.”

  I pale a little, but slap my dad on the shoulder.

  “Well, at least you made solid contact. But, for the future can you please keep your eyes on the target, especially when it’s holding an assault rifle?”

  We get interrupted with a shout in Arabic.

  “Where’s Ghazi?” asks a man.

  “He went around the corner a few rows over but never came back,” replies another man.

  “Go check on him and report back to me,” orders the first man.

  Great, I think.

  I grab another club for Dad, this time a three wood and hand it to him.

  “Here,” I say. “Let’s try to be a little more careful shall we?”

  “You’re one to talk,” Dad retorts. “You blew around that corner like you were walking into the kitchen at home. There are people who want you dead and you didn’t even slow up to check to see if a man with a gun was standing there waiting for you. That’s even more reckless than you normally are.”

  Okay. He got me there. I was so focused on not dying that I almost got myself killed. Irony at its finest. If Dad hadn’t been there I’d be a corpse right now.

  “You’re right, sorry,” I apologize.

  “Son, its fine,” he says patting my shoulder. “Just please be more careful, for both our sakes.”

  I nod and head off again, slowing as I reach another turn. This one is clear and we continue on another thirty-or-so feet until a barrage of bullets rip into the metal around us and send us sprawling to the ground. Dad recovers first, getting to his feet quickly, his body obviously not as beat to hell as mine.

  Another man rounds a panel and brings his gun up-another AK-47 from the looks of it. Dad swings, misses, but stumbles right into the guy. They get tangled up long enough for me to get to my feet and bring up my iron. I swing it as hard as I can like it’s a baseball bat and smash the back of the guy’s left hand, shattering it and sending the gun flying. The attacker screams in agony, but its short lived. He bends over and feigns like he is dropping to one knee, just as his other hand brings up some kind of hand gun I didn’t see before.

  I heft the iron high over my head and bring it down, blade first, like I’m chopping wood. I connect with the back of the shooters neck, audibly breaking it, severing his spine, killing him on his feet. The man drops in a heap on top of dad and I drop the club. I look down at my hands with full comprehension that I just killed this man.

  Dad struggles out from beneath the limp body, stands and softly puts his hand on my shoulder. He speaks but I don’t really hear him. I hear something about ‘not having a choice’ and ‘he would have killed you’ but, all I feel is anger. Pure-unadulterated-rage.

  I pull away from the soothing touch of a father and draw my most dangerous club…my putter.

  I turn to my dad and see his confused look as I bring up my club, gripping it until my fingers turn white. I remove the golf bag from my shoulder—opting for quicker footing. Dad’s just standing there waiting for me to say something. I’m sure he sees the clumpy short shafted club as a joke.

  “Steel shaft—zero flex,” I say through gritted teeth. “I don’t want to kill him. I’m going to beat the living shit out of him and get some answers.”

  I turn, but stop and look over my shoulder to my now wide eyed father, “Grab your balls and follow me. We’re finishing this.”

  11

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to be carrying this thing Harrison,” Dad says staring down at th
e Kalashnikov he now possesses. “Number one, I’m a terrible shot and number two…it’s a damned assault rifle, not the pea shooter we have back at home!”

  I slug him in the shoulder getting his attention off the weapon we just pilfered off the man I killed, “Keep the safety on and point it at the bad guy. You’re not going to need to shoot the bastard, just make him think you are.”

  “Easy for you to say,” he answers. “When he sees the two of us he’s automatically going to react like I’m the real threat. Honestly, he’s going to see your weapon of choice, laugh, and then shoot us both.”

  “Dad, calm down! He’s not going to shoot you. He might try, but I’m not gonna let him.”

  “Thanks Tiger, that’s comforting coming from a guy with only a putter in his hands,” Dad retorts.

  I laugh at Dad’s sudden mood change. Normally the guy has a bug up his butt 24/7. He generally reacts with annoyance-tinged anger, but now he’s acting like something closer to the way I would act—am acting—in a situation like this.

  It’s gotta’ be the stress of everything going on, I think. I hope when all is said-and-done he doesn’t have a nervous breakdown or something.

  I grip the club, refocus and imagine the lashing this asshole is going to get.

  I turn to face Dad holding up my weapon of choice, “It’s all I’ll need. Let’s go.”

  In near silence, we approach the last area that we heard the third man speaking—the one giving the orders. There are a few more panels and work stations in front of a clearing, about 20 feet from the group of machines we now hide behind. This empty space holds the door in which the attackers entered—and if all goes well—our escape route.

  I put my finger to my lips and face Dad and mouth the word, “Wait.”

  I peek out from behind our hiding spot and see a man standing in the door way pistol at the ready not taking any chances. I pull back and form a horrible, but possibly successful plan.

  No AK? I think with a little more hope now.

  Tink. Tink. Tink.