Tyson

As dusk turns into night, then early morning, I stay stationary, listening to see if I can differentiate which room upstairs the two crying babies are sleeping in. I thought I was going to be able to take them out earlier, but then the two youngest members of the house woke up wailing. It took a good hour to get them back to bed, so I started scoping things out and decided to give it more time.

Running back through the crying I heard coming from the house earlier, I know the babies are not located in one of the corner bedrooms. I deduced through my observations that the noise was more centrally located, so I speculate that there must be a room dead center, at the top of the steps. That’ll be the first place I head.

As long as the two assholes are easily accessible, I plan on ambushing them with this tranquilizer and whisking my targets away while they’re deeply snoozing, dreaming of whatever filthy thing men like them dream about.

With the amount of money I paid for these guns and the extra I dished out for these sedative darts, it should be enough to put a man the size of an elephant to sleep, for no less than twelve hours. That’s what the punk said when I asked anyway. I just hope he’s a man of his word and I have enough time to get all three out without coming face-to-face with Tweedledee and Tweedledum.

I don’t need to face off with any deterrents or deal with repercussions afterward.

I’ll fight if I have to, but I’d prefer a clean getaway, at least as long as I have three passengers along for the trip. I will be coming back and ending them personally. Even though Hemmingway is well-trained for combat, I don’t want her to see what I plan on doing to these clowns.

Plus, I’d like to hear from her what they’ve put her through so I can make sure that they get the appropriate punishment they deserve. My gut is telling me that they won’t be receiving an easy death. If the rumors I’ve heard, and reports I’ve read, are any indication, they will need a long, drawn-out, miserable death.

Master would never forgive me if I let them have the easy way out. This is his baby sister. It may only be by a few minutes, seeing as their fraternal twins, but that doesn’t make a difference in his opinion. He’s as close, if not closer, to her since they shared the same womb. Which means, he’d prefer me to deliver their hearts to him in a paper bag. And if I can make that happen for him, I will. It’s what brothers do. We stand united and fight.

The owls hooting and the crickets chirping let me know that if I wait any longer, I’ll lose the window of time I was going for. Admiral Frankfuck is supposed to report for duty at the base by zero seven hundred tomorrow evening. If I don’t act now, it will give him plenty of time to sound the trumpets. That is if these aren’t as potent as I’m hoping they are. If they are, when he rises from his forced siesta, he’s going to be livid that someone got the drop on him. Hemmingway and I need to be far beyond his reach by the time he rises.

A few states between him, his son, and us would be ideal, but there’s still a lot at stake, and too damn much work left for me to do in this town for that to happen. I need to be able to make it to my contacts in a timely manner—an hour at the most—which means she and I need to be hiding in plain sight. It’s dangerous for us both, but unfortunately, it’s a necessary risk we have to take.

Especially seeing as Pops’ lips are sealed like an airtight vault. If there’s trouble at home, then we’re better off remaining here. Eventually, I will find out what’s going on, but until I do, I’ll lie low and tend to any wounds and infections Master’s sister has obtained.

* * *

Breaking into the back door is as easy as cutting through a stick of softened butter. You’d think with these men endlessly working to stay out of sight, and the fact that they need to keep their safe house from being penetrable, they’d at least ensure that their hideout is secured with a few locks that aren’t brittle and eroded.

It’s good for me, but bad for them. That thought has a slight, humming chuckle forming inside of my chest. A toddler has a better sense of self-preservation than they do. Either that, or they think that they’re smarter than the average man. I hate to break it to them, but they’re not. Their ego is too big and they need to be brought down a notch or two. I have no problem showing them the error of their ways.

Floorboards creak underneath my feet as I covertly traipse through the kitchen from the back area where I entered. You can tell, once upon a time, this dwelling was a nice place to live. Too bad it was built in a neighborhood that fell apart through drug and gang activity. Bullet holes are deeply embedded into the wood paneling, mold is growing in areas from not being kept up and cleaned, and there are riddled gaps fanned out through the slits of the hardwood flooring. One wrong move or one misstep, and it’ll collapse beneath my body and drop me brutally to the underground level.

With my tranq gun in hand, I clear the downstairs before making my way toward the staircase. It’s windy, metal railings, and wooden steps, which means it’s going to release a shrill screech with each upward stride I make.

If they’re light sleepers, they’ll wake and catch me before I get the chance to knock them out. That’s not something I’m willing to chance. Scanning my surroundings, I notice a hidden door off to the side.

Discreetly, I make my way over to it and methodically reach out as quietly as I can, all the while praying that the hinges don’t whine and thunder throughout the home.

Right now, I don’t need to add any more strikes against me on this rescue mission. Fuck knows adding two additional people to this is enough of a constraint on my pre-laid plans. I’m hoping that my sneak attack will go as flawlessly as I’ve plotted and concocted it as going. But with every mission taken, you have to always be prepared for anything to go wrong and pop up.

A motto I live by is to expect the unexpected—at all costs. Otherwise, it sucks to be you, because nothing is ever set in stone, no matter how many different contexts you’ve mindfully and meticulously prepared yourself for.

That’s the thing about life. It’s unpredictable and most things are unforeseen unless you’re like Ma was and were born with the blessing of sight. Not sure who dishes out those bestowments, but I’m glad that whomever it is, doesn’t just hand them out arbitrarily. Some would abuse that benefit against the unsuspecting and try to rule the world.

Undoubtedly, you must go into all furtive operations with a Plan B, C, and D in mind.

Personally, I don’t like being caught off guard with my pants down and wound around my ankles while free-balling, which is why I also have alternatives in place. My dick isn’t shy by any stretch of the imagination, but there are the right times and places for certain things to go down. Getting away from tyrannical maniacs, scot-free, isn’t one of those.

A superb and unanticipated surprise greets me behind the now open door. It’s a servant entrance to the upper level, and seems to be in better shape than the one used by the current inhabitants. Even if they do creak once I bear down all of my weight on them, the noise will be drowned out and stuck within the confines of the boxed-in walls. It’s the remedy for the crisis I was facing on how I would get up to the top floor undetected.

Unrushed, I skillfully close the door behind me, being delicate with the aging woodwork. The way I see it, there’s no need to pointlessly wake the household when I can take some pre-measured steps to keep things noiseless.

It’s a damn shame that no one took advantage of this house and kept it maintained for future generations to take advantage of and use. Even with the lack of lighting, I can tell this structure was once an architectural showpiece.

Once I breach the top of the steps, I inhale and exhale a few times, calming and centering myself. My heart rate is now slow and steady. My mind becomes a blank slate, no longer admiring the artful design of the house’s engineering and construction, and I’m ready to ambush and subdue these traitors of humanity.

Opening the doorway, I poke my head around the doorjamb and notice that two doors in the hallway are standing wide open—the one that’s centrally localized, and the one directly across the hall from it. Slithering my way down the corridor, I hear snoring coming from the room facing the front of the house. Knowing that whoever is resting in there is my biggest threat, I twist my body and slide against the wall.

Taking one unhurried, calculated step at a time, I cryptically glide my body down the sheetrock wall, my back pressed to it like we’re one united organism, heading toward the occupied space. Hearing the mattress depress as the springs groan tells me that my snoozing target just adjusted himself in the bed, causing me to pause until I hear his breathing even back out.

He mumbles something incoherently and unintelligible in his sleep, but I make out one word… “Hemmingway.”

“Whatever you’re planning sure the fuck isn’t happening on my watch,” I quip, more ready now than I ever was before to get her someplace where she’ll be safe and protected while she recovers. Soon, she’ll be strong and healthy enough that I’ll be able to ship her off to her brother so he can protect her, while I stick around here and empty the foul-smelling trash at the dumpsite—where all discarded garbage belongs, preferably in small, disassembled, and unrecognizable pieces.

Best-case scenario, their skeleton and bodily remains are spread so far and wide apart at the landfill that they’ll never be dug up and re-mantled. It’d be more to my liking if they were never found and identified in the first place—that’d be a shitstorm of epic proportions, seeing who Admiral Frankfuck is to the military forces.

There’d be an investigation and the military police and NCIS would pull out all the stops in order to discover who killed their revered, high-ranking commander, who also happens to be their number one sub-contracted distributor for their arms weaponry, armored tanks, and bulletproof vehicles. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg. Frankfuck’s company also supplies their airborne choppers, as well as all of our Air Force’s fighter jets.

“Must be nice to ride the coattails of your family’s hard work and financially benefit from it,” I mutter, edging around the corner and spotting Miller lying in the center of the queen-sized bed.

Lining up my gun and aiming the barrel at the exposed, fleshy meat of his ass, I use the man-made scope and double-check that I’m aligned directly with the center of the bullseye. Then, without further thought, I pull the trigger. As if I’ve been hypnotized, I can’t help but watch with a transfixed, keen eye, as the dart soars through the air and pierces his taut skin. Miller’s body jerks as the calibrated dose does as it’s designed to do—implanting the relaxant toxins into his bloodstream and knocking him out cold.

Miller’s body flops but seeing as I’m a man who takes no chances, I head over and jostle him. When there’s no bodily movement or rousing response, I pull back my fist and let it catapult through the air, launching an uppercut that connects with the underneath of his jaw. I smile when a satisfying crunch reverberates through the room, surrounding me with a sweet, classic melody—amplifying the music, playing my favorite tune—a sound that I’ll never grow tired of hearing no matter how many times it plays on repeat.

Blood leaks from the corner of his mouth, dripping onto the white pillowcase, somewhat easing the bloodlust flowing through me. “Nighty-night, motherfucker,” I sneer, lifting my leg and kicking the center of his back with the steel end of my boot. “I’ll be seeing you soon.”

One down, one to go.

Checking on the little ones, I’m content when I notice that the small noises I made taking Miller down didn’t disturb them. Kids and sleep are a fickle combination. They could either sleep through a loud racket, or wake at the smallest of sounds. Just depends on how damn tired they are.

“I’ll be back,” I promise the two snuggling infants, who’re sharing a crib. Twisting on my heels, so I can back out of the nursery before any movement alerts them to the fact that they’re not alone or wake them causing a brigade of screaming tantrums, I retreat.

So far, everything has gone according to my plans and has been nothing short of smooth sailing. But as everything happens in life, my life raft hits rocky waters. The closed door at the end of the hall’s knob begins to gradually twist and turn. Shortly after, the door starts to slowly, and piercingly, open. Instinctively, I crouch down low so I’m kneeling, my gun now nestled firmly in my hands like a well-known friend. It becomes an extension of me as my arms tightly stretch outward while I balance myself in a squatting stance, aligning my body to where, when the dart releases, it’ll be deployed at an upward angle. I lift it, point, and prepare to push the trigger.

“Miller,” the brash voice calls out. “Miller,” he says with a louder pitch this time. “Boy, you better not be messing around with that girl downstairs. I told you we’d talk about it later. I haven’t given her to you yet. You don’t touch her without my say-so.”

Given her to him? I don’t fucking thing so! What kind of backwoods type of thinking is that bullshit? You don’t gift wrap one person to another as a present for a good deed done. Hemmi is not a materialistic object that can be used for bartering. And for that matter, the only person with any say-so is her and only her. She says yes, no, when, where, and how. Men like Frankfuck and Miller are like rabid dogs who need to be euthanized and put out of their misery.

“I’m gonna beat that boy black and blue,” he continues. “I’m the master, the king, and he’s my lowly servant and prodigy. The sooner he gets that fact through his thick skull, the sooner I’ll let him start building his harem and start his own communal family. Can’t father our next generation all on my own.” His muttering has my eyes widening as I replay his words in my mind. His what? His servant and prodigy? Jesus fucking Christ, they’re more looney than anyone is aware of.

What type of sacramental shit are these two into?

As my thoughts were running rampant through my head, I lost track of Admiral Frank’s forward progression. Now, he’s only a few strides away from me, too close to my weapon for me to discharge it and tranq him. Sticking to the shadows, I find myself praying for the first time since I initially laid eyes on Amara, back when I still believed and wanted her to be mine, that he won’t see my shaded form huddled down near the floor, lurking and hiding like the stowaway I am in the darkened recess of the hallway. I’ve silently crawled and backed myself into an alcove that’s been built into a section of the wall near the nursery. Holding my breath, I wait, and stay stationary, motionless, as he walks past me.

As he crosses the threshold into Miller’s bedroom, I shoot and keep still and vigil until his body folds in on itself, slumps, and hits the ground with a thunderous clatter. As usual, I check him over thoroughly, and when I know without any question that he’s out for the count, I repeat the same beating and treatment on him that I gave Miller. I punch, kick, and as an encore, I spit on the balless tyrant, not stopping my attack on his person until I hear the unmistakable crack and fracture of his ribs. I leave him lying slumped in a pool of blood, like filth on the floor, as I go and round up the two youngsters.

Before picking them up, several things catch my attention all at once out of my peripheral vision. “Fuck. Babies need things, lots of things. Shit.”

The question is, do I grab their things from here, or wait until after we hit the road and pick up some new shit? Deciding that it’s safer if we make tracks and get the hell outta dodge, I only pick up a handful of diapers and the kids and rush back down the stairs.

Next on the list of items to achieve, grab Hemmi, put a town or two between us and them, and get these babies back home to their parents. I just hope someone, somewhere, knows how to do that—how to track down a couple who have kids that’ve been snatched—because I have no clue how to do that unless their stories haven’t been shared and spread by the media. I have seen diddly squat in the news reports since I got here and started tracing Hemmingway’s whereabouts.

No missing persons posters placed in store windows.

No pictures on the backside of milk cartons.

Nada.

Not a damn thing has been passed around or mentioned.

Makes one wonder if these children were sold for monetary profit instead of kidnapped from their family. If that’s the case, I have more people to add onto my ever-growing list of individuals to track down and dispose of.

Cleaning up others’ messes is a dirty job, but someone’s gotta do it.