Brothers In Blood: For Country

Backstabbed

Whip cruised around the Manhattan skyline, completely uncontested. There were other choppers buzzing around, but they left him alone when they saw his markings. he looked like one of their own. And in truth, he was.
Whip eased his lanky frame into the plastic seat. His eyes betrayed the long hours he had been working, the pre-dawn awakenings and the nights that flowed together. But the project was finally finished, and he could go home. Fortunately, no one else was on the bus as of yet to question his appearance.
An older man got on at the next stop. The failing eyes looked down the aisle, looking for a receptive listener. Whip was the only one there. With a halting tread that evidenced past injury, the man moved between the poles and seated himself next to the drowsy passenger. There was no acknowledgement on either side for a moment. Then Whip started awake.
His eyes flew open, sleep clear from his mind. Adrenaline rushed into his blood as he leapt from his seat. Breath came fast and deep. The old man shrank back when Whip’s dark stare leveled on him. The flashing eyes froze blood, the voice melting it again.
“Sorry, sir.” It was the natural thing to say, “I didn’t mean to scare you, I guess I’m just... just a little nervous.” The bus driver signaled for a stop, and Whip moved toward the door. “It’s just been a long day, and I need to get some sleep.” The old man nodded as if he understood. The coins tumbled from his shaking hands as he attempted to pay the driver. He mumbled a quick apology and whipped out a five-dollar bill and hustled through the sliding doors.
The night was cold, but the stars were out. Shadows all became threats that his mind was too tired to respond to. A dull black sedan sat quietly under a tree; its occupants watching him stumble by. He walked down the gravel path to his house and put his key in the door. The sound of a car door shutting did little to distract him. A hand clamped down over his face and nose, the suffocating smell of chloroform driving him to sleep at an unnatural speed. His last memory was of a heavily accented voice shouting orders and bright lights. Then all was dark.
He woke up in an expensive looking study. A quick look told Whip that he wasn’t alone. On the other side of the room, a thickset man of about fifty sat on an overstuffed chair, slowly twirling the doilies on the arms. Whip was on the couch, hunched over, listening.
“Mister Tella, it is the understanding of my office that your family was killed in a terrible accident some years ago, no?” The man spoke with a smooth eastern European accent, his words melting like falling snow on Whip’s ears. “Whip, I am in the position to help you avenge their deaths. This is no joke, Whip. I wish to show you the culprit in your loved ones deaths.”
tears dripped from Whip’s eyes, his hands fists of anger. “Show me, Herr Junter, show me and I’ll do what ever you want from me.” he ground his teeth, hope of revenge kindled in his heart. “Even if those responsible were members of the Tribe, I would kill them all to make up for Leigh’s death.”
Herr Junter smiled. This was going better then he could have imagined. “Mister Tella, I belong to the political organization responsible for uniting this world under a single governing power. Swear yourself to the cause and you will have your answers.”
“I swear, on the souls of my son and my wife that I will serve the cause of this united world-”
“New World, if you please, Mister Tella.”
“That I will serve the cause of New World with my whole being, and its causes will be my own.” Tears streamed down his face. “Is that all you needed? You want something else, my signature or something?”
“All members of this New World, Mister Tella, make a blood oath to the cause.” Junter produced a razor and offered it to Whip. He took it and slashed at his forearm. Blood dripped to the floor, soaking into the dark carpet. “Welcome to the day of your vengeance, Mister Tella.”
A sliding panel in the wall moved to reveal a television screen. A video played, a video of the president of the United States meeting with someone who looked a lot like Jack and another who looked like GD and Mac. They were in the oval office.
President: ‘I don’t think there is any other way around this situation, gentlemen. Leigh Tella is a spy for some foreign government and must be eradicated.’
GD: ‘You want it to look like an accident, right, sir?’
President: ‘As much like an accident or a random accident as you can.’
Mac: ‘What about Whip?’
President: ‘I don’t think he realizes that his wife is involved in the espionage business. Take her out quickly, don’t worry about backlash as long as you don’t make any stupid mistakes, it’ll never get back to you. Understand?’
Jack: ‘Sounds good to me, sir. We’ll get on it as soon as we can.’
The screen flashed the colored lines, then went black before the panel slid back in place. Under Whip’s long fingers, the upholstery on the couch had torn. He was seething, barely holding himself in check. he believed what he saw, only because he had seen and heard the voices of his long-time friends in the video. “I will kill them all and bring down this country with my bare hands.”
Herr Junter watched Whip leave the room, laughing to himself about the wonderfulness of digital animation and audio manipulation. It was so easy to fool some people.
The helicopter dipped drastically, causing Whip to return to the present. He corrected his flight and turned back towards the mainland. He had revenge on his mind, and two of the men who had killed his family had women waiting at GD’s house. If only GD knew that when he paid off Agent Smith to drug Rachel and Jennie, he had paid for their execution. Agent Smith was still at the house too, but he wasn’t a hapless victim in Whip’s mind. Smith worked for the government that had hired those three to kill his wife.
Before he crossed the Hudson, he checked his weapons systems. he had everything he needed to level the house, ten times over. Twin rotating machine guns rode on his flanks, missile launchers on the underbelly. It didn’t seem like much, but it would be enough. Another few minutes, and he would be hovering above the house, blasting away the hearts of his enemies.
Agent Smith watched the GPS blip moving back towards home base. Why was Whip returning so soon? Sensors showed that he hadn’t run out of fuel and no shots had been fired, either by him or at him. There was something desperately wrong about the situation. On the beds in the other room, Jennie and Rachel were sleeping soundly. He knew there would be Hell to pay when they found out he had drugged them, but he had to get them out of the house. Whip was up to no good returning that soon.
gasps and a short cry was the only reaction the women had when Smith waved the smelling salts under their noses. They sat up, still groggy from the effects of the drug. “Come on ladies, we have to get out of here.” They seemed to understand and staggered through the doorway, bumbling around in the bulky body armor. Smith barely kept them from falling into the pool when he lead them through the backyard to his own car. A helicopter could be heard in the distance. Smith looked at the GPS. Whip was almost here!
Whip stopped the chopper a hundred feet away and just sat there, gathering up his nerves. Not even in the War had he been responsible for killing female combatants. Those creatures couldn’t be called women, because there was nothing about them that even remotely resembled or hinted to being feminine. But now, he had to kill them, in Leigh’s honor in order to avenge her. Two for two. he armed the machine guns and pushed the throttle forward. Some little kids were playing in the street, little kids who reminded him of Jason, his only son.
Whip crouched ten feet away from his son, his arms spread wide, a huge smile on his face. “Come to Daddy, Jason! You can do it, buddy! Come here, come to Daddy!” The boy looked up at his mother, that glance of purest innocence and love and trust. “Go to Daddy, Jason, walk to Daddy,” Leigh prompted. The little one took a step, then hesitated. he looked over at his father, then back at his mother. “Go on, go see Daddy!” The boy teetered for an instant, then started his hesitant path towards the one he called Dadda. Whip’s eyes filled up with joy when he felt his child’s hands push against his own.
He turned his eyes from the kids and focused on the house. Hovering in front of the house, his vision blurred, he pulled the trigger.
Out back, Agent Smith shoved the two waking zombies into the back of the car and dived behind his door when he heard the slugs bursting through the house. He clambered into the drivers seat and prayed that Whip wouldn’t come around back. he gunned the engine and tore through the bushes separating GD’s yard from his neighbors, who thankfully weren’t home. He felt the sonic quake as an air-to-ground missile was unleashed, aimed at who-knows-what. The house was still standing in the rearview mirror. A ball bounced in the street behind him, but there were no kids to be seen through the smoke. The helicopter had disappeared, probably on its way back to New York.
The chopper came to rest in the debris littered yard. Whip got out, his AK-47’s held level with his waist. He shot through what was left of the door and moved into the decimated building. There wasn’t any need for lights, as there were so many holes in the walls that the sun glowed just as brightly inside as outside. he kicked open the doors to all the bedrooms and searched franticly for the bodies, some sign that he had succeeded. The house was completely empty of life, besides a single mouse with the bad fortune enough to have caught on of the bullets in the gut. He had failed.
He could feel Leigh glaring at him from beyond, he could see Jason, his small arms outstretched, crying, ‘Why Dadda, why did you let them get away?’ Those huge, deep blue eyes accused him from the grave. ‘You’re not my Dadda, you’re scared. I’m glad I never was old enough to know you.’
Whip walked over to the helicopter like a dead man. He climbed in and started it up. The Tribe was in Times Square. His enemies were in Times Square. Times Square would be their grave, the altar of his revenge.