The Things We Bury - Part 1: In Anticipation of the End of the World [Completed]

Chapter 7: The Ring of Fire (Part 2 of 8)

Waking up in a strange bed always sent a shiver of alarm through Maxwell's muscles.  He went from deep slumber to high alert in seconds.  It deeply disturbed him that he didn't have the same reaction in a familiar bed.  It was a weakness that one day might get him killed.

As it was, his slumber was slow to shake.  Late morning sunlight seeped around the lone blind giving the room a dreamy gray tone.  Before his mind could gradually piece its existence back together, the pain in his midriff pushed its way to the front of his consciousness. 

It was a dull ache, which wasn't any less painful for its constant presence.  It had been nearly a month since he'd been shot.  One lucky armor-piercing bullet through the vest and the mission had gone downhill from there.  The compound wasn't supposed to be heavily guarded.  It was supposed to be a cakewalk.  Instead, he had been lucky to make it out alive.

The round struck from a dark corner of the hall.  It spun him around and threw him back against the second-floor banister.  Without any conscious thought, his legs dug in and fought to keep from flipping over the railing.  He squeezed off a controlled suppression burst at the darkness with one hand, and with his other, he flung the boy clear of the firefight.  The butt of his FN P90 bounced painfully off his hip with the recoil.  The tot hit the ground, first with his feet, then with his hands and knees, his body twisting with the momentum.  The small boy's mouth hung agape but his eyes were dry.  He was feeling shock more than fear.

Maxwell was too in the moment to be shocked by the reckless attack.  What was the bastard thinking taking a shot with the child close enough to be hit by a stray?  It was only much later that he wondered if the guard was just poorly trained, or if the boy wasn't deemed to be a high-value asset.  Could the family be keeping him on principle rather than affection?

Maxwell had assumed that he was being kept because his blood made him heir to their rickety third-world dynasty. Maybe they were raising the boy out of spite.  He knew from his own life that people brought up children for worse reasons than that.

However, in the heat of battle, there was no time for it to even make a mark in his brain.  When he released the trigger, he repositioned his sleek assault rifle to the crook of his arm and took proper aim.  His assailant was lost in the fog of blackness.  Maxwell tried to plot out his assailant's position by judging the most likely direction someone would dodge to avoid his sloppy spray of bullets.

The sole of a leather shoe clicked on the tiling as the guard moved into the open.  One short burst at thigh level and the man crumpled onto the floor.  A second burst cut across the top of his head eliminating the threat.

Noise from down below.  Two mercs rushed into the foyer, spraying the upstairs landing with 7.62mm slugs. They were dressed in camo like jungle guerillas.  Their yells were lost in the noise of their own barrage.  They were firing at the sound of Maxwell's shots without any sense of aim.

Calmly, Maxwell retreated from his position, picking one of them off before reaching the safety of the corridor's recess.  He pressed his back against the wall and swapped magazines, slamming a fresh one into the top of his rifle, not wanting to run empty in the middle of combat.

The gunfire echoing in the grand hall made his hearing useless.  A snake fast look around the corner revealed an empty foyer.  His periphery just caught the muzzle flash from halfway up the elaborate curved stairway.  He stayed in position and waited.

The merc's AK47 ran dry, and Maxwell stepped out and cut him down in the middle of his reload.  The body slowly slumped down a few steps before coming to rest with its wide eyes staring at the crystal chandelier.

Fucking amateurs.

Maxwell swept the muzzle of the P90 around looking for others.  When none appeared, he breathed deeply and took stock.  His wound was on his left side just above his stomach.  Since he was still breathing without difficulty, the slug must have lodged itself into a rib instead of penetrating his lung.  There were worse wounds.  He peeled off his balaclava and stuffed it under his Kevlar vest to help staunch the bleeding.  It was as makeshift first aid as it came, but he couldn't sit around licking his wounds.  The clock was ticking.  He had to get the boy out of there, and the job had just gotten a whole lot harder.

He scanned the landing.  The boy was gone.  Nothing but empty hallway all the way to the end.

"Aaron," he called, in a hushed yell.

Nothing.

Shit.

Resisting the urge to rush, Maxwell moved methodically room by room.  He must have been in the guest wing because each door only revealed a neatly made bed and an empty room.

He turned the corner and came face to face with a second set of stairs.  On a landing at the flight's midpoint, an assailant gave away his position and advantage with a hasty spray of bullets directed at the sudden movement above him.

Maxwell dashed forward, taking a position against the wall at the top of the stairs.  Adrenaline added a pleasant bass beat against his eardrums, and he had to force himself to take a calming breath.  It could be easy to get lost in the heat of battle.  There was an itching building in his hands at the thought of battling his way through an enemy horde.  But that wasn't the mission.  He needed to retrieve Aaron safely.

Footsteps pounded out a rapid staccato.  Was the idiot actually charging him?  No.  The boots were retreating down the stairs.

Yelling from outside.  Tires on gravel. 

He was losing control of the situation.  He had to move.

With the P90 aimed two inches ahead of his line of sight, he raced down the stairs anticipating an ambush.  Narrow dark corridors led to a deserted kitchen.  The back door was open.  Taillights were pulling away.  A convoy of SUVs and armored limousines hauled ass down the drive and out of the compound.

Maxwell didn't need to search the property to know he'd lost the child.  And no matter how many mercenaries he killed in his escape, it didn't diminish one ounce of the rage and failure he felt.

Not a day went by that he didn't think about that night.  One lucky shot and everything had fallen apart. 

But it wasn't only that bullet.  The intel on Torrealba had been horribly out of date.  The boy's grandfather was a second rate crime boss, who was known for dealings in government corruption and inflated construction contracts.  He was supposed to have a small team of bodyguards.  There was nothing in the reports that mentioned a private army.

A couple of weeks after the failed rescue attempt, the senior Torrealba returned to Caracas.  But Aaron and his father were in the wind.  They were likely stashed in some safe house unknown to all but the family's most inner circle.  Maxwell had used every single personal connection he had, but still, they hadn't been located.

It would have been easier if the DTAA had recognized the mission.  But they wanted it completely off the books.  No records—no trail of resources.  There wasn't even a mention of his injury in his medical records.

Lying in bed, Maxwell ran through his options, searching for some overlooked avenue that would put things right.  It was the same formless maze he wandered every morning since he let them escape with Aaron.

"Max."  The sleepy voice soothed like honey, and he realized he had been clenching his teeth and eyelids, as he massaged the tightness out of his scarring wound.  "What's wrong?  Is it hurting again?"

As he rolled onto his side to face her, he forced his features to relax.  "No, just thinking."

"About what?"

His mouth betrayed him, and he felt his lips puckered into a grim frown.

Emily seemed to read his mind.  She reached out and cupped his cheek as she kissed him.  "Don't worry.  I know you'll bring my son back to me."