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Chapter Twenty-Nine– Tank
Sweat drips from my forehead onto the cement roof and immediately dries. Heatwaves make everything look surreal, like a mirage—but not the good kind. It could never be the good kind here. I’m lying on my belly on the roof, gun trained and at the ready next to Samuels and Webster, sharpshooter and spotter. None of us make a sound as we watch the streets intently. Smoke from Samuels’ cigarette wafts and evaporates just as quickly into the thick, humid air. The scent intertwines with the plumes of dust rising from the foot and vehicle traffic.
I shift slightly and take a sip of water from my canteen. My sweat-soaked cammies stick to my body as I move. There isn’t even the slightest breeze to offer even a moment’s reprieve from the stifling heat.
We’ve been on the roof for an hour, waiting for a shipment of food to be delivered to the orphanage across the street, and we’re all getting a little twitchy. It’s unusual for us—us being the Corps—to be assigned to this kind of thing. Usually, we’re assigned to the airports and ports to assist with security and transportation of food aid. But there have been a few occasions where the food assigned for delivery to the orphanage has been switched for drugs, and the drugs have then been smuggled from the orphanage, leaving the kids to literally starve to death. Today we’re here to ensure no one intercepts the food and that no one starts shooting at all and sundry from the rooftops like last time.
We get word through the radios in our helmets that the cargo has an ETA of forty-five minutes, and Webster groans. “My fucking balls are getting a tan from this concrete, man.”
A movement across the way grabs my attention, and I ignore Webster, training my scope on the dilapidated building painted a dirty pink to the left of the orphanage. There’s a pregnant Somali woman standing at the stove, stirring a largish-sized pot of food. I can’t make out what she’s cooking, but she stops stirring every few moments to rub at her lower back or wipe her brow. She must be hot in the small apartment wearing her hijab. She must be expecting visitors outside of her immediate family, or she wouldn’t be so covered up.
Something makes her turn her head to where two boys that look to be about eight and ten are playing cars on the carpet. The boys wear matching green and blue striped T-shirts with denim shorts like any other American kid, but their arms and legs are way skinnier than any kid I’ve seen. The cars crash into each other, and the younger boy looks triumphant at having crashed into his brother’s vehicle.
A small smile spreads across her face, but even from here, I can see it’s tainted with sadness. A girl about nine years old wearing a bright pink scarf over her head comes over to the stove and hands her mother a chair. They have what looks like a good-natured argument, and eventually, the woman acquiesces and sits down on the chair, allowing the girl to stir the pot of food while she rubs her belly. The whole scene should look wholesome, but there’s an atmosphere of… something in the air that has the nerves at the back of my neck tightening.
The door bursts open, and the woman startles and jumps up from the chair as a man stalks in. The girl immediately stops stirring and steps away, her hands behind her back. I crawl a smidge closer to the edge of the roof, training my scope so I can get a better view through the window. Two other men in business suits that look way out of place in the run-down building step across the threshold just as the first man starts yelling at the woman—she must be his wife. The brothers scoot closer together and place their arms around each other, the girl backing up further into the wall.
The wife clasps her hands together and starts pleading with the husband. She points to her belly and then her back, all the while frantically explaining herself. A backhand sends her staggering backward, and thankfully she falls on the chair.
“The fuck!” I hear Samuels curse under his breath and know he’s watching all this unfold the same as I am.
The kids all start crying, which seems to enrage the father more. He orders them to come over, but they all hesitate. One of the suits closes the door while the man storms over to the youngest kid, grabbing him by the arm and forcing him to stand in front of him. The kid looks down, but the asshole grabs his hair and yanks it back, forcing him to meet his gaze. The other two kids join their sibling, as if sensing something bad will happen if they don’t.
The man says something, and the kids all start crying in earnest. He steps toward his daughter and rips off her sash and shawl, leaving her briefly in a shift dress before tugging it over her head. She tries to cover herself, and the mother springs from the couch. Falling to her knees, she grabs her husband around the legs and looks up at him. The pleading look in her eyes makes my stomach churn even more than it was. Something passes over his face, and I know that shit is about to get much worse. He grabs the pregnant woman by the hair and drags her to the stove. He pushes the pot with the food to the back of the stove. What looks like stew sloshes over the side.
Chaos ensues. The kids are all screaming. The suits turn their guns on them and make them lie down. The kids all drop to the floor, the little girl still naked except for her panties, and they cover their heads but still turn to face their mother. All three of their bodies shake from shock and terror. The man grabs the woman’s hand and begins lowering it to the stove. She screams and pleads, and he smacks her across the face once more.
I can’t take this shit anymore. “Shoot the fucker,” I bark at Samuels.
“What the fuck are you talking about, man? I can’t just…”
I ignore him. I train my weapon on the fucker about to burn his wife and pull the trigger. He drops like a rock, and the other two guys frantically point their guns at the bullet hole in the window, trying to see where the shot came from.
“Jesus, Tank. You just fucked up big time.”
I don’t wait to hear what else Samuels has to say. I crawl backward until I’m sure I won’t be seen and then stand and race down the stairs. I hear Samuels hiss my name, but I ignore him.
Certain the suits won’t be stupid enough to use the main entrance, I sprint across the street and am racing around the back of the building to the fire escape when I hear footfalls behind me. Flattening against the wall, I turn to see Samuels.
“You better head back. I’m the only one losing my balls today.”
“No fucking way, man. If we’re gonna die today—and I’m sure the major is gonna kill us—I’d rather go out quick rather than slowly dying from a dishonorable discharge.”
We dash to the back of the building just as the suits hit the last step. They immediately start firing, and I don’t waste any time returning the favor. Neither does Samuel. He gets a shot in one suit’s shoulder while I aim for the knee of the other guy. They both hit the dusty ground and clutch their bleeding wounds.
“Make sure these fuckers don’t go anywhere.”
I take the fire escape steps two at a time and find the door to the apartment wide open. The kids are all huddled together, the little girl covered by a blanket. The mom is on the floor, and it’s clear her water broke.
Fuck!
I call for a medic, then bend down and face the oldest kid. “Hey, hey. It’s okay.” I look at the other two. “I’ve called for help, and the ambulance is coming.”
They just stare at me, and I’m not sure if they can understand me or not. I’m so fucking pissed that these kids had to go through this shit today, and I try not to wonder how many times they’ve endured something similar. What exactly was going on here?
The medics arrive, and so does another team to take over our original op. We go with the kids to the hospital with their mother. Major Collins, our CO, arrives and gets us into a small room.
“What the actual fuck happened today?” He stares at all three of us, his anger a physical entity. “Your orders were to see the safe passage of the food to that orphanage and possibly stop a drug deal. Instead, you go fucking rogue and interfere in a domestic violence case.”
