Saving Emmy by Rayne Lewis

Chapter 7

Present day

“So, he’s lawyering up? What the fuck!” Slate paced the office floor, piss and vinegar running through his veins. After the morning he spent with Ember, he was not taking this situation lightly. “What kinda lawyer defends a piece of shit like that?” He turned and faced the group of men sitting around the conference table. “I'm all for innocent ‘til proven guilty but this,” he made an open hand gesture with both his hands, “this case is cut and dry. He walks in, goes to the range, sets up next to the guy, then turns and shoots him. Double-tap.” Slate rubbed the back of his neck and then drew his hands down his face.

“Just ’cuz he’s lawyered, doesn’t mean he’ll get off. Justice takes time and more time means we have more time to dig,” Cypher said, looking up from his computer.

“Justice is better served in the dark hours of night,” Slate said under his breath as he picked up a bottle of water and drank half of it down.

“That’s not what we do!” King said standing up straighter, one palm still leaning atop the table. He marked Slate with a hard stare. “We aren’t vigilantes. We work within the confines of the law.”

“Well maybe we shou—”

King cut him off giving a swift jab of his finger in his direction, “You need to take a walk!” His eyes told Slate he was at his tipping point. “I know you're pissed, hell, we all are, but your bullshit attitude isn’t helping.” King pointed to the door, “Walk it off, come back in ten.” He pinned him with his stare, telling Slate he’d better take the walk.

Slate drank down the rest of the water, all the while not taking his eyes from King. He was pushing his luck because King was a take-no-bullshit-from-no-one kind of guy, and it didn’t matter if you were friend or foe. If Slate wanted to rumble, King would be the last guy he’d want to go a round with, but he’d take his chances. Tossing the empty bottle into the recycle bin, Slate headed out the door.

“Who pissed in his Wheaties?” Trip questioned with a laugh, swiveling his chair to face King.

“Damn, I know it’s his woman, but guy’s gotta chill.” Arctic chimed in. “For all we know, this could just be a crazy, with a gun and a delusion, trying to get headlines on the news. I mean, half the time we hear about shooting incidents it’s ’cuz some whack job wants infamy.”

King stood to his six-foot-two height, rubbing the tattoos on his forearm, the tattoos that hid the hideous scars of the mangled mess his arm once was. “Nah, this isn’t a call for infamy,” He pondered his thought while stroking down the length of his beard, “this is just cold-blooded murder. We just need to find the why.”

The why was always the hard part. Execution of a mission, that was the easy part. Get in, get the bad guy and get out.

Simple. Easy-peasey.

Most times, the why was already a given when missions were sanctioned through Homeland Security or some other alphabet agency. People above Hellforce’s pay grade already knew the who, what, where, when and why, they just needed the boogiemen to finish the deed for them. Go into places the US military couldn't.

Although the team dealt with a number of security needs, K & R was their forte. The number of people who went missing, got abducted, kidnapped and/or held for ransom was astounding. The average person had no clue what a common occurrence it actually was or how often it happened. When law enforcement was understaffed, underfunded and overwhelmed, that’s when people turned to the private security firm. The boys of Hellforce weren’t in the yellow pages, you couldn’t Google them or even look them up on Facebook. Hellforce was a company that worked in the shadows.

Most of their clientele came from law enforcement or other agencies who contacted King. He had discretion over what cases they took. King weeded through the files and took the most desperate ones. K & R was the most common case. Kidnapped victims taken to a shithole, third world country had very little if any chance of ever seeing their home soil again. Women and children sold into sex slavery happened more often than people fathomed. It was out of the hands of local and state law enforcement, and the feds had so much red tape that resources allocated to them were often wasted on paperwork and time constraints. No, Hellforce was more of a“get in, get out, silent night warriors,” and no one was the wiser.

And, Hellforce was known far and wide to get the job done. No terrorist, sex trafficker or other scum-of-the-earth wanted to look in their closet, or under their bed, and find Hellforce. Nope, being boogiemen was where Hellforce reigned. They were one of the most sought out elite private security firms.

T-BAR, rolling a stress ball between his hands, also turned his chair to face King, “So, what do we know so far? The security vid shows Dorian walks in at eight-seventeen a.m., shoots a few rounds, doing his thing, is clearly focused on his own tasks, paying no mind to anything else around him.”

“That was his first mistake. Dude had his music bluetoothed into his CAPS, had no clue of his surroundings,” Arctic added.

“Like we say in the field, ‘Dumb will getcha dead,” Cypher said.

All eyes landed on T-BAR.

“Fuck off, all of you!” he addressed his new found audience. “I got my shit tight,” he pointed around the table, “I’ve saved your sorry asses a lot! You all should be thanking me for my bravery and courage. Slap that medal and tab right here.” He slapped his hand over his left pec.

“Yeah, medal for douchery valor and half-thought, crack-pot ideas. Sure, I’d pin that shit on you all day!” Trip quipped.

T-BAR threw his pen at Trip, who caught it in midair. Both brothers smirked at each other, playing off the banter.

Cypher leaned back in his chair, abandoning his laptop, and squared off with T-BAR. “Explain your moniker.”

T-BAR side-eyed his friend.

“Go ahead, speak to the class. What’s your brave and courageous nick?”

“Maybe he’s wearing stolen valor? Wearing that brave and courageous moniker without living up to its high expectations.” The guys laughed at Trip’s jab.

King shook his head at the idiocy of the men he called brothers. Just like any brothers, the jabs and ridicule were endless. Especially with this group of guys who weren’t bonded by natural blood, but bonded by blood, sweat and tears of brotherhood. Being the boss was hard at times because it also meant being the “parent” of adolescent assholes.

“Cut the bullshit,” King stood upright and crossed his arms. “T-BAR, we all know you ain’t right. Somehow, somewhere along the line you got your head whacked too hard too many times and things are just rattlin’ ’round up there, half-firin’ and your logic takes a hit and suffers.”

He was interrupted by Trip. “Yeah, who else in their right mind would tackle an S vest, wrestle for the detonator, all the while hobbling on a fractured femur? It’s literally a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest.” With the exception of T, the group broke out into hysterics. Even King threw his head back and roared.

“Again, saved all your sorry asses!” he said as he pointed out each man around the table. “Pin that shit right here.” He continuously tapped his pec.

“That-Boy-Ain't-Right, Bronze star, coming up.” Trip quipped with snark.

T-BAR stared down his friend, “Sure the fuck ain’t pinning any Bronze stars on your plate, Trip!” The name was said with emphasis, all the guys busting out in laughter even more.

“Hey, it didn’t go off, so I saved all your sorry asses on that one.”

“Tripping over a tripwire when you’re EOD, now that's a fucked-up way to get a name for life.” Arctic bellowed, “never gonna change that bitch!”

Trip had tried to get his moniker changed many times, without success. His original nickname was Ripper. Badass. Trip had no qualms about ripping the life and souls out of the world’s worst pieces of shit that abused, used, raped and killed innocent women and children. But, ever since he tripped over that damn tripwire, the guys started calling him Tripper, which over the years got shortened to Trip. Some days, he jokingly wondered if it would’ve been better that the wire would have tripped than to take one more day of the guys ribbing.

“This is the life I’ve chosen?” King muttered, as he tried to rein in his disorderly children. “Enough, play nice. Fuck-off time’s over. Heads back in the game,” King said, trying to stifle a grin.

Just like a petulant child, Trip threw his empty water bottle at T-BAR.

King gave him a glare and asked in all seriousness, “You need a time-out or go over my knee, son?” On the last word, King let out a laugh.

“Sorry, Dad.” Trip gave the apology in a sullen teenager voice.

Slate walked in and all heads turned.

“You good?” King questioned.

“Five-by-five.” Slate answered, taking the vacant chair next to Cypher.

“Dad yelled at us,” Trip loudly whispered, so they all could hear.

“I swear, Trip, I will take you behind the woodshed and tan your ass. Beat that smartass snark right out of you.”

Trip avoided eye contact with King and busied himself with the pen and paper in front of him.

“’S’what I thought.” King got the final word which meant they were getting back to business, but no one missed the smile that crossed King’s face. Trip constantly chapped King’s ass but there was no doubt that King loved the smartass banter from his guys.

“Sooo,” T-BAR drew out the word, “as I was saying, Dorian’s in at eight, shootin’ rounds, no clue of happen’ns around him. Bazwar comes in thirteen minutes later, blasts him in the chest and noggin then stands around waitin’ for the po-po.”

“Geez, was that read off the official report.” Trip laughed at his own joke, until he noticed King eyeballing him. “Sorry,” he whispered, bringing his eyes down, as he scribbled on his paper.

”Doesn’t try to flee. Complies to Ty’s demand to stay on the ground until cops arrived. Seems like he wanted to be found out. Something doesn’t add up.” Arctic added.

Heads nodded around the table.

“Bond? Slate asked, looking around for someone to clue him in, in case the information was already discussed when he was on his mandatory stroll.

“One-mill,” King stated.

Slate snapped the pencil gripped in his hand. His pisstivity level cranked up a few notches regarding the low bail amount for what was at least Murder Two. If Bazwar walked on bail, Emmy could be in danger, something it seemed his team wasn’t concerned about. They weren’t witnessing her mental state, which Slate thought was on the edge. Emmy had been a wreck when he left her that morning. Her friend, Maven, was spending the day with her, probably doing girly-shit, like watching Master Chef marathons, so he knew she was in good hands. She didn’t do girly, but Maven had a way of bending Em’s will and letting her pamper for a day. It’d be a good way for her to relax.

Ember was experiencing this situation unlike her usual self, almost like she was spooked or haunted. She’d seen combat, and by that, Slate knew she’d seen combat. Through a sniper’s scope she’d experienced the kill unlike other soldiers. It wasn’t down range, it was up close and personal. Every dispatch was a file stored in a sniper’s memory bank. So much had to be detailed and debriefed, making it almost impossible to disassociate the dispatcher from the normal civilian society expected them to mold into once off the battlefield. If society could peek into the mind of a sniper, first, they’d be horrified, and second, they’d understand why so many vets chose to live in no-man's-land, away from societal pressures and cultural lemmings. Sadly, some chose to check-out completely. It was the main factor for why snipers only lasted an average of five years in civilian life after leaving the military. Most snipers’ mental health, too often, went unchecked.

Slate watched Ember like a hawk. No way would he allow her to become a statistic. She’d only been out of the military a little over three years. After college, she gave service to her country and transitioned back to civilian life unbelievably well, though she had a rough start initially before King’s help, after suffering from PTSD.

Slate came back to the conversation. King was waiting on him trying to gage him. Slate shook off his reverie and joined into the brief.

“One mil and he’s out. No fuckin’ way that’s happening.” Slate took a second and then added, “Bail can be raised, after arraignment, if we can find and bring more evidence to raise the charge.” Slate laid out the facts that they all knew, but he needed to reiterate it for his own wellbeing. “Premeditation. When did he purchase the firearm? Did he recon the range? Did he post any warnings or confess his plans on any social media platforms?” His voice was steel as he continued, “Cy, there’s gotta be something you can pull, dig, hack, something’s gotta be out there. You and Tex can find anything. Get him on the horn!” His adrenaline was rocketing.

“Doin’ my best, buddy,” Cypher gave him a nod. Slate knew Cy was digging and scouring every inch of the web, dark web, hell, probably even Narnia, looking for anything that could be used.

King picked up the line and dialed Tex.

“King.” Tex’s unmistakable southern drawl lit up the conference room coming over the table speaker.

“Any new news since we last spoke?”

“I’m afraid not. I’m still scouring.”

“We’re going over the file you and Cy put together but other than that, we’re no further along on our end either. The only revelation is the bond was set.”

Tex let out a low grumble from the back of his throat. “I saw that. Pretty low.”

“I don’t like it any more than you do, but low is normal. Not a flight risk, no priors. We knew it was going to be a low bond.” Slate was about to lose his shit, but King kept control of this brief, keeping the ball rolling. “Though, the charge will most likely be raised to Murder One, first degree, if they can establish it was pre-meditated. If a plea is offered, it could be lowered to the standard that the prosecutor would settle. Murder One, premeditation, is hard to prove. Especially to a jury of twelve.”

It wasn’t the answer Slate wanted to hear. His anger rose a notch. “Has it been posted?” He asked through gritted teeth.

Tex answered, “Hasn’t been posted yet. Doesn't look like it’ll be posted. The family is small, and there’s no other relatives here in the States that would be able to help them post it.”

“Assets to secure the bond?” Slate clenched his fists, wanting to know if there was any possibility of this guy bonding out.

Cypher interrupted, “According to the bank records I borrowed…”

Tex chuckled on the other end of the line.

“...it doesn't seem the family owns anything worth enough to hold the bail bond.”

“According to the police report, Husani Bazwar immigrated here last year with his mother, two brothers, and one sister,” King informed the group.

“No father?” Arctic questioned, while looking at the file in front of him. “Don’t see any listed.”

All the guys looked at Cypher then volleyed to the tabletop speaker.

Cypher glanced at the computer, but Tex’s voice answered, “No...none listed on the ICE forms. All inquiries of the contacts back home on the initial paperwork said the father was killed in a home invasion by a local rebel group seven years ago, probably a small rebellious sect in the area. After the robbery, the home was occupied by the group for a few months, eventually taking control of the small village.”

“One of the family members...I think it was the mother’s relation,” Cypher tapped a few keys and scrolled through a few documents, “ah...give me a sec...here, the woman named Faaria, said, ‘the family was forced from their home, mother and daughter, but her four sons were forced to stay with the group in the home.’” Cy’s brows came together as he read the statement again to himself. He was about to question it out loud, when Slate broke in.

“Four sons?” Slate questioned, straightening in the chair, “the Immigration form only has three sons listed.”

Cypher rechecked the information. “Three sons. Husani, Omar, and Rafi. Says it right here in the report from this Faaria woman.”

Tex chimed in, “And intel on the family’s relatives revealed Faaria was killed by an insurgent sect six months after the family immigrated while waiting to immigrate herself.”

King picked up the phone. “Mary, I need some things added to the profile pack…” he paused, “Cy will forward the info. Need it in the files as soon as you get it in order.” He paused again. “...Yup...ok...Yes, I picked them up this morning…”

King turned his back to the guys and murmured into the receiver, “No, I don’t know if it was with the others...how am I supposed to know, I don’t look at them, I just pick them up…” He turned his head and side-eyed to see if the guys were listening. “...Yes, I'm still here...I am listening...like I said, I don’t know if the yellow sundress was in the bunch...I just pick up the shit on the hangers and I move on with my day...no, I'm not yelling, I’m explaining…”

A rumble of light laughter and snickers came from behind him. King lowered his voice almost to a whisper. In a wispy tone he said, ”I’m sorry, didn’t mean to call your dresses ‘shit’...you’ll just have to wear something else...yes, the peach one’s fine, I like your ass in that one...yes...ok…I gotta get back to work…” His voice fell even lower, “I know, I love you too, Sugar.”

If King would’ve made kissy noises the room would have lost it.

King turned around and eyed the table of men, daring anyone to make a sound. All was quiet. Even Trip didn’t mutter a single word, though by the look King saw on his face the withholding was killing him.

Tex snickered over the line and muttered, “Welcome to the club, King.”

King ignored the jab from his friend, the only friend who could get away with the remark, and continued, “Mary will update the information files. Tex, any info you get send it through the usual channels to Cy. Cy,” he pointed to the laptop, ”anything you can pull from there and send to Mary, do it now. Anything that’s borrowed that can’t be sent, do your ‘thing,’ and get the info to the usual server, and we can get it from there to hardcopy.”

Slate began to delve into the file folder in front of him. Each team member had one with the pertinent information gathered so far, and Mary kept everything up to date. Cypher, of course, didn’t bother with paper files as he found information his own way. No one asked questions, they were just blessed to have him, and his skills, on the team. With Cy and Tex on the prowl, they’d turn up something.

“Anyone spoken to the immediate Bazwar family?” T-BAR questioned.

“Family was questioned yesterday about the shooter, Husani, the eldest son. The second son, Omar, wanted to translate for the mother during the interview and was quite upset when the investigators had their own translator. And the daughter, Temirah, wasn’t able to be questioned alone. Omar stood sentry over her the whole time claiming customs practice, having to be accompanied by a male relative. Ranger Matthews said they tried to get the family to come to the station to give a formal statement, but the brother refused.” King looked down at the file in his hand and added, “Says here, the youngest son, Rafi, was very upset and nervous when he was questioned.”

“You thinkin’ normal child anxiety? He is only six.” Arctic said, “or, you thinkin’ he was too scared to speak with the detective?”

“Talked to Matthews and he said Omar would barely let the younger boy speak,” Arctic answered.

“My money would be on intimidation from his brother. Kid may have heard or seen something, but is scared to death to say anything.” Trip spoke while skimming the file.

“You got any digging on the middle son, Omar?” King asked Cypher.

“Searching as we speak.”

King nodded at him and then turned back to the team. “I wanna get a lock on the family. Find out who they know, where they go, where they frequent. I want to know everything. Absolutely no interference with the ranger’s investigation. This is in-house. I’ll give Matthews the heads up, as usual, that we’ll be doing our own discovery.”

“Got a lot on my plate, but when one of our own is the target, it takes top priority. I'll be searching for leads if I can find any. Slate, give my best to Ember.”

“Will do, Tex.” Slate gave the speaker a chin lift as if Tex could see it.

Tex disconnected the call.

King’s cell rang and he excused himself from the group.

“How’s your girl?” T turned to Slate, asking with genuine concern.

Slate didn’t rebuke the fact that she wasn’t actually his, but he rubbed his neck and answered his friend. “Not good. Something's off, but I can’t pinpoint it.” He let out a defeated breath, “I’ve never seen her like this. I don’t understand what’s going on inside her head. Last night, she settled down and seemed to be past the initial shock, but this morning she was jacked. Nervous, drawn out, jumpy.” He rubbed his short beard. “It’s not like her at all.”

The guys around the table were in agreement that wasn’t like the hard-as-a-diamond Ember they all knew. Ember was a non-official part of their group. She didn’t join in on missions, but since she and Slate were best friends, she spent a lot of time with the team, be it at the bars hanging out and shooting pool, cookouts, get-togethers or late night bonfires, they’d all become friends with the spitfire that was Ember. She was part of Team Hellforce by proxy.

Slate went on, “We all know what it’s like on the battlefield. We’ve all seen the ugliness of war, carnage the average person wouldn’t be able to process. Saying we’re a special breed is pretty damn accurate. We’re all able to take in the horror show and still somehow function on a day-to-day basis.”

“Slay a guy in the morning and back to base for lunch at noon,” T commented.

“Exactly. And, there’s always the times when we struggle.” Slate paused, looking down at the table, “But, we work through it.”

“You think she needs a shrink? Someone to debrief?” Trip shook his head side-to-side to emphasize no judgement on his next point, “No shame in that game. We’ve all needed it at one time or another.”

They may’ve been hard-as-steel, badass motherfuckers, but they all knew too well that everyone needed help now and then, and they were smart enough to ask for it. They were familiar with the results of fellow Deltas and soldiers who let their pride get in the way of taking or asking for help.

“I suggested it to her this morning.” Slate continued the conversation waiting for King to return.

“How’d that go over?” Trip asked.

Slate chuckled. “Like a fart in church.” The guys laughed. “She said she’s fine. Just a little shook up.”

“You don’t believe that, do you?” Arctic raised a brow.

“Nope.”

The guys were in agreement; if Ember was showing signs of not processing the situation it was more than being a little shook up.

Cy chimed in. “Talked to Pops?”

All the guys knew Slate’s history and the fact that Ember’s dad filled the needed role of a father figure as he grew up. All the guys called him Pops. Ember’s father had brainstormed a few missions with the group and King valued his expertise. Mitch Hayes, being former military, had the respect of the team.

“No, not yet. Going to touch base with him today...after this.” He motioned, circling his finger around the room.

“Pops’ll be able to figure out what’s going on. If his girl’s hurtin’, he’s not gonna let that fly.” Trip reassured him.

King returned to the room.

“Slate, I need you to steel your shit.” King pinned him with a look that told Slate he wasn't going to like what was about to be said. “The Bazwar family's MIA. Matthews just gave the heads up.”

Everyone turned to Slate.

King kept an eye on him knowing he was going to fly off the handle, but Slate sat stock still, only his face hardening at King's words.

“MIA. No fucking way!” Arctic growled.

“What the fuck?” Cypher added.

“How’s that even possible?” Trip added to the melee of the reactions.

Slate’s interjection was cool and collected. His focus became lasered. “Friends, employers, neighbors, any of them questioned?” he clipped.

“Don’t know. Just came down the pipeline. Matthews thought Cy could do his thing and begin looking into the circles around the family. We can move faster than their office. Red tape’s choking them.” King looked at Cypher to affirm his statement. “We’ll create a circle of persons associated with each family member. Employers, former employers, friends, schools. Any angle we can explore—”

“Ember needs twenty-four seven,” Slate said to King, more as a demand than a statement.

“Someone’s on it.” King said like he knew what was coming. He knew Slate; knew his men better than they knew themselves, so he’d geared up for a fight on his hands. “Matthews has someone on their way to her now.”

Surprisingly calm, Slate stood with a relaxed demeanor. “Not. Fucking. Happening.”

“Slate. Sit,” King demanded. “This is by. The. Book.” He punctuated the last statement, planting his finger hard against the tabletop with each word.

“You gotta be out of your fucking mind if you think I’m gonna trust anyone else and put her safety into someone else’s hands other than mine.”

Slate usually wasn’t a hot-head, but King knew when it came to Ember, Slate would storm the gates of hell to protect her. So, King knew he’d want to step-up and take the lead on Ember’s protection detail.

“Well?” Slate waited.

“Slate, stand the fuck down. Don’t put me in a position and force my hand.”

“You'll have to fire me before I’ll allow this shit to happen. Ember’s mine. Mine. I’ll take leave if I need to. I’m on her protection detail and—”

“No-can-do. Matthews’ orders. He doesn’t want our team getting too close and interfering,” he paused. “That means especially you.” He pinned Slate with a pointed stare. “You’re sidelined—”

“What the fuck does that mean!” There was the Slate King was expecting to surface. “He singled me out?” The fury was contained, but venom lit every word.

“No,” King’s composure went from friend to boss, “I did.”

Slate’s blood pressure was about to blow.

He knew King would most likely be the victor, but if he wanted to go a few rounds, Slate would welcome the fight.

The two men locked eyes waiting for the other to blink.

The rest of the guys froze in their seats, not wanting to spook prey nor predator, not being able to distinguish either. Tension was volatile. No one toed with King. They all trusted his rationale and leadership. This was uncharted and dangerous territory.

“I need you level headed. Do. Not. Interfere.” King was clear. It was an order.

“Like you didn’t interfere with Mary?” Slate’s words hit their intended target.

King’s mission of vengeance went FUBAR when he attempted to dole out justice on Mary’s abusive brother after she was hospitalized. The mission of justice went off the rails and earned King a bullet to the heart and lung. It was still fresh in everyone’s memory.

King’s eyes lit. Hellfire blazed within them. The boss was gone and King, warrior, defender, protector and husband was now in control.

“Step off, Slate.” Three words conveyed a warning not to go any further. “I will not have my employee,” King enunciated, punctuating the hierarchy, “defy orders. You will obey direct orders and not deviate from an order from upper command. You work here, you follow the rules.”

Slate burned with rage, but his facade was composed.

“Don’t fuck with me, Ryan.” Addressing Slate by his last name and not his moniker hit its mark. Slate was relegated to employee, not a teammate.

Slate calmly stepped back as King tracked him with a punishing stare. “Fuck you, King. I don’t fucking work here.”

With those parting words, Slate turned, walked out the door. and off the premises of Hellforce.