Knuckle Bones Read online

  Knuckle Bones

  A Troy Bodean Short Story

  David Berens

  Copyright © 2018 by David Berens

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Afterword

  Author’s Note:

  Where did it all begin? Where did Troy come from? What makes him who he is today and gives him the skills he needs to get out of the madcap adventures found in the rest of the series? It’s all here in this short story. I hope you enjoy my exploration of these questions and more.

  If you like it, please visit my website at www.DavidFBerens.com for all the latest on new releases and promotional events.

  Click Here to Join my Reader Group:

  Thank you, kind reader,

  1

  Knucklebones

  Troy Clint Bodean didn’t know the I.E.D. would go off in exactly fourteen minutes and fifty-nine seconds burying a piece of jagged metal almost two inches deep into his knee and blowing both of Harry Nedman’s legs off at the hip. If he had, he would’ve smoked his last Morven Gold cigarette before stepping down out of the cockpit of the AH-64 they’d dropped in the middle of the road just outside of Kabul. Hell, if he’d known that, he would’ve put the chopper in the air and gotten their asses out of Dodge!

  Harry had been his co-pilot for the entire year in Afghanistan and neither he, nor Troy, had taken so much as a scratch… until the bones had started showing up at the safe house. One by one, in a small, blue velvet lined box about the size of a deck of playing cards, the knucklebones were delivered to the house designated as safe for U.S. officials to hide out in when terrorist chatter began to get heavy in their direction.

  Without proper lab facilities at their disposal, it was impossible to determine whose fingers these bones might’ve come from American, Afghan, or otherwise. The bones were clean of flesh and blood, but not yet bleached from the sun, meaning they’d come off of the person missing them recently. Relatively intact, they all seem to have been removed with some care… not just butchered or torn off. Someone was sending them a message.

  2

  Finger - Three Days Earlier

  It all started with the pinky finger delivered lying in the box like an exhibit in the Smithsonian’s Museum of Natural History. All three pieces of the separated digit were laid carefully in a row: proximal phalange, middle phalanx and distal phalanx.

  The second day brought the ring finger, the next, the middle finger and so on. By that time, a full on investigation had begun bringing top brass on site and sending non-military personnel into the safe house. Troy’s Apache had escorted the UH-60 Blackhawk carrying General James “Buff” Summerton in to sort out what the hell was going on. The sixth day brought silence, no box, no finger, no nothing. The seventh brought the note.

  Special Envoy to Afghanistan, Sid Phillips, had been kidnapped. The note was short and sweet. Deliver 1.5 million U.S. dollars to a specified drop location, Sid would be returned unharmed (except for his right hand.) If the ransom wasn’t paid, they would continue to send bigger pieces of him to the embassy.

  “The hell we will!” Buff slammed his fist down on the table, “The United States of goddamn America does NOT negotiate with terrorists!”

  “But sir,” Ambassador Williams protested.

  “No buts!” the general stood up, “Goddamn Phillips went and got himself kidnapped, so he’s on his own.”

  “With all due respect, sir,” the Ambassador remained calm, “not retrieving Mr. Phillips will send the message that we are weak and they will simply escalate their operations to abduct more personnel.”

  “Which is precisely why you people shouldn’t be over here in the first place! He was about to be downsized out of a job anyway for Christ’s sake,” General Summerton raised both hands in a gesture of futility, “This is a damn war with an enemy who don’t want your diplomacy.”

  “But the people of Afghanistan do.”

  A long moment of silence passed before the general asked, “you so sure about that, Ambassador?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  Summerton inhaled deeply through his nose, his lips pursed together tightly. He drummed his fingers on the table.

  “And the president?” the general asked.

  “Has been informed and has agreed to the transfer of funds.”

  “In cash?”

  “In cash.”

  “What in Sam Hell is happening here?” the general growled, “There once was a day not long ago that we woulda told these cut-rate terrorists to kiss our asses. When you come into a warzone, you take on the risk that you might not come back.”

  He stared into Ambassador Williams’ eyes, “do you think Sid would want us to come get him? Negotiate with these bastards?”

  “General, you’ve got to be kidding me,” it was the ambassador’s turn to put his hands up, “these people are surgically removing his body parts one at a time. I’m pretty sure he’s open to the idea of negotiating with them at this point.”

  “Shit,” Summerton exhaled.

  No one spoke for a long moment. Outside the office, they could hear the distant rumble of explosions. They weren’t as common now that the enemy had been pushed back, but there were still roadside bombs, car bombs and the occasional RPG fire. Most of that was non-casualty fire though, taking down the odd drone every now and then.

  “Are we thinking sting?” the general asked after a time.

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “Pretty simple,” the general scratched his chin, “tracking device, follow the money, shoot the bad guys?”

  “You don’t think they’ll expect this?”

  “I don’t think these guys are savvy enough to see this coming,” Summerton stood, “and besides that, I don’t care what they think, once we’ve got Phillips out of harm’s way, we blow these idiots to kingdom come.”

  “I don’t know, general…”

  “Bill, give me twenty-four hours to get some intel on the situation,” the general headed toward the door, “See if anyone in the office can come up with somethin’ on who’s delivered these packages, where they came from, where they headed when they left. Let me do a little recon and I’ll get these bastards.”

  “Okay, but at the end of 24 hours, we ransom Phillips and get him out of there.”

  “You bet,” the general flashed a thumbs-up sign and a not-so-genuine grin.

  “General,” the ambassador shook his head, “what would you do if they were cutting off your right hand one finger at a time.”

  “Hell, I wouldn’t care,” he shrugged his shoulders and held up a hand, “I’m left-handed.

  3

  Intel

  Troy Bodean was leaning against the front quarter panel of the General’s Humvee tamping down a new pack of Morven Gold cigarettes. Morven Gold was not his preferred brand, but it was the best he could come up with out here in the friggin’ desert. He used to smoke Winston’s but the local terrorist wannabes had started lacing them with battery acid. It wouldn’t kill you, but your lips would be scabbed over for weeks.

  General Summerton slammed out through the consulate’s front door like a customer headed for a Black Friday sale. The doors crashed closed behind him and he
blustered out, clearly fuming about whatever had happened inside. Troy shoved his pack of cigarettes in his pocket and slapped his hand to his forehead in a salute.

  “At ease, Troy,” the General gave him a compulsory salute in return, “Let’s get the hell outta here. I’m tired of listening to all this diplomacy shit.”

  “Yessir,” Troy opened the rear door of the Humvee for his passenger.

  The General climbed in and Troy shut his door. He climbed into the driver’s seat and his partner, Harry Nedman lumbered into the passenger’s seat. Troy fired up the engine and stomped the clutch. Harry put his hand on Troy’s arm to stop him from shifting.

  “What do you make of that?” Harry said pointing out the windshield.

  A young Afghani boy stood directly in front of the vehicle holding a small box. It was slightly bigger than the ones that had been delivered earlier that month.

  “Um, General?” Troy looked back at his passenger.

  “What the Hell is it now?”

  “I think we got another box.”

  “Shit,” the General opened his door and hauled his considerable bulk out onto the dusty road, “Troy, I’m gonna get that box. You wait here and follow the kid. See where he’s come from. Copy?”

  “Roger that, sir,” Troy nodded.

  He watched the tense exchange between Summerton and the kid. He thought for a second that the General was going to grab him by the shirt and drag him into the consulate, but he didn’t. He took the box and held out a hand, presumably offering the kid a handshake. The boy stared blankly at the proffered hand, shrugged his shoulders and turned away. He took two steps and then broke into a jog. General Summerton whistled toward Troy and nodded in the boy’s direction, get going.

  Troy mocked a salute and strode quickly after the kid. He didn’t have to run to keep up, but the brisk walk in the heat of the day had him sweating before long. He took a red bandana from his pocket and mopped his brow. Troy only took his eyes off the kid for a second, but when he returned the cloth to his pocket, he was gone. Dangit, he thought, kid must’ve known I was followin’ him. The street he found himself on was empty except for a wandering dog and an old man crouched down at the corner. The old man was rocking back and forth and humming. Troy walked up to him and held up his hands in the palms-up universal, I mean no harm gesture.

  “Sir?” Troy spoke softly.

  Many Afghans in the city had a passing knowledge of English. The wizened old man looked up at him. His eyes were kind and he smiled covering his face in a map of wrinkles.

  “The boy?” Troy asked, “He come this way?”

  The old man nodded, yes. Troy waited, but the man seemed as if that was all he was offering.

  “Which way?” Troy shrugged and pointed from one direction to the other.

  The old man nodded again and smiled a little bigger.

  “Right,” Troy sniffed and looked around.

  He glanced over at the dog, who was poking his nose into a gutter, maybe looking for a leftover snack… or dead rodent.

  “How ‘bout you?” Troy jutted his chin toward the dog, “You see the kid?”

  The dog, maybe a golden retriever mix, looked up at Troy then turned his head to look down the road to his left. Troy raised an eyebrow.

  “Why not,” he muttered to himself and started down the street.

  The dog loped up beside him and heeled perfectly along with Troy. As they walked, the street slowly became less deserted. People were mulling about, glancing only once or twice at Troy, but then turning back to their business. The city was an odd juxtaposition of hundred-year-old tradition and modern life. A woman sat outside scrubbing clothes in an old metal tub while a little girl sat beside her jabbing her finger at an iPad. Across the street, a wooden cart was piled with fresh vegetables overflowing into plastic crates below it while the man selling them spoke into a touchscreen cell phone. There were some reasonably appealing apples stacked in a pyramid and what looked like cured bacon wrapped in brown paper on the cart. Troy chose two apples and a couple of pieces of the meat. He paid the man and offered the slices of meat to the dog. Surprisingly, he took the treat gently from Troy’s hand and made quick work of the meat. He rubbed his head against Troy’s leg in appreciation and then pointed his nose farther down the street.

  “Alright, boy,” he shrugged, tucking the two apples into his thigh pockets, “let’s go.”

  The dog ambled down the street until he came to a parking lot in front of what looked like an abandoned bank. The building looked vacant and hollowed out, a broken down ATM machine stood watch nearby with its single blinking light, and there was a group of kids in the lot kicking a dirty, red, playground ball around. Troy watched for a minute and the dog laid down next to him. One of the older kids spotted him and shouted something. They all scattered in different directions… except for one. It was the kid who had delivered the box. He was watching Troy warily and clicked his tongue at the dog, beckoning him to come. The dog looked up at Troy. Troy nodded and he got up and walked over to the boy.

  The kid petted the dog and then turned to go. He looked over his shoulder at Troy and tilted his head away from him as if to ask, you coming or not?

  Troy jabbed his finger at his chest, “me? Come with you?”

  “Come,” the boy said in heavily accented English.

  Troy gave a quick nod and followed the boy. As they walked, he got the distinct sensation that they were being watched. Eyes seemed to peer out from every dark door and every shadowy corner. Troy let his hand slide down to his gun, but he left it in its holster.

  4

  Sick

  Troy followed the boy careful to remember which way they were heading. After a few turns down roads that all looked the same, he realized they were getting farther and farther away from the embassy. He wondered idly if he’d be able to find his way back. The eyes he felt on him began to materialize in the form of young Afghan men, glaring at him under dark eyebrows. He thought once he saw an AK-47 in the hands of one of them. This was a mistake. Follow the kid who’s been bringing someone’s bones to the embassy and find out where they’re coming from… brilliant. Let’s follow the lion into his den.

  “Here,” the boy pointed to a building.

  It was like any apartment building in any third world country. Grimy, dusty, dirty, and crowded. Most of the apartments had at least one window broken and a baby crying inside. Some of them had people hanging out the windows smoking cigarettes. One of them had a flag hanging from its window sill… the black, red and green flag of Afghanistan. He watched as the boy ducked into the open door and up the stairs into darkness. Troy took a small flashlight from his belt, but didn’t turn it on. He didn’t want to be the image of a soldier raiding the building. Locals knew a raised flashlight was usually followed by a raid and were likely to shoot first and ask questions later.

  As he walked up the stairs, a yellow light began to filter down from the hall. At the top of the stairs, the boy met him and beckoned him past apartment doors. Some had numbers, most had boot marks from being kicked in, all had locks.

  Halfway down the hall, the boy stopped at a door. He knocked four times, distinct and slow. Then he turned the knob and went in. The smell of mold, stale and vinegary hit Troy like a wall. He pushed in and closed the door behind him. His eyes watered from the pungent odors and he wiped them clear with his fingers. Blinking, he looked around the room. An empty recliner sat near the front window. It looked as if the duct tape on it might be the only thing holding it together. Next to the recliner was a matching couch, no duct tape. The boy was standing in the middle of the room staring at Troy.

  “Your home?” Troy said loudly.

  Everyone knows that if you’re talking to someone who doesn’t speak your language, they will understand better if you talk louder.

  “Yes,” the boy spoke in his thick accent, “Home.”

  It looked like a completely harmless place. There was a living room with a small television, the recliner,
and the couch. A couple of books were laying on a table beside the recliner. Troy thought one of them was a copy of the Koran, but couldn’t be sure without closer inspection.

  An awkward silence appeared between them. Troy thought this was a bad time to ask the boy where the fingers had come from… but, he wasn’t really on a schedule anyway. Outside the window, the sun began to glow orange as night crept closer.

  “Um,” Troy licked his lips, “anybody else home?”

  He motioned around the room to indicate his question about any others being here. The boy looked around.

  “Yes,” he shook his head and smiled, “is nice home.”

  Troy smiled, “it is. But that isn’t what I…”

  “Aasif!” a voice called out from the next room.

  Troy’s hand snapped to his gun and nearly had it drawn when the boy raised his hands.

  “No, no,” he said quickly, “is mother.”

  “Aasif,” the voice called again, “who are you talking to?”

  The voice was definitely a woman and came between heavy, labored breaths. Aasif, as the voice had called the boy, motioned for Troy to come with him into the room.

  As they entered the room, the sickly odor grew stronger. Troy wondered what manner of plague he was exposing himself to by walking in there. He instinctively covered his mouth with his hand, but thought it was probably too late anyway.

  “Ahhh,” the woman wheezed, “you have brought me an American soldier, eh, Aasif?”