Wolf meets the past he never met and fights just to live Who says the past cant hurt
They killed the agent first. Even from halfway across town, Wolf heard the last scream escape the agent’s parched throat. Terrible, but also quite satisfying. He still sat frozen - his back to the closed tent flap, sitting crisscross, still thinking.
“Someone’s here to see you,” the guard at the tent flap grunted.
When Wolf didn’t respond, the guard pulled the flap open and ushered the visitor inside. The woman who entered was unnaturally short, only five foot, with deeply tanned highly exposed legs. Still, Wolf didn’t move, didn’t even blink. She stood beside him, not quite sure what to do. Finally, Wolf spoke.
“What is it?”
The woman cleared her throat, “Lieutenant Jumanah requests for you to come and execute the other.”
“Can’t he? I’m meditating.”
The woman looked down at her sandaled feet, “I didn’t inquire, sir. The Lieutenant told me to fetch you, he didn’t say why. I’m sorry, sir.”
Wolf rolled his eyes and rose to his feet, standing more than a head taller than the woman. He placed a rough hand on her shoulder, “It’s ok, it’s not your fault.”
She looked him full in the face, becoming lost in his soft, baby blue eyes. He was white, but suntanned to the extent that he looked naturally dark. With a small squeeze, Wolf withdrew his hand and looked away. The woman fought off a desire to hug the boy and never let go; she knew, however, the glock concealed on Wolf’s side was loaded and his finger was extra trigger-friendly.
“Give me a moment to change,” Wolf gestured at the still open tent flap, she obeyed.
Once Wolf was sure that he was quite alone, he approached the large storage trunk that rested at the foot of his cot. Opening it, Wolf scanned the contents: a scuba knife; an M16; two black 9mm; endless rounds of ammunition; pants; and shirts. He removed his pajama bottoms and t-shirt, replacing them with a clean pair of desert-camo shorts and a white, sleeveless shirt. The glock was returned to the waistband of his shorts. Before shutting the trunk he removed the M16 and slung it over his shoulder.
The sun, although still early, was high in the cloudless blue sky. And when Wolf stepped from his tent, his short blond hair very contrary to his dark skin. The woman waited there for him. She gave a small bow.
“This way, sir.”
Wolf trotted along after the woman, the crunch of his boots on sand covering the silence. The execution site was just ahead, he could see it plainly. Lieutenant Jumanah, a muscular black Egyptian, was leaning against a wooden pole, arms crossed over his barrel chest. Two people sat on the ground, gunny sacks tied over their heads and their heads and their hands bound with steel cables.
“Jumanah!” Wolf stepped up to the man. “What’s the matter this time?”
Jumanah gestured at the two prisoners, “They want to speak with my chief. So I called you.”
Wolf’s eyebrows rose. Chief? He gestured to one of the men standing in the clearing, “Remove the sacks.”