grey matter sprayed the wall of the shack in front of them.
It was Corporal Apone, husband and father of two young girls. Hell of a pool player. Peter’s friend.
“You BASTARD…”
The man smirked and proceeded to stand behind the next man.
“STOP. I won’t tell you anything you want to know. Shooting my men will be useless,” Peter said hurriedly.
All of the Navajas laughed out loud. The man with the pistol spoke.
“Know? I don’t want to know anything from you, Sergeant.”
And he pulled the trigger. Private Wilson. Only child. Practical jokester and squad clown. Just last night he was trying to hit on a pair of rather buxom blonde twins and making a spectacle of failing at it.
Peter felt helpless. He could do nothing to slow this down. The man was going to shoot his squad in the head one-by-one to save time for working on him. Peter knew the machete was reserved for him to send their message.
The man walked up behind the next soldier who was now sobbing so hard that he was shaking violently. It was Private Rodriguez. Husband and father of three. Two boys and one little girl.
Peter didn’t know what to say.
“My name is Command Sergeant Major Peter Birdsall of the United States Army. Be advised that reinforcements are en route…”
“Is that so?” the man mocked, and he blew Rodriguez’s brains out.
The last man, Private Wilcox, must’ve decided that he would rather chance an escape than be shot execution style in the back of the head.
He did not even make it to a standing position. The man with the machete buried it in his neck. Wilcox dropped to the ground and began writhing around and squirting blood all over the walls and dirt.
These savages were using nineteenth century melee weapons, farmers’ tools. It was their reputation, and it was supposed to serve as a deterrent to government, police, and outsiders.
The screams. Peter would never forget those screams that seemed to go on for minutes, his own personal eternity. The machete landed one final blow, silencing them forever.
The man with the machete was wiping the blood off the blade with his rag and grinning wickedly at Peter. Peter now lost his cool. All of his men were gone, and he knew what was coming next.
“I’m going to kill you bastards!” His mouth foamed as he spat his very well meaning but futile threats, “Goddamned sons-of-bitches!”
His captors and would-be executioners laughed. One of the men by the door to the shack cracked it open and peeked out.
“Nada.”
“Well,” gloated the man with the pistol, “it looks like your friends are not coming for you. You’re alone.”
That word was like a dagger in Peter’s heart. It sealed his fate, and any will he had left to survive evaporated in the hot summer air.
No. He had to keep strong. He had to remember his training. It was all he had right now. He attempted to focus on his surroundings.
He noticed some farming tools hanging on the walls, rusted blades hanging all around him. His chair was rickety and in all likelihood could easily be broken. The ground consisted of dry dirt that could create dust when disturbed.
The two men watching the door now came around to either side of Peter. They grabbed him by his shoulders and restrained him, pressing him hard into the seat of his chair. The chair creaked in protest and wobbled under the weight.
The man with the machete was now brandishing it, toying with Peter like a cat toys with a mouse before the kill. He pulled out his own Mini-com unit, toggled the rotator button with a filthy thumb, and pressed play.
The shack was filled with the sounds of loud music. Trumpets blared as a man wailed over them in Spanish. The song was meant to camouflage Peter’s own wailing. In his terror, Peter almost found it comical.
The man put the Mini-com on the dusty floor and walked up to Peter. But Peter remained silent, and he struggled against the grip of his restrainers, testing their strength. He was seated, and they were putting all of their weight on him. There was no way he was shaking loose.
“Well, mi amigo,” jeered the man with the pistol, “you have the honor of being our message to the United States to stay out of our business. Now how about you give me head.”
The other men chuckled at the pun. At least Peter hoped it was just a pun.
Peter did not look at the machete. He kept it in his