The Uvalde Raider by Ben English (great books for teens TXT) 📕

Once finished with his speech, Qassam returned his attention to Ezekiel. “Colonel, I have explained to them what has occurred over the past few minutes and that punishment must be meted out for such disrespect, as well as why.”

The Hezbollah leader raised the Beretta again, carefully aiming it between Ezekiel’s eyes. “I could press this trigger right now and end your life in the next second, and not one of my men would think twice of it. They understand the concept of respect that is demanded from all non-believers as much I.

“Or…” and Qassam shifted his aim over to Max. “I could just as easily shoot your dear friend here. Personal anguish and a survivor’s guilt for being the cause of his death would be a very hard thing to live with, don’t you think?

“Or…” Qassam shifted the muzzle of the Beretta a third time, putting the tiny pistol’s sight picture on the left eye of Micah Templar. “I might decide to kill your nephew. After all, what could be worse than the loss of a dear friend, other than the needless death of your closest living relative?

“But perhaps it is the other way around.” The terrorist glanced back at Ezekiel and smiled in a manner of pure self-dramatizing enjoyment. “Who knows, maybe I should force you to make the choice. That would be an interesting play on one’s sense of morality, would it not? No matter what the outcome, such a decision would haunt someone for the rest of their lives and beyond.”

Qassam gave every appearance of idly considering the thought before adding, “However, you can rest easy concerning all three of these possibilities. A few minutes ago you made mention of how Allah favors the merciful, and how he values compassion and kindness among his followers. Allah is merciful indeed and I am prepared to do you a kindness, whether you deserve it or not.”

Without warning the Beretta changed direction again, pointing back and down near where Ezekiel Templar was seated. The single shot sounded like an exploding cherry bomb inside the room, and Ezekiel choked back a scream as the .25 caliber bullet burrowed into his upper left leg. His entire body went rigid with pain following the initial shock from the impact. A seething sensation of physical torment swept through him like a fast-moving prairie fire, blossoming into a wrenching grimace on his face.

Seemingly with a mind of their own, Ezekiel’s wrists struggled spasmodically against the plastic zip ties, bruising and cutting the skin in the process. Gasping for breath and fighting to regain control of his agonized body, the man moaned and grunted with animal-like effort to release what was consuming him inside. Blood oozed freely through the fabric of his trousers, and in turn smeared itself upon the sofa cushions while his body writhed about.

As Ezekiel continued to battle against the fiery throes engulfing him, Qassam leaned down and whispered conspiratorially, “You can go ahead and scream, Colonel. I hear that it is good for the soul.”

The Hezbollah commander straightened back up and turned to address his men. His tone was matter-of-fact as he explained more about his reasons for the ‘merciful’ solution chosen. All nodded in agreement, some even smiled while one or two chuckled in regards to what had occurred. Once Qassam was finished they returned to their assigned tasks, save for Mustafa and the rifle-toting terrorist assigned as guard.

While simultaneously struggling against a rising inner fury, Micah had been observing Tio Zeke all the while. A gray pall covered the features of Ezekiel’s face, underscored by tiny droplets of sweat. His breathing had eased somewhat and was more regular now, as the old man mentally willed himself into doing so. Most concerning was the continued free flow of blood down his uncle’s leg that was spreading to the floor. It needed tending to, and soon.

When Qassam turned from his men and faced the captives again, he found himself subject to a biting, unyielding glare from the bristling highway patrolman.

“Qassam, my uncle needs medical attention” Micah said through set teeth. “Take these handcuffs off so that I can do something for him. You won’t gain anything by letting him bleed to death.”

The terrorist leader studied Micah carefully for several moments before replying, “I think not, Officer Templar. I see a certain wildness in your eyes that I do not like, and I do believe if I were to remove your shackles you might try something other than to help your uncle. Then Mustafa would be forced to kill you and I would still be missing one hostage.”

Qassam spoke a few words to Mustafa in Arabic and the second-in-command stepped forward, jerking Max Grephardt to his feet. He spun the elderly German around and removed the zip ties that secured Max’s wrists.

“I think it would be best for all involved if Herr Grephardt saw to Colonel Templar” advised the Hezbollah leader.

Max rubbed and flexed his hands and wrists, trying to work some life back into them. He knelt beside Ezekiel and gave the bullet wound a cursory examination. “I will need a medical kit, a good one, to do something about this,” observed the German.

Again, Qassam spoke to Mustafa who walked over and grabbed a large orange bag stacked in a pile of other equipment. From several feet away, the terrorist halted and effortlessly tossed the heavy carryall toward the prisoners. The intended trajectory was deliberately aimed at Ezekiel’s injured leg but Max saw it coming and reached out, deflecting the bag away where it landed against the foot of the couch.

Micah’s eyes narrowed as that barely contained inner fury nearly boiled over, and he shot an ice-cold stare at Mustafa. The second-in-command returned in kind, wickedly lifting a corner of his mouth into a half smile as he strode away