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

The lawman’s newly found momentum powered both to the opposite end, only dissipating itself when the highway patrolman slammed the Lebanese into the bare cinder block wall. He took heart at the sound of air being knocked from the man’s lungs, as well as a loud thud as the back of Mustafa’s head smacked against the painted surface. Keeping his stunned adversary pinned and unable to move away, Micah began hooking the terrorist in the lower torso with a series of vicious, achingly effective uppercuts and crosses. Powerful elbows and fists rocketed into Mustafa’s lower gut, floating ribs and both kidneys.

Enraged beyond reason or care, Micah continued to pound the Hezbollah terrorist unmercifully. As he felt the man begin to wilt against him, the Texan grabbed one arm and a fistful of blue jeans near the belly button. Using his own strength and weight as leverage he took a step to the side and spun on the balls of both feet, flinging the terrorist across the room and sending him crashing into and over the large steel desk. The highway patrolman promptly followed in pursuit, scrambling over the desk and on top of the sprawled body below him. When Micah came down, he landed with both knees squarely in Mustafa’s chest.

Reaching over and intertwining the fingers of his left hand in the Arab’s long black hair, Micah dallied off and began rapidly striking the man in the face with his right fist. With each punch, he’d give a bit of slack and the back of the terrorist’s head would bounce off the concrete floor. Methodically, Micah would then pull Mustafa’s head back up and hit him again with all the inner fury remaining.

Finally, Micah stopped and untwined his fingers from Mustafa’s hair, letting his head bang against the floor one final time. Dead, dying or simply beat unconscious, the Hezbollah second in command was no longer a threat. Micah braced against the prostate body and staggered unsteadily to his feet, peering through a film of blood with his one good eye at Tio Zeke and the deathly still form of Max Grephardt.

Leaning on trembling legs upon the desk, Micah reached over and fumbled through the top drawer with bruised, shaking fingers that seemed to have a mind of their own. He found an old pair of nail clippers and as quickly as he could, made his way over to Ezekiel. The trooper knelt down and laboriously cut the zip ties from the elder Templar’s swollen, bloody wrists. Immediately the old colonel began half stumbling, half crawling toward the body by the door, calling out Max’s name all the while.

With Micah’s help, the two men rolled the German over and into Ezekiel’s lap.  Tio Zeke sat there on the floor, supporting his friend’s upper torso as Micah began examining the ugly nine-millimeter holes in Max’s chest and stomach. The German’s breathing was uneven and punctuated with a sickening, rattling wheeze. Bright red, frothy fluid bubbled out the corner of Grephardt’s mouth each time he exhaled.

The movement brought Max back to a dreamy state of semi-consciousness.  He opened his eyes to blurry images above him; talking to him, consoling him, trying to help him. Though they were hard to see through the gathering darkness, he knew who they were. He reached out weakly, haltingly to the one who was holding him. A warm, familiar clasp met his hand more than halfway. He could feel other hands frantically trying to staunch the steady flow of blood, along with the air escaping from his perforated lung.

“Easy Max, just take it easy”, the familiar voice was saying. “You’re going to be all right. Stay with me, Max.”

Another voice was speaking in a lower tone, worried and obviously flustered. “He’s in really bad shape. I don’t know of anything else to do.”

“I know, nephew.”

“Tio, he saved my life and I can’t help him.”

“I know, Micah. I know.”

The first voice moved closer to his ear. “Hear that, Max? You made the difference, Micah did for the one who shot you and we’ll get the rest. You’ve got my word on that, Max, every last mother’s son of them.”

Yes, he knew that voice. He understood the words and wanted to smile in response, to show them that he was still in the fight. But the blurry figures were growing dimmer and their voices kept fading away. Max tried to concentrate on taking air in and breathing it out, but it was as if a tremendously heavy boulder was sitting on his chest, crushing the life out of him.

As the pale rider came nearer and his mind continued to drift, he was no longer laying on a concrete floor in west Texas, but rather in the late summer grass of Germany back in 1945. He could almost feel the blistering heat from the burning Skymaster, and he was struggling again to breathe with the acrid smoke and sooty debris lodged deep in his lungs.

Max Grephardt could feel fingers upon the small silver cross that had hung around his neck over all the intervening years. That same voice was in his ear again, thanking him. Telling him how much he valued his friendship and for being there for him so many times. The voice was talking about saving other lives today. Then a few words that he heard in clarity.

“Don’t die on me, Max! Please don’t die!”

He tried once more to smile, to reassure his friend that he would be all right.  But he couldn’t, he was just too tired. And from the other side of the vanishing veil other loving, long gone hands were reaching out for him. They were lifting him up as if he weighed no more than a feather, and beginning to pull him through that veil to what lay beyond.

Ezekiel’s voice was going away, he felt so sorry for