Sally Boy (20 page)

“Just answer the question.”

“I ain’t answering nothing, scumbag.”

“You don’t want to answer the question?
That’s odd. Is it because you’re just a stupid fucking grease-ball
who can’t put his thoughts into words, or you don’t feel like
talking?”

With an angry roar, Sal attacked Wilson from
behind and choked him. “I’m gonna fucking kill you!”

Coolly reaching up, Wilson took hold of
Sal’s wrists and easily broke his grip. Rising from the chair,
Wilson twisted Sal’s wrists counterclockwise, until finally, Sal
had to flip his body to the ground to avoid having them snapped.
Sal hit the concrete floor hard, but he sprung right back to his
feet, ready for another go. Wilson connected with several short
quick punches to Sal’s face. Then Wilson took hold of Sal’s arm and
flipped him to the floor.

Calmly, Wilson sat back down on the chair.
Lying on the floor bleeding and confused, Sal struggled to
comprehend what had just happened. Gazing down at him, Wilson asked
sedately, “Well, Scalise, are you going to answer my question?”

“Who the fuck are you?” Sal shouted with
daggers in his eyes. Climbing up from the floor, Sal brushed
himself off. “Now, I understand. You’re with the fucking agency,
ain’t you? Yeah, that’s it. You’re CI-motherfucking-A. What the
fuck does the agency want with me? I’m a soldier. I don’t kill
women and children.”

Rising quickly, Wilson kicked Sal in his
face and landed two devastating body blows. Again, Wilson took hold
of Sal’s arm and flipped him to the floor. “Now, are you ready to
answer my question?” Wilson asked as he sat back down.

“Fuck you!” Sal snarled and spit at
Wilson.

Glaring down at the droplets of blood that
now stained his pant leg, Wilson explained, “I’m really getting
tired of kicking your fucking dumb wop ass, Scalise. So why don’t
you do us both a favor and answer my question so we can get on with
this.”

“What the fuck do you want from me, man?”
Sal’s tone suggested that he had enough.

Helping him up, Wilson set Sal down on his
bunk. “Look, Scalise, I’ve lost some good men, and I don’t have
time to wait for replacements. My operations can’t afford to be
shut down for any length of time. And truthfully, I really don’t
have the patience to wait for some fool to decide if he wants to be
a free man or not. I know everything there is to know about you. I
can use a good soldier like you on my team. I can arrange to have
all the charges against you dropped, but if I do, your ass belongs
to me. Roger that, troop?”

“I’m listening.”

“You have six months left on your second
tour. If you join my team, it’ll be like you never hit that asshole
Symonds. When your time is up, you can re-up, go home, or do
whatever the fuck you wanna do. So what do you say? Are you in or
out?” Removing a handkerchief from his back pocket, Wilson tossed
it to Sal. “Here, wipe your mouth. It’s bleeding.”

“If I join your team, will you teach me some
of that gook martial art shit?”

“That and a whole lot more. Chances are
you’ll probably get killed anyway. But if you don’t, after six
months on my team, you’ll be one bad ass wop.”

“Are you intentionally trying to piss me
off?”

“Yes, I am. Be advised, Scalise. If you pull
any of that cowboy shit with me that you pulled out in the field, I
swear to God, I’ll cut your spaghetti eating ass up into little
fucking pieces and mail you back home to the Bronx. Roger
that?”

“Yeah, yeah, I get the picture. When can you
get me the fuck outta here?”

“Let’s go.”

“What? Just like that?”

“Are you hard of hearing, asshole? I said,
‘Let’s go.’ Your ass belongs to me now.” Turning ever so slightly
toward the bars, Wilson yelled, “Guard.”

The M.P. reappeared and opened the cell
door. Wilson led Sal out of the front door, down the steps, and
into a waiting jeep.

“What about my gear?”

“It’s all there.” Wilson tilted his head
toward the back seat.

“Is this everything?” Sal asked
concerned.

“Yeah, I packed it myself.”

“I had a picture...”

“Are you fucking stupid...I said I packed
everything, troop.”

“How did you know I would come with
you?”

“Because it’s my business to know what every
dink, slope, gook, wop, mick, nigger, chink, jap, frenchy, wetback,
limey, and spic around me are going to do before they do it.”

“Where the fuck do you people come
from?”

“That’s classified, asshole. Oh, by the way.
Symonds might have severe brain damage. It’s okay if you want to
thank me now for saving your ass from a lengthy prison term in
FortLeavenworth.”

“Thanks.” Sal rolled his eyes.

Sneering at the insincere apology, Wilson
jammed the jeep into gear and sped off. Several minutes later they
arrived at a helipad where an unmarked, OD green Huey was prepared
for departure. With his bag in hand, Sal followed Wilson into the
chopper. They strapped themselves in, and the pilot lifted-off into
the darkening skies.

Exhausted from his ordeal, Sal closed his
eyes, hoping to grab a short cat-nap. After what seemed like a
twenty-minute flight, he was awakened when the helicopter sharply
descended and set down in a clearing in a remote part of the
jungle. Stepping out of the helicopter, the two men crouched
slightly until they cleared the blades.

Apparently a make-shift base camp, the
compound was made up of four bamboo huts in close proximity to each
other. There was a latrine and a structure that resembled a mess
hall. “Where are we?” Sal asked, restlessly.

“This is our Area of Operations for Special
Training in Laos.”

“So what exactly do you and your men
do?”

“Everything will be revealed to you on a
need-to-know basis. Roger that?”

“Yeah.” Sal set his bag down on the
ground.

“Outstanding,” Wilson answered with
attitude.

Approaching from one of the huts was a tall,
thin young man, dressed in jungle fatigues. He had short, neatly
combed hair, a clean-shaven face, piercing eyes and a bad attitude.
Looking Sal over as if he were tonight’s main course, he coldly
asked Wilson, “This our new meat?”

“Affirmative. Scalise, I want you to meet
Smith. He’ll be overseeing your training for the next several
weeks. Smith will be instructing you in hand-to-hand combat and
martial arts warfare.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Smithy.” Sal said
casually as he shook Smith’s hand.

Abruptly, Smith stopped shaking and
cautioned menacingly. “My name is Smith. Understand? You refer to
me only as Smith.”

“Awright!” Sal quickly withdrew his hand
from the cold-blooded creature.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sal noticed
three other young, clean-cut, tall, thin men dressed in jungle
fatigues heading toward them. They were practically carbon copies
of Smith, right down to his icy demeanor.

Introducing them one at a time, Wilson
continued, “Scalise, this is Jones. He’ll be instructing you on
small weapons warfare.” They shook hands. “This is Murphy. He’ll be
your instructor for close-and long-range assassination.” They
shook. “And last but not least, this is Levy. He’ll be instructing
you on covert military tactics and reconnaissance.” Shaking the
last man’s hand, Sal turned to Wilson and asked facetiously,
“What’ll you be teaching me?”

“I’ll be instructing you on special op’s
interrogation tactics and procedures.”

The men chuckled briefly and then eerily
stopped simultaneously.

“Grab your gear and follow me, Scalise.
You’ll be bunking in my hooch,” Smith ordered curtly.

Sal followed Smith into one of the bamboo
huts. Pointing to a cot with a rolled up mattress lying on top of
it, Smith explained, “That’s your rack. You can stow your gear in
that foot locker.”

Glancing down at the empty foot locker at
the base of his bunk, Sal noted the name stenciled on the lid.
“Who’s Horan, Robert J.?”

Smith got right up into Sal’s face and
barked, “Are you fucking stupid or something? That’s classified,
asshole!”

“Awright, take it easy.”

“I guess you don’t fully understand your
role in our little operation. You’re only here because you’re
expendable. That means we don’t give a rat’s ass if you live or die
as long as you do what you’re told. Roger that, troop?”

“Yeah,” Sal responded angrily.

“I’m really going to enjoy giving you your
first lesson in the martial arts. Get your sleep tonight, Scalise.
You’re gonna need it. We start tomorrow at 0500. Capisi?”
Mockingly, Smith exaggerated the accent of his last word.

“Yeah, I understand,” Sal said as he glared
into Smith’s cruel, dark eyes.

* * * * *

The next morning at 0500 hours precisely,
Sal stood in the center of the small camp facing Smith. The three
other men Jones, Murphy, and Levy were positioned in a broken
circle around the two combatants who prepared for a martial arts
lesson. Seated at a desk in one of the bamboo huts, Wilson pored
over paperwork and documents. Sporadically, he lifted his head to
keep a watchful eye on the training exercise about to take
place.

Unsheathing his knife, Smith handed it to
Sal and ordered gruffly, “Here, take this weapon and try to kill
me.”

Perplexed by the request, Sal hesitantly
took possession of the long blade. “Look, just ’cause I don’t like
you, that don’t mean I wanna kill you,” Sal remarked
confidently.

“You don’t like me?” Smith taunted. “That’s
too bad, ’cause I was really starting to like you. Or should I say,
I was really enjoying fucking your mother in her sweet little ass
last night. Now come and try to kill me, you cocksucking Guinea
bastard.”

Strongly lunging forward, Sal tried to run
Smith through with the blade. However, Smith easily side-stepped
Sal’s amateurish attack, and delivered a powerful roundhouse kick
to Sal’s ribs. The force of the blow sent Sal sailing toward Jones,
who in turn took hold of Sal’s arm, and flipped him to the ground.
With the resilience of a cat, Sal bounced back to his feet, weapon
in hand, and charged Smith once more. Wildly swinging the knife,
Sal slashed and cut at the elusive man, but Smith deftly avoided
every thrust. Sal then stumbled over a rock causing him to make an
awkward stab which enabled Smith to seize the hand clutching the
weapon. Cranking Sal’s wrist, Smith forced him to drop the knife.
With lighting fast reflexes, Smith then administered a lethal choke
hold.

Though Sal fought back valiantly, he was
weakened by the lack of oxygen, and fell to one knee. Smith
continued to apply pressure until he could easily wrestle his
semiconscious foe to the ground. Tugging at the arm around his
throat, Sal desperately tried to keep from blacking out. Just
before Sal was about to lose consciousness, Smith loosened his
grip, allowing him to breath freely. “Are you okay, Scalise?” Smith
asked calmly.

“Yeah,” Sal said, nodding.

“Lesson number one, never lose your temper.
Always be in control of your emotions. Even if your adversary is
callous enough to insult your deceased mother. Anger only makes you
stupid and gets you killed. Roger that, troop?”

Again, Sal nodded.

“Good. I’m going to let up now. This
particular exercise is over.”

Rising to his feet, Smith then helped Sal to
his.

“You have a lot of potential as a
close-quarters combatant, Scalise. However, if you can’t learn to
think, rather than react, your life expectancy in this particular
theatre of operations will be short. Roger that?”

Rubbing his reddened throat, Sal said
softly, “Yes.”

“Good. Let’s try it again. Only this time
don’t allow yourself to become unbalanced. I’m gonna show you a
very simple and effective way to break free from this type of choke
hold. Do you have any questions?”

“Yeah, how did you know about my
mother?”

“I saw the picture you put out near your
bunk.” In an unusually kind tone, Smith asked, “It means a great
deal to you? Doesn’t it?”

“Yeah, it does.”

Seeing the break in the action, Wilson rose
from his desk screaming, “What the hell is going on out there? This
isn’t a fucking social gathering.”

Smith’s face immediately became hard and he
yelled, “Come on, Scalise. You have a lot to learn. Come at me
again.”

The next several weeks went by very fast.
Every waking moment Sal spent being trained, tested, and coached by
Wilson’s team members in kung-fu, karate, jujitsu, small weapons,
military tactics, and reconnaissance. Retaining every bit of
knowledge and technique he was taught, Sal excelled in his martial
arts training to the point where he was able to take Smith down on
more than one occasion. Ultimately, Sal graduated from Wilson’s
school of assassination and warfare with a Ph.D. in murder.

Participating in several minor operations,
Sal performed magnificently and his hard work managed to garner him
a noteworthy amount of respect from the rest of the team members.
However, the bulk of the operations he engaged in were the
transportation of undisclosed medical materials being shipped to
the United States. Secretly, Sal suspected that Wilson and his men
were actually involved in the illegal distribution of narcotics.
Having no proof of their activity and knowing the consequences he
would face if he were to object, Sal decided that the smart move
for now was to remain silent.

Over time, Sal’s opinion of the other team
members changed from contempt to respect. Wilson and his men were
remarkably dedicated, but there was also something very strange
about them. They only addressed each other by their last names,
they never allowed themselves to be photographed, and they never
spoke about themselves or their families. Killing didn’t bother
these men at all, though after a while, it didn’t matter much to
Sal either. Coming to the end of his tour and feeling that he had
finally had enough of this shit, Sal only wanted to go home.