Field of Blackbirds - Clayton Jeppsen & Lindsey Jeppsen (me reader txt) 📗

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Reed knew something was wrong. He’d never seen so much gravity in Otto’s behavior. He found an M-16 and signaled Marcielli to do the same. As he started toward Otto, Reed saw a silhouette through the window moving swiftly away from the front door.
“Otto, get away from the door!” Reed yelled, but by then it was too late. The landscape in front of him was already starting to warp. The door was lifting off its hinges, taking Otto with it. Reed tried to get to him, but the massive force of heat and splintered wood was now having its way with him. Reed felt his body slam against the wall, cutting him short of breath. A brilliant light filled the room and then vanished back into the darkness, only leaving behind scattered bits of flickering orange light.
Smoke shot across the floor and climbed up the walls. Reed tried to breathe, but the misguided air was thick and rebellious. It burned as he took it in. He couldn’t distinguish sounds. Everything was fuzzy. He tried to tame stubborn images before they dissolved behind the smoke; tried to find Otto to see if he was even alive.
“Otto!” Reed called out. Only quiet grumblings could be heard throughout the house.
Anxiety flared like a match-tip. Reed frantically sorted through his memory for training but the outstanding pressure in his head made it nearly impossible. Scrambled thoughts tugged from every direction. He found God to be more expedient in times like these. It was his only lucid intuition.
“Father” begged Reed, “Protect the guys!”
Then Reed saw Marcielli bolt passed him in a psychotic rage. He clashed with two figures in the doorway. Reed reached for his M-16. It was nowhere around him. Why didn’t anyone have a gun? He tried to pick himself off the floor but his muscles were oblivious to the adrenaline racing through his veins. A willful sensation blew through his body, he felt hot and cold at the same time. He made out a pair of black combat boots growing larger as they got closer, gliding across the floor. And then, he felt immediate blunt force on the back of his head. The feeling was devastating, there was no slowing it down. Reed thought of the others again and then he lost consciousness.
Radenko bound Angelo, who had shrapnel in his side and was loosing blood quickly. Florentine, thinking he was in some fiendish nightmare, was also too week to fight.
Marcielli hit Lazar with force as they tumbled down the steps of the front door and out into the walkway. It was a struggle of might, a struggle for Lazar’s rifle. Marcielli held his grip on the rifle with one hand and reached for a brick, kicked loose from the steps. He swung it toward Lazar’s head. Lazar used the butt of the rifle to block the swing and contemplated shooting Marcielli. Instead he smashed the rifle across Marcielli’s chest, causing him to stumble backwards and then kicked him to ensure his fall. Between the blast and the fight, Marcielli nearly had all the breath knocked out of him. He stared at the barrel pointed at his chest and wondered what he could possibly do next. He wondered why the man wasn’t shooting at him.
Only for a brief instance, Lazar turned his attention toward the clatter coming from inside the house; hopeful of his friend’s well being. Lazar showed his back, but Marcielli wasn’t sure if he had anything left in him. Then he thought of Marianna and the baby. He thought of their future, without him in it.
Marcielli sprang for Lazar but lost his footing, forecasting the attack. Lazar turned in time to repel Marcielli’s force, knocking him to the ground again, but Marcielli grabbed Lazar’s leg to brake his fall. Lazar shrieked in pain as Marcielli smashed the brick into his ribs. Lazar went down and the ground fight ensued.
Radenko heard Lazar struggling outside. He tied Florentine and Angelo to an exposed 2x4. He looked over at Reed and Otto, but they were still down from the blast. Radenko darted to the front door, rigidly clutching his rifle. He saw Lazar’s rival holding a brick over his head and Lazar fighting to keep it from coming down on him.
Marcielli’s adrenaline was pumping so hard through his body he almost didn’t hear the rattle of machine gun fire. He saw the puffs of dirt next to him and then felt a ripping pain in his left shoulder. His body spun around and then he was on his back.
Radenko moved in closer with his finger still tightly across the trigger. He pointed the barrel at Marcielli’s chest.
“Belissimo! Belissimo!” cried Marcielli. Believing those would be his last words; he offered one to Marianna and one to his unborn.
“Stop!” yelled Lazar.
“But he was trying to kill you!” blurted Radenko as he stood ready to finish off a wounded and panting Marcielli.
“Our orders were to take them alive. That’s what we need to do. Nobody else needs to get hurt.” Lazar stood, hand over ribs and hobbled over to Radenko, lowering his barrel for him.
“I’m sorry, I forgot.” Admitted Radenko; noticing a nervous vibrato in his own voice.
“What about the others inside?” asked Lazar.
“Help me drag this one in. The others aren’t fully contained. We need more rope.”

Reed opened his eyes, but everything was still dark; only small bits of light shifted slowly in front of him. He realized something was over his head; a dusty white sheet or pillow case. His hands were tied and he was sitting on the floor. He felt his back against a wall. His body throbbed as blood worked its way back into limbs previously deprived.
“Otto,” Reed called out, hesitantly.
“I’m here Boss! I’m okay. Everybody’s okay.”

Lazar was sure three of them were either Spaniards or Italians. “This one sounds American.” said Lazar, as he pointed to Reed.
“What about the big guy?” asked Radenko.
“I’m not sure. But I don’t get it. None of them are from Yugoslavia and they don’t work for any foreign press. It’s a mixed team. They’ve got American weaponry and German surveillance equipment. Maybe the big guy’s German.”
Lazar tossed the radio to Radenko, “Hey, why don’t you radio HQ; let’em know the package is secure and we’re code-4.”
“Corporal, with all due respect, if I have to speak to Nikola, I’ll probably vomit.”
“Give me the radio.” Lazar rolled his eyes.
Nikola sounded surprised to hear from Lazar. No questions and no attaboys. He simply told them to stay put until they got there. Lazar was curious of Nikola’s intentions. He understood Radenko’s hatred for him. Radenko was sure that he and General Pec had something to do with his father’s attack. And now Radenko was convinced that they wanted to get rid of him.
Lazar glanced over at the men against the wall; wondered about them. What were they doing? What would Nikola do with them? He knew the question wasn’t necessary. In two days, they would all be dead. Lazar glanced over at Radenko and contemplated his theories. He knew he couldn’t stand by and watch the inevitable unfold. He already owed Radenko his life on two accounts.
One truth was for sure; he’d grown tired of the senseless killing. He wanted a way out. He wanted to take Milla back to Belgrade, spend a day with her at stables. He wanted to be back in Mr. Nowak’s Time Machine, coddling the warm flicker of the jewelry torch. He wanted to see Mr. Nowak; he wanted to see Mr. Nowak caring for his mother. And chess, he wanted to make his move at the chess table. He wouldn’t be so quick to sacrifice his pawns now. He understood their importance. They were frontline soldiers. If any one pawn fell, it created an avenue of attack for the enemy. Mr. Nowak tried to teach Lazar this, but he just didn’t have the patience to move them one space at a time.
Recently Lazar felt as though he and Radenko were just pawns. Except they were holding a line for a cause in which neither believed in. What Lazar feared most, was that his heart would lead him to the location of his demise, and Milla would only be a memory he took with him. But he wouldn’t run. He wouldn’t hide. He wasn’t a coward. He had to make his stand. The key was, staying alive long enough to see Radenko to his father’s side. He owed him that much. Reuniting with Milla, by God’s sweet grace, would only be a plus. One thing he’d convinced himself of was; there were a million places he’d rather be, than here, babysitting prisoners.
Radenko gathered up the weapons. He took time to admire some of them, especially the M-16. He never thought he would get his hands on one. “We ought to get Ibrahim up here. He and his boys could really arm themselves.”
“And we would be hung.” Lazar grimaced.
Lazar sat at Reed’s stool by the window, “Take a peak in here.” Lazar used his foot to nudge the crate of supplies closer to Radenko. “You won’t believe this stuff.”
Lazar looked out the window. He used his sleeve to wipe some smudges off the glass. “I can see why they chose this spot. You can almost see the whole camp from here. They’ve been taking a lot of pictures” Amused, Lazar strapped on the night vision. “The glass is broken.”
Radenko looked up, “Pressure from the blast probably.”
Lazar was more impressed, anyway, with the unfiltered view. The camp seemed bright with fire light. The soft swaying trees around the camp seemed to be standing guard; the dark, heavy clouds courting them. All seemed to be secretly embracing the warmth and solace emanating from the refugees.
Lazar was hoping more refugees would listen to Ibrahim and their warning. They had done all they could. Maybe more would leave at first light, he thought. Lazar said a silent prayer for them. Then he prayed for Milla and those she was caring for, that they would have a safe journey.
Radenko paced in front of his detainees, then squatted down, elbows on knees, “What do you think there