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

doing here? He asked. Radenko reached forward and pulled the pillow case off of Reed’s head.
The sudden brightness caused Reed to squint his eyes. After a few seconds, Reed got his first look at his captors. Young, like they were. Serbs, he recognized the uniforms from the Intel photos. Reed stared back at Radenko. He appeared to be the same age as Reed; didn’t look particularly threatening with his bright blue eyes and pail skin. He glanced over at Lazar, who had taken over his post at the window. He was stockier, tan and had longer hair. He wondered if the two were alone in capturing his team. Their fatigues were thin and faded. Both of them looked tired. They didn’t fall into the pigeonhole stereotype of rogue nationalists. Radenko started speaking to Reed. Reed didn’t understand a word he was saying.
“How’s your head?” asked Radenko. “I hope you understand; we’re only doing our jobs. What’s your name?”
Reed didn’t respond.
“Why are you here?”
Reed looked over at his team; all were bound with pillow cases over their heads. He felt defeated. He felt like he’d let his men down as team leader. How could he let this happen? Look where his convictions had gotten them. Where did he go wrong, he wondered? Why did he feel so strongly about being there? He wished he could contact Sam and order in the cavalry. But they weren’t even supposed to be there and the hard truth was, they were civilians, there was no cavalry. It pained Reed to see his men like this.
“Why are you here?” Radenko asked again.
Reed knew Radenko was talking to him, he just didn’t understand what he was saying.
“I don’t speak your language.” answered Reed.
Radenko paused for a moment and then, in horribly broken English, he asked, “You America?”
“Yes.” replied Reed.
“Hollywood?”
“Yes, Los Angeles”
“Good movies.” Radenko stuttered, his smile pushing into his cheeks.
Reed almost grinned. The soldier seemed childish.
“Why here, America?” Reed didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure what they wanted and he wasn’t about toss the integrity of the mission further into the road.

One by one, Radenko removed the pillow cases from over their heads.
Reed felt remorse and culpability when he saw their faces. Otto almost bore a shameful look, like it was his job to protect them all, being the seasoned veteran. But in the same instance, Reed noticed a man contemplating, devising a way out. He had already moved to the next phase of the game; escape and evade.
Angelo wore a defeated expression, mixed with bitterness. He stared off in front of him, making eye contact with no one; especially not Reed.
Florentine hid his true emotions well. He was almost smirking, letting them know he was still the comedian. Nothing is more crippling to the Devil, than to tell him he doesn’t exist and then laugh in his face. Reed silently voted Florentine the VIP of the moment. The positive reinforcement was much needed.
Marcielli, still loyal and true, couldn’t hide the look of hopelessness that was smudged all over his face. Who could blame him and who would want to be in his shoes? But something deep in Reed’s gut told him Marcielli would be there when Marianna gave birth to his baby. Only how could he convey the idea to Marcielli, under the circumstances, without appearing completely naïve?
As Reed silently evaluated the morale of his team, something struck him very odd. He couldn’t help but notice the bandage on Otto’s head, the wrap around Angelo’s side and the dressing on Marcielli’s shoulder. Their wounds had been treated. Why? Reed asked himself. It didn’t seem fitting of the Serb soldiers Reed had read about. They weren’t rowdy, nor were they brutal; couldn’t possibly be the same Serbs in their reports; the ones killing, raping and terrorizing innocent people, burning villages. But their tactics were very sharp and meticulous. Reed knew they were trained combat soldiers. He could see the wounds on their conscious. It was a look he had seen many times before; a person who is paid to take lives. No fear, but appreciative that, at the current moment, bullets weren’t flying overhead. They were feelings all soldiers had in common; the brief, startling and unpredicted moments of peace.
Lazar hopped off the stool and stood next to Radenko. He looked over Reed’s team.
“What are your names?” asked Lazar.
Finally Marcielli broke the silence, surprising everyone, including Lazar and Radenko. He answered in Serbian, “The big German on the end is Otto. That’s Angelo and this is Florentine. My name is Marcielli, we are from Italy. And this is Reed, he’s American.”
“Who do you work for?” asked Lazar.
Marcielli didn’t answer.
Lazar looked over at Reed, “America, who do you work for?” Lazar spoke some English, but refused to cater to his prisoners.
Reed couldn’t understand him and Marcielli didn’t translate.
Radenko walked over to Reed; bent down again, “America, you boss?”
Reed looked him in the eye and nodded his head.
America, Reed thought, what a peculiar honor to bleed with; a renowned and distinguished title to so many people; The Home of the Brave, the Land of the Free, the Red, White and Blue. America, America! Yes, I am America!


Chapter 33 - One


Soot from the Srebrenica coal factories mixed with the smell of burnt wood. An assortment of which made it hard for anyone to sleep. Watchful eyes scanned the room throughout the night, waiting on the unknown, anticipating the worst. Dew quietly dripped from bits of broken glass left in the window pane. A damp chill offered admonition of the breaking dawn and the thick midnight-blue softened over the waking valley. Except for a few stirring creatures, nothing had broken the morning silence.
Adjourning a ten thousand mile expedition, thoughts barged effortlessly into his mind, setting him apart from reality once again. Fighting them back became tedious and futile. Reed clearly lacked the strength. He allowed the emotion to perch on his heart; thoughts of home, teasing, tugging. Lindsey stretched forth her arms. Reed pulled her in, her body a perfect fit against his; her skin, her scent, her softness, insatiable, arresting every desire. A sentiment almost single handedly destroying him; never convenient, always welcome. The frequent pounding in his chest was a reminder of the life he loved: a compass, pointing homeward.
Reed’s body ached. His muscles tightened through the hours of immobility. His wrists, raw from a natural desire to pull against the fibers in the rope. Nausea toyed with his sleep-ridden mind. He knew he had to put himself together; try to plot an escape. But he was plagued by the decency of his captors. He knew any kind of escape would call their blood to floor. He didn’t know them, which seemed to lessen the guilt, but he convinced himself there were no other alternatives.
The team was able to whisper to each other in English, unchallenged. Reed was surprised by the carelessly relaxed behavior of the Serbs. He and Marcielli were discussing it, when Otto interrupted.
“Don’t make assumptions. They could be the containment team; just infantrymen. The real interrogation is on its way, trust me.”
Reed thought about what Otto was saying. If anyone had a feeling for these things, it was Otto. He’d championed the art for twenty years, twice lugging the chains of a POW; once in his own country.
Otto lowered his voice, “We should plan an escape. Try to overtake them; surprise them, like they did us.”
Reed didn’t make direct eye contact with Otto the way he had. He just conversed with the air in front of him.
“Let’s not rush anything Otto. We need more time to follow their movements, learn their weaknesses.”
“Weaknesses?” mumbled Florentine. He tugged at the ropes on his wrists. “Did anybody notice any weaknesses when they defeated all five of us and tied us up?”
“They’re not amateurs,” admitted Reed. “But I’m with Otto on this one. I’m not about to rot in some Serb prison. We’ve got to get out of here. If one of us can get to the van out back, we can use the mobile phone to call Sam.”
Angelo wasn’t speaking, just staring at the ground in front of him, occasionally turning his head from side to side in frustration. Reed knew he was upset with him. Angelo said it wasn’t a good idea to leave Kosovo.
“Angelo, are you all right?” asked Reed.
“Are you serious? You had to ask!”
Reed knew this conversation was coming and preferred to get it over with. He knew the morale would get a lot worse before it got better. He also knew the one who would cast the most stones at him would be the other chevron bearer. The one likely a little offended taking orders from another sergeant his junior.
“You’re selfish Reed. We had a mission to complete. Nowhere in our orders did it say, ‘Come back with a Bronze Star and a Purple Heart’. Damn you for not thinking about us, the team and the mission. You’re young and foolish, Reed.”
The words were marring and burrowed deep into his confidence. It was Reed’s first assignment as a sergeant. Had he already blown it? Reed didn’t say anything, just nodded, allowing a moment for the poison to spread through his body. He felt he might curl in shame. Why wasn’t his loyal, childlike passion inflating into a life preserver? Nobody denied Reed a chance to respond, but an uncomfortable silence stagnated among them.
It was Otto who attempted to slow the bleeding. Everyone listened. Otto was never one to talk much, unless it was about the mission or war. It was really the first time he’d shared anything personal with them.

“It was 1969 in East Berlin. The Wall had been up for eight years and I was only thirteen. My father said he was leaving the country with a group of workers from the factory. They had been planning the escape for some time. He said once he was safely in West Berlin, he could make the right contacts