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

and the others, he realized that Radenko had offered him yet another chance to make right. Nothing would bring that man back to life. But now Lazar found it amazing that, here he stood, able to save five. The warmth of sanctity flooded his guilt. A man, once in ruins, was now mortaring himself back together, brick by brick. A power Nikola could never have over him. Lazar nodded at Radenko. Radenko nodded back.
Lazar got up and moved toward the group. Everyone bore a look of bewilderment. He stood over Reed, clutching the knife in his hand. Lazar studied Reed for a moment and then knelt down by him, extending his knife. The others struggled with their ropes but looked helplessly on.
“No, not like this!” someone cried.
Reed tensed and then, he felt a release of pressure. He hadn’t realized it, but his eyes had been closed. When he opened them, the blade of Lazar’s knife was glistening between Reed’s hands and the ropes fell to the floor.
“Let’s talk.” said Lazar, now cutting the ropes from Reed’s feet.
“Thank you.” returned Reed, in a broken voice.
Lazar used his free hand to help Reed to his feet.
Pain shot from Reed’s heels to his hip as he straightened his legs enough to stand.
“We’ll free one more right now and the rest of you later.”
Lazar walked over to Florentine, who was predetermined to be the least threatening of the group. The element of surprise was no longer in their quiver. If their detainees decided to turn on them, they would at least have a fighting chance. Lazar freed Florentine and aided him to his feet as well. Florentine suffered from the same blood thickening pains as Reed. Only Florentine was more audible about it, confirming the lighter threat assessment he was awarded.
Lazar put his knife away. “What have you all been eating?”
Florentine, rubbing some life into his backside, answered, “We’ve got MRE’s in the van outside.”
“Good, bring some in to your men.” ordered Lazar. “Radenko, go with him.”
Lazar motioned Reed to come sit with him at the table. As Reed looked out the window from where he used to sit, he saw that not much had changed. The hours he spent in bondage felt like weeks. The camp was still stirring but there seemed to be fewer refugees. They were still on the move. Lazar also studied their movements and was reassured to find the same.
They each sat and waited, accepting the awkward silence. But when Lazar noticed Reed glaring at a pile of weapons in the corner, he called Reed’s attention by audibly clearing his throat. Reed felt funny about the accusation. He really hadn’t thought of making a dash for it. He was grateful for the hand of diplomacy Lazar extended him. It was something that struck him in the very beginning, the feeling that Lazar and Radenko were truly decent men.
After they returned with the rations, Florentine began hand-feeding the rest of his team. Marcielli, for some reason, seemed to be the most gratified. Radenko sat with Lazar and Reed, but kept a close eye on Florentine.
Lazar didn’t ask any questions about what Reed and his men were doing in Bosnia. But during their conversation, he tried to persuade Reed it was too dangerous to remain in the country. A team like his would be considered a threat to either side of the political field and would be dealt with as such.
When Reed asked about the refugees, Lazar showed a loss of patience. He encouraged Reed to go west, back toward Kosovo and warned him that the refugees were not his problem.
Reed looked back, wondering if the guys could overhear what he was asking. Angelo’s zealous glare and edgy demeanor, not only assured Reed he could hear them, but it promised him every captain’s curse, mutiny.
Reed still had to find out. He asked Lazar where the refugees were headed. Lazar just shook his head in frustration.
Radenko answered. “They’re headed south, toward Croatia.”
Radenko was cut short when Lazar stood up and began yelling at Reed.
“It’s a waste. There’s nothing you can do, America. It’s been going on for centuries and nobody’s ever cared. History will play itself out again and again and nothing will be done. Let Radenko and I worry about the refugees. Okay? We will spill our blood for them. Take your men and leave. We are not risking our lives, by setting you free, just so you can follow them to your deaths.” Lazar pointed out the window. “Please, go home, America. Bring your men home.”
Reed remained silent, but Angelo could not. He sat up straight and scooted forward a little.
“You’ve lost it Reed. When I am cut loose, I’m taking the van and whoever else wants to come and I’m driving back to Kosovo. This isn’t the mission I volunteered for.”
Marcielli listened to what Angelo was saying. He had, since the beginning, felt that the only way he would make it through, was if he followed Reed to the end. It was an obscure reassurance that kept him fighting.
“We still have orders Angelo. And Reed is still in charge. I’m with him.”
The little boost was all Reed needed.
“Thanks Marcielli.” Reed tipped his head.
He knew Angelo served in many successful combat missions. He knew he was older and more mature. But Sam chose him to lead the team for a reason. Meeting expectations was suitable for the average soldier, Reed thought. But for a United States Marine, it was going above and beyond the call of duty that made him the finer soldier.
Reed noticed that Angelo wasn’t looking at him anymore, perhaps feeling he had gone too far. Without observing the same mild whisper as earlier, Reed began to speak, accounting for his youngest obsession.
“Angelo, I don’t expect you to understand how I feel about this. I just want you to hear me out.” Reed rubbed his eyes with his thumb and fingers. “I was a small boy, only eight years old. I was in the comfort of my own home and my parents loving embrace.”
Lazar and Radenko seemed interested in the American’s new tone.
“I only cared about whether or not the Dodgers made it to the World Series or if I could successfully sluff off my chores and meet my friends at the dirt tracks. One evening, Mom and Dad were in the kitchen. I was in the TV room. President Ronald Reagan was addressing Russia’s Gorbachov, telling him to tear down the Berlin Wall. I’d heard a lot about the Wall that year, but I never really understood what it was. And then the screen was eaten up by an image that still haunts me to this day.
A young boy, my age, lay bloody in the gutter. He was shot for trying to climb that wall the President spoke of. How could it be such a horrible crime to climb a wall? My friends and I had done things like that so many times. I didn’t understand. His blood was running into the street. I was horrified. I had never seen another person that way; lifeless. Now I have seen many, but I only have nightmares of that one; that boy. I’ve never shared this with anyone, Angelo. Maybe this is what I need. It’s the only nightmare I’ve ever had and I see it every night.”
The silence was the only living object in the room. Their anticipation waited to climb Reed’s every word like a ladder.
“I’m standing over that boy, listening to the deafening cackle of the Russian soldier that shot him. The boy begins to get up; blood still dripping from a wound in his neck; his clothes, soiled. He stares at me for sometime, shivering and occasionally glancing over at the soldier. I’m finally able to see the color of his eyes; pale blue. Then he turns and begins to walk away. He motions me to follow him. I start after his trail of blood. Every night he takes me through the same alley. I crawl with him under the same tunnel. The same scrawny, gray cat hisses at him. The cat follows him from the tunnel down another alley, stopping periodically to lick at little drops of blood left behind by the boy. At the end of this alley, is an old tin shed. It’s rusted and weather rotted. The shed begins to quiver and voices are heard inside. Children are crying.”
Reed paused for a moment, seeming a little uncomfortable with what he was sharing, but he continued.
“The boy stands there for a long time, listening to the cries of the children in the shed. A large pool of blood has gathered around his feet now. Finally he turns to me. He pulls a key from his pocket and places it into my hand. He points to the lock on the shed; the look on his face, anxious and desperate. I approach the shed and insert the key into the lock. But as I am turning it, suddenly I am at the wall again. I’m standing over the boy, who has resumed his position in the gutter. I open my hand and the key is gone. The Russian soldier blows cigarette smoke into my face. I can’t see. Then I am back home in front of my TV, and I wake up.”
It was the first time Reed put his nightmare to script, a tale virgin to even Lindsey’s ears. Everyone appeared to be taken back as Reed recounted his dream. But most importantly, he had captured Angelo’s undivided attention.
“I’m holding the key now in my hand, Angelo. I am so close. The children are out there in this country, waiting for help. That boy will haunt me until I help them. I can’t do it alone.”
Angelo didn’t say anything, but his tone was different now.
“To some degree you are right, Angelo.” admitted Reed. “I have selfishly marched us into the darkest part of hell. But I have surrounded myself with the brightest angels. Those who I know will bring me back.”
Otto’s stone face of deliberation quickly organized into a colossal grin. “I’m no angel, Reed. I’ll fit in just fine in hell. But I’m glad to watch your back. You’re a good leader, a solid leader.”
Radenko just