The two goons lifted her from the trunk and set her down on her feet. As soon as she was standing, the driver headed toward a door to the building on which he now knelt. Carson watched him for a second as he started fishing through his key ring, only to have his attention called back to the left by yet another scream and violent struggle from Katie.
The man holding her leaned his head forward so he could say something in her ear, but seemed unwilling to whisper, as Carson could hear every word. “Yeah,” he drawled, “you remember what I said back at the cabin.” Carson wasn’t sure, but it looked like he kissed or bit her neck gently. His next move, reaching around her to cup her breasts in his rough hands through her shirt, was more obvious. “We got all the privacy we need here, and you’re gonna have a great time with us! Way better than with that Navy guy!” Katie craned her head back and released a plaintive wail into the fabric wedged between her lips, one so heartrending that even the guy unlocking the door turned when he heard it.
It affected Carson as well, though in a different way. Somewhere in the space where the heart and soul of a man mix, a flame flared to life. It was small, but it burned fiercely with a white-hot ardor, growing hotter and hotter. Seeing Katie groped and threatened by that piece of shit acted as the most volatile fuel, and the flame exploded into a conflagration.
Like other searing flames, this one burned away less resilient elements first, leaving only the purest essence of the core materials. Gone from Carson were fear, self-doubt, compassion, and remorse. What remained was his mission – Katie’s safety and the elimination of the men who held her – and nothing else. He seethed with energy and a singular focus.
His brain raced. Normally, when Carson got angry, he couldn’t think or reason very well. But this was different. Now the rage enhanced his clarity. Faster than a super computer, he scanned the area once more and formulated a plan of action, one of ruthless efficiency. He stepped back from the vent, his feet dancing around obstacles he should not have been able to see, his movements as silent as a black hole was dark. He moved in a semi-circle back and to the right, first away from and then back towards the edge of the roof, until he was above and only about eight feet away from the door into which the driver was just now inserting the key.
He crouched like a jaguar, his body coiled and ready to strike. He was ready to attack now, but he would wait for just the right moment. His muscles taut, he quivered with the empowering notion these men had no idea of the unbridled wrath about to befall them. It was just like it had been, a lifetime or so ago, Carson kneeling mere yards from some South American tin pot dictator who had propped up his throne with the dead bodies of his innocent citizens. When Carson made his move, his victims never knew anything was amiss until it was far too late.
The nicknames from those days came back to him. He was once again The Ghost, The Blade, The Silent Muerte. Now he was all those, and more. The combination of manic furor and cool, crisp precision sharpened Carson to an infinitely-fine edge, like a machete so well-honed it could cut without the victim feeling a thing. He holstered his weapon. The Smith & Wesson would do far less damage than he could with his own hands. He was no longer a man. He was a tool, an instrument of destruction, the Bringer of Death.
The man passed the front of the car, walking slowly, one hand gripping Katie’s right arm and pushing her along. He was slightly behind her and to her right. Perfect. Carson watched carefully, drawing further power through fury watching the way this troglodyte manhandled such a lovely woman. His woman. Still he waited, watching until he saw the back of the man’s head.
Now.
Carson burst from the edge of the roof silently, going from his ready position to being in flight towards his first target instantaneously, his right arm cocked and ready to destroy. Time slowed for him as he sailed through the air, the target filling his field of vision.
Entirely too late, the target turned his head towards the motion. Carson had the pleasure of seeing his eyes begin to go wide before he delivered his punch with exacting precision. The first two knuckles of his fist connected with the top of the zygomatic bone where it formed the bottom-right portion of the orbit of the eye. He felt the structure give way and saw the light fade from the man’s eye as he fell in a heap. Carson tucked his head and rolled as he landed, using his momentum to snap back to his feet and turn to deal with the next victim.
Target Two had left the keys in the doorknob and was still spinning to his left to figure out what the hell was going on behind him. Upon seeing the raging eyes of his attacker, his right hand moved down towards his hip in a likely effort to retrieve his gun. Carson charged forward, his eyes gauging speed and distance and calculating he would get there before it was a problem.
His target was able to grasp his weapon and start bringing it upward, but things went no further. Carson raised his left arm and, with a violent downward chop, struck him just above the wrist with a force sufficient to turn the two bones of his forearm into four. The gun clattered to the ground and he screamed, but only until Carson’s right elbow pounded into his jaw with a force far superior to a heavyweight’s punch. The scream faded
