25. ARCHER

25

ARCHER

“If any of the guards shoot, I’ll execute every fucking one of them. Personally,” I warn, staring at the screen.

All of us at the Center stop breathing.

The silence is deafening as we watch Sonny “Little” walking toward the guards, arms raised, a large group of children following.

Only one voice grits out into the radio, Ortiz’s, “Hold. Hold. Get the kids.”

We watch the main camera that shows one kid—one fucking kid—step in front of the entire line of soldiers with raised guns to protect the rest.

He is talking, he is saying something.

Humanity… We don’t know what it means until we see children fighting wars, raising guns, whatever they have. Not because they know what it means, but because someone tells them to do it. For food. For revenge. For their families. It’s so easy to teach children cruelty. It’s so easy to break their worlds.

Please, please, please , I repeat in my mind, not knowing if I’m praying or just asking the guards not to snap and commit one stupid act that would spin a whirlwind of irreversible cruelty that would break an entire generation. Some horrific moments you just can’t walk away from.

For a second, just a second, I look over my shoulder, and an entire Center of hardcore IT and security guys are standing with their hands in prayers or clutching their hair, biting their nails, covering their mouths, waiting for one line of guards to do the right thing.

And then the guards do.

The line of guns in front of the kids starts lowering.

“Holy fuck.”

“Thank God.”

Collective whispers of relief go through the Center.

And then the kids behind Sonny start slowly lowering their arms, dropping whatever baggage they have in their hands. And they are crouching—fucking crouching—toward the soldiers.

“Take them. Take the kids,” Ortiz says into the radio. “Take them all, get them here. Leave the fight line. Just bring the kids in.”

In front of the line, Sonny waves to the rest of the kids, and they cross the invisible line and step toward the guards, and the guards grab them and start retreating.

But then the screen flashes white.

“What happened?” I shout in panic. “What the fuck happened?”

“An explosion,” someone says.

“Fuuuck!”

“What was that?”

Another bright flash takes out another screen.

“Port Mrei is attacking!” Ortiz says, his gun still at the Commander’s head. “Fuck!”

“Ayana is under attack!”

The screen clears up, smoke floating away.

“Is that…?”

“Fuck,” Ortiz blurts. “Why is he stalling?”

“Why is the kid stalling?” I shout at Ortiz, then grab the radio out of his hands. “Why is Sonny looking back? Get the kid!”

The radio beeps. “We got all of the kids but one. Someone called him back.”

“Called who back?”

“One of the attackers behind them.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

Then another scenario unfolds on the screens. The locals are on trucks with metal spikes and grids, with guns and chains and everything they could find to fight with, appearing right where the children just came from, at the edge of the clear patch amidst the jungle.

The radio beeps again. “Sir, they have a girl. I repeat, they have a girl hostage. The kid is going back for her.”

“No! Tell him to move on!” I shout.

“He won’t. He’s going back. Sir, tell us what to do. We need your order.”

We watch Sonny turn around and walk, his arms still raised, toward the darkness of the jungle where the trucks are.

A large figure walks up to him, dragging someone else. He wraps his arm around the kid’s throat and drags him backward, letting go of a tiny figure.

“That’s the girl!” someone says.

“What’s happening? Who the fuck is that? Who grabbed Sonny?” I murmur.

“One of the thugs.”

My heart drops.

The girl runs toward our guards.

The radio beeps. “Got the girl, sir.”

“Get the kid!”

“We can’t, sir.”

The guy on the screen puts a gun against Sonny’s head, dragging him away from the soldier line. He doesn’t turn back. He’s looking ahead at the soldiers.

“What’s he looking at?” I demand. “What’s he looking at? Where’s another camera? What’s he looking at?”

“Sir, we can’t get the camera to work.”

“Get the fucking drone!”

“We are on this, sir.”

“This is a good time to attack,” the Commander rasps. “We can take them out. Give the men clearance. It’s just one kid and one guy.”

Mr. Ortiz pushes his gun into the man’s head. “Shut up.”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” I snarl, my heart pounding.

I knew this day would come. When we have to choose between one innocent life and a battalion of people. But we can’t.

“What’s he looking at, the thug?” I shout into the radio.

Another figure separates from the line of guards and steps into the frame.

Raven.

“Fucking Raven,” Marlow whispers.

I recognize him. His arms are raised. He’s stepping into the line between the guards who are back to their positions and the guy holding the kid hostage.

“Hold the fire! Don’t shoot!” I shout into the radio. “I repeat. Do not!!”

My heart is pumping so hard I’m about to have a panic attack. I didn’t even have one when I was attacked at the Ashlands, but I’m having a hard time handling someone else’s standoff.

“Turn the sound up! Can we get the audio?”

And then I hear it, the familiar raspy voice coming off the screen.

“Long time no see, Raven.”