Work Text:
Requiem
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The sun-baked tiles and courtyard of the ancient Wat exhaled steam into the night as the monsoon broke over Mae Sai Provence. The stinging rain hindered pursuers and pursued alike, funneling their paths along an ancient mountain path leading to the temple. Throwing themselves deep into the crumbling complex, the American agents took refuge in one of the large inner bots – sanctums – after running, sometimes climbing up the long, steep quartzite stairway. The stone and stucco ruins were intact enough to recognize the lichen-slick, mossy architecture jutting out of the hill. The worn carvings of lotus, the conical spires, and ghostly Naga lintels visible in the strobes of lightning, marked their shelter as a place of peace.
Leaning against the knee of a broken, headless Buddha, Agent Jack Gretsky cursed the M-16 in his hand. “This is a worthless piece of shit.” Slapping up on the bottom of the half-empty magazine, he continued berating, “The brass has gotta be outta their fucking minds.” Pulling back on the charging handle, he looked sideways through the barrel.
“Jack!” Martin Castillo breathed on the exhale, “Jack, what are you doing? You can’t possibly see the jam. Christ! Tap the carrier and then what? You can’t fire it. That sound will carry – we’re on top of a hill – you’ll be sending up a flare.” Laying a hand over the charging bolt, he shook his head. “Let it go. A firefight in this crumbling pile would be a disaster. We’ll wait. It’ll be awhile before they find us.”
“If they find us,” Gretsky smirked.
“Oh, they’ll find us.” Castillo pulled the canteen from his hip, twisted off the lid and asked, ”Are Kue and Moua backed by the lu-Mien?” Taking a drink, he waited. When there was no answer, he growled, “What the hell did they send you into? If I hadn’t been there you would’ve ended up with your head on a pike being washed clean in the rain.”
Putting the rifle between the crossed legged figure on the plinth, Jack’s voice was low and distracted, “I know… I know, I know.” Scrubbing his face with both hands, he said, “That’s why I was so happy to find you in Chiang Mai.”
“You’re a little deep to be someone’s messenger boy.” Castillo’s mind was fully engaged in the puzzle that had brought them to this place. In the glow from a distant strike, Jack could see his dark eyes sweeping the ceiling, not seeing but visualizing the disparate fragments of information. “Who sent you out?” Pieces were sliding into place for the young agent. “Damn it, Jack. Who is trying to kill you? I mean, from our side. Who wants you dead?”
Gretsky’s laugh echoed through the ruins until sizzling light sliced the dark and the compression bomb of thunder drowned their speech and slowing breaths. The illuminated wreckage around them – crumbled stucco drifts outlined the base of the wall, lotus carved timbers reached through tattered holes in a ceiling flecked with green and gold, fallen terracotta roof tiles – offered shelter from the deluge outside, but not the assassins on their trail. Sprites dancing cloud to cloud allowed their eyes to find one another as they waited for a lull.
“Who doesn’t?” Jack smiled, taking the canteen. “What about you? What were you doing in the north? Thought they still had you leashed to Saigon?”
“I been temporarily loaned out to the DEA.” Martin shook his head. “I was in Thailand to scout The Triangle when Danay Osokin gave me a heads up on that big shipment coming down the Chao Phraya. Saw your name on a list. Well… actually… the identifier they use for your last name since it doesn’t translate.”
“Hmm, now ain’t that a curiosity.” Gretsky returned the stoppered jug. “Mr. Osokin had this shit lead that Kue and Moua were ready to move product down the Chao to Bangkok. There’s a guy there making caskets for KIAs in ‘Nam. He’s also taking delivery of number three in his backdoor… shipping those boxes out to somebody in the hot zone. They’re sending smack home with the bodies. I got no idea who’s receiving in the US but...” He shrugged to the dark. “I wanted to dissuade them from working the ‘free ride to America with the dead’ angle. It’s just bad form.”
“That kind of hot reaches pretty high. And, what? They didn’t budge when a Company Op said: ‘stop it’?” Castillo’s low grumble was half to himself, half to Gretsky.
In the shadows, the curly haired man laughed, “They said ‘fuck you, we do what we want’. I know it’s hard to believe, but not everyone falls under the spell of my outstanding charm.” Returning to the M-16 on the towering carved figure, his laughter faded to a weary sigh. “Guess they figured I knew too much; guess I do. And now, so do you.”
Jack wiggled the magazine one last time before carefully placing the weapon in the lap of Buddha. “Maybe they got the memo on my last eval,” he mumbled sarcastically. Crossing to stand by the Chicano who was still looking around the room, studying the space, planning a fight, Jack said, “I - I’m sorry, Marty. Guess I fucked us both.”
“We ain’t dead yet,” Castillo said with a defiant growl. “Can you still use that thing strapped to your back, or did that Company eval say carries sword for show — generally inept?”
“Fuck. You.” Jack laughed.
“Not now, Juanito, we don’t have the time.” Castillo nodded to the timbered debris along the wall. “Let’s jam that against the door, they’ll be forced to come in from one direction, we can control their attack.”
“That cuts off our out.” Jack’s redundant observation echoed in the sudden silence as the storm ebbed in intensity.
The white-noise shush of simple rain made it possible to hear beyond the sanctuary walls. Drips off the tiled roof landing in puddles and pools provided a chaotic rhythm that reverberated through the two doors leading into the crumbling chamber. The temple was a choking sorrow. Once it had been tended and exalted. A thousand years of dignity and reverence abandoned to ruin, neither being returned to nature nor being held in any regard for the ancestors that worshiped here. Nothing more than a forgotten tomb now, left to the high jungles and monsoons. Saturated with humidity and age, this place had an ephemeral quality of spirit that was a terminus – they would either succeed or they would die. Either way, something would end here.
Martin ran his hand up Jack’s shoulder, stopping at his neck where he squeezed the knotted trapezius and gave him a little shake. “It certainly does. It’s the only way. If it’s time… it’s time.” Letting the grip slacken, he moved his hand up to cup Jack’s jaw, running his thumb across the dirt and sweat marred cheek. “If it’s to be now… it’ll be an honor to fall beside you.”
Leaning into the caress, Gretsky smiled. “Kid, you have always been way too serious and way too controlled.”
“Not always.” Martin dropped his hand.
“No,” Jack chuckled. “You’re right, not always. Let’s get that door barricaded, then see if we can find a spot to just rest for a bit.”
They moved through the wreckage finding what they could to secure their chosen theater of operations. One of the entrances held a stable door that they closed and buttressed from either side with boards and beams dragged from other rooms. Once the path of attack was defined, they swept the building again, finding miscellaneous items to soften a space between the Buddha and the back wall to rest while they waited.
Putting aside the vagaries of male tradition, they crawled into the narrow bed together – Jack on his back, Marty on his side. The combined width of shoulders made moving in the area difficult. After a few minutes of jostling to find comfort, Jack finally growled.
“Here.” He pushed a hand against Martin’s chest. “Up.” Sliding his arm under his friend’s torso, Jack grinned into the darkness. “Come here, baby. Let me hold ya.”
“Finally. Some romance,” Castillo joked, settling into the embrace.
Another band of torrent swept in from the upland front pressing through the pass; a howling wind driven rain hammered the ruins. Laying pressed together, they dozed in and out of fitful consciousness. As long as the storm raged, they were safe in their temple cocoon.
Deep into the night the lightening increased into regular bursts suffusing the temple with a flickering glow.
“What is with this goddamned storm,” Gretsky grumbled.
Marty lay with his head pillowed on the older man’s shoulder; his eyes closed. “This monsoon is the only thing keeping us alive right now.”
“And cozy.” Jack tightened the arm wrapped around his partner. “Remember that time we smuggled that sweet little gal into our dorm?”
“Smuggled? You walked her in dressed like one of the guys. I had to sneak her out past the Housemaster at two in the morning.”
Gretsky chuckled, leaning his cheek against the dark head under his chin. “You were always a good sport, Marty. I was a bad influence on you.” Patting the arm that lay across his stomach, Jack whispered, “I may have led you astray this time.”
“Yep. Like that’s never happened before,” Castillo mumbled into Jack’s chest.
Despite oppressive humidity, the mountain air swirling through the Wat was chilly. The Buddha’s radiant warmth added a meager comfort to their bed. Looking up at the figure, Jack ran his right hand along the stone. Feeling where chiseled scuffs of the lower plinth hit the smoothed polished surface of The Teacher’s robed back, he traced the horizontal scoring. The line had been worked into the stone hundreds, perhaps thousands of years ago.
Sheltering in the temple had been Gretsky’s idea. His plan was to stop long enough to clear the chamber in the M-16, but the worsening storm had trapped them here. The ruination around them was sadly fitting. It was probable that they, like this forgotten sanctum, would languish into obscurity — just two more agents lost to the manipulations of drug fueled regimes in the CIAs ‘Secret War’.
“What,” Martin’s voice was clear and low, “are you doing?”
“Praying,” Jack said.
In the darkling hours before dawn the storm subsided. Fading thunder burbled toward the eastern horizon, bringing the two men behind the Buddha to full consciousness. For a while they lay, listening to the easing rain and distant rumble – until Martin pushed himself up, half sitting, half lounging against the crumbling wall.
“We should stretch and get ready,” he said.
“Yeah.” Even in dire circumstances, Jack’s voice always held a diverting quality. Standing with an assisting hand from Martin, the older man added, “As if we were Miyamoto Musashi in Kyoto.”
The reference to the 16th century swordsman set their minds within a common framework. Learning ancient sword techniques – Kenjutsu – was part of their education. They had rehearsed the single and double sword styles of combat while imagining the heroic duels of the Samurai Master, never considering that one day — this day — that knowledge would save their lives.
“As if,” Martin agreed.
They readied themselves by moving purposefully around the dark room, warming muscles with memories of the synchronized movements that they had practiced throughout their youth – when their swords were wooden bokutos. Side by side they simultaneously folded to stand back to back, and, again, opening to stand abreast, they moved like the wings of a butterfly, like the blade of a balisong. The constant rehearsal of motion in the practice arena far away and long ago, allowed them to warm their muscles to the task in the open area of their chosen sanctuary. Their battlefield.
The enemy would arrive in the gray before dawn. They would travel in the near dark seeking their quarry through tracker’s intuition because the trail was washed away. The river was too far to reach while being pursued; the ruins would stand in the growing light like a beacon. The trackers would know. The assassins would come to them – wet, half-spent, and overconfident in their numbers.
“How many do you suppose?” Jack pondered as they moved in their circular pattern.
“Are you certain Moua didn’t know about me?” Martin’s voice was neutral – he was still gathering data.
“He did not. Only I knew you were waiting beyond the wall.”
“Then,” Castillo exhaled and stopped moving, “there will be twelve. Moua is superstitious. He will send one swordsman for every soul the Hmong believe you to have.”
“I have twelve souls?”
Martin chuckled, “Twelve souls, nine lives, eight paths, four horsemen – it doesn’t matter unless you protect that one body. Well, maybe two. I mean, I count for something. But – yeah – twelve. He’ll send twelve.” Finally seeing Gretsky’s face in the growing gloom, he shrugged. “Educated guess.”
The waterlogged wilderness dripped and rustled in the winds flowing through the upland pass. It would be difficult to discern the woodland rhythms surrounding them from the foot falls of man if they ventured beyond the temple walls. Waiting was not a natural feature of either man’s character. They had learned to wait. They had learned to still the inner dialog that encouraged activity to rid the body of anxiety. Wait and listen, wait and plan, wait in the growing light for sounds of the sniffing exploration of the predator. Wait.
And then, they came.
The first three were dispatched silently in the sanctuary’s antechamber. From either side of the wide hall – two on Castillo’s side, one on Gretsky’s – the swordsmen walked, almost sauntered through the open colonnade. In the debris of the crumbling walls and angled beams, the hunters did not see the hunted standing as stone. The only man to make a sound was the last, who exclaimed “da chee” – what – in a rough growl before losing his head. Aside from quickly divesting the bodies of weaponry, they were left where they had fallen. To move them would require time and waste energy. The dead were now warning and signpost – their quarry was here, armed, and dangerous.
Moving back to the sanctuary, Castillo and Gretsky silently evaluated the weapons removed from the dead: several throwing knives, two rifles (no extra ammunition), three Hmong blades, and a dozen shurikens. The Hmong blades were a short sword that doubled as a machete in the dense jungle. The lance shaped steel fitted into a round wood handle at the tang and was as long as a man’s forearm. Though sturdy the short weapon was no match for the reach of the long bladed Katana’s that the Westerner’s carried. If the rest of the party was so armed, the only things to be concerned about would be the throwing weapons – in close quarters, even the rifles were generally ineffective against a thrown blade.
The shurikens – throwing stars – taken from the bodies were contained in a belted pouch and were easy enough to incorporate into their defense plans. The limited capacity rifles were deposited behind the Buddha, as were the extra swords, removing the weapons from their enemies reach. The five knives, however, slid neatly into thigh and vest pockets for easy access. Choosing one of the Hmong blades, Martin slipped the wooden sheath under the Katana scabbard slung across this back. Jack did the same as preparation for either fighting with both swords or in case one should be lost in the fight.
Upon seeing the bodies in the hall, their opponents would anticipate a surprise attack, likely from either side of the doorway. Planning for this, Gretsky took up a position at the far end of the Buddha, while Castillo slid into the dark space between two spires along the wall opposite the arched door. Hiding in plain sight, again, they waited — Martin focused on the entrance and Jack watching his partner in a silent pause before the next skirmish.
Indistinct bird song echoed through the room. The sound was clear and crisp from behind the blocked door beside Martin. The next round was about to begin.
Stepping from behind the headless Enlightened One, Jack held two knives in his left hand while fingering the blade of a third in his right. Poised for the throw, he became statuary-still until a shadow fell across the opening. The first throw was followed immediately by a second and a third. From his position beside the blocked door Martin added several razor-edged stars and the gasping thuds counted two more bodies in the hall. Five. There were five down. And the two who waited stepped back into shadows.
The bloodied trophies outside marked the archway as death. An experienced tracker would read the wounds upon the fallen and know there were two or more defendants.
Songbirds beyond the collapsed exterior of the temple flushed into the jungle announcing a larger contingent than one or two. The shush and rustle echoing beyond the barricaded door indicated the intruder’s proximity.
Martin shook his head and stepping away from the shadowed hollow, he reached over his shoulder drawing the Katana from its scabbard. Nodding, Jack mirrored his partner’s action, but also drew the wider leaf blade as well. The wood sheath of the shorter sword fell with a clatter announcing their acceptance of the coming combat. When the Warlord’s assassins came to the arch, they found the two men standing side by side with weapons drawn.
There was an elegance in the way the six men entered the arena, dividing evenly – every other man going to a side – maintaining balance while they surrounded the Westerners. As they were encircled, the two agents folded in upon themselves as they had practiced until their backs were shielded from harm. Eye to eye – three to one – the mercenaries raised the steel in their hands.
The expansive room contracted as the men and swords filled the space, taking stock of each other’s reach with steel and arm. The six aggressors were shorter than the foreigners by a hand or more – giving the center fighters a lethal reach. Slowly the outer circle began to move, their clockwise movement giving their righthanded thrusts the advantage.
Who struck first, how parries were reposted while each man maintained footing would be difficult for Castillo to recall later. The memory of the battle was suffused with the exhilaration of near misses, the random luck of the attacker’s equipment failure and the simplicity of their bad judgement.
The horde, though experienced, was not accustomed to the limitations of this type of fight – the strategic finesse of foot and reach required to maintain tactical advantage. Their inability to work as one unit within the enclosed space levelled two of the host from their own strikes, crippling one and killing another outright. Yet, try as they might, their number could not draw the two master swordsmen from one another, never allowing the divide that might conquer.
When six became four, the center of the whirling dervish opened up – forcing the four Hmong fighters into a tighter line, taking advantage of the noted weakness in maintaining proportional position to their partners. In the momentary shuffling of feet and clashing of friendly blades, Martin sent a volley of shurikens at the middle of the pack – one catching the man in front of Jack between the eyes, the others hitting the end-man at the shoulder joint of his sword arm. Subsequent thrusts from the swords in Gretsky’s hand felled the tallest and the smallest of the troop while Castillo reached, once again, behind his head – arming himself with a second sword.
The floor had become slick with blood and effluvia between the remaining mob and the periphery walls while the area around their prey remained clear. The lack of footing, the fatigue of the chase and successive fight turned the advantage to the American agents, making the hunters now the hunted. This reality was not recognized until it was far too late for the remaining assassins to flee. Four blades against two, slippery traction against firm afoot, the remaining combatants fell to the long reach of the Katana wielding predators.
Castillo and Gretsky stood over the slain, inhaling the fetid air in deep, controlled breaths, letting the adrenaline run its course, allowing thought to overtake instinct once again. There was no moaning, no movement, no gasping respirations from the bodies at their feet. There was only death. Silent seconds ticked by until the two finally turned to one another, assessing their partner for damage.
“Are you bleeding there?” Jack indicated the dark red stain on Martin’s sleeve.
“No.” Despite the denial, Castillo moved the arm in question to make sure. “Spatter. You have a spot on your jaw.”
“Yeah.” Gretsky’s voice was his normal congenial tenor, as if nothing so untoward as a death dual had taken place moments before. “I saw that pass my eye. The fucker.” He wiped the cheek with the back of his hand. “Like I needed a shave or something.”
Tossing the second sword from him, Castillo bent to a scrap of fabric liberated from one of the assailant’s shirts by a downward cut. Beginning at the tang of his Katana, he wrapped the blade in the rough silk and wiped the drippings away in one swipe. Reaching around his side, he pulled the long leather case to his hip, aligned the blade tip to the open end and sheathed the sword.
“We need to go,” he said in a low growl, turning away from the bloody mound of men to retrieve the rest of their gear.
“Marty, take it easy.” Jack said. Dropping the extra weapon, he walked to the headless Buddha, laying his long blade across the stone knees. “Everything’s fine now.”
Martin was less than a body-length from Jack when he heard it. The unmistakable click-click of a firing pin — behind him. In his memories of this moment, time slowed until every detail became brightly charged and meaningful. The second click, the sweeping rise of Jack’s eyes to the door followed by the continued turn of his body as he looked past Martin’s shoulder to the sound. The fluid arc of the M-16 in Gretsky’s hand as it rose out of the lap of Buddha, the way brown eyes never left focus of the twelfth assassin under the archway, and yet the expression of surprise and fear that flashed across the genial face of his brother. Castillo’s own sense of vulnerability surging through him as he waited for the bullets to rip into him. Then… the speed up to normal time.
Gretsky’s right index finger was steady on the trigger, even as his left hand came up under the machine gun and sprayed an even line of shots across the side of the room through the empty space until the assault found flesh in the Hmong man standing in the door. The force of the M-16 volley sent the attacker’s shot high and wide, missing both Agents in the sanctuary. Castillo froze in place, until Jack raised the rifle to his shoulder for a precision aim, firing one last bullet into the downed man’s head.
“Motherfucker,” Jack howled at the dead, as Martin turned to finally look behind him.
“I thought I was shot either way,” Martin confessed, continuing to cross to the headless sculpture.
Grinning, Jack nodded, clapping his brother on the shoulder. “Honestly? I did, too. How many is that?”
“That’s twelve.” Castillo said calmly, “Let’s go. We have to get down river for a pick up.”
—♦15 years on♦—
Of the various probabilities that Martin Castillo had anticipated when he saw Jack Gretsky look up into the surveillance camera, this possibility had never occurred to him. Bent over, he laid the 357 at his feet and gripped his knees, trying to remain upright until the swamping nausea passed. When he was able to stand, he Instinctively pulled the bi-fold wallet of law enforcement from his pocket, flipping the identification open to proffer and clarify to those who would come to investigate the disruption.
Waiting, his eyes never left Jack’s body. There was nothing – no blood, no last breath, no explanation – only death. The distance between them had been negligible. The high velocity round was through and through, piercing and stopping the heart before embedding in the wooden Buddha that had hidden Jack’s MAC-10.
The monk that had led Martin through the Wat to Gretsky appeared on the path to investigate the sound. To the rest of the compound it would have sounded like a series of staccato pops echoing between the structures. Seeing Jack on the floor in front of the Enlightened One and Martin swaying in shock, the monastic hurried to assist where he could. A trembling Castillo merely offered his ID and a card from the wallet.
“Call that number,” Castillo rumbled. “It is Metro-Dade police. Ask for Sonny. Tell him what you know. Post someone at the door, please. This is now a crime scene.”
Alone in the temple bot, Martin sank to his knees beside the man he had just killed. It had all been too familiar, like being lured down a path. The compressed memory unfolded at the very last moment — but instincts took reign of his actions before he could do more than speak his friend's name.
—Jack—
Time slowed. Martin laid a hand on Gretsky’s chest. There was no blood except for a small oozing dot on his left breast. In the stillness of the Wat, crickets sang beyond the walls of the meditation chamber. Night drafts moving among shell and glass chimes of the temple rang like the slow resonance of breaking glass. He stayed bent over his friend, his brother, for a long time. Deluged with memories, he let the tears fall as they would.
—what are you doing Jack—
—praying—
After a time – Martin wasn’t sure how long – he rose from his vigil, walking back to where the revolver lay on the tile floor. Picking up the weapon, he held it, the cold steel and wood was a dead weight in his hand. Surely there was something more, a missing piece to this puzzle. Too often lately, things – people, hope – had been returned to him only to be snatched away without recompense or understanding. All of these experiences made him who he was, and simultaneously, made him wonder who he was.
Turning the weapon over in his hand, he thumbed the safety on. Noticing the single empty chamber in the cylinder, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Holding the air in his lungs for a few seconds, Martin breathed out in a slow, controlled exhale. In his sword-hand was the revolver; his shield hand was empty now. Standing alone, in a night watch without understanding, he waited.
El fin