The Warrior

They had moved to Brownsville not long ago, just over a year back.

For him life had been long periods of moving about, followed by short periods of stay and calm, and so far Brownsville had been one of those short periods of calm.

He looked across at his sister sprawled across the edge of her tiny bed, legs twitching spasmodically in response to some dream in her six-year-old mind. He wondered if she enjoyed moving so much; maybe for her it was normal, since she hadn’t experienced anything else.

His eyes went back to his father still standing at the window – just on the inside, shielded from the outside – and wondered what he was thinking about.

He gave up after some time, sleep dragging him to oblivion.

*   *   *

Shattner knew his son was awake and watching from the changed timbre of his breathing, and knew his son was used to watching him at the window.

The apartment was just a single-bedroom apartment in Brownsville – a neighborhood well known for its crime in New York. This window was the only window that afforded him a view of the street below, and he could not avoid his son watching him.

Shattner stood in the shadows and watched life in the street pass. It had become second nature for him for as long as he remembered, to look out for anything out of the ordinary on the street before he stepped out. Nothing struck him, and he headed towards the door of the apartment. His son would wake up, make breakfast for his sister and himself, get both of them ready for school, and then the two of them would walk a couple of blocks to school.

After school, his son would collect his sister and do the routine in reverse.

By the time Shattner returned from work, his son and daughter would have finished their di

His son, a mature adult in an eight-year-old body, had never experienced boyhood, had never enjoyed all the small things that childhood was about. For the briefest moment, the darkness of despair flooded his mind before he ruthlessly shunted it aside.

Later, when he was dressed and ready, Shattner stepped out of the apartment block, his eyes sca

He could have taken a bus to the garage, but he preferred the walk, even if it was a long one, since it gave him the freedom to observe anyone taking any interest in him.

His supervisor allocated him work as soon as he walked in – a Cherokee with a broken suspension, and that took up most of his day.

On returning home, he picked up the tail.

A short stocky man was trailing him from a distance. He was good, but Shattner at one time had done this for a living and sensed the tail immediately.

He sat down on a bench near Stone Avenue Library, bought some nuts, and ate them leisurely, taking the time to subtly observe the reaction of the tail and also to think the situation through.

The tail hung well back, and Shattner decided to do nothing about him. Those who employed the tail already knew where he was living and everything else about him. If he took on the tail, it would only tip them off that he knew.

He carried on home, stopping on the way to buy groceries. When he entered the apartment complex, he stood back in the shadows and saw the tail window-shop.

His apartment was on the third floor on Blake Avenue, in an apartment complex that housed many like him for who hope and a future was alien.

He could hear the excitement in Lisa’s voice as she talked with her brother, the voices audible through the thin door of the apartment. He stepped in silently, and the world fell away as he saw his son and daughter doing their schoolwork on the table in the cramped living room.

‘Daddy,’ Lisa squealed as she rushed across the room and jumped into his arms.

‘Shawn helped me with schoolwork.’ Her voice came out muffled as she buried her face in his shoulder.

‘Had di

Both nodded.

‘How was school, princess?’ he asked her as he went to their small bathroom to shower and change. Over the noise of the shower, he heard Lisa recite her day.

Mrs. Harwood had awarded her a gold star for art. Michele, her best friend, had spilt milk on her uniform during lunch hour. Paul, that boy that Lisa didn’t like, had called her stuck-up – at which Lisa had reported him to Mrs. Harwood. Shattner allowed her voice to wash over him along with the water, draining away his day, leaving him refreshed.

Lisa was jumping on her bed when he came out of the bathroom and leaped in his arms when he finished tidying up. He spent a long hour playing with her and then prepared her for bed.

She squealed in delight as he hoisted her on his shoulders and carried her to her side of the room and commenced reading her favorite bedtime story. She fell asleep during the second chapter, and silence fell over the apartment.

Shawn had gone to bed during the storytelling, had listened for some time before he, too, drifted off to sleep. Shattner sat with Lisa a long time, his mind emptied, before he roused himself and went to the kitchen to put together his di

The way their routine worked, Shattner stocked up on all groceries and essentials during the weekend, and Shawn and Lisa fended for themselves during the week. The Office of Children and Family Services would not be happy if they knew.

‘Dad?’

Shattner turned from the refrigerator to see Shawn tousled with sleep. ‘Can’t sleep?’

Shawn shook his head. ‘Dad, will we ever have a normal life?’

Shattner heard the refrigerator door shut behind him, the soft thud drowned by the beating of his heart as he felt his son’s eyes on him. A couple of long strides and he was crouching in front of Shawn.

‘Two to three months at the most, baby. And then we’ll be living like any other normal family. We’ll celebrate birthdays, go on holidays, and have loads of friends…trust me, baby. Okay?’

Shawn nodded, his eyes dark, the faintest sheen of tears in them.

Shattner pulled him close and crushed him in a hug. It would not make up for giving his children a life on the run for eight years, but he didn’t have anything else to give his son.

He carried his son to bed and sat beside him till his breathing slowed to a deep sleep. He checked his mobile, his only communication point, and saw a text message.

It was the one he was dreading.

‘Tomorrow.’

No pleasantries of any kind. Short, terse, like the sender.

He thought he knew what the summons was about. He went to his gun cabinet – a grand description for a wooden drawer high up in the closet in the bedroom – and removed his Glock 30 and cleaning materials, and carried them to the drawing room.

He stripped the gun, wiped the parts clean, and then started a more thorough job of lubricating them. The smell of gun oil filled the room. A comforting smell, bringing back good memories. He assembled the gun, loaded its magazine, and chambered a round.

He didn’t think he would need the gun the next day, but it never hurt to be prepared.

*   *   *

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