No One Mourns the Henchmen

No One Mourns the Henchmen Formerly known as The Antihero Henchmen And so... The hero-bruised and aching-sprinted up the mansion's grand staircase, breath ragged but resolve unshaken. What if they hurt her? Fear, anxiety, doubt ramped in his mind at the thought. The thought clawed at his brain, feeding the fear and doubt gnawing at him since this nightmare began. The hero groaned. If someone told him years ago he'd take an assignment that's essentially a babysitter, (Even though said "baby" is the hottest most beautiful woman) he'd laugh them out of the country. He is a trained specialized soldier, practically a killing machine. Or he used to be. "Hmmm, some killing machine." he muttered. "Charging into a mansion full of armed thugs with nothing but tranqs and HC canisters." The idea of taking a life now sent him spiraling paralyzing panic!" A moment of doubt crept in with that intrusive thought. He hated it. Hated what he'd become. Weeks ago, he’d hesitated—just long enough for some scumbag to grab her. It’s only right he’s suspended pending psychological evaluation. His internal struggles cost him his edge. And now, during his suspension, she got kidnapped because he was off watch. He blamed himself. And now he was on a suicide mission, alone, to get her back. What was he thinking? Tranquilizers are highly ineffective, even for a sharpshooter like him. He’d gotten really lucky with the last three assailants. "I will not fail her again!" Flickers of his last tour pushed in—another soldier, a father, lost, a family shattered. A boy’s hollow eyes, staring at hospital walls, still haunted him. He felt responsible for tearing another man from his life, perhaps leaving behind another sad‑eyed little boy blankly staring at those same walls, trapped inside his own head because a guy “only following orders” had taken away the only family he had in this world. Damn. He’d never thought about the consequences of the job before that fateful night. "You gotta snap out of it! For her. " Thoughts moved now back to his current situation. He really wished he didn't have to kill that guard, but survival instincts kicked in. The soldier almost got the drop on him! Knowing this venture would cost him extra hours on the wonky couch and extended med leave pending psych eval, he forged ahead. He couldn't just sit back while his girl had been taken! He moved with practiced stealth. The tranq gun in his grip was already lighter-he'd fired more than he realized. The fight came fast. A blow to the wrist sent the gun skidding across the marble. The guard kneed him in the gut, emitting a pained groan from our hero. Then rounded and twisted, with an elbow to the shoulder blades. The guard brought up his knees for a side-kick aimed at his head, but he blocked it. Recovering quickly, the hero hit the guard with a round house, then a tTornado Axe kick to the side of the face, both chin and ear checking him… The blow was like wind to a candle in a hurricane… He was out!! “That headache won't be pretty when he wakes up” the hero mumbles as he hoppped over the sprawled guard, collecting the tranq gun, and holsters it. He's out of darts anyway. The hero sprints across the foyer, then up the stairs where they gotta be keeping her. “God I must find her!!!” It's all he can think…Shit ! He dashed behind a wall, spotting more guards down the hall, where one is fast approaching the wall where he’s currently hiding behind. "Double f**k! This one's sporting a machine gun!" How is he gonna get out of this??? ***** Ramos Well, s**t. I don't know, because I'm not that guy. I'm Ramos. The pissed-off henchman sprawled unconscious on the cold marble floor. Chapter One Fuck, that hurt! First thought that hit me as I came to: Mr. Slick GI Joe clocked me hard. I had to give it to him—the dude had a mean Tornado Axe kick that made me go night-night. —kudos. "Getting sloppy, Ramos," I sat up, wincing, ears ringing, head pounding, and my pride? Shattered. I rubbed my jaw, which felt like it had been introduced to a truck's rear bumper. The foyer looked like a war zone—bullet holes, smashed furniture, corpses. My gaze locked on to another pair of eyes staring right back at me…except…not. Greg’s lifeless eyes. Unseeing. Glassy. . Damn. I never liked the guy—sleaze and a loudmouth—but still. Greg was gone. The sleaze had always radiated somber dark edges—nothing monstrous, but enough to make your skin itch if you stood too close. Still, death didn’t discriminate. Light or dark, it flattened you just the same. It never gets easier, seeing death. You push it down. Compartmentalize. But it always comes back. PTSD is like a boomerang with a grudge and high tech locator with enough explosives to blow all your preconceived delusions that you are fine. Shoving the morbid thoughts aside, knowing once the dust settles, all of it comes back with a vengeance. I guess this episode will land me back on the wonky couch. Crap. Just great! Another mandatory visit to the psycologist. I’m technically on indefinite leave, but some military officials are gonna “invite” me back to open up. Again. Before I could dwell and sink too deep into that spiral—footsteps. Two sets. I knew those clompy dress shoes anywhere. Rick the Prick and Bossman Daniel. Fan-freaking-tastic. Talk about sleaze! Rick is King sleaze! Can’t think of that repulsive assface, Rick, without an expletive adjective. He's a cocky, delusional asshole and an all-around jerk. A complete scumbag with no redeemable qualities. Nobody likes or respects him, except Bossman, who seems to trust him implicitly. It's baffling. Perplexing to everyone that THAT sleaze convinced anyone to trust him, let alone the boss, who otherwise, seems to be an intelligent guy. I don't know why, but something told me to drop back down, feigning unconsciousness as their voices grew closer. Bossman Daniel surveyed the chaos with a cold, calculating gaze as they appeared in the room. His voice sliced the air. "Johnson’s been through here and left a mess, I see. This is starting to really annoy me, Richard. Where is he?" Rick the Prick, ever the sycophant, barked orders into his earpiece before turning to Bossman with that smarmy grin of his. "Cornered on the third floor. He’s after the girl." Static crackled over the radio, followed by the sound of gunfire and shouting. "The male unsub is in sight, sir," a voice reported. The room fell silent as they listened to the chaos unfolding. Heavy breathing, the clatter of footsteps, and then—"s**t! He's got the girl, they're running east on—" The voice cut off with a gurgle and a thud. Bossman’s jaw clenched, his displeasure was palpable. "Damn. I had plans for the senator, and his daughter was key. I thought you made the call to make sure Johnson was sent away!" Ramos, still feigning unconsciousness, felt his stomach twist. Wait. Senator’s daughter? This gig was supposed to be routine. Private security, high-end client. Not kidnapping. Not this. Ramos overhearing this, his mind stirring with this new info. "I did, sir. And I don’t know. I called in some connections to make sure he was placed on 'special assignment' until his psych eval was concluded. Something about PTSD." Rick laughed, as if the blood and chaos were sitcom material. "I made sure his evaluation was... delayed while we carried out the snatch and grab. He must’ve come back early when he heard she was missing. Determined bastard," Rick the dipstick added, his tone dripping with disdain. Bossman’s jaw tightened. "I knew we’d have trouble with him. As the head of her security, he’s a genuine Mr. Do-Right. I sent out feelers to see if we could turn him, but the man has not one single vice to exploit." Figures. Johnson’s the hero. I’m the henchman who didn’t ask enough questions. Ramos thinks with disgust. Bossman’s voice cut through Ramos’s thoughts. "Good. On to the next phase. Have all the devices been placed? We need no more screw ups." Rick smirked. "Yes, sir. Our tracks are covered. I chose a select few to place the boxes at strategic spots. Poor bastards had no idea they were planting incendiary devices or that they’d be here when this all blows up. It's a shame, really. I liked this mansion." His laugh was cold, devoid of humanity. Ramos’s mind raced. Those boxes. He’d seen them being placed around the mansion—fifteen, at least. He’d assumed they were part of a security system upgrade. Now, the truth hit him like a freight train. Explosives. A mass murder in the making. "And the money?" Bossman pressed, his eyes narrowing. Rick’s grin widened. "Transferred to the ‘washed’ accounts this afternoon. Clean as a whistle. The ready cash is sitting in the lockbox downtown, just like we planned. We'll pick it up on the way to the bank." Ramos’s stomach churned. The money. He remembered Rick withdrawing cash during one of their runs, mentioning a “lockbox.” It hadn’t meant much at the time, but now... Was Rick skimming off the top? Stealing from Bossman? That could be useful information. Dangerous, but useful. "What about the rest of the hired men?" Rick asked casually. Bossman’s reply was ruthless. "Whoever Johnson doesn’t finish off will be here when we hit the switch." Ramos fought through the rage to keep his breathing steady as he could practically feel as Bossman’s dispassionate gaze swept over the room. The weight of it, cold and calculating. "Timers are set," Rick said, checking his watch. "Damn, the schematics and the senator's diplomatic contacts are at my desk. I'll get them, and we'll be at the rendezvous spot in—" Their voices faded as they moved to the next room, leaving Ramos alone with the horrifying realization. Fuck! I knew there was something suspicious about those boxes! I should’ve trusted my gut and bailed the moment this job smelled fishy. Oh! It’s a good thing I couldn’t see Rick’s smarmy face because I’d likely blow my cover and rearrange his features, starting with his brown nose!! I thought of that dude, the Capt. America wannabe they called Johnson. So he's on a rescue mission and I find myself on the wrong side of things...again!