Enemy of the State - Part 8
November 21 1936
Augustin Justo, President of Argentina.
February 26 1876 - November 21 1936
“Come on Marcus! We have to go! Now!” yelled Anibal as cries from outside the courtyard erupted into crashes against the gate and gunshots in the air. Katsumoto was torn with loyalties. He had sworn to never abandon a man in the field but needed to escape to launch his Coup in Japan.
“Get her out of here” Katsumoto whispered to the elderly woman as he looked at Catherine for, at least in the foreseeable future and quite possibly for the rest of his life, one last time. “Get her to somewhere safe and help her” he finished. Rising to his feet, Katsumoto looked on at her for only a moment longer before turning and running off with Anibal into the large old manor.
It was only as the pair reach the door and ran inside that the guards outside the Manor broke through the gate with an armoured car that had just shown up. Gunshots erupted in the courtyard as Anibal and Katsumoto ran through the house and into a long corridor.
“Where are we going?” asked Katsumoto, looking around him.
“We are getting out of here. I spotted this hallway on my way up to meet Justo. If I am right, which I usually am, then there is a wall here that we can pull ourselves over and onto the streets at the other side.” Anibal explained, the pair still running down the hallway.
“Won’t they have us surrounded?” Katsumoto asked.
“Don’t you think they have better things to do? With the entire city in Anarchy?”
“I hope so, for our sakes” Katsumoto said, continuing the unusually solemn tone in which he had been speaking all night.
As they neared the end of the hallway, it split to the left and right. To the right was a glass door with a small plant either side of it. Beyond the glass vale was a dining area that seemed have been in the middle of a refurnishing that had sealed it off for the night. On the left, was an opening that had several chairs spread about it and vines growing up the exposed wall of the Manor. From behind them, an eruption of gunfire erupted and bullets filled the hallway just they dove to the left.
“Come on!” yelled Katsumoto as he wrenched Anibal to his feet, only to feel the damp stain of red spreading across his back and onto the floor around him.
“Oh god” whispered Katsumoto, raising his hand to stare at the crimson ink that blotched his flesh. Looking back at Anibal, he could clearly see the river of blood flowing out of the man.
“Anibal!” he called, shaking the man to get some sort of reaction. Only the blank stare of a man long gone, of an eye without the twinkle of life, was to be had. The calls of the Marines in the hallway echoed as Katsumoto drew both his and Anibal’s pistol.
“¡Entrega!, ¡Entrega!” came the call once more.
“Help me to believe and say out loud for everyone to hear that You are my refuge and my fortress; that You are my God; and that in You I put my trust.” Katsumoto whispered to himself. The silence of the hallway was total, save for the few footsteps of brave or foolish Marines who knew too well that their enemy was lying in wait. A lone whisper in the corridor, foreign and benign to the Argentinians was slowly rising.
“Though a thousand fall at my side, and ten thousand fall at my right hand; please let it not come close to me and my companions.”
“Apenas ponga su en el suelo-”
“Amen” came the voice, now clearly audible.
From around the corner burst Katsumoto in his suit, stained red with blood of two of his fellows and a hail of gunfire pouring from the pistols he held in his hands. Gunshot, after gunshot filled the hallway as Katsumoto kneeled in the center of the intersection and fired down the range at anything and anyone that moved. Marine after Marine hit the floor, barely able to return a shot without risking death and serious injury to themselves. The last of them, a Marine at the far end of the corridor barely had time to fire off a shot before being struck once, twice and then three times in the chest. Breathing heavily and certain that he had been shot at least once, Katsumoto looked at the bloodied and corpse filled corridor before looking down at his chest. No pain graced him with it’s malevolent touch. No river of crimson expelled itself from him.
“Holy shit” he said to himself, in utter surprise. Slowly standing, he continued to look around in utter disbelief.
“¡Abra el fuego!” came a voice on his right as a hail of bullets shot through the glass door of the dining room and sent him to the floor. The spray of shards filtered out into the hallway and spread over the bodies and Katsumoto like the light snow that falls upon the mountains in Northern Japan.
In the brief respite that followed the shots, Katsumoto lay there grasped in the pain erupting from his right arm. He raised his left hand and unleashed the last rounds of his pistol into the room, sending it’s inhabitants diving for cover. Katsumoto pushed himself to his feet as his assailants recovered their positions. Gunshots continued to erupt behind him as he stumbled into the opening of his escape. In a precarious run, he tossed both of his pistols over the wall and leapt up to his freedom, barely falling to the road on the other side as a hail of gunfire crashed into the wall where he had been mere moments ago.
** And so the travesty of November 21 comes to an end after an inexplicably prompt absence on my part. Real Life got busy for a little bit. Soon, it's off to Japan and then into China and Europe. This is truly becoming my personal written pride as it stands at 85 pages in Word, the longest work I have written to date and also the best. I promise though that around next fall, I'll have something bigger and better **