by Mj Fields
“Hit a nerve?” he asks as he rubs his jaw.
I don’t respond. I simply look around and ask, “Who’s next?”
Turning my back on him is a wrong fucking move on my part. He sweeps my legs, and I fall the wrong way, unprepared, and twist my ankle. Pain be damned, I hop up and face him again.
“Clipped your wing, Birdman?” He laughs.
I wince when I lean into my punch, just as the director of the FBI walks in.
“Gentleman, we have an issue that needs your attention here at home.”
Roman Slade is the youngest director of the FBI to date. He’s a cocky, self-absorbed son-of-a-bitch, but he doesn’t fuck around. He gets shit done, not worrying about rules or ramifications.
“Lane, you’ll have to sit this one out,” he says, looking at me.
Scratch that. He’s an asshole.
“Excuse me?”
He points at my ankle. “You’re injured.”
“I’m fucking fine, Slade,” I growl.
Ignoring me, he looks at the rest of the unit. “A lone gunman has taken over the Fox Club in L.A. We have no idea how many civilian casualties there are, but two hostage negotiators have gone in, and now we’re unable to contact them. We’ve been able to keep the media at bay, but they’ll want questions answered soon. I’m flying out with you in fifteen.”
“I’m fine,” I repeat.
“Sit this one out, Birdman. We’ve got it all under control.” Killshot winks. “Go home and get some—”
“See a doctor,” Slade interrupts.
Fucker is enjoying this.
***
“Eight fucking weeks?”
“At best,” the doc says, looking over the x-ray.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It means, I’m not sure how well you listen. If you don’t allow it to heal, it will take longer,” she says as she walks toward the door. “Do you understand, First Sergeant Lane?”
“Yes, Captain,” I answer as she walks out, flipping me off.
While overseas, I rarely have time for random hookups...rarely. While Stateside, I never bring anyone home. However, Monica Toretto and I met at a bar one night near my place. Things got heated, she got handsy, and I let her. The next day, I met Captain Toretto. That line wasn’t crossed by me again. And let’s just say she was a little pissed. She shouldn’t suck where she gets fed, if you know what I mean.
The nurse comes in while I am dressing and hands me paperwork to give to my commanding officer, and yes, I have to sign it.
Afterward, I don’t go home. I head to the shooting range and blow off some steam, needing to keep busy, needing to keep my mind off my unit, who is en route to a mission where some son-of-a-bitch is fucking with my country and her people.
This doesn’t go over well with me. I need to be there with them, and if that fucking suit, Slade, wasn’t traveling with them, you bet your ass I would be. It would be much different. I wouldn’t be first or second in the door catching or killing the bad guy, but I would fucking be there.
At home, I lie on my couch, staring at the television and trying to find something, but there is nothing to be seen. They have the media locked out, which is no small feat in this country, and that’s part of the reason there is so much chaos.
J.Q. Public doesn’t need to know every fucking thing we do to keep them safe. Fuck, now with camera phones in everyone’s hand, J.Q. Public is out in full-force daily, trying to make the next thing they see trendy because they think that’s cool. It’s not. Not one motherfucking bit.
Is the dress blue or white? My answer? Who the fuck cares?
Who are you voting for, for president? How about someone who doesn’t fuck with funding the people who keep them safe?
Neither candidate is looking good this coming election. We have a book smart, loud mouth who has smart business sense, yet the public has seemed to have forgotten about the bankruptcies his corporation has filed. Then we have a raving bitch who has committed crimes, screwed the military by cutting funds, and in turn lets my fucking country appear weak. But what does J.Q. have to say about it? Depends on what the hell is trending.
I love my country, care about the people I protect, but they are sheep wearing blinders when it comes to the media. They have their noses stuck in their smart phones, checking out what everyone else is doing, and not doing what they should be. Consequently, our country as a whole is affected by it!
“Wake the fuck up,” I utter as I switch off the TV and grab my laptop. I want to tap into intelligence and find out what the hell my unit is in for.
***
My unit returns in less than twenty-four hours. Everyone is fine, as I knew they would be. The problem lies here: It’s getting harder and harder to distinguish the good guys from the bad guys.
We go on assignments all over the world. Sometimes we go alone to gather information from other operatives. Some are American; many are not. That doesn’t mean a damn thing except you hope and, yes, pray that those giving you the information have been thoroughly investigated and followed to ensure they are working for the same damn cause you are.
The cause is all that matters. The cause is safety and security to our nation and, yes, other nations. J.Q. Public doesn’t get that, even though they get more than they should.
The madman who stormed Fox Club is an American who joined the Islamic fundamentalist cause. They, meaning the fundamentalist. Not the entire Middle East, not Muslims around the globe, but the fucking terrorists who hate what they call Westernizing influences in the world. These groups—Isis, Al Qaeda, and all the others who pop up everywhere—call my country the “Great Satan,” chant “Death to America,” and stand on a platform of hate, saying they are doing it in the name of Allah.
I have worked with many Muslim, men and women, who do not share the same belief or feelings these terrorists do. I have had many discussions with men I trust to have my back while at war about what is said globally about Christian fundamentalists who hate as deeply. It’s a sick world out there when people have such weak minds.
Weak minds, fear, limited knowledge, and hate destroy nations...and people.
This “American,” Jordan Blackstone, was not acting on behalf of anyone but himself. He was a sick, twisted fuck who craved mayhem and wanted to be known.
Hell, we have seen and heard of acts like this being carried out because someone, usually a politician or group of people behind a politician, with their own agendas want stricter gun laws.
Think I’m full of shit? I’m not. J.Q. doesn’t know the half of it. They are led. Led by the media and people they feel they can trust. Well, they can’t.
Like I said, the world is a sick fucking place. We just try our damnedest to rid the world of the evilest threats, and we are damn good at it. Just as good as the powers that be who will blame Jordan Blackstone, a redhead from the Midwest, for being a terrorist when my spidey senses are telling me and my unit brothers that he was led to this by some liberal fuck who stands on his moral bullshit and is a terrorist himself for thinking those lives lost are for the greater good. Sick fucks.
Give me the intel on who was behind that, and I will damn sure take on that mission.
As sure as I am about never falling in love with anyone other than the United States of America, I am equally sure I will never bring a kid into a world like this.
No. Fucking. Way.
CHAPTER TWO
I’m over you. - A. Millan
LUKE
Seven weeks later…
I look out the window of the plane as we start to descend. I see the big, red football stadium and the sprawling campus that is Cornell University. Then I finally I see Cayuga Lake, where I spent countless hours, fishing with Mom, my step-dad Ryan, and my sisters and brother.
Ryan has always been a hardworking man. From spring to snow fall, he busted his ass to make bank running his construction company. In the summer, though, the family would meet every Friday at five o’
clock. Mom would have coolers stocked with food and drinks already loaded on the boat. We would walk down the dock, and she would meet Ryan with a damn captain’s hat.
“You all ready to get the hell out of here?” She would ask with a smile. And we all would say yes.
Aside from going to the Cape for a week at the end of the summer, that boat was our summer getaway. I’m not complaining. I loved it out there on the water. The stresses of work, or school, or sports, or family didn’t matter. Fridays with that boat were all about the six of us.
The plane circles the runway then touches down nice and gently. Commercial flights are a hell of a lot smoother than what I am used to. Hell, ninety percent of the time, I’m jumping out of a bird, not sitting in a comfortable seat and talking myself into relaxing, telling myself there is no gunfire or threat once I walk off this plane. It’s basically Utopia.
Only my sister Lauren knows I’m coming home. I called her ten minutes before my flight took off and asked her what she was up to. She giggled when I told her I was coming home, and then she snorted.
She’s young and what some would consider a book worm—socially awkward—but to me, she’s perfect. I seriously worry that someday I will come home to find she has been crushed by a falling bookshelf in her room. I’m not going to lie; I love that she would rather read than be out partying with her friends from school. She’s safer that way.
When I walk out of the airport, she pulls up in her dad’s plow truck and waves. I nod and point to the passenger side. Understanding, she hops over the console as I climb in the driver’s side.
When I throw my bag into the back seat, she leans over and hugs me.
“I can’t believe you’re home again so soon,” she says, not letting go.
“Screwed up my ankle. Going back in a week. Thought I could hang out for a while.”
When I pull back, she is still grinning.
“Anyone know I’m home?”
She smiles bigger. “Nope.”
“You wanna hit that bookstore downtown before we head—”
“Yes!” She laughs. “Yes, I sure do.”
At the bookstore, I hit the Starbucks while Lauren walks around.
As I’m standing there, I see Alexis, my high school and pre-Ava girlfriend, walk through the doors, pushing a double baby carriage thing. She smiles when she sees me, and I nod back before turning to pay the woman who hands me my coffee.
“You’re home again?” she asks as she gives me a tight hug.
I pat her back. “For a couple of days.”
She steps back and looks up at me. “I wanted to thank you again for Christmas Eve.”
I nod. “Not a problem.”
“Mom,” the little boy in the front says, tugging on her coat. “I want coffee.”
The kid’s about three; sure as hell shouldn’t be drinking coffee.
“Sure. Just a minute, okay?” She smiles then turns her back on him. “Well, if you aren’t busy later, feel free—”
“Mom, I want coffee,” the kid says again.
“Okay,” she answers, never looking back. “Sorry about him. He’s—”
“Mom,” he interrupts again.
“Just a minute,” she says with a thin line of a smile.
“Catch you around.” I nod.
“Wait, does that mean—”
“I’m here with my sister, Alexis,” I tell her as I start to walk away.
“I’m here to buy a few books. I enrolled in some classes,” she says to my back.
I turn around. “That’s great. Good for you. You were always a smart girl.”
She smiles with pride. “I’m going to IC.”
“That’s great.” I give her a small smile before walking away, seeing Lauren coming toward me with an armful of books.
“Glad you dodged that bullet?” she asks.
I smirk. “She’s a good person. She’ll figure it out.”
She grimaces. “Two kids, though?”
I shrug. “You ready?”
“Can I get them all?”
“Have I ever told you no?” I take the books from her hands then head toward the cash register as she follows, giggling.
***
When we walk into the house, I hear Mom and Ryan talking. They normally aren’t home at this time of day.
I look at Lauren when I hear Mom crying.
“Mom?” Lauren calls out, walking quickly toward the living room where their voices are coming from.
“What are you doing home?” she asks, standing up, and then she sees me. “And you? Oh, my God, you’re home again so soon!”
“What’s going on?” I ask as she hugs me.
“Oh, nothing.” She laughs as if we hadn’t just caught her crying.
“Obviously something’s wrong,” I comment, pulling back so I can look at her face.
“You know women,” Ryan tries to joke.
I bring Lauren into the hug because she looks scared as hell. We both know something is up.
Mom reaches out and grabs Ryan’s hand. “Everything’s fine.”
“Damn right, it is,” he says, pecking her on the cheek.
I step back and eye them both suspiciously. Ryan notices.
“Wanna help me out in the garage?”
I nod.
“He’s on medical leave; don’t make him work, Dad,” Lauren scolds him.
“What happened?” Mom asks.
“Training. No big deal; I’m fine. Going back soon,” I assure her.
“Going where?” she asks, scowling, which is unlike her.
“Middle East,” I answer then turn and look at Ryan. “What do you need help with?”
Ryan nods toward the door and begins to walk. I follow him into the garage.
As soon as I shut the door, he turns and crosses his arms. “You okay?”
“I’m fine. What’s going on?”
He rolls his eyes and runs his hand over his head. “No need to worry. And we don’t want the others to know. I had a physical a week ago. My PSI levels are a little high. To rule out cancer, I had a biopsy two days ago.”
“Did it rule it out?” I ask, knowing by my mother’s reaction it was a negative.
“Was inconclusive. They need to do another,” he answers, looking me in the eye.
“When?”
“Tomorrow. I’m sure it’s fine,” he sighs out. “Hell, I feel no different today than I did ten years ago. Your mom is...Well, she’s more worried than I am. She got a little bossy and is jumping the damn gun, so I told her to chill. Wrong thing to say. She needs to at least be given the illusion that all the research, phone calls, and planning gives her control over the situation when, in fact, it doesn’t do shit but make her even more crazy.” He chuckles at that. “She’s ready to have me get the damn thing removed, and there is no fucking way that’s gonna happen.”
“Unless it needs to,” I tell him. Then I remember I’m not on post and need to tone it down, so I add, “Right?”
“Not gonna need to.” He shrugs and turns away. “Let’s make sure that’s what your mom believes, too. She doesn’t need to stress.”
“Got it.”
“Brother and sisters, too. They don’t need to know.” He turns back and looks at me. “And you. This is no big deal. I don’t want you to worry over something that’s not in our control.”
I nod. “Understood.”
“Good. You know how women are. It’s really no big deal.” He pats me on the shoulder before walking toward the door to go inside. “Dinner at Harper’s tonight; you in?”
“Of course,” I answer, following him inside.
After I watch Mom and Lauren’s interaction to figure out if Lauren has a clue about Ryan, I realize she doesn’t. They are simply looking over the bag of books she just got.
“Who’s hungry?” Ryan asks.
“Let me run my bag upstairs. I’ll be right down to help,” I tell them as I walk toward the stairway.
Once in my room, I put my bag down an
d look around. Walking to the shelves of trophies, I pick up one of my IAC championship basketball trophies. Our high school basketball team won the IAC’s two years in a row. Mine sit right next to the one my father’s team won in his junior year of high school. I remember the day my paternal grandfather gave it to me. I didn’t want to take it because I saw it hurt my grandmother. My grandfather insisted I put it next to my own, while she said it would be great if I brought mine to the house and left it there with his.
I take my dad’s in my hand and sit on the edge of the bed as I look at it, wondering how upset he would be about what I said to Ava.
Taking in a deep breath, I shake my head as I stand back up and place it back on the shelf. What I said to her was the damn truth, yet it didn’t need to be said.
I walk over and look out my bedroom window that faces the Link’s house. Ava’s room is directly across from mine, and below it is her family’s kitchen window.
“Fuck.” I slide my hand over the top of my head as I feel my blood begin to boil.
Regret isn’t something I feel a lot, but I’m feeling it now.
I heard her cry. I saw her stumble. I saw her pain, the pain I caused her. I saw the way she looked at me the morning after that fucking British drummer stayed at her place.
I showed up after accepting the text invitation to join her brother and father at the gym. I shouldn’t have gone, but I couldn’t stop myself. I needed to see it with my own two eyes. I needed to see her eyes that could hide the truth from everyone but me.
Never me.
That fucking box took up half the damn kitchen, and those fucking balloons the British shit sent her floated around the stupid, motherfucking kindergarten-like craft project he had made for her like a big reminder that he fucked her.
I know damn well she has been with him before. Never when I was home, though.
Now that has fucking changed. It all changed because of two things. One, she said she loved me and expected something I had no way to give her. And two, because I fucking hit her.
I hit her and bruised her eye. I hit her, and she flew off the bed by the force of my strike. I hit her, and she scurried into the bathroom to hide from me. From me! I hit her, and she acted like it was no big fucking deal. Accident, yes. Acceptable, never. During sleep or not doesn’t matter to me. It is unforgivable.