HOT as F*CK

by Scott Hildreth

  Terrorists come in all shapes, sizes, ages, colors, creeds, nationalities, and religions. A master of what they do, they’re often camouflaged so well that an untrained eye isn’t able to identify them. I, on the other hand, have years of experience, and believe my ability to recognize a terrorist for who he is and what he represents is second to no man’s, and therefore have no reservation acting on my instinct in providing my continued protection to the men and women I took an oath to protect.

  I am not so shallow that I believed all police or factions of the police were assembled only by men who were corrupt. As with all men in general, there were good cops, and there were bad cops. When an officer who gave an oath similar to the one I gave, and then chose to abuse his power, manipulate the system, and lie to convict an honest citizen of a crime that was never committed, he quickly identified himself as the enemy. The camouflage, so to speak, was removed, and who he truly was stood exposed for all to see.

  He becomes a terrorist.

  And my solemn duty was to the men and women of this United States, which I had sworn to protect, who relied on me and those like me to prevent them from being preyed upon.

  I leveled the rifle on the parapet of the roof and slowed my breathing. From my short study, I had less than five minutes before he would be walking across the street. The distance of 600 yards was almost half a mile, an extremely long range for most men to shoot something the size of a Boeing 747, but for me it was a walk in the park.

  I realized the report from the rifle would be heard from anyone within earshot, but the area I had chosen was surrounded by homeless people, and at least for the time being, I looked no differently than they did.

  As my training and experience required, I blended into my environment well.

  The target stood at the crosswalk, waiting for the light to turn green. With the early evening sun at my back, I peered through the scope, inhaled, exhaled slowly, and squeezed the trigger. The 660 grain bullet traveled the distance in less than a second, but, no differently than any of the other similar shots I had taken, seemed to travel in slow motion, providing sufficient time for me to recover from the recoil and see what I needed to see.

  There was no doubt the target was eliminated.

  Mission accomplished.

  I quickly disassembled the rifle, placed the components in my backpack, then pulled my wool jacket over my shoulders and my hood over my head. After picking up the can of beer I had placed beside the pack, I opened it and took a drink. I gargled the warm beer, poured my hand full, and splashed a little on my jeans. I dumped the remaining beer on the hot roof and placed the empty can in my pack, and slipped my arms through the straps. Now, I would smell to anyone who passed my on the street no differently than the hordes of homeless gathered below.

  I walked across the roof to the fire escape of the abandoned building and climbed down and onto the sidewalk. Within five minutes, I was a block away, amidst a dozen homeless. In five more, I was on my bagger traveling a comfortable 65 miles per hour down the interstate.

  And the world was a better place to live in.

  Chapter One Hundred Ninety

  JACK

  I watched in amazement as the man balanced on ice skates while he pummeled the man in front of him. With his left hand holding the jersey of his opponent, and his chin tucked to his chest, he swung wildly but effectively, hitting the other man in the face with no less than half his punches. The referees stood to the side and watched as the two players fought until completely exhausted. As the man getting hit the most finally fell to the ice, the referees skated in between them and stopped the fight.

  “Can you fuckin’ imagine if they let ‘em fight in baseball? Motherfuckin’ first base coach kickin’ the shit outta the umpire for a bad call. Whippin’ the piss outta him until one of ‘em fell on the ground? Gotta love a fuckin’ hockey game,” Ripp growled as he stood and clapped.

  I clapped my hands and cheered. I’d never been to a hockey game, and as much as I protested going, the fellas from Austin all but demanded it. Now that I was actually experiencing it, I was glad I agreed to attend. The thought of hockey always fascinated me, but going reminded me of Em, as she always spoke of her love of following the playoffs.

  It was the least I could do to repay the man who paid for my freedom. On my left, the heavyweight Champion of the World sat quietly and humbly, probably hoping no one would notice him. A few had, and it was pretty exciting to me to be sitting with a true celebrity. Having an entire career of undefeated matches was not only an accomplishment, but spoke clearly of what type of a man Shane Dekkar was when it came to devotion.

  “Sit down, Ripp,” Shane said as he shook his head.

  “Fuck, Dekk. Did you see that shit? Put some skates on your ass and see how long you keep the title. These motherfuckers are brawlers. I need to get me some skates and practice up. We got a team in Austin?” Ripp asked as he lowered his oversized self into the small plastic seat.

  Shane nodded his head. “Texas Stars in Cedar Park. I’ll buy the skates if you’ll try out.”

  “Soon as we get back,” Ripp said over his shoulder.

  Otis leaned forward and got my attention. “Look at the goalie. He’s going to slap the shit out of number 22. Each time he skates by, he slashes at him with his stick.”

  I shifted my eyes to the goalie. As soon as 22 skated around the goal, he swung his stick, slapping it against the back of the skater’s legs. I knew very little about the fast-paced game, but it sure appeared the goalie was off-limits when it came to people making contact with him, and 22 had been coming close all night.

  The previous fight was all because the other skater had knocked the goalie over when trying to rush in for a goal. As I did my best to pay attention to everyone skating back and forth, the buzzer sounded, ending the period.

  “Holy shit, fellas, this is some exciting shit,” I said as I glanced to my left and then my right.

  Toad leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and peered past Otis and Ripp.

  “One more period, then it’s over. Fucks me up how they count the time backwards on the clock. I think when they let those two out of the box, they’ll go at it again,” he said.

  I nodded my head. “Hope so, pretty fucking exciting shit.”

  Being at the game allowed me to enjoy myself for the first time since I had been out of prison. I had not thought about anything but what was in front of me since we arrived at the game, and spending time with the fellas from Austin was pretty damned entertaining. Ripp was a comical fucker, always talking shit to Shane, and joking about everything he found amusing. Personally, I’d put him up against the MC’s practical joker, Biscuit as far as story telling abilities go. Shane was quiet, and although he kept to himself, was extremely respectful and quite humble.

  A-Train was the Marine who served in the entire war with Toad, and saved his life during one of his many tours. Toad, while in Austin, returned the favor by taking a bullet intended for his Marine brother. Although so far I wasn’t able to spend much time with A-Train, he was a man who immediately made me comfortable to be around. He listened far more than he talked, but when he took time to talk, he didn’t do it for attention or recognition. He spoke because it was necessary.

  Immediately, and without thought, I admired him for it.

  They had been in town for almost a week, and were scheduled to leave in the morning, going back to Austin after their trip to Wisconsin for a rally. Disappointed that A-Train wasn’t able to make the game, but grateful that he provided me the ticket, I sat anxiously waiting for it to continue.

  “What do you think they pay that dumb fuck to drive that deal on the ice and polish it?” Ripp asked.

  “Five bucks an hour?” I said.

  He wrinkled his nose and stared. “How long was you locked up? They pay a motherfucker at McDonalds eight bucks.”

  “Shit, I don’t know, eight bucks then,” I said. “And ten years. I was locked up for ten fucking years.”<
br />
  “God damn, brother. Better man than me. I woulda hung myself,” he said as he shook his head.

  Although I saw a few people commit suicide in prison, the thought never crossed my mind. For some reason, suicide never seemed to be an option for me. I felt my only way of leaving this earth would be the same as my entry, one God decided, not me.

  When I was sixteen, Johnny Kilgore was seventeen. He and his twin brother, Jacob, spent almost every waking hour together, and were friends first, and brothers second. One weekend, while on a date, Johnny was driving on a county road, and attempted to cross an unmarked railroad track.

  The investigation produced very little information from what I could recall, but there was no alcohol involved, nor were there any drugs present in either his or his girlfriend’s bloodstream. The train hit his truck broadside, and when it did, the truck exploded. It didn’t explode into a fiery ball of flames, it disintegrated. The dismantling of the truck was immediate, and parts of it were strewn along the track for a mile.

  Both Johnny and his girlfriend were killed immediately. It was the second time in my life I had to deal with death, but the first, my parents, was when I was too young to understand it fully.

  One thing I will never forget was that there was pair of shoes dangling from the telephone line thirty feet in the air above the crash site. Although some viewed it as a hoax, and others truly believed they were Johnny’s girlfriend’s shoes, I never really thought it mattered. The shoes hung from the line for a year as a symbol of what happened, and just how immediate death can be.

  Every time I passed that intersection, I saw the shoes before anything. I always looked both ways before I crossed, which was something I hadn’t always done in the past. I perceived the shoes as somewhat of a warning or maybe even a reminder of the permanency of death.

  Jacob wandered around town in a fog for roughly a year before he took his own life one day. He did so at the crossing where his brother had died, shooting himself in the head with his father’s pistol. It was the third time I had to deal with death, but my first suicide. Something inside of me broke that day, and I always believed it was a result of witnessing someone so young who was once full of life decide to take his own life. The decision wasn’t something that could be reversed later, nor was it something he could recover from.

  At his funeral, I made a decision.

  I spent an entire Saturday afternoon shooting at the shoes with a friend’s .22 caliber rifle until I literally cut the shoe strings in two, causing the shoes to fall to the ground. Although I had reservations at first, feeling almost as if the shoes were sacred, I eventually walked over and picked them up. I later took them to the grave of Johnny’s girlfriend and placed them in front of her headstone.

  A few weeks later, they added a warning light at the intersection. A little too late to save the lives lost, it was my first experience with the indecisive nature of a bureaucracy and how it could - and would - have an effect on society.

  “Well, if I woulda taken that option, I wouldn’t be here watching this, would I?” I asked as I jumped from my seat.

  Number 22 was in an all-out brawl in front of the goalie. The player from the penalty box had immediately skated toward him and challenged him to a fight as soon as he was released. As we stood and cheered until one man hit the ice, I was grateful for a lot of things in my life.

  And the first was that I was alive and well.

  “Well, glad you didn’t,” Ripp said as he slapped my shoulder, damned near knocking me down the rows of seats.

  I initially glared at him, and then fully realized that he didn’t mean it. He was just big, strong, and full of life himself. As he screamed at the referee and eventually threw his remaining cup of beer into the rink when the referee kicked the player out for instigating a fight, I slapped him on the shoulder equally as hard.

  “Me too,” I said.

  Me too.

  Chapter One Hundred Ninety-One

  JACK

  Toad called me in to see the news, which left me feeling slightly relieved, and, at least initially, a little scared.

  Agent Blackburn was executed while walking to his office from court late Friday, at approximately 7:10 p.m., the result of a sniper’s .50 caliber bullet. The shot, according to authorities and ballistics experts with the bureau, was taken from approximately a mile away, a distance that made and will continue to make apprehension of the suspect or suspects difficult at best.

  Agent Blackburn, who had been with the bureau for 18 years, was best known for spearheading the case against an Outlaw Motorcycle Gang, and later writing a book about his experiences while in the gang, which was entitled The Eagle’s Nest.

  Our thoughts and prayers go to the family of the deceased.

  Jim?

  I stared at the television.

  “That your guy?” Toad asked as he turned down the volume.

  I swallowed the lump which had risen in my throat. Although I fully intended on paying Blackburn a visit, it felt odd knowing that he was dead, and not by my own doing. It appeared I wasn’t the only one who viewed him as an enemy and a threat to society.

  I pursed my lips and nodded my head.

  “Probably a good thing you were at that hockey game last night,” A-Train said as he turned to face me.

  I stared blankly, eventually shrugging my shoulders.

  “They said it happened at 7:10. Hell, you’ve got a rock-solid alibi. Plenty of witnesses, one a damned celebrity,” A-Train paused and tilted his head toward Shane, who stood a few feet away.

  “And from what I can recall, that new arena is full of cameras; probably got you dumb fucks on film. It’s a shame about that agent, though. Well, if nothing else, it’ll make sure you don’t go right back to the joint for doing something stupid,” he said.

  I stood and stared, partially in shock, but not enough so that my mind wasn’t working overtime to digest what had happened.

  We were all scheduled to ride out of town with the group, seeing them to the state line, and returning to the shop afterward for a small party of our own. Toad’s home was filled with men, Axton and Otis included.

  “Got a minute?” I asked A-Train as I tossed my head toward the door leading to the garage.

  “Got a lifetime,” he responded as he turned toward the garage.

  As he followed me into the garage, my mind attempted to assemble the pieces of the previous day. I never considered myself a stupid man, but I also hated to make assumptions. But as men often did, my MC brothers had told stories of A-Train before his arrival, many of which were stories of war, his life in Austin, and some tales of the time when he lived in Wichita. One thing each of the stories had in common was a body.

  A dead body.

  Never a witness, and from what they said, he never admitted to anything.

  But I couldn’t help but wonder.

  As we stepped down the stairs and into the garage, I glanced around at the various the motorcycles. I felt slightly nervous, but not so much that I was afraid to speak. I suspected part of my apprehensive nature was a result of Blackburn actually being dead and my mind attempting to place that piece of my puzzle aside.

  “So, where were you last night?” I asked.

  He gazed toward me, but it was as if he was looking through me, or maybe even into me. As I stood, feeling as if he was peering into my very soul, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and lit one. As he flicked the Zippo lighter closed against the leg of his jeans, he took a long drag from the cigarette, and answered as he exhaled a cloud of smoke.

  “With an old friend. A local doctor,” he responded. “Why?”

  “Just wondering,” I responded.

  I gazed down at my boots for a moment, glanced up, and hesitated. As I stood wondering how to proceed, he exhaled another cloud of smoke, lifted his cigarette even with his face, and studied the smoking tip.

  “Something you need to say?” he asked.

  “I don’t know for
sure, I was just wondering…”

  He clenched the butt of the cigarette between his teeth, closed one eye to protect it from the rising smoke, and while peering at me with his open eye, began to speak.

  “What’s on your mind, Big Jack?” he asked as he pursed his lips around the cigarette.

  The end glowed as he took another long drag. Standing there talking to him didn’t make me nervous, but I was far from being in my comfort zone. He seemed different. Distant. His eyes looked like they were deeper in his skull, and they seemed almost three dimensional in color, like a hologram.

  In short, he seemed like a walking ghost.

  “I uhhm…”

  “You want to know if I killed that man?” he asked.

  My constricting throat prevented me from responding. I nodded my head as I fought to swallow.

  “Ask me,” he said as he opened his mouth and dropped the cigarette to the floor.

  As he pressed against it with the tip of his boot, I did just that.

  “Did you?” I asked.

  “Let me ask you this. If I told you yes, would you shake my hand, or would you turn around and walk away?” he asked.

  I shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t know.”

  He shook his head, bent down, and picked up the cigarette butt. As he pushed it into the pocket of his jeans, he continued.

  “Never ask a question unless you’re fully prepared for the repercussions of the response,” he said as he slapped his hand against the side of my shoulder.

  As he turned and began to go up the steps, I responded truthfully.

  I lifted my chin slightly and focused on his rising shoulders. “I’d shake your hand.”

  He stopped, turned to face me, and after a short study of my eyes…

  He extended his hand.

  Chapter One Hundred Ninety-Two

  JACK

  “Shit, okay. I appreciate it,” Axton said as he scribbled on the note pad he carried with him at all times.