HUNTER

by Blanc, Cordelia

  “I’m sure it is, but I don’t want this one. I want one that makes whole pots—that’s pots with a T—or do those not exist anymore?”

  “Of course they exist, but you can’t go out there. Matt wants you to stay inside until after you’ve been briefed and you’ve had your press conference.”

  “When’s that?”

  “Tomorrow night. Friday morning at the latest.”

  “Are you fucking serious?”

  “Look, Hunter. You know your mission in the Congo was top secret. People still don’t really know what you were doing over there. They’re going to have a lot of questions and we want to make sure you answer them right. You need to give this time. We’re still working on how we want to approach this thing. In the meantime, it’s very important that you just stay in here and don’t say anything to anyone. Understand?” Anders smiled.

  Great. I went from being a prisoner in the Congo to a prisoner in Nintipi. They had pretty good coffee in the Congo, too.

  “Oh, and don’t answer the phone if anyone calls—not until we figure everything out.”

  If Anders wasn’t an idiot, he would have known that everyone and their dog already knew that we weren’t in the Congo on a peacekeeping mission. No one was stupid enough to believe that crap. Even before we shipped out, no one believed it.

  We were sent to find and kill a man named Noric Gizenga, a Congolese terrorist, and leader of the Rebel army. He was a warmonger. Even before I enlisted, there were whistleblowers leaking papers to prove it.

  CHAPTER SIX

  It was the first time going to work since word got out that Hunter and Greg were still alive. Aside from my trip down to the airstrip, it was my first time in public since the big announcement. My palms were sweating on the bus ride over. I wondered if Hunter’s return was reminder enough for Nintipi to turn on me again.

  When you work off of tips, there’s nothing worse than owning the title, the Witch of Nintipi. Luckily, the bar was slow that night. Save for the few regular drunks, the place was desolate.

  Still, I noticed a few odd glances from the few regulars that were there. Turns out, I was right. Hunter’s homecoming came with the reminder that Sammy was dead. My gut turned. How long before the glances stopped this time? I wasn’t looking forward to finding out.

  Around midnight, a few hours into my shift, an older, unfamiliar man sat down at the end of the bar. He kept his face down and his hands buried deep in the pockets of his green cargo jacket.

  “Hey there. How’s it going?” I said, dropping a coaster in front of the man.

  He looked up slowly. His eyes were dark, distant. His cheeks were sunken and his facial hair was patchy. But I was wrong, he wasn’t older. He was hardly older than me. The man sitting at the bar was Greg Cherovitz, my old friend and the second of two Congo survivors.

  Sure, Hunter came back from the Congo looking older. But Greg looked like he’d been in a P.O.W. camp for thirty years. His hair was thin and wiry, and his body looked deflated and scrawny.

  “Whiskey. Neat.” His voice was quiet and raspy. He didn’t hold eye contact for more than two seconds before looking back down at the bar. It didn’t seem like he recognized me—strange, because we’d been close friends for longer than I could remember.

  It was tough seeing Greg like this. In school, he was so lively, so funny. I’ll always remember when we were in the third grade, and our school put on a talent show. Greg did a magic act. He put a mouse into a hat and then waved his wand over the hat. He showed the hat to the class, and it was empty. Everyone oohed. Then, he waved the wand over the hat again, and tipped it over. Two dozen mice tumbled out and then scurried in every possible direction. The class was a frenzy. The teachers were livid. He was hilarious. Fearless. Everyone knew he’d be big one day. One day, he’d been performing the Carnegie Hall.

  Instead, he was hardly alive, slouched over a slummy bar in Nintipi, Kansas. I dropped off his whiskey. “It’s on the house,” I said, hoping he would perk up and recognize me. His eyes only glanced up for a fraction of a second before turning down to the bar. He slammed his drink—a double. “Another,” he said.

  A stranger had stolen Greg’s body. Not just any stranger, but a dark, brooding, empty stranger. I brought him a second drink. He didn’t glance up this time. He just slammed the drink—another double.

  “Another,” he said again, before his glass was even back down on the bar.

  “I think you should slow down. Ain’t supposed to serve people this quick,” I said.

  He didn’t look up at me. The glass shattered in his clenched hand.

  “My God, are you okay? You’re bleeding. Let me get you a clean cloth.”

  “Another,” he said, ignoring the blood that was pooling on the bar. The few regulars were looking over with wide eyes.

  “I don’t think that’s such a good idea. How’s about a beer?”

  He slammed his fist down on the bar, against the broken glass. I jumped back, letting a whimper slip. I had to look closer. Maybe this wasn’t Greg Cherovitz. Maybe I was mistaken and this was just another angry drunk. Finally, he looked up at me, his eyes dark and bloodshot. It was Greg.

  “Okay, one more. Then we’ll take it slow, okay?” I said gently, carefully, as if I was talking to a rabid dog. He didn’t respond, looking back down at the bar where broken glass floated in a pool of his own blood.

  I took my time pouring his third drink, making sure to keep it a single this time. I could have called the cops. I would’ve had it been anyone besides Greg. But I couldn’t even begin to imagine how much he’d been through in that prison camp. I couldn’t just treat him like any other drunk that wandered in off the street.

  I put down his third drink. He slammed it. I tried to walk away before he could make another order, but I was too slow. “Another,” he said. “A double.”

  I hesitated, but I poured the shot. As I reached the drink out to him, I noticed the blood was still billowing out from his hand. His fresh cuts were deep and probably needed stitches. I couldn’t let him destroy himself like this. I pulled the drink back.

  “Sorry, Greg—”

  He grabbed my wrist. For a thin, sick-looking man, his grip was powerful. It felt as if someone slammed a heavy door against my wrist. I screamed out in pain.

  One of the regulars jumped to his feet. “Get your fuckin’ hands off of her,” he said. He approached Greg and tried to grab his arm. The pain in my wrist went quickly from sharp, to dull, to non-existent. My wrist had gone numb.

  Greg snatched a shard of glass from the bar and swung it towards his attacker. “Don’t touch me,” he yelled. The regular was quick to raise his arms and step back. I don’t blame him; Greg had a crazed look in his eyes, completely dethatched, as if he was staring into the eyes of one of a Congolese Rebel.

  “Please don’t hurt me,” I said softly.

  After a few seconds of silence, he let go of me. I hopped back and looked down at my wrist. It was already starting to bruise, swelling up dark red. Everyone in the bar was quiet, with their eyes on Greg as he scanned their faces.

  After another moment of silence, he spoke. “Another.”

  The regulars all looked to me to see what I would do. One of them had their cellphone out, under the table, probably dialling the police. It was probably for the best, but it stung my heart to think of Greg being thrown into the Drunk Tank. Greg deserved better after what he’d been through.

  The bar’s front door opened, stealing everyone’s attention. It was Hunter.

  “Another,” Greg said again, loudening his voice. He didn’t seem to notice his friend’s entrance.

  “Greg,” Hunter said.

  “Another,” Greg repeated, as if he couldn’t hear his friend.

  “Greg,” Hunter said again, approaching Greg.

  Greg was still holding the shard of glass. His hand was still dripping blood. He swung it towards Hunter, but Hunter didn’t flinch and he didn’t stop approaching. Even I jumped back instinct
ually.

  “I just want one more,” Greg said, his hands shaking.

  “Greg, put the glass down.”

  “Just one more.”

  Hunter stepped within arms’ reach of Greg. “Let’s go home, Greg.”

  “No.”

  Hunter took another step forward and Greg swung. Before he could connect, Hunter had Greg’s arm in his grasp, twisting it and forcing Greg to drop the glass. It was a lightning-fast manoeuvre, something he must have learned in the Marines, or in that Congolese P.O.W. camp. The move had Greg wincing in pain, paralyzed.

  “Stop! Let go!” Greg yelled. The bar-goers remained silent.

  Hunter let his friend go. As Greg turned back around, Hunter slapped him across the face. “What the fuck are you doing? What’s gotten into you?”

  Greg’s lips parted but no words came out. His eyes were wet, as if he were on the verge of bawling his eyes out.

  “Do you want to get yourself arrested?”

  Greg stuttered. “T—They’re in my house. They won’t leave.”

  “Who’s in your house, Greg?” Hunter asked.

  Greg leaned in close. I could barely hear him whisper, “The Kongies.”

  Hunter was slow to respond. His expression dropped and he froze. “C’mon,” he said finally, putting his hand on his friend’s back and guiding him out of the bar. He looked back at me for a quick moment before exiting.

  He looked like he had a lot to say but he left before saying any of it.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The press conference was uneventful. I did what they told me, and I kept my mouth shut, only speaking when I was repeating what Bremkin whispered into my ear. The conference took place on the front lawn of my little shack of a home. Everyone crowded me as I stood on the front step, with Bremkin on my right and Anders on my left. That cute little reporter was there, standing front and center. I swear her shirt was unbuttoned a full two buttons lower than before; any lower and her tits would’ve been be hanging out in the open.

  After the press conference, Bremkin told me I did a good job. For him, maybe. The frustrated, disappointed, and even angry faces of the reporters said otherwise. They got nothing good—nothing more than a bunch of overly vague and just downright wrong information. I had to bite my tongue when I told them the ambush was unexpected. It wasn’t. We knew we weren’t supposed to be in that town. Lieutenant Niles knew it too, but he thought taking a shortcut would save time, the prick.

  I had to tell the reporters that we were all sleeping when the ambush happened. Also not true. Most of us were sleeping. Sammy wasn’t sleeping. Sammy was out fucking a prostitute.

  But that was one thing I was absolutely not supposed to tell the press. The media seemed to think that Sammy Boy was the only reason some of us survived the attack. I laughed when Bremkin told me that Sammy was considered a hero in Kansas. I asked if I was considered a hero, too.

  “No, of course not. You lived,” he told me.

  America loves a martyr, even if they don’t know what he’s off martyring about. According to Anders, the town of Nintipi was having a brass statue of Sammy commissioned for the Library Square at the town center. My god, if Sammy Boy was alive to hear that…

  “Can I go outside now?” I asked as Anders fumbled with a coffee pod.

  He laughed. “I heard you’ve already been out. Last night.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “That doesn’t matter. I get that you’re an adult, and you probably want to go out and see old friends, but when I give you an order, I expect you to follow it.” It was a strange thing to hear from someone who was hardly an adult himself.

  “No offence Anders—”

  “—General Anders,” he corrected.

  I hesitated to continue. I wasn’t going to call him General. The Generals I knew fought in multiple wars. Anders had a degree from a community college and a few years in an office. “I’m not enlisted anymore. I’m retired. I’m a vet now. I don’t have to follow any dumb orders.”

  “Wrong. When you enlisted with Special Operations, you agreed to a lifetime of dumb orders. I know you think I’m just some dumb punk, Hunter. But I’m still your superior, whether you like it or not. I can have you put in prison for disobeying military law for endangering national security.”

  “Endangering national security? What the fuck are you on about, Anders?”

  “General Anders.” He stood and stared at me, as if waiting for me to correct myself. I didn’t. “The public still thinks you were in the Congo on a peacekeeping effort.”

  I laughed. “Trust me, no one ever believed that crap.”

  “Don’t laugh. If people knew you went to the Congo on an assassination mission, there would be a riot. We would be shut down and we’d be finished.”

  “I was just following orders,” I reminded him.

  He smiled but there was no joy behind that smile. “That doesn’t matter. The government will do what it needs to do to keep the peace. Americans would be outraged if they knew you were sent to murder an American War Hero.”

  Sent to murder an American War Hero? Was he joking? We were sent to find and kill Noric Gizenga, a terrorist leader, not an American War Hero. Anders placed a coffee down in front of me.

  “Noric Gizenga, the man you were supposed to kill, was an American. His real name was Frederick Meraux. He was being sheltered by the Congolese Rebels.”

  I suppressed a strong, sudden urge to punch Anders square in the jaw. Though, it wasn’t his fault. He probably wasn’t even out of high school when we were dropped into the jungle.

  They had told us our mission was to find and kill Noric Gizenga. They never mentioned to us that Gizenga was American. They told us he was the leader of a Congolese Rebel organization, and that he was partially responsible for the genocide in Rwanda.

  Master Sergeant Frederick Meraux was a well-known American soldier who died in a roadside bombing in Iraq. Like me, he was Special Ops. Frederick led a rescue mission in an al-Qaeda occupied town called Al-Nukhib. His unit saved twenty-five American soldiers. At least, that was the story that we heard.

  When I reminded Anders that Meraux was dead, he laughed and shook his head. “And as far as you need to be concerned, he is dead. I’ve already said enough,” he said, still laughing.

  “Tell me the truth, you little piece of shit. I spent five years in a P.O.W. camp. You at least owe me the truth.”

  “You’re better off without it, Hunt.”

  “Don’t call me Hunt, you cocksucker. Tell me.”

  He laughed again. “I’m serious. You don’t want to—”

  I sprung to my feet and grabbed the frail little General by the collar of his shirt, pulling him in close to my body. I didn’t want to hear his shit. I wanted to know why I really lost five years of my life, why my best friends were dead. Some kid who still had puberty written all over his hairless chin wasn’t in any place to laugh in my fucking face.

  “I had nothing to do with this, Hunter. The people that made the order have stepped down. I’m the one picking up the pieces. I’m the one trying to help you.”

  “If you want to help me, stop treating me like a little kid and tell me why they dropped us in the Congo.” I squeezed my grip, eliciting a wince from the young General. It was strangely satisfying watching him squirm. I bet the little punk didn’t even go through combat training.

  “There was no rescue mission in Al-Nukhib. There was no roadside bomb. That was all fabricated so no one would ask questions.”

  “And why would they not want any questions?”

  “Because Meraux came across information that he wasn’t supposed to—information that was not supposed to reach the public. You weren’t the first unit sent to kill him. There was one before you. They almost had him, but Meraux got away. He disappeared for a few years, then intelligence found him in the Congo. So we sent you.”

  “What information, Anders?” I asked, continuing to suppress the urge to pop his little head off of his f
ragile, little body.

  “I don’t know. I really don’t know. They didn’t tell me. The order came straight from the Pentagon. All I know is, they really wanted Meraux dead. Whatever he found out in Iraq is bigger than you and me; big enough that they’ll do whatever they have to to sweep it under the rug. They’ll sweep me and you under the rug too, if you aren’t careful.”

  I let go. There was a good chance he was full of shit—that he knew damn well what information Meraux found—but he wasn’t going to talk. He was probably right about the government not hesitating to silence me if they wanted to. Hell, they were probably already keeping a closer eye on me than I thought.