I asked if our mission could have been carried out by a drone. Anders hesitated but before he could answer, Bremkin said, “Don’t answer that.” It was a lawyer’s way of saying, obviously, but don’t try to sue us.
With my year lease, I was also given two years of pay—to be paid out over the next two years. That’s it. That’s all I got—locked up in a goddamned bamboo cage for four and a half years, and I got a shack and two years’ salary.
“We’re trying to do better, Hunter. We might be able to get you more,” Anders said. “Trust us, we’re fighting for you.”
“But we can’t promise anything,” Bremkin was quick to add.
It was too bad I couldn’t charge for interviews. Within minutes of pulling into the shack’s carport, the house was swarmed with reporters. Bremkin went out to the yard to remind them all not to cross the property line while Anders gave me the tour of my new house.
In the bedroom was a giant, framed Special Ops uniform—matte black with the Kevlar mask, the boots, the works.
“Why the hell is that there?” I asked.
“All vets get them. It’s the military’s way of saying thank you.”
“It’s not even mine.” It wasn’t even the same model that I wore in the Congo. It was a newer model, pimped out with a bunch of fancy electronic gadgets. In the Congo, my outfit was green, and loose-fitted. The thing in the frame looked like a goddamned superhero’s costume.
“Well, yours was lost, so they made up a new one for you. You should be more appreciative; these outfits aren’t cheap. And they’re just trying to say thank you.”
“How’s about some money?” I asked.
“It’s not in the budget.”
He took me to the kitchen and showed me how to use the coffee maker. The dumb thing only made a single cup of coffee.
“What if I want more than a cup?”
“Make another cup. Just put in another pod.”
“Pod?” Had I been gone for five years or five-hundred years. Next he was going to tell me the coffee came from Jupiter.
“That’s what they’re called. Coffee pods.”
“What if I want ten cups of coffee?” I asked.
“Then make ten.” He smiled as if his answer wasn’t completely demented.
“Is there even ten in that box?”
Anders inspected the box and then smiled again. His eyes lit up. “There’s exactly ten!” He was talking to me like I’d just won the fucking lottery.
“Great. So that lasts me a day. How much is a box?”
“Five or six bucks?”
“Jesus, Anders, are you fucking with me?”
“It’s a great model, Hunter. Better than the one I’ve got, even.” He said it as if he was surprised they didn’t just dump some piece of crap on me. Even he knew I was being fucked sideways by the government.
“You like it? Keep it. I’ll get my own.”
I threw my coat back on and turned to the door.
“Whoa, wait. What are you doing?” he said, running past me to block the door. “Where are you going?”
“I’m going out to get a new coffee maker.”
“This one’s fine, Hunter. I’m telling you, it’s a great model.”
“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 would be 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 regu
lars 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 instinctually.
“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.�
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“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.
GAGE: A Bad Boy Military Romance Page 19
