Begging for Bad Boys

by Willow Winters

  “I wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” I growl over the roar of the music, the crowd, and the roar of a jet landing on a nearby runway.

  My mouth still burns from the whiskey I’ve been pouring down it all night. Every sensation seems to melt into one – the fire of grain alcohol on my tongue; the rip-whine-roar of the jet performing a touch and go, the rage in my soul. I grab the man’s wrist and hold it fast. His fingers stop dead, half an inch from Alex.

  “Look around, buddy,” the man says, his voice carrying a conversational but very free all morning. I still haven’t looked up at his face. He could be anyone. It doesn’t matter. I don’t care. His arms, though, pop out of a dark green flight suit. “This is a bad place for you to pick a fight.”

  I cast my mind back. I remember exactly how the dimly lit bar looked when I walked in, down to every last detail: two flyboys, in the furthest corner, playing pool with bottles of beer in their hands, like they clocked straight off the set of Top Gun; an older man, in a commercial pilot’s uniform, sitting far right at the bar, cradling a whiskey tumbler; and a few haggard women, a decade past their prime, surrounding another raucous group of uniformed Marine pilots.

  “You know,” I grunt, “I’m not seeing a problem. But if you don’t take your hand back in the next ten seconds, we’re going to have one, you and I.”

  I loosen my grip on the man’s wrist so that he can piss off and leave me alone. I’m not looking for a fight. Hell, that’s the last thing I want. I just want people to stop hassling me so I can drink in peace.

  “Hey, hotshot,” my adversary growls, “have you ever heard that phrase – when you’re in a hole, stop digging?”

  The pilot’s hand darts forward. My brain clocks what he’s doing like he’s moving in slow motion. He’s trying to grab Alex’s photo again, and there’s no way I’m letting that happen. I throw myself back off my stool, taking the pilot’s wrist with me. I twist it, reversing his hand behind his back, and smash his head against the wooden bar. His resistance fades in an instant.

  Inside the bar, it feels like all sound and motion suddenly stops.

  “You know,” I say, leaning forward so that only the pilot and I can hear what I’m saying, “I could say the same to you.”

  I hear running feet behind me, and duck in time to avoid getting hit in the head by a pool cue. It splinters against the bar. I grab Alex’s photo, and stuff it back into my wallet with my free hand. It’s time to go. I hold my palms up and back into the bar, eyeing half a dozen angry, drunk, Marine pilots.

  “Listen guys,” I say, throwing an apologetic look in the blonde bartender’s direction. “We don’t need any trouble tonight. I’m not picking a fight; I’m not starting anything; but I promise you, I will end it. If you want the MPs to pick your broken bodies up off the floor, it’s up to you.”

  A tall pilot with a First Lieutenant’s silver bars on his collar grins at another pilot to his left. The name on his flight suit says: “Carter.”

  “You smell like enlisted, to me, buddy,” Carter says to the soundtrack of approving chuckles from the gaggle of pilots around him. “You sure you want to pick this fight? It’ll be your word against half a dozen decorated officers. What’s your unit, private?”

  Now, I just don’t go around telling people about how I served my country, or my current service status. It’s my business; but this asshole had to ask in the worse way. “It’s sergeant,” I growl, “Naval Special Warfare Group – retired. So you can take that threat and shove it, Carter. Military Police don’t mean shit to me – not anymore.”

  I hear a whistle from the crowd. Carter takes an uncertain step backwards. “Bullshit,” he mutters, though the crack in his voice suggests he’s not as sure of his position as he was a few seconds ago. “You’re telling me you’re a Navy SEAL?”

  I feel a shaking at my wrist. I look down to see the first – captured – pilot going puce with rage. “Get this asshole off me,” he howls, his voice pitched like a pain dog’s whine. “What the hell are you waiting for? There’s six of you and one of him.”

  I twist the real asshole’s arm behind his back hard enough that his eyes drip tears onto the wooden bar.

  I look Carter dead in the eye. “Was,” I grunt. “Out six months. So maybe I’m rusty. Maybe this is your lucky day. But you wanna bet on that?”

  “Hey now,” Carter says, “we don’t want any trouble. Car Bomb here –,” he jerks his head at the man writhing in my hands, “is a bit of a prick when he’s had a bit too much to drink. Like his call sign, you know? He’s explosive.”

  I roll my eyes: Pilots. Think they’re real hotshots just because they get to sit on fifty million dollars’ worth of Uncle Sam’s finest. Ask any grunt – the guys who fight the war on the ground – we know the truth.

  “Yeah, well,” I grunt, throwing Car Bomb towards his friends. He cradles his twisted shoulder, looking up at me like a beaten dog gazes at its master. “Maybe you should get your boy under control.

  My phone rings once again. I pick it up off the bar and check the caller ID. Ryan Carr. I don’t know why I bothered looking. He’s the only person who has this number. I accept the call, press the phone to my ear, and stride the hell out of this dingy little bar.

  Chapter 2

  Jax

  “Crap…”

  My skull is thundering when I wake up. Someone’s jammed a crowbar into the gears inside my head, and they’re cracking and splintering under the pressure.

  I feel like someone stood over me and pounded my brain with a baseball bat all night. The worst part; this is probably the best I’ll feel all day. I reach out blindly, eyes still closed, looking for some water. Of course; drunk Jax didn’t think that far ahead. He never does: asshole.

  I throw the covers off my body: under these sheets, I’m a hundred degrees, and only getting hotter. The cool air brushes against my skin like cool silk. It feels like someone’s resting a moist cloth against my forehead. I wish that was the case.

  “Reveille in five, private!”

  My old Gunnery Sergeant’s voice rings in my head, barking at me to get the hell out of my cot. I’ve been out of the service for six months, but lying in bed all day still doesn’t feel right. I hoist my legs out, and my bare feet kiss the cold ground. It’s the shock I need to wake me up. My eyes spring open, and I take a deep, long inhale of crisp clean air.

  My apartment – if you can call it that – is exactly how I left it. Neat, tidy, and still a piece of crap that should’ve been knocked down way back in the seventies. But if there’s one thing the Navy taught me, it was how to sleep anywhere. Stick me in the back of a ten-ton truck, snuggled up with the oil drums; put me right up close to the engines on a C-130 “Hercules” cargo plane, it doesn’t matter to me.

  My fingers reach for my phone. I’m on autopilot. Six years in the SEALs and I’m all about the mission first. I might not wear my country’s uniform anymore, but that doesn’t mean a damn thing. I’m still the same guy I was back then. A location flashes up on the screen.

  Ryan, my contact, was as true as his word. He’s got a job waiting. Guys like me; we’ve got a special set of skills. There ain’t much call in the civilian world for a dude who can place five shots into a man’s chest from 500 yards away, or infiltrate an enemy base by sea, you know? I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to list on my resume: underwater demolition; weapons proficiency; blood wings? Check, check, double check: I’ve got the skills and the t-shirts.

  But computer skills: hell, I don’t have any of those. And I’m not standing behind a checkout counter all day long, smiling at suburban soccer moms. Screw that. I’ve got talents, and I’m going to use them.

  Here’s the thing, though – clients for this kind of work, they tend to be bad people. Whatever the hell Ryan’s job is, I’ve got no doubt that I’ll have to hold my nose shut to do it. But hell, if there’s one thing the Navy SEALs can do, it’s wade through miles of crap to get the job done.

  “Time to
rock ‘n roll, Jackson,” I mutter to the dark, empty room. I grab my Glock 9mm and a couple of spare mags, and a flashlight with my other hand. The equipment feels solid and reassuring in my palm.

  I travel five miles to the location Ryan sent: an old factory on the edge of town. Like everything else in this neighborhood, it’s scheduled for demolition. I bet they’ll stick more yuppie apartments up in its place.

  My beat up old Ford F150 rattles the whole way. I lean forward, tossing the Glock into the glove compartment, and slam it closed. If someone gets close enough to me that I need to use my weapon, then this day’s gone to hell. A good mission is a quiet mission. That’s the plan.

  Ryan didn’t tell me squat about what my target is, but it’s pretty clear. There’s a U-Haul trailer parked up pretty by the front of the tumbling down factory. It’s new, and all kinds of out of place. I know the rules. I don’t look inside. I don’t give a crap what I’m transporting. I’m just a glorified FedEx driver. Go from point A to point B. That’s the job.

  I hook the trailer up to the hitch at the back of my truck. It sinks home with a satisfying metallic thud. For a moment I can simply forget where the hell I am and what I’m doing. If I didn’t need the money, then maybe I’d go into construction. I’m good with my hands – and not only when I’m with women.

  But I do need the money. I’m looking for someone, and private investigators aren’t cheap. I’ll do this as long as it takes, if it means I find Alex.

  If she’s even alive, that is.

  I take a walk around my truck. It’s SOP – Standard Operating Procedure. I do it because it’s been drilled into my skull on mission after mission, year after year. I’m not just a soldier; I’m a finely honed tool. This is what I do, and I’m damn good at it.

  “Crap,” I grunt as I pass the rear of the truck.

  I don’t know how I didn’t notice it before. The plastic housing for one of the rear brake lights has a crack in it, and the bulb inside is shattered. I chew the inside of my lip. The timeline Ryan gave me is pretty clear. I’ve got to get to Las Vegas with the package by tomorrow – or no bonus. I need that money. No money, no private investigator. No private investigator, no Alex…

  I get a sinking feeling inside me, but I’ve already made my decision. I’m going to let it slide. I’ll take back roads; keep off the interstate as much as possible. So, if I’m pulled over by a cop?

  I guess I’ll just have to deal with it the best I can.

  I take US-95. It’s a crappy route, and now I’m on the ass end of the California-Arizona border. My headlights illuminate the scrubby desert in front of me. It’s all rocks and sand and the odd, hardy plant. It might as well be the second circle of hell.

  Gravel beats a steady tune on the undercarriage of my truck. I stay below the speed limit, driving soft and steady. I do everything to indicate that I’m just an ordinary citizen. The truck shakes from time to time as a huge trailer rushes past, their headlights mimicking searchlights, blinding my night vision; otherwise it’s an uneventful journey.

  Until I hear a siren.

  Until blue lights bathe the desert.

  “Fuck,” I grunt. This is bad news. If I’m being pulled over, it means one of two things – either someone’s just doing their job, or…

  Someone sold me out.

  If it’s the second option, then I need to move quickly. I reach over and grab my Glock from the glove compartment, slamming home a magazine and checking the chamber. I tuck the weapon underneath my seat – close enough to can grab it in seconds if I need that option. I’m no cop killer, but if some bent cop plans to kill me and jack my cargo, then he’ll find I’m no pushover.

  I let the truck slow, doing everything at a slow, steady pace to buy myself time to think. The officer kills the siren, but leaves his lights on. They rotate in slow, steady circles, illuminating the dusty scrubland. There isn’t another car in sight. My mind races. If this is an ambush, then whoever’s in that cop car couldn’t have picked a better spot.

  I hear boots crunching against the hard desert. My skin prickles, and adrenaline floods into my system. I’m on edge, ready to throw myself at this guy if he so much as put a foot out of line.

  “Can I help you, officer?” I smile, still winding down the window, manually. Like I said: beat up old truck. I glance out of the passenger window, but the cop doesn’t have a partner with him. That’s kind of weird. If anything, it suggests that this is no ordinary traffic stop.

  The cop peers down, squinting to get a look at my face. He seems relaxed. I allow myself to breathe. “Hands on the wheel,” he grunts. He rests his fingers on the grip of his weapon, but doesn’t seem in any hurry to pull it out. I do as I’m told.

  “You know why I pulled you over?” The cop asks.

  I shake my head. “No sir.”

  My heart drums a steady, tense beat. Thump, thump. Thump, thump. Thump, thump.

  All my years in the SEALs taught me a thing or two about fear. It’s not the absence of fear that makes a man; it’s how he deals with it. Only psychopaths don’t feel fear. Fear is good. Fear is healthy. I’m nervous – because any man would be in my situation. But that doesn’t mean I’m losing control.

  “Where are you going, sir?” The cop asks. His hand moves on his belt, and I freeze, waiting for him to pull out his weapon. He doesn’t. He clicks his flashlight on, and examines the back seat of my truck.

  “Vegas,” I grin. “I’m feeling lucky.”

  The cop doesn’t crack a smile. It’s hard to make out his features in the dark desert gloom. There are no streetlights to shine on his face, nor the glow of any city to reflect against the sky. “License and registration,” he says, sticking out his free hand.

  I lean over slowly, keeping my eyes on his reflection in the mirror. I know better than to turn my back on a threat. I grab my documents and pass them over. I’m still not detecting any real sense of threat from this guy. Maybe this is exactly what it feels like – just a random traffic stop.

  The cop shines his flashlight on me, and I see a spark of recognition in his eyes as his gaze passes over my unit tattoo on my forearm. His posture seems to relax – just a touch. “You served?” He asks in a softer voice.

  I nod, letting a subtle sigh of relief escape my lips. “Sure did. Six years out of Coronado with Team Three. You?”

  “Sure did,” the cop smiles, resting both hands on his belt. The flashlight shines down, and away from my eyes. It feels like the tension is draining out of the officer. “Fifth Fleet. Out of Bahrain. On the Essex.”

  “You got to be shitting me,” I say, cracking an honest smile. “What are you doing all the way out here, officer? You’re a long way from the sea.”

  “Don’t I know it,” the cop laughs, “but I’m done sleeping on a rack five thousand miles away from my wife. You got anyone waiting for you in Vegas?”

  A pang of pain echoes through my body as Alex’s face flashes up on the inside of my eyelids. I guess maybe the cop notices my facial muscles clenching, because he doesn’t push it.

  “No sir,” I say, shaking my head. “No one is waiting. Not that she knows, anyway.”

  “You got it, boss,” the cop says, sticking out his hand. “Maybe you’ll find a frog hog out there in the desert. Ladies love a SEAL. I’m Mikey, by the way. Pleased to meet you – and thank you for your service. Ain’t no one gonna blow up a ten-thousand-ton battleship, not these days. But you guys must be crazy. The fight never stops, ain’t that right?”

  I shake his hand, puffing a sigh of relief. “Good to be out, that’s all,” I grunt. “I’m done shooting people, if you know what I mean.”

  The cop glances down at his service weapon. “I don’t,” he says, with an almost guilty look on his face. “Never fired it in anger, you know?”

  My head shakes from side to side. “Pray that you don’t, officer. You’ll sleep better at night.”

  The cop looks somber as he considers my advice. He nods and hands back my documents. “Listen
, I pulled you over because you got a taillight out. I’ll radio ahead so that none of my buddies stop you on your way into town. But do me a favor – get it fixed as soon as you get to Vegas, okay?”

  I toss my license onto the passenger seat and nod. “You got it, boss.”

  I don’t let myself relax until the cop’s boots crunch from where I’m parked all the way back to his car. He licks off his flashing lights, and drives off into the distance. I let my head sink onto the steering wheel. That was too damn close for comfort. Still, I guess it was a blessing in disguise: a free pass all the way to Vegas.

  The adrenaline rushes out of my system and leaves my muscles soft and loose, feeling like I’ve done an hour in the sauna. I have no doubt that I could have handled that guy if it came to a fight, but I told him the truth. I’m done killing people who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Killing for your country is one thing: but doing it for money?

  It doesn’t feel right.

  Anger surges through me. It’s irrational; I know it is. I took this job knowing exactly what it involves. Yet, Ryan’s smug tone on the phone, his instructions to drive a package eight hundred miles without knowing what the hell it is – and what the hell could send me to jail –makes me boil over. I could be transporting drugs, or even weapons, for all I know. At least in the Navy, they told you what the hell you were doing.

  I’m not settling for this; not anymore. I’m finding out what’s in that trailer. And if it is drugs, or some crap like that, then I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.

  I hop out of my truck, boots thudding against the rocky ground. The short journey seems a hundred times longer than it actually is. I’m well aware that I’m about to cross a line, and I don’t give a crap.

  The trailer is locked with a heavy-duty padlock. I grimace and take a second to pop the tool chest of my truck. A beaten up, dented iron crowbar sits atop various construction supplies, and I grab it. It’s the work of seconds to line the crowbar up with the padlock and throw my shoulder into it.