by River Savage
Hetch
Men of S.W.A.T.
River Savage
Contents
Copyright
Author’s Note
Dedication
Prologue
1. Hetch
2. Liberty
3. Hetch
4. Liberty
5. Hetch
6. Liberty
7. Hetch
8. Liberty
9. Hetch
10. Liberty
11. Hetch
12. Liberty
13. Hetch
14. Liberty
15. Hetch
16. Liberty
17. Hetch
18. Liberty
19. Hetch
20. Liberty
21. Hetch
22. Liberty
23. Hetch
24. Liberty
25. Hetch
26. Liberty
27. Hetch
28. Liberty
29. Hetch
30. Liberty
31. Hetch
32. Liberty
33. Hetch
34. Liberty
35. Hetch
36. Liberty
37. Hetch
38. Liberty
39. Hetch
40. Liberty
41. Hetch
42. Liberty
Epilogue
Thank-you
Incandescent
About the Author
Help Someone. Help Yourself
Also by River Savage
Acknowledgments
The End
HETCH
©2016
First eBook edition: May 2016
Hetch is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading and sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
Edited by Becky Johnson, Hot Tree Editing
Cover design ©: Louisa Maggio at LM Creations
Image: Furious Fotog
Model: Chase Ketron
Information address: [email protected]
Author’s Note
This novel contains adult/mature young adult situations. It is only suitable for ages 18+ due to language, violence, and sexual situations. Hetch explores the damaging effects of suicide, its aftermath, and the possible issues associated with mental illness and PTSD. Despite being a HEA, Hetch and Liberty's journey may cause possible triggers related to suicide and other mental health issues.
Dedication
To anyone who has ever had suicidal thoughts.
I am glad you’re still here.
Keep holding on.
Prologue
Hetch
I once heard you can trace who you've become in this life to three external factors: ten defining moments; seven critical choices; and five pivotal people. I’m not sure how true it is, but it’s one of those things that always stuck with me. Sure I’ve had moments, both positive and negative, that one could say redefined the type of person I have become. But I’ve never had a moment which entered my consciousness with such authority it changed the core of who I thought I was.
Until I did.
One
Hetch
“Before we begin, I need to form a baseline. I’m going to ask you to state your name then tell me two truths and one lie, in that order.” I shift in my seat, jostling the cords I’m attached to before answering.
“My name is Liam Hetcherson. I have one sister. I drive a black Ford F150. And I’m really excited to be here today.” An unhurried smirk appears on the psychoanalyst’s chapped lips, and I get a small sense of satisfaction knowing I managed to break through his stony composure.
“Good. Now, let’s try some word association. I say a word, you give me the first word that comes to mind. For example, if I say cat, you may say dog.” I nod, already aware of how these things work.
“Ask?” He kicks it off without any warning.
“Answer.”
“Gun?”
“Shot.”
“Responsibility?”
“Mine.”
“Red?”
“Blood.”
“Help?”
“Late.”
“Respect?”
“None.”
His assessing gaze behind his rimless bottle-cap glasses moves from the polygraph machine and connects with mine. A surge of silence pulses around the four-by-six interview room we sit in as I wait for his next word.
“Father?”
The word drawls from his mouth and crashes through my steely resolve.
My father.
What this psych evaluation will come down to today.
Imagery floods in of the man, who for twenty-nine years, I called Dad. The man who taught me how to drive, to work hard, to value family. The man who I looked up to, who I aspired to be.
Until I didn’t.
“You’re thinking too hard, Sergeant. Let’s try it again. Father?” He presses when I don’t answer.
“Coward.” My honest answer slaps the air. It’s years of hurt, years of suffering, years of unanswered questions that weigh the one word down with pain.
“Your father… he took his life.”
It’s not a question. It’s a true statement. A fact.
My defining moment.
“Would you like me to word associate it, Doc?” If I was expecting some kind of reaction from him as he notes something down on my file, I would have been left disappointed.
I was prepared for this line of questioning. I’ve dealt with it plenty of times throughout the last three years. The polygraph machine monitoring my stress while answering these questions, however, is new.
It’s my psych evaluation. Department forced counseling at its finest. Part of the selection process I must endure if I want to be team leader. An entire day where written tests are issued and various interviews are conducted to find out if I can make the cut.
Everything I’ve been working toward rests on this.
“Let’s talk about it for a minute. It’s what, the third anniversary of his death next month? How are you coping?”
“What’s your machine tell you?” It’s no surprise I dislike talking about the death of my father. What I dislike more is being hooked up to the fucking machine and being asked to talk about it so they can overanalyze my answers with their psychobabble bullshit.
“You know this isn’t how it works, Sergeant Hetcherson.” He’s right. I do. I know how this fucking works. I know every time tactical requalification comes up, I’m evaluated. Every time I discharge my weapon, hell, every time I can’t talk a subject down, I’m being assessed, put through the wringer to make sure I’m coping.
“Tell me, Doc, how do you measure how well I should be coping?” I decide to indulge him. It’s not the first time I’ve played this game.
“Well, coping does not represent a homogeneous concept. It’s a diffuse umbrella term. Coping can be described in terms of strategies, tactics, responses, cognitions, or behavior.” There he goes with his psychobabble bullshit.
“I use sex, beer, and my job. However, I liked sex, beer, and my job before he shot himself in the head less than five feet from me. So where does this leave me?” While there is some honesty to my answer, I am fucking with him.
“Listen, Liam.” The pen falls to the desk in frustration, and he takes a moment to remove his glasses. “I’m not trying to be the bad guy here. My job is to determine if you
’re mentally stable for this position. This line of work leaves little room to be complacent.”
“I don’t have PTSD if that’s what you’re asking.” He doesn’t comment, doesn’t show signs of agreeing or disagreeing, just adds a note to my file before continuing.
“Let’s talk about incident 9837.” He flicks through his paperwork, pulling out a file and opening it up.
“You’ll have to refresh my memory, Doc.”
“Richard Fallon.” He starts reading through the transcripts, but truthfully there is no need. I can recall the incident in clear detail.
“Hetcherson. 11:15 a.m. Do you need me to tell you how this plays out? What happens when you put a bullet in your head? The mess you will make when the bullet leaves the chamber and explodes into your skull. What’s worse, you might not even die. Then what, Richard? Do you want your family to see you like that?”
The scene plays out in my head as he reads the play-by-play of the incident, yanking me back to the night I witnessed the second suicide I couldn’t prevent.
“Sterling. 11:20 a.m. You’re losing him, Hetch.”
“Heterchson. 11:21 a.m. No, the risk is low. Give me more time.” He continues to recite the transcript, and to anyone who wasn’t present that night, his monotone recap almost makes it seem boring. Inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. But I know differently. They’re my words. That’s me trying to save a distraught man who had just lost his wife.
It was far from boring.
“I remember the case.” I cut him off, not wanting to hear any more.
“Five minutes later Richard Fallon discharged his weapon.”
“Yes.”
“Do you think there would have been a different outcome had anyone else on your team taken lead negotiator?”
“No.” I speak the word with the utmost certainty. “Regardless of who took lead negotiator, Richard Fallon went there to die. He wasn’t responding to compassion or understanding. We didn’t have much time to begin with. I had to go in with hard reality.”
“But you still lost him.”
“Yes.” I hate the way my fist clenches on that word, my body’s reaction to the failure coursing through me because of the truth. His eyes track my movement, landing on my clenched fist with a knowing glance.
“How do you feel when you’re called out for a possible suicide?”
“About as excited as having to sit here and answer these questions.”
“Deflecting with humor is a sign of negating the real issues at hand.” His jab shuts me up, and I wait for the next question. “Do you think what happened to your father hinders how you handle a negotiation situation?”
“I don’t believe so, but I’m not the professional. You tell me. You have my file.” I know I’m not helping my case here, but I’m growing tired. Never mind I’ve been a member of Team One for the last two years. Our unit has the top success rate in the force, and yet even with a record number of high-risk call-outs, today still comes back to him.
“You still hold a lot of anger toward your father.” Again, with his carefully crafted observation. It’s not a question, but he’s baiting me to respond.
“Of course I’m fucking angry.” My still-clenched fist finds the metal table in front of me with a resounding thud. “Is that what you want to hear? I'm pissed? Even three years later? Well, there you have it.” I squeeze my fingers open and closed a couple of times to calm myself down.
“And what exactly are you angry about, Liam?”
“I don’t know. Take your pick. I’m angry because he chose a permanent solution to a temporary problem. Or that he brought me into it, and subsequently what it did it to my family. There is a lot to be angry about. And maybe I don’t have a right to be angry, but you know what? The anger keeps me holding on. It keeps me caring. You may think I can’t do this job because of what happened. Go ahead, write up your recommendation. But let me tell you something, the minute I stop being angry is the minute I stop caring. And the minute I stop caring is the minute my emotional capacity starts to hinder how I deal with this job.”
“You don’t think this anger affects how you respond to a high-risk situation?” I almost envy his composure, his ability to not react to the tension.
“No, I don’t.” I want to believe my words more than anything, hope I am skilled enough to fool him, but a small part of me isn’t sure.
“Tell me, Doc. Have you ever lost a loved one?” I don’t expect him to answer. This isn’t about him, but for some reason he does.
“My daughter passed away five years ago.”
I school my features and ask him the same question he put on me. “And does her death affect how you’re doing your job in this room today?” He doesn’t acknowledge my question this time, but he doesn’t need to. I still get my answer.
I may have blown my chance at being team leader, hell, maybe even jeopardized my spot on the team, but I refuse to sit here and be torn down while he looks for something that isn’t there.
Yeah, my father took his life.
Did it change who I thought I was?
No.
It changed who I thought he was.
And therein lies the issue of what his death had over me.
I just wasn’t ready to address it.
“I think it’s your last one, Hetch,” RJ, my favorite bartender, tells me later that afternoon, when my fucked-up day is over and I’m sitting back with a beer or ten at my local bar, The Elephant. Since it’s close to Trebook’s police station, the team often comes in after a long shift. Sometimes we might stay for one round, other times it might end up an all-nighter. I've already been here for a few hours, trying to drown my demons with one too many beers.
“Nah, man, can still remember too much.” I think I slur, but can’t be sure. I’m pretty certain I’m about to be cut off.
“Maybe it’s time you start remembering,” he offers before moving down to the other end of the bar.
My mind tries to fight it, the beer helping to numb it a little, but like every time I get to this stage, broken memories of three years ago start flashing back.
His vacant stare holds my gaze as a flicker of something passes between us.
Him understanding my fears.
Me accepting his weaknesses.
“I love you, Liam, always know that.”
It happens so fast.
The change of his aim.
The discharge of his gun.
The fall of his body.
The agony of my screams.
The roar of sirens.
Yet nothing is as deafening as the stillness of the moment.
“I take it from the state you’re in, it didn't go well.” Sterling’s voice startles me from the past.
Fuck, I’m not sure what’s worse. The fucked-up interview, the memory of a past I continue to run from, or this present moment that has my best friend breathing down my neck.
It takes me a few minutes to rein in my raging heart before responding. “It went fucking awesome, Sterlin’,” I slur while slapping the stool next to me for him to sit on. “In fact, I’m celebrating.” I lift my beer and salute it to no one in particular.
“Yeah? What are we celebrating tonight?” He takes a seat on the stool and waves off RJ. I cough out a humorless laugh, unable to come up with some bullshit line.
“Jesus, that bad?”
“You know how it is. What it always comes back to.” I don’t need to say my father’s name. Sterling knows what I’m talking about. It’s always been this way between us, always will be. Best friends for thirty years. Fellow beat officers for six, SWAT teammates for two, brothers for life. We’ve been through everything together.
“The fucker didn't think about anyone but himself,” I whisper when he doesn’t respond. “Didn’t think what it would do to me, how it would fucking hinder me.” I’m rambling, but it’s not the first time in the last three years Sterling’s found me this way. I’m lucky he has my back and doesn’t report my a
ss.
“Come on, let's get you home.” Sterling drops a hundred on the bar, closing out my tab.
“I’m not fucking ready to go.” I try to call RJ back over, but Sterling has me up and out of my stool before I have a chance.
“Yeah, well you gotta. RJ cut you off. You’re shit out of luck now.”
The fucker.
“What a piece of shit, let me have a word with him.” I try to turn back, but Sterling’s hold on me doesn’t waver.
“You can have a word with him another night. Come on, don’t you have a shift tomorrow? You need to sober the fuck up.”
“No point in even fucking going,” I tell him, throwing an arm over his shoulder as he walks me out to his truck.
“You need to stop this bullshit, Hetch.” He scolds me like I’m some petulant child while pushing me into the cab of his jacked-up Ford. He’s right. I’m a fucking mess; I know it. I just don’t know how to control it.
“Yeah,” is all I say instead. It’s probably not the most comforting endorsement of my mental wellbeing, but after today, it’s all I have to give.
“I’m fucking serious, Hetch,” he warns before closing the door and walking around the front of his truck to the driver side.
“You speak to your mom or Kota today?” he asks, starting the truck up.
“Not in the last week or so.” I try to think back to the last time I had a conversation with my mom and sister.
“Spoke to Kota yesterday,” he admits, pulling out of the parking lot. I rest my head back and close my eyes, waiting for another lecture. “She’s worried about you.”
And there we have it. What this time of year always brings.
Concern.
“Kota is always worried.” I brush off his remark. My little sister wears her heart on her sleeve. If a few days pass and she doesn’t hear from me, she rings my best friend to check on me. She’s always been this way, even before our father took his life and shocked us into our new reality.
