The messenger hung up and Juan was simultaneously excited, jacked, and about to soil his boxers. An electricity surged though his veins like he had never felt before in his short life. He could not wait for the instructions to come. It was time to stop playing video games and get in the real game.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
THE OFFICE OF BERNIE MILLER, DETROIT, MICHIGAN
“It’s almost 10:00 am and you’re just now getting your keester in the office? Did the whiskey get the best of you last night you incorrigible Mick?”
Bernie was in rare form for a Monday. Blaze could feel his balls breaking before he even set foot in the building, let alone found his way inside the office to hear the taunt of Bernie’s blue Monday office banter. Civilian business life had left its proverbial track marks on Blaze. It had taken a toll. Blaze had resolved to cut the cord. Sure, he hadn’t exactly told Diem yet, but that was all right, he could do a test run on Bernie.
“Yeah, yeah, I know pally. Just sit your overgrown German ass down cuz I gots to talk to you about some stuff.” Blaze knew that trying to get personal and serious with Bernie was much like trying to explain quantum physics to an infant. It was going to be tough.
“What stuff? You still crying all night from your imaginary nightmares of battles gone wrong in lands far away?” Bernie held deep respect for Blaze’s honorable exploits for his country. The problem was that the respect was so deep that it never surfaced. Only sarcasm, half-brained wit, and straight up idiocy actually surfaced.
“Yeah, that’s it pal, and your shoulder looks as good as any to cry on. Bring it in here for the real thing and give me a big giant man-hug.” Blaze was right, this was definitely gonna be tough.
“Alright, alright, cut it out you bastard…or I’ll take you down to that chocolate shop to go be with your friend.” Bernie’s charm and humor never seemed to surprise. It was always out of line and out of control.
“You really are gonna burn in hell, aren’t you?”
“Easy, I told you already I have no tolerance for the theological stuff before noon. So break it to me Blazey boy, what’s the matter?” He wanted the meat of the talk now.
“I’m getting’ out partner. I’m getting’ out and I’m going back in.”
“Back in what pal? The nut-hut? The looney-bin? What the hell are you even talking about?” Bernie knew exactly what Blaze was talking about. He was half wishing Blaze was full of crap, and half being his normal ball-breaking self.
“I’m talking about ending the lie I’ve been trying to tell myself that this racket is gonna work for me. It’s been fun. Really. But I’m done. I’ve been slowly dying inside ever since I began doing this. I ain’t a salesman and I ain’t a financial advisor. I’m a damn warrior, through and through. There’s no getting around that.” Blaze wasn’t sure Bernie would really understand, but he was pretty sure Bernie would respect his decision.
“So what are you gonna do then, uh? Go start some wars in third world countries? Go play GI Joe all around the damn globe until you feel good about yourself?”
“It ain’t like that pal. War is a growth industry in this day and age and I’m an opportunist. And I’m a friggin’ patriot.” He spread his hands out in an appeal for understanding, and then waved his partner off when it was clear he wasn’t getting anywhere.
“Alright, I know, sorry for breaking your balls, but whaddya expect? You get what you get with me. You know that. I understand what you’re saying. You gotta do what you gotta do, and for you, I do see that this really is what you gotta do. You have been a lousy drag around here lately anyhow.”
The two men laughed and continued filling each other in on both the vitally important happenings in their lives, as well as sharing some of the completely irrelevant and useless thoughts that sometimes enters the minds of strange men who are rapidly approaching middle age.
Blaze resigned on the spot. Bernie accepted the resignation and wished him luck in future endeavors. The blessing, of course, came with additional friendly verbal abuse, sarcasm, and comedic ball-breaking of a high order.
Blaze said his good byes to his ball breaking business partner. He then proceeded out the door to prepare himself to greet his wife at dinner and somehow explain his utter excitement over his newfound unemployment. Somehow, just the thought made him feel like his balls were breaking yet again.
CHAPTER TWENTY
CLIFF BELL’S RESTAURANT, DETROIT, MICHIGAN
Diem’s smile had eased as she took the last sip of her first glass of Pino Grigio and stared into the strong contours of Blaze’s face and oceanic blue eyes. The gift-wrapped box of chocolate didn’t hurt in easing Diem’s smile either. Her almond skin upheld her smile with a distinct beauty that was cradled perfectly by her surrounding black hair.
Blaze was already a sip or two away from finishing his glass of Blanton’s bourbon on the rocks and he could tell Diem liked seeing him loosen up. The conversation, thus far, had been light. Diem enjoyed Blaze’s recollection of the fine merchant from whom he purchased her chocolates. Blaze ordered a well-done eight-ounce filet mignon accompanied by potato gratin, surrounded by wild mushroom cream and balanced out by blanched asparagus. In contrast to Blaze’s turf, Diem chose a delectable arrangement of grilled Atlantic salmon supported by Israeli couscous all embellished by fried okra and tomato saffron broth. The lovely couple’s appetites were burning as they digressed into teenage-like flirting. And they were hungry as well.
Without warning, Diem’s tone and facial expressions telegraphed deep concern and care. She couldn’t help but feel the need to address Blaze’s recent behavior. Her smile disappeared and she put her hand on Blaze’s as she made her thoughts known. “Blaze, you need to know, that I’ve not been the same since your accident. I’m thoroughly worried about you. I wonder about your mind. Seeing visions of Harry? All this mythical religious stuff? Are you okay? What goes on inside your head?”
“Diem, I’m fine. Really. Relax.”
“Look, I know you don’t let me in on everything you’re thinking. But, you could’ve been killed. I know you’ve been places and seen things I can’t imagine. I know you’ll always carry a lot with you, but can’t you someday be somewhat close to normal? Will it always be like this? Can you at least let me in so I can try to help you?” Not knowing usually helped her cope, but now, the not-knowing was beginning to tear at her sanity.
“Diem, don’t worry yourself over me. These are the crosses I carry. I was designed to carry these crosses. We all have ours to bear. Mine were specially designed, as am I. As for being close to normal….”
Blaze’s eyes shifted nervously peering from one end to the next of Cliff Bell’s fine dining establishment. The pleasing rhythms of the live jazz band performing that evening helped to fill the conversation void as Blaze fought for the courage to speak his tortured heart. Diem stared lovingly and waited patiently for him to struggle through his words.
Blaze continued “…this is just not me. The whole normal thing. The whole regular guy act. I know it sounds dramatic and ridiculously barbaric, but I will say it again. I am a warrior through and through. I’ve not been simply slowly dying inside, but rather I’ve been getting murdered inside with every passing day. I can’t ignore the overwhelming drive and urge of my heart to once again serve my duty. To fulfill my true purpose. Diem, I’m going back in.” Blaze gazed in her eyes as the bomb was dropped. He tilted his head downward as he braced for the fallout.
Diem’s face lost color and she sat staring at him, frozen, for several seconds that lingered like a multitude of incomprehensible eternities. Her wine glass slowly slipped through her fingers as she managed to, at the very last minute, save it from crashing to the table. She knew this day would come. She could sense it in his voice more and more as of late. Drudgery was eating him alive. Normalcy and mundane living did not wear well, or at all, on Blaze McIntyre. For some unknown reason of di
vine insanity, it was pain, chaos, extreme risk, and strategic violence that wore well on him. She hated this truth as much as she loved the man for whom the truth befit.
Diem suffered a quick, dashing moment of internal wrangling. She wanted to simultaneously cross her arms, literally and figuratively, and refuse the idea all together. But at the same time, she sympathized with the impact of his realties and she wanted to nurture him through his resurrected path. After her thumb and index finger reclaimed a reasonable grip on the stem of the wine glass, she finished now her second glass before mustering up a response to Blaze’s pronouncement. Jazz music filtered through the air like a comedic tormentor all the while.
“How could you make this decision without talking to me? What do you mean you’re ‘going back in’? Who did you talk to? You didn’t quit your job with Bernie at the firm… did you?” Blaze’s guilty countenance signaled the obvious. “Have you thought at all about Shane and Dennis? About me? Do you want them to be fatherless? Is this how you show your devotion to me? By sentencing me to the inevitable life of a widow?” Diem’s tirade drew the stares of other diners and the attention of the waiter. Diem knew she was causing a scene. She knew her protest was ultimately impotent. She began to calm.
Blaze took a deep breath, the kind he would take in the heat of battle when his steps continued swift, silent and effortless as he approached an unsuspecting target. He wished he could tell her differently. He wished he could live differently. Work differently. Be different. He spoke slowly and softly, “ I didn’t make this decision alone. I’ve been wrestling with this issue for many months. I’ve brought it to God in prayer. I’ve talked through it endlessly with Pastor McCardle. And I finally discussed it with Chuck Gallagher.” Blaze knew the mention of that last name would ignite a new volley of anger from Diem.
“Well, of course Chuck Gallagher is all for it. He doesn’t have a family. What does he know about this decision?”
“Diem, he knows me. And so does Pastor McCardle. And I believe, so do you. I know this hurts. I know this isn’t what you want. I wish I could say it wasn’t what I want, but I don’t know how to make myself not want to do what I’m convinced deep within my soul I was born to do. I’m convinced this is my calling and duty. My integrity and honor will be fleshed out by my living this calling.” Blaze felt a surge of truth burn through him as he spoke his heart.
“Do you know the terror I lived with every night? Tossing and turning wondering if I’d get a call to hear your voice? Or, if the stars aligned, maybe we’d talk on Skype so I could see your face? Only to then wait in vain for hours of silence. And then I’d pray all night for you while I cursed your name at the same time. And the boys? Do you know what it’s like to constantly revise your response and back track your previous answer when they ask when Daddy is going to be back? Where’s daddy? Why can’t he be home more? Do you have any clue what that’s like? Do you know the joy and peace that has come to me since you’ve been home and the boys have been seeing you on a consistent basis? Do you know how important it is that you’re more than a voice on the phone to them? Do you?” She felt her frustration recede, as she was able to vent each bullet point of her list of previously unspoken grievances.
Blaze had heard every word she said, and he felt her pain deeply. But it did not change anything. “My love for you and the children is unquestionable. I would fight a thousand armies to protect you and the boys. I love spending time with them, and I’ll continue to spend time with them. Extended quality time in-between missions. Diem, I need to do this. I can’t fight it any longer.”
“So now I need to fight it instead? So I get to be the one who is home, alone, cursing the country I love because it has become my husband’s mistress?” She knew she sounded a tad absurd, but she truly felt a deep jealousy of Blaze’s passion for serving his country and ridding it of its enemies.
Blaze sighed gently and took Diem’s hand. His eyes penetrated hers as he gently removed a strand of hair from her eyes. He leaned forward and kissed her lips gently. While his left eye shed a slight tear, he passionately assured Diem. “No one, or nothing, takes your place. Not a one. Not a thing. You know that.”
And with that, she became disarmed. And her resolve to resist was shattered. She knew who he was. A warrior through and through. And it was time to be a warrior’s wife, once again.
The wind was chaotic that night. Much like the perpetual state of Blaze’s soul, or the world around him for that matter. He could hear the trees flailing with momentum and vigor as he lay on his back enshrouded by their king size bed. Diem laid her head on his chest and reveled in a sense of serenity and bliss.
They had made love with a wild, combusting energy. A whirlwind of emotions had sprung from deep within each of them as their souls also intertwined. Their bodies thrusted rhythmically in search of each other’s pleasure and delight.
After satisfying the itchings and twitchings of their flesh, and the misgivings and forgivings of their hearts, the warrior and his wife were one. Her soul lay at rest, while he slept with one eye open as his mind raced frantically. He was eager for the next step. But anxious. Blaze McIntyre had an eerie sense that the road ahead would be fraught with snares and traps that would emerge in entirely new and frightening ways.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THE KREMLIN, RUSSIA
He had kept the mug. It sat boldly on the shelf in his office, on the wall adjacent to his desk. The proud Russian president stared at the mug in a reverent and worshipful way as he stood beside his desk allowing his body to lean lightly against the bookshelf. Every time it caught his eye he felt a jitter and stir deep within his soul. For Maksim Koslov, a rigid hearted-man in his late forties who had never taken a bride, the jitter and stir was the closest he every came to feeling love. And love he indeed did have—a tremendous love for the skull-shaped mug and all that it meant to him; his legacy, his heritage, his future, and the destiny of his beloved Mother Russia.
Discipline and diligence were characteristics that were woven into the fabric of Maksim’s being; trademarks, that in his mind, were the guard rails that had enabled him to fulfill the meaning of his name—“the greatest.” He never saw the meaning of his name as irrelevant and mere trivia. He endeavored, from as early as his boyhood years, to live up to it. His imagination as a young child surpassed that of all his peers. He, even at the young age of six, was mesmerized by Russian history, particularly that of the great Czars, with such an intense, visceral fascination, that his family often held him in greater esteem above his siblings. They highly encouraged Maksim’s dreams to someday become a great warrior of Mother Russia: a warrior and a leader. And, whether they knew that they were fostering the notion or not, a Czar.
Maksim always started his day with a review of its agenda. He coupled this with other meditations. This took place during his coveted morning quiet time in his office. In this solitude he often found himself studying the czars of Russia’s past. He also focused on strengthening his knowledge of his Scythian ancestors. Both threads served to inspire Koslov in his ongoing aspirations. This office time was brief but meaningful. Usually thirty to forty-five minutes at most. On this particular morning, as he stared at the mug that was a physical symbol of his dominance and ambition, he lamented that his quiet time was over as he readied himself for his morning swim.
Maksim made his way to the pool within a few minutes and wasted no time jumping in. He assumed a strong pace in no time at all. Maksim’s mind was racing in a myriad of directions as he swung his arms in a precise arc with perfect rhythm. The water temperature of the pool was perfectly set at seventy-two degrees and he was engaged in an unusually vigorous swim. His heart was brilliantly beating and the currents of his mind mimicked its pace and intensity. He reminded himself to be measured with his excitement so as not to misstep. Maksim was ever-cognizant of the folly of emotionalism and its potential to cloud objectivity and derail action. No one could ever ac
cuse Czar Koslov of emotionalism—fervor and spirit, yes, but not emotionalism.
However, he was so unusually pleased with the rapidity of unfolding events that aligned with his plans, that, he pondered, for this particular day it was quite possible that his emotions may truly gain a foothold with him.
He had reached the center of the pool and was swimming over the painted image of a bear imprinted at the bottom of the pool. He loved that image. It was a design that he had replicated from an ancient Scythian artifact he had acquired. His Scythian heritage was one of his most profound interests and Scythian motifs were present in many of the items in his vast art collection. The source artifact was a golden warrior helmet with a bear sculpted upon it. The bear painted on the pool’s floor was flawlessly done. He had demanded that precise image be painted on the pool floor in the Kremlin so that he would be reminded, each morning as he swam, of the emerging strength and power of the country he so loved. Russia had once again become the bear. It was a long, twisted, and sordid path, but one worth taking.
Maksim completed his swim and hurled his sinewy, muscular body out from the pool. After sufficient drying, he made his way to the breakfast room covered by his robe. There were no scheduled guests to join him this morning, so a robe would be fine for him to take his breakfast in. The staff heeded his request that American jazz music be played as he ate. This morning it was primarily Miles Davis, but a dash of Coltraine was mixed in for good measure and strong impact.
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