I motion with the gun, just to make sure he sees it and doesn’t try anything stupid. “You said something right before I was going to kill you. You mentioned a name. Carter. I want more information about him.”
His face goes blank and I realize that’s a tell, because then he says, “I have no fucking idea who you’re talking about,” in a voice too gruff to be anything but a terrified lie.
“I see. I don’t suppose your Carter had six brothers, did he?”
Eddie swallows but doesn’t answer.
“Carter Edward Wilson? From Virginia? Doesn’t ring any bells?” I list my brother’s date of birth.
His face goes white and he shakes his head.
“No? Really? Wife Susa, two adorable little boys, Tom and Pete? She survived a plane crash and just got herself elected governor of Florida? That Carter Edward Wilson?” Another head shake. “Nothing?”
Terror—abject horror, even—fills his face as he shakes his head even harder.
I haul off and kick him in the right knee, which is closest to me, making him scream in agony. I cock the gun and press it to the top of his head. “Carter Edward Wilson, correct? Don’t make me send someone to grab those two beautiful little boys and make the man confirm it himself. Because I have a guy in Atlanta. He can be in Tallahassee in under four hours, and I guarantee you their security team will never see him coming.”
He sobs, nodding, and I pull the gun away.
Step one—break the subject.
Check.
I doubt he would have given up the info so easily if he wasn’t still fighting through the effects of the sedation and his pain, but once the initial chink in the armor is exposed, it’s easy to overwhelm the subject.
I ease the slide back into place and show him I’m holstering my sidearm, holding my hands up to show him they’re empty. He gave a little, and now, so will I. This is where the rubber meets the road and I can truly start to gain his trust.
“See how easy that was? You answer my questions, and answer them honestly, then we can talk like reasonable adults. You fuck with me, or jerk me around, and I’ll make you wish you’d died that day in Afghanistan by killing innocent people and making you watch the videos.”
He has to squint to look at me because of his swollen eyes. “Who are you?”
I ignore his question. “Before your little nap, you started to tell me about you and Carter. Your relationship. That he ‘owned’ you back then. I need details. I also want to know about the triangle on your back. Did he do that to you?” Because if Carter did, and then didn’t honor his commitment to the guy, I’m going to kick his fucking ass next time I see him, First Gentleman of Florida or not.
You don’t do that shit to a pet. You claim someone, you take responsibility for them.
Tears roll down his cheeks and he slowly shakes his head. “Not him,” he hoarsely says. “He loved me.”
Positioning the chair in the bathroom doorway but out of Eddie’s reach, I straddle it backward so I can use it as a weapon if I need to, and I make myself comfortable. “Then let’s have storytime. Fill in all the blanks for me, Eddie. Then, and only then, will I decide if I’m going to tell you who the fuck I am, and why I want to know all of that information.”
Chapter Ten
I don’t remember exactly how old I was when I realized I was gay. I do remember pretending to like the girls my older brothers would talk about when we were out and about. If they pointed out a girl they thought was cute, I mimicked their actions and words.
Since they never took a second glance at any of the hot guys we’d pass while out on our morning PT runs—most of them guys from Dad’s base—I pretended I didn’t have any interest in them, either.
I do remember being in high school when I realized I couldn’t admit to my family that I was gay. Not that my family was blatantly homophobic or anything like that, but no way in hell was I risking finding out they were, either. Tolerating gays in general, and tolerating one of them in your family, are sometimes two completely different things. And since at no time did our parents ever explicitly tell us, “We don’t care if you’re gay or straight or whatever,” I decided to err on the side of caution and not test the waters.
There were no discussions about us being het, either—it was just assumed we all were. As Parker and Charlie both ended up getting married, seeing my parents’ and brothers’ joyous reactions to their unions was more silent proof that staying in my closet was the wise decision.
Now that I know what I do about my youngest brother, I wonder if any of my other brothers are bi or maybe even gay but locked deep in closets of their own.
Guess I’ll never find out, because I’m not about to rock that boat.
Among the offspring of Lt. Colonel Parker Wilson, Sr., I was the literal middle child, and tended to fade into the background as a result. Pete was only a year younger than me and Tom was three years younger. When Carter came along and Mom laid down the law to Dad about him getting a vasectomy if he ever wanted to get laid again, my place in the family was then secured.
Too young for my three older brothers to readily tolerate me, and more a babysitter for Carter than an older brother, but with just enough of an age difference we really didn’t click well together.
Although if anyone dared fuck with any of the Wilson boys, they quickly found themselves facing all seven of us.
And we were all terrified of Mom. She learned to hold her own against us when Dad was deployed, leaving her a single mom to her very own hockey team.
Losing Pete and Tom, especially so close together, devastated all of us. I think it broke Mom’s heart the worst, and that hurt all of us, too. It was the first time I saw my unofficial drill-sergeant mother break down in uncontrollable hysterics. I was there when they received the visit from the chaplain, and the sound of her wails as Dad tried to console her will forever haunt my soul in ways even the memories of the worst things I’ve done in my life can never touch.
Then when Carter nearly died, had my little brother decided to fight the medical discharge, Park and I had already secretly agreed to go to him and force him to file for medical and guilt trip him about it until he did, or holding the pen in his hand and forcing him to fill out the paperwork, if necessary.
That nearly killed Mom, hearing the news about him and fearing she’d lost another son, her baby.
Can you see why I’m hesitant to heap more on her plate?
It wasn’t until about six months after we lost Pete and Tom, with a little of the pall of grief finally starting to lift in my mind, that I learned something new and disturbing that pulled me up short and renewed my quest for more information about Cunningham.
An anonymous post on a board frequented by current and discharged or separated soldiers who’d been stationed under one then-Colonel Coltrane Cunningham.
A post alleging a lot of fuckery—literal and figurative—and malfeasance on Cunningham’s part that regularly got soldiers killed in action when he was in-country. Worse than I’d learned through my unofficial diggings.
That he’d been promoted out of active-fire locations not only to get him out of the way, but also because he was too personally well-connected for anyone to toss him out of the Army before he was ready to go. I had already moved on to a different post by the time he was put in charge of the base in Germany where my youngest brother served under him. At the time, I didn’t worry too much, thinking that Carter would be safer there than anywhere.
Cunningham became an obsession of mine, and one of the reasons I decided to remain in intel and further my career there, so I could research, learn, and possibly take him out.
And research I did.
Unfortunately, Cunningham did such a great job covering his tracks over the years—and strong-arming people into covering for him—that there was never anything official I could nail him on through regular channels to get him court marshaled and dishonorably discharged. People aren’t stupid, and no one was willing to talk to me about what
he did in anything other than the most vague of terms.
A perpetual bogeyman no one wanted to take the time to dispel for fear of the wrath it could unleash on their own lives.
Not that I blame them. I get it. I hold them in complete contempt and have zero respect for them, but I get it.
The more I researched Cunningham, the less likely our paths were to organically cross. There was also never a time I could get close enough to him to secretly do anything about him without it blowing back on me, and I couldn’t gather enough concrete evidence that I could anonymously drop to reporters to take over from there.
A solid, nuclear option to take him out without implicating me or harming my dad or other brothers perpetually eluded me.
Which is why I sometimes hunted him in my spare time, in hopes of one day getting a lucky break.
I know, I know. You’re saying that’s fine, but what does all of this have to do with the story Edward James Fowler spins for me in a small bathroom in a Slovakian safehouse?
Because it involves my little brother, Carter.
And it involves one then-Colonel Coltrane Cunningham.
And, it turns out, the sonofabitch damn near got my little brother killed, in addition to the other things he did to Carter.
And to Eddie.
Eddie is now an utterly broken man with this truth finally spoken aloud to someone else who isn’t my brother. His tone of voice, the defeat he wears even as he lies naked on a bathroom floor and covered in his own shit and piss, it’s all proof. I’ve been in this line of work too long not to recognize the signs.
Then again, he’s also terrified he may have just got the man he loves killed.
Good, let him think that for a little longer. It’ll only increase my initial leverage with him and keep him compliant.
When Eddie reaches the point in his story where Carter received his surprise early promotion and their unit’s orders came through to deploy, which Coltrane must have pushed through back channels to make happen since he wasn’t the one in charge of deployments, I take pity on the man and hold up my hand. It’s been nearly thirty minutes and he’s starting to shiver sitting there on the filthy, cold tile.
Plus, I need time to process what he’s told me so far because the things Cunningham did are even worse than I imagined.
I point to the tub behind Eddie. He’s now sitting up and leaning against it. “There’s soap and shampoo in there, and a washcloth. Climb in, sit, get the water running warm, and clean yourself up.” I point up, to the towel hanging over the shower curtain bar, and he looks. “Dry off when you’re done. Then, use the washcloth to clean this fucking floor and dry it with the towel. Besides, it’s your mess.” The IV bag is empty. “You can take that out, too,” I say, pointing to it. “I’m not doing it for you.”
He moves slowly, obviously in a lot of pain from his old injuries, the abuse heaped on him during interrogation, and then the kick I just delivered. I don’t ask him questions as he removes the IV and then slowly rolls himself over so he can push up on his hands and knees.
Yes, it’s a little humiliating for him to have to move the way he is, chained and shackled and naked, with me watching his every move.
That’s kind of the point.
And, yes, with him awake and aware, I’m able to appreciate his body even more. He’s no Ryan Reynolds, but then again, neither am I. Neither of us are just rolling off the showroom floor. We both have a lot of fucking miles on our classic chassis, and I think we both represent pretty damned well.
Once he’s in the tub he starts the water running and cleans up.
“Soak for a little while,” I tell him. “It’ll help your pain.”
The doubt furrowing his brow is understandable, but he puts the stopper in and after a few minutes he’s sitting in warm water and shuts it off.
I make no move because, obviously, he’d worry I’m about to drown him, and I don’t want to panic him when he’s opened up to me. One thing’s for certain—Elsa abused him and Carter. Carter obviously had the right end of the stick about positive reinforcement, but Elsa literally beat and tortured Carter and Eddie.
Especially Eddie.
Worse, she helped Cunningham abuse them.
Once he’s comfortable, I speak again. “You and Carter were deployed,” I prompt. “You kept the mark Elsa cut into you hidden from him, at first. How did he react when he finally saw it?”
“He swore he’d kill her,” he softly says.
“Did he?”
He nods.
I freeze. “Really?”
“Yeah.”
That means I need to high-five my little bro next time I see him. Saves me the trouble of having to hunt her down and do it myself.
Then it hits me. “You said he broke his promise to you.”
“Not that one. That promise he kept.”
At some point, I want the deets about that, but not right now. “Then what promise did he break?”
He sadly sighs. “It wasn’t his fault,” he quietly says. “I wouldn’t let him keep it.”
“Doesn’t answer my question.” I mean, he sort of told me earlier, but I want him to spell it out for me.
“He promised to always take care of me. That I was His pet. That he’d never leave me behind again like he did when he broke up with Elsa. But when we got injured, I knew I didn’t have much of a life outside of the Army, so I fought the doctors to let me stay in and I wouldn’t go with Carter, even when he asked me to.”
“Why not?”
He slowly shakes his head. “I don’t know anymore. At the time, I didn’t want him to alienate his family. Yes, he has a lot of brothers. You have the right Carter. Two of them had already died. KIA before I met Carter. But he couldn’t come out to his family.”
“Is that what he told you?”
“No.” Eddie wistfully smiles. “He insisted he would figure out a way to make it work. But I couldn’t see how and I didn’t give him a chance to.”
Okay so, technically, little bro didn’t break his promise. Not really.
You can’t force someone to release their fear and love you.
You can force them to do a lot of things, and manipulate them into doing many others, but there is a line that is impossible to cross short of holding them at gunpoint, and that’s not practical for a healthy, happy long-term relationship.
I keep Eddie talking for another hour. He drains and refills the tub several times during our chat, and I still don’t move. He’s starting to relax a little, which is good. I’ve shown him the stick, and now it’s time to keep bribing him with the carrot, as long as he doesn’t balk on me.
If he does, I won’t hesitate to break out the stick again to gain his compliance.
I haven’t yet decided on how to break the news to him about who I am. I want to go for maximum shock value to throw him off balance and hopefully get him to agree to my plan.
To help me kill Cunningham, that is.
He won’t have a choice about agreeing to becoming my pet.
I’ll make certain of that.
Chapter Eleven
Once Eddie’s out of the tub and has cleaned and dried the bathroom floor, I slowly reach over to a bag next to me and produce a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt, letting him see exactly what I’m doing so he doesn’t panic. I toss them in, remaining out of his reach. I also toss in the keys to his ankle shackles.
“Put those on so you don’t catch pneumonia. Take off the ankles first, put the pants on, and shackles back on. Then return those keys and I’ll give you the others. Then your wrists and shirt.”
The only hesitation he shows is from his pain.
Excellent. It means he’s already starting to trust me.
Once he’s dressed and returned all the keys to me, I toss him a light blanket and a pair of socks. “Go ahead and sit where you were.”
After he’s settled, I take two bottles of protein drink, set them on the floor, and give them a shove across the tile with the toe of my
boot so they’re within his reach.
“You’ll see the seals are unbroken,” I tell him.
He hesitates this time, but then licks his lips and grabs one, quickly twisting the cap off and greedily guzzling it down. He hasn’t eaten in at least forty-eight hours, or however long ago it was since we snatched him. I don’t know how long before that it was since he last ate.
With that done, he studies me. “Why are you keeping me alive? I thought you were ordered to kill me?”
“I’ll tell you that once we’re done talking. Meaning overall, not today.” I motion from me to him. “Give and take, Eddie. Quid pro quo. Pay close attention to what I say, because I am a man of my word, too. You keep talking to me, we can talk. You tell me the truth, we can talk. You start lying or bullshitting me or clamming up? The kick I gave you earlier will feel like a playful tickle. And if you keep talking to me, and telling me the truth, I promise your Carter will remain unharmed. I’m only looking for information and the truth, not to create more work for myself or hurt innocent people. Understand?”
He nods but I can tell he doesn’t believe me.
That’s why I take the zip-top bag of sliced cold roast beef out of the shopping bag and slide it across the floor to him.
His stomach loudly gurgles as he snatches it from the floor and rips into it.
Perfect. It’s literally like trying to gain a stray, feral, abused dog’s trust. Seriously, it is. Humans aren’t much different than dogs in personality. Whether the person is a little toy poodle, or a scrawny cur, or a fucking wolf, we’re still big, two-footed dogs.
“You can drink from the sink anytime you’re thirsty,” I tell him, pointing. “Or the tub tap. I’m not giving you a glass. You can use the toilet as you need to. You can keep your clothes, and the blanket, and maybe even earn more, if you keep cooperating with me. I might even let you take off the shackles if you earn those privileges. Understand?”
He nods.
I stomp my right foot, making him flinch and pause his chewing. “Understand?”
Pet Page 8
