Ease the Pain

The World of Hek,

Book Three:

Ease the Pain

By Robert Ford

All rights reserved.  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author or publisher.

Copyright © 2018/2022 by Robert Ford

Also by Robert Ford:

Christlike (1996)

The World of Hek, Book One: Forever (2010)

The World of Hek, Book Two: Savior (2011)

The Curse of the Translucent Monster (in color) (2013)

The World of Hek: Tales of Love & Revenge (2013)

A Christmas Burglary (2017)

The World of Hek: First Wish (2020)

Prologue

     “Don’t move a muscle,” Captain Jack Nelson, HK 416 aimed and at the ready, ordered the man with the bomb. He had made it 700 feet below street level of the massive Hoover Dam, just outside Boulder City, Nevada, and was ready to do whatever it took to protect it. The structure that took five long years and $49 million dollars to build contains 4,360,000 cubic yards of concrete that manages to hold back the mighty Colorado River. The Hoover Dam also created the 110-mile-long Lake Mead and an average of four billion kilowatt-hours of hydroelectric power each year for the states of Nevada, Arizona, and California. This magnificent piece of American knowhow and power brought life to a desert wasteland, creating vacation hotspots, and thriving economies all around. Ninety-six men died constructing this imposing 720-foot structure, the height of a 60-story building.

     Much, much more would perish in its destruction in an ear-splitting moment if the captain failed his mission. If the bomb detonated, ten trillion gallons of water would barrel over ten million acres of land, the equivalent in size to a little larger than the proportion of New Jersey. The waters would engulf everything in a Biblical-esque catastrophic flood, causing 1.3 billion people to lose electricity, 25 million citizens who rely on the water from Lake Mead to go without, and the farmlands and billions of people relying on the irrigation provided by the dam would be devastated. The death toll could be beyond belief. No one had ever made a serious attempt on this specific attack since the Nazis in 1940. And though it had been reported that Hoover Dam was nigh-invulnerable, Jack Nelson knew from experience that anything was possible.

     Sergeant Daryll Morrison was supposed to sneak in, analyze the situation and report his findings to Captain Nelson, who was readying the Blood & Guts squad.  Blood & Guts was an outfit of the USSA (United States Security Agency) and was the squad’s codename due to their high success rate in taking out the enemy.  They had already taken out most of the terrorists at the dam in a quick and quiet succession.

     But a few remained, including the bastard in control of the detonator.

     And now he had Daryll as well.

     Captain Nelson, all 5’8” of him, heart racing with pure adrenaline and determination, wiped the dripping, salty sweat off his soaked brow with the back of his arm, sleeved in nylon and cotton, as he cautiously surveyed the treacherous scene before him.  A trickle of his sweat landed on the edge of his lip, creating a mental note that he would need a good drink when this was all over. His last drink of water was 45 minutes ago, just before he and his team entered the Visitor Center and took out the first three transgressors, silencers on. The next drink would not be water, he firmly decided. The din from the eight generators roared on, far below street level, factoring into Nelson’s stress level, but his bright turquoise eyes, concentrated mind, and tense body were focused with serious intensity, nonetheless.  His finger was ready at the trigger, and he had only an instant to decide who to shoot: his friend, or the bad guy?

     His friend, Daryll, was a great, bright young man and a good soldier, too.  They had first met in Afghanistan back in 2011 when Daryll was assigned to his squad. The twenty-four-year-old listened to his captain but wasn’t afraid to argue when he disagreed. He was almost always careful, with an uncanny knack for sensing trouble and pointing it out before anyone else. He had saved the team’s asses on a number of occasions. When Jack was given a new squad and obtained a mission in Columbia, he brought the kid with him. A three-month, undercover, routine kill order on a drug cartel went like clockwork before a well-deserved vacation was awarded to Nelson and his crew. Daryll invited his mentor to go to Las Vegas, his home. Having no real attachments anywhere else, a few memories to look up, and a fondness for the city, Jack complied. Here he was able to meet and get well acquainted with Daryll’s family; perhaps even more so than his own.  He had even dated Daryll’s sister, Nerriah, for a short time.  It did not end badly, though they rarely spoke much since then. 

     Daryll, meticulous to a fault, was also occasionally a man of action. When his blood was pumping with epinephrine, he was often prone to race into trouble without thinking things through.  This was his one major flaw.  Especially on missions such as this one.  Jack was, for the first time ever, exacerbated with himself for allowing Daryll to do the reconnaissance. It had been a late night before and their team had just arrived in Vegas for the weekend, never expecting the current situation. Daryll had a fondness for sweet alcoholic drinks and enjoyed quite a few margaritas and mojitos on the town last night. They weren’t supposed to work today. There was no mission on the doc. It was fine. They had worked damn hard evacuating some fucking politicians from Somalia the previous night and were damn successful. No lives lost. The team deserved a few drinks. The sugar rush and a lack of sleep broke down Daryll’s center. It had been fractured. Jack blamed himself. Stupid!

     Daryll was surrounded by thugs with guns, captured like a damned noob, and the detonator was immediately fastened to his back, timed to go off within seconds.  If that happened, the multitude of bombs would destroy the dam and everything around it.

     Just what the terrorists wanted.

     “It’s tied to your nigger, Captain!” called out the pasty-faced European from across the enormous turbine room, his sweaty hair stuck to the sides of his face.  Blood & Guts had been on his trail for the past several months, scouring the mountains of Peru, the deserts of Iraq, and the islands of the Caribbean.  The United States government had learned of his plans to import the explosive devices and use them to take revenge for the death of his wife, a lieutenant of the terrorist organization known as Viper Forces.  The devices were only the size of a thumbnail and were thought to be created by Dr. Alaricus Heilbronner, an aging scientist recruited by Viper Forces some ten years back.  The trail ran cold about a week ago, leaving the team free for a speedy Somalia rescue mission and some well-deserved downtime. Intelligence ignorance allowed the bombs to be planted all over the damn dam. “The detonator is tied to his back!” he spat in hatred, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and rubbed it on the sergeant’s cheek.  “The only way to destroy it is to shoot him!  Are you man enough, Captain?”  Oegelsby Rangel shouted from the railing just behind the United States flag, well over 100 feet above the armed and ready Jack Nelson.  “Your government murdered my wife in the streets of Baghdad! In cold blood!  Her blood flowed downhill with the rain, trickling down the fucking streets as your men laughed! Your country is full of cowards and blood money, all looking for an easy score, no matter who dies! Her blood ran with the rain, and now I will do the same to a million others! Blood will run with a flood! A flood you hear me, Captain?!  Vengeance is mine and I am willing to die for it! How about you, Captain? Are you ready to die?!”

Intelligence reported that if the detonator was destroyed then the bombs would become disabled. His aim had to be true. He would only get one shot.

     Jack stood alone, next to the railing at the entrance to the power plant, trying to calm his breathing, fighting to gain a firm stance and an even firmer decision and aim.  Oegelsby, his armed fanatics, Daryll, and the captive plant employees were on the railing at the opposite end of the room. Jack knew that making it up to them in time to save the day would be an impossible feat.  Jack’s left eye, an implanted device with many capabilities, zoomed in on Daryll Morrison, anger and disappointment engraved in his youthful face.  He was thirty years of age but looked no more than twenty.  “Do it, Jack!” he called out above the din of the machines.  Jack’s eye also had the ability for x-ray vision and was able to clearly focus on the readout of the detonator.

     :04

“Can’t believe I wished for this job,” Jack growled, carefully aiming the laser of his Heckler & Koch.

:03

Oegelsby looked down at the beam on his bullet proof vest with a half-smile and smug disapproval.  “Really?”

:02

“No,” replied Jack, quickly raising the beam to Oegelsby’s forehead, and put him down.

:01

“Sorry, Daryll,” Jack said, looking closely at his friend’s eyes for reassurance before pulling the trigger once more.

The eruption of bullets from the remaining enemy pummeled Jack as soon as he fired.  He did not see his friend die as he fell back.

The dam was safe.

His friend was dead.

Jack was a hero, and a murderer.

The year was 2017, a week before the kid’s birthday.

Chapter One

Las Vegas, Nevada.

Jack woke with a primal roar at the Boulder City Hospital Emergency Room as the last bullet was pulled from his arm.  The intimidating patient frightened the young doctor, causing him to jump back, trip over a table and bang his head against the wall. A quiet curse was made as he rubbed his head to check for any damage. None was found; only his pride was hurt. He wasn’t prepared for a day like this as the emergency room was packed with gunshot victims, chaos everywhere. A mini war erupted at the dam and the hospital accepted the responsibility of healing everyone who arrived, like it or not. Doctors, nurses, and respiratory therapists raced around, desperately trying to help anyone they could.  Jack looked at his bandaged shoulder and arms and gently fingered his bleeding wound where the final bullet had been removed.  He looked harshly into the eyes of the freckled, youthful doctor before closing his own in regret, remembering exactly what he had just done.  “He didn’t make it, did he?” Jack asked the doctor.  The young man shook his head solemnly.  “God damn it,” Jack mumbled as an elderly nurse began cleaning the last wound.  Jack racked his brain to think of a way he could have done things differently but there was none.  There was no time.  There were no other options.  “That boy was like a brother to me and I put a bullet through his goddamned chest,” he said, looking at the doctor.  “What’s your name, kid?”

“Alfonso, Captain,” the trembling young doctor answered hurriedly, bracing his hand along the wall as he lowered his bottom into a nearby stool. The nurse looked disapprovingly at the resting doctor, pulled Jack’s arm roughly towards her, and jabbed the threaded needle into his skin.

“I killed him, Al.  I shot my friend, my partner.”  A chill ran throughout Jack’s body and settled in his stomach with a vicious agony.  He shut his eyes and squeezed his temples with his free hand, trying to hold back the eruption that was building, churning throughout his stomach.  “Hurry up with those stitches, lady, or you’re gonna need new shoes.”

The seasoned nurse, quite irritated, raised her eyebrows, cut the thread, and put the final bandage on Jack’s arm as the soldier jumped off the bed, looked around the ER, and shot for the restroom, pushing past several people dressed in scrubs, and violently threw up in the toilet.  He fell to his knees as the young doctor and a different nurse came to check on him.  “Are you going to be okay, Captain?” Doctor Alfonso questioned, concern and terror in his voice.  The green-faced soldier, eyes barely open yet fierce as hell, warned him in silence that this could be a while. Jack then turned back quickly to the toilet and filled it some more. He wiped his mouth with his soaked, stitched arm and stared at the mess he had made.  The heat in the tiny restroom felt as though it was escalating as sweat poured down all over him.  “Come on, Cap,” a friendly voice said as a hand grabbed at his left shoulder.  Jack turned to see Lieutenant Dwight Jones, standing high above him.  Dwight towered above most people at 6’4” and was a menacing-looking individual with a bald head, thick mustache, and solid, clean-shaven chin.  He was also built for both defense and offense, playing football in high school and FSU until 9/11. His calling took him to battlefields, not football stadiums.  The 34-year-old pulled Jack to his feet, put his huge, monster-sized hands upon Jack’s shoulders, and looked him square in the eyes.  “Are you with us, Captain?” 

Jack nodded, closed his eyes, and then shook his head.

Jones looked over his shoulder, “I've got him,” he let the staff know. “Let’s get out of here, Cap, take a couple of hours off and have a couple of drinks.  You need it. I need it.” He slid his hands under Jack’s trembling body and got a solid grip beneath his arms. “Let’s go; come on,” he said with a tug.

“No; no, I don’t; I don’t need a drink,” Jack argued, vehemently pulling away from his friend and raising a finger toward him.  “I’m done, Dwight.  This was it.” He remained on the tiled restroom floor, legs outstretched, defeated but firm.

“What do you mean, Jack?” Dwight responded with a nervous chortle; his heavily tattooed arms crossed over his chest. “You done drinking?” He didn’t really believe that was the captain’s meaning but would prefer that over the alternative.  There was only one real possibility.

“We’ve lost so many, Dwight,” Jack began. He was still strong, still the captain, but he had been defeated. Still a badass but couldn’t take anymore.  “Daryll is just the latest and you know it. I know it. I can’t lose any more of you guys.” A single tear fell out of his right eye; something he hadn’t allowed to happen since as far back as he could remember.  “I can’t.  I am done.  Fucking done.”  His hands had become solid fists, pushing securely into the floor. and his teeth, gritted in pain and regret.

Dwight cocked his head, trying to understand his friend and leader.  “This is all we know how to do, Cap.  You won’t be happy anywhere else.  Our job has casualties.  We knew this kind of messed up shit going in.  Daryll knew that Jack.  He’s a hero. Goddamn hero.” This made no difference to the man on the floor. “Besides, what else you gonna do? Go back to school and become a lawyer? Get a job at Burger King? This is what we do.”

“He’s dead, Dwight,” Jack growled, “and I killed him!”  He covered his dripping mouth with his hand, gripped his other hand on the chrome handrail, and pulled his wobbling body up to its feet. “I’m done,” he repeated as he turned to wash his face in the sink.  

Dwight sighed out loud and put a hand on his friend’s shoulder.  “The general’s not going to be happy with this.”

“The general can find someone else,” Jack replied, turning to face his friend.  “Right now I need to go see Daryll’s family.  I’ll debrief when I’m through.  Keep everyone away from me ‘till I’m done, okay?”

“Sure,” he responded, sturdily shaking Jack’s hand.

“After that, I am done, forever.”

* * *

Caleb Morrison drove his son, Xavier, to school that morning and returned home immediately afterward.  Xavier’s 2008 Mitsubishi wouldn’t start again, as if the family didn’t have enough going on, here’s another bill to worry about. He had promised his son that he would call a mechanic later in the day. On the radio, however, he heard about the terrorist attack at the Hoover Dam and wanted to keep an eye on the situation.  Caleb had a strong feeling his older son, Daryll would be there to quell the situation since he arrived in town for the weekend anyway.  Then again, he always had a feeling Daryll would turn up at dangerous situations such as that.  Sometimes he was right, sometimes he was wrong.

The two-story home in Summerlin had grown quiet in recent years with the passing of his father and with Daryll moving out in 2014.   Nerriah, his daughter, had moved out two years ago when she was dating that soldier friend of Daryll’s. She wanted her own private place for whenever he came to town. That worked out well. Now there remained just himself, his wife, Kamala, and their son, Xavier. 

Kamala kept herself busy as an author and was currently working on a book about a family recovering from a heartbreaking loss during Christmastime.  This would be her eighth novel, following her most successful book, Servitude to None, which was published the previous year. “Most successful” meaning that it was actually published by an actual company instead of amazon.com. She didn’t earn much from her writing career, but it helped a little with the bills.

Caleb had served in the military right out of college and learned the ins and out of construction and mechanics, leading him to become an engineer afterward. He worked steadily until the cancer hit his father, hard, and followed suit with him also. He regretfully retired two years ago.  He and his wife were once physically fit, a handsome couple inside and out, even as their ages were catching up with them. Now, at 55, it had finally caught up with him, bit him in the ass, and left him behind. His posture went to pot, coughing fits gave way to spasms and headaches, and he couldn’t stand up straight anymore. At least his three kids were healthy.

He spent most of that Monday morning in his living room, sitting in his tan, suede recliner rereading The Fire Next Time while listening to the local news in the background on his ten-year-old Sony. It worked great up until about four months ago when the color started to go. Now greens and browns kind of blended together, creating a fuzzy, Muppet-like look to 1/4th of everything.  Otherwise, the room was comfortable, 74°, just the way he programmed the Nest to keep it. Sometimes the electronic things actually worked! The pretty redhead anchor spoke up and repeated what she had just announced: the word from officials was that the terrorists had been stopped just before 8 AM.  There were many casualties, mostly gunshot wounds. One such casualty, she had been told, was a local soldier.  Officials had yet to release the name.  A foreboding feeling came over Caleb Morrison, quite similar to the day his father died.  He became light-headed, turned down the lights, and had to close his eyes.  He sat back in his chair, sighed heavily, and cried.  The soldier was Daryll.  He knew it was Daryll.

“Hey, babe,” the slender, pretty woman in a white tank top and sweat shorts said at the doorway.  Her jet-black hair was short and spiky, accentuating her round face.  “Hungry?”

Caleb could only open one of his former bright green eyes and looked at his wife of thirty-two years.  She had worked as one of his manager’s assistants when he met her. She was carrying a stack of papers and ran right into him while on his way to an interview, knocking his portfolio and all her papers to the ground. Caleb was never one to get mad. He, though nervous about his interview, apologized profusely as if it were all his fault, helped pick up her things, and, quite shaken, went in for the interview. He exited the office an hour later as a new hire. She was there, gorgeous legs crossed in a flowing black skirt with a slit that rose to just above her knee, reading If Beale Street Could Talk. “How did it go?” she lowered the book and asked. Her exquisite face fit perfectly under her dark black Jeri curls and round, pink eyeglasses. He just stood there, taking her in, unable to speak. He was in such a rush when they collided that he hadn’t really noticed her. She uncrossed her legs, stood, and strolled over to him, her eyes on his for the entire long moment. “It was my fault, earlier,” she admitted confidently. “I was on my way to my office, saw you...and got distracted.” She smiled beautifully and shrugged.  “I’ll try to be more careful around you next time.”

“I got the job,” he stammered. He was in such shock. He got the job, and a pretty lady was talking to him.

Her smile was infectious. “Let’s go celebrate,” she said, “it’s my lunchtime.” She led him up to her beige Subaru Brat in the parking lot and took him out for Chinese, a book signing at the Amber Unicorn Books, and some gambling on Fremont Street.  She was beautiful and strong then and had changed hardly a bit since he first gazed into her baby blue eyes.  He opened his mouth to talk but could not make a word.

“Oh, baby,” she said as she dropped her purse and car keys on the floor and hurried over to him.  “What’s the matter?”  Kamala leaned over her husband and wrapped her arms around his weakened frame as his tears began to fall once more.  She did not know why he was upset but would do the best she could to help him.  “It’s okay,” she said.  “I’m here, babe.  I’m here.”

* * *

With a lowered head and heavy heart, Jack exited the army jeep he “borrowed” from a private posted outside the hospital and stepped onto the gravel driveway that led to the Morrison home.  He hadn’t been here in about a year-and-a-half, ever since he and Nerriah parted ways. The tan home, constructed in adobe, was still in good shape, standing up to the harsh desert climate like a rock.  He climbed the steps to the porch, noticing the new clay pots with spiked agave plants near the front door, and gently touched the doorbell, hoping to speak to the Morrisons before any rumors or misinformation found their way to the family before he could. 

“Hello?! Come in! Hurry! Hurry, please!” Jack immediately recognized the voice as Kamala, Daryll’s mother, and pushed open the door quickly. He called out her name from the foyer. Before him, he could see the living room. Kamala was on the ground beside her husband, Caleb, sitting still in his favorite recliner. “Jack! Jack!” she screamed, gripping her husband’s legs, and shaking them wildly. “He won’t move, Jack! He won’t move!” Jack moved behind her, hugged her tightly, trying to comfort her and move her out of the way at the same time. He hugged Caleb’s legs even tighter, not wanting to let go. “Help me, Jack, please!” Jack made his way to Caleb’s mouth and put his ear to it.

Nothing.

“Jack, no! No, Jack, please!” she cried, collapsing to the floor once more. Jack touched her husband’s hand with both of his and placed his forehead to it. His eyes closed and he felt those tears returning again, the second damn time in one day. “I’m sorry, Caleb,” he whispered. He was too late. Again. The second time he failed a Morrison in one day also. Jack pulled his head back and wiped away the tears with the palm of his hand. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. Still on his knees, he crawled back to Kamala, who gripped him tightly and beat his back repeatedly with her fists, her tears soaking her face and his back. “Let it out, Kamala. Let it out,” he whispered. “It’s okay.” She wailed uncontrollably as Jack had to ponder the worst: did she know about her son, too? They both sat on the floor as she wept on the soldier for several long minutes before the sirens arrived outside the door.

Daryll’s stepmother, Kamala, looked up as the EMTs burst through the open door and let her eyes fall on Jack, and suddenly knew exactly why Jack was there.  Through her teary eyes, she saw the blood on Jack’s shirt and instantly assumed it was Daryll’s.  She stifled the next oncoming outburst and fell silent, not wanting to cry or speak a sound as she tried to look the soldier in the eyes. As the two paramedics rushed to Caleb’s aid, Kamala found herself uttering, “Jack.”  Her head fell and her body crumbled into Jack’s once more. Jack held her and shook his head in silence, knowing that now she knew.  The two sat quietly and watched helplessly as the two young women tried in vain to revive her husband.

She shook her head, put her hand firmly on Jack’s back, and pushed herself up to her feet once more. She gripped his hands and made him stand with her. She guided him into the dining room, its marble floors and gleaming chandelier spotless and shiny as new. The rustic design of the dining set had become more rustic than it used to, however, plainly showing its age. Jack had been here several times in the past but had not noticed the signs of age, the scratches, the stains, the fading color. Two of the leather seats had small holes in them, too. The Morrisons had been struggling and Jack hadn’t been around to see it until it was too late.  The 74° temperature seemed unusually cold, especially with the sun’s rays flooding in through the numerous windows, curtains opened all the way. Caleb loved the sunlight. “Have a seat, please. I’ll get some drinks,” Jack said, guiding her to one of the better chairs. “Coffee?” She nodded quietly. He rubbed her back gently and turned to the kitchen; the living room still in his view, the paramedics speaking on the radio as more sirens approached outside. 

Jack opened a few cabinets, expecting to find the Keurig coffee cups where they once were but only found a tub of Maxwell House. Knowing the family’s preferences and knowing also that something wasn’t right, he scanned the kitchen countertop, still a handsome marble, but couldn’t find the Keurig Coffee Maker. There was a white, generic coffee machine in its place. He sighed heavily. He had wanted a quick cup of coffee for both of them.  “It busted,” Kamala said from behind him. He turned to find her a lot calmer, senses regained. “It just quit working, Jack,” she said with a shrug as she grabbed the coffee pot and placed it under the sink for water., “Like everything else. Caleb’s been sick, we’ve got the money saved up...but it’s saved up for emergencies, not a coffee machine. Frivolous crap. We got this thing at Wal-Mart or the Dollar Store or somewhere.” She placed the pot in the machine, placed a filter, and added coffee. She sighed and pressed the start button. “It works,” she exclaimed quietly, leaning against the counter. 

Jack eyed her carefully, not knowing what to expect, before placing two coffee cups on the counter.  “Get a few more,” she suggested, wiping a dry tear from her face, “they may want some,” she added, pointing at the EMTs. 

  “‘K,” was all he could manage.

“Caleb had given up trying to do any work lately and had been reading a lot, sitting in his recliner and watching the news from the old television.  He was a broken man, Jack. But I swear, when he looked at me come home each day, he lit up like a horny teenager”, she giggled before her eyes. Once more fell on Jack, bullets holes on his sleeves and blood on his shirt.  “You were with our Daryll in those final moments, right, Jack? Captain?  The aging author closed her burning eyes and breathed deeply as Jack moved toward her.  They stood, almost face to face but neither could talk for a long moment.  Jack shook his head solemnly, patiently waiting on her to be ready for acceptance. Kamala finally opened his eyes and shook his head.  “He’s gone, isn’t he, Jack? My son?”

“Yeah,” Jack solemnly answered, hands inflexibly entwined behind his back.

Kamala clenched her hands tightly and silently looked to the ceiling, focusing on the bright LED lights, not daring to look into the eyes or general direction of Jack or any other person in her home at that moment.

“It was quick.  He didn’t suffer,” the soldier added, not knowing if this piece of information would help comfort the loss of her oldest son or not. Two losses, one day. Would she make it tonight? He wondered.

Kamala brushed past him, arranging the six coffee cups in perfect symmetrical order, focusing on the arriving men in the other room.

  “Did you get the man who did it, Captain?” she asked, his eyes returning to, and centered on, Jack.

Jack stood tall, his arms remaining behind his back, hands still fiercely gripping one another.  He cleared his throat and spoke the truth.  “Your son died a hero, Mrs. Morrison.  He had reached the detonator but was overtaken by the terrorists.”  He breathed heavily and looked into her sad, blue eyes.  “They had his back strapped to the device and it had three seconds to go.  I had no time to reach him, or it.”  He paused for a long moment, letting the information sink in. Breathing in deeply, building his strength for the end of his story, he added, “it was the only way to stop the bombs.”

Kamala’s legs gave way and he fell, caught, of course, by her son’s friend, his captain. Her mouth agape, stunned, as he braced her in a standing position once more.  “You shot him?”  Her body went cold, her breathing became heavy, her mouth trembled.  “You put a bullet in my boy? My son??” 

Jack’s gut was wrenching, the pain increasing within him, stinging his eyes, burdening his feet, electrifying his back.  He wanted to throw up again but held it in, much to the chagrin of his stomach. “I didn’t want to, Mrs. Morrison, believe me.  I had no other choice.”

A fresh tear dropped from the poor woman’s eyes as she looked away from Jack, closing her eyes as her head faced toward the dining room.  “We trusted you, Jack.   We trusted you with our daughter last year and you broke her heart.  We trusted you with our son’s life; to keep him safe. And now you kill him?  My boy is dead?”

Jack remained at attention, and his head lowered.

“You’ve killed my son and my husband, you--” Kamala wiped her eyes and looked at the soldier once more.  “I respected you, Captain, for all the work you’ve done for this country, and for the way you once treated this family.  Now, Caleb served in the Army, Jack, and I know about tough choices; he told me, and I’m sure that you felt you handled this in the best way possible, but, Jack, you can’t kill a mother’s son and her husband and expect forgiveness on the same damned day.”

“Mrs.,” Jack said, looking at the woman, “I don’t expect forgiveness.  I just wanted you to hear it from me and not some cold, nameless messenger.”  He looked at the television, playing silently.  “Or the news.”  He held his chin high, a man of war, a captain, a man worthy of respect, but also a man who has made many mistakes in his life and career.

The lady nodded his head in acknowledgment.

“I’m retiring from the service, ma’am.  After what happened today, I can’t find it in my heart to do this anymore.  I loved your son like a brother.”

Kamala swallowed a hot, dry emptiness down his throat and looked at his silent wife, and slapped him hard, twice.

“Get the fuck out of my house!” she screamed.

* * *

“One disaster after another, dumbass,” Jack cursed himself as he backed out of the Morrison’s driveway, carefully avoiding the two ambulances and a police car. No music played through the jeep’s speakers and the closed windows kept out the air and noise of the outside world; Jack’s own thoughts were the only thing around to pester him, to inflict even more pain to him. It was all his fault, allowing the team to be out late last night, letting Daryll go off on his own to scout out the turbine room, fucking putting a bullet through his chest. Now his dad was dead, heart attack most likely, probably from hearing about his own son being murdered on the news. He slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand and cursed some more. “Really fucked up this time, Nelson,” he sighed. “Yet, I’ve got one more thing to screw up before this day from Hell can end. Gotta see--” Instead of finishing his sentence he breathed out through his nose, chewed his lip, and looked out the window as the perfect little neighborhood housing developments passed by like something out of a fictional story. Out there, he thought, everything was fine, everything was perfect for those bastards. Good jobs, good wives, good kids making straight As and playing baseball on school nights and Saturdays. All just so damn beautiful. Nobody murdering their brothers out there. He pushed the gas pedal down as he entered West Sahara Avenue, noticed a couple of elderly tourists clothed in Hawaiian shirts, straw hats, and fanny packs, saluting him from the sidewalk outside the Walgreens, gave a quick honk back, and pushed harder on the gas. They had no clue who he really was, what he had just done. If they did, they’d be giving him an altogether different kind of salute. A sharp turn on Apache and a couple of minutes later, Jack found himself pulling into an apartment complex, slowing down as he did so. He still remembered her building, even though it had been about a year and a half since he’d last been there. Jack pulled into an empty spot, running over an empty Coors can in the process. 

Her apartment was visible through the jeep’s dusty windshield, three stories above. Not much had changed here, some of the same blue Volvos and beige Mitsubishis still haunted the parking lot, the tennis court in the rearview was still abandoned, and the pool still had college-age girls and boys and horny old men catching some rays and splashing around in the desert heat. The apartment he needed right now was the only major difference. Nerriah used to always have her blinds open, shades pulled back, letting in all the sunlight she could. The blinds were closed now, letting nothing in. Not a goddamn thing. He watched for a while, maybe half an hour, wanting, hoping for a sign, a movement, a door opening. Nothing happened. He pulled his cellphone out from his pocket and dialed her home and mobile numbers, but she did not pick up.  He did not leave a message.  He knew then that she had already found out the devastating news. He climbed out of the jeep and up the steps that led to Nerriah Morrison’s home, shaking and nervous all the while. His feet stopped just at her door, his mouth let out a silent sigh, and his right hand, fisted solid, knocked at the door. His body stood at attention as best as it could.  He did not turn his head; his focus was that door. Nothing else mattered. One minute passed by and he hesitantly knocked again. Still, he stood at attention. Still, there was no answer.  

He leaned his muscular body into the door frame with his left arm and punched the concrete wall with his right fist.  “Stupid,” he muttered, looking at his bloody knuckles.  “God, how did I get this far in life without killing myself and everyone around me?”  He shook his head and clutched his stomach as it growled from hunger. It had been several hours since breakfast: a protein bar and a cup of coffee. Then again, it could just be sick of Jack and everything around him.

Jack sighed again and sat on the concrete, determined to wait for Nerriah to arrive, no matter how hungry or sick he was.  No matter how long it took for her to return. He leaned into her wall and rested his bandaged arms on his knees, staring blankly at the green mountains in the distance.

“Screwed up big time, didn’t you, soldier?” asked a man with a British accent.

Jack turned his head and saw a pair of black Italian leather wingtip shoes and white satin pants.  He closed his eyes for a moment and silently prayed that it wouldn’t be who he thought it would be.  He opened his eyes again and saw the white suit with gold buttons, black vest, white striped shirt, and black bow tie. The man’s figure was fit, and he must have stood about 6’1”.  His sturdy face was extremely pale white in color, and he wore a trim goatee and his long, auburn hair was pulled into a ponytail.  A diamond earring with gold lining was attached to his left ear while his pale gray eyes were encircled by a very dark shade of black. His imaginary “friend” was back.

“Shit...God, not you, again,” Jack sighed.  “I really have lost it this time, haven’t I?” He had been imagining this character off and on since his 18th birthday. He was living on his own in Garland, Texas, had just stepped out of his crummy-ass apartment, and was on his way to work, a car mechanic’s shop, when he found this bastard in white blocking his pale blue Ford Fairlane. The newly minted man told the stranger in no uncertain words to get the fuck away from his car. The man in white was smoking a cigar that smelled just like cherries and bourbon and asked where he was going, unmoving. Young Jack huffed that he was going to work. The man in white waved a fistful of hundreds in the air and asked if there wasn’t something else he’d rather do on such a special day. 

“Whenever I show up, you always think you’re crazy, hum, Jack?  Why is that, you poor soul?” He chuckled. “Ever since you became a man, I’ve been here for you. Remember when you wanted to go to work on your eighteenth birthday? Bollocks! We had ourselves a grand time at that topless bar instead, didn’t we?” A pink, wooden Adirondack chair magically appeared just behind Hek.  The pale man smiled and planted himself down. “You sat down, put some notes in some G-strings, and had some incredible bosoms in your face. You smelled like a right princess, and cigarettes, the rest of the day!” The man reached over and patted Jack’s knee a few times. “You used to be a lot more fun, mate. What happened to you?’

“There’s no way to explain your being here.  You’re not real, Hek,” he growled without even looking at the man next to him.

Hek smiled devilishly at the soldier.  “Where is it you got that cash from again for your big 18th? Found it in the parking lot right next to your Ford? There’s no way I actually gave it to you, hum? I’m just a figment of your imagination.  And who got you to quit that job giving lube jobs to strange men and sign up at the local recruitment office instead? Who turned away from being a punk kid and into a soldier-man? Me. And yet, I’m not real, even though I’m sitting here talking to you, plain as day.”

“Not if I were the least bit sane, you wouldn’t be,” Jack argued.

“Mind if I smoke?” Hek asked, already lighting a cigar that magically poofed into existence.  Jack shook his head and shrugged his shoulders, not caring one way or the other as the creamy, woody aroma filled the air surrounding him. “Picked some of these up in Havana last week as I was granting a Chicha Bonita her wish to be a celebrity. Short-lived though it was. Celebrity life is fickle, especially if you are a pig,” he laughed. “See, I turned her into a whacking great porker! Instant celebrity and a scrummy dinner. Needed a good cigar afterward.” The “imaginary” Hek glanced over at the tortured soldier and saw his attention was elsewhere. “I guess my cigar isn’t real either, hum?”

“Just another sign that I’ve been hit in the head one too many times,” Jack quietly replied.

“There are those daddy issues again,” Hek said, stretching out his legs and crossing one foot over the other, before releasing an annoyingly long sigh.

Jack quickly punched Hek in the calf, harder than Hek would have imagined.

“Ow!  Why would you hit an imaginary figure?” Hek asked, separating his legs, and rubbing the sore one.

“Real or fake, you deserved that,” Jack responded without hesitation.

“Maybe,” Hek said, still massaging his sore leg. 

“I shot my partner today,” Jack said matter-of-factly.

Hek crossed his legs again and rested his arms on the sides of his chair.  “I know.  I don’t know if you had any other choice, soldier,” he said with a puff of smoke, staring off into the mountains.  “Of course, you could’ve let the detonator go off, killing 305,961 people, best guess.”

Jack punched him again, in the knee.

“Stop that!” Hek demanded.  “You have got some serious anger issues.”

“It’s been a hell of a life.”

“So, you want to apologize to the ex for killing her brother, hum?” Hek asked while scooting his chair a couple of feet to the side, away from Jack.

Jack raised his eyebrows, glaring at Hek with disdain.

“I’m sure she’ll appreciate you coming around today so that she may properly thank you for saving so many lives while taking her brother’s whilst at it. She’ll probably have a go at getting you into her bed for old time’s sake,” he said with dripping sarcasm.  “You are such a complete moron.  It really is a miracle you’ve made it this far in life.”

A mailman strolled up the pathway toward the soldier and the imaginary figure, whistling a happy but completely unknown tune.  He was in his late fifties with salt and pepper hair, wearing shorts and his uniform shirt.  He smiled at the two men. “Howdy,” he said.

Jack nodded in acknowledgment as Hek greeted the man with a smile.  “Howdy, partner!” Hek said in a horribly fake southern accent.

“Good afternoon,” the man replied as he put Nerriah’s mail into her mailbox.

“My friend here thinks he’s insane, that he’s imagining me and that I’m not real,” Hek told the man from out of the blue.  “Can you see me?”

The mailman wiped the sweat off his face, perplexed in how to respond.

“Don’t bother to answer that,” Jack said to the man while focusing again on the distant mountains.  “It’s just a dream.  None of this matters anyway.”

The mailman looked uncomfortably at the row of apartments that still needed their mail.  “Um, I gotta go.  Good day,” he said, walking away, this time without a tune.

Hek smiled, quite pleased with himself.  “See, I am real.  That man talked to me.”

“Or did he?  Or was he even really here?  I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

Hek sighed.  “You know she’s not coming back tonight.  Nerriah’s a smart girl and she knows you’ll be here.”  He looked, all-knowingly, at Jack.  “She doesn’t want to see you, Jack.  She wants to take her little sweet, perfect ass over to Grandma’s house tonight and comfort her and Xavier.  She won’t see you.  She wants nothing to do with you, Jack.  You’re old, sweaty, and a little bit crazy.  And you killed her brother today.  Forget it.”

“I’ve got nowhere to go,” Jack countered. “I need to apologize.  It’s the right thing to do.”

Hek shook his head.  “I think you should go see your buddy, Slicer, at the bar. He’s in town this week and you need a few good, stiff drinks.  You’ve also got Daryll’s keys, you realize?  You can crash at his place tonight and start fresh in the morning.”

“I’ll wait here; thanks,” Jack snarled.

“Besides, it’s going to rain,” Hek added, flicking the remains of his cigar to the ground.

Jack looked toward the desert sky.  It was bright blue with not a cloud in the sky.  The air was dry and hot, definitely not rainy weather.  “You’re insane,” Jack argued.

Hek’s glassy gray eyes brightened with conceit as he elevated his hands to the sky, fingers outstretched.  Dark, black sinister clouds quickly moved into place as thunder erupted from every direction.  Lightning flashed across the sky and a downpour of rain instantly fell savagely from the sky.

“I didn’t check the weather report this morning.  I didn’t know there would be an afternoon shower,” Jack excused the anomaly from under the cover of the roof as the rain came down hard just a few feet away.

“Ready to go now?” Hek asked.

“I’m waiting,” Jack replied as his stomach grumbled again.

“You’re gonna catch a cold and starve to death waiting on your hot little Miss Thang, you know,” he laughed. “And she will not be here to pity you or accept your pity for her.”

Jack watched the storm intently.

“Suit yourself,” Hek said, before vanishing.

Jack looked over and saw that Hek left the chair.  He rose to his feet and touched the chair, to see if there was a chance it was real.  He gripped it, and satisfied, sat down in it.  Of course, it disappeared, too, plopping the soldier down onto the hard, concrete floor.  He shook his head in disappointment.  “Just my imagination.”

* * *

Jack woke the next morning, cold, starving, and sick to the stomach.  A dried, putrid pile of vomit stained the ground beneath his military boots, some actually on the boots as well. He released a sigh and a curse. Nightmares of the Hoover Dam incident plagued his dreams the whole night.  Daryll’s beaten, bloody face screamed as Jack repeatedly pumped his chest full of bullets at a seemingly unending scene.  The horrifying visions repeated all night.  He weakly struggled to his feet, braced himself carefully down the stairs, and climbed into the army jeep.  Jack rested his arms on the wheel for a few long moments before finally turning the key to the ignition and allowing the jeep’s engine to roar to life.  The soldier then drove around the city, trying to ignore his hunger pains and clear his head of thoughts of missing soldiers, mistakes of the past, death, and imaginary demons.  He wanted to make things right with the remaining Morrisons and had decided to remain in Las Vegas until he did so. There were other reasons he could remain in the city, but the Morrisons were top of the list, the reason for being. Anything else was...just in the past, he tried to convince himself.

After finally succumbing to his hunger around one in the afternoon, Jack drove through an In-N-Out Burger and ordered a large meal. As he pulled under a shade tree in the parking lot to eat, his mind silently made plans. How the hell could he be there for Nerriah, her mom, and the kid...Daryll’s brother. Xavier, that was his name. He could find work, something that didn’t involve killing anyone; not anymore.  Maybe he could reach out to Xavier, be a new big brother? Maybe patch things up with Nerriah? He closed his eyes and laughed in his head. How the fuck would any of that work? How would Nerriah even give him the time of day after what he did? He focused his eyes on the half-eaten burger, zeroing in his thoughts on what could actually happen: he could get Xavier killed, too. That was Jack’s life. It was all he knew how to do. Maybe he could just stay in the city and stay out of their way instead? If they ever needed him, he’d be there for them in a heartbeat. Through the window, he saw a young, pretty little lily-white family walking in the burger joint. Mom, Dad, brother, and sister. Jack had other reasons to stay in one place, stay in Vegas. He took the last bite of meat, cheese, bacon, and bun and watched the family approach the counter. Right, he thought, become a family man at his age!  It was too damn late for that. He crumbled the trash into the takeout bag and dropped it onto the passenger seat. Time to move.

He drove to the northern part of the city and pulled into Daryll’s apartment complex on Paradise Road later that day.  Jack took Daryll’s keys out of his pocket and opened the door to the one-bedroom home on the third floor.  The apartment wasn’t spacious or fancy, but it was just what Jack needed for a night or two to plan the new phase in his life: righting wrongs and changing his ways.  He was tired of missions and guns and death.  He wanted a normal, quiet job and some time alone. Maybe get a job in security at a bank or casino? Maybe work in a gym? He would need something where he wouldn’t have to talk to too many people, just look menacing enough to where they would stay away from him. He called his superiors and requested to be dismissed from service, to which he was told the situation would be reviewed.  He would have to meet with the USSA and would receive an answer shortly thereafter.            

He looked around his friend’s empty apartment and sighed.  He would need a place of his own; didn’t have to even be right in the city, maybe a little further out in Mount Charleston. Tomorrow he would get his ass out of bed at first light and start the home hunt. It was the end of an old life and time to begin anew.

That night the terrors returned heavily to his sleep. He murdered his friend, his brother, all over again. Repeatedly.

Chapter Two

The present. Friday.

The ringing, literal ringing, in Jack Nelson’s head woke him from his early morning slumber with a violent start and anger and resentment towards the world at large.  He kept his eyes shut tight as he lay in his full-sized bed, his body beneath no covers as they had been kicked to his feet during another night of nightmarish sleep.  He massaged his forehead with one hand while the other, in a fist, rested near his leg.

“What now?” he mumbled.

“Good morning, sunshine,” a gravelly voice spoke from somewhere in his head.

“Hell,” Jack replied.  “What do you want?”

“I want to see you, son.  Get up.”  The voice was friendly enough, though seasoned with age and trouble.

“Fine,” he answered shortly, debating whether to continue the conversation or close his eyes and go back to a sleeping nightmare.  “Alright, hold on,” he decided with a grumble as he shifted his legs off the bed and planted his feet on the red and brown pine flooring of his tiny bedroom.  “What is this about, General?” Jack asked as he stood in front of his dresser’s mirror. There was no crossing the floor to it as his small room only had space for a bed, dresser, and closet. He did not have much, and therefore, had no need for extra space. The image of his bare-chested frame was perfectly clear in the mirror as the dresser had a limited amount of paraphernalia atop it: wallet, keys, sunglasses, phone, and an aging, small, walnut jewelry box, a gift from a former girlfriend.

A beam of light emitted from Jack’s left eye with a digital vision of the man he was conversing with: General John Blackfinger.  The aging general’s image showed that he was dressed in a red flannel shirt and smoking a pipe.  A massive blue mountain range with hazy skies overhead created a beautiful background behind the balding man as he sat with a pleasant smile on his face.  “Good to see you, my boy. Nice tiny place you’ve got there. What is the size of your room:10X12?” His words rolled out of his mouth with parental disappointment.  Much like a father looking for faults in life choices, the general was often quick to point out errors in judgment. “Don’t you think that place is too small for a man like you? Where’s your equipment?  Your guns, your workout equipment, your other crap?”

Jack looked beyond the vision of the general and into his own reflection in the mirror and shook his head in disappointment.  He saw a man who just turned fifty, still healthy, still strong, but woefully unhappy.  His blonde hair was shorn thin, a habit that could not be broken, even after retiring five years ago from military service.  Several scars and bruises lined his muscular, 5’8” body including a bandaged gash on his left shoulder from a drunken New Yorker with a knife the night before. The man he had grown into had no need for frivolous things to clutter up a home. Give him the basics and a place to sleep and shit, that’s all he needed.

“I like your boxers,” the general laughed, pointing his pipe in the direction of the Captain America underwear Jack was wearing.  “It matches your tattoo.”

The bright circular shield, complete with red and white circles and a blue center filled with a white star, was permanently embedded on his left shoulder.  The tattoo was created on a drunken evening several years prior during some downtime in Panama.  One of his squad members, Greg Sanders, was a huge Captain America fan and egged Jack into getting the mark.  Greg had the same tattoo placed on his right shoulder.

He went missing a year later on a mission in Somalia. No one had heard from him since. Probably got himself killed because of Jack’s stupid ass also.

Jack crossed his arms and shook his head, tiring of the early-rising general already.  “What did you wake me for, General?”

The general chewed on the stem of his pipe for a moment.  “It’s your 50th birthday, Jack.  I wanted to wish you well.  It’s been too damn long since I’ve seen you and I wanted to know how you were faring.”  His voice was concerned.  They had worked together for years, seen some shit that most people could not survive seeing; the General instructed Jack and treated him like an adopted son for several of those years, in a good way. Most times. Sometimes.

Jack cracked a small smile for his longtime friend and commander.  “It has been a while, John.  Why don’t you hop on a friggin’ flight to Vegas right now if you wanna see how I’m doing instead of waking me up at whatever the fuck time in the morning it is?  I’ll take you out for some goddamn drinks, we’ll start a fight with some other drunken assholes, and it’ll be just like old times.”  Though the comment was a joke, there was a very harsh tone in the ex-soldier’s voice and posture.  “Come on, Prick”

“Still got your mouth, I see. And even though that sounds like balls of fun, Jack,” the general responded, knowing there was no truth in either’s response, added, “but you know the missus won’t let me fight no more.  I’ve retired and she says I gotta stay that way.  Besides, I’m no good in a fight anyway.”  He reached out and turned the camera towards his legs, resting still in his wheelchair.  “Even though I can still throw a punch, if need be, I can’t kick anyone’s ass for shit; I’d just slow you down,” he added, raising the camera back to his upper body.  “Jack,” he continued in all seriousness, “I want you to come to Washington, son.  I want you to get some fresh air, clear your senses and your mind.”

Jack shook his head, rejecting the idea.  “I like it here.  It keeps me busy.”

“All you’re doing in that desert is busting balls and drinking your life away, Jack.  It’s time for a change.  It’s time to lose your nightmares and do something for yourself for once.” He studied his former captain, searching for a positive response or at the very least, a possible breaking point.

“Busting someone’s balls and drinking myself to death is all I’ve ever done, General. It’s all I’m good at.  Now I’m paying for it, but with fewer bullet-riddled corpses.” It was not a joke.

The general closed his eyes and sighed.  “I’ve been monitoring you, Jack.  I know that you haven’t been sleeping well.  I know Daryll’s death has been hard on you.”  He paused for a considerably long moment before admitting the hidden truth: “I know what you’ve been doing.”

Jack looked the general in the eyes.  “You’ve been keeping tabs on me?” he asked, angered with the thought.  “You said those days were over.” He lowered his arms and gripped the countertop of his dresser with a death grip.  “You said you would destroy that technology.”  Jack turned away from the mirror and paced his room, hands clenched in fists.  “You lied to me,” he said, looking towards the mirror so the general could see his face.  “Fucking lied to me you son of a bitch! You’ve got no fucking right to spy on me or whatever the fuck I choose to put in my goddamn body. Fuck you!”

The general shrugged knowingly.  “Come on, Jack,” he said with a slight chuckle under his breath.  “We were in a secretive military operation together.  U.S.S.A.! Yesterday, tomorrow, and to-day! Hoo-ah and all that crap.  Half the things we told each other was a lie; you know that.”

Jack turned away again and exited his bedroom.

“There’s no way I’d shut this thing down, Jack.  Someone needs to keep tabs on you.  What the hell?”  The general could only see what Jack’s computerized eye saw, which was Jack relieving himself into the toilet.  “Jesus Christ, Jack!  Didn’t I teach you any manners? Couldn’t that wait?” 

Jack ignored the general and went about his business.

“Better at least wash your hands when you're done, soldier,” the ex-general nervously laughed. “This connection we have, Jack, is just between you and me, no one else knows about it.  I need it, though, son.  I need to know you’re safe.  And what you’ve been doing lately isn’t good; you know that.”

Jack looked at the bathroom mirror as he washed his hands.  Ignoring the end of Blackfinger’s rambling, he instead responded with a question: “Have you spoken with Deb? Are you sure she knows nothing about your little peep show into my life?”

  “I haven’t talked to her in years, Jack. You know that.”

They were both uncomfortably quiet for a long, painful moment. Jack dried his hands and eyeballed the old man’s image.  “It helps me deal with the pain,” he finally admitted.  “I can’t fucking sleep. My stomach is always in knots. I keel over and fucking throw up two days’ worth of shit.” He let his eyes drop to gape at his gray tiled floor. “I’m tired, John. I gave up and this is the best I can do right now. It’s all I got.”

“You’ve become an addict, Jack.  I can see it in your system and in your blood.  Your eye gives me the readouts and I don’t like what I’m seeing.”  The general looked at some papers and showed his camera.  “The levels are outrageous, son!”  Jack walked away again and headed back to his bedroom.  “Jack, I’m just asking you to take a break.  I’ve seen the heroin, the oxycontin, and the Xanax in your system and I know you’re not going to seek out help for it. You’re too strong for that, I know. But you’re being a damn coward, too.  I know you, Jack.  I know you don’t ask for help even if you know you should. And right now, son, you should be asking...or at the very least accepting help if it’s offered. I’ve got some work lined up for you and they can help clean you up at the same time.” The soldier closed his eyes, unresponsive. “They could really use you, Jack. Your country needs you, son.”

Jack crossed to his black lacquered dresser and began opening the drawers and pulling out a pair of Levi’s blue jeans, a black t-shirt, and some white Hanes socks.  He slammed the drawers closed and began to put the articles of clothing on without a verbal response to the general.

“If you won’t come to me first, Jack, then I’m sending them to see you.  All you’re doing right now is wasting away and it’s got to stop.  It’s time to get back in the game.”

Jack’s frustrated turquoise eyes bore into the general’s in the mirror.  “I’m done, sir.  I’m through killing for a living.”

“That wasn’t our job, Jack.  That wasn’t our mission!  Your job saved lives; you were defending our freedoms.”

“I can’t do it anymore.”

“But you can beat up some guy who gets a little handsy with a stripper? Send his ass to the emergency room on a stretcher?”

Jack allowed the comment to soak in before responding.  “Asswipe deserved every fucking bone I broke in his body. Besides, it pays the bills,” he finally replied, sitting on his bed and putting on a pair of socks.

“I’m getting you some help, Jack.  You will clean up and change your life.  End of story.”

Jack eyed him through the mirror.

“Happy birthday, son,” the general added before ending his transmission.

Jack sat on his bed and picked his boots off the floor. He had the expensive brown leather boots custom-made to his exact size during a layover in Houston back in 2015. They were some of the few things he did spend a lot of money on. He then opened his jewelry box, removed his dog tags, and hung them around his neck. Next, the former soldier marched back to his bathroom and opened his medicine cabinet.  The variety of pill bottles seemed to increase with each passing week.  He kept telling himself that he could handle it, that he didn’t have a problem.  His drugs kept the memory of violence out of his head, out of his dreams. 

At least, that’s what they were supposed to be doing. 

He bit his lip, felt the slight tremble of his body and the quaking in his stomach, and reached for a bottle.

* * *

Jack usually liked and always respected General Blackfinger but the general couldn’t be right all the time.  There was no way he could feel the pain Jack was feeling.  Jack was in charge when Greg went missing and when he had to put a bullet through Daryll.  Not the general.  There was no way the general could understand.  The pills were a necessity, a means to an end.  They would either help him cope or kill him.  Either way worked.

After a quick breakfast of black coffee and four scrambled eggs smothered in shredded Colby-jack and fresh salsa, he grabbed his keys and headed out. He closed, gave a push to secure, and then locked the heavy, green front door of his cabin and stepped out onto the knotted and worn redwood deck that stretched out along the front of his small cabin tucked away within the hidden roads of Mount Charleston. His outdoor decor was minuscule at best: two usable, formerly white rocking chairs that he found on the side of a road one day, a faded lobster rope “Welcome” mat, and a potted Candelabra Cactus that lived there before he moved in five years ago. Climbing down the sandstone steps and onto his rocky front yard, Jack faced the cool, breezy temperature of just 66°. Forty minutes from now, however, would be a very different story, with a scorching Vegas afternoon of 98°.  He approached his bike but turned when he heard a low growl in the bushes behind him.  “Afternoon, Morris!” he called out as he reached into his pocket, pulled out a large Milk-bone dog treat, and gave it a good toss. The bushes shook violently for a moment before all was quiet once more. “Good boy,” Jack said before he picked up and placed the ebony helmet over his head and climbed on the leather seat of his 2009 Indian Chief Roadmaster.  The vehicle was vivid black and metallic silver in color and had the Captain America shield painted near the rear of the bike in honor of his MIA friend, Greg.  Jack started the engine and let out a low guttural roar as he drove off, soon approaching Aspen Avenue.  He was in no hurry, so he took his time, not zipping down the curing mountain roads, nor in and out of the traffic of US 95 as he would have in his younger days.  He leisurely passed Janequin’s Strip, a gentleman’s club and his place of employment, just to see the afternoon lunch crowd of cars, but was not his destination.  Lots of cars, though, most likely leading to some drunken idiots looking to get their asses handed to them later in the day. He sped past the reddish-brown, two-story building with large arched, covered windows on the ground floor and wrought-iron balconies on the second.  The building was designed to resemble those of old-style New Orleans and even had a cornstalk cast iron fence around the premises.  He waved at the broad-shouldered, clean-shaven security man at the parking entrance as he passed.

He had visited the establishment while crashing at Darryl’s apartment, planning nothing more than getting smashed and walking back to the apartment afterward.  Little did he know that some tall, drunk imbecile in a white straw cowboy hat would sucker punch one of the dancers as soon as she entered the club.  Jack was never one to allow a man to hit a woman unpunished, nor to pull his punches when necessary.  The cowboy had the wind knocked out of him with a single blow to the chest.  Next, his back was slammed into the rail that ran along the counter of the bar, badly bruising his spine, but not the expensive, lacquered, flat grain ash wood bar top.  Jack gripped the back of the man’s belt loop and the top of his collar and tossed him out of the bar in a heated and exhilarating rush. The poor girl, Star, received some ice for her cheek, and Jack had a sit-down with the manager, Vincent.  Vincent was firm and tall, with long, red hair that rested just below his shoulder blades.  He was also tremendously pale in color and was dressed in some extremely dark, gothic suit with black and crimson tones adorned with silver buttons shaped to look like skulls.

Vincent seemed very pleased to make Jack’s acquaintance and, in a Czechoslovakian accent and wide, icy blue eyes, asked him if he would like a job as a bouncer.  Freshly out of work, as in he had just retired from active military duty that morning, Jack politely accepted.

“Five years ago,” he remembered out loud. Jack Nelson sped his engine up and raced through the Vegas streets, passing through the famous Las Vegas Strip just between Bally’s, Paris, Caesars Palace, and the Bellagio.  The streets were packed with crowds of tourists, ready to celebrate the weekend and search out 99¢ shrimp.  Though the eggs filled him up, Jack had set his mind on an early lunch, but not cheap seafood. Lunch for Jack was not to be found on The Strip, but at a small shopping plaza a little farther west.

The shopping center in question was in desperate need of a paint job as its faded white coat was starting to peel off the sides of the walls.  Jack took notice and made a mental note to tell the owner, a good friend of his.  He parked his Indian next to a hot red 2019 Volvo Concept Coupe, climbed off, locked his helmet in the trunk of his bike, and stepped onto the parking lot.  He glanced around for onlookers, saw none, and quickly kissed his free hand and patted the rear of the Volvo.  The shopping center had a hardware store, bicycle shop, cell phone store, an ice cream shop, and The Broken Bottle with lit signs advertising ‘Open 24 Hours’, ‘Bar & Grill’, and ‘Video Poker’. 

Jack pushed open the door and stepped inside as if he owned the place.  The bar was clean, darkened, somewhat smoky, and furnished with lots of bar top space, sturdy tables and booths of solid oak, and strong chairs and benches that have withstood years of seated bottoms of all shapes and sizes.  The mahogany stools situated around the flat grain ash wood bar counter were worn but taken care of and shined daily with a fresh polish.  The fragrance of any pine or lemon-fresh polish could not be smelled, however, through the aromas of tobacco and food.  A large crowd had already gathered for their afternoon drinks and lunch and a few waved and greeted the ex-soldier who seated himself at the middle of the bar counter.  “What’s up, babe?” he asked as he rested his elbows on the bar in front of him.

The bartender eyeballed Jack through his peripheral vision as he filled a mug with beer from the tap.  “Ya best not be talkin’ ta me, ya pansy,” he laughed with a raspy voice.

“You know you love it, Slicer,” Jack responded as he reached across and slapped him across the shoulder.

The stocky, middle-aged bartender wiped down the countertop in front of Jack.  “Ya here for business, pleasure, or lunch, me boy?” he asked with curiosity in his right eye.  The other, scarred, remained closed. 

“A little bit of everything,” Jack answered. 

Slicer scratched the weathered skin below his pirate-like loop gold earring.  “Everything?” he repeated with a tone of seriousness.

Jack nodded; eyes closed.

Slicer’s mouth tightened and he shook his head.  “You know it ain’t workin’ for ya, Jack.  You’re goin’ through the shit faster than they can make it.  Now, you know I ain’t one ta be judgin’ no body, but look at ya, boy.  Yer dependence on the stuff is outta hand.  It’s time for a new approach, maybe yoga would be more to yer likin’.” He cracked his knuckles and watched for the soldier’s reactions.

Jack’s harsh gaze found the pirate’s good eye.  “You know you’re the only one I trust for this, Slicer,” he warned. “Don’t pull this on me.  I’m not sleeping well, breaking out in a sweat every single night.  I see their faces all the damn time.”  He lowered his head, gazing blankly at the video poker screen beneath him.  “Tell your man to have it here tomorrow or I’ll be breaking some fucking heads. Get me?”  He looked back to Slicer, who nodded at the threat.

“I’ll do it for ya, Jack, but I don’t like it. There’s gotta be an endin’ ta this shit an’ I hope it ain’t the fookin’ grave,” he sighed.  “I’ll give him a call later today.  But I want you ta look at other ways of healin’.  Drugs ain’t the way, Jack, and you know it,” he added with an accusing finger.

Jack nodded uneasily and rubbed the back of his neck.  “I’ll try to look into something else, alright?”

Slicer nodded and changed the subject, “what’ll it be for lunch, me boy?”

“Get me some of those hot wings and a Corona, and Mercy.”

Slicer’s good eye lit up.  “Now that is what ya be needin’ to ease that pain of yours, boy.  Ya won’t be havin’ nightmares and the horrors if ya had Mercy by yer side more often.”

“I know,” he nodded.

“She’s in the back, Jack.  I’ll send her out.” He turned to walk away and paused, locking onto Jack’s eyes. “You best be good ta her, ya hear? That girl’s gone through some shite, and she won’t be takin’ none from yer ass nor anyone else’s for that matter. Nor should she.” The bartender nodded his head defiantly, scratched his scruffy beard, and headed to the back.

Jack watched the bartender and owner limp away, his prosthetic leg moving stiffly.  He glanced around the room at the two attractive waitresses in tight white T-shirts with The Broken Bottle logo moving around at a swift pace, helping the crowds of patrons.  At the other end of the bar was Brock, a bartender in his mid-thirties.  He was tall, tan, built like a truck, and had a head and neck that looked like an enormous thumb. Ugly as Hell.  Brock was flirting with a drunken redhead who was all smiles as she sat on her stool with her chest pressed up close to the bar, letting Brock soak in the view with his building eyes. The customers were businessmen and women, gal pals, and a few families; boring and simple. Nothing to see here, no one to fight. Still, he monitored. That’s what he was trained to do.

Jack’s heart skipped a beat as he noticed the office door start to open.  Slicer exited first, three plates of hot wings balanced in his hands, followed closely by an attractive young lady, barely five feet in height.  She was Asian-American, dark tan in color, and had a round face and full, silver lips. Her long black hair was pulled into a spiky contortion at the top of her head and her scintillating, violet-colored eyes found the rugged soldier instantly as he straightened his posture in his seat.  A pleased smile crossed her face as she brushed a lock of hair out of her eyes with her hand, jingling the gold and silver bracelets hanging on her thin arm.  She wore a black t-shirt with the same illustration of The Broken Bottle logo that the other waitresses wore, but slightly shorter in length. Hers reached just above her pierced navel. A pair of low-rise skinny blue jeans with manufactured frays seamed into the fabric appeared almost painted on just below it. Just at the base of the left side of her pant leg, the bottom of a dragon tail tattoo peaked out. The thin but long dragon rose up her leg, wings spread out across her thighs, and its head rested just below her navel, sometimes peeking out from the top of her pants. 

“Hey, soldier,” she said as she reached over the counter, placing both hands on his scruffy cheeks and kissing him deeply, her tongue toying with his for a long moment.  “Wanna go to the back room and heat up my oven?” she quipped as she licked her lips and rested her elbows on the counter in front of Jack’s.

Jack smiled uneasily.  This twenty-three-year-old could discombobulate him like no other person in the world, and she knew it, and she enjoyed it.  “I just came to see you,” he said.

She beamed, humored by the man and his rigidness.  “You are seeing me, babe,” she laughed.  “Now what do you wanna do with me?”

He let her strong peppermint aroma overthrow his senses, remembering how she told him she loves wearing the smell of candy.  It retains her youthful charms, keeps her feeling exhilarated, and brings greater tips and sometimes freebies or extra goodies at restaurants or bars.  Guys love flirting and giving free stuff to a pretty young lady who smells like candy.  Jack struggled to remember why he came to see her...or was it just to see Slicer?  He scratched his face and stared at her sparkling lips.

“Something bothering you, soldier?” she asked, touching his rough hand softly while searching his eyes intently.

He nodded and answered quietly, “they want me back, the military; they say they need me. My country needs me.”

“Is this something you want?” she asked, concerned.  “You haven’t told me much about your last job.  I’ve only known you since I was flashing my boobs at Janequin’s.”  She searched his eyes for a reaction to her words but only found a raised eyebrow.  “Sorry, I’m not supposed to talk about my last job either, am I?  We both have our secrets, don’t we, handsome?”

Jack, getting edgy, looked around the bar.  “Where the hell’s Slicer with my beer?”

Mercy scoffed at the changing of the subject and hastily poured Jack a random beer from the tap, Budweiser.  He didn’t have the nerve to tell her he wanted a Corona.  “Thanks,” he said as she slammed it down in front of him, spilling its contents onto the counter.

“What the hell, Jack?  You won’t tell me about your past life, and I’m not allowed to talk about mine?!  What the hell are we doing?  We’re not five, babe!”  She forcibly grabbed his face, kissed him long and hard again, and shoved him back in place.  “We are in a relationship, babe.  That means we talk!  We discuss our problems, and we work them out…together!”

Jack sighed, studying the young lady that he had angered.  “Look, Mercy…” he began before looking around the room to see if anyone was looking.

Knowing full well where his eyes and mind were, the young lady grabbed his face and turned him to face her.  “Jack, they’re all busy with their own lives.  They don’t give a fuck what you and I are talking about.  So, talk to me, not them.  You get me?”

He chugged a quick gulp of beer and shook his head soberly.  “What you and I have--”

“If you break up with me, I’m gonna fucking wreck your bike like a bitch from Hell, Jack.  I will go to the kitchen and grab Slicer’s bat and strut my ass out of this bar and do it right now.  Your Indian will be fucking pile of metal and rubber when I’m done with it.  You know I will,” she warned with a raised finger.

“Mercy, please, we’re not that serious.”  He realized he said the wrong thing as soon as the words left his mouth.

She pursed her lips for a moment and gave him the evil eye.  “Not that serious, huh, Jack?” she huffed before leaving the backside of the bar and strode around to stand directly in front of Jack.

Now people were watching.

She turned Jack away from the counter, harshly spread open his legs and climbed on top of him, straddling his lap, and placed her face inches from his.  “We’ve been out shopping once, to the movies twice, out to dinner three times, God knows how many times we’ve just been out and about!  You’ve been to my apartment three times, too.  You’ve had your dick in me, Jack, and I’m extremely picky about who I let put their dick in me, you better fucking believe it.  We have to be in a relationship before I let anyone do that with me, you shithead!  So don’t tell me we’re not in a fucking relationship.  It’s time for you to man up here, soldier.  You’ve got me and I’ve got you.  You care for me, Jack, and you can’t deny it.” She paused to study his shocked reaction before adding, “you’re mine, Boyfriend.”  She then put her hands on his face again and looked him square in the eyes.  “Back at Janequin’s, that man drugged me, had his grubby little hands on me, in me, Jack.  He had me trapped.”  The captain’s mind flashed back to the scene. The private, smoky room. The cloth of chloroform. Mercy almost knocked out. The greasy bastard with his elastic shorts pulled down just enough. His hands where they shouldn’t be. “You rescued me, babe,” she said proudly, bringing him out of his head, “you broke his hands and sent him to the hospital.  I kissed you for the first time that night, even though I can barely remember it.  Everyone told me I kissed you anyway. They said that I said I loved you,” she laughed.  “You got me out of there, soldier.  You do care for me, and we are in a relationship, whether you realize it or not.  When you visit a girl every day and you kiss your hand and smack the ass of her car whenever you pass it, you’re in a relationship.”  She smiled, pleased with her teaching skills, and his bright shade of red.  “Face it, soldier, I’m your girlfriend; you’re just too stupid to realize it.”

A quiet sigh exited Jack’s mouth.  He was defeated.

“Happy birthday, babe,” she added.

“How did you know--?”

“I still talk to Vincent,” she said with a wink, climbing down from Jack and patting his thighs a few times.  “He’s your boss, buddy.  He knows.  And what he knows, I know.”  She crossed behind the bar just as Slicer brought out Jack’s Corona and a pile of wings, the steam rising high above the plate.  “Did you give him the senior citizen discount?” she asked the owner.

Slicer laughed heartily.  “Aye, that I did.  It’s on the house, birthday boy.”

“Thanks,” Jack replied, still blushing.

“Good God, boy, yer a bright shade of lobster.  What was she doin’ ta ya while I was getting’ yer lunch?”

Jack looked to Mercy, expecting her to answer.  She did not.  “She told me we’re in a relationship; that she’s my girlfriend.”

Slicer laughed out loud again.  “Well, good thing she be here ta tell ya this stuff.  Else wise ya might think yer single.  What would ya do without this fine little lass?”

“Have my Corona instead of the Bud,” Jack answered, reaching for the bottle.

Mercy snatched the Corona before Jack could touch it.  She put the bottle to her mouth and chugged.  “Drink the one I poured you, soldier,” she said with a smile.

“See?” Jack added.

“Alright kids, I’ve got other customers,” Slicer said, walking to the other side of the bar.

“So how are we going to celebrate tonight?” Mercy asked with a knowing smile.

“I’m working,” Jack replied, quickly attempting to shoot down any other plans.

“Yeah?” she questioned.  “Of course you are.  You don’t care anything for your birthday because you’re fucking turning old.  I, on the other hand, do care.  We’re gonna celebrate, Jack.  And we’re gonna do it at your place.  And when I say we’re gonna do it…”

“I know what you mean,” he interrupted.  “But I won’t get home ‘till late.”

She cocked her head and sighed out loud.  “Jack, I know you get home late. You work in a titty bar for fuck’s sake!  That’s why I will be at your place waiting for you.  Don’t worry, baby, it’s not a school night or anything; we don’t have to get up early.” 

“But how will you--?” he began, attempting another excuse.

“Give me your house key, Jack, and your alarm code,” she said, palm out.

Jack contemplated this option in silence.

“It’s not a choice, Jack.  You and I are an item.  Do I really need to go over this again?”

He sighed, still hesitant. “But you don’t know the way there,” he tried again.

Rolling her eyes, she instructed him that, “Jack, it’s 2022. I know how to use Google Maps, dumbass.” He was still hesitant, but out of excuses. “If you don’t trust me enough for this, Jack, then I’m going to go back to Janequin’s and put my boobs in everyone’s face again.  And you’ll have to watch me do it. And if anyone else tries to--” she couldn’t use the painful words so she continued, knowing that he knew exactly what she couldn’t say, “--it’ll be your fucking fault.” Her accusing finger jabbed at his nose to make sure he got her point.

He bit his lip, told her the code, and pulled out his keys, removing the house key from the ring.

Mercy took it, pleased that she won.  “See?  We are in a relationship.  When you come home tonight, I’m going to have dinner ready for you and we’re going to eat like a couple.  Then we’re going to bed, like a couple.  And you’re going to eat birthday cake off my naked body, like a couple.”  She smiled and gently kissed his nose.  “But don’t expect me to wear any naughty lingerie.  You get enough of that at your job.  I’m gonna put on one of your old shirts, and nothing else.  Get me?”

He raised an eyebrow, admittedly growing excited with her plans.  He had secretly enjoyed being told what to do.  That had been his life for so long.  The military fashioned him to be a good soldier, to do what he was told.  Just like his father.  His mother was nothing like Mercy, though.  She was kind, sure, but had no backbone, nor strength.  His father didn’t survive his third tour in ‘Nam, leaving her to try to fend for herself and a kid. Never went to school to learn to do anything else so she took whatever job she could get. She wound up working at a Brookshire’s Grocery Store as a cashier, working late hours and begging for nonexistent raises.  She was cute, too, as well as he could remember. And tiny, maybe a little over five feet, and she had long blonde wavy hair like Farrah Fawcett on the TV. She couldn’t stand up for herself, though, let alone her own son.  Jack learned that the hard way when she met Sergeant Dickhead, real name Rick. The sergeant managed, much to Jack’s chagrin, to survive Vietnam. Probably served as a fucking pencil pusher, sending others to do the dying for him.  He met Jack’s mom when he arrived as part of the notification team. He started coming around to their little home on Elm Street often after that, “helping out with the house”, drinking late, and not leaving ‘till the morning.  Jack learned early on that it was okay to slap around your woman once in a while. Mom yelled, she got hit. Mom cried, she got hit. Mom’s chicken wasn’t juicy enough, she got hit. Jack wanted to be a good soldier like his dad so, if Mom accepted it, he did too. He let Sergeant Dickhead hit her. That’s why she wound up beaten to a pulp when Jack was fifteen. That’s when Jack decided it wasn’t okay to hit a woman. He realized that a good soldier defends the weak and Jack always tried to be a good soldier. Sergeant Dickhead disagreed and put Jack in the emergency room that day.  Jack’s glance sunk to the countertop to which Mercy raised his chin so their eyes could meet once more.

“Where did you go just then?” she asked.

“Just had some old memories creep up,” he answered, shrugging it off.

She took the hint, dropped it, and looked around the bar at all the customers.   “Tell you what, baby, I got a lot of people needing food and alcohol right now, so you can tell me all about it tonight after sex,” she said before gently kissing his mouth and briskly licking his philtrum.  “I’ve gotta get back to work; some of us have real jobs to do.  Eat your lunch and get outta here, okay?” she said, backing away.  “And I want you horny when you get home, understand?  Go ahead and stare at every boob you can tonight,” she added, loud enough for the whole bar to hear.

The bright red captain nodded his head with an oversized grin.  “What the hell have I gotten myself into?” he mumbled.

Chapter Three

The Indian sped in and out of the early afternoon traffic, heading in a southwest direction just under the blazing Vegas sun.  His mind was clouded with thoughts of Mercy the key thief, his girlfriend, apparently! When did he allow himself to be wrapped up in another freakin’ relationship? He had moved to Vegas just to be there for the Morrisons. Well, Nerriah, mostly, but she wouldn’t give him the time of day after he murdered her brother, small wonder! Her brother, Xavier, had graduated high school and was probably in college somewhere. Nerriah’s mother he wasn’t too sure of. He had heard she got the COVID but wasn’t sure how she was faring now. That was what he was supposed to be doing, not dating someone half his age like some sugar daddy!  There was another reason to be in Vegas but that was just as difficult, maybe more so. Old relationships, once buried, usually stayed that way. He sighed as he approached the red light and glanced at his Citizen watch. Being that there were still a couple of hours before Jack had to be at work and, since he couldn’t go home, he decided to refresh himself with an iced coffee.  There was a Starbucks on North Rancho Drive that he had visited a couple of times with his...girlfriend and Jack had acquired a liking for the afternoon treat.  He parked his bike between a silver Prius and a black Silverado and placed his helmet in the storage box.

He pulled open the door and held it for an older couple exiting the coffee shop. “Afternoon,” he greeted them.

The gray-haired lady in a short sleeve striped blouse smiled at him and the man in the beige sunhat and Hard Rock t-shirt took notice of Jack’s dog tags and saluted him with a courteous smile.  “Soldier,” he acknowledged.

Jack was usually pleased when someone recognized him for his service to his country, even if the whole of his actions and duties weren’t public record. Even if he had retired five years prior. If only they knew how he served his country now, protecting the rights and liberties of girls who want to bare their all for men with cash. The old couple would be so proud! He entered the coffee shop and approached the long line of about eighteen patrons with very little apprehension; he happened to be in a good mood, had some time to kill anyway, and didn’t mind the delay.  In front of him was a skinny little man, short black hair, and in a striped suit. The young man had a small case of the shakes, obviously in need of his caffeine fix; better that than the stuff Jack had to take to settle his own addictions.  Just behind that man was a large, dark-haired woman in a thin, black sweater and red blouse unbuttoned a little too low for her age, talking loudly and cursing violently on her cell phone.  Jack took notice of a boy no more than four years of age in a Blue’s Clues t-shirt, watching the repugnant lady with acute ears.  The lady was talking like Jack himself...when there were no kids around and he was in a foul mood. Jack shook his head in displeasure, tapped the woman’s shoulder to get her attention, and looked forcefully into her eyes.

“What?” she snapped at him, the phone still attached to her ear, and spittle flying out of her mouth.

“You need to watch your mouth,” the soldier warned.  “There are kids around here.”

The lady looked nervously past the huge arms of the man in front of her and saw the innocent, freckled face of the boy who was staring right at her.  She gulped and returned her focus to Jack.  She did not want to argue with such a mean-looking individual wearing dog tags.  “I’ll take it outside,” she decided with a quavering voice.  “It’s work. I--I can get my c-coffee afterward.”

“Good idea,” Jack replied.  “You shouldn’t be using that kind of language around kids, lady.  It ain’t polite,” he stressed as she stumbled quickly for the door. Satisfied, Jack turned around and suddenly found a slim, attractive lady of thirty-six years of age, standing just a tad more than five-and-a-half feet standing in front of him.  She wore a spaghetti-strapped, pink, sleeveless top with a ruffled trim down the center and a pair of tight, white denim pants and high heels.  Her face, accented by her raven hair, light red lipstick, and sharp blue eyes, was firmer than it once was, but still extremely intelligent. “Nerriah,” he blurted out, gripping his hands together in awkwardness. He had not seen her in over five years. What would he say to her after all this time? Sorry I killed your brother? Sorry I missed the double-funeral, but I didn’t think anyone would appreciate my being there since both their deaths were my fault?  “I--” was all he could follow with.

“Move up, Jack,” she replied with a forwardness he half-expected.

“Wha--?”

Her eyes widened as she cocked her head to the side. “Military life’s faded out that much already? You used to notice things that no one else could, like some kind of mutant detective. Now you can’t even tell when a large crowd of people in front of you has moved four feet up.” Her voice was without anger but was very direct. Jack quickly turned to see his error and, shrugging his shoulders sheepishly, moved several steps up, closer to the young man in the striped suit.  “Nice work, by the way, showing that old lady what’s-what,” she complimented, whilst putting her phone away in her light cream-colored COACH purse. Her svelte arms, adorned with bracelets, were smooth as ever and lightly sprinkled with those youthful freckles.

Jack instantly grew an instant smile.  “Nerriah.”

“You’ve already said that,” she said with a friendly grin, finally. Nerriah Morrison then waved him closer, her silver bracelets jingling like another of his relationships.  “I saw you come in and figured I’d save you from waiting in this line. I’ve already ordered us some drinks.  You’re welcome.”  She lightly touched his arm and pulled him away from the line.  

“How did you order from--”

“It’s called a phone app, Jack; welcome to the 20s,” she said, passing a group of youthful business types, smartly dressed in suits, ties, and blouses, and texting away on their phones and laughing to themselves all the while. “I didn’t know what you’d want but I assumed it was too hot for a regular coffee and you never were the type for fattening, mocha lattes, or anything, Jack.  I knew I’d be safe with an old-fashioned iced coffee.”  She led him to the only empty table, small and round and at the back end of the shop; it was staged right next to a window bathed in warm sunlight. He could not get over her being there, right beside him, talking to him.  It had been so long since he last saw her at some health food store, and he was too nervous to even approach her and give him a word then.  And now, here she was, acting as if nothing bad had ever happened, and ordering him a coffee. “Look good?” she asked.

“You do,” he answered after a pause, staring deeply into her eyes, quite lost in thought.  “You look great.”

“Thanks, Jack,” she replied with a chuckle. “But I meant the table.”

“Oh, yeah, fine. Just fine, Ner. You still look good.”

“Thanks,” she said, brushing a loose strand of hair out of her face and then propping her head up on the palms of her hands. “We’ve had some rough years and I was kind of getting some love handles for a while. Fell off the wagon completely after Mom--” Her words wouldn’t come out and the tension was beginning to build rapidly.  “- -I see you’re still working out,” she recovered, “being the tough guy, and picking on defenseless little old ladies,” she laughed quietly.

A nervous smile crossed the soldier’s face.  “It had to be done.  And she was not that little.” Nerriah allowed her eyes to glance outside at the adjoining plaza. “Your Mom, Ner? How is she?”

His attractive ex lowered her eyes, still facing away. “She wouldn’t get vaccinated, Jack. She wore the mask, but...Xavier and I tried our best to convince her, but I don’t know. Trypanophobia. She always had it and could never get over it, even after my aunt got sick. If only she could have held on for just two more months. The cure was almost there, Jack.” She returned her face back to Jack, but still lowered, not able to look him in the eyes.  “We’re holding up, but it’s hard without her. I want my mom, Jack. I want my dad and I want…”  Nerriah’s hand covered her trembling lip as she opened her eyes again, staring a little more harshly at the soldier.  The tears began then. “I miss my brother, Jack and you...you killed him, Jack. You killed Daryll.”  Her voice was just above a whisper, but the outrage was purely there and audible to the soldier. Her free arm shot out and gripped his wrist, nails cutting into his skin. “Why, Jack? Why did you have to kill my brother? Why did you have to shoot---?”

That was all she could manage. The rest was up to Jack.

“Nair-i-ay?” a voice called out loudly.

“Ner,” Jack began.

She shook her head. “No, Jack. Just, no. Just go get our coffees, please.”

He looked back towards the counter. “Wha-?”

“Nair-i-ay?” the voice repeated even louder.

“God, Jack!” she shouted, unable to hold it in anymore. Nerriah stood up swiftly, knocking her chair to the floor as she stormed away toward the counter for their coffees.  Jack, dumbfounded, realized that her ‘name’ had been called by the barista and rapidly moved to pick her chair up off the floor, trying to ignore all the staring from the patrons. Planning out and going on missions, shooting the bad guys, and rescuing the captives came much easier to the soldier than maneuvering through relationships, present or past.  He knew she was upset at him but had no real idea how to fix it. If he was a normal man, working at a bank or some office somewhere, maybe he’d have better luck. But he was a soldier, through and through, like it or not. He watched her, like an idiot, as she left the counter and approached their table once more, tears visible in her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he began as she placed the drinks on the table.

“Jack,” she whispered, sitting down once more, “it’s my fault.” She dried her eyes with a napkin for a long moment before looking at him. “You were doing your job and I realize that now. I hated you for it for a long time. I really hated you. If I had seen you anywhere, if you had dared to approach me or anything, Jack, I don’t know what I would have done. When I saw you at Whole Foods last year, in January, I still wasn’t ready to talk to you. Mom was sick then, and the last thing I wanted was to speak to the man who--” Her voice trailed off and she sipped her latte.  Like an untrained soldier, he finally noticed her hand, her ring finger. It took this long. She was a married woman now; taken! Her blue eyes found his again and she gave a tiny, awkward smile.  “I know you saw me then and thank you for not reaching out. I wasn’t ready yet.”

“And now?” he asked.

She rubbed her chin playfully and searched the inside of her head for a second or two. “Things are better now, Jack. Mom is in a better place, healthy again, I obtained my doctorate and am teaching at the university, and... I got married,” she laughed as she playfully waved her hand in front of his face.

Jack was pleased. Ner had suffered much in the past five years and deserved some happiness. “A good man I hope?” he asked.

“Amaury,” she announced. “He was one of Mom’s doctors and is a very good man, Jack. He comforted me when I needed it and he keeps me happy. He is good, Jack.”

“I’m glad, Ner.” Jack was a weak man when it came to relationships and allowed his mind to wander for a moment. If she were single, where would this coffee have led to?

“I’ve always wanted to be just like you, Jack,” she admitted out of the blue while gazing into her drink, not his eyes.  “You’ve always been strong, even if it hurts sometimes.”  Her words were calm and did not seem to mean any harm but struck Jack Nelson in the heart anyway.

He wanted to touch her arm or her hand but did not make any move of the sort.  He, instead, sighed.  “I’m not always that tough, Ner.  Sometimes I find myself weaker than…”  His thoughts had just revealed his weakness to him. What would have happened? Would he have cheated on Mercy? How did he really feel about her? He was not as strong as others thought, including him. He searched his mind for the right response but was never one for witty dialogue.

“A bottle of soda that’s been open for three days?” she suggested.

Jack smiled again and nodded.  “You were always great with words, Professor; still are, aren’t you?”

“Doctor, Jack,” she corrected him. “And that’s why I am always making jokes in awkward situations,” she laughed nervously.  “Anyhoo, I was on my way to work and decided to swing in for a coffee; and here you are, birthday boy. Fifty!”

The color of red flushed Jack’s face.  She remembered his birthday!  “Wow,” he exclaimed.  “Still a damn fine memory, too.”

She winked at him and sipped her coffee.

“So, how’s Xavier doing?”

“He’s been good,” she answered solemnly.  “He earned his AA and moved to L.A., still a dreamer.  He writes a lot, just like Mom, and is always drawing, too.  At least he’s not into any kind of trouble. He works at Disney.”  She studied Jack’s eyes.  “He’s a good boy.”

At that moment a Starbucks employee parked a mop and a bucket against the wall, behind Nerriah’s seat, and greeted her: “Good afternoon, Dr. Morrison.”

“Hey, Harry,” she responded.

Jack gave her a questioning look.

She sighed and rested her elbows on the table.  “Every other time I come in here there’s an accident.  Sometimes it’s my fault; sometimes it’s someone else.  Last time, Amaury accidentally spilled hot coffee all over my thigh.  It gave me third-degree burns!”

“Third-degree?” he repeated.

“No,” she answered, “not really.  But it sure did hurt.”  She laughed out loud, gaining some curious looks from the Starbucks staff.  “So, how about you, Jack?” she asked.   “Are you seeing anyone?”

He nodded his head and shrugged his shoulders.  “She tells me we’re in a relationship.  I guess we are.”

Nerriah nodded her head knowingly.  “You never were good at that sort of thing.  We went on five dates before you would even kiss me. Strong but shy type.”  She considered the man before her and his actions in the past.  “Have you taken her to the movies yet?”

Jack nodded his head.

“Have you taken her out to eat?”

He nodded his head again.

Nerriah looked around and then, knowing his aversion to public/private conversations, leaned closer to him, asking, “Have you slept with her, Jack?”

She stumped him with the question and in the way she leaned in so close that he could smell her.  She always smelled so nice and reminded him of a tropical beach.  He remembered the time they flew to Florida for a week and how she wore that bikini so well.  What if? What if there were no Mercy or Amaury?  He closed his eyes and tried to shake away his weakness and return to the present.  His ex-girlfriend was asking if he had slept with his new girl.  Jack opened his mouth to talk but said nothing.

“You have slept with her,” she whispered with excitement, almost laughing again.  She relaxed back in her seat and crossed her legs.  “You’re definitely in a relationship, Jack; congratulations.”

The man who used to kill for a living gazed at the woman he once had an intimate relationship with.  What went wrong?  She was smart, independent, sexy, a wonderful person, and had a boundless sense of humor.  She was perfect for Jack Nelson, soldier, sometimes gone for months on end.  He had loved her and looked forward to every moment spent with her.  She was always on his mind, and he had even considered retiring way back then so that he could be with her.  That was when he realized their relationship was all wrong.  She was perfect; he was a killer.  He was no good for her.  She needed some little, pretty, rich boy without scars or a room waiting for him in Hell.  She needed a good man, a better man than him.  That’s why he ended it.  That was what went wrong.  He had told her it was due to stress at work. Jack knew he was being a prick when he stopped returning her calls or making lame excuses for not showing up on dates.  He had put up a barrier between them and did not want to let her in anymore.

“So, who is she?” Nerriah Morrison asked, bringing him back from his thoughts, while she twirled the stirrer in her drink, dissolving the froth a little at a time.

“Um,” he stalled; mulling over how to answer that she was once a stripper.  “Her name’s Mercy; she works for Slicer.”

Nerriah’s eyes lit up with instant realization.  “I know just who she is!  She’s that sassy little Asian girl with the spiky hair.”  She laughed as she pictured Mercy in her mind.  “Jack, sure, she’s very pretty and all, but isn’t she a little too colorful and young for you?  How old is she anyway?”

Jack rubbed his left bicep, uncomfortable with discussions about relationships of any sort.  “She’s twenty-three.”

Nerriah nodded, remembering Jack’s inhibitions.  “I’m sorry, Jack.  I didn’t mean to pry.”  She gazed into her ex’s pained eyes and carefully planned her next words.  “Does she treat you well?”

A half-smile formed on Jack’s face, and he nodded.

“Well, that’s good.  I don’t know if I’d be able to kick her butt if she didn’t, babe.  She looks pretty tough,” she said with a laugh.

“You have no idea,” he replied, recalling that she had just forced Jack to give up the key to his home.

Nerriah Morrison was glad to see Jack again and to catch up on old times.  She was not too happy with him after the way he ended their relationship and was extremely devastated after Jack had killed her own brother to stop a terrorist plot to destroy the Hoover Dam.  She had not wanted to look at Captain Jack Nelson’s face for a long time since then.  She had learned that he had retired from the military and was working as a bouncer at Janequin’s Strip.  Besides that, she knew very little about what had become of her former lover.  Nerriah shared with Jack details about her career teaching English and Writing at the University of Nevada.  She had several good classes that worked well for her, making good grades, and turning in some excellent work. Jack could have guessed all of this already; he knew how good she was, how she was determined and successful at whatever she attempted. But he didn’t stop her; he was pleased to have the chance to finally hear her voice once more and would not want to interrupt her for anything.

“Oh, crap,” she exclaimed as she looked at her watch, knocking over her drink onto the floor.  Luckily there was not much left.  “I’ve got to get moving or I’ll be late!”  She glanced at the spill and then at Jack, trying to decide what to do.

“I’ll get the spill,” he said.  “Go ahead.”

“Thanks, babe,” she responded before leaning in instinctively and kissing him on the mouth.  It was strange and wonderful at the same time.  The kiss should have been on the cheek or the forehead, but it was on the lips.  He touched her face gently as her eyes opened.  She pulled away.  “I’m sorry, Jack,” she said, blushing.  He wasn’t sure if she was apologizing for kissing him on the mouth or for leaving but accepted her apology, nonetheless.

Then she was gone.

Jack’s left eye zoomed in and followed her out to her silver Prius and then out onto North Rancho for about thirty seconds before he lost her.  He then sighed and used the mop to clean up the spill, choosing not to acknowledge any of the youthful female patrons ogling his muscular arms managing the mop.  He put the mop back in the bucket, polished off his remaining coffee, and headed for the door, silently excusing himself as he passed the crowds of coffee drinkers.  The man in a relationship with Mercy then stepped out into the desert heat and closed his eyes for a moment, taking in the presence of Nerriah Morrison. Her beach-like scent still lingered in his aura, on his clothes, and his face.   She kissed him!  He rubbed the back of his neck, strolled to his bike, and put on his helmet.  Good thing Mercy wasn’t around, he thought.  “She’d kick both our asses!” he stated out loud.

Jack Nelson sped through the streets; feeling pleased with his surprise meeting with Nerriah but had a nagging pain in his gut.  It was starting again.  The pain had sprung suddenly. With it, returned pictures of the fallen and the dead filled his brain.  He heard their cries and screams, their curses, and pleas.  It had been a never-ending cycle since the death of Daryll Morrison and it seemed to be getting worse.  Jack swerved to narrowly escape a passing Buick and found himself plodding down an unknown, old, back alleyway, having no idea where he was.  The brick building was in disrepair, chipped away, and faded signs advertising food deals and past sales. His pain and visions were increasing, and he knew he had to do something to bring it to an end.  He stopped the Indian near several overflowing trash cans and climbed off, shaking violently as he searched his pockets.  “Fuck!” he cried as the sweat poured down from his face and he fell to the ground, a small pillbox in his hand.  His trembling hands managed to open it as the snakes and skulls piled up around him.  He was sitting on a few dying soldiers of unknown allegiances, his knees and legs resting on their bloody stomachs, blown apart by bombs and bullets as they pleaded with him to help them.  They wanted to get out of there. They wanted to get to the hospital to get healed. They wanted to go home to their families, their moms and dads, and wives and husbands. They wanted to get home to their children. He felt their fresh blood sticking to his skin, their hands clutching him and tugging at him as he struggled to get the pills into his mouth.  His body gave out and he fell to the ground, trying to swallow the pills as the fallen soldiers tried desperately to open his mouth, clawing at him with their bloody fingers to steal the medicine from him.  They wanted it; they needed it more than he did!  Jack closed his eyes as tight as he could, fighting to ignore the pain and the screams, and the blood. 

“Get up!” Jack’s father commanded.

He opened his eyes.

No one was there.

It was just another one of his episodes.

Jack shook his head and sat up, leaning against the wall behind him.

He bit his lip and cursed.

“Happened again, hum?”

He continued to bite his lip and cursed again.

Chapter Four

“You’re always sitting on your bottom, wherever I find you, old friend,” the man in white chuckled as he looked down at the ex-soldier.  “It’s a wonder you ever get anything done.”  His gray glassy eyes peered over to the Indian, its body lying next to several dented metal trash cans, having forced paper, rotten food, a television set with a bullet hole in the screen, and other assorted pieces of garbage to be strewn all over the alley.  “You should really take care of your bike, Captain, you’ve created quite the mess out here...and it smells extremely nasty.” His nose scrunched in disgust.  “Only you could pick such a perfect spot to crash your bike.”

Jack Nelson, gritting his teeth from a pain in his legs and buttocks, glared at the imaginary figure but did not say a word.

“I’d sit next to you but, you know…” he began before allowing his voice to trail off as he gestured at the wet, soiled ground where Jack rested.  “I’ve got white pants you see.”

No words left the other man’s mouth.

“Had quite the spill, eh?  What happened, Jack?”  His inquisitive nature would have seemed caring and real to anyone else who may have been around, but there were none to be had.  Jack had no reason to trust the man in the expensive white suit.  He believed Hek knew what was going on anyway; after all, he lived only in Jack’s head.  He wasn’t real.  “Let me guess then: searing pain brought about from all your time murdering innocent soldiers, mothers, and children?  Daddy screaming at you in your damaged head and calling you names so horrid you wouldn’t be caught dead repeating them in a church? Proper?”

A hungry cheetah can strike its prey with a speed of about seventy-five miles per hour and its chases usually last less than a minute.  Jack Nelson, trained to kill a man within seconds, did not need that long to have the man in white slammed into a brick wall, their faces inches from one another.  While Jack’s left arm braced itself against Hek’s collarbone, holding him still with little chance of escaping was he any normal man, his right hand quickly gripped his blade of choice, a dark black KA-BAR with a serrated edge from a sheath near his jeans pocket.  The blade itself was seven inches long, and when added to the butt cap, the weapon was almost twelves inches.  Hek found the deadly sharp blade lined up with his jugular vein, sighed, and smiled knowingly.  “You have got some serious daddy issues, haven’t you, Jackie?”  Almost casually, perhaps from years of practice, Jack slashed the knife across the neck of his tormentor and let his arms fall to his side, one still in a fist, the other, still clutching the blade.

There was, of course, no blood.

There was no fall.

Hek simply brushed off his jacket and cracked his neck with a swift turn and a tilt.  His glassy eyes seemed brighter than normal, revealing that he was pleased with the soldier’s actions.  The six-foot demon joyfully gripped Jack’s shoulders.  “You did good, Jack.  I insulted your father and you tried to take my life for it.  Any good soldier would do the same. I felt that raw emotion! I almost even felt that emotion called fear myself, knowing your desire to see me dead and quite bloody. You are good!”

“You’re wrong,” he argued, eyes locked on his adversary’s, and on the black shade that encircled them before walking away.  “A good soldier knows when to stop.  I was trained to know that.  I was trained to know right from wrong.”  Like lightning, he kicked the last remaining, standing, trash can in the alley, sending all its contents flying.  “I should know better!” he roared.  “But you infuriate me, Hek!”  His face was constricted and filled with bitterness, his finger centimeters from Hek’s nose.  “I was trained to be a soldier, to follow directions.”  His hand moved away from Hek and became a fully shaped fist once more.  “And instead, I become a fucking lunatic that sees magical men in suits wherever I go!  I murdered people for a living, and I enjoyed it!  I fucking loved what I did!”  A wooden pallet leaning against the wall quickly became a punching bag for Jack’s fist, surrendering its perfect frame after one rage-filled punch.  “And God help me, for all the pain eating away at me, I miss it. I wanna do it again.”  He fell to his knees, arms resting on his fallen bike.  “Something is wrong with me, Hek,” he sighed.  “I want to get better, but I don’t know how.”

“It’s okay, son,” Hek comforted, walking carefully to the broken man, and embracing him.  “Let’s get out of here and go somewhere where we can talk.”

Instantly, he released his strong arms from Jack in a new location, one that smelled a lot less like rotten chicken and moldy cheese, and more like the warmth of the afternoon sun and sweet, fresh-cut flowers after a light afternoon rain.  The former soldier found himself in a beige leather wingback chair, its strong leather smell permeating from beneath him.  Its comfort level was like nothing Jack had ever felt before without heavy medication.  Beyond the remarkable chair and accompanying Italian leather camelback sofa and Dalbergia coffee table, he saw he was within a grand, circular-shaped room of exquisite design: floors of polished gold, walls of solid, black, and gray marble with white circles and lines traversing all around. Crystal clear, and raised, ten-foot-tall windows strategically placed around the room showed off the wondrously colored meadow and gardens far below.  Jack felt as though he had never seen colors so bright in all his life as he stumbled out of the chair and towards the windows.  His mouth agape, as he carefully touched the window frame, making 100% sure it was actually there, that he would not fall to his death in that beautiful garden of a million colors.  Far below, crisscrossing their way throughout, with fragrant blooms climbing over the white garden trellises above them, pathways of large stone slabs, each outlined by slim, trim lines of green thyme with light purple flowers, were strategically placed to enhance the radiant colors all around.  The path led the eyes and nose on a tour for the senses, complete with plants and fruit trees of a multitude of shapes, sizes, and colors, a quiet spot of gravel, greenery, and vines with a wrought iron table and two chairs, and a high arch bridge over a large pond.  The glimmering fish were visible from the window, but Jack could not make out their type.  A small purple potting shed with a white roof stood a few hundred feet from the building he found himself in.  “This is…” he murmured.

“I know what you mean,” answered Hek to the unfinished sentence as he crossed behind a mahogany bar. Its front designs included fluted pillars with corbels carved in shapes of topless mermaids, inset panels that lined its 8-ft. length, (except for the very middle which featured an exquisitely carved, pirate ship glass art with LED lighting), brass foot rails, and a smooth, black granite countertop.  Behind him stood a very tall back bar of similar designs that also included mirrored cabinets with blue lighting and ample storage cabinets, doors, and drawers that housed a plethora of spirits, beers, wines, snacks, and thick, crystal glasses in a variety of smoky colors. “Care for a beer?” he asked.

Bewildered beyond imagination at his surroundings, “yeah,” was all he could manage as his eyes continued to take in his surroundings.  He passed the handmade billiard table, running his rough, calloused fingers over its polished, pitch-black African Rosewood frame; the eight cue balls practically calling his name to stop and play a round or two.  Above that hung a Tiffany-style pool light with an iron frame; The Prospect of Whitby etched in its glass.  Behind the sofa and the billiard table was a marble chess set built on a sturdy wooden frame with two chocolate leather chairs.  Several feet past that was a crystal-clear glass elevator encased in a golden frame.  Elsewhere, Jack spied antique paintings by artists whose name he had forgotten since his high school days and an expensive-looking grand piano and a violin propped up on a stand.  He passed one of the two suits of armor that guarded either side of Hek’s bar counter and sat in a leather bar stool.  “This is a damn nice place for a figment of my imagination.”

“I’ve done alright for myself,” Hek bragged, reaching for a drink in a small fridge below the bar counter.

“Must’ve had a woman’s touch, though.  Of course, the way you dress…”

Hek shrugged the insult off, popped the top off an ice-cold Guinness, and poured it into a thick, frosty glass mug with a smoky, light green color.  “I like a little style, friend.  What can I say?”

“I’ve seen some mansions in my day, but this really takes the cake.”

“Wouldn’t exactly call it a mansion, myself, though it is as nice as one, I guess. And you say it’s all in your imagination, hum?” he grilled, passing Jack the mug.

“There is no way you are real, Hek.  I must’ve knocked myself out cold in that alley.  Still lying there right now, unconscious, or I’m in the back of an ambulance.”  His eyes still wandered around the great room, taking the grandiose of it all in.

“You are really quite infuriating sometimes, Jack.  What would it take to convince you that you are not, in fact, a loon?  That I am actually real, somewhat like a fairy godfather, if you please?”  He capped the bottle of Bain's Cape Mountain Whiskey and placed it on a shelf behind him, turned, and raised his glass.  “What indeed?”

Jack took a large gulp and placed the mug on the bar counter.  “If I ever admit that you are real, I admit that I believe in magic and all sorts of shit that ain’t possible.  Either that or I admit to myself that I really am crazy for believing in you and all this.”  He took another drink.  “Truth is, I don’t want to believe.  This can’t be real.”

“There are worse things in the world than magic, Jackie.  There’s always war.  Now that is a subject that gets underneath your skin…and your fingernails, isn’t it, dear boy?  The death, the blood, the guts.  I’d preferably rather believe in magic than war.” Hek said, seating himself on one of the chocolate-colored leather chairs with a comfortable sigh. 

“I can’t change the world, I’ve learned that.  So, I just stay away from it now.  That’s for the best.”

“But you haven’t really walked away from it, have you?  You want to go back.  But for now, you just take it in on a much smaller scale.  You know this already, right?  Instead of putting a bullet inside someone’s skull or a knife in their heart, you simply punch them when they slip their filthy paws down a stripper’s undies.  Same dirty business, Jack; smaller scale.”

“It’s Daryll.  When I had to shoot my friend, I had to stop.  I’d crossed the line.”

Hek stroked his goatee in consideration. “And that’s when the nightmares and pains began?”

“Every day since then.”

“And you’re too stubborn to seek help so, instead, you pop pills like they were candy.”

“And wash them back with more poison,” Jack added, holding up his mug.

“Maybe you should take the General up on his offer.  Go to Washington and try something new. Straighten up your life.  Maybe you can become a better man for one of your female friends.”

“Fucking Jiminy Cricket here,” Jack laughed out loud.  “What do you know about what I need to do to get better?”

“I’m either magic…or I’m just in your head.  I know you. Either answer makes sense to me.”

Jack stewed.

Hek sipped his whiskey, reveling in his mind games.

“You’ve got a decision to make, Jackie.  Happy birthday.”

As if on cue, the glass elevator opened, and out stepped a woman, about an inch taller than Jack in her faux leather work boots, with the most dazzling, alive blue eyes he had ever seen, like something out of a fairy tale.  Her long auburn hair was pulled into a twist on the top of her soft, round face.  She wore baggy overalls but her exposed arms and long neck revealed that she was slim, tan, and healthy.  A 6” round cake with white frosting was on a silver platter in one hand, a large knife in the other.  “Someone order a stripper gram?” she asked in a breathy voice as she sauntered over to the two men at the bar.

“Grace, my love, how is the garden this morning?” Hek asked.

“Simply divine, my handsome knight,” she gushed as she set the cake down next to Jack, her seemingly hungry eyes on him for a long, hungry moment before she went behind Hek’s chair, wrapped both arms around him, and gently kissed his cheek.  He returned the kiss on hers.  “The Knockouts are in full bloom, the Edens have stretched across the trellis I put in last week,” she explained as she crossed to the front of the sitting soldier, leaned forward, placed her hands on his face, and kissed him as if they were a young couple on a weekend getaway in Aspen.  “Ooo, he smells like a man, and tastes good, too.  Is he for me?” she asked Hek as her wanting eyes watched an uneasy Jack.

“If he wishes,” Hek smiled, leaving his chair, heading for the bar, and picking up the cake.

She stroked Jack’s leg, sat on his lap as if she owned it, and added, with her eyes still on the soldier’s, “and the strawberries are utter perfection, plump, juicy, and delicious!  I put them in the cake.  You have to try it, handsome.”  She immediately stuck her finger in Jack’s birthday cake and put it on her tongue, extended for Jack’s tasting pleasure.

“I don’t know if…” was all he could manage so Grace decided for him, gently licking the roof of his mouth, leaving the sample for him to finish off.

“Best cake ever, right, handsome?”

Jack nodded, simply confused as hell about this comatose dream he seemed to be having.

“I simply knew you’d love it, birthday boy.  It’s so exciting having another man around, isn’t it darling?” she said, leaning her head back towards Hek, her soft, tan neck, and cleavage in full view of Jack.

“She gets a little coo-coo for visitors, Jack.  Sometimes she’s here for years by herself.  Easily drives her crazy,” he said as he searched under the bar for some plates and forks.

“I do not go crazy, Hekky! I did wish for all of this, though,” she added before giving Jack a quick peck on the cheek while feeling Jack’s right bicep.  “My word, you are strong!”

“Yes, you did, my pet,” Hek responded as he began to cut the cake.

Awkwardly, Jack patted her attached hand and asked, “you wished to come here?”

“Well, technically…” Hek began.

Quite nonchalantly, she interrupted with, “I was once an angel, but I disappointed the Powers That Be so they cut my wings off and sent me to Hell to spend the rest of eternity. I was at the doorway, and I wished that someone would come and save me.”  Her puppy dog eyes turned and found Hek. She blushed.  “My knight in a white suit came to rescue me.  All I had to do to stay was to cut some guy’s cock off.”

“Now, now, my love, we don’t want to scare Jack with all the fine details, do we?” Hek warned as he placed two slices of cake on the counter in front of Jack and Grace.

“He’s a warrior, my savior, and I’m sure he’s done much worse.  Haven’t you, Jackie?” she asked with a purr; her face and ruby red lips so close to his, her hands, gently stroking both his arms.

“Can this really be happening?” he muttered as her soft lips touched his once more.  “This can’t be real.”

“Oh, it’s real, my friend,” said Hek as he took his first bite of cake.  “My, sweetheart, you really outdid yourself!  This cake goes in my top one hundred list of favorite things to eat.  Make a note of it, please.”

As if under a spell, she immediately released the lobster-red Jack and pulled a notepad from her pocket and scribbled down the note.  Glancing back at her new friend, she whispered: “eat your cake, birthday boy.  You want to enjoy it while the strawberries are full of sticky, wet, juiciness.  We can play later, okay?”

“How am I supposed to believe any of this?” Jack asked with a bite.  He then stopped short and looked at his slice of cake.  The sensation in his mouth was of pure joy.  A smile crossed his stumped face.  “My God…”

“…had nothing to do with it, friend.  Grace here made that from scratch.  She really is quite amazing; you must agree.  Then again, she was made an angel by God, so, technically, He secondhandedly did have something to do with it.  Only an angel could make a cake as sinfully delicious as Grace’s strawberry cake.”

“I made it with love, too,” she added with a wink.

The smile could not leave Jack’s face.  “But how?  How can any of this be real?”

Hek put his fork down on his plate.  “Grace, buttercup, do go play something so that the men can talk, would you?”

Grace put one hand on Jack’s thigh, squeezed it, and looked to the side of the room where stood the Grand piano and the violin.  “Any requests, soldier?” she asked with utter gaiety as she stood.

He shook his head.

“I’ll play something so hot; you’ll want to leave this boorish pale face loser and take me up to my room.”  She then played with his hair and gave him a repeated peck on the cheek.

The men watched her sashay away.

“As I said, she gets a little coo-coo for visitors.  Now, where were we?  Oh, yes,” he cheered with a snap of his fingers.  “How could any of this be real?  How could you possibly believe that we’re all really here?  How can I prove this to you, Jack?” Hek took his chair back and angled it more to face his captive audience.

Jack chugged the last drop, set the empty mug down, and wiped his mouth with the back of his arm.  “It would have to be the most amazing event that can be most magical and grounded at the same time.  Something where there could be no room for doubt,” he responded.

“Something that would involve others of your lovely little desert community, perhaps?”

“What could you do to convince me you’re real, without hurting anyone?”

Hek snapped his fingers in success.  “I’ve just the thing, lad.  Some call it fate, some happenstance.  I call it the power of Hek.  I will tell you exactly what will happen when you get back to your city, Jack. I will predict the future! What I describe will come true, yet it will be almost unbelievable.  So unbelievable, that you will have to believe.”

“What have you got in mind?”  Jack leaned in, inquisitively, as a violin tune suddenly pleasured the air.

His ears perked up and he turned from Hek to see Grace standing in the glistening sunlight, violin, and body in movement like an art.  She had somehow changed into a slinky, form-fitting black dress that crept down to her calves, save for one long slit that caressed its way from her left thigh on down.  The violin’s base rested near her low-cut neckline, adorned with a black pearl necklace.  Her face was even more beautiful than before as she also magically found time to apply makeup, choosing a light, skin-color enhancing tone.  Her eyes were closed at the very moment she caught Jack’s attention, but her smile was turned on with a smoldering, smoky red lipstick.  She was playing a slow-burning tune and her body moved as if intent on seducing all of Jack’s senses.  She swayed to the music as her hand controlled the bow with sophisticated expertise.  It seemed as though her feet barely touched the floor as she made playing the violin a sensual art form, especially whenever her eyes sneaked a peek at the sitting soldier.  Her music called to him, enticing him to first move his legs side to side and then spellbound his fingers to tap to the music.  If Hek had said a word to him, he knew not and did not care.  Grace had his full attention, and she knew it.  Her slow, purposeful performance governed the room, allowing nothing else to share even the tiniest bit of the spotlight.  Her body spiraled, her legs lifted in the air, her body tilted over in perfect harmony; she moved like no one Jack had ever seen.

She owned him.

“Here’s how you will believe in me,” Jack heard the voice of Hek in his ear, or his head, immensely unsure which it was.  Jack could not turn to face him, though, as his focus was stolen by the entrancing goddess before him.  “You will do Grace’s bidding.  When you are done, when you are back in Las Vegas, you will see three events unfold, then you shall believe.”  Hek’s voice was in his head as he stood and moved toward the siren, with no control over his own legs or thoughts.  “You will kill a man in the streets with decisive intent, you will save a little girl’s life though others will want her dead, and you will come face to face with a vampire.”

Jack wanted to question the man in white, or his sanity, or Jack’s own sanity, since this was all taking place in his head. He wanted to verbally doubt his prophecy but could not move his mouth.  He stood still, however, centimeters away from the violinist, her body moving against his, her mouth inches from his once more, he could feel her warm breath giving him a sense of passion throughout that he could not ignore.  He opened his mouth to kiss her, but she played on, teasing her plaything until she was ready.

“When the vampire saves a life, you will believe.”

At that moment, Grace threw the violin and bow in a heated fury, shattering both against the wall, took Jack in her arms, and dropped them both onto the Italian sofa.

“Who taught you to play like that?” Jack asked as she violently ripped his shirt off.

“Niccolo Paganini,” she breathed heavily.  “Lovely little man.  Great with a bow.”

Hek finished his whisky with a smile and vanished, leaving his two “friends” to get better acquainted.

* **

Jack turned on his blinker, pulled over to the side of the road, and looked around as cars and trucks raced past him, some blaring their horns while others just ignored him as yet another rude Vegas driver.  How dare he slow down the traffic and stop for nothing?!  Jack found himself on West Spring Mountain Road, the local Sam’s Club, and a slew of other shops just behind him.  The air was hot and dry, just the way it should be.  Seemed normal enough to him.  Except that three minutes ago, he was nowhere near here.  Confusion did not just set in; it was already there. “What the hell just happened?” he wondered out loud.  He removed his helmet and held it tightly in his arm.  A slight pain behind his right ear distracted him from his search, prompting him to rub it.  Examining his fingers, he discovered a bit of blood.

No way!

He remembered the girl, Grace, biting him there as they....no!

Rubbing the blood off on his jeans, he noticed his shirt was not the plain black shirt he chose that morning during the general’s call.  He now wore a form-fitting, gray NASA t-shirt.  He had never owned a NASA shirt; it was not his!

Grace ripped the other one off, destroying it in her eagerness.

Was it real?  Hek? Grace? Can’t be. It can’t!

The music she played was real.  She seduced him with that violin.  How could a thing as simple as music do that to a sane, driven soldier…ex-soldier?  He already had a girlfriend, too. Nerriah.  No, not Nerriah; Mercy. Grace wasn’t real!

But she and he--no! It had to have been a dream. He blacked out while riding his bike. Just a dream. 

Jack shook his head violently to clear out the muddled thoughts, put his helmet back on and sped away.  He eventually had to make his way to work.   “You will kill a man in the streets with decisive intent, you will save a little girl’s life though others will want her dead, and you will come face to face with a vampire.” The words filled his head.  Impossible words from an impossible individual.  There was no way…

…until there was.

As fast as that cheetah again, a white Dodge Grand Caravan screeched to a stop in the middle of the road, leaving dark skid marks and causing a collision with the front of a red Chevy Buick. Almost immediately, a man protected in Kevlar jumped out of the driver’s seat of the van, armed with two M16s, and began firing away, no hesitation in his movements, no remorse as he willingly fired into the vehicles of those innocents unlucky enough to pass him or stuck in the backup caused by the collision; death was the only thing on this psycho’s mind.  Trained in situations such as this, Jack made a quick evaluation: mask covering face, neck exposed, caucasion male, about 5’8”, chest protected, bullets flying in a forward direction, cars crashing, cars flying, one semi spinning and crashing on its side. People screaming everywhere from fear or pain or both.  The psychotic was not a trained professional, Jack determined; just a nut-job with some guns.  The crazed individual uttered no words, only screams of an unknown rage as Jack Nelson leapt into action, diving rapidly behind the van, KA-BAR in hand.

There was no time to think anymore.

He slid across the hood of the van as fast as possible and plunged the blade deep into the maniac’s throat, causing a gush of blood as the man slid down quickly to the street, releasing the guns in his fall, blood smearing the side of the Caravan in his slide.  Jack breathed in his sudden accomplishment, another successful mission.  This is what he was good at, not relationships.

The screams from all around grew louder as Jack checked the man’s pockets for any identification.  Nothing.  He looked up at the horde of people scrambling between cars, checking for the wounded; there were some good people there, mixed with all the others, rushing, uncaring, who kept driving as fast as they could as soon as they were able to pass the multitude of stopped vehicles.

There was one noise that was different from all the rest: a repetitive banging.

Jack scanned the area with his “super” eye, courtesy of the US Military.  He checked out the surrounding people, trying his best to ignore the ones thanking him, touching his back and shoulders, shaking his hands, while carefully scanning the others for anything out of the ordinary.  Finding nothing, Jack used thermal imaging on the vehicles involved in the multiple-car pileup. Buick, fine. Silverado, nothing. Tempo, clear. The cream-colored Audi, however, did certainly not check out.  Without a word to the group of people surrounding him, Jack pushed past them and headed straight towards a thin Spanish male, 5’4”-ish in blue jeans and a long ponytail.  He had a faded Abercrombie & Fitch denim jacket over a white, V-neck t-shirt with possible red ketchup stains near the top.  His hair was greasy, slimy, and he had a five o’clock shadow, and red, baggy eyes.  He was examining a smoking bullet hole near the engine as a red-headed woman with a pushup bra, skimpy sundress, and too much makeup was cursing him up and down as if the shooter were his brother or something.  Jack, without hesitation, shoved the lady to the ground with one swift push. A curse in his direction quickly followed.  The man, Jack decided, needed a little more than a shove.  Hand to throat, Jack gave him one quick slam downward, into the hood of his car. “Give me your keys,” Jack ordered.

“Fuck you!” was the man’s foolish response.

Another slam into the hood, this time ending with a bloody nose.  “Now,” Jack said.

The man tried to punch Jack in the gut but had no room to create momentum.  It was similar to a pat on the tummy to the trained killer.

About that time, the red-headed girlfriend was back on her feet and attempted to take a swing at Jack, to which he quickly dodged before putting a fist in her mouth, sending her back to the ground once more, quite unconscious this time.

He turned back to Denim Guy.  “Keys.”

“Go fuck yourself,” he managed before finding himself losing consciousness as well, on the hood of his car.

The man’s left pocket had the car keys that Jack wanted.  Blocking out all the other action around him, he growled, “Why did I ask for these?  This isn’t the 80s.”  He angrily threw them on the ground next to the man and woman and hurried to the Audi’s driver’s side and popped the trunk.  Inside he found a little girl that some others wanted dead.  She was about eleven years old, Spanish descent, green eyes and was in a filthy white dress, stained with some little blood stains here and there.  Her mouth was fastened with duct tape, sane as her hands.  Her feet were free.  She had been kicking the roof of the trunk with her worn-out, hot pink Nikes.  Jack’s eyes warmed with compassion for the girl and tried to hush her crying as he pulled the tape off her mouth as gently as possible.  Uncontrollable sobbing broke free from the girl as Jack moved on to free her hands.  She was wrapped around him and out of the trunk in a heartbeat.

Onlookers, still extremely shaken up from the shooter were now in awe as well, quite surprised to find a kidnap victim mixed in with all the rest of the dangerous situation. Jack held the girl tightly, repeating that she was safe now.  Everything would be all right.  There was nothing else to be afraid of.  She will be with her family soon.  He was not sure if anyone had yet lost their lives but realized that if the shooter hadn’t appeared, this little girl in his arms would have surely lost hers soon after.  How could these two random events have unfolded at the same time?

“You will kill a man in the streets with decisive intent, you will save a little girl’s life though others will want her dead, and you will come face to face with a vampire.”  The events happened right in front of everyone else on West Spring Mountain Road.  There was no denying it, or him.  Hek was real.

Jack tried to push the sobbing girl’s hair, blowing in the fresh, hot breeze, out of his eyes to search the area for anything else odd.  Emergency lights flashed all around, bringing much needed help to the afternoon commuters.  The buildings in the distance glared blindly at those same people far below.  The sun pushed its intensity down with a heavy force, causing a lot of sweat and dehydration.  The heat and the sun would most likely hinder any chances of a vampire if one were to believe in the stories.  Vampires?  He killed someone with intent.  He saved a little girl that others wanted dead.  Next up was a vampire.  How could there be vampires?  For that matter, how could there be magical beings with the power to zap people away to other dimensions or locations?  What other strange happenings had he been ignoring all his life?  Jack continued to hold the girl tightly as a burly, male Chinese LVPD officer rushed up to him, a cool black 9mm. Heckler & Koch aimed at the hero.

His mind should have been focused on the gun in his face, but it instead was focused on yet another realization: Grace was as real as Hek. She was not imaginary and certainly not a dream. She pushed him on the couch and ripped his shirt off him. She was on top of him, unzipping and lowering his jeans with an animalistic persistence. He could all the sudden feel the scratches on his chest as he remembered her hiking up her dress and straddling him forcefully. Grace seduced him.

He cheated on Mercy.

Chapter Five

The lunch crowd had slowly dwindled away by 2:30 that afternoon; a light, hot breeze messing up their hair and blowing sweat into their eyes as they stepped out from The Broken Bottle to continue with their day.  Within the bar, it was time to catch up on the dirty dishes and some lunch cleanup, and begin dinner prep.  Slicer scrubbed mightily at a purple stain on his once handsome flat grain ash wood bar counter, cursing whoever clumsily spilt such a damnable liquid on his counter.  Big Ugly Brock gently pushed aside his boss and squirted an unknown liquid three times on the irritating stain.  “What are ya sprayin’ on my…?” was all the pirate could manage to ask before receiving a burly forefinger in his scruffy face.  “But I didn’t order that shit ye be sprayin’ on my…”

This time, all five fingers, attached to a humongous hand, blocked his mouth, and his whole face.  Big Ugly Brock smiled a mouthful of gold, self-confidence radiating throughout.  After three long seconds, he simply wiped away the stain.

“Prick,” Slicer admonished.  “That’s prob’ly grape juice, fuckin’ spilt by some three-year old twat that ye let sit at my counter on yer watch.  Should a fired yer arse a year ago when I caught ya in the kitchen with whatshername.”

Brock shrugged, knowing his boss was merely joking.  He stuffed the rag and spray bottle in his belt, squeezed Slicer’s shoulder, pushing him down half an inch, and headed for the men’s room.

“Smartass landlubber.  If he couldn’t make a mean commonwealth, I’d have him outta here on his ass, be beggin’ Burger King ta let ‘im flip some patties!” Slicer added with one final wipe of his bar top.

“That, and you’d have no one around to clean up all those weird stains on the counter…and in the men’s room,” Mercy added as she hopped up on that same counter. “Unless you wanna do it.”

“Get yer prissy little ass off my bar, missy!”

“C’mon, Slicer, I’m tired,” she pouted.  “I’ve been locked up in the kitchen all day making lunch for all your customers, and I need to put my ass somewhere.  Besides, it’s a nice show for table three.” She looked over her shoulder and gave a flirty wink.

Slicer looked back at the mentioned table with his one good eye to find a table full of young men, drinking beer…and watching Mercy’s shapely bottom, her arched back pushing it out just a tad more than it should have been.  He turned back to his lunch cook and shook his head, quite humored.  “Fine, but I’m chargin’ them extra, for the booty show.”

“Pour me a beer, will you?” she asked.

“Actin’ like ye own the fuckin’ place, ain’t ye?” he asked before kindly pouring her a Budweiser from the tap.

“I’m in a good mood; what can I say?” A wide, secret smile crossed her pretty, round face.

Slicer passed her the beer, gave her a questionable glare, and went back to wiping down the counter and some beer mugs.  “What would put ye in such a grand mood on this damn hot desert day, lass?”

She noisily dangled her keychain in front of her boss, complete with a Hello Kitty ornament, with gleeful pride.  “I’ve got the captain’s keys, matey. I’m meeting him at his place to celebrate his birthday.” Her legs kicked up and down in glee.

“Well, lass, I guess ye are his girlfriend at that.  He must really trust ye a lot to give that to ye.”

“Nope,” she said, circling the key chain noisily around a finger, “I just threatened to go back to work at Janequin’s.  The thought of sharing my boobs with other men convinced him to see things my way real fast.  He’s so easy to control.”

“And it’s his birthday, aye?”

She nodded and drank a big gulp from her mug.  “I’m going to greet him when he gets home and we are going to celebrate big time, whether he likes it or not.”  She stretched out her short, strong legs enough to get two pops out of them and then let them dangle loosely below the bar top.  “He really does love me, you know?”

Slicer stopped short as he was wiping one of his mugs and gave her a stink eye.  “Jee-sus! Don’t ye have any girlfriends ye can be talkin’ all this romance shite with?  Does this have ta happen with me?  Yer boss? A man?”

She shrugged her arms.  “Well, yeah, but they’re not here at the bar, they’re out there,” she said with a point to a window, “experiencing life, having fun.  And I’m here, working.”

He glared at her rear end, a black G-string poking out, on his bar counter. “Workin’ my ass,” he countered.  “Is this yer way of asking for the rest of the day off, missy?”

“Or we could talk like girlfriends?  I could discuss my last period if you like?”

“Aargh! Get outta my bar, Mercy.  But come back all that much earlier tomorrow,” he growled in surrender.

“Don’t know if I’ll be able to walk tomorrow, but we’ll see,” she cheered as she hopped down. “You’re a real doll, Slicer.  Thank you! Someday you’re going to make some girl very happy.” She planted a wet kiss on Slicer’s scruffy cheek. 

“Oh, I’ve already got her in me sights, sweetie; don’t fret,” he revealed.

“Really?” she expressed in wonderment.  “Who is she?  What’s her name?  Do tell!  C’mon, dish it out, man.”

Slicer gave an unusually embarrassed laugh before pausing for a moment in thought and answering, “she be a lovely lass by the name o’ Serenity.  We’re not together now, but rest assured, lass, it’ll be soon; it’ll be soon, don’t you worry.” His good eye looked as if he were lost in a merry daydream.

“I hope you two work it out soon, boss-man.”

“It still be a few months away; maybe a year,” he sighed, “but I’ve got all the time in the world.  Hey, listen,” he added, changing the subject quite suddenly.  “About Jackie…”

“Yeah?”

“He ain’t been doin’ too well lately.  Lookin’ a little pale around the eyes and all.”  Slicer chose his words carefully, not wanting to divulge anything about the drugs he had been acquiring for the captain.  He looked at her sternly, like a caring, older uncle.  “Watch out for him, me lass.  Keep his attention on ye, and away from other, er, distractions; savvy?”

Mercy beamed at Slicer’s care for her man and reached for the pirate’s forehead, pulled it down to her barely five-foot frame and kissed it softly, her bracelets clanking loudly as she did so.  “Thanks for looking after him, boss,” she said, releasing him.  “You’re a lot sweeter than you want everyone to think.”

Slicer rubbed the back of his neck in embarrassment again.  “Ye be a lot tougher than a lot o’ other wenches I’ve known, ye landlubber.  That’s a grand thing, trust me. Keep it up, and don’t ye ever be takin’ no shit from nobody; ye hear?”

She smiled knowingly, nodded, and added an “aargh”, before skipping out of The Broken Bottle like a child, cheerful about what the rest of the day had in store for her and her man, the ex-soldier, on his birthday!

Chapter Six

Thoughts, wonderment, disbelief, and confusion had to hide deep beneath Jack Nelson’s consciousness for close to three hours as he waited in the local police station for multiple interviews. Being a hero, he was not taken away in handcuffs and was allowed to follow the police cruisers on his bike. In between interviews he mostly sat on a beige, metal, chair in a small room sparingly decorated with a long maple wood table, three other metal chairs, and an old analog wall clock that was three minutes slow. There was also a dusty two-way window and a hazy smell of old tobacco. The exhausting day he’d had up to that point had caused him to doze off for about eight minutes just after the second interview. When he gave his final statement, Jack was eventually released from the station to go about his day. His Citizen watch read 6:04 as he stepped into the sun-burnt parking lot to collect his Indian and get to work. A devastated brain troubled the soldier as he, at long last, had no badges probing the events on West Spring Mountain Road. He felt a great weight lifted off his shoulders before the first bunch of crap returned to his head at the same time as his helmet. Hek was real! That also meant all the magic, the sudden storms, the cash, the palace, and the girl!  Hek, the very real magical genie or demon or monster, whatever he was, was real. Hek had predicted exactly what Jack would experience upon his return: the maniac shooting everything in sight and the little girl that the greasy couple wanted dead. All real!

Then Hek said that Jack would meet a vampire!

His mind fully absorbed, reliving, and questioning events in his life since he had met the demon on his 18th birthday, he hadn’t even realized how slow the traffic dragged on his way to work.  Veering his bike under the overpass that stretched above Janequin’s Strip, Jack parked it in an oil-stained spot near the back of the lot an hour late.  He had taken the time to phone in and let them know about his involvement with the incident with the deranged shooter and the kidnapped victim earlier, and how he had to take some time to visit with the LVPD afterward.  Above the gentleman’s club, vehicles trudged along the expressway bridge in their torturous Friday evening commute as the dust clouds in the sky gave a dark, reddish haze to the once scorching, bright Vegas afternoon sunlight.  Jack tucked away his helmet and noticed that Lucas’s Mechanics, on the other side of the parking lot, had closed shop early. Jack took notice that the garage doors were all shut, and the lights were out within his friend’s place of business.  Still parked near the building were the faded yellow 1977 Chevy Luv with the busted windshield, the 2017 tan Toyota Corolla that was covered in questionable white dust…and a flat tire, the rusty ’87 Buick Grand National GNX that had probably been sitting there for three weeks, and several other vehicles of all make and models.  Kind of odd, in the soldier’s mind, however, were the three black Chevy Tahoes parked in front of Lucas’s. The SUVs all had tinted windows, were shiny and clean, and most likely bulletproof.  Jack’s left eye noted the heat signatures in all three vehicles, most likely armed and ready.  He sighed and headed calmly, but slightly agitated, around the reddish-brown, two-story building, and to the front door.  Standing there were two familiar faces to him.  “Bella and Christian, my old friends, how’s it goin’, you two?  Never expected you for the strip club type, Christian.”

Christian was a slim Bostonian Caucasian male, 35-years-old, and dressed in a tight, plain black t-shirt, jeans, and tactical boots.  His dark, red hair was shorn thin on top and shaved off on the sides of his head.  Sunglasses protected his eyes from the harsh desert sun and the dust in the breeze.  “Captain,” he said as if directed as such, and a salute, “I’m naht here for pleasure, suh.”

Jack saluted both soldiers and added, “didn’t think so.  You always were a good boy.  Bella, however…”

“How you doin’, Cap?  Long time, no see,” she said with fraudulent cheerfulness as she held fast to her Heckler & Koch MP7, drawing concerned looks from a group of three men in jeans and long sleeve, untucked shirts as they passed between the soldiers to enter the club.  Her weapon was freshly polished, as was Bella’s standard discipline before each mission.  The dark, yet shimmering-skinned, Puerto Rican was never the prettiest girl at the party, (crooked nose earned in a middle school fight and a face that was considered too solid for her bone structure), but she had a way of being the star anyway as she could outperform, outfight, outshoot, and outmaneuver most men in the room.  She stood at 5’7”, built with lean muscles, and was always ready for anything.

“Has been a while, ‘Bell.  Nigeria, was it?”

“We kicked some ass there, didn’t we, Cap?” she replied with reserved enthusiasm.

“I think I sat back, directed traffic, and let you and yours do all the ass-kicking there, Sergeant,” he responded, eyeing her with caution before pausing and considering his next actions carefully. She was one of the best, and probably had the best chance of kicking his ass out of most people that he knew.  “How’s your daughter doing?  Got a lot bigger, I’ll bet.”

Bella smiled politely, still holding fast to her weapon.  “Karina’s in fourth grade now, making straight As, like her mom.  I see what you’ve been up to, Captain.  Working through your problems by ogling boobs in a strip club?  Not really your style.  Come on, man, you’re better than this and you know it.”

Fists suddenly formed; Jack shook his head.  “No, I’m not; not anymore, Chica.”  He noted in his peripheral vision as a handsome, but frightened, young couple turned away suddenly, changing their minds about their destination for the night. 

“Come ahn, Captain,” Christian began as he made a grab for Jack’s arm.

Quickly, Jack pivoted out of Christian’s reach, seized the younger soldier’s arm, and pinned it behind him, slamming him into the wall. Christian’s pistol had found its way into the angered Captain’s grip and was pointed at the young soldier’s temple, pressing against it with force, tightly into the wall.  “Don’t fucking touch me, kid,” Jack warned.

“Captain,” Bella cautioned with her weapon, determinedly aimed as well.  “They’ll be out here in five seconds if you don’t drop him.  Now.”

Without hesitation, Christian was thrown to the sidewalk, followed by his pistol, after Jack took out the magazine and placed it in his own pocket.

“That is why I’m out here, Jack,” Bella began as the younger soldier climbed to his feet.  “I wanted to keep you from doing anything stupid.  I don’t want anyone getting hurt.”

“That’s impossible, ‘Bell,” he cautioned, “in our line of work, someone always gets hurt.”

The sergeant lowered her weapon but held steadfast just in case.  “You know they’re in there,” she began as she nodded at the door. “They only want to talk.  The general recommended you for a special mission.  Said you’re our guy and that you needed it.  You need the change, and we need you.”  She eyed him intensely.  “They only wanna talk.  We don’t want any of your stripper friends in there getting hurt.”

“Only talking, huh?” he clarified, acknowledging her weapon.  “Who’s in there?”

“Some of your favorites, babe. Dwight, Jake, Ox, Andrew, Brenda…”

“Quite the little party in there.”

“They’re here for you, Jack; that, and, you know, boobs,” she added with a curt smile.

“Who else is waiting on me?” Jack sneered.

“Shadow,” she said flatly before adding mockingly, “Stupid-ass codename.”

Jack squeezed his fist once more before loosening his grip.  “Insane fucking homicidal maniac, more like it.  Why would Blackfinger send him?”

Knowing that he should already know the answer, her reply was stern: “If the others can’t convince you, Jack…”

He interrupted her with his flattened hand in her face.  “Got it.”  He then looked back at Christian.  “Come on, son, let’s go see some titties,” he ordered as he moved towards the door once more, the sound of the loud music inside pulsating against it.

The doors opened as Jack stepped into Janequin’s Strip, followed closely by the two soldiers, their weapons holstered.  The song “Domino'', by Kiss, played loudly in the darkened, smoky, red-brick room, as colorful lights flashed throughout.  Wrought iron railings, soft, red velvet chairs, and round, metal tables with assorted drinks and small, shaded glass, battery-operated candles adorned the gentleman’s club.  Brown leather recliners were placed strategically throughout, some occupied with two individuals, some not.  A short-haired, tan, and heavily tattooed young lady was dancing seductively on a circular, wood floor stage with three poles and a red curtain backdrop.  Her skills were highlighted by the smoky blue stage lighting from above and the ones on the floor level.  Along the rear of the club was the red-lighted bar counter, complete with about a dozen customers and a plethora of alcoholic drinks.  Two winding staircases led patrons up to the second floor for more private entertainment venues.  Jack took notice of how packed the club was, filled with young and old, rich, and poor, men and women.  None deserved what may happen next.  Jack had barely taken three steps in before a dark-haired, pretty young lady in purple lingerie placed her hand on Jack’s chest and said, “Vincent’s in his office and wants to see you, and there’s also a bunch of military guys by the stage sayin’ they know you.”

“Thanks, Raven,” he responded before maneuvering through the crowd, followed closely by his 35-year-old escort, to the back of the room.

“Captain!” called out a gravelly-voiced man in a black leather jacket, waving to Jack with a cigar in his hand as he was relaxing in a recliner, legs comfortably stretched out, as a mocha-skinned young lady wearing very little of anything gyrated in his lap, her bouncy blue hair brushing against his scruffy muttonchop-covered face as she moved.  The lady glanced up nonchalantly as Jack approached and went about her business.  “Have a seat, Jack.  It’s your place, get comfy!  Andy, give Jack your seat, will you?” the man in black laughed out loud while calling out to the soldier next to him.

“Evening, Captain,” the young black man with a thin mustache responded as he dutifully stood and straightened his shirt. Andrew stood 6’1”, handsome and lean muscle. He and his team had arrived an hour ago and a few of the girls had propositioned him for dances but he politely refused each one, letting them know he was working.

“Andy,” Jack greeted as he contemptuously took the seat next to the man with the cigar, noticing a few ashes in his graying mutton chops.  A few scars marked his weathered face; one that Jack had noticed as being new, crossed the bridge of his nose.  “You’ve got a lot of back-ups, here, First Lieutenant.” He hated Shadow’s codename, sticking with his rank instead.  “Some of my favorite teammates,” he added, eyeing Andy and the others. 

 “Soldiers,” he added in greeting as he waved his shaggy, dark black and gray hair out of his face. “Hey, babe, that’s good right there what yer doin’. So good,” Shadow grinned winningly and rubbed the bottom of the dancer as it touched his chest.  “Ole Blacky gave me my choice, so I brought them guys and gals here ‘cause they’re the best, and they do their duty, even if that duty is taking you down, Nelson.” His voice was sinister and buoyant as his eyes focused on the girl in his lap rather than on the soldier to his left.

Dwight Jones, stood at attention behind Shadow, showing little emotion.  He was a good soldier, followed rules to a T, and was dangerous when ordered to be. Jake Bran, scary even without a gun in his hand, sat in another recliner, just gave some cash to a tiny little dancer, and sent her away.  His face was mostly scarred from a fire that he started as a teen in an attempt to burn down his high school.  He committed other crimes such as robbery, assault, and grand theft auto until the USSA realized his talents and drafted him.  He was ghastly, sturdy, and very ugly.  Standing behind Bran’s chair was Keme Oxendine, a Native American nicknamed Ox in an attempt to change his name into something more familiar.  The long-haired, handsome 27-year-old Comanche with a hooked nose also stood 6’1” and could charm anyone with his wit but would throw an axe through your chest if ordered to.  Killroy, the oldest of the group at 56, was also the most fun-loving, like everyone’s favorite, shaggy-haired uncle.  The martial arts master, who retired from the USSA a few years back but comes out of retirement occasionally, for the right price, sat reclined in the chair with a pair of breasts in, and a big smile on, his face. Brenda Fry, a blonde, fit 33-year-old from California, sat comfortably in another recliner, was the tech master, able to hotwire a car, hack into any computer, or create a robot for any situation.  She did not have a dancer in her lap but was just there to do her duty, armed and dangerous with a laptop and a handgun if needed.  Standing at attention behind her was perhaps the most dangerous of the group, Havok. Blonde on top, black on the sides, silent, thick, bushy-bearded, Havok enjoyed his work immensely, especially when he was ordered to kill. Dangerous indeed, but only when told to.

“You gonna take me down, too, Fry?” Jack asked his former teammate.

“Already hacked the club’s systems, hot stuff.  Doors can be locked and a/c’s ready to blow to Hell at a moment’s notice.  You, or a lot of others, are going to die if necessary,” she replied almost happily.  “It’s what I get paid for, Captain. Duty and country, you know? Still, hopefully, you can help make this as peaceful as possible.” A wink and an air kiss followed.

“Always a tease,” Jack replied.

“I never tease,” she quipped.

“We don’t have to make this hard, Jackie,” Shadow continued as he pulled the dancer on his lap and held her there with little force, his strong arms wrapped firmly around her petite, frame.  He licked the side of her neck, enjoying the fearful, salty taste, and gave her a quick kiss.  

“Stop; you’re hurting me,” the dancer snapped, trying unsuccessfully to break free.

“You come with us politely, Captain Jack, and everybody’s happy, right?” His grip tightened on the dancer holding her firmly, his muscles bulging in his strong arms.

“You okay, Sapphire?” Jack asked the struggling dancer.  

“Be a whole lot better when this prick lets me go,” she nodded, knowing she was being held against her will and would not be able to leave until the mutton-chopped man released her.

“Just keep squirming, little bitch. Makin’ we all warm and hard inside,” he countered before returning his focus to Jack with a devilish grin.  “We only want you to come with us, birthday boy.  The general wants to talk to you about a special job, something right up your alley. Maybe we’ll even pick up a cake and some ice cream on the way to celebrate.  What kind of cake would you like, Jackie?”

Considering his options, Jack had no response to the rhetoric question.  Bella and Christian stood firmly behind him just in case the response did not please their commanding officer.  While the other soldier’s eyes were trained on the Captain, Bella’s brown eyes were carefully monitoring Slicer and his captive. One slip, she knew, and everything would fall apart. Why the Hell did Blackfinger choose him of all people? Blackfinger knew better!

“How about you, sweetheart?” Shadow asked his captive.  “You want some cake?” he asked, pushing her tighter against the growing bulge in his lap. “We can put whatever topping you want on it as you jam it in your mouth,” he howled with laughter.

“I’d like you to let me go, you sick asshole,” she sneered.

Shadow laughed out loud.  “This cunt has got some balls, boys and girls!  Maybe we should add her to our team.  What do you say, soldiers? She could probably give us all blowjobs before each job, too, before kicking ass with us on the field.”

“I think you should let the little princess here go, Lieutenant,” Bella suggested purposefully. “She’s gotta go ride someone else’s polla for some cash and we’ve got work to do.”

Jack’s eyes were concentrated on Slicer as well, watching for a weakness or a wrong move of any kind. The rest of the team remained silent and ready, but Killroy did politely send away his chair companion with $100.

“No offense, First Sergeant, but I think I’ll keep her here for the time being. She’s helping with a tense negotiation with the captain here, idn’t that right, doll?” His left, tattooed hand found its way up to her uncovered nipple and twisted it softly as he kissed her once more. “Now then, you don’t have much choice, Jack.  You’re coming with us.  Unless you want some nice people to get hurt here.”  He paused and looked around at the crowds of people in the bar.  “Your nation needs you, soldier,” he added quite savagely.

Jack knew the soldiers there and trusted them to do what they needed to.  They were there to back up the First Lieutenant, Shadow. The USSA was not the Army, Navy, Air Force, or Marines.  Their job was usually more secretive and sometimes borderline illegal.  But what they did was necessary.  If he moved on any of them, there would be killing.  He would have to take out Bella and Havok first as they were the most capable in a fight.  The First Lieutenant would be next as he was the most dangerous to civilians.  Sapphire would surely lose her life in the process.  If he did nothing, he would be theirs and he may not be able to get away.  He did not have much time to consider a third option.

“Jack?” called out a distinctly Czechoslovakian voice, barely heard over the sound of the blaring music from the club’s speaker system.  The itchy, alert hands of Christian and Andrew found their pistols pointed at Vincent, the pale, slim, red-headed manager of Janequin’s Strip.  He wore a long, black coat with thick, maroon, velvet lapels, and a red, satin lining.  Underneath was a dark black waistcoat adorned with a gold floral design and buttons made with real bone and shaped like skulls.  He wore a red, silk collared shirt beneath that.  “Are these friends of yours, Jack?” he asked with his ringed hands raised in the air.  “Had I known you invited friends, I would have had my best dancers here to entertain them,” he added with faux sincerity before setting his icy blue eyes on Sapphire.  “Are you well, my dear?”

“I’ll be better when this pervert lets me off his tiny dick and gets the fuck out of here,” she replied in anger.

“Come on, friends, let’s put our toys down and have a grownup conversation,” Vincent suggested warningly.  “Whatever you may be up to, it does not belong in this club.  We keep a clean establishment here and would not like to be marred by unnecessary bloodshed.”  He set his cold eyes on Shadow’s.  “Perhaps we could even relocate this business to my private office, where we may settle this like gentlemen, yes?”

Jack Nelson took this time to consider his boss’s arrival and his options carefully once more.  Vincent was very good at talking and had an otherworldly talent for persuading most people to calm down and leave a threatening situation with haste.  Maybe this could end without anyone getting hurt?  This may just work, Jack decided.

Shadow squinted his eyes and shook his head for a quick, violent second as if something had gotten in his head and he was trying to get it out.  “Yeah,” he said, “yeah; yeah, we could move this to your office, I guess.”  He then proceeded to release any firmness on the girl in his lap and rubbed his eyes vigorously.  Sapphire immediately decided to let her captor know how she felt about him with a quick, vehement elbow to his nose.  This was rapidly followed by an enraged roar from the lieutenant and a rapid knife to the girl’s throat.  Wide-eyed, and with blood spurting everywhere, Sapphire plummeted to the floor in front of him.  Without hesitation, Hell broke loose. 

Jack Nelson only experienced seven seconds of it.  He screamed something incomprehensible, possibly a curse word or two.  Everyone in the club started screaming as well, running towards the front or the back of the building, behind chairs or overturned tables, in a complete panic.  Jack felt the brief, rough touch of Christian’s hand on his shoulder again but was away from his chair before either man could hurt the other.  He saw his former teammate, Dwight, the one that was there with him after he put a bullet in Daryll, rush towards him, knowing full well that Jack would kill Shadow if given a chance.  Burnt-faced Jake jumped out of his chair, rushing towards Jack as well, guns drawn, dutiful as a trained pet.  Ox stood still, merely putting his hands in his pockets, but watching Jack carefully.  Uncle Killroy leaped to attempt to catch the bloody and falling Sapphire, his face showing clear horror mixed with utter disappointment. Brenda did not move as fighting was not her expertise; this was a job for the boys and Sergeant Bella, who was out of Jack’s sight.  Havok, still behind Brenda, did not move his legs.  He merely reached for his gun.  Seconds ticked by. Jack did not take the time to see who Havok would aim for; he only wanted Shadow.  He jumped over Sapphire’s body just as it landed.  No, it didn’t hit the ground.  Vincent caught her, just before Killroy would have. How did he get there so fast?  Jack’s foot hit the floor, just behind Vincent and Sapphire, and Shadow was in his sight, knife in hand, leaping to his feet, ready for a fight.  Jack whipped out his knife, too, while lunging for his adversary.  But then he was suddenly aware of an object in his neck before he fell backward.  Then he felt a bullet tear through his left shoulder.  He still heard the screams as his head hit the floor, finding Vincent’s cold, angry blue eyes looking at him.  Vincent was holding Sapphire in one hand, having just forcefully pushed Killroy away with the other.  Sapphire was barely alive, coughing blood and gazing blankly at the space above her.  Vincent said something inaudible and then his teeth, his two front teeth, grew sharp.  He then bit his own arm, drawing blood. 

That’s all Jack experienced before blacking out.

***

“Well, that was unfortunate!  Fucking Captain Nelson died while attacking the United States government,” Shadow announced, knife still drawn and kneeling towards the fallen soldier.  He wiped his nose with his arm and took a moment to admire the gush of blood that had acquired. “At least the bitch got a rise out of me; I almost creamed my pants for her. The kid had spunk!”

Killroy was the first to reach Shadow, forcibly pushing him back into his recliner, as the others moved in as well, except Brenda, still sitting calmly in her chair.  Jones was the second to speak: “The captain is down, Lieutenant!  Stand down. The captain is down!”  His gun was drawn now, too, and pointed right at Shadow.

Bella crossed over and knelt to check on Jack’s bullet wound to his shoulder, just below a previous bandage covering a knife wound. “You can take out the dart,” Ox informed her while his eyes were focused on Shadow.  “It’s done its job.”

“Thanks,” she said with a pull, before tossing it away and searching for cloth to wrap his arm.  “Now who the fuck shot him with the goddamned gun?” Her eyes glanced over at Vincent, who was clinging tightly to the fallen girl, neither of their faces was visible.  She felt guilty for what had happened, but that was her line of work.  Her mission. Secure the captain at all costs. Shadow was provoked and he did have a license to kill, no matter who. 

Havok holstered his weapon, and replied only, “it was necessary,” having done his job of putting down the captain before he could hurt an agent of the United States Security Agency.

“Monstruo!” Bella growled. “He was our captain!”  Other weapons were still drawn, including Dwight’s, Christian’s, and Jake’s, distinctly pointed at Shadow, whose knife was still visible and bloody.  The newest recruit, Private Andrew Cooper, unsure of what to do, moved silently to stand behind Lieutenant Dwight Jones, the one who he admired most out of the group of trained soldiers and killers, and drew his weapon as well. 

“Get away from him, Sergeant!” Shadow roared, angered at all the hardware positioned in his direction.  “He attacked me.  I’m not done with him!”  He did not move, however, knowing that the guns aimed at him were much quicker than him or his knife.

“Stand down,” ordered the First Sergeant, her heart racing as it hadn’t in years, as she continued to clean Jack’s wound before removing the bullet.

“I’m the one in charge!  You stand down!  I’m gonna murder that son of a bitch!” he spat.

“We can’t let you do that, sir,” Jake added, teeth clenched and arms tense as he held onto his gun.  “He’s down, sir.  We need no further action taken against him.”

“Give me a hand, Uncle,” Bella requested of Killroy, wanting to pick Jack up and get him out of there.

Shadow growled, understanding that he did not have that many options.  He studied the faces of the soldiers in the club, none stood on his side; none seemed to support him.  “I’ll fucking have you all court-martialed,” he snarled, blade still drawn.

“You do what you have to, Lieutenant, but you’re not laying a hand on Captain Nelson,” angrily warned Dwight, perspiration beginning to appear on his face.

Bella and Killroy stood, holding tight to Nelson, one of his arms draped around each of the two soldiers, blood trickling down his left arm.

“At least I got one bitch that tried to hurt me,” he chuckled silently, surrendering to the mutiny on his command, and placing his eyes on the dark-suited man holding tight to the bloody stripper.  “She injured a US soldier while he was on duty. Too bad I didn’t have more time to do a little more damage to her.  Would’ve loved to slit her body from head to toe; fucking slut.”

At those words, Vincent, the extremely pale manager of the club turned away from Sapphire.  His face, covered with blood, found the assailant.  What he wanted was to rip him to pieces and drink his blood.  He could do it easily and no one could stop him.  He could slaughter the whole lot of them in an instant.  He’d done similar things many times before in his long life.  It would be simple.  But Laetitia Janequin, his friend, his boss, his sister, was counting on him to hold this establishment together with as little incident as possible.  It was his duty to his friend to not let things get out of control.  If he killed them all, he would assuredly lose the club.  He could not take action; not yet.  One day soon, however, Shadow’s life would be forfeit.  And he would take great pleasure in watching Sapphire lick his bones clean and stain the skin of her face with his tainted blood.   Vincent’s icy blue eyes locked on Shadow’s, and he spoke in an almost whisper: “Get out.  Now.”

Shadow stood silently and subordinately, secured his knife, and walked quietly towards the door, followed by his insubordinate team.

Vincent held onto the fallen Sapphire; blood now caked her once-sparking blue hair.  Her face, once the color of coffee and chocolate, was now pure, dead white, beneath all the blood.  Her brilliant hazel eyes, now closed, dazzled no more.  Her elfin-like body, once young and warm, was now cold to the touch.

Then her eyes opened.

 Chapter Seven

“40 minutes my Chinese ass!” Mercy quipped as she steered her now-dusty Volvo onto Aspen Avenue, carefully using her headlights to guide her along the earthen driveway.  The journey out to Mount Charleston, using State Road 157 was about one of the most boring things the 23-year-old had done in quite a while, especially after all the driving around she had to do beforehand.  Luckily her music kept her awake for the 75-minute drive...barely. Thank God for Justin Timberlake and BTS!  Without those guys, her Volvo would’ve crashed on the side of a cactus and left her as dinner for the vultures and mountain lions. She could’ve sworn she had seen one of those behemoths’ glowing yellow eyes on the side of the road as she approached the mountain.  The violet-eyed beauty had left The Broken Bottle when the lunch crowd dissipated and went straight to her apartment behind the old El Cortez, the desert heat at a very uncomfortable afternoon scorcher, making her feel like her skin would just melt off beneath her work clothes. She closed the car door with her rear end and smiled at a pair of young men leaning against an old Ford with their eyes on her.

“What’s up, baby?” one asked with a devilish smile, his single gold tooth glowing in the sunlight.

“Getting my ass ready for my man, that’s what.  You might remember seeing him ‘round here:  short blonde hair, big soldier type, drives an Indian, likes to eat boys like you for breakfast,” she answered with a unique attitude all her own.  “He’s upstairs waitin’ on me. Wanna join us?  Sure, he’d love someone fresh ass to whup up on.”

The men laughed as the silent one gently punched the other’s shoulder.  “No, no, baby.  You go right up to Captain Jack.  We’ll get somethin’ to eat later,” the devilish one replied, easing out of her polite offer.

“Oh, that’s okay,” she cooed, “I kinda wanted him all for myself anyway.” She then strutted past them, taunting, “knock on the door if you change your mind,” while spinning her keys, knowing full well the boys would never challenge Jack.  As tough as she was, she knew she wouldn’t stand a chance against some of the guys around the city by herself and was pleased that these same guys have seen her with her boyfriend on multiple occasions. Still, she did not like walking around alone in many areas of the city, the downtown outskirts in particular. Why couldn’t she make some more money and get the hell out of the Vegas Timbuktu? She would be much happier if she could afford a nicer apartment or home on the West side of The Strip!  She climbed the stairs to the third floor, taking in the intoxicating aroma of someone’s steak cooking on an open flame nearby. “No steak for you tonight, soldier boy. You’ll get whatever I say you can have, and you have my chicken stir fry,” she purred.

She had taken off her work clothes and hopped in the shower to wash off the smell of buffalo wings and smoke, imagining what naughty things she and her man would be doing in a few hours. A pleased smile crossed her face as she lathered her body with the soapy sponge. “Yes, Jack,” she whispered playfully, “this is all for you.”  She laughed silently and rinsed off, knowing she had very little time to accomplish everything she was hoping to get done before her man arrived home. She slipped on a red thong, a simple pair of tight, faded Levi’s, a gray t-shirt with an American flag that she had purchased at Old Navy the other day, and a pair of pink socks and her Nike sneakers; no intentions to get fancy or naughty…yet.  She had hoped to get to his place before it started getting dark and left her apartment at 3:33.

Her quick stop at Party City took about an hour, the mall took another two and a half as she ran into some girlfriends from Janequin’s shopping at Copulations. They talked a lot, gossiped more, and helped each other pick out some cheap lingerie. Coffee at The Devil’s Roast had to follow, of course. Then there was Bath & Body Works, Wetzel's Pretzels, H&M, Pink, Build-A-Bear, and several others. She dropped the bags in the trunk and climbed into the driver’s seat. 7:18. “Still an hour-ish before the sun goes down, no prob,” she said apprehensively. She wasn’t a fan of long drives, especially if she was the one doing the driving. Mercy rarely left the city on her own as the long, boring highways outside the city would probably put her to sleep. Then there were the long, curvy roads on the surrounding mountains. She never even liked those as a child, principally those around the Hoover Dam. Her father used to speed around those roads that death was just a silly little rumor, and she was always afraid of the lengthy, shit-making, plummet down.

She was almost to State Road 157 when she realized that she had forgotten the most important things: food and a card! “I need to start making lists one of these days,” she growled as she made a very sharp turn into Smith’s Marketplace, quickly and harshly running over an annoying speed bump.  Thinking back to just a few years ago, she realized that right about this time of the evening she may have been sent to bed early, ready for the next school day.  Now she was working for a living, she had her very own apartment, and had a boyfriend with his own home, and she was out spending money that she earned on her own! Not Daddy’s fucking money! She was adulting!  Times certainly did change!  

Dinner, dessert, and birthday card bagged and in the trunk, Mercy was back on track as the sun still had twenty minutes or so before it set.  She wanted some fancy cake with lots of special icing or fancy cookie pieces or chocolates on it but settled for a Death by Chocolate when she found all the good stuff was already sold out. No big deal as she didn’t picture Jack eating too many sweets anyway. What did worry her was the long twenty-minute stretch of the blazing sun in her vision wearing her down as she tried to steer the two-lane road. The tension increased when the road turned extremely dusty at first and then when the sun went down shortly after. It had become an uneasy dark as she found herself halfway to Jack’s cabin. At least the tension woke her up and kept her alert.  The roads curved around the mountain not too dangerous, but still frightening for Mercy, who did not like curvy roads or nighttime driving. Slowly but surely, she crept up the mountain, sometimes pulling over to the side to allow the tailgaters to pass her, apologizing or cursing them out depending on how close they were to the butt of her Volvo.

By the time the location on her phone found Jack’s cabin, Mercy had had enough driving, shoved the gear in park, and thanked Jesus for getting her there safely.  She stepped out of her car, felt the cool breeze, and took a deep breath of fresh mountain air. “Boyfriend, you have got it made out here!”  She popped open the trunk, reached in, and pulled out two large handfuls of bags that included food to be prepared in her man’s kitchen, a small vanilla cake, candles, a few decorations, and a couple of birthday gifts. As she elbowed the trunk closed, she heard a noise in the dry, flowery bushes a few feet from her car. Turning towards the noise, she saw the glowing eyes just beyond a bunch of branches and leaves. “Ohhh, shitshitshitshitshit, nice kitty,” she muttered as she hustled to Jack’s porch, backward.  “Boyfriend gotta big kitty out there somewhere. Don’t eat me, pretty kitty,” she pleaded quietly as she fumbled with her keys. “He would've told me if he had a pet lion around here, right?” she asked herself while balancing her bags and inserting his key into the door.  The shrieking tone of the alarm system began as soon as the door opened, setting her heart to race on even faster.  “Long, dangerous twisted roads, mountain lions in your front yard, and a friggin’ noisy ass alarm system practically giving me a heart attack,” she mumbled, kicking the door shut with her foot and stepping into Jack’s living room, “I’m gonna be too wiped out to be your birthday sex present. You’re gonna have to give it to yourself, buddy.”  A quick turn of her head and she found the alarm keypad on the wall in front of her.  Mercy gently set the bags down on the small, dark brown, suede loveseat, locked the door, and shut off the alarm on her first try, surprisingly. Crawling on the far side of the loveseat, she peeked through the blinds and, to the far right, just next to her car, a glimpse of a long yellow tail maybe three feet in the air passing slowly by. “Fuck me,” she whispered, “I was almost dinner. Boyfriend, I ain’t ever leaving your place; I’d be scared shitless just to step outside again!” Her hands attached to her hips and with a quick sigh of relief, she was ready to take the opportunity to survey her surroundings: Jack’s home!

Jack’s home was not large by any means; not that surprising to the young lady, given his lack of extravagance on anything else.  However, given his years in the military, she did expect more on some level, at least in size!  His sofa was bare, save for her bags and some old patchwork quilt in a pile on the left cushion; a simple dark brown coffee table, quite used, scratched, and stained, sat in front of it, scattered with a few military magazines, some Broken Bottle coasters, and a bland, beige remote-control holder with four separate remotes.  A small end table of similar makings sat to the sofa’s left side. A wrought iron lamp rested on it.  Just to its left: a real wood-paneled wall, knotted and adorned with many shades of brown and black, and with an open door to Jack’s bedroom.  “Beige and brown: a single man’s home alright.  Totally Bass Pro... or Goodwill,” she observed out loud.  “I’m sure the bedroom is nothing to brag about...yet,” she chuckled.  On the wall opposite the sofa was a small entertainment system, assuredly from some discount furniture outlet or the flea market.  It was made of cherry wood and had four glass doors.  The main attraction was the 55” Sony flat-screen TV.  Within the cabinet were the matching Sony blu-ray player and a BOSE stereo system with speakers.  She took notice of the two speakers on the wall behind the TV and two more above the sofa.  “Boys and their toys.  But where are the photos, boyfriend?”  She ran her fingers alongside the entertainment center as she flowed to the right and checked out the six, obviously Target-brand, storage cubes that housed her man’s record collection, adjacent next to the other side of the wall to his bedroom.  An Audio-Technica player rested on top while a massive collection of records sat below.  “Hm,” she muttered as she knelt to check them out, touching the binding of each one as she read: “AC/DC, Aerosmith, Allman Brothers, Louis Armstrong, The Beatles, Dierks Bentley, Chuck Berry… fucking military, everything in ABC order.  Thought so,” she snickered.  “And not a damn bit of club music.  We’ll have to change that if he ever wants babies with me.”  

The thought gave her pause and a quiet rub of her thin belly.  Mercy stood once more and continued her circular observation of his living room.  To the right of the front door was Jack’s “dining room”, consisting of two bookshelves situated on a wall next to his tiny kitchen. A once-loved indistinct wood table, a light brown round table with two chairs stood in front of, and veryclose to the bookshelves.  “Goodwill, this whole dining room” she guessed out loud.  A large number of books, photos, and knickknacks lined their shelves and hung on the wall around them.  “There they are,” she said approvingly.  The book collection contained mostly coffee-table history books and war stories as expected.  The photos were mostly pictures of Jack with a variety of soldiers, and mostly all in uniforms.  Many of them were group shots in front of helicopters, tanks, or the American flag.  He chose a tough, serious pose for the majority, but had a smile for a handful of others.  Knickknacks included boxes of unknown items, a variety of awards and pins for service, fancy Budweiser mugs, and a handful of Captain America figurines.  “My soldier boy has toys?” she laughed as she picked one of the figures up and held it up to her face.  I get the rest of it, but toys?  Maybe it’s just a military/Captain America thing,” she shrugged before trying several unsuccessful times to return the figure to a standing position.  Surrendering to gravity, she placed the figure in a downward dog position in front of another Captain America figure.  “America’s ass,” she chuckled.  Moving back toward the couch, she picked up her bags and headed for the kitchen when she passed the bookshelves and noticed a couple of photos that were particularly different from the others.  “Surprise, surprise,” she exhaled as she hurriedly set the bags on the kitchen counter and returned to said photos.

“Bastard had a family,” she spoke softly, taking a small frame in her hands.  The photo was of an elated, fresh-faced Jack in a tux holding onto, and kissing some young blue-eyed blonde in a beautiful white wedding dress.  “Fucking A,” she said out loud.  “She’s a beauty, Jack.  How old were you two?  Younger than me, that’s for sure.  Maybe?  You were maybe, barely twenty!  That means…” she thought to herself as she put the frame back and latched onto another. A wide grin formed on her youthful face as she studied the hospital photo of a baby wrapped in a blue blanket.  He had a faint tint of blonde locks to what little hair topped his head.  “You’ve got a child, Jack!  Where the fuck is this kid?”  Not the least bit angry, Mercy felt instead thrilled that she was learning about her soldier-man without his consent, quite like a detective on a case.  Three other photos had to be examined before she would allow herself to walk away. The next, in a silver frame decorated with etchings of ABC blocks, toy trains, and teddy bears, was of Jack kissing the snotty nose of the mysterious child. “Big softy,” she exclaimed as she put it down and grabbed the last one. It was a small, plain black frame holding a 5X7 photo of just the mother of the child. Her face, was soft, and she was wearing a beautiful smile, but full of secret struggles hiding behind the Gucci glasses. “Must’ve had money at least,” she thought out loud.  “Who are you, girlfriend?” Mercy chewed her lip, making a quick plan and taking a quick look around the room, making perfectly certain Jack wasn’t around.  Just his home, Mercy, and her bags. “Shit, the ice cream,” she exclaimed as she put the frame down and lunged at the grocery bags to bring them to his minuscule kitchen. Full-sized fridge, small oven, microwave above that, no dishwasher, and a stacked laundry machine/dryer in the rear. Her eyes did a quick survey, but her brain promptly returned to the photo as she was placing the cold items in the fridge. When she finished, the frame was in her hands once more as she sat in one of the hard dining chairs. “Let’s look for clues, qīn'ài de.” The frame was upside down instantly and had its backing tabs released. Mercy gently slid the backing free from the frame, revealing a hand-written note on the back of the picture. Mercy put her fingers to her lips, surprised and in awe that she had found this secret. “Jack, Michael, and I love you with all our hearts. We can’t wait until you and our little one become part of our family. Love you forever, Deborah.”  Mercy breathed out a breath she didn’t realize she had been holding and put the frame upside down on the dining table.  “Forever, Jack,” she repeated as she could have sworn she almost felt a tear welling up inside her left eye.  She wiped it with the back of her jingling arm just in case and sat back as much as she could in the annoyingly stiff chair.  

“Who are you, Little Debbie?” she asked, tapping her long fingernail on the frame. “And what happened to forever?”

 Chapter Eight 

The air was moist and cold, having rained buckets that April morning. The grass was slick and still had a bit of leftover snow from the day before. Rain and snow: a combination of perfect reasons to get bundled up in a toddler-size red coat and mittens and go for a walk with Mommy.  Jack stepped out on the front porch first, wide-eyed, as Katy released the door handle and dropped her keys to the straw Welcome mat. Her mouth fell open next, and then her. Jack turned away from the long black car parked in front of their house and screamed. He was on top of his mommy instantly, tears dripping, shaking her, asking her if she was okay. He was yanked off of her and shoved out of the way by the mean soldier without a word to him. “Mrs. Nelson? Mrs. Nelson?” the mean soldier kept saying. Jack slipped a few times on the icy sidewalk as she tried unsuccessfully to find his footing. That’s when the nice soldier helped him up. He had a short beard, was tall and handsome, and had a small brown beard. He had a really pleasant voice, too, and knew his name. He gently helped Jack to his feet and held his hand firmly so that the toddler wouldn’t fall again like his mommy.  Jack watched the mean soldier shake his mommy and talk loudly to her. Something about “being nam.”  Mommy was crying, a lot, but was hiding her face in the mean soldier’s arms. 

The nice soldier picked Jack up and hugged him lightly, not like Mommy would have.  “Hey, Jack,” he said ever so kindly, “have you ever met a real soldier before, young man?”  Jack nodded his head but kept his eyes on Mommy and the mean soldier.  “Your daddy, he’s a soldier, too.  Real good one, too.  He helped a lot of people, stopped a lot of bad people in being nam.”  Jack nodded again and wanted to cry some more, but wasn’t sure as to why. Maybe it was because Mommy was crying a whole lot. Maybe the mean soldier was hurting her?  “Your mum will be okay, son.  She’ll be okay. Sergeant Rick will take good care of her.” Jack watched as the mean soldier picked up his mommy and carried her into their home.  He closed the door with his soldier boot. Jack blinked in confusion.

“Where?”

“Shh,” the kind soldier said as he brushed Jack’s hair beneath the thick hood he was wearing. “He’ll get her some coffee and make her feel all better. You want some cocoa?”

Jack nodded.

“Me, too,” the nice soldier said, carrying Jack toward the long black car.  “You know, your father is a hero. I wish I could be just like him. Don’t you, Jack?”

Jack nodded.

“What?” the nice soldier said. “I didn’t hear you.” 

“Yes,” Little Jack Nelson said. “I wish I could be just like my daddy.”

 ***

  The air conditioning was probably thirty years old, grinding away noisily in a futile attempt to cool down the warehouse where Jack was slowly coming to.  He was in a small room, nothing there but two black metal chairs and a small tan desk with a 17-inch laptop computer, open, and showing a view of a room full of computers. Beneath the computer was a manilla envelope.  Someone in a wheelchair had his back to Jack, concentrating on the computer. Someone else was in the room, too, smelling like he took a bath in a tub of cheap cologne and sweat. Jack’s head was groggy, nothing new, except that this feeling was not brought on by nightmares or alcohol. Someone drugged him.  His hands were zip-tied behind the back of the chair, the ties chafing against his skin. Someone unquestionably had fun tying him up.  His ankles were also secured; they knew not to even let the man stand would be deadly.  His left shoulder stung a little bit, too.  “Coulda just asked nicely, ya know.”

The balding General Blackfinger slowly spun his wheelchair around and blew out a puff of smoke. A calming smile followed as he gazed at his friend.  “Captain,” he greeted, “you know I’ve already tried that. We had to resort to USSA tactics, the kinds you know best.”  He slowly wheeled over to where Jack sat and touched his doubly-bandaged shoulder. “Bella took care of you right away and Havok feels real sorry for shooting you. He does admire you, you know? Just doing his job.”  The retired general was not in uniform but was sporting a green sports jacket and a collared, striped shirt, with the first two buttons undone. 

“Where’s your pipe?” Jack asked.

“A friend gave me these Cuban cigars. Tastes like Heaven, soldier,” he answered, admiring the fine cigar in his hand.  “Want one?”

“You free my hands to smoke a cigar and the first thing I’ll do is bash fuckface’s head in behind me. I can smell your shitty cologne a mile away, First Lieutenant.” 

A rough hand slapped the captain’s head harshly enough to draw a smidge of blood. “You try it, blondie. You ain’t got a chance in Hell of kickin’ my ass.”

“Boys,” the general warned with a sigh. “He’s here ‘cause he’s the second-best, Jack. You and I know it, and he knows it.  He’ll deny it, but he knows it.  He’s here because I need him close to me, watching my six.  But the second-best isn’t good enough for what we need overall, Captain. We’re in danger, Jack. Washington’s in trouble and we need the absolute best.”  Jack glared at the general and the lieutenant, and then looked past them. Tried to look past them. Tried to pull some information out about his whereabouts. Tried, but couldn’t get a damned thing. His left eye wasn’t working and his face showed it.  “I turned it off, Jack, ‘cause I know you.  The minute you get a readout of this place and who’s here, half of everybody winds up in body bags by the end of next week. We can’t afford that, soldier. We need to work together one more time.”

Shadow crossed in front of Jack, kicking one of his feet for fun, before crossing his arms and leaning against the table, a large, evil grin plastered on his shaggy-haired face.  

“John,” Jack began in all earnest, “you know I can’t do it anymore. I killed Daryll, sir.  I can’t do it anymore.  The nightmares, the pain--”

“Fuckin’ pussy,” Shadow sneered.

“Shut it,” the general quickly commanded, giving the lieutenant a rapid but effective glance before returning his attention to the tied-up captain.  “Jack, the boys in the labs have been working day and night, 375, cooking up something new for the kind of PTSD that you’re suffering from.” He reached into the front pocket of his jacket and pulled out a single, red capsule, holding it fast between his thumb and index finger in front of Jack’s now-curious face.  Jack licked his lips unknowingly.  “They say it will stop the nightmares, Jack; that the tournament you’ve been suffering with will cease.  Your pain will end, son.  It’s still experimental, but…”  His voice trailed off, knowing full well Jack’s addiction problem.  Just another pill. A pill to replace the others.  He’ll go for it.  The general had him.  But, just in case, he had the clincher: “They promise it’s not addictive, too.”

Eyes locked on the pill, Jack considered his options.  A pill right now would relax him, calm him so that he could make the right decision.  But he didn’t have one right now, but there was one just inches from his mouth.  But what if it didn’t work?  What if the job they want him for, more violence assuredly, doubled his pain, brought more, harsher nightmares? What if Hek learned---?  There were even more problems than just that line of work again. Demons and monsters roamed the Earth!  Magic was real, so what the hell did it matter what he did?  Why should drugs or violence or death mean shit anymore? Magic can get rid of it all or make it even worse, no matter what he did!  He strained his muscles, trying desperately to break free of his bondage, snatch the pill from the general’s hand, snap Shadow’s neck, and kick the general’s ass just for fun.  The general took note of the mental anguish Jack was attempting to hide, while at the same time, unable to hide the desperate yellow eyes, hungry for that pill and any more he can find.  The old man in the wheelchair contemplated Jack’s possible actions and decided to put an end to them by snapping his fingers. “Look at the screen, Jack.”  Jack blinked his eyes a couple of times in an attempt to unlock his gaze on the pill. “The screen, Jack,” he repeated.

Slowly, he moved his gaze to see what the general wanted him to see. The computer screen was still focused on a room full of computers. Then she walked in, still beautiful as ever.  Deborah Gibbon.  They had met in 2001 when her company was contracted by the USSA to create some new military-grade tech (weapons).  The secret military organization wanted some gear that couldn’t be detected when undercover, human parts that could double as weapons. Real-life cyborg-shit.  Trying to stay ahead of the enemy.  Jack was attracted to her mind and body, not even bothered with the fact that she already had a son, Michael, just two years old. Cute kid, cool gray eyes.  He first saw the picture of the child, framed, and sitting on her desk at Wyvern Mechanix as she was reviewing the blueprints for a tooth filling that could be used simultaneously as a location and recording device, as well as a two-way radio.  Their hands touched briefly, his young hands rough and calloused; hers soft, smooth, perfumed.  A tingle ran throughout the young soldier’s body as she pulled her hand back, apologizing as she did so.  “No need to apologize,” he smiled sweetly.  They moved to her laptop where she continued to review more detailed schematics of the filling.  He stood just behind her, her blonde hair wrapped into a tight bun, her exposed neck revealing a few small freckles. Her nose curled whenever she made a joke or laughed.  She smelled of jasmine and vanilla, a scent that Jack found himself highly distracted by.  He caught his preoccupied stupidity when she had asked him a simple question and he realized he had no answer for it. He asked her out on a date instead.  It was September 5; their first date was that night as they strolled around DC, learning more about each other, their families, and their lives.  She was a single mom; the father took off early on.  Her family came from Las Vegas, many still living there.  She attended UNLV where she studied computer science, leading her in the direction of engineering and technology.  She invested her time and money to help create Wyvern Mechanix.  He had no idea she was a co-owner. They talked more as they visited the International Spy Museum, had lobster rolls and a beer at Luke’s Lobster, and spent some time roaming around the National Mall.  The evening ended with a peck on her cheek as he walked her to her apartment on 14th Street NW.

Six days later, Jack frantically tried to reach her as the plane struck the Pentagon. She was to pitch her ideas to General Blackfinger while Jack was en route to Fort Monroe.  Racing as fast as he could after hearing the devastating news, he phoned anyone he could but couldn’t reach her.  He found some of those he worked with were among the 189 dead. But no word on Deborah Gibbon.  His credentials got him past any, and all, roadblocks.  He rushed in to assist with the rescue operations amid the smoke and flames, bodies, and heroes. He asked for her from anyone he saw.  “Pretty, blonde, glasses, about 5’5”...” Nobody knew her; nobody saw her. He continued to help for hours, his body and mind ready to give up after a long day until he heard his name while he drank some cold water outside near a fire truck.  He spun around and found her, sooty, smoky, a wreck!  She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen!  They rushed into each other's arms in front of the still-smoldering west side.  He kissed her for the first time then, a serious, joyous kiss, the kind that only a tragedy can bring.

They made love for the first time that night at her apartment after dismissing the nanny and putting Michael to bed.  She had showered away the smoke and threw her clothes in the garbage can before calling him into her room.  She attacked him with such ferocity that night. She needed him badly. She needed the hero who rushed into a burning building and helped save countless lives in his effort to find her.   She needed him in her bed and shoved him into it to thank her champion.  She ripped off his shirt and kissed him as if she had not kissed anyone in a very long time.  Her naked, drenched body glistened from above his, her hair soaking wet and free, covering his most of the night.  His strong arms and his rock-hard body were just what she needed after such a horrid, frightening day.  He gave her his everything that night and became her man, her savior, her love, and the father of her second child.  She found out she was pregnant two days later. They were married two months after that.

“She’s expendable, Jack,” the general warned with a casual shrug.  “We honestly don’t have time to debate whether you want the red pill or not and needed a contingency plan.”  Jack’s furious eyes seeped pure, venomous hostility toward the man in the wheelchair.  “We weighed who we would offer up on a stick, Jack, and our contract with Wyvern is about to end anyway.  It was either her, the professor, or the stripper.  We didn’t want to resort to these tactics, not yet. But this is goddamn important.”

“If anyone lays a single fucking finger on Debbie then I swear to God I will rip out their lungs from their mouth and shove it up their asses! You know I will, John! And I’ll start with your Number Two here,” he growled.

The general tapped Jack’s leg as would a father comforting his son.  “It’s not going to come to that, my boy. You’re going to do the job we need of you and you’re going to get the red pill. One piece of shit will be in the ground, and you’re going to start feeling better. No more nightmares, no more pain. This is your ticket to freedom, Jack.  One little pill, one little mission.”  He held the pill in front of Jack’s face one more time. “And Deborah can continue with her work.  Pretty little thing doesn’t even know she’s being watched right now.”  On the screen, Deborah Gibbon popped open a Coke Zero and took a drink as she poured over some blueprints for a new design. Another secret weapon.  “She’ll be fine, son, because you’re going to do the job.”

Jack knew that his friend, the general, was as good as his word, mostly. If he said Debbie would be safe, then she’d be safe. All he had to do was one job. One hit.  He’d also get a new chance to try to ease the pain. Maybe it would work.

Shadow made a bored face and mimed jerking off while he waited on the angry captain.

“Do we have to give the job to the lieutenant, Jack? Or are you going to man up?” Blackfinger asked.

Jack sighed heavily, conceding defeat.  “What do I gotta do?”

“That’s more like it, son,” the general grinned happily before turning to Shadow. “You can go, Lieutenant. I’ve got this.”  Shadow scowled, huffed, and left the room, letting the door slam in his wake.  “Jack my boy, back in 2016, we worked damn hard to get someone in office who could make a difference. You were with me, side by side as the racist Republicans and the fragile Democrats engulfed each party. The only alternative was to bring back an honest-to-goodness kick in the ass overhaul of our system. The military was sick and tired of playing politics but had to play politics harder than ever before.  The branches worked together to get  Benjamin Washington elected, Jack, and he’s done a Hell of a job for America.”  Blackfinger had wheeled behind Jack as he was talking and snipped the zip-tie loose, letting the broken plastic fall to the floor.  There was no more danger and both men knew it. If Jack tried anything, Deborah was a goner.  “Take this,” he said, handing the scissors over so the captain could free his legs.  “Crime’s down, America is stronger, less hungry Americans, veterans are taken care of, homelessness isn’t an issue anymore.  I could go on and on, son.” He took the scissors from Jack and placed them on the table next to the laptop.  Deborah was still on the screen.  “The president needs a third term, Jack, but there’s someone in his way.  Mobster-prick. That’s why I was called in. That’s why you’re being called in.”

Jack believed in the president. He was a good man. They got him elected to the Whig Party, bringing back a sense of Americana that only a man with a name like Benjamin Washington could do.  He was a strapping, well-built, chisel-faced man. He rose through the ranks in the Marines and became a general. Family man, too. He had a perfect little wife, a teacher, and a former teen model. Had five kids. Ben had worked closely with Clinton and Bush.  But when people like Trump and Hillary tried to take over, America needed a better choice. Ben was the one.  “Who’s the target and what did he do?”

“That’s my boy,” the general laughed and clapped his hands.  “Wife was sick of my old white ass around the house anyway. Now we’ve got work to do!” He wheeled his chair o the desk and slid the manilla envelope out from under the laptop.  “Nico Minniti,” he began as he handed it over to Jack.  “Mob boss, but nobody can make anything stick, like Capone back in the day.  This guy is dirty with drugs, sex trafficking, guns, illegal gambling, you name it, he’s into it.  He’s also been playing around in politics. He doesn’t want to get himself elected, no, no, no, he wants a hand-picked body in there doing the dirty work for him.”  Jack was sifting through photos and documents pulled from the envelope.  “He wants Washington out of the way. He’s cleaned up so much shit out there that Minniti’s taken a hit.  Minniti’s been playing his cards, got his hands around the media, some Fortune 500 companies, and some new-blood politicians.  He’s making headway in getting the people ready for a switch back to two-term limits.”  The general chewed on the end of his cigar while the information soaked into Jack’s brain. “We can’t afford that, son, and we can’t afford some dirty politician to come in and ruin what we’ve got going.”

Jack quietly slipped all the papers back into the envelope. He wanted to save Deborah, he wanted to save Ben Washington and America. He had to kill once more. “I’m in,” Jack decided, handing the envelope back to the general.

“Good man, good man,” He replied, sliding the envelope into a desk drawer and removing a pill bottle from within.  He looked it over in consideration before tossing it to the Captain.

Jack shook the bottle a few times and looked inside its clear container to find seven red pills.

“One a day with milk, Jack.  Just kidding, but still one a day. No more than that, you get me?” He warned. Jack nodded.  “Any more than that, you may not as well even bother. This stuff is good, Jack, but only in the correct dosage. Don’t fuck with the science, understand?”

He nodded again.

“You’ll be able to access Minniti’s file and we’ve got your eye turned on later tonight; after you wake up.”

“After I--?” was all he got out as a fresh dart pierced his neck.

“Still can’t have you knowing where we’re at, Captain,” the general finished.

Chapter Nine

The DISH box below the Sony TV read 1:47 AM.

Mercy’s heavy violet eyes closed often as she flipped back and forth between channels as she ate cake and ice cream on Jack’s sofa, wrapped snugly in his quilt, and wondered who made the old blanket for him. A grandma? An aunt? It smelled like him. It wasn’t of a cologne scent, as the captain didn’t wear cologne. But he did bathe, and he did use aftershave. She had bought him some fancy-looking stuff in a green bottle at Bath & Body Works from the Men’s Section. It may be that manly, rustic scent she was smelling as she took a fresh whiff, but she wasn’t positive. She put the plate down on the table and rested her head on the arm of the suede loveseat as she curled up tighter, warming her body in the cool temperature of his mountain cabin.  “Friggin’ middle of the desert in the summer and it’s in the friggin’ fifties,” she muttered.  “Wish I had a man here to keep me warm.” She hadn’t climbed into his bed to warm up yet, but she had been in his bedroom as that was the only way to the bathroom. Plain, gray blanket, two memory foam cooling pillows in gray covers, and a few boring pieces of furniture. And the TV. The sofa was good enough for now.

She had called Janequin’s earlier because she knew Jack was supposed to get out at midnight. She was hoping he’d be considerate enough to get out a little earlier. She’d have to train him on matters like that, however. No one answered anyway. Either of the times she called. No big deal, she figured. Probably swamped with Daddies’ Boys with money to blow on her former co-workers. Mercy turned her position to take a new peek outside. The floodlights turned on now and then as the mountain lion strolled around Jack’s property, often laying by the front porch, sometimes by her Volvo. Every so often she could have sworn she heard it purring outside and inferred that the captain knew about his outside friend. That was the only reason that kept her from calling animal control on his ass.

The channel changing stopped as she saw a “Where Are They Now?” special on musicians of the ‘00s. A blonde, long-haired musician named Muzik was parading around shirtless in a dark fashionable trench coat, ripped blue jeans, and biker boots.  His personalized electric guitar, in the shape of his name, belted out a screaming bluesy solo as his stubbled face looked on in acted-out agony over a lost love. Elbow propped up on the sofa arm, head in hand, Mercy remembered how she used to hear that young man on the radio and in a variety of movies and TV shows. He was a big deal, came right out of Vegas. Then the hot pervert raped a little girl. He was still in jail. Slicer knew him and said he used to play at The Broken Bottle back in the day. Said he met a record producer there. Slicer also said the rock star wasn’t exactly innocent, but he also wasn’t all that guilty, either; that he didn’t know her age when she slipped into his bus. Tired animosity crossed her youthful face. “You knew, Shit for Brains. You knew.”

The remote control slipped lazily out of her hand and fell on the coffee table.

“Had her all to yourself. Could see how young she was. She was all alone. All…” Mercy’s voice trailed off as her body and brains gave out on her, on waiting on her boyfriend.

13-year-old Laia Gardner was all alone when she crept into Muzik’s bus back in 2011.

A 16-year-old Mercy was all alone when she entered the car of Hinata Miyasaki. She was a good girl then, a different girl then.  Mei Zhen Zhao had just finished her sophomore year of high school in Willow Beach, Arizona, and was on her way to the bus line when the cute boy from her graphics design class offered her a ride home.  “You’ve barely spoken a word to me all year,” she spoke up as she slung her Gosick backpack over her arm and moved past the crowds of students saying their goodbyes. “Why are you now all of the sudden offering me a ride?” The cute 16-year-old in colorful wedge heels (that added five inches to her 4’9” height), plaid skirt, loose-fitting black crop top featuring characters from Persona 4, assorted bracelets, necklaces, and earrings from the mall, and long brunette hair pulled into ponytails leaned into the row of orange lockers and crossed her thin arms over her chest.

Hinata, cute and tall, the wiry-framed boy of eighteen, dressed in a skinny dark blue blazer and t-shirt, stopped in front of her, eyes to the floor. He was a nervous sort; cute, but nervous. A shy-boy. Hands in his pockets, gripping his keys in one hand, change in the other, answered simply, “I dunno,” as he shrugged his shoulders sheepishly.

“All year long I’ve tried to talk to you in class, I’ve seen you at parties, and I’ve tried to sit with you and the other geeks at your lunch table and you don’t talk to me. And yet, now, you wanna give me a ride home? Again, why?”

His amber eyes found hers for just a second before intently studying his Nikes. “Just wanted to see you one more time,” he said.

Mei Zhen smirked proudly. “You like me,” she accused him with a prodding finger. “You think I’m cute, don’t you, Miyasaki? Is it ‘cause we’re the only two Asians in this school?”

He made quite an effort to nod in agreement to her first response before adding, “you’re also cool, Mei. You like video games and anime. You’re like one of the—”

“If you say boys, I’ll punch you in the mouth like a girl,” she warned.

“No, no,” he denied rapidly. “You’re just like one of the…best…” he raised his head again, trying to look her in the eye, in a strenuous effort to, perhaps for the first time, really and truly, look at a girl. He couldn’t find her face, but he did find her legs. They weren’t long, but they were very white, and they were also very cute in that skirt of hers.  He coughed and forced his eyes to the locker behind her head. “You’re like one of my best friends, Mei Zhen. That’s why I wanna give you a ride. I wanna take you home and maybe…”

An awkward silence befell the teens as Hinata lost the power to speak.

Mei Zhen, usually extremely bold, helped the situation by brushing his thin arm and gently moving his head to face hers. “…go out on a date?” she finished his question for him.

Hinata grinned like a goofy idiot and almost stumbled to the ground but braced himself against the lockers though he accidentally brushed by the skin of her arm. “Sorry,” he said.

“It’s okay. You can touch my arm as often as you like,” she flirted, closing her eyes briefly before looking at his handsome but geeky face, hiding behind his long, dark hair. “So where do you wanna take me, handsome?”

“Um…”

“How about a movie? We can catch an early show. My parents don’t get home till after six. They wouldn’t have to know.”

Socially inept as he was, Mei Zhen’s possible movie date still managed to catch the needed secrecy in her suggestion. “They don’t want you dating?” he inquired with a trembling voice.

Mei Zhen sighed out loud, grabbed her boy by the arm, and headed for the door. “I just said they don’t need to know. As long as I’m home before six we’ll both be safe. Don’t worry.”

She finally got the chance to ride shotgun in his Aston Martin! She had been eyeing his car the whole school year and had been hoping against hope that Shyboy would one day get the nerves to speak to her and give her a ride. It was a sexy silver gift from Mommy and Daddy Bigbucks! Their boy was a straight-A student and had a full scholarship to practically any college of his choice. Daddy wanted him to take business courses and join him on the top of the corporate ladder. Mommy wanted a doctor in the family. Hinata chose Ringling College of Art and Design in Florida. He earned it! With his grades, charity work, and portfolio, he could do anything he wanted. He took his excited date for a spin around the city, topping out at 170 mph at one point. She didn’t care for the hairpin turns but kept it to herself, not wanting to ruin his social awakening.  The chosen movie was the new Evangelion playing at a local theater. Hinata was a perfect gentleman, of course, purchasing a large popcorn to share, a large soda for him, and a large Coke Icee for her. His terrified eyes were on the screen for most of the entire 108 minutes, even when she occasionally accidentally brushed his leg or arm as she reached for the popcorn or her drink. She wanted him to kiss her, to put his tongue down her throat as they did in the movies and TV shows. She wanted him to touch her face with his hands and tell her how pretty she was. Maybe even touch her boob.

But he didn’t.

He was a perfect gentleman.

At least she got a peck on her cheek as he walked her to her front door. She also pressed her growing breasts into his thin stomach as she tiptoed and kissed him back, on his jaw (he stood almost a foot taller than her.)

The young couple went on a few safe dates after that while her parents were at work; Mei Zhen relaxed him with her more and more as they visited malls, Emerald Cove, hiking, or playing video games with friends. He held her hand, kissed her on the mouth, and sat soclose to her when they gamed together. He became more outgoing with her, giving her a glimpse of the man that maybe he would one day become. He showed her his artwork portfolio that got him accepted to Ringling and discussed some story ideas with her. His dreams were so cute. She didn’t know what she wanted, but it had to involve action. She wouldn’t be happy drawing pictures or working in an office talking about money and blahblahblah boring stuff. He suggested, since she loved video games so much, a YouTuber. “A lot of hot girls are making sick money doing that right now,” he reasoned one afternoon as they played Marvel vs. Capcom on a friend’s Xbox 360.

A confused, quite shocked look crossed her face as she turned to her boyfriend. “A lot of what?” she asked.

The group of friends, some having just graduated, some still having a year or two to go, became dead silent. The video game kept playing loud fighting noises. Hinata, scared as hell that he said something wrong, gulped loudly and hesitantly turned to face her. With a weak voice, he repeatedly, though it may mean the death of him, “hot girls?”

Mei Zhen sucked in her cheeks and decisively dropped her controller to the floor. She quickly stood up and pulled him from the couch by both arms, leaving the game room full of their shocked and dead silent friends.  They made a quick pace throughout the house, Mei Zhen leading the way and peaking in rooms, finding other kids their ages, and walking away. Hinata knew it: it was over. He sexualized her gender and Mei Zhen was pissed. She was about to scream at him and beat him to a bloody pulp. He was gonna show up at Ringling in a body cast! She slung open a fresh door and found a small room devoid of people. It was a teen’s bedroom, filled with movie and video game posters, a large TV hanging on the wall, a PlayStation 3, and an empty bed. She hurled him into the room and slammed the door behind her. Hands firmly on her hips, she huffed out, “hot girls?”

The petrified boy shrugged his shoulders and nodded.

“You think I should be a video gamer on YouTube like some hot girls?”

“Y—yeah, I think you’d have fun, and you’re a lot…” He knew that a very careful word choice was in order for this Trial by Fire, and went with, “…cuter than they are. Way cuter.”

Mei Zhen smiled and shook her head. “You think I’m hotter than those other girls?”

Alarms were going off in the poor boy’s head, sweat was dripping from places he did not know seat could drip from. What did he get himself into? He decided to bite the bullet and nodded his head again.

Her lips found his as she pushed him onto the bed.

It would be the first time for both of them. She, 16. He, 18. Shyboy had no condom as he never expected this to happen to him. She had no birth control either as her parents wouldn’t allow it. Their summer romance continued almost every day for the next five weeks; he bought protection from Walgreens before their second time, in her bedroom. Most times after that he wore the condom. Occasionally, however, in the rush of things, it was left in his wallet. Mei Zhen never told her parents of her relationship as they forbid her from dating until her senior year of high school. So, each day, as soon as Momma and Baba left for work, Hinata was there for her. Until he wasn’t. Mei Zhen wasn’t feeling very well that day, maybe it was just sadness that she was feeling, maybe she was scared of the future, of not having Hinata there with her. She had been throwing up the night before their final date; the night before he left for Florida. She let him put it in her even though it was very uncomfortable. She pretended that it felt good and screamed and moaned like normal, but it was all fake. He was leaving her, sure to find some hot college girl in Sarasota, sure to forget his hot little China girl. But she acted as if nothing was bothering her. Hinata was none the wiser. When he was done, he put his pants back on, kissed her lovingly, and told her that he’d come and visit her as often as possible, that he’d Facetime her every day. She said don’t bother, live your new life. She then kissed him deeply and showed him the door. The tears fell after the door closed. Mei Zhen sat, crumpled up on her living room floor for an hour then, just crying. He was leaving her and there was no reason to drag it out with a long-distance relationship. Those never worked.

  About a week later her bump was showing and all Hell broke loose. “Jìnǚ! Liúlàng hàn! Dàng fù!” and other words were screamed at the 16-year-old when her parents found out. How could she let some boy stick his díkè inside her! How could such a good girl become such a bad little tramp! Who was this boy? Or boys? How many boys had it been? How long had this been going on? Had she no respect for her Mamma and Baba? What would the rest of the family say when they found out what a whore she had become? How dare she ruin their good name?! Her furious parents practically disowned her that very day and made plans for her to go live with her aunt in Henderson, Nevada. She was to go to virtual school, keep up her grades, have the baby, and give it up for adoption. She could return the following school year. The story in Willow Beach would be that she had to go help her ailing aunt.

Unfortunately, the only real ailing that Aunt Jun was suffering from was that she never knew when to put down the bottle. Aunt Jun was prone to getting smashed regularly and taking out her aggression on whoever was unlucky enough to be within arms’ reach. For eight-and-a-half months, it was Mei Zhen. When the baby came, Mei Zhen gave it up for adoption and promptly left to start life anew, away from family and anyone from her past. She was a pariah and needed some mercy from the universe. She withdrew her savings account and ran away to Las Vegas, lived on the street for a while, found work at a GameStop, and legally changed her name to Mercy. Other odd jobs followed as she had a new life and had no intentions of being under anyone’s thumb ever again or being anywhere that she wasn’t appreciated or valued.

Mercy’s sleepy eyes barely opened and peeked at the clock.

6:45 AM.

She closed her eyes tightly as the tears began. Had she been abandoned once more?

Chapter Ten

  Jack’s eye displayed the time: 6:45 PM.

He awoke to the realization that he had lost half a day of his life. It was now Saturday, the day after his 50th birthday. “Shit,” he muttered, realizing he left Mercy hanging. She had wanted to celebrate with him at his cabin, and he never showed up. He sat up, slightly woozy, hands firmly gripping the dying grass, sand, and stones in an abandoned field somewhere. His Indian was parked just a few paces in front of him, its short shadow facing East, next to a handful of lonely cacti and some crisp, naked bushes. He rubbed his bandaged, wounded shoulder and stood to his feet, noticing fresh clothes on his person. He had a plain black compression t-shirt with the USSA logo on the left side of his chest while the Nike emblem was on his right sleeve. Dog tags still hung around his neck. He had a new black leather belt and sandy-brown tactical pants featuring several pockets of unknown gear. His custom-made leather boots hadn’t changed. The scent he wore was different, however, as if someone had bathed him after a day-and-a-half without. Someone got their money’s worth, he thought.

“About time you got up, Captain! I’ve seen little boys with no hair on their chest take half that time after they’d been drugged,” laughed a female voice in his head.

“Kiss my ass, Fry,” Jack warned as he crossed the near-barren field to get to his bike.

“Come find me and drop your drawers and we’ll see what happens, handsome. After the mission, of course,” she purred.

Jack grimaced as he freed his helmet and placed it on his head. “I’ve got to go see someone first. The mission will have to wait.”

“No can do, Jackie. General says it’s gotta be now. Nico Minniti will be in place in about forty-five minutes at The Capone. If you’re going to work with us and get the help you need for your little problem, it has to be now.” His little problem! How many people know of the drug addiction, the pain in his chest, and the nightmares? Wait till they find out about the newest problem: demons and magic are real! Her pesky voice let Jack know that she was enjoying this all too much. Jack was the boy toy that she would never have, so she had to toy with him in other ways.

“Fine, I’ll just make a quick call—”

“Jack, no can do. Your stripper girlfriend will get a bullet in her back if you so much as to say her name. No one can be privy to what we’re about to do.” Hands gripping the wheel furiously, Jack was stuck. He couldn’t argue. He could threaten Brenda’s life, and make good on that threat, but not before they killed Mercy. They had him by the balls. “You can go fuck your little Lolita after the mission. As soon as Minniti’s heart stops beating, you’re free ‘till the next one. Got it, soldier?”

Jack stewed without an answer.

“Good, start your engine, Captain, because time’s wasting.” The soldier followed orders, bringing the roar of the engine to life, and steering his machine to the nearest road. “Do you know where you’re at, hon?”

“Yeah,” he answered shortly.

“Good; head for the strip. Minniti will be arriving around 7:30 for his weekly hookup with his mistress in the Emperor Suite. Blackfinger’s given me all the shit you’ll need to know to complete the job, so I’ll be your contact on this. I’ll be giving you your orders, babe!’

“Go get fucked,” he said bluntly as he pulled onto Windmill Lane.

“I keep waiting, but you’re all talk. Anyway, he’s got the Emperor Suite reserved. Forty-ninth floor. You’ll have no problem entering as we’ve already got your room key in your front pocket. I put it there myself, Big Boy,” she laughed. “That key will get you in the parking and the elevators. Each floor has cameras that record everyone’s comings and goings, but not the rooms. No cameras will record your murder of the target unless you record it yourself. We can watch it together if you want. My place. Anytime. I’ll bring the drinks, you bring you.” The twisted techie released a moan from her microphone, trying again to mess with Jack’s mind. “Sorry, my imagination was pretty lucid there for a second. I was picturing you and me on my couch, your hand up my shirt, your mouth nibbling on my ear. Had me all turned on there for a second.” The captain did his best to ignore the woman as he turned onto Jones Boulevard next to Carnitas King and Liquor World. He had spent a little time at both on occasion. “Anyway, there’s only one guard at Minniti’s door but he’s about to get called away. Seems as though his husband is about to have a bad accident on Hinson and Sunset. Tragic, really. They just had new lights put in but there about to go all to shit. Sucks for him. When Mobman’s security boy leaves, I’ll have the hallway cam-cams shut off and you’ll be in the clear.”

Jack had worked with the insanely talented Brenda Fry before and knew he could trust her tech know-how. He also trusted General Blackfinger in choosing the best. Still, an eerie feeling was crawling throughout his senses. This wasn’t just another mission. It had been approximately 36 hours since he’d last eaten and maybe 24 since he had taken the pill that the general had given him. A fresh pill when he parked the bike and some food after the job and he’d be as good as new, he decided.

“When the job’s done, you can go see your little girlfriend. Don’t forget to leave the eye on, ‘K, Jack? I wanna see how she keeps you coming back for more.”

* * *

The Capone, completed in 2017, seventy years after the crime boss’s death, quickly became one of Las Vegas’s top attractions with its roaring 20s style featuring fifty floors of female employees fashioned in flappers’ short skirts, bobbed hair, and lots of jewelry and males dressed in pinstripe gangster suits and other uniforms of the decade. There was also a crackly, often staticky, intercom system playing Louis Armstrong, Duke Ellington, Bessie Smith, and more musical greats of the time. The first floor of the hotel was designed as a state-of-the-art gambling hall with everything from one-armed bandits, poker, carps, roulette, and other games created for taking money from vacationers. Three nightclubs and two restaurants (one, a fancy Italian, the other, strictly pizza) were strategically built into the first, fourteenth, and thirtieth floors. A rooftop lounge still lures tons of visitors to the breathtaking views of the Las Vegas strip from the 50th floor.  A bowling alley and shops styled in the fashions of a hundred years ago have also become extremely popular when visiting Vegas. The COVID outbreak nearly destroyed the young enterprise and would have if not for insurance and some illegal business still permeating throughout The Capone’s hallways and byways.

Jack finished reviewing the data on Nico Minniti on the way to The Capone. Forty-four years of age, wife, two grown kids, three still in school, tried in multiple cases of racketeering, prostitution, drug and gun dealing, but nothing stuck. Pure criminal. Jack swiped the keycard at The Underground and rode his motorcycle into the parking garage beneath the Capone, red lights blinking slowly from the concrete ceiling above. By the time Jack parked, his hands were trembling like an addict. “Thought this damned pill was supposed to cure this shit,” he complained as he pulled the pill bottle from his pocket from his pant pocket and shook one out, taking it promptly. He swallowed it dry, almost wishing for some water and a steak to wash it down. “After the mission, Jack. After the mission,” he reminded himself. The captain then stepped off his bike, secured his helmet, scanned the area full of expensive cars, and found the entrance door. Jack made his way in after swiping the keycard once more. The double doors opened automatically to the past. The Roaring 20s were alive and well,, save for the computers, video screens, flashing lights, and the din of bells and gaming music, as Jack stepped onto the black marble floor. The stools surrounding the room were of red velvet, and the chairs and sofas near the registration and concierge desks to Jack’s right were of dark wood color and had detailed circular carvings. Vacationers in shorts and sandals shouted and cheered for joy as far as his eyes could see. Otherwise, the employees’ fashion, the geometric prints on the tiled floor, the polished wood walls with chrome railings and trim, the lighting focused on statues, and the artwork of long-haired women holding globes fit in perfectly with the 20s theme.

“Can I help you, guy?” said a familiar voice with a thick Boston accent behind him.

Nelson turned to find the USSA Agent Christian, red-haired and boyish looks standing strong in a dark green pin-striped suit. A fedora covered much of his bright red hair. “How’s your face, agent?”

Christian rubbed his jaw where Jack had slammed him into the wall the previous day. “I’m a big boy, Captain. Hurt wicked like for a minute or two. All better after a tonic. How’s the arm?”

Jack began walking toward the elevators, knowing that Christian would follow. “Better after a bandage and a kiss on the boo-boo from the general. You need some new trainees, kid, or those assholes’ll ruin you forever. Bad crowd you’re in with right now.”

Christian kept up with the fast-paced Captain, brushing past crowds of gamblers, onlookers, and cocktail waitresses. “Only a couple of bad apples in the bunch,” he admitted. “But General Blackfinger chose them all himself. Must be a good reason. Else, why the hell would Shadow be awn this mission? Gahdda be a reason, Jack.”

Stopping in front of the elevator, Jack pushed the Up button on the bronze faceplate, faced the young soldier, and straightened his tie. “Undercover, kid?”

“Yah huh, Captain,” he replied. “There’s a few of us here in case you need backup. We’ve all got the zoot suits on to blend in with the hotel staff. Andy’s by the Westside, Keme’s got North, Uncle’s got the East. Jake and Brenda ah across the street in a Buick keeping tabs awn us all. Shadow---”

“Screw him,” snarled Jack, in an attempt to watch his language in a public place.

“---is by the pool, watching over that exit. General’s hoping for a smooth jawb and then we awll go home.” The elevator let out a loud ding just before the doors slid open, releasing a packed mob with suitcases and handbags. Jack and Christian stood to the side to let them all pass. A few other hotel guests merged their way behind the two soldiers. “Sorry, folks, Hotel Business,” Christian warned with an apologetic voice, stopping them with his strong arm placed in front of them. “Next elevator will be here shortly.” As Jack entered, the younger agent held open the door for a moment longer. “Be smaht, Captain. Get in, get it done. Get out. We’re all rootin’ for ya to get better, suh. In other words…”

“Don’t fuck up,” Jack finished for him and he released Christian’s arm from the door, allowing it to close.

“That’s right, baws.” The redhead pivoted away from the door and whispered, “cock’s a-flyin'.”

“The hen’s waiting,” replied a voice in his ear.

* * *

Trevor Coleman had other ambitions other than being a bodyguard for one of the most powerful mobsters in the world. He had wanted to play professional football, but things don’t always turn out as you plan. Especially when you grow up as a homosexual black kid in a rinky-dink, backwater racist town in Illinois.  He was big enough, strong enough. His Pop even ran the Savage Fight Club at the edge of town. That gave Trevor a little respect in the beginning. He played during elementary and middle school and was a favorite on his teams. Freshman year of high school was also very successful if you can ignore many of the white players ignoring the handful of African American boys on the team. If you can also ignore the occasional hazing of the black kid and the occasional dummy hanging from a local tree. Most of the other players were okay with the mixed-raced team of theirs during practice and game nights but wanted nothing to do with them afterward. Except for Danny. Danny was the quarterback and was friendly with everyone, color didn’t matter. Turned out that Danny was a little more than just friendly with Trevor.  They tried to keep their relationship a secret, driving out of town for dates so that no one would see them. Trevor’s grades started to slip due to the time away from his studies and the stress he was facing. The boys were caught in Braidwood entering a Motel 6 together by a cheerleader with a cell phone.

Trevor and Danny denied any wrongdoing. Claimed that they were just meeting some girls. Some hookers, even. Nobody bought their ruse. They had been outed on social media. Grades tumbled, both boys were thrown off the team, and a harsh breakup followed. Pops tried to accept his son, even convinced him to let his frustrations out at Savage Fight Club at just fifteen years of age. He was a big, strong boy after all. 205 pounds of muscle. And angry as hell. Grown men were fallen after a few of his left hooks. “Fucking faggot cheated,” usually left their bloody mouths right afterward. School did not improve as his as and Bs turned into Ds and Fs. His locker was often spray-painted with racial and homophobic slurs. Food would fly at him during lunches. Certain male teachers refused to help him. High school became a lost cause. More grown men fell to his fists of malice as money started to fall into his hands, his wallet, and his bank account. He had found what he was good at. Breaking bones. He dropped out of high school at sixteen and worked full-time for his father. His local fame spread. He got a new boyfriend. The occasional brick found its way through his windows. The occasional curse-laden graffiti was left on his walls or cars. The occasional slashed tire was also found. Trevor persevered until some hoods from the local KKK threw some pipe bombs through Savage Fight Club’s windows.

Pops was inside. Never made it out.

Trevor never knew his mother, had dropped out of high school, and just lost his Pops. The bank controlled the club and made damn sure they weren’t giving any money to a kid like that. He was almost 18, and alone.

The streets took him in. The streets allowed him to let loose on anyone who crossed his path. The streets led him to the employment of Nico Minniti. Trevor broke the bones of lazy cheats who never paid Minniti back. Trevor broke the bones of people who skipped out on rented whores. Trevor broke the bones of people who tried to cheat Minniti on the drugs being sold. Trevor had a talent and Nico noticed and nurtured it. Pretty soon Trevor found himself at the top of the chain, one of Nico’s top enforcers and one of his private bodyguards. Nico and the boys didn’t care that Trevor was gay. Sure, they joked about it as often as they liked, quite rudely in fact, but they treated him kindly for the most part. Maybe they were afraid he’d kick their asses? At any rate, Minniti even put up the dough for the wedding. Trevor met a nice man working the booth at a strip club in Chicago. Robbie Angel. Puerto Rican and handsome as Hell. A real angel, too, even changed his last name for Trevor. The men bought a home in Vegas and Trevor kept a steady job guarding the door to the Emperor Suite at The Capone, allowing for a safe, intruder-free place for Nico to bring his favorite girls. Currently, it was some model-like blonde with bright blue eyes, auburn hair, and a kind of heart-shaped chin. Robbie found work at another strip club in the city on Sammy Davis Jr. Drive.

Trevor’s Apple Watch rang with the caller ID of Dignity Health Emergency Room. “Hullo?” he answered quickly, heart beating at a rapid pace. He’s never had a call from an emergency room before and was frightened of what it could be.

“Mr. Coleman? I’m calling about your husband—”

Trevor charged up the hallway toward the elevator, already deciding to leave his post. Mr. Minniti will have an escort up to the room and would be up in a minute or two, the girl in the room was all alone and probably liquored up, and nothing could happen that could be too disastrous, right?

* * *

“Hallway cam-cam is off, Papa Bear. Go get the honey,” Brenda informed Jack as he exited the elevator, just in time to see the elevator at the other end of the hall close and begin its descent. He knew there would be a young woman inside, twenty-two years of age, an aspiring model looking for the right connections. Minniti met her at a restaurant on Biscayne Bay in Miami one evening which he and some of his associates liked to frequent. She was on a vacation and had just popped in to pick up some Cuban food. He took notice, probably showed a handful of cash, and she became his mistress. Ciara Marks didn’t seem like much trouble and Jack was hoping he could just knock her out or convince her to take the bribe money he had in his pockets, while he had a ski mask on. He was hoping that he would not have to kill her. The best plan would be for her to not even know he was there. The weird thing was, there was no image of her on his accessible files. A BAD OR CORRUPTED IMAGE kept flashing instead. He slipped on the black ski mask, turned off his eye camera, swiped the key card through the reader beside the door, and gently turned the bronze knob to the Emperor Suite.

The eye readout showed the blueprints for a three-bedroom, three-bath suite with a kitchen, living room, dining room, and office. Jack stood in the entry foyer, a large, rectangular room with Chinoiserie Wallpaper, a creamy white trim, and a couple of expensive paintings by dead artists. The heat seeker detected a warm body within the room to his left, the master bedroom. He slowly opened the bedroom door to a dim, candle-lit lit room of elegant, mostly 1920s design featuring floor-to-ceiling French-polished walnut wall panels. A king-sized elm lumber canopy bed complete with hand-carved decorative patterns, (comforter and sheets turned down), an expensive, scarlet antique tufted sofa, a couple of dark wood velvet chairs, a blazing marble fireplace, and an old record player with a brass flower speaker on a wooden stand (playing Josephine Baker’s “Lonesome Lovesick Blues”), a crystal chandelier filled the room with a grand balcony view of Sin City. An elegant, pricey room that Jack could never afford. The candles were scattered around the furniture and had a ginger scent. Ciara was not in the bedroom though her smoky/leathery perfume lingered in the air and led Jack’s nose to the bathroom, its door closed to him. A shot from a needle to the back of her neck and…

The bathroom door opened to reveal a thin, pretty woman of about 5’7, wearing a beige dress much like that of a flapper from the 1920s. It had a plunging neckline revealing an ample amount of her firm, tan cleavage partially covered by two long white pearl necklaces. The dress was adorned with many hand-embellished beads and sequins. The double-layered fringe fell just halfway down her smooth, bare thighs. Her arms were both decorated in four rows of pearl bracelets attached to a diamond ring by way of a sparkling silver chain. She wore a black headband with a black feather and dark blue-magenta crystals around her auburn hair. Her soft cheeks and lips were colored with a vivid red-orange, a dark brown eyeshadow surrounded her long, dark eyebrows and bright blue eyes. An almost shocked look crossed her face as she came face to face with the intruder. “Jawney Mack! Who the hell are you?” she exclaimed in a strong Irish accent as she brushed past him on her way through the bedroom. The backside of her low-cut dress revealed a lot of skin and two circular scars attempting to peek through around her shoulder blades.

“Grace?” Jack said out loud, almost in disbelief, as he removed his mask. How did she, the magical mistress of Hek wind up with a mobster in Vegas? He grabbed her arm and spun her around to face him.

She gave him a nasty glance from his boots to his face. “Are you sahft, man? Let go a me!”

“Grace, it’s me…Jack,” he explained. “We met yesterday when Hek took me—”

Her eyes grew large in realization. “Ohhh, Jack? Jack, stall the beans for a minute, alright? I’m naht Grawce. Nahm’s Ciara. I’m Grawce’s sister!” Her arm was released by the soldier, and she turned away from him once more and sauntered through the bedroom, headed directly for the living room. “I heard everything about you from her, though. Grawce is quite infatuated with y’, said your Mickey is as big as her tower, that she rode you for hours and you kept up with her the whole time.” She paused at the wine cabinet and turned to him with a wink. “Mawbey I’d like to go for a ride if you’re game. Don’t think she’ll mind, do ye?” She then proceeded to pour two Jameson Whiskeys over some chilled stone cubes.

The stunned captain, mission at a standstill, was not sure how to proceed. He had just learned that magic and demons existed the day before. And now, they have sisters too, in Las Vegas, dating mobsters. “So,” was how he began his verbal analysis of the situation, “Grace’s sister?” He rubbed his still-healing shoulder, plotting his words as carefully as possible. “And you are twins?”

Ciara placed the glass in Jack’s hand as she sashayed past him. “No, Jack; naht by a lahng shaht. She’s much, much older than me.”

He followed almost blindly, whisky in hand, just wanting answers. Magic. Demons. All real. What else could be real? “How much older?” he asked.

Ciara stopped at the bedroom doorway and sipped from her glass while thinking. She licked her lips and answered, “it’s a bajanxed kinda thing, Jack. We’ve been around a long time, she and I, and the others.” She leaned into the doorway with her shoulder and cocked her head. “Grawce was first born in 1752, Britain.” Jack approached slowly and had a sip as well. Ciara eyed the soldier with intent and licked the whiskey from her lips. “She died in ’65, rahp’d and murdered by a feckin’ English prick of a soldier.”

“Murdered?” Jack repeated. Why anything should shock him anymore was beyond his comprehension. “How could I have—”

“Had a ride with my sister, Cap’n? Goht y’r Mickey used? How’d that all happen if she was dead? She was a good girl at first,” she continued as she gently touched Jack’s arm and pulled him closer. “Right princess she was. When she met her mahker, she was just a bahb, just thirteen.” Her hand was on Jack’s strong back, holding him tightly against her body as her fingernails dug into his shirt and skin. “They mahd her into an ahngel, wings and flyin’ and all. Then she fucked up and gaht her ass sent to Hell. Too young and stupid, holy joe little bitch.” She took another sip and proceeded to touch Jack’s glass with the top of hers, edging it closer to his mouth so he could take a drink as well. “Then Hek found her, re-mahd her into a badass, a new demon, like him. Hahtter, better, faster. I was born when she wanted to give life another go, reborn as a poor little starvin’ bahb in Ulster as Drunk Daidi was rahpin’ me Mam.” Ciara pressed herself tighter against Jack’s groin at these words. He did not move, could not move, with the strength of her hand on his back. Her mouth moved a centimeter from his, her whiskey breath warm as an autumn afternoon. “I was just a stillborn, dead to the world. No life, no experience. Me and two other unlucky little cacs. It wasn’t fair that she gaht everything: the life, the tower, the wings, and all I gaht was feckin’ dirt up m’ nose. Grawce helped me come back, let me have th’ chance to experience life for a change. That’s how I met me fella, Nico. Kind of brutal to others, naht a great feck, but he buys me things and treats me nice. But…” Her hand moved to Jack’s buttocks and her lips touched his. “…I’m ready to trahd up to somethin’ moor fine.” At this, Ciara dropped her glass to the floor and wrapped her arms around Jack, still unable to resist, as he was pushed into the doorway. Her lips encompassed his, their tongues darting around the other. One of her hands found Jack’s zipper, pulled it down, and then fumbled and released the button above.

Ciara’s eyes then went white, and her hands suddenly dropped to her sides.

Jack was stupefied, eyes wide. He felt as though the weight of the world was let off his shoulders. Grace’s sister had put him under some kind of spell, trapping him. He took a glance around the two surrounding rooms, knowing that Nico Minniti would be there soon. Ciara was unresponsive, standing still as a statue, a kind of inner turmoil deep within her body that the captain would not understand, as he had just learned of the existence of these kinds of…people? Is that even the word for her and Hek? He would only have moments to decide his next moves: killing Nico and planning on what to do with Ciara. Should he try to kill her, too? Should he take her with him? He instinctively touch his pocket where he had found a razor blade. He decided that he would kill Nico with that after he dragged his mobster ass to the bathtub. It would look like suicide. But what of Ciara? What does one do with a resurrected sister of a magic demon? Was there ever a movie that dealt with this kind of problem?

The noise of the foyer door handle turning started the soldier. He reached for his mask in his back pocket and then froze. He couldn’t move an inch.

“How dare you, Jack?” a familiar voice called out in anger.

He turned back to find those bright blue eyes were back with a fury. There was something different about her, too. Something— “Grace?” he whispered.

She nodded as she put her hands on her hips. “You were cheating on me, Jack! You were kissing my sister and you’re supposed to be mine, not hers! You had no right! She had no right! You were about to have sex with her, weren’t you?”

The captain closed his eyes momentarily and shook his head in frustration. “Grace, look,” he began to reason with her, knowing the answer to the question he was about to ask, but going through with it anyway, “the two of you…share the same body, right?”

“Yes,” she huffed, shoving his arm with hers as she stormed back to the living room. “I let her out to play with her little Italian friend. I didn’t know she was going to go after my man while she was at it. You are mine, Jack! Hek gave you to me! Not some fucking Irish slut!” Her finger shook in anger in his direction before she moved to the wine cabinet.

Jack slung back his whisky, incredulous at her words, and put the empty glass on a nearby table. Was this really happening to him? He didn’t even want to get back in the game and now he has to deal with demon girls with multiple personality disorders? “Look, lady…Grace, I’m not yours. I didn’t even know you were real when we—”

She slammed a bottle of wine on the marble top and glared at him. “When we what, Jack? When you fucked me? When we shared that tender moment? You can’t tell me you didn’t think I wasn’t real when you and I made love, Jack! You and I are meant to be together! Hek deemed it and allowed it! He gave you to me! You are mine, Jack! Everyone else can go straight to Hell! Maybe they’ll get parts of their bodies ripped off too, wouldn’t that be a riot, Jack?!” At that, she unzipped her dress and let it fall below her waist, hanging loosely over her legs. She pivoted to show Jack Nelson her back, the scars around her shoulder blades. “That’s what they do to people who don’t follow the rules! They rip your Goddamn wings off and leave you to fucking burn in Hell for eternity, Jack! Fuck them! I had to sit there, a scared little girl, just a little fucking girl waiting on a savior. Anyone who tries to take my man can do the same fucking thing. Touch them, Jack. Touch my scars, soldier-boy.”

She marched back and pressed her naked back close to his front. He wondered before anything else: could he snap her neck? Could he slit her throat with the razor? Demon or not, could she die? And what would be the outcome if not? He touched her scars instead. He had felt them the previous day but did not realize just what they were. He wasn’t concerned then. It was like a dream then, a wet dream. Now it was all too real.

“Jack,” she began softly, “nobody should have to suffer like that. But people are inherently evil and must pay the piper. If anyone ever lays a hand on you besides in a fistfight, I will personally send them to Hell’s gates. You are mine, soldier.”

He again found himself incapable of arguing, of fighting back. She pulled his hand and led him to the king-sized bed. As he stood in front of it, she removed her dress, her eyes on his the entire time. “Jack, Nico is about to open that door,” she purred as she removed his shirt, “but don’t worry, you’ll still do your job.”

“Ciara, baby? I’ve only got an hour before I—” The mobster stood still for a moment and saw what he thought was his mistress, naked, her hands on another man, some tough blonde guy with a Captain America shield on his shoulder. “Who the fuck is this guy?” he demanded.

Grace’s eyes were still on Jack, but her words were directed to Nico: “shut up, go to the bathroom, start the tub, get undressed, and get in.”

Nico Minniti, the powerful mob boss, worth twenty-seven million dollars, nodded in agreement and obediently did as he was ordered.

Grace gave her soldier-boy a sensual kiss and commanded him to get into the bed. He could only do as asked, without argument. She removed his boots and socks, pants, and underwear. She climbed on top of his chest and looked down lovingly at him. “You and me, Jack. We’re together forever. No one else matters. When we’re done here, you’ll put on a glove, get the razor out of your pocket, and slit his wrists. Poor Nico committed suicide tonight when he found the empty whisky glasses, sheets thrown off the bed, and semen everywhere. And his sweet little Irish girl nowhere to be found.” She laughed an evil laugh, harsh enough to terrify even the hostage captain, whose stomach was beginning to feel sick. “You’re looking a little green, there, babe. Time for a pill.” She climbed off his body to retrieve his pills from his pants pocket as Josephine Baker sang, “Sometimes we quarrel and maybe we fight/ But then we make up the following night/ When we're together we're great company/ I love my baby, my baby loves me.” Jack did not want to spend any time quarreling, and he certainly did not want to make up. He wanted desperately to throw up and run away as far as possible. He did not want to have sex with this crazy demon straight from Hell.  “Got it,” she crooned, shaking the bottle. She was soon on top of him once more, her soft flesh on his. “Open up,” she breathed as she put the pill in Jack’s mouth. “Now, be a good boy and take your pill. Baby’s hungry for some of Jack’s loving.”

He wanted nothing more than to kill her and run.

But instead, he succumbed to everything she did to him.

Chapter Eleven

He stumbled, caught himself against the opening door, and limped out of the elevator at 8:12 PM. Agent Christian was there with a look of surprise. “Did he get the better of you, Captain?” Jack felt sick all over, and not the kind that creeps through his stomach all too often. He endured something that he didn’t want to believe. He didn’t want to have her…it…touching him, exchanging…he had been used, forced against his will. He hated her and wanted to kill her. But how does one kill a demon? Does Hek know what she’s doing? Of course he does. But there was another voice somewhere, a British voice, a young, sweet voice, not Grace’s. When this voice came, her eyes were softer but still blue. She said she was sorry. Then she went right back at it. He could not act against her, could not fight back. His arms were bruised, his neck had traces of blood, and one eye was severely blackened and puffy. Parts covered with clothing ached like never before. The agent helped him out of the elevator and began making their way to the parking garage, making pretend for onlookers with 1920’s dialogue such as “behind the eight ball, wrong gee, and too much giggle water.”

After a short, and painful walk, Jack was assisted into a black Buick GL6 that was parked next to Jack’s Indian. Agents Jake Bran, Brenda Fry, and Christian the new guy gave Jack a bottle of water and conducted the debrief. It seems that Ciara had left just before Jack entered the Emperor Suite. Nico Minniti arrived shortly after and managed to put up quite a struggle. Apparently, he saw the empty glasses and the destroyed bed, thinking Jack was having an affair with his mistress. Jack assumes she left with Minniti’s security man. The fight commences and Nico got several good shots in before Jack dragged him kicking and screaming into the bathroom and slit his wrist. Then it was over. Jack’s team didn’t buy most of his story, but he wouldn’t change. Ciara wasn’t there. The semen on the sheets wasn’t his. The glasses wouldn’t have his fingerprints on them. He killed Nico with gloves on and left nothing traceable. What about traces of blood? Cleaned and disinfected. Not a trace of Jack anywhere. Like a dog, they offered Jack an extra red pill. Like a dog, he took it.

Laggardly, the captain stepped out of the Buick, put on his helmet, and climbed on his bike. He hadn’t eaten in God knows how long and needed to sincerely apologize to Mercy, poor girl. He could tell her some of his stories, how the USSA overtook him at Laetitia’s, killing Sapphire in the process, and how…Vincent had vampire's teeth? “Shit,” he mumbled as he brought his bike roaring to life. Maybe he should skip the vampire part? But what about the rest? He’s not permitted to discuss his mission, the murder. She would have to accept that part. Any spouse or relationship had to. Can’t divulge everything. He pulled onto The Strip and veered North as the rain started to surge. His bruises and cuts came from a knock-down-drag-out fight. Jack won, of course, but it wasn’t easy. He didn’t have the heart to tell her about Grace or her “sister” Ciara. The first time hadn’t even been real to him. He thought he was blacked out, imagining it all. But the second time? A Del Taco lured the soldier in to sit and eat and think. The joint was packed with customers of all ages. Next to Jack’s small table was a family of four, an old man in a short sleeve collared shirt and slacks, his daughter in a light blue tank top, and two granddaughters, perhaps, wearing t-shirts with images of musical bands Jack had never heard of. The elderly man was coughing up a smoker’s storm as he kept pushing up his loose glasses. His daughter kept badgering him to drink his soda. He kept arguing that he is, he is, damn it. The lines under her eyes and the gray in her hair revealed to Jack that she’d been dealing with this crap for too long. The two younger girls, early twenties, best guess, had their eyes attached to their phones, attempting to ignore the family fest they were stuck with. The prettiest of the two also allowed a few glances at the beat-up captain, probably wondering if he was some crazed lunatic, ready to snap any minute now. Jack bit into his second chicken taco, though the spicy salsa was repeatedly stinging his tongue, which had been bit and cut by another lunatic altogether. On the other side of his table was a young couple on a date. The young long-haired twerp in a Legend of Zelda hoodie and brown backpack played on his Nintendo Switch while his date, pale-skinned, kind of pretty but a little too thin and freckly, with icy-blonde hair in a black AC/DC T-shirt, sat bored, drinking her Mr. Pibb and staring blankly at the downpour outside. Jack sipped his Coke Zero and let his mind wander, imagining the blonde and he taking Zelda’s car out for a spin. He could wrap his arms around that petite little body and have her pants off in no time. He’d certainly be able to relieve her of her boredom in ways that Floyd could never imagine. She could dig her silver fingernails into his back, worsen the wounds, and leave it even bloodier, she could plaster her glittery silver lipstick stains on his body and shirt, then he could blame her instead of a demon from Hell for what happened to him. Icy blonde from Del Taco, Mercy could believe, but a demon? Fat chance! It was all frustration tooling around in his mind at any rate. There’s no way he would purposefully cheat on Mercy. She’d kick his ass. Plus, he was in enough pain as it was.

“She’s cute, hum?” questioned a black man standing beside Jack. He was muscular, stood about 6’1”, and was dressed in a stylish, solid gray wool jacket and pants with a white, silk collared shirt with the top two buttons undone to reveal a pair of silver chains and a hint of a muscular chest. His hair was shorn thin, and he wore a close-cropped beard and two tiny, embedded diamond earrings in each ear. His bright smile and bright, glassy-gray eyes captured Jack’s attention immediately. He set his silver tray of food that did not come from the Del Taco counter. The tray was larger than Jack’s and consisted of two porcelain plates of rich blue and intricate gold designs. The dinner held was a Wagyu beef and Maine lobster burger in between two Dom Perignon-infused brioche buns. The beef was topped with generous slices of foie gras, truffles, goat cheese, and a smoked duck egg mayo. Another plate held French fries that had been soaked in Dom Perignon Champagne and vinegar and cooked in pure French goose fat. The fries were seasoned in truffle salt and an intensely-flavored organic Grecian extravergine olive oil. The gentleman’s beverage, a 1928 Krug Champagne with a hint of apricot and honey, was in a crystal glass with gold trim. The expensive bottle, opened and bumbling over a bit, stood at the top right of his tray. Before the captain could say anything, the man was sitting directly in front of him and stuffing his silk napkin around the top of his shirt.

Jack’s large turquoise eyes floated between the expensive food and the gall of the stranger who took half his table. “Do I know you?” Jack asked, thinking he already knew the answer: no.

“Of course, you do,” the man said before indulging in the first bite of his burger. He closed his eyes as if in ecstasy and released a reserved “Mmmmm” while swaying his head slowly from side to side. “You have got to try this,” he finally said, holding out his burger for Jack to sample.

Jack put his hand out to stop the incoming food. “Who the hell are you?”

The man’s smile grew devilishly. “Don’t you recognize me? Gray eyes? Perfect smile? Dear friend, it’s me; it’s Hek.”

Jack leaned back in his chair; disappointment, anger, and perhaps fear streamed throughout his blood. This was an actual monster or demon or some kind of magical being that should not be sitting in front of him. Should not even exist! Jack’s hands seemed to not register if the brain wanted them to make a fist or grip his legs. “What are you doing here?”

Hek swallowed a quick fry and dapped his mouth with a napkin. “Eating a fine dinner with a good friend of mine, of course! How’s your dollar taco by the way? Looks exquisitely appetizing! Anyhoo, I just wanted to check in with you. Seems like your colossal 50th birthday didn’t go quite as well as one would’ve thought, hum? Well, if you didn’t get to shag that fine stripper, at least you had a go at my lovely assistant. Twice, if I’ve heard correctly. Seems she’s taken quite a fancy to you and your manliness. You must be a monster in the boudoir, my friend.”

The pain crawled throughout his body once more as he remembered what Grace did to him against his will, what she made him do… “She’s as insane as you, Hek. I want you to tell her to stay away from me.”

“Jaaaack, please, you must know that I can’t control one such as Grace (and all her little friends). She only works for me; she is free to do whatever she wants with whomever she wants. Are you sure you don’t want a bite? How about a fry? They’re simply delectable!”

“I don’t want a fry; I want Grace to stay the hell away from me. That’s what I want.”

A feigned look of sadness crossed the demon’s face. “That will, indeed, hurt her feelings if I relay this message to her. How about we just take her off your mind with someone else, hum? Excuse me, miss? Miss?” he called out to the icy-blonde young lady in the AC/DC T-shirt. She allowed her distant gaze to leave the rain-drenched window to see who was requesting her attention. Her face was young, kind of pretty with defined cheekbones. Her lips, however, were full and soft. “Could you come here for a moment? I promise my friend and I won’t keep you long…I’ll even throw in a couple of Franklins for your time,” he added, laying five, hundred-dollar bills on the table. The girl looked at her date for acceptance to which he took a glance at Hek and Jack, shrugged his shoulders, and went back to his game. She promptly clutched her brown Coach handbag, a birthday gift from the previous year, and rose from her seat. She stood almost six feet in her high heels and wore a tight pair of faded blue jeans to match the T-shirt. “My, oh my, you are stunning!” Hek announced with enthusiasm, earning the attention of several patrons. “Come sit, sit with my friend over here. Sadly, my side is slightly full what with my dinner and all. Otherwise, I would just eat you up. Mmm!” The young lady glanced hesitantly at Jack with her icy satin gray eyes. She noted his black eye, bloody lip and neck, and bruised arm. “Oh, he’s harmless, honestly. He’s a soldier, see his dog tags? Just did a service for God and country, he did. And he did his duty with utmost pleasure, I assure you. True American hero!” The lady wrinkled her nose for a quick moment, looked back at her distracted date, and sat down about a foot away from Jack. “Here, here, take all of this for your trouble, miss--?” he said, pushing the bills over to her to which she quickly snatched them and put it all in her handbag should her host change his mind.

Jack breathed out, glanced at the girl to his left, and then back at Hek. “What’s going on?” he demanded.

“I thought you wanted to take your mind off Grace. Hence, here is the lovely…?

“Hrist,” she answered confidently with a strong Norwegian accent, though uncertain where this 3-way conversation would take her.

“Your accent is intriguing and quite alluring! Where are you from my dear?” Hek asked quickly.

The young lady briefly stared at the man on her right, bruised and seemingly in a foul mood, before returning her attention to the handsome black man in front of her. “Bergan. Norway,” she answered.

“Describe it,” Hek demanded giddily.

“Tiny, beautiful city, lots of mountains and fjords to spend your time in, get lost in, and have a good time. Vibrant, colorful homes and lots of shopping. We have lots of festivals and music and I could legally drink at 18, unlike in this restrictive place. I had some good friends, had some fun, but I wanted more…”

“So you came to America, land of the free and home of the brave? Why? And how old are you, dearie?”

“Nineteen,” she answered before looking at the champagne and asking, “May I?”

“Oh, but of course. Of course!” Hek, only having one crystal glass with gold trim, simply made another one appear on his side of the bottle of champagne, and poured the young lady half a glass. “So, why oh why did you pack up and come to this filthy city? All whores, gambling, and fat, sweaty tourists spending money they don’t have? You apparently had it made up North. Enthralling weather, the ability to partake in a drink or two, and it was much cleaner. Why America? Why Vegas?” Hek slid the glass across the table to the young Hrist to which she accepted it with a smile and nod, held it by the stem, and sipped.

Hrist licked her lips and set the glass down in front of her. “Tusen takk! Thank you very much. That is deilig..delicious! It is nice to have someone take notice and do a nice thing for me. That is why I have come here. Where I come from, there are not enough people to look out for me. My translation is poor, but… I wanted more than what was there. I want more than beauty and clean air. I want…a life. I want a story to tell. I want people to beundre…admire me. I am not pretty enough to be a sexy model. I am cute, I know, but not glamourous. I cannot act to save my life and I am not a leader, not the one I want to be. I was never the first choice in Bergan. I said goodbye to my pappa and mamma and I fly to America, to L.A. Not a big mistake, but it is not yet perfect. I find work as waitress for to mingle with people, celebrities, and rich men. That’s where I find him,” she titled her head toward her long-haired date, now talking to his phone. “He is a big Youtube personality, talks of movie news, he knows people in the industry. I think, he is not that handsome, but he knows people that can help me. I figure I cannot act and I am no Adriana Lima, but maybe I can help make decisions, hire people, fire people. I have taken some business klassers but could not sit still in a classroom. I have learned some things, though. So I ask him out and he says yes.”

Jack, now interested, as he is concerned about what Hrist may be getting herself into with this guy, or even Hek. “Has he hurt you?”

Hrist’s eyes grew wide as she let out a small chuckle. “Him? He couldn’t hurt a feeling! He is all talk on the Youtube. Oh, I fucked this actress and that actress and I am a man’s man. This is our first date. He brought me to Las Vegas to gamble and have me on his arm as he records his trip. He won’t even hold my hand except when the camera is on. I offered to give him a hand-job in his car and he said he did not want to mess his pants, that he will stick it to me real good in the hotel, The Bellagio.” Hek put his head into his hand and laughed out loud. “What? What did I say?”

“He’s gay,” Jack answered for him.

“However, my friend here is straight. You can give him a hand-job if you prefer,” Hek chuckled. “Big strong soldier, huge cock I assure you.”

“Eww,” she exhaled, quite grossed out with the thought, before taking another sip of the champagne.

Hek looked into the young lady’s eyes and continued: “I cannot believe you did not realize that of your ‘date’. You’ve been wasting your time on that one, love. He has got nothing for you, no bangers n’ meatballs, no money, no job offers, and no contacts. You are only with him to play a role on his channel; you are but an actress for his show,” Hek spelled it out almost bluntly. “However, I can offer you something much better.”

The young Hrist rested her elbows on the table and propped her chin on her hands. The man had the $500 when their conversation began. What else was under his sleeves? “What do you have in your mind?”

Hek’s eyes sparkled with delight as he answered: “It seems to me that you require someone who can give you all that you want, a benefactor if you will, and what you want is, basically…”

“Power,” she said without hesitation. “People I have known are weak. I am sick of weak people who cannot keep up with me, who cannot help me. I do not want to go through life looking for contacts and fairy tale possibilities like a vagabond. I want it all handed to me. I am strong enough and I deserve it.”

Hrist sat beside Jack with a gleam in her eye, curious about what kind of offer Hek was about to make her, yet she didn’t even have his name yet. She had been sucked in. If this had all happened two days ago, the soldier would just assume the Norwegian was yet another hallucination, the same as Hek. She wouldn’t be there, discussing her dreams with some sort of demon. And yet, now he knows the truth, some of it anyway. The magical creature, Hek, is sitting in front of him, making some sort of bargain with this power-hungry girl that has no idea what she’s getting into. He wasn’t even very sure of the kind of crap he, himself, was into with the likes of Hek. “Are you sure you want to negotiate with a stranger, miss? You don’t know this guy at all.”

Her face spelled out completely that she didn’t care a cent for what the soldier said. She then turned back to the negotiator with a calm determination. “We are all strangers until we get to know one another. What kind of deal have you got for me, sir? And I am not having sex with you, so that is ikke mulig, not possible.”

“My dear, I wouldn’t have you any other way. I have no need for a slut at the moment, but I do have a need for a partner, someone extremely hungry, starving, for power. Is this you?”

“Hek, why don’t you just leave her alone--?” Jack warned.

“Captain, this young lady can make decisions on her own. Besides, I think she can help keep Grace busy with other things, get her off your cock for a while.”

“Wait. What? Who’s Grace?” Hrist asked, wondering if this is the right deal.

“Wish, Hrist. Wish for power,” Hek whispered.

Hrist licked her lips, trying to imagine what could be the worst that could happen from a wish. It’s just a few words, that’s all. If this man couldn’t guarantee anything, she could go back to her date. “I wish for power,” she finally said before Jack found himself back on his Indian, drenched in the storm, staring up at Mercy’s apartment window. His heart sank when he realized she was not alone.

Chapter Twelve

Mercy had given up on Jack coming home around eleven in the morning, called out from work, raced to her Volvo to avoid any hungry mountain lions, and drove home, a hot mess of tears, red, burning eyes, and cake and ice cream stains on her gray t-shirt. Luckily for her, there were no dumb, out-of-work men waiting outside her apartment to harass her. At least something is working out for me, she thought as she climbed the stairs to her apartment. She closed and locked her door, removed her dessert-laden shirt, and threw it on her sofa. Passing a mirror, she stopped to see what a mess she had become. People ditching her had a habit of turning her into this masterpiece. Mercy rubbed some makeup that had smeared on her cheek and sighed heavily. “You can forget ever having this again, fucking Jack!” she shouted as she removed her belt and flung it onto her carpeted bedroom floor. “Not that anyone wants this shit right now, anyway.” She kicked off her shoes, removed her jeans and thong, and crawled into her tub. The hot water flowed freely from the faucet and her eyes.

After another long, nasty cry, the dark-haired beauty slipped on some underwear and an oversized Demon Slayer t-shirt, poured some white wine, and wrapped herself in a blanket on her burnt sienna, microsuede couch. She tried again to reach Jack and Janequin’s but couldn’t get ahold of anyone…again. Hunger, drunkenness, and frustration taking over, she attempted to kill her esophagus with some greasy pizza rolls as she zoned out on Netflix. The muggy evening and a full tummy brought forth an exhausted sleep shortly after 8 PM. The dream that took over her mind was like no other.

A stunning naked woman, standing tall in nothing but some bright red pumps, was slowly approaching Mercy in a dark hallway, lit by several torches along the warm, stone walls. A hot, burning smell emitted somewhere beyond the walls. Mercy looked around; a growing heart-clenching fear was starting to take over her insides. Something was not right here. The woman, an angel, sprouted wonderfully exquisite wings from her back as she stood just an inch from Mercy, her warm, strawberry-like breath filling her senses. Mercy stood still as the bewitching angel smiled lovingly and cupped the Asian beauty’s breasts. “They’re smaller than mine but still lovely.” Her warm breath caressed Mercy’s neck, causing her hair to stand at attention. “A candy scent; I like it,” the angel whispered just above her neck. Mercy could not move as the angel ran a hand to Mercy’s lower back, gripping her bottom. “Firm butt, but not as nice as mine. I’m told mine tastes like fresh berries, too. I wonder how yours tastes?” Mercy then found her clothes were gone as well but she wasn’t exactly embarrassed as it was just a dream, right? The angel moved behind the entranced Mercy, her hands never losing the touch of her naked skin. She then knelt behind her just before she sensually kissed Mercy’s left cheek. “Mmm, not like berries, maybe vanilla? Or is that the candy scent taking over my brain?”

The angel then rose to her feet and stood in front of Mercy once more, moving her face to hers. Her mouth opened gently as her tongue moved inside Mercy’s stunned mouth. She had never wanted to kiss another woman before, and it felt wrong, but it also felt so good. Wet, hot, and sweet. The angel’s hands caressed Mercy’s body, her fingers touching Mercy in places usually reserved for a lover as a soft moan released itself from her mouth. Grace pulled away slowly, licking Mercy’s soft lips as she did so. “I can see why he likes you. You are soft, you smell nice, and you are very beautiful, Mercy.” She moved her tender hands along Mercy’s sides. “But he’s mine now. He loves me. I’m going to have to teach you what happens when someone takes my things.” Just then the angel’s wings disappeared from her back and appeared on Mercy’s. A feeling of light-headedness overtook her, causing her to stumble but she was caught by the auburn beauty. “You can stand, my dear. It’s okay. Turn around; you are radiant.” The woman made a circular movement with her arm as she watched Mercy turn around a handful of times. “You are just so cute! Tsk! But now it’s time to teach you a lesson, you whore!”

With that, a sharp scimitar, reflecting the torch fires on its steel blade, appeared in Grace’s right hand. The woman smiled devilishly and brought the tip of the blade to her mouth and kissed it. “I was taught long ago, that when someone does a bad thing, her wings must be ripped from her flesh. You have done something wrong to me, girl. You fucked my man. You wrapped your diseased, slutty Chinese cunt on my man’s cock and came all over him. You are a putrid, nauseating, girl, Mercy, and I will now show you the error of your ways.”

Before she could even react, Mercy found herself face down on a large king-sized bed. Her hands and feet were strapped in leather bonds so that she could not move. A new presence was beside her: Jack. He was naked as well and smiling at her. “I’m sorry I got you into this, Mercy. I never should have saved you from that man. You’re a whore and should be treated as such.” He turned on his side and rested his elbow on the bed and his head on his hand. “Grace is so much better than you. I love her so much.”

Mercy then felt the other woman’s body climbing on the back of her legs. She felt the cold blade of the scimitar gently sliding up her spine. She then felt the cutting, the chopping, the slicing. She felt the blood flow down her back and onto the bed. She screamed and screamed and spat as the sinister Grace brutally chopped her wings off in pieces. “This is what they did to me, deary, and I learned my lesson. Now you’ll learn yours!” She ripped and tore, cut and slashed. Mercy continued to wail, crying for help, wanting Jack to intervene, but he just sat there, doe-eyed for Grace. Mercy wanted to pass out, to die, but could not. She felt it all: every rip, every tear. When Grace was done, the bed was smeared with blood and covered with piles of wings. Mercy closed her eyes and whimpered into the mattress as Grace rolled off her and onto Jack. Mercy could hear them kissing, could feel their bodies touching hers as they moved in a twisted, bloody passion. She could feel the bed rocking back and forth as her two bedmates made love, and could hear their cries of passion as they climaxed repeatedly. Mercy was beaten up, carved, and left alone again. Jack had abandoned her for a monster, and she was helpless to do anything about it.

The frantic beating at the door forced her out of her nightmare. Her eyes searched her surroundings for familiarity: her 43” Samsung hanging on the wall Netflixing away, her rectangular acrylic coffee table with an empty bottle of Jackson-Triggs ice wine and an empty glass next to it. That was her three monitors and Alienware computer on her desk next to her window, and her blinds raised so the whole world could see her suffering. She was safely at her home and some jerk was definitely banging the hell out of her front door at, according to her watch, 9:17 in the evening. Her shoulder blades ached as she climbed off her comfortable, cool couch and stood. She stretched out her body in an attempt to relieve some of the tightened muscles and tried to massage her hard-to-reach, sore shoulder blades. Interestingly to the waking Mercy, that’s where the woman in her dreams had chopped off her wings. The banging continued again along with someone other than Jack calling out her name as she moved her bare feet across the carpeted floor behind her couch. The voice sounded foreign, not American, but maybe familiar if not for the overwrought shouting. “Hang on, I’m coming,” she practically whispered, though she wanted to shout but found her throat too sore to accomplish such a feat.

“Invite me in!” cried out her former boss, Vincent, disheveled and whiter than normal, as Mercy peeked through the peephole. Her mind immediately raced to the assumption that this had something to do with her missing soldier-man and hurriedly opened the door. The slender Czechoslovakian, usually standing tall at 6’4”, was now hunched over, leaning one hand on the wall, and was drenched from the rain. Their eyes locked for one small awkward moment. “Invite me in,” he repeated.

His odd request, coupled with his mysterious arrival when everything else was falling apart, prompted her to react with a simple, “what?”

“In,” he repeated, almost showing signs of frustration with her. “I cannot just enter someone’s home…it is a custom…I must be—”

“Get in here,” she interrupted, extending her hand for him to follow into her home. She took notice that they were both a horrid mess of mussed-up hair and water-soaked face and clothing. The red-head passed her slowly, his eyes and nose taking in his surroundings, pausing for just a moment when he was directly in front of her. His eyes found hers again and caused a sensation within her that was hard to lock onto. A hunger? A feeling of desire? She had never felt anything for him before, especially knowing that he was gay and very off-limits. Still…? But before she could say or do anything stupid, he had rapidly crossed the room and was behind her kitchen counter, hands flat on the countertop and facing her from approximately fifteen feet away. The man moves fast, she thought. “Vincent, you okay? Have you heard from Jack?” she asked, closing the door with the back of her leg, facing Vincent all the while. He was always dressed to the nines, yet in his uniquely Gothic style. Tonight was no different: a long, velvet purple tailcoat with bone buttons, a black vest, and a red silk shirt underneath. His hands were beneath the puffy sleeves and were adorned with a multitude of gold rings.

“The club was attacked last night; Jack was there,” he began. Mercy began to move closer, but Vincent told her to sit instead. She directly returned to her couch without question. “I reek of sweat and you know how I am about the presentation, my love. They came into Janequin’s with such rudeness that deserved to be smitten out. They were there for your boyfriend; they had a mission for him and were not too friendly with their request. They attacked Sapphire and shot and took Jack with them.” Mercy’s hand covered her mouth, almost smothering it with abrupt pressure. “I think he will be okay as they want him to work for him. To hurt him, to kill him, would go against whatever motive or mission they have for him. I could not get to the phone as I was protecting…helping Sapphire. I had to become her nurse immediately after they left with Jack.” He wanted to hug and comfort her but was fighting to resist the urge. There was something about her this night that he wanted, something he wouldn’t normally think to take from one of his friends. “Your boyfriend will be fine. I am saddened that it happened on his birthday, on your special night together.”

Mercy buried her head in her arms and knees and began to silently shake and whimper. At least he didn’t abandon her on purpose.

“Sweet, sweet girl, do not fear,” Vincent consoled from afar, “you will see him again, I am sure of it. I just came to see you in person, but I must take my leave now as, trust me, Sapphire needs me more than you.”

Shaking, and unable to talk, Mercy stumbled to her feet to get to the door. With her back to her friend across the room, spots of fresh blood were visible on her t-shirt, having soaked through some wounds on her shoulder blades. In less than a heartbeat, Vincent was behind her, his chest touching her back, his hands on her shoulders, his eyes on the blood. The emotion she felt as he entered her home exploded back to her senses as she turned to face him, chest to chest, face to face. Her lips moved to touch his, but he forcibly spun her around and exhaled out a hot breath on her neck as his nose slowly moved downward. Mercy’s hands, seemingly under no control of her own, reached behind her and grabbed at whatever piece of Vincent she could find. She could feel his hot breath on her naked back as he lifted her shirt. She quickly assisted him and pulled it the rest of the way off, her body now mostly naked save for her loose-fitting lounge underwear. Vincent’s hands held her flat stomach as he ran his warm tongue along her lower back and up her shoulder blades, stopping just before the fresh wounds that were still covered in blood. He did not know how her wounds or the blood got there, and in his state of mind, he did not care, either. He just wanted it. Large white teeth exposed themselves in his mouth as he made a quick mental argument within, trying to ascertain if this was worth it; if taking her blood went against everything he held dear when it came to friends. His teeth touched the first spot of blood as Mercy played with his hair from above. She tried to turn around again, to have his mouth on her breasts, but he wouldn’t have it. He wanted her back, and he held her fast.

His teeth grew a tiny bit longer as he prepared himself to pick her up and throw her on her couch. He wanted her badly. There was something in that blood that was inhuman and created a hunger in him that he had never experienced before. Then a light suddenly appeared in her window from below as the outside rain made it dance vividly, the reflection permeating throughout her living room. The light was significantly bright, somewhat important for some reason unbeknownst to him. During his hesitation, the young lady was finally able to turn and face her friend. Her mouth and tongue touched his. Her hands touched his shirt and began to undo his buttons. That light was so bright! Too bright; unworldly! Her hands touched his chest as she kissed him intently, wanting him as she has never wanted anyone before. Mercy, her hands on Vincent, eased him backward, towards the sofa, giving him a clearer glimpse of what was causing the light.

Jack Nelson’s Indian.

Jack was his friend. He squeezed his eyes shut as Mercy began kissing his exposed chest. He needed to go. He shouldn’t take Mercy’s blood, no matter how special, how inhuman it may seem. But what was it about her blood? He couldn’t tell, but he had to get out. “Stop,” he commanded her. “Call Jack…and forget I was here.”

***

There was someone with her up there. Jack could see their dark shapes through her window; it looked like they were on her couch.  He could easily zoom in and see for sure, but why? Why cause himself even more pain than he was already in? The magic travel from Del Taco to here had already set his stomach on fire, no need to intensify the pain. The pain was coming on; he could feel it. He shook his head in disgust at the world at large, reached into his pocket, and pulled out the bottle of pills. Once a day, the general warned him. “Fuck you,” Jack mumbled as he popped the pill in his mouth. He still had four more. No problem. Moments ago he was concerned for the girl, Hrist, but now his attention was on his own problems once more. He had deserted Mercy through no fault of his own, had been shot and drugged and forced into an assassination. No choice. The downpour continued. His head was dry in his helmet but the rest of him was getting inundated with rain. He saw the shapes sink out of view and knew she moved on. He wasn’t there for her and now she was out of his life. It was all for the best anyway, what with the kind of shitstorm he was in with assassinations and magical creatures everywhere. There was no room for a relationship. It was time to go.

Then the phone rang. Instead of removing the helmet in the rain, the captain answered through his eye as it sent out the image of the call inside his helmet: Mercy. His heart raced. Damn, he shouldn’t have that strong of feelings for anyone, He swallowed hard and answered: “’Lo?”

“Jack?” Her voice illustrated her tears flowing freely down her face. “Jack? Where are you, babe? Are you okay? Can you move? Are you free--?

“I’m here, hon. I’m fine. I’m—right outside your apartment as a matter of fact.” He saw her shape appear in the window again, her beautiful dark form, one hand on the window as she studied the stormy evening just outside her walls.

“Jack! Don’t go, babe…I’ll be right th—”

Her voice shut off just before her front door opened. Jack removed his helmet, quickly put it away, and ran to meet her at the foot of the stairway. Their lips locked immediately as Jack forgot all about the recurring pain in his stomach and all of the damage that Grace had inflicted upon him. Arms wrapped around wet bodies, their hands on each others’ hair, faces, and backs, the two lovers had finally made their way back to one another after about a day and a half of torture, some physical, some of the heart, and some in dreams. The two backed into the concrete wall behind them, Mercy flat against it as her strong soldier was pushed up against her. Her soft, wet tongue darted in and around Jack’s mouth as he held her face, desperate to forget the last 33 hours or so. But who was up there with her? Where did he go? Jack struggled to pull his face away from her to ask that dreadful question: “Was there someone with you?”

Mercy’s mind wanted nothing more than to take her soldier to bed and ride him until the sun came up and could not imagine what he must be thinking of. Did he hear the TV in the background? A shadow in the room? She certainly didn’t take another lover as she sat on her couch crying her head off all day. Who would take her in that condition anyway? Giving up on caring about his question, she wrapped her arms around him, hoisted herself into his strapping arms, and French kissed him some more. “Fuck no,” she answered. She was honest with herself and her man as she had no recollection of the vampire that had been in her living room, craving her blood. Vincent had already abandoned the scene, having another important matter to tend to.

“I thought I saw—”

She stopped kissing him, placed her hands on his saturated hair, and looked him in the eyes. “Boyfriend, please listen, there is no one upstairs. There is no one I want in this world other than you. Jack, you are my everything, so fuck you and your imagination. I have had a hell of a time without you, worrying about friggin’ lions, being scared shitless of you leaving me, and having the worst nightmare of my life. Jack, you big, dumbass soldier, you fucking abandoned me on your friggin’ birthday and left me alone in your cabin out in the mountains of Bumfuckville, and I had no idea what was happening to you. I called you and I called Janequin’s but couldn’t get through to anyone. I know something bad happened or you would have been with me last night. But right now, boyfriend, I don’t want to know where you were at. I just want you to take me to bed. Right now. You understand?”

He nodded.

“And after I have multiple orgasms, you can then tell me where the hell you’ve been.”

The waterlogged couple, in a mangled up contortion of bodies, climbed the stairs, hardly able to see clearly through the darkened skies, dead light bulbs, and face-on-face action, bumped often into the walls and handrails as they snaked their way to her floor. As they approached her door she backed away momentarily from him to remove her drenched t-shirt as he fumbled with her door. She kissed him again and climbed down to assist with the door as he pressed against her backside, kissing her neck and back. She jiggled the handle and kicked the door. Unfortunately, they were locked out. She turned back to face her soldier and pulled him closer. “Screw the bed,” she purred as she climbed in his arms once more. Their mouths found each other again as Mercy unzipped Jack’s pants and put flesh to flesh. She rode her man hard alongside the door to her apartment. Jack, the strong soldier-boy that he was, ignored the bruised member that Grace had molested in ways he had never thought possible. The pill helped him control it, nullifying the suffering as it was overtaken by his 23-year-old girlfriend. She scratched his back with sharp, flesh-damaging claws, not realizing yet that it was already damaged by a monster that very evening. He held her tiny body firmly as they both came furiously together, she moaned loudly in celebration while he groaned in passion and pain as quietly as possible.

Then the door gave way, allowing both to finish on the comfort of her living room floor. Mercy, enraptured with desire, tugged at Jack’s wet shirt, desperately trying to remove it, but had to give up and settle for his pants instead. After Jack kicked the door closed with his tangle of pants pulled down to his shoes, the lovers renewed their endearment for one another.

Chapter Thirteen

She could still feel things, even after her very life had been taken from her.

Coldness.

Darkness.

Staleness.

Hunger.

Her hand reached up and touched hard, solid stone. Her legs stretched out and touched hard, solid stone as well. Her cooled body rested on a soft velvety material within the hard, solid stone enclosure. The hunger was growing within her in such a way as she had never experienced before. A painful hunger. Ravenous. She licked her dry lips, searching for a taste, a sense of moisture that just was not there. The last thing she remembered was the ugly, mutton-chopped man who was forcing her on her lap, rubbing her body on his crotch, damn close to exploding all over his pants. Sick fucker. Then he relaxed his hands on her and she elbowed him in the nose. Bloodied him real good. Then he slashed at her throat with a knife.

God, the hunger.

It all went dark then until she saw a light. Granmè was there, nodding and smiling, arms outstretched, reaching out for her pitit fi, her granddaughter. She had her favorite big-ass blue sunhat and huge gold hoop earrings dangling from those enormous ears of hers. She had that same rosewater cream smell as she lovingly called out her name. Her name. Her name.

Her name was a blur. She couldn’t remember what Granmè was calling her as her big old, cracked lips shouted out her name as loudly as possible. A blur. A fog. It was a name she hadn’t used in the last three years, not since she had left the island and moved to America. “What, America? Ki kaka sa! A shithole country full of bouzens and cowboys shooting their guns off! Stay, child! Stay here with fanmi! Please!” But she…what was her name?...she didn’t want to. Manman died of breast cancer and there was no father, not in a long time. She had grown tired of her city, Cité Soleil, and the men there. There was nothing good, nothing hopeful for her there. So she fucked some GI Joes in Pétionville to get the money for passage on a crowded, rat-infested ship to America. They said she was pretty and had a great body. You’d be a skinny piece of ass too if you had hardly any food to eat, and were young. She was still young. Anyway, no regrets. Easy money. But Granmè was back for her, right there in front of the light. “Mwen renmen ou, pitit! I love you, child!” She was moving, floating, towards Granmè; what a joy it would be to be back in her arms after so long. She was ready. Then Granmè stopped, fear in her eyes as if she would have another heart attack all over again. Her hands moved away from her sides and were blocking her face, cowering in fear.

“Granmè? Kisa ki mal? What’s wrong?” She looked around the vicinity. It was dark, except for the light, but there was a new color in her eyes. Crimson.

“No! Dyab! Dyab! The devil! Stay back from my pitit fi! Please! Please, no!”

And the crimson was warm, like a blanket. It encompassed her nakedness, it healed her throat, bringing the pieces of her shredded jugular veins together, reattaching the thyroid gland, mended the carotid arteries. The crimson made her whole once more, yet it had broken Granmè, who was now running from her and screaming “nonono!”  Why did Granmè show fear? The crimson healed her, made her all better, like magic. She was always a superstitious lady, scared of a single black cat and the way the moon reflected off the water. She watched Granmè disappear as she found herself in that cold, dark, stale place. She could hear an echoing base of music from somewhere in her vicinity. Her body and mind were both awakened enough now to find out where she was as she heaved upward and slid the stone that covered her cold body to the side. Sapphire, same curly blue hair, same petite body, but now a much lighter shade of mocha, emerged from a tomb in a room of stone, like some sort of castle basement in a movie. There were electric lights, similar to torches lining the walls, providing a lurid, dancing effect around her surroundings. The room was small, with just an old matching wooden desk and chair set. Several books and papers were neatly arranged on the desk next to an ancient feather quill pen standing in its holder. She pulled her lithe frame out of the stone tomb and placed her bare feet on the gray, cold, stone floor. She still wore her outfit from earlier: a low-cut, black, rhinestone-lined top that pushed her small breasts together, giving the impression that they were larger than they were. It also exposed her strong, tight abs that she worked hard on. Her rear-end was covered with a loose-fitting, black mesh garter skirt and a satin G-string. She had multiple tattoos, including her favorite: a small heart with Granmè scrolled in it, sitting just next to her pierced navel.

Her nose turned up, towards the sound of the echoing music, just past the door in front of her. There was a smell that made her stomach growl with ferocity. It was unlike anything she had ever smelled before and it was fueling her desire to find it. Her stomach ached as she crossed the stone floor to the portal that would lead her to that smell, to her dinner. She licked her lips in anticipation and felt her teeth, clean and sharp, ready to feed her esurient appetite. The need grew more voracious with each moment as the pain and need overwhelmed her mind and body. The door handle turned easily, at least she was not locked in. However, she almost felt as if she were locked in, that she could rip the door off its hinges and proceed on her way. Sapphire climbed the stairs, one hand clutching her stomach as it growled again. She found herself in the club manager’s office. Vincent loved an organized, colorful office with lots of pictures of his friends, and a few pricey sofas, and chairs that he changed out every couple of years. Often, they were handmade and shipped from other countries or the Northeastern states.

Oh, but that smell! It made her body tingle and shiver in anticipation. It kept intensifying her emotions and hunger. She wanted it. Right now. Her nipples were stiff, her stomach growled, her heart…she believed it should be racing right now but it wasn’t. No big deal. She just wanted to eat.

She pulled open Vincent’s office door to find Janequin’s Strip in full, late-Saturday night/early Sunday morning party mode. Bodies glistened from sparkling makeup under the red LED lights and smelled of cheap perfume, desperate cologne, and sweat. She moved past the bodies, felt the warmth and stickiness of their skin, the softness of their hair on her face and across her bare shoulders. She felt one of their hands on her bottom and turned to face the aggressor. She pressed her body against his. He was young, somewhere in the early twenties in age, kind of cute in a daddy’s boy sort of way. Clean-shaven, smelled nice enough as she put her arms around him and probed his neck with her nose. He moved his hands up along the bare skin of her back, assuming she was going to pay him some attention, but he was not the one. She spun away without a word. The smell was not from him, though it was nice to have that warmth on her. Touching her. She touched her arms. Nothing. No warmth, as if she was dead. Sapphire continued moving past the bodies, some still, some moving as she did, some swaying to the energetic, electronic beat of “I Want Your Body” by Nymphomania. The aromas of pungent cigarettes and sweet, strong cigars attempted to overtake her senses as she passed a group of loud, obnoxious men celebrating someone’s bachelor party. A wide mix of ages inhabited their company as some of her co-workers danced on their laps and accepted money in their G-strings. The scent was here, in the middle of them all. He was handsome, with toned arms that were visible through his mulberry, long-sleeve Calvin Klein dress shirt. His hair was cut short, adding to her assumption that he was a professional of some sort, though he had that light stubble from two-days growth, ready for a weekend of bachelor party depravity. She strutted past his companions, brushing past their skin, their clothing, their hands, and hair, ignoring their catcalls and hands and dollar bills. A gorgeous, Mexican brunette named Butterfly, two years older than her, was presently sitting in his lap, her bare stomach touching his clothed chest as her body arched back, giving him a fantastic view of her naked breasts, voluptuous and young. The two ladies’ eyes met as she moved closer and got on her knees, just beside Butterfly. She caressed Butterfly’s stomach with one hand as she stroked the leg of the young man with the amazing scent with the other. The brunette teasingly moved her head toward the intruder with her mouth open and wrapped one arm around her as their tongues met. The men cheered on as the two strippers passionately kissed for a long, hot moment before Butterfly found herself sharing the customer’s lap with a co-worker. The excited young man’s heart raced as he touched the two girls’ bodies everywhere he could as they made out on his lap, their heads near his, their hair on his face, and their backs on his chest. He felt one of their hands touching his crotch, rubbing him harder than he already was. He leaned back as Butterfly’s head was right beside his, cheek to cheek as Sapphire straddled both with her strong, cool legs. One hand on the customer, one hand on Butterfly’s breast, Sapphire moved her mouth over his and kissed him gently for just a second. “I want you,” she said, stomach growling with hunger and determination.

“Oh, I want you too,” he returned, wildly.

Sapphire kissed Butterfly for just a moment longer, her hand running up her neck and tickling her earlobe. “Go,” she whispered. Without hesitation, Butterfly stood and walked away, leaving Sapphire alone with her customer. Sapphire tightened her strong legs around the handsome young man, wrapping their lower half under his. Her arms reached behind him and her mouth hovered just beside his right ear, finally finding the source of the wonderous scent: a touch of dried blood. She pressed her tongue upon the tasty liquid, sending a shiver through her body. She felt a little warmer, and a little better, already. The pain was starting to fade. She licked her lips and moved to his mouth for a sensuous kiss. “Follow me upstairs.” It was not a question. He shook his head desperately, wanting this stripper and whatever would happen with her.

Sapphire climbed to her feet and took hold of the customer’s hand. His hand was so much warmer than hers. Odd, she thought, but she could feel the warmth flow through her with just a taste of his blood. Imagine what a bit more would be like! She grinned in anticipation and hurried through the crowds. Some other dancer, perhaps Amethyst, stared at her with wild, confused eyes and asked if she was okay. Sapphire ignored her, just wanting to take this man to a private booth and eat him up. The customer followed her unconditionally as she led him past a tough-looking bouncer with gorilla arms who called her name but was also ignored, and through a hallway entrance adorned with long, dangling, colorful Mardi Gras-style beads. She sauntered past several small rooms, either listening for noises or peeking in outright until she finally found an empty one. She pulled him into the small, dark room, decorated with a small sofa, table, and a battery-operated candle. “Sit,” she said.

He did as he was told as Sapphire reached behind her and unfasted her top, letting it fall to the ground and allowing her curvy breasts to hang freely. The room was about as cool as she was as the air conditioning blew the air along her skin. That, and the anticipation of what was to come, send another shiver down her spine. Sapphire grinned eagerly as she seductively moved to the young man with the small cut behind his right ear. His eyes were on her topless body as she climbed on top of him and let him kiss and suck her breasts. Her eyes and desires were focused on his neck. “What do they call you?” he asked. She muttered something unintelligible, basically ignoring his boring attempt at conversation, and unzipped his pants as she began kissing his dried wound, with full intentions to open it once more. Her hand slid over her G-string to allow him passage within her as she rocked her body back and forth on the lap of the stranger who moaned with pleasure. With him sexually entranced with her womanly parts, she went to work on his neck, inserting her sharp canines and sucking fresh blood from her victim who was too busy getting off to realize what was happening to him. With his arms wrapped around her, his hands gripped her bottom as the pressure built within him to levels he hadn’t experienced in some time. Sapphire could feel the warmth spreading throughout her body as if she were living once more. As if some asshole hadn’t sliced her neck almost in two with a big ass fucking knife. Her mouth filled to dripping with the sweet-tasting fluid that only a young vein could provide as the customer ejaculated inside her, down below, before passing out. Sapphire released her teeth from his skin and turned to find her boss, Vincent, arms crossed over his saturated suit, shaking his head, and looking none too pleased. Sapphire maneuvered around the young man’s unconscious body and covered her naked breasts, ashamed of what she had just done, knowing full well that her mouth was covered in his blood.

“Come with me, child,” he said, hand outstretched, her rhinestone-lined top dangling in his grasp. “We have much to discuss.” Sapphire obediently took her top and put it back on, taking one last look at her last meal, passed out on the sofa, before following her towering employer out of the private booth. “Was he good, I hope?”

Sapphire chewed her soft, bloody lip, as she thought about how best to respond to the question. Honesty, perhaps? “I enjoyed his dick in me, but his blood was magnificent. It made me warm when I was cold, almost like what you feel when you are sick and you have some hot chicken soup. Yet, it was also like having sex when you hadn’t had any in a long time.” She looked at the long, wet red hair of Vincent, bouncing as he quickly paced in the direction of his office. “It was an insatiable hunger that drove my sex drive and my stomach. I needed him in both ways, Vincent. What’s happened to me?”

He closed the door to his office as she entered and showed her to a Gucci armchair, embellished with patterns of GG, bees, and stars on its yellow upholstery as he sat on a matching ottoman in front of her. He sighed and touched her knee. “What is the last thing you remember, before waking this evening?”

It was not a difficult question because she had just retraced those thoughts when she woke. “Jack’s friends were here Friday evening. The big, hairy ugly one was forcing me on his lap, moving me, rubbing my ass on his old dick. Piece of shit deserves to die for what he did to me.” Her hand moved to her neck, feeling for the wound, a scar, something. “He killed me after I fucked up his nose.” Her hazel eyes trembled some as she met her employer’s gaze. “How am I alive? Why did I take that man’s blood? How did I know that he had been cut? How did I smell his scent from…?” Her eyes tracked back to the door that led below, to where she would find the coffin that she awoke in. She felt as if her blood should run cold now, that she should fall out of her chair and run away. But she didn’t. “What are you?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

He smiled pleasantly. “I am like you, love, a vampire.”

“But you’re g—”

“Gay?” he laughed. “Dear heart, that doesn’t mean shit and you know that. The movies are all about the man seducing the woman, I know this. I am simply what I am. And now you are what I am as well. We are family now, you and I.”

“Why? Why did you turn me?”

Vincent sat back and intertwined his long fingers as he pondered the question for a lengthy moment. “Why did I turn you into a vampire? Child, you were as good as dead. I could have given you to the morgue or I could have saved you, given you a new life. Obviously, I chose the latter. Besides, I have not turned anyone in a while and figured it was time. I will show you the right way to live your life, when to feed, and whom to feed on. You cannot just take random customers to the private booths and…fuck and suck. This will not be permissible ever again.” He stood and moved behind her, putting his hands on her shoulders. “You will sleep below as the sun begins to rise. I have several rooms with multiple coffins. You may choose whichever one you like.”

“Will that customer be okay?”

Vincent laughed again as he rubbed her arms. “He was able to fuck one of my best strippers and passed out after too much to drink and too much excitement. The bite you gave him will have no lasting effect. Except…he will more than likely be returning and looking for you again. He’ll want more.”

A tingle ran throughout her body as she looked back and up at her boss. “Can I have him?”

“Please, not in the club. If you see him again, you can get his number and meet him elsewhere. Tomorrow night, however, you will have plans. I will show you where to get the blood you will need to survive, without bloodying up my club. Then, my love,” he said warmly as he stroked her curly hair, “I will train you for revenge.” 

Chapter Fourteen

Sunday.

Deborah Gibbon had her first child at twenty-four years of age. She had been seduced by a handsome man that she had met at a Starbucks. He had taken her to Caesar’s Palace for a night of passion that she normally would not have allowed herself with someone she had just met. But this man was different. In fact, he was not even a man. He was a monster, a demon from Hell, who was using her, playing a game and she was just a pawn. She found herself very pregnant the next day, too late to abort. She had wanted to give the child up for adoption, but the sensible part of her brain warned her of the implications of a demon spawn being tossed into the world without proper care or love. If anyone was going to raise this thing the right way, it would be her.

Michael, glassy-gray eyes like his father, Hek, had turned out to be a blessing. He was a sweet child, who loved video games, books, learning, drawing, and his family. He loved his stepfather, Jack Nelson, and his brother, Jeremiah. Grades came easy for him, friends, too. He bloomed as a young adult with his handsome features: his cinnamon brown hair, curly on top, shorn around the base of his skull, thick eyebrows, a clean-shaven round chin, and strong cheekbones, rounded out with a cute button nose and large earlobes. Not a freckle or blemish on his skin. He dated often, bringing home some to meet Mom and other family members, but none of them were too permanent. Though extremely outgoing like Mom, his career path veered in a very different direction. While Deborah studied computers and technology and ran a multi-million-dollar technology company, Wyvern Mechanix, Michael loved the arts. With his intelligent nature and boyish good looks, Michael took to acting, having just graduated from the California Institute of the Arts and was currently writing a play and acting in a local production of My Fair Lady. His dreams were bigger, however, with his eyes set on Broadway.

Jeremiah was different in other ways, though, more like his father, the soldier. Born early in ’02, a child born of the attack on 9/11, a child that probably would not have existed if almost 3,000 people had not died. He was a pretty good kid, blonde, thin, strong, but marked with acne scars on his face, Jeremiah was very quiet, got in a few scraps in school, and mostly scored Bs and Cs in his academics. His dreams did not center on computers or the arts, however, as Jeremiah preferred to be around automobiles and guns. Mom wasn’t too thrilled about either, honestly, but Jeremiah assured her that he would put his passions (not his word) to good use, with plans to have his own shop, make his own hours, and be successful. He stuck with grade school through graduation and was currently going for a business degree at UNLV while working at a local mechanics shop to get the needed skills. Jeremiah was mostly a loner, preferring his work or shooting his guns at some local ranges or out in the desert, over having a steady group of friends or girlfriends. He kept his father at a distance after Dad left, unable to perform well as a family man, too many horrors in his brain. Occasionally he tried to meet his son for lunch and most times Jeremiah found himself too busy to meet. Eventually, Dad got the picture. A Christmas card and a birthday card with a gift card was the only form of contact that he had received from his father for several years now.

He was fine with that. If fine was the word you chose.

As a young adult, Deborah was the best at managing family outings and other get-togethers, birthday cards, and phone calls. She took over the job from her great-grandmother Julianna as she took ill around 1999. Michael was born right after her passing after a short, miraculous one-week pregnancy. Divine intervention! Angelic! A holy child! The pregnancy amazed her family who supported her fully, even though they had never been known for having a strong religious background. The church became a regular thing and Deborah went along with it. Why not? Impregnated by a demon, saved by God, perhaps. She accepted her family’s help with Michael, even going as far as moving back into their twenty-million-dollar, lake view mansion in the West end of Vegas as she continued her schooling. Her grandfather, Samuel, and her father, Richard, both passed shortly after investing in Wyvern Mechanix due to a variety of medical conditions, leaving the mansion feeling quite empty, with only herself, Michael, her youngest brother, Ritchie, and her stepmother, Janine. Two single moms with two young children. Janine sold the mansion and the ownership of the Gibbons’ health clubs, and with the help of some lawyers, split the money amongst them and Deborah’s brother, Sam, a fitness coach in Los Angeles.

Deborah met Jack Nelson soon afterward, got pregnant again, and got married. The small family moved into a 4,600-square-foot, four-bedroom on Hunting Horn Drive for three million dollars. She kept the home after Jack left her, unable to settle down to a normal life, unable to shake the night terrors of his past, unable to deal with the mystery of Michael’s father??? Deborah always wondered about that possibility. What if she didn’t say it was just a one-night stand? What if she had mentioned that it was a demon? She made her family swear never to mention the miraculous one-week pregnancy; that she never thought it was very miraculous at all. She was pretty sure they kept their words. The whole relationship was built around that lie, and she never really forgave herself. What had once been a large, happy, Gibbon family, spread out across the country, with meetings and gatherings often, had been replaced with time only allotted for her two children and her career. As her children grew into men, Deborah found herself with more time for her business, even spending time on some Sundays to look over some new projects. There was no family anymore, not really. Her two brothers had moved away, and her stepmother had moved on to a new family.

She pushed back the down comforter, slid her legs over the side of the king-sized bed, and found her Pink-brand slippers. Why she still shopped at Victoria’s Secret was beyond her as she gave up trying to get anyone into her bed after the father of her children abandoned her. Once in a while, she would hook up with someone at a work party or a government stud that wanted to review her blueprints in a more secluded location. But as far as long-term relationships? No, no way, no how. She was too busy and had been disappointed too many times to have another go at it. Relationships were for the young…ger. She stood in front of her bedroom mirror and had a good look at herself. So this is almost 47, huh? Alone, rich, alone, and lines forming where there shouldn’t be lines. Small crow’s feet had moved in next to her blue eyes. A few more freckles had moved in on her cheeks. She wondered if they had moved in on her other cheeks, not that anyone would notice. Her skin was still soft as she moisturized often, but there were some visible pores. Teeth still clean and strong as a rich woman can pay for. She puckered her lips and tilted her face, studying her features. She was still pretty, she figured. She was no Jennifer Lopez, but she was okay. She heaved up her breasts underneath her Eeyore nightshirt and turned to her side, studying her body now. Still firm due to her diet and constantly being on the go. Her ass was still in good shape, too. She faced in front of the mirror once more, put her hands on her dresser, and sighed.

Her ex just turned 50 and she wasn’t far behind.

Her kids aren’t kids anymore and pretty soon she’d be an empty nester.

What would it be like to lose twenty years? Have that old body back, that old energy? “I wish---" No, that’d be the second dumbest decision of her life.

Maybe it was just about time to date again? Or at least go make some new friends?

Maybe shove it all and move up to Washington state? She had a couple of good friends up there. Maybe they could buy a mountain resort and pick up all the young, hot, horny guys and show them a thing or two?

“Ugh, what the hell’s gotten into me,” she grunted. “Lernaean, start my coffee. I need to wake up and clear my head.”

“As you wish,” the Wyvern device called out from across the room as she pulled off her nightshirt to determine how much running she’d need to do that morning.

Fifteen minutes later, Deborah Gibbon, long curly blonde hair pulled into a ponytail, was dressed in a pair of Nike black leggings with a white stripe running down the seams, a matching sports bra, and a pair of orange Hoka running shoes while sitting at her marble-top kitchen counter, Wyvern coffee mug in hand, Wyvern laptop on the counter, and her firm ass sitting on a stool that was hand-carved by someone who makes a lot of money on Wayfair. Nice, comfy cushion, perfect for a 47-year-old ass. She opened a file on the next-gen android that Wyvern was developing. The military wanted it, the Fortune 500 wanted it, and old rich people with no one in their homes wanted it. The Quetzalcoatl2025 was sleek, had remarkable facial features, but would remain a clear android. Wyvern Mechanix would not provide the all-too-human bots that would infiltrate societies like the ones in books and movies. Horny old men could still buy a female version and could gawk at it all they wanted, but it would not have a vagina to stick anything in, either. The Quetzalcoatl2025 would be made to serve and benefit humanity, not cater to its sicknesses nor bring about its extinction. “Hopefully,” she said with a smile and a sip of coffee.

“Mornin’ Mom,” said a quiet voice behind her, followed by a peck on the cheek as he placed his cell phone on the counter next to her laptop.

“Good morning, Sunshine,” she acknowledged with a raising of her mug. “Early day today?”

Jeremiah had moved to the kitchen to pour himself a coffee in a metal tumbler. He was wearing a gray, short sleeve collared shirt with his name patched on. “Got to be there at 7:30.” His tired, amber eyes, were not ready for such an ungodly hour to be awake and head to work.

Deborah had always believed that people should follow their passions, but still could not get over a twenty-year-old son of a multi-millionaire working at a garage for $27 an hour. He worked himself to the bone and came home filthy. He could have it so much easier if he would just apply his know-how at Wyvern and grow with her company. He knew his way around engines and mechanics and had a good deal of computer skills, too. He really could become an asset to some of the military-grade projects Wyvern was developing. If only he wanted to…but before Deborah could say another word, the power went off in the house. A noisy crackle followed as the backup power tried to kick in without any success. She looked at her blank computer screen, shook her head, and looked back at her son.

“I’ll take a look outside, see if anyone hit a powerline pole or something weird,” he said with a mumble and a shrug.

“You’re a good kid, Jerry,” she said as she put her empty mug down and stretched to her feet. She was lucky, she guessed. Her two boys were still good kids, hardly ever in any trouble. She had everything that money could buy. The only thing that was missing was people. There was no time for people in her life anymore. That’s all that was missing. She grew up with people everywhere and now there were two. She shook her head, tried to fake a smile, and moved to the coffee pot. A shuffling noise and the sound of a metal cup falling to the ground startled the still pretty mother with a firm ass and brought a wince to her face. “Jerry?” she called out nonchalantly, assuming nothing. She cocked her head slightly to listen for a response, but there was none.

She was on her feet and running for the front door in a heartbeat, just in time to see a large man with crazy gray hair and mutton chops, wearing a long, black leather jacket throw her son into the back of a black SUV with a covered license plate. Another stocky man with blonde hair on top, black on the sides and wearing shaded outdoor safety goggles and a black tactical short-sleeve shirt, assisted him with the unconscious body. She hurried as fast as her legs would take care as the first man slammed the tailgate and followed the second into the vehicle. “My son! Jeremiah!” she wailed and punched the SUV as it sped down the road. Deborah Gibbon, who had lost so many people over the years, realized she may have just lost yet another one. She screamed for help as she crumbled to the ground, helplessly watching the black vehicle speed away. A handful of neighbors stepped outside making inquiries as to what happened, and why did the power go out on the whole block. Deborah fumed with the realization. That much coordination, knowing when he would step outside, having the power go out everywhere. Jack’s little band of operatives wanted something, but what?

She ignored the rich people around her, trying to comfort her, trying to ask questions, stood, wiped her eyes and nose with the back of her hand, turned, and headed back inside her house. She needed to make a few phone calls.

***

3:16 AM. 1987.

Sergeant Dickhead stumbled up the aging front porch, weathered and worn even though he had promised to repurpose it when he married Katy Nelson years before. He never had time, what with trying to find a good job and all, pounding his feet to the pavement to support this family that wasn’t even his. It wasn’t his fault that nobody in this rinky-dink backward little town wants a real man working for them. Many times, he thought about just packing up and heading back to Arkansas. He had a sweet life there. High school football star, military hero. Too bad that Nelson girl had those puppy dog eyes and that fine ass when he reported the death of her husband to her. Oh, he consoled her alright; that very night, whether she wanted to admit she needed it or not. While that other soldier Whatshisname took the kid for ice cream, he took her to her room and consoled her real good. She tried to say no, but he knew what she needed. Now he was stuck with her. He thought about that stupid decision as he glanced through a drunken view at his ring finger. Where the hell was that ring? Duh! He reached into his left pocket; that’s where he put it when he went to the bar that evening. Can’t pick up girls with a wedding ring on your hand. He searched his right pocket. Damn. No ring, no house key. Drunken anger now heating up within, he felt his back pocket. No wallet, either. Shit! Now he had to make up an excuse for the old ball-n-chain.

The sergeant rang the doorbell. Then he rang it again. Then he rang it once more. How the fuck long does it take that woman to unlock a fucking door? “Katy! Let me in! It’s Rick, babe! Let me in! C’mon! Hurry the hell up!” he called out, disturbing the residents on Elm Street yet again. This kind of thing seemed to happen every other week or so. The sergeant’s behavior was becoming a problem, but he was a veteran, so the neighbors had to cut him some slack. He was okay during the day, helping out with someone’s yard or moving heavy objects, usually just asking for a beer or three in return. “Come on, fucking princess!” he screamed as he finally heard the rattling of the door chain from within. He wouldn’t have to wake the neighborhood if someone hadn’t taken his things. Did that girl take his shit at the hotel before she slipped out? And now the neighbors were probably getting pissed, too, just as he was because she was taking too long to open the goddamn door. He cursed some more, trying to get her sleepy ass to move faster. She said something, but he couldn’t make it out. She was being rude, too, and probably said something hateful to him. Her fault for moving too slow. He couldn’t believe his horrible luck, being tricked into moving into this shithouse with this chick and her son, who needed to grow a pair and move out. What was he, eighteen by now? This was all her fault. Always her fault, he decided as she finally had that door open. A good punch to the nose will teach her to take so long getting the door for her man. Then maybe a shove to the floor. A kick. Maybe another one too while she’s down anyway. This chair should go on her back, too. That’s right. She really needs some more punches in the face, too, he decided as he plunged onto her stomach. Her nose wasn’t bloody enough yet. She hadn’t learned yet. Why did his hands hurt so much? Why was she fighting back? She was his woman, and it wasn’t like this was the first time he had tried to teach her a lesson. Normally one good punch and she learns what he wants her to learn and respects his lesson. Why was she trying to stop him now? And who was pulling at his shoulder? Who just hit him on the head with a bat? Oh, that fucking kid! There was blood on his head. He climbed to his feet and snatched the bat out of the punk’s weak hands. Fuck him. “Fuck you!” he shouted at fifteen-year-old Jack Nelson, dressed in some short, dark blue pajama bottoms and a white V-neck t-shirt. bloody hands gripping the bat with all the rage of a drunken madman. “Teach you a fucking lesson like that whore on the floor!” he shouted as he swung violently at the teenager, just missing him as he instead smashed a side table, knocking a clay pot full of soil and a fern to the ground.

“Get out, Mom! Get up, Mom!” Jack shouted as he dodged another aggressive swing. This time the bat connected with nothing but air. “Mom!” he shouted again to the unresponsive body. She was so weak. She should have stood up to him earlier and this wouldn’t have happened. He should have stood up for her. He should have protected her, but he always thought to respect a man in uniform. The military was good, they were heroes. His dad was a soldier, a great soldier! He wanted to be just like his dad, so he did his best to ignore Sergeant Rick, aka Sergeant Dickhead. But he had been wrong. His dad would’ve never let a man like this hurt his mom like he’d been doing and now it was time to stop. Jack dodged another swing from the murderous man before him, wanting to lead him outside, away from Mom. Maybe he could stop him or get a neighbor to help out. He dodged again as he neared the front door. Looking back at his mother, heart beating vigorously, hoping for a sign of movement, Jack missed the first step leading away from the porch and fell.

Then the bat connected. Repeatedly

That was the night Jack decided that not every soldier was a good soldier. A good soldier defends the weak and from that day forward Jack always tried to be a good soldier. He was in the hospital for the next several weeks and went through months of physical therapy before he could properly use his arms and legs again. Unfortunately, Mom wouldn’t leave Sergeant Dickhead, blinded by whatever it was that blinded the victims to their aggressors.  When he was able, Jack convinced Mom to enroll him in the Marine Military Academy in Harlingen. He never spoke to her again.

One of the many regrets he had.

Jack’s tired turquoise eyes slowly opened to find him bathed in the warm sunlight penetrating through Mercy’s bedroom window. “Clock,” he whispered, ordering his computerized eye to display the time of 6:47 AM. Next to him lay his beautiful girlfriend of about half his age. How did an old military man with a hardened heart like his wind up with such a cool girl like this? He pondered. Oh, yeah, he beat up a guy that was molesting her in a strip club. Her back was turned to him, and he took notice of the two circular scars, one on each shoulder blade, and very similar to the scars on Grace. Some remnants of dried blood remained, meaning they were still somewhat fresh. What had happened? He ran the back of his hand along the soft skin of her back as her sweet candy aroma tingled his senses. Hours ago, they released the sexual tension that built with their unwanted separation, held apart by forces quite magical and real, both deadly. Jack did his best to ignore the pain from the damage that Grace had done to his body and was slow and gentle with Mercy in the process. Jack gently kissed her shoulder and wrapped his arms around her, taking in her room while doing so. Not a large room, but decorated in Mercy’s particular fashion. LED rope lights stretched across the peak of the four walls of hot pink color. Many frames lined the walls, too, each part of the assortment of anime movies, video game characters, and musical artists that were not familiar to the soldier. There were also a few posters of artistic patterns utilizing glowing paints. He thought they were kind of neat, especially one with some anime characters in a nighttime snow scene. The stars above seemed to burn brightly, while the snow on the ground appeared to have a sparkling effect. The furniture placed in the room, including a tin and tall bookshelf, a dresser with a large mirror, an eight-cube organizer, and a nightstand were mostly dark in color, similar to a light black. An acrylic desk with an expensive-looking computer and gamer chair of black and orange patterns were placed a couple of feet from the foot of her bed. She was not a neat freak, Mercy, very much opposite from the orderly soldier. She had random clothes scattered around the room, a few opened books turned upside down, an empty fishbowl, a dead bonsai tree, two empty cups and one half-full, and other assorted odds and ends seemed to cover whatever they could. He’d joked about the state of her apartment the last two times he’d been here and she didn’t give even the tiniest damn. That was one of the things he liked about her. She was strong and didn’t care what others thought. He looked back to her bare neck and kissed her gently once more. Could he ever really be with her, grow old…or older with her? Could he, in his set ways, allow such disorder in a home? No, but either she’d have to learn to clean house…or watch him do it. He laughed inwardly as he tried to imagine himself wearing an apron and vacuuming the house as she lifted her feet for him while playing video games.

But what of the others? He wasn’t as concerned with the magical monster Hek. He’d known of him for about as long as Mercy had been alive and he was still okay, not even doubting his sanity anymore. But what about Grace? The first time he met her, he thought she was a hallucination. When they had sex, it was fun. A lot of fun. He figured out the truth afterward. He realized he had cheated on Mercy, that Grace was real. And then she came back and raped him in that hotel room. She bruised him, bit him, broke him, punched and kicked him. And with that body--? He closed his eyes tight, trying to rid the image from his mind. Would she leave him alone? She said she would send anyone who touched him straight to Hell. Yet, Hek had said that Hrist would be keeping Grace busy from now on. Would Hek be true to his word? Could he control her? God, the pain she had caused him. He could feel it welling up in his stomach again. He could feel the shakes moving their way to his hands. He reached over the side of the bed and into his pants pocket. There were only three left. He didn’t remember taking one late last night but he must have. He would need more soon to help. One more now and he could hold off another day or two. The general had said these would help with his pain and the nightmares, that they weren’t addictive. They were good pills. Medicine. He took one pill, put the remaining two in the bottle safely in his pants pocket, and turned back to the woman he was in a relationship with.

“Good morning, soldier,” said a soft voice as Mercy turned to face him, her skin still very much next to his. Her hands slid to the back of his head, running her fingers over his short, blonde, military cut as her mouth moved to his. As she moved away from their shared kiss, she took notice of the bruises on his face and gently touched his lip. “Baby, what happened to you Friday night? I tried calling you, Laetitia’s, and Vincent all night and couldn’t reach any of you. Are you okay?”

He smiled awkwardly. “I’m okay now,” he lied. “My old outfit, the USSA, was there to meet me, to convince me to rejoin them for a few missions. There were…ten of them. Some of them I respect and some…are good at what they do…but are not good people. They were armed, wanting to keep me in line.  I weighed my options, knowing a lot of people would die if I refused their offer, and was ready to go with them. We were going to go to Vincent’s office and have a polite discussion, but then…Sapphire. She was being held by this big asshole, and when he finally let her go, she elbowed his nose, breaking it badly, blood everywhere. Then he…” Jack allowed his voice to drift off as he checked the radiant, but worried, violet eyes of his girlfriend. He was used to this kind of shit happening, but how would she react? He wanted to be honest with her, but…

“He killed her?” she asked.

Jack nodded his head. “Then they drugged and shot me because they knew I was about to—” His voice trailed off yet again. He didn’t want to admit the violence that he would have unleashed if they hadn’t taken him down. Shadow would have been first. Jack would have taken that knife and planted it firmly in his cold heart. A stolen gun would then be acquired from the First Lieutenant’s holster and a bullet would have quickly found its way into Havok’s forehead after. “They took me away to, I think, some old warehouse with noisy air conditioning where my old boss expressed his need for me to come back and do a few jobs for him.” He expressly did not tell her how they had a camera focused on his ex-wife and threatened to kill her. But how could he tell her what he was being forced to do? “It’s classified shit, Mercy, I’m sorry. And I don’t want to do it. I’m happy I left it all behind, but I can’t refuse them, either. I have to rejoin them for a little while.”

“And doing this job, this is where you got all beat up?”

He simply nodded, avoiding any, and all, discussion of Grace, even though… “Since we’re talking about getting beat up, what happened to your back?”

Mercy’s face contorted in confusion. “What?” She remembered her back aching after her nap on the couch the previous night. Then the nightmare blasted into the forefront of her mind. The beautiful tall blonde, almost a perfect Playboy model, who appeared and complimented her, called her pretty, maybe? Then she made wings materialize on her back. They were amazing. She thought she could fly for a moment there before finding herself tied face down on a bed. What that model, Grace, did next was straight out of a horror movie. “What’s on my back, Jack?” she asked, her voice trembling. With a calm voice, he described the circular scars and how they looked freshly made. Mercy laid on her back, covering the fresh scars so that her boyfriend couldn’t see them again, and looked at her popcorn ceiling. “I don’t know how they got there, Jack,” she said after a long moment, turning her head to face him once more. “I had a dream, though. A nightmare, really. There was this perfect human specimen of a woman, like something out of Playboy, or Ex Machina. She gave me wings, Jack. There were these beautiful, enchanting angel wings on my back. The next thing I knew, though, she had me naked and tied to a bed where she hacked away at them with a fucking scimitar right out of some R-rated version of Aladdin. And you were there, babe, apologizing for being with me, telling me you loved her, the angel-model girl. Grace was her name. And you had sex with her when she was done ripping off my wings.”

Captain Jack Nelson had spent the last thirty years as a trained professional killing machine, commanding others, and keeping secrets all the while. Hiding his emotions came naturally. Second nature, almost. His face was now blank. How would he respond to this nightmare that Mercy had? Would he brush it off as just a dream? But how would that explain the scars? Should he tell her about Grace? Would she think he was crazy if he did tell her that Grade was real? But if Hek was for real, and Grace was going to be occupied, then maybe she would leave Mercy alone and they could continue to live their lives without her. “Strange dream,” he began, taking the coward’s way out. “But how did the scars get there?” No mention of Mercy, that she was real, that he knew her, that she raped him. None of it.

Before he could dig himself further in the hole of disavowment, Jack’s phone rang. Out of habit amongst civilians, he reached for his pants pocket rather than use his eye to answer. As he did this, Mercy slipped her tiny naked frame out of bed and off to her bathroom. “Hello?” he answered after seeing the caller ID: Deborah Gibbon. He spoke in a quiet, reserved voice in response to her frantic, angry tone. As far as he knew, Mercy had no knowledge of his ex-wife, his son, or his stepson; both about her age, and now was not the time for her to find out. What Deborah told the captain infuriated and worried him. He hadn’t spoken to any of them in so long. He called Jeremiah upon his high school graduation, but in usual Jeremiah fashion, he did not pick up the phone. Jack left a message instead, letting him know that he was transferring some money to his account for a graduation present. Though he was not close to his son, however, did not change the fact that he still loved him. He would do anything for him that he asked. The sad thing was the boy never did ask for anything. And now his son was missing, kidnapped just outside his front door by some big men in a black SUV. He knew exactly who did it and whom he needed to have a chat with. “I’ll take care of it,” Jack said sternly as he ended the call.

“Jack? Come here, babe,” Mercy called from the bathroom.

Captain Nelson slipped on his underwear and traversed over the piles of assorted stuff in her room to where she stood, beautiful as ever, back to her bathroom mirror, looking over her shoulder at the scars. “Babe, since when do bruises come in the same places where you were hurt in a dream?” With no experience in magic, demons, or the supernatural in the real world, Mercy had nothing to go on except, “so weird.” He stood behind her, almost towering overhead by nine inches. His face was cross and she saw it in the mirror. She pressed her body to his and pulled his face to her face and kissed him again. “Trouble at the new job?” she asked.

He nodded.

“Go get the bad guys then, babe. I’ve gotta work today at 11:00, and I’m gonna google this shit on my back beforehand. There’s gotta be a logical explanation for it.”

He wanted to tell her more, but he also didn’t want her to think he was crazy. This whole thing with Grace had to blow over. It had to. For now, he had to find his son.

“Hey, babe,” she said, looking in the mirror once more, “tonight I want to talk to you about Little Debbie.”

“Who?” Jack asked with a turn in her direction. As soon as he said it, he knew exactly whom she was talking about. She was looking at pictures in his house. “Right, of course,” he acknowledged.

“And your fucking mountain lion.”

Chapter Fifteen

Jack parked his bike in an abandoned apartment complex’s parking lot just off Stewart Avenue shortly afterward that morning so that he could make a very important call uninterrupted. The dingy-white building with blue trim around its windows was just two stories high and bordered off from unwanted residents with a tall chain-link fence topped off with barbed wire. If they could get past the fence, however, most of the windows had been blown out by an internal explosion of some sort. He placed his helmet on his seat as he leaned on a lamp post facing away from the bright Eastern sun. The empty streets of the aging neighborhood beyond let Jack know he would have no interruptions. “Call General John Blackfinger,” he commanded the technology within his eye. He waited impatiently with the ringing tone, hating whoever took his son, hating his crusty USSA/Nike clothes that he’d been wearing since he woke from his drugged slumber the previous afternoon, now caked with blood and sweat, hating his addiction. He felt the pill bottle resting in the pocket next to his leg. Two left. Just two. He made a fist and clenched his teeth. His stomach rumbled and he wasn’t sure if it was hunger or the normal stressed-out, knocked-down pain that came with the job.

“Sorry, Jack,” a female voice responded in joyous familiarity, “General can’t come to the phone right now. You’ve got me, though. I would’ve gotten here sooner but I was busy doing some nude Pilates. Can’t keep this body of mine in shape by sitting on my ass playing techie all day. What can I help you with?”

“Fry?”

“What other hot-ass tech girl would you be expecting to answer on a major general’s private cell phone line?”

“Is he there?”

“Of course not, sexy. It’s Sunday; he’s back in Washington either sleeping or in church…or both. He is old, you know. But I’ve got access to his line and have the power to help you with anything you need, baby. Just give it to me,” she added with intended innuendo.

“I want my son. Some of our team took him from Debbie’s home this morning and he left his phone. I can’t track him, and I want him back, and--”

“Jack, babe,” she interrupted, “of course we have him. That’s how this game is played, you know how it is. The general needed a little reassurance that you would complete the assigned missions to keep President Washington in The White House. You took care of the mobster to keep Little Debbie safe…I think Mercy’s nickname for her is too cute, by the way…now you take care of the next target to keep your baby boy safe. Simple as that.”

Jack rubbed his face with the palm of his hand. He wanted to retire and be done with this shit. He didn’t want to be a hired gun anymore. “Why the hell can’t someone else take this job? The First Lieutenant, maybe, he gets off on this kind of crap.”

“You know as well as I do that the general doesn’t trust Shadow as far as he can throw him, boy toy. He would most likely fuck it all up and get a bunch of civilians hurt. Did you already forget what he did at your strip club, babe? Shadow is a follower, a planner, and an assistant. He can’t do the solo work. And before you ask, Dwight’s eyes are going bad so he’s not so hot anymore, Chris is too new, barely fits in his big boy underwear, Andy doesn’t have it in him yet, Bella refuses and she’s got a little one to think of…face it, hot stuff, you’re just the best. That’s why he pulled you out of retirement. It’s what you were born to do. Besides, love, you want the pills, right?”

And there it was. The pills. The USSA knew as well as Jack that was all he needed to get their job done. They didn’t need his son. But they did need their reassurances. In frustration, he punched a sheet of plywood leaning on the abandoned building.

“Careful with that hand, blondie, I might need it later on.”

“Are you watching me right now?”

“Jack, you know I am always watching you, every breath you take, every move you make, usually with a finger or two in places not fit for public discussion.”

“Thirty-three-year-old genius out of California, graduated MIT with honors, and with the brains and talent of Steve Jobs, and this is where you ended up, Fry?”

“You know I would never settle for the mundane, lover boy. Besides, I like what I do. I get off on it, honestly.”

“You’re a real piece of shit, Fry. Who do I gotta kill to get my son freed?”

“And your pills?”

“And my pills,” he repeated.

 “I’ll send you a link with all the information you’ll need. When the mark is dead, you’ll get your son, and I’ll personally give you your pill, Cap’n Jack. Give me just a sec. Okay…you should have it…right about…now. You see it?”

The view in Jack’s eye was a nude selfie of Brenda Fry, blowing a kiss while holding her two firm breasts up for the camera. “Fry,” he warned.

“You know you want them. Hang on, here’s the real one.”

Jack was now looking at documents on the mark, a known killer named Montgomery Leonidas who was just released on a technicality. A hot topic for the media machine as the powerful, brash gentleman in question had run against Ben Washington in the last election. He called Washington’s no homelessness strategy Communist. He nicknamed Ben the White Supremacist. Leonidas runs a series of successful corporations that focus on importing and exporting goods around the world. They tried to nail him on human trafficking, but his friends in high places wouldn’t let it stick. They tried to nail him for raping several teenage girls. He denied it, laughing it off in his big boisterous fashion, and the girls withdrew their claims shortly thereafter. During the 2020 election, he threatened to shoot anyone who interfered with his campaign, and he made good on his promise when he got into a heated debate with a New York Times reporter at the foot of Leonidas International on Broadway and West 44th Street. The reporter, Etana Hessel, a young and pretty newlywed from Eastern Africa, asked him what happened to the last girl who accused him of raping her. Where was she? Leonidas waved off the slew of cameras in his face and argued that he’d never seen the girl in his life. Hessel countered that his hair was on her clothes. Bought it off the internet like a stalker, he quipped. Hessel held up her picture and shouted that he held her against her will and raped her in his office on this very property. That the cameras showed her entering it. He screamed that she was applying for a goddamn internship. “But, Mr. Leonidas, you said you didn’t know her,” Hessel asserted. He insisted bitterly that he didn’t know her, didn’t know who she was until she showed up in his office begging for a job. “She said you hurt her!” Leonidas was getting sick of the questions by then and shouted that if the nigger wanted to find out about “hurt”, then she should follow him up to his office and drop the big orange blanket she was wearing to her ankles, and he’d show her what “hurt” was. “That is harassment! Harassment!” she cried to the delight of all the other reporters in the vicinity as cameras flashed brightly. Leonidas cursed and told his men to get rid of her, to shoot her if she came any closer. He turned and stormed away, heading into his skyscraper.  “You’re a rapist and a murderer!” Hessel shouted once more, infuriating the businessman to a breaking point. He looked back and saw she had climbed the first two steps toward his property.

“If no one’s gonna stop her, then I will,” he said before he pulled out his Glock 19 and shot her in Times Square for the whole world to see.

His defense said the gun was faulty, that he would never shoot a pretty young thing like Hessel, no matter how much of an unfair bitch she was. Additionally, they said she was harassing him, and she was on his property without permission. He served a year and a half before his team of lawyers could get him free.

“He’s in Vegas for a night of debauchery. Probably has a bunch of underage girls tied up somewhere. You can kill him and free the girls at the same time. Be the hero, Jack. If you want him now, he’ll be arriving at McCarran from Dubai at 11:30. You can get him there or in his room at the Waldorf, your choice. If you keep a tail on him, it may lead to the girls, if there are any for tonight. He leaves in the morning. The sooner you do him in, though, the sooner you get your boy…and the pills.”

Jack lowered himself to the ground and rested his arms on his knees. A hero tries to help everyone he can, especially the weak. If there were girls to be saved, Jack could wait. Jeremiah, though, would have to wait as well. He closed his eyes and considered his options.

“Look, doll, I’m getting hungry and going to make some eggs. You can join me if you like. Price is just one French kiss. Otherwise, you decide what you need to do. I’ll be on com to assist. Love you.”

And finally, Captain Nelson was alone with his thoughts. His sense of family, of which he would tend to agree that he had very little of, told him to go kill the sonofabitch so that he could free his son, hopefully within a few hours. The soldier in him argued that he would need to wait, and tail the guy until the girls showed up. Then take him out and free the kids at the same time. He checked his watch to evaluate options and found it was 7:53. He couldn’t do anything for a while anyway outside of hijacking a missile and blowing Leonidas out of the sky and figured he’d head home for a shower, clean clothes, some hot breakfast, and some much-needed alone time. The black and silver Indian raced through US-95 without any traffic to hinder its speed. The rain from the previous night had set this particular day up for a fantastic, slow-to-warm, June morning filled with gray skies, soft, puffy clouds, and buzzards soaring the skies in search of fresh dead meat.

Pulling into the rocky driveway, the soldier felt something off, something not quite right. There were no strange tracks along the drive save for Mercy’s, so no one else could have been there. He took off his helmet and sat still for a moment. “Morris?” he called cautiously. He listened carefully and gazed around his property. Strange. Normally the big pussycat hears his bike and is there to greet him. He looked around again before standing and putting his helmet away. Jack massaged the back of his aching neck, his keys dangling from one finger, and moved towards the porch, still using caution as something was not quite right at home. He just couldn’t put his finger on it. With no Morris to greet him, Jack turned the key to his door and stepped in. The alarm did not go off. Jack closed the door slowly, assuming that Mercy did not want to be bothered with the alarm when she left. The lingering scent in his home, however, was strange. It was not Mercy’s. It was not sweet, like candy. It was…womanly…bringing to mind a girl he picked up in Columbia a few years back. The scent…jasmine…musky. Jack placed his keys on the table and crossed to the kitchen for a glass of water. There were traces of cake and splotches of ice cream on his counter; meaning Mercy was pissed at him for not showing up and didn’t make much of an effort to clean up for him. Forgiven. Multiple plates, silverware, and glasses are in the sink. No big deal. He walked to his bedroom and put his glass down. His bed was unmade and quite messy. Maybe Mercy had nightmares. He pulled off his shirt and threw it in the hamper just inside his bathroom before walking back to his bed. That smell was her, too, but mixed with sex. Had Mercy…? He didn’t think she’d cheat on him, but did she pleasure herself in his bed that night? No, that’s crazy. The smell wouldn’t still be there unless—

Jack looked under the bed. No one. Dug through the closet. Empty. Peered in the bathroom. Was that a shadow in the shower? He jerked open the shower door. Nothing. Imagination was driving him crazy. Intense nightmares, violent pains, real demons, monster girls raping him, and now his son was kidnapped. No wonder he was seeing things, imagining smells. Jack removed his boots and the rest of his clothing. A shower is just what he needed. He turned on the hot water, relieved himself, and stepped in. The water poured soothingly over his aching body, his cuts and bruises all over. He closed his eyes and began to rinse his hair when he felt a hand on his member. His eyes opened quickly, his heart racing. Nothing. Nobody was there. He put some shampoo in his hands, replaced the bottle, and closed his eyes once more.

“Hi, Jack,” said the voice behind him as a hand gripped his member once more.

“Shit!” he cursed, opening his eyes again. He looked behind him with a jerk. “What the fuck is happening to me? Need another pill when I’m done here. Must be falling asleep.” He began to massage the shampoo into his hair and closed his eyes once more.

“Don’t open those pretty turquoise eyes again, handsome,” warned the soaking, naked girl in front of him. It was Grace or one of her multiple personalities. This one was happily chewing something in her mouth as held onto his manhood, stroking it between the fingers of one hand, while the other hand was holding a knife to his neck. Jack did the only reasonable thing a man would do and opened his eyes once more. Doing so, however, he felt the sharp knick of the blade along his neck. Blood began to drip. He immediately closed his eyes again and found her pressed firmly against him, kissing his neck where she had stabbed him. “Sorry about that, sweetheart, but I had to get your attention. Do I have it now?” she asked in a sultry voice as she stroked him firmly.

“Yeah, yeah,” answered the captive.

“I heard about you from Grace,” she whispered as she kissed his lips, a knife still held to his neck. “I had to see you in person. She beat you up, though, didn’t she? I can fix that, you know. It’s my power.” She moved the back of her weaponized hand and ran it alongside the bruises surrounding Jack’s bruised eye. He could feel it healing with her touch. “Mmm, much better.”

“You wanna get my neck, too?” Jack asked bluntly.

“I will if you promise not to open your eyes until I’m done with you.”

He nodded as she softly and slowly kissed the small wound that she had made.

“Who are you?” Jack asked as she pressed him against the tiled wall, still kissing his neck.  

“Courtney. Nurse Courtney if you please. I heard about all the nasty things that Grace had done to you and the threats she made about your pretty little girlfriend. I just wanted to come and offer some advice,” she added as she kissed and stroked his wounds, healing his aches and pains all over his body.

“What is it?” Jack asked as she put both arms around his neck and pressed her body against his once more.

Her mouth, her soft, moist lips of dark red, hovered next to his for a long, heated moment, allowing the scent of spearmint gum to escape her mouth and find him. Her body, naked, soft, and wet was enticing him in ways he truly did not want. No matter who this person thinks she was, she was still Grace, a crazed monster from another world. “You need to stay away from Mercy, the poor, poor dear before something dreadful happens to her. Grace does not like her, calls her Wonton Soup, and is planning on slicing open her stomach, Jack, sweetheart. If you can stay away from her, maybe I can convince her to let her live.” Her face seemed younger, kinder, softer than Grace. Her eyes were somehow almost green. She kissed him again and climbed up around his waist, locking her smooth, strong legs around him. “I just want us all to be happy.”

“I can protect her,” Jack said sternly, yet dazed, feeling her wrap her body tighter against him, taking him within her. He found himself wrapping his arms around her small body, holding her tighter against him. “I’ll keep her safe,” he groaned, feeling the knife press against his spine.

Courtney moved her body, up and down along his muscular frame as she eased him to the floor. She healed his body and was now taking full advantage of it, and him. “The only way you can keep her safe is by doing exactly what Grace tells you to do. You have to be at her beck and call and give up your girlfriend. Right now, Grace is busy with Hrist. Pretty cute, the tall thing though she is. She won’t keep Grace occupied forever.” Her hands were now pressing firmly on Jack’s chest as she arched her back and closed her eyes, rocking back and forth while moaning in pleasure.

Jack’s hands were on Courtney’s tiny back, yet all he truly desired was freedom, but he could not escape. He tried opening his eyes in anguish but could not. She had him under some kind of spell. “You need to call her off, please. This is not Mercy’s problem. It’s between Grace and I.”

“Baby, I understand,” she cooed, bringing her face towards his once more, blanketing his head in her soft, wet hair, filling his senses with that musky jasmine scent. Her tongue found his ear and proceeded to pleasure it as she continued her seduction of the captain. “But if that’s the way you feel, then you’d best stay with her forever. You’re so…romantic, Jack.” With that, Courtney screamed in pleasure, releasing herself with absolute joy as she squeezed Jack’s face into her perfumed breasts.  When she was finished, she eased down, relaxing on Nelson’s body, her back against the shower wall as the water poured on. The demon woman blew a bubble from her mouth and popped it before smiling at the captain and winking her eye. “So, you have a decision to make, Jackie-Boy: walk away from your girl, or be ready to battle Hell itself to save her. I’ll talk to Grace to see what I can do.” She patted his leg and climbed up. “Be strong, babe,” she said with a quick kiss on his forehead. “Open your eyes.”

Jack’s eyes felt heavy as they slowly opened to his empty shower, the lukewarm water running out of heat. Courtney/Grace was nowhere in sight as Jack looked himself over to find his bruises were still gone. Real or not, she had healed him. He closed his eyes for a moment again to make sure that she was, indeed, gone. She was. Jack finished washing himself off. Courtney left no evidence that she was there, making him hesitantly decide that there was no actual sex. And if so, since she had him at knifepoint, it would not have been willing. He dropped his head to the shower wall, allowing the cool water to run freely down his spine. A few tears dropped from his eyes, something that normally didn’t happen with the man of action. “What the fuck is wrong with me?” He cried. “Goddamn monsters and demon women…” He wanted to shout and curse what they’ve done to him, how they took the power away from him and then took advantage of him. But his voice had no strength to vocalize exactly what they did. He was weak. He was too weak to stop them and too weak to say anything about it. Jack’s stomach churned, rumbling like a locomotive on a West Texas track. His hands shook violently as they gripped his hair, trying to find some kind of inner strength, trying desperately to be a man once more. Jack’s legs gave out as he slipped to the shower floor. He cursed again as several more tears fell. He had to get up, had to get moving, had to kill that bastard Montgomery Leonidas so he could save his son that hates him. The excruciating throbbing and stabbing sensation crept up within, tightening his muscles to almost completely rigid. His head pounded like never before. His right middle finger twitched without reason as Jack fought his body to push open the shower door and climb out, leaving the water to flow freely. His pants and his pills were hanging off the sink counter. Just a little tug and he’d have them. His right hand constricted into a fist, however, not allowing the maneuverability of his fingers. A silent growl barely escaped his mouth as Jack, instead, tried pushing the jeans off the edge for a handful of awkward attempts. Finally, his fingers were free to grip the jeans which he pulled immediately to the ground beside him. The pills were in his pocket. Two left. Two left. Fucking two left. His eyes stared at the hazy image of the two pills he had somehow managed to free and pour on the bathroom floor. His head lay beside the pills. His hand attempted to pick one up, trembling with weakness. “Fuck it. I’ll get more when Leonidas dies.” The pill went in his mouth as Jack drifted off to sleep.

He didn’t remember any dreams during the half-hour crash. Just blackness. Peaceful blackness. Maybe there was a coldness, too, making his body shiver. Of course, that could have just been the addiction, too. Then there was, of course, a waterfall behind him as he found himself naked on some soft, green grass, seemingly untouched by humans. But then he remembered doves flying around gently. Maybe he did dream anyway. The dove landed next to him and spread her wings. Big, long wings. Soft. White. The bird climbed on him and chirped happily. Angrily? It pecked his chest, prompting him to swat it off him. The bird fell to the ground before him and began to change, grow. The bird gripped a nearby rock and threw it at him as it became Grace. “Shit,” Jack mumbled.

“Shit, Jack, wake up,” a voice said.

“Don’t talk to her,” Grace warned.

“Captain Nelson,” Fry called out.

“Don’t you talk to another fucking woman, Jack,” Grace screamed violently as she threw another rock, connecting with his head, and waking him with a shock.

“Jack?”

“Fuck is it?” Jack grumbled as he climbed to his feet.

“Captain,” she said, more controlled, kinder than normal, “I…just wanted to let you know that I’m sending you the tail for Leonidas’s private phone. You can track him and get him wherever, whenever you want. You can use your tech to study how many bodies are in each room before you move in on him. We…we can send backup, too, if you want, Jack.” The captain was listening as he turned off the shower and crossed to the dresser in his bedroom. “By the end of the day, you’ll either free some captive girls and kill him…or just outright kill the guy anyway.” She became quiet for a long, strange moment. No threats. No harassment. No jokes. “Captain?”

He had put on some underwear and jeans and was fastening his zipper and button as he responded coldly, “Yes?”

“What was that, Jack?”

“You gotta be more specific than that, Fry. You making a crack at my dick or what?”

“Normally I would, hot stuff,” she laughed quietly. “But not this time. Jack, I…saw you in the shower.” Her words were strained, unknowing how to proceed. “How--? Minniti’s girlfriend was with you…and then she wasn’t. And, shit, Jack, then she was! How did she appear and disappear like that? I’m not sure what I was seeing, and I know I shouldn’t have been looking and---”

Hands firmly gripping his bathroom sink, Jack glared into the mirror, allowing Brenda Fry to see the anger in his face. “I…you saw that?”

“How did she do that, Jack? How did she just appear there with you and vanish without even a puff of smoke? She was just…gone!”

“Fry, I’m not sure I can even explain it. Apparently, magic shit like that has been going on for a long time. Most of us are lucky enough to be ignorant of it. Thought I was, too, until Friday. Then I learned the truth.” He closed his eyes again, considering how much time he wanted to waste with the Californian tech master. He had a mission to complete and a son to rescue. “Look, Fry, I need to save my son. Send me Leo’s track and…we can discuss the other thing later.”

“Right, right,” she said, surrendering much easier than normal. “Jack, get rid of Leonidas, free the girls if there are any, and…we’ll let your son go. But I really want to know what that was, Captain. That wasn’t normal.”

A new message blinked in the lower right corner of Jack’s eye with the tagline: Leonidas Location. “I’ve got it, Fry. Thanks.”

“Careful soldier,” she warned, “you’ve got a girl that needs saving, too.”

Chapter Sixteen

Dr. Amaury Sanabria pulled his celestial silver Toyota Camry Hybrid to the side of West Sahara Avenue and shut off the engine. His heart was racing faster than it did for that surgery he performed on the 94-year-old senator the week before. He hadn’t been stopped by the police since he was a teen when he accidentally followed a semi under a red light on a left-hand turn. This time, however, he thought for sure he wasn’t doing anything wrong. “45, right?” asked his wife, Nerriah, referring to the speed limit. He nodded his head, much too nervous to speak. They had just left The Egg & I for brunch and were headed home to watch the golf tournament. The taste of the Chicken Enchilada Omelette and his black coffee still lingered in his mouth as he carefully studied the police car’s flashing lights in his rear-view mirror. “They’re taking a long time,” she noted. “Do you think the brake lights are working? Maybe that’s why they pulled us over.” The doctor shrugged as he nervously tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. Sweat began to trickle down his forehead and armpits. Nerriah took notice and rubbed his shoulder. “Babe, it’s nothing. You weren’t speeding and you’re definitely not a criminal. It’s nothing. Brake light or just a routine traffic stop. That’s all.” On a Sunday afternoon? he wanted to ask, but it stayed in his head. Could it be some racist cop? Saw a brown-skinned man and his black wife in the car and wanted to provoke them. God, I hope not. The suffocating heat of the sun’s rays and its reflection on the hot asphalt tried to push through the Camry’s exterior but, luckily, the car had a fantastic air conditioner. The only suffocating heat was from the good doctor’s own body. “Hey, he’s coming. This will all be over soon, babe. Then we can go watch the game.”

He was young, thin, white, tight-lipped, and very stern-looking. Large sunglasses covered his eyes as he approached the window and requested, “license and registration.” Dr. Sanabria’s hand trembled as he dutifully handed over his papers. “Nervous?” asked the officer in all seriousness.

“What’s the trouble, officer?” asked Nerriah. The officer simply shook his head and walked away. “Prick,” she mumbled. “Mom and Dad always warned us to be careful around the law. Be silent, keep your hands on the wheel. Yes, sir, no, sir, and all that. I never had to experience it, though.” She paused to reflect for a moment. “Daryll did a couple of times. One cop was arrogant with him, and shoved him to the ground, knee on his neck. Let him go soon after when he realized he had the wrong guy. Wish he were here now,” she said as she stared out at the distant mountains.

“I do, too,” Amaury said, looking at his wife.

“Oh! He speaks,” she laughed, taking his right hand in hers and squeezing it.

“Sorry,” he said. “Just, you know how I get when faced with confrontation.”

“Babe, it’s okay. I’m here with you,” she comforted him before giving him a peck on the cheek. “We’ll be done here in a moment.”

Just then, both doors were thrown open and pistols were aimed at their faces. The two officers of the law were shouting out orders to “Get out of the car! Now! Hurry! Now!” They forcibly yanked the two respected doctors out of the vehicle with their free hands. “Now, up against the car! Spread your legs! Spread them I said,'' commanded a large one with a thick gray mustache as he kicked Nerriah’s ankle farther from the other. “Spread them! Fucking spread your legs and put your hands on the goddamn car! On the car now I said! Fucking listen when I talk to you, fucking terrorist!” The doctors, hands on the roof of the car, legs spread as demanded, had a cloud of emotion form in their heads at that word. Terrorist.

“We’re not—” Dr. Sanabria began before being bashed on the back of the skull with the handle of a gun. Nerriah watched in terror and screamed obscenities as her husband fell to the ground on the other side of the Camry.

“Is that the kind of language they teach you in Afghanistan, woman?” said the mustached officer behind Nerriah as he jerked her arms together and cuffed them tightly, prompting a small ouch and a tug. “Watch it, lady, or you’ll wind up like Mohamed down there,” he scowled as he jerked her back into position and frisked her thoroughly, reading her rights as he did so: “You have the right to remain silent.”

“What are the charges?” she pleaded.

“Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

“We didn’t do anything!”

“You have a right to an attorney.”

“We’re fucking doctors! We’re good people, Officer!”

 “If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you,” he concluded as he shoved her into the back of the unmarked, black SUV.

“You’re making a mistake!” she screamed.

“You did when you helped the Viper Force terrorists try to take out the Hoover Dam, you cunt!” he spat before slamming the door, trapping the edge of her yellow sundress between her and the freedom she and her husband had just lost.

Chapter Seventeen

1:36 PM.

Captain Jack Nelson lowered his arm adorned with the Citizen watch and analyzed the white limousine parked three spots away. Not knowing what locations Leonidas would visit before Jack would take him out, he figured a semi-casual outfit would work best, choosing a Calvin Klein 3-piece navy windowpane plaid suit that he and Nerriah had picked out from Men’s Warehouse back when they were dating. Even after six years, it still fits perfectly. He chose a stylish pair of dark brown leather motorcycle combat oxford boots for maneuverability, comfort, and dressiness. After a quick egg breakfast, Jack tucked two Smith & Wesson M&Ps into a pair of shoulder holsters and began his tail of Leonidas. Racing down SR-157, Jack first saw that Leonidas was traveling southwest on Paradise Road, perhaps having just left the airport. The afternoon skies were blue, with hardly a cloud in the sky, and the temperature was nearing 95°. The Sunday afternoon traffic was starting to pick up as the tourists were heading out for all the lunch buffets. Jack swerved his Indian Chief Roadmaster around a white pearl Renault Koleos that was moving back and forth between the two lanes as it cruised at a steady 32 MPH. He noticed the white-haired driver was mostly looking at his phone instead of the road, so the soldier blew his horn at him to get his attention and raised a finger to know that he was upsetting other drivers with his poor driving skills. Jack then sped on to find his target. Leonidas needed lunch, too, and was tracked to a restaurant off South Las Vegas Boulevard, just south of a golf club. Vespasiano’s Desideri Esauditi was still a fairly new and high-end Italian eatery owned by a chef who rose to fame as a contestant on a competitive cooking show on TV. Caused a scandal because the 23-year-old Vespasiano slept with the married producer to influence the judges’ decisions. The Hot Young Italian Sausage was in the national headlines at the beginning of 2020. He didn’t need to cheat, as his cooking was supposed to be quite good, but who can’t benefit from a little celebrity buzz?

Jack, using his special eye, pretended to talk on his phone while secretly studying and listening in on Leonidas and his companions in the limo. Four men total, one woman. The driver was a silent, thin Hispanic, with short hair, who looked innocent enough. Could’ve just come with the limo. The African American woman was in her early thirties, with dark, curly hair, and an attractive face, and was dressed for business in a multicolor tweed jacket and mini-skirt. Leonidas, 57-years-old, wearing an expensive, black, three-piece suit sat next to the door closest to Jack, all 6’3” of him. Sizable opponent, but not fat, with the skin of a mulatto and the arrogance of a self-absorbed millionaire. To his right sat a muscular, bald, and auburn-bearded man in a white, collared shirt and black tie with a black jacket. His jaw was strong and defined, eyes of steel blue. He was the only one present who stood in Jack’s way. Towered over Jack’s way, actually. Probably 6’9”. Jack gritted his teeth. Perfect opportunity right now. Only one real obstacle. His son would be free. But the girls, if there were any, would not. He had to wait. Wait and listen.

The limo’s inhabitants talked on. Leonidas’s bitch wife was pissing him off. Accusing him of cheating on her. Which he was. All the time. But she’s well taken care of, so what does it matter? The bodyguard, Harland, agreed with his boss. No worries. She’ll never catch him. The woman speaks, something about money being transferred to Radley’s account. Leonidas agrees with a jocular curse. Someone’s phone rang. “Mr. Leonidas,” the woman answers. “They’re pulling up, sir.” The millionaire laughs happily and says something inaudible about party time. The big boy steps out first, and scans the parking lot for trouble, ignoring the man that’s been sitting on his bike talking on the phone for eight minutes. Muscle-head is obviously not military trained. He holds the door open as the millionaire steps out first, just as all gentlemen do, ignoring the sole woman in the car, who exits last. Further down the lot, five men dressed in a variety of expensive suits step out of a dark, Adriatic blue metallic Cadillac Escalade. Various sizes, some had short hair, one bald, one long. Three thin, two strong, and built for a fight. None as big as Harland, though, who would still be the primary opposition to get to Leonidas. They were laughing and in good moods, it appears as they met up with the millionaire’s crew and headed for the grand, double doors to Vespasiano’s Desideri Esauditi. Two doormen in suits greeted the troupe, welcoming Mr. Leonidas and Mr. Radley by name.

“Fry?”

“Captain?” she quickly responded. His shower show had changed her. No quips, no threats, no sexual harassment at the workplace. Was she scared?

“I need to watch these guys closely and don’t have the time to check on him, so I need you to. Look into a Mr. Radley, a friend of Leonidas, maybe a Las Vegas resident? He’s here with several guys and I need to know what I’m up against.”

“Will do.” Short, simple, to the point. What a change that a magical, multiple personality demon can make in a person!

The soldier scanned the restaurant, finding all sexes, all sizes and builds, and all age groups. All rich. Or supported by the rich. He climbed off his bike, locked up his helmet, straightened his jacket, and approached the large, oil-bronze double doors with curved, wrought iron grills decorating the frosted glass, guarded by the two doormen of no threat to him. “Do you have a reservation, sir?” The first man, standing about 5’8” and with a clean-shaven face asked, with his hand flat out, as if to stop Jack from entering.

“Do I need one?” he asked, already assuming the answer.

The doorman smiled with disdain and simply shook his head, not bothering to verbalize the answer.

Jack reached into his jacket pocket and removed a badge, knowing it might come in handy today, and flashed it before the first doorman, and his co-worker, who also stepped over to evaluate it. “There’s a dangerous individual in here, guys, and I need to keep an eye on him. Can you help a soldier out?”

“Jack Nelson, Captain. But I’ve never heard of USSA,” the second man, young and black, stated. “Is that real?”

Jack cocked his head and looked him in the eyes. “Do I look like the sort of man who goes around playing games, Mike?” His voice was stern and authoritative, almost condescending, as he read the young man’s name tag.

The two doormen sized up the soldier, looked at each other nervously, backed out of the way, and allowed him passage into the restaurant. “Good luck, sir,” said the first, before adding, “the bar’s to the left.”

Entering the establishment, Jack, suit and tie on, and looking almost as dashing as many others in the building, strolled over the dark wood-colored, polished concrete flooring and approached the hostess counter. Before the pretty brunette in the low-cut black blouse could say a word, Nelson quickly flashed his badge and asked for the bar. Not an expert in badges, either, and deciding it was above her pay grade, she smiled and said, “of course, Officer,” before turning to the youthful and similarly dressed blonde on her right. “Emma, will you show the officer to the bar, please?”

“Right this way, sir,” Emma responded with a smile. Pretty, thin, long neck, probably all of twenty years of age, the young hostess escorted Jack, who didn’t bother correcting the other lady’s “officer” title, to the left, passing several dark black cushioned booths filled with the lunching wealthy elite. She stepped up to the second level, this floor enhanced with a spotless cherry hardwood floor. The bar was long and surprisingly not filled with patrons. Behind it was a series of well-lit shelves stacked with wines and spirits of all kinds. In between each shelf was a brightly lit window, filling the bar with the Vegas warmth of the sun, reminding diners that there was a desert just outside this slice of Italy. “Here we are, sir,” she said pleasantly with a wave of her soft arm. “Will there be anything else?”

Jack did a quick scan of the area and found Leonidas’s table in a private room to the left. “Would anyone mind if I sit at the far end of the counter, young lady?” Jack asked, palming a twenty into her smooth hand.

A giddy laugh followed. “Sir, anywhere you like at the bar is fine. But I’ll keep the twenty if you don’t mind.” And with that, she winked her eye, turned, and strutted away. Jack crossed to the end of the bar closest to the private room where Leonidas’s party would soon be lunching. He peered beyond the wooden walls hung with paintings of the Leaning Tower of Pisa, the Sistine Chapel, The Colosseum, and more, and into the assumed intimate luncheon of the visiting former Presidential hopeful. They were looking at the menus, laughing over a joke that someone told, and discussing stocks and business.

“What can I get you, sir?” the handsome Italian bartender asked. Jack quickly sized him up, and finding no threat, requested a black coffee. “Un caffè?” the man confirmed. Jack nodded and turned away.

“Hope you’re man enough for an espresso,” a female voice whispered.

“Fry? What d’ya got for me?” Jack whispered as he pulled out his phone and put it to his ear for show.

“Ezra Radley, forty-two-year-old millionaire, and CEO of VegasGold, an investment firm located downtown. He and Leonidas have been friends since 2008. That’s the first time they were pictured together in New York at some big gala. Last year Bradley divorced his wife of eight years, a French model named Dominique. He kept the house, she took the kids and moved back to France. I think he’ll be the contact Leonidas was looking for to get him the girls. VegasGold has some stakes in Shady Windows, an auto detailing company in Northwest Vegas. Strange thing is—”

“Un caffè,” the bartender whispered, courteous to the man on the phone, as he set the small cup in front of him, its steam bringing the strong caffeinated smell to Jack’s nostrils. Jack acknowledged him with a nod of the head.

“Shady Windows doesn’t make any money. Satellite imagery has our boy Bradley heading there every so often, once or twice a month. Vans come in just as often.” Brenda paused for a moment, possibly for dramatic effect. “This is our guy, Jack. You can kill both bastards at once as far as I’m concerned.”

“Hang on.” The captain turned her out for just a second as he heard the words “Farm Road.”

“And they’re fresh?” Leonidas asked.

“Right from the market,” someone with their back toward Jack’s view said.

“And all you can eat,” laughed Radley.

“Great! I’m famished,” snorted Leonidas, while pretending to jerk himself off.

“You sure everyone’s tied up?” Jack asked Fry.

“General’s keeping us all busy with side jobs at President Washington’s behest. Unless you want Shadow? He’s around here somewhere, probably molesting someone’s puppy or something.”

Jack didn’t buy the response. There’s a reason none of the team was available for this job and he didn’t like it. “And Blackfinger’s not around?”

“Told me to be your point, Captain. Had other business to tend to. Just me and you just like—” Jack knew she would normally add some kind of sexual reference to complete her remark, but not this time. Not since Mercy/Courtney showed up in his shower. “Just you and me, Captain. But I’m here for you.”

“Thanks. ‘Out,” he concluded before sipping the caffè. He licked his lips and looked at the cup. “Damn good coffee; too small, though.” Instincts told him that he had enough information to go on. Shady Windows was off Farm Road in the Northwest part of town. He could head there as soon as possible and wait for a van, the limo, and the Cadillac Escalade to all arrive. No point babysitting all the perverts as they crack jokes and slobber over their lunch. He had a shop to tend to and called over the bartender to pay his bill. A quick thanks and Jack was back on his Indian and headed to Farm Road, only stopping for a restroom break and a bite to eat at Raising Cane’s.

Farm Road took him through many residential areas, all Earth-toned domiciles with clay tile roofs and red-brick fencing to keep the riff-raff from their cookie-cutter yards. Shady Windows was positioned in a large block of various auto mechanics, printers, storage facilities, and more industries near a Speedway on Farm Road. Jack found an abandoned mechanic shop two buildings down and parked his bike there so that it wasn’t visible when Leonidas and Radley showed up. He approached the ugly-gray, 40X60 metal building. An old, faded sign stood tall on its property letting anyone who paid attention know that this is the location of Shady Windows. A blinking neon sign with a few burned-out bulbs near one of the steel blue garage doors also advertised the fact, while another brightly lit neon sign also informed anyone who cared that it was currently CLOSED. Jack passed the three garage doors and approached the white aluminum front door with inside curtains blocking the view of the shop to any normal person. Fortunately, Jack wasn’t ordinary. Just beyond the front door was a small office and waiting room with wooden furniture from the seventies most likely. Yellow, flowery fabric “beautified” the chairs and sofa in the room. A handful of auto magazines and Shady Window drink coasters rested on the aged, scratched, and dented, tan coffee table and side table. The counter in the room stood in front of the door to the garage itself.

“Why are you peeking in like a randy boy at the girls’ locker room?” asked a familiar voice in an expensive white suit behind him, giving the soldier a start.

Before the magical demon could react, Jack had his Smith & Wesson M&P pressed against his larynx. “What are you doing here?” Jack growled.

Hek pushed the barrel down and away with one finger and smiled graciously. “I just came by to see my mate, Jack. We go way back, you and I, and I’ve heard of some of the burdens you’ve been having: your son being kidnapped by your own organization, your one-night stand threatening your hot little China Girl (sorry about that one), and all of this on top of you battling your stomach issues by killing people for drugs.” Hek laughed and whistled loudly. “Figured you could use a friend right about now. Nice suit by the way. Men’s Warehouse?”

Jack shut his eyes and shook his head, his armed hand resting momentarily on his temple. “You forgot that I also have magical fairy tale creatures hounding my every fucking move. It’s your goddamn fault that the psycho Grace has threatened Mercy. Without your interference in my life, I would’a never met her—”

“Seemed like you were pretty okay with the meeting when you were shagging her little body like a rockstar on my new couch.”

“Thought it was a hallucination.”

“Sure you did, soldier. At any rate, I’ve given her a new girl, Hrist, to train, so that shall keep her off your knob for the time being until she finds a new boy toy. Mercy should be fine.”

“Should be?”

“Jack, if there’s one person in the world with whom you should put your trust, one person above all the rest who will always have your back, it’s me. Mercy, your little damsel in distress, will not be harmed by Grace. It’s practically implausible. You have my word as your BFF. Now, what about all this Peeping Tom business? What are we up to?” Hek was happy, not worried about a thing, and had his hands on his hips, covered by his perfectly fitted vicuña wool pants. Jack knew all too well that Hek could not be trusted. He was a demon and was playing a game that Jack did not yet understand. All he could do was play along until he could figure a way out. He surrendered and apprised the demon of the mission to assassinate Leonidas and how there may be girls trapped within, sold off in the sex trade that Leonidas may be involved with. “Oh, there’s most definitely girls inside, my friend,” Hek joyously interrupted. “They’re presently sleeping like liquored-up little babies in the back of the van behind Door #3, just holding out for a hero like you to come and save the day.” Without a thought, Jack brushed past the white demon and jiggled the handle on the front door. “That won’t work, and you know it, Jackie-Boy. I’ll get you in, however, if you’ll agree to give these monsters what they deserve.”

The captain just wanted in. He wanted to save the girls. He wanted to kill Leonidas. He wanted to save his son. How he got in shouldn’t matter, as long as it didn’t scare away Leonidas. “Meaning?”

Hek’s smile grew wider. “I want to see you kill, Captain. That is what you were born to do, isn’t it? It’s what your daddy did before you did. It’s really the only thing you’re good at. I want to see you embrace it and tear these poxy tossers from limb to limb. I want to see you bloody them like you’ve not done in years. That’s exactly what I want to see, Jack. I want you to just be you. Will you do that for me? Will you kill for me, Jack?”

Fist in one hand, gun in the other, teeth chewing on the left side of his mouth. He had to agree. “Is there any other way to get my son back?”

“Besides going back in time and not leaving his mother because you didn’t want to play house anymore? Probably not,” Hek chuckled, shaking his head.

“Then get me in there.”

Without even a chance to blink, much like the feeling of a speeding roller coaster coming to a complete stop in an instant, Jack found himself inside the garage, with his chicken lunch almost ready to raise right back up through his stomach and exit the same way it had entered about half an hour prior. Directly in front of him were a man and a woman wearing gray mechanic uniforms and playing cards in front of a clean white van. Even the wheels looked new. Must have just washed it to impress someone very important. Not having a chance to take in his surroundings or scan the van, Jack had to immediately figure out the best way to handle the two dumbfounded people who just fell out of their chairs and knocked over their card game and the small wooden table they were playing on. They had quickly scrambled to their feet, cursed, and were rushing at the captain. Gun or fist? Jack rapidly considered before settling on his combat training as these two individuals were not carrying and Jack had only been sent to assassinate one individual. A smaller death toll would ease his mind and, perhaps, his stomach. The first one to reach him, a black woman, late twenties and about 133 lbs., had managed to swipe a crowbar from a nearby shelf and had taken a wild swing at Jack, who determinedly secured the weapon in his left hand and gave her a straight right punch to her nose. This sent her bloodily to the floor a few feet back just as the man, late thirties and carrying 220 lbs. of fat and some muscle, trim beard, and slicked-back hair shouted something in Russian and threw an overextended fist in the direction of the soldier’s face. Jack dropped a couple of inches and struck the substantially-sized man solidly in the armpit, temporarily locking up his nerves and rendering his right arm useless. He cursed again and attempted to grab Jack’s head to which the trained captain locked onto the man’s left hand and, using all his power, struck his forearm with the crowbar, just below the elbow, snapping his bones. The man fell to the ground with a crash, knocking over a metal shelf filled with an assortment of bottles, squeegees, straight edges, and more. He rested his useless arms among the pile of materials, spat in the direction of Nelson, and cursed once more. The woman, now on her knees and one palm, looked up at the soldier while holding her bloody nose in her free hand. “Who are you? What do you want?” she screamed angrily. “You broke my fucking nose, you bastard!”

Jack ignored her and marched to the large man lying in the pile of window-tinting tools. “Ty sobirayesh'sya dostavit' mne yeshche nepriyatnosti?” he asked him, as some sort of cleaning solution continuously dripped onto the Russian’s head from above.

“Nyet,” he complied, “I want no more trouble. I sit here.” His breathing was forced.

“He needs his fucking asthma spray!” the woman yelled.

“Kill him,” whispered Hek into Jack’s right ear.

Jack spun his head around. Of course, Hek was no longer there. “Where is it?” Jack asked the man, not caring one ounce about the kidnapper’s breathing problems but knowing fewer deaths equals less paperwork and stomachaches.

“He’s lying,” whispered Hek. “Bash his brains in with the crowbar. Then rape the woman and strangle her.”

“In front pocket,” the Russian coughed. “Please.”

“Get it for him,” Jack ordered the woman.

“Noooo,” whispered the voice of Hek once more. “Now, while she’s crawling. Take her from behind, just like Leonidas would do to those girls in the van. Get her, my boy. Get her now, rip that uniform off her and show her what a strong man you are. Come on!”

Jack stood still as she reached into his pocket. “Stop,” Jack ordered.

“I’ve got it, motherfucker. I’ve got it,” she savagely replied, easing her hands into his pocket, and pulling out a knife, just as the crowbar flew through the air and hit her in the head before falling to the floor next to the Russian’s useless left arm. The woman lay face down and unconscious in the man’s lap.

The man coughed slightly and looked into Jack’s eyes. “Wrong pocket,” he said.

“Complete and unabashedly a waste of time,” Hek growled. “You can still take her. Give her your end-piece and rape the bint. Make the Russian watch just for fun. Look at that lush arse, Jack. A tough girl like that. Mmmm, you know what you can do with that, right?”

Captain Nelson looked around the room, found a cloth towel, stuffed it in the man’s mouth, threw the small knife in a garbage can, and used some zip ties to secure the man’s hands, knowing that the right arm would have its abilities soon. Standing to his feet, Jack scanned the van and saw that there were three living people within, tied up and sleeping. He checked Leonidas’s location and found him about four minutes away. “What are you going to do now, Jack?” Hek inquired. “Free them and get them out of the building and then slaughter Leonidas and his friends when the garage door opens? Or just free them after the fighting’s all over?” Jack was expecting about eight men and one woman to enter the building any minute. Eight people to incapacitate and one that he had to kill if he wanted to see his son again. “What’s it going to be, soldier? I’d love to assist, but I’ve got on an original Alexander Amosu. Couldn’t muss this up for three little immigrant girls, you know?” Jack wanted to curse him out but had to focus on his mission at hand. Nine to one. No assistance was available. Who would actually enter the building, though? Does Leonidas allow a random driver or his assistant to know his illegal goings-on? Jack hurriedly moved to clean up so no one could immediately notice that something was off. He latched onto the woman’s legs. “Oh, I’ve got this part,” Hek announced cheerfully. In an instant, the card table, the metal shelf, and all its contents were properly standing once more. The two assailants were nowhere in sight. “Your two buddies are about to wake up high and naked in a hostel in Thailand with four grams of fentanyl. What a story they’re going to have!”

Before Jack could fathom a response, he heard two vehicles pull up outside the garage doors. It was time.

“Jack, they’re pulling up now,” Fry announced as Jack hurried to the opposite side of the van. “I’ve got some agents on the way for the mop-up. Just take care of Leonidas and they’ll clear away any loose ends. Five minutes out, Captain.”

“Thanks, Fry,” he whispered, crouching low and near the rear.

“I’ve learned not to peek in on anymore, Jack, but I heard another male voice with you. You’ve got help?’

Jack looked around him. His demon was still nowhere to be seen. “You’re imagining things, Fry. Nelson out.”

A mostly clear space lay between the van and the waiting room on the other end of the garage. Finally able to take it all in, Jack realized it was not much of a garage at all. There were a variety of backdrops with painted scenes of beaches, farmhouses, fields, and more. Many lighting fixtures were standing on pods or hanging from the ceiling. A couple of cheap rugs, beds, and sofas rounded up the filled space. There were also metal racks full of assorted equipment used for filming as well as those used for securing people, such as handcuffs, rope, and zip ties. This was a studio used for filming the rape of girls, victims of sex trafficking. Jack gripped his Smith & Wessons from their shoulder holsters and prepared himself with some light breathing as laughter erupted from the waiting room. Montgomery Leonidas would have to die. His bodyguard, Harland, would most likely follow suit, in trying to save his boss. Ezra Radley deserved to die, too, for orchestrating the whole thing. All three were in the room with three other men. Six total. Leonidas and Harland could be taken out quickly with a bullet to the head if need be. Radley was a skinny piece of shit and could be knocked out with a simple swing to the back of his greasy little head with the back of a gun. The other three would surrender or die. The door opened and the six men entered the studio area loudly.

“Artyom! Quiesha! We’re here! Let’s get this fucking show on the road!” one of the skinny unnamed men called out.

“Are they a thing?” another asked.

“Nah, he’s probably in the shitter. Where that bitch is, I don’t know,” the first one answered, unconcerned. “No big. We’ll start without ‘em.”

“As long as I get what I fucking came to get, I don’t give a flying fuck where they are,” Leonidas laughed out loud. “Get the little cunts out of the van and get the cameras rolling!”

He quickly scanned each man and noted four were armed, including Leonidas, Harland, and two of Radley’s men. “That’s enough waiting,” Jack muttered to himself as he stepped out from behind the van, guns raised and aimed at Leonidas and Harland. “Captain Nelson, United States Security Agency. Hands in the goddamn air, nice and high where I can see them. I have agents en route and they’ll be here in about two minutes. None of you pieces of shit are doing anything with those girls today…or ever again,” he growled. Radley raised his hands as his pants became wet instantly, fear taking over as he began cursing under his breath. His two unarmed accomplices also followed their partner, but without the fear of being instantly visible. Of the three armed men, all hands were raised…for the moment at least.

Montgomery Leonidas was indignant. This is not how his day was supposed to end. Not with some wannabe soldier aiming a gun in his face. He wanted to stick his dick in someone and get off. Several times. He wanted to feel the fear of some unknown bitch succumbing to his desires as he did whatever the fuck he wanted to her. He wanted to hit her. He wanted to bite her. He wanted to cum in her mouth and then turn and do the same thing to someone else. This was his fucking party! “Fuck you!” he shouted. “Harland, shoot his ass!” Jack gave the evil eye to Harland, warning him without words what would happen if he dared reach for his gun. “Fucking shoot him! I am not going to jail again because of G.I. Joe here. I am your fucking boss, you dumb fucking bald-ass bitch and I say put a goddamn bullet in his fucking heart!” Harland still did not move his almost 7-foot body. He was smart enough to know the difference between his training and that of an active military soldier. Though the steel-eyed man didn’t know for sure who Jack was, all he could do was assume. And his assumptions told him to stand down. “You’re fired, you scared, lily-livered piece of shit. And you’ll never work in security ever again, not even for a fucking strip club. Fucking coward! Your ass is toast!” His hateful blue-gray eyes darted from his bodyguard to the men he came in and back to Nelson. “Fuck all of you! If you’re all goddamn cowards, I’ll get him my—”

Montgomery Leonidas never finished that sentence as intended. He ended it with a scream and a curse. He had tried to reach for his gun in his side holster but never made it. Jack’s gun fired before Leonidas could even touch his weapon. His accomplices watched helplessly as the one-time presidential hopeful crashed to the floor in front of them, blood gushing from the side of his stomach. “Fucking shot me! Kill him! Kill him!” he screamed. His men still did not move. Their hands were still in the air. Jack could also hear the girls in the back of the van screaming in terror as well, no clue as to what was going on just outside their little walls. The 57-year-old millionaire spat and glared at the incoming soldier, slowly moving toward him. “H—have some grace, man. Please,” he pleaded with outstretched hands.

“What did you say?” Jack asked.

“Grace, Captain. Have some grace. She—the bitch said if I asked for grace, you’d let me live. Fuck, I didn’t know she meant today, that blonde cunt.”

Already knowing the answer, the captain still wanted a little more clarification. “Who? Who told you this? When?” he asked as the barrel of his Smith & Wesson trained on the fallen man’s forehead.

“Fuck do I know who the bitch was? She came up to me in the men’s room at a restaurant today while I was washing my hands. Thought she was a fucking hooker looking for some cash. Told me some prick was gonna try and kill me today but if I said to have some grace, he’d let me live.” His breathing was heavy now and was followed by a few short coughs. “Thought she was a lunatic who deserved a good pounding. I turned to grab her and she was fucking gone. Thought I’d imagined the whole thing. She was real, though. Grace, man. Have some fucking grace!”

Captain Nelson did not doubt for a second that she was real. She knew about today. Knew his target and was trying to get under his skin even when she wasn’t physically there. Leonidas was right about her being a lunatic, though. Bitch would continue playing him no matter what Hek promised. And she just made him angrier. “Grace won’t help, asshole,” Jack flared.

Montgomery Leonidas was never one to give up. He boxed in his youth and had to be knocked out before surrendering. In business, he’d never take no for an answer. He always found a way. Always found the right people to pay off and sway his way. Never took a no from any dumb bitch, either. They took it like little bitches and took the money that was tossed after them afterward. One went to the bottom of a lake for calling him out. They’ll never find that one. And this fucking soldier? G.I. Joe? Piece of shit wouldn’t take him lying down. He had one last shot and he was gonna take it. “Ten million dollars for any of you degenerates who can spill this asshole’s blood on this goddamn floor!”

Jack’s gun went off again.

And again.

And again.

Three dead men lay on the ground now, their blood flowing along the cracks of the gray concrete, soaking into the cheap ’70s carpet, maneuvering around chair legs and shelf bases. Jack felt his lunch spinning in his stomach, knotting up. Two of the bad guys remained standing. The last of the living was crumbled on the floor in his own urine and feces crying like a girl. Outside, Jack could hear two vehicles start their engines and speed off; their drivers wanting nothing to do with the shit that went down in Shady Windows this early evening. “You two,” Jack sneered with a sickened face, now aiming his weapons at them, a little shaky in the wrists, “take the zip ties off that shelf… and tie up your boss’s hands and then get each other. Real good and tight now.” He then looked back and carefully eased himself into a chair, trying not to think about what kind of acts may have happened in that same chair on previous days. He looked on as the silent prisoners followed his orders obediently, not wanting to end up as floor décor like the rest of their associates. His eyes then gradually found their way back to the blood, following the moving trail, rounding the floor at certain curves and cracks to make a shape almost like that of the curvy body of a naked woman. The last time blood was spilled by the soldier was the previous evening, in a tub, with a razor. “God,” Jack muttered as he wiped his forehead with the back of one of his pistols. What Grace did with him was indescribable. Sickening. She raped him first on the bed, trapping him, forcing him to do whatever she willed. Then she forced him into the tub with her and Nico…his body. The blood was everywhere as she—

His lunch finally escaped to the carpet on the right side of the chair.

“You okay, Captain?” Fry.

“Are you not feeling well, Jack?” Hek.

Fuck.

“Missions almost over, Captain. The cleanup crew got derailed. Probably stopped for tacos or fancied a nearby gentleman’s club for some jubblies and arse.” Fry or Hek? He had no idea anymore. “It would be helpful if you would finish off those last three wankers, you know?  Just put a bullet in their brains for me. Less paperwork, too. I would do anything for that view. Three innocents tied up like hostages for the taking. They deserve it, you know. Hm?” Hek, right? “Jack, your vitals are insane right now. Do you need a medic?” Fry? “Bollocks, soldier, be like Daddy. Be a hero! Finish them off! You know they’d do the same to the girls in the van, hm?” The girls? Jack looked around but his vision was going blurry, out of focus like a filthy drunk. He hadn’t even had a drink since…yesterday? Half an hour ago? He had no idea. His mind was a thick sea of sludge. “Jack, take a pill.” His hands shivered uncontrollably as he dropped one gun to the floor. It may have gone off. More screaming? The girls? Or Radley? He managed to somehow pull the bottle from his pocket. Three left, right? Damn childproof cap won’t come off. Jack’s hands had become a filthy lake of sweat. “Fuck!” Someone took the bottle from him. Give it back. “Jack? Captain?” He darted his head back and forth, but all he could see was a big blur of purple and yellow, like the spinning tube of colors from Jack’s childhood. Grandpa had a couple. Or was it his aunt? No, he didn’t have an aunt. Did he? A soft hand touched his. Warm, unsteady like his. Another took his other gun. Fuck. Who is it? “Jack, I’m turning the camera on. I need to see you.” Goddamn. “Open your eyes, Captain. Open your fucking eyes,” someone was yelling. Or laughing? British guy or California girl. Girls? Giggling or crying? He felt limp in the chair like his body lost the use of its muscles and bones. His mouth opened. Someone was touching him. One hand on his stomach, one on his mouth, squeezing it. Fuck, no, not Grace. No, please God no. She was sitting on his lap, rubbing on his crotch, trying to kiss him, to make him hard, squeezing him. No, no. Please. God, no. Another hand pulled the back of his head. Three hands. Funny. She is a demon after all. Why not? She put something in his mouth as people…or dogs…were talking about some weird shit that he couldn’t even understand. He felt sleepy. “Captain?”