TWENTY-THREE

Hooch

Fuck this shit. My arm burns where I’ve been itching it incessantly for the past twenty minutes. I’ve scratched the skin red raw, but it’s better to focus on than the garbage swirling in my head.

I’d kill for a hit right now, yet cold turkey is the only way to go. When I can’t trust our sources on the street, I can’t be sure my location won’t be sold to the highest bidder if I reach out.

What better way for the Wingmen or our new opponent to get at me than getting the police to do the dirty work for them?

Gentle rain has fallen on my position for the better part of an hour now. My clothes are soaked, my boots making a slight squelch as I move. Wet leather is nobody’s friend. Yet I persevere in the hope that the fucking snake in the grass will slither home on its yellow belly any time now.

Was I surprised when I arrived at the address I’d scored through a few favors of my Lincoln brother, Mighty’s? Fuck yeah, I was. Our friend, Agent Jessup, doesn’t hold back when it comes back to fancy digs. His house—or should I say fortress—is an architectural work of art strategically placed on a hillside to make the most of the valley views. I guess government jobs must be well paying when you’re single and reach his level.

Do I have a plan? Shit no. Am I full of determination and misplaced frustration? Sure.

This fucker is the reason I’m running to begin with. All I wanted was to track down Mel and bring her home, make my fucking miserable non-existent family at least partially complete again. But no, this fucker had to swoop in on the coattails of a promotional opportunity and reopen old files, dig around where he wasn’t welcome.

This fucker had to have been the one who connected me to those kills considering I cleared all the prints. Who else would have got dirty cops to follow Dagne, and who else would have realized that an address on a piece of paper meant so much?

He’s the only one who knew it was me there, and why.

And all because he stumbled across the truth: I staged Mel’s murder to protect her should Carlos do some digging around of his own. I gave her a grave, and a body to fill it. And now, Jessup’s collecting the evidence that’ll tie it all together with a neat fucking bow.

Clearly, the body in the grave wasn’t Mel’s—and this is the part that fucks me off the most. I followed that drunken whore for hours, listening in on her conversations and watching her interactions before I offered her a job for the night, making sure to cover my ass. She operated alone, didn’t talk about anyone special, and even when she started chatting post-sex like all women do, she never mentioned family or anyone who would miss her. I was certain she had no attachments, no strings, but what does that matter when the feds are going to stumble across an unmarked grave by accident?

What kind of luck was that any way? My luck, is what.

I set aside my morals for my loyalty. To ensure my sister’s life, I took that of another. It wasn’t pretty in the slightest, and now I’m not the only one who knows that.

Carlos had specifics on how he wanted Mel gone: decapitated, body mutilated, and a clear message etched into her flesh. I followed the directions to a T, the directions set out to me by the guy Jessup hasn’t found—Carlos’ goon.

You’d have to be pretty darn talented to track that body down. Especially since it’s mostly been devoured and digested by a few hungry stray dogs in the greater Kansas region.

What can I say? I took an E that night to help me come up with the idea. As if I’d be able to carry it out straight. I’m not that sick in the head.

A lonely vehicle turns up the curved driveway, drawing me out of the unpleasant memories of a night I wish I could go back and redo. As I watch Jessup park his pretentious Volvo in the garage, I wonder, what would have happened if I hadn’t staged Mel’s death? Would Carlos have still been hot on our tail? Would I have jeopardized things? My gut says no, considering Dana and Dad died anyway. When I look at the past in that light, then what I did in the name of protecting my own seems so pointless.

It merely triples my guilt at who I became once threatened.

I’m not that guy. I’m not a fucking killer. I’m the joker, the funny guy. I’m the big brother who always had his little sisters’ interests at heart. The son who wanted to trace a path different to his father’s.

Yet, look at me now: a fugitive, planning on blackmailing a federal agent into silence, having killed another officer for the right to remain free. The quintessential outlaw.

Wouldn’t Dad be proud?

Jesus—there’s got to be a better way than this. So I go in there, threaten the fucker as he downs a hot cup of Joe, and most likely kill him anyway to eliminate the risk. And then what?

When does the cycle end?

This isn’t who I am. It’s not who I want to be. I don’t murder people as casually as flipping eggs for breakfast, and I sure as hell don’t take it upon myself to sort things that affect the club; I take it to the table. No wonder Crackers is up my goat about everything and Digits has been getting around like he’s on his rag half the time—I’ve lost touch.

Lights flick on upstairs, illuminating the huge glass panel walls. Jessup’s house is one of those modern types that have no blinds or curtains, everything he does on display for the world to see. I track him as he walks through the living area to a bar and pours himself a drink. For a fleeting moment I’m certain he knows I’m out here; his eyes shift to the windows, hovering in my direction a little too long. But then, just as quick, he’s back to paying attention to what’s inside his house.

The TV. A frozen dinner. Kicking his shoes off and then pulling files from a folio. He leans over the low table in front of his sofa, hands in his hair as he dissects the contents. Watching him like this, you could almost feel sorry for the guy. Almost.

He’s living to breathe another day, not because he deserves to, but because if I cross this line, then I jump down the slippery slope to believing I have all the power. One kill leads to two, and then before you know it the tally is in double digits, triple. You stop giving a fuck what butterfly effect your murders have, and instead use them like currency: settle a debt here, bribe an official there.

I’ve seen what that kind of power did to a man. He believed he was invincible for a while, destroying everyone and everything around him. Until a close call shook him up. Then he operated purely out of fear, conscious that even his own flesh and blood wanted him dead. Carlos died a scared and bitter man, and like hell do I want to end up that way: alone, and loathed by everyone.

Jessup kicks back, beer in hand, oblivious to the fact I’m walking down his driveway as the rain sets in for the night. Water runs in rivulets down my face, dripping from my eyelashes, my nose, and chin. I turn my arms up to the sweet water, relishing the relief it brings my heated flesh.

I look down at the lines I’ve scoured into my arms, at the reminder of what I made myself, and before long the water that runs down my face comes from not only the sky.

Who am I, anymore?

I sold my soul for the safety of those I love, and I traded my principles for a promise of no more pain. I loved and I lost, and it damn near killed me.

What’s worse, is I wake every morning wishing it had.

If this is life, I’m done living it.