“It’s... well it’s a bit of a fixer upper but I think it’ll do nicely.” John lets his pack drop to the floor as he closes the door behind him with a gentle thud. “Nothing I can’t handle myself I mean—”

  John glares down at the floorboards, the wood bowing upwards slightly around a ring of moisture.

  The sound of bare feet patter against the wood, getting closer and closer at an alarming rate

  “Are you kidding? John, I love it!” She leaps at John without a plan, her arms and legs wide, knowing he will catch her.

  John lets out a huff of air as she collides into him, wrapping her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist, sending him nearly toppling over.

  “You do?” John chuckles, letting his face rest against the top of her head as she buries herself into the crook of his neck.

  “Yes.” She pulls away, and plants a sloppy kiss on his mouth before pulling away just as quickly again, leaving John's neck craned out at an awkward angle as he tries to pursue her lips. “Of course I love it!”

  She leaves him hanging for a moment, before bringing herself back down to kiss him again.

  “I'm thinking...” John hoists her up, smiling at the cute little yelp she makes as she nearly goes flying. “We put a couch right here, facing the window. Get a nice view of the city...”

  She laughs as John carries her around as if she weighs nothing, spinning in place and using one arm to wave with dramatic sweeping motions to display his imagination for her.

  “Then, how about we take down this wall, open up the kitchen, add a bar maybe?” John swirls into the kitchen, and sets her down atop the counter, resting his face at her chest level and looking up into her perfect golden eyes.

  “Mmmm I like it, I like it. Only if you promise to not take the whole thing over with your bottles.”

  “I would never.”

  “You would.” she pats John's chest, and he picks her up and spins her around again, causing her to squeak.

  “Next, what do you say? We do a big garden, not sure what the fuck grows out in the desert but we can probably do something.” John scratches at his freshly shaven face as he looks out over the back patio to the sloping yard that ends at the road below.

  “Aspen pears, plums, cherries...” She starts to list them off.

  “I’ll leave the details to you, I can move the dirt real good.” John flexes an arm, causing her to flutter her eyelashes and audibly sound “Ooo-la-la” with a fake accent.

  “Let's see...” John shifts her around in his arms and takes her down the hallway to the one and only bedroom.

  “A little small...” she notes, tapping a finger to her lower lip.

  “Just means we have to snuggle up close.” John squeezes around her, grinning at the exhale he forces out of her.

  “I think we can really make this our own John, I really do.” she brings herself in to kiss him a few more times.

  “I think so too...”

  “I know it sounds so incredibly bold, but my greatest wish, my biggest fantasy is being able to hold your wrinkly old man hand on the porch of a house we own.”

  “With rocking chairs and everything?” John teases, nuzzling into her kisses.

  “Oh absolutely! And a dog! We have to have a dog.”

  “Only if it's a working dog.”

  “No! I want something small.”

  “A small working dog” John nods

  “Child labor!”

  “Exactly.”

  “That wasn’t a suggestion!” She patters her arms against him until he relents and drops her to the ground, allowing himself to be wrapped up in a hug.

  “But I know. I have the same dreams...”

  “Then make sure you come home safe, alright?” her tone drops to something much more serious, and John can feel her tears begin to penetrate his shirt at his chest.

  “I always do... always.”

  “I know...”

  John's jaw clicks as the Lincoln pulls to a stop on the opposite side of what was once his home.

  Blackened wood sits smoldering in the space where it used to stand, a single man picking through the scraps for anything of value.

  His breath comes steady and low, forcing out the rage that mounts in the pit of his stomach.

  Blackwood remained silent the whole drive. John didn’t complain at the time, but seeing the charred remains of the place he built with her made him want to beat the information out of the man. Surely he knew, he knew this happened and didn’t say anything, let John sit in silence until they got here.

  Respect or no respect, this game had gone on long enough and John was ready to throw down his cards and blow the dealers fucking brains out.

  “The men in the parking lot, the one you knocked out with his own gun, and the guy whose arm you broke... they weren’t run of the mill gangsters.” Blackwood breaks the silence, his voice low.

  “So it was them? Good to know.” John moves to unlock the door but finds he can’t. Every time he tries to open the door it relocks itself just as quickly. “Open the fucking door Blackwood,” John grinds the words out.

  “They were members of a Russian mercenary group sent here to investigate that prostitute you gave money to. After giving her all the money in your wallet, she took the chance to bail on her obligations to Solomon Cross, and thus made it nearly impossible for the Russian group to locate her in the city.”

  John punches the door and leans back in his seat, crossing his arms. At least Blackwood was getting to the point of all this, and he knew when he was stuck. Besides, the man might drop a little more regarding where to find these guys so he could rip their fucking hearts out. Then, he would rip out Blackwood's heart for good measure.

  “I got word, and heard through the grapevine they were going to get some revenge for the hardship you caused them. I booked a flight over as soon as I was informed but you don’t have a phone, and I didn't think you would ever listen to a suit telling you to lay low.” Blackwood continues, some approximation of empathy in his tone.

  “So, you know I would cooperate with the cops long enough to allow myself to be put in prison, and made it so I had to stay there... all that to protect me, right? Think I can’t take a group of fucking Russians?”

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “I’m sure you could have, but I would rather not risk it. I am always looking out for my favorite marines.”

  “Right.” John looks back out the window, letting his eyes settle on the embers that still glow in the rubble. He doesn’t bother asking about being watched. He felt half ashamed to admit he hadn’t noticed. Maybe it was the city, the fact that everyone was watching him no matter what, that he wasn’t able to pin down Blackwood's people.

  How long did he have a tail? Ever since getting out more than likely... it had to be. The rage pumps through his veins now. He wants to hit something, but that won’t solve anything, even if it would feel good.

  “Well you did your part, thanks, now let me out of the fucking car.”

  “It’s not that easy John...”

  “Sure it is, it’s the little unlock button above the window crank.”

  “John, listen to me. This is a hell of a lot bigger than you think it is.”

  “Blackwood I couldn’t fucking care less.”

  “You will in a moment.” Blackwood taps the driver on the shoulder, and John watches as he pulls out two files from the glovebox and hands it to Blackwood. Blackwood then slides the first file to John, opening it up for him.

  “Do you remember the Abu Ghar mission?”

  “I do not fucking care about an op from years ago.”

  “You will when you see this, now, do you remember it?” Blackwood insists, his tone remaining as calm as ever, which only serves to piss John off more, but there is something in the man's eyes again that gives him pause. When Blackwood wants something, he gets it. If Blackwood wants John's attention then the only way out was through. He would give it to him, but only so long as it got him out of this fucking car.

  “The pocket nuke in the basement. Right.” John flips through the pages, itching to be done with all this. If all it took was nodding along and saying the right shit, that's what he would do. God knew Blackwood's ego needed it.

  “Didn’t you find it odd?”

  “Sure, the whole mission was odd.” John dismisses a little less readily, his memory dancing to the blood circles and ruined corpses.

  “You’ve always been one of my brightest, take a moment and consider the logistics. What was the origin of that nuclear device?”

  “You fuckin serious? You want me to listen and then plan on quizzing me?”

  “In a sense.”

  “Jesus fucking…” John grumbles and closes his eyes, pulling his mind back to the mission.

  “It was the Soviets. KGB origin. There were no markings but the method they used to wire the whole thing was definitely soviet. Now why the hell does this matter?”

  “Consider how that terrorist cell would have gotten that. You recall the brief. They were a small sect, no more than twenty total members.”

  “We sure as fuck killed more than twenty people...”

  “Indeed you did, and what else?”

  John lets his head rest against the back of the seat as he sifts through his second to last deployment. It had been approximately two years ago now but the details are still pretty damn fresh all things considered. There are some things you just can’t drink away.

  “The Soviets wanted to bomb the US and its allies. You give the nuke to an Iraq terror cell, tell them to blow something up and all the heat goes to them as opposed to Russia. Probably traded it for oil.”

  Blackwood nods slowly. “A fine deduction... but dig a little deeper for me.”

  “Can’t you just tell me what this shit is about?”

  “Indulge me...You are the leader of this terror cell, how do you get the nuke?”

  John rubs the bridge of his nose as he works through the problem. All he has to do is play Blackwood's game, and then he can be done with it. Just play along, then douse the fuckers who burned his house in gasoline and watch em burn for this.

  “Soviet defectors put out feelers in the black market for buyers, but there is no chance they would trust a small time cell like this one. As a Soviet I would sell to someone with more money. Even if this cell had a stake in oil they wouldn’t pull the money.”

  “So it isn’t Soviet defectors selling it?” Blackwood asks, his tone leading.

  “No, our contacts would have pinged something. It could have been a splinter faction from a larger group. Keep it intentionally small with high level operatives. Infill up through Kazakhstan, strategic strikes. Maybe in transit? Good intel from a defector or other operatives could relay its location.”

  “And our spies? We knew they had these devices and could account for all of them up until our team's mission.”

  John taps his fingers on the back of the chair. “You wouldn’t entrust an op like that to anyone small time. We have to assume that this cell had someone high level in it, but... no that wouldn’t be it. Our inside men were able to tell us about the nuke almost instantly. They had no security, no vetting. Anyone who could get a nuke wouldn’t let that slide. It could have been a trap, hence the volume of people but none of them were trained. The traps were obvious. If it was intended to be a trap it was a damn shitty one.”

  “And then, there was the blood circle.” Blackwood presses.

  “Are you trying to tell me that their fucking cult ritual had something to do with this?” John narrows his eyes, but Blackwood doesn’t reveal anything.

  “All I am saying is that there are things in this world we can’t explain... not yet at least.” Blackwood hands John the second folder.

  Opening it up, John looks over the photographs of even more bloody circles. Body parts arranged in geometric shapes covering sands in the middle of the desert, in homes, in city squares.

  John shuts the folder and hands it back. “Cut the shit Blackwood, I’m fresh out of patience. Tell me why you are showing me this.”

  Blackwood takes the folder and looks through it himself before answering.

  “I left the Marine Corp when you got out John. The US military was interested in continuing its investigation but could no longer justify boots on the ground operations in Iraq. With the situation escalating in Somalia we needed to reallocate, so It was suggested I enter the civilian sector.”

  “Private military—you became a contractor?”

  “I did, a contractor with all the experience needed to see this job gets done. I’ve been keeping an eye on this little issue for the past three years and it’s since gotten worse. I regret to say that my current team isn’t adequate. Each one is exceptional, even your old Australian friend, but they lack a certain edge, an edge you have always provided the teams.”

  “You’ve lost your edge? A shame Blackwood...”

  “I haven’t put my boots on the ground in decades, I am no substitute for someone such as yourself. Our current team leader is a fine soldier, who has nothing but my utmost respect, but we need more.”

  “I’m not doing it Blackwood.”

  “And why not?”

  “Because I’m done. I served my country, I did my tours, and I went home. I’m not a soldier any more,” John says it plainly. He doesn’t even want to entertain the thought. “I’m done fighting, Blackwood, I told you I was done when I left the Marines, and you gave me your blessing.”

  “Done fighting? Tell that to the Russians, or my men, or hell, tell that to the El Chacals who used to live in the house you raided a month back, or to Cross’s people whose blood they are still cleaning from the hospital you liberated.” Blackwood narrows his eyes, and burns a hole directly into John's soul with them. His voice drops to a low rumble. “Men like you and I don’t stop fighting John, we simply switch targets. It’s in our blood. I told you what you wanted to hear because I care for you like my own son.”

  Blackwood runs his hand down his face to work the growing frustration from the hard lines of his mouth.

  “Now... you can use that violence for a good cause and make some money along the way, maybe even see some old friends. Or you can continue kicking in the skulls of cockroaches in a rat's den.”

  “I got people that rely on me here, people I need to look after,” John insists. It is as much of an excuse as it is a worry. Orland's widow and her kid need looking after, and if John isn’t around then Mrs. Greta was likely to die of boredom.

  “From your little notebook, yes? We took a look over everything while it was in police possession. They are all taken care of. We put Orland’s widow on the first bus out of here with her child and an extra $50,000 in her bank account. Mrs. Gretta is being moved to a state of the art facility in California. We even bought off that prostitute's contract from Solomon, and last I heard she left town a few days ago. Everyone is taken care of John, everyone. I’ve made sure of it.

  John looks out the window, watching as the last traces of sunlight cast what was once his home in darkness.

  “John, this place has nothing for you now. Did you plan to just live out the rest of your days doing charity for anyone who asks in the heat as the city falls apart around you? The national guard will be in soon to clear it out as we stand. Were you going to take a bus to the middle of nowhere and continue?” Blackwood leans in closer, his voice dropping even further, as he extends a hand. “So John... what do you say we get you out of here?”