Her lips linger on his for a time, before she breaks the kiss and holds John tight.

  “I... am so proud of you, you know that?”

  John holds her by the waist and looks into her perfect golden eyes

  “Thank you.” John tries his best not to cry, though it doesn’t look like it will be working very well.

  “How long will it be again?”

  “Boot camp? Thirteen weeks is all. I will be back before you know it.”

  “That's too long! I’ll miss you so much it will hurt!” She tightens her grip around him, squeezing with all of her strength.

  “I’ll be able to read the letters you send, and I can write back once, I believe.” John reassures her, bringing one hand down to rest on the top of her head.

  “You better write as much as you are allowed!”

  “I will, I will.” John laughs, kissing the crown of her head until she breaks the hug.

  Looking back, he can tell the bus driver is getting more than a little impatient.

  “I have to go now darling...”

  “I know... I hope you are ready for when you get back. I’ll make sure you don’t get a wink of sleep!”

  John blushes slightly, “what is that supposed to mean?”

  “You know damn well what that means.” She slaps John on the ass as he turns to get on the bus, making him skip the last few steps.

  Shaking his head, John gets aboard, and watches through the window as she waves to him even as the bus pulls away from the stop.

  Once it picks up speed, she grabs the hem of her dress and hikes it up to her knees, kicks off her shoes in that way that made john smile, and chases after the bus, running down the side of the road, waving like a lovely lunatic until the bus outpaces her, leaving her a distant speck in the horizon—probably still waving and shouting and blowing him kisses.

  As a matter of fact, she probably stayed there until the bus fully vanished from sight, she probably cried too, which makes John cry at the thought alone.

  John stares out the window until they reach the airport, where he moves in a haze through to his gate and boards his plane. Shuffling through the isles to his seat without much fanfare.

  It all feels too dreamy, as if none of it is really happening. The ground leaves him, giving way to the open skies. It isn’t just his first time out of Nevada, it is his first time being higher than a second story building.

  He keeps his attention out the window the entire time, watching the clouds rush past, staring out into the open air until the sea comes into view for the very first time.

  It’s mesmerizing, and utterly unfathomable to him. The way its shimmering surface reflects the orange gold and purple sunset. John can’t take his eyes off the horizon, not until the plane landed with a jolt, shaking him out of his old memory.

  “Any Questions?” Blackwood asks, taking the freshly signed documents into the manila folder.

  “No. No questions.” John cracks his back, letting out a groan at the pop.

  The plane he is in now is far beyond the one he took to boot camp all those years ago. Whatever contracts Blackwood had with the government, they were evidently paying him very well.

  “Good. That makes things a bit easier on me.”

  “Consider this me making it up to you.” John stands and follows Blackwood out onto the tarmac of the private airfield in Jordan.

  The desert stone shimmers from the heat, making John scowl. He is sick and tired of the fucking desert. The desert here in Jordan doesn’t even offer brush to break up the monotonous dull brown scenery. He nearly turns around to get back on the plane and demands to be taken somewhere tropical. At least there he would get a nice view of the beach and some green. Fuck he misses seeing the color green.

  Not once in his life did John ever think he would want to go back to El Salvador or really anywhere in central or South America. Not only was it hot, but it was humid as hell and the bugs there made his skin crawl, but now he would take anything other than the fucking desert.

  “I can see you’re thrilled John.” Blackwood doesn’t bother to hide his smile. Further revenge for John's time under him, he figures.

  “Just how much fucking money are you making Blackwood?” John looks beyond the airfield to the compound that surrounds it.

  “Enough to get by.”

  Enough to get by is a gross understatement. The compound before him would have made any other PMC envious. It isn’t large, not by military base standards but it is damn nice.

  A large hangar occupies the far end of the airfield where one other private passenger jet sits. Another hanger is positioned adjacent to the first, its door closed, with two helipads positioned outside where William’s Specters sit like sleeping monsters.

  Opposite the helicopters on the west face of the air strip is a collection of small buildings that surround one large almost convention center style facility. Multi tiered to a maximum of five stories tall, it extends north to the end of the airfield before cutting further west in an upside down L shape. From there, a collection of smaller buildings litter the area beyond, and John can see a number of watchtowers in the distance as well as other more isolated facilities marking the desert around them.

  “Williams tech... of course.” John whistles, eyes unable to remain off the military style aircrafts.

  “I am a man who appreciates reliability, regardless of price.”

  “If only we had those back in the unit, it would have made life a hell of a lot easier.” John sighs, catching the last glimpse of the beasts before the men enter the main structure.

  “Oh we have more than just the Specters, but I will show you our workshop tomorrow. For now, Clementine will show you to your room.” Blackwood gestures towards a woman who stands in the lobby, her long hair done up in a ponytail to frame a strikingly soft face. “Clementine, take good care of John for me, I have paperwork to file.” Blackwood turns and shakes John's hand, taking in a deep breath of the nice air conditioned air. “Details tomorrow John, for now, get some rest.”

  John shakes the man's hand, and follows Clementine through the complex.

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  A spotless white floor guides John through the luxury space. Black and white polished granite walls house framed pictures of a variety of unique locations. He recognizes most of them as places he had been deployed, but several more were too obscure for him to pin down

  Rounding a bend, the closed hall gives way to a long atrium. Floor to ceiling glass windows extend up three stories, letting in plenty of natural light to bathe the dozen or more chairs and tables individuals work away at. A waterfall moves down one of the central atrium pillars, flush against more natural stone and framed by a curtain of green plant life.

  This place looks more and more like a fortune 500 corporate office that deals with finance or tech, not a compound of contract killers, but John can’t complain. It is a damn nice change of pace even if it is a serious amount of whiplash from his spot in Oasis.

  John is guided up an elevator to the highest level, where he is brought down yet another impressive hallway to a large door near the end.

  Clementine provides John a keycard, and gestures to the door with a smile.

  John inspects the card, shrugs, and presses it against the black screen flush against the wall.

  The door hisses open, much heavier than he could have ever guessed. It has to be a half foot thick, with an internal locking mechanism akin to a bank vault with three large rods that recess into the door and frame both.

  More impressive than the door, is the interior of what will be his room.

  A California king size bed rests against a simple and elegant black headboard. The ceiling is tall, nearly 15 feet and lined with inset lights that give the whole room a tactfully luxurious feel. The floor is a tasteful light wood, with a floor to ceiling glass wall that overlooks the west side, providing a view of the rest of the compound as well as the sunset.

  An entertainment system is on the opposite wall complete with theater sized TV, a collection of VHS tapes, and records nearby. A large couch faces towards the setup with a still cold bucket of ice and whisky on top of it, and a Gibson guitar left wrapped up in a bow.

  He can see into the bathroom from the couch, a grand space with a full standing shower and separate hot tub he absolutely intends to use as soon as possible.

  “We have massage staff in-house as well, if you are in need of more focused care.” Clementine says softly.

  “Alright Blackwood, you are slowly being forgiven... slowly...” John crosses his arms and moves to the window, staring out of it towards the horizon.

  “Meals are served twenty four seven in the mess, there is a map of the facilities in the folder next to your drinks.” She concludes, closing the door for John, leaving him alone in the space.

  Every item in this room looks as though they are individually more expensive than every cent he ever made from the Marine Corp.

  Why the hell was he doing this though? The thought swirls around in his head as he lets his weight sink into the couch while popping the top on his chilled bottle of four roses with one hand, and undoing the bow on the guitar with the other.

  Blackwood had been right, Oasis had nothing for him any more, but it was still home. It was still the place he grew up, the place he lived his life, the place they lived, the place they wanted to grow old in... he would live in the desert as long as he needed, so long as it was with her.

  So why was he here? Why was he in this room, drinking this whisky, plucking the strings on a $5,000 guitar, sitting on this couch with his signature freshly inked to Blackwood's papers downstairs?

  He downs a mouthful of the liquid gold, letting out a breath of air as it burns all the way to the pit of his stomach.

  It burns the same way as it always has, the same way it had when he left the corp. He remembered Blackwood's hand on his shoulder, the air between them stiff and awkward. Things hadn’t been the same since his last deployment. It had felt as though all the love gained between the two men was lost, and Blackwood was trying hard to gain it all back the moment John decided to step away.

  “You are a fine marine, always will be.” Blackwood had said with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

  John nodded, eager to get out of there, eager to go home, eager to make good on the promise he made to the one person he cared about back home.

  He had proposed, he had finally gone through with it, but as soon as he placed that ring on her finger he got the call to return, his papers denied. He would have to go back into the sand box, even after Blackwood had promised otherwise.

  He had finished his last tour, and he was out, he was out no matter what. He needed to leave that life behind. He needed to ensure she didn’t have to worry about him any more.

  “Your fight is somewhere else now. Good luck son.” Blackwood had turned, and walked away, leaving John alone.

  He didn’t understand what Blackwood meant at the time, but he had a better idea about it now.

  John hated Blackwood for it, he really and truly did. He hated that the man who promised him the world back then nearly left him to die, left him alone, forced him back down range when he knew there was no chance of coming home.

  John hated Blackwood for a number of reasons, but most of all he hated how Blackwood was right. John's fight wasn’t over, and it likely never would be. People like John didn’t stop fighting, they simply changed targets.

  For as much as John despises the man, he knows he needs a target, a goal, a threat to face. He isn’t so diluted as to think he could simply wander around Oasis until the place fell apart. In fact he needed direction, and Blackwood may as well just have been the first person to really offer it to him after everything that's happened.

  Taking another drink straight from the bottle, John lets his head rest against the back of the couch, staring up at the ceiling, the guitar forgotten in his numbing hands.

  He isn’t here for the money, for the comradery, or for Blackwood. He is here because he needs to be here. Because if he wasn’t here, it was only a matter of time before Oasis chewed him up and spit him out, just like it did every good man with good intentions. He isn’t so naive as to believe that he is immune to the pressure, to the pull that city has on people. Hell he had already turned to vigilantism in a year. In ten or twenty, who knew where he would be. Either dead in an alley leaking more alcohol than blood or in a federal prison on death row after the local PD or national guard tried putting an end to his sporadic clean up missions.

  John pulls the ring from his pocket, and rolls it around in his already fumbling hands, watching as the light hits the golden band.

  What would she think? he wonders. Was she looking down on him now? Scolding him for doing something so reckless, so selfish? There were people in Oasis who needed him, who relied on him. Sure Blackwood took care of the immediate issues but that didn’t mean all their problems were solved.

  Would she reprimand him for not getting Orland's widow's contact information? For not saying goodbye to Mrs. Gretta? Was she jealous of the room he was in?

  She would probably say something like, “sleeping alone in such a big bed must be pretty lonely.” or she would snatch the bottle from his hands, take a swig, and say “If you’re going to let yourself be bought then at least buy a nicer bottle.”

  Always sassy, always so damn cute.

  John holds the ring up, and stares through the hole.

  God she got so skinny...

  By now she had been dead longer than they had been married, but he had known her his whole life. She shaped him, molded him, carved off the edges until he was a man he could be proud of, a man he could look in the mirror and smile at.

  And now... here he was.

  Would she still be proud? He somehow doubted it. He wanted to think that she would have come to accept this, that she was happy for him to be putting his mind and body to use but he knew that was a lie, because she could always tell, and he was a damn bad liar.

  “I’m sorry.” He sighs, pocketing the ring once more and taking another sip from the bottle.

  And it’s true, he is sorry. Sorry this is the decision he made, sorry he put the onus on her to stop him, sorry he couldn’t have done a lot of shit differently.

  John puts the top back on the bottle and sets into the ice bucket.

  His lips move to say something more, but the words catch somewhere deep in his throat, and he gives up on them.

  They were words he should have said back when she could have still heard him. He wasn’t about to say them now just for his own sake. That wasn’t fair, not to him nor to her. He would tell her when he saw her next... though somehow he doubted he was going to the same place she was.

  He eyes the booze, and then takes it back from the ice, reopens it and takes another swig, relishing in its familiar comfort. Maybe with a couple more drinks he could ease his mind, bury that feeling just long enough to see where the next day led him.