HUNTER (5 page)

CHAPTER SEVEN

The press conference was uneventful. I did what they told me, and I kept my mouth shut, only speaking when I was repeating what Bremkin whispered into my ear. The conference took place on the front lawn of my little shack of a home. Everyone crowded me as I stood on the front step, with Bremkin on my right and Anders on my left. That cute little reporter was there, standing front and center. I swear her shirt was unbuttoned a full two buttons lower than before; any lower and her tits would’ve been be hanging out in the open.

After the press conference, Bremkin told me I did a good job. For him, maybe. The frustrated, disappointed, and even angry faces of the reporters said otherwise. They got nothing good—nothing more than a bunch of overly vague and just downright wrong information. I had to bite my tongue when I told them the ambush was unexpected. It wasn’t. We knew we weren’t supposed to be in that town. Lieutenant Niles knew it too, but he thought taking a shortcut would save time, the prick.

I had to tell the reporters that we were all sleeping when the ambush happened. Also not true. Most of us were sleeping. Sammy wasn’t sleeping. Sammy was out fucking a prostitute.

But that was one thing I was absolutely not supposed to tell the press. The media seemed to think that Sammy Boy was the only reason some of us survived the attack. I laughed when Bremkin told me that Sammy was considered a hero in Kansas. I asked if I was considered a hero, too.

“No, of course not. You lived,” he told me.

America loves a martyr, even if they don’t know what he’s off martyring about. According to Anders, the town of Nintipi was having a brass statue of Sammy commissioned for the Library Square at the town center. My god, if Sammy Boy was alive to hear that…

“Can I go outside now?” I asked as Anders fumbled with a coffee pod.

He laughed. “I heard you’ve already been out. Last night.”

“Who told you that?”

“That doesn’t matter. I get that you’re an adult, and you probably want to go out and see old friends, but when I give you an order, I expect you to follow it.” It was a strange thing to hear from someone who was hardly an adult himself.

“No offence Anders—”

“—General Anders,” he corrected.

I hesitated to continue. I wasn’t going to call him General. The Generals I knew fought in multiple wars. Anders had a degree from a community college and a few years in an office. “I’m not enlisted anymore. I’m retired. I’m a vet now. I don’t have to follow any dumb orders.”

“Wrong. When you enlisted with Special Operations, you agreed to a lifetime of
dumb
orders. I know you think I’m just some dumb punk, Hunter. But I’m still your superior, whether you like it or not. I can have you put in prison for disobeying military law for endangering national security.”

“Endangering national security? What the fuck are you on about, Anders?”

“General Anders.” He stood and stared at me, as if waiting for me to correct myself. I didn’t. “The public still thinks you were in the Congo on a peacekeeping effort.”

I laughed. “Trust me, no one ever believed that crap.”

“Don’t laugh. If people knew you went to the Congo on an assassination mission, there would be a riot. We would be shut down and we’d be finished.”

“I was just following orders,” I reminded him.

He smiled but there was no joy behind that smile. “That doesn’t matter. The government will do what it needs to do to keep the peace. Americans would be outraged if they knew you were sent to murder an American War Hero.”

Sent to murder an American War Hero? Was he joking? We were sent to find and kill Noric Gizenga, a terrorist leader, not an American War Hero. Anders placed a coffee down in front of me.

“Noric Gizenga, the man you were supposed to kill, was an American. His real name was Frederick Meraux. He was being sheltered by the Congolese Rebels.”

I suppressed a strong, sudden urge to punch Anders square in the jaw. Though, it wasn’t his fault. He probably wasn’t even out of high school when we were dropped into the jungle.

They had told us our mission was to find and kill Noric Gizenga. They never mentioned to us that Gizenga was American. They told us he was the leader of a Congolese Rebel organization, and that he was partially responsible for the genocide in Rwanda.

Master Sergeant Frederick Meraux was a well-known American soldier who died in a roadside bombing in Iraq. Like me, he was Special Ops. Frederick led a rescue mission in an al-Qaeda occupied town called Al-Nukhib. His unit saved twenty-five American soldiers. At least, that was the story that we heard.

When I reminded Anders that Meraux was dead, he laughed and shook his head. “And as far as you need to be concerned, he is dead. I’ve already said enough,” he said, still laughing.

“Tell me the truth, you little piece of shit. I spent five years in a P.O.W. camp. You at least owe me the truth.”

“You’re better off without it, Hunt.”

“Don’t call me Hunt, you cocksucker. Tell me.”

He laughed again. “I’m serious. You don’t want to—”

I sprung to my feet and grabbed the frail little General by the collar of his shirt, pulling him in close to my body. I didn’t want to hear his shit. I wanted to know why I really lost five years of my life, why my best friends were dead. Some kid who still had puberty written all over his hairless chin wasn’t in any place to laugh in my fucking face.

“I had nothing to do with this, Hunter. The people that made the order have stepped down. I’m the one picking up the pieces. I’m the one trying to help you.”

“If you want to help me, stop treating me like a little kid and tell me why they dropped us in the Congo.” I squeezed my grip, eliciting a wince from the young General. It was strangely satisfying watching him squirm. I bet the little punk didn’t even go through combat training.

“There was no rescue mission in Al-Nukhib. There was no roadside bomb. That was all fabricated so no one would ask questions.”

“And why would they not want any questions?”

“Because Meraux came across information that he wasn’t supposed to—information that was not supposed to reach the public. You weren’t the first unit sent to kill him. There was one before you. They almost had him, but Meraux got away. He disappeared for a few years, then intelligence found him in the Congo. So we sent you.”

“What information, Anders?” I asked, continuing to suppress the urge to pop his little head off of his fragile, little body.

“I don’t know. I really don’t know. They didn’t tell me. The order came straight from the Pentagon. All I know is, they really wanted Meraux dead. Whatever he found out in Iraq is bigger than you and me; big enough that they’ll do whatever they have to to sweep it under the rug. They’ll sweep me and you under the rug too, if you aren’t careful.”

I let go. There was a good chance he was full of shit—that he knew damn well what information Meraux found—but he wasn’t going to talk. He was probably right about the government not hesitating to silence me if they wanted to. Hell, they were probably already keeping a closer eye on me than I thought.

“Just don’t talk about your mission. Don’t talk about what happened. If anyone asks, either say nothing or say you were there peacekeeping and leave it at that. Don’t even tell them what most of them already think they know, about Gizenga.”

“Fine,” I said.

Anders turned and started towards the door.

“Anders,” I said, stopping him.

“Yeah?”

“You really don’t know what Meraux found?” I had to ask, even though I already knew what he was going to say. It was something that I knew would eat away at me more and more, every time I thought about that camp. And I had a feeling that there wouldn’t be too many days that would go by where I diddn’t think about that camp.

“I really don’t know. And if I’m going to be honest with you, I really don’t want to know. I already wish I knew less than I do. Try to feel the same way.” It would have been easy to feel that way if I didn’t have five years of my life invested in it. “Oh, and one last thing…” He paused.

“What?”

He looked down at his feet and dug his hands into his pockets. “Kyla Rose—stay away from her.”

“Kyla Rose? Why?”

“The sooner this whole thing is old news, the better for all of us. Nintipi loves Sergeant Samuel Patrick. The last thing we need is for this to become some tabloid catastrophe.”

He stared at me while I tried to read between his lines. What did Kyla have to do with a potential tabloid catastrophe? Why would the public care if I saw her? Most of Nintipi knew Kyla and I were friends before any of this military conspiracy bullshit started. And what did any of that have to do with Sammy Boy?

It hit me suddenly. Fuck.

Everyone knew Kyla and I fucked. That’s what Anders was telling me. That explains the stink-eye at the airstrip.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The doctor told me not to go into to work for a few weeks while my wrist healed. He said I had a hairline fracture and wrapped a tight bandage around it.

When I called my manager at the bar, he made sure I knew it was all my fault and that I was in no place to make a claim with the Worker’s Compensation Board. Apparently, because I knew Greg personally, that made me fully responsible. When I tried to defend myself, he threatened to have me fired. “I could have you fined for knowingly over-serving a customer.” I didn’t argue any more after that.

Liam didn’t take the news well. He accused me of making the conversation with my boss up. He stormed out of the house, and then came back a few hours later to apologize. Again, “stress” was the big excuse. He reminded me that he still hadn’t gotten around to fixing the washer.

So I spent the next day watching internet videos explaining how to fix a broken washer. It took the better part of the day, and it wasn’t easy with my bandaged wrist, but I fixed the washer. Unfortunately, I ruined a good shirt in the process. Who knew there was so much grease inside a washing machine?

I gave it a good polish too, making sure it was all pretty for Liam’s return from work. He stopped and stared at me when he walked in the door. His lips parted and he raised an eyebrow. As he stared at me, I realized I hadn’t changed my shirt and was still covered in brownish-black grease.

“What the hell happened?” he asked.

“I fixed the washer.” I smiled, pointing towards the sparkling unit.

He couldn’t take his eyes off my grease-stained body. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“And it works?” he asked, as if I was wearing a shirt that I’d attempted to wash.

“Yeah. I did a whole load of your work clothes already.”

His look of confusion changed into wide-eyed fear.

I laughed. “They’re fine, Liam.”

“Wow. That’s—That’s incredible. Thanks, babe.” He walked up to me. I puckered for a kiss, but he planted a quick one on my forehead instead and then walked past me. The closest he came to admiring my handiwork was when he put his keys, cellphone, and wallet down on top of the newly-fixed appliance. It wasn’t exactly the jump for joy that I’d hoped for.

“Maybe I’ll start fixing washers for a living,” I said.

“Maybe you should,” he said, not looking back at me. He grabbed a beer from the fridge.

“You’re home late,” I said, still beaming in my sense of accomplishment.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He turned and looked at me with a scowl.

“What? Nothing. I was just pointing it out.” Had I said something I shouldn’t have? Did he think I was accusing him of doing something he shouldn’t have?

“No, no. What did you mean? You think I’m cheating on you now or something?”

My heart sank into my gut. “No—I wasn’t saying that. I was just pointing it out.”

“Well you pointed it out for a reason.” The volume of his voice was escalating quickly.

“Really, Liam. I don’t think you’re doing anything. I mean—I think you’re working. That’s it. I was just pointing—”

“—That’s right. I was working overtime to pick up the slack. Someone needs to pay the bills.”

He took a long swig from his beer. The way Liam’s fist clenched the beer was chillingly similar to the way Greg downed his drink at the bar. I was worried the bottle would shatter in his hand at any moment.

I took an instinctive step back, towards the sparkling washing machine, and remained silent. This was the third day in a row that he’d been acting like this. It seemed like it was getting easier and easier to set him off, and every day he seemed angrier and angrier.

I jumped as he slammed the drink down on the counter. He closed his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly through clenched teeth. “I’m just—just really stressed out.” It was the same excuse, three days in a row now.

“Is there some way I can help?”

He shook his head and took a deep breath. “No.”

I needed to figure out a way to distract him from the world—for more than just ten minutes. When we first started dating, we would order pizza from Nero’s Pizza and we would sneak onto the golf course to watch the stars. That was one of my favourite memories with Liam. The last time we’d done that was… years before. Nero’s Pizza was dirt-cheap, and sneaking on the golf course was free. “I know what to do,” I said.

I reached for his cellphone. He had the number of Nero’s Pizza in his contacts. But I couldn’t get to it; he’d put a password on his phone. A password? There wasn’t a password there a week before, when I’d borrowed his phone while mine was charging.

“Don’t touch that!” he snapped, springing forward and snatching the phone from my hand.

“Why do you have a password?” I asked. I instantly regretted asking, knowing it was enough to set him off.

“Jesus, Kyla. I’ve been working fifteen hours a day for the past month now…” He stopped himself and recomposed. “I’m going out.” He picked up his wallet and started towards the door.

“Where are you going?”

“Out.” I jumped when he slammed the door behind him as he left. Even though I didn’t do anything wrong, I couldn’t help but feel like I’d screwed up, like I’d let him down. Maybe he was right—maybe I was being too nosy. Maybe I was holding him back.

I spent the rest of that night cleaning the house, stopping only briefly to eat the dinner I’d made for us, putting Liam’s half in a container for him to eat later. I cleaned every square-inch of the house, ran six loads of well-overdue laundry, and even changed out the dead light bulbs; not with new ones, but with ones I figured we needed less, like the back porch light. In the winter, we didn’t even use the back porch. The light bulb was better off in the closet that we used on a daily basis.

It was midnight when I finished cleaning, and Liam was still out, so I went to bed. Of course the thought was on the back of my mind, that he might be out cheating on me. But I forced myself to dismiss the thought. For the past three years, Liam’s eyes would light up when he saw me. I’d never even seen his eyes wander over to another girl. I knew he would never cheat on me, but why the password on his phone? Why did it seem like he was avoiding me? What could he be hiding?

It was late when Liam finally came in. I could tell that he’d been to the bar because of the strong smell of whiskey on his breath as he lay down in the bed next to me. I kept my eyes closed, still half-asleep, still half in my dreams.

I’d been having a strange dream. It was less of a dream and more of a memory—a vivid memory from five years before, the day before Sammy and Hunter shipped out for the Congo. I was wandering the party, looking for Sammy. I asked everyone where was, but no one knew.

I thought for sure he would be with Hunter, who was in the backyard, upside down, mid-way through a keg-stand. Sammy wasn’t with him, so I kept on looking.

Finally, I found Sammy upstairs. He was in one of the bedrooms, with another girl. When I walked in, they were well underway. He had her ankles in his hands and her legs spread wide while he drilled her. Sammy didn’t see me, probably too drunk and too preoccupied with the girl he was screwing.

My heart broke, though I’d suspected for a long time that Sammy had been screwing other girls behind my back. He would always come home late, smelling like liquor and cheap perfume. His excuse was always the same: “we had a few drinks at the rippers after work.” But when I spoke with the other wives, the wives of his coworkers, they all said their husbands were home right after work. When I told my mom about it, she told me to let him go, that a cheater is always a cheater. People don’t change. I ignored her advice, and tried to be happy pretending to be ignorant to Sammy’s cheating.

But seeing it with my own eyes hurt. Then, I saw the girl’s face… My God, she couldn’t have been older than sixteen, and she appeared to be passed out. I felt sick. My knees became weak and I nearly fell to the floor. I wanted to scream, to tell him to stop, but I didn’t want Sammy to know that I saw. I didn’t want to know what would happen if he knew I saw.

I closed the door and returned to the party downstairs, found an empty room, and started to cry. Then, my dream ended as Liam brushed my hair off of my forehead.

“Babe,” he said gently.

I opened my eyes. He was smiling.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Huh? Yeah,” I said, on the verge of falling back asleep.

“You’re crying.” He wiped my cheek with the edge of his finger.

“I am?” I reached up and felt my face. I was.

“I’m sorry about before. I know I’ve been an ass lately.” He smiled.

“Things will get better,” I said. I closed my eyes, drifting back to sleep. Before I fell asleep completely, Liam kissed me on the lips. It wasn’t one of those half-assed pecks like before. It was a real, deep kiss. I could taste a tinge of whiskey on his lips. I snuggled in towards his warm body and his arms wrapped around me.

“I know,” he said. We kissed again.

Lips still locked with Liam’s, I found myself drifting back into my dream. I was sitting on the edge of the bed when the door opened. I pushed back my tears. It was Hunter and he was looking for Sammy.

I lied and told him I didn’t know where Sammy was. I tried to force a smile, but I could tell he knew I’d been crying. He sat down next to me and put his arm around me, told me everything would be okay. I knew he was wrong, but it was nice to hear. In that moment, more than anything, I needed someone to lie to me, and tell me everything was sparkles and rainbows. It was nice to have someone there for me, even if it was Hunter, the guy competing for Womanizing World Champion, 2008.

One thing led to another…

Liam’s took my panties and slid them down past my knees. At some point, he’d rolled over me. At some point, one of his hands had found its way up my shirt, onto my breast. I could feel his hard cock throbbing against my leg; at some point it must have sprung free.

I reached up and ran my fingers along the stubble on his cheeks. My body was weak, still somewhere between asleep and awake. Liam pinned my arms to my sides.

Hunter did the same thing back at that going-away party, pinning both of my arms down at either end of the bed as he sunk down and locked his lips against my neck. The tip of his cock pressed up against my pussy, nestling itself in between my moist lips. I could feel it throbbing, rubbing and massaging my clit as he prepared for entry. My God, he was so big.

His face drifted back up to mine and we kissed again. Then, he pushed inside me. My toes curled. Penetration alone was enough to bring me to the verge of cumming. But it wasn’t enough for him. He reached down and began to massage my clit. He started to ram his dick into me. No build-up—straight from zero to Prime Time. I was quickly falling into ecstasy.

Liam grunted, pulling me back into reality. His face and body were dark, concealed in the room’s shadows, though I could see the silhouette of his bulging muscles and throbbing veins, and the moonlit glisten along his sweaty arms and back. I tried to hold onto his arms, but he was too slick, too firm. His cock became impossibly harder inside of my body and his breathing deepened. On his breath, I could smell whiskey.