Author's Note: Time has a funny way of changing people, of closing wounds, of healing past injuries. As D becomes more involved in the family business, we will get to see a change in him that takes him away from the young man that he was in the previous chapters of his story. What he becomes is something that will shape him for the rest of his life. A lot of questions that were asked in the first chapters of Long Road will begin to be answered in this series, as you can see this one will be a bit longer than my previous stories.
I know that there will be some readers that will think that I have changed the dynamic of the character, but I assure you that this is yet another chapter in his story, the final product that we see in brief flash forwards is still the same. This is just part of the journey that takes D to that destination. Hang in there, enjoy the ride, and continue to comment, rate, and vote.
Editors, this is a work of...fiction. Do, move along, there is nothing to see here.
Much love,
aka_Mike
...
"What is going on? Edith asked as both she and Francisco entered the office, there was concern in their eyes. "Francisco told me you seemed off after your father left."
"Here," I said as I handed Francisco the letter I had received from my father, "read it so that Edith can hear its contents."
"CIA?" He said as he looked at the Seal embedded in the top right corner of the envelope, "Sir, what is this..."
"Just read the fucking letter," Edith said, "we can play 20 questions later."
"
My friend
," Francisco began to read aloud, "
it seems that our paths are crossing again. It has been some years since our little adventure in Fallujah, I know you haven't forgotten. It's not easy to bleed beside a man and not call him a brother. So as a brother, I ask that you meet me. A mutual friend is concerned about you and the reasons why you decided to return to your family.
You often told me about that little restaurant that you were so fond of; tomorrow night will be a great time to have dinner there. 1900. Alone. Your friend, Elvis."
"Who is this friend?" Edith spoke; she grabbed my arm with concern and led me to the couch I had recently brought into the office. Francisco re-read the letter to himself, carefully returned it into the envelope, and moved to grab two glasses which he filled with the liquid. He gave one to Edith which she offered me, the second one he took for himself. In one single gulp, he downed the contents of the glass.
"He is a man I served with while in the military," I began, "after we completed jump school, we went our separate ways. He went to Special Forces Selection, I went to Ranger School. Didn't see him for years after."
"Well, it looks like you deployed with him," Edith said, "you two served in Fallujah together, that's what he said in that letter."
"After I got out," I continued, "you know I took a job as a contractor. That's when I ran into him, my company had been hired by the CIA to help carry out some jobs. By that time, he too had left the military and had become a spook. He had heard about my reputation, shit I had been approached by many intelligence groups; I thought he was just another recruiter when I first saw him."
"What was the mission that he is talking about?" Francisco poured himself another drink, "he made sure he referenced it in the letter for a reason."
"We had this rule," I said, "if we ever need to send each other correspondence, we would reference two events that only the other person would know about. Fallujah was one; the restaurant was the other one. Except it was not a restaurant, but he often called it that."
"What place was it?" Edith asked.
"I often told him about my parent's tradition of making me cook for them every time I would visit." I handed Francisco the empty glass which he promptly refilled, "he would call that 'D's Kitchen,' and said it must be my favorite restaurant."
"What do you think he wants?" Edith asked in a panic.
"I'll send some men out to your parent's home, sir" Francisco said at the same time.
"No need," I said, "he gave my father his word that there would be no issues. I suspect he has some of his agents around their property, keeping them safe from whatever he thinks will come out of this. I told you both about Officer Sandoval, I think he is the 'mutual friend' that he is referring to in his letter."
"I thought you said he was talking to the FBI?" Francisco took a cigarette out and offered me one which I greedily took.
"CIA. FBI. What the fuck do they want?" Edith was again throwing a tantrum, her innocence and simplicity brought a smile to my face.
"Let me tell you about the job in Fallujah," I replied, "it'll clear up some questions I'm sure."
...
It had not been my first time in Fallujah, both as a soldier and as a contractor, but of all the times that I had the misfortune of visiting, this particular time would stick with me for years. Once, a woman had made a comment that I scream in my sleep, this is the reason why I do. The things we had to do that day will forever haunt me, and would forever change the way I looked at my friend. The mission was simple, roll into town, find the terrorist cells hiding, engage in some unconventional firefights, and call it a day. We would be supporting two Marine Divisions, three Army companies, along various Special Operation groups. On paper, we had an overwhelming force. The reality was far from it.
By this point, the majority of the troops were completely exhausted; weeks of back to back engagements had seriously depleted their combat strength. We were trying to take over this damned alley of death for the third time; it often took us longer to regain the city than it did to lose it again. I was beginning to wonder if all the blood we had spilled in those damned streets was even worth the effort. Some of my fellow contractors and soldiers wondered aloud the reasons why we simply didn't just nuke the fuck out of the place and get it over with. We were set to attack in the middle of the night; our technological superiority gave us a great advantage during that time of day. The temperatures dropped greatly and made moving about with all the gear almost tolerable.
By the time that the operation began we realized that the commanders had become far too complacent, far too cocky, and had greatly underestimated the local forces. They were more than ready for us; their clever ambush neatly split our forces into two. Chaos took hold as commanders shouted orders and allowed fear to overwhelm them. Left and right, men fell to a hail of bullets that rained from all around, large fires were lit and made our night vision technology obsolete. The attacks were intended to maim and wound, to slow our progress. It was highly successful. By the time the sun rose, the streets were covered in American blood and gore. Brass and spent ammunition covered the copper smell; the shushed tones of the call of prayer gave us some respite.
An American retreat, there is nothing more painful to watch. The records of course paint a far different picture, history is written not by who's right, but rather by who is left. Three days after that massacre, a second invasion was planned, this time it would be spearheaded by both Special Operations and Contractors. This time, our approach was vastly different. Again, we struck at night, this time immediately after the last call to prayer of the day. We led the attack, irritating things like Rules of Engagement did not apply to us. We brought destruction with us. Men and boys were rounded up and arrested, women were left defenseless. We neared what we suspected was the base of operations for this latest group of freedom fighters, already the main structure was under fire. Within minutes, we stormed and secured the bodies within the structure and had moved them to our own structures. No casualties this time.
We kept the prisoners tied up, their eyes and ears covered completely to give them a sense of confusion. I knew exactly what they felt, I had received similar treatment in one of the many training requirements that I had to undergo. It gave you a sense that you were completely alone, that you were truly isolated from everyone around you. The truth was that there was a second person in the same position as you, not three feet away. Sometimes, headphones were placed in the prisoner's ears and white noise was pumped into their ears, this often drove the listener temporarily insane. Imagine standing next to a loud speaker that is lasting music, you know that feeling you get in your chest from the bass coming out of those speakers? Imagine that same feeling but with no additional noise to give it credit. No solace. Nothing that will help you ease the discomfort.
"I'll be damned," the man in the battle fatigues said as he walked into the room. I had been the lucky one to be selected to guard the prisoners while the spooks were gathered to interrogate them. "If it ain't my good buddy, D, how the hell have you been man?"
"Holy shit," I said once I recognized the man, "Elvis has entered the building."
"The King is back," he replied, hugging me tightly. It had been years since I had seen this man, "so you're the Bearded Devil I've heard so much about?"
"Yeah," I said, that name had been given to me by the locals when I took my first tour as a contractor. I never carried any identification, anything that could give away my name to anyone. Instead, I was given that loving name by the group that had at one point offered 3 million dollars for my head. "I didn't know you became a spook, what's up with that?"
"Hey man," he replied, "its good money. After the second contract, I got approached by the NSA and the CIA. They made a better pitch, man. Hung the boots and here I am. How long you been in theatre?"
