After parking the jeep haphazardly near the other vehicles, I go to check all the other bodies, keeping my gun out just in case anyone is still hanging on and looking to cause more trouble.
Once I've confirmed all the men in the camp are dead, I turn my attention to the mountain of crates containing Bullet's stolen weapons.
While circling it a few times and thinking about the damage these weapons have already done without even having been used yet, I come to the steady conclusion there is no fucking chance I'm giving them back to Bullet.
I know it was part of our deal, to kill the extremists and secure the guns, but Bullet enjoys some pushback from his playthings. I'm certain if I cause an epic amount of carnage here and then show up at his stronghold in a dramatic-enough fashion, he'll still give us the information, purely for his own sense of entertainment.
Luckily for me, there are half a dozen canisters of gasoline lying around the camp, presumably meant to top up the vehicles' tanks. It'll only take a couple of them to thoroughly drench the crates.
Knowing that I'll need to get going as soon as the crates are lit up and the rising smoke signals the camp's existence, I deal with the carnage aspect of my plan first.
Roving out into the jungle again, I hunt down the corpses of the patrol team and haul them back into camp. I create a messy pile of all the dead men, thinking I'll let them burn too once I'm done.
Digging through RA's supplies, I find a stash of machetes, probably the weapons RA was depending on before they stole the guns. They aren't perfect, blunt as they are, but I can make them work.
My work as an OI agent occasionally required me to engage in the act of dismemberment, usually in cases where body disposal was necessary, either to conceal any involvement from OI or to allow for a mission to continue uninterrupted. It's grueling work, separating limbs or a head from the body of a fully grown adult. Lots of muscles and tendons to hack your way through. Even with a sharp-enough blade, it often takes a bit of sawing. Removing a head with one swipe isn't impossible, but you'd need the right weapon as well as a good amount of strength for that.
I don't cut off the head of every man, just enough of them to fill a large canvas bag. It takes a while, and I'm annoyed by the mess it makes of me, but I'm sure it'll be worth the extra effort. Bullet loves a chaotic bit of murder theatre.
Once I've scrounged up a box of matches, I douse the crates and the pile of corpses in igniter fluid, then watch as the stolen guns go up in literal flames.
Chapter seven
Leo
Ispendthefirstfew hours that Jack is gone pacing in the living room of our safe house, like a captured animal with very limited cage space, worried out of my mind about where he is and what's going to happen if he doesn't come back.
In some ways, I've been waiting for something like this since Jack first became my partner. I'm more surprised that it didn't happen sooner.
If he's taken this opportunity to run, to book it and escape his indentured servitude to FISA, I'll support that decision in whatever way I can. Probably by lying my arse off to the agency. Covering for him. Telling them Bullet was full of shit, and Jack got himself killed by mouthing off at the wrong moment. I think I can get my aunt to believe that. I'm an adept liar if nothing else, after all those years spent lying about my mother's condition and pretending everything at home was fine to the few people whose job it was to give a fuckbiscuit about such things.
All I really want in those first few hours is to know Jack is okay, and that he hasn't landed himself in trouble he can't get out of. I hope against hope he hasn't gone after Bullet without me. It would be a disaster if he has. I'd find that far more difficult to explain to North and Anabelle. At best, I could convince them it was all my fault for letting him go off on his own, for not doing my job by being the one to keep him in line. Anabelle will likely think that regardless, but it might be another way of protecting Jack.
The worst that will happen to me is a reprimand and a red mark on my professional file. But it's different for Jack. He's perpetually on thin ice, has been since the word go. He could get thrown back into lockup, permanently this time. Heaven fucking forbid my aunt changes her mind about him being more help than liability and has him terminated. I'd never forgive her if she did, but she wouldn't care about that. At the end of the day, all my aunt cares about is what's best for the agency.
Once day turns into night, and reality starts to set in, I realise Jack might truly be gone for good, and I allow the expected flood of sadness and regret to filter in. They fill up the well inside my chest, the one I dug out especially in preparation for the time when those feelings would need somewhere to go.
It hurts to think our last conversation might have been a terrible fight. Whatever differences we have, Jack has become a friend I sincerely care about. I would have wanted him to leave knowing that, at least.
When morning comes and there's still no sign of my partner, I'm given no other choice than to finish this mission without him.
I very briefly consider contacting North, letting him know about the situation, and that I'll be going to meet Bullet again on my own. But there's no chance North will allow it. He'll pull me off the mission and possibly try sending in someone else. I can't let that happen. Bullet seemed willing to listen to me last time, so maybe he'll also be willing to strike some other deal with me now that Jack's out of the picture entirely. If heisout of the picture and didn't decide to assassinate Bullet on his way to freedom. A distinct possibility, given how Jack feels about the man.
With a tentative plan in mind for how to convince Bullet to renegotiate despite having made it clear yesterday that he would do no such thing, I take a quick shower to wake myself up and head out early.
Getting to Bullet's stronghold on foot would take hours, hours I might not have, so I make a quick detour to the nearest village in search of a vehicle.
My luck must not be total shit, because I find a man willing to sell me his banged-up motorbike in return for an obscene sum of money. It's most of what North left us with just in case we needed it, sans the money we were meant to give to Bullet, which I hid in a wardrobe before I left the safe house. But it's not like I was about to haggle with someone over a bike I desperately need.
Still, I'm pretty sure the man who sold me the bike chuckles with glee as I drive away. I'm almost glad to have made someone happy today. God knows all I've been doing for the last month is pissing off and disappointing people.
As I ride my new rust bucket of a bike, which I have named “Wheezy” because of the horrible sound it makes when I push on the throttle to any significant degree, I spare a moment to think about my mum.
When I originally left to track down Rohan, I put Damon and Rex in charge of making sure Mum didn't accidentally kill herself via extreme vodka consumption, just like I've done on previous occasions when I knew I was going away for a while. I felt bad asking them to keep tabs on her again, especially as she is in no way their responsibility, but it always stresses me out to leave her for too long without supervision.
I don't expect them to babysit her, but if I come home and she's still in one piece, I'll consider it a unilateral win.
Both Damon and Rex told me it was fine and no big thing, which is blatantly untrue, but I appreciated them pretending the situation with my mum isn't as pitiful and unhealthy as I know it is.
