Chapter Three
Tanner
Age 6
Standing at the foot of my parents’ bed, I watch them sleep. Dad is on his side, one leg hitched up and over Mom’s hip while his arm is keeping her close against his chest.
I used to like them, I think, but I can’t remember the last time they were nice to me. Maybe when Grandpa was still alive and everything felt kind of normal.
Grandpa would tell me to watch him smile and mimic the way his head tipped to the side and his eyes crinkled at the corners. Learned behavior, he called it.
“Always show some teeth, but not all of them or else you’ll scare people away,” he’d say when Mom and Dad couldn’t hear him. We were a lot alike and I think Dad was too, until he decided that I was taking too much of Mom’s attention away from him.
When Grandpa died of a heart attack last year, Dad just didn’t care to pretend anymore.
It’s fine, though. I can take a backhand once in a while. The hairpulling stopped when I shaved my head like the militaryguys on TV. Dad wasn’t too happy about that and just reminded me that hair grows back.
I haven’t allowed it to get long enough for him to grab on to it.
As I watch them cuddling, the odd thought that I could easily kill them both occurs to me. They look so peaceful and happy. Kind, almost. Except for the permanent, ugly scar Dad has across the top of his nose all the way down to his cheek, courtesy of Pepper, my dog. Well, my dog until last month when Dad beat him with a baseball bat as payback.
Ever since, I’ve been waiting for the perfect time. Observing. Learning. Planning.
“Roger that, Captain. Light or full loadout?” My contact for the DOGs is Captain Surry, and tonight I’ve got a recon pull where we gather as much intelligence as we can in just under six hours. The question is, do we play with all of our toys or just the basics?
“You’ll need mobility so go slick. The usual.” My pinky finger hitches up the thin blade of the window shade while I stand to the side, in the shadows. Berkleigh’s headlights cut across the front of my house as she backs out of her driveway for another night out. I’m glad she doesn’t take the Firebird when she goes clubbing, it would be a shame to see anything happen to that beauty. Her Prius? No shits given.
“Copy that. Find, fix, finish, or just eyes on?” I already know the answer but it’s always good to have direct orders in these cases. If we’re going out slick, with minimal gear—night vision goggles, communication equipment, maps of the terrain—that means we’re just gathering intel, no need for a full spectrum targeting operation.
“Eyes on, soldier. No heroics. Boots on the ground at oh-two-hundred hours.” Turning my wrist, I glance down at my watch. It’s twenty to midnight, which gives me plenty of time to get my shit together and meet my team at the rally point that’s about an hour from here.
Once I’m back from the recon, Berkleigh should be home fucking her latest runt from the clubbing litter. Hopefully this one doesn’t puke on my lawn like the asshole from last month.
“Copy that.” We both hang up without another word and I don’t waste a second getting my gear in check. My mission sea bags are always ready to go in case I have an emergency call out. One rucksack for full load and a smaller one for what I’ve got tonight. You just never know when a menace to society needs to be taken out with the trash sooner rather than later.
Everything I do is calculated and efficient. I quickly dress in all black, pulling my standard issue kickers I got at the post exchange—or PX—on my latest trip to Quantico Marine Corps Base, down in Virginia. One of my brothers from my former unit is stationed there, going through officer training. Their PX is pretty sweet with everything I need at a military discount, so every chance I get, I load up on supplies.
After a bite to eat, I drop my ruck on the floorboard, passenger side, of my truck. Then I go back inside to check that everything is locked—back door and windows—before making sure my security cameras are good to go. Every corner of my house is accounted for thanks to the system I set up two years ago—then updated this past winter—when I got my honorable discharge from the Marine Corps.
After ten years of service, paranoia is my constant friend. Routine, efficiency, and being as meticulous as possible is my key to survival.
Once I’m satisfied that everything is as it should be, I open the security app on my burner phone. With my new job, changingburners is part of the monthly budget. My civilian phone is only used for mundane shit, like necessary appointments.
As I’m pulling out of my garage, something catches my attention. When I look over at Berkleigh’s house, I notice the sudden flash of flood lights on the far side. I can’t imagine Kiara—her neighbor’s teenage daughter—is enjoying the sudden intrusion.
Chances are, a raccoon is having a neighborhood party and its movement prompted the lights to turn on. It’s a frequent occurrence around here, and knowing that Berkleigh tends to forget about securing the garbage cans, those chances on her property skyrocket.
“Goddamit!” The curse comes through clenched teeth, knowing that if I don’t do something, those raccoons will come snooping around my property and I can’t have that shit happening. Once those motherfuckers find a spot they like, they make it their forever home and I’ll be damned if I start sharing space with a bunch of rabid animals.
Grabbing a flashlight from my rucksack, I sprint across my lawn, then Berkleigh’s driveway, before going around back. I check every nook and cranny, on both sides and the back, before tying up the bungee cords and checking they’re secure. There aren’t any visible signs of raccoons but I wouldn’t put it past them to be standing flush against the siding in true burglar position. I fucking hate those wannabe bears.
I’ve told her, over and over, to buy garbage bins with a locked lid, but does she ever fucking listen? No. No, she does not. Fucking pisses me off. If a family of raccoons decides to make her basement their home, she may finally understand. Even then, I have doubts.
Once I’m satisfied that the cords will hold against their long claws and dexterous toes, I run back to my truck and head out. I’ll have to drive over the speed limit to make it, all because littlemiss fly by the seat of her fucking pants, or lack thereof, can’t fucking follow instructions.
Just like she can’t put her fucking clothes on when she answers the door. She wasn’t naked, but it was fucking close. It doesn’t help that her body is every straight man’s wet dream, so when she puts it on display it’s impossible to ignore.
I’m a straight man, ergo, I noticed.
