The next morning, I shook myself awake from the usual nightmares and slowly recalled I was in my hotel room, took a quick shower, and dressed for a job interview. And coffee. Always coffee.

  And two painkillers for luck.

  I figured the only thing for a guy like me to do is to go to the last place I thought Frank went. I looked up the address of Broadhead Securities and caught another Uber. The car pulled up to a huge modern glass building that looked like it was designed by an architect who loved Tolkien but managed to totally miss the point of the Shire. Glass, steel, and chrome had been tortured into "organic" shapes and circular windows and doors. Hardly any straight edges or 90-degree angles anywhere. I honestly hated it on sight.

  In surprisingly "Ye Olde Lettering", the huge gleaming silver signage and emblem of Broadhead Securities was writ in giant letters across the building between the second and third story, with a surprisingly well-done image of a broadhead arrow tip in the upper right-hand corner of the top floor of the building. I guessed it was ten, maybe twelve stories tall, and maybe should have counted floors, but honestly, who the hell cares?

  I walked towards the main entrance, noting the presence of two security guards stationed by the entrance doors, of which there were three - two doors that opened up next to each other and one near the left-hand side of the building. All three were shaped to look round, I guess, but the end result of the architectural nightmare was doors that looked like two parentheses connected by steel bars top and bottom. Fugly as hell. As I approached I had a quick glimpse of a sour-faced old man dressed in a green woolen cloak waving a stick at me. He wasn't real.

  The security guards did what all doormen do - stand there and let everyone through - but they did give me a once over I thought was professional and included a recognition of one soldier to another when they made eye contact with me. I nodded a tiny head nod to them both and walked to the security desk. All incoming people were funneled neatly from the doors to the security desk, where there was a set of two metal detectors, and - I swear I'm not making this up - a sign saying “All firearms must be declared and run through x-ray machine.” So I did.

  "Hi. I'm here for a job interview. I have two pistols and my permit to carry," I said as I took the backup out of my ankle holster and placed it on the x-ray machine. As I placed my Glock from my waistband holster on the belt, I asked, "What exactly are the metal detectors for?"

  "For the safety of the employees here."

  "How, exactly?"

  He looked up sharply from his screen and stared at me for a few seconds. "You applying for a job today?"

  "Yes sir."

  "You might want to curb the sarcasm then. Step through and go to the desk to sign in for your interview."

  So I stepped through and immediately set off the detector because I “forgot” to get rid of my pocket knife.

  BEEP!

  I looked over to the security desk to see a shit-eating grin and smirk at the same moment he asked me to turn out my pockets.

  "Shit. I'm an ass. Forgot my knife."

  "I'm sure you're right, sir."

  "...I …deserved that." We got through the process after that, I re-holstered my firearms and was through the security checkpoint with the security desk having forgotten completely to check who I was supposed to be interviewing with. Which, of course, was the whole point. I learned that little trick a long time ago from a soldier I fought with who watched far too many spy movies. That’s me, Double O six and a half walking into Spectre like a boss.

  I was feeling really good about it until the Security officer called out to me, "All you guys interviewing are to wait in room 118. Down that hallway past the elevators and on your left."

  Well, shit. I guess it's better to be lucky than good. What kind of evil henchman doesn’t even care about your name?

  I walked to room 118 grumbling about the recurring theme of making a fool of myself for no reason and went in to see seven other clearly ex-military sitting around flexing, chewing gum in a manly, macho way, and wearing sunglasses inside a building. Three of them female, four of them male, all of them thinking they were the Alpha apex predator in the room. I felt like I was home again.

  Don't get me wrong, I'm so fucking sick and tired of that macho shit, and in truth when you find yourself in a group of soldiers with shared experiences of the boredom of staging, the exhaustion of training, and the terror of combat, that macho shit is gone. It's the tightest comradery I've ever experienced and there are men and women I've served with who I count among the best examples of life on the planet.

  But put career military in a room with strangers who all did the same thing? Break out the rulers, start measuring metaphorical dicks, and your gender gives you no advantage. Those women in the room would be among the first to feed you your balls in order to show you who's are bigger.

  That posturing and ego drive has been around since the dawn of mankind. After all, fighters are defined by their ability to fight and win, because losing means you're dead. So every soldier in the room was an undefeated champion of the world. But Godsdamn it's tiring to be around it your whole life.

  So I went to the chair as far away from the rest as possible, sat down, and put my sunglasses back on to cover up my eyes to prevent any eye contact dominance triggers. If this was a movie, this is the moment some buzzcut asshole would come over and start fucking with me, but these men and women are real-life professionals, and so we all sat with discipline waiting for our cattle call interview to start. Nobody here was dumb enough to screw up a job opportunity by being a bully in a room full of potential special forces soldiers.

  So I sat for about twenty minutes in peace while three more soldiers arrived. Once were all there, two suits walked in with our interviewer who was clearly cut from the same cloth as us soldiers. I immediately wanted to call her Sarge from her bearing.

  "Listen up!" she said. "I am Karen O'Connor. You men and women were invited to apply for a job with Broadhead Securities because of your military experience, but that's not the only reason. All of you have at one time or another been in the field at the same time as Broadhead securities and we," she cleared her throat and adjusted her tablet, "noticed you. Something in your performance of your duties made you a clear candidate for employment with Broadhead Securities."

  She continued, "The ten of you are here today to ask us questions you may have and fill out paperwork to begin your employment. You are all offered a job at this time, and it is up to you to accept or decline. Questions?"

  The soldier to my right called out, "Wait a minute, we don't know anything about the job. What are we signing up for?"

  "This position is what we consider entry-level. You will be folded into an existing unit of contractors and after training you will be sent to the Middle East or Eastern Europe for a six month deployment. No Broadhead Securities assets - that's you all - will ever be deployed on an assignment longer than six months. Most will be much shorter. Six months a year you will be home, reporting for training and maintaining your fitness and skill sets, and six months a year you will be on call for ops worldwide."

  "So we're working six months a year and training six? Really!?"

  "That's correct..." She raised an eyebrow at the man with a questioning look.

  "Master Chief Petty Officer Anthony Otero, formerly Seal Team 4, mam."

  From behind me, I heard one of the women soldiers call out, "What's the pay?"

  "Who asked that?" said Karen.

  "Former First Lieutenant Elizabeth Washington, mam!"

  "Former." Karen repeated with a smile. "Well, Elizabeth, as you are all starting here at the same level, you all will make our base salary of two hundred and twenty-five thousand a year."

  Well, as you can imagine, that set us all off. That's absurd money for most soldiers, and indeed even as a base salary for contractors, that's still stupid money. Everybody began talking at once and Karen had to call out to quiet us down. After we did, she continued and I decided it was time to draw some attention to myself. Obligingly, Karen gave me an opening immediately. Holding up her tablet that, I assume, had information on all the soldiers in the room except me, she said, "You ten soldiers..."

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

  "Eleven." I interrupted.

  "Excuse me?"

  "There are eleven of us here."

  "And you are?" She asked after a quick head count and then looking at the tablet.

  "Drustan Seta, rank and branch redacted by the National Securities Act."

  There was a pregnant pause as ten soldiers swiveled their eyes to me, Karen looked up, and both suits behind her seemed to wake up and take an interest in the room for the first time. Both stared right at me. Karen went back to the Tablet and said, "I do not have your name or file here. You are not supposed to be here."

  "I was referred by my friend who I think got a job here a little while ago?"

  Karen was looking pissed, "Mr. Seta, we do not take "referrals" nor do we encourage employees to try to get their friends hired. Who was this friend of yours?"

  Watching carefully both Karen and the suits I said, "Frank Egils."

  Karen did nothing but write the name down, but Suit Number One wasn't a poker player. His eyes got wide and he leaned over to Suit Two and whispered in his ear.

  Karen began the process of kicking me out, "Mr. Seta, I'm afraid we're going to have to ask you to leave immediately, security will come and escort you out..."

  Suit Two interrupted, “Actually, I think we will take Mr. Seta to a private interview for a position he might be much more suited to than an entry-level operator. Mr. Seta, you say your name and rank are redacted?"

  "Yes indeedy!" I said, pasting a stupid grin on my face.

  "So your career had extra security?"

  Oh for fucks sake. How clever of them. Like everyone in that room wasn't smart enough to figure that out if they ever came across a unit like mine. Fuck it, let's play the game. "You got in one, sir."

  "Right this way, Mr. Seta." And as easy as that, I was led away to the elevators to have a private interview. Now let’s all be clear-eyed here, I knew we weren't interviewing for a job. These suits didn't know me, but they recognized Lt.'s name immediately. I figured it was an interrogation room I was headed for, and it was an even chance I was about to get either waterboarded or subjected to an attorney's threats of non-disclosure.

  I did not expect what actually happened.

  As we walked down the hallway towards whatever soundproofed room they planned to lock me into, I figured I might get a little information myself if I played it right. “You guys taking me to the same room Frank interviewed in?”

  “Please follow us, sir.” replied suit one.

  “I know it’s a big company, but did you guys ever get to meet Frank? You sure seemed to recognize the name.”

  “Sir, let’s get to the interview room and your interviewer will be able to answer your questions. I’m sure you understand the need for discretion about you and Mr. Egils out here in a public hallway.” Suit Two seemed to be the brains of the duo.

  “Oh, sure. Yeah. It’s just...”

  “Just what?” Suit One asked.

  “Quiet, Jason.” snapped Suit Two. Yeah, definitely the brains, but now I knew a name. Might not seem like much, but you’d be amazed at what you can do with a name. For me, it’s limited to a few psychological tricks. Like, pissing off a guy by using it in an overly familiar way, especially if said guy spent most of his adult life being referred to by rank and last name. In fact, I’m sure suit two used it as a power play because my old friend Jason clenched his right fist and his teeth are grinding a tad. Excellent.

  “Hey Jason - Jase? Can I call you Jase? Jase, you ever hang out with Frank? Know him at all? He’s a fun guy to grab a beer with. You wouldn’t want to mess with him, cause he’d kick your ass, Jase, but he’s a great guy in general.”

  As we turned into another short hallway with a nice oak door at the end of it, Jase opened his mouth to reply, but Suit Two put himself between me and Jase and said with a smile, “That's a bad idea, Mr. Seta. Please do not antagonize Jason.”

  Well shit, maybe I’m not all that good at this. I was hoping to get Jase pissed off and talking, but Suit Two might be smarter than all of us in the hallway. I’m used to it, honestly. I’m smart enough, but I’m not a genius. It’s cool, I’ve got other skills.

  Not that these other skills prepared me for getting punched in the back of my head as Suit Two passed me to open the door. No sir, that surprised me quite a bit, for the brief instant I was still conscious.

  ***

  I woke slowly to arguing. Suit Two was berating Jase. Based on where they were in the conversation, I guessed I’d only been out a minute or two. Long enough to have my guns and knife removed, I was sure, but not much longer.

  “...she’ll want to question him! How can she do that while he’s unconscious or concussed?”

  Good question.

  “Fuck it, Sean, he’ll recover good enough to answer the questions. It’s not like it matters after that.”

  Nothing matters after that, huh? Well then. That changes things.

  “Let’s pick him up and get him into the truck so we can get him to the safehouse. You get the arms, Jason, I’ll take the feet.”

  It was at this point I decided to feign unconsciousness for a little bit more while I tried to figure out exactly what was happening, because Sean was right, a concussion is no fucking joke, and I had one. I’m pretty sure I’d have a hard time fighting my way out of the room and out of the building since I couldn’t remember where I was. Letting these guys secret me out of the building to a parking garage actually sounded pretty smart to my addled brains.

  In a shockingly short time these guys had my mildly concussed and faking unconscious body down a side corridor, into a stairwell and out into a garage. As they carried me along, grunting, swearing and generally trying to haul a limp sack of flesh and bones, I cracked an eye open to take stock of the environment.

  See, there’s one incredibly important thing you learn early on when your job involves both retrieval of dangerous creatures and elimination of others. If it’s an elimination, you eliminate them immediately. Right there, right then. No hesitation. Giving the opponent time to fight back is never the right choice. That’s bad movie stuff, not real life.

  However, there are times and situations where you can’t eliminate them immediately. Perhaps there are witnesses you can’t avoid, or the environment isn’t safe to be in, or - most often - there’s information you need to get from the victim first. In that case, it’s a retrieval and you take the victim to a safe and controlled environment, at which time, they are done. There will be no escape, no miraculous rescue, no chance.

  So here I am on the other side of this situation, and Jase has said there’s no future for me. That means if I let them take me wherever they’re planning, I’m done. Dead. And most likely unpleasantly.

  So what am I saying? I’m saying if somebody wants you hurt or dead, but they are taking you somewhere else first, you fight like hell, run like a deer, or make them take you out right there, because obviously, they still feel you’re a threat, or have a chance, or can't take you out there. So force the issue, because once you're in that truck, your life is over. Or worse, maybe it isn’t over for a very long, very painful time.

  Never go where the bad guys want you to go. That’s what I’m saying. And yes, I am aware that I have officially classified my job as being one of the bad guys. Truth is I’m not a good guy, so it’s accurate.

  So when we got to the truck and Sean dropped my feet to the floor to open the back door, Jase straddled my body and let go of my arms to grab me under the armpits, which left my hands and legs free, and well…you know what? I decided I might want to grab Jase around the throat with my right hand as I brought my feet under me.

  Unlike the Tai Chi and meditation I learned over the last year, earlier in my life I discovered a martial art system from Southeast Asia - Myanmar, specifically - where they study fighting from all sorts of different ranges, including up close and personal. The up close is based on a combination of an ancient Python based grappling art and Burmese wrestling known as Naban. You can think of it as joint locks, joint breaks, chokes, and the judicious application of violence while wrestling. I studied it for years, and I've trained hard to be fucking good at it.

  Jason's eyes bulged and his hands let go of me as I stood up, I shoved my fingers as deep into his throat as possible and made a fist. This had the effect of closing off his trachea while I snaked my left arm up and over his right arm in a swim-like move, pushing it down so I could tuck my head into his neck, wrap my arms together around his neck in a choke hold, push my hip into his, and pivot as hard and as fast as I can into a hip throw.

  Only when I threw him, I didn’t let go of his head.

  So as is the way with physics and bones, his neck snapped with an audible crack as it tried to hold his entire body’s weight in a violent, twisting throw.

  I let go of the body and turned to a shocked yet thoroughly professional soldier named Sean drawing his pistol from his shoulder holster. One of the drawbacks to shoulder holster draw is that it takes longer to orient on a target than a waist draw. Fractions of a second, but fractions matter as I slammed into his body, using my shoulders and trunk to pin his right arm across his torso momentarily so that I could put my right hand on his pistol, thus making the fight about who controls the gun rather than who gets to shoot me several times until I’m dead.

  The bonus factor here is that I can engage my latissimus muscles to push and hold down, but because of how his arm was across his body, he needed to engage a whole host of secondary muscles to start twisting and turning to break free. In a movie, I’d now disarm him and kill him with his own gun. In real life, this advantage lasts a half a second and he had a far better grip on the gun than I did, so I did something I’ve found to be effective many times in my life; I let my opponent fixate and obsess on the weapon while I used my free hand to cause massive trauma to a different part of his body. In this case, I used my left hand to put out his right eye.

  Fight over.

  He screamed and I had a full second or two to knee him in the testicles, wrench the pistol up and over our heads, and punch him in his throat as hard as I could.

  At that point the gun practically fell into my hand, and since I was in a car park I used it like a hammer to beat him unconscious rather than fire off a massive bang sure to attract attention. Plus it saves ammo. I finished it with a solid stomp to his neck.

  Sean joined Jase among the dead.

  Speaking of ammo, good news. A brief inspection shows me both Sean and Jase carried the same firearm - the classic Glock 17 with 1 spare mag each. Unfortunately, they both carried them in a shoulder rig, so I was forced to stuff the Glock into my own empty holster even though it didn't fit quite right. Still better than sticking it in my waistband. I also found my pocket knife in Sean's front pants pocket, but my guns were nowhere to be seen. What the hell? Where did they put my guns?

  No time for questions right now, I guess. The Glock 17 isn’t a small gun, so I took one but left the other. Now armed with one Glock 17, 68 rounds in four magazines, and one hell of a headache, I jumped into this conveniently waiting truck and slowly drove towards the exit.

  In what I can only describe as anticlimactic, the gate was automatic, unmanned, and I drove away? I pulled around the last turn of the parking garage with the Glock resting in my lap with my right hand down next to it, but this garage must have been reserved for the inner group because there was no guard at the exit either. However, at the entrance to the garage on the other end of the building, the security guard there did glance over as I pulled out and drove off. Honestly, I was sure there was going to be a problem, but never look a gift horse and all that.

  I got a few turns away from the building and sped up, making a beeline to Rt. 35 South and driving the three hours to Sarah's house.

  Or at least I would have if the sons a bitches hadn’t caught up to me as I drove through Waco.