One
Aziel
Istare across the makeshift poker table at my brothers-in-arms.
Two smart as fuck, arrogant bastards who don’t look any happier than I feel. Some consider them heroes and others remember them as nightmares. Come to think about it, we are all one or the other.
But in reality, we are killers.
Why, you ask?
I take a long drawl on my Nicaraguan Maduro, savoring the earthly chocolate flavor as it rolls over my tongue. I tilt my head back and release the creamy white wisps of smoke.
To a lot of people, the answer is not as black and white as it is to me. Or as simple. My brothers and I swore an oath to protect our country at all costs. And we would do it again. But fuck. No one ever sat us down and explained what that cost would be when we signed on Uncle Sam’s dotted line. Hell, no one thought to even ask. Back then it was glory and alpha shit. We all wanted to be the hero.
Spoiler alert the answer to the question we never asked is not what you think. My brothers think we pay in blood, but they are wrong. The real answer is our souls. Every time we are sent out on another mission we come back a little more damaged—our souls worn and tattered. It’s gotten to the point I rather not wake up in the morning.
The truth of it is in the roughened edges to Gage’s anxiousness. My inability to sleep and Rush’s getting lost in deep thought in the middle of a conversation.
So, no. The answer is not blood. Ironic, right? We give so much of it, but that shit is cheap and runs hot in everyone’s veins. Cold-hearted thinking, I know, but tell me I am lying.
Yeah, that’s what I thought. Nah. What really holds value is the part of us nothing can touch more than love…and death. A part of us that either helps us pull that trigger or pushes us in front of a bullet intended for someone else.
That’s the cost of glory. We all sold our souls for it and now I don’t recognize either of the men I grew up with and shed blood next to for our country.
And it’s not the shield of cigar smoking clouding my vision either.
The shadows flickering behind their eyes and the haunting glimmers of nightmares lurking just beneath the surface reflect the same horrors I carry. We were three rowdy boys who thought the world would kneel at our feet. Those punks died two weeks into BUDS. The fucking arrogance we had back then. Some days I wonder if it is the only thing that keeps us alive.
I take another drag on my cigar, hold, savor and release. With my arm slung over the back of an empty chair to my left and my hand of cards flat on the table I have all night to wait them out. Eventually, someone will want to talk about what went down tonight and I’m one patient mother fucker.
Gage sits to my left and Rush is across from me. We don’t necessarily have a hierarchy among us outside of the uniform but someone has to sit at the end of the table and Gage always takes the seat.
In the place of the boys my best friends were long ago, two hardened soldiers are in their places looking worn and weathered with visible scars and deeper invisible ones. I’m sure I look no different to them.
“Are you gonna eye fuck me all night or are you wanting me to telepathically figure out your hand so I can take all your money?” Rush rolls his large shoulders and cracks his neck left then right like he’s in this game for the long haul. His dress shirt is popped at the top button and his tie hangs loosely around his neck, the same as mine.
Rush reaches for his drink and twists his tumbler, the facets catching the light. A tell he forgets to control when we are a few drinks in with several rounds of poker already played. He’s more of a beer and barbeque man so I’m surprised to see him clean up so well and enjoy the finer drink.
I grunt something between an irritating sound and feigned indifference.
Rush isn’t having it.
“You know I’m gonna win. You could save us all a few hours of our lives and just give me your money now.” That same arrogance I keep telling you about is front and center tonight. He flicks his eyes to the chips and then at me as if to say it’s already all his.
“Keep running your mouth, pretty boy.” Fucker is trying to bait me into getting riled up enough to drop my blank expression. Something I’ve honed over the years that pisses him off. Faint lines fan out from the corners of his eyes when he smiles.
I cock my head. “I have all night for you to get tired and sloppy,” I reply dryly and watch as his smile drops into a flat-lined pinch.
To my left, Gage reaches for the bottle between us. The man is wearing his usual smirk that matches his flashy gold tie—in your face and doesn’t give a fuck what you think. He’s yet to loosen the knot and relax a little which tells me he’s all business tonight. Cranks and gears in that brain of his are turning over the proposal thrown in front of us a short while ago.
I’ll give him some time.
Rush doesn’t seem to notice Gage’s quietness. Or doesn’t care. “You know I can last all night so don’t throw that shit at me. The pretty blonde. Four, no five months ago, brother.” The arrogance on his face…I’m telling you straight up it is a miracle we are all still breathing.
Rush is talking about the one time we all caved for carnal pleasure after a particularly stressing mission.
We have one hard and fast rule we live by: Live together, love together, and die together.