On his way back to where he was from, Jack looks back at his relationship with his father, grandfather and the day his life changed way back when he was twelve.
I was on a beach in Southern California when I got the call I’ve been waiting for. My father has been battling throat cancer for a while now. Today he lost the battle. I was on the beach watching the surf when the call came in. He was diagnosed about three years ago. About a year ago they had to have his larynx removed due to cancer. His last words to me where “I don’t know why you came.” This was nothing new. He and I have never had that all-American father-son relationship from the movies or television. I had a better relationship with my grandfather. I had to tell my sister I couldn’t come right away, but I would be there as soon as I could. I had another surgery in the morning on my hand scheduled. I was shot while on a job in Canada and required four surgeries to fix my right hand. It also required spending days on the beach and plenty of drinks. She said she understood and she wouldn’t touch the house until I got there. I was the oldest, but Ruth lived nearby. She lived in Uniontown Ohio about 5 minutes from dad’s house. It would be a week before I could go back to Ohio.
Actors say never work with children or animals while other ask, “isn’t that the same thing?” when you work as a mercenary it’s best not to work with other mercenaries. Jack finds himself in a trap with a wounded hand and a clock counting down to the death of his friends.
I can flex my hand. So, there might not be any tendon damage, but it hurts like a mother. With it wrapped I can try and keep from bleeding to death. I lost my gun back there in the fight. What the hell happened? I have my knife and backup gun, but the gun will be hard to use with one hand. TC said I should carry a revolver instead of that sub-compact Barretta Storm. First, I must get out of here. Back at the warehouse, I can hear more gunfire. It’s clear now this was all a trap.
Jack Pressler goes back into his memory and thinks about when he first met TC in a war zone
An explosion ripped through the wall tossing shrapnel into the room as smoke filled the air. Everyone scrambles to get to their feet and prepare to fight. Outside we can hear voices. Something in Somali I think. I really should learn the language. One of the others yelled, “RPG.” I ducked as a rocket-propelled grenade came through the window and traveled out of the newly made hole onto the opposing forces on the other side. Friendly fire can be a good thing. Using the newly created chaos, we escaped the building and separated. But not by any plan or with any goal. I found myself in an unfriendly city, in a time of war, in a place where I don’t speak the language.
After moving from the colds of Ohio Jack finds himself in the wilds of northern Canada helping a man with a problem thirty-years in the making.
About a week ago I received a call from a Canadian citizen having trouble with poachers. Now I can already tell you are thinking, “what the heck do they need mercenaries for something already illegal?” You are right and a little rude. This man’s trouble is that the government was unwilling to come out and deal with his problem. He is what could easily be called a conspiracy nut. He called once for the cattle defiling aliens probing his cattle. Then on the Canada geese wearing all those cameras implanted in them by the US Government to spy on him. Cry wolf enough, and people stop listening.
Edward Franko is living the good life as the mayor of a small town stripping cars, selling drugs and pimping girls. He even doesn’t need to worry about being reelected because he wasn’t elected in the first place. They say politics is cutthroat, but Franko has taken it to a whole new level.
Edward Franko was the de facto mayor of the town. He operated his little kingdom free from police intervention. After all, he was the police. Well sort of. About six years ago he took over the town by kidnapping the police chief’s wife and children. The chief’s wife was also the real mayor’s daughter. Franko knows that as long as the mayor is in office, he can do as he sees fit. In the last election, the mayor ran unopposed. A city councilman once proposed a term limit for the mayor. He and his whole family died in a tragic fire set by Franko’s de facto police. In his desperation, the mayor called for help from an unlikely source.
This is the first story in a storyline I named Special Security Service. It follows an owner in that service named Jack Pressler and their unusual jobs. The company is like mercenaries except they won’t work for just anyone. I started this storyline on another site only moving it to my site when I had planned on leaving said site (after a little bit I went back and started a new story on that site). As I rework the stories, I am well, reworking them to help with continuity as well as readability (I hope) so the stories I republish will seem slightly different from the originals. I just hope the reworked stories are better.
Stinky was walking the fence. Ok, I call him stinky because he needs a name and I don’t care what his name really is. He’s filthy, in dirty camo and hair that looks like he hasn’t washed it in weeks. He has an AK 74 with a flashlight duct taped to the forward grip. There are maybe twenty magazines attached to him. He couldn’t move quickly much less fight effectively. If he worked for me, he wouldn’t work for long. As stinky walked away, another guard came up. I’ll call this one Bubba. A good old boy in jeans and a flannel shirt over a wife beater. A double barrel shotgun over his shoulder and a 357-colt python with an 8-inch barrel. The handgun is so long he had to cut a hole in the holster to make it fit. Making the look complete he has a trucker hat overtop of what looks like a mullet. Every time I see him I think of the intro to the old television show Hee-Haw. Two men walk a five-mile perimeter surrounding what was billed as an army of racists. This could be easy.
These are short stories I wrote. Some are connected to the larger books I am working on others are just for the fun of story telling.
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