Chapter Three
Tanner
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 military guys 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, changing burners 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 little miss 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.
That’s it, that’s all it is.
After driving a little over forty miles on US 9 heading north toward the Catskill Mountains, I turn down a dirt road and kill the lights as soon as I see the two other trucks parked on either side. I made it with five minutes to spare, keeping an eye out for highway patrol.
“‘Sup, Bravo?” I’m greeted by three other DOGs. All ex-military, all hungry for field work.
“All good, man, all good. You?” We clasp hands and give each other a shoulder bump, then I do the same to the other two men.
Hawk is a former Army helicopter pilot who did his fair share in Afghanistan.
Bones is a grunt from the Corps who’s seen enough dead bodies on the front lines to fuck with anyone’s head.
I have a theory as to why he copes so well and it sounds a lot like my reason.
Then there’s Hollywood. Cocky but smart as a fucking whip, this former Marine graduated from bootcamp in San Diego instead of Parris Island like me, earning him his nickname.
They’re also our code names on the airwaves, just in case any motherfuckers are on our frequency.
Because none of them have any imagination, I’m Bravo…
first letter of my last name. Fucking amateurs.
“Whatta we got?” I ask, rummaging through my bag for my equipment.
“Four males, two females, no children. One guard walking the perimeter, AK-47, no backup.” I nod at Hawk’s assessment, taking in the information. “Every two hours, they change guards. Smoke a cigarette together, shoot the shit, then the guy is alone for two hours.”
“Any activity in or out of the property?” I want to know if I have to keep an eye out for additional bodies on site.
“Negative.” Hollywood is quick to answer, having been here for a couple of hours already with Hawk. “We’ve logged everything for Cap. All he wants is the last shift details and we’re good to go.”
I nod, and Bones and I fist bump.
“We’ve got it covered,” Bones says. Minutes later, Hawk and Hollywood head out while Bones and I take our positions for the next couple of hours until our shift is over. The DOGs like to have regular shift changes, keeps us fresh.
It all sounds and feels a lot like the military only because hard wired habits are impossible to break.
In reality, most of our jobs are one-hit marks—at least for me.
As the sniper, I identify my victim, if we can call them that, report the activity, then shoot to kill.
Sometimes I’ll clean up myself, other times, I call in for backup.
I mostly work alone and I like it that way.
Not that I mind shooting the shit with like-minded assholes.
Jobs like this one, though, require a full team. Sex traffickers never travel alone. They sometimes have an entire army with them. We’re better.
For the next one hundred and twenty minutes, I take note of every fucking detail of the house. The comings and goings of the guards, the piss breaks, the lights flicking on and off. Every single thing that happens is logged in.
This part of the job is borderline boring, but it’s fine. I get enough high-adrenaline action when I’m putting down scum on my own.
I’m home at oh-five-hundred hours, just as the sun is kissing the morning skies. Berkleigh works later on Thursdays, starting at oh-nine-hundred instead of the crack of dawn like Wednesdays.
Just as I press the remote for the garage, I see the front door to her house open and a tall, skinny guy who looks like he spends his days playing video games in his mother’s basement steps outside.
Right behind him is Berkleigh, dressed in just a T-shirt and her panties.
Her short blonde hair is disheveled and her smile is half-hearted.
My jaw tightens and my fists curl around the steering wheel.
Her long string of randoms is dangerous and it pisses me off.
Not that I care about her, it’s a liability for me. What if her fuck boys are criminals and when they come around, they scope out the houses in the neighborhood? What if they’re assessing the value of the homes and decide to rob Mr. Reeves?
To be fair, if anyone decides to break into my house, they’ll find themselves six feet under in a black plastic bag with no one looking for them.
Before I press the gas to inch my truck inside the garage, I see Berkleigh kissing her one-night stand, and although he probably doesn't catch it, there’s no mistaking the slight wrinkle of her nose, like being that close to him makes her want to puke.
Good. I hope he was a shitty lay. It’ll teach her to put our neighborhood in danger. Not that any of her rejects will ever be a problem. I make sure of that.
An Uber pulls up to the curb and as the guy turns to leave, I make a split second decision to fuck with her.
Stepping out of my truck, I call out.
“Hey, baby, did you miss me?” I’m looking straight at Berkleigh but I can see the guy in my peripheral vision. He stops, turns, then freezes while I make my way to my neighbor.
“Who the fuck are you?” Christ, it’s too easy.
“He’s no one, Dave.” Berkleigh crosses her arms and juts out her hip.
“Her husband,” I say at the same time, glad that I can keep a straight face in any situation.
“Gabe. Wait, what?”
It’s now a three-way conversation and poor fuck boy isn’t up for the challenge.
Berkleigh’s incorrect use of his name seems like an important issue to address, but I just told him I’m her husband, and depending on his morals, he may want to apologize to me.
My smirk may very well give me away but I don’t fucking care.
This is the most fun I’ve had since I slit a pedo’s throat a few weeks back.
Not to brag, but I know damn well I’m intimidating—from my size to my build, but mostly from the perma-scowl on my face—so I can understand that PeeWee Herman here is hesitating.
“What?” It’s Berkleigh’s turn to be confused.
“My name is Gabe. And did you say…husband?” It’s like dropping a piece of cheese in an alley full of rats. Too easy to get them worked up.
“No, he’s got a mental disorder called Tourette Syndrome that makes random words spew from his dirty mouth. Your Uber is going to take off, you should hurry.” My half-dressed neighbor is already done with him when she turns her narrowed gaze on me. “What the fuck is your deal?”
I keep walking in her direction until I reach her porch steps then pin her with a glare of my own.
“My problem is that you’ve got an endless line of random limp dicks and it’s dangerous for the neighborhood.
” I fight my need to scan her tight little body.
I want her scared of me, not thinking I want to fuck her.
“You’re so full of shit. Since when do you care about anybody but yourself?” She shifts from one foot to the other, popping out her other hip in the process.
“Since I don’t want one of your degenerates breaking into my house.”
“Oh please, nobody gives a shit about your house. Plus, you’ve got a fucking revolving door of women coming in and out of your place. You’ve always been an asshole, Tanner, but I didn’t peg you for being a hypocrite too.”
I have to bite my fucking tongue or risk lashing out and saying something I’ll regret.
A door opens and slams shut from across the road, catching both of our attentions. A robe-clad Mr. Reeves is shaking his fist at us from his walkway. Weird. I guess he isn’t as deaf as he’d like for us to believe.
Two seconds later, we’re back at each other’s throats.
“All I heard from that monologue is that you’re jealous.” I wink but it’s laced with venom. “I’m a generous guy, Berk. I’ll give you a pity fuck and let you ride my dick. Problem is, then you’ll be ruined for all other men.” I shrug like I’m being magnanimous and leaving the ball in her court.
“You’re an asshole.” With a frustrated grunt, Berkleigh spits her favorite insult then slams the door in my face.
I can’t help but grin as I make my way back to my house.
Getting under my neighbor’s skin is my favorite sport, by far.