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Dinner after a busy day at work is a prepackaged salad on the sofa in my living room. I was on loan to the Department of Homeland Security today, who, despite being the ones that requested my help, aren’t always the nicest people to work with. Well, the rank-and-file members, anyway. The upper echelon only cares about my success rate, not my getting along with agency personnel.
The animosity stems from my colored past. Too many, in my experience, take issue with the government consulting with me because of my juvie record. Speaking of juvenile, I’ve been called Jail Bird a time or two over the years. Or worse. I don’t let those morons bother me. An illegal search for Amelia’s killer might have landed me in hot water thirteen years ago, but it hasn’t kept the powers that be from asking for my help on occasion.
I’ve always assumed hostilities from those in the intelligence field develop whenever the big bosses need to bring me in because their people can’t get a job done. For that reason alone, I take more pleasure in their discontent than I probably should.
Not everyone representing the feds is like that, though. There are enough good ones who only care about helping victims to make me continue accepting the work.
I just wasn’t working with that kind today. That’s enough, Birdie. Wanting to send thoughts of the frustrating day packing, I turn on the TV and call up reruns of my favorite show. As the Dunder Mifflin theme plays, I pick the raisins from my salad and empty the dressing packet over the lettuce. My fingers have to be licked clean afterward because I’ve never figured out how to open these pouches without making a mess.
While ignoring The Office and absently chewing, I zone out to images of a magnificent chest spattered with blood from a lost battle with a tree. Bastien’s chest. His abs and those arms and face have taken up quite a bit of space in my brain for the last month or so.
The man doesn’t know it, but that encounter made one hell of a deposit into my spank bank. I know I should feel guilty. Bastien was obviously having a bad day. I didn’t just ogle him, though. I did help him out. Though part of me wondered what riled him up, I knew better than to ask.
I’ve worked at Knot Corp a long time and have seen this show plenty. Somebody pissed Bastien off, and he went to the woods to work off the anger. Most of the time, heated operatives take out their frustrations by punching bags in the gym, but Bastien must be a different breed.
The odd thing is that tempers usually only flare right before or after deployment for one reason or another. Sometimes, it’s because of bullshit limitations placed on our team by the bureaucrats in Washington. Sometimes, a self-righteous loudmouth asshole gave them trouble while on assignment. In both those cases, the situation is widely known and lamented by many.
Whatever set Bash off that morning had to have been bad but was known only to him. The man was tormented, ghostly even. Not that Bastien Laurent has ever been a ray of sunshine, but this was different from the guy who just doesn’t talk much.
Bastien’s history and how he came to be a PMC is no secret. His career as a decorated Navy SEAL was exemplary. Bash served under Dillan Knot’s best friend, Commander O’Reilly, in neighboring Virginia Beach. That was until eighteen months ago.
The story I heard is that while on shore leave in Europe, Bastien witnessed a male lieutenant making sexually inappropriate remarks to a female sailor of a lower rank. Bash intervened, much to the woman’s relief. The lieutenant took issue with Bash and ran his mouth, calling the woman a cunt. Bash decked him.
The lieutenant had Bash arrested and pressed full steam ahead for a court martial. He wasn’t going to be satisfied until Bash was behind bars and dishonorably discharged.
The asshole’s reputation for mistreating female sailors was apparently well-known but undocumented, and Commander O’Reilly’s hands were tied. O’Reilly went to bat for his SEAL anyway and spoke to the bastard officer. The lieutenant refused to drop the charges against Bastien even though the female sailor agreed to testify about his bad behavior.
Fortunately, a video surfaced of the altercation, warranting disciplinary action for the officer. But even then, the lieutenant refused to drop the charges against Bastien. The bastard figured if he would be discharged for conduct unbecoming, he wouldn’t let Bash off, either.
Somehow, Commander O’Reilly worked things out so that Bastien’s sentence was reduced to an honorable discharge with no time served. That still meant Bastien was out of the Navy, but at least his record was untarnished. Commander O’Reilly’s next move was to refer Bastien to Dillan Knot.
Everybody here knows that Bastien was, and probably still is, angry about losing his SEAL career, but he’s working out well as a PMC. At times, the guy almost seems happy here. For a grump, that is.
All except for that day in the woods. Seeing the pain in his eyes that morning actually made me hurt for him, not that I would ever tell him.
Finished with my dinner, I toss the empty container on the coffee table and lean back against the cushion, dazed by a new revelation. In the fifteen minutes that I’ve been home, not once have my demons scratched at my mind’s door.
Bastien’s story—and his body—must make for excellent distractions. Maybe I should spend more time daydreaming about the gruff contractor and less worrying about predators and asshole bureaucrats. God knows I’d get more sleep. And perhaps a few more battery-operated orgasms.
As if summoned from the pits of hell, my demons, in the form of my cell phone, bleep from my purse. And I’ve just jinxed myself. I guess that means it’s back to work whether I want to or not. The salad container goes into the trash on my way to the office, and I sigh. This is going to be another long night.
The notification sound on my phone was an indicator that my current target is online. In under a minute, my computer is on, and I’ve loaded a popular human life simulation game, the target’s favorite hunting program. Soon after, I locate his avatar and initiate a private chat.
Predator Tom, his designation in my records, isn’t pretending to be anything other than the perverted thirty-two-year-old he is. That makes my job easier, at least.
This guy is the type that “understands how hard it can be to be a kid and just wants to be a friend.” After a while, the young victim “comes to mean so much more,” which leads to, “We should be together. Let’s meet.”
I’ve been working with Predator Tom for almost a month. My sting operation has been at the meeting stage for about a week now. I’ve been slowly progressing from I’m not sure to tonight’s message of You’re right. I’m tired of being misunderstood and of these stupid boys my age.
I’ve already picked out a neighborhood from my list of cooperative police precincts, going with the one furthest from my target. I send all this and a clever cover story to the bastard, who enthusiastically accepts my meeting location.
My next move is to attract the interest of the boys in blue. Normally, I’d have done this first, but I’ve been distracted by a certain non-accented Frenchman who doesn’t know I exist.
All of the chat screenshots and copies of the target’s hard drive are sent to the precinct’s tip line along with the time and location where the asshole is supposed to show up to have sex with a fifteen-year-old girl. My work here is done.
About an hour later, I get a text from the detective who would have received my anonymous tip, Detective Scott Cooper.
I just went down with my appendix, and the guy they brought in to cover me is a real jackass. You’ll need to use one of your other locations or put your guy off for a few more days.
