Blaze (10 page)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

LAREDO, TEXAS

J
uan Herrera was fat. Because he was fat, and was always fat, those around him suffered from the cruel wafting stench of his demonic body odor. He was teased practically from the time he was in diapers. Teasing eventually led to bullying, and bullying took the form of real, street-thug issued beat-downs by the time he became a young teenager. By the time he was sixteen, Juan was determined to reverse this dynamic and find a way to exert not only his masculinity, but also his forceful dominance over others to compensate for his feelings of inadequacy. The deep-seated feelings of inadequacy that plagued his youth did as much damage to his psyche as his body odor did to all who came close to him. Now eighteen, Juan was full of piss and vinegar.

Juan loved playing Assassin's Creed on his XBOX. Sure, it was an older game, but he took what he could get, when he could get it. This game was handed down to him from a cousin. Juan's family was royally screwed up and he knew it. His father was a ghost that disappeared at Juan's earliest memories. He was barely around past his initial sperm donation.

The section eight housing was deplorable and most of the time Juan was alone. His younger sister was eleven and usually was at daycare or a relative's house. Juan got the privilege of staying home by himself from age thirteen on, and primarily spent the time in a daydream world of video games and rap music. When he did get out, he would hang out with the only two older kids who accepted him in the neighborhood. They still teased him of course, but they would beat the living shit out of anyone else who dared to tease him. He was
their
punching bag, no one else's. This gave Juan a sense of a safe cocoon of protection he had never felt before in his life. He would do anything these kids would ask. They were the only people in the world that ever stood up for him. His mother couldn't even stand up for herself, let alone him. She was a junkie whore, and Juan knew it, and understood the horrible implications of his mother's addiction as early as age five.

When Juan went out to the clubs and cantinas across the border into Mexico with his mentors in the neighborhood, he was able to escape the fact, and temporarily forget, that his mother and all her stupid bullshit even existed.

Juan's mentors were all in their early twenties. Juan was their young protégée. They would protect him even when he would begin to provoke fights with other kids. This was entirely new for Juan. He was used to being bullied, not doing the bullying. Now, he was insulated from repercussion and could feel the invigorating rush of pushing others around, just as he was pushed around his whole life.

He began to feel like some sort of Superman, and he loved the feeling. His acts became more and more brazen, and his respect amongst his buddies, and anyone that now knew him, began to grow exponentially in a very short period of time. It was only a few weeks ago when he commanded the respect and attention of some serious players across the border.

Juan was kicking ass at Assassin's Creed as he waited for the orders from his new business associate, an anonymous member of the Mexican Gulf Cartel. Juan was wooed and lured with all kinds of promises of money, glory, prestige, and affiliation, but none of that was even really necessary. Sure, he wanted to make some money to take care of his sister and get her and himself as far away from that whore of a mom he was cursed with, but he would have agreed to work for the cartel regardless. He had come to love the feeling of violence, regardless of where it pointed, because he internally used it as a reconciling force for all the shit he had been through in his life.

The order he was waiting on would be his initiation directive and he couldn't have been more stoked to get going on it. He had no idea what the target had done to deserve the hit, and he did not give a shit at all. He had a buddy, who introduced him to the cartel, who was ordered to do some real crazy shit. Straight-up beheadings. No shit.
Heads rolling on the streets of the freakin' United States of America.
Juan could only imagine the thrill.

The only thing he knew about this hit was that he was one of many new and recent recruits that were being commissioned to do hits on a particular group of people in the states. That's all he knew. He didn't know the common affiliation or the offense that earned the targets their brutal consequence. He fantasized that it would be a heroic, high profile hit like the one that was attempted on the Saudia Arabian ambassador back in 2011. If Juan got such a job, he swore he wouldn't screw it up.

Finally, his cell rang.

“This is Juan.”

“Juan, pay attention. The address for the target will be delivered to you shortly, along with a description. You'll be given a van with a motorcycle inside of it, and clear instructions. Your instrument will also be in the van, with instructions. Use it carefully or it will harm you as well. You'll need to plan some reconnaissance time to successfully execute this job. Observe your target thoroughly before you attempt the mission. Failure on an initiation order could result in your own elimination. Remember that.”

The messenger hung up and Juan was simultaneously excited, jacked, and about to soil his boxers. An electricity surged though his veins like he had never felt before in his short life. He could not wait for the instructions to come. It was time to stop playing video games and get in the real game.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

THE OFFICE OF BERNIE MILLER, DETROIT, MICHIGAN

“I
t's almost 10:00 am and you're just now getting your keester in the office? Did the whiskey get the best of you last night you incorrigible Mick?”

Bernie was in rare form for a Monday. Blaze could feel his balls breaking before he even set foot in the building, let alone found his way inside the office to hear the taunt of Bernie's blue Monday office banter. Civilian business life had left its proverbial track marks on Blaze. It had taken a toll. Blaze had resolved to cut the cord. Sure, he hadn't exactly told Diem yet, but that was all right, he could do a test run on Bernie.

“Yeah, yeah, I know pally. Just sit your overgrown German ass down cuz I gots to talk to you about some stuff.” Blaze knew that trying to get personal and serious with Bernie was much like trying to explain quantum physics to an infant. It was going to be tough.

“What stuff? You still crying all night from your imaginary nightmares of battles gone wrong in lands far away?” Bernie held deep respect for Blaze's honorable exploits for his country. The problem was that the respect was so deep that it never surfaced. Only sarcasm, half-brained wit, and straight up idiocy actually surfaced.

“Yeah, that's it pal, and your shoulder looks as good as any to cry on. Bring it in here for the real thing and give me a big giant man-hug.” Blaze was right, this was definitely gonna be tough.

“Alright, alright, cut it out you bastard…or I'll take you down to that chocolate shop to go be with your friend.” Bernie's charm and humor never seemed to surprise. It was always out of line and out of control.

“You really are gonna burn in hell, aren't you?”

“Easy, I told you already I have no tolerance for the theological stuff before noon. So break it to me Blazey boy, what's the matter?” He wanted the meat of the talk now.

“I'm getting' out partner. I'm getting' out and I'm going back in.”

“Back in what pal? The nut-hut? The looney-bin? What the hell are you even talking about?” Bernie knew exactly what Blaze was talking about. He was half wishing Blaze was full of crap, and half being his normal ball-breaking self.

“I'm talking about ending the lie I've been trying to tell myself that this racket is gonna work for me. It's been fun. Really. But I'm done. I've been slowly dying inside ever since I began doing this. I ain't a salesman and I ain't a financial advisor. I'm a damn warrior, through and through. There's no getting around that.” Blaze wasn't sure Bernie would really understand, but he was pretty sure Bernie would respect his decision.

“So what are you gonna do then, uh? Go start some wars in third world countries? Go play GI Joe all around the damn globe until you feel good about yourself?”

“It ain't like that pal. War is a growth industry in this day and age and I'm an opportunist. And I'm a friggin' patriot.” He spread his hands out in an appeal for understanding, and then waved his partner off when it was clear he wasn't getting anywhere.

“Alright, I know, sorry for breaking your balls, but whaddya expect? You get what you get with me. You know that. I understand what you're saying. You gotta do what you gotta do, and for you, I do see that this really is what you gotta do. You have been a lousy drag around here lately anyhow.”

The two men laughed and continued filling each other in on both the vitally important happenings in their lives, as well as sharing some of the completely irrelevant and useless thoughts that sometimes enters the minds of strange men who are rapidly approaching middle age.

Blaze resigned on the spot. Bernie accepted the resignation and wished him luck in future endeavors. The blessing, of course, came with additional friendly verbal abuse, sarcasm, and comedic ball-breaking of a high order.

Blaze said his good byes to his ball breaking business partner. He then proceeded out the door to prepare himself to greet his wife at dinner and somehow explain his utter excitement over his newfound unemployment. Somehow, just the thought made him feel like his balls were breaking yet again.

CHAPTER TWENTY

CLIFF BELL'S RESTAURANT, DETROIT, MICHIGAN

D
iem's smile had eased as she took the last sip of her first glass of Pino Grigio and stared into the strong contours of Blaze's face and oceanic blue eyes. The gift-wrapped box of chocolate didn't hurt in easing Diem's smile either. Her almond skin upheld her smile with a distinct beauty that was cradled perfectly by her surrounding black hair.

Blaze was already a sip or two away from finishing his glass of Blanton's bourbon on the rocks and he could tell Diem liked seeing him loosen up. The conversation, thus far, had been light. Diem enjoyed Blaze's recollection of the fine merchant from whom he purchased her chocolates. Blaze ordered a well-done eight-ounce filet mignon accompanied by potato gratin, surrounded by wild mushroom cream and balanced out by blanched asparagus. In contrast to Blaze's turf, Diem chose a delectable arrangement of grilled Atlantic salmon supported by Israeli couscous all embellished by fried okra and tomato saffron broth. The lovely couple's appetites were burning as they digressed into teenage-like flirting. And they were hungry as well.

Without warning, Diem's tone and facial expressions telegraphed deep concern and care. She couldn't help but feel the need to address Blaze's recent behavior. Her smile disappeared and she put her hand on Blaze's as she made her thoughts known. “Blaze, you need to know, that I've not been the same since your accident. I'm thoroughly worried about you. I wonder about your mind. Seeing visions of Harry? All this mythical religious stuff? Are you okay? What goes on inside your head?”

“Diem, I'm fine. Really. Relax.”

“Look, I know you don't let me in on everything you're thinking. But, you could've been killed. I know you've been places and seen things I can't imagine. I know you'll always carry a lot with you, but can't you someday be somewhat close to normal? Will it always be like this? Can you at least let me in so I can try to help you?” Not knowing usually helped her cope, but now, the not-knowing was beginning to tear at her sanity.

“Diem, don't worry yourself over me. These are the crosses I carry. I was designed to carry these crosses. We all have ours to bear. Mine were specially designed, as am I. As for being close to normal….”

Blaze's eyes shifted nervously peering from one end to the next of Cliff Bell's fine dining establishment. The pleasing rhythms of the live jazz band performing that evening helped to fill the conversation void as Blaze fought for the courage to speak his tortured heart. Diem stared lovingly and waited patiently for him to struggle through his words.

Blaze continued “…this is just not me. The whole
normal
thing. The whole
regular guy
act. I know it sounds dramatic and ridiculously barbaric, but I will say it again. I am a warrior through and through. I've not been simply slowly dying inside, but rather I've been getting murdered inside with every passing day. I can't ignore the overwhelming drive and urge of my heart to once again serve my duty. To fulfill my true purpose. Diem, I'm going back in.” Blaze gazed in her eyes as the bomb was dropped. He tilted his head downward as he braced for the fallout.

Diem's face lost color and she sat staring at him, frozen, for several seconds that lingered like a multitude of incomprehensible eternities. Her wine glass slowly slipped through her fingers as she managed to, at the very last minute, save it from crashing to the table. She knew this day would come. She could sense it in his voice more and more as of late. Drudgery was eating him alive. Normalcy and mundane living did not wear well, or at all, on Blaze McIntyre. For some unknown reason of divine insanity, it was pain, chaos, extreme risk, and strategic violence that wore well on him. She hated this truth as much as she loved the man for whom the truth befit.

Diem suffered a quick, dashing moment of internal wrangling. She wanted to simultaneously cross her arms, literally and figuratively, and refuse the idea all together. But at the same time, she sympathized with the impact of his realties and she wanted to nurture him through his resurrected path. After her thumb and index finger reclaimed a reasonable grip on the stem of the wine glass, she finished now her second glass before mustering up a response to Blaze's pronouncement. Jazz music filtered through the air like a comedic tormentor all the while.

“How could you make this decision without talking to me? What do you mean you're ‘going back in'? Who did you talk to? You didn't quit your job with Bernie at the firm…
did you
?” Blaze's guilty countenance signaled the obvious. “Have you thought at all about Shane and Dennis? About
me
? Do you want them to be fatherless? Is this how you show your devotion to me? By sentencing me to the inevitable life of a widow?” Diem's tirade drew the stares of other diners and the attention of the waiter. Diem knew she was causing a scene. She knew her protest was ultimately impotent. She began to calm.

Blaze took a deep breath, the kind he would take in the heat of battle when his steps continued swift, silent and effortless as he approached an unsuspecting target. He wished he could tell her differently. He wished he could live differently. Work differently. Be different. He spoke slowly and softly, “ I didn't make this decision alone. I've been wrestling with this issue for many months. I've brought it to God in prayer. I've talked through it endlessly with Pastor McCardle. And I finally discussed it with Chuck Gallagher.” Blaze knew the mention of that last name would ignite a new volley of anger from Diem.

“Well, of course Chuck Gallagher is all for it. He doesn't have a family. What does he know about this decision?”

“Diem, he knows me. And so does Pastor McCardle. And I believe, so do you. I know this hurts. I know this isn't what you want. I wish I could say it wasn't what I want, but I don't know how to make myself not want to do what I'm convinced deep within my soul I was born to do. I'm convinced this is my calling and duty. My integrity and honor will be fleshed out by my living this calling.” Blaze felt a surge of truth burn through him as he spoke his heart.

“Do you know the terror
I lived with
every night? Tossing and turning wondering if I'd get a call to hear your voice? Or, if the stars aligned, maybe we'd talk on Skype so I could see your face? Only to then wait in vain for hours of silence. And then I'd pray all night for you while I cursed your name at the same time. And the boys? Do you know what it's like to constantly revise your response and back track your previous answer when they ask when Daddy is going to be back? Where's daddy? Why can't he be home more? Do you have any clue what that's like? Do you know the joy and peace that has come to me since you've been home and the boys have been seeing you on a consistent basis? Do you know how important it is that you're more than a voice on the phone to them? Do you?” She felt her frustration recede, as she was able to vent each bullet point of her list of previously unspoken grievances.

Blaze had heard every word she said, and he felt her pain deeply. But it did not change anything. “My love for you and the children is unquestionable. I would fight a thousand armies to protect you and the boys. I love spending time with them, and I'll continue to spend time with them. Extended quality time in-between missions. Diem, I need to do this. I can't fight it any longer.”

“So now I need to fight it instead? So I get to be the one who is home, alone, cursing the country I love because it has become my husband's mistress?” She knew she sounded a tad absurd, but she truly felt a deep jealousy of Blaze's passion for serving his country and ridding it of its enemies.

Blaze sighed gently and took Diem's hand. His eyes penetrated hers as he gently removed a strand of hair from her eyes. He leaned forward and kissed her lips gently. While his left eye shed a slight tear, he passionately assured Diem. “No one, or nothing, takes your place. Not a one. Not a thing. You know that.”

And with that, she became disarmed. And her resolve to resist was shattered. She knew who he was. A warrior through and through. And it was time to be a warrior's wife, once again.

The wind was chaotic that night. Much like the perpetual state of Blaze's soul, or the world around him for that matter. He could hear the trees flailing with momentum and vigor as he lay on his back enshrouded by their king size bed. Diem laid her head on his chest and reveled in a sense of serenity and bliss.

They had made love with a wild, combusting energy. A whirlwind of emotions had sprung from deep within each of them as their souls also intertwined. Their bodies thrusted rhythmically in search of each other's pleasure and delight.

After satisfying the itchings and twitchings of their flesh, and the misgivings and forgivings of their hearts, the warrior and his wife were one. Her soul lay at rest, while he slept with one eye open as his mind raced frantically. He was eager for the next step. But anxious. Blaze McIntyre had an eerie sense that the road ahead would be fraught with snares and traps that would emerge in entirely new and frightening ways.