Noble Warrior (6 page)

The Greyhound made its way east on Interstate I-80 as the inner tape recorder playing inside McCutcheon's head spun round and round on its negative loop.

I suck, I'm scared, and in this cruel and brutal world I am all alone. But that's what I deserve. Because I'm hideous, I'm a monster.

The rain tapped against the window next to his head, soft plops playing a gentle lullaby, but Mother Nature's peaceful music did nothing to calm McCutcheon's storming soul. A map of
scars across M.D.'s flesh told the violent tale of a life lived at war, and provided all the evidence McCutcheon needed to prove to himself that any emotional pain he suffered was all much
deserved. He looked at his hands, large, scarred, and raw. Each lesion came from a different battle, each gash occurred during a different era, yet all of them were united by a common thread.

Bam Bam Daniels destroyed people. This was his gift. Not music. Not poetry. Not photography, painting, or graphic design. McCutcheon's talent came in the form of delivering pain. Deep in
his heart he wanted the opposite. M.D. hoped to help people. To heal them and protect them and make them feel safe and secure in a way that he never was.

This is why he joined Stanzer's unit. McCutcheon hungered to bring justice, light, freedom, and protection to the world because these things were always absent from his own life, and he
knew how much people who didn't have these things starved for them.

Yet now he was being asked to kill.

Why did all of his good intentions end up in a sewer of piss and garbage? Only one answer made sense.

Because I'm trash. A worthless kid from the ghetto who deserves all the horrible suffering he gets.

McCutcheon clutched on to another buried secret, as well. One worse than any other. In his heart he believed beyond a shadow of a doubt that if he ever did take his first life it would lead to
the taking of many, many more.

If I taste the blood of death, it's over. I know me. It will be all over.

Bury enough anger in a warrior's heart and like gunpowder it one day explodes.

You can't do it, M.D.,
McCutcheon told himself.
You can't. A single death will lead to dominoes, and only I can contain myself.

No, he would not kill. Not even for Kaitlyn.

After eighteen hours and forty-five minutes, the silver Greyhound cruised across the Iowa border and entered Nebraska. Sleep escaped McCutcheon the entire trip. Too many thoughts. Too many
concerns. Too many worries.

Too much awareness of the idea that most people become the thing they fear the most.

“D
oc's home! Doc's home!”

McCutcheon's baby sister Gemma rushed to M.D. and threw her arms around his neck with a giant squeeze.

Gemma loved Bellevue, Nebraska. She loved the swing sets at the parks, the pies at the diner, and all the nice neighbors who never scowled and only locked their doors at night.

But most of all she loved Doc. He was the big brother who tickled her tummy, did push-ups with her sitting on his back, and had gotten them out of D-town. Escaping the projects of Detroit used
to be their mantra, their chorus, their dream.

“Who's tough?”

“I'm tough.”

“How tough?”

“So tough.”

“And why are we tough?”
McCutcheon would ask, a steely look in his eye.

“'Cause that's the way we get out.”

“Gimme a kiss,”
M.D. would say, and Gemma would peck him on the cheek.

They'd spoken these words to each other a thousand times. When their father stole the grocery money for drugs and left them with nothing but ketchup in the refrigerator for dinner. When
their mother disappeared from their lives without a note, a wave, or even a hug good-bye. When birthdays came and there was no money for presents, when snow came and there was no money for coats,
when the storms of life crashed down on them, and there were no adults anywhere to provide safety and protection, they'd speak these words to each other because these words were all they
possessed.

Somehow, like Jack's magic beans in the fairy tale, they'd worked. Gemma and M.D. did get out, and when it came to Detroit, Gemma prayed nightly that she'd never go back.

McCutcheon, of course, felt differently about the matter.

“Wanna see my habitat? Do ya, do ya?” Gemma, still in her koala bear jammies, pulled her brother by the arm and dragged him into her yellow and pink bedroom. With M.D. home,
Sarah—McCutcheon didn't call her
Mom
anymore, he called her
Sarah
—left early that morning for the preschool where she worked as an early childhood specialist. It
was Back-to-School night there and a thousand things still remained needing to be done.

It's true that Sarah once abandoned her kids, but she said she only did so in order to save her own life. Maybe theirs, too. Back in Detroit, Demon was turning his son into a savage cage
warrior, and once some real money started to roll in from M.D.'s underground battles, Sarah stopped being a fan. Too violent. Too dangerous. Too illegal.

But Demon only saw stacks of green, and when push came to shove, he put a knife to his wife's neck and said “Leave or be carved.” High on a combo of speed, coke, and booze,
he'd do it, she knew. As a former boxer who grew up in a violent home himself, Demon had been knocking Sarah around for years. Even hospitalized her a few times. To call the police seemed
stupid to Sarah, though. Cops in Detroit weren't even able to keep up with all the murders, so how were they going to help with a tiny little domestic dispute?

With nowhere to turn, no one to phone, Sarah fled. Just packed a hasty bag and disappeared, fearing for her life.

When the FBI finally found her, Sarah leaped at the opportunity to rejoin her kids and enter into the Witness Security Program; she was thrilled at the idea of getting a second chance to be with
her children. McCutcheon expected to adore having his mother back in his life.

He didn't.

People fight for what they love, M.D. thought. And she ran. If she really did care for her kids she would have been willing to die for them. Just like M.D. was willing to die for Gemma. But
spooked, Sarah turned tail and bailed to go save herself, and as a result McCutcheon and Gemma went through years of abusive hell. The next time they did see their mom, Sarah had put the broken
pieces of her life back together, landed a new job, and scored herself a cushy downtown condominium with a panoramic view of the skyline.

Good for her, M.D. thought. Really fucking happy for ya, Mom.

In Bellevue, the Daniels's town house boasted trimmed hedges, a nicely painted red front door, and a flower bed near the entryway that made the outside appear charming. Yet it was all a
facade. Behind that nicely painted red front door, wars raged.

“You fucking left us.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Picked up and ran.”

“I have no defense.”

“Real mothers don't do that. Selfish, horrible mothers do.”

“You think I don't feel guilty?” Sarah said. “I've felt it every day since the moment I left.”

“Don't make this about you. You're a piece of shit.”

“You're angry,” she said, tears pouring from her eyes. “But also,” Sarah lowered her head, “you're right. I'm a terrible mother, an awful person,
Doc.”

“Don't call me that. Only one person is ever allowed to call me that and it's not you. Got me...Sarah?”

McCutcheon's mother didn't try to defend her actions. She hated herself for taking them. When the family first moved to Nebraska, Sarah tried to put on a brave face. Tried to pretend
the past was the past and that the family could move forward with smiles in their hearts toward a bigger, brighter future. But deep down she knew her cowardice had caused McCutcheon and Gemma
incredible, unforgettable pain.

Good mothers don't protect themselves at the expense of their children. Good mothers, good people, she knew, do what's right despite how hard it might be. Gemma may have been too
young to understand all of this—but not M.D.

He'd lived it. And he loathed her for it.

Every time McCutcheon thought about his mother's decision, anger surged in his heart. From this rage he felt strength—battle strength—yet he knew that drawing ferocity from the
toxic well of anger would end badly. Drinking from the cup of hate never ended in positive outcomes. Yet still his fury flowed, a silent rage that quietly but constantly fed his shackled inner
beast.

He didn't have to look hard to see how his monster had been born. He and the beast were at war and yet, they were one.

Before five weeks had passed in their new life—a life filled with safe playgrounds, and nary a sound of gunfire—McCutcheon and Sarah spent almost no time together. The happy reunion
each one envisioned turned out to be fantasy. Delusional dreams the two held while apart, gave way to the reality of being together. McCutcheon did not respect his mom and she did not respect
herself, so when one of them was home, the other would find a convenient excuse to leave.

Like departing extra early in the morning to go prepare for Back-to-School night.

You fight for what you love
, McCutcheon believed.
You fight for it to the death.

Then a question crossed M.D.'s mind.

But do you kill for it? Dying for something and killing for something are not the same thing.

“I was gonna make a desert habitat, but I made a jungle habitat instead, although I could have done something with fish.” Gemma held up a shoe box she'd converted into the
plains of Africa as McCutcheon tried to shake the fog of his wandering thoughts from his head. “Desert is spelled with one S. Dessert has two. That's because everybody loves dessert so
the word is longer 'cause there's more of it and I think my lion is really cool, don't you? Are you taking me to school today?”

“I am,” McCutcheon answered, trying to keep up with Gemma's constant stream of words.

“Well, we need to be on time because Mrs. Regali is a stickler for being on time, and she's a stickler for capital letters, too, but in math it's okay to make mistakes as long
as you learn from them. I'm gonna go brush my teeth. You didn't say you liked my habitat.”

“I do.”

“And my lion?” Gemma asked.

“King of the jungle, right?”

“Reminds me of you.”

McCutcheon wrinkled his brow.

“Strong, handsome, wants good things in the world for other creatures, and always tries to be polite,” Gem responded. “Other than to zebras. Lions eat zebras but even though
you don't eat any zebras, you still try to be polite like a lion, Doc.”

“No, I do not eat zebras,” M.D. said with a smile. His six-year-old sister always saw the best in him. But if she only knew the truth, he thought.

“You don't even eat pizza,” she added.

“I am gonna eat you if you don't hurry up,” M.D. said.

Gemma rushed back into the arms of her big brother. “One more hug,” she said, squeezing M.D. tight. “I missed you, Doc.”

“I wasn't gone that long.”

“A day without my brother is like a day without the sky. I wrote that in my journal. Are you staying a long, long, long, long time before your next trip?”

“I'm not sure if there are going to be any more trips, Gem.”

“Yay!” she exclaimed as the doorbell rang.

“Now hustle up and go get dressed before the mighty lion has to use his CLAWS!”

McCutcheon picked Gem up and spun her around with a
whoosh
. Her smiled beamed a thousand watts as M.D. whirled her like a toy. Nowhere did Gem feel more safe than in the arms of her
brother. Many kids had siblings; Gemma had her own private wolf.

Gemma bounced off to the bathroom to get washed and brushed for school as M.D. crossed to answer the front door. In Detroit, M.D. always looked through the peephole before answering. In
Bellevue, without dope fiends or thugs to worry about, he didn't see the point.

“'Morning.”

McCutcheon exhaled a sigh. “That was quick.”

“You're the one who takes the bus. I fly.”

“You've come to convince me?”

Stanzer stepped through the doorway.

“Actually,” he replied, “just the opposite.”