Page 4 of Moros

Over the years, I hadn’t believed in him and even when I was almost homeless, I couldn’t gather up enough courage to call him.

I never called—I didn’t think he was serious and since I had a massive crush on him, keeping in contact would have been like breaking my own damn heart.

“Did you see his face?” Dude asked.

“No, not really.” I replied. “He had a hood over his head. But I did catch a glimpse of what looked like a tattoo on the back of his right hand. I remember thinking—that must be a painful place to get a tattoo.”

Dude chuckled, softly.

“Do you know what the tattoo was of?”

Closing my eyes, I allowed myself to rush back to the terrible time of the attack.

“It looked like a phantom of some sort.”

“Mm—”

“It had like a white glow around it—that’s why I could make it out. And I only saw it for a second so I could be?—”

“It’s a celestial phantom.”

“A what?”

“A celestial phantom.” Dude replied. “Only about four men in the world has one—well three. One died two years ago from a hit-and-run in Argentina.”

“How do you know?”

“Because that ink is only given to soldiers who survive solo missions into a place we call the Tombstones.” Dude explained. “It’s a long story, one I probably shouldn’t tell you about at the risk of being electrocuted for treason. Get to your computer.”

When I was sitting in front of my old laptop it chimed.

I opened the email he’d sent, and the attachment to find the pictures of three men, soldiers in uniforms.

“Canadian soldiers?” I asked.

“Not just any soldiers.” Dude explained. “Special forces. If the tattoo you said you saw was in fact the tattoo he has, then it can only be one of these three men.”

“Well, it’s not Leonidas Patchenko,” I said. “You can cross that one off the list.”

“How comes?”

“The man who saved me wasn’t white.”

Dude sighed.

“The it’s either Khadri Weston or Boswell Teller.” Dude sounded hopeless. “This isn’t going to be as simple as finding their location and see which one was closer to you.”

“Why not?”

“Because they’re special forces, Ryanne. They never want to be found. With their training, when they don’t want you to find them?—”

“They become ghosts.”

“Mm.” Dude replied. “Let me run this by Tex and see what he can find.”

Agreeing, Dude hung up and I placed my cell phone on the desk—it was fully charged when I started the call and almost dead after that short talk.

Leaning back in my seat, I stared at the men on the screen.

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