Page 3 of Love Me Knot

Benson brings the unit to his mouth and hits the transmit button. “I’m doing my damned job, and part of that is to find out if you’re an idiot or if you’re trying to get my men killed.”

“Wha… Listen here, you son of a bitch! You_”

An explosion cuts off the colonel’s shrieking yell, and Chief Beau Benson closes his eyes. The blast is quickly followed by two more. Everyone is screaming now.

Time slows to a crawl, and an image of Benson’s wife and their nine-month-old daughter comes to mind. Thoughts of the tiny girl bring a small smile to his lips. He would have liked to see his daughter grow up.

Benson’s clenched eyes fly open at the panicked shouts of his team, and his spine stiffens. Not without a fight.

No more than a second has passed when two more blasts sound. Two corresponding fireballs light up the darkness. The cab lights up in orange, and Brizzle yells, “We’re not dead! How are we not dead?”

“I’m not waiting around to find out. Everybody out now!”

The PMCs spill out of the trucks, and all sixteen men huddle together. Benson yells above the flames. “The grenades had to have come from the east, or we would have been the ones blown. The fire will cover our approach. Get to the Humvees and look for survivors!”

The group disperses toward the rear Army rides. The flames mask the sounds of more incoming RPGs, but no one misses the ensuing blasts or streams of molten metal shooting from the grenade cores. Nothing of the Army trucks is left, and there’s no way these guys see ours. So why are these bastards still firing?

Everyone on Benson’s team hits the dirt, expecting to get taken out with the Iron Strike trucks. The echoes of the blasts end, leaving only the crackles of the flaming Humvees.

Benson calls the colonel through the radio, knowing there won’t be any answer. The colonel is dead. His vehicle was the first hit. All five of the Army trucks were targeted and are now burning.

The shots came from the olive farm, meaning Benson’s team is invisible. He doesn’t waste time thinking about useless what-ifs, such as he’d be dead if the Iron Strike trucks had remained behind the others.

While the PMCs continue their fruitless search, Chief Benson fumbles for his satellite radio, dialing his boss and handler with shaking hands. Iron Strike’s CEO, Roman Cargill, answers, and Benson yells into the speaker. “Roman, we’ve been ambushed.”

Benson sees movement at the same time the man at his elbow does. A door on the leading Humvee opens, and Patch jumps up. To do what, God only knows. Benson reaches for Patch’s foot, just getting a hand around the man’s ankle before he’s out of reach. “Stop! They’re all dead.”

“Oh, Jesus. What’s happening?” Roman asks.

Benson doesn’t hide the horror in his voice. “A massacre.”

Two Weeks Later

Chelsea Danforth

“I am determined to lead Congress in the fight to stop the US from employing companies of mercenaries. War should not be a business model, and the US should not be bankrolling people who wish to profit from it. I have made it my personal mission to see that_”

A collective groan sounds from my table at the asshole congressmen’s pompous mug filling the TV screen: Calvin Harding, the freshman representative from Arizona. The man is about as genuine as an Instagram filter and as pleasant as a fever blister.

Harding continues his self-righteous sermon until I’m dangerously close to throwing this bottle of cow piss at the TV. Thinking better of it, I yell across the barroom to the owner. “Hey, Arnie, change the channel, will you? Nobody wants to watch that shit.”

The crusty old bartender rolls his eyes at me. “Can’t you see I’m busy? Get up and change it yourself.”

Grumbling, I leave my group and trundle to the bar, reaching across the counter for the remote. “Dusty old fart. If I wanted to be treated like this, I’d have stayed in the Marines,” I grumble. “You’ll be sorry when I find someplace better to hang out and drink.”

Arnie laughs, nearly dropping the glass he’s drying. “You ain’t going nowhere. You’d miss watching my firm ass too much.”

I pause with remote in hand, cutting my eyes to the three-hundred-pound bar owner. “Arnie, your ass is about as firm as your schlong, and it hasn’t seen action in decades.”

With the bartender chuckling again, I turn back to the bank of TVs and start flipping through the channels. My teammates cheer behind me as Capitol Hill’s most pretentious windbag is silenced in favor of college basketball_which I hate. I stop surfing, figuring anything is better than the vitriol that loser has been spouting for the last seven months.

No one knows why Harding made it his mission to take down private military corporations, but he’s dedicated his infant career to doing just that. Whatever Harding’s motivation, he’s making too much noise to be ignored. The guy is wrong about us. I can’t deny we have our share of bad players, but what industry doesn’t?

Maybe Harding is just a shameless opportunist capitalizing on the rash of recent military mishaps in the news, an alarming number of them. Most recently, the Iron Strike disaster. While more experienced members of Congress have refrained from addressing the fallout, this douchebag is eating it up.

A loud commotion draws my eyes toward our table at the Warriors Taphouse. My partner, Bastien “Bash” Laurent lifts his arm from around Birdie’s shoulders and stands to greet someone strolling toward the group, someone I don’t know. Or maybe I do? Why do I get the feeling I’ve met this guy?

I place the remote on the bar, pausing at Arnie’s barked order to put it back where I found it. When I turn back around, Birdie is standing and tilting her face to receive the stranger’s kiss on the cheek.

---