Page 1 of Gunner
Prologue
Kade
2006
The bus slowing downwoke me from my restless nap and I blinked away the light shining through the dirty window. Being home should foster some warm feeling of relief and love, but home was always a place I tried to avoid. My mom split when I was seven years old, and my pops worked his fingers to the bone, just to keep a crappy roof over our heads and barely enough food in our stomachs.
I didn’t know why I chose here to complete my rehab, but something called for me to come home. Even though I had no place to live and no family to speak of, there was one thing that brought me back, and tomorrow, I planned to retrieve it from storage. The bus pulled to a stop and I stood from my seat, stretching my aching back. Grabbing the seat next to me, I squatted down, then stood straight, helping to ease the throbbing pain in my thigh.
Walking down the small aisle, I exited and waited for the driver to grab my duffle bag from under the bus. My trip had been the longest, which meant they tucked my luggage in the back, so I waited while he pulled the other passengers’ bags off. Looking around, I saw familiar buildings and shook my head, wishing I was still in the Army.
“Thank you for your service,” the driver said as he handed my bag to me. “We’re glad you’re home.”
“Thanks,” I muttered and looped the green strap over my shoulder, walking away with nearly all my possessions in one bag.
Getting thanked for doing my job, my service, wasn’t something that I’d ever get used to, and it made me slightly uncomfortable. I did my job, and certain aspects of it were best left in my head, where they couldn’t cause any more harm. Having someone draw attention to it, kept it close to the surface and reminded me of the horrors I experienced.
My painful steps pushed me farther away from the bus station and closer to the motel down the street. Portstill wasn’t a bad city, per se, but it left a tremendous amount to be desired. The jobs left when the mill burned down a few years before I enlisted, taking away the town’s hope for prosperity. Slowly, Portstill was finding its way back, but there was a small section of town, three square miles to be exact, that was the worst of the worst.
The Flats.
If you wanted drugs, women, guns, or if you were simply looking for trouble, the Flats was the first place to look. I should know. I lived in the middle of its hellish borders until my eighteenth birthday, when I raised my right hand for Uncle Sam. Since I left, the only time I came home was to bury my dad, and I departed immediately after the funeral.
There weren’t good memories, only the iron fist of a madman that ruled his little corner of the world with complete control. If you weren’t in his crosshairs, you did everything you could to stay that way. His name was Marco and his control on every illegal aspect of the Flats made him a man people avoided at all costs.
There were rumors that he used kids to do his dirty work, but they were just that as far as I could tell. Rumors. Whispers of insanity about a group of bloodthirsty kids fighting for a piece of the pie.
I was a few blocks from the bus station and all I wanted to do was fall into bed and sleep. It took me three days on the bus to get here, and I needed a shower, clean clothes, actual food, and the company of a woman. Knowing the latter wasn’t going to happen anytime soon, I kept walking, hiking my duffle farther up my shoulder and pushing through the discomfort in my leg. The blinking red vacancy sign was a beacon, urging me to keep moving through the pain, reminding me I was still alive, even if I felt part of me was dead. Opening the door to the motel lobby, I found the place to be nicer than I expected, so I rented a room for a week.
I wasn’t worried about trouble, but my Glock .45 was discreetly tucked into my waistband as I moved down the sidewalk. Taking the stairs to the second level, I unlocked the door and found the room appeared nice and didn’t smell, so I was taking it as a win. Tossing my duffle onto the second bed, I fell onto the other one, exhaling into the semi-comfortable mattress. Lying there for a moment, I resisted the urge to go straight to sleep when my stomach growled, reminding me it was that morning when my snacks ran out.
Thinking of the last eight months of hell, I felt the walls close in on me and I worked on the breathing exercise the counselor gave me. I took a round from a hostile when I was stationed in Iraq. The lucky shot shattered my femur and destroyed my military career at the same time. The pain from the bullet was excruciating, but not nearly as much as losing the one thing I grew to need.Brotherhood.
I went from a throwaway kid from a bad town to a member of something bigger and better than myself. When I was flown out of the country for surgery and rehab, the connection seemed to fray. My team was still in Iraq, while I was spending days in a hospital, pushing past excruciating pain alone. Slowly, the phone calls and emails slowed, until I was alone, feeling adrift and unsure of my next move.
Shaking off the loneliness that seemed to surround me, I took a hot shower, allowing the water to ease the ache in my thigh and untangle the knots in my back. I looked down at my semi-hard dick and shook my head, knowing my hand was the only company I would have for a while. Pulling out a cleanish pair of jeans and a T-shirt from my bag, I quickly dressed and tucked my gun into the back of my waistband. Pulling on my jacket, I left the room in search of food and a stiff drink.
There’s a bar named the Dog House a few doors down from the motel with a line of bikes parked out front. The closer I approached, the more impressed I was with the bikes, their shiny chrome glinting in the moonlight. I admired the machines as I walked past but didn’t stop to pay them much attention.
The music filtered through the wooden door, and I nodded to a young man wearing a leather vest over a T-shirt who was leaning against the wall, watching the bikes. He was young, but he sized me up as I moved past him. I had him by at least five inches and fifty pounds, but he stood tall, and I respected him for that.
Opening the door, I was met with the smell of stale cigarettes, beer, and greasy food. It was exactly what I needed, so I found an empty table away from the loud jukebox and sat down, making sure there was a wall at my back, so I could observe the happenings. After getting shot the way I did, I didn’t trust anyone at my back.
“What can I get you?” an older woman with bright red hair asked, her face weathered and her clothes too tight.
“Whatever you have on draft and a burger with fries,” I replied, leaning back and lifting my leg onto the chair in front of me.
She nodded and turned away without a word. The music was too loud and the raucous laughter from the men playing pool along the far wall was becoming too much. A beer was set in front of me as she scurried to another table. Swallowing down the cold brew, I closed my eyes and felt some of the tension in my shoulders release.
A tall man with a long gray beard walked past me, and I noticed the patch on his black leather vest said ‘President’. I could see in the reflection of a mirror across the room that the back had a huge patch on it, but I wasn’t able to see what it said. I recognized a large dog’s head and tried to think of any clubs that were around here when I left. Drawing a blank, I waited for my dinner and motioned for the waitress to bring me another beer.
The man was returning to his friends when he paused and turned his head to glance at me. He smiled and faced me before walking back to stand near my table. I didn’t want any trouble, and I was severely outnumbered, but I refused to let him see me sweat. Too many tours in Iraq rendered me numb to threats.
“You serve?” he asked, nodding to the dog tags hanging out the front of my shirt.
“Eight years,” I replied as the waitress placed my food down and turned to the man.
“You need another beer, Smokey?”
