Another afternoon at home, I sat with my feet up on the table. Slowly turning a fully loaded ammo clip in my hand, the pistol sat next to me on the plush leather couch. Other than the slight whispering friction of my fingertips against the plastic clip, there were no other sounds in the house. In the days before my final operation in Venezuela, I would be watching television all night, laughing at all of my favorite comedy shows. These days though, I had decided that it made too much noise, and I might not hear someone sneaking in. I always said that you can never be too careful.
My former teammates take random occasions to call me and see how things are going. They like to make sure that I made it to the store recently, or really anything as simple as getting up to go to the bathroom. On several occasions, I have soiled my couch, rather than be out of view of the main points of entry to this house. My friends continue to care about me, even after my dismissal from Delta Force following my final psychiatric evaluation.
Once known as Blue 2, I did not understand why anyone saw me as crazy. I am simply well prepared. No one was getting in this house without me knowing. No one, and I mean absolutely no one, would kill me. That last guy, Rico, he promised me that the bullet that had struck me in the head would not be the last. He promised me he had friends here in the states and they would come to finish the job. Well all I can say is, "Come and get it, you fucks. I'm ready for you."
It's been five years and I have only seen minor attempts so far. A man who claimed to be Chemlawn came over and attempted to poison my water by spraying a chemical that absorbed into the water lines right through the ground. He thought I wouldn't notice. The mailman looked in my window while he was delivering my bills, and I have caught at least three suspicious people who were nonchalantly walking their dogs. They think I don't know, but I'm on to them and I just may make the first move soon.
I hear all the lines from everyone. I need to give up and let go. No one is coming to kill me. I need to relax and get on with my life. They even try to entice me with promises of rejoining my old unit, those that are still alive. It's like they want me to be thrown back into a situation where more people can acquire me as a target. They say that's impossible, because we carry no identification on our missions, but Rico swore he knew where I lived, so I'm just being careful. I say again, you can NEVER be too careful.
Sliding the clip into the pistol, and slapping it tight with a loud click, I looked at the gun from every angle, turning it left and right in my grip. Sometimes I wonder if I should just aim it at my own head and pull the trigger. Let's see you try to find me then, Rico. I swore at the same time, though, that I would live to thwart Rico's plans to kill me. Killing myself would satisfy him, and therefore it's not worth it. I won't give him the satisfaction.
The sound of the doorbell rang through the silent house like a cathedral bell. I whirled on the origin of the chime and almost blew the ringer right off the wall. Taking a moment to collect my nerves, I let my breathing slow down, and wiped the flash sweat from my head. As trained when you get unwanted guests, I slid with my back to the wall. I moved slowly and quietly until my back was to the front wall and I could peer through the angles of the crystal glass that made up the upper portion of the front door. The somewhat-scattered image reflected a man dressed in all blue. Light blue shirt, dark blue shorts, dark blue ballcap. The logo on the hat was impossible to make out from this side of the door. He was holding a clipboard, not a gun. It could still be a clever trick.
The man reached out and the doorbell rang again. I slid across the door, keeping my back against it, until I could reach the knob. I unlocked the top three dead bolts, then the bottom two, and turned the knob, opening the door slowly but remaining behind it, pistol in hand. The man stood on the porch for a moment, looking in. Good. He has yet to see me. Suddenly walking in as if he decided the door swung open on its own or was somehow automatic, he took a few steps into the foyer and stood there a moment before saying, "Uh... hello? Anyone home?" I swung the door shut behind him with a loud slam. His body jerked slightly. Good, he was startled, this gives me a little less than a second where he is completely vulnerable and not thinking clearly. I buried my pistol into the back of his neck and held it there as quickly I issued the commands to subdue my aggressor. "Hands up! Place them behind your head! On your knees! Cross your ankles! Stay there!" The man was whimpering slightly, but otherwise complied very quickly and promptly to each order in turn. Now on his knees with his hands behind his head, he didn't try to turn and face me at any given moment. This could be because I perfectly executed the capture commands, or it could be because he works for Rico and he has been through this before. It was likely the second one.
I placed my palm against the back of his hands and head and pushed him face first into the floor. There was a soft crunching noise and the man's whimpering grew a louder after it, beginning with a loud grunt at the moment of impact. He started sniffling. Good, I broke his nose. That will make him distracted and his vision will be poor as well, should he suddenly decide to make his move. You have to be prepared for this kind of thing. You can never be too careful.
He started to stir slightly so I pushed the pistol to the back of his head again. I need to reestablish authority, so I let the gun be my assistant, "This is a Glock 9mm, it has a 17 shot clip and it is currently fully loaded. On a good day, I only need one shot to kill you. From this range and your current situation, this looks like a very good day. However, just in case this is a bad day, I have 16 more bullets."
His sniffling grew a little louder as I heard him muttering, "Oh jesus, oh jesus" over and over again. Good, we're stable and I can relax a little. My capabilities were established. I took the gun from his head and sat back on the stairs. Even though I had lowered the gun, I said to the man still face down in the rug, "Just because you don't feel the gun is no reason to think I won't scatter grey matter all over my foyer if you move." He was still... well... praying I guess. This needed to be more productive, "I'm going to start asking you questions. I need your answers to be brief, blunt, and satisfying to the extent of my entire question. If your answer is a lie, I will know. If you ramble too much, if you seem like you're hiding something, or if I simply do not like your answer, I will begin putting holes in your non-vital organs. We can do this quickly and with a minimal amount of pain, or you can spend your last few hours on Earth as a dickless quadriplegic before I shoot you in the head."
I paused long enough to make sure he was in fact listening the whole time and not just still trying to get Jesus to save him. In all honesty, since the likelihood is high that he was sent here to kill me, even the praying could be a clever ruse. I pulled a cigarette from my pack and lit it with the lighter from my pocket, "Question 1: Who are you?"
Sniffling a little, there was a small dark puddle forming underneath him. Fantastic. At least I scheduled the carpet shampoo for next week. He answered shakily, "W-Walter, s-s-sir."
"Walter. Good. What are you doing here?"
"F-Fix the stove."
"I didn't call anyone to fix my stove."
"Oh lord help me... ch-check my b-b-bag!"
I didn't see a bag anywhere. He didn't have one when he came in. I got up and circled around him towards the door, keeping the pistol trained on his skull. Reaching behind me to open the door and keeping my back to it, I took the quick risk of taking my eyes off of him to check and make sure he didn't have back up coming. I hadn't searched him yet. I really should. First, though, I saw his bag on the porch. I quickly reached out and swung it inside the door and kicked it shut again, locking all the locks while keeping my eye on my new friend Walt.
"Walter. Here's the thing. Whatever Rico is paying you to try and kill me, it's not enough. I'm a highly trained soldier and he probably didn't mention that."
"Wh-who?"
"Rico, don't play dumb."
"S-sir, I honestly have n-no idea wh-what you mean!!"
Well, it was hard to tell, but it didn't seem like he was lying. I checked his bag and right on the top was a folded sheet of paper. The sheet had all of my information, as well as the date I called. I pulled the phone from my pocket and checked the call log. Oh, what do you know, I did call these guys.
Oh yeah... the stove. Well, you can never be too careful, and I guess I owe this guy an apology now. Yeah right. Whoever he was, he was good. "Sir," I began, "I'm going to search you very quickly and check you for weapons. After that, I'm going to stand you up, and if you just fix my stove and get out, we won't have a problem."
"What about my nose?"
"Would you prefer I kill you? I'm still not convinced you're on the level."
"Oh n-no sir."
"Good we have an understanding."
Patting him down, he had two pens, a tin of altoids, and his clipboard under him as I stood him up. I threw the altoids in the trash. They were probably poisoned. I kept the pens just in case.
Walking over to the stove, keeping the gun to his back as he walked in front, I dropped his bag at his feet and hopped up on the counter at a safe distance, keeping the gun on him.
Trembling, Walter said, "Sir, it's really hard to work with that gun on me. I'm just a repairman and you checked me for weapons."
"Hmm... yeah I suppose you're right, but the gun stays here in my hand, and if you try anything funny, I'm going to whirl it on you so fast that you wouldn't have time to shit your pants."
I guess he felt he pushed his luck far enough, and he turned to pull the stove away from the wall, and started working behind it. He was still at a fair angle that I could see him from my vantage. I couldn't see his hands, but I could see his pockets and his bag.
Speaking of shitting his pants, I couldn't help but notice the room really stank. I'd never smelled someone with a pant load before, but this could be it. I had scared him so bad that he had soiled himself. Good, this exemplifies control through fear. The stench was a bit off though, and I cracked open the window behind me. I never open it too far, just in case a sniper is across the street and he knows the glass is bulletproof.
I let him finish his work without incident. He said he was done and I started to walk him back to the front door, gun at his back. He continued to plead that it wasn't necessary, but you can never be too careful. I put my back to the door again and peered outside, keeping my gun to Walter's head. Coast was clear outside, and I opened the door and let Walter walk out. Standing on my porch, he turned, still frightened, "Um.. sir? I need to give you a r-r-r-receipt for the work order..." He swallowed hard as he said the last word. I replied, "Tell Rico he didn't get me this time, and he's lucky his man didn't make a move." I slammed the door shut in his face and kept the gun to the door. Watching him through the scattered view, he turned and ran from the house like a startled cat. Just before running, he had dropped a pink sheet on the porch. Must be my receipt.
I opened the door after checking the area again, and reached out for the pink sheet. I chuckled slightly as I watched Walter's work van squeal out of my cul de sac, tires spinning in white smoke. Guess he wasn't a hitman after all, but he will be a very alert repairman tomorrow.
The house still stank. Whatever that guy had dropped into his shorts, the smell of it had the ability to stick to furniture. Disgusting. Thanks, Walt. Guess we're even. I scare the shit out of you, and you leave the shit behind.
Opening the pink sheet, I noticed there was no price listed. Was he afraid to charge me? Hell! I should do this every time the repairmen come! Now I've got plans for the people that come to clean the rug. Ha!
Then something caught my eye. He had signed the bottom of it. It wasn't the signature of a frightened man, or even a professional repairman. It was covered in stars and was underlined with a flourish. He had signed it, "The Firebug. Have a nice day!" With sharp inhalation, I had taken a quick sigh to help me think and understand what was going on, but with that breath, I smelled the house one more time. That wasn't the guy's shit.
It was gas.
I immediately imagined some sort of delayed time spark installed on my gas line, how he had been down there and disconnected the line from the stove. As I sprinted out the front door, I dove from the porch and slid on my hip underneath my SUV. I was only twenty or so feet from the walkway, but that was enough.
The explosion came with a sort of whoomp as The front picture window flew free from the house, still attached to part of the frame. The brick flew in every direction. The windows held together, but traveled at high velocity like giant awkward frisbees. The roof fell in on top of the cavity left behind, and wood and shingles splintered across the ground. I waited under the SUV a little longer as a few more pieces of my once secure home rained from above, and a few more cracks and crashes from within the structure subsided.
I crawled out and stared at my house, torn asunder by the very element I had taken for granted to help keep me sustained. Rico didn't get me today, but it looks like I'll have to be more careful in the future.
