And Every Man Has to Die

EIGHT

1104 hours

Day Shift

Valeriy Romanov pulled into the Russian bakery lot. He killed the engine and set the parking brake. Several stalls over, he recognized Sergey’s car. He wondered briefly if Pavel had driven his father this morning. Had he started reading the book Val gave him? The boy needed to buckle down and learn a little bit more about the business if he was going to be part of it. Of course, the boy’s role was ultimately going to be different than Sergey had planned, but Val believed he would still be useful after his father was gone. If nothing else, his presence would give Marina a place to hide from her grief.

Val exited his car and walked into the bakery. The middle-aged wife of the proprietor looked up from the bread she was kneading, a sincere smile on her face. When she saw Val the smile faltered, but she recovered quickly and nodded to him.

Val returned her nod and made his way to Sergey’s table. No Pavel, but as usual, Sergey sat reading the River City Herald. The task took him a great deal of time every morning, as his English was still far from fluent. Val had heard that American journalism strove to write at the eighth-grade education level. Anything more difficult and Sergey would have to spend the entire day with the newspaper.

Val sat down without waiting for permission. He knew that irked Sergey, but the older man simply made him wait a while as penance. Val didn’t mind. He skimmed the front page while Sergey held the paper in front of him. His own English was not the best, but he read better than he spoke. A story about the “gangland slayings” was full of speculation, but no real information. Nothing in the article referenced Sergey or himself. In fact, there was nothing in the article at all about Russians, Ukrainians, or the politically correct term, Eastern Europeans.

Val was only mildly encouraged. He knew that the police were likely to be stingy with any information, especially with a newspaper that seemed to delight in hammering the cops at every opportunity. Val didn’t mind seeing them take a drubbing, but he kept that bias in mind when reading the paper.

Eventually Sergey rattled the paper, folded it, and set it in front of him. “Much to do in today’s news,” Sergey said.

Val shrugged. “Speculation and nonsense,” he replied.

Sergey nodded. “Probably. There is no mention of us at all.”

“And that’s good,” Val said. “What did you need to talk to me about?”

Sergey stroked his freshly shaved cheek. “I want to discuss two things. First, our new allies. Do you think each of them will comply with our demands? Or do you believe that we may have to put down a small rebellion before our conquest is complete?”

Val considered. “If I approach your question logically, then my answer is this. DeShawn Brown was the strongest of the group, which is why we struck at him. He is a businessman. He will comply. The other blacks will follow suit. The white believes we are partners, so he will pay.”

“And the Mexican?”

“He is young and it was his brother we eliminated.” Val shrugged. “It is possible he may retaliate.”

“We are in a position to deal with this should it arise, no?”

“We are,” Val said. “But the less we flex our muscle, the less police have reason to look at us.”

“Ah,” Sergey said. “The police. That was the other item I wished to discuss with you.”

Val waited, saying nothing. Sergey’s contempt for American police was on par with that for the Kiev police. Val disagreed with his assessment. The tactics of the Kiev police were certainly more brutal than their American counterparts, but the Americans tended to be largely incorruptible and more idealistic. Any moves they made had to be considered with this in mind.

“I believe,” Sergey said, “now that we have consolidated our position within our own world, we should put police on notice that we are hands off.”

Val believed the best way to be strong was to remain invisible to the police, but he knew Sergey wouldn’t listen. And most of Sergey’s plan so far had matched his own, so Val played along. “How do you intend to put them on notice?” he asked.

“A while ago, some of our people were stopped by a police officer. A woman, yes?”

“That’s right,” Val said.

“And they walked away with not so much as a traffic ticket.”

“That’s true.”

“Because they threatened force.”

“Yes,” Val said. He had chastised them for it, angry that they would risk a confrontation with the police over something so meaningless. Better to have simply taken the ticket and paid it.

“I think,” Sergey said, “that the next time such a situation occurs that the police officers should not walk away unscathed.”

“You want our soldiers to kill a police officer?” Val asked, surprised.

“No, no, no,” Sergey said. “That won’t be necessary. But I think a sound beating will be just the message we are looking to send.”

In Kiev, the message would work. Here, Val believed it would have the opposite effect. Instead of making them untouchable, it would cause the police to turn even more attention toward their operation. This was a bad move, but Sergey would not see it that way. Instead of raising objections, Val remained silent. How might this action fit into his own plans? He couldn’t see an angle. There was no profit in this direction.

Sergey watched him as he ruminated. Eventually, Val said, “I’m not sure if I see the necessity, but you are the greater strategist.”

Sergey smiled at Val’s flattery. “What you don’t see, Valeriy, is that once the police fear us, our enterprise will be allowed to operate unfettered. We will become rich and powerful. Who knows?” he said. “Perhaps we could reach other cities. Portland. Seattle. Boise. Many of these places are largely untapped resources.”

Val smiled coldly. Sergey’s reach would always exceed his grasp, but in the short term that was exactly what he was counting on.

“Let me consider the best way to implement your strategy,” Val said. “I’ll bring you a plan in a few days.”

Sergey nodded. “Very well.”

Val nodded back. This gave him a few days reprieve. He wasn’t sure if that would be enough, but he would cross that bridge when he came to it.

“Where is Pavel?” he asked.

Sergey waved his question away in frustration. “Bah! The boy spends too much time with his friends. Always driving his car up and down Riverside Avenue. Always chasing the girls.”

“He is young,” Val said.

“He’s a foolish pup,” Sergey snapped. “He has much to learn if he is going to follow in my footsteps.”

“He will learn,” Val said. “I gave him a book to read.”

“I know,” Sergey said. “And it sits unopened on the coffee table in our living room.” Then he shrugged. “It is just as well. He doesn’t need to read some book. He needs to do.”

“And he will,” Val said. He felt a small stab of disappointment that Pavel had ignored Dune, but that was the boy’s own choice. “He will grow into his role over time.”

Sergey took a deep breath and let it out. “I hope you are right, my friend. I plan to be here many years, but who knows for certain what tomorrow may bring. I should like it if my son was ready to take over before he actually must.”

Val nodded. “He will learn,” he repeated. Then he shook the older man’s hand and left.

Outside, he glanced at his watch and then opened his cell phone. He dialed the number from memory.

“Yes,” Natalia said.

“I am coming over,” he said. “Make yourself ready.”

“Yes,” she said again, this time with enthusiasm.

Valeriy snapped the phone shut and got into his car. A storm was coming. Now was as good a time as any to attend to his other needs.

1412 hours

Officer Mark Ridgeway sat in the hotel room chair with his arms crossed, staring across the room at the FBI agent and the Russian prick he was guarding. The two had been playing a good-natured game of gin rummy for the past hour. Ridgeway had wordlessly refused their offer to join them. He felt his stomach churn at the way the agent kissed the Russian’s ass. Not only was the son of a bitch a criminal, but he’d been an enemy to this country for Ridgeway’s entire life.

That’s our problem, Ridgeway thought. We Americans are too forgiving.

Some of his peers might find his thoughts objectionable. Gio certainly would. But Giovanni hadn’t lived through the Cold War the same way Ridgeway had. Besides, Gio was too busy chasing tail to understand the finer points of the matter. And he’d been chastising Ridgeway for the past year about his so-called negative attitude.

His attitude wasn’t negative. It just befit the world he lived in.

The Russian was a perfect case in point. A veteran with his experience gets sent up to the Quality Inn to babysit a feeb and a Commie? What kind of attitude was he supposed to have about that?

It didn’t matter, though. Ridgeway had discovered that the world will throw whatever it wants at you and you pretty much just have to suck it down. It’s either that or check out, and as inviting as that seemed at times, Ridgeway wasn’t about to leave this world a coward.

“Gin!” the Russian exclaimed loudly, laying his cards down. “I have gin! I beat you, Greg. How you like that?”

The FBI agent folded his cards and shrugged, a small smile on his face. “Even a blind squirrel finds a nut every once in a while, Oleg,” he said easily.

“Hah!” Oleg said. “I beat you.”

“I was wondering,” Ridgeway said, raising his voice to catch the attention of both men. “Why’s it called gin rummy?”

Both men stared blankly at him. Agent Leeb shrugged. “No idea.”

“’Cause I figure,” Ridgeway continued dryly, “that if it’s a Russian playing it, maybe you oughta call it vodka rummy.”

The Russian’s expression darkened.

“Or maybe,” Ridgeway continued, “you shouldn’t be playing rummy at all, but a game of hammer and sickle.”

Leeb raised his hand in a calming gesture. “Now, officer-”

“No,” Oleg said to the agent. “Is all right. I like to hear.” He gave Ridgeway a cold glare. “What is game hammer and sickle?”

Ridgeway smiled coldly. “Well, that’s where you try like hell to take over the world for forty years ’til a guy named Ronald Reagan kicks your ass.”

The Russian’s face flushed.

“You oughta be good at it,” Ridgeway added.

“You are ignorant redhead,” the Russian spouted.

Ridgeway cocked his head. “My hair’s brown.” He didn’t mention the touch of gray throughout, or that it was getting thinner.

“Redhead. Redhead,” the Russian repeated, jabbing his finger in Ridgeway’s direction. “You are hick.”

“Hick?” Ridgeway asked. Then he laughed. “Oh, I see. You mean redneck.”

“Redneck. Yes,” the Russian said.

“Look, pal, if you’re going to insult me, at least learn my fucking language.”

The Russian shook his head. “You think you know all, but you know nothing.”

“Well,” Ridgeway said, “I know that I didn’t pack up and move to Moscow because over there was better than right here in the USA. I guess that’s a pretty clear indication of which country’s better.”

“I think that’s enough,” Leeb said.

Ridgeway turned his hands up innocently. “Just making conversation, Mister FBI Man.”

“You know nothing about my country,” the Russian shouted at Ridgeway. “My nation was great nation in Europe before yours even existed.”

“Yeah,” Ridgeway said. “And Rome was a pretty big fuckin’ empire. But where are they now? Same place you are.” Ridgeway tilted his head back and thought for a moment. “How did Reagan put it? Oh, yeah,” he said. “On the ash heap of history.”

“You are asshole of history,” the Russian yelled, climbing to his feet. “You think United States is better than Ukraine? Come here! I show you what is better.”

Ridgeway rose from his chair and took two giant strides to meet the Russian. Agent Leeb stepped between them with his hands out to keep the two men apart.

“You wanna throw hands, you Commie fuck?” Ridgeway said. “Take your best shot.”

“I knock you to hell,” the Russian shouted, surging forward against Leeb’s open hand.

“Enough!” Leeb yelled, his voice even louder than the Russian’s. “Enough of this.”

The two men stood, glaring at each other, seething. Leeb was the only thing keeping them apart. Their breathing seemed loud in the quiet room. A moment later, the sound of a key in the lock echoed through the room.

Ridgeway wheeled toward the door, his gun out of his holster and at the ready in less than a second.

Leeb pushed Oleg out of the line of fire while drawing his own gun. The door swung open and a uniformed Hispanic maid stepped through.

“Housekeeping,” she said, in a heavily accented, sing-song voice. Then she saw Ridgeway’s gun and froze. Her eyes widened and her hands went up. “Dios mio!” she cried out and staggered backward into the wall.

“Shit!” Ridgeway muttered and lowered his gun.

“ ^?No me matas!” the woman sputtered. “Por favor, no me matas.”

“It’s okay,” Leeb said, holstering his weapon. “Esta bien.Soy policia.” He flashed his badge at her.

Her gaze flicked to the badge and to Leeb’s face, then to Ridgeway’s. After a moment, she lowered her hands slowly. “You scare me, senor,” she said with a hint of reproval.

“We’re sorry,” Ridgeway said gruffly. “Anyway, don’t you people knock?”

The woman’s expression shifted. “I do knock,” she said, holding up two fingers. “Dos veces. You no hear?”

Ridgeway shook his head and holstered his own pistol.

The maid said nothing for a moment, wiping sweat from her forehead and taking a deep, steadying breath. Finally she motioned to the room. “You like service?”

Ridgeway shook his head again. He looked over at Leeb, whose expression was unreadable.

“We were making too much noise to hear the knock,” Leeb said to Ridgeway. Then he looked at the maid and said, “No necesitamos nada. Gracias, senora.”

The maid nodded to both of them and turned to go.

“This is bullshit,” Ridgeway muttered as the maid shuttled out of the room. “And it was his fault,” he emphasized, pointing at Oleg.

“Yob tvoyu mat,” Oleg said in a deep, loud voice.

As the door closed behind the maid, Ridgeway said, “I’m sure that means ‘thank you for letting me come to your country and be a fuckin’ piece of shit criminal.’ So, you’re welcome.”

Leeb stepped in between the two of them again before Oleg could respond. “That’s enough,” he said. “It does no one any good.”

He turned to Oleg. “Mind your temper.”

Then he turned his eyes to Ridgeway. “I don’t like jamming up another cop,” he said, “but I figure you’ve got two choices. Sit down and be quiet for the rest of your shift, or I’ll call your boss and have him send someone who can.”

Ridgeway paused. He was almost tempted to let the little peckerwood carry through. It would get him out of this shit detail, and what was the worst that would happen? He might get a letter of reprimand for his demeanor. But at the same time, Ridgeway knew that this detail, shit or not, was part of the job. And he was a traditionalist when it came to doing your job. He returned to his chair by the door, sat down, crossed his arms, and sealed his mouth.

2056 hours

Thomas Chisolm was the last to arrive at the roll call table. He sat down, snapping the last of his belt keepers into place. He returned several hellos from his platoon mates and reached for a copy of the daily intelligence flyer. He glanced at his watch-three minutes to roll call. He skimmed through the intelligence information for anything specific to his sector, and listened to the customary banter around the table. Everyone seemed more subdued than usual.

When he finished with the flyer he took stock of the officers at the table. Kahn seemed just as abrasive and self-absorbed as usual. O’Sullivan made several attempts to draw Battaglia into a mock argument, but the dark-haired man didn’t bite. Instead he seemed to be paying an inordinate amount of attention to Carson, who sat kitty-corner from him.

They exchanged several surreptitious glances that were glaringly obvious to Chisolm. He sighed inwardly. He would’ve figured that if anyone had started sleeping with Carson, it would’ve been Kahn. The man was notorious for such things. But Battaglia had never chipped around on his wife before this, at least not openly enough that Chisolm was aware of it. Now here he was fishing off the company pier.

Chisolm shook his head and pushed the intelligence flyer back into the center of the table. If this was true, it was going to be a problem. But before he could think about it any further, the roll call doors opened and Lieutenant Bill Saylor strode in. Behind him, shuffling along on crutches, came Officer Katie MacLeod. Chisolm smiled at the sight of her. She smiled back at him and the rest of the officers at the table.

Chisolm pulled out the chair next to him and Katie plopped into it.

“Hey, gimp,” O’Sullivan said. “Still nursing that little owie?”

“Still using your academy grades to get into the Special Olympics?” Katie retorted.

O’Sullivan smiled and nodded.

“How bad is it?” Chisolm asked.

Saylor called the room to order before she could answer. “Listen up,” he said. “There’s not a lot to go over tonight, but let’s get to it.”

He read off a pair of recent stolen vehicles, then turned to a memo. “As some of you probably know, the FBI is working the case against our local Russian criminal element. They’re currently in a surveillance mode, so the chief’s office wants you to be aware of that. Should they need our assistance on any operational need, we will respond. Also, we’re going to continue to help babysit their prisoner. Sergeant Shen’s sector has that duty tonight.”

Lieutenant Saylor turned the page and read off some more administrative matters before turning the roll call over to the sector tables.

Sergeant Shen looked around the table. “I believe it’s your turn, Officer Kahn,” he said.

Kahn groaned. “Don’t we go on seniority or something?”

Shen turned his attention to Katie. “We have our prodigal daughter back. At least for a moment. How’s the ankle?”

Katie shrugged. “Busted in a few places,” she said. “Once the swelling goes down a little bit more, they’re probably going to have to put in a pin or two.”

“Ouch,” Sully said. “You’ll never get out of Wal-Mart without showing your receipt again.”

“At least I won’t get busted for going through their garbage,” Katie said with a playful grin.

Sully’s eyebrows went up. “Whoa. That’s two in one night. Girl’s on fire.”

“How long before you’re back?” Sergeant Shen asked.

“Six to eight weeks,” Katie said, her grin fading. “Unless they have to operate. Then more like twelve.”

“What are they going to do with you until then?”

“It was on-duty injury,” she said. “So I have to work light duty. I’ll be down in Crime Analysis helping out Renee on all this Russian stuff.”

“So you’re some kind of expert now, huh?” Kahn said with a hint of a sneer.

“No,” Katie said. “But she wanted a cop’s perspective.”

Kahn grunted, but Katie ignored him. “After that,” she continued, “my guess is I’ll be out in dispatch.”

“That’ll be fun,” Sully said sarcastically.

“It’ll be fun for me,” she said, “when you and Batts end up going on every natural DOA or rape of a horse that comes in.”

Sully shook his head and mimicked a drum snare. “And there’s the hat trick,” he announced. Chisolm grinned. MacLeod still had it.

“All right,” said Shen. “Let’s hit the streets.”

2213 hours

Anthony Battaglia stared out the window of the patrol car. Houses jammed together like big city row houses flit by.

“This block always makes me think of Boston,” Sully said from the driver’s seat.

Battaglia knew it was an opening for him to say how the closest Sully ever got to Boston was watching a Red Sox game on TV. Instead he let the moment pass.

The two rode in silence for another several minutes. The radio squawked with the occasional service run, but the dispatcher didn’t call their number and none of the incidents were close enough to divert, so they just cruised through West Central on routine patrol. Battaglia was glad to have Sully back from his bout with food poisoning, but he didn’t feel much like talking.

“What’s the matter, goombah?” Sully finally asked. “You don’t like this district? Because we can switch with Kahn and work Hillyard tonight if you want.”

“I don’t care one way or the other,” Battaglia answered. His chest burned with indigestion. He wanted to blame it on the taco he’d eaten after they left the station, but he knew the truth. It was Carson.

He didn’t know what to do. He felt excited and alive with her. He felt like he was smart. It was different than with Rebecca; his wife made him feel dumb. In high school and for a long time after, it didn’t matter. He was the jock and she was the brain. It worked. But his physical prowess was slowly declining while her brain just seemed to keep getting sharper. Now she was writing fucking poetry, which he couldn’t make heads or tails out of, while he played recreational league softball.

It seemed to him that she was going places he couldn’t follow.

He avoided looking at Sully. If the Irishman got a good enough look at his face, he’d know something was up. That might be a relief. Battaglia wanted to talk to him about it. Sully was his partner. Hell, he was his best friend. But he knew what Sully would say and he wasn’t ready to hear it just yet.

“Your turn to be sick, lad?” Sully asked.

“Maybe.”

Maybe he should tell Sully. Maybe Sully wouldn’t jump his shit about it. Maybe he’d just be his friend and understand what Battaglia was going through, or at least try to. Maybe-

“You want me to run you home?” Sully asked. “Maybe you need some of Rebecca’s homemade chicken soup.”

Battaglia swallowed and shook his head.

“No?” Sully shrugged. “Okay. But if I were you, I wouldn’t miss a single opportunity to eat some of that woman’s soup.”

But Sully wasn’t him. Obviously he couldn’t tell Sully what was going on in this fucked-up head of his. He couldn’t let on that anything was wrong.

Battaglia cleared his throat and amped up his Brooklyn accent. “Yeah, well, I’d rather crush a little crime, yaknowwhudImean? So why don’t we go up to Hillyud and kick that fenook Kahn outta da district.”

He glanced over at Sully and forced a smile.

Sully’s face lit up. “Now yer talkin’, lad!”

2253 hours

Ludmila Malkinova slid her timecard into the slot and punched the red button. The time clock clunked and she withdrew her card. It read 10:58 PM. Her own watch read 10:53 PM. The clock in the hotel break room was matched to her own watch.

She shook her head. Clyde set the clock late so that they had to arrive early. There was no overtime unless they went over thirty minutes, so he lost nothing by her clocking out five minutes after the hour.

It was the same everywhere. Always the rich took advantage of the poor. Always the business owners took advantage of the workers. Even in her homeland it was the same way. The Soviet government may have professed to treat everyone equally, but that was a lie. At least here, all it cost her was an extra five minutes.

Still, some things were different here. Over dinner tonight, her husband told her about a Russian gangster who had betrayed his own people. That would never have happened in the homeland. America corrupted almost everyone.

She checked at the front desk. Clyde, the night manager who thought he was so sly with his clock games, gave her an appraising eye. “You look tired, Millie,” he said.

“I am mother,” Ludmila answered. She ignored the nickname. She thought it was far too assuming for an unmarried man to talk to a married woman so informally. “My husband works much in the daytime. I must care for children and then work the night. Is hard.”

Clyde shrugged. “Times are tough all over,” he said, though it was clear to her that he had no idea what tough times were like. “Take over for Constanza.”

Ludmila suppressed a scowl. Constanza was a pretty young Hispanic girl who didn’t know the meaning of the word “work.” If she was taking over for Constanza, she’d already be behind in her duties.

Ludmila tried the break room first, and wasn’t surprised to discover the girl there chattering with two other housekeepers. One was Hispanic, but the other was a white girl who must not have spoken Spanish, because Constanza was speaking English to them both.

“And then I see the gun,” Constanza was saying. “It scared me almost to death!”

“Oh my God!” the white girl said. “You’re kidding me!”

“Es la verdad,” Constanza said, crossing herself and kissing her thumb. “I think that maybe they are going to kill each other. Then I think that maybe they are going to kill me.”

“Was he a policeman?”

Constanza nodded, then shrugged. “Si. I mean, I think so. He said they were. At least two of them. I don’t know about the other one. He sounded Russian.”

Ludmila’s ears perked up.

“All of them had guns?”

Constanza shook her head. “No, only two. Not the Russian.”

Ludmila’s mind raced. If the Russian was the only one without a gun, then he must be their prisoner. It had to be the ones that Vladimir told her about.

“One of them spoke Spanish,” Constanza said. “And… el es muy guapo.”

The other Hispanic girl burst into a fit of conspiratorial giggles. Constanza joined in.

“What?” the white girl asked. “What did she say?”

“I say that the one who speaks Spanish, he is very handsome.”

“Oh,” the white girl said. Then she joined in with their giggling.

These girls were in their twenties, yet they still acted like thirteen-year-olds. Ludmila’s instinct was to snap at them, get the cleaning list from Constanza, and leave them in the break room to carry on with their immature prattle. But not tonight. Because Vladimir had mentioned something else to her over dinner. Something about a reward.

“What room?” Ludmila asked Constanza.

The girls stopped giggling. Constanza eyed Ludmila suspiciously. Ludmila tried to put on a friendly face, but it didn’t come naturally for her.

“What do you care?” the white girl said.

Ludmila smiled and shrugged. “I only want not make same problem. I no like guns, either.”

Constanza’s disapproving gaze rested on her for another few moments, then she shrugged. “Whatever,” she said. “It’s room 420.”

“Thank you,” Ludmila said. “You have cleaning list?”

Constanza pulled it from her apron and held it out to Ludmila. Ludmila reached out to take it from her hand, but Constanza pulled it back.

“Oops!” she said in mock distress.

Ludmila let the friendliness drain from her face and sent Constanza a dark scowl. She kept her hand extended.

Constanza pouted for a moment, then slapped the list into Ludmila’s open hand. “You’re such a sourpuss, Millie,” she said. The other two girls tittered nervously.

“I here to work,” Ludmila said.

“Den go verk,” Constanza said mockingly.

Ludmila left the break room without looking back. She ignored the list, too, slipping it into her own apron pocket. Instead she went into the nearest unoccupied room and flipped the deadbolt behind her. She swung the safety lock over, too.

Ludmila picked up the telephone and dialed her house. Vladimir picked up on the third ring. “Da?”

Ludmila smiled, this time for real. “I have something to tell you,” she said.

Friday, July 18th

0716 hours

Thomas Chisolm cruised slowly down the street near the large apartment complex. He wasn’t sure where Carson’s apartment was, so he kept the truck in first gear and let the engine pull him along. It didn’t take long.

He spotted a blue Chevy parked near the corner and stopped. He stared at the truck for a little while. After all, lots of people drove trucks in the Pacific Northwest. Even Chevys. But the joke did little to lighten his mood. Especially not when he saw the license plate holder on the truck that read, “Italians Do It Better.”

Definitely Batts’ truck.

Chisolm sighed. His suspicions at the roll call table last night had just been confirmed. This was going to cause complications. Lots of them. Battaglia and Carson would start going to a majority of their calls together. There would be tension between Sully and Battaglia over it. There would be resentment from some of the other platoon mates, as well.

But the most important thing was the safety implications. Neither one of the officers would operate on professionalism alone if emotion was involved. If a critical incident occurred, he knew that the reaction of either one couldn’t be counted upon.

God damn it. There were about 2.5 billion women in the world. If Battaglia was going to step out on his wife, the least he could do would be to choose one who didn’t work on the same fucking platoon.

Chisolm put his Ford in gear and headed home. He knew that he was going to have to deal with this, and soon. First and foremost to keep the sergeant from finding out and getting involved. But most importantly to eliminate the distraction for either one of them.

“A distracted soldier is a dead soldier,” he said quietly, recalling the words of his commander in Vietnam. Captain Mack Greene had taught him a lot about being a warrior. And Chisolm knew that it was his responsibility to pass it on to the next generation.

Whether they liked it or not.