HONOR DEFENDED

     I'd killed four men to repay the blood debt owed my War Brother and my Rhade family. They were the only family I had. Getting ‘em out of ‘Nam before the war ended had been the one good thing to come from three years of fighting a war the politicians lost.
     I don't have much of a formal education, however, I do have several advanced degrees in the killing arts. Killing the evils of this world's never weighed much on my mind. It's the ghosts of unnecessary kills that follow me around. Three of those dead men had been as necessary as wiping crap off my boots. One had been an unnecessary waste. By the time the mess was cleaned up, I hoped I'd gotten back some of the honor due him.

As I drove the winding road over and along the Hoko River I wondered what was going to invade my zone again. I'd hoped to leave trouble far behind when I'd taken myself out of the game all those years ago. I'd given more than a quarter of a century to killing my country's enemies.
     I'd seen the writing on the wall and didn't like what was being written there. ‘Slick Willy's' administration and the ones before his were ignoring the signs of the coming terror. I'd watched my War Brethren, from Lebanon to Sudan to the USS Cole being killed unnecessarily. My teachers in the art of war had taught me: when shot at, kill the motherfuckers doing the shooting. To get up-close and personal. Don't just sling a few million dollars' worth of missiles at ‘em and strut around on the world stage mouthing platitudes. Everything I'd seen coming happened on 9/11. Now a new messiah had risen on America's political stage proclaiming he was going to fix it once again. Yeah, and that 20,000 acres of verdant farm land I've been hanging onto in the Mojave Desert can be yours for a handful of change. You can't negotiate with mad men or terrorists. Period.
     Little did I know what the next twenty-four hours was going to bring. Of course, it wouldn't have mattered if I had. The only way to fight war is win it or die trying. No quarter.

When I got to State Highway 112, I turned left to the west. Jimmy's sister lived another six miles up the coast in a waterfront enclave overlooking the Strait of Juan de Fuca. I'd met her on many occasions when she was working with Jimmy at his Spring Tavern. Carmen had gotten all the beauty in the family: a natural blond with fine chiseled features although her personality thawed most of her ice queen exterior. Come to think of it, I didn't know her last name. I did know she was married to a Marine Corps officer, currently on his third tour in Iraq, and they had a couple of kids.
     Jimmy's also an old combat Vet from the ‘Nam era. A bit before my ‘68-71 tours. Not a snake-eater like me, but he'd seen some pretty heavy fighting in his year in hell. I'd helped him before, and he'd watched my back a time or two. He doesn't spook. As I said, he didn't get any of the good looks when God had been handing ‘em out to the Crae family. Dirty blond hair, five foot ten and well over two hundred-fifty pounds, he had a face an English Bulldog would have been ashamed of. The heart that beat inside had fixtures of pure gold.

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