Mercenary Wolf

Ch 2

So yeah, there we were, in a little foreign country that didn't like our type coming in and doing what we did. They looked for any excuse to get us thrown in jail, so we were usually pretty careful.

Jimbo and I had finished celebrating. We had finished one mission and had another one lined up that would be done in two days. He told me he was gonna head back to the hotel.

I'd seen some cute little thing making offers around the corner and stumbled over to investigate. She was too young for my tastes though. To many damn kids worked these streets.

I gotta admit, it pissed me off. Kids should be kids! I was walking down the alley when some guy that I assumed was her pimp tried to grab my arm and convince me to go back to her. She was already out of sight. I hit the guy, told him to fuck off.

I had to just stand there kinda bleary eyed when the guy didn't get up. I gotta admit I was really, really drunk. Jimbo had come back to see what was holding me up. All he said was "Shit man!"

Did I mention Jimbo was a smart guy? He helped me throw the guy in a dumpster so he wouldn't be missed for awhile. He made sure we didn't leave prints anywhere. He dragged my ass back to our motel, making sure no one saw us. We went in the back, into our room where Jimbo actually literally chewed our tiny tv plug up, then hurried us to the front desk to loudly complain about rodents chewing shit up.

I didn't say anything the whole time. I was scared shitless. Don't get me wrong now; I'm a mercenary. I've killed, but always in the line of duty so to speak. This time, even if the guy was a pimp for kids and deserved it, it wasn't my mission. I took the guy's life in anger, not meaning too.

It was the fact that I had unintentionally killed a guy that had me unnerved. I'd never ended anyone in anger. That wasn't me. I hadn't thought it was me anyway. I guess now it was. The thought of me being something I wasn't, if you know what I mean, really scared the piss outta me.

The guy at the motel counter said he'd send up another tv. We went back to our room. Jimbo grabbed a case of beer and dumped some down the commode. He insisted I pick the bottles up a couple dozen times, put them to my lips. He wanted it covered just in case cops dusted our room for prints. Didn't make sense to me.

Then, Jimbo insisted we work out. He held up his hands and had me punching at him.

"Let it out," he growled, so I did. We had a good round of fisticuffs while waiting for the tv to get delivered. The tiny dude who brought it stared at us as we went at each other. Jimbo finally stopped us so he could throw the guy a nicer than usual tip. He had to move a few empty bottles to get to his wallet.

"He'll remember us, no doubt," Jimbo said.

"Jim..." I couldn't even say anything.

"You're going dry. Do that and we're good."

Morning came with a rap on our door. Policemen said we'd been seen in the area. We didn't deny it. They tested our blood levels for alcohol. There were enough bottles around to account for what was still in us. The clerk vouched for us coming out of our room, the bell hop vouched for our, and by that I mean my, bruised knuckles.

We finished the second mission, me sober from more than lack of drink. My ass could have been benched in a foreign country for life. Jimbo covered everything. He covered stuff I would never had thought of. It wasn't just his word for what didn't actually happen that night, it was the local people backing up the story he wove.

By the time we got back home I was feeling the effects of drying out. Depression from my folly was hitting me bad. I didn't know I was a drunk. I knew I drank, we all did. I didn't know I was that bad.

He stayed by my side the whole detox. I felt like shit. I felt like I wanted to die. He shoved food down me again and again after it came up. He worked me out till I was sure the only sleep I finally managed was when he knocked me out. Hell, he even pulled the hose in through a window and hosed me down when I refused to move.

He fought me for my life. And he won.

I owed him. Every day, every hour. My life, everything I made of it, would be in tribute to my brother. If he ever needed anything, come hell or high water, I'd have his six.