A Damned Reunion

Chapter 7

~ Sekerta

The worst emotion in the world has got to be helplessness. That torn, frozen feeling you get when you know you should do something, anything; but you can't and nothing you could do would make a slick of difference. Sekerta was feeling that sense of helplessness right then. He stood guarding the door, arms crossed and legs apart, watching powerless as Logan abused Rosa. He dragged her by her hair to the centre of the room and shoved her to the ground. He slammed his boot onto her hand, and pulled her arms up at the same time. Rosa yelped, and Logan brought his fist down on her face.

There was no reason for this attack. Other then he could.

Sekerta turned away, the flowing brown curtains on the window becoming very interesting all of a sudden. He stared at them, trying to ignore the sounds of Rosa's whimpers and tears. He flinched at the sound of bone breaking and a shriek, but didn't look. He knew that if he did he would step in, and that would just lead to more beatings for the both of them. After the fifth slap Sekerta glanced at them.

Smiling, Logan dragged her up and held her by the throat. She clawed at his fingers in desperation as the pressure began to build, her face turning red. Slowly, her legs lost their strength and she hung there, completely helpless. No, this has to stop. He's gone too far. Sekerta stepped forward.

Suddenly, Logan dropped Rosa and she hit the floor with a gasping breath. But Logan wasn't paying attention; he was watching the window. The trees outside cast their twisted shadows on the curtains, creating false images along the rippling material. Who knows what Logan saw there? But it made him freeze with fear. He slowly stepped back from the opening, hands held out in front of him as if he was warding off invisible demons. Sekerta was stunned; Logan Walker the Terrible wasn't as strong as they all though.

As quickly as it began, Logan snapped out of his daze. He saw Rosa on the wooden floorboards, clutching her broken arm. Logan stared at her, his hand moving subconsciously towards his own. Shaking his head, Logan slapped her once more and stormed out of the room.

Sekerta waited a moment, before cautiously stepping to Rosa's side. Her hair was tangled and dirty, and blood slid down her body to drip onto the floor.
Sekerta held out a hand. "Here, let me help you up." She scowled and spat in his face. He blinked, "fair enough. But at least let me tend to that arm?" He phrased it as a question. She clutched it tighter, and inched away. Sekerta knelt down and took out the small, standard med kit from his pack. Pulling out a bandage, he held out his hand again. This time, Rosa gently placed her wounded arm in his hand.

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~ Hesh

Every man has his breaking point. It seems I had found mine.

I eventually returned to base. I had walked for an hour, aimless and numb to the world. I found a rock and sat, my legs crossed under me; the rage and guilt that had overwhelmed me earlier was now just a smouldering heap inside me. The words I had said kept replaying in my mind, and the knowledge that they were true tore at my resolve. I thought of Ginger, Kick and Keegan. Of Merrick, Elias and Logan. All the people I had hurt. All the people I had failed. I looked down at the name tag on my uniform; Lieutenant Walker. I didn't deserve this role. Hell, I didn't deserve to be a member. I ripped the badge off my upper arm and held it in my tanned hands, the Ghost emblem watching me with empty eyes. For a month I had clawed my way back from the bottom. I had found hope, I had not given up.

And in one hour, I lost it all.

I trudged the last quarter mile home in a daze. I shouldered open the kitchen door to see the Ghosts watching me. I hung my head in shame. Stepping forward, I placed the badge on the table next to Merrick and turned away.

This was it. I was out of the Ghost squadron.

I don't think there was anything the men could have said that would have made me stay. Sometimes, words just don't work. But what one man can say in a dozen words, one dog can deliver in one touch. Riley walked to my side and lent against my leg, tail wagging. I knelt down next to him and he pressed his nose into my chest. I held onto his neck as a deep sob escaped my lips. He whined and I heard the others leave. I clutched his fur and buried my face in his coat as I let it out. I am not one for weeping, or showing any kind of feeling whatsoever, besides maybe anger and aggression. I am a guy after all. But may I say it was relieving finally letting out the sadness, not just the fury. And Riley just waited there for me to finish, and I realised that they all were. The Ghosts were waiting for me. They needed me as much as I needed them. They were my brothers in arms. I wiped the snot from my nose and rubbed Riley's back. "Good boy. You're a good boy", I whispered. He licked my cheek and I rose. Once again I had toppled to the bottom, but once again I will hike my way back to the top. I saw the emblem and remembered the wise saying of Winston Churchill, spoken all those years ago that still ring true today; Never give up. Sometimes though, words do work.

I reached for the badge.

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~ Rorke

Rorke wasn't sure when it happened exactly. One minute, he was in command. The next, men were running to do Logan's biding and even he was receiving orders. Him, Gabriel Rorke! Former Captain of the Ghosts and leader of the Federation!

What made it worse was the fact that he hadn't fought against it. After Logan told him he was taking charge he just accepted it, like a goddamn pussy! And he had stepped back when Logan moved towards him, because in that moment Rorke felt a twinge of fear; Logan had murder in his eyes. Rorke had made him this way. Perhaps his techniques at 'persuasion' were too successful.

Mud squelched beneath his feet as he walked through the mansion's vandalized gardens. He pulled his black jacket tighter around him, a poor protector against the unrelenting rain. Who knew that rain in South America could be so cold? He passed a group of Fed soldiers, their gazes flicking to him before finding their way back to the murky ground. When Rorke was boss, they regarded him with awe and fear. To them, Rorke was brutal and cunning. Wicked. Although, compared with Logan, judging from the look of pure terror in their eyes when they saw him, Rorke was a saint.

He reached the middle of the gardens where the men had set up a fire to keep off the chill. Rorke smiled to himself, imagining their misery if he made them put it out. He stepped forward to do just that when footsteps sounded behind him. He spun on his heal, blade in hand. A flick of a wrist, quick as lighting, and a throwing knife knocked it away.

"Fast. But I'm faster". Logan sauntered towards him with a smirk, a second throwing knife held loosely in his fingers. The cold rain had chilled his face and the twin scars on his right cheek were stark against the pale skin. "Still refusing to accept it, aren't you?" he said, flipping the blade over in his hand and sliding in back into his pants. He wore loose trousers and a simple shirt. No jacket, no jumper.

"Cold?" Rorke asked indifferently.

"I'm used to it." Of course he was. He spent 7 months in a hole with nothing except a ripped shirt and torn pants. What Logan had said finally registered. "Still haven't accepted what?" Rorke probed.

Logan crossed his arms over his broad chest. "You don't accept me as commander. You don't believe that I should be. Am I right?"

Rorke didn't reply. Logan knew it was the truth. "So, I am allowing you to fight me for it. When you're ready, come find me and we will battle this out. No weapons, just bare hands. And the winner becomes Boss. Is that alright with you?"

Rorke had to smile. A fierce, bloody fight, just how he liked them. "Deal."

Logan began to turn away, but stopped. "Oh, and Rorke?" Logan stared him in the eye. "I do deserve this position. And I look forward to proving that to you."