After experiencing several battlefields, I thought nothing in this world could twist my humanity any further.
Merciless slaughter, choking smoke, shrieks, bellowed commands, the metallic stench of blood mingling with the acrid remnants of high explosives—all of it churned my stomach.
I crawled through the underbrush and rubble scattered across the battlefield, squinting, praying that stray bullets or shrapnel would pass me by. Amid the flames, I saw silhouettes of corpses refusing to fall, a dead child clutching a stuffed toy, and above all—death itself.
I had no time to think—at least not in a battlefield teeming with danger. I moved mechanically, executing orders, scanning my surroundings every five seconds, choosing the most efficient and safest path. My mission was infiltration, not slaughter, though that was what I’d been trained for.
I exhaled every ounce of air from my chest, cautiously slipping into a sewer. Infiltrate. Infiltrate. Infiltrate. Hide. Locate the target. Take the pictures. Leave.
No one would know I’d been there… except for the dead, whose wide-open eyes would testify otherwise.
Under the dim light of a commandeered civilian house-turned-command center, I saw the corpses of what might have been the previous homeowners. They were laid out neatly, save for the bullet holes at their temples, the bloodstains, and the ash-gray eyes that seemed to fixate on me.
They seemed to ask: Why are you here? Why didn’t you save us?
I left that house, but my soul remained trapped within its scarred walls. Shells screamed endlessly over my head. Temperatures soared and plummeted. My body alternated between soaked and dry, dry and soaked. Sometimes, an eerie silence would descend, sharp and unnatural.
The forests of Oregon, cloaked in the darkness of night, were noisier and more chaotic than the battlefield of Kosovo. The forest, like the battlefield, was fraught with dangers. A fall could render even a towering body like mine immobile—just another corpse, gray and unseeing.
I once considered burning my medals and the unsent letters with them, severing all ties to the past.
But every time I tried to toss them into the fireplace, my body would tremble uncontrollably. Ice coursed through my veins. My breathing became so rapid it threatened to choke me until I dug my nails into my palms, drawing gray blood, and regained some semblance of control.
I returned to the forest—the only battlefield I could find that carried no intent to kill.
Day 1
I pushed open the door to the interrogation room and saw Aaron sitting at a stainless-steel table. Behind him was a high, narrow window, barely seven inches wide and tall—far too small for an adult to escape through. November sunlight in Portland filtered through the window, breaking into streaks of light by the Tyndall effect, as dust danced freely within its rays.
On the table in front of Aaron was an 80-watt incandescent bulb, not pointed at his face but directly illuminating his hands. Those hands were unforgettable—large palms, long and agile fingers, dirt caked beneath the nails, and scars of varying depths and ages across the backs of both hands. His palms rested loosely on the cold steel table, occasionally shifting, leaving faint traces of moisture that the bulb’s heat quickly evaporated.
I sat across from him under the watchful eyes of two FBI agents. The four of us could have been a poker table short—or perhaps a few cigarettes.
Now seated, I could take my time observing Aaron’s face. His black hair was thick and just long enough to brush his trapezius muscles. He had the classic features of a Latin American heartthrob: slightly tanned skin, a narrow and angular face, thick eyebrows with two distinct furrows between them. His eyes were not deep-set, nor were they small, but he seemed to relish squinting at people, his gaze icy and piercing, as if suppressing something.
His nose had a subtle hook, his lips were thin, and faint stubble shadowed his upper lip and cheeks—a stark contrast to the filth under his nails. His ears were small and almost flush with the sides of his head.
The FBI hadn’t bothered with handcuffs or shackles, knowing full well such restraints meant little to a professional soldier—especially one who’d been decorated multiple times as a reconnaissance scout.
The FBI agents, predictably, didn’t welcome my presence. Dave, his voice hoarse, addressed me by my nickname:
“Crow. Not thrilled to see you.”
“Likewise,” I shot back. “I’m the first wave. Langley’s boys are running late, and the Pentagon’s folks are lining up next.”
Dave glared at me, his bloodshot eyes hard as stone. I stared back, trying to spot more moles on his flushed face.
“You win again, don’t you?” Dave growled, rising to his feet. “Lloyd, we’re leaving.”
The younger agent, visibly unsettled, hesitated. “We’re just going to…”
“Shut up,” Dave hissed through clenched yellowed teeth. Then, resting his broad, four-and-a-half-inch hand on my shoulder, he added, “Watch your back. Don’t end up in my hands.”
“Maybe next time I should buy you a drink,” I replied, unable to suppress the twitch in my face. No one could completely brush off the threat of Oregon’s FBI bureau chief, a man who wielded both power and a penchant for violence—not even me.
“On your grave, maybe,” Dave retorted, storming out with Lloyd trailing behind him.
The interrogation room door didn’t slam shut as I had imagined. Instead, it was carefully and gently closed.
"Aaron. Aaron Hartley. You can call me Crow, or George," I said, placing my hands on the cold stainless-steel table as well. It really was cold—Dave must’ve forgotten to turn on the heat in this room.
"George. Nice to meet you," Aaron said, his voice dry and rough, like the scraping of wood shavings. "Your nickname was the same as mine once."
"Seems like neither of us is particularly welcome," I replied softly. "We’ve got fifteen minutes. I’ll take about seven to explain why I’m here, and the rest will be your time."
"Five-foot-six, one hundred seventy to one seventy-five pounds. Injured right foot. Left shoulder seems to have taken a hit too." Aaron’s voice was calm and measured as he clinically described his observations of me. "Calluses on both palms, at the webbing between thumb and index finger. As an Asian, your English accent is distinctly West Coast. Los Angeles, maybe San Diego?" He smiled faintly. "You’ve got guts."
"I know who you are. All you need to know is that I’m here because my boss told me to swing by. Just like I told Dave earlier, Langley’s people and the Pentagon’s people are lining up behind me. They’re a lot more interested in you than I am." I sighed inwardly. Truth be told, I still didn’t like Aaron.
"ATF? Or maybe DEVGRU (Naval Special Warfare Development Group)? Can’t imagine someone from the IRS or NASA stopping by," Aaron chuckled, as if the roles were reversed, as if he were the one casually dropping by for a look.
"You’ve killed four people in total, one of whom is particularly tricky—a white-glove operative for a veteran senator. The kind that’s very useful." I decided to lay it all out. "Dave isn’t stupid; he doesn’t want to wade into this mess. I don’t know what’s going through your head, but I believe that, as someone with PTSD, you don’t give a damn who the target was. Unfortunately, some people disagree with me. And, Aaron, you’re in deep trouble."
"Who’s here to protect me? CIA or the Pentagon?"
"Both have the motive and means to protect you. But under enough pressure, they also have the motive and means to kill you."
"You too, George."
"That’s right, Aaron. I’m here to clean up the trash," I admitted bluntly. "My boss thinks you might be a good fit for an upcoming mission. She sent me to take a look. If everyone else is convinced you’re a dead man, then I’m here to give you one last chance to choose."
"Choose what?"
"The manner of your death."
"Does it matter whether I’m electrocuted or die on some nameless mission?"
"Not to me," I said with a small smile, slipping back into my usual rhythm. "And not to you either. Dead is dead."
"Then I refuse."
"Smart choice," I said, pulling out my phone and holding down a key. "Boss, Aaron refused."
"Then come back," Theresa said decisively, as always. I admired her efficiency.
"Well, Aaron, goodbye forever." I stood up. There was no need to waste words explaining the details to a dead man walking. Efficiency is key.
"George," Aaron called out. "Did you see LT on your way in?"
"Your mentor?" I nodded. "He hasn’t even had a chance to change out of those filthy clothes."
I stood outside the federal building, watching as four CIA agents in beige trench coats escorted Aaron, bound and shackled, into a vehicle. Just before he was shoved into the armored transport van, he glanced in my direction. Once he was inside, one of the CIA agents strode aggressively toward me.
He was a white man, towering over me by nearly a foot and weighing at least twice as much—a bully straight out of a high school drama, looking down his nose at me with smug superiority. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded.
I pulled out my credentials. The bully snatched them and squinted at the text. “NSAA? What’s that?” He pressed a hand to the earpiece of his comms. “Boss, what the hell is NSAA?”
From the corner of my eye, I caught the muscle in the transport van co-pilot’s face twitch violently. He muttered something into his comms, too low for me to catch. The bully handed my credentials back, his demeanor only slightly less arrogant, as he scanned me up and down again. He pointed a finger at me, then at his own eyes, as if to say I’m watching you.
I smirked and blew a kiss in the direction of the van’s co-pilot. Why not show some kindness to the doomed?
The bully scurried back to the van. I turned my head slightly and saw Dave standing beside me, casually, without so much as a jacket in the 35°F weather. Unbothered by the cold. Typical Dave.
“Here to send them off too?” I asked indifferently.
“More or less,” Dave replied with a cold smile. “That guy actually refused you and put his faith in Langley.”
“I couldn’t be bothered to argue,” I sighed. “Too much effort to explain. Besides, it’s not like there’s a shortage of people out there.” I kept to talk: “You’d better get your team ready. You’ll be hunting again soon.”
Dave glanced at me.
“I’ll hang around your office for a while. Maybe round up a few people to chat with. Langley’s folks are a pain—they don’t trust anyone.”
Dave and I took the elevator to the fourth floor. The FBI occupied two floors in the federal building, with several smaller structures nearby for specialized operations. This was their nerve center in Oregon. A sharp-looking female officer with chin-length blonde hair approached us. “Sir,” she said, but her gaze lingered on me, and she visibly hesitated, swallowing the rest of her sentence.
Dave gestured toward me with a thumb. “Crow,” he said, spreading his palm in a surprisingly affable introduction. “This is Abigail Durrell. She handled the Silver Falls case.”
Abigail extended her hand to me. “Abby. Nice to meet you.”
I smiled and nodded, shaking her hand—cool, dry, and steady. “Crow, or George. A pleasure.”
Abigail gave me a quick once-over. “Excuse me, sir. There’s something I need to discuss.” Dave nodded, then turned to me. “Make yourself at home. Coffee’s over there, restroom’s this way. Don’t let me see you again.”
Abigail offered me a faintly apologetic smile before leaving with Dave.
I poured myself a cup of coffee—thin as water, with no cream or sugar. “At least it’s hot,” came a voice from behind me.
“Maybe next time, I can treat you to coffee from my department,” I said, turning to face him. “LT.”
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” LT said, standing about six feet tall. His filthy clothes had been replaced with a deep blue flannel shirt and faded jeans, though his shoes—black suede, handmade, with no tread—remained unchanged. I hadn’t heard his footsteps, but I could guess why.
LT’s hair was gray, and his weathered face, etched with wrinkles and fatigue, suggested he was sixty or older. His sharp, weary eyes roamed the bustling office under the harsh fluorescent lights, his nervous glances betraying his unease. Once, he might have been striking, even handsome. Now, he looked pale and worn.
“Yes, LT Bonham,” I addressed him by his full name. “You can call me Crow, or George.”
“George. And?”
“My last name doesn’t matter.” I sipped the coffee, grimacing internally at its sawdust-like flavor. “You seem uneasy,” I added, tilting my head. “But then, this is Portland, not the wilderness of British Columbia.”
“So, you do know me.”
“Yes, I do. As Aaron’s mentor, I must commend you—your student is technically flawless.”
LT’s pale cheeks flushed with anger. “You think I’m responsible for Aaron’s actions?”
“No, no, no. You misunderstand, LT,” I said calmly. “You’re just a hired instructor, a skilled hunter, a remarkable tracker, and an excellent bladesmith. Your job was to teach soldiers technique, not to play father.”
LT fell silent. I took another sip of the abysmal coffee, glancing at the security camera in the corner of the ceiling. I didn’t care what Dave thought of my movements.
After about a minute, LT finally spoke. “When I was training them, I used to say something.”
I waited.
“I told them that killing someone, physically, isn’t all that difficult. Once you’re mentally prepared, you’re more than halfway there. The real challenge,” LT paused, his voice heavy, “is turning off the kill switch.”
“Neck, heart, abdomen, thigh, groin, jaw,” I listed six vital points on the human body. LT’s eyes widened slightly in surprise. I shrugged. “Nothing special. What you know, I’ve learned too. It’s standard procedure for taking down a sentry from behind—left hand covers the sentry’s right cheek, pulling it aside, and the right hand makes the first cut to the neck. Even if you miss the artery, follow up with a stab to the—”
“Enough!” LT growled, his voice low and strained.
I raised my coffee cup in mock surrender and obediently shut up.
Abigail entered the breakroom, standing between LT and me with her arms crossed, like a rookie cop trying to establish authority. Neither of us cared for her feigned air of command. Abigail glared at me but addressed LT. “You’re going to miss your flight.”
LT straightened his slightly hunched back, shot me a long, hard look, and said nothing more before following Abigail out.
“If I were you, I’d wait a little longer,” I said with a smile. “It’s been twenty minutes. It takes seventy-five minutes to get to Silver Falls. My guess? Langley’s boys are already losing their patience.”
LT spun around, his expression feral, like a wounded old wolf. He stalked toward me, his cold breath reeking of menace. “Who the hell are you?”
I didn’t answer him. Instead, I turned to Abigail. “Is Dave ready?”
Abigail’s gaze was sharp as a knife, brimming with hostility. “Of course. We’re ready to go at any time.”
“Is Dave coming along?” I sighed softly. “He should stay back and watch the fort. After all, he’s one of the few FBI agents I find remotely human.”
I was forced to share the cramped back seat of a Taurus with Dave, as though he were an officer escorting me. Truth be told, the Ford Taurus was a decent car, with plenty of space in the back—enough for three men my size. The problem was that Dave alone was nearly as wide as three of me combined. He slapped the back of the front seat’s headrest with a meaty hand, shouting, “Faster! Move your ass!” as if yelling would somehow make the Taurus hit 100 mph on the crowded streets.
Trailing behind us were five FBI vehicles carrying a total of 23 agents. Add me to the mix, and we could storm any mob hideout with ease—or so I guessed. Nobody could figure out how Aaron had taken down four CIA agents and vanished into thin air. Not even I could pull off something like that.
The NSAA is a fine agency, but we occasionally come across anomalies even we can’t handle. Aaron Hartley was one of those anomalies. The U.S. military is full of hidden talents, but someone like Aaron? A true rarity.
“No wonder Theresa agreed with my suggestion and wants this guy,” I thought as I pulled out my phone to call my boss. “Chief, I’m with Oregon FBI’s Dave. Aaron escaped Langley’s custody.”
Theresa’s tone was as steady and unhurried as always. “Are you going after him?”
“He doesn’t have a chance, does he?”
“You’re his chance. It’s up to you.”
“Is that formal authorization?”
“I’ll send it to you now,” Theresa replied before hanging up.
Dave shot me a sideways glance. “You’re still trying to pull him in?”
“You know how NSAA works. Consent is key,” I replied.
Dave let out a derisive snort, exhaling enough cold air to make his long nose hairs sway in the breeze.
The car finally came to a halt by the side of a state highway. A flipped transport van sprawled across three-quarters of the road, dragging long streaks of oil and brake marks behind it. The ground was littered with shards of glass. The van’s door hung askew, barely attached, looking as if it might fall off at any moment.
I watched as Dave, surprisingly nimble for his 300-pound frame, leaped out of the car. He barked orders to his men, who hustled to push the gawkers back at least 20 feet and set up yellow police tape. Preserving the scene was a lost cause—the place had already been trampled by Portland’s ever-curious locals.
An FBI agent exchanged a few words with the local police before rushing over to Dave to give a low-voiced report. Dave shouted, “Where’s LT?”
LT and Abigail’s car arrived late, but it hardly mattered—Aaron had long since disappeared. Five minutes earlier or later made no difference. LT examined the grass where witnesses claimed Aaron had passed, studying the trampled vegetation intently before jogging off, occasionally stopping to confirm his direction.
Dave gathered ten FBI agents, splitting them into small groups to follow LT. Meanwhile, I climbed into the Taurus’s driver’s seat and yelled, “Borrowing your car!”
Dave waved dismissively and signaled one of his agents to keep an eye on me. A wiry agent slid into the passenger seat. “Crow,” he greeted.
“Lloyd,” I replied, recognizing him.
“Where are you heading?”
“A wounded beast only has two places to go,” I said as I started the car, speaking deliberately.
“Its den. And?”
“And the watering hole,” I added with a smirk. “You’ve never hunted, have you?” I carefully turned the car around, avoiding the crowd, and started heading back toward the city.
“You know where Aaron’s watering hole is?” Lloyd asked, trying to sound shrewd, but his transparent lack of intelligence betrayed him.
“No,” I lied smoothly. “I need to head back to the city and find a hotel for the night. That’s all.”
Lloyd visibly relaxed, leaning back in his seat. “What kind of hotel can your department’s travel budget afford?”
“A Hilton standard room, or something similar at the Sheraton.”
“Your department’s got money to burn!” Lloyd exclaimed, clearly more shocked by my lodging options than Aaron’s escape. “Three hundred bucks a night?”
“Meal allowance is forty dollars a day. Interested in joining NSAA?”
“What is NSAA? I’ve never heard of a government agency like that. Your acronym’s pretty close to NSA, just one letter off.”
“National Supernatural Acts Agency.”
“Area 51?”
“Enforcement jurisdiction.”
“There’s actually a law for that? You’re Men in Black?”
“Want me to pull out my little flashy thing?”
“Haha, Crow, you’re one hell of a guy. But seriously, is this a real agency?”
“It is. And we’re always hiring.”
“Why’s that?”
“High turnover rate,” I said, turning the car onto a Sheraton’s welcoming driveway. I parked, opened the driver’s door, and stepped out. “I’m here. The car’s all yours. Have a busy night, Lloyd.”