Thicker Than Water

Spurrio circled to take a look. I noticed him wince from the corner of my eye as he rounded back to face me.

"It doesn't look good," he admitted. "But it ain't critical."

"I'll take that," I said, realizing I also had a busted lip and blood trails beneath my nostrils. My whole face ached.

"You're gonna have to. We need to hightail."

"No shit." I looked around. The broken-legged patrol's body was behind Spurrio with a gruesome cavity in place of his face. "What happened, though?"

"You mean besides me saving your ass?" Spurrio said with a casual shrug. "I heard this bastard's scream, probably when you broke his fucking knee, and came running. Managed to catch a second patrol off-guard en route. Executed both."

"Shit. Well...thanks, man. I owe you one." I paused long enough for Spurrio, nodding, to start to say something. And then I cut him off, adding: "Took ya long enough, though."

Spurrio didn't glare or scoff, he just laughed all of a sudden, and perhaps louder than deemed safe considering their stealthy intentions.

"Hey," he said, "pickers can't be choosers, but survivors can be assholes. It's shocking."

"Yeah, yeah," I can't help but smirk as I scoop up the CheyTac.

An explosion rocked the earth, and the trunk upon which we stood. Ahead and below us, the outpost building erupted in a plume of orange and dark red. Black smoke and ash billowed out in thick wafts, along with airborne debris.

I turned to Spurrio and we lackadaisically exchanged a fist-bump followed by a nod of tacit 'mission accomplished.' No words needed, just the acceptance of a job completed. Not necessarily 'well done' considering me almost fucking dying, but at least the package was secured—Spurrio gave me a glimpse of the hard-drive—and the C4 demolished the rest. Corpses littered the area, a silent warning not to fuck with our government without paying the price.

Spurrio and I resumed our tactical awareness and the almost-robotic execution of certain procedures.

We each activated a beacon via our wristwatches, which sent a signal out to our local contacts for exfiltration.

Without exfil, everything we'd just done would be for nothing.

Leading the way yet again, Vektor not shouldered but cradled, Spurrio began running through the jungle. His sense of direction was uncanny. Mine was tactically good, too, as any Talon's needed to be and was honed through training or experience. But his was elite. Which was why I followed and didn't object.

Eventually we reached the treeline by the muddy road from which we'd originally came, but don't breach it. We stayed just behind the treeline, hugging it as we jogged down the side, in the direction that the Jeep had been going before it dropped us off.

We arrived without issue, which was a delightful change of pace for me considering I got my six jumped not twenty minutes ago. Although the exact amount of time that had passed was a little unsure to me, I imagine it couldn't have been any longer than that. As for how long I had been unconscious...my brain in a world that seemed like a whole other planet to me for the past few days...

I started to get distracted again but making contact with our exfil extractors without being double-crossed definitely put my mind to rest.

Our two Cambodian contacts affiliated with the Agency arrived via Yamaha ATV's. The quads' engines weren't the least bit subtle, but considering the massive explosion we'd left behind and the column of fire-laced smoke jutting up from the middle of the jungle, I imagined that didn't matter right now. What was most important was us getting the fuck outta dodge, ASAP. So, loud speed was a necessary evil.

When we spotted our exfil break the treeline on the other side of the road, about thirty feet across the way, Spurrio and I exchanged thumbs-up gestures and broke our cover. We roadie-ran across the road, dimly lit by moonlight and nothing else. The two quads had only their fog lamps illuminated, not their primary headlights, and weren't facing the road for obvious reasons. Even though our audible stealth was sacrificed, that didn't mean our visibility had to be, too.

The Cambodians didn't speak academic English but we understood each other in plain enough terms. No code talk required considering the high secrecy of this mission and the limited knowledge of our exfil coordinates.

Worst case scenario, Spurrio and I knew some basic Khmer.

'Hello,' 'how are you,' 'can we get the fuck out of here'—you know, elementary shit.

The little that we did exchange sufficed as we hopped onto the quads. Me on one and Spurrio on the other. We weren't driving, though. We had to hug the tiny waists of the Cambodian contacts as they whipped the quads around and started roaring through the jungle from whence they came. About three minutes passed before we reached a clearing in the foliage, where a small helicopter waited. It had no markings on it, but was inhabited by two Thai pilots and an empty passenger bay that silently called our names. The doorless bay could seat two people and tonight they would be Talons.

We thanked the contacts on the ATV's without putting much flair into it and darted toward the helicopter. Before we even arrived, its rotors started spinning. Humid night air whooshed over us. We boarded the helicopter, each of us ready to draw our weapons in case this turned sour for some wretched reason.

The pilots looked about as violent as sloths on LSD.

At least they were awake, probably as eager as we were to get us to our destination so they could go home, too.

We all exchanged nods and beautifully universal thumbs-up gestures.

Spurrio and I sat opposite each other, seatbelts secured across our laps. I rested my CheyTac on the floor between my legs, its barrel facing up and safety armed. Spurrio did the same with his Vektor, muzzle-down.

We exchanged stares of relief and implicit congratulations.

"We made it," I lip-synced the words with a subtle smile.

"We fucking made it," he lip-synced back, the F-word recognizable on anyone's face.

I couldn't resist grinning as the helicopter lifted into the air and banked southwest.

From there it was just a series of events as if viewed on the calendar. Events passed without extreme detail or attention required. At that point I had one objective and it was all that mattered: getting home.

The helicopter landed at a private airfield still within the country, where an Agency cargo plane awaited us. American crewmembers lingered in the area, as additional security measures in case we were somehow followed or needed protection. Spurrio and I boarded the plane with the weaponized escort, as if we weren't armed to the teeth as it were. The superfluous protection was, however, not unappreciated. If anything it helped us feel safer, and reassured our minds that we had in fact completed the mission without going home in body bags.

We wouldn't get saluted or have our hands shaken until we reached the Agency FOB in Thailand, where our superiors probably grew impatient. Even if we came back earlier than expected, they would still have been impatient. It was just their nature.

Nonetheless, they greeted us with pride and congratulations, however stiff and emotionless. We wouldn't be given medals or public commemoration. Our actions would largely go unnoticed, dulled if ever even remotely mentioned in the public eye.

As a young Talon, this bugged me.

Older, I couldn't give a shit.

I just wanted to fucking go home.

Three days Spurrio and I spent, albeit separately, training at this FOB. 'Forward operating base,' they called it. More like a spook training facility. Classified location, black-bagged transport. I'm pretty sure they conducted interrogations on site somewhere, too. We were Talons, not detectives. We only knew so much, and we didn't mind not knowing a lot more.

Sometimes the dirty work was the proudest.

Before we could go home, however, we needed to be debriefed on aforementioned dirty work. This meant going over everything we had done since debarking from the Jeep and entering the jungle, all the way to exfil and ending at the point we boarded the Agency plane. Details, details, details. It was all about specifics and recording everything that, legally, supposedly never even happened.

The package was delivered, however, and the target was destroyed.

Hostiles neutralized.

Mission accomplished.

Spurrio and I said our good-byes so casually it was as if all we'd done was play a course of paintball and practiced being mute the whole time.

What was worse about our debriefing was that even after that, it wouldn't be for another forty-eight hours before we could hitch a plane ride home.

I had been gone for seven days.

A week away from my home felt like a year on the moon.

Every moment spent, I could glance at the Earth from a massive distance, and see its colors. But I couldn't touch the ground or feel the leaves or breathe its air or drink its water. I could only look and reminisce.

And she was worth more than that.

THREE

Is. She is worth more than every life I've taken 'in the name of my country.' I might be patriotic but I don't fight for my government, I fight for her and for the other people who deserve a chance at some kind of happiness.

I approach the house and pause on the stoop, holding my fist back for a second.

Oh, I'll knock. But first I take a deep breath.

The rural New York air is cool but not cold. It's late August, so summer is essentially over and autumn is ringing the bell. I'm wearing plainclothes, nothing remotely militaristic or even holding any semblance to a government job. I'm just a single father in a black long-sleeved shirt and jeans, with my wallet in a back pocket and nothing more. Not a set of keys, except a spare one for the backdoor tucked into my sock in case the house was empty when I returned.

According to the driveway, which itself is a good twenty-second winding drive to the main road, but the bit of asphalt in front of the garage is occupied. It's a violet Pontiac GTO with white racing stripes. Not my style, color wise at least, but I she definitely has good taste. Technically I bought it, but it's all hers.

My two other rides are in the garage.

They better be, I muse sarcastically.

With another deep breath, quietly clearing my throat, I step forward and knock twice on the heavy oak door.

After about five seconds I knock again, but before my third rap lands, I hear her voice call out from the other side.

"Who is it!?"

I can't help but smile.

I didn't give her a call to let her know I'd be home today. It's one in the afternoon, she probably woke up at noon like usual, eleven at the earliest. One or two at the latest. Regardless, my expected return date wasn't set until tomorrow. And I didn't dare call her once I knew I was going to get home twenty-four hours earlier than she suspected.

My reason? One word, of course: surprise.

I wanted to catch her off-guard, to which she'd realize she wouldn't have to wait another long day for me to come home. That is, of course, assuming—hoping—that she pined for my return.

In the silence outside, I could barely hear her footfalls on the floorboards as she trotted toward the door. Instead of answering her, I just stood where I was, waiting. My eyes? Staring directly at the peephole she'd use before opening the door.

When that time does come, I hear her voice again—but this time it's a strident, excited shriek. And then a fumbling of locks from the inside that precede the door being pulled open. Standing in the threshold is my 23-year-old daughter, Lyssa. She grins big and latches onto me, wearing no more than a fitted white camisole and pink lace tanga. I swear, she almost knocks me off the stoop. I put my arms around her, squeezing her body to mine, while her face is pressed to my chest.

"Can't...breathe..." I joke, imitating asphyxiation.

She giggles and disengages, hands fidgeting in front while she looks up at me. Her big brown eyes can be nearly sable under poor lighting or, in this case, the sun blesses them with a soft umber shimmer and it's like I'm staring into the Earth's core wearing shades.

"Well, you're early," she says.

I shrug and thumb over my shoulder. "Should I go? Come back in a few days, or..."

"Don't be silly. Come inside. It's warm and comfy."

"Yeah, I bet. I've been clammy and uncomfortable since I left."

"Ugh. I bet."

Lyssa doesn't know what I do for a living, except that I 'work for the government' and often go overseas for a few days or up to a week at a time. She has it in her mind that I work as a CIA Interrogator due to my persuasive methods, or at the most extreme some kind of special agent. The lattermost would definitely be more accurate, but I'm no James Bond.

A little rougher than that.

She spins on her heel, hand holding mine, and practically drags me into the house. I shut the door behind me without even looking. My vision is glued to her bulbously fit ass while she strides. In that skimpy underwear there isn't a lot left to the imagination and I'm glad, because that's all I've had for seven days. Now the real thing is back in my life, and I want to get back into it...if you catch my drift.

"Lemme lock the door, baby," I say, slipping out of her hand and trotting back.

"Oh, do you really need to? Now that you're here, you can be my protector again.

I slide the deadbolt and pirouette to face her. I kick off my shoes and approach. She's standing inertly between the medium-sized crescent kitchen and our den. I notice that the lights are dimmed to about halfway brightness, and judging by her attire my guess is that she recently woke up.

"Baby," I say, "even when I left here last week, I was still your protector."

She smiles subtly.

I get close and hook my right arm around her small waist, lazily resting it atop the arch of her butt. The pink lace tanga is soft, but might as well be sandpaper compared to her silken buttocks. My left hand finds hers again and we interlock fingers.

"And now," I say softly, leaning down the few inches that separate us, "I can be your destroyer."

I kiss her, hard. Lips to lips, teeth not excluded. Tongues wrestle before going deep. I suck the breath out of her lungs and feel her moan into my mouth. Her whole body shudders in my embrace and I harden beneath my jeans. My right hand descends to seize her left cheek, squeezing hard, pushing—anchoring—her into me.

When our faces part, she gasps wetly before mine returns, a voracious tongue licking her from chin to nose, drug across her gleaming lips.

"Oh, daddy," she exhales weakly. "I've missed you so much."

"I've missed you more, baby girl," I say, slapping her ass abruptly and giving it another squeeze. She yelps and hugs me tight. I bury my face between her neck and shoulder, kissing without regard to cleanliness. My voice spills across her skin. "I've missed my princess...my cupcake...and my slut."

"You mean it?" she asks quietly, as if she were about to cry.

"More than you know."

"You've thought about me?"

"As little as possible, sweetheart."

She suddenly pulls away from me. Her breasts aren't large but they're not small, either. They bounce briefly in her fitted camisole, the nipples erect beneath the thin fabric. She crosses her arms beneath them, giving their stance added perkiness. This isn't her intention at the moment, to increase my arousal. She is now pouting, and I realize it's about what I just said.

I also realize, in that moment, that since I've been gone for so long—despite being so attentive in the field—in her presence I'm very slow. I heed all the details and get very easily distracted.

"When I'm out there, Lyssa, I need to focus. It's life or death shit, baby. And the thought of you...no matter how big or small...would be enough to completely throw me off track."

Her pouting mitigates.

"I've thought about you," she says, barely moving her lips.

"Yeah?" I inch closer.

"I've...called for you."

I overtly rub my bulge. "I wish I could say I've done the same...more or less."

"No private time over there?"

"Close to zero. There was a chance or two, but...I waited."

"Why?"

I arrive in front of her and cup her face. "Because this is the longest I've been from home in three years. Since we've...really gotten closer. And I wanted you to really feel it."

"How?" she asks, her pouting completely gone now, and replaced by a subliminally lascivious expression.

"You'll know when the time...comes."

"Pun intended?"

"You bet, my little slut."

She grins, her tongue peeking out.

"When did you get out of bed, baby?" I ask.

She rolls her eyes in contemplating, face and body relaxing, hands making obscure gestures as if she can't remember.

My eyes scan the area. I see the plastic jar of peanut butter and a spreading knife atop a napkin on the kitchen counter; opposite the 60-inch HDTV in the den, on the walnut coffee table, is a ceramic plate with a piece of toast on it. Beside the plate is a tall glass of orange juice, barely any left.

"Lemme guess," I say before a single word has come out of her mouth. "Half an hour ago?"

"Close. About...forty minutes."

"Oh, look at you. All of a sudden Ms. Precision."

She giggles.

"Can daddy give his girl a proper hug?" I ask, slowly circling her like a horny vulture.

"Of course," she says with a small smile. She stands still, unmoving, her head pivoting to an extent before her gaze hits the floor.

Once out of her peripheral vision, I shed my jeans. They crumble at my ankles, and now shoeless, I'm able to step out of them. When I kick them out of the way, I notice Lyssa's head turn minutely to spot them. I glimpse the corners of her mouth upturn to form a small smile.

My erection has emerged from the fly of my boxers and when I step forward it finds one of its many homes, in the crevice of Lyssa's buttocks. I close the gap between us so that it sits vertically, partially embraced by her skin and the tanga. My hands rise from her bare waist to her clothed breasts, where I squeeze gently at first. My lips pock her shoulder, over a thin spaghetti strap, her neck, ear, and cheek. I've moved her long black hair over to the right side of her face, falling down the front of that shoulder and breast.

"You've missed my cock, haven't you, slut?" I murmur, squeezing her breasts harder now, lifting them and consequently the camisole too.

"I have," she says weakly, softly. Her head tilts back to lull against my right shoulder. "I have, daddy. I'm sorry."

"No, you're not. You've missed being daddy's little whore. It's okay, baby. It's who you are. And I love you for it."

She moans with tenderness, her voice lightly staggering. Her arms dangle at her sides, fingers apart.

"I love you, too, daddy. I love you so much."

My right hand raises to her throat, where it finds an even firmer hold. I start thrusting between her buttocks, the impact of my thighs to the base of her cheeks making them jiggle. After the first three thrusts I start pushing my hips harder, making her whole body jolt up each time our skin slaps. And each time her voice lurches in her throat, beneath my hand, staining the air I savor.

"What do you love most about daddy?" I ask, licking her left cheek.

Her eyes are clamped shut, or squinting damn near close to it, her face lifted thanks to my knuckles beneath her jawline.

"Your heart. How much you love—"

I slap and squeeze her left breast. She yelps in a struggled gasp.

"Don't lie, Lyssa. What do you love most about daddy? Be honest, you fucking slut."

"Y-Your cock, daddy. I love your cock the most."

I keep thrusting, harder. I feel like I'm going to explode. I've waited so long. But if I've waited seven days then I can wait seven minutes. Hours? We'll see.