a/n This is a mercenary 101 story, a brief glimpse of Ranger's life during his ARMY years.

enjoy

One of Life's Little Journeys

We were on a bare bones noisy transport, a C130 belonging to Army Special ops and we were coming home from killing fields of, well, wherever. Who remembers? Just another day/ another job.

My spec ops team---think Delta Force, only more so---had just successfully completed yet another covert mission, a job so black, it never happened. But of course---it did. We aren't really soldiers despite the rank and serial numbers on our dog tags. No, we are operators, so silent, so deadly, so feared that just the whisper of the words OMEGA cause warlords and terrorists and drug cartels to panic, run, and hide. Not that they can hide, of course, because not only am I very well-trained, I have skills, special skills, for special ops. And I will find them, just like I found the targets this time.

My name is---well, they call me Ranger. I am 25, feel like 110. Being the best takes a psychological toll unnoticed by our handlers, who only see fit young men, what used to be called cannon fodder in the old days of war.

Most of the guys are deep in exhausted states of sleep, but my XO, my second in command, is awake and watching me. He is called Tank. Get it?

We're maybe five noisy hours out of XXXXX. I figure we're over the Atlantic Ocean by now. I look at Tank who says,  "Now, the way I see it, boss, is that  the only reasonable question to ask after that is: what the fuck is going on?"

I jerk my chin a little.

?

"Rangeman, we gettin' too old for this sheee-it." Tank's soft Louisiana accent gets stronger when he's tired---when he's really exhausted, he gets all East Coast/went to college-y. But that rarely happens, does it? "Gotta be more to life than this."

I shrug. So far, I've fucked up civilian life big-time. Twenty-five years old and I already have an ex-wife and a baby girl who doesn't know her daddy. I rub my forehead, headache coming on, think, Maybe that's not right...Julie and I, we do have a bond. And I think she knows I love her more than life itself. But still.

 We sit in exhausted silence for awhile. Finally I say, "I've got a plan, but I think I'm going to need your help."

Tank says, "Ok. I'll do it."

I give him my best stare. "I haven't even told you what it is yet."

My XO shrugs his huge linebacker's shoulders, says, "I know. I'm in, boss. Hunnerd percent."

And pitching my voice above the roar of the jet engines, I outline my idea to go mercenary. Big dreams of running our own ops, choosing our own confrontations, walking away from the shit we don't want, don't need. I tell Tank and the other guys, who have started listening in too, all my plans---great futures, lotta money.

We bang fists and yell, "Let's do it!" Hoo-Yah. [yawn]

Look at us, so young so bright so stupid: We got home and found out the world of deep covert ops had a different plan for us. Ranger Manoso, the Trenton bounty hunter was slowly born.

...   ...   ...

Ranger's quiet voice fades away as his story concludes.

Steph says, "That's sad, I think."

Ranger stares into the darkness, his eyes trained on the building he and Stephanie are staking out. His face is blank, he displays a total neutrality that only slightly detracts from his exotic beauty. Stephanie wonders what the years of keeping that silence, that blankness, have cost this man. Then she realizes it is his armor, his defense, his way of distancing his soul from what he has done. For the greater good, of course. For our country's freedom.

Ranger says, "It's the way it had to be. We have a job to do, the free world needs its black operators, babe."

"Can't someone else do it now? You've given them so many years."

"We all have a role, Steph."

"Whatever that means."

" I can't change what is, I can't change what I do or who I am. You have to choose."

"Then I choose you."

"I know."

the end