The Veteran

The next couple of days were a communications nightmare; phone calls, emails, and refused interviews. None of it mattered. I received requests from all kinds of crackpots wanting me to promote their products or do interviews. I ignored it all. Mary and the boys weren't home. Nothing else was important. She called and told me they arrived without issue and allowed me to speak with the boys. They were happy to talk to me, but they too were distant. She wasn't the same. The boys weren't the same. I felt like I was losing them, unable to shake the heaviness and pressure in my chest.

I was a little surprised when her dad's voice came on the phone. Frank and I talked for a few minutes. He understood why I handled the situation the way I did but being Frank he opined that I could've handled it better. It was evident where Mary was getting her line from, since her parents, Frank and Jean, supported her decision to leave me. It came as no surprise. Our communications had slowed to a crawl. It was common for her to text me often whenever anything happened to her and the boys, wanting to keep me in the loop, sometimes, if only to say she loved me, but those texts stopped. Love wasn't the problem here. I was the problem, and the separation wasn't helping.

All I had were my thoughts to keep me company, which was no help. When you're dealing with PTSD, your mind is creative in how it reacts to specific stimuli, and the self-imposed isolation wasn't healthy. Jake, our dog, looked depressed over the whole situation. He was a constant companion for Mary and the boys when I wasn't around. With them gone, I was sure he felt it too.

I took the rest of the week off and tried doing things around the house to keep myself busy, but it was a futile attempt to keep my own psyche at bay. One positive thing came out of this. Diego, a longtime friend who I had served with, called me late Thursday evening. Except for birthday and Christmas calls, we hadn't had a long talk in almost three years. He saw the story on the news, and when he realized it was me, he reached out.

Diego Montoya, a full-blooded crazy Colombian, had been my best friend and served on the teams with me. We had been through more things than people could imagine, and he was one of the few people I still trusted. After explaining what happened, he gave me a sanity check, which was the wake-up call I needed

"I get it, amigo," he explained, "but you need to understand, your wife doesn't. She hasn't been through the same things, so her reaction is normal. Most people don't do what we did. We're a rare breed, bro, and we're hard to understand."

"I know, Diego, but she up and left me. Without her, I'm losing my mind."

"Get it together, Bro. What the fuck did you think was going to happen? Did you think she was going to accept it and be like, 'oh, it's cool my husband killed someone?' Come on, bro. She's not like the military wives who got used to this shit. She's a civilian, and they don't understand how to deal with this kind of shit."

He was right. I should've known better, but I had become so wrapped up in my own head. It was unfair of me to expect Mary to deal with it.

"So, what now, Diego? What am I supposed to say to her?"

"First, pull your head out of your ass and stop feeling sorry for yourself. Next, you're going to tell her you're there for her. That's all. Don't push her and, for God's sake, give her some space. She's got to think about this, bro. We forget how this affects people who don't do what we do, and it makes us look like assholes when we do it. Don't be that asshole."

"Thanks, bro. I needed that."

"Yeah, you did. Now figure that shit out. Gotta run. I'll catch you later," he said and hung up.

Almost three years, and it was if no time had passed. We were back to our old selves, and he brought me back from the brink that day.

Friday came, and I decided I had to go back to work. I needed to stay busy and keep my mind occupied. Walking into the office, I tried to remain as low-key as I always had, but with all the media coverage, it didn't happen. As I made my way through the building, the stares were like pinpricks in the back of my head. A few people greeted me with the casual "hey," or "what's up," but most stopped and stared. Before all this, I had enjoyed some anonymity, keeping a low profile, not interacting with many people at work. It had served me well. Now, almost everyone at work recognized me. The media had mentioned my workplace, making it even easier to figure out who I was. This wasn't working out well.

I had worked for Dynatron International as a cybersecurity specialist and programmer for seven years. I was one of their best employees, always receiving kudos from everyone in management on my work ethic and professionalism.

Most of the people at my work were aware of my background, but not a lot of detail. Before this, I was just a veteran. With this event, the media had broadcasted my military service, making sure the world knew I was former special forces and it shed some light on who I was before. I hated the media.

I didn't want to be there, but I needed my routine back. Before I could make it to my work area, I was stopped by my manager. Jim greeted me with a handshake and a smile and asked me to walk to his office to chat. After I sat down, he pulled a file from his desk drawer, laid it in front of him, and stared at it for a second before he spoke.

"How are you doing, John?"

"I've been better, Jim. This hasn't been one of my better weeks. Wife took the kids to go stay with her parents until this all blows over, and people won't leave me the hell alone. Otherwise, I'm just peachy," I added, the sarcasm leaking into my tone.

"I'm sorry, John." He paused.

"John, you've been with us for almost seven years. The entire management team thinks you've done an outstanding job with everything." Another pause.

This isn't leading anywhere good. What the hell is going on?

"You and I have always had a great working relationship, and always talked straight with each other, right, without the need for bullshit. Wouldn't you agree?"

"You're right, Jim. So, why don't we cut to the chase? Why am I sitting in your office?"

"Well, one, I need to ask if you're carrying?"

"No, I'm not, and I never have while I've been at work. Why are you asking?"

"Some people, while they think it's admirable and brave what you did, they are not comfortable working with you, considering what happened."

My own wife left because she's afraid of me. Why would my coworkers be any different?

"What do you mean, they're not comfortable?"

"John, I've talked with the other members of management, and most of the staff about what happened. While we appreciate everything you've done for this company, your presence here creates, as much as I hate to say this, a hostile and intimidating work environment for some people. We can't have that."

"A hostile and intimidating work environment? Are you kidding me, Jim?"

Damn, I'm getting fired.

Over seven years were given to this company, and now I was losing my job and career over something beyond my control. Nobody would hire me with this hanging over my head.

"People are concerned. After hearing you are former Special Forces, and after hearing that you killed two people, they're worried."

"Worried about what? That I'm going to lose my shit one of these days and come in here and shoot the place up? Is that what they're afraid of?" I felt the blood rush to my face, and I stared at him.

Without looking up at me, he continued, staring at the paper in front of him, "John, I'm sorry to say this, but we're letting you go. Before you say anything, we are offering you a substantial severance, considering the situation. We want to show our appreciation for your years of service to the company and try to make this transition easier."

"I don't give a fuck about the severance, Jim. You're taking my livelihood away. Don't you understand? After everything I've done for this company, and you're going to kick me to the curb, just like that? That's a bunch of bullshit."

"I'm sorry, John, but the decision has been made."

He was ashamed, his posture now slumped forward.

First my wife, now my job. What next? Stupid question...never ask that question.

"Wow. So much for loyalty from a company I've worked so hard for. I guess you gotta do what you gotta do, Jim. Hope you can live with yourself. I'll collect my things and be on my way."

His face evidenced his shame as he continued, "John, we've collected your stuff, and it's in a box behind the security desk. I can't let you go to your desk and will escort you out after we finish here. Here are a couple of things for you to sign."

"Fine. Where's the fucking paperwork?" I gripped the edge of the desk with both hands.

He slid the paperwork toward me, and I snatched it from the desk. I glanced at it and scribbled my signature at the bottom of each sheet.

Fuck these people.

I tossed the papers back at him, and he stood and handed me a check, which I folded and pushed into my pocket. "Well, let's go pick my stuff so I can get the hell out of here. Sorry to take up your time, my friend," I sneered.

We walked to the front, and the security guard handed me the box containing my belongings. He wished me well, but I stared at him in disbelief and shook my head. I wasn't having it and stormed out of the security office toward the front door. A few coworkers wished me well on my way out, and a few whispered what the company was doing to me was bullshit. I couldn't have agreed more, but as much as it sucked, I understood how they had to protect their image. You can't have a special-forces-killer running around the workplace making people afraid all the time. I still hated the Rambo movies for that reason.

I walked to my car, a now almost 12-year-old Toyota Camry, tossed the box into the trunk, and slammed the lid. I hated this damn car, but we couldn't afford a new one, and it worked for back and forth to work. "God damn it," I swore aloud and slammed my fist down on the trunk, leaving a dent.

I sat in my car for close to thirty minutes, contemplating whether I should call my wife. If I didn't tell her, shit was sure to hit the fan. I was damned if I do, and damned if I don't. On the other hand, I didn't need any more bullshit, so I decided to wait. It would just start another argument, and I was tired of all the fighting.

What a lovely way to start a shitty day.

I hadn't turned my phone on since the previous night, and after I did, my voicemail was full and had over 40 text messages. I pulled my notebook from the glove compartment and started listening to the voicemails. Most were people wanting interviews, and that was the last thing I wanted to do, so I deleted them. I was all talked out for the day. Mary had left me a voicemail earlier saying she needed to talk about something, but it didn't seem urgent. I would call her later. Emails were a different story; too many to handle on my phone. I would handle them on my computer later. The texts were friends and family checking on me, and as I was reading them, a message came in from Mary asking to call her ASAP. Mary never asked for anything ASAP unless it was important. I called her without pause. She was frantic, "John, why wasn't your phone on? I've been trying to call you."

"I'm sorry, I was at work, and my phone's been blowing up, so I turned it off. Take a breath, ok?" I waited for her to do that and then asked "What's wrong? Are the boys alright?"

"I received a really nasty message on Facebook a little while ago about you and us. I don't know who it's from and they said they're going to find you and kill you for what you did."

"I need to see the message," I said, trying not to show my worry. I wasn't surprised but more concerned they had sent it to her instead of me. This wasn't out of the realm of possibilities, considering what had happened.

"Did you hear what I said? They said they were going to find you and kill you," She restated.

The panic was rising in her voice, and I spoke, "I got it. Send me a screenshot of the message. I'll figure out a plan, ok? I'll talk to the police about this ASAP."

Her voice started to crescendo again, "Figure out a plan? To do what? You better talk to the police and find out what they can do. I don't want to lose you to some crazy nutcases. I'm going to hang up, and you call the police. I've called the police here, and they're sending someone over. I'll send you the screenshot, and you call me back right away and tell me what's going to happen. Promise me! Promise me, you'll handle this now!"

She was terrified. Her reactions, although from fear, were more regular than they had been in almost a week. I couldn't tell her I had been fired. It would wait.

"I promise I'll call the police and find out what they can do to help and then I'll call you back as soon as I know anything. I'm going to hang up now and handle it."

"Bye!" and she hung up.

A few seconds passed, and I received the customary ding for my text message. It was a screenshot of a threatening message on her Facebook account from someone claiming to be friends with the two guys I had killed. It was descriptive, showing a picture of our house, our car, my name, where I worked, and screenshots from both our Facebook accounts showing pictures of her and boys, as well as what they planned to do to them and me.

This was grave, and I now understood why she was freaking out. What concerned me the most is I was the one who set up the security on her Facebook account and nobody, but friends have access. Someone had gotten around that security, which meant they were high-tech and had more information about us than we did about them, and that put us at a disadvantage.

Threatening me, I would've expected, but they were targeting my family, and as much as I hated it, I was glad Mary and the boys were far away. Whoever these assholes were, they weren't amateurs, and I had to find out who they were. My hands were shaking as I dialed the police.

After they answered, and I explained the situation they told me I would need to come in and fill out a complaint. I was rude to the dispatcher, "A fucking complaint? Are you kidding me? Someone is threatening my family and me, and you want me to come in and fill out a complaint? Are you an idiot?" and I hung up the phone.

I had no one else to turn to, and with the police acting like idiots, I needed another plan. As this was related to the shooting, I decided to cut through the red tape and go back to the DA and drove straight to the courthouse. If the DA couldn't help, she might be able to light a fire under someone's ass, or at least I hoped. I texted Mary and told her how it went with the police. I told her where I was going and that I would call her as soon as I knew anything. Knowing someone was hunting us caused my guard to go on high alert.

I arrived at the courthouse, and the realization I couldn't take my weapon inside made me nervous. With reluctance, I put it in my trunk, locked my car, and headed in. Security was quick, and I made my way to the fifth floor and hurried to the District attorney's office.

As I walked in, the administrative assistance recognized me.

"Mr. Hunter, how can I help you?"

"I need to talk to the DA now."

"She's not in at the moment."

I leaned over the desk. "Listen, I have a major problem, and I need to speak to someone. I don't give a shit who it is, so if you don't mind, please pick up the phone and call someone who can help me."

"What is the nature of your problem?"

"The nature of the problem is someone is threatening to kill my fucking family because of the shooting," I shouted, picking the receiver from the phone and holding it out to her.

"Now will you make the fucking phone call, Ms....." I barked, and before I could finish my sentence, someone called my name.

"Mr. Hunter, I'm Tamara Jameson, Assistant District Attorney. Can I help you with something?" She sounded irritated by what I assumed was my harassment of her assistant.

"You're damned right you can help me."

I held out my phone with the message on the screen. "Take a look at this!"

She took a moment to read it, and I saw the look of concern on her face.

"This is serious. The police are better equipped to handle this matter. There's not a whole lot we can do without knowing where this is coming from or who sent it but it will still be hard to prove."

"I tried going to the police, and they told me I had to come in and fill out a complaint? A fucking complaint? Are you kidding me? I killed two people, and now someone is threatening me and my family's lives, and they want me to fill out a complaint? What kind of bullshit is that? Sorry, but this isn't something I want handled by somebody with a 12th-grade education. This is a death threat against my family and me, and I think the FBI should look at this now."

"You'll need to give me a few minutes. If you take a seat, I'll be with you in a few." She stepped into her office.

After waiting outside her office for fifteen minutes, a man who appeared to be in his early 30's, walked through the front entrance into the room followed by none other than the district attorney. She didn't look happy to see me.

He introduced himself as Special Agent Phil Harper, Assistant Agent in Charge of the local FBI field office. "Mr. Hunter, Ms. Jameson called me and advised me of your situation. May I see the message, please?"

I pulled my phone from my pocket, opened the text, and showed him the screenshot my wife had sent. The district attorney looked over his shoulder. After reading the entire contents, they both had a somber look on their faces.

Agent Harper was the first to speak. "Considering who those two gentlemen were, this is problematic. Would you be willing to come down to my office to talk and fill out a statement?'

"Sure, I will, but what do you mean by, considering who they were? Who were they? I would like to know who I pissed off enough to want to kill my family and me."

He and the DA glanced at one another concerned. "We'll discuss this in my office, but both were well connected."

Great. Who did I kill? What was their nationality? What did they look like? Shit, I can't remember. White? Yes, they were white. Bikers? Skinheads? Who, damn it. What the fuck had I stepped in?

I had taken to talking to myself ever since I had completed therapy. By verbalizing my thoughts in my head, it helped to relieve the tension and allow my brain to process what was happening. It was one of my coping mechanisms. I had done more of that in the past week than I had done in the past year. My stress level was up, and things weren't getting better. I was glad I didn't talk to myself in public. Nothing better than having people think I was crazy or unhinged, and talking to myself to prove it. Those were thoughts best kept in my head.

As we made our way down the stairs to the floor below, I caught small snippets of the whispers between them. My hearing loss, caused by too much time around loud noises and gunfire, made it difficult to discern what they were saying. With what I picked up, my gut was telling me this wasn't going to turn out well for any of us.

Agent Harper led us through the front door of the FBI office toward the back. From the ornate furnishings and decor, it didn't look like what I thought an FBI office should look like. It wasn't your typical government office, and they were living high on the hog, but I guess there are perks when you're the FBI.

We entered a conference room, and he motioned toward the table.

"Have a seat please," as he and the district attorney took seats across from me.

They glanced at one another, their hesitation to tell me, made evident by the look on their faces. This concern by the district attorney and an FBI agent, of all people, did nothing to alleviate my anxiety.

"Do you have any idea who those two men you dispatched were?"

"Dispatched? If you mean killed, then no, I don't. Let's not beat around the bush, Agent. If I knew who they were, I wouldn't be sitting here waiting for you to tell me, so cut through the bullshit, and tell me who I'm dealing with."

"Mr. Hunter," a long pause, "the two people you killed, were associates of the Michenkov syndicate, otherwise known as the Russian Mafia. They are also tied to BelyyaPrava, a Russian White-Supremacist skinhead group with ties here in the U.S. It appears you were at the wrong place at the wrong time when you ran into them."

"Excuse me?" I stared for a moment, trying to let it sink in. "What the fuck do you mean Mich...whatever you said syndicate and the Bel...the other one. So, you're telling me I killed two Russian mobsters who were also skinheads. Is that what you're saying?"

"Correct. They are the Michenkov Syndicate, and BelyyaPrava, which is Russian for 'White is Right'. They are one of the most ruthless and violent white-supremacist groups in not only Russia but the U.S. as well. So, you made two sets of enemies in one fell swoop."

My mind swirled. My wife and kids were now in danger. Shit! Her parents, my family, friends. All are in danger. I had to tell her but was concerned if my presence would bring a more significant threat to her and the boys

I had stepped in it and didn't see a lot of options. I could either run and hide or wait for them to come after me, which was almost guaranteed. From the small amount of information I had on the Russian Mafia and white supremacists, neither appreciated having their people killed. Both organizations were vindictive and didn't make idle threats. They liked to teach lessons so it wouldn't happen again. All I needed to know was how to avoid them.

I was in a daze, the thoughts of everything that had happened, a maelstrom in my head, trying to figure out what I was going to do next. Sitting in this office, although safe, wasn't the best place for me. They wanted me dead, so getting caught in the open, out in public, wasn't healthy. I had to find someplace safe in a hurry.

"Mr. Hunter!" the district attorney snapped, "are you getting all this?"

"Oh yeah, I got it, and I feel like I got bent over the table, and I didn't even get a reach around."

The D.A. bristled at my words but kept her composure. "Mr. Hunter, I spoke with Agent Harper, his boss, and some other resources, and you're in a bad spot here."

I shook my head, trying to think of how I was going to handle this, "No Shit, Sherlock. So, what are my options? It doesn't take a genius to figure out I'm in danger, and so is everyone else who's associated with me. Both organizations are ruthless and will stop at nothing for revenge. Can you offer protection, relocation, anything?"

"Mr. Hunter, while we at the FBI believe this is a credible threat until they've done something, there's little we can do. We can't allocate any resources to assist you unless something does happen. I would advise you to stay out of sight for a while. I'm sorry."

"Well, that's fucking wonderful," I was angry, "First I kill two guys, my wife and kids leave, I lose my fucking job, and now I find out there are Russian mobsters and skinheads after us. Wonderful. Just fucking wonderful," as I slammed my fist on the conference room table, causing a boom to echo through the office. "Well, thanks for your fucking time and immense help," as I got up and headed for the door, "I guess I'll be on my way now and try to figure out something."

Of course, the DA had to add in her two cents. "Wait, Mr. Hunter. We may be able to provide you with some level of police protection, at least short term. I'll contact the Mayor and Chief of Police and see what we can do."

At least she was trying.

"What about my wife and kids, and her family? Are you going to protect them too?" I spit.

"I'm sorry, but they're not in our jurisdiction. All I can do is call the district attorney in your wife's area and ask if they can help. I'll do what I can."

"I'll tell you this. You better bring some big fucking guns. The Russians and the skinheads don't fuck around. I'll be somewhere," and headed out of the conference room toward the exit. Agent Harper caught up with me and handed me his card, "Please call me if I can do anything."

I snatched the card from him, "Sure if someone decides to kill me, you'll be the first one I call. Thanks for nothing," and I walked away, pulling the phone from my pocket.

My thoughts returned to my wife, kids, her parents, my family, and our friends. It had been five days since she left, and everything had gone to hell.

Damn it, I had to warn them.