Ripe For The Picking

I sat in the room, putting his .45 back together. I hated the suit my COs put me in. They wanted me on my best behavior. Of course, as long as they weren't signing the check for my "psychological leave of absence", they'd be happy to see me go. Besides, it was what he would've wanted.

There was one light in the bloody room. Just a bulb on a chain. It swung over the metal table, making the shadows dance around me. I sat with my back to a wall, facing the door. There was another chair across from me. Finally, the door opened. I tried to make out what he looked like. As he came closer to the light, I could make out his features. He was an old war dog. Still, his body was in shape. Had one of those dick ticklers. In his right hand, he had a stack of folders. He continued to stand.

"I know who you are," he said in a deep voice, "and I know what you've been through. The reason I chose you is because you and I were both there. We saw what happened. You ended it. That's why I need you to command my task force." When he spoke, I felt off balance. His voice rang out clear with a hint of suspense. Like he was going to say something that would stir my passion as a soldier. Something that would make me remember why I fought and took blood.

It took a few seconds for me to realize that I needed to say something. I leaned over the table. "When do I meet my team?" He pushed the folders to me and took his chair. "When you pick them." he said plainly. I picked up the first folder and read the name. 'Simon Riley'. I looked up at him. "Welcome to the One-Four-One." and we both stood up and shook hands, I with his .45 holstered, and the old bastard with a .44 strapped to his belt.