31 strikes with a blunt object. Probably a hammer. I looked at Grant, then Ian, then Dominic. A robber hits once to knock you down, twice to keep you down. 31 times. I shook my head. 31 times is personal. 31 times is hate. Watch your mouth. Dominic stepped forward again. I’m going to find who did this, I said, looking directly at Victor.
And when I do, I’m not going to call the police. I’m going to do what I was trained to do. I turned my back on them and walked toward the exit. I needed air, but more than that, I needed to get back to the house. The detective said it was a robbery, but my gut, the same gut instinct that kept me alive in the mountains of Afghanistan, told me the enemy wasn’t some stranger in the dark.
The enemy was standing in the waiting room. And they had made one fatal mistake. They didn’t kill her, and they didn’t kill me. I walked out into the cold night air, took out my phone, and cancelled my return flight to base. The war was over there, but a new hunt had just begun here. The drive back to the house felt like a funeral procession of one.
