Note 1: After a marathon of Solitaire I think I've broken this mess open. I'm going to change up the pattern a bit. It occurred to me that we really haven't heard from Salem. I think that is what's bogging me down. Sure he's been in a bit of a fugue state, withdrawn and sullen but he's going to wake up in Louisiana rested and see the world with a different and possibly dangerous vision. Or at best we'll see a bit of his latent cynicism. I'm going to switch to a first person POV for him at some point, a dangerous and often lethal blow to a story but I think it needs to happen for us to get a look at what's going on with him past and present. I liked his "Notes" in The 40th. Day. So this will be a sort of mental notebook. Rios talks and I think Salem listens. Salem talks and I have the idea he gets tuned out so I can see him lying awake running his problems around and around in his head. Also the time frame is going to jump around a bit. This parallel story line is a pain and now I see gaps that need to be filled. I think it is a manageable situation and segues should be understandable. That said let's turn this thing on its ear!

Note 2: Ok I didn't get to the POV shift; as usual the story grew legs.

DISCLAIMER: The mission stuff is off the cuff, out of my imagination and based upon what info I manage to dig up. Do not slay me for inaccuracies, just email corrections, I am an avid listener.

Chapter Ten

A Brotherhood of Disciplinarians

Salem awoke to the early morning sun twinkling between the slightly drawn blinds of the bay window. He forced himself to remain still while willing away the anxiety coursing through his body. Bathington's place, Louisiana, the cemetery, the visions clicked through his mind like an oddly disjointed slide show. The day before was a near loss memory wise. He recalled the cemetery, recalled breaking down and agreeing to come to Bathington's, but the day before that and the week prior to that day…they were a gray whirling blur of fragmented, painful snippets. The only absolute memory he had was of thinking that Rios had betrayed him and the sound of Samantha's words, words that still echoed around his skull. "I'd rather she'd died then carry the stain of that monster's murderous breath in her soul!" He squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed down the bile rising in his throat.

"Yea, Samantha," he thought to himself, "if only you knew the pain that wish would bring you. Or would it Sam? For Tyse, yea but you, I don't know."

He was stiff. That told him he'd slept soundly. He wasn't one to thrash about and sprawl in a bed; but when he awoke stiff like he was now it signaled a deep, deathlike sleep born of complete physical and emotional exhaustion. That worried Elliot and he hoped that the missing bits of memory weren't rife with screw ups and social gaffs as far as Bathington was concerned. If his memory served him even somewhat well, his old foe had been nothing but gracious and compassionate.

Once he'd calmed down he noted the slow, even, sonorous breaths that he'd recognize anywhere as Rios'. He was still sound asleep and for that Salem was grateful. He needed a few minutes alone to sort himself out. Carefully he rolled onto his back and looked up at the ornate plaster ceiling designed with swirls and intricate brocades obviously the work of an experienced craftsman. Elliot let his eyes chase around the patterns for a bit trying to silence the sound of Samantha's and his own reproachful voices. What had he ever created? By his own admission he loved blowing things up. He sighed saddened by the idea that he'd probably never actually create a ceiling or anything else for that matter, aside from creating chaos in some poor fool's life. The only good thing he had created, his daughter, was gone. He hated that his memory plagued him like it did. An insult or churlish comment would scurry round and round his head for days on end tormenting him, but a compliment, the negative quashed and trundled a compliment underfoot immediately.

"And you wonder Rios, why I drink myself blind on a far too regular basis."

Pushing the heavy comforter and blankets off, he slid from the big bed, stood up, stretched and crossed to the window. Below, the verdant yard spread out before him and the pink morning sunlight glimmered off the meandering eddies swirling in the river. Looking back over his shoulder he saw that Rios had rolled onto his back but still slept, his thick left arm thrown haphazardly across the very spot Salem just vacated. That got him moving; he pissed, splashed water on his stubble covered face, dragged his fingers through his hair, threw on his hat and the huge yellow sweatshirt he'd borrowed from Tyson and slipped silently from the bedroom with his sneakers in hand.

In the wide hallway Salem was surprised to smell coffee. He tracked the comforting aroma to the quaint turret shaped room at the end of the hall. After a look over his shoulder he stepped in and marveled at the tiny, convenient kitchenette. He assumed it was there to keep folks from trudging downstairs for snacks and drinks in the night. Rich folks and their creature comforts; this was what his father considered a Wonder Bread man neighborhood. Chuckling lightly he grabbed a cup from the dish drain and filled it.

"Have a great day," He sneered reading the message before sipping from the cheerful cup. "Right, every day's a great day like I need fucking wisdom from a stupid cup"

The coffee and a warm croissant with cream cheese in hand, he headed down the winding ornate stairs, through the main house and exited silently through one of the extra-large French doors leading to the yard. As Salem walked timidly down the brick pathway he relished the cool morning air was and the smell of fresh grass and river water. He turned to see if anyone was watching him, but saw no one. Reassured of his solitude he continued along taking in the fresh smell of the moist roses, and eating as he strolled. The croissant filled his belly and the coffee warmed him against the chill; half way to the dock he paused and studied the stand of willows bordering the lawn. He began to step from the path and stopped just beyond the row of roses. Elliot looked back at the house, took another tentative step in the lush grass and halted again. It seemed wrong somehow as if possibly you were supposed to stay on the brick pathway. He looked again at the big house, strained with a practiced eye to see movement or a glimmer in any of the windows saw none and continued on. The row of roses and benches was now forty yards behind him and the shady willow was about fifty away. He was midway and suddenly felt exposed and horribly vulnerable. His heart began to race and sweat broke out on his forehead. He'd seen no sign prohibiting walking on the beautiful lawn but seeing his deep footprints marring the voluminous grass worried him.

"There you fuckin' go again, Elliot fucking stuff up. Shit."

He turned annoyed at his foolish desire to sit beneath the grand trees and backtracked making certain to step only in the already wallowed out footprints. Once on the pathway he continued along briskly until he reached the dock. A flock of ducks, flushed by his appearance, skipped off across the water breaking the morning's silence with loud quacking. Elliot sat down on one of the two large swinging seats at the end of the dock, settled comfortably with his feet up and took in the cool damp, morning breeze.

Up in the mansion Hunter and Quentin watched Elliot navigate the lawn from the kitchen window. They stood far enough back that he couldn't see them through the light tinting. Upstairs Rios stirred awake when he noticed Salem's side of the big bed was empty. He hopped up and headed for the bathroom. On the way he peered out of the blinds and saw Elliot ambling along the pathway. He watched him stop, head onto the lawn then turn and retreat to the brick walk. Reassured that he was safe Rios took the time to shave and went downstairs.

"Morning, sorry about dinner, I guess I knocked out. Must have needed the sleep."

"Grab some coffee and a croissant Tyson and don't worry over dinner, Quentin's pot roast is always better the second day anyway."

"Did you talk to Salem?" Rios asked pouring his coffee and choosing a warm raisin croissant from the platter.

"No he slipped out. We didn't even hear him. He's quite stealthy your, Elliot."

"Stealth doesn't even begin to describe, Salem. He's a damned ghost when he wants to be."

He joined the two men in the spot where they could see Elliot swinging on the dock.

"I see. Well, Tyson excuse me for asking but exactly what is it you two do? You really never got around to telling us."

Rios pondered the question. It had to come up eventually but he hated that so many people jumped to the wrong conclusion about their work. Once they'd left SSC they'd tried very hard to do missions that were positive, steering clear of outright assassinations, and the murky dirty work. The plan didn't always succeed and that was where the gray began to slip in. The gray that it seemed, year by year was wearing the pair down. Salem, at least on the surface, seemed to manage the gray better than Rios. He didn't talk about 'work'. Work was an off limits topic. The young man just bottled up the grim realities of the job and marched forward in whatever direction Rios aimed him. It was that containment of anxiety, guilt and grief that the psychiatrist told Rios was tearing Salem up. The man needed to vent and after enough emotional strain filled him up he'd do just that, often with disastrous results. Rios, conversely, simply spooned the gray onto Salem's plate and kept pretending his was sparkly clean.

He watched Salem swinging peacefully and decided the truth was probably the best route to take. No point in candy coating the facts. They killed for money.

"We, I took an opportunity, after the Army, to go into private security work. The money was excellent and hell it wasn't like either of us knew how to do anything else besides kill people and blow stuff up anyway."

"Oh I see, like mercenaries."

"No, at least that's not what we wanted, well honestly not what Salem wanted. For me it just seemed like the easiest path to follow."

"And Elliot was drawn along?"

"That's the odd thing Hunter, no not at first. He turned and walked away from the offer. In hind sight it was a bold move on his part. From the time I'd first met Salem he been attached to my fucking hip. Oh excuse my language."

"Oh no problem, we live a tad high on the hog but we can talk a foul streak when the time calls for it. Please just be yourselves."

"Right, well I tried my damnedest for the first two months we were partners to get rid of the little bastard. He wouldn't budge. And you have to figure he was dealing with the deaths of Jennifer and Ellie too. I put that boy through holy hell and got the squad to hate him too. So when it finally comes time for us to ETS about a year and a half later, well get out, we get this invite to go private. We argued about the SSC offer for weeks. I finally told him 'Look Salem unless you have a better plan; lead, follow or get the fuck out of my way.' Well he got out of the way. I went to SSC and he, in spectacular Salem fashion, got out of the way and with no one to lead him… well it wasn't pretty."

"So you're still with this SSC?" Quentin asked.

"No, they went under in '05, we uncovered that they were leaking intell about U.S. troop movements causing ambushes and failed missions in order to make the PMC's look better, more efficient the U.S. troops, and we took them down . We started T.W.O. with the support of some friends so we own ourselves now."

"Oh, the Senator Whitehorse debacle?"

"Yup, Hunter we were smack in the middle of it. Nearly got killed for our efforts too."

Hunter sat and digested the information. He did not entirely approve but his opinion on the subject was a moot point. All he cared about was getting to know Elliot and making amends for how he'd treated him.

"So he still follows you blindly; forever drawn inexplicably along by the dark current of Tyson Rios."

"Excuse me?"

"No, excuse me. I'm just thinking. Your name, Tyson Rios, Tyson means the dark one, the thunderous one, and Rios well that's river basically. I watched him walk down the pathway earlier, he wanted to step off and go his own way, sit in the serene shade of the Willows but in the end it was the security of the path and the dark turbulent river that drew him along. I guess that's you. You are the powerful one, always drawing him along in your wake. Those eddies, they appear gentle, just swirling along, but they are surprisingly powerful."

"And that is hilariously ironic, Hunter." Rios said bursting out in deep baritone laughter.

"I'm sorry?"

"No, in a good way I guess. Before we left to come here, the night I got him out of jail; he wanted to go surfing in the dark. I hate when he does that. Anyway he slams some beers on an empty stomach and in no time he's babbling about me being a rip current and him the beach and vice versa and making all these water allusions and I don't even think Salem knows an allusion from and illusion. Now here you are doing the same thing. Maybe, just maybe there's something to it. But for certain there's something else as well gentlemen, for all his bluster and rebellion Salem hates to disappoint someone he cares for or cares for him and he hates to be in trouble with them despite always seeming to find some. I'm guessing he was just as afraid he'd get a good ass chewing for mucking up your perfect blades of grass as he was of walking away from me. So step easy around him or trust me he will shut down."

"Well put and consider it done. Now that said how do you think I should approach him. I do not want to be the one mucking this up, embracing him means too much to me."

Tyson pondered the query. The first thought that came to mind was Gabe Benedict. Gabe had a way of managing Salem through the good stuff and the bad. Tyson, for the most part, copied the old sergeant's methods but had Salem's odd blind devotion as a booster. He recalled a situation in March of '93 and told the story.

Somalia March 1993

"Salem, take point."

"Top?"

"Point, soldier now."

Salem furrowed his brow at the odd command, looked at an equally confused Rios and scrabbled up the gravel berm and into position at the apex of the five man wedge formation and about forty yards ahead of it. It wasn't that he was afraid of the assignment it just was not his usual role. As he crept along he tried to tune out the sound of the squad's feet crunching gravel behind him as they moved slowly across the open tract of desert. He worried for Rios at the rear of the wedge, alone and without him to watch his back. Seventy yards forward he stopped, squatted, signaled the squad to halt, took out his binoculars and scanned the wide open terrain. They were sitting ducks out there and he wanted to take them on an alternate route along a low gully wash that would flank their objective. He keyed his mic and called for Benedict.

"Top, two clicks south east of us, if we trail along this ridge, there's a long shallow gully wash, it'll give us a bit of cover. Switch up to a double echelon formation go that route. I'm not liking what I see down this next ridge. It's a kill zone, dead flat, no cover, just sparse light brush."

"Two clicks, that's four total out and back on line again, negative no time, just scan it good and take us down. Intell didn't show hostiles in this quadrant aside from the shepherds in the village with the cache."

"Roger that."

So he scanned the wash again and signaled the squad forward. Fifty yards out onto the wash he stopped again, halted the squads and scanned the area once more. It was too flat, too clean, almost as though the rebels had swept it for observation. Every nerve in his body was screaming for him to find a better way but orders were orders. He shrugged his shoulders adjusting the weight of his light fifty feeling as though even broken down the damned big weapon was sticking out like a lone Redwood tree on the arid plain. If he'd been alone or even just him and Rios he wouldn't worry as much. But he had nine guys stacked in dual wedge formations trudging along behind him and to Salem's ears, trained to mute even the tiniest of his own and Rios' sounds while listening for the enemy's; the horde of guys trailing him sounded like a herd of buffalo.

Salem moved them out once more, the sound of his own heartbeat loud in his ears. He started a bit when Benedict cued him on his ear piece.

"Distance out?"

Salem looked at his watch, calculated his paces and keyed his mic. Well this at least was something he was certain of. Land navigation was his specialty.

"Three and a half clicks, and slightly, say fifteen degrees to our north west. I'll bear us back round on target as we walk."

"Roger that, can we make a little better time?"

Salem cringed, as it was he felt they were pushing their luck.

"I don't advise it but it's your call."

"No corporal, you're on point it's your call."

Salem seethed. Why was Benedict baiting him out in such an exposed situation? He calculated their ETA to the objective, time for the mission and the needed to meet the extraction window. Top was correct. They needed to pick up the pace but Salem's gut screamed that it was not safe to do so; that the time would need to made up some other way. He scanned the ground again and sighed.

"Roger that, I'll find a way; but for the record something aint right out there."

Annoyed he signaled them to move out and picked up his pace. They stalked along a bit quicker and it seemed as though his concerns had been unfounded. Several cautious halts later, the precious time caught up and with less than a click to go Salem started up the slight rise that would bring the team to bear on its objective; a small settlement that sources and aerial surveillance claimed was housing medium sized arms and mortars for the rebels.

He squatted down before sky-lighting himself on the ridge line and signaled for the men to halt some fifty yards back. Binoculars in hand he scanned to target. The settlement was small and several armed men wandered the singular dirt path that bisected it south east to north west. Everything matched the surveillance photos that he'd studied. It was nothing but an assortment of mud hovels centered on a communal well. He saw no women or children only a handful of armed men walking as if on half- hearted guard duty. Salem was young but in Bosnia he'd learned that appearances could deceive. He keyed his mic.

"Objective in sight. Appears to be just as the intell suggested. I count eight to ten adult males armed with…probably old AK's. Locals, non-military."

"Roger that, we'll go with the simple pincer attack as planned. I'm sending Giddy round now to close off the northwest egress. He'll have the better cover. Let's just play it like we planned. Takes us in Corporal Salem."

Salem scrutinized the terrain once more for threats with the eyes of a trained sniper, stowed the binoculars, clicked open his acog sight's caps, double checked his M16's magazine and signaled the squad forward, down onto the final flat between them and the village.

Seventy yards later he felt the first round zing past his right cheek then the second one plowed into his back just below his right shoulder blade. His vest took the hit but the impact of the medium caliber round slung him around counterclockwise nearly 360 degrees. Before he fell he watched in horror as at least twenty tangos leapt up from their sand and dry brush warrens and rushed the squad. He scrambled to stand but another shot, this time to his left front shoulder spun him back away from the fire fight. He rolled and brought his weapon up just as one of the men rushed at him. Blinded by pain, and the wind knocked from his lungs Salem fired at the blurry machete wielding figure and watched his chest explode. He made it to his knees and instead of firing into the fray to his rear and risking catching the squad in a cross fire he instead turned and focused on the group of men rushing their position from the village. He knew that Giddy was also engaged but in fair cover to his right flank and watched the small cluster of armed villagers split, half heading to Giddy and the other toward him.

He slid down just below the ridge and took aim with his M16. Just as he fired his first round he heard the familiar whump of a mortar firing. He ducked down as the shell impacted just behind him but short of Benedict's position. They'd missed but if they were good they'd figure the range out soon enough. Ignoring the pain searing his ribs and shoulder and the thought that he'd let the team down Salem took aim and began eliminating the rushing men. The M16 wasn't as accurate as his fifty but he made quick work of the charging men. Another two mortars smashed down somewhat closer to the confrontation to his six and he decided to move to his left, south, get clear of the melee, pull out the fifty and take the mortar position out. There was no time to clear it with Benedict so he just acted.

Thirty paces left there was a crater where one of the failed mortar rounds had hit. He low crawler over, wallowed down into it and un- packed the fifty. Just as he was setting the bipod on the rim of the berm Rios squawked in on his headset.

"Where you at, Kermit?"

"Not a good time, Tubby. Top a the ridge, your eleven o-clock, gonna cap that mortar son of a bitch. You?"

"Fuck that man; you are alone up there, fall back, fall back."

"Fuck that."

He ducked as a shell shot over his position and landed just behind him out of range but still spraying him with debris.

"That mortar's got us pinned has to go. Out"

"We are at best 150 yards to your six now and falling back, Salem!"

"Well then you're still in range."

In the corner of his right eye he saw a shell hit frightfully close to Giddy's position, he clicked open the sights on the big rifle and searched out the target. He found it as the next shell launched. Ignoring the round coming his way he settled, took aim, adjusted his sights, went through his mental and physiological procedure and squeezed the trigger. He missed. Furious with what he considered his second failure of the mission he grit his teeth took aim again and through the sight watched the mortar gunner align the weapon on his position. Adrenalin drove away the pain, and fear threatening to undo him. He steadied himself, repeated the procedure, noting that the gunner was not a Somali but as white as a man could be and smoothly squeezed the trigger before the merc could squeeze his; then watched, relieved as his target pin wheeled backwards and down with the side of his head missing.

He readied the weapon to fire again and turned back toward Benedict's position. Through the dust he could see that they were regrouping and with the villagers now on the retreat Benedict was preparing the squad to advance into the settlement.

"Top, I am in place for defensive sniper cover, mortar is eliminated, advise."

"Hold that position but be aware they are retreating back through your six. Copy?"

"Copy and holding."

As he waited Salem encountered resistance from enemies trying to retreat back to the village. He bayonetted two securing his position then focused on observing the settlement. They were setting up a second offensive position and arming it with multiple RPG's.

Giddy was moving forward somewhat ahead of Benedict's squad. Salem could see the formation moving at good speed and un- hindered down and across the wash.

"Giddy, Giddy slow up you are out ahead of Top slow up. They are setting RPG's You need to wait on Top."

"Roger that, take those fuckers down, Salem."

"Consider it done."

Salem took aim, ignoring the squad of men dropping down to his right along the edge of the berm. Rios sidled over to his position and dragged out his spotter's scope.

"You got him?"

"Got him, boss."

He squeezed the trigger and the first RPG dropped.

"Going for number two. Can't fucking believe they're side by side. Oh, he's moving. Wait for it." Then keying his mic. "Giddy draw his fire, get him to stop and take aim."

"Roger."

The RPG gunner stopped and turned toward Giddy's fire; Salem drew a bead and squeezed. Two down and the third one was dropping back and into the closest building to the team's left and out of Benedict's line of travel.

"Go Top now, he's to your left, eleven o-clock and your clear, it's a shit angle he has and as soon as he pokes his head up I'll nab him."

Benedict sent the men forward; two rocket rounds skimmed by them as they sprinted toward the village, then he heard the crack of Salem's fifty and the RPG fire ceased.

The rest was just mop up. Salem entered the village with Rios and set the explosives to detonate the weapons cache. The team secured the few survivors; disabled the three trucks they found and Benedict called for extraction.

That should have been it but once the threat was over Salem was despondent. They piled into the chopper and the young man immediately collapsed in a corner refusing to communicate with anyone, Rios included. When he began coughing up blood the men realized he was injured and Benedict sent the medic to him. Salem fought the man as he tried to remove his tactical vest to check his injuries. Rios and Heckler wrestled him still while the medic hit him with morphine and Giddy tore the Velcro straps open and stripped it off. Once the vest was free Elliot stilled and slumped back against Rios' broad chest panting.

"It's not what you think." He mumbled then passed out.

"What's he talking about?"

"This I think, Top." Giddy said holding the battered vest out.

Benedict took the vest, saw Giddy's discovery and sighed. This Corporal Elliot Salem, this scrawny, wayward, hot headed kid who'd blown into their lives after surviving an experience that would have killed many a more skilled soldier was an enigma that Benedict was slowly giving up hope of ever understanding. Despite his years in the service, despite his tough outer facade First Sergeant Gabe Benedict found himself crying as he ran a calloused thumb back and forth across the nine Ranger tabs carefully sewn into the lining of Elliot's vest over his heart.

Three weeks later Rios stood in Benedict's grungy office along with Colonel Richard Dalton the company commander waiting for Salem to arrive. Since returning from the mission Salem had, for the most part, shut Benedict out and once again walled himself in shunning the team. The discord was causing difficulties for the squad to the point where Colonel Dalton had noticed the tension while watching the men perform a dwelling clearing exercise; prompting the formal meeting. Salem showed up on time, reported perfectly, then stood at attention waiting for his perceived punishment.

Benedict let him wait. The man shuffled Salem's thick file around perusing one page after another, took a phone call, made a phone call, signed a supply request brought in by his aide and went to the bathroom before acknowledging the Corporal. Rios was furious at both himself and Benedict. Seeing Salem treated in such a manner made him recall his own callous welcoming when he'd let Elliot suffer in the blazing sun for nearly an hour before taking him to their quarters.

"You fucked up."

Benedict finally said smugly, leaning back in his chair, and studying the young man. He saw the twitch in the right corner of Salem's lips and chin and the slight furrowing of his brow. He read the fury buried just beneath the surface and part of him hoped Salem would let it loose.

"You think you fucked up and because of that Pedro took a round to his left calf and Dempsey's down with shrapnel from the mortar fire in his ass and thigh. Franklin's got a busted finger or two and a knife slash to his face and let's see I got nipped in the shoulder and Giddy's got a through and through to his outer left bicep. So you, our point man, fucked up right? Led us smack into an ambush right. Oh and your partner there, Rios, I forgot he got tagged too how's that hip doing Tyson, still bruised as hell? Then you fuckin' spit blood and shut us out."

Tyson stood up straighter and glared at Benedict. What the hell was the man trying to do? Incite Salem to violence. The kid had done nothing else but shoot his ass off on the range since they'd returned; trying to get better, as if he could, he was already a superb shot. He'd punished himself enough, isolating himself from the men just when he'd finally been welcomed into their fold. It wasn't as if he had anything to punish himself for anyway. What went down was nobody's fault. All the intell led them to think it was going to be an easy in and out with little resistance. The intell didn't mention foreign mercenaries, ambushes and mortars. They'd expected only bored, poor goat herders willing to make a buck guarding a weapons cache in the middle of nowhere.

"Well?" Benedict said quizzically, picking up Salem's file. "What do you have to say for yourself, Salem? Do you want to kick my old ass for not heeding your warnings? Are you afraid to speak your mind, because I hold your fucking entire life; past, present and future in my hands, Salem?"

Salem blinked but didn't move. Then Benedict launched from his chair, rounded the desk and was in Elliot's face waving the folder around and screaming.

"You go out, you charge MMG's, you hold a position alone, wounded and under fire to cover your men, you have the balls to question my judgment during an op, you defend a group of men who'd done nothing but hate you from PMC's getting your arm broke in the process, yet when it comes down to it and my judgment proves to have been wrong your too fuckin' scared to tell me. You crawl in a hole and hide, Salem. Salem is this what you fear? This god damned ream of paperwork. Did you fuck up out there, Salem? Answer me boy!"

Salem stood stock still staring straight ahead. If nothing else Rios thought he had self- control when he needed too.

"Answer me!"

"No Top. I tried to… I…You didn't listen. I…"

"It's this file, this threat, it's this yoke those sick fuckers have hung around your neck's fault. It keeps you off balance; makes you second guess yourself Corporal and that's exactly what you did in the op. You worried that if you stood your ground I'd pull this pile of horseshit out and send you packing. What hurts me Salem, is not that you didn't see the ambush, no one could have or would have it was beautifully set, but what burns my ass is that you didn't trust me son. That you thought I'd fuck you like that. Punish you by sending you back, sending you away. Never, never again feel afraid to question me or anyone else reasonably when you are concerned during a mission. What went down's on me Corporal. You were my eyes and I refused to believe what they were telling me. I made you into a tool then refused to use it. You have a lighter?"

"Top?"

"A lighter, a cigarette lighter."

"I don't smoke but, yes."

"Give it here."

Salem did and Benedict took it. He turned, retrieved his waist basket and held Salem's file up. He lit the corner and waited for the flames to catch well, then dropped it into the basket.

"You are going to make mistakes, Elliot, you are going to regret decisions, Elliot, but the gravest error you can make is to think that the man you were, the boy you were in that pile of ashes still exists; because he's dead and in his place is a strong, loyal, wonderfully skilled man, a soldier who I am proud to serve with and have absolutely no fear of trusting with my life and the lives of my men. Dismissed."

A few weeks later as the squad geared up for their next patrol, Heckler walked up to Salem as he was loading his ammo pouches.

"Hey, Fifty."

Salem looked up and smiled, he liked the pet name the older man had given him.

"Luck today and keep my ass safe, bro."

Then he reached out and tapped his fist three times firmly over Salem's heart and the coveted Ranger tabs. After him the rest of the team followed suit and from then on out it was squad protocol before any op.

Louisiana 2005

" Turns out the blood he'd coughed up was from swallowing it due to a badly broken nose. But you see Hunter with Salem it's this mix of tough love, scare tactics and how should I say it, tender nurturing. Without the mix, the message is just lost on him. Be too soft and he mistrusts your intention as taking advantage, too tough and you're an asshole. It's like walking a tight rope. I don't know how else to say it. Benedict knew how to manage him. It was always like scare him, piss him off then douse the flames with kindness. Go figure it works."

"I see and can understand it. Quentin?"

"I agree. He suffered so much abandonment and cruelty, showing naught but disdain for anything else yet all along secretly craving praise and acceptance; all the while scorning those very needs as weakness. It makes sense that a mix of all three grabs his heart. Your Top was a smart man and could read men well."

Rios looked down across the lawn at Salem still swinging idly on the dock.

"Yea, I thought I could too. Thought I knew him. Then the man drops a dead wife and daughter in my lap after nearly twenty years of what, friendship? What we have is a step or two beyond friendship. He's Salem. He's as Top also said 'one pain in the fucking ass walking enigma.' I think I'll go check on him."

"Wait Tyson, let me. I need to break the ice and well why prolong it? I'll step lightly. I promise."