Part VIII
She knows things about him that no one else does. Like how he was married once. It's how he wins her back. How he gets her to understand how hard this is for him, because he's kept himself alone so he wouldn't have to feel that kind of loss again…
Tool was the one that had introduced him to the work, showed him a better way of making money by "serving his country." He'd gotten into the job during 'Nam, after his unit was decimated in a surprise attack. They'd all been slaughtered—and he'd fought like hell to survive for three weeks in enemy territory, with nothing but a knife and his wits about him.
When he'd finally made it back to camp and eventually back to the states, the army gave him a pat on the back, an honorary discharge and a shitload of medals designed to make him feel like he'd achieved something.
He'd started up a car restoration shop with his slim savings and then he'd met a woman. Tall and willowy, with olive skin that glistened and eyes so dark he felt he could drown in them.
Barney Ross fell in love. He'd married Victoria Ross on February 14, 1972 and a year later, they had their daughter, Natalie Rose. Then the Army had come with a "special offer".
He had a specific set of skills they needed, they'd said. His record was spotless, IQ near genius, field tested and battle approved. HE was the man for the job. It came with a good chunk of change, and that night, as he kissed his baby and his wife, he told himself he was doing it for them.
Their leader, Captain James O'Toole had guided them into what would ultimately become a rat-fuck of monumental proportions. They were out-gunned and out-numbered. Out of a team of 12, only two of them, he and Toole, came out alive. And though the mission was a success, the death toll was high.
When he arrived back home, he found his house on fire. His wife and daughter, trapped inside.
Their team had been sold out by one of their own before they'd ever reached their target. The Colombian drug cartels had their names and the names of their families, and karma had come swiftly, and with a vengeance.
Everything Barney Ross touched turned to ash. And Captain O' Toole, or "Tool" as he preferred to be called, had grown so used to war he'd forgotten how to live in regular society. So Ross let his anger fuel him, and he and Tool went into private business, taking their "skills" and that of others who had been screwed by their governments, with them. They built a highly-specialized operation.
Their rules. Their demands. They trusted no one but each other. Respected no one but each other. And they lived and died by their own particular brand of loyalty. They had built an empire—and yet on every mission, each of his men carried with them the cold, cruel knowledge that their lives could end at any moment—and there would be no one there to grieve for them. No children to carry their names. Every single last one of them was disposable. Disposable heroes. Disposable liabilities. Disposable villains, terrorists. Every one of them was Expendable.
.
Isobel listens quietly as he tells her this. Her hand embraces his as he talks. His voice is low. Steady. Hard with emotion. Slowly, they begin to heal. To try again.