Page 57 of Cutter's Hope
Because to say it now was to admit out loud that the situation we were going into, that he was following me into… that only one or neither of us might come out of. Which was bullshit, but true and heartbreaking none the less. I rested my forehead against his and closed my eyes.
“Don’t do that, Sweetheart,” he murmured.
“Do what?” I asked.
“It’s gonna be fine, we’re going to get in, get her out and get gone and it’s gonna be fine.”
I pulled back just enough so I could nod, “Yep, so let’s get planning to give us the best chance of accomplishing all of those goals in that order, shall we?”
“Sounds good, grab a shower and pack your shit. We need to go for a clean break,” he said and I slipped from the bed.
I showered and dressed and while he was in showering I packed my bag. I was as dressed for the occasion as I could get. Combat boots, black of course, my black tactical pants which were none the worse for wear, but could definitely stand to be washed after this go around of wearing them. I slipped on a fitted black Under Armor brand long sleeved heat gear shirt and tucked it in. It was made of a thin, lycra or nylon type material designed to vent and keep you cool, wicking sweat and moisture from your skin and dispersing it for quick evaporation.
I liked it because it took up barely any space in my bag and it was pretty damned good at its job. We’d worn similar in Iraq and while it wasn’t perfect, it did the job. Of course there was only so much you could do in that hot box when it came to keeping cool. Likewise in the oppressive heat and humidity here in New Orleans.
Cutter put on something pretty similar, although where I looked like I was trying to participate in the summer gothic weight loss program, (wear all black all summer long guaranteed lose fifteen pounds,) the coloring he donned was much more… I don’t know… hunter chic.
He wore some desert issue combat boots and a pair of cargo pants in the classic civilian deer hunter camo. He pulled a long sleeved olive green tee over his head and tucked it in. Over that, he shrugged into a brown leather holster. While I tucked my Ruger into my inner pants holster at the small of my back, he tucked a big bad .45 something or other under his arm.
We silently went about strapping on weaponry, which for me was just a knife along the outside of my thigh, but for him was a whole lot of knives. I blinked and watched as he tucked them in just about every pocket and added holsters to the outside of his calf and one to each wrist and one to the opposite thigh from the one he’d strapped to his lower leg.
“I take it this is where you actually got the name Cutter?” I asked.
He grinned at me, “Where’d you think I got it?”
“Truthfully with all the maritime stuff I thought you took it from the type of boat, you know like a Coast Guard Cutter.”
The corners of his mouth turned down like he was impressed at my line of thinking, then he spoke, “Naw, got it because a motherfucker pissed me off, so I cut him up.”
“Adorable,” I commented dryly.
“Was still dealing with a lot of the shit from over there, wasn’t exactly in my right head back then,” he fixed me with a look like he was waiting to see what I would do or say so I left my sarcasm at the door.
“Who the fuck am I to judge? I’m the one about to march the lot of you into a house full of Russian mobsters with every intention of killing them all so I can extract my drugged up and probably fucked up sister.”
“Yeah, and we’re the crazy bastards who are excited to do it with you,” he said.
“You know I once saw this quote on the internet, I think it was by I wanna say Nanea Hoffman, I remember the blog had a funny name… Anyways, it said ‘When you find people who not only tolerate your quirks but celebrate them with glad cries of “Me too!” be sure to cherish them. Because those weirdos are your tribe.’” Cutter barked a laugh and I couldn’t help but chuckle with him.
“Okay, I take it you feel like me an’ my rag tag crew are that for you?” he said and I smiled broadly.
“You know it,” I told him.
“I’m glad, Baby,” he said and pulled me against him. We hugged for a long minute and with a sigh broke apart before getting back to rounding up and packing up the rest of our shit.
“You ready for what we might find?” he asked.
“Nope. Not in the slightest,” I said honestly, “There’s no way anybody can be prepared for something like this. You can talk yourself up, convince yourself that the worst shit you could possibly think of is behind those doors, but once you see it, you know that whatever you convinced yourself of is nothing but a pack of lies. Like what processed cheese is to real cheese. This is going to be ugly, and what we’re about to do is going to be ugly. That’s just the way it is.”
“Jaded ain’t you, Sweetheart?”
“Isn’t that part of why you love me?” I asked, holding my breath. I knew I was fishing here but I couldn’t help myself, I wanted the admission so badly.
“Yeah,” he said, looking me over, “Yeah it is. You’re real, Sweetheart. That’s exactly why I love you.”
I let out my breath and nodded, “Let’s go get my sister,” I said.
“Sounds good to me,” he smiled and held the door open for me and I hefted my jacket and helmet with one arm and shouldered my pack with the other, slipping out into the slightly overcast day.
