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There comes a time in every soldier’s career when you wonder if you’re doing the right thing.
Whether you’re a cop hauling in boys off the street or a military man shooting what they tell you when they tell you, you gotta wonder.
Does this kid deserve to have his life ruined for dealing? Does this man deserve to die?
The time came for me a couple weeks back.
I’ve always been a good soldier. Doing good work. Protecting the people of Seattle from bioterrorists. More dangerous then us, given power they can’t hope to control, we were locking them up. Unhurt, for the most part.
Felt just. Felt right.
Until a few weeks ago, when I was assigned to Rowe. Told to hunt him down. That’s a death sentence. Everyone knows that those agents don’t come back.
So when we tracked him down to an alley, trapped him with his back to a wall, we all went in mad. Guns blazing, my whole squad screaming bloody murder, revenge on everyone’s mind.
He wasn’t quite what I imagined. Some punk kid in a vest and a beanie, and he was laughing as we came at him. Couldn’t have been more then 20, 25. I couldn’t for the life of me imagine why he’d been giving the other DUP agents so much grief.
Only when I shot him, felt my gun kick, knew the bullet would hit home, he wasn’t there. Just disintegrated, left a contrail of neon and retina burn, and the next thing I knew my buddy was down on the ground, trussed up in light that hurt just to look at.
Our numbers dwindled every time he made a pass, and none of us could even hit him, he moved that fast. One second there the next gone, always glowing this otherworldly pink. There was so much light pouring off him that you got spots in your vision when you caught sight of him.
We couldn’t win. We couldn’t see him, couldn’t hit him, couldn’t even touch him.
And sure, I lasted longer then most of my squad, but it wasn’t long before he had me, too. He was lining up to shoot, and I knew he wouldn’t miss. Knew I was breathing my last.
Then he stopped and ran- not warped, not dissolved, ran, on foot, away from me. Showed me his back- and that vest practically has a target painted on it- to get to a civilian- some lady caught in the crossfire, bleeding out in the gutter.
He let me shoot him five, ten times- good, clean shots- while he helped the woman up, healed her, got her out of the way.
When he turned back to me, he was bleeding, but the bullet holes were closing up faster then I could make them, and somehow I still wasn’t dead.
And that’s when I realized. This was Seattle’s most wanted, maybe the most dangerous man in the world. I was shooting to kill. All of us were.
But Rowe? He was aiming for knees and feet. My friends were groaning and cursing and trussed like Christmas hams, but they weren’t dead by any stretch of the imagination.
I looked Rowe in the eyes, saw him for the first time, a kid with acne scars spraypaint on his hands. A kid.
I held up my hands, dropped my gun.
The next thing I know, I’m waking up in a hospital, with nothing but a splitting headache and the memory of a bright light to tell me what happened.
While I was recovering, I came to the realization that we were making history here in Seattle, and I knew with all my heart that that paint-stained kid was on the winning side. He was the good guy.
And I wasn’t going to be caught on the wrong side of this- no government paycheck is worth being the bad guy.
So I did what every DUP who goes up against Rowe did.
I got the hell out, and tried to salvage what’s left of my soul.
If anyone reads this, take it from me. Get out while you can, and pray you’ll be forgiven.
I only hope God’s as merciful as the man you’ve been trying to kill.