coercion 6

Petty Officer First Class Cletus Burke sat on the edge of his bed and stared at the floor.

Several members of his team stayed at the same hotel, which was used by active duty and retired U.S. military. His handgun sat on the bed next to him. Ready. Willing. Able. He’d cleaned it more than a dozen times since returning from Gaeguli Seom. He’d removed each bullet from the magazine and reinserted them slowly, as if getting to know the rounds. As if praying to them.

Over the last sixteen hours since checking in he had carefully placed the barrel of the gun against his temple. Under his chin. In his mouth. Twice his finger even curled around the trigger, giving it nearly three pounds of pressure of the five and a half pounds of pull weight needed to send one of those rounds crashing through his brain.

Each time he set the gun down and broke apart into tears. His face was red and swollen from all the times he slapped and punched himself. He had rug burns on his knees from dropping onto the floor—in despair, in prayer.

He did not dare to turn on the TV. The news story would probably have broken by now. With pictures. With video. Proof that the doorway to hell was wide open. Burke hadn’t been inside a church for years, not since a friend’s wedding, and even then going through the prayers had been rote. His childhood faith in Jesus and Mary and the saints was long gone.

Except now it was as if he lay naked on the floor of the big church he’d gone to as a kid. Naked in body and naked in soul, with all of his sins laid bare. To those long-ignored saints. To Jesus and the Virgin. To God.

“I had to,” he whimpered, sliding off the edge of the bed and collapsing into a quivering heap against the night table. The day, or perhaps his mind, went black for a while and he lost himself in it. Then he was back again, sitting at the small desk in the room, his gun in his right hand. He looked down in surprise and confusion to see that his cell was in his left. Burke had no idea how much time had passed. He could see the time on the phone, but wasn’t sure when he’d fallen off the bed, or gotten up. Most of the day was burned out of him. Gone. He watched, almost like a spectator, as his finger tapped in a phone number. He raised the cell and listened through three endless rings. Burke was about to put the phone down, to end the call, maybe to end himself, when a voice answered.

“Hello?”

“B-Bill…?” whispered Burke.

“Clete?” asked Bill Compton, Burke’s former SEAL Team member. A good friend. A good man. Strong. Unbreakable. Reliable. Bill was out of the game now, walking around on a pair of artificial legs. Souvenirs of a mission they’d been on that had gone sideways. Bill was a real American hero. Stalwart. The kind of man who’d never once complained about what he’d lost in the service of what he loved.

“Clete … is that you?”

“Bill,” said Burke, “listen, man … I’m in trouble. I need help. I don’t know who else to ask.”

“Jesus, Clete, what’s wrong?”

“Have you seen the news?” “What news?”

“About Korea? About the island?” “Clete, what are you trying to say?” asked Bill.

“Christ, Bill, I’m in so much trouble. I need help, I need you to do something for me. Christ, I’m begging you, please.” There was a pause.

“Do what, Clete? What is it you need me to do?”

“Charlotte … the kids … oh, Christ…”

“Listen, Clete,” said Bill quietly, “take a breath. No, do it. Take a breath. Let it out. You know how it works. Get yourself steady. Good. Now tell me why you’re calling.” The old trick worked its magic, but only a little. Enough, though, for Burke to ask his friend for a dangerous favor.

“Bill, listen,” he said, “I got into something. Some people threatened to hurt Charlotte and the kids if I didn’t … didn’t … do something. Something really bad. It’s going to be all over the news. I’m done. They’re going to arrest me. There’s no chance they won’t. They could be here any minute. But, Bill … the people who did this, they told me what they’d do to my family. They showed me what they’d done to the families of other people who … who … Shit. Bill, I know this is a lot to ask. A whole fucking lot. But, for God’s sake, go get my family. Take them somewhere safe. Don’t let anyone near them. Jesus Christ, man, the things they said they’d do to them. My wife … my babies. I can’t … I just can’t … Bill, get my family and take them somewhere safe. I’m begging you. I’m fucking begging you. Take my family somewhere safe.” There was a long, long pause on the line. “Bill, did you hear me?”

“Look, Clete…,” said Bill Compton slowly, softly, “didn’t they tell you? Nowhere’s safe.” There was a sound on the line. A sob. And then the line went dead.
-Rage pg. 176-179