27 Lies(3)

By: MJ Fields



A day doesn’t go by that I am not thankful for my father’s parents’ support in making this choice. I finally know who I, Luke Lane, am. When I am here, I am focused and self-assured. The only time I doubt myself is when I am home.

Four years ago, I was picked from the 75th Ranger Battalion to became part of the most elite fighting force in the U.S. military: A.C.E., or Army Special Operations Command. I can speak Arabic, Portuguese, and Spanish fluently. I can hit a moving target from a thousand feet away with one hundred percent accuracy. With the technology I have access to through the compliments of the US government, I can find out just about anything in order to complete a mission that saves the lives of soldiers, Americans, and non-Americans, and help protect the freedoms of all the men and women who live in my country and around the world.

Americans go to sleep at night worried about monsters under their beds. Monsters aren’t shit. Machines aren’t shit. Weapons aren’t shit. What people should fear is the man in the closet with night vision goggles, waiting for the moment they can take out a potential problem.

Though the name changes whenever the bureaucrats get a hair up their asses, A.C.E. is, and always will be, Delta Force, the primary anti-terrorism unit for the United States military. The unit’s operative is to capture or kill HVU—high-value units—dismantle terrorist cells, or serve quick and lethal justice to those who threaten the freedoms and liberties of the United States.

We are not soldiers. We are operatives. We work as a well-oiled, close-knit unit to complete an operation. We answer to the Joint Special Operations Command, JSOC, supported by the Army Special Operations Command.

Operatives are not only selected because of physical ability, but also mental stability after an intensive background investigation. They know everything about me. They know everything about my family, friends, and even the women I spend more than a couple of nights with.

My family doesn’t know about the unit. They never will. In fact, I still get my mail delivered to the barracks even though I live off post. They have never seen me in my unit uniform, and they have never visited, because I make damn sure to go home and visit them to keep them away.

Ava Links was discovered because Ava Links has been sending letters to me for seven years. On more than one occasion, I have had to explain that we have a physical relationship only.

The unit hounds me hard about being single. D men, for the most part, are married. It keeps them focused on what is at home, not what is readily available all over the world. I am the only single man in my unit.

I walk into our unit’s office and throw my bag in my locker.

“How was your holiday?” Kurt asks, linking his hands behind his neck and putting his boots on his desk.

Kurt, or Killshot as we call him, is the typical D man. He’s tall, over thirty, has blond hair that he shaves off to make him stand out less when we are on a mission, and is married to his high school sweetheart, who has no clue what he actually does. Like me, he is a non-commissioned officer who was recruited through the 75th.

“Good. Yours?” I ask, sitting down at my own desk and turning on my computer.

“Great. Woke up to a blow job that didn’t fucking end with the obligatory holiday finish since the boys fucked that up by barging in. Buck got a bow and arrow set, which I was a little more than excited to teach him how to use. Then Sling got all bent because his wasn’t the same. All out fucking war.” He chuckles. “You think it’s bad in the field? Have a no finish blow job, two kids fighting, and your wife in tears because of ‘the amount of time she spent making the day perfect and it is now ruined.’ All I wanted to do was get off then shoot with the little shits.”

I smirk. “Sounds rough.”

His kids, who he affectionately calls Buck for buckshot and Sling for slingshot, look just like him: towheads and tall. They are lanky as hell, and have no filter, saying whatever the hell is on their minds. I suppose that will change as they grow up.

“How was Miss A?” he asks with a smirk. When I give him a warning glare, he laughs. “Nothing is off limits in this unit.”

Trigger walks in, laughing as he says, “That’s right. Not a damn thing.”

“How was your Christmas?” I ask, trying to turn the spotlight on him.

“Good to be back. Fucking in-laws drive me insane.” He looks at Killshot. “I did get a happy ending, though.”

“We all know that’s bullshit. Your wife doesn’t swallow, which is why you have five kids, all a year apart,” Tank chimes in as he enters.

“No, but your wife did,” Trigger ribs.

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