Dark Side of the Cloth by Brooklyn Cross

Ten Years Ago

“Get out! Move it, move!”

Dean’s class filed out into the darkness with no idea where they’d been taken. Even knowing the rumors about being dragged from your bed in the middle of the night was an option, nothing had prepared him for the onslaught that had barged through his door. The group of them sat in an assortment of dress: shorts, T-shirts, track pants, and one girl in her underwear with no top on at all. They’d bounced around in the back of the large truck, and the only sound was that of the large vehicle’s engine.

One of his class members stumbled on the rough terrain and landed face first beside him. Dean squatted and offered the guy a hand back to his feet.

“I said move it!”

Dean didn’t dare glare at the man, who undoubtedly was some form of a superior. Rising to his feet, he helped his class member stand.

“Thanks,” the guy whispered.

They lined up in two rows, lights of the truck the only available light around in the dense foliage.

“Who do you want to be?” Another masked man yelled, and Dean was pretty sure he recognized the voice as their Sergeant.

“Delta Force,” they yelled in unison.

“I can’t hear you!”

“Delta Force!”

“This will be the first of three field ops. If you are lucky enough to pass all three, you will become one of the most elite soldiers in the world.”

“Hooah,” they all yelled.

The sound sent a shiver of anticipation racing down Dean’s spine. He was so ready for this. His muscles twitched with eagerness to get going. He wanted this more than he’d ever wanted anything—other than his father’s head.

“You are fifty miles from your first target where a rotor head will be waiting. If you are not on target within a ten-minute period of what’s on your map, you fail.” The man looked at his watch and then grabbed the stopwatch from around his neck. “The sun will be up in three hours. You would be wise not to move like pond water.”

“Hooah, Sir!”

“This is not a group activity. Do I make myself clear?”

“Hooah, Sir!”

The man pointed to neatly packed black bags sitting off to the side. “Find yours, and it will hold your cammies and anything else you need to make it through the next forty-eight. Are you ready?”

“Hooah!”

“I still can’t hear you!”

“Hooah!

“Move your asses!”

Dean lurched forward from the line and dove for the bags, each one with a small name tag on it. Finding his, he got the hell out of the way and unzipped it to find his clothes and boots. There was also a map neatly folded into a small square, and he pulled it out and studied the dot that marked his first target. The ground would be tough going, but it didn’t matter. This is what he’d trained for all these months. Dean slipped on the watch that was also his navigation and zipped his pack. He quickly rucked up, picking a pace that he could do for hours.

By the time Dean reached the final stretch of the arduous two-day field op, his muscles sang with pain. But the pain was a blissful reminder that he could do this. Two members had already failed, and he was sure more would follow.

Streams of sweat ran down his back as he ran across the hard ground. The final obstacle rose in the distance before him, a formidable tower designed to test strength, endurance, and fear. He used his momentum and jumped, his hand gripping the lowest rung of the wooden ladder. He grunted as he heaved himself up, hand over hand, until his feet touched the ladder. He could hear the rest of the recruits in the distance. The sergeants were yelling for them to get their asses in gear. Dean paid them no attention, they would pass, or they wouldn’t. Either way was of no consequence to him. His goal was to finish first. Nothing and no one was going to stand in his way.

His breaths came hard and fast as he continued to climb the tall tower, the sun scorching hot as it beat down on him, making the grip slick. The breeze picked up, and he gripped a little harder not to get pushed off the high structure. His muscles screamed as he reached the top, and he strapped on the gear laid out for each recruit.

He eyed the hanging rope judging the leap, and he backed up as far as he could. Taking a deep breath, he ran without hesitation for the opening to the swaying rope, which was a fair distance from the towering platform. Dean felt the addicting sense of hovering in the air before he started to fall. In those brief moments, he felt free, like he’d become one with a different world—a sense of calm and quiet flooding his system.

He reached out and cringed as the rope slipped through his hands, the hot burn a reminder that gravity was indeed still in full effect. The next rope was an arm’s length away, and one after another, he attacked the ropes, his muscles straining. The dripping sweat was making it harder to get a solid grip on the forearmed-sized material. A yell reached him, and he looked back to see one of his fellow recruits unable to hold on and land hard on the safety mats far below. That was one more person not graduating. Rocking his body, he built his momentum back up and continued until he reached the second platform.

He bent over and took a breath, his heart beating fast in his chest. Dean didn’t know why, but his father’s face came to mind, a man he despised, and he quickly pushed the image aside.

He took another shuddering breath and then jumped off the other side towards the dark water. Dean judged the landing as his body sped up and raced towards the blackness. Doing as he’d been taught, he made his body torpedo straight as his feet touched the water. The sudden cold was shocking to his system, and his muscles jerked and spasmed. He yelled, only bubbles forming as his legs and feet cramped up.

Keep moving. You must keep moving.

Submerged in the cold darkness, Dean saw his father’s face again, the image of a gangster, a killer, a monster. A man he never wanted to be like, yet here he was, learning to be the very best killer he could be.

He’d run from home as soon as he could. He found his opening one night and took it and never looked back. The person his father had wanted him to become was never going to happen. Did his father wonder where he was? He didn’t know, and he didn’t give a shit. This place was his escape. This was where he belonged: fighting for his country, fighting for his brothers, fighting for the innocent—fighting for himself.

Fighting through the extreme pain, he kicked his legs and reached for the surface of the water. The safety diver gave him a thumbs-up, and he couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across his face as he swam the rest of the way to shore.

Dean pulled himself out of the water. It shouldn’t have been physically possible to do it, but he stood tall—his chest was pushed out, hands at his sides. His Master Sergeant walked toward him, clipboard in hand, and he showed off all the checkmarks on the list.

“A hundred percent, not an easy feat. You were cut out for this, son.”

Pride coursed through his body. “Hooah, Sir!”