Soldier For Hire. Kimberly Van Meter

from the Tulsa World daily. They were supposed to meet at an abandoned schoolhouse. He figured the best way to mitigate the risk was to meet someplace with the least amount of prying eyeballs around.

      In the quiet dark, it was hard to run from the fear that he might not find the evidence he needed to exonerate himself. The fear that he might actually end up behind bars for a crime he hadn’t committed didn’t help his insomnia.

      He’d made a lot of mistakes in his life—done things he was ashamed of—but never had he ever considered harming a civilian.

      More than just Ken McQuarry died that day.

      He had their names etched on his brain.

       Rosie Grogan.

       Butch Halford.

       Ronnie Pitt.

       Layla Osmundsen.

      He wasn’t the one who’d planted the bomb but he was complicit in their deaths because he hadn’t been doing his job. Remembering their names was his penance. Maybe if he’d been sober, he would’ve seen the bombs, could’ve gotten everyone to safety... Hell, he might’ve been able to defuse the bombs before they’d gone off.

      Again with the hindsight.

      He needed help kicking his habit, but there wasn’t time for that now. To think that a doc had prescribed the drugs for his back pain all legal-like and now he was a friggin’ junkie was a dark irony that didn’t escape him.

      Most days he functioned fine. But there were other days when he was falling down stupid, out of his head, lost in the black hole of addiction.

      Get your head on straight. There was no time for his issues. Not right now.

      He forced his eyes closed. Morning would come soon enough and if he didn’t catch some shut-eye, he’d need toothpicks to hold up his lids.

      His last thought as he drifted to sleep was the hope that for the first time in his life, luck was on his side.