Obsession For Vengeance

Chapter 1

The United States Army finds you guilty as charged. You are hereby ordered to surrender your commission, all uniforms and weapons, all citations, and all manners and forms of property associated with the Army. You are not to speak of this incident with anyone, at any time. Any failure to comply with these orders will result in the release of our evidence and findings to the civil authorities and your subsequent arrest, trial and conviction by civilian law of these same charges. I assure you that you will spend the rest of your days in jail if you do not adhere by this sentence.

The presiding General stopped his pronouncement of the sentence. He pulled his glasses form his face, wiped them slowly on a handkerchief he pulled from his dress uniform pocket, and slowly put them back on his face. He had a pained expression that revealed his inner conflict in sentencing Lieutenant Colonel Hank Adams. Respect for his service, disgust with this specific latest action, and silent shame in having been complicit in letting it go on so long.

It is only our personal relationship, and your long and meritorious service to the United States, in high risk, covert missions that precludes me from turning over this entire matter to the District Attorney. This hearing is adjourned.

The General looked down from the bench and found the Sergeant at Arms for the proceedings. He was unwilling to look the convicted officer in the eyes. Hank Adams had been one of his special projects. A killer. Trained in practically every weapon system and killing system known to man. Hank had travelled the world carrying out assignments that other men could not even imagine. He was a fine tuned assassin who could kill at any range, including at zero range, hand to hand, face to face.

Sergeant-Major! The General called the ranking non-commissioned officer to bring the court-martial proceedings to a close.

ATTENTION, the Sergeant-Major barked. His voice sounded like an 1812 overture cannon in the confined spaces of the cramped private room that had served as the secret court for the tribunal's proceedings. The few attendees stiffened to attention while the General and his hand-picked staff of two tight lipped officers left the room. One by one they filed past Hank Adams, turning their backs on him and on a dark part of themselves. None took his hand, not one had a word to say.

DISMISSED, the Sergeant Major barked, the word coming out hard and sharp. He looked at Hank Adams, now the retired Lt. Col. Hank Adams, and his eyes narrowed to slits. Hatred was evident in his face, his stance, in the very way he breathed when he looked at the disgraced officer. The Sergeant-Major walked over to the wiry, bronzed killer who was holding his hat in his hand.

Your rank, he demanded of the defrocked officer. None of the previous formality. No sir. No please. Just a simple, rough, hard-edged demand for his rank and insignia. Fighting words between fighting men. The edge in his voice signaled the Sergeant-Major's intent to personally make good on the tribunal's ruling as soon as possible. Hank Adams made no move to remove his epaulets or his collar dogs, or to do much of anything for that matter. He stood there seemingly rooted to the floor, his free hand balled into a tight fist, his teeth clenched together, jaw muscles standing stiff and hard against his weather-beaten face.

Kate. Kate. Kate. Kate.

Go to hell, Hank said in a low, even voice. He turned on his heel and spun away from the Sergeant-Major. His long athletic strides carried him quickly, defiantly, out of the courtroom into the blazing late summer heat. The world seemed to shimmer and flow in waves before him. The shock of the heat, the sentence of the tribunal. His memory of the quick violence of the most recent act just a few days prior. It all conspired up against him now.

They're all against me, he whispered hoarsely to himself. I've given them everything I had. I'm a soldier goddamn it. They can't do this to me. They owe me. Hank stood there looking out over the nearly deserted army base. The regiment was still in the field, where he'd been, only days previous, until the incident. Until his beast had crawled up out of him and taken control of him yet again.

Kate. Kate. Kate. Kate.

She wanted it, he said to himself. She begged me for it. Hank remained glued to the spot. The heat pressed in around him, sweat began running down his face, partly from the heat, and partly from the realization that his life as he knew it was over. Sweat flowed more freely now, drops began rolling down his back into the deep, fresh scratches there. Hank grimaced at the pain of the salt running into the wounds she’d made, wounds he'd re-opened running and lifting before the trial.

Her marks. The bitch’s marks. No-one leaves a mark like that on me. No-one.

He went down the steps, head held defiantly high, rank and insignia firmly in place. Though the tribunal had ruled, there were few men who were willing to even attempt to carry out the sentence on Hank Adams. Military hero, respected commander, a soldier's soldier. Foul of mouth, hard as steel, hard drinking, hard living, wounded in action, decorated for bravery and valor several times, all in secret. Once pulled two men out of a burning helicopter. Only after they'd been pulled to the safety did Hank allow the pain of a compound fracture of his right leg to overcome him.

Hank walked away from the sentence, and in that instant, I believe, he walked completely out of the realm of sanity and crossed into his own dark world of treachery, violence, and untold horror. A world where he was judge and jury and executioner and all those who had sinned against him were about to know his sense of Justice.

Especially Kate.

Chapter 2

Hank waited. Patiently. The stalking was at an end. He had his quarry in his sights. The bitch.

She wanted it. She begged me for it.

The coward’s refrain echoed in his head. Crowding out, momentarily, the words he heard a million times a day.

Kate. Kate. Kate. Kate.

At any moment he could strike. The easy hundred yard shot would ensure a clean kill, or a slow tortured bleeding out if he wanted. But he waited. Though he'd killed like this before, once in Libya, once in Yugoslavia, it had never been his style. He liked the close in work, hand to hand, feeling the victim's blood, watching their eyes lock on his as their life drained out. That was how Hank liked to kill. He thought back to the Communist party official in Budapest who'd turned for the CIA but had then had second thoughts. He'd died very slowly, one drop of blood at a time over a span of hours. Hank had stood over him and watched him bleed and bleed and bleed. When he was finally gone, he'd dropped his fly and pissed on the corpse, cleaning his knife in the stream. He'd wiped it dry on the poor bastard's cheaply tailored suit. That was how Hank liked to do it, sanctioned, deniable and slow.

A bullet's too good for you bitch, he said to his prey. She was on sentry duty, alone in the dark, in the woods. Hank had found her after only an hour of creeping. He knew the ground well. He'd drilled on it a hundred times, led the opposing forces against other outfits. Platoons who'd come to his lair for training in guerilla warfare. He'd killed hundreds of men and women inside these fences. Then showed them how they had been killed. Tried to teach them not to be so colossally stupid.

This would be his final kill before making his final departure from this base that had been his temporary home. But in this one the victim would learn nothing, except how to suffer.

He lay the hunting rifle down. The easy shot was not going to happen. I'm going to bleed you, he said so quietly he hardly heard the words himself.

You're going to pay, you're going to die slow.

Hank worked his hand down his leg to the knife he kept sheathed tight against the outside of his right thigh. His fingers grasped and released the roughened, darkened handle. He slid the killing tool an inch, then two inches out of the scabbard. A small shudder ran through his body. Excitement pulsed through him with the knife in his hand. Soundlessly he slid it back. His hand rested on it a minute, then slid up his leg, between his legs. He rubbed himself through his pants. Hank's eyes closed for an instant at the pleasure.

Kate. Kate. Kate. Kate.

Not yet, he said. He was speaking to his dick. Like it was another person, had a mind and body and soul of its own. And indeed it did. Hank was as sexually schizophrenic as it is possible to be. At times completely possessed by his need to get off. He'd done it everywhere, with almost everything. Women, boys, girls, several species of animals, but usually, and several times daily, with himself.

Not now, he said. I'm going to shove you inside that bitch, and pump her until she cries for more and more and more. She's going to beg me to give it to her. Every last inch. He worked his hand on his crotch. And I'm going to blow my load into her. Shoot it hot and wet and screaming inside her. And when she thinks she's been fucked like she's never been fucked and never will be fucked again, I'm going to pull you out, and piss on her, and slit her goddamn neck. Hank trembled.

The sound of his voice and the image of the fucking and killing made his throat go dry with anticipation. The fucking and killing had run together for him. And many of those women and boys he'd taken had never lived to tell, their necks snapped or their hearts pierced.

Hank took a panther-like step towards her. He moved silently, like the hunter he was. Years of training and dozens of deep cover operations had made him more silent than a shadow, more stealthy than a dissolving fog. The angel of death hovered all around him. He was evil incarnate at that moment. He took another step towards her.

He could hear her breathing, smell her scent. Musky, sensual. His excitement rose another notch, his blood was boiling, his dick was throbbing, every nerve was on fire. He had to take her now, had to have her. He covered the last two yards quickly, a twig snapping underfoot a moment before his hand reached around her and covered her mouth. His other hand had pulled his knife and pressed its tip against her back. She could feel the point of the steel against her back, she could feel his dick against her ass. Hank pulled her tighter against him.

Don't make a sound, or I'll kill you right here, he said. She didn't make a sound. Though his voice was familiar, she didn't recognize him through his angry words. She didn't know if this was part of the exercise or part of some horrible dream. Was she awake or was she sleeping? Was some soldier taking the war games just a little too seriously?

Hank prodded her with the knife and she began to move, she realized she was wide awake, revisiting a living breathing nightmare. Now she knew it had to be Hank. After a few yards he brought her to a quicker walk, leading her away from her platoon's bivouac, towards the fence, towards his car and the road and his freedom. When they reached the fence he threw her down, following her down, landing on top of her. Hank's hand was at her throat, the tip of the knife drawing blood just below her chin.

You bitch, you wanted me, you know you did. You just said I forced you. No-one believed you. Did you know they let me off scott-free today? Did you know they called your a liar? And a whore? Hank growled the angry words into her ears.

Confused and dazed. She couldn't believe that he was here in the woods, knife drawn, dick hard, lying on top of her. Hadn't her testimony been enough to convict him? Hadn't she suffered enough? Didn't the Judge Advocate General himself assure her that Hank would be drummed out of the army faster than you could spit? That she would be safe, and that he would spend the rest of his life in jail?

Yet here he was, knife in hand, dick pressing against her. Real as life, terrible as death, stinky breath steaming against her neck. I'm going to fuck you until I'm satisfied bitch. I'm going to finish what I started, he said. The anger, the coldness, the vacant pathological need in his voice. Keeping the knife against her chin, reveling in the drips and drops of blood that trickled from the underside of her jaw.

Kate. Kate. Kate. Kate.

She knew he could kill her with one short, quick jab. She had no choice, she wanted to live, even through this she wanted to live. She had no choice. She had to obey. Obey or die. She knew he'd kill her. And she wanted to live. No matter what vile thing this animal did to her, she could live with it. She wanted to live. She had to live.

Maybe if I can distract him, I can get away, maybe I can get his knife?

She slowly moved her hands to her pants. She could sense the growing tension in his body. She felt the shift in the position of the knife at her chin.

It might work.

She'd rendered men powerless before. And there had been plenty of men. Hank the most recent.

And the best, she realized. So why did he hurt me?

She stepped out of the pants and turned to face him. Her body garbed only in her bra, panties and boots. She ran her tongue around her lips. Do you want to put it in here? she asked.

Shut up, he ordered. I'm in command here, he ordered. And I don’t need your permission.

His words were lies. He was no more in control than he had been all the other times when his demon had commanded him. He was at her mercy, and its. He was a rapist and a killer, and like all rapists, and all murderers, he was the one who was powerless and weak. The acts were the ultimate and pure confirmation of his weakness. The acts were proof that he was not in control, that he was a coward.

Now those, he said, his lips barely moving. He lowered the knife from her chin, and pointed to her panties. She pulled her hand from his face, and lowered the panties from around her full hips. She bent again to pull them around her knees, down past her calves, off her legs, around her boots. She threw them at his feet. She stood in front of him, naked, sensual, planning how she could get out of this. Wondering if she'd live.

Touch yourself. Get yourself ready.

Kate. Kate. Kate. Kate.

Even now, with a naked woman he was going to fuck.

Kate. Kate. Kate. Kate.

Even now, with a naked woman he was going to kill.

Come here, he ordered. She'd moved a few feet away. She padded over to him, picking her way slowly, teasing him. Teasing the rapist, teasing the killer. Trying to find any way to gain an advantage. She'd always controlled men, and she didn't intend for this asshole to be any different. She came to him and stood only inches away. The length of his member spanned the inches between them, it grazed against her flat stomach. The touch of her skin sent him further. He shivered convulsively. He had to take control. He raised the knife again, resting its tip under the weight of her nipple, lifting it ever so slightly. The pain from the cold touch of steel shot through her body.

Turn around and bend over, he ordered. She turned away from him, put her hands on her knees and bent over, offering him her ass. He moved against her, placed the knife against her throat and with his free hand guided himself to her. Her heat was pouring out of her. He tensed his hips and pushed, sliding all the way into her in one long, incredible, searing push. Her warmth and wetness surrounded him. Sheathed inside her his eyes rolled back into his head, his free hand grabbed her left hip and pulled her back towards him, forcing him even deeper inside her. His muscles twitched, his body quivered, and he quickly slipped over the edge of the great abyss.

He didn't move. She couldn't understand. She expected him to start riding and bucking, riding her violently, pushing and pulsing until he screamed and blew himself into her. But he didn't move. He pressed the knife tighter against her throat. A tiny whimper escaped her. He had to feel her pain, he had to know she was his slave, that he controlled her. That his will and not hers was to be done. That she would pay for what had happened to him. She whimpered again, blood started to spill from her neck where the knife penetrated the skin.

You're hurting me, she said. And with those words he moved inside her and he blew his load before he'd even been able to make one stroke. Her pain was his excitement. As his body shook with the convulsions, his right hand instinctively drew the knife across her throat, cutting cleanly through the flesh, slicing the arteries and severing her vocal cords. She slumped forward and rode her down, keeping himself deep inside her. She landed with a thud and he landed on top of her, driving him even deeper. After a moment she lay still, her lifeblood drained from the wound in her neck. Hank softened, still inside her. For minutes he felt her going slowly cold. Giving her heat back to the earth.

Afterwards, he lay on top of her dead body, cold in the night. He finally pulled himself free of her, standing on shaky feet. He wiped his knife and placed it back in its scabbard. He pulled his pants back up around his narrow waist. Hank spit once, laying the honker squarely on her back.

He turned and headed for the car. Just a bitch. That's all she was. She got what she wanted, he said.

Chapter 3

Why did you let him go sir?

I didn’t let him go. I kicked him out of the army. It’s the only home he’s ever known. Not being a soldier is a fate worse than death for him.

But Washington will think you just let him go.

What choice did I have?

He’s a rapist.

And a killer. And has been for a long time. He’s done things for this country, for me, that no-one will ever know. Things that no-one can even imagine. He saved my life one time.

Does that excuse this incident?

No it doesn’t. But I’m not willing to try to cage him.

What is he, some kind of Jason Bourne or something?

Jason Bourne wouldn’t stand a chance against Hank Adams. And neither will any of us if he decides to come for us.

So what are you going to do?

I’m not going to mention this to anyone who wasn’t in the room. And I’m not going to hang around and wait for him. I’m going to my bolt box, and then I’m going to disappear. You might want to do the same.

Chapter 4

The ride home had been long for Hank. Endless hours driving in the late night southern heat. The dark, sultry hanging fog of the south that gave way to the heavy mountain air of Tennessee and Southern Kentucky. And at each stop he’d had the needs. Both the needs. And thus a swath of death and destruction followed in his wake.

Driving further north he came through the low hills of Kentucky and the flat arid land of Southern Ohio. The breezes that blew across the Midwestern plain did little to alleviate the heat that had accumulated during the day. Huge thunderheads, black, angry, anvil-headed had spewed forth their electrical fury in a dazzling display that split the night. Even though nearly overcome with the violence of the trip, Hank had not even considered sleep. Sometimes he went days without sleeping, his body ran on its own clock, fueled by its own food of flesh and vengeance.

Finally arriving in Vandalia in west central Ohio, Hank headed for his secret place, one of his bolt holes. Like so many in his profession, he'd been prepared for anything. The Russians, the Iraqis, a renegade terrorist, the Democrats. He was prepared for anyone who could threaten either the national security or his personal security.

In his private locker Hank had the accumulations of several years of highly secret work.