I’m trained to kill people. If you think that’s an obsolete skill in 2022, it’s because we’re better at our jobs than anyone ever has been.

Every part of your history book – colonization, Western expansion, human migration in general – is the story of people killing each other. That story will continue as long as our species infests this planet.

It’s my job to hide that fact well enough for the rest of you to believe that you’re above it.

I enlisted in the Marines after high school, because my dad said he’d disown me if I went to the Navy or Air Force. I ended up joining the Raiders, and as a result, am not allowed to divulge anything more about my life with the Marines.

When I was discharged at age 27, I was restless and used to combat. I tried an office job, but quit after 31 minutes and 53 seconds. On the way out, my now-former boss told me that I was unfit for a traditional human environment.

What can I say? He was a dick, but he was right.

“The target is Laney Vesely, six years old. Her family was vacationing in Jolo, in the Philippines, when their car was ambushed. Two security guards were executed on site, and Mom was left alive to send a message.”

I leaned against the airplane’s window, staring out at the dark Pacific as Data read the description. I always thought that was a strange nickname, but he got it from some Star Wars character, and said it made him feel detached enough from the situation to keep things logical and focused. He was an odd duck, one of those skinny, twitchy types, but Data knew his shit and knew it well.

“Mom has the money for an exchange?” I asked. I continued to gaze out across the ocean.

“No,” Data answered, more nervous than usual. “This isn’t the usual ransom demand.”

I raised my eyebrows, but still didn’t face him. “The kidnappers aren’t looking for cash?”

“They are,” his voice came back, “but the parents know the kidnappers. They’re confident the girl’s going to be executed as revenge for some perceived insult. The cash is just salt in the wound.” He cleared his throat. “They’ve advised us to eliminate the kidnapper on sight, because he’ll do the same to us if given a chance.”

I let a moment of silence pass before answering. “They know that’ll cost them a 100K per day before expenses, right?”

“They know,” Data answered.

I still didn’t turn away from the window.

You don’t have to go through customs if your flight is unregistered, and your flight needs to be unregistered if you’re carrying a critical threshold of assault rifles across international borders in the middle of the night. Cash has a way of calming most disagreements, though, so we were driving down the streets of Jolo within three minutes of landing.

“They’re sure the girl’s being held at this address?” I asked as I steered through the darkened streets.

Data sensed the skepticism in my voice. “There was no attempt to hide the location. The clients insist that this won’t be a normal hostage retrieval situation, though. Low negotiation, high risk.”

“Any local cops involved?”

I was surprised to hear Big Mike speak up from the back seat. He was normally silent through all of our briefings, which mostly consisted of Data telling me everything I needed to know.

“No,” Data answered. He fidgeted in the passenger seat beside me. “Apparently, there would be nothing that police could contribute. The clients kept insisting that we’ve never had a case like this.”

I have a love/hate relationship with the Philippines. The steamy air over endless stretches of white-sand beaches let my mind unfold in ways that let me forget myself, if even for a few seconds. But there are just so many goddamn people that I’m on edge in any city street. I can handle fighting with people, but spending idle time with them is torture.

The Philippines used to have this controversial president by the name of Duterte. Supposedly, he would throw drug kingpins out of helicopters. He ruffled a lot of feathers, but I liked his style.

He couldn’t scare every dickhole in the country off, though, which is how I found myself outside some shitty three-story house just before dawn.

“If they expected a combat situation,” I asked Data as he leaned beside me against the exterior wall, “why’d they hire a retrieval team with just three people?”

“Because anyone short of the best was going to make things worse,” Data answered, his voice curt. “This window will be unlocked. Laney will be on the central room of the third floor.”

“How many people should we expect?” I asked, giving my M4 a final check.

“One.”

I stared at his silhouette. “One?”

“One,” he answered. “Be ready for anything,”

I shook my head. “Okay, boys, showtime. I’ll run point, Big Mike’s got my six. Data, stick in between.”

The window was unlocked.

The first floor was empty.

The stairs were unguarded.

The second floor was empty.

When we met no resistance on the second staircase, I was more scared than I ever had been on a hostage retrieval – even the one with the goddamn rhinoceros. It just didn’t make sense.

I was actually relieved when I crested the stairs and found a man standing in the middle of the room. He was unarmed and alone, with nothing in his hands. His dark clothing made his profile melt into the shadows, but he was still distinguishable. His pale face and hands were the only skin visible as he faced me, head bowed. Both hands were empty, and nothing nearby looked useful as a potential weapon. The girl was in the corner, bound and gagged, sitting with her knees pulled up to her chin. She’d been crying, but looked unhurt. Three doors led off of this room, and two windows let in moonlight, including one by the stairs just above my shoulders. That window provided most of the light in a space that seemed to lack electricity.

I absorbed this information in half a second as I aimed the M4 at the man and pulled the trigger.

The first bullet hit below his right shoulder, and the second went through the neck. I sprinted into the room, Data and Big Mike behind me, as he stumbled back against a wall. This is the point where the target usually slumps against the floor.

He didn’t do that. Instead, Pale Man just moaned for a couple of seconds before standing upright again.

Data reacted before I did, and we got half a dozen rounds in him before he stumbled back once more.

And again, he didn’t fall over.

I was gearing up for a third round of bullets when he jumped. I use the word “jumped” because I don’t know what else to call it; he moved with the speed and silence of a shadow beneath a streetlight as he flew face-first into us, colliding with Data. Data roared as the man sank six-inch long teeth into his shoulder. I could hear his collarbone snap as blood cascaded from the wound.

All of this happened in the time it took to turn my head.

“Mike, GET THE GIRL!” I yelled as my brain adapted to the impossible information it was receiving.

I actually find peace in high-intensity, dangerous moments. I’ve often wondered if I’m a psychopath, but in the end, it doesn’t matter: the trait helps me do my job. The seconds slow down as information forms itself in my head.

Mike would get the girl. Data needed me. I could not help either one until eliminating the Pale Man. Previously known methods of elimination did not seem to work; ergo, he must not be human. In this new world order, all assumed beliefs had become suspect, as evidenced by a lack of death from bullets to the neck. I could therefore discard an assumed disbelief of mythological creatures. Since the Pale Man had enormous teeth and could fly, he was a likely candidate for a vampire.

I looked up at the window as Data’s scream faded.

What happened next didn’t make sense, but I had to act.

I stepped behind Pale Man’s back and wrapped my arms around his chest, pulling his hands away before grabbing his forehead from behind. I squeezed his ribs with my right arm while pulling his head back in my left, forcing him to release Data. He reached back and grabbed my elbows; he was a strong motherfucker and wasn’t happy with my behavior. Adrenaline flowed through my chest as he snapped his ridiculously long and sharp teeth, trying to rip the skin off my bones.

I placed one boot on the bannister, bent both knees, and launched backwards.

I nearly vomited as the two of us crashed through the window, glass tinkling in every direction as we flew three stories above the ground.

I’ve been skydiving dozens of times, but this was different.

Because in skydiving, you usually fall straight down.

We hovered in open air. While I avoided his snapping jaws, the fear finally bit into me and held fast. My heart jackhammered as we kicked our legs against empty space, tiny shards of glass tinkling in the sun’s first rays.

Pale Man finally turned around and looked at me eye-to-eye.

I wish he hadn’t.

Everything about his face was wrong. Pale, pink eyes had white circles in the center. They dominated a countenance that looked like a Stephen Gammell drawing: every feature was crisply imbalanced in a drippy smudge that looked too dreamlike for earthly existence.

I leaned back as he swiped his fangs at my neck, tearing the edge of my vest by catching a corner of it. I couldn’t pull too far away, though, because I’d fall if I slipped out of his hands.

Pale Man leaned back, his mouth open a horrifying 180 degrees, as he prepared to strike.

He yelped. Then he screamed.

Then his fucking head caught on fire.

Morning light slid across the city, casting the first dark shadows on the nearby house.

Pale Man spun us around like we were on the fucking Disneyland Teacups as the fire spread. I tried to pull away while grasping his arms, but the flames were quickly spreading toward me.

I would either crash or burn.

Yanking one hand away, I leaned as far back as I could. Holy shit, did the Pale Man scream. At least I think that’s what it was. I’ve heard gibbons scream at the zoo, and the closest comparison I could imagine is if a gibbon snatched his nuts in mousetrap while receiving an involuntary enema of boiling sewage.

Then his head exploded. The morning light had cut between two houses and spilled across us. I covered my face and prepared for the fall.

That’s how I discovered that we’d spiraled almost all the way back to the ground. I fell the final two feet and collapsed onto the sidewalk.

Most people would want to curl up and have a good cry at this point, but I didn’t have time for such shittery. Avoiding as much broken glass as possible, I got to my feet and jumped back in through the window. Data needed me, I didn’t know what happened to Big Mike and the girl, and apparently there were vampires in the world, I guess.

People like me aren’t trained to stop being afraid. We’re trained to live with it.

Obviously I made it out alive, but not everyone was so lucky. I didn’t know that at the time, though; the only thing on my mind was that I had to get back upstairs.

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What happened next

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BD

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