Page 58 of Stone

Guns were my thing, which wasn’t surprising when you considered I’d grown up among firearms that were highly illegal and not readily available to the average Joe. I could load up like an arms expert and wasn’t nervous handling the more obscure hardware that the rest of my brethren struggled to get comfortable with.

Maybe it was because I was mechanically minded. In my head, I could see all a gun’s components and how they worked together, down to every switch, screw, and spring. Whenever I fired off a shot, I imagined the movement inside the weapon mapped out in my head, which I think made it easy for me compared to the other men.

I was putting my rifle away after target practice when my sergeant stuck his head around the door. “Lieutenant Grecco wants to see you in his office, Stone. Stat.”

I lifted my eyes from the rifle cabinet and winced slightly. “What I do, Sarge?”

Sarge paused. “He wants to discuss your MOS.”

“Is something wrong?” I asked.

He pulled his head back and looked down his nose at me. “Do I look like your friendly local town crier, Stone? I don’t fucking know. Get your ass to see your lieutenant and find out.”

“Yes, Sir.” I saluted the sergeant, waiting for him to leave. After checking my rifle in, I caught a ride with one of the vehicles going back to the main base.

I sat back, my gut jumping nervously about my impending meeting.

The only time someone would need to discuss my Military Occupational Specialty was if something had gone FUBAR, though it wasn’t like I’d applied to be a fucking jet fighter. Motor mechanics was a straightforward specialty. They liked their recruits to have some kind of experience, but I was overqualified, seeing as I already had my ASE certification.

If something had happened and I’d fucked up, all of this would’ve been for nothing. I could still go home and do everything I said I would, but could I still protect the club?

What kind of prez would I be without any decent military training? Especially when some sort of threat seemed to crawl out of the woodwork to threaten the club every damned day. There was also Elise to think of. I wanted to be a husband who could protect my wife and kids. It wouldn’t sit right with me if they were sitting ducks.

Within twenty minutes, I walked up the steps to the building where my LT had his office. Taking a deep breath to tamp down the butterflies swarming in my stomach, I rapped on the door to the Lieutenant’s office.

After waiting for his call, I entered and saluted. “Reporting as requested, Sir.”

Grecco sat behind his desk, reading notes from a file. Take a seat, Private,” he ordered, eyes never wavering from the paperwork.

I obeyed, sitting in the chair directly in front of him, waiting with bated breath while he finished reading his report. Grecco didn’t get very involved in our everyday training, though I’d heard he had his finger on the pulse and didn’t miss any shit that went on. He was about five-ten, stocky, muscled, olive-skinned, and black-haired. He seemed like a decent man, though I’d heard he’d wipe the floor with anyone who fucked up.

It seemed like an hour had passed before he finally put the thick file on his desk. Curious black eyes slid to mine as he leaned forward, placing his elbows on the desk. Steepling his fingers, he studied me and asked, “Why do you wanna be a mechanic, Private Stone?”

My heart sank at his question. Why would he ask me that, unless something had gone wrong with my MOS application? “It’s in my blood, Sir. I like engines… well, anything mechanical.I’m fascinated by knowing how they work. My dad gave me his old rusty motorbike when I was sixteen and told me I could keep it if I fixed it up. It came easy to me ‘cause I had it up and running within two weeks. It would’ve been sooner if I didn’t have to wait for parts.”

He nodded thoughtfully, digesting my words. “Next question. Where did you learn to shoot?”

I couldn’t stop my grin. “My dad again. He’s an old-school believer in his Second Amendment right.”

“Ahh.” The lieutenant nodded. “A well-regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.”

“My dad’s a great believer in our right to bear arms,” I explained. “But he’s also a great believer in knowing how to bear them properly so innocent people don’t accidentally get their heads shot off. He put a gun in my hand when I was just a kid, but he also made sure I knew the damage they could do. When I was about six, I told him I wanted to go hunting, so off we went.” I smiled at the memory. “Don’t know if you’ve ever been to Wyoming, Sir. If you have, you’ll know there are more elks than people. Managed to take one down on my first day.”

“Good shooting for a six-year-old boy,” he muttered, lounging back in his chair while he gestured at me to continue. “What happened?”

“It’s a story, Sir,” I warned him.

He shrugged. “You’ve got permission to speak freely, Marine.”

“Thank you, Sir.” Raising a hand, I rubbed my chin thoughtfully, my mind returning to the day I shot that damned elk. “I was so proud of myself until Dad took my hand, led me over to it, and made me watch it bleed out while it moaned and writhed in pain. Suddenly, I wasn’t so mature anymore. To this day, I remember the way it felt to snuff out the life of somethingof such beauty. Don’t mind admitting I cried for days ‘cause I was a sensitive boy, and I felt things deeply. The next morning, my mom asked Pop why he took me out to kill something when he knew how it would affect me. He said, ‘Connie, my boy needs to understand what can happen whenever he points a gun at a livin’ thing. It’s not a game; it’s life or death. John liked the idea of killing, so he needed to see the brutality and savagery of it too. Now, whenever he points a weapon at a person, he’ll remember that elk and the consequences of pulling that trigger. Every man who owns guns needs to treat them with the respect they deserve, John’s no different.’” I shrugged, smiling wryly. “I’ve never pointed a gun at a living thing since. Instead, I built targets, and I shot them. Then I built harder ones and even harder ones and kept on shooting at ‘em until I never missed. It became second nature to feel the air around me and work out how it would affect the bullet’s trajectory, ‘cause, even as a boy, I loved all kinds of guns. I loved shooting but hated killing.”

The lieutenant’s eyes narrowed. “So, you’re against killing?”

“No, Sir,” I replied. “I’m against killing indiscriminately.”

“Would you shoot a man who threatened you or your brothers in arms? Even your country?” Grecco asked his tone low.

Without hesitation, I answered, “I’m a Marine, Sir. It comes with the territory. Yes, I could most definitely kill a man for those reasons.”

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