Chapter Text
The moment my feet touched down on Rook Island sand, I was disquieted. A part of me had been expecting a crowd of mercenaries to attack the boat at any moment as we approached; another part of me was disappointed they hadn't. There was no way of knowing what remained of Hoyt's forces, but I didn't doubt for a moment that someone had eagerly stepped into his shoes to continue the trade and tyranny.
Not that it really mattered, I hadn't come back to wage another war against drug-lords and lunatics. No, I'd come back to settle a score with myself. A part of me had died on this island, minutes after Grant had bled out in my arms, when I'd slide that hunting knife down to the hilt into a mercenaries neck, feeling the blade jar as it came up against bone I remembered staring hand's held out in panic or apology, I can't really remember which, as the man slid to the ground dead.
That had been the moment the Islands had changed me, altered some deep rooted part of my psyche that had, before that moment, vehemently refused to believe in the reality or the need for killing. That door had forever been blown from its hinges with C4, blood and bullets. There was no closing it now.
I'd tried to move on, spending my days shooting with a camera instead of guns, aiming at models instead of mercenaries. I'd proposed to Liza, we'd been engaged, planning to buy a house and have kids... but we were both trying too hard to forget while constantly seeing reminders in each other’s faces.
I'd killed for her, and she'd watched me.
We'd broken it off amicably enough, both us knowing but neither saying the reason.
She wanted to forget, weld that door shut and stay firmly on the other side, they all did. I remembered making a comment about tigers and mercs one evening while we were all together drinking and watching a movie. It had been a joke, though no one laughed. Liza had coughed loudly, Keith had gone paper white and stammered about having to be somewhere else... they'd receded from me that night and I'd felt like a leper.
'Therapy’s for faggots’ my old man had said once, when Grant had been on leave and mum had suggested he talk to someone. I held by it knowing that admitting I'd run amok on some remote island, killing with guns, knives, explosives and anything else that was close to hand, both sober and high and high as a fucking kite would get me locked up in one place or another.
A part of me had died on this island, the part that was panicked by blood and terrified of pain. The part that had never killed had never wanted or dreamed of killing, the part that could have stayed in California.
“Too late now” I said to myself from where I was sitting on the sandy beach watching the boat I’d come in on disappear into the sunset.
Standing I brushed my trousers down, they were dark, khaki green and made of canvas, my habit of always choosing bright colours in a bid to stand out well and truly dead after learning the benefits of camouflage and concealment last time.
I wore a dark grey t-shirt, heavy, dark-brown hiking boots and a camera around my neck. I’d deliberately ‘forgotten’ everything else before getting off the boat. It wasn't as if I’d need any of it anymore.
The camera I’d brought had never worked for as long as I’d had it. Grant had bought it for me at a garage sale when we were kids. I’d treasured it ever since. It was black and grey with a worn brown leather strap and the words ‘Praktica’ emblazoned on the front. It was scratched to fuck, but it had always reminded me of Grant.
I turned looking at the jungle hands still on the camera, before I started into the trees.