Chapter Two

Four and a half hours can go by so fast, can it? That is, if you have the effort to make the trip seem so fun that no one wants it to end. Distracting the mind of the long-ass trip by having fun can make a world of difference.

And that certainly happened in Whiskey and I's case.

Through this four-hour trip, we did like any other normal pair of colleagues would do: talk about ourselves and reveal our deepest darkest secrets. Of course, I didn't spill all of my secrets, but it was enough to turn Whiskey and I's friendship into a bond stronger than Hercules on steroids. Sure, we may only be partners at this particular moment, but I had a strong gut feeling that that would change relatively soon. He doesn't know it yet (I hope), but I started to develop new feelings for Whiskey. New, romantic feelings. Throughout my short time of knowing him, I had already begun to think of him as a romantic partner. Could he be the one I spend the rest of my life with?

No! Snap out of it, Rocky! You have a mission to focus on. Don't be a hypocrite and break your own ground rules that you established!

As Whiskey continued to drive along the road ahead, I remained silent as I continued to try to make an effort in processing these new feelings for Whiskey. Was it love? Or was it some-

thing else? It was unlike me to remain quiet and shut-down since I was a pretty outspoken individual who had no speed bump between their brain and their mouth. I was the one who very rarely gave a damn about what I said and was also naturally tough-skinned when it came to others criticizing me; in fact, if they insulted me, I would probably sock 'em right in the mouth. The point was, this new era of processing my feelings for Whiskey has definitely changed me as a person. Changed me as a whole…and will this era permanently change me, or will it change some parts of me that I never got in touch with?

"You okay there, sugar? You seem awfully quiet," Whiskey said, taking notice of my new behavior.

"Yeah. I'm fine. Everything's fine. It's just…I'm probably gonna get a lot of negativity back from this, but—I'm still trying to process my grief for my dead twin brother," I said. "I know, I know. You'll probably say, 'That happened a long time ago. You need to let it go', but the truth is, Whiskey, I can't! I can't let it go! He was my twin brother for Christ's sake. He was the one I had the strongest bond with since we grew up together and were each other's best friends. Now, he's in a coffin six feet under, while I'm up here on the surface, struggling to keep my head above water."

Caring enough about me and rightfully sensing an emotional outburst from me, Whiskey wisely pulled the car over to the side of the road. He put it in park and turned to me to listen actively, being very careful to not say anything that would upset me more than I already was. I continued on with my emotional rant as if I had no consequence in what I was saying.

"Now, God took him from me. That bastard! I hate him for taking away my precious, sweet twin brother who could do no wrong. I hate him for punishing me for being innocent. I did nothing wrong to deserve this, Whiskey! And I'll be damned if I let this guilt and heartbreak go away easily because this is something that'll stick to me for the rest of my life. So hell no! I'm not letting these feelings go. Because someone I treasured the most was taken from me, and now, I can't get it back!"

I pounded my fist on the dashboard in a fit of rage. "Damnit!"

Don't worry. I didn't break it. Apparently, Whiskey's ride is extremely durable.

"It wasn't your fault, you know," Whiskey finally said, chiming in. "He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"But I could've done something, Whiskey! I could've been there. I could've noticed him running past the coffee shop instead of being so absorbed in looking for a damn job in the Secret Service!"

"I know you feel guilty because it was your twin brother who died, but that's no reason to down yourself. It wasn't your fault. It was never your fault," Whiskey added on. "Don't you ever think that it was your fault that your twin brother died because it wasn't. You did nothing wrong. I want ya to know that. It was never your fault."

At that moment, I started to calm down, allowing my rage to disappear into a docile state. Now, I was reverting back to the Rocky that was present during my first meeting with Whiskey. Sure, I was still a no-nonsense, curse word-spewing, tough kid, but I, for the most part, kept to myself unless I was drawn in by an outside force. In this case, I kept to myself and tried not to get involved.

"You really think that none of my brother's tragedy was my fault?" I asked, as we kept traveling to Harlan.

"Of course it wasn't your fault, sugar. It was just an unfortunate matter of circumstance. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. You couldn't have predicted that. Don't put yourself down over something you couldn't control."

When we finally arrived near the shipping hub, Whiskey and I made sure that we parked far enough away that the soldiers wouldn't notice our appearance. I carefully grabbed the weapons and resources needed just in case we had to make a break for it, which seems entirely possible. Clad in a brown leather jacket, black leather pants, and knee-high brown boots, I helped Whiskey gather our resources and shut the doors to his ride quietly. One loud and sudden move, and our cover would be blown.

"You think this is a good idea?" Whiskey asked, hesitating over my plan just a bit. "Tracking drug shipments that are going directly to where Devlin is located?"

"I'm not sure, Whiskey. I'm only a rookie. But I'm confident that this will get us some-

where in this mission," I answered confidently.

Once we found the shipping hub, Whiskey and I crouched down on a nearby hill, being especially careful not to be noticed by enemy soldiers. Wanting to see what these enemies were up to, I reached into my bag and grabbed out my binoculars. As I looked through them, I laid flat on my stomach to remain as obscure from the eye as possible.

"Oo-ee, sugar! Look at that cake!" Whiskey exclaimed, becoming distracted.

I gave Whiskey a stern yet funny look. "Can you please comment about my ass after we're done with this?"

I continued to look through the binoculars, as Whiskey refocused his attention on what the enemy troop was doing ahead.

"What do those drugs look like?" he asked, still crouching down near me.

I carefully examined the scene through the lens of the binoculars. "It looks like there's four different ones they're shipping. Marijuana, heroin, cocaine, and methamphetamines."

"Damn!" Whiskey exclaimed. "They're good, smuggling that over state lines."

"Smuggling it over state lines is a lot easier than smuggling it over country borders. There's no customs involved at state lines," I explained. "Unfortunately, our government could care less if drugs are being shipped from state to state. They only care if drugs are shipped between countries. They're trying to focus on the cartels and their shipments into the United States in Mexico, but they haven't succeeded yet."

I gave Whiskey my binoculars. "Here. Keep scoping out the scene. I gotta adjust the scope on my sniper rifle."

"I thought it was already adjusted," Whiskey said.

"Can't afford to make any mistakes, can we?" I said, reminding Whiskey of the words he taught me.

Whiskey nodded and went back to scoping the scene, while I made sure that the scope on my rifle was extremely precise. "Make sure you let me know if another truck of shipments arrives."

"Why's that, sugar?" he asked.

"Because I wanna pop the tires," I answered, beaming with menace and confidence.

"Pop the tires? I do hope you have some reasoning behind that," Whiskey said.

"Think about it. If I pop all four tires, that slows down the flow of the shipments. That allows us to go in and put trackers on shipments with the possibility that we won't be noticed. I personally think it's fool-proof, but go ahead and think differently if you want."

"I think it's a good idea," Whiskey commented. "Just make sure you pop all four tires instead of one or two. They can change one or two tires in a matter of seconds."

"Oh, I'm sure they can. Trust me, Whiskey. I had this all planned out on the way here. Every small detail had already been worked out in my head."

As I was fiddling with the scope on my rifle, Whiskey started to tap me on my left calf. "Time to rock an' roll, sugar. They're pulling in," he said.

"Perfect! Now, don't bother me while I'm popping the tires. If you do, I'll miss, and our plan goes to shit."

I then concentrated on the first out of eight shots. Two shots for each of the four tires. It wasn't enough to completely stop the flow, but it was enough to slow it down enough that Whiskey and I could make a quiet entrance and put trackers on the drug shipments headed for Balor. Inhaling quietly yet sharply, I took the first two shots, popping the front right tire. Then came the second pair of shots on the front left. Next, two shots on the back left, then two on the back right. The series of shots made the soldiers go into a frenzy, scrambling to try and figure out where the shots came from. This gave Whiskey and I perfect timing to sneak into the base with our weapons and resources in tow.

"I'll get the pot and smack. You get the meth and coke," I said.

Whiskey nodded, and we were off soon after that. I took the left side of the base to scope out my set of shipments, while Whiskey scoped out the right side for his set. As the enemy soldiers worked to change the truck's tires, I managed to slip by them without being spotted, looking everywhere to try and find the drug shipments that were going directly to Balor himself.

Then began the tedious work in finding the shipments. I carefully combed through each gray crate to find the drugs that were being shipped to Balor directly while also looking to see if I was in the clear. I had to be careful. If any enemy soldier spotted me, then everything that I had strategically planned out for this very mission would go straight out the window. When I snuck into the shed, all of my surroundings became very unfamiliar. Navigating this shed filled with crates upon crates of drugs and awful medication was an absolute bitch, but I somehow managed to come upon a crate of marijuana that had "To the Boss" in big, bold letters.

Yay! Just my luck!

Making sure no enemy soldiers were around, I placed the tracker on that crate and immediately moved on to try and find a crate of heroin. Again, one that is going directly to Balor himself. Anxiety rose up in my throat, and my heart was beating out of my chest with every step I took. I was worried to high-heaven that at least one enemy soldier would spot and try to fight me, and when I get worried and panicked, well…

…let's just say I start to develop symptoms that could be signs of a panic attack.

Yes. You heard that right. I may have an undiagnosed panic attack disorder, but that's not the point!

After what seemed like forever, I finally found a shipment of heroin that was going directly to Balor. However, there was an enemy soldier who was close to it. Damn, that threw a wrench to my hopefully easy plans. Then, I got the best idea. Calmly and collectively, I strolled up carelessly toward the crate, and the soldier stopped me. Just like I had planned.

"Hey! You can't be messing with these crates!" the soldier yelled.

"Oh, cool your tits, cadet! I'm just making sure these are being shipped directly to the boss," I snapped back, matching the attitude level of the soldier.

"I already made sure these were going to the boss," he snapped.

"But the boss told me that if any one of y'all mess up, then you're the next one on the chopping block," I answered.

The soldier looked at me curiously with a confused look, but he ultimately went along with my great white set of lies. I thought I had him fooled for a second, since I could sense that he didn't have the strongest of minds. Unfortunately, my aggressive impulses got the best of me, and I snagged the soldier, putting him into a chokehold. I had the intention of knocking him out and putting him to sleep.

"Go to sleep, you little bitch. Go to sleep, motherfuck. Go to sleep, you sack of shit. Shut your eyes, you motherfuck," I sang in a cheerful, sing-songy tone.

I dropped the soldier's unconscious body as I tried to find the nearest exit. I needed to find Whiskey and make a quick getaway. Before I could even execute my idea of escaping, I heard a familiar voice through my earpiece.

"Blackjack, cover breach. Cover breach," Whiskey said in a panicked tone.

"Do you need backup?" I asked.

"Yeah. Get your ass out here. I'm 'bout to get overrun," Whiskey shouted.

I made a mad dash out to the shipping yard, where I found that Whiskey was right. He was indeed being overrun by a slew of enemy soldiers. One by one, Whiskey would be taking out the soldiers using his high-tech lasso, which is something I've never seen before. Seeing that he was handling everything just fine, I decided to make a quick dash to Whiskey's ride and commandeer it. It was now our getaway vehicle.

To my luck, Whiskey left the keys inside the vehicle, so all I had to do was hop in and start it up. As soon as the truck rolled over, I slammed my foot on the gas pedal and made it my mission to get to Whiskey's location as fast as possible. Whilst Whiskey was using all the weapons in his arsenal, I wildly swerved directly into the action, even taking out a few soldiers along the way.

Hey! Job failed successfully, I guess.

"Come on! Get in! They're already on our asses!" I shouted.

Whiskey hurried into the passenger seat of the truck, and as soon as he got in, I once again slammed my foot on the gas pedal and sped off from the shipping hub. Adrenaline was coursing through my veins at damn near light speed since this was my first time in a situation like this one. Causing trouble and chaos was so much fun! As Whiskey kept pestering me to go faster, I tried my best to keep focused on the road ahead, but it was hard considering that Whiskey was fighting off the soldiers chasing us using all the weapons he had.

"Don't touch my rifle!" I screamed as I kept driving wildly.

"I ain't gonna touch your rifle, sugar. I got bigger things to deal with, as you can tell," he screamed back.

"No, I can't! I'm too busy trying to drive our asses out of this mess we're in," I shrieked back.

Whiskey sighed as he kept trying to knock off soldiers one-by-one. "Just keep your eyes on the road and get us to the highway."

"The big interstate highway?" I asked.

"That'll work. Just get us off of these backroads and out of their sight, for the love of Christ!" he shouted.

I continued to operate Whiskey's truck wildly along the roads, breaking every traffic law known to man. Although I was nervous about breaking every law, I knew that I had to in order to keep myself and Whiskey safe from harm. The soldiers kept chasing after us relentlessly, and Whiskey was fending them off from the back of the truck.

Luckily, I successfully managed to quickly merge onto the four-lane highway, somehow keeping Whiskey standing in the bed of the truck. Yes, the soldiers were still on our asses, but this was just a small victory that would hopefully build up to an even bigger victory.

"Have you popped the tires yet?" I asked.

"What are you talking about?" Whiskey shouted as he continued to fend off the soldiers that were closing in on us.

"Have you thought about popping the tires on their trucks to slow them down?" I shouted.

"Sugar, I ain't got enough ammo to do that!" he shouted. "We need to make sure that they are stopped dead in their tracks!"

As I kept passing cars and trying to avoid the enemy gunfire, my mind raced once again to figure out how to stop the enemies for good. Popping the tires won't do us any good, so some-

thing else had to be destroyed in order to neutralize the enemy. What if we cut the fuel lines? No, no, no. To do that, you had to pop the hood and reach in deep to find it.

Too much work for so little time we have.

What if we actually blew up the trucks? No. To do that, you needed some sort of flammable material. I didn't exactly have that because I feared getting burnt alive accidentally. After much deliberation, I finally got an idea.

"Whiskey! I got a heavy anvil in my bag. Grab it and tie it to that lasso of yours!" I screamed.

"Why do you have an anvil?" Whiskey asked.

"Just in case we had to shatter windows or somethin'," I answered back. "Tie that anvil to your lasso, swing it around, and crack the window. It'll distract them and give us enough time to lay the explosive spikes down for them."

"Explosive spikes? What the hell, Rocky?"

"Hey! We'll talk about it later. Right now, we have to get rid of these pests on our asses!" I shouted. "Just do it!"

I kept my eyes focused on the road, narrowly missing cars who weren't going the same speed I was; granted, I was speeding down the highway at dangerous speeds. I don't how I managed to stay off the highway patrol's radar, but I somehow did. Whiskey tied the anvil to his lasso, swinging the lasso around so it could go far enough to the windshield of the enemy's trucks. Plus, the anvil needed to project enough force for the windshield to shatter. If it didn't shatter, then Whiskey and I were fucked. I had no other plan other than this one, so I prayed to God that this worked. When I heard the sound of glass shattering, my insides jumped for joy. My plan was working perfectly.

"Good! Now, in my bag, do you see a bag of large thumbtack-lookin' things?" I asked.

"Which pocket?" Whiskey asked.

"Very front, in the zipper."

Whiskey dug into my bag and found the explosive spikes. "Yes. I got them."

"Good! Now, don't touch the spike part of them. If those spikes are touched, then, well…I guess you'll find out sooner or later."

Whiskey threw the spikes down on the ground behind us, letting the enemy trucks run them over. Once they did, large explosions followed, ultimately destroying enemy trucks and badly injuring the soldiers. Even though I couldn't see it because I was driving away from it like the badass I am, I could tell that Whiskey's face explained his reaction to these spikes.

"Christ! That seemed awfully excessive," Whiskey said, hopping to the passenger seat.

"Gotta stop 'em dead in their tracks. Never said how to do that. I had free reign, man."

"I do have to say, genuinely, sugar. Your driving skills are so wild and amazing! How the hell did you learn how to drive like that?" he asked.

"Secret Service training did me a lot of good," I said. "There, you had to learn how to do all these tricks and handle successful vehicular pursuits. What happened back there was no different, except for the fact that it ended in epic fashion, baby!"

"It sure did, sugar."

We continued to drive down the highway, calming ourselves down from the chaos that happened the moments before. I was glad that our plan worked, and the enemy soldiers were stopped successfully. Whiskey and I did it! We managed to work as a team and defeat enemy troops like we wanted.

"Hey, sugar. Can I turn on the radio?" Whiskey asked.

I didn't expect him to ask, but then again, it was common courtesy that whoever was driving had the right to control the radio. I grew up on that rule and loved every second of it whenever Devin or myself were at the wheel.

"Sure. Go nuts," I said, allowing Whiskey to take control of the radio. "I don't give a shit."

Whiskey turned the knobs on the radio, allowing the absolutely gorgeous melodies to cut through the air smoothly like butter. I loved music more than anything; it was the one thing that could keep me calm in stressful situations.

But this song was arousing emotions of bittersweetness. It made me think of my dear twin brother who's probably watching over me from heaven. God rest his gentle soul.

"Whiskey, not this song," I sarcastically whined.

"It was on the radio, sugar," he responded. "Why the connection? It's only Elton John's Goodbye Yellow Brick Road."

I drew in a sharp yet silent breath before I nearly broke character. "This was my twin brother and I's favorite song."

"Oh," Whiskey quickly and quietly said, feeling as though he had offended me, even though he really didn't.

I continued on with the story behind the song. "Me and my twin brother loved this song very much. So much that he used it as his walk-up song for baseball. Every time he'd walk up to the plate or hit a home run, he'd point to me in the stands and make a heart shape with his hands, showing that he loved me."

"So the song connected you and your twin brother," Whiskey assumed.

"Just one of the ways we were connected," I said back. "There's plenty more."

There's just this feeling of driving down a long, endless highway that somehow gets to you, no matter how much your mind is on something else. That happened to me. My mind had been shifted to start thinking about Devin and his love for baseball. He loved baseball as much as he loved me, which was a lot considering we were twins. Driving down the stretching highway seemed to allow me to think about it a lot more. It gave me another opportunity to deal with and try to suppress my grief over Devin's death.

Turns out, I couldn't get over it. I don't think I ever could.

As I kept my hand on the gear shift, my mind continued to focus on the road. That didn't last long, however. I felt something—I didn't know what at that second—touch and grab onto my leg. It grazed up and down my leg, and I took it as a sign of comfort and support. When I looked down, I found that it was Whiskey's left hand contacting my right leg. I didn't consider it inappropriate, no. I took it as a sign of affectionate support since I considered Whiskey a very fli-

rtatious individual.

"If only he'd see what I'm doing now," I said somberly, coming close to crying.

Whiskey glanced over at me with the most sincere eyes I had ever seen. "Trust me, sugar. He's proud of ya."

"You think so?"

"Definitely," he said in a deeper, more serious tone.

Whiskey and I had a laugh about all the stupid antics me and my twin brother got into when we were younger. Sure, it was stupid, but it wasn't the kind of stupid that gets us in serious trouble. From pulling pranks on our older brother Andrew every April Fool's to hitting the town for a day of fun every other Saturday, both Devin and I considered ourselves "perfectly weird" kids.

"Wow. Y'all were crazy," Whiskey finally remarked.

"We did some crazy shit," I laughed, "and I still do that same crazy shit."

We kept laughing about it and continued to spill more of our darkest secrets. And in that moment of truly connecting with Whiskey on a spiritual level, I finally found the strength to put my grief away for the moment. Who knows? Maybe Whiskey is the very person that will help me make this grief of mine something that I can live with for the rest of my life.