Their Obsession (Four Mercenaries 2)

“I take it he wasn’t there?”

Pyro gave a roar that reminded Tank of a wounded beast willing to fight its killer until the very end. His back arched, only to dip, and he briefly hid his face in his hands before dragging himself back up with the same uneven movements that had made him end up on the asphalt in the first place.

It was a pathetic sight, and Tank struggled against his sense of judgment. “I’m talking to you.”

Clover stepped closer and reached for Pyro’s arm. “Let’s go inside.”

Pyro slapped the bandaged hand away. “Fuck you. What have you been doing for the past day? Sitting your asses here and resting?”

Tank put his hands on his hips. “Well, we weren’t getting drunk. The guys needed medical attention. I also did loads of other shit, but I won’t waste my breath on you when you won’t remember it anyway.”

Pyro shook his head but managed to get back on his feet, a mess of tangled blue hair and flushed skin. “You don’t fucking care about him. It’s all about Clover and Drake for you!”

Tank silently counted to three and pulled Clover under his arm. “You’re not making any sense. I have asked around, and we should get some leads by tomorrow. If you want to be ready for action when it actually matters, go and sleep it off.”

“I’m not spending another minute in this house!” Pyro yelled, making Tank even more conscious of keeping Clover out of the drunk idiot’s reach.

“You can sleep in the garden for all I care. Just don’t leave the property. Look what happened last time we separated.” For all his growing anger, Tank hated to even think of what could happen to the idiot if he went out searching for Boar in his sorry state.

For the briefest moment, he considered locking Pyro up, but he knew there was no point in it when he got like this. When Pyro was drunk, rational solutions went out of the window, and he could no longer see the connection between his state and his ability to deal with shit. Boar usually stopped him several drinks before that happened, but without Boar to control Pyro, the guy would spiral downward fast.

Tank stepped out of the way when Pyro entered the house, going straight to the living room where they kept all the alcohol. It wasn’t even a question whether that was where he was headed.

“You’re not my boss,” Pyro shouted at a pitch so high it made Tank cringe.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, pulling Clover with him.

“Maybe let’s just leave him to it?” Clover whispered, but he didn’t know just what a danger to himself and everyone around Pyro could pose when off the leash.

“I’ll handle it, baby, wait here.” Tank followed Pyro toward the alcohol cabinet. “Leave it.”

Pyro turned to face him with a bottle of vodka in hand, his face red, eyes glossy as if he were on the verge of crying. It was a miracle he was still capable of standing straight. “Fuck you. You just left me there! It’s all about fucking Clover. And what about Jamie, huh?”

It was rare to hear Boar’s real name, and Tank choked up, lowering his gaze to the floor. “You will not help him like this, Matt.”

“And you won’t help him sitting on your ass in your house in fucking Oregon. He could be anywhere by now!” Pyro struggled to climb on top of a tall cabinet next to the TV, but finally pulled himself up and sat on it with the bottle in his hand. “You’ve got an hour. If you don’t move your ass out of this house in an hour, I’ll burn the whole fuckin’ place down, and make you move!”

Tank looked away to hide his rolling eyes. There was no point in aggravating things further. He’d have to wait until Pyro drank himself to sleep and cover him with a blanket, hoping the morning wouldn’t hit him like a bludgeon to the head.

“Go to sleep. We need to be in good shape tomorrow,” Tank said before turning on his heel and heading for the door, where he’d left Clover. Maybe a short walk could help them clear their heads before sleep. And maybe the wild nature would release some of the tension lingering in Clover’s muscles since yesterday.

“Tick-tock, Tank!” Pyro yelled from the living room.

Tank ignored him and focused on Clover’s puffy red eyes. The boy was far too young to be dealing with this bullshit—or was he? Tank had joined the army at eighteen. Just because Clover wasn’t an overgrown jarhead, didn’t mean he was a flower. Hadn’t he spent the past year trying to prove that to Tank?

Hadn’t he killed Jerry?

“Is it okay to leave him like that?” Clover whispered.

Tank waved it off. “He’s just pissed off, regretful, and doesn’t know how to talk about it. Idiot. It’s not the first time this has happened. Give him half an hour, and he’ll be passed out on the sofa.”