Rottweiler

The Day The Music Died

Gunnar sat low in his seat, beer in hand and toes in the sand, staring out to sea and wondering about the great mysteries of the world. Like, how in the hell did Evan Buckley find himself a husband? Or, when the fuck did Steve McGarrett get so God damn old? And, why was it always Jay Halstead texting him butt-fuck drunk at minus o'clock in the damn morning? Or even, why the fuck Kelly Severide was still so excited every time Gunnar responded to a text message? The sun was setting, glinting off his chestnut brown hair, which he'd allowed to grow out enough to curl but not long enough to reach his shoulders. Sometimes, Gunnar wondered if the others would even recognise him if they were to meet again. He looked so different with his hair grown out, and although he kept it well-trimmed, his facial hair seemed to completely change the shape of his face. Even his skin tone had changed over time, affected by the constant sun, he'd developed a permanent tan.

His phone vibrated harshly three times, the screen lighting up red.

He didn't hesitate, grabbed it, and read the string of coordinates that the urgent alert had sent to him. He rose from the chair and headed into his house, plugging the coordinates into his laptop he moved to the small woodfire stove that he used for warmth when he needed it and picked up the fuel tanks beside it.

He set them beside the bed where his laptop laid and looked around the one room house he'd built. Gunnar had very few things that he was sentimental about, all of them coming to him from the members of his seal team. He had a box of memorabilia for Gracie, for Charlie, for Chris, for Eva, and for Diego, and he had a selection of photos from each of his four teammates' weddings, which he piled up outside before he began to pour out the fuel tanks. He made sure to cover everything, bar the bed, with a liberal coating of the stuff. It was important that it burned properly. No one needed to know where he'd been.

The laptop whirred loudly, and then it dinged, falling silent. He turned to look at the screen, documenting the exact location that he was being called to with a flash of teeth in the darkness.

Chicago looked nice in the summer.

He turned and left the house again, opening the small chest he kept outside for storage. He pulled a khaki  green bag out of it and looped it over his shoulder, the strap crossing his body, and unzipped it.

He reached in absent-mindedly pulling out a Luger LC380, already loaded with 380 ACP rounds, and marching back in. He shot the laptop three times and tucked the gun into the back of his pants.

There was a fleeting moment, just one, in which Gunnar looked around at what had been his home for almost three years, and he had to heave a sigh. He was never gonna see that shitty one-roomed house he built again, he'd never see the beach he'd spent so much time on again, he'd never sit on his chair in the sand with a beer in his hand again. Hell, he may never step foot in Mexico again. Only time would tell.

He kneeled, picking up his treasured boxes one at a time and carefully placing them into his weapons bag, pressing a kiss to the lid of each one as he went. A kiss for Gracie, for Charlie, for Chris, for Eva and for Diego. Then he pressed a kiss against each of the wedding albums as they went in the bag, too. A kiss for Buck, a kiss for Jay, a kiss for Steve, and a kiss for Kelly.

"Dumb idiots." He smiled fondly.

It was just shy of an hour later when Gunnar crossed the border into Texas, flicking his lighter as he went.