"Guys…"
Owen stepped forward and hugged each of his old comrades—Sam, Bryan, Wright. They were the men who had once gone with him to Colombia to fight drug lords, bonded by life-and-death camaraderie. But now, Jim was gone…
There were a few people Owen didn't recognize—new members of Sam's PMC, all reportedly ex-Rangers too. One had a twitchy demeanor named Murdock, the other was a towering Black man with a mohawk nicknamed "Blockhead." Owen shook hands and got to know them briefly.
After a few words, Sam excused himself—he had to return to the host's side. As Jim's child's godfather, he was considered half-family and was helping receive friends and relatives.
Owen looked around the house. The living room was spacious, Texas-style, with mounted deer and other hunting trophies on the walls. Sam, in a black suit, was over with Jim's family, chatting with some guests—mostly locals, along with a few like Owen who had come from afar. The funeral was scheduled for the next day, so today was for offering condolences.
On the front wall hung a black-and-white portrait of Jim. He looked young in the photo. The surrounding walls displayed photos from all stages of his life. In every single picture, Jim was smiling. He'd always been a cheerful guy, full of jokes and laughter.
Under the stairs, Owen noticed something different and walked over.
It was a series of photographs. Each photo captured the same scene—Jim sitting on the couch watching TV with his daughter in his arms. The poses were identical, but the people in the photos changed. At first, Jim was young, his daughter a tiny girl. Over time, she grew taller, blossoming into a young woman, while Jim aged visibly—wrinkles crept in, his hair turned gray.
The series cleverly captured a story of growth and companionship—one growing stronger, the other slowly fading.
"That was my dad's favorite photo series. Every year on my birthday, he'd take one with me," said a voice behind him.
Owen turned. It was the girl in the photos—Jim's daughter.
"This year… he couldn't be there," she added quietly, her face tinged with sorrow. Owen didn't know what to say, but she quickly ended the awkward silence.
"You were my dad's friend?"
She asked softly. Clearly, she knew Owen wasn't a neighbor—he must've been one of her father's old friends. Still, she seemed puzzled. Owen didn't look old enough to have been in Jim's generation.
"Yes," Owen said. "I'm Steve Owen. I'm very sorry for your loss. If there's anything I can do, I'd be glad to help."
He meant it. She was probably around Amanda's age. Losing her father must be devastating. Owen wanted to do something for Jim.
"Thanks for coming. Dad didn't have many friends your age. Were you like them?"
She nodded toward Bryan and the others. She clearly knew her dad had been involved in something unusual.
Owen shook his head. "No, not exactly. I met your dad when we were working private security—bodyguards at a concert, actually."
"Oh…"
She nodded. Just as she was about to say something more, her mother called to her from across the room.
"Sorry, I have to go."
She offered a quick apology and turned away. Owen waved her off with a smile and returned to the group.
About half an hour later, the crowd thinned out. Jim's wife and daughter approached them. "Sorry we didn't get to talk earlier…"
Her eyes were still red and puffy. Her daughter supported her gently. Jim had only one child, and now that he was gone, only the two of them remained.
Everyone offered their condolences, but surprisingly, there was no resentment toward Sam or the others. Jim hadn't kept secrets from his family—they'd long known this day could come.
"Thank you, but no need to mourn too much," Jim's wife said. "He always told me, if he died before me, not to be sad. He said death isn't sorrowful. I think he was right."
"Yes. He used to say that a lot," his daughter added.
But their swollen eyes told a different story. Despite their brave words, the loss was real and painful. Sam and the others had spent the entire day helping with everything—welcoming guests, arranging the funeral. They didn't act like visitors. To them, Jim was family.
Once all the visitors had left, Sam's team said their goodbyes to Jim's family and returned to their motel in town. Everything was ready. Tomorrow would be the day they said goodbye.
The next day, everyone dressed in black suits and gathered at Jim's family ranch. It was time to bid him farewell. Somber expressions filled the air.
The funeral wasn't a grand affair. Most attendees were neighbors—many probably hadn't even spoken with Jim more than a few times. His life as a special operative hadn't left much room for many friends. The ceremony wasn't held in a church, but on a prepared clearing at the ranch.
A grave had already been dug—his fellow Rangers had done it themselves the day before. Jim would be buried right on his land.
The ceremony proceeded in quiet order. When it came time to view the body, friends and family stepped forward to lay flowers and say goodbye. His wife and daughter stood silently in black veils, watching. After the priest said his final blessing, the service reached its conclusion.
Several of Jim's old Ranger buddies were the pallbearers. They used ropes to slowly lower the casket into the earth, their movements careful and reverent as they escorted their brother on his final journey.
Just as they were about to fill the grave, Jim's wife suddenly spoke.
"Wait…"
Everyone turned to look. Through her black veil, she held out a small box.
"Jim once told me, if he died before I did, there were some things he wanted to say at his funeral."
She nodded at her daughter, who pressed play on a recorder.
A burst of static crackled from the speakers, followed by Jim's voice.
"Hello? Hello? Anybody there? Let me out…"
There was the sound of knocking. Murmurs passed through the crowd as they looked at each other in surprise.
"Where am I? It's so dark in here… Was that the priest I just heard?"
As the recording played, people began to chuckle. Owen couldn't help but laugh either. Of course, Jim wasn't speaking from the grave—he had recorded this to break the somber mood. Even in death, he wanted to make people smile.
"I can hear you all out there. If you leave me here, I'm screwed! Let me out—I'm trapped in this tiny box!"
Laughter erupted from the mourners. Jim had pulled it off. He'd made everyone laugh, just like he said—death didn't have to be sad.
______
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