“Americans are funny,” Tatina said with a sigh of disappointment as I loaded the grenades into my SUV. “You pretend to believe in magnificent, forgiving spiritual worlds beyond the flesh. But you morbidly worship and fear for that same flesh. You mourn its loss before it’s even gone. Or you deny the spirit world—belittling it as a fairy tale and castigating those who do believe as indolent children—then you look up at the night sky and see nothing but an end without a narrative. Oh, my God. It must be so hard to be American!”

“You have no idea, toots,” I said.

“After tonight,” Tatina said in a tone that reminded me of my mother preparing to scold me, “we need to have a theoretical talk about what kind of spiritual life we wish for our children.”

I felt myself swallow hard. “Our—children?”

“I said ‘theoretical,’ August.” Tatina laughed. “No, I’m not. And yes, I would someday like to be. By you. We can make the discussion a drinking game if that’s easier.”

“I have to go.”

“I know,” Tatina said. “Just remember—my great-grandfather has never been wrong.”

“From your lips to Great-Grandpa’s ears.”

As I drove back to my house, I thought about what fathers did: policemen and firemen, doctors and teachers, accountants and computer programmers and plumbers and carpenters. They volunteered as football coaches and soccer referees and took their families out for breakfast after church, synagogue or mosque. They suffered through tax season, played LEGOs with their kids when they were bone tired and spun their brains into aching balls trying to figure out how to save a dime on a dollar for their kids’ education.

Me?

I was heading back to my house with six hundred pounds of guns, ammo and grenades in preparation for a dinner date with a madman.

In the life of a kid, what the hell kind of father would that be?

At home, I changed into a crisp white shirt, black silk tie and grey wool Emporio Armani two-piece suit.

Wearing the ensemble, I cut as fine a figure as Mr. James Bond, 007.

Unlike Mr. James Bond, 007, beneath my snappy dinner attire, I was wearing LAPASA merino wool thermal long johns and matching long-sleeve shirt because this wasn’t summer in Ibiza. I was also wearing a pair of my father’s old Carhartt black wool socks (perfect for walking a beat or midwinter stakeouts) and spit-shined all-weather tactical boots. In my left inside suit coat pocket was a wallet-sized photo of my mom and dad. In the right inside suit coat pocket was my Marine Scout Sniper medal, khaki uniform recon sniper Marine Forces Special Operations Command (MARSOC) patch (“From afar death”) and first-place team citations from the United States Army Special Operations Command (USASOC) International Sniper Competition and the Mammoth Sniper Challenge. I also carried a small section of a bloodstained map given to me by a former British SAS officer.