Rescuing Mercy (Special Forces: Operation Alpha): A Dead Presidents MC Spinoff

by Stone, Harley

  Watching him slip away, I felt so goddamn helpless. I wanted to check on my other patients and find out how they were doing, but with the fight still going on, I knew better than to clog up the headsets.

  Smiley was gone long before the helos made it to us.

  By the time air support arrived, the gunners had disabled two of the enemy vehicles. The rest peeled off at the sight of the helos. The flight medics loaded up our wounded and took off, and we drove back to Bagram without further incident.

  After we arrived on base and were debriefed, I headed to Craig—officially named Craig Joint-Theatre Hospital, the only role one medical facility in the country—to check on my remaining two patients.

  When I wasn’t out with my platoon, I often worked admittance and triage at Craig, so I knew my way around the fifty-bed hospital pretty well. I found Rodriguez first. He’d had surgery on one of his kidneys, his arm, and fluid drained from his lungs, but was expected to make a full recovery. Malone’s leg was shredded, but they were trying to save it. His arm was broken.

  I was mentally and physically exhausted, and expected to be at the hospital in seven hours for a shift, but my bed was across base which seemed like a hell of a long way to go for some shut-eye. I was considering crawling under the admittance desk and napping until I had to clock in when First Sergeant Mike Young pulled me aside and led me to his office in the back.

  Young had been in the service for eighteen years. He was the hospital’s senior medic and handled all staff scheduling and administrative business. He was a good man, a little crusty and rough around the edges from serving as a non-commissioned officer for so long, but he kept the hospital running smoothly.

  Directing me to one of the two chairs in his cramped office, he sat in the other. I all but collapsed in mine, wondering how the hell I was going to get up again once our conversation was over.

  “I’m declining your request to stay on,” he said, getting right down to his purpose for our impromptu meeting. “The 4th Infantry Division is already en route to replace your unit, and two weeks from now, I want your ass on the bird heading back to the states with the rest of the 101st.”

  After everything I’d done and given for the Army, declining my request to stay on felt like a slap in the face, waking me right up. Exhaustion forgotten, I sprung from my seat and asked, “Can I ask why, First Sergeant?”

  “Listen, youngster…”

  Knowing I was in for a lecture, I resisted the urge to drop my head into my hands. Nothing good ever came from a conversation Young started by reminding me of his age and seniority.

  “You have forty-five days of use or lose, and if you don’t take it, the CO will lose his shit,” Young said, leaning back in his chair.

  I’d been banking my leave, selling it back to the Army whenever it reached the use or lose status, but I’d reached the limit of what I could sell back, and apparently people had noticed. I could use some time off, but I had nowhere to go. Besides, I deserved to be here, stretching myself so thin I was almost ready to snap. I needed to serve, to atone for what I’d done. Since I couldn’t voice any of that without being sent for a psych evaluation, I kept my mouth shut.

  “Go home, go to the beach, or go to Vegas. I don’t care where you go, but you can’t stay here. Get drunk, get laid, get your mind right. You are of no use to me, your unit, or these men if you burn out.”

  There was a reason the military was so strict about leave. I understood what he was saying, but had a hard time applying it to my situation. This was different. Taking leave wouldn’t get my mind right. I needed to be here, serving, to do that. Still, his words smarted. I’d seen medics burn out before and it wasn’t a pretty sight. That’s how mistakes were made, often mistakes that ended in someone’s death. I already had one major fuckup on my conscience, I didn’t need another.

  Maybe it was time to take a break, after all.

  Watching me, Young frowned. “A much wiser man than me once said that it takes a strong heart and a weak memory to survive as a medic. You got the heart for it, Welch, but I’m worried about your memory. Go home and forget all this shit for a while. Face whatever the hell you’re running from and remind yourself what you’re fighting for.”

  I’d rather trek across the entire desert with only one canteen of water than go home, but there was no arguing with him. Besides, deep down I knew he was right. It was time to face my demons.

  They couldn’t be much harder to face than Smiley’s empty bunk.

  “Yes, First Sergeant.”

  Chapter 2

  Mercedes

  The distinguished roar of side-by-side Harleys snapped my attention to the bulletproof glass front doors in time to watch the bikes pull in to the second visitor parking slot in front of the building. My four-thirty appointment had arrived. Uncharacteristically nervous about the meeting, I’d been lingering by the front desk, waiting for the sound of a Harley.

  “I thought you said he was bringing his wife?” Adina, my receptionist, asked, standing so she could see over the partition in front of her desk. It was December 21st, and the temperature outside was chilly with Seattle’s signature rain alternating between annoying drizzles and run-for-cover downpours. The bikers cut their engines and removed their helmets. They both had dark hair. The one furthest away had the high and tight haircut of a military man, while the closest man had longer hair with shaved sides. “That’s definitely two men. Two rugged, handsome, delicious men. Which one’s the president?”

  “The one with longer hair,” I replied confidently. The Dead Presidents MC had been in the spotlight more than they’d been out of it lately. However, Tyler “Link” Lincoln was even better looking in person than on TV. Wearing jeans and a black leather vest decorated with patches over his leather jacket, he climbed off his bike looking like he was stepping right out of that popular motorcycle club television show. The man with him wore no vest, just a leather jacket and jeans.

  Adina sucked in a deep breath as they strode toward us, and I can’t say I blamed her. Not only were they impossibly good looking, but there was something dangerous about the way they moved. It was public knowledge that Link was former Army Special Forces, and he wore his training like a weapon, wrapped around his massive biceps, broad shoulders, and muscular thighs. I’d bet money that the man with him was active duty in one of the branches, probably some sort of Special Forces himself. Rather than coming inside, Link folded his arms, leaned against the brick pillar at the bottom of the staircase, and the two men talked as they waited.

  “Think you can find out if the other one’s married?” Adina asked.

  “No. They are here for business. No hitting on the potential volunteers, Adina.”

  The words had barely left my lips when a sleek black Jaguar slid into the parking space beside the motorcycles. Mr. Lincoln hurried to the driver’s side door and opened it, offering his arm to the very beautiful, very pregnant brunette who climbed out, seemingly unbothered by the rain.

  Mr. Lincoln and his associate with their powerful motorcycles and deadly bodies stuck out in our shoddy, low-income gang-ridden neighborhood for an entirely different reason than Emily Lincoln, attorney at law. Wearing a tailored maternity skirt suit, three-inch Jimmy Choos, and standing beside a car that no doubt cost more than my annual salary, she looked like she just stepped off the pages of the latest fashion magazine.

  Mr. Lincoln closed the car door and glanced around the area, pausing to meet the gazes of two young thugs who should have been in high school but were checking out the Jaguar, no doubt stripping it for parts in their minds. He said something to his wife, then as she came up the stairs to the glass doors, he crossed the narrow residential street and gestured for them to join him. His associate stayed back, watching the exchange.

  When Mrs. Lincoln reached the doors, Adina buzzed her in and I stepped forward to greet her. “Hello, Mrs. Lincoln. I’m Mercy Foster, and very glad to finally meet you.”

  “Emily, please,” she replied, shaking
my hand. “And the pleasure’s all mine.” Her smile was warm and friendly before she cast a glance over her shoulder. “Link and Blade will be with us momentarily. As soon as my husband’s done baring his teeth to your neighborhood wolves.”

  “Funny, since every article I’ve read about you says you’re the wolf—in the courtroom, at least.” As one of the city’s best criminal defense attorneys, it was no secret that Emily could hold her own amongst the shadiest of characters and the strongest of bikers.

  “Yes, but when I growl, I’m bitchy. When he growls…” Emily looked over her shoulder again, “Well, he’s hot.”

  A surprised burst of laughter escaped before I clapped my hand over my mouth.

  Emily gave me a smile. “Sorry. I don’t usually have outbursts like that, so we’re going to blame that one on pregnancy hormones.”

  But as someone who appreciated honesty and openness, I thought Emily was fantastic. She was beauty and grace, yet had this authenticity about her that drew me in. I’d read that she’d been raised by her grandparents after the death of her parents, and I appreciated that she’d struggled and worked to get where she was in her life and career.

  Mr. Lincoln joined us, and insisted I call him Link before introducing his associate. “This is Blade, an old friend who’s in town checking out the club and what we do. Is it all right if he joins us?”

  I shook Blade’s extended hand. “Of course. The more the merrier.”

  The trio followed me the short distance down the hall to my office. We entered, and I left the door open like usual (I’d read somewhere that closed-door meetings made employees nervous) and stood behind my desk.

  “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me,” I said, inviting them to take a seat on the padded folding chairs in front of my desk. Our furniture was comfortable, but cheap, which could be said about most things around the school.

  In fact, comfortable but cheap should probably be our slogan.

  Emily was too busy taking in my office to sit. I could almost see the wheels spinning in her head as she drifted from wall to wall, making note of my certification plaques before turning her attention to the colorful student pictures and projects. When I first started as the preschool director, my walls were tastefully decorated with prints from well-known artists. I never asked the children for their artwork. In fact, I’d rather they took it home and displayed it proudly, reminding themselves and their families of the beauty they’re capable of creating. But most of my students don’t have the kind of home they’d feel comfortable displaying themselves—much less their work—in, so my tasteful prints have been steadily replaced by corkboard displays.

  Now, my office walls are the kind of colorful chaos that only a group of three- to five-year-olds could create.

  It’s the most beautiful space I’ve ever known.

  “It’s our pleasure,” Link said, patiently holding the back of Emily’s chair as she perused the artwork. “Thank you for calling.”

  Blade stood by his chair, watching all of us and the door, confirming my suspicion that he was elite military. Or maybe security.

  “We’ve been researching Bold Beginnings,” Emily said, patting her baby bump. “I have to admit that I’m intrigued. I had no idea places like this existed in our city.”

  Taking a deep breath, I began the spiel I’d told more times than I could count. “The school has been in business for about thirty years now. We’ve always focused on low-income children, but we weren’t getting the results we wanted.”

  “What do you mean?” Link asked.

  “It’s difficult to convince a family dealing with issues like homelessness and starvation that their child should be in preschool. Even when it’s cheaper than daycare. Back in 2012, when the state passed the initiative for public charter schools, we saw our golden opportunity. Becoming a charter school would secure steady funding so we could start offering three meals a day, instead of one, and increase the number of full scholarship children we could accept.”

  “But the restrictions of the government slowed down your progress,” Emily guessed, proving her intelligence.

  “Exactly. Our priorities didn’t align, so we returned to the private sector and changed our business model. We’re a lot more proactive about obtaining donations now, and we’re meeting our goals. We provide three meals, plus snacks, five days a week. We’re closed for two months during the summer, but still offer free lunches three days a week. One in every five children in this state doesn’t get enough to eat, but in this neighborhood the stats are a lot higher. Devastatingly so. Most of our preschoolers can’t rely on meals outside of our walls, and summer can be a hungry time around here. We’re hoping to increase those lunches to five days a week this summer.”

  There was a rap on my office door frame, and a petite woman with graying blonde hair poked her head in. “Excuse me, Mercy, I heard you had guests and thought you all could use a snack.” The smell of chocolaty goodness drifted into my office as she extended a platter of cookies and stepped in.

  Elizabeth Welch was a widow whose only child had enlisted in the military shortly after her husband had died. She was lonely, bored, and looking for someone to nurture when I met her, and I knew she’d be a perfect fit for the school. I never expected her to become such a close friend, but now I don’t know what I’d do without her.

  “Thank you, Beth. Emily, Link, Blade, Beth is our cook and she’s phenomenal. Her cookies are to die for.”

  Beth flashed me her sweet, motherly smile before focusing it on our guests. She held out the cookie platter and they all three dug in before finally sitting. “Mercy said you were in the Army,” Beth said to Link. “My son’s in the Army. He’s a combat medic.”

  She beamed with pride and I snatched a cookie, popping it into my mouth so I wouldn’t mouth off in front of our guests. Beth never had a negative word to say about her son, Landon, but as far as I was concerned, he was an asshole. Not only had he enlisted right after her husband died, leaving Beth painfully alone, but he hadn’t been back since. He’d left his sweet, kind, caring mom all alone for seven years! Beth insisted that he had his reasons, but I saw the hurt in her eyes every time she defended his continued absence.

  “These cookies are delicious,” Emily said, grabbing another.

  “They sure are. Here, have another.” Link grinned at his wife. Judging by her pre-pregnancy photos she probably didn’t eat many cookies and he was having a good time getting her to indulge now. She eyed him suspiciously, but accepted the cookie he offered.

  “I’d like to meet your son when he comes home,” Link said, turning his attention back to Beth.

  “Me too,” I grumbled. Oh yes, I had many things to say to Landon.

  Beth flashed me a warning look before backing out of my office with her empty platter. “I’ll let him know. It was nice to meet you all, but I’ve got to go close down the kitchen.”

  “Do you have any more questions for me?” I asked the trio.

  Emily nodded and held up a finger, swallowing her bite before asking, “I read that you also provide family housing. How does that work?”

  “We need the children to attend regularly in order for them to realize the benefits of the education we’re offering, and we found that the best way to ensure their attendance is to provide safe, secure, stable housing. Thanks to donations, volunteers, and a handful of big sponsors, we built the adjoining sixteen-unit townhouse complex two years ago.” I nodded toward the window.

  Link and Emily both followed my lead, looking at the structure.

  “Bold Housing is on a first-come, first-serve basis with those currently homeless or on the brink of homelessness receiving top priority. Only families with at least one child attending the preschool are allowed to apply. Part of the benefit of returning to the private sector is that we do our own screening and select applicants ourselves. We don’t offer handouts. We are looking for families willing to work with our volunteer caseworkers, financial advisors, and employment special
ists to build a better life for themselves, and our board of directors is very selective about who they approve.”

  “What role do you see the Dead Presidents taking in all of this?” Link asked.

  “Eighty-three percent of our preschoolers come from single-mother homes. Every authority figure in this school is female and we are sandwiched between two gangs—the West Side Boyz and the High Point Locos—who are stealing away the big brothers of our children and enlisting them in their drug war. We need male role models our preschoolers can look up to and trust. The director at Helping Hands Preschool told me about how your motorcycle club has helped them, and we’d like to apply for the same assistance.”

  “How long have you been working here at Bold Beginnings?” Emily asked.

  Everyone always asked that, but what they wanted to ask was my age. At twenty-three, I was one of the youngest preschool directors in the state. Regardless, I was more educationally qualified than most, having earned my master’s in early childhood education, and had the college debt to prove it.

  “I started volunteering here at sixteen, while I was going through the Running Start program. Then once I graduated high school with my associate’s degree, I became a part-time employee while working on my bachelor’s. I guess the short answer is that I’ve been with the preschool for seven years: employed for five, director for one.”

  Normally I didn’t divulge that information, but I knew Emily would respect my drive and not misconstrue it as bragging. In response, she gave me a nod of solidarity, confirming my suspicions that she was an obsessive over-achiever as well. No wonder I got such a good vibe from her.

  The bell rang, signaling the end of the school day. Moments later, the sound of little feet and voices filled the hallway.

  “How many kids attend classes?” Link asked, his attention drifting to the doorway.

  “Sixty,” I replied. “Twenty in each classroom, along with two teachers. We also have a steady stream of volunteers who help.”