The Ex
Book Two of the Rogue Warrior Series
Margaret Ferguson
The Ex
Book Two of the Rogue Warrior Series
by
Margaret Ferguson
1
www.MargaretFergusonBooks.com
www.facebook.com/margaretfergusonbooks
©2020 Margaret Ferguson Books
1
For my firstborn son, Joseph
with love…
Dedication
This book is dedicated to, and in honor of, our uncle, Richard Ferguson, and all the Blue Water Veterans, and their families, who after almost fifty years are still waiting to be compensated for exposure to Agent Orange during the Vietnam War.
God bless you for your sacrifices.
Cover Design
Alex Tsatos
Technical Consultants
Justin Grissom and Mark Gerik
Editing & Proofreading
Cathy Moeschet
Marcia Rebrovich
eBook & Print Formatting
Margaret Ferguson
Contents
Preface
Prologue
Soldier Lost
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
The Writing on the Wall
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Veteran’s Day
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
The Reckoning
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Truth and Consequences
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Countdown
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Epilogue
The End
Get Involved
Excerpt from The Mojado
Acknowledgements
All Rights Reserved
Preface
Books are a significant part of my life. Reading them. Writing them. I’ve dreamed of being a published author since I was eighteen years old. At fifty-eight, I’ve realized my dream. Now that I am finally able to tell them, the stories in my head can’t jump to the page fast enough.
Edward Roarck—half Chickasaw, half who knows what—doesn’t attack a problem. He is the problem. At least he is if you mean to do harm—especially to someone he cares about. Don’t miss this exciting adventure back on U.S. soil for our Native American hero.
And know that as long as I’m not finished telling his stories—he’s not done living them.
God bless… xxo mag
Prologue
The man jerked her violently by the forearm before pointing the Glock at her chin again. “You’re in love with her, aren’t you?”
When I didn’t respond, he glared at me, his stare boring into my heart.
“It’s okay, sweetie. You still have me,” he declared, squeezing her face with his free hand.
I scoffed and shook my head, turning away. Only he called my bluff. When I heard him rack a round into the chamber, I looked back. His eyes were suddenly dark again, devoid of emotion, his finger frighteningly tight on the trigger.
“You think you’re better than me?”
“No, just different,” I retorted.
“A sin is a sin,” he reasoned.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I? I’m going to hell for what I’m doing. Thou doest covet another man’s wife,” his voice deepened. “You think just because you don’t admit it, that you’re innocent?”
His words cut me to the bone. But more than that, they pissed me off.
He stepped closer to me, dragging her with him. “Your eyes,” he taunted. “They give you away.” He looked at her before sneering at me. “See how he’s avoiding answering the question,” he mocked, pressing his cheek to hers. When they parted, he moved the muzzle of the Glock to her temple.
“You don’t have to do this,” I pleaded meekly, trying to control my breathing as I felt the anger, and fear, growing.
“Admit it,” he snarled. “Admit your sin.” This was no longer a game of cat and mouse. “Say it out loud!” he demanded.
“Leave her out of this.” I glanced away once again to avoid his glare, to avoid her frightened eyes. Why was this so damned difficult? Answer the question! I swallowed hard, contemplating. Only—
“Say it!” he bellowed emphatically, pressing the gun deeper, until the barrel cut red indentions into her skin. “Or say goodbye.”
“Yes,” I said quickly, my eyes intentionally holding hers. “I love her.” I exhaled, adding a small shrug and shake of the head like a lame apology for my forced confession. Mere words, I told myself. Words without emotion, my having buried them deep inside not so long ago.
He looked at her. “You hear that, sweetie? He loves you.”
A tear escaped from her eye as she looked down, ashamed.
“And what should be the punishment for your sin?”
I stood upright, my eyes now determinedly on him, and smartly replied. “I don’t know. You’re the one holding the gun. You’re the one doling out punishments here. You tell me,” I barked, now fuming; angry that people had died. Angry that people might still die. Angry that he’d made me say the words. I took a step toward him.
“You’re right,” he said flatly,
…and then he shot me.
Soldier Lost
Chapter One
“Another ginger ale?” Fred, my well-meaning bartender, offered, in a low voice, as though embarrassed by the asking, his broad smile bordering annoying.
If he was trying to make me grin or set me at ease, it wasn’t working. I simply nodded, emotionless, as he took my glass, and added ice, before refilling it with the spray from the carbonated drink fountain built into the back of the counter. Then he stepped away, forcing me to face myself again. As I glanced up, I was met with the sad, lonely eyes of a pathetic man wearing a drab army t-shirt, shaggy ponytail, and unkempt beard.
Do I sound like I’m feeling sorry for myself? You betcha! That’s why I came here. The plan was to drink away the misery. The memories. Only it wasn’t working. Why? Simply put—I don’t drink. Never have. Well, maybe once; after which, I found myself in Honduras building bottle schools, with three of my well-meaning hungover friends. That was over four years ago. Yet, after the year I’ve had, I was seriously willing to give it another try.
I looked into the sea of alcoholic options, all lined up below the glass behind the bar. So many choices in which I could lose myself, in which I could forget, if only for a while. I peered at the old mirror curiously, random blotches of oxidation having formed in its corners, the result of the reflective silver mercury breaking down over time. A hundred years of judgment stared back at me. I didn’t always look like this. And, I certainly didn’t ever feel like this.
Fred perfectly centered my drink on the napkin before me. “Anything else, Eddie?” he asked, casually setting a menu beside my glass. “You know, the kitchen makes a pretty mean greasy-spoon burger.” When I didn’t respond right away, he added, “It’s on the house.” I looked up, and he winked. “It’s the least I can do. Thank
you for your service, son.”
I nodded in acknowledgement, forcing an uncomfortable smile. “Thanks, Fred. I’ll check it out.” I gave the menu an obligatory once over. Then, I sensed someone’s presence beside me. Before I even turned, I knew it was a woman. It’s the unconscious things one does that are telling. Fred’s facial expression softened ever so slightly, wearing a smile reserved strictly for the opposite sex, not another man. Or maybe it could be, but I just don’t see Fred swinging that way.
And she’s tall. Not Latvian tall. But Fred’s posture changed. Suddenly, he stood a little more upright, as if trying to match her stature, his eyes looking upward, not down. She must have been good looking, too, because Fred sucked in his belly, something reserved for the pretty ones. Lastly, there was the faint scent of Chanel Number Five, applied ever so subtly, maybe on the heal of her wrist or possibly behind her earlobe.
When she placed her order, her voice was deep. Sultry. Scarlett Johansson-sultry. Fred, obviously under her spell, tripped all over himself to please her. I couldn’t help but grin. After placing a glass perfectly on the napkin for her, he turned to me. Though I tried to keep a straight face, he saw the smile in my eyes and met it with a quick reprimanding glare before turning back to the woman—a glint of hope in his own eyes. I covered my chuckle with a cough.
“You decide what you want?” he inquired of me, obviously annoyed by my amusement.
I smiled behind the menu. “Grilled cheese,” I replied, ordering merely to satisfy his persistence. “To go.”
Fred nodded, immediately typing my choice into his point of sale system, assuring that the kitchen had the order seconds later. It’s not that nothing looked good. I simply haven’t had much of an appetite since getting back. And when I do eat, all I eat is junk. I mean, there’s no one to cook for me anymore, not that Amanda cooked much when she was there. Her favorite food? Anything she didn’t have to cook. Plus, there’s no place left for me to sit, except my recliner, since I gave her every last stick of furniture in the apartment. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time. However, looking back, coming home to no one and nothing, except an old car that hasn’t run in years, and my beat-up pick-up truck, was the harsh reality of my existence. Home? Well, that used to be wherever the Army told me to go.
Used to be.
Now I’m done. Thirteen years of serving my country and all I have to show for it is four scars, three medals, two broken down vehicles, and one empty apartment. I’ve been crashing at my friend Adam’s pad since I got back. I don’t do alone well. I put the truck in storage, the recliner in his living room, and got out of my lease early.
Adam was my second closest friend in high school. He moved into the number one spot the day I caught my best friend in bed with my fiancé mere weeks before our wedding. Adam’s a good guy. Divorced, two kids. Only, the wife got the house and the kids. Luckily, he rents a three-bedroom apartment, so there’s a room for each of his boys when they visit. Therefore, I have a warm bed Sunday through Thursday. The rest of the days, I’m on my own.
The barstool squealed under my butt as it rotated. Adam asked me to meet him here after he stopped by his girlfriend’s place. I’m not holding my breath, though. My guess is that she deliberately distracted him from going out for “drinks with the boys,” by offering him dessert at home if you know what I mean. They’re probably knocking boots right now. Hopefully, at her place. She’s a screamer. It’s hard enough sleeping alone and even harder when the bed next door is beating in rhythm against your wall, and she’s moaning in ecstasy with every thrust. I’m a single guy who hasn’t been with a woman in more than four years. Some things are too much, even for the strongest man to bear.
I rubbed my temples. It’s been a rough year. I mean, I almost died on my last mission. Some people would call surviving what I went through, luck; others would call it fate. A hand landed on my shoulder, startling me. I turned.
“Hey, man,” Adam said excitedly.
I glanced past him to Winnie, his girlfriend, uninvited, and clad in a silky cream-colored blouse and jeans. No bra. Don’t judge! It’s not that I was intentionally looking, but hey, I’m a guy. There are certain things we notice. That just happens to be one. Okay—maybe two. I grinned, my gaze slowly traveling to meet hers. Winnie looked at me knowingly, a sly smile on her face. I felt mine getting hot. Busted. Damn, I never blush. I turned to my friend, hoping he’s none the wiser.
“See, I told you he’d still be here.” Adam leaned onto the counter, tapping it with his key to get Fred’s attention. “Two Miller Lites?”
Adam sat on the stool beside me as I stared at the perspiring glass in my hand. Cool silk brushed my bare forearm as Winnie insinuated herself between us. I refused to look up. “Winifred,” I said to the bottle in my hand. I could feel her cutting her eyes at me. I smiled to myself.
“Edward,” she replied playfully, with a hint of sarcasm thrown in for calling her by her given name. She leaned so near that I could tell you what toothpaste she used.
“So, I’ve decided,” Adam said over the music from the electronic jukebox by the farthest wall. “You’re going with us this weekend.”
I leaned forward, looking past Winnie as though she weren’t there.
“High school reunion, man,” Adam added, as though I should already know. He notes my bewildered look. “Where’ve you been?”
“Afghanistan,” I stated flatly.
“Oh, yeah. Sorry.” Adam took several gulps of his beer, then gasped.
Adam’s a good guy, but a little dense. He calls it being forgetful. Personally, I think he’s been hitting the medicinal weed a little more than prescribed since coming home himself. PTSD. Four letters diagnosing a malady that’s been around since Cain and Abel and acknowledged thousands of years too late, if you ask me. Coming home to find his wife in love with someone else didn’t help matters.
“Still, it’s not too late to RSVP.”
I looked down at my drink, contemplating. I was tempted to tell Fred to add a shot of anything to it. The idea of showing up at a high school reunion where everyone has someone else and is successful in whatever they have endeavored to do just doesn’t appeal to me at this stage in my life. “I’ll pass.”
“C’mon man. They say everyone will be there.” He paused for effect. “Emily will be there.”
At the mention of her name, I looked up.
“Ooh, Emily,” Winnie cooed playfully. “High school sweetheart?” she leaned closer to me, pressing against my arm. I side-glanced her as she grinned mischievously, teasing me mercilessly with her soft bosom. Unable to bear it any more, I stepped away from my stool, taking my near-empty glass with me.
“Yeah,” Adam continued, close on my heels. “They were the hottest couple all four years.”
“Really? So, what happened?”
“She got married,” Adam interjected, oblivious that he’d just poured salt into an old wound.
“To someone else,” I clarified.
Winnie’s smile faded as she took my arm, pulling me closer. “Poor baby,” she added compassionately before embracing my arm in an awkward hug. I looked quizzically at Adam, who merely downed the rest of his beer.
“It’s no big deal,” I replied nonchalantly, attempting to remove myself from her grasp. “She went her way. I went mine.”
“That’s too bad,” Winnie added, with a pouty face, her hot breath on my chin.
I wriggled from her grip, side-stepping her as I finished searching the room for nothing and no one in particular, arriving where I started. At the bar.
“Rumor has it she’s changed,” Adam added, unconvincingly.
I finished my soda and tossed enough cash onto the counter to cover our drinks plus my meal and a good tip. Fred was ready for me, handing me a paper sack as I passed by.
“She’s divorced,” Adam called out. When I didn’t look back, he added. “She’s gonna be there, man.”
I breathed in deeply as I contemplated how to respond
. “Good for her.” I tried to appear unmoved by the news. Then, I walked to the door, not wanting to look as shaken as I felt. Not wanting them to see the pain in my face. In my heart.
Chapter 2
Being invisible at a high school reunion isn’t necessarily an easy task. It’s like going through customs at the airport. They match up your name and number, grill you on where you live, e-mail, cell phone—when you had your last prostate exam. Then they hand you a badge with the embarrassing picture from your high school yearbook so that those who have no clue who you are will possibly remember who you were.
When the inquest was over, and I was allowed through the last checkpoint, I made my way to one of two bars set up in the Convention Center ballroom that overlooked the Brazos River and ordered a ginger ale. I told the barmaid no thanks after she asked if I wanted anything mixed in. She looked at me quizzically, probably not used to anyone turning down free booze.
The Ex Page 1
