Fallen: A Daniel Briggs Action Thriller (Corps Justice - Daniel Briggs Book 2)

by C. G. Cooper

  “Fallen”

  A Daniel Briggs Novel and part of the Corps Justice Series

  Copyright © 2015 Corps Justice. All Rights Reserved

  Author: C. G. Cooper

  Editor: Karen Rought

  GET A FREE COPY OF THE FIRST NOVEL IN THE DANIEL BRIGGS SPINOFF SERIES JUST FOR SUBSCRIBING AT:

  http://CorpsJustice.com

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, locations and events are all products of the author’s imagination. Any similarities to actual events or real persons are completely coincidental.

  Any unauthorized reproduction of this work is strictly prohibited.

  Warning: This story is intended for mature audiences and contains profanity and violence.

  Dedications

  To my loyal group of Novels Live warriors, thanks for your undying enthusiasm. Keep pushing me up the hill.

  To our amazing troops serving all over the world, thank you for your bravery and service.

  And especially to the United States Marine Corps. Keep taking the fight to the enemy.

  Semper Fidelis

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  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

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  Old Orchard Beach, Maine

  A seagull screeched overhead as I downed the shot of Jack Daniels from a cheap plastic shot glass. The vessel matched my surroundings, suitable but far from grand. I’d arrived in Old Orchard Beach just after one o’clock in the afternoon. No real reason, other than the fact that I wanted to get off the Amtrak train and stretch my legs. Getting a few drinks and some food was a bonus, but the plan was to walk right back to the platform and keep heading north when I was done.

  I asked a local where I could get a good view of the ocean, and the guy told me the best you could get was on the Pier. “But stay away from the Pier Patio Pub,” the guy had said. “It’s not good for tourists this time of year.”

  I’d ignored his second recommendation and headed straight for the Pub. The guy was right. The place was full of locals, and every head turned when I walked in and asked for a table with a view. The hostess pointed to the stairs and said I could pick any spot I wanted.

  The good news was that my table did overlook the Atlantic, and the mid-May sky was fresh and clear, like someone had given it a good scrub and left me with a squeaky clean view. I love the water, always have. Along with my good friend Jack Daniels, they were the two best things I had going. Not a bad deal considering what I’d been through.

  Despite being the only obvious out-of-towner in the joint, the waitress was attentive and soon brought out a bottle of Jack when I slipped her a twenty.

  “You promise you’ll keep track of your drinks?” she asked, not really concerned, but saying it because she had to. I imagined she was probably happy to avoid the up and down journey in exchange for a little risk.

  “Scout’s honor,” I said, putting three fingers up in the air as I hoisted another shot in my left hand.

  She looked at me funny, like she was going to change her mind about the three quarter full bottle on the table, but she smiled instead and headed back inside where I kept catching hints of French being spoken.

  Must be Canadians. Tourists, I thought, gazing out over the water, wondering how cold it was and how far out I could swim. It was May. At this time of year, surely freezing, but I bet I could make it out a ways. The return trip would be a bitch, but that might not be necessary. I sat, I dreamed, and I drank. Just another day.

  I sloshed the quarter remnant around in the bottle, the bitter taste of the booze long gone. As I watched the brown waves inside the square glass cage, my ears tuned in and out, like a radio receiving bits of broken traffic. The incoming news might’ve disturbed someone else, like someone who actually cared, but I didn’t. I had my ocean and Jack Daniels. Maybe the minor annoyance would go away.

  A couple minutes later, a brunette walked outside. She pretended to be looking at the view, but I saw her cool eyes wander over me more than once. She could’ve been looking at my messy blonde hair or my scruffy beard, but she wasn’t. All legs and tight clothing, the girl was on the downswing from hot. She’d had her day for sure, but I noted the tired crow’s feet highlighting her eyes, and took in the high heeled sandals that had definitely seen better days. She was like a Barbie doll cast aside after four or five years of spirited play at the hands of a toddler.

  I kept swirling the bottle and refilling my plastic cup. Three drinks later, she came over.

  “Do you have a light?” she asked.

  I didn’t look up.

  “No, sorry.”

  That didn’t change her course.

  “Mind if I have a drink?”

  I shrugged and handed her the bottle. She was either mustering up courage or trying to add to her new hard look because she ignored the extra plastic cups on the table and drank straight from the bottle. No flinch. No hard swallow. A pro…like me.

  “Thanks,” she said, handing the nearly empty bottle back. “Mind if I have a seat?”

  “I’d rather you didn’t,” I said. “Just enjoying the view and then it’s back to the train.”

  She stiffened just perceptibly, but then played it off by putting her hand on my shoulder. I kept swirling the bottle.

  “Are you sure you don’t want some company?”

  I raised the bottle again, a peace offering.

  “Take this, I’m done.”

  When I looked up there was fire in her eyes. Her pretty little nostrils flared. She stood there for a minute. I could see her thinking. No, not a pro, a wannabe, I thought.

  Miss Past-Her-Prime stepped back and slammed the bottle onto the ground. It didn’t shatter like she’d probably expected. The best she got was a split at the point where the neck met the body of the glass container. That seemed to rile her further.

  “How dare you touch me!” she screamed. “I’m calling the cops!”

  I sat back and looked up at her, smiling like it was exactly what I wanted.

  “Be my guest. I’ll be right here.”

  By this time, the French Canadian babble had stopped. I heard chairs scraping and then heavy footsteps like a little troupe stomping my way.

  The girl grinned. “You’re in trouble now.”

  Five guys appeared at the doorway. I’d seen them when I came in. Local meatheads, or maybe traveling meatheads. There was a tall skinny guy with his flat-billed ball cap turned sideways. Then there were the two guys who looked like twins, their necks as big as my thigh. The last two were the most drunk, sporting matching hockey jerseys, still sipping on their beers, pointing at me and
whispering in each other’s ears like I couldn’t hear them.

  “Is there a problem?” the tall guy asked the girl.

  “Yeah, this guy just grabbed my ass and then said he wanted to bend me over the table.”

  The two drunk guys laughed and whispered some more, but the other three stepped forward.

  “Hold on,” I said, putting up my hands in a T like I called a timeout. “What’s your name?” I asked the girl.

  She made a face like she wasn’t going to answer, and then said, “Tiffany.”

  “Tell me, Tiffany, which one of these guys bent you over a table before I came in for a quiet drink?” I was watching the meatheads, and the tall guy’s eyes narrowed. “Wait, let me guess. The skinny asshole with the stupid hat, right?”

  Tiffany’s eyes narrowed too. “How dare you—”

  “No. How dare you, Tiffany? All I wanted was a few drinks and some time to enjoy the view. Now I have to deal with your trampy ass, these guys clouding the air with their Guido cologne, and you ruining the last of my bottle.”

  Again, not the response she’d expected. Her eyes darted to her most recent lover, a plea for assistance.

  The collective stepped closer. They were now eight feet from where I was lounging in my chair. I didn’t have any weapons and, to give them a little credit, it didn’t look like they did either. By the looks of the hands on the muscle-bound twins, they usually did the heavy lifting.

  Mr. Tall took another step toward me as the girl moved out of the way.

  “You got any money on you?” he asked.

  “Some,” I answered truthfully.

  “How much is some?”

  “Fifty seven dollars and sixty two cents.”

  Mr. Tall snorted. The drunk duo snickered. Thick Neck One and Two stared at me.

  “You always know exactly how much you have in your pocket?” Mr. Tall asked, grinning at his friends like I was the weird one.

  “Sometimes,” I said. “You always hang out with the whore you’re tag-teaming with the ambiguously gay duo?” I asked, pointing at the drunks. That stopped the giggling.

  “You know what, I was gonna let you off with a little toll, but now I think we’re gonna beat your ass and drag you down to the ATM.”

  I shrugged and almost went to grab for the bottle that was no longer on the table. I laughed at my slip, and for show, I half staggered to my feet. Dr. Jack Daniels had done his job, and my body was warm and calm, no shakes, just steady.

  “Sorry fellas, but I’ve gotta catch a train,” I said, reaching into my pocket so I could pay my tab.

  “You’re not going anywhere, asshole,” said Thick Neck One.

  My eyes widened in surprise. “It speaks!” Grinning like an idiot, I raised my hands in surrender. “Fine, you win. Like Tiffany over there, I’m a lover, not a fighter.”

  That brought back the giggles from the drunkos, and a shared look between Mr. Tall and Tiffany. Thick Neck One stepped forward. His arms lowered, his guard coming down as I staggered a bit to the left. Bad move, Thick Neck One.

  I shifted my weight back, like I was going to stagger into the railing, but just as quickly I shifted my momentum, raised my boot, and shot it down at a forty five degree angle, every ounce of my adrenaline screaming forward. My boot caught the side of Thick Neck One’s bow-legged knee. I felt the crunch, and moved to the left as he came crashing down. Mr. Tall’s jaw dropped open and I took that as a perfect opportunity to close it for him, courtesy of a driving uppercut. He went up on his toes, his eyes already rolling back in his head, and then he joined his buddy on the ground. Two down, three to go.

  Thick Neck Number Two actually snorted like a bull and charged, his arms wide, ready to body slam me into the wooden planks I’d served up as beds for his companions. He was close, but I waited until the last possible nanosecond. Then I dropped to my knees and punched out with both of my fists. I was hoping the guy didn’t juice too much because I wanted to connect with what remained of his family jewels. Luck was with me and not with him.

  He still bowled me over, but not before he’d received a double blast to his most prized possessions. His hands went to his groin as I pushed him off, rolling to my feet to face the last two. They stood there like morons, unable to make a decision as they stared at their friends on the ground.

  “Who’s next?” I asked.

  They looked at each other like Tweedledee and Tweedledumb, and bolted for the door.

  Then it was just me and Tiffany still standing. I ignored her and searched Mr. Tall’s pockets. There was a pitiful wad of cash and a set of keys. I pocketed the cash and chucked the keys off the pier. The Thick Neck Twins at least had a few twenties each, and neither seemed to care as I stripped them of it.

  Tiffany watched me do it, but didn’t say anything. It wasn’t until I was finished, my backpack over one shoulder, that she actually spoke.

  “What are you, a ninja or something?”

  There wasn’t a hint of fear in her voice. She was used to being in the middle of the maelstrom.

  “No, just a Marine,” I said.

  I stepped over Mr. Tall, who was just groaning back to consciousness, and went to pay for the bottle of Jack. From there it was either a swim out to sea or a warm shower in a cheap motel. Maybe this time I’d leave it up to a flip of a coin to decide. I didn’t care either way.

  Chapter 2

  Tails won. Instead of heading for the surf, I hit the street. I’d decided to get a room at one of the coastal hotels that catered to tourists. It was still the off-season, so I was sure to get a decent rate. I wasn’t broke, but it wouldn’t hurt to conserve what I had left. With just over a hundred extra bucks in my pocket from the clowns at the pub, I walked off the pier and aimed straight down Old Orchard Street.

  I stopped at the first intersection and looked up at the sign telling me that the cross street was called East Grand. After looking ahead to where the train tracks crossed over Old Orchard Street half a block away, I decided to turn right, maybe skirt the coast for a bit. I wasn’t necessarily in a rush to get away from the scene of the crime, but I did figure that the cheaper motels would probably be on the outskirts of the main part of the quiet town.

  There was an electronics store on my left, and I debated going in to see if I could get a good GPS. The plan was to make it to Canada and see where the road or the wilderness took me. I’d need a good map or a GPS if my destiny was to go into the wilds. Again, a flip of a coin would decide the road I’d take.

  I looked into the window of the store and caught the eye of the old proprietor. He glared at me and I stared back. After a few seconds, I nodded and kept walking. That guy wasn’t going to be of any help, and it looked like he’d pitted his business firmly in the cheap electronic tourist trap category instead of the reliable electronic goods column.

  My stomach grumbled. I should’ve eaten something at the pub. The food I’d seen didn’t look all that appetizing, but my years of eating military rations had cured me of any food snobbery I might’ve had. Food was food. It got me from day to day. Half the time I didn’t taste it anymore.

  Up ahead was a bold blue and gold facade with a sign that said Ernesto’s Dockside Restaurant. There was a beat up pickup out front with cardboard crates stacked in the back. As I approached, a guy in a priest outfit came out the front of the restaurant, or maybe it was a pastor, I could never tell. He had on one of those black shirts with the white thing in the middle of the collar. They always reminded me of my Corps dress blues with the scratchy high neck.

  The priest/pastor was carrying a stack of cardboard boxes, aiming for the back of the pickup. He almost got there, but the top box tipped, and all the swaying he did couldn’t stop it from falling off the stack and spilling its contents into the street.

  I rushed over to help him, scooping handfuls of vegetables back into the box. He set the rest of the boxes into the truck and bent down to finish the repacking.

  “I think some of this stuff is bad,” I said, no
ticing the brown edges and the wilted leaves.

  “It’s okay,” the man said, “They cut around the bad stuff.”

  Once we’d gotten the rest of the contents back in, he hoisted it into the bed with its companions.

  “Thanks for your help,” the man said, sticking out his hand.

  I took it and nodded.

  “You new around here?” he asked, not in a way that spoke down to me, just curious. He was probably in his early forties, with an easy smile that no doubt did a number on potential parishioners. The only priests and pastors I’d ever encountered were world-class salesmen. If you weren’t careful, they’d have you singin’ to the Lord before you could say “No, thanks.”

  I nodded again. “Just looking for a place to spend the night. Do you know of any cheap motels?” I don’t know why I asked him. The town wasn’t big and I could just as easily wander around and find a suitable place to lay my head.

  He thought about it for a moment, and then said, “You just passed the Grand Victorian. It’s nice, and some of the rooms have a good view of the ocean, but it’s not the cheapest. Then you’ve got the Seabreeze just around the corner. It’s clean and I know the owner. He’d take good care of you.”

  “Thanks for the tip.”

  He smiled and closed the back of the pickup as I kept walking. I heard him open and close the driver’s side door and turn on the engine. It took a little effort, the whining starter complaining to the guy behind the wheel, but it finally caught and I put it out of my mind.

  The motel was right where the guy said it was, and I almost took a left to cut across a parking lot to get there, but I decided to keep walking along East Grand. There was a cool breeze coming in from the ocean, and it did its best to wake me from my dulling senses. If I was going to find a place to stay, I’d need to do it soon. The alcohol coursing through my veins was singing me lullabies, and the promise of a pillow under my head almost made me turn back.

  But I didn’t. Instead, I forced my mind to clear, to ignore what my body needed. Three blocks up I was again thinking about taking that swim. Maybe another flip of the coin to let fate decide.