by Scott McEwen
“You don’t need a damn thing. You’re free. Your digital record is erased and all paper copies of your files have already been destroyed. Here, take these.” The warden handed Wyatt an envelope and Wyatt checked the inside—mug shots and his arrest report, the original paper version.
By the time Wyatt had looked back up, the warden had turned on his heels and was headed back toward the entrance to the CYDC, through the series of metal detectors. Wyatt watched the warden huff and sigh as he dug through his pockets for coins and a pen and searched for his ID.
Wyatt stepped out from the cool lobby into a wall of humidity, late-August heat. Although he’d spent his summer under the giant summer sun, he’d spent the last five hours or so in darkness, and the bright light pained his eyes and he struggled to see.
He was thinking about how he would get home, now wishing he’d asked the warden if he could bum a couple of bucks for a bus ticket. He then noticed a familiar car at the bottom of the wide stone steps leading up from the city square to the courthouse in CYDC. There was Aunt Narcy’s car, significantly reconstructed after Wyatt had practically shaved off one side of it. The paneling looked like it had come off a different car. The paint didn’t even try to match, but it looked good to Wyatt anyway.
Looking even better was his mother. Her hair washed, lipstick on, like her old self again. She sat in the passenger seat dabbing her tears with a napkin. His father sat in the driver’s seat, his mutilated left hand waving out the window. Ear gone, but smiling. And in the back seat, his little brother, Cody, beamed and tried to open the door to meet him.
Of course he couldn’t miss Narcy—all three hundred pounds of her—red-faced in the back seat, complaining about the heat, about the car, probably most of all about Wyatt. This was home, and Wyatt was damn grateful for it.
Wyatt had spent the last three months training how to be an operator, a killer, a spy, a soldier, a weapon for the United States of America. To be constantly sharpened, ground down like a knife. Wyatt reached into his pocket and jerked his hand back as he touched something cold and smooth. It took him a moment to realize what it was. The sharpening stone. Hallsy must have gotten it from Jawad and put it in his clothes. Wyatt clenched the stone tight in his hand. He was a lethal and highly prized asset. But for a moment, he forgot all that and became a kid again, coming home from camp to his parents in their piece-of-crap family car, a little uncertain if he was too old for hugs. And so Wyatt, forgetting himself for a moment, just ran, sprinted down the steps. He hugged his mom first.
EPILOGUE
Early September 2017
Millersville
September arrived golden and hot and the air was still and the days before school began again were all too short. Adjusting to life with his family, and especially with his father at home, was a challenge for Wyatt. His dad had promised to leave the Golden One Hundred. The notion of Wyatt’s father at home on a permanent basis was wonderful, but sort of like having a recovering alcoholic in the house in the earliest stages of quitting. James was perpetually in motion, fixing the house, working on the shed, unable to sleep. It was a new day, a better person, a better time. But for the family, it felt like they were living in a house of cards that might fall at any moment.
And Wyatt feared that he knew which card would bring the house down. It was a card only Wyatt could remove—a secret he’d discovered in his last days at Valor.
* * *
The day before school started, Wyatt joined his dad, mom, and Narcy at one of Cody’s baseball games. They sat on rusty bleachers. It was the playoffs, and in the fourth inning, Cody sent three batters in a row to the bench. As the teams traded field position, Wyatt heard the dull roar of Narcy’s straw probing the depths of her Coke.
“Hey, Narcy, let me get you another drink.” Wyatt stood up.
“Wyatt, don’t do that,” Wyatt’s mother said. “You’ll miss your brother.”
“Cody’s not batting for a while. I won’t miss anything,” Wyatt said.
“Now, Wyatt, I would like another Coke,” Narcy said. “I’m glad to see you’ve come around. I think that detention center did you some good. Taught you some manners. Not that I didn’t teach you before you went in, since we was without your daddy and all, though,” she said, patting Wyatt’s father on the leg. “It’s nice to know James here was supporting our troops and all, driving trucks and doing stuff that shouldn’t have gotten him in any trouble at all.” It was strange now for Wyatt to hear his father called James, even knowing his real name was Eldon.
Wyatt could see a hint of annoyance on his father’s face. Or perhaps it was humor.
“Hey, Dad, why don’t you come with me?” Wyatt said. “I think we all need another round, and I’ll need another set of hands.”
“Sure,” his dad said, standing, holding up his deformed hand with a laugh.
Wyatt suddenly felt a little self-conscious for forgetting. Memories of the Glowworm flooded back.
* * *
“Dad,” Wyatt said, stopping on the way to the concession stand. “Come over here in the shade, if you don’t mind? Got something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”
Wyatt’s dad grinned. “I’ve been wondering when you were going to finally come out with it. What’s up?” His dad put his hand on Wyatt’s shoulder. “What’s bothering you, son?”
“Jerusalem,” Wyatt said, “your capture.”
Wyatt saw his dad’s genial expression cloud over. He stepped back and lowered his head.
“Wyatt, we don’t need to be talking about that.”
“No. We do. What if…” Wyatt felt nauseous as he began pulling the cards. “What if the Brotherhood wasn’t responsible for your kidnapping?”
“What the hell are you talking about? The DOD, Valor, the Golden One Hundred were all negotiating with them, trying to secure my release and—”
“—and the Glowworm bought you out,” Wyatt cut him off. “Drove your price up to fifty million dollars, right?”
“That’s right,” Wyatt’s father said.
“What if I could prove to you that’s all a lie? And it was an inside job? What if you were given up by the people you thought were supposed to be protecting you?”
Wyatt’s father thought about this, rubbing his hands with missing fingers together. Sweat beaded on his face.
“Would you want to know the truth?” Wyatt asked. “If you don’t, I respect that. I will not say another word.”
Wyatt’s father’s keen eyes contracted, like they did when he was hunting years ago. Laser focused.
In the distance an umpire called out, “Batter up.”
His father looked to the baseball field. Cody stood in the batter’s circle. Wyatt’s mom and Narcy laughed on the bleachers. Wyatt’s father nodded to himself. “Maybe later … for now, let’s get those Cokes, and get back to the game.”
* * *
The baseball game ended a little before dusk. The family stopped to pick up burgers from the local Irish bar on the way home. They ordered them to go with fries and onion rings and a couple beers for Wyatt’s father and his mother. Narcy, Wyatt, and Cody opted for milkshakes. The bags of food and the perspiration forming on the drinks make their stomachs rumble.
As they approached their driveway, a flicker inside the little ranch house caught Wyatt’s eye. The reflection of the TV playing in the den.
“Dad, why don’t you take it to the end of the block?” Wyatt said. He had not left the TV on.
Wyatt’s father looked over. “Everything all right?”
“Yeah, just pull down to the alley.” Wyatt said. “TV’s on. Wasn’t when we left.”
Wyatt’s father rolled past the house, Narcy complaining, “Of all the silliest things, I am hungry. Heck, I could have left the TV on. Or maybe it’s on a timer? Why don’t we just pull right up and go on in?”
“Maybe someone’s in the house,” Cody said, picking up on what Wyatt and their father were thinking.
“I don’t care if someone is
in the house. I hope someone is in the house. Y’all bore me. I wanna eat.”
Wyatt’s mother looked to his father. “Is everything all right, James?”
“Yeah, it’s all fine. Just give us a second. Wyatt and I are going to take a look.”
Wyatt’s father rounded the corner and parked in a service alley that ran down the length of the block. “Dad, why don’t you pop the trunk?”
Wyatt got out, walked around to the back. Inside was Cody’s baseball bag. He unzipped it and pulled out a bat, hefted it, and took a short practice swing, getting a feel for the bat as a weapon.
His dad came around. “Hang on. I got something a little better than that.”
Wyatt’s father moved the athletic bag to the back of the trunk, opening the compartment for the tire. Underneath were two handguns—a .45 and a 9mm.
“Thought you were retired,” Wyatt said.
“You never retire from careful,” his father said quietly and handed Wyatt the 9mm. Each checked the breech, tucked the guns into their waistbands, and covered them with their shirts. Wyatt kept the baseball bat and closed the trunk.
“Honey, you sure everything’s all right?” Wyatt’s mother asked. “If you need a bat, wouldn’t you rather just call the police?”
“Nah,” said Wyatt’s dad. “Millersville PD is useless.” He shot Wyatt a look.
“Can I come?” Cody called from the back seat.
“Sit tight, we’ll be right back.” His father signaled for Wyatt to follow him into the alley. Out of earshot from the car he said, “Let’s drop in from the back.”
Moving swiftly, the two walked down the alley, which smelled of trash baking in the heat. They reached the dilapidated backyard fence and peered through the slots. The TV was on, and there was a figure, shrouded in darkness, watching the local news.
“You expecting someone?” Wyatt’s dad whispered.
“No. You?”
“Nope.” Wyatt crept forward, drew his gun, and pushed the safety with his thumb. With his left hand, Wyatt reached over the fence and lifted open the inside latch. The gate swung open into the yard, and father and son swept in. They crossed the short yard, ran up the rear porch, and his father kicked open the back door. They split up, left and right, both leveling guns at the figure on their couch.
The person did not move. He didn’t even blink.
“Derrick?” Wyatt said slowly, “What are you—” He stopped.
Derrick’s face, in a greenish death pose, was contorted in a painful scream, which had been muffled by duct tape wrapped around his mouth and neck. His hands and feet were bound in the same way. And as if making a joke, the TV remote had been placed in his hands. Cause of death was obvious. Wyatt’s Buck knife was rammed straight through Derrick’s chest, through the cushions and padding, and lodged in the couch’s wooden frame. Blood and urine stained Derrick’s lap, and resting delicately on his knee was an envelope with Wyatt’s name printed on it. Wyatt reached for the note, when they heard the sound of distant sirens.
“Police…” Wyatt’s father said. “Back to the car. We need to move, now.” Wyatt’s father pivoted to the door. Wyatt followed, then doubled back.
“Leave it, son,” his father yelled.
But he had a bad feeling. He grabbed the envelope and ran out into the backyard, following his father down the alley. They ducked behind the trash cans, catching their breath. The sirens grew louder. Wyatt couldn’t stand it. He tore the envelope open and there was her face. Her dark hair matted. Her perfect mouth duct taped like Derrick’s. Body and wrists bound to a chair. Bandages still seeping blood. Eyes pleading but alive. Dolly.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
We’d like to acknowledge the invaluable contribution of our partner and agent, Ian Kleinert, the tireless work of Marc Resnick, Hannah O’Grady, and Elizabeth Bohlke, and the unending patience of our families.
With gratitude, Scott and Hof.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
SCOTT MCEWEN is the author of many books and the coauthor of the #1 New York Times bestseller American Sniper, which has sold more than one million copies and has been translated into more than twenty languages. American Sniper the movie, starring Bradley Cooper and directed by Clint Eastwood, was nominated for six Academy Awards, winning one. McEwen lives in San Diego, California, where he began writing while practicing law. You can sign up for email updates here.
HOF WILLIAMS lives in Westport, Connecticut, and is currently collaborating with Scott McEwen on a nonfiction work about the lives, activities, and (often secret) work of our most battle-tested Special Forces heroes when they step outside of the military. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Prologue
Part One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Part Two
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Part Three
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Part Four
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Part Five
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Part Six
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Authors
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously.
CAMP VALOR. Copyright © 2018 by Scott McEwen and Tod H. Williams. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
Cover design by James Iacobelli
Cover photographs: man in center © Miguel Sobreira/Arcangel; large helicopter © Chueasuwan Phunsawat/Shutterstock.com; small helicopter © Abraham Badenhorst/Shutterstock.com; male repeller © sandyman/Shutterstock.com; female repeller © Photobac/Shutterstock.com; boy holding rope © Creativa Images/Shutterstock.com; texture © Yibo Wang/Shutterstock.com
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Names: McEwen, Scott, author. | Williams, Tod Harrison, author.
Title: Camp Valor / Scott McEwen and Hof Williams.
Description: First edition. | New York: St. Martin’s Griffin, 2018.
Identifiers: LCCN 2018004986 | ISBN 9781250088246 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781250088970 (ebook)
Subjects: | CYAC: Spies—Fiction. | Military education—Fiction. | Adventure and adventurers—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.M43455 Cam 2018 | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018004986
eISBN 978125008897
0
Our ebooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by email at [email protected].
First Edition: July 2018
