by Mel Odom
Shel leaned up against the lockers and waited like he was totally relaxed. Instead, his insides twisted even tighter. His anger was an old acquaintance. He knew from experience that it wasn’t going to be easily dismissed. He needed another diversion.
And the canteen’s probably the last place you need to be, he told himself honestly. Thinking about it, he figured beer and a pizza would be a better choice. He felt the need to apologize to Remy. That was normal too.
Remy listened to the phone conversation for a few minutes, then said, “Sure” and closed the phone. He looked at Shel in idle speculation. “That was Maggie.”
Shel waited. Special Agent Maggie Foley was the team’s only civilian agent. She specialized in interrogation and profiling. Before landing the post at NCIS, she had been a Boston police officer.
“I thought maybe she was calling because she’d heard about what went down here,” Remy said.
Shel had figured the same thing.
“But she’s calling about something else,” Remy went on. “How do you feel about doing a job on Father’s Day?”
“What kind of job?”
“Fugitive recovery op. Got a guy on the local Most Wanted board that just turned up in Charlotte.”
“Sure.” Shel grabbed his gym bag. “You got a change of clothes?”
“Yeah.”
“You coming?”
“Planned on it. I don’t know that you’re safe out there alone.”
Shel gave Remy another crooked-toothed grin and slid his mirrored sunglasses into place. “Grab a shower and change while I go get my truck. If you’re not out front in ten minutes, you’ll have to catch up.”
Remy cursed at him but started working on the combination to his locker.
Shel stepped out of the room. He was aware that most of the men were staring at him. He didn’t like the attention, but he blew it off and concentrated on the job in front of him. Being in motion helped soothe him.
This was what he needed.
›› Gymnasium Parking Area
›› Camp Lejeune, North Carolina
›› 1326 Hours
Shel sat behind the steering wheel of his black Jeep Rubicon and ignored the fact that two MP Hummers now occupied the parking area in front of the gym. He knew they were there because of what had happened earlier.
Violence was part of every soldier’s world. If it wasn’t present out on the battlefield or in whatever country he was policing, then it lurked in the camps, posts, and bases where those warriors gathered. Violence was a necessary product of the trade they practiced, and it didn’t always stay under control.
Max sat patient and quiet in the backseat. The dog had learned to adjust to Shel’s dark moods when they stole up on him.
After checking his watch, Shel popped the glove compartment open and took out a dog treat. He called the dog’s name, then flipped the treat over his shoulder. Max caught it easily and devoured it with a couple of noisy chomps.
“You’re not the most polite company I could have,” Shel told the dog’s reflection in the rearview mirror.
Max barked at him.
“When we get back from this, if there’s time, I’ll take you down to the beach,” Shel promised.
Max barked again.
One of the first things Shel had learned after being paired with a K-9 unit was how smart the dogs were. He knew that Max didn’t understand his words, but he also knew the dog understood his intent. There were more good things in store for him than just the dog treat.
Lynyrd Skynyrd played on the stereo. Shel could listen to-and appreciate-a lot of different music, but it was Southern rock that took him back to his roots outside Fort Davis, Texas.
His daddy hadn’t cared for the rock and roll too much, but Shel knew Tyrel McHenry was acquainted with it. The Rolling Stones and the Beatles had been big during the Vietnam War when Tyrel had served.
But back home, Tyrel only listened to country and western music. Hank Williams Sr., Bob Wills, and a handful of others made up the core of his musical library. He had cut off anything new about the time Conway Twitty and Loretta Lynn were singing together. But he had made allowances for George Strait and Randy Travis.
His daddy, Shel reflected, was some piece of work. He was a hard man to understand and a harder man to get to know. But he’d been fair when Shel and his brother were growing up.
Just never warm. Especially not after Shel and Don’s mama had died. That was how Tyrel had always referred to her. “The boys’ mama.” Never his wife.
And just like that, Shel was thinking about his daddy and his daddy’s ways all over again.
›› 1328 Hours
Remy jogged to a fire-engine red Camaro Z-28 that he had restored and continually worked on. He opened the trunk and dropped his gym bag inside, then hauled out the duffel containing his gear. All of the team carried spare weapons and tactical armor everywhere they went. It was the nature of the job.
Shel pulled up behind Remy and waited as the other man threw his duffel in the back. Remy kept out a 9 mm Beretta M9 pistol in a paddle holster. He wore a loose basketball jersey outside of his khaki pants that would cover the weapon.
Weapon already in place, Remy slid into the passenger seat. Golden yellow wraparound sunglasses masked his eyes.
“You ready to do this?” Remy asked.
“Yeah.”
“’Cause after that scene on the basketball court, I’m not so sure.”
Shel throttled the angry response and concentrated on breathing out. Pleasant or not, Remy’s concerns were warranted.
“I’m fine.” Shel slipped the Jeep into gear and headed out of the parking lot.
“You’re fine?”
“Yeah.”
“Just like that, you’re fine?” Remy clearly had a hard time believing that.
Shel glanced at him. “Yeah.”
“Then you tell me what that business back at the basketball game was.”
“An aberration.”
“Cool,” Remy said sarcastically. “I feel all relieved now. You’re using big words and everything.”
“You’re really going to make this hard, aren’t you?”
“We’re lucky we’re still outside a cell, still walking around. So, yeah, I’m gonna make this hard.”
“I got a thing,” Shel replied.
“What kind of thing? About winning basketball?”
Shel made himself tell the truth. “About Father’s Day.”
Remy stared at him in silence for a moment. “Oh. Okay.” Then he relaxed back into his seat like he was hesitant about saying anything else.
3
›› Interstate 40
›› West of Jacksonville, North Carolina
›› 1403 Hours
Charlotte was just under five hours from Camp Lejeune. After they were out of Jacksonville, the town surrounding the Marine camp, Shel headed west on Interstate 40, chasing the sun.
“If the traffic stays good,” Shel said, “we’ll be in Charlotte around seven.”
Remy nodded. He leaned back in the seat and played a PSP game. Earbuds filled his head with the sounds of battle on the brightly lit screen. He had pulled out the game system before they’d cleared the main gates at the camp.
“Is our fugitive still going to be there?” Shel asked.
“Yep.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yep.” Remy twisted and turned slightly in his seat as he followed the game’s shifting environment.
“And if he’s not?”
“Then maybe I saved Camp Lejeune from Shelzilla. Bad thing is nobody knows, and I don’t get a medal or a commendation.”
Shel took in a deep breath and let it out.
“That ain’t gonna work,” Remy said.
“What?” Shel asked irritably.
“Trying to suck in all the oxygen in the Jeep and hoping I pass out from asphyxiation.”
The growing irritation inside Shel almost broke free. “You planning a c
omedy routine?”
Remy grinned a brilliant white smile. “Nope. This is what you call natural humor. But if you want, I can use hand puppets. Might make it easier for the slow kids to comprehend.”
Shel ignored him. And he continued to do so for the next 137 miles.
›› Interstate 40
›› Outside Greensboro, North Carolina
›› 1619 Hours
Shel pumped gas at the small convenience store while Remy went to grab some burgers from the fast food franchise located inside. Max ran around the dog-walking area.
By the time Shel paid for the gas, cleaned up after Max, hit the head, and returned to the Jeep, Remy stood waiting with two paper sacks of burgers and fries and a tray containing a half-dozen bottles of water. They divvied the food, and Remy emptied one of the water bottles into a dish beside the Jeep for Max.
“Who’s the fugitive?” Shel unwrapped one of the burgers and took a bite.
“A lowlife named Bobby Lee Gant.” Remy bit into his burger, then winced a little; Shel saw him try to cover the reaction. Remy’s jaw was still swollen from the punch he’d taken.
Shel chewed, thought for a moment, then swallowed. “The biker guy who did the carjacking in Jacksonville back in April?”
Remy nodded. “That’s the one.”
The carjacking, which had involved a young Marine and his wife, had been particularly heinous. The couple had been shopping in Jacksonville. The Marine had just returned from Iraq. While they’d been stopped at a light, Bobby Lee Gant and three of his buddies had driven up beside them on their motorcycles. Gant and one of his buddies had ridden doubled up.
At the light, Gant slid off the motorcycle he had been a passenger on, crossed to the young Marine’s car, and smashed the window with a tire iron. Then he’d taken a pistol from his belt and shoved it into the Marine’s face.
Just back from Iraq and the horrors he had seen there, the Marine hadn’t reacted well to the open violence. He’d grabbed for Gant’s pistol automatically and ended up getting shot in the face. He had survived but had been forced to undergo cutting-edge reconstructive surgeries to repair the damage. His right eye had been lost, and his military career had ended at the same time.
One of the other men had yanked the wife out onto the street. Then Gant had driven off in the car while his friends followed on the bikes, leaving the couple behind. Luckily the Marine’s wife had her cell phone and was able to call for medical assistance immediately.
NCIS had been trying to get a lead on the biker for the last two months. It was the kind of assignment Shel enjoyed: danger with a hint of vengeance.
“How’d we find him?” Shel asked.
“Charlotte PD nabbed Gant’s girlfriend on a holding charge. She’s pregnant. A fall like that, she’d be inside county lockup and the kid would end up on its own. She tried to pull hardship, claimed that her family had disowned her and nobody would take care of her kid. Charlotte DA froze her out.”
“Hard.”
“Yeah.”
Despite the years of military life, wars, and what he had seen while with NCIS, Shel hadn’t hardened to the struggles of others. He empathized with the young mother. A lot of people who trafficked in crime weren’t evil. Not like Bobby Lee Gant. They were just people looking for an easy or quick way out of a bad situation.
“The girlfriend rolled on Gant?” Shel asked.
“Like a log.” Remy pushed the last of his first burger into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. Afternoon sunlight glinted on his yellow gold lenses.
“Did Charlotte PD check her story out?”
“Maggie says no. They don’t have any paper outstanding on Gant and we’re not going to let them play on our court. They forwarded it to us.”
Shel unwrapped his second burger, then tossed one of the meat patties Remy had purchased for Max to the dog. The Labrador snapped the patty out of the air like a Frisbee and gulped it down.
“Don’t see how he does that,” Remy commented.
“I trained him to eat like a Marine,” Shel said.
“I kind of got that from the way he chews with his mouth open.”
Shel ignored the gibe. He wasn’t ready to play yet. “You think Charlotte PD took an honest pass on this and left Gant undisturbed?”
“Nope.”
“Me neither.”
“Gant will probably know something’s up.”
“Yeah.” Shel dropped the wrapper into the bag. “So if Gant knows the police have located him, why’s he still there?”
“Maybe he doesn’t know. Maybe Charlotte PD has a stealth mode like none we’ve ever seen.”
Shel folded his arms across his broad chest. “Let’s say they don’t.”
Remy grinned. With the swelling in his face, the effort was lopsided. “Gant’s daddy is in Charlotte. Maggie says he’s a bad dude. Runs the local chapter of the Purple Royals.”
“Motorcycle gang.”
“That’s the one.”
Shel sipped his iced tea. NCIS had encountered the Purple Royals before. They were a dangerous motorcycle gang fueled by meth and arms running. Most of the inner circle was made up of “one percenters,” men who were confirmed criminals.
“Me and you against a biker gang?” Shel asked.
“Well,” Remy said, “we don’t have to bring them all in. Just Gant.”
“True.” Shel warmed to the coming encounter. He tilted his head back to look at the sun. “It’s getting late.”
“Let’s roll.”
›› Interstate 85
›› Near Salisbury, North Carolina
›› 1703 Hours
“Are you going to play that thing the whole way?” Shel asked.
Remy paused the PSP and pulled the earbuds out of his ears. “You want to talk?”
“Thought maybe you wanted to tell me about Gant’s daddy.”
“We’re not planning on hooking him up.”
“In case we happen to cross paths. I noticed you were looking through a file Maggie sent you.”
Remy put the PSP away and reached into the backseat for his backpack, then pulled out the small notebook computer all the team members carried as part of their equipment. He settled the computer across his knees and brought it to life.
“Victor Gant’s in his late sixties,” Remy said. “He was a ground pounder in Vietnam. Pulled three tours.”
“Three?”
“Yeah. Put in his twenty altogether. Pulled the pin at thirty-nine.”
“Then turned to a life of crime as a biker?”
“Back then there weren’t as many openings for military-issue as there are now. Especially not for somebody who liked to stay in the bush. Today he probably would have segued directly into the private security sector. He mustered out as sergeant first class after the first Gulf War.”
“Came back to spend time with Bobby Lee and his mom?”
Remy snorted. “Not likely. Bobby Lee’s mother had already divorced Victor back in the seventies.”
“Any special reason?”
“Maggie didn’t dig deep into this. She stayed with Victor Gant’s crime side. It was intense enough. Besides that, he’s not the focus of our little trip. Not long after Victor Gant mustered out, he got into a bar fight and killed a man.”
“Why?”
“It was part of a turf war. Maggie’s notes indicate that the police investigating the homicide thought Gant should have taken a fall for murder one. The DA couldn’t make premeditation stick, so he didn’t try. Gant was convicted of manslaughter and spent seven years inside. He did his whole bit, so there’s not even a parole office in his life.”
“Not much father-son time there,” Shel observed.
“No. But Bobby Lee started hanging around anyway.”
“Is Bobby Lee a Purple Royal?”
“No. They don’t have an interest in him.”
“Except that Victor Gant’s his daddy.”
“That’s about the size of it.” Remy looked at S
hel. “So what is it you hate about Father’s Day?”
4
›› Tawny Kitty’s Bar and Grill
›› South End
›› Charlotte, North Carolina
›› 1705 Hours
“You ask me, Victor, this is just wrong.”
Victor Gant glanced at Fat Mike Wiley and said, “Ain’t asking you, am I, Fat Mike?”
Fat Mike shrugged and sighed. His broad, beefy face turned down into sadness only a basset hound could show. “No, I guess you ain’t. But if you woulda asked, I’d have told you I didn’t like this none.”
“Don’t expect you to like it. Just keep my back covered while we’re having this little set-to.”
“Ain’t got no problems with that. I been there for you over thirty years.”
Victor knew that was true. He’d met Fat Mike in Vietnam. They’d hunted Charlie in the bush, blew him up when they found him, and partied hard in the DMZ next to Charlie. Those had been some crazy times. Some days-in a weird way he didn’t quite understand-he missed them.
In those days Fat Mike hadn’t been fat. Lately the man was starting to earn his name. He stood an inch or two over six feet and tipped the scales at nearly three hundred pounds. Back in the day, Fat Mike had been called Fat Mike because he rolled his marijuana joints thick as sausages when he blazed.
Now his biker leathers didn’t fit him quite so well. But he wore his hair long and sported a Fu Manchu mustache like he’d done when they’d been in the bush, even though the first lieutenant they’d had at the time had tried to keep his troops disciplined and clean-shaven.
One night, while the lieutenant was sleeping and probably dreaming up new ways for his men to risk their lives out in the jungle, Fat Mike and one of his buddies had rolled a grenade into the lieutenant’s tent. Three seconds later, they’d needed a new lieutenant. The one they’d gotten had been a little smarter than the last one and knew to stay out of their way.
Victor was gaunt and hard-bodied. No spare flesh hung on his six-foot-two-inch frame. He was sixty-seven years old and was still whipcord tough. He wore a full, short beard that had turned to pewter over the last few years, but he’d kept his hair, and it hung down to his shoulders in greasy locks.
