by Mel Odom
Suddenly alone, the nurse looked around nervously.
“I’ll need to speak to the doctor in charge of Gunnery Sergeant McHenry,” the commander said.
“Doctor is busy.”
“Then get someone else who can sign Sergeant McHenry out.”
“Only the doctor can do that.”
The commander sighed. “Then find the doctor and get him here.”
The nurse looked like she was going to protest, but there was something in the commander’s steely gaze that broke her in an instant. She turned and hurried away.
The commander walked back to Shel. “Are you ready to get out of here?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then let’s get your kit packed. I’ve got a bed and a doctor waiting for you back at camp.”
Shel grimaced.
“I’m pulling rank on this doctor only to get you clear of the situation so we don’t endanger civilians,” the commander said. “We took Victor Gant down this morning, but that doesn’t mean all the Purple Royals are going to stay clear. Do you read me?”
“Five by five, sir.” Shel saluted.
“Then let’s get a move on. We’re burning daylight.”
Shel took a step and almost fell. Even though he’d been prepared for the eventuality, knowing Shel would push himself past the point of endurance, Don couldn’t get to him in time. But the commander shifted so quick Don almost didn’t see the movement. He slid under Shel’s arm and supported him.
“I’ve got you,” the commander said. “Do you want a wheelchair?”
“No, sir. I got out here on my own two feet. If you don’t mind helping me, I’ll get back the same way.”
“All right.”
Amazed, Don watched them go. Max walked on the other side of Shel.
“Your brother’s a tough man,” Remy said.
“He always has been,” Don said.
“Give him a couple of weeks, he’ll probably be good as new.”
“I know.” Don took a breath and let it out. “I worry about him, though.”
“It’s okay to worry,” Remy said. “It’s good to worry. But you have to realize that he’s going to chart his own course no matter what you say or do.”
“I know that.”
“Brothers are special,” Remy said in a wistful voice.
The tone caught Don’s attention immediately. Whenever someone said cryptic things like that, sounding as if they were halfway in the present and halfway in the past, he knew there was a story. There was always a story.
“You have brothers?” Don asked.
“One,” Remy said but didn’t turn to look at Don. “I had one.”
“I’m sorry,” Don said.
“Yeah,” Remy said. “Me too.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to get going if I’m going to stay up with the commander. It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Don.”
Don took the hand Remy offered. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Remy. And if you ever feel the need to sit down and talk about brothers, I’m here.”
Remy held his gaze for a moment. Don saw the pain in the other man’s eyes.
“I appreciate that,” Remy said. “Maybe someday.” Without another word, he took his hand back and walked away.
Don watched him go and wondered at the pain and confusion he’d seen in Remy’s gaze. But Don knew from years of experience that whatever the story was, it was meant for another time.
33
›› Braddock Road
›› Lake Barcroft, Virginia
›› Thirty-Two Days Later
›› 0717 Hours
Death struck without warning on Braddock Road.
Seated in the back of the Suburban, Victor Gant stared through the dust-covered windshield between the two FBI agents. He was cuffed at the ankles and wrists, and the chains from both of those were secured to the thick leather belt around his waist.
Hospitality since he’d been among the FBI under Urlacher’s care had dropped tremendously. Victor no longer received much in the way of preferential treatment. In fact, he was convinced that any day Urlacher would send him back to Charlotte and let them prosecute him.
Victor stared at the forest on either side of the two-lane asphalt road. The early morning sun had barely started to penetrate the tightly packed trees.
“You know,” Special Agent Ralph Pittman said from the seat beside Victor, “this game you’re playing with Urlacher has about run its course.”
Victor ignored the man. Pittman was in his late thirties, old enough to talk with some experience but still too young and too full of himself to know when to shut up.
“Urlacher’s getting tired of bagging small fish,” Pittman said.
The MS-13 connection Victor had given the FBI wasn’t small. Victor knew that. It had been a major coup locally, but it wasn’t the international connection Urlacher wanted.
Victor also knew that not giving Urlacher that information was the only thing keeping him alive at the moment. If he ratted Tran out and Tran found out about it, his life would be over.
But he could hold out only so long.
When the driver’s side window suddenly cracked and the driver’s head jerked sideways and blossomed crimson, Victor thought the sniper had been after him. He realized what the danger was before any of the FBI agents in the car did. After all, none of them had ever had to deal with Charlie shooting at them from the brush.
Victor ducked his head into his lap and wrapped his hands over the back of his head. He’d seen guys who had lost a finger or two in an attack but had kept their heads intact.
The Suburban swerved out of control. The agent in the passenger seat grabbed the wheel and tried to keep the vehicle on the road. Despite his efforts, the vehicle swerved across the oncoming lane.
Two blocker vehicles, one in front and one in back, accompanied the transport Suburban. Instead of keeping Victor in lockdown at FBI headquarters in Quantico, Urlacher had demonstrated control by having Victor roused at 5:30 each morning he was going to be interviewed, then driven from the safe house near Lake Barcroft.
For the last two weeks, Victor had been out of ideas. The only thing that had kept him going was his stubborn refusal to give up and give in.
Now he was going to die.
Explosions sounded all around him.
Pittman cursed and pulled his pistol from his hip.
For an instant, Victor thought about attacking the man and taking the pistol from him. The chains were too short to allow that, though.
Without warning, the Suburban slipped off the road and flipped over onto its side. The ground scraped by only inches from Victor. Then the window hit a rock or stump or root embedded in the ground and shattered. The safety glass broke into tiny cubes and trickled away.
Victor slammed into the door and rattled against the exposed ground for a moment as Pittman’s body hammered his. Then he felt the Suburban flip completely upside down and continue skidding.
All around Victor, the world seemed to have gone into slow motion. The Suburban spun slightly as it careened across the ground. He caught a glimpse of the rear blocking car stopped in the middle of the road. The vehicle was already wreathed in flames. Judging from the damage, Victor thought it had been hit by a rocket launcher.
Then the Suburban slammed into the trees at the side of the road. The windshield gave way as branches and underbrush invaded.
As Victor hung upside down in the seat, held in place by the belts, his head slammed into the window frame. He tried to hold on to his swirling senses, all too aware that gunfire was coming closer. He thought he heard footsteps outside the vehicle.
Then his vision and hearing splintered. He surrendered to the darkness.
›› 0723 Hours
Pain strobed Victor’s head even before he snapped his eyes open. The bright light made him close them again, then blink till he could stand it. His ears felt like they were packed with cotton; sounds seemed far away.
Beside him, Pittm
an flailed weakly and cursed. Blood spooled from his mouth and ran up his face, which was actually down because he was inverted as well. His pistol lay loose on the Suburban’s ceiling. He flailed weakly for the weapon.
Concentrating, Victor reached for the pistol. There was just enough slack in the seat belts and the chains that held him for him to reach the pistol. He curled his fingers around it, then brought it up and pointed it at Pittman.
The FBI agent suddenly looked scared.
“No. Please,” Pittman said hoarsely.
Victor’s heart held no pity. While he’d been held by the FBI agents, he’d been aware of how much they all hated him. When he’d had some control over the situation, that had all been all right. But when that control had evaporated, they had stopped playing nice with him.
But now he had control again.
He pointed the pistol at Pittman’s face and squeezed the trigger. The FBI agent stopped in mid-scream. He slumped, relaxed in death.
“Here,” someone said.
Feet outside the Suburban tromped through the underbrush around the trees the vehicle had smashed up. The smell of gasoline drenched the area.
Victor shifted as quickly as he could and aimed the pistol toward the broken window. When he saw the man’s face, he almost pulled the trigger out of reflex.
“Easy, Victor,” Fat Mike said. “We come to get you out.”
Although he moved the pistol out of Fat Mike’s face, Victor didn’t relax. His body hurt from the impact and his senses still spun.
On his knees, Fat Mike pulled out a switchblade, flicked it open, and put a big hand behind Victor’s head, cradling it protectively.
“You’re gonna fall, bro,” Fat Mike said. “Try not to break your neck.”
“I won’t break my neck,” Victor growled. “Just get me out of here.”
Fat Mike sawed at the seat belts with the knife. The belts parted without warning. Victor dropped but managed to catch most of his weight on a shoulder. For a moment, though, he thought he’d broken his collarbone.
Another biker came over and helped Fat Mike ease Victor from the Suburban. They pulled him to his feet.
“Dead guy in the backseat has the keys to the cuffs,” Victor said.
Fat Mike crawled into the Suburban.
Throbbing pain filled Victor’s head as he gazed around the battlefield. When he saw all the violence that had been wrought, he knew no other term would adequately describe the scene.
One of the Suburbans sat in the middle of the road. Black smoke swirled up from the flames that wreathed the vehicle. The other Suburban was two hundred yards farther on. It lay on its passenger side on the other side of the road.
As Victor watched, one of the bikers tossed a Molotov cocktail into the vehicle and ran. Almost immediately, the Molotov cocktail caught fire and the Suburban began to burn.
Someone was still alive in the vehicle. Victor heard fear-filled screams of pain.
“Idiots,” Victor said.
“Why?” Fat Mike stood up in front of him and started working on the cuffs with a key ring.
“Smoke’s going to mark our twenty.” Victor felt the weight of the cuffs drop away. Fat Mike knelt and started on the ones around his ankles.
“These guys carry GPS devices everywhere they go,” Fat Mike said. “They probably already got ground units and air support closing on us.”
The ankle cuffs dropped away.
“Then we’d better fade the heat,” Victor said.
“Already taken care of.” Fat Mike swept a small radio from his hip. “Move in.”
“Roger that,” someone said.
A moment later, the thunder of Harleys filled the area.
“How did you find me?” Victor asked.
“Wasn’t us,” Fat Mike replied. “It was Tran.”
“How’d Tran find me?”
“You’ll have to ask him. He gave me a number for you to call once we’re clear of this.”
A moment later, motorcycles poured out of the woods. The Harleys weren’t trail bikes and were too heavy for soft ground, but evidently Fat Mike had found suitable places to go to ground.
“Tran sent you?” Victor asked.
“Yeah.”
“What if you hadn’t gotten me?”
Fat Mike met Victor’s gaze dead-on. “We ain’t gonna talk about that, bro. We did get you.”
Victor knew that if Tran was concerned about him rolling over for the police, he would have had him whacked. He didn’t blame Tran. It was just business.
“You okay to ride?” Fat Mike asked.
“The day I can’t ride,” Victor said, “you just drop me in a hole and cover me over.”
One of the bikers rode toward him. Victor threw a leg over the bike, wrapped an arm around the man’s midriff, and sat behind him.
“We got a place near here we can hole up,” Fat Mike said.
Victor nodded. “What about that Marine who killed Bobby Lee? Did you find out anything about him?”
Fat Mike frowned.
“Do you know where he is?” Victor demanded.
“Yeah. They went back to the Marine camp at Lejeune.” Fat Mike scratched his shaggy beard. “I think that’s one beehive you ought to leave alone, bro.”
Victor stared his friend in the eyes. “And you know that’s the one I can’t leave alone.”
Slowly Fat Mike nodded. “I know, bro. We’ll just have to be careful.”
34
›› Obstacle Course
›› Camp Geiger, North Carolina
›› Nine Days Later
›› 0734 Hours
“You ready to give up yet, gunney?”
Drenched in sweat, feeling the burn of hard-used muscles in his legs and back, Shel concentrated on running. Running shouldn’t be hard. It was one of the easiest things to do in the Marines. Even green recruits could run.
“No,” Shel gritted. His shoulder still pained him, but it was healing faster than everyone-but him-expected it to heal. “I got more.”
“I don’t think you have any more, gunney,” the young Marine beside him taunted. “I think you’re old and you’re used up. I think you’re scraping the bottom of the barrel. I think you’re just holding back, trying to save something for whatever you think will be the end of this little walk before breakfast.”
His voice was nasal and full of flat a ’s. It definitely marked him as a Yankee. Shel was certain the drill instructor who’d paired the man with him this morning had done so on purpose.
“If you need me to slow down,” the young Marine offered, “you just bleat in pain.”
Ignore him, Shel told himself. He’s just trying to get you off-stride. He stared straight through the countryside ahead of them. He wore aviator sunglasses that diffused the morning sun. His gray USMC shirt had turned dark with sweat.
Max loped at his side, barely even out of idle.
That’s fine, Shel told himself. The dog can run you into the ground, but you’re not going to give in to this guy with the mouth.
The Marine pacing him was in his midtwenties, nearly ten years younger than Shel. Not only that, but he must have been some kind of track star when he was in high school, which hadn’t been that long ago. His name was Barry Garrick.
“They told me you were a great Marine back in your day,” Garrick said.
“I’m a great Marine now,” Shel replied.
“That’s not what I’m seeing. What I’m seeing is old and used up. They tell me you got hurt and it broke your spirit.”
“I got all the spirit I need, junior.”
“We’ll see, grandma.” Garrick increased his stride and started to pull away.
Breathe out, Shel told himself. You need oxygen. Get all the carbon dioxide out of your lungs. Breathe deep and keep breathing.
He lengthened his stride, pushed away the fear and pain and uncertainty, and gave himself to the run. For the last five weeks, ever since he’d been cleared for light duty, he’d gone to the var
ious satellite camps around Lejeune and trained. It hadn’t been light duty. He’d punished himself, pushing his body back into the condition he was used to.
Remy had offered to work with him, but Shel had wanted to do it on his own, away from the NCIS personnel. He needed to be a Marine again, and the only place he could do that was with other Marines.
Shel reached inside himself for the iron strength that had always been his. There was a part of him that would never bend to anyone or anything as long as his heart still pumped. He’d created that for himself when he realized his daddy would never truly be there for him. He’d started building that strength when his mama had sat him down and told him about the cancer. He’d been fifteen then. His mama had lasted almost three years before she’d lost her battle.
Shel had never understood his daddy’s distance from his sons, but he’d been constantly aware of the emptiness he felt where his daddy’s love and affection should have been. When he’d no longer been able to stand that emptiness, he’d filled it himself. He had forced himself to be invincible and indomitable, and-for the most part-he’d been successful.
But that distance from his daddy wasn’t working now. That phone call about Victor Gant while he’d been in the hospital haunted Shel. He hadn’t found any answers. Estrella’s research into his daddy’s military career had only turned up more questions.
According to what she’d found, Victor Gant and his daddy had never served together. The only thing they had in common was an overlap in Qui Nhon.
So how had Tyrel McHenry gotten to know a proven scumbag like Victor Gant? That was the question. Actually, it was only one of the questions. Why would his daddy have made that phone call? Why had he gotten drunk that night?
Not knowing was frustrating. Not being able to ask was even more so.
Shel squeezed everything out of his body and reached for more. His body became a machine, inflexible and relentless. That was the kind of man he’d driven himself to become, the same kind of man he saw in Tyrel McHenry. Even though he didn’t understand his daddy, Shel respected the quiet strength and steel of the man when he’d buried his wife and gone on working. Those had been the things Shel had chosen to emulate from his father.
