by Angela White
With that thought in mind, Marc stayed alert and got set to fight his way out again if he needed to. His men would bring ammo and attitude, but they were all limited here at home. His CO would have to cover what had really happened. Marc expected to hear it announced that several unknown persons had been caught in the wildfire and died from smoke inhalation.
Marc settled next to the fire and opened his kit to finish caring for his injuries. Two of them needed stitches, but he’d only bound them until he could make his call and get settled somewhere. It would take a bit.
Marc was scrubbing off layers of dirt and mud when he heard the raucous voices of his squad. He didn’t bother to cover himself. They’d lost all modesty a while back. There was no time for it during combat situations where naked bodies were the least of their problems.
“Whoa ho ho! Marcus!”
Chris, who had the nickname of Crisp because of his dark tan, came over and slapped Marc on the butt cheek while he rinsed his hair with water from his kit.
Marc, listening for the right moment, stuck his foot out and sent the man to the ground.
The other Marines busted guts laughing, some impressed that Marc had been able to do it while covered in soap. There was no way he could see from under that many suds.
“Where’s the beer?” Kenn demanded, dropping down on one of the fallen logs. He wasn’t impressed.
“No beer, no broads,” Marc stated, slinging water toward Kenn. The Ohio man was a sullen, dangerous tool that Marc was still trying to get comfortable using.
“Figures.” Kenn grunted, dropping down against a tree. He didn’t care about Brady’s newest bruises and breaks, didn’t study them the way the other Marines were. “Prick.”
Marc snickered, turning his dirty shirt inside out to dry off. As he pulled on a clean outfit–jeans and a camo shirt–the men around him settled into place as if he hadn’t left them in anger. At this moment, Marc was glad of it. He was sorry for taking his emotional issues out on his men, but he wouldn’t ever apologize–at least, not with words. That would hurt the respect he’d built. He would show them with actions.
Marc dropped down on the log next to Thunder, his XO, who was also quiet. The name had come from the sound of the man’s huge feet when he’d first joined their team. Now, it fit because of the noise he made during combat with his gun.
Marc didn’t speak. Just joining them would get attention. When he handed his pouch of tobacco to the saw gunner at his side, all of the men exchanged glances and jabs, but they didn’t mention it or insist on talking it through. They understood he wasn’t mad anymore. Later, if it came up in another conversation, he might try to explain to them how ugly it had felt to watch that villager die. The feeling had followed him onto the bus, the transport plane, and then onto American soil. He’d even been considering leaving the Marines as they touched down. His enlistment was up at the six-year mark in February and his commander knew it. Captain Palmer had sent Reggie to tell Marc about the composite scores as a reminder that there were options available for his objections. The next time they were in a bad situation, his men would have to kill him or at least knock him out before they could disobey his orders. He would outrank the entire squad, except for Reggie, in just a few months if he passed the classes.
Tensed up from the memories, Marc forced himself to let it go. They were right to eliminate any threat to the mission and yet, they were wrong to murder. Marc hadn’t considered that quandary when he’d chosen to become a Marine. He’d thought only dangerous criminals would be in his crosshairs. He’d personally been able to keep to that so far, but he dreaded being in a position where he had to pick between killing an innocent person and protecting his men, because his men would come out of it alive. Like them or not, he’d never been closer to any other males in his life and he never expected to be again.
“Where are the others?” Hips asked, tying up his pants with his infamous green sash. He’d gotten it from a girl in Iraq who had claimed she would marry him the next time they met–if he still had the silken token.
“Stuck in college classes.”
“Officer requirements?” Hips wanted to verify. He’d been considering it.
“Yeah. Fuckin’ joke,” Kenn stated. He’d stopped at Corporal, like Marc.
Marc stayed silent. During waiting times and individual missions, he’d already studied for and graduated those classes. He kicked his kit toward Hips, whose real name was Chuck Morris. “Bottle in there somewhere.”
“All right!”
“Yeah, Marcus!”
None of their fourteen-man squad had realized that they were coming home during a holiday. All of the stores had been closed when they landed at Camp Pendleton, but Marc had retrieved his stash from the locker to take camping.
Worked out in the end, he thought as Dagger and Trippy started roasting a carcass of some kind over the fire. At least he would be able to sleep.
Music blared from Kenn’s ever-present radio, drawing equal groans and grins. Marc did a quick count and found the men more happy than annoyed. He kept his mouth shut.
Because he did, so did the others.
Let them blow it off here, where they can’t get into much trouble, Marc told himself. He went back to his smaller bedroll. He had a tent that he might put up later if it rained, but for now, he needed a nap. It had been a long first few days of rest and relaxation.
“Was it Eibar again?”
The group of men went still and cold at Kenn’s question.
Marc felt the cool chill of fate rifling the hairs on his neck. He rubbed the purple, swollen knot on the side of his head. “I left Jordan back there with a snapped ankle. He gave me the goose egg.”
“Where he goes, Eibar isn’t far away,” Hips stated angrily.
“Getting tired of that guy,” Dagger commented, fingering the collection of knives on his civilian belt.
“Yeah,” Kenn agreed and tilted the bottle up for a long swig.
Iron guts Kenny, Marc thought, stifling a snicker. “We’ll handle it, maybe. I’ll ask the Captain. Eibar won’t be able to hide if the CO gets us cleared to go hunting.”
Other than Kenn, the men shared glances of excitement. Hunting with Brady was fun.
“After that hit on Chad, he should have been marked,” Hips commented, making the senior grunts wince. Hips was their rookie. He’d only been with them a few weeks before Chad’s death. That had been three years ago, and he still hadn’t learned any tact.
“Jordan the only one you left?” Crisp asked, filling the gap of tense silence.
“Unknown,” Marc answered tonelessly. He could feel the Marine inside creeping back out of his cell. “I assume we’re ready for company?”
The men began to add up ammunition, pleasing Marc once again. He hadn’t needed to say it. They were getting tight. That was why it felt like home to hear Dagger and Trippy haltingly arguing over the best way to reload ammo and to listen to Kenn hum himself to sleep. It was also irritating to the part of him that still just wanted a few days alone. Now, he couldn’t get drunk and torture himself with the past. The single bottle was almost gone.
4
Marc rose up on one elbow to listen. He’d been dozing off and on for hours.
The camp of snoozing, card-playing men went silent and still again, on full alert.
“Company,” Marc muttered. He drew his weapon and slid his hand under his leg before resuming his former position.
None of the Marines knew how Marc could know they were about to be attacked, but they’d been saved enough times to take heed of the alert. The camp quickly emptied.
Marc listened to the noises as they faded into the thick forest to wait. The Marines didn’t bother to make it appear as if Marc was alone. Situations like these didn’t require such methods. When careless mercs found their prey, they usually rushed in without considering details. The majority of the enemies they fought overseas were just as simple. It was often the sheer numbers or their knowledge of the ter
rain that made them hard to fight.
Careless boots crunched into his campsite.
Marc noted that brown scarf again, but he wasn’t fooled by it or the dark skin. These were disgraced military men sent by Eibar in retaliation for multiple offenses, not the least of which was setting fire to three of his huge coke fields. Sleeping with Eibar’s wife had come after, while they were on the run. The drug lord’s beloved spouse was actually a CIA agent and she’d been very…into her work. Marc hadn’t been concerned with leaving her there. She hadn’t been far above the man she was supposedly controlling.
“Get up!”
Marc glared warningly when the sweaty mercenary would have kicked him. “Where are we going?”
“My boss wants you. Let’s go.”
“By yourself?” Marc asked, following the procedure that they’d developed for extracting information during situations like these. “You brave or stupid?”
“I have friends here,” the man bragged as Marc slowly sat up.
“Good. Be a shame to think half my squad came all the way out here just for you.”
The man opened his mouth to answer and Marc raised his gun, firing.
The dead man fell at his boots, but Marc fired a second shot into the top of his skull anyway. He was well trained.
Marc holstered to examine the body, confident that his men would easily hunt down the remaining mercs. The chance to do it here at home was probably why most of them had cut their own R&R short to come. His squad was made up of fourteen deadly men, but their loyalty was often dependent upon the mission or goal. Marc wanted that to change, but without the right leadership, it wouldn’t. All of the men in his squad walked the line between good and bad. If he made squad leader someday, he would fix that by setting a rigid example of always doing the right thing.
The rest of the Marines held their positions around the campsite in case the merc’s compadres were drawn by the shots.
Marc didn’t think there could be many hunters left on his trail. He and the wolf had… Marc caught a blur of charred fur in the high grass and felt his lips stretch in surprise. “Don’t shoot the wolf. Pass the word.”
The weeds nearby parted and collapsed under the animal’s weight. Panting heavily as it took a breather, the wolf eyed Marc with intense dislike.
Marc looted the body unthinkingly, collecting what he wanted. As it occurred to him that there were different rules here, a shot echoed and then another. Pain flared in his arm as he was spun sideways.
“I thought you had him!” Kenn blared defensively from the tree line as a body thumped to the ground.
Marc slapped a hand over the bleeding trim, his second in that arm. “Nice timing, shit for brains.”
Kenn flushed as he and the others came out. “Sorry, man.”
The rest of the squad continued to ridicule Kenn as Marc covered his newest injury with a bandana. He would do better for it later, when he medicated himself. The swelling in his hand and face was tolerable right now, but later it might get nasty.
The team was soon joined by two more men from their squad who also carried new gear. Obviously, they’d also chosen to follow their usual patterns, even here. Military was for life.
“You get them all?” Kenn asked.
“That’s what the last one said right before Jamie slit his throat,” Paul answered, flashing his newest gun. Paul’s collection was enormous.
Glad that it was over, Marc motioned to the dusty road below. “It’s good. You guys can go on out. I’ll catch up.”
The chorus of groans and denials told Marc that his hopes of getting rid of them were for naught. It was rare that an entire squad got time off together at home. With nine of their fourteen here, it was enough to have fun.
Resigned, but not angry, Marc shrugged. “Mi casa, es su casa.”
They weren’t the best of friends, but they were comrades in arms and that was enough.
Chapter Three
Grand Teton National Park
1
“Get him!”
“Over there!”
“Where?”
“Toward that campfire!”
Marc listened to the ruckus coming toward his finally peaceful location and sighed unhappily. “I just can’t get a break.”
“Catch him!”
“How? He broke my control pole!”
“Use your hands!”
“No way, Bubba!”
Marc fastened the lid on his mug and rose, not covering the Colt on his lean hips. The park rangers were coming through the thick trees toward him, green uniforms and tan hats blending nicely with the southwest Wyoming forest. Ahead of the branches cracking and the foliage rustling, a dark blur streaked across the ground.
“By the tree! There!”
“Mad wolf, mister! Run!”
Marc would have been amused at the wording, if not for the desperate animal now breaking through the dense cover around his camp. He wasn’t surprised to discover that it was the same animal he’d already had contact with. The wolf couldn’t catch a break either.
The wolf was shocked to discover a human in front of him. He scrambled backward awkwardly, slipping. You! Again!
Marc instinctively blocked the wolf’s retreat as the three rangers stomped into his camp to surround it.
Before the unorganized men allowed it to escape, Marc stepped forward and clapped his hands loudly. Pain flashed through his hand.
The wolf snarled, but thought better of attacking. He fled in the only clear direction, darting inside the dark space of the open tent.
Marc ignored the flabbergasted rangers and hurried forward to zip up the large green canvas.
The wolf tried to tear through it.
They all listened in amazement as the animal declared war and succeeded in tipping the tent so many times that Marc thought it might go over despite his deeply driven anchors.
The burst of energy didn’t last long. After running from the fire for days, fighting with this man and dodging bullets from others, the wolf was exhausted. He hadn’t gotten much rest or food while the man and his pack sat around their fire, scaring off game when they patrolled the area. He’d had to hunker down and wait. If not for the stream where he’d caught a fish, the wolf might have been too weak to run when the rangers had found him. Whimpering, the wolf huddled in the far corner of the tent with its ears low and tail down, growling.
Marc studied the large canine, fascinated with the close view. It was hard to dislike the wolf when it seemed so scared.
“Hey! Who are you?”
“This area is supposed to be empty.”
“Turn around.”
Marc kept his hands in sight as he slowly rotated to face the four sweaty men. They were covered in stains and suspicion as they took in his bruises, bandages, and charred coat.
“I’m Corporal Marcus Brady, United States Marine. I’m armed. My identification is in my jacket pocket.”
“You hold still!” The man with an embroidered nametag declaring him Bubba stomped forward. Wide and loud, Bubba’s stomach rolled over the top of his pants like a fanny pack.
The fat man stepped between Marc and the tent flap just as the wolf lunged against the material.
It pulled up the rear stakes and allowed the tent to flip, placing the flap against the ground. It also knocked Bubba on his ass.
Marc smirked.
Bubba didn’t.
“I’m shooting it now!” Bubba declared, forgetting about Marc’s identification as he struggled to get up.
“We don’t usually do things that way,” JD, one of the other rangers, reluctantly stated as a wave of coldness fell over the balmy September morning. “We take them back for processing.”
“No preserve will take that mean sucker!” Bubba insisted angrily.
“By the book,” JD insisted, trying to get Bubba to calm down in front of their audience.
“Fine!” Bubba gave, not wanting to embarrass himself with his skills at shooting. “He’s got two d
ays and then I’m taking him out behind the office. No damn animal is worth this trouble.”
“Neither are some people,” Marc remarked lightly. His tone didn’t reveal his anger, but his teammates would have recognized the moment for what it was and gotten out of the crossfire.
Bubba swung around, finally remembering they weren’t alone. “You can get on out of here! Send a bill for the tent.”
Still too deep into Marine mode, Marc grunted in annoyance. “You know, when my buddies left last night, I thought all the loud mouths were gone.”
His team had stayed for three full days before declaring the danger over.
Bubba flushed a deep scarlet that made Marc wonder if he were about to have a stroke. Hadn’t the man ever been insulted before?
“If you’re not gone in one minute, I’ll arrest you!” Bubba threatened.
“I have a better idea,” Marc offered, not surprised that the other rangers were staying out of the argument. Bubba was obviously someone important or the other men might have protested more. Marc could tell they didn’t like Bubba or his behavior. That usually meant the person was a relative of the boss and therefore, protected.
“How about if I buy the wolf from you?”
Bubba’s mouth snapped shut.
Marc could almost see dollar signs pop into the abusive man’s thoughts.
“What’s your price, Bubba?” Marc sneered coldly, almost to the place where violence would occur even if he didn’t want it to. For some reason, this man really rubbed against his grain.
“Everything you’ve got!” Bubba declared greedily, pointing. “Your cash, tent and gear, and that gun.”
“Stiff bargain,” Marc replied, sore hand caressing the butt of his 1911. “I have to get more than a wild animal that will try to kill me.”
Bubba’s happy smile faded a bit. “What do you want?”
“Two front teeth,” Marc replied intently, advancing. “Then we’ll be squared away.”
The other men watched in shock and uneasy pleasure as Marc took his fee. With two fast, brutal swings, Bubba’s mouth became a bleeding mass of flesh. Two gory teeth were spit out between choked screams.
