* * *
“Are you sure you have it?” Cole asked Logan, who lay next to him across the nautical hide site they’d created just under the canopy of the fishing boat and cabin cruiser. Expertly crafted of leather cushions and several towels, it concealed both men from all passing boats.
Logan stared through the scope of the M40A5 Marine Corps sniper rifle. The Recruiter swayed slightly in the sights of the Schmidt & Bender Police Marksman II LP scope, the center of the mil dots slowly moving back and forth over his upper legs. At four hundred yards and no elevation, his only concern was the motion of the boat. They’d been fortunate that the waters of the lower Chesapeake Bay had been flat. Otherwise, they’d have been forced to improvise and consider a land approach, which would have risked their compromise by residents of the small peninsula.
“I have it,” Logan said confidently, his cheek pressed against the integrated cheek piece that moved horizontally and vertically to accommodate each shooter’s precise facial configuration.
“I’m going to ask you this one last time—and I know it’s going to piss you off, but I don’t have a history with him—are you sure you can trust him?” Cole asked, staring through an angled spotting scope at one of the most wanted men in the world, if only wanted by the handful of powerful people that knew he existed, one of those being the president.
* * *
The night before the meeting in the Oval Office, Jack Longstreet had phoned Logan from a cell phone that registered as “Unknown” and was untraceable. Logan hadn’t even bothered to try; he knew better when dealing with the general.
The conversation had been abrupt and to the point. “Logan, I have the location for where the Recruiter is going to be in the next few days.”
“Why are you telling me?” Logan interrupted. “You do understand the trust factor is rather low right now, right? You had your boys whisk you away. If you’re even in this country right now, I’d be shocked.”
“Everything I’ve told you has been the God’s honest truth. I swear it on the Eagle, Globe, and Anchor,” Jack said, invoking the symbol of the Marine Corps to emphasize his point. “I can’t make you believe me, and honestly, I’m not going to try. You have your job to do, and I have mine. What’s left of us who were loyal to the Founder are going after the traitors who are still in positions all over the globe and could easily wreak more havoc on the world. The Recruiter is one of them, and I thought you’d want to be the one to take him off the board, as he’s the one responsible for coordinating the vice president’s escape, as well as the ambush at the museum.”
Logan knew every word the general spoke was absolute truth. He knew the commitment of the man, the depth of his character and principles. His onetime mentor and commanding officer was a warrior, pure and simple, who still lived by a moral code. But now that the Founder was gone, General Jack Longstreet had become a modern-day ronin, following his own path.
He took a deep breath, calculating his next words—the president would freak at what I’m about to say—and said, “You could always come work with us. I can talk to the president. I think I can get him to see the benefit of it.”
Jack laughed, not disrespectfully. “Logan, I truly appreciate that—I do—but I’m going off the grid. I need to do this my way.”
Logan understood completely. The two former Marines were cut from the same cloth. You can take the man out of the Marine Corps but you can’t take the Marine Corps out of the man.
“I understand,” Logan said.
“I know you do,” Jack said sincerely. “Here’s the deal. He’s using a summer home in Scotland, Maryland, on the Chesapeake Bay as a staging area—I’ll text you the address later from a burner phone—and then he’s taking a small yacht down the coast and into the Bahamas for a meeting next week. I don’t have the details on that, but I’m sure you can obtain them from him,” Jack said, the implication clear.
“Roger all, sir,” Logan said, reflexively slipping into his former persona as a Marine officer.
Jack laughed. “I appreciate the sentiment, son, but we’re a long way from the Marine Corps on this one.”
“Old habits, Jack,” Logan responded, snapping back to his current self. “Good luck, and be safe.”
“Semper Fi, Marine,” Jack said.
“Semper Fi, General,” Logan replied, and the line went dead. For God, Country, and Corps, he thought, let’s get them all.
* * *
Exhaling as he watched the Recruiter turn around on the pier, Logan replied, “I know we can trust him. He’s a man of honor,” and slowly squeezed the trigger on the M40A5.
Thwut! the rifle spat, the suppressor preventing the sound from carrying across the water.
Logan and Cole tracked the vapor trail of the 7.62x51mm NATO round as it soared across the glassy water before striking the Recruiter in the back of the right knee. A huge puff of red mist exploded in front of him, and he fell face-first into the deck. His faint screams carried across the water to their boat.
“Glad he doesn’t have neighbors,” Cole said, standing up from his prone position next to Logan, and then added, “By the way, I thought you were going for his upper leg.”
“I was,” Logan said. “I must have been off a click on elevation.” He turned to Cole, a slightly sadistic grin on his face, green eyes blazing. “Sucks for him, but it won’t really matter in the long run, now, will it?”
CHAPTER 52
Bloody Point, Chesapeake Bay
2100 EST
Adam Mathias sat on the deck of the fishing boat, staring at the metal cuff on his left ankle. He’d lost hope hours ago. The Bahamas were a breezy dream he’d never see, and he’d known it the second his right knee had blown out, shattered into several pieces on the wooden pier.
He’d been lying there writhing in pain, screaming in agony for what seemed like an eternity. When he’d finally calmed down enough to try and crawl to the house, it was too late: Logan West and Cole Matthews had appeared on the pier. His pain had distracted him, and he hadn’t heard the fishing boat dock in front of the yacht.
Without a word, the two men had picked him up, dragged him to their boat, and departed just as quickly as they’d arrived. He’d initially had hope—Cole Matthews had bandaged his knee and provided him with two 800 mg Motrin—but that hope had faded the second he’d seen the other supplies on the deck of the boat.
A 45-lb. Olympic-style circular weight plate, the kind with a hole that slid on to the end of an Olympic bar, lay in the corner, a chain threaded through the hole. At the other end of the chain, a gray metal cuff sat open, waiting to close and seal his fate. He’d looked from the rigged anchor to the face of Logan West, who’d only stared at him pitilessly. It was in that gaze, devoid of mercy, that he’d seen his demise. And now that end was finally at hand.
“We’ll be visiting your friends next,” Logan said to the Recruiter, shrouded in the darkness of the Chesapeake Bay. “I assure you, the remnants of the Organization that went rogue will be destroyed. You can take that to your grave.”
The only sound was that of the waves gently lapping against the side of the boat. Lights from fishing vessels flickered in the distance. Closer, off the southern end of Kent Island, an old abandoned lighthouse rose out of the water. Infamously known to locals as Bloody Point thanks to a variety of historical anecdotes, including drowned slaves and hanged pirates, it was the deepest channel of the bay.
“There’s nothing I can say or do to change this outcome, is there?” Adam asked.
Cole stood behind their captive, observing the exchange, his hands behind his back.
“No. There’s not,” Logan responded. “But unlike those that have died at your hand, directly or indirectly, I’m giving you a choice—the gun or the water. Don’t make me choose for you. Have some backbone and face it like a man.” There was no condescension in his tone, but there was no warmth either.
“Can I have a moment?” Adam asked.
“You have thirty seconds, a
nd then I need an answer,” Logan replied.
Adam Mathias, who’d spent a lifetime manipulating others, murdering out of necessity, and orchestrating chaos, hung his head and prayed. He didn’t think God would listen—he’d committed too many atrocities to count—but he prayed that if there was a sliver of cosmic mercy, he’d get it. He looked back up into the darkened face of Logan West and said, “I’ll take the gun.”
The convicted man sat up straight in his final act of acceptance.
At least he didn’t cry like a coward or beg for mercy, I’ll give him that, Logan thought. “Very well,” Logan said, and nodded at Cole, who stood still behind the kneeling man.
“Adam Mathias, on behalf of the president of the United States of America, I sentence you to death for numerous crimes against the United States and humanity. The sentence will now be carried out,” Logan said.
“Wait!” Adam nearly shrieked. “The president?”
Logan smiled in the darkness. “Of course. We wouldn’t do this if the commander in chief hadn’t ordered it to be done. This might not be exactly official, but it’s as legal as it’s going to get. The president has declared war on you and the Organization. God have mercy on your soul.”
Cole Matthews raised a Glock 19 with a suppressor he’d held behind his back, aimed, and pulled the trigger.
Thwack!
The 9mm bullet struck the back of Adam Mathias’ head, and the dead man crumpled forward, his face coming to rest several inches above the deck, dripping blood between his outstretched legs. The Recruiter was no more.
Logan and Cole stared at the dead man in silence, respecting the fact that they’d taken a life, even if it was at the direction of the president. While neither man considered this a murder, this was different from shooting an armed combatant in the heat of a gunfight. This had been an execution, but both Logan and Cole had discussed it beforehand and had made their peace with their respective gods.
“Are you good?” Logan asked quietly.
“I am,” Cole responded in kind. “This monster deserved much worse than this, but this needed to be done, and I’m good with it.”
“Understood, brother,” Logan said, grabbing several towels and a mesh bag that would contain Mathias’ body. “In that case, let’s send him to his final resting place.”
“Definitely,” Cole said.
The two men wrapped the towels around Mathias’ ruined head in order to prevent further bleeding on the boat, and Cole held them in place as Logan slid the mesh bag under and around the dead man’s body. Moments later, he zipped the bag down, from head to toe, leaving a small opening at the bottom for the heavy chain. Logan grabbed the weighted plate and stacked it on top of the body.
Logan and Cole moved the bag to the back of the boat, just to the right of the two outboard engines.
“You ready?”
“Yup. Let’s do this and get out of here,” Cole said, reaching down and grabbing the dead man’s lower legs.
Logan slid his arms under the shoulders and grabbed fistfuls of the mesh bag to secure a grip.
“On three,” Logan said. “One. Two. Three.”
Logan and Cole stood up, using their legs to lift the dead man. “I always forget how heavy the dead are,” Cole said.
“In more ways than one,” Logan countered.
“Amen to that,” Cole said.
Lifting higher, they raised the corpse, set it on top of the flat railing, and pushed it over without another word.
The bag hit the water with a splash, the weight still on top of the dead man’s chest. It hung suspended for a moment, but then the bag rolled, and the weight slid off and into the deep dark. Seconds later, the bag was suddenly jerked under as the weight reached the end of the chain. The last thing Logan saw was a ripple of suction as Adam Mathias was dragged 160 feet to the bottom of the Chesapeake Bay.
Within weeks or months, there’d be nothing left of the man’s body. Either the fish or the legendary Chesapeake Bay crab would devour him, leaving a chained skeleton in a watery grave.
Logan turned to Cole one last time. He put his hand on his shoulder in a brotherly and reassuring gesture. “You sure you’re good?”
“Absolutely,” Cole said, his face illuminated by the boat’s controls. He smiled. “That is unless you hug me, in which case I’m going to kick your ass and send you in after our friend.”
Logan laughed. “I wouldn’t dare. I’m not that brave.”
“Good. Now let’s get the hell out of here. We have another trip to plan,” Cole said.
“Agreed. I’m going to text John to let Amira know it’s done,” Logan said, stepping up to the elevated cabin where the dashboard and controls were. He turned the key in the ignition, and the two Yamaha motors roared to life and idled as Logan punched in the message. He hit send and put the phone back in his pocket. “I’ll tell Jake later, and he can inform the president.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Cole said.
“In that case, hop in that copilot’s chair,” Logan said, nodding at the chair to his left as he pushed the throttle forward, “and as always, sit back and enjoy the ride.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writing a series is a unique experience. The trick is to make every story unique but with the same feel as the others. With Field of Valor, the intent was to start off with a bang and not let up until the ride was over. I hope you, the reader, are satisfied with the end product, as the only thing that matters is the experience you have while reading. I’m content that I’ve done my best to make Field another roller-coaster ride. (Then again, we all know what Sean Connery said about doing your best in The Rock.) Regardless, I hope you enjoyed this ride, and fear not, Logan will be back. He’s a hard motherfucker to kill . . . for now.
And like Logan, I have a world-class team that works constantly to bring Logan West to life. First, major thanks to Will Roberts, my agent at The Gernert Company, who has to suffer my rants and raves about nearly everything. His patience is tested, I’m sure, but it all works out in the end. Thank you. Second, my editor, Emily Bestler, an icon in the business who has been behind this series 1,000 percent from Day One. Her insight, feedback, and constructive criticism are critical to who I am as a writer. Here’s to many more. Thank you. Third, my publicist, David Brown, who probably listens to me rant even more than my agent. He knows where the bodies are buried. He is the man with the plan to get this series the visibility it needs. Go Yankees. (He’s a Mets fan.) Thank you. Fourth, Lara Jones, Emily’s assistant, who is Emily’s first line of defense and handles day-to-day responsibilities. May you get an assistant yourself one day. Fifth, George Newbern, actor on ABC’s Scandal and the narrator who brings Logan and friends to life in the audiobooks. You. Are. The. Man. Thank you. To Jen Long at Pocket Books, responsible for the mass market paperback versions of my books. You do an outstanding job expanding the readership by putting the books in as many markets as possible. I never tire of seeing my books in my local grocery and drug stores. My ego thanks you. To fellow authors Joshua Hood and Don Bentley, who both provided answers to a few key questions, here’s to you both getting your next deals. Thank you for being fellow warriors who understand the military way of life. And for everyone else that I missed but who contributes in ways I may not see on a daily basis, thank you. Contrary to popular belief, publishing is a team sport.
Until next time, Friendo.
Semper Fidelis.
Matt
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MATTHEW BETLEY is a former Marine officer of ten years. His experience includes deployments to Djibouti after September 11, and Iraq prior to the surge. A New Jersey native who considers Cincinnati home, he graduated from Miami University in Oxford, Ohio, with a BA in psychology and minors in political science and sociology.
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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