Jameson (In the Company of Snipers Book 22)

by Irish Winters

  “Ah huh,” Little A sobbed. “He’s a purebred German Shepherd, Uncle Jameson, and he’s sable, and that makes him look like a wolf. But he’s really a good dog, and he’s just for you, cuz Daddy said maybe you could use someone to help you find your way around the streets and roads and sidewalks, and—” The little guy hiccupped. “He’s real good at finding things.”

  That was the last straw. Jameson opened his arms, and Little A plowed into him, bumping his chin with his head and crying at this very brave, very hard thing he was doing. The pup scrambled up with him, and suddenly, Jameson had two kids in his arms.

  “He must be a very good dog,” Jameson murmured into Little A’s sweaty head, as he corralled the bundle of puppy energy in his other arm.

  “He is. He’s my bestest favorite, but I want you to have him because he’s brave like you, only…” Harley’s son took a deep, shuddering breath. “Kin I come and visit him sometime? And you, too?”

  By then Jameson could barely speak. Settling the pup to the floor between his shoes, he shifted Little A to his knee, and swallowed hard. He’d purposefully avoided getting a seeing eye dog. His cane was enough of a statement to the world; he hadn’t needed another. But now…?

  “You bet. Come see him anytime. What’s his name?”

  “Tank. He was so teeny when he was borned, that we had to keep him in an aquarium tank under a warm light, but…” Little A’s voice muffled as he ran an arm under his nose. “You kin call him anything you want because he’s your dog now, and he’s not mine, and....”

  Little A burst into tears, and Jameson was right there with him. He took a covert swipe at his eyes, then wrapped both arms around the sobbing boy on his knee and patted his back. Harley, Judy, Georgie, and Maddie were out there watching, and one of them was sniffling, too. But for now, Jameson’s attention was focused on the brave little soldier on his knee. “I like it. Tank’s a good, strong name for a dog. It’s hard giving your best friend away, isn’t it?” he asked quietly.

  “Ah huh,” Little A grunted, as he wiped his mouth or his nose again. It was hard to tell which. “But I gotta do it, cuz that’s why these dogs are borned in the first place. They got important things to do, too. Like Daddy and Mommy. Like you. They gotta amount to something or I’m not a good dog owner, only I am. I took real good care of my pups just so I could give this one to you.” Again, the boy’s voice rapped higher into a whine by the time he finished.

  Jameson lifted his face in the direction where he supposed Harley was standing. Everyone was so quiet, it was hard to know for sure. “You’ve raised a good man here, Harley. You too, Judy.”

  Harley coughed. “Yeah, well…” He coughed again. “Judy’s the reason these guys turned out as good as they have. I’m just their old man.”

  “You’re a thousand times better than my old man,” Maddie murmured from Jameson’s right. “You should be proud.”

  “I am.”

  “He’s the best Daddy in the world,” Georgie added from Jameson’s right, “cuz he’s my dad.”

  “Mine too,” Little A said quietly, “and he’s goofy and he’s funny, and I love him.”

  “Aww,” Judy whispered.

  Harley sounded like he needed a cough drop or someone to smack his back.

  “Tank, huh?” Jameson asked Little A. “Will you show me how to feed him? What’s he like to eat besides flipflops?”

  “He likes his kibble and raw pork bones and fresh cow hoofs and chicken legs and eggs and—”

  “And pretty much anything that isn’t nailed down,” Harley interrupted. “He’s teething, so the more chew toys you provide, the longer your furniture’s going to last. No leather cowhide and no baked bones, though. The leather crap will twist his gut, and cooked or baked bones splinter. Might tear up his innards.”

  “I brought his dishes and some puppy pads in case he has to pee before you can talk him for a walk and—”

  “Cripes, A, take a breath, will ya?” Georgie grouched.

  “I don’t hafta,” Little A shot back at his brother.

  “Do too.”

  “Do not! I can talk how I want.”

  “Boys,” Judy scolded. “What do we do when you’re visiting friends?”

  “We hafta be on our best behavior,” Little A replied meekly.

  Georgie snickered, which earned him a thump on what sounded like his head and a stern “Behave,” from Harley.

  “Wanna take him for a walk, Uncle Jameson?” Little A asked.

  “Come with me?” Jameson asked as he set Little A on his feet, the leash firm in his hand.

  “Aw right! Then I kin show you how to do it. See?” He took the leash back. “Tank already knows he has to walk on your left side, cuz that leaves your right hand free. Let’s go!”

  Jameson looked toward where he knew Maddie was standing. “We’ll be right back. Wait for me?”

  “Always,” she answered, a dreamy tone in her voice. “I’ll have breakfast ready by the time you kids get back.”

  Jameson left the debate over donuts or a healthy breakfast behind as he opened the door and began his new life as an uncle and a dog owner. By the time he and Little A had walked around the block, he knew Tank was trained to sit when they came to a stop, to stay on command, and to be quiet. Little A had insisted Jameson hold the leash once they were on the sidewalk, which was mature for the little guy. He was only six. But Jameson also knew that Little A was afraid of the dark, which was why Harley had given him a dog to begin with. He also knew Georgie was a bit of a bully; he lived to destroy Little A’s LEGO creations. Also that Harley and Judy needed to soundproof their bedroom. Kids did say the darnedest things.

  When they circled back to the apartment’s main entry, Little A asked, “How do you know which place is yours and where you should stop? You don’t have your cane, and Daddy says you can’t see. How’d you do that?”

  “I count steps,” Jameson told him easily. “And today, I could tell we were nearly back home because Tank slowed when we turned the last corner. He was looking for his new home.”

  “You think he already knows he belongs to you and where he lives?”

  Jameson tugged the dog’s leash to bring Tank to a full stop. When pup dropped his backside to the sidewalk, Jameson took a knee and faced Little A at his level. Man to man. “I think Tank might have been born small, but he’s smarter than the average dog. I can tell you’ve spent a lot of time training him. Would you mind spending his first night away from home with me and Maddie? You know, so he knows you’ll always come back, and that you’ll always love him no matter where he is?”

  “Kin I?”

  “Absolutely. You two guys can bunk in the living room tonight. Then tomorrow, you can show me what else Tank knows. We’ll go to the park and really put him through his paces, deal?”

  “Deal!” Little A exclaimed. “But I gotta ask Mommy and Daddy first.”

  “Of course,” Jameson replied as he set A’s feet to the sidewalk and reached for the massive handle on his apartment’s double doors. With one click of the smart key fob in his jeans pocket, he ushered Little A inside, while Tank followed.

  “I really like you, Uncle Jameson,” Little A said, his hand so small and warm inside Jameson’s. “Maybe you can come see the rest of my pups someday.”

  “Good idea.” Jameson opened the door to his apartment with a cheery, “Honey, we’re home!”

  Maddie was instantly at his side. “Just in time. Hot chocolate and breakfast burritos are ready. Donuts for dessert,” she announced as she pressed a kiss to his cheek.

  He leaned into that kiss, then handed the leash to her. “We have a very smart dog. Next time, you have to come with us.”

  “Mom! Dad!” Little A called. “Kin I stay here tonight with Tank? Uncle Jameson says it’s okay, and I’ll be real good. Pleeeease?”

  Jameson turned toward the kitchen table where he sensed movement and body heat.

  “’S o
kay with me. Mom, that okay with you?” Harley answered from that location.

  “Are you sure?” Judy’s quiet voice came from the sofa.

  Jameson turned to face Little A’s mother. “Positive. I have a lot to learn about dogs and little boys. It’ll be fun.”

  “I’m staying, too!” Georgie announced loudly from somewhere near Judy.

  “No, son, you’re going home with us,” Harley told him.

  “But Daddy—”

  “That’s the rule,” Judy replied evenly. “Little A did all the work with his dogs, so he gets the reward.”

  “Besides,” Harley drawled. “Not sure Uncle Jameson and Aunt Maddie are ready for two monsters at the same time. Let’s break them in slow.”

  “Aww…”

  “Georgie, enough. Until you accept responsibility and do your chores without being told to, no sleepovers.”

  “Never?”

  “You heard me.”

  “But I was just playing.”

  Jameson pulled Maddie into his side as the Mortimer power struggle continued. “That’ll be us someday,” he murmured into her cheek. “A house full of kids and tests of wills. Late night feedings and diapers, doctor appointments and worries, kindergarten and dogs. Maybe a cat or two. A treehouse for sure. You still game?”

  She pressed herself under his arm, her body warm and enticing as hell. “I can’t wait.”

  “I love you,” he told his better half.

  “I know,” she whispered back. “We’ve got a fur baby. We’re parents.”

  And there it was, his future in sold gold. With Maddie. With Tank and the little boy who loved him. Tears welled in the corners of Jameson Tenney’s eyes. His greatest challenge had begun five years ago with two other little boys and a miniature donkey. If not for that frightening, horrible day, he wouldn’t be where he was now, a dog leash in one hand, his soon-to-be wife in his other. Jameson bowed his nose to Maddie’s hair, wishing Derby and Shakespeare could somehow know that he’d honored them by living. Every. Single. Day.

  Because it had worked. He had thrown himself back into the deep end of life. He had learned how to swim all over again. But most of all… Life was great!

  The End

  Thank you for reading Jameson’s story!

  You are the key to this book’s success.

  Please tell other readers why you liked Jameson by leaving an honest review at the retail site where you purchased it.

  Recommend him to your friends. Lend him. Most of all, enjoy him!

  Irish Winters’ best-selling series include:

  In the Company of Snipers

  Alex

  Mark

  Zack

  Harley

  Connor

  Rory

  Taylor

  Gabe

  Maverick

  Cassidy

  Adam

  Lee

  Ky

  Hunter

  Eric

  Jake

  Seth

  Beau

  Renner

  Beckam

  Walker

  Christmas Hearts

  Coming soon:

  Tripp

  Deuces Wild

  King of Hearts

  Joker Joker

  One-Eyed Jack

  Ace

  Hearts and Ashes

  Smoke

  Ash

  SOBs Novels

  Angel

  Assassin

  Vaquero

  Coming soon:

  Kruze Sinclair’s story

  To keep up with my new releases, giveaways, and actionable intel, sign up for my spam-free newsletter at IrishWinters.com.

  Keep reading for a preview of another tasty tidbit.

  Preview of Harley’s story

  In the Company of Snipers, #4

  Ambushed!

  “Rick! Can you hear me?” US Army Corporal Harley Mortimer bellowed, his voice lost in the grinding noise of battle. “Kent? Snakes? Anyone?”

  Rick didn’t answer. No one did. Only the roar of the fire came back to him. Acrid fumes poured off his overturned and now obliterated Humvee. Smelled like the whole damned Iraqi oilfield was burning again. He rolled for cover.

  The chopper overhead sounded odd for a Blackhawk. Maybe a Cobra? Combat Rescue? Already? No way. He knew better. They’d be here eventually, but not this soon. Had to be one of Saddam’s. Even that conclusion felt hollow. USAF owned the sky. Everyone in the world knew that. Saddam’s air force was rubble.

  Enemy bullets zinged too close, kicking up plugs of dirt and razor sharp bits of stone that perforated his face and arms. Blood filled his ear where his earpiece should have been. The link with his men must have blown clear when the Humvee exploded. Panic climbed up his throat. Blood gushed down the back of his neck. Damn, I’m cut off and injured too.

  Could things get any worse? He slapped his palms to his chest pockets and thighs. Sure enough, they could. He didn’t even have an empty holster where a pistol might have been. No tactical vest, no headgear. No knife. Nothing. I’m screwed.

  Time to leave. American soldiers alone had better keep moving or face certain capture. Not going to happen. Pumped full of fight or flight, he crept around the front of the MRAP, the Mine Resistant Armored Personnel Vehicle that accompanied his Humvee on this foray into hell. Yeah, right. It didn’t look very mine resistant now, not spewing its guts the way it was. Looked worse than his ride, both piles of steaming crap.

  Fumes and smoke seared his eyeballs, making it impossible to see. What kind of an IED could have caused this much damage? Scrubbing both hands over his face, he muttered a quick Hail Mary. And then he saw them. All six of them. His men. His friends. Kent. Snakes. Carlton. Robbie. Rick. Garth. Their bodies in pieces and bleeding chunks. He faltered. Who to run to first? Should I run at all?

  One second he was debating how to rescue body parts; the next he was kneeling at Corporal Rick Cross’s side, his body stabbed through with a huge shard of metal. So much blood. Harley ripped the dead man’s belt off. Every soldier knows how to wrap a tourniquet. Adrenaline pushed his shaking hands.

  “I got you, man. You’re gonna be fine. Promise.” His mouth would not shut up until his ruthless brain engaged and squashed the hope rolling off his tongue.

  There’s nothing to tie off.

  He backed away, choking at the eerie sensation of déjà vue creeping up the back of his throat. This was not happening. It wasn’t real. Couldn’t be. Rick wasn’t dead—again. Was he? A long lost memory invaded what sure felt like reality.

  I am here, aren’t I? Sure smells like Iraq. Sounds like Iraq. But didn’t I already—leave?

  Panic sucked the air from his lungs. Like a stupid frog on a hot plate, he jumped to Specialist Robbie Smith next. Blood gurgled from the fist-sized wound in his friend’s neck. Suddenly, Harley was with Corporal Carlton Jenner, still and lifeless on the ground, his body twisted in an impossible-to-live-through position. Without walking or running to get there, Harley crouched over Sergeant Kent Roosevelt, and then Kent’s arm, which until then had been in a black-red pool of coagulated blood a yard away.

  He didn’t remember taking a step. Logic failed when he needed it most. He scrubbed the smoke and dust out of his stinging eyes. Dazed. Afraid. Scared he’d lost his ever-loving mind.

  Abruptly, Kent’s unattached hand jumped from the oil-covered ground and clutched Harley’s sleeve, tugging him back to his men. “Save us,” Kent snarled with the grotesque lip twitching of the dead.

  “What the hell?” Harley crab-scrambled backward, inhaling disbelief instead of air. The dismembered limb fell, four fingers tapping the dusty ground as if waiting for an answer. He shook his head to clear his vision. No way! I’m seeing things for sure.

  “You gotta do something.” Bloody words gurgled from the dead man’s mouth. Harley lunged back, but Kent persisted with mercurial eyeballs instead of the once deep brown
s. His stare brimmed with unsaid accusation. You lived, you bastard. I died, but you got to live.

  Just as quickly, Carlton sprang to a ninety-degree angle, his hips twisted in the opposite direction to his shoulders. He cocked his head sideways and taunted. “You gotta save us, man. You got to.”

  Harley groaned at the frightening quandary of seeing is believing. Kent and Carlton were obviously dead with a capital D, but they were talking?

  Rick joined the ghostly moan. Robbie sputtered. Captain Snakes Flynn growled. Then Corporal Garth Schmidt. Their voices rose in an eerie chorus of condemnation, while six pairs of unseeing eyes stared him down for help. For rescue. For anything. “You gotta save us this time. All,” they chanted. “All. All. All.”

  “But you guys are... dead.” Harley was sure of his words, not his eyes. “I can’t save you. You already... died.”

  Are you sure? He shook the demon of doubt away. It was lying to him. It had to be. Misgivings prevailed. Why are you talking to them if they’re dead?

  “I don’t know,” he answered himself.

  “Don’t leave us behind again,” the six-man chorus whined over the hissing fire. Even the twisted carcass of the Humvee groaned in haunting accompaniment. A tire exploded. Hard rubber ripped past his head, leaving stifling fumes and heat in its wake.

  He watched the horror show, unable to save the men he loved any more than he could save himself. His dead buddies waited, their tongues flicking over their lips from the same thirst in his mouth. But just in case.... He crawled back to assist.

  A veil of fumes descended upon the stage, encompassing wounded and would-be rescuer alike. His windpipe constricted. Harley choked until he could choke no more, spitting to clear his throat. Air would not come. When unconsciousness threatened, he bowed his forehead to the dirt and wished to wake the hell up—or die with his men. Like he should have.

  As quickly as it came, the haze lifted. He could breathe, but his friends were gone. Not even limbs remained. No puddled blood. No tapping dismembered fingers. Nothing.