“Using an alias we didn’t know about.” Honor sends a crooked grin my way. “We assumed if he took a different name, he’d have left a trace of pulling together a new identity. I’ve already discovered Jeremiah Briggs came into being years back. Now we know of it, we’ll get further.”
“Or, at least, can track back who issued that ID as a place to start,” Duty suggests. “It was a professional job. One has to wonder why he bothered with it.”
Preacher enters the conversation. “Whether or not Stormy’s roused a hornet’s nest that will cause blowback on the club, we can’t ignore the possibility. I want everyone to be on their guard. No riding alone and take fuckin’ precautions. Those living outside the club might want to stay close for now.”
I exchange a glance with Road. We’ve just got settled into living in my house, enjoying the privacy. He shrugs and sends a look back that I interpret as it’s best to be safe for now. I grin slightly as he touches his lips, easy to see it’s a suggestion I’ll have to be quiet. Me? His groans of satisfaction could wake the dead. Or so I’ve found when I’ve left my hearing aids on.
Rascal catches my eye, and my face immediately straightens. “Just make sure, Swift, when the asshole wakes up, that you don’t immediately kill him. We need him to talk.”
Prez also casts his gaze my way. “For now, Stormy is still a member of this club, and as such, if he’s been wronged, it’s revenge we’ll be seeking.”
I raise my chin. Message received. I’ll use kid gloves until we know the truth of the situation. After that, all bets are off.
If Stormy’s again brought trouble to the club, nothing will save him. He’d be better off dying before he comes around.
5
Seven years ago
Stormy…
Watch my fucking back?
I’ve got two hysterical girls and a man down. And, apparently, tangos approaching.
My eardrums are ringing with the aftermath of the explosion. Added to the tinnitus there are the crashes and groans as the building continues to come down, sending up billowing clouds of dust that render even my night vision goggles useless.
I can hear no shots. Were the tangos somehow hidden in the building? If so, they’d be dead.
What’s certain is, unless the girls’ rescue was all for nothing, I have to get them to safety. I stand, still holding the youngster. “Come with me,” I say in the local dialect.
The older teenager gets to her feet. She’s visibly shaking, turning to look first at the body lying only feet away, and then at the destroyed warehouse. Her jaw drops and her eyes go blank. I don’t need to have more than a passing acquaintance with psychology to know she’s realising she and her sister would have been blown to bits had we not gotten them out.
“Stay with me,” I snap. She’ll have time to process later. “We’ve got to find somewhere safe.” If the enemy’s approaching, we’re sitting ducks out in the open.
Thinking she’ll follow me if I take the younger girl with me, I spy a half-demolished building opposite. Running across, I move some planks and lower the youngster inside. As suspected, her mom or whatever she is has come with her.
“Wait here. I need to check my teammate.”
Pushing her in, I pull the wood back over the hole to hide them. With my head pivoting as I check out directions in a similar way I would for oncoming traffic on a busy city street, I run back to Pooh.
I already knew it would be too late, and no help on this earth would save him. The cinder block had smashed in the back of his skull, his brains leaking out onto the pavement. Those eyes which now will never set sight on his baby son stare up at me, unseeing.
My comms are fucked, I realise as I go to give a status report, so I take Pooh’s headset off him. Strangely enough, his is still working. Quickly I use it to replace my own, then regret the action, having to tune out Smythe screaming insults at me for having gotten Pooh killed. I am tempted to rip the darn thing off as I scoop up his body, cradling him in my arms.
Why hadn’t it been me? No one would have cared. Instead, Pooh leaves a widow and a fatherless kid. Devastated by the needless death, I try to focus on the two girls. They have a chance of life, years they wouldn’t have had if we hadn’t stayed back to free them. My life would have been worth giving if it saved theirs. My biggest regret is it’s not Pooh taking care of them instead of me, my envisioned distress of his wife and the child who’d never meet him, is a constant pain I can’t shake off.
At last I pull myself together enough to update my status. “Pooh’s dead. We need recovery.”
Smythe’s anger again makes me want to dispense with the headphones. There’s nothing he can say that will berate me more than I’m already beating up myself.
“I hope it was fuckin’ worth it,” he screams at me, then, fractionally more calmly says, “There’s a unit heading your way.”
“ETA?” I’m proud of how my voice only shakes slightly.
“Two hours. They’re on wheels and may have to clear a path. Not losing more men tonight because of you not being able to follow an order. Losing comms now. We’re heading out of range.”
Not having him shouting in my head is one thing I won’t miss.
I concentrate on my immediate problem. Should I leave Pooh lying here or carry him to where the girls are hidden? But that would mean subjecting them to the sight of the body of the man who saved them.
Even though I know in this world they’re probably too familiar with the sight of dead bodies, I can do no more with Pooh now. “I’m sorry, man,” I tell him inadequately, as I close his sightless eyes and leave him.
Returning to the place where I’d stashed the girls, I pull myself inside, covering us all behind our makeshift barricade. Smythe seemed convinced there are tangos in the area. A small number I could take out myself, a whole fucking Taliban army drawn by the explosion? No way. While I’m not averse right now to committing suicide, these girls have to live to make Pooh’s sacrifice worthwhile. So, I’ll stay hidden with them, only showing myself as a last resort to protect them. I settle down to wait.
“What are your names?” I ask, thankful I speak their language. Even so I have to wait a few moments for their shock to subside enough for them to speak to me. “Hey, don’t worry. We’ll get out of this. I’ll protect you.” I wait patiently. “My name’s Stormy,” I try, hoping the humanisation of myself will help them.
Patience pays off. Kids, particularly in this region, are resilient. They have to be. As the night quiets around us with only a few final death cries as the bombed building gives up its fight, the older one starts to speak to me, and slowly their story comes out.
They’re sisters. They were kidnapped, taken off the street, and secured in the building. They were told to stay quiet, else US soldiers would find them and goddamn it rape them before killing them. The older girl had obviously obeyed, the younger, so scared, had cried out. It was that cry I heard, and that one which had saved them. I question them but can’t unravel the mystery of why they were taken. Had someone known about our mission? Had this been premeditated murder? I can’t understand. That, surely, is unlikely. They’re just kids, one the teenager I’d previously thought, she’s eighteen and called Nazia. The younger one is older than I’d expected, a small nine-year-old named Marjan. Neither had answers for me.
Time passes slowly. At last I hear an engine, and making a gap through the planks, see a truck full of men I recognise—SEALs from another unit. Easing myself from my hiding place, I approach cautiously, eyes scanning around me expecting an ambush.
“Where are they from?” The large man I know is called Haystack hisses as he spies the girls who follow me out. He’s as vigilant as me.
As are his team members who are reverently recovering Pooh’s body.
I tell him what I’ve gotten out of them so far. When I finish, I spit on the ground. “A message to the friendlies I suspect. Though whether they knew it was a death sentence, I’ve no idea.”
Haystack shakes his head. “You saved the girls, but while I hate to say this, I’d rather Pooh was fuckin’ alive. He was a good fucking man.”
I’d have both if I could.
“Hey, Stormy. Where did you put the girls?”
As if my nightmare isn’t ready to give up on me, I turn to point them out, only to find they’ve slipped away. Jesus Christ. Now I’ve nothing to show for my actions and can only pray they know their way to safety.
That the finger’s pointed firmly at me—all the blame for Pooh’s death—doesn’t stop when I finally get back to camp, and my team is waiting for me.
“Fuck it, Stormy.” Buster shakes his head, his hands bunched into fists and the way he’s vibrating suggests he’s only one step away from letting them fly at me. “Pooh’s fuckin’ dead.”
I round on him. “You think I don’t know that?” But fuck, how could we leave those kids there?
“Whoa.” Tailor steps between us, poking his finger in Buster’s chest. “Pooh wouldn’t have walked away. He’s got… had… a thing about protecting kids. Smythe shouldn’t have pressed that fuckin’ detonator. It’s a wonder any of them are alive.”
“Smythe was following orders,” Gun snarls. “If you’d done that, Pooh wouldn’t be dead.”
Slice stays silent, but the look on his face says everything. Despite how Tailor had phrased it, Gun’s right. All the blame sits with me.
“What the fuck, Stormy?” Smythe approaches, his face red with rage. “You’ll be court martialled for this. I issued a clear instruction. You and Pooh were to get out of there.”
“And cause a fuckin’ international incident?” I’m enraged. “You know who would have killed those kids? Us. US soldiers. We’d have gotten the blame.”
“And now I’ve got a SEAL dead. And that’s on your head. You’ve done it now, Stormy.”
Tailor’s hand grabs my arm and pulls me to him. “Leave it, Stormy. This is a fuckin’ mess. Let the dust settle, then we can talk about it calmly.”
“What do you propose to do about them? You lost the darn kids as well. No fucking witnesses to question.”
I shrug out of Tailor’s hold and send a disdainful look Smythe’s way. Yeah, he could never think fast on his feet. “They were scared kids,” I spit at him. “They knew nothing more than what they told me.”
Tailor’s the voice of calm again. “We should be able to find their father. Find what shit he’s in.”
“Or not,” Smythe remarks. His eyes darken, signalling promise as he adds, “Who the fuck cares about two enemy brats? This is the end for you, Stormy.”
Is it? Is this how I end? A court martial? A death sentence? But honestly, I don’t give a damn what happens to me. I care more that Pooh won’t meet his son or hold his wife again. I close my eyes, it doesn’t help. The nightmare is still there when I open them. The only thing that makes sense of Pooh’s death is that the girls are alive. Fuck this world. Fuck people who can torture and kill in this way. And fuck Smythe. If it wasn’t for him, Pooh wouldn’t be dead.
I know, at the least, I’m staring the loss of my Trident in the face. Whichever way I look at it, it doesn’t matter where blame sits, I disobeyed an order, and now a teammate is dead. It shouldn’t have happened this way.
Knowing I can offer no acceptable, to Smythe at least, justification, I let myself go numb, barely conscious of anything going on, deaf to the muted conversation around me.
I remain so as I’m packed on the earliest transport headed Stateside, and don’t emerge outside my head until two weeks later when I’m at the Admiral’s Mast, slightly bemused, but only vaguely intrigued as to why I didn’t find myself in a court martial.
There’s a lawyer by my side, but I hadn’t briefed him. Still, he’s seems to have the bare bones of the details. Someone else must have told him.
I’ve barely spoken at all since that last mission, just hidden myself away. Pooh’s death, so unnecessary, had hit me hard. I’ve come to terms with the fact that the person who should take responsibility will get off scot-free, while I, a poor grunt, takes the blame.
“Are you going to say anything in your defence?” the admiral asks me directly.
I’m starting to form a negative response when the lawyer shifts at my side. I stretch out my smartly attired hand, literally waving him down. I suppose, if anyone’s to say anything on my behalf, it should be me.
“Sir, I disobeyed a direct order.” My words are clipped.
“As a result of which, a fellow SEAL died.”
I can’t stop my eyes closing momentarily in pain. Then in a strong voice, I reply, “Yes, Sir.”
“That’s it? No justification? No excuses? No pointing fingers elsewhere?”
“No, Sir.”
Admiral Hillier confers with the squadron commander. I know what the outcome will be and am resigned. I’ll be sent for court martial, then will serve time under lock and key. Doesn’t much matter. Unlike Pooh, I’ll be alive.
I bide my time, hands behind my back, spine ramrod straight, and feet slightly apart as I wait for my expected sentence to be announced. I stare at the Stars and Stripes hanging behind the men who hold my fate in their hands, thinking how hard I’d worked to become a Navy SEAL and how much this was my dream. I’d planned to stay in the service for life, and now it’s all been taken away from me.
The admiral’s loud sigh brings my attention back to his desk. “You don’t make it easy for us. With no plea for clemency, no justification uttered in your defence, I have no option but to remove you of your Trident. Furthermore, you will be dishonourably discharged.”
That’s it?
It could have been worse. Much worse. Would it have gone better had I pointed the finger at the right man? Or, would that have counted against me? It depends whether he’d got his story in first. Nothing would bring Pooh back to his family. I’d gotten off lightly.
So what could I say? “Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”
As the lawyer gathers up his papers, I stand stunned, realising it wasn’t just Pooh who’d lost his life that day. It would have been kinder to kill me as well. Would I go back and change it? Would I leave those kids to die?
No, I wouldn’t even if I had the chance. I can hang onto the hope that they have their life, even though I feel I’ve lost mine.
In a daze, I exit the room to find my team waiting for me. I hadn’t expected to see them.
“Well?” Buster asks.
“I’m out.”
“They’ve punished the wrong fuckin’ man,” Tailor tells me, his voice overly loud. Probably unfortunate as the admiral and commander are walking past.
Surprisingly, the admiral holds back. After examining my face for a moment, then shaking his head, he takes a note out of his pocket and passes it to me. I take it and put it away without opening it.
“You should have spoken up.”
“Would it have made a difference, Sir?” I can’t see how it could have.
He shakes his head. “Maybe not. I’m sorry to lose you, Palmer. But contact the name on that card, Phillip Hound. He could have a place for you.”
A place for me. Nothing could replace what I’ve lost.
“Beer?” Tailor asks half-heartedly when the admiral’s walked off.
Maybe in time I’ll catch up with them as old friends, but not now. Now I’ve got to lick my wounds, pack my stuff, and leave my Navy accommodation behind. What will I do now? I’m a SEAL no more. What else will fill this hole inside me? I’m a complete failure. For the first time in my life, I regret being alone.
I slide my hand into the pocket of my smart pants, knowing I’m entitled to wear the uniform no more. My fingers find the paper I’d just placed there. Could the admiral have handed me a lifeline? I can’t see it, having convinced myself that none exist. But what harm could a phone call do? What have I got to lose? Contact this Hound chap or try to exist in the civvy world. What reputable employment could there be for a man dishonourably discharged? Is there a use for my c
omputer skills and explosives knowledge, or someone who wants to employ a sniper?
Let’s face it. I’ll probably end up washing cars or sleeping on the streets when my savings run out.
I endure the back slaps, the well wishes, the grumblings from Gun about what new man will take my place on the team now. Buster tells me I’m an ass, but an ass they’ve become used to. Slice just shakes my hand and hopes I’ll have good luck. After insincere promises to meet up when they’re next Stateside are exchanged, I watch the men who’ve had my back over the past few months walk out of my life.
Feeling gutted, I walk out.
I have to find a new place to live, somewhere at least to store the few belongings I’ve collected over the years, or maybe I’ll just leave everything behind.
Before I make any decision, I need to get drunk. Very drunk. It turns out to be one of the things at which I excel.
I survive the next few days half in an alcoholic haze and half with the resultant hangovers. On the fourth day, I exit the cheap motel where I’d holed up and decide I need to find my own space, as even cheap soon starts to get expensive. But where should I live? Here, in San Diego?
Apart from the training I’ve undertaken to become a SEAL, I’ve lived my whole life in California. My first impulse is to stay. The climate is good. It’s why the state has become so damn popular. But popular also means high prices, as I find when I look for an apartment at a reasonable rent—I’m not successful. I don’t want to go through my savings too fast. Anything in the price range I can afford is not the type of accommodation I have in mind.
What comes first? Job, or a place to lay my head? Well, the latter for sure. Most reputable employers would want a permanent address, or something better than a shady motel. Most reputable employers wouldn’t want a man who can hack into anything, blow shit up, kill a man at three-quarters of a mile with a single shot, or dole out death by his bare hands in ways they can’t even imagine.
Yeah, I mentally scoff, twelve years as a SEAL hasn’t exactly prepared me for civilian life.
Stormy's Thunder: Satan's Devils MC Utah Page 6
