While each of the previous stories have certainly packed enough excitement to be dubbed thrillers, this time I really wanted to amplify the crucible on the main characters. I wanted to find a situation that would basically put them on an all-out sprint, a collision course that ended in either tragedy or triumph in the near future.
Through a lot of starts and stops, that’s how this story came to be.
Also, to continue a tradition that I know is a bit unusual for authors, I would like to ask one small favor from you. If you would be so kind as to leave a review, I would greatly appreciate it, and do take all feedback very seriously. Also, I greatly enjoy interacting with readers, so if you would prefer email, feel free to reach out to [email protected]. While occasionally a bit tardy, I do always respond.
In thanks, please accept as a token of appreciation for your reading and reviews a free download of my novel 21 Hours, available HERE. Also, feel free to scroll down a bit further for a free preview of my upcoming release Spare Change, available under my T.R. Kohler pseudonym.
Best,
Dustin
About the Author
Dustin Stevens is the author of more than 30 novels, nearly all of them having become #1 Amazon bestsellers, including the Reed & Billie and Hawk Tate series. The Boat Man, the first release in the best-selling Reed & Billie series, was named the 2016 Indie Award winner for E-Book fiction. The freestanding work The Debt was named an Independent Author Network action/adventure novel of the year for 2017.
He also writes thrillers and assorted other stories under the pseudonym T.R. Kohler, including The Ring, Shoot to Wound, and Peeping Thoms and just recently began a new line of preteen books entitled Danny the Daydreamer, a collaboration with his young niece with hopes of enticing children to read more.
A member of the Mystery Writers of America and Thriller Writers International, he resides in Honolulu, Hawaii.
Coming Soon:
Spare Change
My Mira – Book One
There are so many things I want to say to this man, I can barely keep them all contained. One at a time, they force their way to the front of my mind, aching to be expelled, held captive all day, waiting for this moment.
Resting on the tip of my tongue, it would so easy to let them come spilling out. To tilt my head back and bellow them toward the ceiling, left to hang in the air for a moment before drifting down around him, coating him like the fine mist of an Autumn rain.
But therein lies the problem.
For as easy as it would be, as much as I would like nothing more, doing so would display a weakness I refuse to let show. It would lower me to the same level as my captive, making me no better than the man tied to the metal chair in the center of the room, the ammonia smell of his urine soaking through the jeans he wears.
Would be a far greater injustice to the memory I am here to serve, the woman whose love was snatched away from me without cause or reason.
Knowing that, it takes every bit of resolve I can summon to shove those thoughts aside. To make sure no sound finds the man’s ears save the echo of my shoes against the exposed floorboards of the house we are now in.
With each contact, every reverberating sound that echoes through the space, I can see his upper body flinch, a small whimper sliding out over the strip of metallic tape stretched horizontally across his face.
A stark contrast to our first meeting together for sure, in every way possible.
The darkness outside has made it so the room is almost completely black, the faint whispers of sunlight having faded from the sky, long since past strong enough to penetrate the grime-covered windows lining the outer wall. In its stead, I am nothing more than a shadow, a moving specter, a source of unending terror for the man strapped down before me.
Which makes the only word I can think to actually say, the only syllable I trust myself to utter before going to work, all the more unnerving for him.
“Why?”
Chapter One
Lieutenant Commander Lisa Botkins’s hair is cut short, sitting well above her collar. Having been tucked behind her ears so many times, it seems to have a natural curl to it, wrapping itself around her skull. Dark brown in color, it is matched by a pair of wide-set eyes and a rounded chin, a few fine lines putting her age somewhere just north of forty.
Sitting across from her, my mind processes the information in just a few moments, the kind of snap judgments a decade in the service of the United States Navy has instilled in me.
“Good morning,” Botkins opens, a smile on her face, a matching tone in her voice.
“Ma’am,” I reply, dipping my head slightly.
It is the first time I have ever met the doctor, our doing so now a mandated step in my impending exit from the military. So far, her look, her demeanor, even her gender, seem to be the complete opposite of everything I walked in expecting.
Stereotypes, and all that.
“Congratulations,” Botkins said. “Just a few more days in uniform and you’ll be on your way back to civilian life.”
It is actually my very last day of ever putting on the damn thing, the remainder of my hitch all being covered by accrued leave time.
Knowing that’s not what she wants to hear, though, I nod slightly. Somehow, I even manage a smile. “Thank you, ma’am.”
Glancing down to a plain brown folder on her desk – no doubt my medical file – her gaze lingers for barely more than a second before shifting back up to me. If I were to guess, I would imagine the first time she’d ever even seen it, or my name in general, was probably less than an hour before my arrival.
Not that I hold any of that against her in the slightest. The military is a system much too large for any of its component parts to ever keep up with.
“Getting out at ten,” she says, raising her eyebrows slightly. “That’s impressive. Most enlistees end up running into military math.”
Again, I force the smile, knowing it is what she wants to see. Military math is the polite way of saying that once Uncle Sam solicits a second term, it is assumed that they have you for the long haul.
One tour is five years. Two is ten. If they can get you to ten, you’re already halfway to the pension waiting at twenty.
Or as I’ve heard it put a million times before, five is ten and ten is twenty.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Dressed in the standard tan uniform, Botkins leans forward, the springs on her seat creaking slightly beneath her. Resting her forearms on the front edge of her desk, I can see muscle striation along her wrists and neck, telltale features of a woman dedicated to her fitness regimen. Lacing her fingers atop my file, she exhales slightly before showing a flash of even white teeth.
“May I call you Kyle?”
It is the first time a ranking officer has called me anything other than Petty Officer Clady in years. Before that, it was some form of derogatory term, all concentrated into the two and a half years I spent training to become a SEAL, all hellbent on getting me to quit.
For her to be asking such a question now is a pretty easy play to call. She’s trying to build trust and rapport, getting me to feel like this is a safe space, somewhere that I can open up and share how I’m truly feeling.
Not a chance in hell.
“Of course, ma’am.”
The thin slash of white grows wider, the smile expanding. “Kyle, I know this sort of thing isn’t easy, being forced to come in for these sessions. Let me assure you, it isn’t because anybody thinks there is anything wrong with you. We just merely want to help make your transition back into the civilian world as painless and seamless as possible.”
Which, to translate, means they want to know why I’m bouncing after two tours and to make sure it isn’t because I’m going to be on the news one day for taking all the training they gave me and turning it on a cinema or a schoolhouse or something.
Not that they need to worry about any of that with me. I have no lingering bitterness, no simmering hostili
ty toward the government or the country.
I just have other things I’d rather be doing.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Remaining in place for another moment, Botkins looks at me, her dark eyes seeming to search my face, looking for any telltale feature that might give away an underlying feeling.
Good luck with that. If so many years in the suck have taught me anything, it was how to wear one hell of a poker face.
Tapping her palms against the front edge of the desk, Botkins retreats back into her chair. Rocking slightly from the movement, she waits until she returns to upright before saying, “Okay, let’s get started then, shall we?”
Apparently, she doesn’t realize we already have. Seven minutes are gone, leaving fifty-three before I can be out and on my way again.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Raising a hand, Botkins motions to the small space around us. No more than ten feet square, it has all the required diplomas and commendations on the wall, though lacks for a single other identifying sign of character. Not one family photo or knickknack, both seeming to be in line with the bare ring finger on her left hand.
Nothing but plenty of San Diego sunshine streaming through, the all-too-familiar brine of the sea just a few hundred yards away from where we’re sitting on Coronado Island.
“Please, while we’re in here, you don’t need to be so formal. In fact, I request that you don’t. The more we can get past that and open an actual dialogue, the faster you can get through this and on your way.”
I’m not dumb enough to believe much of the first part of her statement, though I can at least recognize that she means well. It isn’t her fault that she’s been put in a position to fail.
And at least we can both agree to the second part.
“Sounds good.”
Pausing, waiting to see if there is more I will add, Botkins eventually sees that I have no interest in expanding one bit more than necessary. A tact, I trust, she should fast grow used to.
“Okay,” she says, her veiled enthusiasm already starting to wane slightly. “Let’s start with an easy one. What’s your first plan for when you get out of here?”
The Scorekeeper Page 28
