“No worries.” The CO sought to reassure him. “Like you said, your memories are coming back. So you know how five stand works, there’s a menu at each one of the five places where you shoot.”
He stepped up to the first stand and read the laminated menu mounted atop the railing.
“This one says we’ve got a single pigeon coming out of trap five.” Peering out at the traps, he located five for both of them. “Then a report pair is launching from twelve and three.”
Bob spoke up. “Three’s way back there by the bushes.”
The CO consulted the menu again. “Then a true pair comes from nine and four, simultaneously.” He looked up to identify them.
“Got it,” Jonah said, with growing enthusiasm. “Let’s load up.”
Having selected a semi-automatic 12-gauge, Jonah slipped five shells into his shotgun, the most it would hold, perfect for five-stand. Dwyer, on the other hand, had chosen a pump-action riot shotgun with a standard choke. Jonah hadn’t realized it was capable of holding extra shells until he saw the CO load at least ten. Then he gave his shotgun a pump, advancing the first shell.
“You first,” Dwyer offered to Jonah, with a little smile.
With his heart pumping faster, Jonah lifted his protective muffs over his ears. Please, God, don’t let me botch this completely.
Stepping up to the railing, he cleared his thoughts as he did prior to any mission. His being recommended for active duty apparently hinged on his ability to shoot, but no pressure, right?
Shouldering his weapon, he glanced at the menu, looked toward the fifth trap, and said, “Pull!”
Bob thumbed the remote control, and trap five ejected a clay pigeon. It sailed up at an angle far higher than what Jonah had expected. He corrected his aim, tracked the pigeon, fired, and missed it completely.
Bob made a snorting sound.
Way to go, Jonah railed inwardly.
Setting his teeth, he rechecked the menu then located traps twelve and three, the latter by the fence, the former on the opposite side of the range. Not knowing which would spit out a pigeon first, he drew a measured breath and slowly released it.
“Pull,” he said.
A clay disk spewed from trap three. Jonah shattered it, pivoting just in time to pulverize the pigeon coming from twelve.
“Not bad!” he heard Dwyer yell through the muffs.
With a hopeful glance at his CO, Jonah applied himself to hitting the next pair, launched at the same time from targets four and nine. Nailing them both, he repressed a smile of relief and reminded himself they’d barely begun. Still, it was good to know he hadn’t lost his expert marksmanship along with his memory.
Bob scribbled Jonah’s score on a game card, then picked up the remote as the CO took Jonah’s place. By the time the two men approached the fourth stand, they had both hit thirteen pigeons out of fifteen. The phone in Jonah’s pocket buzzed again. Annoyed by the interruption, he took advantage of their transition to steal a quick peek at it.
Keep alert. Don’t trust.
The text message, sent by Master Chief, set off warning bells in Jonah’s head. He jammed his phone quickly back in his pocket and scanned the bushes outside the fence with renewed nervousness.
Don’t trust whom? Lowery and Hammond were out of the picture. Did Rivera mean the CO?
Reeling in confusion, Jonah feigned concentration as he loaded his shotgun. Dwyer, who still had five shells in his larger magazine, waited for him.
All at once, his CO broached the topic Jonah had assumed was taboo in front of Bob.
“Lowery’s suicide and his leaking of intel to The Entity is a bit of an embarrassment to Blue Squadron.”
Jonah glanced up at the man’s narrowed eyes. “Yes, sir. Just so you know, I didn’t mention his treachery to the police, sir. I wouldn’t want a scandal getting in the way of your retirement.”
“I appreciate that, Jonah. As it is, I should’ve retired six months ago.”
“I heard about that, sir.” Master Chief had informed Jonah how the investigation of his disappearance had delayed the CO’s retirement. Apparently, they both had cause to wish it had never happened.
“Yes, but that’s okay. I got to see firsthand what you’re made of. You’re a survivor, Lieutenant. I could use a man like you.”
The words confused Jonah. How could Dwyer possibly use him when he was about to retire?
“Would you like to be back in the squadron, Lieutenant?”
Jonah’s heart beat faster. Now that he’d brought up the matter, Dwyer wasn’t wasting any time. Hope pulsed in him.
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”
“Then, maybe we can work out a deal. I can convince your doctor, your psychiatrist, and Vice Admiral Holland you’re fit for active duty, provided you agree to be my eyes and ears in Blue Squadron once I’ve retired.”
Jonah looked from the CO to Bob, whose face was carefully neutral, then back to Dwyer.
“I’m not sure I follow you, sir.”
The CO sent him a patronizing look. “Allow me to share my political views with you, then.”
Turning his shotgun over, he started loading more shells into the magazine—five more, giving him ten to Jonah’s five. Turning the gun back over, he advanced the first shell with a decisive pump.
Sensing a shift of energy, Jonah wondered what was going on. In the same instant, Bob sidled just close enough to lay hands on him, should there be need for that.
Tamping down his rising concern, Jonah scanned the area to assess his options. The CO had evidently brought him all the way out there so no one would see them, especially not Saul, unless he climbed onto the roof of the lodge.
For Jonah to get away, he would have to vault off the platform, run across the five-stand range, then go up and over the fence, disappearing into the bushes on the other side—impossible to do when the CO had ten shots at the ready.
Dwyer kept talking, in a voice ringing with conviction.
“The problem with our country these days is that our leaders are weak. They don’t want to do what’s necessary to protect the people.” He glanced at Bob who shifted even closer. “Take the Joint Chiefs of Staff, generals and admirals, all of them. You’d think they’d advise the president to take a harder line with terrorists, but they’re too concerned with keeping their positions and their salaries to risk pissing him off.”
Jonah’s thoughts raced. There had to be a reason why the CO was talking politics with him. So long as he kept talking, though, Jonah had time to figure out what the man’s intentions were.
“But a warrior such as yourself,” Dwyer continued, “one who’s been tortured and detained, surely realizes the importance of staying on top of our enemies. What we need is more operators and less politicians running this country, then maybe we’ll get it right. But unless we burn Washington to the ground and start over, that’s not going to happen, is it?”
He paused, waiting for Jonah to agree with him.
“No, sir,” Jonah said to appease him, though the words burn Washington to the ground smacked of subversion.
“The only option, then, is for men like us to take this nation’s security into our own hands. Our enemies can’t strike at us if we steal their weapons first. We amass them and we control them because, in the end, power means peace.”
Who destroyed my warehouse?
All at once, Jonah’s confusion vanished. The answer to the question El Jefe had asked over and over during his interrogations hit Jonah over the head. Dwyer had given the order to blow it up, but only after his followers removed the four boxes of dirty bombs. Then they’d blown up the rest, so they’d never be used against the US at any future time. And what of the bombs? Had they destroyed them as the SEALs were going to do, or were they hoarding them to be used on terrorists at some later date?
If The Entity’s methods weren’t flagrantly illegal, not to mention nationalistic, they might be viewed as brilliant.
Holy smokes, Charlotte Patterson h
ad been right. Lowery was merely the tip of the iceberg, serving at the CO’s behest! It hadn’t been Lowery’s choice to leak intel; Dwyer had been directing him to do it. That made Dwyer the leader of The Entity, a rogue warrior who believed what he was doing was in the best interest of his country.
Reeling with his insight, Jonah gave a thought to Master Chief’s text. Rivera seemed to have guessed the truth about Dwyer—how?
“You want me to take Lowery’s place to leak intel like he did,” he guessed.
Dwyer’s eyes narrowed with contempt. “Lowery was weak. He made mistakes he couldn’t afford to make.”
“Like blind-copying secret recipients in his emails.”
“Just so.”
Jonah fought to keep his cool. “Was it your idea to kill Blake LeMere before he told anyone else?”
Dwyer gave a noncommittal shrug. “LeMere’s death was ruled an accident,” he retorted simply.
Jonah’s righteous anger grew. “What about Lowery’s death? That wasn’t really a suicide, was it?”
Instead of answering, Dwyer’s expression turned incredulous. “Are you going to defend him now? He should have finished you off in Carenero, not just bashed you in the face and walked away.”
“You ordered my execution?” Jonah’s heart pounded.
“Reluctantly, of course. I was still holding out hope.”
“Hope?” The words disrupted Jonah’s thoughts. “For what?”
“You don’t remember a single word of our previous conversation, do you? We stood right here, over a year ago.” Dwyer gestured to the platform they were on. “I asked you then if you would consider joining a few powerful men in saving the world, and you said you would think about it. Well, I think it’s time that you made up your mind, Lieutenant.”
Confusion fogged Jonah’s thoughts, preventing him from thinking tactically. He couldn’t recall any of what the CO was telling him. Nor did he believe he would have ever agreed to Dwyer’s bizarre invitation—or would he?
He’d been so self-absorbed before his captivity, but surely he’d held the same convictions as he did now. Renegades going off and doing their own thing—even in the supposed best interest of their country—was form of treason. He could not have condoned Dwyer’s actions. Of course not. If he had, Dwyer wouldn’t have ordered Lowery to turn on him.
“I’d have thought,” Dwyer added, adjusting his stance and raising his shotgun so it now pointed at Jonah’s thighs, “your experience as a prisoner would have hardened your heart against the enemy and helped you to make up your mind.”
Jonah said nothing as he weighed his options. All he had to do to walk away was to agree to Dwyer’s demands. He could then go straight to NCIS and tell them everything Dwyer had just told him. Then again, NCIS seemed to have an insider looking out for Dwyer. Why else had Elwood’s hard drive been removed? What’s more, agreeing to join Dwyer, whose hands were covered in the blood of LeMere and Lowery, was like signing a pact with Satan himself. Jonah couldn’t bring himself to do that.
Still, refusing to cooperate was going to get him killed. His recent resurrection from the dead would be for nothing. He would miss out on the live he and Eden had rediscovered. Lowery’s death would remain labeled a suicide. LeMere’s death and even Officer Hammond’s would never be answered for. Dwyer would retire, never once having to pay the price for murder. So which was the better choice?
This can’t be happening, Lord. I was supposed to make things right. That’s why you brought me home, isn’t it?
“Enough of this.” The CO’s tone signaled the end of their talk.
All at once, Bob wrested Jonah’s shotgun out of his hands. As Jonah lunged to get it back, the point of a blade pricked the flesh between his fourth and fifth rib. Stymied, Jonah could do nothing but watch Bob toss his shotgun aside. It landed on the back edge of the platform, in the opposite direction from where Jonah wanted to go.
“Either you agree to work for me,” Dwyer said on a reasonable note, “and I get you back in the squadron before I retire, or you die here today. Which is it? Think carefully.”
“I have questions,” Jonah countered, biding his time. If Master Chief knew he was in danger, he would seek him out as quickly as possible or, at the very least, alert Saul, who was closer, to intervene. God will work through his people,, Jonah assured himself.
“Who has ultimate control over this stockpile of weapons? Is it you?” he asked. “Or do you answer to someone else, and, if you do, how do you know that person isn’t a power monger, another Hitler or Mussolini?”
Dwyer sneered at him. “I know what you’re doing, and it won’t work. I’m disappointed in you, Jonah. You were a promising SEAL before you were debilitated. But now you’re weak, like so many others in our profession. I feel absolutely no guilt in sending you to your Maker.”
The words chilled Jonah to the bone. “Too many people know I’m here at the range with you. You can’t just kill me in cold blood and get away with it.”
“Kill you?” Dwyer affected shock at Jonah’s words. “I will have shot you in self-defense, Jonah. You went crazy, snapped at the sound of gunfire, as Bob will testify.” He shook his head with false lament. “PTSD is such a crippling syndrome. That’s why I told Bart Branson to diagnose you with it.”
The CO’s perfidy stunned Jonah. Infuriated by Dwyer’s manipulations, he roused from his paralyzed state and rammed his elbow back into Bob’s arm, dislodging the knife. Throwing himself into a rolling dive, he managed to grab his shotgun as he slid fluidly under the railing.
Falling off the platform, he scrambled underneath it into the crawlspace, relieved it wasn’t covered by latticework. A blast from the CO’s shotgun blew off the end of the planks right behind him.
Beneath a flimsy and temporary shelter, Jonah plotted his escape. He would have to run across the skeet field to reach the fence, using the traps along the way for cover. The odds of succeeding were next to nothing. Dwyer would blow him away on his first sprint to trap four.
“You gotta help me out here, Lord,” he begged under his breath.
Two things happened simultaneously. First, the CO moved to stand directly over Jonah. Jonah rolled out of harm’s way just as buckshot drilled through the planks over his head, peppering the earth right next to him. In the same instant, the report of a second shot rang through the air. Jonah gasped. Bob and the CO both swore in surprise. Thwack! The entire platform shuddered as a lead shot tore through a supporting post.
It’s Saul! Jonah realized, recognizing the distinct report of Saul’s hunting rifle from the few times they’d tracked game together. Fitting it with a scope, Saul could hit targets up to a mile away.
Thank you, Lord! He knew God would find a way to rescue him.
Only problem was, Saul had to reload his Weatherby after every shot he fired, and the CO had a semi-automatic.
Go! Taking advantage of his adversaries’ surprise, Jonah bolted out from under the shelter, sprinting in a zig-zag line toward the nearest trap.
With audible curses, Dwyer fired twice at him and missed because Saul fired simultaneously, sending the CO into a tapdance. Jonah dropped safely behind the lumpy trap number four, about as wide as he was and half as tall. He had to crouch down to cover himself while Dwyer’s fourth shot strafed the top of the trap, sending splinters flying in all directions.
Jonah waited for Saul’s next shot to ring out. Like a sprinter at the starting line, he exploded into motion. Halfway to trap three, with Saul reloading, Jonah turned and fired to cover his retreat, then spun around and sprinted the remaining distance to the trap beside the fence.
Dwyer’s answering shots sliced through the air, mere inches away.
Jonah ducked behind trap three with his heart galloping and his lungs straining. With his back pressed flat against it, he paused to catch his breath.
Saul wouldn’t shoot to kill, just to debilitate, he realized. This wasn’t a war, after all, and it would end his career to kill either man, even to
protect his teammate. But would the CO suffer the same compunction? How could he justify shooting Jonah in the back?
Eyeing the eight-foot, chain-link fence, Jonah decided he should risk it, providing he had the strength to clamber over. Assuming Saul could see him, even though he hadn’t even glimpsed Saul, Jonah propped his gun against the trap, drew one more deep breath, and nodded his readiness.
Seconds later, Saul’s Weatherby rang out a third time. The CO let out a howl of frustration as Saul apparently hampered his firing capabilities.
With another quick prayer, Jonah leaped onto the fence, managing to seize the bar at the top, scrabbling for a toe hold. Finding the links too small for the tips of his shoes, he relied entirely on his arm strength, discovering he wasn’t as weak as he’d feared.
In one move, he pulled himself up and over the bar, managing to land on his feet on the other side. As he forged headfirst into the line of thick bushes, the CO fired off one more shot. It ripped through the slender branches next to Jonah’s head, narrowly missing him. So much for not shooting a man in the back.
Saul’s rifle gave a final report as Jonah wrestled his way out the far side of the shrubbery. The roar of an engine drew his gaze to an unlikely sight: Master Chief’s antique car jiggling across the field in his direction.
As the Ford Falcon lumbered up to him, Jonah yanked open the door and leaped into the passenger seat. Rivera ran a quick gaze over him, then turned them around and floored the accelerator, speeding them away as fast as his old car could go.
“The CO tried to kill me!” Jonah exclaimed, trying to wrap his mind around it.
Driving them toward the road, Rivera cast another worried glance at him.
“He sent Monica Trembley to the office this morning. She took LeMere’s journal.”
“Monica?” Jonah spared a thought for Lucas. “Maybe she was just following orders.”
“Perhaps,” Rivera said with skepticism. His old car lurched onto pavement, putting them on the road that led away from the skeet and trap range toward the front gate.
Returning to Eden (Acts of Valor, Book 1): Christian Military Romantic Suspense Page 32
