by Mel Odom
Even though he felt like a hypocrite, Tyrel put his hands together too. He didn’t close his eyes or bow his head, though. He wasn’t that much of a hypocrite.
Ramon prayed in a strong, steady voice. All of the insecurity he had shown was gone. “God, we give our thanks for this meal and for your blessing. Thank you for the fine young horse you gave to Senor McHenry. He is beautiful. Thank you for our chance to be together today. Keep us in your sight and always guide us in your ways. Amen.”
Tyrel took a deep, slow breath and tried not to think too hard on the fact that he didn’t feel the trust the boy obviously did. God had turned away from him a long time ago. He’d accepted that.
>> 1328 Hours (Central Time Zone)
Tyrel and Ramon ate in silence. Tyrel was never moved much to talk while he ate. Eating was a chore, something to be done so he could move on to his next thing to do. But he remained conscious of the boy, and he was beginning to think he’d made a mistake to ask Ramon to stay. Tyrel still didn’t know why he’d done that.
As Tyrel had watched the boy praying, still clad in his dust-covered clothes, he’d been reminded of how many times he’d seen Shel and Don sit across that table from him. He’d watched them grow up at that table, had talked with them about the ranch and chastised them there too. But he’d missed a lot of dinners with them because there was always something to do around the ranch.
Had he attended more dinners than he’d missed? Tyrel honestly couldn’t remember, and it hurt him that he didn’t know. Then he got angry because he hadn’t been the one to choose to be away from the table on those evenings. He would have liked to have been at dinner instead of chasing cows, mending fences, or working on the equipment.
His life hadn’t gone the way he’d wanted it to in a long time. Still, the guilt even at this late date was sharp and jagged-edged. It cut especially deeply today, and he didn’t know what had caused that.
Looking at Ramon in his work-stained clothes, Tyrel remembered how Shel had been as a boy. Quiet and methodical, always giving himself to everything he’d ever wanted to do. He had constantly challenged himself and everything around him, like he could throw a saddle on the world and ride it till he had it in hand.
But listening to Ramon’s words had made Tyrel think of Don. Like his mama, Don had always been pulled toward the church and God. When he’d been young, Tyrel had been like Shel, but he’d given his Sundays to the Lord. That was how he’d met the boys’ mama. They’d gotten to know each other at Sunday school, then started dating at church socials.
When he’d gone away to Vietnam, Tyrel had known she might forget about him or give up on him. A lot of women during that time did. After the events that night at Qui Nhon, he hoped she had forgotten about him. He stopped writing her back; he started drinking and just put in his days on patrol, expecting the bullet that would cut him down and balance the scales that he owed.
But that bullet never came. And when he’d gotten back to the States, she was waiting. Despite his best intentions to turn away from her because he knew he wasn’t the man she thought she knew—and definitely not the man she deserved—he’d been drawn to her.
“Senor?”
Tyrel looked up at Ramon. “What?”
“Are you going to call Pastor Don and his family?”
“Why?”
“To tell him about the colt. You promised him you would call.”
Joanie and the kids wanted to know when the colt was born. Tyrel had forgotten that.
“The children will want to see the baby horse,” Ramon went on.
“I’ll give ’em a call when we finish up here,” Tyrel said. He felt resentful about having to do it, though. Don and Joanie knew how to keep their distance from him, but their kids didn’t. They kept trying to treat him like a grandpa.
“Good.” Ramon smiled. “They’ll like the colt.”
Looking at the boy, Tyrel suddenly missed Shel and Don when they were that age. Shel had been the fireball of the two, always in the middle of something and always pushing himself to go faster and higher. Don had been more quietly contemplative, but he’d let Shel talk him into trouble more than a few times. They’d never gotten into bad trouble, but often enough they’d gone and done when they shouldn’t have been going and doing. It was just how boys became young men.
He pushed those feelings away. He had no place for them. More than that, he didn’t deserve them. Their mama had been the real parent in the family. Not him.
He turned his attention to eating and walled away from the past like he’d done every day since Qui Nhon. He’d lost his past the night he shot that soldier, and he had denied the future every day he’d lived since.
That was the best he could do.
He’d held up for forty years doing that. If Victor Gant’s name hadn’t come at him, he was sure he could have finished out his tour on this world and been done with it. He concentrated on that and thought about the work he had ahead of him.
>> Visitors’ Room
>> Presbyterian Hospital
>> Charlotte, North Carolina
>> 1432 Hours
“See? I told you he was here.”
Don gazed across the room and saw Max lying at Remy Gautreau’s feet. Remy was busy chatting up a young woman in a neighboring chair.
“I still don’t understand how you knew that,” Don said. Over the years that Shel had been paired with Max, he’d often been amazed at the connection between the two.
“Part of being a Marine,” Shel responded. “I couldn’t explain it to you if I tried.”
Max’s ears pricked when he recognized Shel’s voice. Still, the Labrador didn’t move from where he was. His pink tongue snapped back into his mouth and he tensely waited.
Shel made a signal. It was so fast and so small that Don, who was watching, didn’t see it.
Immediately the dog hurled himself up and sped across the intervening space. Other people in the waiting room pulled back, but two small boys laughed and pointed at Max. His attention yanked from the pretty woman sitting beside him, Remy made a frantic grab at Max, but he was way off the mark. Then he saw Shel and relaxed.
Max immediately sat on his haunches in front of Shel. He nosed Shel and sniffed the offered palm.
“Hey, buddy,” Shel said in a low voice. Carefully, using the IV stand, he knelt beside the dog. Max licked his face in obvious excitement. “It’s good to see you too.” Shel patted the dog.
“Well, look who came back from the land of the dead,” Remy said as he joined them.
Shel looked up. “Don, this is Remy Gautreau. Remy, my brother, Don.”
“Are you supposed to be out of bed?” Remy asked Shel as he shook Don’s hand.
“Sure,” Shel said.
“No,” a stern feminine voice said from behind Don. Dread filled him immediately. “He’s not supposed to be out of bed.”
Busted, Don couldn’t help thinking.
Shel reached for Don, who helped pull him to his feet. At the same time, Max stood and took a defensive posture in front of Shel.
The nurse was in her fifties and obviously liked the position of power she had. She had a clipboard in one hand, and her other hand was braced on her hip. Her hair was permed, and she wore pale pink glasses.
“You’re not supposed to get out of that bed, mister,” the nurse said disdainfully. “You’re going to be in big trouble with the doctor.”
Doctor, Don thought. The woman used the term like she was addressing a recalcitrant five-year-old.
“Yes, ma’am,” Shel said.
“Don’t ‘yes, ma’am’ me. You’ve got my whole nursing staff in a tizzy.” The accusation came out hard and high-pitched.
Don cringed a little. It was the type of voice that bullied other people into submission.
A deep, low growl came from Max’s chest.
The nurse peered at the Labrador. “Is that a dog?”
“No, ma’am,” Shel said immediately. “That’s a Marine.”
“That’s a dog,” the nurse argued. “What is a dog doing in the hospital? And why is he growling at me?”
“He doesn’t care for your tone of voice, ma’am,” Shel said. He talked more softly. “If I was you, I’d use my inside voice right now.”
Don knew that Shel could stop Max’s growling with a single word, and he knew there was no threat from the Labrador. But the nurse didn’t.
“I’m going to get security,” the nurse said defiantly. She backed away; then—when she felt like she’d reached a safe distance—she turned and fled.
“Man,” Remy said, “you are gonna be in so much trouble.”
“Nah,” Shel said.
“Yeah, you are,” Don said.
“Is he like this all the time?” Remy asked Don.
“I can’t take him anywhere,” Don said.
“You guys are funny,” Shel said. “Maybe you should think about getting an act together.”
“Are you supposed to be out of bed?”
Don turned and saw Commander Coburn coming up the hallway.
“No, sir,” Shel said. Despite everything, Don noticed that his brother stood a little straighter.
“Now,” Remy whispered, “you’re a dead man walking.”
At that moment, the head nurse returned with three large security guys in tow. She pointed at Shel and Max.
Smoothly the commander stepped up to intercept the group. He opened his badge case and froze the security guys in place.
“Who’s in charge?” the commander asked.
The three security guys looked at the nurse.
“We won’t need you,” the commander said.
The three security guys faded like morning mist.
Suddenly alone, the nurse looked around nervously.
“I’ll need to speak to the doctor in charge of Gunnery Sergeant McHenry,” the commander said.
“Doctor is busy.”
“Then get someone else who can sign Sergeant McHenry out.”
“Only the doctor can do that.”
The commander sighed. “Then find the doctor and get him here.”
The nurse looked like she was going to protest, but there was something in the commander’s steely gaze that broke her in an instant. She turned and hurried away.
The commander walked back to Shel. “Are you ready to get out of here?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then let’s get your kit packed. I’ve got a bed and a doctor waiting for you back at camp.”
Shel grimaced.
“I’m pulling rank on this doctor only to get you clear of the situation so we don’t endanger civilians,” the commander said. “We took Victor Gant down this morning, but that doesn’t mean all the Purple Royals are going to stay clear. Do you read me?”
“Five by five, sir.” Shel saluted.
“Then let’s get a move on. We’re burning daylight.”
Shel took a step and almost fell. Even though he’d been prepared for the eventuality, knowing Shel would push himself past the point of endurance, Don couldn’t get to him in time. But the commander shifted so quick Don almost didn’t see the movement. He slid under Shel’s arm and supported him.
“I’ve got you,” the commander said. “Do you want a wheelchair?”
“No, sir. I got out here on my own two feet. If you don’t mind helping me, I’ll get back the same way.”
“All right.”
Amazed, Don watched them go. Max walked on the other side of Shel.
“Your brother’s a tough man,” Remy said.
“He always has been,” Don said.
“Give him a couple of weeks, he’ll probably be good as new.”
“I know.” Don took a breath and let it out. “I worry about him, though.”
“It’s okay to worry,” Remy said. “It’s good to worry. But you have to realize that he’s going to chart his own course no matter what you say or do.”
“I know that.”
“Brothers are special,” Remy said in a wistful voice.
The tone caught Don’s attention immediately. Whenever someone said cryptic things like that, sounding as if they were halfway in the present and halfway in the past, he knew there was a story. There was always a story.
“You have brothers?” Don asked.
“One,” Remy said but didn’t turn to look at Don. “I had one.”
“I’m sorry,” Don said.
“Yeah,” Remy said. “Me too.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to get going if I’m going to stay up with the commander. It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Don.”
Don took the hand Remy offered. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Remy. And if you ever feel the need to sit down and talk about brothers, I’m here.”
Remy held his gaze for a moment. Don saw the pain in the other man’s eyes.
“I appreciate that,” Remy said. “Maybe someday.” Without another word, he took his hand back and walked away.
Don watched him go and wondered at the pain and confusion he’d seen in Remy’s gaze. But Don knew from years of experience that whatever the story was, it was meant for another time.
33
>> Braddock Road
>> Lake Barcroft, Virginia
>> Thirty-Two Days Later
>> 0717 Hours
Death struck without warning on Braddock Road.
Seated in the back of the Suburban, Victor Gant stared through the dust-covered windshield between the two FBI agents. He was cuffed at the ankles and wrists, and the chains from both of those were secured to the thick leather belt around his waist.
Hospitality since he’d been among the FBI under Urlacher’s care had dropped tremendously. Victor no longer received much in the way of preferential treatment. In fact, he was convinced that any day Urlacher would send him back to Charlotte and let them prosecute him.
Victor stared at the forest on either side of the two-lane asphalt road. The early morning sun had barely started to penetrate the tightly packed trees.
“You know,” Special Agent Ralph Pittman said from the seat beside Victor, “this game you’re playing with Urlacher has about run its course.”
Victor ignored the man. Pittman was in his late thirties, old enough to talk with some experience but still too young and too full of himself to know when to shut up.
“Urlacher’s getting tired of bagging small fish,” Pittman said.
The MS-13 connection Victor had given the FBI wasn’t small. Victor knew that. It had been a major coup locally, but it wasn’t the international connection Urlacher wanted.
Victor also knew that not giving Urlacher that information was the only thing keeping him alive at the moment. If he ratted Tran out and Tran found out about it, his life would be over.
But he could hold out only so long.
When the driver’s side window suddenly cracked and the driver’s head jerked sideways and blossomed crimson, Victor thought the sniper had been after him. He realized what the danger was before any of the FBI agents in the car did. After all, none of them had ever had to deal with Charlie shooting at them from the brush.
Victor ducked his head into his lap and wrapped his hands over the back of his head. He’d seen guys who had lost a finger or two in an attack but had kept their heads intact.
The Suburban swerved out of control. The agent in the passenger seat grabbed the wheel and tried to keep the vehicle on the road. Despite his efforts, the vehicle swerved across the oncoming lane.
Two blocker vehicles, one in front and one in back, accompanied the transport Suburban. Instead of keeping Victor in lockdown at FBI headquarters in Quantico, Urlacher had demonstrated control by having Victor roused at 5:30 each morning he was going to be interviewed, then driven from the safe house near Lake Barcroft.
For the last two weeks, Victor had been out of ideas. The only thing that had kept him going was his stubborn refusal to give up and give in.
Now he was going to die.
Explosions sounded
all around him.
Pittman cursed and pulled his pistol from his hip.
For an instant, Victor thought about attacking the man and taking the pistol from him. The chains were too short to allow that, though.
Without warning, the Suburban slipped off the road and flipped over onto its side. The ground scraped by only inches from Victor. Then the window hit a rock or stump or root embedded in the ground and shattered. The safety glass broke into tiny cubes and trickled away.
Victor slammed into the door and rattled against the exposed ground for a moment as Pittman’s body hammered his. Then he felt the Suburban flip completely upside down and continue skidding.
All around Victor, the world seemed to have gone into slow motion. The Suburban spun slightly as it careened across the ground. He caught a glimpse of the rear blocking car stopped in the middle of the road. The vehicle was already wreathed in flames. Judging from the damage, Victor thought it had been hit by a rocket launcher.
Then the Suburban slammed into the trees at the side of the road. The windshield gave way as branches and underbrush invaded.
As Victor hung upside down in the seat, held in place by the belts, his head slammed into the window frame. He tried to hold on to his swirling senses, all too aware that gunfire was coming closer. He thought he heard footsteps outside the vehicle.
Then his vision and hearing splintered. He surrendered to the darkness.
>> 0723 Hours
Pain strobed Victor’s head even before he snapped his eyes open. The bright light made him close them again, then blink till he could stand it. His ears felt like they were packed with cotton; sounds seemed far away.
Beside him, Pittman flailed weakly and cursed. Blood spooled from his mouth and ran up his face, which was actually down because he was inverted as well. His pistol lay loose on the Suburban’s ceiling. He flailed weakly for the weapon.
Concentrating, Victor reached for the pistol. There was just enough slack in the seat belts and the chains that held him for him to reach the pistol. He curled his fingers around it, then brought it up and pointed it at Pittman.