by Mel Odom
The FBI agent suddenly looked scared.
“No. Please,” Pittman said hoarsely.
Victor’s heart held no pity. While he’d been held by the FBI agents, he’d been aware of how much they all hated him. When he’d had some control over the situation, that had all been all right. But when that control had evaporated, they had stopped playing nice with him.
But now he had control again.
He pointed the pistol at Pittman’s face and squeezed the trigger. The FBI agent stopped in mid-scream. He slumped, relaxed in death.
“Here,” someone said.
Feet outside the Suburban tromped through the underbrush around the trees the vehicle had smashed up. The smell of gasoline drenched the area.
Victor shifted as quickly as he could and aimed the pistol toward the broken window. When he saw the man’s face, he almost pulled the trigger out of reflex.
“Easy, Victor,” Fat Mike said. “We come to get you out.”
Although he moved the pistol out of Fat Mike’s face, Victor didn’t relax. His body hurt from the impact and his senses still spun.
On his knees, Fat Mike pulled out a switchblade, flicked it open, and put a big hand behind Victor’s head, cradling it protectively.
“You’re gonna fall, bro,” Fat Mike said. “Try not to break your neck.”
“I won’t break my neck,” Victor growled. “Just get me out of here.”
Fat Mike sawed at the seat belts with the knife. The belts parted without warning. Victor dropped but managed to catch most of his weight on a shoulder. For a moment, though, he thought he’d broken his collarbone.
Another biker came over and helped Fat Mike ease Victor from the Suburban. They pulled him to his feet.
“Dead guy in the backseat has the keys to the cuffs,” Victor said.
Fat Mike crawled into the Suburban.
Throbbing pain filled Victor’s head as he gazed around the battlefield. When he saw all the violence that had been wrought, he knew no other term would adequately describe the scene.
One of the Suburbans sat in the middle of the road. Black smoke swirled up from the flames that wreathed the vehicle. The other Suburban was two hundred yards farther on. It lay on its passenger side on the other side of the road.
As Victor watched, one of the bikers tossed a Molotov cocktail into the vehicle and ran. Almost immediately, the Molotov cocktail caught fire and the Suburban began to burn.
Someone was still alive in the vehicle. Victor heard fear-filled screams of pain.
“Idiots,” Victor said.
“Why?” Fat Mike stood up in front of him and started working on the cuffs with a key ring.
“Smoke’s going to mark our twenty.” Victor felt the weight of the cuffs drop away. Fat Mike knelt and started on the ones around his ankles.
“These guys carry GPS devices everywhere they go,” Fat Mike said. “They probably already got ground units and air support closing on us.”
The ankle cuffs dropped away.
“Then we’d better fade the heat,” Victor said.
“Already taken care of.” Fat Mike swept a small radio from his hip. “Move in.”
“Roger that,” someone said.
A moment later, the thunder of Harleys filled the area.
“How did you find me?” Victor asked.
“Wasn’t us,” Fat Mike replied. “It was Tran.”
“How’d Tran find me?”
“You’ll have to ask him. He gave me a number for you to call once we’re clear of this.”
A moment later, motorcycles poured out of the woods. The Harleys weren’t trail bikes and were too heavy for soft ground, but evidently Fat Mike had found suitable places to go to ground.
“Tran sent you?” Victor asked.
“Yeah.”
“What if you hadn’t gotten me?”
Fat Mike met Victor’s gaze dead-on. “We ain’t gonna talk about that, bro. We did get you.”
Victor knew that if Tran was concerned about him rolling over for the police, he would have had him whacked. He didn’t blame Tran. It was just business.
“You okay to ride?” Fat Mike asked.
“The day I can’t ride,” Victor said, “you just drop me in a hole and cover me over.”
One of the bikers rode toward him. Victor threw a leg over the bike, wrapped an arm around the man’s midriff, and sat behind him.
“We got a place near here we can hole up,” Fat Mike said.
Victor nodded. “What about that Marine who killed Bobby Lee? Did you find out anything about him?”
Fat Mike frowned.
“Do you know where he is?” Victor demanded.
“Yeah. They went back to the Marine camp at Lejeune.” Fat Mike scratched his shaggy beard. “I think that’s one beehive you ought to leave alone, bro.”
Victor stared his friend in the eyes. “And you know that’s the one I can’t leave alone.”
Slowly Fat Mike nodded. “I know, bro. We’ll just have to be careful.”
34
>> Obstacle Course
>> Camp Geiger, North Carolina
>> Nine Days Later
>> 0734 Hours
“You ready to give up yet, gunney?”
Drenched in sweat, feeling the burn of hard-used muscles in his legs and back, Shel concentrated on running. Running shouldn’t be hard. It was one of the easiest things to do in the Marines. Even green recruits could run.
“No,” Shel gritted. His shoulder still pained him, but it was healing faster than everyone—but him—expected it to heal. “I got more.”
“I don’t think you have any more, gunney,” the young Marine beside him taunted. “I think you’re old and you’re used up. I think you’re scraping the bottom of the barrel. I think you’re just holding back, trying to save something for whatever you think will be the end of this little walk before breakfast.”
His voice was nasal and full of flat a’s. It definitely marked him as a Yankee. Shel was certain the drill instructor who’d paired the man with him this morning had done so on purpose.
“If you need me to slow down,” the young Marine offered, “you just bleat in pain.”
Ignore him, Shel told himself. He’s just trying to get you off-stride. He stared straight through the countryside ahead of them. He wore aviator sunglasses that diffused the morning sun. His gray USMC shirt had turned dark with sweat.
Max loped at his side, barely even out of idle.
That’s fine, Shel told himself. The dog can run you into the ground, but you’re not going to give in to this guy with the mouth.
The Marine pacing him was in his midtwenties, nearly ten years younger than Shel. Not only that, but he must have been some kind of track star when he was in high school, which hadn’t been that long ago. His name was Barry Garrick.
“They told me you were a great Marine back in your day,” Garrick said.
“I’m a great Marine now,” Shel replied.
“That’s not what I’m seeing. What I’m seeing is old and used up. They tell me you got hurt and it broke your spirit.”
“I got all the spirit I need, junior.”
“We’ll see, grandma.” Garrick increased his stride and started to pull away.
Breathe out, Shel told himself. You need oxygen. Get all the carbon dioxide out of your lungs. Breathe deep and keep breathing.
He lengthened his stride, pushed away the fear and pain and uncertainty, and gave himself to the run. For the last five weeks, ever since he’d been cleared for light duty, he’d gone to the various satellite camps around Lejeune and trained. It hadn’t been light duty. He’d punished himself, pushing his body back into the condition he was used to.
Remy had offered to work with him, but Shel had wanted to do it on his own, away from the NCIS personnel. He needed to be a Marine again, and the only place he could do that was with other Marines.
Shel reached inside himself for the iron strength that had always been his. There was
a part of him that would never bend to anyone or anything as long as his heart still pumped. He’d created that for himself when he realized his daddy would never truly be there for him. He’d started building that strength when his mama had sat him down and told him about the cancer. He’d been fifteen then. His mama had lasted almost three years before she’d lost her battle.
Shel had never understood his daddy’s distance from his sons, but he’d been constantly aware of the emptiness he felt where his daddy’s love and affection should have been. When he’d no longer been able to stand that emptiness, he’d filled it himself. He had forced himself to be invincible and indomitable, and—for the most part—he’d been successful.
But that distance from his daddy wasn’t working now. That phone call about Victor Gant while he’d been in the hospital haunted Shel. He hadn’t found any answers. Estrella’s research into his daddy’s military career had only turned up more questions.
According to what she’d found, Victor Gant and his daddy had never served together. The only thing they had in common was an overlap in Qui Nhon.
So how had Tyrel McHenry gotten to know a proven scumbag like Victor Gant? That was the question. Actually, it was only one of the questions. Why would his daddy have made that phone call? Why had he gotten drunk that night?
Not knowing was frustrating. Not being able to ask was even more so.
Shel squeezed everything out of his body and reached for more. His body became a machine, inflexible and relentless. That was the kind of man he’d driven himself to become, the same kind of man he saw in Tyrel McHenry. Even though he didn’t understand his daddy, Shel respected the quiet strength and steel of the man when he’d buried his wife and gone on working. Those had been the things Shel had chosen to emulate from his father.
Even when Shel became those things, though, his daddy had never seemed to notice. No matter what, Shel just hadn’t been able to win his daddy’s affection.
Those memories worried at his thoughts. Since he’d returned to Camp Lejeune, he’d tried to talk to his daddy a handful of times. But the man had been quieter than ever, and he’d refused to talk about Victor Gant. During their conversations, Shel had dropped plenty of hints that he’d be open to talking about the Purple Royals leader, but his daddy had shut that down.
Shel leaned forward a little more and pushed himself. Inexorably he gained on the younger man. In twenty more strides, he drew abreast of Garrick.
“You’re breathing hard, junior,” Shel said as he powered past the younger man.
Garrick tried to keep pace. Strain etched his features. Then his legs gave out on him. He cursed as he couldn’t even maintain the pace and suddenly fell behind by a wide margin.
Shel kept running. He was deep into the runner’s high now, lost in the charge of endorphins and adrenaline flooding his body. He stayed locked on the terrain ahead.
“Gunney,” Garrick cried from behind him. “Wait up.”
Shel went another twenty paces before he stopped and turned back to Garrick. The younger Marine walked along the trail with his hands on his head to best get oxygen to his lungs.
“You okay, youngster?” Shel asked as he pulled his arm over his head.
“Yeah,” the younger man growled.
“I’m not going to have to carry you back, am I?”
“No.” Garrick shot him a sour look.
“We could always run back to barracks.”
Garrick laced his fingers over his head as his chest heaved. He grinned ruefully. “Maybe in a minute.”
“You just trying to make me feel good?” Shel asked.
Garrick shook his head. “Nope. I’m maybe a little embarrassed.”
“Nothing to be embarrassed about, Marine. You just ain’t put on your full growth yet.”
“Is that how you’re going to tell it when we get back?”
Shel gave the younger man a lopsided grin. “There ain’t anything to tell. What we do out here, it stays out here.”
Garrick kept pacing with his arms over his head. “Where are you from, gunney?”
Shel knew his west Texas accent was showing. He’d heard it himself. It wasn’t from hanging around with Don for the few days his brother had stayed at camp to get him out of Lejeune’s Naval hospital. It came from thinking about his daddy so much.
“West Texas,” Shel said. “Born and raised.”
“I thought I heard that in there. I’m from Boston.”
“I thought I heard that in there,” Shel said.
Garrick grinned. “There are some things you just can’t get past.”
“I know,” Shel said.
>> 0917 Hours
Showered, shaved, and breakfasted, Shel took his place on the firing line. He’d changed into camo pants, combat boots, and a brown USMC T-shirt that fit his body like a second skin. He wore amber-tinted aviator sunglasses and ear protectors.
Other Marines lined the range, all of them awaiting orders.
Max stayed back inside the observation building with Garrick. After breakfast, the young Marine had been free. He’d elected to spend his morning with Shel. Although he wouldn’t have admitted it, Shel was glad for the company.
It was Marine company. Garrick wouldn’t talk unless Shel wanted to talk. Remy would have talked the whole time, and if he hadn’t talked, he would have been hitting on the female support personnel. That was just Remy.
“Load your weapons,” the shooting-range drill instructor ordered.
Shel slammed a full magazine into the pistol and racked the slide to strip and seat the first cartridge. He settled into an easy combat stance, pistol framed and held so his elbows formed 90-degree angles. The fingers of his left hand wrapped around the fingers of his right to provide the push-pull force that allowed the semiautomatic’s action to operate without hanging up.
He didn’t use the sights. He just imagined the pistol was part of his body. All he had to do was point it at the target like he’d point his finger.
The order was given to fire.
Shel focused on the silhouette downrange. They were shooting at fifty feet. Most gunfights in urban areas took place at less than ten feet. MOUT—Military Operations on Urban Terrain—focused on that kind of shooting.
Without hesitation, Shel fired. He aimed for the center mass and saved the last three for head shots. He laid his weapon down, cocked and locked, and waited for the DI’s order to roll the targets in.
When the target came in, Shel saw that all the bullets had pierced the ten-ring in the heart of the silhouette, so close together that they made one hole in a two-inch group. The three head shots had caught the head exactly where the nose would be. They were hardly wider than a quarter.
“Gunney McHenry,” the DI barked as he came to stand behind Shel and inspect the target.
“Yes, Sergeant,” Shel responded. On the gun range, the DI was in command.
“Where were you directed to shoot?”
“Center mass, Sergeant,” Shel said.
“Center mass,” the DI repeated. “Yet I see this target’s head has been air-conditioned.”
Shel barely kept a grin from his face. “Yes, Sergeant.”
“That looks like two bullets passed through that target’s head.”
“There were three, Sergeant.”
The DI peered over Shel’s shoulder. “Well, bless my soul, gunney, it appears three bullets did miss the center mass ten-ring.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“Did you miss your target, gunney?”
“No, Sergeant.”
The DI clapped Shel on the shoulder. “This is my firing range, gunney. We do things my way.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“I say you missed your target and you owe me a beer for each one of those stray rounds. Just in case you can’t add any better than you can shoot, that means you owe me three beers.”
Shel grinned. “Yes, Sergeant. I can live with that.”
>> 1142 Hours
“You
’re not a tank, gunney. You’re not designed to take damage. You’re supposed to float like a butterfly and sting like a bee.”
Shel tried to move more quickly, but even at his best he wasn’t matched in skills with his opponent. During his military career, Shel had never formally taken martial arts the way some of the Marines had. There were sergeants who taught hand-to-hand combat that he wouldn’t have willingly taken on without a baseball bat.
Over the years, Shel had tried to learn the combat systems, but they were too disciplined. He didn’t like thinking that much about responding to a threat. He concentrated on reacting, picking up what he needed as he learned from experience.
Martial artists were deadly when everything went their way. The problem was that things didn’t always go their way. Systems and training failed at some point when things jumped the tracks. Especially when they were pounding away at someone who could take punishment.
Shel could. He blocked punches and kicks with his forearms and legs and kept his gloved hands up close to his face. The Asian guy he faced now was a power lifter in addition to being a martial artist. He was almost as big as Shel, and he was fast. Man, he was fast.
He kept kicking and feinting with kicks, then driving his gloves into Shel’s face. The punches hurt. Shel tasted blood and his nose leaked more.
“Get your hands up, Gunney McHenry,” the DI squalled.
Shel had his hands up. His opponent just had so much raw strength that he occasionally punched through Shel’s defense. His opponent grinned, obviously pleased with himself.
“You’re not a tank, gunney,” the DI bellowed. “He’s turning you into hamburger.”
Shel knew that was true. He wouldn’t be able to handle much more punishment. Without warning, the Marine punched Shel in his wounded shoulder. Bright, hard pain flared through Shel. Before he could recover, the Marine hit him in the shoulder again.
He knows, Shel realized. Someone told him about the wound.