Danger Close

by S L Shelton

  “Thanks,” I said over my shoulder, “For confirming it was the Defense Intelligence Agency that's holding his file.”

  You should stop, my other voice whispered.

  Shhhh, I thought. I'm remembering something important.

  I could hear John swearing under his breath and Nick chuckling in the background, but I was trying to relax my thought filters to allow the memory to continue to flow.

  “S28. Short-term amnesia. Vegetative state,” I mumbled.

  “S28?” Nick asked. “We haven’t used that in years.”

  John looked at Nick and then back at me.

  “Tell me about S28,” I said without looking at either of them.

  “It was a quick knockout drug that scrambled short-term memory. Pretty effectively too,” John said.

  “Yeah,” Nick chuckled. “It left a few people brain-damaged as well, which is the main reason they stopped using it.”

  “Who made it?” I asked, turning back toward them.

  “How the fuck should I know?” Nick said, plopping down into the chair I had been occupying moments earlier.

  You should really stop now, the voice said again.

  Hush. John tried to help me find out about my dad…he's no threat.

  But you are revealing too much information without understanding it all.

  But John was struggling with the answer—I could tell he knew.

  “GGP Labs,” he said with resignation.

  I abruptly turned to leave the office.

  “Where the hell are you going?” John called out after me.

  “I have to go see a man about a radioactive spider,” I called out.

  “Go after him,” I heard John say to Nick.

  A second later, he trotted up next to me. “What happened in the meeting?” he asked.

  I wasn’t sure if it was a test or if he truly wanted to know. But since I still didn’t have any classified information, I decided to respond.

  “The NSA was kind enough to confirm that my father’s death is classified,” I said.

  He thought about that for a second before replying. “How’d you trick them into telling you that?”

  I smiled. “Well, if I told you that, then I’d have to kill you.”

  He chuckled. “You know I’m not supposed to let you go to GGP,” he said with amusement. “I have to get you to the Farm.”

  Don’t say it, my voice warned.

  “Then you’ll have to stop me,” I said with determination, “Because that’s where I’m headed.”

  Relax, came a whisper in my ear as the hairs rose on the back of my neck.

  What?

  BANG! I couldn’t tell what hit me, but it was hard and cold. As I began to drift into darkness, I had the distinct impression I heard myself say, “You motherfucker.”

  **

  I woke to a massive headache, my cheek pressed against the hard vinyl of a passenger-side door. The rhythmic clacking of the tires seemed somewhat comforting until I moved my head. The pain shot down my neck and up into my throbbing skull.

  I moaned.

  “Aspirin's in the glove box in front of you,” Nick said as he dropped a bottle of water into my lap.

  I opened my eyes to see it was close to sunset.

  “You didn't have to hit me so hard,” I muttered as I twisted the top off the bottle of water.

  “You seem to have a pretty thick skull, so I wasn't sure,” he said quietly.

  I twisted my neck, sending a fresh wave of pain from the base of my skull to the middle of my back. “Where are we?” I asked as I popped the glove box open and reached for the aspirin.

  “Almost to A.P. Hill,” he said, referring to Fort A.P. Hill in Caroline County, Virginia.

  I dropped the pills into my mouth and took a deep swig of water before sitting upright to take an account of my situation.

  My hands aren't bound, I thought. That's good.

  I looked behind me to see my duffel bag and my canvas messenger bag in the backseat.

  Packed for camp.

  I suddenly realized I felt lighter than I should have, so I reached up and patted my side where my Glock should've been.

  “It's gone,” Nick said. “Trainees aren't allowed personal weapons.”

  I shook my head and reached into my front pocket for my phone.

  “That's gone too,” he added. “No outside electronic devices allowed.”

  I flopped back against the seat, sending another jolt of pain through my neck.

  Nick chuckled.

  “What?” I asked.

  “The last two hours have been the best I've ever spent with you,” he said. “I actually started liking you there toward the end.”

  “Fuck you,” I muttered, smiling.

  “Fuck you too, Monkey Wrench,” he replied, grinning just as broadly.

  Nick was a good guy. I was almost sad that I was going to have to teach him a lesson someday soon.

  End of Danger Close,

  Book 3 in the 7 part Scott Wolfe series

  Acknowledgments

  I wish to thank my editor, Brenda Errichiello, for her tireless efforts during this project. Her insights and keen eye have brought out a shining prize.

  Thanks to Melissa Manes at Scriptonis for the extra proof editing. It’s quite an honor to have a vocal fan jump onboard this project. Your efforts have made my story better.

  To my wife, Diane, who remains my greatest support, I wouldn’t have ever been able to bring this series to life without your constant and devoted efforts.

  To my friend, Don Cooper, whose fount of wisdom seems inexhaustible. In matters of law enforcement, military, world events, chemistry, and so much more, I thank you for being my sounding board, encyclopedia, and friend.

  I'd also like to thank all of my beta readers and those who have given me feedback on the series, particularly Jon, Kevin, James, Charlotte, and Linda. Your opinions and suggestions add to my growing understanding of this dynamic and memorable cast of characters.

  For my cheerleaders and enthusiastic friends—particularly Trudy, Wendy, and Ralph…who needs a publicist with friends like you? Thank you for your vocal praise of the project.

  And finally, I'd like to thank our children…grown adults, all of you, with your own opinions and interpretations. Your “beta reads” and input are quite valuable throughout the process—thank you Megan, Lauren, and Alex. I love you.

  Look for Scott Wolfe’s return in

  Wolfe Trap

  Books by S.L. Shelton:

  Hedged

  The Scott Wolfe Series:

  Waking Wolfe

  Unexpected Gaines

  Danger Close

  Wolfe Trap

  Harbinger

  Predator’s Game

  Splinter Self (Coming 2017)

  Back story: Lt. Marsh

  Follow S.L. Shelton at:

  wolfeauthor.wordpress.com

  www.goodreads.com/WolfeWriter

  facebook.com/SLShelton.Author

  SLShelton.com

  I hope you enjoyed reading Danger Close. If you did, I’d like to encourage you to post a review on Amazon and on www.goodreads.com. Your reviews are the best way to keep an author churning out the work. Feel free to contact me on Twitter if you have any questions or thoughts about the stories. I love hearing from you…you make this process a joy for me.

  Very best regards,

  S.L. Shelton

  Twitter: @SLSheltonAuthor

  An excerpt from

  Wolfe Trap

  Time: Unknown—Location: Unknown

  “Wake up!” someone yelled as water splashed my face.

  The icy cold slap made me jerk my neck, reminding me immediately of all the injuries I had suffered. When? How long ago was that?

  I didn’t know where I was or how long I had been unconscious, but I could tell I was no longer outside: I could hear the echo of the voice on the walls. Someone pulled the hood from my head and a powerful light blinded me—light so inte
nse I felt it burn the insides of my eyes.

  I tried to turn my head away from its source, but a punch to the side of my face and strong hands pulled my head back around.

  “Eyes front,” a man yelled.

  American. Possibly Northeastern.

  I pressed my eyes closed, attempting to block the assault on my optic nerves, but even through my lids, it was nearly bright as midday.

  “Open your eyes or I’ll slice your lids off,” he said as someone punched me again.

  I forced my eyes open to slits, trying to get used to the blinding, painful glare in front of me.

  “Open them!” he yelled again as the light was blocked momentarily, followed by a punch to my gut, forcing the air from my lungs.

  I opened them as I gasped, trying to force my lungs to take a breath and force some clarity into my mind.

  Dark room, light in front of me, two men behind me holding my head, one man in front yelling at me—American, I thought, taking inventory of my situation. Hands tied to the arms of the chair, feet tied to the legs of the chair, no shirt…do I have pants? YES! Pants, but no shoes.

  “Your name?” the man asked.

  I squinted to try to see him beyond the light. As the blinding white began to subside, my eyes adjusted, I squinted to look past the glare.

  A few seconds ticked by as they waited for my answer—I used the respite to gasp air back into my lungs. Then another person stepped between the light and me. The punch delivered to the side of my face rattled my senses, leaving the metallic taste of blood in my mouth and the smell of wet rust in my sinuses.

  Four men, I thought as I spit blood onto the floor in front of me.

  “Let me explain how this works,” the man said—so far the only one who had said anything. “We’re going to ask you questions—”

  Whack! Another punch crashed into my jaw.

  “—and you are going to answer them—”

  Whack! And another.

  “It’s simple—we ask; you answer.”

  Whack!

  “Very simple... It couldn’t be any simpler.”

  Whack! The last one made me feel like my teeth had come loose on that side. I felt a stream of blood roll from my nose, down my lip, and then fall from my chin.

  There were several seconds of silence.

  “Maybe he forgot the question?” one of the men holding my head said jokingly.

  Whack! To the jaw.

  “Your name,” the main talker said again, eerily calm.

  I looked up again, trying once more to see past the light, and I could just make out the vaguest impression of a head covered in a black mask—seeing his face wouldn’t do me any good…no microexpressions to read.

  I continued to look in the direction of his head as he moved around behind the bright light. I could no longer see him, blinded once again, but I knew where he was…I could feel him.

  The chair is metal, the floor is concrete, the ceiling is high, the men behind me have bathed recently, I thought, continuing the accounting of my surroundings.

  Whack! To my nose.

  The guy punching me has a sore wrist and can’t lock it on impact, I thought. Good for me…one of the guys I grabbed, probably. I’ll last longer that way—unless they do it in shifts.

  “Name,” talking man said again, barely above a whisper.

  I could see a thin line of light on the floor behind him: a door.

  Several seconds passed until he finally said, “Loosen him up a bit.”

  I heard boots shuffle toward me followed by, one, two, three, four, five, punches to my face and head. I counted them as my cheek numbed and the pressure in my sinuses made me feel as if my eyes would pop from its socket, having no room left inside my head. The last two punches, delivered to my eye and brow, seemed to have a weakened resolve. I’m sorry, is my face hurting your wrist?

  My left eye began to close on its own—at least that’s what I thought, until I realized it was a thick stream of blood from somewhere above the lid.

  “Shit,” someone muttered in the background. A woman! Four men and a woman.

  A few seconds passed in silence before talking man scoffed, “Huh. You must like the rough stuff.”

  Are you there? I asked my other voice. The reply came in the form of a sudden ringing in my right ear; a high-pitched tone like you sometimes hear when the silence of a quiet room produces its own false sounds.

  “More?” came the voice of the one who had been punching me. I could now see he was wearing a mask as well.

  “No,” talking man said. “Bring the bucket over.”

  Punching guy walked to the side and I heard metal scraping against the floor from behind as they dragged something toward me. The sound of water sloshing onto the concrete floor made my chest contract.

  Shit! I thought. Well at least I’ll finally get a drink.

  I heard the sound of a plastic bucket knocking against the side of metal and then water splashing over the edge as he moved closer to me.

  “Tip him back,” punching guy said.

  I was suddenly falling backward. I reflexively flailed with my legs as I went off balance, but the ties around my ankles stopped me from kicking out.

  “Towel,” punchy guy said.

  I heard footsteps from the side and got the whiff of woman before a towel stretched roughly over my face. The first few splashes were on my forehead but the wicking rapidly brought the moisture to my nose and mouth. As he sloshed more on me, it quickly became a feeling of submersion. I took some of the water into my mouth and swallowed gratefully despite the panic rising in my head.

  After a few more seconds, I suddenly couldn’t keep the water out of my mouth or my nose and my sinuses began to feel the pressure of being too full. I blew out with all my breath, but they immediately filled again...that’s when the real panic set in. My next breath contained water.

  I tried twisting away as the panic ran up my spine, thrashing as best I could, but they held firm as I pictured water filling my lungs. Several seconds passed as I struggled for a breath, trying to spit the water from my mouth while my nose and sinuses filled with fluid.

  “Let’s try again,” talking man said.

  The water stopped as they pushed me up again; letting my head crash forward when the front legs smacked the ground. I closed my throat to try to squeeze the water out before taking a breath, but I had no breath to blow out—I inhaled. The rattling in my chest told me I had water in my lungs. One raspy, gasping breath after another, I tried to clear the fluid and the panic from my body.

  Finally able to take a deep, bubbling breath, I coughed out as much water as I could before the two behind me grabbed my head again.

  “Name,” talking man said quietly.

  I coughed some more, retching up as much as I could from the upright position.

  I heard the bucket hit the floor, followed by another punch to the side of the face that wrenched my head from the hands behind me. A few seconds went by as I continued to cough, spitting blood and water on my chest.

  In the middle of a deep breath, the hands grabbed my head again, twisting it up and forward. I snapped my neck to the side in anger, breaking the grip of the men who were holding it.

  “Look…he’s feeling stronger,” he said. “Tip him back again.”

  I heard the bucket knock and scrape against the concrete floor as I tipped backwards in the chair again.

  “Wait!” I yelled through my gurgling throat.

  There was a pause in my backward momentum and then set forward again.

  “Your name,” talking man said softly, leaning in close enough for me to smell his breath.

  Burgers…it’s either close to lunch or dinner time.

  I coughed again, taking a deep raspy breath before answering.

  “Your name!” he yelled, not being very patient.

  I cocked my head, stretching the tension out of my neck to look at him sideways. “My name is—” I muttered, before taking another rattling breath. “
—John…and I am the Walrus.”

  A grin spread across my sore mouth. Wham! Something hard hit the back of my head.

  “Coo coo ca-choo, motherfucker,” one of them said as I started blacking out and the chair tipped backward.

  I guess they aren’t Beatles fans, I thought as I slipped into sodden darkness.