Man of War

by Sean Parnell

  A flash of light erupted overhead, and Steele saw an orange finger of flame rushing through the sky. He knew it was a Hellfire being fired from the DAP. He also knew that he was too close.

  The explosion created a tornado, sucking everything inward, and when it reached critical mass, it abruptly shifted gears. The overpressure rushed from the core, moving faster than the speed of sound. A wall of superheated air grabbed Steele and javelined him through the air.

  He was helpless to do anything but take the ride and brace for impact.

  This is going to hurt.

  He had just enough time to tuck his head, and force his muscles to go limp. His instincts screamed for him to throw out his arm and stop himself, but he knew better. If he did that, it was a sure way to break a wrist or a forearm. Shrapnel from the blast hissed over his head and bits of metal and tire rained down all around him. And then he hit the ground.

  Steele landed harder than he ever could remember, and heard the vest’s ceramic back plate crack before he bounced off the ground. He skipped and then skipped again, like a flat stone across the surface of a lake.

  He forced his head up.

  The landscape was on fire, green grass smoldering and trees scorched and leafless. A slight breeze caused broken tree limbs to sway, while a cloud of billowing smoke rose from the pit, carrying the smell of burnt rubber mixed with the caustic taste of Composition B and magnesium.

  Pain radiated in time with his pulse, every breath an effort, and when he finally opened his eyes he could smell the blood on his face. Steele shook the cobwebs off and took stock of the situation. His ears were ringing and the fire made it clear as midday.

  Someone was calling his name.

  “Eric, Eric, talk to me.”

  It was Demo, but Steele couldn’t figure out where his voice was coming from.

  He forced himself up to his knees and unclipped the plate carrier. It fell free and he felt his ribs. They screamed at the touch, and the fingers of his gloves came back red with blood. A shadow fell across his field of view, and when he looked up he saw Nate walking out of the flames.

  “Jesus Christ . . .”

  Nate opened his mouth to yell, but choked instead. His face was bathed in blood from a laceration that started at his scalp and went down to his jaw. He tried to speak again and failed. He stopped and calmly held up a finger, like he was asking Steele to give him a second, and then opened his mouth.

  Steele watched West fish around inside of his mouth, and when he pulled his fingers out there was a shard of metal clutched between them.

  “That’s better,” he said, holding up the inch-long piece of shrapnel. He bent over and spit a long stream of blood on the ground and then said, “Get the fuck up.”

  If Eric still had his pistol, he would have shot him dead. But he had lost it in the MRAP and the only thing he could do was get to his feet. “Nate,” he grunted as he stood up and opened his arms wide to encompass the scene, “it’s over, man.”

  “It’s not over until I say it is,” West lisped, slipping his knife from his belt.

  You have to kill him, Steele thought.

  He drew the Winkler knife from his belt and stepped forward. “What would your family think if they could see you now, Nate? You ever wonder about that?”

  “Don’t you talk about them.”

  “They’d be ashamed of you, just like I am ashamed of you.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I’ve seen enough of what you’ve done to know it’s true. Your wife and son get killed, so what do you do? You kill a bunch of innocents who had nothing to do with it?”

  Nate screamed like an animal and lunged with the knife, feinting a slash, replacing technique with rage. Steele slipped to the right, trying to change direction. West drove the blade toward his gut, and when Eric twisted away, West turned left into a wild kick aimed at his knee.

  The blow numbed Steele’s leg, causing it to buckle. He started to fall and West hammered him in the face with a left hook.

  “Keep your guard up, boy.”

  God damn, he’s fast.

  Steele wondered for a moment if he could beat him, but forced the thought out of his mind. He let himself fall, tucked into a roll, and came up in a crouch, off to Nate’s right side.

  “I went after your son.”

  “Shut up.”

  West kicked at his face, but Steele was ready. He caught the leg, shoving upward, and sliced the back of West’s leg with the blade. “I put everything on the line to find him.”

  Nate screamed in pain, but didn’t slow down. He came in a second time, seemingly unfazed by the jagged tear to his calf. He stabbed at Steele’s face, forcing him to backpedal. Eric wasn’t quite quick enough and the knife caught his chest and cut through fabric and the skin.

  They locked up, exchanging elbows and knee strikes, a close, dirty fight. West stuck him in the leg and tore the blade across his thigh, leaving the back of his arm exposed in the process.

  Steele brought the blade up and dragged the edge across the back of his tricep.

  Nate fired a loping elbow into Steele’s already bruised ribs, knocking the breath out of him.

  Fight through it.

  He didn’t have a choice. To let up now was to die. He stayed in close, slicing West across the jaw and driving his knee into his groin. West gagged, slowed for a moment, and Steele drove the blade down through his shoulder, aiming for the heart. The tip hit the collarbone and blood gushed out onto the handle. Steele tried to bury the blade deeper, but West pulled free, taking the knife with him.

  The DAP came roaring overhead, the spotlight blazing down on the two men. West shaded his eyes and staggered back. Steele looked up to see Demo hanging out the side with a rifle.

  “No, he’s mine!” Steele yelled.

  Steele buried his fist in Nate’s stomach, folding him over like a La-Z-Boy. He hit him again and again, driving him backward. West threw a wide loping punch and Steele blocked it easily and drove his forehead into Nate’s nose.

  “Aaaagghhh.”

  “You want revenge, Nate? Is that it?”

  “Fuck you, boy,” West gurgled.

  Steele hit him in the throat with the web of his hand. West ducked his head in response, and Eric grabbed him with his left hand, pulling him close. With his right he reached over and ripped the blade from his back. Nate tried to push him off, but Steele had the leverage.

  “Goodbye, Nathaniel,” he said, forcing West to look at him.

  And then he drove the blade straight down into his chest.

  West spasmed, eyes locked wide and mouth open in a silent O. Steele held him close, hand on the hilt of the blade, which he drover deeper and deeper until he felt West’s legs weaken and finally give out.

  He grabbed him in a bear hug and gently lowered him to the ground. He laid his mentor’s head on the earth as the DAP circled and came in for a landing.

  “Holy shit, mano,” Demo said as he ran to Steele’s side.

  Eric waited until the life finally faded from West’s eyes.

  “Get me out of here,” he said.

  Chapter 82

  Eric Steele stared out the window while the doctor continued to tell him why it was a bad idea to leave the hospital.

  “The MRI confirms the concussion. You got lucky, doesn’t look like you fractured your skull. X-rays found two broken ribs, a broken left wrist, and a separated shoulder. We sewed up the laceration to your chin and forehead, and I doubt you will have a scar.”

  Eric wasn’t listening. He was looking at his hands, and the dried blood beneath his fingernails. It was West’s blood.

  He knew that killing West had been the only option, but he didn’t feel good about it. In fact, he felt empty. Nate hadn’t always been a monster. At one time he had been the most patriotic man Steele knew.

  A damn shame.

  “Mr. Steele, are you listening?”

  “Yeah, I need to rest up,” Steele replied. />
  “I’d love to see that,” Meg said, smiling by the door to the room.

  Steele looked up to see her standing there with a bouquet of flowers and the brightest eyes he’d seen in days. “Eric, you look like hell.”

  Steele cracked a grin. “I fell off my bike,” he joked.

  Meg stepped into the room, followed by Demo, who was eating a bag of chips.

  “Excuse me, visiting hours are over.”

  “Don’t worry, Doc,” Demo said through a mouthful of chips, “that nurse with the blond hair said it was okay.”

  “Well, she was wrong.”

  “How about you and me go talk to her, then,” Demo said, placing his hand on the doctor’s shoulder and urging him toward the door. “These two have some catching up to do.”

  “Well, don’t we make a good pair,” Meg said, gesturing to the sling on her arm.

  “Two cripples. I was going to call, but—”

  “You don’t have my number,” Meg finished. She set the flowers on his chest, then leaned over and pressed her lips to his.

  It was a long, starved kiss, and for a moment Steele forgot all about his injuries and tried to pull Meg up onto the bed. His broken ribs reminded him with a jolt of pain.

  “Damn, that hurts,” he said.

  “Easy, turbo, what’s the rush?” Meg joked before sitting beside him. “I’m glad you’re not dead, but I’m still pissed you didn’t take me with you.”

  “I told you, it’s illegal.”

  “Nice try. I looked it up.”

  Steele pulled her close and kissed the top of her head, taking in her smell and warmth. He closed his eyes and allowed himself a second to savor the moment.

  “President Rockford wants to give you a medal. Says you are a hero.”

  “I don’t feel like a hero.”

  “You saved thousands of innocent lives. West made his choice.” She looked up at him, her eyes soft and caring. “And you did what you had to.”

  Steele nodded. He knew she was right, but it still wasn’t easy.

  “The way I see it is, you can either sit here and feel sorry for yourself, or . . .”

  “Or what?” Eric asked.

  “You can get your ass up and buy me dinner.”

  Acknowledgments

  Eric Steele has been in the works for almost ten years now. I remember thinking about him on late nights in Afghanistan. Wondering if there’d ever be a moment in my life when I’d get to share him with you. Wondering if I’d ever make it back from Afghanistan at all.

  Well, eventually I did make it home. And I owe my former soldiers a debt of gratitude that I’ll never be able to repay. You had every reason to marginalize me, a young second lieutenant with zero experience. Put me in a remote office somewhere and bury me with paperwork. But you didn’t do that. Instead you took me in. Made me a part of the platoon. You taught, coached, and mentored me on what it meant to be a leader in the United States Army Infantry. When we landed in Afghanistan you had my back for 485 days of absolute hell. It’s because of you, the soldiers of Outlaw Platoon, that I am alive today. Without you, Eric Steele never makes it to the page, because I never make it home. So even though this seems so insignificant, thank you all.

  Just because the idea for Eric Steele was rattling around in my noggin didn’t mean he would ever come to life on the page. To accomplish that mission, I knew I needed an agent. Not just someone to help me sell a book. I needed someone who truly believed in me as a storyteller, and Eric Steele as a character. Scott Miller is that someone. If you’re in the publishing industry, you know his name. It’s gold and there’s a reason why. Scott pushed me to get the story right. The rest, as they say, is history. Serious writers have serious agents. Believe it. Scott, thank you for taking a chance on me.

  At some point during the writing, authors always reach out to people they trust for help. And that is a damn good thing, because these people normally make decent stories good and good stories great. Josh Hood is that person for me. He’s an Iraq and Afghanistan combat veteran who served with the 82nd Airborne Division. He was on a full-time SWAT team in Memphis, Tennessee. He wrote two great thrillers. The list goes on and on for this guy. Why he decided to help me I’ll never know, but I’m glad he did. He speaks my language, the language of the military. Like my best noncommissioned officers, Josh never holds back and tells me exactly how he feels one hundred percent of the time. He knows his guns. He understands tactics. And he’s a good friend who’s always been there for me. Josh, thank you.

  Plotting is difficult work. Crafting a story that moves with a sense of urgency is everything in the thriller world. Like all new fiction writers, I struggled with it. Thankfully I had John Paine and his sage wisdom in my corner to help me. John has a knack for telling a good story and he was able to make concrete suggestions that made this book far better.

  A day after Outlaw Platoon was published, David Highfill told me that if I wanted to try to write fiction, he would help me. I was blown away. To have one of the best, most accomplished editors in the business offer to help me realize one of my lifelong dreams was a blessing that’s difficult to articulate. Here we are six years later, and not only did he help me publish this book, he brought a cast of characters to life that existed only in my head for over a decade. What a gift. In fact, the entire team at William Morrow are top-notch publishing professionals. They are the best in the industry. Tavia Kowalchuk, marketing extraordinaire, Danielle Bartlett, publicity guru, Chloe Moffett, jack of all editorial trades—thank you all from the bottom of my heart.

  To my great friend John Rokosz. We had many conversations about Eric Steele and Nathaniel West. We also had many glasses of whiskey and bourbon in the process. We’ve been friends since high school, we went to college together, and you’re the godfather of my youngest son. I consider myself lucky to have such a great friend in my life. You are a fantastic storyteller in your own right, and one day the world is going to see that. Thank you for helping me get this story right.

  Mom and Dad. You raised an incredible family. I want you to know that I consider myself lucky to have had such amazing parents. All those years raising me. . . . Looking back, being a parent myself now, I realize that I must have been a colossal pain in the ass. Thank you for being so patient with me. And tough on me.

  For the last five years I’ve had the honor of working with Fairway Independent Mortgage Corporation. They fund a charity that I cofounded called the American Warrior Initiative. Over the years Fairway has given AWI millions of dollars and only asked one thing in return—that we go out and do some good in the lives of our nation’s veterans. What’s truly amazing is that every single person who works for the company shares similar character traits. They’re kind. Generous. Loving. Caring. Humble. Smart. I’ve never in my life seen a company operate like this, and it is a blessing to be a small part of the Fairway family. I have the CEO of Fairway, Steve Jacobson, to thank for that blessing. He is the definition of a servant-leader. He embodies excellence and service to others in everything he does. He’s the hardest worker I’ve ever met and someone I aspire to be like someday.

  I would also be remiss if I did not thank Louise Thaxton, the Director of the American Warrior Initiative. She is the most passionate supporter of our nation’s veterans. She leads a mortgage branch with over seventy employees and runs a national nonprofit that does nearly forty public events per year. She truly is a force to be reckoned with, and I am blessed to call her a friend. Louise, thank you for the support and guidance you’ve given me over the years. I am forever grateful.

  Finally, I’d like to thank Ethan, Emma, and Evan. Every day I wake up and thank God that I have you. Watching you grow up has been the honor of a lifetime. You are so unique in your own ways. Every day you make me proud to see the people you are becoming.

  About the Author

  SEAN PARNELL is the author of the bestselling memoir Outlaw Platoon. He is a retired U.S. Army infantry captain who served in some of the heaviest c
ombat of the Afghan War. He recounts those battles in vivid detail during his leadership presentations for the nation’s most successful teams and corporations. He is also the cofounder of the American Warrior Initiative, a charity that honors and empowers our veterans. Parnell lives with his three children near Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.

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  Also by Sean Parnell

  Nonfiction

  Outlaw Platoon

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