Never Forget: A Novella in the Echo Platoon Series

by Marliss Melton

  One look at Draco’s bright eyes and quivering snout, and Maya had to agree with her son.

  The sound of the shovel striking plastic brought an exclamation of triumph from the onlookers. Higgins reached down, grabbed the buried object, and pulled out the bucket.

  Curtis dropped to his knees and threw his arms around Draco’s neck. “Braaf, Draco!” He scrubbed the dog’s head as he praised him. “Braaf!”

  With the dog’s teeth so close to Curtis’s face, Maya tensed with sudden concern, but then Draco turned his head and licked Curtis’s face. The dog appeared to be smiling. Suddenly she knew Curtis was right—he and the dog had bonded. There’d be no more bites to worry about from here on.

  Higgins had pried the lid off the bucket and was doling out the various wicked-looking handguns. Their owners were quick to reclaim their firearms, making Maya guess the SEALs had probably felt hugely vulnerable without them, even for that short period of time.

  “What do you think?”

  Turning her head, she caught Rusty regarding her profile intently.

  “I’m impressed,” she admitted. “And not only with the dog.” She held his gaze, letting her admiration for him show.

  His coppery eyebrows shot up. “Me?” he asked. “I get brownie points?”

  “You do.”

  “For what?” he asked.

  “For everything.” She kept her reasons to herself—no need to give the man a big head. But she’d seen firsthand why his men revered him. He looked out for others—not just for their physical welfare but for their mental and emotional health.

  He’d looked out for Curtis and he was looking out for her, too. Everything about Rusty was too good to be true. Or were her feelings for him blinding her to some fault she couldn’t see?

  Shaking off her doubts, she focused on their upcoming date. Time would tell.

  Chapter Ten

  ‡

  PULLING INTO A parking space in front of Maya’s condo, Rusty wondered if he shouldn’t have bought himself a new car instead of pouring all his money into Never Forget Retreat. Luckily, Maya wasn’t the type to kick him to the curb just because he drove a beater.

  Two days had passed since Draco showed off his ferreting capabilities. His guests at the retreat had settled into their various therapeutic activities, while Curtis kept Draco entertained and out of their way. Morning and afternoon, Rusty had enjoyed brief conversations with Maya as she dropped off or picked up her son. At long last it was Friday, and here he was, collecting her for their long-awaited date on the beach.

  Having arrived typically early, he spared a thought for his appearance, wondering if his cargo shorts and yellow-collared polo weren’t too dressy. Blowing out a calming breath, he eyed the hazy sky and prayed that the clouds edging the horizon would keep away so they could enjoy their bonfire.

  As he headed for Maya’s front door, it sprang open and out stepped Curtis looking slightly sunburned from having taken Draco down the creek in a dinghy that day.

  Their gazes met, and Curtis’s face reflected puzzlement and then surprise.

  “Oh.” He looked at Rusty as if seeing him for the first time. “Mom’s going out with you?” he asked.

  Rusty blinked at the odd question. “She didn’t tell you?”

  “No.” And given the look on Curtis’s face, the thought of the two adults hooking up had never occurred to him.

  Annoyance flashed through Rusty, followed by concern. Why wouldn’t Maya have told her son she planned to date Rusty—unless she didn’t think their date would lead to anything permanent? Uncertainty ambushed him.

  “Well, I hope it’s okay with you,” he said, desirous of the boy’s blessing. Crap, if Curtis said no, he’d have to get in his car and drive away. His heart thudded as he awaited judgment.

  Curtis shrugged. He scratched his ear. “Sure, I guess. Who’s watching Draco?”

  The boy’s concern for the dog warmed Rusty. “Couple of the guys volunteered to keep him close tonight. One of them knew Nichols, Draco’s former handler.”

  “Oh, cool.” Mentioning Nichols made Curtis reflect a moment. “As long as he’s not stuck in his crate all evening,” he added.

  “Nope. They’re going to keep him on his lead. What about you? Where’re you going?” It occurred to Rusty that Curtis would be on his own while they were at the beach.

  “A friend’s house. Mom says I can buy one new video game with some of the money you gave me, but I’m going to save the rest,” he promised.

  “Good man. And I didn’t give you any money; you earned it.” Clapping a hand on Curtis’s shoulder, he noted the density of the boy’s growing bones. “Remember you’ve got a good head on your shoulders. Make sure you use it tonight.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Rusty let his hand fall. “I’ve never been a sir,” he reminded Curtis. “Your father was the officer. I’m just a retired, enlisted man.”

  Curtis regarded him thoughtfully. Rusty could practically see him contrasting what he knew of his father to what he saw in Rusty. “Right, sorry,” he apologized.

  “No problem. You have a good night.”

  “Thanks.” Leaning back inside the door, Curtis bellowed, “I’m leaving, Mom!”

  “Be home by ten.” Maya’s return shout came from the back room.

  The boy edged past him. “See you later, Rusty.”

  At last, the kid had called him by name. Rusty hid a smile. “See you.”

  Curtis bounded off the stoop and hurried up the sidewalk. Stepping through the door the boy had left open, Rusty shut it quietly behind him and made his way to the kitchen. Likely Maya didn’t even know he was here. Glancing toward her bedroom door, which stood slightly ajar, he glimpsed her bare back and bra strap as she threaded her arms through the sleeves of a T-shirt.

  The thrill that chased through him made him wonder if he’d get to pull that T-shirt off her later.

  Easy, he cautioned himself. Maya wasn’t the type of woman to fall into bed on a first date. From what he could glean of the past ten years, she hadn’t even dated at all after being widowed. Hell, he’d be lucky if she even let him kiss her.

  She turned, suddenly, still tugging her T-shirt into place and started visibly at the sight of him standing outside her door.

  “How long have you been here?” she demanded, reaching out to pull it all the way open.

  He sent her a sheepish grin. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you. I came in when Curtis left.”

  “Oh.” Her hands stilled over her abdomen. “Then he saw you,” she realized.

  His smile faded. “Yes.” He let the implications settle before adding, “I asked him if I could take you out tonight. He said it was okay.”

  The tight skin on her face relaxed. “He did?”

  “How come you didn’t tell him we were going out?” If she wasn’t serious about the two of them, then he wouldn’t waste her time.

  Her gaze jumped away. “I meant to.” She looked around at the floor behind her, possibly looking for her shoes. Disappearing briefly, she came out in a denim skirt, pale green T-shirt, and sandals.

  “You look about twenty years old,” he inserted, unable to stop smiling.

  She looked away with a self-conscious blush. “I meant to tell Curtis,” she repeated. “It’s just . . . I didn’t get the chance.” Silver bracelets jangled on her wrist as she lifted a hand to adjust her hair. But she couldn’t look him in the eye.

  “You ready?” he asked, unwilling to probe her feelings if she wasn’t ready to admit to them.

  “Almost.” She brushed past him to get to the refrigerator and a tantalizing fragrance floated into his nostrils, rekindling his ardor. “I’ve got something to contribute.” Pulling a bottle of wine from the refrigerator, she showed it to him. “My favorite pinot grigio. Do you mind if we bring it?”

  “Of course not.” He’d tucked a bottle of zinfandel into the cooler, but the zin could keep.

  “Plus a snack,” she added, producin
g a baggie filled with freshly cut vegetables.

  “Great.” It would go with the cheese and crackers he’d packed.

  “Do I need to bring anything—a towel, beach chairs?” She shut the refrigerator.

  “I’ve got everything we need,” he said.

  “Of course you do.” She cast him a teasing smile. “I forgot whom I was talking to.”

  “It’s going to be okay, Maya,” he heard himself assure her. “We’re going to have fun.”

  To his astonished dismay, her eyes grew suddenly bright and her nose turned pink. She stood still a second, clearly fighting to retain her composure.

  “I’m sorry. I’m really out of practice,” she said in a strained voice.

  “Please don’t apologize.” A vision of her dead husband, guts strewn across the rocks he lay atop, flashed across the backs of his eyes. “We can talk about Ian tonight,” he suggested, “if you want to.”

  It was the dead last thing he wanted to do, but if they were going to put the past behind them, then they needed to remember the dead man and ask for his blessing.

  She visibly brightened. “Okay,” she agreed.

  *

  CURTIS TURNED A puzzled gaze toward the parking lot, wondering where his friend Matt might be. They were supposed to hang out, maybe even walk all the way to the shopping center to buy a copy of a new PS4 game. But not only was Matt not home, his family car was missing.

  Curtis teased his mom’s old cellphone out of his pocket. The stupid thing didn’t even get data. Where are you? he texted Matt.

  Late afternoon sun beat down on him. He batted away a pesky fly as he waited. Finally, Matt texted him back.

  Sorry. Forgot about my soccer game. Won’t be home till eight.

  Curtis’s shoulders slumped. His mom would kill him if he walked to the store alone. She’d been especially protective lately, telling him to keep the door locked and not to answer to any strangers.

  He thought about his other friends. Jason was on vacation, which only left Santana, whom his mom didn’t like. But Mom wasn’t around that evening, so why not hang out with him? She would never know the difference.

  He thought about Lucifer, Santana’s uncle’s dog. The big Doberman didn’t scare him anymore—not after Draco. Rusty had taught Curtis to project his inner alpha. If he did that, the dog wouldn’t try to intimidate him.

  Making up his mind, he trotted toward Santana’s front door and knocked, a little disappointed when no dog barked and Santana’s mother, who looked exhausted with her lank, blond hair escaping its bun, opened the door.

  “Oh, hey,” she said. She held the door open wider. “Santana’s in his room. You can go on up.”

  Curtis caught Santana stuffing a magazine under his bed. He didn’t ask what kind it was.

  “Hey, I made some money with my job,” he announced. “You want to come with me to Game Stop and buy the Carmageddon game?”

  Santana leapt off his bed. “How much you got?”

  Curtis was glad he’d left most of his money at home. “Forty bucks. I think it only costs thirty-five.”

  “Cool. Let’s go.” Crossing to his dresser, Santana slid what looked like a penlight and a screwdriver into the rear pocket of his sagging jeans.

  Curtis racked his brains but couldn’t think why Santana would need either item. Not wanting to appear stupid, he didn’t ask.

  They thundered down the stairs together. Without a word to his mother, Santana led him straight out of the house and into the muggy evening air. They turned in the direction of the shopping area situated a mile and a half from the condominium complex. Curtis glanced at the sky, now edged by a wall of dark storm clouds. If they hurried, they could get to the store and back before it started raining. The hum of traffic on the main road beckoned them.

  Santana suddenly stopped walking. “Hey, you want to see something cool?” he asked Curtis.

  “Like what?”

  “You’ll see.” Santana’s light-hued eyes gleamed with mystery. “Come on,” he urged. Stepping off the sidewalk, he headed toward the trees that backed the condominium complex.

  Glancing at his friend’s rear pocket, Curtis followed with some reluctance. Santana wouldn’t skewer him for forty dollars, would he?

  “Where are we going?”

  He’d been in these woods several times over the years. There was nothing back there but a utility road and a creek that filled with water whenever it rained.

  Santana didn’t answer him. His gaze darted left and right as if he were worried about being seen.

  Another thought occurred to Curtis. “You’re not going to smoke pot back here or something, are you?” Maybe his mother’s assessment of Santana hadn’t been all that far off.

  His friend cast a frown of annoyance in his direction. “No, man. I don’t smoke pot.” He leaped over a log, and Curtis was forced to follow.

  “So what are we doing then?” he persisted.

  “Shhh.” Santana hushed him. “Keep quiet. Let me know if you hear anything.”

  All Curtis heard was the twitter of song birds and a pair of squirrels scampering up the trunk of a tree. The soft ground began to slope downward as they neared the area where run-off from the streets poured into a stream. When they came upon the little tributary, Curtis spotted the mouth of a large storm drain, big enough to walk into if you hunched over. Santana was heading straight toward it.

  “We’re not going in there, are we?” Curtis asked.

  His friend grinned at him then ducked his head and walked into the opening.

  Curtis drew up short, eying the dark maw with mistrust.

  Santana came back to the opening. “Trust me. You’re gonna want to see this.”

  “See what?”

  Scanning the forest with his light eyes, Santana leaned out of the storm drain and murmured, “Guns. Rifles. Lots of ’em.”

  “Seriously?” Curtis didn’t believe him.

  “Come on. I’ll show you.”

  Sparing a thought for his cellphone and whether he ought to send his mom a text first, Curtis decided he had better not.

  Cool, moist air blew into his face as he joined Santana in the cement cylinder. The tunnel smelled of stale water and car oil. Luckily, it hadn’t rained lately, and water trickled in a narrow stream between his feet. He could straddle the trickle and avoid getting his sneakers wet.

  When the tunnel grew too dark, Santana paused and snapped on his penlight. So that was why he’d brought it along. Unable to see past his taller friend’s shoulders, Curtis fixed his gaze on the debris littering the bottom of the tunnel—cans and bottles and plastic bags.

  They had walked about fifty feet when the tunnel crossed another one just like it, offering them three ways to go. Santa turned to the right. “Almost there,” he said.

  Curtis couldn’t ignore the rising certainty that they were asking for trouble. “We ought to go back,” he insisted, slowing his step.

  Santana glanced over his shoulder at him. “You gonna be a pussy when we’ve come this far?”

  “Shut up,” Curtis ordered, giving him a shove.

  “It’s right up here, anyway.” Santana’s voice echoed in the chamber. “Look.” He shone his light along the wall, and Curtis caught sight of a grill at knee level blocking the entrance to a smaller tunnel. A lock, shiny and new, kept the grill shut. As Santana approached it pulling out his screwdriver, Curtis wondered if he wasn’t telling the truth, after all.

  Ignoring the lock, Santana popped the penlight between his teeth and applied his screwdriver to the hinges on the other side. When the screws lifted right out, Curtis realized Santana had done this before. He dropped the screws into his pocket, gave the grill a yank, and pulled it off its hinges. Leaving it dangling by the lock, he reached into the eighteen-inch opening, grabbed hold of something that sounded heavy as Santana dragged it closer. Then he swung the object into the bigger tunnel and shone his penlight down so Curtis could see.

  What he saw was a big plastic
container like the kind sold in Walmart for storing wrapping paper.

  “Go ahead,” Santana invited, on a told-you-so note. “Open it.”

  “Is it full of snakes or something?”

  “I told you. Guns.”

  “No way.”

  “Yep. And there’s another one just like it.” He nodded at the opening. “Lift the lid.”

  His friend’s confidence had Curtis tugging off the snug-fitting lid. Santana angled his light under the covering so he could see.

  Curtis’s eyes widened. He’d seen something similar just the other day—a bucket filled with all kinds of handguns. This was exactly the same, only the container was longer, the guns were bigger, and there were a lot more of them.

  “These are all AR-15s,” Santana said, picking up one of them and hefting it in the crook of his arm. “The other box is full of M-4s. I looked them up. You know how much one of these babies goes for? They’re two grand apiece, man. We must be lookin’ at fifty thousand dollars sittin’ right here!”

  A shiver traced Curtis’s spine. “Don’t point that at me. How’d they get here?” he wanted to know.

  “I don’t know,” Santana answered a tad too quickly.

  “How’d you find them?” Curtis pressed.

  Santana pretended to aim the rifle at him. “Don’t worry about it. Promise me you won’t tell nobody.”

  “I promise,” he said, quickly.

  Satisfied, Santana swung the rifle over his shoulder and pressed the lid tightly onto the plastic tub.

  “You’re going to take that?” Curtis’s question came out in an embarrassing falsetto.

  “Big deal. It’s just one. They got like thirty here.”

  “You need to put it back,” Curtis insisted.

  “Don’t tell me what to do. You just jealous ’cause you don’t have one. Here, hold this,” he added, thrusting the rifle at Curtis while he heaved the big box back into the smaller tunnel.

  Recoiling from the gun he was holding, Curtis wondered if he could go to jail for this. These guns had to be stolen and now his fingerprints were on this one.

  Santana jammed the grate back onto its hinges and threaded the screws back in their holes with nimble fingers. He tightened down the screws with his screwdriver.