Never Forget: A Novella in the Echo Platoon Series

by Marliss Melton

  “We gonna wait ’til it’s dark,” he said, putting it away and grabbing the rifle out of Curtis’s slack grip. “Then I’ll walk home and hide it in my room.”

  “What are you going to do with it?”

  “Sell it. Watchu think?”

  “How?” Curtis asked.

  “On the internet, dumbass. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

  All too eager to exit the dank enclosure, Curtis turned and started blindly forward. His toe struck a can which ricocheted loudly off the cement wall before splashing into water. They arrived at the place where the pipes intersected, and he turned left, relieved to see a glimmer of daylight up ahead.

  Perhaps he should tell his mom about Santana’s discovery. He didn’t want his friend getting into trouble, but these weapons were proof of a crime, and even though his mom didn’t work civilian cases, he’d been taught the value of evidence when it came to convicting bad guys.

  Yep, as soon as he was alone again, he would text her. Rusty would bring her home right away—Curtis knew him well enough to know that. What he’d seen tonight was freaking him out.

  Chapter Eleven

  ‡

  STARING INTO THE leaping flames of their bonfire, Maya listened to Rusty’s rendition of the horrific battle that had claimed Ian’s life. With the wine they’d shared loosening his tongue, he divulged more than he otherwise might have, she was sure, explaining why the Marines had been sent up Gilman Ridge in the first place—to rescue an Army Corporal who had wandered away from his battalion and been grabbed by the Taliban.

  It was supposed to have been a quick and easy rescue, but Intelligence had failed the Marines, causing her husband’s platoon to stumble into an enemy force ten times the size of their own. The only support close enough to help in a timely fashion had been Rusty’s squad consisting of four SEALs who’d just completed their own mission.

  “And so we created a diversion, hoping to draw attention away from the Marines and onto us,” Rusty added. “What happened, instead, was that another wave of Taliban came running out of some caves to the east, and we were caught squarely in the middle, with no way out. The Marines took a heavy toll, and one of my guys sustained a chest wound. The Taliban pounded us with rocket launchers, grenades, gunfire, everything they had. They mortared the hell out of us, until we all ended up in the same place, behind an outcrop of boulders.”

  Picturing it in her mind’s eye, a lump grew in Maya’s throat. The breeze blowing in off the ocean dried her tears before they could fall.

  “Would you like me to stop?” he asked, his voice gravely with emotion.

  It couldn’t be any easier for him to relive the event than it was for her to hear about it, but she shook her head all the same. “If you can talk about it, then I want to know.” She wasn’t sure it was for the best for Rusty to dwell on the horrors he’d lived through, but she felt she owed it to Ian to know what he’d gone through.

  Rusty pressed on. “When our gunner was hit in the head, I figured we’d be overrun within minutes.” His gruff voice seemed to blend with the roar of the waves crashing and retreating only yards away. “But then Ian took over the M240 machine gun, and I’d never seen anyone fire that weapon with such precision. Our rounds were running out. Every bullet had to count. He must have cut the enemy in half. Suddenly, we actually had a chance of holding out until the air support could reach us.

  “By then there were just seven of us left with the others dead or bleeding out all around us. The extraction helicopter was within sight when a grenade came bouncing down the hill. And damn if it didn’t roll right into the space where the seven of us were holed up. It landed closest to Ian. I expected him to snatch it up and toss it over the boulders, but he knew how long it had been rolling. He knew there wasn’t time. He looked right at me with this resolve that I’ll never forget. And then he threw himself face down on top of it.”

  The picture in her mind was so vivid, Maya clapped her hands over her eyes. The pain that had lessened over the years returned with the same devastating force that had leveled her when she’d been informed of her husband’s death. If not for Curtis, who’d been four at the time, she might have sunk irreparably into depression. Instead, she’d kept busy, and day by day, year by year, her loss got easier.

  Rusty’s shoulder brushed hers, letting her know that he’d shifted closer. His powerful arm encircled her, drawing her gently to him. Her shoulder fit neatly under his arm. With Ian’s countenance still fresh in her mind’s eye, she turned toward Rusty’s offer of consolation and pressed her face against his neck, breathing his fresh sage scent. Laying her hand against his chest, she registered the steady thump of his heart, taking comfort from it.

  “I’m sorry,” he said into her ear.

  It was oddly comforting to know that Rusty had been there in Ian’s last moments. She’d known about Ian sacrificing himself to save the others. But she’d never thought to consider that if the grenade had rolled next to Rusty, he’d have done the exact same thing. She now knew he would have. And knowing that made it impossible to resent him for surviving. Ian had wanted the other men to make it out.

  She lifted her head abruptly. “Wait, what happened to the others?”

  Rusty’s gaze swung toward the horizon, already swallowed up in darkness. His thumb stroked her upper arm absently as his thoughts traveled to another place and time. “Two caught bullets right after Ian died. The others were hit by shrapnel when a mortar blew up behind us on our way to the helo. I got them all onto the Blackhawk, but they didn’t survive the blast.”

  She envisioned the risks he’d taken to try and save the last four. What an awful burden to have been the lone survivor.

  Realizing that their mouths were only inches apart, Maya succumbed to the urge to comfort him. She leaned closer, closed her eyes, and touched her mouth to his.

  His lips molded warmly to hers. Heat and desire flooded her instantly as their mouths slowly fused. His tongue stroked between her parted lips, and she lost herself to the wave of desire that crashed over her, pulling her into an undertow so fierce that she forgot to breathe.

  She’d spent a decade in a sexual drought, lonely and—yes—resentful that death had taken her husband and life partner from her. Suddenly, her heart and body were being quenched at the same time, making the drought seem worthwhile in the face of such a sweet reawakening.

  *

  “WHAT’VE WE GOT here?”

  The unexpected question startled Curtis into backing up. He collided with Santana, who held the AR-15 across his chest as he followed on Curtis’s heels.

  Three dark figures detached themselves from the tunnel wall, blocking the light of the exit. In the next instant a flashlight flared to life, pinning him and Santana in its blinding beam.

  Curtis raised an arm to shield his eyes, and the pale face of a stranger, followed by two more men, one harder to see than the other, swam out of the darkness.

  “Santana!” the darkest figure exclaimed. “What the hell you doin’ here?”

  Curtis recognized the pitch and dialect of Santana’s uncle. A modicum of relief slowed his pounding heart.

  “He’s helping himself to our stash, is what he’s doing,” the first man accused in an angry voice. Shoving Curtis out of his way, he snatched the AR-15 out of Santana’s grasp. Then he grabbed Santana by the scruff. “You know this kid?” he asked, turning to Will.

  Santana’s uncle heaved a sigh. “He’s my nephew. He must have followed us the other day.”

  “You followed us?” the man demanded, giving Santana a shake.

  “Yeah,” Santana admitted, his voice suddenly tremulous.

  The man’s eyes glittered in the dark as he assessed the situation. Curtis made out a thin scar at the corner of his mouth.

  “Grab the other kid, Will,” he ordered. The scar made it look like he was leering. “They’ve seen our stash. We can’t let them leave.”

  His ruthless words penetrated Curtis’s consciousness slowly
. By the time Uncle Will siezed his arm, it was too late to bolt past the two men blocking his way and run for it. What had Scarface meant by can’t let them leave?

  “Come on, Tom. They ain’t gonna tell no one,” Uncle Will protested.

  “Shut up, you idiot. You just told them my name. You think with the investigation going on we can afford to let them go? You are a stupid mother fucker.”

  Uncle Will seemed to expand in size, shrinking the narrow space. “Don’t you talk that way to me. I’m the one who came up with a place to hide our shit. If we did things your way, we’d be sittin’ in jail right now.”

  “Yeah, great hiding place,” the third man scoffed. Spanning the tunnel with his arms, he blocked the only escape route. “It’s so good that a couple of kids managed to find it.”

  “Listen,” Will insisted. “Santana is family. Let him go, and I promise you, he’ll keep his mouth shut.” His tone implied that he’d personally see to that. “But the other kid just happens to be the son of the investigator working for NCIS.”

  Startled to hear his mother mentioned, Curtis met Uncle Will’s dark, glittering gaze.

  “No shit!” Scar-faced Tom turned his flashlight onto Curtis, who flinched from the glare. “He’s that Schultz bitch’s son?”

  The lanky third man let his arms drop slowly.

  Curtis sucked in a sharp breath. What did that guy just call his mom?

  “I told you she lived just up the road from me,” Uncle Will said.

  “Well, shit,” Tom breathed. “Ain’t that something?”

  The sour taste of dread filled Curtis’s mouth as he realized the untenable situation he was in. His mother had to be investigating these men. That made him a very serious liability. Even if they moved their stash of weapons somewhere else, Curtis had heard enough to testify against them. The only way to avoid answering for their crimes was to make sure Curtis never told anyone—which meant they were going to kill him.

  He fought the sudden, overwhelming need to urinate.

  “So what do we do?” The third man asked, his tone conveying a clear reluctance to do anything drastic.

  “We shoot him and leave him here,” Tom proposed.

  “Please,” Curtis whispered, about to embarrass himself.

  “He won’t tell anyone,” Santana insisted.

  Tom ignored them both. “We shoot him dead,” he continued. “It’s the only way to guarantee his silence.”

  “Now look,” Uncle Will’s tone became serious. “It’s one thing to smuggle guns. It’s a whole ’nother thing to kill somebody. I don’t want no part of this.”

  “Me neither,” piped up the third man.

  Curtis held his breath while praying for deliverance.

  “Then what do you suggest?” Tom mocked. “We’ve made it this far. NCIS has nothing on us. We’re practically in the clear. We let them out of here, this one’ll go running to his mother. Even if we move our stash, his testimony alone would sink us.”

  A thoughtful silence filled the chamber. Curtis overheard a distant rumble of thunder.

  “So we lock this one in.”

  Will’s suggestion turned Curtis’s blood to ice-water. He glanced at Santana, who fixed his wide eyes on Curtis and said nothing. “I promise, I won’t tell anyone,” he swore, wishing his voice hadn’t cracked.

  “Shut up,” Tom bit out. “Lock him up where?”

  “Where we hid the boxes,” Will continued. “We gotta move them now anyway.”

  “What if he crawls up the tunnel and gets out?”

  “Number one, he won’t fit. Number two, that line leads to one place and there ain’t no way out of it. I saw to that. He’ll be trapped in there. Ain’t no one going to hear him yellin’ for help, neither. In a few days, he’ll die on his own.”

  Curtis’s legs threatened to give out. They wouldn’t really leave him locked behind the grate, would they? He suddenly remembered his cellphone and hope bolstered his quaking knees. He just had to hide it before they realized what he had.

  “Where can we put the stash?” asked the third man.

  “I’ll put the tubs in the crawlspace at my sister’s until we find something better,” Will offered.

  “No, I’ll take them,” Tom decided. “That way your nephew won’t be helping himself.” He sent Santana a hard glare. “You’d better not say a word, kid, or I’ll kill you myself,” he threatened.

  Caught in the cone of the flashlight’s yellow glow, Santana’s eyes resembled underwater pools. He shook his head, unable to speak.

  “He won’t talk,” Uncle Will said with absolute conviction.

  “All right then.” Tom wrestled Santana in the opposite direction. “Time to put this rifle back with the others,” he said.

  Uncle Will swung Curtis around, propelling him on weak legs to follow.

  As they moved deeper into the sewers, Curtis slipped his fingers into his pocket and pulled out his cheap flip phone, hastily shoving it under the waistband of his pants and into his underwear. For the first time ever, he was glad his mom still bought him uncool tighty-whities.

  These men were going to lock him into a narrow, concrete pipe thinking they would leave him there to die. Hah. He’d call 9-1-1 as soon as they left, and he’d be free by nightfall.

  I’m going to be okay, he assured himself.

  Chapter Twelve

  ‡

  SUMMONING HIS SELF-RESTRAINT, Rusty pressed Maya gently back upon the towel he’d spread across the sand. She lay back, her skin luminescent in the fire’s glow, her eyes wide with wonder. The dark sky overhead gave a rumble that reflected the desire fulminating in Rusty’s bloodstream. Bracing his weight on one elbow, he lay next to her in lieu of stretching his body over hers. A gentleman never took advantage on the first date.

  Her kisses would suffice.

  As he’d imagined from the moment he’d met her, her lips were heaven to kiss. She tasted of the mellow wine they’d imbibed, and she responded with a willingness that humbled him, taking off her glasses and setting them in the sand.

  Mesmerized by the pale depths of her green eyes, he gave a groan of hunger as he fastened his mouth to hers. With his free hand, he stroked, the indentation of her narrow waist and the sweet flare of her hips, stopping short of palming the swells of her breasts or, better yet, sliding his fingers up under her skirt toward the heated juncture of her thighs.

  And before he took this any further, he owed it to her to be completely honest, confessing something that might send her running in the opposite direction.

  Ending the kiss with reluctance, he drew a deep breath to diminish his lust. He cleared his throat. “I need to tell you something.

  She blinked up at him, and the film of desire lifted from her eyes.

  Did he really have to do this? The last thing he wished to do right then was scare her off. He queried his conscience one last time. Yes, he did. She deserved to know what she was getting into.

  “I’ve seen a lot of men die, Maya. Whether it’s the death of an enemy or a colleague, it makes no difference. They’re all human beings.”

  She nodded slowly, searching his face as if it were a mysterious map.

  He pressed on. “When you’re with people you care about in the moment that they cross over, it’s like . . . you’re in a holy place. That’s the only way I know to describe it. It’s holy the way church is, only it’s scary as hell.”

  Her gaze took on an anxious quality, but she kept quiet, clearly sensing he had more to say.

  “Sometimes, the men I’ve been with at death come back and visit me.” There. He came right out and said it.

  A tiny frown appeared between her finely drawn eyebrows. She reached for her glasses and slipped them on to see him better. “What do you mean?”

  Crap. This was going to sound really hokey to a woman who, by virtue of her profession, believed in hard, factual evidence. “Ian came to my room the other night. He stood there looking at me while I talked to you on the phone.”

>   He held his breath, waiting for her to say something, but she only blinked, perhaps wondering whether he was pulling her leg.

  “He’s not the only one. I see them all—every man who’s ever died while I was with them. It’s not as uncommon as you might think,” he added—at least not according to the Edgar Casey Foundation that dealt with the supernatural. He’d visited them on a couple of occasions and found comfort in their assessment that he was perfectly normal.

  “Do they . . . um . . .talk to you?” she asked, a thread of reservation woven through her voice.

  He couldn’t lie. “Sometimes.”

  Her gaze looked suddenly guarded. “Did Ian talk to you?”

  “No. Not yet.”

  The admission that he fully expected to chat with Ian one day clearly rattled her. She squirmed away from him, signaling her desire for more space.

  Damn it. He shifted away, berating himself as she sat up slowly, staring at him like she’d never really seen him before. Something hard and uncomfortable wedged itself beneath his breastbone.

  “I guess I shouldn’t have told you,” he added, as the silence stretched thin between them.

  “You’re not making this up,” she said. The regret in her voice was obvious.

  “No.” Even to his own ears, his voice sounded weary. Why the fuck would he make up something that made him sound crazy? He’d hoped maybe Ian’s spirit had visited her, too, and that she’d understand. But, no. Apparently, only he’d had that dubious honor.

  “Okay.” She nodded, her gaze sliding toward the fire to gaze at embers. “I need to think about this,” she stated in a distant voice.

  The ache under his breastbone increased. “Of course.”

  Just then a loud crack exploded overhead and lightning lit up the beach as bright as day. Darkness followed just as quickly, along with an ominous rumble and a few fat drops of rain.

  “I guess we’d better pack up,” he said, grateful to the weather for dignifying his retreat by providing an excuse.