by C. G. Cooper
“National Burden”
(The Complete Novel: Includes Episodes 1 - 6)
Book 5 of the Corps Justice Series
Copyright © 2014 Corps Justice. All Rights Reserved
Author: C. G. Cooper
Editor: Karen Rought
(http://www.CorpsJustice.com)
This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, locations and events are all products of the author’s imagination. Any similarities to actual events or real persons are completely coincidental.
Get a FREE copy of any Corps Justice novel by signing up to my New Release Mailing List.
Warning: This story is intended for mature audiences and contains profanity and violence.
Dedications
A huge thanks to my Beta Readers. You guys are amazing!
To our amazing troops serving all over the world, thank you for your bravery and service.
Semper Fidelis
Table Of Contents
Episode 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Episode 2
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Episode 3
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Episode 4
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Episode 5
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Episode 6
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Epilogue
Chapter 1
San Pedro Plantation Resort, Riviera Maya
1:30 p.m., February 15th
The resort was new. In fact, it wasn’t even open to the public yet. Mexican laborers could still be heard pounding away, rushing to finish before the hoped-for Spring Break rush.
He was staying with an old friend, a buddy who’d recently taken a cruel turn, constantly hounding him, concocting new schemes, pushing him further than before. Their stay was a favor from a new contact, a wealthy donor who happened to be a developer that owned properties all over coastal Mexico and wanted to attract high-end clientele from the States. They wouldn’t be bothered in the elegantly appointed private penthouse on the edge of the resort.
It was probably only seventy degrees, but to the man sitting in the white plastic chair, the kind that were supposed to be high-end but felt like they would break with slightest movement, the temperature felt stifling. His senses were on edge, catching the whir of the air conditioning, the flip of the overhead fan, the light step of his captor.
“You failed.”
Santos Lockwood squirmed in his seat, the fabric of his patterned board shorts suddenly clinging to his legs. “It’s not my fault. I tried to keep my job and do what you planned.”
The man at the window turned, casting a shadow across his perfectly tanned face. “I can understand how the last president’s departure was not your fault, but I can’t understand why you couldn’t make yourself useful to Zimmer.”
Lockwood looked up at his old friend, the annoyingly good-looking, always coifed Republican congressman from Florida Antonio McKnight. “Come on, Tony. It happens every time a new administration comes in. Out with the old, in with the new. It was bound to happen sometime.” He added a nervous chuckle, hoping his friend would lighten up.
Tony McKnight put a hand on his trim stomach and closed his eyes. “Yes, that happens when there’s a normal turnover, but Zimmer took over abruptly when your old boss abdicated the throne. From what I hear, Zimmer hasn’t cleaned house, so don’t feed me your line of bullshit. I’ve bailed you out more than once, Santos.” McKnight’s steel blue eyes flared open. It felt to Lockwood like they were burning a hole in his forehead. “I got you that fucking job! You’ve always been a fuckup, even in college. If it wasn’t for me you wouldn’t have made it out of Florida State with a diploma.” As quickly as his temper burst, it melted away with the tropical air, blown by the seventy degree breeze whirring the scent of the newly constructed condo. “Now, tell me why I should even listen to you.”
Lockwood gritted his crooked teeth. He’d always played second fiddle to his playboy friend, but he wasn’t without his worth. Lockwood thought back to the nights spent tracking down his freshman roommate, finally finding him stumbling home from yet another girl’s dorm room as the sun peaked over the horizon. Nursing him back to health. Dragging him to class. He’d been the one to ensure McKnight’s diploma, not the other way around.
McKnight’s moves and cunning improved with age. He was always hungry and it eventually landed him a republican congressional seat in Miami. Lockwood was the liberal, but their half Hispanic heritage, and their history, always pulled them together.
“I don’t know what to say. I…tell me what you want me to say.”
Congressman McKnight shook his head. “Wrong answer, Santos.” A shrill whistle from McKnight’s lips caused a side door to open. Two deeply tanned Mexicans entered the room, faces placidly menacing, almost bored. “You remember my cousins, Felix and Miguel.”
The blood drained from Lockwood’s face. “What are they doing here?”
Antonio McKnight flashed the brilliant smile that had captured many a young girl’s heart and now captivated much of conservative America. Like a diamond expertly crafted by an aged jeweler, Tony looked confident, composed, and powerful with his perfectly tailored clothes and talk. Half white and half Hispanic, a man trapped between both worlds, plagued by his past yet using it to propel him forward. Rather than wallowing in his history, McKnight used it to feed his increasing hunger for power. Insatiable.
He’d seen the stare from the unmarried congressman before. Predatory. To Lockwood it looked more like a wolf preparing to strike, stalking its prey. McKnight nodded to the two men, supposedly his cousins, but Santos Lockwood knew differently. Hired thugs. Murderers.
Before he could react, they had his arms pinned to the glass table. “Let me go!” he yelled, panicking, a trickle of pee turning into a stream running down his leg.
Neither man flinched, faces remaining expressionless. McKnight moved to the wet bar. “Now, the way I see it, normally there’s a time for forgiveness and a time for lessons. This may be a time for both.”
Sweat poured from Lockwood’s gray forehead. “Please, Tony. Please don’t kill me.” He knew what his old pal was capable of. The friendly facade that the public knew masked a ruthless personality, chiseled and hammered into a vessel of power. His twisted youth had turned him into a duplicitous monster, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.
McKnight laughed, turning back to the trio, now holding a long filet knife in his right hand. “If I wanted to kill you, you’d already be dead.” He admired the blade, caressing its length with his index finger. “You had a very simple job. Stay close to the President. Did you do that? No
.”
“But--”
“Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to give you one last shot, and only because I love you like a brother and your mom was always nice to me. But if you fail me this time, if you once again forget everything I’ve done for you and for your family…” The wicked grin on McKnight’s face left little doubt in Santos Lockwood’s mind. What had happened to the affable kid he’d met that first sunny day of school in Tallahassee?
Lockwood’s shoulders slumped and his chin dropped to his chest. “Tell me what you want me to do.”
“I’ll tell you that later,” Lockwood’s head snapped up at the feel of another grip on his hand. It was McKnight’s. “Right now, I need to give you an excuse and a lesson.”
Without warning, the razor sharp knife bit into Lockwood’s fingers, sawing with excruciating accuracy. The smile never left the congressman’s face. Even as his friend screamed, he sliced away, one finger gone already, blood spraying unceremoniously across the table, accompanied by the wild cackle of his friend.
Chapter 2
Stokes Security International (SSI) Headquarters, Camp Spartan, Arrington, TN
9:29 a.m., February 27th
The majority owner of Stokes Security International, Calvin Stokes, Jr., adjusted himself in the leather desk chair, realizing his butt had gone numb. He’d been at it since 4:30 a.m., all thanks to the grief his cousin Travis Haden, SSI’s CEO and a former SEAL, had given him a week before for not staying on top of his administrative duties.
Cal hated anything that had the word admin in it. The Marine infantryman in him wanted to be out at the range, or in the live fire house, honing his skills. He felt those skills melting away as he perused yet another profit & loss statement.
He knew it was pointless thinking about it. February had been one of the coldest in Tennessee history, and SSI had closed all non-essential facilities for three days running. Being cooped up in an office grated on his every nerve as he sat behind his father’s old desk.
Cal glanced at the picture of him and his father, both wearing matching orange University of Virginia shirts. It was taken on Cal’s first day at U.Va right after they’d unpacked everything in his new Humphrey’s Dorm room. He loved the picture for many reasons, but mostly because of how his father had been that day. The former Marine colonel wasn’t known for being overly emotional, but on that day, Calvin Stokes, Sr. had cried, more out of pride than of sorrow, for his son’s accomplishments.
If he looked closely at the photo, Cal could see the tinge of red in his father’s eyes. He missed his parents deeply and kept their memory close at hand.
“Don’t tell me you liked all this paperwork, Dad.”
His father, though an officer, was a grunt as well, leading Marines for almost twenty years. There wasn’t much the former Marine Staff Sergeant wouldn’t have done to see his father one more time.
As he reached for another folder, his office door opened. Former Marine Master Sergeant Willy Trent, a beast of a man just shy of a hulking seven feet, poked his head in. “You decent?”
Cal smiled. “Come on in, Top. I was getting ready to take a break.”
Trent stepped into the office and whistled when he saw the thick stacks of reports on his friend’s desk. “What’s all this?”
“Some stuff Trav wants me to get familiar with. I guess I’ve been putting it off long enough.”
MSgt Trent’s laugh came straight from his belly. He pointed a finger at Cal. “They finally got you, Cal. They’re turning you into a rear echelon motherfucker.”
Cal’s eyes narrowed as he gave his friend the finger. “Fuck you, Top.” He said it with a smile, and stood up from his desk.
“You wanna get a couple rounds in? I’ll tie one arm behind my back,” asked Trent.
Cal Stokes could take down most men in hand-to-hand combat, but he’d never bested Trent on the mats. They sparred regularly, always with the same outcome: the black Marine with the NFL lineman’s physique won.
“Why not? This stuff can wait.”
An hour and five submissions later, Cal was dripping in sweat. He’d almost locked Trent in an arm bar once, but the crafty Marine had slipped out of it with practiced ease. “I’m spent. Wanna grab an early lunch?”
MSgt Trent wiped his obsidian brow with a towel. “Yeah. How about we call up a couple of the boys and have them join us?”
One of the secrets to SSI’s success was the tight knit relationships of its men. Even a lot of the guys in tech and development came from the military, led by the genius world class hacker and Vice President of R&D Neil Patel. They were the best of the best, patriots to the core. They stayed because they were well cared for and because of the feeling of family, first instilled by Cal’s father, and now carried on by him and his cousin. There wasn’t a thing any of SSI’s leaders would ask their men to do that they hadn’t done themselves. Leadership by example.
Cal stomped the snow from his boots before stepping into the cafeteria. It was one of many modern, yet Spartan facilities built on the 2,000-odd acre SSI campus. There was The Lodge, the VIP quarters with the rustic log cabin facade, its interior spanning thousands of square feet. The headquarters and support buildings were clustered in a simple grid, allowing each division privacy, much like military regiments and battalions. Again, yet another piece of Col. Stokes’s vision.
The chow hall was nearly empty, most employees opting to stay home. Laughter directed Cal and Trent to their friends. A slightly portly man with glasses, Dr. Alvin Higgins, was telling a story to the rest of the bunch. Dr. Higgins was SSI’s in-house shrink and expert interrogator. Originally on loan from the CIA, Higgins was now a permanent fixture at SSI. He looked more like an English professor, but he’d proven himself time after time with SSI’s operators. They knew him and trusted him completely.
The men at the table turned as the two Marines approached.
“Would you look at what the snow blew in,” said a squat, almost burly man with his beard neatly tied in twin braids.
“Shouldn’t you be somewhere closer to the equator, Gaucho?” asked MSgt Trent. “The last time you saw snow you almost froze your little Mexican ass off.”
“Hey, Top, can you blame me?”
Trent walked up behind Gaucho and picked him up in a bear hug. The tough Hispanic squirmed as the others laughed. The Marine and former Delta soldier were relentless in their ribbing. Cal often wondered where other than in the military, or at SSI, two men with such different backgrounds could become best friends.
There were three others at the table. Neil Patel was SSI’s head of technology and development. The Indian-American was the smartest man most of them had ever met. He kept SSI at the forefront of the world’s technological advances while also bringing in millions of dollars from licensing newly developed inventions. Always the most stylish man in the room, today Neil had opted for a pink and aqua checkered shirt and a pair of white pants. Not exactly what you might call appropriate for the weather, but Neil wasn’t a field guy.
The other man sitting next to Neil was SSI’s head of Internal Security. Todd Dunn was a former Army Ranger and Travis Haden’s right hand. The brawny yet brainy sentinel sat smiling, but didn’t say much.
The last man pointed to the seat next to him, motioning Cal over. Daniel Briggs kept his shoulder length blonde hair in a neat pony tail. The former Marine sniper was to Cal Stokes what Dunn was to SSI’s CEO. If Cal went anywhere, Daniel was with him. Part bodyguard, part advisor, part guardian angel, Daniel had become one of Cal’s closest friends despite their short acquaintance. There had been more than one occasion where the dead calm sniper the men called Snake Eyes had saved Cal’s life.
Everyone took their seats as Cal joined Trent to grab some food. As the unofficial head of food services, Trent inspected the line with a practiced eye. A new line cook looked on nervously. “Looks good today, Vince,” said Trent.
“Thanks, Master Sergeant. I used the bread pudding recipe you showed me. I t
hink it turned out pretty good.”
Trent took a spoonful of the bread pudding in his mouth, chewing slowly. “Not bad. Not bad at all.”
The line cook smiled proudly.
As he took his seat, Cal asked, “Where’s Travis?”
Dunn spoke up for the first time. “He and The Hammer flew to D.C.”
The Hammer was SSI’s sole female employee, Marge Haines. As the company’s lead attorney, Haines had attained the moniker by destroying opposition in and out of the courtroom, as well as on the training mats. Haines was not only brilliant and beautiful; she was also a black belt in three martial arts disciplines. She could go toe-to-toe with the best that SSI had.
Cal’s eyebrow rose. “He didn’t tell me about that. What’s up?”
“President Zimmer wanted to talk to him about something,” said Dunn.
“And you didn’t go with him?”
The question obviously struck a nerve, as the normally unflappable Dunn scowled slightly. “He said he wanted me to keep an eye on things here.”
Cal let it go, not wanting to annoy Dunn further. The group spent the rest of their meal listening to more new tales from Dr. Higgins’s time with the Agency.
Chapter 3
The White House
12:56 p.m., February 27th
The normal buzz of activity vibrated around them as they made their way to the heart of the American government. There seemed to be an added level of tension thrown into the mix. A huff here or a withdrawn look there. The White House staff looked tired. Exhausted, actually.
It shouldn’t have been a surprise what with the recent upheaval within the presidency. Anytime you change leadership, and especially if the change involved scandalous tidings, there’s sure to be more than enough bedlam to go around.
Travis Haden, attired in a gray suit, sans tie, stepped into the Oval Office, Marge Haines on his heels. “I’m sorry we’re late, Mr. President. The weather almost kept us from getting here.”