“Your record is flawless, Gunnery Sergeant Riddell.”
He’d heard this speech when Nichols called him into his office.
“But your failure to report certain events leaves me questioning your integrity.”
This was new. Tension flooded his muscles. “Sir. My field reports are complete and accurate.”
“I’m talking about what you failed to report when you joined.”
Heat swarmed Griffin’s gut. Oh Lord, no…. No way he could have found out.
Nichols laughed. “You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?”
“Griffin?” Treece’s brown eyes flicked to his.
He gripped her arm. “Go home.” He nudged her toward the door, his eyes still glued to his commanding officer. “Colonel Nichols, you come here knowing I’m enjoying this night with my wife, minding”—he clapped a hand over his chest—“my own business. I don’t know what you’re talking about or why you would do this, but—“
“Lying to an officer now?” The man looked down and shook his head. “Oh Gunny, I am disappointed.”
Though he tried, Griffin groped for a tendril of sanity to stop him from fulfilling the fantasy of ripping the man’s heart out. Heat infused his spine. Crawled up his neck. Throwing a punch, assaulting an officer—it’d end everything.
“I’ve had my eye on you. I knew you were too good to be true.”
“You just had to go and get up in my business.” The words were out before Griffin could stop and yanked the rest out in quick succession. “Why can’t you just respect me, respect that I made a life and did my best, that I fought for my country?”
Nichols faced him, smile and amusement gone. “You really don’t want to do this, Riddell. I filed a complaint.”
Griffin’s lips flattened. His chest drew up. “I did my job,” he hissed. “I did it better than anyone on base, including you!”
Mouth curled, the colonel leaned in. “You lied. And now you’re drunk and threatening an officer.”
“Threatening?” Breathing became a chore. Aches wove through his jaw and head at his fiercely gritted teeth. “I’m Marine Special Operations. I do not threaten. I reconnoiter. I stalk.” Adrenaline fed off the faltering expression on the colonel’s face. Griffin dropped his tone a notch, and it came out in a growl. “I kill those in opposition to the success of my mission.” It wasn’t a threat. It was the way MARSOC conducted operations. But it felt good to see the man crawl.
Nichols took a step back. He gave a shaky, scared laugh. “You’re just like your father.”
Blood whooshed through Griffin’s ears.
“I read the police reports. He strangled your mother with his bare hands, then bludgeoned her to death.”
Demons unleashed. As if in slow motion, as if disembodied, Griffin’s fist slammed into the colonel’s face.
Crack!
Griffin blinked. Breathed. Blinked again.
Nichols, bent and cupping a hand under his spurting nose, sneered through the blood. “You’re through, Riddell. I knew you were hiding something. Nobody—nobody—is that clean. I’m going to take you down. Make sure you—“
Treece reappeared. She got in the man’s face, shaking her finger and head at him. “What did you think would happen, coming up in here, inciting a big black man with more muscle than you got hair? You did this on purpose!” Treece shrieked. “You came up in here taunting him and pushing—“
Nichols shoved her away.
Treece stumbled backward. She tried to catch herself. Her manicured nails slid along the glass-framed print. It slid off the wall. Landed with a resounding crash. She arched her back—lost her balance. Fell on the print. Glass shredded her arms and side. A screech knifed the dead-quiet club.
Griffin started for her, but out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Nichols darting out the door. He dove into the colonel. Tackled him across the threshold. The man squirmed and writhed. Nichols threw a punch.
Griffin caught the hand. Pushed it back, twisted, and pulled until he heard a crack. Nichols screamed. The man lifted a weapon from the side.
Training took over. With the heel of his hand, Griffin drove it hard and straight into the colonel’s face. The man collapsed in a heap.
Fire lit through Griffin’s back a split second after a familiar crack rent the air.
Everything went blank.
Pain unlike anything he had ever experienced punctured his mind and yanked him from the greedy claws of unconsciousness. Griffin groaned and blinked against a flickering light overhead. He squinted and scowled. Where am I?
He shifted and looked around, and in a rush, it came back to him. Sounds, smells, laughter, screams. “Oh no….” Griffin slumped back against the bed and smoothed a hand over his face and shaved head.
“Welcome back to this side, Gunny.”
Griffin started. A man stood in a black suit and tie, hands folded in front of him. White hair crowned a stoic face. “I know you?”
“It took two EMTs to revive that stubborn heart of yours.”
The memory of his brain being fried like Madyar’s Saturday morning eggs singed his mind. “That’s what happens when two cops taze a man.”
“They had reason. You’re not exactly a small man.”
Griffin fell silent. The sound—the sound of Colonel Nichols’s nose being shoved into his cranium—haunted Griffin. “Is he dead?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Griffin closed his eyes.
“His family wants you charged with murder.”
Pinching the bridge of his nose made his head hurt more.
“But there were enough witnesses there who said you were merely defending yourself.”
Griffin sized up the man. Military crew cut. Signet ring. What did the man want with a Marine? “I’m not Army.”
“Point in fact, Mr. Riddell, you are not anything military. Pristine service to the United States Marine Corps. Thirteen years, in fact—a very unlucky number.”
“What’s unlucky is being under the command of Nichols.”
Blue eyes held a hint of amusement. “A man nobody has to be concerned with anymore, thanks to you.”
Guilt pushed Griffin’s gaze away. “I didn’t mean to kill him.” Lame as lame came. But he hadn’t. “He got in my business—personal business. Made a fool of me. Hurt my wife.”
“Indeed.” He came closer, hands tucked in his pockets. “Nichols illegally acquired a police report on the murder-suicide of Reginald and Grace Adams, your parents, then used that to bring down a Marine so respected and admired he was up for promotion to master sergeant. That made Nichols see red.”
Griffin eyed the man.
“Your record is spotless—prior to a week ago. The men under your command say they’d follow you to hell and back.”
“Oorah,” Griffin mumbled, his brain caught on the fact this man checked him out.
“Tell me, what does serving your country mean to you now that your career is over?”
Wariness crowded out Griffin’s relief. What kind of question was that? “What does it mean to me?” He drew in a ragged breath and let it out. “‘Never shall I forget the principles I accepted to become a Recon Marine. Honor, Perseverance, Spirit, and Heart.’”
Tiny lines crinkled against the man’s weathered face as he grinned at the words from the Creed. He tossed a business card on the blanket. “When you can breathe without it feeling like fire, I want you to put together a team.”
CHAPTER 1
The Shack Four Years Later
It’s sad, really.” Marshall “the Kid” Vaughn trudged away from the thumping rotors of the helo that had deposited them back at the Shack, his pack almost dragging on the ground. “Ya don’t realize how much a person adds until he’s gone.”
“Legend’s not gone.” Max “Frogman” Jacobs hoisted his rucksack into a better group, his mind locked on Sydney and their two sons waiting for him at home. Poor woman had to be going out of her mind with two of his Mini-Me’s run
ning around.
“Yeah.” John “Squirt” Dighton hit the light breaker, then waited for the six-man team to clear the door. “He’s just temporarily detained.”
Lights sizzled and popped to life. Groaning bounced off the grimy windows as he hauled the door closed, locked it, then started toward the showers.
The Kid grunted. “Forty-years-to-life temporary.”
In the locker room, a depressive gloom hung over the team. They’d been on countless missions, hit just about every terrain and environment imaginable, but none had taken the toll the last couple had. And there was one reason—they were down a man. Griffin “Legend” Riddell. If Max could write the playbook, they wouldn’t do another mission without the guy. But with the man in federal prison for murdering a congressman, it’d be a long wait.
It was quiet. Too quiet. Max looked around the Spartan room. Walls of lockers, most unused. A few benches. A giant once-white bin for dirty duds. And the team. Six men now. All very skilled. Good men. Even the one missing. Every man here knew Legend had been set up—he didn’t murder that congressman. But nobody could prove it. The evidence was damning. Justice—injustice was more like it—came swiftly. Lambert, ever the puppeteer, couldn’t pull the right strings to get Legend off.
“I’m heading up to visit him tomorrow. Anyone game?” Colton “Cowboy” Neeley slumped on a bench and ran a hand over his short dark hair. His blue eyes probed the group.
“Nah man. I’ve got a date,” the Kid said.
Squirt beaned him with a towel. “What girl would go out with you, mate?”
The Kid snapped the terry cloth back at the former Navy SEAL. “Your sister.”
Squirt froze. His jaw went slack. Then his eyes darkened.
Laughing, Canyon “Midas” Metcalfe rose to his feet from the corner. “You just proved his point by thinking your sister would actually go out with him.”
Squirt swallowed, his face drained of color. “I introduced them at a New Year’s party.”
Midas laughed harder. “Your mistake, mate.”
Shuffling closer, Squirt pointed a finger at the Kid. “I swear, you touch her, I’ll shove a fistful of witchety grubs down your gullet.”
“Give me credit, dude.” The Kid raised his hands. “I’m a gentleman.”
Max grunted. “Right.” As he strode around the lockers to the shower well, he heard more threats and much more laughter from the Kid. Max shook his head. Would the Kid ever grow up, learn when to leave things alone?
As he tossed his oily, grimy duds on the bench, Max paused, thinking maybe he should send his report to Lambert now so he wouldn’t have to mess with it tomorrow. The mission had been simple enough, a snatch-n-grab of an Iranian doctor. It’d been nice and clean, in and out. The report wouldn’t take long. Then he could shower, bug out, and know he had the whole weekend with Syd and the boys.
Max jogged up the iron stairs, which creaked and groaned beneath his weight. Down the hall to the right. He punched in the code and entered the secure hub, the door hissing shut behind him. The most high-tech part of this dump of a warehouse.
Shouts drew his attention to the blinds. He jabbed two fingers between a couple and spread them to peek down into the main area. Squirt and the Kid raced into the bay and back the way they came. Squirt looked ready to kill. The Kid’s face revealed his fear. Max shook his head again. Man, he wanted Griffin back. The guy seemed to bring balance to the team. Badly needed balance.
Max powered up the computer. Hand propped on the warped wood, he waited for the system to boot.
More shouts. Loud thuds.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. Would they never—?
Tat-a-tat! Tat-tat-a-tat!
Instinct drove Max to his knee at the sound of gunfire. He scrambled to the window. Through the slanted blinds, he peered down into the slab of cement. His brain wouldn’t assemble what he saw. Gunmen. A dozen or more. Rushing into the Shack from the parking bay. Moving swiftly, as if…
They know the layout.
Max darted to the door and jerked it open. He sprinted down the hall toward the stairs. As his boot hit steel, he froze. A shadow emerged. Floated into the hall.
Too late.
Max jerked back. Pressed his spine against the wall.
By the showers, the Kid looked up. Max signaled to him. Then he made his best and loudest Nightshade whistle, hoping it would penetrate the building, give the men warning to take cover.
The Kid threw himself back into the locker room.
Men swarmed the corner. One looked to his left, one right. His weapon slowly rose as he traced the stairs with his M16.
Max leaped backward into the darkness of the office. He closed the door. As the lock clicked, darkness dropped like an anchor over the entire building. Behind him, a glow screamed his location. The monitor!
Max spun. Lunged across the desk. Stabbed the power button. And paused with his hand still near the monitor. If someone was coming after them…accessing this computer…
On his knees, Max yanked the cords free. With the box, he moved to the window and reassessed the parking bay. Another van with a half dozen men with AK-47s. They streamed into the warehouse.
Max’s gut wound into a dozen knots. They were screwed.
Think! Hand on the door, he considered going back downstairs. But that would get him captured. Killed. Yet he’d rather be with his guys than running like a chicken.
No, not running. Considering options, gaining the advantage. Planning. The invasion force was armed to the teeth. They knew who they were coming after. They’d brought weapons. And those guys moved with precision. Swift, deadly precision.
Though Nightshade had a stellar ops record, perhaps they had finally met their match. Still…two to one? Nightshade had faced worse.
A large black Suburban screeched to a halt in the middle of the parking bay. Two men emerged, both wearing trench coats.
Max cursed his luck to be up here, away from his gear, his weapons. Up here without firepower. Thus, powerless.
Okay, enough. He was going down there. He eased the door open and slid across the hall. Bathed in darkness, he crouched at the edge of the landing, using the wall for cover. A dozen men so far, rushing here and there. Quick, quiet chatter between the men.
A smirk slid into Max’s face. His team had taken cover, and these goons couldn’t find them. If he could just get a weapon…
“Can’t find them.”
“They’re here. I saw them go in,” the man nearest the SUV shouted. “Find them! Lights!”
Light rushed through the building as headlamps from the vehicles stabbed the dusty, damp building. Max yanked back, out of sight. He needed to get down there, defend his men. His boot hit the landing.
Shouts erupted. A shot bounced off the steel rafters, taunting as it echoed through the Shack. Stilled, Max waited. More shouts. The sound of a scuffle. The half dozen men waiting by the SUV lifted their weapons to the ready.
The locker room door swung open. A man walked backward, his AK-47 aimed at a large form filling the doorway. Cowboy. Arms raised, dressed only in his jeans, he stalked forward. Someone shoved him from behind, which barely moved the big lug.
Spine pressed against the wood, Max peered down into the bay.
“You move one wrong muscle,” the one in front of Cowboy growled, “and so help me God, I’ll kill you.”
“No you won’t.” Cowboy lowered his hands. “If you wanted me dead, I wouldn’t be out here.”
Ride ‘em, Cowboy.
From the side entrance to the showers, three men dragged a shouting, cursing Kid into the bay. Max smirked that it took three tangos to wrangle the Kid.
Hand clenched, Max’s mind went into overdrive. What could he do? God…I need…something. What could he pray for? Intercepting the team was impossible. Twelve, fifteen armed tangos against one unarmed man?
He latched on to the hope that they’d only found Cowboy and the Kid. No Midas, Squirt, or Aladdin. Good. Maybe they cou
ld regroup and—
A man flew through the bay door from the showers and landed with a thud a yard from the others. Midas flipped over, scissored his legs, and swept the thug off his feet. The Kid seized the confusion to attack the men guarding him. And impressively. With a hard right, he dropped the first and used that weapon to disable the second.
Cowboy took a step back and rammed his elbow into the gut of the nearest guard. The gunman bent forward—straight into Cowboy’s meaty fist. The big guy pivoted, slapped the interior of the gunman’s wrist, effectively seizing the weapon and flipping the muzzle around. He fired at the guy.
Crack!
In the split second it took for Max to realize the sonic boom that rent the air wasn’t the report of Cowboy’s .45 MEU but of a rifle, Max saw the man in the black trench coat drop to the ground. A circle spread out like a dark halo.
“Sniper!” someone shouted.
The dead guy had fallen backward. Most likely shot from the front. Which meant…Max’s gaze rose to the rafters. With no light, it’d be the perfect hiding spot. But…who? Squirt? Aladdin?
Crack!
The man guarding Colton stumbled forward, then went to his knees before hitting the cement.
The man in the black trench coat nearest the SUV dropped. A pool of blood spilled out.
“There!” One guard swung and fired his fully automatic at the ceiling. Four others followed suit, firing at the bank of grimy windows on the southeast wall of the building. Aladdin!
Max followed their direction and watched. Waited, his breath caught at the back of his throat. Cracks and shattering glass blended with the staccato punches of the guns to create a wild cacophony of noise. Max tuned it out, praying whoever—Aladdin or Squirt—wouldn’t be hit.
But then he saw it. A shift of a shadow. Like someone rolling…
The gunfire petered out as a body plummeted the eight feet to the ground. Aladdin!
The thud seemed to have supernatural powers as it pounded Max’s chest and pushed him back. Away from the window but not far enough that he lost line of sight.
Firethorn (Discarded Heroes) Page 2