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  Battle Cry

  My Mira, Book Six

  Dustin Stevens

  Battle Cry

  My Mira: Book Six

  Copyright © 2020, Dustin Stevens

  Cover Art and Design: Paramita Bhattacharjee, www.creativeparamita.com

  Warning: All rights reserved. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work, in whole or part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, is illegal and forbidden, without the written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, settings, names, and occurrences are a product of the author’s imagination and bear no resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, places or settings, and/or occurrences. Any incidences of resemblance are purely coincidental.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Sneak Peek

  Thank You

  Free Book

  Bookshelf

  About the Author

  The loneliest moment in someone’s life

  is when they are watching their whole

  world fall apart, and all they can do is

  stare blankly.

  —F. Scott Fitzgerald

  You will not be punished for your anger,

  you will be punished by your anger.

  --Buddha

  Prologue

  I’m not sure how I know. Like the words to a song I haven’t heard in ages or the ending of a movie I stumble across late at night on cable, the pattern is already ingrained in my mind, the outcome sealed long before reaching the conclusion.

  As if imprinted on me so long before that the origin has ceased being of importance, cast aside into the ethereal abyss that the mind creates for all that it doesn’t deem worthy of preserving.

  The instant I hear the sound, the clear din of an engine approaching, every nerve ending in my body draws taut. My senses sharpen, picking up on the slightest shifts around me.

  The diminishing light inside the room. The weak rattle of an air conditioning unit next door. The smell of dust and cleaning product in the air.

  The impending storm, moments from unleashing hell right outside my window.

  Perched on the edge of the bed, I sit ramrod straight, counting off seconds. A sheen of sweat covers my skin, faint bits of light reflecting from it, though I am not nervous.

  The point for that has come and gone.

  Nor am I angry. Or sad. Or really feeling much of anything beyond the tiniest bit of relief, knowing that this inevitability was coming. In a way, I’m just glad to get it over with, hopefully putting this ongoing annoyance behind me forever.

  Freeing me to focus on that which really matters.

  Fingers splayed over the tops of my thighs, I hear as the brakes moan slightly, bringing the approaching vehicle to a halt. As the engine cuts out a moment later.

  As a pair of doors wrench open and footsteps crunch across the parking lot, the mixture of dirt and gravel allowing each one to ring out. Hearing them, I am able to track my visitors’ movement. Impose them on the images in my mind, knowing exactly where they stand at any given moment.

  My breathing increases slightly. My pulse picks up, thrumming through my temples. Still, I remain motionless on the edge of the bed, watching as shadows pass by the threadbare curtain hanging over the window at the front of the room.

  Two steps later, all sound ceases. The world seems to hold its breath a moment, culminating with a single tap against the door.

  Waiting until it dies away, until I am sure nothing more is coming, I press my hands down onto my legs, using them to leverage myself upright.

  Just moments away from everything in my world changing, yet again.

  Chapter One

  It isn’t that unusual for Detective Malcolm Marsh’s morning to begin on the edge of a crime scene. Working out of the Central District precinct of the San Diego Police Department, business hours are a pipedream. Something to look forward to in the next stop on his career path.

  More times than he can count, the sound of his ringtone has blasted through the quiet of his Imperial Beach condo. Volume raised just south of a siren, it has jerked him from his slumber. Brought with it a sense of dread as he answered, not knowing where he would soon be bound.

  Equally as many are instances like last night. Times when he was on the backend of a shift, about to clock out and head home, when receiving news that he was needed elsewhere.

  Still, of all those combined, this is a bit extreme.

  The easiest way he can think to describe what is before him is sensory overload. A psychosomatic deluge pushing in from every angle.

  Everything he sees seems to be splashed in a sanguineous hue. Stray streaks of blood spatter and arterial spray cling to random surfaces.

  In the air, the scent of blood is so strong it causes his stomach to clench. Had his schedule allowed even a few moments for sustenance throughout the night, there is no doubt it would have already left his system.

  At a glance, it is clear that this is a place where life wasn’t just lost, but taken in the most unnatural of ways.

  A scene that - if he were to be completely honest - is the closest thing to a massacre he has ever encountered.

  Standing with his feet planted in the center of the hardwood floor lining the entire first story of the house, Marsh’s hands rest on his hips. The tail of his suit coat bunches behind either wrist.

  Now twenty-five hours and counting into the workday, his tie has gone through the various stages of loosening before finally being cast aside.

  Compared to his initial arrival seven hours earlier, the place looks only nominally less macabre without the assorted chaos of the night before. Gone are the dozen criminalists in their white paper suits scouring every available surface. Also missing is the medical examiner making his perfunctory rounds.

  Departed too are the half-dozen victims, their bodies splayed in various positions, spread throughout the living room, kitchen, and even the backyard.

  In the wake of all that, the home has settled into silence. An eerie quiet that has his ears attuned to the slightest creaks of the aging house.

  The first pale shafts of morning light filter in through the side windows, casting everything in a ghostly pallor.

  Even in the wake of such coordinated insanity, signs of its passing are obvious. Crime scene markers line the floors. Tiny white tents arranged in haphazard clusters.

  Pools of blood rest in misshapen amoebas. Streaks of fingerprint dust line every shelf and table.

  When the call had first come in the night before, Marsh’s initial thought was to dismiss it. Standing in the hallway of Parkside Hospital, his mind was in a dozen diffe
rent places. All of them related to the single case that had dominated his attention for the better part of two weeks, he didn’t have time for something like this.

  Perhaps he was playing a bit to stereotype, but his first reaction was that it sounded like a drug deal gone bad. The fact that it occurred in Chula Vista only served to confirm as much.

  For whatever reason, someone had either gotten offended or tried to score a quick payday. When that hadn’t worked out as planned, things had turned violent. Shots were fired. Lives were lost.

  Maybe a bit cliché, but far from the first time such a thing had played out.

  Not until arriving an hour later did he realize how wrong he’d been.

  Front to back, the room Marsh stands in is more than thirty feet. Nearly the entire length of the home, it ends at a partial wall, an open doorway leading into the kitchen area at the rear.

  The front half of the expanse serves as a living room. A couch sits against the wall. A battered coffee table rests before it, a woven rug on the floor underneath.

  Further down, the open floorplan gives way to a dining space, a single wooden table with six matching chairs dominating the spread.

  Hardwood flooring comprises the base. A couple of bland pieces of artwork hang on the walls. A few knickknacks rest on the coffee table.

  The sort of place that looks like a snapshot from a different time. A home that was probably rented furnished and the tenant opted against adding too many individual touches, not planning to stay long.

  One more task for Marsh to address in the coming hours.

  Standing in the small barren patch between the living and dining areas, Marsh pulls the vivid images of the night before to mind. He swings his gaze in a slow arc, starting with the front entrance that was blocked by the remains of a spindly young man with pale skin and receding hair. Takes in the spot a few feet farther ahead where the second man lay, this one much larger, his physique looking to be a combination of serious gym time and equally serious pharmaceutical enhancement.

  Both were shot through the head. The blood spatter and position of their bodies indicated the shooter was standing precisely where Marsh now is.

  Sweeping his focus in the opposite direction, Marsh skips past the empty stretch of wallpaper before him. He moves beyond the banister of the staircase lining the far side of the room and on to the small opening separating the kitchen from the rest of the lower level.

  The opening where two more bodies were piled up. A younger, smaller one flat on his back, his knees bent out to the side. Facedown atop him was an enormous man resembling a barrel flipped onto its side.

  Together, the two of them were stacked more than two feet in height. Enough that it was almost impossible to pass through, the criminalists needing to step outside and walk clear around the house to access the kitchen.

  Based on their positioning, Marsh would venture that the first man in was also shot from the exact position where he is now standing. Another headshot, confirmed once they were finally able to get the larger man wrestled off him.

  After that is where the narrative gets a bit messy.

  Taking a step forward, Marsh lets out a slow sigh. As the air flees his lungs, he can feel his shoulders sag. A bit of the resolve he feels goes with it.

  Eleven days ago, he was called to the scene of what should have been an easy case. A domestic dispute turned deadly, the killer a local Navy SEAL, the location the most highly visible spot in all of San Diego.

  A quick solve and indictment with plenty of television time. The sort of thing ideal for a man such as Marsh that had put in his requisite time on the streets and was looking to ascend.

  Police administration for the time being, with the plan of bigger things to come.

  What started as a few base inconsistencies soon turned into so much more. Players and motivations he still can’t quite grasp. A site map fast covering the entire greater San Diego region.

  Moving as close to the kitchen entrance as he dare without disturbing the scene, Marsh pulls up. He emits a second sigh as he stares on.

  At some point in the initial firefight, an additional assailant had arrived. Their first victim had been found by the fence enclosing the rear of the property. Second was the enormous man sprawled facedown atop his cohort in the doorway.

  Third, the man sprawled flat on his back in the kitchen, wounds from both shooters on his body. In his hand was a basic six-shot revolver, every last round expelled.

  On the ground at his feet were smear marks in the dried blood, tracks indicating both shooters to have made it out, fleeing in different directions.

  All of this, Marsh lets drift across his mind for a moment before nudging it to the side. Who the shooters were, he has some ideas. A couple of names that have come up repeatedly over the last week and a half, the chances of them not being involved too remote to consider.

  In a couple of hours, he’ll get teams of uniforms to work their way through the neighborhood. He’ll have them knock on doors and ask questions, hoping to confirm what he already suspects.

  Until then, his focus has to be on the other side of the equation.

  On the six victims found here and the one thing they all have in common. Guys he had been investigating at the very moment he received word of what happened. Men that, up until stepping inside and seeing them for himself, he would have pegged as his primary suspects.

  All of them adorned in the black vests of the motorcycle clique known as The Wolves.

  Chapter Two

  Six hours have passed since the bullet entered the right side of Sven’s abdomen. Since it smashed into his third lowest rib, cracking the bone and mushrooming the metal projectile into a misshapen heap.

  A full quarter day of the rounded edges scraping against muscle tissue. Feeling like a hot poker jabbing into him with every movement.

  Two inches lower and the shot would have slipped past his ribcage and mashed into his liver. A few inches farther down and the hot metal would have ripped through the anatomical spaghetti comprising his stomach and intestines. Vital soft tissue that would have bled mercilessly and leaked toxic bodily fluids throughout his system.

  Any of them would have led to a slow and painful ending, the odds of making it to an emergency room in time almost infinitesimal.

  To say nothing of the chances of authorities not standing over his bed as he awoke after arriving at a hospital with a fresh gunshot wound.

  If given his preference, Sven would have gotten the bullet out hours before. Minutes after regaining consciousness and stealing his way from the house, he would have grabbed some forceps. Placed a wooden spoon between his teeth and ripped the unwanted intrusion from his side.

  Angry and bitter, he would have dropped it down a drain or into a trash bin. Maybe even flung it out the window while driving seventy miles an hour.

  Any way to cast it far beyond his reach, extricating the reminder of a job that had easily been the worst of his long and storied career.

  Two reasons had kept him from doing so. The first - and most obvious - was simply a matter of prioritization. As badly as he might have wanted to get rid of the bullet, more pressing matters needed his attention.

  Just because he made it out of the house unseen didn’t mean he was in the clear. He still needed to swap out the vehicle he had driven to the place, returning it to the same storage unit it had been parked in. After that was counter surveillance, ensuring he didn’t unwittingly lead anybody back to his home.

  No small part of which was the second reason for leaving the bullet in place.

  The only thing more pronounced than the anger Sven felt was the sharp stab of pain the unwanted intrusion provided. A natural antidote in the wake of being knocked cold, each jab of agony cut through any lingering haze. It ensured his mind stayed sharp, his gaze clear.

  “Bring the light a little closer,” Sven says.

  The first rays of sunlight are just beginning to creep over the horizon as he lays sprawled across the san
d. Tangerine in hue, they illuminate the surf rolling up in perfect four-foot curls. One after another they arrive, depositing themselves on the sand in an unholy mash of water and foam.

  Most mornings, Sven would be on those waves. By now he would be atop a five-foot cutter, his blonde hair plastered to his wet skin.

  Today, he rests with his weight on his hip, his elbow buried in the sand, his shirt has been stripped away. Dried blood paints the left side of his torso. Ranging from pink to almost black, the darkest streaks outline the ridges of his ribs. A bit lighter are the grooves delineating his abdominal muscles.

  Faintest are the smooth expanses in between, blood smeared atop his sun-stained skin.

  “Sorry,” Maile whispers. Seated up high on both knees, she nudges a few inches closer, extending the flashlight before her.

  A native of Hawaii’s Big Island, the first time Sven met her was just a couple of months before. A fellow surfer, they had shared a few smiles while bobbing in the surf off of Kona.

  A couple hours later, a drink at the thatched-roof cabana along the shore.

  That night – and each one since – a bed, starting with the hotel Sven was staying at and now encompassing the VW bus parked just a few yards away.