Battle Cry Page 15

  Everything about tonight seemed like a desperation play. Rolling up on a motel room, opening fire even after two police detectives identified themselves, it all smacks of someone knowing their back is to the wall.

  Taken together, I have to believe they are down to their last gasps. A group that was drawn into something they never could have imagined, utilized for their expendability.

  “What happened last night?”

  The first words Valerie has uttered in more than ten minutes, the sound of her voice draws both of our attention over. Flicking her gaze between us, she adds, “You were with us all last night. Is that why Tinley was trying to call me?”

  Glancing to Swinger, I turn back toward the window, watching as organized chaos continues. Dozens of first responders have spilled into the parking lot, the world ablaze in blue and red hues. Interspersed between them are temporary stanchion lights, their bright glow displaying in minute detail what just played out.

  In the course of the last couple hours, I haven’t had a chance to share what Tinley and Marsh told me. Or even what I learned in the desert earlier today.

  More layers that have piled on, their sum total only getting me marginally closer to figuring out why my Mira was taken.

  Staring out, I take another moment. I watch all that is transpiring, juxtaposing it with what I remember from being on the opposite side of things.

  Bit by bit I take it all in, steeling myself, before slowly turning.

  Swinger and Valerie are both there to meet my gaze. Even Fran looks up, seeming to grasp the enormity of the moment.

  “I guarantee Marsh is going to want to hear all this again in a little bit,” I say, “so I’ll leave it up to you. Wait for him, or get to it right now?”

  “Hey there,” Mira said, her voice muffled slightly. “One second.”

  On the screen before me, I could see nothing but gray shapes, the interior of her bedroom no more than shadows, the start of the day not yet upon her.

  Remaining that way for a moment, I watched as the lamp came on beside her bed. Casting a filmy yellow glow across everything, a moment later the phone was picked up, Mira coming into view.

  Dressed only in an old baggy v-neck t-shirt, her hair was pulled into a ratty bun atop her head. Red lines streaked down the side of her face, telltale signs that she’d been sleeping hard just moments before.

  Easily one of my favorite times of the day. One of those moments when, if I was there, she would lift my arm and drop herself into the crook of it. Melt against my ribcage, her body warm and soft.

  Both of us drifting straight back to sleep, neither particularly caring if we were late to whatever we had going on that morning.

  “Sorry about that,” she said. Her free hand formed into a fist, she raised it to her face to obscure a yawn.

  “Don’t be,” I replied. “If a girl can’t take a few extra minutes on her birthday, when can she?”

  “True that,” she replied, coughing out a laugh, her hand dropping away from her face. “How you? Didn’t think I’d be hearing from you two days in a row.”

  According to the sign-in log on the computer, I had been in here just over nineteen hours earlier. A brief session that lasted no longer than twenty minutes, no doubt being to call and wish her a happy birthday before going out on the training mission.

  Even if I couldn’t remember a damn bit of it.

  Or really even much of the training mission.

  All that really stood out with any clarity from the last day was my encounter with the base doctor late this afternoon. The assessment he gave my arm and the recommendation that I would need another procedure to repair some of the damage in my shoulder. A couple of months of therapy and rehab thereafter.

  The sum total of which he was recommending I do back in San Diego.

  “I’m okay,” I replied. “And I don’t mean to bug you-”

  “Wait,” she said, cutting me off. A crease appeared between her brows as she jerked the phone close to her face, nose just inches from the screen. “Why are you wearing a sling? What happened? Is it your shoulder again?”

  From the moment the doctor had told me all that, it had taken everything I’d had not to come running straight here. Not to log into the computer bank and immediately call Mira.

  Tell her I was coming back a bit early and would be on a lightened load for a while. Would have much more time to spend with her in the days ahead.

  The last thing the doctor had said before I left his office was a warning that if I went to sleep, to be sure to have someone wake me every two hours. Have them shine a light in my eyes and ask me a couple of questions, ensuring that the concussion didn’t progress into something more.

  In the moment, I had promised him I would, though I had known with complete certainty there was no need. No chance could I find sleep with such news sitting at the front of my mind.

  Even if I was also feeling no small amount of guilt at the notion of leaving my friends for the last few weeks of our deployment.

  Glancing down to the white canvas sling holding my arm in place, easing the burden on my shoulder, a dozen responses came to mind. I thought of giving her a blow-by-blow of what had happened on the exercise that day. The botched jump that had taken Spahn and nearly crippled Alcove.

  The way Swinger and I had been forced to call off the exercise immediately and order an evacuation. The pain I felt having to hump to the new extraction point, every step setting my shoulder ablaze.

  Just as fast, I pushed them all aside. For as somber as things were around base, for as terrible as what happened to Spahn was, I at least had this one tiny silver lining. One thing to look forward to, helping pull me through the next couple of days.

  That was more than some of the guys had.

  Damn certain enough that there was no need to dwell on the negatives of the day right now.

  “I have good news and bad news,” I replied.

  “Bad news,” Mira replied instantly, her features twisted up in concern. “What happened? How serious it is?”

  Opening my mouth to reply, I paused. Again, I thought of answering her question with the truth before thinking better of it and letting it go.

  There would be plenty of time for that stuff later.

  “I’m coming home, sweetie. And if you don’t mind me being a few days late, I’d love to take you out for your birthday.”

  Turn the page for a sneak peek of Steel Trap, part 7 of the My Mira Saga.

  Sneak Peek

  Steel Trap, My Mira Series Book 7

  My entire focus winnows to the mud brown Bronco hurtling down the street toward me. The homes lining either side of the bucolic neighborhood street cease to exist. As do the cars parked along the curb. The sun shining down from above. The stray call of a barking dog. The scent of wild sage drifting up from the canyon behind the house.

  Even the phone in my hand, the timer continuing to run, Swinger’s voice echoing through the line, fails to register.

  Like some scene from a bad movie, all else in the world bleeds away. It falls out of clarity, reduced to smudges along the sidelines, as I stare at the front grille growing ever closer.

  The vehicular embodiment of everything I’ve been chasing the last couple of days. The latest visualization of my assorted obsessions. A chance to answer one of the largest lingering questions.

  All of it careening my direction, willingly stepping into the snare that we have put together.

  Focus locked on the vehicle, I don’t bother pocketing the phone. Nor do I waste the time telling Swinger I have to go or even turning it off.

  Instead, I simply open my fingers and let it slide from my grasp. A conscious decision to cast it aside, not caring as it drops to the floor and bounces away.

  Right now, I need my hands free for what is about to unfold. No physical impediments to the next few minutes, the moment yet another in a series of spikes. Small culminations all building to a crescendo that is inching ever closer. A conclusion I have be
en so desperately chasing for what feels like ages.

  A chance to finally give the passing of my Mira the attention it needs.

  And to hopefully allow her some measure of the peace she deserves.

  Watching the Bronco jerk to a stop outside, I consider reaching for the Walther tucked into my rear waistband. A thought that is discarded nearly as fast as it arrives.

  There is no way to trust the amount of concentrated vitriol in my system right now. I can feel it coursing through me, my fingers twitching slowly as I stare out.

  If I enter this man’s presence with a gun in my hand, there is no doubt I will use it. I will let the angst I’ve been carrying for weeks bubble forth, tugging back on the trigger until every last round is expended.

  An actuality that would be fulfilling and cathartic and gratifying and a hundred other things.

  But would not achieve my one true purpose for being here this morning.

  Spending his entire adult life in the greater San Diego area, there are certain things Byrdie has learned to live with. The cost of living is outrageous. Traffic is abysmal. The continuing surge of millennials and their politics gets worse by the day.

  A host of other things he’d just as soon forget about entirely.

  None of which has ever been the cold, the weather being one of a small handful of items he can always rely on.

  Right up until the moment he needs it the most.

  Stumbling across the front porch of The Wolf Den, Byrdie can plainly see goose pimples running along the backs of his hands. Brought on by the incessant shivering gripping his body, each new spasm causes more bumps to spread across his exposed skin.

  His lower mandible trembles. His rear molars mash together, tapping out an uneven beat in line with every step he takes.

  Just as they have for much of the six-mile trek he was just forced to make, all of it in the dead of night, subjected to the steady torrent of rain falling from above. The occasional gust of chilled wind.

  A combination that does nothing for his mood, the wrath he feels threatening to burst from him at any moment. The growing accumulation of a stretch now fast approaching two weeks in length, every last bit of it going as catastrophically wrong as possible.

  Crossing over the roughhewn boards of the porch, Byrdie snaps his hands out before him. Flinging rain droplets from the sodden long-sleeve t-shirt he wears, he mashes both palms into the swinging saloon doors across the front entrance.

  On contact, they both fly back. A full one-hundred-and-eighty-degree journey that sends them crashing into the wall on either side.

  The action emits a sound that is enough to bring all conversation from the thin crowd inside the place to a halt. Every head turns his way. Faces register emotions ranging from shock to disdain.

  Not that Byrdie cares for any of that at the moment. His focus is aimed entirely on the bar lining the wall to his right. The bottles lined up behind it and the combination of warmth and replenishment they represent.

  Such thoughts being what drove him on over the last couple of miles, his head down, wet hair whipping behind him.

  “Whiskey,” Byrdie mutters, his voice just barely audible.

  Boot heels clicking against the wooden floorboards, Byrdie staggers forward. His legs feel like lead. His saturated boots weigh many times their normal weight, exacerbated by the thick layer of sand and mud clinging to everything from his knees down.

  An hour ago, he could feel blisters forming. By now he can only imagine what the skin underlying his jeans must look like, rubbed completely raw by wet cowhide and denim.

  Mouth twisted up, he ignores the small handful of stares aimed his way. He does not care in the slightest about the trail of water he is leaving across the floor with each step.

  The pellets of wet sand and mud he can hear hitting the floorboards.

  Bounding forward with uneven steps, Byrdie pushes on until his belt buckle is almost flush to the bar. He rests his palms atop it, the wooden surface polished smooth from liberal applications of both alcohol and sweat over the years.

  Using it for support, he stands and stares straight ahead. A wet mongrel dog just in from the storm, oblivious to the moisture dripping from his clothes and hair.

  Of the small handful of people inside The Wolf Den, his concern is with only one. Max, the bartender that has overseen the place for more than a decade, as much a fixture as the mirror tacked up behind the bar or the taps lining the front of it.

  A man that has stood in one place for so long he has practically started to grow roots.

  No more than ten feet away, he stands unmoving, his eyes wide. Towel draped over a shoulder, his mouth gapes. His focus shifts from Byrdie to the door and back.

  Twice he begins to speak before finally finding his voice. “Jesus, Byrdie-”

  “Whiskey!” Byrdie spits a second time, punctuating the word by slamming both palms flat against the bar.

  In the quiet of the place, the sound reverberates. It comes off as loud as the doors swinging open a moment before, resonating for a moment before being carried away by the background din of the rain continuing to fall.

  Loud enough to cause Max to visibly flinch, it serves to snap the man from his trance. Springing back into motion, he extends both hands before him. With his left, he snatches up a bottle, silver pour spout already inserted into the top. With his right, a double shot glass, his entire middle finger shoved down into the empty hollow.

  A fact Byrdie can’t begin to bring himself to care about at the moment.

  Eyes fixed on the items in Max’s hands, Byrdie watches as the glass hits the bar before him. Barely does it have time to come to a complete stop before an imperfect pour fills it. Dark amber liquid sloshes across the lacquered wood.

  Yet another thing that does not bother Byrdie in the slightest.

  Snatching up the glass, he tilts it straight back. No questions about what he’s drinking. Not a single glance at whatever name is on the label.

  Only the need for what it represents. A brief reprieve from the disaster that he suspects was the night before.

  A bit of a buffer from all that just took place.

  And hopefully a bit of warmth to stave off the chills, the alcohol managing to stand in for the complete lack of body fat insulating his sinewy frame.

  As far as a singular event goes, the hike across the desert wasn’t the worst thing he’s ever endured. Six miles across uneven sand in boots was far from ideal. The steady rain pelting him, causing the hair hanging down from the wide swath shaved into the middle of his scalp to cling to his face and neck, got old fast.

  But they were ultimately just footnotes. Minor sidebars compared to the real problems of the night.

  The things that have his acrimony so high, even as he stands shivering alongside the bar.

  There is no taste to the whiskey as Byrdie takes it down. No chance for it to even register as it passes right over his tongue, barely touching a thing until it splashes against the back of his throat.

  After that, it cuts straight to burning. The fiery touch of corn mash slides down the length of his gullet before landing hard in his empty stomach.

  There it begins the process of warming him from within. Pushing out the cold that he loathes so much.

  If only it could do the same for a dozen other things that have earned his ire tonight.

  Dropping the glass back into place, Byrdie doesn’t bother relinquishing his grip. His gaze never once rises to the man before him, his focus aimed at the empty receptacle.

  “Again.”

  His voice little more than a growl, Max knows not to object. No matter what he might have seen two days before or the fact that for the first time in nearly two decades Byrdie is without his Wolves vest, the man doesn’t make the mistake of hesitating.

  Just as the others nearby are no doubt confused, but not one of them errsin coming forward. Not a single objection rises.

  Much like the first pour, most of the liquid makes it into the gla
ss. The remainder splashes over the sides, spilling across the backs of Byrdie’s fingers.

  Warm liquid against icy skin. Droplets that will soon dry to stickiness, coating his digits.

  Yet another hassle for him to deal with.

  In a move practiced countless times along this very bar, Byrdie shoots it back. One fluid motion done with enough force to cause his wet hair to swung free from his shoulders.

  One hand gripping the edge of the bar for balance, Byrdie finishes the movement by remaining reclined at the waist. Allowing this one to go down slower, he savors the lingering heat as it rolls back over his tongue.

  His eyes slide shut, relishing the first tiny bit of enjoyment he has had in days.

  Only then does he rock himself forward to full height. His eyelids lift, hazel irises settling into a dead stare on Max.

  “You heard from Snapper yet?”

  “Uh,” Max replies, cutting his gaze across the floor before returning it to Byrdie. Uncertainty splayed across his face, he lets the sound roll out, not sure how to respond.

  Or even if he should.

  A move no doubt steeped in the battle between Byrdie and Ringer - the most recent head man of the organization - that took place just forty-some hours earlier. An ordeal that already seems so far in the distant past, Byrdie can’t begin to fathom that it wasn’t much, much longer ago.

  Raising the shot glass an inch, Byrdie snaps it down against the bar top. Hard enough it causes the glass to splinter, he can feel shards pierce the skin of his fingers.

  Warm blood oozes out, smearing against the remnants of the receptacle.

  “I was there, dammit!” he hisses. “I’m the one that called it in. Snapper sent me to follow the women and said he and the boys were going to move on Clady.

  “So where the hell are they?”

  Head pitched forward slightly, Byrdie turns his gaze to the side. Lank hair falls across his face as he stares at the trio of men crowded around a table. Older guys that are close to retirement age, left behind from the night’s outing.