Blood Lines (36 page)

But that distance from his daddy wasn't working now. That phone call about Victor Gant while he'd been in the hospital haunted Shel. He hadn't found any answers. Estrella's research into his daddy's military career had only turned up more questions.

According to what she'd found, Victor Gant and his daddy had never served together. The only thing they had in common was an overlap in Qui Nhon.

So how had Tyrel McHenry gotten to know a proven scumbag like Victor Gant? That was the question. Actually, it was only one of the questions. Why would his daddy have made that phone call? Why had he gotten drunk that night?

Not knowing was frustrating. Not being able to ask was even more so.

Shel squeezed everything out of his body and reached for more. His body became a machine, inflexible and relentless. That was the kind of man he'd driven himself to become, the same kind of man he saw in Tyrel McHenry. Even though he didn't understand his daddy, Shel respected the quiet strength and steel of the man when he'd buried his wife and gone on working. Those had been the things Shel had chosen to emulate from his father.

Even when Shel became those things, though, his daddy had never seemed to notice. No matter what, Shel just hadn't been able to win his daddy's affection.

Those memories worried at his thoughts. Since he'd returned to Camp Lejeune, he'd tried to talk to his daddy a handful of times. But the man had been quieter than ever, and he'd refused to talk about Victor Gant. During their conversations, Shel had dropped plenty of hints that he'd be open to talking about the Purple Royals leader, but his daddy had shut that down.

Shel leaned forward a little more and pushed himself. Inexorably he gained on the younger man. In twenty more strides, he drew abreast of Garrick.

“You're breathing hard, junior,” Shel said as he powered past the younger man.

Garrick tried to keep pace. Strain etched his features. Then his legs gave out on him. He cursed as he couldn't even maintain the pace and suddenly fell behind by a wide margin.

Shel kept running. He was deep into the runner's high now, lost in the charge of endorphins and adrenaline flooding his body. He stayed locked on the terrain ahead.

“Gunney,” Garrick cried from behind him. “Wait up.”

Shel went another twenty paces before he stopped and turned back to Garrick. The younger Marine walked along the trail with his hands on his head to best get oxygen to his lungs.

“You okay, youngster?” Shel asked as he pulled his arm over his head.

“Yeah,” the younger man growled.

“I'm not going to have to carry you back, am I?”

“No.” Garrick shot him a sour look.

“We could always run back to barracks.”

Garrick laced his fingers over his head as his chest heaved. He grinned ruefully. “Maybe in a minute.”

“You just trying to make me feel good?” Shel asked.

Garrick shook his head. “Nope. I'm maybe a little embarrassed.”

“Nothing to be embarrassed about, Marine. You just ain't put on your full growth yet.”

“Is that how you're going to tell it when we get back?”

Shel gave the younger man a lopsided grin. “There ain't anything to tell. What we do out here, it stays out here.”

Garrick kept pacing with his arms over his head. “Where are you from, gunney?”

Shel knew his west Texas accent was showing. He'd heard it himself. It wasn't from hanging around with Don for the few days his brother had stayed at camp to get him out of Lejeune's Naval hospital. It came from thinking about his daddy so much.

“West Texas,” Shel said. “Born and raised.”

“I thought I heard that in there. I'm from Boston.”

“I thought I heard that in there,” Shel said.

Garrick grinned. “There are some things you just can't get past.”

“I know,” Shel said.

>> 0917 Hours

Showered, shaved, and breakfasted, Shel took his place on the firing line. He'd changed into camo pants, combat boots, and a brown USMC T-shirt that fit his body like a second skin. He wore amber-tinted aviator sunglasses and ear protectors.

Other Marines lined the range, all of them awaiting orders.

Max stayed back inside the observation building with Garrick. After breakfast, the young Marine had been free. He'd elected to spend his morning with Shel. Although he wouldn't have admitted it, Shel was glad for the company.

It was Marine company. Garrick wouldn't talk unless Shel wanted to talk. Remy would have talked the whole time, and if he hadn't talked, he would have been hitting on the female support personnel. That was just Remy.

“Load your weapons,” the shooting-range drill instructor ordered.

Shel slammed a full magazine into the pistol and racked the slide to strip and seat the first cartridge. He settled into an easy combat stance, pistol framed and held so his elbows formed 90-degree angles. The fingers of his left hand wrapped around the fingers of his right to provide the push-pull force that allowed the semiautomatic's action to operate without hanging up.

He didn't use the sights. He just imagined the pistol was part of his body. All he had to do was point it at the target like he'd point his finger.

The order was given to fire.

Shel focused on the silhouette downrange. They were shooting at fifty feet. Most gunfights in urban areas took place at less than ten feet. MOUT—Military Operations on Urban Terrain—focused on that kind of shooting.

Without hesitation, Shel fired. He aimed for the center mass and saved the last three for head shots. He laid his weapon down, cocked and locked, and waited for the DI's order to roll the targets in.

When the target came in, Shel saw that all the bullets had pierced the ten-ring in the heart of the silhouette, so close together that they made one hole in a two-inch group. The three head shots had caught the head exactly where the nose would be. They were hardly wider than a quarter.

“Gunney McHenry,” the DI barked as he came to stand behind Shel and inspect the target.

“Yes, Sergeant,” Shel responded. On the gun range, the DI was in command.

“Where were you directed to shoot?”

“Center mass, Sergeant,” Shel said.

“Center mass,” the DI repeated. “Yet I see this target's head has been air-conditioned.”

Shel barely kept a grin from his face. “Yes, Sergeant.”

“That looks like two bullets passed through that target's head.”

“There were three, Sergeant.”

The DI peered over Shel's shoulder. “Well, bless my soul, gunney, it appears
three
bullets did miss the center mass ten-ring.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“Did you miss your target, gunney?”

“No, Sergeant.”

The DI clapped Shel on the shoulder. “This is my firing range, gunney. We do things my way.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“I say you missed your target and you owe me a beer for each one of those stray rounds. Just in case you can't add any better than you can shoot, that means you owe me three beers.”

Shel grinned. “Yes, Sergeant. I can live with that.”

>> 1142 Hours

“You're not a tank, gunney. You're not designed to take damage. You're supposed to float like a butterfly and sting like a bee.”

Shel tried to move more quickly, but even at his best he wasn't matched in skills with his opponent. During his military career, Shel had never formally taken martial arts the way some of the Marines had. There were sergeants who taught hand-to-hand combat that he wouldn't have willingly taken on without a baseball bat.

Over the years, Shel had tried to learn the combat systems, but they were too disciplined. He didn't like thinking that much about responding to a threat. He concentrated on reacting, picking up what he needed as he learned from experience.

Martial artists were deadly when everything went their way. The problem was that things didn't always go their way. Systems and training failed at some point when things jumped the tracks. Especially when they were pounding away at someone who could take punishment.

Shel could. He blocked punches and kicks with his forearms and legs and kept his gloved hands up close to his face. The Asian guy he faced now was a power lifter in addition to being a martial artist. He was almost as big as Shel, and he was
fast
. Man, he was fast.

He kept kicking and feinting with kicks, then driving his gloves into Shel's face. The punches hurt. Shel tasted blood and his nose leaked more.

“Get your hands up, Gunney McHenry,” the DI squalled.

Shel had his hands up. His opponent just had so much raw strength that he occasionally punched through Shel's defense. His opponent grinned, obviously pleased with himself.

“You're not a tank, gunney,” the DI bellowed. “He's turning you into hamburger.”

Shel knew that was true. He wouldn't be able to handle much more punishment. Without warning, the Marine punched Shel in his wounded shoulder. Bright, hard pain flared through Shel. Before he could recover, the Marine hit him in the shoulder again.

He knows,
Shel realized.
Someone told him about the wound.

When the man attacked again, Shel tried to defend his shoulder. While trying to protect his injury, Shel left himself open for a left cross that almost put him down. Black comets whirled in his vision. He took a step back and lifted his hands.

His opponent came at him again, trying for the shoulder once more. This time Shel ducked beneath the blow, shifted, and twisted in an explosion of effort that sent his right hand into the man's stomach. Shel hit with everything he had. His fist sank into the man's body and took the wind out of him.

Semiparalyzed by the blow, the young Marine tried to step back. Shel moved with him, following up with another body blow with his left hand. Then he hooked the man twice in the side of his face with his right. The Marine's eyes started to glaze. Fired up now, Shel brought his left hand up in an uppercut that caught his opponent under the chin.

The man's eyes rolled back into his head and he fell to the mat.

Shel looked down at the man and felt proud. He'd been thinking the younger man was going to beat him. He could have lived with that in a combat exercise. He'd been beaten before. But in a real encounter, losing wasn't an option.

The DI knelt beside the man and placed two fingers on his jugular. Shel breathed out, his hands above his head, as he tried to get his respiration under control.

“He's got a pulse,” the DI said.

“I didn't try to hurt him any more than I had to,” Shel said.

“I saw that,” the DI responded as he stood. “I also saw that he went for your shoulder.”

“In a fight, I would have done the same thing.”

“Maybe,” the DI said, “but this wasn't a fight. This was a controlled exercise. When this young soldier comes to, I'm going to make sure he understands that.” He paused. “How's the shoulder?”

Shel moved it. The pain was there, but it was tolerable. He smiled. “Better and better every day.”

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