Blood Lines (65 page)

>> 1934 Hours (Local Time Zone)

Victor Gant watched the incendiary grenade fill the helicopter's interior with twisting flames. The illumination spun and whirled as it chopped into the darkness. He didn't see the Marine's body anywhere.

Cursing, wishing he'd been able to kill the big man less quickly and regretting that it was already over, Victor tossed the M79 to the side and pulled the M14 into his hands. He stayed low and duckwalked to the back of the helicopter. Staying next to the downed aircraft while it burned wasn't his first choice, but Victor wanted to make certain of his kill.

“Fat Mike,” Victor called.

“Yeah.”

“You got my six?”

“Like always.”

Fat Mike stayed in the brush and kept a weather eye peeled while he held on to his M60 machine gun. If anyone made a move against Victor, Fat Mike would cut the assailant in two with the weapon.

“That dog was with him,” Fat Mike said.

“When you see it, euthanize it,” Victor said. “We're scorched-earth here.”

“Reading you five by five.”

Victor felt the pressure of the clock against him. Maybe they'd chased the NCIS team off, but the Vietnamese People's Army soldiers were moving in. His window for escape was closing.

“Victor,” Tran called over the radio.

“I'm already gone,” Victor replied, but he kept circling the helicopter. He wasn't going to leave until he saw the Marine's dead body for himself. “You with me, Fat Mike?”

“I'm on your six. You're clean and green.”

Victor smiled. It was like old times. Hunting Charlie through the brush had always been a thrill. When he ducked under the helicopter's tail section, he felt the heat pushing at him. It was almost hot enough to sear.

Then Victor saw the Marine. Shel McHenry lay almost twenty feet from the stricken helicopter. He was facedown on the ground, his assault rifle another dozen feet away.

Cautiously Victor closed on the man's body. “You still alive, jarhead?” he called softly.

The big man didn't move.

“You wouldn't be lying there playing possum, would you?” Victor stepped closer. The M14 led the way. “Maybe I should just put a round through the back of your head to make certain.”

Shel McHenry lay motionless on the ground.

Closer now, Victor saw the embers still smoldering against the man's shoulders and back. A fine dusting of them trailed through the short blond hair. Bits and pieces of him were on fire, but he wasn't moving. Victor knew the man was either dead or unconscious.

“I think I'm going to take an ear or maybe a finger,” Victor crooned. “Some piece of you to remember you by. What do you think about that?”

A dark shadow rose from the ground and launched itself like an arrow across the broken ground. Victor saw just enough of it to know what it was, and he knew where it was headed.

“Fat Mike!” he yelled. “Watch that dog!” He tried to spin and draw a bead on it. But from the corner of his eye, he saw Shel McHenry rise from the dead.

>> 1936 Hours (Local Time Zone)

Later, Shel was never rightly able to say what had woken him from unconsciousness as Victor crept up on him. The last thing he could ever clearly remember was the explosion. The concussive force had blown him clear of the helicopter and hurled him several feet through the air. He didn't remember hitting the ground, but he had the bruises and abrasions to prove it.

But what had woken him remained a mystery. On some days, he thought that it had been a feeling, an outgrowth of the combat senses he'd developed while in action. Other days, however, he was certain it was his daddy's voice, fierce and hard, telling him to get up before he got himself killed. When he told Don about it, Don had another take on just exactly what had happened.

All Shel knew was that he woke and saw Victor Gant drawing a bead on Max as the Labrador streaked for the brush. That had been enough to galvanize him into action. He pushed himself up from the ground, caught Victor's eye rolling toward him, then saw the rifle coming around to meet him.

Shel blocked the rifle with his left hand, felt it chug as it spat bullets into the ground, and curled his right hand into a fist. He put his shoulder into the effort and—even though he was on his knees—got his weight behind it and hit Victor Gant as hard as he'd ever hit any man.

Victor was knocked sideways. Shel yanked on the M14 and pulled it from the other man's grasp. Before he could reverse it and use it himself, Victor came back at him with a Ka-Bar combat knife clenched in his fist. Blood trickled down Victor's face and made him look like a madman.

“Thought you were dead, boy,” Victor roared. “I gotta admit, I like the idea of killing you myself even better.” He slashed at Shel with the knife.

Shel threw himself backward, rolled, and got to his feet in one smooth move despite the wooziness rocking his skull. He felt slightly disoriented as he moved, but everything was there.

Victor quick-stepped toward him, trying to step on his lead foot, but Shel managed to get his foot away and duck back again. This time he smashed the palm of his right hand up against Victor's elbow and trapped the man's arm for a moment. While he had him blocked, Shel drove an overhand blow into Victor's face that split the man's cheek.

Max's growl in the brush let Shel know he was dealing with a threat himself. A man's frightened squalls echoed around them.

“Come on then, boy,” Victor taunted. “Let's see what you're made of.”

Shel felt for his pistols, thinking to put a quick end to the knife fight. His holsters were empty. Evidently the explosion or the landing had knocked them free. Reluctantly he gave ground.

Victor stepped forward quickly again and slashed twice. The blade whispered across the front of Shel's Kevlar vest.

“Why are you running?” Victor sneered. “You come all this way to get a piece of me. Well, here I stand. Let's see how bad you want me.”

Black anger filled Shel and he almost rushed the man. Remembering how he'd fought his daddy gave him pause, though. His daddy had fought back even harder than he'd expected. Shel knew that Victor Gant would be no less of an opponent.

He also realized that Victor had circled him and was driving him back toward the burning helicopter. He felt the heat blazing against his back and heard the fire crackling in his ears.

“How bad do you want me, boy?” Victor taunted. “Looks to me like you just come all this way to die.”

Unbidden, the image of the small chapel in the hospital filled Shel's mind. He'd been at peace there. Even with everything that had gone on with his daddy, he'd been at peace.

All his life, he'd felt he'd chosen a different path to walk than Don. His brother had gone the way he believed God had pulled him. But in the end, had Shel done any less? Even with his world filled with violence and bloodshed, wasn't Shel drawn to the same goal of helping others who were lost and unprotected?

In that moment, with more clarity than he'd ever expected, Shel knew that he wasn't so different from his brother. Don was a shepherd. So was Shel. They just tended different flocks in different circumstances.

And their daddy, though he'd been thrown off-stride, had done the same thing. God had pulled him back to that small town where he'd come from, and he'd given him Mama to love, and he'd given him two strong boys to guide and love as best as he dared.

In all that time, Shel knew that his daddy had never once truly turned away from that calling. Maybe he hadn't had the soft words or the understanding that some daddies did, but his war hadn't ended in Vietnam. For forty years, that guilt had been the biggest war Tyrel McHenry had ever fought.

He'd never once stepped away from the burden God had given him to do.

A calm peacefulness like he'd never felt suddenly filled Shel with clarity. He knew what he was supposed to do, and he knew that there wasn't another path he would ever take.

He stopped backing up before Victor Gant. When he dodged the knife this time, he set himself and delivered a full-on body block that lifted Victor Gant from his feet and hurled him backward. Victor landed and set himself immediately, but it didn't do him any good. Shel came at him without fear, without anger, with only the knowledge that he was doing what was right and what he'd been born to do.

He punched Victor in the mouth and drove him back. “I'm here, Victor.” He hit him again, driving him back once more. “Do you feel me now?”

Victor threw a punch.

Shel slipped the punch easily, shoving it away from him. “And I'm taking you back with me, Victor. Not a piece of you.
All
of you. You're going to stand trial for every evil thing you've ever done.”

Victor swiped at Shel with the knife, but Shel caught the man's wrist and twisted. The knife dropped from his fingers. Stepping forward, Shel delivered a forearm shiver that knocked Victor backward and almost toppled him.

“Do you feel me now?” Shel asked.

Desperate, Victor tried to kick Shel in the crotch. Shel caught the man's leg, lifted, and twisted. Victor spun and crashed to the ground. When he tried to get up, Shel hit him in the jaw. Then he rolled him over and jacked an arm up behind his back.

Shel knelt on his prisoner, placing a knee in the middle of his back, and pulled a pair of disposable cuffs from his combat vest. He fit the cuffs onto hand, then the other, pinning both behind Victor's back.

“You have the right to remain silent,” Shel said, gripping Victor by his long greasy hair and yanking his head up. “Anything you say—”

“I don't think he's going to say much,” Will said.

Shel glanced over his shoulder and saw the commander standing there.

“He looks pretty unconscious to me,” Will said.

Breathing hard, black spots whirling in his vision and his body hurting from various bruises, scrapes, and burns, Shel looked at Victor Gant.

The man was dead to the world.

“We'll read him his rights later,” Will suggested. “When he comes to.”

“Good idea,” Shel agreed. He let his prisoner's head drop.

“There's something else I need to tell you. While you and Remy have been out here shooting down helicopters and arresting unconscious criminals, Nita found something very interesting about our friend Hinton. Something you're definitely going to want to see.”

Before Shel could ask what Will was talking about, a frightened voice called from behind a tree, “Hey! Somebody want to get this dog off of me?”

When he stood and walked to the brush, Shel saw that Max had Victor Gant's henchman by the throat and lying on his back. Shel picked up the M60 lying nearby and pointed it at the big man. He signed Max off.

Fat Mike Wiley stared up at Shel with frightened eyes. “I thought he was going to kill me.”

“He could have,” Shel replied. “You make any wrong moves, I'm going to let him.”

“Not me,” the big man said. He rolled onto his face and put his hands on top of his head. “You won't have any trouble out of me.”

Shel quickly put cuffs on the man and got him to his feet. Will kept him covered.

When he looked back over the battlefield, Shel saw that Captain Phan's soldiers held the high ground. Maybe some of Victor Gant's people had escaped, but they weren't going to be doing much.

Shel looked at Will and grinned. “We won.”

“Yeah,” Will said, smiling a little. “I guess we did. You sound surprised.”

“Me?” Shel pulled a shocked look. “I never had a doubt in my mind.”

>> Recovery Room

>> Las Palmas Medical Center

>> El Paso, Texas

>> 1017 Hours (Central Time Zone)

Shel stood at the window of his daddy's room and stared out at the clear blue Texas sky that he'd grown up under. A red-tailed hawk circled the sky and made him think of the ranch and the Indian paintbrush in bloom, looking like the scrub grass was on fire. He'd seen it this morning when he'd stopped by to check on the livestock.