Corps Justice Boxed Set: Books 1-3: Back to War, Council of Patriots, Prime Asset (21 page)

BARTENDER
:
It’s the story about my time in the first Gulf War and how I lost
my leg.

ANDY
: If I
can ask, how DID you lose it?

BARTENDER
:
I was off doing some long-range recon for Cal’s dad and ran into a
bunch of bad guys. Me and my spotter were able to take out the
guys, but not before one lucky sonofabitch lobbed a grenade our
way. I’m lucky that I only lost my leg. Hurt something fierce when
my spotter dragged me a couple clicks back to our evac
point.

ANDY
: So
what made you write the story now?

BARTENDER
(pointing at Cal): That young man right there. He came back
from the sand pit and, after a few libations he convinced me that
SOMEONE would want to hear my story. No one’s gonna read
it.

CAL
: As
usual, the Sergeant Major is being modest. The book isn’t just
about that one incident. What he failed to mention, of course, was
that he got a Silver Star out of that one because the bad guys he
mentioned were on their way to ambush one of dad’s companies. He
and his spotter took out almost the entire enemy party of twenty
some guys with a sniper rifle and an M-203. The rest of the book is
gonna be about his battle to regain active duty status after losing
his leg. His fight to do that will really resonate with wounded
guys coming back from war today.

BARTENDER
:
Yeah, well, I guess that’s where it finally got me. If the book can
help even one disabled Marine, how could I say no?

BRIAN
(patting Cal on the back): It’s good to know that I’m not the
only one that doesn’t seem to have the ability to say no to our
fearless leader here.

BARTENDER
:
He takes after his father that way. Never could say no to Colonel
Stokes either. They must have some voodoo magic in their blood or
something.

Cal shook his head and responded to the
obvious compliment.

CAL
: No,
you’ve got it all wrong. I’ve just found that it’s a lot easier to
convince you guys to do things when you’ve had a couple of
these.

He raised his glass to demonstrate the
proper sipping technique for The Famous Grouse.

BARTENDER
:
Well, be that as it may, I’m still glad you made me do it, Cal.
I’ll get you the rough draft in a couple of weeks. You can tell me
whether an old salty Marine with only a high school education can
actually write.

He turned back to the bar and resumed his
duties as the group settled in to finish their drinks. Cal couldn’t
let that last comment pass.

CAL
: The
good Sergeant Major is, of course, being modest again. What he
fails to mention, is not only did he regain his active duty status
as a Gunny, but he went on to be one of the first Marine first
sergeants to serve with a line company with a prosthetic leg. Then
he went on to become a Sergeant Major while also finding time to
earn two masters degrees AND PT his battalion into the dirt. Don’t
let him fool you with that fake limp of high school education bit.
He puts on his Cheetah prosthesis and he’ll give Marathon Andy a
run for his money.

As the gathered crew discussed recent
events, Cal’s mind began to wander. He replayed the day’s action
over and over. What could they have done differently? What if
they’d kept following West and not called the cops? He finally
filed it all away for future analysis, knowing that the team had
done all that was possible without blowing their cover. It didn’t
matter, Cal was convinced that he’d somehow find West again very
soon.

On the other side of town, West’s crew was
finalizing plans for that night’s operation. No one knew the
location except for Dante. He’d given clipped instructions to his
hired muscle. Although he didn’t think there would be much
resistance, his recent failures necessitated extreme caution. Each
man only nodded as they listened to his orders.

+ + +

After adjourning from the bar, Brian and
Andy headed back to their respective rooms. Neil and Cal headed to
Travis’s office to discuss options for continuing the search.

NEIL
: So
what are you thinking about work-wise after we get this guy,
Cal?

Cal shrugged his shoulders still not clear
about where his path might lead.

CAL
: I’m
not sure. I want to see this thing out first, then who knows? Maybe
I’ll go on a long vacation.

Neil glanced at his friend as they walked,
perceiving the pain he must be feeling.

NEIL
: Have
you talked to Higgins yet?

Dr. Alvin Higgins, PhD, was SSI’s resident
psychiatrist. He’d been a long-time member of the CIA’s brain squad
for years. He came to SSI after working with the company on a
particularly hairy case a few years back. Higgins realized that
with SSI, he could continue the work he’d started at the Agency in
a different way, and for way more money. He was SSI’s resident
expert in all things intellectual, meaning he could either unwrap
the mental wiring of criminals and terrorist leaders, conduct
interrogations (he’d developed new and non-lethal techniques for
the CIA for years), or help SSI employees and family members with
any counseling they needed.

A pudgy man barely over five and half feet
tall, the affable Dr. Higgins had quickly endeared himself to the
employees at SSI. Where some psychiatrists were aloof and
borderline condescending, Higgins was the exact opposite. Jolly in
a way that reminding you of Santa Claus, Higgins had actually been
the reigning Saint Nick every year at company Christmas parties.
Not really what you’d expect from a man who’d dedicated most of his
adult life to the extraction of information from men’s minds by all
means necessary.

CAL
: No, I
haven’t seen him yet. Come to think of it, he’ll probably be with
Trav right now. Trav said he’d gather the inner circle to think
this West thing out.

As they entered the headquarters building,
the usual bustle of activity seemed like home to Cal. He’d never
officially worked at SSI, but he’d practically grown up in these
halls. At the same time, he always got the feeling that he was in
the middle of a battalion headquarters in the field. Electronic
maps and target dossiers were displayed on an impressive array of
flat screen panels all along each wall. SSI remained on the tip of
the technology curve thanks, in no small part, to Neil and his team
of techie geeks.

They headed to Travis’ secure office. In
reality, this entire building and any other SSI structure with any
sort of information capability, was shielded from outside snooping
by advanced electronic jamming and masking technology, once again
courtesy of Neil’s R&D team. The masking system was now being
leased by numerous government facilities and a mobile version was
also in development for field headquarters.

Cal entered Travis’ spacious office not
really knowing who to expect. He glanced to the eight man
conference table in the corner and found the party waiting. Two
others accompanied his cousin. The group included the first female
employed by SSI: company attorney Marjorie Haines. “The Hammer.”
Not only ferocious in court and deposition rooms, she was also an
expert martial artist in Brazilian Jiu Jitsu and Kung Fu. She’d
been known to take down multiple new recruits on the fighting mat
after a particularly trying day.

She’d entered SSI shortly after winning a
case against the company. Travis and the rest of the executive team
had been so impressed with her tenacity that they’d gone after her
to fill the role of lead attorney. It didn’t hurt that she could
match many of the men in physical discipline and she’d also been a
former prosecutor in the Navy JAG Corps and was a diehard patriot.
She was, of course, well paid for her efforts at SSI and was
considered one of the inner circle members. Today she was standing
casually, her typical grey pant suit perfectly tailored to her
athletic build. Her dark hair was pulled back in a sleek pony
tail.

Next to Haines was SSI’s head of internal
security, Todd Dunn. Dunn was one of Travis’ first hires at SSI and
a beast. If there could be a human version of an English bulldog,
it would be Dunn. A muscular barrel of a man and former Army
Ranger, Dunn rarely cracked a smile but could be absolutely
depended on.

+ + +

Dunn’s background was similar to some of the
other SSI employees. He’d been a star in the Rangers, quickly
rising through the enlisted ranks. Shortly after re-enlisting, his
father had been diagnosed with cancer. Dunn, now separated from his
parents by a four hour plane ride, did what he could to help his
father. Because the family had little money and poor health
insurance, the hospital bills continued to pile up. Dunn got a
second job as a bouncer at one of the strip clubs outside Fort
Bragg to make some extra money to send home. He was quickly
promoted to head of security for his cold calculation and eerie
calm during altercations. It didn’t hurt that he could do the books
better than the strip club owner. The new position allowed Dunn to
make more money by getting a portion of the bartender and stripper
tips.

One night on the job, a group of rowdy
townies decided to make trouble with some drunken soldiers. The
soldiers, obviously half in the cups but harmless, were easy
targets for the small group of oversized rednecks. Taunted into
brawling, the group of three soldiers were no match for the five
rednecks. The one black soldier was apparently the target of a
vocal tirade of racial slurs being screamed by the hulking
antagonists.

As Dunn approached the
group of brawlers with another bouncer, he noticed the butt of a
pistol in one of the attackers’ jacket pocket.
Shit. I’m gonna have the ass of whoever let that guy
in.

What started as a shouting match quickly
escalated into a melee of flying fists. Just as he reached the guy
with the gun, the man pulled the weapon on Dunn. Acting on instinct
and training, Dunn closed the final foot, cupped his hands over his
head, and pushed the weapon up over his head while simultaneously
bending his knees slightly.

The diverted weapon fired and the loud boom
echoed in the enclosed space. Patrons and employees screamed as
they ran for the doorways. Dunn wrestled the pistol away from the
man and hit him with the pistol butt on his temple. The man fell to
the floor unconscious.

Dunn turned to see two of the three bloodied
soldiers lying on the ground. The third was being dragged to the
door by three of the massive rednecks. The two remaining
antagonists turned on Dunn; one with a large buck knife and the
other with a pistol matching the one in Dunn’s hand.

Still calm but with pistol aimed at the
gun-wielding redneck, Dunn tried to diffuse the situation.

TODD
:
Alright boys, you’ve had your fun. How about you drop your weapons
before anyone really gets hurt?

Instead of answering Dunn, the largest of
the five attackers and, apparently, the leader of the burly band,
yelled to his three companions dragging the soldier out.

REDNECK #1
:
Bring that nigger over here.

They did as they were told
and brought the black soldier, blood pouring from his broken nose,
to their leader. As the small group corralled, the remaining club
security crew waited anxiously on the sidelines looking to Dunn for
direction.
Shit
.
Though Dunn.
How am I going to get these
hillbillies out of here?

The tough-talking leader grabbed his
captive’s shoulder with his hand and positioned the victim between
himself and Dunn. Then he put the dazed man in a headlock and
pressed the pistol to his left temple.

REDNECK #1
:
What are you gonna do now, tough guy?!

The rest of the man’s cronies laughed evilly
as they watched.

TODD
: I’ll
give you one more chance. Put the guy down along with all your
weapons and we’ll make sure the cops treat you fairly.

REDNECK #1
(laughing): Boy, you have no idea who you’re dealing with.
Now, I’m gonna give you thirty seconds to get all the money into a
bag and give it to me. If not, your black friend here dies along
with a couple more of y’all.

He waved his gun menacingly at the group of
security guards. They could tell by his fierce look of
determination that the man wasn’t lying.

With a clear head, Dunn analyzed the
situation. The redneck’s last comment told him that the situation
had just gone from bad to worse. What at first glance had seemed
like a normal barroom brawl, had now escalated into an armed
robbery. He knew it would take the local police a few more minutes
to get there. Meanwhile, the huge hillbilly was counting down.

Dunn saw bloodlust in the man’s eyes and
doubted that many would go unscathed even if they gave in to his
demands. To make matters worse, two more of the redneck crew had
revealed small pistols that had apparently been taped to their
lower backs. They all grinned wickedly as if daring someone to make
a move.