Blood Lines

35

›› Mooney’s Tavern

›› Jacksonville, North Carolina

›› Six Days Later

›› 1318 Hours

Shel parked in the gravel parking lot in front of the tavern and got out. The day was too hot to wear a jacket to hide the pistol at his hip. He fished his NCIS ID from his pocket and draped it around his neck. He curved the bill of his NCIS hat over his sunglasses and signaled to Max to leave the Jeep.

The Labrador dropped to the gravel and joined Shel.

When he didn’t see Remy immediately, Shel tracked the loud hip-hop music to the SEAL’s car. Remy sat with his arms folded in the front seat. He had his eyes closed and his head bobbed with the beat.

Shel stood at the side of the car. His shadow had just covered the window when Remy cracked his eyes open and looked up at him. One of his hands had slid smoothly to the pistol on his hip.

Then Remy grinned and the window powered down. “Hey, jarhead. It’s been so long I thought maybe you’d forgotten your way here.”

“Not hardly.” Shel smiled a little.

Remy uncoiled, opened the door, and slid out of the car. “As I recall, it’s your time to buy.”

“It isn’t,” Shel said, “but I’ll buy anyway.”

“What’s the occasion?” Remy fell into step with Shel as they walked toward the tavern.

“Docs just cleared me from light duty. No more desk jockey.”

“Cool.” Remy yawned. “Now maybe I can start getting some sleep on that stakeout.”

Even while on the desk, Shel had kept track of the team. Remy was currently assigned to follow up on leads dealing with a local loan shark who specialized in taking advantage of military men. Alcohol, drugs, sex, and loan sharks were always problems around military installations. Temptations were everywhere, and the young Marines and sailors were prime targets.

“Will didn’t hang with you last night?” Shel asked.

“He tried to.” Remy frowned. “A young Marine got into a bar fight with his wife’s boyfriend.”

“Didn’t hear about that.”

“That’s because you were probably sleeping.”

Actually Shel hadn’t been. Lately he’d been poring over the information Estrella had gotten regarding his daddy. He was also monitoring the FBI’s manhunt for Victor Gant.

So far the FBI hadn’t picked up the man’s trail. It was as if Victor Gant had vanished from the face of the earth. There was even some speculation that he’d left the country.

Shel didn’t think that had happened. Victor Gant wasn’t the sort of man to walk away from the game when there were still cards on the table.

“So Will covered the bar fight, and I stayed on the loan shark,” Remy said.

“A bar fight? Doesn’t seem like anything we’d be interested in.”

Remy frowned and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Before morning, it turned into a homicide investigation.”

Shel shook his head.

“Twenty-three-year-old Marine,” Remy said softly. “Just got back from Iraq.”

“He was still jacked up from being over there,” Shel said.

“Yeah. Made it worse, him finding his wife out with her boyfriend.”

“The military and marriage don’t go together easily.”

“Is that why you never married? ’Cause I was thinking maybe you just couldn’t find somebody that would have you.”

Shel knew both of them just wanted to avoid the heaviness of the murder. They saw too much of that kind of work, and the violence that led up to it. “I thought that was your excuse.”

“No, man,” Remy said. “I’m just selective. Haven’t found the right one yet.”

›› 1331 Hours

Minutes later, Shel and Remy sat at a back booth with plates of fajitas and iced tea. Max lay at Shel’s feet and watched them eat. Shel dropped food to the dog on a regular basis.

“You know,” Remy said, “that dog doesn’t look Mexican.”

Max cocked his head and looked at Remy.

“It’s an acquired taste,” Shel said.

Remy dropped a piece of fajita meat. Effortlessly Max caught the meat between his teeth. But he made no effort to eat it. Instead, he turned his liquid brown eyes on Shel.

Shel signaled the dog to eat.

Max tossed the meat up into the air and gulped it down with noisy chewing.

“So it’s like that, is it?” Remy admonished Max. “You’re not going to eat for me unless Shel okays it.”

Max just stared at him.

“He’s a one-man dog,” Shel said. He dropped a hand to Max’s head and patted him.

“I guess so. Must make a great partner.”

“He doesn’t talk as much as some I’ve had,” Shel agreed.

“Oh,” Remy groaned in protest, “you did not just go there.”

Shel grinned. “I’ve missed this.”

“Yeah. Me too.” Remy doubled his hand into a fist and offered his knuckles.

Shel met Remy’s fist with his own; then they returned to eating.

“Scary stuff in the tattoo parlor,” Remy said.

“Yeah.” That was the first time either of them had mentioned the shooting. Shel knew neither of them would speak of it again. Being in special forces, both men acknowledged that death potentially lay in wait for them at all times, but they didn’t dwell on it. They couldn’t. If they did, it made the job impossible to do.

“If Will pairs us up tonight,” Remy said, “you remember that you owe me.”

“Do you really think Will will assign me to something as lame as a stakeout on a loan shark?”

“Now you’re hurting me,” Remy said.

Shel smiled. He had missed the camaraderie.

“So where have you been?” Remy asked.

“With the Marines,” Shel said. “Getting my head together.” He paused. “It’s nothing against you, Remy. But you’re not a Marine. I’m not knocking the SEALs, and I’m especially not knocking you. But a Marine’s place when he’s rebuilding himself is among Marines.”

“No prob,” Remy said. “Whatever it takes. At least you’re back.”

Shel nodded. “I am.”

›› 1417 Hours

Victor Gant sat astride his motorcycle in the trailer. He could hear the rumble of the big 18-wheeler’s engine as it pulled the bike trailer. A small floodlight at the front of the trailer barely broke the darkness.

“Coming up on the stop,” Fat Mike said over the headset radio Victor wore.

“Copy that,” Victor said. He wore road leathers and had a Kevlar vest under his colors. Normally he didn’t wear a helmet, but he did today. It was a full-face helmet that covered his jaw and chin too. A cut-down Mossberg shotgun was slung over his left shoulder. He wore his. 45 in a shoulder holster under his colors. The chill calm that had always filled him before a hop through the jungle in Vietnam filled him now. Out of habit, he glanced at his watch.

“Spotter confirms the Marine at the tavern,” Fat Mike said. “He’s headed out the door now. He’s got company.”

“Who?” Victor hoped it was Coburn. His anger against the commander had sharpened over the past few weeks.

“The black guy that was with the Marine at Spider’s.”

Well, Victor said, that’ll have to be good enough. The black man had been there the night Bobby Lee was killed. Bagging the Marine and his friend would feel good.

“Ready,” Fat Mike said.

Immediately Victor flicked his thumb over the electric starter. The motorcycle’s big engine throbbed to life. Nine other engines did the same. Thunder filled the trailer.

The 18-wheeler slowed. Victor felt the gradual reduction of speed. He grew even more calm. Let’s do this, he growled to himself.

“All right,” Fat Mike said. “Your target’s on your left.”

The truck stopped. The air brakes chuffed loudly enough to be heard over the warbling motorcycle engines.

“I’m coming around,” Fat Mike advised.

Victor glanced around at the men who were riding with him. All of them were seasoned criminals. Most of them had killed before. Some of them had been to prison before. Going back didn’t scare them, but they didn’t intend to do that.

A moment later, Fat Mike pulled the trailer’s back door down. Bright sunlight cut into the gloom.

“All right,” Victor said over the headset that connected him to the rest of his men. “Let’s ride.” He twisted the accelerator and let the clutch out.

Victor took the lead and roared down the inclined ramp leading out of the trailer. When he reached bottom, he brought the motorcycle around and headed into the gravel parking lot. The other motorcycles trailed only a short distance behind him and flared out in a phalanx of thundering metal.

Shel McHenry, the other man, and the dog were caught out in the open. Victor grinned as he saw the Marine look in his direction. With one quick grab, Victor yanked the shotgun from the shoulder scabbard and pointed it at the Marine. As cut-down as it was, the shotgun was more pistol than anything else.

He squeezed the trigger. Double-ought buckshot exploded from the shotgun’s throat and sped toward Shel McHenry. The abbreviated weapon jumped erratically in Victor’s grasp, but the semiautomatic function fed a new shell into place.