Firethorn (Discarded Heroes) (2 page)

Realizing it is my choice and my choice alone to be a Reconnaissance Marine, I accept all challenges involved with this profession. Forever shall I strive to maintain the tremendous reputation of those who went before me.

Exceeding beyond the limitations set down by others shall be my goal. Sacrificing personal comforts and dedicating myself to the completion of the reconnaissance mission shall be my life. Physical fitness, mental attitude, and high ethics—The title of Recon Marine is my honor.

Conquering all obstacles, both large and small, I shall never quit. To quit, to surrender, to give up is to fail. To be a Recon Marine is to surpass failure; to overcome, to adapt and to do whatever it takes to complete the mission.

On the battlefield, as in all areas of life, I shall stand tall above the competition. Through professional pride, integrity, and teamwork, I shall be the example for all Marines to emulate.

Never shall I forget the principles I accepted to become a Recon Marine. Honor, Perseverance, Spirit, and Heart.

A Recon Marine can speak without saying a word and achieve what others can only imagine.

Swift, Silent, Deadly

THE INVITATION

W
hat did he say?”

Gray haze snaked around the small jazz club. Dim light bathed the occupants in hues of red and blue, save the brightly lit stage where the blues band slunk through a song. Griffin Riddell lifted his bourbon glass and swirled the amber liquid. Sultry music drifted through the crowd and smoothed over his shoulders and mind.

“Look, I did not want to come to this smoke-filled hole, but I came so we could talk.”

He took a sip. Lowered the glass. “I didn’t ask you to come.”

Her brown eyes flamed. “Ten days, Griffin. You came home ten days ago and have been pacing like a cougar, brooding like a grizzly. But you won’t talk.”

Another sip. He dumped the rest into his mouth and let it burn all the way down. Talk. She always wanted to talk. Why couldn’t she just let a man be?

“What happened at the base? Why…what has got you so”—she pointed to him—“so like this?”

He leaned forward. “You said I should get out. Maybe it’s time.” That should be enough to get her off his back and out of his business. He poured more bourbon.

She snatched the bottle out of his hand and slammed it down on the table behind them. “Would you lay off that stuff! Your grandmother will whoop you down to the Mississippi if she whiffs liquor on you.”

Irritation carved a long, hard line through his civility. “Treece, get out of my business.”

“Your
business?” Her wide nostrils flared. “I’m your wife. I would think it was
my
business too, our business.” She planted her hands on her hips as she sat across from him. A lazy tendril of cigar smoke from a nearby table snaked toward her head.

Secretly, for one long minute, Griffin wished it was a noose. Right around her long, giraffe neck.

“We need to work through these things together,” she said, her voice squeaking on his last nerve.

“Is that what you were thinking when you climbed into Darian Parshall’s bed?”

She blinked those fake lashes and widened her eyes.

At her expression, he let loose a laugh. “Yeah. I know.” Nothing like hearing from your brother-in-law that your wife found comfort in another man’s arms while you’re out doing your duty for God and country. The woman violated everything he stood for—
Semper Fi.
Griffin snatched the bottle, refilled his glass, and took a sip.

Her pride—and ample bosom—seemed to shrink before him.

That’s right, woman. I know you been playing me.
Just like everyone else. Including that pig-faced colonel who had done nothing but sit on Griffin’s case since his unit returned from Afghanistan last month. That was fine. Griffin could handle pressure. Could handle a man not liking that another held more respect and admiration. And that—that was what ate the very fiber of Colonel Nichols’s puffed-up, medal-heavy chest. When the colonel walked through the mess hall, the guys gave him the obligatory salute. But when they wanted advice, when they needed help, they came to Griffin.

“Fine.” Treece grabbed her purse from the back of the chair. “You sit up in here in this stanky bar—“

“Club.” He sliced a hand through the thick atmosphere. “It’s a club.”

“Same thang.”

“No.” The glass clunked as he slammed it down. “Club—a jazz club. The focus is music to relax the soul and mind.” He pointed to the autographed twenty-by-forty photo of soul legend Ray Charles hanging behind her. “You think he’d sit in a stanky bar?”

She rolled her eyes and neck. “Whatever, Griffin.” She pushed to her feet.

“Ma’am, this Marine giving you a problem?”

That voice! Fingers tightening around the glass, Griffin tensed.
Don’t react. Own this.
Right about now would be a good time to get some religion in him the way Madyar had warned him to. But he wasn’t even sure God could tame the fury roiling in his gut right now.

“Uh…” Treece’s brown eyes darted to Griffin. “No…my husband just isn’t interested in my company.”

“It seems he’s not interested in his career either.”

Wood groaned against wood as Griffin shoved to his feet. He towered over Colonel Nichols. “Sir.” Why? Why would the man come up in here and start something after what happened a week ago? Wasn’t it enough that he held a fist of control on Griffin’s career? That he wrote him a bad eval and threatened to tank the last twelve-plus years of blood, sweat, and tears?

The colonel’s denture-white teeth gleamed beneath a taunting grin. “Inebriated? And still in uniform?”

“No, sir.” Had he really come straight to the club without changing? Right…the club manager had called in sick and needed the night off, so he asked Griffin to cover him. Being the good friend he was, he was there. Duds in the back room, but he’d forgotten them when Treece showed up, demanding his time.

And this is exactly what the colonel had been waiting for—a screwup. “Sir. I am sober. Enjoying a night with my wife.”

Nichols’s muddy eyes shifted to Treece. “Yes, a very beautiful wife. Must be hard to leave her alone here while you’re deployed.” The officer’s stab hit right where the man intended.

Griffin fisted his hands.

Nichols noticed. Grinned more. “But I bet a man like you needs time away from the family.”

Griffin’s left eye twitched.
On the battlefield, as in all areas of life, I shall stand tall above the competition.
He reminded himself of the Recon Creed, of what he vowed to uphold. And that he’d have to answer to Madyar if anything happened here. Pops…his ticker wasn’t so good.

There was more to think about than some knee-jerk reaction to a colonel who wanted to save face. He loosened his hands but remained straight and tall. He had to own this.

“Your record is flawless, Gunnery Sergeant Riddell.”

He’d heard this speech when Nichols called him into his office.

“But your failure to report certain events leaves me questioning your integrity.”

This was new. Tension flooded his muscles. “Sir. My field reports are complete and accurate.”

“I’m talking about what you failed to report when you joined.”

Heat swarmed Griffin’s gut.
Oh Lord, no….
No way he could have found out.

Nichols laughed. “You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?”

“Griffin?” Treece’s brown eyes flicked to his.

He gripped her arm. “Go home.” He nudged her toward the door, his eyes still glued to his commanding officer. “Colonel Nichols, you come here knowing I’m enjoying this night with my wife, minding”—he clapped a hand over his chest—“my own business. I don’t know what you’re talking about or why you would do this, but—“

“Lying to an officer now?” The man looked down and shook his head. “Oh Gunny, I am disappointed.”

Though he tried, Griffin groped for a tendril of sanity to stop him from fulfilling the fantasy of ripping the man’s heart out. Heat infused his spine. Crawled up his neck. Throwing a punch, assaulting an officer—it’d end everything.

“I’ve had my eye on you. I knew you were too good to be true.”

“You just had to go and get up in my business.” The words were out before Griffin could stop and yanked the rest out in quick succession. “Why can’t you just respect me, respect that I made a life and did my best, that I fought for my country?”

Nichols faced him, smile and amusement gone. “You really don’t want to do this, Riddell. I filed a complaint.”

Griffin’s lips flattened. His chest drew up. “I did my job,” he hissed. “I did it better than anyone on base, including you!”

Mouth curled, the colonel leaned in. “You lied. And now you’re drunk and threatening an officer.”

“Threatening?” Breathing became a chore. Aches wove through his jaw and head at his fiercely gritted teeth. “I’m Marine Special Operations. I do not threaten. I reconnoiter. I stalk.” Adrenaline fed off the faltering expression on the colonel’s face. Griffin dropped his tone a notch, and it came out in a growl. “I kill those in opposition to the success of my mission.” It wasn’t a threat. It was the way MARSOC conducted operations. But it felt good to see the man crawl.

Nichols took a step back. He gave a shaky, scared laugh. “You’re just like your father.”

Blood whooshed through Griffin’s ears.

“I read the police reports. He strangled your mother with his bare hands, then bludgeoned her to death.”

Demons unleashed. As if in slow motion, as if disembodied, Griffin’s fist slammed into the colonel’s face.

Crack!

Griffin blinked. Breathed. Blinked again.

Nichols, bent and cupping a hand under his spurting nose, sneered through the blood. “You’re through, Riddell. I knew you were hiding something. Nobody—
nobody
—is that clean. I’m going to take you down. Make sure you—“

Treece reappeared. She got in the man’s face, shaking her finger and head at him. “What did you think would happen, coming up in here, inciting a big black man with more muscle than you got hair? You did this on purpose!” Treece shrieked. “You came up in here taunting him and pushing—“

Nichols shoved her away.

Treece stumbled backward. She tried to catch herself. Her manicured nails slid along the glass-framed print. It slid off the wall. Landed with a resounding crash. She arched her back—lost her balance. Fell on the print. Glass shredded her arms and side. A screech knifed the dead-quiet club.

Griffin started for her, but out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Nichols darting out the door. He dove into the colonel. Tackled him across the threshold. The man squirmed and writhed. Nichols threw a punch.

Griffin caught the hand. Pushed it back, twisted, and pulled until he heard a crack. Nichols screamed. The man lifted a weapon from the side.

Training took over. With the heel of his hand, Griffin drove it hard and straight into the colonel’s face. The man collapsed in a heap.

Fire lit through Griffin’s back a split second after a familiar crack rent the air.

Everything went blank.

Pain unlike anything he had ever experienced punctured his mind and yanked him from the greedy claws of unconsciousness. Griffin groaned and blinked against a flickering light overhead. He squinted and scowled.
Where am I?

He shifted and looked around, and in a rush, it came back to him. Sounds, smells, laughter, screams. “Oh no….” Griffin slumped back against the bed and smoothed a hand over his face and shaved head.

“Welcome back to this side, Gunny.”

Griffin started. A man stood in a black suit and tie, hands folded in front of him. White hair crowned a stoic face. “I know you?”

“It took two EMTs to revive that stubborn heart of yours.”

The memory of his brain being fried like Madyar’s Saturday morning eggs singed his mind. “That’s what happens when two cops taze a man.”

“They had reason. You’re not exactly a small man.”

Griffin fell silent. The sound—the sound of Colonel Nichols’s nose being shoved into his cranium—haunted Griffin. “Is he dead?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Griffin closed his eyes.

“His family wants you charged with murder.”

Pinching the bridge of his nose made his head hurt more.

“But there were enough witnesses there who said you were merely defending yourself.”

Griffin sized up the man. Military crew cut. Signet ring. What did the man want with a Marine? “I’m not Army.”

“Point in fact, Mr. Riddell, you are not anything military. Pristine service to the United States Marine Corps. Thirteen years, in fact—a very unlucky number.”

“What’s unlucky is being under the command of Nichols.”

Blue eyes held a hint of amusement. “A man nobody has to be concerned with anymore, thanks to you.”

Guilt pushed Griffin’s gaze away. “I didn’t mean to kill him.” Lame as lame came. But he hadn’t. “He got in my business—personal business. Made a fool of me. Hurt my wife.”

“Indeed.” He came closer, hands tucked in his pockets. “Nichols illegally acquired a police report on the murder-suicide of Reginald and Grace Adams, your parents, then used that to bring down a Marine so respected and admired he was up for promotion to master sergeant. That made Nichols see red.”

Griffin eyed the man.