Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 57237 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 286(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 191(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57237 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 286(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 191(@300wpm)
Who was this motherfucker?
I gnashed my teeth and continued the trek up the mountain, disturbing the thick underbrush as I went. Between trees, around boulders, over logs—until I spotted a fourth note.
Born in London but spent your school years in DC. Moved back to London after your dad died, and rather than continuing your studies, you enlisted. At 22, you left the Army and became an SAS operator. The next time you appear in any records, you’re on a training mission with the US Green Berets. You’re under contract as a civilian consultant, but we know there’s nothing civilian about you, Emerson George Payne.
My mind raced to find clues in the information, and I picked up the pace. With a trained eye, you could get my stats by looking at me. I wasn’t precisely 220 pounds, but I’d been thereabouts throughout my adult life. They’d nicknamed me Big Yankee in the Army—not very creative—because of my height and my American upbringing. Whoever this was used a language—and had access to certain intel—that made me think he himself was military.
I had no reason to believe it was a woman.
Outside my work, I only socialized with a small group of people. We went to an underground BDSM club sometimes, and they sure as fuck didn’t know any of this about me. Robin knew I was former military, that was all.
I estimated I had maybe half a klick left to my cabin when I spotted yet another message. I jogged over to the tree and grabbed the note, and the first thing I saw was a doodling of two arrows crossing. The insignia of the US Army Special Forces.
I remember a story you told us once. You were in Baghdad when the bombs dropped in ’91. Over the course of 100 hours, we showed the world our technological prowess, from the GPS-guided missiles to the F-117 stealth fighter, and yet, all you talked about were the dogs that barked on the streets of Baghdad right before the bombs started falling. Do you hear any dogs barking now, Emerson George Payne?
This punk was toying with me. I’d told that story countless times in the last four years alone. But all right then, at least we could narrow things down further. This guy was likely a Green Beret, which meant he was highly trained and skilled. Had I pissed such blokes off? Damn right. They brought me in for my perspective, whether I stayed a week, a month, or just over a day, and I made their lives a living hell.
If I met one hundred of them in a year, seventy-five hated my guts.
I started running through the woods.
Someone was holding a grudge, which made shit more unpredictable. Because I hadn’t gone in as a consultant in the last twelve months. I didn’t get involved in official military business anymore. The private sector had sucked me in full-time.
I hauled in a breath and jumped over a fallen tree, and then I could see smoke in the distance. A familiar sight from hundreds of hikes in the area. The smoke was coming from the chimney of my cabin. Someone was there, and they didn’t mind my knowing that fact.
At least he didn’t wanna kill me. He would’ve done it already. No, he had some other problem with me.
I reached the end of the dirt road and found a big tree I could stay semi-hidden behind. From there, I could see most of my property. I had a sad excuse for an orchard on the other side of the cabin. And an outhouse. Otherwise, this was it. The cabin was right on the lake, with the wraparound porch extending past the water’s edge. A one-story log cabin with the kitchen and living room area forming an L around the bedroom. The back of the cabin had two windows River and Reese could use to enter—
Movement caught my eye, and I watched a man trail along the porch, coming from around the bend, and he was cutting something—an apple. I zeroed in on his face as he lifted an apple wedge onto the blade and brought it to his mouth.
I knew him from somewhere, definitely. He fit the bill of the hundreds of young soldiers I’d encountered over the years. Midtwenties, fit. Average height. Swimmer’s build. Dressed in Army greens and a black tee. Boots. Maybe he wasn’t currently active—and hadn’t been in a while? He’d let his dirty-blond hair grow out.
I narrowed my eyes. I remembered him. Fuck me, it couldn’t be. He’d given me a daily fucking headache with his temper—and it’d frustrated me because he’d been able to reel it in when it mattered. He knew just when to get into trouble without taking heat for it. Pub fights, trash talk, even petty theft. He’d performed so damn well that his superiors had looked the other way.