›› Obstacle Course
›› Camp Geiger, North Carolina
›› Nine Days Later
›› 0734 Hours
“You ready to give up yet, gunney?”
Drenched in sweat, feeling the burn of hard-used muscles in his legs and back, Shel concentrated on running. Running shouldn’t be hard. It was one of the easiest things to do in the Marines. Even green recruits could run.
“No,” Shel gritted. His shoulder still pained him, but it was healing faster than everyone-but him-expected it to heal. “I got more.”
“I don’t think you have any more, gunney,” the young Marine beside him taunted. “I think you’re old and you’re used up. I think you’re scraping the bottom of the barrel. I think you’re just holding back, trying to save something for whatever you think will be the end of this little walk before breakfast.”
His voice was nasal and full of flat a ’s. It definitely marked him as a Yankee. Shel was certain the drill instructor who’d paired the man with him this morning had done so on purpose.
“If you need me to slow down,” the young Marine offered, “you just bleat in pain.”
Ignore him, Shel told himself. He’s just trying to get you off-stride. He stared straight through the countryside ahead of them. He wore aviator sunglasses that diffused the morning sun. His gray USMC shirt had turned dark with sweat.
Max loped at his side, barely even out of idle.
That’s fine, Shel told himself. The dog can run you into the ground, but you’re not going to give in to this guy with the mouth.
The Marine pacing him was in his midtwenties, nearly ten years younger than Shel. Not only that, but he must have been some kind of track star when he was in high school, which hadn’t been that long ago. His name was Barry Garrick.
“They told me you were a great Marine back in your day,” Garrick said.
“I’m a great Marine now,” Shel replied.
“That’s not what I’m seeing. What I’m seeing is old and used up. They tell me you got hurt and it broke your spirit.”
“I got all the spirit I need, junior.”
“We’ll see, grandma.” Garrick increased his stride and started to pull away.
Breathe out, Shel told himself. You need oxygen. Get all the carbon dioxide out of your lungs. Breathe deep and keep breathing.
He lengthened his stride, pushed away the fear and pain and uncertainty, and gave himself to the run. For the last five weeks, ever since he’d been cleared for light duty, he’d gone to the various satellite camps around Lejeune and trained. It hadn’t been light duty. He’d punished himself, pushing his body back into the condition he was used to.
Remy had offered to work with him, but Shel had wanted to do it on his own, away from the NCIS personnel. He needed to be a Marine again, and the only place he could do that was with other Marines.
Shel reached inside himself for the iron strength that had always been his. There was a part of him that would never bend to anyone or anything as long as his heart still pumped. He’d created that for himself when he realized his daddy would never truly be there for him. He’d started building that strength when his mama had sat him down and told him about the cancer. He’d been fifteen then. His mama had lasted almost three years before she’d lost her battle.
Shel had never understood his daddy’s distance from his sons, but he’d been constantly aware of the emptiness he felt where his daddy’s love and affection should have been. When he’d no longer been able to stand that emptiness, he’d filled it himself. He had forced himself to be invincible and indomitable, and-for the most part- he’d been successful.
But that distance from his daddy wasn’t working now. That phone call about Victor Gant while he’d been in the hospital haunted Shel. He hadn’t found any answers. Estrella’s research into his daddy’s military career had only turned up more questions.
According to what she’d found, Victor Gant and his daddy had never served together. The only thing they had in common was an overlap in Qui Nhon.
So how had Tyrel McHenry gotten to know a proven scumbag like Victor Gant? That was the question. Actually, it was only one of the questions. Why would his daddy have made that phone call? Why had he gotten drunk that night?
Not knowing was frustrating. Not being able to ask was even more so.
Shel squeezed everything out of his body and reached for more. His body became a machine, inflexible and relentless. That was the kind of man he’d driven himself to become, the same kind of man he saw in Tyrel McHenry. Even though he didn’t understand his daddy, Shel respected the quiet strength and steel of the man when he’d buried his wife and gone on working. Those had been the things Shel had chosen to emulate from his father.
Even when Shel became those things, though, his daddy had never seemed to notice. No matter what, Shel just hadn’t been able to win his daddy’s affection.
Those memories worried at his thoughts. Since he’d returned to Camp Lejeune, he’d tried to talk to his daddy a handful of times. But the man had been quieter than ever, and he’d refused to talk about Victor Gant. During their conversations, Shel had dropped plenty of hints that he’d be open to talking about the Purple Royals leader, but his daddy had shut that down.
Shel leaned forward a little more and pushed himself. Inexorably he gained on the younger man. In twenty more strides, he drew abreast of Garrick.
“You’re breathing hard, junior,” Shel said as he powered past the younger man.
Garrick tried to keep pace. Strain etched his features. Then his legs gave out on him. He cursed as he couldn’t even maintain the pace and suddenly fell behind by a wide margin.
Shel kept running. He was deep into the runner’s high now, lost in the charge of endorphins and adrenaline flooding his body. He stayed locked on the terrain ahead.
“Gunney,” Garrick cried from behind him. “Wait up.”
Shel went another twenty paces before he stopped and turned back to Garrick. The younger Marine walked along the trail with his hands on his head to best get oxygen to his lungs.
“You okay, youngster?” Shel asked as he pulled his arm over his head.
“Yeah,” the younger man growled.
“I’m not going to have to carry you back, am I?”
“No.” Garrick shot him a sour look.
“We could always run back to barracks.”
Garrick laced his fingers over his head as his chest heaved. He grinned ruefully. “Maybe in a minute.”
“You just trying to make me feel good?” Shel asked.
Garrick shook his head. “Nope. I’m maybe a little embarrassed.”
“Nothing to be embarrassed about, Marine. You just ain’t put on your full growth yet.”
“Is that how you’re going to tell it when we get back?”
Shel gave the younger man a lopsided grin. “There ain’t anything to tell. What we do out here, it stays out here.”
Garrick kept pacing with his arms over his head. “Where are you from, gunney?”
Shel knew his west Texas accent was showing. He’d heard it himself. It wasn’t from hanging around with Don for the few days his brother had stayed at camp to get him out of Lejeune’s Naval hospital. It came from thinking about his daddy so much.
“West Texas,” Shel said. “Born and raised.”
“I thought I heard that in there. I’m from Boston.”
“I thought I heard that in there,” Shel said.
Garrick grinned. “There are some things you just can’t get past.”
“I know,” Shel said.
