Breaking point, p.2
Breaking Point, page 2
Shaking his head, he laughed at his own joke.
The fried-fish sandwich he'd eaten for lunch had been delicious, but it sat heavy in his stomach, so he went for a stroll along the boardwalk. He smiled at the friendly townsfolk he passed, thinking, Yes, a place to lie down, a place to rest, a place to come with your kids or your grandparents. A place to cast a line into the water and catch some fish. Maybe rent a boat.
He liked boats. He liked taking them far out to sea, where dumping a body was easy. Then he liked to follow the shorelines, chasing dolphins and skimming waves.
With a content smile stretching his lips, he looked up at the sun. Though he possessed the latest technologies, he always enjoyed telling time by the location of the burning orb in the sky. It had never failed him, not on the plains of the African Savanna or the rice paddies of Asia.
He much preferred sunshine over rain, but the latter had its perks. Rain covered tracks. Sometimes, that helped. But most times, he liked his victims to know he was coming. To shake with fear while they anticipated his arrival.
He thought of his second message. Soon, it would be delivered. And then an old friend would know he was coming. And then they would be afraid, too.
CHAPTER FIVE
CAL STOKES — CHARLOTTESVILLE, VIRGINIA
Cal groaned at the sound of his beeping alarm clock. He reached over, turned it off, and forced himself to swing his legs off the bed. It was still dark, but he had a promise to keep. So, he changed into the athletic clothes he’d set out the night before, slipped on socks and new running shoes, and walked down the stairs to the main level of the Jefferson Group’s headquarters.
“Look who decided to grace us with his presence." Master Sergeant Willy Trent, Top to his friends, raised a mug of coffee as Cal entered the kitchen.
"He doesn't look like a Marine to me," said the man seated beside Top, his best friend, Gaucho. As always, Gaucho’s dual-braided beard hung down to his chest.
"Why don't you two quit your yapping and give me a cup of coffee?" Cal said.
"My, my, testy these days, isn't he?" Top grinned.
Cal rolled his eyes and did what all good friends do when given a hard time: he flipped his middle finger.
"Ouch. That hurts," Gaucho said, but his eyes gleamed with mirth.
"I've been wounded!" Top cried, staggering to his feet and holding his chest. He then let out a booming laugh and went to the coffeepot to pour Cal a mug.
"Why did I ever agree to this?" Gaucho asked, rubbing his face.
Top handed Cal the mug and said, "Gaucho, might I remind you that last night, deep in your cups, you said, and I quote, 'I can run both of you into the dirt at butt crack thirty any day.'"
Gaucho scoffed. "Yeah, but I didn’t mean today. And besides, I wasn’t thinking straight. That damn bartender overserved me. It’s his fault, not mine.”
The three of them laughed and took sips of coffee.
"You're getting good," Cal said to Top, nodding appreciatively.
The big man was a fantastic chef, maybe even on par with the Michelin-starred geniuses around the world. Recently, he'd taught himself how to roast coffee beans. His friends had been the lucky—and occasionally unlucky—guinea pigs for his experiments.
"Ethiopian beans," Top said. "Delicious, right?"
Cal grinned. "You know, if you ever want to find a new line of work, you could open up a coffee shop."
"Hell no, man," Gaucho said. "When we retire, we're going down to the islands. We're going to hunt pirates."
"Damn straight, hombre." Top gave his friend a high five.
Cal couldn't help but watch the two best friends with a hint of jealousy. They made him think of his own best friend, Daniel Briggs, who was currently lost to the wind. Well, not literally lost. They knew where he was. Daniel had returned to Las Vegas after the mess in Chicago to resume his search for something. What that something was, Cal didn't know. He would've asked if he’d been given the chance, but when his friend had disappeared again, there'd been no warning. There never was with Daniel.
Cal wanted to jump on a plane and fly to Las Vegas, but he knew he couldn't. He understood that sometimes a man needed to wander in the wilderness alone. Hopefully, that wandering would help Daniel find himself once more.
"Penny for your thoughts?" Top asked, watching Cal with knowing eyes.
Cal sighed. "If Daniel were here, he would've already dragged us out the door.”
"Who? Snake Eyes?” Gaucho snorted. “No way, man. He's getting soft in his old age."
Nobody laughed at the joke. Daniel Briggs was becoming many things, but soft was not one of them.
CHAPTER SIX
DANIEL — LAS VEGAS, NEVADA
Over the following days, Daniel formed a new routine. Like clockwork, he pulled the Polaroid from his pocket every few hours, staring at it for several minutes before retrieving his phone and scrolling through his contacts, hesitating on the names of his friends—Cal, Top, Gaucho, and even Matthew Wilcox, the wily assassin. He never dialed any of them.
He went to the ring each night to fight and seek out the middleman who had delivered the envelope to him. The middleman always confirmed he hadn't seen the envelope’s original owner since the exchange. But Daniel kept going back, hoping there would be some sign of the culprit. There never was. And he knew deep down inside that there never would be. But he also had a feeling that if he waited long enough, another clue would come.
Late one evening, a few minutes after finishing a fight, Daniel was standing in the bathroom, scrolling through his contacts yet again, when his attention caught on Lena’s name. He startled. How could he have forgotten about Lena? Wasn't she supposed to be with Anna? Or was she spending time with Wilcox? For some reason, he couldn't remember.
Trembling with lingering adrenaline, his finger hovered over her number. So easy to dial and yet so hard to press. He stared for a long moment, then put his phone away.
What's wrong with you? Daniel wondered, eyeing his reflection in the mirror.
His reflection didn't answer. It just stared back, accusing.
He left through the fight club’s rear exit, careful to shroud his face in the shadow of his large hoodie lest he be recognized. He'd made a name for himself here. Some people called him Quick Kill, others called him Take Down.
He couldn’t care less about his growing infamy. He fought to release steam. But since receiving the picture, the more he fought, the less stress he seemed to relieve. Even when he ramped up the intensity and let the beast come out stronger. Meetings had become less helpful, too, though he’d continued to attend, listening like Sarge had taught him and sharing when appropriate, when he thought he was getting that little nudge from up above.
The fury swirling inside him at the thought of Anna in danger was proving impenetrable. And that scared him to his core.
So why couldn't he pick up the phone? Why couldn't he call to check on her?
"You're weak. A coward," he told himself. "You're a no-good friend."
But he had been, and he wanted to be again.
Daniel did not head back to his crappy little apartment right away. Instead, he meandered the streets, looking for nothing, wanting only to be outside rather than alone in his room, struggling to fall asleep. How long had it been since he'd had a full night's rest? He didn't know.
When he finally made it to his apartment, it was close to three in the morning. His body was weary, his soul, too, and he almost didn't put the key in the lock. But he'd promised to set up for the 6 a.m. meeting, so he had to get some rest. Right?
He still didn't have a sponsor, and he didn't really have plans to get one, no matter how many times Beverly pestered him. He knew her persistence came from a place of care and love. He didn’t doubt that. What he doubted was himself.
Consumed by self-deprecation, Daniel didn't do his usual sweep of the apartment, a habit born of years in the field, tracking and being tracked. He went straight to the bathroom to shower and brush his teeth before heading to bed and spotting what waited, all alone, in the middle of the mattress.
Not an envelope, not a package. Not a thumb drive, either. It was a red feather, two or maybe three inches in length. At first, he thought the color was just a trick of the light. But when he flicked on a lamp, he saw that no, his eyes hadn’t deceived him.
Were the pillows filled with red down? No, that would be ridiculous. Who the hell dyed feathers red and then filled pillows with them?
That's when it hit him. The memories lanced through his brain, and his mind cascaded back through the years, back to his old life, back to when it all had all begun.
CHAPTER SEVEN
LANCE CORPORAL DANIEL BRIGGS — SCOUT SNIPER BASIC COURSE — YEARS EARLIER
"Briggs."
"Here, Sergeant," Lance Corporal Daniel Briggs called out from the lineup.
"Briggs, you'll be partnered with PFC Gray. Gray, where are you?"
"Here, Sergeant," said Private First Class Gray, raising a hand. The Marine was a scrawny, pimple-faced kid who didn't look like much. But even though Briggs had been in the Marines for less than a year, he knew that looks could be deceiving. Besides, not just anybody got to go to sniper school. You had to prove yourself first.
Briggs had done just that by not only outshooting everyone in his class, but everyone in his battalion. Even the crusty old colonel who was rumored to have been in the Marine Corps for fifty years. Briggs knew that was bullshit, but the truth didn’t diminish his respect for the old man. Getting a pat on the back and a handshake from him had been Briggs’ first attaboy in the “real” Marine Corps.
A few days after the shootout, the platoon commander, a second lieutenant who couldn't have been older than twenty-three, had informed Briggs that he’d been cherry-picked to attend sniper school and had two days to pack his things—whether he wanted to go or not. That was the Marine Corps: do what you’re told and shut your trap. But of course Briggs had wanted the opportunity. Besides Force Reconnaissance, snipers were the tip of the spear. Called Snake Eaters, Snoop and Poopers, Long Shots, and the like, the elite shooters were revered.
"Listen up, Marines," Sergeant Franklin said. His cammies were rolled tight and perfectly creased around his bulging biceps. To Briggs, the man looked like a true Marine. "Welcome to Scout Sniper Basic Course. I don't give a shit what anybody else has told you. This course is hard. It's going to test you in ways that make you want to quit. And no, we don't do stupid shit like those baby seals in Coronado."
Scattered snickers sounded from the lineup. Franklin let them go.
Very different from boot camp, Briggs thought.
“Yes, you're going to get wet. Yes, you're going to be cold. Yes, you're going to have bugs bite you in places that you didn't even know they could reach. You're going to be tired. You're going to be hungry. And you're going to be beat to a pulp—not by us." The sergeant lifted his hands, as if to say they were clean and innocent. "But many of you won't remain on this course when we're done. Some of you are here because you think it's cool, others because your units wanted to get rid of you, and others because you belong here. Those are the ones we want. The rest will be weeded out."
Briggs swallowed hard, finding that he believed the sergeant. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed another Marine approaching. The man was tall and dignified, where the sergeant was beefy and gruff.
"Attention on deck," Franklin barked.
Out of Pavlovian reflex, every prospective scout sniper popped to attention and stared straight ahead. They had yet to shake the rules of boot camp, which had absorbed deep into their bloodstreams, and they had yet to be tainted by the slackness of the fleet. Not that the fleet was slack per se, but it taught Marines which rules meant something and which rules were total bullshit.
"At ease, Marines," the newcomer said, voice steeped in a thick Southern drawl. He had a cigarette sticking out of the corner of his mouth like he’d been born with it there.
Briggs shifted, standing more at parade rest than at ease, hands clasped behind his back. The newcomer took notice and stopped in front of him.
"I said, ‘At ease, Marines.’" His tone wasn’t crass like a drill instructor’s. In fact, it was almost fatherly.
Briggs stood at ease.
"Good." He turned and walked up the line, meeting the eyes of each Marine he passed, then came back down. "I'm sure Sergeant Franklin has already given you a rousing speech about being a scout sniper, so I’ll skip that part. I am Gunnery Sergeant Benjamin Claremont. You may address me as Gunny, Gunnery Sergeant, Gunnery Sergeant Claremont, or Gunny Claremont. I am the NCOIC of Scout Sniper Basic Course. While you are here, you will obey my commands and the commands of Sergeant Franklin.
“Despite what you might think, we do not want to fail you. We want the blessed Marine Corps to swell with the ranks of scout snipers, and we want you to be one of them." Claremont stopped his pacing and faced the lineup. He had everyone’s full attention. "But that is not reality, so let's see who has a shred of what it takes. Your training begins now. Sergeant Franklin, they're all yours."
"Yes, Gunny.”
Claremont stood rooted to the spot while Franklin told them they would soon commence a ten-mile run. Any man or woman who could not keep up would be dropped. No groans or complaints followed the announcement. The prospective scout snipers had come prepared.
While Sergeant Franklin explained the route, Briggs could not tear his eyes away from Claremont. There was something about the man . . . something so solid, so disciplined and formidable, that Briggs would never forget it.
"Fall out and stretch on your own," Franklin said in dismissal.
Briggs’ partner came over and offered a hand. "Hey, Lance Corporal. I'm Mason Gray."
"Daniel Briggs," he said, accepting the handshake.
"Good to meet you, Briggs. Is it cool if I call you Briggs, or do you want me to keep calling you Lance Corporal?"
"Briggs is fine."
"Hey, can you get a load of that guy?" Gray asked, meaning the gunny. "You think they lock him up and break him out in times of war?"
Briggs recognized the reference to a Marine classic, Heartbreak Ridge. The movie starred Clint Eastwood as Gunnery Sergeant Tom Highway, a Medal of Honor recipient and a Marine's Marine who liked to drink, fight, and win wars.
"I think we better stretch, Gray."
"Oh, right. Sure."
As they stretched, Briggs stole glances at Claremont. He was too green to understand how or why, but he had a deep feeling that he would learn much from the man.
CHAPTER EIGHT
LANCE CORPORAL DANIEL BRIGGS — SCOUT SNIPER BASIC COURSE — YEARS EARLIER
Only one sniper candidate was lost during the ten-mile run. The kid just gave up and got whisked away, never to be mentioned again. Like he hadn’t existed at all.
Over the following days, Briggs discovered that every aspect of sniper training was a new fascination. Sure, he'd learned land navigation before, both at boot camp and the School of Infantry, but here, they studied each contour map like it was a woman's body—something to be respected, something to be gazed upon lovingly. They learned every minutia about their weapons, from where they were made to what metals were used to the exact specifications of each barrel, trigger, trigger guard, and round. They also practiced the art of camouflage.
Though Briggs hadn’t set out to graduate at the top of the class, his scores quickly signified his potential to do so. It surprised him. He'd been a fair athlete in high school, but not an exemplary student. And yet, now he couldn’t seem to stop learning. Most nights, after everyone fell asleep, he pulled out the books they'd discussed earlier in the day, grabbed his flashlight, and hid under the blankets, reading and rereading every line.
For the first time in his life, Briggs felt like he belonged. Which was another surprise. Sure, he'd come into the Marine Corps willingly, but what else could he have done? Enlisting had seemed like his only logical option. He’d expected to do his time as an infantryman and then get the hell out. Becoming a sniper, however . . . It changed his perspective. This felt like something he could do for the rest of his life.
Maybe one day, when he had the balls, he would ask Claremont how to make that happen. Because Briggs, being young and naive, didn't understand that Marines couldn't have one job for the entirety of their careers. No, the Corps wanted to make sure their men and women were well-rounded, so they bounced them from post to post, back and forth from the fleet to various B-billets.
But Briggs had a long way to go before he learned any of that. So, while working up the courage to speak with Claremont, he focused on excelling however he could at the Scout Sniper Basic Course. Which meant helping Gray, his constant companion, succeed as well, since they were getting judged as a team.
Thankfully, Gray was a decent enough guy, could shoot almost as well as Briggs, and had a knack for picking everything up pretty quick. Well, everything except for camouflage. To be fair, though, once Briggs had shown Gray some tricks, the guy had figured it out.
Still, Briggs couldn’t say he viewed his partner as a friend. There was something off about the kid. He couldn't quite put his finger on what it was, exactly, but the little things Gray did, the little comments he made . . . They just didn’t sit right.
Marines were known for their macabre humor, but Gray always took it a little too far. He liked to talk about killing ragheads and peeling off their skin to wear as suits. And when the two of them were stalking a target or lying camouflaged for hours at a time, Gray searched out small animals like frogs and dissected them. Not because he was curious about their anatomy. No, it was something else. Some strange fascination with death, maybe.
