Breaking point, p.4
Breaking Point, page 4
"Please give me some sign," Cal said out loud, doing one more pass through the apartment. Just when he’d given up, a previous conversation he’d shared with Daniel came back to him. They’d been waiting for an operation to start, killing hours of downtime, when Daniel had told him about a television show he’d once watched. Cal couldn't remember the name of it now, but it had been something about spies who left messages for one another on their bathroom mirrors. Messages that could only be seen when steam fogged the glass.
Feeling a bit crazy for what he was about to try, Cal went to the bathroom and turned on the hot water in the sink and shower. Then he closed the door and waited. It took a long time for the water to heat, but when the steam started coming and the mirror started fogging, Cal laughed, hardly able to believe his eyes. There, in the bottom left corner, a name had materialized on the glass.
He turned off the faucets and hurried to the front door. Before reaching it, however, he pivoted, heading back to the bathroom. He wiped off the mirror with a towel, paying particular attention to the bottom left corner. Better safe than sorry, he figured. Because what if he wasn’t the only one looking for Daniel?
When he finally left, all his thoughts were fixated on a single question: who was Mason Gray?
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
PRIVATE FIRST CLASS MASON GRAY — CAMP LEJEUNE, NORTH CAROLINA — YEARS EARLIER
The judge advocate general who represented Private First Class Gray at his discharge hearing, Terrence Moran, happened to be a Marine captain. He was a decent enough guy and took the time to walk Gray through the entire process.
"Best to just go along with it," Moran advised. The captain was always frank and informal. Gray had never encountered another officer like him. "If you let me do what I need to, I'll try my best to get you out with an honorable discharge."
Sure enough, Moran fulfilled his promise. And while the captain might be slack with the hair regulations, he knew military laws better than most. He also understood how to spin them. Accordingly, he redirected the worst claims against Gray to the recruiter. There had been many irregularities in his enlistment packet, irregularities that anyone with basic intelligence should have picked apart. So, because the Marine Corps was at war and the presiding judge had more important things to adjudicate, the entire hearing took less than a day.
"Is there somewhere you want me to take you?" Moran asked him afterward.
Gray looked back at the gates of Camp Lejeune in the side-view mirror, brow furrowing as he considered the question. He had some money in his pocket, some civilian clothes and a couple of pairs of shoes in his bag. Everything else, the Marine Corps had retained.
"How about the bus station?" Gray asked. He was still simmering with anger, but he figured it would be stupid to take it out on the captain.
"You got it." Moran turned south on the highway. Right as they pulled up to the bus station, the captain perked up, seeming to remember something. "Hey, this might not sound like much, but you got most of the way through sniper school, right?"
Gray barely stopped himself from answering, Yes, sir. What was the point of formality now? “Yeah.”
"Well, things are ramping up overseas, and I'm hearing that there's a few outfits not far from here that are looking for guys with skills. Now that you've got your honorable discharge, you might want to check it out."
"What kind of skills?"
Moran gave him a sharp look. "Shooters. Guys that aren't scared of getting paid to kill people."
Gray straightened in his seat. Otherwise, he didn’t let his interest show. He wanted to play this casually. "Since there's not much back home for me, do you think you could help me find one of those places?"
The captain made a U-turn, driving away from the bus station. "I'm not supposed to do this, Gray, but one of my buddies, a pal from Dartmouth, is some higher-up at a company about an hour from here. I don't have his number in my phone, but I've got it at home. If you have time to ride with me, I'll get it for you."
"Yes, sir," he said.
When they arrived at Moran’s modest rambler, the captain let Gray root around the refrigerator and pick out a beer. Moran disappeared into his home office, then reentered the living room ten minutes later with a piece of paper. He handed it to Gray. Written on the front was a name, a number, and an address.
"My buddy's expecting you. Just give him a call, and he'll run you through the numbers."
"The numbers?"
"Yeah. Like the pay. My buddy says they're pretty much taking anybody these days, so you might've gotten lucky. Maybe all this trouble happened for a reason."
Less than twenty-four hours later, Gray stood in the captain's friend’s office. The man took one look at his service record and clapped him on the back. "Listen, kid, if you shoot like it says you can in here and you show us some balls, we'll offer you a six-figure contract starting next week. How's that sound?"
"That sounds good," Gray said in surprise. Maybe Moran had been right. Maybe he really had gotten lucky. Screw the Marine Corps and their arrogance.
"You look like you've got a question. Ask it."
"How soon can I start?"
The man laughed, shaking his head. "Kid, you shouldn't be so eager to run into the line of fire."
It was Gray’s turn to laugh. Because he was eager. And nothing this man or anyone else could say would change his mind.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
DANIEL — UNKNOWN AIRSPACE
The flight attendant politely offered him a drink. He asked for water. She poured him a glass and then offered a newspaper, which he declined.
Daniel was the only passenger onboard. He debated asking the pilot or the flight attendant where they were going, but decided against it. He debated getting some sleep, but figured he should stay awake just in case. Then he debated a whole lot of other things. He just couldn’t stop “stinking thinking,” as Sarge would have said.
An Italian sub was served for lunch, with some chips and soda on the side. Though he had no appetite, he made himself eat every bite—slowly, to kill time. The minutes and hours ticked by until finally, he sensed the plane losing altitude. When they broke through the clouds, he saw open water beneath them.
An ocean, he thought, examining the beautiful coastline. The water was robin’s-egg blue, and he suspected their destination was either Central America or Florida. His second guess proved correct.
"Welcome to Key West," the flight attendant said when the plane came to a stop. She let the stairs down and gave him a pleasant smile. "There's a car waiting for you, Mr. Briggs. Would you like anything for the road?"
"Can I have a couple bottles of water, please?"
"Yes, sir. Just give me a moment."
Daniel went to the door and peered outside, wondering who or what was in Key West. He spotted the waiting car, a Cadillac Escalade. The chauffeur standing beside it was unfamiliar.
"Have a nice visit, sir," said the flight attendant as she returned with two bottles of water.
A nice visit. Wouldn't that be great?
He walked down the stairs and approached the Escalade. Wearing a black suit and tie, the chauffeur wordlessly opened the back door. He closed it once Daniel had climbed in, then strode to the driver’s side to take his own seat. Daniel watched every move and doubted the man worked for Gray. He seemed too ordinary. "How long until we get there?"
The chauffeur checked his blind spots as he pulled away from the flight line. "It depends on traffic, sir, but this time of day, I'd say thirty or forty-five minutes. Would you like to listen to any music?"
"No, thank you."
"If you prefer, you can put the divider up."
"Thank you. I think I will. Might even take a nap."
Daniel put up the tinted divider, not because he had anything to hide, but because he wanted some privacy to continue his earlier train of thought. He’d spent the entire flight recalling every minor detail he could about Gray. While he didn't have a photographic memory, he sure had a good one, especially for important facts. But he remembered little from their brief time as partners at Scout Sniper Basic Course. Gray was just one of those guys you sort of forgot as time went on.
So why the hell has he come back into my life now? And how the hell did he get his hands on Anna?
By the time they arrived at their destination, a quiet little alcove called Good Morning Key, he pretty much had this episode figured out. Somehow, Gray had learned about what he had said to Gunny Claremont all those years ago, and now the discharged Marine was seeking retribution.
However petty they might be, Daniel knew all about vendettas and could recognize one from miles away. But he didn’t care about the reason why his and Gray’s fates had come back together. All he cared about was saving Anna. And if he had to take out Mason Gray in the process, then so be it.
Daniel Briggs was an alpha in the killing field, and the beast inside him would end anyone who tried to knock him from his perch.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
MASON GRAY — BAGHDAD, IRAQ — YEARS EARLIER
"All right, Gray, we're cleared hot." The message came to his earpiece over the crackling radio waves.
"You get that?" whispered his partner, who was spotting for him.
"Roger," Gray said, watching the target host a family picnic in a public park over a thousand meters away. He had been lying in the same spot—staring through his scope, roasting beneath the hot desert sun, and breathing in concrete dust from the war-torn rooftop—for exactly eight hours and forty-seven minutes now. The target had first bobbled into view four hours ago, but he’d been waiting for final approval to take the shot.
The company Gray worked for was helping the United States military fill in coverage gaps in Iraq, since technically, the war was over. He'd been with them for over a year now, and during that time, he'd endured screening, training, and grunt work to reach deployment status.
The first time he had stepped off a cargo plane, he’d discovered his love for the smell of war. The ripe odor of decaying corpses bothered a lot of guys, but not him. He found it comforting. It reminded him of walking into his great-grandmother’s house while she’d been preparing lamb. He’d always hated lamb, but he’d loved visiting her because Dad had never come with him. That had meant no beatings and no admonishments for the duration of his stay. With Granny, he’d been safe.
"Wait until the kids move away," his partner said.
Gray grunted in acknowledgement, though he didn't feel one way or another about the children of enemy combatants. Not when he knew they would probably grow up to be just like their fathers.
Another minute passed. Then the target lobbed a soccer ball across the field. The children gave chase, and the target clapped, turning to watch them run. As he faced Gray, a high-speed round ripped through his chest. He crumpled. Mayhem erupted in the park. A woman raced to the target’s side, screaming. Guards began shooting for no reason. The children scattered.
"Hell of a shot," his partner said as they packed up to go. "You know, you remind me of somebody."
"Who's that? John Wayne?" Gray was proud of his calm, jitter-free disposition as they hurried down the interior stairwell of the ruined building.
"No. You ever heard of a guy . . . You are a Marine, right?"
"I was," Gray said, offering no further clarification. He’d found that most people in the company didn't ask about backgrounds beyond which service someone had joined. Privacy was fiercely protected around here.
"Yeah, that’s what I thought. Well, there is this guy. They call him Snake Eyes. You know the name?"
Gray shook his head, ducking under a collapsed rafter that blocked the front door. "Nope."
A rusted-out Mercedes pulled up right as they stepped outside. The driver was a local who had been promised more money than he normally made in six months. With a thick accent, he said, "Get in. Get in.”
The snipers needed no prodding. They were happy to be leaving. They knew the shot and kill had stirred up a hornet’s nest.
The Mercedes zoomed through the outskirts of Baghdad, dodging the debris littering the streets.
"Ah hell, now I remember the name," his partner said, lighting a cigar and holding it out.
Gray accepted the offer and puffed on the pungent tobacco, careful not to inhale.
"You ever meet a guy named Briggs?"
It was all Gray could do not to choke on the smoke. Gathering himself, he lied, "No, I don't know a Briggs."
His partner shrugged and took back the cigar, falling silent as he enjoyed his tobacco.
Gray looked out the window and willed his lungs to settle, grateful that the conversation was over. But his relief wouldn’t last long. Soon, he would hear his former partner’s name again. And then again . . . and again . . . and again.
Because bit by bit, the two men were building parallel careers.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
ANNA — UNKNOWN LOCATION
When Anna woke, she was naked. Her hands were bound together at the wrists and shackled to a thick metal pole. Her mouth was so dry it felt like it had been stuffed with cotton balls. Had she been knocked out with chloroform again? She couldn’t remember, though that wasn’t surprising.
"Rise and shine," a man said.
Flood lights blazed on, blinding her. Shivering, she tried to huddle in on herself, but the position was impossible to achieve with her arms wrapped around the pole.
"Stand up.”
"What do you want?” she asked, her voice rough.
"Stand. Up."
Feeling weak and exposed, Anna braced herself against the metal pole and rose. Her legs threatened to give out when she reached her full height. A blast of frigid water hit her in the back, and her knees buckled. She caught herself before falling, the shackles digging into her wrists. Gradually, the water pressure eased. The man directed the spray up and down the length of her twice.
“Turn to the side.”
She contemplated ignoring him, but decided against it. When she turned, the water went up and down her front a few times.
"Spread your legs and lift your arms."
Anna’s stomach sank. This was it, wasn’t it? She'd heard all the stories about human traffickers, how they “warmed up” each prize. However, no “warm up” came, just more cold water to cleanse the sweat and grime from her body. When the hose shut off, she squinted to see the man, but the blazing lights behind him were too bright.
"If you promise to behave, I'll let you dry yourself off," he said.
She wanted to tell him to go fuck himself, but what would that accomplish? Might as well go along for now. See where things went.
"I'll behave," she said through chattering teeth.
Something slid across the ground and knocked into the pole. It was a small set of keys.
"Unlatch yourself from the pole, then put the cuffs back on."
Awkwardly, Anna squatted and fetched the keys. It took her a couple of minutes to figure out the angle she needed to free herself, and all the while, the man said nothing, only watched. Patient. Composed.
One handcuff popped off. She stretched her arms and rolled her shoulders.
"Now put it back on."
I could rush him, Anna thought, glaring in the man’s direction. But the floor was slippery, and she didn't have any shoes on. Oh, and she was naked. And what if he was armed? He was probably armed.
Sighing, she re-latched the handcuff around her tender wrist.
“Good. Throw back the keys.”
Begrudgingly, she did.
"Here comes a towel.”
An oversized beach towel flew at her. She caught it out of the air and took her time drying herself off, savoring the warmth. The towel smelled new, like it had never been washed. And sure enough, when she looked at her body, she saw light-blue pilling clinging to her damp skin.
"Walk this way. Nice and slow."
She wrapped the towel around her body and stepped forward until the man told her to stop.
"Put these clothes on." He tossed a brown plastic bag at her feet.
Securing the towel in place, she bent down and picked up the bag. A peek inside revealed a pair of underwear, cheap jean shorts, and a T-shirt. No bra.
"How am I supposed to put these on?” she asked, holding her hands out.
"Put the bottoms on first, and then I'll give you the keys."
Fine. But Anna was not going to cower. She dropped her towel and stood proudly, slipping on the underwear and then the shorts. She even brushed back her hair as best she could. Holding her hands out again, she said, “The keys.”
They slid along the floor, and she stopped them with her foot. Undoing the handcuffs was easier without the pole, but she still took her time putting the shirt on.
"No bra?” she asked.
"I didn't know your size," the man said, and she didn't detect any mirth in his voice. Maybe he was telling the truth. Or maybe he'd forgotten. Or he just didn't care. “Put the cuffs back on and return the keys.”
She complied. "And the towel?”
"Just leave it."
A water bottle rolled along the floor, stopping inches from her toes.
"Drink it."
She eyed the water bottle with a frown. "What's in it?”
“I said, drink it."
"I'm not thirsty.”
Anna heard the rack of a shotgun shell. She did not need further prompting. She bent, picked up the water bottle, and stood proud once more, removing the cap and tossing it aside with a flourish. In one long swig, she drank down the murky beverage. Then she flung the empty bottle across the room.
