Brooks rubbed the center of his chest and frowned. It was different. Not an ache for lack of knowing where his siblings were, but something strange.
Walking a little further down the beach, he found himself reminiscing about their training and the tall grass that helped to hide them during that training. He sat down, realizing how the tall grass camouflaged him from the beach and waters beyond. It was smart and he and Mitchell had used it many times on missions, on different beaches, in different countries, on different continents. But tall grass was tall grass. It worked.
Find what nature provides and use the shit out of it. They’d hidden in trees, ditches, caves, tall grass, and much more. Hell, one time they hid inside an old outhouse. Not one of his favorites.
Just as he was about to stand, he heard something, or someone, in the distance. Yelling. Someone was arguing. Someone he knew. He didn’t want to stand and be seen but he also didn’t want tonotstand and appear that he was listening in on their conversation.
“I don’t give a fuck what you think. You find that fucking woman and kill her.”
“She’s just a stupid fucking reporter, Jim. She doesn’t know a damn thing. She’s poking her nose into shit she doesn’t understand.”
“But it’s my shit. Mine. If she finds out anything that happened in Bolivia, I’m fucked! I need her to go away permanently, do you understand me?”
“Fine. Fine. I’ll start looking for her. Sometimes you’re a fucking pussy for a Marine,” laughed the man.
Brooks frowned, now very concerned about what he was hearing. He heard the rustling of the grass in the distance and peered through the sheaves. With their backs to him, and now a good distance away, he thought it was safe to rise and walk toward base.
He was wrong.
CHAPTER THREE
Six weeks prior…
Lennon McCartney stared at her editor and shook her head. A surprise ‘oops’ baby, her parents were huge fans of the Beatles, the seventies, peace, love, and rock and roll. Although her father hated John Lennon, mostly due to Yoko, her mother adored him. And although her mother didn’t care for Paul McCartney, no particular reason, her father loved him. It also helped that her father’s last name was McCartney.
So, a compromise.
She counted her blessings that they didn’t make her middle name Ringo or George. Instead, it was as benign as any name could be. Anne.
“Ken, this is a suicide detail you’re asking me to write about. Those guys don’t screw around. If I write about him and what he’s doing, they’re going to come for me. These aren’t stupid thugs or drug-addicted gangs.
“These men are the best in the world, trained by our government to always get their man, or woman. I wanted a chance to prove myself but you’re asking me to do something no sane person would consider doing. Why? Why me? Why now?”
“Don’t be so paranoid, Lennon. He won’t know anything about you looking into this. Just talk to the witnesses and see if they can shed some light on the missing drugs and money. Also, figure out what the fuck is happening with leadership down there.”
“And women. Don’t forget the missing women, Ken. You’re insane. I don’t want to do this. I can feel that it won’t turn out well for me. This isn’t my specialty. I do human interest stories.”
“What could be of more interest to humans than a Navy Seal and Marine stealing from the very people they are supposed to rescue,” he smirked with the cigar between his teeth.
“Steal and kill. You forgot that part. They killed them as far as we know. Geez, Ken. They’re not screwing around. This isn’t some Jack Ryan movie. This is real life. My life!”
“Listen, Lennon, you’re a great reporter and you do stellar investigative work. The magazine needs a big story. Our online enrollments and clicks are down. Way down. If we can’t do something big, we’ll be looking to downsize and close our doors within the year.”
“Nothing like guilt to make me do your dirty work,” she frowned.
“Dirty work pays more, kid. Do this and you’ll get a big bonus and promotion.”
Lennon stood, opening the folder he’d sent via her Teams link. When she started to end the call, instead she stared directly at him, frowning.
“Dead women don’t get promotions.”
Lennon hid in the shrubs just below the window of the small ground-floor apartment. Four men had entered, and she was pretty damn sure only three would leave.
The fourth entered against his will, fighting and shoving, pushing and swearing the entire time.
“I know you know something you little prick,” said one of the men. “What do they know? You keep your ears open to everything that happens in that fucking office. What do they know?”
“I don’t know anything so how would they know anything,” said the young man. One of the other men slammed his fist into the young man’s gut. Gasping for air, spitting blood, he shook his head.
