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Starting with June
By Emilie Rose Harlequin Enterprises Limited
Copyright © 2014 Harlequin Enterprises Limited
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4603-4406-4
CHAPTER 1
Sometimes life sucked. This was one of those times, Sam Rivers decided as he exited the building on MCB Quantico with the words he'd never expected to hear still ringing in his ears.
Separated from the corps. Medically discharged.
Over. His military career was over.
He caught a trace of movement near his Charger. Instantly alert, he squinted through the glaring sunlight that not even his Wiley X sunglasses could block. Was the subject a friend or foe? A foe on a domestic base was unlikely. But old habits were hard to break.
The man slouched against the car's front fender was none other than Roth Sterling. As close to a brother as Sam would let any man become. Sam should have known the former sniper who'd watched his back for years wouldn't leave him to face the bad news from the Medical Evaluation Board alone. But Sam hadn't called him. How had Roth known today was D-day?
His buddy straightened as Sam approached. Roth had been out a few years, but civilian life and his recent marriage hadn't changed his parade-ready posture.
"Who called you?"
"Does it matter?" Roth answered.
Did it? Not really. The end was the end. Unless he could heal and convince his superiors it wasn't.
"I appreciate you coming up, Roth, but it wasn't necessary." Sam clasped Roth's fist and bumped his shoulder. An invisible hand wrapped a choke hold around his throat. He blocked the rising tide of panic and uncertainty. He and Roth had been through some deep shit together, but he wouldn't drag his buddy into this pig pond. This was his problem and his alone.
"Yeah, it was necessary. Meet me at the Fire Breathin' Dragon, and I'll tell you why." Roth about-faced and made his way to a pickup parked two rows down.
Sam debated arguing, but he needed something better than his own company at the moment. And he could use a drink. Or three. Maybe more. It'd been a long time since he'd needed a ride home. But tonight might be one of those rare evenings.
Thirty-one and washed up.
Done.
He slid into his car, slammed it into gear then headed to the old biker bar with Roth's truck on his tail. Neither he nor Roth rode a motorcycle, but the hole in the wall was close enough to base to be convenient yet far enough away that they weren't likely to run into anyone they knew. The other patrons would leave them alone. And the beer was cheap.
Thank you for your service. The words echoed in his head. He'd heard them hundreds of times from civilians and they'd filled him with pride. Today the words had been a death knell to the life he'd lived and loved for thirteen years—the life he'd planned to continue until they sent him home in a box.
His superiors had sat across the table from him today and told him that surgery had failed to completely correct the detached retina he'd sustained compliments of his last deployment, and the chance of a full recovery was slim. A visually impaired scout sniper wasn't of much use to anyone, they'd said. A blind spot, however small, could put him on the receiving end of a round rather than on the sending end. Plus, the risk of reinjury from another explosion was too great. So they were letting him go. For his own good.
He was expendable.
His knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. What in the hell was he going to do with the next fifty years of his life? He'd go crazy with nothing to occupy him but reliving stories of his glory days. He'd done a lot of good. Saved a lot of lives—taken a few, too. His data book was impressive, but that was history. He'd never planned for life after the corps, because statistically, he shouldn't have made it out alive. Not in his line of work.
He was a hunter. But he'd also been the hunted.
He hadn't feared death. But he sure as hell feared living ... broken. He'd prepared for every eventuality. Except this one.
He parked and followed Roth into the shadowy interior of the bar. The last time they'd been here, they'd been celebrating Sam's return from a nasty but successful deployment. The uneven wooden floorboards creaked beneath his Danner boots. Except for two gray-haired, ponytailed dudes in leather vests bearing multiple motorcycle patches at the end of the bar and a bottle-redheaded bartender who'd spent too much of her time tanning, the place was empty. Not a surprise given it was midafternoon and midweek.
Wednesday. Hump day. Or dump day, as his career went.
As if they'd last been here yesterday instead of years ago, Roth straddled a chair at their usual table. Sam did the same, bracing himself for a blast of pity or platitudes. He couldn't handle either. Not today. Until two hours ago he'd planned to return to duty once he healed. Or at least transition into an instructor role if he had to leave the field. He hadn't come to terms with the end of his military career and didn't want to talk about being cut from the corps. Not even with Roth.
Sam's jaw hurt from hours of clenching his teeth so tightly. "How much do you know?"
"All of it. But that's only part of why I'm here. I need a favor."
Sam narrowed his eyes, suspicious of the timing. Someone had leaked intel—info he had deliberately not shared with anyone. Not even his family. But he doubted his circumstances involved a security clearance. "Yeah?"
"You've been so entangled in red tape I didn't bother you with the details, but four months ago I arrested and fired my senior deputy. He was dirty." He signaled the bartender for two beers, pointing at the neon sign on the wall above their table to indicate the brand. "That's where you come in."
Sam had been surprised when Roth had told him he'd taken a job in his hometown as chief of police since his buddy had always hated the place. Armpit of America, Roth had dubbed Quincey, North Carolina. Roth's plan had been for it to be a short duty station while he settled a few old scores before he returned to his old job with the Charlotte SWAT team, a job he'd loved almost as much as the corps.
Instead, Roth had discovered he had a pubescent kid he'd known nothing about. Shortly after that he'd rekindled an old flame with his son's momma, and now a gold band glinted on his left hand. Sam hadn't seen that one coming, since both of them had sworn off long-term relationships, but Roth had seemed happy and hunkered down for the long haul as a family man when Sam had visited Roth, his new wife and his kid last month.
"How can I help? I don't know any of your men."
"I need to know how deep the corruption runs in my department. I want someone I trust to infiltrate. Recon is your specialty, Sam. Your ability to smell dirty from a mile away kept us alive too many times to count. You'd see something that didn't add up. I want to hire you to replace the deputy."
Only Sam's training kept him from reacting. There wasn't anyone he trusted more than the man sitting across the scarred wooden table from him. He would—and had—put his life on the line for Roth Sterling. "You fabricated this job to keep me busy. I appreciate your effort. But no."
"Don't flatter yourself. I'm being straight with you, Sam. I have a job opening. And I need help—help I can trust."
Roth looked serious. But the timing was too coincidental, and Sam hated pity parties. "I'm not a cop. No MP training. Not interested. But thanks."
"That's the beauty of Quincey. I can hire and fire whoever I want. I want you. Your military training is sufficient to cover the minimal qualifications. I'll provide the intel you need to cover the rest. You're a damned good detail man, and you have time on your hands while you figure out your next step. You'll be in and out in a couple of months, tops. Work with my team, feel 'em out and give me a report—then you're free to go and do whatever you line up next. I've already found a house for you to rent. Fully furnished. Just bring your Skivvies and a toothbrush."
Still sounded fishy.
"What makes you think I want to do anything but sit back and collect my disdis—" crap, that was hard to say "—disability check? I have a severance package coming, and I've squirreled away some money over the years. I'll be okay."
Financially. Mentally was another story. He might never recover from what he considered a betrayal of the corps. But he'd give 'em a chance to make it right once he healed.
"No one hates a handout more than you, and you'll go crazy with nothing to do. You're too smart to sit and watch TV all day. Do you have a plan?"
"To get back in." He tried not to snarl, but Roth more than anybody knew Sam never wanted to be anything but a Marine and he damned sure wasn't a quitter. "But right now they won't even let me apply to come back as an instructor or as a private contractor in the Precision Weapons Section."
He'd begged for a job. Begged. And damn it, this Marine didn't beg for anything.
"I swear to you, Sam, this isn't BS or pity. I need you. A few months in Quincey will buy you time to put a plan together while you heal. I'll help in any way I can. The salary isn't bad either."
Sam searched the strained face across from him, seeing how difficult it was for Roth to ask for a favor. "How many on your force?"
Not that he was considering it.
"Five, including me."
Nope, not even thinking about it. Stagnating in a backwater swamp wasn't anywhere on his bucket list. He'd lived in North Carolina during one of his dad's stints at Lejeune. He hadn't hated it. But he hadn't seen any reason to return either.
"How many do you suspect?"
"All four until proven otherwise."
Not good. "You don't have anyone you can trust with your six?"
"No. I'm telling you, Sam, this small-town department isn't run like any operation either of us has ever seen. There's no black-and-white. It's all shades of gray, and the corruption went on for a long time. What I have to figure out is where a favor for a friend or looking the other way crosses the line into illegal activity and how many of my officers are doing it."
Sam stalled by wrapping his lips around the bottle and letting the cold beer roll down his throat. He had that itch between his shoulder blades—the one that told him he was in somebody else's crosshairs. Time to seek cover.
But how could he refuse Roth's request? Roth never asked for anything. Not only did Sam owe him, Sam had nothing better—nothing, period—to do. He sure as hell wasn't going home to his family. Not that his dad, a recently retired Marine, wouldn't try to be supportive. But his mother and sisters would smother him.
Short of going to ground, did he have a choice? Maybe he could hang in Quincey until he healed enough to approach the corps again. "It'll take 'em a few weeks to process my paperwork."
"I can wait."
He had to be crazy. "Shoot me whatever you have on your deputies."
"No. I want your unbiased first impressions—they're always damned accurate."
Flying in blind. But as Roth had said, the assignment would keep Sam occupied while he healed and plotted his next step. Working with Roth again might be fun.
How bad could it be?
"I'll see you ASAP."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Starting with June by Emilie Rose. Copyright © 2014 Harlequin Enterprises Limited. Excerpted by permission of Harlequin Enterprises Limited.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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