Her Own Best Enemy (The Remnants, Book 1) (2 page)

“Mark Stevens. We called him The Bard ‘cause he was always spouting poetry at us.”

“Mark spouting poetry? That doesn’t sound…” Her voice trailed off. “Oh, God. What was he into?”

Instead of answering her, he picked up the second photo. The penetrating stares of his Special Ops unit slithered up his spine. Parker. Dead. Millhouse.
Dead
. Not from a dangerous mission or an attack, but by the hand of a fellow soldier who’d betrayed them.

His throat constricted. The acrid stench of burning flesh still lingered in his mind. As the Engineer Sergeant, Keith had double and triple-checked those charges. Damn it, he wasn’t some fresh recruit just out of basic. He knew the difference between live explosives and dummy loads. He’d used dummies, as always.

Someone had to have switched the charges and blown them all to hell. Why couldn’t he remember those last precious seconds before the explosion? He shoved the picture aside, but the sour taste of retribution remained.

“You know something. About Mark.” Grace leaned forward and a lock of light brown chin-length hair popped out of its resting place behind her ear. She scrubbed at her cheek, brushed the strand away from her eye and tucked it back in place.

A sudden prickle of déjà vu hit him in the back of his neck. Why did the simple action seem so familiar? She tipped her head and the sensation eased, but Keith knew better than to ignore a feeling that strong.

Don’t trust her. Tread carefully. There’s something about her…

He crouched down to pick up the cards that were still scattered over the floor, hoping to give himself some space to clear his head. She came alongside to help him, getting right back in his face.

“Tell me. Was it something…illegal? Is Ryker—?” She clamped her mouth shut like she couldn’t bear to give voice to the thought that her son might be in danger.

There was no ‘might’ about it. The people The Bard dealt with weren’t your average every day criminals. Then again, Mark Stevens wasn’t your average Defense Intelligence Agent. He’d been tasked with a highly sensitive covert mission: infiltrate the inner sanctum of the Army in the hopes of catching the traitor known only as The Keeper. After years of dead ends, Mark had finally found a lead. A name—one he hadn’t had the chance to divulge before he’d disappeared.

“Stevens wouldn’t be caught dead doing something illegal.” Keith had been his point man, the only one who knew the real reason for his sudden appearance at Fort Bragg.

Grace’s wide eyes snared him, willing him to divulge more out of compassion. But he’d learned long ago that such a weak emotion had no business in his life.

He rubbed the still tender scar along his forehead with the jack of clubs in his hand, a raw reminder that even when you worked hard to control every corner of your life it still managed to end up royally FUBAR.

Keith closed his eyes and was immediately transported to that afternoon. He could see his finger depressing the trigger to detonate the dummy charge to expel a thin blanket of smoke into the hollowed out training facility. Instead of the familiar pop he’d expected to hear, a roar had shook the ground and tossed him on his back.

Keith tightened his jaw, willing his fuzzy brain to remember more. But all he could recall was the smell. The thick, impenetrable smoke. The hazy whispers before he lost consciousness. And the blurred image of a man. Had it been The Keeper? Keith’s gut told him it had.

He needed a name. And if the only way to get it was from The Bard himself, then that’s what he’d do. He’d bided his time in this stinking rehab center long enough. He’d thought if he did his sentence like a good soldier he could save his career, but his career meant nothing if the bastard who’d killed his friends went free. He couldn’t wait. He had to find Stevens now. If Keith was the key, then Stevens was the lock, holding all the secrets that would break the truth wide open.

“Do you have any idea where Mark might have taken your son?”

Misery drew Grace’s features into a tight mask as she handed him the stack of cards. “No.”

“Then we have our work cut out for us.”

Excitement coursed through his veins. He was going to do something reckless and impulsive but damn nothing had ever felt so right. He flicked a glance at the rows of tables, the nurses and counselors wandering around, the security doors he’d have to breach. Difficult but not impossible.

He leaned forward. “Do you have a car?”

She nodded.

“Good. Get rid of it.”

“But—”

“Abandon it. Take your money and buy something else. Four wheel drive. Nothing fancy. Got that?”

“Why?”

He tapped the deck of cards on his thigh. “It won’t take long for someone to report my disappearance.”

“You’re going to—” She gasped. Her breath caressed his skin. He cursed himself from noticing. “But how will you—?”

He looked away from her gaze, he couldn’t allow that turbulent mix of fear and hope mess with his head. “Leave that to me. There’s a place on Grand Avenue. A real dive. You can’t miss the flashing pink lights. It’s called The Cheshire. I’ll meet you there. Midnight.”

Against his better judgment, he reached out and touched the back of her hand. It trembled under his fingers, her skin warm and soft.

He jerked, curling his burning fingers into a fist.

Focus. Keep your distance. Find the kid, find Stevens, and get the bastard responsible for the death of your men.

Keith stood. With a scowl, he pocketed the deck of cards. “Remember. The Cheshire. Midnight. Don’t be late.”

Chapter Two

The eight by ten room at the rehab center was larger than some of the trenches he’d dug during recon missions, but the washed out cell still somehow managed to give him the shakes. He didn’t like to be tied down, locked up, without control. He’d had enough of that in his childhood to last him a lifetime.

Not for the first time he wondered what would’ve happened had he continued on the self-destructive path of his youth. At eighteen, he’d been one cocky SOB always looking for the next party—the next escape from a lonely childhood of alcohol and neglect. Hell, he and his then best friend Colby Longenbow had turned taking what they wanted into an art form.

Until the night Colby had gone too far—and Keith made a stand that changed the course of his life forever.

No, he’d certainly never wanted to enlist, that had been Colby’s dream. Colby’s dream and Keith’s punishment. Funny how something that started out as his penance ultimately became his salvation. That he was in jeopardy of losing it all caused far more than frustration. It scared the hell out of him.

If he didn’t get his head on straight...if he didn’t remember the whispers of truth hovering just beyond his reach...

Keith clenched his jaw and cursed the sedatives the nurses had routinely administered. He’d started hiding the prescribed pills under his tongue and flushing them down the toilet days ago, yet the fog had yet to completely clear from his brain.

Not the best time to attempt a break from this secure facility. But finding Mark was Keith’s only hope of avenging the brothers who had trusted him. He had to show the remaining members of his A-team that their loyalty had not been misplaced.

His thighs burned as he crouched on the floor between the hard mattress and the wall, waiting for the night guard to appear. He twisted the knotted bed sheet around his hand. What a cliché, escaping his prison with the aid of a sheet. If the men in his unit found out, he’d never live it down.

Heavy footsteps plodded down the hallway outside his door. The guard was making his last round before lock-down. Keith lifted his head and reached for the janitor’s cap he’d ‘borrowed’ from the broom closet when he’d left yet another ridiculous therapy session. He had already donned the one-piece uniform over his street clothes and equipped himself with a roll of duct tape. As a weapon, it pretty much sucked, but hopefully he’d be able to use it to cover the guard’s mouth before the man was able to send up a cry of alarm.

At exactly 11:05 p.m. an electronic mechanism would automatically lock all the patient rooms. Left with only a narrow window of time to pull this off, he had to get it right the first time. Too early and his escape would be detected, too late and he’d lose his chance for the night.

He jammed the cap on his head, crouched low on the balls of his feet, and let out one long steadying breath.

One. More. Minute.

The footsteps came closer. Keith straightened, flattened himself against the wall and slithered along until he stood beside the door. His fingers tingled with nerves as he slipped his hand over the doorknob, trapping a section of the sheet between the brass knob and his palm.

Miscalculating the weight of the door, he yanked it opened and it crashed against the adjacent wall before the automatic spring sent it swinging back in his direction. The startled guard turned in his direction and opened his mouth to send up a cry of alarm.

Oh, no you don’t.

Keith’s heart knocked painfully in his chest as he lunged forward, throwing a sheet over the man’s wide shoulders and dragging him into the room. He slapped a section of duct tape across the guard’s heavily bearded jaw then wound the roll around the man’s head.

The guard got it one good elbow jab to Keith’s ribs, which stunned him, momentarily sucking the air out of his lungs. A familiar buzzing in his ears flooded his mouth with saliva.

The door.
His heart spiked.
No, damn it. He couldn’t afford to screw this up.
Leaving the roll dangling near the guard’s ear, he shoved him aside as he dashed for the door. He caught it, barely, before it crashed into the frame. His foot slipped across the threshold and he slithered out into the hall just in time to hear the electronic snick of the device as the door caught and locked.

Phase One complete.

Keith wiped the sweat from his brow and willed his pulse to slow with a series of deep breaths. Tentative relief rushed through his veins. He glanced down the deserted corridor. All he had to do was walk past the security station and make it into the elevator. No problem. He pulled the janitor’s cap low on his head and shoved his hands into the pockets of the borrowed uniform.

He tried for a casual stroll as he approached the security guard seated at the desk. He adjusted the cap to shield his eyes and ducked his head.

“You working late tonight, Bill?”

Keith’s breath backed up in his throat. He forced himself to keep walking and took a peripheral glimpse at the guard. The man hadn’t looked up from his newspaper.

“Yup.” Keith lowered his tone, his response abrupt as he continued past the desk and over to the bank of elevators. He punched the down button and resisted the urge to shuffle his feet. His fingers drummed over the deck of cards he kept in his pocket.

Where was the damn elevator?

“Wait—” The guard rounded the security desk.

Keith’s heart sped. Sweat pooled along the fabric of the cap and sprouted along his palms. He darted a look down the hallway and prepared to make a break for the emergency exit at the end of the corridor.

The soft ping of the elevator’s arrival shot a frisson of relief through his heart. The doors slid open and he checked the impulse to leap into the elevator. Instead, he casually stepped inside, aware of the guard hot on his tail.

He turned and punched the first floor button.

The guard approached faster. “Hey—”

Keith pressed the button to close the door. Nothing. He jabbed the button several more times.

Come on, you piece of shit!

The guard pointed at him. “You forgot to clean the number four john. It stinks.”

Keith ducked his head; laughter welled up in his chest. He managed to squash it before it tumbled past his lips, but couldn’t contain the grin that twitched at the corners of his mouth. He lifted his hand and gave the guard a mocking salute.

“Hey! Did you hear me? Get back here and-”

The metal door slid closed, swallowing the rest of the guard’s reply.

Keith sagged against the cheap paneling.

He was home free. For now.

Keith tipped his watch to the flickering neon pink light of The Cheshire’s sign.

12:30 a.m.

The cold rain seeped through the thin fabric of his shirt, wracking his body with shivers. He hunkered down and shifted the cap on his head so the drops of rain splashed at his feet rather than pelting him on the nose.

Where was Grace?

Ten more minutes. That’s as long as he’d wait. Then he’d have to haul ass. The rehab center had no doubt sent up an APB on him by now. He couldn’t afford to stick around the city for long.

He scanned the street. Empty. He could count on one hand the cars that had passed since his arrival—if he could get the damn things to work. He flexed them. The cold rain had made his fingers numb and uncooperative.

Even his waterproof boots weren’t standing up to the test of this monsoon. He blew out a breath through clenched teeth.

Where the hell was she? Grace couldn’t have changed her mind. He was far from an expert on the subject of mothers—yeah, if that wasn’t a major understatement—but she couldn’t have feigned that look of panicked determination in her eyes.