 by Helen Hardt.jpg)
Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 71312 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 285(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71312 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 285(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
PROLOGUE
FALCON
Eight years earlier…
Dad isn’t particularly happy with my plan to join the Navy right out of college. He insisted I build my house on the property, and I did, but the military has always been my dream. My buddy and I have been talking about it since our middle school days. Leif Ramsey and I went to separate colleges, but we stayed in touch, spent our summers together, chasing women and getting drunk. Talking about what we’d do once we joined up.
In two weeks, Mom and I leave for a wine tour of France and Italy. Then, once I’m back, Leif and I are leaving for officer training.
We both want to be Navy SEALs.
We’re both crack shots, but even Leif admits I’m better than he is.
My brother Hawk is a close second.
We like to practice on the edge of the Bellamy property, where the brush of Texas forest meets our ranch land. Hunters come for the mule deer.
An old barn sits right on the edge of our property, built by my grandfather—hell, maybe his grandfather—years and years ago.
We never go in the barn. It should probably be condemned. But there’s a clearing about a quarter mile away that’s excellent for target practice.
Hawk sets up the targets while I load my pistol.
The clouds above us are rolling, and thunder cracks in the distance.
Once the targets are set, Hawk returns, also looking at the sky. “I don’t know, Falcon. Looks like we might get rained on.”
“So then we get wet.”
I line up my target, aim, shoot three bullets in a row dead center.
“You’re good,” Hawk says. “But not as good as I am.”
He aims, shoots three bullets the same as me, right dead center of his own target.
“I always beat you in contests,” I say.
“Yeah? Nothing says I can’t get better.”
Hawk is three years younger than I am, just finished his freshman year of college. I’m not quite ready for him to be as good as I am at anything, but it’s not like I have a fucking choice.
We continue our practice, until lightning strikes close, and thunder cracks right over our heads.
And then the rains come.
As if from nowhere, water falls from the sky, drenching us.
“Fuck.”
“I better get those targets,” he says.
“Leave them. The winds are picking up. This isn’t going to be any run-of-the-mill Texas rainstorm.”
“We’re pretty far from shelter.”
“There’s that old barn. We can go there.”
We set into a run, reaching the old barn in just a few minutes. The door is latched, which is odd.
“Who could have done that?” I ask Hawk once we’re inside, the rain beating like a drum on the old roof.
I look around. Leaks are everywhere.
“Damn,” Hawk says. “This is one hell of a storm.”
“Yeah, I wish we had a tarp.” I walk around, avoiding the leaks, looking for a dry place where we can wait out the storm. I shuffle my feet over the dirt floor, and when I finally find a place that’s pretty much dry, I shuffle my feet again.
“Damn. What’s this?”
Beneath my shoe is a tiny streak of white. I kneel, take a closer look.
Hawk comes up behind me. “Looks like powdered sugar or something.”
I look around. “Yeah…which means it’s not powdered sugar.”
Hawk sits down beside me. “The dirt is a little bit less compact here as well. What the fuck?”
“We don’t have any shovels,” I say.
“Not sure we need them. This dirt is pretty loose.” Hawk begins shoveling the dirt away with his hands.
I join him, and once we get down about a foot, it becomes clear what that white powder was.
There’s a bag of it, and it’s got a tear in it.
“I’ll be god damned,” Hawk says.
Several bags lie underneath the ripped one.
“Is this what I think it is?” Hawk asks.
“Looks like cocaine to me, not that I’d know.” I take a little bit of the powder on my finger, run it across my tongue. “Sure isn’t powdered sugar. It’s bitter as shit.” I spit it out.
“How the hell did it get here? On our property?”
“I don’t have a clue. But I’m betting I know who does.”
Hawk raises his eyebrows? “Eagle? No. I know he’s a little rebel. Youngest kid syndrome and all. But he’s not into drugs, Falcon. None of us have ever been into that.”
“One way to find out,” I say. “We bring him the fuck out here.”
Hawk points to the stash. “What do we do with this in the meantime?”
“We get it the hell off our property for sure.”
“I don’t want to touch the stuff.”
“You think I do? But what happens if some hunter is out here looking for shelter and finds this?”
He nods. “Yeah, you’re right. What do we do? Take it home and flush it?”
“Or take it to the cops.”
“Falcon…”
I shake my head. “Yeah, I know. If Eagle has anything to do with it, then we’re risking him getting arrested.”