Absolute Valor (Southern Justice #3) Read online

  Absolute Valor

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  © 2016 by Cayce Poponea.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any written, electronic, recording, or photocopying without written permission of the publisher or author. The exception would be in the case of brief quotations embodied in the critical articles or reviews and pages where permission is specifically granted by the publisher or author.

  Although every precaution has been taken to verify the accuracy of the information contained herein, the author and publisher assume no responsibility for any errors or omissions. No liability is assumed for damages that may result from the use of information contained within.

  Cover design by Jada Delee

  Editing by Elizabeth Simonson

  Formatting by Champagne Formats

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Coming 2017 Trident Brotherhood Series.

  Acknowledgments

  Afterword

  Other work by Cayce Poponea

  “To be a good con man, you must first fool yourself.

  —Marlon Brando

  Hazel eyes brimming with fear and confusion, search my face for answers. A quivering bottom lip, which refused to curl into a frown, forms a dam about to break. A single stream of blood flowed from the left side of her nose and smeared across her cheek as she tried to brush it away.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  A lone tear escapes, joining the blood, diluting the dark red into a swirl of crimson and clear, leaving the pain in her eyes unwavering. I’d seen this look before, years ago when I’d first become a Marine, full of delusions of saving the world from evil. Boots on the ground, fresh out of basic, I was assigned to Kandahar, Afghanistan. My company was to assist a team of SEALs as they carried out a recon mission. We would be the overwatch, keeping eyes on the surrounding areas as the team kept watch on their target.

  Sweat had poured down my neck and back, as the sun of the desert seemed to be setting on top of my helmet instead of miles above in the cloudless sky. We walked with our heads on a constant swivel, ignoring the mass of local children shouting for us to give them candy, lighters and pens. During briefings, we were told to avoid the children, as the enemy possessed no boundaries and would use anything and everything to destroy us, even the innocence of youth.

  Passing through the village, securing the building the locals called home; mud huts we called them, built from the sand which surrounded us in abundance. The locals went about their work, as if having a team of Marines in full gear was as common as the mail delivery. Men and women carried out their daily tasks, ignoring the thumping of boots and the dust each step stirred.

  At the end of the first row of mud huts, our commander gave the order for three of us to check out a tent attached to the side of one of the huts. Insurgents used any measures they could to hide themselves in order to kill us when our backs were turned. A few months back, a group of them had dug tunnels under tents like this, and then waited under the rugs the women used as seating, springing up with guns blazing, killing anything that got in their way.

  As I scanned the tent, the first thing I noticed were the three large rugs women and small children sat on. Every eye was on me and my group as we lifted the edges of the rugs, shoving knives into the sand as a second measure of security. As we were approaching the last rug, positioned in the far corner, sitting still as a statue was a single female with her head down and eyes on her lap. As I got closer, her blue eyes flashed to mine. Though it was brief, my gut screamed something wasn’t right. I ordered her to stand while we radioed for backup, I couldn’t get over the fear and desperation in those eyes.

  Our Lieutenant came in, took one look at the girl and agreed this wasn’t something we could ignore. Once we got her beyond the razor wire of the camp, she began sobbing, dropped to her knees, and cried that she was an American. After a trip to medical, she told us everything; how she had been on a mission trip in Syria when a bunch of men came into the tents and took what they wanted, including her. For the past three months, she had been beaten, raped, and sold…three times.

  I’ll never forget the look in those blue eyes or the way my gut clenched and nearly revolted. Even though the eyes were now hazel instead of blue and the girl was sitting on a concrete driveway and not the desert floor, I knew she had been hurt and I had to save her. Just as I had the blue eyed girl before her.

  “I’m fine, thank you.” Where her eyes held all the pain, her voice resonated the terror she felt. She’d tried several times to get to her feet, frustration with the failed attempts making her efforts more difficult. Without consideration, I offered her my hand, being careful to avoid grabbing her. Hesitantly, she placed her tiny fingers in mine. A warm, chill like sensation flows up my arm and finds a resting place in my chest. Audrey feels it too, her shallow gasp and widening eyes giving her away.

  “Here, let me help you.” She’s shaking and I’m not certain how far away from shock she is. Momma is there like a guard dog, wrapping her arms around this beautiful creature, stealing the tremor from me as she takes Audrey into the shop. My body is still running on adrenaline as I stomp past the uniformed officers who are handcuffing a screaming Keena.

  “You can’t arrest me for faking a pregnancy!” Her voice is high pitched and annoying, irritating my hearing and hindering my ability to process my thoughts. She had wronged my brother and, even though I have no desire to be social with him, granddaddy would roll over in his grave if I didn’t stand up for him.

  “Actually, we can. It became a case of fraud the moment you took a single dollar from him—food and shelter included. Have a nice time in federal prison.” Dylan stole my thunder as he managed to shut the shrieking voice up.

  The female officer tugged Kenna’s arm, guiding her to the waiting squad car and for the first time since I arrived, the girl’s mouth is closed. Dylan followed the officers to the front of the car, but I have to get into the shop, find out for myself what ties Audrey has with this motherfucker who hit her.

  Momma has Audrey and Claire seated around the table, iced teas in hand, telling a story about one of her society friends who had an unfortunate accident involving an overheated curling iron. I swear to God, that woman is a miracle worker, taking the blood and tears and turning them into a picture perfect scene from a Hallmark movie.

  “Chase, honey, have you had supper yet?” Momma spoke as she raised her glass to her lips, a twinkle in her eye I wasn’t certain I wanted to know about.

  “No, Ma’am, I have not.”
Can’t say hunger was even registering on my radar, as my concern for Audrey was overriding everything else.

  “Oh mercy, where are my manners?” Audrey jumped from her seat, crossing the room toward the buffet style table someone had assembled. After picking up a plate, she sampled each dish, placing a helping around the foam plate she held in her hand. “Mr. Morgan asked me to make sure I included fried sweet corn, he said it’s your favorite.” Audrey’s face was free of any trace of blood; the only evidence remaining was the slight discoloration forming along her cheekbone.

  “I hope you enjoy.” She stood before me, a smile glued to her face and a plate heaping with food in her hands, presented like a state fair hopeful in a pie contest.

  “Thank you, Miss Audrey.” Just as her voice betrayed her earlier, mine sounded like a prepubescent schoolboy instead of a grown man. I watched her, memorized her face as she returned my ogling. Being around her seemed magical, making the bad disappear, leaving only her kind smile; the one, which owned me and made me forget.

  “Chase, come sit with your momma.” It’s was a statement and not a request, I’ve heard it both ways and know the difference. I do as I’m told, no need to send the rain of hell pouring on the room again. Momma had a way of defusing any situation, taking the sting out of the biggest hornet and making him a lap dog. Dylan and Daddy come in as I pulled out my chair, Claire smiling big as she pats the seat next to her. Dylan takes the bait and I know by the look on his face, it is all over for him. After all this time, he has finally found the girl who broke the lock he had around that big ass heart of his. I like Miss Claire, she has a good heart with a kind nature, and with the way my big brother is looking at her, it won’t be long before she is my sister.

  “Where are Lainie and Austin?”

  “Having a long overdue conversation.” Daddy answered, his words sounded final as he took a bite of his supper, eating as if all hell hadn’t just erupted. He gives me the opening I need to find out the answers to the questions eating at me.

  “Speaking of conversations,” I let my words hang out there, testing the waters where Audrey is concerned. “Who was the fella I was punching on, anyway?” Shoving a fork full of fried corn in my mouth, my eyes locked on an anxious, yet smiling Audrey.

  “Chase, perhaps—” Momma starts, but Daddy places his hand over hers.

  “Priscilla, the boy has a right to know.” A silent conversation passed between them. They’ve been together longer than I’ve been alive and over the years they’ve developed a secret language between them. Sometimes a simple touch or a kiss to the cheek, or like now, a look full of meaning. “After all, it’s his hand that will hurt come morning.”

  It’s clear he hasn’t had a fight with anything in a long time. My buddy Zach, and I had sparred bare fisted a number of times. Hitting this fucker tonight was nothing compared to the brick facade of a seasoned fighter.

  “He’s never hit me before. Pushed and shoved, yes, but never laid a hand on me.” If Audrey is trying to justify this motherfucker’s actions, she’s sitting at the wrong table.

  “And who is he to you?”

  “It depends on who you ask.” Audrey at least owns her shit. There’s no eye or head dropping, no tripping over her words as she mumbles.

  “I’m askin’ you.” I can be just as direct, and more determined, than she can ever dream about, one of the many things the marines trained me to do.

  “Then he’s the man I have been trying to get away from for about three months.” It’s slight, but the fear she has for this guy is evident in her voice. It’s that tremor which makes me want to jump out of this chair and chase after him, slamming my fist into his face until it comes out the other side.

  “Have you tried to get a restraining order?” Audrey shook her head rapidly, swallowing the sip of tea she’d taken as I asked my question.

  “As I said, he’s never gotten physical with me before.” Her eyes shift to the ice in her glass and I wonder if there’s more to what she is telling me? “He has been dealing with some things lately. He asked for my help, but I wasn’t able to do as much as I said I would.”

  “Momma these grits are incredible. I’m gonna need an extra hour in the gym tomorrow.” Dylan spoke up with his special brand of diversion; a clear indicator to me there is much more to Audrey Helms and this pussy motherfucker than what meets the eye. With the way she stirs things up in my belly, I planned to find out.

  “Well, thank you, Dylan, but the credit goes to Miss Audrey. She cooked everything tonight.” I swear my momma is in love with this girl. Priscilla Morgan loves to spoil her boys rotten when we’re all together. Dishing out our childhood favorites with pride in her eyes and an apron around her waist.

  “Miss Audrey, you certainly know your way around the kitchen. Dylan is right, these grits are as good as Momma’s.” I wink, giving her a moment to relax, encouraging the belief the enemy isn’t inside this room, but in a busted up truck and most likely nursing a broken nose.

  My dreams were full of memories, images of the last mission I was involved in before I left for the States. We had gotten word about a medical team needing an escort from Kandahar to Menarogue. Where the distance was only fifteen klicks, it was also across a stretch of desert known for insurgent activity.

  Our plan was simple; fast rope into the area, allowing the SEAL team to set up security and get the medical team to the camp. An Intel drone had shown no heat sources in the drop zone, so we all felt pretty confident as we boarded the Chinook helicopter.

  Many of my fellow Marines used to get pissed at me when I was always chosen to go with this team, but SEALs are a close knit group, and some of the cockiest motherfuckers you’ll ever meet. I had proven my skills as an explosive ordinance disposal technician, or EOD, when I disabled a bomb found outside our fence. Where every other swinging dick was freaking the fuck out, I kneeled over the thing, clipped three wires and went to chow.

  My buddy, Zach Michaels, or Viper as his men call him, saw the whole thing go down. He spoke with my commanding officer and made it possible for me to tag along for support when they had a mission. During the three years we worked together, I found we had a lot in common. He was a Southern boy from Atlanta, from a wealthy family and in social circles much like mine. His daddy wanted him to follow in his footsteps, but he had other plans. Where I’m the baby of the family, he’s the middle child; his older brother plays for the Atlanta Falcons and his sister owns a bakery.

  “You know, this is most likely the last time we’ll get to ride this thing together.”

  Zach had been tossing around the idea of not re-enlisting, taking the money he had saved and following his dreams. He hadn’t shared this with anyone except me, not wanting to upset the cohesion he had with his men.

  “You’re right, time to sit back and get fat by being lazy.” Zach knew my time had been up since my Granddaddy died. Where Zach had become a SEAL to meet a challenge tossed at him by his brother, I had become a Marine to make my Granddaddy proud.

  “Won’t take much if your momma cooks like mine.” Conversation stopped as the pilot let us know the target had been reached, giving us the all-clear sign to push away from the helicopter and rappel down to the sand floor beneath us. When I locked my jumping hook on my rope, the ring caught and wouldn’t let me push off. Kakos was waiting to go behind me, so I signaled for him to go ahead. Switching my hook, I managed to land on the ground less than a minute later.

  Matt Parish, or Reaper as the team called him, another EOD, took the right while Kakos, or Havoc, swept the left. I was last off the rope, which left me patrolling the rear. Reaper was from Tennessee, spoke very little, but could shoot a fly off a tar roof from ten miles away. He had a large gash along his jaw line, which started in the center of his right cheek and went all the way to his ear. Two years ago, he was having a drink at a bar in Singapore when a man, with bigger balls than brains, didn’t like the way Reaper looked at him. Pulled a knife and slashed him across the face. Doctors h
ad to take him to surgery to repair the damage to his face. When he called his girl from the hospital, she hung up the phone and mailed his key and ring back to him.

  We hadn’t gone ten feet when gunshots came from the ridgeline, striking Kakos in the chest. Alex Kakos, or Havoc, got his name from his ability to rain havoc down on the enemy. He could do a little bit of everything, shoot, blow things up, and build anything from practically nothing. Growing up in a small town in Florida, he was the kid everyone picked on. He came from a huge Greek family who owned a restaurant and bakery.

  “Doc!” I heard Viper call into my earpiece as I pressed the trigger of my gun in the direction the shot came from. Reaper was quicker, and as I took a second to check the line with my night vision, I watched as a single man cried out as his gun fired into the air when Reaper’s bullet found its target.

  Logan Forbes, or Doc, hovered over Kakos, as blood poured from his chest, staining his shirt a dark color. Before joining, Logan had been accepted to medical school. Weeks before he was to begin, his family went through some struggles in the ownership of their company. His father made some calls and in a matter of days, he signed his name and pledged his life to the Navy in exchange for his medical school tuition being paid. In an ironic twist of fate, his family’s money issues had resolved a year after he began school.

  “Come on, I have a strict policy about people dying on me.”

  Ryan Biggs, or Ghost, was busy radioing for a sweep of the area. Ryan grew up in Montana, the sixth of seven children. The last thing he wanted was to spend his days rounding up cattle and mending fences. His granddad was into old Ham radios, passing that love onto Ryan. Aiden Sawyer, or Chief, was holding the shoulder of Havoc down as Doc tried to stop the bleeding. Aiden was the oldest of the team, enlisting when he graduated high school. He studied the area and the people around us, gathering information to keep us all alive and going home.

  Havoc lost consciousness as we pulled him to the same ridgeline the bullet came from. The body of the man who shot him was slumped over in a puddle of his own blood. Judging by his clothing, he appeared to be one of the locals, either searching for food or hiding from something.