Chapter Two

Jarheads made up most of Alex Stewart's TEAM. Shane knew that because he'd Googled The TEAM and found nothing substantial from the source, as in from its CEO, former USMC scout sniper, Alex Stewart. But he had found plenty of third-party media bullshit, and hopefully some of it was true. It was damned hard to know these days.

Researching The TEAM was like following a stubborn thread of events around the world and through the past few years. Instead of a simple Wikipedia link that would lead to partial truths sprinkled with facts, Shane had been forced to track down and research newspaper and magazine articles instead. Seemed wherever Stewart or his men and women went, the media followed like a relentless pack of propaganda spewing trolls. Would've been easier if Stewart had maintained an informative website. At least the facts there would've been true—from Stewart's perspective. But the man didn't advertise and had not once extolled his TEAM's extraordinary successes. Worse, he'd made the FBI look bad the few times he'd worked with them. Had done so for years. Of course, the press jumped on that nugget and magnified it into sensational bullshit.

Since the first article published in the Seattle Post Intelligencer, of the attempted murders of Stewart and the abused woman who had eventually become his second wife, to the next by-line in the more palatable and believable, News Herald, out of Marshfield, Wisconsin, the press had hounded Alex Stewart at every turn. If they weren't bitching about the unsafe and inconvenient location of his TEAM Headquarters building, which he owned outright, in historic downtown Alexandria, Virginia, they'd outright invented shit that slandered the man, his wife, his TEAM, and their spouses, for hell's sake. Typical of the amoral propaganda machine the right-to-free-speech press corps had devolved into. Truth was an elusive characteristic in the media business.

Shane scrubbed a hand over his chin, prickly stubble already present on a face he hoped Stewart wouldn't recognize. Or be on the lookout for. He'd been about to turn eighteen that fateful day, and Shane hoped he'd aged enough these last years to make an impression—or something.

The latest unsubstantiated rumor Stewart refused to address publicly had garnered momentum since Vice President Mason's recent death from stage-four Hodgkin's lymphoma. Shane hoped that rumor was the by-product of some idiot reporter's imagination. But it made honest to goodness sense that President Adams would ask Stewart to serve as his VP. He'd worked closely with Adams on a covert mission a couple years back, the one that had ended Adam's first VP's treasonous attempt to dirty bomb Washington, DC. President Adams had made it clear that Stewart was not only a smart businessman but also a loyal friend. What President wouldn't want a man like that standing with him in the Oval Office?

But Vice President? If Stewart accepted, that'd make him the third VP under Adams. It'd also make him a target, because VPs sure didn't last long in this administration.

Guess the guys and gals of the media weren't liking the possibility of a no-kidding honest man, a former sniper, holding public office, though. Not if the quantity of bullshit and outright slander coming out of the local rags was an indication. The press was afraid of Stewart, and they should be. He'd personally destroyed one of the worst news outlets on the entire Eastern Seaboard, as well as their so-called ‘topnotch reporter,' the now deceased Crosland Webster of defunct Channel 16. Webster had made the fatal mistake of asking Stewart for protection from another victim he'd slandered, when, in fact, Webster was solely responsible for smearing Stewart's wife when she'd been kidnapped. Which told Shane that Stewart was doing something right. In Shane's book, pissing off the intolerant press was precisely what they deserved and what America needed. And maybe, just maybe, three times was a charm, and America would again rock the world under Vice President Alex Stewart's patriotism, care, and vigilance.

Shane swallowed hard and let that wish go. Truth was Stewart hired Navy and Army vets, some decorated heroes, and he relied on several damned smart civilians. But jarheads comprised the core of The TEAM, and every last one of them came with that cocky, in-your-face, I-dare-you, testosterone-filled attitude that irked other military guys and gals right out of the starting gate.

Word was he'd recently hired a couple of former SEALs, the latest a SEAL whose crooked trial and illegal confinement had outed several Navy commanders and a dirty-as-shit admiral. Ended the Black Dragon Syndicate, too, one of many perverse child smuggling operations strangling the world today. A guy didn't have to be military to appreciate the uproar that caused the country. Walker Judge, wasn't that the guy's name? Shane nodded to himself. And now Judge worked for Stewart. So yeah. Stewart's TEAM was the best. Hands down.

Christ, you could almost smell the bullshit and testosterone wafting out of the newly finished TEAM buildings a couple miles from the eastern gate of the Shenandoah National Park in western Virginia. At least from the few buildings visible from where Shane was standing. Most of Stewart's complex was underground. Again, Shane had to give the guy credit. Unseen was damned smart thinking for a dumbassed devil dog running the country's most successful covert ops team. What people didn't know couldn't hurt them, right? And what they couldn't see kept them oblivious of the kind of men and women now installed in their fair countryside. Kinda like Disneyland with all its underground tunnels for comings and goings and shit. The land Stewart had situated his TEAM on looked damn near passive.

Passive aggressive was more like it.

Shane snorted. He'd already been inside the brand-spanking-new TEAM Headquarters as part of the blue-collar construction crew. He'd helped frame, then sheet-rock the building, as well as most of the underground tunnels. Shane enjoyed sweat labor. It left him tired at the end of a productive day and proud of what he'd done. All of it. Unlike his last job.

Being a valued USMC scout sniper had turned him into a hired gunslinger and an assassin, not that he regretted any of the bastards he'd offed on his various overseas deployments. But he was done with that life, and the soul-suck that came along with taking lives wasn't anything like the Hollywood highs depicted on the big screen. At its best, it was cancer. The more people a guy killed, righteous or not, the more the cancer spread until it ate him from the inside out.

Caught like a distant cousin between Sperryville and Nethers, Virginia, a person could miss TEAM HQ if they didn't know where to look. Stewart had done a fine job concealing most of his mega-complex. His choice of underground bunkers that served as an office, natural terrain, and total lack of landscaping left a lot to be desired for the elite and very successful business he'd built from scratch. But that was Alex Stewart for you. The number one, most dangerous sniper in the world operated his covert business humbly and kept a low profile in this pretentious world gone bat-shit crazy.

Most of his neighbors probably had no idea he was here or what he did. Or if they knew, they weren't talking. Hence, the by-lines coming out of the District's pack of wanna-be celebrity reporters had gone damned near silent. Even the feeding frenzy over the rumored VP's successor had quieted down somewhat. Not that it'd stay quiet. Successful people like Stewart tended to attract the wrong people. Like Shane.

He stood nearly at attention by his pickup's open tailgate, listening to the quiet songs of red-winged blackbirds and meadowlarks along the ditch bank, wishing this morning was already over. That somehow in his wildest dreams, he belonged inside that prestigious, cloistered TEAM of outstanding repute. He had a no-kidding appointment, an employment interview with some guy named Mark Houston, part of Shane's plan to fake it until he made it. Why not? A man never knew what he was capable of until he tried. Asked. Begged. Whatever it took.

He wasn't stupid. If he did nothing but face Mr. Stewart, man-to-man, finally, like he wished he'd done back when everything had gone so horribly wrong in both of their lives, Shane wouldn't be here today. He'd already be dead and buried because Stewart would've killed him. At least he would've died with a clear conscience then, knowing he'd done all he could to make amends.

But now…

After all these years…

All the things left undone and words unspoken had turned to poison, and that poison had fermented into the shitload of unbridled self-hatred Shane still carried.

He puffed a vaporous cloud of carcinogens toward TEAM HQ and prayed that, at first sight, Stewart didn't send him to hell with a double-tap between his eyes. The man could surely do it.

Fuck, why'd I ever think this was the right thing to do?

His two rowdy English Springer Spaniels had both picked up a scent, no doubt of a muskrat, raccoon, or pheasant, and were running like boisterous, look-alike twins through the weed-choked ditch alongside this country highway. All Shane could see was their fluffy black and white tails, which was okay with him. The two-year-olds needed to burn off some of their natural-born hyperactivity before he put them back in the truck.

Shane would rather join them if he could. But while they were happy-go-lucky critters, always busy tracking something, or roughhousing for the fun of it, he was the pitiful third-wheel to their happy. He was the murderer come west to beg for a job from the very man who might kill him on sight. The chicken-shit come back to roost. To at least meet Stewart, talk to him, explain things maybe.

Maybe not.

Things might go south before he got to the job interview. But that was a chance worth taking. Maybe then, Shane could sleep nights, knowing he'd at least tried. That was why he'd come here today. To clear his conscience and hopefully, give Stewart what he needed to heal.

The first thing Shane intended was to ask Houston if he could arrange a quick meeting with Stewart. All Shane wanted was a couple minutes with the man to tell him what happened that day. Getting hired would be a bonus, but it wasn't Shane's first priority. Stewart's peace of mind was. Sounded like a damned good plan when Shane had first thought of it. But now…

He blew another poisonous puff out of his lungs and into the air. Decent, fulfilling employment was hard for vets, particularly former snipers to come by. Which had put Shane where he was, between a rock and a gawddamned hard place. There was no future in selling used cars, pumping gas, frying burgers, or working maintenance for Kroger's industrial-sized bakeries. Hell, no.

He'd swallowed his pride enough. It was time to man up.

Stewart specifically targeted USMC snipers for his TEAM. The best of the best and Shane fit that bill, damn it. He did. He was a Marine. Forever would be. He'd fought hard for his country, and he'd served honorably in what had become a dishonorable war. Unbeknownst to anyone, he'd done everything these past years in an honest effort to atone for his sins. Yet not once had Stewart reached out to Shane for employment like he'd done so many other scout snipers. Hell, some he'd even hired before the Corps was finished with them.

But if those other men and women were good enough for Stewart's almighty TEAM, then, by hell, so was Shane. He had enough meaningless medals to prove it. If those weren't good enough, he had the scars. He just wasn't sure he'd survive a face-to-face with Stewart. Hell, he might not make it past the front door. Stewart probably had a kill order on him. Shoot on contact. A BOLO. Because there was no way Stewart would've forgotten Shane's name.

He flicked the ash off his smoke, pinched the glowing ember on the end of his disgusting, filterless treat, and whistled for his dogs to hightail it back to the truck.

"Come on, Molly! You too, Dolly! Time to go." Yup, you got it, his only friends were these two bitches, and he'd paid big bucks for them. Trained comfort dogs didn't come cheap, but they'd saved his life since he'd returned to the States and made closing his eyes in the dark easier. He actually slept most nights now.

Like little children, the dogs dilly-dallied along the ditch bank, so he whistled a piercing warning to turn those fluffy butts around. That did it. Within seconds, his girls were once again leashed in tight and panting in their places on the covered rear seat of his king cab. They'd had their drinks from the bottled water and collapsible bowls he kept under the seat for them. Drooling and bright-eyed, Molly sat at the left window, Dolly at the right. They were mostly obedient and always smiling, Shane knew that for sure. He'd only had them a couple months, but these two service dogs were his most loyal companions since he'd left the Corps.

Shit. It was time to head into the interview. Shane hoped for the best. But whether he left this place with or without the job he honestly wanted, he would always wear the names of the two innocents he'd killed that day. They were inked over his heart. Sara and Abby.

Please God, let Stewart forgive me.