Chasing Shadows

Prologue

Marine Staff Sergeant Chase Westin lay in his bunk, eyes closed and breathing stilled as the intruder drew close.

Vague disappointment coursed through his veins. Bruno Gianotti needed to hire a better class of hit man—this guy made more noise than a drunken frat boy stumbling to the john.

Cicadas serenaded Chase through the open window beside his bunk. A soft, North Carolina breeze, heavy with July humidity, drifted lazily into the room. As he lay there, debating his options, the most frightening thing was not the possibility of facing death.

What scared the hell out of Chase was that he was hard pressed to find a good reason to make any effort to do something about it.

Had he fallen so far that he couldn’t trust in the possibility that tomorrow might have something better to offer? A floorboard creaked, interrupting Chase’s existential debate.

The intruder froze.

Chase remained motionless, exhaling a raspy snore to placate any itchy trigger fingers.

What did tomorrow have to offer except the arrival of his official notification of separation? The medical board had made their final ruling, no more appeals, no going back. Only the dreary prospect of returning to a nowhere town in nowhere Pennsylvania to find a nowhere job. As far away from the real world as Chase could imagine. The closest thing to hell for a Recon Marine.

Make that soon-to-be-former Recon Marine.

The shuffling sound of a muted footfall announced his visitor’s arrival at his bedside. All right, maybe the guy wasn’t strictly amateur-hour. He had made it from the doorway to the nightstand without crashing into anything. But he sure as hell was no snake-eater. If this was the best Bruno had to send after a Recon Team leader, well, hell. That was just downright insulting.

Now it was a matter of pride. No way he was going to let some Tony Soprano wannabe take him in his bed.

He slid his fingers around the hilt of the K-bar cradled beneath his pillow. Seven inches of carbon steel would be all the weapon he needed against this yahoo.

His eyes still closed, body relaxed as if asleep, he sniffed the air, following his prey’s approach. The scent of stale beer, a woman’s perfume and a designer’s signature aftershave registered.

This guy wasn’t one of Bruno’s hit men. Adrenalin flooded his veins, jump starting Chase’s heart. This was worse. Because they both could be killed if his visitor said the wrong thing.

Chase shot his free hand out into the dark. He found his target, capturing the other man’s larynx between clawed fingers and tugging him onto the bed, rolling over on top of him. His visitor sputtered and tried to break Chase’s grip. The whites of his eyes glistened in the dim light, reflecting his surprise.

“Hold still and you won’t get hurt.” Chase’s whisper was a mere breath in the wind, inaudible to anyone—or anything—except his intruder.

The other man complied, relaxing his body, signaling his surrender. Chase took no chances, patting him down, removing a Glock from a hip holster, a fully loaded .40 caliber from the heft of it.

“I told you not to contact me, Harriman. I’m done talking.”

Chase found no other weapons on the Navy lieutenant and sat back on his heels, allowing Harriman to finally draw a deep breath. Lt. Dwight David Harriman, Hollywood to his friends—a group Chase once upon a time was a part of—said nothing as he massaged his bruised neck.

“Things have changed,” Hollywood whispered.

Chase held a finger up in the universal gesture for silence. He couldn’t trust that Bruno hadn’t bugged his room.