Bennett (Lighthouse Security Investigations West Coast Book 6), page 27
BENNETT
LIGHTHOUSE SECURITY INVESTIGATIONS WEST COAST
MARYANN JORDAN
Bennett (Lighthouse Security Investigations West Coast) Copyright 2023
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, then you are reading an illegal pirated copy. If you would be concerned about working for no pay, then please respect the author’s work! Make sure that you are only reading a copy that has been officially released by the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover: Graphics by Stacy
ISBN ebook: 978-1-956588-40-8
ISBN print: 978-1-956588-41-5
Created with Vellum
Author’s Note
Please remember that this is a work of fiction. I have lived in numerous states as well as overseas, but for the last thirty years have called Virginia my home. I often choose to use fictional city names with some geographical accuracies.
These fictionally named cities allow me to use my creativity and not feel constricted by attempting to accurately portray the areas.
It is my hope that my readers will allow me this creative license and understand my fictional world.
I also do quite a bit of research on my books and try to write on subjects with accuracy. There will always be points where creative license will be used in order to create scenes or plots.
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Also by Maryann Jordan
About the Author
1
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
Consistency. Steady. Positively identify target. In front of target. Behind target. Check cosine indicators. Adjust power. Check scope shadow. Assess. Evaluate. Focus. Breathe.
Staff Sergeant Terrance Bennett lay prone on the ground with the M2010 enhanced sniper rifle tucked against his shoulder. Staring through the scope, he followed the mental process the Army had trained him to use. His tailored weapon accommodated his preferences and was as much a part of him as his arms.
As an Army Ranger sniper, he and his spotter, Sergeant Michael Pascal, had advanced ahead of their team. The others would arrive the next day to take the village, rendering it unusable for the Afghans. Intelligence had also indicated the possibility of the arrival of a terrorist leader, and if so, Bennett’s mission included taking him out.
He and Pascal had located the position that would give him the best chance of providing coverage for the team. When they arrived, they completed a hasty search, near-to-far, looking for any immediate threats and dead space, breaking down their sectors and identifying reference points.
Once finished, they checked their equipment and settled into position. The team would approach from the west, and he and Pascal needed to know the area intimately to provide the required support.
Like much of the Afghanistan terrain, the brown and tan landscape blended with its surrounding village. The same dirt and mud formed the buildings, creating a beige panoramic view. The village appeared empty without the usual hubbub of activity with women, children, and families around. No laundry hung on lines. No women gathered near the wells. No children played with a ball in the streets.
Instead, the sight gave every evidence of being used for small enclaves of enemy soldiers. Exactly what Bennett expected.
They’d now been in position for twenty-four hours, and during these moments, the past could slide into his thoughts. He’d become an expert at blanking his mind when needed. Still, something about staying in one position for hours allowed even the most disciplined soldier to enable ruminations to creep forward, slithering on their belly to surprise and annihilate.
“Get me another beer, you dumb fuck kid.”
A slap usually accompanied those words, or when Bennett got older, a direct punch or even a kick. It generally depended on how many beers his dad had already consumed.
“You ain’t good for nuthin’, you know that? Your ugly ass ran your momma off. She couldn’t even stand the sight of you.”
His mom had left when he was four, and the only reason he’d been given was the blame his dad laid squarely at Bennett’s feet every day.
“She was fine till you came along. Then, Jesus, you fucked up my life good.”
Growing up, he’d tried to do what his dad wanted. Kept his room neat. Did his homework. Cleaned the house and washed the clothes. He even cooked as soon as he learned how to work the microwave. He figured if it was his fault that his mom left, the least he could do was help take care of things. But it was never enough to make Sheldon Bennett happy. Nothing made his dad happy except being handed his next drink and lashing out at Terrance.
Made fun of and called names by other kids because of his worn-out, ill-fitting clothes, he’d found solace in his books. But, of course, as soon as his dad discovered his cache of library books, he’d thrown them out, calling him a worthless idiot for wasting time reading when he could be cleaning or mowing the grass.
Once he was old enough, he worked out, determined not to stay the weakling his dad always said he was. By the time he was sixteen, he could have landed a punch to take out his dad. But he never did. What purpose would it have served?
The coaches wanted him to play ball, but he preferred his own company. After all, the guys who wanted him on their team now were the same ones who’d made fun of him when he was younger. And talking to girls just made him nervous—they must be desperate if they showed any interest in him.
“Team is approaching.”
Pascal’s eye was pinned on his scope, calling out the visual coordinates while Bennett’s focus snapped back to the mission. He stared through the extended-range rifle scope with the targeting reticle, verifying his spotter.
“Three alpha. Four men entering.”
“Contact.”
“Four beta. No activity.”
“Contact.”
“Two alpha. Gathering. Shadows behind.”
“Contact.”
The two Rangers had worked together for two tours and operated as a single unit. Pascal radioed the captain leading the team, letting them know they were in position and ready.
Bennett had remained focused since he and Pascal had arrived, but now his attention never wavered as he stared through his scope. If it was a simple take-out mission, he would wait on his spotter’s command, but giving his team sniper support meant he had to be ready at a millisecond’s notice to keep the other Rangers safe.
The first of his team came over the hill to the east, blending in with the landscape as they made the early dawn attack. Soon, gunfire sounded out, but nothing detracted Bennett from keeping his cool as he and Pascal scanned the area.
“Four alpha,” Pascal called out at the same time Bennett observed three of his team race around the corner of a building, unable to see the armed insurgent coming from the other direction. In a split second, he fired, dropping the enemy into the dirt with a single shot, saving the life of at least one of his team members.
“Three beta,” Pascal called, and Bennett immediately spotted the man slipping out the back of one building, hustling to one of the vehicles. Several others surrounded their target as they tried to escape. Pascal identified the target, and Bennett confirmed. Pascal checked the winds as Bennett began the firing sequence.
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
Consistency. Steady. Positively identify target. In front of target. Behind target. Check cosine indicators. Adjust power. Check scope shadow. Assess. Evaluate. Focus. Breathe.
“Left four,” Pascal commanded at Bennett’s natural respiratory pause.
Bennett squeezed the trigger. The target dropped, and the men scattered, quickly descended upon by the other Rangers.
There was no time for congratulations or celebrations as the two packed their gear and hauled ass to the rendezvous point. Hustling over the rough terrain, they met with the others as the helicopter descended. Once aboard, the team grinned widely as they leaned back, the successful mission felt by each one.
Bennett offered chin lifts, but his mind was on the just-completed mission, analyzing each part. Never satisfied, he wanted to learn from every instance that could have been smoother, faster, and more ac
curate.
“Lay it to rest, bro,” Pascal said, shaking his head.
Bennett snorted. His spotter knew he was mired in evaluation. He cast his gaze around at the others, all good men, including the support team they had back on base. Once there, he took extra time to break down his weapon, cleaning it with the same precision he completed each task. Once their equipment was squared away, their captain walked through, calling for the debriefing, and each followed him into the cramped space used for an office.
By the time they finished, Bennett was ready to crash. He and Pascal stepped outside and walked along the dirt road between the tents to the DFAC. A hot meal, coffee, and the indulgence of a piece of pie not only served to fill his stomach but made his eyes heavy. It didn’t take long for them to walk a little farther before entering their tent, the four beds in each corner anchoring the space along with their lockers.
One more month on their deployment, and his team would head back home. He grabbed clean clothes and hit the showers before the others had a chance to use all the hot water. Letting the stream of water wash away the dirt, dust, sweat, and smell, he reveled in the few minutes of bliss. Ten minutes later, he was back in his tent and fell onto his bunk, throwing his forearm over his eyes. He heard Pascal moving around and his other two tent mates entering, but that was the last thing he remembered before falling asleep.
Bennett stretched his legs as the transport plane touched down in the States. As soon as they finished their duties on base and were dismissed, many of his teammates headed out to the local bar to celebrate.
He always accompanied them for the one celebratory drink he allowed himself to have at the end of each successful tour or mission. With an alcoholic father, he never overindulged. The last thing he wanted was to become like his old man.
Soon, though, he offered a chin lift as the others continued to drink or began the process of picking up a woman for the night. Those with wives or girlfriends stayed for a few more drinks before heading home. But Bennett craved the consistency of his routine.
Once in his apartment, he walked into the kitchen. He pulled out a loaf of homemade bread from the freezer, noting he needed to make more soon since this was his last loaf. While he hated to take the shortcut of using the microwave, he thawed the loaf just enough to cut a thick slice. Once toasted, he slathered it with extra creamy, salted butter. He poured a couple of fingers of whiskey into a tumbler before heading into the bedroom. Placing both on the nightstand, he walked into the bathroom, stripped, then took a shower even though he’d already taken one on the base. Again, his routine eased the tension built during the mission.
Unlike a few snipers he knew, he never kept a running count of his kills. He didn’t celebrate the death of anyone, nor did he wallow in guilt. His job was necessary. Wars had been fought since the beginning of time, and he was proud of his service. But standing under the showerhead as the hot water sluiced over his body, he wondered how many years he had left in him. At one time, he’d assumed he would be a career soldier. Twenty-plus years in. Then maybe teach at the Ranger or Army Sniper School in Fort Benning.
Stepping out of the shower, he briskly rubbed the towel over his body before pulling on clean boxers. With his hands gripping the counter's edge, he stared into the mirror. A sprinkling of gray hair was now discernible in his trimmed beard. He scrubbed his hand over his shorn head, preferring to keep it short to stay out of his face when lining up a kill shot.
His nose had been broken twice, but no entertaining bar fight story existed to explain why. His dad had caused that damage—once when he was only eleven and again when he was fourteen. He had a puckered scar on his back where his dad burned him with a cigarette when he was trying to help the old drunk to bed. A few scars were from previous missions, but those could be considered badges of honor.
Standing straight, he heard his back crack as each vertebra slid into place with protestation. Lying prone on the hard ground for up to seventy hours caused pains he never used to feel.
And with each mission, he wondered if he wasn’t beginning to lose a little more of himself. Grimacing at the path his thoughts had ventured down, he flipped off the light and walked back into the bedroom. He slid under the covers and sat with his back against the headboard, cushioned by a pillow. He sipped his whiskey and ate the aromatic bread. Once finished, he sighed in contentment while reading the latest fiction mystery from one of his favorite authors.
Tonight, his thoughts wandered down the path of a time in the future when he wasn’t a sniper. A part of him longed for that, while the other part of him was more scared of not having a Ranger identity. Sighing heavily, he tossed back the last of the peaty beverage while placing the book on the nightstand.
It takes a hard man to be a sniper. Almost anyone can shoot. Many can aim well in an active fight. But pulling the trigger when the crosshairs are centered on a human from a distance after you had spent time studying them? That was only for a few. He knew a couple of married snipers, but many stayed single or were now divorced.
He closed his eyes, wondering what future a man like him could have when his soldiering days were at an end. All he could imagine was a life alone.
2
FOUR YEARS LATER
Bennett, deep in the workroom of Lighthouse Security Investigations West Coast, leaned back in his seat. He cast his gaze around the familiar room, and while he didn’t need to analyze the location of each piece of equipment, ingrained habits rarely died.
Carson Dyer, the founder of LSIWC, shared a soldier’s background with Bennett. He’d served with the Army Special Forces before leaving the military and starting a Los Angeles security bodyguard business. If Carson had stayed that course, Bennett wouldn’t be sitting where he was right now. Keeping his eye on overindulged starlets, drunk rock stars, or actors who worked on their bodies in pristine gyms with personal trainers, all with egos fatter than their bank accounts, was not a job Bennett would have considered.
But thankfully, Carson quickly realized that his idea of security didn’t align with LA’s bright lights. He’d partnered with another former Special Forces soldier with a vision of true security. Mace Hanover created the original Lighthouse Security Investigations in Maine. When Carson opened the West Coast branch in a remote area of California, he followed Mace’s initiative, inviting only those he considered a good fit. Those hired were known as Keepers, after the lighthouse keeper heroes of old.
By the time Carson had his business up and running, Bennett was ready to leave the Rangers, met Carson, and knew he’d found his next career. Bennett respected and liked each of the men and women Carson hired to become LSIWC Keepers. They’d all come from various military or intelligence backgrounds, each bringing their strengths to the group.
Former SEALs included Chris Andrews, Rick Rankin, Frederick Poole, and Jeb Torres. Frank Hopkins, known as Hop, had served with the Air Force Special Ops as a pilot, flying planes and helicopters. Rick’s fiancée, Abbie, former Army, was recruited from the CIA Special Ops. Lionel Parker, known as Leo, had served with Carson with the Army Deltas, and his wife, Natalie, had been part of Leo’s Delta support team. Rounding out their active Keepers were fellow Army Rangers Jonathan Dolby and Adam Calvin, another pilot. Bennett hadn’t served with Calvin, but he’d known Dolby through another Ranger team.
Bennett couldn’t imagine a stronger team for providing private security and conducting investigations, often at the behest of the US government.
His musings were jerked back to the tasks at hand when Rachel Moore, the administrative assistant, hurried into the room with several forms for Carson to sign. She smiled at the Keepers in the room before turning to leave. Rachel was another priceless gem Carson had snapped up. Retired from the Navy and widowed, she was the epitome of efficiency and no-nonsense dedication. She also had a soft spot for all the LSIWC employees.
