Cord's Chance_Men of Mercy, page 1
Cord’s Chance
Men of Mercy
Lindsay Cross
Cypress Bend Publishing, LLC
Contents
Your Free Book is Waiting…
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
Also by Lindsay Cross
Before you go…
Introduction
Acknowledgments
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Hunter James didn’t want or need redemption.
Until one mission turns his world upside down.
He left Mercy to fight for his country and escape a broken heart. Years later, he is hard. Cold. A man without mercy. Part of an elite Task Force, he tracks a brutal terrorist to his home town. And runs into the woman who betrayed him…
Evangeline Videl was destroyed when Hunter left. Determined to move on, she finds another man, but discovers too late the monster hidden beneath his smooth smile. Struggling to find the conviction to live, Evie finds her life spinning out of control.
Then Hunter returns…
Forced to band together to find the terrorist before its too late, Hunter and Evie must learn to forgive or risk losing the promise of redemption and their lives…
Copyright © 2017 by Lindsay Cross
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Chapter 1
Cord Carter squinted into the high noon sun, clenched his jaw and rounded the track at Ft. Benning’s Army rehab facility. Sweat dripped into his eyes and he swiped a hand across his brow, flicking the abundance of moisture from his vision. A small crowd of onlookers dumb enough to brave the Georgia heat lined the track, but he ignored them—just like he ignored the pain jack hammering up his leg.
The sun kicked up blistering waves of shimmering heat off the black asphalt, lending reality a dreamlike quality. For a brief moment, Cord’s mind drifted from the track back to Camp Taji, where he’d seen the same wavering mirage hovering over the tan sand. Suddenly, he felt like he was there again, watching the dust swirl up in spirals as he stalked closer to his target with his baby Lenore, a semi-automatic 50 cal sniper rifle, clutched in his arms. Days’ worth of dirt and sweat caked his pores, his mouth drew tight with thirst and his gut crawled with hunger. Didn’t matter. His blood surged with the primal satisfaction of raw power. He was a stalker. A predator. A soldier with a mission.
His toe caught on the track—a stumble that immediately tore the memory from his grasp. Cord jammed out his right leg and caught himself a second before eating gravel. Agony shot up his thigh, and a cold sweat broke across his skin. His physical therapist had said sudden impacts would hurt for up to a year.
Nine months out from catching an RPG, a rocket propelled grenade, on a recon assignment, the pain still crippled him.
Cripple. Fuck that.
Cord ignored the nausea rolling in his stomach and pushed himself harder. Running faster. Glancing at the stained brick building to the right of the track. That was where the real cripples holed up, too scared and too weak to fight the elements and learn to live without a limb. He and the few friends he’d made in this place dubbed it the death ward. When a vet moved to that building, he never came out.
“Show off!” Jason Swartz, a SEAL who’d dived over a grenade to save his unit, shouted from his wheelchair in the shade of the breezeway. He’d lost both his legs, one kidney and half his spleen in the explosion, but his ass was still out training nearly every day. He would never move to the death ward.
Cord waited till he passed closer and shouted back, “Pussy!”
“You’re insane, Carter. It’s 105 degrees out there.” Swartz grinned and lifted a cold bottle of water to his lips.
Cord flipped him the bird and kept on running.
If it hadn’t been for a few good guys like Swartz, he’d have gone insane in this place. He’d thought about quitting his in-patient treatment program more than once. Nine months was a long-ass time. But he wouldn’t have a shot at being accepted back into the team unless he got the supervising physician’s sign off.
Cord was so close to the end—less than a week left—he could taste his freedom from this military-imposed prison. Hell, he’d been shot three times, stabbed twice. He’d even taken a piece of rebar through the shoulder. But this tedious recovery regimen had to be the worst thing he’d ever survived.
Worse than the physical rehab were the one-on-one biweekly therapy sessions with Ms. Tamera Reid. He couldn’t think of a more severe punishment than being stuck in a room too small for anyone over five feet tall, on a ripped leather World War II-era couch, staring at a woman who’d never once held a gun as she asked him questions about his feelings. Shit, she knew as much about battle stress as Cord knew about high-heeled shoes. Thank God his commanding officer had made no stipulation that he had to be nice or agreeable, only that he had to be deemed mentally and physically fit for duty.
As far as he was concerned, his ticket out of this place was as good as gold. He’d never missed a single one of the torturous counseling sessions, and the fact that he was running like this today all of days was surely proof enough that he was physically fit.
Swartz waved him off after five more laps, wheeling off toward the showers. On Cord’s next pass, another man had taken the vacated space, this one standing in polished leather loafers. “You’re going slow, Carter.”
Cord slowed to a walk as he locked eyes on a man he’d never thought he’d see again. “I don’t see your ass out here, Fury.”
Clint Fury tucked his hands into his pockets and grinned like an idiot, not the least bit concerned. “That sweet little nurse told me I’d find you out here. Now I see why she was frowning when she said your name. You look like shit.”
Cord checked the urge to smile and glared instead. “And you look like one of those twinkle-toed GQ wannabes. When did you start dressing like a woman?”
Clint barked out a laugh, not the least bit insulted by Cord’s words. “The girls like it. Besides, I can’t exactly go around dealing business in the civilian world dressed in my BDUs.”
Battle Dress Uniform. The tan and brown uniforms issued to all military personnel.
Clint pulled his hand out of his pocket and held it out. Cord shook it without hesitation. “Damn, man, didn’t think I’d ever see your pretty face again. What’s it been, three years?”
“Five, but who’s counting.” Clint shrugged. “Care to get out of the heat and into some shade? This monkey suit isn’t exactly cool.”
“Yeah, guess I could take a break. Let me grab my bag and I’ll meet you in the locker room.” Cord pointed down the breezeway to show him the way to the locker room.
Clint held a casual stance, but his intense gaze didn’t miss a single detail. Out of reflex Cord lifted his chin and shoulders, slowing his stride. “Locker rooms back there.”
“Yeah, why don’t you hit the head. I’ll wait out here for you to finish.”
Cord slung a hand towel around his neck, using the end to dry his soaking wet face. “Need to finish my laps after you leave. I’ll wait on the shower.”
“I wanted to talk to you about something, thought maybe I could buy you lunch. If you want to finish your run first, I’m happy to wait,” Clint said.
His curiosity piqued, Cord took a step in the direction of the locker rooms. “I’ve got the perfect place. Give me ten.”
“I’ll wait on you in the parking lot,” Clint nodded in the direction of the exit down the breezeway.
What could Fury possibly want to talk to him about?
They’d been stationed together at Camp Taji, Iraq for a few months. Cord’s team, Task Force Scorpion, TF-S, had been assigned to work in tandem with Clint’s unit to help round up small bands of locals the CIA had tagged as a level II threat. There hadn’t been much downtime, but he and Clint had shot the shit. Truth be told, they’d had a pretty decent time, as decent of a time as you could have in that wasteland, but they hadn’t spoken since.
Curious, Cord made quick work of his shower and slid on a fresh T-shirt and another pair of lightweight track pants. Then he snapped into the special-made tennis shoes and made his way to the parking lot.
Clint sat with his windows rolled up in a fancy black Land Rover. Cord flung open the passenger door and wedged himself inside the luxury SUV, savoring the burst of cool air. “I see your fancy suit comes with a fancy car.”
Clint grinned. “If you’re trying to make me feel guilty for enjoying this bad baby, your failing miserably. Hand-stitched Italian leather seats, air-conditioned cushions and a V-8, 518 hp engine.”
Cord smacked a hand to his chest, faking a heart attack. “Stop, I think you’re making me jealous.”
Clint chuckled and shifted the SUV into dr
ive. “I haven’t been to this side of town in a while, but if my memory serves me correctly, there’s a pretty badass little Mexican joint a few blocks from here.”
“La Rito. They do make one hell of a burrito, but I’ve got one better. Hang a left around the track.”
Clint arched a dark blond eyebrow and complied. “They set up a taco shack in the parking lot or something?”
“Hell no, but that sounds like an awesome idea. Maybe you should put it in the suggestions box they keep by the entryway.” Cord shifted in the seat. Sharp pain sliced down his right thigh and, it seemed, straight through his toes. Cold sweat beaded his brow despite the air conditioning. He was much better than he’d been, there was no denying that, but the muscle spasms still caught him by surprise sometimes. Cord looked out the window, keeping his grimace turned away from Clint, while he tried to subtly rub the painful knot in his leg.
“How bad is it?” Clint asked in a quiet tone.
Cord ignored the concern and gestured to an empty parking space a couple of rows up. “It’s good. You can park up there. That spot a couple of spaces down from the door.”
Clint glanced at him from the corner of his eyes but let the questions drop. He turned into the parking spot, but stopped before they were all the way in. “That concrete bumper says counselor. I think this is someone else’s parking spot.”
Cord’s lips twisted into the first real smile he’d allowed himself in months. “It is.”
“Won’t we get in trouble for taking their space?” Clint asked.
“You still in the Marines?” Cord replied.
Clint took a beat. “Nope.”
“Then what are you worried about?”
Cord’s stomach clenched and rolled. His thigh tightened, like someone had stuck a corkscrew in his leg and was slowly rotating it tighter and tighter. He needed to get out of the car and stretch.
Now.
Cord shoved his hand into the gym bag between his legs, fished out his blue disabled sign and slung it over the rearview mirror. “There—it’s your get out of jail free card.”
Cord fucking despised that symbol of weakness. He made a point of never using it. In fact, he almost always parked at the back of the parking lot. But he’d learned one thing in rehab—he could tell the difference between a twinge and the beginnings of a full-on muscle spasm that would require the use of heavy muscle relaxers and a massage by his physical therapist.
Thankfully, Clint shut his mouth and parked the car, killing the engine. Then he went and ruined it by saying, “Damn, I’m sorry.”
Cord grabbed the door handle and was outside before his buddy could finish the rest of his sentence. Cord had gotten enough pity from his team and his family. He sure as hell didn’t need it from Clint Fury.
Carefully testing his weight on his injured leg, he began the slow and painful process of walking and rubbing and stretching. If he pulled up his jogging pants, he knew he’d see the hard lump of twisted muscles contracting and clenching.
It still amazed him how he could push his body to such limits, running for miles, testing his endurance, and then a simple shift could set off the pain like a fucking explosion of C4.
“How about we take a walk around campus before we eat? I’ve been thinking about donating for a while, just haven’t had the chance to stop by and take a look around.”
Cord glanced over his shoulder to see Clint standing at the back of the Land Rover, watching him with a semi-shadowed expression that couldn’t quite hide the worry. Fuck. He hated this. He hated every part of this situation. The weakness. The pity. A small part of him wished he hadn’t woken up from his date with the roadside bomb. “Sure, the cafeteria will wait. I’ll give you the grand tour.” He shot Clint a grin that felt like a grimace. “I’d take the jacket off if I were you, though, wouldn’t want to mess up your fancy suit with pit stains.”
Clint had to jog to catch up after shrugging off the garment, but they soon fell into an easy pace with each other. “You call this hot?” he joked. “I’m pretty sure this would be considered balmy in the suck.”
“Yeah, you wouldn’t be in a suit, though,” Cord walked, a.k.a. limped, and pushed at the knot in his thigh with the heel of his palm.
“It beats carrying around an eighty-pound rucksack and drinking piss warm water from a Camelbak.” Clint’s voice held a hint of longing.
“The MREs and camel spiders,” Cord chimed in. “You miss it.” Adrenaline junkies each and every one of them, they’d savored the primal satisfaction that came from living life on the edge.
Something Cord might never get the privilege of doing again.
The ache in his chest nearly took him to his knees. He quickly shoved the thought to the back of his mind and soldiered on. Thoughts of failure led to failure—his father had taught him that since birth, and the Marines had then drilled it into him.
Clint cleared his throat, drawing him away from the shadowed memories.
“Looks like a state of the art facility.”
Cord glanced at the cracked brick and mildew stains along the side of the hospital. “It’s not Walter Reed, but it gets the job done.”
Clint tucked his hands behind his back and continued to stroll. Cord matched his pace, grateful for the time to walk off the cramp.
“They got good doctors?”
“The best,” Cord answered honestly. Half of them were veterans themselves, and all of them had hearts for service.
“Good food?”
“You remember your cafeteria food right about fourth grade?” Cord asked.
“And you wanted us to eat there why?”
“Thought you could use the experience to toughen you up some. You’ve gone a little soft around the edges.” His leg twisted, stopping him in his tracks. Cord grabbed for the corner of the building, swallowing back the nausea rolling up his throat. Shit, it was enough to take his breath away.
Clint could’ve done something stupid like offer to help him walk, but he held the silence instead. Cord was starting to remember why he liked the guy so much. The man knew when he should keep quiet.
It was something that Cord couldn’t even say for his teammates. Not that any of them had lingered on their visits. Cord couldn’t blame them. This was the place where soldiers were put out to pasture. And it forced those who were still healthy and whole to face up to the fact it could have just as easily been them to lose a limb or get blown up.
Besides, the rest of his team had gone all Brady Bunch and started making babies with all their women.
“How bad does it hurt?” Clint asked quietly.
Cord managed a grimace and stayed hunched over, kneading the knot with all his strength. “What makes you think it hurts?”
“Cut the shit. A blind man could see you’re in pain.”
A rash of anger swept through Cord, demanding an outlet, so he grabbed the loose hemline of his pants leg and yanked it up. Bright sunlight glinted off the metal prosthetic attached to his knee. Cord made a fist and knocked on his new shin. “It don’t feel a damn thing.”
Clint cursed under his breath and paced away. “You know, I don’t remember you being so stubborn.”
Cord dropped his pants leg, hiding the metal once more. He sucked in a breath and worked to stand up straight. “I don’t remember you much at all. Why are you here? What do you want?”
Fury jingled the change in his pockets harder and tapped his foot on the sidewalk. A nervous air shimmered off him just like the midday heat shimmered off the sidewalk beneath their feet.
“A really good friend of mine asked me to stop by and offer you a job.” Fury’s quiet tone sliced through his chest.
“A civilian job?”
The implications were as clear as freshly sprouted grass.
This better not be his commanding officer’s way of breaking a fucking medical discharge to him gently. Months of agony and pushing himself past his limits to prove he was still Marine material and all for nothing. For a scrap of a paycheck and a Purple Heart that would do nothing but sit on the shelf and collect dust—useless, just like him.
