RACHEL HATCH SHORT STORIES
Fractured
Proving Ground
The Gauntlet
Aftershock
Rachel Hatch Book Seven
by L.T. Ryan & Brian Shea
Copyright ? 2021 by L.T. Ryan, Liquid Mind Media, LLC, & Brian Christopher Shea. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced in any format, by any means, electronic or otherwise, without prior consent from the copyright owner and publisher of this book. This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and events are the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously.
Aftershock Chapter 1
The moon hid under a thin veil of wispy gray clouds but still managed to cast its glow over the freshly fallen snow.
Chris Macintosh’s hot breath melted the flakes falling in front of him and covering his face in a glimmering sheen. He snapped an icicle from his nose with the rough edge of his sleeve. The leaking pipes that were his nostrils worked to replace the stalactite of snot. The cold air pinched his throat and stung his lungs. He'd forgotten how much he hated the cold. Breakneck, Alaska, was a lifetime away from his Austin, Texas, childhood. The company he currently kept worsened his tolerance for the cold, wet embrace of Mother Nature.
Lank cursed under his breath as he turned his face from the wind. The man assisting Lank’s right side complained in hushed curses, most of which were washed out by the high winds that blew in their faces every few minutes or so. "How much did you say this guy weighs?"
Lank's pitchy voice irritated Macintosh to no end. He’d been listening to Lank moan for the past ten minutes since they'd pulled the body out of the trunk of the Bronco a half mile back. Todd Lankowski, better known as Lank, was by all accounts an idiot. And his question about the weight was the third time he’d asked, thus making this Macintosh’s third attempt to explain. “Because he’s dead weight.”
Lank spit. The wind blew it back into his face, instigating another round of expletives. His use of the f-bomb would give a sailor pause. Lankowksi peppered that word into just about every sentence the wire-thin man uttered. Macintosh tolerated Lank out of necessity. In other circumstances, Macintosh would’ve probably already punched him in the face.
Macintosh had spent the last two weeks kissing ass with the scrawny lackey in the hopes of getting an audience with the king. He’d spent the last seven years at Spring Creek Maximum Security networking himself into this position. And the last two weeks had led to this moment.
“Are you sure he’s gonna be here?” Icy wind stung the back of his throat.
“He said he was.” Lank stopped walking. The dead weight of the man between them anchored Macintosh. He turned in annoyance to see Lank eyeing him.
“You seem real eager to see Grizz.”
“I am. Been waiting a while.”
“Doesn’t mean the feds couldn’t have gotten to you.”
Macintosh balled a fist. “Accuse me of it again and you’ll be the second asshole I drag up this hill tonight.”
“I’m just sayin’ is all.”
“You think I did ten years in Spring Creek just to cop a deal? And you remember, it was Ray Winslow who tapped me and brought me in. I didn’t go looking for any brotherhood. It found me.” Macintosh tapped at the swastika tattooed in dark black against the side of his neck.
“It’s just—ya know—been crazy ever since Grizz whacked those three Marshals.”
“Then we best not be wasting any more time out here.”
Lank began moving again, although the lion’s share of the load was still being shouldered by Macintosh.
A few feet from the door, Lank's feet shot out from under him like a poorly placed Charlie Brown kick after Lucy had just yanked the football away. The unconscious man between them broke his fall.
A long slow grunt rumbled from their prisoner.
The prisoner muttered something unintelligible. The wind obscured any sound not absorbed by the rag taped to his mouth. Macintosh pressed on the man’s shoulder, keeping him pinned to the ground while Lank scrambled to get his feet under him.
Macintosh knew the unconscious man’s name was Dawes. He also knew Dawes was a member of the United States Marshal Services Special Operations Group, as indicated by the OD green patch sewn into the shoulder of his black tactical uniform. Dawes had been unconscious for the better part of the past twenty-four hours since they’d captured him after a failed breach of their compound.
"Grab his damn arm," Macintosh barked. Lank pulled Dawes’ other shoulder. "We have two feet to go to the door. Do you think you can do it without falling on your ass?" Macintosh was cold, he was tired, and he was terrified of what lay on the other side of that door, and what he might be asked to do.
They made the last few steps across the glass surface. The light above the door bathed Lank in a pale glow, making his bony form look more skeletal in the light.
Macintosh adjusted Dawes’ weight and gripped the doorknob. As he turned the knob to open it, Macintosh knew one thing for certain. Today would be somebody’s last.
Aftershock Chapter 2
Hatch sat in the same restaurant booth they’d shared years ago. Being back here felt odd. She’d always wondered what it would be like to see Cruise again after all these years. Ten years with the SEAL Teams before opting for the private sector. Their six-month love affair following the amphibious assault course where they’d met had proved they were just as intense in the bedroom as they were on the battlefield. But the brightest flames burn out fastest, and it wasn’t long before life and circumstance interfered.
Sitting at the café where they’d said their last goodbye seemed like as fitting a place as any to pick up again where they’d left off. If Cruise hadn’t alerted Hatch to the Talon Executive Services hunter-killer squad sent to kill her, it was unlikely she would’ve been able to get ahead of the power curve. She owed him a debt of thanks but couldn’t ignore the question burning a hole in the back of her mind. How did Alden Cruise know?
The person capable of answering that question walked in. It’d been five years since Hatch last saw him. She felt the tingle in her scar return. Hatch rubbed her fingers along the raised puffiness of twisted thorny branches wrapping her right arm from wrist to shoulder. The wise café owner in Africa had taught her she had nothing to hide, nothing to be ashamed of. And she’d accepted his wisdom. She embraced her ravaged flesh as a reminder of times long past.
Hatch no longer hid her damaged arm from view. But seeing Cruise approach, she felt ashamed. She felt an irrational urge to cover it. Cruise hadn’t been touched by the ravages of time since they had last been together. In fact, he somehow looked even better. The years between them had had markedly different impacts, at least outwardly. Hatch looked at the chiseled former SEAL as he made his way toward her.
“Rachel Hatch in the flesh.”
In the flesh. Even his words had an unintended effect. His eyes immediately shot to her damaged arm. Cruise tried to casually retract his glance, but Hatch could see the shock resonate on his face. She met his gaze and he offered an apologetic look. Great. The last thing she wanted was a pity party.
Hatch stood. The two embraced. Cruise leaned in for a kiss. Hatch redirected its intended destination of lips for the side of her cheek.