Never Forget: A Novella in the Echo Platoon Series Read online

  NEVER FORGET

  Echo Platoon Series

  Novella #2

  MARLISS MELTON

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  The reverse engineering, uploading, and/or distributing of this eBook via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this eBook. This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored by any information storage and retrieval system without written permission from the copyright holder, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review or article.

  Copyright © 2016 Marliss Melton

  Kindle Edition

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

  Published by JAMES-YORK PRESS

  ISBN: 1-938732-17-0

  ISBN-13: 978-1-938732-17-1

  Cover: Dar Dixon

  Editor: Sydney J. Baily, Cat Whisker Studios

  DEDICATION

  Having purchased this book, you have contributed to a very special place—a spiritual, physical, mental, and emotional retreat for Navy SEALs called LZ-Grace.

  “LZ” stands for Landing Zone, as this is where SEALs can land after arduous, adrenaline-inducing, and terrifying operations. At LZ-Grace, they can unwind in a wooded, creek-side environment. They benefit from meditation, massage, art and music therapy, and discussing experiences with those who also have lived through them. For all they do for us and for the free world, Navy SEALs deserve this special place. Thank you for contributing.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Other Books by Marliss Melton

  Prologue

  ‡

  “SPEECH, SPEECH!” BELLOWED the SEALs sitting shoulder to shoulder in the rows of seats facing the raised platform. A warm June sun shone through the wall of windows and cast geometric shapes of light and shadow on their battle dress uniforms. Sweeping his dark gaze over his audience, Rusty Kuzinsky raised a hand to temper their exuberance.

  The number of SEALs in attendance pleased him. It was a testament, he hoped, to the close connection he shared with “his boys”—though they weren’t much more than a decade younger than he was.

  Standing at the podium, he affirmed his earlier impression that every man in SEAL Team 12—not just those within his task unit—had packed into the Galley at the Dunes to attend his retirement ceremony. Maybe they just wanted a couple of hours away from Spec Ops. Maybe they just wanted to eat cake. But he would rather think it was because they would miss him.

  His retirement ceremony had kicked off with the honor guard presenting the flags. Then a SEAL named Tristan Halliday had sung the national anthem. Commander Montgomery, aka Monty, had subsequently read the orders followed by a letter of thanks signed by the President himself. Monty then presented Rusty with a shadow box stuffed with the dozens of service medals and ribbons he’d earned in the last twenty-one years.

  The team chaplain had taken over, reading a stirring poem about the American flag, while three junior SEALs folded a flag into a tight, neat triangle and presented it to him. After that, it was time for speeches. Monty could have offered up a decent tribute to him. But Rusty had a reputation for inspiring his boys, and they wanted a few last words of wisdom from him.

  Reaching into the inner pocket of his dress whites, he withdrew several folded sheets of paper. “I actually wrote four different speeches,” he admitted.

  Laughter rolled through the sea of SEALs and echoed off the raftered ceiling of the ocean-side restaurant. They’d probably expected as much.

  He smoothed the pages onto the podium while deliberating which one to read.

  “Just read ’em all, Master Chief,” called a voice recognizable by its Montana drawl.

  Casting Bronco an admonishing look, Rusty’s gaze canted toward the blond-haired woman sitting next to him—not Rebecca, whom Bronco was due to marry next month, but NCIS Special Investigator Maya Schultz.

  As their gazes locked, his thoughts short-circuited.

  He hadn’t seen Maya since last fall when he’d signed the paperwork declaring Bronco dead. It had all been part of an elaborate ploy on the part of NCIS to prove that Rusty’s task unit leader was doing side jobs for the mob.

  One look at Maya’s piquant face and Rusty realized he’d been waiting all these months just to see her again.

  Through the lenses of her plastic-framed glasses, her celadon-green gaze seemed to see into the deepest reaches of his soul—even from such a distance. Why would she have taken time away from work unless she felt the same way?

  But then he remembered her late husband, who was dead because of him and his optimism waned.

  Ian Schultz, a strapping Marine major, had died on Gilman’s Ridge in a fateful battle that had taken the lives of thirty-two servicemen—every man but Rusty, as a matter of fact. The running joke was he made too small of a target, though nothing to do with that day was a laughing matter.

  Tearing his gaze from Maya’s, he pulled himself up to every one of his five feet, six inches and looked back at his speeches. Maya Schultz’s expectant gaze had him pushing all the pages to one side.

  “You know, I never really thought this day would happen,” he admitted.

  Glancing up, he took a mental snapshot of the expectant faces gazing back at him. A wave of affection rolled over him tightening his vocal cords.

  “I’ve been a SEAL since I was nineteen. That’s twenty-one years of HALO jumps, firefights, and ordinance disposal. That’s seven tours—five in Afghanistan and two in Venezuela. Going by the numbers, I shouldn’t have made it this far. But I did, and it’s thanks to those who lost their lives fighting alongside me.”

  He raised his gaze to the room’s periphery, where the ghosts who haunted him day and night seemed to hover. His knuckles ground against the sharp edges of the podium as he grounded himself in reality.

  Glancing back at his notes, he looked over the names he had listed the previous day. “Please stand while I acknowledge the men who made this day possible.”

  With a rustle of canvas and the scuffing of boots on the tiled floor, his audience rose respectfully. Out the corner of his eye, R
usty lost sight of Maya Schultz, whose diminutive stature caused her to disappear behind the broad shoulders of the SEALs in front of her.

  Reading one name at a time, Rusty memorialized the fallen warriors with whom he’d served. When he came to Ian Schultz’s name, he gave it special emphasis. I’m sorry I couldn’t save him, he mentally projected.

  Coming to the last name, he looked up to find his men’s eyes misted over. “To all of these fallen, to my wise leaders, and to you, my boys, I give you my sincerest thanks.”

  It took a second for the SEALs to throw off the somber pall he’d cast over them. A subdued applause moved through the audience.

  “Thanks for coming,” he added. “Now let’s eat cake.”

  The response this time was unanimous. “Hooyah, Master Chief!”

  As the aisles began to clear, Rusty put away his notes while trying to catch a glimpse of Maya’s reaction. Had she appreciated his recognition of her late husband? Would she consent to see him if he called on her?

  The sight of her blond curls headed toward the exit brought his head sharply around.

  Wait. He barely caught himself from calling her back.

  The door thudded shut behind her, and a stark emptiness welled up in him, pulling him into a familiar undertow of guilt. What had he expected—that just because he’d recognized her husband publically, he deserved forgiveness?

  “Well done, Rusty.” The Commander of SEAL Team 12 stood next to him offering a handshake. Joe Montgomery’s shadowed eyes and scarred face reflected a shared sense of suffering.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “I hear you’ve got plans for that big old house you’ve renovated.”

  “Yes, sir.” Never Forget Retreat sat on thirty-three acres of pine forest and salt-water marsh. He hoped it would offer special operators fresh out of overseas assignments a refuge in which to put their hearts and minds back together before reintegrating into normal life.

  “It’s commendable what you’re doing, Rusty. I could have used a place like that once.”

  The words reminded Rusty that the CO had survived a catastrophe that had taken the lives of all his teammates.

  “We all could have, sir. That’s why I created it.”

  Monty clapped him on the shoulder. “You don’t have to call me sir anymore,” he said with a crooked smile. “Now come cut your cake,” he ordered good-naturedly.

  Chapter One

  ‡

  “CURTIS!”

  Hearing frustration in her own voice as she hollered upstairs to her teenage son, Maya backed up and returned to the kitchen for a second impression. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as she’d first thought.

  It was worse.

  She hadn’t seen the sticky-looking spill on the linoleum floor on her first pass. Of course, the spill would account for all the empty glasses by the sink and the empty bottle of sweet tea on the island. Crumbs littered the countertop. The loaf of bread—or what remained of it—had been left out to go stale. Knives coated in mustard and mayonnaise lay atop the crumbs, and an empty bag of chips perched precariously atop the overflowing trash bin.

  Over the rapid thudding of her heart, Maya made out several teenage voices coming from the second story which explained the array of empty glasses and the reason the bread was almost gone. Curtis had friends over—despite their rule that no friends were allowed while she was at work. And certainly not without prior permission.

  Pressing her palm to her forehead, she drew a steadying breath and then another.

  If only Ian were still here.

  For more than a decade, that litany had played through her head like a broken record. She had thought the phrase would cease to be apropos—eventually. But instead of growing more at peace with Ian’s death, the older Curtis got, the more she resented her husband’s absence. At fourteen, her son was already proving more than she could handle. Having Ian around would have made all the difference.

  Curtis’s age was only half the problem. Now that school was out for the summer, he had way too much time on his hands and no structure. Too young to go to work and too old to go to affordable camps, he hung out at home or with neighborhood kids instead of the “nice” kids that attended his private school—a luxury she scrimped to pay for. Here it was, only the first part of June and he was breaking the rules already.

  Bracing herself for battle, she dumped the bag of groceries she still clutched in one arm onto the counter and marched up the stairs.

  No wonder he hadn’t heard her calling. The sounds of a violent video game penetrated Curtis’s closed door. With an indrawn breath, she turned the doorknob and quietly pushed it open.

  If she’d thought the kitchen was trashed, then there were no words to describe the mess before her. Four adolescent boys glanced distractedly in her direction before turning their focus back to the game.

  “Hey, Mom,” Curtis said, managing to acknowledge her.

  Maya counted to ten. Then, drawing herself to her fullest height, she marched in front of the huge computer monitor Curtis had moved from the family room to his bedroom, reached down, and pushed the power button.

  “What the hell?” one of Curtis’s friends, larger than any fourteen-year-old should be, exclaimed loudly.

  She sent the boy a look that had made many a guilty serviceman confess to his crimes, yet he scarcely blinked. “I’m sorry,” she announced, then wished she hadn’t started with an apology. “You’re all going to have to leave right now.”

  “What?” Curtis lowered his controller. “Mom, you can’t be serious!”

  “Oh, I’m perfectly serious.” She glanced toward the three boys whom she only vaguely recognized. The big one with the smart mouth lounged on Curtis’s beanbag chair like he had no intention of going anywhere.

  She took a step in his direction. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.” She glanced pointedly at Curtis.

  “That’s Santana,” he mumbled.

  The boy must have been taught some manners a long time ago because he came to his feet, albeit with a look of annoyance. He towered over her, looking about sixteen years old, and did not extend his hand.

  “Santana,” she repeated. Her gaze slid from the resentful curl on his upper lip, to the stained T-shirt, to the baggy jeans hanging on his narrow hips. She offered hers first. “Hi, I’m Curtis’s mom, Mrs. Schultz.” He supplied a limp handshake.

  “Unfortunately,” she said, repulsed by the feel of his sticky fingers, “Curtis does not have permission to have friends over while I’m at work.” She sent Santana a tight smile. So you can leave now, she silently conveyed.

  His derisive gaze drifted over her, taking in her smart, cream-colored suit, bare calves, and three-inch heels. “You’re here now, ain’t you?” he pointed out.

  His insolence stripped the air from her lungs but only for a second. “Yes, I am here,” she said, in a voice underlined by steel. “But Curtis is now grounded so, not only can’t you play here, but you won’t be able to come back anytime soon.”

  “Oh, come on, Mom.” Curtis’s protest faded at the withering look she sent him. “All right, guys. You gotta go.” Rolling to his feet, he shepherded his friends out of his bedroom and down the stairs.

  Maya followed at a distance, rehearsing the words she was going to say while searching for the level-headedness she was famous for at work. But her blood kept boiling, forcing her to acknowledge that she was furious—not so much at Curtis as at fate.

  Why couldn’t Ian have survived that fateful firefight on Gilman’s Ridge? Why couldn’t he have retired today like Master Chief Kuzinsky had that afternoon? And why couldn’t she get that economy-sized power-pack of a SEAL out of her head?

  That instant she’d laid eyes on him, a feeling akin to joy had blossomed in her before she’d squashed it. She hadn’t felt that way about a man since . . . since Ian. And even though Ian had been dead for more than a decade, finding Kuzinsky attractive was just plain wrong.

  He and his platoon had been sent u
p Gilman’s Ridge to rescue the Marines. Yet within forty-eight hours, every jarhead and frogman alike had ended up dead—every man but Rusty, who seemed to have a near-miraculous talent for survival.

  It wasn’t fair to say he was responsible for Ian’s death but—yes—it was easier to blame him than to admit that some part of her that had lain dormant since Ian came home in a casket fluttered like a butterfly in Rusty’s uber-masculine presence.

  Besides that, she admired his disciplined and self-restrained mannerisms, his intelligence, and his loyalty to his subordinates. The fact that his underlings held him in such high esteem said something for him, too. However, his mentioning Ian at his retirement ceremony had stung like salt in an old wound. It had left her feeling guilty for finding the SEAL so compelling.

  The front door gave a slam, wresting Maya from her tortuous thoughts. Curtis stormed into the kitchen and glared at her, his arms akimbo.

  “Thanks a lot,” he growled, flicking the overlong blond bangs out his eyes. “Now they’re probably not going to play games here anymore because they think my mom is a bitch.”

  She noted the obscenity with rising fury. “I don’t care what they think of me. You know the rules and you flouted them. Now you have to face the consequences. You’re grounded for a week, and I never want to find out that your so-called friends have been in my house while I’m away.”

  He sneered at her warning. “You don’t know anything about my friends.”

  “No, I don’t. I don’t know what their names are, who their parents are, or whether they’re a good influence or not. And until I do, they’re not to come here. I can tell you right now that Santana is trouble, and you need to stay away from him.”

  “You can’t tell me who my friends should be.”

  “That’s my job, actually.”

  “Well, I don’t think so. Stop treating me like I’m some stupid military person who broke the rules and has to go to jail.”

  “I’m not. I’m treating you like a fourteen-year-old who’s getting too big for his britches. Now clean up this kitchen and then you can start on your bedroom while I cook our supper.”