Collateral Damage A Matt Royal Mystery - By H. Terrell Griffin Page 0,104

were part of some kind of game. “I don’t find any of this very amusing,” I said.

She hugged me again, put her mouth to my ear, and whispered, “Matt, I’m so sorry to have worried you. It was necessary, and I knew you’d find me.” She kissed me on the neck, just below my ear. “Thank you.”

I was still a little pissed, but the kiss, the first one ever that was more than a friendly peck on the cheek, was quickly washing away my anger. I hugged her back. “I’m so glad you’re okay,” I said. “These have been the longest three days of my life.”

“Come on. Let’s go up to the house,” she said and led the way.

CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

The house was large and rambled over most of the little island. There was a tennis court on one side of the structure, a guesthouse on the other, and an infinity pool in the rear, the boat dock in the front. J.D. led us through the front door into a large entryway and on back to a great room overlooking the pool and Abaco Sound. The room was filled with middle-aged men. Doc was there and so was George Brewster, and to my astonishment, Paul Galis, a Key West detective I’d met the year before when I was trying to find my former wife’s stepdaughter. There were four other men whom I’d never seen. Doc introduced them to me as Don Lemuel from North Dakota, Conrad Dixson from California, Ben Wright of Kentucky, and Harrison Fleming.

I’d brought the duffel containing the weapons with me. I didn’t think leaving them on an open boat was a good idea. I set the bag on the floor.

“These are the remains of Team Charlie,” said Doc. He looked at the group arrayed in a semicircle of stuffed chairs and two sofas. “I used to work for Matt, back when he was a Special Forces shave tail running our A team out of Camp Connor. He’s tougher than he looks. He took a bullet in the leg and later a gut full of shrapnel while earning the Distinguished Service Cross, the army’s second highest award for valor. He’s also a lawyer, but he doesn’t take it too seriously.”

Doc pointed to Jock. “This has to be Jock Algren, a guy you don’t want to know much about, but I’ll vouch for him because Matt and J.D. do. I don’t know this other gentleman.”

“Logan Hamilton,” I said. “A Vietnam airborne Ranger grunt who did a second tour flying helicopters. Owns a Silver Star. He’s okay.” I looked at Galis. “Good to see you, Paul.”

“Same here, Matt.”

I could see a visible relaxation on the faces of the men in the room. We’d passed the first test. We were soldiers who’d tasted combat and acquitted ourselves well. That made us part of the brotherhood.

I’d met Paul Galis in Key West and was aware that he’d been a Special Forces trooper in Vietnam toward the end of the war. We hadn’t talked about his experiences there, because that’s not what old soldiers do. Still, it was a shock to see him with this group.

“What’s going on here, Doc?” I asked.

“This thing runs deep, Matt. It started coming to a head over the weekend, and I had to make some quick decisions. I left you out of the loop on purpose. You were part of my misdirection strategy.”

“I’m not sure I like the sound of that,” I said.

“Take a load off,” said Doc, pointing to four empty chairs. “I’ll rustle up some drinks. What do you want?”

We all ordered water and in a few minutes Doc returned with bottles for all of us. “Okay,” he said. “Let me start with Team Charlie’s last operation.”

The story was as old as war, and as necessary. There have always been bands of assassins tasked with taking out the leadership of the opposing forces. The theory was that if the leaders were killed, chaos would ensue and the killers’ side would have the advantage for at least a short time. Often that is all that’s needed in battle. It was a good theory and had been a part of the American war machine since the Colonial sniper Timothy Murphy killed British General Simon Fraser in 1777, a death that led directly to the American victory at Saratoga.

“We were a band of killers,” said Doc. “I don’t think any of us would ever have robbed a bank or stolen a loaf of bread, because we saw ourselves