Shooter’s Bride: Til Death Do Us Part

By Crow Bell

This book is about hell and the way to get there, where the gnashing and gnawing of teeth can be heard beyond the flames and the molten lava. Within these pages, the best sight of heaven you will ever see is while looking up during your fall to Satan’s Garden of Eden, where the parasitic worm that feeds on your mind never dies and the fire that burns your flesh is never quenched.

Let me take you on a journey through a minefield of elite snipers, sexual sadists, heroes, terrorists, killers, collateral damage, and death. Further, you will encounter racial, religious, and political stereotyping, as well as the prime narcissism and the sociopathic traits of man.

More people have died in the name of God than in the name of the devil. The line between good and evil blurs. Black and white fade to gray. Love is put to the test in this dark and sexual experience. There is no sin because there is no God.

All ye who enter, abandon all hope.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 17, 2021
• ISBN: 9781664163379

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Copyright © 2021 by Crow Bell.

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 permission in writing from the copyright owner.

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

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 03/16/2021

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CONTENTS

Prologue

Another Fatality

Dr. Corbishley

Honey for Daniel

Operational Area Afghanistan

Fresh Orders

The Cat Came Back

Blood on the Snow

Baghdad

Operational Area

A Romance in Prison

Major Star Baghdad

Justified Homicide

Sex and War

Admitted for Tests

Sharia—From the Cradle to the Tomb

The Femme Fatale

Disaster Struck

Life at the Clinic

The Garden Path

Night Checks

Disengagement

Jealousy—Guardian of Love

A Hide Away

Testify and Repent!

Unity in Excellence

Yankee Day

Real Estate for Sale

Chester Goldsmith

The Forum

Acid Test

A War Horror

Murder in a Warzone

Katana Kill

Driven to Execute

Headless Distress

From DJ to John Doe

Newsflash

Hanging by a Thread

Too Close for Comfort

Justice from Lustidia

Daniel’s Family Heritage

Cynthia’s Victomology

You Are Late for Your Execution

Escape and Evasion

PROLOGUE

Bogotá, Columbia

D ANIEL SAT ON a wooden reclining chair on the balcony of his newly rented apartment. A purple bougainvillea vine entwined its long tentacles through the ornate spokes of the iron lace balcony. His third-floor room was just above local roof heights, and as most houses in the village were single story, he had an uninterrupted view of the nearby town and fields. A slight shimmer of heat rose from the road on this bright sunny afternoon.

Hotel De La Myles was a colonial-style terracotta building with grand arches and white pillars, nestled in the lush countryside just a ten-minute drive from Plaza De Burgan in Villanueva. The hotel looked rather lavish from the road. There was a restaurant, bar, and pool within the grounds. Daniel had chosen a room with a lounge and a study. The windows were open, and the ceiling fans spun at a steady pace, dispersing the air to create a cooling breeze, making the white curtains gently dance.

Somewhere in the village, a violinist played a melodic tune. It was audible above the shrill of the cicadas, yet still a distant sound.

He reached for his cold lager, which was ironically called Poker. As he did, he took notice of an elastic band on his wrist. He started stretching it and pulled the band upward and released it, creating a sting of energy that pricked his skin. This served to help distract him from obsessing about his past.

He had not been to Colombia for many years. While in service, he had been seconded to a role with the Drug Enforcement Agency. Daniel was accustomed to closing the cell, then moving on to the next role, next job, next country, so this was nothing new. Being well trained in shifting his focus from the past to the present was a useful skill he had learned over the years of his military career.

He had long dreamed of Columbia, and he decided Bogota was a place where he could lose himself and move on with his new life.

He had compartmentalized his separation from Dr. Cynthia Bunbury and had psychologically put his old life behind him. It was Daniel who terminated their relationship. There were no farewells or goodbyes. He just packed up and left. Now in a big city with a population of eight million, he was a free man.

ANOTHER FATALITY

T HE FIREMEN, IN a constant state of high alert, heard the explosion and shrugged on their protective equipment. Sirens screamed, and men scrambled. This solid group of firefighters were overexposed to the trauma of war. Improvised explosive devices, rocket attacks, car bombs, and a culture of death and destruction had them mopping up burnt blood and broken bodies all too frequently.

Now, as the calls broke squelch on the emergency channel, the response vehicles turned onto the road. The first responders could all see the enormous mushroom cloud spewing dark-gray ashes, ambers, and debris all over Bagdad’s Green Zone. The station chief knew from experience that he was on his way to another grizzly scene.

Daniel was burning. His mind was blank, but he could hear voices. People were rallying around, but his sight was obscured by his burnt eyelids and lashes. His sight was gray with haze as he tried to open his swollen eyes. He psychologically closed the cell. He was never going to return. Death was his. Lights and sirens penetrated his head as he patiently waited for eternal silence.

The radio channel screeched, Casualty report, over.

I’ve got an American male. Multiple fractures and lacerations to the head and torso. He is alive, but only just. I need a priority one medical evacuation, I say again, priority one. There is also a female fatality … unidentifiable, over.

Trickles of dark blood were oozing down Daniel’s scalp, tainting his dark-brown hair. His head wound was deep. He had a large frontal laceration dividing his hairline from his forehead to his ear, slightly nicking the skull. Daniel’s body released all tension, allowing his broad shoulders to settle on the ground beneath him. His long legs slumped onto the gravel in a lifeless position. His strong body was shattered.

The radio chatter intensified, Send, over.

BP 90/40, pulse 135, reps, eight breaths per minute. Deep open lacerations. Burns to 60 percent of the body, rib fractures, a flail chest wound, and open fractures to both legs. Patient is unconscious. Requesting time of medevac, over.

The medical team feared this soldier would be pronounced DOA, or dead on arrival.

DR. CORBISHLEY

M USIC RAN THROUGH his head. Dah du du da dah, dah du du da dah. The music, The Ride of the Valkyries, was running through his head. The night was closing in like a squadron of attack helicopters in full formation. Every evening, Daniel feared going to bed. He had served for so long in such hostile environments, witnessed so much death and destruction that even at a time of rest, there were only haunting memories of unrelenting danger.

Each morning, he woke from a restless slumber to recover from the shattered fragments left over from his torturous dreams. Every night, he died only to be resurrected with the sight of dawn to start the day with non-applicable values in a world that made no sense to him. He despised the sunset. Each dream was on a psychological loop and was detailed with threads from his own life. His psyche gave him little escape during the day and absolutely none at night.

Daniel was so disturbed with his dreams that he had chosen to bear years of insomnia instead of facing his nightmares. Being so tired, it felt like he was just going through the motions of living, feeling no pleasure or purpose in life. Now, as the sun set and the canopy of darkness routinely resumed its regimented place in the night, the search for ways to stave off sleep began again. Stuck in the prison of his own mind and tortured by his memories and experiences of war, post-traumatic stress was his master. He was now his own enemy. His well of life was completely dry. A kaleidoscope of horrifying misery ran like a film through his mind.

He had never considered that, one day, he would end up alone. Now this had become the case, and with no one to trust, life exhausted him.

He needed some closure. His past was haunting. It was terrifying and grotesque. Trying to compartmentalize the trauma helped, but as soon as he fell asleep, death found him again.

He used caffeine, self-harm, noise, and other forms of masochistic practices to stay awake. Falling asleep meant another forced meeting with the Grim Reaper and the other demons that taunted him.

The music ran through his head like a soundtrack to his life. Dah du du da dah, dah du du da dah, he could almost hear the chopping of the rotor blades and the screaming of the psychological warfare blaring out of the speakers of the helicopter at maximum volume. The dread was real for him.

The air was thick from his cold sweat and heavy breathing. The sheets stuck to him as he turned over and over in bed, struggling to break free from the sticky, damp restrictions. In his dream, the tacky sheets were the hands of the dead, grabbing him and pulling him under water. He jumped out of bed, grabbing his pistol from the bedside drawer. In a split second, he realized his hands were shaking, and he was holding the pistol toward himself. Argh! he shouted and returned the pistol to the bedside drawer. Dripping in sweat, he sat on the edge of his bed, letting his head fall into his hands. He roared a loud yell, stripping the sheets off the bed, then collapsed onto the carpet in exasperation.

How could such a strong mind become its own victim?

He knew he needed help but was far too proud to ask for it. After more than a decade in war zones around the world’s hotspots, surrounded by death and where torture was rampant, shocking movie-style scenarios, and psychologically manipulative situations had surrounded him for the entire length of his time in service. Now, merely falling asleep was worse than anything he had encountered during his service. At this stage, of all the tools he used to drive away his raw emotions, alcohol was his preferred coping mechanism. Too afraid to go to sleep, Daniel would sit in his sunken lounge room, paranoid, monitoring his security cameras and watching news updates. There he would self-medicate with alcohol and pills until he could drink no more and was numb to the world.

Alas, the demon of alcohol was slowly killing him. It served to disengage his frontal lobe and impair his memory, but the tale was all too common and far too familiar for military veterans like him.

While asleep, the dead visited him. Laure held his hand and pulled him close for a kiss. Levi repeatedly patted him on the shoulder. They were people he knew that were killed in combat, and others were people he had killed. It was common for Daniel to see them on the end of his bed, wounded, staring at him, holding him accountable for their deaths. He often reflected on the words of the First World War poet Charles Hamilton Sorely, who was shot in the head by a sniper in 1915, aged twenty-three.

When you see the millions of mouthless dead

Across your dreams in pale battalions go

Then, scanning all the overcrowded mass

Should you perceive one that you loved heretofore?

It is a spook. None wears the face you knew

Great death has made all his for evermore.

He stared at himself in the mirror. He could not see the uneasy shiver of his iris; instead, he saw explosions, enemies, and the dead.

His thousand-yard stare saw only memories of war. His beard was the longest it had been since he was in Afghanistan. Putting a razor blade to his face or throat was no longer a grooming process. He hated shaving and avoided it at all cost.

He rested his head in his palms and lifted his hair to expose a scar that had once been a zipper to his brain. The bathroom cabinet contents had changed from deodorant, shaving equipment, and dental care products and, instead, was now his personal pharmacy. Every single shelf had bottles and packets of the medications prescribed to help with his everyday life.

Seeing the pill containers always reminded him of his estranged normality. Suddenly noticing that nearly all the pill containers were empty only embedded the fact deeper, making him feel more drawn to the dependent medication.

In a state of despair, he cursed under his breath and reminded himself, These make me normal. With a handful of pills, he reached for the dragon’s blood bottle sitting next to the basin, and with an extended chug, he skulled the entire concoction.

He would pop more pills later in the night, but to his horror, all the bright orange bottles were empty. He desperately needed to replenish his lifeline of mediations. Old Mother Hubbard, he thought. Thunderously he shouted, My fucking cupboard is bare too, you bitch!

He stared at himself and quietly spoke, I thought your nursery rhyme was so arbitrary I never learnt how you filled your empty cupboard. I’ll have to see a quack and talk shit about my fucking issues again.

Daniel knew this was going to be a problem, as he would have to address this through his general practitioner, and the doctor was not going to risk his license to numb his disorder with pills alone. The doctor wanted him to see a psychiatrist or pain specialist and on his last consultation had written a referral to a psychiatrist named Corbishley.

He knew when he woke up the following morning that he would have no option but to engage the medical system and work toward a solution. All his medication was on the verge of running out. The situation had to be addressed rapidly, or it would certainly send him over the edge, into a psychotic break.

As the medication wore off during the night, he woke screaming with no memory of why, making it even more frustrating. After making an appointment with Corbishley, he groomed himself, and although barely conscious, he now found himself staring at a name plaque on a door. Dr. Kirk Corbishley. The name was boldly printed on a brass plate screwed to a light-blue door.

Dr. Corbishley had been recommended for Daniel’s treatment of post-traumatic stress disorder by one of the senior doctors at Veteran Affairs. While the doctor had many patients who were first responders, police, firefighters, paramedics, and their families, he had had very few military patients.

Daniel sat in the area Dr. Corbishley’s assistant, Julie, had termed the waiting area, outside the consultation rooms. He chose a seat with no one beside him and where he had line of sight on the doctor’s door. There, he observed the other people waiting. Daniel was way out of his comfort zone, and he hoped the other people waiting were there to see other doctors behind different doors. He was feeling extremely emotional and defensive.

After about fifteen minutes, Dr. Corbishley opened his door, and although they had never met, he looked directly at Daniel and said, Mr. Duncan, please come in, with a swift hand gesture, as if time was important to him. Dr. Corbishley exchanged salutations with Daniel, then sat down across the table from him and examined his behavior for a few moments before starting the session.

Daniel handed the doctor his Line of Duty statement. This, in short, advised the doctor that Daniel had been cleared by Walter Reed Military Hospital and had now progressed into the Civilian Based Health Care Organization. The documents had the crest and insignia of the US Army surgeon general. It gave notification of his patient’s service in Operation Iraqi Freedom and Operation Enduring Freedom in Afghanistan. That was all the information the file contained, so he felt a little perplexed without a diagnosis or any history of his new patient.

Dr. Corbishley opened the conversation with a warm smile. Tell me about yourself, Daniel. His soft mannerism disarmed the anxious veteran.

Easy, sir, he started. I have a military background. I have served on operations in Afghanistan, Iraq, and other war zones. I enjoyed my job. I was exceptionally good at it. He remained frank with an emotionless face, and his body language gave nothing away.

The doctor observed the Warrior Transition Leader: Medical Rehabilitation Handbook. This was a publication released by the Department of Defense for ex-service personnel, like a diary that recorded the process or transition from service to civilian life. This took on many facets as psychological and physical competence was evaluated. Daniel’s handbook had predominately been completed as an inpatient at Walter Reed Military Hospital.

Dr. Corbishley checked the admission and discharge dates and quickly calculated his patient had spent over fourteen months in the Walter Reed Medical Facility. While he had worked extremely hard to rehabilitate himself and get back to reasonable physical health, although he was still plagued by pain, his fractured psyche was of primary concern.

The staff noted Daniel was one of the most traumatized patients admitted, and when woken from an induced coma, they feared he would be dysfunctional for the rest of his life, totally and permanently incapacitated.

Daniel hoped Dr. Corbishley was to be a new and refreshing phase of his dysfunctional life. He decided to speak to him without boundaries, man to man, doctor and patient.

What did you enjoy about your service life? the psychiatrist asked.

Some would say I had a mistress, although the truth is my mistress was the army. It became my family. As I was highly active, it gave me an excellent opportunity to direct my energy and focus on something meaningful. I was very patriotic. At least while I still believed.

Believed what, Daniel? the doctor softly inquired.

Mr. Duncan sighed. You know, all the flag and the anthem stuff we are spoon-fed growing up, ‘Land of the Free, Home of the Brave,’ and good old Uncle Sam.

Do you feel you’ve been lied to? Dr. Corbishley asked.

I know I’ve been lied to, and I know you have too. I’ve played the games, and I guess I crossed the line.

What line, Daniel?

I can’t tell you because you have not been in a theater of war. There are smells, noises, and sights I still live with. In my nightmares, I see dead people sitting on the end of my bed. Men I killed.

Daniel paused and, with a firm look at the face of the man opposite him, started again in a soft voice. How can I explain it to you?

He