Sonora: Boone and PJ’s Adventures, #2

By Jack A. Miller

SONORA, Book Two in Boone and PJ's Adventures, approximately 293 pages

 

Boone, PJ, and the team are deployed, along with all available operators from The Unit, to track down and recover one of their brothers, William LeGarde, who has been taken captive and put up for sale by a drug cartel in northern Mexico. With their hunt for the al Qaeda operative who haunted their steps in Syria put on hold, Boone and the boys redirect their focus to finding their well-respected and well-thought-of compatriot LeGarde. While Boone struggles with the dissolution of his marriage, PJ struggles with the idea of returning to Mexico and the relics of a surrendered past. Accompanied by their teammates, Rico and Sharky, the two men navigate northern Mexico, to preserve their comrade's life, and to protect the security of their unit. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dog Holler Publishing
• Release date: Nov 2, 2022
• ISBN: 9798986425122

Jack A. Miller

Out of the Appalachian foothills, Jack Miller grew up in the country, but now lives in the city (more or less). A life-long fan of pulps, comics, and adventure stories of all kinds, he found stories had sprouted in his mind that longed to be told, and, so, here we are. Mr. Miller lives in central Ohio.

Book preview

Prologue

THE OLD MAN LEANED ON the mantel, his gnarled hands running across it lovingly, his mind going back to the past, digging up the bones of memories that he had held dear to him for sixty years, since the days when they had carved this ranch out of the wild, fighting Apaches and Comanches, Kiowa and Pima, fighting bandits and rustlers, both Mexican and American, to carve a homestead out of the wild. He remembered the fierce and undying love of his wife, God rest her heathen soul, the rose he had plucked from among the Apache, and the way she had helped him make a peace between her people and his own, at least those who worked for him, and followed him, if not the rest of Mexico. She had given him fine sons, and had made them each dangerous, hard men in their own right. These wild lands would have done much the same, regardless, but she had honed them to a fine edge, and they had helped carve this little empire out. All gone away, now, but one, alas. Cortez and Mauricio had gone to find their fortunes in the north. Only his son Esteban remained in New Mexico. How Antonio Rodrigo Molinero had lived this long, to see so much, and lose so much, was a mystery to him.

Straightening his old back, feeling the pinch above his right kidney where Durango had thrown him and stomped him all those years ago, made him think of Thomas Boone and his brother Mordecai, and Tom’s son Ulysses. He would have given good money to have any one of them beside him now. All three of the men had been like sons to him, and had laid their lives on the line, one time or another, in his service, riding for his brand, defending this hacienda and the one like it over in New Mexico from one band of Indians or another, or protecting it from bandits or rustlers. They had been in on many of those fights, and he could not remember any significant event for forty years in his life that had not involved a Boone or a Diaz standing at his side. But the Boones had gone, it seemed, back east, or, more likely, off to Europe. He knew for certain Ulysses had gone, and he prayed for the big man, whom he had known since the day of Ulysses’ birth. He prayed every day for the man that he had seen born, had taught to ride, had seen grow into manhood, that he would survive the Hell of trenches and poison gas and machine guns that sprayed death. Ulysses was his father’s son, and would fight well, but no one could know when their string would run out.

Well, normally. Antonio Molinero knew that he would likely die here, today. It was almost a certainty, since he had drawn the ire of Villa and the bandits who rode with him. He knew that they would come to exact some measure of vengeance on him, before the forces opposed to them struck again, or the Americans decided to come finish the job Pershing had started in 1916, before affairs in Europe distracted the US. Antonio limped along the length of the mantel, running his hand along the wood, smoothed by the passage of time and a hundred hands, his fingers tracing the grain he had known for sixty years, until he came to the end, where Rodrigo Diaz's father Emilio had painstakingly carved an intricate, beautifully enhanced letter M. Antonio tapped it with his index finger, the ghost of a smile on his face as a warm feeling stole over him. He had chosen well, deciding to give this place to Rodrigo. He only regretted that, now, trouble was coming here to find them both, and Rodrigo, if he foolishly insisted on staying here with him, would likely die alongside him. If the old man had been able to leave, he would have done so days ago.

Reaching up, the old man lowered the wick in the hurricane lantern on the mantel, dropping the light in the room to a warm glow, dim, but comfortable. Dark was almost upon them. Villa’s men would be coming, soon.

By the time Rodrigo came bustling into the room, juggling boxes of shells, two rifles, and an extra pistol, Don Molinero had been lost in thought and adrift with his memories long enough that full, heavy darkness had fallen, a moonless night with only starshine to provide the slightest glimmer when the younger man returned with a double-barrel Greener shotgun, and a well-used 1897 Winchester pump shotgun. Antonio Molinero watched the other man sadly, thoughtfully, as he loaded all the weapons and proceeded to fill the loops on his cartridge belt and then his pockets with ammunition. When he was done, he left a string of open boxes along the top of the mantel, ready for either of the men to dig into them for more ammunition.

Son, you... I don’t want you to die here.

Rodrigo Diaz froze in the process of working the lever on his Winchester rifle to chamber a round, and he lifted his head to meet his old friend’s eyes silently. Rodrigo Diaz had worked for Antonio Molinero since the day he could sit a horse, had worked his way up to foreman, and had been on hand for most of the significant events in the latter half of the old man’s life. Rodrigo had spent as much of his life in the company of Antonio Molinero as he had his own father, and felt much the same way toward the man, who had treated him as well as he did his own sons. Rodrigo loved the old rancher.

Sir, you gave me this ranch ten years ago. I know what this place means to you, and I know what you mean to me. If Villa’s men are coming for you, they are going to find me here. I only wish we still had some of the old crew around. I would give my left arm to have a Boone in this room with us, Rodrigo said firmly. Antonio smiled.

If we did, we would probably all walk out of here alive. Those men are fighters. Rodrigo returned Antonio’s smile, and the two men thought back, each remembering different things, but their reverie was interrupted by the sound of horses whinnying and stomping outside. Sharing a look, and then a short embrace, the men separated. Diaz stepped toward the back of the house, and the old man lowered the wick of the lamp further to dim the light. Standing at the fireplace with the double-barrel in his hands, he faced the front front door with a solemn look.

Let them come.

CHAPTER ONE

RECALL

HE REFLECTED SADLY THAT IT was a shame that they’d lost the ranch, ‘way back when. While PJ contemplated that deep family history, he leaned on the top rail of the fence, watching his father inspect the Thoroughbred carefully as the trainers kept the fractious stallion calm. Juan Molinero had been doing this work for ten years, now, off and on, traveling from his home in eastern Kentucky on the occasional day-trips to look over this horse or that, doctoring race horses, or their offspring. For whatever reason—and Juan had his own opinions on that—the owners, many of them Arabs from the Gulf, seemed to prefer his approach to their animals. Juan couldn’t complain, considering the amount of money he was paid merely to be on retainer and ready to drive to Lexington from time to time.

He stepped around Tricky Dick cautiously as the horse nodded his head vigorously, halter rattling as the animal almost lifted his slightly-built trainer off the ground, and Juan laughed melodically, turning to speak to the little man as he stood on his tip-toes to hold onto the horse’s jingling halter. The two men joked in Spanish, and the burly third man standing near the horse, a bluff, red-faced gringo in a perfectly-shaped cowboy hat, sporting a bristly push-broom mustache, joined in their laughter, reaching out to help his smaller partner wrangle the horse back under control. The white man was twice the size of his diminutive Hispanic partner, but the two of them had worked together for years, now, training racehorses across the country. PJ heard his father call out to the big man as he worked his way around the tall, slim horse, reaching down periodically to check the animal’s legs, his hands tracing the smooth, rippling muscles. The chestnut stud was a handsome animal.

Butch, how has this left foreleg been? Have you noticed any heat off of it? Marco, how ‘bout you?

The mountain of a man shook his head, cowboy hat throwing enough shade to shelter a little-league team, his sausage-thick fingers flicking dismissively at the question as though shooing a fly. His pale, checked shirt strained against his thick body as he shrugged and spoke.

We’ve been checking him every day, keeping an eye on it. We’ve kept him stalled, but you can see how poorly he’s takin’ to that, the large cowboy grinned and blew out his cheeks, his ruddy face crinkling at the eyes and making him look like a dude-ranch Santa Claus. Ol’ boy’s had about enough of the barn, I think, Johnny.

PJ smirked, ducking his head to hide a smile. Butch McKentrick was from the Rio Grande Valley and spoke Spanish almost as well as a native Mexican, and had known his dad for every minute of the ten years Juan Molinero had been the special veterinarian for many of these Thoroughbred farms, but he had insisted since day one on calling Juan Johnny, and the senior Molinero had always indulged the big Texan’s habit, although PJ had yet to learn why. Had he been forced to make a guess, he would say it was probably due to the fact that both men were Vietnam War vets, but that was only a guess. Standing next to the big Texan, Marco Espinoza smiled broadly and shook his head, replying to Juan softly that the horse had shown no further signs of distress or ill health, and if anything, had become more rowdy and ill-tempered, making daily attempts at breaking out of his stall and into the pasture. Juan smiled behind closed lips, nodding, ducked his head and leaned down to inspect Tricky Dick’s left foreleg, and was immediately shown the extent of the horse’s orneriness, as the stallion turned his head and plucked the simple straw cowboy hat from his head, chewing it to pieces, nodding his head playfully the entire time, eyes showing as much twinkling humor as a horse could convey.

Juan Molinero rose to his full, modest height, smiling indulgently, and reached up to pluck the hat out of the horse’s mouth and gave Tricky a scratch under his left eye. It was a good spot that always pacified the lithe, statuesque horse, and the stallion leaned into it, nudging his trainer out of the way in order to get closer to Juan. The elder Molinero laughed, moving his left hand to Tricky Dick’s face while he ran his right hand down the long, sensitive back of the horse, petting him slowly with the right hand as he scratched that magic spot with his left. The horse half-closed his eyes in absolute bliss, leaning his shoulder against Juan, and PJ watched as his father just set his feet and accepted the horse’s attention. Juan was not as small as Marco, but he was of solidly average height, and only slightly built, weathered by years out on farms and ranches, treating cattle, horses, and every other variety of farm animal on down the line. PJ leaned on the fence, one foot hiked up on its lowest rail, and remembered simpler times, when he had spent his summers and weekends helping his dad, wrangling cows and horses so that Juan could doctor them. He missed those simpler times.

Leaning on the next section of fencing, ten feet to PJ’s right, two other men stood watching the byplay between Juan and the two horse trainers. One of the men was garbed in a pale plaid shirt and jeans, wearing a navy blue ballcap sporting the logo of the farm. The other wore a dress shirt, tie, and slacks, and sported a pair of sunglasses that alone sold at retail for enough money to buy the wardrobe of everyone else present. PJ wasn’t sure if the second gentleman was a banker, or lawyer, or financial advisor, but he gave off that vibe as he stood sweating lightly in the early-summer sun. The first man, who appeared to be in his late 20s or early 30s, removed his ballcap and peered into it like a fortune-teller looking into their crystal ball, a scowl on his face as he sneered a quiet curse.

Like this fuckin’ spic can tell us any damned thing about this bag of bones. Jeez.

PJ pushed his Wayfarers up off his eyes to wash one dry hand over his face, the sunglasses pressing his own ballcap up slightly as he gritted his teeth, making his jaw clench as he breathed out slowly and counted to seven. The blood pounding in his ears kept him from hearing whatever desultory rebuke the second man gave the first for his racist nonsense, but the well-dressed man didn’t appear too motivated to do anything else. He kept reminding himself that some people did not use the brains God gave them, but the Devil on his shoulder kept whispering that sometimes they needed hard lessons. And they needed those lessons delivered by hard teachers.

PJ took a deep breath and blew it out slowly between his teeth. This was his Achilles Heel. This was the kind of thing that always climbed up and bit him in the ass. This was the type of behavior that made him lose his patience and become Unreasonable. Dropping his hand, he allowed his sunglasses to fall back into place over his eyes, his ballcap still canted back slightly on his head, giving him a somewhat more youthful appearance, overall, although anyone looking at him closely, at his hands and arms, would have seen some scars to give them pause. Turning his head, PJ smiled over at the men and spoke, drawing their attention. In his run-down boots, untucked olive shirt, and faded jeans, he didn’t look like anything special, other than a fairly good-looking, athletic guy. PJ would have been the first to admit, he didn’t look too much like his dad.

Don’t think much of the guy, huh? Isn’t he supposed to be a good vet?

The man in plaid scoffed, looking over at PJ with a, briefly, furrowed brow. He didn’t know who PJ was—if he worked on the farm, this guy didn’t know him—but he didn’t let that lack of recognition give him cause for a second thought. The man waved a hand dismissively towards Juan, who was oblivious to the whole conversation.

Over-rated, the man said in the clipped, flat tones of the northeast, instead of the relaxed drawl of Kentucky, I don’t know why the owners love him so much, but I can call three vets who work with racehorses all the time who are right here in town and just as good. PJ pursed his lips, eyebrows arching as he nodded slowly. The man couldn’t help but continue. He’s just collecting a paycheck he hasn’t earned, the lazy fuck.

PJ counted to seven, again.

You know, I’m sure he didn’t just show up by accident. Doesn’t someone have to call him in, like Butch?

The man’s eyes narrowed, glancing towards the big Texan, and then immediately back to PJ, and he couldn’t help but jump to conclusions, landing on one with both feet and giving no others room for consideration in his brain. Straightening up, the man put his hands on his hips and scowled at PJ.

Don’t you have work to be doing? The two-year-olds’ barn isn’t going to muck itself out, and I know I told Danny I wanted those animals moved to the west pasture and that barn done today. PJ waved a hand amicably, pushing his other into his right hip pocket as he ducked his head, grinning.

Now, hold on, PJ said reasonably, I’ve just got some questions. I mean, how am I going to learn if I don’t ask questions, right? The man in plaid folded his arms over his chest, lips compressing into a bloodless white line as his nostrils flared and his eyes narrowed even further. Oh, this guy was going to learn, all right. PJ waved his left hand toward Juan, who was still discussing the horse quietly with the two trainers. None of them were paying any mind to the drama unfolding along the rail fence.

So: Someone had to call the guy, right? I mean, he’s not on some kind of schedule to just show up, is he?

That’s right, Man in Plaid, as PJ thought of him, finally said evenly, his face tight. Behind the man, Mr. Smooth, as PJ had tagged the other in his mind, had finally twigged that something unusual was up. He had stood up straight, although his right arm still lay casually along the top fence rail, and was watching PJ over Man In Plaid’s shoulder. Something in the man’s face twitched slightly, lips parting ever so slightly as he looked on the verge of speaking, but stopped himself.

The monkey brain in this one must see the tall grass waving, PJ thought, and grinned.

Well, if your trainers trust this guy, what the fuck makes you think you know any better? PJ asked, laughing. His happy tone of voice was in stark opposition to his harsh words, and his expression was entirely humorless, although the sunglasses camouflaged many of the danger signs that any reasonable person could have typically read on his face. Maybe trust the guys you pay to make the hard decisions?

Man in Plaid turned a shade of red probably more akin to purple, his eyes bulging for a moment, and PJ was glad the man was young and appeared in relatively good health. After a second of stunned silence, the man jabbed one finger towards PJ, his face twisted in spitting anger as he glared at PJ and lunged forward a step, eyes filled with reckless fury. Mr. Smooth reached out his left hand to try to hook Man in Plaid’s right arm, but he missed, his face betraying his dismay as the farm manager berated PJ.

I don’t know who you think you are, buddy, but you just signed your walkin’ papers, and you’re getting an ass-kicking as a separation bonus, Man in Plaid was ranting. He tore his arm out of Mr. Smooth’s second attempt at grabbing it and threw an angry look at the man over his shoulder, before turning back to face PJ and charging forward. PJ, meanwhile, pushed both hands into his hip pockets and waited, head tilted to one side as Juan, Butch, and Marco finally took notice that something was going on at the fence.

Man In Plaid didn’t come ahead at a full sprint. He didn’t even really try for a light jog. But he did move to cover the few steps separating him from PJ at a brisk walk, seeming to think for some reason that PJ was just going to let him put hands on him. It was a notion that PJ dispelled by exploding into motion when Man in Plaid was in mid-stride, and PJ pulled his hands from his pockets, dropped his shoulder, and drove through him, planting the farm manager into the ground with a perfect form-tackle. Starting inside linebacker seventeen-year-old PJ would have given himself a standing ovation. As the manager lay groaning on the ground, PJ rolled to his feet, dusted himself off, and backed off. He waited while the other man lay on the ground, and PJ folded his arms over his chest and watched while Man in Plaid coughed and considered his poor decision-making skills. The man crawled tentatively over to the fence and climbed it slowly to reach his feet, giving PJ a murderous glare the entire time. Surprising even PJ, Man in Plaid dug into his pocket and pulled out a buck knife. PJ snickered, dropping his hands to hook his thumbs in his belt.

I wouldn’t. PJ’s voice was deadly quiet. His right hand itched.

Man in Plaid didn’t notice Butch moving, but the big Texan had covered a lot of space in record time for a man his size and reached through the top two rails on the fence to lay his meaty hand on the manager’s forearm as soon as he’d opened the blade on his knife. Mr. Smooth had a look on his face like he couldn’t believe any single part of what he was seeing, and he seemed to have given up on intervening physically, although he was bigger than the other man, and looked to be in good shape. Meanwhile, Man in Plaid had turned to look up at Butch, who towered over him from the other side of the fence, his thick hand tightening like a vise on the wrist above his knife-hand.

You don’t want to die today, son, Butch said to the young man, not unkindly. You don’t know what you’re doing.

Let him go, Butch. PJ’s voice was flat, betraying no anger, no excitement, no emotion of any kind. His hands were still at his waist, the untucked olive shirt bunched around them where his thumbs hooked. Butch, glancing at PJ, knowing what he knew, swallowed and shook his head.

Nope, I don’t think so, the Texan drawled, giving an uncomfortable little laugh. Man in Plaid glared at him, tried unsuccessfully to jerk his arm out of Butch’s grasp, and growled.

Let me go, or it’s your job. Butch laughed again, a harsh bark.

Better my job than your life, kid.

Mr. Smooth finally spoke.

"Do not let him go, Butch." The man had pushed himself away from the fence, stepping away from it so that he was no longer in a straight line with Man in Plaid and PJ. PJ’s eyes briefly shot the man a knowing, amused look. Mr. Smooth was no dummy, it seemed, had evidently been around the block, or had been trained to see those that had, regardless of how they might camouflage themselves. Hands up, Mr. Smooth stepped forward on Man in Plaid’s left, until he was standing next to the blond man, who had lost his cap in the minor fracas but had picked up a 300-pound barnacle in Butch McKentrick, who still held his right arm in a death grip. Watching PJ, Mr. Smooth tilted his head towards the other man and spoke without looking at him.

Bobby, Mr. Smooth spoke smoothly, too, and he kept his gray eyes fixed on PJ appraisingly, Butch is going to let you go. You’re going to put that knife away, and we’re all going to forget what you said, as soon as you apologize to Mr. Molinero. Man in Plaid looked at the well-dressed, well-spoken man in stunned silence, his mouth hanging open as his brain tried to process.

What? Why should I apologize to the vet? He works for us! Mr. Smooth turned his head, now, keeping his hands half-raised towards PJ, and snarled at the foreman firmly, enunciating each word carefully.

"He works for me. And I’m not talking about that Mr. Molinero; I’m talking about this one, Dr. Molinero’s son. Who does things in the Army. Special things, Mr. Smooth turned his head back towards PJ, and when he spoke again, his voice was calmer, again, and he’d regained his composure. Let him go, Butch." Butch released the man’s arm, slowly, giving Mr. Smooth a skeptical look, but willing to go along, although he gave PJ a look as he released Bobby, who carefully closed the blade on his knife, raised both hands, and backed away, stuttering apologies until he was three paces behind Mr. Smooth and could lean against the fence for support. He made no move to retrieve his hat. Mr. Smooth lifted one hand to smooth his tie down against a slight gust of breeze, and over near the stallion, Juan Molinero watched as the scene unfolded between his son and one of his employers.

My apologies, Sergeant Molinero, Mr. Smooth spoke, again, glancing back at Man in Plaid briefly. Bobby doesn’t always use the best judgment. PJ pulled his gaze away from Bobby to meet that of Mr. Smooth and gave a noncommittal grunt. After a moment, PJ spoke.

He runs his mouth awful reckless; someone might take offense.

No offense intended, Sergeant. PJ turned to face Mr. Smooth squarely.

Oh, it was intended, alright, PJ replied acidly, and offense most certainly taken, mister. The other man sighed, eyes closed for a moment as he patted the air in front of him with both hands, trying to placate PJ. Opening his eyes, he met PJ’s steady gaze firmly but without any hint of anger or manipulation. His voice was even, with nothing patronizing in it when he spoke.

I’m sorry, Sergeant. Can we chalk it up to Bobby being a profound moron? And, I will double your father’s fee for this visit, by way of my own sincere apology. Juan started to protest, stepping towards the fence, but Mr. Smooth looked over at him, shaking his head firmly. No, Juan, I mean it, he said, I haven’t done enough to break Bobby of his bad habits, and I mean it: I’m sorry. Please accept it with my compliments, and, I’ll fire Bobby, too, if you like. Juan shook his head vigorously.

No need to fire the man. But, next time, let him take his medicine. Mr. Smooth nodded but glanced knowingly at PJ.

I expect that there would have been no opportunity for Bobby to be so stupid ever again if I had let things play out this time. Your son doesn’t strike me as the sort to let it go when someone pulls a knife on him. PJ grunted a laugh, his eyes still on Mr. Smooth. True, he thought.

Dropping his hands, PJ turned his head to meet Bobby’s eyes, again, reaching up to take off his sunglasses, and he gestured with them emphatically when he spoke to the man, his voice reasonable, but somehow nonetheless terrifying in its blunt matter-of-factness.

I ever hear of a disrespectful word coming out of your mouth about my father again, we’ll continue this conversation, PJ said plainly. I’ll be the one doing all the talking. Bobby said nothing, but he had gone pale and looked faint. He gulped and nodded. Message received. As the tension bled away, Mr. Smooth shook himself, pausing to throw a look back at Bobby, who pushed himself away from the fence and almost ran in the other direction, away from PJ and Mr. Smooth, back towards the main barn. When he turned back, Mr. Smooth stepped cautiously towards PJ, extending one hand.

Vincent LeGarde, Sergeant Molinero; very nice to make your acquaintance.

PJ, uncharacteristically, merely looked at the hand for a moment, but then stretched out his arm to take the man’s hand, throwing a glance at Bobby’s back as the man walked hurriedly away. Looking back to Mr. LeGarde, PJ shook his hand firmly, his eyes narrowing behind his sunglasses as something tickled the back of his brain and finally connected—he knew someone else named LeGarde, and it wasn’t like LeGarde was as common a name as Smith, or Miller, or something similar. He looked the man over closely. PJ appreciated Mr. LeGarde’s calm confidence. As the other men gradually went back to work with the horse, Mr. LeGarde looked at PJ speculatively and leaned on the fence once again, although he kept his body turned towards PJ. PJ remained inscrutable, expressionless as he hooked his thumbs in his belt once more.

What can I do for you, Mr. LeGarde? Or, are you merely interested in smoothing things over for the sake of my father’s continued consultation?

Vincent LeGarde turned his head slightly and looked over at Juan, giving a slight grin, almost to himself, it seemed, although he did nothing to hide it from PJ. Turning back to look at PJ, the man nodded towards Juan as he worked his way once again around the restive stallion, although he did occasionally still cast glances back towards PJ and the businessman.

Your father’s advice and expertise is certainly appreciated, Sergeant, but you are not an unknown quantity to us, the man said. PJ shifted his feet, his face hardening at the implications behind the man’s words. Seeing the shift in PJ’s physical stance and in his attitude, the man raised his hands, and he kept his voice calm and reasonable as he continued.

That is not a threat of any kind, Sergeant. I merely meant to say—we do a thorough check on all of the people who work for us, and that includes those who we keep on retainers and who act as consultants. I have no idea exactly what you do, now, but our original dossier on your father included your mother, your siblings, and yourself, so we were of course aware at the time of your enlistment in the Air Force, and your service transfer to the Army. The man smiled, dropping one hand to dig into his pocket, a move that PJ watched, unmoving, while his palm itched for the grips of the Kimber Covert on his hip. Slowly, LeGarde removed his hand from his pocket, extending it towards PJ, who considered for a moment before reaching out with his left hand to accept a coin from Mr. LeGarde.

PJ was raising his palm to peer down at the coin when LeGarde made a calculated move. PJ knew it was calculated by the measured way in which the man pushed off the fence, dropping his right foot back and turning his hip—and then stopped, hands raised again as PJ’s pistol broke leather. Held at the low ready, obscured by PJ’s body, neither Juan nor the trainers noticed anything untoward happening. Mr. LeGarde, however, chuckled softly and moved carefully to lean on the fence, again.

Sorry, Sergeant, I’m sorry. I had to see how fast you were. I’ve heard stories. He smiled, watching as PJ looked at the challenge coin the man had placed in his hand. A full-color 75th Ranger Regiment flash was set in the middle of the coin, the scroll above it read 1st Ranger Bn. PJ grunted, rolling the coin over in his hand before hooking it with this thumb and flipping it back to Vincent LeGarde while he re-holstered his pistol. PJ folded his arms over his chest.

Who would you know that’s ever seen me work?

Vincent smiled more broadly, now, after pocketing his challenge coin, again, and reached up to set his sunglasses back on the top of his head, leaning more comfortably on the fence.

My brother. He’s been to the Schoolhouse. PJ pursed his lips, nodding slowly. So, that hunch had been correct.

Biscuit’s your brother? Mr. LeGarde chuckled, giving a short nod. PJ squinted, reaching up to resettle his ballcap on his head, and pulled off his sunglasses to perch them on the brim of the cap, the ear pieces still stretching down to tuck behind the top of his ears. Reaching to his chin, PJ rubbed the three-day growth of beard there, tilting his head to look at William LeGarde’s brother. Why was your brother telling stories on me? Vincent LeGarde half-shrugged.

Your unit is famous for shooters, and my brother has taught a bunch of them. You stood out enough in that august company to impress him. We still talk, often, even though I’m not in the Army anymore. LeGarde nodded towards the front gate of the farm, far down the tree-lined drive that connected the farm buildings to the main road. Our security force is comprised of a fair number of former military personnel. I’ve always got an eye out for good talent. When we put together your dad’s file, you were immediately on our radar, just because of your skill-set. That profile only improved as you moved into the Army and started working your way through the special operations community. PJ glanced over his shoulder towards the front gate and smiled.

"Yeah, I noticed when we came in, today. You don’t look much like