Brad Taylor
The Dig
Dear Reader
Dear Reader,
Pike and Jennifer’s company, Grolier Recovery Services, was started with the seed money from the expedition to find the Mayan temple showcased in One Rough Man. I toyed with the idea of writing about that experience, since it happened off the page. In the end, I thought it would be more fun to explore Pike trying to convince Jennifer to start up the company in the first place, since that happened off the page as well. The Dig is that story, and it sits between One Rough Man and All Necessary Force in the Pike Logan universe. Hope you enjoy!
Best regards,
Brad Taylor
Chapter 1
I watched her hands absorb the recoil, checking for a flinch on the trigger, then focused downrange to the target. With the exception of one flyer, the rounds were all in the “A” zone. Dead center.
“I thought you said you hadn’t shot anything before?”
Jennifer lowered the 1911 and said, “No. I said I don’t own any guns. There’s a difference. I grew up in rural Texas with two older brothers. Yeah, I’ve shot before.”
That didn’t explain the capability I’d just seen. Jerking a trigger and making noise against a stump because you’d been a redneck was a hell of a lot different than punching the A zone at a distance of twenty-five feet. Repeatedly.
I said, “Who taught you to shoot? Not your brothers, I’ll bet.”
“My grandfather on my mom’s side. He was a Texas Ranger. You know what that is?”
She said it with a little pride. The first I’d heard whenever she’d spoken about her family.
I said, “Yeah. I know what that is.”
“It’s not an Airborne Ranger, if that’s what you’re thinking. The Texas Rangers have been around a hell of a lot longer, and my granddad is a legend.”
I took the gun from her hand, racking the slide and saying, “Legend as in he’s done some stupid shit that made the news, or legend in that he deserves some respect?”
Her mouth dropped open and, a second too late, I wanted my words back. I saw the damage on her face and felt like kicking myself. It was becoming a pattern between us — one that I was sure she wouldn’t tolerate for very long. I always forgot that she didn’t have the thick skin I did. Well, it was either that or I just said insulting things like I had Tourette’s.
I really didn’t want to. The words just came out.
I saw her mouth slam closed, her jaw muscles quivering, and said, “Whoa. Wait. Jennifer, I didn’t mean that the way you think…”
She started stalking to our car, the anger flowing out behind her in a vapor, and I understood exactly why. Her uncle — not the Texas Ranger, but still on her mother’s side — had traveled to Guatemala to find a lost Mayan temple. Following some incredibly stupid theory, he’d done it illegally, using some unintentional drug cartel help. I’d ended up getting roped into trying to rescue him, and he’d ended up getting killed by the cartels. The whole thing was a fiasco, with the exception of meeting Jennifer. In this case, my comment about the Ranger sounded like I was making fun of her dead uncle.
Watching her walk away, a part of me — cold and reptilian — could care less what she thought. That part was a sack of vipers, full of pride and arrogance. Something that would revel in me lying in a shallow grave, proud of proving I was the better man even as I strangled on the roots growing underneath the headstones.
Another part realized that what she thought about me was the difference between living and dying. And that little piece had held sway ever since I’d looked in a mirror in a Guatemalan hotel, not liking the septic shell of the man who had stared back.
Thank God.
I stared at the pistol, then the target, like either would help temper my asinine comment. I said, “Jennifer, wait…”
She ignored me.
I slapped in a fresh magazine, racked the slide, and ripped off seven rounds, punching the A zone around her strikes, my group infinitely smaller than hers. And fired infinitely faster, sounding like a slow-cycling automatic weapon. The noise caused her to jump and stop walking. I pointed at my rounds.
“That’s where you need to be. I’m impressed with your shooting. I really am, but you need to get better. Much, much better, if you want to pass A-and-S.”
She crossed her arms on her chest, staring at me without a word. I blinked first, glancing down from her gaze and fiddling with the Springfield 1911 in my hand. She said, “I’m not so sure I want to do that anyway. If it means working with jackasses like you.”
I whipped my head up at that comment, shocked it had come out of her mouth. Jennifer was the type of person who never said a cross word about anyone. Ever. Even when they deserved it. Waitress treat you like a mushroom? Probably because she’s preoccupied with her special needs child at home. Driver cut you off? Maybe because he’s rushing his pregnant wife to the hospital.
She’d snapped at me before, but had never called me names. The fact that she had now meant I’d finally crossed a line, entering a no-man’s land way, way south of the Friend Zone. The thought scared the hell out of me.
She had a tiny smirk on her face, and I felt the relief like a reserve parachute blossoming above my head. She had seen the fear, and that had been worth more than the apology. She said, “You know, it takes more than fancy shooting.”
I grinned and said, “What does?”
“Impressing me.”
I holstered the pistol and said, “Impressing you isn’t the issue. You need to impress the Taskforce, and that’s going to be a very tough thing to do.”
Once upon a time, I’d been a true-blue counterterrorist commando in an organization so secret it didn’t have an official name. A unit that made us all feel like we were barrel-chested freedom fighters, keeping America safe from the bad men stalking the earth. Most probably still felt that way.
I knew better.
I’d had a run-in with destiny, a horrific event involving my family, and it had crushed me. I had been well on my way to self-imposed suicide — death by cop or anyone else with a gun — when I’d crossed paths with Jennifer. She’d pulled me out of the abyss, scabbing over the loss of my wife and child without even meaning to. In return for that favor, I was trying to convince the command of my old unit to allow her to try out — without even telling her initially.
It was selfish of me. I understood that. I wanted back into the Taskforce embrace, but I didn’t want to lose Jennifer. We’d found the temple in Guatemala, and I’d convinced Jennifer to start a company with the proceeds. She could finish her degree in anthropology, and I could start kicking terrorist ass around the world with my new cover company. A dream world like the ending of the movie True Lies. Well, maybe not that good, but the company was pretty close.
Ostensibly designed to help anyone who wanted to conduct archaeological work around the world, we were a one-stop shop for old shit. We could schmooze host-country governments for the overall effort or provide security for an individual dig, all the while helping the United States preempt terrorist actions in denied areas. Perfect cover in my mind, but less than perfect in others — especially when Jennifer was brought into the mix.
Kurt Hale, the commander of the Taskforce, had tentatively agreed to allow us to start the company, and we even had a name — Grolier Recovery Services — but I had more in mind. I wanted to operate like I had in the past. And I wanted Jennifer to do the same, which was unorthodox, to say the least. After all, she was a civilian. And a female.
Jennifer walked back to the shooting line, sizing me up. Basically, shutting me down. She said, “I could give a flip what the Taskforce thinks about me. I am who I am. Take it or leave it.”