The Second Option

By Lora Moore

Marine Sniper Chance Hughes was a born fighter, possessing the natural instincts and elite abilities that made him an exceptional soldier. During his third tour of duty, Chance’s fight reached a new level as he was shot down by the enemy, and held captive in a cave deep within the Hindu Kush Mountains.

Defying all odds, Chance survived the horrific ordeal, was rescued, and introduced to his new life as an assassin for a top-secret counter-terrorism team known as Off Grid Operations.
The lines of right and wrong, good and evil become increasingly blurred as Chance delves into his new life. Convinced that hunting down terrorists is his destiny, Chance welcomes the opportunity to kill more of the evil, cruel, anti-American thugs of the world. Despite the confidence he has in his deadly skills, he is continually haunted by tragic, violent memories of his turbulent past. Some of Chance’s most important battles are waged within himself. With his older brother, James, at his side, Chance hopes to be strong enough to do the job he is supposed to do, while trying to become the man he wants to be.

When the Hughes brothers are sent to Moscow to infiltrate a high-ranking Russian politician, Chance comes face to face with the reality of his future and must make decisions that clarify who he really is, and who he wants to become.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lora Moore
• Release date: Jan 4, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301514885

Lora Moore

Lora Moore lives on a farm in southern Minnesota with her husband and children.

Book preview

The Second Option

By Lora Moore and Julie Zuehlke

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2013 Lora Moore and Julie Zuehlke

Broken Branch Publishing

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.

Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover photo by Lora Moore

Cover design by Jen Naumann

Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com

Table of contents

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

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Epilogue

Excerpt From American Shadows

About the Authors

Acknowledgements

Connect with us online

Books by Lora Moore and Julie Zuehlke

Chapter One

Hindu Kish Mountain range

Afghanistan/Pakistan border

He was pretty sure it was night. The air was slightly cooler and he hadn’t heard footsteps for at least an hour. Actually, that hour could be only a few minutes, or even a day. His sense of time had become foggy. The one thing he knew for certain was that he had been in this God-forsaken place for a long time. He tried not to give up hope that he was going to get out of here alive. His hope was fading, but his will to fight was as strong as ever. He would not die without a fight. There were vicious men doing a damn good job of breaking down his body, but he vowed daily they were NOT going to break his spirit.

His right hand was a swollen and useless mess. His left shoulder was dislocated, but he could still wriggle the fingers on that hand. His fingers, although weak, constantly worked to loosen the ropes that bound him to the wooden crate and the floor. The bullet wound, the reason for his time spent here in this hell-on-earth, was now merely an irritating itch on his left Biceps. Despite his discomforts, he remained calm. His extensive training, coupled with his natural instincts, enabled him to rationalize that panic would only fog his thinking and prevent him from clearly monitoring his situation. His only shot at survival was to remain calm and clear-headed. He focused his thoughts on the two ideas that kept him from going insane.

One: escape. His escape plans changed constantly and provided his brain with a much needed distraction. Based on the activities of his captors, his physical condition and sometimes his mood, he would imagine detailed plans of escape. So far, the only plan he stuck with was the habitual, pitiful wriggling of his fingers in a futile attempt to loosen the ropes.

His second focused thought: kill the rotten bastards who were holding him prisoner. This too, provided hours of entertainment as he envisioned various, torturous methods to kill those bastards- every single one of them. His anger and obsession, along with revenge grew with every beating they inflicted upon him.

Prior to this latest predicament, he had never enjoyed killing. He efficiently did what he was assigned to do, but every death resulting from one of his meticulously placed bullets was etched in his memory, like a black hole. Now, however, if he had the opportunity to kill these animals, he would actually enjoy every minute of it.

Occasionally, he worked a little slack into the rough ropes that shackled his wrists and ankles, but he was usually interrupted by the intrusion of his captors. Their visits would leave him with tighter shackles, more injuries or a new torturous position that slowed his progress. He learned that if he feigned unconsciousness, they would beat him less. That plan worked for a while, until his captors grew frustrated and concocted some sort of horrid brew that they would pour into his mouth causing him to vomit violently and wake up.

He quit faking unconsciousness. The beatings were better than the sickness.

The long periods of silence were worse than the beatings, however, and he was left blindfolded nearly all the time. His world became dark, stifling and horrifying. His imagination would occasionally play cruel tricks and he would hear friendly voices from his past; his parents, his brother, friends from boot camp. To stave off irrational thoughts, he would play memory games. He memorized everything about his captors: the sound of their footsteps, their style of speech, their names, their individual nuances, even their smells. He began to recognize each of the bastards before they entered the room.

As time passed, they grew careless, speaking more and more freely within earshot of their hostage. They didn’t realize that while the American appeared beaten and broken, his mind recorded everything.

He also spent a significant amount of time untangling the reasons why they didn’t just kill him. A captured enemy sniper was a prized trophy, usually killed immediately and ceremoniously displayed to illustrate that the radicals were far superior to the hated American infidels.

Not this time. His captors would beat him to the brink of death and then tend to his injuries to make sure he didn’t die.

Within days of his capture, he realized that the men holding him hostage were amateurs. They were nothing more than low-level thugs who got extremely lucky when their American hostage fell out of the sky. They were so proud of themselves that instead of killing him and making a spectacle out of the whole ordeal, the boneheads were keeping him alive and using him as a bargaining chip to try and improve their miserable lives. On several occasions he overheard the Arabs arguing about his worth and mentioning names of high ranking Taliban officials. Fortunately for him, the terroristic thugs lacked organization, leadership, and most of all, intelligence.

In order to improve his chances of survival, the injured sniper discovered he had some hidden talents: acting and lying.

After withstanding brutal beatings, he would appear to break down, beg for mercy and plead for his life. He was even willing to provide valuable information, or so they thought. In reality, he would die a thousand horrific deaths before turning traitor on his country.

His acting skills were Oscar-worthy, as time and time again, they believed his outrageous lies. He told them he had many high-ranking friends in Washington, including the President. He told them he had classified military information. He told them detailed plans of American attacks. He understood that eventually his act would be over, and his captors would realize their valuable hostage was nothing more than a talented bull-shitter.

His brain was busy piecing together another escape plan when the deathly silence of the cave was broken. He heard the faint crunch of footsteps. He quit wriggling his fingers and turned all of his focus onto deciphering the sounds. His sense of hearing had become overly acute, compensating for his lack of vision. He could easily distinguish three separate sets of footsteps. They were moving quickly and nearly silently. These footsteps belonged to strangers. His heart sped up momentarily before he inhaled slowly and willed himself to remain calm. He slowed his heart as only an elite sniper can. He waited.

* * *

The first Navy SEAL paused only a moment as he entered the darkness of the cave. The two other members of his team gave him the thumbs up, and they proceeded directly to the plywood door leading into a narrow passageway. They carefully pried the door open. Months of intelligence reports and scouting had led them to this hole in the mountain. They crept into the back room. Rats skittered across the floor and the dank room smelled of death.

That’s where they found him. One SEAL turned on a small red-beamed flashlight, and in the dim light they saw a man sitting on a small wooden crate. The room was cramped and small. All three SEALS could barely fit inside. Even in the dim light, they could see the dark stains spotting the hard clay floor. A significant amount of blood had been spilled in this room. Undoubtedly, that blood came from the American sniper in front of them. He was hard to recognize. His hands were bound behind his back and his ankles tied to a metal clasp imbedded in a concrete block. His bones jutted out from beneath pale, bruised and bloodied skin. Lacerations, some so recent they were still seeping blood, crisscrossed his body from his neck to his shins. They likely were results from some sort of whip or small knife. His left arm hung at an awkward angle, his left shoulder so sunken, it appeared to be disintegrated beyond repair. His bare feet were covered in scabs and fresh bite wounds inflicted from the hungry rats residing with him. His once blond hair was now dark with dirt and blood and hung past his ears and eyes. The attractive, young soldier that stared out from the pages of so many magazines was now horribly gaunt, scarred and covered in a scruffy beard. Two SEALS approached him, while the third stood guard at the cave’s entrance. The American prisoner had yet to make any sort of movement. He gave no indication he was even alive.

Sergeant Chance Hughes? The soldier whispered as he carefully touched the beaten man’s face and neck. He placed a finger over Hughes’ carotid artery and felt the slow steady heartbeat. With a great sense of relief, he turned to his team and proclaimed, He’s alive.

A massive amount of human intelligence and cooperation among the world’s intelligence agencies had gone into this search and rescue of Gunnery Sergeant Chance Hughes. The CIA was calling the shots, but the notorious Navy SEAL Team Six was expected to close the deal. They had been training for months for this extraction, constantly modifying their operation as more intel was confirmed. Finally, their mission was nearing the end. All they had left to do was deliver Chance Hughes from this hell-hole into the waiting hands of the United States Government.

Chance felt the soft touch from the unfamiliar man but didn’t respond. His heart quickened a beat when he heard the man’s soft voice speak in perfect American English. His mind kept telling him that this was a trick. He must be imagining all of this. Maybe his mind was finally slipping. He felt gentle fingers loosening the ropes around his wrists and heard the chain snap at his ankles. Then the blindfold was removed and he squeezed his eyes shut. Even the dim light emitting from their small flashlight hurt his sensitive eyes. His arms felt numb and he only felt a remote twinge of pain in his dislocated right shoulder. His mind was struggling to grasp reality.

Sergeant Hughes, we’re the good guys. Time to go home, Gunny, the tallest soldier stated, calling Chance by the common nickname given to snipers. Chance carefully blinked his eyes open. The soldier peeled back the black flap on the sleeve of his uniform, revealing the small American flag patch, further proving he was who he said he was.

Chance made eye contact with the soldier who was cutting his ropes. The soldier smiled and whispered, Good to see you, Gunny.

Chance blinked, still trying to clear his vision. He desperately wanted to get a clearer picture of his saviors. They were dressed in black, their faces painted in black. The whites of their eyes and their teeth appeared to be brilliantly white. They moved efficiently and confidently. These were the most elite of the American soldiers, and they were saving him.

Chance attempted to speak but his voice wouldn’t work. He tried to stand up, but the extent of his weakness and injuries quickly made it obvious that he wasn’t going anywhere on his own power.

Easy Gunny. We’ll get you out of here, one of the SEALS stated as he pulled out a thermal blanket from his backpack and wrapped the sniper’s broken body. The slightest exertion sent Chance into shaky convulsions.

He’s going into shock, one soldier whispered while another demanded, Hold on, Gunny. Stay strong, man, as he carefully picked up Sergeant Hughes. Time was of the essence, and in order for the Team to make it to the designated evacuation point, they would have to move quickly.

The soldiers had no choice but to carry Hughes the half mile to the evacuation point where a UH-60 Black Hawk chopper would lift them out of this hostile country.

Chapter Two

Bear Creek Ranch

White Sulphur Springs, Montana

James took a deep breath and did his best to keep his irritation under control. He stood in the middle of a hot dusty arena watching one of his clients absolutely mess up a good horse. James had spent the better part of the past two months training and honing the skills of this promising young colt and now he had no choice but to literally turn the reins over to an incompetent fool who had no right to ever sit in a saddle. Even the little machine horses that ran on quarters at Wal-Mart didn’t deserve this level of stupidity.

The only reason he found the strength to keep from sharing his opinion, loudly, was his desperate need for money. He glanced over his shoulder toward the barn and noticed his hired man and old friend, George, leaning against the door frame, watching the whole spectacle.

Like James, George couldn’t tolerate blatant stupidity, especially when it came to handling animals. James turned his focus back to the ignoramous and the poor horse. He took a big step over Toad, the fat blue healer, sleeping at his feet and walked toward the source of his boiling irritation.

Stop. Just stop him, James ordered and then took another deep, calming breath before taking one last ditch effort to be civilized.

Why won’t he do anything I tell him to do? the exasperated rider asked.

James raised an eyebrow and shot back, What in the hell are you asking him to do? From my point of view, you aren’t doing anything but pissing him off. I’m actually surprised he hasn’t bucked your sorry ass off!

The confused man flopped his arms dramatically and sighed, Look, I don’t get it. I just wanted a horse that is easy to ride. Kick to go, simple left and right, and pull to stop. I’m not into all those leg cues and crap. Can’t you just train him to be normal?

The rider’s brand new designer cowboy boots were pushed nearly through the stirrups and pointing at the ground. James gave up telling him to keep his heels down. If the moron got his feet stuck in the stirrups someday, too damn bad. As the man sat there in the saddle, whining about his horse, his butt was sitting a good five inches off to the right of center in the saddle. One rein hung longer than the other, making the cues and pressure completely off balance. There wasn’t one aspect of this man’s riding that was correct, or even tolerable. James gave one last look at the promising young gelding as he stood sweating heavily and chomping nervously on the bit.

His barely controlled temper finally took over. You’re right. You can’t ride this horse, James declared. You really shouldn’t EVER ride ANY horse. No horse deserves this shit. You need to sell him and buy a fuckin’ bike...or a four-wheeler or just stick to driving your car. I can’t help you, Brad.

James quickly turned on his heel and walked out of the arena. Then he looked over his shoulder and yelled, You still owe me $1400 for two months of training. The rider stared at James wide-eyed and open-mouthed. He knew that this particular horse trainer had a reputation for being cranky, but this was outrageous.

James Hughes had a long, impressive resume of accomplishments regarding the horses he’s trained. Most of James’ clients agreed that his talent outweighed his abrasive personality, but this time the trainer had crossed the line.

You’re not getting a dime from me, asshole! he yelled back. "And my name’s Bob," he added with a little less enthusiasm, since James had already disappeared around the corner of the barn.

Bob clumsily slid off his horse, causing the gelding to spook sideways and nearly pull the reins out of his hands. After gathering himself and his horse, he dug his cell phone out of his pants pocket and called his wife to tell her to bring the trailer. He was taking his horse home. There had to be several other trainers willing to take his horse, and his money.

James headed directly to the small room in the southeast corner of the barn. A year ago he had it completely finished and furnished, and had claimed it as his office. He had a large picture window installed that gave a perfect view of the snow-capped Rockies. Coffee, the cat, was usually sleeping on top of the file cabinet and Toad had his own bed under the over-sized oak desk.

James held the door open for an extra second to allow Toad to enter and then flopped down on the broken leather chair in front of his computer. He rubbed his temples. He knew he had opened his big mouth and lost a good source of revenue. This Brad, or Bob, or whoever the hell he was, could’ve kept him in the money for a long time. With his lack of skills and his fat wallet, Brad-Bob would’ve kept coming back for more training and lessons.

James knew he could make a hell of a lot more money if he would just play the stupid game: tell lies, smile and promise to help all the incompetent cowboy-wannabes in the world. That’s how a lot of the successful horse trainers operated. But try as he would, he just couldn’t do that.

This unpleasant incident with Bob wasn’t the first time he had offended a client. Even on a good day, James had a hard time harnessing his brutal honesty. If he saw a problem, he dealt with it. Apparently most people wanted, or needed, to be coddled in order to prevent damage to their fragile egos. He never claimed to get into the horse-training business to deal with people; he did it for the horses. He understood horses; grasped how they thought and reacted. He had great communication skills with horses-not people and struggled with why they did anything they did.

Unfortunately, a human was attached to nearly every horse he dealt with. Equally unfortunate was the fact that horses couldn’t pay him the cash he so desperately needed.

A year ago he wouldn’t have cared and would have tolerated these daily irritations. It was simple. If the clients were intolerable, he didn’t work with them.

Now, everything was different. Somewhere, a half a world away, his brother was dead or dying, and James’ singular focus was to find him and bring him home. In order to do that, James needed money. His primary source of income came from this ranch. Nine months ago, this ranch was flourishing with registered Black Angus cattle and well-bred American Quarter Horses. Nine months ago James was in discussions with his banker about how he planned on being debt-free within the year. One ill-fated operation in Afghanistan had turned this place into nothing more than empty pasture land, home to two old roping horses and Mac. Without any significant income from his horse training business, James was running out of options. He glanced out the window and he watched Mac, his brother’s horse, grazing contentedly in the pasture. Mac could bring top dollar, as he was one of those rare and special horses that had loads of talent, great looks and a gentle personality. James rubbed his eyes and shook his head. He’d be damned if he’d sell that horse. Mac would be here when his brother got home.

James spun his chair around slowly as frantic thoughts rumbled around in his head. He was nearly broke, plain and simple. Large amounts of money had been used to pay off mercenaries and retired intelligence operatives in attempt to locate his brother. Even larger amounts of money were spent on information, the use of military satellites and human intelligence. Having a father who was once a Marine, and also once a high powered US Senator, had its benefits. For example, James had access to names and contacts that the average civilian wouldn’t have. Still, he knew he had crossed the lines of legality several times in his attempts to gather top secret information. I’ll probably end up in prison for everything I’ve done, James thought to himself, slowly twirling in his chair. He picked up the latest TIME magazine that was delivered yesterday. Once again, his brother’s eyes stared back at him. The failed operation, Chance’s heroic actions and subsequent capture was played out in the media like a high-budget action film. James kept every magazine that mentioned Chance, or published his photo. The pile on his floor had grown to be quite impressive. James flipped the newest magazine to Chance’s article and skimmed over the contents. Once done, he angrily threw it across the room. Just another glaring example of how the media professed to know more about his brother than the high-priced mercenaries he hired to find him.

George knocked softly on the door before he entered, Well that was a worthless pile of shit, he stated, motioning toward the arena.

Is he still here? James asked, not wanting to deal with Bob another second.

Yessir, and he’s got his city-slicker wife trying to help him load that poor horse in the trailer. It’s not pretty, George said, shaking his head in disgust.

James closed his eyes and wished for it all to go away, I ain’t got nothin’ left, he whispered. Unless I start selling off the land, I’ve got nothin’ left.

George slowly sat down on the only other piece of furniture in the office, a rickety old folding chair. George felt his heart ache. He had been on this ranch for many, many years, and unfortunately, he had seen far too much sadness befall this family he loved so dearly.

You ain’t selling off the land, son. Your daddy wouldn’t want that.

Yea, well, he’s not here is he? And, don’t you think he’d rather have his youngest son brought home than some stupid land? James asked, trying to keep tears from flooding his voice.

Somehow, he will come home. He’s strong, and he’ll find a way, George replied gently.

What if he’s not strong enough this time? It’s been too long. Maybe if we could’ve found him right away, but damn, it’s just been too long.

George slowly stood up and walked over to James. He placed a gnarled hand on James’ shoulder. "He’s alive. I can feel it. His time is not over yet."

James laughed weakly as he wiped his eyes. How do you know- some sort of old Indian wisdom or something?

George smiled and nodded, Now, let’s get to work, he stated as he rose to his feet. That busted gate won’t fix itself.

James inhaled deeply and stretched his arms. He bent down to give a little rub to the fat Blue Healer, lying at his feet. Come on, Toad, let’s go to work.

* * *

As he helped George pound a new post into the ground and repair the bent gate, James’ thoughts migrated toward an idea that he had been trying to avoid for nine months. His last option: the only thing left to do was to go over there himself. He realized that this particular trip would be certain suicide, but he had run out of other methods to continue the search for his brother. Realistically, he knew the trip would never be successful, but he would die trying. After everything he and his brother had already been through, it was the least he could do.

As he and George stood back to admire their work, his phone vibrated in the leather holder on his belt. James had a sinking feeling it was the bank calling him about an overdraft notice. Just as likely, he thought, a disgruntled horse owner wanting to complain about his lack of social graces. He yanked out the phone and checked the number. Unfamiliar. Probably a damn telemarketer. He pressed a button and answered, James here.

James Hughes?

That’s me. James felt his heart pound. The voice on the other end was a familiar soft tone, barely audible due to what sounded like a bad connection. In reality, the call was from a secure, scrambled, untraceable line.

They found him. He’s alive.

James felt his knees go weak. Where is he?

Germany, the soft voice replied. Check your email.

Click. The call ended. James didn’t know how he got to be sitting on the ground. He stared at his phone in disbelief. Did he hear correctly or was his mind playing tricks on him?

George walked up to him and hunkered down beside him. He placed his hand on James’ shoulder.

What the hell happened, boy? George asked sternly. He took the phone out of James’ shaking hand. Who was on the phone?

James’ mouth opened but no words came out. George leaned close and asked, Chance?

James stared at George. Finally, he smiled and nodded. They found him. He’s alive.

Chapter Three

Langley, Virginia

Gabrielle O’Conner paced in front of the dark window. This barren, cold room hidden in a decrepit brick warehouse was a far cry from her plush office at the CIA headquarters. When she received the late-night phone call, she immediately sent word of an urgent meeting at this remote location. Her ragged old running shoes padded upon the tiled floor and despite the chilly temperature, she unzipped her wool coat. Her typically polished wardrobe of dark business suits and heels were temporarily replaced in order for her to blend in with the locals of this particularly seedy neighborhood. She glanced at the fine-featured man with thick glasses who sat quietly in the corner, staring intently at his laptop. Richard Jacobson was a man of very few words, but over the years, he had gained O’Connor’s utmost respect and trust when it came to secrecy and surveillance.

Gabrielle’s mind was racing as she tried to create a viable plan that would bring home a potential and crucial member of her top secret team. Gunnery Sergeant Chance Hughes had been flown via Black Hawk to Landstuhl Regional Medical Center in Germany and strict control over the situation was essential.

This injured sniper was no ordinary soldier. Sergeant Hughes’ was a household name, thanks to the relentless coverage by the nation’s media, and since this was a presidential election year, both liberals and conservatives had been using Hughes’ situation as a political soap-box upon which to argue their position on the war on terrorism.

While Chance was fighting for his life in a cave in Afghanistan, he had become a celebrity in the United States. Now, Gabrielle O’Conner and her team had the daunting task of bringing Sergeant Hughes home without triggering a media firestorm.

A soft knock on the door stopped her pacing. The knock was the predetermined rhythm of three hits, a pause followed by one last hit. She walked over and unlocked the door. Gary Nelson, Director of the Special Activities Division of the CIA, entered quickly.

Any tails? Gabrielle asked as Gary shook the snow off his faded blue parka.

None.

An overly vain man, accustomed to tailored suits and Italian leather shoes, Gary looked uncomfortable in denim jeans and tennis shoes. He was a short, stocky man with carefully groomed blond hair, combed in such a way to try and minimize his receding hair line.

Well, it’s been leaked. I don’t know how or by whom, but CNN is breaking news that Hughes has been found, Nelson stated dismally.

Gabrielle reacted quickly. She was left with no other option. Okay, I’ll call Ted from CNN. We’ll kill the story.

Nelson shook his head. I don’t know. This kid is big news. His story is extraordinary. I think too many people will notice if the headlines just disappear.

Gabrielle sighed and leaned back to sit a hip on the edge of the aged oak desk. Her perfectly manicured red nails ticked quietly on the wood. I know, but I don’t see any other way. We’ve done it before. With time, people will forget all about Hughes. It would be nice if another big story breaks to distract everyone.

Nelson raised his eyebrows in wonder. Are you suggesting we create a distraction?

Gabrielle chewed on the end of her pen as she thought over her options. Possibly. Something flashy but harmless.

Nelson stared blankly out the window for a few minutes before turning toward the man sitting in the corner. Rick? he