Beyond The Horizon

By Christian Daniels

Michael Barrett is ex-military and damaged goods. He was beginning to leave the past behind and move on, but the death of his wife and the loss of his children push him back into the war minded, machine he has tried to leave behind. Now he is forced to team up with a small town detective to open up a can of whoop ass on the gun running, drug dealing, murderer that has his kids. He will stop at nothing to get them back and that includes leaving a wake of dead bodies as he tracks down well-organized villain and his kids;

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Daniels
• Release date: Mar 14, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310524318

Christian Daniels

Christian Daniels; Pen name for K.T. Martina. To each of us are at least two side, the brave warrior and the timid recluse, the hero full of integrity and morals and the villain just trying to gain power, no matter the cost. Christian, I dare say, is the former, I don't see injustice as a downfall but more as an opportunity to exploit the shortcomings of those that rule and learn ways of taking that position from them to rule more effectively. I am the side that has no time for mercy of the guilty, only for the suffering. If your intent is cruel and destructive then I will obliterate you in fiction, and watch as the unoriginal rulers, without a unique though to call their own, copy literature as has been the case for many years. It is time that the guilty pay and the innocent receive their due, if there are any innocent left among us.

Book preview

Beyond

the

Horizon

Christian Daniels

Published by K.T. Martina

Distributed by Smashwords

Copyright 2016 K.T. Martina

Print

ISBN-13: 978-1523835539 

ISBN-10: 1523835532 

Ebook

ISBN: 9781310524318

Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.

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Prologue

Chapter 1 (Part 1)

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12 (Part 2)

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

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"The two most important days in your life

are the day you are born,

and the day you find out why."

~Mark Twain~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Prologue

Every year whether we are at war with another country or not, there are men and women that have given of themselves to help secure the freedoms of this country. It is unfortunate that some give an eye, a limb, their sanity or even their life, but they do it willingly and without regret.

These brave individuals live in our towns and sometimes, even on the same streets we live on. It is not only the training that makes them the people they are, it is who they already are, that drives them to take the first step in becoming soldiers. It is a deep down desire to protect and to serve the public in a way that few will ever know or understand.

So for ex-soldier Michael Barrette, the value of innocent life far outweighs the value of the hostiles that threaten it, or the laws that protect the violators. All he wanted was to serve his country; but that was taken away. Now, all Michael needs to do is to protect his family, and he will do whatever he has to do, to keep them safe from the a violent and ruthless man that has a hold on them.

Part 1

Chapter

1

So I've killed a few people, that doesn't make me a bad person, does it? It's not like I'm a serial killer or anything, those folks are sick. Michael thought as he sat in his black Chevy truck, idling on the side of the road looking into the rearview mirror. The state trooper’s face glowing in the dash lights of his police cruiser occasionally looking up to keep an eye on the truck parked in the brightness of the cruiser’s white and blue roof top lights and side mounted spot light.

Michael worried that the smell of beer on his breath would draw a closer look from the trooper so he lowered the passenger window along with his in the hopes that the crisp night air would conceal the evidence. It had only been two or three beers and although he didn’t feel the slightest buzz, he was sure that the officer would assume the worst. He searched his denim jacket’s pockets hopeful that there were breath mints or chewing gum somewhere to be found - nothing.

He hadn’t even been home more than a week, not that this felt like home, his home was 6,939 miles to the east, on the other side of the world. That’s where he lived for the last year and that was where he had a life, he had friends, he had a job. Here in the middle of nowhere Mississippi, he had nothing but memories and a lifetime of failures; and this would undoubtedly add to his father’s list of disappointments.

He watched as the trooper exited his car and donned his patrol cap, positioned his clipboard and flashlight and approached the truck with his right hand on his service pistol for safety. He walked smoothly, each step calculated and precise; Michael could see his eyes scanning the vehicle for any suspicious activity as he arrived at the driver’s side door.

Sir, I’ll need you to step out of the vehicle. He told Michael as he took one step away from the door.

Michael looked up at the officer and noticed the name on his chest; S. Robinson, he knew a Robinson back across the pond, doubtful that there would be any relation since the one he knew in Iraq was white and from Minnesota, and this one was African-American or black or whatever other identifier we have come up with to create even more separation between Americans. He didn’t think of himself as White-American or for that matter, half of anything. He was American, pure and simple.

He sighed and opened the door and stepped out. He stood about six and a half feet tall and his thick chest, unable to be concealed by the blue and black flannel shirt or the denim jacket, made the trooper a little uneasy causing him to look down the blacked out two lane road for his backup. He didn’t look the slightest bit out of shape, actually he looked like a drill instructor, hard and all business.

Don’t worry sir, I’m not going to give you any problems. Michael said trying to appease the trooper.

The officer cleared his throat, I sure hope not. he said without showing any signs of easing his grip on his pistol. I smelled alcohol when I first pulled you over. Have you been drinking tonight sir? the trooper asked looking at Michael with suspicion.

I had three beers. Michael admitted in a clear voice.

Do you have any drugs or weapons on your person or in your vehicle?

No Sir. he replied.

So where you coming from? the trooper asked.

The stallion. A hole-in-the-wall bar on the outskirts of town that should have gone out of business when the American Ship and Container Co. packed up and moved to Mexico; leaving 1,289 people without jobs. But, as resilient Americans they were able to survive. Some of the less fortunate, took unemployment, some moved to more fruitful areas and still others simply got new jobs flooding the market and removing every last help wanted sign in the town. The reality being, that it actually happened in just the opposite way.

Where you heading tonight? the trooper asked with one eye on Michael and one on his driver’s license.

I’m on my way home.

And where is that?

Highway 65, just north of Biloxi.

The trooper looked Michael over and thought about the erratic driving that caused him to pull the truck over in the first place. His driver’s license was clean and the vehicle was up to date, he wasn’t slurring his words or show any signs of being intoxicated. Do you know why I pulled you over?

I assume you saw me swerve back-a-ways and thought I was drunk? he asked more than stated.

Exactly, what was that for?

There was a dead animal back there. I didn’t know it was dead when I was approaching, so naturally I tried not to hit it. That was the best he could come up with on such short notice. The question was rather abruptly asked and he didn’t think the trooper would see the logic in him thinking that it might have been a bomb, so he kept it as simple as possible.

The officer hesitated for a moment but eventually handed Michael back his license and registration and a warning before he sent him on his way. You have a good night Sir. He stated before walking back to his cruiser.

He only had about 10 miles to go before he got home, but behind every tree and curve in the road, he watched for another boogey man to appear. The night, devoid of all heavenly glitter, swallowed the trucks headlights, revealing only a few feet at a time. He switched on the high beams and the additional light aided a bit, but only by comparison to the low beams. He was still unable to see more than a dozen meters ahead of him.

The open fields that surrounded him earlier that day had fallen off the face of the earth into a black void paralleling the road as if he were on an eternal bridge to nowhere, trapped from any route of retreat or cover. He was completely exposed and he was alone; completely alone. The only way he was sure that he was still in this God forsaken town was the tiny green reflective signs every mile or so that marked the crossing roads. Then he saw it, the three red bicycle reflectors that his father had mounted on the mailbox post. Michael had thought for years about how pointless they were, but tonight they welcomed him home and he was grateful to see them.

He pulled the truck onto the gravel driveway that lay between the white-washed wooden rail fences. The tires grabbing the gravel tossing it into the undercarriage of the old Chevy. Normally, there would be a plume of dust that accompanied each vehicle as it paraded up the driveway; tonight however, there was only a small poof of dust visible in the glow of the trucks red tail lights.

He pulled the truck up beside the 1986 Nomad Travel trailer that his father was letting him stay in until he could find more suitable arrangements. It was clean, had its own bathroom and kitchen and even a 13-inch TV with an aerial antenna, so unless there was a tornado or World War III, Michael didn’t have to go into his parent’s home for anything; and that pleased him just fine.

He loved his parents but didn’t care for their company. His mother, Janice, an overbearing woman with her own agenda and a flirtatious demeanor, thought that her feminine wilds were the key to anything she would ever want. Janice was also a gossip, and Michael preferred to deal in facts rather than over-blown self-serving blather. Also, it seemed that her only job, now that he was home, was to fix Michael up with any female that was of age and not already married regardless of intelligence, appearance and personality.

His Father George, was an old, loudmouthed and belligerent pain in the neck, that reeked of cigarettes and body odor. He had callused, grease stained hands from thirty years of working on machinery that left him with thick, scared forearms and the smell of hard work on his clothes, and he wore it proudly. He wasn’t an unkempt man, but on the contrary, his work truck, his home and even the travel trailer were immaculately cared for. George was a man of many words, but there were the uncommon moments, that amidst his verbal diarrhea was a gem of knowledge buried within.

Michael woke up the next morning to the not surprising quarreling of his father and some other man he didn’t recognize. He dressed himself and stepped out of the trailer to find his father yelling and poking another man in the chest.

You can just get off my property and take your stupid mutt with you.

George, you can’t expect him to just know how to obey you if you won’t train him.

I bought a hunting dog and this mutt doesn’t know his head from his tail. George said kicking dust at the poor animal. Just give me back my money and take this… dog with you.

The dog, a young Bluetick Coonhound lay quietly on the porch of the house; the knowledge that he was unwanted evident as his large black ears hung limply on the sides of his sad face. Michael rounded the corner and saw the dog on the porch and decided to join him for a front row seat. The creature stretched out on the wooden porch planks as soon as Michael’s hand touched him and began to stroke his short, salt and pepper-speckled hair.

George and the man continued with the back and forth debate over the dog with more poking and yelling until Janice stepped out of the door in a white cotton dress and pink flip-flops, holding a 12 gage shotgun leaned on her right hip. She fired it into the air and the men stopped for a moment and turned to see her standing in the doorway.

You boys got this settled yet?

Ma’am… we had a deal. The man said franticly.

Well, I’ve heard enough. She replied.

Ok, I’m going to get the dog. Don’t shoot. He said stepping slowly to the porch, hands raised.

I ain’t goona shoot you, I’m goona shoot that fool for buying the dog in the first place.

Michael looked at the man and then at George. Pop, what’d you give for the dog?

Stay out of this boy! George warned.

How much? Michael asked the man who stopped walking when Michael started talking.

Four hundred dollars. The man said.

That mutt ain’t worth four cents. George yelled. Pete Kellogg’s dog cost two hundred and he’s twice the hunting dog as this mutt.

Fine, leave the dog. Michael said standing up and reaching into his jeans. He pulled out a small fold of cash and counted out four one-hundred-dollar bills. He walked over to George and handed him the money.

You're a dang fool boy.

Michael looked at the dog on the porch, Maybe Pop, but now I’m a fool with a new hunting dog.

Hunting dog? I don’t think so. You just wasted four hundred dollars.

Michael started back to the trailer not willing to engage in any more of this nonsense and blew a sharp whistle. The dog barked and leapt off the porch running to Michael’s side.

Guess he just needed a real master. The man said as if trying to leave a mark on George’s face with hard words.

Michael and the dog sat on the step to the trailer. They listened to George yelling profanities and running down the driveway as the man drove in reverse until he was out of ear shot. So I guess you’ll need a name little guy. Michael said out loud to the dog who didn’t ask for anything more than to just be scratched between his ears.

Chapter

2

Two months had passed since Michael took over ownership of the pup whose mischievous ways led Michael to name him Cooper, after a young private he knew in the army when he had first signed up. Cooper and Michael had become inseparable, in the early mornings when Michael would go for a run, Cooper was right there with him, they took trips to the Gulf of Mexico and spent hours sitting on the beach, Michael staring blankly into the horizon and Cooper curiously watching the sand crabs scurrying across the wet sand. Often times Michael could be heard talking to Cooper as if he could understand, and if there was anyone around to hear.

Between the surf crashing on the sand and the sea gulls crying above Michael was able to form only a thought or two about how he needed to once again return to those he had left behind, beyond the horizon. It was only on these days, at the beach with Cooper, that he wore shorts and exposed the titanium contraption that connected his thigh to his shoe.

Although he was more than capable of performing his daily tasks and even to the extent that his limp was only noticeable to those already aware of it, he was returned stateside to grow old with his three of four limbs he had still intact. The only other evidence of the IED, was the scar on the left side of his face that he couldn’t hide. Perhaps that is why he and Cooper got along so well… Cooper didn’t stare or ask questions. He just accepted Michael as his master and friend and asked of him nothing more.

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The first time Michael had a night terror in the presence of Cooper, the young dog cowered in the corner and wet the floor, but with each night forcing Michael to relive the nightmare, Cooper soon realized that his companion wasn’t screaming at him and so he would climb down from the bed and wait. Michael would start with incoherent mumbling and slight body movement but would soon escalate to screaming and yelling and thrashing his powerful arms around the bed.

The all too real memories of that fateful night patrol through Baghdad played in his mind like a horror film to a spectator. He was unable to react differently and thus, he was again unable to save PFC Tait from the sniper shot that forced the convoy to divert onto a side street and into the ensuing danger of driving over the bomb waiting in the carcass of a dead dog.

Tate! Get down! Get down!

Then the blood pouring from the gaping wound in the 19-year-old face.

No! Go straight, DON’T TURN! DON’T TURN! He couldn’t yell loud enough to get anyone’s attention. They passed the burned out car. STOP! he cried. He saw the dog. IED! IED! IE… BOOM! the sound shut off his hearing, but he could still see. He watched the world around them tumbling around and the flames engulfing the Humvee. Body parts were tossed around with weapons and vehicle parts like the devil’s salad. When the vehicle stopped moving, he tried to open the door but it felt like it was a thousand pounds so he reached for the driver, a specialist on her first night patrol with the unit - he didn’t even know her name. She looked at him and without a single word, told him goodbye and died. His body lived, but inside, he died with her at that very moment.

When he woke, he was crying and holding his pillow, soaked in anguish and sweat. Cooper quietly climbed onto the bed again and laid his head on Michael’s good leg, his face looking into the face of his tortured master without blame or need of an explanation.

One night when he began his inevitable convoy patrol, he tried to call Tate down from the turret without any response, but he noticed something different. In the distance he heard a sound like a siren, an air raid siren. No… He couldn’t make it out. It got louder. It wasn’t a siren; it was howling. A dog was howling. It grew louder… He opened his eyes to see Cooper setting beside the bed, his head facing the heavens, as if crying to God to take mercy on his master.

Each night when the dreams began, Cooper was ready to bring his master out of the terrors that so often violated his mind and tormented his soul. In the midst of his struggle to accept that he was not the one responsible for the death of his comrades he started to understand and consent to a life that he hadn’t planned for. His instincts still made his truck swerve at the sight of dead animals and trash on the side of the road and he still saw figures in the shadows, but with the help of his loyal and trusted friend, he was able to take back some control of his nights and let go of the fear of what they held instore for him.

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Once Michael started to sleep through more of the night time hours, he took a job working the shipping and receiving dock at a book depository just north of Grand Bay, Alabama, nearly 45 minutes away, since there were still no worthwhile jobs any closer. He didn’t mind the commute as long as Cooper was with him, hanging out the passenger side window sneezing occasionally from the salt-infused gulf coast air. When they arrived at the white cinderblock warehouse, Cooper took the liberty of roaming from cab to bed and back again through the rear window. Michael would carry with them a red cooler of fresh water every day, then leave it open in the bed of the truck. Cooper waited patiently day after day for Michael’s return. Both man and dog were quite content with the predictability of their routine and with each other.

His job was good physical exercise, lifting boxes in excess of 100 pounds and carrying them around the warehouse. It was somewhat mindless work and that suited Michael just fine, no stressful calculations, limited customer interaction and even after only two months on the job, he had it pretty much figured out. The other workers in the dirty warehouse, a skinny man with dirty fingernails and bloodshot eyes and an obese man with that smelled of beef jerky and cheap cigars, sat idly by and watched as Michael stacked the books neatly on pallets for schools, local bookstores and private sales.

Hey man! Blurted out the gangly man in cut off shorts and a dirty wife-beater tank top, as he puffed on a Pall Mall and sat on the dock with the obese man picking yesterday’s dinner from his teeth.

Michael looked over, but didn’t respond. He kept his pace, moving a pallet load of advanced algebra books to the packing floor, to be shipped to a private school in Spokane, Washington, one 80-pound box at a time.

Hey boy! I’m talking to you. The gangly man called to Michael, but, still no response. In his desperation to get the big man’s attention, he threw a paperback copy of Grey’s Anatomy at him and it landed squarely between his shoulders. Michael stopped walking for just a second or two, then continued to the packing area and placed the box on the floor.

Is you stupid or something? the man insulted, blowing a cloud of smoke out into the open air. The fat man with a face like a pig and the only half the brain matter, laughed but continued his search for the last morsel of food in his yellowing plaque covered teeth. You one of those retards, ain’t ya.

Michael continued his work seemingly ignoring the foul-mouthed man on the dock. He walked past the pallet of Algebra books and continued to another pallet of cook books that the two men had started separating and getting ready to ship out to who-knows-where. The cook books must have had ingredients inside because they weighed significantly more than the math books. Michael picked up one of the boxes and proceeded to the man on the dock.

When the man saw Michael coming towards him with the box of cook books, he quickly got to his feet and started towards Michael. They met in the middle of the floor and Michael finally responded, You might want to work more and talk less. He said pressing the box of books into the man’s arms. It was immediately obvious that the box was well beyond the normal capacity that the man could carry. His knees began to fold and his arms, no longer parallel to the floor were losing their grip. The man’s face turned three shades of red before Michael took hold of the box again.

If you ever get the urge to speak to me again… he said pulling the box from the man’s shaking hands. Don’t, or I’ll squeeze you into one of these boxes and ship you off to Kazakhstan. Michael looked the man directly in the eyes. You hearin me, Boy? He mocked; his face displaying a level of madness that only someone sincerely willing to do what he said, would be able to conjure.

Y... Ya. Got it. The man looked at the fat guy, still sitting in the same spot, then back at Michael. Hey we were just kidding with you.

"Why are you still talking to me? Michael asked, looking over his thick shoulder as he took the box back to its origin.

The lanky man walked back towards the chubby man and said, It’s a good thing I want to keep this job, or I would’ve… He punched his fist into his other hand.

Danny; the heavier of the two, raised his fat face, still without a word to Richard.

What! Richard exclaimed like a wounded dog.

Danny raised his ferret like eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders as if to say, "I