Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 101501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
Pain clawed its way up his gut, tightening his chest, suffocating him along with the memories of better times. With a quick slash of his hand, Logan released Max from his Down, and they both took off for the frigid water. The moment he dove in, the pain—his constant and unrelenting companion—disappeared with the rush of ice-cold water. He always welcomed the drop in body temperature. It froze him on the inside, so the pain didn’t kill him. If he were a different man, he might have ended the torment his brothers’ ghosts caused him, but he owed it to them to keep living. To find a place in this world where he could honor their sacrifice. Live the life they’d all dreamed about on dark nights. And he’d do just that, as soon as he figured out how the fuck to move on from their deaths. Until then, he’d keep pushing through until he found a place that allowed him to breathe without a sharp pain with every breath.
Logan stayed in the water until his body protested, then crawled onto the rocky shore and lay face down while the sun warmed his bones, allowing him time to gear up against another day of searching for peace.
He threw the same clothes back on, then rubbed down Max with an old towel. The dog’s tongue lolled to the side, his mouth open wide with joy from their swim. He looked nothing like the trained killer he was. The war dog who’d covered his back when evil came to call.
“You hungry or did you catch that rabbit?” Logan mumbled, pulling a metal bowl from a sack of dog food in the bed of his truck, filling it up.
Max licked his lips in anticipation.
“I need coffee,” Logan stated. “Eat, then we’ll hit the road and see what Ennis has to offer in the way of food.”
He stored the dog food, then checked to make sure his weapons were safely stowed. Pulling out his keys, he opened the metal toolbox and examined their position. He’d modified the inside to hold his personal collection, padding the sides with foam and clamps to keep them steady against potholes. His M40 had dislodged on the bumpy ride, so he picked it up and sighted the surrounding acreage to check the calibration of the scope. In the distance, he spotted a modest cabin. It was no less attractive than the giant looming over its shoulder like a guard. More so, because it looked like a home rather than a showpiece for people to envy. He started to lower his rifle when movement caught his eye. What seemed to be two males and a tiny female exited the home and climbed inside a white pickup. He continued to watch as the vehicle pulled away, wondering about the family.
Logan had grown up in the foster system, so he had no clue what it was like to belong to people in the most basic of sense. He’d been found on the side of the road at the age of four, hungry and covered in dirt. The Nashville police never found his mother, or so he was told, but when he was eighteen and ready to join the army, he’d dug around. His mother was a junkie with no family—another kid lost to the foster care system. She’d overdosed in her car, and Logan had crawled out a window when she didn’t wake up. Until he’d enlisted and became brothers with Coop, Buster, and Loverboy, he’d never had a real family. Only crowded foster homes where everyone fended for themselves.
He gritted his teeth at the memory. It was best to leave the past where it belonged. No good came from holding onto it, and he sure as hell didn’t need more demons fighting for dominance.
When he could no longer see their vehicle, Logan jerked his rifle down and stored it carefully in the toolbox. After securing his gear, he pulled out his toothbrush. He could tolerate soiled clothes and go without a shower for days on end, but not dirty teeth. It’s how he got his nickname, Crest. Twice a day like clockwork, he brushed. You learned fast in foster care that dentist appointments were few and far between. You either kept your teeth in good condition, or you suffered from the neglect.
Done with his teeth, he turned to his side mirror and looked at his scruff. With the temps what they were, a fuller beard would come in handy, so he let it go and ran his fingers through his dark brown hair. It was too long, even for a civilian, but he didn’t give two fucks. He’d worn his buzz cut with pride for years, but short hair only reminded him of what he’d lost, so just like his beard, he let it ride. The sooner Logan “Crest” Storm was gone in every way, the better.