Clay (Lighthouse Security Investigations #7) - Maryann Jordan

1

It was a black night, but not the darkest he’d ever experienced. Time spent in the Afghan mountains on cloudy nights without a hint of a campfire in sight anywhere in the distance had caused the kind of darkness where it was easy to become disoriented and fear sucked at your soul. No, this night was not like that. Not by a long shot.

Tonight, an occasional glimpse of moonlight peeking through the drifting clouds, plus the fact that he had two teammates nearby and wasn’t in peril of an enemy ready to kill, made this mission seem like a leisurely stroll in the park compared to earlier years.

Surrounded by thousands of acres of woods, disorientation would affect most men. But then, as a former Ranger and CIA operative and now employed as a Keeper for Lighthouse Security Investigation, he was not most men.

Massive, thick trees covered the area. In the daylight, the lush green forests nestled at the Maine-Canadian border would have been the stuff of dreams for campers, hikers, and nature lovers. Although to get there would have made the trek unpleasant for vacationers. The deep-rutted road he had just driven would have given the heaviest lumber truck difficulty, not to mention the heavily-fortified military SUV he’d traveled in. Now, with his vehicle tucked away, he was settled in the crook of a thick limb of a large tree, his night vision goggles providing eerie visibility.

The calendar might indicate spring, but the cold breeze blowing was an easy reminder that he was in one of the most northern sections of the mainland United States. Leaves rustled all around, and the fresh scent of uninhabited, unsullied, unpolluted air filled his nostrils.

For Hank Claiborne, known as Clay since his first day in Army boot camp, it was just another day at the office. He’d earned the nickname when he’d stumbled on a long walk and the drill sergeant claimed he had feet of clay. Later, proving he was anything but clumsy while in the Army Rangers, he was recruited to be a CIA special operator where he met Mace Hanson, his boss once they both got out of the service.

Mace had started his own business known as Lighthouse Security Investigations, hiring men and women who had served with special operations in the military or CIA. Known as the Keepers, Clay had developed his closest friendships with his coworkers.

He grinned, thinking of earlier that evening. He and two of his fellow Keepers, Tate and Walker, had stopped at a local bar en route to the mission for a bite to eat. Clay munched on his burger, keeping an eye on the small crowd, chatting with the others. Just as they were walking out, the sound of drums and bagpipes filled the back of the bar. Twisting his head around, he watched as a small band belted out Celtic rock. A singer added his voice to the ensemble, and then a woman jumped onto the stage playing an electric violin. Her dark hair swirled around her shoulders as she played. Entranced by her performance, he wanted to walk back toward the front just to get closer, but Tate’s voice cut through his musing.

“Clay!”

He startled, cursing both the disruption of his appreciation of the fiddler and his inattention to their mission. “Fuck,” he mumbled. Hustling after the others, they climbed into their vehicle and got back onto the road.

Now, perched in the tree, he heard the whistling of the wind through the branches and thought of the music. I wonder if I could find out who they were—

“Incoming.”

Josh’s voice in Clay’s ear kept him grounded in the vast forests of northern Maine even though his teammate was back in the compound, eyes on the satellite and real-time images coming from their contacts. “Copy that.”

Even though he could not see them, Tate and Walker would also have the rutted logging road in their sights. It only took a moment before he began to hear the rumbling sounds of a Hummer and see the lighted pinpricks of headlights in the distance. Grinning, he shifted ever so slightly, ready for the waiting and watching to be over.

He had chosen his position at the sharp curve in the winding road, knowing the vehicle would either need to slow greatly to make the turn or skid into the woods. Either was fine with him.

Shifting slightly, he waited patiently. Patience was truly a virtue to a man in his field. As a Ranger, he’d learned to not rush a mission, enjoying