A baby snuffled into a cry and was swept up into the protecting arms of its grandmother, Lady Patricia Cornwell. Kyle Swanson and Beth Ledford were married a year after the death of her first husband, with the blessing of Mickey’s mother.
Lady Pat had been planning Kyle’s wedding for years, just waiting for him to settle down enough to pick a bride, and Coastie was a darling. But the plans went for naught when the bride and the groom threatened to run off to Las Vegas and be married by an Elvis impersonator if Lady Pat didn’t calm down. The ceremony was held not in a castle or a cathedral but on a private, rustic estate in Maryland, with a few intimate friends. The ceremony was performed by the president of the United States, Christopher Thompson, who had lent the couple his Camp David retreat for a few days as a token of respect for their unspecified services to the country.
The baby arrived ten months later, and was named Jeffrey Michael Swanson, and soon was given the nickname Rocky, because he often punched out with his rolled fists. Lady Pat couldn’t keep her hands off him. She had thought these precious moments would never come.
“Oh, DO give the lad some breathing space, Patricia,” Sir Jeff said over the rim of a glass gin and tonic. “You don’t need to come running every time he burps.”
The yacht was cruising off the Azores, and the family was enjoying the scenery and the calm waters. A baby who cried now and then was the only emergency, and a full-time British nanny was in attendance.
Coastie kept both of the older women within hailing distance where anything to do with the child was concerned. They could play with him and change his diapers and feed him stewed carrots, but she was his mother, and made certain there was no question about that. She and Lady Pat had gone toe to toe a couple of times before the issue was settled and ended in hugs.
Kyle drank from a bottle of beer, leaning back against the rail on an upper deck, facing Sir Jeff. Coastie, Lady Pat, and Rocky were below decks, and the ship’s crew had everything running like clockwork. There was no emergency in his life. Not a single one. A three-legged German shepherd basked in the bright sun.
“I know that you dislike the idea, dear boy, but Mommy and Daddy simply cannot continue running around being assassins anymore,” Sir Jeff said, continuing an argument that had been ongoing for months. Coastie and Lady Pat agreed with the new grandfather. Kyle was still unsure.
“It’s the only thing I really know,” he said, and it sounded lame even to him.
“Time to get off the helicopter, lad,” Sir Jeff replied. “It comes to us all. Your new job is to get home safe and sound to your family at night.”
“You just want to retire. Lazy old man.”
“You’re dead right about that. A wise fellow once asked me, ‘After your make your first dollar, read your first good book, have your first adventure, and make love to your first woman, what do you do next?’”
“And the mysterious answer is?”
“I haven’t figured that out yet, Kyle. But I’m working on it. We’ve built an empire, you and I, a couple of tired old soldiers who had a bit of luck. Then we both snared a couple of exceptional and beautiful women. We’ve served our nations well, and can continue to do so, just not on the front lines or sneaking around with Excalibur sniper rifles and that sort of thing.”
The plan that had taken form was for Sir Jeff to retire and for Kyle to assume the job of president and chief executive officer for Excalibur Enterprises. Janna would run the North American operations from Washington, and Kyle would live in London and handle the U.K., NATO, and Europe. Money would never be a problem. Not a bad way to handle middle age, Kyle decided.
What disturbed him was the thought that he would be retreating from a world in trouble. Evil was still out there, and always would be, and it needed to be confronted and fought. He was just unsure whether, sitting behind a big desk, he could still get that rush of finding a good hide and bringing a bad guy into the crosshairs. Coastie had already made the transition; the instincts of a killer had been drowned by love for her family. She would never go back.
Coastie came on deck, and the breeze hugged a light sundress to her figure and blew her golden hair over a tanned shoulder. In her arms was Rocky, clucking and flailing, while Grandma Pat, trailing behind, warned that the child would catch its death out there in the breeze.
Kyle knew the argument was over. It made sense to at least give it a try. He gathered his wife and child into his arms. His son punched him softly. “Good left hook, kid. You’re going to be a great marine.”
ALSO BY JACK COUGHLIN
Shooter: The Autobiography of the Top-Ranked Marine Sniper
(with Capt. Casey Kuhlman and Donald A. Davis)
Shock Factor: American Snipers in the War on Terror
Kill Zone (with Donald A. Davis)
Dead Shot (with Donald A. Davis)
Clean Kill (with Donald A. Davis)
An Act of Treason (with Donald A. Davis)
Running the Maze (with Donald A. Davis)
Time to Kill (with Donald A. Davis)
On Scope (with Donald A. Davis)
Night of the Cobra (with Donald A. Davis)
Long Shot (with Donald A. Davis)
ALSO BY DONALD A. DAVIS
Lightning Strike
The Last Man on the Moon (with Gene Cernan)
Dark Waters (with Lee Vyborny)
About the Authors
GUNNERY SERGEANT JACK COUGHLIN, USMC (Ret.), was with the Third Battalion, Fourth Marines, during the drive to Baghdad and has operated on a wide range of assignments in hotspots around the world. You can sign up for email updates here.
Photograph by Dave Eckenberg/Tumbleweed Photos/Yucca Valley
DONALD A. DAVIS is the author of twenty-seven books, including multiple New York Times bestsellers. You can sign up for email updates here.
Photograph by Robin Murphy Davis