Never Forget: A Novella in the Echo Platoon Series Read Free Page A

who’d responded to his appeals.
    He had diving equipment for anyone wanting to swim up the creek to the sound, cornhole equipment, a permanent volleyball net out back, and plans to build an obstacle course.
    His neighbors, the Digges family, owned a stable full of horses and offered trail rides at discounted prices should Rusty’s guests show any interest. The trails in the woods offered long walks and fresh air and a place to play war games. And the creek offered ample opportunity to catch catfish or go crabbing.
    In addition to the cooks who would come in daily, Rusty had partnered with local artists, musicians, writers, counselors, and wellness experts—scheduling them to visit the men, illustrating various ways of coping with the horrors branded in their minds, either from their most recent tour or from an accumulation of their military experience.
    I’m almost ready , he assured himself. All he needed were the few crowning touches that he had jotted onto his note pad.
    Crossing to the piano, he trilled the recently-tuned keys while surveying the lower level with a critical eye. Ah, yes. The door to the powder room reminded him. He still needed a trash bin in there—off-white metal with a raised design to match the framed prints hanging on the beige walls.
    The sound of a vehicle barreling up his dirt driveway had him spinning toward the window in anticipation of a hostile force. Of course, there was no enemy. But beyond the front porch with its assortment of colorful rockers, a black, government issued SUV kicked up dust in its haste to reach his house.
    Behind a tinted windshield, he made out a youthful and unfamiliar face. The SUV braked, and the driver, dressed in fatigues, leaped out from behind the steering wheel, slamming his door shut. With a harried glance at the back of his SUV, he hurried toward Rusty’s front door.
    What the hell is this about?
    With a thought for the Gerber blade hidden under his pant leg, Rusty went to answer the man’s sturdy knock. Years of service in faraway, dangerous places made him cautious when opening a door, but the young man’s earnest gaze banished his concerns right away.
    “Master Chief Kuzinsky?”
    Given the desperation oozing out of the young man, Rusty knew an impulse to deny his identity. “Retired,” he said, glancing at the patches on the man’s BDU jacket. Apparently, he was a marine sergeant with the last name of Mata.
    Rusty’s retirement was clearly news to the jarhead. “Oh, congratulations,” he said.
    “How can I help you?” Rusty asked.
    Sergeant Mata gestured toward his vehicle and that’s when Rusty heard it—the unmistakable bark of a Belgian Malinois—grating, persistent, like an intermittent alarm going off. “I’ve brought you the service dog you asked for.”
    Rusty’s brain short-circuited for the second time in two days.
    “I never asked for a service dog.” He stepped back tempted to close the door in the man’s face.
    Sergeant Mata frowned down at his paperwork. “But you did,” he insisted. “Back in 2012, you left a request at Lackland asking to get Draco when he was retired from service.”
    “Draco?” With a feeling like he’d been kicked in the gut, Rusty looked back at the black SUV. “That’s Draco in there?”
    “Yes, Master Chief—I mean, sir. He’s nine now, too old for another tour. My orders say you signed up to adopt him if anything happened to his handler.”
    “Nichols,” Rusty breathed, naming Draco’s handler. “What happened?”
    Mata shook his head. “He was killed two weeks ago. Explosives were buried deep under the road, and Draco didn’t catch the scent.”
    Nichols’ youthful face and ready smile panned through Rusty’s mind, memories snagging on his heart and tearing through it.
    “It wasn’t the dog’s fault,” the soldier defended the military war dog. “He should’ve been retired years ago. He was just so good at what he did.”
    Rusty had to clear his throat to find his