bad.
Even in dying, there was always something left to do and Kyle felt he would be damned forever if he let this unrepentant sinner escape divine justice delivered by a human proxy. He e xpertly aligned the front sight post of the Glock with the rear sight and emptied the remaining rounds into Lindy Ray Boylin’s chest and head―thus prematurely ending a misguided and wasted life before it could do any more damage.
The police cars arrived on the scene twelve minutes after the first 911 call was made. The first two man patrol to respond found little more than a bunch of hysterical shoppers and three dead bodies. Had Kyle Christiansen not been there, a lot more people would have died. A detective removed Kyle’s wallet from his body, found his military ID and called Hill Air Force Base to see if he was assigned there. “A Marine Captain,” he said to no one in particular. After a few minutes, he got his answer.
The detective made a cursory inspection of the bodies of the teenagers and found the bullets had been delivered with the exactness of someone well versed in precision shooting. He interviewed several witnesses and began to take statements and they all basically said the same thing. “It would have been a lot worse, had it not been for a good guy with a gun.”
The detective looked at the dead body of the Marine that one of the uniformed cops had covered with a blanket acquired from a nearby store and then did something he hadn’t done in over a decade. He smartly brought the heels of his rubber soled shoes together, conveyed the knife edge of his hand up to the side of his head and saluted the dead Marine.
“Godspeed, Sir!” he said quietly.
At eight thirty five that evening, the duty officer at the MARSOC Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility was notified by the staff duty officer that an incoming team member for a pending contingency mission had been killed and was ther efore, no longer available for temporary duty at the Command.
Chapter Two - Commander’s Run
MacDill AFB,
Tampa, FL
Major General James K. McElroy, or “Mac” to his confidants, was showing all of his forty-eight years. One day a month, usually on a Friday, the MARSOC Commander hosted the Commander’s Run, an exercise meant to instill espirt de corp in an outfit that already brimmed with it.
The run started while it was still dark and normally finished just as the sun was peaking over the horizon, long before the line of civilian workers and line troops commuted onto the base to begin their workday. The five-mile course ran along MacDill’s oceanfront boulevard toward the golf course, out to the marina, and then ended at the base gym. It started out in formation and ended with a two-mile sprint to the finish line.
The general was a marathon runner, but some of the hard assed studs in his outfit were near Olympic-quality sprinters and quickly left the old man in their dust. Either by design or by luck, he finished in the company of his G3, Colonel Richard Hearth, a Naval Academy grad, class of ’93, who seemed quite focused on making General Officer one day.
The few Marines not participating in the run occupied the mselves handing out bottles of water, shouting out finish times, or otherwise looking busy. The general’s aide finished well ahead of the old man and was standing by the finish line with a cold bottle of Costco water and a hand towel.
After wiping the sweat from his face and taking a long drink of ice cold water, the general noticed Colonel Hearth hovering nearby, slowly stretching his hamstrings.
“Got something on your mind, Dick?” the general asked in between sips of water.
“Yes, sir. I’ve tried to find an acceptable replacement for the Marine who was killed, and I’m drawing a blank among active duty MARSOC personnel.”
“Not surprised. The man had a very unique skill set. I suggest you redouble your efforts or broaden the
Even in dying, there was always something left to do and Kyle felt he would be damned forever if he let this unrepentant sinner escape divine justice delivered by a human proxy. He e xpertly aligned the front sight post of the Glock with the rear sight and emptied the remaining rounds into Lindy Ray Boylin’s chest and head―thus prematurely ending a misguided and wasted life before it could do any more damage.
The police cars arrived on the scene twelve minutes after the first 911 call was made. The first two man patrol to respond found little more than a bunch of hysterical shoppers and three dead bodies. Had Kyle Christiansen not been there, a lot more people would have died. A detective removed Kyle’s wallet from his body, found his military ID and called Hill Air Force Base to see if he was assigned there. “A Marine Captain,” he said to no one in particular. After a few minutes, he got his answer.
The detective made a cursory inspection of the bodies of the teenagers and found the bullets had been delivered with the exactness of someone well versed in precision shooting. He interviewed several witnesses and began to take statements and they all basically said the same thing. “It would have been a lot worse, had it not been for a good guy with a gun.”
The detective looked at the dead body of the Marine that one of the uniformed cops had covered with a blanket acquired from a nearby store and then did something he hadn’t done in over a decade. He smartly brought the heels of his rubber soled shoes together, conveyed the knife edge of his hand up to the side of his head and saluted the dead Marine.
“Godspeed, Sir!” he said quietly.
At eight thirty five that evening, the duty officer at the MARSOC Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility was notified by the staff duty officer that an incoming team member for a pending contingency mission had been killed and was ther efore, no longer available for temporary duty at the Command.
Chapter Two - Commander’s Run
MacDill AFB,
Tampa, FL
Major General James K. McElroy, or “Mac” to his confidants, was showing all of his forty-eight years. One day a month, usually on a Friday, the MARSOC Commander hosted the Commander’s Run, an exercise meant to instill espirt de corp in an outfit that already brimmed with it.
The run started while it was still dark and normally finished just as the sun was peaking over the horizon, long before the line of civilian workers and line troops commuted onto the base to begin their workday. The five-mile course ran along MacDill’s oceanfront boulevard toward the golf course, out to the marina, and then ended at the base gym. It started out in formation and ended with a two-mile sprint to the finish line.
The general was a marathon runner, but some of the hard assed studs in his outfit were near Olympic-quality sprinters and quickly left the old man in their dust. Either by design or by luck, he finished in the company of his G3, Colonel Richard Hearth, a Naval Academy grad, class of ’93, who seemed quite focused on making General Officer one day.
The few Marines not participating in the run occupied the mselves handing out bottles of water, shouting out finish times, or otherwise looking busy. The general’s aide finished well ahead of the old man and was standing by the finish line with a cold bottle of Costco water and a hand towel.
After wiping the sweat from his face and taking a long drink of ice cold water, the general noticed Colonel Hearth hovering nearby, slowly stretching his hamstrings.
“Got something on your mind, Dick?” the general asked in between sips of water.
“Yes, sir. I’ve tried to find an acceptable replacement for the Marine who was killed, and I’m drawing a blank among active duty MARSOC personnel.”
“Not surprised. The man had a very unique skill set. I suggest you redouble your efforts or broaden the
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