Reckless (World of Danger Book 3) Read online

  EVERNIGHT PUBLISHING ®

  www.evernightpublishing.com

  Copyright© 2020 Beth D. Carter

  ISBN: 978-0-3695-0134-9

  Cover Artist: Jay Aheer

  Editor: CA Clauson

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  My deep thanks for Stacey at Evernight Publishing, my editor Carrie Clauson, and my dear friend CS Moss. Thanks for sticking with another series.

  RECKLESS

  World of Danger, 3

  Beth D. Carter

  Copyright © 2020

  Prologue

  Lise Mason took in a deep breath of the hot, acrid air as he stared at the desolate community he’d grown up in. It seemed far too cliché, with trailers on cinderblocks. Car parts strewn in various yards. Couches and love seats settled in front of dirty fire pits. Various other forms of crap lay here and there. Some newer homes had been built, but the one-bedroom prefab houses were already overflowing with family members and pets. Dogs barked at his presence, which started a chain reaction that littered the area with a raucous noise.

  He dismounted from his bike and removed his helmet, deciding to hold on to it because little thieves were everywhere, and the lure of a fancy helmet became a brand new toy. The Reservation had recently begun several programs to improve the lives of the Natives, like education and job placements outside the tribe, but it was a slow up-hill battle. Many didn’t trust the government, and the white man even less. Change was hard to implement and harder to accept.

  Flashes of his childhood assaulted him, bringing on the anxiety he’d had as a teenager. He’d been told many times he’d not amount to much, the browbeat mantra of squalid poor. The day he’d left to join the military, he’d been spit upon by many and called a traitor. But the Marines had been the first family where he’d felt safe, secure, and part of something larger than himself.

  He had debated coming back for a visit, and in truth, he’d made a hasty decision when his leave came up. Now that his grandfather was gone, there was nothing left for him here. Even the old man’s trailer had been taken over by a new family. It looked exactly the same as when he’d grown up here, and the desperation once more hit him square in the chest. The need to escape never fully went away and he wondered again why he’d come back.

  “You are a child of the Apache, and of the white man. Above all you carry the unfortunate burden of walking both worlds. You will always be tested on your ability to control each side of your nature.”

  His grandfather’s words came back to haunt him, as prophetic now as they were back then.

  “Yo, Soldier Boy!”

  Lise turned and saw some old acquaintances waving at him from down the street. Although truth be told, they were more like tormentors, bullies led by Biminak Latorre. The tall teen had grown into a mean looking son-of-a-bitch, complete with muscles, mohawk, and tats running up his neck. Next to him were Jimuta and Delshaw, still following a pace or two behind their leader. They’d always been the two minions nipping at the heel, ready to obey any command Latorre gave. Though Lise didn’t relish rehashing the past, he reminded himself he was no longer the easy target they’d once picked on.

  “A little late coming back to see your gramps,” Latorre said with a sardonic smile. “You still can’t even say his name for another few months.”

  Apache tradition prevented the living from saying the dead’s name for a year. He might not be a total practitioner of the faith, but his grandfather had been, and he respected the old man’s beliefs.

  “This was the only leave I was able to get,” he replied. “I get deployed again as soon as I get back.”

  “I bet it’s to the turban land,” Jim said.

  “Bunch of weird motherfuckers over there,” Del snickered back. “Dot heads and shit.”

  Lise didn’t point out as minorities they shouldn’t be racists against others, but he figured it simply wasn’t worth arguing about. He’d been enlightened by the military experience while these three hadn’t had the chance to even leave the reservation.

  Latorre lightly punched Jim in the chest with the back of his hand. “Hey, I don’t think Lise here likes when we bad-mouth others. It’s all good, you know. We’ve grown up. Men now, even in Apache eyes.”

  Lise shrugged. “We all grow up.”

  “Exactly,” Latorre murmured, eyes narrowed. “So let us extend a bygones peace offering. Come with us tonight to get a drink and celebrate the life of your gramps, who was a true Apache among us all.”

  The last thing he wanted to do was hang out with these three assholes. “Can’t. Just here long enough to gather the personal items of my grandfather from Red Crow.”

  Latorre snorted. “Figured you’d rather hang out with the local weirdo. Birds of a feather, and all that shit.”

  Lise didn’t mind if they took shots at him, but Red Crow had been his grandfather’s best friend, as well as the tribe’s medicine man.

  “You live in the tribe and on this reservation,” Lise said shaking his head. “Yet mock the beliefs.”

  “Hocus pocus never gave us nothing,” Latorre said angrily. “You climbing up on a white horse only proves that. Get the fuck out of here, Soldier Boy.”

  Taking one last look around, Lise walked back to his bike and climbed on. “Perhaps you should join the military, Bimi. At least then you’d understand just how small the world is.”

  ****

  His meeting with Red Crow brought back even more memories, only this time they were nostalgic. The old medicine man invited him to partake in a bitter cleansing drink and look over his current painting, a hummingbird caught in a tornado and rotating out of a mongrel’s mouth.

  “What does it mean?” Lise asked, slightly disturbed by the picture.

  The old man pointed to him. “You are bird. And the wind speaks of change. Beware the rabid dog.”

  As usual, the message was cryptic and lacked any further information. Lise drank the bitter tea and gathered his grandfather’s personal items before heading to his hotel. Now he was officially done with the reservation. Done with the tribe. He planned never to return.

  That night he couldn’t sleep. After tossing and turning, he finally rose and headed to the bar down the street. Perhaps a drink would chase away the lingering unease hanging over him. He had wanted to get an early start back toward Camp Pendleton. Back to civilization and his future.

  The bar interior reeked of cigarette stench, although the lateness of the night had already sent much of the normal clientele home. Only a few patrons still sat at the bar. Lise took a seat at the bar and ordered a whiskey when the bartender came over.

  “You look familiar,” the man said as he set down a shot glass and poured a finger of the amber liquid into it.

  “Used to live here,” he answered, setting a ten on the counter. “Made the unwise decision to come back.”

  The bartender scooped up the money and shrugged. Obviously he wasn’t into much conversation as he pocketed the bill and moved back down to the opposite side of the bar. Lise didn’t care. He only wanted one drink to try to quiet the restlessness inside.

  He drank the shot down in one gulp and then sat there as the fire made its way down his throat to warm his chest and belly. The stuff was horrible, bu
t it did help calm him. Just as he was about to get up and leave, the door opened and much to his dismay, in walked Latorre holding the hand of a woman half his height. She was a tiny thing, and young. Probably a little too young to be in the bar, but like usual, the reservation was a little lax on carding the underage. Jim and Del followed, and the four of them stopped next to him.

  “And here’s the man of the hour!” Latorre said, sounding a little snarky. “Juana, look. It’s my dear old friend, Lise Mason.”

  Juana checked him out, looking him over up and down, and leaving him a little uncomfortable. Latorre was already half drunk. The last thing Lise wanted was to have the already unstable man decide to go after him for some perceived slight.

  “He doesn’t look like a baby rat,” she said, her voice high-pitched and slightly nasally. “He’s got some nice muscles here and there.”

  Latorre frowned at her. “Shut up.”

  He raised a hand, and Juana flinched. Lise narrowed his eyes. He didn’t want conflict, but he wouldn’t sit by while a woman was abused.

  “This is little soldier boy … decided he was too good for the tribe.” Latorre pointed at him as he addressed his so-called posse. “He came back to shove our noses into how much better he is.”

  Del and Jim glared at him. Lise took a deep breath, trying to keep calm. This was often Latorre’s tactic, using his words to inflame before striking like a cobra. Knowing how this could escalate quickly, Lise turned his back on the group and tried to walk away, but a hand fell upon his shoulder.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Latorre demanded.

  Lise shrugged him off. “Don’t touch me.”

  Immediately the tension in the bar shifted as the few patrons remaining moved into the corners of the bar. Some even left. Lise may not have wanted conflict, but suddenly he found himself in the center of Latorre’s circle.

  “Don’t,” he warned.

  “Or what?”

  “I’ve had training to defend myself.”

  Latorre snickered. “So? That only makes you a good-ole boy, doesn’t it? Traitor.”

  Being a soldier, Lise bristled at the word. “I am serving my country-”

  “Country!” Latorre yelled. “You defend the white man’s control. The very people who keeps us prisoner on this land.”

  Lise shook his head. “You can get out of here, just like I did.”

  Latorre snorted and turned to address the people still lingering in the room. “He thinks the White Man is ready to help us out of this shithole. That if we join the military, we, too, can be all we can be.”

  He laughed, but the only ones joining him in his apparent glee were his entourage. Everyone else cowered by, looking away and pretending nothing was happening. He walked up and stood nose to nose with Lise.

  “You are the white man’s bitch,” Latorre whispered, a sardonic twist of his lips giving a mocking impression of a smile.

  Lise had had enough. He turned to leave, but Latorre must have had other thoughts. He grabbed his arm, and when Lise went to shrug him off, Latorre hauled back and punched him in the jaw. Pain exploded through his head as Lise stumbled back, falling heavily onto the bar counter. He had to admit, the man had strength behind his fist, and shook his head trying to clear the double vision. But the motion must have acted as the go-whistle because Jim and Del rushed forward grabbing his arms, holding him down so Latorre could pummel him more.

  Blow after blow caught him, landing in the stomach and across the chin. Lise didn’t even have a moment to catch his breath until a glass beer bottle hit Latorre in the side of his head. He reared back, fist raised and ready, turning to face the bartender.

  “Stay out of this, old man!” he snarled, chest heaving from the exertion of pummeling Lise.

  Only Lise had had enough. Catching his breath, rage descended through him. He stomped on Del’s foot and the man howled as he let go of his arm, which Lise used to land an upper-cut across Jim’s jaw. Both his captors fell back. He struck out with his foot and connected so hard to Del’s kneecap, there was a loud crunching sound. He imagined shards of bone were thrusting through the back of Del’s knee joint. Del went down hard, screaming in pain. The click of a gun cocking had Lise spinning around to see Latorre holding the weapon steady on him. Their gazes locked, and Lise saw the intent. He brought his hand up to knock the barrel aim off its trajectory. The blast in the small room was deafening and then silence fell like a thick, wet blanket.

  “Oh, my God,” Jim whispered.

  The horror in his tone seeped through the fog of anger. He looked in the direction Jim pointed and saw a body on the ground. A female.

  “Juana!” Latorre cried and he rushed over to the fallen woman. Blood lay around her in a pool. Her eyes half open and staring into the fathomless pit of death. “You killed her.”

  Lise shook his head. “No. It … I … no.”

  “I’m going to tear your fucking head off!”

  Latorre rushed at him, but the bartender had come out and grabbed him, getting him in a choke hold while the faint sounds of sirens came ever closer.

  ****

  Lise sat at the table in the interrogation room, unable to comprehend how he’d ended up handcuffed on the charge of homicide. The door opened, and a man walked in, grey hair slicked back and his beard trimmed neatly. He clearly wasn’t tribal police. Pulling out the chair on the other side of the table where Lise was being held, he laid a folder down and opened it.

  “Mr. Mason,” the man said. “You’re in some trouble.”

  Lise didn’t acknowledge the statement, figuring the metal bracelets said it all. How the hell did his life go downhill in a matter of minutes?

  “You will not be facing Article One Eighteen. Instead, you’re going to be charged with reckless homicide,” the man continued, studying him. “You will be court-marshalled and found guilty. Then you’ll be removed to Leavenworth to serve out the remainder of your life.”

  Ice gripped Lise’s insides. He’d rather kill himself than serve life in prison. “Are you my lawyer?”

  “No, my name is Joseph David Harlan, and I may be able to help you bypass that charge.”

  A small blossom of hope flashed inside his heart. “How?”

  “I knew your father, long ago.”

  It was too much stimulus to deal with. “What? My father ran out on me and my mom.”

  “He served our country,” Harlan said succinctly. “Your CO called me when he got word you had been arrested, because he knew of the link I had with your father. I looked into your case and determined you acted in self-defense.”

  “It was an accident,” he whispered. “Latorre pointed the gun at me. I knocked it away, and it hit her.”

  Harlan nodded. “Believe me, I understand. Your CO said you are a good soldier. A good man.”

  Lise swallowed down the emotion clogging his throat. “How can you help me?”

  “I run a special division for the government. Completely off the books and only a few military personal knows about what we do.”

  Lise frowned, waiting.

  “I think you’d be a perfect addition to the team. But before you say yes, I have to warn you that you’d be walking away from your life as Lise Mason. By signing my contract, everything you are will have to die. Including your Apache ties.”

  He took a piece of paper out of the folder to slide it toward Lise, who read it carefully.

  “Mason Lake?”

  “Lise means salmon in the water, right? I studied the Apache language and culture on my way here and thought Mason Lake sounded better than Mason Salmon.” Harlan held out a pen. “Say goodbye to Lise and say hello to Lake.”

  Chapter One

  “I have no idea where you are, JD, but there is shit going down.” Mason watched as the plane he was about to pilot was rolled onto the runway. Harlan Securities had their own private jet, and he couldn’t wait to get back home to Carrie. “Lee quit. And when I say quit, I mean he’s done. Gone. Kaput. Told m
e to tell you he’s not coming back. So where the hell are you?”

  He hung up the call, but thought of something else to say, so immediately called again. Just like last time the call went to the answering server.

  “I’ve decided if you can take a mini-vacation, then so can I. Don’t call me back. I’ll see you on Monday.”

  Once again, he hung up, more than a little annoyed. Joseph David Harlan the Second, the heir apparent to Harlan Securities, had a brilliant mind when it came to thinking up technological ideas, but his communication with people left much to be desired. That included him and the third partner of the group, Lee Masterson. While JD had the tech savvy, and Lee had the cold emotion to be the hired gun, it was Mason who took care of the day to day situations of the office. The cool and level-headed one. They might all be equals working under the Harlan Securities umbrella, but he’d never call JD friend. That was too tame a word for all they’d endured together.

  Too many secretes lay with them, and now it seemed like their demons might be coming for retribution. The dynamics were shifting, and Mason didn’t like the quicksand he stood upon.

  He got the okay to board the small jet, and giving a nod of thanks to the airport personnel, boarded the plane and sat in the pilot seat. He slipped on his head gear and did the pre-flight steps. Not too long after that, he began the trip home. Although he stayed focused on his flying, he couldn’t help but wonder what would happen to the securities façade now that Lee was gone. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—take on the role as active agent. He’d been recruited as the behind-the-scenes man, and it was a job he took seriously.

  A few hours later, he landed in the Santa Monica airport, waiting until the private plane was taxied and secured before getting into his SUV and heading home. Now that he was behind the wheel, he was anxious to see Carrie. Plans for the weekend rolled through his head, all involving spending a lot of time in bed with her.