Read Online Out of the Storm by Kevin V. Symmons - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kevin V. Symmons
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switch and went inside. Eric surveyed the walls covered with photos, memorabilia, medals, and the accompanying citations.
His arsenal rested on the opposite wall in locked cabinets. Eric had been a champion wrestler in college and a natural in several martial arts disciplines in the military. He kept his service issue .45, two 9mm automatics, an illicit M-16, and two 12-gauge shotguns locked away. A generous gun safe beneath his weapons held enough ammunition to start a small war. Outside the gun cabinet were two swords, throwing, commando, and assault knives with varying blade types in different lengths. Next to this deadly array hung his favorite weapon—his crossbow.
Elaine abhorred violence. She never visited his personal domain or asked about his experiences. His tours in Iraq and Afghanistan remained hidden behind a wall of silence. That suited Eric. He had no desire to relate the hellish years that trailed him like the cashboxes hanging from Marley’s ghost. Besides, unless you’d been there you could never understand.
The room also served as his gym. An empty forty-five pound bar lay propped on the weight bench. Next to it sat a rack with tandem weights from ten to eighty pounds. After some stretching, Eric sighed and hit the heavy bag—lightly at first to make sure it was hanging properly. Within five minutes he’d worked up a good sweat as he thrust his hands and feet in tight circular arcs, landing blow after blow.
Eric lifted a few weights. He was on his way out of the room when he spotted the picture of his team next to the door. It had been taken the day they landed in Kuwait. Ten men, all strong, deadly, and superbly trained, yet forged into a team they were much more than the sum of their parts. Only five came home. So much loss and for what? Eric had a strange feeling about the last two days. Nothing he could put into words but still…something made the hairs on his neck stand up. It was why he’d decided to revisit his fortress of solitude.
****
He lay on his bed long after his steaming shower, his body tight and sore. It was a feeling he enjoyed. Eric never realized how much he’d missed it. The sheer curtains blew weakly, moved by a soft southerly breeze. The distant sounds of night on Nantucket Sound offered a pleasant counterpoint to the turmoil running through his mind. His TV was tuned to the Red Sox, but Eric was somewhere far away again.
So many questions: Ralph? The kind man from the girls’ stories or the scam artist of Eric’s memory? Ashley—frightened, innocent victim or first-class manipulator? And Kylie—sweet little girl or the youngest participant in one of Ralph’s convoluted schemes?
Just as a dazzling triple riveted his attention on the game, Eric’s cell rang. He grabbed it and looked at the number. It was local. Somewhere in Barnstable County. He didn’t recognize the number. Maybe a boater desperate to find a slip. That was common this time of year.
He sighed and answered, “Hello, Eric Montgomery.”
“Hi. Hope it’s not too late?” asked Ashley in her soft drawl. Eric turned and sat at attention, picturing Ashley the way she’d looked that afternoon.
“No. It’s…it’s fine,” he stammered as a warm feeling swept over him. A smile crossed his lips. “I’m glad you called.” He couldn’t explain it, but he was. Very glad. “Is everything okay? Are you okay?”
“Pretty good. Face is still a little tender, but the doctor said I can come home.” She exhaled deeply. “Thank God. I couldn’t stand another night in here. It’s lonely.”
“I’m glad you can come home. I know a little girl who’ll be thrilled.” His smile broadened as he pictured Kylie’s reaction. “Did they say when I can pick you up?”
“’Bout one if it’s okay. I know you’re real busy and....”
“One’s great,” Eric interrupted. Why did he sound so anxious? He took a deep breath and cleared his throat. “I mean—I can work with that,” he forced a
His arsenal rested on the opposite wall in locked cabinets. Eric had been a champion wrestler in college and a natural in several martial arts disciplines in the military. He kept his service issue .45, two 9mm automatics, an illicit M-16, and two 12-gauge shotguns locked away. A generous gun safe beneath his weapons held enough ammunition to start a small war. Outside the gun cabinet were two swords, throwing, commando, and assault knives with varying blade types in different lengths. Next to this deadly array hung his favorite weapon—his crossbow.
Elaine abhorred violence. She never visited his personal domain or asked about his experiences. His tours in Iraq and Afghanistan remained hidden behind a wall of silence. That suited Eric. He had no desire to relate the hellish years that trailed him like the cashboxes hanging from Marley’s ghost. Besides, unless you’d been there you could never understand.
The room also served as his gym. An empty forty-five pound bar lay propped on the weight bench. Next to it sat a rack with tandem weights from ten to eighty pounds. After some stretching, Eric sighed and hit the heavy bag—lightly at first to make sure it was hanging properly. Within five minutes he’d worked up a good sweat as he thrust his hands and feet in tight circular arcs, landing blow after blow.
Eric lifted a few weights. He was on his way out of the room when he spotted the picture of his team next to the door. It had been taken the day they landed in Kuwait. Ten men, all strong, deadly, and superbly trained, yet forged into a team they were much more than the sum of their parts. Only five came home. So much loss and for what? Eric had a strange feeling about the last two days. Nothing he could put into words but still…something made the hairs on his neck stand up. It was why he’d decided to revisit his fortress of solitude.
****
He lay on his bed long after his steaming shower, his body tight and sore. It was a feeling he enjoyed. Eric never realized how much he’d missed it. The sheer curtains blew weakly, moved by a soft southerly breeze. The distant sounds of night on Nantucket Sound offered a pleasant counterpoint to the turmoil running through his mind. His TV was tuned to the Red Sox, but Eric was somewhere far away again.
So many questions: Ralph? The kind man from the girls’ stories or the scam artist of Eric’s memory? Ashley—frightened, innocent victim or first-class manipulator? And Kylie—sweet little girl or the youngest participant in one of Ralph’s convoluted schemes?
Just as a dazzling triple riveted his attention on the game, Eric’s cell rang. He grabbed it and looked at the number. It was local. Somewhere in Barnstable County. He didn’t recognize the number. Maybe a boater desperate to find a slip. That was common this time of year.
He sighed and answered, “Hello, Eric Montgomery.”
“Hi. Hope it’s not too late?” asked Ashley in her soft drawl. Eric turned and sat at attention, picturing Ashley the way she’d looked that afternoon.
“No. It’s…it’s fine,” he stammered as a warm feeling swept over him. A smile crossed his lips. “I’m glad you called.” He couldn’t explain it, but he was. Very glad. “Is everything okay? Are you okay?”
“Pretty good. Face is still a little tender, but the doctor said I can come home.” She exhaled deeply. “Thank God. I couldn’t stand another night in here. It’s lonely.”
“I’m glad you can come home. I know a little girl who’ll be thrilled.” His smile broadened as he pictured Kylie’s reaction. “Did they say when I can pick you up?”
“’Bout one if it’s okay. I know you’re real busy and....”
“One’s great,” Eric interrupted. Why did he sound so anxious? He took a deep breath and cleared his throat. “I mean—I can work with that,” he forced a
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