Jameson (In the Company of Snipers Book 22)

forward.
His paternal grandfather was former Navy, like Mel, but he was one of those injured survivors from the WWII battle at Iwo Jima in the Pacific. Unlike Mel, Gramps was the real deal. He might’ve been a drunk when he’d come home after the war, but he’d never laid a hand on Gram, Abigail, or Alex. Never called them names, never said a mean word to anyone. Never embarrassed or humiliated his grandson like Mel had so often done. Hard-working and truly one of the best from the greatest generation, Gramps was the man who’d taught Alex to play baseball, the slickest way to skin beaver without damaging the pelts, and how to be silent when tracking elusive white-tailed deer. Gramps also taught Alex how to stand up to bullies and how to bank coal stoves in winter. He taught his grandson to be a man, and Alex adored Gramps still today.
Yes, he’d definitely liked the bottle. He was an Irishman and the Irish loved their whisky. But when he drank, he was a cheerful drunk, who’d boisterously declared he’d just needed a nip now and again to chase what he’d called ‘the ghosts’ away. That was Alex’s first experience with post-traumatic stress, aka shell shock, battle fatigue, and soldier’s heart. All those worthless euphemisms that didn’t do squat to help a guy.
But his mom…? Abigail would forever be the ache in his heart that wouldn’t go away.
She’d lived a sad, miserable life of neglect and abuse, broken dreams and lost chances. Yet she’d sat with every light on in their shabby house on Iowa Street, Norfolk, Virginia, waiting for Mel to come home when he’d promised. She’d kept his suppers warm, even bought a bottle of wine now and then to celebrate his shore leave.
But the ass usually never showed. If he did, it was always too little and too late. He’d stumble in after midnight, and he’d stink of cigarette smoke, hard liquor, and another woman’s perfume. He’d been loud-mouthed and mean, quick to slap Abigail, just as quick to call her a liar if she challenged him. By then, he would’ve squandered the rent and grocery money away, and he’d be too tired to do anything around the house but empty that bottle of wine and pass out. And Alex had wished he’d never come home.
To help his mom, he’d gotten a paper route when he’d turned seven. Gramps told him someone had to be the man of the family. So Alex stepped up, never thought twice, and never looked back.
Gramps might’ve had bad dreams, but his only child was a living nightmare. Which was why Alex knew Mel was pulling a con now. He just didn’t know what the old bastard was really after. But he meant to find out. Being the ass he was, Alex watched his useless excuse for a father cross the street and disappear into the parking lot.
Yet his gut was telling him he’d missed something. Telling Kelsey what he’d just done would be difficult enough, but why’d he feel as if he hadn’t seen the last of Mel? Because historically, that was how the old bastard worked. He said one thing, then did another. He got your hopes up, then jerked the rug out from under you. Mel was the culmination of more unrealized expectations and childish heartbreaks than Alex could count.
Retrieving his cell from his rear pocket, he watched the parking lot, as he thumbed the senior agent he’d left with Kelsey. He had three: Mark Houston, Harley Mortimer, and David Tao. But of the three, Mark was the natural leader and prone to be in the office more than the other two, which made him Alex’s right-hand man.
“Hey, Boss, what’s up?”
“Please step into the hall, so the women won’t—”
“Already done. Go ahead.”
“Need you to check Navy records and verify—”
“The comment about Mel being in Mogadishu? Already pulled his USN record while the girls were chatting. Sorry, Boss, but your old man was never a SEAL, nor was he in Somalia. He was dishonorably discharged with less than two years of service. He spent most of that in the old brig at Norfolk. I’m looking at a long list of assault charges, drunk and disorderly, and petty thefts. Small time stuff. Nothing too violent. Just enough to get him kicked out of the Navy.”
“Son of a bitch,” Alex hissed, embarrassed that the secret he’d kept close to his chest for so many years was now public knowledge. He’d stopped watching the front door and had come to a full stop at the elevator that would take him back up to Maternity and Delivery. Mel’s dishonorable discharge made everything so much worse. No wonder he’d never come home. Those charges would’ve earned him total forfeiture of pay and allowances.
“No worries, Alex. My dad’s convinced farming dirt’s more important than getting to know his five granddaughters.”
“He still hasn’t come for a visit?”
“Don’t think he ever will. Libby and I call monthly, but he’s never going to change. Honestly, I’m ready to call it quits. It’s hard holding a conversation with someone who grunts and growls like you’ve offended him by calling. JayJay won’t talk with him anymore when we call. She says he always hurts her feelings.”
Alex looked at the floor, his shoulders heaving with disgust. “At least you and Libby tried.”
“Sounds like you did, too.”
“Yeah, well…” He rolled the first nine years of misplaced regret and boyish-devotion for a man who’d only cared about himself, off his shoulders. “I need you to trace his whereabouts over the last few years. He’s up to something.”
“You bet. I’ll handle it as soon as I get in the office. Today.”
“And find out who the hell volunteered my home address and whereabouts.”
“You do remember Mother’s back. All Mel had to say was that he was your dad, and she would’ve been an open book.”
“Damn.” Alex dug the heel of his free hand into his eye socket behind which a migraine was just starting. Mark was