“Sign them and get on with your life,” the colonel advised. “You won’t get another chance.”
Edge reached for the pen and scrolled his signature at the bottom of the page. Colonel Miles took the papers and stacked them neatly in front of him.
“A very wise decision. Perhaps you’ll be able to redeem yourself in whatever course your future takes from here on out. Dismissed.”
Shoulders squared, spine straight, Edge turned and walked out of the office. Everything inside him ached. His time as a Green Beret was over. The life he had dreamed of since childhood, the years of brutal training, the men in his unit he thought of as brothers—all of it crumbled and gone.
He felt devastated clear to his soul. He thought of the man who had destroyed his life, Major Bradley Markham, the traitor who had managed to escape justice.
A muscle flexed in his jaw. At least for now.
With a silent curse and a vow of vengeance, Edge Logan closed the door on his past and headed into an uncertain future.
* * *
“Hey, Edge, what’s up, bro?” Frowning, Trace Elliott stood in front of him. Trace was one of his closest friends, a tall, dark-haired man with eyes a less intense shade of blue than Edge’s own. “You look like you’re ready to kill someone.”
He and Trace both worked at Nighthawk Security, offering mostly personal protection, but they were also licensed PIs.
He straightened in the chair behind his oak rolltop desk. “Sorry. Bad memory.” He hadn’t realized his mind had been wandering, traveling down a dangerous road into the past.
“Yeah, I’ve got a few of those myself,” Trace said.
The two of them had served together in the 75th Ranger Regiment, Fort Benning, Georgia, then in Afghanistan, before Edge had gone on to become a Green Beret. Though Edge had been raised on a ranch with his two older brothers, ranching was never his calling, not like the army.
Trace had been smart enough to know he wanted something more than a life as a soldier and had resigned after his last tour of duty.
Edge had been forced to quit.
One of these days, he vowed for the umpteenth time, Major Bradly Markham will get the justice he deserves.
In the meantime, Markham was insulated and protected by the United States Army, which had no idea the sort of criminal activities the man was involved in.
“It’s almost seven,” Trace said. “You want to get a beer or something?”
Edge scrubbed a hand over his face, feeling the roughness of his dark, late-afternoon beard. The day had been long, but satisfying, as he had managed to wrap up a fairly straightforward investigation into a guy who was abusing his ex-wife. Stephen Reeves was now sitting in a Denver jail cell.
“A beer sounds good,” he said. “The Goat?”
“Yeah.” The Fainting Goat was just down the block and around the corner, a pub in an old brick building with exposed beam ceilings and a rooftop patio. With the late September wind blowing up a gale, they wouldn’t be sitting outside.