The Man From Belarus by C. G. Cooper (Corps Justice Book 16)
English | 2020| Mystery/Thriller| ePUB | 3.1 MB
Down the hole he goes…
A father’s sin kept hidden…
A secret unearthed.
With the team from The Jefferson Group on the run, there’s no telling where Cal Stokes will resurface next. With revelations of his father’s past bubbling to the surface, it seems that more and more parties want a bite of the Stokes legacy. Will the Russians win out, or will the mysterious forces from deep within Belarus and the United States catch Stokes in the crosshairs?
The German Shorthaired Pointer leapt over the brush like a gazelle, her prey in sight. Left and right she dodged, eyes wide, tail straight. She snagged the dirty tennis ball with a great huff of breath and an all-consuming doggy relish of victory.
Her master’s voice cut through her excitement, making her wolf brain instantly beeline back to where he stood. She dropped the ball to the ground and nudged it forward with her nose.
“Good, girl,” Cal said, trying to stroke her coat.
Liberty was having none of it. There was a time for cuddles and this was certainly not it. For dog’s sake, there was prey to be hunted, chased, and mangled to bits. Cuddles only hindered the effort. Liberty wriggled from his reach, tongue hanging, exhausted but ready for more.
“You want another?”
If she could’ve nodded her head she would have. Instead, her tail stood straight, all pointer in that moment.
Cal made a couple of false throws, faking her out only once. He then chucked the ball over the bramble. Liberty watched the orb soar while she sat twitching in anticipation.
Off she bolted.
Cal folded his arms. “I feel like Liberty’s getting more exercise than we are.”
Daniel Briggs nodded, taking a last wipe across the barrel of his handgun. “I went for a run this morning.”
“Of course you did,” Cal said, his annoyance palpable. He rubbed his stomach as if the lack of activity that morning had added six inches to his midsection. The truth was far from perception. Cal Stokes was in the best shape of his life, every muscle honed from hours of training, exercise, and extreme exertion. One of the only men who had the right to brag to be in better shape was now reloading his weapon with a fresh magazine.
Liberty was back again, all wagging tail and slobbering mouth. She dropped the ball again, wanting more.
“That’s it, girl,” Cal said, picking the slobber-soaked ball with two fingers. If the dog was disappointed, she didn’t show it. “What do you say, Snake Eyes, you want Mickey D’s or a rundown diner for lunch? Or maybe you have something special planned? Like maybe a sleeve of saltines we can get busy with?”
“I’ve got an old friend who’s invited us for lunch.”
“When were you planning on telling me?”
“I just did.”
“You’re a font of verbosity, you know that?”
“And you’re a rainbow of positivity.”
Cal raised a middle finger, unable to help the smile on his face. Weeks on the road. Just the two, plus Liberty. Time spent with any other human being might have Cal scaling walls. Daniel Briggs was different. He had an aura, something like a cross between a Buddhist’s mindfulness and a Marine’s steadfast resolve. That was Briggs. The warrior monk.