Protecting His Kidnapped Family (Southern Soldiers of Fortune Book 2) Read online

  Pivoting, he left the kitchen and wandered into the living room. The small, three-bedroom rancher had seen better days. Worn spots marred the once dark green carpet in the high-traffic paths, and the pale-yellow walls looked tired and faded. Peering out the bay window behind a pillow-style couch, he grunted at how tall the wilting grass had grown on the small plot making up the front yard.

  “I mowed last Friday.” Chance raised his voice to be heard over his brothers dissecting the attendance at the graveside service. “You two can fight over who’s tackling the lawn next.”

  “Hey, Lee,” Harris chirped as he crossed to the fireplace. “Remember this?” Harris plucked an old Polaroid camera from behind Lee’s 8x10 high school graduation photo on top of the stained-wood mantel.

  Deep creases formed between Lee’s brows and he rubbed his right eye. The very eye that had earned him a medical discharge after a small piece of shrapnel had damaged his vision. As a decorated sniper for the Army Rangers, that had been the kiss of death for his career and Lee had refused to start over in another specialization.

  “You never went anywhere without that thing.” Chance swallowed the last of his beer. “So annoying.”

  Harris chuckled. “You used to boast about becoming a world-famous photographer.”

  “Guess the joke’s on me,” Lee growled, lifting his beer, then chugging the whole thing.

  A pang lanced Chance’s heart. He needed to figure out a way to reach his brother before this bitter, restless man fully replaced the laughing smartass who loved playing practical jokes.

  Setting his bottle onto the closest end table, Chance strolled toward the hallway leading to the bedrooms. “You may have been irritating—” The constant whirring of the photos ejecting out of the bottom used to drive Chance nuts. “—but you did get some great shots.” He pointed at a Polaroid picture tucked between the glass and frame of his parents on their wedding day, hanging in the hall.

  Harris and Lee crowded on either side of Chance and stared at the photo of their father holding a bag of boiled peanuts, caught mid-shock when he walked into the house for his surprise birthday party.

  “Oh, man.” Harris cracked up. “Look at his face. I forgot about that day.”

  “But this one’s my favorite.” Chance plucked a Polaroid out of another frame. The entire family—three brothers and both parents—stood in front of the house on a sunny day only months before their mother got sick. “I still can’t believe you talked Mrs. Mabry into taking it.” Their old neighbor, seventy-one at the time, had always complained about everything and everyone.

  Lee smirked and for a moment, his amber-brown eyes twinkled like they used to. “That old bird was easy to figure out. The second I promised to scoop all the poop out of her yard and dump it on Pete Walsh’s porch, she was putty in my hands.”

  A bark of laughter erupted from Chance’s throat. That damn dog had been a menace and Pete had only cared about collecting disability checks. Replacing the photo, he peered up the hall, then back toward the living room. “Can either of you picture living here anymore?”

  Tension leached the small bit of levity.

  Their father had worked two jobs in an effort to keep a roof over their heads and their mother’s medical bills from consuming him. He hadn’t been able to save anything extra to pass down, so he’d only left the three of them the house as their inheritance.

  “I think we should sell it,” Lee announced, turning away and tromping down the hall.

  “You don’t want to stay now that you’re out?” Chance asked, following behind.

  Lee paused in the living room. “Are you saying you want to stay?” His amber eyes shuttered. “You’re out too. You think Springwell is going to welcome you with open arms?”

  The muscle in Chance’s jaw ticked. For most of his teenage years, their hometown of Springwell, Georgia, had not been the kindest to him. Living in a small town meant no transgression was ever truly forgiven or forgotten. And no matter how unfair, Chance had a reputation as a fighter. It didn’t matter that he never started the fights, his tendency to do whatever it took to protect a weaker person from being hurt or bullied meant he settled a lot of situations with his fists. It didn’t take a genius to figure out all the suppressed anger at his mother’s death, and the constant butting heads with his dad had just added to his willingness to pound on someone else.

  Thankfully, twelve years in the Navy—with eight of them as a SEAL—had given him an outlet for the rage until he no longer had to channel it. The type of bond he had formed with his teammates had given him the emotional support he hadn’t realized he needed until his confidence grew with each successful mission and the vise squeezing his chest disappeared.

  “You’re probably right. This town’s going to have the same opinion of me as before.” Chance drove his fingers through his messy hair still slick with sweat. “I can’t say I want to stay, but I didn’t exactly have enough time to figure out what comes next when I retired. Dad’s health nosedived even before I landed on this doorstep, and I’ve been focused on that ever since.” He eyed his brothers. “Harris only has bereavement leave, but what about you, Lee? What are you going to do now?”

  Lee sneered. “I doubt Springwell has a need for a useless sniper in SWAT—not that we’re big enough to even have a dedicated unit.” He swished his hand over his high-and-tight shorn head. “Nothing’s holding me here, but I have no clue where to go.”

  “You’re not useless,” Harris snapped, rounding on Lee. “You’ve still got the skills no matter what the Army says.”

  “Agreed.” Chance jabbed a finger at the youngest brother. Lee’s unit had dubbed him “Puma” after his eye color and the way the large cat was also a solitary killer, hunting its prey just like a sniper, stalking its target with patience and strategy. “Your vision may not meet Ranger qualifications anymore, but I’d bet my life if I slapped a rifle in your hands, you’d nail the center of a bull’s eye with ease.”

  Lee’s chin jutted mulishly, but he didn’t say a word. Instead, he sauntered into the kitchen and opened the door into the single-car garage. “How’s this coming?”

  Getting the message to back off, Chance stepped into the sweltering garage and his muscles loosened at the sight before him. A black 1967 Ford Shelby Mustang sat with its hood propped up, facing the garage door. His father had found the classic muscle car in an auction years ago, but had never gotten it running. The body was in pristine condition but whoever owned it before didn’t know jack about engines. To be fair, their dad hadn’t had much of a clue either. In their family, Chance was the only one who really knew what he was doing under a hood.

  “I think I might be close to getting it started.” Chance fingered the blanket he had spread along the fender to keep it from getting dinged by tools or parts. Working on the car had given him a modicum of peace the past week. A much-needed outlet after watching his father die, then all the fallout of dealing with notifying banks, companies, insurance, etcetera while planning the funeral. “In fact, the carburetor I ordered should be in today at the shop.” He picked up a wrench off the multi-colored quilt. “I took a risk and ordered a much cheaper one that’s supposed to be equivalent to the original Holley. Not ideal, but I wanted to keep my savings instead of blowing it on original parts.”

  “The shop, huh?” Harris asked, his voice sing-songy.

  Chance stiffened.

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