Killing Game (Veritas Book 2) Read Online Free
Author: Chandler Steele
Tags: romantic suspense
the devil’s backyard, that was a damned good thing.
Chapter Three
Monday, April 13th
South Georgia
Caitlyn Jayne Landry purposely slowed her Jeep as she turned into the long drive that led to the swamp tour’s headquarters, watching for alligators that might be sunning themselves on the path. Sure enough, one rose on its stubby legs and waddled across the road. As the seven-foot prehistoric monster slid back into the water, memories of another gator rose.
When she’d been about ten, Cait’s parents had taken her and her brother on a photography tour in the Everglades. Since her mother was an avid amateur shutterbug, the tour operator had used a trolling motor so they could check out the scenery. Cait had spied a mallard resting on a log, watching the boat as it drew near. As she went to point it out, a gator lurched out of the water, grabbed the duck and vanished back under the surface in the span of a heartbeat.
She’d gaped, stunned at what she’d just seen. When she began to tell the others about it, her dad warned her off. No reason to upset her little brother, or her mom, he’d whispered.
It was the first time she’d seen death up close, and the lesson had struck home: Someone, or something, might be smarter then you, and that could cost you everything. In many ways, her life had changed that day, all due to one hungry alligator.
During her eight years in the Marine Corps, she’d been the predator, but that had taken a toll, so much so that her last six months as a civilian had proven a difficult readjustment. She’d spent most of that time camping on her own in various national forests, or in the swamp. Even visiting her parents in San Diego had proven hard. They pushed her to get back into everyday life, find a job, learn to cope with the horrors she’d seen, lived through. It was like someone telling you to “shake off” an amputation, though she knew they meant well. She’d kept in touch with some of the Marines was her unit, but they had their own problems. Some were homeless, or struggling with drug addiction. Others just wanted to get on with their lives.
As soon as Cait could politely escape the last visit, she’d flown back to Orlando and picked up her old Jeep at a friend’s place. She’d even managed to catch a few hours of fitful sleep at a Motel Six on the way north, trying to ignore a drunk next door arguing with his wife. When the man had begun to beat her, Cait had intervened, told the asshole if he did not knock it off she would put him down. Considering she was wearing a USMC T-shirt and had a tactical knife strapped to her thigh, it got quiet after that.
Though the swamp tour didn’t start until noon—and with it a much-needed opportunity to reconnect with her former commanding officer—she’d risen way before dawn, the nightmares serving as a wake-up call. She slept as little as possible nowadays, in a futile attempt to keep them at bay. Sometimes she’d go two or more days without sleep, then crash, only to have the past roll through her mind, leaving a trail of blood, bodies, and brains in its wake. Sometimes she wasn’t sure if waking up was a blessing or a curse.
After getting breakfast to go, Cait had found a roadside park and eaten at a picnic table, leaving a bit behind for the squirrels. Then she’d taken the scenic route north, over the backroads of rural Florida and Georgia, past cotton fields, peach orchards, and run-down shacks.
Her desire for solitude told her she needed this trip into the wilderness, needed the quiet, the lack of people and everyday noises. Mike Montgomery—her former commander, now the owner of a swamp tour operation—would consistently remind her that this was her reality now, that the endless struggle to adapt to “normal” was worth it. She didn’t want to argue with him, because he was probably right. Some days the noise in her head just got too loud, and all she wanted to do was make it stop.
It wasn’t like Cait hadn’t
Chapter Three
Monday, April 13th
South Georgia
Caitlyn Jayne Landry purposely slowed her Jeep as she turned into the long drive that led to the swamp tour’s headquarters, watching for alligators that might be sunning themselves on the path. Sure enough, one rose on its stubby legs and waddled across the road. As the seven-foot prehistoric monster slid back into the water, memories of another gator rose.
When she’d been about ten, Cait’s parents had taken her and her brother on a photography tour in the Everglades. Since her mother was an avid amateur shutterbug, the tour operator had used a trolling motor so they could check out the scenery. Cait had spied a mallard resting on a log, watching the boat as it drew near. As she went to point it out, a gator lurched out of the water, grabbed the duck and vanished back under the surface in the span of a heartbeat.
She’d gaped, stunned at what she’d just seen. When she began to tell the others about it, her dad warned her off. No reason to upset her little brother, or her mom, he’d whispered.
It was the first time she’d seen death up close, and the lesson had struck home: Someone, or something, might be smarter then you, and that could cost you everything. In many ways, her life had changed that day, all due to one hungry alligator.
During her eight years in the Marine Corps, she’d been the predator, but that had taken a toll, so much so that her last six months as a civilian had proven a difficult readjustment. She’d spent most of that time camping on her own in various national forests, or in the swamp. Even visiting her parents in San Diego had proven hard. They pushed her to get back into everyday life, find a job, learn to cope with the horrors she’d seen, lived through. It was like someone telling you to “shake off” an amputation, though she knew they meant well. She’d kept in touch with some of the Marines was her unit, but they had their own problems. Some were homeless, or struggling with drug addiction. Others just wanted to get on with their lives.
As soon as Cait could politely escape the last visit, she’d flown back to Orlando and picked up her old Jeep at a friend’s place. She’d even managed to catch a few hours of fitful sleep at a Motel Six on the way north, trying to ignore a drunk next door arguing with his wife. When the man had begun to beat her, Cait had intervened, told the asshole if he did not knock it off she would put him down. Considering she was wearing a USMC T-shirt and had a tactical knife strapped to her thigh, it got quiet after that.
Though the swamp tour didn’t start until noon—and with it a much-needed opportunity to reconnect with her former commanding officer—she’d risen way before dawn, the nightmares serving as a wake-up call. She slept as little as possible nowadays, in a futile attempt to keep them at bay. Sometimes she’d go two or more days without sleep, then crash, only to have the past roll through her mind, leaving a trail of blood, bodies, and brains in its wake. Sometimes she wasn’t sure if waking up was a blessing or a curse.
After getting breakfast to go, Cait had found a roadside park and eaten at a picnic table, leaving a bit behind for the squirrels. Then she’d taken the scenic route north, over the backroads of rural Florida and Georgia, past cotton fields, peach orchards, and run-down shacks.
Her desire for solitude told her she needed this trip into the wilderness, needed the quiet, the lack of people and everyday noises. Mike Montgomery—her former commander, now the owner of a swamp tour operation—would consistently remind her that this was her reality now, that the endless struggle to adapt to “normal” was worth it. She didn’t want to argue with him, because he was probably right. Some days the noise in her head just got too loud, and all she wanted to do was make it stop.
It wasn’t like Cait hadn’t
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