Prologue
Finn stood outside the cemetery in Pasadena, his gaze fixed on the dimly lit entrance as he tried to convince his booted feet to proceed inside.
This was his third attempt to walk through the damn gate, and time was running out.
He only had twenty-four hours before he was due on a flight back to Virginia Beach.
Over the past three days on leave, he’d repeatedly swung by and committed to memory more and more details about the cemetery and its overall lack of upkeep.
At least, based on what he saw while standing on the outside.
He’d observed visitors come and go during the daytime, telling himself he’d return when it was less people-y. But when darkness fell, it was just too damn depressing to follow through with the mission he’d given himself. Besides, under the veil of night, the place felt haunted.
Finn’s attention journeyed from the concrete pathway beneath his black, beat-up boots to the arched entryway, its wrought iron barely visible amidst twining green vines with sparsely sprinkled small, fragrant flowers. He recognized the scent as honeysuckle, one of his mom’s favorites.
There was a chill in the air, so Finn unrolled his plaid button-down shirt sleeves, blinking away cool droplets of water clinging to his eyelashes as the rain drizzled down almost as if in slow motion.
He’d left his jacket and Red Sox ball cap in his rental, not expecting to be there long or for the clouds to choose this exact moment to open up and rain. As if nighttime in a cemetery wasn’t eerie enough.
So, where was the spooky fog, the howl of a lone wolf?
Or the specters lurking between headstones to freak him out?
Aside from the old-world-style streetlamps fashioned to look like torches that basked the walkway in a soft, yellowish glow, there was nothing that screamed, Graveyard, enter at your own risk.
He’d have gladly welcomed a vampire to slay.
It would be a nice change from the AK-wielding enemies with a distaste for the Western world he normally faced.
But there was no one, neither human nor vampire, in his line of sight. Because who went to a cemetery on a Friday night? Well, other than me?
And why in the world was it more difficult to visit a grave in a cemetery than do callouts in Baghdad searching for terrorists?
Finn was just about out of time, though.
He’d soon be heading to Jalalabad as part of task unit Dozer.
His platoon, Golf, would be combined with Alpha to handle some “issues” the government wanted swept under the rug as quickly and quietly as possible.
The idea of J-Bad didn’t bother him. No goose bumps or cold, prickly sensations crept up his spine like he experienced now.
He felt like a chickenshit because he couldn’t walk beneath a gate to visit someone he hadn’t, well, visited since he dropped out of USC at the start of his junior year to join the Navy. And in the decade since he’d joined the Teams, he hadn’t set foot in Los Angeles at all.
His parents had moved the family from Methuen, Massachusetts, to Pasadena when he was fifteen for the sake of his older brother’s music career.
Pasadena was eleven miles northeast of Los Angeles and considered one of the coolest places to live in LA, known for its Craftsman-style architecture, annual Rose Bowl game and parade, Jet Propulsion Lab and CalTech, among other things.
But he would always and forever be an East Coast soul, and when he’d wound up as an East Coast SEAL, Finn had decided it was fate.
But fate or not, there was no valid reason he’d stayed away for ten years. He hadn’t even made an effort for a quick, one-day visit. Not. One. Flipping. Time.
So here he was, staring at the cemetery while trying to conjure up every excuse in the book not to go inside.
The palm trees on the other side of the fence swayed gently when the breeze started to kick up as the rain turned from a drizzle to a downpour. A sign from God to leave? Or to go in?
Indecision, as well as habit, had Finn bringing a palm to his jaw to rub against his beard, forgetting his face was now as smooth as a baby’s bottom.
Last week, the higher-ups had ordered the men to shave because the brass had decided beards were a no-no.
He looked forward to going overseas, where facial hair was viewed as a lifesaver, a way to blend in.
I’ll come back tomorrow, he lied to himself while turning about-face and walking to his rental. The Honda Civic was a replica of the car he’d driven when the Fast and Furious movies were all the rage, and everyone wanted to be just like Vin Diesel and Paul Walker.
Now Finn alternated between a truck and a Jeep from year to year whenever he was in Virginia between deployments.
After leaving the cemetery at twenty-two hundred hours, he made his way through the streets of Old Pasadena. It was a Friday night, and the traffic was heavy even at that hour.
He passed through the Playhouse District and drove toward Madison Heights, then hooked a right onto Arden Road and slowed his vehicle before stopping in front of the brick home he’d lived in from age fifteen until college.
The one-story, three-bedroom house was less than fifteen hundred square feet and recently sold for 1.3 million. A price his parents never would have been able to afford back in the day. A child’s scooter sat in the driveway, and a new basketball hoop had been added since he’d lived there.
Finn rested his wrist over the steering wheel and dragged his free hand over his mouth, emotion choking him up.
At some point, he managed to press his foot on the gas pedal and leave.
The houses and city became a blur as he drove through familiar streets, almost as if he’d never left Pasadena.
When the loud honk of a horn jolted Finn into awareness, he found himself at an intersection, with no recollection of having stopped for the red light, which had apparently turned green.
He’d been so lost in thought that he’d forgotten he was behind the wheel. Not good.
He needed a drink, but he’d be walking from the hotel to a nearby bar. After parking the Civic, he made his way to a local Irish pub that’d seen better days based on the barely blinking green sign that read, O’Malley’s.
A few drinks in, the surrounding sounds and chatter in the bar melted into a barely audible white noise, and Finn’s focus drifted back to his past.
Why were the happy memories buried so far below the surface that he was unable to reach out and touch them? Not a single one?
Finn gripped the glass, brought it to his nose, and sniffed. His mom had always said his father’s bourbon smelled like nail polish remover. She wasn’t too far off.
“You good, son?”
Finn blinked and pulled his focus from the tumbler of Four Roses single barrel Kentucky bourbon to the bartender now eyeing him. “Yeah, I should cash out.”
The horrible knot that had taken root in Finn’s stomach the moment the plane’s wheels touched down at LAX three days ago had been steadily growing, and as he left the pub, it burgeoned into the size of a heavyweight fighter’s fist, punching relentlessly as the rain fell.
His stomach grumbled like the roll of thunder overhead, and he glanced at his watch, checking to see how late it was. Almost twenty-four hundred hours. Right, I skipped dinner.
An angry male voice caught Finn’s attention, but the sharp sound of glass breaking in an alleyway around the corner caused Finn to pause in his tracks.
Did he really want to chance a look around that corner, get involved in something that was none of his business? The only fuel in his body right now was bourbon, and he had no sidearm or knife.
Sure, he’d been in martial arts since he was a teen. Third-degree black belt in karate. Throw in some Muay Thai kickboxing and wrestling, and yeah, he was decent at hand-to-hand combat.
Karate classes and a passion for Star Wars had helped him get through some tough times. Saved him from going down a dark path when he’d been surrounded by what felt like a black hole trying to suck his soul from his body.
So, SEAL training or not, Finn could protect himself. That didn’t mean he loved the idea of possibly bringing fists to a gunfight.
And who knew what he might be up against?
But fuck it.
When he peeked around the corner to gauge the situation, he discovered the alley was more like a long hallway with too many doors that momentarily brought him back to Iraq.
His least favorite place to be during an op was in a hallway.
What was behind door number one? Who was behind door number two? Or three?
A large man wielding a broken beer bottle had a teenager up against the brick wall, the broken bottle neck at the boy’s throat. “Pay up, dirtbag. Or you’re done.”
Finn quickly mulled over what to say. Why not pick on someone your own size? felt too cliché even with a few bourbons in him.
“Hey,” Finn called out, opting for a less is more approach. “You want money?” He lifted one hand, palm facing the older guy wearing a backward ball cap, ripped jeans, and a black leather jacket.
“Who the hell are you?” The man eased the bottle away from the kid’s neck a fraction of an inch at the distraction. Yeah, keep moving that bottle out of range.
“A hundred bucks if you let the kid go.” Finn slowly reached around to his back pocket and went for his wallet, making a show of pulling it out so as not to spook the guy, and plucked two fifties.
The man’s eyes moved from the money and up to the metal overhang protecting them from getting wet. Was he contemplating the offer? “What’s in it for you? You want to save some punk-ass druggie?”
Finn’s stomach clenched at the man’s words, and he found himself drawing a step closer to the both of them. What kind of drugs? Were there track marks beneath the kid’s jacket sleeves? How old was he? Fifteen? Sixteen?