Page 1 of Tactical Revival

CHAPTER 1

Jaxson

Sweat beads along my skin despite the brisk March morning, but I continue pushing myself, pumping my arms harder as I sprint down the beach, the fast-paced tune of Brandon Lake’s “I Need a Ghost” blasting through my headphones.

The sand is soft beneath my bare feet, making it well worth the risk of accidentally stepping on a shell. There’s just something about running barefoot on the beach that makes the start of a day perfect. I drop down and knock out thirty push-ups, then jump back up to my feet, wipe the sand from my hands and start running again.

In another mile, I’ll repeat, just as I have every single mile since I started running forty minutes ago. It’s a morning routine I’ve maintained—even in the rain—since I got clearance from Doc to be active after being shot and nearly bleeding out on the floor of the local high school almost a year ago.

I’ve been at full functionality for seven months now, but even still, I don’t feel strong enough. Fast enough. I’m a Marine. A man who has seen more combat than I care to focus on. And after that, I’d been a detective at the LAPD for a decade. Ten years of chasing down bad guys and solving murders.

But after a few months in the small coastal town of Hope Springs, Maine, working private security with a group of other Veterans I’ve come to see as brothers, I nearly died. The sound of that gun going off haunts my nightmares, as does the look on Reyna Acker’s face as the man abducting her forced her out of my sight.

I hadn’t been able to protect her then.

But I’m going to make sure I don’t fail on my next job.

I pump my arms and legs faster, as though picking up speed will force the memories from my mind. The nightmares that still wake me from a dead sleep.

A beep in my ear signifies another mile down, so I drop down and knock out another thirty push-ups, then push up and take off running again. My muscles burn with exertion, but I know that it’s these last miles that truly make me strong. When I feel like I can’t go anymore, that’s when I find my strength.

I’ve made it another half mile when I see a familiar brunette standing at the edge of the ocean, her bare feet in the sand. The sight of her steals my breath, and I come to a stop, heart beating heavily for a whole new reason.

The breeze toys with her dark hair, gently caressing the strands that have come free from her loose bun. Her jaw is strong, her features elegant as she stares out at the crashing waves. She’s wearing bright pink shorts and a white T-shirt beneath a pale pink cardigan.

She’s beautiful. Breathtaking. And not for me.

I start to turn around, head back up the beach, but then she glances my way, and I note the troubled expression on her face even as she offers me a wave and a soft smile.

So instead of bolting the other way, I continue toward her. Stopping at her side, I remove my headphones and shove them into my pocket. “Surprised to see you out here this early.”

Margot O’Connell—or rather Margot Anderson, as she’s officially divorced now—sighs and brushes some of the strands of her thick, dark hair behind her ear. She’s the younger sister of Michael, one of my closest friends and coworkers. She also happens to own the B&B I’ve been staying in for the past year. “I wanted to see the sunrise. Matty stayed with Michael last night, so I’m flying solo.”

I turn to stare out at the sunrise alongside her, enjoying the way the world wakes up. It’s my favorite time of day because it’s the only point where everything is starting fresh. The day is a blank canvas, so many different opportunities awaiting.

I steal a look at her out of the corner of my eye. Her jaw is set, her shoulders stiff. It seems that for Margot, the day is going to be anything but a fresh beginning. “Everything okay?”

She sighs and runs a hand over the back of her neck. “I’m tired.”

“Margot.” I know her well enough to see that something is truly bothering her.

“Chad called.”

Anger surges through my system. In fact, the amount of fury I feel for a man I’ve never met should probably concern me.

But Chad O’Connell left his wife. Abandoned his son. And even if I didn’t know what it feels like to be left by the people who are supposed to love you most, I’d still see the man as absolutely useless. “What did he want?”

“According to him?” She scoffs. “A relationship with Matty.”

“You don’t think that’s what he wants?” I may have been a homicide detective with the LAPD before moving here to Hope Springs to work at a security firm, but it doesn’t take a cop to hear the skepticism in her voice.

“No. I think he wants money. Or more of my dignity. Who knows, really. I just— I wish he would stay gone.” A tear rolls down her cheek, and she quickly wipes it away.

Seeing her pain guts me.

I wish I could drive to whatever hole her ex crawled into, drag him out by the collar of his shirt, and tell him he’d better back off or I’d throw him in a cell and toss the key. Unfortunately, that would be assault no matter which way you spin it.

Margot is a good person. Her son is a good kid. Chad will bring nothing but problems back into their lives.

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