Page 11 of Stryker

John nodded and stared at something inJason’s shirt pocket. Stryker looked over to find a blue coloredenvelope with what looked like streamers printed on it.

“That for me?” Johnasked.

Jason took the envelope from hispocket and handed it to John. “Yeah, buddy. The timing sucks, buthappy birthday.”

Stryker felt John’ssadness like a gut punch.Well, shit. It’shis birthday. Another thing he hadn’t known.

What a crappy day this was turning outto be.

CHAPTER FIVE

John

Melodiouswhistling followed byaseries of pops. His recurring nightmare always startedthesame way.

He stood in the mass ofchaos as the terrifying scene played out in his mind. Peoplescreaming, pushing, shoving, running away in all directions asgunshots rang out. His father pushed him down onto cold, wetground, then spun around like a rag doll as he was hit. His motherfollowed, her hands reaching out for both John and his father, asblood blossomed on her chest. A searing pain burned through hisside as another bullet hit its mark, taking him to the ground onlyfeet from his fallen parents.

He crawled hopelesslytoward his unmoving father and mother. Finally giving in to thetragedy surrounding him, helay on thepavement beside his parents,bleeding,life draining out ofthemall. Sirens wailedin the distance. Atleast I’m with them as I die. It gave himsome comfort. Hiseyes finallyclosed,andhewelcomed the darkness.

John awoke with a cry of anguish,flinging himself up, almost falling out of his bed. He reacheddesperately for his inhaler on the bedside table, gasping for airas his lungs squeezed tight. He sucked in the medication, lettingit fill his lungs and ease his breathing. Sweat poured from him ashe sat up and looked around his lonely bedroom.

The nightmare had come and gone as italways did, leaving him desperate for relief from the pain insidehim. His asthma started shortly after the shooting, and the doctorschalked it up to the bullet that tore through his rightlung—something called stress-induced asthma. Not only had he losthis parents that day, but also his ability to breathenormally.

He lay back in bed and heaved ashuddering sigh. After that traumatic night, he’d woken up in thehospital and spent agonizing weeks healing. Afterward, when he wasdischarged, he’d felt nothing but overwhelming anger at survivingwhen his family hadn’t. Survivor’s guilt was real and all itconsisted of was pain.

At his parents’ funeral, a lonetrumpet played as the caskets were lowered into the ground. Hisfather’s distinguished military career provided that honor.Sixteen-year-old John sat stoically among the mourners as soldiersin uniform carried flags and guns with all due pomp andcircumstance. Words of comfort uttered by the priest only broughtgrief, as the moment closer to when his parents would be sealed inthe ground forever drew near.

John couldn’t help wishing he couldthrow himself into the hole with them. The woman who loved him,taught him compassion, and bandaged all his wounds, and the manwho’d taught him about honor and his love of woodworking andflying, were dead, and nothing in this world would ever be rightagain.

He threw himself back onto themattress and stared blankly at the ceiling. Many times over theyears, John had considered ending his pain; the only thing stoppinghim was the knowledge that his parents would be disappointed in thewaste of the life they’d tried so hard to preserve.

Perhaps one day I won’thave my inhaler handy and the decision will be made forme. The idea gave him a sense of macabrecomfort.

I’m definitely fuckedup.

There’d be no sleeping for him thatnight, so John got up and fixed himself a coffee. He still hadboxes stacked up around his new temporary home from his recentmove. His priority had been getting the shop up and running, ratherthan unpacking his personal belongings. He couldn’t help but stareat the one box that had been sealed for the last twenty-two years.His father had left the box for John after his death, located in asafety deposit box at their local bank. He hadn’t even known aboutits existence until the bank reached out to him when he turnedtwenty-one.

His father’s brother, Uncle Forester,had dealt with all the division of assets and the sale of theirfamily home while John went to live with his Aunt Becky, hismother’s sister.

John hadn’t even botheredto open it, thinking it likely contained personal items and familyheirlooms. He didn’t have the heart to sift through it all,bringing back painful memories—trinkets of a life that ended inviolence and, if the police were to be believed, a targeted murderplot to take his family’s lives. John had a hard time believing it.Who would want to shoot his parents, a military man and a primaryschool teacher? Hell, who would want to shoothim?

It had to have been a “wrong place,wrong time” scenario. He couldn’t believe it was anything other.Whoever it was, they never returned to finish the job with John,and for years he wished they would.

He closed his eyes and let out arelaxing breath, trying to center himself.

Detective Woodley’s phone call todayhad been unexpected and alarming. Why would they reopen such an oldcase? He’d have to call the detective back in the morning, but fornow, John sat at the kitchen table drinking his coffee and staringat the box containing what was left of any importance to hisparents.

Maybe he’d have the heart to open thebox someday, but today wasn’t that day. Just like all the otherdays before.

***

Stryker

When Spencer entered the kitchen thenext morning, Strkyer asked, “Whatcha got?”

The day befoe, he’d asked Spencer tofind out a little more about the elusive John Seya. It had takensome convincing but Stryker had managed it. He guessed they wereall curious about John’s past and committed to his well-being. Andwith the murder case being reopened, that meant whoever had killedJohn’s family was still out there. John may be in dangertoo.

“A hell of a lot less thanI expected,” said Spencer. “And you were right—he may be atrisk.”

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