Blake Pierce
ONCE STALKED
Blake PierceBlake Pierce is author of the bestselling RILEY PAGE mystery series, which includes ten books (and counting). Blake Pierce is also the author of the MACKENZIE WHITE mystery series, comprising six books (and counting); of the AVERY BLACK mystery series, comprising five books; and of the new KERI LOCKE mystery series, comprising four books (and counting).
An avid reader and lifelong fan of the mystery and thriller genres, Blake loves to hear from you, so please feel free to visit www.blakepierceauthor.com to learn more and stay in touch.
BOOKS BY BLAKE PIERCERILEY PAIGE MYSTERY SERIESONCE GONE (Book #1)ONCE TAKEN (Book #2)ONCE CRAVED (Book #3)ONCE LURED (Book #4)ONCE HUNTED (Book #5)ONCE PINED (Book #6)ONCE FORSAKEN (Book #7)ONCE COLD (Book #8)ONCE STALKED (Book #9)ONCE LOST (Book #10)MACKENZIE WHITE MYSTERY SERIESBEFORE HE KILLS (Book #1)BEFORE HE SEES (Book #2)BEFORE HE COVETS (Book #3)BEFORE HE TAKES (Book #4)BEFORE HE NEEDS (Book #5)BEFORE HE FEELS (Book #6)AVERY BLACK MYSTERY SERIESCAUSE TO KILL (Book #1)CAUSE TO RUN (Book #2)CAUSE TO HIDE (Book #3)CAUSE TO FEAR (Book #4)CAUSE TO SAVE (Book #5)KERI LOCKE MYSTERY SERIESA TRACE OF DEATH (Book #1)A TRACE OF MUDER (Book #2)A TRACE OF VICE (Book #3)A TRACE OF CRIME (Book #4)PROLOGUE
Colonel Dutch Adams looked at his watch as he strode through Fort Nash Mowat, and saw that the time was 0500 hours on the dot. It was a brisk, dusky April morning in Southern California, and all appeared as it should.
He heard a womans voice yell out sharply
The garrison commander is present!
He turned in time to see a training platoon snap to attention at the female drill sergeants command. Col. Adams paused to return their salute and continued on his way. He walked a little faster than before, hoping not to attract the attention of other drill sergeants. He didnt want to interrupt more training platoons as they gathered in their formation areas.
His face twitched a little. After all these years, he still wasnt quite used to hearing female voices snapping out commands. Even the sight of mixed-gender platoons sometimes startled him a little. The Army had definitely changed since his own days as a teenaged recruit. He didnt like many of those changes.
As he continued on his way, he heard the barking voices of other drill sergeants, both male and female, calling their platoons into formation.
They dont have much punch anymore, he thought.
He could never forget the abuse spewed by his own drill sergeant so many years ago the savage invectives against family and ancestry, the insults and obscenities.
He smiled a little. That bastard Sergeant Driscoll!
Driscoll died many years ago, Col. Adams recalled not in combat as hed surely have preferred, but of a stroke brought on by hypertension. In those days, sky high blood pressure had been an occupational hazard of drill sergeants.
Col. Adams would never forget Driscoll, and as far as Adams was concerned, that was how things should be. A drill sergeant ought to make an indelible imprint on a soldiers mind for the rest of his life. He ought to present a living example of the worst kind of hell a soldiers life had to offer. Sergeant Driscoll had definitely had that kind of lifelong impact on Col. Adams. Were the trainers under his command here at Fort Nash Mowat likely to leave that kind of impression on their recruits?
Col. Adams doubted it.
Too damn much political correctness, he thought.
Softness was now even written into the Armys training manual
Stress created by physical or verbal abuse is non-productive and prohibited.
He scoffed as he thought of the words.
What a load of crap, he murmured under his breath.
But the Army had been moving in this direction since the 1990s. He knew he ought to be used to it by now. But he never would be.
Anyway, he wouldnt have to deal with it much longer. He was a year away from retirement, and his final ambition was to make brigadier general before then.
Suddenly, Adams was distracted from his musings by a puzzling sight.
The recruits of Platoon #6 were milling around aimlessly in their formation area, some doing calisthenics, others just idly talking among themselves.
Col. Adams stopped in his tracks and yelled.
Soldiers! Where the hells your sergeant?
Flustered, the recruits jumped to attention and saluted.
At ease, Adams said. Is somebody going to answer my goddamn question?
A female recruit spoke up.
We dont know Sergeant Worthings whereabouts, sir.
Adams could hardly believe his ears.
What do you mean, you dont know? he demanded.
He never showed up for formation, sir.
Adams growled under his breath.
This didnt sound like Sergeant Clifford Worthing at all. In fact, Worthing was one of the few drill sergeants that Adams had any real use for. He was a real hard-ass of the old school or at least he wanted to be. He often came to Adamss office to complain about how the rules reined him in.
Even so, Adams knew that Worthing bent the rules as much as he could. Sometimes the recruits complained about his rigorous demands and verbal abuse. Those complaints pleased Adams.
But where was Worthing right now?
Adams waded among the recruits into the barracks, passing between the rows of beds until he got to Worthings office.
He knocked sharply on the door.
Worthing, are you in there?
No one replied.
Worthing, this is your CO, and if youre in there, youd damn sure better answer me.
Again no one replied.
Adams turned the doorknob and pushed the door open.
The office was immaculately neat and no one was there.
Where the hell did he go? Adams wondered.
Did Worthing even show up on the base at all this morning?
Then Adams noticed the NO SMOKING sign on the office wall.
He remembered that Sergeant Worthing was a smoker.
Had the drill instructor just stepped out for a smoke?
Naw, it cant be, Adams grumbled aloud.
It didnt make sense.
Even so, Adams stepped out of the office and headed for the back door of the barracks.
He opened the door and stood staring into the early morning light.
He didnt have to look long or hard.
Sergeant Worthing was crouched with his back against the barracks wall, a burned-out cigarette hanging out of his mouth.
Worthing, what the hell ? Adams snarled.
Then he recoiled at what he saw.
At Adamss eye level was a large dark wet blotch on the wall.
From that blotch, a continuous smear trailed down to where Worthing was crouched.
Then Adams saw the dark hole in the middle of Worthings head.
It was a bullet wound.