Chapter 3: A Lone Wolf—One month later

I am enjoying farm life in Mississippi. I live in an extra bedroom in Captain Jack O’Shea’s house. Everyone knows his story, Viet Nam, two silver stars, half-mile craw with a wounded Marine on his back. Also living there is retired Master Gunnery Sergeant Mike Weaver, a legend himself. He is married to Captain Jack’s only daughter, JJ. This guy is Bruce Lee, Chuck Norris and the Terminator all rolled into one. I work out with him every night.

But my favorite of the O’Shea’s is Sgt. Mangas Coloradas O’Shea, he is an ‘urban legend’ among enlisted Marines. This guy is ‘rumored’ to have gone in the backdoor of a house full of Taliban fighters. He killed all 10 of them, two with his bare hands! He would have been awarded at least a silver star if he had not been caught scalping one of them!

What?!

Hell yes! According to the legend, that fucker was going to scalped them all! The Corps covered it up officially and medically discharged him. But every grunt knows the story. Sorry when I get excited, I revert to talking like a Marine. I’ll try to do better in the future.

Captain Jack’s wife was out of ice cream and wanted some French Vanilla. I volunteered to make the run into town.

Just as I was coming out of the grocery store with the bag of ice cream, I saw a girl walking down that dark street. She was dressed in a cheerleader’s outfit and walking quickly. I watched as a van pulled up alongside her and two men jumped out. She started to run but they caught her. She screamed for help just before one of the men hit her. She went limp!

I got there as they were carrying her to the side door of the van.

I grabbed one and hit him in the face, he went down. The other let go of the girl and pulled out a little .25 caliber pistol. He shot me in the stomach!

“Motherfucker!”

I grabbed his gun hand before he could get off another shot and broke his wrist! He screamed as I swung him around face first into the side of the van. As he bounced off, I grabbed him under his chin and by the back of his head. With a quick twist, I snapped his neck! He was dead before he hit the ground.

My hand went to my stomach to feel for blood. There was none! I touched my belt buckle and started to laugh. The bullet hit in the middle of a brass cowboy style buckle with ‘USMC’ on it. I bought this at a flea market somewhere in Alabama on my trip up to Mississippi. I am grinning and thinking about how lucky I am when I hear the girl scream, “Watch out!” I turned and the other one, who was still on the ground, was pulling a knife out of his belt. He had gotten to his hands and knees when I used my genuine Marine Corps issued RAT boot to kick him under his chin. The kick lifted him off the ground about 3 feet. He ain’t never getting up.

I took out my phone and dialed 911. A female voice answered with “Sheriff’s department how may I help you?”

“I am just down the block from the Piggly Wiggly grocery store and two men tried to kidnap a girl. I stopped them”

“Is anybody hurt?”

“The girl, what’s your name, was hit in the face.?”

“Theresa, Theresa O’Shea. Tell her to tell my daddy I am ok.”

“She says she is Theresa O’Shea and for you to tell her daddy she is okay. You know her daddy?”

“Her daddy is Sheriff O’Shea. Was anyone else hurt?

“Well, they shot me in the stomach but I’m ok. The two attackers are dead.”

“I have cars and an ambulance on the way. For your protection put your gun on the ground so the deputies won’t think you are a threat.”

“Lady, I don’t have a gun.”

“How did you kill them?”

“With my hands.”

“Can I talk to Theresa?”

I handed the girl my telephone.

She is telling this lady what happened as the squad cars and the ambulance arrive. The men are pronounced dead and the EMT’s are telling me how lucky I am when a sheriff’s car arrives with two women and the Sheriff. The Sheriff is a huge black man! The girl drops my phone and runs to them. Damn, I just bought that phone!

I am sitting in the ambulance when the Sheriff and one of the black women walk over. He extends his hand and I shake it.

“I’m Sheriff Zulu O’Shea, Theresa’s father. She is so lucky you were here to help. I don’t know you, are you new in town?”

“I’m staying out on a farm with Captain Jack and his family. Are you guys related?”

“Captain Jack is my granddaddy. Are you ok? I heard you got shot?” I show him my belt buckle with the dent and that prompts the next question.

“How long were you in the Corps?”

“Eight years.”

“How many combat tours?” he asked as he looked at the two dead guys.

“Three in Afghanistan, one in Africa.”

“I imagine you were a grunt.”

I leaned back and shouted at the moon!

“03! OORAH!”

“Me too.” Then he turned to the EMT’s.

“Does he need to go to the hospital?”

“No.”

“Let’s go to my office and you can help me fill out the report.”

“Do I need an attorney?” I may be a grunt, but I was raised by an attorney.

“I’m the Sheriff, that woman Theresa is hugging is her mother, the District Attorney. Those two being zipped up in the body bags are both wanted for kidnapping, rape and murder. No, you definitely do not need an attorney. What’s in the bag?” He pointed to the bag laying on the ground leaking ice cream.