Second Chances

Second Chances
Copyright © 2018 by Jeremy Soldevilla
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976,
no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in
any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system without
the prior written permission of the author.
This is a work of historical fiction based on actual persons and events. Apart
from the well-known actual people, events and locales, the dialogue and
incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to
current events or living persons is coincidental.
Cover design: MJC Imageworks
Typeface: Georgia
ISBN 978-1-945146-41-1
ebook ISBN 978-1-945146-42-8
Published by
CHRISTOPHER MATTHEWS PUBLISHING
http://christophermatthewspub.com
Boston
Printed in the United States of America

The following sample chapters take place midway
through the novel.
∞
A F G H A N I S T A N
Samuel L. Jackson
I
T WAS HOT like every other day in the desert. The men stood at
attention in front of the row of cages, sweating and sneaking peeks
at the sergeant with the clipboard as he walked down the line. He
stopped at each man and called out the soldier's name, then read
off the assigned dog's name and kennel number.
Gabe was excited. He didn't care about the blazing sun cooking the
sweat out of his body. He was finally going to meet his partner. He
stared at the dark faces peering out of the kennels across from them.
Which one would be his? Was he being checked out too? He couldn't
wait to start connecting with . . . whichever one was his.
After the sergeant had assigned a dog, the handler went to his
designated kennel and released his canine partner. There would be a

very brief greeting, and the soldier would leash his dog and head off
toward the training field.
"Turner!" the sergeant finally called out, and Gabe stiffened a little
more to attention. "You got Senji, kennel 8."
Senji. Must be a shepherd, thought Gabe. The Mals usually have
some Dutch name. He'd been hoping to get a Malinois, but shepherds
were bad ass too.
He glanced over to the Number 8 kennel, hoping to see Senji's face,
but the sun was in his eyes, and Senji was in the shadows of his cage.
Gabe wanted to run to the kennel, but he walked with a measured
pace to the crate marked with a large black 8.
As he neared the cage, a sharp, black snout jabbed out of the bars,
and Senji began a low growl. When Gabe was two feet away, Senji went
ballistic, snapping and barking at him.
"Yeah?" said Gabe, grinning. That's cool. I want a mean one. You
gonna learn who's boss. Keep it up, bad ass. You and me, Senji.
Gabe knelt at the door to the crate and got his first look at Senji.
His brown eyes met and held the dog's brown eyes. He was a Mal after
all. Gabe smiled.
"Hey," he said and remained squatted, facing Senji without going
for the door.
He watched Senji sum him up, letting the dog take his time. Soon,
Senji sat back and waited, shivering with anticipation. Gabe reached
for the latch, and Senji remained at attention.
"Good boy," said Gabe as he lifted the latch and began to open the
kennel door. It was barely open when Senji charged out and stationed
himself in front of Gabe, threatening with barks and bared teeth. Gabe
stood slowly and took a step back, maintaining eye contact with the
Malinois.
"Down," he commanded. Senji stopped barking but didn't change
his posture, his muscular, tan and black body quivering.
Make me. Senji thought, then growled. Come one step closer, and
I'll rip you apart.

Gabe took a step towards Senji with his lead in his hand, and the
dog resumed his barking frenzy.
"Down," Gabe repeated.
But Senji wasn't having it. He stood his ground, snapping at Gabe,
and then took a step backwards, matching Gabe's approach.
Gabe reached towards Senji's collar with the lead in his hand, and
the dog jumped forward and sank his teeth into Gabe's hand.
Gabe grabbed Senji around the neck and charged against him,
throwing the 70-pound dog onto his back, and then pressed his knee
into Senji's chest. Pinning Senji with his knee, he grabbed the dog's
snout and pressed Senji's lips against his teeth until he released Gabe's
hand. In one quick move, Gabe picked up the lead he'd dropped and
snapped it onto Senji's collar, and stood up.
Senji also stood and stepped back, threatening Gabe to try that
again. He jumped forward in attack mode, but Gabe was ready and
once again, lifted Senji and dropped him on his back, holding him
against the ground.
Gabe locked eyes with Senji and watched as the dog's look turned
from anger to submission.
"You good?" Gabe said. He could feel the dog relax under him, and
he let Senji get to his feet while he remained kneeling. He never let his
eyes drop from the dog, and reached out gently, placing his hand on
Senji's neck, caressing the tension from his body.
He brought his hand forward to let Senji sniff his palm and said,
"Good boy, Senji."
As the two explored each other's face, Senji's eyes softened, and he
tentatively licked Gabe's hand.
"Thanks, man. I love you too," Gabe said and tousled Senji's head.
He then stood and said, "Sit." And the Malinois sat, looked up at Gabe
and wagged his tail.
Gabe grinned and said, "We're going to get along just fine."
* * *

Six months later, Samuel L. Jackson's wet tongue slurped up the side
of Gabe's face.
Although Sam already had the name Senji when he was first
assigned, Gabe decided to re-name him after his favorite actor—bad
ass Samuel L. Jackson. He figured the dog would get used to his new
name after a while. It took less than a day for Sam to start responding
to his new moniker. Gabe was even able to get his name changed on
his official records.
It seemed like a fitting name. Sam was a black-faced Malinois with
attitude. Not just tough attitude; he had a wise-guy thing going on. He
would hide Gabe's gear in different places and then would sit back on
his haunches with a big panting smile on his face as Gabe tried to ferret
out where his T-shirt was or where he had left his toothpaste or where
to find his other boot. When Gabe would confront Sam about a missing
item, he would tip his head to the side as if to say, "I have no idea what
you are talking about. Are you talking to me?" Or he would turn his
head to the side, pretending to look for the person that Gabe must be
addressing. Then he would surreptitiously sneak a sideways glance at
Gabe to see if he'd caught on.
Malinois are fiercely intense dogs, and Gabe noticed that several of
the other men had trouble initially bonding with their dogs. However,
he and Sam hit it off immediately. Dogs and most animals, for that
matter, know instinctively whom to trust and whom to stay away from;
and they have a particular affinity for those people who are
exceptionally good with other animals. Gabe had that trait, and Sam
picked up on it from the start.
Gabe treated Sam well, and Sam, in return, gave Gabe 110 percent
loyalty and obedience. Gabe was impressed at how quickly Sam
responded to his commands. He never had to give a command twice.
And Sam was good at what he did. He could track anything or
anyone with incredible accuracy and speed. Several times he had saved
Gabe and the soldiers on the road by darting ahead as far as twenty feet
or more to point out a hidden explosive. Or he could find the enemy

holed up in secret hideaways in houses and buildings that appeared
totally empty.
Once he succeeded in a task, Sam basked tail-waggingly happy in
the praise and pats Gabe showered on him.
"Damn, Sam!" Gabe said, wiping the saliva off his cheek. He
opened his crusted eyes and reached over and ruffled the dog's head.
He checked his watch and yawned.
"Shit, why you always got to be twenty minutes early? I need my
sleep, dog!"
Sam sat back on his haunches, grinning and panting.
Good morning, Gabe! Get up! Come on! I gotta pee! I'm hungry!
Let's play! We have to report! Come onnn! Sam stood up, his tail
seeming to wag his tan butt. His dark brown eyes stared impatiently at
Gabe.
Gabe rolled onto his back and threw his arm over his eyes, blocking
out the already blazing sun.
Sam let out a deep-throated growl, then poked his snout against
Gabe's elbow.
'Yeah, yeah. All right." Gabe grumbled quietly. "I'm getting up.
Back off!"
Sam sat back down, ears up, his tail sweeping the floor, sending
wisps of fine desert dust into the fetid air of the tent.
Gabe swung out from under the sheet and scratched himself, then
nodded across the tent and told Sam, "Go get Swan up."
Sam, eager to play, jumped up and trotted over to Terry's bunk,
faced the sleeping soldier and barked once sharply.
Swanson practically fell out of bed.
"Jesus Christ! Don't fucking do that! How many times do I gotta
tell you? Asshole."
Gabe burst out laughing. "Hey, man, if I got to get up, so do you.
Right, Sam?"
Sam barked, "Right!"

Swanson glanced at his watch and said, "Shit, I didn't sleep for shit
last night. We going out again today?"
Gabe nodded. "Yeah, I heard you tossing around all night, so how
much sleep you think I got? I expect we are. Somebody got to do it.
Right? Hi-ho, hi-ho, motherfucker."
Swanson flipped him the bird as Gabe pulled on his T-shirt and
started dressing.
Sam lay down at the foot of Gabe's bed.
Swanson sat up and ran his hand across his bristly head. "Fuck. I
kept thinking about DiMartino." He held up his hand, his thumb and
index finger inches apart. "I was this close to him, dude. I got covered
with his fucking guts, man. It could have . . ."
Gabe glared over at him. "Shut the fuck up! I don't want to hear it.
It is what it is. You're here, he's not. Another fuckin' day. Let it go."
Gabe finished tying his boots and walked out of the tent with Sam
trotting close behind.
Inside the tent was hot, but walking outside towards the shitter was
like wading through an ocean of steel mill furnace blast.
His mind drifted as he headed to the latrine. DiMartino, he
thought. Tony. He loved the guy. Everybody loved the guy. He stood
five foot eight, and that was with his combat boots on. His stupid-ass
jokes told with his Brooklyn accent made many a guy spew his beer
across the bar. No matter how much the day sucked, and they all
sucked pretty bad, Tony could bring out the laughter. You need a guy
like Tony DiMartino in the fucking Sandbox.
Goddammit! Tony.
They had been on patrol. The usual shit. DiMartino and his partner
Sadie, a black Lab, were walking point. Terry Swanson was at their six
about twenty feet back. Terry saw Sadie stop and start to squat to take
a shit. DiMartino, as usual, was impatient and walked a little way down
the road, and . . . BOOM! He and Sadie disintegrated from an IED blast
that threw Swanson on his ass.
Terry had said he looked up, his ears still ringing, and all he saw in
front of him was a cloud of sand dust drifting in the breeze.

Shit. Gabe slammed his boot into a rock, sending it flying across
the yard. Sam barked sharply and chased after the rock in an instant.
Gabe had heard plenty of horror stories about guys getting killed
in this shitty stink hole, but DiMartino was the first guy he knew
personally.
Despite the hellish heat, ice water shivered up his spine, and the
increasingly familiar fist of fear, as he'd come to call it, clenched his
gut, squeezing a bolus of acidic bile up his throat. He stopped and bent
over, his hands on his knees, and spat out the fear puke.
Sam came bounding up and dropped a rock at his feet, ears up, tail
wagging, ready to go. Gabe stayed bent over.
Sam twisted his head to the side and stopped wagging. What's up,
man? You okay?
Gabe stretched his hand out and rubbed Sam's head.
Sam licked his hand in reply.
"I'm okay, buddy." Gabe gave a wan smile and sighed as he stood
up. "I'm okay."
As they headed to the latrine, Gabe looked down at Sam. He always
seemed to know when Gabe needed support. What would he do if
anything ever happened to his dog? His throat tightened a little at the
thought.
Gabe had barely sat down on the toilet when he heard Terry calling
him.
"G! You in here?"
"Yeah, what the f —"
"Saddle up, partner. Haji patrol. We're heading out."
"Shit . . ."
His itchy ass bouncing on the hard bench of the truck, his grumbling
empty stomach and the oppressive, ever-present heat were making for
a bad start to Gabe's day.
The truck jolted as it hit another rock, and Gabe cursed.
Sam emitted a quiet whine and rested his jaw on his handler's knee.
A small gesture, but Gabe gratefully patted his dog's head.

He and Sam were at the back end of the truck. Seated across from
them were another handler and his dog. They would be the first ones
to jump out, ready to take the lead and begin checking the road for
IEDs.
The men, shoulder to shoulder, lurched against each other as the
truck barreled down the dusty road. Sandy clouds of oily diesel smoke
corkscrewed behind and into the covered vehicle, adding to the
unpleasantness of the day.
The men were silent—each one focused on the job ahead to be done
or wondering why someone hadn't written to them in weeks or
counting how many more days they had before they'd be done with this
tour or not thinking about anything, shutting their mind down from
going places that were better left unexplored.
The truck dropped into a deep pothole with a thud, knocking the
soldiers up off their seats and into each other.
"Fuck, man . . ." one guy yelled. "Slow the fuck down!"
The gears ground as the driver downshifted, and the truck
lumbered forward.
Sam whimpered and rested his head on Gabe's knee. Gabe
reciprocated by stroking the dog's head.
The soldier sitting next to them smiled and said, "That's okay, Sam,
we're just . . ."
"RPG!" The dreaded shout came from the cab of the truck.
Before anyone had a chance to react, the world exploded and
turned on its side. Men, dogs and equipment were thrown on top of
each other in what seemed like a slow motion movie scene and at the
same time moved faster than a candle being blown out.
Groans, curses and screams of pain twisted in a blurry tornado of
noise, smoke and confusion as bodies tried to sort themselves out and
disentangle themselves from the mess.
"Fire!" someone shouted from the fog. "Get out! Get out! Get out!"
Gabe lay unconscious at the bottom of the heap. He had been
thrown forward and across the truck, hitting his head on one of the
metal struts supporting the bench.

As men clambered over each other, scrabbling to escape the truck
that lay on its side and was now on fire, bodies shifted and moved.
Soldiers jumped, fell or were pulled from the rear of the truck. As soon
as they hit the sand, they ran or were carried away from the burning
vehicle.
Gabe had been thrown under the bench and towards the front of
the truck when it was hit and was unseen through the crawling bodies
and thick, acrid smoke coming from the burning engine.
Sam had been thrown from the truck as soon as it was hit. As men
leapt from the truck, he frantically checked each one, running back and
forth, looking for Gabe.
The intense heat of the burning cab combined with the oppressive
heat of the day, the wounded and bleeding men lying several feet from
the blaze that had now engulfed the tarp covering the roof of the truck
bed and the shouts of orders being given created an overwhelming,
chaotic sensory stew.
But Sam was focused. With his ears cocked forward, his intense
brown eyes bulging, he put all his attention into his snout and headed
back towards the now blazing truck.
"Sam, get away! Come!" the young handler who had been sitting
across from Gabe and Sam called out, seeing the dog charging toward
the truck.
As keen as the Malinois' hearing was, the commands didn't
register, and Sam leapt through the flames into the rear of the truck.
Even through the dense smoke, he at first sensed, then identified
Gabe's crumpled body and tripped and slipped his way across the
slanted floor. Reaching Gabe's unconscious body, he licked his
handler's face, but getting no reaction, he bit into Gabe's flak jacket
and yanked his body foot by foot to the rear of the truck. Flakes of
burning tarp dropped from above, singeing his coat, but he seemed
oblivious to the pain.
When Sam reached the opening, he realized the drop to the ground
was too far for him to successfully pull Gabe down. He studied the
situation, pacing back and forth and whining.

What now? Got to get out of here.
Men were moving bodies or firing rifles not far from where he
stood.
"Hey!" Sam barked, but the people were occupied, and his bark was
lost in the chatter of the gunfight.
"HEY! HEY!"
The handler who had seen Sam running towards the truck earlier
and his dog heard Sam's barks and charged up to him and pulled Gabe
from the wreckage as Sam jumped down.
"Medic!" the handler cried as he carried Gabe's body to safety.
Sam and the other dog joined in, barking sharply as they moved.
Once they were at a safe distance, the handler put Gabe on the
ground and checked him over for wounds and burns. Besides some
minor singes on his cheek and burnt hair, there didn't seem to be much
damage. However, there was a fair-sized laceration on his head from
where he had hit the metal strut. Sam stood over Gabe's body and
licked at the bleeding wound.
"Back, Sam!" the handler commanded and tried to shoo Sam away
so the medic would be able to examine Gabe's head. But Sam growled
a deep-throated warning before snapping viciously at the man's hand.
A medic came up with a first aid kit, and the two men were able to
get Sam to allow them to minister to Gabe. But, Sam stood at attention,
intently watching their every move, ready to attack if need be.
I can see you're trying to help, but if anything goes wrong, I'll rip
your heads off.
Once they had finished dressing Gabe's wound, Sam moved back
in and sniffed the bandage, then licked Gabe's face and settled down
next to his body with his head on Gabe's chest.
"Better check him out, too," the handler said, pointing to Sam.
The two men treated the burns on Sam's back and snout with
ointment, but Sam didn't move from where he lay as they worked on
him, except at one point where the medic gently rubbed some lotion
on his nose, and Sam softly licked his hand.

Indistinct noises and the smell of burning rubber burrowed their way
into Gabe's consciousness. The next sense he got was a throbbing pain
in his skull. He opened one eye and saw Sam's brown/black head
resting on his chest, eyebrows furrowed and his eyes focused intently
on Gabe's face.
He draped his arm over his dog and croaked, "Hey, buddy, you
okay?"
Sam's eyes softened from concern to relief, and he wagged his tail,
sweeping sandy dirt into the air. He licked Gabe's cheek, leaving a
clean smear through the dust on his face.
Gabe winced as he turned on his side, propping himself up on one
arm and observed his surroundings. There were other men on the
ground nearby being treated or dead, he couldn't tell. Two badly
charred husks of soldiers were off to the side. He glanced at what was
left of the truck—a smoldering black junk pile and the cab torn into
quarters where the RPG had hit. The two burned bodies were
undoubtedly the driver and his passenger.
"Shit," Gabe said as he took in the burnt carcass of the truck he'd
been pulled from. The medic who had dressed his wound, noticing
Gabe was conscious, came over and asked him how he was doing.
"I'm okay. What happened? RPG?"
"Yeah," said the medic. "Tore the shit out of the truck. Couple dead.
Johnson and Sanchez."
"Fuck."
"Yeah. You would be too if it wasn't for your dog."
Gabe glanced at Sam whose tail slapped the ground at the
attention.
"The truck was on fire, and you were stuck inside. Your boy here
jumped in and pulled you out just before the engine exploded. You'da
been toast. No one knew you were in there."
Gabe reached over and put his arm around Sam's neck. He couldn't
speak because of the lump in his throat, so he just rubbed the dog's
ears.

"We got a fire fight going on here, so just lay still for now. I'll check
back on you."
"Thanks, man," Gabe croaked.
The medic stood and headed over to one of the other wounded
men. Gabe held Sam's head to his chest and said, "Thanks, Samuel."
He paused, locked onto Sam's sensitive brown eyes. "I love you, boy,"
he whispered. For a moment it was just him and his dog. The chaos
around them was in another zone of consciousness.
"You had my back. And I'll have yours. Always. Brothers." He held
his hand out, and Sam lifted his paw and placed it in Gabe's palm.
The scream of an RPG heading out drew Gabe's attention back to
their circumstance.
Other soldiers kneeled or stood at the outer edges of the men, guns
drawn, in defensive stances. As he became more aware, Gabe saw that
they were in a ditch by the side of the road. Occasional 'pop, pop, pop!'
blasts in the distance indicated incoming fire. That was followed by the
loud bursts of return fire from the men around him.
Voices started becoming clearer to him. A radioman off to his right
was calling in coordinates, and he could hear the groans of his
wounded comrades nearby. A rifle lay close by him, and he rolled over
to it. He picked up the gun, and ignoring the constant hammering in
his head, stood and stumbled to join the other men on the firing line.
Gabe had barely gone through his first clip when he discerned the
increasing roar of a fighter jet approaching from their rear. Rockets
sliced their way down and into the hills in the distance, firing and
clearing out the shooters hidden in the rocky terrain above them. Blast
after blast pounded into the mountains, sending rock, dirt and souls
into the air.
The jet passed up and over the mountains, its engines screaming,
and disappeared into the sky, headed back to base.
There was no cheering as the plane left, just an exhausted silence,
save for the groaning men, that followed the bombing, as the soldiers
sunk to the ground, lost in their own thoughts.

A H M E D
S
OME DAYS WEREN'T TOO BAD. Like today.
Yeah, it was hot, but it was always hot. Gabe and the other men
were spread out on a routine patrol in a usually quiet part of
Kandahar City. Quiet, that is, because there was a sense of
cautious calm. Life went on somewhat normally in this neighborhood.
People shopped, bargained and drank tea in the cafés.
It wasn't quiet for lack of noise, though. The chattering in the stalls
of the market, the noisy cars and pick-ups honking and winding crazily
through the crowds, the bleating of the goats and sheep, the kids
running up to them, hands out, begging or hawking cheap CDs, gum,
hats, candy and trinkets all provided a cacophony of sounds of
normalcy.
Gabe, Sam and Terry Swanson patrolled together along the street,
taking in the smells, good and bad. Incense and spicy cooking meat
aromas wafted pleasantly through the air. But the putrid smells of
rancid garbage and feces also assailed their senses.
A dark-eyed little girl, no more than 4 years old, came up to them
and offered a small package of cookies to Gabe.
"You buy for him?" she asked, pointing to Sam, her big eyes full of
hope.
Gabe shook his head and pulled a candy bar from his jacket pocket,
handing it to the girl. "No, but would you like this?"

A broad grin spread across her face as she took the candy bar,
clasped her hands together and nodded at him in thanks.
"Can I . . .?" she asked, indicating she wanted to pet Sam.
"No, you'd better not . . ." Gabe started to say, but the girl was
already running her hand down Sam's head and back, and the dog's
closed eyes and smile signified his pleasure.
The girl turned and scampered away. Sam watched her go and
wagged his tail.
"Cute kid," said Swanson.
"Yeah," replied Gabe. "Always nice when they aren't wearing a
suicide vest."
As they walked further down the street, a lanky, curly-haired boy,
probably sixteen, approached them with a broad grin on his face.
"American!" he called. "I have something you want." He held up a
tattered comic book. "Only one dollar."
Gabe waved him off. "No thanks."
"Yes. You like very much this to read. Promise. 50 cents. Believe
me." He pushed the comic towards Gabe's hand.
"I said no thank you," Gabe said.
"Look, I show." The young man looked around briefly and then
opened the first few pages of the comic book, revealing a scribbled
note.
Gabe looked at the note and then the boy again. The boy nodded
his head towards the note.
Gabe took the magazine from the boy and read the scribbled
message without taking it from the comic. As he did, he noticed the boy
looking around again, the smile not leaving his face, though his eyes
reflected some concern.
The note read: I help. Americans good. I know where bombs
made.
Gabe showed the note to Swanson, and they exchanged looks, then
he turned back to the boy.
The boy nodded and said, "You like to read? Is good, no? Want to
buy?" He held out his palm.

Gabe paused, then looked the boy in the eye. "What's your name?"
"Ahmed," the boy smiled and stretched out his hand further.
Gabe shook it and said, "Nice to meet you, Ahmed. Here." He rolled
the comic book under his arm and reached into his pocket and pulled
out a dollar and gave it to Ahmed. In a quiet voice, he said, "Did you
write this?"
Ahmed nodded once, his smile gone.
"Why?"
Ahmed glanced around once more, then said, "Talley bad. Kill and
rape my sisters and mother. Shoot dead my father and my brothers. I
have much hate for Taliban. Want to help America."
"You know where this place is?" Gabe asked.
Ahmed nodded.
"Is it close?"
Another nod.
Gabe glanced at Swanson who shrugged and said, "We should
report this to Intel."
"Right," said Gabe, "but let's go check it out first."
"Yeah, but I don't want to walk into any ambush. You trust this
kid?"
Gabe looked closely at Ahmed, then held out his hand to the boy.
"I'm Gabriel." They shook again.
Ahmed tried out the name, "Gabe-ray-al."
Gabe nodded, "That's it. Gabriel. How do we know this isn't a
trap?"
Ahmed wrinkled his brow. "Trep? What is trep?"
"A trap," said Gabe. "Are you going to lead us into a bad place?"
Ahmed pressed his hand to his chest, "No, Gaberayal. I love
America. I hate Taliban. I want to help. I'll keep you safe."
Gabe paused for a moment, and then nodded and said, "Lead on."
The three men and the dog wound their way through the crowd. At
one point, Ahmed turned right onto a narrow side street. The buildings
were close together, blocking the relentless sun and shadowing the
road.

"Ahmed," Gabe said in a low voice. "When we get to the building,
don't point at it; just remove your hat and then put it back on and keep
moving."
Ahmed grinned broadly and nodded his head. He was clearly
enjoying his role.
They casually strolled up the street following Ahmed until they
began to pass a house with a battered wooden door. The young Afghani
removed his wool cap and wiped his brow but kept walking.
Sam stopped for a moment, his ears up, and emitted a low growl,
but Gabe pulled him forward while noting the house out of the corner
of his eye.
The group reached the end of the block and took a turn down
another street that eventually led them back to the busy main road.
Once back in the crowded market, Gabe turned to Ahmed and said,
"How do you know that that place is where they are making bombs?"
"Everybody knows," Ahmed replied. "The man who live there is
bad. Nobody like. But everybody scared, so they say nothing. I am not
scared. He is one of the men who rape my mother." Ahmed's jaw
tightened, and his eyes narrowed, and Gabe noticed he clenched his
fist.
Gabe reached into his pocket and pulled out several bills, which he
proffered to Ahmed via a handshake.
Ahmed declined the offer and stepped back. "No. I don't show for
money. I want to help. You get that man?"
Gabe nodded as he stuffed the bills back in his pocket. "We'll check
it out, Ahmed. If it is as you say, we will get that man. Yes."
The grin returned to Ahmed's face, and he pressed his hands
prayerfully together before him then placed his hand against the top of
his face and bowed slightly at the two soldiers. "As-salaam-alaikum,
Gabrayal."
"Thank you, Ahmed," Gabe said and made a peace sign. "You are a
good man."
Ahmed turned, and within moments, he was absorbed into the
bustling crowd of people.

Swanson and Gabe looked at each other after Ahmed had
disappeared. Swanson said, "What do you think?"
"I think we need to talk to the Intel guys."
At that moment, loud shouts from the crowd behind them made
them turn to see a green Toyota pick-up with a machine-gun mounted
on it careening down the street followed by a dented white van.
Gabe and Swanson stepped back out of the way, but the van slid to
a stop right next to them, and two men with black hoods covering their
faces leapt out, grabbed them as they tried to bring up their rifles and
shoved them into the van. As they pushed Gabe in, Sam became
enraged and tried to attack the man handling Gabe. One of the other
men kicked at Sam and knocked him away with the butt of his
automatic rifle.
The door slid shut, and the van tore down the road.
End of free sample
Paperback and ebooks may be purchased
at local and online bookstores
and at
christophermatthewspub.com

Author's Note
Military Working Dogs (MWDs) provide many services for our country
under dire circumstances that put their lives in great danger. They are
always on the front lines of the war zones they are active in, searching
for explosives, tracking enemies and protecting and saving the lives of
our men and women in combat.
Those that were used in Vietnam were often abandoned or put
down when they were no longer needed. They were considered
"surplus equipment," having no value beyond the military purpose for
which they were trained. It wasn't until 2000 that President Bill
Clinton signed H.R. 53214, also known as Robby's Law, that these
amazing dogs were protected. The law requires that all MWDs suitable
for adoption be available for placement after their service. Now, these
incredible dogs are honorably discharged and returned home, often to
live with their handlers. Sadly, many of them, like Sam, suffer with
PTSD just as our human veterans do.
There are many excellent organizations geared to veterans like the
Wounded Warrior Project that provide services for our returning
soldiers. However, there are far fewer organizations that work with
veteran war dogs. These organizations provide medical care, adoptions
and other services to our veteran service dogs. They all welcome
donations. For more information, visit their websites.
Mission K9 Rescue
http://missionk9rescue.org/ Their mission is "To rescue, reunite, rehome,
rehabilitate and repair any retired working dog that has served
mankind in some capacity."

U.S. War Dog Association
http://www.uswardogs.org/ "The United States War Dogs
Association, Inc. is a nonprofit organization of Former and Current US
Military Dog Handlers and supporting members committed to
promoting the long history of the Military Service Dogs, establishing
permanent War Dog Memorials, and educating the public about the
invaluable service of these canines to our country.
Our background in military War Dog service and our dedication to
honoring the memory of the service and sacrifice of the US Military
Working Dogs gives us a unique perspective that we can use to educate
the public on the history of Military War Dogs.
Objectives:
1. Education–With the use of our Traveling U. S. War Dog Exhibit,
bring the history of all U. S. Military War Dogs from all wars to the
general public.
2. War Dog Memorial–Help raise funds to establish War Dog
Memorials.
3. K-9 Corps Commemorative Stamp Drive Sign on for petitions to
have the Postal Service issue a commemorative stamp for all Military
Working Dogs.
4. National Memorial–Help to establish a National War Dog
Memorial in Washington, DC.
5. Support service dog organizations such as Military Working
Dogs, Police K-9 units and Search and Rescue units.
6. K-9 Adoption–Help in the process of adopting retiring Military
and Police Canines.
7. Support–Post-deployment outreach for returning troops.
8. Free Rx Prescription Drug Program for Retired Military
Working Dogs."
The Warrior Dog Foundation
http://warriordogfoundation.org/about/ "The Warrior Dog
Foundation is dedicated to serving the special operations K-9
community. The SOF K-9s deployed with these forces are of the top

tier in the working-dog world. They are expected to perform in the
most austere of environments and face conditions that most human
beings cannot survive."
Military Working Dog Team Support Association
https://mwdtsa.org/ "The MWDTSA supports dog teams currently
deployed in harm’s way, promotes veteran dog handler causes and
events, advocates for retired military working dogs (MWD), educates
the public and raises funds for War Dog Memorials, among other
MWD related objectives."
K9 Hero Haven
http://www.k9herohaven.org "100% volunteer organization dedicated
to serving the military, veterans and first responders by providing
working dogs a home for retirement."
Send a care package!
Bark Post provides a service to send a care package to a dog serving
overseas.
http://stories.barkpost.com/care-packages-soldier-dogs/

A B O U T T H E A U T H O R
Jeremy Soldevilla spent many years in the publishing industry in
Boston, while harboring a lifelong desire to write books himself. In
2004 he moved to Montana with his dogs, his cat and his wife and
opened a bed and breakfast in Bozeman high up in the Rocky
Mountains. The awesome beauty of Montana was inspirational, and he
wrote his first books. He moved back to Boston ten years later where
he continues to write and publish books with his two dogs, Josie, a
Golden Retriever/Lab mix, and Cooper, a Golden Retriever, sleeping
at his feet.
Other books by Jeremy Soldevilla
Thief Creek Ohio newlyweds Steve and Heather have been looking
forward to their honeymoon in a rustic bed and breakfast. Nestled in
the remote Rocky Mountains of Montana the Thief Creek Inn seems
just the place to relax and enjoy the peaceful and wildly beautiful
surroundings. The violent Toomey brothers, on the run after their
escape from prison, are looking for a secluded hideaway as well. Butch,
the lumbering tattooed harelip murderer; Jesse James Toomey, the
cruel leader of the gang; and JP are desperately trying to save the life
of their younger brother Tommy when an accident brings them to the
Thief Creek Inn. Innkeeper Mike Preston is a peaceful man who, with

his wife, Annie, a nurse, bought the inn as a retreat from their stressful
lives in Seattle. When the Toomey brothers show up, life is suddenly
turned upside down for everyone at the Thief Creek Inn. As one reader
put it, “This is an action-packed thrill ride!” Another claimed it to be
“one of the best books I have read in a long time.” It’s a real page turner
you won’t be able to put down till the last heart-stopping moment.
Murder in the Mountains Katie Cathcart’s gruesome murder in the
remote Crazy Mountains of Montana points at an eccentric modern
day mountain man, Bridger Jackson, living in a hidden cave away from
society. Ignoring the sheriff’s warnings and bent on revenge for his
sister-in-law’s death, JJ Volker grabs his gun and goes tracking
Jackson’s trail in hopes of not only avenging Katie's death but of
reestablishing the love of his wife. His expert tracking techniques make
him the only man likely to be able to locate the mountain man from
whom he learned those techniques, Bridger Jackson. But is he on the
right trail to find either?
Books may be purchased at www.christophermatthewspub.com
or local and online bookstores.