No Man Left Behind: A Veteran Inspired Charity Anthology by Elizabeth Knox (black authors fiction TXT) 📕

The characters in the book are creations of the author and any similarities to people living or dead is coincidental. The author acknowledges copywritten business, places, and movies that may or may not be mentioned in the book should in no way be seen as an advertisement or endorsement. Trademarked names are used in an illustrative manner and with no intention of trademark or copyright infringement of owner or authors’ works.

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Move past the things that tried to destroy you. You’ll be surprised how strong you really are when given the chance to shine.

Kade joined the military to escape the hellish nightmare of life in the Flats of Portstill. Needing more than the dismal surrounding, he served his country with pride and honor. An accident ended his enlistment, and he found his way back home, unsure of what his future would be. After meeting the Death Hounds MC, Kade found a place that gave him the brotherhood he craved and an outlet for his anger.

Sadie hid herself away, running from the pain of her past, and working to provide for her younger brothers. One night, a random stranger forced her to run to the MC for protection and there, she found more than what she was looking for. When the Death Hounds say you’re family, you’re family for life.

Can two broken souls heal each other or will the pain from their past keep them on their solitary path? When death comes knocking, who do you want on your side?

This is the first installment of the Death Hounds MC, a new series from Author H.J. Marshall.

Chapter One

Kade — 2005

The bus slowing down woke me from my restless nap and I blinked away the light shining through the dirty window. Being home should foster some warm feeling of relief and love, but home was always a place I tried to avoid. My mom split when I was still in diapers and my pops worked his fingers to the bone, just to keep a crappy roof over our head and barely enough food in our stomachs.

I don’t know why I chose here to complete my rehab, but something called for me to come home. Even though I had no place to live and no family to speak of, there was one thing that brought me back and tomorrow I planned to retrieve it from storage. The bus pulled to a stop, and I stood from my seat, stretching my aching back. Grabbing the seat next to me, I squatted down and stood straight, helping to ease the throbbing pain in my thigh.

Walking down the small aisle, I exited and waited for the driver to grab my duffel bag from under the bus. My trip had been the longest, which meant they tucked my luggage in the back, so I waited while he pulled the other passengers’ bags off. Looking around, I saw familiar buildings and shook my head, wishing I was still in the Army.

“Thank you for your service,” the driver said as he handed my bag to me. “We’re glad you’re home.”

“Thanks,” I muttered and looped the green strap over my shoulder, walking away with nearly all my possessions in one bag.

My painful steps pushed me further away from the bus station and closer to the motel down the street. Portstill wasn’t a bad city, per se, but it left a tremendous amount to be desired. The jobs left when the mill burned down a few years before I enlisted, taking away the town’s hope for prosperity. Slowly the town was finding its way back but there was a small section of town, three square miles to be exact, that was the worst of the worst.

The Flats.

If you wanted drugs, women, guns, or if you were simply looking for trouble, the Flats was the first place to look. I should know. I lived in the middle of its hellish borders until my eighteenth birthday when I raised my right hand for Uncle Sam. Since I left, the only time I came home was to bury my dad and departed immediately after the funeral.

I was a few blocks from the bus station and all I wanted to do was fall into bed and sleep. It took me three days on the bus to get here, and I needed a shower, clean clothes, actual food, and the company of a woman. Knowing the latter wasn’t going to happen anytime soon, I kept walking, hiking my duffle further up my shoulder, and pushing through the discomfort in my leg. The blinking red vacancy sign was a beacon, urging me to keep moving through the pain, reminding me I was still alive, even if I felt part of me was dead. Opening the door, I found the place to be nicer than what I expected, and I rented a room for a week.

I wasn’t worried about trouble, but my Glock .45 was discreetly tucked into my waistband as I moved down the sidewalk. Taking the stairs to the second level, I unlocked the door and found the room appeared nice and it didn’t smell, so I was taking this as a win. Tossing my duffle onto the second bed, I fell onto the other one, exhaling into the semi-comfortable mattress. Laying there for a moment, I resisted the urge to go straight to sleep when my stomach growled, reminding me it was this morning when my snacks ran out.

Thinking of the last three months of hell, I felt the walls close in on me and I worked on the breathing exercise the counselor gave me. I took a round from a friendly fire incident when I was stationed in Iraq. The shot shattered my femur and destroyed my military career at the same time. The pain from the bullet was excruciating, but not nearly as much as