Free The Light at the End of the Tunnel by James W. Nelson Page A

don’t think I
want you.” Then she added even lower, “I don’t think I even like you.”
    Cassandra blinked. She hadn’t meant to, and
continued not looking at the woman.
    “In fact,” the woman said, while turning
away, “I’ll ask my husband tonight. Maybe we’ll take you back right
away…tomorrow.” The woman stopped at the door and looked back at
the crib where the child lay silently. The child didn’t move.
Nothing, “Humpff…” The woman said, then stepped into the hall and
closed the door.

     
    Chapter 17 For Graduation

    A total of eight months had passed at the
training facility.
    Even though all seven men showed utmost
professionalism, still it also felt to the chaplain that what went
on there was absolutely just inside the law. Riley of course had
told him that they sometimes did jobs for certain people. But still
the chaplain wondered where, exactly, two or three of the men went
at times, and what, exactly, they did while away from the facility.
But he never asked.
    Nicole wondered too. They took their breaks
together and that was the main time they even got to see each
other, that and meals, where Sadie often took a lot of Nicole’s
attention. That didn’t bother the chaplain, though, He was glad
Nicole had somebody, besides himself.
    He also asked about everybody’s history.
Riley Stokes was ex-navy SEAL. Tucker was ex-Underwater Demolition
Team or UDT, “A navy special forces unit developed during WWII and
re-designated around 1983,” Tucker explained, “It wasn’t the same
anymore. And then of course the SEALs came along back during
Vietnam.” He then grinned toward Stokes.
    The other men were all ex-military, all
services represented except the Coast Guard, “In fact,” Riley said
at one of their end-of-day meals, “If you ever do run into any
Coast Guard personnel, give’em my phone number.”
    With training in the shooting and cleaning of
several kinds of guns, self-defense including both Taekwondo and
Judo, both felt nearly ready to get back to the tracking of Les
Paul. The chaplain had drawn the line on explosives, but Nicole
would have liked it but then agreed: They probably would never have
need to blow anybody up. The months of training, though, had left
both the chaplain and Nicole with unsettling and confusing
feelings. All that to track a child approaching three years old?
But of course he wouldn’t always be only three. Still, their
training sometimes seemed somewhat unnecessary.
    Their early evenings were spent in book
learning about private investigation. For questions they had Riley
himself and all the other men for answers. Finally, toward the end
of the eight months, Riley told them, “You can take your private
investigator test right here, as this is a bona fide school. I’m
recognized not only by the state of Arizona but by the US
government. And you’ll want to at least own a handgun—“
    “Just one?” Nicole cut in, “I want my own
gun.”
    Riley smiled, “Of course, and you should have
your own. What would you like?”
    “I want a gun like Sean Connery used in the
James Bond movies.”
    Riley increased his smile, “A Walther PPK. It
uses .380 ammunition and should fit your feminine hand quite
nicely.”
    “Thank you.” She smiled at Riley, then
grasped the chaplain’s arm and smiled even bigger for him.
    “Kind of an interesting story about that
little gun,” Riley said, “After WWII Europe kind of wanted to
believe in peace on earth, I guess, so Carl Walther, of Germany,
and later some company in France—I don’t know all the details, and
now they’re also manufactured here by Smith and Wesson—but, what I
was getting at, Europe wanted that gun to be tough, yet smaller
than what the military had. I guess they figured if the military
had the slightly bigger gun they could control the masses.” He
sobered, “Maybe in Europe they can pull that off, but good luck at
ever doing it here.”
    Riley then turned his attention to, “And