A Contemporary Military and Conspiracy Thriller

The Long End Game

Chapter One

Read the opening chapter of Scott D. McMurtrey’s contemporary thriller.

The coffee had gone cold an hour ago.

Dr. Marcus Webb sat at the kitchen table in the gray light of a Tuesday morning, the letter spread flat beneath his palms like something that might blow away. Outside, October rain tapped against the window in Morse code rhythms he could have decoded once, back when his mind was sharp enough to cut glass, before the pills made everything soft-edged and distant. Now it was just rain. Just water finding its way down.

The paper was already soft at the creases where he’d folded and unfolded it. Danny had mailed it from Parris Island seven months ago, and Marcus had been carrying it in his jacket pocket ever since: through Danny’s graduation from boot camp, through the deployment to Afghanistan, through all the weeks of silence punctuated by brief, careful phone calls that revealed nothing. The ink had faded slightly where his fingers had traced the same lines over and over.

Dad,

Parris Island is exactly what I needed. Nobody here gives a damn that I can recite the periodic table or that I tested out of calculus in eighth grade. They care if you can do fifty pull-ups. If you can field strip an M4 in thirty seconds. If you can keep your mouth shut and your head down.

I know you don’t understand why I’m here. You probably think I’m wasting my potential or running away or both. Maybe you’re right. But for the first time since Mom died, I feel like I’m building something instead of just being something. Does that make sense?

Marcus’s thumb traced the edge of the paper. His son’s handwriting had always been terrible, a doctor’s scrawl, inherited honestly. The ink was smudged in places where sweat or rain had touched it.

Remember when I was twelve and those kids locked me in my locker? You came to school and tried to explain to the principal that statistically, high-IQ children face increased rates of peer victimization. You had charts, Dad. Actual charts. The principal nodded and smiled and did nothing, and the next week they did it again.

Here, if someone has a problem with you, you settle it in the ring. It’s honest. Brutal, but honest. I like that.

The kitchen was too quiet. It had been too quiet for three years, since Sarah died in what the Department of Homeland Security called a training accident. Marcus knew better. He’d known the moment they showed up at his door with their practiced condolences and carefully worded reports.

They’d let him retreat to academia after that, a teaching position at a third-tier state university, grading undergraduates’ lab reports and publishing nothing that mattered. The deal was simple: take your pills, keep your head down, and we’ll leave you and your son alone. He’d kept his end of the bargain. Meanwhile, Danny had grown tall and distant, a stranger who ate breakfast in silence and spent his evenings at the gym, building muscle onto a frame that had always been too thin, too bookish.

I made Expert on the rifle range yesterday. The DI said I have a natural eye for it. Funny, all those years of being called a nerd, and it turns out I’m good at shooting things.

I’m not trying to hurt you by being here. I just need to be someone other than “the kid genius” or “the dead woman’s son” or “Marcus Webb’s boy.” I need to be just… me. Even if I have to figure out who that is.

Marcus lifted his coffee cup, remembered it was cold, and set it down again. The kitchen table was scarred oak, bought at an estate sale twenty years ago. Sarah had loved it. Said it had character. Now it just had coffee rings and the weight of too many silent meals.

We ship out next month. Can’t tell you where, they’re serious about OPSEC here. But I’ll write when I can. And Dad? I know I don’t say it enough, but I’m grateful. For everything. For raising me alone after Mom. For never making me feel like I had to be you. Even though I know you wanted me to.

I’m proud to be your son. I hope someday you’ll be proud of me too.

Love, Danny

The signature was a hasty scrawl, as if he’d written it quickly before he could change his mind.

Marcus folded the letter carefully along its worn creases. His hands were steady. They’d always been steady, even when his heart wasn’t. He’d performed complex calculations in his head while his wife’s body cooled beside him. He’d delivered her eulogy without his voice breaking once. Steadiness was what he had left when everything else had been taken.

He stood, joints creaking, forty years old and already feeling ancient, and carried his cold coffee to the sink. The rain had picked up, drumming harder against the glass. The kitchen clock read 8:47. He had a faculty meeting at ten. A graduate student’s dissertation defense at two. Life continuing its forward march whether he was ready or not.

The knock came as he was rinsing the cup.

Three sharp raps, official and measured. Not the knock of a neighbor or a deliveryman. Marcus set the cup in the sink and dried his hands on a dish towel, taking his time. Through the frosted glass panel beside the door, he could make out two dark shapes, tall and rigid.

He walked down the narrow hallway, past the photographs on the wall: Sarah on their wedding day, Danny as a gap-toothed seven-year-old holding his first science fair trophy, the three of them at Cape Cod the summer before everything ended.

His hand found the doorknob.

He turned it.

The door swung open. October cold rushed in, and there they stood: a Marine captain and a gunnery sergeant, both in service alpha uniforms. The captain’s face was young but carved from stone. On his lapel was the cross signifying he was a chaplain. The gunnery sergeant was older, gray at the temples, and his eyes held something Marcus’s brilliant mind couldn’t immediately name.

It might have been pity.

The captain’s mouth opened.

And Marcus Webb, who had earned two PhDs from MIT before he could drive, who could calculate orbital trajectories in his head and recite the half-lives of radioactive isotopes, who had always been the smartest person in every room he entered, finally understood what it meant to know nothing at all.

“Dr. Webb?” the captain said. His voice was carefully modulated, practiced. He’d done this before.

“Yes.”

“Sir, the Gunnery Sergeant and I are from the United States Marine Corps. I am the Casualty Assistance Calls Officer. May we come in, sir?”

Marcus stepped back. The two Marines entered, removing their covers in synchronized motion. Water beaded on their shoulders. They stood in the narrow hallway, too large for the space, and Marcus noticed details his mind catalogued automatically: the captain’s name tag read MORRISON, the gunnery sergeant’s read KELSO, and neither man would meet his eyes directly.

“Dr. Webb,” Captain Morrison began, “on behalf of the Commandant of the Marine Corps and a grateful nation—”

“How?” Marcus interrupted.

Morrison paused. “Sir?”

“How did my son die?”

The captain’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “Perhaps we should sit down, sir.”

“I’d prefer to stand.”

A beat of silence. Rain against the windows. The kitchen clock ticking in the other room.

“Lance Corporal Daniel Webb was killed in action on October 9th during an enemy assault on Forward Operating Base Rhino in Helmand Province, Afghanistan.” Morrison’s voice shifted into something rehearsed, mechanical. “At this point his death is being ruled as ‘not in the line of duty’ due to misconduct. His actions cost the lives of several Marines under his command.”

Marcus’s mind, that terrible precise instrument, noted the passive construction. Was killed. Not was shot or died from wounds sustained. The language of obfuscation.

“Are you trying to say my son was a coward? What were the circumstances?”

“There was a coordinated Taliban attack on the base perimeter. Multiple insurgents breached the wire. Your son—” Morrison hesitated. “Your son, as reported, turned from his post and attempted to flee. Due to his actions several of his fellow Marines were shot and killed.”

“You expect me to believe my son was a coward and contributed to the deaths of his friends?”

“I’m sorry, sir?”

“You said, ‘as reported.’ Reported by whom?”

Gunnery Sergeant Kelso shifted his weight. Morrison’s stone face didn’t crack, but something flickered behind his eyes.

Another pause. Longer this time.

“The situation was confused, Dr. Webb. It was night. There was smoke, explosions. These things happen in combat. No one knows how someone will act under fire until they’re in it.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Marcus hissed. “Reported by whom?”

Something cold settled into Marcus’s chest. Not grief, not yet. That would come later. This was something else. A pattern emerging from chaos. Data points connecting.

Morrison’s face went blank. “Sir, I don’t have those details—”

“You have a report. I know how the military works. There’s a report. Autopsy findings. Ballistics. Someone examined my son’s body and wrote down what they found.” Marcus kept his voice level, almost clinical. “Who witnessed my son running away?”

The two Marines exchanged a glance.

“Dr. Webb, I understand you’re in shock, but I can’t discuss operational details—”

“Who. Was. There.”

Morrison’s jaw clenched. When he spoke again, his voice had hardened. “Multiple Marines were in the vicinity. The investigation is ongoing. When it’s complete, you’ll be notified of any findings. You’re entitled to the personnel casualty report. It will be made available as soon as possible.”

Marcus looked at him. Really looked at him. Saw the careful stonework of his expression, the rehearsed sympathy, the wall behind his eyes. This man knew something he wasn’t saying.

“When can I see my son’s body?”

“He’s being transported to Dover Air Force Base. You’ll be notified when he arrives so you can be there.”

“I want to see the report. Including the autopsy.”

“That’s not standard procedure—”

“I don’t care about standard procedure. I want the autopsy report, the ballistics analysis, and the incident report from the base commander.”

Morrison’s face could have been carved from marble. “Sir, I understand your grief, but these are military matters. The investigation will follow proper channels.”

“Then I’ll follow improper ones.”

Something dangerous flashed in Morrison’s eyes, gone as quickly as it appeared. “Dr. Webb, I strongly advise you not to interfere with a military investigation. These matters are handled internally.”

Marcus smiled. It felt strange on his face, like a mask that didn’t quite fit. “Captain Morrison, I helped develop weapon systems for DARPA. I have security clearances that would make your eyes water. I’ve sat in rooms with people who could end your career with a phone call.” His voice dropped lower, colder. “And my son is dead. So you’ll forgive me if I don’t particularly give a damn about your advice.”

The two Marines stood silent. Outside, the rain had become a downpour.

Kelso moved first, stepping toward the door with the careful deliberation of a man carrying weight that had nothing to do with his uniform. Morrison followed, jaw tight, movements precise, the practiced efficiency of someone trained to execute orders without question. He crossed the threshold into the rain, his dress blues darkening as water soaked the fabric. At the curb, Morrison turned back briefly, hand on the car door. For a moment his eyes met Marcus’s. Then he lowered himself into the sedan with the finality of a coffin lid closing.

Kelso lingered at the doorway. “Sir, we’re truly sorry for your loss.” Then, in a tone only Marcus could hear: “Danny was a good Marine. The best I’ve ever seen. He died a hero.”

Something in the way he said it made Marcus look at him more carefully. The gunnery sergeant’s eyes held something Morrison’s didn’t, regret, maybe, or guilt. And something else: fear.

“You knew him,” Marcus said.

“I was his platoon sergeant. Trained him myself.” Kelso’s voice roughened. “He was special, sir. Not just smart, though damn, he was smart. He had that thing you can’t teach. Leadership. Men followed him because they trusted him to bring them home.”

Kelso’s face went tight. He looked like he wanted to say something, then thought better of it.

Morrison called from the car, “We should go, Gunny.”

Kelso held out an envelope. “This contains information about benefits, funeral arrangements, and contact information for casualty assistance. An officer will be assigned to help you with whatever you need.”

Marcus took it. The envelope was heavier than it looked.

“One more question,” he said.

Kelso waited.

“The other Marines there that night. The ones in the vicinity when my son was shot. Where are they now?”

“I can’t discuss—”

“Are they still in Afghanistan?”

Kelso’s jaw worked, like he was chewing on something bitter. “Some have rotated stateside.”

“Can you tell me who filled out the witness report?” Marcus asked, his voice still soft.

Kelso answered quietly. “I can’t do that, sir. But I can tell you that if you pursue this, you’ll be fighting the entire United States Marine Corps.” He said it not as a threat, but with hope in his voice.

Marcus smiled again, that terrible, cold smile. “Gunnery Sergeant Kelso, I’ve been losing things my whole life. My childhood. My wife. Now my son. You’d be surprised how little I have left to lose.”

Kelso opened the door. Cold wind and rain swept in.

On the front step, he turned back.

“Dr. Webb,” he said quietly, nearly drowned out by the rain. “Sometimes the truth doesn’t set you free. Sometimes it just builds a different kind of prison.”

Then he was gone, walking through the downpour to the black sedan at the curb where Captain Morrison waited.

Marcus closed the door.

He walked back to the kitchen and picked up Danny’s letter from the table. Read the last line again.

I hope someday you’ll be proud of me too.

He folded it carefully and placed it in his breast pocket, over his heart.

Then Dr. Marcus Webb, who had been the youngest person ever to earn a doctorate from MIT, who understood the mathematics of splitting atoms and the chemistry of life itself, sat down at his scarred oak table and began planning how to destroy the people who had taken his son.

The rain drummed on.

The coffee grew cold.

And in the silence, something that had been sleeping in Marcus Webb for a very long time opened its eyes.

© 2026 Scott D. McMurtrey. All rights reserved.