Malakai Stone

Down in the ground where dead people grow...what the fuck kinda hell is this? The air is cold and damp and smothering. Heavy and stale with the smell of death. There's no sound except for that of his own breathing. How the hell did a good home-grown boy from deep East Texas end up here?
For Malakai Stone there is only one answer or rather a name...Paul Kincaid, yet in all fairness Malakai knew there were other names that needed to go in to the "I will get sweet revenge on" bucket list of his. Even his own grandfather was part of the conspiracy to get him away from Cripple Creek.
I will not die in this cave...words he kept repeating over and over. How many hours? He had no way of knowing. His earpiece and headgear were not working and he knew by the body parts surrounding him that his team was gone, blown to hell.
Once again he tried to move, to pull himself out from under the debris pinning him down but it was useless. The touch of the wind felt like a soft caress reminding him of his sweet Liberty, he'd prayed for the last thing he ever heard on this earth to be the sound of her voice and the feel of her lips on his...I would crawl a thousand miles just to kiss you one last time....and I would give you my last breath to bring you home. Those were the words they'd said to each other the day he left home. He tried again and this time one of the large rocks fell and he moved.
Home he would make it home to her, and God help anyone that tried to separate them again.