by Scott McEwen
Which was just as well to Jalen. He had given up TV after the first morning he saw the news footage of the park in Austin. It seemed they would never stop talking about it. Night after night of candlelight vigils. The loved ones crying for the fifty-three people killed. The first time he saw the small towers of flowers piling up in front of the picnic tables, he flicked the TV off and hurled the remote at the screen.
While most kids would be happy to have their divorced parents reunited under one roof, Jalen knew it just meant he’d be in the middle of the verbal equivalent of a UFC fight. When the yelling got to be too much, Jalen would sneak out at night, lifting his bedroom window and dropping down silently into the grass. He never wanted to go anywhere in particular; he just needed to get out of the safe house. So he could think. He figured if he spent the rest of his life trying, he could do enough good to offset all of the harm he had caused. On one of those nights, he was walking, thinking about how he could fix things, when he realized he’d reached the filling station a mile from his house. He saw a bum slumped against the wall outside the gas station, an empty Styrofoam cup in his limp hand.
Jalen pulled a couple of dollars out of his pocket and bent down. “Here you go,” he said to the man.
“Two dollars?” the man yelled. “Come on, man. Can’t even buy a Big Mac for two dollars!” The bum’s eyes were wild, and the whites of his eyes yellow. He crumpled the money and threw it back.
Later, alone in his bed, Jalen pulled the thick tartan comforter over his shoulders and went to sleep, praying, as he did every night, that tomorrow would be different. That like in his video games, he might somehow die and begin again.
* * *
Before Wyatt even opened his eyes, he heard the sound of birds. Their early-morning warbling cut through the woods outside his window, growing louder with the coming dawn. Wyatt stirred in his cot, under the wool blanket, unwilling to open his eyes, forgetting for a minute he was back.
He dressed quickly and stepped out onto the porch. He knew he could not do anything until he talked to someone, but it was not a conversation he was eager to have. He went to the lodge, poured a mug of the hot chocolate Mum made every morning. He took a sip, sweet and hot. Maybe too sweet. He tried something he’d seen older campers do. He poured out some of the hot chocolate and added half a cup of coffee to his mug. He tried it. Not bad. Bitter and sweet. He drained the cup and walked out under the evergreens, heavy and wet with the morning, and made his way down to the Caldera.
From a distance, the Caldera looked ominous, but within the rocky bowl was another world altogether—green and thick with plant life. Pools of clear water dotted the basin, and woven into the interior was the heart of Valor: an obstacle course and shooting range, swimming pool and soccer field, a climbing wall and helicopter landing pad, all manner of military vehicles, camp offices, storage areas, indoor training facilities, and of course, Avi’s secret security lair. All housed in a series of cave-like bunkers dug into the rock cliffs that ringed the inside of the Caldera.
Wyatt hadn’t seen her yet, but he had a good idea where to find her. He punched the buttons on the keypad and entered the bunker that served as the armory. A cold, sterile locker filled with every weapon imaginable. Wyatt had only taken a few steps across the concrete floor before he heard a familiar click and felt the cold metal at the nape of his neck.
“What are you doing in here?” The woman’s voice was raspy and calm.
“Looking for you.” Wyatt turned slowly. He held his hands up, staring beyond the barrel of a Desert Eagle into a face that was half drop-dead gorgeous and half laced in burn scars coming together to make a terrifying yet beautiful face. “Hey, Cass.”
“Heard you were back.” She drew the gun back and put it in the holster on her hip.
Wyatt forced a smile, but he could not keep eye contact. His stomach swirled with butterflies. Her dark eyes. Her tan, perfectly sculpted shoulders. She was so much like her younger sister it caught his breath, except for the fine scars that she wore like a veil on the right side of her face.
“Why won’t you look at me?” Cass said, stepping closer.
“I am.” Wyatt lifted his chin and gazed at her through his shaggy bangs. Still, he could say nothing.
Cass’s long dark hair had been shaved months ago when the doctors removed the 9mm that had been lodged in her skull in the firefight with the Glowworm, but it was now growing back.
“I know what you think.” She stepped even closer. So close he could see the slight deviation of her fake right eye. “And it’s not your fault.”
A huge knot swelled in Wyatt’s throat. “It is.”
“No, what happened to my sister—”
“Was because of me. I was supposed to keep her safe and I got her killed.”
“Don’t you dare cry.”
“I’m not.” Wyatt gritted his teeth and pushed the knot back.
“It was her time. She knew the risks. Dolly was a soldier. And soldiers go when it’s their time. You can’t control that. Nobody controls that. It’s what we sign up for.”
“But Hallsy and I were close … I should’ve known.”
“You should have? Hallsy and I were together at one time. If anyone was close enough to know, it was me. We can’t undo what’s been done…” Cass drew a Sig Sauer P229 Compact from the back of her belt and laid it in Wyatt’s palm. “But we can go after him.”
Wyatt curled his fingers around the cold grip and looked her square in the face. “That’s the only reason I came back.”
“If you’re going to be sneaking into my lair without permission…” a voice said behind them.
They turned to see Avi, drone goggles propped on his head. “Then you better let me help.”
CHAPTER 9
The next few days at Valor were designated to prepping for the arrival of campers and candidates, most of whom would be sprung from juvenile facilities across the U.S.
In many ways, the preparation for their arrival looked like it would for a traditional summer camp—dragging out canoes, sweeping acorns and mouse droppings from musty cabins, mowing grass around the baseball diamond. Then there were other activities, ones more specific to Valor—fueling the military vehicles and motorcycles on base, inspecting the weaponry (RPGs, M4s, and flamethrowers, pistols, carbines), testing the drones, and so on.
To Cody, the division of labor between these two types of tasks seemed a little unfair, as he and Mum, along with Fabian Grant (Mackenzie’s brother, who helped in the kitchen), took care of the more mundane tasks. Meanwhile, in the bowels of the Caldera, his father, brother, and Avi prepped the weaponry. Supplies for the summer were flown in by military plane or helicopter and brought in by boat, loaded onto the Sea Goat. At the end of each prep day, as a reward for hard work, Eldon would take his sons to the shooting range and let them practice their marksmanship with handguns, M4s, and Uzis.
Cody might not have been the strongest one physically, but one thing was clear: the kid could shoot. “This is just awesome,” he said, expending a magazine and watching the bullet rip through the target.
“Believe it or not,” said his father, “a couple weeks from now, the only thing you’re going to want to do at the end of the day is crawl into your bunk. Or take a swim in the lake after it warms up a bit.”
“No,” said Cody, hefting his Glock. “I’m gonna be right here … practicing.”
* * *
Crackling embers and glowing ash rose from the great bonfire, reaching into the vast northern sky in a column of air, only to flame out and drift back down to earth. Wyatt stared into the fire, remembering the previous year’s End of Summer ceremony, which concluded with the somber orange glow of three funeral pyres. Of the three, only one contained a body—Old Man, who fought valiantly but died in a shoot-out. The other two heaps were empty, devoid of human remains, but the effect was the same. Three Valorians—two campers and one staff—had given their lives. Of course, they could not have known that Sergeant Eric
Hallsy, who’d led the funeral ceremony, had been conspiring against Valor during that sacred moment.
And once again they had gathered—Eldon, Avi, Mackenzie, Wyatt, and Mum. The purpose, this time, was to tie loose ends that hung like nooses around the camp’s neck. There was one new face around the circle: Viktoria Kuokalas, an eastern European immigrant who had spent a year at Valor before becoming a naval aviator and F/A-18 pilot. And former instructor at Top Gun. Together, the leaders sat in the firelight, each with a stack of dossiers on their lap.
“The purpose of this meeting,” Eldon began, “is to arrange the groups and teams that operate within them while we await orders from the DoD.”
Everyone nodded, knowing without Eldon having to say it that there was a more pressing agenda—quickly assembling the team that would hunt down Hallsy.
“This year,” Eldon continued, “we only have three members of Group-B from the class of Group-C that graduated last summer: Wyatt and two others who will be coming soon—Rory and Samy. Three operators, no matter how good, are not enough to support a group or a team. So, as I see it, there are two options. We can select two Group-A members from the dossiers in front of you and pull them down to Group-B. Or, we can pull the three Group-B members up into A for the summer, creating a team at the highest level. As my son is part of this discussion, I’m going to recuse myself from this decision.”
Viktoria was the first to assert herself. “Here’s the question: Is it fair to effectively demote qualified Group-As? Or promote Group-Bs that haven’t progressed through that level?”
“Well,” Mackenzie said, “if we’re strictly following protocol, then Group-As should be pulled down.”
“Agreed,” Viktoria said, “making an exception for these three would set a precedent.”
“That precedent has already been set.” Cass stepped out of the woods and took her place in the circle by Avi. “We’ve pulled members of Group-B into Group-A before.”
“But never an entire group,” Viktoria said, not missing a beat.
Cass took the stack of papers from Avi and set them in her lap, the gunpowder on her palms smudging black all over them.
“You’re late,” Avi said under his breath. “Bomb-making again?”
“Defusing.” She smiled.
Viktoria continued, “Sergeant Hallsy is former Golden One Hundred. To say he is a highly trained operator is a huge understatement, and to send young operators after him before they’ve completed their third summer of training is simply reckless. I motion to let this issue rest and pull two members back.”
“Not so fast.” Mum sat on the other side of the fire, stoking it with a long stick. “As you know, I’m here on an honorary basis. This program was my husband’s baby, his dream. He considered it his greatest achievement—building each one of you into the operators you are today,” she said, the firelight catching her watery eyes. “I never personally operated in a mission, never shot a gun in combat, but I’ve supported all of you. Forty years of campers—I’ve fed them, clothed them, buried more than a few. And I’ve never seen a group of campers who’ve been through more real experience, who’ve shown more promise and aptitude, than Rory, Samy, and Wyatt.”
Mum paused, looking over at Wyatt. “And because of that, I think it’s within the bounds of Valor to promote the three to Group-A for the summer. I vote that this point be settled.”
“All right,” said Eldon. “All in favor say aye.”
A series of ayes rang up around the fire.
“Okay, then,” Eldon said. “Wyatt, looks like you’re in Group-A.”
Wyatt nodded, fighting hard not to smile.
“As you were Top Camper last summer and team leader,” Eldon went on, “it’s your responsibility to request team selection.”
Wyatt adjusted his headlamp and looked at the pages in his hand. The dossier for each camper included their police report, a short biography, and their performance record at Valor.
“The first thing I’d like to request,” he said, “is that Rory and Samy remain on my team.”
“Any opposed?” Eldon asked the circle.
Again, Viktoria spoke: “I don’t oppose it, per se, but we all know that the teams benefit from operating with different groups, providing varied experience and teaching the members to not rely on familiarity. This was a key lesson I learned flying for the navy. We always rotated pilots with WSOs.”
“Yes, Lieutenant Kuokalas, I agree with you,” Wyatt said, “and under normal circumstances, I’d like to work with the other members of Group-A, but we have a critical mission: finding Agent Hallsy. Learning the idiosyncrasies of each other’s operating styles is a luxury we don’t have. So for the sake of time, I’d like to retain the team I know best.”
“Okay,” Viktoria conceded. “Who else would you like?”
“Well”—Wyatt cleared his throat—“our primary challenge is the absence of a trail. Hallsy has reduced his digital footprint to nil, so I think we need someone with old-school tracking ability. Mackenzie Grant’s nephew, Pierce Grant. He’s sixteen—young for Group-A—but he’s already a world-class tracker.”
“True.” Mackenzie chuckled. “Growing up in Alaska with Fabian will give you some of those old-school hunting skills.”
“We need someone with experience in covert ops.” Wyatt shifted through some papers. “I noticed an interesting camper here … Mary Alice Stephenson. She’s participated in Group-A two years in a row and been operational the past two summers, so Hallsy would have interacted with her very little, if at all. She’s been on intelligence-gathering assignments in Europe, Russia, and the Middle East, posing variably as the daughter of diplomats, a Live-Aid intern, and a beauty contestant. Mary Alice can help by planning a traditional espionage-intelligence gathering role so that Hallsy doesn’t see us coming.”
Viktoria piped up. “I understand your rationale, but I’d planned on Mary Alice leading the entire Group-A this year. If she’s part of your team, the entire program will not have her experience and leadership here. Also—as the director said”—she looked to Eldon—“the DoD is going to instruct us where to apply our resources. I think aligning our teams to track down one traitor when the leading threat to the United States is the terrorist known as Encyte is putting the cart before the horse.”
“With all due respect,” Cass interrupted. “I think there are plenty left behind to fill the leadership gap.”
“Yes, but we’re all forgetting that there’s an internet terrorist on the loose—one who killed over fifty people. Do you really want to send our best kids on a revenge mission and spread ourselves thin when at any moment we could be called upon to help with Encyte?”
“Lieutenant Kuokalas, when were you last at Valor?” Cass asked calmly.
“I graduated fifteen years ago. Attended the U.S. Naval Academy, flew combat missions in Iraq and Afghanistan, and since then, I’ve been leading programs with the CIA. I’m here for the summer, at Eldon’s direct request.”
“And I deeply appreciate your service. But I don’t think you’ve ever met my sister.”
“No, not in person, but I’ve read her file.” Viktoria lowered her eyes.
“Well, she was a Blue, an elected leader of her group as a Rover, and the best member of Group-C last year. She did not go down easily. Her body was found beaten, likely tortured, and the person who did this to her is the same person who killed Avi’s brother. He did it to cash in on a multimillion-dollar bounty on Eldon, his former mentor!” Cass cut her eyes at Avi, who stared blankly. “This man has waged a full-scale assault on the Valor family for a payout. He has no scruples. Not only does he know our secrets, he knows some of the most classified information at the highest levels of U.S. intelligence. So we need to set our other goals aside, do our duty, and bring this bastard back.”
CHAPTER 10
The weather, which had been crisp and sunny, turned hot. A front shifted in from the north and mingled with the warm air hovering above Camp Valor and brewed
into a violent, almost tropical storm. With pouring rain, high winds, and lightning, preparations ceased and all the staff ran to the lodge to wait it out.
Given the enormous expenditure of energy—the average camper burning in excess of seven thousand calories a day—one of the rules of Valor was that everyone ate well and as much as they could shove down their throats. So Eldon stoked the fire in the huge stone fireplace, and Wyatt and Mum boiled water for coffee and busily whipped up a late-night snack.
When the storm started, Wyatt ran to his empty cabin, but the drafty old structure seemed to quiver with every clatter and thunderbolt, so he donned his rain gear and hustled across the exercise field along a path that was a variable river of mud. He climbed the steps and, sopping wet, entered the lodge, where Cody sat by the fire with a snack.
Once Wyatt had shed his wet layers, he took a seat next to his brother. “What you got?”
Cody raised his mug. “Hot chocolate … and Mum made scones.”
“Ah.” Wyatt nodded. “Good day today?”
“Sure.” Cody blew across the surface of the cocoa. “Dad’s been busy. I’m kinda ready for the other campers to get here. Ready to do some shit.”
“Watch your mouth.”
“Sorry … so I got a question.”
“What’s that?”
“Why are you up there?” Cody pointed to the line of photographs hanging just inside the entrance of the lodge. Each portrait had no name, but there was an inscription.
Wyatt turned and saw his own image high on the wall—tousled hair, chin up, the look of someone who thought he could never be burned. It was a bittersweet victory, knowing what he knew now and what he had lost. “Camper Wall,” he said softly.
“Top Camper Wall,” Mum corrected as she whisked through the lodge behind them. “For each year, there’s a portrait of a Top Camper, going all the way back to 1941. Your brother was last year’s,” she said, pushing through the kitchen doors.