by Randy Alcorn
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Courageous: A Novel
Copyright © 2011 by Kendrick Bros., LLC. All rights reserved.
Cover photo copyright © 2011 by Sherwood Pictures, a ministry of Sherwood Baptist Church of Albany, Georgia. All rights reserved.
Interior photos taken by Todd Stone. Copyright © 2011 by Sherwood Pictures, a ministry of Sherwood Baptist Church of Albany, Georgia. All rights reserved.
Designed by Dean H. Renninger
Edited by Caleb Sjogren
Some Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version,® NIV.® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.TM Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com.
Some Scripture quotations are taken from The Holy Bible, English Standard Version® (ESV®), copyright © 2001 by Crossway, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
Some Scripture quotations are taken from the New American Standard Bible,® copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation. Used by permission.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Alcorn, Randy C.
Courageous : a novelization / by Randy Alcorn ; based on the screenplay by Alex Kendrick and Stephen Kendrick.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-4143-5846-8 (pbk.)
1. Police—Fiction. 2. Fatherhood—Fiction. I. Kendrick, Alex, date. II. Kendrick, Stephen, date. III. Title.
PS3551.L292C68 2011
813´.54--dc22 2011020882
Randy dedicates this book to:
My precious wife, Nanci, my wonderful daughters, Karina and Angela, my excellent sons-in-law, Dan Franklin and Dan Stump, and my beloved grandsons, Jake, Matt, Tyler, and Jack. For each of you, my family, no man could be more grateful to God than I am.
Alex and Stephen dedicate this book to:
Our wives, Christina and Jill—your love and support have added momentum to our pursuit of God’s calling on our lives. You are an incredible treasure! May God continue blessing, teaching, and drawing us closer together and closer to Him. We love and need you desperately. Sherwood Baptist Church—may the love you have for Christ and each other continue to shine brighter with each passing year. Keep praying, serving, giving, and growing. It has already been worth it, but your greatest reward is still to come! May the world know that Jesus Christ is your Lord! To Him be the glory!
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Still Photos from the Movie
Behind-the-Scenes Photos from the Movie
Acknowledgments
A Personal Message from the Kendrick Brothers
Discussion Questions
About the Authors
Chapter One
A royal-red Ford F-150 SuperCrew rolled through the streets of Albany, Georgia. The pickup’s driver brimmed with optimism, so much that he couldn’t possibly foresee the battles about to hit his hometown.
Life here is going to be good, thirty-seven-year-old Nathan Hayes told himself. After eight years in Atlanta, Nathan had come home to Albany, three hours south, with his wife and three children. New job. New house. New start. Even a new truck.
Sleeves rolled up and windows rolled down, Nathan enjoyed the south Georgia sunshine. He pulled into a service station in west Albany, a remodeled version of the very one he’d stopped at twenty years earlier after getting his driver’s license. He’d been nervous. Wasn’t his part of town—mostly white folks, and in those days he didn’t know many. But gas had been cheap and the drive beautiful.
Nathan allowed himself a long, lazy stretch. He inserted his credit card and pumped gas, humming contentedly. Albany was the birthplace of Ray Charles, “Georgia on My Mind,” and some of the best home cookin’ in the galaxy. One-third white, two-thirds black, a quarter of the population below the poverty level, Albany had survived several Flint River floods and a history of racial tension. But with all its beauties and flaws, Albany was home.
Nathan topped off his tank, got into his pickup, and turned the key before he remembered the carnage. A half-dozen big, clumsy june bugs had given their all to make an impression on his windshield.
He got out and plunged a squeegee into a wash bucket only to find it bone-dry.
As he searched for another bucket, Nathan noticed the mix of people at the station: an overly cautious senior citizen creeping his Buick onto Newton Road, a middle-aged woman texting in the driver’s seat, a guy in a do-rag leaning against a spotless silver Denali.
Nathan left his truck running and door open; he turned away only seconds—or so it seemed. When the door slammed, he swung around as his truck pulled away from the pump!
Adrenaline surged. He ran toward the driver’s side while his pickup squealed toward the street.
“Hey! Stop! No!” Nathan’s skills from Dougherty High football kicked in. He lunged, thrust his right arm through the open window, and grabbed the steering wheel, running next to the moving pickup.
“Stop the car!” Nathan yelled. “Stop the car!”
The carjacker, TJ, was twenty-eight years old and tougher than boot leather—the undisputed leader of the Gangster Nation, one of Albany’s biggest gangs.
“What’s wrong wichu, man?” TJ could bench-press 410 and outweighed this dude by sixty pounds. He had no intention of giving back this ride.
He accelerated onto the main road, but Nathan wouldn’t let go. TJ repeatedly smacked Nathan’s face with a vicious right jab, then pounded his fingers to break their grip. “You gonna die, man; you gonna die.”
Nathan’s toes screamed at him, his Mizuno running shoes no match for the asphalt. Occasionally his right foot found the narrow running board for a little relief, only to lose it aga
in when his head took another blow. While one hand gripped the wheel, Nathan clawed at the thief. The pickup veered right and left. Leaning back to avoid the punches, Nathan saw the oncoming traffic.
TJ saw too, and he angled into it, hoping the cars would peel this fool off.
First a silver Toyota whizzed by, then a white Chevy; each veered off to avoid the swerving truck. Nathan Hayes dangled like a Hollywood stuntman.
“Let go, fool!”
Finally Nathan got a good toehold on the running board and used every remaining ounce of strength to yank the steering wheel. The truck lost control and careened off the road. Nathan rolled onto gravel and rough grass.
TJ smashed into a tree, and the air bag exploded into his face, leaving it red with blood. The gangbanger stumbled out of the truck, dazed and bleeding, trying to find his legs. TJ wanted some get-back on this dude who’d dared to challenge him, but he could barely negotiate a few steps without faltering.
The silver Denali from the gas station screeched to a halt just a few feet from TJ. “Hurry up, man,” the driver yelled. “It ain’t worth it, dawg. Get in. Let’s go!”
TJ staggered into the Denali, which sped away.
Stunned, Nathan pulled himself toward his vehicle. His face was red and scratched, his blue tattersall shirt stained. His jeans were ripped, his right shoe torn open, sock bloody.
An auburn-haired woman dressed for the gym in black yoga pants jumped out of the passenger side of a white Acadia. She ran to Nathan. “Are you okay?”
Nathan ignored her, relentlessly crawling to his truck.
The driver of the SUV, a blonde, was giving their location to the 911 operator.
“Sir,” the auburn-haired woman said, “you need to stay still.”
Nathan continued his crawl, disoriented but determined.
“Don’t worry about the car!”
Still moving, Nathan said, “I’m not worried about the car.”
He used the tire to pull himself up enough to open the back door of the pickup. An ear-piercing cry erupted from a car seat. The little boy let loose his pent-up shock at the sight of his daddy on his knees, sweaty and bleeding. Nathan reached in to comfort him.
As sirens approached, the auburn-haired woman watched Nathan with his little boy in the tiny denim overalls. This stranger wasn’t blindly obsessed with a possession. He wasn’t crazy.
He was a hero—a father who’d risked his life to rescue his child.
Chapter Two
Corporal Adam Mitchell approached the heroic father who sat on the back bumper of an ambulance while a paramedic tended his bloodied foot. Shane Fuller, Adam’s younger partner, matched him step for step. Two other deputies interviewed the women who’d stopped to help. The man held his baby close to his chest and ran a hand over the soft black hair.
Adam addressed the paramedic. “How about moving the child over there? Someone keep an eye on him while we ask this man some questions.”
“No thank you,” the father said. “I took my eye off him once; next thing I know I almost lost him.”
Adam paused, running a hand quickly through his dark-brown thinning hair, then asked, “Can you describe the guy who stole your truck?”
“Black—dark like me. Huge biceps and a powerful punch.” He touched his jaw gingerly. “Can’t tell you much about his face, but I could describe his fist perfectly: hard as granite. Big gold ring. Late twenties, wearin’ a big hunk of gold jewelry around his neck.”
“Notice any other markings? Tattoos?”
“No, it happened so fast. I think he had on a black do-rag. But I had my eyes on the steering wheel. And the oncoming traffic!”
Shane squinted and rubbed at the bags under his eyes. “What about the driver of the getaway car?”
“Didn’t see him. I was just thinking about my son.”
“You’re lucky you didn’t get thrown on the road. I can’t believe you got away with that crazy stunt.”
“I was fortunate. Not crazy, though. What else could I do?”
“Why not let the police go after him? That’s our job!”
“And what would that thug have done with my son? Tossed him in the bushes when he cried? I wasn’t lettin’ go of that wheel. Jackson is my job.”
“You know you could have lost your life?”
“Yes, sir,” he said, cradling the child in his arms. “But I couldn’t risk losing my son.”
Deep in thought, Adam stopped jotting notes.
The injured man said, “I was looking forward to meeting you guys under better circumstances on Monday.”
“Monday?” Shane asked.
“Yeah. I start working with you next week.”
Adam glanced at the notes he’d written earlier. “Nathan Hayes. I wondered how I recognized your name.” He extended his hand. “Adam Mitchell. Pleased to meet you, Deputy Hayes.”
“Shane Fuller.”
“Good to meet you both,” Nathan said.
“Why Albany?” Shane asked.
“Wanted to give my family a slower pace. Grew up here. Went to Dougherty High. Life in Atlanta wasn’t a good fit for us.”
Adam checked out Nathan’s truck. “I own an F-150 myself. I know a good body shop. I’ll write it down.”
“Thanks.”
The paramedic interrupted. “Done with that foot for now. They’ll take care of you at the hospital. Need to get you inside. We can strap your kid’s car seat in.”
“I want Jackson where I can see him.”
Adam looked at Nathan. “I’d say welcome back to Albany, but I hate to after such a rotten day.”
“Well, my son’s okay. So I still say it’s a good day.” He smiled at Jackson and continued rocking him gently.
From his squad car, Adam watched as the paramedics shut the ambulance door and drove away with the brave father and his child.
He pulled onto the road. “Would you have grabbed the wheel? And held on while you were getting beaten to a pulp?”
Shane Fuller turned and thought a moment. “Well, I can think of a few ways he could have died doing that. Crazy as it was, I guess he saved his kid’s life.”
“So would you have held on to the wheel?”
“Honestly? I don’t know. Would you?”
Adam thought about it but didn’t respond.
It troubled him that he wasn’t sure of his answer.
Carrying several files from the sheriff’s office, Adam entered his back door and gazed through to the living room’s most prominent wall hanging, a sixteen-by-twenty framed photo with the autograph of one of the greatest Atlanta Falcons of all time: Steve Bartkowski. He nodded to Steve, his boyhood idol.
Adam walked through the hall to the kitchen, where his wife was finishing the dishes.
“Adam, it’s 8:15! Where have you been?”
Victoria had the tone, so Adam gave her the look.
“Working on reports. Trying not to miss any more deadlines. Sorry about dinner.” Just walked in the door and already he was engaged in self-defense. He barely registered Victoria’s thick dark curls falling onto her new blue sweater. Sometimes, even after eighteen years of marriage, Adam was struck by how pretty she was. But tonight his wall went up, romantic thoughts evaporating.
“You missed Emily’s piano recital.”
Adam grimaced. “I totally forgot about that.”
“We talked about it last week, yesterday, and again this morning. And you’d have known if you’d been home for dinner.”
“It was a crazy day. Lots of important stuff going on.”
“What’s more important than your children?”
Adam donned his best nobody-understands-a-cop face.
Victoria bit her cheek, then softened her tone. “Emily asked if she could stay up till you got home.” She paused, searching for words. “Dylan is out running. When he gets back, he’s going to ask you about that 5K race again.”
“And I’m gonna say no again.”
“I tried to tell him that. But he’s
determined to change your mind.”
The back door opened. Adam sighed. “And here we go.”
Dylan Mitchell, a skinny, dark-haired fifteen-year-old wearing a sweaty black sleeveless T-shirt with red shorts, walked through the door, breathing hard.
Adam studied the junk mail in his hand.
“Dad, can I talk to you?”
“As long as it’s not about a 5K race.”
“Why not? A bunch of other guys are running in it with their dads.”
Adam finally glanced up at Dylan. When did he get so tall? “You’re on the track team! You don’t need something else to run in.”
“They hardly ever let me run because I’m a freshman. I can’t sign up for this race unless you run with me.”
“Look, Dylan, it doesn’t bother me that you like to run. But there’ll be other races.”
Dylan scowled, then turned and walked stiffly to his room.
Victoria wiped her hands on a dish towel and approached Adam. “Can I suggest you spend a little more time with him?”
“All he wants to do is play video games or run five miles.”
“Then run with him. This race is just a 5K! What’s that, three miles?”
“Three point one.”
“Oh, sorry. That ‘point one’ would kill you?” She smiled quickly, attempting to defuse after detonation.
“You know I’ve never liked to run. Shoot hoops? Okay. Throw a football? Anytime. But he doesn’t like what I like. I’m forty years old. There’s gotta be a better way to spend time with him than torturing myself.”
“Well, you have got to do something.”
“He can help me build that shed in the backyard. I’m taking time off next week.”
“He’s gonna see that as your project. Besides, he’ll be at school most of the time. With track practice, he doesn’t get home until just before dinner, which you wouldn’t know since you’re seldom home by then. Adam, you really need to connect with your son.”
“You’re lecturing me again, Victoria.”
She walked to the sink and threw in the hand towel. Adam wondered whether she was conscious of the symbolism.