by Jordan, Skye
Damn Wright
The Wrights
Skye Jordan
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Also by Skye Jordan
About the Author
Prologue
Adrenaline surged through Dylan Wright’s blood, making every cell in his body vibrate.
Overhead, the roar of military jets ripped through the skies. Seconds later, their bombs exploded somewhere nearby, lighting up the night sky.
Dylan and his fixer, Amir, raced through the demolished roads of northern Syria in an ancient SUV, dodging debris and death on their path directly into the heart of the conflict.
“They’re getting closer to the safehouse.” Amir leaned into the steering wheel and peered up at the sky through the windshield. “Out of all your bad ideas, this is definitely your worst. We should be in a bunker with Ezra.”
There was no way in hell Dylan would turn back now. With every blast, dozens of innocent civilians evaporated, and far too many of those lives belonged to women and children.
The injustice of these barbaric attacks drove him toward every battle. Many said his passion pushed him too far. That he risked too much. Tonight, even his seasoned ex-military cameraman, Ezra, had surrendered his precious equipment to Dylan, determined to bow out of this expedition.
“This is insane.” Dylan shined a penlight on a paper map with rage and disbelief pulling every muscle tight. “Are you sure you heard it right?”
“Um, yeah.” Amir’s trademark sarcasm came through loud and clear. “I’m pretty sure I’ve been speaking Arabic my whole life.”
After years in and out of the Middle East, Dylan had learned his share of the local language, but he’d repeated the communications he’d caught over the military radio frequencies to Amir because Dylan was hoping he’d heard it wrong.
The radio clipped to a strap on Dylan’s flak jacket crackled. “More military jets coming from the east. Stay alert.”
The static-threaded warning came from a member of the Syrian Defense Volunteers, also known as White Helmets, Nobel Peace Prize-nominated search and rescue teams dedicated to saving civilian lives threatened in the ongoing Syrian civil war. The group valiantly rescued tens of thousands of people trapped in the rubble of bombed buildings, but tonight, they were fighting for their own lives.
Syrian President Bashar al-Assad, unaffectionately known as Assad, was now targeting the very people who saved the lives of those he hadn’t killed in the first round of bombing. Taking out the White Helmets ensured there would be no one to provide first aid to the injured. Which meant there would be no way for the injured and dying to reach medical aid in time to save them.
This was one of those stories that moved the needle. The kind that could create an outraged uprising in the international community. An outpouring of condemnation that had the potential to pressure other countries into joining forces to end the slaughter.
And Dylan was the only mainstream correspondent left in the area. When news of the latest round of air strikes had been predicted, every other reporter had gone to ground.
Dylan wasn’t crazy. He wasn’t even reckless. Not exactly. He just didn’t have anything to live for outside this fucking job. The one that scarred him a little more every day, mind, body, and soul. So he stayed when others left. He ventured where no one else would go. He dug into the humanitarian cost of war when others shied away from the grit.
Some called him insane. Some called him a hero. Dylan couldn’t care less what others thought of him. All he cared about was getting these stories out. Shining a light on the depravity of war and the toll it took on innocent civilians.
Amir slowed the truck.
“Why are you slowing down?” Dylan scanned the landscape in search of a threat. But the sky was dark, barely lit by a sliver of moon. “Their compound is still half a mile awa—”
The night split with the ear-shattering roar of jet engines. The truck shuddered so hard, Dylan’s teeth knocked together. A high-pitched whiz cut through the air. A second later, a bomb connected with earth half a football field away from the nearest White Helmets’ compound.
Dylan and Amir dropped to the footwells of the truck, arms over their heads while the earth roared and rumbled beneath them. In seconds, the earth settled, but a steady high-pitched whine filled Dylan’s ears. He and Amir uncurled themselves from the footwells and eased back into their seats. As they caught their breath, sounds began to filter in again, garbled and distant, as if they were underwater.
Amir cranked the steering wheel, turning the car around. “Fuck this.”
“No, stop.” Dylan grabbed his door handle. “Amir, stop.”
Amir stomped on the brake and looked at Dylan. The terror and intensity on Amir’s face was something Dylan couldn’t ever remember seeing during their five-year partnership.
He’d been aware of the way a little more fear crept into Amir’s eyes after the birth of each of his three children. His youngest, Fatin, had been born on the same day as Dylan’s nephew, Cooper, three months ago, and Amir hadn’t been the same since. He expressed more concern over the stories Dylan chased, counseled him against going that extra mile or giving that extra push. Yet despite Dylan’s continued drive to expose the human cost of war, Amir had stayed by Dylan’s side every step of the way.
It looked like that was about to end.
“I can’t.” Shame twisted his expression. “I’m sorry, I just…”
“Okay. It’s okay.” Dylan understood. If he’d had a wife and kids at home, he’d probably be back in the bunker with Ezra. But Dylan had missed out on his only chance at a wife and a family years ago. Now he found purpose in this soul-sucking career. One that gripped him by the throat and wouldn’t let go. Dylan lost a year of his life for every day he spent here. But exposing massacres like the one raining down on these Good Samaritans tonight—Dylan had been born to get stories like this out to the world.
These people deserved to be seen and heard. They deserved to be safe and valued. Their lives mattered. Their deaths mattered. If Dylan didn’t get this story, it would go untold, and that was utterly unacceptable.
He grabbed the camera bag and scanned the area, which had been decimated in the airstrikes earlier in the week. The partially demolished buildings lining the road stood as broken shadows against the night, knee-deep in their own rubble.
“Turn off your headlights and go the other way,” Dylan told Amir. “They won’t target an area that’s already been leveled.” He pulled the handle and pushed the door open. “I’ll come find you when I’m done. I’ve got my radio.”
“Dude.” Usually when Amir used that Americanism, it made Dylan laugh. Tonight, his friend was dead serious. “If you get killed out here, there will be no living with Marisha. Please. For me. Be careful.”
Marisha was Amir’s young wife. They were more family to Dylan than his blood relatives in the States. But that was his own fault for not staying in better touch.
“You know I’m terrified of Marisha. Go. Get safe.” Dylan dropped out of the truck and strapped on his helmet. Amir made a U-turn, shut off his lights, a
nd bumped his way along the rocky path toward the shadows of the decimated streets.
Dylan pulled on a set of night vision goggles he’d plucked from the dead body of a Syrian soldier years ago. He set off at a jog, scanning the night for fighter jets while the sound of his own raspy breathing filled his ears. Jet engines continued to scrape the sky, more distant than the last. But the way sound bounced and ricocheted among the concrete, it was next to impossible to tell where they were coming from.
He wanted to get into what he’d been told was a temporary safe house for local White Helmets, a compound they’d moved to when word of the attack had come out. If he could get an interview or two, some footage of the men, he’d be golden, and the world would be enlightened.
Another jet roared overhead. It sounded close enough to take off Dylan’s head. He dropped to the ground and looked up, catching a glimpse of the plane, just a split-second shadow against the sky. A burst of light from the jet’s belly signaled the release of artillery.
Dylan instantly knew from the trajectory and timing this missile would overshoot the compound.
Terror stuck like a knife at the center of his chest. Time cranked into slow motion. He spun on his heel and screamed Amir’s name.
The blast lifted Dylan off his feet and flung him backward like a leaf in a storm. All his equipment scattered like a starburst, spraying in different directions—the camera, the night vision goggles, his backpack.
Dylan hit the ground spine first. The impact jarred the air from his lungs and locked his throat. Flashes of light blinded him. Pain paralyzed his body. For several long moments, he couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see.
But his brain still churned, and one thought cut through all the rest. Amir.
The moment Dylan tried to move, pain sliced through his torso. He gritted his teeth, rolled to his stomach, and pushed to his knees. “Amir. Fuck. Amir.”
He could barely hear his own voice through the relentless ringing in his ears. Razor-sharp claws of fear dug into his chest. He forced himself to his feet and staggered in the direction Amir had gone. Time seemed to slow and expand. Every step shot pain through his legs and back.
Dylan finally caught the shadowed outline of the truck against cement dust still clouding the air from the bombing, and it was twisted like the gnarled roots of a century-old oak.
“No.” The word came out in a rough whisper. His stomach dropped like a rock. “No.”
He pushed through the pain and moved toward the truck, his mind veering toward the darkest possible place. “Amir!”
When Dylan reached the vehicle, chunks of concrete were still falling and ricocheting against the rubble. He braced himself on the open driver’s door and peered inside, but the cab was empty.
Dylan turned, searching the shadows. “Amir!”
A choking sound came from somewhere in the dark. He swiveled and stumbled toward it, cutting his hands and legs on shards of concrete. Dylan finally found Amir thirty feet from the vehicle, his body tangled much like the truck.
His friend was alive, but sounded as if he was drowning in his own blood.
Dylan dropped into a crouch and jerked the radio from his vest. “Musaeda!” he yelled into the radio. “Saeid alan!”
Dylan managed to get a rough approximation of their location out before begging for emergency aid again.
“Your Arabic…” Amir scraped out, his voice garbled and wet. “Still sucks…after all this time.”
“You taught me everything I know. Where are you hurt?”
A laugh rippled out of Amir’s throat. “Every…where.”
“Okay, hold on, buddy. Those White Helmets should be here soon.”
Dylan dropped the radio and searched Amir’s body for broken bones and major injuries. His heart was already in his throat when his hands reached Amir’s legs. Legs that both ended abruptly mid-thigh.
Dylan’s mind fractured, and chunks fell away just like the rubble surrounding them. His thoughts darted in and out like fireflies, a spark that disappeared in a split second.
This isn’t happening.
This isn’t fucking happening.
This was just another one of those night terrors. He’d wake up soon, screaming, sweating, but safe. Both of them, safe.
“Dyl… Take care of…”
“No!” Dylan forced his mind into gear. “Don’t you dare give up.”
The tourniquet was in the backpack Dylan had lost in the blast. He dragged the belt from his pants and worked it around one of Amir’s thighs. His friend’s screams felt like a Ka-Bar twisting in his gut. Dylan unlaced his boot, and tears choked him as he used the cord to block Amir’s other femoral artery.
Dylan yelled into the radio again, repeating the call for help and their location.
“Make sure…Marisha,” Amir said, his words deliberate and etched with agony, “…has what she needs.”
“Stop talking, you idiot.” Dylan was trying to get his mind around the next step.
“Then…go home. Get out of…this hellhole.”
“Shut the fuck up. Why don’t you ever listen?”
“Kiss my babies…”
Dylan’s heart shattered. “I swear to God, if you don’t knock it off, I’m going to kill you myself.”
Dylan got back on the radio and sent distress messages on every channel. But with no response, his hope dimmed, and his mind fragmented a little more.
“If they’re not coming to us, we’re going to them.” Dylan crouched and worked his hands under Amir’s arms. “Hang tough, buddy.”
Dylan managed to lift Amir from the rubble, prepared to throw him over his shoulder. “On three. One—”
The familiar roar of a jet engine split the sky. Followed by the spit of a missile. In the distance, the White Helmets’ safe house blew apart at the seams and erupted in fire.
The force knocked Dylan on his ass, and he dropped Amir. More rubble shook loose from what was left of the surrounding buildings. Dylan scrambled to throw himself over Amir, holding his breath as concrete hammered his back.
Once the earth settled again, Dylan sat back on his heels. Whatever refuge they might have found with the volunteers had been incinerated. Dylan had no vehicle. No refuge. No aid.
“Dyl…”
“Yeah, buddy.” Dylan scooched closer to Amir, cradled his friend’s head in his hand, and put his fingers against the pulse in his neck. It was way too erratic. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
Assad’s intended target had been incinerated and the night went eerily silent. No more military jets. No more explosions.
Dylan fumbled with the radio, his hands shaking. “Musaeda! Saeid alan!”
“Only…idiots out now.” Amir’s weak, broken voice brushed the void. “Are the…IFR.”
Dylan’s mind snapped into gear. Right. Members of the International First Responders would be their only hope now. He got back on the radio, changed the channel, and pleaded for help again.
“That woman…you told me about,” Amir said. “You go home. Find her.” He pulled in a rattling breath. “If this doesn’t teach you…how short life is, nothing will.”
His mind flashed to Emma, but he forced the image away. “Shut up so I can figure out how to get us out of here.”
“You deserve…a wife. Kids…of your own.”
“I deserve shit. And we’re over. She’s moved on.”
“Then why do you carry…that letter?”
Dylan didn’t want to think about Emma. Not here, not now. Not when this situation was way too close to the reason he’d lost her—a mangled car, fire, imminent death.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“In your wallet.” Amir coughed, and blood seeped from his mouth. “I see you…reading it.”
Amir’s breathing grew labored and wheezy. The whoosh and snap of a few residual fires filtered in from a distance. The clunk and grind of settling rubble bumped the night. But nothing else. No wind, no birdson
g, no barking dog, not one voice. Not a cry or a scream.
All forms of life incinerated.
All hope extinguished.
As silent as the dead.
So many dead.
This was how the end of the world looked. How hopelessness sounded. How utter despair felt.
Dylan picked up the radio. “Musaeda! Saeid alan!”
Silence.
“Musaeda. Saeid alan.”
The radio crackled. “Nahn qadimun.”
We’re coming.
“Oh my God.” A flash of relief took his breath. Into the radio, he yelled for them to hurry. “Eajal bsre. Eajal bsre.”
“Fifteen minutes,” the voice came back over the radio. Amir would never last.
Dylan slammed the radio against his forehead. “Fuck. I should have sent you with Ezra.” Dylan’s heart bled out through the soles of his feet. “That bomb should have hit me.”
“Damn right.” Amir’s voice faded another notch. “So, don’t you dare…waste this chance. You go home…where you belong. Find that girl…make your own babies. Stay with your sisters…fix your family.”
Amir’s lids fluttered. Tension eased from his muscles. His head tipped.
“Amir. Stay with me.” Dylan shook him. “Don’t you dare fuckin’ die on me, man.”
Amir grasped Dylan’s arm. “Promise me.”
“Fine. Fuck. I promise, okay?”
Amir’s grip loosened. A breath shuddered out of his lungs. And he went limp.
“Amir.” Amir’s pulse slipped away. “No! Amir!”
But he was gone.
Dylan dropped his head back and screamed. The sound was still echoing when he slumped against Amir and sobbed.
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