“You put in the dual carburetors?” Wes asked, following Ryke and his mechanics into the garage.
“You know it.” Ryke nodded, pointing toward a beautifully restored 1959 Harley-Davidson motorcycle in the bay. “Haven’t taken her out on a test run yet. Figured you’d want to do the honors.”
Wes ran a hand lovingly over the classic lines of the bike’s frame, his fingers tracing over the fine custom details and pristine paint. “You’re a goddamn artist, Ryke.”
His friend shrugged casually, but Wes could see Ryke’s pride. He’d only been customizing choppers and hotrods for a few years, after he dropped out of high school, and he’d really started to develop a reputation for something other than troublemaking and driving his poor mother nuts. “She was a friggin’ disaster sitting in your mama’s garage all these years, but she came together nice, didn’t she?”
“Even better than I remembered.”
Chris whistled as he examined the bike. “Man, you’ve been holding out! I had no idea you had this.”
“It was my dad’s,” Wes replied, offhand. “Left it when he split years back.” Wes nodded toward Ryke. “We should settle the remainder of what I owe you.” Wes turned to Chris. “Thanks for the lift, man. Catch you later tonight at the Sig party?”
“Sure thing,” Chris replied. “Nice meeting you, Ryke.”
“Likewise.”
Chris turned and headed back to his pickup truck.
“You got what I asked for?” Wes asked, as his friend backed out of Ryke’s lot.
Ryke nodded as he led him to his office. “Got you a couple hundred templates,” he said as soon as he shut the door. “You sure you can move that much?”
“Business is about to go way up,” Wes answered with a casual shrug. “Incoming freshman class of five thousand, half of the sophomore class still underage, and all of them just dying to get into the bars on campus—I’d be shocked if I still have all these in a month.”
“You know I’m taking the usual cut for my connect at the DMV.”
“Of course.” Wes nodded as Ryke handed him a stack of Texas state driver’s license templates complete with addresses, names, DL numbers and that oh-so-important twenty-one to twenty-three year-old DOB range—the magic number underage would-be drinkers would pay a pretty penny for. All real, all completely believable—the only thing they were missing was the artistry of his Photoshop skills, new pictures, and a very good laminator. God bless Texas and their easily counterfeited IDs.
“Genius,” Wes said with a smile as he reviewed each one in quick succession. “This should be enough to cover this year’s tuition and supplies.”
“Never trust a disgruntled government employee making only a buck over minimum wage an hour with something as important as producing state IDs,” Ryke replied with a grin.
Wes pulled out a manila envelope full of cash, handing it over. “Deposit on the goods and payment for the bike.”
Ryke accepted the envelope. “Pleasure doing business with you, brother.”
Wes tucked the neat stack of templates into his breast pocket. “Thanks, man—for making her beautiful again,” he said as he nodded outside at the Panhead.
“She always was, brother,” Ryke answered. “Just needed a little tender loving care is all.”
Ryke walked him out, watching as he slipped on his half-helmet and sunglasses. Wes started the bike, the roar of the engine filling the garage with a gorgeous, full-bodied sound. He popped the clutch and shot forward, wind blowing past him. As he opened up the Panhead on the highway, Wes reveled in the sheer pleasure of the moment on the back of the only good thing his father had ever left him.
*
August—Sunrise
Fort Hood, Killeen, Texas
S A M A N T H A
From the open door of the CH-47 Chinook helicopter, Sam watched the sun rise—its hot, yellow tendrils spreading over the vast Texas plain. She relished the cool morning air beating past her and whipping through her fatigues. Summer was ending, but by late morning, the temperature would be sweltering, and she’d be sweating her way through field training, carrying a heavy pack on her back and praying for it to feel this cool again.
“You ready for this, chica?” Rita Ramos asked as she leaned toward Sam’s ear, speaking just loud enough to be heard over the heavy whump whump whump of the double rotors. “Ranger Challenge training won’t be easy—these assholes don’t exactly want us here,” she said, looking in the direction of the predominantly older, male cadets occupying the bench seats around them.
Sam smiled at her. “Who says girls can’t be Rangers?”
“Every single jackass sitting behind us,” Rita replied with an eye roll. “Sometimes I think we’ve got more to worry about from our own squads than from the brigades at the other schools.”
Sam caught Alejandro’s intense, dark gaze from across the chopper’s fuselage. He watched her grimly, lips turned down in a disapproving frown.
Rita glanced back. “Ignore him,” she muttered. “Alejo’s just pissed you’re a sophomore and you keep showing him and his crew up at the field training.”
He’s also pissed because I’m the only person here who refuses to kowtow to him, Sam thought, noting the deference of the crew that surrounded him, the way everyone automatically conceded to Alejandro like he was some hotshot deity on the rise.
“I’ll have to watch my back,” Sam murmured, looking away to watch the plains streak past them.
“Hey, we watch each other’s backs.” Rita nudged her as the Chinook banked, descending into Ft. Hood, a three-hundred-and-forty-square-mile military installation—one of the largest U.S. bases in the world. The rolling, semi-arid terrain made Ft. Hood perfect for training and testing military units. For years, it had been the Army’s premier stateside military base because it was the only post capable of stationing and training two armored divisions.
As the chopper landed at one of Ft. Hood’s massive airfields, Sam and Rita were among the first to disembark and fall into formation. The fifty-person group organized quickly, lining up by class, rank, and file, postures stiff and straight as Colonel Sasser approached with the other officer instructors. He paced before the front row, examining the line with cool gray eyes and a stern expression.
“Since 1876, Texas A&M University has been a steady source of some of the most important commissioned officers for the United States Armed Services,” Colonel Sasser began. “Few know that during World War II, A&M commissioned more officers than West Point.” He directed a hard and meaningful stare across the cadets. “You want to be the best?” he asked. “You want to be officers in the greatest army the world has ever known?”
The cadets straightened infinitesimally as he passed, postures ramrod, demeanors stern and proud. Though Sam could only see Sasser peripherally, she knew the exact moment his unwavering gaze fell on her. She knew she looked downright diminutive compared to the rows of powerful young men standing in silent, polished succession.
Her chin came up a fraction of an inch under the weight of Sasser’s stare. She was going to kick ass at this. Her plan was to separate from the pack and make a name for herself as someone other than a low-rung freshman like she’d been last year, or worse, her daddy’s daughter. Rich, entitled, and a Wyatt—the path to the future all laid out for her in a neat little row.
Sam knew what her father had in mind for her. Four years Navy, followed by business school, maybe marry one of the guys he would have vetted and approved of, then take over as the head of Wyatt Petroleum. Sam could see it all cascading, like dominoes falling one after another in perfect sync, right according to plan. Well, she wasn’t falling into lockstep just because Robert Wyatt expected her to. She didn’t believe in predestination. She believed in being her own woman, making her own calls. And taking on the Challenge was going to be the first big step toward proving it.
“This marks the beginning of a new year, cadets,” Sasser continued. “Another year in which you will be taught, t
ested, and refined into leaders prepared to assume the responsibilities of command, citizenship, and government. That requires the highest ideals of duty, the highest ideals of loyalty.”
And unbelievable endurance for physical and mental pressure. Sam felt her resolve harden.
“You will learn how to manage yourselves and your teams under fire, how to solve problems you’ve never encountered before, and prepare yourselves to see the world in all its guts and all its glory.”
Another year. Only this year not as a fish, broken down before they’d begun the process of being rebuilt.
“You are not only responsible for your individual success. You are responsible for the success of your platoon. Your personal development does not happen without the growth of the team. And that is why you are here today,” he told them. “You will learn what it takes to be part of the best team in Ranger Challenge history. You will find out if you have what it takes to be among the best and brightest our young military talent has to offer.
“You will persevere,” Sasser continued. “You will excel. And you will suffer,” he promised. “Beginning today, you will train every day, sometimes twice a day, for the next seven weeks. You will spend your weekends running drills and performing training exercises while your friends go to football games and parties. And at the end of the training, the top nine cadets will be selected to enter the Challenge.”
And I’ll be one of them, Sam promised herself.
“Every cadet here will have a chance to compete, but you must bring your best to the table during each and every field training exercise. And why?” he asked, holding his hand up to his ear.
“Because close is not good enough, sir!!” the cadets shouted back, chanting Sasser’s motto.
“The 10K ruck march race is one of the requirements for the Ranger Challenge,” Sasser told them. “But I like to make sure you understand what you’re getting into beforehand.” His slow smile bordered on evil. “We start with a twelve miler today. Anybody over two hours automatically disqualifies.” He lifted his service weapon and fired into the sky. “GO! GO! GO!”
Sam shifted her heavy pack and gripped her rifle, taking off in tight formation with her squad. Alejandro’s squad pulled up in front almost immediately, just in front of hers. He glanced at her as he passed, his lips pulled up in a sneer. Sam kept her head down as they raced down the road, Rita close behind.
As they broke through a clearing, Sam forged ahead, staying close behind Alejandro, keeping him sharp. She smiled grimly as he glanced over his shoulder at her—clearly pissed as she continued to keep up the pace.
Nothing will get in my way, De Soto. Sam smiled. Nothing and no one.
Chapter 3
End of August—Friday Night, Two Weeks Later
Sam’s Apartment, College Station, Texas
S A M A N T H A
Sam’s front door was practically shaking from the force of Rita’s insistent rapping.
“Open the damn door, jaina!1 I know you’re in there! Mira, I can see the light on!”
“All right, all right—I’m coming!” Sam called out, toweling her wet hair as she approached the door.
“You’d better be getting ready like I told you to,” Rita announced as she trounced into Sam’s apartment, wearing the tightest dress Sam had ever seen, complete with spiked platform heels even a porn star would have balked at. Rita looked lush and gorgeous, with cinnamon skin and roundabout curves, the exact opposite of Sam’s lithe, almost gamine frame.
She made a beeline for Sam’s kitchen, pulling out a bottle of Cuervo from her massive handbag.
“I brought lube,” Rita told her with a saucy little wink.
“I can see that,” Sam replied dryly. “I’d like to point out you’re the only chick I know who rolls with her own bottle of tequila at all times.”
“Hey, you can never be too safe at these parties, chica,” Rita replied smartly as she poured them both shots. “Have you tasted the shit these frat boys serve? Lukewarm, flat beer from God only knows where?” Rita handed Sam a glass, toasting her with a clink before knocking back the shot.
Sam eyed the glass with trepidation. She wasn’t particularly fond of tequila, but she knew better than to argue with Rita, especially when she was about to mount a much larger battle and try to wiggle out of going out with her tonight. Sam threw the shot back quickly, struggling not to wince as the liquor burned down her throat.
“Sooo, about tonight…” Sam began carefully.
Rita’s smile slipped off her carefully made-up face as she realized what was coming. “NO!” she exclaimed. “No, no, no—Samantha Wyatt, you are not standing me up for the first big party weekend of the year! ¡No mames!2, Sam! No way!”
“Rita, think rationally,” Sam reasoned. “We’ve spent the last two weeks slogging our guts out with training, and classes have just started. We’ve both got to be up at 0500 tomorrow—”
Rita refilled their tequila shots before shoving the glass back into Sam’s hand. “Put this in your mouth and stop thinking. I don’t want to hear any of your serious, wet-blanket bullshit tonight, Sam—I mean it. I love you like a sister—like my own blood,” Rita told her seriously. “But I will cut you if you leave me hanging. You do not bail on your best friend the first good party weekend of our sophomore year. You’re my wing woman for God’s sake—”
“You mean, ‘sober companion,’” Sam replied wryly. “Saving you from bumping uglies with some Sigma Tau jackass when you’ve had too much of this shit,” she said, gesturing toward the shots.
“YES! Yes. It is your job to help a sister out here!” Rita rounded the counter, grabbing Sam’s hand as she tried to drag her back to her bedroom. “You are going out with me tonight, or I will kill you.”
“I’d like to see you try,” Sam drawled.
“I will go straight up hood on your ass, Sammy,” Rita threatened, working her neck and her finger. She pointed at Sam’s bedroom. “Go put a dress on—now!”
Sam sighed, running a hand through her still-damp hair. “Rita, I have to take shit seriously. This year is a game changer, and you know I want to make it onto the Challenge—”
“Goddamn, jaina, you’re the most serious bitch I know. You’re serious all the damn time! Mirar, Jesus partied more than you with the wine and shit. I will not endure another year where it’s all books and ROTC and drills all the time. I know te crees muy muy,3 but girl, you gotta lighten up—live a little,” Rita told her, eyes pleading. “Besides, what are you going to do? Leave me hanging to go to these parties by myself? If you don’t go, I can’t go. You know that.”
Sam chewed her lip. Rita wouldn’t back down. And Sam really didn’t want her going to any of the frat parties on her own. That was just an invitation for trouble, especially the first big party weekend of the year. She and Rita had made a pact freshman year they would never got to parties alone. Too many opportunities for mishaps, too much potential for danger. She was in between a rock and a hard place, and Rita knew it.
Sam crossed her arms. “I will go with you to one party—”
“Three,” Rita rebutted.
“Two,” Sam replied firmly. “And we are out of there by no later than eleven.”
“Two a.m.”
“Midnight,” Sam countered. “And that’s my final offer.”
“You’ll wear a dress?” Rita asked hopefully.
“Simmer down, hot sauce.” Sam rolled her eyes. “I’ll wear what I usually wear—jeans.”
“Then I get to do your makeup.”
“Dear God, fine,” Sam sighed. “Let’s just get this over with.”
*
August—Friday Night, a Few Hours Later
Sigma Tau Fraternity House, College Station, Texas
S A M A N T H A
The Sig Chapter House was a massive brick structure with gaudy neoclassical touches that would have horrified the true Greeks. It was jam-packed full of sweaty, writhing, beer-soaked underclassmen scented with body spray, patchouli, and
several layers of smoke—some layers pure nicotine, and others, well, not. Sam wondered briefly if she’d be getting a contact high.
Music blared from big, black speakers stacked on top of each other like robotic towers, and the house was covered in enough strobe and blinking Christmas lights to induce a seizure. People flowed in and out of the building, spilling drinks, pawing at each other, laughing, and shouting greetings as they squeezed passed people dancing inside or mingling on the deck outside.
Sam never understood the appeal of frat parties. She’d rather drink good shit under the stars any day of the week than have some jackass rub up against her like a frisky dog. But she loved Rita, and there was no way in hell she was leaving her alone in this frenetic, pheromone-induced debauchery. She glanced down at her watch. First party down; this one was the last to go. She’d give Rita maybe another twenty minutes before dragging her out.
“Dance with me.”
Sam suppressed an eye-roll before turning around to shut down whatever drunken idiot was propositioning her now. But the tall blonde grinning at her wasn’t drunk. Plus, she recognized him.
“Chris Fields,” he introduced, blue eyes hopeful. Chris had the even-featured good looks of a farm boy and the adorable aw-shucks grin to match. Even his blonde hair stuck up adorably, like he had a couple of cowlicks he couldn’t quite tame.
Sam tilted her head back as she considered him. She had to. He was a big beast of a boy. Easily 6’5” with broad shoulders and hands the size of dinner plates. Made sense for a guy who could be drafted into the NFL one day. A linebacker, for sure.
“We’ve got Criminal Psychology together,” she said by way of introduction, surprising him. “You’re a football player, right?”
His smile moved from damn-you-make-me-nervous to yeah-right-baby-that’s-me. Chris stood a little taller, reflecting his pride at being recognized off the field. “You’re Samantha Wyatt, right?”
“Got it in one,” she nodded, a little surprised he recognized her. She wasn’t exactly known for being social. “You a member of this house?”
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