by Ted Dekker
Still nothing from either the lead vehicle or the one trailing them.
The dust directly in front of them cleared enough to reveal a plume of black smoke boiling to the sky ahead. Orange fire licked at the hot desert air.
“Crap, hold on, hold on!”
The Humvee swerved a wide right, then hooked to the left in a tight U-turn. Ryan grabbed the door handle to keep himself from plowing into the sergeant, who was plastered against his window. Most vehicles would have tipped with such a sharp turn, but the army’s workhorse loaded with nearly a half ton of armor wasn’t easy to roll on flat ground.
Odd how different minds work in moments of sudden, catastrophic stress. Ryan’s tended to retreat into itself, baring the cold calculation that had served it so well in his intelligence training. He had no clue how to extricate them from the present crisis, but he could analyze the attack better than most chess players leaning over the board on a cool summer day.
One: They were taking enemy fire, a combination of shoulder-fired RPGs and machine-gun fire now slamming into the armor like pneumatic hammers.
Two: Both the lead vehicle and the Humvee that had brought up the rear had likely taken direct hits.
Three: The absence of radio chatter likely meant that—
The glass next to the driver imploded. Blood sprayed across the far window. The Humvee swerved off the road, into a short ditch, and slammed into the far embankment.
Four: The driver of the second vehicle, the one in which Ryan was riding, had been killed, and the Humvee had plowed into a ditch, where it would be hit at any moment with an RPG.
Silence settled around him with the ticks of a hot engine.
Ryan lunged over the seat, grabbed the radio, and spoke quickly into the mic. “Home Run, this is Echo-One Actual, on convoy to Fallujah. We’re taking heavy fire, anti-armor, small weapons. All vehicles down, I repeat, all three Humvees are out, over.”
A moment’s hesitation, then the calm, efficient response of a dispatcher all too familiar with similar calls. “Hold tight, Echo-One, we are clearing close air support, and medevac en route. ETA seventeen minutes. What’s your sitrep, over?”
“Assuming all personnel are KIA. My Humvee is sideways in a ditch, four klicks north of the highway. You can’t miss the smoke.”
“Roger. Hold tight.”
It occurred to him that he’d heard nothing from Tony. He spun back, saw the soldier slumped in his seat, one hand gripping his M16, the other stretched toward the canopy, as if still reaching up to deploy the M2 .50 caliber machine gun, topside. No blood that he could see. Could be a nonvisible wound from shrapnel, could be the impact had knocked him out.
“Sergeant!” Ryan slapped the man’s face several times, got nothing, and quickly relieved him of his weapon. Images of flames crackling through the cabin pushed him to the brink of panic. He took a deep breath.
This is no different. Just another mission. One step at a time.
Never mind that this particular mission didn’t involve a pencil or a computer, it was still just one step at a time.
Ryan reached over the driver’s corpse, took the modular radio from the console, grabbed his door handle, cranked it open, and rolled to the sand, relieved to be free of the coffin. He lunged back into the Humvee, grabbed the sergeant by his belt, and dragged him out. The soldier landed on the ground and groaned.
Still, no more gunfire. Their objective was now simple. Stay quiet, stay down, stay alive. Survive, watch, wait for the helicopters. Air support was now the only link to survival for either of them. Rising smoke from the wreckages would be visible from a long way off.
“Where are we?” Tony had come to.
“We were hit,” Ryan whispered, scanning the desert for any sign of the enemy. Unlikely. They’d perfected the art of hitting and running, knowing that when the Apaches showed up, any attempt at fight or flight was doomed to failure. Insurgents with the skill to remain hidden in a flat desert (likely under the sand) and take out three Humvees definitely had the brains to bug out so they could fight another day.
“We have support coming,” he said, turning back.
Something black, like a sledgehammer or a rifle butt, slammed into Ryan’s forehead. Pain shot down his spine and he fought to hang on to something, anything.
Another blow landed, and only now did his calculating mind wonder if it was a bullet rather than a sledgehammer or a rifle butt that had struck his head.
2
BETHANY EVANS SCANNED through her Hotmail account, looking for a callback from her agent at Tripton, the modeling agency she’d signed with three months earlier. The jobs had been fairly small—mostly clothing catalogs, everything from StyleWear to Sears. Two television spots, including working as an extra: toning her body for a Gold’s Gym ad and one of three high school babes to kiss a guy in the lip gloss piece for Severe Lip Service—a rather funky brand name, if anyone was asking her.
This time it was a cover. A clothing catalog cover for Youth Nation. Assuming that she got it, which her agent, Stevie Barton, had all but guaranteed, over five million buyers who received the fall catalog would see her face.
“Is it there?” Patty asked.
Bethany shifted her cell to the other ear. “Hold on. Good night, can you believe the junk that gets through these days?”
“Whatever. It’s probably all the huge fashion magazines throwing free products at you to get you into their stuff.”
“Gimme a break.”
“Seriously, you know that’s what happens. You make it and they start to send you free stuff. Like football players getting free shoes, that kind of thing.”
“I’m a model, Patty. One in a thousand faces in a million magazines. We’re not talking Angelina Jolie here.”
“Where do you think she started? I swear, Beth, you gotta get me in there. I still can’t believe all this is happening to you. You’re going to be freaking famous!”
Bethany’s hand paused over the mouse. Famous? The word had an odd ring to it. She’d never agreed to her mother’s urging to take a few modeling classes and build her portfolio out of any desire to be famous. She was only sixteen years old, for heaven’s sake!
Famous.
She wasn’t even sure what that word meant anymore. It wasn’t like she was going to Hollywood or taking up singing lessons any time soon. She was simply making her way on her own, as her mother put it. Making good on what was given her. Which just happened to be decent looks, a pretty smile on a body that looked eighteen, albeit a short eighteen.
“Don’t say that,” she said.
“Whatever. You’re gonna be freaking famous and everyone knows it.”
“Shut up! I’m serious, Patty. I’m going to be a doctor, not some face everyone can…”
She caught her breath as the email scrolled into view. From the desk of Stevie Barton. The Tripton Agency. Austin, Texas.
Patty noted her pause. “What? You got it, didn’t you?”
“Hold on.”
She double-clicked on the email and read it quickly.
Bethany—
Congratulations, sweetie! You got it. They want you in New York in three weeks for the photo shoot. One week, $20,000 as discussed. You’re going to be the poster child for Youth Nation this fall. This is just the beginning. Call me.
Stevie.
Bethany blinked. Heat drained from her face as the realization of what this could mean settled over her. Perhaps she’d been just a tad too quick to dismiss a life of stardom. She nearly dropped her cell phone.
“You got it?” Patty demanded.
“I…” Bethany couldn’t help herself now. She squealed. And despite her loathing of little girls who jumped up and down with their fists clenched, she did just that. Squealing like a little girl.
Patty’s voice squealed over the line with her. “I knew it, I knew it, I freaking knew it! Read it to me.”
Sitting back down, out of breath and feeling slightly ashamed of her display of emotion (thank
God no one had seen her), Bethany read the email to Patty.
“Uh-huh, just the freaking beginning, what did I freaking tell you?”
“Is everything freaking with you?”
“Heck yeah! Now it is. And I’m going with you.”
“To New York?”
“Where else? Broadway, baby.”
The complexities that might result from this small trip to New York to become the next poster child for Youth Nation began to present themselves to Bethany. For starters, it was now late August and school started next week. School meant cheerleading, and she’d landed leader on the varsity squad. Leader had to make every practice; the rules were clear and Coach Carter wasn’t the kind to bend them for a magazine cover.
“When is homecoming this year?” she asked.
The phone was silent.
“Second week in September?”
“I think you’re right. That’s not good.” Patty clearly understood the importance of the issue, should it arise. But her appreciation for all things pop culture, not the least of which was fame, outweighed her appreciation for leading two thousand red-blooded, Texas-bred teenage boys in a cheer while wearing a miniskirt—though it had to be a close call.
“Forget homecoming. You’re going to be famous.”
Predictable.
“I’ll call you back.”
“Hold on, hold on! Where are you going?”
“I’ve got to tell my mother.”
Bethany hung up and flew down the stairs two at a time, spun around the railing at the bottom, and ran for the kitchen. She slid to a stop in stocking feet and faced her mother, who was on the phone.
“Mom—”
Her mother’s hand flew up, palm demanding silence as she bore down on her own conversation.
“I got it!”
Her mother snapped her fingers and pointed at her face, scowling. Her way of saying, Shut your mouth; can’t you see I’m on the phone?
Of course I can, Celine. Can’t you see that your daughter has something more important to say than anything you’re gossiping about at the moment?
She didn’t say it, of course. Instead she crossed her arms and drilled her mother with a stare that Celine hated with a passion.
“They’re letting him out? He’s only been locked up for two years.” Celine walked to the far side of the kitchen to avoid the heat of Bethany’s stare. Bethany stepped around the counter and waited, ignoring a quick glare.
“What about all the evidence? Surely they can’t just set him free on a technicality. You nailed that freak.”
Her mother was talking to Burton Welsh, the district attorney. Now there was an interesting thread in her convoluted web of relationships. How Celine managed to work her way into the lives of such powerful people never ceased to amaze Bethany. Celine should have been a politician.
She’d met the DA during his investigation of the BoneMan after the killer had abducted a girl from Bethany’s high school, Saint Michael’s Academy, where Celine served on the PTA board. The rest was history, as they said.
Bethany slid to her right so that her mother could see her.
“What does this mean for you?” her mother asked, turning her back again. She had to be nearing the limits of her tolerance.
In a softer voice now, “It’ll be fine, Burt. Don’t let them back you down.” A pause. “I have to go, I’m sorry. My daughter seems to think that the sky is falling.” She offered a short, forced chuckle. “I will. Good-bye.”
She clicked off and turned quickly, waving her cell phone. “How many times do I have to tell you how rude that is? Was I on the phone when you crashed in here?”
“I got it.”
“I don’t care what you got, you’re not the only one who lives in this house. We share space, you and I. That means you respect my space and I pay for yours, and we all know how expensive that can be. I swear, the next time you pull a stunt like that, I’m cutting you off. You hear me?”
Bethany felt her face grow hot. Her mother could be such a child at times, a condition that had grown far worse over this last year, while her father was off killing people in Iraq. At times like this Bethany wasn’t sure whom she resented more.
“Are you done?”
“I don’t know, are you?”
It was too much. She lost interest in sharing what might very well be the most important news in her short life with this woman who called herself a mother.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Bethany asked.
“What?”
“In this space of ours, as you call it, you’re the parent. I’m the daughter. So act your age.”
Her mother blinked, but she always blinked to show shock, even though she was rarely truly shocked. It was like role- playing, all a part of what made Celine the manipulating monster she’d slowly become.
“How dare you speak to me that way? I’m your mother!”
Bethany felt a knot building in her throat. “And I’m your daughter.”
They faced each other in silence, Celine with drawn lips, Bethany trying to hold back a torrent of repressed feelings about what she summarily thought of as her abandonment.
Her mother was here, but never here for her. Always off chasing herself through a string of relationships with men, slaving to keep herself from adding a pound of unwanted fat, regretting every day she lived because it brought her one day closer to forty.
Her father wasn’t self-absorbed. He simply wasn’t. His abandonment of them both hadn’t become apparent to her until she’d grown old enough to piece it all together. He was clueless about both Celine’s unfaithfulness and Bethany’s need for a father. She would settle for her mother’s selfishness over her father’s ignorance most any day.
Most. At the moment her mother’s complete failure to be a mother was pushing Bethany to the brink.
Her mother finally set the phone on the counter and turned her eyes away. “What’s so urgent, you little narcissist?”
“Forget it.” Bethany turned and walked out of the kitchen, eyes misted and blurry. At times like this hate wouldn’t be the wrong word to express her feelings. She hated her mother for being her mother and she hated her father for not being there to rescue her from her mother.
“So what, you’re just going to walk away now?” her mother snapped, following her. “Get back here.”
Bethany kept walking.
“Look, I’m sorry. Is that what you want to hear? This is hard for all of us, you know. You think trying to be a parent alone is easy? You aren’t the only one Ryan left. Forgive me if I’m not perfect all the time.”
More manipulation, built on truths, used at the right moment to get the desired response. But Bethany had a hard time empathizing with her mother’s incessant talk of being deserted by her man, particularly when she replaced him with other men, which she had no difficulty doing. If anything, her father’s absence was a convenience for Celine, for her game.
It was Bethany, not her mother, who’d been abandoned.
Her mother suddenly gasped behind her. “You got the cover?”
Bethany stopped.
“You got the cover of Youth Nation, didn’t you?” The coldness in her mother’s tone had melted away.
Bethany took a deep breath and pushed back her anger. “Yes.”
Her mother’s feet quickly padded across the wood floor. “I’m so proud of you, angel.”
Celine’s hand touched her shoulder but Bethany pulled back. “Don’t call me that. You know I hate it.”
“Oh, get over yourself.” Celine hugged her.
Her father used to call Bethany “angel” when she was a young child. But in his leaving, he’d treated her like anything but an angel and she resented the name. That her mother would choose the term at a time like this was criminal. Welcome to Mother’s world.
When Celine pulled back, her eyes were bright, oblivious to her painful jab. “Why didn’t you tell me? When did you find out? That’s wonderful news!”
; Bethany didn’t bother answering the questions; they were placeholders, not notes of interest.
“How much are they paying?”
“Twenty thousand. They want me in New York in three weeks for a photo shoot.”
Wonder filled her mother’s eyes. “I am so proud of you.”
And for all of her antics, Bethany knew she meant it. This was why she would stay loyal to her mother.
“So you really think I should do this, huh?”
“Are you kidding? This is fantastic! Don’t you worry; I’ll be with you every step of the way. We’ll go to New York and we’ll have a hoot. There’s no way you can waste this opportunity.”
“I might miss homecoming.”
Bethany could see the wheels turning behind her mother’s eyes. Not missing a beat, she said, “Don’t you worry, leave the coach to me.” She headed back toward the kitchen. “You just stick with me, Bethany. We play our cards right, we’ll rule the world. Which is more than I can say for the lame duck who calls himself your father.”
There was a time when Bethany would have objected with a comment about how he was still her father, but she’d forgotten how she’d felt back then. She might not agree with the way her mother had conducted herself these past few years while Ryan was off playing war, but she found herself wondering what it would be like to have a different father. One who cared enough to participate in her life. Maybe that would have been the best solution for all of them.
Her mind flashed back to her mother’s phone conversation. “What was that Burt Welsh was saying?”
Her mother glanced back, as if undecided about telling. But she did.
“Some craziness about the BoneMan being released from prison.”
3
THE VOICE ECHOED around the edges of his consciousness, like a speaker in a murmuring crowd whose words rose above the cacophony to be heard, if only barely.
“Wake… wake…”
An image of waves crashing to shore while Ryan and his younger brother, Pete, stood with their wakeboards, ready to rush into the receding waters, joined the voice. Pete had been killed in a car crash ten years or so ago—had it really been so long?