by Ronie Kendig
Voices behind pushed him into the car. Letting the roar of the engine echo the one in his head, he peeled away from the curb. Screaming tires fueled his fury. He accelerated. First gear. Second. He sped down the streets. Third. Raced out of Fort Story as fast as he could. He shifted into fourth.
They’d stolen everything from him. What did he have now? The last twelve months had been a futile attempt to plaster meaning to the disaster of a thing called life. Can’t serve. What was the point? They had him on an invisible leash. Shame trailed him like the dust on the roads.
As he rounded a corner, a light glinted—yellow. Speed up or slow down?
Slow down? I don’t think so.
Canyon slammed into fifth and pressed the accelerator. The Camaro lunged toward the intersection. A blur of red swept over his sunroof as he sailed through and cleared it.
Ahead, a sign beckoned him to First Landing State Park. The beach. Something inside him leapt.
Sirens wailed.
He glanced in the rearview mirror and growled. Banged the steering wheel. One more violation and he’d lose his license. Two seconds of fantasy had him tearing off into the sunset.
Yeah. Right. A high-speed chase. Wouldn’t his mother love that? She’d give him that disappointed look, and in it he’d read the hidden message—“what would your father have said?”
Dad.
His foot hit the brake. He eased the gears down and brought the car to a stop along the pylons that led to the beach. Less than a mile out, blue waters twinkled at him.
He eyed the mirror as a state trooper pulled in behind him. Lights awhirl, the car sat like a sand spider ready to strike.
Canyon roughed a hand over his face. This was it. Career gone. License gone. He gave his all for his country, and all of it had been systematically disassembled in the last two years.
Hands on the steering wheel, he let the call of the Gulf tease his senses. He should’ve taken a swim instead of unleashing his anger on the road. He was a medic. He knew better than to endanger lives. How stupid could he get?
What was taking so long?
He glanced back to the mirror, only … nothing.
Huh? Canyon looked over his shoulder. Where …?
An engine roared to the left. A Black Chrysler 300M slid past him with a white-haired old man inside.
But where was the cop? Again, he double-checked his six.
Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.
With more care and attention this time, he pulled back onto the road and drove to the ocean. He parked and stared at the caress of the waters against the sand that lured him out of the Camaro and to the warm sand. Rolling up his sleeves, he made his way down the beach.
On a stone retaining wall, he stood and watched a couple of surfers ride a wave. Canyon squatted. Hands fisted against his forehead he struggled through Rubart’s promise—they’d give him his career back if he ratted out the very people who’d made the nightmare go away.
He wanted to. Wanted to set the record straight. Knew they’d done wrong, but blowing this thing open meant they’d pin every drop of blood and blame on his shoulders. He’d go down in a blaze of disgrace. It was bad enough he’d had to tell his mom he was put out of the military for “medical” reasons. She didn’t buy it. She was smarter. But she didn’t press him.
Maybe … maybe he should let the panel dig into the tsunami-sized disaster and find the truth.
But he couldn’t. They’d promised to make his life a living hell.
That happened anyway. Everything that felt right and just died. Just like her.
Canyon closed his eyes against the pull of memories and allowed his mind to drift. To everything he felt for her. To all the things he’d done wrong, could’ve done better.
I’m sorry.
Lot of good that did. She had died.
He hopped off the wall and strolled to where the waters stroked the sand. He let out a long breath and ran a hand over the back of his longer-than-normal hair. He’d tried to leave the tragedy behind. Move on. But who could move on after something like that? Even the government was scared of Tres Kruces. Nice PR disaster with the whole world as witnesses.
Canyon drew out the small vial. Shouldn’t do this. The back pain was gone. The heart pain permanent. He popped two pills into his mouth and swallowed.
His hand closed around the Emerson in his pocket. Canyon drew it out and eyed the gleaming metal. He’d used it to cut her tethers the first night his team had come up on the backwater village. Flipping the blade to the ground, he tamped down the fireball in his gut. He saved her that night only to end up killing her thirteen months later.
She was gone. His career was gone. The government had a shackle around his neck. What was there to live for?
He retrieved it and swiped the sand from the blade on his rolled cuffs. The silver glinted against his forearm. He pressed the metal against his flesh. Wouldn’t be the first attempt. Maybe he’d succeed this time. Drew it along his arm—
“Never did understand how they stand up on a piece of wood.”
Canyon jerked at the deep voice. He returned his Emerson to his pocket and eyed the old man a few feet away. Looked like the same man from the 300 earlier. What was he saying? Something about wood?
Canyon followed the man’s gaze to the water, the surfers. Ah. Surfboards. “They’re not wood.”
“Really?”
“Polyurethane and fiberglass or cloth. Depends on the board.” He might be off-kilter, but he wasn’t stupid. The man had a military cut and bearing. “What’s your game?”
A slow smile quirked the face lined with age. White hair rustled under the tease of a salty breeze. “Recycling soldiers.”
Why wouldn’t they leave him alone? Believe he’d keep his trap shut when he said he’d keep his trap shut? “Sorry, I don’t have anything to say.”
“Yes, that was quite apparent.”
Hesitation stopped Canyon from trudging back to his car. This man had been at his evaluation? Where …? “You were behind the mirror.”
“While you said little, your actions said much more, Captain Metcalfe.”
A knot formed in his gut. “In case you missed the point, I’m no longer a captain. Go back to your leeches and tell them I’m done.”
“Is your career worth cutting your wrists, Captain?”
The knot tightened. “My career was everything,” he ground out. “It’s who I am.” He swallowed. “Was.”
“Yes.” The man smiled. “You wanted to finish what your father started.”
A blaze scorched his chest. “Who are you? What do you know about my father?” Who did this guy think he was?
“Major Owen Metcalfe lost his life trying to free his spec-ops team from a POW camp during Vietnam.”
Canyon jerked his attention back to the water. Focused on the undulating waves. The way they rolled in, rolled out. Just like breathing. In … out … “How—how do you know about my father?” The only reason Canyon knew was because the government tried to use it against him in his trial.
Slowly the man turned toward him, his smile growing.
Only then did Canyon recognize him. “General Lambert.” He took a step back. “I didn’t … You’re out of uniform.”
“Yes, thank goodness. I’ve put on a few pounds since they issued the last uniform.” Lambert laughed and pointed. “Walk with me, Captain.”
What possessed Canyon to indulge him, he didn’t know. But he found himself walking the quiet beach, curious that the general would seek him out. Was it yet another trap?
“So that you will understand me, I have read the full file on Tres Kruces.”
Of course. He’d fallen right into the general’s trap, hadn’t he? “This conversation is over.” He pivoted and started back to his car.
“If my memory serves me correctly, the vote was three to one.”
Canyon hesitated. Cursed himself for hesitating. Just walk away. That’s what they’d done to him.
“Wh
at would you say the value of that single dissenter is worth?”
“Nothing. I still lost my career, everything.”
“What if that dissenter held the power to change everything? What would you say it was worth then?”
Eyeballing the man, Canyon tried to think past his drumming pulse. “My life.”
Lambert nodded. “Good … good.”
Good? How could he say that? What use was a dissenter now anyway? But that unflappable grin and knowing eyes—this man knew something.
“You.” Canyon stumbled back as if hit by a squall. “It was you. You were the dissenter.” He slid a hand over his head and neck. “General, I— It has to stay buried. Or I go down hard and fast. I’m not playing with this fire.”
Hands in his pockets, Lambert smiled up at him. “I am not here in any official capacity related to the U.S. government.”
Dare he hope that this nightmare was over?
“How do you like working as a physical therapist?”
Canyon shrugged. “Not bad. It’s work. I help people.” He hated it.
“That’s what’s important to you, helping people, is it not?” When Canyon shrugged again, Lambert continued. “Thought so. I have a proposition for you, Captain. One that will get you back in your game.”
Wariness crowded out hope. “What game is that?”
“The one you do best. The one that allows you to serve your country, use the medic skills crucial to saving lives, and be part of a winning team.”
“They benched me, said I was done, no more or they’d—”
“What do you say?”
A wild, irregular cadence pounded in his chest. “I’m ready to get off the bench.”
CHAPTER 1
Love is whatever you can still betray.
Betrayal can only happen if you love.
JOHN LECARRE
Bolivarian Republic of Venezuela
Two Years Later
If she had a heart, she might be capable of tears. If she had feelings, she might hurt.
But she had neither. Not anymore. Hard mortar sat in her chest forcefully pumping the blood through her veins. Curled on her side, Danielle Roark closed her mind to her naked body, to the bruises, the blood. Moving had dire consequences—namely waking the snoring slob behind her. When she made the last escape attempt, he’d beaten her unconscious.
She shoved her thoughts toward the plan. Weeks of preparation. Weeks of rape and torture. Were it not for the discovery she’d made, she would lie down and die. But they’d taken enough of her soul to stir the embers of revenge. Now, she’d make sure there was nothing left to identify of these barbaric apes. Back home in the States, her father and stepmother were celebrating Thanksgiving. Today, she’d celebrate with them, by gaining her freedom.
A loud snort and the subsequent long sigh that always signaled when the drunk general entered a deep sleep echoed in the dank room.
Now!
Using her tongue, she pushed the plastic from her mouth and moved with the grace of the demolitions expert she was. She slipped from the bed, slowed her breathing, and stretched one foot forward. Her toe touched the chilled cement. Shivers danced through her. Darting a glance to the disgusting form on the thin mattress, she glided across the room to his bag. Though she itched to put her clothes on, she knew if he awoke and found her dressing, it’d start all over again.
Eyes on him, she stealthily allowed her hands to search his bag for the thumb drive he used last night. If she could find that, if she could get the proof … then she could end this. And in days, he’d be dead.
Her fingers closed around a thin, plastic object. Exultant, she drew it out. Jaw clamped, she watched for any sign of him waking as she encased the stick drive in the cellophane. Shivering in the chilly November night, she unwound the long thread from her back tooth that she’d secured yesterday, tied it around the device, leaving just enough to anchor it to her molar, then forced herself to swallow. She might as well have tried to gulp a grenade, it felt so large.
The savage was still snoring. Temptation pushed her to the chair where his weapon lay on the cushion. All she had to do was lift it, aim, and pull the trigger. It’d be over. Right now. She could kill him. He deserved that. She deserved that. Deserved to see his blood pouring over the cement for what he’d done, what he’d ripped from her time and again.
Imbecile thought he was smart. Yeah, right. So smart he hadn’t noticed the odd flavor in his liquor. But if she killed him here, another would rise to continue his work. That, she couldn’t allow.
Dani drifted to the end of the bed. Lifted the army jacket he’d shed in his haste to have his perverted pleasure. Though she worked for quiet, the sound of her fingers against the stiff fabric seemed to scream through the cement room. Her hand trembled as she fastened the two middle buttons. When she reached for the pants, his foot dragged over the bed.
A grunt.
Her heart pinged off her ribs. Her life was more important than modesty. She snatched his gun and spun.
“Wha …?” General Bruzon staggered upward, his thick salt-and-pepper hair askew. He looked around, his movements sluggish and uncoordinated. “Guards!”
She aimed and fired—at the window. Running, she eased the trigger back again. Glass shattered. With the gun hitting the pane first, Dani dove through the portal to freedom. As the glass sliced her flesh, prickly fire chewed her arms and sides. Pain had no voice tonight. She had to make it.
Blaring and grating, a siren screamed through the night.
Seconds later the lawn lit up brighter than Times Square on New Year’s Eve. Despite pain and fear, she sprinted around the building. Rocks and burrs pricked the soles of her bare feet. She plunged onward, unheeding.
A door flung open from the side of the building, diverting Dani to a nearby truck where she pressed her back against the hull. Even this late at night in late November, the temperatures in Venezuela hit a balmy midsixties.
Can’t stop. Not now.
Panting, she glanced toward the ocean that waited beyond the cliff. Even under the glare of the searchlights, the dark water twinkled. Beckoning her. Calling. Luring. If only the wood was where Hugo had promised to leave it.
Betting your life on a man’s word—what an idiot!
A commotion rent the bright night. Dani frowned as she tried to make out the noise. It sounded hollow. Pounding, like a bad bass beat. But amid the unfolding chaos, it was indecipherable. She scooted along the truck, inching closer. From beneath the chassis, she drew out a small wooden pallet. A nervous smile skidded into her lips. Hugo had done it. Like he promised.
She peered around the truck—and froze. Dark shadows rippled toward her like a heat wave. Only it wasn’t water. Dogs! A dozen of them.
If she ran, the guards would gun her down.
If she didn’t, the dogs would rip her apart.
Bullets or teeth.
Either way she was fated to die.
Dani clamped her jaw tight. Faced the water.
God … if You’re there …
He wasn’t. Hadn’t been for the last six months. She was on her own.
With renewed determination to do everything she could to protect herself, Dani propelled herself the thirty meters toward the churning ocean that waited below the lip of the cliff.
Barking grew louder. Closer.
Snapping jaws pursued her as the killer canines lunged for her. Panic ricocheted off her ribs. Push. Harder. Had to make it …
Within a half dozen feet, she flung the three-foot square raft over the edge. As she leapt, red-hot fire tore through her calf—seconds later the needling registered in her mind. A dog had caught her leg! Sailing through the air, she kicked with both feet. The beast finally reacted to the free fall and released her.
She plummeted—feeling free! In the split second her foot stabbed the water, she spotted the wood bobbing northeast of her position. Icy liquid devoured her. Dani let the ocean take her down. Down. It’d be easy to just keep sinking. N
ever return to anyone or anything. Ultimate freedom.
But she couldn’t. Not if she wanted Bruzon six feet under.
She launched upward, using her arms to gain the surface faster. Gasping, she searched the dark water for the wood. As she did, she saw the dog limping onto the shore, head down. He looked back at her and snarled, as if to blame her for the leg injury. Guess we’re even. With the salt water, the searing wound he’d given her was enough to make anyone cry.
Anyone but her.
Knowing Bruzon and his men would hop in their boats and choppers to find her and teach her yet another vicious lesson, Dani swam a mean breaststroke toward the raft. The waves struggled against her, but she pushed herself. Had to. Finally, her fingers grazed the sodden wood.
Even once she folded herself onto it, she wouldn’t be safe. Bruzon would search hard and long to find her, especially if he figured out what she’d stolen. For her, it was a guarantee the man would never rape another girl. To him, it was the loss of his entire pathetic empire. One he’d seized through brute force over her mother’s beloved country.
Gripping the slick wood, she hauled herself onto it, ignoring the chill skittering over her pebbled flesh. The handmade raft buoyed her as the waves tossed and turned on this sleepless night as if ready to belch her back onto the beach. She squinted up at the dark sky, at the thick clouds barricading the stars beyond. Much like Bruzon keeping her from home. A dull moon seemed a homing beacon against her bare legs.
Getting revenge required getting back to the States. Twenty-two kilometers stretched between Dani and hope. Twelve nautical miles that would put her in international waters.
Light stabbed the night.
She whipped around, the army jacket heavy with ocean water as she paddled.
Bruzon’s speedboat roared over the waves.
They were headed straight toward her. A metallic flavor glanced off her tongue. Watching the boat, she quickened her strokes, the wood chaffed her arm. No good. The boat gained too quickly. She’d have to go under.
