by Lisa Gardner
Coleton smiled, his gaze on Victoria. “But Ferringer might make it. If he leaves the others. If he focuses on himself, he can do it.”
And then Victoria knew that Brandon was lost, that Coleton had outmaneuvered them all. Because Brandon would never leave his team. He would never be like his father.
Coleton had taught him well.
* * *
Woody was running up the slope, angling for the ridge. They stumbled after him, running flat-out but disoriented by the smoke and dazed by the heat. The air didn’t hold enough oxygen. It had all been burned away and replaced by carbon monoxide. The fire whirls were filled with poisonous gases, twirling around them, flicking fire at their hair and cheeks, showering them with burning tree limbs and fresh embers.
They ran faster, gasping and heaving. They shouldn’t be heading up, Brandon thought, but could no longer remember why. In this churning inferno, the lessons of the classroom seemed far away. The lack of oxygen and the noxious fumes made it hard to think. One by one, they fell back on instinct and did what their young bodies and well-conditioned muscles were trained to do—they ran. They sprinted over rocky terrain, angled hard and made a beeline for the craggy promise of the ridge where the fire would finally be thwarted by lack of fuel.
Running uphill is no good. The thought whispered through Brandon’s mind again. He wanted to be able to grab it and turn it over clearly, but he was having trouble thinking. He chest and throat burned. Dots spotted his vision.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, the cool, rational part of him told him he was losing consciousness. He wasn’t getting enough oxygen. His three-layer flame-retardant gear, formulated to withstand seventeen hundred degrees for up to five seconds, was beginning to melt and shrink-wrap his skin.
It felt as if a burning poker was pressed along his spine, and he was running faster and faster to escape the heat without it making a shred of difference.
It sounded as if he was standing in the middle of a jet engine.
Trish stumbled on a rock and went down. Charlie tripped over her and stumbled. Larry went running by, his hair singed and covering his scalp in white. April sprinted behind Larry, looking like a ghostly deer while embers burned through her coat. Their eyes were wide and panicked, their faces lined and grim.
Run, run, run, he could almost hear them cry.
Brandon scooped an arm around Trish’s waist. He staggered and almost fell. No damn oxygen. Couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. The others were running up the hill, the fire giving wings to their feet.
Damn, they shouldn’t be running uphill. Uphill was bad, but he couldn’t remember why. Bloody hell. His stomach rolled.
He was going to vomit.
Poisonous gases, the rational part of his mind supplied. Cover your mouth.
He found a handkerchief, wetted it and tied it around his mouth. Trish was sitting, dazed, disoriented and confused. He covered her mouth. He could hear a roar behind them.
The fire was coming.
Don’t let the fire meet you on its terms. Stop reacting, keep control, formulate a strategy. Cool, cool rich Brit. Think, think, think. Fast.
Up ahead, Charlie picked himself up. The glow of the fire made his eyes look red.
His lips were moving. “One fries, we all fry.”
He joined Brandon, and they wrapped their arms around Trish’s waist. And then, ungainly and slow but developing a rhythm, they took off once more.
Behind them, the fire roared. Coming uphill from the left, a new fire burst to life.
Think, Brandon, think.
The smoke closed in on them and the world became a tiny, desperate place.
* * *
“Brandon,” Victoria yelled into the radio. “Brandon, please!”
There was no answer.
In the corner of the watchtower, Barbara began to cry. Coleton, handcuffed to a chair, smiled.
Victoria determinedly pressed the relay button again. “Keep moving, Brandon,” she commanded. “Don’t give up, please. I need you, Brandon. Watch out for yourself—watch out for Charlie. You are my hero.”
Victoria was talking to them. Brandon thought it was odd, but he didn’t think it was odd. In this crazy, smoky-heated world, anything was possible. A figure appeared ahead. It was Larry, sitting on the hot ground. His hair was gone, his scalp bright red.
He had a dazed look in his eyes, as if he was a child lost in the mall.
Victoria spoke to him, too. “Run, run, please run. Don’t give up. You can’t give up.”
Brandon leapt up and turned wildly, as if expecting to see ghosts. He suddenly wanted to laugh. So did Trish. The world was all helter skelter and filled with pretty colors. His vision was blurring. He almost didn’t mind.
Breathe slower. Don’t hyperventilate. Don’t give in to the gases.
“One fries, we all fry,” Charlie gasped.
“Come home to me, Brandon, come home to me,” Victoria commanded.
All of a sudden, a dozen forms burst in front of them. It was the rest of their crew, disoriented and turned around. Woody was in the lead. His eyes were wild. He clutched his throat. He saw the fire, came to a startled halt and seemed to realize what he’d done—he’d led the team into the flames.
They would never make the ridge. This was it, and they were thinking of the crosses that remained scattered across Mann Gulch, and the rows of bodies in silver fire shields recovered from Storm King Mountain.
The fire wall thundered down upon them. They were young, they were exhausted, and they still couldn’t believe they were losing this war.
“Fire shields, fire shields,” the crew boss croaked.
He fumbled with the matches at his waist. And then Woody’s back suddenly arched, he gave a great, heaving gasp of noxious fumes, and the veteran firefighter pitched forward and passed out cold.
“Run,” someone yelled. “Head down. Run through it!”
“No!” Brandon cried. His head was spinning. He saw lights and thought he might pass out, too.
“Fire shields now,” he heard someone yell in a raw, hoarse voice. It was his voice. Brandon Ferringer was screaming above the flames.
And then he was lighting a match and tossing it into the grass. “Into the black,” he roared. “Beaverville crew, into the black!”
Behind them, the blowout approached with fury. In front of them, the low-heat grass fire scoured through the fuel while skimming harmlessly over their fire suits.
“Beaverville crew,” he screamed again, “into the black! Into the black!”
They crossed into the black.
They dove down one by one, the wall of flames boring down on them. They fumbled with fire shields in a last desperate bid that would determine who won and who lost.
Charlie had his face pressed in the black ashes, where oxygen remained. He yanked his fire shield up and was lost beneath the blanket of silver. And then Larry and then Trish and April . . .
“Go, go, go,” Brandon was screaming, trying to find his fire shield, trying to position Woody.
The fire was almost upon him. He couldn’t hear his voice anymore. He couldn’t breathe in. He held his breath as the tears evaporated in his eyes. He fumbled with the fire shield as the fire hit the home straight and made a beeline for him.
His hair was singed off. The back of his hand was burned. He fought to seal the edges. Had to get it down or the wind would rip it off and expose him and Woody to the flames.
A fire shield wasn’t meant to hold two people, anyway. He couldn’t get the edges down far enough over the extra bulk. It wasn’t going to work. He should let Woody go, save himself.
I am Brandon Ferringer.
He smashed the edges down.
The fire arrived with a whoosh.
The world blew up, and then it blew away.
* * *
Trish emerged first. She shook ash out of her hair. Charlie crawled out next. He had new lines permanently carved into his young face. Larry rolled over, breathing shallowly. He couldn’t stand. His windpipe was seared and swelling up. He needed medical attention.
Person by person, they crawled from their narrow silver shells and stared at a world that had become black, alien and surreal. Finally, they turned toward the unnatural hump of two people crammed into one fire shield.
They glanced at one another. Woody and Brandon were the only two unaccounted for.
Charlie stepped forward and somberly did the deed—he pulled back the fire shield.
“Oh, my God,” he said.
* * *
Victoria ran outside as the first National Guard chopper landed. It was followed by another, then another. Three helicopters to haul out seventeen people. Ambulances were on the scene, lights flashing, people yelling.
She ran from chopper to chopper, seeking.
“Brandon?” she cried. “Brandon?”
* * *
He heard his name from a long way away. The world seemed to be in a fog. His arms didn’t want to move. His legs didn’t want to move. The world had become small. He remembered that clearly. The flames had eaten everything. He remembered that, too.
And yet he still functioned, because the cool enclave of his brain made him function. The cool little spot in his mind wouldn’t let him give up. He was Brandon Ferringer. Hotshot. Team member. Maximillian Ferringer’s son.
Victoria Meese’s hero.
He heard his name again. He turned. And then there she was, running toward him, her strong face earnest.
He clamored through the throng of people. He fought to get off the chopper. He had to stop to let a stretcher pass. Woody looked up from the bed, holding an oxygen mask to his face. With his other hand, he gave Brandon a thumbs-up sign, and Brandon took his hand.
Then the medics passed, and Brandon glanced frantically for Victoria once more.
“Victoria! Victoria!”
She burst through the crowd and landed against him hard, snapping her arms around his bruised and battered body. He held her tight and inhaled deeply. Apple shampoo and the scent of horses. Spring days and summer rain.
She was here. Everyone was safe; everyone was all right. Victoria was in his arms. Suddenly, his whole body was shaking.
“I dreamed your voice,” he said hoarsely.
“You didn’t dream.”
“I didn’t leave them, Victoria. I didn’t leave. I proved myself. I can be your hero now. I love you. I love you. God . . .”
“I know, I know. Shh, it’s all right. It’s all right.”
He was on his knees. He buried his face against her stomach as his shoulders began to move and finally he started to sob.
“I love you,” she whispered. “I love you.”
He cried harder, and behind him, his teammates were suddenly doing the same.
Victoria knelt on the ground beside him. They held each other together and rocked back and forth until the worst of the storm was spent.
Charlie came over. They welcomed him, too.
“Come home,” Victoria whispered.
“I will,” Brandon promised. “I will.”
Epilogue
They stood in front of the grave silently, three heads bowed—one red, one blond, one sun-bleached brown. Behind them, the warm September sun glinted off the vast sloping roof of Tillamook’s historic blimp-hangar museum. In front of them, a gentle coastal breeze blew across the waist-high grass, bringing earthy scents of salt water and cow manure.
It was a beautiful day in Tillamook, the weather surprisingly balmy, the sky incredibly blue, the mountains unbearably green. It was a perfect day for revisiting the past.
Maggie, C.J. and Brandon had spent a week in D.C., where Tom Reynolds’s lobbying had finally yielded them an interview with the CIA. The information had been good and bad, redeeming and yet unchanging. They had flown back together, each lost in their separate silence.
They had come here, to Maximillian’s final resting place in the small dairy community he’d grown up in and been too hasty to leave. Lydia had buried him here, where she could come out often and speak to her only child, whom she’d never understood.
Lydia had stayed home today, wanting to give Maggie, C.J. and Brandon time alone to make their peace. Downtown, in the Shilo Inn, their respective loves also waited. Cain, Tamara and Victoria had taken an instant shine to one another and were currently waging a friendly war over blackjack. Cain felt it was all a matter of statistical tables. Tamara and Victoria had their own ideas.
No one was sure who would lose the most money, but it was bound to be interesting.
In the graveyard, Maggie finally moved. Her gait was slightly rolling. She was seven months pregnant, and her face was full and radiant. Motherhood suited her, and Brandon saw a peace and contentment in his sister’s face he’d never found.
She might have been an awkward child once. She might have been the hunch-shouldered, skin-and-bones waif who had followed him and C.J. with longing. But these days, Maggie was gorgeous.
She placed two lilies on their father’s grave and stepped aside.
C.J. took his turn. His face was relaxed, his eyes crinkled from the sun and natural good humor. The man was comfortable with his own skin in a way the angry, rebellious boy had never been. Street rat, wiseass C.J. was solid to the core.
He placed ivy on the grave, not a choice Brandon would have made.
Then C.J. stepped back, and it was Brandon’s turn.
He stepped forward, feeling his heart beat hard in his chest. What did his siblings see when they looked at him? Was his face still too grim, his cheeks too hollow? Did they see the reserved, stoic English boy who’d sworn never to cry in front of them, the boy who grew too old and too cold trying to hold everyone’s life together? Or did they see the man he was becoming—the loyal, generous, caring man who was learning to give as well as receive and who looked at Victoria Meese every morning and saw his hero?
Brandon placed the Tillamook High School yearbook on top of his father’s grave. Those were the times to be remembered.
He stepped back, and Maggie broke the silence.
“Well, now we know. Does it make it a difference?”
“Yes,” C.J. said.
“Maybe,” Brandon replied.
Maggie’s lips curved into a smile. “It wasn’t about the money,” she said at last.
“But it was,” Brandon argued. “He married my mom for money—he married your mom for money. Granted, his travel and crazy hours were due to government orders, but Max was still obsessed with the dollar.”
“It’s not cheap to be James Bond,” C.J. said with a shrug. “I mean, the movies show spies driving sports cars and wearing tuxedos in Monte Carlo, but frankly, even CIA agents are merely government employees, earning an average wage. So he was enamored with the glamour. So he thirsted for the full spy experience. He was doing the work.”
“Assassin,” Brandon muttered.
Maggie shook her head. “You heard what the man said—”
“‘CIA agents are trained to handle a variety of situations,’” Brandon intoned wryly. Even C.J. was grinning.
“Well, he wasn’t an assassin,” Maggie insisted. “He was a government agent. He followed orders. Granted, he did things they never will tell us about, but he was an agent and he did lots of . . . of agent stuff.”
C.J. laughed. “Agent stuff.” He chortled. “Oh, my, oh, my. How official. Kind of like house-chore stuff except on a global scale.”
Maggie scowled and poked him in the arm. “You ought t
o understand, Marine.”
C.J. did his best to appear somber. “Yeah, yeah, I suppose so. He was one of the good guys. You can’t knock that, Brandon. We may not have understood him, he may not have been the best father, but at least he was doing something a little bit more meaningful than importing hand-carved wooden figurines.”
Brandon still wasn’t sure what he thought about that. He went back to staring at the tombstone, and they lapsed into silence.
The CIA had tried to tell them the bits and pieces that it could. Maximillian Ferringer had been one of their top agents. His marriages and children had been of his own volition, and they’d been as surprised as anyone that he’d started families, given his occupation.
He had pursued his best friend, Al Simmons, during the late 1960s, when it was discovered that Al had become a KGB mole. And by Al’s admission two months ago, Al had caught him first. Al had killed Ashley Jacobs. Al had killed Maximillian Ferringer. Al had let Bud Irving live because it amused him to watch crazy Bud suffer.
Al swore he had not killed Julia Ferringer. As far as anyone could tell, Brandon’s first wife had indeed been shot by a mugger.
Sometimes, that thought gave him comfort. Most of the time, he realized it didn’t mean a thing. C.J. and Maggie had been right in the end—discovering the truth hadn’t miraculously changed his life. Julia was still dead, and her murder remained tragic. Max was still gone, and still enigmatic.
He’d been a loyal friend and a good patriot. He’d served his country, and according to the CIA, he’d been among their best. Max had grown up without his father, having lost Samuel to Nazi fighter pilots. Apparently, Maximillian had felt that loss much deeper than anyone had realized. And when he’d graduated from high school, he’d convinced his two best friends to join him in pledging their lives to defend their country.
He hadn’t been a great father, and he’d been a lousy husband. But then the secrecy and shadows one learned to sustain as an agent probably didn’t do well at home. And he’d never had an example of what a father or husband should be.
So there it was. Maximillian the Chameleon. Take him or leave him.
