16 April 1746

Kerr had the wits to remain still when he awoke. He was terribly cold, the pain in his legs was hideous; but he kept his eyes closed. The coppery taste of blood in his mouth helped to prevent him from crying out. The battle was lost – oh, how it was lost, and more besides, all was lost, the cause in chaos – but for the moment all he could do was remain alive. Not moving, not screaming, not drawing attention. That was the first thing.

Swallowing blood, biting back a howl of pain, Kerr took stock of himself. He could still hear, although there was a dreadful ringing in his ears. All around was noise – screaming, crying, praying. Odd, in this God forsaken place, that he could hear laughter, too. It was over then, he realised – the thunder of cannon was gone, and the sickening crack and whine of musket fire echoed only in his memory. When the laughter begins the fighting is done. He had no idea who might have survived the day.

Nonetheless. Lying prostrate, he could feel the earth wet under his back, soaking up through his woollen jacket. It was strangely warm, warmer than the freezing rain falling on his face. That was a riddle; earlier, he had seen the grass covered by an unseasonal frost. A bitter wind stole the breath from his mouth. Carefully, through slitted eyes, he took a look around. Black clouds scudded overhead. Smoke hung heavy in the sodden air. The noise continued. Kerr rolled his head and chanced a glance at the battlefield. Although he had seen combat many times, nothing had prepared him for this.

"Mother of God...", he said, his voice strangled and raw.

The ground beneath him was warm because it was red. The grass, the heather - all painted with gore. He was lying in a vast pool of blood, inches deep. The air was not smoky, after all – in the freezing air, steam was rising from the awful warmth of the stuff. Opening his eyes wider, he could see no end to it – the moor was covered. Severed limbs lay hither and yon, some still clothed in bloody tartan, others hideously naked and torn. The laughter came again and again, always followed by more screams.

He closed his eyes against the sight. How had it come to this, he wondered – the rebellion in disarray; his kinsmen butchered. Only hours ago the day promised so much. The Clans that had rallied to the cause of the Jacobites, under the standard of the Bonnie Prince, gathered together on Culloden Moor, stoic against the driving sleet. The Government forces outnumbered them by three thousand, but Kerr had had little doubt the ferocity of the Highland Charge would put the fear of God into the British Army regulars; the day would be won. The throne would be won.

The charge had sounded, and Kerr was lost in the roar of a thousand throats as they rushed at the massed forces ahead of them.

But God had turned his face from them. The death knell for the Clans had been sounded; and it had taken little over an hour. Like all of the Highlanders, Kerr had never seen regimented musket fire before; the troops ahead of them patiently fired and reloaded, fired and reloaded, cutting down hundreds before the fight was truly engaged. Where were our Cavalry, he thought? They never came. Cannonballs thundered across the moor, and the highlanders could only run headlong into them.

Shrieking, at the limit of his strength, Kerr had raised his claymore above his head. So close, now, the redcoats of the Hanoverians. He swung the huge blade at the soldier in front of him, but even as it connected, a blade pierced his side from the left. He reeled back to strike again, but his legs were taken from under him by another volley of musket fire. In agony, he tried to get up, but a bayonet ran through his shoulder. The last thing he saw was the stock of a musket, swinging for his face.

Now. Lying on a field of blood, unable to move, Kerr could only wait. He looked across the moor again. About twenty yards away, in the mist, he could see one of his kinsmen lying, alive but terribly injured. The man’s breath was visible in the air as he howled. Six redcoats stood around. Their white britches were spattered red to the knee; as if they had been paddling in gore. Laughing, one of them raised his bayonet and placed it at the injured man’s breast. He paused for a second, then pressed his weight down, driving the blade home.

It had come to this, then. Culloden Moor was being drowned with the blood of the slaughtered. No quarter given, the injured were being murdered where they lay. All around him, Kerr could hear the thud as cudgels dashed brains across the grass, the whicker of the blade, the crack of the musket. Honour had no place here.

The Redcoats were moving toward him now. One carried a sword. One was swinging a cudgel. One was priming a musket. They were all smiling.

Kerr prayed the freezing rain would dull the pain.

He closed his eyes.

The campfire was small, barely big enough to warm our hands and make tea, but it was a fire and fire was good. The cold winter night drove us toward it, faces pressed into the meager, flickering light as we slowly munched on biscuit and dried meat cooked in a little melted snow. Only Marcus sat outside the ring, leaning against the wagon's wheel with his scabbard across his knees, watching the darkness.

Breda had the short straw tonight; she sat on the north side of the fire with her back to the opening of the rock alcove, shivering in the wind under a thick red and black blanket. Fingers wrapped around a metal cup, she looked over her shoulder at the pass and said, "Snow coming in."

"Yep," I nodded from my seat opposite. "Tea?"

Crath, our newcomer, took the pot and poured a cup. He was an old man with rheumy eyes and broken boots. We couldn't bring ourselves to leave him behind. "Thanks," he growled, eyeballing Marcus across the fire. "He want any?"

I took the pot and held it out to Marcus, but he shook his head. I shrugged and set the pot down again. "Suit yourself." Marcus had said about five words in as many days since he'd joined us. Questions about his origins, business and family went ignored and unanswered. Neither Breda or I had the guts to challenge him on it.

Breda took a long sip and pulled the blanket tighter. "We'll have to move out as soon as we can tomorrow," she said, pushing her red hair out of her eyes. "Before sunrise, probably. Is everyone up for that?"

"Fine with me," I said. "We can make it to Kelst by tomorrow night if we hurry, barring – er - accidents."

Marcus raised an eyebrow, shifting his one good eye to look at me. "Accidents?" he said quietly. "What kind of accidents?"

I looked down and away. Breda kept her eyes on the fire. "He's had trouble in this part of the pass before," she explained after a long moment. "With the – you know. Them."

"Do you think you're in danger?" Marcus asked, his low gravelly voice masking the sound of his sword sliding a few inches out of its scabbard.

I looked up, the scars on my back and shoulders burning with memory. Marcus hovered at the edge of the darkness, his features twisted in the firelight as he stared back at me. I hid my shaking hands in my coat and asked, "Where are you from, Marcus?"

Crath's hacking laugh cut through the silence. "He's not going to tell you," he wheezed, slapping his knee. "Not in a hundred years. His kind never tells."

My stomach clenched, and I looked from Marcus to the old man with trepidation. Breda's grey eyes were ringed with white, and she put her hand on the knife at her hip, saying, "We've had no trouble so far. Not from anybody."

Crath cackled, gleeful at our ignorance. "'Course not! He's been with you this whole time you've been in the pass!"

"You mean," I said shakily, looking from him to Marcus and back again, "that They've left us alone out of ... professional courtesy?"

"Heh!" Crath grinned, jerking a thumb at Breda. "Why do you think she wanted to bring him along?"

Breda threw off the blanket and jumped to her feet. "That's not true!" she shouted. "He doesn’t know what he's talking about!"

"Oh yeah?" I shouted back, kicking the tin teapot out of the way as I stood. "You seemed awfully glad when he showed up!"

"Don't you accuse me!" Breda shrieked. "Don't you dare accuse me! You're the one who chose this route!"

"Because you wanted to get there as soon as possible!" I screamed back. "This whole thing is your fault!"

"MY FAULT?!"

"YOUR FAULT! ALL YOUR FAULT!"

Breda shrieked again, a wordless animal sound, and leapt across the fire at me. Her knife flashed in her hand, and I screamed and lunged at her, fingers curled to take her throat. We never hit. Marcus stepped between us, blocking our collision with his bulk, and stabbed Crath through the chest.

Crath looked down at the blade poking out from between his ribs, and Breda and I both stopped short, staring at each other, wondering what had caused us to stand and charge like that. Then we turned to Crath, still with his head bowed. "You ... " he said, and fell backwards without another word.

Marcus moved to retrieve and wipe his weapon, leaving us standing on either side of the fire. Breda held up her knife, puzzled. "What – " she began, then stopped.

"You were easy marks," Marcus said calmly, running a cloth down the length of his blade. "It's one of Their favorite tricks, turning a party against itself and watching it self-destruct." With the tip of his sword, he moved the collar of the old man's coat to show a vulture tattooed on the wrinkled skin.

I gasped and shuddered. "He - "

Marcus nodded. "They won't bother you again," he said quietly, sheathing the sword and taking his seat. "I suggest you get some sleep. You've got an early start in the morning."

Breda put the blanket over the body. "But – "

"Just," Marcus said, "sleep."

The snow started, and we bedded down. Tomorrow was a long day.

A sense of unreality colored her vision as she gathered what diapers, clothes and bottles she could. She numbly stuffed them into a Wal-Mart plastic sack; the handles wrung thin with many uses. She gathered her daughter, the pitifully small bundle wrapped in a threadbare blanket, close to her heart with one arm and grabbed the sack with her other hand. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she savored the feeling of the tiny body protected by her own, the slight weight held against her chest. She imagined she could feel the new child move inside her, though it was far too early for that. She wished for a moment that she still carried them both inside her body, where she could keep them safe.

For a moment, her veneer of calm threatened to crack, but she took a deep breath, pain lancing in her side, reminding her of reality.

She left the darkened room, weaving her way down the hallway past lumps of his dirty shirts and discarded socks. Despite everything, she felt a twinge of guilt that she had not done the laundry. Then she remembered she would not do laundry again.

She wrapped her thick, fur-lined coat, a relic from a better time, around her shoulders, zipping it closed around her baby to provide an extra layer of warmth against the chill night. She opened the door, stepped into the hallway, and closed it behind her but did not bother to lock it. The flickering fluorescent lamp above her seemed to keep time with her measured steps, enhancing the feeling that nothing was real.

As she descended the stairs and stepped onto the street, she huddled around the lump in her coat, her daughter whimpering slightly in her sleep. She crooned almost soundlessly to her, “Shh, little one. Hush darling. It will be okay. Soon it will be all right. Hush, my love. My sweet.”

She entered the maw of the subway, pausing only briefly at the top of the stairs, fighting the lump in her throat. The plastic bag crackled with every movement, echoing through the nearly abandoned station.

At the bottom, her cold fingers fumbled in her coat pocket for the carefully hoarded, carefully hidden change she had garnered over the last few months. It was just enough to buy the two-way ticket she needed to take her across the city to the hospital.

The ride was a blur of once-cheerful dingy paint and tinny, meaningless intercom messages until the recorded female voice said “Next stop: City Hospital. Please depart through the left side doors.”

She left and made her way up the stairs. Although some part of her wanted to think, wanted to talk herself out of what she must do, she knew there was no other way left to her. She could forgive her own cracked ribs and swollen eye, but the final line had been crossed and there was no going back. Not for her. Not for him. Not again.

It was only a short walk before she stood to the side of one of the hospital’s employee entrances. She knew the shift would change soon, and some nurse or doctor would see and rescue her daughter. She dropped the plastic sack against the wall and shrugged off her coat, sighing softly as the cold air whisked through her loose, plaid shirt. She placed the coat on the ground, lowering her baby into its soft fur lining with exaggerated care. She zipped it and wrapped it around her precious daughter, hoping that the fur would protect her until she was found.

She took the small handgun from the inside pocket where she had stashed it earlier, unwilling to let it, her only chance, leave her possession. Making sure for the hundredth time that it was not yet loaded, she slipped it under her shirt, making certain to also move the return ticket and the two bullets from the coat pocket to her jeans. The note she had written, she left in the pocket. At least her daughter could keep her own name.

She brushed the fist-sized bruise on the left temple of her baby’s head, the sick feeling in her stomach now familiar to her, but deadened by the numbness that had sustained her trip. She bit her lip hard, tasting the metallic blood. She bent to kiss her daughter’s smooth forehead, drinking in the scent of her before covering the tiny, sleeping face lightly with the hood of her coat.

She turned swiftly, almost running down the street. She descended the stairs again and, when it came, entered the subway train bound for the stop nearest the apartment. The cold metal of the gun warmed slowly between her elbow and her uninjured side, where only minutes before she had carried her baby. Tears she had thought gone forever began to moisten her cheeks one last time.

The sky flamed yellow with the setting sun, the heat on the barren earth throwing up a glistening haze over the field of the dead. I took another swig of the acrid liquid in my wineskin, warm from the heat of the day, and turned to watch the procession behind me. Decorated carts filled with the bodies of our fallen moved off on their final journey accompanied by the cry of brass trumpets and men’s voices raised in anguish: their task over, it was time for my unit to begin ours. With our army marching across the rocky hills to the Endacian tribal capital and our dead on their way to a hero’s pyre, we were to ensure the Endacians would never again forget their place.

Yet it is a job that is never pleasant: even with the weight of tradition on your shoulders and the pride of the Empire in your spear, it is no easy thing to remove another man’s face. Hours ago he was your enemy, his sole purpose in life was to take your own, and now in death he is a non-entity, not deserving of the passage to the underworld – for with no face there is no soul. But as you look down upon his corpse, the stench of decay seeping into your pores, you can’t help but to think that somewhere a wife or a mother is waiting, and there but for the grace of the Gods . . . It’s nothing another mouthful of fermented plum juice won’t fix.

Working in teams we made our way across the battlefield, aching and filthy from a day without rest, the deed as heavy as the hot, dust-ladened air. With my mind hazy from the sun on the horizon and the drink in my belly, I worked with the rhythm of the drum ringing across the field – turning the bodies, removing the strange helmets and ramming my spear right where the nose meets the eyes, timing the blow with the booming of the drum: no face, no soul. Behind me, two men pushed barrows whilst a third loaded the bodies in my wake: once full, the barrows were taken back to the main pile where another unit stripped and mounted the bodies on pikes, their smashed faces a clear reminder of the sheer power of the Empire.

I moved steadily forward, well ahead of my men. My eyes glazed over, no longer seeing the individual faces or the crude weapons or the strange leather armour engraved with the angular designs of the desert tribes. I was numb, my movements broken only to take another swig from the wineskin. My hits had become sloppy but still I pressed on, everything a blur as I raised my spear with the beat of the drum . . .

The body below me suddenly came to life, moving so fast he had his spear to my throat before I had chance to react. The shock and the coldness of blade cleared my head like a flame clears the dark, sending my heart pounding in my ears. “You step back, I kill you. You call out, I kill you. You move, I kill you!” he hissed through a heavy Endacian accent, his dark eyes wild as he remained lying and injured in the dust; for all the blood seeping from the wound beneath his tunic his grip remained strong and unwavering.

“In the name of the Empire, drop your weapon!” I yelled, but the spear pressed harder.

“No yell, understand me?” he rasped, “No yell, no move!” Panting, fighting the rising panic, I looked around as far as my eyes would allow and saw my men drop their barrows and run towards us. “You tell them, no closer! Tell them!”

“Stay back!” I gestured with my free hand, keeping my own spear poised: the clank of armour stopped but the blade at my throat pressed harder again.

“I watch you. Watch what you do to my people . . .”

“Drop your weapon!” I repeated, hoping to the Gods I sounded authoritative. “You won’t achieve anything! Drop your weapon!”

“No! I die soon, but I take you with me, pig! For my brothers, for my children, for my nation, you die!”

“You kill me and my men will take you as a prisoner, do you understand? You could die an honourable death on the battlefield like a man, or you can go to prison where we will do such things to you you’re going to wish you were dead. It’s your choice,” I said, and he knew I wasn’t bluffing.

“Is no honour when you defile like this,” he spat. “You soldier, you do not know honour. Filthy dog!”

I felt the slightest movement in his arm and I knew he was preparing to strike. I braced myself and as he cursed me in the fluid, flowing words of his tongue he made his move, trying to catch me off guard; a cloud of dust rose up around us as I ducked and knocked his arm back. My men ran forward and I dropped down onto his chest, pinning the squirming Endacian as he spat fire and acid in his own language.

“Right, pick him up and take him over to the pile,” I told my men, “tell them this one’s going on the pike – alive.”

The first flickering rays of the rising sun teasing across his forehead were not enough to awaken Luis, but they still managed to infiltrate his subconscious and influence his dreams.

Bright lights piercing the darkness overwhelming their cat-like eyes with temporary blindness… Dust puffing up and scattering in all directions… Scuffling, sliding, pounding... Feet skittering in a hundred different directions.

Luis tossed his head in desperation, but remained imprisoned by his nightmare.

Heavy breathing and panting, gasping for air but seemingly unable to find any oxygen in the mouthfuls of dirt and dust…

… More scampering feet and more choking dust… Wordless screams mingle with Spanish and English … Roaring engines… Bright lights… Bright lights…

Luis jerked awake with a start. “Maria!” His anguished scream caught in the back of his throat, unable to choke out through his cracked and swollen lips, and emerged as a gasping cough. He looked around wildly, but he was alone. The trucks with their roaring engines and bright lights were long gone.

Luis squeezed his eyes together and tried to gather his jumbled thoughts. He was lying in the sand next to an outcropping of rocks. The desolate desert landscape was barren except for a littering of empty water bottles and a few brightly colored remnants of cloth. He reached up instinctively to rub his temple and found himself immediately awash in a burst of sharp pain that was quickly followed by a dull, throbbing ache.

He probed his forehead again, this time much more gently, and instantly located the raised epicenter of pain. Luis attempted to sit up, and was rewarded with a second burst of pain. He was then hit by a series of cramping waves of nausea. He found himself rolling onto his side as his body attempted to rid itself of the nothing in his stomach. His dry heaving was followed by an eruption of silent, hacking coughing.

Luis returned to his prone position and resumed remembering. He knew that he had been traveling through the Sonoran Dessert with a small group of migrants. The coyotes had told them that the trip would only take a few hours, but they had obviously lied. The migrants had been miserably unprepared and the endless miles of open desert had turned them into a staggering, ragtag, band of half-dead wanderers. The group had long since passed the point of no return, when they had run into BORSTAR.

One minute, they had been mindlessly shuffling along, the next the night had come alive with light and sound. The border agents had been shouting for the migrants to come with them, while the smugglers had been yelling for them to run away. He closed his eyes and let his last conscious memories wash over him.

Maria is holding onto his arm, crying. She is yelling that they need to go and turn themselves in, but Luis is refusing to listen. He is dragging her toward the rocks, trying to run and hide.

The scuffle had only lasted for a few seconds, but it seemed to go on for an eternity as he replayed it in his mind.

Raul, the leader of the coyotes, runs past yelling for Luis and Maria to follow him. Luis jerks free and takes off after Raul just as an agent appears in front of them. Instead of following, Maria falls on her knees begging for water and mercy. Her eyes are tearless, not from lack of sincerity, but because of dehydration. Luis turns back toward her.

Luis stared blankly, lost in his thoughts, but his memories ended there. He did not, however, need to remember, as there was ample evidence around him to piece together the rest of the story. It was obvious that Raul had hit him over the head and dragged his body behind the rocks.

Maria had never wanted to sneak across the desert into America. She had pointed to the Humane Borders warning signs that were posted in the church: Don’t do it. There’s not enough water. It is too hard.

But Luis had dreamed of a better life. As he slowly attempted to sit up again he looked across the stark desert landscape that stretched barren in all directions and wondered if he would continue to have any life at all.

The truck tracks were still visible heading off into the distance as far as he could see. Not knowing what else to do, Luis staggered to his feet and began to follow them. His legs would barely hold him up as he stumbled and fell, alternating between crawling and walking. All he wanted to do was curl up in a ball and go to sleep, but he forced himself to keep moving.

As he crested yet another dune, Luis was surprised to see a figure in the distance. “Ghgghg,” he gurgled an unintelligible squawk. He attempted to lick his lips, but his tongue was swollen in place. He coughed out a dry mouthful of dust and tried again. “Maria,” he whispered.

The figure beckoned to him.

Luis attempted to run, but his legs would no longer support him. “Maria,” he whispered again and began crawling.

Bright lights...Fluttering cloth… A beckoning arm… Maria… Bright lights… Bright lights…

Just when Mary didn't think it was possible to have more stress in her life, circumstances proved otherwise.

A single mom, Mary's days ran together. Wake up early, drop Kylie at the babysitter, eight hours at the supermarket, pick up Kylie and make dinner, collapse in exhaustion ... repeat.

The threat of financial disaster was constant. Mary was behind on her rent. She had a toothache and couldn't afford dental work. The phone company threatened disconnection. Sometimes it seemed like too much to endure.

It was a wintry afternoon, and Mary was on autopilot. As she strapped Kylie into her car seat, she barely heard her daughter's account of the day's activities. I'm a rotten mother. Kylie's trying to tell me about the pictures she drew today, and all I can think about are my debts. Can things get any worse?

Mary felt the hard point of a knife against her ribs.

"Don't scream," a man's voice whispered. "Get in the passenger seat. Do it now, or I'll cut her pretty little throat."

His voice wasn't harsh; it wasn't threatening. He delivered this unspeakable promise in the calm, measured tones of someone asking to read the gas meter.

Everything — everything — was driven from Mary's mind. Her concerns about money, about her throbbing molar ... these evaporated instantly. She took a deep breath. All that mattered now was her baby.

Her two-year-old looked very small and vulnerable in her thrift-shop coat and pink mittens.

Mary smiled at her daughter's questioning gaze. "It's okay, honey. We're going for a ride. Can you be a good girl for Mommy?"

Kylie nodded.

Mary slid into the Honda's passenger seat, staring straight ahead. If she caught someone's eye, they would see the terror on her face. She might not be able to stop herself from screaming.

The man with the knife got behind the wheel. He was good-looking, with brown hair. Mary thought of that handsome psychopath who'd killed those girls in Washington and Utah in the eighties. Tom Bundy? Ted Bunsen?

"We're gonna go somewhere with a little privacy," the man said, carefully fastening his seatbelt. "I just got out of the joint, and I haven't been with a woman in a very long time."

His words seemed to come from far away. Had she really been worrying about her finances? That seemed so mundane now, so laughably trivial.

The road was glazed with ice. The kidnapper appeared to take no notice, pressing the accelerator as he pulled onto the little-used mountain road. It led to the reservation, where Mary had hiked as a teenager. There would be no cars up there now, no one to help them.

"If you try anything stupid, she'll die first," the man promised. "I'll make you watch."

His cruelty was unnecessary. He already had her cooperation. He said this, she supposed, because it amused him. He relished her fear, her helplessness.

Mary saw her own arm lash out.

"Hey!" the man shouted. "Wait, what are you doing, you crazy b—"

It was as though she was watching a scene on television; had she really taken hold of the steering wheel and turned it sharply?

What did she think she was doing?

Mary didn't know. She knew only that she had to do something. She'd heard it in his voice, had heard the monster behind the mask. He had no intention of letting them live. They were as good as dead if she didn't take action.

The tires fishtailed. The man bellowed in rage (and, Mary dared to believe, fear) as the Honda lurched over the edge of an embankment. This isn't how it was supposed to happen, she could almost hear him thinking.

The car tumbled. Kylie shrieked, a sound that damaged Mary's heart. The car flipped again, seeming to roll in slow motion, and in the space of what could only have been a few seconds, Mary uttered a lifetime of prayers.

The upside-down car slammed into a tree. There was a muffled whoomp as something caught fire. Smoke poured into the cabin.

"Help me," the man said. The calm, cruel predator was gone, replaced by an animal caught in a trap. "I think I'm hurt. Oh heck, I think I'm hurt bad."

Mary squirmed into the back and removed her daughter from the car seat. "I'm here, baby. Mommy's got you."

"You gotta help me," the man repeated, hanging with his head in the air, imprisoned by his seatbelt, his legs pinned. "Please, lady."

"Don't cry, sweetie," Mary said to her daughter, shutting out all other noise, all other distractions. She ignored the smoke, the heat. She was a mother, a nurturer, a protector. Only Kylie mattered.

They crawled out of the overturned car as the fire began to spread.

"Don't leave me," the man begged. His voice became shrill and hysterical. "Please, lady! I'm stuck!"

"Everything's fine now," Mary said softly. "Mommy's here."

When they were clear of the car Mary scooped Kylie into her arms and began to trudge up the snowy embankment, hot tears streaming down her face. Behind them, the Honda erupted in flames. A thin scream issued from the shattered window and was snatched away by a gust of wind.

On the highway below, a state trooper saw a dark column of smoke rising above the trees. He turned his car up the mountain road to investigate.

The mountain was beautiful. Fresh snow hid the dull colors of winter and frosted the tips of the pines. The flakes continued to fall; large and lazy, they drifted through the air and landed on her windshield, captured for a brief moment before the wipers brushed them away. The weather forecast was calling for an old-fashioned blizzard and it looked like they might be right.

This was Sam’s favorite weather. “The rest of the world hides, huddled in their warm houses. They’ll never know the wonders that they’re missing.”

She wished Sam was with her now. Maybe if he’d survived, things could have been different.

Theirs had been a fairy-tale romance; the handsome athlete, captain of the football team, son of the town’s finest family falling in love with the beautiful girl from the wrong side of the tracks. They’d left that small town, left behind the stereotypes and spite, started a fresh life together. When Lisa had been born, their new life had been complete.

The snow was getting heavier now and the windshield wipers were struggling to keep up. She slowed a little bit, giving the tires a chance to catch on the pavement. Sam would have been proud of her; he’d taught her how to drive and then how to handle the mountain roads.

Lisa was ten when Sam died. They’d been coming home from a weekend of skiing. The snow was falling and they were all laughing at one of Sam’s silly jokes. The drunk driver came around the corner with no warning. Sam had tried to avoid him, but the road was too slick, the snow too deep. When it was over, she and Lisa were fine – but Sam was gone.

She was alone on the road now; everybody else had sought shelter, hiding from the snow. The flakes were smaller now and falling faster. The trees had turned to dark shadows, barely visible through the veil of white.

Things changed after Sam was gone. His foresight had provided for them financially, but money couldn’t fill the void in their lives. Lisa had become a lost child, searching for something she couldn’t identify.

The breast cancer had brought Lisa back to her. They had faced it together, Lisa holding her hand when the surgeon delivered the bad news, Lisa cleaning her up after the chemo made her sick. Laughing together as they picked out wigs and colorful scarves to cover her growing baldness.

But Lisa still had to live with the consequences of her lost years, and the consequences were named Bill. Lisa had met him shortly after graduating from high school and they’d eloped a week later. Nine months after that, little Emily was born. She had Sam’s smile and her mother’s eyes. Bill had missed her birth; he’d been on a hot streak in Vegas.

The trees were gone now and all she could see was the narrow, twisting road. But she’d driven this way a hundred times with Sam; she knew exactly where she was. She was almost there.

Lisa had tried to make it work with Bill. Maybe she recognized in him the same lost child she had been. But his love of gambling was greater than the love Lisa had for him. One day he went out to a poker game and never returned.

Lisa and Emily moved in with her. But the cancer had taken a financial toll. Lisa worked second shift so that she could take care of little Emily during the day and her mother at night.

The snow cleared as she neared the top of the mountain. She pulled into the little rest area where she and Sam had picnicked so many times. She could see the storm below, clouds seething and shifting as they released their moisture. But here the pale winter sun broke through, giving a promise of better things to come.

She didn’t tell Lisa when the lump came back. She didn’t tell her doctor, either. They’d said remission was a long shot and they were right. She could do more surgery, more chemotherapy; more illness, more bills they couldn’t afford. No, Lisa and Emily deserved more.

She got back into the car and started down the mountain. The pain that was her constant companion seemed to fade as the moment drew near.

She knew the perfect spot. Sam had often commented that it was the most dangerous part of the road. The sharp, hairpin curves were treacherous in fair weather. Nobody would be surprised to see a hole in the thin steel guard rail.

She took her foot off the brake and let the car gain speed. It was better this way. Lisa and Emily would be cared for; her life insurance policy was paid and had a double-indemnity clause for accidental death. Nobody knew of her cancer; she hadn’t taken any pain medicine. It would simply be an accident.

She rolled down the windows and let the cold air wash over her face. She thought of Sam, thought of that final ski trip, of his laughter. The car barely slowed as it crashed through the guard rail. There was a moment of weightlessness, of anticipation.

Then she felt Sam’s strong arms wrap around her, catch her. She was finally home.

"The forest is our best bet. They haven't been able to cut a path, much less a road. And we can modify the Ghost Stratagem to fool the sensors," Twelve grinned. "I don't think they even figured out we fooled them yet, so if we tweak it a bit-"

"Tweak it how? There are only so many times you can fake an earthquake before they realize we're nowhere near a fault line."

"We can use the bats. They won't be able to distinguish our movements from the bats', plus all that extra sonar noise'll muck up their receivers." Twelve circled an area on the map with a pencil. "Now, if we come through right here, we'll have good solid cover to within twenty yards of the perimeter."

"Twenty yards? They'll fry us like squirrels on a power line before the first team even clears the tree line!" Eight slammed his hand on the map spread over the table, narrowly missing the pins demarcating the enemy's sensor grid.

Twelve sighed. "Yeah, well, it's still the best line of entry we got." He leaned over the map and started jabbing his finger at various points. "They have sentries on the cliffs over the river, with marine and submarine patrols covering every cubic liter of water from the cataract to the delta. They have mines in the floodplain and crocs in the swamp."

Eight shook his head. "With the bats and the jammers, we can get through the treetops, but that twenty yards of nothing will kill us."

"I think it'll work." Three jumped down from the top bunk and sat cross-legged on the floor.

"You're supposed to be sleeping," Eight admonished Three as he passed her a cup of coffee.

"Yeah, well, I'm supposed to be at home with my family too, and we all know how well that worked out." Three sneered into her mug, then took a hard swig of the lukewarm stimulant. Eight and Twelve bowed their heads and waited for Three's wave of rage to ebb.

Three squeezed her eyes shut and took a shaky breath. "It's okay, you know. I won't snap on you guys." She looked up at Eight and Twelve and smiled. "You're the reason I'm still here." The brothers glanced at each other, then smiled back at Three.

"So you think we should use the bats?"

"Definitely. And twenty yards is perfect, by the way." She focused on the circle Twelve had penciled in.

Eight huffed in disbelief. "You too? I told you, there's no way we can get across undetected."

Three looked up from the map, an evil grin plastered on her face. "Who said anything about getting across?"

"What are you thinking? No, wait," Twelve said, "I don't want to know. In fact, I think I already know, and my head hurts just thinking about it." He curled in on himself, arms wrapped around his head and over his ears.

Eight looked sidelong at his lieutenant. "You're thinking about using it. There's no going back from this," he warned.

Three shook her head. "I'm not aiming to go back. This is a prime target with one weakness. Not only that, but it's the only target with any weakness whatsoever. We hit this station, their whole system gets knocked off-line, and our troops will be right there to shred them to pieces." She leaned in close to Eight, the rage burning in her eyes. "This is our one chance. I. Cannot. Go back."

Eight pursed his lips. She was right, and he knew it. "Twelve, unbunch your panties. Three, go get Thirty-Eight. He's slow enough that he won't set off the sensors." Grinning, Three leapt up and ran out of the cabin.

______________________________________

Slightly out of breath, Twelve ducked inside the cabin. "Thirty-Eight's finished cutting through the foliage. He's on his way back right now."

Eight nodded in satisfaction. "Good. Have the team move the bomb into position at the edge of the sensor net. Have you picked the carriers yet?"

"Three volunteered weeks ago, of course, and we have about a dozen others itching for the second spot."

Eight looked away, his hands pressed together in thought.

"Sir?"

Eight looked up. "I'll do it."

Twelve gasped. "But-"

"No. No arguments." He turned away to lean on the windowsill. "Three and I work well together. We move the same way in the trees, we know each other's movements, we can-"

"Can what?" Twelve interrupted. "You think you two are special? What you're saying describes most of us. We've lived here for years. We've worked together, bled together, grieved together-"

"Stop! Just stop." Eight turned to face his brother, his face wet with tears. "You know what they did to Anna and the girls. They killed Three's family too. The rest of you still have family to go back to."

Twelve rushed across the room. "So do you!" he cried. "I'm your brother, for god's sake! And you want to carry that freaking bomb to the gates of HeII and blow yourself up? I can't let you do it!"

"I know." He glanced over Twelve's shoulder as Three jammed a needle into his neck. He gaped in shock, then collapsed slowly onto the floor. Eight knelt down and rolled Twelve onto his side. "I'm sorry, dear brother."

"You ready?"

"As I'll ever be."

Two. Three. Four.

The perfectly modulated female voice announced each floor as the elevator slowly ascended.

Six. Seven. Eight.

I tried to hide my impatience as we stopped to pick up more people. Nervous energy buzzed through me. Today was the day.

Eleven. Twelve.

Four people exited and five entered. I jumped as my handbag was jostled; I clutched it against my body protectively.

“I love that bag. Aren’t Coach bags the best?” I looked up and recognized an admin I’d occasionally worked with. I forced a smile, hoping it looked natural.

“Thank you. It was a present from my husband.”

The other woman returned my smile. “Lucky you! My husband doesn’t even send me flowers, much less buy me such a thoughtful present. Your husband has excellent taste.”

I breathed a sigh of relief as the doors opened and she got off. Maybe I had more acting talent than I thought.

Twenty-one.

I jockeyed myself out of the elevator then worked my way through a maze of gray cubicles. I hadn’t even logged in before Liz was at my desk.

“Don’t forget, we have a fire drill scheduled for 2:00. Is that a new purse? I know it’s a new purse, because I know I would have noticed it. It’s the most awesome purse! And the perfect color! Black is just so classy, don’t you think? Can I look at it?”

Normally, I find Liz’s prattle amusing; today was not a normal day.

“I’m sorry Liz, but I – ”

“Karen, look at Susan’s new purse! Don’t you love it?”

Karen glanced at it. “No, not really.”

Liz looked mortified by the response. For a change, she was speechless. I came to her rescue.

“Everybody has a different style; that’s why we have chocolate and vanilla ice cream.” I said with a smile, then quickly changed the topic. “I need to get this presentation to Tom by 4:00; can I call you later?”

Liz took the opening and practically ran back to her desk. I didn’t blame her. Karen had a way of cutting people down with a look or a phrase. Liz might be annoying, but she was a kind and generous person, always the first one to offer a hand on the big projects. She didn’t deserve a coworker like Karen.

A sense of calm – of rightness – filled me. None of us deserved a coworker like Karen.

I got to work on the presentation.

At 2:00, the fire alarm sounded.

“An emergency has been reported in the building. Please remain at your desk while the situation is investigated.”

The message was repeated as lights flashed and sirens blared. As the floors below started to evacuate, all of us except Karen changed into our sneakers in preparation for the 21-story descent.

“An emergency has been reported in the building. Please proceed to the nearest exit.”

Liz appeared at my desk.

“That’s our cue,” she shouted. The noise of the sirens was deafening.

I didn’t bother trying to respond. I grabbed my handbag and followed her to the stairwell, pushed along by one of the floor’s fire wardens. As we entered the crowded staircase, another warden appeared.

“The floor is clear, these two are the last,” she shouted. Their duties done, they joined the exodus.

I paused at the first landing.

“Go ahead Liz, I have something in my shoe. I’ll catch up.”

Liz nodded and kept going.

I fumbled with my shoe until Liz was out of sight. The 22nd floor hadn’t started their evacuation, so nobody noticed as I ran back up the stairs. Our floor was a ghost town as I made my way to the Ladies’ Room.

The sirens masked my entrance to the Ladies’ Room. A pair of legs capped with stiletto heels were standing in the handicap stall. True to form, Karen had evaded the wardens and holed up in the restroom. I reached into my handbag.

Pushing open the door, I saw Karen standing near the toilet, cell phone in hand and fingers flying as she drafted a text message.

Time seemed to slow. Karen’s eyes widened in annoyance, then fear as she saw the broken piece of ceramic in my hand. Her screams were covered by the sound of the sirens.

I knew I’d only get one hit, so I made it a good one. Her head snapped to the side and her eyes lost their focus. Then she fell to the floor.

It was over in an instant. I checked her pulse as blood pooled around her head. Nothing. I touched her wound, rubbed a smear of blood on the toilet and surveyed the scene.

Perfect.

Wrapping the bloody ceramic in paper towels, I slipped it into my purse. I washed my hands then inspected my dress; the red and black pattern effectively covered any splatter.

They were starting to evacuate the 25th floor when I reentered the stairwell. By the time anyone caught up with me, I was just another anonymous body in the downward flow of humanity.

They announced Karen’s tragic accident at 4:30 and immediately sent her grieving coworkers home. I left, too.

The elevator ride down was strangely silent. Somebody jostled me as I got off and I clutched my handbag a little tighter.

“Nice bag,” the woman said. “It’s the perfect size to hold everything.”

I smiled.

“Yes, it’s perfect.”

I have to assume that someone will find this. I no longer believe that there is any hope of survival, but I refuse to give up the possibility that I will be able to explain all this; maybe even bring some closure to Kat.

I am so sorry darling, but I am getting ahead of myself.

My name is Sean Mulholland and I live, lived, in Turnbuckle. I had a job, friends, a loving girl friend.

Kat and I had a fight, it was about the usual thing. She wanted to take our relationship to the next level; I was being a selfish git and wanted to keep things as they were. It wasn't that I wanted to cheat on Kat, I'm as monogamous as they come, but I was comfortable being single and didn't fancy the work that goes into being a couple.

Kat got deep down furious and told me I needed to make up my mind. God help me, I told her I wanted the weekend to think about it. I thought I was going to die right there from the look she gave me, but she told me she wanted her answer by sunset Sunday.

That was yesterday, sorry Kat, really I am. You deserve better.

I threw some gear in the truck and headed uphill. When the road ended I started climbing. It's what I do when I need to think. I wear my self to exhaustion, then let my mind do its thing. By Friday night I was above the tree line. Saturday morning I decided to explore a deep crevice in the rock. It was so narrow I just left my gear outside and brought only my torch.

The ground was rough but walkable. It was exactly the challenge I needed to push my mind into the background. I pushed and scraped my way deep into the rock face, leaving my troubles and a fair bit of my skin behind. I was as far as I was going to be able to go when I notice something winking at me from high up in the rock.

I couldn't resist. I found that pushing with my feet against one side of the rock and my back on the other I could climb up easily. The crevice grew wider farther up so I was able to get much farther back. The glint I saw was a patch of crystals. They were so clear I thought at first they were ice. But even this deep in the rock there wasn't going to be ice in August.

Kat would just love this I thought. It was at that moment that I realized that I had made my decision. If I was smart I would have just gone down the mountain and found her and begged her on my knees to make me a permanent part of her life. Instead, I decided I would bring her a piece of this perfect crystal.

I tried them all, and my heart pounded when I discovered that one of them moved slightly. I began wiggling at it. I have no idea how long it took, but my legs were shaking when the tiny shard of rock came loose in my hand. I shouted in triumph, then in fear as my legs slipped and I fell the twenty feet to the bottom of the crevice.

I thought I was tough, but the landing made me scream. I must have passed out for a while. When I woke I realized that I was jammed tight as a cork between the rock walls. I tried to push myself up and just about passed out again. My foot was jammed in the narrowest part of the crevice. My hips and other leg were twisted behind me. Only one leg seemed to be broken, but there was a deep gash on my hand and I could feel blood trickling down behind my ear.

I was trapped deep inside a mountain. I could just see the light from the entrance. It was no brighter than the torch that threw a dim beam on the wall beside me.

I've read about guys in this kind of trouble who cut off arms or legs to free themselves. I would have gladly give up a leg to get back to Kat, but my knife was in my bag sitting outside the rock face along with all my water and food. The only thing I had brought in besides the torch was my GPS, and only because I forgot I put it in my shirt pocket. So I know the exact latitude and longitude of my grave.

For the next two days I tried to find a way to force my body out of the trap, but I was just not strong enough. I watched the light dim Sunday night and cried like a baby, not for me, but for Kat because I knew she would be crying.

Monday I remembered the voice recorder on the GPS and decided to tell you that I wanted to come back. I don't know if it will make things better or worse---

Voices, I hear voices!

HEY, I'M IN HERE!

They don't hear me Kat, I am going to throw the GPS to try to get their attention.

I love you....