Heather Munn was born in Northern Ireland of American parents and grew up in the south of France. She decided to be a writer at the age of five when her mother read Laura Ingalls Wilder’s books aloud, but worried that she couldn’t write about her childhood since she didn’t remember it. When she was young, her favorite time of day was after supper when the family would gather and her father would read a chapter from a novel. Heather went to French school until her teens, and grew up hearing the story of Le Chambonsur-Lignon, only an hour’s drive away. She now lives in rural Illinois with her husband, Paul, where they offer free spiritual retreats to people coming out of homelessness and addiction. She enjoys wandering in the woods, gardening, writing, and splitting wood.
Lydia Munn was homeschooled for five years because there was no school where her family served as missionaries in the savannahs of northern Brazil. There was no public library either, but Lydia read every book she could get her hands on. This led naturally to her choice of an English major at Wheaton College. Her original plan to teach high school English gradually transitioned into a lifelong love of teaching the Bible to both adults and young people as a missionary in France. She and her husband, Jim, have two children: their son, Robin, and their daughter, Heather.
ABOUT THE BOOK
Fifteen-year-old Julien Losier just wants to fit in. But after his family moves to a small village in central France in hopes of outrunning the Nazis, he is suddenly faced with bigger challenges than the taunting of local teens.
Nina Krenkel left her country to obey her father's dying command: Take your brother and leave Austria. Burn your papers. Tell no one you are Jews. Alone and on the run, she arrives in Tanieux, France, dangerously ill and in despair.
Thrown together by the chaos of war, Julien begins to feel the terrible weight of the looming conflict and Nina fights to survive. As France falls to the Nazis, Julien struggles with doing what is right, even if it is not enough-and wonders whether or not he really can save Nina from almost certain death.
Based on the true story of the town of Le Chambon-the only French town honored by Israel for rescuing Jews from the Holocaust-How Huge the Night is a compelling, coming-of-age drama that will keep teens turning the pages as it teaches them about a fascinating period of history and inspires them to think more deeply about their everyday choices.
Endorsements
“The Munns have written an engrossing historical novel that is faithful to the actual events of World War II in western Europe during the tumultuous year 1940. But How Huge the Night is more than good history; it is particularly refreshing because the reader sees the conflict through the lives of teenagers who are forced to grapple with their honest questions about the existence and goodness of God in the midst of community, family, and ethnic tensions in war-ravaged France.”—Lyle W. Dorsett, Billy Graham Professor of Evangelism, Beeson Divinity School, Samford University
“Seldom have the horrors of war upon adolescents—or the heroism of which they are capable—been so clearly portrayed. I loved this coming-of-age story.”—Patricia Sprinkle, author of Hold Up the Sky
“The book expertly weaves together the lives of its characters at a frightening moment in conflicted times. As we read of their moral dilemmas and of their choices, we too wonder, Would I do has these in the story have done?”—Karen Mains, Director, Hungry Souls
Actually, my mom grabbed this one before I could read it, and I share her thoughts. (The novel is on my TBR pile.) This was a terrific read! The novel was hard to put down and very well done with a clear faith message. The protagonist grapples with various life issues including how to respond to difficult situations and those who hurt others. There are some powerful themes here that will stay with readers long after they turn the last page. The writing was superb, the characters well developed, and the story compelling and fascinating—everything you look for in a good novel. This one is highly recommended!
Terri Blackstock is a New York Times best-seller, with over six million copies sold worldwide. She has had over twenty-five years of success as a novelist. She sold her first novel at the age of twenty-five, and has had a successful career ever since.
Besides entertaining her readers, Terri tackles issues that she hopes will change lives. Her recent book, Predator, was inspired by her experiences on Facebook and Twitter, and her concern that people posted too much personal information about themselves. The book deals with an online predator who uses social networks as his playground. She hopes the book will change readers’ online habits. Her New York Times best-seller, Intervention, was inspired by her own personal struggles with a daughter on drugs. In the book, a mother hires an interventionist for her drug-addicted daughter. But on the way to treatment, the interventionist is murdered, and the daughter disappears. Barbara, the mother, sets out to search for her daughter. Terri modeled Barbara after herself, and poured many of her own emotions and experiences into that character. As a result, many families experiencing drug addiction have written to thank her for telling their story and giving them hope. Vicious Cycle, Book Two of the Intervention Series, releases February 22, 2011. She’s currently working on Book Three.
Other recent books include a stand-alone novel called Double Minds, as well as Last Light, Night Light, True Light and Dawn’s Light (from her acclaimed Restoration Series). She is also known for her popular Newpointe 911 Series and Cape Refuge Series. Terri makes her home in Mississippi, where she and her husband Ken are enjoying their empty nest after raising three children.
Terri has appeared on national television programs such as “The 700 Club” and “Home Life,” and has been a guest on numerous radio programs across the country. The story of her personal journey appears in books such as Touched By the Savior by Mike Yorkey, True Stories of Answered Prayer by Mike Nappa, Faces of Faith by John Hanna, and I Saw Him In Your Eyes by Ace Collins.
ABOUT THE BOOK
When fifteen-year-old Lance Covington finds an abandoned baby in the backseat of a car, he knows she's the newborn daughter of a meth addict he's been trying to help. But when police arrest him for kidnapping, Lance is thrust into a criminal world of baby trafficking and drug abuse.
His mother, Barbara, looks for help from Kent Harlan---the man whom she secretly, reluctantly loves and who once helped rescue her daughter from a mess of her own. Kent flies to her aid and begins the impossible work of getting Lance out of trouble, protecting a baby who has no home, and finding help for a teenage mother hiding behind her lies.
In this latest novel of suspense and family loyalty, bestselling author Terri Blackstock offers a harrowing look at drug addiction, human trafficking, and the devastating choices that can change lives forever.
If you would like to read the first chapter of Vicious Cycle, go HERE.
Watch the Book Video:
My Review
Another two thumbs up for Terri. My mother loved this one, and it just leaped to near the top of my TBR pile. Congratulations, Terri! I'm looking forward to reading it, and I'll be sure to pass it on to family and friends.
Born and raised in Louisiana, Robin Caroll is a southerner through and through. Her passion has always been to tell stories to entertain others. Robin’s mother, bless her heart, is a genealogist who instilled in Robin the deep love of family and pride of heritage—two aspects Robin weaves into each of her books. When she isn’t writing, Robin spends time with her husband of twenty years, her three beautiful daughters, one precious grandson, and their four character-filled pets at home—in the South, where else?
Robin gives back to the writing community by serving as Conference Director for ACFW. Her books have finaled/placed in such contests as RT Reviewer's Choice, Bookseller's Best, and Book of the Year. An avid reader herself, Robin loves hearing from and chatting with other readers. Although her favorite genre to read is mystery/suspense, of course, she’ll read just about any good story. Except historicals!
ABOUT THE BOOK
Informed by the real-life fallout of the U.S. economy plus devastation caused by multiple hurricanes along the southern coast, In the Shadow of Evil casts the modern day story of a building rebound scam exposed. It begins when the body of a property inspector is found among the ashes of a burnt out Homes of Hope house. Wrapped up in this mounting case of unethical practices, supply shortages, and murder, top Louisiana homicide detective Maddox Bishop is losing his heart to a charitable contractor, Layla Taylor, whose own sister is under suspicion. He’s also about to discover a deep secret about his tragic past.
My mom read this novel and really liked it. She handed it off to me, and it's on my TBR read. Then I plan to pass it on to family and friends. Congratulations, Robin!
DON BROWN, a former U.S. Navy JAG Officer, is the author of Zondervan’s riveting NAVY JUSTICE SERIES. a dynamic storyline chronicling the life and adventures of JAG officer ZACK BREWER. In 2003, Don began writing Treason, his first novel in the NAVY JUSTICE SERIES.
Paying no homage to political correctness, DON BROWN’S writing style is described as “gripping,” casting an entertaining and educational spin on a wide-range of current issues, from radical Islamic infiltration of the military, to the explosive issue of gays in the military, to the modern day issues of presidential politics in the early 21st Century.
In November of 2009, four years after it was released, and in the wake of Fort Hood, TREASON rocketed to the top-selling in the nation on the Amazon.com bestseller list for fiction, and remained there for over a week. On Thanksgiving Day of 2009, all four of Don’s novels were ranked in the top 5 on the Amazon bestseller list for fiction!
DON BROWN graduated from the University of North Carolina in 1982, and after finishing law school, continued his post-graduate studies through the Naval War College, earning the Navy’s nonresident certificate in International Law.
During his five years on active duty in the Navy, Don served in the Pentagon, was published in the Naval Law Review, and was also a recipient of the Navy Achievement Medal, the Navy Commendation Medal, and the National Defense Service Medal.
ABOUT THE BOOK
A rogue Indonesian general and his army of terrorists attack oil tankers in the Strait of Malacca in order to profit from oil futures and buy nuclear weapons to establish an Islamic superpower.
Navy JAG officers Zack Brewer and Diane Colcernian race against the odds and a 24-hour deadline before nuclear attacks hit the United States. Departing from the sea of books barely better than soap opera romance and using the frantic pacing of suspense fiction, Brown glides flawlessly among global hotspots of terrorism--including the United States--and the book's principal settings in Singapore, Indonesia, and Malaysia.
The President of the United States orders ships of the U.S. Seventh Fleet towards the Malacca Straits to reassert control over the sea lanes, but with time quickly ticking away, will they arrive in time for Zack and Diane to survive this dangerous and final high-stakes drama of life and death?
Sign up for the contest above! And if you would like to read the first chapter of Malacca Conspiracy, go HERE.
My Review
This novel is on my TBR pile. I plan to get to it soon and post a review at this blog.
It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!
You never know when I might play a wild card on you!
***Special thanks to Audra Jennings – The B&B Media Group for sending me a review copy.***
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
A man who has given his life to a deep examination of the Word of God, Dr. Warren W. Wiersbe is an internationally known Bible teacher, former pastor of The Moody Church in Chicago and the author of more than 150 books. For over thirty years, millions have come to rely on the timeless wisdom of Dr. Warren W. Wiersbe’s “Be” Commentary series. Dr. Wiersbe’s commentary and insights on Scripture have helped readers understand and apply God’s Word with the goal of life transformation. Dubbed by many as the “pastor’s pastor,” Dr. Wiersbe skillfully weaves Scripture with historical explanations and thought-provoking questions, communicating the Word in such a way that the masses grasp its relevance for today.
My Review
I apologize. I'm on vacation today, but I will post about Be Compassionate soon. In the meantime, here is the Amazon.com link.
J. Mark Bertrand has an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Houston. After one hurricane too many, he left Houston and relocated with his wife Laurie to the plains of South Dakota.
Mark has been arrested for a crime he didn't commit, was the foreman of a hung jury in Houston, and after relocating served on the jury that acquitted Vinnie Jones of assault. In 1972, he won an honorable mention in a child modeling contest, but pursued writing instead. Besides his personal website, visit his Crime Genre website at http://www.crimegenre.com/.
The next book in this series, Pattern Of Wounds will come out in the summer of 2011.
About the Book
Det. Roland March is a homicide cop on his way out.
A missing girl. A corrupt investigation. They thought they could get away with it, but they forgot one thing:
Roland March is BACK ON MURDER...
Houston homicide detective Roland March was once one of the best. Now he's disillusioned, cynical, and on his way out. His superiors farm him out on a variety of punishment details. But when he's the only one at a crime scene to find evidence of a missing female victim, he's given one last chance to prove himself. Before he can crack the case, he's transferred to a new one that has grabbed the spotlight--the disappearance of a famous Houston evangelist's teen daughter.
All he has to do? Find the missing teenage daughter of a Houston evangelist that every cop in town is already looking for. But March has an inside track, a multiple murder nobody else thinks is connected. With the help of a youth pastor with a guilty conscience who navigates the world of church and faith, March is determined to find the missing girls while proving he's still one of Houston's best detectives.
Battling a new partner, an old nemesis, and the demons of his past, getting to the truth could cost March everything. Even his life.
Shawn Grady signed with Bethany House Publishers in 2008. He was named “Most Promising New Writer” at the 39th Annual Mount Hermon Writers Conference. He is the author of the novels Through the Fire & Tomorrow We Die.
Shawn has served for over a decade as a firefighter and paramedic in northern Nevada. From fire engines and ambulances to tillered ladder trucks and helicopters, Shawn’s work environment has always been dynamic. The line of duty has carried him to a variety of locale, from high-rise fires in the city to the burning heavy timber of the eastern Sierras.
Shawn attended Point Loma Nazarene University as a Theology undergrad before shifting direction to acquire an Associate of Science degree in Fire Science Technology as well as Paramedic licensure through Truckee Meadows Community College.
Shawn currently lives in Reno, Nevada, just outside of Lake Tahoe. He enjoys spending time in the outdoors with his wife, three children and yellow Labrador.
About the Book
Chase the Angel of Death and You Might Catch Him
Jonathan Trestle is a paramedic who's spent the week a few steps behind the angel of death. When he responds to a call about a man sprawled on a downtown sidewalk, Trestle isn't about to lose another victim. CPR revives the man long enough for him to hand Trestle a crumpled piece of paper and say, "Give this to Martin," before being taken to the hospital.
The note is a series of dashes and haphazard scribbles. Trestle tries to follow up with the patient later, but at the ICU he learns the man awoke, pulled out his IVs, and vanished, leaving only a single key behind. With the simple decision to honor a dying man's last wish, Jonathan tracks the key to a nearby motel where he finds the man again--this time not just dead but murdered. Unwilling to just let it drop, Jonathan is plunged into a mystery that soon threatens not only his dreams for the future but maybe even his life. He must race for the truth before the Angel of Death comes calling for him.
Carla Stewart’s writing reflects her passion for times gone by. She believed in Jesus, the power of the written word, and a good cup of coffee. She's a country girl living now in a mid-sized city with her engineering husband who just happens to be her best friend and biggest fan.She and her husband have four adult sons and delight in the adventures of their six grandchildren.
FROM CARLA:
I grew up in the Texas Panhandle with two younger sisters and loving parents. Small town school. Great neighbors. Today, those small-town, fundamental things resonate within me -- the twang in people's voices, the art of being neighborly and just being a decent human being.
Growing up, I preferred the company of books over TV and playing outdoors. I imagined myself in many different careers, but given my down-to-earth raising, I settled on nursing. I didn't faint at the sight of blood and did well in science, so it seemed a natural choice.
I worked as a registered nurse off and on through the years, but primarily I stayed home with my four rambunctious boys and dreamed of the day when I could write the novels I loved to read. When our youngest son was in high school, I quit my job as a nursing instructor and settled in to pen my first novel. It's been quite a journey. One I wouldn't trade for anything.
I'm committed to writing the stories of my heart and am truly thankful to Jesus, my Savior, for allowing me this freedom. May all the glory be His.
Chasing Lilacs is her first book!
ABOUT THE BOOK:
It is the summer of 1958, and life in the small Texas community of Graham Camp should be simple and carefree. But not for twelve-year-old Sammie Tucker. Sammie has plenty of questions about her mother's "nerve" problems. About shock treatments. About whether her mother loves her.
When her mother commits suicide and a not-so-favorite aunt arrives, Sammie has to choose who to trust with her deepest fears: Her best friend who has an opinion about everything, the mysterious kid from California whose own troubles plague him, or her round-faced neighbor with gentle advice and strong shoulders to cry on. Then there's the elderly widower who seems nice but has his own dark past.
Trusting is one thing, but accepting the truth may be the hardest thing Sammie has ever done.
Chasing Lilacs was a very enjoyable book. Since I grew up in the1950's, so many things in the book struck a familiar cord—such as the sting of the red stuff our mothers would put on a scratch, and the bottles of soda pop with the metal lids at the drug store or gas station. Also familiar were the girlish disagreements Sammie had with her friends, but these come no matter what year you grew up. Sammie goes through a very hard time with the mental health of her mother and her mother's death. The author made the situation very real, and the reader can sense the frustration and anger of a girl maturing into a young woman during her family difficulties. There were some terms and word usage that I found objectionable, but they were not extreme. The mystery in this novel is not a cops-and-robbers type mystery but one of circumstances and the lack of forgiveness on the part of some of the characters. There are wonderful characters who love Sammie and aid her with the adjustments she needs to make.
Terri Blackstock’s books have sold six million copies worldwide. Her suspense novels often debut at number one on the Christian fiction best-seller lists, and True Light, published last year, was number one of all Christian books—fiction and non-fiction. Blackstock has had twenty-five years of success as a novelist.
In 1994 Blackstock was writing for publishers such as HarperCollins, Harlequin and Silhouette, when a spiritual awakening drew her into the Christian market. Since that time, she’s written over thirty Christian titles, in addition to the thirty-two she had in the secular market. Her most recent books are the four in her acclaimed Restoration Series, which includes Last Light, Night Light, True Light and Dawn’s Light. She is also known for her popular Newpointe 911 and Cape Refuge Series.
In addition to her suspense novels, she has written a number of novels in the women’s fiction genre, including Covenant Child, which was chosen as one of the first Women of Faith novels, and her Seasons Series written with Beverly LaHaye, wife of Tim LaHaye.
Blackstock has won the Retailer’s Choice Award and has appeared on national television programs such as The 700 Club, Home Life, and At Home Live with Chuck and Jenny. She has been a guest on numerous radio programs across the country and the subject of countless articles. The story of her personal journey appears in books such as Touched By the Savior by Mike Yorkey, True Stories of Answered Prayer by Mike Nappa, Faces of Faith by John Hanna, and I Saw Him In Your Eyes by Ace Collins.
ABOUT THE BOOK
The murder of Krista Carmichael's fourteen-year-old sister by an online predator has shaken her faith and made her question God's justice and protection. Desperate to find the killer, she creates an online persona to bait the predator. But when the stalker turns his sights on her, will Krista be able to control the outcome?
Ryan Adkins started the social network GrapeVyne in his college dorm and has grown it into a billion-dollar corporation. But he never expected it to become a stalking ground for online Predators. One of them lives in his town and has killed two girls and attacked a third. When Ryan meets Krista, the murders become more than a news story to him, and everything is on the line.
Joining forces, he and Krista set out to stop the killer. But when hunters pursue a hunter, the tables can easily turn. Only God can protect them now.
If you would like to read the first chapter of Predator, go HERE.
Watch the book trailer video!
My Review
This book arrived in my mailbox only on Wednesday, so I haven't read it yet. I do plan to read it and write a review here. I loved Intervention in every way and am looking forward to Predator.
This fascinating novel is on my to-be-read pile, and I'm looking forward to reading it and posting a review here later.
It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!
You never know when I might play a wild card on you!
***Special thanks to Anna Coelho Silva | Publicity Coordinator, Book Group | Strang Communications for sending me a review copy.***
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
By the end of his sixteenth year Conlan Brown had completed his first novel, his first stage play, and his first year of college. Brown now holds a Master's degree in Communication and lives on Colorado's Front Range where he is working on his next book. He enjoys video editing, film scores, and developing high octane, thought provoking fiction that turns pages and excites the senses.
List Price: $13.99
Paperback: 296 pages
Publisher: Realms; 1 edition (May 4, 2010)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1599799553
ISBN-13: 978-1599799551
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
Screams rang out from the rain-soaked street. Feeling the horror rise, Hannah fell to her knees in the pounding deluge, hands touching the ragged edges of the craterlike pothole.
The impact of the car splashing into the pothole. Thunder. Lightning. Rain. A trunk opening. Three teens. Terrified, screaming, kicking. Eyes begging for help. Hands slapping, punching bloodied mouths. Frightened girls torn from the car—thrown to the wet street. A needle— Bodies going limp. Thrown into another car. Tires shrieking into the stormy night. One man remaining in the street. The tattoo—a dragon.
Thunder cracked as the images disappeared with the flash. Lifting her head, she looked around, the thick spring storm churning around her.
The screams.
Already gone from the world—but the street remembered— and Hannah could still hear them calling out from the past. She was their only hope now—the one person who realized that these girls had been conned and taken. The only person who could follow a trail snaking backward through the past— a trail that had gone cold to the negligent, rain-drenched world.
Hannah Rice looked to her right and saw the liquor store. That was where he had gone—the man with the dragon tattoo.
Just through those doors. Hannah breathed in with resolve and walked toward the lights of the liquor store—
—toward the dragon.
Hannah pushed the soaked hood of her sweatshirt off her head and looked around.
She had never been in a liquor store before. The floor was white like a supermarket—but none of the same sweet, homey smells were here. No bread or fruit. Simply rows of metal racks, stocked with a forest of bottles. The sounds of clinking glass and cooler doors opening and closing filled her ears. An older man in a plaid shirt and a wiry blond beard approached the door, looking her up and down out of the corner of his eye.
For being in a seedy part of New Jersey, the store was big and fairly clean. Hannah looked around, waiting for someone to realize that she was only twenty and have her sent from the premises in handcuffs and a swirl of red and blue lights. The only looks she received were lecherous at best. She pulled her jean jacket close, pressing the metal buttons into place with little pops that seemed to echo through the cavernous room.
“Can I help you find something?” a jockish-looking guy in his midtwenties asked from behind the counter.
She shook her head, embarrassed. “No, thank you.” She moved to the far end of the store, looking down the aisles as she walked.
No one realized she was too young to be here, or else no one cared. She watched the aisles change as she moved along, shifting from colorful bottles of flavored rum with shirtless cabana boys adorning their labels to the dark glass of the wines.
Hannah wasn’t unfamiliar with alcohol. Half the reason she’d left college was because of her roommate’s drunken binges in which she had brought so many of her friends over to
party. It reminded Hannah of all the nights she had spent in the dorm lounge, studying subjects she didn’t understand, sleeping on couches she resented being on. It was the next day’s cleanup, inevitably left to Hannah, that had taught her to recognize various forms of alcohol bottles and the hazards of a hungover roommate.
Her grandfather had left her enough money to get whatever degree she wanted, wherever she wanted it, but she had chosen a medium-sized state college to start out. The idea had been simple: get her core classes out of the way, and buy herself some time to figure out what she wanted to be when she grew up. After she gave up on college, she moved to New Jersey to be near the Firstborn and enrolled in an online program. Distance learning at her own pace better suited the lifestyle she had grown to accept: following dark trails through back alleys. The ongoing searches for—
—the dragon.
It was always jarring to see her visions in the flesh. She was a Prima—gifted with hindsight, the ability to see the past. And the past tended to have the good sense to stay in the past and fade away to the naked eye and the observing world. But there he stood inthe middle of the aisle—fifteen feet away—comparing labels on vodka bottles. His arms bare, short black hair wet. A blue short-sleeved T-shirt and green cargo pants. The tattoo
curled up his arm, its tail resting against the back of his hand, its scaly body coiling around the man’s arm like an anaconda, the dragon’s head poised to strike like a hooded cobra, a forked tongue lashing out from beneath a spray of flame.
The man looked up from the bottles, turning his head— toward her . . .
Hannah dropped back around the corner. A sting of panic nipped at her heart. She waited a moment—her pulse and breath slowing as she pulled herself together. She looked back.
Gone.
She moved down the aisle to where the man had been and passed, heading to the end of the aisle. She stopped and turned her head, looking for him.
Nowhere.
Hannah moved fast, looking down the aisles once again, coming to the end of the rows. She must have lost him somewhere in the—
She saw him at the front of the store, at the cash register, the boy behind the counter stuffing a bottle of vodka into a perfectly sized brown paper sack. The man with the tattoo reached into his pocket, pulled out a thick roll of bills, and slid one from beneath the tight hold of the rubber band that encircled them. The boy hit a button on the cash register, and the man with the tattoo turned, walking toward the door.
“Hey, Dominik,” the boy called after him, “do you want your change?”
Dominik simply waved a dismissive hand and pushed through the front door, back into the rain.
Pushing the glass door open, Hannah followed, plunging into the downpour. Her eyes scanned the cars in front of her parked diagonally to the storefront. A set of lights flashed on toward the far right end of the row—a black luxury sedan—the engine humming, the wipers swishing away a wide swath of pooling water as the man in the driver’s seat lifted his eyes—
Dominik.
His dragon-clad shoulder moved, putting the car into drive. The vehicle slid backward out of its space, through the veil of rain, past the unnatural glow of the liquor store’s neon lights, and then slipped into darkness.
Her one lead. The one trail. The only chance to find the girls. And he was getting away. For a split second Hannah did none of her own thinking. Her feet took off, rushing into the night, as the car pulled parallel to the street. The brake lights lit up. The backup lights dimmed. The car began to drive away.
Her first thought was to chase after, screaming, shouting, demanding he stop. Her next thought was to memorize his license plate number. Hannah’s eyes squinted into the darkness, but the lights surrounding the license plate were all burnt out. Nothing to see but darkness.
The red taillights, glowing like the eyes of the dragon on Dominik’s arm, glared at her through the onslaught of falling droplets. Turning the corner, leaving her in the street—alone.
“Lord,” she stammered to herself. She could feel her panic rise at not knowing what to do. But now was not the time to focus on problems or obstacles. Now was not the time to feel or do. Now was the time to clear her mind. To be. To be what she had been called to—
Hannah turned her attention to the end of the block, where she had parked her car. That was where she needed to get. To think past the problem and to move effortlessly with the solution.
Wet and cold, she thrust her hand into her pocket, reaching for her car keys. Suddenly she was at the car door, her hand holding the key, the key in the door. The old door to the station wagon groaned as she pulled it open and climbed in. She turned the key, and the engine sputtered.
“Not now,” she whimpered, pushing down on the pedal, feeding the engine gas. A moment of whirring, then—
The engine went dead. She’d flooded it. The old jalopy did it all the time, but this was the worst possible—
Hannah stopped. Gathered herself. She had to get past the
Chapter 1
creams rang out from the rain-soaked street.
Feeling the horror rise, Hannah fell to her knees in the
pounding deluge, hands touching the ragged edges of the
craterlike pothole.
The impact of the car splashing into the pothole.
Thunder. Lightning. Rain.
A trunk opening.
Three teens. Terrified, screaming, kicking.
Eyes begging for help.
Hands slapping, punching bloodied mouths.
Frightened girls torn from the car—thrown to the wet street.
A needle—
Bodies going limp.
Thrown into another car.
Tires shrieking into the stormy night.
One man remaining in the street.
The tattoo—a dragon.
Thunder cracked as the images disappeared with the flash.
Lifting her head, she looked around, the thick spring storm
churning around her.
The screams.
Already gone from the world—but the street remembered—
and Hannah could still hear them calling out from the past.
She was their only hope now—the one person who realized
that these girls had been conned and taken. The only person
who could follow a trail snaking backward through the past—
a trail that had gone cold to the negligent, rain-drenched
world.
Hannah Rice looked to her right and saw the liquor store.
That was where he had gone—the man with the dragon tattoo.
1
The Overseer
Just through those doors. Hannah breathed in with resolve and
walked toward the lights of the liquor store—
—toward the dragon.
Hannah pushed the soaked hood of her sweatshirt off her head
and looked around.
She had never been in a liquor store before. The floor was
white like a supermarket—but none of the same sweet, homey
smells were here. No bread or fruit. Simply rows of metal racks,
stocked with a forest of bottles. The sounds of clinking glass
and cooler doors opening and closing filled her ears. An older
man in a plaid shirt and a wiry blond beard approached the
door, looking her up and down out of the corner of his eye.
For being in a seedy part of New Jersey, the store was big
and fairly clean. Hannah looked around, waiting for someone
to realize that she was only twenty and have her sent from the
premises in handcuffs and a swirl of red and blue lights. The
only looks she received were lecherous at best. She pulled her
jean jacket close, pressing the metal buttons into place with
little pops that seemed to echo through the cavernous room.
“Can I help you find something?” a jockish-looking guy in
his midtwenties asked from behind the counter.
She shook her head, embarrassed. “No, thank you.” She moved
to the far end of the store, looking down the aisles as she walked.
No one realized she was too young to be here, or else no one
cared. She watched the aisles change as she moved along, shifting
from colorful bottles of flavored rum with shirtless cabana boys
adorning their labels to the dark glass of the wines.
Hannah wasn’t unfamiliar with alcohol. Half the reason
she’d left college was because of her roommate’s drunken
binges in which she had brought so many of her friends over to
party. It reminded Hannah of all the nights she had spent in the
dorm lounge, studying subjects she didn’t understand, sleeping
on couches she resented being on. It was the next day’s cleanup,
inevitably left to Hannah, that had taught her to recognize
various forms of alcohol bottles and the hazards of a hungover
roommate.
Her grandfather had left her enough money to get whatever
degree she wanted, wherever she wanted it, but she had chosen a
medium-sized state college to start out. The idea had been simple:
get her core classes out of the way, and buy herself some time to
figure out what she wanted to be when she grew up. After she gave
up on college, she moved to New Jersey to be near the Firstborn
and enrolled in an online program. Distance learning at her own
pace better suited the lifestyle she had grown to accept: following
dark trails through back alleys. The ongoing searches for—
—the dragon.
It was always jarring to see her visions in the flesh. She was
a Prima—gifted with hindsight, the ability to see the past. And
the past tended to have the good sense to stay in the past and
fade away to the naked eye and the observing world. But there he
stood in the middle of the aisle—fifteen feet away—comparing
labels on vodka bottles. His arms bare, short black hair wet.
A blue short-sleeved T-shirt and green cargo pants. The tattoo
curled up his arm, its tail resting against the back of his hand,
its scaly body coiling around the man’s arm like an anaconda,
the dragon’s head poised to strike like a hooded cobra, a forked
tongue lashing out from beneath a spray of flame.
The man looked up from the bottles, turning his head—
toward her . . .
Hannah dropped back around the corner. A sting of panic
nipped at her heart. She waited a moment—her pulse and breath
slowing as she pulled herself together. She looked back.
Gone.
She moved down the aisle to where the man had been and
passed, heading to the end of the aisle. She stopped and turned
her head, looking for him.
Nowhere.
Hannah moved fast, looking down the aisles once again,
coming to the end of the rows. She must have lost him somewhere
in the—
She saw him at the front of the store, at the cash register, the
boy behind the counter stuffing a bottle of vodka into a perfectly
sized brown paper sack. The man with the tattoo reached into
his pocket, pulled out a thick roll of bills, and slid one from
beneath the tight hold of the rubber band that encircled them.
The boy hit a button on the cash register, and the man with the
tattoo turned, walking toward the door.
“Hey, Dominik,” the boy called after him, “do you want your
change?”
Dominik simply waved a dismissive hand and pushed
through the front door, back into the rain.
Pushing the glass door open, Hannah followed, plunging
into the downpour. Her eyes scanned the cars in front of her
parked diagonally to the storefront. A set of lights flashed on
toward the far right end of the row—a black luxury sedan—the
engine humming, the wipers swishing away a wide swath of
pooling water as the man in the driver’s seat lifted his eyes—
Dominik.
His dragon-clad shoulder moved, putting the car into drive.
The vehicle slid backward out of its space, through the veil of
rain, past the unnatural glow of the liquor store’s neon lights,
and then slipped into darkness.
Her one lead.
The one trail.
The only chance to find the girls.
And he was getting away.
For a split second Hannah did none of her own thinking. Her
feet took off, rushing into the night, as the car pulled parallel
to the street. The brake lights lit up. The backup lights dimmed.
The car began to drive away.
Her first thought was to chase after, screaming, shouting,
demanding he stop. Her next thought was to memorize his
license plate number. Hannah’s eyes squinted into the darkness,
but the lights surrounding the license plate were all burnt
out. Nothing to see but darkness.
The red taillights, glowing like the eyes of the dragon on
Dominik’s arm, glared at her through the onslaught of falling
droplets. Turning the corner, leaving her in the street—alone.
“Lord,” she stammered to herself. She could feel her panic
rise at not knowing what to do. But now was not the time to
focus on problems or obstacles. Now was not the time to feel or
do. Now was the time to clear her mind. To be. To be what she
had been called to—
Hannah turned her attention to the end of the block, where
she had parked her car. That was where she needed to get. To
think past the problem and to move effortlessly with the solution.
Wet and cold, she thrust her hand into her pocket, reaching
for her car keys. Suddenly she was at the car door, her hand
holding the key, the key in the door. The old door to the station
wagon groaned as she pulled it open and climbed in. She turned
the key, and the engine sputtered.
“Not now,” she whimpered, pushing down on the pedal,
feeding the engine gas. A moment of whirring, then—
The engine went dead. She’d flooded it. The old jalopy did it
all the time, but this was the worst possible—
Hannah stopped. Gathered herself. She had to get past the
moment. She had to find her strength—a strength that could
only come from God.
She took a long, deliberate draw of air, letting it fill her lungs
in a cool cloud that expanded inside her chest. Somewhere in
the distant reaches of her mind she felt her body act, working
with the world around her—neither rushed nor distracted—to
bring the car to life.
She turned the key again. The engine growling, she fed it gas.
Hannah’s foot came down in a steady push, feeding the car,
and she took off into the night—
—chasing after him.
Her car sped to the end of the block—a stop sign ahead.
Her attention snapped to the right—the direction Dominik
had gone.
Nothing.
Hannah rolled into the street, peering through the rain—and
then she felt where he had been. She was on the trail again.
The wipers sloshed, thumping beads of water away from the
glass.
Dominik yawned. It was getting late, and he was getting
tired of work. He’d stayed sober as long as the new girls were at
the storage house, but now that they were being moved, he was
ready to drink again.
He eyed the jostling bottle of vodka in the passenger seat,
ready for the familiar burn of alcohol in his chest. Dominik
missed Russian vodka—the stuff that had been cheaper than
water during the cold war. He was hardly a connoisseur, but he
knew that American vodka tasted different to him. He was told
that good vodka had neither taste nor smell. But who cared?
Just so long as it kept him warm—a lesson he had learned in
prison twenty years ago.
He thought about the girls and how much money they would
bring. Altogether, maybe three thousand dollars in Ukraine.
Here? More. But it wasn’t enough. Dominik wanted a line of
cocaine—the stuff he’d gotten used to as a teenager when the
iron curtain fell. But for now, vodka would have to do.
Dominik reached out, steering with his forearm. He held the
neck of the bottle in one hand and twisted the cap with the
other.
He took a slug. The same amount would have sent most
Americans into a hacking fit. Dominik didn’t flinch as the
stinging liquid seared his throat, filling him with a glowing
sense of well-being. He felt good. Safe. But not overly safe. He
looked in the rearview mirror, double-checking for cops.
A single set of lights behind him, moving in quickly. Much
too quickly. He screwed the cap back on the bottle, stuffing it
in the armrest.
Thoughts of a cop watching him throw back a mouthful of
hard liquor as he passed by filled Dominik’s head. Was he being
followed?
There was an alley ahead. He signaled left. The car behind
him signaled a left-hand turn as well. Dominik cranked the
wheel hard right, and a spray of filthy water splashed up against
the windows of his car as he hit the accelerator and raced down
an alleyway. His eyes shot upward, toward the rearview mirror.
The car behind him screeched past the turn, then slammed its
brakes, laying rubber and a wake of erupting rainwater. The
car pulled into reverse, pulling perpendicular to the alley for a
moment, its silhouette fully revealed.
A beige station wagon?
The following car’s front end nosed toward the alley. The
headlights, which had been shrinking with distance, stabilized
in size, then began to grow.
Dominik didn’t signal; he simply grabbed the wheel and
yanked to the left. Water crashed against the passenger window
as the car fishtailed, his foot pressing hard into the gas—jetting
down a dark street.
He nearly spun in his seat to look back. This was insane. His
heart was racing. His face red and sweaty. Who was this person
following him? In a station wagon? Not the police. Someone
trying to steal their latest shipment? It simply didn’t make sense.
But whoever they were, they weren’t trained in following people
with subtlety. And in the rain, he’d lost them for sure.
Dominik took another turn, just to be safe. Then another.
He took a deep breath and relaxed, pulling onto a familiar
street. Whoever they were, he’d lost them.
His eyes lifted again, just out of paranoia, certain he wouldn’t
see anything except . . .
A beige station wagon?
This had to be dealt with.
Hannah watched Dominik’s car through the swishing of wiper
blades as his sedan took a slow, ambling turn to the right, pulling
into another alleyway. She followed him into the darkness of the
alley. The front end of her car slammed down hard then rebounded
from the chasm-like pothole her front tire had dropped into.
She couldn’t see a thing in this darkness except the red taillights
up ahead and—
Brake lights.
Dominik’s car stopped suddenly fifty yards ahead. The
driver’s side door flew open, and a burly figure dashed away
from the car—the door hanging open. Hannah stopped her car,
leaving the distance unfilled.
What was he doing? She sat in her car. Waiting.
It was like the stories of road rage she heard, where one driver
would get out to confront another—only to have someone get
shot in the middle of the street.
Hannah peered into the darkness, gripping her steering
wheel. She closed her eyes, trying to reach out—
There was nothing to feel. Not here anyway.
She bit her lip, considered for a moment, then turned off her
car, taking her keys. She wanted her keys—that was certain.
Fear would have been the natural response, but envy filled
her mind. Envy for the Domani and the Ora, people like Devin
Bathurst and John Temple, who could see the present and the
future. Others had told her not to envy the other orders and
their gifts, that she had been given exactly what she was meant
to have and that she had to make the best of it. But she missed
the proactive way that John and Devin could use to approach
the uncertainty of the world. The Prima were a stabilizing
force—a means of keeping everyone grounded and remembering
the truths that proactive working so often forgot. But
none of that changed the fact that she was in the moment now,
groping in the blind spots of her gift.
Hannah opened the car door and stepped into the rain, looking
around. He wasn’t anywhere to be seen. Hannah walked toward
the car ahead, the interior lights illuminating the leather interior.
She stopped, listening for any sound she could hear—only the
thumping rain. Another set of steps closer. She stared into the
vacant interior, looking for a person who simply wasn’t there,
and her eyes wandered to the center partition, hanging slightly
ajar. It had been where he’d stored his—
Vodka.
A thick, heavy bottle, pulled from its cubby.
Gripped by the neck like a club.
Dominik, slipping into the darkness, waiting for his moment
to . . .
Hannah spun as Dominik ejected himself from his hiding
place in the dark, bottle in hand, raised over his head.
She thought fast, throwing herself into the car’s open door.
The bottle came down on the roof of the car and blasted apart in
a shower of shards and cascading liquor. She threw herself at the
passenger’s door, scrambling for the handle. She looked back.
He was behind her, hurling his body through the same open
door she had come through, grasping the steering wheel with
his left hand for support, clutching the razor-sharp remains of
a pungent vodka bottle in his right.
The survival instinct kicked in; the self-defense classes triggered
her response.
She lashed out with her leg like a battering ram, her heel
smashing into Dominik’s clavicle, just below the throat. He
made a pinched hacking sound as his body hurled to the side,
slamming into the dashboard. A hiking boot would have been
ideal, but a kick of any kind could be fatal, even in her tennis
shoes, if she meant it, held nothing back, and lashed out with
the vicious intention to cause serious trauma.
She kicked again and again—his head snapped back like a
melon as her foot connected with his face. Her hands searched
frantically for the door handle she’d lost track of in the furious
exchange—fingertips catching on the outline, hand grasping.
Dominik was recovering. Covering his face with his left hand, he
reached out with the razorlike bottle with the other, like a shield.
Hannah flung her body into the door as she pulled the handle.
She felt her body tumble to the hard, wet pavement beyond. She
looked back in time to see Dominik coming down at her, bottle
in hand. She kicked his descending arm away, and the bottle
exploded against the ground. Dominik reached for her body,
trying to hold her down. She felt the car keys, still in her hand,
clutched them like a dagger, and came down hard on Dominik’s
arm. He winced, recoiling. She lashed out for his face, searching
for his neck.
He threw himself back against the car, evading Hannah’s
swinging attack, then stood.
Hannah pushed herself away, trying to keep her distance.
And then he ran.
Dominik rushed toward the end of the alley, water spattering
against his face and arms.
Who was this woman? This girl? She’d followed him. Knew
where he was going and what he was doing. She had to know
about his business. She wasn’t FBI. Police? Maybe.
No. That wasn’t likely. She was too young for either. She was
obviously trained in following people—but not with subtlety.
Her mistakes were too glaring—too inexperienced.
Surveillance for someone else was his only thought. Someone
who wanted to rip off their shipment. It happened all the time
with drug trafficking. Why not in this business too?
Dominik made a sharp right, ducking into a trashy, overgrown
backyard, shoving past a metal trash can. He had to fix
this or it was going to cost him his head.
Hannah tore after Dominik.
Her one lead. Her only chance of finding these girls. She
couldn’t let him get away.
She turned the corner fast, running through someone’s backyard,
chasing after as fast as she could, Dominik’s form merely
a dark blotch against the impossible conditions of night and
drizzle.
He was ahead, crossing another yard, leaping a short
chain-link fence. Hannah pushed herself, gaining slightly. She
approached the fence, hands stinging as the cold, rain-soaked
metal ripped at her bare hands. She hurtled the fence and
continued her pursuit.
Dominik rushed across the street, dodging between parked
cars, knocking over a boxy plastic trash can, sending garbage
spilling. Hannah dodged to the left, losing time from the
circuitous route, but it was less than she would have lost from
fighting the obstacle she’d been presented with.
Her feet splashed through puddles as she forced herself
forward, chasing as fast as she could. From yard to yard, across
another street, low-hanging branches snapping at her face. A
tall wooden fence, knotted and old. Dominik clambered over
the fence. Hannah followed, charging toward the obstacle,
hands digging in as she made her way to the top—throwing
her body over the other side. Her feet connected with something
she didn’t expect—a trash can—and she lost her balance,
hitting the grassy lawn with a painful lurch.
She looked up. Dominik was already making his way over the
far fence at the other end of the yard. Hannah leapt to her feet.
The back door to the home opened, and a young boy—maybe
ten—watched her rush at the fence.
“Mom! There’s someone in the backyard!”
Hannah ignored the boy, throwing herself at the next fence,
pulling herself into place with her arms, tossing a leg over the
fence, hitting the ground with a splash on the other side. She
pushed herself up from the muddy puddle, covered in dirt, and
gave chase once more as Dominik turned a corner. She came to
the gate in the fence. Locked. Hannah slammed her shoulder
into the gate, sending it flying open, propelling her into the
front yard.
Rain covered her face, and she wiped the thick drops from
her eyes. Her head turned hurriedly, side to side. He was
nowhere to be seen.
What had happened? How had she lost him? He must have
taken a different turn.
She walked into the street, looking around in all directions.
This couldn’t be happening. She couldn’t let this happen. The
girls were too young—thirteen at most. She couldn’t let this
happen to them. She couldn’t let them disappear into the night.
Hannah pushed her hands through her soaked hair, trying
to think. She needed to know where he had gone.
A set of headlights rolled toward her, a sharp honk on the
horn, and she stepped out of the car’s way, the vehicle rolling
lazily past.
The world was going on as usual. She was failing her charge,
and the world didn’t even know enough to care.
She needed to pick up the trail again. She needed to see the
past. A vision of where he had gone. She needed a magic wand
to wave, to bring her the sight she needed.
But it didn’t work like that.
Hannah looked up at the rainy sky. “God?” she beseeched. “I
can’t do this. I can’t find them. I need You and Your sovereign
power and...”
No. She scolded herself. It’s like people to go to God, thinking
they had something to say—yammering to an almighty God
who formed the world from the palm of His hand. How like her
to think that florid prayers somehow pleased God.
No, it was not her place to talk. It was her place as a creation
of God to do something else . . .
“Listen,” she whispered to herself.
She closed her eyes and listened to the rain, her thoughts
filled with her calling and mission.
No. She scolded herself again. Listening wasn’t done only
with the ears but also with the mind and the heart.
She cleared her mind. Focused on her breathing. Focused on
God.
The rain thundered in her ears, every droplet exploding
against every surface of metal, asphalt, and grass. Each sound
blurred into the other in a cacophony of white noise.
Listen, she said to herself in her mind.
The drops faded toward the background, only a thumping
rhythm of a select few drops tapping out an erratic beat. Bit by
bit the rhythm thinned, only a few proud beats pounding out a
pedantic march.
Listen, she said to herself again, her body relaxing.
A single droplet of rain made a tiny plinking impact.
Then silence. The world without time. Where she wasn’t
hurried or forced into action.
Listen, she thought again. And then she heard.
Dominik’s shoes thudding against the path . . .
Leading away . . .
His ragged breath wheezing—
Removing him from the scene.
The cries of the girls reverberating in his mind—
Remembering the thud of blows.
The ringing slaps to tender faces—
The sobs pounding into his brain.
The house that he had been working from.
Creaking from the strain.
The place he was returning to.
Thunder rocked the air as Hannah’s eyes opened, lifting to
the house in front of her. A sigh of anguish escaped her lips.
There.
Hannah quietly grasped the doorknob and felt the door swing
lazily inward, left ajar by someone before her. Stepping into
the house as quietly as possible, she paused. If he was in the
house still, she didn’t want him to know. Not yet. There would
be a moment soon, when she had something to report, that she
would need to call the police to finish this. But visions of the
past weren’t evidence enough. She needed to find the girls. To
know for certain they were here before she did something that
might spook Dominik.
She moved into the living room. Shoddy furniture bulleted
with holes. An ashtray on the coffee table filled to the brim with
dark ash and cigarette butts. The whole place reeked of stale
smoke. Magazines littered the remaining surface of the coffee
table—like a doctor’s waiting room.
Men, sitting in the living room—each waiting their turn.
A quick thump reverberated through her chest. These had
been different girls, before the ones Hannah was looking for.
Older—Russian? It wasn’t any easier to consider.
Her stomach churned, and she stepped into the next room—
the kitchen. No signs of cooking or supplies. No one lived here.
At least no one ate here.
Hannah looked at the table—a sprawling forest of vials,
needles, alcohol, and soda bottles. She picked up a container of
medicine, reading the label.
Flunitrazepam. Whatever that was.
There was a smacking sound, and Hannah turned. The back
door hung open, the screen door slapping loudly in the rainy
wind.
Dominik exiting out the back.
She thought about following him—but this was what she was
looking for. This was where they’d brought the girls—she could
feel it. If she was going to find the girls, she was going to have to
do it here.
There was a set of stairs near the hallway, leading up. It felt
right, like this was the way they had taken the girls.
The girls, Hannah thought. She didn’t even know their
names. But that wasn’t how this worked. She wasn’t called out
of personal obligation. She was called to help them because it
was her purpose.
Hannah reached the top of the stairs, looking around. There
was a set of three bedrooms lining the hallway. She stepped
toward one with the door ajar. The door pushed aside easily,
revealing a virtually empty room.
An old mattress lay in the middle of the room, filthy blankets
thrown across it in twisting heaps.
And suddenly Hannah saw the horrible truth of what had
been happening here.
Dominik kicked open the door to the shed, scowling into the
darkness as the spring rain shower assaulted the tin roof in a
reverberating frenzy. He shoved the lawn mower to the side,
ripping a canvas tarp away from a stack of tools. The cold canvas
twisted with a kind of whiplash as its soggy corners tried to
double over onto the shell of hard cloth that had molded itself
to the stack of tools.
A toolbox scattered with a rough toss, and it hit the floor
somewhere to the right with a raucous clatter. He kicked a bag
of screws out of the way, and the contents went spilling in a
deluge of tinkling barbs.
There.
Dominik grabbed the gas can by the handle and gave it a
forceful jiggle. Half a can’s worth of gasoline sloshed inside the
container, undulating on a swishing axis that caused the whole
can to swing in a wide arc.
It was enough to do the job. To get rid of as much evidence
as he could before whoever that girl was could find her way
back here. Dominik hated the place anyway, all the time he’d
spent there minding the shop while the others stayed in the big
house across town. He wouldn’t miss it.
It would be obvious that it was arson. The investigators might
even find some of the things they had been hiding, but with luck
they’d be out of the state by the time anything was found—and
the merchandise would be out of the country by then. And it
wouldn’t be traced back to them. They’d made sure the lease
wasn’t in any of their names.
Dominik reached into his pocket, found the metal object,
removed it from his pocket, and flicked the cap open. His thumb
spun on the back of the lighter, checking to see if there was
enough fuel.
A tiny flame leapt upward, then was dashed out by the snapping
of the cap back over it. He walked back toward the house in
the rain.
Hannah backed away from the bedroom door, stumbled into the
wall, and slid to the floor. Her body shook as she ran her hands
over her head, trying to blot it all out of her head. So many girls
had been brought through here. So much pain. And suffering.
And hopelessness. So many monsters lurking in the shadows.
The walls remembered what had happened here—and they
were closing in.
“O God,” she stammered in agonized prayer, mind freewheeling
with the torment of it all.
And she felt something else: another calling—
She looked up at the ceiling and saw the wide hatch leading
to the attic. A padlock dangled open at the end of a swinging
latch that had been left undone.
She reached upward, and the trapdoor snapped downward as
she grabbed at the string, tugging, the ladder sliding downward
with a gentle pull. Hannah stepped onto the bottom rung and
moved upward, compelled by purpose but delayed by dread.
She lifted her head into the attic. The floor was covered in
brown carpet; drenched in dust that made her cough. Hannah
lifted herself into the darkness. Tiny fingers of light glowed
through the slits between the boards covering the one tiny
window at the far end. The hatch below her swung gently
upward, pulled back into position by creaking springs.
Her hands groped for a moment as she stood, hunched in
the low space. A dangling string brushed her fingertips, and she
tugged. The lightbulb snapped on from an overhead fixture, and
she looked around.
She thought she might never start breathing again.
Both sides of the attic were lined with bunk beds, chicken
wire surrounding them in tightly fastened grids that filled in the
gaps between small metal struts. Hinged doors with padlocks
locked every set of beds, making each its own tiny prison.
Lurid underwear hung from hooks and littered the floor.
Dirty clothes were piled in the corner.
Hannah walked to one of the beds, its door hanging open,
and looked in. Sitting on yellowed sheets was a ratty stuffed
bear with one eye missing. She picked up the bear and looked
it over as a hot tear ran down Hannah’s face as she saw the face
of the girl who had clung to this bear—
Maybe fourteen years old.
The bear fell from her hands and hit the floor.
Whoever these people were—she would stop them.
Wherever the girls were that they had taken—she would find
them.
Then she heard something.
Petroleum-scented splashes of gasoline washed across the walls
and tables as Dominik slung the can in all directions. He set
the can down for a moment and rummaged under the sink for
a trash bag. Quickly he swept the drugs off the table into the
plastic and pulled the tethers shut with a swift yank. He set the
bag near the door, stuffed his cell phone between his shoulder
and ear, and reached for the gas can again.
“Hello?” a female voice said in Dominik’s native language.
“Do you know who she is?” Dominik replied in the same
language as he soaked the curtains in gasoline.
“Who?”
“The girl that followed me. She knew where I was and where
I was going.”
“What are you talking about?”
Dominik sloshed more gasoline onto the living room carpet,
sending a splash across the back of a ratty recliner. “Some
girl—midtwenties maybe. She found me in the liquor store. She
followed me. Chased me back to the house.”
“You ran away from a girl?”
“Shut up, Misha.” He grunted. “She came out of nowhere.
She knew where I was and where I was going. She must have
been watching us for days.” He moved up the stairs, spilling a
trail of gas.
“What are you going to do about it?”
Dominik let the last drops trickle from the can, dousing
a pile of sheets in the bedroom, then tossed the can into the
corner. “I’m closing down the storefront.”
“Use the gas can in the shed. Burn it down.”
“I’ve already started.”
“Good. Get going, and get out of there.” There was a click,
and the line went dead.
Dominik felt the lighter in his pocket as he moved toward
the stairs, then stopped. A creaking in the ceiling from the attic
above. He looked at the trapdoor in the ceiling, slightly ajar.
Another creak and the distinct sound of footsteps overhead.
He eyed the padlock dangling from the hatch—an overt
violation of fire code if he wasn’t mistaken—but the reasons for
that seemed more useful than ever.
Hannah took another step back.
Someone was in the house.
They were down there, but there was no way to know for certain
if they’d heard her. She wanted to get away from the hatch—away
from the center of the noise she’d heard. There had been the sound
of someone talking. It wasn’t English. Russian maybe.
She herself had been kidnapped just over a year before.
Nothing as hideous as this—but it had still left its mark on
her—a lingering fear, almost a dread, hung over her like a
cloud. She’d chosen to face it head-on, to walk straight into the
blackness alone. Now she feared it would engulf her.
There was a clattering sound near the far wall and a funny
smell.
She took another step back.
Footsteps moved toward the hatch—then stopped just below.
What were they doing down there?
Hannah turned, looking at the boarded window. Was it a
way out? Maybe she could tear the boards away. The hinges on
the hatch squeaked with a minute adjustment.
Were they coming up here? To grab her? To kill her?
Hannah forced herself to stop it. To let go of the questions.
To silence her mind. Her life really could be in danger, but this
time she could choose to do something. To take control. She was
not tied up or caged, and she would not let fear paralyze her. She
could act.
Then she heard it.
A click.
She thought of the window. A moment of quiet, then footfalls
moving down the stairs. They were leaving.
Hannah moved to the hatch, putting a hand on the thick wood.
It didn’t budge. She shoved. It wouldn’t move. She stomped.
She was trapped.
Dominik heard a loud thump strike the attic entrance. They’d
figured out that it was locked. There was another thump. They’d
specifically reinforced the hatch to keep the girls from knocking
it open if they ever had the guts to try. The padlock would hold,
and the thick bolts would stay in place.
He kicked the back door open and stood in the threshold.
The lighter came open with a snap.
His thumb rolled across the wheel, and a thin blade of flame
conjured itself up from the metal casing. He shielded the tiny
flame for a moment, then tossed it into a puddle of gasoline.
There was a split second where nothing happened—Dominik
froze, worried that the puddle had drowned the fire. Then it
spread in a violent blossom, devouring the surrounding air with
an audible howl. The house caught ablaze in a matter of seconds,
fire consuming up the stairs.
Dominik pulled on a jacket he’d taken from one of the closets
and zipped it as he walked away.
Hannah knew something wasn’t right.
She couldn’t have explained how, but something had changed.
The smell—the pungent aroma that had been rising from below—
suddenly seemed to vanish, replaced by something else.
Then she recognized the smell that had been. And her eyes went
wide as she realized what the new smell was that had replaced it.
Greenish smoke slithered up from the cracks around the
attic hatch. The smell was foreign—not like campfire smoke
with its earthen richness, but the putrid scent of melting plastic
and burning synthetics.
Then the floor started to get warm.
Fire travels up, she thought. Heat rises. Smoke rises. There
was nowhere further up to go. She was at the tip of the spear.
She turned to the window, tugging at the boards that covered
it—the rain smacking down just beyond.
The amount of smoke doubled in seconds, filling the attic
with an acrid cloud. No fire yet. Just smoke. Her eyes stung,
pinpricks stabbing at her tear ducts. Hot tears slid involuntarily
down her warming face. It was all happening so fast. It
reminded her of the fire safety videos she’d seen in elementary
school, depicting how a cigarette in a trash can could send a
house into an unrecoverable blaze in less than two minutes.
Arson could work so much faster.
She hacked and coughed, fingers digging into the boards,
pulling at the wood. She lifted her foot, giving a solid kick that
split the boards, crushing the glass beyond. Hannah grabbed
the loose pieces and pulled them free, revealing the window.
Street light poured in through the rapidly thickening smoke.
Rain tapped at the spiderwebbed glass. The whole window was
little more than a slit. Less than six inches. She would never fit.
It had been boarded up purely to keep light out.
Her lungs seized, fighting to keep out the dark haze. Her
body convulsed with a violent cough. Heat permeated her.
Hannah coughed once more, then lifted her leg, jamming
her heel into the tiny window, sending beads of glass splashing
outward. It wasn’t big enough for her to get out, but it was big
enough to let a little air in.
She shoved her face to the opening and pulled in a lungful of
the chilled air beyond. Then she pulled the jacket off her back
and put it to her mouth. She crouched down, moved back into
the prisonlike room, and searched for the trapdoor. Found it.
Her hands worked at the latch, pulled. Nothing. There had to be
some way to get out.
The blurring of her vision worsened, tears and smoke clawing
at her eyes.
She coughed. Her body felt heavy and unwieldy. She tried to
adjust her body with her right arm, but all the strength seemed
to be slipping out of her. Fighting hurt so much. Moving sapped
her energy. The searing floor suddenly seemed welcoming.
Her body started to relax, curling into a ball. The unrelenting
stinging in her eyes suddenly seemed unbearable.
Her eyelids shut.
The attic suddenly seemed far away. Her mind slipped into silence. The kind of silence she could try so hard to cultivate in
times of trouble now seemed so easy. Everything that seemed to
worry faded, and rather than doing she was simply . . .
Being.
She could feel the past again.
Before it had been such a horrible place. When others had
lived here. When family pictures and Christmas ornaments
had been stored here in cardboard boxes. And then the old
occupants moved out and others moved in—the ones who had
perverted this place to be something else. Rolling carpet over
the plywood, not bothering to nail it to the rafters.
Hannah’s eyes snapped open, and she stumbled toward the
window for a life-saving breath of cool air. Then she dropped to
the floor and grasped at the carpet, pulling the shaggy covering
loose. She reached for the floor, pulling at the boards, only to
realize that she was standing on the edge.
Hannah moved and gave another pull—the heat was overwhelming.
The plywood pulled away, clattering to the side as she
tossed it.
Rafters—a few feet apart—partitioned themselves between
sections of pink insulation. It looked like cotton candy, she
thought.
Her hesitation lasted only a second, and then she jumped,
feet first toward insulation.
The world seemed to freeze.
Then her body crashed through the billowy pink insulation,
smashing through the thin layer of sheet rock, and she felt herself
hurtling through the gray smoke toward the carpet one floor
below.
She landed with a thud, losing her balance as her body
slammed into the wall.
The heat enveloped her, blasting at her like a furnace, smoke
stabbing at her eyes. Hannah looked up and saw the window
at the far end of the hall. She pulled her jacket tight against
her face and rushed forward, trying to stay low. Moments later
she was at the window, the glass fogged over with a greasy
black smear from the heat and smoke. Then she saw the gas
can, tossed at the floor below it, fire clinging to the outside wall
where gas dribbled down.
A kick could break the glass—but glass shards would slice
her leg to unrecognizable ribbons if she tried. She took a smoky
breath and reached for the can with her jacket, grabbing the
handle. Her body swung, then released the metal container.
The smoke-fogged glass exploded outward and skittered
across the sloping roof that covered the back porch.
She threw herself through the window—arms and legs catching
on the fragile teeth of glass that remained, her body landing on
glass shards that pricked her skin. She rolled uncontrollably
down the roof, then slammed into the soggy grass below.
Hannah looked up at the blazing house—bleeding, burned,
and weak.
Her eyes fluttered shut, only to open again after several
minutes, and she found herself on the other end of the yard,
farther from the flames. She was looking up at a man with long
dark hair, in a black coat. Rain rolled off him as he said something
to her. His lips moved, but she didn’t hear anything.
And then the world faded to black. only come from God. She took a long, deliberate draw of air, letting it fill her lungs in a cool cloud that expanded inside her chest. Somewhere in the distant reaches of her mind she felt her body act, working with the world around her—neither rushed nor distracted—to bring the car to life.
She turned the key again. The engine growling, she fed it gas.
Hannah’s foot came down in a steady push, feeding the car, and she took off into the night—
—chasing after him.
Her car sped to the end of the block—a stop sign ahead.
Her attention snapped to the right—the direction Dominik had gone.
Nothing.
Hannah rolled into the street, peering through the rain—and then she felt where he had been. She was on the trail again.
The wipers sloshed, thumping beads of water away from the glass. Dominik yawned. It was getting late, and he was getting tired of work. He’d stayed sober as long as the new girls were at the storage house, but now that they were being moved, he was
ready to drink again.
He eyed the jostling bottle of vodka in the passenger seat, ready for the familiar burn of alcohol in his chest. Dominik missed Russian vodka—the stuff that had been cheaper than water during the cold war. He was hardly a connoisseur, but he knew that American vodka tasted different to him. He was told that good vodka had neither taste nor smell. But who cared? Just so long as it kept him warm—a lesson he had learned in prison twenty years ago.
He thought about the girls and how much money they would bring. Altogether, maybe three thousand dollars in Ukraine. Here? More. But it wasn’t enough. Dominik wanted a line of cocaine—the stuff he’d gotten used to as a teenager when theiron curtain fell. But for now, vodka would have to do.
Dominik reached out, steering with his forearm. He held the neck of the bottle in one hand and twisted the cap with the other.
He took a slug. The same amount would have sent most Americans into a hacking fit. Dominik didn’t flinch as the stinging liquid seared his throat, filling him with a glowing
sense of well-being. He felt good. Safe. But not overly safe. He looked in the rearview mirror, double-checking for cops.
A single set of lights behind him, moving in quickly. Much too quickly. He screwed the cap back on the bottle, stuffing it in the armrest.
Thoughts of a cop watching him throw back a mouthful of hard liquor as he passed by filled Dominik’s head. Was he being followed?
There was an alley ahead. He signaled left. The car behind him signaled a left-hand turn as well. Dominik cranked the wheel hard right, and a spray of filthy water splashed up against the windows of his car as he hit the accelerator and raced down an alleyway. His eyes shot upward, toward the rearview mirror. The car behind him screeched past the turn, then slammed its brakes, laying rubber and a wake of erupting rainwater. The car pulled into reverse, pulling perpendicular to the alley for a moment, its silhouette fully revealed.
A beige station wagon?
The following car’s front end nosed toward the alley. The headlights, which had been shrinking with distance, stabilized in size, then began to grow.
Dominik didn’t signal; he simply grabbed the wheel and yanked to the left. Water crashed against the passenger window as the car fishtailed, his foot pressing hard into the gas—jetting down a dark street.
He nearly spun in his seat to look back. This was insane. His heart was racing. His face red and sweaty. Who was this person following him? In a station wagon? Not the police. Someone trying to steal their latest shipment? It simply didn’t make sense. But whoever they were, they weren’t trained in following people with subtlety. And in the rain, he’d lost them for sure.
Dominik took another turn, just to be safe. Then another.
He took a deep breath and relaxed, pulling onto a familiar street. Whoever they were, he’d lost them.
His eyes lifted again, just out of paranoia, certain he wouldn’t see anything except . . .
A beige station wagon?
This had to be dealt with.
Hannah watched Dominik’s car through the swishing of wiper blades as his sedan took a slow, ambling turn to the right, pulling into another alleyway. She followed him into the darkness of the alley. The front end of her car slammed down hard then rebounded from the chasm-like pothole her front tire had dropped into.
She couldn’t see a thing in this darkness except the red taillights up ahead and—
Brake lights.
Dominik’s car stopped suddenly fifty yards ahead. The driver’s side door flew open, and a burly figure dashed away from the car—the door hanging open. Hannah stopped her car, leaving the distance unfilled.
What was he doing? She sat in her car. Waiting.
It was like the stories of road rage she heard, where one driver would get out to confront another—only to have someone get shot in the middle of the street.
Hannah peered into the darkness, gripping her steering wheel. She closed her eyes, trying to reach out—
There was nothing to feel. Not here anyway.
She bit her lip, considered for a moment, then turned off her car, taking her keys. She wanted her keys—that was certain.
Fear would have been the natural response, but envy filled her mind. Envy for the Domani and the Ora, people like Devin Bathurst and John Temple, who could see the present and the future. Others had told her not to envy the other orders and their gifts, that she had been given exactly what she was meant to have and that she had to make the best of it. But she missed the proactive way that John and Devin could use to approach the uncertainty of the world. The Prima were a stabilizing force—a means of keeping everyone grounded and remembering the truths that proactive working so often forgot. But none of that changed the fact that she was in the moment now, groping in the blind spots of her gift.
Hannah opened the car door and stepped into the rain, looking around. He wasn’t anywhere to be seen. Hannah walked toward the car ahead, the interior lights illuminating the leather interior.
She stopped, listening for any sound she could hear—only the thumping rain. Another set of steps closer. She stared into the vacant interior, looking for a person who simply wasn’t there, and her eyes wandered to the center partition, hanging slightly ajar. It had been where he’d stored his—
Vodka.
A thick, heavy bottle, pulled from its cubby.
Gripped by the neck like a club.
Dominik, slipping into the darkness, waiting for his moment to . . .
Hannah spun as Dominik ejected himself from his hiding place in the dark, bottle in hand, raised over his head.
She thought fast, throwing herself into the car’s open door. The bottle came down on the roof of the car and blasted apart in a shower of shards and cascading liquor. She threw herself at the passenger’s door, scrambling for the handle. She looked back.
He was behind her, hurling his body through the same open door she had come through, grasping the steering wheel with his left hand for support, clutching the razor-sharp remains of a pungent vodka bottle in his right.
The survival instinct kicked in; the self-defense classes triggered her response.
She lashed out with her leg like a battering ram, her heel smashing into Dominik’s clavicle, just below the throat. He made a pinched hacking sound as his body hurled to the side, slamming into the dashboard. A hiking boot would have been ideal, but a kick of any kind could be fatal, even in her tennis shoes, if she meant it, held nothing back, and lashed out with the vicious intention to cause serious trauma.
She kicked again and again—his head snapped back like a melon as her foot connected with his face. Her hands searched frantically for the door handle she’d lost track of in the furious exchange—fingertips catching on the outline, hand grasping. Dominik was recovering. Covering his face with his left hand, he reached out with the razorlike bottle with the other, like a shield.
Hannah flung her body into the door as she pulled the handle. She felt her body tumble to the hard, wet pavement beyond. She looked back in time to see Dominik coming down at her, bottle in hand. She kicked his descending arm away, and the bottle exploded against the ground. Dominik reached for her body, trying to hold her down. She felt the car keys, still in her hand, clutched them like a dagger, and came down hard on Dominik’s arm. He winced, recoiling. She lashed out for his face, searching for his neck.
He threw himself back against the car, evading Hannah’s swinging attack, then stood.
Hannah pushed herself away, trying to keep her distance.
And then he ran.
Dominik rushed toward the end of the alley, water spattering against his face and arms.
Who was this woman? This girl? She’d followed him. Knew where he was going and what he was doing. She had to know about his business. She wasn’t FBI. Police? Maybe.
No. That wasn’t likely. She was too young for either. She was obviously trained in following people—but not with subtlety. Her mistakes were too glaring—too inexperienced.
Surveillance for someone else was his only thought. Someone who wanted to rip off their shipment. It happened all the time with drug trafficking. Why not in this business too?
Dominik made a sharp right, ducking into a trashy, overgrown backyard, shoving past a metal trash can. He had to fix this or it was going to cost him his head.
Hannah tore after Dominik.
Her one lead. Her only chance of finding these girls. She couldn’t let him get away.
She turned the corner fast, running through someone’s backyard, chasing after as fast as she could, Dominik’s form merely a dark blotch against the impossible conditions of night and drizzle.
He was ahead, crossing another yard, leaping a short chain-link fence. Hannah pushed herself, gaining slightly. She approached the fence, hands stinging as the cold, rain-soaked metal ripped at her bare hands. She hurtled the fence and continued her pursuit.
Dominik rushed across the street, dodging between parked cars, knocking over a boxy plastic trash can, sending garbage spilling. Hannah dodged to the left, losing time from the circuitous route, but it was less than she would have lost from fighting the obstacle she’d been presented with.
Her feet splashed through puddles as she forced herself forward, chasing as fast as she could. From yard to yard, across another street, low-hanging branches snapping at her face. A tall wooden fence, knotted and old. Dominik clambered over the fence. Hannah followed, charging toward the obstacle, hands digging in as she made her way to the top—throwing her body over the other side. Her feet connected with something she didn’t expect—a trash can—and she lost her balance, hitting the grassy lawn with a painful lurch.
She looked up. Dominik was already making his way over the far fence at the other end of the yard. Hannah leapt to her feet.
The back door to the home opened, and a young boy—maybe ten—watched her rush at the fence.
“Mom! There’s someone in the backyard!”
Hannah ignored the boy, throwing herself at the next fence, pulling herself into place with her arms, tossing a leg over the fence, hitting the ground with a splash on the other side. She pushed herself up from the muddy puddle, covered in dirt, and gave chase once more as Dominik turned a corner. She came to the gate in the fence. Locked. Hannah slammed her shoulder into the gate, sending it flying open, propelling her into the front yard.
Rain covered her face, and she wiped the thick drops from her eyes. Her head turned hurriedly, side to side. He was nowhere to be seen.
What had happened? How had she lost him? He must have taken a different turn.
She walked into the street, looking around in all directions.
This couldn’t be happening. She couldn’t let this happen. The girls were too young—thirteen at most. She couldn’t let this happen to them. She couldn’t let them disappear into the night. Hannah pushed her hands through her soaked hair, trying to think. She needed to know where he had gone.
A set of headlights rolled toward her, a sharp honk on the horn, and she stepped out of the car’s way, the vehicle rolling lazily past.
The world was going on as usual. She was failing her charge, and the world didn’t even know enough to care.
She needed to pick up the trail again. She needed to see the past. A vision of where he had gone. She needed a magic wand to wave, to bring her the sight she needed.
But it didn’t work like that.
Hannah looked up at the rainy sky. “God?” she beseeched. “I can’t do this. I can’t find them. I need You and Your sovereign power and...”
No. She scolded herself. It’s like people to go to God, thinking they had something to say—yammering to an almighty God who formed the world from the palm of His hand. How like her to think that florid prayers somehow pleased God.
No, it was not her place to talk. It was her place as a creation of God to do something else . . .
“Listen,” she whispered to herself.
She closed her eyes and listened to the rain, her thoughts filled with her calling and mission.
No. She scolded herself again. Listening wasn’t done only with the ears but also with the mind and the heart.
She cleared her mind. Focused on her breathing. Focused on God.
The rain thundered in her ears, every droplet exploding against every surface of metal, asphalt, and grass. Each sound blurred into the other in a cacophony of white noise.
Listen, she said to herself in her mind.
The drops faded toward the background, only a thumping rhythm of a select few drops tapping out an erratic beat. Bit by bit the rhythm thinned, only a few proud beats pounding out a pedantic march.
Listen, she said to herself again, her body relaxing. A single droplet of rain made a tiny plinking impact. Then silence. The world without time. Where she wasn’t hurried or forced into action. Listen, she thought again. And then she heard. Dominik’s shoes thudding against the path . . . Leading away . . .His ragged breath wheezing— Removing him from the scene. The cries of the girls reverberating in his mind— Remembering the thud of blows. The ringing slaps to tender faces— The sobs pounding into his brain. The house that he had been working from. Creaking from the strain. The place he was returning to.
Thunder rocked the air as Hannah’s eyes opened, lifting to the house in front of her. A sigh of anguish escaped her lips.
There.
Hannah quietly grasped the doorknob and felt the door swing lazily inward, left ajar by someone before her. Stepping into the house as quietly as possible, she paused. If he was in the house still, she didn’t want him to know. Not yet. There would be a moment soon, when she had something to report, that she would need to call the police to finish this. But visions of the past weren’t evidence enough. She needed to find the girls. To know for certain they were here before she did something that might spook Dominik.
She moved into the living room. Shoddy furniture bulleted with holes. An ashtray on the coffee table filled to the brim with dark ash and cigarette butts. The whole place reeked of stale smoke. Magazines littered the remaining surface of the coffee table—like a doctor’s waiting room.
Men, sitting in the living room—each waiting their turn.
A quick thump reverberated through her chest. These had been different girls, before the ones Hannah was looking for. Older—Russian? It wasn’t any easier to consider.
Her stomach churned, and she stepped into the next room— the kitchen. No signs of cooking or supplies. No one lived here. At least no one ate here.
Hannah looked at the table—a sprawling forest of vials, needles, alcohol, and soda bottles. She picked up a container of medicine, reading the label.
Flunitrazepam. Whatever that was.
There was a smacking sound, and Hannah turned. The back door hung open, the screen door slapping loudly in the rainy wind.
Dominik exiting out the back.
She thought about following him—but this was what she was looking for. This was where they’d brought the girls—she could feel it. If she was going to find the girls, she was going to have to do it here.
There was a set of stairs near the hallway, leading up. It felt right, like this was the way they had taken the girls.
The girls, Hannah thought. She didn’t even know their names. But that wasn’t how this worked. She wasn’t called out of personal obligation. She was called to help them because it was her purpose.
Hannah reached the top of the stairs, looking around. There was a set of three bedrooms lining the hallway. She stepped toward one with the door ajar. The door pushed aside easily, revealing a virtually empty room.
An old mattress lay in the middle of the room, filthy blankets thrown across it in twisting heaps.
And suddenly Hannah saw the horrible truth of what had been happening here.
Dominik kicked open the door to the shed, scowling into the darkness as the spring rain shower assaulted the tin roof in a reverberating frenzy. He shoved the lawn mower to the side, ripping a canvas tarp away from a stack of tools. The cold canvas twisted with a kind of whiplash as its soggy corners tried to double over onto the shell of hard cloth that had molded itself to the stack of tools.
A toolbox scattered with a rough toss, and it hit the floor somewhere to the right with a raucous clatter. He kicked a bag of screws out of the way, and the contents went spilling in a deluge of tinkling barbs.
There.
Dominik grabbed the gas can by the handle and gave it a forceful jiggle. Half a can’s worth of gasoline sloshed inside the container, undulating on a swishing axis that caused the whole can to swing in a wide arc.
It was enough to do the job. To get rid of as much evidence as he could before whoever that girl was could find her way back here. Dominik hated the place anyway, all the time he’d spent there minding the shop while the others stayed in the big house across town. He wouldn’t miss it.
It would be obvious that it was arson. The investigators might even find some of the things they had been hiding, but with luck they’d be out of the state by the time anything was found—and the merchandise would be out of the country by then. And it wouldn’t be traced back to them. They’d made sure the lease wasn’t in any of their names.
Dominik reached into his pocket, found the metal object, removed it from his pocket, and flicked the cap open. His thumb spun on the back of the lighter, checking to see if there was enough fuel.
A tiny flame leapt upward, then was dashed out by the snapping of the cap back over it. He walked back toward the house in the rain.
Hannah backed away from the bedroom door, stumbled into the wall, and slid to the floor. Her body shook as she ran her hands over her head, trying to blot it all out of her head. So many girls had been brought through here. So much pain. And suffering. And hopelessness. So many monsters lurking in the shadows.
The walls remembered what had happened here—and they were closing in.
“O God,” she stammered in agonized prayer, mind freewheeling with the torment of it all.
And she felt something else: another calling—
She looked up at the ceiling and saw the wide hatch leading to the attic. A padlock dangled open at the end of a swinging latch that had been left undone.
She reached upward, and the trapdoor snapped downward as she grabbed at the string, tugging, the ladder sliding downward with a gentle pull. Hannah stepped onto the bottom rung and moved upward, compelled by purpose but delayed by dread.
She lifted her head into the attic. The floor was covered in brown carpet; drenched in dust that made her cough. Hannah lifted herself into the darkness. Tiny fingers of light glowed through the slits between the boards covering the one tiny window at the far end. The hatch below her swung gently upward, pulled back into position by creaking springs.
Her hands groped for a moment as she stood, hunched in the low space. A dangling string brushed her fingertips, and she tugged. The lightbulb snapped on from an overhead fixture, and she looked around.
She thought she might never start breathing again.
Both sides of the attic were lined with bunk beds, chicken wire surrounding them in tightly fastened grids that filled in the gaps between small metal struts. Hinged doors with padlocks locked every set of beds, making each its own tiny prison.
Lurid underwear hung from hooks and littered the floor. Dirty clothes were piled in the corner.
Hannah walked to one of the beds, its door hanging open, and looked in. Sitting on yellowed sheets was a ratty stuffed bear with one eye missing. She picked up the bear and looked it over as a hot tear ran down Hannah’s face as she saw the face of the girl who had clung to this bear—
Maybe fourteen years old.
The bear fell from her hands and hit the floor.
Whoever these people were—she would stop them.
Wherever the girls were that they had taken—she would find them.
Then she heard something.
Petroleum-scented splashes of gasoline washed across the walls and tables as Dominik slung the can in all directions. He set the can down for a moment and rummaged under the sink for a trash bag. Quickly he swept the drugs off the table into the plastic and pulled the tethers shut with a swift yank. He set the bag near the door, stuffed his cell phone between his shoulder and ear, and reached for the gas can again.
“Hello?” a female voice said in Dominik’s native language.
“Do you know who she is?” Dominik replied in the same language as he soaked the curtains in gasoline.
“Who?”
“The girl that followed me. She knew where I was and where I was going.”
“What are you talking about?”
Dominik sloshed more gasoline onto the living room carpet, sending a splash across the back of a ratty recliner. “Some girl—midtwenties maybe. She found me in the liquor store. She followed me. Chased me back to the house.”
“You ran away from a girl?”
“Shut up, Misha.” He grunted. “She came out of nowhere. She knew where I was and where I was going. She must have been watching us for days.” He moved up the stairs, spilling a trail of gas.
“What are you going to do about it?”
Dominik let the last drops trickle from the can, dousing a pile of sheets in the bedroom, then tossed the can into the corner. “I’m closing down the storefront.”
“Use the gas can in the shed. Burn it down.”
“I’ve already started.”
“Good. Get going, and get out of there.” There was a click, and the line went dead.
Dominik felt the lighter in his pocket as he moved toward the stairs, then stopped. A creaking in the ceiling from the attic above. He looked at the trapdoor in the ceiling, slightly ajar.
Another creak and the distinct sound of footsteps overhead.
He eyed the padlock dangling from the hatch—an overt violation of fire code if he wasn’t mistaken—but the reasons for that seemed more useful than ever.
Hannah took another step back.
Someone was in the house.
They were down there, but there was no way to know for certain if they’d heard her. She wanted to get away from the hatch—away from the center of the noise she’d heard. There had been the sound of someone talking. It wasn’t English. Russian maybe.
She herself had been kidnapped just over a year before. Nothing as hideous as this—but it had still left its mark on her—a lingering fear, almost a dread, hung over her like a cloud. She’d chosen to face it head-on, to walk straight into the blackness alone. Now she feared it would engulf her.
There was a clattering sound near the far wall and a funny smell.
She took another step back.
Footsteps moved toward the hatch—then stopped just below. What were they doing down there?
Hannah turned, looking at the boarded window. Was it a way out? Maybe she could tear the boards away. The hinges on the hatch squeaked with a minute adjustment.
Were they coming up here? To grab her? To kill her?
Hannah forced herself to stop it. To let go of the questions. To silence her mind. Her life really could be in danger, but this time she could choose to do something. To take control. She was not tied up or caged, and she would not let fear paralyze her. She could act.
Then she heard it.
A click.
She thought of the window. A moment of quiet, then footfalls moving down the stairs. They were leaving.
Hannah moved to the hatch, putting a hand on the thick wood. It didn’t budge. She shoved. It wouldn’t move. She stomped.
She was trapped.
Dominik heard a loud thump strike the attic entrance. They’d figured out that it was locked. There was another thump. They’d specifically reinforced the hatch to keep the girls from knocking it open if they ever had the guts to try. The padlock would hold, and the thick bolts would stay in place.
He kicked the back door open and stood in the threshold.
The lighter came open with a snap.
His thumb rolled across the wheel, and a thin blade of flame conjured itself up from the metal casing. He shielded the tiny flame for a moment, then tossed it into a puddle of gasoline.
There was a split second where nothing happened—Dominik froze, worried that the puddle had drowned the fire. Then it spread in a violent blossom, devouring the surrounding air with an audible howl. The house caught ablaze in a matter of seconds, fire consuming up the stairs.
Dominik pulled on a jacket he’d taken from one of the closets and zipped it as he walked away.
Hannah knew something wasn’t right.
She couldn’t have explained how, but something had changed. The smell—the pungent aroma that had been rising from below— suddenly seemed to vanish, replaced by something else.
Then she recognized the smell that had been. And her eyes went wide as she realized what the new smell was that had replaced it.
Greenish smoke slithered up from the cracks around the attic hatch. The smell was foreign—not like campfire smoke with its earthen richness, but the putrid scent ofmelting plastic and burning synthetics.
Then the floor started to get warm.
Fire travels up, she thought. Heat rises. Smoke rises. There was nowhere further up to go. She was at the tip of the spear.
She turned to the window, tugging at the boards that covered it—the rain smacking down just beyond.
The amount of smoke doubled in seconds, filling the attic with an acrid cloud. No fire yet. Just smoke. Her eyes stung,
pinpricks stabbing at her tear ducts. Hot tears slid involuntarily down her warming face. It was all happening so fast. It reminded her of the fire safety videos she’d seen in elementary school, depicting how a cigarette in a trash can could send a house into an unrecoverable blaze in less than two minutes.
Arson could work so much faster.
She hacked and coughed, fingers digging into the boards, pulling at the wood. She lifted her foot, giving a solid kick that split the boards, crushing the glass beyond. Hannah grabbed the loose pieces and pulled them free, revealing the window.
Street light poured in through the rapidly thickening smoke. Rain tapped at the spiderwebbed glass. The whole window was little more than a slit. Less than six inches. She would never fit. It had been boarded up purely to keep light out.
Her lungs seized, fighting to keep out the dark haze. Her
body convulsed with a violent cough. Heat permeated her.
Hannah coughed once more, then lifted her leg, jamming her heel into the tiny window, sending beads of glass splashing outward. It wasn’t big enough for her to get out, but it was big enough to let a little air in.
She shoved her face to the opening and pulled in a lungful of the chilled air beyond. Then she pulled the jacket off her back and put it to her mouth. She crouched down, moved back into the prisonlike room, and searched for the trapdoor. Found it. Her hands worked at the latch, pulled. Nothing. There had to be some way to get out.
The blurring of her vision worsened, tears and smoke clawing at her eyes.
She coughed. Her body felt heavy and unwieldy. She tried to adjust her body with her right arm, but all the strength seemed to be slipping out of her. Fighting hurt so much. Moving sapped her energy. The searing floor suddenly seemed welcoming. Her body started to relax, curling into a ball. The unrelenting stinging in her eyes suddenly seemed unbearable.
Her eyelids shut.
The attic suddenly seemed far away. Her mind slipped into silence. The kind of silenceshe could try so hard to cultivate in times of trouble now seemed so easy. Everything that seemed to worry faded, and rather than doing she was simply . . .
Being.
She could feel the past again.
Before it had been such a horrible place. When others had lived here. When family pictures and Christmas ornaments had been stored here in cardboard boxes. And then the old occupants moved out and others moved in—the ones who had perverted this place to be something else. Rolling carpet over the plywood, not bothering to nail it to the rafters.
Hannah’s eyes snapped open, and she stumbled toward the window for a life-saving breath of cool air. Then she dropped to the floor and grasped at the carpet, pulling the shaggy covering loose. She reached for the floor, pulling at the boards, only to realize that she was standing on the edge.
Hannah moved and gave another pull—the heat was overwhelming. The plywood pulled away, clattering to the side as she tossed it.
Rafters—a few feet apart—partitioned themselves between sections of pink insulation. It looked like cotton candy, she thought.
Her hesitation lasted only a second, and then she jumped, feet first toward insulation.
The world seemed to freeze.
Then her body crashed through the billowy pink insulation, smashing through the thin layer of sheet rock, and she felt herself hurtling through the gray smoke toward the carpet one floor below.
She landed with a thud, losing her balance as her body slammed into the wall.
The heat enveloped her, blasting at her like a furnace, smoke stabbing at her eyes. Hannah looked up and saw the window at the far end of the hall. She pulled her jacket tight against her face and rushed forward, trying to stay low. Moments later she was at the window, the glass fogged over with a greasy black smear from the heat and smoke. Then she saw the gas can, tossed at the floor below it, fire clinging to the outside wall
where gas dribbled down.
A kick could break the glass—but glass shards would slice her leg to unrecognizable ribbons if she tried. She took a smoky breath and reached for the can with her jacket, grabbing the handle. Her body swung, then released the metal container.
The smoke-fogged glass exploded outward and skittered across the sloping roof that covered the back porch.
She threw herself through the window—arms and legs catching on the fragile teeth of glass that remained, her body landing on glass shards that pricked her skin. She rolled uncontrollably down the roof, then slammed into the soggy grass below.
Hannah looked up at the blazing house—bleeding, burned, and weak.
Her eyes fluttered shut, only to open again after several minutes, and she found herself on the other end of the yard, farther from the flames. She was looking up at a man with long
dark hair, in a black coat. Rain rolled off him as he said something to her. His lips moved, but she didn’t hear anything.
