Another headache was erupting, a real pile driver. He downed two pills then searched the plains and the Bit terroot Range, telling himself that moving here with Samara was not a mistake.
She had saved his life.
It was that simple.
But Maggie was his wife. They’d had Logan together. They’d had a life together.
How did they lose control of it all?
Jake blinked at the road markers and the memories flowing by: How he’d met Maggie in high school. Dancing together in the gym. How they’d drive to the beach in his old Ford pickup. How they’d talk for hours. Two lonely people who belonged together. She actually got him interested in books. He liked Joseph Conrad’s dark stuff. And he taught her how to drive a standard, at the price of a whiplash or two.
They’d shared dreams.
They got married.
Man, he was so happy. Then Logan came and life got even better. Jake felt lucky, took a calculated risk and got a loan on a bigger rig to earn more. Then on a run to Taos, New Mexico, his transmission blew at the worst time-when he was overextended. It cost him jobs and huge repairs. Gas prices soared. Bills piled up. Loan and mortgage payments became overdue.
It was desperation time.
The only way out was a contract job driving convoys in Iraq. It was risky. People got killed. But they needed the money. So he’d put his life on the line.
Then everything went to hell.
It started with the attack.
He never talked about it. Never told Maggie what happened. Dammit, even mentioning it to Logan was hard.
The attack.
Don’t think about it. Stop it.
His head began throbbing like a jackhammer drilling into his brain.
Stop.
All right. Be cool. Hang in there.
The trouble started after he got back from Iraq, with that day in the supermarket when they’d bumped into Ullman, Logan’s soccer coach. He was a good-looking guy. College grad. Smart. Smooth. Jake had heard the other moms talk about him.
It was the way Maggie smiled at Ullman.
He’d never seen her smile like that before.
Jake just knew.
She’d cheated on him with Ullman.
Maggie denied it. But he was convinced. He just knew.
But did he really know?
Now, as he looked at the serrated peaks, he asked himself if he could’ve been wrong about Maggie and Ullman; asked himself if he was the problem, if he was all messed up because of the attack.
Pop-pop!
Jake’s heart leaped, jolting him in his seat. A passing group of motorcycles backfired.
Pop-pop!
Like gunfire.
Pop-pop!
His head hurt, like it was being squeezed in a vise.
Pull over. Pull over.
Pop-pop!
The sounds sliced through the air and his skull. He geared down, got to the shoulder. Dust billowed, engulf ing him.
He shut his eyes.
Pop-pop!
Jake crushed his head in his hands to keep it from coming apart as dust swirled, choking him. It was futile…
…he was being dragged back…
Please. Just stop. Please…
…dragged back to Iraq…
21
The frontier beyond Tal Afar, Iraq. Near the Syrian border
This is not good…
His rig is slow-rolling through a busy market. They’d been cut off five miles back from the larger convoy and the main armored escort.
His radio crackles.
“Get your Kevlar on!”
Jake has a bad feeling about this. They are in a twenty-truck convoy hauling supplies to support a secret mission at the border. But they got cut off and now there are just six vehicles. A Humvee in lead, a Humvee in back. Jake’s Mercedes is the last rig. A guy from Spain, one from Amsterdam, and Mitchell, Jake’s pal from Texas whose wife just had a baby, are driving the other rigs.
Jake hates being cut off.
Being cut off is like being plucked from the herd. They are going too slow. Too damn slow. This is a hot insurgent zone.
A kill zone.
He just wants to get to the damn camp without getting shot. Without getting rocks hurled at his windshield. Just get to the camp. Shower. Eat. Sleep. Count one more day closer to home. Closer to Maggie and Logan.
Now they are crawling.
Damn. Please do not be a checkpoint. Please do not tell me this is an Iraqi police checkpoint. Please.
Insurgents wear fake police uniforms.
“Okay, we gotta stop,” the radio bleats. “It’s a checkpoint.”
Jake curses. All the saliva in his mouth evaporates.
The diesel rigs idle in the broiling sun.
Eyes locked open, heart thumping, mouth dry, do-or die, trickles of cold sweat down his back, listening to the chatter on the air, scanning the stalls, the beggars pushing carts, the old men hunching over the open fires heating teapots, kids chasing a dog, hitting it with a stick. Stay alert, stay alive, delivering democracy to your door.
Maggie and Logan smile at him from the photo taped to his dash.
Get me through another day. Get me home, is all I pray.
Come on. This is taking way too long.
Scanning the old men, the kids, the dog, the burnedout cars, the idling trucks growl as beggars pass by pushing carts.
Radio chatter. A blur in his periphery.
Pop-pop!
Gunfire. A muzzle flash in the market and Hayes in the lead Humvee is frantic over the radio to the crew in the rear.
“T-Bone! Heads up! Behind you!”
Wham! The Hummer behind Jake is ablaze! A beggar’s cart tips.
“Ambush! Ambush!”
Hayes opens fire with his M2 lighting up the target behind Jake. People are scrambling, screaming.
