“The reports are going to help us,” Benbow said. “With the disappearances of these other children, and no real proof that you had anything to do with Gerry Fletcher’s abduction, I don’t see how this case can proceed into court. I think all the pending charges of kidnapping will be summarily—”
“Stop!” Megan ordered. Tears burned the backs of her eyes but she refused to let them spill. “I—I have two sons. Two. I have a five-yearold, Chris. I—I left him with the emergency child-care services—earlier this morning.” She sobbed, then hiccupped because she was trying to retain control of her voice. “Do you—do you know anything—about the children there?”
Benbow blinked, then sat as motionless as glacial ice. Finally he said, “All of the children there are reported missing, Mrs. Gander. I’m sorry.”
Unwilling to lose complete control of herself right now, Megan took a deep breath. Later, she told herself, I’ll look for Chris later. First she had to get out of here, and this lawyer was her best shot at a ticket out the door. She took another breath, then realized her mistake when her lungs grew too tight. She exhaled slowly, like they’d taught her to do back in childbirth classes. Oh, Chris. She put her face in her hands and tried to think through the morass of fear and panic and guilt that overwhelmed her. Maybe Chris wasn’t still there. Maybe Joey got him and took him home. Chris would be safe at home, wouldn’t he? But who would take all the children? How could anyone—
A knock sounded at the door.
Megan heard Benbow get up and open the door.
“Can I help you?” the lieutenant asked.
“I’m Joey Holder. The MPs said my mom was here.”
Desperate, wanting to wake so badly from the nightmare she was in, Megan looked up. She stood on the other side of the table and gazed at her oldest son.
Joey stood in the middle of the door. A young woman Megan had never seen before stood at his side. Both of them looked beaten and disheveled. Blood streaked Joey’s face. He held out Chris’s overnight bag with a look of pure helplessness.
“Chris was gone, Mom.” Joey’s face crumpled and he began to cry. “I’m sorry. I should have been there. But I wasn’t.”
Megan was stunned. Tears slid down her cheeks as she went to her oldest son and held him in her arms.
“Chris was gone when I got there,” Joey sobbed in a choked voice. “All of them were gone. I didn’t even get to say good-bye. I just left the house tonight, left him playing in his room. And I didn’t even say good-bye to him.”
Megan held her son and smoothed his hair the way she had when he’d been a child. “It’s going to be okay, Joey. It’s going to be okay.” She didn’t know how she found the voice to speak the words, didn’t know how she found the strength to hold Joey as he shook and shivered and cried. “Everything’s going to be all right,” she said. But she didn’t believe it.
She remembered how Gerry Fletcher had fallen from the rooftop, how he had tumbled in the air, and how he had disappeared, leaving only his empty clothing to strike the ground.
Megan knew in her heart that they wouldn’t find Chris.
Turkish-Syrian Border
40 Klicks South of Sanliurfa, Turkey
Local Time 0958 Hours
The 40mm grenade streaked across the battlefield, cutting through the smoke and the dust haze, and slammed into the center vehicle of the advancing three T-55 tanks. Orange flames rose in a whirling boil from the impact, then again as Eddie Ybarra’s grenade struck home. Two other grenades, one from Cusack’s weapon and one from Rusty Barnes’s weapon in the Phoenix Two squad, struck the tank and tore the turret loose.
Goose broke the M-203 open, ejected the spent casing, then shoved another HE grenade into the launcher and closed the breech. Bringing the M-4A1 to his shoulder again, watching as the tanks on either side of the stricken vehicle split off, Goose sighted down the length of his weapon and elevated the barrel a little.
One of the T-55s in the second wave locked down and swiveled the turret toward the overturned troop transport where Goose was taking cover.
“Second target,” Goose instructed. “Fire!” The assault rifle bucked against his shoulder and the thump of the grenade firing from the launcher sounded a heartbeat ahead of the round from the T-55’s main gun.
“Incoming!” Henderson yelled.
At least, that was what Goose knew the man was going to yell before the detonation of the 105mm round filled his ears with the roar of an explosion only a few feet away. The dead husk of the troop transport took most of the impact. The violent rocking of the vehicle when the impact shivered through it made Goose think at first that the transport was going to fall over on him. He braced up against the vehicle, ready to throw himself clear. His fingers worked automatically, breaking the grenade launcher open and thumbing another HE round into the breech. Then he glanced around the still-quivering vehicle.
The Syrian soldiers who had been following the armored cav broke from their positions and streaked toward the Ranger line. Their AK-47s stuttered bull-roar chatter as they advanced.
As Goose brought the assault rifle to his shoulder again, he saw that the first grenade had sped true. Evidently the grenade had struck the T-55’s right tread under the armored skirting and blew the track apart. The long metal clanked against the tank and ripped long tears through the skirting before the driver pulled the cav unit to a halt.
The T-55 Phoenix Two’s squad had targeted had also lurched to a stop. One of the riskiest design problems with the Soviet tank was the placement of the hatch on the top rather than the rear or underneath. The Syrian crew tried to scramble free of the death trap the cav unit had become. One man raced for the
