“Was Leslie smoking, too?” Megan asked.
Tori cried and buried her face in her hands. She opened her mouth to speak but no words came out.
“Tori, you’ve got to talk with me. I need to know what you and Leslie were doing.”
“I don’t want to be in trouble,” Tori cried hoarsely.
Megan cupped the girl’s face in her hand. “And I don’t want Leslie to hurt herself. Do you?”
Pain racked Tori’s face.
“Tori, help me! Leslie’s in that house with her father’s pistol. She’s threatened to shoot herself.”
“I know.” Tori took in a deep, shuddering breath. “I know. She told me she was going to shoot herself. She said she was going to shoot me, too. That’s when the MP came in and got me.”
Megan bridled the fear that thrummed inside her. Leslie Hollister was borderline depressive. She had great parents, but her problem was chemical, not environmental. Using drugs—something that Leslie had never done before, to Megan’s knowledge—could only complicate the existing problems.
“I can smell pot in your hair,” Megan said
Tori shook her head. “I don’t want to be in trouble, Mrs. Gander. I swear I don’t want to be in trouble. I wasn’t going to do it, wasn’t going to smoke anymore, but things have been so screwed up I just couldn’t keep calm. I’ve been going to pieces on the inside. When I saw that Leslie was spazzing about everything, I thought maybe it would calm us down.”
“Is pot all you were doing?”
Tori didn’t answer.
Megan kept her voice gentle. “I have to know, Tori. If something goes wrong here tonight, the hospital is going to have to know. If Leslie’s had something besides weed, I need to know so I can tell them.”
Tears fell from the girl’s eyes. She shook and quivered. “My dad is going to kill me. He is so going to kill me.”
“Your dad isn’t going to kill you,” Megan said. “That’s just fear talking.” She knew Tori didn’t believe her at the moment, but the girl had been through similar situations with her parents in the past. “You’re out of there. You’re safe.” Megan paused. “But Leslie isn’t. Help me get her out of that house and somewhere that I can take care of her.”
Tori glanced at the house with teary eyes and real fear.
Megan tenderly brushed the girl’s hair from her face. God, they’re all so young. How can You expect any of them to be ready to go through this? “Tori.”
Dazed, the girl looked at her.
“Help me,” Megan repeated.
“We smoked some pot,” Tori reluctantly admitted. “I brought some whiskey. And there was other stuff.”
“What stuff?”
“Downers mostly. I thought they would mellow her out. Help her get a grip.”
Except when you’re a naturally depressive person, Megan thought, they send you right through the floor. She kept her eyes on Tori, stroking the girl’s hair. “How bad is it? I have to know before I go in there.”
“I thought she was going to do it, Mrs. Gander,” Tori choked out. “I thought I was dead. I’ve never seen her like that.”
“Why does she want to shoot herself?” Megan asked. “She thinks she’s dreaming.” Tori’s voice came out hushed and dead. “She thinks her dad’s at war and her mom has disappeared because she’s trapped in a nightmare. She thinks if she kills herself in the dream, she’ll wake up and everything will be all right.”
A gunshot blasted through the night.
Turning her head, instinctively tracking the sound, Megan knew the report had come from within the Hollister home.
5
United States 75th Army Rangers Temporary Post
Sanliurfa, Turkey
Local Time 0432 Hours
A gust of hot, acrid wind hammered Goose as the satchel charge exploded on the enemy tank behind him. Flames jetted harsh and bright, and for a moment he worried that he was close enough to the blast that he might catch fire. The battle roars and thunder around him evaporated, as if someone had turned the sound off. Then he realized that the detonation of the explosive had deafened him again.
Off balance, lost in the sudden war of light and dark, he hit the stone street and landed awkwardly on his left side. The impact drove the air from his lungs. Instinctively, he rolled facedown and wrapped his hands over his head, making certain his helmet remained in place as debris rained around him.
Glancing over his shoulder when the worst of the onslaught was over, Goose watched in stunned fascination as the multiton Syrian tank came up from the right side, slowly flipping like a turtle caught out on a highway. The explosion left a gaping crater in the street, and Goose knew the charge must have rotated under the tank tread at the time of detonation. Sheared and no longer a continuous belt, the loose roll of heavy links spewed forward, spilling across the battle-scarred street.
With grudging reluctance, aided by the fact that the tank’s left-side track hadn’t quit driving, the tank turned over onto its side. The left tread continued to spin, chewing through the street, spraying broken rock over Goose. The tank revolved, turning crossways.
Goose’s hearing returned in a liquid rush that popped both ears. Someone yelled for his attention over the headset.
“Phoenix Leader! Phoenix Leader!”
Goose tried to speak then found he wasn’t breathing. The impact had emptied his lungs. He forced himself up, slid his rifle around to his hands, and inhaled. Heated, sulfurous dust coated the inside of his dry mouth. His ribs protested the action even as his lungs tried to find some small measure of relief.
“Leader,” Goose gasped. “Leader … is standing.” He took another breath, this one coming easier. Pain blazed along his ribs but he didn’t think any were broken. “I need your soldier with the MPIM.”
The tank rocked as the left tread continued to spin. Goose knew the armored vehicle had a chance of landing right side up as much as upside down. Right side up, the tank would remain in the fight.
“Leader, this is Tango Nine,” a soldier
