The living room adjoined the dining room, carefully presented and clean. Pictures of fruit and farmhouses hung on the walls. Linda Hollister had enjoyed success as a homemaker. The woman’s mark showed in every room in the house.
Megan halted at the hallway off the living room. Bedrooms lay at either end behind closed doors. Television voices emanated from both rooms. More family pictures covered the hallway walls, showing generations of family in black and white as well as color. The family, both sides evidently, sported a long line of military men in uniform, on battlefields, and in front of tanks, ships, and planes.
“Leslie,” Megan called.
“My room’s to the right, Mrs. Gander.” Leslie’s voice sounded smaller and more scared.
“All right.” Megan followed the hallway to the door. She placed her hand on the knob, watching with bright interest as her hand shook. “Leslie.”
“Yes.”
“I’m outside the door.”
“It isn’t locked.”
“I’m coming in.”
“Okay.”
Please don’t shoot. Megan took a final deep breath and told herself that talking with Leslie Hollister in her room wasn’t that much different than talking to someone in her base office. Only it was.
She turned the knob and pushed the door open. Instinctively, she held her hands up and out at her sides and stood her ground, praying that her trembling knees wouldn’t give out.
Posters of half-naked rock-star singers and actors covered all four walls. Guys in Speedos with wildly dyed hair and body piercings and tattoos warred with guys in unbuttoned flannel shirts, tattered jeans, and cowboy hats. Leslie’s interests apparently leaned toward a little bit country and a little bit rock and roll.
Megan recognized fewer than half the faces on those posters, but the room possessed a familiar feel. During her teen years, she had covered her walls with posters of rock bands and Chippendale models. Her father had railed against them when he had found them, but her mother had campaigned for her right to self-expression. Teens struggled for individuality, and in doing so, tended to be like every other teen, never knowing they were so like their parents at the same age. Only the accessories were different.
A notebook computer lay open on a small student desk next to a compact vanity cluttered with cosmetics, brushes, and curling irons. Small stuffed animals adorned the desk and the vanity. Pictures—primarily Polaroids but sharing space with 35mm shots and what looked like computer printouts—ringed the mirror of the vanity like a border, tucked in under the corners of the frame holding the reflective surface secure.
A small entertainment unit held a TV, DVD player, and an orange-and-white boom box that looked like the head of a robotic insect. Silent images flickered across the television screen. Megan’s quick glance showed her that the news story covered the military action taking place in Turkey. The station ID, FOX News, occupied one corner, but the main slug showed that the footage currently showing came from OneWorld NewsNet.
The footage revealed that—except for explosions and tracer fire—it was dark in Turkey, but it was a day ahead in Fort Benning. Tomorrow had arrived there, and for a moment the idea that Megan was watching tomorrow’s events today again struck her as ludicrous.
The television held a hypnotic intensity for her. Joey had told her how he’d seen Goose on a live broadcast right after the action erupted along the Turkish-Syrian border. In the days that had passed, few indepth news shorts regarding the conflict hadn’t contained the striking image of Goose hauling the wounded marine from the downed helicopter right after the rescue attempt fell from the sky. It was an image that had caught the scattered attention of the world. At least, the part of the world that had fathers and sons in the military.
“Mrs. Gander.”
Guilt washed over Megan as she turned to face Leslie Hollister. Megan hadn’t forgotten the girl, but in that frozen moment with the television images, nothing else had mattered.
Leslie sat on the floor with her back against the wall near the foot of her unmade bed. Plates and bowls of barely touched food—potato chips, Twinkies, miniature chocolate bars, and microwave meals—shared the bed and floor space with clothing. Plastic bottles of juices, soft drinks, and sports supplements added to the mess. The lingering acrid bite of marijuana smoke hung in the air, mixing with the turgid stink of incense.
Judging from the rest of the house and the pictures of Leslie and her friends taken in the bedroom, the room usually didn’t look as disheveled. Leslie Hollister’s bedroom was as much a battlefield as Sanliurfa, Turkey.
Realizing that, and hoping that she could do something to alleviate the girl’s painful confusion, Megan stood facing the young teen. “Leslie.” Despite the automatic impulse, she didn’t ask how the girl was doing; they both already knew the answer to that.
Pale and bordering on anorexic, Leslie sat with her knees folded up nearly to her chin. Her long blonde hair, frizzy and uncombed, draped her blade-thin shoulders. She wore silver-gray capri pants and a teal sleeveless sweater. A tiny gold cross rested at her throat, shining against the sweater fabric. A silver toe ring glittered on her left foot.
Her face appeared as pasty as bread dough. The bloodshot blue eyes were washed out and almost colorless except for the red. Her mouth was so grim and thin it looked like a bloodless straight-razor slash.
The .45 semiautomatic pistol Leslie held cupped in both hands atop her knees made her look even smaller.
United States 75th Army Rangers Temporary Post
Sanliurfa, Turkey
Local Time 0438 Hours
Captain Cal Remington stood on top of the three-story building and surveyed the battlefield that had taken over the city he was supposed to defend. He choked back the rage and frustration that filled him. He swore inside his head, thinking dark and vile things, but never gave vent to any of the words over the radio link.
Command had given him a losing proposition. And now
