Guilt and self-loathing burned deep inside Gunnar’s being, consuming all other emotions. He thought about killing himself, but was afraid.
Gunnar held no fear of death; in fact, he welcomed an end to his anguish. What petrified the former farm boy from central Pennsylvania was the thought of having to stand naked before God, wearing only his sins.
And though he feared God, he was not a religious man. He had no belief in the power of absolution. He alone was responsible for his actions, and he alone could absolve himself from sin. Somehow he would find a way to cleanse himself, somehow he had to make amends for his crimes.
But first, he had to survive.
And so Gunnar Wolfe hardened himself on the inside, stuffing all his anger and fear and remorse into a mental lockbox, tossing away the key. He refused to receive visits from the Bear and would accept no mail. He spoke only when spoken to by the guards. When he wasn’t pumping iron, he was walking the yard, a constant scowl on his face.
Rumors about the former Special Ops officer spread quickly through the prison grapevine, fed by clerks who had read his file. It was said he could kill three men armed with shanks before the first drop of his own blood hit the floor. The legends only grew wilder over time.
Choo Choo Rodriguez was a Latin King disciple and one of the toughest cons in Leavenworth. He was serving three consecutive life sentences for hacking his girlfriend and her parents to death with a machete. Choo Choo announced to his peers that he would be the one to claim the “Ranger boy’s cherry.”
Hours later, the body of the six-foot-six, 282-pound Rodriguez was found in the laundry room—eviscerated— his intestines looped around his neck.
No one else would challenge the former Army Ranger during his stay in Leavenworth.
It was not Gunnar who had killed Rodriguez, but Jim Kennedy, a corrections officer hired by the Bear to look out for his boy.
Message delivered.
During the fifty-seventh month of his sentence, an uprising between the Muslims and the Aryan Brotherhood broke out in Gunnar’s cellblock, during the warden’s inspection. Two guards were stabbed and killed, the warden held at gunpoint by a deranged Anthony Barnes. Two Correctional Emergency Response Teams surrounded the cellblock, but were held at bay by the threat on the warden’s life. Just as it seemed like events were spinning out of control, a trained killer, a former Army Ranger, stepped out of the shadows and snapped Barnes’s neck, taking several bullets in the process. The warden was rescued, the threat ended.
Gunnar’s sentence was commuted a week later. On a clear Kansas day in November, he walked out the gates of Leavenworth a free man—his tortured mind still very much imprisoned.
The next year had been a blur. Gunnar had been an elite fighting machine, trained to take out his enemy, but now the enemy was inside his own skin. Self-loathing led to booze, the booze to painkillers.
There are only three places an addict ends up. Rehab, jail, or dead.
Having spent time in prison, Gunnar opted for death. Fortunately, the overdose landed him in rehab.
Two months later, he returned to Happy Valley, prepared to live out his life—one day at a time.
The Bell 206L-4 Longranger light utility helicopter soars over Beaver Stadium, then northeast beyond a dense woods before reaching farmland. Clouds of brown dust and flecks of hay kick up as the machine lands between the silo and the barn.
Seventy-two-year-old Harlan Wolfe hurries out from his kitchen toward the world-filling noise. He adjusts his suspenders with one hand, holding the Smith & Wesson 12-gauge with the other, his initial shouts of protest drowned out by the shrieking blades. Cursing under his breath, he sees a woman remove her headphones and hand them to the pilot before exiting from the opened passenger door.
Commander Rocky Jackson-Hatcher brushes debris from her naval dress uniform. Climbing down from the aircraft she turns—coming face-to-face with the barrel of a shotgun, and the man who, years earlier, had nearly become her father-in-law.
The pilot reaches for his sidearm.
Rocky waves, signaling him to take off. “Mr. Wolfe, it’s me—”
“I know who you are. I ain’t senile.”
“Would you mind lowering the gun?”
“What’re you doing here?”
“I need to speak to Gunnar.”
“Come to twist the knife?”
“This is official government business—”
“Piss off. Gunnar don’t want nothing to do with you and yours—and neither do I. Now get off my land ’fore I call the cops.”
“Call the cops. I’m not leaving until I speak to your son.” She pushes past him, entering the farmhouse. “Gunnar? Gunnar Wolfe—are you in here?” She heads into the kitchen, the aroma of roast beef and potatoes instantly setting her stomach to growling. Pulling back the sun-yellowed curtains, she looks out the window and sees the distant tractor.
Gunnar negotiates the last turn, the setting sun at his back turning the dried field a golden brown. He is halfway across the acreage when he spots the woman waiting by the fence.
Rocky stares at the tractor, which has stopped moving less than a quarter mile away.
Gunnar watches, his heart pounding. The golden hair, shorter now, is pressed neatly beneath her hat. He feels his groin stir as she gets nearer.
She approaches the tractor, slipping and sliding in the moist earth, looking up at him through angry eyes. “We need to talk.”
Gunnar swallows the ball of bile burning its way up his throat.
“Don’t just sit there, say something.”
“Screw you, lady. Six years, and you think you can just waltz back in here and say we need to talk?”
“What would you like me to say? Enjoy your stay in prison? Meet any new friends? You betrayed your country, Gunnar. I’m here to give you a chance to—”
Gunnar restarts the engine, slams the tractor into gear, and floors it, the spinning tires shooting mud into the air.
She brushes mud from the front of her skirt, then curses as she wipes the olive brown cowshit from her fingers and back across the fabric.
Gunnar parks the tractor and storms into the farmhouse, his blood boiling. Entering the kitchen, he sees his father watching from the window.
“So? What she want?”
“Don’t know, and I don’t care. I’m taking a shower.”
Harlan watches his son storm off. The old man opens a cabinet, setting another place at the dinner table.
A violet dusk has enveloped the farm by the time Rocky stumbles out of the field. Removing her shoes, she enters through the kitchen door.
Harlan is at the stove, boiling a pot of green beans. “Supper’s in ten minutes. Go upstairs and clean yerself up, you smell like somethin’ the cat dragged in.”
Rocky starts to say something, then thinks better of it. She heads out into the living room and climbs the wooden stairs in her stocking feet, hearing the familiar pattern of creaks. Entering the guest bathroom, she slams the door, unable to pull it shut within its swollen doorframe.
Gunnar hears the noise. He finishes toweling off, then slips on a pair of jeans and a sweater. He runs a comb
