Forsaken Read online

  Copyright © 2008 by James David Jordan

  All rights reserved

  Printed in the United States of America

  978-0-8054-4749-1

  Published by B&H Publishing Group,

  Nashville, Tennessee

  Dewey Decimal Classification: F

  Subject Heading: TERRORISM—FICTION

  SUSPENSE FICTION EVANGELISTS—FICTION

  Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, character places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people leaving or dead is purely coincidental.

  Contents

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  TO MY SISTER, CARLA, WHO IS ALWAYS THERE FOR EVERYONE.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I GRATEFULLY ACKNOWLEDGE THE help and support of my wife, Sue, and my kids, Allie and Johnathan. Without them there would have been no book. I also acknowledge my agent, Tina Jacobson. Without her, there would have been a book, but it never would have been published. Finally, I acknowledge my editor, Karen Ball. Without her there would have been a book, and it would have been published, but it sure wouldn’t have been as good. Oops, I almost forgot my old friend, Dale Willis. Without his advice the book would still have had guns, but not the right ones.

  CHAPTER

  ONE

  EVEN IN HIGH SCHOOL I didn’t mind sleeping on the ground. When your father is a retired Special Forces officer, you pick up things that most girls don’t learn. As the years passed, I slept in lots of places a good girl shouldn’t sleep. It’s a part of my past I don’t brag about, like ugly wallpaper that won’t come unstuck. No matter how hard I scrape, it just hangs on in big, obscene blotches. I’m twenty-nine years old now, and I’ve done my best to paint over it. But it’s still there under the surface, making everything rougher, less presentable than it should be, though I want more than anything to be smooth and fresh and clean.

  Sometimes I wonder what will happen if the paint begins to fade. Will the wallpaper show? I thought so for a long time. But I have hope now that it won’t. Simon Mason helped me find that hope. That’s why it’s important for me to tell our story. There must be others who need hope too. There must be others who are afraid that their ugly wallpaper might bleed through.

  What does sleeping on the ground have to do with a world-famous preacher like Simon Mason? The story begins twelve years ago—eleven years before I met Simon. My dad and I packed our camping gear and went fishing. It was mid-May, and the trip was a present for my seventeenth birthday. Not exactly every high school girl’s dream, but my dad wasn’t like most dads. He taught me to camp and fish and, particularly, to shoot. He had trained me in self-defense since I was nine, the year Mom fell apart and left for good. With my long legs, long arms, and Dad’s athletic genes, I could handle myself even back then. I suppose I wasn’t like most other girls.

  After what happened on that fishing trip, I know I wasn’t.

  Fishing with my dad didn’t mean renting a cane pole and buying bait pellets out of a dispenser at some catfish tank near an RV park. It generally meant tramping miles across a field to a glassy pond on some war buddy’s ranch, or winding through dense woods, pitching a tent, and fly fishing an icy stream far from the nearest telephone. The trips were rough, but they were the bright times of my life—and his too. They let him forget the things that haunted him and remember how to be happy.

  This particular outing was to a ranch in the Texas Panhandle, owned by a former Defense Department bigwig. The ranch bordered one of the few sizeable lakes in a corner of Texas that is brown and rocky and dry. We loaded Dad’s new Chevy pickup with cheese puffs and soft drinks—healthy eating wouldn’t begin until the first fish hit the skillet—and left Dallas just before noon with the bass boat in tow. The drive was long, but we had leather interior, plenty of tunes, and time to talk. Dad and I could always talk.

  The heat rose early that year, and the temperature hung in the nineties. Two hours after we left Dallas, the brand-new air conditioner in the brand-new truck rattled and clicked and dropped dead. We drove the rest of the way with the windows down while the high Texas sun tried to burn a hole through the roof.

  Around 5:30 we stopped to use the bathroom at a rundown gas station somewhere southeast of Amarillo. The station was nothing but a twisted gray shack dropped in the middle of a hundred square miles of blistering hard pan. It hadn’t rained for a month in that part of Texas, and the place was so baked that even the brittle weeds rolled over on their bellies, as if preparing a last-ditch effort to drag themselves to shade.

  The restroom door was on the outside of the station, isolated from the rest of the building. There was no hope of cooling off until I finished my business and got around to the little store in the front, where a rusty air conditioner chugged in the window. When I walked into the bathroom, I had to cover my nose and mouth with my hand. A mound of rotting trash leaned like a grimy snow drift against a metal garbage can in the corner. Thick, black flies zipped and bounced from floor to wall and ceiling to floor, occasionally smacking my arms and legs as if I were a bumper in a buzzing pinball machine. It was the filthiest place I’d ever been.

  Looking back, it was an apt spot to begin the filthiest night of my life.

  I had just leaned over the rust-ringed sink to inspect my teeth in the sole remaining corner of a shattered mirror when someone pounded on the door.

  “Just a minute!” I turned on the faucet. A soupy liquid dribbled out, followed by the steamy smell of rotten eggs. I turned off the faucet, pulled my sport bottle from the holster on my hip, and squirted water on my face and in my mouth. I wiped my face on the sleeve of my T-shirt.

  My blue-jean cutoffs were short and tight, and I pried free a tube of lotion that was wedged into my front pocket. I raised one foot at a time to the edge of the toilet seat and did my best to brush the dust from my legs. Then I spread the lotion over them. The ride may have turned me into a dust ball, but I was determined at least to be a soft dust ball with a coconut scent.

  Before leaving I took one last look in my little corner of mirror. The hair was auburn, the dust was beige. I gave the hair a shake, sending tiny flecks floating through a slash of light that cut the room diagonally from a hole in the roof. Someone pounded on the
door again. I turned away from the mirror.

  “Okay, okay, I’m coming!”

  When I pulled open the door and stepped into the light, I shaded my eyes and blinked to clear away the spots. All that I could think about was the little air conditioner in the front window and how great it would feel when I got inside. That’s probably why I was completely unprepared when a man’s hand reached from beside the door and clamped hard onto my wrist.

  CHAPTER

  TWO

  AFTER ABOUT A THOUSAND hours of self-defense classes, I expected my training would kick in when I needed it, and it did. I yanked my arm down, pulling the man with it. Pivoting on my left foot, I swung my fist in a roundhouse hammer chop. Just before it landed on his ear, his other hand shot up and caught my arm.

  “Knock it off, Taylor,” he whispered. It was Dad.

  I pulled my arms free. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

  “Would you keep it down?”

  I lowered my voice. “Okay, but why are we whispering?”

  He looked over his shoulder, then back at me. “I think someone is about to rob the gas station.”

  “What gas station?”

  He squinted at me. Without a word, he turned and pointed at the low row of faded red gas pumps next to which we’d parked just a few minutes earlier.

  I got the point, but I do think that a lot of other people might have said something just as dumb under the circumstances. I shrugged. “Okay, this gas station. But why do you think someone’s going to rob it?”

  He put his finger to his mouth. “Shhh! I told you to keep it down.” His hand trembled. He lowered it and shoved it into his pocket. The trembling didn’t embarrass him, at least not around me. He may well have been afraid—he never pretended to be a superhero—but fear didn’t make his hands shake. This was child’s play compared to what he went through in the Special Forces. No, the trembling had been there for more than a decade, a function of too much stress and even more alcohol. When the drinking finally stopped, the trembling stuck around, sort of a perpetual tickler for the twelve-step program.

  “It’s just a hunch,” he said. Two guys—a strange pair—a huge one dressed like a preppy and a little fire plug who looks like he got drunk in a tattoo parlor. Preppy was doing the talking. Tattoo Man just stood back and watched. He’s got snake eyes, the little one. The owner’s an older woman. She seemed scared to death.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I walked out. What did you expect me to do, throw a pack of beef jerky at them?”

  A drop of sweat worked its way down the back of my neck. I reached beneath my hair and swiped at it. “So what do you want to do now?”

  “I’m going back in there to see what’s going on. I want you to stay out of this except to back me up. It’s probably just my imagination anyway. Here’s what we’ll do. You go to the truck and get the shotgun. I’ll go into the station. You just come to the door nice and easy, carrying the shotgun. They sell ammo in there, so I suspect people bring their guns in all the time. You’re just buying some shells. Keep your eyes on me, and don’t come into the store. Just stand in the doorway.”

  “You want me to carry a shotgun into the gas station? You don’t have to bring a gun with you to buy shells. The owner will think I’m robbing her.”

  “If your point is that the plan’s not perfect, I’m sorry that I forgot to bring my instruction manual for busting up a robbery. Have you got a better idea?”

  I brushed my hair behind my ears and stared across the road. No inspiration there. Nothing but brown flatness stretching to the horizon. I shrugged.

  “Okay, then, would you please just do as I say?”

  “Fine, but if something happens, do you really expect me to shoot somebody?”

  “Absolutely not! If something happens I expect you to turn around and run for the truck. Let me handle it. The point to all of this is to prevent something from happening. You’re posing with the gun, that’s all.”

  “Speaking of guns, do they have any?”

  “I don’t know. Now, go get the shotgun.”

  I have to admit that I found the whole thing exciting. For some reason, probably the invincibility of youth, I didn’t sense much danger. I suppose I just had so much confidence in Dad that I couldn’t imagine anything happening that he couldn’t handle. I walked quickly across the crusty parking area and past the gas pumps.

  Reaching into the bed of the truck, I grabbed our old Browning Over/Under. Here’s where I made my first mistake. In hindsight, though, I’m glad I didn’t do everything perfectly. It provided the last big laugh that my father and I ever had together.

  You see, being the daughter of a Special Forces guy is not the same as being a Special Forces guy. I proved the point by opening the breech of the shotgun and draping the barrel over my forearm as I walked toward the door of the station. It was a gun safety point that my dad had drilled into me since I was big enough to hold a weapon. A gun with an open breech can’t fire. Unfortunately, the whole world can see that it’s not loaded. Given more time to think, it might have occurred to me that that wasn’t the effect we were looking for.

  When I appeared in the door of the gas station, Dad was standing at the counter next to Preppy, near the store’s old-fashioned cash register. The place smelled of chewing tobacco and live bait, the latter of which struck me as odd since there couldn’t have been any public water within fifty miles.

  The owner, swarthy and solid, could have passed for a farming grandmother in a prairie painting if she had more teeth. She stood silent, one hand in the pocket of her faded jeans, the other resting on the closed drawer of the register. Her eyes moved from Dad to Preppy to Tattoo Man. She seemed too occupied to pay much attention to me. Although sweat glistened on her upper lip, I didn’t think she looked scared, just hot. Everything was hot.

  After saying something I couldn’t catch, Dad pointed toward some boxes of shells on the shelf behind the owner’s head. When she turned to look, I saw Preppy glance at the cash register. It was puzzling that such a clean-cut guy could give off such a creepy vibe, but I could see exactly what Dad meant. Preppy was up to no good.

  I cleared my throat.

  The three heads near the counter turned toward me at once. When Dad saw the open gun draped over my arm, he rolled his eyes. I looked down at the yawning breech and felt the blood rush to my neck. I knew my face would soon be glowing like a Christmas light. I hate it when that happens.

  To make things worse, it occurred to me that I hadn’t brought any shells from the truck, so I had no way to load the gun even if I wanted to. When you think about it, though, that part was not really so dumb. Why should I have brought shells into the store? The point of our whole cover story was that we were buying shells. I always made good grades, but Dad used to say that I sometimes thought so logically that I missed the forest for the trees. This may have been one of those instances.

  In light of my mistakes I needed to redeem myself. I flashed my biggest smile. “Well, if we’re going to do much shooting on this trip, we’re going to need more than just the two shells in my pocket, wouldn’t you say, Dad?” I squeezed my fingers into the front pocket of my shorts and jangled some change. Unfortunately, it sounded like change, not shotgun shells, so to divert their attention I wiggled the part of me that was in the shorts. That drew a smile from Preppy and appeared to take his mind off ammunition.

  Dad frowned when he heard the change jingling, but he seemed unwilling to give up hope based on such scant evidence. He raised an eyebrow so obviously that he might as well have painted Got shells? on his forehead.

  I looked him in the eye. “Too bad we forgot to bring the shells from home.”

  He understood my code. He rolled his eyes again, apparently his expression du jour, and turned back to the owner. “Twelve-gauge, double-ought buck.” He drummed his fingers on the counter and kept one eye on Preppy while the owner turned, pulled a box of shells from a shelf, and set them next to D
ad’s hand.

  “All I’ve got is number-six shot,” she said.

  “That will do.”

  I sashayed past a sagging rack of candy bars and headed for the cash register. Dad inched his hand across the counter and slipped it into the box of ammo. That’s when I remembered I was supposed to stay in the doorway. Oh well, he always told me that the best battle plans weren’t worth the paper they were written on once the shooting started. I kept walking toward the counter.

  Tattoo Man slid in so close behind me that I could feel his hot breath on my shoulder. With shelves of pork rinds and motor oil on either side of me, there was nothing to do but continue walking. “Hey, fellas,” I said, in the sultriest drawl I could conjure. I nodded toward Preppy. “What’s your name, big guy?”

  “My, my, what have we here?” Preppy waggled the matchstick that he held in the corner of his mouth. His eyes moved up and down my body, and I felt as if I’d been slimed. I’d created the distraction I needed, though. Behind me, Tattoo Man’s footsteps stopped.

  “I’m Chad,” Preppy said.

  It figured. I kept walking, extending the space between Tattoo Man and me. When I reached the counter, I moved past Dad to within a couple of feet of Chad. He really was huge. I’m five-feet-nine, and he could have rested his chin on my head. His biceps heaved against the banded sleeves of his polo shirt. It was time to keep my mouth shut and let Dad take over, but I had already developed an intense dislike for this guy. It must have gotten the better of me.