Sunrise Canyon (New Americana 1)

Jake rolled down the window. From somewhere below, he could still hear the sputtering roar of the old engine being revved. He could only hope it would lose power and quit before the kid had a chance to put it in gear. He’d inspected the brakes just yesterday. The decades-old brake pads had disintegrated over time. Planning to order new ones, he’d removed them and thrown them in the trash. The motorcycle Mack had stolen had no brake function at all.

The road from the ranch to the highway below was a series of hairpin curves with steep-sloping drop-offs below—no problem for a careful driver going at a safe speed. But for a crazy kid in the dark, who had no idea of the danger . . .

Jake tried to blot the images from his mind—the mangled bodies of young men under his command, broken and bleeding, the desert dust settling over them. He could feel the adrenaline rising, shooting electric currents through his body. Muscles tensed, nerves pulsed.

Kira was driving as fast as safely possible, headlights on high beam. From below, Jake could still hear the roar of the engine. But now, the pitch had changed. The bike wasn’t just revving. Oh, Lord, it was moving.

He could tell Kira to drive even faster, or honk the horn. But the approaching vehicle might cause the boy to speed up. Panic surged through Jake’s body. Barring some miracle, when Mack came to a curve, unable to stop or slow down, he’d go flying off the road in a crash that nobody could survive.

Jake listened as the bike gained distance. Then, suddenly, he realized he could no longer hear it. Kira glanced at him, her face pale and questioning. He shook his head. All they could do was keep going.

As they came around the next bend, the headlights outlined a stocky figure standing next to the road. It was Mack.

Kira pulled off the road, jumped out of the vehicle and ran to him. Fighting to control his emotions, Jake followed more slowly. Mack was bruised and scraped, his hands bloodied, his jeans and jacket ripped. His backpack hung from one shoulder. There was no sign of the motorcycle.

“What happened?” Kira asked in a shaky voice.

“I . . . fell off the bike,” he said. “Scraped myself pretty bad on the road.”

“Where’s the bike now?” Jake demanded, reeling as waves of relief and anger washed over him.

“Down . . . there.” Mack pointed to a nearby spot where the shoulder of the road dropped off a good seventy feet into a dry wash. There was a flashlight in Kira’s wagon. Jake found it, brought it back and directed the beam down off the roadside. Steve McQueen’s priceless vintage Indian motorcycle lay scattered on the rocks below, broken into so many pieces that it wouldn’t even be worth climbing down to pick them up.

Jake strode back to the Outback and opened the back door. “Get in,” he ordered Mack. “Don’t you say another word.”

Kira found a place to turn around, and they drove back up the road to the ranch. Jake was seething, his temper threatening to explode. Losing the bike was bad enough. But this fool boy, with no regard for safety, honesty or common sense, could have died tonight. He’d missed death by a stroke of fate— and he was probably too clueless to even realize how close he’d come.

Jake remembered his third deployment and the nineteen-year-old corporal who’d snuck outside the wire one night to see a girl. Jake’s patrol had found his body the next morning, hacked to pieces in the most obscene way imaginable. It appeared that the young man had been alive through much of it. Such a hellish, senseless, stupid way to die—and for nothing.

That image boiled to the surface, flooding Jake’s senses with bloodred heat as the wagon pulled into the yard and stopped short of the house. Clinging to his last thread of self-control, he opened the back door for Mack. The boy looked up at him and grinned.

Something snapped. Jake was suddenly back in the combat zone, and he was screaming—screaming obscenities at the young corporal who’d died and at all the others who’d died on his watch—the brave ones, the stupid ones, he was seeing them all, the blood, the shattered bodies and missing limbs of the ones who would never be whole again. He cursed heaven. He cursed the foolish boy who’d almost died tonight—and would have died for nothing. Nothing.

Now, at last, he could feel himself winding down, getting tired. He became aware of Kira, holding him from behind, wrapping him in her arms, and a white-faced Mack, cowering in terror against the side of the vehicle.

Then, as he turned, he became aware of something else—a small figure in pink pajamas, standing speechless on the porch.

* * *

Holding him, Kira felt him break. He groaned, his body crumpling against her, and she knew it was because he’d seen Paige.

“Get me out of here,” he muttered, his voice hoarse from screaming. With her arms still around him, she walked him to his cabin. By the time they reached the door, she could tell from his breathing that the worst of the episode had passed.

“Don’t turn on the light,” he said. “Just go. I’ll be all right.”

“You’re sure?” Her arms released him as he sank onto the edge of the bed.

“You’re needed out there,” he said. “Don’t worry, I’m just going to lie down.”

“I’ll be back.” She moved to the door, half-afraid to leave him. But he was right. Paige was out there, as well as Mack, Brandon and any other students who might have awakened. She could only hope that Dusty and Consuelo, whose rooms were on the far side of the house, had slept through the racket.

“Kira.” She heard his voice behind her and turned.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “God, I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t your fault. Rest, now.”

She closed the door and hurried outside. Mack was still standing by the vehicle. The students, roused by the noise, were standing outside their doors as if uncertain what to do next.