Blood and Fire: Volume 2

By Elizabeth Phillips Goehringer

Let Us Destroy Them

Blood and fire and pillars of smoke.

—Joel 2:30 (KJV)

Explosive suspense!

Christians clash with the New World Order. Americans disappear. Is the Federal Emergency Management Agency harboring concentration camps? News anchor, Sally Gaete, risks her life to uncover the truth. The trail leads higher and deeper than she ever expected. Her quest reaches to the highest echelons of government with deadly consequences.

China threatens America. Terrorists barter stolen oil for weapons. Jerusalem is under siege. The United States and Israel each face an enemy who will stop at nothing to grab total world power in this tense end-time thriller.

During a lull in hostilities, figure skating twins—Darius and Aria Mendelsohn—travel to Israel for the Jewish Olympics along with their father, CEO of International Refined Oil Corporation.

Negotiating with Oman’s slippery minister of oil, Martin Mendelsohn blunders into Middle East politics. The Israeli prime minister and a US senator collaborate to combat internal corruption and foreign attacks upon their nations.

Darius’s impetuous actions propel the family toward a precipice as love and war collide. The new EU president and a white-robed mystic hurl kindling onto a fire eager to engulf the world.

The age of the nation state is over.

—Herman Van Rompuy, 2010, European Union president

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: May 3, 2022
• ISBN: 9781098065706

Book preview

1

Hotline

For nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom. And there will be famines, pestilences, and earthquakes in various places.

—Matthew 24:7

Sally Gaete prepared for the remainder of her interview with Mariah Chin, secretary of homeland security. Taking a momentary break, she stood next to Mariah and stared across barren ground at the row of semicompleted cinder block buildings expected to house refugees.

A refugee camp in the USA? Why? What were the Feds expecting? She’d arrived in Eastern California to discover the truth.

Since learning of plans for huge emergency centers—glorified camps—Sally had pressured the Department of Homeland Security for a tour of the properties.

A breath of scorched wind teased Sally’s shoulder-length hair and swirled dust around the two women. Pushing unruly strands away from her eyes, Sally signaled her cameraman to zoom in and directed a new question to Chin. Who is our biggest threat?

There are many—Iran, Russia, North Korea, China, others.

"Are others homegrown threats?"

You know the interests of national security don’t permit me to announce specifics. The secretary glared at her.

Really? Sally ignored Chin’s irritation. Let me rephrase my original question. Your department reinstated a color-coded emergency system for a reason. Why? Does it have anything to do with the assassination of the EU president? Is there a threat to America as well? Why the sudden buildup of refugee camps, food, weapons? What do you know that you aren’t revealing?

Chin tucked wisps of ink-black hair into the bun on the top of her head. Her pouty lips tightened. Not camps—emergency centers featuring amenities found at many resorts—swimming pools, exercise and game rooms, medical centers. The world is rumbling. We are preparing.

Hmm. You have a hotline to the Kremlin or the Ayatollah guaranteeing this location won’t be hit? Through her headset, Sally heard the cameraman’s snicker.

Chin squinted. Eastern California’s underpopulated. No country’s going to waste ammo on the boonies. We chose this location for its distance from populated areas and the abundant natural water supply.

Plus, the government owns the ridge and the parks—thousands of wilderness acres?

That too.

I see. You can guarantee all these amenities will work in a catastrophe? Sally pulled another few threads of hair away from her face and wiped sweat from her top lip. Also one of the hottest climates on the West Coast, isn’t it? She stabbed her finger in the air, pointing east. Why not the East Coast? Shenandoah maybe. Or is the primary threat to the West Coast? China for instance?

Chin opened her mouth to speak, but a squadron of jets arced overhead, interrupting her.

Snowy trails formed against the stark blue sky. For the umpteenth time, Sally gave herself kudos for her wisdom in prepping for what she perceived as the inevitability of war, of martial law, and the end of individual rights. Just a matter of time before the Fed controlled freedom of speech, the right to bear arms, and the rest of America’s constitutionally guaranteed rights.

She glanced at Chin, then looked straight into the camera. Congress seems more interested in pacifying our enemies than confronting them, in prepping for the aftermath of an attack rather than beefing for the battle. She turned back toward the scowling secretary. When do you plan to tell the public the truth? She wanted her suppositions to be wrong, but for the sake of America—of the people—she needed to learn the real purpose of the camps.

*****

Sally nodded to a well-dressed man stepping into the high-speed elevator after her. Twenty-five seconds to the top. Just one factor contributing to her purchase of a condominium in the San Francisco skyscraper. The door closed. The elevator sped upward. Then it jolted to a stop.

Sally’s head slammed into the stranger’s chest, jamming him against the wall. She struggled to regain her footing. Hey—this isn’t supposed to happen.

He looked down at her from under heavy lids and clenched her upper arms. Not on Rincon Hill.

She yanked away from his tight grasp and hit the button for her floor.

He raised open palms as if in surrender. Sorry, Red.

The cabin jerked, continuing its dash to the fiftieth floor of the luxury tower.

The elevator door slid open. The man swung his arm toward the doorway in an almost-courtly gesture. She rushed past him. Scary dude.

Apartments ringed the elevator. She hurried around the curve toward unit 50-2. With a touch of her index finger to the keypad, the lock clicked.

Sally stepped through the opening. Hard metal pressed between her shoulder blades. She stiffened. A tingling sensation spread from where the gun jammed her back. Images flashed through her mind of the refugee camp, a car following her into the high-rise’s subterranean garage, the strange man getting off at her floor. How did she not see this coming?

Steamy breath spewed against her neck. Move it.

She should have known.

The man shoved her into the posh condo. Sally dragged her feet while her brain raced for an escape strategy. The gun in her back limited her options.

Click.

Don’t try anything, lady.

Across the living room, the Oakland Bay Bridge sparkled through sliding glass doors. The man nudged her around the curved sofa with his weapon. "Nice view. Let’s take a closer look, Ms. Underground Politics."

So this was about her show.

Sally clutched her purse, which hung over her left hip, partly across her stomach. She slid the fingers of her right hand into the bag, reaching for the built-in holster pocket.

The assailant snaked his hand around her waist and snatched the purse. A compact Glock thudded to the floor. Heat traveled up Sally’s neck to her face.

Kicking the gun to the other side of the room, the assailant pushed her toward the oversized patio door. Open it.

She had to slow him down. She fiddled with the lock.

I said open the door. He reached around her, yanked the sliding door open, and used his gun to shove her through the opening.

The sudden blast of wind took her breath away. Tears clouded her eyes. The gust pressed into her chest, pushing her back against him, cramping his weapon between them.

Lights flickered from a neighboring tower. She’d bought the condo for the skyline view. Fifty stories up and a long way down.

Sally lurched forward then kicked backward. Her heel slammed into the assailant’s groin.

He swore, doubling over, straightened, and reached for her.

Clutching his arm with both hands, Sally slammed his wrist against the railing. His gun flew over the edge.

She maintained her grip on his left arm and reached around his neck with her right, pulling his head hard onto her shoulder.

He twisted a fistful of her hair around his other hand and stood up.

Oww! she yelped.

His hold angered her. Reminded her of childhood abuse. Of weak, helpless women. Sally slammed her head against his cheek.

He released her hair, scooped her into his arms, and lifted her toward the railing. It’s over, Red!

A kaleidoscope of lights and bridge swirled past her eyes as she frantically slammed a fist into his nose.

Witch! He lifted her above the top of the railing.

She clawed the air for his neck. The building swayed with a dizzying, undulating motion. Her assailant flailed backward, taking her with him. Sally fought to untangle herself from him. The roller-coaster momentum threw them both back into the living room, tossing Sally over the top of her sofa and catapulting the assailant back toward the balcony.

Sally grasped the back edge of the couch to pull up onto her knees. Her eyes widened. The balcony listed toward the ground like a ship’s deck in a storm. Her attacker rolled into the iron balusters, clenched them, and tugged himself to his feet. He stood, holding on, then turned toward the living room.

Their eyes met.

Sally’s gaze swept the room, looking for her gun. She jumped up. Where was it? Her heart thudded against the walls of her chest. The floor shuddered beneath her feet.

Was the whole building going to collapse? This had to be a quake, but it wasn’t like any tremors she’d experienced before.

Metal screeched; glass shattered. The building continued to sway. Sally crashed to the floor. She slid toward the sofa, sunk her fingers into its back edge, glanced at the balcony, and froze. The railing twisted like melting candy, slipping from the hands of her attacker. He grappled wildly for a handhold.

The massive building might crumble around her, but she couldn’t move. Her eyes were glued to the scene.

A section of balcony railing collapsed over the edge. The man attempted to keep a one-handed hold as he skidded off the concrete, his feet dangling. His other arm flailed as the building’s movement bounced him from side to side.

A wall of dust exploded past the balcony. Suffocating sulfur fumes, putrid with the odor of rotten eggs, clogged her airways. Her eyes teared. She choked. Couldn’t catch her breath.

Was this the big quake they’d been predicting?

The ground beneath the massive building groaned then rolled, earthquake defensive features tested to the max. The floor tilted. Sally gripped the couch as it skidded toward the balcony.

The huge sofa came to an abrupt halt with one curved end stuck against the doorjamb while the other end crammed against a love seat that also slid toward the door.

Oh, God, help! Woozy, Sally backed toward the kitchen.

Wedged in the doorway, the couch wobbled against the threshold.

The apartment lights flickered. Her gaze again went to the balcony. The last visage of the iron rail wrenched free, flinging the assassin over the edge a second before the bridge lights went out. His screams dissolved into the almost-human screeches emanating from the soaring suspension bridge and the violent crash of vehicles piling into and over one another.

Sally rummaged on her hands and knees in the darkened condo. Her opaline dining table had crashed into one of the floor-to-ceiling windows. Before the lights went out, she’d seen something dark under it. She shimmied toward the window and grabbed the strap of her custom purse. Reaching inside, she scooped out her tiny phone. Yes!

She began to smile, but the smile turned to a grunt when she tapped the screen. No reception.

The building wasn’t safe, but she’d seen looting and rioting after disasters. She needed her gun.

Her Glock had spun across the room when the man grabbed her purse. She groped for the gun in a corner. Not there. Glass shelves against an adjacent wall had crashed to the carpet. Maybe…

Sally pawed through the knickknacks, books, and pieces of glass. A glass shard poked her finger. Ouch. She ignored the cut to dig beneath the rubble. Yes! She stuffed the small gun in the waistband of her designer jeans.

She stood, using the sofa as a barrier between her and the open space where her balcony had been attached, then squinted into the charcoal night.

Moonlight silhouetted twisted struts on the bay bridge. Thousands of headlights revealed vehicles trapped in a massive jam along Bayshore Freeway with a huge pileup at the foot of the bridge. She leaned warily over the couch, trying to see the street below. The darkened drop to the ground seemed clear of any attachments. Doubtful any balconies withstood the shock to the building.

Sally stepped back from the sofa. Hovering on the edge of the doorway the mammoth sectional shifted, then tumbled into fifty stories of nothing. Dizzy, she tripped, landing against the adjacent wall, three feet from the gaping balcony doorway. Pushing herself up, she gagged, almost vomited. Walking her hands up the wall to get her balance, she leaned against the dining table.

Panicked voices in the hallway let her know her neighbors were evacuating. Why did that increase her nervousness? Her breath escaped in short, heavy spurts.

Sally peered through the gloom toward the front door. Smatterings of moonlight helped her navigate to her bedroom around a broken statue, shattered tiffany chandelier, and scattered piles of books. Grabbing a Gucci duffle from the closet, she tossed it onto her California King, stuffing the bag with slacks, jeans, and an armful of tops. After picking her way around the shambles of her living room, she yanked open the door to the hallway.

Scattered honking flickered through the open slider, but the high-rise seemed deadly quiet after the creaking and moaning of a few minutes earlier.

Outta here, Sally, she muttered, slamming the door, then rushing down fifty stairways to the underground garage, unsure whether her Jeep or the garage had made it through in one piece.

Breathing hard, Sally dashed into the undamaged parking area and tapped her key fob. She opened the car door. Flung in the duffle. Jumping into her vehicle, she pressed the accelerator and crawled up the ramp to the street. A single sedan followed in her wake, apparently the last to leave. She gazed at the heap of shattered balconies and the crowd gathering in front of the residential skyscraper. Her assailant’s body might never be discovered in the cleanup.

Sally snorted. He wouldn’t be anyone’s hitman again, but if someone went this far to silence her, there had to be a huge story behind the camps. Those who wanted to shut her up would try again.

Detouring down side streets around a couple of cracked roads, one with a gaping hole, Sally didn’t notice any other significant damage. Away from the highway, late-night traffic still moved.

Could her building and the bridge be the only casualties? A localized quake? But so strong.

Sally spoke her assistant’s number into her Jeep’s Bluetooth. Good—a live signal.

Raul? Did you feel the quake?

She pulled over to let a screaming fire truck pass. Sorry. Can’t hear you. Meet me at the studio.

*****

Filling in the bare details of her narrow escape for her assistant, Raul Acosta, Sally paced her West Coast studio.

This was no normal quake, Sally. Look at this. Raul flipped on the large screen high on the television studio wall. As the screen blinked to life, President Ivy Schaffer, looking stern in one of her constant dark suits, called for calm while we investigate this catastrophe, then looked down at some papers and back at the screen:

The cause of this disaster is not yet known. We caution all citizens not to panic or jump to conclusions. It appears a nonnuclear ICBM originated from the Chinese-North Korean border; however, we have not ruled out possible human or equipment failure. The United States secretary of state is prepared to liaison with Chinese officials to determine the cause of this international humanitarian crisis. She removed her thick Armani eyeglasses and rubbed one eye. US armed forces are on alert. Crisis centers are ready to take displaced citizens. Medical help is onsite. National Guard units and military have been deployed to California. Everything possible is being done to assist the affected area.

Emergency phone numbers scrolled across the bottom of the screen. Sally watched, trying to make sense of the carnage along California’s mountain range. Computer-generated images merged into live footage while a newscaster narrated: Screaming past the wind at up to Mach 25—over thirty times the speed of a tsunami—the Pentagon states a Chinese Dong Feng-41 missile—or DF-41—sped east from China toward an assigned target. By the time interceptor missiles scrambled from Vandenberg Air Force Base on the California coast, the sophisticated long-range missile overshot Vandenberg’s trajectory. An attempted launch from Fort Greely, Alaska, misfired, and an entire mountain range along California’s backbone disintegrated into dust.

Sally muted the broadcast. Heading toward her glass-encased office, she tipped her head in Raul’s direction. Get me Dr. Gonzalez.

The phone buzzed as she settled in her chair. A half smile lit her face. Raul’s efficiency outdid any of her past assistants.

Sorry to interrupt your evening, Dr. Gonzalez, but I need to know what’s up.

Dr. Raymond Gonzalez, a prominent geophysicist, had been in her corner for the past ten years. Sally had no reservations about his credentials or analysis.

Raul entered her office, and she tapped the small speakerphone icon.

Sally, I can’t speak for the military. The doctor’s gravelly voice suffused the room in somber tones.

Not asking you to. Early this morning… She looked at her watch. Actually yesterday, I toured the region where the missile hit. I left there less than twelve hours ago. Something doesn’t add up. I need to go back, so tell me what to expect. Sally locked eyes with Raul.

Dr. Gonzalez slurped something liquid. Well, there doesn’t seem to be radiation, but before you head toward the mountains, my conjecture that it wasn’t a nuke needs to be confirmed, or you won’t be in shape to investigate anything else.

Granted. When will you know for sure?

Soon, but here’s the deal—even if it’s not nuclear, the collision of metal with earth blasted shards of rock and sizzling metals into the atmosphere from Los Angeles to San Francisco. Larger fragments are still hot.

Understood. In fact, I wonder if something hit my balcony.

Not possible. Your place is outside the trajectory. Anyone hurt?

Well…yes. Sally glanced at her brown-skinned assistant. One corner of her lips turned up. "But I’m okay."

Raul scowled. A cloud passed across his eyes.

She returned her attention to Dr. Gonzalez. I think a quake got my place, but I saw almost no damage similar to the effect the tremors had on my building and the bridge. Strange, don’t you think?

Not so unusual. The missile or missiles hit a fault—a crack in the earth’s crust. In simple terms, deep below the surface, the earth is like a puzzle. Tectonic plates are the puzzle pieces. The fissures or cracks are where the pieces fit together. When something happens to move them out of alignment, stress causes the plates to slip, resulting in the earth buckling or quaking. Your earthquake may have been spawned by the major quake affecting Yosemite—all of the Sierra Nevada—along California’s eastern border. Adjacent neighborhoods got hit. A geyser of dirt, rocks, and sediment shot hundreds of feet into the air. Not heavily populated—at least not by California standards.

Any word on the residents?

Raul sat down on a corner of Sally’s mammoth desk staring at the phone.

Dr. Gonzalez cleared his throat. Catastrophic. His voice was barely a whisper. Satellite views show homes plummeting down mountain slopes—spilling into yawning chasms along with people, pets, cars. Superheated air backlashed. Fried survivors. We won’t need emergency centers for ground zero, but thousands are homeless…or worse.

*****

President Ivy Schaffer’s hand trembled as she reached to answer the secure fiber optic call to the White House. Why had Chairman Namsing waited so long to return her call?

She hit a code and peered at the large screen filled with the pale, impassive face of the Chinese chairman. What have you done?

The chairman focused on her with piercing intensity. You will not retaliate, Madam President. You have defaulted on your debt to the People’s Republic.

Heat crawled up her face. She pointed at the screen. You’ve committed an unprovoked attack upon innocent civilians. We could have a million dead and maimed. You suggest I do nothing? There will be riots if I don’t respond.

You prefer World War III? This attack was not nuclear. Not a high population. Not Washington DC. Not unprovoked. It is a long overdue slap on the hand. An uncharacteristic hint of a smirk touched his lips. Your fear is of politics, not riots.

Before she could answer, Secretary of Defense Rodriguez and Vice President Levy entered the situation room. With a glance at her two advisors, President Schaffer turned back to the screen. My staff have arrived, Mr. Chairman. I will call back.

I await your call. You will not retaliate.

*****

Sally’s press ID would have gotten her in, but she hoped volunteering at one of the homeland security camps still operating near ground zero would get her closer to the truth. It seemed she’d been wrong.

Almost a week doling out food, clothes, sheets, blankets, and toothbrushes, but Sally felt no closer to learning any ulterior motive for the government’s advance implementation of the centers than on the day of her interview with the Department of Homeland Security secretary. Unfinished dormitories sped to completion while she watched. Gravel covered dirt. Everything appeared to be on the up and up.

Still, suspicions dogged her thoughts. Due to leave the next day, Sally decided to take a pass on her duties and roam the camp. A woman stumbled past her. Dazed refugees wandered from building to building looking for loved ones, sat on doorsteps weeping, or gazed for hours at nothing. Sally almost tripped over a man curled on the ground. She squatted to help him up. He burped garlic, onions, and something worse. Passing by on her way to somewhere, a slender blonde gagged. Nose and lips scrunched together, she bent down to help Sally, flashing a bright smile as they stood the man upright.

Sally smiled back. What do you know? A three-dimensional person. They walked the man toward the infirmary.

Excuse me? The blonde’s brows pulled together.

They half dragged the man into the clinic, plopped him onto the single empty chair in the crowded waiting room, then left together.

What did you mean ‘three-dimensional person’?

Kinda rude, huh? Sally kicked a small hunk of plaster out of her way and shrugged. You’re about the only nonzombie I’ve seen here—except for kids. One of the most depressing places I’ve ever been. But you smiled.

Nothing’s forever. I make the best of wherever I am. At least my son’s with me. The blonde waved to a young man walking toward them. Adam, this is… She stopped. I don’t know your name. I’m Ruth Wolfson.

*****

Sally hadn’t reached the pinnacle of success in the world of news by allowing obstacles to block her from a story. Leaving Ruth, she headed to her room. After wiggling into a navy designer pantsuit, she primped in front of a mirror to slide a brown wig over her flaming red hair. Slight changes to her face with modeling putty completed her charade.

Sally breezed into the administration office like she belonged there. She’d been watching the place all week, keeping an eye on the staff and an ear for news. She’d learned interesting tidbits, but she’d also noted the administrator usually took off around this time every day. An elderly man was left behind to cover the afternoon schedule.

Facing the man, Sally glanced at his name tag. Thank you for filling in, Mr. Gleason. Supervisor Rhonda Smith here to do inventory. She handed him a business card. I need files on—let me see… She glanced at a clipboard and began rattling off categories.

Mr. Gleason hurried to the file cabinets. With a snide grin, Sally accompanied him and snapped photos of anything out of the ordinary.

*****

Charging through the door to the television studio, Sally waved her iPad at Raul. "There is something else going on. Day before last, I was in the admin building. Walking past the administrator’s office, I overheard something that sounded like ‘prison camp.’ The door slammed before I could hear more." She plopped her iPad down next to him.

Then I met a woman and her son who gave me an interview. She links all the catastrophes to Bible prophecies—an intriguing slant. Plus, I got into an office and took some quick pics. See what you can do with this stuff.

He paused from scrolling through some information on his laptop to pop an iStick into her iPad.

Sally’s eyes narrowed. The coincidence of a strike by the People’s Republic of China along with our lack of retaliation is bugging me too.

He looked up. A mistake?

Mistake, my foot! Sally fanned her face with a pad of paper. The PRC doesn’t make those kinds of mistakes. Too much of a coincidence. There are how many camps?

A thousand, give or take. Raul pursed his lips.

Right. Many ready to accommodate ten to twenty thousand. Alaska has a facility with a capacity of a million. Then China hits us. Who knew this would happen, and what’s the connection? There’s more to this than coincidence. Maybe I got to the camp too soon—too visible. Whoever’s onto me is taking an extra effort to keep my nose away from the dirt.

Raul grinned. Yeah, but if anyone can dig through the layers…

I can…or die trying. Sally tapped his fist with hers then stuffed her iPad back into her satchel-style purse. Keep the show on the road. Vacation’s over. I’ve got a Fourth of July shindig to host on Cape Cod. She slung the strap of the leather purse over her shoulder, glancing at Raul as she opened the door. Independence Day. Humph. I wonder how long we’ll actually be free.

An insane world. Sally let the door slam behind her. Missiles here. Party there.

2

Secrets

There is nothing concealed that will not be disclosed, or hidden that will not be made known.

—Matthew 10:26b

Her camera slung around her neck with a cocktail balanced in one hand, Terah Goodman threaded her way through Sally’s crowded Cape Cod living room. The views from the cliff top contemporary were spectacular. Through floor-to-ceiling glass, white-capped Atlantic waves rolled toward sandy dunes. But like a bee on the trail of honey, Terah crossed the room to the quieter western view of a hazy sunset. She placed the fluted glass on a fan-shaped end table, then lifted her Nikon to catch the waning shades of gold. Perfect. She set the camera for repeated shots of the crimson sky as it disappeared with a flourish into a distant glimpse of Mill Pond.

Although not as dramatic as the actual sunset, Terah loved the gentle reflected blush in the eastern sky. Nodding to acquaintances, she strolled back to the surf side of the great room to focus on the soft pink veil coloring the ocean.

A ripple of laughter caught her attention. She turned to observe the partiers. The room was filled with political pundits, every breed of newscaster, a couple of Hollywood stars, and some artsy locals. Sequins sparkled beside designer jeans and plunging necklines.

Terah raised a brow when Sally leaned toward Joshua Raindolph, the tall black senator who sometimes subbed for the newswoman at her Boston network affiliate. Fingering her camera, she reluctantly let it drop against her chest. Not the right time.

Linking her arm through Raindolph’s, Sally steered him toward an unoccupied end of the long bar. She stared up at him, her mouth racing, face tight. Balling her hands into fists, she opened them with wide animated gestures.

Raindolph’s back was toward Terah, but she watched him shake his head, hold still, and shake it again.

Sally glanced toward some people at the other end of the bar and turned to say something to Raindolph. He bent toward her, and she whispered in his ear. With a brusque nod, he headed across the room.

Terah’s gaze followed Sally’s white designer slacks as she wound through the closed knots of people genially cluttering her spacious living room. With a smile to one, a word or two to another, and an occasional perfunctory kiss, she reached the room’s threshold and opened a door.

Glimpsing a gleaming ebony desk before Sally closed the door, Terah’s curiosity throbbed. She hurried though the sparkling french doors to the patio. The cacophony of music, talk, and laughter faded as she closed the doors behind her. She breathed in the tang of the pounding breakers. Over an inky knoll, dusky clouds floated in wisps across a quarter slice of moon.

A soft glow from the adjoining room and the muted sound of agitated voices revealed occupants on the adjacent deck. Terah moved into the shadows, raised her camera, and shot several pictures. She continued to snap photos while the dark man and red-haired woman stepped off the low deck. They stopped, talked, then headed along a winding path to the beach.

Terah melted into the darkness shrouding the home’s perimeter before crossing several feet of manicured grass into the shelter of a scraggly hillock. Hesitating, she looked back toward the lighted house before following the trail over a slight rise between the dunes. Shadows moved across mounds of silver beach grass. The sea maintained its incessant crash, pound, crash.

At the crest of the knoll, she squinted down through the dusk toward the open beach. Disrupting her concentration, the dim curve of the coast led her gaze toward a twinkling beam from an automated lighthouse.

Nearby, a smaller inlet shimmered in the pale gleam of the waning moon. The faint reflection silhouetted two tiny figures in the hazy shadows. An emotional voice interrupted a lull in the roar of the surf. Terah crouched toward the ground, peering into the distance, but the slit of illumination disappeared into a blanket of dingy clouds. Not a star pierced the infinite soot-black night.

Nor were her straining ears rewarded. No other sounds penetrated the wail of wind and waves.

A salty breeze lifted maverick tendrils away from her face. Goose bumps prickled across her chest, trickled down her spine. She straightened, looking in one direction, then the other, straining to see the darkened path.

*****

From the eighty-first floor of the IROC Plaza Building, Martin Mendelsohn surveyed the sparkling facets of Manhattan’s night face. His chest heaved in a deep sigh. He turned toward the giant wall map of the empire he chaired. Lighted buttons identified International Refined Oil Corporation (IROC) subsidiaries around the globe. With a touch to the remote console, he could activate any of the hundreds of buttons, which would then respond to almost any question specific to the particular facility. In seconds, he could learn the number of employees; how many were infected with childhood chicken pox; crude output; type and amount of energy used by the facility precise to the second; current, past, and projected profit or loss; economic and weather forecasts for the area; and more.

Martin looked at his watch, wishing he could be at his Cape Cod vacation home. But now Elise and the kids lived there year-round. He groaned. He never thought divorce would happen to him.

Years of sacrificed personal and family time, mingled with numerous compromises, brought him to the pinnacle of success, yet he was disillusioned, unfulfilled—savor missing—aftertaste bitter.

He pulled a heavy brass chair from beneath the massive eighteen-foot glass table. Compulsively early, he expected to wait. He crossed his bony knees. His large frame felt almost gaunt—a result of his lousy eating habits since the divorce. Sighing, he slid a finger across the screen of his tiny phone and pursed his lips while reading stock and bond analyses from around the world.

Staring at the blackened sky beyond the glass, Martin reviewed the past year. Fizzled projections. Europe, Asia, and much of the globe were now onboard the international currency. World economies should have stabilized, yet the slide continued. Still, oil prices were up. Seemed to be holding their own. Better than holding—if reserves remained up.

He grimaced. Saharan fires devoured wells. Sabotage, theft, cyber theft, higher prices lowered demand. He massaged the back of his neck. Winter. For multitudes living hand to mouth, disaster would arrive with cold weather. He worried about keeping his own head above water. High income but higher expenses.

He tapped an icon on the screen to do some calculations. The ornate door swung open. He looked up at the ruddy face of his former father-in-law, Judge Hubert Mackenzie.

Hubert peered at Martin before he pulled out a chair from beneath the table and dropped his bulk onto the leather seat. He reached under his jacket into the pocket of his starched white shirt and withdrew a Havanan cigar. Sliding off the wrapper, he clenched the cigar between his teeth, glaring at Martin. No change. Hubert had hated him ever since he’d become his son-in-law.

The judge’s bushy gray brows pulled together. Concentrating, he held his monogrammed lighter to the tip of the cigar. The rich aroma of premium Cuban tobacco filled the room.

It’s time, the judge growled in the imperative tone familiar to those on the receiving end of his gavel.

Martin blinked. Time?

You’re needed. Time to repay some debts. Hubert gestured toward the map behind him. Your experience in the Middle East is needed there.

Martin nodded. That should work. The twins compete in Israel’s Maccabiah Games next week.

The judge took a deep drag on his cigar, blew smoke rings, and watched them rise toward the ceiling without commenting.

The silence grew.

Martin tapped the remote, lighting a map of the Middle East. He licked his lips. Just when do you need this favor?

The judge pulled the cigar from his mouth and flicked the end at an ashtray. His eyes hardened. Not a favor, Marty. A down payment on a long overdue debt. You leave in the morning.

Martin flushed. Come now, Hubert. That’s not quite my agenda. You know the kids and I are flying together. This is the first time Israel has included figure skating. It’s a huge honor. Plans made months ago.

You need to be where you’re sent. The older man shrugged. You’re a joke. You were glad for the contacts, the money, but there’s a price. Or did you forget? You’ve been too busy spending to think of paying. Nothing lasts forever.

Martin flushed again at the reference to his marriage. His mind retraced his many broken promises. I promised—

Hubert interrupted. I’ll give Elise all the assurances she needs to let them fly alone. After all, they’re almost eighteen.

Martin sputtered, Really, Hubert—

The judge stood. Don’t worry. You’re around so little they won’t even know you’re missing. A permanent absence wouldn’t hurt my feelings, but you know that. The limo will pick you up at six a.m. Your briefing will be in the back seat. Be ready.

*****

Elise Mendelsohn stepped from the shower, rubbed herself dry with the huge bath sheet, and slid into her swimsuit bottom. Hooking the matching halter, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirrored wall of the spacious bathroom. A trim form with narrow torso and muscled thighs stared back at her. She smiled. Not bad for a woman almost fifty. Her gaze moved to her face. The smile faded. Too much sun, too many cigarettes, but you can’t have everything.

Grabbing a dry towel, she slid open the screen, stepped onto the deck, then cupped a hand across her forehead to block the early sun’s brilliant glare on the water. Below the rise of ground anchoring her home, golden sand dipped to white-capped breakers.

Morning, Mom. Ready for a swim?

Elise turned toward the house. I’m ready, but I don’t think we’ll be swimming today, honey. The ocean looks much too rough. The wind’s up. Even the harbor’s white capped.

Disappointment flitted across the petite seventeen-year-old’s face. But you’re a swim champ, Mom.

Thirty years ago, Aria. Besides, I’ve got lots of respect for Mother Nature. The sea’s a tough contender. Drownings every summer. I want to live to tell the story. And I want you alive. She put her arm around the girl’s shoulder. How about a long beach walk instead?

Can we head to the lagoon then?

Aria’s face contained a hopeful, expectant quality Elise found difficult to resist despite some misgivings about the time it would take to walk there and back. They loved their hikes to the small cove Aria called the lagoon, a makeshift harbor for many of their neighbors’ pleasure boats. The Atlantic back washed into the tidal inlet where tide and currents often washed up exciting finds. They sometimes took a swim at high tide, but Elise hesitated. I’m afraid you’ll be beat before you even begin your workout.

"I’m fine. I’ll be on the rink for the next three days.