BROTHER’S KEEPER
By:
Joaquin De Torres
edited by
Dr. Joseph De Torres
Copyright 2012 Joaquin De Torres,
All rights reserved.
Published in eBook format by eBookIt.com
ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-1079-1
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
For my brother,
Joe.
For all the years you stood by me during
my personal dramas, the hardships, the writer’s block,
the rewrites, and the rejection letters.
Throughout the tears and the devastations, you kept me focused; demanding the next chapter; pushing me to create a better scene.
You made sure I never gave up.
As a writer, it pains me that I have no words to describe how much I appreciate everything you’ve done to make me
a stronger writer, and a better man.
This is for you, bro.
“There is a destiny that makes us brothers,
no one goes his way alone;
all that we send into the lives of others,
comes back into our own.”
Edwin Markham
“We came into the world like brother and brother;
And now let's go hand in hand, not one before another.”
William Shakespeare
Prologue
“JORDAN! GET THE FUCK OUT OF THERE, GODDAMNIT!”
Jordan jammed the stick hard right, launching the aircraft into a diving barrel role that lurched his intestines up to his throat. An instant before he recovered from the maneuver another blinding bolt of light slammed into his portside wing, flipping him over like a toy counterclockwise with a deafening crack.
“JESUS! I DON’T KNOW HOW MUCH MORE THE PLANE CAN TAKE!” Jordan Li spat as he gained control of the aircraft.
“JORDAN! BANK LEFT! TWO-FOUR-FIVE DEGREES AND PUNCH INTO HYPERSONIC!” The frantic voice pierced through the repetitious blare of the engine stall alarm. The aircraft shuddered with every thunder clap as it banked through the showers of forked light.
“Roger that, Rudy! Going hypersonic in three, two, ONE!” But as Li pushed on the throttle to bullet through the maelstrom, a massive bolt struck the spine of his plane. Shockwaves rifled through the cockpit and his body. Then the lights went out.
“OH SHIT! I’VE LOST POWER! REPEAT! I’VE LOST POWER!” Jordan yelled as his fingers instinctively pressed the switches and buttons to fire up the engines again. “I HAVE NO INSTRUMENTS! REPEAT! NO POWER! THROTTLE, AERELONS, RUDDER, THRUST-NOT RESPONDING! RUDY, I’M A DEAD STICK!”
“EJECT, JORDAN! EJECT! EJECT! EJECT!”
Jason’s eyes flew open.
He was still sitting at the table. He swallowed hard, and shook the nervous tingles from his spine. How many times had he had this vision? How many times had it brought his mind and body to paralysis? How many more sleepless nights, cold sweats and angry tears would it suck out of him?
“Not today. Not anymore.”
Jason used his index finger to launch the gun into a spin on the table. The 9mm Glock pistol spun on its side and finally came to a rest, its barrel pointing to one of the standing framed photos he placed in a semi-circle before him. This time it landed on mom and dad. He spun it again; it stopped on Uncle Yu’s photo. He drank down his fifth shot and spun it again; it stopped on his brother Jordan.
Jason sat back and considered this. He had been drinking and spinning the gun for the last 10 minutes, not particularly realizing that the gun had stopped at his elder brother’s photo almost 75 percent of the time. Yet, it only stopped on his own photo twice in like 30 spins. He didn’t know why. He had spun the butt of the gun with the same pressure and speed each time, but this was getting absurd: The gun kept stopping on Jordan’s photo.
He poured himself another shot from the now half-empty bottle of Hennessy XO cognac, a drink made for savoring-not today. Savoring, enjoying, luxuriating-these words no longer existed in Jason’s vocabulary. The vividness of life had faded for the 26-year-old; in fact, it was now colorless and opaque. Dark and light; black and white; it was all the same. He barely tasted food, much less the dulling sweetness of his once favorite liquor. It was simply a liquid now. He took another shot and spun the gun again: It stopped at his brother’s picture.
“What the fuck is going on!?” He spun it again, and again, and again-all three times, the barrel pointed squarely on Jordan’s photo. He grabbed the frame and brought it to his face with trembling hands. He instantly remembered when the photo was taken of his ruggedly handsome brother. It was three years ago. Jason himself took the photo when Jordan came to visit him while on leave. He remembered the text he received, having read it several times a day.
“Hey Bro! Our carrier is leaving San Diego for the Ring in two weeks, so I thought I’d take some leave
