worked to decipher data. A form lay on a bed across from him. The mound of muscled shoulder was motionless. Another man sprawled on a mattress near the door.
Comrade or civilian?
Asleep or dead?
A single window filled the only visible wall.
Somewhere nearby, an animal snuffled.
Death still stalking him, perspiration beading his bare chest, Joshua gripped the rounded aluminum frame of his cot. He licked his lips, expecting grit. Its absence surprised him. The tendon in his jaw flickered as he tried to force reality into his brain.
Of all the adversaries he’d faced in his thirty years, this was the most wily. This doubt and hesitation, this inability to decode the truth, eluded him like a Taliban sniper in the Hindu Kush Mountains. He tensed, waiting for an imam’s voice to drift from a distant minaret, the morning melody of Islam. The start of another day.
The hammering rang out a third time. Not a machine gun, it was fist against metal.
“Devil take ’em.” Sam Hawke’s familiar voice was drowsy in the stifling room. Hawke was a fellow Marine. Reconnaissance. They had patrolled the streets together too many times to count.
The other man unfolded now, a hiss groaning through the air mattress beneath him. “Where’s Duke? Come here, boy.”
A German shepherd’s low-throated growl answered. Joshua recognized it. He had seen the dog before. But where? Toenails clicked across the cement floor as Duke paced. The edges of Joshua’s nightmare began to sift away like desert sand.
“I’ll get the door,” Sam said, rising. He glanced at Joshua. “Duff, you stay put. Let’s go, Terell.”
Terell Roberts—the third man’s name. He stood and stretched. His dark skin shimmered with perspiration.
Duke tensed, waiting for one of them to open the door. The dog anticipated each movement the men made. He knew this routine.
Sam flipped on a lamp and Joshua scanned the room, distinguishing a heap of jeans and T-shirts awaiting detergent and a dryer. He noted a clipboard near his cot, the list of activities Sam had planned for the coming day. Joshua recalled his friend handing it to him, explaining what he’d written—basketball practice, homework and tutoring, woodworking, computer skills, ballet lessons, crochet, arts and crafts.
Hardly the business of their Marine Corps reconnaissance unit.
He spotted his wallet and keys on a low table. That wallet held U. S. tens, twenties, fifties. More than a month had passed since he’d carried colorful paper afghanis with their detailed etchings of mosques, and handfuls of jingling puls in his uniform pockets. He had rented a civilian car at the airport. He recalled parking the black Cadillac near the building’s front door the evening before.
This was what they called post-combat disorder. Post-traumatic stress syndrome…
A fourth round of hammering broke his focus.
“Persistent booger,” Sam muttered.
Shaking off his confusion, Joshua got to his feet. “What’s up, Hawke?”
“Nothing. We get this every night. Homeless folks in search of a bed, a drink, another fix bang on Haven’s door. Some think it says Heaven.”
“Yeah, and they’re ready.” Terell chuckled ruefully as he stepped into a pair of flip-flops.
Joshua recalled the old building now. Haven, the sign over the entrance read. This was Sam Hawke’s place, the youth center he and Terell Roberts had opened about a year ago. While deployed together, Sam had told Joshua about playing basketball in college. He had spoken of Terell, the consummate athlete, destined for the history books. Last night, Joshua learned that Terell had spent a few years in the pros before bottoming out. Sam had come to his rescue, and with the last of Terell’s NBA savings, they had started Haven.
Sam Hawke was loyal, a man who never forgot a friend. Joshua hadn’t been home in Amarillo for a full day before Sam called and invited his friend to St. Louis.
“Come see what I’ve got cooking, Duff,” Sam had urged. “Your old man is planning to slip those velvet handcuffs around your wrists any day now. Get over here and pay me a visit while you can.”
The idea of spending time at a youth center in the run-down inner city didn’t appeal to Joshua. He had invested more than enough of himself in the poverty and danger of Afghanistan. His parents’ rambling adobe house with its swimming pool and tennis court looked pretty good. He would enjoy riding out on one of the Arabians his father bred. There would be dinners with friends and family, flying over the spread in the Cessna, heading into town for a…
Come to think of it, Joshua couldn’t figure out what he’d want to do in Amarillo. The ranch certainly wasn’t going anywhere. His father’s oil business and the executive position could wait, too. With his parents both protesting, he had grabbed his duffel bag and headed back to the airport.
In St. Louis, he had rented the Cadillac. Then he drove into the city. Though it was late when Joshua arrived at Haven, he, Sam and Terell had stayed up talking for hours. When his head hit the pillow, Joshua had expected to sleep at least until the sun came up. But it seemed the two directors of the youth center were accustomed to regular interruptions of their night’s rest.
“Armed?” Sam asked Terell as they stood in the half-light of the large room.
Expecting the men to reach for handguns, Joshua was surprised when Terell picked up a can of pepper spray. Defensive weapon. Strange choice, he thought.
Sam reached for a box he kept under his bed. He offered it to his friend.
Gleaming steel knives. Joshua glanced up in confusion. Sam and he were both expert marksmen.
“We keep a low profile around here,” Sam said with a shrug.
Fingers closing around a slender stiletto, razor sharp, Joshua considered his friend’s arsenal. A knife was an offensive weapon. That fit with what he knew of Sam Hawke. Highly trained leaders, the men were still very much alike.
The German shepherd led the way out of the humid room, across a dank landing to a flight of chipped concrete steps.
“Male,” Terell said as they began the descent.
“Agreed.” Sam’s voice was husky. “White.”
“Nah, black. A kid. Scared.”
Joshua realized this must be a nightly guessing game.
“Middle-aged,” Sam offered. “Drunk.”
“Bleeding.”
“Probably.” Sam picked up a first-aid kit near the stairwell. “Knife wound.”
“Gunshot.”
None of it sounded good to Joshua.
The three men crossed the cavernous gym, the site of Haven’s single basketball court, two foursquare layouts, and just enough room for a gaggle of jump-ropers. Duke huffed with anticipation
