Ghosts Along the Oregon Trail by David Fitz-Gerald Book Tour!

Embark on a harrowing trek across the rugged

 American frontier in 1850. 

A Grave Every Mile

Ghosts Along the Oregon Trail Book 1

by David Fitz-Gerald

Genre: Historical Western Adventure Fiction

Embark on a harrowing trek across the rugged American frontier in 1850. Your wagon awaits, and the untamed wilderness calls. This epic western adventure will test the mettle of even the bravest souls.

Dorcas Moon and her family set forth in search of opportunity and a brighter future. Yet, what awaits them is a relentless gauntlet of life-threatening challenges: miserable weather, ravenous insects, scorching sunburns, and unforgiving terrain. It's not merely a battle for survival but a test of their unity and sanity.

Amidst the chaos, Dorcas faces ceaseless trials: her husband's unending bickering, her daughter's descent into madness, and the ever-present danger of lethal rattlesnakes, intensifying the peril with each step. The specter of death looms large, with diseases spreading and the eerie howls of rabid wolves piercing the night. Will the haunting image of wolves desecrating a grave push Dorcas over the edge?

With each mile, the migration poses a haunting question: Who will endure the relentless quest to cross the continent, and who will leave their bones to rest beside the trail? The pathway is bordered by graves, a chilling reminder of the steep cost of dreams.

A Grave Every Mile marks the commencement of an unforgettable saga. Start reading Ghosts Along the Oregon Trail now to immerse yourself in an expedition where every decision carries the weight of life, death, and the pursuit of a brighter future along the Oregon Trail.

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From Chapter 1, 626 words

Independence, Missouri, April 13, 1850

I hate it when men fight. After a man throws his first punch, he doesn’t remember why he’s fighting. Where’s the marshal? A town the size of Independence must have a lawman.

A crowd gathers in the rutty street as two men face each other, circling, waiting for an opportunity to swing. The blond combatant hollers in a high-pitched voice, “Take that back, Bobby.”

The dark-haired man, evidently Bobby, shouts, “No, I won’t. You can’t make me.”

The other man shouts, “You can’t talk about my wife like that. I’ll rip your head off.”

“She may be your wife, Wayne, but she’s also my sister. I’ll say what I want.”

Wayne lands a glancing blow on Bobby's cheek. As the punched man’s face turns, I realize these aren’t men. They’re practically boys.

The crowd cheers, encouraging them on. I’ve heard enough. If nobody is going to stop them, I will. My youngest daughter whines as I slide her from my hip, and wails when her feet reach the boardwalk in front of the dry goods store. My twelve-year-old daughter’s eyes reflect trepidation and I reassure her. “Don’t worry, Rose, honey. Hold Dahlia Jane’s hand. Stay right here until I return, and please don’t wander off, for Heaven’s sake.” I glance about to see where my husband and the boys are, but they're nowhere in sight. Not that Larkin would intervene. He would just shake his head and frown.

Two steps from the walkway, in front of the mercantile, my boots meet the muddy, uneven street. Even over the heads of observers, now three deep, I peg the fighters. At times like these, being a woman who is taller than most men is an advantage. As I push people aside, the two men growl at each other. Their arms lock as the evenly matched scrappers transition from fisticuffs to grappling. A trickle of blood dribbles from the corner of Bobby's mouth, and Wayne has a crimson eyebrow.

A tidy-looking young woman catches my attention. First, she addresses the dark-haired man, evidently her husband. “Stop it, Bobby." Then she reprimands her brother. "Knock it off, Wayne. You are creating a scene. Somebody will get hurt.” She glances up at me, her brow furrowed. It seems like a plea for help. I should know better than to interfere in the business of strangers. How many times have I been warned not to get involved? I can never help myself in such situations.

I step toward the snarling bruisers, grab each man by the back of his shirt, and separate them. The scrawny hooligans are surprisingly easy to lift. Maybe they seem so light because of all the years I spent chopping wood. The brown-haired man squirms more than his opponent, who implores, “What are you doing, lady? Have you gone mad?”

“My name ain’t Lady. It’s Dorcas, or Mrs. Moon, if you must.” Their dangling legs barely reach the ground. I clutch wads of fabric in my fists and their feet dance urgently beneath them, trying to find purchase within the muck. I feel like a schoolmarm interrupting a playground scuffle, but these are not children. I gaze into the dark eyes of one boy, then the bright eyes of the other. “What’s gotten into you? I’m sure you know better than to behave like this. What would your mothers think to see you now? You should be ashamed of yourselves.”

The people around us shuffle out of the way, and I’m surprised by an oncoming carriage. It’s too late to duck to the side of the street. A team of shiny black horses swiftly conveys a magnificent rig through a gloppy puddle a few feet from the boys and me, drenching my pink checked dress in pungent mud.

Lighten the Load

Ghosts Along the Oregon Trail Book 2

After a devastating tragedy, Dorcas Moon faces brutal choices in the unforgiving wilderness.

An unsolved hometown murder casts a foreboding shadow over the journey. Mounting responsibilities weigh heavy on Dorcas' shoulders while navigating the trail along the Platte River. Family, friends, and neighbors can't seem to get along without her help.

The gruesome trail exacts a heavy toll. A sweeping grass fire blazes across the prairie. A doomed wagon careens down a treacherous hill. A fellow traveler is gored to death while hunting buffalo. Each disaster pushes the pioneers to the brink. Amidst the chaos, Dorcas grapples with the realization that she must dump her precious cook stove and her husband's massive safe. The oxen can no longer haul the heavy weight of unnecessary cargo.

When her daughter mysteriously disappears while the wagons are at Fort Laramie, Dorcas despairs. She is desperate to help her daughter when the troubled youth is found in the arms of a Brulé man in Spotted Tail's village.

Secure your copy of Lighten the Load and delve into an unforgettable saga of empowerment, sacrifice, and the haunting echoes of the American frontier. Rejoin Dorcas Moon on the adventure of a lifetime as she confronts the challenges that shape her destiny.

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Chapter 1, 834 words

Independence, Missouri, April 13, 1850

It is late afternoon by the time everyone has completed and stowed their purchases. We’re about to climb into our wagons when we notice townspeople scurrying from the streets and boardwalks, taking cover indoors.

A couple of tough-looking men appear on the street, facing each other, hands hovering at their sides, guns in their holsters. This isn’t like the young men throwing fists a few hours earlier. The air feels thick with tension. I swallow hard and realize that one of the two men is about to die. We hasten around the corner onto Liberty Street just as the sound of gunfire explodes in the air.

I was the last to make it safely around the bend and the first to peek back around the corner.

One man stands, leaning backward, arms stretched and laughing menacingly. The other has dropped where he stood, limbs akimbo, in a heap on the muddy street.

People who had ducked for cover moments earlier return to get a closer look. A thin man in a brown vest steps into the street. Two men follow closely behind him, amble toward the dead body, lift the man from the road, and carry him away like doing so is an everyday occurrence. This town is nothing like the ones back home. Though I don't know them, I'm curious about the quarrel that compelled their duel.

Larkin steps forward, Dahlia Jane in his arms, and says, “Let’s go now. If we survive Independence, the rest of the trail should be easy.”

A shiver halts me briefly, as Larkin’s prediction of smooth sailing ahead disappears into the air. We climb into the wagon and I turn, notice that Rose is missing, glancing about, hoping to spot her. She’s halfway to the place where the gunfighter fell in the mud. I shout for her to come back, but she doesn’t seem to hear me. I leap from the wagon. More mud splatters my dress, but I run to find her.

When I catch up to Rose, she’s rounding the corner, seemingly following the men who carried the dead body. Where are they now?

I’m right beside Rose, yet she still doesn’t happen to hear me. I reach for her shoulders, shake her gently, and repeat her name. She glances at me quickly, then looks back up the street, directly at a building with a sign that reads, “Undertaker.” The foul air reeks of rotten eggs, moldy bread, and hot manure. I guess that’s what decaying human bodies smell like. As the carried corpse disappears within the structure, Rose turns back toward our wagon without a word.

When I catch up to her again, I ask, “Rose, honey. Is there something the matter? Do you want to talk about it?”

She shrugs. “No. Why, Mama?”

I’m confused. It’s like nothing has happened, or she has already forgotten about following the cadaver. I shake my head and wonder where her mind goes sometimes.

Usually, we walk alongside the wagon but this evening, we ride as passengers while Larkin walks beside our team of six oxen, in three teams of two, led by Hardtack, our gentle giant, and Scrapple, his partner.

Larkin never rides in the wagon, because he says it makes him seasick. An hour later, we join a dozen wagons, already settled into an encampment.

Our boys, Andrew and Christopher, who are eleven and nine, tend the oxen, and Larkin pitches a tent beside the wagon. It is harder than usual to make sleeping space among our belongings with extra provisions crowding our confined footage. With limited space inside the vehicle, Larkin and the boys will sleep in a tent, while the girls and I slumber under the cover of a canvas wagon bonnet, crowded by cargo.

Last fall, we left our home, in the Adirondack Mountains of New York State, moving as swiftly as oxen can go, arriving in Missouri before the worst of winter’s weather. We rented a vacant cabin with our friends for a couple of months, living together in tight quarters before striking out again, arriving in Independence early this morning. It's hard to complain about all the things we left behind when everything we own is packed into such a small space. I almost wish we'd left more things behind.

When I finish tucking the girls in, I nestle myself among sacks of provisions and inhale deeply. The rich, sweet smell of cornmeal fills my nostrils and I close my eyes. I should be thinking about rolling forward into the future with my family, but all I can think about is the dashing assistant wagon master, Agapito Huerta Delgado. What kind of a name is that? Where we’re from, nobody has such musical sounding names.

Even if I were unmarried, it would be foolish to think about such a handsome man. My mother always told me that the good-looking ones are nothing but trouble. I tell myself that I am happily married, but sometimes, I am not a good listener.

Stay With the Wagons

Ghosts Along the Oregon Trail Book 3

Venture deep into the uncharted wilderness and crest the continental divide.

Stay with the Wagons is the enthralling third chapter in the Ghosts Along the Oregon Trail series. Dorcas Moon has discarded her mourning dress and yearns for freedom and independence amidst the vast frontier. But a perilous world and a commanding wagon master keep her tethered. Ultimately, it's a brutal bout of fever and ague that confine her to camp.

Relentless disasters and beguiling challenges unfold in this installment. A young man is crushed beneath a wagon wheel. Dorcas' son breaks an arm, a grizzly bear attacks the wagon train, and the looming threat of attacking outlaws whips the emigrants into a worried frenzy. How many must perish before they reach the end of the trail?

As chaos reigns, her troubled daughter, Rose, disappears once again, leading Dorcas on a perilous quest. Tracking Rose to a sacred site, they encounter a blind seer and a legendary leader, Chief Washakie. Rose's enchantment with Native American adornments sparks Dorcas' concern about an unexpected suitor and raises worries about Rose's age.

Stay with the Wagons is bursting with action, adventure, and survival. It is a story of resilience and empowerment on the Oregon Trail.

Claim your copy now and re-immerse yourself in a tale of high-stakes survival, unexpected alliances, and the indomitable spirit of Dorcas Moon.

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Chapter 3, 637 words

First day on the trail, April 15, 1850

Our three teams of oxen, led by Hardtack and Scrapple, stand ready to do their job. It takes a while before it’s our turn to begin pulling, with fifteen wagons ahead of us. When the wheels of the wagon before us begin to turn, Larkin cracks the bullwhip and shouts, “Hi-yah!” He snaps the whip again, and the poor beasts lumber forward.

The broody hen squawks in her box. Straps hold the cage in place on a shelf on the wagon’s exterior. Ridge, the devil-eyed goat, blats in protest as the rope that ties her to the back left corner of the wagon drags her along. I can’t see Blizzard, tied to the other corner of the wagon. The children and I begin on foot, following closely behind Larkin.

I hate it when people are cruel to animals. I should hold my tongue, but I cannot. “Must you snap that whip so sharply? It’s barbaric. We should thank the oxen, not whip them.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Dorcas. I’m not whipping them. I’m whipping the air above them. You know that. We can’t get to Oregon if the oxen don’t move. Don’t carry on like a child.”

Of course, he's right. Somehow, dressing a deer doesn't phase me. I can snap a chicken's neck and pluck its feathers, but the idea of hurting beasts of burden saddens me. “Couldn’t you just tap them lightly on the rump rather than scare the poor creatures?”

“Look, see, we’re already falling behind. We need to drive the oxen faster if we want to get to Oregon before winter.”

“But…”

“That’s enough, Dorcas. Don’t pester me anymore.”

My molars tighten against each other. I know a woman shouldn’t bicker, argue, or nag. Usually, Larkin doesn’t complain about having a garrulous wife. Still, it rankles when he tells me not to pester him.

After walking alongside for half an hour, Dahlia Jane says she is tired. One mile down, one thousand, nine-hundred and ninety-nine miles to go. I lift the child into the wagon. Fortunately, she is content to play quietly by herself.

I walk for a while beside Blizzard. He always seems to listen and understand me when I share my troubles, worries, and complaints. His coat is sleek beneath the palm of my hand. I can never resist stroking his neck. "We’ll take a ride together soon. I promise."

Dahlia Jane hasn’t moved from her nest in the back of the wagon, so I return to walk with the other children. I’m surprised to find Christopher where Larkin was. Larkin is missing. I glance about and don’t see him anywhere. Andrew smiles and says, “Nature calls.” Rose slaps her forehead and looks at her hand to see if she squashed a bug. Christopher seems to have mastered snapping the bullwhip above the oxen, and it makes me cringe even more than when Larkin does it.

After half an hour, Larkin tells Rose it’s her turn. She had been complaining about boredom and appears to have come alive as Larkin calls out her name. “Alright, Rose. Here is the whip. Hold it high and flick it hard with your wrist so that it snaps in the air above the kine.”

Rose asks, “What if I accidentally hit them with it?”

Larkin answers, “Don’t worry. It will not hurt them. They have thick skin and dull nerves.”

I can’t help but say, “Larkin, how do you know how they feel? Please don’t beat our animals.”

Larkin replies, “We’ll try, but the children must learn how to drive them. If you can’t bear to watch, may I suggest you visit our neighbors?”

“Very well, then.” It doesn’t make it any better knowing they whip the beasts while I’m gone, but I pluck Dahlia Jane from her burrow and wander back to the next wagon.

Snarling Wolf

Ghosts Along the Oregon Trail Book 4

Dive back into the gripping, frontier chaos. Snarling Wolf is the fourth adventurous installment in the Ghosts Along the Oregon Trail series.

The famed Snake River marks the point the wagon master claims that all the greenhorns turn loco. After twelve hundred grueling miles and four relentless months on the trail, the expedition teeters on the brink. Frayed nerves, exhausted patience, and the specter of doom cast a dark cloud over the travelers.

At every turn, new dangers emerge. A young man who is like a brother to Dorcas Moon is ravaged in a mountain lion attack. A heat wave grips the dusty, barren plains and spreads sickness. The wolves that lurk in the shadows edge closer. Even the rattlesnakes seem emboldened.

Dorcas' daughter, Rose's descent into madness can no longer be ignored. What began as an eerie preoccupation with death takes a shocking turn when Rose reveals her truths. Dorcas is thrust into a realm of disbelief, and her worst fears about Rose's mysterious suitor become a stark reality.

As weary emigrants yearn for respite, tales of murderous outlaws spread like wildfire across the prairie. Passing strangers share the latest terrifying news. It's only a matter of when, not if, the notorious highwaymen will strike. Which bend of the mighty snake shelters the feared outlaws?

Grab your copy of Snarling Wolf now and unveil the next chapter in Dorcas Moon's relentless saga. Sink your teeth into this tale of survival, madness, and the unyielding spirit of those who brave the treacherous migration.

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Chapter 4, 1386 words

Lone Elm, April 16, 1850

The unrelenting rain makes everything invisible, and I am surprised when the wagon in front of us finally comes to a halt. The wagons have circled, and I didn’t even know we had reached our destination.

It is still pouring, and Larkin insists that the boys grease the axles. I plead with him to let the boys alone. “Climb in the wagon and rest. We need a break, Larkin.”

“No, Dorcas. It doesn’t matter how miserable or sick we are. We must take care of the wagon. I’ll get the wagon jack.” We share it between our five wagons, and since Stillman and Carter’s wagon has the lightest load, they carry it in their rig.

Like everything else today, the task is more challenging than usual. The wagon jack sinks and tilts in the mushy earth. The boys place thick saplings underneath the jack and crank the wagon up enough to remove the wheels. Though they must be tired, they take the jack and muddy saplings to Cobb and Jennie’s wagon and help them. Finally, Larkin and the boys return. I have nothing but hard biscuits, cold ham, and water for their supper. It is hard to cheer up a miserable family with cold food.

We’re eager to get out of the rain, whereas Rose and Dahlia Jane have spent all day in the wagon. They are impatient to get out, even though it is wet.

I walk with the girls a short distance from the wagon to answer the call of nature. It is enough of a challenge as a lady, even under the best of circumstances. Typically, we would pay more attention to who might be watching or where we might be in relation to other people. Instead, we hurry when we should be careful.

After the girls finish, I attempt a squat. At the worst possible moment, my feet slip. I fall backward, and my naked rump lands in thick, squishy mud. I am unspeakably soiled and miserable to my core. I grit my teeth, trying not to complain. I’ll have to go back to the wagon and get a towel.

Ten feet from the wagon stands a cross, fashioned out of tree branches, strapped together with twine where they join. A pile of earth and stones lay in front of the crude crucifix. The weathered sticks tilt slightly to the left. The dirt pile doesn’t look large enough to be an adult’s final resting place. I think of the poor traveling family that must have lost a child here. Perhaps it was last year. I say a quick prayer in my head and continue to the wagon. I turn to help Dahlia Jane up, and she’s missing. Rose is gone too.

Doubling back, I find them standing beside the grave, hand in hand. The hood on Rose’s raincoat rests on her back. Her head lolls forward, and her stringy wet hair dangles all about, obstructing the view of her face. I prod, “Come along, girls.”

Rose drops Dahlia Jane’s hand and waves me away without looking up. Rose sniffles as I rush the toddler away and lift her into the dry wagon. I rifle around, find a small towel, and shove it into the pocket of my skirt. Rose still stands beside the child’s grave. I drape my arm across her shoulder, and she twists away from me. “I’m sorry, Rose. I know it is awful to imagine such a tragedy.”

Larkin appears beside me with the boys.

Rose says, “Leave me alone,” turning her back to us.

I turn toward Larkin and gesture toward Rose with open hands, imploring him to do something.

Larkin says, “Let her be. She’ll learn to deal with the idea of death on her own. We all do, someday.”

I protest. “I’m sure that Rose has many questions. I think we need to talk about this.”

He responds, “This is not the time or place.”

Rose turns halfway back toward us. She says, “I don’t want to talk about it. I just want to be alone for a while.”

Nevertheless, I step forward. Larkin raises his voice. “Let her be, Dorcas.”

I want to shout back at him, but think better of it. I say, “Rose, honey. Let me know if you need me. I’m happy to listen if you want to talk.”

Rose squats in front of the child’s grave like she’s about to warm her hands near a campfire. I look at Larkin. I have a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. My child needs something, I’m powerless to help her, and I haven’t the slightest idea what’s bothering her. It has been this way ever since she turned twelve.

Larkin points to the wagon with his chin, again telling me to leave Rose here, alone in the rain. I say, “I’ll be along in a few minutes.” Thick fog swallows me as I walk away from camp. I will not feel clean until I have a proper bath. I picture myself squatting on the prairie as I clean myself the best I can with a small towel and pray for an end to the rain.

When I return to camp, I see Rose waltzing about near the child’s grave. She leans down and forward like she is dancing with an imaginary friend. I cover my mouth with my hand. I can’t help thinking that Rose is losing her mind, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. Larkin says to ignore her. I know he’s wrong, but I can’t think of anything that will work, and every time I try, Rose pushes me further away. I back away toward the wagon and shiver, thinking of my poor child, obliviously dancing in the icy rain.

I climb into the back of the wagon, which was never intended to house a large family. We huddle inside, glad to be out of the rain, snuggling together under blankets.

It's hard to leave a child alone in the wilderness, exposed to the elements. I plead, “Larkin, Rose is out there, and I couldn’t get her to come in. I don’t know why she doesn’t have the sense to come in out of the rain. I think you should go get her.”

Larkin shakes his head in disagreement. In an even tone, he says, “I’m sure she will return soon. We can’t let her ride in the wagon all day, even during bad weather. She’ll come in when she gets cold enough. You can’t coddle the children all the time, Dorcas.”

Do all men say such things? I counter, “But Larkin, there’s something wrong with Rose, isn’t there? Can’t you see that?” I don’t want to say more with the other children listening.

Dismissively, he replies, “I’m sure it’s just a phase she’s going through. You mustn’t worry so.”

I pass out biscuits and dried apples. Dahlia Jane asks Larkin to read to her. Andrew scratches words onto lined paper. “I didn’t get to post the news today, Mama. I’ll have to post two issues tomorrow.”

Larkin is right. Rose climbs into the wagon, dries her wet hair with a towel, and changes into her second dress beneath the cover of a blanket. Without a word to anyone, she begins writing in her diary. It has never occurred to me to read her private thoughts, but now I wonder whether I should.

As pitch-black darkness envelopes us, the children put their books away, close their eyes, and sleep. There isn’t room for Larkin and me to stretch out, so we slump against each other and fall asleep slouched against our provisions. The corner of a wooden box presses into my back, and I can’t seem to wriggle away from it.

Sleep comes in brief installments. The night seems as long as the day. I’m startled by a loud knocking on the side of the wagon. A man’s voice shouts over the rain. “Larkin, it’s your turn to take watch.”

Larkin grumbles as he rises, puts on a raincoat, and disappears into the night. I feel sorry for him. Of all nights to have to stand watch. What can he see or prevent anyway? Then I feel guilty, enjoying the extra space, as I stretch my body, wedge between warm, sleeping children, and fall fast asleep.

Rolling Home

Ghosts Along the Oregon Trail Book 5

Climb aboard! Don't miss the heart-pounding climax of the Ghosts Along the Oregon Trail series. Rolling Home is the final installment.

In the heart of the rolling village, dissent brews as the stubbornest naysayer refuses to continue the journey. With an ominous early snowfall and memories of the ill-fated Donner Party haunting the pioneers, Dorcas Moon faces a new wave of challenges. Just when she believes things can't get worse, a disastrous river crossing claims their wagon and submerges their belongings.

As the rolling village approaches the final leg of the journey, the looming threat of outlaws intensifies. The notorious bandit known as The Viper and his ruthless brothers are determined to rob the greenhorns, sell their stock, and kill every last one of them. The pioneers had heard tales of their brutality, but now, with Dorcas' daughter kidnapped and Dorcas captured, everyone is in danger.

What will become of Dorcas Moon, her family, and their friends? Will anyone survive the perilous journey?

Rejoin the expedition and witness the thrilling end to a gripping saga.

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Chapter 16, 691 words

Cottonwood Creek, April 28, 1850

When I return to our wagon to launder dirty clothes, Andrew and Christopher complain that they can’t find Rose. They were hoping to leave Dahlia Jane with their sister, but Rose is missing, again. I ask Larkin where Rose is, and he throws his arms up as if aggravated about being asked. “I’m sure that she’ll turn up when she’s done being wherever she is. That’s how children are.”

Ignoring Larkin, I step into the wagon master’s camp and ask if they’ve seen Rose. Arikta tells me that he saw her about an hour ago. He points to the southwest and says she was walking along Cottonwood Creek. The serious-looking scout grows even more intense. “I can track her for you.”

Recalling the proper hand signals, I put my hands flat in front of me, palms down, and move them together in a downward arc away from me. Arikta smiles and says, “You are welcome, Dorcas.”

If I weren’t concerned about my missing daughter, I would enjoy walking with Arikta along the creek bed. Every so often, he stops and shows me a sign that she has passed by. His trained eye doesn’t miss the broken twigs and parted grasses that show where someone has been. After an hour, he points at an odd-looking structure above the creek’s bank. “There,” he says.

A giant, twenty-five-foot-high mound of earth stands above us. Arikta says, “My people live in these earth lodges. This one is abandoned. Do you think that Rose would go inside?”

I nod. That’s exactly where I expect to find Rose. There is a short tunnel in front of the earth mound, also made of dirt. The mouth looks like a doorless entrance with long sticks propped against both sides.

We climb the creekbank, and Arikta tells me to wait. He scampers to the top of the mound. Then he flips a rigid cover from its summit and returns to my side. He looks at me and says, “Let’s go in, Dorcas.”

I’m amazed by what we find inside. A beam of bright light pours through the hole at the peak of the mound. Rose kneels on an animal skin in front of a circle of stones, a fire pit with no smoke or flames. She nods her head to the beat of an unheard drum. I say her name, but she doesn’t seem to hear me. I’ve come to expect such odd behavior from her. I breathe deeply, feeling like a trespasser.

Arikta whispers as if he doesn’t want to disturb Rose. “My family lived here many years ago.”

I look at him, place a hand on his arm, and then look around the structure. Giant timbers form a square, like support beams, around the fire circle. Red, white, black, and yellow painted posts support a roof constructed of timbers that radiate around the structure. Behind those long poles, woven saplings hold back the dirt outside. Blankets hang around the perimeter above what looks like sleeping chambers. I think the earth lodge looks occupied rather than long abandoned.

Arikta whispers. “A lot of people lived here before the smallpox epidemic.”

“I’m so sorry, Arikta. Thank goodness you survived.”

“Yes. We were away, hunting buffalo when everyone here died. Very sad. We buried their bones when we returned.”

Rose stands and walks around the structure. As she pauses beside each compartment, she pulls back each blanket as if listening to people behind the drapes before moving to the next. When she finishes, she returns to the center, stands in the middle of the fire circle, looks directly through the hole above, and spreads her arms wide.

Then she drops her arms, slapping her sides. She looks around, sees us, and says, “What is this place?”

Arikta answers her. “This is a Pawnee earth lodge, Rose. It was my family’s home.”

She says, “You have a nice family, Arikta.”

Rose turns to face the exit and walks through it, returning the way she came, along Cottonwood Creek. It seems like she has forgotten that we are following her. Arikta and I look at one another, shrug, and follow Rose into camp.

David Fitz-Gerald writes westerns and historical fiction. He is the author of twelve books, including the brand-new series, Ghosts Along the Oregon Trail set in 1850. Dave is a multiple Laramie Award, first place, best in category winner; a Blue Ribbon Chanticleerian; a member of Western Writers of America; and a member of the Historical Novel Society.

Alpine landscapes and flashy horses always catch Dave’s eye and turn his head. He is also an Adirondack 46-er, which means that he has hiked to the summit of the range’s highest peaks. As a mountaineer, he’s happiest at an elevation of over four thousand feet above sea level.

Dave is a lifelong fan of western fiction, landscapes, movies, and music. It should be no surprise that Dave delights in placing memorable characters on treacherous trails, mountain tops, and on the backs of wild horses.

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War Hawk by James Rollins & Grant Blackwood Book Tour and Giveaway!

Book Details:

Genre: Thriller

Published by: William Morrow

Publication Date:December 27th 2016 (first published April 19th 2016)

Number of Pages: 544

ISBN: 0062135295 (ISBN13: 9780062135292)

Series: Tucker Wayne #2

Purchase Links: Amazon  | Barnes & Noble  | Goodreads 

Synopsis:

Former Army Ranger Tucker Wayne and his war dog Kane are thrust into a global conspiracy in this second Sigma Force spinoff adventure from #1 New York Times bestselling author James Rollins and Grant Blackwood.
Tucker Wayne's past and present collide when a former army colleague comes to him for help. She's on the run from brutal assassins hunting her and her son. To keep them safe, Tucker must discover who killed a brilliant young idealist-a crime that leads back to the most powerful figures in the U.S. government.
From the haunted swamplands of the deep South to the beachheads of a savage civil war in Trinidad, Tucker and his beloved war dog, Kane, must work together to discover the truth behind a mystery that dates back to World War II, involving the genius of a young code-breaker, Alan Turing...
They will be forced to break the law, expose national secrets, and risk everything to stop a madman determined to control the future of modern warfare for his own diabolical ends. But can Tucker and Kane withstand a force so indomitable that it threatens our future?

Read an excerpt:

Prologue

Spring 1940 Buckinghamshire, England
Few in the Abwehr’s military intelligence knew his true name or even his intent here on British soil. The spy went by the code name Geist, the German word for ghost, and for him failure was not an option.
He lay on his stomach in a muddy ditch, with ice-encrusted cattails stabbing at his face. He ignored the midnight cold, the frigid gusts of breezes, the ache of his frozen joints. Instead, he concentrated on the view through the binoculars fixed to his face.
He and his assigned team lay alongside the banks of a small lake. A hundred yards off, on the opposite shore, a row of stately rural mansions sat dark, brightened here and there by the rare sliver of yellow light peeking through blackout curtains. Still, he spotted rolls of barbed wire mounted atop the garden walls of one particular estate.
Bletchley Park.
The place also went by a code name: Station X.
The seemingly nondescript country house masked an operation run by British intelligence, a joint effort by MI6 and the Government Code and Cypher School. In a series of wooden huts set up on those idyllic acres, the Allied forces had gathered the greatest mathematicians and cryptographers from around the globe, including one man, Alan Turing, who was decades ahead of his peers. Station X’s goal was to break the German military’s Enigma code, using tools built by the geniuses here. The group had already succeeded in building an electromechanical decrypting device called The Bombe, and rumors abounded about a new project already under way, to build Colossus, the world’s first programmable electric computer.
But destroying such devices was not his goal this night.
Hidden upon those grounds was a prize beyond anything his superiors could imagine: a breakthrough that held the potential to change the very fate of the world.
And I will possess it—or die trying.
Geist felt his heart quicken.
To his left, his second in command, Lieutenant Hoffman, pulled the collar of his jacket tighter around his neck as an icy rain began to fall. He shifted, cursing his complaint. “Gott verlassenen Land.”
Geist kept his binoculars in place as he scolded the head of the commandos. “Silence. If anyone hears you speaking German, we’ll be stuck here for the rest of the war.”
Geist knew a firm hand was needed with the eight-man team under his charge. The members had been handpicked by the Abwehr not only for their superb martial skills but for their grasp of English. Whatever the British might lack in military presence out here in the rural regions, they made up for by a vigilant citizenry.
“Truck!” Hoffman rasped.
Geist glanced over his shoulder to the road passing through the woods behind him. A lorry trundled along, its headlights muted by blackout slits.
“Hold your breath,” Geist hissed.
He wasn’t about to let their presence catch the attention of the passing driver. He and the others kept their faces pressed low until the sound of the truck’s puttering engine faded away.
“Clear,” Hoffman said.
Geist checked his watch and searched again with his binoculars.
What is taking them so long?
Everything depended on clockwork timing. He and his team had offloaded from a U-boat five days ago onto a lonely beach. Afterward, the group had split into teams of two or three and worked their way across the countryside, ready with papers identifying them as day laborers and farmhands. Once they reached the target area, they had regrouped at a nearby hunting shack, where a cache of weapons awaited them, left by sleeper agents who had prepped the way in advance for Geist’s team.
Only one last detail remained.
A wink of light caught his attention from the grounds neighboring the Bletchley Park estate. It shuttered off once, then back on again—then finally darkness returned.
It was the signal he had been waiting for.
Geist rolled up to an elbow. “Time to move out.”
Hoffman’s team gathered their weapons: assault rifles and noise-suppressed pistols. The largest commando—a true bull of a man named Kraus—hauled up an MG42 heavy machine gun, capable of firing twelve hundred rounds per minute.
Geist studied the black-streaked faces around him. They had trained for three months within a life-sized mock-up of Bletchley Park. By now, they could all walk those grounds blindfolded. The only unknown variable was the level of on-site defense. The research campus was secured by both soldiers and guards in civilian clothes.
Geist went over the plan one last time. “Once inside the estate, torch your assigned buildings. Cause as much panic and confusion as possible. In that chaos, Hoffman and I will attempt to secure the package. If shooting starts, take down anything that moves. Is that understood?”
Each man nodded his head.
With everyone prepared—ready to die if need be—the group set off and followed the contour of the lake, sticking to the mist-shrouded forest. Geist led them past the neighboring estates. Most of these old homes were shuttered, awaiting the summer months. Soon servants and staff would be arriving to prepare the country homes for the leisure season, but that was still a couple of weeks away.
It was one of the many reasons this narrow window of opportunity had been chosen by Admiral Wilhelm Canaris, head of German military intelligence. And there was one other time-critical element.
“Access to the bunker should be just up ahead,” Geist whispered back to Hoffman. “Ready the men.”
The British government—aware that Adolf Hitler would soon launch an air war against this island nation—had begun constructing underground bunkers for its critical installations, including Bletchley Park. The bunker at Station X was only half completed, offering a brief break in the secure perimeter around the estate.
Geist intended to take advantage of that weakness this night.
He led his team toward a country house that neighbored Bletchley Park. It was a red-brick Tudor with yellow shutters. He approached the stacked-stone fence that surrounded the grounds and waved his team to flatten against it.
“Where are we going?” Hoffman whispered. “I thought we were going through some bunker.”
“We are.” Only Geist had been given this last piece of intelligence.
He crouched low and hurried toward the gate, which he found unlocked. The winking signal earlier had confirmed that all was in readiness here.
Geist pushed open the gate, slipped through, and led his team across the lawn to the home’s glass-enclosed conservatory. He found another unlocked door there, hurried inside with his men, and crossed to the kitchen. The all-white cabinetry glowed in the moonlight streaming through the windows.
Wasting no time, he stepped to a door beside the pantry. He opened it and turned on his flashlight, revealing a set of stairs. At the bottom, he found a stone-floored cellar; the walls were white-painted brick, the exposed ceiling a maze of water pipes running through the floor joists. The cellar spanned the width of the house.
He led his team past stacks of boxes and furniture draped in dusty sheets to the cellar’s eastern wall. As directed, he pulled away a rug to reveal a hole that had been recently dug through the floor. Another bit of handiwork from Canaris’s sleeper agents.
Geist shone his flashlight down the hole, revealing water flowing below.
“What is it?” Hoffman asked.
“Old sewer pipe. It connects all the estates circling the lake.”
“Including Bletchley Park,” Hoffman realized with a nod.
“And its partially completed bunker,” Geist confirmed. “It’ll be a tight squeeze, but we’ll only need to cross a hundred meters to reach the construction site of that underground bomb shelter and climb back up.”
According to the latest intelligence, those new foundations of the bunker were mostly unguarded and should offer them immediate access into the very heart of the estate’s grounds.
“The Brits won’t know what hit them,” Hoffman said with a mean grin.
Geist again led the way, slipping feetfirst through the hole and dropping with a splash into the ankle-deep dank water. He kept one hand on the moldy wall and headed along the old stone pipe. It was only a meter and a half wide, so he had to keep his back bowed, holding his breath against the stink.
After a handful of steps, he clicked off his flashlight and aimed for the distant glow of moonlight. He moved more slowly along the curving pipe, keeping his sloshing to a minimum, not wanting to alert any guards who might be canvassing the bunker’s construction site. Hoffman’s teammates followed his example.
At last, he reached that moonlit hole in the pipe’s roof. A temporary grate covered the newly excavated access point to the old sewer. He fingered the chain and padlock that secured the grate in place.
Unexpected but not a problem.
Hoffman noted his attention and passed him a set of bolt cutters. With great care, Geist snapped through the lock’s hasp and freed the chain. He shared a glance with the lieutenant, confirming everyone was ready—then pushed the grate open and pulled himself up through the hole.
He found himself crouched atop the raw concrete foundations of the future bunker. The skeletal structure of walls, conduits, and plumbing surrounded him. Scaffolding and ladders led up toward the open grounds of the estate above. He hurried to one side, ducking under a scaffold, out of direct view. One by one the remaining eight commandoes joined him.
Geist took a moment to orient himself. He should be within forty meters of their target: Hut 8. It was one of several green-planked structures built on these grounds. Each had its own purpose, but his team’s goal was the research section overseen by the mathematician and cryptanalyst Alan Turing.
He gestured for the men to huddle together.
“Remember, no shooting unless you’re intercepted. Toss those incendiaries into Huts 4 and 6. Let the fire do the work for us. With any luck, the distraction will create enough confusion to cover our escape.”
Hoffman pointed to two of his men. “Schwab, you take your team to Hut 4. Faber, you and your men have Hut 6. Kraus, you trail us. Be ready to use that machine gun of yours if there is any trouble.”
The lieutenant’s men nodded in agreement, then scaled the ladders and disappeared out of the open pit of the bunker. Geist followed on their heels with Hoffman and Kraus trailing him.
Staying low, he headed north until he reached Hut 8 and flattened against the wooden siding. The door should be around the next corner. He waited a breath, making sure no alarm had been raised.
He counted down in his head until finally shouts arose to the east and west. “Fire, fire, fire!”
Upon that signal, he slid around the corner and climbed a set of plank steps to reach the door into Hut 8. He turned the knob as the night grew brighter, flickering with fresh flames.
As more shouts rose, he pushed through the doorway and into a small room. The center was dominated by two trestle tables covered in stacks of punch cards. The whitewashed walls were plastered with propaganda posters warning about ever-present Nazi eyes and ears.
With his pistol raised, he and Hoffman rushed across and burst through the far doorway into the next room. Seated at a long table, two women sorted through more piles of punch cards. The woman to the right was already looking up. She spun in her chair, reaching for a red panic button on the wall.
Hoffmann shot her twice in the side. The suppressed gunfire was no louder than a couple of firm coughs.
Geist took out the second woman with a single round through her throat. She toppled backward, her face still frozen in an expression of surprise.
They must have been Wrens—members of the Women’s Royal Naval Service—who were assisting in the work being conducted here.
Geist hurried to the first woman, searched her pockets, and came up with a thumb-sized brass key. On the second woman, he found a second key, this one iron.
With his prizes in hand, he hurried back to the main room.
From outside, there arose the wonk-wonk-wonk of an alarm klaxon.
So far our subterfuge seems to be—
The rattling blasts of a submachine gun cut off this last thought. More gunfire followed. Hoffman cursed.
“We’ve been discovered,” the lieutenant warned.
Geist refused to give up. He crossed to a waist-high safe along one wall. As expected, it was secured by two keyed locks, top and bottom, and a combination dial in the center.
“Need to hurry, sir,” Hoffmann rasped next to him. “Sounds like we got a lot of foot traffic outside.”
Geist pointed to the door. “Kraus, clear a path for us back to the bunker.”
The large soldier nodded, hefted up his heavy weapon, and vanished out the door. As Geist inserted his two keys, Kraus’s MG42 opened up outside, roaring into the night.
Geist focused on the task at hand, turning one key, then the other, getting a satisfying thunk-thunk in return. He moved his hand to the combination lock. This was truly the test of the Abwehr’s reach.
He spun the dial: nine…twenty-nine…four.
He took a breath, let it out, and depressed the lever.
The safe door swung open.
Thank God.
A quick search inside revealed only one item: a brown accordion folder wrapped in red rubber bands. He read the name stenciled on the outside.
The ARES Project
He knew Ares was the Greek god of war, which was appropriate, considering the contents. But that connotation only hinted at the true nature of the work found inside. The acronym—ARES—stood for something far more earth-shattering, something powerful enough to rewrite history. He grabbed the folder with trembling hands, knowing the terrifying wonders it held, and stuffed the prize into his jacket.
His second in command, Hoffman, stepped over to the hut’s door, cracked it open, and yelled outside. “Kraus!”
“Komm!” Kraus answered in German, forsaking any need for further subterfuge. “Get out here before they regroup!”
Geist joined Hoffman at the door, pulled the pin on an incendiary grenade, and tossed it back into the center of the room. Both men lunged outside as it exploded behind them, blowing out the windows with gouts of flames
To their left, a pair of British soldiers sprinted around the corner of the hut. Kraus cut them down with his machine gun, but more soldiers followed, taking cover and returning fire, forcing Geist’s team away from the excavated bunker—away from their only escape route.
As they retreated deeper into the grounds, smoke billowed more thickly, accompanied by the acrid stench of burning wood.
Another set of figures burst through the pall. Kraus came close to carving them in half with his weapon, but at the last moment, he halted, recognizing his fellow commandos. It was Schwab’s team.
“What about Faber and the others?” Hoffman asked.
Schwab shook his head. “Saw them killed.”
That left only the six of them.
Geist quickly improvised. “We’ll make for the motor pool.”
He led the way at a dead run. The team tossed incendiaries as they went, adding to the confusion, strafing down alleyways, dropping anything that moved.
Finally they reached a row of small sheds. Fifty meters beyond, the main gate came into view. It looked like a dozen soldiers crouched behind concrete barriers, guns up, looking for targets. Spotlights panned the area.
Before being seen, Geist directed his group into a neighboring Quonset hut, where three canvas-sided lorries were parked.
“We need that gate cleared,” Geist said, looking at Hoffman and his men, knowing what he was asking of them. For any chance of escape, many of them would likely die in the attempt.
The lieutenant stared him down. “We’ll get it done.”
Geist clapped Hoffman on the shoulder, thanking him.
The lieutenant set out with his remaining four men.
Geist crossed and climbed into one of the lorries, where he found the keys in the ignition. He started the engine, warming it up, then hopped back out again. He crossed to the remaining two trucks and popped their hoods.
In the distance, Kraus’s machine gun began a lethal chattering, accompanied by the rattle of assault rifles and the overlapping crump of exploding grenades.
Finally, a faint call reached him.
“Klar, klar, klar!” Hoffman shouted.
Geist hurried back to the idling lorry, climbed inside, and put the truck into gear—but not before tossing two grenades into each of the open engine compartments of the remaining lorries. As he rolled out and hit the accelerator, the grenades exploded behind him.
He raced to the main gate and braked hard. British soldiers lay dead; the spotlights shot out. Hoffman rolled the gate open, limping on a bloody leg. Supported by a teammate, Kraus hobbled his way into the back of the lorry. Hoffman joined him up front, climbing into the passenger seat and slamming the door angrily.
“Lost Schwab and Braatz.” Hoffman waved ahead. “Go, go.”
With no time to mourn, Geist gunned the engine and raced down the country road. He kept one eye on the side mirror, watching for any sign of pursuit. Taking a maze of turns, he tried to further confound their escape route. Finally, he steered the lorry down a narrow dirt tract lined by overgrown English oaks. At the end was a large barn, its roof half collapsed. To the left was a burned-out farmhouse.
Geist parked beneath some overhanging boughs and shut off the engine. “We should see to everyone’s injuries,” he said. “We’ve lost enough good men.”
“Everybody out,” Hoffman ordered, rapping a knuckle on the back of the compartment.
After they all climbed free, Geist surveyed the damage. “You’ll all get the Knight’s Cross for your bravery tonight. We should—”
A harsh shout cut him off, barked in German. “Halt! Hände hoch!”
A dozen men, bristling with weapons, emerged from the foliage and from behind the barn.
“Nobody move!” the voice called again, revealing a tall American with a Tommy gun in hand.
Geist recognized the impossibility of their team’s situation and lifted his arms. Hoffman and his last two men followed his example, dropping their weapons and raising their hands.
It was over.
As the Americans frisked Hoffman and the others, a lone figure stepped from the darkened barn door and approached Geist. He pointed a .45-caliber pistol at Geist’s chest.
“Tie him up,” he ordered one of his men.
As his wrists were efficiently bound in rope, his captor spoke in a rich southern twang. “Colonel Ernie Duncan, 101st Airborne. You speak English?”
“Yes.”
“Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”
“Schweinhund,” Geist answered with a sneer.
“Son, I’m pretty sure that isn’t your name. I’ll assume that slur is intended for me. So then let’s just call you Fritz. You and I are going to have a talk. Whether it’s pleasant or ugly is up to you.”
The American colonel called to one of his men. “Lieutenant Ross, put those other three men into the back of their truck and get them ready for transport. Say good-bye to your team, Fritz.”
Geist turned to face his men and shouted, “Für das Vaterland!”
“Das Vaterland!” Hoffman and the others repeated in unison.
The American soldiers herded the commandos into the back of the lorry, while Colonel Duncan marched Geist over to the barn. Once inside, he closed the doors and waved to encompass the piles of hay and manure.
“Sorry for our meager accommodations, Fritz.”
Geist turned to face him and broke into a smile. “Damned good to see you, too, Duncan.”
“And you, my friend. How’d it go? Find what you were looking for?”
“It’s in my jacket. For whatever’s it worth, those Germans fight like the devil. Bletchley’s burning. But they should be up and running again in a week.”
“Good to know.” Duncan used a razor blade to free his bound wrists. “How do you want to play this from here?”
“I’ve got a small Mauser hidden in a crotch holster.” Geist stood up and rubbed his wrists, then unwound his scarf and folded it into a thick square. He reached into the front of his pants and withdrew the Mauser.
Geist glanced behind him. “Where’s the back door?”
Duncan pointed. “By those old horse stalls. Nobody’ll be back behind the barn to see you escape. But you’ll have to make it look convincing, you know. Really smack me good. Remember, we Americans are tough.”
“Duncan, I’m not keen on this idea.”
“Necessities of war, buddy. You can buy me a case of scotch when we get back to the States.”
Geist shook the colonel’s hand.
Duncan dropped his .45 to the ground and smiled. “Oh look, you’ve disarmed me.”
“We Germans are crafty that way.”
Next Duncan ripped open the front of his fatigue blouse, popping buttons off onto the straw-covered floor. “And there’s been a struggle.”
“Okay, Duncan, enough. Turn your head. I’ll rap you behind the ear. When you wake up, you’ll have a knot the size of a golf ball and a raging headache, but you asked for it.”
“Right.” He clasped Geist by the forearm. “Watch yourself out there. It’s a long way back to DC.”
As Duncan turned his head away, a flicker of guilt passed through Geist. Still, he knew what needed to be done.
Geist pressed the wadded scarf to the Mauser’s barrel and jammed it against Duncan’s ear.
The colonel shifted slightly. “Hey, what are you—”
He pulled the trigger. With the sound of a sharp slap, the bullet tore through Duncan’s skull, snapping his friend’s head back as the body toppled forward to the ground.
Geist stared down. “So sorry, my friend. As you said before, necessities of war. If it makes you feel any better, you’ve just changed the world.”
He pocketed the pistol, walked to the barn’s back door, and disappeared into the misty night, becoming at last…a true ghost.

FIRST

Ghost Hunt
1
October 10, 6:39 p.m. MDT Bitterroot Mountains, Montana
All this trouble from a single damned nail…
Tucker Wayne tossed the flat tire into the back of his rental. The Jeep Grand Cherokee sat parked on the shoulder of a lonely stretch of road in the forested mountains of southwest Montana. These millions of acres of pines, glacier-cut canyons, and rugged peaks formed the largest expanse of pristine wilderness in the Lower 48.
He stretched a kink out of his back and searched down the winding stretch of blacktop, bracketed on both sides by sloping hills and dense stands of lodgepole pines.
Just my luck. Here in the middle of nowhere, I pick up a nail.
It seemed impossible that this great beast of an SUV could be brought low by a simple sliver of iron shorter than his pinkie. It was a reminder of how modern technological progress could still be ground to a halt by a single bit of antiquated hardware like a roofing nail.
He slammed the rear cargo hatch and whistled sharply. His companion on this cross-country journey pulled his long furry nose out of a huckleberry bush at the edge of the forest and glanced back at Tucker. Eyes the color of dark caramel looked plainly disappointed that this roadside pit stop had come to an end.
“Sorry, buddy. But we’ve got a long way to go if we hope to reach Yellowstone.”
Kane shook his heavy coat of black and tan fur, his thick tail flagging as he turned, readily accepting this reality. The two of them had been partners going back to his years with the U.S. Army Rangers, surviving multiple deployments across Afghanistan together. Upon leaving the service, Tucker took Kane with him—not exactly with the army’s permission, but that matter had been settled in the recent past.
The two were now an inseparable team, on their own, seeking new roads, new paths. Together.
Tucker opened the front passenger door and Kane hopped inside, his lean muscular seventy pounds fitting snugly into the seat. He was a Belgian Malinois, a breed of compact shepherd commonly used by the military and law enforcement. Known for their fierce loyalty and sharp intelligence, the breed was also well respected for their nimbleness and raw power in a battlefield environment.
But there was no one like Kane.
Tucker closed the door but lingered long enough to scratch his partner through the open window. His fingers discovered old scars under the fur, reminding Tucker of his own wounds: some easy to see, others just as well hidden.
“Let’s keep going,” he whispered before the ghosts of his past caught up with him.
He climbed behind the wheel and soon had them flying through the hills of the Bitterroot National Forest. Kane kept his head stuck out the passenger side, his tongue lolling, his nose taking in every scent. Tucker grinned, finding the tension melting from his shoulders as it always did when he was moving.
For the moment, he was between jobs—and he intended to keep it that way for as long as possible. He only took the occasional security position when his finances required it. After his last job—when he had been hired by Sigma Force, a covert branch of the military’s research-and-development department—his bank accounts continued to remain flush.
Taking advantage of the downtime, he and Kane had spent the last couple of days hiking the Lost Trail Pass, following in the footsteps of the Lewis and Clark expedition, and now they were moving onto Yellowstone National Park. He had timed this trip to the popular park to reach it in the late fall, to avoid the crush of the high season, preferring the company of Kane to anyone on two legs.
Around a bend in the dark road, a pool of fluorescent lights revealed a roadside gas station. The sign at the entrance read
Fort Edwin Gas and Grocery. He checked his fuel gauge.
Almost empty.
He flipped on his turn signal and swung into the small station. His motel was three miles farther up the road. His plan had been to take a fast shower, collect his bags, and continue straight toward Yellowstone, taking advantage of the empty roads at night.
Now he had a snag in those plans. He needed to replace the flat tire as soon as possible. Hopefully someone at the gas station knew the closest place to get that done in these remote hills.
He pulled next to one of the pumps and climbed out. Kane hopped through the window on the other side. Together they headed for the station.
Tucker pulled open the glass door, setting a brass bell to tinkling. The shop was laid out in the usual fashion: rows of snacks and food staples, backed up by a tall stand of coolers along the back wall. The air smelled of floor wax and microwaved sandwiches.
“Good evening, good evening,” a male voice greeted him, his voice rising and falling in a familiar singsong manner.
Tucker immediately recognized the accent as Dari Persian. From his years in the deserts of Afghanistan, he was familiar with the various dialects of that desert country. Despite the friendliness of the tone, Tucker’s belly tightened in a knot of old dread. Men with that very same accent had tried to kill him more times than he could count. Worse still, they had succeeded in butchering Kane’s littermate.
He flashed to the bounding joy of his lost partner, the unique bond they had shared. It took all of his effort to force that memory back into that knot of old pain, grief, and guilt.
“Good evening,” the man behind the counter repeated, smiling, oblivious to the tension along Tucker’s spine. The proprietor’s face was nut brown, his teeth perfectly white. He was mostly bald, save for a monk’s fringe of gray hair. His eyes twinkled as though Tucker was a friend he hadn’t seen in years.
Having met hundreds of Afghan villagers in his time, Tucker knew the man’s demeanor was genuine. Still, he found it hard to step inside.
The man’s brow formed one concerned crinkle at his obvious hesitation. “Welcome,” he offered again, waving an arm to encourage him.
“Thanks,” Tucker finally managed to reply. He kept one hand on Kane’s flank. “Okay if I bring my dog in?”
“Yes, of course. All are welcome.”
Tucker took a deep breath and crossed past the front shelves, neatly stocked with packets of beef jerky, Slim Jims, and corn chips. He stepped to the counter, noting he was the only one in the place.
“You have a beautiful dog,” the man said. “Is he a shepherd?”
“A Belgian Malinois…a type of shepherd. Name’s Kane.”
“And I am Aasif Qazi, owner of this fine establishment.”
The proprietor stretched a hand across the counter. Tucker took it, finding the man’s grip firm, the palm slightly calloused from hard labor.
“You’re from Kabul,” Tucker said.
The man’s eyebrows rose high. “How did you know?”
“Your accent. I spent some time in Afghanistan.”
“Recently, I am guessing.”
Not so recently, Tucker thought, but some days it felt like yesterday. “And you?” he asked.
“I came to the States as a boy. My parents wisely chose to emigrate when the Russians invaded back in the seventies. I met my wife in New York.” He raised his voice. “Lila, come say hello.”
From an office in the back, a petite, gray-haired Afghani woman peeked out and smiled. “Hello. Nice to meet you.”
“So how did you both end up here?”
“You mean in the middle of nowhere?” Aasif’s grin widened. “Lila and I got tired of the city. We wanted something that was exact opposite.”
“Looks like you succeeded.” Tucker glanced around the empty shop and the dark forest beyond the windows.
“We love it here. And it’s normally not this deserted. We’re between seasons at the moment. The summer crowds have left, and the skiers have yet to arrive. But we still have our regulars.”
Proving this, a diesel engine roared outside, and a white, rust-stained pickup truck pulled between the pumps, fishtailing slightly as it came to a stop.
Tucker turned back at Aasif. “Seems like business is picking—”
The man’s eyes had narrowed, his jaw clenched. The army had handpicked Tucker as a dog handler because of his unusually high empathy scores. Such sensitivity allowed him to bond more readily and deeply with his partner—and to read people. Still, it took no skill at all to tell Aasif was scared.
Aasif waved to his wife. “Lila, go back in the office.”
She obeyed, but not before casting a frightened glance toward her husband.
Tucker moved closer to the windows, trailed by Kane. He quickly assessed the situation, noting one odd detail: duct tape covered the truck’s license plate.
Definitely trouble.
No one with good intentions blacked out his license plate.
Tucker took a deep breath. The air suddenly felt heavier, crackling with electricity. He knew it was only a figment of his own spiking adrenaline. Still, he knew a storm was brewing. Kane reacted to his mood, the hackles rising along the shepherd’s back, accompanied by a low growl.
Two men in flannel shirts and baseball caps hopped out of the cab; a third jumped down from the truck’s bed. The driver of the truck sported a dirty red goatee and wore a green baseball cap emblazoned with
I’d rather be doin’ your wife.
Great…not only are these yokels trouble, they have a terrible sense of humor.
Without turning, he asked, “Aasif, do you have security cameras?”
“They’re broken. We haven’t been able to fix them.”
He sighed loudly. Not good.
The trio strutted toward the station entrance. Each man carried a wooden baseball bat.
“Call the sheriff. If you can trust him.”
“He’s a decent man.”
“Then call him.”
“Tucker, perhaps it is best if you do not —”
“Make the call, Aasif.”
Tucker headed to the door with Kane and pushed outside before the others could enter. Given the odds, he would need room to maneuver.
Tucker stopped the trio at the curb. “Evening, fellas.”
“Hey,” replied Mr. Goatee, making a move to slip past him.
Tucker stepped to block him. “Store’s closed.”
“Bull,” said one of the others and pointed his bat. “Look, Shane, I can see that raghead from here.”
“Then you can also see he’s on the phone,” Tucker said. “He’s calling the sheriff.”
“That idiot?” Shane said. “We’ll be long gone before he pulls his head outta his ass and gets here.”
Tucker let his grin turn dark. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that.”
He silently signaled Kane, pointing an index finger down—then tightening a fist. The command clear: threaten.
Kane lowered his head, bared his teeth, and let out a menacing growl. Still, the shepherd remained at his side. Kane wouldn’t move unless given another command or if this confrontation became physical.
Shane took a step back. “That mutt comes at me and I’ll bash his brains in.”
If this mutt comes at you, you’ll never know what hit you.
Tucker raised his hands. “Listen, guys, I get it. It’s Friday night, time to blow off some steam. All I’m asking is you find some other way of doing it. The people inside are just trying to make a living. Just like you and me.”
Shane snorted. “Like us? Them towelheads ain’t nothing like us. We’re Americans.”
“So are they.”
“I lost buddies in Iraq—”
“We all have.”
“What the hell do you know about it?” asked the third man.
“Enough to know the difference between these store owners and the kind of people you’re talking about.”
Tucker remembered his own reaction upon first entering the shop and felt a twinge of guilt.
Shane lifted his bat and aimed the end at Tucker’s face. “Get outta our way or you’ll regret siding with the enemy.”
Tucker knew the talking part of this encounter was over.
Proving this, Shane jabbed Tucker in the chest with the bat.
So be it.
Tucker’s left hand snapped out and grabbed the bat. He gave it a jerk, pulling Shane off balance toward him.
He whispered a command to his partner: “grab and drop.”
* * *
Kane hears those words—and reacts. He recognizes the threat in his target: the rasp of menace in his breath, the fury that has turned his sweat bitter. Tense muscles explode as the order is given. Kane is already moving before the last word is spoken, anticipating the other’s need, knowing what he must do.
He leaps upward, his jaws wide.
Teeth find flesh.
Blood swells over his tongue.

* * *

With satisfaction, Tucker watched Kane latch on to Shane’s forearm. Upon landing on his paws, the shepherd twisted and threw the combatant to the ground. The bat clattered across the concrete.
Shane screamed, froth flecking his words. “Get him off, get him off!”
One of the man’s friends charged forward, his bat swinging down toward Kane. Anticipating this, Tucker dove low and took the hit with his own body. Expertly blunting the blow by turning his back at an angle, he reached up and wrapped his forearm around the bat. He pinned it in place—then side kicked. His heel slammed into the man’s kneecap, triggering a muffled pop.
The man hollered, released the bat, and staggered backward.
Tucker swung his captured weapon toward the third attacker. “It’s over. Drop it.”
The last man glared, but he let the bat fall—
—then reached into his jacket and lashed out with his arm again.
Tucker’s mind barely had time to register the glint of a knife blade. He backpedaled, dodging the first slash. His heel struck the curb behind him, and he went down, crashing into a row of empty propane tanks and losing the bat.
Grinning cruelly, the man loomed over Tucker and brandished his knife. “Time to teach you a lesson about—”
Tucker reached over his shoulder and grabbed a loose propane tank as it rolled along the sidewalk behind him. He swung it low, cutting the man’s legs out from under him. With a pained cry of surprise, the attacker crashed to the ground.
Tucker rolled to him, snatched the man’s wrist, and bent it backward until a bone snapped. The knife fell free. Tucker retrieved the blade as the man curled into a ball, groaning and clutching his hand. His left ankle was also cocked sideways, plainly broken.
Lesson over.
He stood up and walked over to Shane, whose lips were compressed in fear and agony. Kane still held him pinned down, clamped on to the man’s bloody arm, his teeth sunk to bone.
“Release,” Tucker ordered.
The shepherd obeyed but stayed close, baring his bloody fangs at Shane. Tucker backed his partner up with the knife.
Sirens echoed through the forest, growing steadily louder.
Tucker felt his belly tighten. Though he’d acted in self-defense, he was in the middle of nowhere awaiting a sheriff who could arrest them if the whim struck him. Flashing lights appeared through the trees, and a cruiser swung fast into the parking lot and pulled to a stop twenty feet away.
Tucker raised his hands and tossed the knife aside.
He didn’t want anyone making a mistake here.
“Sit,” he told Kane. “Be happy.”
The dog dropped to his haunches, wagging his tail, his head cocked to the side quizzically.
Aasif joined him outside and must have noticed his tension. “Sheriff Walton is a fair man, Tucker.”
“If you say so.”
In the end, Aasif proved a good judge of character. It helped that the sheriff knew the trio on the ground and held them in no high opinion. These boys been raising hell for a year now, the sheriff eventually explained. So far, nobody’s had the sand to press charges against them.
Sheriff Walton took down their statements and noted the truck’s blacked-out license plate with a sad shake of his head. “I believe that would be your third strike, Shane. And from what I hear, redheads are very popular at the state pen this year.”
Shane lowered his head and groaned.
After another two cruisers arrived and the men were hauled away, Tucker faced the sheriff. “Do I need to stick around?”
“Do you want to?”
“Not especially.”
“Didn’t think so. I’ve got your details. I doubt you’ll need to testify, but if you do—”
“I’ll come back.”
“Good.” Walton passed him a card. Tucker expected it to have the local sheriff’s department’s contact information on it, but instead it was emblazoned with the image of a car with a smashed fender. “My brother owns a body-repair shop in Wisdom, next town down the highway. I’ll make sure he gets that flat tire of yours fixed at cost.”
Tucker took the card happily. “Thanks.”
With matters settled, Tucker was soon back on the road with Kane. He held out the card toward the shepherd as he sped toward his motel. “See, Kane. Who says no good deed goes unpunished?”
Unfortunately, he spoke too soon. As he turned into his motel and parked before the door to his room, his headlight shone upon an impossible sight.
Sitting on the bench before his cabin was a woman—a ghost out of his past. Only this figment wasn’t outfitted in desert khaki or in the blues of her dress uniform. Instead, she wore jeans and a light-blue blouse with an open wool cardigan.
Tucker’s heart missed several beats. He sat behind the wheel, engine idling, struggling to understand how she could be here, how she had found him.
Her name was Jane Sabatello. It had been over six years since he’d last set eyes on her. He found his gaze sweeping over her every feature, each triggering distinct memories, blurring past and present: the softness of her full lips, the shine of moonlight that turned her blond hair silver, the joy in her eyes each morning.
Tucker had never married, but Jane was as close as he’d come.
And now here she was, waiting for him—and she wasn’t alone.
A child sat at her side, a young boy tucked close to her hip.
For the briefest of moments, he wondered if the boy—
No, she would have told me.
He finally cut off the engine and stepped out of the vehicle. She stood up as she recognized him in turn.
“Jane?” he murmured.
She rushed to him and wrapped him in a hug, clinging to him for a long thirty seconds before pulling back. She searched his face, her eyes moist. Under the glare of the Cherokee’s headlamps, he noted a dark bruise under one cheekbone, poorly obscured by a smear of cosmetic concealer.
Even less hidden was the panic and raw fear in her face.
She kept one hand firmly on his arm, her fingers tight with desperation. “Tucker, I need your help.”
Before he could speak, she glanced to the boy.
“Someone’s trying to kill us.”
 
 

Our Authors Bios:

JAMES ROLLINS is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of international thrillers, translated into more than forty languages. His Sigma series has been lauded as one of the “top crowd pleasers” (New York Times) and one of the “hottest summer reads” (People magazine). In each novel, acclaimed for its originality, Rollins unveils unseen worlds, scientific breakthroughs, and historical secrets–and he does it all at breakneck speed and with stunning insight.

Catch Up with James Rollins on his Website , Twitter , & Facebook .

In addition to his New York Times bestselling collaborations with Clive Cussler and Tom Clancy, GRANT BLACKWOOD is the author of three novels featuring Briggs Tanner: The End of Enemies, The Wall of Night, and An Echo of War. A U. S. Navy veteran, Grant spent three years as an Operations Specialist and a Pilot Rescue Swimmer. He lives in Colorado.

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This is a rafflecopter giveaway hosted by Partners In Crime Virtual Book Tours for James Rollins and William Morrow. There will be 14 US winners of one (1) PRINT copy of War Hawk by James Rollins. The giveaway begins on February 12th and runs through March 1st, 2017.

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