Chapter One

It was beginning.

The Man walked stealthily through the pre-dawn darkness. A single yard light cast tepid shadows along the ranch’s outbuildings. The scent of horse flesh and creek willow filled his nostrils, soothing a hint of nervous anticipation as he entered the barn. 

The faint rattling sound emanating from the basket he carried calmed him further.

The first step in this divine plan came upon him in a holy vision. Directed by God, like the Israelites in Israel, he would own this land and inhabit it for His glory.

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Approaching the stall, the gravel beneath his boots crunched like soft tissue paper. The Paint horse nickered. The Man stroked the equine neck and spoke reassuring words as he
slipped inside the enclosure. The brown and white stallion watched him carefully, stomped once, but showed little sign of concern.

The Man opened the basket in the far corner of the stall and watched the serpent slither from its confines into the straw. The rattle’s ominous susurration accelerated.

The Man whispered to the horse, “As in the Book of Genesis, the serpent shall be in your path and bite your heel so the rider will fall…”

He kissed the animal’s warm cheek, reflecting on serpents in the Garden before leaving the barn. The horse snorted and shook his head. Don’t do this, he seemed to say, but it was prophesied.

Shutting the stall door, The Man further reflected on the next step toward fulfillment of his sacred ambition. It was in the hands of an unsure blonde girl who loved him with an addict’s compulsion. The snakes etched on his body stirred. He had to have her, now.

The Man disappeared into the darkness just as the sky began to lighten in the East.

Pulling at a loose strand of her dark, wavy hair in anticipation, Lucy Vega gazed over her laptop screen to the slate gray Pacific less than a mile away. The annual “June Gloom” had cast its dreary marine pale across the landscape. She was waiting to Zoom chat with Michael Burleson, her lover, life partner, and father to their four-year-old son, Henry. Michael was a network war correspondent for TV news who almost lost everything from the curse of alcohol abuse. With Lucy’s support, he was back on track, five years sober.

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The zoom link kicked in and he was on the screen. Eyes like sea glass, messy brown curls, he wore his usual utilitarian black T-shirt. A smile warmed her heart.

“Hey, beautiful,” he said, rubbing his neck. “I miss you.”

“Then get that cute butt of yours out here.” After two years in New York, Lucy was thrilled at the thought of being together as a family this week at her ranch in the mountains above Malibu, where she’d grown up after her parents and younger brother died in a car accident. The last several promises Michael had made to join her and Henry at this place, her spiritual home on Earth, he hadn’t kept. But this time it would be different.

She continued, ignoring niggles of fear and disappointment.

“Our son has a long list of to-dos with daddy. Starts with the Santa Barbara Zoo and ends with a new bike without training wheels.” Lucy laughed. “My list is short. I just want you in my bed every night, at my complete beck and call.”

His smile seemed forced. “Sweetheart, we have to talk. Something’s come up.”

Her chest tightened with a disturbing old feeling. “What is it, Michael? Are you okay? Are your, uh, plans changing?” Not again. It couldn’t be.

A long-time news photographer, Lucy’s well-trained eye quickly scanned the digital scene before her. His context would tell the story. The setting was not Michael’s office in Manhattan or their dining room table in Brooklyn. Thick, peeling layers of paint—military green, bone gray, and umber the color of faded blood—provided a grim backdrop. The edge of a chipped Cyrillic-inscribed sign hung in a dark top corner of the frame.

Michael Burleson was not in New York.

He was not on this continent.

He was not coming to the ranch.

“Where the hell are you?” she demanded. “Obviously not packing for your trip to Southern California to see your family. As promised!”

Michael took a deep breath. Lucy knew this was hard for him. She hoped to make it hell.

“Okay, let me explain. Out of nowhere, Jay Levinson, you know, the Bureau Chief—”

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“Give me a break. I know who he is. Our kids go to pre-school together.”

“Of course, sorry. This opportunity came up literarily overnight. You know how things move in this business. Boom. They’re opening a Fallujah office.”

Lucy was momentarily dumbfounded. She cleared her throat. “Did you actually say Fallujah? Like in Iraq?”

“Yes, well, we’re trying it out for six months. Just six months, a year max. They offered me the start-up, along with
two staffers I can choose. It’s a chance of a lifetime, babe. The network trusts me again. I have to take it, Luce. If this goes well, there may be an opening in Rome coming up. Until then, you, Henry, and I—we’ll live in the Middle East—just for a short stint. Would be an adventure.”

Lucy pressed her palms against her eyes. The network loved him again. His dark days and subsequent recovery from addiction added to his appeal. We journalists were vultures at our core.

She raised her head. “A decade and a half ago, before we met, I spent two weeks on assignment in Al Ambar province, stationed in Fallujah at the end of the war.”

“I know. I remember you telling me about it. I thought you might enjoy returning to see how it’s changed. Fallujah: Then and Now. Great subject for a photog.”

“Don’t patronize me.” Lucy shook her head. “We’d probably be living in the same walled compound I stayed in back then. Probably the same mortar rounds and bullet holes, plus some new ones pocking the damn walls. Am I right?”

“Well, maybe, yeah. But it’s not so bad anymore. It’s a different time. That’s why the network’s coming back in. There’s a great city market and even a new mall. Lots of American Goods.”

Lucy’s laugh was scornful. “Despite the Islamic Republic’s PR machine, women are still treated like crap. And every other person on the street in that city is probably still suffering from PTSD. Henry can play in fields where IEDs are left over from the last incursion.”

“Lucy, I’m so sorry to drop this on you.” He twitched in his chair. “But things are way better here now. Truly. Six months will go by in no time.”

“The Iraqis, apart from their politicians, are an incredibly kind and hospitable people. But things can go south there in the blink of an eye.” She stood and began to pace, wanting to run away, then gritted her teeth and sat back down. “But it’s not about Iraq. It could be anywhere. It’s about something more fundamental.” She pressed her fingers to her temples. “I can’t trust any kind of commitment from you, can I?” His inability to show up for her and their son told the whole story. “All we wanted was two weeks of your precious time. Two! Life is short. God only knows what we have left.” Lucy turned away. Her thoughts skittered to a dark corner of her experience—to the accident, and to her uncle’s murder.

“Honey, this is just a one-off thing.” His face said he wasn’t sure at all that was true. A young man in military garb interrupted to hand Michael a stack of papers.

Lucy shook her head again, dismayed. “I gave up everything and moved to the East Coast so we could have a chance at being a normal family. Hurting me is awful, but lying to your son is inexcusable.” Her hand slapped the table; the laptop bounced. She was tempted to throw it across the room.

“Things between us have been so good,” Michael said. “We can make this work, Luce. Give it a chance.”

“I’m not your news groupie. I thought you finally had your priorities right. That family was first. You promised that. What a fool I’ve been. People never change.” Why couldn’t she just say I’m done.

“Lucy, I…”

She heard the screen door slam and the pounding of little feet on the Saltillo-tiled kitchen floor. Henry, their beautiful boy with the same translucent eyes and brown curls as his dad, burst onto the porch. Her broken heart ached in her chest. “Mommy, mommy! Odin’s sick. Bit by a snake. In the leg. Needs a shot.”

“What are you talking about, honey?”

The screen door slammed again and in came Alyssa, Lucy’s teenage goddaughter who sometimes helped with childcare. “Your horse was bitten by a rattler,” she said, out of breath. “Cody’s on the phone with the vet right now.”

Odin, a twenty-three-year-old brown and white American Paint horse, had been Lucy’s beloved companion since she was fifteen. Over the years, he’d saved her life in so many ways. She couldn’t lose him, too. Lucy’s chest tightened with dread.

“Alyssa, can you stay with Henry while he talks to his dad?”

“Of course.” The girl slid onto the chair next to Henry, who was already chatting away with his father.

Terrified and upset, Lucy raced to the paddock.

Sue Hinkin is the author of the award-winning thriller series, The Vega & Middleton Novels, featuring the investigative team of Los Angeles TV news journalist Bea Jackson and best friend, photographer Lucy Vega. A former cinematography fellow at the American Film Institute, Hinkin has worked in higher education and as one of the first female TV news photographers. Now living in Colorado, she is active in the Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers as well as Sisters in Crime and the Rocky Mountain Chapter of Mystery Writers of America. Find out more at www.suehinkin.com.