Excerpt: Moments We Forget by Beth K. Vogt

I had half an hour, no more than that, to get my life in order so my sisters would never suspect how unprepared I was for this morning.

I kicked the back door shut, dumping the plastic grocery bags onto the kitchen counter, easing the ache in my arms. If Johanna were hosting this morning, she’d have something homemade baking in her oven, the appealing aroma filling her immaculate kitchen.

Well, one thing was for certain—I was not Johanna.

Winston’s frantic barks sounded from upstairs. Seconds later, he was scampering around my feet, his sudden appearance meaning I’d forgotten to lock him in his kennel. Again.

“Bad dog.” A halfhearted reprimand. “You’re not supposed to be down here.”

I pulled items from the plastic bags. Please don’t let me have forgotten anything during my mad dash through the grocery store.

Cream for Johanna’s and my coffee—although she was going to have to make do with my Keurig coffeemaker, not French press.

A small box of sugar so Payton could enjoy her coffee with the preferred three heaping spoonfuls per cup.

A premade fruit salad.

Blueberry muffins.

Keurig pods.

Nothing fancy. But at least I wouldn’t look like a complete failure.

I suppose to a casual observer, Johanna, Payton, and I—the three remaining Thatcher sisters—appeared successful. And yet, while we might claim certain professional and romantic achievements, we still struggled to find our way as sisters.

At times Pepper’s words—the ones Payton had shared with Johanna and me several months ago—seemed more of a taunt than an encouragement.

“Sometimes you just have to forget all the other stuff and remember we’re sisters.”

Shouldn’t a role you acquired at birth be simple? Something you learned to do, along with walking and talking and navigating adolescence?

But then Pepper’s death at sixteen splintered our already-precarious bonds.

I selected three mugs from a kitchen cupboard. This was no time to try to unravel the complicated dynamics between me, Johanna, and Payton—not when they’d be here any minute. And not with so much riding on this morning.

It’s funny how much hope people put into a cup of coffee.

Social media—Facebook and Instagram and Twitter and Pinterest and even millions of people’s text messages around the world—overflow daily with memes and GIFs lauding the miracle qualities of coffee.

Coffee is the gasoline of life.

All I need is coffee and mascara.

Behind every successful person is a substantial amount of coffee.

I drink coffee for your protection.

Drink coffee and do good.

And now . . . now coffee would be the glue that bonded the three of us together.

Coffee and a book, if Payton’s latest “we should do this!” idea succeeded.

Despite our determination to try to be better sisters—to overcome the damage to our relationships caused by Pepper’s death . . . and secrets . . . and not knowing how to even relax with one another—it was all too easy to succumb to a lifetime of bad habits.

Of course, I knew my given position in the Thatcher sisters, volunteering to have our first Saturday morning book club meeting at my house. There were times I doubted that I’d ever get my “Is everybody happy?” theme song out of my head.

It didn’t matter that I had a full-time job. That I battled unrelenting fatigue. That Geoff and I were starting renovations on our house next week. I laughed and brushed off their multiple “We can do this, Jillian,” offers with lighthearted responses of “I’m good. Really. This isn’t a problem at all.”

And then I’d resorted to a last-minute trip to the grocery store for premade options for this morning’s breakfast.

“A girl has to do what a girl has to do” was fast becoming my mantra. Only I was doing less and less and hoping to get by.

Winston scratched at the back door leading from the kitchen to the yard, distracting me from my musings on the power of caffeine mixed with a heavy dose of self-doubt.

I bent down and ruffled his white ears before opening the door. “Sorry to leave you sitting there.”

A knock at the front door signaled the arrival of one sister—most likely Johanna, who was always early.

She greeted me with a quick hug, setting her leather purse and her book on the small oak table Geoff and I kept by the front door. At least she’d brought her copy of the book we’d chosen. The question was, had she read it?

“Good to see you, Joey. How are you?”

“Tired.” Johanna slipped off her leather sandals, looking trim in black capris and a red flowing top with cutout shoulders. “Between my work and Beckett’s schedule at the academy, life’s crazy.”

“Still, it must be nice having him in the same state at least.”

“He might as well have kept his original assignment in Alabama. The superintendent at the academy keeps him so busy dealing with speeches and briefings and I don’t know what else, we barely see each other.”

“But you see him more than you did when he lived in another state, right?” And not seeing each other was the norm for Beckett and Johanna.

“I’m not keeping track of hours and minutes.”

“One thing I know is you and Beckett can do this. You’ve managed a long-distance relationship for years, which means you can manage crazy hours with both of you living in the same town. I remember how excited you both were the weekend he drove into the Springs.”

“You’re right, Jilly. I’m still getting used to this new phase. It was so sudden.”

“Why don’t you go make a cup of coffee? I apologize that it’s from a plastic pod and not your preferred French press. But I do have cream . . .” Had I taken the time to put it in the fridge? Payton pulled up in front of the house as I started to close the door. “I’ll wait here for Payton.”

“Sounds good.” My oldest sister disappeared in a light cloud of her Coco perfume.

Payton released her long auburn hair from its ponytail as she half ran up the sidewalk. “Hey!”

“No need to run—you’re not late.”

“I lost track of time.” She shook her head, strands falling around her shoulders.

“Well, come on in.” We shared a quick hug. “Do you want coffee or water?”

“Both sound great. I’m dehydrated and undercaffeinated—a bad combination, especially if I want to get along with Johanna this morning.”

“Don’t start.” I resisted the urge to shake my finger at Payton.

“It was a joke.”

In the kitchen, Johanna had arranged the fresh-from-a-plastic-container muffins onto a plate. The premade fruit salad now sat on the counter in a white ceramic bowl.

“Thanks.” I retrieved a serving spoon from the drawer. “I could have done that.”

“I figured I would make myself useful while I waited for my coffee.” She gave Payton a slow once-over. “Did you just come from the gym?”

“Technically, yes, but I was coaching, not working out. I met one of my JV girls for a private lesson. She wanted to work on blocking.” She raised both hands, waving aside her explanation. “Sorry if you’re offended, big sister. I couldn’t shower if I wanted to be here close to on time.”

Johanna hadn’t commented on my casual attire of relaxed jeans and a navy-blue Broncos T-shirt—a well-loved gift from Dad. But Johanna and Payton would find something to bicker about even if they’d taken a vow of silence. And me? I would always be the designated driver of the emotional vehicle that carried our merry little trio.

Taken from Moments We Forget by Beth K. Vogt. Copyright © 2019. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved.

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About the Author:

Beth K. Vogt is a nonfiction author and editor who said she’d never write fiction. She’s the wife of an Air Force family physician (now in solo practice) who said she’d never marry a doctor—or anyone in the military. She’s a mom of four who said she’d never have kids. Now Beth believes God’s best often waits behind doors marked Never. Beth’s first novel for Tyndale House Publishers, Things I Never Told You, released in May 2018. Moments We Forget, book two in the Thatcher Sisters series, releases May 2019.

Beth is a 2016 Christy Award winner, a 2016 ACFW Carol Award winner, and a 2015 RITA Award finalist. Her 2014 novel, Somebody Like You, was one of Publishers Weekly’s Best Books of 2014. A November Bride was part of the Year of Weddings series by Zondervan. Having authored nine contemporary romance novels or novellas, Beth believes there’s more to happily ever after than the fairy tales tell us.

An established magazine writer and former editor of the leadership magazine for MOPS International, Beth blogs for Novel Academy and The Write Conversation and also enjoys speaking to writers’ groups and mentoring other writers. She lives in Colorado with her husband, Rob, who has adjusted to discussing the lives of imaginary people, and their youngest daughter, Christa, who loves to play volleyball and enjoys writing her own stories.

Connect with Beth through her website, Facebook, and Twitter.

Excerpt + Giveaway: When He Found Me by Victoria Bylin

Chapter 1

Shane Riley yanked his wet Levis out of a grimy washing machine, one of twenty or so in a Laundromat straight out of 1992. Ten years had passed since he’d set foot in a place like this one, but he’d been ambushed by an August thunderstorm while changing a flat tire on a desolate stretch of I-80.

He should have been in Los Angeles, warming up at third base with the Los Angeles Cougars. Instead he was on his way to Refuge, Wyoming, to take a job he didn’t want, driving an SUV he didn’t like, and worrying about his sister. He also limped when he got tired, the result of the car accident that had cost him the chance of a lifetime.

Given a choice, he would have stayed in Los Angeles and haunted his local gym, but he needed a job. Why it had to be in Wyoming, he didn’t know.

Why, God? Mentally, Shane raised a clenched fist to the empty sky. Four months ago he’d been the frontrunner for Rookie of the Year honors—a man with a future and a hope just like the Bible promised. Now his future was uncertain and his hope hung by the fragile thread of his torn ACL.

As he reached back into the washing machine for his socks, the glass door to the Laundromat swung wide. A small boy burst through the door, followed by a woman in her twenties carrying a Spiderman backpack and a grocery bag dripping water. About five-foot-six and rail thin, she had the look of a distance runner—or someone who didn’t eat enough. Brunette hair framed her high cheekbones and pretty face, but what most caught his eye was the faded red T-shirt from Venice Beach, his old stomping ground. When his gaze reached her feet, he saw a pair of worn-out Nikes. Next to her, the boy was barefoot.

The kid didn’t mind at all, but Shane did. No child should have to go without decent shoes. He’d done it, and he knew how it felt.

The woman led the boy to a row of orange plastic chairs and plopped down the backpack. “Wait here while I get the dryer started.”

“But I’m hungry—”

“Shoes first,” she said. “Then we’ll eat.”

“But—”

“Cody, listen.” She dropped to a crouch, making eye contact as she smoothed his shaggy blond hair. “It’s going to take a while for your shoes to dry. You only have one pair, so you can’t go stomping in mud puddles.”

The boy frowned. “It was a really big puddle.”

“I know, but—”

“I had to jump over it.”

Instead of becoming exasperated, the woman laughed. “I guess you did.”

The plastic bag in hand, she headed for the wall of steel dryers just as Shane arrived at the same wall with his wet clothes. She glanced at him, but only long enough to take in his unshaven jaw and the scar above his left eye.

The line marked where he had cut his head in the car accident—a freak crash caused by a deer leaping in front of his new Mustang GT in Malibu Canyon. His other scars—the ones that changed his life—were on his left knee and hidden by gray sweats. Until a week ago he had used a cane.

No one dressed up to go to a coin laundry, and Shane looked particularly disreputable after driving ten hours straight on nothing but coffee and sunflower seeds. She wouldn’t notice his first-rate haircut or smell the aftershave that came in a logoed bottle. She’d see road trash—a fitting assumption considering the first fifteen years of his life—but the description no longer fit. Signing with the Cougars had drastically changed his income and overall quality of life.

The woman kept her back to him, a signal she wanted nothing to do with a stranger. Shane wished his sister had as much common sense, but when it came to men, Daisy had no good judgment at all.

He blamed himself for that weakness. After their mother’s sudden death, they had been placed together in a foster home run by a high school baseball coach and his wife. While Shane’s life morphed into a Disney movie, Daisy stumbled badly. Several months ago, she had disappeared completely, so Shane had hired private detective Troy Ramsey to search for her.

In their last meeting, Troy had been blunt. “Give it up, Shane. If she wants to see you, she’ll call.”

But that was the point. She didn’t want to see him. He wanted to see her . . . He needed to see her to apologize for abandoning her when she needed him, calling her terrible names, and for bullying her with his so-called faith.

Frowning, he dug in his pocket for quarters for the dryer. Each coin bought him ten minutes of hot air, a quirk of fate that reminded him of the post-career counseling from Cougar management. Steve Dawes, a retired catcher, had pushed him to apply for the teaching job in Wyoming. Steve thought the change in scenery would do Shane good, and with his BA in history and a minor in education, he could teach with a substitute permit while he tested the waters of a new career.

“What else are you going to do, Riley? Sit around and feel sorry for yourself?”

Self-pity wasn’t Shane’s style—not at all. In Los Angeles he went to the gym five days a week. He ran until his knee hurt, then did push-ups, chin-ups, stretches, and crunches until his muscles screamed. He’d do whatever it took to return to major league baseball. Until then, he needed a job or he’d race through his savings. When the principal of Refuge High School offered him a one-semester contract, he took it. In February he planned to try out again for the Cougars.

A handful of coins bounced on the floor and rolled in a dozen directions. He turned and saw the woman picking up pennies, nickels, and dimes. Instinctively he bent to help her. His knee protested and he grimaced.

When their eyes met, she recoiled from his scowl, her nose wrinkling as if he smelled bad. “Thank you. But I can manage.”

He plucked a nickel from the lint below the dryer and slid it in her direction.

“Really,” she insisted. “I don’t need your help.”

Pain shot from his knee to his spine. Holding in a moan, he answered with a grunt. The woman’s mouth tensed, but Shane kept sweeping coins across the floor. Lint made a cloud of scented dust, a mix of cotton and dryer sheets that took him back to the summers he’d traveled with his mother and sister to craft fairs all over the country. He knew his way around a Laundromat, and he didn’t see a single quarter among the runaway coins.

“Mommy? Can I eat now?” The boy’s voice traveled the length of the storefront. He sounded close to starvation.

“Not yet,” the woman answered. Settling on her knees, she peered beneath a washing machine, then reached under it. Whatever she saw, she needed it badly enough to paw through an inch of dirt.

Shane dug in his pocket for quarters. As he put them in the woman’s dryer, he saw the boy’s shoes, one sole-up and the other on its side. They were canvas sneakers, wet from being rinsed, and the cheapest shoes a mother could buy. Even so, they were worn to the point of sadness. The rubber soles didn’t have a speck of tread, and the canvas had faded from black to gray. Only the laces were in good shape. Stark white except for traces of mud, they were brand new. As a boy, Shane had owned shoes just like them.

Jaw tight, he closed the door and dropped a dollar’s worth of quarters into the slot. As he pushed the Start button, the woman jumped to her feet. “What are you doing?”

“Turning on the dryer.”

Her cheeks flamed pink. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

“Why not?”

“They aren’t your shoes,” she said logically. “I can take care of myself.”

“I didn’t say you couldn’t.” But he’d been thinking it. He didn’t doubt this woman loved her son, but she had bought shoelaces because she couldn’t afford new shoes. How much were kids’ sneakers at Walmart? He didn’t know, but they couldn’t be much.

The woman lifted her chin, a defiant pose, but she had lint on her knees and a handful of dusty nickels and dimes, signs of her poverty. Even more obvious, she was twig-thin. Her leanness, he decided, had nothing to do with running, at least not the kind people did for exercise. She was skinny, defensive, and chasing down pennies. The combination reminded him of Daisy and he wished again he’d been caring instead of critical.

Next to them, the shoes clunked in an uneven rhythm. As the woman turned to the dryer, so did Shane. In the porthole window he saw the reflection of her face, softer now and composed as she turned to him.

“That was rude of me.” Eyes wide, she offered him a handful of coins. “I owe you a dollar.”

He held up a hand to stop her. “No, you don’t.”

“But—”

“Help someone else with it.”

Suddenly solemn, she nodded. “I will.”

He had to stop looking at her face, not because she reminded him of Daisy but because she didn’t. Daisy’s eyes were blue like his, and he and his sister shared their mother’s dark blond hair. This woman’s hair was the color of a brown leather jacket, and her eyes, also brown, were large, round, and deer-like. When her gaze flicked to the whitish scar over his left eye, her countenance softened yet again, raising her lips into a tiny smile born of kindness, maybe empathy.

“Mooommmmy!” The boy charged up the aisle made by the washing machines. When he reached the woman, he shoved the backpack into her hands. “I’m really hungry. Can I have just the fries?”

She slung the bag over her shoulder and took the child’s hand. “How about eating the hamburger first?”

“Now?”

“Right now,” she said, smiling at the boy. Her eyes were still filled with love when she looked at Shane. “Thank you again for the quarters.”

“My pleasure.”

Her son tugged on her arm, half dragging her to the plastic chairs by the front door. With nothing to do but wait for his clothes to dry, Shane went to the opposite end of the row, sat, and checked his phone for messages. He didn’t expect to hear from either Daisy or Troy, but he checked dozens of times per day. There was nothing of interest, so he read sports scores.

The woman opened a McDonald’s bag. Shane smelled burgers and fries and thought of all the meals he’d eaten on the road with his mother and Daisy. The woman gave the boy the hamburger, admonished him to chew, and ate a french fry. The boy polished off the burger, the rest of the fries, and the carton of milk, slurping to get the last drop. The woman gathered the trash and tossed it, glanced at her watch, and sat back down.

She’d eaten a french fry. That was it. The shoes would need at least twenty more minutes.

“Let’s play the alphabet game,” she said to her son. “I see a . . .” She glanced around the room. “An appliance.”

“What’s that?” the boy asked.

“A big word for washers and dryers. It’s your turn.”

Shane didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but he couldn’t avoid hearing the woman’s playful way with her son. She laughed at his silly jokes, tickled him for the letter T, and praised him when he said Z stood for zipper.

“Let’s do it again,” the boy insisted.

“Okay, but no repeating.”

Silently, Shane played along, stealing glances at the woman and boy. The game was pleasantly amusing until they got to the letter G. The boy searched the Laundromat for inspiration, then reached inside the backpack and pulled out a baseball mitt.

“Glove!” he shouted.

Shane swallowed hard, his fingers flexing as he savored the memory of soft leather fit to his palm. In high school, baseball had been his escape, his hope for a scholarship and a better life for himself and Daisy. Before the accident, he had called himself blessed. Now he felt betrayed. Frowning, he refreshed the scores on his phone. The Cougars were ahead 3-2. They had a shot at winning their division.

The woman’s laugh rose above the clunk-clunk of the shoes in the dryer. “Good job, Cody.”

“I’m hungry again.”

“We have apples in the room. That’ll be dessert.”

A french fry. Worn-out shoes. Crawling after a quarter. Yet she had a smile in her voice. Shane liked her and wished they were in Los Angeles so he could ask her to dinner, someplace fun with large portions. But they weren’t in Los Angeles. They were in an empty corner of Wyoming, and tomorrow he’d leave early for Refuge. He’d never see her again, but he wanted to do something to help her.

One of the dryers buzzed and the drum stopped turning. As the shoes thumped to a stop, she retrieved them and came back to her son. Shane listened as she wiggled the shoes on to his feet, making yet another game of tying the laces.

As the boy headed for the door, the woman followed him but stopped short of leaving. Instead she smiled at Shane. “Thanks again for the quarters.”

“It was nothing.”

“It helped.” She looked at him a second longer than necessary, then herded the boy to an old brown Bonneville with oxidized paint, a dented fender, and tires that were unexpectedly new. He’d noticed the car at the motel by the interstate, the same place he’d taken a room for the night. He wouldn’t invite her to dinner—he was certain she’d say no—but he could do something else for her. He could buy her son a pair of shoes.

Taken from When He Found Me by Victoria Bylin. Copyright © 2019. Used by permission of the author. All rights reserved.

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**The winner is Susanne M.! Please claim your prize within 72 hours or another random winner will be selected.**

About the Author:

Victoria Bylin is the author of 18 traditionally published romances. Known for tackling difficult subjects with great compassion, she delights in stories that shine the spotlight of God’s love on ordinary men and women facing realistic challenges.

She had one goal when she started her first novel: to finish a book-length manuscript, good or bad. That first effort will never see the light of day, but it led to a second manuscript and a sale to Harlequin Historical. Since then, she has written westerns and contemporary romances for both mainstream and Christian publishers, with Together With You winning the 2016 Inspirational Readers Choice Award for Best Contemporary.

In addition to being a writer, Victoria is a wife, mom, proud grandmother, and a dog-mom to a wacky Jack Russell Terrier. Originally from California, she and her husband currently make their home in Lexington, Kentucky. When she’s not writing, Victoria enjoys long walks, travel, and dark chocolate.

Connect with Victoria through her website, Facebook, Twitter, Goodreads, and BookBub.

Out of Darkness Excerpt + Giveaway

About the Story:

When her husband is killed by a car bomb on their wedding day, Elisabeth literally watches her dreams go up in smoke.  Three years later, she’s beginning to figure out life without Drew—with the help of his best friend and CIA partner Gabe. But Drew returns, and they must rebuild what was lost with international arms dealers on their trail and an ever shrinking list of people they can trust. Gabe should be at the top of that list, but his feelings for Elisabeth may stand in the way. All three of them end up in a fight for their lives that will test their loyalty to God, country, and each other.

Excerpt:

People pressed in around her, the same faces that had been smiling last week when Drew was at her side, except they’d traded in their festive colors for black and gray. Most of them simply hugged her and told her how sorry they were. Some cried too. A few tried to encourage her with well-intentioned but infuriating platitudes.

After hearing “he’s in a better place” one too many times, she wanted to scream. I don’t care! I want him here with me where he belongs.

“You look like you could use some fresh air.” Gabe’s hand cupped her elbow. “Wanna get out of here for a while?”

“Oh, I uh… I’m not sure I’m allowed to leave.”

“I don’t think anyone’s gonna try and stop you. And if they do, I’m packin’ heat.”

She let one corner of her mouth tilt up. “What about—?”

“I already cleared it with Mel and your mom. Let’s go.”

She didn’t argue. They went out the back doors, so she didn’t have to see the charred pavement across the street. He led her toward the little park and picnic shelter behind the church. Her heels dug into the dirt as they walked the path through the woods—which was more like fifteen or twenty trees grouped together, but had seemed like a forest when she and Drew played hide and seek there as kids.

Gabe laid his jacket down on the bench and gestured for her to sit. She arched an eyebrow. “Gabe, I could buy five of these dresses for what that suit cost.”

He rolled his eyes. “Would you please just sit? It’ll make me feel better… and it’s more like ten.”

She punched him lightly in the arm and sat, taking a deep breath. Everything felt lighter out here—like a harbor away from the storm. She closed her eyes and tipped her head back, feeling the breeze. Maybe hoping to catch just a whisper of Drew as it lifted her hair. But all she felt was Gabe.​

Giveaway:

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About the Author:

Erynn Newman is a pastor’s kid, raised in churches all over the Eastern Seaboard. Since earning her degree in Christian Studies, she has traveled the world and served as a missionary, a counselor, an ESL teacher, and a nanny. Though she has never worked with the CIA, her DVR contains a veritable Who’s Who of international spies. She is a Carolina girl, a wife, and Mama to a very busy little boy, two cats, and a gaggle of characters that live inside her head.

Connect with Erynn through her website, Facebook, and Twitter.

Purchase Out of Darkness and the prequel novella First Light on Amazon, or subscribe to Erynn’s newsletter to receive the novella for free.

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Excerpt: Operation Zulu Redemption – Part 4: Act of Treason

RFFTODGRThroughout the past few weeks, I have devoured Ronie Kendig’s Operation Zulu: Redemption. With shocking twists and turns at every corner, waiting for each new installment has been torture. On Friday, the final episode of season one, Act of Treason, will be released. You can pre-order it here so that it will hit your e-reader first thing on Friday. In the meantime, here is a sneak peek to wet your appetite. Enjoy!

Téyaacts-of-treason

Frankfurt, Germany

9 June – 2355 Hours

Téya glanced at The Turk, stunned and confused. Slowly, she swung her gaze back to the monitor. Every nerve ending buzzed. The man in the video was her stepfather. “How. . .?”

The Turk watched her in silence, holding her gaze but saying nothing.

“How is this possible? He died—six years ago.”

“His death was faked.”

Téya straightened, feeling as if a tidal wave of unbelievable information pummeled her. “Faked?” Mind ablaze with that revelation, her brain immediately leaped to—“My mom.”

The Turk’s expression didn’t change. “She died in that accident.”

“If he survived, then she—”

He took a step forward and squared his shoulders. “Your perceptions about the man who married your mother were borne of a cover story he fed your mother and you.”

“Cover story?” Téya felt as if a bucket of ice had been dumped down her back. “What are you—” She severed the question and her thought. Did he seriously expect her to believe anything he said? “You lure me in here, you deceive and lie to me—why would I believe you?”

Again, The Turk said nothing.

Téya’s heart still beat wildly, scrambling to iron out the truth. Sort the deluge of shattered facts about her life. “My sister. . .” Her mom married Georg Hostetler when Téya was only four. “All those years. . .”

The Turk took a step back. “We need to leave.”

Téya flinched, looking at him. His eyes weren’t brown as she’d thought. They had tinges of green and gold. And they were intense. And he wasn’t looking at her. She followed his gaze to a monitor that showed a throng of guards racing through the halls.

Alarms shrieked through the cement halls, screaming about their intrusion. Alerting everyone here and around the mountain.

A sharp hiss snapped her back to him. He stood out in the hall. When had he even opened the door? The dude was lightning fast. Téya bolted into the cement corridor after him. He moved fast, not waiting for her. Not checking on her. Téya told herself to stick close. She wouldn’t put it past him to leave her to the wolves.

What bothered her more was his skill in navigating the passages. He knew them. Knew them well.

Uncertainty poured through her as they banked right. Téya used the opposite wall to rebound and keep moving, propelling herself faster. She toyed with the idea of tackling him. Demanding information, an explanation. But those instincts were muddied by the out-of-left-field reappearance of her stepfather.

He’s here. I’m here. And I’m running.

She would love to go back and hammer the answers out of him, the explanation of how he survived. But something about the way The Turk stared at her. . .left her sick to her stomach and uncertain those answers would provide closure.

 


Have you followed Team Zulu’s journey so far? I’d love to hear your thoughts!