The Fall (53 page)

Gently, she reached across the aisle for Angela's hand and slowly turned it over to look at the brand and model, also noticing the results.

“How much do I owe you?” Angela said, reaching for her cash.

The lady gave her a smile and said, “Nothing, dear. This one's on the house. Congratulations.”

She thanked her and walked back out to the bike and sat there awhile, before riding to the ocean to look at the sunrise, just as she had done every night since deciding to accept Dago's summer job offer while her house was rebuilt up in Cocoa Beach.

The stars were starting to retreat when a streak of burnt orange forked skyward, as the eastern horizon became alive, dotted with distant vessels.

A new dawn.

Where she suddenly didn't feel alone anymore.

Angela left the bike, pulled off her boots, and walked barefoot on the cold sand, listening to seagulls, to the sound of the ocean, and the smell of the sea as the looming sun stained it with hues of yellow-gold, marking the start of a new day, of a new life.

She dropped to her knees, hugged her belly, and watched it through her tears.

*   *   *

He heard them come in the middle of the night.

Like they always did every full moon for as far back as he could remember, especially after the headaches subsided.

They came to purify him again, just as his wounds started to heal.

But this time it was different.

They had waited too long.

Perhaps they'd lost track of time after so many years. Or maybe the helicopters he'd heard flying overhead or the artillery thundering in the distance for the past several weeks had distracted them.

But they had eventually returned.

The door resisted, as it always did every time they tried to open it. The hinges were old, rusted, like the heavy metal door they connected to the concrete wall. But they gave with a loud creak, and he heard their footsteps as they walked in. Three of them. Always three of them. Waiting by the entrance with their leather straps.

None of them spoke, which was part of the ritual, as was their insistence for total silence. He wasn't allowed to make a sound, especially during the purification.

He did once, in the beginning, and the punishment had been so severe, he couldn't walk for nearly six months, according to the crude calendar he kept on the far wall, in the dark, where only he could see.

Turning around slowly, pretending to be hurt, signaling that his ribs, wrists, and ankles had not fully healed, he used his loose clothes to hide the slim muscles he had built through rigorous—and highly secretive—exercise for the past several weeks.

They seemed to relax at his visible weakness, as he staggered slowly toward them, hands trembling, his gaze on the stained concrete floor.

One of them, the older one who went by the name of Atash, grabbed him by the arm and began to fasten one of the leather straps they would use to snap his wrists.

In a single fluid move, he spun on instinct, yanking the three-foot-long leather belt from the startled Afghan and used it like a whip, smashing the heavy buckle into Atash's head while kicking the second man, Fahran, in the solar plexus. He collapsed gasping for air next to Atash while the third man, Jawid, reached for the AK-47 hanging from his broad shoulders.

But his hands never touched it before a palm-strike pushed his nose deep into his brain, triggering seizures.

He paused, staring at his captors in disbelief before looking at his own hands, not certain how he had moved this way or even where he had learned to do so.

But a deep desire to end the purifications had seized him, making him kick each of them across the temple with a force he knew would be hard enough to kill. And again he questioned how he knew that.

He checked their bodies, removing two daggers as well as a sash to holster them before picking up the Kalashnikov, marveled as his hands moved automatically, with trained precision, checking the safety, making sure a round was chambered even though he couldn't recall ever holding such a weapon.

Fascinated by his hidden skills, he walked out of the cell and made his way across a compound he'd never seen before even though he'd been imprisoned here for longer than he could keep track.

How long has it been?

Three years?

Longer?

He wasn't sure, just like he couldn't remember his name, or why he could kill so easily, but at the moment those skills could help him stop the pain.

Taking a deep breath of cold and fresh air while glancing at a star-filled sky, he instinctively began to look for guards, for sentries, for any sign of threat. But he found none in this small courtyard-like place, feeling cold sand in between his toes as he walked toward what looked like the only gate.

Where is everybody?

He didn't understand at first, but then realized it was very late, probably in the predawn hours, but the same voice told him he didn't need to understand why.

What
did
matter was taking advantage of the opportunity to unlock the gate and inch it open just enough to squeeze his slim frame through, before quietly closing it.

And just like that he was free, the mountains projecting skyward at the edge of the short valley.

He strapped the AK-47 across his shoulders and broke into a run, leaving the small village behind, feeling the wind in his face, once more gazing up at the stars, confused at the strange thoughts filling his mind—thoughts of falling from the heavens, vague memories of the Earth rushing up to meet him, of a parachute blossoming above him.

Reaching the thick vegetation beyond the narrow valley that led into a thick forest, he slowed down, his body automatically dropping to a deep crouch while his hands once again clutched the Kalashnikov, noticing how his shooting finger automatically rested on the trigger casing, feeling quite at ease surrounded by the woods.

His eyes drifted to the south, to the source of those helicopters and artillery rounds that he believed had given him the critical weeks to heal since the last purification.

Continuing up the side of a mountain, using the sporadic breaks in the thick canopy to check the stars for navigation—yet another thing that he just knew—he maintained a steady pace, making it down to a ravine that led to a pond fed by a narrow stream glistening under the moonlight.

Dropping to his knees by the sandy shore, he washed his face before getting his fill of cold water, breathing deeply, staring at his reflection in the rippling water.

He saw his hollow cheeks, his sunken eyes, touched his unkempt beard, his mind flashing images of a clean-shaven man in a strange suit surrounded by other men in lab coats tending to him.

But the images vanished as quickly as they appeared, like flashes of lightning, glimpses of his mysterious past, there one moment and gone the next, replaced by other disjointed images, other memories that also made no sense—memories that had grown vaguer with each purification cycle.

He stood and studied the stars again while scratching the side of his head, where his cranium had a slight indentation, the source of the headaches that had driven him almost mad in the beginning. Hair eventually grew over that old wound—a wound that like so many other things, he couldn't remember getting.

But a voice deep inside of him told him that the clues were all there, locked deep inside, and just as his muscles remembered, his mind would soon follow. He just needed to trust it, like how he now trusted his hands clutching the AK-47 and his legs bending halfway as he walked mostly on the balls of his feet, devoid of all noise, using the big toe of his leading foot to feel the terrain ahead in the darkness before shifting his weight forward.

As the first beams of light pierced the eastern sky to his far left, he spotted the compound in the vast valley below him, watching the large camouflaged helicopters beyond the tall chain-link fence.

Slowly, with caution, he spent a few hours following an old goat path veering down the southern face of the mountain, reaching a gravel road that snaked its way around boulders and clusters of trees toward the gated entrance of the compound, now thriving with activity under a mid-morning sun, as helicopters took off and landed, as troops moved about the place, some on foot, others on Humvees.

He hesitated leaving the protection of the woods, choosing instead to inspect it for some time from a safe distance, watching the men guarding the gate, all armed with U.S Army standard-issue M-17 SCAR-H rifles. And again, he had no idea how he knew that.

But somehow he knew he might want to approach them, though he wasn't certain when it would be the right time to do so. A part of him dreaded losing his newly acquired freedom, feared walking right into another cell, into another group of captors. And more purifica—

The shock wave from the sudden explosions pushed him back, and he landed on the ground, confused, momentarily stunned.

He heard cries, shouts, and alarms as the compound came under attack from an unseen enemy, at least not visible from his vantage point.

Helicopters exploded, men ran to their battle stations to return the fire, aimed high, at the cliffs to his far right, blocked by the forest protecting him.

The battle raged, buildings caught fire, attack helicopters took flight, swooping above him, their downwash swaying the forest canopy. Soldiers jumped on Humvees and scrambled out of the compound, their engines roaring as they sped by the road just fifty feet from him in the direction of the threat. Other soldiers remained inside fighting back, their machine guns reverberating, echoing across the valley.

The same voice that had urged him to find a way to stop the purifications now screamed at him to get back into the forest.

Slowly, he did, walking away from the intense battle, losing sight of it as he obeyed the voice, immersing himself in the woods, where he would be safe, where he would have time to think, to remember, to piece together the fragments of his obscured past.

Perhaps he would recall where he came from, who he was, why he ended up here, and maybe, just maybe, even remember the name of the woman who would sometimes visit him in his dreams, the one who would tell him to go on, to be strong, to never give up and find a way back to her.

The one who called him Jack.

 

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Peter Wolverton, editor in chief of Thomas Dunne Books, and Brendan Deneen, head of Macmillan Entertainment, came up with the idea for this book, developing it into a terrific synopsis about a man who jumps from the uppermost reaches of the atmosphere and vanishes during reentry, landing on an alternate Earth, where he died five years earlier. What a wild ride! I was spellbound by the outline, thrilled to be tapped to write the book, and honored to have worked with such pros. Thanks for taking a chance with me, guys. A special thanks goes to Brendan for your continued support and confidence. Every author should be so lucky.

Matt Bialer, my super agent at Sanford J. Greenburger, who discovered me over a quarter of a century ago. Thanks for sticking by my side ever since, for your unflagging support and guidance, for sharing your amazing artistic talents—from watercolors to photography and poems—and for getting me connected with Pete and Brendan.

Nicole Sohl, Associate Editor at Macmillan Entertainment, for your diligence and consideration during editing and production. It is much appreciated and recognized.

Bob Gleason, although not involved with this project, for teaching me what it means to be a novelist while pushing me to hammer out the best books I could for over two decades.

Dr. Cameron M. Smith, professor of anthropology at Portland State University, who in addition to digging for fossils in Africa and launching solo voyages in the Arctic, actually built and tested a DIY functional space suit on a shoestring budget. Your adventurous life and your efforts to democratize space travel are an inspiration. Thanks for taking the time to review the manuscript and for your very insightful feedback.

The hero of the story, Jack Taylor, is a former U.S. Navy SEAL. Special thanks go to a retired U.S. Navy SEAL who prefers to remain anonymous, for your candid feedback when I got it wrong and for doing your best to keep me honest.

Many thanks go to my personal proofreaders, Linda Wiltz, Michael Wiltz, and my wife, Lory.

Last but not least, a tip of the hat to my son, Cameron. Your dad is very proud of the man you have become.

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

R. J. PINEIRO
is the author of many internationally acclaimed novels, including
Shutdown
,
Firewall
,
Cyberterror
, and
Havoc
, as well as the millennium thrillers
01-01-00
and
Y2K
. He makes his home in central Texas, where he lives with his wife, Lory Anne, and his son, Cameron. You can sign up for email updates
here
.

 

ALSO BY
R. J. PINEIRO