Page 1 of Saving Grace

Prologue

LOUISA

The flat stone roof beneath my bare feet is hot. Sweat trickles down my spine, sending the worst kind of shiver after it. The air is spice, rancid, and barreling down my throat with each breath.

I’ve been here before.

A voyeur to this recurring nightmare, featuring my son.

This time—it’s different.

Yelling in the streets drifts to the rooftop I’m standing on. Words I don’t understand; the tone and sentiment I do.

Military vehicles roll into the street. Smoke follows. Like it always does. A gust wraps my threadbare cotton nightgown around, tangling it between my legs. I’m trapped.

Forced to witness this every night.

I know what happens next. The gibberish on the street gives way to English. The sound of his voice closes in. Any minute now, I will turn back to see him push through the door to the roof with weapons drawn. Every inch of him covered in camo. But those eyes are the deep blue of my husband’s. That face, my own. That smile, not that it is used over here often, hidden; I know it will bloom like Harry’s when he is happy.

My throat closes over, a visceral reaction to seeing my child in uniform, and I can’t take my eyes off him. All business, he makes his way to the short wall at the edge of the building, his spotter close behind him.

The radio on his shoulder squawks, and he snaps a reply, head swiveling.

He’s alert. Good.

His voice an altered, more velvet version of his Pa. Burning prickles behind my eyes. Wetness tracks across my temple and into my hair. This is the part of a mother’s love that burns.

The brakes on the vehicles below whine and they roll to a stop. Mackinlay drops his gear and starts unbagging a rifle. I know what he’s about to do. I know he must do it.

Still, heat rushes my chest, and bile crawls upward.

His spotter sets up his equipment, somewhat covered by the undulating half walls with gaps every three feet. His tripod supports a device akin to a video camera. Both boys have their faces painted. They work in silence, communicating only by looks and gestures.

Settling on his stomach, Mack tucks the rifle into his side, eyeing down the naked barrel. He plucks a smaller, long pack from his gear bag. One-handed, he pulls the scope from its nestled spot and slides it into the guard on top of the rifle.

“Gun up.”

“Spotter up,” the young man says behind him. I suppress the urge to look at him, not willing to let my gaze wander from my own flesh and blood.

“Hold.” A harsh voice scratches back across the radio.

A soft click at the dial as his hand brushes over it, and he shuffles closer, spreading his legs wide, whispering something that sounds like a small prayer.

I clutch my hands over my chest. Closing my eyes, I say a prayer of my own to make sure my child makes it home,wherever that is for these boys this time, tonight. Knowing full well that whoever is at the end of my son’s crosshairs won’t.

That familiar burn flares in my core. That part of being a parent that smarts.

Selfishly, I ignore it, mesmerized by his hands that adjust the dial with soft clicks.

Gunshots ring out below.

Harsh voices echo over the radio at his shoulder. He doesn’t flinch. Not moving in the slightest.

“Breach!”

More gunshots.

Screaming starts.

---