Derek Monsoon: And the Magical Mist

By Mike Layne

Derek Monsoon is the quiet teenage son of a well-respected pediatrician and one of the world’s most foremost heart surgeons, a workaholic born and raised in in a small African village in the Democratic Republic of Congo. When his father plans a trip for him to the Congo with a group of other kids, Derek thinks he is just trying to get rid of him for a few weeks. But as he heads to Africa, Derek has no idea of the adventure that lies ahead.

Derek and his young travel companions have nothing in common. When they arrive in the Congo, their mystical powers are unveiled, helping them to develop their strengths and ultimately become part of a legend necessary to save the Virunga National Park from poachers. As the teens face danger and death, they bond through their many challenges while risking their lives to save each other. Now opportunity and the truth await Derek. Will he grow into the powerful leader he was born to be and claim his true destiny?

In this entertaining fantasy adventure, a teenager travels from America to the Congo where he and his travel companions must use their newly-discovered powers to save a national park from poachers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Jan 16, 2019
• ISBN: 9781480871953

Mike Layne

Mike Layne enjoys reading, writing, telling stories, and spending time outdoors. He was raised in Idaho and now resides in Utah. Derek Monsoon and the Magical Mist is his debut novel.

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DEREK MONSOON

AND THE MAGICAL MIST

MIKE LAYNE

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Copyright © 2018 Mike Layne.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Archway Publishing

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.archwaypublishing.com

1 [phone]

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-4808-7196-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-7197-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-7195-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018914905

Archway Publishing rev. date: 12/27/2018

CONTENTS

Prologue

1   Rural Oklahoma

2   Little Falls, Minnesota

3   Chicago, Illinois

4   New York City

5   Oklahoma City Airport

6   Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport

7   O’hare International Airport

8   John F. Kennedy International Airport

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10

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12   Main Camp

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56

To my mother. Thank you for teaching me love, faith, hard

work, persistence, compassion, understanding, forgiveness,

and a little bit of crazy. Without these, I would be nothing.

All my love,

Mike

PROLOGUE

Look at the size of him, Raz whispered in his heavy African accent as he peered through the Swarovski 12×50 high-power scope mounted on his elephant gun. Though over three hundred yards away, the massive bull elephant appeared to be close enough to touch.

The tusks must be six feet long, Maleek answered in a nervous hushed whisper. We will get a good price for them.

Raz wiped the sweat from his brow. The sleeveless, camouflage green army shirt revealed massive arms and chiseled shoulders, both leathered from long days under the savanna sun. The jagged scar across his left cheek revealed a man who was not afraid of a fight. Rumor was he had gotten the scar in a fight with a mountain gorilla, but no one really knew its origin. His broad shoulders, six-foot-three frame, and angry demeanor made people believe that he would actually fight a gorilla—and just may win. Raz never talked about it, and he once killed a man for asking the story behind the scar. He knew the scar only put fear in the hearts of those who worked with him—men without a sliver of a conscious.

The two men had been on the trail of the bull elephant for over a week before being presented this perfect opportunity to kill—illegally kill, but kill nonetheless. Poaching animals was what they were paid to do, and they did it very well.

Raz was born in the Virunga; he had lived his entire thirty-five years in the untamed mountains and savage jungle. He was Bantu and proud of it, yet not too proud to kill and ravage the land in which he was born. The land and lifestyle had hardened him from a young age. Animals of the Virunga were special to some—most locals, actually—but to a man like Raz, they were a means to a profitable life. Hunting, legal or not, was more than a part of him; it consumed him.

Most hunters enjoyed the hunt—the primal feeling of tracking another, more powerful, mammal using one’s wits and working to survive and win the game of life or death, hide and seek, in the wild or foreign environment. Home field advantage against the hunter provided the thrill. But not for Raz; he enjoyed the kill—and only the kill.

Maleek took a deep breath and looked at Raz. We have been hunting him for a week, and we now see him in the wide open, waiting to be killed.

Luck is on our side, Raz bragged. I will take luck over hard work any day.

Maleek looked toward the horizon as the sun was beginning to set, sending a magnificent fire down from the heavens and casting shadows across the savanna, indicating the survival of another day in the jungle. In most places, survival was just how the days went; in the African jungle, surviving another day was quite an accomplishment.

The wind blew, causing the leaves on the trees to rustle. The African bush elephant raised his head and looked around. He paused as he scanned for the trouble he somehow sensed. Fearing nothing, and having only one natural predator, man, the bull deemed the area safe and cautiously moved from the edge of the trees into the open grass.

The savanna was home to several animals; it provided food in the form of grass and, mostly, in the form of other animals. Out here, it has always been and will always be survival of the fittest. The lion may be king of the jungle, and the adult African elephant the fittest, but men like Raz ruled with reckless abandon and a ruthless lack of respect for anything and anyone.

Maleek, being new to the killing game, stared at Raz with wonder and fear for the man twenty years his elder and twice his size and strength. The son of poor farmers from a local community had hooked up with Raz after witnessing the poaching of a zebra for the few thousand dollars its striped pelt would bring. The fact that it had a few scars from surviving a lion attack only added to the value. Maleek learned he could make more from one pelt than he could from working in the fields for an entire year. The rewards of killing innocent animals for money far outweighed the risks, mostly because the understaffed Congo rangers were killed if they got in the way of the ruthless poachers.

Being home to over two hundred mammals, seven hundred species of birds, one hundred reptiles, and almost a hundred amphibians, the Virunga was the perfect setting for hunting. The rangers did what they could to protect the wildlife, but they could never do enough.

Although Maleek enjoyed the hunting and the money, he did not enjoy killing the animals. Because of this, he always let some of the locals know when there was about to be a kill so that they could at least take the meat and feed a starving family. This was risky for him; if Raz knew, Maleek would be killed instantly. He did it only to help ease his conscience and make him believe that there was a little good that would come from his unjust killing.

The two men dressed in their camouflage army gear paused and looked around at the beautifully rugged backdrop framed in by the fire-breathing sun and the western mountains of Virunga National Park. They breathed in the fresh mountain air and watched as the bull lowered his head and lumbered forward.

Do you ever wonder if it’s worth it? Maleek asked.

Worth what? Are you growing weak?

No! I mean only that we were born here. We were raised here. Maleek raised an arm and pointed toward the vast expanse of land. This is our homeland, and yet we choose to rape the land and its valuable resources.

Raz reached out with his massive calloused hand and motioned for Maleek to come closer as if he were about to whisper the secret of life into Maleek’s ear. Maleek silently and cautiously moved toward Raz.

Raz aggressively grabbed Maleek by the neck and yanked him to within inches of himself. Maleek trembled with fear as he smelled the stink of Raz’s breath and felt the chill of his deathly glare.

Raz whispered low and deep with the voice of the devil himself, I rape the land. I take what is mine. I do not question. He breathed deeply and blew his raunchy breath directly into the face of Maleek. If you are not man enough for this, I can kill you just as easily as you will kill that bull!

Raz pushed Maleek away and let out a low and eerie laugh.

Maleek took the elephant gun and lay on the ground, pointing directly at the massive elephant. He glanced in the direction of Raz, who nodded in the direction of the elephant.

Hurry up! If we let this one get away, the boss will kill us both, Raz snarled. Well, he will at least kill you.

In the distance, the powerful roar of a lion broke the silence. The roar seemed to echo throughout the hills and valleys of the entire Virunga.

The bull elephant raised his head and turned toward the two men.

Now, before the lion spooks him!

Narrow-tailed starlings, gray-throated barbets, and yellow-billed barbets joined in the chorus of shrills and shrieks of the many species of African birds warning the animal of danger. Although they were enemies in the wild, it seemed that the animals came together to defend each other from the vicious and needless brutality forced on them at the hands of evil men.

The lion roared again as if his first warning had not been heeded. The elephant sensed the danger and made a surprisingly quick and powerful departure from the grassy landscape, moving toward the protective arms of the dense brush hugging the hardwood trees.

Maleek watched the elephant pick up speed as it approached the trees. He centered the crosshairs on the shoulder of the colossal mammal. He took a deep breath and held it for stability. He then raised the crosshairs to just above the animal and squeezed the trigger.

The elephant crashed through the trees as the powerful slug shattered a branch just above its shoulders. As if magic, the enormous beast disappeared into the seemingly impenetrable wall of foliage.

Raz slapped Maleek on the head and ripped the weapon out of his hands. Imbecile! He scanned the trees for signs of the prey that had gotten away. Seeing nothing, his anger swelled. He turned and pointed the rifle at Maleek, who threw his hands in the air and stepped backward, tripping over a fallen log.

Raz rushed toward his fallen comrade and put the barrel of the gun right between the fear-filled eyes of Maleek.

Once again, the powerful lion called out, and the jungle answered with howls, shrieks, and hauntingly shrill screeches.

Raz looked away from Maleek and into the jungle, examining the surrounding forest; he felt a cutting chill roll down his spine. He sniffed the air as if he could smell danger. He quickly snatched his army-green backpack from the ground and turned to the woods.

We should be cutting the tusks off of that thing and hauling them back to the jeep! Your incompetence cost us thousands. Raz marched angrily into the forest. The boss will deal with you.

Maleek took a deep breath and picked himself up off the ground. He inspected the area and quickly followed.

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Raz furiously exited the jungle and approached their mode of transportation—a 1941 Willys jeep. Designed for rugged mountainous areas, the Willys jeep, compliments of the US Army, unbeknownst to them, was the perfect vehicle for poachers. It allowed them access to areas that others would not dare enter without the services of armed escorts—areas that were very profitable hunting grounds. The small but powerful four-wheel-drive vehicles had engines that, although old, were very reliable and easy to fix and maintain, and the jeep came already camouflaged to the environment.

Maleek exited the forest as Raz threw his backpack into the backseat of the beaten-up jeep.

My aim was true. That lion spooked him as I pulled the trigger, Maleek justified.

You missed on purpose. No one could miss at that range.

That lion … I have heard that call before. Have you not?

Raz looked at Maleek knowingly and laid the rifle in the backseat next to his backpack. He then met Maleek toe-to-toe behind the jeep. Putting his finger in Maleek’s chest, he spoke with fire. That lion is nothing. You think you recognize the voice of one lion among the hundreds in the jungle, but you are wrong.

What about the legend? You know of the legend. You have heard the stories firsthand. I have an uncle who witnessed—

The forest suddenly grew noisy and active, with animals calling out, birds screeching, and monkeys rattling branches. Even the elephants were trumpeting as if warning the two poachers that they were about to become victims rather than victimizers. Maleek and Raz felt something in the air—something powerful beyond measure. Raz, although he would never admit it, had felt this feeling before, once. It was the only time he remembered feeling pure fear. He and Maleek fell silent as the animals talked loudly and confidently.

Then, as quickly as it had started, the chatter stopped and the jungle once again grew impressively silent.

Your uncle witnessed nothing, Raz said, abruptly interrupting the silence. Those who believe the legend have the mind of a child, weak and scared—

The lion’s powerful roar stopped Raz midsentence. The roar came from a few feet in front of the army vehicle. Maleek, frozen with fear, stared at the trees directly in front of him, his fingers gripping the back end of the jeep so hard he thought he might leave dents in the steel. Raz reached for the gun in the back of the jeep.

The lion, the biggest either man had ever seen, came out of the trees with the raw power and confidence of the king of the jungle. The roar echoed throughout the entire Virunga and deep into the heart of Maleek. Raz, however, accepted the challenge as his fingers touched the rifle; he grasped the barrel and pulled the gun to him.

The lion showed nothing but energy and accepted the challenge, leaping fiercely onto the hood of the jeep. Calling again to the jungle, he raised his head and roared long and loud. His mane flowed graciously, like the cape of the royal ruler he knew he was.

Raz backed away and raised the heavy rifle to his shoulder. Before he could get it into a position he could fire from effectively, the lion hurdled the rest of the jeep and was inches from Raz in milliseconds. The gun fired a round that hit the back of the jeep, inches from the hand of Maleek, who, in spite of the quarter-sized hole next to his hand, did not move a muscle. The gun then fell to the ground as Raz turned to run, tripping on the uneven ground. He rolled onto his back and came face-to-face with the legend. The lion sized him up from top to bottom as if deciding whether this piece of so-called human was worth the time and effort of killing, just for the fun of killing.

The sun was setting lower, and the darkness was beginning to rule as the jungle once again came alive with the voices of animals seemingly egging on their king, wanting him to rid them of the evil that was Raz.

With his face inches from the lion’s, Raz was not so brave. He felt the urine run down his leg as the lion sniffed the air. Sensing that his mission had been accomplished, the lion stared into the soul of Raz and let out a low guttural growl that would haunt even the best and bravest of humankind. The growl seemed to last forever.

The lion turned his head ever so slightly toward Maleek, who was still glued to the jeep, and their eyes locked as if they were entranced with each other. The lion raised his head and let out the most powerful roar the jungle had ever heard as if to say, This is my kingdom, and I will protect it. You are warned.

The jungle then fell silent. The poachers were scared beyond the boundaries that mortal man thought possible.

Raz watched as the lion leapt toward the jungle with powerful strides, and then, as the lion entered the jungle, Raz blinked in fear and astonishment. Had his eyes betrayed him? Was the legend true?

The lion morphed from the most powerful and intimidating king of the jungle into something few would ever see and live to tell about.

As the lion disappeared into the jungle, it appeared as though it morphed into a man.

1

RURAL OKLAHOMA

Come on, J. T., dance with me, Jesica begged as Jason Aldean’s Dirt Road Anthem blared from the speakers of the Ford F-150. In typical high school fashion, the music was as loud as possible.

I’m not in the mood, Jonathan Thomas Jr. said distractedly. Known as J. T. to everyone who had ever met him, Jonathan Jr. was starting the summer after his junior year, and he was doing it right, with a big party far from the reaches of his overly busy father, surrounded by classmates who actually cared about him.

J. T., you never wanna dance. All you ever wanna do is play football and party, Jesica stated matter-of-factly.

J. T. grabbed her and twirled her around. Pulling her in closely, he planted a passionate kiss on her luscious lips. Jesica blushed and playfully slapped him on the shoulder. She then brushed the shoulder of his navy-blue and white letterman jacket. She adjusted the medals on the left side of his chest. J. T. wasn’t just popular; at Colonial High School, he was the man. He stood six feet four inches tall, had square shoulders, and was good looking and outgoing. He had wavy dark brown hair with matching dark brown eyes, and a dimpled smile that would make every girl at the school swoon. And he knew it.

Ease up, girl, the party’s just getting started. J. T. knuckle bumped his best friend and cohort Alan Kendrick, who went by A. K. for short.

A. K., I love this truck. J. T. walked around and admired the navy-blue F-150.

School colors; gotta show my pride in my ride, A. K. bragged.

His beautiful blonde girlfriend, Devyn, cut him off before he could go on any more about his truck. You mean show off your daddy’s money, she joked.

Come on, Dev. You know I put in work for this beauty. A. K. pulled Devyn in and kissed her. Just like I put in work for you, babe.

It is a nice truck, but I’ll stick with my motorcycle. You can’t beat a Yamaha, J. T. pointed out.

The party rolled on. High school kids drank and danced to the louder-than-necessary country music. The rolling mountains and the dirt roads were the only witnesses to the adolescent celebration, and they wouldn’t tell anyone. They had been the only witnesses to parties for years. The seclusion and distance of Friar’s Bluff made for the perfect getaway.

In fact, most of the kids’ parents had partied at this very spot when they were in high school.

Two roads led to the area, which featured rolling hills to hide behind, trees under which young love could blossom, and even a bridge down the red dirt road that offered a romantic view of the man-made lake. It was more of a swamp than a lake, however, and the bridge was barely wide enough for one vehicle at a time, which had proven problematic time and time again. If you didn’t time it right and got too cocky, you could easily end up in the mucky water, hence the nickname the pit.

It had been a good year for J. T. The quarterback had led the football team to second place in the state tournament. Although he ran for a touchdown and threw for two more they lost to their rival, Juniper Heights High School, which still burned J. T. He had already made plans to rectify that as soon as the season started, but right now, he was all about summer fun.

He took a minute to look around and enjoy the moment. The country music always relaxed him, and being surrounded by friends in the outdoors was where he was most comfortable—there and on the football field. He watched as kids danced next to the raging bonfire. He smiled as two boys trying to be men got in a shoving match, all for the love of a girl who was paying more attention to some other boys racing around on their ATVs. In Denton Oklahoma, this was the definition of life.

Jesica, have a beer. J. T. reached into an Igloo cooler and pulled out two bottles of Dos Equis. He held them up and smiled seductively. I don’t always drink beer, but when I do, I prefer the smooth seduction of Dos Equis.

You know I don’t drink … and you shouldn’t either. Jesica took the bottles and threw them back into the cooler. I need to go home. She pulled him in and kissed him gently. Please.

The party’s just getting hot. Stick around for a few—

J. T. was interrupted midsentence by the loud rumble of motorcycles.

Sean Swanny Swan, along with four friends on motorcycles, pulled up next to A. K.’s Ford on his shiny new green-and-gold Kawasaki dirt bike. He stopped and revved the engine. Swanny was the quarterback for the Juniper Heights Highlanders. After engineering a last-minute drive in the state championship game, he had promised another state championship. J. T. and Swanny were born to be rivals.

Swanny had surfer-boy looks: shaggy blond hair and a big grin that made all the girls’ hearts race. Tall and athletic, he was to Juniper Heights what J. T. was to Colonial High.

Hey, Swanny, you lost? J. T. mocked.

Nope, I thought I’d stop by and see your new ride.

Wanna see a real bike for a change?

I wasn’t talking about your bike. Swanny winked at Jesica, brought his hands together, and ran them up and down in the shape of an hourglass. Nice form. You should try a real man.

You are such a pig, Jesica responded to his juvenile remark.

Swanny’s friends laughed and whistled at Jesica. J. T. stepped toward Swanny, his hands balled tightly into fists of steel. The two overly macho boys felt the rage and competitiveness rise within them. J. T. and Swanny stood toe-to-toe. J. T. shoved Swanny, knocking him to the red dirt that covered the ground.

The party came to a stop as high school kids gathered in anticipation of a clash between the titan football stars.

You’re about to get the beatdown of your life, J. T. threatened.

Bring it, pretty boy. I beat you on the field, and I can beat you hand-to-hand.

Jesica and A. K. stepped in and grabbed J. T. before he could take a swing and start a big-time small-town brawl.

It’s okay, J. T. He’s a jerk. He can’t hurt me, Jesica said.

He’s a dead man.

Ooooh, tough guy, Swanny mocked.

The pit! J. T. yelled. Right now.

For the letter.

As always, J. T. answered, excited that his challenge had been accepted.

Swanny felt a lump form in his throat. He was not about to back down from the challenge issued by his archrival. Both boys hated each other, but if they had been on the same team, they would actually have been really good friends and hung out and chased girls together.

The pit was the way boys for generations had settled their disputes. The challenge was a race along the road—more of a trail, really—to the bridge. The first one to arrive crossed the bridge and won the other’s letterman jacket—or whatever the agreed-upon trophy was. Trophies ranged from jackets to shoes to CDs, and one time a boy lost his girlfriend in the challenge.

J. T. was confident as the crowd gathered at the starting line. He had never lost the almost mile-long race. His opponents had always backed off at the last second for fear of him running them into the mucky water. Something was telling him this would be his biggest challenge, and he knew Swanny would never back off. He was not scared. Nervous, yes, but not scared.

Swanny, on the other hand, had never raced to the pit. No one had ever dared challenge him. He was dominant in everything else, though, so there was no reason to think he would not dominate the pit.

The two boys confidently lined up their motorcycles next to each other behind the starting line that had been drawn in the dirt. All the other kids gathered around and watched as the two prepared for the race. J. T. looked around, scanning the crowd, and thought he saw every kid from the high school smiling and nodding in support of their hero. He felt the pressure building within him, just like in the big game. He swallowed hard and took a deep breath. He loved the pressure. He lived for it.

Jesica nervously approached J. T.

You don’t have to do this, she said.

I want to; he needs to be knocked down a notch.

J. T., someone could get hurt.

J. T. kissed her on the cheek. She hugged him and kissed him gently on the neck. J. T. released her and took off his letterman jacket.

Hold this. I’ll be back to get it in a few minutes. He smiled as he spoke. The last thing he wanted was for Jesica to feel his nervousness.

Swanny took off his jacket and arrogantly tossed it to Jesica.

Hey, pretty lady, hold this one too. I’ll pick them both up, and we can party after the race, Swanny said as he flirtatiously winked at Jesica.

Jesica kissed J. T. in response to Swanny’s remark.

Trace Anderson stepped in front of the two racers and held up a bandana. You all know the rules, he yelled. Go on the drop. The first to cross the bridge wins both letters.

Swanny looked at J. T. and smiled confidently. He nodded at J. T.

Just like a big game. Don’t choke, he said.

J. T. just smiled and revved his bike. He felt the vibrations of the 250 cc engine rumble underneath him. The crowd cheered as the two riders revved their engines and waited for the flag to drop.

Trace waved the flag in a circle, encouraging the crowd to get louder and louder. And they did. The high school kids were thunderous as Trace emphatically threw the flag down. The crowd roared even louder as the motorcycles unleashed their power and heaved smoothly forward.

J. T. felt the seat rumble as he twisted the throttle with his right hand and let the clutch out with his left. He loved the initial thrust of power. Through his peripheral vision, he could see Swanny staying with him, shifting gears almost simultaneously. The course was more of a trail than a road, rough yet still smooth enough that one could get up to full speed if one had the skills and the nerve, which they both did. The entire race would take less than two minutes.

Swanny pulled ahead and moved directly in front of J. T., kicking up dust and bits of gravel. J. T. smiled as he tasted the dust and felt the gravel bounce off his helmet. He calmly moved to Swanny’s left and out of the dust. He shifted to fifth gear, the highest gear available, and twisted the throttle. The bike smoothly accepted the influx of fuel and pulled up beside Swanny. Halfway there and they had resumed their starting positions, neck and neck.

A few kids had taken their ATVs and beaten-up farm trucks to the bridge and lined the trail in support of J. T. He could see the blurry faces and waving arms, and the screaming voices were all calling his name as he passed by, all familiar yet all distant.

J. T. loved the attention.

The bridge got closer as the racers picked up speed. Swanny looked over at J. T., who could see the confident smile through the visor on Swanny’s helmet. J. T. edged out front by a few inches and then a few feet. Dust kicked up behind them as kids chased them down the trail, each wanting to be the first to congratulate the winner. Everybody loves a winner.

As they pulled within fifty feet of the bridge, Swanny made his move. He faked left and then cut sharply back to the right and pulled up beside J. T. J. T., well aware of the fake-left-go-right move, waited for the right moment. Then, as Swanny gunned his ride and made his attempt at passing the Yamaha, J. T. swerved right, thwarting the effort. Swanny leaned to the right in an attempt to avoid the rear wheel of J. T.’s bike. As he did, he left the trail and was unable to get back on the right path before the bridge. Rather than lay the bike down—or worse, crash the bike end over end—he stayed up and slammed on his rear brake. It was too little too late.

J. T. looked to his right as he reached the bridge. He saw Swanny fly by in the air over the water and finally splash into the swampy pit. He smiled and raised his hand to the sky and let out a celebratory scream as Swanny broke the surface and swam to the shoreline. J. T. slammed on his brakes and turned around. Swanny furiously slapped the water’s surface.

The onlookers screamed and laughed at Swanny as he stood knee-deep in mud among the reeds surrounding the pit.

J. T. turned around and parked his bike on top of the rickety bridge. He looked at Swanny as Jesica raced to his side and handed him both letterman jackets. He quickly put on his jacket and hugged Jesica.

How’s the water, pretty boy? he quipped.

You may have won this, but you can’t win when it counts when others are counting on you, Swanny replied angrily.

The words, although not true, still cut J. T. deeply.

Hey, you can have this, he said as he threw the green-and-gold jacket covered with medals into the swamp, just out of Swanny’s reach. I wouldn’t be caught dead in these ugly colors.

Swanny made a diving attempt to get the jacket before it hit the dirty water. Fail. Swanny angrily pulled the jacket out of the water and mud.

J. T. looked down and smiled.

Cops! a high-pitched voice screamed in warning to the crowd.

Kids scrambled for their ATVs, motorcycles, and trucks—any mode of transportation that would get them out of there as quickly as possible.

Jesica jumped into A. K.’s truck, and they sped off. Swanny crept under the bridge and hid, safe. J. T. grabbed his bike and jumped on the kick-start lever. Nothing. The party was over, and kids disappeared into a cloud of dust. They vanished unbelievably quickly.

J. T. jumped on the kick-start lever one more time, and the bike roared to life.

It was too little too late.

He scanned both ends of the bridge and saw the flashing lights of police cars. Knowing he was busted, he turned off the engine and slammed his helmet against the wooden railing of the bridge. He looked down and noticed Swanny peeking out from under the bridge. J. T. slightly tilted his head at Swanny, letting him know he was safe from being caught, and then, true to his word, said nothing about it as the police officer approached him. Even though they were mortal enemies, they were real men of honor. Or at least they thought they were real men.

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Jonathan Thomas Sr. rocked patiently back and forth on the front porch swing. It had become a habit for him to watch the sunset from this spot with his wife, before the cancer took her. Since then he had kept up the tradition of spending time in the swing, usually long after sunset. Being a hands-on owner of a successful construction company didn’t allow for a lot of days off or days of getting home early. He didn’t like it, mostly because it meant less time to spend with his son, but it allowed J. T. a lifestyle he had never had as a kid. Sometimes he wondered if it was good or bad, but it was what it was.

He knew Julia, his wife, would have kicked his butt and made him take more time off and let the supervisors he hired take on more responsibility; they were more than capable. Jon senior knew he was a workaholic, but he loved his son and had not missed a game since he picked up a football. He put himself in the category of being a good single father, but he had struggled with J. T. since Julia’s death. He knew J. T. struggled as well, but neither of them was known for his communication skills.

Jon took a deep breath followed by a sip of his lemonade, Julia’s drink of choice, as the police cruiser pulled into the circular driveway and parked next to the front steps of the two-story Dutch Classic family home. It wasn’t the first time, but in a small community, everyone knew everybody, and the police were lenient with high school tomfoolery. He hoped this was another one of those cases. The cruiser came to a stop, and Officer Kyle Hennig got out and looked at Jon with regret in his eyes. Jon was glad it was Kyle—a childhood friend and a good man.

J. T. got out of the passenger side and approached the front porch. Knowing he had disappointed his father again made it impossible for him to look his dad in the eye. He hung his head and made a beeline for the front door. Jon grabbed him by the arm as he tried to pass. J. T. jerked his arm away and tried to avoid the entire situation.

Sit down! Jon said firmly.

J. T. caught a glimpse of the hurt and angry look in his father’s eyes and quickly sat in the rocking swing. He had disappointed his father before, but he had never seen his father look like this. He had always known exactly what to do in any situation—until tonight. Jon looked totally betrayed. Tears started to form in J. T.’s eyes; he held them in and sat on the swing.

How bad is it, Kyle?

MIP, driving under the influence. They were racing at the pit. We heard there was gonna be a big party, Kyle stated with an official tone in his voice.

Just like we used to, huh Kyle, Jon said with a slight chuckle.

Yeah, exactly like we used to, Kyle said with a knowing smirk. We heard drugs might be involved; otherwise, we wouldn’t have bothered.

What does he need to do?

He’ll be charged. Nothing I can do about that this time.

Jon nodded in agreement. That’s okay, Kyle. If you could help, I know you would. He took a deep breath.

He’ll need an attorney, but he should get community service. He’s officially a first-time offender. He’s a minor, so his records won’t be public. Shouldn’t affect his recruitment, Jon.

I’m not worried about that. Can we delay this for six or seven weeks? I have special plans for him.

Football summer camps?

No, he won’t be going to football camps this summer.

J. T. heard this and was on his feet in less than a second to protest.

Dad, no camps? I gotta get ready for the season. Just get me out of the ticket. Kyle, can we just pay it? J. T. shrieked.

Sit down! We’ll discuss your summer in a minute, Jon ordered.

I’ll do whatever I can to help, Kyle offered.

Thanks, Kyle. He will do his community service. No more special treatment.

J. T. sat back and rocked so hard Jon thought the swing would fall off its steel chain supports. Kyle reached out to Jon, and the two old friends shook hands. Kyle then turned slowly and professionally took the three white stairs in quick steps and walked to his police cruiser. He looked at Jon as he opened the car door. The two men nodded to each other, and then Kyle got into the car and quietly pulled away.

Jon sat in the white wicker chair next to the swing. He took a deep breath and leaned back.

Your mother would be disappointed, he said quietly.

Then it’s a good thing she’s not here to see this. As soon as J. T. said this, he knew it was as hurtful to his mother as it was to his father. If they only knew how badly the words hurt him. Jon knew the words were out of anger and meant no harm; he had learned to feel the difference.

She’d be disappointed in me, Jon said, choking back a tear. She’d be very proud of you. He looked up at J. T., who looked him in the eye for a split second and then dropped his gaze to the wooden flooring on the porch. He remembered helping his dad build this porch. He remembered helping build the whole house exactly as his mother wanted it built. He would build another if it would bring her back. The day they moved in, Julia insisted that the three of them drink lemonade and watch the sunset. Jon didn’t know it, but J. T. had spent many nights out there thinking of those precious moments. Now they were just two proud men struggling to hide their emotions.

What did you mean about me not going to camps? he said quietly.

I signed you up for a few weeks of work in Africa.

J. T. was stunned. He sat back, speechless.

It’s a program on a game reserve. I’ve checked it out. It’s safe. You’ll be working with other kids, helping those who have nothing and helping take care of some wild animals. You leave in a week.

You can’t do that! J. T. stood quickly in defiance. You can’t make me go. I need to be here. This is my last summer before I start college workouts. Scouts will be at those camps. No! I am not going to Africa! And Mom would be disappointed in you! He stormed into the house, slamming the door to emphasize his disapproval.

Jon leaned back and scanned the skyline for some sign that he had made the right decision. He saw only thousands of stars and a sliver of a moon. Regardless of not getting a sign, he knew he had to let his son go to get him back.

2

LITTLE FALLS, MINNESOTA

Jason Myles used the index finger of his left hand to push the half-inch-thick bifocals back up his nose to where they belonged. He leaned forward to get a better view of the hard drive that was in pieces on the plastic table in front of him. A bead of sweat formed on his bald head and ran down his forehead; he wiped it away with the back of his hand. A computer programmer by day, he spent his evenings rebuilding hard drives for entertainment.

He leaned in closer, stuck his tongue out the side of his mouth and bit down as he tried to focus on the task at hand.

Yo, yo, Pops, wha’s cookin’? Milton Myles yelled as he bounded down the stairs and into the basement office of his nerdy but loveable father. Milton dribbled his Nike basketball on each stair as he took them quickly, with relative athleticism. The gold chain around his neck swayed in rhythm with the left-and-right swagger he had developed on the outdoor court. The Minnesota Timberwolves hat on top of his head was tilted to the side and covered some, but not all, of his shaggy red hair. The maroon-and-gold University of Minnesota Golden Gophers basketball shorts he wore were two sizes too big, but that was his style, and Milton Myles was all about his own style. He was born a portly, pasty-white redheaded boy, but he was a street baller at heart.

Startled by the noise, Jason dropped his screwdriver. He sighed out of frustration, but being the perfect father, he took a deep breath and turned toward his son.

Check out the new moves, Milton said as he hit the last stair and dribbled between his legs, gave a quick spin move, and threw a behind-the-back pass to his unprepared father. Jason made the best effort he could to catch the ball, but an athlete he was not. The perfect pass was lost in the hands skilled at rebuilding computers but not so skilled at the fine art of catching a ball. The ball bounced off his hands and landed on the table, undoing hours of slow and painstaking work. The Nike ball rolled off the table and came to