Wynter's Horizon

Copyright© 2013 Dee C. May

ISBN:
978-1-77130-278-4

Cover Artist: Sour Cherry Designs

Editor: JS Cook

DEDICATION

For my mom who always saw the other side.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

First and foremost thanks to Evernight Publishing for taking a chance on me and to their authors who are so welcoming and supportive. I am also indebted to and forever grateful for the following: Anne Hicks, my freelance editor, who patiently weeded through a lot of rewrites. Gabriel Ayotte who read the initial draft and whose emails gave me the courage to share this story with others. Pam M., Kim, Mary, Susan, Pam W. and Gretchen, my first readers who told me to keep going. Sheri Kaufmann, friend, editor and marketing guru who taught me all about social media and then thankfully offered to do it for me! My parents, John and Anne Cavaliere, who gave me roots, wings, and an education upon which to soar. My brothers, John and Augie, for their support and love, especially in this past year. Bob and Karen May whose perseverance and love of life in the face of overwhelming daily adversity is inspiring. My friends from Connecticut College for wonderful memories, incredible latitude and most importantly enduring friendship. Virginia and Jana who always have a shoulder for me to cry on. Sue Quinn Craig for her knowledge of London and who manages to be there for me no matter how much time or distance passes. My sister and best friend, Theresa-I thank God for you every day. I couldn’t do it without you. My sons, Bobby and Will for having the patience to share me with my computer. Lastly, Bill for believing that anything is possible and that dreams are meant to be realized.

WYNTER’S HORIZON

Dee C. May

Copyright © 2013

And life is eternal and love is immortal, and death is only a horizon,

and a horizon is nothing, save the limit of our sight.

—
Bede Jarrett

Chapter One

Reginald Beckett—Caught

Never trust a person who tells you a job is a piece of cake. And trust a government official spouting that bullshit even less. I cursed Baxter silently as I yanked on the iron cuffs restraining me. This was not the simple drop and rescue he had promised. Somehow, he had failed to advise us of a few important details, one being the militia alerted to our operation and waiting in ambush. I was trained for dangerous work. I thrived on it, but a suicide mission was another story. I’d have assembled a different crew for that.

My captor gloated from the end of the bed. Built like a prizefighter, small eyes peeked out from hooded lids, and his swarthy face showed days of stubble. His soldiers called him
El Teniente
and from my elemental knowledge of this guerilla outfit-turned kidnappers, as “lieutenant” he was near the top. Hatred and fear coursed through me.

He sidled up to the bed, something clutched in his hand. Grabbing my jaw, he yanked my face toward him. I fought back but it was useless. He swung his elbow down and hard, connecting. My head snapped sideways, the crack audible. I grunted, locking my teeth together. He squeezed the broken pieces of my jaw in his grubby fingers, and
as I screamed at the blinding pain, he poured a liquid in my mouth. I spat but my damaged jaw failed to cooperate. The room pitched and grayed. Truth serum or something like it.

“My men can’t get answers from you. But I will,” he taunted. Leaning in close, he lifted the end of a mechanical device, pointing it towards my leg. I shrank back, but the iron clasp at my ankle kept my foot hanging out there.

“You fucking bastard,” I growled.

He brought the device inches from my leg, his coffee-colored eyes gleaming.

“If you’d like, I can make it very slow. And even more painful.” That was an empty threat. His soldiers had been beating me for hours now.

“Where are they?” I mumbled trying desperately to hold onto coherent thought. The medicine and my broken face
made it more and more difficult.

“That capitalist pig and his daughter?” His spittle flew through the air and landed on my face. Nausea rolled through me. “They are dead.”

Doubtful. Rebel kidnappers rarely killed their captives unless they got some kind of ransom “Why?” Maybe, if I could keep this going, it would be enough time for help to come. I had no clue where the rest of my crew was.

“Enough questions from you. It is my turn.” He touched the metal device to my foot. The voltage shot through my joints.
Fuck!
My body writhed and leaped off the bed. The manacles held and jerked me back down. He smiled, twirling the device absently. The pain receded, and I gulped for a breath. I had gone through countless months of resistance training. Somehow, I still felt unprepared.

Somebody yelled from elsewhere in the compound, panic laced through the scream. Hope sparked in me. Maybe they hadn’t gotten all of us. El Teniente jerked his head in the direction of the door and motioned with his hand. A soldier standing nearby bounded out of the room. Sounds of breaking wood and glass floated upstairs. I pulled vainly at the cuffs again.

“We are running out of time.”
Damn!
“I want to know who sent you.”

This time, he brought the device down and held it. Heat seared up my leg. Screams reverberated in the room, bouncing off the ceiling and walls.
Was that me?
Through pain infused fog , I could see his face contorted in laughter. I wanted to rip his head off. The emotion pumped through me but the drugs and exhaustion were too much;. My body twisted futilely on the bed, bouncing from the electricity flooding me. Pain blotted out thought, scorching through every limb.

Something crashed and flew across the room. The world went bright orange, like an explosion of sunlight. Then nothing.

Chapter Two

Wynter Murello—The Tournament

“Nice goal,” I called to Abby as she trotted from the field. She waved at me and smiled. The tournament was almost over, and Abby had been one of its star players. I waited in the stands, twisting my ponytail aimlessly. I could hear a few of the players on my team cursing that our game was delayed again.

Abby returned from the locker room a short time later, showered and wearing faded jeans and a red t-shirt, her chestnut hair wet and glistening. She stopped and talked to Jason—her boyfriend who was filling in as assistant coach—before climbing the bleachers to sit beside me.

“You crushed it,” I commented, laying my hand out.

She shrugged, blue eyes twinkling, “Well, it sucks to suck.” I smiled at our old saying as she slapped my open palm. Abby and I’d been high school buddies and freshman roommates. We didn’t room together or even see each other much anymore, but we were still friends, dishing on the phone when something happened. After all, we knew each other’s secrets, especially the dirty freshman ones, the kind shared after a drunken night shoving large amounts of junk food into our mouths as we talked.

Abby was the better lacrosse player. I was considered too short at five-foot-five to be a strong contender. Normally, I wouldn’t have bothered with a tournament, but Abby had begged me to go, promising to travel and room with me, that it would be just like our high school days when we had ruled the lacrosse field together and been inseparable off it. I’d agreed. I loved playing, even if I wasn’t really competitive.

She pulled her hair up into a ponytail as she watched the play on the field. “I heard your game got moved again.”

I sighed. “Really, just FML. We may never get out of here.”

“What do you mean, ‘fuck your life.’ You get to sit here and play with a bunch of mediocre players.” I ignored her jab. I knew she didn’t really mean it. “That’s what Jason said—about the game, not your life. Anyway, Tee and I are going to head to the mall. We’ll be back when your game’s over.” I stared at her, thinking about all of her games I had watched. I knew
I wouldn’t see her in the stands anyway, but for some reason it bothered me. I ranked somewhere beneath Prada in her book.

“Abby?” We both leaned over the bleachers at the call. Below stood Tiernan, keys jingling impatiently in her hand. Heaven forbid the mall should wait.

“Coming.” Abby stared at the field a moment. Jason was bent over one of the players, talking into her ear. “I’m thinking about breaking up with him, you know?”

My heart leapt into my throat. “You are?”

“Yeah. I’ve been sexting with Chris Jenkins. He’s fucking hot.”
Standing, she pulled her bag around her, rummaging through it as she kept her eyes pinned on Jason. I stared at her wordlessly.

“Besides, I’m sure Jason is screwing someone else by this point. You know him, never famous for fidelity.” She brushed some lip-gloss on her already shiny lips. Jason’s reputation for treating girls like crap was one of the reasons I’d always shut him down when he asked me out.

“I just want to make sure I dump him first. No way I want to be the dumpee. It’d ruin my rep.” She smushed her lips together, contemplating something. “Anyway, fuck it. We’re going. We’ll be back in a bit. Make sure you pass the ball. You know your shot sucks under pressure.” She flashed me her famous crooked smile the boys on campus loved then bounded down the bleachers and out of sight.

I took Abby’s advice for the first half of the game, but once the other side tied it up, I stopped passing and started shooting. I missed a bunch but in the fading twilight and the last few seconds of our game, I scored the winning goal. I looked for her and Tiernan as I came off the field, feeling flush with victory, but the stands were empty. My phone buzzed on the way to the locker room.
Eating. c u in hr
. I ripped open my last power bar and went to shower.