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didn't include the phrase, 'end of the world as we know it.'
Chapter Four
One of my worst childhood memories is of sitting at the kitchen table of our tiny house on
the base at Quantico. I was crying so hard my favorite Mariah Carey T-shirt had wet
blotches on it, and snot bubbles kept popping out of my nose, which Dave thought was
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"Way rad!" I remember that bothered me even more, because I thought he should be
crying too. Mom sat across the table from us, smoking a cigarette and patting a howling
Evie on the back. Evie always cried when I cried. It was one of the reasons I finally
stopped.
Mom looked at me with what I took to be an utter lack of sympathy. And she said, "I
know you were expecting your dad to come home today. I know you were planning to
share a piece of your birthday cake with him. But, you've gotta remember, Jaz, nothing
ever goes according to plan. Nothing. Not ever."
I believed her. What I couldn't tell her was that I also believed Dad hadn't made it home
because he'd been killed in Desert Storm. My neighbor had told me so. The twelve-year-
old daughter of a supply sergeant who ruled us all with her advanced training in name-
calling and dirty fighting, Tammy Shobeson got her kicks from torturing me when Dave
wasn't around to back me up. And learning it was my tenth birthday had inspired her.
She'd buried her claws deep, too. I spent the rest of my childhood dreading the news of
Albert's death. Despite his long absences. Despite our chilly relationship. And then, BAM,
Mom keeled over in the shoe department of WalMart. A massive heart attack had proven
once and for all that nothing ever goes as planned. Nothing. Not ever.
I carried that lesson like a compass. And most of the time it got me where I needed to go.
This once, however, fate caught me by surprise. When I glanced into the rearview not a
mile from where we'd pulled back onto the interstate, I found an SUV flirting with the
back bumper of my Lexus.
"This was definitely not part of the plan," I murmured.
"What?"
A spine-shuddering thump was Vayl's answer. "What the ?" He turned in time to see the
SUV hit us again, crumpling the trunk upward so far it looked like we'd grown a spoiler.
Suddenly my hands were full trying to keep my wounded car between the white lines. The
SUV had to veer off as well, but he was back fast, crunching into my fender like we were
playing bumper cars.
Had Assan pegged us? Had he called in backup to pull us off his tail? No more time to
wonder. After another meeting with the SUV our rear end had more wrinkles than an
Agatha Christie novel.
"Son of a bitch!" I floored it, but speed was only a temporary solution. We didn't have the
horses to outrun him, and if he took my bumper at the wrong angle, I'd go spinning off the
road like Jeff Gordon after a run-in with Tony Stewart.
"All right," said Vayl, "I have had it."
"What are you thinking?"
"I am thinking it is time we find out who is trying to kill us."
"Can we do that without dying?"
"Maybe."
"Then I'm for it." I watched in the mirror as the SUV closed on us. Geez but he was
coming fast. "Hang on," I told Vayl. I slammed on the brakes. Taken by surprise, he
swerved, caught my back bumper with his side panel and continued his spin on into the
median.
The impact triggered our airbags, and for awhile Vayl and I fought to get our eyes
uncrossed. They may have slowed those bags down, but when one goes off in your face it
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still feels like you just got your neck sprung by a Rock-Em-Sock-Em-Robot.
I was debating whether the ringing in my ears was a product of the blow to my head or a
sign of imminent mental breakdown when the doors opened. A red-faced, gray-bearded
man blocked my exit. He towered over me, wearing faded blue overalls and a Dolphins
jacket, looking like he could flip the car over without breaking a sweat. His eye had
swollen shut.
"I hear raw steaks work wonders on shiners that size," I offered.
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