Chapter 1
She was seven years old, barefoot on pavement hot enough to burn skin, screaming at me not to lift my Harley off the ground.
At first, I thought she was afraid of me.
Then I saw the gasoline.
It was spreading under my bike in a dark, shining puddle, soaking the hem of her faded yellow dress while the engine hissed against the July heat.
“Move back!” I shouted.
But the little girl pressed herself harder against the road.
Her tiny hands were shoved into the broken boards beneath the parade grandstand, clawing at splintered wood like something under there was pulling her heart out.
“Don’t move it!” she screamed. “Please, don’t move it!”
All around us, people were yelling.
“She knocked over his bike!”
“Grab that kid!”
“What is wrong with her?”
My 800-pound Harley lay on its side, trapping a crushed metal parade siren beneath it.
That motorcycle was not just a machine to me.
I had rebuilt it piece by piece after coming home from deployment.
When sleep would not come, I worked on it.
When memories got too loud, I polished chrome until my hands stopped shaking.
And this filthy, trembling child had just slammed her whole body into it and knocked it over.
For one second, anger rose in my chest.
Then I looked at her feet.
They were bleeding.
I looked at her hands.
Her nails were tearing as she dug into the wood.
I looked at her face.
She was not being bad.
She was terrified.
I bent down and grabbed her around the waist.
“Sweetheart, you have to get away from the fuel.”
She did not kick.
She did not bite.
She twisted toward me and clutched my leather vest with both hands.
Her grip was desperate.
Her knuckles turned white.
“Please,” she sobbed. “You can’t let them turn it on.”
“What are you talking about?”
She pointed under my bike.
“The loud box.”
“The siren?”
She nodded so hard her tangled hair stuck to her wet cheeks.
“If it screams, he dies.”
The crowd got louder.
A police volunteer pushed through the people.
“Sir, step back. We’ll get the bike upright.”
The girl screamed so hard the sound cut through everything.
“No!”
She threw herself toward the broken boards again.
I caught her before she landed in the gasoline.
“Tell me what’s under there,” I said.
Her eyes locked on mine.
For the first time, her voice dropped to a whisper.
“My brother.”
My blood went cold.
“What?”
“He’s under there,” she said. “They tied his foot. If you move the bike, the loud box is gonna kill him.”
I turned toward the grandstand.
It was an old wooden platform built for the Independence Day parade judges.
Under it ran power cables for the town’s noon siren.
I had noticed them earlier because I notice electrical hazards the way some men notice clouds.
Too many years in combat zones trained my eyes to find what could kill you.
Then I heard it.
A sound beneath the boards.
Small.
Muffled.
A child crying.
I dropped to my knees, ignoring the heat and fuel.
“Hello?” I shouted into the dark gap.
A tiny voice whimpered back.
“Millie?”
The girl in my arms sobbed.
“I’m here, Ben!”
The police volunteer froze.
The crowd went quiet for half a breath.
Then the bank clock across the street chimed once.
I looked up.
11:57 a.m.
Three minutes.
In three minutes, the automatic timer would send power into the old parade siren.
The siren was crushed under my Harley.
Gasoline was spreading toward the exposed wires.
And a little boy was trapped beneath the grandstand.
Not stuck.
Tied.
I smelled more than fuel then.
I smelled a setup.
I turned to the volunteer.
“Kill the power.”
He blinked.
“What?”
“Kill the power to the siren!”
He looked toward the town hall tent.
“I don’t have authority to do that.”
I stared at him.
“There is a child under there.”
The girl clung to me.
Her whole body shook.
The crowd started shouting again, but now fear had joined the anger.
Someone screamed for the fire department.
Someone else yelled that the parade had to start on time.
I looked at my Harley.
If I lifted it, the siren might shift.
If the siren shifted, the wires could snap.
If the timer hit noon, every drop of gasoline under us might become death.
Ben whimpered again.
“Millie, it hurts.”
The girl tried to crawl back.
I held her tighter.
“My name is Caleb Ward,” I told her. “I’m going to get your brother out.”
She stared at me.
“Promise?”
I looked at the clock.
11:58.
“I promise.”
Then a man’s voice behind me said, cold and sharp, “That girl is lying.”
The little girl went rigid in my arms.
I turned.
The mayor’s brother, Franklin Voss, stepped out from behind the grandstand with a parade marshal badge on his chest and sweat shining on his upper lip.
Millie buried her face against me.
May you like
“That’s him,” she whispered.
“He put Ben under there.”
