Cheryl Wyatt - A Soldier's Promise

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To Mom, who always said I could.

To my favorite soldier, Dad, who always said

I could do it better.

To Lisa, who always said she could do it better. Grin.

To Billy. Not one soldier marching around my imagination

could occupy the place you’ve secured in my heart.

To Granny Nellie and Aimee. I could not have done this

had you not stepped in while I went MIA from my

Hide-N-Seek posts to write.

To Mag, Eno and Randa. I love you to infinity.

Ready or not…here I come!

To my editor, Melissa Endlich, for handing me

this dream in the form of a contract.

To my agent, Tamela Hancock Murray of Hartline,

for seeing promise in my work.

Thank you, Lord, for remembering our dreams

even when we feel they’re long lost.

I love you all beyond what words can express.

Acknowledgments

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

To fellow author Anne Greene and her personal hero, Colonel Larry Greene, U.S. Army Special Forces, Ranger, and the other military contacts (you know who you are) who’ve helped me validate research for this series. May the Lord watch over you and your loved ones as you watch over our country. Thank you for serving.

To Lynette at Lifeway in Carterville, Illinois. Little did we know when you led me down the Christian fiction aisle that God used you as a traffic director to walk me into my destiny as an author.

“Sure you wanna do this, Montgomery?” Fellow U.S. Air Force Pararescue Jumper Nolan Briggs asked above the engine hum.

“I’m sure.” Joel shifted away from the window as the luxury jet broke through wispy Southern Illinois clouds on descent to the one place on earth he never wanted to see again.

Refuge. The irony made him snort.

Nolan leaned close enough for Joel to inhale toxic doses of mafia-strength garlic. “’Cause if you don’t, we’ll handle it.”

Teammate Manny Peña joined Nolan in the passenger aisle. “Yeah. Nobody’ll know if you don’t make the jump, dude.”

Joel fastened a gaze on his well-meaning friends and fellow PJs, and aimed a thumb at his sternum. “I’ll know.”

And so would that kid.

“It’s gonna be tougher than you think,” Nolan said.

Hardest mission of his life. Especially on a cold Friday in September. Joel laced his boot. “Nah. Piece of cake.”

“Right. Like running a catering service with an Easy-Bake.” Manny clicked the overhead bin open.

“No sweat.” Joel tugged his chute pack from under the seat.

“Not a drop,” Nolan agreed. “But the offer still stands.”

“He asked for me. I can’t let him down, guys.” Joel retrained a determined gaze on the small town peeking up at him. Recognition of his old neighborhood clogged his throat. He clenched his jaw against a surge of unwanted emotion. He looked away from familiar landmarks. “I’ll be fine.”

As long as he steered clear of that house, and the uncle who’d destroyed his family, he’d be fine.

A chorus of unconvinced faces stared back at Joel when he looked up. A torrent of vulnerability rushed through him at their perception. He torqued his gaze out the window. True. They could do this without him and spare him the pain.

Except for one thing.

He tugged the letter out of his chest pocket. Unfolding it, he eyed the elementary attempt at cursive.

My name’s Bradley. I’m eight and I have cancer. My teacher called Dream Corps who said I should write a letter about my wishes since doctors say I might not get a transplant in time. I want to meet a Special Forces soldier more than anything. Well, almost anything. Having a family would be nice. I heard a PJ grew up in my town. It would be awesome if he’d come see me but I know he’s kinda busy with wars and rescues and all. Anyway, if you find him, tell him he’s my idea of a hero…

Words blurred. Joel blinked, refocused and read: Thinking of soldiers who fight terror helps me be brave and fight mine. If me and God win our cancer war, I promise to plug my nose and eat my stinky call of flower so I can grow up strong and come help the soldiers win theirs. Love, Bradley Tennyson. Refuge, IL U.S.A.

Joel folded the letter Dream Corps had forwarded to him. He crimped along the crease and came back with blue fingertips, probably from one of those messy erasable pens. He rubbed fingers on a hanky, but the ink didn’t come off. Weird, since it had transferred from the paper with no trouble.

Ink imprinted his hand, but scribbled wishes stained his heart. Family. The very word stung. Joel couldn’t help the little guy with one, but he could make the other a reality. No matter how hard the next hours proved to be, Joel’s discomfort in coming back to the site of his most painful childhood memories would be a speck of dust compared to the earth of hurt this kid faced.

Joel pressed thumbs into the corners of his eyes and lifted his face. He swallowed, but his voice box didn’t seem to want to loosen and let him speak.

“I appreciate you guys offering me an out, but…” He met and held each man’s respect-filled gaze, drawing courage from the admiration in each one. “I need to do this.”

Grins erupted all around, revealing to Joel they wanted him to conquer this every bit as much as he did.

Nolan tossed Joel his goggles. “Don’t tangle up on a power line before you hit the ground, Montgomery. It wouldn’t bode well to fry your fanny in front of a load of little kids.”

Joel smiled back at the grinning faces before refastening his gaze on strings of pinpoint runway lights rising to meet the Dream Corps aircraft. “All right, you platoon of goons. As soon as we hit tarmac, load the choppers while the pilot flies me back up into a holding pattern. I’ll jump when you hover on the school lawn. Fastrope down when I flare my canopy. Let’s go make this little guy’s dream come true.”

A chorus of “Hoorah!” shouts punctuated the end of his sentence, and a dozen fists shot up.

He’d parachute in, spend a few hours with the kid, then get away from Refuge for good. It would be as easy as that. What could possibly be simpler?

“What on earth is that?” Special needs teacher Amber Stanton grasped the desk and held her breath.

Her best friend and co-teacher, Celia Muñez stared at Amber as if she’d morphed into a snail. “What?”