White Wasteland, Jeff Kirkham [ebook reader with highlight function TXT] 📗

the pretender away and handed him over to the northern church under the proper church president, Richard Thayer. Elder Clawson handed the man over personally, and he’d pledged the loyalty of the fundamentalist army.

Elder Clawson continued the charade, clearly goofing on Chad’s ego. “We’ll never know what would’ve happened if that armored vehicle had made it behind our troops. Chad and his boys saved the day.” Clawson clapped Chad on the shoulder and gave him a squeeze.

“Doctor Smoot, is Brother Wade healed up enough to travel?” Elder Clawson asked.

“Yes, Elder. He’s good to go. He just needs to keep up on his antibiotics and stay out of the water for the next week or so. We don’t want any bacteria getting in that eye.”

Elder Clawson smiled. “Might be tough for a Navy SEAL to stay out of the water, but we’ll keep an eye on him.”

Chad actually hated water. The SEALs had ruined swimming for him as a form of recreation. “I’m five-by-five, Elder. What’s the mission?”

Chad hammed up the military act. The Navy SEAL angle had worked for him like gangbusters with the fundamentalists. Mormon males had a bit of a confidence crisis when it came to their lack of military experience. As the newest Mormon in their community, he could loan them his je ne sais quoi with just a little interest tacked on. It was all in good fun and it reinforced another one of Chad’s personal mottos: “No matter what happens, always look bad ass.”

Still holding Chad’s shoulder, Elder Clawson continued. “We have a meeting with the prophet, President Thayer, tomorrow in Salt Lake City. I’m wondering if you’d join me. If you’re feeling up to it.”

“Yes sir. I’ll gather a security detail for the trip.” Chad hopped off the examination table.

“Excellent. We’ll leave this afternoon.” Elder Clawson shook the two mens’ hands and headed back into the faltering winter. Chad followed him out the med tent, and went looking for his lieutenant.

Tomorrow was the big meet-and-greet and he’d be there as second-in-command of the fundamentalist army. Everyone on the other side of the table would secretly know that Chad was the agent provacateur who’d saved their asses from that maniac Burnham. Chad would be the mystery-cloaked superstar. The enigma wrapped in a legend. The warrior poet in the service of a clever god.

That was some DEVGRU shit. Nobody could deny it, Chad Wade had come out of this thing more Mandalorian than even before.

Eat your heart out, Julius Caesar.

“Whoot!” Chad howled in private victory.

A young fundamentalist taking down his tent looked up. He saw that it was Chad Wade and his gaze turned to hero worship.

When Chad had busted ass across Salt Lake on his motorcycle and joined the southern freak show, he’d been in a pretty dark place. He knew that now. He’d lost his little girl and his ex. He’d just shot some decent cops for Jason Ross. He’d been pretty sure at the time that his fifth column plan with the fundamentalists would land him in a pool of his own blood. He’d been okay with that, though—okay dying for a righteous, lost cause.

But things were looking up now. He’d pulled a rabbit out of the hat, to say the least. He’d cemented his place among the fundis, as he called them in his mind. No doubt, they’d reward him with a nice ranch and maybe a wife or two. The sky was the limit.

It was no time to quit while he was ahead. Tomorrow, he’d start figuring out the even bigger plan.

Memorial Bluff

Ross Homestead

Oakwood, Utah

The snowflakes drifted in desultory chunks, enough to make it miserable to be outside, but not enough to cover the dirty snow in a fresh, clean blanket. The mid-day sun trickled listlessly through the heavy clouds, coating the funeral-goers in drab, shadowless light.

Jason Ross stood at the head of Emily’s body. She was wrapped in a white sheet and ready to be lowered into a hole four feet deep and barely wide enough to fit her body sideways. Jason had insisted on digging the hole himself, hacking the frozen ground with a shovel, pick axe and breaker bar. The job had taken two days and he had done it without gloves. His hands were bloody, scab-caked, five-fingered wounds that could kill him from infection.

And that might be fine.

Jason looked down at the half-assed grave, having failed at even that menial task. Jenna Ross stood across Emily’s body from him, apparently unwilling to stand by his side.

Gabriel Peña had finally told Jason that Emily had been responsible for the orphanage.

He couldn’t fit that information in his head. He tried, but any way he tilted the knowledge, he couldn’t make it go—like a couch that would never fit between two walls and a coffee table.

Certain truths were the same as a bullet to the head, and unless you were ready to take that bullet…

She had been her own Emily. Simply Emily: willing to sacrifice everything for a handful of doomed children. She’d been his one, sparkling, fairy-dust bit of hope in this dingy world. Now she was wrapped in a sheet, motionless forever.

He had been his own daughter’s nemesis, the clouded enemy of her soul. How could he have ever gotten so turned around?

Looking back, there was no clear chain of events. No smoking gun moment when he gave up his soul. But here he stood, soulless.

They had been a team, Jason and Emily—visiting Africa every year to serve the children. For weeks, Emily and Jason would lose themselves in the black faces and the white smiles. Father and daughter; it had been “their thing.” And then, somewhere along the path, Jason turned left and Emily kept going straight.

How does a man betray himself?

Jason felt an inkling—a first glimmer—of the answer. He looked back at a string of fateful decisions. Each lie built on the last lie and the dark story perpetuated itself. It fought for itself. It stacked the lies in a monolith so tall that