Page 2 of Embracing Hope

But then a boy—around eight or so—ran up to Cortez and Isaac paused. He could shoot a fly two hundred yards away, but he’d never risk harming innocent bystanders, especially a kid. That’s where Isaac drew a line.

There wasn’t much time though.

If Cortez moved, he could be in the wind again, sending Isaac’s team on another wild goose hunt for months, which could result in more people dying.

There had been no other choice but for Isaac to get closer.

He moved in the shadows of the crumbling walls of the building like a specter and positioned himself behind a car that had been stripped of anything that could be sold or bartered.

His throat tightened as he waited.

The kid started to walk away, but then there was a commotion.

Instantly, Isaac realized one of his team had been spotted on a nearby roof.

Cortez swiped up the child, using him as a human shield. Any chance for a clear shot had been blown.

Isaac was transported back to that sweltering day. His muscles were locked, and he could practically feel the weight of his rifle in his hands. The child fought against Cortez’s grip while a woman, who must have been the kid’s mom, stood a few feet away, begging and crying. Her arms were held out as she pleaded with the terrorist to release her son.

In the uproar that ensued, Cortez lost grip of the boy, who dropped to the ground. In that second, Isaac pulled the trigger, but the bullet skimmed Cortez’s cheek, taking off the head of the snake. He started yelling orders at his men who were running out of the building where they’d been holed up with Cortez.

The next few moments were blurred in Isaac’s mind.

Bombs started going off. The explosions rocked the soil underneath Isaac’s boots, shrapnel flying and pinging off the metal of the car where he ducked for cover while trying to get Cortez back in sight.

The fire consumed the village as screams rose above the whistles and sizzles of the blaze.

Isaac abandoned his mission. The crumbling buildings ignited like straw as his team scattered to pull as many villagers as possible from the flames. Cortez and his men had disappeared.

In one building, a mother and her baby were trapped. Isaac scrambled to create an opening in the debris that had formed a wall. He could feel the embers burning through his clothing, singeing his skin, but he remained focused until the woman and child made it to safety.

The last thing Isaac remembered was the loud splintering of wood above him before he felt a painful blow to his body and he was trapped underneath debris. Smoke had filled his lungs, threatening to take his life before the crushing weight of the bricks. He’d heard the muffled calls of his team before everything had gone black.

He woke up in a German hospital, hooked to an IV and his head and torso bandaged.

Most of his scars were internal. He was plagued with guilt. If only he’d taken the shot sooner. He had blood on his hands.

He’d retired then, wanting to hibernate and lick his wounds privately.

Isaac settled back at Marcum Livestockand worked himself into a reverie until he fell asleep each night before his head hit the pillow. Working seemed to be the only therapy that helped.

He stifled a low groan and pushed the thoughts out of his mind. He had a job to do now. Oversee a merger that was bad news on both sides of the equation.

His stomach growled. He needed chow.

While he’d been reminiscing, the neon OPEN sign in the bar’s window blinked and the parking lot had filled up.

Climbing from his truck, he stretched his cramped legs. His nostrils flared as he inhaled the scent of barbecue floating in the air. Living on MREs in some jungle or third-world country for most of his military career, he’d been trained that food was for sustenance, not enjoyment. He usually wolfed down high-protein meals without worrying about the taste.

He pushed through the bar's door and did what he always did, paused long enough to quickly survey the room, inspect the crowd, and determine the best spot to sit so he could see every corner. He was skilled at always being aware of his surroundings, whether on enemy or friendly soil.

Mav’s seemed pretty impressive. A crowd of cowboys and ladies were filing in, and a large group had gathered around the mechanical bull, signing up to ride. The L-shaped bar was three rows deep of people keeping the bartender hustling. A band was set up on stage, testing the mics and instruments.

So this was where the town showed up on Friday nights to unwind?

Isaac understood the need to let off some steam after a hard week. Ranching could be described as blistering, back-breaking work. He had permanently callused hands to prove it.

Once the crowd had acquired their drinks, he found a stool at the end of the bar, and the cute bartender gave him a warm greeting.

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