Page 1 of Fighting Fate

PROLOGUE

Sean

Feeling like Gulliver in the land of Lilliputians, I labor around the hut, commenting on and admiring the artwork of the Salvadoran children. I’ve asked them to draw what home feels like. Their paintings are as sweet as they are shocking, with a mixture of hope, love, grief, and unflinching violence.

Despite the harsh realities and sometimes treacherous gang factions in El Salvador, there’s nowhere I’d rather be—a bit of a shock for this Welshman.

Six years ago, drunk and unhappy, I would’ve sworn nothing in life could ever bring me joy again. Not after losing my one and only love—football.

Looking back now, I barely feel I know that sulky bastard, the almost-famous Sean Bradford. That lucky sod played the beautiful game with an aggressive ease that earned fans, women, money, and nearly the contract that would’ve set him up for life.

But for the accident.

Ifit could be called an accident. My throat fills with heat, but the once-choking bitterness barely burns now. Volunteering for Artist Without Borders gave me a much-needed reality check and helped transform the turmoil in my mind.

Hard to believe I nearly let the drink take me, but life gave me a second chance. One I try to extend to these kids every day.

Stopping by the easel of a young artist, a gang kid, maybe ten—boys here are recruited early—I offer him the praise he deserves and needs. “Excellente, Pedro. Muy bonito.”

Clutching his paintbrush awkwardly in a hand mangled by a violence I can only guess at, he shrugs and rolls his eyes. The tough guy. These children crave approval as much as they fearshowingthey crave it. Bloody shame.

That need, as much as the art, is why I’m here. Probably seems daft to some. What can art bring to children caught in a land so violent that a huge percentage joins gangs to protect themselves from gangs? People who’d walk thousands of kilometers to reach El Norte—the North.

But what those critics don’t understand is what I know from experience: art can rescue the soul.

Stopping by another easel, I admire the girl’s raw talent. At thirteen, Sofía has an ability that would make the gods weep. To think that such a gift as hers could’ve been lost to the careless chance of her birthplace… Breaks the heart. Not only her talent, but the life of her, the sheer joy of a spirit her father works so very hard to keep safe from the gangs that would take this bud on the cusp of womanhood. The lads here aren’t the only ones the gangs take. Her father, a good man, is outside right now, waiting to get his little artist home safely.

Unlike Pedro, Sofía smiles up at me with reddish-brown eyes as innocent and trusting as the streaks of pink across her canvas.

“That’s lovely,” I tell her, using English because she’s trying to learn the language.

She angles her head, looking back at her canvas. “Señor Sean, does the sky look the same in Wales?”

“Aye, it does. And you’ve captured it perfectly.”

All sharp cheeks and teen awkwardness, she grins. “It’s for you. A gift, so you’ll remember your promise to come back.”

Remorse tightens my shoulder blades. I wish I could stay longer, but the funding has run out. When I joined AWB three years ago, I’d used my celebrity—what there was of it—to secure funding to launch into Central America. But out of sight, out of mind. Funds have dried up, so now I need to head home and make some appearances to raise more money. “I will take this lovely painting, but I insist on paying your first commission as an artist.”

Brown cheeks blooming with red, she shakes head. “No. You can give that money to AWB, so you can come back. I have more to learn.” She points to the others in the room. “We all do.”

The heat is back in my throat, along with a knot. “I’m coming back, Sofía. Promise.”

Gunshots from outside send my nerves jumping and the students diving from the crates that serve as stools.

I grab Sofía, drag her to the ground, then cover her body with my own. Shouts and screams flow through the window and everything escalates in one life-shattering instant.

Sofía ’s father runs into the room, bleeding from a wound in his chest.

Two men holding guns follow him.

I know without being told why they’re here or, more likely, who they’re here to get. Sofía isn’t only a budding artist, but a budding beauty. That’s why her father brings her here to keep her safe. It’s why he’s bleeding out on the floor.

And it’s why I get to my feet and face the men with guns and the three other men who come in behind them.

They will take her over my dead body.

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