I-95 North
December 12
The steady swipe of the windshield wipers and the strains of an old Willie Nelson song were the only sounds in the cab of the semi. Conversation had been minimal—a mumbled, thanks for the ride, a muttered, it’s really coming down out there.
Finn McIntyre stared out into the night, the truck’s headlights illuminating the torrent of rain sheeting down on the winding highway. The passenger window in his periphery reflected the scars and burns marring the right side of his face. The trucker, a wizened good ol’ boy with a feed cap and full beard, drove with one hand and felt around between his legs for the other half of a candy bar.
Ten hours ago, Finn McIntyre hit rock bottom. Literally. After joking about a missing teammate and suggesting his friends go out to a bar while their brother needed them, Finn had stormed out of the rundown beach house and crashed through the rotted deck to the gravel and sand ten feet below.
What had pushed him over the edge that night wasn’t the shock and disappointment on the faces of his friends; it was the gut-wrenching realization that these men had dedicated themselves in the same way when Finn himself had been captured. Jonah Lockhart, a guy they called “Steady” because of his unwavering calm, had nearly thrown a punch. Andrew Dunlop, nicknamed “Chat” in a facetious nod to his laconic nature, had actually yelled. Leo “Ren” Jameson, their SEAL squad’s brilliant Renaissance man, had looked at him, dumbstruck with disappointment. And his best friend in the world, Miller “Tox” Buchanan, had begged Finn to get help.
Five years earlier, Finn had been injured in an explosion in Syria and taken captive by a small group of insurgents. He had been held in a cave, dangling and spinning like a fly strip while his captors poured bleach and rubbed rock salt into the deep gashes on his face. After 72 hours of hell, Tox had found him. Tox had come in like a six-foot, five-inch angel of death, killed every insurgent in a matter of minutes, then carried Finn ten kilometers to the exfil site. The depth of his gratitude was immeasurable. But there was a small part of Finn that wished his SEAL brothers had left him to die in that cave because, after his rescue, the sight in the mirror had caused him to vomit all over the floor of the hospital room. His face had looked like an illustration in an anatomy textbook.
And that, too, had birthed another wave of guilt and shame. Brothers in the ward had suffered catastrophic injuries. The guy in the hospital bed next to his had lost both legs. It was just his face. He had no right to wallow in self-pity, no right to his vanity, no right to grieve. So he boxed up the trauma and moved on.
Over time the scars had healed. No. That’s not it. The scars hadn’t healed; they had sunk—submerged like branches in quicksand, settling into his psyche. Over the weeks of his recovery and the years hence, he had gone from a kind, happy boy scout of a guy to a bitter, violent, festering ball of resentment. He had left the hospital in Landstuhl, Germany, haunted and alone.
And the one person he wanted to turn to, the one person he loved most in the world, was the one person he couldn’t face. Charlotte Devlin had fallen for a handsome, charming, idealistic sailor. Now he was none of those things.
He was ripe for the picking by the CIA.
After a year of training at Langley, Finn had spent three years working as a non-official cover (NOC) officer, tearing a swath of violence through the drug cartels of South America and Eastern Europe. The CIA had weaponized his rage, and he had been all too happy to oblige. When he finally lost his last shred of control and punched a superior at The Agency, Finn walked away. That’s when he showed up at his buddy Steady’s house, acted like a complete and utter jackass, and crashed through a deck.
There, sitting in the sand and blubbering like a baby, Finn had come to a decision. He had to find a way to get his head straight. After promising Tox he would get help and making a final stop to say goodbye to the one person who might care if he lived or died, he grabbed his go-bag and headed off on foot down the highway.
The trucker had offered him a ride as the first few drops of rain had started to fall. Storm clouds and fog hung like laundry lines of linens blocking the efforts of the dawning sun.
When the music became more static than song, the driver fiddled with the tuner, landing on a classic 80s station. The power ballad by the legendary band filled the silence of the cab.
“Saw these guys at their millennium show, and they were old then.” The trucker chuckled, pointing to the radio. “Trevor debuted this song at that show. You wouldn’t have believed it. Fifty thousand people drinking and singing go completely silent listening to one guy at a piano singing about his baby daughter. Afterward, the place went nuts.”
Finn half-listened as the gravel-voiced singer belted out the iconic love song as the rain fell in sheets across the windshield.
“My wife and I are driving to Red Rocks to see their final show. It’s a long way to go, but I gotta be able to say I saw The Strain in their farewell performance. Shit, two of the guys are dead—and that’s not counting the drummer who O.D.ed in the eighties—and Trevor, Nolan, and Lamont are all in their seventies.”
The driver prattled on until the signal once again faded to static. He shut off the radio and withdrew his phone from the breast pocket of his flannel shirt.
“Gotta true-crime podcast going. Plug this in for me, will ya?”
Finn took the device and plugged in the dangling charger cord as the eighteen-wheeler headed into a wide curve.
“My kids got me hooked on these things. CrimeBlazers. They give you the details and the timeline, and you try to solve the murder or robbery or whatever the case is. I’m working on a nightclub murder from the eighties. You really gotta pay attention because it’s never the first suspect—”
“LOOK OUT!!!” Finn yelled as the straightaway came into view, and dozens of cars littered the highway, crashed and splayed across the two lanes and the shoulder.
The trucker slammed on the brakes and turned to the right as Finn braced both hands on the dash. The semi veered to the shoulder as it jackknifed, the trailer skidding horizontally across the wet pavement. The cab moved sideways across the highway, crashing into the trunk of a sedan on the shoulder and continuing off the road, the momentum of the trailer pulling them forward as they skidded into the trees. Limbs thwacked the windshield as the eighteen-wheeler spun; the cargo container broke free of the trailer and tumbled across the ground, leveling everything in its path like a massive thresher.
After a slow-motion eternity, the cab barrelled into the trunk of a massive oak and slammed to a halt. The trailer continued its skid, pulling the truck back until it ground to a stop and tipped at an angle with a groan.
Finn looked over at the driver who was patting his body, checking to make sure he was still in one piece. The guy blew out a breath that was half raspberry, half-laugh. “Well, shit.”
Finn put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “You got flares?”
“Yeah, case in the back.”
When Finn turned to grab the emergency kit, the driver said, “You okay? That’s a nasty gash.”
Finn met the trucker’s gaze with confusion, then noticed the strange sensation on his neck. The nerves in his face were damaged, so he hadn’t felt the blood until it ran down into his collar. Swiping at his face with his upper arm, the sleeve of the T-shirt came away soaked. He probed the two-inch gash at his temple—his head had slammed into the metal handhold by the window—and dismissed the injury; he’d had worse.