in Afghanistan, of deep and winding caves teeming with enemy forces, of five men fighting alongside him like a band of brothers. This derelict building could be anywhere, but judging by the numerous American brand beer bottles scattered around, he was on home soil. He shook his head, willing the memories to reveal themselves. The temperature was bitterly cold, and he took deep gulps of air to stop his muscles from shivering. It must be winter, wherever he was.
The gunfire increased in intensity, and he hauled himself to his feet with a huge groan to rest an outstretched hand on a nearby wall and steady his shaky legs. Then he staggered out of the room where he had lain and walked a few paces down a long corridor. He looked at the floor. Beside his boot lay a large rock, a sliver of blood snaking down its craggy edge. He gingerly rubbed a finger along a gash on his temple as he realized what had felled him. This rock had not only knocked him out cold, but it had stolen his recollection of events.
“Sheriff Beck! Where are you?” a female voice called out.
He turned his head sharply toward the sound. Beck was his surname, but he was Petty Officer Tyler Beck of SEAL Team Four, based in Little Creek, Virginia. He certainly wasn’t a sheriff.
The voice shouted even louder. “Sheriff Beck, we gotta get out of here, now!”
He tried to gauge the location of the woman. Above his head were the metal walkways of another story, and feet were pounding on it, heading in his direction. Inside this huge atrium were small rooms, adjacent to one another along the corridor, and all had rusted bars alongside. It was then that he realized he was in an abandoned prison. But how? And why?
He checked his gun: empty. Ignoring the throbbing of his head, he began to search the ground for a potential weapon, something he could arm himself with. Without a loaded gun, he was defenseless, and worse than that, he had no idea who the enemy was. He was flying blind.
He picked up the same rock that had been used to floor him and lifted it high as he walked confidently toward a doorway that he hoped would lead to a stairwell or an exit. Once he was out in the open air, he was sure that his location would become clear and prompt the memories to flood back. The sound of gunfire bounced and echoed above his head, rattling around the high ceiling. A fierce battle was raging, and he didn’t even know whose side he was on.
Then, a woman appeared out of the darkness, rushing toward him, her face etched with anxiety. She was petite and slight, with large eyes and delicate features. When she saw him, her shoulders visibly relaxed.
“Oh I’m so glad you’re okay,” she said, reaching out and grasping his arm. Her warm breath sent a white vapor into the air, which suddenly evaporated like mist. “Let’s go.”
She tried to pull him along the corridor, back in the direction from which he had come, but he shook his arm free and looked her up and down. She was petite and pretty, wearing yellow jeans and baseball sneakers. Her hooded sweatshirt was oversize, and the tiny braids she wore in her dark hair made her appear younger than he suspected she was. The woman was a civilian. Or at least that was his initial assessment.
“Who are you?” he asked, still clutching the rock high in his right hand. “And what are you doing here?”
She stepped back, clearly shocked. “You don’t recognize me?”
He shook his head. “I’ve never seen you before in my life.”
She flinched as a shot ricocheted off a steel beam overhead.
She took his arm again. “You’re concussed, sir. Just trust me. We’re on the same team.”
He had to make a split-second decision. Should he trust her? “You’re assisting a Navy SEAL mission here?”
She looked confused for a moment before saluting and speaking rapidly. “That’s right, sir. The enemy is closing in. Follow me.”
He made a quick judgment call and gave a sharp nod, telling her to lead the way.
“What’s your name and rank?” he asked, keeping close to the wall and watching her sneakered feet avoid the abandoned junk on the floor. Old mattresses, chairs and papers lay among spent bullet casings. She moved fast.
“My name is Joanna Graham,” she replied. “And I’m a sheriff’s deputy.”
They reached a foul-smelling stairwell and began to descend. The gunfire was now distant, but still audible, popping like firecrackers in a cavern.
“A sheriff’s deputy?” he asked incredulously. What on Earth was a small time law-enforcement officer doing assisting a SEAL mission? He had assumed she was CIA or FBI, but never a sheriff’s deputy. “You’re seriously out of your depth, Deputy. Who gave you authorization to be here?”
She didn’t slow down. “You did, sir.”
“Me? That’s highly unlikely.” He again willed his memory to return. He hated this feeling of weakness, not knowing the mission brief or objectives. This woman could be leading him into a trap. He stopped on the stairs and barked an order at her. “What is the name of your superior officer?”
She turned. “His name is Sheriff Tyler Beck of Godspeed, Missouri.”
He held on to the peeling handrail for support as her words hit him in the gut. He was Tyler Beck and his hometown was Godspeed, Missouri. But he wasn’t a sheriff. He was an officer in the Navy SEALs. She was trying to dupe him, capitalizing on his loss of memory to lead him straight into enemy hands.
“Nice try, young lady,” he said. “But there’s no way I’m a small-town sheriff.”
She stood three steps down from him, her eyes running up and down the length of his body. “So why are you wearing his uniform?”
* * *
Deputy Joanna Graham yanked her confused and ashen-faced sheriff outside, taking a huge lungful of the cold evening air. Sheriff Beck was staring down at his clothes as if he couldn’t quite believe the story she was telling him. Something had snatched away years of his memories. Tyler had responded to her panicked and desperate call for help after she discovered that she’d been ratted out on her undercover assignment. From a cell window, she had watched his cruiser speed down the old prison road, but she had no idea what happened to him once he got inside. What could have occurred to cause this memory loss? The dark, sticky blood in his sandy hair gave her a good clue.
Joanna had spent many months infiltrating a notorious meth gang, The Scorpions, so called because of the distinctive scorpion logo placed on all their merchandise. She’d worked hard to learn their customs and codes, and earn their trust, only for all her hard work to be wiped away in the blink of an eye when she was confronted with the barrel of a gun. Her first venture into undercover police work had led to her almost being killed. And she still wasn’t out of danger. Right after her identity had been challenged by one of the gang’s leaders, a rival gang had burst into the makeshift meth lab and started shooting. That had bought her enough time to escape, and the turf war was still raging inside. But somebody would be sure to pursue her.
She started running for Tyler’s patrol car, feeling the scrubby grass crunch beneath her sneakers. The air temperature had recently plummeted below zero, and the forecasters had predicted a white Christmas, which was now just four days away. Christmas always used to be her favorite time of year, but the season no longer held any joy for her. Nothing did.
“Where are the keys?” she called as she reached the car, parked under a bare tree. Her heart was thumping. There was no time to lose. “Check every pocket if you don’t remember.”
The gunfire inside the old prison was now sporadic, coming in rapid bursts, some machine-gun fire and some single shots.
“Wait,” called Tyler, seeming confused. “You told me this was a SEAL mission. Is that correct?”
She was breathless and anxious to leave, but Tyler had the keys, and the look on his face told her that he needed some answers.
“No. I told you what you wanted to hear in order to get you out of there