Killshot (Icarus Series Book 1)

  Killshot

  (Icarus Series, Book One)

  By Aria Michaels

  Copyright 2014 Aria Michaels

  Copyright

  This book is an original publication of Aria Michaels. Killshot is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or have been adapted fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, alive or dead, as well as businesses, locations, groups, or organizations is purely coincidental. The publisher and author do not accept responsibility for any third-party website, social media personality or groups, or their content.

  Copyright 2014 Aria Michaels

  Edited by Claire Allmendinger of BNW Author Services

  Cover Design: Kari Ayasha, Cover to Cover Designs

  Rights

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic format without expressed written consent of the author and/or publisher. Please do not participate in or encourage the piracy of copyrighted materials. It is not only a violation of the author’s rights, but of copyright law. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Printed proudly in the United States of America

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Prologue

  Before the Sky Fell

  Chapter 2

  Calm Before the Storm

  Chapter 3

  Three’s Company

  Chapter 4

  The Writing on the Wall

  Chapter 5

  Sidetracked in the Sun

  Chapter 6

  A Moment of Peace

  Chapter 7

  Trapped

  Chapter 8

  Prozac and Pocketknives

  Chapter 9

  Uncommon Commonality

  Chapter 10

  First Do No Harm

  Chapter 11

  Homeland Insecurity

  Chapter 12

  The Loop

  Chapter 13

  Battle Lines

  Chapter 14

  Lights Out

  Chapter 15

  Plans

  Chapter 16

  Turning Pages

  Chapter 17

  Twinkies and Tanks

  Chapter 18

  Balance and Burns

  Chapter 19

  Mission Impossible

  Chapter 20

  Man Down!

  Chapter 21

  Battered, but not Broken

  Chapter 22

  Roll Out

  Chapter 23

  Out of the Frying Pan

  Chapter 24

  Senses

  Chapter 25

  Kindred Spirits

  Chapter 26

  Coincidence and Connection

  Chapter 27

  Moving On

  Chapter 28

  With a Bang

  Chapter 29

  Picket Fences

  Chapter 30

  Patients and Patience

  Chapter 31

  Haven

  Chapter 32

  …Here’s Johnnie!

  Chapter 33

  Leader of the Pack

  Chapter 34

  Antiques and Engines

  Chapter 35

  Small Victories

  Chapter 36

  Smoke and Mirrors

  Chapter 37

  Recon and Redemption

  Chapter 38

  Tactical Invasion

  Chapter 39

  Search and Rescue

  Chapter 40

  Burning Questions

  Chapter 41

  Rendezvous and Rally

  Chapter 42

  Ghosts

  Chapter 43

  Maps and Missions

  Acknowledgments

  Dedication

  For my husband, Mark…

  You gave me the courage to chase my dreams,

  and the strength I needed to catch them.

  I love you, times infinite!

  Chapter 1

  Prologue

  Before the Sky Fell

  “Take it, Beans,” I pleaded.

  My little brother stared defiantly down at the floor, refusing to accept his inhaler. I held it out to him again. He stubbornly pushed it away and crossed his arms over his chest. It killed me watching him suffer like this, tears rolling down his little cheeks as he struggled to breathe. A stray lock of wavy blond hair was plastered to his cheek.

  I knew my little brother was angry; that he was scared and confused. I felt the same way, though I had not allowed myself the luxury of breaking down yet. Beans needed me, and I needed to be strong for him, especially now.

  “Lucas Eric Larson,” I yelled, grabbing him by his tiny shoulders.

  He froze, his arms dropping limply to his sides as his eyes finally met mine. I knew that would get his attention. It had been five years since Beans had earned his nickname, and since then, I had used the name he had been born with only a handful of times. His bright green eyes stared up at me, glistening with unshed tears as his chest, rose and fell, rapidly.

  “Take it,” I repeated, holding the inhaler on my palm and blinking back tears. “Please, Beans.”

  He nodded slightly, and grabbed it from my shaking hand, his experienced little fingers curling expertly around the apparatus. He shook it vigorously, flipped the cap off, and took two slow pulls from the mouth-piece. His chest shook from the effort, but each breath that followed became easier, less raspy. I held his shoulders, breathing in rhythm with him as the heaving in his chest began to slow. After a couple minutes, his breathing was almost back to normal.

  “Liv,” he whispered, his small hand trembling in mine. “Livie, I’m scared.”

  “I know, buddy,” I said, smoothing his hair away from his sweat-drenched face. “Me too.”

  “Liv?” He looked up at me, tears still running down his face.

  “Yeah, Beans,” I said.

  “Are they in heaven,” he asked. “Are mom and dad angels now?”

  “Of course,” I said, but the words tasted sour in my mouth.

  “Good,” he said, wiping his nose onto the sleeve of his coat. “That means they will be watching out for us now.”

  I pulled him against me and buried my face in his tangled locks, trying desperately to keep my tears at bay. After all that we had been through, I couldn’t bring myself to admit to him that I no longer believed.

  “Everything is going to be okay, Beansie,” I lied, rustling my little brother’s messy hair. “You’ll see.”

  “I know,” he sniffled, squaring his shoulders. Then his eyes lit up. “Oh! I have an idea.”

  He sprinted down the hallway to where his backpack lay up against the wall by Mr. Trundle’s office, then slid across the floor on his knees, and started digging through it. I followed after him, stopping a few feet from where our case-worker stood; his chubby arms crossed over his round belly. Mr. Trundle was the poster-child for cubical dwelling yes-men—from his worn out orthotics to his clip-on tie, and shoddy comb over.

  “Everything okay, Miss Larson,” he asked in that high-pitched voice of his, taking a step back. He knew I was angry with him for separating us.

  “Fan-freaking-tastic, thanks,” I growled at him, crossing my arms over my chest.

  “Olivia,” he warned, his eyes shooting over to my brother.

  “Do not call me Olivia,” I spat, narrowing my eyes at him.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Larson. I truly am. I know this has been very hard for you both, but you must believe me when I tell you that this is for the best,” he said, holding his hands up in surrender. “The Fosters have extensive experience caring for children
with—special needs, I suppose you could say. As for the Tates, well, they are an amazing family, Liv, and we were lucky to get you placed there on such short notice.”

  “So you keep telling me,” I said, bitterly. “Too bad I’m not broken enough for your precious Fosters or my brother and I might actually get to stay together, huh?”

  “I really am sorry,” he said, smoothing down his comb-over.

  Beans shot to his feet, just as I was readying another witty retort. He spun on his heel and stepped in front of me, a giant smile lighting up his tear-stained face. In his hands, he held his most prized possession, a ratty old stuffed lion. One of the doctors at the Children’s Hospital in Iowa City had given it to him as a gift after his first major attack. He had named it Courage, and from that day on he never left home or slept without it. Without pause, he shoved the lion into my hands and wrapped his arms around me.

  “Keep him safe for me, Livie,” Beans said into my chest.

  “Beans, no,” I said, trying to pry his arms away. “I can’t.”

  “Please, Livie,” he begged, the corners of his mouth shaking as the tears started back. “You have to. Courage will help you through this, I promise.”

  “I—okay, buddy,” I said, no longer able to hold back my tears. “But only for now, okay? The next time I see you, you have to take him back, deal?”

  “Deal,” he said, pulling away.

  He scooped his backpack onto his shoulder and grabbed Mr. Trundle’s thick hand. Together, the two of them turned, and started walking down the hallway. When Mr. Trundle stopped to grab the door knob, Beans turned and yelled over his shoulder, “See you soon, Liv!”

  “I promise I will come for you, Beans,” I yelled back, as he stepped through the door and into the sun. “Even if the sky is falling!”

  Chapter 2

  Calm Before the Storm

  “Liv, get up!” Riley banged her fist on my door. For such a small girl, her voice really carried. “Seriously, Micah is going to be here in like seven minutes. He is gonna be super pissed if we make him late again. Move it or lose it girl.”

  I heard the familiar shuffle of ballet flats scraping against the rough wood floor as Riley moved away from my door. As usual, her footsteps gained momentum as she reached the top of the stairs.

  “Woo!” Riley’s giddy squeal echoed through the stairwell, as she (once again) slid down the Tates’ antique, hand-carved, oak railing.

  Riley Baxter was my foster sister, but more than that, she was my best friend and her presence made my sentence here more bearable. Despite my best efforts to remain angry and aloof after my parents’ death, Riley had forcefully wedged her way into my heart. In the beginning, I had had every intention of shutting out the entire world, including her. I was still reeling from the losses I had suffered, and had refused to be a part of a fake family.

  So, when I wasn’t at school, I simply barricaded myself up inside the nauseating pink and purple, princess bedroom they had stuck me with, not venturing out unless absolutely necessary. As it turned out Riley had other plans for me, none of which included allowing me any privacy, time to myself, or silence. Despite her short stature and pixie-like features, Riley was a real force of nature. She was more clever and resilient than anyone I had ever met…and much, much louder.

  “G’morning, Mama Tate,” Riley sang. Her voice was clear as day, despite the floor between us.

  “Shhhh,” Mrs. Tate answered. “I swear, young lady, you have a voice that could wake the devil. Quiet down, now, Charles is sleeping.”

  Mrs. Tate, our foster mother, was a devout Christian woman and, as luck would have it, a stickler for propriety. She was constantly reminding Riley and me how a “proper young lady” should act— be polite, be quiet, be modest, and always follow the status quo. Despite Mrs. Tate’s persistent preaching, such behaviors were rarely, if ever, exhibited by either one of her foster children. Riley was far too outspoken and spunky for her liking, and Mrs. Tate wasted a lot of energy trying to convince her to “tone it down.” As for myself, when she wasn’t reminding me of the importance of having faith in “God’s plan,” Mrs. Tate was scowling at my wardrobe choices, and condemning me for my semi-frequent detentions, average grades, and lack of extra-curriculars. Falling short of the Mrs. Tate’s high standards was yet another thing Riley and I had in common.

  “Come on, Liv,” Riley harped from the bottom of the stairs. “Five minute warning.”

  “Riley Baxter, you stop that yelling, this instant,” Mrs. Tate scolded.

  “Ugh,” I groaned, not ready to be a functioning member of society quite yet.

  I set Courage on table next to my bed, right beside Beans' old inhaler, and took a moment to peel my hair off my face. My aching body groaned at me, as I wrestled myself into a sitting position. I hadn't had a good night’s sleep in months. Every night when I closed my eyes, I was plagued by nightmares—the worst moments of my life stuck on replay. Sometimes I relived the fight I had with my parents, just hours before they died. Others, like last night, I would see my little brother, tears rolling down his face as the state dragged him off to a separate foster family. No matter the torture, I always woke up feeling as though I had lost a fight, and today was no different.

  I sat on the edge of my bed and glanced across the room at hot pink full-length mirror, just beyond a huge pile of dirty laundry. My pale blue eyes stared back at me from beneath heavy lids as I groaned at the state of my hair. It was unruly on a good day, but today, it was in rare form. It had been months since I had gotten the dark jungle on top of my head trimmed, and the wavy locks now reached to the middle of my back. Falling asleep with a wet head generally resulted in something resembling an abstract sculpture, and today’s do was no exception. At the moment, one side of my hair was flattened against my head while the other had curled up to just about shoulder length.

  “Impressive,” I muttered, frowning at the mess. “Okay, then. Up-do, it is.”

  I brushed my wayward locks into a messy bun atop my head and dug through my closet for something to wear. I gave up pretty quickly and grabbed my favorite pair of tattered jeans. They were folded and at the top of the pile so I was pretty sure they were clean, which was good enough for me. Besides, no one (besides Mrs. Tate) really paid that much attention to my wardrobe choices these days, anyway.

  My mom had always hated these jeans. She used give me hell all the time about wearing anything with holes and frayed pant legs. It’s not that she didn’t support my uniqueness, she did. I just think maybe she had hopes that someday I might embrace my more feminine side. She would buy dresses and cute skirts, and leave them hanging on my closet door on the off chance I would decide to, quite literally, step outside my comfort zone. Most of the beautiful things she had picked out for me were donated to charity after she died. I just couldn’t bring myself to keep any of them.

  Like any other girl my age, I had once craved the attention and approval of my peers, especially those of the male persuasion. Unfortunately, my personal style lacked a certain “it” factor, so my boyfriends were, sadly, few and far between. I had always been a tomboy and an athlete, first and foremost, preferring comfort to cuteness. While that part of me had not changed much, the way my old clothes now fit me had.

  Mrs. Tate was a really good cook, but meals with “the family” meant awkward conversations about God that drained my energy and my patience. So, on nights I was home for dinner, I used any excuse I could come up with, to skip out— homework, spontaneous vegetarianism, even cramps. When I wasn’t avoiding pot roast and the gospel, I lived on granola bars and diner food. I hadn't been for a run in forever and it was starting to show.

  My once lean, athletic build had softened a bit over the last few months, and I was pretty sure I had gone up a whole cup size; a fact I was painfully aware of as I worked to cram myself into my favorite black t-shirt bra. Needless to say, I was still not comfortable in my own skin these days, thanks to my newly acquired curves. I reached into the close
t and grabbed another racer-back tank from the pile and quickly slipped it over my head.

  I gave myself a quick once-over in the hideous pink mirror and shrugged. Between the holes in my jeans, and my visible bra strap, there was a decent chance I would get busted for a dress code infraction, but I was out of time and more than willing to risk it. I'd grown accustomed to detention as of late, so one more hardly mattered at this point. Maybe I'd get lucky and they'd send me home.

  Either way, I would welcome the break from trying to pretend I gave a crap about this school or the people in it. Ever since social services had seen fit to separate me and my little brother, the only thing I cared about was keeping the promise I had made to get back to him. It had become my mission in life and I had a plan, so very little else mattered to me.

  Phase one: Get through high school...almost there. I would be graduating (just barely, at the rate I was going) in forty-two days. Not that I was counting.

  Phase two: Get a job. Check. It had taken weeks of constant badgering my foster parents to get them to agree to my part-time position at The Windmill Cafe. The job was not fantastic by anyone’s standards, but my boss was pretty nice and the food was good. Plus, if I was ever getting out of this black hole of a town, I’d need the cash.

  Phase Three: Get my brother back the day I turn eighteen, kiss this town goodbye, and drive off into the sunset. I heard Canada was nice, or maybe Mexico.

  It had been a little over three months since I had last seen my little brother. I knew the name of the family he had been placed with, but had no idea where Beans was. After everything that had happened, I owed it to my parents to keep our family (or what was left of it) together. My little brother was my responsibility now. Every day we spent apart felt like another broken promise.

  Another failure.

  In the beginning, Mr. Trundle would humor my frequent inquiries, assuring me that Beans was thriving in his new home. He promised me that once things had settled down, the two foster families would get together to set up some sort of schedule for Beans and I to spend time together. Unfortunately, the visitation I was promised never happened. Despite my best efforts, Mr. Trundle had stopped returning my calls weeks ago, and I was starting to panic.