First Team
Tim Green
Dedication
For Ron Osinski, my first writing teacher, football coach, life mentor, and the best friend anyone could ever ask for!
Contents
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Back Ads
About the Author
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
1
Brock was used to running. It’s just what he and his dad did.
He could hear the thump of his own pounding heart. He looked out the window. The darkness outside their racing car was complete. Clouds covered the moon and a light drizzle rushed by in a mist. Up ahead, the headlights from another vehicle pulled out onto the road, blocking their path. Brock twisted around fast enough to make himself dizzy and saw headlights from the car chasing them. It sped at them like a burning rocket.
“Dad!” Brock cried as his father spun the wheel. Tires shrieked. The car slid sideways off the road. Everything scrambled. Brock’s head boomed against the passenger window. He saw a flash of light, and the car shuddered to a stop.
“You okay?” Brock’s father laid a strong hand on his shoulder, clenching it and turning Brock to look at his face.
Brock nodded and bit the inside of his lip, forcing back tears.
Brock’s father flung open his door. “Let’s go!”
He dragged Brock by the arm out into the wet night.
Brock’s batting glove got left behind, but his baseball cleats helped him keep his footing as they sprinted across an open field toward a shadowy wall of trees. They were halfway to the woods when the vehicle that had been chasing them reached their car, pulled off the road, and shone its headlights on them. Shadows leaped from their feet, stretching like circus stilt walkers toward the woods. Brock heard a zip like an angry insect and then the nearly instant explosion of gunfire.
“Get down!” Brock’s father screamed as he lowered his own head and Brock’s by forcing his arm toward the dirt.
Brock stumbled and fell, but his father didn’t slow down. Brock had to scramble to get his feet underneath him as his father dragged him toward the safety of the woods. Another bullet zipped by, and another gunshot echoed off the low hills like a fading song. When they hit the tree line, Brock’s dad hauled him another twenty feet before stopping and crouching before him.
“Are you okay?”
Brock couldn’t even answer, but he nodded his head and grunted.
“Come on.” His father darted forward again, not running, but slipping through the trees slick as their own shadows, which were now lost in the inky web of branches. They stopped suddenly again.
“Shh.” His father tilted his head like a dog hearing a silent whistle. From the direction of the shots came the faint barking of men’s voices. Brock’s dad cupped a hand around his phone to keep the light from bleeding into the woods and brought up a map application. He got his bearings, clicked off the phone, and whispered again.
“Let’s go. This way.”
Brock followed, straining his ears for a sound of the men following them. Above, the drizzling sky was only a bit brighter than the tar-colored twist of branches, a true midnight blue. They trudged for what felt like fifteen minutes through the trees before they came to an abrupt end of the woods. Before them, even in the darkness, Brock could see the very long straight opening with what looked like an abnormally wide road.
“What is that?” Brock whispered. “Where are we going?”
His father scanned up and down the long open space.
“It’s a runway,” he replied, keeping his voice low. “An airport. We have to get out of here.”
“Can’t we hide?” Brock looked back into the total night of the woods.
His father shook his head, still studying the runway. “They may have night vision. Heat detectors.”
“Dad, who are they?”
“I think Russians.”
“Russians?”
“Organized crime. But maybe the agency. It doesn’t matter. Come on.”
“Dad, what are you—” Brock’s father dashed out of the woods, crossing the runway, then hugging the opposite tree line as they moved back in the direction of their abandoned car, which didn’t make sense to Brock. He guessed the agency his father was talking about was the National Security Agency. He had learned only that night that both his mom and dad had worked for the government many years ago, before his mother had been killed.
The pale shape of a large metal building rose up before them. The curve of the rounded roof let Brock know it was an airplane hangar. His father circled the building until they came to a smaller building, with an office and a side door. Brock’s dad picked up a rock and smashed the window. The crash of glass startled Brock, but the hissing rain seemed to swallow the sound. His father reached through the hole and opened the door from the inside so they could enter. They hurried through the office and into the enormous hangar. His father used the flashlight on his phone to locate a workbench, where he rattled through a toolbox before grabbing Brock’s arm again.
“Come on.”
Back outside they went. Brock had barely noticed the two planes crouching beside the hangar just beyond a fuel tank that looked like a huge, round vitamin pill. They stopped at the door of the bigger plane. Brock’s dad let go of his arm. He pulled the triangular blocks out from under the landing
wheels, then used the claw of the hammer he had to break open the airplane’s door. Brock’s dad climbed up inside, then turned and held out a hand for Brock. He took it and his father hauled him up and in.
“Hold this so I can see.” His dad handed him the phone and lay down on the floor so he could look up under the instrument panel. “Move it down here.”
Brock held the light down by his father’s head, shining it underneath the panel. His father removed a pair of wire cutters from his pocket and snipped away, grunting as he worked. Brock jumped when the engine rumbled to life. His father wormed his way out from under the panel and into the pilot’s seat.
“Dad, you know how to fly?”
Brock realized it was a silly question. His father didn’t even look up from the control panel or the switches and levers he was flipping and adjusting. The engine’s growl became a whine and they started to move. Brock’s dad never slowed. They rolled right out onto the runway, gaining speed. They were halfway down the runway when a vehicle pulled onto the far end. The high beams of its headlights flicked up and down as it sped directly toward them.
“Dad!” Brock yelled. It was as if his father didn’t see the oncoming car. They were headed straight for each other in an insane game of chicken.
The plane’s engine screamed.
His father’s face was grim as he gripped the controls with white fingers. His growl became an angry roar as they rocketed forward, right into the blinding headlights.
Brock shut his eyes and braced himself for the crash.
2
His stomach dropped to the seat of his pants. He was floating.
They were floating.
The plane skimmed just over the top of the speeding car and continued to rise. His father’s angry roar morphed into a crazy belly laugh. Brock laughed too.
He and his father turned toward each other, their faces red, and lips peeled back from their teeth with relief and joy.
Brock turned away to look back toward the ground. The dark strip of the runway twinkled with little orange lights like fireflies.
“Wow. What is that?” Brock pointed down.
“What is what?” His father looked over Brock’s shoulder out the window. “They’re shooting!”
His father banked the plane, sharp. Brock’s seat belt kept him from flying across his father’s lap. They swerved back the other way, and he banged against the glass window just as he’d done in the car when they’d spun off the road.
“Dad!”
The plane lurched sideways and dipped. Brock screamed as the plane rattled and shook. His father fought with the controls.
BANG!
There was a flash outside Brock’s window. Flames from the right-wing engine licked the night air.
“Dad! It’s burning!” Brock shouted.
“Ahhh!” His father’s arms shuddered, veins popping, muscles tightly cramped from the battle.
They were losing altitude. Beyond the airstrip, Brock saw the lake, dark as death, moving up at them fast. Suddenly, he felt calm. The roar of the engine and his father were like a soft ocean surf against the sand. He saw his mom from when he was just a toddler and she held out a square red block for him to hold. He saw Coach Hudgens and Bella. She smiled at him, so peacefully. Brock felt calm and relaxed and ready. He knew from stories he’d heard that this was what it was like when you were about to die.
3
The plane banked again. Brock thought for certain the wingtip would catch the water and send them tumbling end over end until the fuel tank exploded and they ended up as fish food on the bottom of the lake.
But it didn’t catch. The wings leveled. The plane sputtered and groaned, but they were no longer leaning and they were beginning—very slowly—to climb. It took them several miles of flying just above the lake to gain enough height to clear the trees onshore. Up and up they went, until finally the earth below disappeared in the misty rain.
“We did it?” Brock was afraid of the answer. His arms were locked against the dash.
“Looks that way. They shot out the right engine, but we can fly on the left one alone.” His dad shook his head. “Stupid. I gave them an easy target. Didn’t even think about the lights on the plane.”
“We can fly with one engine?”
“For now anyway.”
“Where are we going? How can you see?”
“I can’t.” His father pointed to the dials glowing in front of him. “The instruments tell me a lot. I’m heading south. Getting away from this cold front.”
“I didn’t even know you knew how to fly.” There was so much Brock didn’t know about his father, and, true to form, his father simply nodded his head and clamped his lips shut tight. A sob escaped Brock’s throat. He tried to swallow it back as best he could. His whole body began to shiver. His father reached over and gripped his shoulder.
“Are you okay?”
“Dad, they tried to kill us.” Brock looked over at his dad through a kaleidoscope of tears.
“It’s okay.” His father gently shook his shoulder. “Not you, just me.”
“Why?”
“Let me focus on getting away from here. We can talk more later.”
Brock nodded and leaned against the small window beside him. He was suddenly exhausted, but that was no surprise. His day began in Princeton, New Jersey, at a baseball tournament, where he’d pitched a stellar game and knocked in the winning home run before his father whisked him away—yet again—to retrieve some things from their home and get away fast. The only real surprise had been his father’s offer to let him stay. Brock didn’t try and hide the fact that he was tired of running, moving all the time, changing names, always being the new kid. His emotions blended with the vibration of the plane and were like a powerful drug, and he dropped off to sleep before he could think any more.
Brock walked through the doorway of an empty room. He looked behind him, and when he turned back, there was his mother. She didn’t speak, but her look told him she’d been waiting. And next to her, there was Coach Hudgens’s wife offering them cookies. Brock told her no thank you. The shadowy shapes of his poorly chosen friend, Nagel, and Nagel’s older brother rushed in, dumping the cookies to the floor with wild hoots of anger. Nagel and his brother turned and began bumping into Brock, banging him around, knocking him backward into the wall. Brock wondered where his father was, and he took a deep breath to cry out for help, but Nagel stuffed a fist in his mouth, choking him, while the older brother began to shake him, hard.
“Ahhh!” Brock’s scream woke him up. He was shaking, and after a moment realized that the whole plane was shaking. “Dad!”
His father fought with the controls, head and limbs bouncing like a bobble-head toy. “We’re losing the left engine! I’m taking us down! Buckle up tight!”
The plane trembled and bucked and Brock tried to see the ground below. The low clouds were gone. He could see the horizon lit by the stars and a slice of moon. An endless blanket of trees covered the rounded mountains below. Brock opened his mouth to ask what his father was doing, but he stopped when he saw a naked strip of land running up the side of a mountain ahead. They veered toward it, a perfect swatch of earth that cut through woods high and low. Brock could only think of a power line or a pipeline.
“Can we land?” His voice broke into a squeak.
“Hang on!” The earth came up at them fast, faster than the water, more certain, more solid.
The plane tilted this way and that, and Brock knew this time they would crash. When they hit, they bounced, then hit something that spun them toward the trees. The dark trunks and branches swallowed them whole. They crashed through, wood snapping, metal groaning and roaring, glass shattering.
They struck something solid and Brock thought the muscles would be torn from his bones. His head smashed into something hard. He saw a brilliant flash of orange light, then lost all consciousness.
4
The smell of flowers, thick and sweet like syrup, wafted in the air.<
br />
Brock’s eyes fluttered open. The scent filled his nose.
A vase of white flowers spotted with crimson dots bloomed from the table beside his bed. The man looking down on him wore a mask that covered his nose and cheeks, like a band of toilet paper wrapped around the middle of his face. A fresh purple scar ran along the underside of his chin. The skin around it was dark with old bruising.
The eyes, however, belonged to Brock’s father.
Brock sensed the bandages on his own face and the stuffiness in his nose. He tried to sit up, but his arms were strapped down to his sides. “I . . .”
“Shh.” His father held a finger to his mouth. It could have been pointing to the bandage across his face, Brock wasn’t sure. “Brandon. It’s okay.”
Brock’s mind turned the name over the way he would a smooth pebble from a creek bed. He caressed it, then clutched it tight and put it into the pocket of his mind, making it his. He understood the game. There were many names before this one, and there would likely be many more to come.
He sighed.
He liked that Brandon sounded similar to Brock, but wondered if that would make it harder or easier for him when some new classmate or teacher called him by name.
“Where are we?” His throat was dry and his voice croaked.
“Kane, Pennsylvania. The hospital. You’ve been out for three weeks, Brandon.”
“Are you okay?” Brock asked.
His father ran his fingers across the bandages. As he opened his mouth to speak, the door behind him opened and a young doctor with a very black mustache came in, rubbing his hands together.
“He wakes.” The doctor removed a light from the pocket of his white coat and started flickering it into Brock’s eyes. The doctor took Brock’s pulse, then hit his knees and elbows with a rubber hammer. After that, the doctor tickled and pricked Brock’s hands and feet to make sure everything was working. “Good. Very good.”
“How long before he can go home?” Brock’s dad asked.
The doctor’s dark caterpillar eyebrows knitted together and he turned to Brock’s dad. “I still want three more days at a minimum. I’ve said that all along. He’s been through a lot.”
“As a precaution . . . ,” Brock’s dad said.
“Yes.”
