Chapter 2

The first thing Tory noticed was the smell. Sharp, acrid smoke burned the lining of his nose and throat, forcing him awake. Then, wracked by coughing, he came to the realization that he was no longer in his bed—not that he even knew where that was, given his current vantage point. His best guess was that there'd been an earthquake or something like that. Regardless, all he could see at the moment was his desk and bookshelf—or at least shattered parts of them—pressing him to the floor.

Pushing away the wreckage, however, didn't help much with visibility. The thick smoke—laced now with the strong smell of sulfur and diesel fuel—hung in the air and, given the lack of light, made it difficult to see much more than basic shapes. Another smell—that of burning wood—was also getting stronger. Feeling quite dizzy, Tory could now see a worrisome light emanating from the hallway—a flickering, orange glow. Add to that a persistent shower from the sprinklers, soaking him to his skin, and the sum total was a very desperate situation.

Panic clamored to overwhelm him, but he pushed back. The thought of his little sister trapped in her room across the hall, waiting for him to come, pushed back as well. Crawling across the debris-strewn floor, he worked his way to his own doorway, appalled by how much damage there had to be. His brain ran through the likely scenarios but could only come up with one—a bomb of some kind, like what was used on their dad.

A deep dread washed over him, sickening him with the thought that all he loved had finally been taken away. It tore at his heart, threatening to paralyze him. But rather than give in, he crawled on all fours to his sister's door, calling her name as loud as he could. The view from her doorway, however, brought him to a complete stop. Truthfully, most of the room was just plain gone and what was still there was covered in several feet of debris. Much of the outside wall was simply not there, with flakes of snow drifting in the giant opening. Flames were lapping up one remaining wall and across some of the debris, seemingly unabated by the sprinklers.

He called to Miri ... but there was no answer ... just the crackle of the flames, the hiss of the sprinklers and the wail of sirens in the distance. He called again—screamed really. Finally, a moan and a whimper ... then nothing. Portions of the roof and walls had collapsed, really, were still collapsing. The voice—his sister's voice, a little stronger now—came from the pile where he thought her bed used to be.

Struggling, Tory crawled toward her on his knees. Pushing, pulling, digging, and clawing, he was able to move enough of the debris so that he could finally see her hair. His sister's body was face down; her head turned the other way, not moving. Terrified, he leaned over to see if she was breathing. She was, but just barely—her face reflecting the pain she was in. Tory was puzzled, however, when splotches of red suddenly appeared, one after the other, on her cheek. Wiping at them with his finger, it was clear that it was blood but there was no cut there. When another drop fell, he knew its source: him.

Miri stirred and murmured something, but Tory could not make it out. Brushing away the blood that was dripping into his eyes now, he moved more pieces of wall and ceiling to try and get her out, but it wasn't enough. A large piece of concrete with several metal beams sticking out from it—maybe part of the missing outside wall (he wasn't sure)—remained. He tried to lift it, but his reward was only pain—pain from the hot metal but also a sharp, piercing pain in his side and hip. Biting his lip, he tried again, but this time he only succeeded in causing more wreckage to fall.

Knowing little more than a hopeless desperation, Tory grabbed one of the scalding hot beams with both hands, one more time.

Groaning, Whit partially rolled to his left, until he could sit up. The blast blew open his apartment door, slamming it into him and then propelling him into the half wall that was behind him. Doing a quick once over, he noticed he had some significant bruising, as well as a cut on his right arm, but otherwise no major injuries. He felt for his ear, but the Bluetooth was gone. After a pat down of his pockets, he located the still intact cell phone and immediately called Mike.

"What happened?"

"Car bomb. Typical yield. It shredded the north exterior of the building, spawning spot fires—possibly fueled by ruptured gas lines. 911's been called. Two unfriendlies have been subdued and detained. JJ's looking for the third. What's your status?"

"More or less intact. Smoke's starting to pour in from the hallway. Probably those fires you mentioned. I'm heading to Marisa's now."

"Be careful, commander. Things are looking really unstable from this side. The bomb blew out a lot of the lower supports, so use the southeast stairwell. Sid and Cynthia are there right now getting people below you out."

"Will do. Be sure to call Foster and..."

Suddenly Mike broke back in. "Hey, Whit! I can hear someone yelling up there. It might be Hector."

"I hear him, too. Gotta go."

"Right. Take care, sir."

Concerned with the possibility of fire, Whit snatched his leather gloves and wool bridge coat out of the closet and put them on. The smoke had really thickened but he disregarded it for the moment. He knew he didn't have much time. Stepping out into the hallway, he couldn't help but notice the northward lean of the walls and the buckling of the floor.

In a matter of steps, he was in Marisa's apartment—or what was left of it. The air was cold, as was the spray of the sprinklers on his scalp and face. "Marisa! Hector! Miranda!" he called, but there was no reply.

It took him a few moments to get his bearings. The devastation was one thing, but the ice build up from the freezing water made it look like some bizarre movie set. Suddenly, he realized the issue. A huge chunk of the ceiling was blocking access to the hallway to the bedrooms. Grabbing an edge of the debris, he leveraged it out of the way and let it fall away from him to the floor.

He could hear movement and grunting from the doorway to his left. Stepping into what was left of the frame, the nightmarish scene unfolded before him. The outer wall had been blown in, while the ceiling had been blown up and then came right back down, on top of the other wreckage. And it was precisely under that debris that tiny little Miranda was pinned. Poor Hector was not far from her, doing his damnedest to get her free but to no avail.

The floor groaned under Whit's feet as he moved to help the boy. Grabbing him by the shoulders, he pulled Hector back from the steel beam. "Go by your sister," he yelled. "When I lift this, you pull her free, okay?"

The boy was an absolute mess. Blood was streaming from a cut somewhere in his hair, his night clothing was in shreds, especially at the knees ... and then there were his hands. Whit didn't get a close look but he didn't need one either. He instinctively knew Hector could very well lose one or both of them.

The powerfully built man turned his attention back to the offending slab of debris. The beam was hot—no doubt a result of a natural gas fire below them—so this would have to be quick. Grabbing it with his leather clad hands, Whit channeled all his energy into his legs and back. Grunting loudly and in one clean motion, he lifted the hunk of steel and concrete and flipped it away from himself.

Tory was very careful as he pulled his sister out, which was a good thing considering the condition of her hips and legs. Squatting down, Whit rapidly assessed her status. She was unresponsive and both legs were broken—though, thankfully neither were compound. He wasn't sure about her hips, though. Judging from her shallow breathing, he also suspected significant internal damage—which was backed up by a low pulse rate. No stranger to the grim reaper, Whit knew death for this little girl was imminent unless he did something.

Turning to her brother, he began to talk to him until he noticed Tory wasn't listening, only staring wide-eyed at his sister.

It was happening again. Kneeling there with his sister, he watched in horror as she struggled for breath. She was going to die, right here, right now, and he can't stop it. It was happening again. Why hadn't he let her sleep with him? She hated being away from him but he sent her back to her room anyway. And now she's here, dying.

Watching her, he could see his sister Esmeralda—Merri—her broken body lying there on the floor where the guard had dumped her. He could see his mother ... all that blood ... he shook his head at the awful visage, and began to cry.

"Hector!" The voice was accompanied by a firm shake of his shoulder. "Hector!"

He looked up into the dark brown eyes of his protector—the one who had found them that day, weeks later, hiding in the jungle.

"Hector," he called to him again. "We can save her but we need to act fast, okay?"

The words, however, made no sense to him. They couldn't save her. She was gone, like the others. He just stared at him in confusion.

"There's no time," the black man told him, shaking his head.

Tory just watched as the large man pulled off a chain with a ring on it from around his own neck.

"I need you to wear this for me, okay?" he said as he placed it over Tory's head. He watched as the protector turned back to his sister and effortlessly lifted her in his arms, as if she were a doll.

"Follow me," the man said as he stood up.

Feeling very lightheaded, Tory struggled to walk but it was easy to follow the big man—like before. It was just a lot colder this time. He didn't like the smoke, though. It made him cough and that hurt. At least it stopped raining. That was good.

Suddenly they stopped. Confused, Tory looked around. He knew where they were. It was the big man's office. Why were they in the big man's office?

"Hector, I need you to take your sister."

Still confused, Tory stuck out his arms and let the big man place his little sister in them. He looked down at her and saw that she was still breathing. Confused, he looked back up at the giant black man.

"Remember these words, Hector," the man instructed him. "Endeavor to persevere."

He then made Tory repeat them several times, which he did, until the big man was satisfied. It was a struggle just to keep his eyes open. Suddenly, he felt the man's enormous hands pushing on his shoulders. Looking up, he could see the open door to a walk-in closet. Not understanding what he was supposed to do, he started to turn his head back to the big man.

"Just ask the lady for help," is all Tory heard from the deep, gravelly voice before he was nudged through the doorway.

Whit watched as the two children vanished through the portal. He had intended to take all three with him through the portal. Hector and Miranda's conditions, however, were just too dire to have them wait while he went to look for Marisa. They were in Tasha's hands now. As for he and Marisa, that was a whole other matter. Walking for the front door, he felt a large, unsettling tremor run through the floor as the building let out a low, rumbling groan.

Feeling more than a little small at the moment, Whit turned to one of the few things that ever gave him comfort. Making the sign of the cross, he offered up a quick prayer that he could find her alive and make it out before the whole building collapsed. Pulling out his phone, he then sent a voice text to Mike, just in case he didn't make it: "Sent the kids to Crossroads. I'm still searching for Marisa." By the time he was done, he was back standing in her apartment.

One thing different this time was that the sprinklers had stopped working. The upside to that was obvious but so was the downside. The smoke had worsened. Moving to the end of the hall, he stepped into what had been Marisa's bedroom. The condition there was as bad, if not worse, than Miranda's. From the outside, he could hear the police and fire crews arriving on scene. Judging from another shudder, however, Whit reckoned that about all the first responders would get to do is watch the whole place come down.

"Marisa!" He felt a bit foolish calling out her name. He did not honestly see any way she could have survived in this room—the debris pile was roughly knee to waist high. He called her name again. "Marisa!"

He had almost walked away when he heard a faint voice calling out behind him. Turning around, he realized it was coming from the bathroom. Trying the door, however, he found it would only open about a foot.

"Marisa?" he called through the small gap.

"Oh, thank God! Whit, I'm stuck in here. The ceiling collapsed and I can't get out."

"Are you okay?"

There was a long pause. "No. I'm pretty sure my arm is broken and..."

"And... ?"

"I'm naked. I was taking a shower."

"Hmmmm," he chuckled as he looked over the blocked door itself. It opened inward, meaning he couldn't access the hinges—but it was a typical interior hollow-core. With a bit of leverage, he could break it.

"Whit!" Marisa called out, obviously embarrassed, but then her tone shifted. "Whit ... Whit, how are Tory and Miri?" The worry in her voice was palpable.

"They've been rescued," he began, as he gripped the outward edge of the door with one hand, and placed the other firmly in the middle. "And are no doubt being treated for their injuries as we speak," he informed her. With a quick pull of the one hand and push of the other, the door snapped vertically like a folding door.

With the door mostly out of the way, he made quick work of the sections of ceiling that had piled up against the door—tossing them into Marisa's now disastrous bedroom. With a path to the shower now cleared, Whit took off his wool bridge coat and made his way back to her. As he drew closer, he could see the cold had reached her—she was shivering and her nipples were like pencil erasers. The scars on her abdomen, hip and left leg stood out in the dim emergency light as a fierce purple.

"Whit..." she whimpered through trembling, blue lips.

He shushed her with just a look and shake of his head. Despite the nudity and her obvious beauty, the moment had absolutely no erotic content for him. Draping the coat over her shoulders, Whit gently took her right hand so he could get a look at the broken arm. Relieved that it wasn't compound and was still fairly stable, just painful, he worked out in his head what they would need to do.

Quickly getting her left arm through the coat sleeve, he fastened up a few of the buttons in order to close the coat. Leaning way down, he had her put her good arm around his neck as he picked her up and cradled her in his arms.

"You ready," he asked, as another tremor shook the walls around them.

Her beautiful brown eyes wide with concern, she hesitated and then shook her head no.

"What's the matter? Is it your arm?" he asked, suddenly worried.

Marisa shook her head again. "Bend down," she told him, pulling on his neck with her good arm. When he drew closer to her face, thinking she wanted to tell him something, she leaned up and kissed him briefly on the lips. "You're a good man, Clarence Whittaker," she whispered, leaning her forehead against his cheek. "Thank you for coming back for me. Now get us the hell out of here."

"Yes, ma'am," he chuckled, pressing her to his chest. In short order, he sidled his way out of the bathroom and made it through the nightmarish array of ice sculptures to the front door. A bitterly cold breeze was thinning out the smoke in the hall but the building's creaks, groans and moans were increasing. He was moving as quickly as he dared, but feared it would not be enough.

Just as he reached the southeast stairwell, a low continuous rumble erupted from the building and the floor started to pitch and roll.

Marisa screamed out in terror as it suddenly dropped out beneath them. "Whit!"

Tory staggered a bit when he was nudged toward the open closet door. Still unclear as to what he was doing, he took a few more steps. He was gazing down at his sister, genuinely amazed that she was still breathing, when a strange twisting sensation enveloped him. Disoriented and feeling weak, Tory stumbled momentarily—leaning against a wall to regain his balance.

Looking around, he was shocked to see that they were now in a rather sterile white room. The walls and ceiling even gave off a soft while light. Tory was very confused, having no memory of getting into an elevator. Spying a now open doorway where there hadn't been one before, the young man struggled mightily to stand back up again. Unfortunately, weakened as he was, he just didn't have the strength—eventually sliding down the wall to the floor and leaving a streak of blood in his downward wake.

And that's where he was—at the base of the wall with the broken body of his sister still held close in his arms—when the angels found him.