Page 1 of True Ruin

PROLOGUE

Rearviewmirror–Pearl Jam

Ramstein Air Base, Germany, 1997

The world had gone silent,save for the static hum of the hospital’s fluorescent lights and the occasional beep of the monitor tracking his vitals.

Dallas True didn’t trust silence.

After all, an eerie calm had filled the air right before the attack.

Blowing out a fast breath, he stared at the ceiling, the scents of antiseptic and burnt coffee hanging in the small space, and wondered when someone in a rumpled lab coat would allow him to put weight on his ankle. His gaze roved to the crutches leaning against the wall, a dull reminder that he wasn’t bulletproof.

No matter what he’d tried to prove.

When he heard the comment whispered in his older brother’s exacting tone, Dallas knew it was time to get out—of his head orthe hospital, he wasn’t sure. He hadn’t seen Justin in three years, but he still heard that voice when he needed it least.

The door creaked, and the spongy squeak of rubber soles cut through the internal debate. Dallas suppressed a groan when his senior editor stepped inside, his stomach tensing the way it had when he’d been hauled into the principal’s office in high school. He didn’t say a word. Fortunately, maturity had taught him that a man could buy all kinds of things with well-timed quiet.

Information. Sympathy. Acceptance.Sex.

“Hell of a way to earn a vacation,” Leonard Pierce said, the perpetual Lucky Strike dangling from his mouth, his voice scraped raw by the habit. The metal chair next to the bed screeched across the vinyl tile as he dropped his considerable bulk into it. It was easy to see why he’d taken a management assignment two years ago. Field reporters often had to run for their lives, and Pierce wasn’t runninganywhere.

Biding his time, Dallas tapped a pen against the bed’s shaky tray table. For the past hour, he’d been struggling to finish a story he wasn’t sure had an ending. “Pretty certain you can’t smoke in here,” he finally said, because one of them had to say something.

“This isn’t my first rodeo, kiddo. Completely safe if you’re not hooked up to oxygen.” His watery brown gaze scanned the space as he gave a feeble yawn Dallas didn’t believe for one second. “Lucky the shrapnel didn’t catch you in the eye. Though that pretty face of yours could take a few hits.” He shrugged and fished a matchbook from his wrinkled coat pocket. “Women like scars, insideandout. I can’t say why; they just do. Won’t hurt your chances, being roughed up a bit. You forget, I’ve seen you in action. The brooding ones always win.”

Dallas grunted, unwilling to gothere, for God’s sake. In fact, he was going to wait this out. Pierce was the best managingeditor at Reuters, a terrific newsman, but he was shit at managing people.

It would be entertaining to watch him try.

“The click of a satellite phone still makes my pulse jump, too. Dictating stories line by line, madness unfolding around you in villages so remote they still use telex machines. Wrong-place, right-time stories are the thrill of a journalist’s life…until they do him in.” Pierce struck the match against the striker and cupped his hand around the flame. “Adrenaline only goes so far, kiddo. Putting yourself at risk without considering the risk usually doesn’t end well. I should know.”

“Am I being fired?” Dallas asked, his patience wearing thin. He started to rake a hand through his hair, then remembered they’d shorn it with military precision upon arrival to check for head wounds. “Is that it?”

Pierce coughed and jabbed his cigarette at Dallas. “Jesus, didn’t you read the fucking memo?”

Dallas glanced at the leather satchel sitting across the room. He’d had a concussion when they brought him in, but he vaguely recalled someone delivering an envelope the next day. Scrubbing his fist across his brow, he released a ragged sigh. “Um, no.”

Pierce exhaled a thin stream of smoke and watched it curl toward the ceiling. His fingers, yellowed at the tips, trembled. “I thought you were turning it down. You know, trying to talk my most headstrong reporter into something against his nature isn’t my idea of a good time.”

“Talk me into what?”

Pierce grinned, enjoying this despite his claim otherwise. “Deputy bureau chief. Cairo.”

“Bureau chief,” Dallas whispered, slumping against the lumpy pillow. He hadn’t expected to land this gig for another five years. At least.

“Deputybureau chief,” Pierce clarified with a pointed look. “You ain’t starting at the top. You’ll hire stringers, edit dispatches, coordinate coverage, occasionally file analysis pieces, though most of those will fall to the junior leaguers, a meager two souls. Long hours and plenty of ‘em, that’s a promise. But it’s a step up, a big one, your first test in managing an editorial crew. Stable housing, expense account, fax machines, even electricity most days.”

And the unspoken but enormous win: Dallas would decide the stories they chased.

Pierce didn’t have to sell it. The position was coveted, as was the location. Only London, Johannesburg, and Nairobi were more desirable. Dallas palmed his belly, trying to contain the nervous flutter.

Here it was, no campaigning involved, and he wasn’t sure he was ready.

“Only catch, you have to have your head on straight, kiddo.” Pierce chewed on the butt of his cigarette, his gaze narrowing. “You’ll have other people’s careers, other people’slives, on your shoulders. No jitters, no jolts when a car backfires, your nerves gotta be steadier than cement.”

There it is.Dallas tossed his pen on the tray. “How long am I grounded?”