Book I: The Disappearance (The Fallen Race Trilogy). Colin Patrick Garvey

dancing and clapping, and one of the bartenders turns up the volume on the TV and tries to call for silence.

      “Hush up over there for a second! Hush up!” he shouts.

      The noise level of the place suddenly fades from a cacophony to several conversations asking what is going on, until finally, silence seems to envelop the room.

      The people gather around the bar, transfixed by the images on the TV.

       Another 9/11?

      Not again, people groan.

      It is too much for Rushmore. He feels nauseous, as if he is going to be sick. Although the bar is not air-conditioned and the abundance of ceiling fans has done nothing to ward off the July humidity that has seeped in, Rushmore feels like his whole body has been dipped in an ice bucket. A cold sweat begins to coat his skin and he feels the blood leaving his face. He starts to make his way towards the restrooms in the back of the bar when he suddenly feels his legs go weak.

      Rushmore realizes why a split second later as he looks behind him and sees a syringe exiting his right buttock. He stares up at the two men he spotted not more than a couple minutes ago, who suddenly have their arms wrapped tightly around him, gripping him as if he is caught in a vice. Before Rushmore can even resist them, let alone utter a cry for help, he senses all feeling rushing out of his extremities, and the only thing that keeps him from falling is the men holding him up on either side.

      A young woman notices Rushmore practically falling over and asks, “Is he okay? You guys need some help?”

      One of the men responds icily, “He's fine. We're just going to take him home.”

      These would be the last words that Rushmore would hear as he drifts off into darkness, which, soon enough, would be his permanent home.

      * * *

      Sergeant Kaley slams his foot on the brakes as he comes to a screeching halt in front of an orange-canopied bar where a pair of Chicago police cars sit. Something tells him that he has finally struck pay dirt as he sees a couple of soldiers he recognizes from Evans speaking with a police officer outside of a bar called Kingston Mines.

      Something also tells him that he may be too late. Kaley throws on his hazard lights, springs from the jeep, and hustles toward the group of men.

      He addresses one of the police officers. “Excuse me, Officer, may I have a minute alone with my men?” he politely asks, gesturing towards the two men the officer is questioning.

      “And you are . .” the officer asks.

      “First Sergeant Jonathan Kaley, United States Army, sir,” he responds, adding a quick salute for good measure.

      The officer takes a once-over of Kaley, looks at the other two men, and finally relents.

      “Yeah, go ahead, but we still need to ask these guys a few more questions, Sergeant.”

      “They'll be with you in no time,” Kaley assures the officer.

      The officer walks away and Kaley waits until he is busy with someone else before he turns toward the two soldiers, who offer him a sharp salute.

      He returns the salute and asks them, “Was Private Rushmore with you guys tonight?”

      “Sir, are you okay? You have blood on your forehead,” one of them notes.

      He reaches up and feels the caked blood just beneath his hairline.

      “I'm fine,” he says dismissively.

      They look at him uneasily.

      As if to reassure them, Kaley says, “Don't worry, it's not mine. Now listen, Boyd and Rogers, right?”

      They simultaneously respond, “Yes, sir.”

      He urgently asks, “Where is Rushmore?”

      “We don't know,” Rogers responds.

      “He was with us for most of the night and then, in a heartbeat, we didn't see him,” Boyd chimes in.

      “It was right after the news broke on TV about the terrorist attack,” Rogers offers.

      “Fucking bastards,” Boyd mutters.

      “Sir, did you hear about it?” Rogers asks.

      Kaley nods solemnly, “I did, Private. But, listen, I really need to know right now about Rushmore.”

      “A lady said she saw him,” Rogers reports, “that he was helped out of here by two big guys wearing black leather coats. But we didn't see anybody who looked like that. She said he looked pretty wasted.”

      “But it didn't seem like he even drank that much, sir,” Boyd offers. “And she said he looked like he was struggling with them for a second, like he didn't know them or something.”

      Pondering this information, Kaley begins to think out loud, “Leather coats in July…”

      He allows the thought to hang there for a moment before continuing his questioning.

      “So, what did you guys do next?”

      “We called the cops,” Rogers says.

      “Two guys in black, leather coats did not sound like people Rushmore would take off with, sir,” Boyd notes.

      “We thought they might have robbed him, sir,” Rogers says, “maybe beat the shit out of him and left him out back.”

      “We looked in the alley behind the joint, sir,” Boyd states, shrugging, “but we didn't find him.”

      Kaley contemplates their story for several moments, eyeballs the two men, and asks them something just to be sure.

      “You boys aren't covering for him, are you?”

      Both of them shake their heads “no.”

      “He didn't take an extended leave of absence, did he? Maybe he cracked and went AWOL?” Kaley asks, mining for any scrap of information.

      Both emphatically respond, “No, sir,” in quick succession.

      “There's no way, sir,” Rogers says. “Rushmore ain't that kind of guy, and me and Boyd will vouch for him.”

      Having been in the intelligence business for years, Kaley likes to think he knows when someone is lying or being less than forthright with him. By all appearances though, these two men seem to be telling the truth, although he almost wishes they were lying, for Rushmore's sake. Two unknown and unidentified men taking Rushmore for a stroll does not sound promising.

      Shit, Rushmore was my responsibility and I might have put him directly in harm's way, Kaley thinks. He suddenly feels sick to his stomach thinking of the young private's fate, cursing himself for how careless and rash he acted at Evans, not for one second considering the possible consequences.

      But how could I have known? he reminds himself. How could I have known what we would see?

      “What did the police say?” Kaley asks, motioning towards them.

      “We can't officially file a missing persons report until twenty-four hours have passed, sir,” Boyd says. “But we gave the cops a description and they said they'd keep an eye out.”

      “Good,” Kaley nods. “Now you boys better get back to Evans on the double, and let them know about Rushmore.”

      “Yes, sir,” they both nod.

      Kaley leans in and lowers his voice an octave, “If anyone asks back at Evans, I was never here and you never saw me tonight. That's an order, understood?”

      Kaley's voice is firm and deadly serious. One after the other responds, “Yes, sir.”

      “Good,” Kaley nods.

      He turns and starts to walk towards his jeep when Boyd speaks up, “Sir, one thing though.”

      “Yeah?”