Special Forces: Operation Alpha: Saving Sarah (Kindle Worlds Novella) (New Orleans Connection Series Book 7) Read Online Free Page B
finding one girl in a city the size of New Orleans. Piece of cake .
His finger swept across the screen, looking at photos of different girls, all college-aged, pretty in that All-American schoolgirl way. The phone was filled with smiling silly selfies, as they grinned for the camera. But his hand froze when the last photo popped onto the screen. His breath caught in his chest, his eyes locked on the grinning dark-haired girl filling the screen. Laughing at the friend beside her, she smiled, her green eyes filled with joy and life. His hand trembled slightly as it tightened on the phone until the plastic case creaked.
Because he recognized her. He'd never met her, at least not face-to-face, but he knew her. Night after night for the past week, she'd haunted his dreams.
Turning the phone outward, he showed the picture to Sarah. "Is this your sister?" The words were strangled, and he barely got them past his suddenly parched throat.
"Yes, that's Anna."
His gut tightened into knots and he felt bile rising in the back of his throat.
Why couldn't I be wrong, just this once?
Savannah Sloane, Sarah's missing sister, was the girl who haunted his dreams. Abstract and disjointed, the dreams didn't make any sense, but the images in them stayed burned into his brain like a searing brand.
How could he tell Sarah? He'd learned years ago not to tell people about his dreams or visions, because they either didn't believe him or looked at him like he'd lost his mind. The thought of seeing that look on her face wasn't something he ever wanted to see.
But if he didn't tell her, when the truth came out…
Hell, he didn't want to think about what might happen. Looking at Sarah, seeing the fragile hope in her eyes, he didn't want to break her heart.
How could he tell her, in every single dream, every nightmarish scene that played like some weird-ass avant garde kaleidoscope of black and white imagery—her sister was dead.
CHAPTER FOUR
"You know something."
Sarah's accusatory words landed like a physical blow. Truth be told, he didn't know anything—not with any certainty. Dreams weren't reality. He didn't have a single shred of evidence anything had happened to Anna. And he was lying to himself, because his dreams were never wrong.
They had started when he was a kid, though they didn't happen often. Knowing when somebody was coming to visit, because he'd dreamt it the night before. Seeing the face of a new kid, then meeting them a few days later when they moved into the area.
He hadn't paid much attention to them, not until he dreamed his grandmother's death. Waking from the nightmare, with tears streaking down his face, he'd run and told his mother, shaking her from a sound sleep. He still remembered how pale she'd been when he'd recounted the dream that upset him. How her arms tightened around him, squeezing hard enough he'd cried out.
When the phone rang minutes later, he knew . The look on her face, her shoulders slumping like she'd taken a bullwhip strike against her spine, were more eloquent than words. Her eyes met his, shiny with unshed tears, and she nodded once before pulling him against her hip and rubbing his back while he'd sobbed.
She'd made him promise never to tell anybody about the dreams. And he hadn't. Even as a kid, he knew people would call him a freak. So, he kept his mouth shut. Still did. Nobody outside the family knew about his prophetic dreams, and he'd even stopped telling them a long time ago. For all he knew, the rest of the family thought he'd quit having them.
When he'd reached his teen years, they disappeared and he'd felt both relieved and bereft. When he'd returned from Afghanistan they'd started again. Now the dreams were interspersed with nightmares of his time spent in that bombed out hellhole with members of his team fallen and bloody in the dirt. Separating the fantasy from reality got a
His finger swept across the screen, looking at photos of different girls, all college-aged, pretty in that All-American schoolgirl way. The phone was filled with smiling silly selfies, as they grinned for the camera. But his hand froze when the last photo popped onto the screen. His breath caught in his chest, his eyes locked on the grinning dark-haired girl filling the screen. Laughing at the friend beside her, she smiled, her green eyes filled with joy and life. His hand trembled slightly as it tightened on the phone until the plastic case creaked.
Because he recognized her. He'd never met her, at least not face-to-face, but he knew her. Night after night for the past week, she'd haunted his dreams.
Turning the phone outward, he showed the picture to Sarah. "Is this your sister?" The words were strangled, and he barely got them past his suddenly parched throat.
"Yes, that's Anna."
His gut tightened into knots and he felt bile rising in the back of his throat.
Why couldn't I be wrong, just this once?
Savannah Sloane, Sarah's missing sister, was the girl who haunted his dreams. Abstract and disjointed, the dreams didn't make any sense, but the images in them stayed burned into his brain like a searing brand.
How could he tell Sarah? He'd learned years ago not to tell people about his dreams or visions, because they either didn't believe him or looked at him like he'd lost his mind. The thought of seeing that look on her face wasn't something he ever wanted to see.
But if he didn't tell her, when the truth came out…
Hell, he didn't want to think about what might happen. Looking at Sarah, seeing the fragile hope in her eyes, he didn't want to break her heart.
How could he tell her, in every single dream, every nightmarish scene that played like some weird-ass avant garde kaleidoscope of black and white imagery—her sister was dead.
CHAPTER FOUR
"You know something."
Sarah's accusatory words landed like a physical blow. Truth be told, he didn't know anything—not with any certainty. Dreams weren't reality. He didn't have a single shred of evidence anything had happened to Anna. And he was lying to himself, because his dreams were never wrong.
They had started when he was a kid, though they didn't happen often. Knowing when somebody was coming to visit, because he'd dreamt it the night before. Seeing the face of a new kid, then meeting them a few days later when they moved into the area.
He hadn't paid much attention to them, not until he dreamed his grandmother's death. Waking from the nightmare, with tears streaking down his face, he'd run and told his mother, shaking her from a sound sleep. He still remembered how pale she'd been when he'd recounted the dream that upset him. How her arms tightened around him, squeezing hard enough he'd cried out.
When the phone rang minutes later, he knew . The look on her face, her shoulders slumping like she'd taken a bullwhip strike against her spine, were more eloquent than words. Her eyes met his, shiny with unshed tears, and she nodded once before pulling him against her hip and rubbing his back while he'd sobbed.
She'd made him promise never to tell anybody about the dreams. And he hadn't. Even as a kid, he knew people would call him a freak. So, he kept his mouth shut. Still did. Nobody outside the family knew about his prophetic dreams, and he'd even stopped telling them a long time ago. For all he knew, the rest of the family thought he'd quit having them.
When he'd reached his teen years, they disappeared and he'd felt both relieved and bereft. When he'd returned from Afghanistan they'd started again. Now the dreams were interspersed with nightmares of his time spent in that bombed out hellhole with members of his team fallen and bloody in the dirt. Separating the fantasy from reality got a
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