| Chapter One Excerpt |
| August 1996 |
Standing Strong
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© 2006 Donna A. Fleisher
| Galations 5:1a Stand fast therefore in the liberty by which Christ has made us free. |
| Ephesians 6:10-11 Be strong in the Lord and in the power of His might. Put on the whole armor of God that you may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil. |
Screeching tires. Thumping rap music. Moving closer, growing louder.
With one foot on top of the shovel blade ready to push it again into the soft dirt, Chris McIntyre
froze, her eyes narrowing against the breeze blowing through the trees. Tires screeched once more,
slamming a car to a brutal stop. A horn blared, but was quickly beaten back by angry shouts and
booming hip-hop.
A shudder ripped through her. She stared past the back corner of the gym out over the side street.
The car’s engine roared, once again pushed to its max. Heading straight for Chris’s neighborhood, the
fools were using Kimberley Street as their own private drag strip.
She tightened her grip on the shovel’s handle.
For the past several weeks, rival gangs from Portland’s Outer Northeast explored the
easternmost fringes of Kimberley Square, determined to add turf to their territory. Police patrols had
been stepped up to counter the increased violence, leaving everyone, including Chris, a bit wary.
Even after all she had endured as a veteran of Operations Desert Shield and Storm, this new type of
warfare was unlike anything she had ever seen.
She forced herself to breathe as the racing car, its booming hip-hop music, and its screeching
tires seemed to be aimed straight for her. Just the thought of what that car carried stirred up tendrils
of pure terror, electrifying her blood.
Slapping footsteps echoed off the houses across the street. Peering over the thin azalea bushes
lining the sidewalk, Chris waited. She didn’t have to move. By the sounds of it, whoever was running
would pass the very spot where she stood.
A boy appeared. Sweating, desperately out of breath, a young boy no more than ten years old ran
down the middle of the street, feet clomping in his oversized sneakers.
Enrique? Was that his name?
He hopped the curb and ran down the sidewalk just a few feet from Chris. His head turned her
direction. Her presence must have startled him. He skidded to a stop, quickly looked over his
shoulder, then burst through the line of azaleas and ran at Chris. “Señorita! Chris! Por favor!”
She dropped the shovel and faced him, hands up, palms out. “Easy now—”
“Help me! Ayúda!” He pointed back down the street.
Those same screeching tires brought the car onto the side street. Frozen in place, Chris watched
it as the boy ran behind her and grabbed her arms, using her as a shield.
The tricked-out late-model sedan slid through a quick right turn and skidded to a stop in the
gravel of the gym’s back lot, no more than twenty feet away. The hip-hop spewing out of it shook the
fillings in Chris’s back teeth. Dust filtered up from the tires and floated on the breeze.
Enrique’s fingers dug into her upper arms, and he bent with her as she reached down for the
shovel. “Le suplico,” he whimpered. “Le suplico! No … no let … no deje que me agarren!” His
terror zipped through his crushing grip and settled in the pit of Chris’s stomach.
She couldn’t move. Staring at the car, her breath hung suspended in her throat.
A sudden, complete silence fell.
Four grinning young men, teenagers, all wearing tight black nylon skullcaps and chains of silver
around their necks, peered at Chris through the open passenger-side windows of the sedan. “Do it,”
the driver shouted. “Let ’em have it!”
One of the teens in the back seat pointed an assault rifle at Chris. It looked brand-new. Shiny.
More like a pistol, the short length and small diameter of the barrel defied its ability to spray a world
of hurt at anything standing in its way.
Enrique pulled at her arms. “No, no! Señorita, por favor … no let them!”
Cruel laughter rumbled from the car. The boy in the front seat wore bright gold caps over his two
front teeth.
Their laughter turned to taunting curses. The barrel of the miniature machine gun swung side to
side as the teen holding it stared Chris down, his dark eyes glinting with unchecked delight.
Chris slowly raised the shovel, centering the tip of the handle in the dirt between her feet, the
blade over her heart. With the weight of Enrique’s grip pulling her arms down, she struggled to hold
it steady.
The cursing taunts increased. Each vulgar name they called her struck deeply. The driver’s
shouts carried through the chaos of profanity and insults. “Wanna die? Yo, stand there and die.”
Wicked grins. Violent, horrible promises of pure evil, of what they would do to her after they settled
their score with the boy behind her.
Lord God …
“Nah, spray ’er now, Bones,” the one with the gold teeth said. “Cut ’em both in half. Do it.”
The swinging barrel slowed and steadied on her.
She glanced down at the shovel blade. The way she held it against her chest, any bullets from
that pistol striking it would deflect directly into her stomach. Or her face. Feeling a bit sheepish, she
spun the handle to turn the blade so it curved out. Teeth clenched, she tried to stem the tremble that
had overtaken her jaw.
Hideous laughter spewed from the car.
Chris stared into the gunman’s eyes. Waited.
He glanced away first. Then he laughed and pulled the barrel of the gun to his lips and kissed it.
Enrique’s fingers dug so deeply into Chris’s arms, her pulse throbbed under her biceps. She
struggled to keep the shovel centered over her heart. To keep her balance. To keep the boy from
pulling her down. Come on, kid. Keep cool … Wait ’em out …
The car’s engine thundered. The back tires spun, shooting rocks and dirt across the street, then
dust into the air. Before tracking in to propel the car forward, the tires stopped, but the engine
continued to roar. Confined to its spot, the sedan seemed to scream for mercy, begging to be released.
Silence fell. Except for loud laughter. Purely evil taunts.
Ahh, man, Enrique. What did you do?
Chris blinked as Mr. Gold Cap pushed his door open. His right foot, encased in a huge Nike high-
top, plopped into the dirt.
She took a step backward, but her knees almost buckled when Enrique suddenly pushed away
and sprinted across the lot toward the trees, screaming in his panic, arms raised to protect his face as
he slashed through some rhododendron bushes.
A slow growl rumbled up from Chris’s throat. If the boy continued in his current direction, he
would end up in Ben and Sonya’s back yard. Or at the church. He’d find open arms to protect him,
even as he drew the gangsters deep into the heart of Kimberley Square.
The sedan’s engine revved, drowning out laughing shouts of cruel and profane delight. Mr. Gold
Cap quickly jumped back inside and slammed his door shut. Hip-hop once again boomed as the
driver spun the car in a tight circle in the gravel, kicking rocks and dirt at Chris. She cowered
beneath the spray, eyes pinched shut, hearing pinging sounds as rocks hit the shovel blade. Back on
the street, the car’s tires again screeched. Chris slowly straightened and blinked open her eyes.
Leaving black smoke in its wake, the car raced to the intersection of the first cross street and
then turned right once more to follow its prey. She rested her head against the back of the shovel
blade.
Enrique … is that even your name? Her arms trembled so hard the blade bounced off her
forehead. Okay … okay … breathe …
Maybe he wouldn’t stop at the church. Maybe he’d keep running all the way home. Though he
needed someone to take him in, Chris whispered a bit of a selfish prayer. She didn’t want him
stopping to hide anywhere near the homes of her best friends.
She needed to find her cell phone and call Ben to warn him. But she knew it was too late.
She needed to move. Her feet felt skewered to the ground.
Trembling overtook her. The shovel fell away. She dropped to her knees, then let herself fall the
rest of the way down. She rolled onto her back and stared up at a patch of brilliant blue sky peeking
out from behind thick puffy clouds.
Okay. It’s okay. Her heart thumped against her chest as she tried to relax. Yeah. It’s okay. He’ll
be okay. She blinked. Um … Lord? I mean … like … what was that all about?
With one foot on top of the shovel blade ready to push it again into the soft dirt, Chris McIntyre
froze, her eyes narrowing against the breeze blowing through the trees. Tires screeched once more,
slamming a car to a brutal stop. A horn blared, but was quickly beaten back by angry shouts and
booming hip-hop.
A shudder ripped through her. She stared past the back corner of the gym out over the side street.
The car’s engine roared, once again pushed to its max. Heading straight for Chris’s neighborhood, the
fools were using Kimberley Street as their own private drag strip.
She tightened her grip on the shovel’s handle.
For the past several weeks, rival gangs from Portland’s Outer Northeast explored the
easternmost fringes of Kimberley Square, determined to add turf to their territory. Police patrols had
been stepped up to counter the increased violence, leaving everyone, including Chris, a bit wary.
Even after all she had endured as a veteran of Operations Desert Shield and Storm, this new type of
warfare was unlike anything she had ever seen.
She forced herself to breathe as the racing car, its booming hip-hop music, and its screeching
tires seemed to be aimed straight for her. Just the thought of what that car carried stirred up tendrils
of pure terror, electrifying her blood.
Slapping footsteps echoed off the houses across the street. Peering over the thin azalea bushes
lining the sidewalk, Chris waited. She didn’t have to move. By the sounds of it, whoever was running
would pass the very spot where she stood.
A boy appeared. Sweating, desperately out of breath, a young boy no more than ten years old ran
down the middle of the street, feet clomping in his oversized sneakers.
Enrique? Was that his name?
He hopped the curb and ran down the sidewalk just a few feet from Chris. His head turned her
direction. Her presence must have startled him. He skidded to a stop, quickly looked over his
shoulder, then burst through the line of azaleas and ran at Chris. “Señorita! Chris! Por favor!”
She dropped the shovel and faced him, hands up, palms out. “Easy now—”
“Help me! Ayúda!” He pointed back down the street.
Those same screeching tires brought the car onto the side street. Frozen in place, Chris watched
it as the boy ran behind her and grabbed her arms, using her as a shield.
The tricked-out late-model sedan slid through a quick right turn and skidded to a stop in the
gravel of the gym’s back lot, no more than twenty feet away. The hip-hop spewing out of it shook the
fillings in Chris’s back teeth. Dust filtered up from the tires and floated on the breeze.
Enrique’s fingers dug into her upper arms, and he bent with her as she reached down for the
shovel. “Le suplico,” he whimpered. “Le suplico! No … no let … no deje que me agarren!” His
terror zipped through his crushing grip and settled in the pit of Chris’s stomach.
She couldn’t move. Staring at the car, her breath hung suspended in her throat.
A sudden, complete silence fell.
Four grinning young men, teenagers, all wearing tight black nylon skullcaps and chains of silver
around their necks, peered at Chris through the open passenger-side windows of the sedan. “Do it,”
the driver shouted. “Let ’em have it!”
One of the teens in the back seat pointed an assault rifle at Chris. It looked brand-new. Shiny.
More like a pistol, the short length and small diameter of the barrel defied its ability to spray a world
of hurt at anything standing in its way.
Enrique pulled at her arms. “No, no! Señorita, por favor … no let them!”
Cruel laughter rumbled from the car. The boy in the front seat wore bright gold caps over his two
front teeth.
Their laughter turned to taunting curses. The barrel of the miniature machine gun swung side to
side as the teen holding it stared Chris down, his dark eyes glinting with unchecked delight.
Chris slowly raised the shovel, centering the tip of the handle in the dirt between her feet, the
blade over her heart. With the weight of Enrique’s grip pulling her arms down, she struggled to hold
it steady.
The cursing taunts increased. Each vulgar name they called her struck deeply. The driver’s
shouts carried through the chaos of profanity and insults. “Wanna die? Yo, stand there and die.”
Wicked grins. Violent, horrible promises of pure evil, of what they would do to her after they settled
their score with the boy behind her.
Lord God …
“Nah, spray ’er now, Bones,” the one with the gold teeth said. “Cut ’em both in half. Do it.”
The swinging barrel slowed and steadied on her.
She glanced down at the shovel blade. The way she held it against her chest, any bullets from
that pistol striking it would deflect directly into her stomach. Or her face. Feeling a bit sheepish, she
spun the handle to turn the blade so it curved out. Teeth clenched, she tried to stem the tremble that
had overtaken her jaw.
Hideous laughter spewed from the car.
Chris stared into the gunman’s eyes. Waited.
He glanced away first. Then he laughed and pulled the barrel of the gun to his lips and kissed it.
Enrique’s fingers dug so deeply into Chris’s arms, her pulse throbbed under her biceps. She
struggled to keep the shovel centered over her heart. To keep her balance. To keep the boy from
pulling her down. Come on, kid. Keep cool … Wait ’em out …
The car’s engine thundered. The back tires spun, shooting rocks and dirt across the street, then
dust into the air. Before tracking in to propel the car forward, the tires stopped, but the engine
continued to roar. Confined to its spot, the sedan seemed to scream for mercy, begging to be released.
Silence fell. Except for loud laughter. Purely evil taunts.
Ahh, man, Enrique. What did you do?
Chris blinked as Mr. Gold Cap pushed his door open. His right foot, encased in a huge Nike high-
top, plopped into the dirt.
She took a step backward, but her knees almost buckled when Enrique suddenly pushed away
and sprinted across the lot toward the trees, screaming in his panic, arms raised to protect his face as
he slashed through some rhododendron bushes.
A slow growl rumbled up from Chris’s throat. If the boy continued in his current direction, he
would end up in Ben and Sonya’s back yard. Or at the church. He’d find open arms to protect him,
even as he drew the gangsters deep into the heart of Kimberley Square.
The sedan’s engine revved, drowning out laughing shouts of cruel and profane delight. Mr. Gold
Cap quickly jumped back inside and slammed his door shut. Hip-hop once again boomed as the
driver spun the car in a tight circle in the gravel, kicking rocks and dirt at Chris. She cowered
beneath the spray, eyes pinched shut, hearing pinging sounds as rocks hit the shovel blade. Back on
the street, the car’s tires again screeched. Chris slowly straightened and blinked open her eyes.
Leaving black smoke in its wake, the car raced to the intersection of the first cross street and
then turned right once more to follow its prey. She rested her head against the back of the shovel
blade.
Enrique … is that even your name? Her arms trembled so hard the blade bounced off her
forehead. Okay … okay … breathe …
Maybe he wouldn’t stop at the church. Maybe he’d keep running all the way home. Though he
needed someone to take him in, Chris whispered a bit of a selfish prayer. She didn’t want him
stopping to hide anywhere near the homes of her best friends.
She needed to find her cell phone and call Ben to warn him. But she knew it was too late.
She needed to move. Her feet felt skewered to the ground.
Trembling overtook her. The shovel fell away. She dropped to her knees, then let herself fall the
rest of the way down. She rolled onto her back and stared up at a patch of brilliant blue sky peeking
out from behind thick puffy clouds.
Okay. It’s okay. Her heart thumped against her chest as she tried to relax. Yeah. It’s okay. He’ll
be okay. She blinked. Um … Lord? I mean … like … what was that all about?