Chapter Text
Lancer: A New Century
The Road to Beijing: Part One
The Letter
Chapter One
The shove against his shoulder was hard enough to make him take a stagger step into the metal gate as it clanged shut.
“Josephine! You know you aren’t supposed to be here!” Johnny spun and gently popped the gray nose snuffling at his hair. “Get on back to the barn or you’re not getting whatever it is you think you want.”
Two, long gray ears twizzled as slow eye blinks seemed to suggest he was mistaken. “I mean it. I don’t know how you got out, but you keep at it, and you’ll never see an apple again.”
The donkey opened her mouth and brayed her disbelief. “I mean it. Or better yet, you’ll see it for yourself. You ain’t getting a taste of one while you watch me give ‘em all straight to Barranca.” Hearing the name of her competition, the animal slowly reversed direction and began a slow walk in the center of the shallow ruts that made up the dirt drive toward the house. “I’m not kidding, JoJo!” Johnny shouted after her as he tugged at the gate to ensure it was properly latched then trotted behind the bed of his truck to climb into the cab.
Stepping on the clutch, he dragged it into first gear and rolled up behind the donkey, her long dark gray tail swishing with a definite air of indifference. “I can go around you, ya know!” The boy leaned out of the window but hesitated to tap the horn. He could see his guardian’s bronze colored Dodge Ram parked on the cement part of the circular driveway in front of the house. At sixteen, he hadn’t had his license for a full year and Gramps was still a little too quick to yank his driving privileges for infractions like blaring his horn at the recalcitrant livestock. Of course, the horn, like much of the old vehicle, gave more of a squeak than a honk. Johnny was forever on the hunt for spare parts to keep the old girl running but it was a damn sight better than riding the bus or having Gramps drop him off at the front doors of the high school.
He grinned to himself. His last visit to the junk yard had snagged him an abandoned 1998 Soft-tail that appeared to have left its best days behind. Gramps had agreed to the purchase of the Fat Boy Stage II Kit Harley as long as Johnny agreed to do the work and buy the materials to bring it back to life. Jake Turner, uncle to his best friend Kevin, was talked into helping to get the engine turned back on in exchange for several Saturdays working his garage and gas station. That bad boy now sat in the machinery shed with its restoration underway. Johnny was grateful for the Plymouth, but his daydreams of cruising into the school parking lot and sliding onto the painted white line between two pick-up trucks on the front row had him wandering miles away from Josephine until he hit a rut deepened by the lack of rain, near bouncing his head off the roof.
Johnny blew a breath up toward his unruly bangs, rolled up the window and took a wide turn around the donkey. Amazingly, she began to trot when he gunned past her. “Thought that might get your attention,” he murmured, shaking his head. He pulled his old Plymouth next to Gramp’s ranch battered truck. Deciding to avoid the lecture before it began, he headed straight into the barn to feed the stock, including the now cooperative Josephine and his own beloved Barranca who nickered happily in his stall when Johnny shoved open one side of the double doors, the gap where JoJo had made her escape all too evident.
He laughed as JoJo reentered her stall and used her teeth to pull the door shut behind her. Johnny trotted into the feed room and raked a wheelbarrow full of hay. He moved along a boarded walkway giving access to the back side of the stalls without the interference of the gates. After the first course of fresh hay, he returned to the feed room to fill large metal buckets with a mix of oats and sweet feed and balanced those within the wheelbarrow for his return trip. Six heads watched him patiently as he made his way along the path scratching ears after pouring the grain into the grain boxes. Johnny figured the count-down clock to dinner was ticking if Hector and his sons, Patrick and Jesse, had stabled their horses along with Jelly’s.
The Ignacio men were full time hands on the small, self-sufficient ranch with plenty of work between the cattle, pigs, goats, fences, pens, barns, sheds, fields, ponds and corresponding ranch and farm equipment that needed constant maintenance. Jesse, the youngest son, also had a love for bikes, and had helped Johnny run the new brake lines on his motorcycle. He finished in the barn by hanging full buckets of water inside the stalls before whispering to Barranca he would bring his daily treat after he had his own dinner. The large, palomino gelding nibbled at his hair satisfied with the promise.
Filling more buckets, he shoved his way out of the back side of the barn where he slopped snorting pigs and slung feed across the tall enclosed, wire pen to a small herd of baying and cavorting goats, calling each by name. Uncoiling a nearby hose, fresh water filled the troughs as the sun was half-way gone behind the horizon, the sky to the west filled with color. Finished with his evening chores, Johnny stopped at the truck to drag his bags from the cab before tearing up the steps through the front door of the two-story wood frame house with a wide wrap-around porch.
“Gramps! I’m home!” The teenager slammed into the house dropping his backpack on the coffee table in front of the couch and a long duffle bag on the floor next to it.
“Where ya been, boy? Supper’s ‘bout done boiled over,” a voice trying to sound perturbed, but failing completely, sounded from the kitchen.
“I went to the range. Remember? Kevin was practicing with me.”
“Ya fed….”
“Already done.”
“Cows, too?”
“Are they needing fed yet?” Johnny breezed into the kitchen and turned on the sink to wash his hands.
“Take yer nasty self outta my cookin’ kingdom an’ use yer own sink.” A dishtowel popped the boy’s trim backside with a snap.
“Oww. No, I didn’t feed the cows. Thought they still had plenty of graze,” the boy shook his head at the gray-haired, balding man who had raised him since he was two years old. He scurried out of range of the next snap of the towel, running out of the kitchen, grabbing both backpack and elongated bag, and headed up the stairs to his room.
“Gonna have some hay delivered next week,” a voice filtered up the stairs through his open door. “We can throw it out over the weekend. I’ll pick up some salt licks at the grain store when I’m in town later this week. S’pect you to put those out with the hay.”
“‘K,” the boy shouted back absently. He didn’t mind delivering hay and salt licks into the fields for their small herd of fifty or so Angus cattle as much since Gramps finally agreed to purchase a modified golf cart and trailer to use in addition to the pick-up trucks especially since he was the one always stuck in the back throwing out the hay while Gramps drove and gave orders. He smiled to himself. Of course, Gramps didn’t really need to know that when the trailer was unhitched, Johnny used the cart to race around the fields with Barranca running alongside. While out testing the terrain, he was eyeing where he hoped to build a small bike track once he got his Harley running.
Johnny dropped into the leather desk chair, swiveling it back and forth, and flipped open his laptop doing a quick look at email. He grinned seeing a flashing notice from a secure Navy site telling him that his brother, Scott, had sent a message and hoped for an embedded video. Johhny couldn’t hide the light in his eyes anxious to hear from his older sibling but decided to wait until he could see it without rushing. It was hard having a brother he couldn’t tell anyone about, so he had learned to treat their time together—even when only an email—selfishly. He sighed almost wishing, but somehow knowing, that there was not a similar message filtered through the Marines from their father. You know he writes when he can, the boy could hear Jelly, the man he called Gramps, making excuses for him now.
“Supper bell don’t ring twice!” a crotchety voice sounded from below. Johnny smiled, fully aware he’d be lucky not to be fed thirds no matter what time he slid into his chair. He trotted into the bathroom across the hall, scrubbed both hands and face clean before making his appearance by whooshing down the banister.
“Did ya make chicken fried steak like ya promised?” Johnny deliberately prodded his guardian.
“‘Course I did ya ungrateful li’l peckerwood.” Jelly set a platter with enough fried steak patties to feed all of the empty chairs at the table. Johnny knew the leftovers would take care of lunch for Jelly and the Ignacios clan the next day.
“What’s this?” Johnny fingered the envelope placed to the left of his plate. It was about 5x7 inches, half the size of a full manilla envelope. A green label testified that it had been mailed certified, raising an eyebrow as he turned it from side to side looking for clues about the sender.
“Do I look like a Nosy Nellie who goes around readin’ yer mail?”
“Nah. You’re more the hovering Mother Hen type expecting me to read it to you after I open it,” the boy teased as he tapped the edge of the off-white paper against the table. The return address was essentially uninformative, sent from Dallas bearing just the address, a P.O Box, no name of the sender.
Jelly Hoskins dropped into his chair at the head of the large, oak farm table, catty-cornered from Johnny and laid his eyes on him with a warm smile. His chest warmed seeing the returning half-smile revealing the dimple on that side of his tan face, his thick black bangs falling across his forehead. Jelly had to clench his hands to stop himself from reaching out to brush the hair back, making plans to drag the boy into town for a haircut.
He had no children of his own—he and his beloved wife did not experience that joy before she died, far too young—and he bore no blood relation to this sassy boy. Johnny had been given over to his care when the child was a traumatized toddler. Due to some erroneous reports in the aftermath of the chaos, it had been widely published that two-year-old Johnny Lancer had perished with his mother at the hands of a drug cartel due to his father’s successful disruption of their operations. In a cabin used as a line shack on the father’s extensive California property, General Murdoch Lancer handed his second son to Gunnery Sergeant Jellifer B. Hoskins, retired as of that moment, who had served under the general for years. The boy, a soft cast on his broken left arm and white gauze covering healing burns on his arms, legs, and torso, had whimpered turning back, tiny arms outstretched, wanting the safety of his father’s arms.
When Jelly carried the struggling boy away, screaming for his papa, Johnny Lancer officially died, a week after his mother’s actual murder, giving birth to Johnny Madrid. One was issued a death certificate, the other one a document with a new name born to a fictious mother. Murdoch had steeled himself against the soul-gutting cries of his child as his trusted friend maneuvered the boy into the waiting helicopter and flew away to a safe place where his father’s enemies could not find him.
Long after the chopper had faded into the clouds, Murdoch stood on the porch, a child’s blanket that bore the soft scent of baby shampoo pressed against his nose. The fluffy fabric absorbed the display of grief that erupted in the solitude of the empty cabin. He pressed the blanket against his mouth to stifle the moans of misery as he stumbled to sit in the rocking chair where he had held his sobbing son until the toddler gave into his exhaustion and slept.
Murdoch buried his eyes into the muslin as memories of his beautiful Maria, swaying in his arms as his laughing boys leapt around them, failed to obliterate the image of her tormented body left by the assassins who thought they could destroy him. He succumbed to the anguish, folding over in the chair, weeping as his shattered soul wandered through the devastation wrought against his family. When he surfaced from his despair, he leaned back into the chair and began a steady rock, back and forth, back and forth, the blanket now held in his lap. He willed away the tears he shed for the near insurmountable loss of his wife and sons into a cement hardened bunker that he refused to open again.
His eldest son, eight-year-old Scott, had been with his maternal grandfather, Harlan Garrett, when the attack on Lancer occurred. A very public display, choreographed through Murdoch’s military connections and Harlan’s wealth, proclaimed that Murdoch’s paternal rights had been severed, and he would no longer have access to the child. Billionaire Garrett would adopt the boy and see to his grandson’s safety.
Harlan had offered to raise Johnny, too, but Murdoch believed he would be safer if the attackers thought him dead. Although a small child, he was a witness who could identify the attackers should they be arrested. But then, Murdoch’s plans didn’t include arresting the men who tortured and murdered his wife, attempted the same for his son and set fire to his home.
No, Johnny would become a new boy. An orphan of a single mother whose distant cousin agreed to raise him. Jelly would retire to his family ranch and make a home for the child who had no other family.
But Murdoch Lancer was a hard man. A relentless foe. He did not know who organized the decimation of his life, but he vowed that they would pay for their sins against him. A vow he repeated to himself almost daily. Two of the assassins had met their deserved fate at Lancer’s hands but the one who ordered the strike remained hidden in the dank underworld of drug and human smuggling. Whoever the demon was, they succeeded in forever changing the dynamics of his family, but he would not allow the bastard to steal his boys away from him. Not completely.
Between Lancer and Garrett, their resources allowed the family to talk through a secure network of satellite phones and computer connections as technology evolved. The best and newest innovations permitted regular communication. The family would meet every few months at homes owned by Garrett around the world with at least annual visits to the large Lancer ranch in California.
Over the years, Lancer had been repurposed as a military training and research facility under the cover of a working ranch and vineyard. Its private airfield and vehicles with darkened glass allowed the boys to come and go unseen by prying eyes. Only the most trusted employees were allowed to see Johnny, Scott and Murdoch together. The pretense remained unquestioned that the general’s eldest son was raised solely by his maternal grandfather while the youngest one was deceased, and the orphaned child adopted by Jelly Hoskins shared no relation with the Lancer name.
Despite the tragedy that brought them to this place, Jelly knew he was a fortunate man. He didn’t think he could find a stronger love than he felt for this cheeky boy teasing him with an unopened letter.
“An’ what makes ya think I give a gol durn darn ‘bout whatever nonsense someone fool enough to bother with ya has ta say.” Jelly lifted his whiskered chin as he passed the platter of chicken fried steak patties to his adopted grandson. No. His grandson, no qualifying labels attached. His boy, no matter what anyone else had to say about it.
“Okay. I won’t bother you with it then,” Johnny agreed dropping the envelope down the back of his shirt. “I’ll read it in my room later.”
“You just do that boy but ya better take care’a the rest’a yer chores includin’ homework a’fore I hear any blasted gamin’ music in yer room.”
“Sure, Gramps. Chores. Homework. But not ‘til I’ve finished this fine dinner.” Johnny patted his stomach. “Letter sure can wait.” He scratched his back against the chair causing a rustling sound.
Johnny was able to hide his growing amusement as he made it through one steak patty and several bites of mashed potatoes with cream gravy and corn. Gramps continued to eat with occasional snorts and muttered complaints about a boy who needed his britches tanned more often. Finally, the elder man could contain himself no longer.
“Well, ain’t ya even a li’l bit curious?”
“Hmmm?” Johnny froze, a knife in one hand and a fork partway to his mouth as he chewed with his lips just parted. His back was now itching as much as he was to know what was inside the scratchy envelope, but he couldn’t let on about that. “Curious? ‘Bout what Gramps?”
“The dang letter, ya insolent pup. Who’s it from anyway? An’ what cause does some jackalope from the big city have to be writin’ ta ya an’ takin’ the time an’ money ta send it cert-ta-fied?”
“Oh…no clue at all. Can’t say as I gave it much thought since I have kitchen clean-up chores and homework to occupy my mind.”
“Well, that’ll be a first.”
“Maybe I’m just maturing. Taking my responsibilities with the seriousness you’ve tried so hard to instill in me.” The boy’s smile filled his entire face, his vivid blue eyes sparkling like sunlight dancing in a creek racing with cool water after a spring rain.
“Ohhh,” Jelly dropped his wrists to the side of the table, his utensils clutched uselessly in his hands, his meal forgotten. “Wipe that smug look off’a yer face an’ open the gol durn letter.”
“Well sure Gramps. We can read it now if you want.” Johnny chuckled as he retrieved the missive from his shirt. “All you had to do was ask.”
The boy pulled a pocketknife from his jeans pocket and sliced open the letter. He made a show of removing the contents, including an empty envelope, folded in half, with address affixed and three sheets of paper. Johnny snapped the grouped papers toward Jelly, clearing his throat as he began reading.
Dear Mr. Madrid,
Congratulations. Based on your demonstrated skills and standings on the Junior National Team, you are hereby invited to participate in the United States Olympic Shooting Team Trials in anticipation of the 2008 Olympics to be held in Beijing, China.
Johnny dropped his hands to the table, staring open mouth at his guardian, all pretense of teasing forgotten. Jelly stared back with a matching expression.
“The Olympics?” Jelly’s voice squeaked. “Like THE Olympics?”
Johnny swallowed compulsively as he quickly scanned the rest of the letter. “The trials are in three weeks in Massachusetts. For five days the early part of November. They have to have these signed agreements back in just a few days or they’ll ask someone else.”
“Agreements? What kinda agreements?”
“Well,” Johnny showed Jelly the second page, “Agreeing to the rules and procedures of the Trials signed by me, and you since I’m still underage. And because I’m in school,” he flashed the third page, “the counselor has to sign saying whether my classwork can be waived or if I have to do the make-up the work while I’m there. They will provide a tutor.”
“Ya already know what yer pa’s gonna say ‘bout that.”
“I’ll take it tomorrow and speak to my counselor, Mrs. White, myself.” Johnny flashed the disarming smile that had earned him more than one extra helping of dessert from the waitresses at the local Sabinal diner. “Maybe I can talk her into checking the box that says ‘Waived.’”
“Let me see that,” Jelly took the papers from Johnny’s hand. “Says here they will provide the accommodations includin’ some meals but we gotta git there on our own. Maybe yer Grandpa Harlan can help with that.”
“No.” Johnny sat upright in his chair to his guardian’s tilted head.
“An’ why not?” Harlen Garrett had any number of private planes given his numerous enterprises, including an aeronautic shipping business, as well as his personal Lear jet. They had been able to discreetly access the privilege on more than one occasion.
Johnny slumped back in his chair, all smiles dispersed into dust. He jabbed at his mashed potatoes with his fork. “Because if Grandpa Ha knows, then Scott’s gonna know and then Murdoch’s gonna know.”
Jelly scowled at the boy. Although he was Johnny’s legal guardian and he considered Johnny his grandson, he always acknowledged the authority of his father, never approving when the boy slipped and called him by his given name.
“A’course they need ta know. You should want them ta know. You’re gettin’ ta try out for the Olympics. That just don’t happen ta any ol’ body.”
“I know. I know.” Johnny glanced up through his long lashes, a look of misery on his face. “Gramps, you know how my father is. There’s enough pressure just being asked to compete at this level and my father has a gift for making that kinda pressure feel like a pony ride at the rodeo carnival. I mean, I imagine he’d be pleased and all, but as soon as he’s done saying that, he’ll be telling me every other thing I have to do like keeping up with my school work, and meeting all my responsibilities here at the ranch, and shooting is just a hobby, and keep a low profile, and the proper way to hold a gun and clean a gun and store a gun and….”
“Alright, alright,” Jelly put up both hands in surrender accepting Johnny had painted a pretty fair picture of Murdoch’s relationship with his youngest son. “We’ll wait on tellin’ ‘em. I guess we can just take care’a the first order of business which is gettin’ these papers signed an’ mailed back. Cert-ta-fied. Just don’t figure payin’ all that extra money just to mail a letter.”
“Thanks, Gramps,” Johnny grinned, the relief evident in his relaxing shoulders. “We can sign our part tonight. I’ll take the school part tomorrow for Mrs. White to sign and mail it after school. Can I have some cash? I don’t wanna give it away by using my credit card.”
“Cash! Why should I…,” Jelly caught himself, shaking his head. “There’s no sense me pretendin’. I’m so proud’a you, boy. ‘Course I’ll give ya some money. An’ I can check on some flights to…where we going?” He twisted the letter to read the destination. “Came-a-bridge, Massey-chusetts.”
“Uhhh, let me take care of the reservations, Gramps. I just need you to pay for it.”
.