As promised, here's the prologue to my new novel. You may not be able to tell it by this, but it's a Christian novel and God will end up right in the midst of the action. I can't wait for you to read this whole story. It turns out that I have become very attached to these characters and I will be surprised if they don't have a long tenure with me in numerous adventures.
The boy was no longer responsive and was barely breathing. With a fever of 104 degrees, hemorrhage under his skin, and bloody vomitus, the prognosis was an obvious one. Back home, there might be a chance. Here, there was nothing they could do, at this advanced stage, but try to make him comfortable in his last hours. The doctor looked at the father. “I’m sorry, sir. This boy will not make it. He is too far gone,” the interpreter translated. “What?” the father shouted. No translator was needed to know that the father was irate and irrational. “The boy will not make it. He is very close to death now,” the doctor tried again. “NO!” the father roared. “You save my son!” he demanded.
The doctor looked at the staff. This would not end well. “Move the boy to a cot in the hospital tent and let’s get an IV started. Maybe some fluids and antibiotics will help.” Though nothing was likely to save the boy, it was reasonable to try to treat the dehydration and the infection.
After a night spent at his bedside, the father pacing beside the child, the doctor could see the boy was fading. Again, the explanation of the boy’s condition enraged the father. Couldn’t he see the boy was worse? Couldn’t he see he was barely breathing? Apparently not, as he demanded again that the staff save his son.
When the end finally came, the doctor looked at the father with dread. “He is gone.” His face went white, then red with fury. “NO! You save him or die!” he shouted. “He die, you die! Blood for blood!” he screamed, as he pulled a long knife from the scabbard at his waist. He lunged just as the aide saw the move and made a leap to tackle him. The aide and the father went down in a mass of screaming fury, but not before the knife had imbedded itself deep in the doctor’s thigh. You die! You die!” the father continued to scream.
“Blood for blood!” It seemed like that was exactly what had happened. “Get him out of here and find someone who can help with the body,” the doctor said as he looked at the knife protruding from his thigh. “And send someone to help me with this knife, too.” Utter calm under pressure.
Ramil was devastated by the loss of his son and enraged that the American doctor had not saved him. He had walked for days, carrying the boy down from the mountains. That doctor took one look at Yahriel and made up his mind right away. He wasn’t even going to give him a chance. “He won’t make it,” he had said. Well, he certainly wouldn’t make it if the doctor didn’t try. He gave him those needles in his arms and tortured him all night, and for what? For nothing! Yahriel had died anyway. The son of my heart is gone and it is all that doctor’s fault.
Stabbing was too good for him. He should have died, too, Ramil thought, and began to plan his revenge. There was surely someone who would help him. He will die. I don’t know how I will do it, but one day, that doctor will die if I have to hunt him down like a wild animal. I WILL avenge my son!Ramil Miagkov spoke of his anger and his need for vengeance constantly. Before long, people were talking. Bad people. That anger, that need for vengeance could be used, they thought. Ramil’s anger made him malleable to the terrorist cell who contacted him. They promised both vengeance and all the assistance he would need. Ramil had never been involved before. He could travel freely without raising international alarms. There was just one little thing he would need to do first. They would make all the arrangements, but it would not be rushed. He must go home, be quiet, and silence his threats. His turn would come, they promised. All things come to those who wait.