LITMIR.BIZ

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right. Most gangs require a kid to join by beating in—walking between two lines or standing inside a circle of gang members who beat him to a pulp. But to get into the Hypes, you have to go on a mission.”

      “Military term.”

      “Worse. Mo Ded’s favorite technique—he makes a boy put a blue rag on his head, dress all in blue and walk through a Blood neighborhood. Or wear red and walk through Crips turf. If the kid survives, he’s a Hype.”

      “What age are we talking about?” Joshua asked.

      “Around here, any boy over twelve either owns or shares a gun. Mo Ded starts them out at eleven.”

      Joshua shook his head as he unfolded the white T-shirt Sam had given him. “Reminds me of child soldiers in Africa. Sudan and Rwanda.”

      “Don’t forget Paganda. As bad as he’s had it, Pastor Stephen thanks God his sons weren’t forced to fight for the rebels.”

      “The ones who were killed?”

      “They end up dead either way. At least with a massacre, the suffering is short. In these African countries or in the kind of war you and I fought against terrorists, the only way to win is to eliminate the enemy. That or be eliminated yourself. You know what I’m saying, Duff. There’s no middle ground. It’s the same here in St. Louis. According to gang code, the only way to get rid of another gang is to kill all the members.”

      “That’s genocide.”

      “Welcome to my world.”

      Joshua let out a breath. “Hatred. It’s a grown man’s game. Why are these gangs recruiting kids so young?”

      “Same reason al-Qaeda straps explosives to children and sends them into marketplaces on suicide missions. Talk to your new friend at the refugee agency about child soldiers in Africa.”

      Uncomfortable at the mention of the woman, Joshua began putting on the T-shirt. He tried to work his arms through the sleeves. “Do you know Liz?”

      “Pastor Stephen told me about your encounter at Refugee Hope. He and I had a long talk this afternoon. Stephen Rudi may be Pagandan, but he understands St. Louis.”

      “Yo, Hawke. This shirt’s too small.”

      “One size fits all.” Sam studied his friend for a moment. “Still got the six-pack abs, I see. I’d better not let you get too close to Ana.”

      “When am I going to meet this fiancée of yours, anyway?” Joshua said, wincing at the tight fit around his shoulders. He rolled the shirt down over his chest, but he knew the thing would never stay tucked into his jeans. Slouch time for the ol’ Marine sergeant. He would have to get used to it.

      “She’ll be around,” Sam told him. “Ana teaches a creative writing class on Saturdays, but I’ve stopped encouraging her to come over here much. Too dangerous. I go to her place if we want time alone. We cook dinner, watch a little TV. It’s a nice break from the smell of sweat socks and dirty sneakers.”

      “What about Terell? Does he have a woman?”

      “His church hired a new youth director last month—lovely lady named Joette. She doesn’t know it yet, but she’s got a former NBA star in her future. And you? Anyone out there in the battle zone catch your attention?”

      “Plenty. But you know me. Careful.” He decided it was time to change the subject. “Let’s go catch some of the action.”

      Sam indicated the door, and the two men stepped out of the office. The basketball court swarmed with players. Whistles blew, the buttery aroma of popcorn drifted in the air, kids shouted. A toddler wandered out of one of the small classrooms. Smeared with blue paint, he looked around, lost. His face wrinkled into the start of a wail. Just then, a teenage girl sailed out of the room, snagged the child with one long arm and hauled him back to safety.

      Too many kiddos, Joshua realized. This place could make a real impact, but not without more space. Sam had mentioned an idea to turn the parking lot outside into a basketball court and playground. Good plan if the gangs would leave them alone.

      “No girlfriend?” Sam wasn’t going to let it drop. “Come on, Duff. You’re not getting any younger. Doesn’t daddy want his boy back in Amarillo pumping oil and raising heirs?”

      “He’d like nothing better than to see me build a house right down the road, get married and do the whole Duff-Flannigan Oil thing just like my big brother. No doubt the younger Duff boys will fall in line. I’ve been the black sheep.”

      “The lone ranger.” Sam clapped Joshua on the shoulder. “Well, you’ve got your hands full right now. Those Pagandans are quite a bunch. I like Stephen Rudi. You won’t believe what he wants to do in St. Louis.”

      Joshua glanced at his friend. He hadn’t had time to look in on the family since returning from his trip to the airport with Liz. Her wariness about his undertaking had put him on guard.

      “Reverend Rudi had better be happy to work for minimum wage,” he told Sam. “That’s all I can find for him around here. The wife doesn’t speak a word—English or anything else—that I can see. She’s a walking shell. No telling what the woman went through before they got together. The little girl will have to go to school. Maybe the boy, too. What did Stephen tell you?”

      “He wants to start a church.”

      Joshua scowled. “No way.”

      “He’s dead serious. He believes God spared the family from genocide, brought them to the States and plans to use them to further the Kingdom right here in St. Louis. The man practically had Terell and me on our knees this afternoon right in the middle of a basketball game. He’s pretty magnetic.”

      “Magnetism won’t pay bills.” Joshua studied the busy room. “Listen, Sam, I want to get the family hooked into the system here as fast as I can. I admire what you’re doing at Haven, but it’s not for me. I need to get on with my life. Got any idea how I can plug Pastor Stephen into a job?”

      “We can find him work, but what about you, Duff? You don’t want to sit behind a desk and count money for the rest of your life.”

      “Nothing wrong with money as long as it’s used right. I don’t know about that desk, though. You know me—I’m a hands-on man. I like getting down and gritty with people, working to change lives.”

      “Sounds like what we do at Haven. Why are you on the run?”

      “Not sure. I have a few things to figure out.” Joshua ran a finger around the neck of the T-shirt. “I’m no social worker, that’s for sure.”

      “You’re not Recon anymore, either. I doubt you’ll bust up any al-Qaeda cells in Amarillo. Why not stick around here? We’ve got Mo Ded and his brand of terrorists right outside these doors to keep things interesting. There’s a lot more to Haven than social work, and we could use another man the kids can look up to. I’m starting to think we need a liaison with the refugee community, too. Maybe that could be you.”

      “Nah. The social worker at Refugee Hope showed me the error of my well-meaning ways. The things that go into resettling these people—it’s more than one guy can do.”

      “Come on, Duff. I know you too well. You’d take on a challenge like that any day.” Sam assessed his friend. “What’s up with you? You’ve done a one-eighty since this morning.”

      Joshua focused on a group of youngsters carrying stacks of freshly laundered and folded white T-shirts toward the office. The last thing he wanted to admit was the way Liz had affected him. Five minutes, and she’d had him in overdrive. Not just her looks, either. They had clicked big-time. She knew it, too.

      But it wouldn’t work. She was headed to Africa. He was expected in Texas.

      “I shouldn’t have come,” he said finally. “This place is messing with my mind.”

      “It’s

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