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  What a killer story! A miracle child and a serial killer collide in Fearless, a breakneck pace thriller that entrances and enthralls! With a relentless pace and raw, wounded characters, Fearless kept me up late into the night—I could not read fast enough. Dellosso is a writer to be reckoned with!

  —RONIE KENDIG

  Award-winning, best-selling author of the

  Discarded Heroes series and Trinity: Military War Dog

  Mike Dellosso’s Fearless packs an emotional punch. His engaging characters and riveting plot pull the reader right into the story. He’s a true craftsman!

  —TOM PAWLIK

  Christy Award–winning author of

  Vanish, Valley of the Shadow, and Beckon

  Mike spins a tale that combines suspense and compassion, intrigue and hope, by weaving in a remarkable visitor’s gift into a situation of pain and loss. Born of fire but created in love, this is a ride that will keep readers wondering until they turn the final page. Fearless will challenge your faith and your courage!

  —ACE COLLINS

  Best-selling author of The Yellow Packard

  and Darkness Before Dawn

  MIKE DELLOSSO

  Most CHARISMA HOUSE BOOK GROUP products are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchase for sales promotions, premiums, fundraising, and educational needs. For details write Charisma House Book Group, 600 Rinehart Road, Lake Mary, Florida 32746, or telephone (407) 333-0600.

  FEARLESS by Mike Dellosso

  Published by Realms

  Charisma Media/Charisma House Book Group

  600 Rinehart Road

  Lake Mary, Florida 32746

  www.charismahouse.com

  This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.

  Scripture quotations are from the Holy Bible, New International Version.

  Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, International Bible Society. Used by permission.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters in this book are fictitious unless they are historical figures explicitly named. Otherwise, any resemblance to actual people, whether living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2013 by Mike Dellosso

  All rights reserved

  Cover design by Justin Evans

  Design Director: Bill Johnson

  Visit the author’s website at www.MikeDellosso.com.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data:

  Dellosso, Mike.

  Fearless / Mike Dellosso. -- First edition.

  pages cm

  ISBN 978-1-62136-241-8 (trade paper) -- ISBN 978-1-62136-242-5 (ebook)

  I. Title.

  PS3604.E446F43 2013

  813’.6--dc23

  2013003046

  First edition

  13 14 15 16 17 — 987654321

  Printed in the United States of America

  For Laura, Abby, Caroline, and Elizabeth—

  Innocent eyes see the soul.

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Just a Word . . .

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Acknowledgments

  ALL THANKS TO my God and Savior, Jesus Christ. Without Him any attempt to do anything would be futile.

  Big thanks to my wife, Jen, for always cheering me on, giving advice, and supporting this crazy writing thing. Thanks to my four daughters for lighting up my life and giving what I do some purpose. They play a bigger role than they think they do.

  Thanks to my parents for their constant prayers and steadfast support. They believe I can even when I don’t.

  Also thanks in abundance go to . . .

  Les Stobbe, my wise and sage-like agent: his advice and guidance is like gold.

  My editors, Adrienne Gaines, Lori Vanden Bosch, and Deb Moss: without them I’d be a sloppy kid with mussed hair and wrinkled clothes propped in front of an audience to look like a fool.

  The sales and marketing team at Charisma: they do some marvelous stuff.

  Lastly, many, many thanks go to my readers. Thank you for your support, encouragement, and prayers. I’ll be back!

  Just a Word . . .

  IN JAMES CAMERON’S 2009 hit Avatar the alien race greets each other with the words “I see you.” During the course of the movie we learn that those words mean more than they appear to mean at first. To the Na’vi “I see you” is so much more than acknowledging that an individual is present; it is to look into their soul, to see them for who they really are, their character, their passions, their hurts and fears and joys and dreams.

  Interestingly native tribes in South Africa use the same greeting. It’s quite powerful when you think about it. We are a busy people, working, playing, texting, surfing; our minds are constantly occupied. Yes, we’re surrounded by people we never really see. Oh, we see they’re there. They get in our way in line at the grocery store, cut us off on the highway, give us the wrong amount of change at the fast-food joint. But do we really see them? Mostly, no.

  How radically it would change our lives if we saw those around us as not just bodies populating the landscape of our life, but as people with lives, with struggles and victories, as husbands trying desperately to provide for their family and wives exhausted from working and parenting and running here and there, as employees striving to do their best in a system that keeps expecting more for less.

  What if we really saw those around us? What if we looked into their eyes and found the soul of them? How important would every connection be? Every word spoken? Every action portrayed? And what if others knew that when we looked at them we saw so much more than a body taking up space, that we saw them as a precious creation, a person made in the image of God. A person.

  I want to see people, really see them.

  Chapter 1

  JAKE TUCKER COUGHED in a half sleep, a raspy, dry hack that burned in his lungs. He was dreaming of drowning, of being pulled into murky, dark waters by some unseen hand. Above, through ripples of water, he could see the sun, a blurry orb, disjointed like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle and fading quickly. His lungs tig
htened, felt as if they would burst. Water pressed around him. He flailed his arms and kicked his feet, but it did no good. He sank farther and farther away from the surface, away from that tiny wriggling light. He coughed again, and in his dream he could take the pressure in his chest no longer and sucked in a mouthful of water, welcoming the cold liquid and the death it would bring. It rushed down his windpipe and into his lungs. He tried to inhale again, tried to draw oxygen from the water, but he was paralyzed. Suffocating.

  Jake Tucker hacked, a forceful bark that brought up a wad of phlegm, and awoke. Thick, acrid smoke filled his living room. He’d fallen asleep on the sofa while watching the evening news and . . . and what? He’d been waiting for something. Something to cook. But what? Panic seized him.

  He rolled to the floor where he found a layer of cool, fresh air. Pulling it in through his nose, he coughed again, expelled soot and smoke from his lungs. The kitchen was engulfed in flames. Wicked things as tall as a man and angry, they clawed and licked at the doorway to the living room, blackened the jamb and molding. The linoleum peeled and melted, curled around the edges.

  But what had he been cooking? What had caused the fire?

  Jake thought of heading for the front door, but there was something he needed to get, something he was forgetting. He drew in another breath and hacked again.

  Yes, Jovie, his cat. He’d put her in the cellar but couldn’t remember why. The cellar door was in the kitchen, though, the kitchen that was now an inferno. But he couldn’t just leave her down there. She was family to him. Pushing to his knees then his feet, Jake pulled his T-shirt over his nose and mouth and stumbled through the smoke. He struck his knee on something hard. The coffee table. He was moving in the wrong direction.

  The fire roared like a living beast hungry for the flesh of man, but it sounded like it was all around him. It was spreading fast, growing, gaining strength, sucking the oxygen from the air. Oxygen he so desperately needed. He wheezed, coughed. His eyes burned and watered. But still he felt his way through the gloom. Sweat droplets dotted his forehead and cheeks now, soaked his shirt. The temperature in the house rose exponentially, slowly baking him.

  Over the raging flames he heard a low meow. Jovie. She was just on the other side of the door. If he could only make his way to her. He tried to follow the sound of her yowling but the smoke and fire were so disorienting he repeatedly came back to the same wall, the one with the family photos on it. His parents and grandparents. His siblings. Marta, his wife, his long-mourned wife. And Raymond, his son. Dear Raymond.

  Jake leaned against the wall. His mind was slowing, trudging through mud. His chest felt like it was in a vise. Pressure grew around his lungs and heart, squeezing his ribs until they hurt. The pain, a deeply intense ache, radiated down his left arm and up into the left side of his neck and face.

  “Raymond!” But Raymond couldn’t hear him. He was three thousand miles away in California. “Raymond, I’m sorry. Please.”

  He coughed again and this time brought up some blood. The pressure in his chest worsened, like someone was standing on him. His left shoulder blade felt like it was being ripped from his back.

  Still Jovie meowed, over and over, rhythmic, like seconds ticking off time on a clock. The charcoal smoke swelled around Jake; the heat built. He dropped to his knees and tried to crawl to the sound of Jovie’s cries. His eyes burned and watered so badly he couldn’t see a thing.

  Raymond was on his mind, though. His son, Raymond. He’d never see him again. Never . . .

  The eggs. Yes, that was it. He’d put eggs on the stove to boil then went to lie on the sofa and watch the eleven o’clock news. The pot must have burned dry and started the fire.

  In one last moment of semi-clarity Jake Tucker almost laughed at the irony of it all. Done in by a pot of eggs.

  He fell to his side and rolled onto his back. A ceiling of smoke hung above him like a phantom. Maybe it was a ghost; maybe it was the angel of death come to take him over to the other side where he could see Marta, hold her again, tell her face-to-face all the words he’d spoken to her photo over the past five years.

  Somewhere in the distance but not too far Jovie still wailed. But her holler faded quickly as if she was on a boat drifting away into the fog, farther and farther away, so far that he could no longer hear her. Jovie.

  The weight on his chest had increased, and his left arm had numbed. He couldn’t feel the left side of his face either.

  Then the swirling smoke began to change colors, red and white and blue. It flashed and stuttered, red-red-white-blue, red-red-white-blue. His mind fixated on it, on the colors, the rhythm. They must be the colors of heaven. The gates were opening and welcoming him home, bidding him come near and see his Marta.

  Jake coughed again; his chest spasmed. Smoke was such an awful thing to inhale. He had to remember to turn the stove off next time. He still couldn’t remember why he’d put Jovie in the cellar. He couldn’t hear her anymore.

  Something in the house cracked. Sounded like wood busting, splintering. A hideous sound. But he didn’t open his eyes. He was being pulled under, just like in his dream, but instead of fighting it he had succumbed to it. There was no way out now. This was how it was going to end. And how it would all begin.

  Suddenly he felt a presence there with him and opened his eyes. A face materialized out of the smoke, hovered over him. Small, soft, white . . . the face of an angel. Blue eyes that seemed to glow from their own light. Hair the color of flax and pulled back off her face. A girl. A young girl, just a child. She smiled at him and placed her hand on his chest. Her smile was sweet and innocent, the smile of a child who’s never known the worst of this world. Oddly, in the midst of such chaos, such hellfire, she showed no signs of fear.

  When she spoke, her voice was meek, the voice of all that is pure and right. “Mr. Tucker, you can’t go yet. Raymond needs you.”

  Raymond. His son. His dear son. How did she know about Raymond?

  “He loves you.” She smoothed his hair with her hand. “He needs his father.”

  She had freckles across her nose, a spattering of them shaped like a butterfly.

  “Tell Raymond you love him. Tell him how much you love him. Tell him you forgive him.”

  Her hand lifted from his head, and she faded from view. She was an angel, had to have been. His time had arrived, and he was about to be ushered into eternity by this precious little angel.

  In the distance, so far away, he heard a faint knocking, then more wood breaking. The house was falling apart around him, but he didn’t care anymore.

  “Live, Mr. Tucker. Live. God has given you life.”

  He heard his name. A man calling him. Muffled. Another angel. They were coming to get him, coming to give him eternal life. A strong hand wrapped around his ankle and pulled. Something went over his face, something cool. He was floating now, breathing in the clean, fresh air of the heavens. His chest no longer ached, and the numbness was gone in his arm and face. He felt new again. Whole. Young.

  Chapter 2

  JIM SPENCER SLIPPED on his jacket and pulled his ball cap snug on his head. He walked lightly into the bedroom so as not to startle his sleeping wife from her deep sleep. Sleep didn’t come easy for her anymore, and when she managed to find it, he hated to disturb her. But he needed to this time.

  Through the darkness of the room he crept, the only light being that from the hallway slipping in past the cracked-open door. The shades on both windows were black and pulled, blocking even moonlight from filtering into the room. To find that elusive sleep, Amy needed it dark.

  Jim stopped at the bed and stroked his wife’s hair. “Hey, babe. Amy.”

  She stirred, moaned, but did not awaken. Her sleep was sweet and deep this time. Again he felt a prick of guilt for disturbing it. He thought about just quietly exiting the room and slipping out of the house unheard, but if she awoke and found him gone, she might panic. She was prone to panicking lately.

  Again he combed his fing
ers through her hair. It was soft and still carried the faint smell of the shampoo she’d used that morning. Peach. “Amy. Babe. Wake up for a second.”

  Her eyes fluttered, stuttered, and finally opened. She squinted at him and pressed her lips together. “What is it time?” Her words were jumbled and slurred, the language of weary travelers just arriving from the land of slumber.

  “Almost midnight. Hey, you awake?”

  She rubbed her eyes with both hands and pushed her hair from her face. “Yeah. What is it? Is something wrong?” Already the panic was there.

  “Doug Miller called. Jake Tucker’s house is on fire, and he wants my help.”

  “Wants your help? Why?”

  “I don’t know. He said he’d fill me in when I got there.”

  Amy extended her hand to him as if reaching out from a pit that housed a creature whose tentacles were wrapped around her ankles, and he took it. “Poor Jake,” she said. “I hope he’s okay. Be careful.”

  “I will.” He leaned in and kissed her on the forehead. “You try to go back to sleep. Sorry to wake you.”

  He turned to leave, but she didn’t let go of his hand. “Be careful, Jim. Come back to me.”

  And there was the fear, the uncertainty that had such a tight hold of her. She’d already lost so much.

  Jim slipped his hand from her grip hoping those tentacles didn’t win the struggle and pull her into the lost darkness of despair for good. He stroked her cheek. “Don’t worry. I’ll be back home before you know it. You try to go back to sleep, okay? And don’t worry, okay?”

  “Mm-hm.” She rolled toward him and slipped her hand under the pillow.

  Jim crept out of the room, wishing sleep upon his wife, wishing the sandman to pay her another visit, but he doubted it. If this was anything like an ordinary night, she’d lie awake in bed and allow her mind to conjure torturous thoughts of what was lost and what could have been. Should have been.

  Downstairs he grabbed a Coke from the fridge and left, locking the door behind him. At his truck he looked back at the house. On the second floor the bedroom light was already on. She’d given up so quickly.