African Ice by Jeff Buick Page A

off the crack pipe. His father repeatedly hit Mary in her face and stomach as the young boy screamed for him to stop. When he did, Mary was unconscious and bleeding profusely from a gash on her cheek. Travis’s father lit the pipe and sucked in the mind-numbing smoke, then sat back contentedly to watch television. When his mother awoke, she staggered into the bathroom to clean up. From there she walked into the bedroom and returned with the family gun. Travis watched as his father rose from the couch and moved toward her, threatening to kill her if she didn’t give him the gun. She pumped five bullets into his chest, three of them cutting through his heart. She turned the gun to her temple, said good-bye to her son, and pulled the trigger. The sixth and final bullet tore through her brain, spattering blood and gray matter across the room. He was an orphan.
    An aunt in San Antonio, from his mother’s side, offered to take the boy, and Social Services agreed. He packed up his meager possessions and moved from Houston to the much smaller center, and to a loving, caring family. What had happened in the past belonged in the past, Aunt Sarah had told him. He had the rest of his life ahead of him, and nothing could be done to right the wrongs he had been subjected to.
    He had assimilated into the new environment well, achieving good grades and making whatever sports teams he tried out for. With the sports letters came the girls, attractive ones with developing bodies and lustful desires. He reciprocated, giving the young women what they wanted. He was the hottest commodity in school his senior year, and he took that with him into college. He made the football team as a wide receiver in his freshman year, racking up seventy-one catches for one thousand two hundred forty-three yards and sixteen touchdowns. The scouts were watching as the whiz kid suited up for his sophomore year. Third game into the season, his chances at the big leagues evaporated when an opponent forced his knee to flex in a manner no knee can withstand. The ligament damage was so great, the team doctors told the boy he’d be lucky to walk without a limp. A professional sports career was out of the question.
    He finished his second year of college with a dismal two-point-six grade point average. He didn’t bother registering for his third year, but enlisted in the Navy instead. His knee had healed, and they saw a healthy body and an alert mind. He was transferred to Little Creek, Virginia, almost immediately. Navy SEALs, Team Six. The rest was history. Except that he took the memories of a horrible youth with him everywhere he went. There was no escaping.
    Travis McNeil took another drag on his cigarette and slowly blew the smoke into the humid air. “Not much to tell, really,” he said. “Normal family, cute house with a white picket fence on a quiet street. Mom and Dad went off to work each day, provided for us. I made a few sports teams, but never got invited to any training camps. Started smoking early, drank underage, that kind of stuff. Pretty boring, actually.”
    Samantha nodded and opened a small pouch attached to her belt. She extracted a large pill and looked at it with great distaste. “Three weeks of these things has been hell,” she said, swallowing the last of her malarial pills. “Have you ever had malaria?”
    â€œOnce. It’s not pleasant. How about you?”
    â€œLucky so far,” she answered.
    Their drinks arrived and he crushed out his cigarette after ordering lunch. “I’ll miss these when they’re gone.”
    â€œAmerican cigarettes?”
    He nodded. “They’ve got those awful French cigarettes. Gitanes, I think they’re called. Quite vile,” he said, then turned as three men entered the restaurant. He motioned for his team to join them.
    â€œCareful you don’t get your shirt dirty, Troy,” Travis goaded his arms expert as he sat down.