Ambushed Read online

  All Spencer wants in life is an NCAA scholarship to play D-I college basketball. He visits universities when he can and works hard at his goal of taking his team to the state basketball championship. When disaster strikes, Spencer’s desperation sends him to the one person he was determined to ignore: his father.

  Ambushed

  Copyright © 2014 by Jill Williamson

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  Scriptures taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®.

  Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com. The “NIV” and “New International Version” are trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by Biblica, Inc.™

  The author is represented by MacGregor Literary Inc. of Hillsboro, OR.

  Cover designer: Kirk DouPonce

  Editor: Rebecca Luella Miller

  ebook design: Kerry Nietz

  Character sketches: Keighley Kendig

  Mission League logo and misc. images: Jill Williamson

  International Standard Book Number: 978-0-9887594-5-9

  Printed in the United States of America

  CLASSIFIED MISSION BACKGROUND REPORT

  TITLE: Previously in My Life . . .

  SUBMITTED BY: Agent-in-Training Spencer Garmond

  LOCATION: Intersection of Fifth and Rose, Pilot Point, California, USA

  DATE AND TIME: Monday, October 13, 2:51 p.m.

  IN CASE YOU’RE COMING INTO THIS adventure in the middle, a year and a half ago I was recruited into the Agent Development Program of the Mission League, a secret branch of INTERPOL, whose primary objective is to follow the will of God in collecting, analyzing, evaluating, and disseminating intelligence against the rulers, authorities, powers of this dark world, and the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.

  Yeah, I know what you’re thinking: churchers. And I thought the same at first. But then I found out that my real name is Jonas Wright and I’m in a witness protection program of sorts, hiding out from my criminal dad, who was responsible for my mom’s death. Real nice, huh?

  So I went on a training mission to Moscow. And I met this woman, Anya Vseveloda, who was working with the Russian mob to get people hooked on drugs and into a cult called Bratva. I’d been having dreams about her for years, and I found out I was gifted in prophecy.

  When I got back to California, Priere showed up—he’s the official intercessor for our group of agents-in-training. He told me that I matched the profile for a sixty-year-old prophecy and that some bad guys were after me because of what I did in Moscow. Agents started following me everywhere to keep me safe. The baddies guy-napped me after Homecoming last year, but the agents nabbed them right back.

  Things quieted down for a while. Then last summer, I went to Okinawa, Japan, on another training trip. I got my first red card—a real assignment—to follow this girl. I botched it, of course. And she led me to Anya (bad chick from Moscow), who accused me of being the Profile Match and wanted to know who the First Twin was. Like I had a clue. I managed to get away, but in doing so, Anya cut me across my chest and I had to get stitches. It’s actually a pretty sweet scar.

  Now I’m home again and totally focused on basketball. Coach did some research on the NCAA recruitment process, and, let’s just say, I’ve got a lot of work to do. But I’m starting to become a bit of a celebrity in Pilot Point.

  Oh, and there’s another Light Goddess movie coming out soon, so I’m curious if this one has the same creepy similarities to the Bratva cult as the other one did.

  So that’s what’s been going on. I’m sure you’re ecstatic to have learned all this. If you really want to know how everything works out, it’s all in this report.

  Spencer Garmond

  Agent-in-training

  Pilot Point Mission League

  REPORT NUMBER: 1

  REPORT TITLE: I Stalk a Hot Blond

  SUBMITTED BY: Agent-in-Training Spencer Garmond

  LOCATION: Harris Hall, The Barn, Pilot Point Christian School, Pilot Point, California, USA

  DATE AND TIME: Wednesday, December 21, 6:14 a.m.

  I YAWNED AND LOOKED AT GRACE’S EMPTY desk for the sixteenth time that morning, then read the next question on the Outdoor Survival Training final exam:

  16. In the Mission League, S.E.R.E. stands for

  a. Survive, Evade, Resist, Extract

  b. Survive, Evade, Resist, Escape

  c. Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape

  d. Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Evasion

  The Air Force S.E.R.E. had the word “and” in it; the Mission League one didn’t. And I was pretty sure “extract” was from the UK version. I circled b.

  Yes, Mr. S gave finals. And, yes, they were hard. Plus they counted on my transcripts, a fact I learned this fall when Coach taught me the rules. Turns out, the NCAA had strict requirements for high school students who want to play NCAA college sports and receive a scholarship at the D-I level. My grades weren’t bad, and the glorious Mission League had helped me out with two years of required foreign language that I’d never realized I was getting credit for. Nice, right?

  My biggest worry had been my SAT scores. Until I’d found out that the NCAA had a sliding scale to average my test scores with my GPA. With that formula, I was in pretty good shape for most schools, except maybe Berkley, Stanford, or USC. I didn’t want those schools, anyway. I wanted UCLA.

  Honestly, as long as I could get a power school in a power conference . . . Well, that was the dream. And I even had a few offers to prove that I wasn’t delusional. Life was good.

  My life, anyway.

  I looked at Grace’s empty desk again. After following her around all semester, I still hadn’t found out who was hurting her. And she’d ignored all my direct questions. But every time she was absent, she came back the next day with a bruise.

  I had a feeling that the truth might be the only way to get her to open up. But I really didn’t want to say, Hey, Grace. I dream about you. I mean, how creepster was that?

  I read question 17 and scribbled in the answer as best I could.

  17. Fill in the following acronym:

  S Size up the situation

  U Use my senses

  R Remember where I am

  V Vanquish fear

  I Improvise

  V Value my life

  A Act like the natives did

  L Live by using my head

  Another glance to her empty desk.

  Why did I keep looking? Did I expect her to show up halfway through the test?

  18. If someone is suffering from hypothermia, you should give them

  a. cold water; b. brandy; c. warm tea; d. ginger ale

  I would have said b, but I could still hear Arianna’s lecture after the customs agent took my bottle of saké wine I’d tried to bring back as a souvenir from Japan. I had told the customs agent I needed it in case of hypothermia on the upcoming snow training trip. But Arianna told me that drinking alcohol might make you feel warmer as the blood-alcohol level rose, but it actually lowered the core temperature of your body.

  I circled c.

  Occasionally, Arianna’s lectures came in handy.

  Since this was the Outdoor Survival Training year in the Mission League, there would be no international summer trip, but we were going to camp in the snow for a few weeks. So far, we’d spent the fall semester learning how to tie knots, what to pack that might save our lives, and how to do first aid—the Resusci Annie pr
actice dummy is ugly, and she reeks. I’m just saying.

  Next semester was to be hands on adventures. We’d get to go hiking, build fires and shelters. And then the snow camping trip. I was pretty excited about it.

  I looked at Grace’s empty desk. Would she be with us then?

  I muddled my way through the rest of the exam and left the underground bunker. The air was chilly outside, but December in Los Angeles didn’t require more than my hoodie. The sun was just now rising, making the Verdugo Mountains look black.

  I was a few minutes early for school, so I got my stuff out of my locker and went to homeroom where I could text Grace.

  It wasn’t too early for a text, was it? Grace went to Pilot Point High School. They started about the same time as we did.

  My classroom was empty. Not even Mr. Moore had arrived. I took my seat in the back and pulled out My Precious II from my hoodie pocket.

  Yes, I had a new iPhone. It had taken a few weeks. And Priere had said I didn’t deserve it after losing mine in the Pacific Ocean, but to my incredible luck, it wasn’t his call. The head honchos wanted me to have it so they could track my every move.

  I tried not to think about that most days, and I was so happy to get another iPhone.

  What should I text? Everyone had been teasing me about stalking Grace. They all thought I liked her. But I just needed to figure out who was hurting her. That was all. I swear. I didn’t need more girl drama. I had really bad luck with girls.

  I typed, You okay? into the keypad.

  “I can’t believe you finished the test before I did.”

  I looked up from my cell. Arianna dropped her bag beside her desk in the front row.

  Mission-Ari, as some kids called her, was slim and plain, though she’d started plucking her eyebrows this year. Or waxing them—whatever girls did. And her top lip was peach-fuzz free. I gave credit to Isabel, whose mother owned a salon.

  Arianna was still Arianna, though. In her continued protest against the knee-length skirts that were part of the girl’s uniform at our school, she’d been given permission to wear whatever navy blue skirt she wanted. Today’s was a fluffy floor length one that looked like mosquito netting.

  As she made her way down the aisle toward me, the fabric got stuck in the book rack of one of the desks. The whole desk dragged after her for a few steps. She turned back and growled, then pulled her skirt free. “Oh no! It tore!” She shot me a pout like I should feel bad for her or something.

  “I’m sorry?” I said.

  She dropped the hem. “No worries. I can fix it. Hey, are you coming to youth group tonight?”

  Over the past few months, in my attempts to rescue Grace, I’d become a full-fledged churcher at Cornerstone Christian. I still hadn’t said the hocus pocus prayer. I don’t know why I was dragging my feet. As much weird stuff as I’d seen, I didn’t doubt the thing worked. Maybe I was just being stubborn.

  You think?

  “Can’t. I have a game,” I said.

  “You had a game last week.”

  “I know, but . . .” A yawn snuck up on me and rendered me speechless. Once I’d recovered, I said, “I’ll be there next week. But not the week after. Grandma and I are driving to Arizona the week of New Year’s.”

  “Hey, Spencer, my man.” Chaz fell into the seat next to mine and offered me his fist. I tapped it. Arianna rolled her eyes and drifted back toward the front of the class.

  Chaz, who could pass for Paul Walker’s son, had cropped his blond hair so short he almost looked bald. “You text Coach Warren yet?” he asked me.

  “Will you stop?” Chaz and his dad had been all over me about going to USC. Grandma and I had gone down there on an unofficial visit two weeks ago, but I didn’t know. USC’s program wasn’t the best. And they couldn’t seem to keep a coach. I hadn’t gotten the feeling that their staff had been all that thrilled to meet me either. Plus it was South LA. Shudder. “I don’t think I want to live down there, man.”

  Kip sat down in the seat on my other side. “Not when he could live it up in New Meh-hi-ko.”

  Here we go again. “There’s no way, Kip,” I said.

  “Stop with the negativity. Just get your grandma to drive you over there after Tucson.”

  “That’s an extra thirteen hours. I already have to be in the car with her for fourteen.” Being poor sucked. Big time. But so far I didn’t have any official prospects that looked like they might fly me and Grandma in for a visit, not that I could take any official visits until I was a senior, anyway. But Coach said we shouldn’t wait to check things out. Hence the drive to Arizona to visit Arizona State and the University of Arizona. Both of which were Pac 12 schools that had shown interest in me.

  “Come on,” Kip said. “You have to go to New Meh-hi-co. It’s ranked third right now.”

  “I thought you wanted to go to Duke.” Desh fell into the seat in front of mine, blocking my view of . . . everything, really, except for his massive back.

  “They didn’t respond to my tapes,” I said. “Coach says I’m too far down the pipeline for them. The Wildcats are my best bet right now.”

  Kip heaved a long, dramatic sigh. “Whatever. It’s your career.”

  “A player like Spencer would be a star at USC.” Chaz spoke to Kip right through me, like I wasn’t even there. “If he goes Lobos, he’ll be on the bench for at least two years.”

  “You don’t know that,” Kip said. “If their center declares for the draft, they could suck next year.”

  “Then why you trying to get Spencer to go there?” Chaz asked.

  “They won’t suck if Spencer goes there,” Kip said.

  “Spencer’s not a center.”

  “Doesn’t matter. If their center goes NBA, their starters will transfer.”

  My phone buzzed. I pulled it out. Grace. My heart did a little flip until I saw her response.

  Yah.

  What did, Yah mean? Did she mean, Yeah? Like, Yeah, I’m fine. I’m alive and not hurt? Or, Yah, m fin but cant spel cuz I hv brane damaj?

  Kip and Chaz were still arguing: one on each side, me in the middle. Story of my life these days.

  Since I was little it had been my dream to play college basketball and later in the NBA. And I’m good enough too, for the NCAA, at least. But I had no idea what a mess all this recruiting business was. And when I got back from Japan and made up with Coach for ditching his summer program, he told me he’d been learning how to get me scholarship offers. My life changed that day. If I wanted this—and I did—I had to grow up, get serious about picking a college. Coach helped me register for the NCAA Clearinghouse and started sending my DVDs to schools. He even helped me make my own YouTube channel so we could post my highlights there.

  And it worked. Once the contact period opened, Coach started getting interest calls about me; a few schools had even offered early. And local reporters were always trying to talk to me—to see if I’d made a decision yet.

  The NCAA had a million rules about how these things had to go down to keep coaches from trying to bribe me. Sadly, there were no rules that kept my friends from giving me their advice. And Chaz and his dad were the worst.

  I used to pine over Duke, Syracuse, and Michigan State. I now knew I wasn’t going to any of those programs. Power schools tended to recruit closer to home unless I got ranked as a five star, which was unlikely since being at a small school and not playing AAU ball meant I had very little exposure. And since I lived on the West Coast, it wasn’t likely I’d get offers from an ACC or Big Ten school, at least not the ones I wanted.

  At this point, if I could play for a power school in any power conference, I’d be happy. So far my only prospects in that department were from Arizona, Arizona State, and Gonzaga, but I was still holding out for UCLA. Grandma and I had visited them too. I liked their coaching staff. Plus they were always on TV, had won plenty of championships, sent lots of guys to the NBA, and I considered them the home team.

  Now, if I could only get them to o
ffer me.

  ● ● ●

  There was no League after school today because of finals, so I ran over to Pilot Point High to check on Grace. I stepped into the old gym and was greeted by sneakers squeaking on wood and girls’ chanting voices.

  Hey! Hey! Let’s do it again!

  Everybody yell, GO, FIGHT, WIN!

  Go, Fight, Win! Do it again!

  Go, Fight, Win! GO, FIGHT, WIN!

  The loud sounds put me more on edge. Please let her be here. Please. I scanned the gym and spotted Grace on the far left. She seemed okay. She was jumping and doing all the motions along with everyone else. I released a slow breath.

  “Spencer!” Jasmine Jacobs ran up to me and gave me a hug that smelled like the middle of Macy’s.

  Megan and Kip and been trying to set me up with Jasmine ever since school had started, and I’d caved and asked her to PPH’s homecoming back in October. That had ticked off Kip. He’d wanted me to bring her to our homecoming, but I’d wanted to go to hers so I could keep an eye on Grace.

  I know. I was pathetic, huh?

  But I’d asked Jasmine as a friend, and their whole team thought I loved Grace anyway, so of course it had all worked out to my ultimate embarrassment. Grace had come with Justin Rutherford, a guy who played football for PPH and was the preppiest jerk since the cast of Jersey Shore. I didn’t think they were going out, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he was the one hurting her. I needed to figure out where the dude lived.

  “Hey, Jaz,” I said, but I kept my eyes on Grace. Was that a limp or had she just stumbled?

  Jasmine poked me in the ribs, which kind of tickled. “Why haven’t you texted me lately?”

  I stepped away from her, not wanting to be distracted until I knew Grace was okay. “You want me to text you?” I had no idea what to say to that. Why wouldn't she go away?