BecDeCorbin

Shreveport, Louisiana 1913 Once on the lonely sidewalk, she smoothed down her clothes. The looming bulk of a great square office building put her in the shade. Aimee kept her composure despite the paired backfires from the Packard that sounded like gunshots. Corg’s bulldog face appeared in one of the back windows as if to give her a last warning. It gave her no comfort when she realized that no one from the collection arm of the business could be spared to escort her in. Dangerous as Corg was, he was kept in line by someone else—and Aimee had to come face to face with that someone, ready or not. Corg’s pack of thugs might be down the road, but Aimee had little doubt that she was being spied on from a window above and might be very clever on her part not to look up. Taxis habitually blew past the address. No bus stopped here. Tradesmen parked their trucks and horsedrawn carts across the street. No newsie peddled papers on this corner. No humble shoeshine boy plied his trade and

Shreveport, Louisiana 1913 Once on the lonely sidewalk, she smoothed down her clothes. The looming bulk of a great square office building put her in the shade. Aimee kept her composure despite the paired backfires from the Packard that sounded like gunshots. Corg’s bulldog face appeared in one of the back windows as if to give her a last warning. It gave her no comfort when she realized that no one from the collection arm of the business could be spared to escort her in. Dangerous as Corg was, he was kept in line by someone else—and Aimee had to come face to face with that someone, ready or not. Corg’s pack of thugs might be down the road, but Aimee had little doubt that she was being spied on from a window above and might be very clever on her part not to look up. Taxis habitually blew past the address. No bus stopped here. Tradesmen parked their trucks and horsedrawn carts across the street. No newsie peddled papers on this corner. No humble shoeshine boy plied his trade and

Nolan County, Texas 1944 This had never been America’s war—Jo Karrel knew that. Uncle Sam had come late to the fight and only after a lot of reluctance and hand-wringing; he hadn’t started this clash, but by God, he was going to finish it, according the inescapable propaganda. Though the current situation might have been tense, she was one of those young women who took adversity in stride. Four miles ahead of her, another B-24 Liberator like the one she flew in plowed the clear air, leaving the merest haze of exhaust in its wake. Four miles behind was another olive-drab bomber fresh from the plant in Oklahoma. This time, like all times, Jo Karrel didn’t make the trip alone. Smyrna Pearson occupied the pilot’s seat with Jo ready to assume control at a moment. Or, that was the understanding when they powered up the ship and thundered aloft into the Oklahoma sky. Jo had climbed feeling something was off about the engines. A shudder somewhere. To this, Smyrna had few remarks