Safe Haven (Reacher Short Stories Book 2)

Book summary

Set during a snow-covered Christmas in the midst of a civil war, nine-year-old Isobel, her father, and her sister navigate the perilous Red Forest to escape relentless gunfire. This gripping prequel to The Running Game reveals the origins of the Reacher sisters, blending survival, family bonds, and the haunting echoes of conflict.

Excerpt from Safe Haven

The world was white. So white the night time shadows couldn't penetrate the layers of snow suffocating the forest. Each breath Isobel managed to push out crystallised, sparkling under the moonlight. The snow swallowed her legs in hungry gulps. Her hands and feet were numb, but her thighs burned furiously with each step.

It was late and she was so very tired. The previous night was spent in the back of their family Land Rover, fighting for space on the backseat with her little sister while Dad kept watch. It had been a cold, broken night, but Isobel would give anything to be back there. Anything not to be walking through Red Forest in the middle of December.

She sniffed and looked behind her. Rachel was six, only three years younger but at that moment it felt like a lifetime between them. Rachel didn't understand why they were in the middle of the wilderness. She had no idea why they had to leave Mum. She had slept through their uncle screaming the soldiers were coming. She had no idea of the danger they were in. Isobel stared at her sister as she struggled in the snow, envying every tiny, oblivious step she took.

Rachel fell and started to cry. She was sobbing for Mum. Isobel knew they would never see their mother again. She took a strong, heavy breath, close to tears herself. She wanted to move to help her sister, but her legs refused to go back, not after the effort made in going forwards.

Instead she called out. "Dad!"

He was ahead of them, scoping out the safety of the path. When he saw Rachel he hurried back, covering the ground in five easy strides. He lifted Rachel in his large arms and brushed the snow from her hair.

Then the gunfire started.

"Run!" Dad screamed.

Light sparked through the trees, as though the night sky had sunk to the earth. Isobel was transfixed.

"Izzy!"

Men shaped shadows followed the light. They were coming. Her feet leapt into her father's footsteps. With Rachel in his arms, he weaved through the trees. The foliage became denser, the snow thinner. Her feet struck firming soil, frozen dirt, icy puddles. The ground started to dip. She jumped and her father caught her. He pulled her close and they huddled together in a burrow off the path.

"We need to work together." He whispered so softly Isobel thought she was imagining him. "We're not here," he told them. "Say it with me. We're not here."

Isobel closed her eyes, sinking into her father's waxed coat. She reached for her sister's hand and concentrated. "We're not here," she repeated. "We're not here." Over and over she focussed on the words, hearing the echo in the deep voice of her father and the squeak of her sister.

Time started to twist, the cold subsided and she felt herself floating. The explosions, the shouting, the danger, all started to melt away. There was an energy engulfing her. But it wasn't hers, it didn't even belong to her father. The dominant voice inside her head became her sister's, small and yet commanding. She focused on it and felt herself merge into nothing.

How long had they stayed like that? Isobel had no idea. When her father broke free of their spell the militia had gone. The surrounding trees were torn apart with gunshot. Pieces of bark and bullet shells were scattered the ground around them. It had been ferocious whatever had come their way.

"Daddy?" Rachel asked. "What's going on?"

Isobel waited. She'd asked the question herself the night before, but she was sure Dad wouldn’t repeat himself. How could he tell a six year old the truth? That they were caught in the middle of a civil war, insurgents and militia intent on claiming land that never belonged to them. How could he explain to her that these men didn't care who got caught in the crossfire? That this wasn't a fight for freedom, or liberty, or any sense of lost righteousness? That this was about control and power? How could he tell his youngest daughter that she had never been in more danger, because if they found out what she was, what all three of them were, both sides would lock them away?

"We're playing a game," he said, stroking his younger daughter's hair. "The running game remember. We have to run and hide, concentrate on not getting caught. Wherever we go, whatever we do we keep moving, counting the exits, planning our escape so nobody can ever find us."

"It sounds like a stupid game," Rachel said.

Dad laughed. "It does, but you get a prize if you play it well."

"What prize?"

"You get to grow up. You have to keep running, baby. Always be ready to run because they'll always be coming for you. Whatever happens, they'll always be coming for you." He held Rachel close, protecting her from the next confession. "They'll never stop," he said. "Right now, we need to rest. The secret to winning the game is knowing when to run and when to wait. You're both tired. You've done so well today. Sleep now and we'll try to get out of the forest in a few hours."

Rachel was asleep in moments. Isobel had a suspicion Dad had used his powers. She snored quietly, looking almost peaceful.

"There's a lot of ground to cover," he said to Isobel. "We're going to make our way south, to Safe Haven. There's a man there. A priest called Father Darcy. He's an old friend. We can trust him. He'll help hide us until all this is over."

Isobel nodded. These were instructions, not reassurances. She rolled the name in her head; Father Darcy. She had to remember it.

"Your sister, her powers…" He shook his head and sighed. "If they find her it will be bad for all Reachers." He turned to her, his eyes warming. "If they find either of you, it will be bad, honey. You need to be strong. You need to look after your sister. I wouldn't trust her to anyone else." He pushed the hair from her face. "My beautiful girl, look at you, you're so grown up already. "

She felt a lump swell in her throat.

"Whatever happens, you look after your sister. Can you do that, Izzy?"

Her father was a good man, she would have done anything to make him happy. She stared into his dark eyes and they betrayed everything that was about to come—his death, their journey, her future.

"Can you?"

Would he have asked if he had known what it would mean—what she would do to keep her sister safe?

"Isobel?"

"Isobel?"

She turned and looked at the man in the doorway, tapping his foot. Frank Morris was in his forties, but time had not been kind. His face was imprinted with aggressive creases. His body tightly coiled, ready to spring apart at any moment. Sensible people were scared of Frank, and the fuzzy scarf Isobel had bought him for Christmas did nothing to soften his appeal. She loved him, after a decade of being in his care he had naturally assumed the role of her father. But love and loathing were not mutually exclusive. Isobel was old enough now to understand that the things he had asked of her, asked when she was just a child, were not the requests of a good man. And yet she still loved him in a way.

He stared at her. Expectant. Impatient.

"Sorry, did you say something?"

"My phone, have you seen it?"

She glanced around his office. It was nowhere obvious. "Maybe you left it at home."

He grumbled and checked his watch. "We're late. We're not going to make the reservation at this rate." Frank stormed from the office to tear apart the rest of the club.

Frank had been her surrogate father for ten years. Ten years today since he had brought her home, into a house that was as big as a palace, filled with presents and food and festive cheer. Where had all that gone? She shook her head, it was all still there, but it was like the heavy makeup on her thinning face, hiding an awful truth—total emptiness.

"Izzy!" he bellowed from the other room. "We're late, move it."

She hurried out of the office, crossing the empty dancefloor. When she reached the door, Frank was already waiting for her, an umbrella outstretched to protect them both from the downpour. She stayed close as they walked to the car, keeping a watchful eye on the street.

Today Frank was driving. Their last driver had been—Isobel looked at the driver's seat—untrustworthy. That was the word she had whispered in Frank's ear. He didn't like Frank, he thought Frank was an asshole, and so he was dealt with. After that Frank couldn't find anyone to drive for them so he got his man Donnie to do it. But it was Donnie’s day off, so he did it himself.

She strapped herself into the passenger seat and watched Frank as he pulled away. He used to be a good looking man but time had taken its toll. The days of the all powerful Frank Morris were slipping away. As she sat there, ten years to the day they had met, she wondered if she was the reason it had all gone wrong for him.