In the lead cockpit, the man released one hand long enough to wipe the sweat from his forehead before immediately returning it to the controls, blinking wide and staring into the night.  Each passing minute gave him another minute of hope.

If he could just—

He never heard the launch of the missile behind him—or its impact when the entire Learjet instantly exploded into a brilliant ball of orange flame.

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Present Day

The mighty Pacific winds buffeted the small car as though trying to push it from the narrow gravel road upon which it was traveling alone, struggling through continual waves of dust clouds passing over the plains of Baja.  Over thirty miles of barren hills and valleys before the powerful gusts finally rising up and over the open waters of Mexico’s Gulf of California.

The car didn’t surrender.  Instead, it held its ground and stubbornly continued along the dirt-strewn road until reaching and turning onto an abandoned set of worn tire tracks heading toward the distant cliffs.

The tracks grew less visible as the small automobile wound back and forth over rugged terrain, reaching with difficulty the remnants of an old structure severely damaged but still technically standing in its own relentless fight against the elements.

The white car stopped and remained for several moments before the driver’s side door opened, and Joe Rickards stepped out onto the hard ground.

Dressed in a light jacket, jeans and boots, he fought against the mighty wind to force his door closed and stood for several minutes staring at what was left of the old house.  He then stepped out from around the car and approached.  The house’s entire roof was collapsed, with half of it missing entirely. What sections remained were wedged between several stone walls that managed to remain standing against all odds. Windows whose glass was broken and missing remained embedded within the stone in empty wooden frames.

Debris was scattered everywhere—large stone chunks down to small rocks and pebbles covered the entire stone foundation, obscuring what appeared to be broken dishes and a plumbing conduit.

Behind the structure lay perhaps another mile of rolling hills which eventually dropped off and began a meandering descent to the aqua-colored waters of the gulf several hundred feet below.

Rickards studied the abandoned dwelling and gradually began to circle, viewing it from all sides, his brown hair whipping wildly in the wind.

He stepped forward to move onto the house’s foundation but stopped himself, deciding against it.  He didn’t want to desecrate the place any more than it already was.

Twenty-six years.

Twenty-six years had entirely destroyed the house, along with the family who’d once lived there.

He stepped back and scanned the horizon, finding nothing but dry grass waving under the forceful breeze.  With hands in both pockets, he turned back to the remains and continued staring.

Loss was painful, but regret was forever.

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