The Lucky One by Nicholas Sparks Page A

number of civilian deaths prompted a cease-fire. A decision was made to abandon the operation, and most of the forces withdrew, including Thibault’s company.
    But not all of his company withdrew.
    On the second day of operations, at the southern, industrial end of town, Thibault and his platoon were ordered to investigate a building rumored to hold a cache of weapons. The particular building hadn’t been pinpointed however; it could be any one of a dozen dilapidated structures clustered near an abandoned gas station, forming a rough semicircle. Thibault and his platoon moved in, toward the buildings, giving the gas station a wide berth. Half went right, half went left. All was quiet, and then it wasn’t. The gas station suddenly exploded. Flames leapt toward the sky, the explosion knocking half of the men to the ground, shattering eardrums. Thibault was dazed; his peripheral vision had gone black, and everything else was blurry. All at once, a hail of fire poured from the windows and rooftops above them and from behind the burned-out remains of automobiles in the streets.
    Thibault found himself on the ground beside Victor. Two of the others in his platoon, Matt and Kevin—Mad Dog and K-Man, respectively—were with them, and the training of the corps kicked in. The brotherhood kicked in. Despite the onslaught, despite his fear, despite an almost certain death, Victor reached for his rifle and rose to one knee, zeroing in on the enemy. He fired, then fired again, his movements calm and focused, steady. Mad Dog reached for his rifle and did the same. One by one they rose; one by one fire teams were formed.
Fire. Cover. Move.
Except they couldn’t move. There was noplace to go. One marine toppled, then another. Then a third and a fourth.
    By the time reinforcements arrived, it was almost too late. Mad Dog had been shot in the femoral artery; despite having a tourniquet, he’d bled to death within minutes. Kevin was shot in the head and died instantly. Ten others were wounded. Only a few emerged unscathed: Thibault and Victor were among them.
    In the pool hall, one of the young men he’d spoken with reminded him of Mad Dog. They could have been brothers—same height and weight, same hair, same manner of speaking—and there had been an instant there where he’d wondered whether they were brothers before telling himself that it simply wasn’t possible.
    He’d known the chance he was taking with his plan. In small towns, strangers are always suspect, and toward the end of the evening, he’d seen the skinny guy with bad skin make a call from the pay phone near the bathroom, eyeing Thibault nervously as he did so. He’d been jumpy before the call as well, and Thibault assumed the call had been either to the woman in the photograph or to someone close to her. Those suspicions were confirmed when Thibault had left. Predictably, the man had followed him to the door to see which way he was walking, which was why Thibault had headed in the opposite direction before doubling back.
    When he’d arrived at the run-down pool hall, he’d bypassed the bar and made straight for the pool tables. He quickly identified the guys in the appropriate age group, most of whom seemed to be single. He asked to join in and put up with the requisite grumbling. Made nice, bought a few rounds of beers while losing a few games at pool, and sure enough, they began to loosen up. Casually, he asked about the social life in town. He missed the necessary shots. He congratulated them when they made a shot.
    Eventually, they started asking about him. Where was he from? What was he doing here? He hemmed and hawed, mumbling something about a girl, and changed the subject. He fed their curiosity. He bought more beers, and when they asked again, he reluctantly shared his story: that he’d gone to the fair with a friend a few years back and met a girl. They’d hit it off. He went on and on about how great she was and how she’d told him to look her up if