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  Praise for Unlimited

  A fast-paced, gripping thriller. Rich not only with adventure, but also with visual details and dramatic snapshot insights into the Middle East.

  —Phyllis Tickle, Contributing Editor, Publishers Weekly

  This book delves into a series of crucial issues with a sensitivity that left me literally stunned. Bunn tells a story that grips the reader and refuses to let go.

  —Keith Hazard, Deputy Director (ret), CIA

  Written with remarkable sensitivity, Bunn masterly accomplishes a feat that would leave the State Department in awe. The nonstop action and suspense demand to be met by fast-paced reading. I highly recommend this powerful masterpiece.

  —Christianbooks.com

  Bunn does for readers what keeps them coming back. Descriptions so vivid you can smell the food and choke on the desert sand. Bunn breaks the mold. Fans will leap for this precise and intricate tale.

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  Bunn’s exciting, action-packed writing features a strong sense of place. It is sure to please his fans and win him new ones.

  —Library Journal (starred review)

  An entertaining, suspenseful, hopeful adventure. Bunn’s writing is taut, his message clear.

  —Christian Retailing (top pick of the month, July 2012)

  A must-have for every inspirational reader.

  —Booklist (top ten book of the year, 2011)

  Unlimited, Digital Edition

  Based on Print Edition

  © 2013 by Davis Bunn

  All rights reserved.

  Printed in the United States of America

  978-1-4336-7940-7

  Published by B&H Publishing Group,

  Nashville, Tennessee

  Dewey Decimal Classification: F

  Subject Heading: MYSTERY FICTION ORPHANAGES—FICTION RENEWABLE ENERGY RESOURCES—FICTION

  Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, King James Version.

  Publisher’s Note: The persons and events in this book are fictitious with the exception of Harold Finch and certain references to his accomplishments and career. Any other similarity to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and unintentional.

  This novel is dedicated to

  Dr. Harold Finch

  “What is impossible with men is possible with God.”

  Acknowledgments

  My involvement with a project called Unlimited began a few years ago, when a film producer called with a quick question about a story line in a screenplay. This led to longer conversations, which led to personal meetings, which led to my being invited to join the project as one of the writers and executive producers. Crafting a novel tied to the film’s release—the book you are holding in your hands—soon became part of the vision.

  Vision is truly the right word. Through this project I have come to know some of the most inspired—and inspirational—individuals I have ever encountered. They exemplify the big idea behind this work: how to unleash the God-given forces of success that live in every one of us. Like most film projects, this one had its share of explosive possibilities and unforeseen disappointments. But the integrity and perseverance of the team carried us through—toward the silver screen and unto the page. So I want to begin these pages by expressing my thanks.

  First of all, to film producer Chad Gundersen, whose latest project at that time was Like Dandelion Dust, based on the best-selling novel by Karen Kingsbury. He had another project in development, one based upon the life and teachings of Dr. Harold Finch—an inventor and educator who achieved exceptional results in business. For decades, Harold had devoted his resources to fund missionary projects and orphanages. He had lectured around the world on the dynamics of success from a biblical perspective, and wanted to capture that legacy in a film. I had enjoyed an international business career prior to becoming a novelist, so the concept—and the man—seized my attention.

  I soon met Harold Finch, a day I will never forget. He is difficult to thank on this acknowledgments page, because he has made such an unexpectedly deep impact on various aspects of my life. His teachings on setting and achieving goals have enhanced my spiritual and professional growth. His friendship, and the example he sets in matters large and small, will stay with me forever. So thank you, Harold.

  I was then drawn into the Unlimited team, with Chad making introductions to Nathan Frankowski, a writer and director, and Jon Stone, a cowriter. The main setting for the story is an orphanage in the Mexican borderlands. After months of behind-the-scenes work, the film went into production in Texas. I spent time on the set getting to know the crew and actors. Interacting with these highly talented and dedicated artists was a great privilege. I learned much about the beauty and sorrows which mark today’s Mexico.

  From the professionals behind the camera, I would especially like to thank Michael Charske (Location Manager), Elise Graham (Line Producer), and Jacob Cena (Assistant Cinematographer). Notably, Jacob shared his ordeals as a survivor of the gang warfare that has overwhelmed the city of Juarez.

  From the actors I gained insights into the back-story of the roles they played. I then applied these character lessons in the development of this novel. My profound thanks go to Robert Amaya, Fred Thompson, Emilio Roso, Oscar Avila, Crystal Martinez, and Daniel Ross Owens. Unusually, rather than the film being based on a novel, this novel is essentially based on a film. I was encouraged when someone pointed out a winning precedent—the 1970s movie Love Story was only later adapted into a best-selling book.

  Vital assistance—both creative and practical—was provided by many others. Vinnie and Jodie Carafano direct the orphanage where the filming took place. Mary Beth Maifield is Director of the Youth-with-a-Mission orphanage in Juarez; she brought the plight of these children into vivid clarity. Brenda Luna-Bravo, who was raised in the YWAM orphanage and is now studying at the university in El Paso, shared many hardships and the value of hope. David Mullens is a pastor who runs a missionary church. For three generations, his family has farmed two thousand acres in Mexico. This has all been jeopardized by the violence that has swept the country. David introduced me to life in the border regions, and the meaning of not only surviving but thriving through a steadfast faith. Julio Marin is youth pastor at the Calvary Chapel of Melbourne, Florida, familiar with leading mission trips to Mexico. Even before I left for the filming, this dear friend helped me build the platform that supported this story. And speaking of stories—another word of thanks to Julie Gwinn for her early enthusiasm for this novel.

  I need to return to Chad Gundersen, and the multifaceted talents he deploys in making an idea into a reality. He brought me into this world of film production, and these experiences have made Unlimited one of the most singular projects of my career. Chad, for your partnership and friendship I will always be grateful.

  Finally, my final heartfelt thanks go to Isabella, my wife and dearest friend. Thank you, darling, for the gifts of wisdom and strength and love.

  Prologue

  Simon crawled away from his burning car, amazed that he was still alive. He stayed low in the shallow trench running alongside the Mexican highway. His brain was still scrambled from the wreck. He was not entirely sure why he needed to remain out of sight. Only that it was important. Vital.

  He clambered over the loose rubble, dragging his canvas duffel along with him. He halted for a moment, willing strength back into his limbs and clarity into his brain. As he gasped for breath, Simon glanced back. His beloved car, his last remaining connection to the life he had once assumed was his to claim, lay on the passenger side in a ditch. The Mustang’s tires were all blown out
and shredded. The sun descended behind the rim of the western hills and cast the scene in deep shadows, as though ashamed over what had been done to him.

  He gripped the duffel and lifted his head a fraction of an inch above the trench’s lip. On the other side of the road, a man stood waiting for a break in the traffic. The man whistled a cheery tune as he watched the road.

  Simon realized he had seen the man before, smirking as Simon had driven away from the border post. Which meant that, unless Simon was very fast and very lucky, he was going to die.

  His best hope was to make it to the maquiladora, the industrial zone. The first buildings were less than a mile away. Even as bruised and shaken as he was, he could do that easily. But not with the pack.

  The pack contained far more than eleven months of research. The apparatus and the diagrams were his last hope of returning to the university as a physicist. It was his lone chance at the star he had always assumed would one day be his. Saving him from a lifetime of bars and empty chatter and the easy downward slide to oblivion.

  He had to find somewhere to hide it.

  The duffel bag was too heavy for him to carry very fast. The apparatus it contained had to weigh forty pounds, and there were another ten pounds of graphs and diagrams and spreadsheets and pages from his proposal. But he could at least balance himself better.

  Simon fit one arm and then the other through the duffel’s two canvas straps, then slung the bag across his back. He took a hard breath, willing himself forward. When a pair of lumbering trucks hid him from sight, Simon slithered over the trench’s opposite ledge. Then he launched himself up and away.

  The bag struck his back with every step. A sharp edge poked his neck. He assumed it was the control panel. Simon would be badly bruised when this was over. If he survived.

  The ground was so rough and the light so dim, Simon found the second ditch by falling into it. He was desperate not to roll and damage the apparatus further. He crouched and skidded his way down the side. And at its bottom, he found the hiding place.

  A cracked and pitted concrete pipe ran along the culvert’s base. A jagged hole gaped five feet down from where he landed, just large enough to take the duffel. Simon lay on the filthy pipe and shoved the bag up as far as he could manage, getting it well out of sight. Unless they came looking with a flashlight. Unless they guessed he had hidden it here.

  He scrambled up the other side and headed into the desert. He was tempted to try for the highway. But the hunter still had his SUV, and there was too much risk of Simon being caught in the open. So he aimed for the fence surrounding the industrial zone.

  Simon glanced back and saw the bearded stranger loping toward him. Then the man barked. Like a lone coyote on the scent of prey. A sharp sound, hard and merciless as the terrain.

  Simon ran faster still.

  Chapter 1

  Five Hours Earlier

  A hot, dusty wind buffeted Simon through the Mustang’s open top. He started to pull over and close up the car. But the convertible’s electric motor did not work, and he would have to fight the top by hand. When he had started off that morning, the predawn air had carried a frigid bite. Now his sweatshirt lay in the empty passenger seat, covering the remaining water bottle and his iPod.

  The car’s radio worked, but one of the speakers was blown. The iPod’s headphones were hidden beneath the sweatshirt as well. Simon doubted the border authorities cared whether he listened to music on an in-ear system. But he didn’t want to give them any reason to make trouble.

  He didn’t know what he had been expecting for a small-town border crossing, but it definitely was not this. An American flag flew over a fortified concrete building. The flag snapped and rippled as Simon pulled forward. In front of him were three trucks and a few vans. One car had Texas plates, one produce truck was from Oklahoma, and the other half-dozen vehicles were Mexican. That was it. The crossing was four lanes in each direction, and all but two were blocked off with yellow traffic cones. The border crossing looked ready to handle an armada. The empty lanes heightened the sense of desolation.

  As he waited his turn, a harvest truck rumbled past, bringing sacks of vegetables to the United States. The driver shot Simon a gold-toothed grin through his open window. As though the two of them shared a secret. They were passing through the only hassle-free crossing between Mexico and the USA.

  Or so Simon hoped.

  To either side of the crossing grew the fence. Simon had heard about the border fence for years. But it was still a jarring sight. Narrow steel girders marched in brutal regularity out of sight in both directions. The pillars were thirty feet high, maybe more, and spaced so the wind whistled between them in a constant piercing whine, like a siren, urging Simon to turn back while he still could.

  Only he didn’t have a choice. Or he would not have made this journey in the first place.

  Simon passed the U.S. checkpoint and drove across the bridge. Below flowed the silted gray waters of the Rio Grande.

  The Mexican border officer took in the dusty car and Simon’s disheveled appearance and directed him to pull over. Simon heaved a silent sigh and did as he was ordered.

  The Mexican customs official was dressed in blue—navy trousers, shirt, hat. He circled Simon’s car slowly before saying, “Your passport.” He examined it carefully. “What is the purpose of your visit to Mexico, señor?”

  “I’m making a presentation to the Ojinaga city council.”

  The officer glanced at Simon, then the car, and finally the black duffel bag that filled the rear seat. “What kind of presentation?”

  “My advisor at MIT retired down here last year. We’ve been working on a project together.” He plucked the letter from his shirt pocket and unfolded it along the well-creased lines.

  The officer studied it. “Do you read Spanish, Dr. . . . ?”

  He started to correct the man, then decided it didn’t matter. The officer had no need to know Simon had dropped out. “Dr. Vasquez, my professor, he translated it.”

  “You have cut this very close, señor.” The officer checked his watch. “It says your appointment is in less than two hours.”

  “I expected the trip from Boston to take two days. It’s taken four. My car broke down. Twice.”

  The officer pointed to the duffel. “What is in the bag?”

  “Scientific instrumentation.” Simon reached back and unzipped the top.

  The Mexican officer frowned over the complicated apparatus. “It looks like a bomb.”

  “I know. Or a vacuum cleaner.” He swallowed against a dry throat. “I get that a lot.”

  The officer handed back Simon’s passport and letter. “Welcome to Mexico, señor.”

  Simon restarted the motor and drove away. He kept his hands tight on the wheel and his eyes on the empty road ahead. There was no need to be afraid. He was not carrying drugs. He was not breaking any law. This time. But the memory of other border crossings kept his heart rate amped to redline as he drove slowly past the snapping flags and the dark federales’ cars.

  His attention was caught by a man leaning against a dusty SUV. The Mexican looked odd from every angle. He was not so much round as bulky, like an aging middleweight boxer. Despite the heat, he was dressed in a beige leather jacket that hung on him like a sweaty robe. The man had a fringe of unkempt dark hair and a scraggly beard. He leaned against the black Tahoe with the ease of someone out for a morning stroll. He caught Simon’s eye and grinned, then made a gun of his hand and shot Simon. Welcome to Mexico.

  A hundred meters beyond the border, the screen to his iPod map went blank, then a single word appeared: searching. Simon did not care. He could see his destination up ahead. The city of Ojinaga hovered in the yellow dust. He crossed Highway 10, the east-west artery that ran from the Atlantic to the Pacific. He drove past an industrial zone carved from the surrounding desert, then joined the city traffi
c.

  Ojinaga grew up around him, a distinctly Mexican blend of poverty and high concrete walls. The city was pretty much as Vasquez had described. Simon’s former professor had dearly loved his hometown. Vasquez had spent his final two years at MIT yearning to return. The mountains he had hiked as a boy rose to Simon’s right, razor peaks that had never been softened by rain. Vasquez had bought a home where he could sit in his backyard and watch the sunset turn them into molten gold. But they looked very ominous to Simon. Like they barred his way forward. Hemming him in with careless brutality.

  Between the border and downtown, Simon checked his phone six times. Just as Vasquez had often complained, there was no connection. Landline phone service wasn’t much better. Skype was impossible. Vasquez had maintained contact by e-mailing in the predawn hours. He had claimed to enjoy the isolation. Simon would have gone nuts.

  The last time they had spoken had been almost two weeks earlier, when Vasquez declared he was on the verge of a breakthrough. After months of frustrating dead ends, Vasquez had finally managed to make their apparatus work. Since then, Simon had received a series of increasingly frantic e-mails, imploring him to come to Mexico to present the device to the city council.

  What neither of them ever mentioned was the real reason why Vasquez had taken early retirement and returned to his hometown in the first place. Which was also the reason why Simon had made this trip at all. To apologize for the role he had played in the demise of Vasquez’s career. That was something that had to be done face-to-face.

  Simon found a parking spot on the main plaza. Downtown Ojinaga was dominated by a massive central square, big as three football fields. Simon imagined it must have really been something when it was first built. Now it held the same run-down air as the rest of the town. A huge Catholic church anchored the opposite side of the plaza. The trees and grass strips lining the square were parched and brown. Skinny dogs flitted about, snarling at one another. Drunks occupied the concrete benches. Old cars creaked and complained as they drove over topes, the speed bumps lining the roads. In a nearby shop-front window, two women made dough and fed it into a tortilla machine.