The Forsaken [Paperback]

“Adrenaline junkies with a heart for a great story will love The Forsaken.  Men every where will see themselves in these pages which will further engross them.  I don’t think I’ve ever read fiction that speaks more directly to me as a man.”
–Kenny Luck, men’s pastor, Saddleback Church, and author of Risk and Every Man God’s Man

“The Forsaken is a riveting story with a most compelling message. Steve Arterburn brings the truth of a healthy lifestyle together with a fictional account that is just plain and simple exciting.”
–Jim Burns, Ph.D., President of the daily radio broadcast HomeWord and author of The 10 Building Blocks for a Happy Family

“The Every Man novels thrill as well as challenge– an exhilarating, uplifting thrill ride that I know readers will enjoy!”
–Josh McDowell, bestselling author and speaker

“The Every Man fiction series creates another tidal wave of encouragement for men! You’ll be strengthened as well as entertained by these cutting-edge novels!”
–Shannon & Greg Ethridge, co-authors of Every Woman’s Marriage

One man faces his worst nightmare—twice.

A thrilling new novel from the Every Man team!


Ben Taylor’s just a regular guy. Married to his beautiful Annie, with good kids, and a career that brings him great joy. But the world as he knows it suddenly shifts beneath his feet. While his job is suddenly in jeopardy, Annie gets promoted into the position of a lifetime–with a bigger salary than his…and a requirement to move across the country.
The blow to his ego, not to mention the disruption to his family, shatters Ben’s confidence in himself–and in God. But just as he comes to grips with this new reality and accepts these major changes, the unimaginable happens. His wife is kidnapped!
Desperate, Ben travels across country to help the police hunt for the kidnappers by risking his life and everything else in the process. Can he really trust the God he thought he knew to get him through this shocking twist in life? Or is he destined to be just as forsaken as he feels?
Now Stephen Arterburn–one of the men behind the phenomenal Every Man series–and bestselling novelist Mike Moscoe join forces to bring you a compelling novel that combines the action and suspense of a thriller with real-life faith and insight for God’s men.

Stephen Arterburn is the founder and chairman of New Life Ministries and is the host of the nationally syndicated “New Life Live!” daily radio program. He is the founder of the Women of Faith conferences, a nationally known public speaker and best-selling author of over 60 books. He has degrees from Baylor University and The University of North Texas. He resides with his family in Laguna Beach, California.

Mike Moscoe is a popular author of such novels as Patriot’s Stand, They Also Serve, and The Price of Peace, and (as Mike Shepherd) Kris Longknife–Deserter and Kris Longknife–Relieved of Command.

“Boss, we got a situation at the plant.”
That wasn’t something I wanted to hear from my secretary. She’d been with me for years, and her talent was for understatement, not dramatics.
So Bea’s next words, “You better beat feet,” were unnecessary. I was already up and hurrying around my desk. I grabbed the doorjamb of my office and swung myself in the direction of the main door as I picked up speed. It had been a while since I double-timed for miles in the army, but I like to think that chasing my teenagers keeps me in shape.
“Where?” I asked as I sped by my secretary.
“In milling,” Bea said. “Jim Turner’s got a knife at Danny
Greg’s throat,” she added in answer to my next, unasked, question.
“Tell them I’m on my way,” I said. But she was already on the
phone with the news. Bea was good. Her talent at mind reading
was just one of the many reasons I’d hired her to be the first face
folks saw when they came into Human Resources. She knew when
to smile, and when to answer the next question, even if it was
unspoken, and when to press the panic button.
It looked like she’d decided it was panic time.
Of course, so had I.
I sprinted out of the office like the best middle-aged Olympian
and headed down the hall for the back door. But I was praying
even faster than I was running. Dear God, help Jim. He was having
enough problems already. Keep him together until I get there. And
show me a way to help him. I figured Danny must have shot his
mouth off with poor Jim in hearing distance. But knowing why we
were in a crisis didn’t make the situation any better.
As usual, the good Lord didn’t voice an answer to my prayer. I
don’t know what I’d do if He ever did. Today, my Savior was content
to toss the balls my way…and I had a feeling He enjoyed
watching me juggle.
I’d known Jim Turner for all of the fifteen years I’d worked at
Carter Cutlery. This wasn’t like him. He was nice to a fault, but
quick to turn his back when those of us at the plant’s picnic lunch
tables said grace. “You want to find Jesus, I’ll tell you where I
dumped Him off my slick in the central highlands of Vietnam. If
He ain’t walked out, He’s likely still there.”
Yeah, Jim had always been very definite about standing on his
own two feet, bending to no one. Until a marine officer, with a
chaplain in tow, had made a visit to his house a month ago. The
marine told Jim that his youngest boy would be coming home
early from the war. In a casket.
The boy’s young wife, seven months pregnant, had insisted on
a church funeral. We at the plant had chipped in for more than
flowers and meals. I’d been a Casualty Assistance Officer back during
my four years in the service; I helped the widow find a church
with a pastor who didn’t mind ministering to people he’d never
seen before.
I’d heard that Jim and his wife were talking to a counselor
about their loss. If my secretary was right, I guess they hadn’t talked
enough.
Like so much of America, our employees at the plant were of
several minds about the war overseas. We make the knives that a lot
of the men over there count on, and every blade leaves here with a
lot of prayers for the soldiers’ safety attached to it. Of that, I’m
absolutely sure. But above and beyond that, we all had our opinions
about how we could best support the troops that carry our knives.
I wondered just what Danny had said to tip Jim off the deep end.
“God, don’t let me waste time on the wrong questions. What I
need just now are the words to haul my people out of that deep pit.
Help me haul them both back with no blood spilled,” I whispered
as I ran.
Usually, I love the wide expanse of lawn that separates my
office from the main plant. Today, it was an obstacle that took too
long to cross. I just picked my legs up and put them down, breathing
deep of the spring afternoon air so I wouldn’t show up in the
plant too winded to do anything.
I raced into the plant, a local landmark faced with intricate
brickwork that dated from the 1920s, past the cutting and grinding
machines where workers were standing around. The men and
women were no longer converting steel into knives, but watching,
their wide eyes fixed on the drama in the milling section.
Everyone had backed away from the two men involved in a life
or death scuffle. They left a clear space around Jim. He was a tall,
dark-haired man now going gray, with a fair complexion. But at
this moment, his face was red with rage. He held a roughed-out
example of one of our fine bowie knives at Danny’s throat.
Danny was pale as if he’d seen a ghost. His own.
Near those two stood Jeb Shepherd, the day shift general foreman.
Several section foremen had gathered around him. They were
silent. Not one was making a move against Jim. I guessed they were
all talked out.
I joined the group at Jeb’s elbow. “Bea said you called.”
“Yeah,” Jeb said. “As you can see, we got a situation here.”
“Maybe I can help,” I said quietly.
“It’s all yours,” Jeb said, and stepped back even farther. The
foremen followed suit.
I was left standing in the open, looking at Jim and Danny.
“I’m gonna kill him,” Jim shouted to me, following his
promise with a stream of the kind of language I hadn’t heard since
my army days.
“You think Danny needs killing?” I asked. “I kind of like him
better alive.”
“I’m gonna kill him. He said my boy’s dying was a waste.”
“I didn’t, I didn’t,” Danny pleaded.
“Shush,” I said to Danny in a soft command. “You’ve said enough.”
Danny shut up.
“Police?” I whispered aside to Jeb.
He shook his head. Carter Cutlery took care of its own. It
wasn’t in any of the personnel policies I’d written. No, this mandate
had over a hundred and seventy-five years of unspoken practice
behind it and didn’t need to be in print to put it in full force.
But in this case, everyone else at Carter had taken their best
shot and come up empty. I was the last hope. Dear God, please show
me the path for my feet.
“If I’m not getting somewhere with this pretty fast, call the
cops,” I whispered to Jeb. Then I motioned Jeb and the others to
step back even further. As they did, I sat down cross-legged on the
concrete floor.
It still had winter cold to it, but I ignored the discomfort even
as it sent a chill up my spine. Finally, I thought. A reason to shiver
that has nothing to do with the situation I’m in.
I looked up at Jim, locked eyes with him. “See, I’m not coming
any closer. We’re just gonna talk. This making you feel better?”
The Bowie knife blank, its edge dull, was pushing at the flesh of
Danny’s throat. It wasn’t cutting anything…yet. Put enough pressure
on it and even a dull knife will cut human flesh. And there was
always the point, already wickedly deadly, even on a knife blank.
The blank’s point was less than an inch from Danny’s carotid artery.
I prayed that Jim would listen, just listen to me long enough to
let me break through his fury.
It took a while for my question to make its way past Jim’s pain
and rage. When it did, he shook his head. “Nothing feels good. I’m
never gonna take my boy fishing. Never play football with him
again. It’s all gone.”
“I know,” I said quietly.
“But it ain’t wasted,” he growled, working the knife a bit
deeper against Danny’s throat. “It ain’t a waste.”
Danny whimpered, but for once he had the good sense to say
nothing.
“No, Jim, it’s not a waste. A good person like your boy is never
wasted. I remember him when he was just a kid, coming to the
Christmas parties. What was he–eight, maybe?–when he tried to
walk off with Santa’s whole bag?”
“Seven,” Jim said. “And I whopped him for that.” But the
edges of his mouth turned up at the memory. The boy had gotten
the huge sack halfway across the room before anyone noticed. We’d
all been laughing so hard that the “whopping” hadn’t been more
than a gentle admonition.
“And he was always in the front at the games come the annual
picnic,” I said, remembering him paired with my son in the twolegged
race. The two of them were only three years apart in age and
they’d been such friends. The thought of my son as a soldier sent
colder chills down my spine than the floor.
But Jim was nodding at my words, and I dropped that thought
and gave him my full attention.
“He was always fast,” he said. “And he always wanted to be a
soldier. Nothing I said about Nam could change that. Nothing,”
Jim said slowly. “And nothing I do is going to change my boy being
gone.” His voice was now a shattered whisper.
“No,” I said as softly as I could.
“Why? Why did it have to happen?”
I let Jim’s question rise to the rafters. How could I answer when
I didn’t understand it myself?
“You’re a Christian,” Jim said. “You tell me. Why did my boy
have to die?”
Not only did I not understand why, but I’d never even heard
an answer to that question that a grieving man like Jim could
understand.
“I don’t know, Jim. It’s a tragedy. But I do know that your boy
wouldn’...