The Prophecies Trilogy (Omnibus Edition): A Dystopian Adventure

by Linda Hawley

  THE PROPHECIES TRILOGY

  A Dystopian Adventure

  Includes all three books:

  Dreams Unleashed

  Guardian of Time

  Wisdom Keepers

  Linda Hawley

  The Prophecies was originally published as three separate volumes: Dreams Unleashed (book 1), Guardian of Time (book 2), and Wisdom Keepers (book 3). Because of the success of the series, the trilogy has been repackaged in this omnibus edition as The Prophecies Trilogy and includes all content from the original three books. The Prophecies Trilogy includes 193k words and 112 chapters.

  The Prophecies Trilogy, Copyright © 2012, 2013, 2014, 2015 by Linda Hawley

  All rights reserved.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Edition

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, technologies, and organizations are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author.

  Original Manuscripts of Dreams Unleashed (2nd Ed), Guardian of Time, and Wisdom Keepers, Edited by D Kai Wilson (IndieUnbound.com)

  Manuscript Proofread by Jackie Jones (JJProofing.com)

  Cover Design by 21st Publishing (21stPublishing.com)

  Cover image: © Cristian Tzecu (Dreamstime.com)

  Published By

  21stPublishing.com

  DEDICATION

  For Paul

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  In the separate novels Dreams Unleashed, Guardian of Time, and Wisdom Keepers, I made sure to recognize all of those who were critical to bringing The Prophecies to publication. You know who you are. I thank you from the bottom of my heart.

  NOTE TO THE READER

  In The Prophecies Trilogy, you will time travel. From the past, to the future, you will go with Ann Torgeson on her discoveries. You may want to pay attention to the chapter headings, to help keep your bearings.

  DREAMS UNLEASHED – BOOK ONE

  Chapter 1

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  I hurried off the metro at the Union Station stop, looking around to see if anyone followed.

  Okay so far, I silently encouraged myself.

  After quickly negotiating the crowd, I approached the escalator. Taking the steps two by two, I tried to make my body move as smoothly as possible so that I wouldn’t attract attention. I kept touching the moving handrail, trying to ground myself, though my heart was nearly beating out of my chest.

  How could they have known?

  After climbing halfway up the escalator, I was blocked by an elderly couple.

  Move…move…move, please! I wanted to shout.

  But they didn’t move.

  Looking up to the turn-of-the-century arched ceiling far above me, I tried to relieve my anxiety. With a jerk, the escalator reached the top and dumped me out. I moved around the couple and began to walk as fast as I could, passing through the eighteenth-century columns, walking evenly on the marble floor. The main hall was filled with people, all of them busy, seeming to move in every direction at once. I could smell the grease from the food court and felt bile rise up in my throat.

  Focus on the light…focus on the light…you can make it, I coached myself.

  I could see the exits under the three archways directly in front of me. Weaving through the masses, I tried to make my way to the doors. Reaching them, I passed under the centurion statues and pushed past a rush of people going the opposite direction. I collided with a man but pressed forward, still trying to get away.

  After passing through the door, I looked behind me, half expecting to see pursuers. I ran across the loading and unloading lane and was nearly hit by an eager driver. Grateful to reach the brick walkway that surrounded the Christopher Columbus fountain, I stood behind it, breathing deeply. This would block me from the view of anyone in the station.

  Regroup, Ann.

  I had hastily gotten off the metro at Union Station, thinking that it would be easier to lose myself in the middle of D.C. than in Pentagon City, where the FBI had chased me. After meeting my contact there, we saw almost too late that we’d been shadowed. We then split up using the standard protocol.

  Think quickly, I urged myself.

  From behind the fountain, I carefully glanced to the entrance of the station, but my wrist was painfully grabbed from the other side by the crew-cut twenty-something I had bumped into earlier.

  If he’s here—that means there’s more.

  I whipped around and, with my free hand, shoved my Taser into his groin, delivering 2.7 million volts of resistance, while simultaneously yanking my other wrist away as hard as I could. Almost instantly, the man crumpled at my feet, and I sprinted away.

  My mind raced. Where can I go? Panic gripped me, but I tried to think clearly. Kelly’s restaurant, I thought. It was only a couple of blocks away, and I could call from there.

  Scrambling across Columbus Circle, I ran west on Massachusetts Avenue.

  It should only take me a couple of minutes. F-street…it’s on F…I think. I knew Brian Kelly, the owner, and a couple of the waiters at Kelly’s Irish Times from my time as a journalist in D.C. If one of them was there getting ready to open for dinner, they would let me in.

  When I saw a break in traffic, I ran across Massachusetts Avenue and glanced to my left to see if anyone was pursuing me.

  All clear.

  After hightailing it up F-street, I finally reached the green awning marking Kelly’s. I knocked on the door, slowing my breathing, and hoped there was someone there that I knew.

  If I can just get inside, they’ll never think to look for me here with the restaurant closed.

  I knocked for about fifteen seconds, seeming like an eternity, and then saw Brian approach the door wearing a stained white cook’s apron.

  “You know we’re not open for another hour or…Ann, lass. It’s been a while now, hasn’t it? Come on in then,” he said eagerly, opening the door.

  I stepped in and turned once more to see if I was followed. It looked safe.

  Brian closed the door and reached down to hug me with his stocky frame. I could feel his bristly beard on my neck as he briefly squeezed me. He put his pudgy hands on both of my shoulders and peered down to me with his dark eyes.

  “To what do I owe this pleasure?” he asked. His deep, smooth voice held a note of concern.

  “I’m working on something that’s gotten a little tricky. Do you think I could use your bathroom and make a call?” I asked.

  “Of course. You take all the time you need,” he said.

  “Thank you,” I said gratefully.

  “If you need anything, you come get me,” he said, patting my shoulder. He looked out the window before he locked the front door and walked back toward the kitchen.

  I had known Brian for many years. While I was a reporter, he occasionally gave me insider tips on stories I was working on. I knew I could rely on his discretion. After making my way to the back of the restaurant, I pulled open the green wooden door of the women’s bathroom. The door looked as though it had been painted one too many times.

  Inside, every available space of the light brown bathroom walls bore plaques bearing Irish platitudes. I set my messenger bag in one of the two vintage sinks and plugged my used Taser into an outlet near the fl
oor. Then I pulled my second Taser from the bag and put it in my coat pocket.

  Standing there at the sink, looking at my reflection in the mirror, I prepared myself to make the call. I needed help.

  I dialed and waited as the cell phone rang three times. “Hi…leave me a—”

  Crap—Bob’s voicemail.

  I tried to consider my options. I could call the clandestine switchboard, but they might already have me flagged. That wouldn’t work.

  I’m a fugitive now. They’re hunting me. They think of me as a weapon. Plus, I just Tasered crew-cut boy. I’m gonna have to go underground now, I thought grimly.

  Reaching into the bag, I pulled out the Ziploc bag containing the last secure cell phone I had. I quickly assembled it, then pressed the timer of my watch.

  I called the local phone number I had memorized.

  “B40 for extraction, code red,” I said urgently upon hearing the beep.

  I hung up and watched my timer. I had four minutes before I had to destroy the phone. I looked up and noticed one of the wall plaques, “May the bearer of the news be safe.”

  No kidding, I thought ironically.

  Thirty seconds later, the call came.

  “Yes,” I answered.

  “Code?” he asked.

  “Cherry blossoms,” I replied, using the memorized code.

  “D.C.,” he confirmed. “We’ve got your location. Seven minutes—we’re en route—back alley. Injuries?”

  “No.”

  “Stay safe,” he said, crisp but cautious.

  Hanging up, I looked at my watch to see how long the phone had been traceable.

  Three minutes—maybe they didn’t locate me.

  After pulling the phone apart, I stomped on it and threw all the pieces in the sink, turning on the faucet. The soft sound of the running water would have been calming in any other situation.

  I restarted my stopwatch. They’ll be here in seven minutes. Grabbing the pieces of the cell phone from the sink, I tossed them back into the Ziploc and threw the bag in the empty trashcan, covering it with some clean paper towels.

  I have to stay here…they won't be able to find me if I leave, since that was my last safe phone.

  Three minutes.

  Pounding on the front door of the restaurant sent a buzz of adrenaline through me. They found me.

  I quickly grabbed the recharging Taser from the wall and tossed it into my messenger bag, which I draped across my body, freeing my hands. Slowly opening the bathroom door, I slipped into the dark back hall. I could hear Brian’s deep, full voice from the next room.

  “Can I help you?” he asked coldly.

  “FBI,” said a male voice. “We’re looking for a woman who’s in this area, about 5'9", Caucasian, midforties. Seen her?”

  Brian didn’t hesitate. “We’re closed. Haven’t opened for dinner yet.”

  Silently thanking Brian, I moved down the narrow hall toward the battered, brown service door. Touching the button for light on my watch, I checked the time. Less than two minutes. I tried not to panic, though adrenaline was tingling through me in rushing bolts.

  The conversation between them was so distant that I couldn’t hear it. Preparing myself to open the door, I pulled the second Taser from my pocket, looped the strap around my wrist, and instinctively pushed the button to turn it on. If anyone tried to grab it from me, the loop would pull out the arming pin, disabling it.

  Turning the dented brass knob, I pushed open the back door slightly, peering out into the alley. My eyes fell upon an overflowing dumpster for a brief second, and then the door was yanked open from the outside. I turned to run, but a crew-cut clone grabbed me by the hair. I twisted around and was able to jam the Taser into his exposed armpit, and he fell to the ground, convulsing with a heavy thud. As my hair was released, the SUV rounded the corner of the alley, and I ran for it, hoping I was running toward friends.

  Chapter 2

  BELLINGHAM, WASHINGTON

  The Year 2015

  I sat up in bed, drenched in sweat.

  “Oh man, that was a bad one,” I said out loud to no one. The details of my dream lingered with me as though they were real. I wiped the sweat from my face with my sheet. My heart was doing double time as the adrenaline still coursed through my body.

  What was that about?

  My mind raced to try to make sense of the disturbing dream. I’d had numerous others like it; chase dreams seemed to be the specialty of my sleeping mind lately.

  I needed to get ready for work. AlterHydro was waiting.

  Driving to work, the dream marinated in my mind.

  * * *

  I’d been working at my desk for about an hour when my phone rang. After one ring, I answered.

  “Hi, Bennett. What can I do for you?” I said, my voice imitating an enthusiastic employee.

  I already knew his reason for calling, and I nodded to no one in particular as I tried to convince him that everything was on track for the first draft of the new turbine manual. It seemed to be his pet project, and I tried to hide the exasperation in my voice, steeling myself for his generous critique.

  “No problem, Bennett. I can be there in ten minutes. Will that work for you?” I asked with a cheerfulness that made my jaw ache.

  You would think that after three years of working for him, he’d have some degree of faith in my ability to write a good technical manual.

  “What a control freak,” I muttered angrily, then looked around to see if my co-workers had heard me.

  I should have known that he’d be a nightmare when I interviewed for this job.

  It was the fourth interview—this time with Bennett’s younger brother—that nearly made me ditch the idea of working at AlterHydro.

  * * *

  “Ann Torgeson,” he said, shaking my hand. “I’m Brock Pressentin. Have a seat,” he said with authority. He sat down, leaned back in his chair, put his feet on the long conference-room table, and smugly started with, “So, Ann, tell me about yourself.”

  I blinked in surprise. This was his interview ritual, I knew, but his casual cockiness bothered me. I was a professional technical writer and was certainly a good hire for any Fortune 100 company; I expected to be treated with respect by potential employers. The only reason I wanted to work for AlterHydro, which was not a Fortune 100 company, was because of their unique innovation in alternative energy. To say that I was annoyed by Brock’s freshman interview style was an understatement.

  As I prepared to answer him, Bennett barged into the room, taking a seat next to his little brother while pushing his sibling’s feet off the table.

  “Hi, Ann. Hi, Brock,” he quickly offered with a smile.

  Along with my greeting, I forced a pleasant smile.

  Silence seethed from baby brother as he stared at his sibling.

  “My last meeting finished early, so I thought I'd sit in on your interview,” Bennett announced to me. It was an obvious preemptive strike to Brock’s rejection of his unexpected presence.

  “Like I was saying, why don't you tell me about yourself?” Brock continued, turning to me, this time with a louder voice, his eyebrows tensed.

  Looking from brother to brother, I suddenly realized that this family dysfunction was something I didn’t want to be a part of. Just as I was speed formulating my “I don’t think we’re a good fit” speech, I received a friendly wink and smile from Bennett.

  It took me only a moment to realize that I was a small piece in a family game of “appease the younger brother so I can hire you.”

  Okay, I’ll bite. I enjoyed banter and was curious to see how the dynamic between the two brothers played out. I plowed ahead.

  “As I’m sure you've seen from my résumé, I have significant experience as a technical writer with the government. I'm bound by confidentiality not to discuss those projects specifically, but I can tell you that I wrote about cutting-edge technologies, complicated in both design and scope. Writing for Black Projects was challenging becau
se I had to understand the hardware and software well enough to write for both technical and non-technical readers. Before that, I—”

  “How can you expect me to assess whether you're qualified for this position unless you tell me what you actually worked on?” Brock interrupted, smugness dripping from his voice.

  “That's a good question,” I answered patiently. “I'm sure you'll agree, though, that if I were to share that information with you, I would not only be breaking confidentiality with my previous employer, but I would also be betraying our country's secrets. My ability to keep confidences will be an asset to you, if I’m hired by AlterHydro.”

  Brock Pressentin opened his mouth to say something but apparently couldn’t think of a rebuttal.

  Game, set, match.

  Bennett saw that his brother had been aced in our verbal tennis game and seized the interview.

  “Ann, tell us what you can bring to AlterHydro from your experience with the government and as a journalist,” Bennett instructed.

  Elder brother’s redirection of the interview, and my witness to his intuition in doing so, influenced me to stay the course and complete the interview process. As long as I worked directly for Bennett, and not Brock, I could find satisfaction in writing about AlterHydro’s energy solutions.

  Their Bellingham location north of the Puget Sound, where the Strait of Georgia met the Strait of Juan de Fuca, was the Everest of tidal action, with energy perpetually created. Channels and headlands further accelerated the energy. Because tidal turbines were anchored on the seabed far beneath the ocean’s surface, they were neither seen nor heard by man, which was a significant asset. AlterHydro was the first company in the Pacific Northwest to capture this supercharged energy. I was willing to move from the East Coast to the West to be a part of it. The timing was good, too. I was looking forward to the move, which would bring me back to where my husband, Armond, was buried.