Rescuing Liberty: Perseverance Book 1
Title Page
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Copyright © 2009 by Amanda Washington at Smashwords
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States
For my momma:
You never once told me it was impossible to fly.
Instead you showed me how to trust God and jump.
Thank you.
Acknowledgements
First and foremost I thank God—for just being, blessing, and forgiving.
Special thanks to my sister, Apryl Risoldi, who encouraged me to put my dreams to paper.
Without the love and encouragement of my husband, Meltarrus, and our five sons I would have quit long ago. I love you guys! Thank you for being there for me. Thank you also to my parents, sisters, cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents and in-laws who poured support into me.
To my editors—Krista Darrach and George Hill who poured over the story many times, and were never afraid to point out my numerous mistakes—thank you. I couldn’t have done it without you both! Thank you, Tracey Jackson, for your tenacious prodding which convinced me to revisit this story long after I was ready to give up on it.
I’m greatly indebted to the talented creative team who developed my cover. Cover design: Jackson and Tracey Jackson. Cover model: Jessica Yonko. Props: Matthew Morris.
Sincere thanks to the many people who encouraged me, including but not limited to the following: David Antonio, Pam Armstrong, Kenton Brine, Terry & Pam Busch, Cindy Call, Trina Cardoza, Michele Cardwell, Deena Cornish, Kim Corona, Jim Darrach, Chris Fletcher, Melanie Fletcher, Doug Fromm, Faith Hahn, Jason Harnack, Nichole Krieger, Robert & Trina Krieger, Aaron Lamb, Kim Legato, Hoyt (Byron) McNair, Wayne Perryman, Noelle Pierce, Rob Pomeroy, JD Revene, Kelli Rodriguez, Pete Scholl, Clark & Cathy Sitzes, Sue Smith, Lisa Tucker, Chris Washington, Vickie Westfall, Elizabeth Whitworth, Gary Wolcott, all my Facebook friends, and anyone else I may have missed. Your belief in me kept me typing and editing, even when I didn’t want to. Thank you all!
CHAPTER 1
Liberty
"America will never be destroyed from the outside. If we falter and lose our freedoms, it will be because we destroyed ourselves." —Abraham Lincoln
~June 7
WITH A DAGGER in one hand and my best friend—a Smith and Wesson Sigma—in the other, I analyzed shadows outside the window. My red curls haphazardly pulled through the back of a navy-blue Mariners baseball cap, I gripped the gun and glanced at the jagged scar on my left wrist. The memories of the day I’d carved letters dangerously close to the artery came flooding back, reminding me: WWL.
Crazy much, Libby?
“Nice warm jacket, soft-padded cell, three square meals a day. Doesn’t sound so bad, does it?” I asked the stuffed bear lying near my feet.
Frog—as my niece Megan lovingly named the bear—didn’t look impressed by my wit. Frog had been well-loved, and it showed. He was missing an eye, and the large hole in his arm was visible around the edges of a Band-Aid. He stared up at me, looking terrified of being left behind.
“That’s not fair.” I nudged Frog with my toe in an effort to redirect his gaze.
He rolled completely over, but his big brown eye continued to play on my conscience. I sighed.
“How do you feel about Canada?” Tucking the gun into the back of my jeans, I reached down and picked up the bear. “Don’t worry, Frog. Canada will be better. Promise.”
I hope.
I shoved Frog into my large hiking backpack next to a crumpled family portrait, a few bottles of water, two lighters, a small journal, a couple of pens, a roll of duct tape, my worn sleeping bag, and a wind-up flashlight radio. The flashlight radio was turned on to scan for stations daily, but so far had found only static.
Raising my hands above my head in an attempt to stretch, my nose scrunched at the odor assaulting me from my arm pits. It had been days since I’d last bathed in a stream outside Olympia, and I felt as disgusting as I smelled. My stomach growled, reminding me of matters more essential than my neglected hygiene. I eagerly searched the front pocket of my filthy jeans, only to remember that the peanuts I sought had been breakfast.
A person could starve to death in this city.
Tens of thousands already had.
My temporary shelter reeked of death and human waste. Littering the floor, children’s toys and books lay lonely and neglected under a thin layer of dust. The outlines of various footprints told stories of survivors desperately searching for something—anything.
This had once been my sister Anna’s spotlessly clean home; now it was ransacked and damaged beyond recognition. Just the sight of the cupboard doors hanging from their hinges would no doubt send the obsessive-compulsive Anna into hysterics. Only she couldn’t see the cupboards anymore. Anna had tormented and terrorized me throughout our childhood, but she hadn’t proven tough enough when it really counted.
Each breath is a gift.
The last time I’d been in this house was to celebrate Thanksgiving. Only seven months ago, I sat at the breakfast bar and obligingly chopped whatever Anna threw my direction for the holiday dishes. Her husband, Tom, was on his hands and knees pretending to be a horse for their two-year-old twins, Megan and Martin. He bucked and reared as they giggled and hooted. If I closed my eyes I could still hear their laughter.
Their bodies remained where I found them, huddled together peacefully in Anna and Tom’s bed. No stab or bullet wounds. No blood. No hope.
This had been their first house, and Anna had turned it into a comfortable home. Family pictures littered the place—some hanging askew on the walls, others broken and scattered across the floor. Obscenities were carved into the coated face of their fifty-six inch flat screen TV hanging proudly on the wall. Deep slashes ran across once overstuffed couches, and the filling covered the floor like mounds of snow.
Lives spent collecting these material possessions—all this crap—and none of it mattered. Nothing here had saved my sister’s family from their fate.
Another useless tear slid down my dirty cheek. My sister’s family was dead, and this house was their tomb. I ground my teeth as the desire to kill those who’d desecrated it overwhelmed me.
No. Judgment is not mine to pass.
I fought for control over my emotions, put down the imaginary gavel, and considered the evening view outside the window. The sun was setting on the remains of the once-prosperous city of Olympia, Washington. Calming lines of reds and oranges ran across the sky, contrasting with the dark, sinister shadows on the ground.
Early June displayed an impressive amount of greenery and flowers. Roses—unaffected by the destruction—bloomed in every color alongside ruined buildings. Lush bushes and healthy grass grew obliviously aro
und strewn human remains. Nature donned a convincing façade as it attempted to hide the passing of humankind. Intoxicating fragrances of lilacs and hyacinths put forth a valiant effort, but couldn’t mask the stench of decay.
I rubbed my tired eyes, slipped my backpack over my aching shoulders, and headed for the back door. My fingers instinctively massaged the scar on my wrist while I scrutinized the shadows of the backyard, watching for movement. The door creaked open and I took another deep, steadying breath, and stepped into the dusk.
Looking back at the house, I noticed that Tom never did get around to fixing the screen the twins destroyed. A simple chore left undone, yet it was too much. My throat constricted.
Breathe.
With a deep breath, I stuffed the memories back behind the locked door in my mind. I’d open it someday when I was ready to welcome the madness, but not today. Even now I could hear the nightmares knocking, taunting me with a way to ease the pain, a way to forget.
Not today. Maybe tomorrow.
Bowing my head, I crossed myself. No organized “religion” had ever felt right, but this Catholic gesture comforted me somehow. In one simple hand signal to God I confirmed my continued belief and petitioned for His aid.
As I headed out, the gun pressed into the small of my back. The discomfort served as a constant reminder of the blood on my hands. “Thou shalt not murder,” the commandment declared, and as a child, I’d been taught the biblical difference between “kill” and “murder,” but what of self-defense? Is it more of a slap-on-the-hand than a burn-for-eternity sentence?
Perhaps the Almighty would allow an attorney?
Of course all the good attorneys would already be in hell …
It’s hard to stay clean while swimming in murky water. When it came down to kill or die, my lineage as a child of Cain had been proven. But every day as I checked both 16-round magazines of the 9mm, I prayed. Prayed I wouldn’t have to use a single bullet. I hated that gun, yet it was my only friend and my most prized possession.
How did the line between right and wrong get so blurry?
I walked until the sun breached the horizon. Exhausted and still fighting the images I’d seen at my sisters, I hopped a fence and slid into a small portable shed, hoping to find a safe place to rest. Lawn care equipment and a tricycle frame were the sole contents; nothing nefarious. While scanning the area from the cover the shed provided, I found an apple tree. The lower branches had been picked clean, but there were apples further up. My stomach growled as I searched the shed for some sort of ladder. No luck. Of course there wasn’t a ladder nearby, or some other starving person would have found it and nabbed the rest of the apples.
Unless this is a trap.
The thought caught me off guard. Nothing about my surroundings was threatening; just a small backyard behind a two-story home. A chain-linked fence bordered knee-high grass. There were no abnormal movements or sounds. I leaned against the wall of the shed and watched, waited and listened.
Hunger burned within me, melting my paranoia and liquefying my patience.
Apple pie, apple turnover, apple crisp, apple dumplings … torture!
With my gun still at my back, I could stick the dagger between my teeth and scale the tree like Rambo. I’d climbed trees as a child.
How hard can it be?
Footsteps came from the fence. I dropped into a crouch and prayed intensely for invisibility as a boy approached. He looked young, rough and tough, with scrawny arms, long legs, and the awkward stance of a pre-teen. Looking around nervously, he sneaked up to the tree and embarked on his climbing mission, lurching and sliding as he struggled to find his footing on the trunk. The hem of his jeans caught on a small twig and as he kicked to free his leg, he fell to the ground with a loud thump. Instinct kicked in, and I shuffled my feet, preparing to run out and help him.
‘No!’
The voice of the call fell on my heart, commanding me to remain hidden. More powerful than words, the call flooded my senses with understanding, cautioning me against revealing myself to the child.
No? He’s just a boy. He needs me!
Another rugged figure came skulking from the boy’s hiding place: a man with deep-set eyes, dark hair, and a lean, muscular build. He moved fluidly, like a hunter. Not a hunter of animals, though. “Hunter” was the title given to those who escaped the burden of their conscience. They lurked in the shadows and preyed on the defenseless.
The child smiled and encouraged the man’s approach.
Easing the Sigma from my waistband, I crept forward.
Look what You did! I silently yelled at the shed’s ceiling. Just a kid and now he’s in the hands of some hunter. What are You doing?
I lingered inside the shed, knowing I couldn’t disobey the call, yet still questioning it.
I felt no response as the hunter crept over, braced the boy’s foot, and boosted him up within reach of the first branch. The branch creaked under the youth’s build. The boy stretched, bent, reached, and finally made contact with the first apple. He plucked it and stashed it in a pocket.
The child collected several more apples, storing the first few in his pockets and then begrudgingly tossing the remainder down to his companion. The hunter helped the boy down, and looked around nervously while the child bent and emptied the apples he’d collected into his pack. When the kid stood up, the large butcher knife he wielded glinted in the sun.
“Let’s go.” The man twisted back around.
As he did, the boy plunged the butcher knife into the hunter’s stomach.
CHAPTER TWO
Connor
~Fifteen weeks earlier - February 24
GUARDS PUSHED OPEN the heavy, oak door. Late February sunshine poured into the old courthouse, banishing the shadows of winter. Connor Dunstan walked out onto the cement steps followed closely by his client, Fredrick Adams. The media descended upon them; cameras flashed, microphones waved, and phony smiles lit up the faces of the press.
An unfamiliar woman muscled her way to the front of the crowd and pointed an NBS labeled microphone in Fredrick’s face. “Mr. Adams, are you pleased with the court’s verdict?” She was dressed trendily and tasteful in her tight, pinstriped business skirt and matching jacket. The silky, white shell underneath was cut low enough to display a decent amount of cleavage from Connor’s elevated vantage point. Her short, blonde hair accentuated a tanned, firm neck, glowing under a single strand of pearls.
Pushing Fredrick out of the way, Connor stared into her bright blue eyes and answered, “Of course he is.”
The microphone wielder smiled, seemingly pleased with herself for getting a much sought audience with the attorney. “Mr. Dunstan, as the counsel representing Mr. Adams, what can you tell viewers about allegations of your client’s involvement with the illegal sale of plans for the new 877 jet to Accelerated Aerotech?”
“Just another greedy employer’s feeble attempt to conceal wrongful termination. My client was the victim of age discrimination, and today his employer has been schooled on the consequences for such actions.” Connor paused for effect, posing to allow for camera shots.
A black limo pulled up to the curb in front of the attorney and his client. The chauffeur hustled to open the back door and waited.
“If there had been any evidence to support such an outlandish speculation, my client would not be the victor today.” Connor smiled and posed once more as cameras clicked and other reporters fought for his attention.
Lowering his voice so only the blonde in front of him could hear, he whispered, “I’d love to discuss this matter further, but I have a client waiting.” He reached for her unoccupied left hand and squeezed her fingertips. Her cheeks reddened at his wink, and when he pulled his hand back, she glanced down and her eyes widened. He’d left his business card in her grasp. Perfectly glossed lips spread into a dimpling smile as she slid his contact information into her jacket pocket.
Client in tow, Connor waded through the throng of reporters, microphones
and cameras to climb into the back seat of his company limo, sitting beside his business partner, Justin Brayer. After his client slid in to join them, the chauffeur closed the door, regained his own seat, and the car eased away from the flashing cameras and leering reporters.
The chauffeur knocked on the privacy glass that separated him from his passengers.
“Yes?” Justin asked.
“Excuse me sir, but did Mr. Adams park in this lot or the next?”
Frederick motioned to the lot in front of the limo. “You can just drop me off here.” He turned to face Connor. “Thank you. For everything.”
Connor smiled at another satisfied client. “My pleasure.” He extended his hand. “I’ll give you a call when they send the paperwork over.”
They shook hands as the limo came to a stop. The door opened and Frederick slipped out.
“And remember,” Connor said to Frederick’s retreating back. “If anyone tries to contact you about what happened today—or about these bogus allegations—send them my way.”
“Will do.” He gave a stiff nod. “Thanks again.”
Once the partners were alone, Justin motioned toward the crowded courthouse steps out the back window. “Quite the crowd today.”
Connor glanced behind them. Clearly disappointed at the small slice of information he had fed them, they were moving on to search for crumbs among jurors and witnesses. “Vultures. Always starving for a bite of someone.”
Justin chuckled. “Now that’s not nice, Connor. They’re only performers, acting under the directions of their employers.” He grabbed the bottle of wine he’d been chilling and tilted it toward Connor in question. A 1989 Château d’Yquem; a wise move from Justin. The wine was expensive enough to make Connor feel valued, yet well below the quality of the 1990 d’Yquem that he’d uncorked to celebrate his own victory last week.
Rescuing Liberty: Perseverance Book 1 Page 1
