Rescuing Liberty: Perseverance Book 1

by Amanda Washington

  Connor nodded, pretending to be pleased while he kept his proverbial dagger aimed at Justin’s back. When the time was right, he planned to slit the throat of Justin’s career and feed him to the vultures still lingering behind them. Just like he’d done to the last partner he’d bested.

  Justin poured and handed Connor a glass. “The new blonde from NBS … would you consider her a vulture as well? It didn’t look like you’d mind her taking a bite out of your flesh.”

  Connor shrugged. “What’s the point in being successful if I can’t savor the victory dance?”

  Justin laughed and shook his head as Connor fantasized about the blonde. Nice figure, great dimples. She’d call. They always did. He held up his glass for a toast. “To another win?”

  “No.” Justin lightly tapped Connor’s glass with his own. “To the purchase of fifty shares of Accelerated Aerotech stock.”

  ~June 8

  Wow. Sixty-two day silent treatment. That’s gotta qualify her for some sort of record.

  Connor stared down at his brother’s twelve-year-old daughter, Ashley, as she rested on her air mattress, facing the wall. He let out a breath of irritation. “I won’t be gone long.”

  Ashley ignored him, just like she had for the past two months.

  Connor grabbed his Glock and switchblade from the top of a nearby shelving unit of the shelter. The shelter was actually a large walk-in safe inside Connor’s brother’s store. Built and stocked to sustain four lives, the deaths of Jacob and Cathy had turned the safe’s environment into that of a cold war. Every day Connor looked forward to his daily escape. His blade went into the front pocket of his jeans and he slid the gun into a hidden pouch inside his jacket. Stepping up to the door, he spun the dial through its code and pushed it open. Then he stepped into his brother’s computer parts store and locked Ashley in the safe behind him.

  Jacob had loved the store. He’d always been a geek, fascinated with taking apart and rebuilding computers. Connor closed his eyes and remembered his brother’s wide smile on the day he signed the papers to make this store his own. He had stood behind the counter, jingling the keys and grinning like a jackal.

  Connor looked around Jacob’s new purchase, apprehensively noticing the fading paint and disorganized shelves.

  “I know it needs some work,” Jacob tapped on the cracked countertop in front of him, “but it’s my store. My dream.”

  It didn’t need work, it needed a bulldozer … and a business plan. It looked like a time and money pit to Connor, but he didn’t have the heart to voice his skepticism. Instead he replied, “If it makes you happy.”

  “More happiness than you can imagine.” Jacob picked up the rag before him and polished the well-used cash register.

  “What’s that supposed to mean? I’m happy.” Connor walked forward until he was across the counter from his brother. “I’m on a streak. Just won my tenth case. And this morning I stumbled upon a juicy tidbit that’s sure to discredit the witness in the McPhearson trial.”

  Jacob narrowed his eyes. “You’ll never be truly happy until you stop trying to be someone else.”

  Connor chuckled and held out his hands. “Hey bro, what you see is what you get.”

  “You’re not foolin’ me. I know what lies beneath that overly-ambitious, womanizing shell.”

  “Oh really?” Connor leaned against the counter and showed Jacob his teeth. “Enlighten me.”

  Jacob moved to wipe down the counter. “Nope. That’s cheating. You cannot be rebuilt, until you are destroyed.”

  Connor bowed mockingly. “As always, Master Yoda, you are both wise and cryptic.”

  * * *

  You cannot be rebuilt, until you are destroyed.

  The memory stole Connor’s breath and resolve. He looked around Jacob’s trashed store, longing for the wisdom of his big brother. All he found was destruction. Glass from the busted windows crunched beneath his shoes. Multiple shelves lay on their sides, spilling broken or unusable merchandise upon the floor. Spray painted walls reflected the anger of the vandals.

  Destroyed, like your dream, Jake? Well, how you gonna rebuild it now?

  He skulked out of the building, and into the crisp early morning, intending to go north, but somehow ended up to the east, coming to a stop in front of what remained of his brother’s home. It was a careless and foolish habit, but Connor couldn’t seem to resist the pull of the house. This was always the first place his feet took him whenever he left the safe.

  The home was mostly ash and metal now. He bent down and scooped up a handful of ashes. Wind filtered through his fingers, blowing the dust away.

  I destroyed this. Who’s gonna rebuild it?

  Connor waited and listened, but no one answered his unvoiced question. He turned to leave and the flicker of a curtain in a neighboring house got his attention.

  This is too dangerous, Jake. I can’t come back. Sleep, my brother. Hopefully things are better wherever you are.

  Connor took one last look at the building remains. The funeral pyre he’d burnt to the ground for Jacob and Cathy hadn’t left much behind, but something shiny caught his eye. He waded through a pile of cinders to find a two inch tall bronze trophy that declared, ‘World’s greatest dad.’ He turned it over and read the inscription: ‘I love you Daddy, love Ashley.’ Connor brushed off the treasure and pocketed it.

  The sun was rising, so he walked a few blocks over to Jacob’s secretary’s house. She’d been out of town when the riots hit, and never made it home. Her house had already been raided for food, but Connor was looking for something else this time. He drew his gun, crept into the house, up the stairs and into the master bathroom. He searched through drawers finding lotion, perfume, powder.

  Why do women need so much junk? Hairspray, gel, mousse: a whole drawer full of nothing but hair products. He opened the cabinet under the sink.

  Bingo.

  The cabinet held a box and a bag.

  Oh crap! Two kinds.

  He picked up the box and looked inside. A small instruction guide rested atop the contents, complete with visual aids.

  Inside her?

  Connor’s mind screeched in horror at the image of him trying to explain the process of inserting tampons to his niece. He hastily put the box back and grabbed the bag.

  I’m not ready for this.

  A scream shattered the stillness of the morning. Connor rushed to the window and peered out, searching for the threat.

  CHAPTER THREE

  NO, NO, NO! I wanted to scream.

  The boy’s face showed no expression as he ripped the knife out of the hunter. The hunter cried out in pain, his hands moving over the wound, as if to stop the blood flow.

  “You. You little bast—” he started, and then staggered back and forth a few times before finally toppling over.

  Green grass reddened with his blood. The cool morning air turned to steam where it brushed against the warm life that spilled from his body.

  My mind made a feeble attempt to detach itself from my senses. So it wasn’t Professor Plum in the dining room with the candle stick. It was the skinny kid in the apple orchard with the knife. The game of Clue popped into my thoughts, redirecting my focus to a reality where murder was only a game. Blinking, I tried to picture the layout of the Clue board as I fought to maintain control of my queasy stomach. I knew that if I didn’t stay quiet, I’d probably be next.

  He’s just a kid. Can I shoot a kid?

  Blood dripped from the knife the boy held. I focused on breathing as he methodically extracted the apples and other items of interest from the man’s pockets.

  The kitchen was in one corner, but what was on the other side of the ballroom? Attempts to escape were unsuccessful. I couldn’t look away as the child—who should have been enjoying his summer vacation—wiped the blood from his knife on the fallen man’s shirt.

  Not fallen … murdered. He killed him!

  The boy was so callous, calm, and calculating. His big, sweet, trustwor
thy eyes did not flicker. His breathing did not quicken and his hands did not shake. He had been prepared. Premeditated. His posture and his remorse-free expression betrayed the fact that this boy was perfectly at ease taking a life. I was watching a child hunter. My head found its way between my knees.

  Passing out would be very bad. I fought to stay conscious as the last speck of faith I had in the human race shattered to the beat of the murderous child’s footsteps as he casually walked away.

  When my stomach stopped churning and my hands quit shaking, I crept out of my hiding spot. Gagging at the coppery-sweet smell of blood, I tried not to notice the way the hunter’s right foot twitched when I snuck by.

  A blood curdling scream came from the direction the boy had gone, causing the hair on the back of my neck to raise. I shuddered, wondering if the scream came from the kid or another of his victims. It didn’t matter though. There was nothing I could do about it.

  Within moments, the morning regained its quiet and my loneliness intensified. I ached for the camaraderie I used to find in the dark, understanding eyes of my German shepherd. I used to feel so safe with Kiana running beside me. She was a great listener and I could whisper any of my fears into her velvety ears and know they’d be safe forever. I’d tried to keep her, but her rationed food supply hadn’t been enough to sustain her. I couldn’t bear to watch her starve. I didn’t regret the decision to take her life. It had been the right thing to do. But during the lonely times, the selfish part of me wished I would have been a little more willing to let her suffer.

  My sneakers assaulted the silence of the morning as they squeaked across dew softened grass. The city lay desolate and abandoned; no longer buzzing from the once constant hum of electricity and vehicle resonance. I took a deep, clean breath, longing for the stench of car exhaust and smog to fill my lungs. A door squeaked nearby. My chest constricted with mixed emotions, craving human contact, but fearing the consequences. I kept walking.

  In the stillness, his movement should have caught my eye, but I saw nothing. I experienced no premonition of being watched and heard no sound of his approach. Only the pressure of his left hand over my mouth alerted me to his presence, and by then it was too late.

  Breathe.

  His right hand trapped mine; pinning my dagger to my side, rendering it useless. My attacker’s chest pressed against my back. Several inches taller than my 5’9” height, his mouth floated above my ear. He whispered for me to be quiet, then in one smooth motion his strong arms squeezed and lifted as he carried me into the bushes.

  Too startled to struggle, the next thing I knew, I was balancing on my backpack with the weight of my assailant on top of me. His attention was elsewhere and the hand that covered my mouth loosened its grip. I took advantage of the slack and bit down hard on his middle finger.

  “Don’t!” he spat as he pulled his hand away. “You’re gonna get us both killed if you don’t hold still and be quiet.” His whispers came between clenched teeth. “Shh. Here they come.”

  Confusion, more than anything, kept me silent. He’d passed up the chance to kill me, and he wasn’t trying to rape me. His anxious heart pounded against my chest as the scent of him invaded my senses; musk, wood smoke, metal, and sweat—comfortable and not at all unpleasant. I tried to catch a glimpse of him, but his whiskers scratched the side of my face and struggle as I might, all I could see was his chin and the hedge above him. Patience worn thin, I clenched my fists and was about to demand answers when I heard it: the unmistakable sound of someone or something approaching. My body went limp and my breathing grew shallow and hushed. I know how to play this game.

  “You’re sure she went this way?” The whispered voice was male, coming from just a few feet away.

  “Yes. But she was moving fast,” said the feminine-sounding reply between deep breaths. “We’ll catch her on the next block.”

  The slight squeak of their sneakers disappeared in the direction I had been heading, sending a shiver down my spine. I closed my eyes and searched for the image of the Clue board once more. The living room is on the other side of the kitchen, but what is on the other side of the ballroom?

  My rescuer adjusted his weight, allowing me to take a deep breath and get a good look at him. Eyes the color of charcoal peered down at me under rugged, chin-length brown hair. His whiskers attempted to hide the faded scar that traced the outline of an otherwise perfect jaw. The left side of his mouth twitched up in a lop-sided smirk.

  Sudden recognition of the man sped up my heart rate and dizzied me. I closed my eyes again; confident that the blackness I sought was much better than confirmation of who I was looking at.

  “Connor Dunstan,” I breathed his name. “You have got to be kidding me.”

  I could tell my response amused him by the vibration of his chest. The jerk was laughing at me. I opened my eyes and stared at the cover-boy for all things corrupt and impious. I’d never actually met him, but everyone knew Connor. His face was plastered on the sides of buses, on park benches, and in commercials with slogans like, “At the law offices of Brayer and Dunstan, we'll help you get justice for your injustice.” Justice … right. Even before the fall of the US, the man I was currently pinned under had been a life-sucking, money-grubbing, ambulance-chasing, shady-deal-making fiend, aka personal injury attorney. And that had been while he was at his best. I had no desire to see him at his worst.

  Connor Dunstan stood for everything I loathed. My knife felt heavy. I closed my eyes and silently prayed, My sister’s family is dead and yet this? This is who you choose to let live?

  “You okay?” Connor asked.

  ‘Trust me. Trust him.’ I felt the call respond to my prayer.

  I nodded to Connor, unwilling to commit to dialogue. Before me stood a greedy, heinous, detestable excuse for a human being … who had just saved my life. The world would be vastly less complicated if the bad guys could just be consistently loathsome.

  Is that really too much to ask?

  My muscles were cramping when Connor finally stood and offered me his hand. I scowled at him and pushed myself up, refusing his assistance. Dagger clutched in my right hand, gun tucked in the back of my pants, I gave him my best apprehensive glare.

  Connor dismissed my scowling, grabbed my left wrist and started walking. I jerked my hand back, but his grip was tight and held firm.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “Quiet. It’s not safe to talk here.” He pulled me behind him like some sort of puppy on a leash.

  I considered reaching behind me for my gun, but I couldn’t defy the call. When something consistently saves your life, you learn to just shut up and do what it tells you.

  I really hope You know what You’re doing, I prayed.

  We walked for a little while, then Connor told me to stay put, dropped my hand and disappeared into the busted up window of a vandalized computer parts store. I scanned the area, preparing to make my escape, when his arms once again enclosed me and constricted my knife hand to my side.

  This is getting old.

  I kicked and writhed as he pulled me into a walk-in safe, kicked the door closed behind us, and released me to spin the dial. By the time he turned to face me, I had my dagger pointed at his throat.

  “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t kill you,” I growled, angry that he’d successfully pulled off the same move on me twice.

  “You don’t know the combination. Kill me, and you’re going to die in here.” He glanced at me, glanced at the knife, and with all the cockiness of an overpaid, inflated attorney winked at me. “Now put that thing away before you hurt yourself.”

  My face burned as his indifferent attitude riled my temper. “You—”

  “A simple thank you would suffice, you know.” Connor leaned against the door to the safe.

  “Thank you for what? Kidnapping me and shoving me into a … a … where are we anyway?” With my free hand I gestured to the room we occupied.

  “I saved your life.” He shrugged.
“Do you think we could start over? Maybe even in a civilized manner?”

  “You realize that’s like asking me to break bread with Adolf Hitler?” I asked.

  “Wow,” he replied. “That has to be painful.”

  I raised an eyebrow at him in question.

  “That stick, shoved so far up your—”

  “Demon spawn.” I took a step closer.

  “Pretentious prude.” He leaned toward me.

  He was right. I mentally slapped myself for being so self-righteous. I was judging him with blood dripping from my hands. I studied Connor. No horns sprouted from his head, and he lacked the tail and pitchfork I’d always imagined he’d wield. In fact, had he been anyone else, I would have considered him handsome. Big, dark eyes with endless lashes, perfectly shaped masculine lips, and sexy-messy hair in all shades of brown.

  Handsome but dangerous.

  “Okay wise-guy. Enough with the pet-names. Just tell me what you want,” I scoffed.

  Connor looked me over as I searched the depths of his dark eyes. I dug my fingernails into my palms to remind myself that he was probably piercing my soul or something equally evil with that gaze.

  He smiled and held out his hand. “Let’s start with your name.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “LIBERTY COLLINS. I’D shake your hand, but I’m a bit busy right now.” I showed Connor my teeth and took a step closer until I was just inches from him. I tapped his neck with the blade I held to it in affirmation. “See, busy.”

  He shrugged. “Liberty, huh? Mind if I call you Libby?”

  I narrowed my eyes and slid the knife to threaten his crotch. “Mind if I call you stubby?”

  “Point taken.” He held up his hands in surrender. “You’re remarkably hostile, you know. You should seek counseling for that.”