Rescuing Liberty: Perseverance Book 1

by Amanda Washington

Connor walked away, knowing he’d be the subject of conversation on the other side of the door. He left Jacob’s store at a jog; determined to run off tension and possibly exhaust himself into a state of peace. Instead, frustration grew with the knowledge that he’d gotten nowhere with Liberty. Maybe Ashley would have better luck. Women.

  He shoved the problematic woman out of his thoughts and allowed his mind to float back to the last woman he’d been with; the blonde reporter from NBS. They had met up at a quaint Japanese lounge on Broadway. Connor arrived first and requested a secluded table in the corner. The lights were dimmed and the fragrance from the purple orchid centerpiece added to the ambiance. He’d used this lounge before and knew it would be perfect.

  The reporter arrived right on time, flashing her dimples as she approached the table. A knee-length blue dress clung to her curves and brought out the deep color of her eyes. Her well-toned legs ended in three inch strappy high heels.

  Connor intentionally widened his eyes to let her know he was pleased with what he saw. “You look amazing.” He stood and grasped her hand.

  She blushed. “Thank you. And you.” She gestured at his black-on-black Armani. “But Connor Dunstan always looks slick.”

  Connor smiled to himself as they sat. The waiter approached and handed them each a menu, asking if they’d like to start with something from the bar. Connor’s date deferred to him and he ordered Ginjo Saké. The sushi was exquisite, the Saké was light and clean, and the night was magical. The two made it through dinner before Connor’s date brought up the inevitable.

  “About these allegations …” She smiled wickedly in an obvious attempt to hijack their evening for her own benefit.

  She was outclassed, though. Like a kitten playing with a lion. “Ah, ah, ah.” Connor twitched his finger back and forth. “No business before the third glass of Saké.” He picked up his glass and offered a toast. “To a gorgeous woman, and the beginning of a beautiful relationship.”

  She dimpled again and tapped her glass to his. With business effectively put on the back burner, the two drank and talked for hours. Then the time came for her next move. She glanced at her watch, announced the time as “late,” and said she should call a cab.

  Connor smiled. Predictable. “Absolutely not,” he replied

  She returned his smile, no doubt thinking he was predictable as well.

  “I drove. I’ll take you home,” Connor said.

  She watched him under her lashes while she scrolled through her phone contacts. “I don’t want to be a bother. I can just call a cab.”

  Connor put his hand over hers, effectively recalling her entire attention back to him. “It’s no trouble at all,” he insisted. This was a dance, and he knew the steps well. He paid the bill, tipped the valet, and then slid the compliant little blonde into his SUV.

  “I was planning on heading to the office after I drop you off. Do you mind if we swing by my house for my briefcase?” He led his partner into another spin of the intricate steps.

  “Of course, I would love to see your place.” She smiled. As he turned over the engine, Connor struggled to remember her name.

  Sandy? Sadie? Stacy? Shirley?

  Connor reveled in the memory a while longer. The reporter had been compliant and fun, nothing like the temperamental red-head who’d just held a knife to his throat. He wondered why Liberty had to be the damsel in distress he’d decided to rescue.

  Maybe redemption is overrated.

  * * *

  Once again Connor ended up back at the remains of his brother’s house. After mentally degrading his feet for carrying him there against his expressed wishes, he conceded to the ritual and grabbed a handful of ash.

  “We’re leaving, Jake. We can’t stay here any longer.” He whispered the words into the wind, eyes stinging at the thought of never coming back. They were beginning to water when gravel crunched behind him. He slid the gun out of his pocket and spun around. A skinny, dark-haired woman stood before him, holding out her hands in surrender. The smile that stretched across her lips looked predatory, making Connor want to take a step back. He held his ground though, and leveled the weapon at her.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you.” She took a cautious step forward. “What happened here? Do you need help?”

  She’s approaching me? Alone? Is she crazy. There was something off about her, but he didn’t think she was insane. At least not yet. He kept his gun aimed at her chest. “Don’t come any closer.”

  Her sinister smile widened. “Oh, honey, I’m not the one you have to worry about.”

  In his peripheral vision, Connor saw movement to his right. He shifted his weight to the left, spun right, and fired his Glock at the approaching figure. The bullet entered his attacker’s stomach. He staggered, and then continued the motion he’d begun, attempting to smash Connor’s head with a tire iron. Connor ducked and stepped back as it whizzed by his ear.

  The woman scratched at Connor’s face. He stepped back, but her claws sunk into the flesh of his cheek. He attempted to block her, but she grabbed his arms and grappled with him for the gun.

  Connor reached for the tire iron and pulled his attacker closer to keep the man from swinging. Then Connor elbowed the woman in the chin. The blow caught her off guard and threw her head back. She coughed and struggled for breath as the man’s strength faded with his coloring. He lunged at Connor in one last, feeble swing, and then collapsed. The woman screeched, her attack forgotten as she wobbled over and kneeled beside him.

  “Larry, honey, wake up.” His glossed-over eyes stared back at her. She felt for a pulse, and then glared at Connor. “He’s dead. You killed him!”

  Connor inspected himself for wounds. His stomach was covered in the man’s blood and his pants were torn. There were a few scrapes and he’d have to treat the scratches on his face against infection, but he’d live. Confident of that fact, he turned and walked away.

  “You killed Larry! You can’t just leave me here alone.”

  Connor took another step.

  “Murderer!”

  Keep walking. The rustle of footsteps behind him told him others were appearing. He seriously doubted they’d help the woman though.

  “No, get away! Don’t touch him!” she shouted.

  Connor didn’t look back.

  “Help! Please some—”

  Connor reflected on the words of a poem from his childhood. Little Orphan Annie was about naughty children getting their comeuppances. It seemed fitting, and as he left the grizzly scene, he muttered the phrase that ended each stanza of the poem.

  “And the goblins’ll get ya if you don’t watch out.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  AFTER EVERYTHING I’D seen and heard, you’d think I’d be immune to shock, but clearly I wasn’t. My brain froze, completely incapable of processing the information Ashley had just fed me. I sat up and studied the girl, waiting for some sort of revelation that would force it all to make sense. When nothing came to me, I asked, “Killed them? Connor killed your parents?”

  She nodded.

  “But he’s your uncle. Your dad was his brother, right?”

  She nodded again, this time looking at me like I was a little thick in the skull.

  “Why?” I had to ask. The guy—no matter how repulsive he’d been in the past—had just saved my life. Slime ball—yes, but murderer? And of his family no less.

  Ashley shrugged. “I don’t know why. I saw him do it, though. He shot both of them. Then he caught their house on fire.”

  Why? I repeated to myself. How could he do this to her? I looked to Ashley for answers, but nothing but pain and anger could be found in her eyes. His brother? I would do anything to have my sister back, and this monster had killed his own brother leaving his niece an orphan? Is this what I’m supposed to do? Save this little girl from her murderous uncle? Her gaze was too tormented for me to hold, so I closed my eyes and tried not to dwell on the image of her watching Connor kill her parents.

  Then I realiz
ed she hadn’t called him “Uncle Connor.” But maybe family titles were lost when one killed their relatives. And I thought my family had problems. Connor, you’re one heck of a sick jerk.

  Since neither of us knew the code to the safe, there was nothing to do but wait. I wanted to rant and rave, enraged by the injustice of it all. But frankly, I was too exhausted. Giving up seemed like a much more realistic approach to the entire situation. A life full of child hunters and family killers no longer seemed worth the considerable effort it took to stay alive.

  I’d seen more than my fair share of heartache and corpses and I was ready for it all to end. Like a dog, I’d trotted after hope; my ever-elusive master. And in return for my faithfulness, life used me like a work horse that had been rode hard and put away wet. And now there was a sweet little girl with dark, haunted eyes relying on me.

  I couldn’t give up—not yet—but I could rest. “It’s going to be okay,” I told Ashley. “I need to sleep. Please wake me the second you hear him approach?”

  She shifted and I drifted off to sleep, interrupted when her mousy, sweet voice finally replied, “Please, don’t leave me here with him.”

  I sighed. This wasn’t what I wanted, but there was no way I could deny the plea of a scared little girl. I cracked my eyes. Ashley stared at me like I was Wonder Woman in a world of ordinary mortals. “I promise,” I replied as my eyes closed again. Then I prayed for indestructible bracelets and an invisible airplane.

  * * *

  ‘Get out … NOW!’

  The mental command was urgent and demanding, interrupted my sleep like a bullhorn. Dreams of dancing with my eighth grade crush shattered as my body and mind were instantly compelled to evacuate the tent. Normally a still, small voice, the call’s intensity practically ripped me from my sleeping bag. I floundered through the dark, searching our flimsy nylon shelter until I found Michelle. “Wake up, Shell,” I pleaded, but she was sound asleep.

  ‘Drag her! Do it now!’ The call became a compulsion; so powerful it was excruciating. I felt like I would spontaneously combust if I didn’t get out of the tent, but as painful as it was to stay, I couldn’t leave my friend behind.

  I unzipped the flap, grabbed Michelle by the shoulders, and dragged her toward the outline of the large canvas tent where her dad—Howard—slept. My shaking fingers fumbled the little metal zipper.

  ‘NOW! NOW! NOW!’ The thoughts battered my body like physical blows. I bit down on my lip until I tasted blood, trying to pull myself together.

  “Dad,” I pleaded. “Help me, I can’t …” Howard wasn’t my father, but he was the closest thing I’d ever had to one. I’d given him the title when Michelle and I became best friends in kindergarten.

  The inside of the tent lit up like a beacon of hope. I started sobbing. Safety was so close: visible yet unattainable.

  “What is it? What’s happened to Michelle?” Howard frantically unzipped the flap and helped me drag her still sleeping form inside it.

  “Nothing … with Michelle.” I huffed, trying to catch my breath. “But something’s wrong.” I wiped my nose with my sleeve. “I don’t know what, but I just—I just—”

  Then we heard it: the very eerie, very loud, very close, scream of a cougar.

  There are few things in life more terrifying than the sound of a cougar. Not something one could get used to, it’s like woman’s scream laced with malice, dripping with hatred. The hair on the back of my neck stood up and I instantly needed to use the restroom.

  The scream woke Michelle. I clutched her hand and we scrambled to the back of the tent. Terrified, we clung to each other, our fear hanging in the air like fog.

  Howard grabbed his Marlin .22 caliber, bolt-action rifle. It was our hunter’s safety training weapon and he slept with it loaded beside him while we were camping. Holding the rifle in one hand, he pulled back the unzipped tent flap with the other. The darkness outside was sinister and evil, hungry for a victim to claim. As if answering the summons of the dark, Howard raised his rifle and bravely stepped into the night.

  A reverberating crack echoed throughout the valley …

  * * *

  “Wake up, he’s here,” Ashley whispered into my ear.

  The sound of the spinning dial washed over me like a bucket of cold water, rinsing away the lingering dream residue. “The food, Ash—” I glanced at the shelves; only a few cans of lima beans remained.

  She patted her backpack. “Already done.”

  I nodded, impressed by her forethought. Then the magnitude of the situation struck me like a blow. What would we have to do to get out of there alive? Would he fight us? Would I have to kill him? Breathe. You can do this. He’s a murderer.

  By the time Connor opened the door and stepped inside, I was standing behind it with my gun drawn. I closed the door for him—I’m considerate like that—and instructed him not to move.

  Holding his arms up in surrender, he didn’t look surprised to see the weapon in his face. He disregarded me and addressed Ashley, “What now?” he asked.

  “No.” I waved the business end of my Sigma in front of his face. “My gun, my questions. Did you kill Ashley’s parents?” I glared at him, aiming toward ferocious, but feeling more like a scared puppy than a frightening lion.

  He took a deep breath. “Liberty, let me explain—”

  “No. You don’t get to explain. Just. Answer. The. Question. Did you kill Ashley’s parents? Your brother and his wife?” Disdain dripped from my voice and I didn’t bother even trying to hide it.

  “Things are—were—complicated.” He took a step closer to Ashley.

  I pressed my gun against his chest. “Really? Because it seems pretty simple to me. Did you kill them or not?”

  “Ash—” His big, dark eyes sought the girl, but she turned away, and walked behind me.

  “No. You talk to me.” I nudged his chest with the barrel, noticing the smear of blood down the front of his shirt and the scratches on his cheek. He didn’t look like that when he left, did he? “What’s with the blood?” I gestured at his shirt. “It doesn’t look like you’re bleeding, so does this belong to someone else? What, do you just go around killing people?

  He blinked at me, and then looked down at his shirt. “Um … I was attacked.”

  “Sure. Whatever. Ashley and I are leaving. You’re staying. Do not follow us. Got it?”

  He nodded and I motioned for Ashley to go ahead of me. I stepped out of the safe and pushed on the door, but Connor blocked it with his foot, holding it slightly ajar.

  “Wait.”

  I turned back expecting a fight, but Connor’s eyes held only pain and sorrow. “Promise me you’ll be careful with her,” he said.

  Thrown off guard, I hiked my pack higher on my shoulders, giving myself a moment. Connor is the enemy. No mercy. Forcing my lips into a scowl I replied, “I’m not the one who killed her parents.”

  His mournful charcoal eyes were still locked on mine as he removed his foot from the door and stepped back. I closed the safe, spun the dial, grabbed Ashley’s hand and fled.

  Over the next few days, we cautiously made our way out of the city, heading east. At night, we’d pull out the sleeping bags and snuggle close for warmth in whatever abandoned building we could find. The miles were long and tiring, the ground was hard and cold, but the company was nice.

  Ashley was strong for her size and fast for her age; a city girl who loved to watch the wildlife frolic and to marvel at the beauty of nature. Her presence was tremendously comforting after so many months of paranoia induced solitude. We walked for long periods of time in companionable silence, hesitant to break the quiet with meaningless chatter. I seldom heard a peep from her and never a complaint. Her innocent smiles chased away my nightmares, and her dependence necessitated my sanity.

  * * *

  Early in the morning of our fifth day since leaving Connor, we came across a modest farm northeast of Alderton. As we approached, memories of my family’s happy farmhouse amplified th
e wrongness of this abandoned one. An unnatural quiet pined for the baying of livestock and the sounds of their caretakers. A tractor sat, neglected and forlorn, waiting to be of use once again. I listened for it, but the creepy Twilight Zone music never started playing.

  Farms are supposed to be life. This is death.

  Petrified cow dung was evidence that the corral we walked through once held cattle, but had been empty for a while. The front door hung askew and we approached cautiously. Marks of forced entry scratched up the frame. The all too familiar parfum de la mort was heavy on the air, so I drew my gun as we entered the house.

  The home was a recently updated seventies ranch-style. We stepped into a large, open family room that would have passed for cheerful, if mom, pop, and the two young boys hadn’t been rotting on the floor. I plugged my nose and averted my eyes, but could still hear maggots crawling over their dead bodies.

  “Ash, don’t look.” I held out my hand like it could block her view.

  Of course she didn’t listen. Looking past me, she caught sight of the remains of the family and immediately started gagging. While she ran outside to be sick I grabbed an afghan off the back of the couch and spread it over the bodies. Wrists still bound together, they’d died facing each other in a circle. I didn’t investigate further. The small glimpse I’d had was enough to churn my stomach and add to my ever increasing collection of nightmares. Instead, I crossed myself and wished the family peace. The blanket didn’t block the rancid odor, but at least we couldn’t see their hollow eye sockets anymore. Ashley joined me when she was done outside, and we tried not to breathe while we continued toward the kitchen.

  The pantry had been thoroughly ransacked, but the thieves had overlooked the canisters sitting on the counter. I found flour, sugar, pancake mix, and cornmeal in the partially full containers. Each treasure was dumped into a plastic baggie and stuffed into my pack. Further exploration of the kitchen revealed a can of non-stick spray, various seasonings and a small bottle of maple flavoring, all of which I took. The last thing I filched was a cast-iron skillet. When I handed it to Ashley, she looked at me like I was crazy.