by H. L. Wegley
Chasing Freedom
Book 3
Against All Enemies Series, The Prequel
H.L. WEGLEY
Political Thriller with Romance
This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means without prior written permission of the author, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction, set in a real location. Any reference to historical figures, places, or events, whether fictional or actual, is a fictional representation. Names, characters, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to events is entirely coincidental.
Cover Design: Samantha Fury http://www.furycoverdesign.com/
Back Cover Design: Trinity Press International http://trinitywebworks.com/
Interior Formatting: Trinity Press International http://trinitywebworks.com/
Copyright © 2016 H.L. Wegley
All rights reserved.
ISBN-13: 978-0996493758
ISBN-10: 0996493751
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to my editor for books 1 and 2 of the Against All Enemies series, Dr. Caroline Savage. Along with her husband Shawn, she continues to fulfill the great commission in Panama City, Panama by discipling others despite battling cancer. I am praying for a full recovery for Caroline, knowing that she is in the Lord’s hands to use as He will for His purposes.
ENDORSEMENTS
Voice in the Wilderness, Book 1
A terrifyingly real political thriller!
How much power does one voice have? H.L Wegley has written an action-packed, politically terrifying, hair-raising thriller about the need to guard our freedoms--lest they be snatched away. An edge-of-your seat race to keep one man from taking over the United States--don't miss it!
RITA and Christy Award-Winning Author, Best-Selling Novelist, Susan May Warren
There are several avenues authors take in writing about the disintegration of the political systems, especially the government as it functions in the U.S. Each has an audience but few other authors are as successful as Wegley in finding that fine line of terror and intrigue and eventual hopelessness and lead the story into an inspirational realm. That is talent and Wegley has it …
Amazon Hall of Fame Reviewer, Grady Harp
Voice of Freedom, Book 2
If you love a thriller with non-stop action, this is the book for you! Americans taking back their country—what can be more relevant for today?
Diana Austin
When I finished the book, I felt hope stir in my heart! While I know this is a work of fiction, many actions taken to uphold the Constitution and call the nation America again were excellent.
Lisa Johnson
CONTENTS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
NOTE TO READERS
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
EPILOGUE
AUTHOR’S NOTES
Final Ending to the Against All Enemies Series
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Once again, I thank Susan May Warren, award winning author and writing coach, for her advice and critique of my characters and part of the plot for Chasing Freedom. And I thank my wife, Babe, for having faith in this story when I was ready to abandon it or do major, major surgery on it. I appreciate the suggestions of my critique group, Dawn Lily and Gayla Hiss, who helped me work the wrinkles out of the early parts of the story.
Many thanks to Samantha Fury for designing all three book covers for this series. They capture the spirit of these stories and the covers continue to draw praise from readers.
Thanks again to the team at Trinity Web Works/Trinity Press International for preparing this manuscript for publication and incorporating Chasing Freedom into my web site.
I thank God for bringing my grandparents to the USA so that I might be born here. They were Americans at heart before ever coming to this nation, the kind of immigrants America needs. May our immigration laws and their implementation by the agencies and courts bring people to our nation who truly want to be Americans and want to protect our way of life, people like my grandparents, and people like the Santiago family depicted in the story, Chasing Freedom.
NOTE TO READERS
If you haven’t read books one and two, Voice in the Wilderness and Voice of Freedom, and are starting with the prequel, Chasing Freedom, the author recommends that you skip the prologue and epilogue of this story. You will also want to skip the Final Ending to the Against All Enemies Series, placed after the Author’s Notes at the end of this book. If you do this, Chasing Freedom reads like a stand-alone story. The epilogue and prologue are spoilers for books one and two.
If, after reading this story, you choose to read the other two books, you may want to come back and read the prologue and epilogue of Chasing Freedom and the Final Ending to the Against All Enemies Series placed at the end of this book. The prologue, epilogue and Final Ending are all tightly woven together and can be read in succession. They will help tie up some loose ends in the characters’ lives. Also, they were a blast for this author to write.
Prologue
“Oh, crud!”
Allie Jacobs yanked the wheel hard left as her SUV crossed the dirt lot surrounding the Crooked River Coffee shop drive-through. She dropped her coffee cup into the drink holder.
Scalding hot coffee splattered on the door and on her white shorts.
Allie hit the brakes, pushed the gear shift into park, and shoved her door open. Three running strides took her to the ditch by Highway 97 where she lost her breakfast. It took two or three tries, but she got the job done.
As fast as it came, the nausea left.
Great! Right here in the middle of town, the entire population of Terrebonne, Oregon—all 1,200 people—had probably watched her puke.
She turned toward the car door she’d left open and walked back gingerly rubbing her stomach.
Itzy Bancroft’s shrill voice shrieked from the back seat of Allie’s big SUV. “Mama! Mama! Aunt Allie has Ebola!”
Allie slid into the driver’s seat, wondering what Itzy’s mother, Julia, would say.
“No, sweetheart. Aunt Allie doesn’t have Ebola. She’s going to have a baby.” Julia Bancroft’s hand came to rest on Allie’s shoulder. “You doing okay?”
Allie nodded and reached for the open door.
A voice called out from behind her vehicle. “Allie, let me make you a drink that’s easier on your stomach. It’s on me.” The barista had leaned so far out of the mammoth Conestoga Wagon façade that she nearly toppled out the window.
Allie stuck her head out the open door. “I feel fine now, Susie. Thanks, but I’ll keep my decaf latte.”
Allie glanced at KC Daniels, riding shotgun. “From vomiting to voracious in ten seconds. It’s like my body’s not sure how to react to having a baby.”
“That�
�s what I did when I had Ebola.” Itzy’s voice had changed from a shriek to a whining complaint. “But, Mama, that’s not how they had babies in the village. They had to—”
“She’s not having it for several months, Itzy.”
“But, Mama, it’s not—”
Julia cut her off again. “Let’s relax and listen to the story Aunt Allie’s going to tell us while we drive to Bend.”
“But only if you feel up to it,” KC said. “I don’t trust the version I heard from Brock. That man’s got a wild imagination.”
“I’m feeling much better. Coffee actually sounds good, now, even if it is decaf. But, you know, some of this story is R-rated.” Allie pulled out of the lot and onto Highway 97, heading south toward Bend.
“Maybe you can give us the PG version,” Julia said.
“Yeah, Aunt Allie, the PG version. Because that’s what you are, huh?”
Allie watched through the rear-view mirror as Julia took Itzy’s chin and turned the small girl’s head to face Julia. “PG. Where did you hear that, Itzy?”
“From some 5th grade girls. Did I say a bad word? I didn’t mean to.”
KC laughed. “I think it’s time for a mother-daughter talk.”
Aunt Allie to the rescue. “Do you all want to hear this story, or not?”
“What’s the name of the story?” Itzy’s voice came from the back seat, quieter, filled with curiosity. “It’s about you and Uncle Jeff, huh?”
“Yes, Itzy.” Allie cranked up the air conditioner to neutralize the scorching July sun while she searched for a title to her story.
“The name of the story …” Only one name seemed appropriate after all Allie and Jeff had endured. “Itzy, the name of the story is Chasing Freedom, because that’s what I did. It starts four years ago, near the mountains, almost 200 miles from here …”
Chapter 1
Why had Papa picked this rundown, isolated restaurant to rendezvous with her? The Sinaloa Cartel's personal vendetta against him had frightened them all, but Redding, California was a thousand driving miles from their home in Nogales. Surely her family was safe here after fleeing to the U.S. from the border town.
Alejandra Santiago steered the compact car she’d rented in Corvallis into the parking lot of the small restaurant on the outskirts of Redding. Above the mountains to the north, the top of Mount Shasta glowed pink in the fading twilight of the sweltering July evening. What little light remained revealed speckled white walls of a building in dire need of paint.
In his brief phone call, asking if Allie could drive down from the university to see them, Papa had mentioned threats made in Nogales against him and some against her little brother, Benjamin. The cartel was good at intimidation and threatening Benjamin would certainly accomplish that.
Allie, tell me again how this drug kills the germs.
As Benjamin's voice replayed in her mind, she pictured his large brown eyes expressing wonder at each new biological fact his sharp mind assimilated. But even her pharmacy program at Oregon State couldn’t supply enough medical facts to satisfy his ravenous appetite for knowledge.
She loved her family dearly, but Allie adored Benjamin. If the cartel tried to hurt him, she would shoot them all herself. No one, not even their notorious leader, El Capitan, could stop her.
Enough depressing thoughts about a cartel that was a thousand miles away.
Allie got out of her car and walked across the parking lot toward the restaurant, looking for Papa.
She gasped when a sweaty palm slapped over her mouth.
The hand pulled her head back, clamping it against a man's hard chest.
A hot, sweaty shirt soaked through the back of her sleeveless blouse.
Now, another hand grabbed her wrists—rough hands, more like sandpaper than flesh.
She tried to kick the person behind her, but a powerful arm ripped her feet from the ground, hoisting her body upward.
Panic hit. Adrenaline flowed. Energized now, Allie squirmed, writhing like a snake in the arms and hands holding her. She shoved one man from her with her arms but his grip tightened.
Allie was helpless, held in the grasp of three men.
“Do not make a sound, pollita.” A gravelly voice spoke near her ear. A foul breath carried the words.
The stench sent her stomach into roiling nausea.
Despite her panic, the voice of Allie’s self-defense instructor sounded clearly.
Never stop fighting.
Allie twisted her arms now held by a pair of big, sweaty hands. Her arms slipped in the wet hands. She nearly pulled them free.
The wet hands squeezed her wrists until pain shot up her arms. The hands regained their control.
She jerked a leg from another man's grasp and kicked at him.
Hard contact.
The man yelped.
“Stop, pollita! Now! Or I will cut Benjamin once for each time you move.”
Allie drew a sharp breath, then froze.
Who were these people and how had they found Benjamin? The answer she settled on sickened her. It stole her hopes for a good life in America, for regaining Papa's favor, for getting her PharmD degree from OSU—all gone, replaced with a version of hell on earth that only the Sinaloa Cartel could provide.
Someone slid the hem of her shorts up, exposing her upper leg. A sharp sting came from her right quad.
What had they just done to her?
The gravelly voice sounded again. “Hold her until she is still.”
Allie swam through a wave of dizziness. They had drugged her. Her arms and legs grew weak. The battle was over. She had lost.
Would the drug kill her? It wasn’t their intent. They could have done that already. But her drugged, helpless state could lead to something much worse than death.
Whatever they did to her, Allie deserved it. She had committed an unforgivable sin, failing to protect her family. She had only made them more vulnerable by letting these men capture her. Even if Papa could somehow forgive her for this, Allie could never forgive herself.
Her despairing thoughts faded to gray fuzziness … and the gray to utter darkness.
* * *
Only authorized athletes were allowed to touch what could be a lethal weapon.
Jeff Jacobs trotted across the all-weather running track shared by the high school and middle school in the small, Southern Oregon town of O’Brien. His target, twelve-year-old Samuel Bryant.
Sam carried the old, blue, battle-scarred javelin like he meant to throw it.
Jeff ran in front of the boy and cut him off. Hands on hips, Jeff turned toward the young athlete. “Sam, put it down.”
“Aw, coach. Can I—”
“No. A javelin is not a toy. You know, I saw two freshmen playing chicken with a javelin when I was in high school. One ended up with a spear through the top of his foot. It ended his track and field dreams.” Just like a stupid mistake had ended Jeff’s dreams in Beijing.
“But, coach, I just finished seventh grade. I’m an eighth grader—”
“And you’ll get to throw it next track season when you’re actually in the eighth grade.”
The lanky, muscular boy begrudgingly handed Jeff the spear, pushed the bushy red hair from his eyes, then looked up at Jeff with a smile spreading cross his freckled face. “Okay, coach. You throw it for us, just like you did—”
“No, Sam.”
“But, coach, there’s nobody near the throwing range.”
“I’m not your coach, only a volunteer assistant.”
Sam squinted up at Jeff through the bright sunlight of the hot July morning. He lowered his voice to hushed, reverent tones. “But you’re the only one who makes us better at our events and, you know … the Jesus stuff.’
This kid knew how to push the buttons on Jeff’s heart, but he wasn’t giving in this time.
“Yeah, Jacobs.” Pastor Nelson’s voice blared from behind.
What was the pastor doing here?
“Let’s see what you’ve got
. Sam and I won’t stop pestering you until you throw that spear.”
Jeff had been training at home. But, without a sponsor, he couldn’t afford to train at a real Olympic facility, nor could he fly his old coach out from Denver to help him. Besides, after Beijing, he would have to apply for re-instatement and there were no guarantees that would happen. Not when the feeding frenzy by the media started again.
Jeff huffed a sharp sigh. “Alright. One throw to get you two off my back.”
This track was his home. At least it was the only place left on earth that felt like home. And the javelin felt like an old friend in his hand.
Jeff stepped to the starting mark and looked down the throwing range at the white concentric arcs of lime that contrasted with the lush green turf. He set his sights on a point forty feet beyond the farthest mark for the high school throwers 200 feet down range.
After taking a deep breath, Jeff raised the eight-foot-ten-inch spear over his shoulder and began his run. Ten strides in he twisted sideways, shoved the javelin away from his body and switched to his approach stride.
With adrenaline now coursing through his body, Jeff grunted as he swiveled his hips and whipped his throwing arm over his shoulder. He followed through until the fingertips of his long arm touched the grass in front of his left toe.
The old blue javelin nearly disappeared against the blue of the summer sky. It quivered and rattled all the way to the apex of its trajectory. With a satisfying thunk, the spear buried its head in the turf more than fifty feet beyond the 200-foot mark. Maybe seventy feet beyond it.
Jeff blinked his eyes and shook his head. No way. He eyeballed the distance, more carefully this time. About 270 feet. It was a good throw for a world-class javelin thrower, but an Olympic record for a decathlete.
“Holy smoke!” Sam’s adolescent voice cracked on “smoke,” turning it into a two-syllable word.
