by H. L. Wegley
I love writing, but sometimes I’m a bit lazy and often impatient. So, when I started writing Voice in the Wilderness and needed to caste a couple in a supporting role, I chose a couple I knew well, Jeff and Allie Jacobs. I hope you have enjoyed reading about their whirlwind romance incited by a Mexican drug cartel.
For book 2, Voice of Freedom, I borrowed part of the setting of Chasing Freedom—told you I was lazy. Jeff’s house, Bolan Peak, the lookout tower, and the surrounding mountains, known as the Siskiyous, were all pilfered. There’s a reason for that.
The Siskiyou Mountains in Southern Oregon and Northern California were a wonderland for boys who loved adventure, fishing, swimming and hiking in the ‘50s and ‘60s. Some of the stories of me growing up there made it into my childhood adventure stories, Colby and Me: Growing Up in the ‘50s. It’s still available on Amazon, if you’re interested. I love this area and wanted to set an adventure story where I had experienced so many wonderful adventures.
The Bolan Peak lookout is still rented during the summer. So, if you would like a half-star resort for your honeymoon, as Allie requested, just Google “rent Bolan Mountain Lookout” and you should get all the information you need. If you’d like to see the place first, someone posted a very nice slideshow on YouTube. The Google query I mentioned should return a link to the slideshow.
Chasing Freedom looks at the U.S. immigration system from the point of view of a family being abused by it. Our immigration system is fraught with problems. Corruption is widespread within Customs and Border Protection (CBP). That should not be surprising because CBP has absolutely no investigative oversight other than a hundred different congressional committees. Of course, such diluted oversight is ineffective.
But I want to be clear here—not many immigration judges are villains as depicted in my story. Every day these judges make what is tantamount to life and death decisions for people, and they do so having very little information to make such determinations. And a judge’s backlog of cases is usually horrendous due to our porous borders and an administration that prefers to do nothing to alleviate the situation. Furthermore, a judge’s orders are carried out at the whims of enforcement agencies which are, in turn, impacted by the policies of the current administration. This is equivalent to someone being tried and found guilty of murder, but then having the police decide when, or if, the criminal will ever be put in prison. It’s insanity, pure and simple, as Jeff and the lawyer, Larry Wendell, point out in the story.
Now, if you’re still reading my author’s notes, here’s a gift for not bailing on me. On the next page, you’ll see the final scene from the Against All Enemies series. Originally, I used this scene to end the epilogue for Chasing Freedom, but Babe said to take it out. I did, but I put it here as an added bonus that you can read, if you wish.
The scene chronologically follows immediately after the epilogue to Chasing Freedom, continuing the story for a bit longer. It’s shown through Allie’s eyes, but it focuses on Brock Daniels’ dream and, to a lesser extent, Jeff’s dreams of Olympic Gold.
Hope you enjoy it!
Final Ending to the Against All Enemies Series
Allie Jacobs sat between her husband, Jeff, and KC Daniels in the coveted seats directly behind home plate at Safeco Field. Steve, Julia, and Itzy sat behind them and Major Craig sat in front of Allie with a beautiful redhead named Kate at his side.
KC had gotten what she’d asked for, a close game. The score stood 3 to 2, Mariners leading the Rangers in the top of the ninth, and the manager had signaled for Brock to come in from the bullpen to close.
Everyone stood and cheered as Brock trotted across the green turf to make his major-league debut.
Allie leaned toward Jeff. “See, Jeff. It might have seemed like it while Hannan was chasing us, but Brock’s dream wasn’t out of reach. So when are you going to call your old coach? The Olympic Trials are less than two years away.”
Jeff heaved a sigh and kissed her forehead. “If you’ll stop bugging me about it, I’ll call him next week. Now, can we just enjoy the ninth inning?”
Allie grinned. “You mean enjoy this foreshadowing of your—”
Jeff stopped her words with a finger over her lips.
Allie turned her head, pulling her lips from Jeff’s annoying finger, and studied KC's face.
KC’s gaze was locked on Brock as he stepped up to the rubber and threw his first warm-up pitch. The radar gun reading, displayed on the big screen, read 93 miles-per-hour.
Brock slowly cranked up the speed with each pitch. His last warm-up throw was a fastball clocked at 105 miles-per-hour. It looked effortless.
The crowd roared its approval.
The extraordinary abilities of this rookie closer from Tacoma had preceded Brock, and Safeco Field was abuzz with chatter and electric with excitement by the time the catcher caught Brock’s last warmup and threw a frozen rope to second base.
The top of the Ranger’s lineup was coming to bat in the ninth. A best-case scenario for the team from Texas.
Their lead-off hitter strode from the on-deck circle to the plate and the stadium went silent as every fan in the place waited for Brock to throw a blazing fastball.
Allie drew a breath when Brock stepped high. He whipped his arm toward the plate.
The ball flew inside, at the batter's hands. He jerked them back to protect his fingers.
The baseball leap sideways, catching the inside corner of the plate.
The umpire captured the drama with an enthusiastic, “Strike one!”
When the big screen registered the pitch at ninety-eight miles-per-hour, the noise in the stadium grew until Allie started to plug her ears. Then, as quickly as it started, Safeco Field grew quiet.
Steve tapped Jeff’s shoulder. “That was the fastest slider in baseball history. The batter thought it was gonna break his hands, so he bailed on it.”
“You got that right, bro,” Jeff said. “Who would have thought a ball thrown that hard could jump like that?”
Allie swiveled in her seat and looked at Julia.
Her open mouth and raised eyebrows displayed a horrified expression, then a smile grew on her lips. “Brock scared the living bejeebers out of that guy. He's too intimidated to hit the ball, now.”
Steve curled an arm around her shoulders. “For somebody who doesn't know much about baseball, you're catching on fast.”
Two 100 mile-per-hour fastballs above the knees on the outside corner and the leadoff hitter went down looking.
The second man up looked at a 105 mile-per-hour fastball, then leaned away from a slider called a strike. He chased a 106 mile-per-hour fastball up around the letters. After the embarrassing strikeout, he pounded his bat on the ground and headed for the dugout.
The Safe was rocking after watching the big man on the mound overpower two excellent hitters.
The Rangers number three man was no slouch, but their cleanup man was the consensus best batter in all of baseball. What a matchup that would have been.
Allie leaned toward KC. “Too bad we won’t get to see Brock pitch to Martinez.”
KC took Allie’s hand. KC was trembling.
“Are you nervous, KC?”
“Almost as much as when … well, we don’t want to get into that right now. And we don’t want the tying run on base, either.” KC cupped her hands around her mouth. “Strike him out, Brock!”
Brock leaned forward, ready to deliver his first pitch. He started his motion then stepped in back of the pitching rubber with his left foot.
“That's a balk!” the umpire yelled. He pointed at Brock and waved the batter down the baseline toward first.
Was Brock smiling? Yes, but it looked like he was trying to hide the smile with his glove.
The crowd booed as the runner trotted down to first base. Then the booing quickly faded to near silence.
Allie looked up at her husband’s frozen face. “Jeff, what just happened?”
Steve slapped Jeff on the back. “Brock want
s to pitch to the cleanup man and he didn't want to throw four balls to make it happen. That balk was intentional.”
It may have been intentional, but it brought the manager out to talk to Brock.
As the crowd caught on, the noise in the stadium grew from a drone to a roar.
After Brock and the manager finished their chat, Martinez stepped into the box.
The stadium erupted with noise.
Allie had heard how loud the Clink could get during a Seahawks game. But the Clink couldn't have been any louder than Safeco Field was right now.
Allie plugged her ears and waited eagerly for the showdown—a new, potentially phenomenal closer against the consensus best batter in all of baseball.
Safeco Field went dead silent when Brock planted the ball on his right hip. He massaged it with his fingers as he shook his head several times at the catcher.
From the stretch, Brock pulled his throwing hand to his mitt, extended his arm, and let the ball fly.
The audience appeared to be mesmerized, and the stadium remained silent.
Something was different about this pitch. Allie heard the ball sizzling as it raced toward the plate. But Brock had thrown the ball behind the batter. What was he doing?
Allie cringed as the ball raced toward Martinez’s body.
The batter leaned in toward the plate to let the ball pass behind him.
The ball jumped hard left in front of the plate.
Martinez dropped to his knees to avoid being hit.
Brock’s pitch narrowly missed the squatting man’s head as it clipped the inside corner of the plate.
“Steerike!” The umpire's call drew an explosion of noise from the stands.
Martinez threw his bat down and charged the mound.
Brock turned his back on home plate and calmly adjusted his cap.
The umpire yelled a warning and Martinez stopped. He turned, slowly made his way back to the box, and picked up his bat.
Safeco Field grew quiet again.
Brock seemed in no hurry to deliver the next pitch. Was he letting the drama build or … was it that strange sound that made him pause?
The sound was a chant that had started in the stands on the third-base side.
More voices joined the chant. As it grew in volume, the words became distinguishable. “We will, we will, Brock you!”
The chant spread through the stands at the speed of sound. When the fans’ feet stomped, after Brock you, the stadium trembled.
“Feels just like the Nisqually quake,” a fan near Allie said.
Steve and Jeff joined the chant, hand clapping, foot stomping included. They looked like a couple of idiots.
Allie plugged her ears.
Brock threw his second pitch, a fastball, low on the outside corner.
“Steerike!”
Martinez's face contorted into an ugly caricature of the man. He gritted his teeth, pawed at the dirt with his spikes, and readied his bat.
It didn’t seem possible, but the chant grew louder. “We will, we will, Brock you!”
Brock’s windup was exaggerated. His kick high. His arm whipped faster than Allie’s eyes could follow.
The man on first took off toward second.
Martinez chased the pitch up around his letters, but was far behind it.
The radar gun blinked the speed in red on the scoreboard … 110 miles-per-hour. The fastest pitch ever recorded in baseball by over four miles-per-hour.
The end of the game brought pandemonium to the Safe.
Brock’s first save was historic. Allie suspected it was the first of many.
The team mobbed Brock.
KC hugged Allie, squeezing so hard that KC might have gotten an unpleasant surprise. But Allie’s nausea had faded over the past hour. She was ravenous.
For the second time, Brock Daniels’ name was written into the book of American history. He saved his country and broke a long-standing record in saving a baseball game. And, at 24 years of age, how many more times might his name be written in the history books?
Only God could answer that question. And Allie would leave that question with Him, because what she really wanted to celebrate Brock’s save was a peanut butter sandwich with a thick layer of sliced dill pickles on it.
And, right now, I could eat the whole thing.
