Fallen Angels - Book 1: Welcome To Munich

by Gregory Austin McConnell

  Book 1: “Welcome To Munich”

  Fallen Angels Book Series . Text copyright © 2009 by Gregory Austin McConnell. Images copyright © 2009 by Gregory Austin McConnell. Cover illustration copyright © 2009 by Tempest Pictures. Cover copyright © 2009 by Missing Mozart Publishing. Published by

  Missing Mozart Publishing. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without expressed

  permission in writing from the publisher.

  Missing Mozart Publishing

  www.missingmozartpublishing.com

  Printed by Lightning Source www.lightningsource.com

  Fallen Angels

  by Austin McConnell

  Based on the Television Pilot by TEMPEST PICTURES

  www.fallenangelsbooks.com

  www.austinmcconnell.com

  DEDICATIONS

  To Al, Kat, Vinnie, and Lance. Thanks for the hard work.

  CHAPTER 1

  Here we go.

  Charlie Wade stepped forward to enter the small conference room. Inside was a chair waiting for him, placed dead center a few yards away from a long table, where six well-dressed parole board members were looking him over intently.

  Wade walked over to the chair as calmly as possible, and took a seat. The chains attached to his handcuffs knocked against one another as he sat, making a loud and obnoxious 'chinging' sound that he had become far too accustomed to. He lifted his left hand to draw his hair behind his face, looking at the group of people before him.

  One of the men opened up a file folder and turned on a camera.

  “Please state your name for the record,” he said bluntly.

  “Charlie Wade.”

  Wade cleared his throat and straightened himself up. He needed to look as dignified as possible.

  “Thank you,” a woman responded. She opened her folder as well, and looked up at him.

  “Mr. Wade, the purpose of this hearing is to determine whether or not you meet the proper qualifications for early release,” she stated. “While your conviction was meant to last until age 21, you have shown remarkable improvement on both your part, and the part of your fellow inmates.”

  Wade remained silent.

  She continued, “You have been suggested by senior staff members, ward supervisors, as well as in-house occupants to be placed on the short list as a nominee for early release on good behavior.”

  “I understand,” Wade responded.

  Another man from the board leaned towards Wade.

  “Mr. Wade, what we're trying to find out today is: if given the opportunity to be released back into society, what guarantee is there that you wont fall back into a life of crime?”

  Take your time, Wade thought. Give them an answer that works.

  “My family is no longer here, I've been making smart decisions in this place, I'm an adult now,” Wade said clearly. “I can live on my own ”

  “Perhaps,” the man interrupted. “But, several of my colleagues and I are not fully convinced. The outburst of emotion you displayed that initially got you in this whole mess was started because you refused to get help.”

  “I would have thought the reason it started was because of my father,” Wade interjected.

  “The reason I'm talking about - the reason you're in here – is because of you, and the choice you made,” the man said sternly.

  Idiot, Wade told himself. Quit arguing with him, or you'll never get out of here.

  “I know where to go if I need help,” Wade said aloud.

  The man craned his neck to the side.

  “If that were true, then why didn't you seek help before your first offense?”

  Wade thought for a moment, staring down at his hands, glued together restlessly on top of his lap. He peered down himself, and looked at the bright-orange jumpsuit he was wearing, thoughts racing through his head.

  “My home life was cruel. My school life was worse. I had nothing. I was miserable. I fell into a self-destructive pattern where nothing mattered to me, and I didn't care about anything, or anybody. And, living in that sort of situation ”

  “Once again, Mr. Wade, we're here to discuss you. Not to hear you blame your actions on everything under the sun ”

  “I'm not 'blaming my actions' on anything, or anyone, for that matter,” Wade cut in. He was tired of getting interrupted. This was his chance. His turn to speak.

  “I blame me,” Wade said, looking at the man. “Just as much as you do. I had the choice as to whether or not I was going to be in here, and I made the wrong choice. I have another chance now…an opportunity to make a better choice. I've got a chance to start over. And, I promise you, and I promise myself: I won't make the wrong choice again.”

  Glances darted between the board members for several moments. Finally, a woman spoke.

  “Mr. Wade, what do you think you would do, if released?”

  Wade looked at each one of the board members, making eye contact with every one of them. He then tilted his head upwards, considering.

  CHAPTER 2

  As he put on his worn tennis shoes in the locker room, Wade wasn't sure what to expect. He was happy to have the jumpsuit off at last, and to no longer be constrained by a pair of cuffs. He was free. It would take a while to get used to the feeling.

  He pulled his jacket on and stared at his reflection in the nearby mirror. He needed to shave. More importantly, he needed a shower: a very long, hot shower. It had been three grueling years since he had taken what he considered to be a truly dignified bath. Living in prison meant that you had to forgo certain ‘daily conveniences’ and Wade was all but ready to reclaim them. Looking at himself, he fought with his sleeves, trying to pull them down far enough so they would cover his highly-exposed wrists. His clothes no longer fit him. He'd be sure to jot down a shopping trip on his list of things-to-do.

  Wade stepped outside of the locker room and walked with two guards through the rec hall, into the reception area. He went to the front counter and received his personal belongings. It was almost nostalgic, ripping open the small packet and emptying out its contents. He picked up his three- year-old pack of stale cigarettes, his lighter, pocket knife, and his billfold (which was mysteriously missing the $35 Wade had inside of it at the time of his arrest).

  Walking out to the gatehouse was almost too overwhelming for him. He would soon be out and about in the city, no longer confined by walls, gates, fences, or guards. He could start a new life.

  He could finally start over.

  Three years in the pen, and New York still hadn't changed a bit. Wade stepped foot outside of the taxi cab and looked at the city around him. What struck him the most wasn't the people walking around, nor the tall buildings surrounding him, but the sound of it all. For too long he had been incarcerated with the same old, constant noise: the loud clamor of guards walking up and down the hall, of inmates shouting, of cells opening and closing, of chains rattling, the long and continuous echoes...it had been maddening, but things were different, now. He could hear the sound of cars running, people talking, horns honking in the distance. It was the sound of life. And he cherished every ounce of it.

  Rifling through his jacket, he pulled out a note card containing the address of his new home. The early release program that he had been granted would set him up with temporary residence and employment free of charge. All they asked for in return was total obedience to the law, as well as their very strict guidelines. It wasn’t total freedom, but he didn't mind. He felt like a dog chained to a tree, but it was b
etter than being a dog locked inside all day. And besides, after two years of probation, he would be free to go wherever he wanted. To do whatever he wished. But for now, he would live with what he had.

  Crossing the street, he caught sight of a payphone. He walked over to it, dug around inside his pockets for a few quarters, and promptly plopped them into the machine. He looked at the phone number on the card, and dialed it. After two rings he was connected.

  “Yeah, I'm trying to reach Officer McDaniels,” Wade spoke into the phone. “I was told to call this number when I was released.”

  A few minutes later, he was in deep conversation with his parole officer.

  “...You're to contact me every 24 hours, and you're not to leave the state for the next year under any circumstances,” McDaniels said over the phone. “You're to accept the employment you have been given by the parole board, and you must also complete your mandatory 30 hours of community service. You are in no way allowed to break curfew, or any of the guidelines outlined in your contract whatsoever, or you'll face further detention.”

  Wade sighed. “Should I let you know what I eat for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, as well?” he quipped.

  McDaniels coughed, saying, “Look, I know it seems excessive, but getting out early means that we need to watch you at all times. It's how the system works. If you're unhappy, I could always file a grievance report and get you sent back here… if that's what you’d prefer.”

  “I got it, I got it,” Wade frustratingly answered. “Anything else?”

  “I think that’s it. We'll send you some paperwork at your new residence to fill out. Now keep in mind, if you get in any kind of trouble, or if it looks for a second like you won't be able to support yourself....if there's a shadow of a doubt that you can't take care of yourself, you're going right back to state pen.”

  Way to put the pressure on a guy, Wade thought.

  “Most importantly son, just set a plan and stick to it. You've gotta find your own way,” the Officer finished.

  Entering into his apartment, Wade couldn't help but have a bit of 'buyersremorse'. The place was a dump. Its walls were oppressive, and the environment was hateful. It was a single room, and small at that. Every element of a torn, retro-suburban home had been jam packed into a single, suffocating area. Its walls were lined with the mockeries of a rusted shower, an old dial-television set, a torn sofa, a flimsy mattress, and other cheap decorations.

  Wade set his belongings on the rickety table and took a seat. He was facing a small, 70's-style dart board pinned on top of a large map of the country. The wall around it was falling apart, and Wade could clearly see a rusted water pipe through the drywall’s holes. He extended his hand across the table and pulled a plastic cup containing several darts towards him.

  This wasn't exactly what he was expecting. Somewhere between the idea of being out on the city streets once again, and being able to go to bed in a room larger than twelve feet on all sides, Wade had imaged that his new home would be a small taste of heaven. It never really clicked in his head that they would shove him in a junk heap on the bad side of town, but then again, why not?

  It made perfect sense. He was a felon. He should have never expected to be treated like a king once he was released. He was at the bottom of the barrel in terms of socioeconomic status. He was a bum. He had no cash, no car, and no friends – at least, none that had tried to contact him.

  Wade picked up a dart and threw it haphazardly at the dart board, not caring to check where it landed. What was the point of all this? Was anything really going to change? Doubt began to creep into his mind.

  He had been told this was a chance to start over. But how could he 'start over' like this? He had been placed in living conditions that were worse than being in prison. How could he get better if the opportunities he was given were substandard?

  He threw another dart, this time missing completely, sending the dart behind the dry wall. It hit the pipe and clattered to the ground.

  His whole life had been a missed opportunity. He was smart. He had been a straight-A student. He was two years ahead of the other kids his age in school. He was always called the child prodigy, but he never could quite live up to his potential. Things always seemed to get in the way. He was always bullied, picked on, and made fun of growing up. And his dad certainly hadn't helped things, either. Being in prison was better than being with him. But now that Wade was out, he wasn't sure if he could reclaim the life that he had lost.

  A knock on the door.

  Wade turned around and looked toward the apartment's entrance. Who would be coming to see him? He got up from his seat, slowly made his way over to the door, and opened it.

  The door quickly flew open and pain instantly shot through Wade's stomach. He was shoved backwards, and then grabbed forcefully.

  “Make a sound, and it'll be your last!”

  Wade felt cold metal being pressed against his chest, and when his eyes adjusted, he saw his attacker. Wearing a black hoodie and sporting a scarred cheek, the thief had a look of pure adrenaline in his eyes. The quiet click of a gun pulsed through Wade's eardrums.

  “J – Just take it easy, pal...” Wade stuttered, trying to recover his senses.

  “Shut up! Where's your wallet?” the thief yelled.

  “What?” Wade choked out, flustered. He felt the gun sink further into his chest, and he found it hard to breathe.

  “Did I stutter?” the man said. “Your wallet. Now.”

  “Look buddy, I don't have a wallet,” Wade lied. He needed to stall for time to get his bearings.

  “Man, shut up! Do I look like I'm playin' with you?! Where's your money?” the thief was near breaking point now, and Wade realized he couldn't get out of the situation. He caved in.

  “...Back pocket, but look it's ”

  The thief grabbed Wade's wallet forcefully from his back pocket. He riffled through it, and finding nothing, threw it vehemently to the ground in anger.

  “I'm gonna give you one more chance, man! Where's your money?” he shouted.

  “Listen, pal, will you just listen? I just got out of juvie; I've got nothing to ”

  Wade was cut short however, when the man threw a punch that hit Wade in the stomach hard. His knees buckled, and he crumpled to the cold floor in pain. Wade's eyes blurred. He fought to keep conscious...to stay awake, but eventually, a dark haze sank over his eyelids and he felt his head slowly rest on the ground.

  Wade woke with a start and tilted his head up. His apartment was empty, and the door was hanging open. He felt fine for a few moments, and then his head began to throb with intense pressure. He moaned aloud and writhed on the floor helplessly for a few moments before crawling over to the table and pulling himself back up.

  “Well, that was interesting,” he stated aloud, laughing pathetically at himself. He took a peek around the room, rubbing his temple gently. His wallet was gone, but the other items from lockup were still there. Maybe the thief had gotten spooked and left. Wade ran a hand through his hair, and then spotted it. Or, rather, didn't spot it. His watch. His golden watch. His favorite watch. Gone.

  Wade slammed his fist down on the table in frustration, the sound piercing his brain painfully. He jumped up from his seat and kicked it over. Pacing around the room, thoughts rushed into his head of everything that had led him to this point. Images raced through his memory of prison. His cell. The rec hall. The yard. The fighting. The robbery. The gun...

  He snapped out of his trance and scanned the map on the wall. He needed to get out. The words of the parole officer were echoing through his skull.

  “...if you get in any kind of trouble, or if it looks for a second like you won't be able to support yourself....if there's a shadow of a doubt that you can't take care of yourself...”

  Wade looked over at the broken hinges of the door left from his intruder. There was no question. He had to leave.

  If they found out… He couldn't go back to prison. Not after tasting an honest chance at
freedom.

  “...just set a plan and stick to it. You've gotta find your own way…”

  Wade caught his reflection in a broken mirror hanging on the wall. He couldn't even stand to look at himself. He needed to change. To find his ‘own way’.

  And he needed to do it now.

  Wade picked up a dart from the plastic cup and looked over the map. Anywhere would do. Anywhere but here. Some place random. Somewhere unexpected.

  Closing his eyes, he threw the dart sharply at the wall. He gritted his teeth as he heard it impact. This would decide everything.

  He opened his eyes, and stepped towards the map. He placed his hand around the body of the dart and pulled it from its place. He lifted up his other hand, and lightly touched the mark left behind. The hole was aligned perfectly to a small town in southern Kentucky. He moved his hand to the side to look at the plot. Printed lightly in thin black letters was the name of his new home.

  “Munich, Kentucky.”

  CHAPTER 3

  How could she be late, again?

  20-year-old Harmony Wallace raced down the staircase of her very cozy, upper-class home, taking care not to trip on the second to last step, which she always seemed to have trouble keeping track of. Family photos littered the walls, and she could hear the distinct chattering of early morning breakfast coming from the kitchen.

  Harmony walked into the room and caught sight of her mother and father busying themselves. Her mother stood by the toaster, putting waffles on a plate, and making coffee. Her father, an older man of 57 years, was sitting comfortably bound in his wheelchair, patiently waiting for his meal.

  Harmony quickly stepped toward the kitchen counter and began packing her book bag.

  “Slow down there, kiddo, or you'll miss breakfast!” her father said, smiling.

  “No time, daddy. I'll be late for class,” Harmony answered. She was slowly gaining a reputation for being the last one to arrive to her classroom each day, and she made a promise to herself that she would do better.