by Jacob Chance
Edge of Retribution
Jacob Chance
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This novel is a work of fiction. While reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to people either living or deceased, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Any trademarks, service marks, product names or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are only used for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used.
Cover design by PopKitty Designs
Edited by Vivian Freeman
Proofreading by Hawkeyes Proofing
This book contains mature content.
Dedication
To all the readers who’ve taken a chance on my books and have taken the time to write reviews.
Thank you for your support.
Contents
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Part II
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
Epilogue
QUAKE
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Part One
Chapter One
Zoe
Nudging the driver’s side door closed with a lively flick of my hip, I sing the song School’s Out. Trailing my fingers along the curved red fender on my mother’s Volkswagen, I eagerly belt out the next line about school being out forever.
Today was officially the last day of my senior year. Almost giddy with excitement, I practically skip along the slate path to the front door of my home. I stayed after for an extra hour as most of the graduating class did, signing yearbooks and making plans for life after school. Beach days, movies, bonfires, grilling out – the summer stretches before me with endless possibilities for having fun.
My excitement about what the future holds can barely be contained inside my lean frame. I’m buzzing with an all-natural high from thinking about going off to Boston University in the fall. High school was fun, but how can it even compare to college life?
Unlocking the front door, I open my mouth to call out a greeting to my mom, when I notice a strange man kicked back on our couch like he belongs there. My words disappear, and my feet freeze in place despite every instinct shouting for me to turn and run.
He smiles chillingly and rises to his feet. “Zoe, I’ve been waiting for you to get home.”
How does he know my name?
“I’m Karl,” he introduces himself, striding purposefully toward me. My teeth press into my bottom lip stifling a whimper when I notice the gun gripped firmly in his right hand and aimed my way. “Let’s go see your parents.” He ushers me back outside toward a dark blue sport utility.
“Where are my parents?” I question, fighting to keep my voice from quivering as the barrel of the gun presses firmly into my lower back.
“Don’t worry, you’ll be reunited with them shortly. Now get in.” I notice what sounds like the hint of a Russian accent. He opens the back-passenger side door and I climb onto the seat. Sitting on my hands, I fight the urge to flee. Running would be an almost certain death - I’m fast, but I can’t outrun a bullet. I think about my mom and dad and wonder where they are.
Is he really bringing me to them?
Karl closes me inside and my gaze flashes to where the door handle should be, but it’s noticeably absent. My eyes squeeze shut, and I remind myself to breathe. I must remain calm and find a way out of this situation.
Both my parents are FBI agents who have been overseeing an undercover operation deep within a crime organization run by a man named Marius Popov. I’m not sure what’s happened, but this guy Karl must be one of Popov’s men.
He slides into the driver’s side and hands me a black pillow case. “Put this over your head and lie down. Don’t remove it, unless you want to make the trip bound and gagged in the hatch.”
I do as he says, slipping the coarse material over my face, tugging it to my shoulders. Instantly, I’m claustrophobic and feel as though I can’t breathe.
Relax, I reassure myself. Nobody dies from a pillowcase.
Swinging my legs up onto the bench seat, I lie on my left side. Wrapping my arms around my torso, I feel something hard pressing against my nauseous stomach. Oh my God. My pepper spray is in the pocket of my hoodie and Karl never took the time to search me. The same sweatshirt I wore to the mall the other night.
My dad, always safety conscious because of his work, reminded me to bring the spray as I was about to walk out the door. Annoyed at the time, I rolled my eyes and did what he requested. Now, I’m grateful to have it as a line of defense.
We ride in silence for what must be hours before we finally park. Karl shuts off the engine and I hear him exiting the vehicle. My hand slips into my pocket, clutching the small can in my fist. I quickly tug the bottom of my sleeve down to mask what’s in my grasp.
The door next to me opens and Karl jerks me from the seat without warning. I barely have time to get my feet beneath me before he’s dragging me along beside him. My legs, stiff from the long ride make me feel uncoordinated.
“Watch the stairs,” he laughs as I trip up them. Karl’s a real funny guy. Clearly, he’s missed his calling to be a comedian.
Once we’re inside he yanks the cover from my head, dropping it onto the food splattered kitchen table. My long brown hair lands every which way and I rake a hand through the tousled mess pushing it back off my face into a poor semblance of order. My nose wrinkles as the scent of rotten food assaults my nostrils.
Scanning the disorderly space, I take in the pile of dirty dishes sitting in the sink and the overflowing trash can, before he tightly grips my arm and leads me into the next room.
“Here she is,” Karl announces, to another man, roughly shoving me away from him. I stumble a few steps, before regaining my balance.
“No...no,” my mom sobs from the wooden chair she’s tied to. Her bottom lip is split and bloody, and her right cheek is swollen and bruised. Oh my God.
The severity of this situation hits me all at once. My mind sprints in a hundred different directions, all of them centered around how this happened and what I can do to get us out alive.
“Let her go. She knows nothing,” my dad yells out from across the room. My head swings in his direction. He too is bound to the back of a chair with thick, black strips of duct tape and like my mom, his wrists are zip-tied to the arms. One of his eyes is swollen to a small slit and his nose is askew like it’s been badly broken. My larger than life father doesn’t even l
ook like himself. My lip quivers and my stomach rolls as fear zips through every fiber of my being.
Oh God. I think I’m going to be sick. My arms wrap around my waist. I inhale deeply, swallowing back the wave of bile rising to my throat.
“You got this Sergei?” Karl questions.
“Yeah, I’m all set. I’ll see you later.” His accent is strong and guttural and combined with his intimidating size, has my legs quaking with fear.
Karl ambles off like he doesn’t have a care in the world and seconds later the slam of the front door makes me twitch nervously.
“Please let her go. She doesn’t have anything to do with this,” my dad pleads.
“Oh, but she does. She’s a loose end and Popov doesn't like loose ends.” He moves closer to my father.
“Popov’s a fucking coward. If he was a man he’d kill me himself.”
My father’s head suddenly explodes before my eyes. Warm blood and brain matter splatters across my face as the sound of the gun blast resonates in my ears. Numbly, I touch my wet cheek then stare at the red bits wiped away with my fingers. Sergei lowers the gun, swiping a forearm over his brow. Streaks of blood jaggedly slash across his forehead and his eyes are wild, adding to his already menacing appearance.
My mother screams and I spin around to face her. A piercing wail comes from deep inside her, like a blaring siren. Our eyes meet, and I raise a shaking bloody finger to my lips and take a step toward her when another blast echoes throughout the space.
The room is now shrouded in silence, the ringing in my ears the only noticeable sound. My vision grows hazy with the pall of death.
Mom’s mouth now silenced forever is frozen in a scream as the blood trickles in a red trail from the bullet hole in the middle of her forehead. Her head slumps forward bobbing like a rag doll before settling, chin to her chest.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I try to block out the horror of the last thirty seconds, but the sea of red behind my lids brutally taunts me. My ears continue to reverberate with a high-pitched ringing from the thunderous blasts. I sway on my feet as dizziness assails me.
Mom. Dad. Oh God, Mommy. How did this happen?
Swallowing down the rising bile, I try to replace the horrible visions of my parents’ disfigured faces with memories of their warm smiles. It doesn’t work.
“Looks like it’s just you and me now, sweetheart. How about we get to know each other a little better before you join mommy and daddy?” My eyes pop open at his sneered words and my heart gallops inside my chest like a quarter horse racing in the Kentucky Derby. He killed my parents and now… I’ll be next.
He grins eerily as he stalks toward me. “I bet that pussy’s never been touched by a cock.” He licks his lips as his eyes greedily roam down my body. I tremble, already feeling violated and he hasn’t even touched me. Some fates are worse than death - being raped by the man who murdered my parents being one of them.
My hand clutches the small canister of pepper spray, the only lifeline I have.
Please God, help me. I pray, carefully releasing the safety. I press the pad of my thumb down as I quickly raise the can in front of me, aiming for his face.
He’s not expecting it and doesn’t realize what’s happening until the stream hits him square in the eyes. I fan the spray back and forth in front of his face to avoid missing my target as he tucks his chin and turns his head. His hands cover his eyes as he howls in pain, and I jolt from the room without looking back.
Barreling through the house, I retrace what I think is the way I came in. His shouts of agony follow me as I finally reach the door and unlatch the lock with shaking fingers. Yanking it open, I leap down the three front steps and pause to take in the surrounding area. The house sits amid woods as if it was plopped smack dab in the middle of a forest. There’s a one lane path we must have travelled on, but the sun's gone down and I have no idea where we are or what lies waiting at the other end. I only know this is my best chance at escaping. I run over to the white van parked in front of the house and try the door handle, but it’s locked.
Fuck.
Hearing a loud bang and angry shouts reminds me I need to hurry, and I bolt down the dirt path. My arms and legs pump as fast as they can and I’m thankful for the time I’ve spent on the high school track team.
A minute later I hear the van’s engine roar to life. I dart into the trees, moving inward far enough to provide shelter from his eyes, but still do my best to travel parallel to the dirt road. Peering over my shoulder I see the flickering beams of his headlights through the dense copse of trees as the van begins to move in my direction.
The faded daylight and thickness of the forest makes it difficult to see where I’m going. Branches lash against my limbs, slicing into my skin as I race along. My heart thunders in my ears, pounding like an urgent drumbeat. Each beat sends an S.O.S. pulsing through my veins.
Hurry.
He’s coming.
Run.
Every ragged inhale of air into my lungs is a harsh gasp punctuating the silence of the black night as I flee for my life. Each exhale releases a fear filled sob. Any second might be my last if he catches me.
Hurry.
Run... Run.
Someone... please... help me.
The toe of my sneaker catches on something and I clatter face first to the ground. My hip slams into the edge of a boulder on the way down, stunning me. Rolling to my back, my hand goes to the affected area, gently probing and checking for blood.
“I’m coming,” Sergei roars, as he jumps from the van and slams the door closed. The rustle of bushes being flattened by his powerful frame sinks my stomach. Now that he’s on foot he can find me in these woods. How can I outrun him when he probably knows this area like the back of his hand? At the very least he knows how to get in and out of here.
A muffled groan slips from my lips as I rise to my feet. Glancing ahead, the darkness stretches out endlessly and hope is fading fast.
Keep moving.
Breathing through the pain, I force myself to push on. When I’m so exhausted and feel like I’m incapable of taking another step, I think about my mom and dad, and how they’d want me to do whatever it takes to survive.
Jagged brush sharply pokes into my back as I turn sideways, navigating through a particularly dense thicket of bushes. Twigs protrude at awkward angles, snapping loudly and scratching deep furrows into my arms and legs. I ignore the sensation of blood trickling along my skin.
Once I break through to the other side, I notice lights flickering ahead through the trees. Forcing my fatigued and bloodied arms and legs to continue, I repeatedly chant just keep moving in my mind. Each step I take brings me closer to escape; I will not give up. I may go down fighting for my life, but I’m sure as hell not going to make it easy on him.
Five minutes later I’ve made it to a two-lane highway. I sob as I erratically run down the middle of the road, waving my arms hoping to flag someone down. I’m sure I look like a crazy person with my sliced-up legs and blood splattered face, but someone will notice me and stop. Worst case they run me over, at least Sergei won’t get the pleasure of raping and killing me.
It only takes a couple of minutes before a black SUV with blacked out windows stops next to me. I stumble toward the vehicle on exhausted, gouged up legs, sobbing hysterically. The back-passenger door flips open and just as I’m about to shout for them to help me, Agent Benton, a coworker of my parents’ steps out with his gun at the ready.
“Zoe, get in.”
Chapter Two
Zoe
Five days later
“This is where you’ll sleep,” Agent Smith leads me into a small, rectangular shaped bedroom in the back of the fourth safe house we’ve been to in as many days. The walls are flat white like chalk and void of any decoration. If it was a paint color it would be called institutional white. The double bed situated in the middle of the far windowless wall is covered in a navy-blue comforter. Two American flag pillows rest against the woo
den headboard - a tribute to the red white and blue. How appropriate. My mother and father dedicated their lives to making this country a safer place and paid the ultimate price for that same cause.
“Why don’t you set your bag down?” Agent Smith gently presses her hand in the middle of my back, ushering me forward. “Do you want to unpack now or after you eat?”
“Am I staying here for more than one night?”
“Yes, Zoe. That’s the plan anyway. This will be your home until the trials are over.”
My feet move soundlessly on the beige carpet until I drop my oversized duffel down on the bed. Plucking the zipper between my thumb and index finger, I think about the last time I used this bag and what a happy occasion it was. We went on a family vacation to South Carolina and my mom helped me fit everything I needed for the two-week stay inside the limited space. It’s hard to believe that was the last trip the three of us would ever take.
How different the circumstances are now.
When Agent Benton and his team rescued me the night my parents were murdered, I was brought directly to my house. An Agent Osbourne was waiting outside when we arrived. He instructed me to pack up my belongings and told me I was only allowed one bag. Still in shock, I carefully folded each article of clothing like I had watched my mom do and loaded the duffel with all my favorite things including a picture of the three of us on my eighteenth birthday. I wasn’t sure how long it would be before I could return to my home and I’m still not.
