Rescuing Liberty: Perseverance Book 1 (2 page)

The child smiled and encouraged the man’s
approach.

Easing the Sigma from my waistband, I crept
forward.

Look what You did!
I silently yelled at the
shed’s ceiling.
Just a kid and now he’s in the hands of some
hunter. What are You doing?

I lingered inside the shed, knowing I
couldn’t disobey the
call
, yet
still questioning it.

I felt no response as the hunter crept over,
braced the boy’s foot, and boosted him up within reach of the first
branch. The branch creaked under the youth’s build. The boy
stretched, bent, reached, and finally made contact with the first
apple. He plucked it and stashed it in a pocket.

The child collected several more apples,
storing the first few in his pockets and then begrudgingly tossing
the remainder down to his companion. The hunter helped the boy
down, and looked around nervously while the child bent and emptied
the apples he’d collected into his pack. When the kid stood up, the
large butcher knife he wielded glinted in the sun.

“
Let’s go.” The man twisted back
around.

As he did, the boy plunged the butcher knife
into the hunter’s stomach.

CHAPTER TWO

Connor

~Fifteen weeks earlier - February 24

GUARDS PUSHED OPEN the heavy, oak door. Late
February sunshine poured into the old courthouse, banishing the
shadows of winter. Connor Dunstan walked out onto the cement steps
followed closely by his client, Fredrick Adams. The media descended
upon them; cameras flashed, microphones waved, and phony smiles lit
up the faces of the press.

An unfamiliar woman muscled her way to the
front of the crowd and pointed an NBS labeled microphone in
Fredrick’s face. “Mr. Adams, are you pleased with the court’s
verdict?” She was dressed trendily and tasteful in her tight,
pinstriped business skirt and matching jacket. The silky, white
shell underneath was cut low enough to display a decent amount of
cleavage from Connor’s elevated vantage point. Her short, blonde
hair accentuated a tanned, firm neck, glowing under a single strand
of pearls.

Pushing Fredrick out of the way, Connor
stared into her bright blue eyes and answered, “Of course he
is.”

The microphone wielder smiled, seemingly
pleased with herself for getting a much sought audience with the
attorney. “Mr. Dunstan, as the counsel representing Mr. Adams, what
can you tell viewers about allegations of your client’s involvement
with the illegal sale of plans for the new 877 jet to Accelerated
Aerotech?”

“
Just another greedy employer’s feeble
attempt to conceal wrongful termination. My client was the victim
of age discrimination, and today his employer has been schooled on
the consequences for such actions.” Connor paused for effect,
posing to allow for camera shots.

A black limo pulled up to the curb in front
of the attorney and his client. The chauffeur hustled to open the
back door and waited.

“
If there had been any evidence to
support such an outlandish speculation, my client would not be the
victor today.” Connor smiled and posed once more as cameras clicked
and other reporters fought for his attention.

Lowering his voice so only the blonde in
front of him could hear, he whispered, “I’d love to discuss this
matter further, but I have a client waiting.” He reached for her
unoccupied left hand and squeezed her fingertips. Her cheeks
reddened at his wink, and when he pulled his hand back, she glanced
down and her eyes widened. He’d left his business card in her
grasp. Perfectly glossed lips spread into a dimpling smile as she
slid his contact information into her jacket pocket.

Client in tow, Connor waded through the
throng of reporters, microphones and cameras to climb into the back
seat of his company limo, sitting beside his business partner,
Justin Brayer. After his client slid in to join them, the chauffeur
closed the door, regained his own seat, and the car eased away from
the flashing cameras and leering reporters.

The chauffeur knocked on the privacy glass
that separated him from his passengers.

“
Yes?” Justin asked.

“
Excuse me sir, but did Mr. Adams park
in this lot or the next?”

Frederick motioned to the lot in front of
the limo. “You can just drop me off here.” He turned to face
Connor. “Thank you. For everything.”

Connor smiled at another satisfied client.
“My pleasure.” He extended his hand. “I’ll give you a call when
they send the paperwork over.”

They shook hands as the limo came to a stop.
The door opened and Frederick slipped out.

“
And remember,” Connor said to
Frederick’s retreating back. “If anyone tries to contact you about
what happened today—or about these bogus allegations—send them my
way.”

“
Will do.” He gave a stiff nod.
“Thanks again.”

Once the partners were alone, Justin
motioned toward the crowded courthouse steps out the back window.
“Quite the crowd today.”

Connor glanced behind them. Clearly
disappointed at the small slice of information he had fed them,
they were moving on to search for crumbs among jurors and
witnesses. “Vultures. Always starving for a bite of someone.”

Justin chuckled. “Now that’s not nice,
Connor. They’re only performers, acting under the directions of
their employers.” He grabbed the bottle of wine he’d been chilling
and tilted it toward Connor in question. A 1989 Château d’Yquem; a
wise move from Justin. The wine was expensive enough to make Connor
feel valued, yet well below the quality of the 1990 d’Yquem that
he’d uncorked to celebrate his own victory last week.

Connor nodded, pretending to be
pleased while he kept
his proverbial dagger aimed at
Justin’s back. When the time was right, he planned to slit the
throat of Justin’s career and feed him to the vultures still
lingering behind them. Just like he’d done to the last partner he’d
bested.

Justin poured and handed Connor a glass.
“The new blonde from NBS … would you consider her a vulture as
well? It didn’t look like you’d mind her taking a bite out of your
flesh.”

Connor shrugged. “What’s the point in being
successful if I can’t savor the victory dance?”

Justin laughed and shook his head as Connor
fantasized about the blonde. Nice figure, great dimples. She’d
call. They always did. He held up his glass for a toast. “To
another win?”

“
No.” Justin lightly tapped Connor’s
glass with his own. “To the purchase of fifty shares of Accelerated
Aerotech stock.”

~June 8

Wow. Sixty-two day silent treatment. That’s
gotta qualify her for some sort of record.

Connor stared down at his brother’s
twelve-year-old daughter, Ashley, as she rested on her air
mattress, facing the wall. He let out a breath of irritation. “I
won’t be gone long.”

Ashley ignored him, just like she had for
the past two months.

Connor grabbed his Glock and switchblade
from the top of a nearby shelving unit of the shelter. The shelter
was actually a large walk-in safe inside Connor’s brother’s store.
Built and stocked to sustain four lives, the deaths of Jacob and
Cathy had turned the safe’s environment into that of a cold war.
Every day Connor looked forward to his daily escape. His blade went
into the front pocket of his jeans and he slid the gun into a
hidden pouch inside his jacket. Stepping up to the door, he spun
the dial through its code and pushed it open. Then he stepped into
his brother’s computer parts store and locked Ashley in the safe
behind him.

Jacob had loved the store. He’d always been
a geek, fascinated with taking apart and rebuilding computers.
Connor closed his eyes and remembered his brother’s wide smile on
the day he signed the papers to make this store his own. He had
stood behind the counter, jingling the keys and grinning like a
jackal.

Connor looked around Jacob’s new purchase,
apprehensively noticing the fading paint and disorganized
shelves.

“
I know it needs some
work,” Jacob tapped on the cracked countertop in front of him, “but
it’s
my
store.
My
dream.”

It didn’t need work, it needed a bulldozer …
and a business plan. It looked like a time and money pit to Connor,
but he didn’t have the heart to voice his skepticism. Instead he
replied, “If it makes you happy.”

“
More happiness than you
can imagine.” Jacob picked up the rag before him and polished the
well-used cash register.

“
What’s that supposed to
mean? I’m happy.” Connor walked forward until he was across the
counter from his brother. “I’m on a streak. Just won my tenth case.
And this morning I stumbled upon a juicy tidbit that’s sure to
discredit the witness in the McPhearson trial.”

Jacob narrowed his eyes. “You’ll never be
truly happy until you stop trying to be someone else.”

Connor chuckled and held out his hands. “Hey
bro, what you see is what you get.”

“
You’re not foolin’ me. I
know what lies beneath that overly-ambitious, womanizing
shell.”

“
Oh really?” Connor leaned
against the counter and showed Jacob his teeth. “Enlighten
me.”

Jacob moved to wipe down
the counter. “Nope. That’s cheating.
You
cannot be rebuilt, until you are destroyed.”

Connor bowed mockingly. “As
always, Master Yoda, you are both wise and cryptic.”

* * *

You cannot be rebuilt, until you are
destroyed.

The memory stole Connor’s breath and
resolve. He looked around Jacob’s trashed store, longing for the
wisdom of his big brother. All he found was destruction. Glass from
the busted windows crunched beneath his shoes. Multiple shelves lay
on their sides, spilling broken or unusable merchandise upon the
floor. Spray painted walls reflected the anger of the vandals.

Destroyed, like your dream, Jake? Well, how
you gonna rebuild it now?

He skulked out of the building, and into the
crisp early morning, intending to go north, but somehow ended up to
the east, coming to a stop in front of what remained of his
brother’s home. It was a careless and foolish habit, but Connor
couldn’t seem to resist the pull of the house. This was always the
first place his feet took him whenever he left the safe.

The home was mostly ash and metal now. He
bent down and scooped up a handful of ashes. Wind filtered through
his fingers, blowing the dust away.

I destroyed this. Who’s gonna rebuild
it?

Connor waited and listened, but no one
answered his unvoiced question. He turned to leave and the flicker
of a curtain in a neighboring house got his attention.

This is too dangerous, Jake. I can’t come
back. Sleep, my brother. Hopefully things are better wherever you
are.

Connor took one last look at the
building remains. The funeral pyre he’d burnt to the ground for
Jacob and Cathy hadn’t left much behind, but something shiny caught
his eye. He waded through a pile of cinders to find a two inch tall
bronze trophy that declared,
‘World’s
greatest dad.’
He turned it over and read the
inscription:
‘I love you Daddy, love
Ashley.’
Connor brushed off the treasure and pocketed
it.

The sun was rising, so he walked a few
blocks over to Jacob’s secretary’s house. She’d been out of town
when the riots hit, and never made it home. Her house had already
been raided for food, but Connor was looking for something else
this time. He drew his gun, crept into the house, up the stairs and
into the master bathroom. He searched through drawers finding
lotion, perfume, powder.

Why do women need so much
junk?
Hairspray, gel, mousse: a whole drawer full of
nothing but hair products. He opened the cabinet under the
sink.

Bingo.

The cabinet held a box and a bag.

Oh crap! Two kinds.

He picked up the box and looked inside. A
small instruction guide rested atop the contents, complete with
visual aids.

Inside her?

Connor’s mind screeched in horror at the
image of him trying to explain the process of inserting tampons to
his niece. He hastily put the box back and grabbed the bag.

I’m not ready for this.

A scream shattered the stillness of the
morning. Connor rushed to the window and peered out, searching for
the threat.

CHAPTER THREE

NO, NO, NO!
I
wanted to scream.

The boy’s face showed no expression as he
ripped the knife out of the hunter. The hunter cried out in pain,
his hands moving over the wound, as if to stop the blood flow.

“
You. You little bast—” he started,
and then staggered back and forth a few times before finally
toppling over.

Green grass reddened with his blood. The
cool morning air turned to steam where it brushed against the warm
life that spilled from his body.

My mind made a feeble attempt to
detach itself from my senses.
So it wasn’t
Professor Plum in the dining room with the candle stick. It was the
skinny kid in the apple orchard with the knife.
The
game of
Clue
popped into my
thoughts, redirecting my focus to a reality where murder was only a
game. Blinking, I tried to picture the layout of the
Clue
board as I fought to maintain
control of my queasy stomach. I knew that if I didn’t stay quiet,
I’d probably be next.