They'll Call It Treason

They’ll Call It Treason
By Jordon Greene

Copyright © 2016 by Jordon Greene. All rights reserved.
Visit the author’s website at
www.JordonGreene.com

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any way by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the author except as provided by US copyright law.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, descriptions, entities and incidents included in this story are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, events and entities is entirely coincidental.

Published by Array Books
213 Franklin Avenue NW | Concord, North Carolina 28025
1.704.659.3915

Book design copyright © 2016 by Jordon Greene. All rights reserved.
Cover design by Paramita Bhattacharjee (Creative Paramita)
Interior design by Jordon Greene

Published in the United States of America | Second Edition

To my parents…
except for the “dirty” words.

If there is one person who has been there for me the most during this whole process, good and bad, it is my mom, Kim Greene. Thank you mom for enduring my constant calls and the countless hours discussing nearly every part of the book. Your unending support helps so much more than you realize.

A big thanks goes out to my beta readers: my grand-mother (Maw Maw Peggy), my Aunt Debra, and my friend’s Mike Wagner, M. J. Wienhold and Trevor Cloud. Your re-views of the “final” draft were so important. Your finds and feedback were absolutely priceless.

I was blessed to have found an amazing cover artist, Paramita Bhattacharjee over at Creative Paramita. Your work is simply outstanding and your patience with me was grand. I could not be happier with the cover and other materials you designed for this book.

Thank you dad for supporting me at every stage of the book and helping arrange some of the final editing steps. To my little sister, Kallie, thank you for listening to me rant about every single chapter. I loved your always rude, but welcomed thoughts. You’re awesome! As for my brother, Jared, we both learned the hard way that neither of us like taking criticism from the other. So, while I’m grateful for the advice you gave, which I did use, I think we can both agree that you can just read the next book when everyone else does.

Thank you to Kristina Love for your help editing a good deal of this story for nothing more than a grateful author. I know the story is much better off as a result of your help.

To my good friend, Daniel J. Braese, thank you for help-ing me mold the opening scenes before even a word of the book was typed. Kryptonite or no kryptonite, you’re pretty great in my book. Oh look, two sad jokes in one sentence.

Thanks to my “little” buddy Lauren Gragg for her tree help, yes trees. She studies trees, or Horticulture as she calls it, in addition to her dedicated studies in sarcasm. She’s easi-ly fluent in both, even if she can’t quite reach most of them.

To my fellow Concord author, Kimberly Huddle Brouil-lette, thank you for answering so many of my questions and giving me some great advice. If you like paranormal thrillers, Kimberly is the author of the award winning paranormal tril-ogy Secrets in the Shallows. I’m sure she would not mind if you picked up a copy.

Also, thanks to Stephen Goble for his helpful infor-mation about obtaining warrants and to Susan Hogarth for being the first to help me with a little editing on the first chapter.

I would be amiss not to give a shout out to KD, Micah, Timothy, Gabe and Dusty at the Appleebee’s on Concord Parkway. It was there that I worked on everything from out-lining, writing and editing every Monday night on burger night. Thank you all for your support.

I also want to thank Tammy Sanabria-Cook, my sixth grade teacher. I know, that’s a long way back. Thank you Tammy for fostering my desire to write at a young age. You always urged me to pursue writing. I vividly remember you letting me work with my classmates to put together what I guess I might could call a book. Now, nearly two decades lat-er you’re still encouraging me to write. Thank you so much!

I now I’ve probably missed someone. If you helped at all, in any capacity, whether you helped me find a good syn-onym, shared the book with friends on Facebook or Twitter, critiqued some marketing idea or simply said a kind word during the process, thank you.

And certainly not least, thank you for picking this book up and giving me a chance to entertain you.

April 16 at 8:15
p.m.
EST

Raleigh, North Carolina – Cardinal Club

“It’s time we stand up as Republicans and say, ‘No more’ to letting drugs destroy the youth of this state,” declared the speaker.

It was Representative Milton Staley, a short, portly fellow from Burke County. Staley was a generally well-regarded Republican official. He was liked within the Party and a stalwart defender of life, one of the few commonalities he and Riley shared. His speech was just another example of where their paths often deviated.

Riley Daniels, a state representative from a rural district in the North Carolina foothills, sat patiently in his chair. He clapped in unison with the others of his caucus. Unlike many in the room, Riley clapped only out of respect for the office – Majority Leader of the North Carolina House of Representatives – not for the man or the views he was preaching.

The room was well lit. A scattering of round tables covered in crimson cloths. Four glass chandeliers hung from the high ceiling, lending a grandiose atmosphere to the open meeting room. Men and women from across the state, elected Republican representatives, sat around the tables. Their applause ended and the political theater started again.

It had begun decently, the usual lauding of those in the line of duty and the obligatory plea for the children. Riley agreed on both counts. It was the legislator’s follow-up that piqued Riley’s antipathy. Representative Staley desired to use government to solve all society’s moral ills, in this case drug use. As usual, the Party refused to see the real culprit behind so many of our miseries: government itself.

The waning evening light still shone gently through the pleated crimson curtains at the edge of the room. Even that was incapable of stamping out the drear of the last few weeks for Riley.

The leadership was not keen on his ideas gaining traction even though the people begged for it. Instead, they paid lip service to his values and blamed Riley’s youth for his “failure.” His “youthful idealism” as one representative from the Mecklenburg County delegation had called it.

Riley understood that his ideas endangered the power of the political elite. He was a threat to the same people that funneled millions into both parties’ coffers. The same money which kept the same people, and same ideas, in power. He knew full well whom they would derail. That was the point.

Riley sat back in his chair, trying not to slouch. With shadows taking over the sky and the outside glow dimming, Riley’s eyes became leaden as Staley continued to blather on and on. He looked across the table to his friend and fellow lawmaker, Glen Jacobson from the coast. He silently mouthed,
How much longer?

Glen merely smiled back and returned his attention to Staley. He seemed to have the easier time dealing with all the crap.

Riley felt the vibration of his phone in his pocket. He looked around the room, wanting to accept the distraction but not wanting to be “that guy.” The phone continued to vibrate against his thigh. Each vibration reminded him how much he loathed listening to the man at the podium. He held out though, feigning interest in Staley’s talk.

“The idea that government should not regulate access to dangerous drugs neglects the safety of our children. It ought to be set aside. Liberty is no liberty at all where morality is left to die.” Staley wagged his finger at the crowd.

Riley’s phone stopped vibrating. He barely caught himself before rolling his eyes as the Majority Leader lumped marijuana in with "dangerous drugs."

His phone vibrated again. This time the first vibration was the last. A text message.
I can check that
, Riley reasoned. Pulling the phone from his pocket he swiped the screen open with a flick and opened the message. Two dreadful words filled the screen.

ASHTON SEIZURE.

It was from his wife, Laurel. Suddenly his heart jumped and his fingers felt numb.
Not again.
No longer worried with what the others may think, he stumbled from his seat, unconsciously banging his chair against the table.

Trying not to run, he walked briskly around the maze of tables. He nodded absently at grey head after grey head as he pushed through the room. He did not even notice the confused looks in his direction as he tried to escape the crowd, only his boy on his mind.

As soon as the heavy door latched loudly behind him, he lifted his phone and dialed Laurel back. He held the phone impatiently to his ear as he jogged down the stairs.

It only took one ring for her to answer.

“Riley, where are you?”

“I’m on my way home now,” he assured her, trying to sound strong for her. “How’s Ashton doing?”

A few seconds of silence passed. Riley thought the reception had been lost until Laurel came back over the line, “I don’t know…” He could hear the sob over the phone. He could imagine the tears. “He won’t wake up.”

Finally on the street, Riley wanted to pocket his phone and run, let his arms swing back and forth in the wind and sprint off down Fayetteville Street. Instead he kept the phone close to his ear and jogged as quickly as he could manage with the phone in hand.

The sun had already hidden itself and the moon and black of night had taken over the sky. The glow of old fashioned green lamppost along the street edges obscured most of the stars in the otherwise clear night sky. Beyond the lamps, only a few shops and the occasional passing car lit Fayetteville Street.

Riley saw none of it as he focused on his destination – the apartment just a few blocks down the road – where his wife waited in distress and Ashton. Where Ashton was not responding.

“He’s not responding?” Riley asked in disbelief, or maybe it was more denial than disbelief. “Is he breathing?”

“Yes,” Laurel wept, “but he won’t wake up. He won’t wake up.”

His son had been diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes when he was eleven. It had been difficult finding out, but the years that followed had been even more trying. The seizures were the worst part. It killed Riley every time he had to watch his little boy, now sixteen, shaking, losing control of his own body. Writhing on the floor, spit dribbling from his mouth. It tore Riley apart. Why his son? Why not him?
Anyone but Ashton
, he had thought.

“Laurel,” Riley begged his wife, “You have to stay strong. I need you to get him to the car. I’m on my way. If you get him there before I get back I need you to make a beeline for the hospital. Don’t wait on me.”

He hated to say it. He wanted to be there for his son, but he knew that every second counted. A diabetic coma was the enemy and time was not an ally.

“Okay… Okay,” She stuttered with a little more confidence and the phone went quiet. This was not Ashton’s first seizure, but experience made it no easier for either of them.

Riley understood. He hoped he could make it in time to be there for his son. Lights glared in his face as a car drove by in the opposite direction. He barely noticed the flashing neon signs in the window at The Big Easy as his feet pounded the pavement. It was his usual bar of choice, but tonight was no night for a drink.

“Representative Daniels!” A deep voice yelled from behind him.

Not now.

“Representative Daniels,” the voice came again, “Hold up, I need to talk to you.”

Riley forced himself to stop. He had to at least acknowledge that he had heard the voice, or risk coming across as a self-absorbed asshole. Turning toward the stranger hurriedly, he glimpsed the silhouette of what appeared to be a tall man in a light jacket. For a moment he squinted to catch more but quickly abandoned the task. Right now he did not care. He needed to be on his way.

“I’m sorry, I’ve got to go, I’ve got an emergency.” Riley shot out the words as quickly as he could. “I cannot wait. Sorry.”

The man nodded without question and made an about-face. Riley was unsure if he had offended the man, or if his nod had signified his understanding. He did not have the time to worry about such trivialities. Ashton – he was all that mattered now. Not some man on the street that wanted who knows what, not an election or a bill, just Ashton.

Noticing he still held his phone, Riley pocketed the device as he spun around and sprinted off. He visualized his son on better days as he dashed down the sidewalk. He was a confident sixteen year old with pale, freckled skin, brown hair and dark brown eyes. His mother always told him his eyes were sure to make the girls at school swoon. He would simply roll his eyes and smirk. Someday he would—

Suddenly something took hold of Riley’s shoulder and yanked him back. Riley’s senses tingled as his body spiraled around and slammed to the ground, landing hard on his back. He gasped as the air was knocked from his lungs. His thoughts scrambled.

In a sudden state of panic he stared up searching for a face. All he could see was a dark silhouette against the light shining from the adjacent building.

“Stop! I don’t have any money on me!” Riley screamed out the first thing that came to his mind. A lie.

It did not help.  Suddenly the man pounded his fists into Riley’s chest, then his cheek. Pain seared through his nose and head as his skull slammed against the pavement. He wrenched over in pain as blow after blow landed against his stomach.

Another memory of his son shot through his head. This time on a ball field, six years ago. He ran to first base in striped shorts and an orange numbered t-shirt.

Riley raised his arms to defend himself, but only received more blows. Abruptly he felt a sharp slicing across his left arm, then his right, followed by warm liquid splattering on his face. His own blood.

I have to get to Ashton. No…

He pulled his arms back instinctively, cradling the torn flesh. He did not know what to do, he had no weapon, no means of escape. But escape he must; his son needed him. He screamed for help. Suddenly his mouth was covered, held shut by his attacker’s gloved hands. He could feel the warmth of the man’s skin through the fabric, and his own warm blood compressed to his lips.

Riley struggled, thrashing desperately from side to side, lashing out aimlessly with his arms. The gouges in his forearms made it nearly impossible to put any force behind his feeble defense.

Why? What do you want? Please let me go… Ashton.

Riley’s mind raced with fear. Seeing his attacker – nothing more than a cold dark figure in the night – horrified him. After holding him stiffly for a moment more, the man pulled Riley up just enough to drag him, jerking his body around. Pain from what was most likely a broken rib or two shot up Riley’s side as he was hauled away from the light. Riley watched as Fayetteville Street retreated from him. All hope of a witness vanished.

Mercilessly his attacker yanked and pulled him into a recessed doorway. Complete darkness enveloped his body. Riley was slung to the ground, his back cracking against a small set of stairs. He let out a yelp of pain, arching his back in agony.

In the doorway he could see the silhouette of the man standing still, observing his catch. He was tall and seemed to wear a hooded jacket. Riley thought the hood was down but he could not be certain. His attention was drawn to the knife that had sliced his arms. It gleamed in the night, reflecting the faint light that shone into this dark crevice from the lampposts beyond.

Methodically the man walked forward, raising the blade. Riley put his hands up, fingers outspread, begging him to stop.

“Please, what do you want? Please no…”

The man swung his knife toward Riley as he closed in again. Riley screamed, both at the horror and the pain, watching the blade slice through his fingers. He yanked his hand back, cradling the two fingers that remained on his left hand.

“Please…” was all he could think to say, nothing else made sense, and nothing else would exit his lips. Fear coursed through him.

In response, the dark figure lurched forward, coming at him with the knife. In a swift motion, the figure stabbed deep into Riley’s abdomen, the pain shot through his body. Then he felt the blade moving inside of him as the man wrenched the knife from side to side. Pain bloomed up and down his body like a surging tidal wave, threatening to overload his nerves. His vision blurred. Oh, how he wished he could just pass out.

The man jerked the knife out and then rammed it back into his chest. Riley's body jerked with each blow. The knife dived again, and again, and again.

The pain convulsed through Riley’s body, but just as quickly, everything around him began to go black. Blood flowed out of his mouth, threatening to choke him. He strained for one last look at his attacker, nothing, just a black figure in the dark.

For a moment he thought he saw Ashton looking down at him. His eyes caring, his mouth moving, saying something he could not hear. He smiled.

Then everything went black.