The Veritas Deception
Lynne Constantine
on Tour August 2016
Synopsis:
There is a way that seems right to a man, but in the end it leads to death.Proverbs 14:21
Days after U.S. Senator Malcolm Phillips changes his vote on a bill he sponsored, he is murdered and his death disguised as an accident. He contacted one man before he died: investigative journalist, Jack Logan. He left Jack a single clue to help him uncover the truth and keep Phillip’s widow, Taylor, safe. But safe from whom?
Jack and Taylor’s desperate hunt leads them to a vast network of corrupt authority controlling everything from social media and television programming to law enforcement and US legislation. The key to unraveling a complex web of lies is a set of ancient relics, dating back to the time of Christ. But what do these relics have to do with a senator’s death?
Allies turn to foes when Jack and Taylor discover that those closest to them are part of the conspiracy, and that they too have been manipulated. How long has a puppet master been pulling their strings—and will Jack and Taylor trust the right people long enough to win what becomes a colossal battle for souls?
Book Details:
Genre: Thriller Published by: Sailor Dance Publishing Publication Date: August 2016 Number of Pages: 382 ISBN: 0997694211 (ISBN13: 9780997694215) Purchase Links:
The Veritas Deception is one of those
books that take you by surprise. The things happening troughout the book, you
cannot even imagine to happen. But it does give you something to think about.
The story evolves around Jack and Taylor and Damon Crosse. The latter is a
villain you do not come across very often. He has patience to work out his evil
plan. No rush, just have the intend to corrupt and distroy any morality in the
world and he takes his time for this. Many years to be precise while knowing
that once the plan works it will be long after he's gone. He has taken years to
raise foster kids to do his bidding and has them in high ranking positions. And
what he needs are 30 silver coins that will give him the power to summon the
devil himself.
Well the 30 coins are the Judas coins and that part together with the devil
part were a downer for me, but the part where he is the heartless villain
trying to rid the world of any moral was well written en thought out. He has
people everywhere in high ranking places. He controls the tv shows that air and
has many people in the goverment and legal system. You never know who belongs
to him, no-one can be trusted.
And this is also what Jack and Taylor find out. Even their lives have been
fabricated by this man. And to stop Damon they need to figure out who can be
trusted.
I do not want to go into detail since I do think it is worth reading although you need to take the devil part not to seriously to my opinion and really think about what Damon is doing and the consequenses it could have. Are people really so easy to manipulate? The way he wants to actually execute his
"evil" plan is quite meticulous. But to be honost I do not like these
open endings. Are we getting a follow up story or not?
Read an excerpt:
Chapter One
Jack Logan had ditched his Catholic upbringing but kept the guilt. He hadn’t planned on blowing his entire afternoon listening to the woman he was interviewing talk about her dead daughter, but he didn’t have the heart to tell the grieving mother that he already had enough for the story. So instead, he bought her lunch and dinner, listening as she painted a picture of the girl she had loved and had failed to save. Now he was behind schedule and would have to work all night. Man, he hated the pieces involving kids. The parents got to him every time, and his attempts at comforting them were as effective as a Band-Aid on a gunshot wound.
His phone was ringing as he approached the door to his apartment, and he jammed the key in the lock. Pushing the door open, he rushed over and snatched it, upsetting the bottle of Bass Ale and spilling the dregs on the table.
“Great.” He clicked the green button. “Yes?”
“Could you sound any more annoyed?” It was his editor.
“Sorry, Max. What’s up?” He sunk into the worn leather sofa and ran a hand through his hair.
“Tried your cell. Went right to voice mail.”
“I was interviewing one of the mothers.”
The sound of papers rustling came over the phone. “You already did your piece on the decision. What’s the angle on the follow-up?”
“The fall out, the casualties left in the wake of the decision to let the show go on.”
A sharp intake of breath. “You’re not saying they should have censored it?”
“No, no. Of course not. But their voices deserve to be heard.” This had been a particularly difficult assignment for him. He wasn’t much of a television watcher, but when the class action suit involving the production company behind Teenage Wasted reached the Supreme Court, he’d tuned in. At first it looked just like another of the ubiquitous reality shows jamming the airwaves—an eclectic group of teenagers allowing the cameras behind the scenes into their world. Within the first five minutes of the show, Jack had sat open-mouthed while a young man retrieved paraphernalia from under his bed, pulled up a porn site on his computer, and began doing what your average adolescent boy did behind closed doors. Cheap shock value but not much in the way of entertainment. It wasn’t until he put the noose around his neck that Jack’s shock turned to horror. So that was what erotic asphyxiation looked like up close and personal.
The blogosphere went nuts the following day, and YouTube videos of other kids demonstrating their own secret hobbies began to appear. When kids started turning up dead, that’s when it hit the fan. A class action suit was filed against Omega Inc., the entertainment giant responsible for the new show. The Supreme Court decision had been handed down a few weeks ago, and the parents were still in shock that they’d lost. The show went on—more popular than ever. Omega won under freedom of speech protection, which Jack couldn’t argue with, but still, what they were doing was disgusting—perverting the first amendment for their own profit. He was happy to do his part to help tarnish their reputation.
“All right, email it when you’re finished. You still coming tonight?” Max asked.
Jack grimaced. Sally Goldman’s retirement party. He had forgotten.
“Wish I could, but I’m too jammed up with this.” Sally was a great gal. He was sorry he’d have to miss it. He’d send her some flowers tomorrow.
He’d better get to it. He opened up his laptop and began to organize his notes. He was starving; he’d barely touched his dinner earlier. He picked up the phone to order a pizza when the doorbell rang. He made no move to answer it. Maybe if he ignored it, they’d go away. It rang a second, third, and fourth time. He slammed the phone down, jumped up and strode to the door, ready to tell whoever it was to beat it. The words died on his lips when he opened the door. Probably best not to piss off a United States senator.
From the first time he’d met Senator Malcolm Phillips, something about him struck Jack as off. He couldn’t put his finger on it exactly: the guy’s manners were impeccable, his background impressive. Phillips was perfect. A little too perfect. Everything about him was so well rehearsed that Jack could almost believe there was an invisible teleprompter feeding him his lines. What surprised Jack most was how Phillips’s wife, Taylor, failed to see he was all wrong for her. Of course, he kept this to himself. His opinion didn’t mean anything to Taylor anymore.
He opened the door, and Phillips walked in.
Going no farther than the hallway, he began. “I won’t waste time with pleasantries. I need your help.” His voice shook, and his face was ashen.
“What is it?”
“I scuttled the vote. It was supposed to be a good thing. But he added a gateway. He has to be stopped.”
“Whoa, what’s going on?”
He handed Jack an envelope as he spoke in an uncharacteristically nervous rush. “Take this. You’ll need it to convince Taylor. I didn’t believe it. He told me he would do it. I didn’t believe him but…they’ll kill me.”
This was insane. He hadn’t seen Phillips in years—and now here he was, rambling like a crazy person.
“What are you talking about? Slow down and tell me what’s going on,” Jack said.
“No time. You’re the only one I trust. You’ve got to find Jeremy. Get Taylor to him. They won’t hurt her now, but later…I was so stupid…”
Phillips was pacing now, and sweat had broken out on his forehead.
“Who’s Jeremy? You’re not making any sense,” Jack said.
“Go to Taylor and show it to her.” He pointed to the envelope. “It’s a sealed letter, so she’ll know it’s real. Get Taylor and take her to the cabin.”
How did he know about the cabin?
“I’m the last person Taylor wants to see. She’s not going to go anywhere with me.”
Phillips grabbed his arm.
“They own me. And Brody Hamilton too. You’ll see when they kill me. Then you’ll know.”
“When who kills you?”
Phillips backed away.
“Promise me, you’ll get her to Jeremy.” He handed Jack a remote control. “This will get you into the garage. I’ve taped our address to the bottom.” He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “Remember, Jack, no matter what it looks like, I’m not suicidal nor prone to accidents.”
He was gone before a flabbergasted Jack could respond.
Jack shut the door, began to walk away, then turned back and engaged the extra deadbolt. His eyes narrowed as he looked around, half expecting a phantom to appear.
What was Phillips talking about? Did someone really want him dead—someone powerful enough to own two senators? His head began to pound, and he leaned forward to massage his temples. What had Phillips done? Maybe he was nuts, early onset dementia. Jack could only hope. And now he expected Jack to play the hero to Taylor? He wouldn’t blame her if she slammed the door in his face.
He would do some digging. Try and make sense of what had just landed in his lap. He threw the envelope on the table, opened his laptop, and set a Google alert for Senator Malcolm Phillips.
He began ascending, making a concentrated effort to exhale as he rose. The water caressed his skin, and he surveyed the visual feast surrounding him. Angelfish painted in vibrant blues and yellows swooshed by, oblivious to their glory. The soft whooshing of his regulator filled his ears, and the lack of conversation added to his pleasure—no lobbyists hounding him to push a bill. Closing his eyes, he relished the feeling of floating through the ocean. His relaxation was interrupted by the sound of his dive computer. Beep…beep…beep. What was wrong? He looked at his wrist—the ascent warning. He was going up too fast. Swimming back towards the wreck, he grabbed the rope dangling from the boat above. Now he would need to hang for at least ten minutes. He continued checking his gauge while he held on to the rope, then began a slow ascent when enough time had elapsed. At last, he broke the surface and felt the warmth of the morning sun on his face. After climbing aboard the boat, he slipped the heavy tanks off his back and discarded his wet suit. He was looking forward to a well-earned lunch.
When he reached the outdoor restaurant, a young man showed him to a table overlooking the sea. He inhaled deeply. Salt and diesel combined to make a surprisingly pleasant aroma. He ordered a Yap and made notes in his diving log. His waiter returned with the beer and smiled at Malcolm.
“We have nice fresh fish mister. You want same as yesterday?”
Malcolm nodded. “Let the chef know it’s for me. He knows how I need things prepared.”
“Yes, sir.” He bobbed his head and left.
The buttery fish was delicious and he devoured it. Leaning back with a satisfied sigh, he debated whether or not to order another beer. Deciding a nap would be even better, he paid the bill and walked the quarter mile to the small hut he was staying in. His throat felt funny. He tapped his pants pocket to see if it was there. Deep breath, don’t worry. Maybe he was coming down with a cold. When he reached the hut, he had to steady himself, and he leaned against the door. The scratchiness in his throat intensified, and he became dizzy. The realization that he was having an allergic reaction hit him, and he pulled the EpiPen® from his pocket. He snapped open the case, removed the safety, and plunged the pen into his right thigh. Relax. It’ll kick in soon.
But it didn’t. The tightening around his neck increased, and he managed to croak out a dry, wheezing cough. Staggering to the dresser, he felt around for another Epi and stabbed it into his other leg. The face looking back at him in the mirror wasn’t his, the swelling so exaggerated it rendered him unrecognizable. This couldn’t be happening. Not yet. Dread filled him. Someone had tampered with the food—and his medicine. His shellfish allergy was in his medical file. Grasping the dresser, he pulled the phone toward him as he fell to the ground. When he lifted the receiver to his ear, there was only silence.
Dead. Phillips had been standing in this apartment less than a week ago. A chill ran through Jack as he grasped the full implications of this news. Phillips had made a powerful enemy, and if Jack decided to get involved, he would be turning himself into a target.
He’d done some quick research on the bill Phillips had been ranting about. It was fairly innocuous, just broadening the range of vaccines that received federal funding to help those who couldn’t afford them. Sure, maybe someone didn’t want to allocate the money, but to kill over it? That was a few days ago and he’d chalked up the bizarre visit to some medical thing that must be going on with Phillips. But as soon as he got the alert, he knew he had to get to Taylor right away. It was too coincidental. Phillips was dead—reportedly, some kind of accidental death while on a diving trip. He remembered Phillips’s warning about not being accident prone.
Throwing a few things into a duffel, he opened his safe and took out his SIG. He made sure to pack extra ammo too. He went to the hall closet and grabbed his go bag. That would take care of Taylor and him for a couple of weeks. Now all he had to do was figure out how to get Taylor to leave with him. He had a few hours to think about it on the drive from the city to her house in McLean, Virginia. He took the 66 Mustang—no GPS.
Why would Phillips have been murdered? Maybe Taylor would know more; Phillips must have discussed it with her. And what was Hamilton’s connection?
The sun was setting when he pulled up to the house. The massive, black iron gates were closed, and he had to get out of the car to swipe the card reader to open them. He had never been to the house Taylor shared with Phillips, and when he pulled up to the enormous, French colonial estate, his eyes widened. There were five exterior stone arches illuminated by large, round light fixtures above them. A second-story balcony above the first level ran across the entire front of the house. This place cost serious money—more money than senators made. He remembered reading about it a while ago in Town and Country; it had its own basketball court, indoor pool, and home theater. Suited Phillips perfectly, but Taylor? Maybe she had changed over the years. What had happened to the little girl he had grown up with who hated ostentation?
He followed the circular driveway past the front door and around to the four-car garage, per Phillips’s instructions. Using the remote, he opened the garage door. Once inside, he pressed the intercom and waited. Jack had the code to get into the house, but he didn’t want to spook her.
A wary voice answered. “Who’s there?”
Hearing the strain and grief in her voice broke his heart. “It’s Jack.” He heard a dog growling in the background.
A click and then the door opened. She was standing on the other side, a ghost. They looked at each other.
He pulled something from his pocket. “Gummy bear?”
A forlorn smile appeared then vanished just as quickly. He crossed the threshold, and she fell into his arms. Her shoulders shook, and he held her while she sobbed. A golden retriever lay on the floor at her feet, strangely quiet now, looking back and forth at the two of them.
Finally, she pulled away and wiped her face with a tissue.
“What are you doing here? How did you get in to the garage?”
“Malcolm gave me the remote.”
Her brow furrowed. “What?”
“Let’s go inside, and I’ll explain everything.” He followed her into the huge kitchen and took in the marble countertops and the ornate chandeliers hanging above the center island, which could easily accommodate twenty people around it. He’d have bet she and Phillips could’ve walked around this house for days and not run into each other. Suddenly, he felt like that kid again, the one from the working-class family who didn’t know which fork to use.
The dog jumped up and nudged Jack’s hand with his head.
“This is Beau.” Her voice was wooden.
Jack crouched down and ruffled the fur on the dog’s head. Beau’s tail thumped wildly.
“Nice to meet you, Beau.” He looked up at her. “Malcolm came to see me last week. Told me that someone was after him. If anything happened to him, I was to come see you.”
“I can’t believe he’s d-dead.” She stumbled on the word.
“Taylor.” Jack took a breath. “It wasn’t an accident.” There was no easy way to say it, so he just said it. “He was murdered.”
She shook her head. “No-no. What are you talking about? He died of an allergic reaction. He’s allergic to shellfish. The medical examiner ruled it an accidental death.”
Jack persisted. “He warned me that something was going to happen to him.”
“I don’t understand. Why would he come to you? You hardly know him.”
“He said I was the only one he trusted. He’s seen me around the Hill, knows my reputation.” Jack hesitated before asking, “And I assume he knows our history, that I’d want to help?”
At this she glared at him. “Yeah, well, he should have gone to someone else.” She dabbed her eyes with the tissue clutched in her hand. “I still can’t believe it.”
“Did he say anything out of the ordinary before he left?”
She shook her head. “No. But…” She stood up, pacing. “Well, he was preoccupied, distracted. I just figured he was stressed from work. The trip was a last-minute thing, just to blow off some steam. I don’t dive. It’s something he does alone.”
Jack sighed. “He told me he would be killed, that I had to get you. You’re in danger. We have to leave tonight.”
“Are you crazy? I’m not going anywhere with you. I have to plan his funeral.”
He tried a different approach. “Let’s just back up a minute. What do you know about this vaccine bill?”
She shrugged. “Malcolm was for it. It was going to help a lot of families that couldn’t afford the vaccine. RSV is horrible and the vaccine is costly.”
“So then, why did he change his mind?”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
“He voted no.”
“That doesn’t make any—”
She was interrupted by the buzz of the intercom.
“Are you expecting someone?” He didn’t like this. It was nine o’clock. He walked over to the window. Even with the outside lights on, the thick hedge of boxwood in front of the driveway made it impossible to see anything.
“See what they want, but don’t buzz them in.”
She gave him a skeptical look, then pressed the button on the speaker on the wall. “Yes?”
“Mrs. Phillips?” a gravelly voice asked.
“May I help you?”
“Sorry to disturb you, ma’am. We’re from the Capitol Police. We need to speak with you.”
She hit the buzzer. “Come in.”
“Why did you do that? How do you know they’re legit?”
“It’s the police. They must have news. What’s wrong with you?”
A few minutes later, the flash of headlights shone through the curtains briefly and a car door slammed.
Jack followed her into the hallway, and as she opened the door, he stood behind it, unseen. From Jack’s vantage point, he could only hear what was going on.
“May I see some ID, please?” Taylor asked. “What are you doing?” she asked, her tone rising.
Jack heard the storm door being rattled; then Taylor slammed the front door shut and engaged the deadbolt.
The sound of broken glass made them both jump, and Jack grabbed her hand and pulled her out of the hallway.
Her eyes were wide as she said, “When I asked for ID, he tried to open the door.”
Jack flew into action. “We have to leave. Now. Get in my car—it’s in the garage.” He pulled out his gun just in case there were any surprises waiting for them in the garage.
“I have to get my stuff.”
He could hear something ramming against the door. They’d be in the house any second.
“No time. Let’s go.”
“But—”
“Taylor, please!”
The dog started whining.
He started the car, not turning on the headlights. “I don’t know how we’re going to get past them.”
She pressed her index finger onto the fingerprint reader pad on the alarm panel, grabbed a key ring from the hook on the wall, then got in the passenger seat. He watched in shock as the ground in front of the car opened into a black void that ultimately revealed a downward ramp.
“What the—”
“It’s an underground tunnel. Installed by the previous owners.”
This was something new. He pressed on the gas and slid the car into the dark opening. It led them about a mile from the house, still her property apparently, until they came to what looked like a solid concrete wall that was stained red from years of ground water rusting the concrete’s re-bar.
“Now what?”
She took the key ring, which had a small LED flashlight attached, and illuminated the wall until she found the oval embossed star on the face of the concrete. Holding the proximity sensor on the key chain against the star, the muted sound of mechanical movement commenced. The wall slowly opened as if it were a garage door.
Jack drove through and cast a sidelong view at Taylor. “Seriously? Was the previous owner regularly hunted by assassins or something?”
“She was a former head of state. It’s one of the things that drew Malcolm to the house. He thought it was cool. Like the bat cave or something.” She bit her lip. “I always thought it was ridiculous. Never thought I’d need to use it.”
Jack was relieved to see that theirs was the only car on the road and that they’d make a clean getaway.
“Who do you think was at the door?” she asked.
“I can only assume they’re connected to whomever killed Malcolm.”
“So it’s really true? He was murdered?”
“Looks that way. I know it’s crazy, but right now we just need to put some distance between us and them—whoever they are. Let’s get out of the state, and we’ll stop somewhere for the night. I’ll show you everything when we get there.”
She ran a hand through her hair and looked at him.
“This is surreal. I can not believe I’m actually in a car with you running off into the night.” Then her hand flew to her mouth.
“Oh no.”
“What?”
“My progesterone shots.”
“Your what?”
“Jack. I’m pregnant—with a high-risk pregnancy. I need to take these shots for two more weeks. Without them, I could lose the baby. I have to refill my prescription. We have to go back.”
Jack shook his head. “We can’t. It’s too dangerous.”
Pregnant! Phillips had left that little tidbit out. Jack rubbed his temples and gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile.
“Don’t worry. I’ll figure something out.”
The latest group had arrived last night, right on schedule. Walking the long hallway to the west elevator, he entered and pushed the button, tapping his foot on the descent to the basement level. He emerged and walked down the cold, bare corridor. Entering the room adjoining the barracks, he observed the new group through the two-way mirror. They sat on their bunks, awaiting further instruction. Their excited chatter and delight with the novelty of their circumstances would soon be replaced by an apprehensive awe due to the formidable surroundings. Every group reacted the same way. A knock at the door made him turn.
“You may enter,” he said.
“Sir, is there anything else you desire?”
“Everything is as it should be?”
“Yes, sir. The dossiers are on your desk. Everything so far is unremarkable.”
“That is all then.”
His estate manager cleared his throat.
“What is it, Jonas?”
“He’s waiting in your office, sir.”
“Very well.”
Damon watched as the heavy door closed. He observed them for half an hour. Deciding he had let the visitor wait long enough, he rose and returned to the main level, and to his study.
He stopped before opening the door, pulled out his cell phone, and watched the man on the screen. Dwarfed by the enormous wing chair he sat in, the visitor waited. Despite the chill in the air, perspiration had discolored his thin white shirt, and beads of sweat glistened on his brow. He muttered, “We’ll find her sir. Not to worry. Not to worry.” His head bobbed as he repeated the mantra to himself over and over.
Damon frowned, put the phone in his pocket, and opened the door.
“So good of you to come.” Damon’s smooth, deep voice resonated in the room. “I trust you have good news for me?” He seated himself behind the large mahogany desk and looked at the visitor with pursed lips.
The man swallowed. “She got away, sir.”
“How?” Damon pressed in a soft voice.
“She must have had someone helping her. Her car was still in the garage.” The man hesitated. “We never saw another car. I don’t know how she got away. It’s like she disappeared into thin air.”
Damon said nothing.
The man in the chair flinched, and hurried on. “We’ll find out who it is. We will. We’ve got a lot of men on it, it won’t be long. I’m sure, sir—we’ll fix it. Stupid, stupid, I know but—”
“Enough,” he said. His left hand moved to a small box that sat on the corner of the desk, and with deliberate calm, he pressed the red button. He looked up and studied the visitor for a full minute before he spoke again. “You have failed.”
As Damon stood, he nodded toward the back of the room and the three men who had entered silently surrounded the visitor. They didn’t need to use any force to subdue him. Everyone in Damon’s employ understood the consequence of failure.
He pressed his intercom. “Jonas.”
The door opened. “Yes, sir?”
“Send a team to the Phillips house. Have them retrieve the video footage. I want to know who’s with his wife, and I want to know yesterday.”
“Of course, sir.”
The stink of stale cigarettes wafted over Jack when he opened the door. He flipped a switch, and a dingy bulb in a cracked lamp illuminated the room. He threw his bag on one of the two orange Naugahyde chairs next to the small, round wooden table.
Taylor looked around the room, her eyes resting a moment on the double bed, then back at Jack.
“One bed. You should have gotten two rooms.”
He shook his head. “Don’t worry. I’ll take one of the chairs.”
She pulled the comforter off the bed, folded it, and placed it on the floor. Jack didn’t even want to think what kinds of stains would show up on it under a black light. Sitting on the bed, she called Beau over and patted the mattress until he jumped up next to her.
Jack handed Taylor a protein bar, but she shook her head.
“You have to eat. Think of the baby.”
She took the bar, opened it, pulled off a small piece and put it in her mouth. “I don’t even have any clothes with me,” Taylor said, as she watched Jack put his duffel bag on the table.
“We’ll have to pick some things up tomorrow.” Rifling through the bag, he brought out a pair of faded blue sweatpants and a Boston University sweatshirt. “In the meantime…,” he held his breath as he handed them to her, watching her expression carefully.
Her mouth dropped open. “I can’t believe you still have these.” She held the shirt at arm’s length, looking it over, then shook her head. “You kept them all these years?”
He shrugged. “Couldn’t force myself to get rid of them.”
She got a faraway look for a minute, pressed her lips together, stood up and walked into the bathroom without another word.
He turned on the TV and flipped channels until he found CNN.
She returned, having changed, and sat down at the table. “Tell me again about what Malcolm said when he came to your apartment.”
“He wasn’t making much sense, was clearly agitated. He mentioned someone named Jeremy that we need to find, said now that he’d voted against the bill, they would kill him. He also said Brody Hamilton was in on it. He gave me an envelope for you. Then he left.”
“Let me see it.”
Jack went to his briefcase, pulled out the letter and gave it to her, then sat back down.
She read it, then handed it back to Jack. “Go ahead. You can read it.”
My dear Taylor,
Let me begin by how saying I am sorry and how painful is to know that nothing I can do will fix the mess I’ve made. No matter how it started, in the end, I did love you. If you believe nothing else, believe that. You will find things out—things that will make you hate me. I need you to understand that what we’ve gone through in the last two years to create this life you carry, it changed me. Brought us closer and gave me a glimpse into real love—something I’d never known before you. It was your love and the love I already feel for our child that gave me the strength to stand up to them. To finally do the right thing.
There’s so much more at stake than meets the eye. For reasons too complicated to explain in this letter, I have changed my vote. Look into the rider. It opens the door for untold evil. And look into Brody Hamilton’s record. Once my vote is cast, they will know that I have deserted, and they will kill me. I can’t tell you how it will happen, or when but you must know that regardless of what it looks like, when you hear of my death, be certain it was not of my own doing. They are excellent at making things appear as they want. After all, they made up my entire background.
You must find a man named Jeremy. He is the key to everything. He has been in hiding for the past year and has, over that time, built up a network of allies and advocates. I’ve enlisted the aid of Jack, he has skills you are not aware of, and I believe together you can accomplish what neither of you could do alone.
Trust no one. Not the press, not the enforcement agencies. They are everywhere. Disappear. Go deep. I have already arranged your first stop. Jack knows where to go. Once you arrive, you will find instructions for your next stop. Don’t waste time. It is imperative that you get to Jeremy as soon as you can.
I don’t deserve your forgiveness but I pray that one day you will find it in your heart to grant it.
All my Love,
Malcolm
Jack Logan had ditched his Catholic upbringing but kept the guilt. He hadn’t planned on blowing his entire afternoon listening to the woman he was interviewing talk about her dead daughter, but he didn’t have the heart to tell the grieving mother that he already had enough for the story. So instead, he bought her lunch and dinner, listening as she painted a picture of the girl she had loved and had failed to save. Now he was behind schedule and would have to work all night. Man, he hated the pieces involving kids. The parents got to him every time, and his attempts at comforting them were as effective as a Band-Aid on a gunshot wound.
His phone was ringing as he approached the door to his apartment, and he jammed the key in the lock. Pushing the door open, he rushed over and snatched it, upsetting the bottle of Bass Ale and spilling the dregs on the table.
“Great.” He clicked the green button. “Yes?”
“Could you sound any more annoyed?” It was his editor.
“Sorry, Max. What’s up?” He sunk into the worn leather sofa and ran a hand through his hair.
“Tried your cell. Went right to voice mail.”
“I was interviewing one of the mothers.”
The sound of papers rustling came over the phone. “You already did your piece on the decision. What’s the angle on the follow-up?”
“The fall out, the casualties left in the wake of the decision to let the show go on.”
A sharp intake of breath. “You’re not saying they should have censored it?”
“No, no. Of course not. But their voices deserve to be heard.” This had been a particularly difficult assignment for him. He wasn’t much of a television watcher, but when the class action suit involving the production company behind Teenage Wasted reached the Supreme Court, he’d tuned in. At first it looked just like another of the ubiquitous reality shows jamming the airwaves—an eclectic group of teenagers allowing the cameras behind the scenes into their world. Within the first five minutes of the show, Jack had sat open-mouthed while a young man retrieved paraphernalia from under his bed, pulled up a porn site on his computer, and began doing what your average adolescent boy did behind closed doors. Cheap shock value but not much in the way of entertainment. It wasn’t until he put the noose around his neck that Jack’s shock turned to horror. So that was what erotic asphyxiation looked like up close and personal.
The blogosphere went nuts the following day, and YouTube videos of other kids demonstrating their own secret hobbies began to appear. When kids started turning up dead, that’s when it hit the fan. A class action suit was filed against Omega Inc., the entertainment giant responsible for the new show. The Supreme Court decision had been handed down a few weeks ago, and the parents were still in shock that they’d lost. The show went on—more popular than ever. Omega won under freedom of speech protection, which Jack couldn’t argue with, but still, what they were doing was disgusting—perverting the first amendment for their own profit. He was happy to do his part to help tarnish their reputation.
“All right, email it when you’re finished. You still coming tonight?” Max asked.
Jack grimaced. Sally Goldman’s retirement party. He had forgotten.
“Wish I could, but I’m too jammed up with this.” Sally was a great gal. He was sorry he’d have to miss it. He’d send her some flowers tomorrow.
He’d better get to it. He opened up his laptop and began to organize his notes. He was starving; he’d barely touched his dinner earlier. He picked up the phone to order a pizza when the doorbell rang. He made no move to answer it. Maybe if he ignored it, they’d go away. It rang a second, third, and fourth time. He slammed the phone down, jumped up and strode to the door, ready to tell whoever it was to beat it. The words died on his lips when he opened the door. Probably best not to piss off a United States senator.
From the first time he’d met Senator Malcolm Phillips, something about him struck Jack as off. He couldn’t put his finger on it exactly: the guy’s manners were impeccable, his background impressive. Phillips was perfect. A little too perfect. Everything about him was so well rehearsed that Jack could almost believe there was an invisible teleprompter feeding him his lines. What surprised Jack most was how Phillips’s wife, Taylor, failed to see he was all wrong for her. Of course, he kept this to himself. His opinion didn’t mean anything to Taylor anymore.
He opened the door, and Phillips walked in.
Going no farther than the hallway, he began. “I won’t waste time with pleasantries. I need your help.” His voice shook, and his face was ashen.
“What is it?”
“I scuttled the vote. It was supposed to be a good thing. But he added a gateway. He has to be stopped.”
“Whoa, what’s going on?”
He handed Jack an envelope as he spoke in an uncharacteristically nervous rush. “Take this. You’ll need it to convince Taylor. I didn’t believe it. He told me he would do it. I didn’t believe him but…they’ll kill me.”
This was insane. He hadn’t seen Phillips in years—and now here he was, rambling like a crazy person.
“What are you talking about? Slow down and tell me what’s going on,” Jack said.
“No time. You’re the only one I trust. You’ve got to find Jeremy. Get Taylor to him. They won’t hurt her now, but later…I was so stupid…”
Phillips was pacing now, and sweat had broken out on his forehead.
“Who’s Jeremy? You’re not making any sense,” Jack said.
“Go to Taylor and show it to her.” He pointed to the envelope. “It’s a sealed letter, so she’ll know it’s real. Get Taylor and take her to the cabin.”
How did he know about the cabin?
“I’m the last person Taylor wants to see. She’s not going to go anywhere with me.”
Phillips grabbed his arm.
“They own me. And Brody Hamilton too. You’ll see when they kill me. Then you’ll know.”
“When who kills you?”
Phillips backed away.
“Promise me, you’ll get her to Jeremy.” He handed Jack a remote control. “This will get you into the garage. I’ve taped our address to the bottom.” He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “Remember, Jack, no matter what it looks like, I’m not suicidal nor prone to accidents.”
He was gone before a flabbergasted Jack could respond.
Jack shut the door, began to walk away, then turned back and engaged the extra deadbolt. His eyes narrowed as he looked around, half expecting a phantom to appear.
What was Phillips talking about? Did someone really want him dead—someone powerful enough to own two senators? His head began to pound, and he leaned forward to massage his temples. What had Phillips done? Maybe he was nuts, early onset dementia. Jack could only hope. And now he expected Jack to play the hero to Taylor? He wouldn’t blame her if she slammed the door in his face.
He would do some digging. Try and make sense of what had just landed in his lap. He threw the envelope on the table, opened his laptop, and set a Google alert for Senator Malcolm Phillips.
CHAPTER TWO
Senator Malcolm Phillips was 110 feet underwater. He checked the metrics on his dive computer—five more minutes before he was in danger of getting the bends. He had spent too much time in one room of the wreck and now would have to forgo exploring the rest of it. Scuba diving was the only time he truly relaxed. Wreck diving was his favorite. He loved the history and mystery associated with these old Japanese ships. Part of the appeal of this remote Micronesian island was his ability to blend in—nobody knew who he was or paid him any extra attention. After he had landed in Guam, he had called his old friend and borrowed his private plane. He wanted to disappear for a little while. After what he pulled with the vote, he knew it was only a matter of time. He wanted to be as far away from Taylor as possible—to be sure she wasn’t caught in the crossfire. It was easy to get away; she’d never shown an interest in diving, and was used to him taking these trips alone. Knowing he was on borrowed time, he was all the more determined to make the most of this trip. Who would have thought that he would be willing to make such a sacrifice? Before Taylor, he had never done a single thing out of concern for another person. As some would say, miracles never cease.He began ascending, making a concentrated effort to exhale as he rose. The water caressed his skin, and he surveyed the visual feast surrounding him. Angelfish painted in vibrant blues and yellows swooshed by, oblivious to their glory. The soft whooshing of his regulator filled his ears, and the lack of conversation added to his pleasure—no lobbyists hounding him to push a bill. Closing his eyes, he relished the feeling of floating through the ocean. His relaxation was interrupted by the sound of his dive computer. Beep…beep…beep. What was wrong? He looked at his wrist—the ascent warning. He was going up too fast. Swimming back towards the wreck, he grabbed the rope dangling from the boat above. Now he would need to hang for at least ten minutes. He continued checking his gauge while he held on to the rope, then began a slow ascent when enough time had elapsed. At last, he broke the surface and felt the warmth of the morning sun on his face. After climbing aboard the boat, he slipped the heavy tanks off his back and discarded his wet suit. He was looking forward to a well-earned lunch.
When he reached the outdoor restaurant, a young man showed him to a table overlooking the sea. He inhaled deeply. Salt and diesel combined to make a surprisingly pleasant aroma. He ordered a Yap and made notes in his diving log. His waiter returned with the beer and smiled at Malcolm.
“We have nice fresh fish mister. You want same as yesterday?”
Malcolm nodded. “Let the chef know it’s for me. He knows how I need things prepared.”
“Yes, sir.” He bobbed his head and left.
The buttery fish was delicious and he devoured it. Leaning back with a satisfied sigh, he debated whether or not to order another beer. Deciding a nap would be even better, he paid the bill and walked the quarter mile to the small hut he was staying in. His throat felt funny. He tapped his pants pocket to see if it was there. Deep breath, don’t worry. Maybe he was coming down with a cold. When he reached the hut, he had to steady himself, and he leaned against the door. The scratchiness in his throat intensified, and he became dizzy. The realization that he was having an allergic reaction hit him, and he pulled the EpiPen® from his pocket. He snapped open the case, removed the safety, and plunged the pen into his right thigh. Relax. It’ll kick in soon.
But it didn’t. The tightening around his neck increased, and he managed to croak out a dry, wheezing cough. Staggering to the dresser, he felt around for another Epi and stabbed it into his other leg. The face looking back at him in the mirror wasn’t his, the swelling so exaggerated it rendered him unrecognizable. This couldn’t be happening. Not yet. Dread filled him. Someone had tampered with the food—and his medicine. His shellfish allergy was in his medical file. Grasping the dresser, he pulled the phone toward him as he fell to the ground. When he lifted the receiver to his ear, there was only silence.
Chapter Three
Jack had really thought Phillips was off his nut—on drugs, anything but serious. But when he got the Google alert that morning, he realized with a sinking feeling that Phillips had been telling the truth.Dead. Phillips had been standing in this apartment less than a week ago. A chill ran through Jack as he grasped the full implications of this news. Phillips had made a powerful enemy, and if Jack decided to get involved, he would be turning himself into a target.
He’d done some quick research on the bill Phillips had been ranting about. It was fairly innocuous, just broadening the range of vaccines that received federal funding to help those who couldn’t afford them. Sure, maybe someone didn’t want to allocate the money, but to kill over it? That was a few days ago and he’d chalked up the bizarre visit to some medical thing that must be going on with Phillips. But as soon as he got the alert, he knew he had to get to Taylor right away. It was too coincidental. Phillips was dead—reportedly, some kind of accidental death while on a diving trip. He remembered Phillips’s warning about not being accident prone.
Throwing a few things into a duffel, he opened his safe and took out his SIG. He made sure to pack extra ammo too. He went to the hall closet and grabbed his go bag. That would take care of Taylor and him for a couple of weeks. Now all he had to do was figure out how to get Taylor to leave with him. He had a few hours to think about it on the drive from the city to her house in McLean, Virginia. He took the 66 Mustang—no GPS.
Why would Phillips have been murdered? Maybe Taylor would know more; Phillips must have discussed it with her. And what was Hamilton’s connection?
The sun was setting when he pulled up to the house. The massive, black iron gates were closed, and he had to get out of the car to swipe the card reader to open them. He had never been to the house Taylor shared with Phillips, and when he pulled up to the enormous, French colonial estate, his eyes widened. There were five exterior stone arches illuminated by large, round light fixtures above them. A second-story balcony above the first level ran across the entire front of the house. This place cost serious money—more money than senators made. He remembered reading about it a while ago in Town and Country; it had its own basketball court, indoor pool, and home theater. Suited Phillips perfectly, but Taylor? Maybe she had changed over the years. What had happened to the little girl he had grown up with who hated ostentation?
He followed the circular driveway past the front door and around to the four-car garage, per Phillips’s instructions. Using the remote, he opened the garage door. Once inside, he pressed the intercom and waited. Jack had the code to get into the house, but he didn’t want to spook her.
A wary voice answered. “Who’s there?”
Hearing the strain and grief in her voice broke his heart. “It’s Jack.” He heard a dog growling in the background.
A click and then the door opened. She was standing on the other side, a ghost. They looked at each other.
He pulled something from his pocket. “Gummy bear?”
A forlorn smile appeared then vanished just as quickly. He crossed the threshold, and she fell into his arms. Her shoulders shook, and he held her while she sobbed. A golden retriever lay on the floor at her feet, strangely quiet now, looking back and forth at the two of them.
Finally, she pulled away and wiped her face with a tissue.
“What are you doing here? How did you get in to the garage?”
“Malcolm gave me the remote.”
Her brow furrowed. “What?”
“Let’s go inside, and I’ll explain everything.” He followed her into the huge kitchen and took in the marble countertops and the ornate chandeliers hanging above the center island, which could easily accommodate twenty people around it. He’d have bet she and Phillips could’ve walked around this house for days and not run into each other. Suddenly, he felt like that kid again, the one from the working-class family who didn’t know which fork to use.
The dog jumped up and nudged Jack’s hand with his head.
“This is Beau.” Her voice was wooden.
Jack crouched down and ruffled the fur on the dog’s head. Beau’s tail thumped wildly.
“Nice to meet you, Beau.” He looked up at her. “Malcolm came to see me last week. Told me that someone was after him. If anything happened to him, I was to come see you.”
“I can’t believe he’s d-dead.” She stumbled on the word.
“Taylor.” Jack took a breath. “It wasn’t an accident.” There was no easy way to say it, so he just said it. “He was murdered.”
She shook her head. “No-no. What are you talking about? He died of an allergic reaction. He’s allergic to shellfish. The medical examiner ruled it an accidental death.”
Jack persisted. “He warned me that something was going to happen to him.”
“I don’t understand. Why would he come to you? You hardly know him.”
“He said I was the only one he trusted. He’s seen me around the Hill, knows my reputation.” Jack hesitated before asking, “And I assume he knows our history, that I’d want to help?”
At this she glared at him. “Yeah, well, he should have gone to someone else.” She dabbed her eyes with the tissue clutched in her hand. “I still can’t believe it.”
“Did he say anything out of the ordinary before he left?”
She shook her head. “No. But…” She stood up, pacing. “Well, he was preoccupied, distracted. I just figured he was stressed from work. The trip was a last-minute thing, just to blow off some steam. I don’t dive. It’s something he does alone.”
Jack sighed. “He told me he would be killed, that I had to get you. You’re in danger. We have to leave tonight.”
“Are you crazy? I’m not going anywhere with you. I have to plan his funeral.”
He tried a different approach. “Let’s just back up a minute. What do you know about this vaccine bill?”
She shrugged. “Malcolm was for it. It was going to help a lot of families that couldn’t afford the vaccine. RSV is horrible and the vaccine is costly.”
“So then, why did he change his mind?”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
“He voted no.”
“That doesn’t make any—”
She was interrupted by the buzz of the intercom.
“Are you expecting someone?” He didn’t like this. It was nine o’clock. He walked over to the window. Even with the outside lights on, the thick hedge of boxwood in front of the driveway made it impossible to see anything.
“See what they want, but don’t buzz them in.”
She gave him a skeptical look, then pressed the button on the speaker on the wall. “Yes?”
“Mrs. Phillips?” a gravelly voice asked.
“May I help you?”
“Sorry to disturb you, ma’am. We’re from the Capitol Police. We need to speak with you.”
She hit the buzzer. “Come in.”
“Why did you do that? How do you know they’re legit?”
“It’s the police. They must have news. What’s wrong with you?”
A few minutes later, the flash of headlights shone through the curtains briefly and a car door slammed.
Jack followed her into the hallway, and as she opened the door, he stood behind it, unseen. From Jack’s vantage point, he could only hear what was going on.
“May I see some ID, please?” Taylor asked. “What are you doing?” she asked, her tone rising.
Jack heard the storm door being rattled; then Taylor slammed the front door shut and engaged the deadbolt.
The sound of broken glass made them both jump, and Jack grabbed her hand and pulled her out of the hallway.
Her eyes were wide as she said, “When I asked for ID, he tried to open the door.”
Jack flew into action. “We have to leave. Now. Get in my car—it’s in the garage.” He pulled out his gun just in case there were any surprises waiting for them in the garage.
“I have to get my stuff.”
He could hear something ramming against the door. They’d be in the house any second.
“No time. Let’s go.”
“But—”
“Taylor, please!”
The dog started whining.
He started the car, not turning on the headlights. “I don’t know how we’re going to get past them.”
She pressed her index finger onto the fingerprint reader pad on the alarm panel, grabbed a key ring from the hook on the wall, then got in the passenger seat. He watched in shock as the ground in front of the car opened into a black void that ultimately revealed a downward ramp.
“What the—”
“It’s an underground tunnel. Installed by the previous owners.”
This was something new. He pressed on the gas and slid the car into the dark opening. It led them about a mile from the house, still her property apparently, until they came to what looked like a solid concrete wall that was stained red from years of ground water rusting the concrete’s re-bar.
“Now what?”
She took the key ring, which had a small LED flashlight attached, and illuminated the wall until she found the oval embossed star on the face of the concrete. Holding the proximity sensor on the key chain against the star, the muted sound of mechanical movement commenced. The wall slowly opened as if it were a garage door.
Jack drove through and cast a sidelong view at Taylor. “Seriously? Was the previous owner regularly hunted by assassins or something?”
“She was a former head of state. It’s one of the things that drew Malcolm to the house. He thought it was cool. Like the bat cave or something.” She bit her lip. “I always thought it was ridiculous. Never thought I’d need to use it.”
Jack was relieved to see that theirs was the only car on the road and that they’d make a clean getaway.
“Who do you think was at the door?” she asked.
“I can only assume they’re connected to whomever killed Malcolm.”
“So it’s really true? He was murdered?”
“Looks that way. I know it’s crazy, but right now we just need to put some distance between us and them—whoever they are. Let’s get out of the state, and we’ll stop somewhere for the night. I’ll show you everything when we get there.”
She ran a hand through her hair and looked at him.
“This is surreal. I can not believe I’m actually in a car with you running off into the night.” Then her hand flew to her mouth.
“Oh no.”
“What?”
“My progesterone shots.”
“Your what?”
“Jack. I’m pregnant—with a high-risk pregnancy. I need to take these shots for two more weeks. Without them, I could lose the baby. I have to refill my prescription. We have to go back.”
Jack shook his head. “We can’t. It’s too dangerous.”
Pregnant! Phillips had left that little tidbit out. Jack rubbed his temples and gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile.
“Don’t worry. I’ll figure something out.”
Chapter Four
The limousine came to a stop, and as Damon Crosse waited for his driver to get out and open his door, he admired the elaborate stone building he had commissioned. Towering iron gates, which surrounded the perimeter of the property, served as a deterrent to the curious; guards stationed in towers, and twenty-four-hour video surveillance ensured that he was informed of all goings-on at all times. He divided his time between this facility, and the one much more secluded and secret, where the important work was being done. But, today was the start of the new fellowship program and he was curious to get a look at the newest recruits. Before getting out of the car, he removed a long white hair from his pant leg. He would have to speak to his housekeeper about brushing Peritas more often. He normally kept the dog with him, but today his schedule was too packed to give him the attention he deserved.The latest group had arrived last night, right on schedule. Walking the long hallway to the west elevator, he entered and pushed the button, tapping his foot on the descent to the basement level. He emerged and walked down the cold, bare corridor. Entering the room adjoining the barracks, he observed the new group through the two-way mirror. They sat on their bunks, awaiting further instruction. Their excited chatter and delight with the novelty of their circumstances would soon be replaced by an apprehensive awe due to the formidable surroundings. Every group reacted the same way. A knock at the door made him turn.
“You may enter,” he said.
“Sir, is there anything else you desire?”
“Everything is as it should be?”
“Yes, sir. The dossiers are on your desk. Everything so far is unremarkable.”
“That is all then.”
His estate manager cleared his throat.
“What is it, Jonas?”
“He’s waiting in your office, sir.”
“Very well.”
Damon watched as the heavy door closed. He observed them for half an hour. Deciding he had let the visitor wait long enough, he rose and returned to the main level, and to his study.
He stopped before opening the door, pulled out his cell phone, and watched the man on the screen. Dwarfed by the enormous wing chair he sat in, the visitor waited. Despite the chill in the air, perspiration had discolored his thin white shirt, and beads of sweat glistened on his brow. He muttered, “We’ll find her sir. Not to worry. Not to worry.” His head bobbed as he repeated the mantra to himself over and over.
Damon frowned, put the phone in his pocket, and opened the door.
“So good of you to come.” Damon’s smooth, deep voice resonated in the room. “I trust you have good news for me?” He seated himself behind the large mahogany desk and looked at the visitor with pursed lips.
The man swallowed. “She got away, sir.”
“How?” Damon pressed in a soft voice.
“She must have had someone helping her. Her car was still in the garage.” The man hesitated. “We never saw another car. I don’t know how she got away. It’s like she disappeared into thin air.”
Damon said nothing.
The man in the chair flinched, and hurried on. “We’ll find out who it is. We will. We’ve got a lot of men on it, it won’t be long. I’m sure, sir—we’ll fix it. Stupid, stupid, I know but—”
“Enough,” he said. His left hand moved to a small box that sat on the corner of the desk, and with deliberate calm, he pressed the red button. He looked up and studied the visitor for a full minute before he spoke again. “You have failed.”
As Damon stood, he nodded toward the back of the room and the three men who had entered silently surrounded the visitor. They didn’t need to use any force to subdue him. Everyone in Damon’s employ understood the consequence of failure.
He pressed his intercom. “Jonas.”
The door opened. “Yes, sir?”
“Send a team to the Phillips house. Have them retrieve the video footage. I want to know who’s with his wife, and I want to know yesterday.”
“Of course, sir.”
Chapter Five
One hundred and fifty miles later, Jack pulled over at a run-down motel and got them a room. The rumpled man behind the desk looked annoyed at having to tear himself away from his porn magazine to wait on them. In response to his request for a credit card, Jack slapped two hundred-dollar bills on the counter. They disappeared into the man’s pocket and a room key appeared in their place. No one else was around, so it was easy to sneak Beau into the room.The stink of stale cigarettes wafted over Jack when he opened the door. He flipped a switch, and a dingy bulb in a cracked lamp illuminated the room. He threw his bag on one of the two orange Naugahyde chairs next to the small, round wooden table.
Taylor looked around the room, her eyes resting a moment on the double bed, then back at Jack.
“One bed. You should have gotten two rooms.”
He shook his head. “Don’t worry. I’ll take one of the chairs.”
She pulled the comforter off the bed, folded it, and placed it on the floor. Jack didn’t even want to think what kinds of stains would show up on it under a black light. Sitting on the bed, she called Beau over and patted the mattress until he jumped up next to her.
Jack handed Taylor a protein bar, but she shook her head.
“You have to eat. Think of the baby.”
She took the bar, opened it, pulled off a small piece and put it in her mouth. “I don’t even have any clothes with me,” Taylor said, as she watched Jack put his duffel bag on the table.
“We’ll have to pick some things up tomorrow.” Rifling through the bag, he brought out a pair of faded blue sweatpants and a Boston University sweatshirt. “In the meantime…,” he held his breath as he handed them to her, watching her expression carefully.
Her mouth dropped open. “I can’t believe you still have these.” She held the shirt at arm’s length, looking it over, then shook her head. “You kept them all these years?”
He shrugged. “Couldn’t force myself to get rid of them.”
She got a faraway look for a minute, pressed her lips together, stood up and walked into the bathroom without another word.
He turned on the TV and flipped channels until he found CNN.
She returned, having changed, and sat down at the table. “Tell me again about what Malcolm said when he came to your apartment.”
“He wasn’t making much sense, was clearly agitated. He mentioned someone named Jeremy that we need to find, said now that he’d voted against the bill, they would kill him. He also said Brody Hamilton was in on it. He gave me an envelope for you. Then he left.”
“Let me see it.”
Jack went to his briefcase, pulled out the letter and gave it to her, then sat back down.
She read it, then handed it back to Jack. “Go ahead. You can read it.”
My dear Taylor,
Let me begin by how saying I am sorry and how painful is to know that nothing I can do will fix the mess I’ve made. No matter how it started, in the end, I did love you. If you believe nothing else, believe that. You will find things out—things that will make you hate me. I need you to understand that what we’ve gone through in the last two years to create this life you carry, it changed me. Brought us closer and gave me a glimpse into real love—something I’d never known before you. It was your love and the love I already feel for our child that gave me the strength to stand up to them. To finally do the right thing.
There’s so much more at stake than meets the eye. For reasons too complicated to explain in this letter, I have changed my vote. Look into the rider. It opens the door for untold evil. And look into Brody Hamilton’s record. Once my vote is cast, they will know that I have deserted, and they will kill me. I can’t tell you how it will happen, or when but you must know that regardless of what it looks like, when you hear of my death, be certain it was not of my own doing. They are excellent at making things appear as they want. After all, they made up my entire background.
You must find a man named Jeremy. He is the key to everything. He has been in hiding for the past year and has, over that time, built up a network of allies and advocates. I’ve enlisted the aid of Jack, he has skills you are not aware of, and I believe together you can accomplish what neither of you could do alone.
Trust no one. Not the press, not the enforcement agencies. They are everywhere. Disappear. Go deep. I have already arranged your first stop. Jack knows where to go. Once you arrive, you will find instructions for your next stop. Don’t waste time. It is imperative that you get to Jeremy as soon as you can.
I don’t deserve your forgiveness but I pray that one day you will find it in your heart to grant it.
All my Love,
Malcolm
Copyright © 2016 by Lynne Constantine. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic means, including storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
Author Bio:
Lynne is a twitter addicted fiction writer always working on her next book. She is the coauthor of Learn More About CIRCLE DANCE on Amazon, a family saga spanning three generations, that received an endorsement from Olympia Dukakis. She is also a social media consultant and speaker, working with authors to build their brand platforms. Lynne teaches at various workshops and has spoken at the Thrillerfest conference in New York. She is a monthly contributor to SUSPENSE MAGAZINE, and a contributing editor to THE BIG THRILL magazine.
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