John
The 13, Book Five
Anne L. Parks
John
The 13, Book Five
Copyright 2018 Fireside Publishing, LLC
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.
This book is a work of fiction.
Names of characters, places, and events are the construction of the author, except those locations that are well-known and of general knowledge, and all are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental, and great care was taken to design places, locations, or businesses that fit into the regional landscape without actual identification; as such, resemblance to actual places, locations, or businesses is coincidental. Any mention of a branded item, artistic work, or well-known business establishment, is used for authenticity in the work of fiction and was chosen by the author because of personal preference, its high quality, or the authenticity it lends to the work of fiction; the author has received no remuneration, either monetary or in-kind, for use of said product names, artistic work, or business establishments, and mention is not intended as advertising, nor does it constitute an endorsement. The author is solely responsible for content.
Cover design & Formatting by:
Drue Hoffman, Buoni Amici Press.
Disclaimer:
Material in this work of fiction is of a graphic sexual nature and is not intended for audiences under 18 years of age.
Contents
Untitled
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Anne L. Parks
What distinguishes terrorism is the willful and calculated choice of innocents as targets.
BENJAMIN NETANYAHU
Chapter One
Connor Finch sat at his computer and tried to concentrate on his English paper, but his eyes were drawn to the message box in the lower corner of the screen. He avoided it. Not wanting to see what the message said. What the video link would show him. But he also wouldn’t close out of the window.
A ding from messenger rang through his headphones. He closed his eyes tightly. He shouldn’t look at it. No good would come from it. He needed to finish the paper that he had been putting off for two weeks that was due by second period the next day.
His gaze drifted to the message box.
Are you there, Connor?
Moving the cursor to the message, he clicked on the bar and typed a message.
Yes, but have homework…
He pressed the send button, knowing the response wouldn’t matter. The hounding would continue until Connor watched the damn video. Regret pounded through his head like a drum. Why had he shown an ounce of interest in seeing the video? His stomach twisted into a knot. He had been lured by the verboten aspect of the content—he had no specifics but knew these kinds of videos had horrific scenes that were generally not acceptable viewing material for a fifteen-year-old male. But that was exactly why he was drawn to it. A stupid impulse was fast becoming a threat to his man-card.
Inhaling deeply, he maximized the chat screen. He pulled one of his earbuds out and stared at his closed bedroom door. His mother respected his privacy and rarely entered his room without knocking and being invited in. Of course, she trusted that he was in there doing his homework and not watching videos of people being tortured. She would flip a wig if she knew what he was actually doing. And then ground him for life.
But if she ever found out who had sent him the links—that would ruin a relationship that was already tentative but lately had been on the mend. She could never find out. It would destroy her. And she would lose all faith in Connor.
He hated keeping secrets from her after he had made such a huge deal about how he had never done anything to warrant her skepticism. He also had allowed her to use his age against him, stating he was not the average teenager.
And he wasn’t. About half of his friends had parents who were divorced. When Connor’s parents had started playing on his emotions and trying to turn him against the other parent, he went on a massive tirade and threatened to leave and never return. They had both been shocked. HIs mother had wept and begged him not leave, promising to be better.
His father beamed with pride, apparently thrilled his son had enough balls to stand up for himself and not take his shit. There had been a shift in his relationships with both parents. One promoted a relationship were there was no need to keep secrets. The other made it obvious that secrets were the norm, and no information should be shared with the other parent about what they discussed. Connor hated his father for putting him in that position with his mother. It was at war with the need to have his father proud of him.
The little black arrow lingered over the blue highlighted link. He stared at the last message. There would be no peace until he watched the video. Clicking the button on his mouse, another internet window popped up. He pressed the play button, pressing his earbuds tightly in his ears so no amount of sound would eek out.
A man dressed in what appeared to be black military type clothing, head and face covered with a balaclava, eyes as dark as the clothes he wore staring straight into Connor’s. It wasn’t true, of course, but Connor couldn’t shake the feeling that by even opening the link, the man staring back at him on the small screen knew he had. Knew who he was and where he lived.
Techno-heavy metal music exploded thorough his ears, a woman with a deep voice screamed lyrics in Russian. The man stood in front of a flag with broad white, blue, and red horizontal stripes. The voice of the singer faded into the background as the man in black began to speak.
“For decades, the United States has sought to keep Russia from taking it’s rightful place amongst the leaders of the world.”
Scenes from the Cold War burst onto the screen in rapid succession, one appearing over the top of the next.
“Our own government was complicit in the Americanization of our great country—destroying traditions and deeply held beliefs of the Russian people.”
Shots of former Russian president Gorbachev at an American backyard barbeque, joking and laughing with President Reagan, and shopping at the mall. Boris Yeltsin at a grocery store, his eyes wide.
“They made our great country the butt of their jokes. Took credit for making us a democracy in their own image—as if they were deities sent to redeem us.”
Another man in black—or maybe the same man, Connor couldn’t tell—lead a group of men with their hands restrained behind them down dirt road. Some of the men had American flags on the sleeves of their shirts. Others had jackets with UN emblazoned across them. They were made to stop in front of a ditch that stretched out behind the men’s heels. The man in black yelled something in another language that Connor assumed was Russian.
Guns fired. The men flailed, their bodies jerking in slow motion. The music blared. Connor watched them fall backwards into the pit, one-by-one, until all of them were gone.
“This is how we treat our enemies. This is how we regain our country—or traditions. One day, the United States will bow before our leaders and beg for mercy. Mercy they will not receive.
Not even the current leaders of our great country can instill fear in our enemies as we can. And we—we will be the force that leads our people back to greatness.”
The video ended with a shot of the bodies in the ditch. Covered in blood. Bodies strewn in unnatural positions. Mouths open, as if caught mid-scream. Eyes wide, the fear still evident even the life was snuffed out of them. A logo appeared in the middle of the screen, black and red with a gold, two-headed eagle. A crest with a skull and crossbones was in the eagle’s talons. Gold letter with Russian letters circled the logo. At the bottom of the screen in red letters—these in English—read Russian Revolutionary Army.
Connor covered his mouth and clenched his eyes closed, not wanting to see the visions that had already been burned into his memory. A cold sweat broke out over his skin, but his mouth was bone dry as he attempted to swallow the bile that rose in his throat.
The messenger pinged with an incoming message. Connor opened his eyes and read the text that appeared in the small box.
Read this…
A link to an article appeared. Connor clicked on it and read the headline.
Three Killed In Mail Bomb Explosion
Son of high-ranking liberal Russian political advocate among those killed
Connor read the first paragraph. A young male student from Russia attending Georgetown University had opened a package left outside his townhouse. When he began opening it, the package exploded, killing him and his two roommates. Sergei Demerov was the son of one of the leaders of a political movement in Russia that believed in a free market society—in direct opposition to the socialist agenda that was currently in power.
Connor closed out of the article, not able to read the details of the explosion after watching the deaths of the men in the video. His messenger popped up with another message.
What do you think? Interested in joining the cause?
Chapter Two
Charlee Finch opened the door to the lecture hall and looked for an open seat. The speaker was shuffling through papers at the podium, and cleared his throat. Spotting an open seat three rows down, she scooted around people’s legs and slid into the open seat. The woman next to her huffed her disapproval at the tardiness, and shifted in her seat so she had her back to Charlee.
A phone buzzed. A few people in the row ahead of her turned, eyes narrowed, frowns clearly indicating their disgust. Charlee gave them a meek smile, and checked the caller ID. Her son, Connor, was asking what was for dinner.
Quickly, she typed back a response.
In a lecture. Talk when I get home.
The phone buzzed again.
I’m starving now!
She tightened her hand around her phone the sides digging into the fleshy palm. Damn this kid! She reined in her emotions, and once again wondered what had happened to the sweet boy she once knew. She turned her phone off, and dropped it into her bag without responding. Grabbing her notepad, she looked for a pen, but came up empty. Sitting upright, she let out a sigh, and dropped the notepad on her lap.
So much for taking notes…
A pen appeared on her notepad. She glanced at the man who sat next to her and mouthed, “thank you.”
He nodded his head, and turned his attention back to the speaker.
Forty-five minutes later, the lecture broke for a fifteen-minute break. She grabbed her cell phone, turned it on, and walked out of the lobby into the cold wind of winter in Newport, Rhode Island. Hitting the speed dial for Connor, she placed the phone to her ear, and shifted back and forth on her feet to keep from freezing.
“Hey.” The unemotional, distant greeting had become the norm. She loathed it, along with his new attitude.
“Hey, yourself,” she said, knowing she sounded irritated, which never made the situation any clearer. “Can you not make yourself a snack until I get home? I told you I would be late because I was coming to a lecture.”
“I couldn’t find anything to eat,” he said.
Briefly closing her eyes, she pinched the bridge of her nose, and took in a deep breath. “Connor, I just went to the store—there’s got to be something there that you can eat.”
“Dad came and got me, and took me out for pizza.”
She exhaled through her nose, and tried to keep from spewing a long list of expletives. “Why didn’t you ask me before you left? You know the rule.”
“I tried.” He sounded bored with having to talk to her, which just made her blood pressure spike even higher. “It went straight to voicemail which means you had your phone off—a violation of the rules.”
Goddammit! He was going to throw her own rule about always having your cell phone on and charged? She cursed that he was too smart for his own good, sometimes.
She stood quietly for a moment. Nothing good would come from getting into an argument with him when he was with his father. That would just come back on her as an admonition of Bad mothering. “What time will you be home? Do you have homework?”
“No, I finished it this afternoon.” HIs voice was flat, but the irritation had lessened. “I’ll be home after we get done eating.”
“Okay, I should be home in about two hours.” She turned toward the door, ready to pull it open and step inside where it was warm. “I’ll make you something when I get there.”
“Okay.” The call ended.
Goodbye to you, too.
She knew he would be hungry by the time she returned and made something. It was inconceivable to her that someone as tall and lanky as her son could put away the amount of food he did on a daily basis. His teenage appetite was unquenchable. At this rate, her ex was going to have to increase child support so she could afford to feed Connor and herself.
A table with urns of coffee and plates of cookies sat near the entrance of the lecture hall. She nearly wept at the thought of hot coffee. The man who had loaned her a pen was filling a cup. He had on a military uniform—she was pretty sure he was a Marine. Grabbing a styrofoam cup, she waited until he was done before she put her cup under the spigot.
He glanced at her, his chocolate eyes drinking her in. His light brown arms were muscled and she could see what appeared to be a tattoo peeking out from under the short sleeve.
“Thank you for the pen,” she said.
He smiled which made his already handsome face nearly impossible to look away from. “You’re welcome. I couldn’t stand to see anyone else glare at you. Besides, I would’ve missed out on your interesting doodles.”
Heat flooded her neck and cheeks. “Wow, you caught me.” Chuckling as she added two packets of raw sugar to her coffee and mixing it in.
He took a tentative sip of his coffee. “Didn’t enjoy the speaker?”
“I thought he had some good information, just not anything I haven’t already heard before. I’m really more interested in hearing from Andropov.”
“Why is that?”
She glanced at the well-picked over plate of cookies and decided against having one. “He represent the future of terrorism in the world.” She took a drink of her coffee and let the sweet warm liquid slide down her throat. “What about you?”
“Andropov is my present.” He stared at her for a moment, as if waiting to see her reaction.
“Intriguing—and very vague.”
He sighed, the smile widening across his face. “Such is the nature of my business.”
Other attendees began making their way back into the hall. Charlee and her seatmate followed them and took their seats. Before Charlee could say anything more to the man, a large man with white hair approached the podium and adjusted the microphone.
Chapter Three
John zipped his jacket and walked across the parking lot to his truck. The wind was biting cold and he wondered how long until the snow would start to fall. The churning of an engine struggling to turn over caught his attention. The sun dropped behind the horizon early in November. John felt bad for whoever was sitting in the cold older model Land Rover wondering if the vehicle would st
art.
He climbed into his 2017 Dodge Ram and started the engine, smiling when it roared to life without hesitation. He had paid extra for the top of the line truck—figured he had earned it by working hard. It had all paid of, too. He made rank below the zone, and had caught the eye of top brass in the Joint Chiefs, who had offered him this once in a lifetime chance to head up the covert special operations unit, The 13.
He could see his wife smiling and shaking her head whenever he climbed into the cab. She always tried to get him to stop being so pragmatic and spend a little money with abandon on something he wanted—not something they needed. But he could never do it. He had responsibilities to his sons and to her. And they didn’t include his own selfish indulgences.
Grace. She had been more than his wife—she had been his life. She had been so full of life. He never once considered she would leave the world before him.
He glanced out the front windshield. The Land Rover still sat, it’s windows fogged up. Apparently, whoever owned it was still sitting inside. John checked the temperature gage on his dashboard. 37 degrees. He hoped they had someone coming to get them before whoever it was froze.
He put his truck into drive and swung into the parking spot next to the Land Rover, and knocked on the driver’s window. He tapped on it. The door opened and he the woman he had been sitting next to in the lecture looked out.
“Having car trouble?” He asked.
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