Rescuing Liberty: Perseverance Book 1

by Amanda Washington

Gone, but where?

  There was a lump in my throat making it difficult to breathe. The woman stared at me, begging me to save her.

  Stop staring at me!

  My hands shook as I quickly laid each picture face down. I grabbed a flashlight from my pack, slipped into the walk-in closet, and closed the door behind me. After winding the flashlight to renew its charge, I clicked it on. The light revealed a full closet of colorful clothes. I ran my hand down the row, feeling each fabric between my fingers. Soft, silky, smooth. Calm. Then I saw it: the perfect little black dress; complete with spaghetti straps and a slimmer-waist.

  “Grandma used to say nothing chases away the blues better than a new outfit.”

  Dropping my flashlight, I shed my clothes and pulled the dress over my head, wiggling as it slid over my hips. The fit was perfect. When I spun around the fabric flared. My reflection caught my attention and I gazed into a full length mirror on the back wall of the closet.

  The beam shone on my lanky legs. I stared in disbelief at how much meat they’d lost. Muscular, well shaped legs that used to love to shoot hoops and play volleyball had become shapeless sticks. That was depressing, but I was determined to find the positive in this so I picked up the flashlight and studied my midsection. Turning to the side, I searched for the body part that had always been the bane of my exercise routine: my bottom. It was missing in action, and had left behind something too small to be natural. I patted my flat stomach.

  Now that’s better.

  But then another semi-circle turn highlighted my deflated chest.

  “He was right. I am nothing but skin and bones.” Just one good ice cream binge and it’ll all come back. Feeling resigned to my new body, I slowly raised the flashlight. In the light’s glow, my normally auburn curls appeared strawberry-blonde and frizzy. I paused, staring into my face. Only the face staring back at me wasn’t mine.

  My breath caught as I was confronted by the face of the bride in the photos. I dropped the flashlight and muffled a scream. The flashlight tumbled, creating an eerie strobe-light effect as her hollow, blue eyes stared back at me. Guilt and fear shook through my body, causing my knees to give way. I landed hard on my bottom and the flashlight came to a stop, facing the mirror. The woman was gone, and my own image watched me. Eyes sunken and haunted were surrounded by dark circles. The bones in my face, arms and shoulders protruded, making me look gaunt, like a walking corpse.

  Why fight it? I’m so tired of fighting to survive. And for this? Is this what survival looks like? I felt my composed façade slip away; exposing all the fears I’d tried so desperately to conceal. Can’t do this anymore. The desire to curl up in a ball and die was overwhelming. Misery flooded the very essence of my being as I was attacked; spiritually, emotionally and mentally. I struggled for each breath; asphyxiating on my own depression. Gasping until loud, wretched sobs ripped through my body. The mental walls I’d labored so hard to build crumbled at the feet of madness.

  I glared at the twenty-eight year old zombie in the mirror, furious at the defeated look in my own eyes. Feeling the weight of all my inadequacies, I prayed that God would end my life.

  Instead, the closet door burst open. I knew it was Connor and Ashley, but didn’t turn around. I wanted no witnesses when I hit the big, red self-destruct button. Leave me alone. Let me die. My tears turned to manic laughter as I felt their eyes burrowing into the back of my head, no doubt wondering what to do with me. I glanced at the mirror and saw the worried expressions I knew they’d bear. No. Don’t worry. Just leave me to die. Kneeling on the floor between sobs, hiccups, and frantic laughter, I grieved for all the things I’d lost.

  “I miss … my black dresses.” I sniffed. “And my heels.” I picked up a black pump from the floor of the closet; smooth and sleek. “And my sister. Oh, God she’s dead! Her whole family … dead. And I think they did it themselves. She gave up! And it’s so unfair that she gets to give up and I can’t! I’ve … killed people. I didn’t want to, but I had to. I had to, dammit.” My fingers traced the lines of the black, leather pump in my hand. “Do you think God … do you think He’d intervene had I not defended myself? Because He didn’t! Where was God when I was holding that gun? I can’t … I can’t hear Him anymore. I want to die, but I don’t want to go to hell.” My shoulders shook as tears ran down my face.

  When I looked back into the mirror, Ashley was gone. Connor leaned against the closet door looking nervous and unsure. I sympathized and tried to steady my resolve. The worries and fears I’d suppressed so long became chisels, chipping away at my sanity.

  What if we get to Canada and it’s just as bad there? What if my mom and Jen are dead? How can I escape to Canada’s safety when I don’t even know if they’re alive or dead? Will I ever see them again? Am I losing my mind? What if I am not strong enough to protect Ashley? Can I really trust Connor? Can I trust myself with Connor?

  Connor crept forward like he was approaching a feral animal; hands up, palms facing outward, no sudden movements. He moved in and sat down Indian style beside me. His apprehensive stare formed deep lines in his forehead. Have I baffled the Amazing Connor Dunstan? The idea suddenly seemed funny. I burst into a fit of laughter that only darkened his expression. He clearly didn’t see the humor in it. A glance in the mirror justified his concern. I looked deranged, displaying red, puffy eyes and blotchy skin, as an abundance of snot ran down my face. The very definition of sexy. I used my discarded shirt to wipe away the dripping mess. “Just leave me alone. I don’t want to care about you,” I told him.

  Feeling detached, like a spectator witnessing a fatal car crash, I stared at my reflection. Captivated by the horrific sight, I couldn’t look away. Anger battled sorrow and became my predominant emotion. I scowled at the offensive mirror that had caused my meltdown. One clear thought escaped from the blurry mess of my mind: the mirror is obviously possessed and needs to be destroyed.

  I lunged at the mirror. My fists shattered glass, but I didn’t stop. I hit it again and the pain cleared my head, pushing out unnecessary emotions that would compete with my body’s warning. Shards of glass tumbled around me, blending their delicate symphony with my roar of fury. Connor grabbed me around the waist as I made one final blow.

  Life is joy, love, and peace. None of which are possible without pain.

  And oh man, did my fists hurt. Connor scooped me up onto his lap as blood flowed from the multiple slices in my hands. He took off his shirt, shredded it, and wrapped the strips tightly around my hands. Once I had been doctored to his approval, his embrace hid me from the world.

  Bad idea. The thought floated through my head for an instant, but was quickly squashed by Connor’s strong, warm physique. Only a thin undershirt separated my face from his chest. I leaned into the clean, male scent of him and allowed his essence to assault my melancholy. As the flashlight grew dim, I closed my eyes and breathed him in, remembering why I fought the madness. Every moment, each breath is a gift.

  My body relaxed to the consistency of gelatin and the delirium slipped away. Dark thoughts were once again trapped behind the locked door in my mind. The heaving of my chest calmed and my eyes sealed themselves closed. “The conservatory is next to the ballroom,” I whispered, finally remembering the layout of the Clue board.

  “What?” Connor pushed the hair back from my eyes.

  “Nothing.” I hadn’t meant to say it aloud. I focused once again on the game board and imagined my sisters laughing around the table. My mom yelling, as she caught us peeking at her cards. Every memory is a blessing. I focused on the beat of Connor’s heart. My hiccups faded and my pulse returned to normal.

  “I’m okay.” I adjusted myself in his arms.

  “Hush, I’m here, I’ll take care of you.”

  “Egotistical jerk.”

  I smiled and slipped peacefully into oblivion.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ~Fort Lewis, Washington, June 15

  THREE GENERALS DRESSED in white uniforms surrounded a large tabl
e, scrutinizing a Latino commander. The commander sat with his chest out and his head up.

  “We’ve lost contact with the second team,” the black-haired general said as he shifted in his chair.

  The general in the center scratched his crooked nose and eyed the commander. “We cannot afford to lose another team.”

  A third crossed his hands and leaned forward, staring at the second speaker. “The Progression must be stopped. The longer we wait, the stronger they become.”

  The commander sat quietly as the three men discussed his fate.

  The black-haired General ran a hand through his hair then leaned forward. “I’m afraid you’re right.” He frowned and considered the commander. “Are we all in agreement then?”

  “Our options are limited,” the crooked-nosed general replied.

  The third general leaned back in his chair and glanced at the other two who each nodded. “Commander Ortega, have your men ready to leave at oh-five hundred.”

  “Yessir.” The commander stood. “Just my team, sir?”

  The three generals glanced at each other.

  “We need this to succeed, but we cannot continue to throw men away.” The crooked-nosed general stood to his feet. “Your team plus one other. Your choice.”

  Commander Ortega nodded. “Commander Koyama has a solid team.”

  The three generals nodded.

  “Go then.” The black haired general stood and offered the commander his hand. “And may God be with you.”

  * * *

  Connor’s arms wrapped tighter around Liberty as she trembled in his arms. Her head rested against his chest, and with each sob, floral scented curls tickled his chin. He held still, fearful of disturbing the moment; knowing she'd pull away if reminded of his presence. He ignored the tickle and concentrated on her; aware of how each curve and angle of her body fit perfectly against his.

  Her breathing regulated and her shoulders loosened as she surrendered to sleep. Connor gently moved out from under her, picked her up, and carried her to the bed. She stirred as he laid her down. Soft skin met his fingertips when he brushed the hair out of her face. Sitting beside her with his back against the headboard, he rested his eyes and listened to her breathing. Then Connor dozed …

  * * *

  ~A small village in the Safīd Mountain Range, Afghanistan, eight years ago

  The sky was completely dark when Connor’s team came upon the small village hidden in a lower slope of the Safēd Kōh. Six men where there to rendezvous with an informant and exchange currency for information on the whereabouts of a group of terrorists. As standard operating procedure for an ODA Special Forces team, the other six men were up in the air, scoping out the area and ready to swoop in if their teammates needed to vacate the area.

  Connor had hand-selected each member of his team. They were intelligent, deadly, competent and trustworthy.

  Michael Winters was an almost seven foot tall black man who could build—or destroy—anything. He grew up in Boston, the fourth child of six. His parents were both still alive and had just celebrated their fortieth wedding anniversary. The event was so important to Winters he had taken leave for it.

  Phillip LeFord was quite possibly the thinnest man Connor had ever met, despite an appetite that could put any all-you-can-eat buffet out of business. From a small town in Wisconsin, he was a dedicated cheese head. During football season, he always managed to follow his Packers—no matter where the team was and what they were doing. His job was to maintain constant communication between the men in the air and the men on the ground.

  Terrance Vaughn, at a little over five-foot-five with blonde hair and a scar over his left eyebrow, served as medic. He was the newest member of the team, joining about six months ago. His age deceived many, but he was incredibly gifted. The men called him Doogie after Doogie Howser, the boy-genius doctor.

  Rick Bilford was the oldest member of the team at thirty-four, and acted as team daddy. The title of Commander belonged to Connor, but Rick was the old man who kept the team in line. He grew up on a ranch in Texas, and was the very definition of a good ol’ boy; chivalrous, religious, and stubborn as a mule.

  Completing the team was Carlos (Boom) Ortega—a walking oxymoron as their devout Catholic weapons specialist. The team nicknamed him Boom because destruction was his middle name. He had an aptitude for explosives and created the best distractions. He was the only other Washington state native on the team, and had become like a brother to Connor.

  The operation was standard. Get in, get the info, pay the man, and get out. The bag Connor carried held 251,000 Afghanis; which equaled about $5,000 US dollars. The meeting point was just inside the villa; easy to find with the aid of night-vision goggles. Third door from the entrance in the wall, in through the back door, wait for the contact. The team spread out and huddled against the wall, covered by the shadows of the surrounding buildings.

  The exchange was scheduled for 02:00. Connor glanced at his watch as soon as they stepped into position: 01:45. Someone entered through the north door. Connor’s night-vision helped him distinguish the newcomer as a child, under ten, thin and trembling as he took one tentative step forward, and then another. He hesitated, searching the room, until his eyes rested on LeFord’s leg which was barely visible in the light from the window. Something on the child beeped, and a light flashed on his chest. He looked down and gasped. Then he resumed his slow march toward LeFord. The boy’s chest beeped again.

  Connor commanded the boy to stop in the local dialect of Pashto. The boy paused and glanced in Connor’s direction. His chest beeped again and he took another step toward the communications man. In response, Connor aimed his weapon at the child and demanded that he stop.

  No one breathed as the boy’s foot slid across the floor. Another step. Another beep. Connor squeezed the trigger. The three-shot burst from his semi-automatic hit the kid in the head. The boy toppled over.

  “No!” LeFord stood and rushed to the body.

  “LeFord! Get over here,” Connor commanded.

  LeFord bent and removed the glowing light from the boy’s chest. Shaking his head, he stood and raised his find into the air: a watch. “Not a bomb,” he said as it beeped again.

  The group let out a collective breath. Connor stared at the body, wondering why the child hadn’t stopped. Why he’d risked his life for a watch.

  “Why—” Bilford started to voice his own questions when gunfire interrupted him, tearing into LeFord’s chest. LeFord’s body swayed with the force of each round before crumbling to the floor.

  “The boy was a distraction. Everyone down!” Connor shouted as he crawled to check LeFord’s vitals. He knew the communications specialist had to be dead, but he couldn’t leave until he verified it. He crawled in a jagged line, turning his head just as the shot that should have killed him grazed his jaw. His hand found the wound and came away warm and wet. It hurt like hell, but it wasn’t fatal. Connor would live. LeFord was the one he was worried about though. He grabbed the man by his ankles and pulled him out of the light and back to the shadows of the wall.

  “Not a bomb.” Blood dribbled from LeFord’s lips as he muttered the words. “Just a kid.”

  “Hush. It’s okay.” Connor watched as blood rushed from LeFord’s chest, darkening the floor beneath him. “Stick around, kid; you know Green Bay can’t win without you.”

  LeFord coughed.

  Vaughn appeared, eyeing Connor’s jaw.

  “It’s nothing. See if you can do anything for LeFord.”

  Vaughn kneeled and examined LeFord’s chest. He shook his head and returned to his post by the west door, firing shots into the hall.

  Connor motioned Boom over. Boom crouched and put his head next to the dying man’s. “The Lord is my shepherd—”

  Connor strained his ears to listen to the prayer muttered between gunfire.

  “He restoreth my soul—”

  Anger clouded Connor’s vision as he fired off another round at movement outside th
e north door.

  “Yea, though I walk through the shadow of the valley of death—”

  Winters peeked out a window and fired. The enemy was closing in. Connor needed to get his team out of there. Quick.

  “Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies—”

  LeFord gasped for air. Connor remembered the team giving LeFord a hard time for a picture of his mom that he carried around in his wallet and had shown them all. He was the proud only child to a single mother. Now she’d have no one. Connor reloaded the 30-round magazine and stuffed it into his M-16.

  “And I will dwell in the House of the Lord forever.” Boom crossed himself and stood up, handing me LeFord’s dog tags. I pocketed them, knowing he’d want his mother to have them.

  I grabbed Winters’ arm. “We need an evac.”

  With LeFord dead, Winters stepped into the position of communications. He pushed the button on his radio and called for help. “Dark Delivery to Momma Bird, come in Momma Bird.”

  “You’re early Dark Delivery. What’s going on down there?” The voice on the other end was distorted by frequency static.

  “The parrot didn’t fly in; we need an evac.” Winters’ words were delivered between shots. He ducked and Bilford stepped into his place in front of the window. A shot whizzed by Bilford’s ear and he shuffled to the right.

  In the moonlight Connor could see figures darting back and forth outside the doors. “How many?” he asked. “Anyone got a count?”

  “Three or four to the south.” Boom said.

  “Maybe four in the west wing.” Vaughn threw a grenade into the hall, and ducked as shrapnel and fire filled the air. “West is clear for a minute.”

  “At least eight out the north.” Bilford took aim and fired again.

  Connor nodded. “Bilford, Vaughn, Winters, out the south door. Boom, let’s light up the north.”