Sold
Into
Salvation
By
Colbie
Carter
Copyright 2015 © Gone Writing Publishing
This publication is protected under the US Copyright Act of 1976 and all other applicable international, federal, state, and local laws, and all rights are reserved, including resale rights: you are not allowed to give or sell this book to anyone else.
Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if the author uses one of these terms.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
All Rights Reserved
Dedication:
To my Mom, who is my inspiration and guardian angel.
Rest In Peace.
Acknowledgments:
I would like to say a huge, heartfelt Thank You to my friends at Team Titan. All of you have supported me, helped me, cheered me on, and been the greatest friends I could ask for.
Thank you, and I love you dearly.
PROLOGUE
Bucharest, Romania
Twenty-five Years Ago
It was cold. It was raining. And he was hungry. But the lure of shelter and warmth even in a jail cell wasn't enough to convince him to give up and surrender. With the wrapped sandwich tucked tightly in his ratty jacket, he tore down the nearest alley, tuning out the angry yelling of the cops just a few feet behind him.
You've done this a dozen times before; just keep going.
Being small certainly had its advantages; he could squeeze his tiny, malnourished, seven-year-old body nearly anywhere and evade anyone who dared to chase him. First, the deli owner where he’d swiped his first meal in three days, then the corrupt, sadistic sonsofbitches that were the police. The fat, pissed-off deli owner chased him for five blocks before the cops finally joined the chase. He'd rather die than let the cops catch him. The fact that he was just a kid wouldn't stop them from beating the ever-living shit out of him and throwing him in a damp jail cell with a murderer or a kiddie rapist.
Fuck that.
But Dorin knew this area well; he knew that although this alley was considered a dead-end, the fence at the very end had a hole in the planks just big enough for him to squeeze through. He'd probably scrape the hell out of his arms, and tear his jacket up even more than it already was, but he could dive through the opening and be long gone before they could kick the broken planks in or scale the fence.
He could hear them gaining on him. There were three, all armed, and none of them would hesitate to take a shot or two at him. The thought of taking a bullet to his tiny back both twisted his insides into a cold knot, and gave his little legs that extra burst of energy to push forward just a bit faster.
They hadn't split up to cover any potential path he could have taken, which surprised him. Come on, you fuckers. Don't you know anything?
Just a few feet more...five...three...and...down! He dove through the small opening no bigger than a dachshund. Using his feet, he kicked and pushed along the ground to propel himself through. The rain-soaked ground made his shoes slip along the graveled concrete, but he just kicked harder. He heard the ripping sound as a wooden splinter tore into his jacket sleeve, nicking his arm. It hurt like a bitch, but he'd deal with it later.
The cops missed him by a split second, one of them just barely grasping his pant leg, and then losing his grip as Dorin kicked his leg harder to shove through the last few inches of the opening. He scrambled to his feet and disappeared down the block.
His hideout was only three blocks from away, he could make it there and scarf his sandwich down before anyone saw him. It was a creepy-as-hell hole in the wall of an abandoned shop, but it was dry and somewhat warm. Moreover, as far as he knew, the cops didn't even know it was there.
This had been Dorin's life for a year. At least he thought a year had passed. He wasn't even sure what month it was, only that winter was close; he wondered how he would survive another winter on the streets. It was a miracle that he’d survived the last one.
His mother had died last fall, right after his sixth birthday. She'd taken her own life with him on the other side of the wall. He woke up the next morning to find her in the bathtub with a plastic bag over her head and an empty bottle of stuff he wasn't allowed to drink on the floor. It was stuff that Mama drank all the time, especially when she was sad. Which was all the time. All he really remembered about that day was being so scared that he ran from their tiny apartment and never went back.
Dorin ducked into the hole of his hideout, and settled into his pile of blankets. They were a little damp and smelled bad, but they kept him warm. He took the sandwich tucked safely in his jacket, and he peeled away the paper wrapper. It was a little squished, but it was edible. It smelled yummy. Pastrami and mayonnaise. Mayonnaise was a little gross, but he couldn't complain. He shoved the sandwich in his mouth and took a huge bite. He had to be careful eating though, not too fast. He didn't want to throw up again. That happened when he ate too fast.
After stuffing the last bite in his mouth, he snuggled into his nest of blankets, ready to go to sleep for the night. Most nights he didn't sleep that well, but tonight he was very tired. The rain, the chase, and finally having a full stomach after three days combined to make him sleepy. His arm still hurt from the fence scraping him, but he didn't have any bandages. Maybe he could find some in the morning.
Just as he was about to doze, he heard shuffling outside the hole to his hideout. Maybe the stray dog that he’s befriended had come back. Sometimes, the furry mutt would hunker down with him when it got really cold. It was nice because they kept each other warm, and sometimes Dorin would share his food with him because he was cute and friendly.
Curious, he crawled out from under the blankets, and went to the opening. He heard the sound again, and stuck his head out. Nothing.
Then he heard it again, and before he could step out farther, he was grabbed by the collar of his jacket and yanked out into the alley.
“Let me go!” He screamed and struggled. He kicked his legs, tried to swing his arms, and wriggle his little body to dislodge himself from the stranger's hold. Big arms scooped him up, and a hand clamped over his mouth. His muffled screams vibrated against the stranger's palm, and he could barely breathe. His damp, shaggy hair kept falling over his eyes, blinding him, adding to his panic.
“Hush now!” The man growled in his ear.
Like hell, he would! He struggled harder, trying to arch his back and dig his heels into the man's crotch. It had to be one of the cops; they’d found his hideout and were here to take him to jail. He'd never get out!
The man's arms tightened around him, nearly crushing his ribcage. “Settle the fuck down and listen to me! I'm not here to hurt you.”
He didn't believe him; of course, he was here to hurt him, why else would he have lured him from his hideout?
Dorin tried to shake his head, his little grunts of protest silenced by the large h
and clamped over his mouth. His eyes swirled with the lack of air, sparkly spots danced in his vision, and he felt dizzy.
No, no, no! I don't want to die!
“I'm not a cop; I'm here to help you, now calm down!”
With a sniffle and whimper of defeat, Dorin calmed his struggling, and sagged in the man's arms. His feet dangled off the ground, and he felt himself being lowered back down.
The man turned him around, and crouched down to meet his level. “How long have you been out here?”
Dorin rubbed his snotty nose on his jacket sleeve. Why did he care? Who was he? “A year, I think.”
The man hummed and nodded in acknowledgment. “I saw you ditch the cops back there. That's impressive, but why were you running?”
Dorin clamped his lips shut; no way was he ‘fessing up to stealing.
“Come on, son. I told you, I'm not a cop.”
He studied the man for a moment. He looked old enough to be his dad, maybe even his grandpa. Not that he had a dad. Or a grandpa. Or anyone. He was clean, dressed in clothes with no holes or tears, and his face was shaved. He looked like he might be nice. Not mean like the cops. He talked a little funny though, not like a normal Romanian. Some of his words didn't sound right.
“I took a sandwich from the deli.” He looked down at his feet, kicking a pebble away. “I was hungry.”
The man sighed. “What's your name?”
He looked up. “Dorin.” He replied quietly. “Dorin Milosovici. I'm seven years old.”
The man smiled a little. “Nice to meet you, Dorin. You can call me Miles.”
Miles? That was a funny name.
“Where are your mother and father?”
“Gone. My mama's dead, and I don't have a dad.”
“You've been out here a whole year by yourself?”
Dorin nodded.
“You survived an entire Romanian winter out here by yourself?” Miles didn't look like he believed him.
“You think I'm lying?” He bunched his tiny shoulders; he wanted to punch the guy. Why in hell would he lie about that?
Miles chuckled. “Of course not, son. I know you're not lying. I've been watching you for a while.”
Creep. Why watch him and not bother to help him?
“Why were you watching me?”
“Because I wanted to see how resourceful you were. Tell me, Dorin. How would you like to go to America?”
Dorin blinked and sucked in a sharp breath. America? He didn't even know where that was. He'd heard of it, and it had to be better than his current surroundings.
All he could manage was a tiny nod.
CHAPTER ONE
London, England
Present Day
It felt like the longest layover in the history of aviation. Brooke had spent the entire day at Heathrow Airport waiting for her connecting flight to Bucharest. She had flown in from Newark, after a short flight from Baltimore. She’d managed to snag prime real estate in the lounge with a power outlet to charge her phone and laptop. She'd barely gotten up to use the restroom or get coffee for fear she'd lose her spot.
She wasn't paying for this trip, and her seats had all been in first class. She was on her way to visit her father, who had been living in Bucharest for the past two years. He was the American Ambassador to Romania, and had been insisting for months that she come visit him on a break from school. He’d agreed to foot the ridiculously expensive bill for her flight, so she didn't have any more reasons to decline. She hated traveling, and especially hated flying, but she hadn't seen her father in the two years since he had been assigned to Romania.
She only had two weeks between quarters, and this year was shaping up to be more stressful than she was prepared for. She was in her third year of medical school at Johns Hopkins University. Between lectures, labs, clerkship, and trying to study and prepare for all of the above, she was exhausted. Two weeks wasn't nearly enough to recuperate, and she would have much rather gone back home to Georgia to stay with her mom. She planned to spend a week with her father, giving her plenty of time to travel back and prepare to return to school.
Now she was going to have to deal with jet lag and her father's incessant questions. Usually about things she wasn't comfortable talking about with him. Her father was a good man, and he had always been good to her for the most part. But since her parents' divorce when she was twelve, and once she got into her teenage years, they stopped being able to interact. Conversations were forced and awkward and only seemed to happen when he wasn't up to his eyeballs in work.
The first boarding call was announced, and Brooke breathed a sigh of relief. She looked at her ticket; they were calling her section. She packed up her MacBook, made sure all of her chargers were packed away, and swung her carry-on bag over her shoulder as she started toward the terminal.
At least she was already through security, and her bags checked. She handed her ticket to the flight attendant, along with her ID and passport.
“Have a nice flight, Miss Kennedy.” The British flight attendant smiled sweetly.
She boarded the plane, and settled into her seat. At least this was the last leg of her journey from Baltimore to Bucharest, and it was only a three-hour flight. She pulled a textbook from her bag and put her earbuds in. Her musical companions Lana Del Rey and Tove Lo kept her company while she studied for the duration of the flight.
Three hours and fifteen minutes later, the pilot announced their descent into Henri Coandă International Airport. She had never been so glad to feel the plane's tires touch down on the runway, the bouncing of the plane confirming that she had made it safely. God, she hated flying. It made her so nervous, and she didn’t need more anxiety in her life.
She exited the plane, and started toward baggage claim when she saw a man dressed in a suit holding up a sign with her name on it. Of course, her father would send someone to pick her up from the airport rather than come himself.
She walked up to him, shifting her carry-on bag on her shoulders. “I'm Brooke Kennedy.”
The man smiled a tight, forced smile. “Miss Kennedy, your father sent me to pick you up. He's still at the Embassy but should be home by the time we reach his house.” He was Romanian, his accent thick and almost difficult to understand. “I have already arranged to have your bags collected.”
Wow. She was impressed with her father's new position already. “Thank you, Mr...”
“Petre, just call me Petre. I work for the Embassy.” He pulled a small leather bi-fold from his pocket and opened it, revealing a U.S. government-issued ID. She appreciated that he identified himself without her having to ask.
“Petre,” she repeated with a smile. “Call me Brooke, please.”
Petre smiled back, his stern features softening as he gave a single nod. “Brooke.” He turned and gestured toward the exit. “This way, please. You must be tired from traveling.”
God, if he only knew. Nearly 36 hours of hopping from one plane to the next was not something her body knew how to handle. She just hoped her father's guest room had a comfortable bed.
Petre opened the rear door of the black Town Car waiting for them at the curb while another man, who she assumed was another Embassy employee, loaded her luggage into the trunk.
The drive from the airport was made in silence on her part while she listened curiously to Petre converse with the other man in Romanian. It was a fascinating language, for sure. It seemed like a lot of Eastern European languages sounded similar—Russian, Ukrainian, Romanian, a lot of them were difficult to tell apart. Maybe she should learn a little, at least the basics.
She had no idea Bucharest was such a beautiful city; the architecture alone was breathtaking, and she was suddenly itching to go sightseeing. Perhaps her father would take her sometime during her visit, or she would find a way to do it alone.
They pulled up in front of a very nice townhouse in a beautiful neighborhood. Petre opened her door, and she got out of the car. The front door opened, and a short, stocky woman in
a housekeeper's uniform stood in the doorway. She waved at Petre, and the other man—whom she learned was Serghei, as they unloaded her luggage.
The housekeeper stood on the front step with her hands on her thick waist and a friendly smile on her face. “Welcome, Miss Kennedy!” She greeted Brooke happily, as she took her hand, and led her through the front door into the house.
“I'm Constanta, the housekeeper. It's such a pleasure to finally meet you! Your father has talked of nothing but your arrival for the past month.” Her accent was thick, like Petre's, but she was easier to understand. She was very friendly, warm, and matronly. Brooke liked her already.
Brooke looked around the lavish, but compact, foyer while Constanta continued to chatter on happily. The soles of her sneakers made quiet tapping sounds against the marble floor, audible even over Constanta's voice. From what she could tell, her father's house was beautiful. Not as big as she'd expected, it looked like an old building that had been updated and very well maintained. She took a deep breath; the warm, but slightly musty smell of polished wood filled her nose, somewhat offset by the sweet, clean smell of the fresh gardenias on the accent table in the foyer. The marble-tiled foyer led to a rich, dark hardwood floor, and a cherry wood staircase that led up to the second floor.
Constanta led her through the foyer into the formal living room. It seemed her father had his brown leather furniture shipped from the States when he moved here. She’d hated that furniture, it was hideous, but the rest of the room looked like someone with better taste had a hand in decorating it. A white brick fireplace was the centerpiece of the room. Brooke stepped closer, and examined the photos and knick-knacks lining the long, wide mantel. There were lots of photos, most of them of her. A picture of her father holding her as a toddler, a couple from her childhood, and her high school and college graduations completed the personal collection. There were also photos of her father shaking hands with some of the diplomats and foreign dignitaries that he had met, along with photos of him and Presidents Barack Obama and George W. Bush. No doubt, he displayed those with pride.
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