by Jack July
AMY LYNN:
GOLDEN ANGEL
Jack July
Copyright 2015 Jack July
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1508844372
ISBN 13: 9781508844372
Library of Congress Control Number: 2015904165
CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform
North Charleston, South Carolina
Cover art by Kia Heavey.
Cover Model information available upon request.
All requests and comments can be sent to [email protected] or friend and message me on Facebook at AuthorJackJuly
DEDICATION
Writing a Novel is probably the most difficult thing I have ever chosen to do. As with most things this demanding, it’s nearly impossible to do on your own. Many wonderful people stepped up to help me. Some I know personally, some I’ve only met on-line. Of course the first thing I do is thank my family, my wife Jennifer, daughters Grace and Carolyn and my biggest fan, my mom Carol. A man without his family is nothing. To the following people, I’m in your debt and I always pay my bills.
Kia Tsakos Heavey, author of Night Machines and Underlake
Michael Isenberg, one of the wisest men I know and author of Full Asylum
Robert Bertrand, one of three people on the planet that I call best friend
Empire of Jeff. host of The Empire of Jeff Newsletter and Bourbon-cast
Declan Finn, Author of Codename: Winterborn and the Pius Trilogy
Marina Fontaine, Founder of the Conservative Libertarian Fiction Alliance
Daria Anne DiGiovanni, Host of the Daria Anne Giovanni Radio Show and author of Watersigns.
Nicole Fain, Teacher, super cool chick and a mighty fine skydiver
Lilia Fabry, author of Ordinance 93
Odetta Dietz, Editor and the first person to tell me I was good enough to do this.
Sherry Grainger, Editor and long time compatriot at Ace of Spades HQ
Cedar Sanderson, author of Pixie Noir, Trickster Noir and other fine novels
Kathey Verduyn, BETA reader, Editor and a wonderful friend.
AMY LYNN:
GOLDEN ANGEL
By
Jack July
Edited by
Terrie Williams
CONTENTS
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
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
The Final Chapter
CHAPTER 1
November 4th, 1:30 P.M.
The baby wouldn’t stop screaming. Everything she could find out about colic pointed to one thing; only time would make it better. And Kristy wasn’t helping.
“Mommy, I’m hungry.”
“Not now honey,” she said, gritting her teeth. “Make yourself a PB&J.”
“I don’t want that. I want a grilled cheese.”
“I’m a little busy right now. You’ll have to wait.”
“But I’m hungry now.” Kristy’s whining voice began to stomp on her mother’s last frayed nerve.
Connie Wilson had wanted to go back to work after the birth of her son, Randall, but the cost of day care for her two children would have been more than she could earn. Her new title was Stay At Home Mom. Making it worse, eight-year-old Kristy wasn’t exactly thrilled to have a baby brother. She was used to being an only child, but those days were clearly over.
Kristy pulled at her shirt, “Mommy, Mommy.”
The nerve snapped. “Damn it, Kristy, I said wait!”
Kristy looked up at her mother, her eyes growing misty.
“Honey, why don’t you go to Sarah’s house and play? Please, for mommy, just go.” She hated the tone her own voice was taking, but she had to have some peace.
Kristy sniffed, tears welling in her eyes, but she put on her tennis shoes and jacket in the foyer, where they rested and hung on a bright-colored child-sized coatrack. Connie fought guilt as she watched her little girl’s fingers struggle with the oversized buttons. When she finished, Kristy hugged Connie’s leg. Shifting the whimpering baby to one hip, Connie bent down and kissed her on the top of the head. Kristy walked out the front door. As soon as Connie heard the screen door slam, she walked into the nursery and set the whimpering baby in his crib.
After a quick walk back to the kitchen, she reached up in the top of the cupboard and fished around for the well-hidden pack of Marlboro Menthols. On her way out the sliding glass door she reached into the empty flowerpot and retrieved a gardening glove with a suspicious yellow stain between the fingers. She used it to hide the smell on her hand from her bloodhound of a husband. Looking over her slightly unkempt garden, she packed the cigarettes down, the motion soothing, then pulled one out and slipped the glove on before lighting up.
With the first deep drag, smoke filled her lungs followed by a small buzz while her mind immediately calmed. It was five whole minutes of bliss that a nonsmoker like her husband could never understand.
Her blessed lack of thought was interrupted when she smelled the foul odor of the coal reaching the filter. Dropping the butt under her spreading rosebush, she buried it with the ashes so the evidence of her crime would go undetected. Inside the house, she was greeted by the thundering sound of silence. Randall was sound asleep, looking like a flush-cheeked angel in his crib.
Almost giddy, she wondered if she might take a nap. Then she saw Kristy’s artwork on the refrigerator. Guilt began to seep in. Taking care of the baby left her little time with her older child. With a heavy sigh she walked back into the kitchen. Digging around in the pantry she found the cereal and marshmallows she’d bought almost a week ago. A batch of Rice Krispy treats, or as they called them in her family, Rice Kristy treats, would be a good offering. They were Kristy’s favorites.
While her mother was smoking and attempting to patch her shredded nerves, Kristy was skipping down the side of the road headed for Sarah’s house. There were no sidewalks, but it hardly mattered in such a quiet neighborhood. It was a block to Westwood Road, and then she would take a left and walk the final block to Sarah’s. Alo
ng the street, real estate yard signs advertised the undeveloped wooded acreage on Westwood. Raw reddish earth seeped from some of the construction sites into the street, and Kristy kicked some of the gravel, making a game of seeing how far she could send a rock. Sarah’s house was visible at the end of the street.
Construction worker trucks and vans were a daily presence, so she didn’t think anything of the white van as it pulled up beside her.
The grinding squeak of the van door flying open got her attention. A bearded man leapt out. He was on her before she could react. She started to scream. A smelly rag smothered her face, fumes rising up her nose. The slamming of the van door was the last thing Kristy heard before the chloroform took effect.
That fast, Kristy Ann Wilson was gone.
November 13th 8:00 A.M.
From the tips of her shined pumps to the top of her perfectly coiffed head, President Elizabeth Louise North was dressed for her role as the most powerful person in the free world. She kissed her husband Mike and left the residence. “Good morning, Spock,” she said to the leader of her Secret Service detail.
Conrad Mason was like stone, never smiling and never raising his voice, which is why she nicknamed him Spock. “Ma’am,” he replied with a curt nod. He keyed his mike. “Polar Bear moving.”
As she crossed from the residence into the West Wing, her Chief of Staff Stephen Collier met her and began her morning brief. Overnight, the world had been relatively quiet for once, so it really was a brief. She greeted the rest of her staff as usual, with upbeat words and a dazzling smile. The mood of the entire White House fed off of her attitude. It was infectious. She checked herself in a strategically placed mirror one more time before she stepped into the Oval Office. There was a tiny lipstick smear left over from her earlier kiss. She dabbed it away, turned and with style and purpose, strode through the door.
Threat assessment was first. Today seemed a bit unusual. Secretary of Defense Grant Engel, Director of the CIA Tim Dotson and the Director of the FBI Conrad Murray were all there, but not the NSA.
“Gentlemen,” she said. “No NSA this morning?”
They looked at each other nervously. Grant said “The threat assessment hasn’t changed from yesterday. We have something to show you, but it’s bad. I have a transcript, actually a description of a DVD. I would like you to read it.”
She sighed quietly and said, “Just show me the DVD.”
Dotson, trying to be as forceful as he could get away with, said. “No Ma’am, you do not want to see this. I highly recommend you read the transcript.”
She started to say something but stopped when she saw their faces. These were tough, serious men not easily upset. Was it a beheading? She wondered to herself. Not that it mattered. She had to see this now, no matter how nightmarish it was. After all it was, as she constantly reminded people who instinctively and misguidedly tried to protect her, her job.
“Just play the DVD. I don’t have all day.”
Dotson looked at the floor shaking his head, “Yes Ma’am. Before we start, do you remember Otto Von Bruno?”
“Yes, German politician, I just sent Sec State to his funeral.”
“Do you know how he died?”
“If it wasn’t natural causes, I’m sure one of you would have told me.”
“His wife found him sitting in a chair, naked, in front of a television.” He pointed at Murray and said, “His wife found that DVD in the machine. He had ten more just like it.” Dotson looked over at Murray and said, “Go ahead Director.”
Conrad Murray nodded, tight-lipped. He inserted the DVD into the machine, picked up the remote and hit play. She glanced up to see the TV while reading something on her desk; she looked down again then quickly back up and froze. Her hand went up to cover her open mouth as she leaned back, almost like she was trying to get away from something. Murray stopped it and said, “I’ll fast forward it to the end.”
Murray restarted the DVD. Three minutes later President North drew a deep breath and made a sound she didn’t even recognize. Then Murray reached over and turned it off.
“I assume you’ve seen enough, Ma’am?”
President North nodded and sat without twitching a muscle. She stared at the blank screen for almost a full minute. She composed herself, turned to look at the men and with a combination of anger and disgust asked, “What in the hell was that?”
CHAPTER 2
November 18th 9:45 A.M.
Second Class Petty Officer Amy Braxton and her family boarded the plane for the flight home from Washington, DC. Amy’s injured knee was really starting to throb. Aunt Carla Jo had upgraded Amy, Carol, Granny and herself to first class so Amy would be able to stretch her long legs. Besides, Carla Jo didn’t fly coach, ever.
Unfortunately, her medication was in her checked luggage. The knee, coupled with cartilage in her ribs that still ached where the doctor had dug out shrapnel, was making her very uncomfortable.
Amy quickly understood the cortisone shot in her knee and the pain pills had lied to her. They made her believe her injuries were not that severe. A former high school state champion swimmer, she had gone to the hotel pool early that morning to swim some laps. It felt great while she was in the water. To her, exercise had always been therapeutic. It was a big mistake, and she was paying for it now.
The chartered 757 was packed. Congress had just ended a session and every congressman and senator along with his or her staff was trying to leave Washington for the holidays. Amy gingerly slid into her aisle seat, trying to get comfortable. Because of the crowding and in order to get that aisle seat, Amy was seated across the aisle from the rest of her family. She nodded politely to her seatmate. He grinned back at her like a wolf at a wounded fawn.
She watched him from the corner of her eye. His eyes moved down her body, lingering at her chest, then her lap and down her legs. Then the whole creepy show began all over again in reverse. I’m wearing camo, you idiot. There’s nothing to see she shouted in her own head. She closed her eyes and gave a little prayer Please Jesus make him stop, Please Jesus make him stop, Please Jesus make him stop. She slowly opened her right eye and looked. Nope. All she saw was those grinning teeth. I wonder if I can change seats she thought.
It was understandable that Congress’s minority whip, Al Jones, a Georgian, was more interested in her than a married man should have been. Even in her camouflage uniform she was a stunning woman. With her boots on she was easily over six feet tall. Her face was in perfect female symmetry while glowing with the unblemished innocence of childhood, a perfect mask for what lay beneath it. Shimmering strawberry blonde hair framed striking emerald green eyes. Years of weight training, running and swimming gave her the strength and speed reserved for only elite female athletes. Other than the natural curve of her hips, her hard work had given her the body of an NFL wide receiver. What the congressman didn’t realize was that her body wasn’t for show. She was a weapon, a very talented and lethal young woman.
Annoyed, she glanced across the aisle, where Aunt Carla Jo and Granny Patches were still getting settled. Dad, Uncle Jack and brother Joseph were seated just behind the first class bulkhead in business class. Her stepmom Carol was wrestling with her seat belt just in front of Granny Patches. At last, she motioned a flight attendant for an extension belt to fit over her seven-months pregnant belly.
At last the door was shut. Amy surreptitiously rubbed her knee, wishing the plane would just get on with it. Beside her, the congressman stuck out a hand. “It seems we’ll be stuck together ’til we get to Atlanta. I’m Congressman Al Jones.”
Amy half-smiled and nodded, ignoring the hand so she could rub her knee.
“I’d like to thank you and your fellow soldiers for everything you do to protect our nation. Although I have to say, I’ve never met a soldier as pretty as you.” He grinned again. It was clear he found himself very charming.
S
he tried to focus on the attendant in the front, who was explaining the use of an oxygen mask.
Congressman Jones kept trying to sweet talk Amy, “I’m known as a powerful man in both DC and Atlanta. There’s not a whole lot I couldn’t...” he dropped his voice a few decibels, leaned in and said, “or wouldn’t do for a woman like you.”
Amy took a deep breath trying to focus. She had yet to make it to the other side of enough but she could see it coming, fast. Finally, she decided to put a stop to it. She turned to him and gave him the only smile she had the will and sincerity to muster. “Look, sir, it’s nice to meet you, I’m sure you’re a great and powerful man and all, but I’m really tired. If you could just leave me in peace, I would be grateful.”
The Congressman, filled with his own sense of entitlement and self-importance, made two really bad decisions. First, he violated her personal space by leaning toward her. With his face six inches from hers the gagging odor of gin and cigar smoke was impossible to escape. Second, he snuck his hand to the inside of her thigh and stroked it ending with a squeeze to her knee — her bad knee.
Amy didn’t like strangers touching her ever.
Quick as a cobra, she snatched his hand from her knee. With a quick bend and a violent twist, she felt something pop and heard a muffled sound like a raw chicken drumstick being separated from the thigh. Amy shoved his hand back toward his own lap. Jones let out a scream, and all hell broke loose.
In the front row of first class, the Speaker of the House, Harrison Alder, and his two Secret Service agents were setting an example for Congress by flying commercial. Once Alder had started doing this, the hundreds of millions spent on private aviation for members of congress came to a stop. Dozens of aircraft were auctioned off after a former congresswoman-turned-reporter cataloged years of abuses. (It was another small step on the way to getting Congress to look and behave like the people they represented.)