Green Dreams

by Gary W Ritter

  Green Dreams

  A Novel of Suspense

  Green Liberation – Book 1

  Gary W. Ritter

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the author.

  Scripture quotations are taken from The ESV® Bible (The Holy Bible, English Standard Version), copyright© 2001 by Crossway, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

  Version 2020.4.17

  www.GaryRitter.com

  Give feedback on the book at my Author page:

  www.facebook.com/gritter3390

  Copyright © 2020 Gary W. Ritter

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 978-1710300901

  Books by Gary W. Ritter

  Available at Amazon.com

  NOVELS

  Green Liberation:

  Green Dreams

  Sons of God Chronicles:

  Alien Revelation

  Whirlwind Series:

  Sow the Wind

  Reap the Whirlwind

  There Is A Time

  Whirlwind Omnibus Box Set

  The Tattooed Cat

  SHORT STORY COLLECTIONS

  The Panic (Omnibus)

  The Panic

  Flying Dollars

  Spa Treatment

  Zapped! (Omnibus)

  Zapped!

  Wedding Day

  You Choose

  NON-FICTION

  Looking Up – Volume 3

  DEDICATION

  A life without Christ is empty and lost. That would certainly apply to me if Jesus hadn’t reached down into my sin and offered me the free gift of salvation found only in His atoning blood. Jesus Christ is my all in all!

  Because the Lord was gracious to me, He gave me my wife Dalia. With all that’s going on in my life, without her, I’d truly struggle.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Some of years ago when a number of us aspiring writers got together to critique each other’s work, one of my fellow scribes was Lee Williams, a retired agent from the IRS with the Criminal Investigation Division. Lee was gracious enough to give me a tour of their downtown offices and answer many of my questions. That time we spent together is the springboard for the protagonist in this book. I’m sure I have many details of life wrong as a CID special agent, but I greatly appreciate Lee’s input to this work and his service tracking down the bad guys.

  Because of the great work Geri Ungurean has done on her blog uncovering so many plans of our spiritual enemy, I want to thank her. She pointed me in the direction of the Georgia Guidestones, which are integral to this story and the next book planned in the series. That made all the difference as to how this book came together.

  Then God said, “Let us make man in our image, after our likeness. And let them have dominion over the fish of the sea and over the birds of the heavens and over the livestock and over all the earth and over every creeping thing that creeps on the earth.”

  So God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him; male and female he created them.

  And God blessed them. And God said to them, “Be fruitful and multiply and fill the earth and subdue it, and have dominion over the fish of the sea and over the birds of the heavens and over every living thing that moves on the earth.”

  —Genesis 1:26-28

  Chapter 1

  Winter

  Cheshire Cat blog - December 7

  Words don’t come easy today. My heart is heavy, and my mind keeps folding and bending, crumpling like discarded newspaper. Thoughts, usually linear and clear, zing outward at odd angles, and capturing them isn’t worth it.

  Regular readers know that my heart pumps ice water. You know me to dip my fingers in acid before applying them to the keyboard. You’ve come to expect nothing less than clear-eyed, thought-provoking analysis and reporting. What could cause such transformation from one such as me? What could possibly have laid me so low?

  The “anniversary” commemorating the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor? No, although it certainly gives me pause, even in the midst of continuing world fanaticism.

  Shock. Brutality. Fervor toward an alien cause. Recalling that day of infamy in 1941 could certainly depress a memory traveler.

  But that’s not my style. World events impact me but don’t affect my emotional stability.

  I’ve got a different reason for my foul mood.

  It’s my daughter’s birthday.

  Strange event to bring me down, eh? I’ll bet you didn’t know I had a daughter, did you? Well, I haven’t for eight years, not since she turned eleven. The day after that, she was gone.

  It’s been a long time, yet I remember her laughter. I remember her love of furry little creatures. She had a baby rabbit once that she cuddled to distraction. I remember how I used to hold my daughter, how soft and warm she felt, like that bunny. Now I only hold her in my dreams.

  Birthdays were always special. The passing of another year. An inch, maybe two or three, taller. Greater maturity. The turning of a mind full of mush into one with ideas and yearnings.

  A birthday was a day of celebration. A day of reckoning. A day of challenge and optimism, one where we’d look forward to the next year with anticipation and eagerness that only youth can bring.

  I can’t stand it. Nothing remains. Bile drips from my tongue today as I say the words: Happy Birthday, Marcy.

  Posted by Smiley at 8:29 AM. - Comments [3]

  #1 What is this? It isn’t like you at all. If it was the Pearl Harbor thing that was getting you down, you’d at least analyze the attack and give us context. Don’t just drop this on us and leave us wondering.

  - Keith

  #2 I sure as heck hope you don’t keep up this maudlin baloney. You’re right, I expect hard-edged assessment from you. If I wanted to read somebody’s diary, I’d be hitting a whole different set of blogs. Get on with your work. It’s important.

  - Mark

  #3 It’s okay, Smiley. We all have moments like these. You’re only human. A person without feelings couldn’t do what you do. Not everyone can expose the repulsive nature of humanity, and never experience regret, sadness, or an aching heart for one loved and lost. I’m glad you’ve revealed this side of yourself. Warmly.

  - Emily

  Chapter 2

  Cheshire Cat blog - December 9

  Flash! Superb police work has led authorities to a remote farmhouse in downstate Illinois, where a scumbag couple has been holding a child abducted more than five months ago. The recovery was aided by citizen involvement spurred by an Amber Alert. A sharp-eyed elderly neighbor in the rural community noticed the child peering through an upstairs window. Because the school bus never stopped there, the woman became suspicious. She notified the local sheriff who investigated and came away with a win in spades. The couple has a history of child abuse—they were stripped of their own children within the last three years. It was proven these “parents” kept their kids locked in the basement and regularly administered beatings. A lenient judge let them escape from a prison sentence with a warning, saying, “Raising children is a tough job. Anyone can make a mistake.” Fortunately, he didn’t go so far as to allow them further custody. However, following that, the couple abducted little Kimberly Malone from her school, where she was waiting for her mother after class. Thankfully, Kimberly and her parents are today reunited.

  ***

 
The latest FBI figures released today show child abductions rose seven percent year over year for the latest reporting period available, and fewer missing children are being found. How is this possible? There are more missing children organizations than ever before. They feed copious leads to law enforcement. The computerized tools now in use are phenomenal. Surveillance cameras are everywhere. You’d think the kids would show up in them. Young faces can be aged in a million different ways. Pictures of the people last seen with these kids can be altered for every facial change, from growing a mustache to extreme plastic surgery. Why is it that even the babysitters can’t be located? Why are there so few success stories like that of Kimberly Malone? These kids just vanish into thin air. Where are they? Why does God allow this? Something’s going on, and I don’t like the smell of it.

  Posted by Smiley at 3:46 PM. - Comments [2]

  #1 Good news about the kid, but I agree that serious things are going down. Black helicopters, man, I’m telling you – they’re behind it all. Physician heal thyself?

  - Jacko

  #2 I have to make this quick. I’m one of those babysitters who disappeared with her charges. I don’t know where we are. There’s more going on here than anyone…

  - (no name)

  Chapter 3

  Standing at the edge of the crowd, Jason Ruger caught fragments of conversation despite his best efforts not to hear.

  “…cigarettes in New York…interstate transport…”

  “…making a ton on Internet gambling…”

  “…still money to be made running booze…”

  Jason felt his most awkward at these family occasions. Knowing what he did about his relatives’ activities, and given his particular station in life, he could make one phone call and most of those at this Christmas party would end up in jail within the hour. No, that wasn’t quite true. His family was exceedingly careful outside these closed gatherings. They appeared to be normal, successful business people who ran restaurants, dry cleaners, vending machine companies, and liquor stores. Amazing as it seemed, their reputations were spotless. In one way or another, through the use of front companies to hide illegal activities, they’d avoided criminal records. Of course, this meant that many a policeman had been on the take over the years, but it had worked. That phone call, Jason knew, would result in lengthy investigations with no guaranteed outcome. Hardly worth it, especially given that they were family.

  Jason’s discomfort wasn’t the worst aspect of these yearly rituals. Besides guilt at not doing the duty he’d sworn to uphold, namely to pursue and apprehend the very type of people his family represented, he knew that if his employers at the G ever learned of his blind eye, the freedom he enjoyed would be quickly stripped. At the very least, he’d lose his job, and more than likely be incarcerated. Jason was an accessory to the crimes the family committed, as much an enabler as any of their stooges. His knowledge and his sense of duty had conflicted him from day one, something he hadn’t anticipated when making his career choice.

  “Mom, I don’t know how much more of this I can take.” Jason had lost the balance of the Southern twang he’d left home with. Now, most people had to listen hard for the slight burr of accent if they knew his roots and wanted to catch the inflection. He was over six feet tall with short dark hair and hardened from years of physical training.

  His mother, pushing seventy, had lost none of her accent. “Son, I know it’s hard for you being in the midst of all of us. Must be like visiting the devil’s own whorehouse. You just got to be tolerant and grit your teeth. You’ll be leaving soon enough; then you won’t have to put up with it for another year.”

  “I don’t like what I see or hear. They may be uncomfortable with me around, but they flaunt what they do anyway. I’ve let it go so long they think they’re immune. I’m a federal agent, Mom, and I feel like a traitor. I’m sworn to investigate and prosecute people like this.”

  “Who would you be a traitor to if you arrested your brother or Uncle Charley or your pa?” Her hand swept the crowd in the room and jabbed toward each person she’d named. Mannheim Steamroller’s Christmas jazz rendition of Little Drummer Boy swelled from the speakers. Its snappy beat and rising crescendo provided good cover for their conversation.

  Jason turned away. The bitter truth, which he well knew, was that he’d be traitor to himself. “I’m going to get another drink. You want one, Mom?”

  She shook her head and winked, a slight smile pulling her lips upward. “You go ahead. It’s okay to enjoy yourself. Don’t take this so hard—so personally.”

  “Yeah, right.” He patted her arm, feeling the fragility under the sleeve of her blouse where once there’d been steel, and made his way through the clusters of animated merrymakers.

  As a slight undercurrent to the babble of voices around him, he heard a familiar clicking sound.

  “Hey, Jason.” The words were slurred. He felt beefy fingers dig into his bicep and squeeze flesh and muscle to the bone. With an effort, he resisted wincing and giving his brother the satisfaction of seeing the hurt. Instead, Jason came around and, with his unfettered hand, accidentally knocked the glass of gin that Rick was holding. The liquid sloshed over the edges and spilled onto his tormentor’s shirt and pants.

  “Oh, Rick, I’m really sorry,” Jason said. “Why don’t you let go of me, and you can leave to clean that up?”

  Rick—a name his brother hated because of the alliterative nature of first and surname, Rick Ruger—was several inches shorter than Jason, squat and running to fat, but he’d always been strong and powerful, even as a child. In spite of this, he’d envied Jason’s grace and athleticism, making Jason pay for that advantage in life in whatever ways he could.

  Rick scowled as he wiped at the stain with his free hand, then stuck it in his jeans pocket to fiddle with the three cats-eye marbles he always carried. They clicked together in the nervous energy he expended on this persistent habit. “Listen you SOB, you think you’re so much better’n us. Goin’ ‘round with airs that jus’ ‘cuz you’re with the I-R-S you can forget your family and your roots. Screw you.”

  Jason took a step back. Hatred and rage transformed the man’s face. It had always been this way. Three years older, his brother had fallen right into line with family ambitions, but he’d been resentful from the beginning of Jason’s independence. Rick had done more than all right for himself in whatever illicit activities he’d been involved with—Jason didn’t want to know what—but the enmity of an older brother who’d repeatedly bullied his younger sibling remained.

  “Did you have something you wanted to say? If not, I was going to get a drink.” Jason started to move away.

  Again, those strong fingers gripped him. Rick strained upward on his toes to bring his face an inch from Jason’s. The smell of juniper berries was overpowering, and Jason had never liked gin. “Yeah. I wanted you to know. You’re gonna get your comeuppance real soon.” One of his brother’s eyes closed in an exaggerated, obscene wink.

  Jason pulled away. “Thanks for the tip, Rick. Why don’t you go find a bed and sleep it off? It’s already late for you.”

  “Loser.” Rick staggered away, and with a sigh Jason continued in the direction of the bar.

  ***

  The significance, let alone the scorn and notoriety often attributed to the Ruger surname that Jason and his family had been blessed with, wasn’t lost on him. Anti-gun zealots throughout his life had immediately sneered upon introduction, given their propensity to link any gun related name or item to mass murders and child killers. Some gun haters had gotten to the point in wanting to ban the word “gun” itself from school spelling tests. One Canadian parent tried with the rationale that, “The word gun is synonymous with death. I'm racking my brain trying to figure out why a seven-year-old would need to learn this word." In Jason’s worldview, that sort of nonsense bordered on the ridiculous. The name-blame-game wasn’t one that Jason would ever win, nor did he wish to try.

  His father claimed their f
amily were distant relatives of the legendary firearm clan, and Jason wore the name with pride. In fact, he liked guns and believed they had their purpose and place in society. He’d read once, and thoroughly believed, that even if all firearms were completely destroyed, man would find a way to commit horrific crimes. Guns were simply a tool, one of many. The United Kingdom, of late, had been a proving ground for this. Guns were outlawed, so outlaws used knives. Recently, the suggestion had been made among Britain’s legislators that they should ban knives with sharp points.

  Jason’s close identification with his name had, in the end, guided his ultimate career choice. While growing up in rural North Carolina, there was no doubt he would choose a profession in which he would actually carry his namesake. Which side of the law he’d land on was a major issue. His family had fought Prohibition in the 1920s by becoming moonshiners. Because of their continued involvement to this day in various illicit activities, they lobbied him hard for the dark side. When Jason swerved in the opposite direction, many of his relatives became distinctly uncomfortable. Family business is family business, after all, and participative loyalty is paramount.

  Once Jason decided to enter law enforcement, his next choice disconcerted family members even more. The branch of government he went into really got them grumbling and looking over their shoulders. They had a long aversion to paying taxes, loved slipping through loopholes, and made a fine living doing so. It was a way of life fostered through many generations. The lifestyle had its challenges and its rewards. The royalties received through ill-gotten gain had filled the family coffers to the brim. Contending with agents of the federal bureaucracy certainly brought them no pleasure.