Release (The Alliance Chronicles Book 3) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Release

  Copyright

  Also by SF Benson

  Dedication

  Prologue

  FUSE LIT

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  DETONATION

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  FLYING APART

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  AFTERMATH

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Epilogue

  Read on…

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2017 by Avanturine Press, LLC.

  All rights reserved worldwide.

  Published January 12, 2017

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the express written permission of the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of this author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design by Regina Wamba

  Editing by Maria Pease

  Formatting by Cover Me Darling/Athena Interior Book Design

  For more information about this book and the author visit:

  www.authorsfbenson.com

  Also by SF Benson

  THE ALLIANCE CHRONICLES SERIES

  REGRESS (#1) — Available Now!

  RESCUE (#2) — Available Now!

  RELEASE (#3) — Available Now!

  REBEL (#4) — August 2017

  To All Those Who’ve Ever Loved

  and Lost

  Prologue

  November 2025: North Woods, Michigan

  “Ko.”

  I’ve been pursuing this girl for the past year—part mission and part longing. Koko Castaneda’s ambition and feistiness turned off most men. It’s had the opposite effect on me, drawing me to her despite the fact I’d suffer dire consequences. I’m no fool, though. I know why I want her in my life and why it can’t happen.

  Her dark eyes hold me. She wants answers, and I want to give them. I turn my back to her and check the empty room for surveillance equipment. We need a conversation and preferably without witnesses.

  The absence of listening devices doesn’t sit well with me. I punch a series of buttons on a wall panel and a retro tune, Van Morrison’s Into the Mystic, fills the quiet spaces. I blow air out of my mouth. Confession might be good for the soul, but this won’t bring absolution. No. It could bring just the opposite—judgment and condemnation.

  “Asher, what’s wrong?” Ko frowns. They’re the first words she’s spoken to me since we came to this side of the compound.

  “Ever think about how words can be like weapons?” I pause for a beat, waiting for her response. She remains silent. “In the wrong hands, mine could condemn me. I need to know if I can, like…uh… trust you, Ko.”

  Her eyes turn cold. Ko’s tight expression and crossed arms let me know I’m already on treacherous grounds. “Asher, if you’re a traitor, I’m better off not knowing.”

  Laughter bursts out before I can stop it. I shake my head. It’s not the first time I’ve been called a traitor. “Trust me, sunshine. I’m not a traitor. What I am is a private man. I’ve learned it’s not wise to trust everybody.”

  She unfolds her arms and leans forward, interest replacing the coldness in her eyes. “So why tell me anything, Ash? Why now?”

  The words stick in my throat. Because I’m feeling guilty. Because I want a life I can’t have. Because I want…. you.

  I scrub a hand across my face and sigh heavily. “Because it’s time, Ko. You need to understand, like, where I’m coming from.”

  “Citizens, it’s time to get yo’ freedom.

  It don’t matter whether you’re pure or mixed.

  Yo’ life can’t be compromised.”

  —from “I Can Dream” by Ice Pimp

  April 2018: Taylor, Michigan

  Something brewed deep in the heart of America. Something ugly and twisted and without a doubt, wrong. It poised the nation for an unavoidable dismantling. A small snag in the patriotic fabric engulfed every household—big and small, rich and poor. Inactive politicians made citizens restless. Inaction resigned the country to a desperate situation—tons of homeless, unemployed, starving citizens with no one willing to help them.

  But it was 2018 and I was thirteen years old. The only thought on my mind was Cindy Miller. We met the same day her family moved into the neighborhood. The Millers came from Columbus, Ohio—home to the Ohio State University. It was there in big bold letters on their car's license plate for the whole world to see.

  I was no stranger to the massive rivalry between Michigan and Ohio State. That damn license plate was like a challenge. I strolled over to the moving van ready with a smart-assed comment, but I got more than I bargained for.

  The first thing that greeted me was curly red hair and a smile to die for struggling with a rather large box. A pair of baby blue eyes dragged me under, and I didn’t want to come up for air. I grabbed the box from the van just to be close to her. It's been that way, me doing whatever to be with Cindy, ever since.

  My brother, Shiloh, started seeing Cindy's sister, Ruby, right after the Millers moved in. I guess you could say we kept it all in the family. Whenever Shiloh and Ruby hung out, so did Cindy and I. I'd never met anyone like her. She loved poetry, music from the eighties, and basketball. A girl who loved sports… I’d hit the jackpot.

  We’d sit in the Miller’s basement placing nickel bets on games. When Michigan and Ohio State played, the stakes raised to quarter bets. Then one day, Cindy really upped the ante.

  I still remember that Saturday. The tension between us had become unbearable. We hadn't done anything beyond sitting close on the couch, our shoulders or limbs accidentally touching.

  This time was different. Twisting a lock of hair around her finger, Cindy pouted. “Uh…this is a little embarrassing.”

  “Whenever Michigan plays Ohio, it’s embarrassing,” I quipped.

  “Not what I meant.” She batted her long eyelashes. “I don’t have any money on me.”

  I moved closer, dropping my arm along the back of the couch. “You, like, owe me.”

  “Maybe there’s something else I can pay with?”

  Wrong words to say to a boy hitting puberty. I swallowed hard. This was going to be my first real kiss, but I was game.

  Cindy closed her eyes and puckered her pretty pink lips. I wasn’t judging. My lips brushed hers. She shocked me by crushing my lips and slipping her tongue into my mouth. Damn, the girl could kiss.

  Little Miss Cindy, a year older than me, taught me a whole lot that year. Like how one girl could be a boy’s best friend and his girlfriend. When I didn’t have my hands on her, we talked about everything—school, our hopes and dreams, music, sports (of course), and even the state of the world.

  One of our favorite places to hang out was the Taylo
r Twist ice cream parlor on Eureka Road. It was a family-friendly place with the best sundaes in town.

  Cindy ordered her usual brownie sundae with a scoop of mint chocolate chip ice cream and extra whipped cream. I was happy with a double scoop of Superman—blue, red, and yellow ice cream. Taylor Twist’s version came in blueberry, cherry, and banana flavors. We took our orders to one of the plain brown tables in a corner.

  My multi-colored ice cream melted over my fingers while I watched Cindy. Her tongue swirled around the spoon licking off the creamy mixture. She plunged the spoon back into the bowl. This time she stuck the whole thing in her mouth and sucked it off slowly.

  I gulped, wanting to trade places with the spoon.

  Cindy’s pretty lips lifted into a smile. “If you planned on watching me eat, why’d you order anything?”

  Her words brought me back to reality. I grabbed a stack of napkins and cleaned up the mess I made. “Yeah. Looks like you’re enjoying your ice cream.”

  “Nope.”

  “No?” I was confused.

  “I’m enjoying the expression on your face. Want some?” Cindy held the spoon out for me.

  Hell, yeah. But what I wanted didn’t come on a spoon. So, I lied and tried not to notice the boner her little display gave me. “Naw. I’m good.”

  “I bet you are,” she teased. Cindy closed her eyes, putting a scoop of ice cream on her tongue. Her lips opened and closed around the spoon. She gave a little moan.

  I didn’t know if she was doing it on purpose, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away. As her sundae disappeared, so did my resolve. If I got this wrong, I was going to die.

  Cindy’s eyes opened, and she stared straight at me. Her fingers disappeared into her perfectly wicked mouth. Slowly, she licked off the ice cream.

  I gulped. My head felt light. “You’re bad,” I whispered.

  She winked at me. “Care to find out?”

  I focused on my ice cream cone. It wasn’t an unusual conversation for us. The more time we spent together, the more we teased and tempted each other.

  It was fair to say my life was good. I had everything I needed. Little did I know that would all soon change.

  “They can’t take yo’ freedom ‘cause we ain’t free.

  Got to earn everything we get.

  It’s not taught in schools,

  ‘Fraid we’ll learn the truth.”

  —from “I Can Dream” by Ice Pimp, 2018

  Saturday mornings, our family had breakfast at the house of Edward and Bernice Jones, my grandparents. Meals with them always became a test of patience due to their firm, archaic beliefs.

  My paternal grandfather believed part of the problem in the country was the disappearing Purebred demographic, which we belonged to. America’s melting pot ran over with multi-ethnicities, Hybrids. Radicals used the distasteful term as they pushed their rhetoric that Hybrids were taking over the country.

  Grandpa was a good man with good intentions. He took care of his family, kept up his property, and reported to work every day without fail. Unfortunately, his intentions, good or otherwise, were better suited for 1950.

  Grandma and Grandpa weren’t alone in their retro attitudes. My parents, Becky and Bobby, embraced the “simpler” life of the seventies. They met at Berkeley, married, and started a family in Redondo Beach, California. A year ago, we moved to Taylor, Michigan, a few miles away from our grandparents.

  Ever since I spoke my first word, I called my parents by their first names. My grandparents weren’t crazy with the notion. They believed children shouldn’t be on a first name basis with parents.

  One Saturday stuck out, though. My mother had errands to run, and Shiloh was MIA. It was just my father and me with my grandparents.

  Grandpa set the morning paper on the kitchen table with more force than necessary. “I don’t care what these damned reporters say. They want to blame Washington for every single problem. Ask me, it’s all these Hybrids taking over the country. We missed a chance two years ago to put the right man in office. Now we’re going straight to hell on one of those damned hovercrafts thanks to someone without an ounce of experience.”

  Grandma Bernice eyed her spouse of fifty years. A sad smile crossed her face. How on earth did she manage to marry Grandpa? The man was racist, bigoted, and chauvinistic. At one time, Grandma told me she loved him despite those things. She muttered something under her breath and returned to washing dishes.

  Grandpa picked up his coffee cup and looked across the table at my father. “Son, did your barber leave town?”

  Bobby ran a hand over his shoulder-length wavy blond hair. “Drop it, Dad.”

  “Last time I checked, your birth certificate said you were a boy, not a girl. You look like an extra from a Jesus-revival show.”

  I put my hand over my mouth to stifle the laugh.

  Bobby gave me a frosty look, and I hung my head.

  He ignored Grandpa. It did no good to acknowledge his belittling comments. They were as regular as the sun rising each morning.

  “Dad, you need to step out of your bubble and see the big picture. People are miserable in this country. They can’t find work.”

  Grandpa took a sip of coffee. “They could find work if they wanted it. Hybrids want nothing but a damn hand out. Speaking of work, when are you going to stop giving away your time?” he asked, referring to my father’s job as a court-appointed lawyer. It was a low-paying position helping those who couldn’t afford legal representation.

  “Dad, I’m helping people. It doesn’t matter how much money I earn.”

  Bobby stole a glance at Grandma who merely lifted her shoulder in a half-shrug. According to her, women supported their husbands and did not provoked them to anger. She’d agree with everything Grandpa said as long as he was within earshot.

  Grandpa averted his gaze and said, “Keep seeing the world through those rose-colored glasses, and you’re gonna need someone bailing you out.”

  Bobby’s brows pulled together. “If our country’s politicians would do the right thing, people wouldn’t need help.”

  Grandpa eyed my father over the top of the cup. “You still blaming the government?”

  “Who else should I blame?” Bobby dropped his fork. Eggs splattered across the plate. He pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled. “They’re too busy stonewalling to even pass a budget. We haven’t had one in this country in over a year.”

  “No excuse, Robert. People have to pull themselves up and work harder. We did it during the Great Recession.” He put his cup down and tapped the side of it with a spoon. My grandmother scurried to his side, refilling it without delay. She added the proper amount of sugar and creamer and placed it underneath his waiting hand.

  “And do what? There aren’t any jobs for them, Dad.” Bobby’s face turned crimson. He hated discussing social issues with Grandpa. Their regular battle was the only thing normal that Saturday.

  Thoughts of Shiloh dragged my focus from Grandpa and Bobby. My brother departed at sunrise. All he said was he had business downtown. Random acts of violence kept many citizens away from downtown Detroit. Shiloh assured me that Hybrids were the only ones under attack. Needless to say, his sentiment didn’t make me feel better.

  Bobby’s cell phone buzzing provided a much-needed intermission from my worries. His eyes lit up, and a smile danced on his lips. No one pulled that response from him but my mother.

  In a matter of seconds, his expression headed south.

  “What’s wrong, Becks?”

  We waited for the news.

  Bobby disconnected the call. He spoke at the air rather than making eye contact with us. “It’s Shiloh. Becky wants us all to come to the house.”

  Whatever Shiloh needed to tell us must have been serious. I cast a brief look at my father. His gaze darted from point to point. At every stoplight, Bobby rubbed his neck or bit his nails. He gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles whitened. Not once did he look in my direction, though. It was like he
wanted to keep his concerns from me.

  Frankly, the situation scared me. I didn’t know what to think. Shiloh didn’t explain to me what type of business he had downtown. All I knew was running errands didn’t require a dress shirt and slacks.

  I stole another glance at Bobby and noticed the dark circles under his eyes. The man who believed life was too brief for seriousness all the time disappeared. In his place sat an older troubled man plagued by fatigue and other things I couldn’t decipher.

  “Bobby?”

  “Yeah, son?”

  “Did Becky, like, say anything about what Shiloh wanted to tell us?”

  Bobby forced a smile on his face. “Nope. She said it was important. Guess we’ll find out soon.” He parked his SUV in the driveway.

  As I opened the car door, I got the feeling the carefree life we led would end soon. Becky and Bobby’s insistence on living a life free of restraints is how I made my appearance in this world. Eight years and then one day…oops. Before my birth, Shiloh got tons of attention.

  My family gathered in our living room—my parents stood side by side, and I flopped onto one of the bean bags. Our home was a tribute to the seventies thanks to items found at flea markets. Although we found it comfortable, Grandpa said it was a showcase for poverty.

  “What’s going on here, Rebecca?” Grandpa burst into the room with Grandma, wearing her usual dress and plain heels, teetering after him.