Rescue (The Alliance Chronicles Book 2) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Rescue

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Glossary

  Finding North

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Rescue: The Alliance Chronicles Book Two

  By SF Benson

  Copyright © 2016 by Avanturine Press, LLC.

  All rights reserved worldwide.

  Published August 8 2016

  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

  To My Tribe—

  You Know Who You Are

  “Citizens help the New Order find and eliminate terrorist agitators!

  The keys to spotting traitors of the American Republic:

  Traitors don’t support Inoculation Day,

  …doubt the Government,

  …don’t watch AR news streams,

  …talk of Alliance,

  …avoid mandated educational questionnaires.

  Traitors don’t support Riza.

  Don’t be caught supporting a traitor! Be a loyal citizen. Report any and all suspected traitors.”

  —A communiqué from the Bureau of Homeland Protection

  Zared

  I saved a life and took a life in a matter of seconds.

  Watching the Canadian medics wheel Ko away, I know she’ll be fine, thanks to me. Another set of medics claims my father’s body. Also my fault. I did the right thing. He would have killed Ko and anyone else who got in his way.

  But my father’s blood staining my hands is a stark reality I have to face. Children don’t kill their parents. We’re supposed to love and cherish them. Yet, parents shouldn’t incite their children to commit murder. Perhaps I could have overlooked his faults. I search my memory trying to latch on to the good times we shared, but the vault’s dry.

  My father abandoned me years ago.

  Still, I wanted to forgive him. All I needed was one reason, any excuse would have worked. I wasn’t picky. I needed to know why he discarded me when I needed him the most. Now, I’ll never know.

  “Aoki, we need to talk.” The loud, acidic voice cuts through the silence. Malcolm slithers his way across the floor. I have no desire to go up against the former rapper turned activist. I need time to myself to accept what I’ve done.

  “Can it wait?” I croak.

  “I need a status report,” he blasts back. The man once known as the Ice Pimp crosses his arms, staring me down with intense, eerie blue eyes.

  “I need to deal with what happened,” I say absently, pushing the hair off my forehead. A slight tremor quakes through my body followed by a trail of sweat etching its way down my spine. The tremor morphs into a fully charged piston. Its incessant revving urges my feet toward the door. Either time needs to speed up, or Malcolm needs to shut up.

  “We ‘preciate what you did for the cause.”

  I bristle at Malcolm’s callousness. Jabbing a finger, I snap. “It wasn’t about the damn cause. It was self-preservation. Don’t you get it?”

  Malcolm’s face tightens, insubordination on my part. For once, I didn’t care about the repercussions. What I’d done mattered more than a status report or this militant’s battle.

  “I killed my FATHER! It was him or me.”

  Malcolm sneers. “What would you like me to do? Throw you a goddamned party? Get over yo’self. You had a job to do. You did it. End of story.”

  The arrogant-ass prick doesn’t get it. Killing my father, killing anyone, wasn’t the job. Damn it, I loved my father. At one point in my life, I’m sure, the man loved me. I know he did. I believe he did. I hope he did.

  I need time to handle my loss and the person I’ve become…a murderer. Reality sucker punches me. I’ve been a lot of things in my life—son, boyfriend, liar, cheat. But never a murderer.

  One person understands me. Tru. I need my girl.

  “I’ve got to get out of here.” I rush for the exit.

  Malcolm blocks my path. “I need the report.”

  I stare up at him. He juts his chin, squints, and a hard smile crosses his face. Damn! I’m a complete idiot. This ass played me. My fingers clench.

  “You planned this,” I accuse.

  “And you carried it out. Mission complete.” His cold eyes mock me.

  Unbelievable. Malcolm wasn’t man enough to do the job himself, so he set me up. Who the hell does that?

  I reach for my gun. It’s not in my waistband. The glint of steel catches my eye from the floor.

  Malcolm follows my line of sight. “You’re not that stupid, Aoki.”

  He’s right, I concede. But it doesn’t stop me from wanting to rip his heart out with my bare hands. His death, however, serves no purpose. My father will still be dead, and I’ll be a punching bag for Riza. Bastards like him cause their own demise. I storm past Malcolm. His joyless laughter is the backdrop to my hurried steps.

  A few Alliance mercenaries stand around outside the building. I approach a sturdy soldier in tan camo fatigues. The name on his shirt pocket reads Niang, a Purebred from Senegal.

  He salutes. I return the gesture. “Aoki.”

  “Private Niang, sir.” His French-accented voice booms from his body. Definitely not native to the American Republic.

  “Don’t have to be so formal. No rank here. Did you take someone to an Ubernet café today?”

  Niang frowns. “No, but I know where it is. I can take you there.”


  “Good. Let’s go.” I hop into the passenger seat, lean back, and close my eyes. The image of my father’s inanimate body surrounded by his own blood invades my thoughts and causes bile to rise up in my throat.

  “Pull over, now!”

  As soon as Niang stops the vehicle, I jump out, spilling my guts across the cracked asphalt. Reality kicks my ass. The gun blast and the image of my father crumpling to the ground loop in my mind.

  My God, I killed him.

  With my own hands, I ended my father’s life. Yes, I saved Ko and prevented more bloodshed. But it didn’t change the fact I killed my own flesh and blood.

  Squeezing my eyes shut, I attempt to mourn for him. To ask God for forgiveness. Memories of the suffering and heartache I endured because of my father’s abandonment blur the lines of grief. His involvement with the New Order crushes any shred of remorse left in my heart.

  With final resolve, I rest my trembling body against the Jeep. Where will my father’s soul find its resting place? With all the havoc he caused on Earth, I hope he owned a pair of asbestos-lined boots.

  “Sir?” Niang’s voice, like the peal of shattered glass, interrupts my thoughts.

  I scrape my hand down my pants leg before wiping my mouth and climb back into the vehicle. “I’m ready.”

  My life hasn’t been easy. The green kid who stared at a pretty girl across the school yard years ago no longer exists. Life on the streets hardened me, corrupted my youth, and left behind a guy who’s discovering not everyone has my best interests at heart.

  Working for the Alliance wasn’t something I could avoid. My options were clear-cut: join the cause and help in any way requested or face punishment for a crime I didn’t commit. I disagreed, but lost the war of words.

  Malcolm’s possession of a video showing a different altercation sealed my fate and guaranteed my cooperation. If anyone had to die today, it should have been the cold-hearted Hybrid.

  Trust. It’s not something one does living on the streets of New Detroit. New perils present themselves daily. Deviants, hanging out on corners waiting for guys like me, want to play cat and mouse games. Survival requires being smarter.

  Joining the Alliance kept me alive. In doing so, I merely exchanged a familiar predator for a craftier, secretive one.

  It’s time to take back control of my life.

  Niang stops the vehicle in front of a red-brick storefront. I pull out my phone and call Tru. Straight to voicemail. I exit the vehicle, hoping Tru waits inside the café.

  Countertop computers line the perimeter of the small colorful room. Multicolored armchairs and small tables occupy one side. A separate desk, next to a small server, is in the rear. A woman with a blonde, boxy haircut emerges from a back room. Her brilliant blue-green eyes are like splotches of paint on a billboard. I used to go for her type—nice assets.

  “Can I help you?” The woman’s detached voice startles me.

  “I’m looking for a girl.”

  “Wrong place. No soliciting here.” She moves away from me.

  “This is important.” I clasp her elbow. “She was here earlier.”

  The woman shrugs half-heartedly. “I don’t keep track of customers.”

  Her lack of a harsher response astounds me. Most females would deck a guy invading their space the way I did. My gesture didn’t even illicit a curt look. Where’s the emotion in this woman? Is she on something?

  “My girlfriend’s about five seven… dark, wavy hair. Oh, and she’s a Hybrid.” The words tumble from my mouth. I have to hurry. Tru might be in danger.

  The woman ambles to a counter. She takes out a wrinkled slip of paper, scribbles something, and passes it to me before retreating to the back room. A local address on Windsor Avenue is scrawled across a receipt. Underneath it is a brief message:

  “Go to the address and I’ll explain everything.”

  My mind goes to the worst case scenario. Did this woman do something to Tru? Maybe she’s holding her hostage in exchange for… for what? Speculation won’t answer my questions. My gut tells me something awful happened to Tru. I hope she’s at the address.

  “The betterment of mankind is what we all want, but the United Nations is blocking that desire. An obsessive concern with equality is preventing freedom from disease, illness, and heart-wrenching physical disabilities. It’s time to call for an end to the UN’s ban.”

  —Jacob C. Venter, Leader, American Republic

  Zared

  After much discussion, I finally convince Niang to drive me to the address. He pulls the Jeep in front of a white brick high-rise building near the water. The brisk snap of Canadian air moves across the surface. It’s a comforting contrast to the landscape back in New Detroit.

  The woman from the café stands outside the entrance. Niang drives off, and I reluctantly follow her through a sparsely decorated, sunny lobby and into an elevator.

  My muscles twitch when she pushes the button labeled PH. I remember the ill-functioning elevator in Tru’s building. On any day that the power grid’s at less than full capacity, it ceases to work. The most reliable elevators are on New Belle Isle, a place I have no desire to revisit. It appears Canadians live better than those of us in the AR.

  The doors re-open to a spacious open floor plan apartment. After the elevator doors close, the woman presses a series of buttons on a panel embedded in the wall.

  “Where are we?” I say awestruck. The upscale décor, all leather and chrome, is surprising.

  “Have a seat.” She gestures toward a dark brown leather sofa. “I’ll be back.”

  A raw sexiness radiates from her as she sashays down the hall. She’d tempt a weaker man, but she doesn’t affect me. The dispassionate female has nothing on Tru.

  I look out the window. Nice view. The St. Clair River and New Belle Isle are visible from here. I take a seat on the sofa, my muscles jumping uneasily beneath my skin. Where the hell is Tru?

  This scenario rubs me the wrong way. I followed a complete stranger into a seemingly secure apartment without question. What if the sexy, cold fish did something to Tru? Or for that matter, what about me? She could signal Riza to come for me. I shake my head. Not one possibility or prospect has a favorable outcome. For once, I need to trust and see how things unfold. Act accordingly.

  “Now, we can talk.”

  At the sound of her aloof voice, I look up and can’t hide my shock at the miraculous transformation. Waist-length, dark red hair replaces the blonde boxy haircut. Her heavy makeup is gone and reveals a fresh-looking girl closer to my age.

  “Who are you, and why am I here?” I ask gruffly.

  She sits beside me. “My name’s Gliese Carter. Talking outside these walls is too risky.”

  I never considered Canada has its own set of eyes and ears monitoring citizens. So what makes this place free from danger? Screw trust. Hell, she might be a spy for their government.

  “What makes this place so safe?”

  “It’s been modified to keep prying eyes and ears out.”

  I tap my foot. Something isn’t right here. “What do you have to tell me?”

  “Let me start from the beginning. Your girl, Tru, came to the café. We had a brief chat. She needed help with this.” Gliese passes me a small white envelope. “She uploaded it. I’m sure the AR’s scrambling to cover up the damage.”

  I glance inside the envelope, notice the SIM card, and place it inside my jacket pocket. “What happened to Tru?”

  “CHA came for her. They injected her with something and dragged her out,” she replies evenly.

  Injected? It couldn’t be the vaccine. If I remember correctly, people received inoculations in a clinic for observational purposes. It’s how the New Order dupes the public into believing the vaccines are harmless. In all likelihood, someone gave Tru a tranquilizer. Either way, not good.

  “You’re sure they were agents from the Centers for Human Advancement?” I ask.

  “Black sedans…men in suits.” She crosses her legs and
settles back on the sofa. “It was CHA.”

  “Any of them happen to be an African-American woman?”

  “Yeah. She came in tossing her weight around. Ordered us to stay put. Said if anyone even wiggled a finger, she’d shoot,” she says flatly. Man, someone reciting the alphabet has more passion.

  Eden.

  Damn, Tru’s sister-in-law has her. I hope to God they don’t return her to the island. Eden won’t hesitate to administer the vaccine. I push my palms on my knees and stand up. “I’ve got to go.”

  Gliese lifts a slender, well-manicured hand. “Not so fast, hot stuff.” Her eyes glaze over, vacant. What’s her drug of choice? The crap must last for hours. Or she took another hit when she changed her clothes.

  “One, you have no idea where she might be. Two, CHA grabbed her. You’ll need help rescuing her. It’s a suicide mission going on your own.”

  “I can’t stay here.” I fidget with my Riza-issued jacket zipper. Stay calm, focused I tell myself. Not working.

  “Staying here is a good plan, for now.” Gliese stands. “Hungry? I make a mean pot of spaghetti.”

  What the hell is wrong with her? She changes the subject like we’re discussing decorating a house or something. The idea of food teases my senses, but it seems wrong contemplating a meal with Tru in danger.

  “Pass. I got to find my girl.”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll help you. Just relax. They already have a head start.”

  She moves slow and steady, leaving the room. All the more reason not to sit around and wait. This girl is unknown to me. She could be some psycho chick collecting bodies… Get a grip!

  I don’t understand what she means by we. Going solo is smarter than relying on intoxicated help. I head for the elevator. Tru needs me. Hell, I need her.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a gravelly, masculine voice comes from behind me.

  I spin around and find the male version of Gliese—same red hair and blue-green eyes—with a scruffy beard. He wears a moth-eaten black sweater, ripped jeans, and scuffed up black boots. He stares me down. My fingers curl.

  “You’re not me,” I spit back.