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Chasing Freedom: The Prequel (Against All Enemies) (Volume 3)

By H. L. Wegley

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Chapter 1

Why had Papa picked this rundown, isolated restaurant to rendezvous with her? The Sinaloa Cartel's personal vendetta against him had frightened them all, but Redding, California was a thousand driving miles from their home in Nogales. Surely her family was safe here after fleeing to the U.S. from the border town.
Alejandra Santiago steered the compact car she’d rented in Corvallis into the parking lot of the small restaurant on the outskirts of Redding. Above the mountains to the north, the top of Mount Shasta glowed pink in the fading twilight of the sweltering July evening. What little light remained revealed speckled white walls of a building in dire need of paint.
In his brief phone call, asking if Allie could drive down from the university to see them, Papa had mentioned threats made in Nogales against him and some against her little brother, Benjamin. The cartel was good at intimidation and threatening Benjamin would certainly accomplish that.
Allie, tell me again how this drug kills the germs.
As Benjamin's voice replayed in her mind, she pictured his large brown eyes expressing wonder at each new biological fact his sharp mind assimilated. But even her pharmacy program at Oregon State couldn’t supply enough medical facts to satisfy his ravenous appetite for knowledge.
She loved her family dearly, but Allie adored Benjamin. If the cartel tried to hurt him, she would shoot them all herself. No one, not even their notorious leader, El Capitan, could stop her.
Enough depressing thoughts about a cartel that was a thousand miles away.
Allie got out of her car and walked across the parking lot toward the restaurant, looking for Papa.
She gasped when a sweaty palm slapped over her mouth.
The hand pulled her head back, clamping it against a man's hard chest.
A hot, sweaty shirt soaked through the back of her sleeveless blouse.
Now, another hand grabbed her wrists—rough hands, more like sandpaper than flesh.
She tried to kick the person behind her, but a powerful arm ripped her feet from the ground, hoisting her body upward.
Panic hit. Adrenaline flowed. Energized now, Allie squirmed, writhing like a snake in the arms and hands holding her. She shoved one man from her with her arms but his grip tightened.
Allie was helpless, held in the grasp of three men.
“Do not make a sound, pollita.” A gravelly voice spoke near her ear. A foul breath carried the words.
The stench sent her stomach into roiling nausea.
Despite her panic, the voice of Allie’s self-defense instructor sounded clearly.
Never stop fighting.
Allie twisted her arms now held by a pair of big, sweaty hands. Her arms slipped in the wet hands. She nearly pulled them free.
The wet hands squeezed her wrists until pain shot up her arms. The hands regained their control.
She jerked a leg from another man's grasp and kicked at him.
Hard contact.
The man yelped.
“Stop, pollita! Now! Or I will cut Benjamin once for each time you move.”
Allie drew a sharp breath, then froze.
Who were these people and how had they found Benjamin? The answer she settled on sickened her. It stole her hopes for a good life in America, for regaining Papa's favor, for getting her PharmD degree from OSU—all gone, replaced with a version of hell on earth that only the Sinaloa Cartel could provide.
Someone slid the hem of her shorts up, exposing her upper leg. A sharp sting came from her right quad.
What had they just done to her?
The gravelly voice sounded again. “Hold her until she is still.”
Allie swam through a wave of dizziness. They had drugged her. Her arms and legs grew weak. The battle was over. She had lost.
Would the drug kill her? It wasn’t their intent. They could have done that already. But her drugged, helpless state could lead to something much worse than death.
Whatever they did to her, Allie deserved it. She had committed an unforgivable sin, failing to protect her family. She had only made them more vulnerable by letting these men capture her. Even if Papa could somehow forgive her for this, Allie could never forgive herself.
Her despairing thoughts faded to gray fuzziness … and the gray to utter darkness.
* * *
Only authorized athletes were allowed to touch what could be a lethal weapon.
Jeff Jacobs trotted across the all-weather running track shared by the high school and middle school in the small, Southern Oregon town of O’Brien. His target, twelve-year-old Samuel Bryant.
Sam carried the old, blue, battle-scarred javelin like he meant to throw it.
Jeff ran in front of the boy and cut him off. Hands on hips, Jeff turned toward the young athlete. “Sam, put it down.”
“Aw, coach. Can I—”
“No. A javelin is not a toy. You know, I saw two freshmen playing chicken with a javelin when I was in high school. One ended up with a spear through the top of his foot. It ended his track and field dreams.” Just like a stupid mistake had ended Jeff’s dreams in Beijing.
“But, coach, I just finished seventh grade. I’m an eighth grader—”
“And you’ll get to throw it next track season when you’re actually in the eighth grade.”
The lanky, muscular boy begrudgingly handed Jeff the spear, pushed the bushy red hair from his eyes, then looked up at Jeff with a smile spreading cross his freckled face. “Okay, coach. You throw it for us, just like you did—”
“No, Sam.”
“But, coach, there’s nobody near the throwing range.”
“I’m not your coach, only a volunteer assistant.”
Sam squinted up at Jeff through the bright sunlight of the hot July morning. He lowered his voice to hushed, reverent tones. “But you’re the only one who makes us better at our events and, you know … the Jesus stuff.’
This kid knew how to push the buttons on Jeff’s heart, but he wasn’t giving in this time.
“Yeah, Jacobs.” Pastor Nelson’s voice blared from behind.
What was the pastor doing here?
“Let’s see what you’ve got. Sam and I won’t stop pestering you until you throw that spear.”
Jeff had been training at home. But, without a sponsor, he couldn’t afford to train at a real Olympic facility, nor could he fly his old coach out from Denver to help him. Besides, after Beijing, he would have to apply for re-instatement and there were no guarantees that would happen. Not when the feeding frenzy by the media started again.
Jeff huffed a sharp sigh. “Alright. One throw to get you two off my back.”
This track was his home. At least it was the only place left on earth that felt like home. And the javelin felt like an old friend in his hand.
Jeff stepped to the starting mark and looked down the throwing range at the white concentric arcs of lime that contrasted with the lush green turf. He set his sights on a point forty feet beyond the farthest mark for the high school throwers 200 feet down range.
After taking a deep breath, Jeff raised the eight-foot-ten-inch spear over his shoulder and began his run. Ten strides in he twisted sideways, shoved the javelin away from his body and switched to his approach stride.
With adrenaline now coursing through his body, Jeff grunted as he swiveled his hips and whipped his throwing arm over his shoulder. He followed through until the fingertips of his long arm touched the grass in front of his left toe.
The old blue javelin nearly disappeared against the blue of the summer sky. It quivered and rattled all the way to the apex of its trajectory. With a satisfying thunk, the spear buried its head in the turf more than fifty feet beyond the 200-foot mark. Maybe seventy feet beyond it.
Jeff blinked his eyes and shook his head. No way. He eyeballed the distance, more carefully this time. About 270 feet. It was a good throw for a world-class javelin thrower, but an Olympic record for a decathlete.
“Holy smoke!” Sam’s adolescent voice cracked on “smoke,” turning it into a two-syllable word.
Pastor Nelson whistled through his teeth. “Jeff, I came to tell you every member of our congregation believes in you. More than fifty people have told me they want to help you with your training expenses.”
Believed in Jeffrey Jacobs? They were the only people on the planet who believed in him after the disgracing debacle two years ago. “Pastor, I can’t accept it. I’d only be stealing from the people who really need help.”
Jeff turned and walked toward the javelin 270 feet away.
Jeffrey, get re-instated. Go back and win gold. Do it for your father.
His mother’s voice had come weak and raspy between gasps as she spoke the words shortly before dying two months ago.
… for your father.
Now Dad’s words pricked the sorest spot in Jeff’s heart.
The empty spot in our trophy case isn’t for my medals. It’s for you, son. For Olympic gold. You were born for this, not me.
If the truth were told, Jeff didn’t just want to win for his father. Jeff loved the applause of the crowd. He loved hearing the roar when the big screen displayed his name after he’d won the decathlon. Jeff’s decathlon was supposed to have ended with the Star Spangled Banner in Beijing. But it didn’t.
Did he want the glory for the wrong reasons? He chose not to answer the indicting question.
Keep your nose clean, dude. Maybe Rio.
Maybe. But Jeff doubted it. He would try to regain eligibility. How could he not? But, just like his father warned him, there would always be someone who wanted to stab him in the back. And they always came when he least expected it.
Who’s it going to be this time?

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