Twenty Years to Judgement Day

By Karthik Raman

Confrontation would mean death. That is the philosophy that Clint Huntsford followed when he abandoned his life in Chicago and ran to Virginia. Fourteen years later, though, his demons come back to haunt him, and Clint is quickly finding that there is no more room left to run. Meanwhile, Jess Kramer has to face demons of his own as he attempts to navigate the treacherous waters of corporate Chicago. Two men, with one terrible past. Do they have what it takes to make it out alive?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Karthik Raman
• Release date: Aug 19, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301550463

Karthik Raman

I was born in Massachusetts, U.S.A. I moved to the San Francisco Bay Area when I was two years old, and I have lived here ever since.I have long harbored an interest in writing. For three years I was a reporter for the Tri-City Voice, a local newspaper in Fremont. I have attended the San Francisco Writer’s Conference for two years (2008-2009).I have a deep passion when it comes to working in the community. I have worked in several local political campaigns, worked as an intern in a California State Assemblymember’s office, volunteered at an election poll, and tried to raise awareness by participating in the annual National Alzheimer’s Memory Walk.Along with these avid interests, I enjoy singing, acting, and generally being involved in the Performing Arts. I also love playing sports, such as tennis and long distance running.

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Twenty Years to Judgement Day

Karthik Raman

Published by Karthik Raman at Smashwords

Copyright 2013 Karthik Raman

All rights reserved.

This novel is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to people, living or dead, business institutions, or events is purely coincidental.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold

or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover Photo by Shyamala Venkat

http://www.karthikraman.com

Table of Contents

Book 1 – The Confrontation

Book 2 – Fifteen Years Earlier

Book 3 – Twenty Years Later

1

The night was broken only by the full moon above. Illuminated by its ghostly light was a deserted road, lined with houses. A man walked briskly and quietly down the road, glancing neither right nor left. As he crossed an intersection, a light breeze blew open the man’s tailored black trench coat and revealed a red dress shirt and a pair of silky slacks. He ran his hand through a full head of black hair as he scanned his surroundings with his cold and keen gray eyes. The man carried a briefcase in a grip of iron. Soon the houses gave way to rambling countryside. However, scenery was the last thing on the man’s mind, and he hurried on ahead. At last he stopped at the large metal gate of a majestic, yet intimidating mansion. Seeing that no one was in the security booth, he rang a buzzer and waited for someone to address him.

After a few moments, a security man walked into the booth and greeted him. Excuse me, sir; is there anything I can do for you?

Yes, said the man. I’m looking for Clint Huntsford.

The guard looked at him suspiciously.

The man continued calmly. My company, Jamison & Co., made an appointment last night.

The man watched the guard pull out his phone to confirm. The security guard then walked through the gate and said, Before going further, I’m going to have to ask you to submit to a security check, sir. The man flashed an odd smile, and then silently pulled out a cell phone, a wallet, and a curious-looking small remote and handed them to the guard, turning out his pockets to show him that they were empty.

When the guard held up the remote questioningly, the man said, Oh, that’s just my car key. Despite his smile and easy-going tone of voice, the man’s eyes darted sharply from the guard’s face to the remote.

But the guard was apparently satisfied with the explanation, and he went on with the rest of his security check. After the possessions were returned, the man followed the still-curious guard through the gate, across the lavish garden and through the front door.

They continued down a hallway into a magnificent room featuring a large circular table flanked by marble walls and floor. The table had only two chairs, one facing the door the other facing its partner.

Mr. Huntsford will be with you shortly, said the guard exiting and leaving the man in silence. The guest sat in the closest chair and waited.

About five minutes later, a young man came into the room and sat in the unoccupied chair. He had sharp, blue eyes, close-cut dirty-blonde hair, and an overall intelligent face. He wore a tan suit, despite the late hour, and he produced a polite smile and said, Welcome to my house. I’m Clint Huntsford. I understand you’re a representative from Jamison & Co., Mr., um, Owens, right?

Yes, Owens. Jack Owens. A thin smile twitched curiously on his lips.

Where have you come from, Mr. Owens?

Chicago.

That’s a long way from Danville, mused Mr. Huntsford.

Yes, said Jack absentmindedly. I wasn’t expecting a full-body pat down from a house guard.

Oh, said Huntsford, suddenly more alert. Sorry about that. I have him be extra careful with visitors after dark, he added with an uneasy laugh. You can never be too careful with security, nowadays. Jack studied him closely, and after a minute Huntsford uncomfortably changed the subject. Let’s talk about the business you came for. Your company indicated that there was something wrong with our product. Could you tell me more specifically what the problem is?

Jack’s curious smile grew a little. I’m actually not an employee of Jamison & Co. And I’ve come with quite a different mission than the one you were planning to deal with.

Huntsford stared uncomprehendingly at Jack. What do you mean?

Jack pulled a file from his briefcase and placed it onto the table separating the two men.

Picking it up, Huntsford asked, What’s this?

Jack replied slowly, You know what that is, Huntsford. It’s evidence… for a crime that you should be very familiar with.

Huntsford’s smile vanished and his face grew deathly pale. He opened the file and stared at the contents in horror. How…how did you-?

If this is leaked to the police you will be a ruined man forever, Jack bluntly stated.

Maybe…I’m sorry it had to come to this, said Huntsford, all confusion clearing from his face. The first time was an accident but… what has been done once can be done again.

With that, Huntsford opened a drawer in the table, pulled out a black revolver, cocked it, and pointed it at Jack’s head.

Jack smiled cynically. That’s a bad idea, Huntsford, he said quietly. He seemed totally at ease, his face calm, even at the sight of the gun.

Why? Huntsford’s voice was tight with tension.

Do you think I would come in here without insurance? Jack took out the small remote from his inside coat pocket. Laughing, Jack held the remote up for Huntsford to see. This remote is a detonator for a bomb. Before coming here, I had this bomb placed at the headquarters of Huntsford Industries. I have a man waiting in the city; and if I don’t contact him in— he glanced at his watch. Fifteen minutes, then he’ll set off the bomb, after which he will turn in the original tape.

Huntsford grew very still. Tell me why I should believe you.

Jack’s smile grew. You don’t have to. You’ll believe it well enough when your building goes up in smoke and you go to prison.

Huntsford’s eyes widened and his hand shook so much he almost dropped the gun. His business contacts, his company files, his records… everything was in the building that Jack Owens had just mentioned.

Today’s your lucky day, though. I don’t want to ruin you, however surprising that may seem. If you fill this briefcase with, say, two million dollars, I’ll destroy the evidence and leave. I will deactivate the bomb, and I’ll never return.

Jack smiled inwardly. The animal was cornered, and it had to give in to his demands.

Still thinking furiously, Clint said, How do I know that you won’t send the original tape in after you get your money? These are just stills from video footage, and I want insurance against that possibility.

Well, seeing that you have only ten minutes left to decide, I suggest you just trust me.

At last, Huntsford said, Ok. I’ll give you the money as long as you destroy this right in front of my eyes.

Jack said, Fine, but I get the money first.

If you will wait for a moment. Huntsford stood up and exited the way he entered and returned with a metal case. Jack opened the box, checked the money, and then put it in his briefcase. Without saying anything, he took the pictures, tore them into sixteenths, and scattered them around the room.

Jack got up and started walking out of the room. He paused at the door, Remember, if you try anything funny, my man blows up your company. Let me go unharmed, and nothing happens. Then he left without glancing back.

Outside, he took out his phone and made a call.

Well? asked a voice.

Well, mission accomplished, murmured Jack.

And the files?

A cruel smile lit Jack’s face. Release them.

2

Clint sank onto his bed, body trembling. Feelings, thoughts that he had locked away for so long came back in a flash and threatened to engulf him. He shook his head—he needed to think clearly, he had a decision to make. That man, Jack Owens, had sworn not to turn him in. Clint knew, however, that although he had caved in to the blackmail, Owens was definitely not to be trusted. He had prepared for this scenario since the first time he had set foot in Virginia; he knew what to do, but he hated to have to do it. Clint ran to his safe and opened it. From the safe, he pulled out a backpack. Opening it up, he went through a mental checklist to make sure everything was there: a few bundles of money, a pistol with extra ammunition, some maps, a set of clothes, and a fake driver’s license. Running quickly back to his room, he also put his laptop in the backpack. Then, knowing he had to be less conspicuous, he pulled a pair of faded jeans and a t-shirt from the backpack and changed into them. He grabbed a gray sweatshirt from his closet and pulled it on. Running to the kitchen, he hurriedly dialed a number on his cell phone and waited uneasily for someone to pick up.

Hello?

Hi, this is Clint Huntsford. I’d like you to prepare my private jet for a flight to… Mexico City. In fifteen minutes, whether I’m on it or not, I want that plane to take off. Understood?

Sir, -?

"Understood?"

There was a pause on the phone. Very well, sir.

Good. If you keep this quiet, I’ll pay you extra when I see you at the airstrip. Clint clicked off the phone.

He thought for a moment, and then put the phone on the kitchen floor. He then grabbed a loaf of bread and a bottle of water. Going to his backyard, Clint took his backpack and tossed it over his fence, so that it lay outside his premises. He then quickly sprinted over to his pool house and grabbed his bicycle, which was resting on the wall, and quietly slipped back inside his mansion and went out the front door. Clint hid in the shadows of the night and listened. Hearing nothing abnormal, he walked his bike over to the gate, trying to look as nonchalant as possible.

Heart thumping, he nodded to his security guard. I’m going for a ride. I’ll be back in maybe an hour. His guard nodded back to him, and Clint walked through the gate. Once outside, he casually made his way to where his backpack lay, and after retrieving it, he struck out, away from the mansion. He turned, looking at his home one last time, and then he continued on his journey. So far his evacuation plan was going smoothly.

After biking for a few minutes, Clint started slowing, examining the side of the road more closely. As he went down the road, his thoughts drifted toward the bike. It had been purchased soon after arriving in Virginia, and it was there primarily to serve as a means of escape. Over the years, he had ridden it often and periodically checked on it for damage, thus making his biking excursions a normal sight. While he had kept up his biking regimen over the years, he had never seriously entertained the idea that he would actually need it for his escape. It had been there to give him a peace of mind; he would only need it in the direst of circumstances. And yet here he was, following through with the plan and escaping from his house in the dead of the night. Pulling his hood up to obscure his face, he peddled harder and continued down the road. After biking for a little while, Clint reached his destination—a small lake slightly off Highway 29. Clint went off the road and approached the lake, making sure that no one had picked up on his unusual behavior. When he felt safe, he slid his bike into the lake, watching it sink beneath the surface. Phase one, done, he thought grimly. Now here comes the hard part.

Clint walked back to the edge of the road. A couple of minutes later, a car appeared, and Clint stuck his thumb in the air. He did this to no avail, though, because the car zoomed past without giving him a second glance. Clint kept up his efforts for what felt like forever, until a truck finally slowed and pulled over to the side.

The truck driver, a heavy-set man in his forties, rolled down the window. Where are you headed?

Clint’s heart thumped as he looked up at the driver. Greensboro. Can you take me in that direction?

I can take you there; I’m headed there myself. Where do you need to go?

Any where’s fine, I can manage by myself once I’m in the city. Clint tried to sound casual, as if he was used to hitchhiking. He was desperate—he needed this ride.

The truck driver squinted at him. Well, alright, I can get you to Greensboro. Hop in the truck. A deep sense of relief came over Clint. He climbed into the truck and strapped himself in, preparing to relax for the ride south.

The scenery flew by as Clint gazed out of the window. He pictured his home, his mansion… his fortress that had protected him from life. Clint could almost imagine what would happen soon, if it weren’t already happening. He could almost hear the great bang of a door being forced open emanating through the house. The stomping of boots and the clicking of guns filling the air, and the methodical search of the house that would inevitably follow… Each room, each empty room, every memory from all those years, out of his reach forever. His fortress was breached.

After a little while of driving, the truck driver said, I’m going to have to stop in Ruffin to use the restroom and stretch my legs for a few minutes. Does that work for you?

Clint nodded his head. Yeah, sure. I’m just thankful for the ride. Clint leaned back in his seat and tried to ease up a little bit as the driver parked the truck and got out of his seat. The driver then entered a store and made his way to the back, where the restroom was located. Clint could barely stand being idle, and so it irked him when the driver stopped on his way back to chat with the cashier. It was a much longer break than Clint had initially expected, but he was the passenger, and therefore he couldn’t complain. Following this logic, he bottled up his discomfort and frustrations, and merely nodded to the truck driver when he finally made his way back and started back on the road again.

The drive felt terribly long to Clint. He felt high strung and on-edge; he hadn’t felt this much pressure since that fateful day he had moved to Virginia. It seemed like a different life… but he wasn’t going to think about that. He had worked too hard to erase his past to let it come back now.

Finally, the truck entered the city limit of Greensboro. As the driver parked at a gas station, he said in a singsong voice, Well, this is it; here’s Greensboro.

Clint nodded automatically as he got out of the truck; he couldn’t say that he enjoyed the journey much. He pulled out a couple of twenty-dollar bills and handed them to the truck driver. The driver’s expression brightened noticeably, and after accepting the money, he nodded farewell and went about his business. Clint breathed a sigh of relief knowing that, at least for now, he was relatively safe. After a moment’s pause, he entered the gas station store to buy some food before heading his way.

A couple of minutes after he entered, his ears prickled as he heard the word Danville in a conversation at the other end of the store. Clint tried shaking himself, telling himself that he was being ridiculously paranoid, but all the same he subtly walked into a neighboring aisle, so that he could eavesdrop on the conversation.

Clint recognized the voice that was speaking as that of the truck driver that gave him a ride. Why were you held up near Danville? It was smooth sailing for me.

A second voice, evidently another truck driver, responded, I don’t know. The cops had made a blockade on the road and were searching the vehicles that were driving on it. I never found out what they were looking for, but I sure didn’t have it. As the two subsided into chuckles, Clint walked in the other direction, heart pounding about how close he had been to getting caught. He exited the store and started walking away, not sure where he was going but just wandering blankly. It had been a taxing night, and his exhaustion was starting to get to him. He needed rest, but where would he go? He needed to find shelter soon, if he continued wandering like this he would stick out like a sore thumb. The police would be onto him before the day was out.

After five minutes of walking, Clint found a small alley that would serve his purposes well enough. It wasn’t the ideal solution, but he desperately needed sleep. He walked into the alley and huddled next to a dumpster. Within minutes, Clint was asleep.

Hours later, Clint woke up, feeling miserable. He got up cautiously and stretched, trying to clear his head of the morning fuzz so that he could think clearly. Morning. He had survived the terrible night, and he was still free. Sighing, he walked down the alley, back to the main street. Now, what to do next? His stomach rumbled, and he had his answer.

Clint walked into the first coffee shop he could find, and ordered coffee and a scone. He then sat in a seat in the very corner of the building. Clint flipped open his laptop and connected to the free wi-fi. All his fear and nervousness left him, and one thought burned in his mind. I’ve been betrayed. He thought. Double-crossed. Anger arose in him, filling him up, growing as the thought sunk in farther. He cursed himself for being so stupid. As the years went by, he had relaxed his security, thinking that by moving and burying his past, he would be safe. He created a new