Betrayal

By Michael Wolfam

Eagles Landing, Colorado, harbors a viciously guarded secret: a sophisticated smuggling ring, which takes advantage of the rules protecting the wealthy from searches. Liv Driscol is a waitress whose passion for cars, inherited from her missing covert-operative father, turns deadly when a joyride becomes a race for her life. An accidental murder witness, she is now being hunted.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Wolfam
• Release date: Jan 17, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458065742

Michael Wolfam

Michael Wolfam is the pen name used by Michael and Kenny, two brothers who are always up to something; from building an electric car to starting a non-profit renewable energy company. Thanks for checking out Betrayal, our first novel.All proceeds from Betrayal will be used to fund our newest project, the ApocalypsEV. Check it out at www.apocalypsev.com

Book preview

Chapter 1

Liv lifted a stack of menus off the counter and watched the group stumble from the limo into the diner. There were eight of them. Five she'd known since high school, three were strangers. All were drunk. Someone’s gonna end up on the floor bleeding, she groaned to no one in particular. Stray flecks of glitter, left behind by women with names like Candy, sparkled in the fluorescent lighting. The scene always ended the same way.

Ignoring the ‘Please Wait to be Seated’ sign, the rowdy group piled into a red, naugahyde covered corner booth in her section. Of course they would choose a booth in her section. At least they were far away from the regulars.

You're up awful late, she said to Cal, the leader of the group. Aren't you getting hitched this afternoon?

Liv Driscol's my waitress! he slurred, ignoring the menu she was trying to hand him. Liv Driscol—the sexiest piece of...

She tapped his cheek lightly with a menu. Don't finish that sentence, Cal. Just go on and quit while you're only a little behind.

Alright, alright. We just got back from partying all night in Denver. Me and my boys need some serious food. Mel’s diner is the best. I fucking love Mel’s, he paused trying to focus his red eyes on Liv.

Our specials today are-

Dudes, Cal whispered loudly. Hey guys, this is that chick I was telling you about, the drunken groom swayed in his chair. Back in high school she raced the whole football team shotgunning a six pack. She finished a whole beer ahead!

Yeah, a real high point in my life. Now what can I get you boys to drink? Liv pulled a worn yellow pad from her apron as the group settled into the table.

Then she puked hot wings and beer all over the quarterback’s Camaro! It was so awesome. She’s a freaking legend! Cal paused momentarily, trying unsuccessfully to look sober. He put his fist over his heart. She’s my hero, he sniffed dramatically as the table dissolved into drunken laughter.

We went to high school together didn’t we? The last time I saw you was at graduation. You got freakin’ hot. How much for a lap dance? the man who had supported the groom on the way into the diner giggled. The rest of the table held their breath, eyes focused on Liv.

Hey Cal, you want to do this the easy way or the hard way?

Hey, easy there Liv, Mark’s my best man. Remember, we were best buds in high school before he went off to get all educated. Besides, you know how mad Michelle’s gonna be if he has a black eye in the wedding pictures.

Alright, but you keep em’ in line, Liv warned. She shot the best man a look that would freeze a polar bear dead in its tracks.

After taking their drink orders between drunken nonsense, Liv stormed over to the soda fountain behind the counter and began filling drinks.

You alright? Mel, the rotund owner of the diner, asked as Liv slammed a red plastic glass on the counter.

Just one of those days.

Hey is that Cal Huron over there? I haven’t seen him in forever.

Yep, that’s him. He’s getting married this afternoon, in the park.

Oh yeah, I got an invitation rattling around somewhere. Is that his bachelor party over there?

Yep. Apparently they’ve been out all night partying or something. Speaking of which, I need a bowl of jalapeños. Dumbass number one over there bet dumbass number two five bucks that he wouldn’t eat a bowl of jalapeños.

Who’s dumbass number one? Mel raised a thick, burly eyebrow as he surveyed the full table.

Pick one. Doesn’t matter.

I can give Jenny that table if you want. Those guys look like they’ll be a real barrel of assholes. Don’t want anyone getting hurt. Mel winked as he plopped a bowl of chopped jalapeños in front of her.

Nah, I’ll keep my tables. I can handle them. Don’t worry about me.

No one’s worried about you, he laughed, wiping his hands on his stained apron. Well, either way I can’t wait to see how it turns out. I was figuring it would be a pretty boring Sunday morning. Hell, that bowl of peppers is on the house. Totally worth it for the entertainment value.

Personally, I could really do without entertainment today. Liv gathered up the tray of glasses and headed back to the pack of drunken hyenas.

She distributed the drinks quickly.

Alright boys, what’ll it be? she fished out her order pad.

A pudgy frat boy giggled, I was looking at the pigs in a blanket, he and the guy next to him burst into fits of hysterical laughter, and I was wondering how you would look in a blanket?

You would at least need to be funny to find that out, Liv sighed.

Fuck it, Cal. I’m putting the whole table down for Mel’s hangover special. No more orders. The excited look on the faces of the local boys confirmed that she had made the right choice.

Mel’s hangover special was beyond legendary in the small town of Eagles Landing, Colorado. Mel would whip up the greasiest assortment of meats, mix them with scrambled eggs, douses the whole thing in white gravy and serve it with biscuits. Accompanied by unlimited coffee, residents swore it would cure the worst hangover in minutes. Legend had it that it could turn a bottle of Jack Daniels sober.

Mel, hangover specials all around, she hollered at the kitchen. The sound of bacon sizzling on the hot grill filled the small restaurant as Liv went to check on her other tables.

Hey Mr. Taylor, how’s that omelet? Where’s the Missus? Liv asked, stopping at a small booth on her way back to the kitchen.

Omelet’s great. Just like it always is. The elderly man hooked his thumbs into the straps of his coveralls. Wife thinks I’m home sick. Truth is, I didn’t want to go to church today. I woke up dreaming about eating one of Mel’s sausage green-chili omelets. I figured Jesus would understand. If he comes back anytime soon, he’ll stop by this place first.

I would really hope he has better things to do... unless he comes back drunk. Then this is the place.

Speaking of fire and brimstone, I need to get the check and get home before Momma gets out of church. We’ll probably be back for lunch before Cal’s wedding so, if you don’t mention you saw me here earlier, I’ll make it worth your while. The white haired man dropped two fives on the table. Hey, look at me, I’m like Jim Wilke’s Booth the way I’m dropping Lincolns. He slapped the table, laughing at his own wit.

That’s funny and terrible Mr. Taylor, I’ll get the check for you. Don’t worry, I won’t rat you out, Liv winked as she rushed off to the cash register.

Chapter 2

Got you now, you thieving bastard. I fucking knew it. The muscle-bound man pounded the keyboard triumphantly, freezing the offending image on the large monitor in front of him. He rubbed his eyes wearily. Sometimes, being head of security was a real bitch. But after more than five hours of pouring over surveillance footage, he had finally found the proverbial smoking gun.

As he stood and stretched, the man known as Max the Enforcer looked around the small, windowless room. He liked the isolation the bunkhouse command center offered. His own personal fortress of solitude, complete with shag carpet. Only the glow of two computer monitors and a bank of telephones kept him company. The small army under his command, the one that normally swarmed the bunkhouse, was off on their assigned duties and this allowed him the rare opportunity to escape the charade that was his current life. The melodic strains of Handel’s Rinaldo swelled through the room, stirring his soul. He could speak six languages without a hint of an accent. The ability to understand Italian Opera was his reward for the effort it took to reach that level of proficiency.

Max the Enforcer was simply another language, a tool, a method for blending in. No one had called him by his real name in over fifteen years. To everyone who knew his true name, he was dead, lost in an operation deep in a godforsaken Columbian jungle. Now, for the time being, he was Max the Enforcer. From experience, he knew that if one looked the part and spoke the part, no one questioned who you really were. The CIA trained him to run black ops. Because of this, he preferred to be faceless, efficient and deadly. But his current position required people to know and fear him. The pay and power afforded him was worth the burden of playing this character.

He paused the music and pulled out his TerreStar hybrid phone. Looking like a blackberry with a large antenna, the mobile phone had the ability to also operate as a satellite phone. Switching it to the satellite setting, Max dialed a number he’d committed to memory long ago. Storing numbers in his phone was too big of a risk. His phone had been specially modified to erase any numbers the moment the call ended. Like the rest of the organization’s phones, his connected to a Korean satellite using modulating encryption. The customized satellite setting ensured that there was no possibility the NSA or any other agency could intercept the phone call. However, at a price of $100 a call, it was for official business only.

It rang eight times before the man at the other end answered.

Mr. Conroe? It’s Max. He tapped his finger impatiently as the man responded. I’m sorry sir, I didn’t realize what time it was. I try not to bother you during church, he lied. But since you’re on the line already, I was calling to tell you that you were right. Some of those fucking miners are stealing from us. He paused. Sorry sir, I’ll watch the language. Max paced the room impatiently. Anyhow, I caught one of them in action. I know how he’s been getting away with it. Max stared intently at the image of a grizzled man holding a yellow plastic capsule, about the size of a thumbnail, in the palm of his hand.

Yeah, after you pointed out that some of the miners had lower returns than the other guys, I put a bunch of security cameras around site 4. I caught the fuc – funny-looking punk in action. Looks like we have ourselves a colon smuggler. He flipped to the next image, where the man was holding the capsule up to his mouth. Max sat down in the ergonomic office chair and zoomed in on the image. He was constantly amazed at the quality that cheap security cameras provided these days. He could make out every feature on the ugly troll’s face. Not even a mother could love this one.

Yep, okay, Mr. Conroe, I’ll personally take care of it. Don’t you worry. After today, all the loads are going to be pretty fuc – uh, durn consistent. Max hung up the phone and shook his head. What a fucking hypocrite, he muttered. Doesn’t mind telling me to kill some asshole, but I can’t cuss? Talk about misplaced priorities. He flicked the music back on. Treachery and deception, as only Opera could deliver, filled the room.

He consulted the schedule lying on the cheap, steel desk in front of him. All of the gold miners were working at site 5 today. Their shift would be over in about two hours. No point in wasting him before his shift is over. May as well get all the work out of him we can.

He saved the image to a secure, offshore storage system in Malaysia. Data that could be used as evidence was never stored locally. He logged off and headed out the door. There would be just enough time to finish the Opera while he ran five miles in the adjacent gym. Then it would be time to become The Enforcer once again.

Chapter 3

Thanks Mrs. Turner, see you next time. Liv sorted a wad of bills and placed them in the cash register before heading back to her last occupied table. The breakfast rush was winding down, but the hyenas showed no sign of stopping.

Hey bacon wench, more bacon for the king, Cal slammed his fist down on the table, eliciting peals of laughter from his wedding party.

Liv rolled her eyes. Should have gone to college or joined a convent, she muttered. Hey Mel, you got any bacon with extra spit? Liv stood in the doorway of the diner’s cramped kitchen, hands on her hips.

Don’t you let them get under your skin Liv. They’re just having a good time. Boys will be boys you know.

Yeah that’s what I’m worried about. They’re getting to that obnoxious point. It never gets better after this.

Speaking of which, how’d that jalapeño eating wager go?

Now that was funny. Dumbass number two looks like some kind of emo goldfish out of water.

Yeah, he should, Mel chuckled. I mixed in a few habaneros from my personal stash!

No wonder he wants a glass of milk so bad. I guess I should get that at some point, but I just keep forgetting. Like four times in a row!

Ha! Mel laughed. I see you finally got that crappy little Porsche working again, he pointed out the kitchen window at the white 944 parked in the gravel lot. When you gonna get a nice reliable car like my Ho--

Don’t you dare say the H word, Liv warned. As soon as I decide life is too boring to even commit suicide, I’ll get a car like yours. Until then, I want something fun to drive and pretty to look at. Besides, Murphy wasn’t completely broken, I was rebuilding the turbocharger last week. I put in a ceramic turbi--

Yeah, yeah, whatever, Mel interrupted. He grew bored of her car obsession quickly. One of these days you’ll get a nice practical car. Looks like your fan club misses you, he motioned toward the rowdy table.

Fan-freakin-tastic, Liv rolled her eyes. She caught a glimpse of silver over Cal’s cup of coffee and raced over to the table.

Hey, give me that, she demanded, reaching her hand out to the best man. Michelle’s gonna be less pissed about you having a black eye in some pictures than she’ll be about her future husband showing up to his own wedding drunk. Trust me.

You want some of this? Mark slurred cockily, putting flask to mouth. Hey Liv, how come you never left town like I did? I thought you were smart, gonna go to a fancy college or something, he said as he smacked his lips.

Liv’s like me, Cal interrupted, banging his mug of Irish coffee down on the table. We got left behinded.

That’s not even a word, she sighed.

Is too. We’re left behinders. Everyone else got knocked up or got out of town except us. But they don’t understand how awesome it is to stay here. Everything is the same and familiar. I’m gonna be like my grandpop. Born here, died here.

You’re way too pretty to be stuck here in Eagles Landing with this loser, the best man eyed Liv. Why don’t you marry me and get the hell out of here? What do you say fellows? The table roared their approval.

My second marriage proposal today! Liv exclaimed. Hey, I got a better idea, why don’t you give me the flask and take drunky drunk over to get his tuxedo. Your lifespan will be much longer that way.

You threatening me? Mark pretended to be offended.

It’s not me you have to worry about. It’s the lady dressed in white. Now give me the flask.

Fine, Mark placed the flask on the middle of the table, crossed his arms and looked at her defiantly.

Goddamit, this counts as your wedding gift Cal, Liv reached over the table and grabbed the flask. Mark reached over and pinched her ass. With the exception of the best man’s laughter, the table froze, silent.

Mark never saw the punch coming. His drunken laughter ended abruptly as he fell to the sticky, linoleum floor like a sack of flour.

Trying to stifle his laughter, Mel rushed over. Okay boys, party’s over, he clapped loudly. Time to get on with life and get hitched. No more fun for you ever again. Cal, you better drag your unconscious best man out of here or I’m putting him in the dumpster with the other trash.

Wide eyed, Cal nodded. The conscious men at the table dropped piles of cash next to their food and dragged Mark to the waiting stretch limo, warily keeping a watchful eye on Liv.

As soon as the bell above the door stopped ringing, Liv gathered up the cash. I knew it, bastards stiffed me! she held the stack of one dollar bills in her clenched fist.

Angrily, she started clearing the table. Half full cups and plates clattered into a white plastic bin with such force they threatened to break. Her hand was throbbing from the punch.

Whoa, hang on there. This is cheaper than replacing all my dishes, Mel tossed a wadded up twenty from the register and an ice pack in her direction. I started keeping these in the freezer after last time. Take the rest of the day off, Jenny can take care of it. We probably won’t have much of a lunch rush since nearly everyone in town is going to Cal’s wedding this afternoon. Go take a drive and blow off some steam. Alright?

Liv nodded and headed to the restroom to change. She opened her locker, pulled her duffel bag out of the way and then reached for a change of clothes. As if dressing for a date, Liv changed from her practical pants, embroidered work shirt and comfortable shoes into a short gray skirt, a tight blue sweater and a pair of knee-high, black leather boots. She shook her hair out in front of the small mirror.

Liv made it almost a religion to drive the curvy mountain roads of northern Colorado every Sunday after her shift ended. It let her blow off the frustration that came from working a dead end job at Mel’s. Dressing up was part of the ritual that helped keep her sane.

Satisfied that she no longer looked like a waitress, she exited the bathroom.

Here, Mel shoved a picture, fresh off the printer, into her hands. I hung one just like it next to the first dollar I ever made! he exclaimed proudly, pointing to the wall above the cash register.

Liv snickered at the grainy image captured by the diner’s security camera. Frozen in time, was the exact moment when her fist connected with Mark’s surprised face. Priceless. Thanks Mel, I’ll hang this on the fridge. Grannie’s gonna be so proud of me!

The bell tinkled as Liv headed to her car. She fished a worn key from the small pocket of her skirt and opened the driver’s door on the old Porsche. She dumped the duffel bag on a collection of fast food wrappers and cups in the passenger floorboard, then started the car. The engine kicked to life with a healthy roar, its idle full of promise.

She pressed a button and the fingers holding the sunroof in place released their grip. She manually opened the front latches, then fully removed the thin metal sunroof and stowed it in the rear hatch. Liv clicked on her red mp3 player, cranked up the volume, shifted into first and raced out of the gravel parking lot, tires scrambling to find traction.

Chapter 4

Liv threaded her way through the rustic town square of Eagles Landing. Soon the small town, high in the Colorado Rockies, disappeared from sight as she raced along her favorite winding mountain road. Sorry Johnny, Liv pushed the skip button on the small mp3 player, but sometimes a girl needs some bass. The distinct voice of Johnny Cash faded, replaced by the thunderous intro to Metallica’s Enter Sandman.

As if possessed by the thumping subwoofer, she pushed harder on the gas pedal. The grin on her face grew as the turbocharged car skimmed the curvy blacktop. She zoomed past a stand of naked white aspens as if the devil was in hot pursuit. Fallen leaves captured in the vortex created by the car chased after her like a yellow tornado. The roar of the throaty exhaust was barely audible over the riffing baseline and her lively singing. The late October air blasted through the open windows and sunroof, tousling her hair and blowing a few wayward strands over her lips sticking them gently to her vanilla flavored Chapstick. She brushed them away and the scenery became a blur as she gleefully shifted gears. Streams and aspens gave way to rocky cliffs and lichens as she snaked her way above tree line.

Liv’s body relaxed as she flung the Porsche through a particularly tight turn. The car stuck to the road like superglue, dutifully responding to her every command. The wind rustling through her hair and the feedback from the road through the steering wheel massaged away all thoughts of the rough morning.

A steep grade loomed ahead. She wanted all the speed the German engineered car could muster. Liv downshifted the short-throw five speed into third gear, revved the engine and dropped the clutch. The tachometer rose, and hot exhaust spooled the turbocharger, forcing pressurized air into the engine. The little car surged forward, tires chirping.

Good boy Murph, that’s it, she encouraged. The grin on her face widened in proportion to the difficulty the tires had gripping the cool, dry blacktop. Got tired of sitting in the garage with your hood up, huh? I told you it would be more fun if you would just start working! Her green eyes widened with excitement as she rocketed towards the summit, music blaring. Oh yeah, Bullitt time! Steve McQueen and that Mustang got nothing on us! Liv knew that if she hit the top fast enough, she and the car would become airborne for one shining moment of freedom; freedom from everything. None of the constraints on her life mattered in that perfect instant and she never grew tired of it.

The old Porsche wasn’t especially powerful by modern standards, but she loved its perfect weight balance, which allowed the car to hug turns at speeds far above the legal limit. The grin on her face turned devilish as Liv brushed another wayward strand of dark hair from her face and prepared to hit the top of the hill, speedometer pegged at 88 mph. Just in case time travel was possible. Liv bit down on her lower lip, mashed the gas pedal to the floor and the Porsche erupted over the pinnacle, tires grabbing nothing but thin, mountain air. Liv could no longer contain herself and a squeal of delight escaped her from her lips. The car’s 50/50 weight balance kept the Porsche level to the road and she was lined up for a perfect landing.

The sense of freedom washed over her body and time slowed. She felt a oneness between machine and body as the two melded together in a high octane meditation. She gripped the steering wheel tightly with both hands. Her stomach twisted in excitement. The only other time she felt this way was during the intense moments of freefall that occurred before she opened her parachute on one of her all too rare skydiving excursions. Her momentary defiance of gravity couldn’t last forever and she prepared to reenter reality.

Abruptly, at the height of the jump, thick white clouds of steam poured out of the hood, obscuring her vision, filling the air with the distinct smell of scalding antifreeze. The cloud of steam was so thick that Liv could taste it on the back of her tongue. Shit. Liv braced herself for impact as the laws of physics pulled the car toward an uncertain landing. Her Grannie often joked that Liv drove this particular road so many times that she could do it blindfolded. Liv desperately hoped it was true.

The car came to a skidding halt, tires smoking. It had been a close call; the Porsche sat on a dirt patch inches from the ledge, overlooking the deep canyon. Shit shit shit, no! Bad Murph, bad bad bad! Liv pounded the steering wheel in frustration. Hands shaking from adrenalin, Liv reached down, popped the hood and stepped out of the car.

With her long, athletic legs and olive complexion given to her by her handsome Texan father and lithe Vietnamese mother, Liv was a striking figure standing in the steam pouring from the open hood. She waited several minutes for the thick vapors to clear before she diagnosed the problem. A hose clamp? Really? You couldn’t find something better to break? You better not make me late for the wedding. Grannie and her book club are making a giant batch of Grannie’s special chicken fingers. You know how much I like those chicken fingers. I was gonna share with you this time, but not anymore. Liv kicked the front tire in frustration. She grabbed a screwdriver from a canvas tool bag in the back seat and tightened the loose clamp.

Liv looked up and down the deserted road hoping to see a car. She didn’t have much hope because of the remoteness of her location. No car had passed her the whole way up and it could be hours before help arrived. After the nearby expressway was completed, no one used this old stretch of blacktop. Liv loved this road because she could drive for hours without seeing another person. However, this feature was turning into a real problem. She checked her cell phone. As expected, there was no signal to be had this high in the mountains.

The Porsche had been nothing but trouble since she bought it. It seemed like every time she fixed one thing, something else broke. However, when the sports car worked, it made her forget about its quirks and troubles. Liv’s father had instilled in her a love of cars, which became more of an obsession when he disappeared three days after her thirteenth birthday.

Her father had a weakness for older cruisers, but Liv fixated on performance-oriented cars she could afford on her waitress salary. Murphy fit the bill. He was a white, 1988, turbocharged Porsche 944. She acquired him for next to nothing after the water pump seized on the previous owner and snapped the timing belt. The precise dance between pistons and valves went haywire without the timing belt. Instead of moving out of the other’s way, they slammed into one another, rendering the engine unusable. After nearly a month of hard work Liv got the car back in working order. At least, most of the time.

She waited a few minutes for another car to appear before heading out to find water. If she wanted to make it back to town without the car overheating, she would need to refill the radiator. Liv sighed, grabbed a couple of empty soda bottles from the passenger floorboard and headed for a mountain stream she knew was nearby.

Before her father had disappeared, they had travelled into the mountains whenever possible. Jack Driscol had been convinced he would strike it rich and was thrilled that his daughter wanted to prospect with him. To Liv it didn’t matter what they were doing; she loved anything she did with her father.

For once, her time prospecting was going to