Love Before Law

By Tyler Porter

Could you commit murder if it meant saving the ones you love?

Matthew O’Bannon has built a life most people dream of, but he’s spent most of it running from a nightmare – his past.

The sins of his history pollute his days and nights, but when he meets a young woman and her daughter, everything begins to change.

With a new family to love and a thriving business, things seem to be going right for the first time in decades. Until people he comes into contact with begin turning up dead.

With the body count rising, and the actions of his past emerging from the shadows, it becomes more and more clear that his new family could be the final target.

A final choice awaits him, and that choice will mean the difference between saving the ones he loves or losing them forever...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tyler Porter
• Release date: Nov 17, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463399255

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

It was after dark on a weeknight. His bedroom was the furthest from the front door, but it still made him jump when it crashed open. The sound of his little sister crying and yelling met his ears. The original sound of the door slamming open began to make more sense. She was an emotional child, and sobbing was her immediate response to most unpleasant things. The outburst was most likely caused by something small—like the neighbor’s dog barking at her, or an argument with one of her friends at school.

As the crying and yelling continued, however, he started to realize that this was not her normal whiny performance. This time was different, but he couldn’t quite place why. Was it the concern in his mother’s voice? Was it the fact that the tantrum had gone on so much longer than usual? He pondered the possibilities but quickly gave up. He stood up out of his computer chair, stretched, and walked out into the hallway toward the family room to investigate further. He entered the family room and knew instantly that his feeling was right. This was not typical. This was very different.

Dad was kneeling down beside her and Mom was standing behind him fighting back tears. His little sister’s face was soaked with tears, though, and there was a look of absolute terror in her eyes. She was bawling uncontrollably and couldn’t put words together to tell anyone what had happened. He studied her attire, and another idea of why she was in distress entered his mind. Her favorite pink dress was torn to shreds. This idea left him quickly as he looked closer. She had heavy bruising on her arms and neck. His father, kneeling on the ground next to her, looked as though he wasn’t present. It was as if his mind was somewhere else, somewhere happier, somewhere far away from the situation before them. He looked broken. Shattered.

He moved toward his sister to try to calm her down and find out what had happened, but it was no use. She could hardly find enough of a break in her outburst to take a breath, much less explain what had caused it. It was hours before she could get it out, and instead of their parents, she chose to tell him. He had never fainted before, but later he guessed, by his sudden dizziness, he was coming close to passing out. He felt sick hearing the words come from her mouth. She was so young and so innocent. No little girl should ever have to speak those words.

After telling his parents, in private, what had occurred, his nausea turned to fury. They didn’t know what to do, so at that moment, they had decided to do nothing. That didn’t sit right with him. Something needed to be done, and it couldn’t wait. If they didn’t want to be the ones to take care of it, it would have to be him. Later that night, he carefully snuck out of his window and down the street toward his destination. It wasn’t far from their house, and he sprinted the entire way. Adrenaline had taken over and he only had one thing on his mind.

The next thing he knew, he was racing down his street back toward his house with the sounds of police sirens in the background. He had only just gotten back into his bedroom when the blue and red lights flooded the room. He looked down at his hands for the first time; they were painted red. That same shade of crimson was smeared on his shirt and pants. He would have to think of something quickly. It wouldn’t be long before they would find him, and if he didn’t have an explanation, it was all over.

He wanted to get to his parents and tell them what had happened before the police did. He moved toward his bedroom door, but before he could open it, an alarm began blaring. He looked around wanting to find out where it was coming from. An odd feeling set in, and his vision started to blur. He fought against it, but the image of his bedroom began to fade away from. He closed his eyes and shook his head a few times, hoping to lose the sensation, but when he opened his eyes again he was lying on his back staring at the ceiling. The alarm was still going off, and he rolled to his side to find his cell phone chiming.

He was immediately aware that he was drenched in sweat, and he breathed deeply as he brought his mind back to reality. This was not an uncommon way for Matthew O’Bannon to wake up. He had been having a variation of this same nightmare two or three times a week over the last few months. It was probably the reason he hadn’t been sleeping much. He checked the time on his phone: 5:00 AM, right on schedule. He shifted his feet onto the floor, stood up, and moved across the room to his walk-in closet where he swiftly dressed in his workout gear. Then, like every morning, he went for a two-mile run in downtown Chicago. When he returned home, he did an hour of weight training before having a cup of coffee and a shower. He then dressed in his suit, grabbed his briefcase and headed for the door of his penthouse.

The ride down the elevator of his building in the mornings was generally a quick one. Most of the residents were not up and on their way out so early. He was appreciative of this, as a ride down from the thirty-second floor could turn into a long commute if the elevator stopped every few floors for a pick up. He walked through the lobby, giving his morning sentiments to the lobby desk clerk, Carrie, and the security guard, Jeff, standing at the front door. He walked through the private door to the resident parking garage. He stopped in front of his car, and like he did every morning, he gave it a moment of appreciation. It was a snow white Rolls Royce Phantom—white-on-white with premium white leather interior. He had ordered it with every feature available, including the zodiac symbol that shined through the roof. He fired it up and headed for the office.

Matt took a left turn out of the parking garage onto Hubbard Street. About a half mile down, he took another left and then a right. Finally he turned onto Wacker Drive, the street where his office building resided. He had paid an obscene amount of money to have a penthouse so close to his office, but time had become his most precious resource, and he had to protect it any way he could. The building was beautiful—a silver tower built out of steel and glass that seemed to disappear into the clouds at its peak.

He walked into work that morning at eight a.m., the same time that he arrived every morning, and roughly one hour before anyone else would arrive. He had always been a work horse. Even before he was running his own company, he was always the first person to arrive and always the last to leave. His employees were well aware of this habit, and were also well aware of his expectations for those who he employed. The first to arrive after him was his executive assistant, Claire Johnstone. She served as his right-hand woman, and the rest of the office appreciated this fact. She was outgoing and infectiously cheerful. This was a nice balance with Matt, who more often than not was perceived as cold, emotionless, and focused. He had a decent relationship with his underlings, but above all else, he was focused on getting his company to the next level and the level after that.

Good morning Mr. O’Bannon. Did you have a nice weekend? Claire greeted.

Good morning Claire. It was uneventful, but quiet; so yeah, I would say it was nice, he said with a slight chuckle. How was yours?

"It was fantastic! My sister and I went shopping downtown and then we tried this amazing little café on 6th, which you would absolutely love! Then we went over to Mom’s and helped her with some redecorating and—" She paused; he wasn’t listening. He was already looking at his calendar for the day and opening his email. She was not insulted by this notion, as she had grown to know him as a very no-nonsense professional who had little patience for anything not relating to business. She pulled out her pad folio and began rambling off his various appointments and arrangements for that day.

So, you have a 9:30 conference call with Chuck Wallace and his group; we have our sales meeting at 10:15; and then you have a lunch appointment with Doug Little at noon at Gibson’s downtown. This afternoon we need to finalize your travel plans for the next few months so that I can make sure the jet is ready for you.

Good, good, and good. I appreciate you keeping me on track Claire. I would be lost without you, he said, smiling.

She smiled back as she attempted to hold back her thoughts. If she was any other woman, she would have melted on the spot, hearing those words while staring into his deep blue eyes. He was perfect on the outside: built like a roman statue; wavy brown hair that was long, but not too long; and those amazing blue eyes that glowed whenever he spoke to her. When she’d first started and he would speak to her, she had been put at a loss for words. But she had been through this many times over the years, and it was something that had taken some getting used to. It wasn’t that he was flirting; as a matter of fact, she had known him for five years at this point, and had never even known him to go on a date. It was just that he was completely and utterly genuine. He meant every word that left his lips, which was a very rare thing in her experience. Especially in Chicago. She got up to walk back to her desk.

Claire? he said.

Yes, Mr. O’Bannon? she replied.

You forgot my coffee. He grinned.

Oh my gosh! I am so sorry! I must be having a Monday! she joked. I will be right back with that.

He nodded his head in approval, and then shifted his complete attention back to his work as she scrambled to the elevator. He began preparing his pitch for his 9:30 conference call, although he knew exactly how to approach the group. Matt’s company served as a business consulting firm. As a matter of fact, over the previous five years it had served as the number one consulting firm in Chicago. His company had become a literal overnight success, starting seemingly out of nothing and becoming an international empire in a matter of a few short years.

In the business world, he was an enigma. He had no backstory. He declined to appear on any television segments, radio programs, or interviews. He kept himself away from the limelight. In a world where secrets were virtually extinct, Matthew O’Bannon was a master of remaining one. This drove reporters absolutely insane. Nobody could seem to get any information on him, and everyone had the same questions. Who is Matt O’Bannon? Where did he come from? How did this empire appear out of thin air? How is he doing it?

These questions didn’t seem to bother Matt. He continued on with his business day after day and was not one for distractions. His days were routine: wake, work, sleep. His idea of leisure was retiring to his isolated cabin in Minnesota for a week once a year. From what Claire and his staff could tell, he had no family, no wife, no children, and no friends. He had his company, and all of his attention was on work.

His employees began gathering their things at the end of the day and started trickling out the door. Each one wished Claire a good night, but were careful, as always, not to disturb Mr. O’Bannon, who was still busy at work in his office. Claire was the last to leave, aside from Matt.

I’m going to take off for the night. Do you need anything else from me before I leave? she asked.

No, I think I’m all good here, he replied.

Alright then. Do you have any plans tonight? Some friends of mine are in town, and we are going out for a drink if you wanted to join—

No, he interrupted, I have a lot to finish up here. But thank you. I hope you have fun.

Oh, well, alright, goodnight sir, she said.

Goodnight.

He worked for about an hour longer before packing his briefcase and heading for the elevator. He rode down twenty-three floors to the parking garage and started toward home. He drove the same route every day to and from work. Routine. Routine was the word that carried his life. Everything was preplanned; everything was fixed. He exerted as much control over his life as possible, and that meant no variables. He wanted absolute control over everything that he was involved in. He longed for control, because he had lost control once before, and it had haunted him ever since.

He arrived at home, and as he did every day, set his briefcase on the bench in the entryway. He proceeded to his study where he poured himself a single malt scotch. He would often lounge in this room until the wee hours of the morning, reading, journaling, or studying, while continuously sipping on his scotch. Tonight though, he was stuck in deep thought. Thinking about the same thing that he had been thinking about all day. The dream. The same dream that he had had for years, but a dream that had been occurring more and more frequently in recent weeks. He couldn’t understand why he was still having this same dream when he constantly flooded his life with business, travel, and expansion. He was ever focused on personal growth as well. He worked very hard to keep his mind occupied for every second of the day; yet somehow, he could not stop this same dream from coming back.

As he thought, he drank. And he drank. It wasn’t long before he had finished off his bottle of Highland Park and broke the seal on the next. The more he drank, the more vivid the dream became, and the more he remembered. He remembered the screaming. He could recall the adrenaline