The Redemption Chase

By Robert John Ward

Cutter Dane is a man haunted by his past, a past marked by battles, moral dilemmas, and the scars of a relentless life. Just when he thought he could escape the chaos, a chance encounter on an Alaska ferry thrusts him back into the heart of danger.

 

When Cutter intervenes to protect a distressed woman named Natalie from enigmatic agents, he has no idea that he's stepping into a conspiracy that reaches far beyond his imagination. As he delves deeper into Natalie's story, he's faced with evidence of a mind control virus and a sinister corporation's deadly plans.

 

Cutter Dane, with a code of protecting the vulnerable, must confront his own past demons. The clash of past secrets and present revelations in Cutter's dimly lit stateroom sets the stage for an electrifying thriller that will keep you on the edge of your seat.

 

As Cutter and Natalie's journey takes them from the ferry to the wilds of the Alaskan Inside Passage, they must unravel a dark conspiracy, evade relentless pursuers, and find allies in unexpected places. Cutter's battle-worn presence and Natalie's unwavering determination collide with a powerful force, leading to a moral dilemma that could change the course of their lives forever.

 

With unexpected alliances, breathtaking landscapes, and a conspiracy that spans the depths of human manipulation, "The Redemption Chase" is a gripping thriller that will leave you breathless. Cutter Dane and Dr. Natalie Worthington's journey is a rollercoaster ride of suspense and the relentless pursuit of justice. Can they expose the truth and find redemption, or will the shadows of the past consume them?

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Frontier Software Corp
• Release date: Nov 4, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223352532

Book preview

Chapter 1: Shadow of the Ferry

The Bellingham ferry terminal sprawled before Cutter Dane, a frenetic hive of activity where travelers, cars, and crates converged. It was as if the terminal itself had been caught in a perpetual state of flux, a place where time and motion danced in a synchronized chaos. Passengers, a diverse tapestry of humanity, bustled about like minnows in a turbulent stream, their expressions ranging from excitement to fatigue. Vehicles of all shapes and sizes lined up in disciplined rows, waiting their turn to be swallowed by the yawning maw of the MV Isabel, the colossal ferry that loomed like an industrial leviathan. Its towering steel hull, painted in a coat of utilitarian gray, stood as a monolithic sentinel against the backdrop of the leaden sky, a stark contrast to the softer shades of the natural world that surrounded it. Overhead, seagulls screeched in their never-ending symphony of coastal life, their shrill cries a constant reminder of the maritime world's ceaseless rhythm. The air was thick with the scent of saltwater, diesel fumes, and the unspoken promise of distant shores, each fragrance intermingling in a peculiar olfactory overture. The Bellingham ferry terminal, at once a gateway and a crossroads, was a place where journeys began and ended, where lives intersected briefly before diverging once more into the vast unknown.

Cutter Dane strode forth from the disarray of passengers, an enigmatic figure amid the ordinary. His late-thirties physique, sculpted by years as an Army Ranger, bore the weight of battles etched in scars across a rugged face. Each scar told a story – the jagged one near his left eye, a souvenir of a close encounter with insurgent shrapnel; the faint crescent on his chin, the result of a bar brawl that had spun out of control in some long-forgotten dive. Those piercing blue eyes, like distant Arctic glaciers, held a blend of intensity and world-weary resignation, as if they had seen too much and were in no hurry to forget. They darted from person to person, their gaze a laser, slicing through the clutter of the terminal, seeking patterns in the chaos.

His dark hair, cropped short in practical defiance of vanity, framed a no-nonsense demeanor. A perpetual five o'clock shadow played upon his rugged jawline, lending an air of perpetual disarray. Yet, it was his ever-present wide-brimmed fedora, perched with unerring precision, that crowned him in the classic noir detective style, a symbol of defiance against a world that often defied understanding. In its shadow, Cutter Dane stood resolute, a testament to the indomitable human spirit and the battles, both internal and external, that shaped him.

Cutter's sharp gaze swept across the bustling terminal, senses calibrated to every nuance. He stood watchful, a sentinel in a world ever teetering on the precipice of trouble. The cacophony of voices and footsteps created a symphony of human existence, but beneath it all, he could discern the irregular rhythm, the subtle disharmony that hinted at stories untold. The clatter of luggage wheels on the tiled floor echoed like distant thunder, while the laughter of children formed fragile bubbles of innocence in the sea of adult concerns.

Cutter's piercing blue eyes darted from face to face, reading micro-expressions and body language with an almost preternatural precision. A family reunited after months apart, their joy infectious, sparked a flicker of a wistful smile, a brief respite from the weight he carried. But it was the couple by the entrance, their furtive glances and hushed tones, that drew his focus. Their covert exchange spoke of secrets and concealed intentions, a clandestine affair in plain sight. Cutter's lips curled into a cynical half-smile as he mentally cataloged them for future consideration.

His sense of smell, honed by years of tracking in the wilderness, detected the tang of saltwater in the air, a reminder of the vast expanse that lay beyond the terminal's confines. It mingled with the scent of diesel fuel and the earthy musk of damp clothing, forming an olfactory tapestry unique to ferry terminals and coastal towns.

As Cutter moved through the throng, his fingertips brushed against the rough texture of wooden handrails, the tactile connection to the very essence of the sea. The polished brass fixtures, worn smooth by countless hands, whispered stories of voyages past. His combat boots, though practical, resonated with each step, their sturdy soles echoing the resilience that had carried him through battles both physical and moral.

Amidst the sensory symphony, Cutter's ears remained attuned to snippets of conversation. An elderly couple discussed their plans for exploring Alaska's pristine wilderness, their voices tinged with anticipation. A group of friends, embarking on an adventure, shared raucous laughter that rang with the promise of camaraderie. And in a corner, a musician strummed a melancholic tune on an acoustic guitar, the melody a reflection of Cutter's own inner discord.

In this sea of humanity, Cutter stood as both observer and participant, a solitary figure bearing witness to the myriad stories converging at the crossroads of the MV Isabel. The terminal's bustling life unfolded around him, each moment etching itself into his memory, a mosaic of sights, sounds, and sensations that would become the backdrop for the journey ahead.

As Cutter approached the ticket counter, a glint of light briefly caught his military dog tag necklace, hanging there as both a talisman and a tether to the past. Each chiseled letter, a reminder of comrades lost and choices made in shades of gray. The necklace, its silver surface bearing the subtle scars of time, clinked softly against his chest as he moved. It was a weighty relic that spoke of camaraderie forged in the crucible of battle and burdens shared amongst brothers in arms. Those tags weren't just metal; they were a testament to his history, a history etched into the collective memory of the Army Rangers.

Cutter's fingers absently traced the contours of the tags as he stood there, waiting for the ticket agent to finish her transaction. The touch of cool metal beneath his fingertips was grounding, a tangible link to his past life. Each tag held a story, etched in the precision of military engraving, marking him not just as a soldier but as someone who had ventured into the darkest corners of human conflict. The crossed knife and gun, now faded and worn, symbolized his role as both protector and enforcer. They were a stark reminder of the moral compromises he had been forced to make in the name of duty.

His eyes, still bearing the intensity of a man who had seen too much, flicked to the agent's nametag—a small, insignificant detail that spoke volumes.

The ticketing agent, a middle-aged woman with an air of indifference, glanced at Cutter's necklace for a fleeting moment. In that shared glance, they acknowledged the weight of history carried not only by Cutter but by many who had ventured into the abyss of service. It was a look that spoke volumes without uttering a word, a silent communion between two souls who had glimpsed the darkest corners of humanity. Cutter's gaze returned to the agent's eyes, and for an instant, there was a connection, an understanding that transcended the mundane transaction of acquiring a ticket. It was a recognition of the scars, both seen and unseen, that marked them both as survivors in a world that demanded sacrifice and resolve.

Then, as quickly as it had emerged, the moment passed.

The transaction completed and with his suitcase handed over for delivery to his stateroom, he tucked the tags back beneath the collar of his dark shirt, as if sealing away the ghosts of the past once more, ready to confront whatever shadows the present would cast upon his path.

Cutter's interactions with the terminal staff were brief and businesslike, a reflection of his no-nonsense demeanor. He had never been one for idle chit-chat or superficial pleasantries. For him, every second counted, every word spoken had to serve a purpose. As he held out his ticket to be scanned, the agent's forced smile faded under Cutter's stoic gaze. The contrast was stark—Cutter, the man carrying the weight of moral compromise and haunted by a past he could never escape, and the tourists, carefree and oblivious to the darkness that lurked beneath the surface. As he watched families and children, laughter and excitement filling the air, Cutter's guarded exterior cracked ever so slightly. His greatest fear, buried deep within, was the fear of losing the last vestiges of his own humanity in a world where justice often walked a crooked path. The tug of nostalgia threatened to pull him into the fold of their joy, but he held steadfast, resolute in his mission to protect, to uncover, and to confront the demons that still haunted him, one step at a time.

With his ticket clenched in hand, Cutter moved through the hubbub, deflecting glances and eschewing conversations. His solitude was palpable, a shield against vulnerabilities.

Until he saw a familiar face. He nodded at a dock worker, Nate, a soldier from his Army Ranger days.

Nate, a hulking figure with a jaw that seemed chiseled from granite, recognized Cutter immediately. There was a shared history between them, a connection forged in the crucible of military service, and it showed in the way their nods held unspoken understanding. Nate's eyes, deep and dark like forgotten chasms, bore the weight of their shared memories, the ones that never made it into the war stories told around campfires.

Dane, Nate grumbled, his voice a rumble akin to distant thunder, a testament to the battles he'd weathered. Haven't seen you in a while. You still chasing ghosts?

Cutter's response was curt, his words measured, a reflection of the secrets they both carried. Just the ones that won't let me rest.

They exchanged no further pleasantries, no overt displays of camaraderie. Instead, their acknowledgment was a silent pact, a pact that if the need arose, they'd stand shoulder to shoulder once more, as they had in days gone by when the world made even less sense than it did now.

Cutter watched as Nate returned to his duties, a lumbering giant amidst the bustle, his presence a reassuring reminder of the bonds that transcended time and distance. As he moved deeper into the ferry, Cutter couldn't help but wonder if, in the shadowy recesses of this colossal vessel, he might find the answers he sought or stumble upon new enigmas waiting to be unraveled.

The enormity of the MV Isabel unfolded before Cutter like a grand maritime theater. As he joined the procession of passengers boarding the colossal vessel, he couldn't help but be awed by its sheer size and capacity. Mainline ferries were a different breed, towering over their smaller counterparts in the Alaska Marine Highway System. These maritime giants were designed to swallow fleets of vehicles, from compact cars to towering RVs, with the precision of a hungry leviathan devouring its prey.

On the expansive vehicle decks, an intricate choreography unfolded. Cars, trucks, and even the occasional commercial vehicle were efficiently directed into their designated slots, a symphony of metal and movement. The utilitarian design of the ferry was apparent, each detail meticulously planned to ensure the seamless loading and unloading of passengers' prized possessions.

As Cutter watched the ballet of vehicles, he couldn't help but marvel at the vessel's organization. It was a testament to human ingenuity, the result of decades of experience navigating the challenging waters of the Alaskan coastline.

The cargo areas, tucked away from the hustle and bustle of passenger traffic, provided a glimpse into the hidden arteries of Alaska's economy. Crates and containers, bearing