Betrayed Read online

  Betrayed

  Title Page

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Epilogue

  Sam Morton

  Betrayed

  The Austin Files

  #1

  Betrayed

  An Austin Pierce Adventure

  A Quake Book

  Shakin' Up Young Readers!

  First Quake Publication 2009

  All rights Reserved.

  Copyright © 2009 by Sam Morton

  Cover © Nathalie Moore

  Quake is a division of

  Echelon Press, LLC

  9055 G Thamesmeade Road

  Laurel, MD 20723

  www.quakeme.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information address Echelon Press, LLC.

  eBook: 978-1-59080-652-4

  Published by Echelon Press LLC at Smashwords.

  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 reader. 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.

  Dedicated to the memory of

  Austin Pierce Whetsell,

  1992-2007

  who at age 15 was more of a man–

  and more of a man of God–

  than many of us will ever be.

  Lord, hear my voice: let thine ears be attentive to the voice of my supplications.

  If thou, LORD, shouldest mark iniquities, O Lord, who shall stand?

  But there is forgiveness with thee, that thou mayest be feared.

  I wait for the LORD, my soul doth wait, and in His word do I hope.

  –Psalm 130: 2-5

  First and foremost, thanks to Walter and Kim Whetsell for raising such a fine and inspirational son and for allowing me to use his inspiration as a basis for the character of Austin Pierce. Well-deserved thanks also go to my colleagues in the Inkplots Writers group, all my test readers, and to friends Dianne and Doug Norton for the use of the beach house to finish my edits. Speaking of editors, this book would not be what it is without the detailed eye and suggestions of Rochelle Bailey, an accomplished and fine writer in her own right. Long overdue thanks to mentors Tom Poland and James Rembert. To Karen Syed, the heart and soul of Echelon Press, thank you for taking a chance on me again.

  And, as always, to Myra, Alexey, and Nikki, my reasons for being.

  Prologue

  Columbia, South Carolina

  Rico Alvarez choked up on his bat and heard the crackle of his leather batting glove as he tightened his grip and tried to read the opposing pitcher's eyes, a feat made harder facing into an unrelenting and hot late afternoon sun. The kid on the mound was known for his curve ball that didn't begin its turn until you'd committed to the swing, but he wasn't a bad changeup pitcher either.

  A bead of sweat rolled in slow motion from beneath Rico's batting helmet and trickled in a rivulet below his sideburn. He was barely breathing. His team was one run down. It was the bottom of the ninth, two men on base, two outs. No pressure!

  "Hey, batter, batter. Hey, batter. Swing!" The ball thwumped into the catcher's mitt.

  "Ball two," yelled the ump. The pitch was low and inside.

  "Come on, Rico. You can do it. Concentrate. Outta the park, baby. Let's go!" The voice came from his best friend and teammate, Austin Pierce. A year ago, the two fifteen year olds barely knew each other, but now they were nearly inseparable–same church youth group, same basketball team, same baseball team, and Austin's mom homeschooled them together.

  The pitcher bent at his waist, twisted the ball furiously in his right hand placed in the small of his back and, narrowing his eyes, glared toward home plate. Rico knew he was getting his signal from the catcher. The pitcher straightened, cocked his arm, and let it fly. As soon as he released, Rico noticed from the corner of his eye Franklin, his teammate on third base, begin to inch away from the bag.

  Though he watched the ball in, he didn't have to see it, didn't really have to feel it. He knew from the unmistakable ping of aluminum striking leather he'd made purchase, and this one was sailing over the centerfield fence.

  His team emptied the dugout as first Franklin, then Dean, and finally Rico rounded the bases and made a show of hopping onto home plate. A three-run homer. Whoops and high fives all the way around. The pitcher stood on the mound with his glove over his cap, wide-eyed as if he couldn't believe it.

  One more out and everybody–grass stains, red dirt, and all–would head to Pizza Hut for a few slices of SMOG (sausage, mushroom, onion, green pepper) pizza and ice cold Pepsi.

  Rico rode with Austin and his dad, William.

  "Thanks for listening to WV…" the announcer barely got the second syllable of the call letters of the talk radio station his father incessantly listened to out of his mouth before Austin leaned over and pressed the FM button. He cranked it up to ear-splitting loud. William turned the volume back down to the point that it only rattled his windows and shook his head at the boys.

  "C'mon, Dad. We're celebrating. One more in the win column for us."

  "Yeah, but you don't have to go deaf in the process," William said.

  Austin turned his head toward Rico in the back seat, rolled his eyes, pointed his thumb toward his father, and silently mouthed "Old fart."

  "Hey! I saw that." William said with a smile. He reached over and twisted the radio volume back up as the three of them laughed out loud.

  Chapter 1

  Columbia, South Carolina

  Getting homeschooled was a different experience by any account. Austin loved being able to make his own schedule, though his mom, Karen, never let him sleep in. Even though she made the lessons fun, she said over and over, "This is your education, Austin, and we're going to make sure you have the best you can get." She was all business.

  But there were also no classes to change, no friends to hang with, and nowhere to hang even if there had been other students. His brother and two sisters went to Grace Christian School, and even though there were fewer than seventy-five students there, at least there were other kids. Karen believed Austin had matured enough for home schooling. Grace Christian had given him a solid foundation and taught him good study habits, but the staff there could only take him so far. The public schools just couldn't challenge him enough, so home schooling alone seemed to be t
he only answer. That's why when his mom agreed to teach Rico, Austin got pretty stoked over the whole idea.

  They already knew each other from Covenant Presbyterian Church youth group. Austin grew up in the church, while Rico and his family had joined two years ago when they first moved to town. They met every Tuesday night, went on summer mission trips together, and ski and beach weekends with the group. Getting homeschooled together just solidified their friendship.

  "Okay," said Karen Pierce, "we need to work on a little science." She pursed her lips and tapped them with her index finger while the boys looked on with a bit of bored anticipation. "Why don't we do some geology?"

  "Aw, man. Why can't we do something cool? Like blow something up in the yard?"

  "I'm your Mom."

  "Ma'am?" Austin said, his brow scrunched in confusion.

  "You said, 'Man.' I'm 'Mom.'"

  "Oh, sorry…Mom. But you knew what I meant."

  Rico watched this exchange like a tennis match, moving his eyeballs between mother and son.

  "Yep. I knew what you meant, but we can't blow anything up right now. We've got testing coming up and we really have to bone up on geology."

  Austin slumped back into his chair. The boys and Karen sat at the table in the Pierce's dining room, which doubled nicely as classroom space. There was enough room at the table to spread out maps and charts. As usual, something was slow-roasting in a crock pot in the kitchen. The savory smell of turkey breast simmering in thick gravy wafted through the door.

  Austin and Rico shared one of the Pierce's laptops to look up information they needed that wasn't in their textbooks. And the table sat only about six steps from the fridge in the kitchen. Snacking and drinking soft drinks during class was a perk no regular school kid could enjoy.

  "So, let's review a little bit," Karen said gliding her teacher's guide in front of her and opening to a page in the middle. She leaned forward, crossed her legs, curled her index finger around a freshly sharpened pencil, and rested her chin against the heel of her hand. "What are some of the ways geological formations are changed?"

  "Tectonics, uh, the shifting of the plates," said Rico in the soft lilt of mildly accented English.

  "Right," Karen said. "And how does that work?"

  "Well, as the plates collide or separate, mountains rise or valleys form."

  "Correct," Karen said, making a check mark in her guide.

  "There's floods and shifting of rivers," Austin said.

  "How does that work?"

  "The force of flood waters can move big rocks or erode other natural formations and alter the course of rivers and creeks," Austin said. "And then some rivers just shift naturally because the sand makes the river bottoms unstable."

  "And don't forget earthquakes and volcanic eruptions," Rico said.

  "Wouldn't earthquakes be an example of how plate tectonics affect geology?" Karen asked.

  Rico pursed his lips and tapped his pencil on the tabletop. "Oh, yeah." Then he perked up in his chair, "But the volcanoes…"

  "Yeah, that was a cool video," Austin said.

  "Right, the lava can add height or, like in Hawaii when it hits the ocean and cools, it can add acres and acres of land."

  Karen plopped her pencil down in the open spine of her teacher's guide and sat up. "You guys have this stuff down pat."

  "Now can we go blow up something in the yard?" Rico asked.

  Karen tilted her head and squinted her eyes. "Well…"

  "No, I got it! Let's do the potato gun." Austin said. Both boys, and even Karen, bolted from their chairs and pushed away from the table.

  "I'll get the PVC pipe," Rico said.

  "Right. And I'll get the butane. It's in the garage."

  Karen, as if having second thoughts, sighed hard. "Guys…" she said, her voice trailing off.

  "Please, mom," Austin said.

  She breathed deeply. Then she smiled and with her eyes twinkling and finger wagging, said, "Okay. But do not tell your father we did this again. He doesn't think this is really the kind of science we should be studying."

  To a lot of people, the Pierces seemed like a kind of throwback family. William owned his own business, and like a lot of folks from years ago, the whole family pitched in when things got busy. That was another perk of homeschooling. Austin and Rico arranged their study time so that they could also work at William's political consulting firm.

  They took stacks of flyers and giant campaign postcards–literally millions of pieces of paper–and loaded them into a machine that ink-jetted on addresses and spit the individual pieces out rapid fire onto a conveyer belt. The boys and their co-workers had to grab them off the belt before they landed in piles on the floor–a feat of extraordinary talent, timing, and agility–and heap them into short-sided, plastic mailing trays marked with huge red tags that said, "Political Mail."

  When the trays were full, they loaded them onto six-foot steel racks on wheels. When the racks got full, they either had to load them onto a truck for transport to the post office or arrange them in a corner of the warehouse if the truck was already out on a delivery. It was back-breaking labor. A fully loaded rack weighed nearly 500 lbs.

  But it was fun, too. For one, it wasn't schoolwork and books. And while a few adults worked in the mail warehouse, most of them–the political consultants, writers, and graphic designers–worked up front in the office. That meant that most of the mail house staff was made up of kids Austin and Rico's same age. One thing's for sure, Pepsi and Pizza Hut made a fortune off of the Pierce Consulting Group, Ltd. warehouse crew. The driver even knew by now to come to the loading dock rather than the office entrance. All in all, it wasn't a bad way to make a few bucks.

  Chapter 2

  "Austin!" Rico had to yell to make himself heard over the constant thump, thump, thump of the Volkswagen Beetle-sized Buskro ink-jetting machine. When Austin looked his way, Rico held up an oversize postcard with a blazing red headline that read, "Mike Provo Will FIGHT to Save Social Security!" Rico pointed to the faded grey address in the mail panel. "I think the ink is getting low," he yelled. "We're going to need to change the cartridge soon."

  Austin gave him a thumbs-up sign and continued to feed the last of his stack of Provo postcards into the machine. As the Buskro sucked the final card through, he flipped a switch and the machine slowed down with a dying whine. Austin thought the quiet seemed almost unnatural given the practically constant churning and turning of the Buskro. At full speed the machine emitted an intoxicating odor of ozone and the alcohol contained in the ink. It was the smell of the printed word. To Austin and his friends on the mailing crew, it was also the smell of spending money.

  Rico stacked the last few cards into a waiting mail tray while Austin ripped open a corrugated cardboard box that held the industrial-sized print cartridge. Rico nodded toward the office. "What's up with everybody wearing suits today?" he asked a little louder than he'd intended. His ears hadn't yet adjusted to the absence of noise either. Rico had already observed there were more cars in the parking lot than usual, which generally meant clients had come to the office, but even on those days, the office staff dressed casually.

  "Senator Stevens from Texas is in with his staff to talk strategy. Apparently he has a lot of seniority, so it's a big enough deal that everybody had to ditch the jeans today," Austin said.

  And it was a big deal. Senator Benjamin Howe Stevens, "Pitchfork Ben" as he was affectionately known to friends and foes, the majority leader in the United States Senate, was up for re-election. This year was a presidential election year, which meant more people voted, which meant a greater chance that someone currently in office might lose, which meant those people in office spent a lot of money to seek out the best political consultants in the country. That meant William Pierce.

  Austin opened the compartment hatch for the ink cartridge and reached in to pull out the empty one. He felt the sear of white hot metal against his skin, drew his hand back sharply, and yelped a loud, "Ouch!" Ev
erybody looked his direction. "This thing is still blazing," he said, shaking the burning sensation out of his wrist.

  "We've been running it a thousand miles-an-hour," Rico said. I'm surprised it hasn't started to smoke already."

  Austin suggested they give it time to cool down, and everybody in the warehouse gave him a "you-don't-have-to-tell-me-twice" shrug and headed toward the fridge for soft drinks. They settled down in chairs around the break table and drew a collective sigh of tiredness. Today was just one in a string of endless days and weeks before the primaries–the political version of playoffs–before the real election rolled around in November.

  Brett, one of the other workers took a long, slow draw from his can of Diet Coke while he examined a piece of stray campaign literature from the table. He swallowed and broke the silence. "These politicians sure are a violent bunch," he said. Everybody looked at him like they didn't know what he meant.

  "See," he said, flipping the card toward them, "Provo's going to fight for our Social Security. Last week he was going to fight for lower taxes. That guy, Jackson, we're handling is going to fight for better education."

  Everyone snickered a little bit. "Lean to the left. Lean to the right. Stand up, sit down, fight, fight, fight! Appropriate cheer for politics, huh?" Katie said. She laughed at her own joke more than everybody else did. At fourteen, Katie was the youngest member of the crew. She had a wacky sense of humor, but everyone just figured she was just trying a little too hard to fit in, so they laughed along.