The Drazen World: Unraveled (Kindle Worlds Novella) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Epilogue

  Text copyright ©2018 by the Author.

  This work was made possible by a special license through the Kindle Worlds publishing program and has not necessarily been reviewed by Flip City Media Inc.. All characters, scenes, events, plots and related elements appearing in the original The Drazen World remain the exclusive copyrighted and/or trademarked property of Flip City Media Inc., or their affiliates or licensors.

  For more information on Kindle Worlds: http://www.amazon.com/kindleworlds

  Unraveled

  Delaney Foster[DF1]

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Epilogue

  The End

  About the author

  Copyright 2017 Author Delaney Foster

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author, excepting brief quotes used in promotional content or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is entirely coincidental.

  Chapter One

  Grace

  The hardest thing I’ve ever had to do was watch my mother die. Or so I thought. As I spend another restless night, in the same room, watching my father fight for air through troubled sleep, I wonder if I can find the strength to do this all over again. Then I pray I won’t have to. I tell myself he’s going to be okay, even though I know it’s only a matter of time.

  The chair at the foot of the bed creaks as I adjust myself against its narrow boundaries. The once sturdy wooden arms are now rickety and loose with wear. I’ve slept in this chair more nights than I care to admit over the past two years. As I sit here yet again, one leg draped over the side, my head bobbing and lolling against a back that doesn’t quite reach high enough to be remotely comfortable, I remember the night I moved it from its lonely corner in my father’s office into this bedroom. The weight of solid mahogany and polyester upholstery rested heavily on my shoulders. Or maybe it was the reason behind the move that weighed me down. If I’d known when we made the purchase exactly what role that chair would play in my life, I’d have put more thought into its comfort and less into its appearance.

  “You don’t have to stand guard, Grace. I’m not going to run away,” my dad teases from beneath his pile of blankets. His voice is weak from the coughing fit that woke me from a much-needed nap.

  I’d been home a whole two hours after pulling a twelve-hour shift at the hospital when the monitor in my bedroom alerted me of his irregular breathing. At times like these, I wish I’d taken his home health nurse up on her offer to stay, so I can get some sleep. But thanks to my long hours at work, she spends enough time away from her family as it is. So, in this chair I sit, whether he likes it or not.

  “I’m not standing guard, Dad. I happen to like this chair.” Running my fingertips across my eyelids right now is the equivalent to scratching them with sandpaper. I need at least ninety-five more hours of sleep. He starts to say something, but I interrupt him with an unexpected loud yawn.

  “Go to bed, Gracie. It was a little tickle. Nothing a glass of water won’t fix,” he says, dismissing the fact that he nearly coughed up a lung less than five minutes ago.

  “Sleep is overrated,” I return with a smile, as I stand to get him a fresh drink. He grabs my wrist just as I touch the glass on his nightstand, his grip weak but firm.

  “I mean it, Princess. You have a great big world out there to save. You can’t do that on little to no sleep.” His endearment cuts right to my heart. Our history with my career choice hasn’t always been pleasant.

  My father used to be so strong, so full of pride. I look at him now, sunken cheeks, pale skin, and grey eyes lying beneath a pile of blankets to fight off an invisible chill, and my heart shatters to a million pieces onto the rich fibers of the wool rug under my feet. I peer into those grey eyes and see no less of a man today than I did two years ago, before he got sick and bound to a king-sized bed in a dimly lit room. He’s every bit as strong-willed and demanding as he ever was, and I am still his little girl. So, I obey. There’s something important I need to tell him, but my eyelids are heavy, and he’s drifting back to sleep. So, the talk will have to wait.

  ***

  I don’t know if it’s been three days, three hours, or five minutes since I crawled into bed when the doorbell startles me awake. I rub my eyes and try to focus. Another chime. For the love of sleep, I’m coming already. I slip the comforter off my legs and climb out of bed. Ding Ding Chime. I swear, if it’s those “Your soul is doomed” pamphlet pushers again…

  I glance at the windows as I pad across the hardwood floor of the living room. It’s dark out. I can’t believe I slept so long. I hope my dad is okay. I pop on my tip toes, peeking through the peep hole and spot Lucas, my sister’s nine-year old son. He’s alone. Where is Natalie? The fact that she’s not standing next to him shouldn’t surprise me. This isn’t the first time he’s rang our bell in solitude.

  “Hey kiddo, where’s your mom?” I ask, ruffling his hair and holding the door open so he can come in. I peek out into the darkness just as a set of headlights backs out of the driveway. Thank God, my sister has good neighbors.

  His face is so pale it’s almost transparent, and his eyes are locked on a vision one-hundred miles away. I grab his shoulders and force him to face me. “Lucas? What’s going on, love bug?” I’m trying not to let the panic that’s swarming around me show up in my voice. He finally glances up at me, and his eyes fill with tears. Oh no. Oh God. Please let my sister be okay.

  “Mom’s asleep. And I can’t get her to wake up.” No. I won’t let her do this to him… to us. I mentally defy her as if I even have a choice. His tiny voice shakes with fear as his words spill from his lips. “I tried, Aunt Grace. I shook her.” He’s frantic, barely breathing, and tears stain his innocent cheeks. He ignores them as they continue to fall. “I yelled at her. I even poured a glass of water on her. She won’t wake up, Aunt Grace. She won’t wake up.” His voice gets louder with every syllable, and my heart is pounding and breaking all at once. I pull his little body against mine, holding him close as I rub the back of his hair. His sobs fill the quiet room. I don’t interrupt him. I just pull him closer. Where he’s safe. Where
he’s loved.

  Chapter Two

  Deacon

  Sandy beaches, streets lined with colorful buildings, and tent vendors selling hand-made tapestries are luxuries I don’t get to enjoy when I come to Cape Town. My trips don’t include rugby games at the sports arena or afternoons at water bungalows. Most of my time lately is spent peering past the back of a Jeep while Johan drives over the dusty roads of a nearby township trying not to get carjacked. The lines of wealth aren’t blurred here. There are haves and there are have-nots. And those who have better damn well make sure those who have-not, don’t know it. The Lord giveth, and the have-nots taketh away.

  This was a lesson I learned the hard way. The Bruce family, my family, lived among the wealthy. As a child I’d heard my father whisper in the kitchen long after I was supposed to be tucked into the security of my bed. He would talk to my mother about things like righting wrongs and fearsome unrest, but I had no idea what any of that meant. Until one day, years later, I was working away from home when a group of men showed up on our farm and decided what was ours was theirs, including my mother and sister.

  One of my father’s foreman rushed to get me, mumbling about things I didn’t have the patience to understand. I just knew I needed to get home. Of the seven men that attacked my family, three were still there when I arrived. The gruesome scene laid out before my eyes the moment I stepped out of my truck. My family’s workers, my lifelong friends, lay beaten and bloody on the path leading to our front door. I hadn’t made it ten steps inside before I saw my mother, lying on the kitchen floor, weeping uncontrollably, one hand cupping her crotch as she pulled her legs into her body and the other over her mouth in disbelief. My sister hid underneath the dining table, knees pulled to her chest as she rocked back and forth, shaking her head vehemently and mouthing the words, “No. Please make it go away.” I assumed she was speaking to someone with more power than I had at that moment.

  I followed my mother’s eyes to the adjacent room where I found my father, a man I’d looked up to my whole life, admired for his good heart and kind nature. I remember shifting my eyes from him back to my mother, then to my sister. Back to him. The sobs of the woman who gave me life, the silence of the man who raised me, and the shouts of three strangers who had taken it all from me suddenly became deafening. The room spun. The noise grew louder. The innocence of my soul was ripped away by the claws of destruction, torn to pieces, disappearing so fast I couldn’t catch it if I tried. Then… silence. The chaos stopped spinning. The sounds of despair stopped swirling around me. Something happened in that moment. Something changed. I was no longer a naïve young man, but a callous soul determined to control every element of the world around him. Water. Air. Earth. Fire. People. Whatever it took. Nothing would ever affect me this way again. Nothing.

  After I made sure the three men that were left would never lay their hands on another inch of innocent flesh again, I carried my father’s lifeless body out of my mother’s line of sight then took her and my sister into the bathroom and cleaned them up. As I sponged the blood from their broken and abused bodies, I realized the truth about the world I lived in. There’s no room for weakness here.

  That was almost twenty years ago, and nothing’s changed. Except now the workers are all armed and prepared to do what it takes to keep my mother and sister safe. My little brother was kept locked in the basement all those years ago. So, he didn’t have to witness what those men did to my family or watch me take their lives as retribution. Now he runs the farm with a quick hand and sharp eye. The natives are growing more and more restless, and the division among our people grows wider and wider by the day. Which is why I’m here now.

  After spending more time than I should have in Los Angeles trying to postpone the inevitable, I finally came back home to take care of business. I couldn’t keep ignoring the phone calls, the cries of my people. It’s my job to find injustice and document it for the world in vibrant, living color. I don’t sugar coat shit. It’s gritty. It’s dangerous. And it sure as hell isn’t easy. I don’t have a single weak-stomached person on my team. And I like it that way.

  I own a photography business, specializing in risky photojournalism assignments. My men know what they’re getting into when they come to work for me, and they know what to expect when they’re in the field. They also know if anything ever happens to them while they’re out there, I have the balls to do whatever it takes to make it right. Sometimes that means having a simple meeting with the Embassy to get one out of jail or free from the grasp of the wrong group of people. But, most of the time, the Embassy has better things to do. So, it means I take the negotiating into my own hands.

  Right now, genocide is flooding the streets of South Africa, and I was on another continent chasing pussy. No. That’s not true. With Fiona Drazen it was about more than sex. It was about control and the fight to maintain it. I loved her. I always will. But loving her had made me weak. It consumed me. Fiona had done it. She’d finally proved me right. And the very knowledge of that statement rips me in two. I’d never wanted to be more wrong in my life. But… she’s not submissive. She never was. Her final act, one of complete and utter control, sent me walking out the door knowing I’d never see her again. It’s been eleven months, and I still think of her when the rest of the world goes to sleep. But with each passing day, she gets easier to forget.

  ***

  Three weeks ago, two of my guys, Johan and David, set off into Nyanga to document some of the gang violence that was breaking out in the past weeks. It’s not as if the road was unsafe or less traveled. But two cars boxed them in, motioning for them to pull to the side. Men with guns poked their torsos out of car windows, warning them to obey. Once they pulled over, a man from one of the other cars put a gun to Johan’s head as if the gesture were as natural as salting French fries, while another wrapped a blindfold around his eyes. He was shoved into the backseat of his own car and driven around for an hour before being drug out onto the dirt of an abandoned lot and left alone.

  The only sign of David we’ve seen since that day was a video sent to my email a week later letting us know a message needed to be sent. I caught sight of a flag in the background and knew immediately who was behind the kidnapping.

  My first meeting with the U.S. Consulate didn’t go as I’d hoped, although, it went exactly as I expected. The authorities are useless. A man is missing. And if they won’t help negotiate the terms of David’s release, I’ll have to do it my way.

  ***

  “What the fuck?” Johan shouts over the sound of rugged tires crushing rocky gravel. “How many do you think there are?” he asks, pointing at a line of men with semi-automatic weapons strapped over their shoulders as they block the road in front of us. I let my eyes scan the space about sixty yards ahead.

  “Six. Maybe seven.”

  “Should I turn around? Slow down? Please don’t tell me we’re going to stop.”

  His voice is shaky even without the rough terrain. These men mean business. We’ve crossed a line, stepped into their territory. We’re the haves and they’re the have-nots. We have no business here. It doesn’t matter that they’ve taken one of my men, and I’m here to find him. They don’t give a fuck about justice. Their blood runs purely on instinct and survival. A weaker man would find fear in their determination to create mass chaos, but I’m not a weak man. We’re not turning around. David is out here. Somewhere. And I’m not leaving until I find him.

  I’ve done things I’m not proud of, things that jolt me awake in the dead of night, my skin covered in sweat. Things I don’t speak of. Things that have kept me and my crew from being tortured and killed. Out here, in my world, it’s survival of the fittest and I have become a master at the game of self-preservation.

  “Keep going,” I order, my eyes locked on the man in the center of the blockade. Willing him to move. Daring him to stay. Johan grips the steering wheel with both hands. And if I didn’t know better I’d swear he’d closed his eyes as we continued a
t full speed toward the men.

  The one in the middle brings his weapon from his shoulder to firing position. I stand, my head rising above the foam-covered roll bar while my hands grasp the sides, holding me in place. I give Johan two taps on the shoulder, urging him to speed up. The wind slaps my cheeks as the Jeep picks up speed.

  Twenty meters. The men square their shoulders but exchange anxious glances. The man in the middle yells something that I can’t discern. He doesn’t drop his gun. I don’t drop my gaze. Always look them in the eye. How’s a man supposed to take you seriously if you can’t look him in the eye?

  Ten meters. The men on the corners start to shuffle their feet. I hold my gaze. I’m certain Johan has his eyes closed at this point. He’s not a quitter, but he doesn’t have near the balls for this stuff as I do. Then again, not many people do.

  Five meters. Middle man fires his weapon twice. The bullets ricochet off the steel next to my right hand. I move my hand but don’t back down. Johan takes his foot off the gas.

  “Keep going.”

  Middle man jumps out of the way just before we run him down. The other men follow his lead, scattering to the left and right as we plow past them.

  “You’re fucking crazy,” Johan shouts, never looking over his shoulder as he keeps driving.

  Maybe. Or maybe I’m just unapologetic.

  ***

  The crisp white stucco and delicate landscaped entrance of the updated Victorian style hotel near the water are nothing more than a mask for the barbarity that hides in the depths of the city. My crew and I occupy three of the ten rooms of the quaint hotel. I put us here on purpose, to remind us of our humanity after the atrocities we’re subjected to. A detox of sorts. But even cozy furniture and inviting décor doesn’t distract me from the fact that the danger has just begun for us.