Being Emerald

They’ll escape New Atlanta or die trying.

Brave, beautiful, and not easily controlled—even within a dictatorship—Laila Lewis has finally attained the prestige of an Emerald designation. Now only one thing is keeping her from her life’s goal of retrieving the Declaration of Independence and other priceless artifacts from the wild unknown of the Onyx Zone: the six weeks of training necessary to ensure her survival outside the city walls. But she won’t be going it alone…

After a year as a designated Emerald, rugged, sensual ex-cop Rock Rodgers is finally prepared to leave New Atlanta for good. Six weeks of training is the only thing standing between him and his next mission: to disappear into the freedom of the Onyx Zone where the long-armed rule of the Gov can’t reach him. But when the chemistry between him and Laila reaches a boiling point, with captivity just one false move away, will he have to escape on his own—or risk everything for a woman more tempting than freedom...

CONTENT WARNING: Contains explicit sexual language and content, m/f, and elements of BDSM that may be objectionable to some readers.

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New Atlanta Series

Being Amber, Book One

Being Sapphire, Book Two

Being Emerald, Book Three

Friday Afternoon

Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

New Atlanta Series

Sylvia Ryan

LYRICAL PRESS

Kensington Publishing Corp.

www.kensingtonbooks.com

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Copyright © 2014 Sylvia Ryan

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First Electronic Edition: March 2015

eISBN-13: 978-1-61650-621-6

eISBN-10: 1-61650-621-0

First Print Edition: March 2015

ISBN-13: 978-1-61650-622-3

ISBN-10: 1-61650-622-9

Printed in the United States of America

To the only person who really knows me.

Thank you, Penny for taking the time to teach.

Thank you, Jessica for wanting to learn.

Thank you, Donna Johnson for being my biggest fan and

for catching what everyone else missed.

The distant explosion vibrated the worn wood floor beneath Rock’s feet.
Oh yeah. That one’s going to hurt.
Exclamations echoed in the cavernous space of the beautiful Sapphire Zone Historical library. Bright light filtered through the massive doors as a handful of patrons filed out to investigate. Rock turned his attention away from the diversion and wove through the stacks. He cut sharply down a roped-off nonfiction aisle where three books lay exactly where Xander’s letter had said they’d be. He scooped them off the shelf and dropped them into his bag. With the task complete, Rock joined the others on the front steps, blending into the crowd of faces pointed toward rising smoke in the Emerald Zone.

Since the Gov realized they’d been stumped by codes taken from old paper books, nonfiction was off limits without an official escort. Patrick O’Connor, the first guardsman to jump ship and fight for what was right, had known their value to the newly formed Resistance.

His bag weighed down with more knowledge, Rock whistled as he descended the stairs and turned toward the Emerald Zone.

General Morgan was shrewd enough to know he couldn’t ban books and cunning enough to present his library restrictions as “safety precautions” for the good of the people. Like all good politicians, he knew the delivery of the words were as important as the words themselves. If it still appeared they lived in a democratic society, the masses wouldn’t notice or care that their reading materials were controlled.

Rock couldn’t contain his smile as he walked toward the smoke billowing from the Peacekeeper’s armory.
Two birds, one stone.
Nothing brought him more joy than another opportunity to piss Morgan off or bring him down. Xander, his best friend and leader of the Amber Resistance, was a brilliant strategist. To help Rock occupy the few days between Onyx Zone recovery missions, Xander always had a spectacular plan waiting. It was Rock’s big old
fuck you
, signifying he’d made it back alive from another mission. Morgan had to know it was him doing the destroying, but Rock hadn’t been caught yet. He glanced up at the rolling black cloud melding with the white puffy ones of the beautiful New Atlanta day. The sight filled him with absolute glee as he pressed on, his long strides devouring his four-mile hike home to the Emerald Zone.

The Resistance was winning this conflict because, after a quarter century, Ambers, the dregs of society, had a unique way of thinking outside the box to solve problems. It was also how they waged war. Since the first pandemic survivors arrived in New Atlanta, continued existence hinged on finding alternative ways to meet their needs. With no medicine, they used roots and herbs. With no families, they forged surrogate ones. With a wall built to keep them in, they made nirvana and kept everybody else out. His father had always told him a man could go crazy focusing on what he couldn’t do or didn’t have. Instead, in a culture of love and unconditional acceptance, Ambers had flourished, focusing on everything else. They’d been forced to since the Repopulation Laws had been enacted.

A squealing streak of pink ambushed him with an “Oomph!” He staggered back and then hoisted the young girl into his arms.

“Please can you look for crayons? The store is out.” A smile marked with dimples graced the blue-eyed girl’s cheeks.

The girl’s mother stepped closer. “Dallas, leave the nice man alone.”

Ignoring her mother, Dallas hugged his neck tighter. “Pleeease,” she whined.

“Hmm, crayons. That’s a tall order, sweetie.”

“I know. My mom told me they were all melted.”

“Not all. They’re just much harder to find now.” Smiling at her sweet innocence, he said, “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you.” She tightened her arms around his neck and smacked a loud kiss on his cheek.

He set her down with a pat. She ran back to her mother, excitedly relaying their conversation.

While the public filled the walkways and gawked at the latest act of war, he ducked down a side street to avoid being noticed again. When he was on the streets in uniform, as he was now, and sometimes even when he wasn’t, people approached him. Often, it was just to thank him for his service, and occasionally with requests for specific items paired with promises it would be worth his while if he brought them back. He was a minor celebrity, a Santa Claus of the post-pandemic era.

By midafternoon, he sat in a bar, eating a hamburger. In front of him sat the first of many beers he planned to consume before he passed out.

He perpetually worked for the Resistance. The few days he spent inside New Atlanta’s walls was no exception. Few friends to the Resistance had access to the bar the National Guardsmen frequented after shift. Those who did wouldn’t be caught dead there. Too dangerous. He didn’t care. He liked to take advantage of the power-drunk National Guardsmen, who always got a little sloppy when pumped with free shots.

Raising his arms and feigning more intoxication than he actually felt, he shouted “Another round for the house!” His role in this crowded bar filled with Guard was easy. Keep them lubricated and keep them talking. Getting information from them was like taking candy from a baby. “Hey, where’s that guy?” Rock snapped his fingers a few times. “Uh, Irish, red hair, about four feet tall?”

Jason, a lanky kid who’d been a gold mine on previous nights of drunken intel gathering, laughed. “Shaugnessey?”

“Yes, that’s him.”

Jason leaned in. “He’s one of the missing.”

“Yeah, missing the ability to hold his liquor.”

Jason didn’t laugh. “No.” He looked over his shoulder, darting a glance at the men nearest them. “Guard are going missing,”.”

“Since when?”

“Nobody’s really sure when it started. So many people disappear in New Atlanta, but Guard command noticed about six weeks ago. Put us through training on how to increase the chances of surviving an abduction. Since then, five or six more have dropped off the face of the earth.”

“The Resistance?” Rock asked, though he knew it wasn’t.

“Don’t think so. We think someone is fixing to take over and is getting rid of the obvious wild cards.” Jason raised his arm. “Be right there,” he called to a group entering. “Hey. I’ll talk to you later, man.”

“Yeah.” Rock slapped him on the shoulder. “Later.”

Rock stayed, buying drinks and talking up the enemy for hours but heard little else he could pass along, so he headed home.

After a short drive, he entered the enormous house and dropped his bag on the kitchen island. After opening some windows and praying for a breeze, he pulled out one of the books he’d stolen.
The Modern Clinicians Guide to Hypnotherapy
was a training manual. He dropped it back into his bag and grabbed
Privileged Information: Top Secret Mind Manipulation During the Second Cold War
and
Keeping Secrets.
He kept
Privileged
Information.

Slightly buzzed and utterly exhausted, he settled on the couch and read until he could no longer keep his eyes open.

* * * *

“No!” Rock jerked awake. His raw bellow had provided escape from the nightmare but released only a tiny part of the desperation bottlenecked at the base of his throat. He struggled to catch his breath as air heaved fast and raggedly in and out of his lungs. Touching his hand to his chest, he found he was soaked with perspiration, not the thick pool of blood in the dream. Twenty-four hours in New Atlanta was all it took for flashbacks to invade his head. They were always a problem in the dead quiet of this house. So much easier to avoid the demons when they were drowning in the noise of the Amber Zone. He swung his feet to the floor and attempted to leash the rampage every muscle of his body was primed to let loose.

His heart raced and hands shook, spurred by the unspent adrenaline saturating his system. It was no small task, but his body eventually settled.

He stood, drawn to the solitary kitchen light illuminating the center island and casting long shadows on the cream-colored walls of his great room. He filled his lungs, pulled his shoulders back and rolled his neck before letting the breath go. He never slept well inside the city. This place was toxic, with the stress of imminent danger never leaving until he was outside the walls again.

He walked to the rich dark wood cabinets lining the back wall of his kitchen and grabbed a glass. With trembling hands, he filled it with water, leaned against the counter and downed it.

The nightmares made him pissed all over again. Then they made him hurt to the depths of his soul. Sometimes he thought the torment of Emily’s absence would never leave him, remaining as his hell on earth eternally.