Undisclosed

UNDISCLOSED

a novel by

Jon Mills

Published by Direct Response Publishing

Copyright (c) 2012 by Jon Mills

Published by Direct Response Publishing

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author, except by reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

Starbucks is a registered trademark of Starbucks Corporation. Best Buy is a registered trademark of Best Buy, Co., Inc. Red Bull is a registered trademark of Red Bull GmbH. The Black Hole is a registered trademark of The Black Hole. Criss Angel is a registered trademark of Criss Angel. LANL is a trademark of Los Alamos National Laboratories. Trademarks are used without permission. Use of the trademark is not authorized by, associated with or sponsored by the trademark owner.

Quote used from Bhagavad Gita, public domain, 1923.

Design by Jon Mills & Frank Parker Photography/iStock and Shutterstock images.

Undisclosed 
is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

To my beautiful girls Lauryn and Emma,

who will always be my greatest pride and joy

For my beautiful wife Tamar,

who was super patient while I wrote this in the man cave

“I am become death, the destroyer of worlds”

Prologue

Will Marshall was a recent graduate of Los Alamos High School, and unlike others, everything was going according to plan. He had it all, a stunning girlfriend, a scholarship to the University of California, Santa Barbara, and the opportunity to follow in the footsteps of his Nobel Prize–winning father, who worked at the illustrious Los Alamos Laboratories. There were no doubts for him; his was a life full of promise and accolades; at least that’s what he’d been told. But they hadn’t factored in this—he would die on these dark, gravel back roads.

Will slammed the pedal to the metal and tore out of the Santa Fe National Forest Campground parking lot. Tires squealed on the 4x4 pickup as he raced his way through the back roads, headlights flipped on full beam, his eyes darting back and forth, scanning his mirrors and looking up through his sunroof … like a paranoid asylum patient.

“Move it,”
he screamed at the truck, repeatedly smashing the steering wheel with his clenched fist. Gravel whipped up the sides of the Ford F-150, like torrential rain colliding against a tin roof. Not willing for one second to let up on the accelerator, Will fishtailed around corners, the tires barely gripping the road as he nearly lost control of the truck countless times.

Another surge of pain coursed through his body, making every breath and movement excruciating. He hadn’t stopped to check if he was bleeding; there was no time for that. One thing for sure, this was like nothing he had felt before and probably nothing compared to what Beth must have felt—
Beth
. Will’s mind flashed back to moments earlier—
lying on the forest floor, tangled up in each other, her face, her intoxicating smell, the way she felt and then—the sudden flash of brilliant blue light—a split second—she was gone—ripped upwards so fast, nothing but a blur.

Though now there was nothing he could do about that, his basic primal survival instincts had taken over and the only logical thought tearing its way through the agony and fear was:
Go, get as far away from here as possible
. Everything else had become jumbled-up voices and images in his head, a surreal nightmare. His adrenaline was pumping, his knuckles white, parts of his hands numb from gripping the wheel so hard. Between the silhouettes of the twisted forest trees around him, he could make out the shapes of vehicles moving along the main highway. If he could just make it there, maybe he would be safe.

Frantically, he began to search around the passenger seat, crumbs and camping gear scattered across the seat and floor. Finally, he found it. He pulled out the cell phone, powering it on as his eyes flashed back and forth between the phone and the road.
C’mon, C’mon
… There was no reception. He gritted his teeth.

Damn it, damn you.

From the corner of his eye, Will barely could see the outline of trees as they whizzed past his window. Then he caught a glimpse of it—movement in the air. He swept his mirrors and windows a second, a third time. His panic had shifted to sheer terror.
No, please, I don’t want to die.

For a split second the glare of an oncoming set of headlights blinded his eyes, and he swerved erratically out of the center of the road to avoid the traffic—he knew he was almost there. Will held the wheel with one hand while he tried his phone again. While he kept his main concentration on the road, his eyes continually moved back and forth as he fiddled with the phone and repeatedly checked his mirrors and side window. The deafening roar of his truck’s engine, piping out through a throaty muffler, masked the sound of the approaching vehicle.

Will’s face lit up as one bar displayed on the phone.
Finally
. He dialed 911 and was immediately connected.

“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”

“I need police, they took her and they’re after me.”

“Calm down, who’s after you?” the operator replied.

“They’re above me—”

The phone began to crackle, and the operator’s voice went in and out.

“I can’t hear you, what?” Will shouted.

Will was now hitting eighty miles an hour as he approached a rise in the road.

“Sir, this line is for emergencies, I’m going to give—”

“What the hell do you think this is?” Will hung up, rage and fear surging through him, blocking out everything else. He brought up a list of contacts on the phone screen; his hands were sweating and his finger slipped as he selected one.

Pick
up… pick
up
… His heart was thumping hard.

“C’mon, damn it … pick up,” he yelled.

His truck burst like a shot over the rise in the road. Will was beside himself … still no answer. As he wrestled to keep the wheel steady and a firm grasp on the phone, he fumbled and dropped it on the floor. It disappeared into the clutter of camping gear.

As he started to reach for it, a horn blared. Will looked up …

“Nooo-oo …” he screamed. His eyes were wide, frozen, as the glare of the headlights filled the vehicle, but it was too late. Tires skidded; metal crunched and brakes locked as his truck violently collided with the other vehicle head-on. Gravel spit wildly as Will’s truck spun out of control across the asphalt, coming to rest upside down. Camping gear and shattered glass fragments stained with blood littered the road, and nothing but the blaring of one continual horn could be heard. Resting beside Will’s truck lay his cell phone, lit up, the screen scratched and cracked. The only thing visible was the name of the contact he had tried to dial: TRAVIS MARSHALL.

Chapter One

One year had passed since he’d last seen his brother, Travis thought as he shuffled towards the door.
Things could only get better, right?
The sound of a loud, metal clang, as the holding cell door was slammed behind him, extinguished that sliver of hope.

Travis stood inside a square whitewashed stone room with nothing more than a glimmering, steel bench in the corner and a single barred window set into the wall overlooking the booking area of the Los Alamos Police Station. He crossed the tiny room of solitude and lay down on the sterile steel bench, expecting to be there awhile. It wasn’t like it was a surprise; he’d been warned this was coming if it happened again.

The chill of the hard cold bench gripped him—just the way they liked it—he guessed they didn’t want you getting too comfy in here. No, this place was usually reserved for the serious offenders, those who were likely a danger either to themselves or to others.

He wasn’t either.

But when you lived in a town this small and had a father who held a prominent position at the Lab, was friends with half the department and was a member of the juvenile justice board, you didn’t need to be. A simple phone call sufficed, and no doubt that call had been made earlier that morning.

Most kids his age would have been thrown in the back of a cruiser and held at the scene until their parents arrived. And had this been his first, even second, offense, that would have been the case. But this wasn’t, and his father was going to make sure he learned a valuable lesson, even if it meant enduring a lengthy stay surrounded by Los Alamos’s finest.

Hours passed. Travis replayed that Thursday morning’s events while every few hours glancing over at the clock on the wall. He knew the drill; his father wouldn’t be picking him until he had finished work. He never knew why his work was so important, as in most recent days it had taken precedence over anything else in their life. Yet, today his father could have been standing right outside the cell and he still wouldn’t have gotten out of there any sooner.

“Travis,” said a voice from beyond the bars.

Travis jerked upright; it was a familiar, friendly voice, and one that he had heard frequently over the past year.

“Travis Marshall, whatever are you doing here now?”

“Quality testing this fine establishment,” Travis replied in jest. “And you know, I’m kind of thinking this bench isn’t exactly ergonomic. It could use a cushion or two.”

The station had recently been renovated; they had overhauled the entire place, hoping to give it more of an inviting look. This struck Travis as sort of funny, even ridiculous.
I mean,
who the heck in their right mind would want to hang out here?
The coffee sucked and the company certainly left something to be desired.

Officer Frank Davis smiled, a man born to the job. Standing beyond the steely bars, he was sorting through papers at the booking desk. “I kind of figured I’d be seeing you again, though I didn’t imagine it would have been here.” There was an edge in his voice, a sense of disappointment. For an instant, Travis felt a crush of memories flood in: the previous summer’s arrest, the accusations, the heated arguments between his mother and father, and his father carrying out an over-filled suitcase of clothes.

Travis shrugged. “What can I say? Misery loves company,” he said, casually sitting back down.

Frank lifted an eyebrow and studied him, and then looked away, shaking his head as if he couldn’t begin to fathom making a wrong choice himself. Travis liked Officer Davis though; he’d met a number of cops over the years that seemed power hungry, arrogant, and who liked to abuse their position as if they had forgotten who they were without the uniform. Davis wasn’t one of them.