Defy (Brothers of Ink and Steel Book 3)
Allie Juliette Mousseau
Prologue
Ryder
1999
“I don’t want to move again, Mom!” I cry from the back seat of our car. “I just made new friends.”
My mother’s eyes search the floor in front of her in defeat.
“We don’t have a choice, Ryder!” my dad barks without sympathy before peering angrily at me in the rearview mirror.
The car is empty—no suitcases, no boxes. “I don’t even have my stuff,” I protest.
“Jesus Christ, we’ll get new stuff,” Dad yells.
“John,” my mother scolds. “It’s hardest on him.”
“Do you see that black van behind us?” he tries in a normal tone but fails. “DO YOU!?”
My mom twists her head and shoulders to look out the back window behind me.
“DON’T LOOK!” Dad shouts while he pulls his Motorola flip-phone from his pocket and dials so frantically he almost drops it.
“Get on the floor of the car, Ryder.” My mom tries to make her voice even and calm before she curls up on the front bench seat and starts singing a church hymn.
I squeeze my body between the front and back seats to lay as flat as I can on the scratchy black carpet. I’m not supposed to cry; it’s not tough and Dad says we always have to be tough.
“How did they find us?” my mom asks shakily between choruses of the song.
My dad doesn’t answer.
“HOW DID THEY FIND US?” Her voice reverberates through the car.
“I DON’T KNOW!” my dad roars, exasperated, then tries to talk normally into the phone. “Agent Powers, this is John Castle. Vlad found us!”
Dad breaks down the story. I hear him tell the agent that he found out about his sister getting sick with cancer and ending up in the hospital, and that he couldn’t help but call her.
Mom starts sobbing so hard that I put my hand between the seats and on her arm to try and make her feel better.
When we went into hiding there were rules—a lot of them—that we couldn’t break. I wasn’t allowed to see Grandma and Grandpa or even talk to them on the phone. I had to quit my Little League baseball team even though I was the shortstop and we were in the championship playoffs. And everything that was mine and I loved—my trophies, my posters, my toys, even my clothes—all had to be left behind.
It was like we died without actually dying.
I remember my dad’s sister—Auntie Kathleen—we haven’t been allowed to see her for the past three years, ever since we went into the witness protection program when I was seven years old.
My dad used to be an accountant at a place called Belmont Park in New York where people raced horses. He told my mom that some of his bosses were washing dirty money, and even killing people. He told the police that too. When the Russian mob threatened his life we were forced into hiding.
They were supposed to make us safe, but we never feel safe. The entire thing doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to me. The only thing I understand is that I’ve had to go to three different elementary schools, have moved in and out of three homes in three different states—Washington, Texas, and now here in Florida. My parents keep changing my name—even though they always mess it up and call me by my birth name. I was born Ryder but have been called Peter, Jason and Thomas.
The first two times, the agents in charge of keeping us safe moved us, but these last two times were because my dad did something that broke the rules.
That thought makes me mad, but I don’t have time to think about it for long.
The other car smashes into us.
My mom screams and sings louder. My dad swears.
I lift my head just enough so I can see the big black van pull away, reposition itself and slam back into the side of our car with enough power to force us off the road.
My dad steps on the gas and drives right through a safety fence and into the parking lot of an empty, abandoned looking warehouse. A lot of the windows are broken out, maybe from teenagers pitching rocks through them, and it’s really dark; there are no lights on, inside or outside.
The man in the passenger side of the van chasing us points a gun at our car and shoots. I can hear the bullet go through the metal.
Quickly, I put my head back down and cover it with my arms.
I’m only nine-and-a-half years old, but I know I’m going to die.
The car swerves and takes some hard turns. A moment later my dad brakes so fast I can hear the tires spinning on the dirt, trying to find traction, and stop.
“Get out! Get out!” My dad pulls me from the back seat. “Hurry up, Ryder, and don’t make a sound! Run to the building and hide. Keep your mother safe.”
My mom grabs my hand, and we race towards the scary looking warehouse. Mom has a small hatchet and hits the padlock until it breaks open. She shoves me through the door first.
I can hear my dad yelling outside that it’s him they want. He says he gives himself up—to just let his wife and son go. That we don’t know anything.
I can’t hear what the response is. Mom is pushing us deeper into the belly of the decrepit building, guided only by a thin beam from a flashlight pen.
She finds the door marked stairs, and we run down, tripping and stumbling and helping right each other. After a minute we get to the last door, which spills us into the basement.