The presidential race is deadlocked - until murder tips the scale. Now Janelle Harcourt, an ambitious young attorney, finds evidence connecting the Presidential front-runner to the crime. Determined to bring justice,she embarks on a twisting trail of discovery that leads to three of the nation's most powerful political figures. A trio intent on keeping her silent by whatever means possible.
Don McGraw's books have sold in 22 countries around the world and have received high praise and reviews from media outlets worldwide.
He stared down at the wet concrete floor of the shower stall, lacking both will and fortitude to return to his feet. Hands shackled, feet bridled like a common thief, his head hung from the weight of his despair. "Look up, Marin. We're alone again." His voice, thick with intimidation, resonated off cold cinder and tile; then words gave way to an equally chilling glare. Icy water circling the drains and his shallow breath were all that could be heard for a long tenuous moment.
Had it really been four hundred days?
Trent Marin lifted his head only enough to confirm what he had already known--what he had feared. The worst among them had returned; a coiled switch clutched in his hand.
"You have not forgotten, my friend." The deep lines of his round, brown face curled upward with delight.
Trent's body shook involuntarily; the chains rang his fear. He looked about for any sign of hope.
"We're alone, fool."
The burn of his tender lacerations still fresh; inflicted without mercy by this brown devil. He braced for the inevitable. Three more guards returned; a heaven-sent miracle. They released his chains, and dragged his frail body down the coarse floor of the endless corridor to his small secluded brig. The devil motioned to his rags. Trent quickly dressed
"Let's go," he barked.
They shoved him back down the hall to a small, windowless room. He'd been here once before. He knew what they wanted. This time he would comply. A video recorder stood ready to capture his every word.
He stared down at the table in front of him, his mind immersed in the only sanctuary he knew. "Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do," he murmured.
The devil leaned forward and slapped the side of his head. "Pray not for us, Marin. Pray for the salvation of your own hell-bound soul." He awaited a reaction that Trent refused to give. "You're a fool, Marin." His words laced with disgust.
"I've done nothing."
"You stand accused."
"I am innocent."
He lifted a photograph from the seat beside him and pushed it slowly across the table. Trent had seen the photo before. "You used her and left her for dead. You're an animal. A filthy, pathetic animal. He leaned across and spat in Trent's face.
Trent wiped away spit and tears. He placed his hand on the photograph and gently brushed his thumb along the bloodied face of the young girl.
"She's just a child, a sweet, innocent child. Look what you've done you animal. Who would save such a savage?"
Trent's breathing turned erratic. "What do you want from me?"
The guard got up and moved to the video recorder; he fiddled with the positioning. "I want you to show them your face. Tell them that all is well."
"Why should I do that?"
"You have no choice."
"My people will come for me," he shouted. "They will come." This time his voice fell off. A third time he was nearly inaudible, his own doubt evident in his collapsing tone.
"Your government seems to believe that ten years is fair and just." The guard reached aside himself and clutched the coiled whip. "The length of your stay is not a point of negotiation. The manner in which you spend it is within your control."
Trent looked at the recorder in defeat. All signs of abuse were guarded beneath his twill prison smock. How much he yearned to expose the horrors of his endless incarceration for his people to see, but a fool's notion was all it was.
He cleared his throat and took a long, soothing breath. For the next three minutes he filled the recorder with convincing lies. Words to keep help at bay.
"Very good, Marin. You're learning well."
Trent shook with anger then cried out in a desperate plea. A cry to "the land of the free" and"the home of the brave," a nation content to allow one of their own to rot in the bowels of a Colombian hell.
But the recorder was off -- his words forever lost in time.