Jackboot Read online

  Jackboot

  Title Page

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  JACKBOOT

  A McCONNELL NOVEL

  Book 1

  Will Van Allen

  Copyright © 2017 Will Van Allen

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  www.willvanallen.com

  Acknowledgements

  No man an island; thanks to my editor Erica Ellis, Polgarus Studios for formatting, and cover design by Madeira James.

  All errors are mine.

  For my mother, who taught me right from wrong.

  For my wife, who shows me every day why that matters.

  Sometimes you have to pick the gun up to put the gun back down.

  -Malcolm X

  Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.

  -Alexander Pope

  Trust thyself.

  -Ralph Waldo Emerson

  CHAPTER 1

  JANUARY 2008

  Spokane, Washington

  Traffic sucked.

  Twenty years ago, his tenth-grade English teacher Mrs. Graham, a devotee of Thoreau yet possessing no tolerance for the everyman’s vulgarity, had emphatically reinforced how execrable she found the slang “sucks,” and had—perhaps ridiculously—beseeched her students to use less crude terms of revulsion, going so far as to suggest the more creative yet arguably less pithy “inhales wind sharply”. While her teaching had been enlightening, John McConnell had never fully appreciated her turn of sophistication in this regard. Afternoon traffic, for what it was in the convoluted mayhem of mediocrity that was the “City of Lilacs,” clearly was not sophisticated.

  It just sucked.

  The world was an ankle-turning winter wonderland; sullen, fuel-laced gray contaminant crowned once virgin white, powdery potential like a foul dessert topping, banking in the river of lethargic, insufferable bumper-to-bumper grind that sapped at his spirit; less than five miles to go, Lord, more than an hour to get there, would someone please testify.

  His destination: a coral and salmon two-story neo-eclectic recombinant Spanish Revival touched by Tudor, or something; five bedrooms, three baths and the requisite three-car garage, nestled in the suburbia of Indian Trail, nipped and tucked between a winter-blanketed hillside and Aubrey White Parkway which followed the steep slope above the tame but frigid waters of the Spokane as it snaked clear of the city’s clutches. The house a compromise; he had wanted to live on the lake, just off Charles Road, far enough from the city proper to breathe clean air, close enough to commute for work and Katie’s school. Carrie had refused to “live in the woods with the bears, bugs and bees” and they had, ostensibly, agreed on the house just off the river, agreed being kind. The house could honestly be labeled his penultimate capitulation, in a series of such, delineating along the dysphoric descent to a final arrival of divorce. Carrie had picked the house, picked the things in it, picked the Pepto-abysmal colors and then, with a cagey yet whimsical dissolution, had picked up and left. The nuance of soured zinfandel she had doused the inside with just weeks prior had been a grudgingly admirable coup de grace.

  Just him now and he couldn’t bring himself to paint, let alone sell. Some said he was holding onto a broken past. Others that he was stuck in a rut. He was of a different mind.

  Wasn’t broke. Why fix it?

  No one had ever misread John McConnell and said he wasn’t hardheaded.

  The automatic door rattled down behind the slate-colored Nissan Titan to shut him off from the world. He leveraged out, glanced at the mousetrap near the stairs that had been vacant that morning, not so much now. God and plans. Inside, he set his laptop bag in its customary place on the long slab of Saigon Rose granite countertop in the kitchen. It was quiet save the hum of the oversized stainless fridge.

  He got the mail tore open bills threw away junk turned on the news listened to someone bitch about the goddamned Mexicans who were crossing the goddamned border and taking our goddamned jobs changed into old sweats and a holey T-shirt nuked some Hot Pockets choked them down with a couple of beers got his laptop plopped back into the La-Z-Boy flipped channels looked over tomorrow’s work sat on the toilet took care of business checked the news again felt impotent closed the drapes browsed some porn took care of other business showered ate some ice cream brushed his teeth.

  Last, he checked to see if the Iraq War was still going on (it was) and if there were any reported casualties, in particular his brother (there wasn’t). Then he went to bed.

  It was a Tuesday. Much like the day before.

  He had no plans for tomorrow to be any different.

  Portland, Oregon

  Forty-five futile minutes after her foray into the Portland nightlife was deemed an epic fail Angela Flynn capitulated to her Starbucks, where she whiled away weekend mornings over lattes and her laptop, observing young, happy couples pushing strollers past the window as her telltale biological clock tick-tocked away. No babies at this hour, the place dead save a glassy-eyed couple in the corner that might be hard at making one before the night was over. She pretended not to watch them kiss and grope, nibbling her own lip as she nursed a decaf because, pathetic as it sounded in her own ears, she had work in the morning. She should go home.

  But no one at home, her cats notwithstanding, was why she was out in the first place.

  As a homebody in Seattle her nights of leisure had consisted of a hot bath, the latest Nora Roberts, dark chocolate and a glass (or three) of Pinot. Portland lacked the deep, cast-iron tub she had grown so fond of, and bereft she had spent the last six months curled on her sofa with the cats and TiVoed reruns of Firefly and those garrulous Gilmores (wine and chocolate still abundantly at hand), all in all a tolerable but distant second to the escapism of those idyllic baths. And lately she wasn’t so sure she liked being a homebody, a revelation to be blamed on her apartment’s recalcitrant, off-white fiberglass shower insert. More specifically its staid but indifferent attitude. Had she a more amenable tub she might never have been so enlightened in the first place and gone about her homebodiness in bliss. Being lonely was one thing, being aware that you were lonely quite another. Perhaps it was the vigor of her new job, filled with busier people busying about busier lives, but she was starting to think she might be missing out on, well, for brevity, call it life. And, if she was being honest, and not without wincing, (God forbid her mother hear her think it five hundred miles away) it wasn’t just life—a ballgame with coworkers, drinks with the girls, movie wi
th friends—it was the presence of a man.

  Not that a man in her life would solve all her problems but she longed for masculine laughter tickling her ear, his smell on her pillow, the feel of a five o’clock shadow against her face as he leaned in for an evening kiss, sometimes soft, sometimes hot and urgent. And maybe it was just the accumulated wine and chocolate talking, or Nora’s inexhaustible libidinous imagination stirring her own, but she yearned for sex, and not just sex, good sex, panting throes of orgasm in tangled, sweaty sheets and it had been too long, unless you count that drunken eight-second ride on cowboy-wannabe Ricky Mercer in the front seat of his Durango last year (which she did not).

  A cry for help? No, a call to action. It had not started out well.

  Evidently her going-out clothes had shrunk with disuse. Daunted but determined, she had boldly settled for blue jeans and a U-Dub sweatshirt, the Husky purple and gold never letting her down in college (college over a decade ago but no time for analysis). She then fretted at rarely worn makeup; powder and eyeliner in place, the lip gloss gave her trouble, her cats were no help so she opted for a shimmering crystal-pink like her younger sister preferred. A little product to her smart-bobbed hair and she was good to go.

  New girl, new town, she had no idea where to go. She settled for proximity, a bar ten minutes from her apartment that always seemed happening, tonight no exception.

  Thirty painful seconds inside it was embarrassingly evident she had settled wrong. Severely under-dressed and ostentatiously over-aged she made a hasty exit, but not one to give up so easily, she tried the Irish pub down the street.

  It wasn’t happening at all. It was as un-happening as a morgue. She ordered a BV and Coke and took a booth. In the booth across, three women ten years her senior and eight sizes larger (score a few points for her body image) downed pitcher after pitcher of Coors Light between wings and nachos and step-outs to smoke. A couple couples raucously shoot pool. The only other patron was cranky guy seething into his cellphone to her left. The rest not much to look at but cranky guy was tall and handsome, well dressed in a yellow sweater and khakis, and likely gay. He caught her stare, glared in return, gave her his back, doubling up on the venom into his phone.

  After the ice melted in her drink she called it quits, the Starbucks a last ditch before the dismal comfort of home. Frannie the barista was too busy—like the couple in the corner glued at the lips—closing up to see her wave through the window before tripping over her own feet. The earth tilted, the sidewalk careened crazily quick to meet her face—

  Strong hands caught her around the waist.

  “Whoa! In a hurry, are we?” purred from above.

  She twisted to find cranky cell guy from the pub smiling.

  “I’m, wow, I’m so sorry.” Embarrassed, she put some space between them.

  “Nothing to be sorry for.” He adjusted her coat collar. That should have bothered her, a stranger reaching out like that, but he had saved her from smashing her face, and his smile was charming, his eyes warm, sparkling tropical seas. She must have been mistaken earlier about him being so angry.

  “Seriously, I almost face-planted there. You saved me some extensive plastic surgery, not to mention the last of my pride. I really can walk.” She shook her head at her lameness. “Thank you.”

  “Seriously, thank you. I can’t imagine anything damaging such a beautiful face. Miss…?”

  Five minutes later they were back at the pub.

  It wasn’t that she was bad at meeting men, just bad at meeting the right ones, and when she did she failed to say the right things. She wasn’t her sister, she lacked Marissa’s boldness and quick wit, not to mention her mesmerizing “fuck me” eyes and legs that stretched to heaven. Some girls had all the perks. But tonight, she was feeling rather perky herself.

  She talked and talked. About how she had arrived in Portland by way of Seattle, before that San Fran, and before that her college years back at UW, omitting starting out life in Eastern Washington because who needed that dreariness in their personal bona fides? Marketing for a web firm now but had earned her master’s in design, what kind didn’t really matter. She had cloudy dreams, although one particularly lucid one was paying off her student debt. Never married, no children, casually open to the idea, no hurry, really, no that wasn’t a hint. No real hobbies to speak of—she confessed she was dreadfully boring, his earnest gaze saying that wasn’t true as he waved for another round of drinks.

  He was more masculine than anyone in a lemon chiffon button-down ever had a right to be and she chided herself for thinking he was gay, her bias against yellow sweaters patently unfitting. He was tall and attentive and she felt a warm wave wash over her, that long-neglected tightness between her legs tingling as his bright eyes keenly bore into her, his devil-can-care smile drawing her out more and more. She could feel the heat of his body as she carried on, like a busted faucet with no wrench in sight and it wasn’t just her buzz after the third glass of wine. When she finally did calm her torrent of TMI she asked about him and his phone conversation earlier and he turned somber, his turn to share, about his brother, addicted to pills and booze, refused to go to rehab though let’s be honest, the fifth time so what was the point? But you didn’t give up on family, you know, and she did, she loved her sister, like crazy by her fifth glass of Kendall Jackson, even though they weren’t speaking so much these days.

  His hand found hers on the table and those eyes were really, really blue. When he told her she was the most beautiful girl he had ever had the courage to talk to she knew he was lying, and her laughter wounded him and she apologized. He leaned in and kissed her, and damn if at that moment she didn’t feel beautiful. She was overwhelmed by his woodsy lavender cologne, or maybe it was his hand sliding up her inner thigh, and they made out like naughty teenagers until desire dampened her panties and the barkeep yelled “last call for alcohol!” and they came apart to find they were the only ones left in the place.

  They made out against his black Porsche, and she invited him over for some wine and he said wine would be just fine and he followed her home. Hushing each other unsteadily up the stairs she fumbled with the key. Once inside she put on some Aimee Mann, did a quick mirror check and cracked open a bottle of Pinot. They talked on the sofa but soon were fooling around again.

  Then a switch was flipped.

  With a furtive impatience, his fingers jammed down the back of her jeans, pressed onward into the crevasse of her ass. Too fast, she stopped him, at least thought she had, but he kept driving his hand downward, fingers probing right above her rectum. She broke the kiss and smiled, pulled on his arm, cooing “slow down,” but his other hand was already clawing down her pelvis, fingers digging painfully into the soft, sensitive mound of her vagina as the warm blue of his eyes turned to frigid ice floes and she knew she had been right before, he had been angry in the bar, crazily infuriated because that’s what she saw now.

  She told him firmly STOP! but that wasn’t a gear in his box anymore as an inhuman snarl eclipsed his debonair smile. There was confusion, and embarrassment, she had wanted his hand down there. That thought died as that hand pulled back and swung in a wide arc, knuckles mashing her lips against her teeth. Aimee Mann’s haunting voice floated over her as she sprawled hard across the floor.

  She wasn’t what her mom would call a “sissy.” Absorbing the blow enough to consider fight or flight that split second of indecision was her undoing. He took a lunging step, kicked her in the stomach and air woofed! out of her. He followed up with a jab to her nose, then bashed her head against the carpet until she was stunned. Pushing at him with vague arms as he ripped down her jeans, she became aware he was calling her something, “a teasing little whore!” in some guttural language, and he knew she wanted it and hell if she wasn’t going to get it, he was going to teach her a lesson and he would slit her throat if she kept fighting. Jesus. Did he have a knife?

  A painful ache radiated throughout her abdomen but she tried to scream, and thi
s only enraged him further. He became more unrestrained in slapping her, punching her, elbowing her thighs. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t fend him off. Panties were ripped away and he fell on her, crushing what little wind remained from her lungs as he forced her legs apart, slid inside her with such ease, her earlier arousal making insidiously cruel the penetration, the violation, which made the humiliation all the more unbearable. The sickening feel of him inside her made the wine sour and her stomach twist. Arms weakly but desperately clawed, legs tried to squeeze him out of her body as she attempted another scream that he smothered with his hand, chuckling malignantly as he grabbed her mousy hair with the other and banged her head against the floor until she fell into deep darkness.

  She should’ve stayed there. Instead she reluctantly awoke on her stomach, a burning in her rectum, throbbing with every violent thrust. Blood caked her nose, had coagulated in her throat and she coughed a dark rouge clot onto the carnation carpet already covered in vintage red from her vomit. The cat hair was noticeable down here. Where were her cats? She heard something, the searing sensation in her anus accompanied by a hissing counterpoint.

  “Seven hundred and ten Mississippi…Seven hundred and eleven Mississippi…”

  Her fingernails dug into the carpet as horror and shame immobilized her. Frozen save the raging fire in her scalp, stomach and anus. Her mother and sister, oh God. She had brought this upon herself. She prayed for it to stop, to be over, let him kill her, and finally after a thousand years he gargled deep in his throat then lay on top of her panting into her ear, and she knew this was it, but it wasn’t, God wasn’t listening, and the devil wasn’t going to kill her. Instead he kissed her cheek and whispered how good it was, how tight her asshole had been and “what a delight it was to wreck it.”