In the Name of Family Series Book 1

SAMANTHA RANDALL FLIPPED OFF THE light in her bedroom and stepped onto the second-story stone balcony overlooking the embassy grounds in Washington D.C. Lilacs and classical Russian music permeated throughout the patio garden where a group of diplomats visited during the evening gathering.

Sam spotted her mother on the arm of her husband of eleven years, Ambassador Dmitri Demas, near the trimmed hedges. With perfectly coiffed, sandy brown hair and pristine makeup, her mother had the stature of a queen. Like royalty, Martha ruled her daughter and the staff. She expected excellence and saved her affection for rare occasions.

Bald and pudgy, Dmitri had a round face with rosy cheeks, either from alcohol or happiness. Although highly intelligent in political matters, he reminded Sam of Humpty Dumpty. Always happy, never uttering a cross word, he loved Martha and relied on her opinions in social settings.

Looking past the other people, Samantha scanned the embassy grounds. The bright green leaves of the closest trees within the patio lighting and the dark foliage behind it would give her enough coverage for her escape plan. Glancing below, she blew out a breath. She pushed her fear aside as her father, General Steven Randall, had taught his soldiers to do when confronted by life-threatening events, such as patrolling hostile regions, evacuating from hot landing zones, or falling thirty feet onto Martha’s prize-winning rosebushes.

In her black leggings, turtleneck, and leather dance slippers, Sam stuffed a strand of her long blond hair back under her black Scottish cap. She set her backpack in the corner and climbed onto the wide stone railing. Inhaling the cool air of the Memorial Day weekend, she looked into the starry sky.

“Daddy, I hope you have my back,” she whispered.

Sam leapt with the agility of a cat to the neighboring dark balcony four feet away. A light shone from the third upper semicircle. Slinking along the edge, she heard Colonel Seth Williams mumbling unintelligibly to Karl Petrov, the ambassador’s assistant, through the open doors of the next balcony over.

She sprang to the railing of Karl’s office. She had tried to stay away from creepy Karl, especially after their recent encounter. Although it was a necessity, she winced at the thought of his rough manner. With her back against the gray stone building, she balanced on the edge to hear their conversation.

“She doesn’t understand,” Colonel Williams said.

Karl laughed. “This says different, and it’s your fault.”

Sam peeked through the open French doors. With his black hair slicked into a short ponytail, Karl held a flash drive in his hand. She shivered at his seventies-style tan suit and pointed collar. Tufts of chest hair peeked out. His gaudy gold Rolex matched the thick chain around his neck. He was the bad guy from every Charlie’s Angels rerun, one of her dad’s favorite shows.

Sergei, Karl’s shorter clone lackey, had his back to the French doors, and her. Tall and in uniform, Colonel Williams would have stood at attention if not for the slight lean against his spiral mahogany cane.

“You will remain on the grounds,” Karl said.

“You can’t keep me hostage here,” the colonel said.

Karl pointed the flash drive at him. “This says I can. Are we clear?”

The colonel scowled and limped from the room. Sam leaned in, farther straining to see Karl type in the code to the wall safe. After putting the flash drive inside, he shut the safe door, then turned off the light.

“He’s under our control now,” Karl said to Sergei as they left the room.

After waiting a full minute, Sam dropped to the balcony floor and scanned the party below. Karl escorted Jillian Williams, the colonel’s daughter, to the corner of the patio by the shrubbery.

With ample breasts, thin waist, and thick blond hair, Jillian modeled in sexy swimwear for Maxim and Sports Illustrated. Karl whispered in her ear and Jillian feigned surprise, then nodded with a sly smile. Her long, manicured fingers touched his forearm, and he drew her closer. Sam cringed. Jillian could have him.

Dismissing Jillian and Karl, Sam slipped into the room that smelled of stale cigars. Bruno, Karl’s Doberman, growled from his cage next to the carved oak desk. She shivered as he stared.

After taking a beef stick from the box on the shelf, she slowly pushed the treat between the bars. Grateful that Bruno munched on the beef and not her, she quickly found Karl’s keys in his cigar box and unlocked the center drawer behind his desk.

Pulling out the top file, she feverishly scribbled down the information of the truck route on the nearby pad. She’d detail it later when she had more time. Hearing footsteps down the corridor, she shoved the file back and ducked behind the brown leather sofa. Telling herself that this was bigger than her pride, she stripped off her clothes and tucked the paper into the bottom of her dance shoe. As the door opened, she pulled off the cap and smoothed down her hair.

“Who’s in here?” Karl demanded.

“I am,” Sam replied, popping up naked from behind the couch. “I was waiting for you.”

He laughed. “I’m too busy right now, my cтранный кошка. I have bigger game to hunt.”

“You mean Jillian?” she asked.

He laughed again. “Yes, a model’s body. I’m curious to see what’s underneath that icy exterior.”

“I’m guessing more ice.”

“You sound jealous, my pet,” he said, taking his keys—the ones she had just returned—from the cigar box. He twirled the key ring on his index finger. “You can’t compete with Jillian. It’s a fact.” He lifted her chin and tweaked her plum-size breast. She tried not to flinch at his touch. “I’ll come to your room in the morning. You can amuse me more then. Now, scat before Dmitri or your mother sees you in here,” he said as he closed the door behind him.

Relieved that he didn’t stay, she quickly dressed. With her cap in hand, she left through the door and glided to her bedroom two doors down. She had no time to dwell on the past.

Feeling the paper in her shoe, she tucked her hair back under her cap and strode out to her balcony. The music and laughter continued as she grabbed her backpack. She shimmied down the ivy latticework along the shadowed edge of the patio lights.

Hidden among the trees and bushes, she crept beside the tall stone wall that surrounded the compound. A security guard walked by. Holding her breath, she froze behind a fat maple. She waited and eyed the nearest security camera. From scouting earlier, she knew where every camera was located. Planning is essential, her father had said.

When the guard moved on, she climbed the tree, keeping away from the camera. Sitting sideways on a branch, she scooted to the end that hung over the wall. Her petite frame bent the branch slightly. Like a loving father, the tree gently lowered its child to safety on the ground. She whispered a thank-you and hurried to the bus stop.

On its last run of the night, the metro bus dropped her off at the Greyhound terminal. While standing in line, she casually slipped her cell phone into the handbag of the elderly lady in front of her. The woman and her friend were heading to Las Vegas. Sam’s one-way ticket would take her to Topeka, Kansas.

Since the bus didn’t leave until morning, Sam walked to the dilapidated motel across the street. Standing straighter and hopefully taller, she opened the office door. An old hippie with a long white mustache like Yosemite Sam checked her out through the bulletproof glass above the counter.

“I’d like a room for the night,” she said.

He grinned and scooted his stool closer to the counter. “You alone?”

Averting her eyes, she shook her head. “My boyfriend’s outside smoking,” she replied, sliding two twenties in the gap between the glass and counter.

“He’s making you pay?” he asked, stroking one of his mustache handles.

“He’s worth it.”

He shrugged and pushed a key on a lime green triangular fob to room twelve toward her. “The ice machine’s broken and make sure you keep the noise down.”

Without a word, Sam hurried to the last door of the one-story, moss-covered building. Once inside, she locked it, set the chain, and pushed the desk chair under the knob. She shivered and hoped she wasn’t starring in some new slasher movie.

After calming her breathing, she set her backpack on the lumpy bed that appeared as if the maid had simply thrown the bedspread over the top without laundering the sheets. The worn La-Z-Boy was more inviting. But she didn’t want to think about that now. Instead, she took out a box of hair dye and a pair of scissors from her backpack.

After setting the items on the edge of the bathroom sink, she stared in the mirror. “There’s no going back, Sam. You need to finish this. You have no choice.”

She started cutting. One-and-a-half-foot strands of blond hair fell into the sink. Feeling empowered, she chopped, trimmed, then smiled at her new soft locks.

“Who would have guessed my hair would have some body to it?” It shouldn’t have surprised her, though. Her father’s hair had been wavy and thick.

After reading the instructions, Sam colored the blond to a reddish brown. Using gel, she spiked it into wafts of curls. She admired her new look with her one blue eye and one green eye.

“I am a freakish cat, a cтранный кошка.”

After triple-checking the locked door, she curled up in the La-Z-Boy chair and unfolded the piece of paper from her shoe. The truck would start in Maryland and head west with specific stops toward its destination.

Her bus would follow the same route. If she played her cards right, she would find it before the end of the route since the bus and truck would be leaving at the same time. Her biggest concern now was how to recognize the truck and the driver.

The Trucker’s Cat Available on AMAZON