Thanks to Rebecca Brown of The Cadence Group I am giving away one copy of Redemption Day to one of my U.S. readers.

Book Description:

Redemption Day is a highly paced thriller set in Washington DC. The story is founded upon historical events and documented teachings of the Posse Comitatus. The Posse was an anti-government militia group in the 1980 s that tried to convince farmers that banks could not lawfully foreclose on their properties. Their beliefs led to the bombing of the Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City on a date of significance to the group April 19.


Excerpt from Redemption Day:

The sun dipped its head below the tree line along George Washington Parkway as the black GMC SUV powered in the left lane. The two sun-glassed suits with earpieces didn’t speak, as was their routine.

 

Agent Gray, the navigator, gazed out the right window at the sleek, white boats congregating near the three sisters, an outcropping of rock that poked out of the Potomac. Across the river, the towering spires of Healy Hall at Georgetown University stood radiantly.

 

The sole passenger in the back, though looking in the same direction, didn’t share the concern for the scenery. He pondered the Sixth Amendment argument presented by the brief he held in his left hand while chewing on the ear piece of his glasses held in the right.

 

The Bryant exception was flat wrong; he’d been in the minority on that opinion three years before. It was the law of the land, however. He’d sworn to uphold it, but an extension to include excited utterances in routine investigations was too much. It swallowed the whole amendment. Bryant made a mockery of the Confrontation Clause.

 

Where had the Court gone? Where was it headed?

 

So much had changed since Silvio Caprelli had taken his seat on the highest court in the land. Strict constructionists like him had ruled the day. Over the years progressives, or those known for “evolving” Constitutional rights had become the majority. Splits among the justices had become common and were eerily predictable.

Evolving Constitutional rights? Caprelli shuttered at the thought. Constitutional rights were what the framers set them out to be; no more, no less. If folks didn’t like them, the framers set out a procedure for changing them–amend the Constitution. Such efforts were far too difficult. How could any progressive expect the square states to approve changes to the Constitution? No, the easier way was to get judges on the bench who would bend the Constitution to meet the objective. For Caprelli, any attempt to “read” things into the Constitution was legislating at best and legal heresy at worst.

Twelve years had flown by since that sun-drenched September morning when he was sworn in on the steps of the Supreme Court Building–twelve Red Sundays, twelve State of the Union speeches, and oddly enough, twelve Supreme Court justices with whom he’d served over the years. In this job for life, he’d witnessed three presidencies and had sworn in the current inhabitant of the White House, though he couldn’t think of many topics on which they would agree.

  

 

* * *

The SUV shifted into the right lane, Agent Jaspers noticed a white cargo van coming up quickly from behind. The van shot past and moved into the right lane as well.

“What the hell?”  Jaspers said, glancing to his left as a similar van, this one red, pulled long side. He hit the brakes as the van in front slowed. “Guy goes past me like a bat out of hell, then slows down. Then I’ve got this idiot,” thumbing to his left, “on the–Jesus.”

 

The red van in the left lane slammed into the SUV, knocking it askew. The brief was knocked from Caprelli’s hands, scattering pages across the backseat and into the foot wells.

 

Agent Gray reached for the weapon on this belt as the escalade was hit again. “Shit.”  He knew what was coming down. Jaspers tried to slow down and get out of the box between the two vans. His eyes locked with Gray’s momentarily. Gray reached forward and hit the button low on the console.

The red van slammed into the SUV again, this time keeping contact and pushing to the right. Jaspers saw the exit to the Glebe Road overlook ahead. They were pushing him off the parkway and onto the entrance to the overlook.

Glebe Overlook was a short span of roadway, about three hundred yards long with parking slots painted on the asphalt. It served no purpose other than to allow bored travelers to look a hundred feet down onto the Potomac River. No vehicles were parked in the overlook.

The white van slowed and gave Jasper no choice but to follow. They had to hold out for three minutes. The signal had been sent, and cruisers would be coming at high speed. Three minutes.

“Get on the floor,” Gray yelled over his shoulder. The justice complied.

The lead van stopped, completely blocking the path of the SUV. Jaspers hit the gas and rammed the van from behind. The cargo van crumpled, but with brakes locked, the SUV couldn’t escape. The red van angled to the left and behind the escalade; no escape.

Jaspers and Gray had handguns drawn. Their task was to delay. Help was coming. They had to hold out.

 

Two men in knitted black ski masks jumped from the side of the white van and spread apart. One in a green western shirt had an automatic weapon. The other in a blue T-shirt was carrying a bucket. A third man bailed out of the red van carrying an assault weapon and circled to the right.

 

Grabbing the pail with both hands, the man in the blue T-shirt flung its contents onto the windshield. Black paint darkened the vehicle followed by the repeating discharge of an assault weapon–several assault weapons.

The reinforced glass popped and cracked. Blinded and unable to return fire, the agents ducked down. Though not bullet-proof like the President’s limo, the windshields in standard service vehicles were built to withstand significant impact, but it wouldn’t hold out for long.

Where the hell is back up?

 

The two men scrambled to either side of the vehicle and continued firing. The side windows blew out quickly. Agent Gray fired his weapon once, Jaspers not at all. In a matter of seconds, their bodies were bloodied and riddled with bullets. The men ran to the back door of the escalade. It was locked.

 

One of the men reached through the space that used to be the driver’s side window and popped the lock. The back doors were thrown open. Justice Caprelli, stretched on the floor of the SUV, held his hands forward.

 

“Get out.”

 

Caprelli started to get up off the floor when a hand gripped the back of his shirt and yanked him out of the vehicle. The man was a gorilla holding the Supreme Court Justice like a puppet. Caprelli’s hands were out to the side, his airway constricted by the man with the death grip on the collar of his pressed white dress shirt. He was being dragged to the lead van.

 

“Wha–what do you–” Caprelli garbled, but couldn’t finish.

 The man threw him into the side of the van. Caprelli fell to the ground, blood oozing from a cut over his eye from being slammed into the van. A man in a blue T-shirt grabbed the justice’s tie and lifted him to his feet.

 

“Get your clothes off.”  This came from the tallest of the three in the green shirt and jeans, the one who had ripped him like a rag doll from the SUV.

“What? What are you–?”  The assault weapon’s butt hit him square in the face, knocking him back into the van. Pain seared through his face, between his eyes. He slid down the side of the vehicle into a seated position. The tie grabber picked him up again.

 

“No questions. Get your clothes off. Now!“

 

Caprelli was dazed and disoriented by the blow, but fumbled with his fingers to get his shirt and pants off. He trembled, not from the cool air, but from sheer terror.

 

One man ran back to the red van and pulled out a whiskey bottle. He reached inside the SUV’s broken window and shattered it against steering wheel.

 

“Everything,” green shirt yelled at him.

 

The justice slid his boxer shorts onto the ground and tugged off his socks. Completely naked, he covered himself with his hands.

“Get in,” he said, motioning to the open side compartment.

 

The man in the blue T-shirt reached down and pulled the wallet from the pants. He started to examine the contents as the man in the green shirt slapped it from his hands.

“Hey, the cash,” blue T-shirt pleaded.

 

“Ya dumbshit.”  Green shirt threw the wallet into the van and pushed the justice in behind. “Let’s go.”  He nodded to the man standing by the bullet-riddled SUV. That one fired up a Zippo and tossed it into the front seat. Flames erupted, dancing inside the front seat of the disabled carcass.

The vans burned rubber accelerating through the overlook, shooting back onto GW Parkway. Moving at high speed, dodging back and forth in the lanes, they shot past other vehicles.

 

At the McLean exit, one van got off the parkway, the other kept speeding westward.

 

Caprelli fell face forward and was kicked and bounced as the van rocketed up to speed. His upper body was pinned between the back of the driver seat and a smooth flat, object to his left side. His heart pounded; he was breathless and certain that his nose was broken. He pressed it between his fingers to staunch the bleeding.

 

Who were these guys? Where were they taking me? What did they want?

 

Questions swirled. He knew all of the answers were bad.

Terror surged through him like an electrical current. How long before anyone will know I’m gone? How much money do they want? Will Stella be able to get the money together? Stella. Oh God. What’s going on? Blood rolled down his cheek and into his mouth.

 

Be calm, he thought. He took two deep breaths. Be smart. You’ll get through this, whatever it is. Be calm.

He rolled onto his shoulder and pushed himself into a seated position. He was going to confront his captors. He opened his lips, but before sounds could come out, he froze. The sheer terror of the attack was nothing compared to what he saw now.

 

He stared at the smooth flat object next to which he had lain seconds before. Caprelli’s breath was trapped in his throat as he stared, unable to remove his eyes.

 

It was a wooden casket.

About Steve O’Brien:

Steve O’Brien is an author and attorney. Redemption Day is his third novel. His prior works, Elijah’s Coin and Bullet Work, have been recipients of multiple literary awards. Since its release, Elijah’s Coin has been added to the reading curriculum in multiple secondary schools throughout the US and has been incorporated in a university ethics course. Steve is a graduate of the University of Nebraska and The George Washington University Law School. He lives in Washington, DC.

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Copyright 2007-2010: All the posts within this blog were originally posted by Teddy Rose and should not be reproduced without express written permission.