Stolen Memory

Sharon Johnston Bacon

Description

Two sisters, a two-bit gangster, and a cop all desperately search for a stolen memory stick before a dangerous Chicago mob finds it first.

Delilah and Stormy Sampson, sisters hailing from a small Georgia town, suddenly become the target of a two-bit gangster when their addict mother disappears. Her boss, Stanley “the Swindler” Barron, believes she stole his memory stick, which contained incriminating evidence of not only his illicit activities but also those of a dangerous crime syndicate from Chicago. He’s convinced the young women know where the missing memory stick is, and his life depends on finding before the mob discovers his indiscretion.



But there is a problem—even if their mother has the memory stick, Delilah and Stormy haven’t seen her in months. Unfortunately for sisters, they land on the hit list of all concerned, and their lives becomes a deadly game of cat and mouse. Eventually, the sticky situation involves their friends—who happen to be ladies of the night—a police detective investigating the case, and the detective’s grandmother. To complicate things further, in the midst of all the mayhem, Delilah finds love. But how can she fall for a cop when she has been avoiding the law for as long as she can remember? When the detective’s grandmother lovingly leads Delilah to Jesus, however, it only proves that nothing is impossible for God.



In this fast-paced cozy mystery, two sisters, a two-bit gangster, and a cop all desperately search for a stolen memory stick before a dangerous Chicago mob finds it first.

Sujets

• Religious
• Cozy mystery
• Salvation
• Christian
• Salut (religion)
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: WestBow Press
• Date de parution: 27 juillet 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781664269811
• Langue: English

Extrait

Stolen Memory
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
SHARON JOHNSTON BACON
 
 
 
 
 

 
Copyright © 2022 Sharon Johnston Bacon.
 
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
 
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
 
WestBow Press
A Division of Thomas Nelson & Zondervan
1663 Liberty Drive
Bloomington, IN 47403
www.westbowpress.com
844-714-3454
 
Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
 
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.
 
Scripture taken from the New King James Version® Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
 
Scripture taken from the King James Version of the Bible.
 
Scripture quotations taken from The Holy Bible, New International Version® NIV® Copyright © 1973 1978 1984 2011 by Biblica, Inc. TM. Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.
 
Scripture quotations marked (NLT) are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright ©1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, a Division of Tyndale House Ministries, Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.
 
ISBN: 978-1-6642-6982-8 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-6642-6983-5 (hc)
ISBN: 978-1-6642-6981-1 (e)
 
Library of Congress Control Number: 2022911445
 
 
WestBow Press rev. date: 07/26/2022
Contents
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
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Epilogue
Chapter 1

My head hurt, my wrists were on fire, and my arms throbbed. My entire body ached, but the ropes wouldn’t give so much as a quarter of an inch, no matter how hard I struggled. We were lying on a dirt floor. I tried not to think about spiders. Dim light barely penetrated the grimy little windowpanes high above our heads so most of the room was shrouded in shadow. I turned my head toward my sister, but I could barely see her tear-streaked face.
“Do you think they’ll come back soon?” Panic had turned Stormy’s voice into a high-pitched squeak.
“Don’t know.”
She started to wiggle caterpillar-like, slowly inching toward me, scooting closer and closer until we were practically nose to nose before she asked, “But they won’t hurt us, will they, Delilah?”
“Of course not. They stuck a gun in our backs, shoved us into a van, hog-tied us like calves in a rodeo, drove us to this godforsaken place, and locked us in a cellar, so whatever gave you the idea that they might hurt us?”
Maybe it was the fear and the exhaustion that got to me, but those words fell from my lips before I had a chance to catch them. Now I looked into Stormy’s terrified eyes and wished I could stuff everything I had said back into my mouth and swallow.
“We’re gonna die, aren’t we?”
“No, we aren’t, Stormy. It’s going to be OK.”
Our ride in the van had seemed to go on forever but probably hadn’t lasted more than thirty minutes or so. Yet it’s hard to make an accurate guess when you are tied up and bouncing around in the back of a van amid a bunch of junk. Frankly, you’re terrified out of your mind and can’t think straight … or at least I was. I remembered that the last part of the trip was especially bumpy and then I heard bushes scraping along the side of the van. I’m guessing we had turned onto a very narrow dirt road and then an even narrower driveway. That’s why I figured we were far away from any kind of civilization. Now we were left isolated, alone, and defenseless—with no idea where we were or even why we were here in the first place. Yep. We were in big trouble.
I shoved the growing dread back down my throat and attempted to scope out our surroundings. But I was bound with ropes, tied tight as a tourniquet, and could barely manage to move my head side to side. The only thing I could tell for sure was that we were in a cellar, with a dirt floor, high windows, and old stone walls. The whole place smelled deserted, but I’ll tell you what, it was the silence that scared me most. Gut-twisting reality hit me. There probably wasn’t a house or even a car within ten miles, which meant that not a single soul would hear our cries for help. Nope, there was nobody else to help us, so getting us out of this mess, preferably all in one piece, was up to me.
With a whole lot of grunting and strained muscles, I tried to roll over and sit up. All I managed to accomplish was to get myself into an even more uncomfortable position. As a reward for my efforts, the ropes around my wrists and ankles tightened, digging even deeper into my skin. Best of all, my jeans had twisted themselves into a knot, and I had managed to tear my good T-shirt.
“Crud!”
“Can’t you get loose?”
“Of course I can,” I snapped. “I just don’t want to.”
With that, Stormy scrunched up her face, and I braced myself for a flood of tears. “Don’t let them see you cry,” I hissed at her. “They’ll think you’re afraid.”
Her voice trembled. “I am afraid!”
“Yeah? Well, big deal, so am I, but we can’t let them know that.”
She sniffed a few times and finally seemed to get ahold of herself.
We lay there, close together, each of us lost in our own thoughts. I guess we were just too scared to carry on a conversation. To keep my mind from exploring the dark realities of our present situation, I concentrated on watching dust mites dance on the sunrays that managed to pierce those filthy cellar windows. But when we heard a car pull up and heard the front door creak open, I forgot all about dust mites.
I swear, my heart stood still as heavy footsteps sounded across the room above us and then paused. The harsh bark of laughter sent a wave of terror washing over me as the cellar door opened. My underarms were soaked and sweat ran down my back. The sour smell of fear stung my nose. Then Stormy started to moan.
“Shh! Get a grip.” My voice was raspy and creaked like an old screen door.
Stormy bit her lip and grew quiet while we waited, completely helpless, as someone pounded down the basement steps. There was an ominous pause in the murky shadows. Everything was quiet except for my heart, which now was thudding like a bass drum in my ears. Then we heard breathing coming in short, tight whistles as another person shuffled down the stairs.
The overhead light was switched on, and we blinked in the sudden blinding light. As our eyes adjusted to the glare, the men stepped into view. They hadn’t bothered to cover their faces—probably not a good sign. Apparently, they weren’t the least bit worried we could ID them, and that spooked me.
An old man hobbled down the last couple of steps and stepped onto the dirt floor. He paused and narrowed his eyes, staring at us for a long minute before heading our way. His left leg dragged a bit, stirring up a small cloud of dust as he painfully crossed the cellar until he reached the spot where we lay.
He reminded me of a shriveled-up string bean: long, thin, wrinkled, and bent. His white hair looked as if it belonged to some Angry Bird on a bad hair day. His nose overpowered the rest of his face, and his eyes were a washed-out blue. His suit looked three sizes too big, which gave the impression that he had lost a lot of weight recently. He seemed unsteady on his feet, swaying a bit as he flexed his hands into fists. Hovering over us, he studied Stormy and me like a vulture.
A few steps behind him, the same Neanderthals we had the pleasure of meeting during our ride here stood, watching him warily, waiting for their instructions. Regardless of all his frailties, he still was downright menacing and was obviously the head honcho. All eyes were on the old man when he narrowed his eyes and growled, “You girls wanna go home?”
Stormy answered in almost a whisper. “Yes, please.”
“Yes, please ?” He hunched over, laughing and wheezing, until a violent coughing fit turned his face a dusky shade of purple. The third thug, one we hadn’t seen before, slapped the old man on his back until he stopped hacking and was able to catch his breath. He slowly straightened up as best he could and jerked his head toward us while wiping his mouth on h