Free Thy Kingdom Come: Book One in the Sam Thorpe series by Don Helin Page A

while she slept.

     
    Sam felt as if he were climbing toward the top of a well. The sides were slippery and he was cold, so damn cold. The closer he got to the surface, the colder he became.
    Groaning, he opened his eyes. At first he couldn’t focus. All he could see was a whitish blur. He kept blinking. Darkness from the forest surrounded him. Light from the moon cast a shadow across the snowy path. He lay on the ground, shivering. Concentrating was difficult, but he had to think. Taking several deep breaths, he looked around. Where the hell was he?
    Memory descended in a rush. He had been walking. That’s right. Walking down the trail. Then he’d heard movement behind him. There had been at least three of them. He’d tried to defend himself but hadn’t moved quickly enough. Let the third one get behind him. He had gotten some good punches in. One of the bastards had a broken nose.
    He couldn’t believe he’d let himself get sandbagged. He was supposed to be sharper than that, the big deal military colonel.
    He pushed himself up on his knees only to fall down. He tried again and rose to his feet, almost slipping and falling. Pain radiated from the back of his head and slithered down his neck. He had no idea how long he’d been out. His head throbbed and his side burned. When he felt the back of his head and pulled his hand back, there was no blood. It must have been the butt of a rifle or some other blunt instrument.
    His right side ached. Someone must have kicked him. Taking several deep breaths, the air he sucked in was cold and smelled of evergreens. He needed to get moving—and now.
    Spotting his flashlight in the snow, he grabbed it and flipped the switch. Luckily it worked. Light illuminated the ground. He flashed the light around but saw nothing other than pine trees and a blanket of white. Matted snow showed where he had fallen. A series of footprints headed off in the direction of the farm. The freezing cold bit through his clothes. He had to get back to the barn before hypothermia set in.
    A trail indicated the direction to reach the barn. His brain felt as if it were only working at half speed. Dizzy, he limped down the path, the trees seeming to blur in and out of focus. He almost fell when he slid down a hill. Forcing himself to put one foot in front of the other, he limped along, fighting the impulse to stop and rest.
    Slipping and sliding down a long hill, he spotted the silhouette of the barn up ahead. He pushed on, the icy cold enveloping him.
    When Sam opened the door, the main area was empty. He walked through the conference area and into his office, losing his balance twice and banging against the wall. He was glad he didn’t run into anyone.
    Sam fell onto his cot. His body shaking, he forced himself to strip off his clothes, then soaked under the hot shower to warm his body and stifle the pain. The steam having cleared his senses, he dried himself and popped a couple of aspirins.
    When Sam lay back on the bed he immediately fell fast asleep. He dreamed a bear attacked him and all he had to defend himself was a spoon.
    Something wakened him. He sat up and looked at his watch—three o’clock, still dark outside. What was the noise? He flipped his bedside light on but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Damn, his side ached and his head throbbed. He pulled himself up and swallowed three more aspirins, then lay back down and fell asleep again.
    When he awoke, rays of sunlight were filtering through the window high in the wall. He stretched and moved around—nothing broken, though everything hurt like hell.
    Who would ambush him? Fucking Buster—Sam was sure of it.
Well, asshole, you and I are going to have a face-off, and it won’t be long in coming.
    Sam decided to say nothing about the attack. His ribs hurt, but there was no outward sign of injuries.
    He looked at his watch: eight o’clock. Then it hit him. Today was Emily’s birthday. Sixteen years old. He had remembered to send flowers,