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CLEAR BLAKE BRIER BOOK 7 L.T. RYAN with GREGORY SCOTT Copyright © 2023 by L.T. Ryan, Gregory Scott, and Liquid Mind Media, LLC. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced in any format, by any means, electronic or otherwise, without prior consent from the copyright owner and publisher of this book. This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and events are the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. For information contact: [email protected] https://LTRyan.com https://www.facebook.com/JackNobleBooks CONTENTS The Blake Brier Series 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 The Blake Brier Series Also by L.T. Ryan About the Author THE BLAKE BRIER SERIES Blake Brier Series Unmasked Unleashed Uncharted Drawpoint Contrail Clear Quarry (coming soon) 1 Chapter 1 Jim Brier gasped. His eyelids fluttered open. Inside the windowless room, buzzing of the fluorescent ballasts mixed with the groans of a few others who’d likely also come to the realization that it was a brand new day. Jim stared up at the underside of Freddie’s bunk. The heavy wire mesh squeaked and heaved before Freddie’s legs swung over the side. His bare feet dangled next to Jim’s head. “You mind putting those things somewhere else?” Jim’s voice cracked. He coughed to clear the frog from his throat. “They smell like Muenster.” Freddie hopped down and leaned against the edge of Jim’s mattress. “Maybe if you got out of bed in the morning—” Jim lifted his knees, then let his legs fall straight. “I’m working on it.” “Okay, old man.” Freddie smiled. “You keep working on it.” “Just wait. In five years, you’ll be right where I’m at.” Once upon a time, Jim would have already been “up and at ‘em” as his wife would say. Now, at seventy-two years old, nothing about him was “up,” never mind “at ‘em.” Each morning, his ritual started with a full five minutes of creaking and cracking before his joints limbered enough to stand up. While his body would have liked to stay stretched-out on the lumpy little mattress, it wasn’t an option. The overhead glare said it was time to go to work. There were no light switches inside the barracks. Controlled by timers, the two rows of fluorescents were triggered at seven-thirty sharp each day. It gave them exactly one half-hour to get ready and report to their assignments. Even on Sundays. This suited Jim just fine. Anything to avoid being trapped in there for a single minute longer than necessary. “Gonna be a nice day out there today.” Freddie shoved his fingers in along the bedframe, tucking the sheets in tight. He walked around to the other side to finish the job. “A little cooler than yesterday.” Jim threw back his top sheet and pivoted his body until his legs draped over the side. His bare feet touched the cool tile floor. “I wouldn’t know.” As a condition of his remediation, Jim was assigned to the interior cleaning crew, while Freddie was one of those responsible for the grounds. Working alongside professional landscapers, the work was no doubt harder, but it came with hours of fresh air and sunshine. Not a bad trade-off. Funny, Jim thought, how he had once sat at the top levels of the organization, and now? A janitor. It was enough to make anyone reassess their choices. But it wasn’t the menial job, nor the lockdown that had soured him against the Church of Clear Intention. That had been the fault of the Church itself. A consequence of its disjointed ideology and draconian acts. To think, he had once been an arbiter of such. “I’ll grab your coffee,” Freddie said. Jim nodded with a grunt and leaned over to stretch his back. Around him, the room filled with light chatter and shuffling feet. Between the men’s and women’s bunks, along the eastern and western walls, was a ten-foot-wide gap. At this time of the morning, it was akin to a ten-lane freeway. People scurried to the bathrooms to catch a quick shower, brush their teeth, or change out of their linen pajamas. Mostly, they marched the shortest path to the four coffee pots lined up on the counter next to the inner door. The first one there was responsible for firing them up. Like the outer fire door on the far side of the room, the metal inner door remained locked from dusk until dawn. A reminder, they’d been told, of their closed-mindedness. “A narrow mind is the prison of the soul,” the Sage was fond of saying. “To open doors, you must first open your mind.” In another context, it would seem like sound advice. Under the circumstances—a transparent ultimatum. Of course, in case of an emergency, the door to the outside could be opened by pressing the bright red lever. But, as the decals warned, it would set off the alarm. It didn’t matter, anyway. Once outside, there was nowhere to go. A high, spiked wrought iron fence guaranteed it. “Here ya go, hot and black.” Freddie handed over a steaming Styrofoam cup, then sat on the bed next to Jim. “How I like my women.” Jim threw Freddie a meager courtesy laugh. Ah, Freddie. Frederick R. Cook. Good for that same joke at least three times a week. But who was counting, right? Jim patted Freddie on the thigh and