Genre: Young Adult Thriller
Word Count: 86,000
Being the son of a business tycoon makes Baxton part of the elite and in the major metropolis of Camden, where whispers of political corruption are stoking the fires of revolution, the elite are being hunted like dogs. But unlike most, Baxton has something most can't afford; a guardian angel.
Ash, a well-trained soldier, dishonorably discharged but skilled none the less, is that angel. To the boy, he's an unnamed man who follows him in the shadows, on rooftops, or in nondescript cars, ready to take out anyone who threatens the boy's life. With such a guardian watching over him, Baxton lives a life devoid of the fear most young people his age live in and as long as he protects Baxton, his criminal record will stay hidden.
Both depend on each other in a strange and twisted symbiotic way, completely ignorant of the other who holds the success of failure of their fate. But when a rebel group shuts down the city, and a successful coup that would put the French Revolution to shame starts, both Baxton and Ash meet and must depend on each other if they want to make it out alive...and maybe discover a couple harrowing secrets about the city they live in, the rebels and worse of all, their connection to each other and the rebels along the way.
The soirees the Waynes’ family threw, like clockwork on the third Saturday of the month four times a year were the talk of the town a few days before, and several days after. The guest list rarely changed drastically, but always subtracted or added a few people depending on Ms. Clara Wayne’s patience with certain people in the finance circle, and Mr. Wayne’s level of irritation towards those in the land developers’ field. To them, it was a perfect chance to spy on the competition without coming off as paranoid of conspicuous; cultured espionage, was the phrase they threw around with a perfect pitched, almost plastic chuckle. To seventeen-year-old Braxton Waynes, it was the perfect cover to blend in with the populous, slip out the side door, and meet his friends around the block, a celebration that was strong enough to dull the ache that came from handing over a freshly withdrawn stack of bills from his account and giving to the kitchen staff who would look the other way.
“Come home at a decent hour, won’t you, Mr. Waynes?” The snowman shaped chef who looked even more like a snowman with his white jacket—maybe more so a murderous one as he chopped the fried chicken with expert precision—asked. A jackal like smile on his lips cast a dark juxtaposition against the rhythmic and clean thump, thump, thump of the clever hitting the counter. “I’d prefer to not clean up your vomit again. Hiding your alcoholism weighs heavy on my Catholic consciousness.”