Fatal Greed (28 page)

Acknowledgments

In the beginning, it was just me, my new laptop and a story swirling in my head. The narrative had minimal shape, spastic rhythm, and a smidge of substance. From a scientific perspective, this book,
FATAL GREED
, barely existed at all.

But I’ve learned that stories aren’t built by elements or atoms, or even hopes and desires. They’re developed over time by writing, editing, receiving feedback, formulating new ideas and thoughts, baring your soul for all to see….dozens, if not hundreds of times. It’s not for the weak-minded. But that doesn’t mean I haven’t had moments of weakness.

The first hundred or so revisions came at the expense of my wife, Chris. Having no formal training other than reading about a thousand books of all genres, she provided me with remarkable feedback that enabled me to smooth out the rough edges. I can’t thank Chris enough for allowing the seed buried deep inside me to sprout and begin to take shape. Well, then again, I try to think of a few creative ways to show her my appreciation. (Michael isn’t the only one with a romantic side!). Her partnership, her love, continue to provide me with limitless inspiration.

The second phase of my creative development started when the idea for the Greed Series popped in my mind. Almost immediately, I began the hunt for my editor. I started with twenty-five or so candidates, then after a series of questions knocked the list down to about ten. I examined every aspect of how they worked, their success stories, their goals of their editing business, and their flexibility. That led to my top three. The questioning became more detailed, and so were their answers. Part of the test was to see if any of the candidates would bail on me because of my rigorous recruiting process. None did, which made it that much tougher. After much internal debate, I knew my answer. Actually, I felt like she was the one when there were twenty-five. But I didn’t want to give her any free passes—and she’s not given me any since we’ve started working together.

Enter Jan Fix, also known as the
WordVerve
. She’s all that, and more. Thank you, Jan, for helping me elevate my game and believing in me. It has meant the world to me. Onward!

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LETHAL GREED
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For an excerpt of the second novel in the Greed Series,
LETHAL GREED
, please see the next page.

The textured white ceiling offered the teenage boy a multitude of dream paths. A scab-infested human arm dangled at an awkward angle. To the right, the cartoonish jowls of a grisly old man sagged at least a foot. Above that, a powerfully built, yet graceful, reindeer prepared to launch into the pale sky.

Which one should he take? Did he have an option? He saw more—crevices, undulations of a possible moon. Maybe it was the skin of the man downstairs. The man who’d teased him. This couldn’t be a dream if the scarred complexion of
that
man was seeping into his thoughts.

Lying on his back in the twin bed he’d slept in since he was five years old, the boy rubbed his eyes and exhaled, but couldn’t catch his breath. His hand touched his chest. The pulsating beat thumped like a steam locomotive, reverberating in his core, quickly migrating up his shoulders, neck, even his eye sockets, until his entire body felt like it might explode.

A wave of adrenaline came over him. It lifted him off the bed, hovering near the ceiling, high above the panic, to a place void of the unyielding anxiety. And the unbearable guilt for not being everything he should be for his parents.

A quick drop. He clutched the silk comforter with both hands, his chest and body convulsing.
Please make it stop. I’ll do anything to make this stop!
His teeth clenched, his head shook violently from side to side. Minutes passed, then momentarily relief.

Drenched with a layer of sweat, he focused on his breathing. His eyes drifted around the room, and he noticed his old train against the wall. The tracks…yes, he now remembered. The man with the creepy face had teased him relentlessly until he did
it
. Finally, with hordes of teenagers chanting “Snort, snort, snort,” he put his nose to the coffee table and sucked two lines of cocaine up his nostril. He’d given in to the temptation, the pressure—a daily sidekick in his life. Somehow, he’d stumbled upstairs to his room, ashamed of what he’d let his life become by age fourteen.

No convulsions in the last few minutes. But the delirium, the mind-bending thoughts and sensations only increased. Suddenly, his arm itched like never before. He scratched and scratched until he smelled blood. He blinked his eyes and skin peeled apart as if acid had been poured into an open wound. His arm felt like it was on fire.
Was any of this real?
Maybe this is how life would end. High, wacked out beyond belief, and alone. He deserved no better.

A door slammed. “Who’s there?” he thought he asked.

He felt tugging. Someone was on top of him. A face…brown hair.
I think I know this girl.
He put his hands out. She grabbed his finger and put it in her mouth. What the hell is she doing? He had no control of his body, of anything. This wasn’t right. He was only fourteen.

Suddenly, another adrenaline rush, but this one was different than the last. The girl was gyrating, digging her nails into his stomach, screaming.

“Stop, stop! Don’t!” he begged. And then it was over.

Time passed, and she was no longer in the room. He’d just had his first sexual experience. And it was fucked up. Tears pooled. Everyone would soon know. He closed his eyes and then quickly reopened them, staring at the ceiling, wishing he could sit on the reindeer’s back and leap into another life, another world. His innocence forever lost, he couldn’t take any of it back.

Regret was Zachary Taylor’s closest confidante.

The lip of the sun hung to the edge of the ocean in the distant western sky, as rolling waves calmed beneath the disappearing orange hue. White caps subsided, giving way to evening boaters looking for a high-dollar sunset, sipping their martinis of choice on their fifty-foot yachts. Bronze bodies, platinum on their hands, and gold in their pockets.

This was the life. The life
Benicio
envisioned, fleetingly, for his family, friends…mostly for himself. Sitting on the rocky sand, elbows resting on his sandpaper knees, he often observed the tourists,
las
turistas
, and vicariously traded places with all of them at some point in time. He scratched his nose, paused, then viciously attacked the itch again.

The portly man had few remaining friends and had alienated his entire family. He leaned back and searched each of his pockets. His breathing increased with the exertion and the hope he might find some remaining
choro
, marijuana. Nothing. He rubbed his nose again and cursed under his breath.

Benicio
felt the unrepentant urge rising like a tidal wave inside him. He had to relieve the pressure. He thought back to past moments of weakness and desperation. For a brief time, he’d attempted to live a normal, mostly sober life. He’d even had a girlfriend. Sure, she was demanding, even blatantly rude, but she cared. She’d make him dinner twice a week, gave him back massages when he got home from the days he was able to garner a day job. But he couldn’t hold it together. Twice he’d used her rent money to go out with the boys. He didn’t know when to stop, how to stop, before it was too late. He wasn’t sure which was worse, his
grifo
—drug-induced stupor—or the berating she gave him. It only took two strikes, and he never saw her again.

The inside of his nose tingled, and he couldn’t help but pinch it. He burrowed his feet deeper into the sand, and his thoughts drifted to
su
madre
. After moving back home to save money, his saintly mother had him swear on her St. James Bible that he’d stay clean. A week later, she caught him stealing her grocery money.

He couldn’t tell her another lie. “I’m going to buy some weed, and I’m going to smoke it and enjoy it. I can’t help myself.”

She ushered him out of her home, and she hadn’t spoken to him since. She’d given
Benicio
more chances than he could count. He’d always planned to repay his debts, show everyone what
Benicio
was really capable of. But luck was not his friend. At least not until recently.

His gaze returned to the calming green ocean, and the dreams of a hopeful future.

Suddenly, sand sprayed his face.

“
Benicio
,
Benicio
. We need you, quickly. The roosters have flown the coop. We must act on our plan.” Luis tugged on
Benicio’s
blood-stained shirt. “We have our instructions,
Benicio
. Are you listening?”

Benicio
momentarily refocused his attention on the largest yacht in his view, ignoring his willowy partner, just as he had grown to disregard the bleakness of his own pathetic life. At thirty years of age, he had no real skills, only unquenched desires and fading dreams. Having worked on one of those yachts for just one day, rubbing elbows with the high and mighty, he couldn’t resist the diamond Rolex resting on the tray in the master bathroom. Only hours into a job that he believed was a God-given opportunity to start his life anew,
Benicio
was fired on the spot. He’d somehow managed to flee from the marina without having to return the watch, explaining in rapid-fire Spanish that the opulent timepiece had accidentally fallen overboard. He pleaded ignorance, as if he couldn’t speak or understand much English.

Though mesmerized by the countless diamonds clustered on the piece of jewelry, he had no intention of using it to better his life, at least not in the traditional sense. The ostentatious timepiece stayed in his possession for only a few hours, slipping through his tattered fingers like the pebbled, sand-lined beaches of Puerto Vallarta. He marched directly to one of his most prodigious drug contacts and proudly flaunted the watch, then bartered it for a few bags of cocaine—
cabello
. As he came down from his high, he regretted his lack of restraint for not safeguarding the only extravagance he’d possessed in his life. Then again, he felt remorse nearly every time he snorted or shot up.

***

Benicio
and Luis crouched behind a stone retaining wall near a partially lit alley. “My little amigo, we have a great opportunity before us,”
Benicio
said. He nodded at two other team members across the way. “We will make our mark on this world. We will soon have what we’ve always wanted.
Dinero
. Respect.”

Benicio
could hear the footsteps of people rounding the corner, similar to the pop of horseshoes bouncing off the cobblestone streets. The shoes were thick-soled, very expensive. He wiped beaded sweat from his forehead.

With dusk giving way to near darkness, the targets moved within sight. One man, one woman. Her stilettos lifted her body at least five inches. She was spry, playful with the older man, tickling him intermittently. As planned,
Benicio
waited for the two uniformed men to make the initial move.

“
Detenerse
. Stop right where you are!”

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