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It’s Halloween… prepare to be scared!
Fans of Stephen King or Dean Koontz will want to grab this compelling suspense thriller: The Room By Derek Blass

The Room: A Suspense Thriller
4.0 stars – 6 Reviews
Or FREE with Learn More
Text-to-Speech and Lending: Enabled
Here’s the set-up:
“The Room is a compelling story of possession, evil, and the struggle of a family dealing with the unknown.”
Don and Faith Paxton just moved into the house of their dreams–a 1929 remodel. Add a great job and two vibrant twins, and there’s nothing else a family could ask for. Except for some peace. Before the smell of new paint fades away, the house’s history starts seeping through. From an attic room, Don’s transformation commences. His dreams become nightmares, his actions become inexplicable, and he slowly becomes the house. Can he save himself and his family before the transformation is complete? Or, will the room consume them all?
If you’re a fan of King or Koontz, then The Room is your next read!
5-Star Amazon Reviews
“… It is fun, dark, lively, and easy to read. It’s definitely worth picking up.”
“… Derek Blass is a master of suspense, knowing exactly how much to give you and hook you in.”

Click Here to Visit Derek Blass’s Amazon Author Page

And here, in the comfort of your own browser, is your free sample of The Room: A Suspense Thriller by Derek Blass:

KND eBook of The Day: A Compelling Story of Possession, Evil, And The Struggle… The Room by Bestselling Author Derek Blass – Now 99 Cents

5.0 stars – 2 Reviews
Kindle Countdown Deal!
Text-to-Speech and Lending: Enabled
Here’s the set-up:
“The Room is a compelling story of possession, evil, and the struggle of a family dealing with the unknown.”
Don and Faith Paxton just moved into the house of their dreams–a 1929 remodel. Add a great job and two vibrant twins, and there’s nothing else a family could ask for. Except for some peace. Before the smell of new paint fades away, the house’s history starts seeping through. From an attic room, Don’s transformation commences. His dreams become nightmares, his actions become inexplicable, and he slowly becomes the house. Can he save himself and his family before the transformation is complete? Or, will the room consume them all?
If you’re a fan of King or Koontz, then The Room is your next read!

Click Here to Visit Derek Blass’s Amazon Author Page

And here, in the comfort of your own browser, is your free sample of The Room: A Suspense Thriller by Derek Blass:

KND Freebies: Action-packed thriller ALLEGIANCE is featured in today’s Free Kindle Nation Shorts excerpt

38 rave reviews!

How far would you go to save your loved one?
Would you abandon all allegiances?
Would you break all the rules?
Cruz Marquez is put to the test in ALLEGIANCE

Discover Derek Blass’ gripping Cruz Marquez thrillers while Book 3 is 33% off!

3.8 stars – 59 Reviews
Text-to-Speech and Lending: Enabled
Here’s the set-up:
Who do YOU pledge allegiance to?
After exposing one of the most notorious rings of police corruption in history, lawyer Cruz Marquez planned on starting a new life south of the border.  That plan unraveled when an extremist group of Minutemen captured and tortured him and his wife.
The Minutemen aren’t his only problem.  Cruz will have to navigate the waters with Mexico’s most powerful drug cartel, Los Punos, to escape the grips of the Minutemen.  But, will he just find himself indebted to an even worse master?
Find out as Cruz is forced to spell out his allegiance.  To his country, to his freedom, or to cold, hard vengeance.  Will Cruz pledge allegiance to do right, or will he do anything to serve up revenge?

5-star praise for Allegiance:

Fabulous, fast paced, five stars!
“With writing reminiscent of John Grisham, Blass takes the reader through the world of illegal border crossing, torture, and fast-paced action that will make you sit up and take notice. …Realistic, gritty, well done.”

Action Packed Thriller – A Must Read

“Derek Blass has another hit with Allegiance!…riveting page turner…”

an excerpt from

Allegiance

by Derek Blass

 

Copyright © 2014 by Derek Blass and published here with his permission

P A R T  O N E

___________________________________

T H E  B O R D E R

O N E

__________________________________________________

Blown sand stung his face like tiny darts shot from an invisible enemy. He lay prone in the desert, his tan and chocolate fatigues doing little to combat the heat that emanated through the earth. A row of ants marched just beyond his shadow, providing him a distraction as he waited for his targets to crest the hill in front of him.

He turned his head when he heard the howl of wind from his left—the incessant source of the sand. Grainy pellets struck the back of his cap and then subsided. He looked back at the hill and thought he saw the hazy outline of a person’s head, surely a mirage. With a quick snap, he pulled binoculars from a side pocket and propped up on his elbows.

Sure enough, it was the top of a person’s head, the molecules around the figure shimmering in the distant heat wave. The rest of the body appeared slowly as the head bobbed from side to side. Bushy, caterpillar eyebrows poked up. A glossy, heat-soaked face took form.

He put the binoculars down and whispered to the woman next to him, “¿Hay más?”

She put her own binoculars down and pulled the bandanna from her mouth. “Many more.” He looked back at the hill and four other people surrounded the man struggling up the incline. They all panted and struck various poses while catching their breath—hands on knees, hands behind head, crouched down with head between legs.

“Go time?” she asked.

“Let them get closer,” he answered. The group of people was about four hundred yards away. He watched them as they battled the intense heat and worked to recoup their energy. The sun’s unrelenting rays beat down on them. Their lips were chalky white and their normally brown skin was pale and sickly—initial signs of heat exhaustion.

They managed to press forward though, a testament to the oft-forgotten or unused human will. When they neared a little over two hundred yards away, he turned to her, gave a quick gesture with his head in the direction of the group of people, and picked up two jugs of water. She grabbed her bag of food and jogged toward them. He followed behind her, the water sloshing in the jugs and making balance challenging over the uneven desert terrain.

The people froze when they saw these two figures coming in their direction. A man, the same one who first crested the hill, put his hands out to his sides to get the rest of the group to stop. He stood alone, the tip of a triangle.

When they were just about to reach yelling distance from the group, they all heard a crack, like a distant tree branch falling. Both he and the woman froze. Another crack and one of the jugs of water spun out of his hand. Water gushed out onto the sand, creating a silhouette on a golden background. Then it seemed as if a shooting gallery erupted. He fell face down, the desert floor grinding against his cheek.

The lead man in the group of people waved his arms in the direction of the firing until one of the bullets connected. He screamed as his hand was ripped off. A second shot and he was silent, lifted into the air, angelic for a moment before crashing to the ground.

With the jug of water by his side, the man in fatigues grabbed the woman’s foot. She glanced at him, a look of terror in her bloodshot eyes. The bandanna had fallen off of her face, revealing her trembling lips.

The sound of firing ended as abruptly as it had started and was replaced by the crescendo of engines. The grumble grew louder until he worried they were going to get run over. Without moving his body he shifted his head to look in the direction of the engines.

Three tan jeeps bellowed across the ripples in the desert sand. He could smell trace exhaust fumes. The jeeps closed on him and the woman until the last moment. The unrefined roar of the engines deafened every other sound, including his own breathing. The lead jeep braked, spun sideways, and sent up a plume of dust and sand which enveloped them.

The crunch of several footsteps was all he could make out in the dust around them. Then, nothing but a face emerged from the brown cloud, peering at him from several inches away. A copperish-brown stream of spit shot from the person’s mouth.

“Well, look like we got two-of-’em angels.” The man couldn’t see the butt of a rifle swing up and then come down toward his own face until the last moment, which coincided with the world turning black.

* * * *

A hand pecked at the back of his head, bringing him out of one darkness and into another. Stench permeated the air. A mix of disease and bodily fluids filled his nose even when he didn’t breathe. There was no sense that air had moved in this place for decades. He must be inside. That’s when he felt the cloth wrapped around his eyes loosen and fall to his neck. More darkness—no indication of light. It was as if he sat suspended in a vast, pitch-black vat.

Click. A light barreled over his face. He threw his head back and then down, using the top of his head as a shield. The burn of the light on his eyes stayed for several seconds before fading back to black.

“Your name.” The words didn’t reach him, only their echo. As if they were uttered from some holographic voice beyond the edge of his space. He managed to choke out half an expletive before the echo reached him again, this time with a hint of force and urgency. “Your name.”

He got the expletive out, “Fuck you!” The light switched off and he raised his head. Footsteps rasped against the floor into the distance. “Hey! Where’d you go?!”

That was the last contact he had for an indescribable period of time. Unbeknownst to him, his captors waited an exact time—three days—before returning to his cell. The body can survive for a week without water at the temperature they kept him. Three days was the beginning of a breaking point, which was marked by his transition from vehement cries, to pleas, to gut-wrenching screaming, to low and long moans.

With no sense of when he was placed in the room, he also had no idea how much time had passed. His hands were tied behind his lower back, his feet bound to the legs of his chair. Initially, he contemplated breaking the chair. He gently rocked it to test its sturdiness. One of the legs wiggled. The thought of falling to his side and dislodging the leg crossed his mind, but so did the thought of being bound to the chair and stuck on his side. Somehow, being upright was critical, a last modicum of control.

The torture began with the absence of hypnotic daily events. The standing, stretching and looking out a window to see the weather that marked the beginning of days. Those involuntary acts, like breathing, violently removed from his life. All he wanted to hear was a gust of wind or the smack of a raindrop. Something to tell him he wasn’t hundreds of feet below the earth, in a chamber hardly wider than the shaft leading to it.

He screamed questions which he answered before the echo stopped.

No noises came from his captors. His eyes served no purpose. Only his nose remained on duty, and in time he was able to pick out the different bodily functions, his own and those of previous inhabitants. Oftentimes he spent hours with his head tilted back, eyes shut, briskly wafting in the smells. Without this he would have gone insane—the smell of his own shit somehow served as a ground.

He bit off a corner of his lip when the hunger and dehydration began to toy with his will.

Somewhere deep in the onyx fog around him a sound was created. He stopped breathing at once. Even the sound of his heart could drown out something that faint. He turned his head left and then right, having determined sometime in the last few hours that his left ear, indeed, was his best ear. Then there was a click and he could smell body odor, not necessarily pungent or offensive—manly.

“Hello?” he whispered.

“Your name,” replied the voice, like a robot programmed to deliver those two words and nothing else.

He screamed and started to wail, thrusting alternate shoulders forward and back. “You! You!” he sobbed. “You…”

Patiently, calmly, the voice reiterated its request, “Your name.” The persistence made him want to vomit. Then the voice quadrupled its output, “That there was three days. Next time, four!”

“Okay!!” he spat, a mixture of tears and saliva. “Cruz Marquez!”

Wooden chair legs chattered across the cold floor. Cruz heard a grunt and then creaking of the chair as the man settled in.

“Some water, please,” Cruz gasped, trying to conserve what felt like precious few remaining breaths.

There was a click and then the man said, “Reach out directly in front of you.”

“My hands…”

“That’s right,” the man recognized with another grunt. He untied Cruz’s hands and held the canteen out. “Right in front of you again.” Cruz’s hand met the smooth aluminum body of a canteen. “Drink ’er slowly,” the man added.

The water filled chasms in Cruz’s tongue, which seemingly soaked up the water before it could reach his throat. The impulse was to gorge on the water, not knowing when the next bit would come. But, his body could not tolerate the water in any quantity greater than a slow flow, the normally innocuous liquid having become harmful. Cruz set the canteen down on the floor when he was done with the arduous task of drinking.

“Better?” Cruz nodded his head. “Name is Arnold Lampert. I’m fifty-eight years old, ’bout five-foot-eight, one hundred and sixty pounds. Graying hair, and I don’t mind ’em. That’s just how the shit goes.”

“What? Why are you telling me?”

“I served in the military, Nam. Marines. Whooo-ahhh! Just a grunt, a private, nothing special, but we saw the most. The jungle spread out from our dirty fingers in that place. Spent three years there, then the next thirty-two years working civilian jobs, ’cause I was too messed up in the head,” he said. “Military had no use for us after the war, ya know? Worked as a bartender in various Wisconsin holes, tryin’ to get back some of Nam’s glory—the whores, the drugs, the booze. Spent a long time doin’ that and other easy-access jobs. Insurance agent. Car salesman. Realtor.”

“Then the early two thousands hit and ya know what I started to see? More of y’all,” he seethed. “Country started to go to piss. Was used to dealin’ with the blacks. Hell, I fought and boozed and fucked next to ’em in Nam. Then all of a sudden your Mexicans were in my insurance office, asking me if I spoke Spanish. Mexicans at my car dealership, speaking their spic around me while I sat in the backseat for their test drives. First it was just something I noticed, and it gradually became something I hated, something to be dealt with. That’s why I started all this around ya—Allegiance.”

“Why?”

“Why tell you? Maybe it’s that you’re my captive, subject to my whims, including tellin’ ya ’bout certain personal aspects of my life. Maybe it’s I wanted to give ya some illusion of control. If ya know something ’bout me, ya can create judgments, definitions and categories. Maybe it’s ’cause you’re blind and I wanted to paint myself in your dull, useless eyes.”

“Since we’re doing introductions…”

“I know who you are. There ain’t a Minuteman who doesn’t know you, not if I have any say in that. Cruz Marquez, social activist, lawyer, non-practicing at this point, defeater of the great Sergeant Colin Shaver.”

“That was Raul, not me.”

Arnold grunted. “Sure, in the end, but ya ended him before that, with your work on that trial, with your publication of the video.”

“I disagree.”

Which is your right,” the man said, his words beginning as soon as Cruz’s fell off. “Ya know where you’re at?”

“In a hole with some smooth-talkin’ honk.”

“Ouch! A hole, of some sorts. Geographically though, you’re eight hundred feet inside the Mexican border. This is our deprivation room. I designed it, a room carved out by hand at the end of an eight-hundred-foot passageway. Serving as reclamation of our border.”

“A hidden room in the ground is the best you can do—speaks volumes.”

“Squatting on foreign land is not easy, Mr. Marquez,” Arnold said, some agitation building in his voice. “Except…except if it’s your kind, ain’t that the truth?”

“What do you mean, my kind?”

The legs of the chair chattered and Cruz could feel breath against his cheek. It was well-scented, fresh, and unexpected. His eyes were beginning to recover some of their utility, and he could make out the vague contours of Arnold’s face. A strong brow hovered above two eyes which sunk back into darkness. His face reappeared at the jaws, which jutted out sideways and seemed to be moving, grinding from side to side.

“I know ya want to reach out and grab me, take my neck into your hands and press down with all your strength, crushing my larynx. I’ve done it, it’s not easy. Definitely not for someone where you’re at.” Arnold got even closer. “Your kind—don’t play dumb, Mr. Marquez. You Mexicans, Hondurans, Guatemalans, El Salvadorans, Nicaraguans. The fuckin’ pit of the world, throwin’ up into our country. You know what I mean. How come ya don’t send some goddamn Argentinians over, at least they got a speck of European blood. But no, we get the workers, the indigents, the burnt crust of an old piece of bread.”

Cruz let his head fall to his side, not prepared to engage in a philosophical debate after three days without food and only recently having received water.

“Nothing, Mr. Marquez?”

He raised his head, “Give me some food, water, and let me out of this dungeon if you want to talk about immigration policies.”

Arnold emitted a burst of choppy laughs. “This is far from over, Mr. Marquez! Once I leave ya for another three days, you’ll understand why what I’m doing to ya is a favor!”

Cruz could tell that Arnold stood up, the scrape of his feet moved in the opposite direction. “No, wait, I’ll talk…”

“It don’t matter,” Arnold called back over his shoulder, now at the exit of the panic room. “This process is just startin’.”

T W O

__________________________________________________

The gleaming edge of the razor sparkled. Martinez tilted it back and forth, watching the overhead light reflect on the bathroom wall. The feeling gathered like a storm cloud in his chest. He put the razor to his wrist, shaking again. He pulled the blade away and the indent filled with sluggish drops of blood.

Nothing existed around him. The littered floor, used toilet paper rolls, magazines, food. He had spent so much time in the bathroom. It was the only noble place for him to do it. The easiest place for everyone else. They could just come in, pull his body out, spray cleaner on the white tile floor and walls, spruce up other parts of the house and sell it to a cheery couple looking to expand for their first baby. The inevitable rattles of death, the messiest parts of the transaction, all squeegeed away. Considerate to the end.

Martinez had been trapped in that bathroom for months, as that feeling gnawed its way through his resistance. It owned him.

T H R E E

__________________________________________________

Sandra listened to the deputy sheriff’s words like they were a eulogy. Five days had passed since Cruz was last seen. She knew he was in the desert, where he had spent so much time since the trial of Sergeant Shaver, which had concluded with a thud. Cruz trying to escape the results of his subsequent investigations into Sergeant Shaver and the depths of his crimes.

The months following the trial were the most difficult, as Cruz received death threats on a weekly basis. Voicemails, emails, notes left under the windshield wiper. He eventually decided to take a hiatus from his practice, which initially flourished with the notoriety of the trial. They moved into an old home in the Mexican desert, and Sandra received permission from her news station to serve as a visiting reporter on the local Mexican news station.

Slow, rhythmic nights, chilled morning breezes, and sunsets that burned the sky mellowed Cruz out awhile. The fickle celebrity spotlight altered its gaze and he returned to the crevices of normalcy. Then the sonar pulse hit him, like a wave of energy that had traveled hundreds of miles. The drive to do more hit him—never fully gone. Excursions into the desert began as hushed visits, too short to be noticeable, until Cruz was returning just as dawn broke.

Sandra asked him where he went, but he just shrugged the inquiries off and fell asleep. One night she feigned sleep and waited for the covers to stir. They didn’t. After waiting several minutes, she was startled by Cruz standing next to the bed, wobbly, with a hand buried in his hair. A breeze through the open French doors pulled the delicate smell of flowers into their room and shook Cruz from his sleepwalk.

She squinted her eyes until they were barely open and waited for Cruz to make his next move, which was toward the closet to sleepily step into his hiking boots. The weight of the boots triggered recognition of his surroundings, and he swiveled his head to look at Sandra. She kept still, and he slid out of the room.

Under the covers, Sandra was prepared for the hike. Several years of marriage and a hot summer night were enough to keep detecting hands away. The front door made its usual creak when opened and Sandra eased out of the bed in that direction. She looked through the glass in the front door, a sliver of the moon refracting into her face. Cruz was nowhere in sight. She shouldered open the door and was met by the symphony of nocturnal bugs.

A three-foot-tall stucco wall surrounded the house, separating them from the wash. The cackle of coyotes dismembering a fallen rabbit often launched out from that wash, twenty seconds of audio chaos, disappearing as quickly as it appeared lest the coyotes give their location away for too long.

Cruz’s silhouette was visible well in front of her. The moon’s pale white light turned him into an inky blob, cutting a direct course into the nether of the desert. Then he stopped, lifted his head to the invisible scent waves moving throughout the world and began a more diagonal path. Wonderment crept into Sandra’s mind. Was he sleepwalking? Was he meeting someone out in the desert, some secret, sandy affair? A red-dressed woman, idling by a midnight oasis, waiting for Cruz to arrive and ravage her.

He stopped again, this time not lifting his head but staring intently. In a slow and smooth motion, he knelt down and then came to rest on his stomach, propped up and focused on the black tidal wave in front of him. Sandra moved closer, until she could see more detail in Cruz’s apparel. She took cover behind a cluster of saguaros, whose symbiotic desert shrubs created a green veil lightly illuminated by the moon. She hid there, periodically poking her head out from the cover to determine Cruz’s position. He hadn’t moved and was still gazing into the nothingness.

She sighed and switched from a kneeling to a sitting position. An owl broke the still night with a soulful scream. Sandra looked out toward Cruz again and jumped back when she caught him looking right back at her. She peeked out again, and he was still looking at her. She swore his mouth was moving, and after a dreamy interval where her vision was not enough to confirm her apprehensions, Cruz made an abrupt, almost violent gesture at her to come in his direction.

The urgency of the movement overcame her and she placed her hand on a saguaro to stand up. A stifled whimper escaped from her lips and then she scurried to Cruz’s side. She held her hand out to Cruz, which had several embedded spines. He grabbed her by the wrist and began yanking out each spine while tears ran down her face. She bled and burned, but could not object to the efficient removal.

“You touched a saguaro,” he whispered. She nodded and he went on, “There is a champion saguaro a quarter of a mile from here. I touched it once—I know your pain.” He pulled the last needle out and turned his attention back to the desert in front of them.

Tiny stones littered the ground and jabbed into Sandra’s softest spots no matter which way she tried to get comfortable. She wondered how Cruz remained so still, but then saw that he was outlined by the same stones. Sandra quietly swept the offenders away from her body, creating a bare patch to lie down on. Through her fog of tears, the desert remained motionless in front of them. The expansiveness so visible in the day turned into claustrophobia in the pitch-black night. A sea of stars glimmered above them, bringing a soft luminousness to the harsh desert features.

Then the obvious question spilled from her mouth, “What the hell are you doing out here, Cruz?”

He ignored the question, enveloped in his singular focus on the desert. A mind-numb trance, all thoughts falling before the eyes, ears and nose. Every data point registering in a web of sense registry. Sandra’s mouth began to form its next question, but Cruz quickly placed his hand on her back and pressed her farther into the ground.

Then she saw them. Three dark-skinned people, alert-looking, not knowing what country they scampered through, but understanding that this was day six of their trip from Chihuahua and that if they weren’t already in the United States, it was surely imminent. They stopped, and one of them lifted a jug of water from the ground. For the first time, Sandra was able to make out a little box above the floor of the desert. She looked at Cruz, who continued his unwavering gaze, like a young child enraptured by the unbalanced ballet of moths around a light.

This is what Cruz had been doing when he was captured, according to the deputy sitting across from her. He was detached, relaying facts in a slow plod, enunciating each syllable with brutal precision, to avoid any accusation that he possessed emotions—positive or negative—as to what she was going through. Ticking off known facts, probable offenders, possible outcomes. Divining, forecasting, reiterating, connecting. Never committing to a conclusion. A la carte policing.

“What are you guys going to do?” she asked the deputy sheriff with some frustration.

“Nothing we can do, as much as we would want to. We have combed the desert and found nothing for five days. Studies show that after the first forty-eight hours, our probability of success decreases to fifteen percent. A quick chill.” She looked at the man. His face was nearly free of wrinkles—in fact, his face hardly moved. He had dark black hair, medium length and plastered to his forehead.

She plucked her purse off of the ground. He meticulously tapped the sides of the stack of documents in front of him on the desk.

F O U R

__________________________________________________

Psychosis became his friend in the dark. The man, Arnold, had left his hands free. This wasn’t necessarily good. Idle hands, without a properly functioning central computer, did strange things. Hair tugs, scratches. They developed tics. Their shake was an anchor in this world, a reminder that the normal bounds of physics existed somewhere in the room.

Cruz paced off the dimensions of the room. Side to side, top to bottom. Diagonal. Concentric circles. Twelve by twelve. He searched the walls for seams, handles, loose bricks, fake books on shelves. But they were maddeningly smooth to his touch. A perfectly square room without an exit, as far as he could tell.

The perfection of the construction exhausted him. With some sort of defect, the room would develop so much more character. The flaws could somehow connect him to the outside world, some evidence that his fellow man had been here, toiling underground just like him. Instead, he was in a relentless cube, spinning, until he finally relinquished and let the madness spread. Everything about his resistance to that moment had been grounded in control—control of the situation, control of his mind, control of his environment. The slowly rotating vortex of our lives, which when stopped reduces its owner to a mess of fear and uncertainty.

He gave in and it was so much better.

The sound of clicking came from one of the walls around him. He couldn’t move anymore. The body had relinquished long before the mind. Lights flooded the room and Cruz could hardly close his eyes. He saw someone standing next to him through the fuzz of his eyelashes.

“Come on, drink some of this.” It was Arnold again. When Cruz didn’t respond, he leaned down and poured some water onto his mouth. Cruz’s lips pulled back to his teeth and he sputtered water onto his face. “Drink it.” Cruz shook his head. This wasn’t real, it was another mind game. He had been through this before, a thousand times over and over. Arnold bringing him water. Arnold bringing him food. Arnold escorting him out of the room.

“I’ve got some food for you too, here…” He hooked his arms under Cruz’s and lifted the upper part of his body against the wall. It wasn’t difficult, Cruz had lost significant weight since being captured. All of his water weight was gone, and the skin around his bones looked shrink-wrapped. His face was drawn in, gaunt, replacing the healthy luster and strong shape it had before.

For the next two hours, Arnold got Cruz to hold down some water and food. He opened his eyes and looked at Arnold, then at the room. A manageable amount of light was on. The room was constructed of concrete; the walls were painted black and had long, diagonal scratch marks all over. His own waste covered the floor. The shame of that, with someone else present in the room, was still real. Perhaps one of his last normal feelings. Arnold pulled something from his army jacket pocket. It glimmered and before Cruz could determine what it was, he felt a pinch and his head rolled onto his shoulder.

Somewhere deep in the medicated darkness, Cruz heard himself say, “Didn’t have to do that.”

* * * *

Sandra stood in front of the house. What a sad state of disrepair. Weeds overran the front yard, newspapers crowded the front porch; the only square of grass was yellow and sucked dry by the sun. She straddled the newspapers to reach the front door and rapped on it three times.

“Martinez?” she called out.

There was no response so she knocked again. She tuned her ears to the inside of the house, but heard nothing. A sense of uncertainty crept up as she stood in front of the house, not knowing whether to stay there. She grabbed the doorknob and tested to see if it was locked. It turned, but she had to force the door open.

Stench greeted her first. Piles of clothes, food wrappers and paper covered the entrance to the house. The last moments of a fight with depression are almost always accompanied by a deluge of papers—invoices, letters from friends and family, bill collectors, junk mail. The nonsensical tedium of documents that go unattended in those stages. The smell, something Sandra had never encountered before, made her eyes tear up and burned the inside of her nose. There was no clear path in front of her as the only bare patch on the floor was around the door’s arc.

She wobbled as she stepped onto pudding-like piles of objects. Some were firm, others the heel of her shoe went right through. The most discomforting part of the situation was quickly becoming the fact that Sandra did not hear any sounds other than her own. No television. No low-level buzz of a refrigerator or other kitchen appliances. She finally made it to the living room, which seemed to be the epicenter of the junk collection. Two halls emptied there, so it only seemed natural that all of the refuse would make its way to that location. Sandra stood there, trying to catch her breath through her mouth and beginning to expect the worst. Although, one smell she did know was the smell of a dead body, and that wasn’t something her overwhelmed nose picked up on yet.

The walls were covered with yellow and brown stains. Filth multiplied in an environment like this. Sandra teetered on another pile and had to put her hand on the wall for support. She touched something damp and gagged. Light filtered out from underneath a door to her left and she heard labored, heavy breathing.

“Martinez?” She opened the door halfway and saw Martinez in the tub. The terror of the scene amplified by the contrast between the white tub, toilet and tile floor and the blood running all over it. Martinez was slouched to his left, his hair hanging over the edge of the tub. It was stringy and long. Every few seconds a drop of blood fell from his ring finger into a pool on the floor. Sandra’s first instinct overcame her and she rushed into the bathroom. Her left foot created no resistance as it flew out from under her. The ground rushed up and met her before she could grab onto any support. With a thud, she landed on her shoulder and lay there in Martinez’s blood.

The long, dark hair fell across his chin and obscured his mouth. Sandra was only a foot away from his ashen face. She looked up at him. His eyes were lifeless, mucous ran from his nose. A beard with an energy and being of its own covered the visible parts of his face. Tears filled Sandra’s eyes to see him like this. Then he blinked.

“Sandra…”

F I V E

__________________________________________________

Octavio contemplated a marshmallow horseshoe floating in his milk while the news trudged on in the background. He flicked his spoon with a deft, aggressive motion and whisked the bloated cereal piece into his mouth. The family’s old couch creaked as he changed positions to lie on his side. His mother came into the living room and posed there, hands on hips, the eternal conflict between parent and late teenager blazoned across her disapproving face.

“Te vas a vestir así?”

“Mom, this is how I dress. And don’t speak Spanish to me.”

She puffed out air and transitioned to broken English, “Those pans are too tigh’, they look li’l jean for girls.” His mother’s accent always carried over to English in the strangest way. All of a sudden she sounded like a gay guy from Miami. He egged it on.

“Besides the pants, everything else is okay, no?”

Ayyy, que no! Esa camisa…” She stopped because he held a finger up, foreclosing the possibility of further Spanish. “That shirt, black with a death skull? Que te pasa? Are you so sad an’ so deprimido that you had to show the world today? What you so sad about, my little boy?”

The expression on his face changed as the tables turned, his mom teasing him now. No longer doling out the sarcasm, and always sporting the insecurity teaming in his nineteen-year-old character, he scowled and waved his mom away.

“Tienes que vestir como un hombre! You go to the university, no more kid dress for you.” With that salt thrown on the open wound, his mother seemed satisfied that she had carried another argument.

He caught the tail end of a sentence from the television, “…the first country in Latin America to legalize gay marriage.” His mom sauntered back into the room, punch-drunk from her recent win.

“Esperate, mama,” Octavio said with a raised hand. She stopped and tracked his gaze to the television. The anchor changed to another news story and he switched his attention to his mom. It was as if the anchor held up a mirror to his face. Held it up to the world. Octavio never imagined that a country in the clenched hand of Catholicism would take a step like this—a step against intolerance and for humanity.

The television rattled his train of thought again. “A nationally known figure for attacking corruption in his state, Cruz Marquez has now been missing for nearly a week.” Octavio had seen this man’s face before. Crisp, penetrating eyes and jet-black hair flashed at him from the television. “…his last known location was in the desert of…” Most often, Octavio saw him in interviews, advocating for some sort of social justice. Nothing over the top, but his eyes hardly concealed his smoldering passion. Octavio liked the way his face hardened when discussing vital issues. As if to brace against the critics, the retort, the counterattack.

A higher power placed this man on his screen at this exact moment, to stimulate a certain region of his brain which moments ago dealt with his mom’s guilt trip. If Cruz Marquez was fighting, then he should be doing fighting too. Uplift and inspiration quickly replaced the emotions related to his mom’s guilt trip. The youth’s ability to turn on a dime.

“Mama…I’m going to the desert.”

The youth’s propensity for making rash decisions.

S I X

__________________________________________________

Cruz saw his lap; then his head bounced off his chest and rolled back behind his shoulders. The fuzzy edges of the world and his mind began to collect and focus on his surroundings. With a groan, he saw it was a different room. There was a presence behind him, and as soon as he felt it, Arnold spoke.

“It’s time to test resistance.” The recent food and water had helped Cruz regain some of his physical strength, but his mind was not his own anymore. The shock of the kidnapping, the extreme sensory isolation, and the food and water deprivation stripped his core away. It annihilated the probing mind that once existed. All he could think of was obtaining more food and water. The now familiar cracking lips, depleted of all moisture, were returning. His stomach cried out for nourishment, a cry previously muted when all of his systems nearly shut down. Survival became his singular purpose.

“We live in the middle of lies, Mr. Marquez. Illegal immigrants contribute to our country. Black people don’t have higher rates of crime and lower abilities to be educated. Gays can serve in the military. Women successfully runnin’ corporations and even runnin’ the world.” Arnold stayed behind him, these thoughts slowly falling from his mind to his mouth and out into the room. “The question ya gotta ask yourself is how did things change so fast in the past fifty years? Did things change? Do ya really believe that the dominant race in this world for the last thousand years rolled on over? Ya stupid enough to believe that?”

“Y’all forced us to rule a different way is all, Mr. Marquez. Unfortunately, the days of holdin’ y’all down looks like it’s over. That was the easy way, for everyone. Both sides knew their places. Now, it’s a cat-and-mouse game. We give as little as we can, but enough to keep y’all idiots satisfied. And, ya know the crazy thing we’ve found out? It’s ma proof that none of y’all were ever supposed to be the dominant race. What we’ve found out is that y’all are so used to being the inferior race that with the little we give ya, the crumbs pushed off a table, you’re happy. Sure, y’all get angry sometimes, fight back sometimes, but those bits of resistance are so small and isolated we usually just ignore ’em.”

“But, some of us think the game has gone a cow’s tit too far. We do got gays in the military, and every other fucking place ya can imagine. People do believe blacks can be educated and civil, noncriminal citizens. We do have women runnin’ important institutions and companies in this country. And finally, for your people,” Arnold started as he moved to lean on a wall and study Cruz’s profile, “we do have a shit-ton of illegal immigrants in this country.”

“Why me? I’m nobody.”

Arnold picked at a hangnail before responding. “Been waiting for that question. Why you? You were in the middle of the desert, helping illegal immigrants live through that shitty trip.”

“But I’ve seen you guys do the same. You give them water and then turn them into ICE.”

“Sometimes, when the cameras are around, or when ICE is there. Don’t confuse our organization though. We’re a different type of Minutemen. Not that pansy, bullshit once-a-month border campout to get on television. We’re on that border, automatic rifles in hand, body armor, full camo, ready for the real illegals. The drug runners, gang members.” Arnold stopped wrestling with the hangnail to focus on Cruz as he spoke. He returned to his seat and clasped his hands. The room was bare except for the desk and two chairs. A single overhead light blasted rays that bounced around the room into Cruz’s eyes.

“The answer to your question is wrong place, wrong time. I was surprised when I found out who ya were though. Which gets me to my next point. We was already looking for ya.”

“Looking for me?” The words fell sluggishly out of his mouth. A dense shroud still entrapped his mind. The brutal transition from six days of total blackness to this luminescent room. It was as if he was a stranger to himself. Parts, largely the basic, cognitive parts, were functioning at a diminished capacity. Cruz’s next question was honest, and the surprise genuine because of his current state. “But, I wasn’t hiding.”

Arnold couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re right, Mr. Marquez. That was sloppy. We knew where ya were. We were looking for the right time and place to…collect ya.”

Cruz nodded his head in apparent agreement with this distinction.

“Ya took something very valuable from me,” Arnold said. His tone changed, as did his posture. The casual, relaxed pose was exchanged for a rocky, stern look. “A valuable person.” Cruz glanced up when the pause seemed to extend for too long. Arnold was demanding his attention. “Aren’t ya gonna ask who?”

Cruz shrugged his shoulders, “Who?”

“Colin Shaver.”

The name elicited a chuckle from Cruz. His face lifted into a smile and Arnold’s dropped in proportion. “That fuck,” Cruz slurred out.

With cat-like precision, Arnold bounded over the desk and slammed Cruz onto his back. The impact wrenched most of the air in Cruz’s lungs out, and the rest was being held in by Arnold’s clenched hand around his neck. “That fuck was my progeny, ya worthless shit. I found him. I turned him from a worthless thug into a commander.” Cruz’s face was beginning to turn blue, his eyes bulging from the pressure. “And your scaly brown ass killed him.” Arnold released his neck and Cruz wheezed in a long breath.

After several seconds, Cruz managed to say, “It was Raul.”

“That cripple was just the last domino. Ya set the whole game into motion.” Arnold was slightly out of breath and got off of Cruz. He grabbed the top of Cruz’s chair and tilted him back up. Two deep thuds, like someone banging their head against the wall, sounded from the only door to the room. Arnold circled back to his side of the desk before directing the person to enter.

A man came in, dressed in black and white digital camouflage, and holding fingers up to his face to indicate a number. “Ah,” Arnold said, “Number Twenty-Three.” The man stood silently next to Cruz, wisp-like and occupying some region between the living and the dead. All parts of his body were covered by the camouflage except for his rain-cloud gray eyes.

“Take off your head gear, Number Twenty-Three. I think you two may just surprise the shit out of one another.” Number Twenty-Three had not looked at Cruz yet, and removed his headgear before doing so. Cruz looked up at the man, who had oily, black hair. There was a deformity on his face; his right cheek was actually indented. The skin there was thin and taut, indicating some kind of prior trauma.

The men sensed knowledge of each other. Their minds told them they had faced each other in some form at another time in their respective lives. Number Twenty-Three was the first to recognize Cruz, but he gave no indication other than a gleam in his eyes. He waited for Cruz, whose rusted mental wheels were just starting to turn. The image of a home, Shaver’s home, coalesced in his mind. That night when they stormed the home, he had seen a living ghost.

That’s when Cruz made his first quick movement since being removed from the black room. He did a double-take and analyzed the face. But, the face would not have been enough. It was the eyes, and the look, the energy of death that buzzed from the edges of this man.

“Tyler?”

The other man’s mouth twitched. Muscles that in a normal person would have generated a smile.

S E V E N

__________________________________________________

Sandra trailed the ambulance by inches as they raced through stoplights, traffic and city streets to the hospital. The crackle of Martinez’s nearly dead voice had sent Sandra into a panic. A panic to find her cellphone, and then a panic to open the phone and dial with bloodstained fingers.

She saw the entrance to the emergency room and screeched to a stop behind the ambulance. The paramedics hopped out and walked quickly to the back of the vehicle—they never seemed stressed enough. At Martinez’s house they asked her a series of questions which seemed entirely irrelevant.

“When did you get here?”

“Who cares, he’s dying.”

“Are you hurt?”

“No, that’s his blood. He’s dying. Do something.”

“Has he ever done this before?”

Who fucking knows!” she wanted to scream.

Their calm agonized her. She wanted all of them to scream together, to pull their hair out and carom off of barricades in the street as they disregarded all notions of caution and care.

“Get him to the goddamn hospital,” came out of her mouth on two occasions. Both times were met by another question. Perhaps the paramedics thought that since Martinez had lasted this long, another ten minutes wouldn’t change a thing.

Finally, they loaded Martinez into the ambulance and imbued some urgency into their drive. Or, it could have been the thrill of driving a multi-ton van through busy streets and intersections like it was a slalom course. Either way, they got to the hospital quickly. Once there, they whisked Martinez away behind a set of discreet white doors, leaving her alone with no sounds and a slightly acrid smell in her nostrils.

The hospital was relatively clean. As portals to the next world, they should be, she thought. Those discreet white doors behind which lies an eternity of nothingness. A single smudge on those doors and the fourth curtain drops—leaving angst and confusion that death can happen under those conditions. That passing is anything but pure. In reality it rarely is anyway, Sandra realized. Covering news, she had seen the drunken teenager behind the wheel with half his head torn off. The young girl found in low, boggy water, the victim of an everyday abduction. The old man who shit himself when the heart attack pounced on him, smothering his chest and sucking the life out of his eyes.

A woman came out from behind the doors. A petite, blond woman in light blue scrubs with a ponytail that mimicked the perk of her breasts. This could not be death himself, she thought. His sense of irony could not run this deep. They would not send this ray of blinding white happiness to tell me Martinez is dead. That would have to be the fat, sloppy nurse. And, yet, what better way to deliver disaster than with a cheerful, round face.

“You came here with Mr. Martinez, correct?”

“Are you even a doctor?”

The woman’s eyes squinted and her face puckered into a half-grimace, half-smile. She put her hand on Sandra’s forearm. This was death.

“Of course I am. Been a practicing doctor for two and a half years.”

“How is he?”

“Ohhh, he’s stable now,” the little blond thing answered. A sigh of relief escaped Sandra. “He lost a lot, and I mean a lot of blood,” the woman said while shaking her head with a disbelieving ponytail. “But, you found him just in the nick of time. You can visit him now if you want.” The doctor gestured with her head at the white doors.

Sandra hesitated. The doctor just took off. Sandra instinctively followed and used her shoulder to prop open one of the doors. The doctor was about to disappear around a corner. Sandra bit her lower lip and scurried to catch up.

“He’s in here, miss,” the doctor said with an open hand leading the way.

She straightened her skirt and walked into the room. Martinez was connected to tubes which swung up from his body to a system of IV bags. Thin, insulated wires connected him to monitoring machines. A faint beep sounded in what seemed like a regular, healthy manner. Sandra noticed there was no tube in his mouth. Tube in the mouth meant serious, very hurt, coma, near death. A machine controlling breathing—that’s a sure sign of death. She was relieved not to see that tube.

Martinez, suddenly aware of another presence in the room not poking him or adjusting something around his body, let his head fall to his right.

He repeated his last word, “Sandra.” This time he said it with a flicker of happiness. The death rattle was not present.

Sandra went into attack mode. “What the hell are you doing, Martinez? Suicide? I called Carmen. She told me you two haven’t been together for four months? When were you going to tell us?”

The word “us” reminded both of them of Cruz. Martinez asked, “Where’s Cruz?”

She hadn’t intended on breaking the news to him that quickly. Referring to Cruz was an error of habit. So she lied, “He’s working out of state.”

“Bullshit. He wouldn’t miss me dying.”

“Don’t be so goddamn vain, Martinez,” Sandra said as she took up a seat next to his bed and crossed her legs. “You almost died alone, in a tub wearing filthy chones, don’t you ever forget that.”

“Where is he? Where is Cruz?”

“Why do you care so much, Martinez? It wasn’t like you let either of us know when you were checking out.” He turned his head from her and held his arms up. White bandages covered the cuts on his wrists, which were horizontal to the veins. “You did it wrong.”

“I know.”

“You didn’t cut lengthwise. You did it for attention.”

He put his arms down slowly and pulled the covers up to his shoulders. It was a vulnerable act, certainly out of the ordinary for him. She stood up and poured them both a glass of water.

“Get your act together, Martinez,” she said into the cup of water, her scowl curling its waxed edges.

He coughed on the first sip of water. “Realize that I almost died…”

“By your own hand. There’s no forgiveness for that in our culture.”

“Where’s Carmen?”

“Your Virgen? She’s the last one that’ll forgive you in this state. The way you were…”

Martinez slammed the cup of water down on his nightstand. He eyed Sandra for several seconds before saying, “Where’s my wife, and where’s your husband?”

Thanks for that, Sandra thought to herself while scanning the mound of unkempt, out-of-shape brown mess in front of her. Martinez was back.

E I G H T

__________________________________________________

“Ir al desierto?!” Octavio’s mom exclaimed. “Al pinche desierto?!”

They stared at each other for a few, long seconds. This was the first time he had ever heard his mom swear. It caused a small change; a ripple in her normally flawless facade. His perspective correspondingly changed, and simultaneously gave him the courage to say, “Yes, to the desert.”

You can’ be serious, Octav. You just nineteen years old. I make your food, clean your ropa. What you know about the world? It’s ugly, mijo. You not ready.” She cast a stern look in his direction. Being told no wasn’t the way to persuade him—she should know this by now.

“I’m going. I’m needed.”

His mother deftly changed her tact. “You are needed here, with your mama. I need you to be my little hombre, go to college, help your mama.” She repeated the tenderized version of “mother” to underscore her feelings.

“Mama—mom. You love me, I know that. But if you loved me, you would know that the life you have led, and the dreams that you have for me are not right. We can wake up at any moment in our lives and be someone else, be the person we always wanted to be. If I stay here with you, I will never be that person. No way, not me, mama.”

The red, apple-shaped contours under her eyes quivered, as did her fluorescent red lips. He knew this was the inevitable result. Octavio also knew that this moment had loomed on the horizon for years. Husband and father had abandoned them both nine years ago, leaving a single mother to raise an unruly ten-year-old boy. And here he was, breaking this woman’s heart all over again. Leaving her desolate, robbed of her child. To create and nurture something only to see it lift high on the first breeze that passed through her already empty house.

Octavio watched her eyes puddle with tears and his stomach turned. No hardened attitude could face down her sadness. For a moment he reconsidered his decision. And then he was packed, driving fourteen hours straight through the night and into the next morning. Staring at a girl with dirty blond hair, spinning like a pulsar, a singularity, thousands of tons on the tip of a needle in the direct center of her head. A beauty, power and fluidity unimaginable. She stopped spinning with a kick in the ice and her hand raised in the air like a serpent dangling in front of its entranced victim.

Fourteen hours of driving, no air conditioning for the last three hours, and he needed to stop somewhere cool. Somewhere he could empty his protesting bladder and get some food. Somewhere he could get a momentary break from his companion on the trip—his best friend, Wayne Pravo. The ice skating rink was the only structure they had seen for miles, and he wasn’t going to chance another few miles.

His gray shorts hung low, revealing a sliver of black underwear. Octavio’s face had taken on the pasty color of long road trips. He was grimy, pale, malnourished and sleep-deprived. Watching this girl, this bright center of the micromoment, while looking like a homeless pedophile. He came to the desert and ended up in an ice skating rink.

The youth’s distractions.

N I N E

__________________________________________________

Cruz almost choked on what little spit he had remaining. “You died, on that damn street. The SUV ran your ass over!”

The black SUV, ya mean?” Arnold asked with playfulness in his voice. A dog spinning in the sun with a squirrel in its mouth. Glorious. Cruz could only look at him. Arnold burst out laughing. “That was ME!” Tyler was dead…supposed to be dead, Cruz thought. Tyler couldn’t be standing there.

Cruz pounded his fists on the desk and laid his head in between them. The reverberations from the pounding bounced around the room. Tyler’s upper body shook. Cruz wanted to reach over, grab Arnold’s head and turn it into a pulpy melon.

“Wow,” Arnold went on, “priceless. Shoulda recorded this! I think there’s a camera in the viewing room ova there.” Arnold lifted his head and delivered the next thought with an uncanny seriousness, “Let’s pray to our good Lord it is recording.” Then he burst out laughing again.

Cruz shook his head, hardly able to grasp the intricate weave of deception.

“Is he bent yet?” The first words from Tyler. His voice was high-pitched, raspy. A snake’s hiss through pale pink lips.

The smile dissipated from Arnold’s mouth. “Watch what ya say in front of our guest, Number Twenty-Three. He still has a long way to go. In fact,” Arnold said while holding his arms out, “as a guest, I believe we owe him a tour, ri’?”

“A tour of the hanging room—just like all of…”

Arnold was at his throat before he could finish the sentence. “Where’s your sense of surprise, Number Twenty-Three? You’re like a fucking four-year-old, blabbering all my secrets away.” He mocked Tyler with a dancing and talking puppet hand. “Best thing to do? Shut up and help Mr. Marquez to his feet.”

The request was pointless, however, as there was no chance Cruz could stand up. Tyler had to carry Cruz. Their faces close to one another. Cruz turned and stared at Tyler. Analyzed the milk-white skin and slate-gray eyes that looked like they were picked from a rock quarry. Total lack of empathy in those eyes. An incurable malaise drove his every step.

T E N

__________________________________________________

The decision to pack up and leave seemed natural to Octavio. Someone ten years his elder would have balked. Someone twenty years his elder would have been rendered a blob of fits and starts, nervousness and concerns. Someone thirty years his elder would simply have discarded the notion with a backwards wave of a hand.

“You said we was gonna go to the desert.” This decision to bring his best friend with him seemed natural and sensible at the beginning of the trip. Now, not so much. Octavio dropped his head and pulled his hoodie over his face. Fucking Wayne. Li’l Wayne. Wannabe. Fuck me for bringing him.

“Yo, bro, this ain’t the desert. There’s fuckin’ ice, man.”

Octavio turned his shoulders slowly until just his left eye cast a stern look at Wayne. “This is the desert. I told you, I had to stop somewhere to go to the bathroom!”

“Sooo, you came to the desert to go to Canada. What’s wrong with you, dude?”

Now Octavio swung all the way around. “Listen, Wayne. First, you’re white, and honestly, it makes me uncomfortable to feel like I’m whiter than you. Just talk normal. I listened to doo, and bro, and playa, and cuz for thirteen out of fourteen hours. We grew up on the same block. I know you. I know fraud. You’re an Italian, far from your people on the East Coast, but not a banger. Wayne Pravo. That’s your name; sit in that for a second.”

Wayne gave Octavio the old roll-up drawbridge middle finger.

“That’s childish,” Octavio said with a sigh. The public skate was just beginning. The lights dimmed accordingly and a fast-paced hip-hop song belted around the rink.

“Look—Octavio Jesus Terranueva—look who coming.”

A mama hippo was charging them. Trailing close behind was the figure skater he had been watching. The woman coming after him was large, but agile. She squeezed sideways through parents watching their children struggle to lace up skates without taking her eye off of him. This charging monster marked her arrival with a series of grunts and puffs. Short, curled hair hardly fit on her massive head. Her cheeks were crimson from the effort. Arms and legs were like short pipes with stubby fingers. A healthy stomach and side flanks provided a resting area for her arms, which she appeared ready to swing.

“Why you watch my Mona?” She sounded Russian, or generally Eastern European.

Octavio had stumbled backwards by this point, until his knees hit on the child-height benches that lined the rink and he fell to a seated position. “Who’s Mona?”

The woman reached the point where the tip of her finger could flick the hairs on Octavio’s upper lip. Her face was blotchy and spotted red. Some sort of musk-like odor followed her. A green, low-quality cotton dress clung onto her various folds, always at the risk of exposing her upper thighs. Red nail polish flashed as she gestured in front of him. Like a Christmas ornament from hell.

Octavio leaned to his right to peer around this monster at Mona. “Who’s Mona?!” She slapped the side of his face to regain his attention. “What you look at!!?” She turned around and Mona’s cheeks blushed red. A breathless tirade of Russian words spilled from her rounded mouth. Mona clattered a few steps backward in her ice skates, but then apparently regaining her Russian sense of pride, stopped backsliding and stood up straight, her chin lifted high.

Now that Mona was not eclipsed by the woman, Octavio was able to get an even better look. She was everything her Russian counterpart wasn’t. Slender, but not skinny. Her navy blue figure-skating costume revealed long, sinewy legs—albeit, covered in nude stockings. A ponytail and bangs played around her boxy face, and then she smiled at him, briefly, minute, one tenth of a second of revelation, because her guardian flipped around to glare at her at the second tenth of that second.

“Baba, the glass around the rink is clear for viewing.” Her voice was clear and the words were well-enunciated. Crisp and matter of fact. Like a crystal glass ringing without the reverberations.

“Not just viewing. I see him doing. That is different glass. Showing the peep.”

Mona let out a shriek and then doubled over laughing. Baba looked confused, and more frustrated as Mona continued to laugh. Her control and authority over the situation was eroding. Octavio glanced at Wayn

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an excerpt from

Enemy in Blue:
The Chase

by Derek Blass

 

Copyright © 2013 by Derek Blass and published here with his permission

PART ONE

THE REASON

One

Max fingered at the pain in his stomach. It was the ulcer, same damn one since he was fourteen. His raven-black, coarse hair bounced listlessly as the armored rescue vehicle pounded through the city streets. A knot grew in his chest. All signs of weakness, nerves, stress. He looked around him at the true examples of men—at least it seemed that way.

Six years ago he had graduated from New York University, around the middle of his class in film school. He quickly learned that the middle meant “unemployable.” It was a brutal industry as the big picture companies barely scraped the cream off the top of each class. One of his buddies got a job shooting a reality show and turned him onto a lead with the ubiquitous show Police. Working for a show like that, and not even directing, made his ulcer bleed. But, sleeping on his buddy’s apartment floor and eating microwaveable noodles for nine months catalyzed him to get an interview and take the job.

    Max was nestled between two men like a boy between his uncle and father—Martinez on his left and Williams on his right. It wasn’t that they were older or wiser. It was that they were much bigger than Max. Martinez was probably five-foot-ten to Max’s five-foot-five. He had a chiseled face, with terrain markers like defined cheekbones, a nose that had seen its share of right hooks, and thick, black eyebrows. In contrast, Max had a dumpy chin—egged on in size by his affinity for jelly stuffed donuts—pale skin rarely let out into the sun, and a physique that looked like a mason slopped wet mortar onto the ground. Williams was even bigger, stronger and better looking than Martinez. His black skin looked like battle armor, akin to breastplates worn by ancient Grecian commanders.

Williams matched his size with an enormous personality—brash, quick-witted and full of humor. He was the loose one in the group, cracking jokes that doubled Max over sometimes. The weird thing he noticed in these first few months with the group though, was that despite how good Williams’ jokes were, not all of the other guys laughed. Specifically, Lindsey and Tomko would only laugh when Shaver did, and he rarely did.

Those three sat on the other side of the rumbling vehicle, conversing amongst themselves as usual. It wasn’t hard to notice the dividing line.

Max’s gear rested between his feet on the floor of the vehicle.  He stared blankly across from himself with the sound of guns being armed, gear refitted and equipment rattling, lulling him into his trance-like state. This job had some semblance of directing, Max thought to himself. It was a half-hearted effort at self reassurance.

There was no need to check any of the gear as he’d already done that several times before meeting up with the team.  He was meticulous by nature—a characteristic derived from anxiety…which sprung from years of getting bullied in school…which, he concluded, was his parents’ fault. That over-protective mother and the typical, worrisome Jewish father. The faint squeal of brakes shook Max from his ruminations.  He instinctively turned his head to Sergeant Shaver for a final briefing.

Shaver was frightening on multiple levels. For one thing, he bristled with muscles. He always sported a skin-tight shave on his head, and looked at people with unblinking, unwavering eyes. There was a violence to Shaver—certainly built and compounded by the rumors surrounding him—that left Max entirely fearful of him at all times. When you had your back to Shaver, it felt as if there was a long, cold knife pressed to the nape of your neck, waiting to slide into your body. He was like a dark pool of water under which was storied to exist something horrible.

“All right,” Shaver started, “we’ve supposedly got a guy in this house holding his wife and his father-in-law hostage.  Could have a gun, so consider him armed and dangerous.  I want Martinez, Lindsey and Williams around the back.  Tomko and I will take the front. When you hear our flashbangs go off, take out the back door.  Max, you go with Martinez’s group.”

That pleased Max.  It was better to film the group going in from the unexpected entrance.  They would usually catch people sprinting in their direction, vision blurred and ears ringing from the flashbangs.  The people’s faces were priceless when they ran into a group of Special Weapons and Tactics officers. An intensely human moment as criminals, who considered themselves hard, rebellious and above the law, surrendered on the ground shaking.  Society’s bullies cut at their Achilles.  This is what Max liked to catch on film.

He followed alongside Martinez. They both moved fluidly, silently. How to move was actually a part of Max’s training. He had almost tripped, once, but Martinez caught him by the shirt collar before his second knee hit the ground. There could be no surprise if a clumsy cameraman made noise.

When they reached the back porch Martinez raised his right hand and they all came to a stop.  Martinez and Lindsey straddled the door while Williams crouched at the top of the porch steps.  Max steadied the camera on his shoulder. They all tensed, waiting to hear the flashbangs explode.  Glass shattered and then two deafening bangs sounded.

Williams rushed forward and planted his foot on the back door.  It burst open and Lindsey rushed into the house screaming, “Police!” Williams curled around the door and then Martinez slipped into the house. Max fell into line behind Martinez who was scanning rooms with his gun.

The house appeared to be well-kept, was warm and smelled like recently cooked food. There was colorful, Spanish pottery in the two rooms Max saw. Lindsey yelled out his identification again.  This time a frightened cry echoed him.

“Estamos aquí!”

Martinez and Max approached a hallway that ran adjacent to the main living area. Shaver got there first. The six of them lined the hall and waited for Shaver’s order.

“Martinez, translate,” Shaver barked.

“What, just ’cause my name is Martinez? I don’t speak Spanish.”

“No podemos ver!  Ayudamos!”

“So you don’t speak illegal.”  Martinez and the Sergeant stood on either side of the door, not yet in the room. “Martinez, tell these wetbacks to put their hands up.”

“Man, screw you.”  Max cringed at the exchange.

“All right then.”  The Sergeant directed his voice into the room.  “Put your hands up right now!  This is the police!”

“No hablamos Inglés!  No podemos ver nada!”

“Forget this, let’s go,” Martinez said.

Shaver turned into the room and fixed his weapon on a woman lying on her side.  Martinez followed while Max filmed through the door.  Max saw a young woman crying on the floor and guessed she was probably in her twenties.  A trail of tears marred her face.  An older man was rigid on a couch next to her.  His eyes were open, but his gaze was not fixed on anything definite.  A blanket covered his body up to his neck.

All of the officers lowered their weapons and Lindsey muttered, “What the hell are we here for?”

The young woman’s body convulsed as she sobbed on the ground. There was no sign of any son-in-law.

“Hey, old man, get your hands out from under the blanket,” Shaver said.

“No hablamos Inglés,” came a moan from the woman on the floor.

“Shut up,” Shaver said.  He took a step toward the man, who still appeared disoriented.

“Old man, get your hands out from under that blanket!”

Max panned back to the old man and zoomed in on his face.  His eyes were expressionless.  Max wondered if the man was dead. At a minimum, he obviously had no idea what was going on.

Shaver turned around and gave Tomko a look of disgust. “Today’s learning lesson Tomko. They come to your country, and don’t speak your language.”  Sergeant jabbed the old man on his shoulder with the muzzle of his gun.  Still no response.

“El no te entiende!” the woman shrieked from the floor.  She started to prop herself up to say something to Shaver but he mocked her language with a barrage of “chinks” and “chongs” as he loomed over her.

“Get back on the floor.”

“Sergeant, let’s just cuff ‘em and get out of here.  They don’t understand a thing,”  Martinez said.

“Best idea I’ve heard yet,” Williams added.

“Forget that, these wetbacks are gonna learn a lesson.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Martinez responded.

“Just watch me.”  Tomko and Lindsey turned their heads and pretended to adjust their weapons.

“You’re kidding, right?”  Martinez said.

Shaver stepped forward and pressed the muzzle of his rifle against the old man’s temple.  “Move your hands old man.”  No response.  Max pulled his shot back to capture the Sergeant.  Somehow, the camera’s shift in focus caught his attention.

“Scrub, shut that camera off.”

“Why?”

“Just do what I say!” Max set his camera down on the ground.  “That better be off scrub.”

“It is,” Max lied.

“All right old man, you wanna mess with me?  Watch what I do to this beautiful broad you got over here.”

“Sergeant, I’m not gonna let you do this to these people.  They haven’t done a damn thing wrong and you know it!”

The Sergeant looked at Martinez calmly.  “You know what they’ve done wrong.” Shaver sneered. His cheeks bunched up into a clown-like mask. “What you gonna do anyway, big bad Martinez?  What you think Tomko and Lindsey will say?  These are my boys.  You think this scrub Jew with the camera has the balls to stand up to me?”  Shaver knelt down and pressed up to the young girl’s face.  He grabbed her long black hair and pulled back slightly.  Her chest heaved.

“No, por favor, no lo dejas hacer esto!  Por favor!  Este hombre me va a hacer daño!  Papa!  Papa! Ayudame!”

The old man stirred in his bed.  The Sergeant was entirely focused on the young woman.  “Ohh, speak that language to me, you filthy spic.”

Shaver tilted her head back more and licked the underside of her chin.  The young woman screamed.

“That’s it,” Martinez said while lunging at Shaver.  As Shaver dodged him, the old man stirred and started to bring his hands out from under the blanket.  Shaver pivoted and swung his submachine gun toward the old man. Tomko jabbed the butt of his gun at Martinez’s face and landed a heavy blow. Williams came to his defense and locked into a grasp with Tomko.

Max watched like a figure inside of a shaken snow globe as bullets from Shaver’s machine gun tore through plaster, then bed covers, and finally the old man’s chest.  In all of his time filming cops, Max had never seen someone shot.  The bullet holes in the old man’s chest immediately ran dark with blood.  The old man gasped and then sprayed his life force out of his mouth.  His eyes moved and locked on Max.  Then he shuddered and his eyes lost focus.  Two cold marbles.

Max stood frozen.  In front of him was a chaotic picture, frozen as well.  The young woman tore at Shaver’s left calf with her hands.  He stared down at her, emotionless.  Martinez lay prone on the floor.  Max felt himself gasp for air. Shaver came to life and shook the young woman off his leg.  He turned towards Max and said something which was indecipherable.  He stepped closer and Max could make something out.  “Give me the tape.”  Max didn’t, couldn’t respond.

“Okay, how about I do this.”  Sergeant Shaver fired some shots into Max’s camera.  “All right, let’s get out of here.”

“What about her?”  Tomko asked.

“Screw her.  She ain’t even legal.”

“What about him?” Tomko asked pointing to Martinez.

“Forget him too.  He caused this.  Let’s go.”  With that Sergeant Shaver turned and walked to the front door of the house.  Tomko and Lindsey followed him out.  Max slouched down to the floor and looked at the old man.  Williams swore at the other officers as they left the house.

The old man’s body had started to slip off the couch.  Max crawled over and used his shoulder to push the old man back up.  The young woman’s sobs rose and fell like the lapping of waves on a beach.  She intermittently let out agonizing groans, as if her soul was being wrenched from her body.  Black hair matted her face.  Max moved closer.

“Hey…hey there,” he said while reaching out with his hand.

“No me tocas!”  she screamed as she yanked her head back.  “Mira que hiciste a mi papa!  Pinche culo Americano!  Salgate de aquí!”  She stood up, staggered over to her father’s broken body, and then wailed and threw herself on him.  Max caught Martinez twitching on the ground.  He rolled over onto his back and slowly opened his eyes.

“What the…”

“Martinez, we gotta do something.”  Martinez let his head fall towards Max.  His right eye was cut badly and his forehead was already swelling.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Martinez…what the hell…it’s Max.  Shaver just shot this guy.  The woman doesn’t speak English.  We gotta get them outta here.”

Martinez groaned as he sat up.  He turned around and looked at the woman laying on her father’s body.  “There’s nothing we can do.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” This caught Martinez’s full attention—and made a knot grow in Max’s chest. “Look, we gotta do something.”

“Like what, Max?  Call the cops?  Get out of here.” Martinez stood up with another groan.

“I filmed everything!” he blurted out.

Martinez looked down at Max’s camera.  “You’ve gotta be kiddin’ me, right?  Your camera looks like it turned inside out.”

“Look at this.”  Max pulled a USB drive out of the wreck that was his camera and held it up to Martinez.

Two

“Que paso?” Cruz said, answering his phone.  He sat reclined at his desk with a white Bic pen in his hand.  His desk was in the back of his office, the room a shade of brown. That 1970s type of dirty.  The ceiling was low, probably not to code, and peppered with water-stained tiles. This was what he chose six years ago.

He had graduated in the top ten of his law school class, either ninth or tenth depending on who told the story. Wilmer Lopez was ninth, if you asked him. A final class, Juvenile Law, had been the equalizing factor between the two. Cruz got an “A” in the class, raising his cumulative grade point average to three-six-four. Wilmer got an A- in the class, the product of a biased teacher according to Wilmer, which lowered his average to three-six-four. Cruz argued that he had gotten the last, highest grade, and was therefore ninth in the class. Wilmer forwarded the simple argument that he was the champion, who had to be defeated and not tied. The registrar grew so sick of the beef that she finally forbade them from coming into her office.

“Hello, hello. Who’s there?”

“Cruz, es yo.  It’s me man.  You ain’t gonna believe what just happened hombre!”

Cruz didn’t know half of the people that called. He didn’t know this caller either, despite the man claiming some mutual familiarity. It wasn’t all that important anyway—the community knew him.

That was his marketing approach right out of law school. A lawyer for the community. Four of the biggest firms in the city initially courted him, but enough of his friends keyed him into the true life behind those big salaries. No recognition. No responsibility. A cog in a billing machine that was expected to spend the first six years of its career silent, researching. Cruz knew that wasn’t for him.

He started his own law firm instead. It was terrifying at the beginning—the beginning being the first five years of practice. There were no clients, no money, and correspondingly no food, clothes, car (bus was a straight shot) or life. Then, the clients started to come. He would call his father every time he got a new client. The flow was slow at first, and it was enjoyable to get new clients. As word of his good work spread, that flow became an overwhelming torrent. He lived on the verge of malpractice as he struggled to learn the law, pretended he knew the law, and brought in more and more clients.

At this point he was comfortable enough to say, “Spill it bro.”

“Man, los cochinos just murdered an old Chicano—Livan Rodriguez man.  Freakin’ Livan and I rallied together in the 60’s!  We did some militant shit together.  A good brother…”

“What do you mean they murdered him?”

“Murdered him, bro!  Stormed into his house on some bullshit domestic violence call and shot his ass!”

“No way.”

“Hell yes, man. We gotta do something carnal.”

“Hold on.  Was anyone else there?”

“I don’t know man.  Livan was pretty old and beat up.  I know he lived with his daughter and her husband.  That culo was a punk-ass-wannabe-banger, but whatever.  They might have been there.”

Now the identity of the caller mattered. This man had information he may need. “You’ve got my attention, but who are you and what do you want me to do?”

“Damn man.  You kidding me?  Start la Guerra over this!” the voice exclaimed, sidestepping a part of the question. “Too much of this happens and los cochinos no se cambian. They never change—it’s time to change them.”

“Well…”

“You’re the lawyer hombre!  Bring the law down on law enforcement.  Don’t hesitate bro. Get your chones together and let’s bring it.”

With that, the voice stopped and the line went dead. The caller’s urgency, passion and then abrupt hang-up left Cruz in limbo—his mind swirling like the wind before a heavy storm.

Three

“All right then, give it here,” Martinez said. He flicked a look at Williams, who shrugged his shoulders.

Max responded, “You kidding me?  This tape is the story of the year.  It’s worth millions.”

Martinez’s coal black eyes narrowed, focused. “This man just died, and that’s what you care about?  How ’bout this.”  Martinez pulled his gun out of its holster and held its cold barrel to Max’s temple. “How about I blow your brains out onto this wall and I just take it from you?”

Max laughed nervously.  “But, you…no you wouldn’t, couldn’t do…”

“The hell I can’t.  You think I give a shit right now?  Give me the drive.”

“Look, the drive is password protected anyway. I need to get to a computer to unlock it, so let’s go to my station and work it out there, okay?”

Martinez stood still in Max’s face.  He relieved the gun’s pressure from Max’s temple.

“Ain’t gonna open it without the password,” Williams said softly to Martinez.

“We can do that.  I’m just a little messed up right now,” Martinez said as he shook his head.

“I understand,” Max said warily.

“Get your stuff together and we’ll go back to your station.  Call one of your news trucks to pick us up.”

* * * *

Cruz stepped out of his office and felt a chill wisp around his face. He stood just outside the door to his office for a moment, enjoying the exchange of stale, musty inside air to the outside breeze. Cruz was tall for a Mexican—around five-foot eleven. A pressed, white shirt fit his slender frame, and he wore his characteristic light brown pants. It was the look of every lower to middle-class man in Mexico City, a city where every man, regardless of class or wealth, had a collared shirt and pants to wear every day.

He had a slender nose and delicate lips, which were significant traits in a culture where those of Spanish descent normally tried to separate themselves from los indigenos. Brown eyes and dark, coarse hair stood out from his relatively pale skin. The mix of his light-skinned father and rich, cocoa bean mother were apparent in all his physical aspects.

The moment passed, and he hopped into his car while dialing a phone number.

“Sandra, you know what’s going on with this police shooting?  Someone just called me, and …”

“Of course I know Cruz.  It’s going to be all over the news.  I’m about to go down there and tape a segment.”

“What the hell happened?”

“Cruz, I gotta go.  In a nutshell, some cops shot an old Latino in front of his daughter.”

“How many cops were there?”

“Just come down to 11253 East Charligsen Street and we’ll do some investigating together, okay?”

“Yeah, see you there.”

Four

After a while, a news van from Max’s station showed up. The driver tried to get Max to stay and call a reporter for a piece, but Martinez quickly dispelled that possibility. He leaned back in his seat in the van and groaned.  “I’m watching you.  Don’t do any crazy shit with that drive.”

Max could faintly feel it in his shirt pocket. He had to find a way to sell its contents. After a while of silent riding, the van pulled up to the news station.

“All right, get out.”  Max stumbled out of the van. Williams motioned that he was going to stay put.

“My office is right this way.  It’s really a cubicle, not an office.  I don’t think they’d give me an office,” Max laughed nervously.

“I don’t need a tour, I just need that drive.”

“Like I said, I need to unlock the drive for you to even be able to watch it.”

Martinez trailed Max through the cells of news groups.  He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand.  The adrenaline had faded and now he was exhausted.

“My cubicle is up here.”  Martinez followed Max through a seemingly unending maze of human-sized cages.  “Here we  go.”  Max plopped down into a worn, gray office chair.  His cubicle walls were plastered with pictures of what looked like destination resorts.  The desktop was covered with a rainbow of Post-Its, newspaper clippings and discarded plastic wrappers. “Gonna fire this beast up,” Max said as he turned his computer on.  Martinez looked around the office and stared down several people that were being a bit too nosy.

“How long is this gonna take?”

“No more than five minutes.”  Martinez looked over Max’s shoulder and tried to figure out what he was doing. It was all a flurry of clicks and typing, though, nothing he could follow.

“Okay, so I’ve unlocked the password protection.  Now, you—or someone that knows what they’re doing—can just plug this into a USB drive and access its contents.”

“All right.”

Max turned around and handed the drive to Martinez. He lowered his voice and said, “You sure you don’t want to share in the proceeds of selling this with me?”  Max asked.  “We could get mountains of cash.”

“It’s evidence. I’ve already broken so many rules letting you come here.  Now just give it to me.”

Max reluctantly handed over the drive. How did he stumble across the rare instance in humanity where ethics trumped capitalistic tendencies? “If you change your mind …”

“I won’t.”  With that Max watched as Martinez walked away from him, unaware that a slew of trouble was headed their direction.

* * * *

Shaver sat with his back pressed against a closed locker. He flexed his chest muscle which responded with a ripple. Tomko was changing into his civilian’s clothes and Lindsey was sitting quietly, watching the other two interplay. It was characteristic of that damn mute, Shaver thought to himself.

“Hey Sarge, you know that crap’s gonna be all over the news?”

Shaver remained focused on the bandage he was wrapping around his calf. It was an old achy injury by now. The kind that didn’t bother you enough to go to the doctor because usually a good wrap and some Aspirin did the trick. He had plenty of these aches.

“Sarge, don’t forget that little Jew photographer was there filming,” Tomko insisted. Lindsey looked away from them, pissed. Shaver couldn’t respect the guy. There he was, a freaking Jew himself, and he wouldn’t even say a word to either of them. If he’d just stand up for himself once, maybe they’d change, or at least not fling around the crap in front of him.

“I told him to turn that camera off.”

“And you’d trust him at his word?”

This gave Shaver reason to pause. “Fuck me.  You’re right.”

“I think he works at Channel Four News.  I can go chat with him if you want.”

“Go ahead and do that.  I need to have my own conversation with Martinez.”

Five

Cruz pulled up to an older row home and put the car into park.  The place buzzed like a beehive.  Cops roamed the perimeter of the house with menacing, come-close-and-I’ll-kick-your-ass looks on their faces. A horde of reporters and their cameramen stood on the sidewalk out front. Cruz stepped out of his car and scanned the tumult for Sandra.

“Cruz, Cruz!  Over here!”

Cruz spun to his left and saw Sandra waving.  He walked towards her, ricocheting off of two fast moving cameramen in the process.

“This place is a madhouse,” Cruz said.

“This is really crazy Cruz.  Apparently the police were called to this house on a domestic violence complaint.  They arrive, the husband is gone, but the wife is home with her father.  Cops enter, and the next thing you know they’ve shot the old man.”

“You know his name?”

“Yeah, Livan Rodriguez.  Fifty-five-year-old, Mexican male.  From what I’ve been able to gather, Mr. Rodriguez was a Mexican citizen who lived here from time to time.”

“Someone I know told me he was active in the U.S. during the Chicano Movement.  Seems strange that a Mexican citizen would be up here doing that.”

“That is weird,” Sandra mulled before moving on. “His daughter is a twenty-three-year-old.  Also a Mexican citizen.  Nowhere to be found now.”

“The cops are going to interrogate the hell out of her when they find her.”

“Yep.  Hey Cruz, rumor is that a cameraman from Channel Four News was filming when this happened.”

“During the shooting?”

“That’s the word.  Name is Max Silverman.  He’s a cameraman for that show, Police. Channel Four produces it then licenses it out.”

“Talked to him?”

“Haven’t gotten there yet.  Feel like taking a drive?”

“Sure.”

Cruz met Sandra when he was seven.  Their families lived right across the street from one another.  It defied odds that two kids from a poor Latino neighborhood, with the parents they had, could make it to where they were. Cruz, a relatively successful lawyer and Sandra, an anchor on late-night news. He remembered that Sandra had always been a wickedly smart kid.  Smart to the point of trouble.  Add to that her stunning beauty, the kind that still made his tongue play stranger, and the reasons underlying her success started to emerge.

Cruz remembered that they became friends through other friends. He didn’t hang out with her much until they were teens. Once he got that chance though, it was readily apparent that she was vibrant, funny to the point of tears, and had a depth to her soul that made her seem like an eighty-year-old woman trapped in a thirty-year-old’s body. She had a glowing smile and a laugh that played in his ears. Black hair slipped down to the middle of her back until later in her life when she cut it short to the collective gasps of the women in her family. Her face was soft but well-shaped and she had a freckle under her left eye that somehow made Cruz want to protect everything pure about her.

They both came from families of fanatical activists. This created obstacles in life.  Not only were they minorities, but they couldn’t keep their heads down and fly under the radar.  It wasn’t allowed.  Their fathers frequently pointed a rough, brown finger in their faces and growled, “I made this opportunity for you, go fight for it!” This common background helped them develop a strong bond. Besides, she appreciated his quirks and intelligence, and he admired her passion for life and all its folds.

When Cruz shipped off to college, things started to change in him. Like most boys, he began to fill out. His voice grew deeper. His confidence grew as he interacted with more and more women. One fall break he came home and Sandra fell in love with him. Their parallel backgrounds had brought them together, and it was also what eventually tore them apart.

They drove to the news station while catching up on each other’s lives.  It had been about a year since Cruz last saw her.

“So, you’ve been busy, huh?”

“News never stops.  Neither does this type of junk.”

“What junk?”

“Discrimination.  Police brutality.  We could run a strong discrimination story on a weekly basis.” Cruz was glad to see this one thing hadn’t changed. Sandra was imbued with a strong sense of justice, of a requirement to fight in defense of her community and her principles. She refused to accept any stifling of life.

“Maybe keeping it in the news would help.”

“No, you know what’s really going to help?”

“What’s that?”

“A fundamental change.  Not turning our collective cheek when we get slapped.” He smiled at her unabated passion.

“You mean fighting back against the cops?  That’s a difficult position to take.”

“What reason is there for change when you can kill a defenseless person and all you get is suspended?  For an action like that, there should be an equally violent reaction.”

He sighed, as they fell back into a routine as familiar as the pillow he slept on every night. “You know I don’t believe in that philosophy.”

“I know, I know.  You are from the Ghandi-esque school of peaceful civil disobedience and kumbaya.  I’m not.  But, I think the wisdom is in knowing when one approach may work over another.  And what has the civil disobedience approach changed?  All it has done is forced discrimination to become more cunning, and generally moved it behind doors.” Sandra pulled up into a visitor’s spot at the news station.  Her perspective flowed naturally from her upbringing, much like his flowed from his own.

“How about we continue the conversation over lunch after we talk to this cameraman?”

“Sure.  But you know I’m right.”

Cruz smiled.  “I didn’t say that.”

Six

Tomko pulled up to the Channel Four news station and went to the front desk. He was slighter than the other guys in the team, and probably a reason he hitched onto Shaver so tightly. Scruffy, brown hair topped his rectangular face. His steps were hurried, jumpy.  “You know where I can find a cameraman named Max?” He flashed his badge to move the process along.

A young, blond receptionist looked up at him and studied his badge. “Man, he’s sure been popular today,” she murmured.

The answer piqued Tomko’s interest.  “Oh yeah?  Who else’s been here to see him?” When she hesitated he added, “Off the record.”

“Well, no one really,” she said in a low whisper.  “Just that he’s been getting calls from a bunch of tabloids and other news agencies.”

“That it?”

The young girl paused again but then said, “He came back to work earlier with another cop.”

“What’d he look like?”

“I dunno…Mexican?”

“Fucking Martinez,” Tomko muttered.

“Huh?”

“Nothing, show me where Max is.”

“I can’t show you, but I can tell you.  Go down the long hall there and make your first right after the water fountain.  Max’s cubicle is the third on the left.”

Tomko started walking towards Max’s cubicle while wondering why in the hell Martinez would have come back here.  As Tomko turned the corner to Max’s cubicle, he noticed Max standing there talking on a cell phone.  All he could catch was the tail end of a sentence, “…get you one.”

“Hey, Max!”  Tomko called out.  Max spun around.

“Tomko?” he squeezed out.  “What are you doing here?”

“I came to talk to you about today.” He looked around, noticed an empty office to the right and yanked Max into it. He shut the door and crouched down in front of it.

“Calm down! What’s your problem.”

“Like I said, I want to talk to you about today.”

“You and every other freak in the world,” Max said as he readjusted his collared shirt.  “You realize what you dumbasses have gotten me into?  A million phone calls from reporters and journalists wanting to know what I saw.”

“And what did you tell them?”

“What did I tell them?!  Nothing!  You think I’m an idiot?  I saw what you guys did to that old Mexican!”

“Hey—lower your damn voice.  Keep doing the right thing and keep your mouth shut, Max.  This will be a department thing.  We’ll take care of it.”

Max laughed.  “Yeah, I’m sure you guys have an interest in helping me out.”

Tomko glared at Max, but let the comment go.  “Listen, I want to see the camera you had today.”

“Why, it was off while all this crap went down.”

“Cause I said!”

“Right there, on my desk,” Max said with a flick of his wrist.

Tomko grabbed the camera and turned it around in his hands.  He furrowed his eyebrows and analyzed the mangled piece of electronics.

“How does this thing store what you record?”

“A removable drive, but Martinez took it with him.”

Tomko looked at him in disbelief. “Were you gonna tell me that?”  Shit, Tomko thought, that’s why Martinez was here.

* * * *

“Martinez, whatchu gonna do with that drive?”  Williams said, his usual baritone voice tinged with a bit of nerves. They were driving in the general vicinity of the police station, but Williams noted that Martinez was taking a meandering route.

The two of them met in high school. Martinez was a scrawny sophomore when Williams exploded onto the scene. He was six inches taller than Martinez and already six-foot-five when he got to the school. They were on the high school football team, Williams playing both quarterback and linebacker while Martinez used his speed as a safety.

They both came from the ‘hood, different ones though. Martinez grew up in a house of mothers, the youngest of four children. His father passed away when he was five and that left him, his mom, one aunt, and three older sisters. The overdose of estrogen made him an overly sensitive kid, slightly whiny, and definitely a mama’s boy. Despite the lack of a male figure, and despite the fact none of his family played or even enjoyed sports, he always had physical ability.

Williams rode on the other side of the tracks. He ran with his brothers and male cousins all the time. He was lifting by twelve years old, already on a god-given path to play sports at the collegiate level. That was the ‘hood dream—a ticket out for him and whoever else he could fit on the bus. Two games into his junior season, some jack-off rolled into his planted leg and ended the dream. His family had seen it before. Dreams shattered easily in a glass world.

There wasn’t enough room for both of their egos on the team. They constantly butted heads until one day Martinez called Williams out to fight. The fight took place behind an abandoned building adjacent to the high school in a ring of cheering kids. Punches were traded until Williams landed a devastating blow that knocked one of Martinez’s teeth out of his mouth. Martinez sat on his rear, stunned and slightly more humble. Williams felt so bad that he leaned down to see Martinez’s mouth and that’s when Martinez clocked him right back. After a few days of cooling off, the fight left them with a mutual respect. That slowly grew into a strong friendship as the wounds healed. Over time, they rubbed off on each other—Martinez developing more tenacity and Williams more temperance.

“What do you mean?  It’s going into evidence man.  You ain’t thinkin’ about money like that camera guy, are you?” Martinez hoped he wasn’t, because he need some affirmation that the right thing to do was turning the drive in. Ten, twenty thousand dollars could do him just fine.

“Nah man.  I’m thinking beyond that shit.  What you’ve got there is powerful.”

“What you talking about?”

“Man, don’t you remember what they did to Rodney King in L.A.?  You think that would have had the same impact if it wasn’t taped?  That’s a little ball of power you got there, and if you check it into evidence, it’ll never be seen again.”

Martinez stared ahead as he drove the SUV they had commandeered from the news station.  What Williams said made sense, but he wasn’t one to break protocol.  The color of his skin dictated that he play by all the rules, all the time.

“I’m not used to playin’ with fire, Williams.”

“I know brother.  But you know how this game will go.”

“They’ll suppress it.”

“You’re damn right they will.  One lonely spot on the local news.  One follow-up story.  Then that old man will be gone forever.”

Martinez thought about Williams’ pitch.  The cautious side of him rebelled against the idea.  The other side of him, and he didn’t even have a name for it because it was so foreign, liked the proposition.

Seven

Cruz and Sandra arrived at the news station and on their way in a single, white cop pushed through them going the other direction.

“Watch yourselves,” he snarled.

Cruz turned to Sandra, “Must be something going on.”  They went to the front desk receptionist and asked for the cameraman.  Perhaps put off because they weren’t cops, or they didn’t know the cameraman’s name, or just the sheer number of callers she had addressed that day for Max, the receptionist was unwilling to help.

“I’m sorry but it’s too busy for me to help you,” she said while typing on her computer. Sandra flashed her own news station badge to no avail.  Cruz tried a charismatic smile which was greeted with the same outcome.

“Well, will you at least tell me where your bathroom is?” Sandra asked.  The receptionist pointed Sandra down a hall.  Sandra took a leisurely walk toward the bathroom while taking in what she could.  She saw a row of cubicles and noticed that the first two were empty, but someone was in the third.  As Sandra moved closer, the person wheeled around and let out a nervous, “Hello?”

“Just looking for the bathroom.”  Sandra kept walking toward the cubicle, hoping to engage him.  He appeared to be a man in his mid-thirties, with curly black hair and a face of stubble that looked generations old.  Sandra stopped behind him and struck her most enticing pose.

“Hey, who the hell are you?  The bathroom is back that way,” the man said pointing behind her.

Undaunted and certainly hardened by the thousands of similar rebukes she had received as a reporter, Sandra asked, “Hey, do you know the cameraman at this station that shoots for Police?”

“No, I don’t,” he said quickly.  Sandra looked at the man’s cubicle and saw pictures of him with all sorts of cops at different locations.  She looked back at the man with a knowing smile.

“Okay,” Sandra started.  She pulled a business card out of her pocket.  “If you do see that guy, give him this and let him know that a couple of people want to help.”  The man looked relieved that it was going to end there.

“All right, will do.”

Sandra turned around and went back to the front desk. “I found him,” she whispered to Cruz.

… Continued…

Download the entire book now to continue reading on Kindle!

Enemy in Blue:

The Chase
 (Cruz Marquez Thrillers, #1)
by Derek Blass
124 rave reviews!
Kindle Price: 99 cents

If you enjoy the action and suspense of a James Patterson book, combined with the raw grittiness of an episode of Border Wars, then Allegiance is your next thriller! Now just 99 cents!

From Derek Blass, the bestselling author of the first Cruz Marquez thriller Enemy in Blue, comes the charged follow up installment.

23 Rave Reviews
Or currently FREE for Amazon Prime Members Via the Kindle Lending Library
Text-to-Speech and Lending: Enabled
Here’s the set-up:

Do you watch Border Wars on National Geographic?  Are you horrified when you hear stories of the violence on the border, or women being used as drug mules, and families trying to cross the border with a car full of drugs?If so, then Allegiance is your next read.

Who do YOU pledge allegiance to?

After exposing one of the most notorious rings of police corruption in history, lawyer Cruz Marquez planned on starting a new life south of the border.  That plan unraveled when an extremist group of Minutemen captured and tortured him and his wife. Battered, beaten and a shell of his former self, the only thing keeping him going is the propulsion of fury.
Will Cruz pledge allegiance to do right, or will he do anything to serve up revenge?

Reviews

“Hard hitting…be prepared to have your gut wrenched and your heart broken, as there are no winners in this relentless border war.” –Rachelle Ayala, Author of Michal’s Window (5/5 stars)

“A fast-paced, action filled thriller.” –B.Burton, (5/5 stars)

“Realistic, gritty, well done.” –Shannon Mayer, Author of the Sundered series (5/5 stars)

About The Author

Derek is an author and trial attorney in Denver, Colorado. He has first and second chaired trials ranging from medical malpractice with surgeons to the detention of alleged illegal immigrants.

Derek graduated from Duke University and the University of Denver Sturm College of Law. He majored in English and Economics at Duke. In Colorado, Derek has served as the co-Chair of Mayor Hickenlooper’s Denver Latino Commission, and was recently selected to serve as a co-Chair of the Denver Chapter of the Colorado Latino Forum. Derek was named as a Colorado Superlawyer “Rising Star” in 2010 and 2011, and was awarded the Colorado Hispanic Bar Association’s 2010 award for most Outstanding Young Hispanic Lawyer. He is married to his wife Meranda, and has two uncontrollably terrible dogs (and one good one that isn’t really his).

Visit his website at www.rogue-books.com. Check out his blog on writing at derekblass.wordpress.com. Friend him on Facebook. Follow him on Twitter (@DerekBlass). You can also email him at publisher@rogue-books.com. Derek writes thrillers with a heavy dose of action. He is currently working on his next novel.

(This is a sponsored post.)

For Anyone Craving an Action-Packed Thriller Who Can’t Get Their Fill of James Patterson, John Grisham, or Clive Cussler…ENEMY IN BLUE is Your Next Escape! Over 85 Rave Reviews & Just 99 Cents on Kindle

Enemy in Blue, A Thriller

by Derek Blass

4.0 stars – 116 Reviews
Or currently FREE for Amazon Prime Members Via the Kindle Lending Library
Text-to-Speech and Lending: Enabled
Here’s the set-up:

YOU KNOW WHO YOUR ENEMY IS?

The streets aren’t safe when your enemy wears a blue uniform and a gold badge.

What if the good guys weren’t good?

What if a cop went rogue and killed an innocent man?

What if it was all caught on video and the cop would do anything to cover it up? Chase this lawless cop through the streets and to a scintillating series of showdowns with Cruz Marquez, a young attorney trying to nail down his enemy in blue.

Will justice be served?
Don’t Miss Allegiance, the action-packed sequel to Enemy in Blue

Reviews

“For action, body-count and digging into the underworld of police politics – this is really a great read. However, I think the best asset of the novel is the incredible drawing of the antagonist – the evil Sergeant Shaver really shines.” –K.Hall, author of Red Mojo Mama (5/5 stars)

“The plot is as gripping as it is chilling. The story flows smoothly, and each chapter ends with the perfect amount of suspense to keep you wanting more. A fantastic and exciting read, as I could not put the book down.” –B.Burton (5/5 stars)

“The first half of the book is non-stop action, raw, gritty, and suspenseful…I could not imagine what the 2nd half would hold. Turns out it’s a legal thriller, with suspense building more slowly but just as captivating.” –Tx Rose (5/5 stars)

“His clean, uncluttered writing style adds to the nail biting you’re adapt to do while reading this gritty thriller, because Blass doesn’t give you a chance to breathe.” –E.Stokes, author of Cassidy Jones and the Secret Formula (5/5 stars)

About The Author:

Derek is an author and trial attorney in Denver, Colorado. He has first and second chaired trials ranging from medical malpractice with surgeons to the detention of alleged illegal immigrants.

Derek graduated from Duke University and the University of Denver Sturm College of Law. He majored in English and Economics at Duke. In Colorado, Derek has served as the co-Chair of Mayor Hickenlooper’s Denver Latino Commission, and was recently selected to serve as a co-Chair of the Denver Chapter of the Colorado Latino Forum. Derek was named as a Colorado Superlawyer “Rising Star” in 2010 and 2011, and was awarded the Colorado Hispanic Bar Association’s 2010 award for most Outstanding Young Hispanic Lawyer. He is married to his wife Meranda, and has two uncontrollably terrible dogs (and one good one that isn’t really his).

Visit his website at www.rogue-books.com. Check out his blog on writing at derekblass.wordpress.com. Friend him on Facebook. Follow him on Twitter (@DerekBlass). You can also email him at publisher@rogue-books.com. Derek writes thrillers with a heavy dose of action. He is currently working on his next novel.

Why did you write this book?

Stories are often born from tragedy. Just look at all of the news inundating us on a daily basis. In my case, I came to Denver, Colorado in 2003. Pretty immediately, I got involved in the Denver Latino/a community by serving on Mayor John Hickenlooper’s Denver Latino Commission. While on the Commission, we dealt with several cases involving allegations of police brutality. Just in the Latino/a community, Frank Lobato was shot and killed, Juan Vasquez was beaten to the point he suffered severe internal damages, and Michael DeHerrera was violently arrested for standing on the sidewalk. In the African-American community, Paul Childs was shot and killed by Denver police, and Marvin Booker was tazed while in custody in jail to the point that he died. These are the events that catalyzed me to write Enemy in Blue.

It should be understood that Enemy in Blue is not an indictment on all cops. There are certainly good cops. There’s simply no room for ANY bad cops though. These people have the right to carry a deadly weapon and use it against us if they see fit. They have the authority to arrest us, thereby taking away our freedoms, based solely upon their discretion. So, they need to be held to a higher standard, and in many instances, they are behaving worse than normal citizens.

How did you come up with the title?

That’s a fun question. There was one working title, that ended up not working by the time the book was done. Things change, A LOT, over the course of writing a book! Once it was apparent that a new title was necessary, I enlisted my wife and some of my readers to help me find a new title. Through countless brainstorming sessions, one of my readers came up with “Evil in Blue.” I liked it, but not 100%. I was grabbing the mail one day, and “Enemy in Blue” just came to me. Funny how things happen!

How did you choose your genre?

Hard to explain, but I can see action in my head. Fight scenes. Car chases. Torture, kidnapping, etc. (Honestly, I’m not a violent guy in real life!) It was as natural to me to write thrillers with a heavy dose of action as it would be for Christopher Moore to write cheeky fiction.

What inspired you to be a writer?

I’ve written a lot since I was young, and started on many novels but never followed through to finish one. It’s really a labor of love, and with a full-time job that I am committed to (attorney), it takes substantial discipline to keep writing. That being said, there is nothing more beautiful than writing a story, or more appropriately put, to having characters write a story for you. When I write, I’m just as surprised by their decisions as my readers. My characters drive my story and that is an amazing aspect of writing that everyone should try! If people are interested, I started a blog on writing a while back (www.derekblass.wordpress.com) that describes many of the fun, and tedious, nuances of writing.

With all the other thrillers out there, why buy Enemy in Blue?

It’s a no nonsense book, full of action and entertainment. I wrote the book for my readers, not for myself. I promise you will be captivated by the action over the course of the book. At the same time, the book invites you to be introspective on issues of illegal immigration, police brutality, and political corruption. It’s not just mind candy, but it’s also not a book that will club you over the head with principles. From a purely cost/benefit analysis, both versions of the book are very competitively priced, and the Kindle version is less than a dang cup of coffee at Starbucks! I promise it will deliver more lasting enjoyment than that cup of joe!

(This is a sponsored post.)

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For two days only, July 24th and 25th, Rogue Books is bringing you its second Reads4Free event. Nine books from eight of the top indie authors around. Best part–all of them are FREE! Everything from romance to thrillers are included, so download this bundle of books and be set for the next couple of months! For other promotions, visit www.rogue-books.com and sign up for our newsletter.

 

Enemy in Blue, A Thriller

by Derek Blass

4.2 stars – 101 Reviews
Text-to-Speech and Lending: Enabled
Here’s the set-up:

YOU KNOW WHO YOUR ENEMY IS?

The streets aren’t safe when your enemy wears a blue uniform and a gold badge.

What if the good guys weren’t good?

What if a cop went rogue and killed an innocent man?

What if it was all caught on video and the cop would do anything to cover it up?Chase this lawless cop through the streets and to a scintillating series of showdowns with Cruz Marquez, a young attorney trying to nail down his enemy in blue.

Will justice be served?

*  *  *

4.9 stars – 89 Reviews
Text-to-Speech: Enabled
Here’s the set-up:

ourteen-year-old Cassidy Jones wakes up the morning after a minor accident in the laboratory of a world-renowned geneticist to discover that her body has undergone some bizarre physical changes. Her senses, strength, and speed have been radically enhanced.

After exploring her newfound abilities, Cassidy learns that the geneticist, Professor Serena Phillips, is missing and that foul play is suspected. Terrified that her physical changes and Professor Phillips’ disappearance are somehow connected, Cassidy decides to keep her strange transformation a secret. That is, until she meets the professor’s brilliant and mysterious fifteen-year-old son, Emery. An unlikely duo, they set out to find Emery’s mother, who is key in explaining Cassidy’s newly acquired superpowers.

Their lives are put at risk when they find themselves embroiled in a dangerous, action-packed adventure. Soon they are forced to confront a maniacal villain willing to do anything – including murder – to reach his own ambitious goals.

Other books in the Top Rated Superhero series for young adults, Cassidy Jones Adventures:

Cassidy Jones and Vulcan’s Gift, Book Two

*  *  *

4.9 stars – 8 Reviews
Text-to-Speech and Lending: Enabled
Here’s the set-up:

When evil begets evil, a choice is forced on Quinn, the one person who can see the danger. Does she save the ones she loves, or does she save the world from Chaos?

As the realms of Fae and human collide, Quinn’s future has never looked so grim, or so damn impossible.

*  *  *

Land of the Noonday Sun

by Carmen DeSousa

5.0 stars – 8 Reviews
Text-to-Speech and Lending: Enabled
Here’s the set-up:

When two strangers have nothing left but their dreams, they must forge a relationship in Nantahala, North Carolina, a small town known as Land of the Noonday Sun.

Cassandra is the beautiful, yet analytical daughter of a wealthy attorney. Destined to follow in her father’s footsteps, her life of privilege suddenly shatters, and she finds herself with no home, career, or money. A glimmer of hope arrives in a letter from the grave promising a happier existence. Cassandra stands to inherit over half a million dollars if she can live in the sleepy little town of Nantahala for six months. Falling in love, however, was not part of the deal, and without warning, she finds herself fighting for two lives.

A man with a traumatic past is able to turn his life around and is happy with his chosen career as a whitewater guide. Everything changes though when fate hurls a woman into his path. His carefree life is in turmoil, and his former weaknesses threaten to overtake him. Will he be strong enough when tragedy strikes and is once again in danger of losing everything he loves?

*  *  *

4.3 stars – 14 Reviews
Text-to-Speech: Enabled
Here’s the set-up:

Their lives are in the hands of two 18-year-olds…”A prominent P.I. is gunned down – killed by a sniper – and it’s broadcasted on live TV.

Now, her daughter, along with her childhood pal, are thrust into a complex and riveting thriller forced to take on a secret club whose members call themselves The Privileged Ones.

Murder. Teen abductions and illegal underground parties.

They’re chased by men in ski-masks, nearly gunned down by members of a cartel, and the only way to bring down this criminal enterprise; is to crash a Mardi Gras bash and stop their private cruise ship from sailing off into the sunset.

*  *  *

Gray Justice (Tom Gray #1)

by Alan McDermott

4.6 stars – 45 Reviews
Text-to-Speech: Enabled
Here’s the set-up:
Gray
Justice is the fast-paced debut thriller from Alan McDermott. When a killer
walks free from court, the victim’s father sees just two options: accept the
judge’s decision; or take on the entire British justice system. Tom Gray
chooses the latter and his crusade attracts instant worldwide media coverage.
It was just what Tom was hoping for, but it brought him a lot more than he
bargained for.Gray Justice is much more than a simple tale of revenge: it’s a rollercoaster
ride with an ending you’ll never forget!

*  *  *

4.9 stars – 16 Reviews
Text-to-Speech and Lending: Enabled
Here’s the set-up:
Curbchek-Reload is a dark account of the streets as they were worked by Zach Fortier, a dangerously deranged cop. Welcome back to the inner city and the twisted mentality of Zach Fortier. Patrolling the streets, broken and mentally damaged from years of urban violence, Zach fights a loosing battle to maintain a hold on reality. Join him in the passenger seat of a police cruiser for more of the darker and meaner side of life: The inner city. In Curbchek-Reload you get a front row seat to an attempted murder of a cop, suicide attempts, rapes, and DARK cop humor. Curbchek-Reload – Fasten your bullet proof vest and buckle your seatbelt, it is gonna be a wild ride!

*  *  *

4.4 stars – 32 Reviews
Text-to-Speech and Lending: Enabled
Here’s the set-up:

Sparks fly when Delaney Brannigan and Blake Morrisson meet at the Cedar Cove annual costume dance. Known only to each other as the leopard and the cowboy that night, Delaney soon discovers the cowboy she thought had ridden off into the sunset never to tempt her again, is none other than the man she came from New York to find and discredit. Against her will, she’s drawn deeper into an overwhelming attraction to Blake—an attraction she can’t give in to if she wants to keep the one thing she values more than anything else.

Blake has spent months trying to find the son he never knew existed until a chance encounter with an old friend. Finding the boy has been the only thing he cared about—that is until Delaney Brannigan came to town. Now the bewitching woman has him thinking he might be ready to settle down—but then he discovers Dleaney isn’t who she appeared to be, and Delaney’s hopes and dreams are shattered as the truth threatens to uproot her world.

Will these two lovers lose one another in a web of deception, or will the small town boy and the girl from New York find a way to trust their hearts and discover a once in a lifetime happiness?

*  *  *

Allegiance, a Thriller

by Derek Blass

3.9 stars – 19 Reviews
Text-to-Speech: Enabled
Here’s the set-up:

Who do YOU pledge allegiance to?

After exposing one of the most notorious rings of police corruption in history, lawyer Cruz Marquez planned on starting a new life south of the border.  That plan unraveled when an extremist group of Minutemen captured and tortured him and his wife.
Will Cruz pledge allegiance to do right, or will he do anything to serve up revenge?
(This is a sponsored post.)