If you don’t hear from me for a while, please don’t think for a second my creativity has gone dormant. Or, I’ve abandoned you. No. The little wheels in the little mind are always turning, always searching for new story ideas, always reading, writing, trying to refine the craft and become a better writer.
Admittedly, I’ve had a lot of other projects to detract from writing lately. The weather here on Prince Edward Island has been beautiful over the summer. Sometimes I find it hard to keep myself indoors, at the keyboard, creating when the weather is so nice outside. After all, I have a beautiful forested, waterfront acreage to explore.
Additionally, I’ve ben renovating. Like crazy. Trying to make my house a home, make it the way I want it, an atmosphere calm and conducive to creativity. But, now the cold weather is here and the outdoor activities are less attractive. Yup, Old Man Winter is sweeping through, bringing wind, snow and, yes, cold. Brrrrrrrr!
So, post-renovations, post-exploring-the-forest-and-talking-to-decidedly-non-communicative animals, post-summer-fun-in-the-sun, what I have been doing, you ask?
I’ve written A Head for an Eye, my most researched novel ever. And, yes, I’m about to fire it off to my editor and push it down the publishing pipeline. But, recently I read On Writing, by Stephen King. He suggested putting a manuscript away for six weeks or so, picking it up with fresh eyes and reviewing it one more time, before letting the ruthless red pen of the editor start slicing and dicing. And that’s what I’m about to do now. Pick it up, see if I can improve it.
But first I want to finish the first drafts of Assaulted Souls 2 and Assaulted Souls 3, yet another project. I’ve turned my most popular post-apocalyptic (I love that genre) novel, Assaulted Souls into a trilogy. I’m oh so close to the finish line of Assaulted Souls 3, so maybe I’ll start blogging more when I’m done. And maybe I won’t. I guess when it comes write (yes, you guessed it, the pun is intended) down to it I would rather create another novel than post a blog.
But I just wanted to keep you, the reader in the loop. And I assure you I have not abandoned you; nor will I. At least as long as I remain on the sunny side of the dirt, or in this case the snowy side of the dirt. So, without any further adieu (trust me I’ll tell you more about Assaulted Souls 2 and Assaulted Souls 3 in future posts) here’s a synopsis of A Head for an Eye, and a sneak-peak at the prologue and chapter one.
Oh, I almost forgot. When it gets released, in about a month, it will be offered for a limited time for .99 cents before it goes up to its suggested retail price of $2.99. Get it while it’s cheap. Thanks for stopping by.
Synopsis and sneak-peak:
Matt Green’s peaceful capitalist life is shattered when a trusted property management company mismanages his portfolio, leaving him with vacant rental properties, civil litigation, mounting debts and the threat of criminal charges for harassment.
To add insult to injury, he meets an enigmatic and alluring woman, Angelique Augusto, on an internet dating site. After an intensely passionate two weeks, Angelique demands to know Matt’s whereabouts every hour of every day. In the midst of financial, legal and emotional turmoil, Matt receives a visit from a police detective who questions him in connection with the murder of a man Angelique met on an internet dating site.
Frustrated by the Canadian judicial system, his mounting litigation and his fear of being wrongly convicted of murder, Matt flees with Angelique to the lawless Sierra Madre of Mexico to reunite with Angelique’s long-lost sister, Gloria Alvarez.
Matt discovers Angelique is a Tarahumara Indian, a descendent of a peaceful and reclusive tribe with the propensity for fierce retribution when their cultural identity is threatened. Some call them the happiest and toughest race on Earth. Unlike the Canadian judicial system, the Tarahumara brand of justice is a Head for an Eye; steal from them and they kill you.
While Matt finds Angelique’s toughness and passion so endearing, her possessive and obsessive behavior lead him to suspect she’s completely insane, totally capable and willing to murder. He fears for his life after learning she’s still surfing dating sites and flirting with users. If that isn’t enough, she teams up with a drug cartel assassin and starts ordering hits on those she believes have besmirched her honor or the honor of her family.
A Head for an Eye juxtaposes the ruthless Tarahumara brand of justice with the questionable North American justice system, explores the mysterious Indian tribe said to have solved every problem known to mankind and delivers a terrifying and action-packed journey into one of the most murderous and lawless regions in the world.
A shockingly real, eye-opening and gritty tale.
PROLOGUE
If violence had a foul odor, Jesus Villareal would have smelled it.
His twenty-two-year-old senses were finely tuned as he sipped corn beer in a run-down shack just outside the small town of Guadalupe y Calvo in the state of Chihuahua, northern Mexico.
He wouldn’t overdo it tonight, even though his father Audiel, a Tarahumara Indian, had been known to drink gallons of it in one sitting and awake remarkably refreshed the next morning and run more than a hundred miles through treacherous Sierra Madre terrain.
That was then.
This was now.
Now Audiel, after the family farm had been seized by a Mexican drug cartel with an agenda to grow marijuana and opium, had a subsistence job as a construction laborer in Mexico city. And his mother Esperanza was probably standing at a busy traffic intersection in Chihuahua city right now hocking handcrafted baskets for a pittance.
Their traditional and simple way of life was no more.
So Jesus had ventured into Guadalupe y Calvo to integrate himself into the town of about 10,000 people. Doing odd jobs, he had saved enough money for a shoeshine kit and most afternoons he spent in the town square hustling up shoeshine jobs. But the competition was fierce and one boy, Rodriguez Sanchez, was intent on driving him out of what he viewed as his territory.
Earlier today, Jesus had a confrontation. Rodriguez, two years his junior, threatened Jesus with physical violence if he didn’t leave. Jesus adamantly refused, claiming he had as much right to make a living as anyone else.
But it was a few minutes later, when Rodriguez returned with three friends, that Jesus thought better of his resistance. After being confronted with physical violence, Jesus picked up his small wooden box of shoeshine accoutrements, placed it into a colorful hand-woven knapsack, and sprinted off down the road, knowing the boys would know better than to give chase. They knew enough about Jesus to realize he could outrun them in a heartbeat.
It was in his genes.
He took another sip of corn beer—tesguino as it was known—bringing his gaze to the corrugated tin rusted walls, dirt floors, small Mulatto-skinned infant crawling around in the squalor. Cooking utensils cluttered one corner and sleeping bags, blankets and pillows were bunched up in another corner. He shared the ramshackle building with Adoracion, a kindly woman of eighty-two, and the infant boy, Raphael, whom she had found abandoned on the street and adopted.
Adoracion had welcomed Jesus into her improvised abode and he did what he could to provide food and protection for the two.
It might be squalor to some, but it was home-sweet-home to Jesus and, other than Gloria, the love of his life, it was the only support group he had right now. He vowed to make the best of it.
He took another sip of the potent home-made brew from the dented tin cup, set it down on the makeshift table, stood up and picked up Raphael. The infant’s eyes opened wide and his small toothless mouth formed an adorable smile. The baby uttered some incomprehensible gibberish as Jesus set him down on the ruffled sleeping bags, fetched a bottle, filled it with milk and stuck it into his expectant mouth. Raphael curled into a fetal position, giggled and sucked on the bottle contentedly.
The precariously hanging wooden plank door suddenly burst off its hinges and flew into the small room, landing with a crash and blowing up a small cloud of dust. The much taller Rodriguez wasted no time. He dove at Jesus, sending him crashing into the wooden table. Its fragile wooden legs collapsed under the weight of the two as a three-gallon glass container of tesguino rolled off and landed on Rodriguez, bubbling out on his back and legs. It rolled onto the floor and lodged on a wooden chair leg, gurgling forth its contents.
Rodriguez pummeled Jesus repeatedly in the face with tightly clenched fists—five, six, seven hard blows.
Wide-eyed, baby Raphael sucked on the milk bottle and watched.
His world growing gray, Jesus frantically stretched his left arm out, reaching for something, anything, to save his life. He found the tool of his salvation in a weathered chunk of broken wood that had once served as a table leg. He clenched it and, with strength rapidly draining, swung it at the angry head of Rodriguez.
Thwack, thwack.
A rusty nail protruding from the impromptu weapon sliced a two-inch gash along the side of Rodriguez’s temple. Rodriguez stopped for a moment, wiping a hand over the fresh blood and examining it with narrowing eyes.
Blood dripped into Jesus’s eyes. He didn’t know how much of it was his own and how much of it flowed from his attacker. And he didn’t have time to figure it out. He bucked his hips, at the same time rolling to one side. Rodriguez grabbed his shirt, tearing it from his back as Jesus stood up, reached into his pocket and produced a small pen-knife. He flicked open the blade and waved it in a circular motion as Rodriguez scrambled to his feet, his left hand still cupped to the bleeding head wound.
A cut above Jesus’s left eye was oozing blood down his nose and into both eyes, obscuring vision already impaired by the concussive blows.
“Get out of here…or I’ll kill you,” Jesus said, advancing a step.
Rodriguez reached down for a chunk of wood and was interrupted by a shout. “Get out of my house now and leave him alone.” It was Adoracion, standing in the sunlit doorway, a brightly-colored smock draping her fragile frame. Her aged eyes were intently focused, belying her years.
Raphael pierced the momentary silence with a deafening cry.
Rodriguez glanced at the child.
Adoracion picked up a cast-iron frying pan and stepped forward.
His head beginning to clear slightly, Jesus’s confidence grew. He stepped forward and raised the knife high in the air.
Rodriguez glanced at the incoming threat and sprinted for the open doorway, bumping Adoracion on the way out. He ran down the poverty-stricken street, yelping dogs trailing his exit.
The next afternoon, his dark-skinned face swollen, cut and bruised from the beating, Jesus casually approached Rodriguez in the small town square as dozens of locals went about their daily grind.
In the middle of a shoeshine, Rodriguez looked up in surprise at his uninvited guest.
Jesus extracted a 45-caliber revolver and calmly squeezed the trigger three times—kaplow, kaplow, kaplow—the bullets penetrating Rodriguez’s head.
As onlookers screamed, and Rodriguez slumped to the pavement, a pool of blood snaking out around him, Jesus nonchalantly inserted the pistol in the crotch of his jeans, turned and walked down the street.
A single thought occurred to Jesus Villareal.
This isn’t murder. It’s self-defense.
Chapter One
“It’s self-defense. They’ve backed me into a corner,” Matt Green said, staring at the legal document.
“Although they’ve done it illegally, they have indeed backed you into a corner,” Sarah Walker agreed. “And, yes…you should defend yourself.”
Matt held a civil court judgment for $30,000 that Able Property Management had just won. Only problem was, the company had won the judgment through illegal and dishonest methods. Matt, a real estate investor and consultant, had fired Able for incompetence. Rod Baron, a partner in the company, had decided not only to sue Matt for meddling in Able’s affairs, but Able was refusing to release another $12,000 of Matt’s money, much of it tenant security deposits.
The lawsuit was a creative work of fiction. While Matt was away on a four-day holiday, Able had its lawyers serve Matt’s office with an order to appear in court, which Matt never received due to the holiday. Able then sent its lawyer to court and won a judgment essentially because the accused was a no-show.
Now, through no fault of his own, Matt was out of pocket $12,000 and owed an additional $30,000—a debt he knew would get registered on his credit report, scarring his stellar credit rating. And he was stretching his credit cards as it was to make mortgage payments, never mind what Sarah’s fee would be to make the problem go away—if his lawyer could even win the lawsuit.
Sarah sat at her desk on the fifth floor of a downtown Vancouver office building and waited until the vein bulging in his neck had shrunk marginally. Knowing she would never see it disappear entirely, at least not under these conditions, she continued: “They can’t legally withhold tenant security deposits for one. Two, legally they have to serve you in person if you’re being sued. We can prove you never received or signed for any paperwork. That judgment is not legal.”
Matt ran a hand through his long black wavy hair and stared out the window at the gray November rain pelting down. He fought back an urge to curse. “It looks pretty legal to me.”
She brushed back a lock of her wavy brown hair, shifted in the chair and crossed a leg, her black business suit, crisp white blouse, black-framed glasses, projecting an air of intelligence and authority. The large oak desk was stacked high with neatly organized files. “I should be able to get it overturned.”
Matt scratched the four-o’clock-stubble on his chin. He hadn’t slept much in the last two days since receiving news of the judgment. Underneath his black windbreaker, the misaligned collar of a wrinkled yellow shirt poked out. At least the jacket was zipped most of the way up. He hoped it concealed his recent apathy regarding clean laundry. “Should be able to get it overturned?”
Sarah pushed her glasses up the bridge of her small nose and focused her sea-blue eyes on Matt. “It’s always a crap shoot with civil litigation, heck litigation of any kind. But I think we’ve got a good shot at getting it overturned, and getting most of your money back—at least the tenant damage deposits.”
Matt sighed. It would have to do. Not only was he getting ripped off for money owed to him, but now he had a $30,000 judgment hanging over his head. What a fucked-up justice system. Anyone can sue anyone for anything. Right or wrong, they probably have a 50-50 chance of winning. He remembered a story a lawyer friend had relayed about a family of East Indians living in Vancouver whose only employment was driving around each day instigating vehicular collisions then suing for personal injury and other damages. Apparently they lived in an estate-area of the city and were thriving. Throw enough shit against the wall and some of it’s bound to stick.
“What sort of plan of attack do you suggest?” he asked, scratching a belly that two years ago looked more like a six-pack than a spare tire.
Sarah glanced at her notes, scribbled something on a steno pad, shuffled a few papers in the file and looked at Matt, a smile barely forming at the edges of her full and pouty lips. “Well, at this point I think we should go on the offensive. Get the judgment overturned, get the tenant deposits returned and counter-sue.”
Matt thought about it. He wanted his pound of flesh for sure. But at what cost? If Sarah got the judgment overturned, the tenant deposits returned, wouldn’t a counter-suit drag on for a long time and become costly? And who would win? Only the lawyers? “Let’s take steps one and two first. I’ll think about the third step if and when we win rounds one and two. Steps one and two are merely self-defense.”
“Sounds reasonable,” Sarah said with a finality that suggested the meeting was over.
Matt was glad for it. Even though he found her attractive, time with her was money, and money he didn’t have.
“Don’t worry,” she said, accompanying him to the door. “I’ve won ninety-eight per cent of my cases. I feel good about this one.”
A few minutes later, rain-drenched at the wheel of his Black Toyota Supra (he had forgotten his umbrella), Matt felt hot rage boiling up inside him, could feel the large vein in his neck growing and pulsing. He looked in the mirror at a reddening face with slits for eyes and frowned, seeing another vein snaking across his creased forehead.
He knew it was all Rod Baron’s doing. If he saw the man on the street now, he would like to leap out of the car and choke him to death. Until this moment, he never realized he harbored the capacity for murder. Don’t be stupid. You don’t have the guts. You’re not capable of murder.