BLACK Is Back
Authors: Russell Blake
Tags: #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Mystery, #Hard-Boiled, #Private Investigators
BLACK is Back
©2013
Russell Blake
Copyright 2013 by Russell Blake. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, contact:
Published by
Features Index
Bonus excerpt from King of Swords
Bonus excerpt from King of Swords
King of Swords
By Russell Blake
King of Swords
is an epic assassination thriller set in modern Mexico against a backdrop of cartel violence. Captain Romero Cruz discovers an assassination plot to kill the Mexican and U.S. presidents at the G-20 conference in Cabo by “El Rey” – a super assassin responsible for some of the world's most shocking killings.
Visit Russell’s salient website for more details
Chapter 1
Montego Bay, Jamaica
The platinum Chevrolet Suburban’s wheels crunched on loose gravel as it pulled out of the exclusive villa’s long private drive and onto the main road leading across the island. Brooding bass beats thumped from its speakers, clearly audible from outside the SUV. The driver gunned the gas, and the rear wheels spun for a second before the oversized all-terrain tires gripped and the vehicle lurched forward onto the two-lane highway that led overland to Kingston and the airport beyond, where a private jet sat on the sweltering runway waiting for the vehicle’s passengers to arrive.
Lamar Reese, better known by his stage name, Blunt, was a rap superstar by any measure, his career’s trajectory that of a rocket. His seminal first album had caught the world by surprise with its combination of infectious grooves and unexpected lyrical depth, and he’d been compared to icons like Ice Cube and Dr. Dre for the profundity of his offerings. That first record had ultimately been certified triple platinum, and Blunt, a resident of South Central Los Angeles’ worst neighborhood, suddenly found himself on tour for a year, heralded as the future of rap, staying in five-star hotels with an entourage of gorgeous and willing young companions, supporting a publicist, a manager, and a host of non-specific hangers-on who were his obligatory posse – none of which could make a dent in his newfound wealth, which had surpassed seven figures at month number two after release.
Now, a year and a half later, he’d finally taken a well-deserved break in anticipation of returning to the studio and recording his follow-up smash, which would receive the push normally associated with a Led Zeppelin or Beatles reunion. Blunt was young money, and the combination of his gangsta street cred – replete with a rap sheet for drug busts and felony weapons possession – and an unerring ear for contagious hooks ensured that his star was only beginning to rise in a business where a sensation’s income could rival that of film stars and bankers.
After a week at the private beach villa on the north side of the island, he felt relaxed. The nation’s sultry, easy rhythm had seeped into him – the polar opposite of his flashy lifestyle of celebrity in L.A. Dense jungle flashed by as the large SUV picked up speed on the two-lane road, passing dilapidated shacks that spoke to the grim default poverty for all but the wealthiest Jamaican inhabitants. Blunt barely registered any of it as he squinted and took another massive toke on a joint the size of a Cohiba.
The passenger side window lowered halfway with a hum, and a cloud of cannabis smoke belched from the interior. Blunt left the window down and held his free hand outside, fingers slicing at the air like an airplane wing, heavy platinum and diamond rings studding every digit, the bling glinting in the morning sun.
“Yo, Blunt, gimme some a that love, dawg. Yo boy be needin’ some back here,” Tyrese called from the rear seat.
Blunt grunted assent and held the spliff up to his best friend and DJ.
Tyrese reached forward and took it from him.
“Ganja’s crazy, bro. Got that juju island magic in it. Fo real,” Blunt offered by way of affirmation.
A new track came on the stereo. Blunt let out a whoop and increased the already deafening volume until the speakers began distorting. The driver, Calvin, another longtime friend of Blunt’s, smiled at the familiar, ominous synth weaving over the beat: one of Blunt’s first, biggest hits, “Suckah Bait.” The hypnotic lyrics began as a classic blues guitar riff, sampled, wailed in the background – a signature flourish Blunt had taken to a whole new level.
Nobody noticed the big Ford Expedition gaining on them until it had latched onto their tail. Calvin slowed, annoyed at the bullying way the Ford was sticking to his bumper, and then the Expedition swung around to pass them just as they were coming up on a small town – little more than a gas station and a market, with some hovels surrounding the central structures, which stretched back into the dense green vegetation.
“Wassup?” Blunt asked, seeing Calvin’s eyes glued to the rear view mirror, and then the world disintegrated in a shower of shattered glass as automatic weapon fire burped from the Ford, followed by the baritone boom of a shotgun as the charging SUV pulled alongside the Suburban. A slug caught Calvin in the throat. His expression changed from fear to shock, and he stiffened as blood seeped down his neck. He spasmodically floored the accelerator and the Suburban surged forward, buying Blunt and Tyrese time to free their pistols – Blunt a Desert Eagle .45, Tyrese a Glock .40 caliber.
A bullet blew through the passenger door and hit Blunt in the abdomen, but he ignored the searing agony and fired at the Ford through the window while trying to control the steering with his left hand. More slugs peppered the side of the Suburban, and then a shotgun blast took Tyrese’s head off as he was emptying his Glock at the attackers.
The deep sound of a truck horn announced a flatbed carrying bananas rounding the bend, on the attacker’s side of the road – bad news with the Ford traveling at fifty miles per hour and the banana truck grinding along at thirty. The next few seconds slowed to an hour as the Ford’s driver, who’d sustained a chest wound from one of Blunt’s rounds, saw the oncoming truck even as more bullets slammed into his vehicle. The gunmen in the rear seat were oblivious to the approaching threat as they unloaded their weapons at the Suburban, the AK-47’s full-auto rattle deafening in the confined space, the shotgun’s boom even more so. The driver’s processing was slower than normal from the shock of having half a lung shredded, and the critical moments when he could have stomped on the brakes came and went as he struggled for breath.
The collision crushed the front of the Ford like a Coke can, ending the shooting with startling finality. The Suburban was knocked sideways as it accelerated and jumped the low cement curb that ringed the gas station and plowed into the two pumps, continuing on until the concrete building arrested its forward movement. Fuel sprayed skyward in a geyser, creating a small lake beneath the Suburban’s wheels, and then a flicker of flame from the SUV ignited the gas with a whoosh, instantly immolating the vehicle.
The passenger door swung open as a fireball erupted from the pumps. Blunt, wounded and ablaze, tried to get clear and escape incineration. The blast caught him before he made it completely out, and he was blown back inside, his flesh melting from the heat.
The Suburban’s fuel tank caught and a second fireball blew into the air, the vehicle destroyed, its occupants vaporized in an instant.
By the time the authorities made it to the rural area, a black plume of smoke having signaled the tragedy to the entire island, the Chevrolet was a molten glob, little left but the skeleton of the chassis. The gas station’s main fuel storage tank had ignited shortly after the Suburban’s, destroying everything nearby.
The three Ford passengers were dead on arrival, as was the owner of the gas station, trapped inside the building when the Suburban slammed into it. The lone survivor was the driver of the banana truck, who escaped with a fractured pelvis and a slew of contusions.
News of Blunt’s passing sent a wave of shock through the rap world. Another stellar talent lost to senseless violence, in the tradition of Biggie Smalls and Tupac Shakur. Blunt’s rivals, with whom he’d fought publicly in an increasingly ugly spiral of accusations and disrespect, denied any involvement, but nobody believed them. Just as a certain segment refused to believe the beloved rapper was actually dead – the body was never recovered, the Jamaicans’ approach to forensic police work leaving much to be desired.
The record company was quick to issue a collectors’ edition memorial release of Blunt’s first album, with two previously unreleased bonus tracks that had been cut from the original because they weren’t up to the quality of the rest of the material. It debuted at number one and continued to dominate the charts for five months following the rapper’s tragic, untimely death. Even posthumously Blunt managed to make tens of millions and secure a place in rap legend: a shady, unrepentant star who’d lived and died true to his nature, raised in the hood, a hustler from the street made good before being brought down by a past he couldn’t outrun.
Chapter 2
Ten Months Later, Los Angeles, California
Artemus Black reclined on the leather couch, staring at Dr. Kelso’s new abstract painting. It looked to Black like a bunch of penises. A gaggle, or a brood, or perhaps a bevy of them. Covered in blood. He shook off the impression and continued with the session.
“I suppose I’m a little depressed about my birthday coming up,” he confessed.
“Ah. Depressed. I see. Why?” Kelso asked.
