Whiskey Sunrise - a Christian Suspense Novel: A chilling tale of a desert that buries its secrets.

By John Turney

Brimstone Fiction

WHISKEY SUNRISE BY JOHN TURNEY

Published by Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas

2333 Barton Oaks Dr., Raleigh, NC, 27614

ISBN: 978-1941103258

Copyright © 2014 by John Turney

Interior design by Reality Premedia Services Pvt. Ltd.

Cover design by Ken Raney,
www.kenraney.com
and
Urosh Bizjak,
http://uroshb.prosite.com

Available in print from your local bookstore, online, or from the publisher at:
www.lighthousepublishingofthecarolinas.com

For more information on this book and the author visit:
http://www.jturney.com

All rights reserved. Non-commercial interests may reproduce portions of this book without the express written permission of Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas, provided the text does not exceed 500 words. When reproducing text from this book, include the following credit line: “
Whiskey Sunrise
by John Turney published by Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas. Used by permission.”

Commercial interests: No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by the United States of America copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are all products of the author’s imagination or are used for fictional purposes. Any mentioned brand names, places, and trade marks remain the property of their respective owners, bear no association with the author or the publisher, and are used for fictional purposes only. Brimstone Fiction is a division of Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas. Brimstone Fiction may include ghosts, werewolves, witches, the undead, soothsayers, mythological creatures, theoretical science, fictional technology, and material which, though mentioned in Scripture, may be of a controversial nature within some religious circles.

Brought to you by the creative team at
LighthousePublishingoftheCarolinas.com
: Rowena Kuo, Meaghan Burnett, Brian Cross, Eddie Jones, and Ken Raney.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Turney, John.

Whiskey Sunrise / John Turney 1st ed.

It is my honor to dedicate this book to my father who passed before he saw one of my books in print. He was an honorable man who did right for his family. He fought during WWII in the Navy, serving as a gunner aboard a sub-chaser. He saved the USS Missouri from serious damage by shooting down a kamikaze pilot as it closed in on the Missouri’s waterline.

And to all the men and women who served and are serving in the US military. Whether on the front lines or in some back-water post, your service is honorable, and a grateful nation can’t thank you enough.

I had the honor of reading an Advance Reader Copy of
Whiskey Sunrise
, and I can tell you it’s a fantastic read. Packed with action. Highly recommended.

~ Linda Swink

Award-winning author of
In Their Honor
and
Life on a $5 Bet

What starts out as a creepy little story about some bloody murders with supernatural overtones soon morphs into a complex, international high-stakes suspense story that keeps you on the edge of your seat. Strap yourself in—it’s one wild ride.

~ David E. Fessenden

Literary agent, publishing consultant, and author of
The Case of the Exploding Speakeasy

If you’ve ever read through the acknowledgements page in any book, you find just a portion of the people who have helped in bringing a book to life. It’s no different here. I would need to write another book to adequately thank those who lent their assistance to this one. I’ll do my best to keep it short so we don’t needlessly kill trees or take up too many digital bites.

First off, I would like to thank my editor and friend Rowena Kuo. She saw potential in
Whiskey Sunrise
before anyone else did. She truly is one of those rare people who can bring out the best in others. If you enjoy this story, and I hope you do, much credit goes to her editing. If you don’t enjoy…blame me. Next I would like to thank Eddie Jones and Lighthouse Publishing for accepting this manuscript. It was done at the Write-to-Publish writers’ conference, and I can never say enough thanks for taking the risk to bring this tale to publication. I would also like to thank Meaghan Burnett, who has played a large role in helping me with the social media side of the writing business.

Secondly, I have been in a number of writing groups. Each of these played a crucial role in my development as a writer. The leaders and members of these groups are too long to mention; I know who you are and cannot say thank you enough. Some of my co-workers have also played an important role in their encouraging me on during the writing. I especially want to thank Cliff Lindberg who provided me details about Arizona to help me get that right.

Thirdly, I would be amiss if I did not mention the writers conferences I have attended and the people I’ve met there. Especially, Lin Johnson and Jane Rubietta at Write-to-Publish and Vicki Ryan at
Mad Anthony. Great conferences that helped teach me much about this thing called writing such as WTP, where I met Rene Gutteridge while attending her fiction writing classes. One of the exercises resulted in me finding the initial spark that turned into
Whiskey Sunrise
.

And lastly, I want to thank the two most important people in my life. The spouse of an artist has a tough way to go. It takes time away from them for the artist to bring his or her creations to life. Despite the many hours apart, my wife and best friend has stayed by my side. Thank you, Sandy. You are the love of my life. As a Christian, I also want to thank Yeshua ben JHVH who paid the spiritual debt I owed. Without His divine love, I probably would not be alive to have written this story.

Last word: thank you, reader, for picking up this book. I hope you enjoy the ride.

Locked in a car trunk, wrists and ankles bound with duct tape, Juan had no doubt this would be his final ride. Gritting his teeth, he pulled against the tape. His arms shook, and his shoulders and upper back burned. Sweat beaded his forehead. The tape refused to budge. Releasing his breath, Juan gave up.

He had tried screaming for help, but the duct tape across his mouth only permitted an elongated throaty grunt. Juan squeezed his eyes shut. The bump on the back of his head pounded in rhythmic harmony with the velocity of his heart.

Bile churned in his gut, and he gagged.
Jesús y la Virgen Bendita, no
. He relaxed, forcing deep breaths until the moment passed.

Hope faded like old blue jeans. He tried to swallow, but without spit, it was like drinking sand.

A metal bar dug into his side. Tire iron? A possible weapon, but it might as well be in Maine for all the good it would do him.

The numbing drone of tires on pavement toyed with his apprehension. From the outside sounds, Juan assumed they had left Phoenix. Probably headed into the desert.

The trunk reeked of oil, exhaust fumes, and the lingering stench of death. Juan wished the stench belonged to furry creatures and not people, but he doubted it. His captors only hunted humans. His captors? Hired gunmen, both of them. He’d seen their handiwork, bloodied victims lying in Mexican streets.

Not good. Stay calm.

During the afternoon, the temperatures soared into the hundred-and-teens, but night brought chilled air. His sweat-soured
clothes stuck to his body, robbing him of warmth. He shivered. His own body odor mixed with fear like a Coke and rum. His watch dinged the hour. Midnight?

Time inched. The brake lights lit up his prison, and Juan perceived the car slowing down. The movement of the vehicle rocked him back and forth. Just enough to make his stiff body scream in agony.

After a few seconds of hearing pebbles pinging in the wheel wells and against the undercarriage, Juan figured they now traveled a gravel road.

He had to warn Rye, but how? Then it occurred to him … the Sharpie marker in his shirt pocket. The one Rye made all his officers carry. If he could only reach it … He twisted, so his pocket brushed against the tire iron, then using its claws, forced the pen out of the pocket. It landed under him, so he rolled the other way, and his hands found it. After a brief struggle, he fumbled off the cap and wrote in between his fingers. Hands behind him, he could only hope for partial legibility.

By the jolting movements of the vehicle, Juan suspected his captors had turned onto a dirt trail. The car headed up a low grade and bounced like a three-legged horse. The brake lights came on, and the car slid to a stop.

Seconds later, two car doors opened, one after the other. Panic slithered into his psyche.

The doors slammed shut, sending vibrations through the car body. Footsteps approached on either side of the car.

Keys rattled and then were inserted into the lock of the truck.

The car trunk popped open. The desert night rushed in with the scent of creosote bush, cooling rocks, sand … and booze.

Two men stood like hulking silhouettes blocking part of the starry night. One wore a bandana, and the other’s shaved head reflected starlight. No city lights glowed in the skies, and that meant his captors had taken him deep into the desert’s heart.

“Juan, time to meet your Diablo,” Bandana said, heavy Español-accented English.

Both reached down, one grabbing Juan by the legs and the other by his shoulders, and heaved him out of the trunk. His head banged against the lid, and they laughed. His vision spun in momentary vertigo. Blood trailed down his forehead. He wanted to hurl curses at the two, but only managed weak mumbles against the tape.

They dumped him onto a dirt track. He lay there while they cut the duct tape from his legs and ripped off his gag.

“Get up, dog.”

“How?” Juan said, his voice a croak.

Bandana kicked him in the side. An excruciating torrent ripped through his ribs. His vision exploded as if he watched a super nova.

He struggled to get to his feet. Baldy grabbed him by the shoulders and picked him up.

“Get a move on,” the man said with a sneer.

One of the men shoved him in the back. He managed small shuffling steps.

“Where’re you taking me?”

“Shut up and walk.”

He staggered up the dirt trail in silence. He expected to hear the click of a round being loaded into a handgun, followed by an explosion, and then the blackness of death. But no shot came. The moonlight revealed they headed up a washed-out canyon strewn with boulders
and gloom. Further up, bleak stone walls cast a shadow across the path darker than the night sky. It would happen there.

Baldy grabbed Juan’s shirtsleeve and tore it, revealing Juan’s shoulder tattoo of a skull-pommeled dagger dripping blood. A banner across the hilt read
Semper Fi
. “When you’re dead, I’ll skin them tats off you. Make me a pouch to hold my bad seed.”

As his captors taunted him, Juan shot rapid glances at the surrounding area. Icy silver moonlight bathed the open land. Even if he could take down his two captors with his hands bound, there was no place within a hundred yards to run to.