Excerpt: Alaskan Rivers of Blood

Working on a thriller about an American Spy that should be coming out in a couple of months (first draft hasn't been finished so it's at least a couple months away from being finished and polished). Until then I'll post updates as well as excerpts that should help those who haven't read any of my work sample the wares at my place.

The Audio for Terror in New York will be coming out in a few weeks. Everyone should check it out when it does come out. Until then...

Alaskan Rivers of Blood is a novella (first in a series, so check this out while you have the chance) that's about some young men in Alaska caught up in selling drugs when things head south. Fearing for their lives, they strike back. Will they survive? Check it out, it's an exciting book about the betrayal and friendship)
I've attached the beginning of the story below. Enjoy and here are the links to buy the ebook:
Amazon
B&N
Kobo
Smashwords
Diesel
Sony

Read here:

The car rattles on the edge of the highway shaking me out of my sleep. The music is stuck on some endless guitar solo, and I have half a mind to yell for it to be switched off, and for the driver, John, to watch the road. John and Mark, in the front seat, are listening along, shaking their heads and pantomiming guitar chords as the song reaches a crescendo. John is driving with his knees so he can fully appreciate the tunes. I keep silent. They’re like bothers to me.

Peaks rise up on my side of the car like a black cardboard cutout. As the roadside blur of rails and brush open up, a burst of purple grabs my eyes. Flowers as far as I can see.

We are hours from our destination, and though the view still holds my attention, I wish to be done with the car and its putrid combination of farts, weed, and body odor. I roll down the window. The crisp Alaskan summer air slaps my face. I close the window. I can see Mark twitching.

We’re out of weed.

Three hours later we’re parked in the corner of a motel. I lie alone in the back of the car. John and Mark are inside a room marked by a dog and a Maori man outside. Since when are there Maori men in Alaska? We’ve just come from Kodiak Island and its large Filipino population, but I’ve never seen Maoris here before. Wasn’t New Zealand heaven on earth? Why would someone leave that for this shitty motel?

I eye the man through a slit in my eye. He is large. At least six foot with a breadth matching that of the door. He has huge lats, and a tattoo that crawls out from his white dress shirt to his neck. Part of the black ink darkens his lower jaw. It must have been painful; I imagine that needle vibrating his skull for hours. His board shorts and sandals seem out of place with his demeanor and the weather. His dark face hardly stirs as he stares out transfixed at a single point in space. His large nose expands with each inhalation.

His dog maintains a similarly stolid stance, though every now and then it looks up to him as if asking how long this charade is going to last.

I decide that I’m not going to sleep, and step out of the car. We have no water, so I imagine that there can be some in the motel room.

The day has changed from the last time I paid attention. The sun is dodging in a out of the clouds, while a rare humidity has settled, making it feel warmer than normal for Alaska at this time of year. As long as it wasn’t raining.

“Hi,” I say to the man.

He turns his head, examines me and turns back to his posture. His dog regards me as well, flattens its ears, and growls until his master kicks him gently with his foot.

I inhale a deep breath and take a step towards him. I know what Mark and John were doing inside. It is probably at least somewhat tense in there, especially given the law’s presence during the last few days in this area. But I am thirsty, and my stomach grumbles. I want something.

I observe my surroundings. The motel area is surrounded by pine trees and brush so thick that I shudder at the thought of cutting through it. Here in Alaska the undergrowth usually comes in the form of Devil’s Club, a nasty sharp brush that tears through skin rather easily.

The motel, two one-story buildings facing each other with chipped paint on the doors and walls, seems abandoned. There are two other trucks besides our car; they must belong to someone in that room.

So what is the Maori so damn serious about? This isn’t a favela, is it? I take another step towards him and stop when his dog starts to growl again.

“I wouldn’t come closer if I was you,” the man says without looking over.

He has a low voice.

I feel sweat pouring down my shirt. Why am I nervous about this place? Something doesn’t strike me was right. I can smell flowers, though I’m not sure from where.

“Can I go inside?” I ask.

He glances over at me, then returns to his routine stare. What’s his problem? I have a 44 revolver in the car and I have half a mind to start waving it. Not so much to fight or threaten this man—though that’s what I’ll do if I have subjugation in mind—but to see if he would finally stop being so asinine. I decide to be friendly.

“Where are you from, New Zealand?” I ask.

He looks over. I can tell from the way his face relaxes, becomes more fluid, that not many people have guessed this before. “I am. You?”

He’d ask about me. I am darker than a lot of people here in Alaska. “No, but I’ve been to the North Island,” I say.

“Oh, where at?”

“Raglan, surfing,” I say, taking a step closer and glad that the dog has stopped growling.

“You surf?”

I don’t, but how will he ever know? “I used to. Not much here, though.”

“Yeah,” he says with a sadness that brings me down as well.

“I’m Joe,” I say and stick out my hand.

“David, pleased to meet you.” He shakes my hand, a large grin forming on his face.

I wonder if that’s his real name. I am expecting something more, well, tribal, to tell you the truth. But perhaps, given his occupation, he is wary about giving out his real name. Don’t let anyone tell you different; if someone is guarding a motel room door, they’re into something tough.

I step towards the dog, wondering if it would be willing to lick my hand or act out any number of friendly dog actions.

The dog growls.

“That’s Juniper, she’ll take some time to warm to you.”

I nod my head and take a step back.

“What brings you here to Alaska?” I ask. Is he willing to answer such an intrusive question?

“Work, plus I needed to leave New Zealand.”

“I know what you mean,” I say, though I don’t and I hope it means that he will divulge more information.

He chuckles, the sound low and comforting. “Yeah, I never imagined myself on the other side of the world, though.”

“Alaska is a good place to reinvent yourself,” I say. I know that my friends and me are here for about the same reason. Trouble with the law and coming to a place like this allows one to forget that past. In a way, it is a perfect replica of a frontier.

“Amen to that,” he says.

“You aim on doing this job forever,” I ask.

“No. In fact this is just a favor that will last a few more hours.”

“Oh?”

He didn’t answer. I’m aware that in this world asking too many questions gets one labeled as a nark rather easily.

“And you?” he asks.

“Much the same thing. Came out here from the States to start out fresh again.”

“This is fresh?” he asks with a smile, while jerking a thumb to the door behind him.

“It’s fresh enough,” I say.

“You sell too?”

I pause. That sounded like a question a nark would ask.

“I mean, if you don’t want to say—“

“I do.” I like that he’s humble. He’s large enough that it’s possible for him to have gone through life without apologizing and backtracking. That means he has his wits about him.

“Is it hard to break in here?” he asks.

I wonder where he’s taking this line of questioning. “It’s not uber violent,” I reply.

He rocks his head in a way I can’t quite understand. My stomach grumbles and I nod at the door. “Can I head inside? Need some nourishment.”

“Of course,” he says, and steps aside.