BLACK Is Back

  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:

  [email protected]

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  Features Index

  Bonus excerpt from King of Swords

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  King of Swords Excerpt

  Foreword

  Introduction

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  About the Author

  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.

  Go to King of Swords excerpt

  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 sp
ace, 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.

  “Because it means I’m getting older.”

  “Mmm. And that depresses you?”

  “Sure. My body’s breaking down, cells are dividing in alarming ways, and it’s just a matter of time until…”

  “Until your next birthday?”

  “No. Until death.”

  “Death. So your birthday makes you think about death?”

  “Not all the time. But this one does. Forty-three. It’s impossible to pretend I’m still that young, you know?”

  “Pretend. So you feel like you need to pretend you’re younger than you are – to yourself?” Kelso asked, his voice flat, the question more of a statement than an interrogative. “Or to others?”

  “You know what I mean. You can sort of tell yourself that there’s a special exclusionary clause for yourself. That you’re different. That time’s not having its way with you like it is with everyone else.”

  “I see. So you can pretend that your bad habits aren’t having the negative effect you would expect?”

  “Well, not so much that. Or rather, sure, that, as well as the idea that you still have a lot of road ahead of you.”

  “Which is an illusion. Nobody knows how much time they have left. A piano could fall on you as you leave the building.”

  “I’ll make sure I avoid piano movers,” Black said.

  Kelso paused. “You smoke, don’t you?”

  “I’m trying to quit.”

  “Trying,” Kelso intoned.

  “Trying.”

  “But a birthday signals that another year of that unsuccessful trying has gone by, despite your best efforts.” Kelso hesitated, never a good sign to Black. “You’ve also mentioned that you drink quite a bit?”

  “Not quite a bit. I mean, sometimes I have a few too many. But everyone does.”

  “Everyone?”

  “Everyone I know.”

  “Mmm. I see. So everyone you know has a substance abuse problem.”

  “No. That’s not it at all. It’s just not unknown for guys to have more than they should sometimes. It happens.”

  “If you say so. But back to death. Why do you associate death with your birthday?”

  “I don’t. But I think it’s natural to associate aging with death. I mean, that’s the end result of aging, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, I suppose it is. And how does that make you feel?”

  “I…it just seems unfair, you know? That you can do everything right, and you still get death as your reward in the end.”

  “Does it make you angry?”

  “No.”

  Kelso remained silent.

  “Okay, maybe a little. But what’s the point of getting angry over something that’s inevitable?”

  “So you do get angry, even though you know there’s no point.”

  The chime sounded, indicating the session’s end. “You know what the bell means. Our time’s up,” Kelso said.

  “Why do I feel crappier after talking to you than I do before? Is that the way this is supposed to work?”

  “The process isn’t designed to make you feel immediately better. We’ve discussed that. It’s a longer term goal than instant gratification. So, same time next week?”

  Black knew better than to continue trying to engage with Kelso after the bell had rung. He’d have better luck with a sphinx.

  “Sure. In a week.” Black stood and left the office, stopping to pay the receptionist on his way out. He was all but totally convinced now that the man was a charlatan and that the sessions were doing nothing for him but draining his bank account. After God knows how many of these meetings, he couldn’t point to any improvement Kelso made. Black descended to the street and wondered what other job you could fail at for years and still get paid for, other than therapist or weatherman, and maybe politician. What a racket.

  He approached his new-to-him car – a white 1973 Eldorado convertible he’d bought in Nevada after his last, identical car had exploded – and dropped the top after starting the engine so it could warm up. The sun beamed down through the morning haze, the mountains in the distance invisible due to pollution.

  Kelso was full of it. Sure, another birthday was right around the corner, and sure, Black wasn’t delighted at the prospect, nor was he happy that increasingly it was his father’s face that stared back at him from the mirror, but he didn’t have it so bad. His new relationship with Sylvia, a beautiful artist from Switzerland, was going well, and his business had picked up a little, so he wasn’t completely broke. It could have been a lot worse.

  Hell, it had been, only a few short weeks earlier.

  He pulled into traffic and a Dodge Caravan almost collided with him, the driver having veered into his lane without looking. Black stomped on his brakes and slammed the heel of his hand into the center o
f the steering wheel, only to discover that the horn didn’t work. Stymied from a righteous expression of indignation, he yelled in outrage, but the van continued on its oblivious way. He debated catching up to it and flipping the bastard off, but then thought better of it – getting worked up over a lousy driver’s thoughtless behavior was no way to begin his day, and wasn’t consistent with the newfound attitude of Buddha-like tolerance he’d been working on.

  The cigarettes in his glove compartment called to him like little nicotine sirens, but he ignored them. He would not start off his work week with an act of weakness. This was the week he would find the strength to quit for good.

  Maybe.

  Hopefully.

  He didn’t want to paint himself into any corners with rash declarations, after all. One day at a time. That was best. Today, he wouldn’t smoke. He was almost a hundred percent sure.

  Only not so sure that he’d throw the cigarettes away.

  As he motored toward his office, ten minutes away from the good doctor’s, he felt a pang of guilt over his inability to show some backbone, which he immediately shook off. Because, as he more than knew, even with the best of intentions, he was a weak man. Especially with a birthday coming up. Anything could happen, and it was probably best not to be wasteful.

  The craving for a smoke returned, and he silently cursed it. He wouldn’t bend. He was better than the manufacturers who had spent billions conditioning him to ingest a substance that stank, was expensive, and would likely kill him. They wouldn’t prevail. Not again.

  And this time, he really meant it.

  Chapter 3

  Black mounted the stairs to his second-floor offices carrying a newspaper and a cup of overpriced coffee, his black hair slicked back in a retro cut he believed lent him the sophisticated air of a forties-era film star. That impression was reinforced by his suit and tie, which could have been taken straight from a Bogey flick. He glanced at his watch as he reached his floor and regarded his office door, the Black Investigations lettering already beginning to peel – another budget job gone wrong, which he should have seen coming when the contractor’s bid was half the price of any of the rest of the quotes.