The Day After Never - Nemesis (Post-Apocalyptic Dystopian Thriller - Book 9)

by Russell Blake

  And he also had to contend with Wink, who was saying all the right things, but who was a criminal thug and would likely betray his word at the first opportunity.

  All this on top of having to cross four hundred miles of enemy territory with a force that required massive amounts of food and water each day, and which was hopelessly outgunned whenever the cartel figured out its ambush had failed and committed serious resources to confronting it.

  It seemed overwhelming to Lucas coming off two nights of little rest and facing his biggest challenges yet.

  He pushed the pessimistic thoughts aside and looked over his shoulder at the troops. “I’m going to clean up and get a few hours of sleep.”

  “If Sierra lets you,” Duke quipped.

  Sierra hadn’t been thrilled at the idea of Lucas doing the reconnoitering himself, and had tried to talk him out of leading the men into battle.

  Lucas offered a twisted smile and exhaled softly.

  “I have a feeling I’m safe – at least for now.”

  Thanks for reading The Day After Never – Nemesis,

  (Book IX in the Day After Never series.)

  I hope you enjoyed it.

  To get your free copy, just join my readers’ group here: http://bit.ly/rb-kos

  · You can also follow me on Twitter at @Blakebooks, or like my Facebook page at Facebook.com/Russell.Blake.Books

  · Reviews help other readers find books. I appreciate all reviews, and every one matters.

  · This book is lendable through Amazon’s lending program. Share it with a friend!

  Visit Russell’s salient website: RussellBlake.com

  Turn the page to read an excerpt from

  BLACK

  Excerpt from

  BLACK

  © Russell Blake. All Rights Reserved

  Chapter 1

  A harsh wind tore at the scrub along the edge of the rural road that snaked through Malibu Canyon. Electricity crackled across the gray sky as the Ford Econoline’s tires shrieked in alarm. The heavy vehicle lumbered around a hairpin turn, far in excess of any sane speed, engine roaring as it labored toward the summit. The Ferrari California 30 convertible ahead of it negotiated the curves like an Olympic skier, its red taillights winking at the van like a taunt, the twists a slim challenge for its driver, even after more than a few drinks.

  It was late afternoon and a front had moved in, one of the freak storms that could come out of nowhere and disrupt the late spring warmth that was the birthright of Southern California’s privileged. Flashes of light pulsed within the blanket of clouds brooding over the hills, threatening a downpour at any moment, but for now the heavens’ growling was the harmless protest of a caged bear.

  Another curve, another screeching drift as tortured rubber fought to grip the asphalt and the huge motor propelled the cargo vehicle closer to its quarry. Inside, a young man with two days’ growth dusting his features gripped the lens of a Canon EOS 5D camera and gritted his teeth as the driver gave the van everything he had, pushing the van to its limits.

  “Damn. Slow down, would you? It’s not worth getting us killed,” he complained.

  “Relax, Omar, I’ve got it under control,” the driver snarled, his furrowed brow betraying the lie in his assurance. An old Chevrolet pickup truck swung around the bend and narrowly missed the van’s front fender, causing them to lose a few precious seconds as the Italian car pulled over the rise and began its descent toward the coast, the sheer drop to the rocks hundreds of feet below a slim deterrent to its increasing speed.

  “Crap. We’re DOA if we can’t catch up,” Omar said. “DOA pays lousy.”

  “I intend to get paid,” the driver muttered, and tromped on the gas as the Ferrari disappeared from view around another curve.

  ~ ~ ~

  The Ferrari driver wiped her face with the palm of her hand and shifted into third gear, increasing the engine revs to buy traction as she crested the summit. The clouds roiling over the ocean pulled her attention toward the water, a slate mirror stretching to the horizon, calm before the heavens let loose. Snoop Dogg’s atonal delivery wove its spell over a booming bass groove pulsing from the stereo, and after twisting the volume louder she tapped her fingers on the steering wheel in time with the beat. She glanced at the van in her rearview mirror and allowed herself a smirk before her eyes drifted back to the road. Another hairpin was coming up, one she knew well from having almost lost it there the last time she’d had a few too many at one of her Valley hangouts, and she downshifted with a sloppy stab at the transmission paddle.

  The high-performance eight-cylinder racing engine whined as the RPMs hit the ceiling, the tachometer needle pegging into the red, and then the car began to reluctantly fight gravity, enough so that she could keep it mostly in her lane. A rush of adrenaline surged through her system as she guided the vehicle along a knife’s edge, the painted divider line the only thing between her and oblivion, her dilated pupils taking in the tableau of Malibu laid out before her. Her stomach seemed to float for an instant, as it did on the first drop of a roller coaster, and then her eyes saucered as she saw her future approach from around the turn, offering no time to react.

  ~ ~ ~

  Omar’s face blanched as they picked up speed, and he noticed the Italian car’s brake lights remained dark as it headed for one of the dead man’s curves on the drop to sea level.

  “Come on, man. Be careful. She’s whacked out of her mind. No way should she be moving that fast on this stretch,” he said, trying to steady the camera’s telephoto lens and get some shots of the car hurtling at breakneck speed in front of them.

  “Maybe she’ll get it wrong and we’ll have an exclusive on the biggest story of the month,” the driver said, a grin twisting his features. “You getting anything?”

  “We’re bouncing around too much. Holy shit. Look out!”

  The Ferrari struck a glancing blow to a red Mercury Montego straining up the hill in the outside lane and then careened against the steep rock face, slammed onto its side, and plunged through the guardrail into the chasm.

  Time seemed to compress as both men found themselves staring at the Mercury’s grill partially in their lane, the car overcompensating from grazing the Ferrari, instinctively trying to inch away from the ravine as it fought for stability. The middle-aged woman’s face was framed for a split second by her windshield, and then the van driver wrenched the wheel to the right and stood on the brakes as Omar wedged his legs against the dash to brace against the impact.

  But the pedal felt mushier than usual, and after a token resistance it dropped uselessly to the floorboard with a soft clunk.

  The van’s high center of gravity and inadvisable speed carried it into a sideways drift, and the back end swung around as its rear wheels lost traction in a slow-motion pirouette. The screech of brakes echoed through the canyon as the Mercury rolled to a stop just in time to see the van flipping in a series of cartwheels, drawn inexorably to the precipice.

  It smashed into the guardrail and seemed to hesitate before executing its final somersault into the void. The fireball that followed its drop could be seen as far away as Malibu, and by the time the shaken Mercury driver had stopped her car and was digging in her purse for her cell phone, a local squad car was already wending its way up the hill from town, lights flashing and siren keening as the clouds finally let loose their deluge with a rumble.

  Chapter 2

  Orange and red streaked the sky as the sun shimmered through the smog layer that hung across Los Angeles like a beige blanket, a perennial part of life in the big city, as tenacious as a divorce lawyer and equally pleasant. The storm had blown through and exhausted itself the prior night, and not a cloud now marred the balmy spring day.

  A convertible white 1973 Cadillac Eldorado, the top down, growled its way through traffic on the gridlocked streets leading into downtown, consuming enough gas to power a cruise ship, its red leather upholstery faded from the years but still garish enough to turn heads. AC/DC blar
ed from the crackling speakers, the singer’s shrieking caterwauling a lewd promise over the driving guitars and thumping drums, drawing stares from a few of the surrounding cars’ occupants – those not on the phone making deals or excuses or promises they had no intentions of keeping.

  The light on La Cienega turned red and the big car rolled to a stop as Artemus Black punched the button on his cell phone and listened to the warbling ring on his earpiece. He was running late, and hoped that his office manager, Roxie, had made it in before him – he hated to set a poor example by being tardy, but hadn’t accounted for the pileup that had put a twenty-minute dent into his well-oiled plans.

  He considered his reflection in the rearview mirror as he waited for her to pick up, noting that his gleaming black hair, cut like mid-career Elvis, could use a trim. His piercing blue eyes radiated intelligence and a sincerity he rarely felt, although he would certainly pretend to care if he thought it was important to a case or could gain him an advantage. And he looked sharp in his choice of lightweight gray vintage-cut suit – very Bogey, he thought with satisfaction, straightening the skinny oxblood tie, also vintage, and in keeping with his preferred style of Elmore Leonard-era noir. At least that was his perception.

  “Black Investigations – er, crap, I mean, Solutions. Black Solutions. May I help you?” Roxie answered on the fifth ring, sounding frazzled.

  “Nice. Very professional, Roxie,” Black chided. The name change had been his latest idea for increasing business and being able to charge more per hour. Investigations sounded lower-end, whereas Solutions…well, who wouldn’t pay a few bucks more for a solution to their problem, whatever it was? It had come to him about midway through a self-help and motivational program he’d been listening to, taught by a self-declared success guru and celebrity flim-flam seminar speaker whose claim to fame was hosting fire-walk programs and group stadium gropes of orgiastic affirmation.

  “Whatever. It’s a stupid name. I don’t see what was wrong with the old one,” Roxie responded.

  “It didn’t reflect our scope.”

  “What does that even mean?”

  Black had been working with Roxie on improving her attitude, but some days it seemed like a losing battle. It was a pity she was so good at what she did – running the office, juggling administrative duties and research that made the FBI look like neophytes.

  “It means I think we can improve our brand, Roxie.”

  “Our…brand. I see. Have you been drinking?”

  “Branding is very important.”

  “Maybe if you’re a cowboy or a steer. Wait – did you mix up your meds again?” Roxie asked.

  “Please at least try to answer the phone professionally. Is that too much?”

  “I don’t know. I’m getting confused about our brand. Are we not a private detective agency named after that Brad Pitt movie?”

  “We’re a solutions enterprise group. We provide security and investigation solutions. Brad Pitt has nothing to do with it.”

  “And here I was sticking around because I thought I had a chance at him. I hear he likes to smoky-smoky. Angelina goes berserk on his ass because all he wants to do is party hearty.”

  “I could pretend I have any idea what you’re talking about, but I know better.”

  “What’s that noise? A leaf blower? Seagull fight?”

  Black turned down the stereo. “There. Better?”

  “Are we at the part where you tell me what you want?”

  “I wanted to let you know there was an accident en route.”

  “En route? So we’re going to start speaking French to each other now? Like some kind of Euro-trash secret agent code?”

  “A fender bender. I’ll be a little late.”

  “I’ll alert the media.”

  “Is that your subtle way of telling me there are no calls?”

  “Oh, wait,” Roxie said, her voice quickening with excitement, before returning to her usual dry delivery. “Hmm. Never mind. No, no calls. Does that mean I won’t get paid this week? I’m starting to worry now that Brad’s off the table.”

  “Brad was never on the table. Come on, Roxie, I’ve never stiffed you. Relax. Money’s in the bank.”

  “I do the books, remember? The account’s emptier than a Kardashian’s head.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Something will come up. It always does. I haven’t let you down yet.”

  Roxie let out an exasperated sigh. “Was there something else, Mister En Route Solutions?”

  “No, I just wanted to let you know I’d be in soon.”

  “Did you quit smoking?” she asked, skepticism dripping from every syllable. “Wasn’t this the weekend you were going to?”

  “Soon. Roxie, why do you always bust my chops? Why can’t we ever have a simple, normal interaction?”

  “Besides that you’re delusional and have a Bogart fetish, you mean?”

  “See? That’s what I’m talking about. You can never stay on track.”

  “Hold on. The other line’s ringing,” she said.

  “No, it isn’t. I don’t hear anything.”

  “Hmm. Maybe it’s going to. I’ve been thinking I might be psychic.”

  “You aren’t psychic. There’s no such thing.”

  “I so totally knew you were going to say that.” Roxie paused dramatically. “Is there anything else?”

  “I don’t suppose there’s any way I could get you to make some coffee, is there?”

  “You know I don’t drink coffee. It’s poison.”

  “I was thinking more for me, Roxie.”

  “It’s poison for you, too.”

  “Roxie. Please?”

  “Starbucks is just around the corner. Oh, here comes the call!”

  “Do you not realize I can hear everything, including that the phone isn’t ringing?”

  “Pick me up a vente chai.”

  The line went dead, and Black shook his head as if to clear it. Roxie was brilliant, but hard to deal with when she got her back up, which was often. An aspiring singer in an indie art rock band, her instinct was to flout authority, which he more than understood from his youth – but it wasn’t so great when it was his ass getting flouted. The problem was that she ran his company, so he had to suck it up and take whatever she was dishing out. Which, today, appeared to be a heaping helping of screw with Black. A regular menu item with her.

  A lowered BMW seven-series sedan eased up beside him at the next light. The tinted windows rolled down, revealing three laughing homeboys whose gangsta rap was vibrating the street. Black looked over at them and nodded, and they exploded in peals of mockery at his flimsy white-boy suburban cool. He was afraid it was going to escalate until a motorcycle cop pulled to the crosswalk between them. The BMW’s windows whined closed and the music dropped to earthquake level, and the impassive policeman eyed the big sedan without comment before turning to glance at Black’s pimpmobile. Black tried his nod again, and the cop shook his head disgustedly before gunning the throttle and pulling away as the light changed. Black wasn’t sure which was worse – being dissed by the homeboys or the five-oh. Obviously, L.A. was a town singularly lacking in good taste.

  Then again, it always had been. He still remembered moving here over twenty years ago, fresh out of the army, having exchanged his M16 rifle for a Gibson Les Paul guitar, determined to make a splash in the music scene and become a star. Seven months of living at home with his crazy parents after his discharge had been enough to drive him three hundred and fifty miles south of Berkeley, California, to Hollywood, where the music scene was vital, and miracles could occur seemingly overnight. Guns N’ Roses had broken big the year before, and the whole Seattle grunge thing hadn’t really caught on yet, so if you were a rock guitarist with aspirations of hitting it big, Los Angeles was the epicenter of the music industry.

  Black goosed the gas and lurched forward, enjoying the feel of the hazy sun on his skin. It seemed like only yesterday he’d rented the fleabag apartment three blocks off th
e Sunset strip, relieved to be free of his parents’ hippy lifestyle. They’d already done enough damage to his psyche, starting with his name: Artemus, an idiotic homage to a crappy seventies-era TV show – The Wild Wild West – whose number two character, Artemus Gordon, had somehow cut through his father’s drug fog around the time of Black’s birth and seemed like a brilliant namesake for his only son.

  He hadn’t even named Black after the star of the show. No, that would have been too fortunate. His moniker was drawn from the little weasel guy who dressed up in funny costumes every week while the star, James West, kicked serious ass and took names. So instead of James Black, he was Artemus. A name he despised, as he had since he’d been old enough to realize how badly screwed he’d gotten in the name department. His parents had neglected to give him a middle name, so as soon as he hit his teens, he took the one he wished he’d been given, and went by James, shortened by his friends to Jim.

  Black swung onto Pico and nosed the Cadillac east toward his office, the recollections infuriating him even twenty-plus years later. He took a few deep, calming breaths, as he’d been counseled to do by Dr. Kelso, his therapist, and willed the agitation away. An old woman in a Camaro almost sideswiped him when she pulled from the curb without looking, and he flipped her off while standing on his horn. He knew it was childish, but he felt strangely better.

  Black circled his block, looking for a parking space, and cursed his circumstances for the thousandth time. Living in an apartment that was only slightly nicer than the one he’d had when he hit town, perpetually on the financial rocks, making it job-to-job with no consistency to any of it. Anyone else might have turned to introspection, but the only thing that bubbled to Black’s surface was more rage – at being thoroughly boned by the cosmic powers that be, butt-rammed at whim by a bombastic deity who’d singled him out for persecution, raising him up just enough to give him hope for the future and then slamming him to the canvas, crushing his dreams, leaving him empty and broken inside.