Bic had survived point-blank fire from his weapon, so he could only assume that Publio had as well. As Mack thought about shooting Bic, he realized he didn’t remember seeing any blood pooling on the floor. Mack glanced at the colorful paintball postcard. Could he have shot some type of high-tech paint bullets, and been so overwhelmed by the intensity of the situation he didn’t even know it?
He felt the rush of adrenaline as he thought about what he would say to A.D. Bender. That none of the bad guys were dead, except maybe Gabriel, Tidwell, and his thugs? Well, where was the proof?
Really, all he had was a bullet without any gunpowder. All the fallen were confirmed dead, then cremated.
Easy out, there.
Everything else lined up perfectly with the story he had given. The media had received an audio tape of Tidwell talking to Jones and Utah, basically outlining the whole plot. So, the media was taken care of.
He walked back into the bedroom, sat down at Caroline’s feet, and rubbed the back of his neck. He looked over. She was watching him.
“You alright?” she cooed.
“For now, yes.”
She sat up slightly, a small smile on her face. “What’s that look for?”
“Lots of things,” he said, touching her nose. “Let’s go to sleep. I’ll tell you some other time.”
He kissed her once, then walked around to the other side of the bed and got in. He spooned her, took in the smell of her hair and noticed he was smiling.
At least this case was closed.
129
John Tidwell lay on a hard, cool surface in the dark with his wrists tied together, listening to what he thought were seagulls cackling. Given the subtle rocking motions he felt, he suspected that he’d just awoken inside the hull of a boat. He was still groggy, but recalled a searing needle-like stab, as if from a tiny bullet or dart, and then blackness. He had no idea how long he had been unconscious. Hours, maybe days.
A deep voice startled him. “You’re off the coast of South Africa.”
“Who’s there?”
A man with exceptional strength grabbed Tidwell by the ropes around his wrists and pulled him to his feet. The man then dragged him up two steps and opened a door. Bright afternoon sunlight spilled into a cabin richly paneled in African mahogany, stabbing Tidwell’s eyes and making him nauseous. He couldn’t see well enough yet to identify the man dragging him along, but he knew who it was. He recalled seeing a reflection of the man in his living room window, aiming his rifle, and those eyes, glowing hot red—before the tranq dart hit him.
“Listen, I can explain,” Tidwell said, forcing himself to look into the man’s dark sunglasses.
The big man stood silently on deck, his expression cold, inhuman. He took off his sunglasses, and his red eyes confirmed for John Alfred Tidwell, for the first and last time in his life, the reality of the Black Ghost.
“I’ll give you millions,” he pleaded, as Bic reached into a compartment to retrieve what looked like a ski rope.
Those red eyes blazed in fury. “You shouldn’t have blackmailed me with Gracie’s life.”
To his own amazement, Tidwell’s fear was suddenly usurped by a spasm of anger. “We had a contract,” he spat, “and you broke it. I’m the one who should be upset.”
The large man attached the end of the ski rope to the thick rope shackling Tidwell’s wrists together. He then picked Tidwell up and threw him overboard. The shock of the icy cold water nearly stopped his heart. As he sank, panic overwhelmed him, and he began to kick his legs. He had difficulty swimming upward with his hands tied together, but after a few moments, he broke the surface.
He gasped and spat. “I’m a U.S. Congressman!”
Tidwell continued to kick to keep his head above water. He looked around. To the east, a couple of hundred yards away, he saw a rocky island spotted with… something… seals? In all other directions, there was only dark blue ocean as far as he could see.
The boat engine started and drove away slowly. Tidwell’s efforts to free himself redoubled as he saw the slack on the rope begin to go.
Tidwell was dragged through the water. It stung as it rushed in thick slices against his face. He tried to scream as his body scudded along the top of the water like a fishing lure. The rushing tide rushed into his nose and mouth.
After dragging him for three or four hundred yards around the rocky seal roost, Bic turned the boat around and drove up alongside Tidwell.
“What do you want from me?” he screamed with a shred of breath as he treaded water.
Bic bent down out of Tidwell’s field of view for a moment. When he reappeared, he tossed something in the air—something the size of a large rock. The thing plopped into the water next to Tidwell’s face.
“It’s pork chop eatin’ time.”
Bic disappeared into the cockpit. The boat accelerated for another pass alongside the island of seals
As the slack in the rope tightened, Tidwell looked across the long stretch of dark blue water, knowing he was going to be trolled across as bait. The rope pulled at his wrists, propelling him forward along the surface. He pleaded with himself to stay calm. Nothing was going to happen. This man was an assassin, for God’s sake, a whore with a gun. He couldn’t say no to money.
Through the foam, he caught sight of a swirl of shadows beneath him. He screamed for Bic to get him out of the water. He knew, in the back of his mind, that the combination of his panic and his rushing heartbeat was like a ringing dinner bell.
He was right.
130
The 4,000-pound dark gray torpedo hit the congressman from below. Within a split second, his body shot up ten feet above the surface, his midsection inside the jaws of a seventeen-foot great white shark.
The enormous shark’s thrust peaked with its body completely out of the water. The scene was surprisingly beautiful, despite—or perhaps because of—the screaming man thrashing inside the shark’s mouth.
Shark and man disappeared below the surface, which, seconds later, was skimmed with a greasy slick of blood.
Bic stared out at John Alfred Tidwell’s final resting place. Funny what came to mind at times like this.
Back in ’Nam, he and his buddies had passed jokes back and forth to kill the time on patrol, and one day Riggs had asked him, more than a little bitterly, “Why don’t sharks eat politicians?”
“Hell, I don’t know,” Bic had replied after a moment’s thought.
“Professional courtesy.”
Almost forty years along, Bic shook his head and muttered, “Bastard. Ruined a perfectly good joke.”
He untied the ski rope and threw it into the water. Then he entered the cockpit, knowing he had one final call to make before he left this life and started a new one. Bic picked up a satellite phone and dialed the private number of the man who had been his agent in the world of hits, brokering and arranging payment for all the deals right from the beginning, when he had needed the $100,000 to try to save Gracie’s mom from cancer. He had never forgotten how Tony had arranged for him to get paid up front before he went to Colombia to do the hit, just in case he didn’t come back.
“It’s done,” he said.
“Fantastic, my friend!”
Bic paused.
“You there, Bic?”
“Yeah. Tony, I want you to know, I appreciate everything you’ve done for me and my family over the years, especially making sure Gracie and Hawk made it out okay.”
“Anything for a brother in arms.”
“But this life is over, man.”
“I understand,” Tony said solemnly.
Anthony Parelli was a man who wouldn’t hesitate to call him again if he needed a special “favor.” In his world, a true friend meant someone you could always call upon for a favor.
“Just so we’re clear,” said Bic. “I mean, I’m done doing jobs. I thought it didn’t matter. I thought I’d killed so many people there was no saving me. But
my father got a second chance in life, and so I have hope I can make things right, too.”
“I can respect that, my friend. May God bless you.” After a brief silence, Parelli said hesitantly, “You know, it’s not a good idea to come back to the States.”
“I figured as much.”
“The other guys are gonna buy a resort in Fiji. You’re more than welcome there.”
For an instant, Bic considered spending time with his old ’Nam buddies. Besides Gracie and Hawk, O’Donnell and Riggs were the closest thing he had to family. But Bic knew that even with all the money they had just made, that group was bound to find more trouble. “Yeah, but I’m thinking more of staying in Africa.”
“I respect that. Take care, my friend. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
Bic disconnected the call. He knew Parelli wasn’t a good man, but he was like family, and had been there for Bic in ’Nam, and other times after.
Bic stood out on the bow of the boat, taking in the majestic view over the ocean. I could just stay here a while, he thought, enjoying a rare moment of peace. Bic imagined his beautiful mother standing in their rundown apartment and singing with that angelic voice of hers. I love you, mama, he thought.
Then it all became a hellish torment. Bic reached for his side, eyes bulging in agony. The pain was sharp and deep. It quickly intensified, dropping him to his knees, as it felt like someone was squeezing his kidneys with a vice grip. Without warning, Bic spit up a mouthful of dark red blood.
Bic Green collapsed onto the deck, unconscious.
As Bic was dragging Tidwell to his death, smoke was curling up from the stack of a small, dilapidated wooden shack deep in the bayou outside of New Orleans.
Inside, a very old black man, with cryptic runes smeared in white paint across his face and body, held a large needle over the flame of a black candle inscribed all over with serpents, before a makeshift altar. The square table was covered in ritual rattles, thunderstones imbued with supernatural powers, necklaces, jars of poisons, and several statues of dark spirits. All were intertwined around the axis, a wooden center post with the serpent gods carved into its sides.
The iron of the needle glowed bright red. Satisfied, the man retrieved a black voodoo doll from an iron pot. He then raised up the doll and chanted a spell in an ancient language.
The man’s eyes rolled back into his head as he jabbed the needle into the doll’s side. Smoke came from the doll as the red-hot needle burned it from the inside.
As the flame reflected in his chalky white eyes, the man hissed in a deep, dark voice, “I’ll see you in Hell, my son.”
The man then twisted the needle deeper before dropping the doll back into the black pot. As he covered the pot with the intentions of locking this cursed spell of agonizing pain for eternity, he said, “It’s pork chop-eatin’ time!”
THE END
Acknowledgments
Writing this series has been over a decade long journey that I have truly enjoyed. I owe an enormous debt of gratitude to my great family, incredible friends and the skilled professionals I have worked with along the way.
To my wife, Jennifer, from reading the very first words to building the website all while taking care of our wonderful children. Without you there would be no novels, movies or songs. You are an amazing wife, mom, friend and person.
To my mom, your wisdom and our facetime laughs together is what I cherish the most. Even though you are the smartest person I know, you are always understanding and take the time to dumb it down for me. Thank you for always being there for my family.
To my sister, Nina Hunter, thank you for not only reading everything, but being there to lend your creative talent in whatever way I need.
To my sister, Gia Hughes, you have always been there with unconditional support, this book is no exception. My brother in Law, Tim Hughes, I can always count on you to come up with something creative for any of my projects when I need expertise in the medical field.
To all the talented professionals who helped sculpt this novel to its polished finish. The team of awesome editors I worked with over the many revisions: Floyd Largent, Keith Olexa, Brian T. Schmidt , Emmett Haq, Paul Lorello, Isabel Penraeth and Peter J. Wacks. Each of your knowledge and expertise in the craft of writing not only grew this novel into something I am truly proud of but were an integral part of my growth as a writer. I am grateful to have worked with such skilled and great individuals.
Special thanks to Peter J. Wacks for helping me with the final polish on the book and giving me the confidence to know that it is ready to share with the world.
Sincere praise to Erik Gevers for the impeccable formatting and to Dane Low of ebooklaunch.com for the great cover art.
Thank you to the awesome team at Next Step PR. Kiki, Colleen, Kristina, Darlene, Athena, Jill and Megan. You have done an amazing job helping me get my book out there for people to discover and I truly appreciate your dedication and guidance.
Also, sincere appreciation to all of my beta reading friends, Jeff Burtis, Bradford O’Neal, Dan Galligan, Al Sicard, Joanna Wilson and Linck Bascomb. No one ever truly knows how powerful a little positive feedback can be to energize the creative drive to the finish line. Gratitude to each of you for playing this critical role in this journey. Thank you.
A special thank you from Jennifer to Mia Sheridan and Alessandra Torre. For two of her favorite authors to give sincere advice has been a true blessing, thank you.
Finally, to my readers, without you, there would be no reason for any of this. Thank you for going on this journey with me, I am truly honored that you are here.
About the Author
Freddie Villacci, Jr. was born and raised in Wood Dale, Illinois. He earned a degree in marketing from Berry College, while playing baseball. At the age of nineteen he began to invest in the stock market and continued on with a career in the insurance and financial services industry.
In his first published Novel, Black Ghost, he has used his professional background to give depth and credibility to the plot centering around the estate death tax laws.
Besides books, he also fuels his creativity writing movie scripts and songs. FACELESS, an independent movie is due out in 2021.
Freddie loves being out in the sun, especially playing baseball and golf with his daughter and twin boys. He and his wife, Jennifer, have a passion for supporting charities that help children.
Freddie would love to connect with his readers at www.freddievillacci.com.
Get ready to continue Bic's journey! “The Cure”, a Black Ghost thriller, will be released in January 2021. Turn the page for a preview.
The Cure
A Black Ghost thriller
by
Freddie Villacci, Jr.
Copyright © 2020 by Freddie Villacci, JR.
Invincible Beauty Publishing
Chapter 1
(Two years after Book 1)
(Early July)
Bic tried to steady the pace of his pounding heart as he squeezed his massive body through a skintight hole leading into a death cave of pungent-smelling impenetrable blackness constructed by the Viet Cong. Once he got down there, he’d fire his weapon toward the source of any sound—a drip of water, a flutter of wings against a hard carapace—and each blast would reveal the contours of the cave in strobe relief, and he’d wish he hadn’t seen it…
…This is what confined spaces did to Bic Green.
He was a big guy, well over six feet tall; his dark skin tight over chiseled muscles—the kind you only get from lifting, either in a gym or on the job—and the tight chamber of the MRI machine he found himself in was the latest culprit.
For two years now, since his first collapse on the boat in the coastal waters of Seal Island, he’d been suffering blackouts. Random, without warning, and excruciating; they tortured him until some benevolent switch in his brain brought the blessed relief of unconsciousness. He had seen consultants all over the worl
d, but received no answers.
The opinions varied–allergic reaction, nervous breakdown, post-traumatic stress. One psychologist had the unmitigated gall to suggest Bic had invented the incidents in his mind. But the gob of blood he’d spit up on more than one occasion didn’t lie. Something was wrong with him and it wasn’t going to go away on its own.
He often wondered if this was God paying him back for all that he had done. If so, that was okay, he couldn’t get the pictures of those innocent victims out of his mind. Especially the two he didn’t kill, the children of the Braddick’s. That eight-year-old boy was just a year older than he was when his mom was murdered. The boy didn’t do anything, he was so scared, but he could see it in his eyes that he had wanted to really bad. One day, somehow, he’d hoped to help fix that young boy he’d taken so much from.
He’d been reluctant to return to the states since he was blackmailed into assassinating nine of the ten wealthiest people in the US, but his niece, Dr. Gracie Green, wouldn’t take no for an answer. She had arranged a panel of sub-specialized radiologists at the Duchossois Center for Advanced Medicine (DCAM) at the University of Chicago Medical Center in Hyde Park to comb over his entire body, certain that they would find answers.
Two hours later—his head still ringing from the jackhammer pounding of the MRI—Bic sat next to Gracie as she reviewed her notes in a brightly lit conference room at a highly polished oval oak table. Gracie stood slender and tall in her high heels and commanded attention with a confident, watchful demeanor. Her black hair was straightened into a bob and slicked back away from her face to behind her ear, revealing her youthful twenties face and promising never to get in the way of anything. She was wearing cobalt blue scrubs and a tailored white lab coat, which strongly contrasted with her espresso-colored skin.
Her nametag read Dr. Grace E. Green, Oncology and her lab coat had an embroidered coat of arms and the words At the Forefront, UChicago Medicine. Though she had moved her research work to her private lab, she had retained her admitting privileges and continued to see patients occasionally here at DCAM. She had earned a few chips, and today was a day she was calling most of them in.
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