by John Turney
WHISKEY
SUNRISE
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.
Dedication
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.
PRAISE FOR WHISKEY SUNRISE
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
Acknowledgements
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.
Prologue
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 clot
hes 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.
An owl sounded far up the canyon. He shivered. In the Navajo tradition, an owl represented a newly departed soul.
Just then, about a hundred feet up the canyon floor, car lights blazed on, blinding him. High beams. Juan turned his head sideways to avoid the glare. Car doors opened and shut.
“Here comes da man,” Bandana said behind him.
Squinting, Juan watched several people approach—shapes distorted by the illumination of the car lights. Boots crunched on the ground. He recognized the tall shadow in front.
Santo polvo. Demonio.
“Amigo,” said the Demonio shadow. “I hate to do what I’m about to do, but even more, I hate when an … asset … steals from me. In my line of business, the mere appearance of weakness is a … drawback. I can’t have people thinking I’m weak. ¿Comprende?”
“But … but … I didn’t take anything … I promise. Not a thing. Nada.”
“I see with my very eyes what you take. The Indian trinket is nothing. A pretty bauble, si?” Demonio held up a silver wristband, gleaming in the headlights. “For that you’d lose the tip of your pinky finger. But taking my packets of merchandise?” He shook his head with a downward glance. “Not good. And for this, you must pay. A bullet to the knee. Maybe you never walk again … but you’re alive.”
A person in the group behind Demonio handed him something and said, “Caro petridas es.”
Latin? There’s only one person I know who speaks Latin.
“Then my security hands me photos. Like this one of you watching my wife swim in the natural.” He flicked the picture, and it hit Juan in the chest. “Or one with you talking to her while she’s in the pool.” He flicked another photo at Juan. “You like to watch other men’s wives? What are you? A pervert?”
“Wait. I can explain.”
“No. No explanations. They are only lies. But there is more, no? I assume you recognize this.” Demonio shoved a cell phone under Juan’s nose.
Juan blinked, suppressing a wave of nausea.
“I search your room. When guests stay at my home,” Demonio shrugged, “I take precautions. A business thing, you understand. I can’t be too safe. And I find this cell phone. But it’s not the cell phone I provide my associates. So I wonder … why does he need another cell phone? I supply him the best. So I check. Can you guess what my technician found on your phone?”
“The latest Lady Gaga ringtone?”
Demonio laughed, smashed the phone against Juan’s forehead, and dropped it. “You are a funny man. No, I find many calls to a number in America. So I think, ‘Who is he calling in the States?’ I find this very special phone number. To the police chief in Whiskey, Arizona.” Demonio drove his boot heel into the phone, shattering it. “You’re an undercover pig. You have betrayed me. Sold me out to the people who stole our homeland. Sold out my plans for the new Mexico. You steal so much from me. From my associates. From my employees. From our countrymen. So I will take back from you … slowly.”
“Plans for the new Mexico?” Juan licked his dry lips. “Your business is nothing but a bunch of self-serving drug smugglers.”
Demonio responded by drawing a knife from its sheath. Juan tried to pull back, but Bandana grabbed him by the forearms. Demonio approached, waving a black-bladed combat knife.
“You delude no one,” Juan said, calm masking his fear. “Our … countrymen know what you are.”
Juan glimpsed the arc of the blade, followed by a searing sting across his chest. A downward glance showed him a sliced shirt and a crimson line from nipple to nipple.
Bloody minutes passed like eons before Juan could take no more. He opened his mouth and screamed. He didn’t stop for a long time.
CHAPTER 1
WEDNESDAY, 6:42 AM
I hope the desert’s in a good mood today.
Rye Dawlsen strolled to his police Tahoe. Fingering the dog tags under his uniform shirt, he hummed an Enemyway chant—“Anaa’ji” in the old tongue—meant to excise evil from the land. Something his Navajo mother had taught him as a child. Why do I even practice this stuff? Except that the wicked have crept into this land like a plague of locusts.
His white father taught him real men drink. Now that’s a habit I can glide along with.
In the quiet dawn, his western boots crunched upon t
he gravel driveway. Steam rose from the coffee travel mug he carried. Goose bumps formed on his arms from the morning chill, but the cool wouldn’t last long. Not this time of the year.
He rested his forearms against the top of the SUV doorframe, peered over the roof, and sipped coffee, his attention drawn to the horizon. As the desert morphed from grays into rich colors, he opened the passenger car door, reached into the glove compartment, and pulled out a pair of military issue binoculars.
Sunlight exploded into blood reds on the underside of the plum-topped clouds brooding along the eastern mountains. The weather report warned of a rogue hurricane barreling down on the Baja coast. Hopefully, we’ll get some rain from it.
He raised the binoculars to his eyes and focused the field glasses. The distant landscape of thorny vegetation, rocks, and sand jumped in close as he performed a slow pirouette. A realm of precarious life and easy death. Days of boiling temps and frigid nights. Now, with all the recent activity of the drug cartels—the shooting of a Phoenix school official and the kidnapping of a state senator’s daughter—Rye spent several minutes each morning searching for any signs of cartel or immigration activity.
Seeing nothing besides arid desolation, he returned the binoculars to their place in the glove box. Once behind the steering wheel, he laid his white Stetson on the passenger seat, crown side down. He keyed the ignition and kicked up the air conditioning. Giving his postage-sized piece of desert a final once over, Rye made sure no one lingered around his doublewide, southwest-styled mobile home. He checked to ensure he had closed the gate to his chicken coop. Didn’t want his birds running loose in the desert. He slipped the Tahoe’s gear into reverse and backed onto the gravel road SR01, a small lane with several lots feeding from it.
The dusty haze he created hung like cheesecloth in the air. He drove past several trailer homesteads resembling his: a mobile home, a shed and a small sandy yard. Tiny rectangles of humanity hacking inroads into a sparse land.