GREED Box Set (Books 1-4)

by John W. Mefford

  “She's not innocent. She set us up, and we lost one of our best men. In our world, it's an eye for an eye.”

  “Now you have it, so just leave us alone,” I said, now pleading, tears almost coming to my eyes, praying these monsters would walk out of the house and our lives, leaving my wife and Andi unharmed. “You, Michael Doyle, you were not invited to Puerto Vallarta. It was none of your business. You caused us trouble. Besides that, you saw too much, so you must pay the ultimate price.”

  A deep breath escaped my body. “I'm sure we can work with Arthur and pull together some more money for you. It'll just take some time. Let me—”

  “Shut the hell up! I'm tired of you talking,” he said, growing agitated.

  Pedro started rubbing the shaft of his gun against Marisa's cheek and then Andi's shoulder. Both women began to whimper.

  “Who do you want to die first, Mr. Doyle? It's your choice,” the man said.

  I couldn't answer. I was helpless, staring at the terrified women...my wife, my colleague. I could leap at the men, but they'd kill me in a split second. I continued to look around for something to grab, to throw.

  “Tell me now, who dies first. You have ten seconds to answer, or we'll start shooting kneecaps until you give us an answer.”

  “Jesus Christ, you're fucking sick.” I said without a filter.

  Suddenly, the house went dark.

  “Nobody move,” the cigar man warned in a menacing voice. “No. Body. Move.” But someone was moving.

  I heard a squeaking chair, then quick shuffles. Without warning, glass exploded. I was knocked to the floor. Screams emanated from every direction around me.

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  My mind spinning, I felt pierced stings all over my face. What the hell was that? Looking up, I could see just a bit as lightening flashed in the backyard. Wafts of rain blew into the room, and blinds flapped uncontrollably. I inched along the floor to where I believed Marisa was tied to her chair. As I crawled, I could feel small pieces of glass under my hands and body. I couldn't stand on my feet, so I had to bear the pain as shards penetrated the skin of my hands and knees.

  The moans continued, although I heard at least one person moving around quickly. I got to the chair—no Marisa. Was she safe? Had one of the killers taken her? I moved to my right and grabbed a running shoe. A girl's hand swatted me away.

  “Andi, it's me.”

  I heard a scream, then someone yelled, “Come with me, out here.” I knew that voice. Francisco. What the hell is he doing here? Then I heard a booming gunshot. My torso flinched, and I almost swallowed my tongue. I saw a silhouette of someone rise from behind the couch. With my heart pounding out of my chest, I bolted out of my position on the floor and leaped over the couch, clothes-lining Pedro with my hurt forearm, causing the gun to go off again. Dazed and in pain, I sat up, only to see Pedro reaching for his gun. I lunged his way, but he kicked me back. Suddenly, a silver flash, then a loud shrill.

  Moments later, the lights came on. The place was in shambles. Marisa and Andi ran in from outside, hands over their faces. Francisco was on his side, blood pouring from his chest. Next to me lay Pedro, one side of his neck slashed. He wasn't moving.

  I rushed over to Francisco, and I reached out for Marisa at the same time.

  “My friend, Francisco, you have saved us again. You're going to be okay,” I said, hoping for a response. He didn't move. His lips parted slightly, whispering.

  “I was so happy when we got back...that everyone was safe. I only came to see Edgar's little girl, Marisa,” he said, as I knelt down next to him. “I was too late for Emilia.”

  “Marisa, quick, call nine one one.”

  “That won't be necessary,” said a low voice walking through the gaping hole of our house. It was detective Carl Pearson. “I got a call from your editor, Brandon Cunningham. He asked us to make a quick drive by. Seems he was a little anxious with recent events and all. Looks like we were too late.” He glanced around and saw the bodies, the blood, and a house nearly destroyed.

  “Carl, get an ambulance here as fast as possible. Francisco, our friend, has been shot. Jesus...please hurry.”

  I bent down next to Francisco and put pressure on his wound, but blood seeped through my fingers.

  “I live a life of sin for years, and nothing happens to me.” He started coughing. “Now, after I've turned my life around, this happens trying to help my friends.”

  I looked up at Marisa and pursed my lips.

  “Michael, let me look at Marisa,” Francisco said.

  She kneeled down and held his face as a flood of tears poured from her eyes.

  He said, “Both of your parents loved you very much. Remember the good in them.”

  His eyes closed, and his head moved slightly. I put my hand on his neck. No pulse. Marisa swirled around and squeezed me with every fiber in her body. Her tears soaked my shirt. Undoubtedly, she was traumatized by seeing her mother perish. Yet the words from Francisco would one day hopefully provide a comforting perspective when remembering her parents.

  “Francisco was a good man. I'll never forget him,” I said out loud, squeezing Marisa a bit tighter. Carl consoled Andi, who hadn't said a word.

  With all of the blood and death surrounding us, another thought quickly entered my mind. Instantly, I became gravely concerned for our safety.

  “Carl, there's one more, the leader, the cigar man. He must have run off!” I exclaimed.

  “Hold on there, Michael. I almost stumbled over him in the backyard. He had a couple of nasty wounds on both legs. He's not going anywhere. My men have him in custody,” he said, bringing me a sense of momentary relief.

  Now we had to deal with the grief.

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  It was almost noon, and this was my first opportunity to have a quiet moment to myself. The last several hours had been a blur, first dealing with police detectives and mortuaries, talking to countless people we didn't know, and a few we did. Throughout the process, Marisa had been in a daze, unable to comprehend what she'd seen happen to her mother. Intermittently, she'd break down, powerless to alter the events of the last several days. Thankfully, she found solace in having me there, holding me, and crying on my shoulder.

  Finally, after speaking with Brandon, we agreed to push the newspaper deadline back to three a.m., allowing our staff to pull together these groundbreaking stories.

  Headline: Teenage Drug Provider Arrested

  Sub-header: Son of Prominent Family Admits Providing Deadly Concoction to Teen Byline: Andi Osborne

  I read Andi's incredible journey and the intriguing details about the boy who was supposed to become a senator. The report also dove into the subculture of many of the kids in the public high school, painting a disturbing picture.

  I asked Rose to pull together the facts regarding Trudy's abduction and our subsequent rescue mission. And with Marisa's blessing, the story included our connection to Francisco and ultimately what led to the home invasion that killed Mama Emilia—and nearly everyone else who knew her.

  Headline: Home Invasion Connected to Drug Cartel

  Sub-header: Two People Killed, Including Family Member of Associate Publisher

  Byline: Rose Tipton

  “You look worse than I do,” Brandon quipped as he entered my office, trying to lighten the mood with the slight jab.

  “You've got me on that one,” I said, continuing to admire our work, yet at the same time wishing more than anything that the story hadn't touched our family.

  “It's amazing that we got all these stories in today's paper. Real dedication by this staff,” Brandon said, nodding his head. “But I think we'll certainly have ample opportunity for some follow-up. Andi has more detail to include about this soccer coach, response from the school district on Andi's experience, their own internal investigation. And Zachary's parents, or rather their lawyers, might have a few things to say.”

  “Yep,” I said plainly, ignoring a thought that had just en
tered my mind.

  ***

  I drove over to Arthur's home, where I'd dropped off Marisa earlier in the morning. The two of us sat on the back porch, touching each other, calmly rocking in the swinging chair, gazing across the pond. Cicadas buzzed, a breeze soothed our faces. My eyes closed momentarily, allowing the calm to sink in. We said little. We had fought a battle, one that was permanently etched in our souls. Lives had been wasted and lost. We lived. But we would never forget.

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  "I got a call from Pop on the way into work this morning," I said, staring straight ahead, trying to admire the beautiful rolling vista across the Sparnakel property.

  “Had he heard the news already?” asked Marisa, delicately blowing her red nose.

  “At a high level, yes, but...”

  I pondered whether Marisa could withstand any further emotional upheaval. Ever since my Pop and I spoke, my stomach had been churning. I believed if I withheld what I knew any longer, I'd feel like I was deceiving Marisa.

  “Baby, I have something to tell you...I need to tell you. This is going to be tough for me, so I'm sorry if I get emotional, especially since you're dealing with so much right now. I just don't think I can wait any longer.”

  I spoke and Marisa listened. As usual, she provided unyielding support and a caring soul. She helped me bring out a lot of pent-up emotion...anger, resentment, and sadness, just as I'd done for her in recent days. She then convinced me to put my thoughts on paper—and in the paper.

  The next morning, I sat down and reread the end of an editorial I'd written in the Thursday edition of the Times Herald.

  Anniversaries are usually celebrated...recalling that special moment when you recited your vows to the love of your life, or on a less emotional level, commemorating the number of years of loyal service to your company.

  This community will undoubtedly recall the last several months with somber remorse, forever wondering if we could have prevented any or all of the drug overdose deaths. The most recent death to a charming, energetic, friendly sixteen-year-old sophomore, Courtney Owens, opened the eyes and hearts of what can be a cynical journalistic lot. Her father, Stu, is one of this paper's finest reporters. Ten years from now, he will remember the day he got the call while at work to tell him his daughter was tossed out of a car at the hospital, without clothes, and with little hope for recovery. She died several hours later, as did a piece of Stu's heart.

  Both as a responsibility to this community and in support of one of our company family members, we sought to tackle this drug problem on every angle possible. Andi Osborne deserves much of the credit for uncovering the drug supplier who killed Courtney, as well as bringing to light the addictive subculture smothering our youth. This is what they call the proverbial wakeup call. These aren't rumors or hearsay. It's solid proof that we're failing our kids, and likely others, who have developed an insatiable appetite for relying on illegal substances to provide for them what they can't receive through more natural means. For many of you who suspect your child or loved one has an uncontrollable addiction, you may wonder how to address it with them. What will it mean to your reputation, and theirs?

  These are all understandable questions. For starters, know that you're not alone in your quest to help your loved ones admit their compulsions...addictions that could ruin their lives and those around them. Addiction breeds distrust like bacteria growing in your brain, slowly eating away at your ability to be rational. It attracts people with bad intentions, even violent criminals, like maggots drawn to trash. Mostly, it destroys relationships.

  I know all these things because, as my father, Pop, reminded me, yesterday was the tenth anniversary of my mom passing away. According to the obituary and all of her friends and family, she fell down the staircase, tragically ending a life too early to see her son get married or, in the future, to play with her grandkids. Pop and I never discussed the real reason why Mom died—until his phone call. She was a meth addict. I have various theories as to why this God-fearing woman turned to a substance so heinous that you'd have to stick a needle in your arm to receive the ultimate high. Who knows where the connection was made, or what link in her DNA induced a desire to flirt with death? The mom who insisted I put a hat on my head when it was cold outside, convinced herself that sticking a poisonous needle in her arm or between her toes was rational and logical. The mind can certainly play tricks.

  I denied the signs for years, as did Pop. One more life stolen. Young, old, professional, blue collar, aspiring politician, or high school student, once drugs become the centerpiece of your life, even unknowingly, it can grab you and never let go until every ounce of your existence is sucked away...up your nose, through a needle or a bong.

  Don't wait until you're marking another morbid anniversary. Be brave. Be bold. And know you're not in it alone. People at your church, friends at your school, your neighbors, and even those working at your newspaper care, want to help, and might possibly be looking for the same support.

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  Rocking from side to side with his eyes shut, Zachary let the warm, gusty wind gently slap his face. Sheer curtains fluttered on either side of him, occasionally brushing his arm. The breeze, carrying a scent of freshly cut Bermuda grass, tickled exposed skin near his hairline, and he ran his hand across his fuzzy new head of hair. The buzz cut felt like one of those Chia Pets. He inhaled everything that nature had to offer, then slowly emptied his lungs.

  His search for internal peace and fortitude had found a temporary safe zone. Zachary wanted to bottle up this moment and replay it over and over again. Distract yourself, find that relaxing state of mind, take your recovery one day at a time—he repeated the phrases uttered by every counselor and shrink he'd seen. At times, he seemed to act more like a programmed follower. Say these words, find your place of peace, take these pills, and all will be well. If you get urges, repeat the previous cycle until your mind literally forgets about anything else that exists.

  He could write a book on how to deal with these people—so out of touch with reality he thought. Still, it had worked, mostly, for the last month or so. Who was he fooling? He knew the exact number of days since he last felt drugs course through his veins. Every addict knows the number like it's a digital sign implanted in your forehead so you can be constantly reminded of your “little victories.” He'd stared at his clock each night until midnight, only to breathe a sigh of relief that he had made it one more day. Could he last another twenty-four hours?

  Thirty-two. That was today's number, one he'd been mentally circling for a week because it matched his football jersey number. Thirty-two days since he'd been able to escape the pain and guilt. An incredible high, followed by a life-shattering low. A process he'd repeated so often he didn't know the number. Thirty-two days since an illegal substance had raced through his bloodstream. He touched the left side of his neck, and his fingers felt a thick vein. It marked the final entry point for his last phenomenal escape. The girl had buried the needle deep in his skin. The blood, the double dose of drugs, the ensuing haze—it had all freaked him out, although not as much as it had the doctors. And not as much as his parents.

  The son of William and Penelope Taylor couldn't be exposed to such a dirty habit. The eventual heir to the throne would right the ship, regain his confidence, and reestablish his path towards sheer greatness. Was there ever another option? Perfection in this family was expected.

  Zachary gazed across the south side of the Taylor estate, an enormous green meadow of grass, bordering a sloping hill of Texas wildflowers—full of purple, red, and yellow. The sea of color rippled with movement from blustery winds. He glanced over at his trunk sitting at the end of his bed. He pondered the contents, then looked down as he picked the skin around two nails, which were now mere nubs.

  He recalled the day he'd been rolled off the plane, set on a gurney, and taken to the county hospital—the same one where he'd dropped off Courtney to die. Upon first seeing his par
ents, he couldn't hide the tears, and he reached out for them. He yearned to be smothered with love, hugs, and kisses. Joy that he was alive, hope that he could survive and rebuild his mind, body, and soul under a different set of rules. A less anxious world, one where he could make mistakes, accept failures...dare to be average. All with the steadfast support of Mom and Dad.

  Instead, his parents treated him like a possession. They touched his hands more like he was a clingy toddler. They asked the doctors lots of questions. A quick air kiss, then back to the doctors and nurses, and then on to counselors and shrinks. They needed a plan...a process to get their son healthy, sober, and back on track. No expense was too great. He felt like a piece of meat. He only wanted their love...their unconditional love.

  Zachary clenched his teeth and stuck out his jaw. He turned to look outside. Three stories below he saw his father and older brother having a discussion. They stood close to each other, next to his brother's new black convertible. His brother was somewhat animated, then his head dropped. Dad put his hand on Harrison's shoulder. He touched his right cheek, then took the back of his neck and brought Harrison closer. The two embraced. His father whispered into his ear. Harrison stepped to get into his car, then looked back.

  Zachary stared at his father's lips. “I love you, son.” He was sure he saw those words leave his mouth. A tear bubbled in Zachary's eye. Pulsing knots swirled in his stomach.

  He stepped to his trunk, unlatched the lock, and opened the leathered top. He pulled out two items, feeling the weight of each, and set them on his bedside table. One had power over him, the other over everyone else.

  He didn't think. He didn't recite the trance-induced phrases or find his peace; he just reacted and snatched the bottle, spun off the lid and chugged until the bourbon spilled down his chin. He didn't bother wiping his mouth, he just took another deep swig. His eyes stared at the wall, but saw at nothing at all. He was on a mission...to oblivion.