RITUAL SACRIFICE: The Ultimate Alpha Female & Political Corruption on the West Coast (Noah Reid Action Suspense Thriller Series Book 5)

by Wesley Robert Lowe

  Noah springs back, but Brad jumps up and charges at the foundation president. “You want me, you gotta pay.”

  “Chillax, man. I was checking to make sure you’re okay,” says Noah as he whacks the attacking knife out of harm’s way.

  “I am not okay, and neither will you be when I’m done!” screams Brad.

  The pain in Brad’s voice tells Noah that there is more here than a scared kid.

  The yelling rouses the other kids, and they see Brad battling with Noah. They jump and rush at him, too. More knives. Chains. Broken booze bottles.

  For a moment, Noah flashes back to the Hong Kong basketball court when he met Sam.

  Five Months Ago

  Sam pulls a chain out of his jeans, starts swinging it like a sword fighter and comes at Noah. “Try me, white boy.”

  “Not here you don’t,” calls Chad.

  “Out of my way, Chad,” shouts Sam.

  Chad throws the basketball hard at Sam’s abdomen. It doesn’t get through because the chains get in the way. However, the chains immobilize the teen, and Chad grabs Sam by the hair. Sam starts yelling, “Child abuse! Child abuse!”

  “Shut up, or I’ll show you what real abuse is.”

  But even without weapons, these kids just want to go at it, and there’s a dog pile of kicking, thumping and slugging.

  “Oh shit,” says Noah. He doesn’t really want to do this but has no choice.

  He grabs one kid by the neck from the pile. Screaming with legs dangling, the kid is thrown six feet up in the air. Six inches before he crashes to the ground, Noah scoops him up and chucks him to the side.

  Another kid runs at him with a knife, slashing away. Noah swivels with a masterful aerial leg strike that knocks the boy six feet back before crashing to the ground. Somehow, Noah has delivered his kick in such a way that the knife flies spinning directly to Chad, who grabs it in midair.

  Another group of kids swarms to attack. Noah shrieks like a bulldog bat from hell as he charges at them. A triple spin kick puts one punk out of commission. Another is leveled with a flying sidekick. One swift chop to the chest puts another down. A series of straight blast blows knocks three kids in a row down, and Bruce Lee’s trademark mighty backfists—bang, bang, bang—bring down those trying to attack him from behind.

  Noah jumps back into the martial arts stance and barks at the group. “Anyone else want to rock?”

  With no one else wanting to take him on, Noah relaxes. He makes the Shaolin hand sign to the boys who lie panting on the ground. “Peace.” Noah smiles.

  The boys jump up and crowd around him, “You’re so cool,” “Teach me,” “C’mon, Noah,” “You’re the man,” “I wanna learn… ”

  Back to the present, Noah sees Brad coming at him, except his weapons of choice are more dangerous than Sam’s—used and new heroin needles, some filthy, some full of who knows what.

  The youth flies at Noah.

  Noah does a series of backward handsprings to evade the needles just before they are about to enter his head.

  He then adopts a Tiger and Crane pose, curling his hands in the air like a tiger’s paws and standing on one leg like a crane.

  The kids rush at Noah, waving the needles and yelling like crazed hyenas.

  When they arrive, Noah furiously kicks out at one of his attackers, landing a solid foot squarely on the chest. His victim collapses, winded and gasping for breath.

  Tiger paws followed by a rapid series of hammer punches to heads and abdomens clamp down on others. Kicks and swipes to their hands and arms knock the needles out of their grasp.

  Reeling from the counterassault, the teens rush en masse at Noah.

  This time, Noah stands his ground and lets the kids swing wildly at him.

  It’s not as dangerous as it sounds—prolonged substance abuse has seriously diminished their motility and mobility.

  Noah ducks, steps left then right.

  Then danger notches up. Brad whips out a gun and fires six shots at Noah.

  Noah holds his ground as he grabs the first two bullets aimed at his chest out of midair.

  A deft aerial sideswipe kicks away a bullet in midflight aimed at his leg.

  The last three Noah dodges, then he springs into the air, all the while keeping his arms by his side, not retaliating, or countering at all.

  Noah then throws the bullets gripped in his hand back at Brad.

  With precision aim, they rap at his knuckles, and he drops the gun.

  With a breaking-the-sound-barrier yell, Noah attacks all of his foes.

  Rocket punches to heads and torsos. Bullet kicks out at chests. Finally, elbows on skulls.

  All the kids lie on the ground, gulping for air.

  “Any of you knuckleheads want to try that again?” snarls Noah as he does a rapid series of Shaolin attack blows in the air at an imaginary foe.

  “Man, you rock, Ninja,” pants Brad.

  “You ain’t seen shit,” says Noah as he puts his foot on Brad’s neck.

  “You gotta teach us,” says Amy.

  “I don’t teach losers, and I don’t teach druggies. A waste of my time,” says Noah.

  “Dude, we’re cool. Anything you say,” says Stanley.

  Noah sees the group nodding in agreement as they get struggle to their feet.

  Noah kicks out and jumps into his Tiger stance with hands curled in the air like claws ready to rip apart anything in their way. “Then let’s do it.”

  All the kids jump into position. Noah leads them in an exercise sequence.

  “Left, right, kick… Right, left, kick… ”

  It works in Hong Kong, works in Shanghai and maybe, it’ll work in Oregon. Maybe just like in Hong Kong, some of these kids will leave the streets—just like Sam did.

  If that happens, it’ll all be worth it.

  Ten minutes later, the kids are bagged but loving Noah.

  They high-five him, promising to get their acts together and head off to their homes.

  Noah notices Brad isn’t going anywhere.

  “You want to have breakfast?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  ***

  Triple egg omelets with hash browns, bacon, sausages, ham and a stack of pancakes sit in front of Noah and Brad. The young Native American virtually inhales them, they disappear so fast while Noah is still working on pancake number one.

  “So what’s your game, Noah? Nobody ever comes to Coyote Creek,” says the teen.

  “I’m here to check the place out. Heard that it could use a little help.”

  Brad snorts. “You got a magic wand? Place needs a lot of help.”

  As Noah listens to Brad for the next half hour, he hears the same story of pain that kids from Beijing to New York have told him hundreds of times before. Despite his rough appearance, Brad is an articulate and insightful young man. He adds an element that Noah hasn’t heard before—the long tradition of racism against Native Americans, how it began with the Pilgrims. Sexual abuse among the women at three times the national average. Cultural genocide against their traditions. The attitudes of teachers in the schools. Calling their ceremonial dances witchcraft. The banning of their honor songs in public places.

  “So what gives with the tribal council here? What are they doing?”

  Brad snickers. “Bunch of losers. Every one of them. Suckholes to the white man.”

  “I’ve talked to your chief. He’s trying hard.”

  “He’s the worst.”

  “How can you say that?”

  “He’s my father.”

  “He’s the reason I’m here. I’m meeting with him in half an hour.”

  Brad shudders. “You won’t tell him about the… ”

  “Drugs, booze, chains, guns, knives? He already knows. He’s not as lame as you think.”

  Chapter 16

  Although they have met many times separately, this is the first time that the tribal council, a representative from the gambling subcommittee and Prez have convened in one room tog
ether. Sandy and Prez, both in power suits, display no sign of recognition of each other. They came in separate vehicles, arrived at separate times, and to the council, it seems that this is also the first time they have met.

  As the representative of both the gambling committee and the tribal council, Krystal is the official liaison between the two groups and opens the meeting.

  “Okay, I got to start with some bad news. Hiram Franklin, the committee chairman, was found dead. It’s kind of bizarre, but the state troopers think he was probably eaten by a cougar.”

  Murmurs around the room. None of them liked Hiram, but this kind of death was hardly the way they would have wanted anyone to go.

  “We voted to install vice chair Alexandra Patterson as our new chair of both the larger committee and this subcommittee. Sandy is here this morning to share what the committee has decided. It’s her first time, so let’s give her a big Coyote River greeting.”

  Polite applause as Sandy offers a plastic politician’s smile and a bowing of the head.

  “Thanks for welcoming me. I have some good news today. Maybe it was seeing how Hiram’s death made us realize time is fleeting, but somehow, after years of debating, the gambling committee had a breakthrough last night. We had a unanimous agreement on how to solve our gambling problems.”

  A burst of applause erupts.

  “What is it, Ms. Patterson?” asks Sally.

  “Just call me Sandy.” Sandy takes a breath. “The committee believes that we should sell the entire complex to Prez for one hundred and fifty million dollars, let her run things and the tribe will collect 15 percent of the profits. One hundred million of it will go to the Coyote River Tribe, and the balance will go to the state of Oregon.”

  Talk about a bombshell.

  There are three seconds of silence, and then everyone starts talking at once. Some hate the idea; some love it. Some accuse Krystal of selling the tribe out; others laud her for being the savior.

  It starts to get nasty with racial slurs slung like barbed arrows. Krystal is tagged as the “white man’s slut.” Prez is christened the “slant-eyed sleaze.”

  Chief shouts, “Enough. Enough!”

  The room’s volume lowers but not its temperature.

  Melva says calmly, “Krystal, this isn’t what we talked about at all. We never said anything about selling outright.”

  “No, but it was time to change direction. We were getting nowhere with the old way. Sandy gave us an idea to get out of the jam we were in.”

  “Our ancestors would want the best for us. This is a good deal. Our problems will be over, and we will be one hundred million dollars richer in a month. Prez looks after all the headaches, and we get a cut of the action,” says Turk.

  “My family’s been here hundreds of years. Our blood is here,” argues Russell.

  “Granted, but let’s be honest. Our blood is getting diluted. Hardly anyone, maybe no one, is a purebred anymore.”

  “My ancestors would roll over in their graves,” says Russell, shaking his head.

  “I love the idea. If we want to keep going, that’s going be enough to let us play with the big boys,” says Freddy with memories of Vegas still in his mind.

  Then a shock from out of the blue. “Well, I’ve been talking to others, too, and owning the casino is not our only alternative.”

  All eyes turn to Chief.

  “You’ve been going behind our backs?” questions Turk.

  “No, I’ve been exploring options. Listen, we don’t need the Coyote River. We need something that will help our young people.”

  Turk explodes. “We’ve been through that, Chief. The Coyote River gives us jobs. Jobs are the number one priority.”

  “No, you’re wrong, Turk. People are the number one priority.”

  Turk makes the “talk, talk, talk” sign with his hands. “I’m so tired of this political BS talk. Sounds great. Means nothing. My brother’s left. My sister’s left. Most of your kids have left. Why? There’s no jobs here. Can’t get enough fish for ourselves. No one uses a bow and arrow for hunting, and we can’t sell the meat even if we could snag a deer. And the Coyote River’s dying. You’re gonna be the only one left on the land if we don’t cut a deal with Prez. You talk about people. Well, people need jobs. Not everyone gets six figures for being our council leader.”

  “They don’t need jobs as hookers, drug dealers or pimps,” Chief snaps back. “And you know that six-figure salary you’re busting my balls about just gets put back directly into the tribe coffers.”

  “After your family has been drinking out of the trough for fifty years.”

  “No need for that, Turk,” says Melva. “I been working for the hotel since day one, and the glory days are far behind us. We should think of something else.”

  Krystal turns to Prez. “What do you think of all this, Prez? Is this workable?”

  “Thanks Krystal. I really appreciate the committee’s huge vote of confidence in me.”

  She then looks to the other members of the tribal council. “Before you think I’ve gone and done a deal behind your back, I assure you I did not. I got a late heads-up call last night from Sandy. This is not something I asked for. All I proposed was to pay off your immediate debts, leave ownership to you and take a percentage of profits.”

  “We’re way past that now,” says Turk.

  “Yes, but that’s where we started.”

  “You don’t know anything about running a big-time casino,” says Chief.

  “Actually, that’s exactly what my family in Macau does.”

  Prez plugs in her laptop into the monitoring system and plays a video of the Tiger Palace—everyone’s jaws drop as she narrates. It’s not the same as the one Prez played for Sandy—this one has been edited to hit the tribal council’s hot buttons.

  “Our family’s Tiger Palace is one of the jewels of Macau. As you can see, we have preserved Chinese culture with artifacts and enhanced it with newly created pieces of art. In fact, our collection is better than most museums except the very largest. That is very important to us, not only culturally, but in use for marketing. In an area that is full of other fantastic casinos, block after block, we are consistently profitable, and we believe our emphasis on showcasing who we are as people is one of the reasons this is so.”

  Prez pauses a moment and sees that this was a big brownie point.

  She continues. “These are some of our employees. Waiters, acrobats, casino workers. More than three thousand of them. They have good jobs that pay them well. Their kids play basketball, they have decent cars and clothes and own modest but very nice homes. There is nothing wrong with being a dealer, a waiter or waitress, working security, a gaming supervisor or a maintenance worker. Not to mention all the jobs that come from being part of a hotel. Housekeepers, reservation clerks. Are there some who make a little extra on the side? Sure. But that’s their business, not ours. We make sure they get enough to buy a Ford. If they want to buy a Volvo or Lexus, well, sorry. That’s not us.”

  The video stops, and Prez turns to the group. “My plan would be to implement a similar environment here. Let’s revive the heritage of Coyote River Tribe. Russell, how many pieces of art do you have on display on the tribal lands?”

  Russell makes a 0 with his thumb and index finger.

  “My point. I would keep artists like Russell employed for the rest of their lives making new pieces of art. When was the last time there was a powwow? When was the last time there was a ceremonial dance?”

  “Those are sacred,” says Sally.

  “Elder Sally, I understand your concern, but think about it. Your young people have never seen one. Doesn’t it make sense that they will understand who they are and where they come from if they are actively participating in rituals that will not only entertain but educate those that come here? These are just a couple of ideas I have. I’ve been quiet until now, but I have been thinking about them for a long time.”

  “Excuse me, Prez, but all you are talk
ing about is putting our people up like exhibits in a zoo for people to gawk at and say, ‘Look at those illiterate heathens.’ I want to do something positive for our young people. Train them. Give them some self-respect,” says Chief, almost in a whisper. “Coyote River hasn’t done that and won’t.”

  Turk explodes again at the Chief. “The problems started because of old farts like you, Chief. You have some romantic view of what our people are like. The truth is we are despised by the white man. They take advantage of us, our women, our kids, our weaknesses. This is a chance for us to get out of the hole. What’s there to talk about?”

  Twenty-one-year-old Gina steps in. “I got three kids by three different dads. They all left me. No child support. Not even a Christmas card or birthday present from any one of them. One’s driving a truck, long haul from Seattle to Kansas. Another overdosed in San Francisco. Third one’s a bum in Portland. You want to do something positive? People don’t need no feel-good kind of crap to explore their feelings. They don’t need some “psycho-ologist” to talk to ‘em about depression. They need damned jobs. Here. Otherwise, they go away.”

  Chief remains calm. “Thanks, Prez. Give us a couple of hours to talk, and we’ll get back to you.”

  “Chief, you’re always talking about later. Why not now?” spits out Turk.

  “Because we have a meeting in fifteen minutes with another interested party who just came into town. I’ll go get him.”

  What the hell? Sandy can feel Prez’s eyes boring directing into her brain. “Excuse me, Chief. What is going on? You never told the committee that you were talking to anyone else,” says Sandy.

  “It just came up. We need to have all our options open. Prez, please excuse us. Sandy, will you stay?”

  “Of course.”

  Prez steps in. “Just to reiterate. This idea of my buying the tribe out did not come from me. I was, and am still happy, to go along with the original idea. I will pay off your immediate problems and just take a percentage. You can keep control.”

  She steps out of the room.