Alexa Book 1 (Starring Alexa Guerra - The Female Jack Reacher): Fatal - (Mystery, Thriller, Romantic Suspense) (Alexa - The Series)

by Arno Joubert

  “A scrape? They had to dig a metal slug out of my thigh, you uncaring oaf.” She lifted her hand to punch him again, but he glared at her, pointing a finger.

  Alexa sat up. “Let’s go for a swim.”

  Neil looked at her uncertainly. “I could try.”

  She jumped up and hobbled toward the sea, glancing over his shoulder. “What, you afraid you’ll drown?” She waded into the waves and stood with her hands on her hips, waiting for him.

  She laughed as Neil stood up stiffly then jogged painfully over the sand. He muttered “Ow” with every uncomfortable step he took. He glanced up at her, muttering expletives through a clenched jaw. “This is all your fault,” he grumbled.

  “I love you too, baby,” she said with a laugh and splashed some water into his face.

  Let’s Talk!

  I would like to say a very big THANK YOU to all the readers for making Fatal an Amazon Best Seller!

  That’s right! Fatal has made me one of the Top 100 Authors in the Romantic Suspense charts on the Amazon Best Sellers list, and I would like to extend my most heartfelt thanks to all of the readers who have made this possible.

  Still.

  Writing is a lonesome occupation. So I’m going to ask you, my reader, a huge favor.

  Please get in touch with me. Write me at arno@africaskyblue.com and tell me what you think, what you enjoyed, and where you reckon I should improve. Hey, I’m no Stephen King or Thomas Mann for that matter, but I do think I spin an interesting yarn, and if you would like to continue on this journey with me, please let me know.

  And if you have a moment to spare, please leave a review for this book or any of the other books you may have read.

  It would be greatly appreciated.

  You may also sign up for my newsletter to receive exclusive content and short stories, notice of sales and new releases, and invitations to review advanced copies of upcoming books. You will never be spammed, and if you want to unsubscribe, click the link at the bottom of every newsletter.

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  Hope to hear from you Guerrians soon!

  Arno Joubert

  Author of the FATAL Series

  Acknowledgments

  Writing a novel is lonely, challenging, intimidating, monotonous work. But also extremely self-fulfilling and gratifying, especially when a reader comments on your expert knowledge on a particular subject area.

  When a novelist starts his career, he or she often makes mistakes and they subsequently get one star reviews for the work that they’ve poured their heart and soul into perfecting.

  Why?

  Because, as a writer, we are stupid, or too lazy to do some proper research. You see, we make things up for a living, so who would care that army troops cannot parachute from a B-52 bomber? But people do care. To suspend disbelief and truly submerge yourself in a story, it has to be as close to reality as possible.

  As a writer, you need to get your facts straight.

  Luckily there are some gifted readers and confidantes who gently point out our mistakes and indiscretions, reminding me that I cannot simply hit someone’s septum into his brain, and that it is disrespectful to toss bags of donated blood on the ground.

  Without these specialists who have painstakingly taken their valuable time to pore over my tomes, the work would have been so much weaker, and I cannot thank them enough.

  So here is a shoutout to all the people who have helped me during the past year:

  Doctor Rob Gentz for your medical expertise, useful comments and observations and just your humorous way of pointing out my mistakes. Man, I should have paid more attention in those anatomy classes. Also, thanks for being a pal! Next beer’s on me, man.

  To Colonel Kenneth Gerchman, thanks for all the advice on how to blow various things up, explaining to me which is the weapon of choice in CQB’s (Close Quarter Battles) and thank you as well for pointing out that the term “Ex-Marine” is a misnomer. I get it, the men worked hard to earn the title; they will always stay Marines. I salute you, sir.

  Laura Kingsley, my Content Editor. Your brilliant mind and sharp wit inspires me to be so much more than I can be. They day you said that, ‘there's a good book lurking in the mess’, I felt so proud that you didn’t simply say that I should stop writing this blathering rubbish. Thank you for your observations and guidance, and soon, another piece of hogwash will make its way to your inbox to be ripped open and torn apart and cajoled into some coherent tome that I will be proud to display to the world. But, all jokes aside. Honestly, thanks. I couldn’t have started this journey without your expert guidance and advice. You’re the best, and don’t stop chastising me, I’ll get there in the end.

  Amy Maddox, copy editor extraordinaire, perfectionist and all-round fantastic human being. If I had a penny for every mistake you have picked up, and another for every time I asked “Now how did I miss that?” I would have been a gazillionaire by now. You put so much effort into polishing my work, whatever I pay you is not enough. Thank you so much for all your help and God Speed to a truly nice person.

  Finally, thanks to my enduring and loving wife, Deidre’. I’ll make dinner tonight, I promise.

  Excerpt from Alexa Book 2 : Peak Oil

  Gypsy Fair,

  Forth Worth, Texas.

  The two fighters were surrounded by a rough-looking crowd. Tattooed men wearing white vests and jeans and gold-cord necklaces were slapping their fists into their palms, shouting and jeering. Scantily dressed women wearing too much make-up shrieked one-liners that the snot-nosed kids on their hips shouldn’t have had to entertain at such a young age.

  Neil rolled on the ground, leaving a trail of dust in his wake. The crowd around them jostled backwards, instantly enlarging the diameter of the ring. They whooped, shouting encouragement to their favorite fighter.

  Neil shook his head and gasped. The guy had sucker-punched him without warning. He wiped the sweat from his brow, leaving behind a brown smudge of caked dust on his forehead. He looked up as his opponent advanced with a sneer, the man’s hands clutching open and closed as if working on an invisible stress ball.

  He reminded Neil of Bigfoot or the Yeti or some fictitious monster you had nightmares about as a kid after staying up late to watch the twilight zone. Big and hairy. He had small beady eyes, spaced close together below a unibrow. They darted around in his oversized skull, scrutinizing Neil intently, like a predator probing its victim for any potential weaknesses.

  Neil pushed himself up and rolled his head on his shoulders. He spat blood on the floor and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Lucky shot. You won’t get a second.”

  Neil circled the man, keeping his arms to his side. The crowd clapped rhythmically, baying for blood. “Get him Tommy, wallop ‘is ‘ead in.”

  Glancing at the loudmouth in the crowd he made a mental note. Bloody Pete Ramboli. Asshole. He would deal with him later.

  Bigfoot saw his opportunity and lunged, throwing a sharp right. Neil ducked below the blow and retaliated with a right hook to his stomach. The large man doubled over and Neil swung his body up, the back of his skull landing with a sickening crack on Bigfoot’s chin. The man stood up straight, swinging his arms like a tightrope walker trying to keep his balance. Neil finished him off with a roundhouse left to the jaw.

  Bigfoot corkscrewed to the ground, landing face-first in the dirt. Small puffs of dust billowed up from a flaring nostril, the only sign the hairy ogre was still alive.

  Neil’s face tightened in a pained grimace as he shook his hand. A section of the crowd had rushed towards to him, shouting their congratulations and lifting his arms up high. The majority of the people dispersed slowly, muttering and swearing beneath their breaths.

  Two men heaved Neil onto their shoulders and proceeded to parade him around the ever dwindling circle of onlookers like a prized trophy.

  “Oi, Pete,” Neil yelled at the spectator who had wanted his head
bashed in. The man turned around and jutted out his chin, a questioning look on his face.

  Neil punched his finger toward the man. “You’d like to challenge me?”

  The man frowned, then grinned sheepishly and shook his head.

  “If you want to make pissy remarks, be willing to enter the ring; you know the rules.”

  The man curtsied and bowed with a flourish of his arm, then turned around on his heel and trotted away.

  “Schmuck,” Neil said as he was lowered to the ground.

  A short, plump, dark-haired woman wearing a mini-skirt and stiletto heels started ululating. “Fort Worth’s pride, the Lion of the West, our new champion.” She held his hand aloft. “Neil Allen, undefeated after forty-eight bouts of bare-knuckle boxing and the new title holder.”

  The crowd cheered and pushed forward, each one trying to clap Neil on his back or shake his hand.

  A tall, skinny man with a pockmarked face and a pencil behind his ear handed Neil a rolled-up wad of cash. “Your match fee,” he said. Neil nodded and stuck it into his pocket.

  Alexa sauntered up to Neil and kissed him, long and hard, before she pulled away and looked into his eyes, breathing huskily. “How do you like my new suntan?”

  He grinned at her. “I needed some time to warm up,” he said, wiping his bleeding knuckles on his jeans. “I stink and I need a drink.”

  Alexa screwed up her nose and handed Neil his T-shirt. “I don’t mind. I’m used to dirty men.”

  Neil snorted. He loved the small freckles on her nose; they seemed more prominent whenever she was excited. She hardly ever wore make-up, but his aunts had convinced her to wear some lipstick. He thought she looked prettier without it. He pulled the T-shirt over his head, and hooked his arm around her waist.

  They ambled along behind the small crowd, heading toward the marquee tent pitched in the middle of the small town of White Settlement, Texas. Neil thrust a protective arm in front of Alexa as a horse and cart raced by, the driver urging the horse forward. They jogged across the raceway before the next one arrived.

  Raucous laughter and loud voices greeted them as they entered the tent. A band played an upbeat gypsy tune and young women were gyrating and swinging their hips to the beat.

  The band stopped playing and people turned to gawk as Neil entered the tent. The throng clapped their hands and cheered as he pushed into the crowd, pulling Alexa along by her hand. He shoved his way to the bar, acknowledging the praises and compliments with a nod as he passed.

  He ordered two beers, lifted his glass to the air and shouted “Solk us away from the taddy.”

  He drained his glass, and wiped the froth from his lip. The crowd replied with an “Amen” and toasted with their glasses held high in the air. The band started playing again, and the loud conversations continued where they had left off.

  “Mary, bless these weary bones,” Neil said with a groan as Alexa massaged his shoulders. She clucked like a mother hen and dabbed some whiskey onto his grazed knuckles with a Kleenex. The short woman with the miniskirt and high heels noticed them and bustled over.

  She walked up and cupped Neil’s chin. “My darling little nephew. You fought like a true champion.”

  Neil smiled and pecked her on her cheek. “Thanks, Auntie Estelle.”

  She took his hand and placed it flat on her pushed-up bosom. “We have missed you, Neil,” she said and jerked her head toward the fighting ring. “That monster beat every young lad who had courage enough to face him. He had to be taught a lesson.”

  Neil nodded. “You could have given me a moment to stretch before pushing me in with him.” He wiggled his jaw. “The bozo caught me off guard.”

  The boisterous crowd hushed as the defeated fighter walked into the tent. A path opened for him as he headed straight toward Neil, his pectoral muscles bouncing up and down over a muscled stomach.

  The man stared down at Neil and pointed a stubby finger at him. “They say you’ve never lost a fight.”

  Neil shrugged. “Came close when I was young. I nearly lost this one.” He stood up and faced the man. “You gave me a run for my money.”

  The crowd murmured and the large man grinned. He stuck out a hand and Neil shook it. “Good fight, traveler,” the man said.

  People cheered and whistled. Neil was the new champion and he had saved the man’s dignity - the best possible outcome anyone could have wished for. There would be no rival clan fights tonight.

  “Amen,” Neil said with a laugh and ordered the man a beer.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Bubba Bartlett cursed as the tanker truck shuddered and jerked. He eased the vehicle past a sign that read, ‘Dabbort Creek, 5 Miles Ahead’. He pumped the air brakes and put the truck into neutral, coasting it to a halt on the grassy shoulder next to the blacktop.

  Bubba glanced at the blond guy next to him. “Shit man, this is as far as I can take you. I’m out of juice.” He slammed the steering wheel. “Son of a gun, I shouldn’t have tried to skip the last fill.”

  The young man smiled guiltily, as if it were his fault.

  Shit. He had always followed Mister Fitch’s instructions. To the T. He had been a Refatex driver for the past 3 years, and he was doing well. Show me a truck driver whose unemployed wife drives a brand new Benz SLK. Nope, he was doing better than well, he was doing fuckin’ A-Okay.

  So whatever Mister Fitch asked of him, Bubba always did, no questions asked. And Mister Fitch’s instructions had been clear. He had found the young man off Route 288, exactly where Mister Fitch had told him he would be.

  Bubba was supposed to drop the guy at Mo’s diner in town, Charlie was waiting to take him up to Mr. Fitch’s estate. But Bubba had been late and he decided to skip a fill; thought they would make it to Dabbort in time, for sure. And now he was going to be even later. And Mister Fitch didn’t like his drivers bein’ late.

  “Why don’t you fill it from the stuff in the tank?” the blond guy asked with a stupid smile, jerking his thumb to the tanker trailer at the back.

  Bubba shook his head. “It’s Brent crude, son. No way I’m goin’ anywhere with that.”

  The young man grinned sheepishly. “Guess I have a lot to learn about the oil business.”

  Bubba chuckled. The poor guy was due for a job interview up at Refatex, this sure as hell wasn’t the best way to be starting a new career working for Mister Fitch. He glanced at his Rolex. The next tanker wasn’t due for another two hours. Bubba pulled a red lever on the dash, engaging the parking brake, and yanked the key from the ignition. “Nothin’ else to do than hike, I guess.”

  He opened the door and nimbly lowered himself down from the cabin. He checked the output valve tap and made sure the hydraulic lines were clear. An old habit he had developed over the years. He loved his Baby, better to be safe than sorry.

  Bubba glanced over his shoulder at the young blond man as they plodded into town. “How ya’ll keeping up back there?” he hollered.

  The man smiled and gave him the thumbs up. He pulled a large duffel bag on wheels, wiping some sweat from his brow with a red bandana. “Just fine, thanks.”

  The fellow was nice. Andrew Jackson. He couldn’t have been older than twenty-four or twenty-five. He was tall, maybe six foot five. Apparently he had travelled Europe for a couple of months, and now his folks wanted him to settle down. The job offer came out of the blue, he said. He had put his CV and a profile photo onto some web site. The following day Mister Fitch phoned him, personally.

  Jackson told Bubba he had been looking for something in the hospitality industry, but Mister Fitch had made him an offer that was right up his alley. Good ol’ Mister Fitch, he sure looked after his own, yessirree.

  Bubba looked up as a red Chevy hatch sped by and he waved his arms. “C’mon, help a guy out here,” he shouted.

  The car slowed down, and the backup lights came on. Jackson jogged toward it, the large duffel bag swinging behind him as he ran.

  Jackson exchanged a greeting with the
driver as Bubba jogged closer, then laughed and slapped his knee. They spoke in a funny language - Hispanic or some other foreign shit. The young man turned to Bubba and waved him over. “C’mon, we have a lift.”

  A door opened and they slid into the back seat. Two men turned around and greeted them. “Bonjour, monsieur,” the driver said. “Welcome aboard.”

  Bubba nodded curtly. “Thanks, mister.”

  The driver slammed the car into gear, and they sped off towards Dabbort.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Mac McAllister cast a furtive glance up the road. The streets were empty. A pale moon shone through the cloudy tendrils drifting in a starless sky. He peered up the hill toward the Ocelot inn. Probably unoccupied - always was, but the neon sign flashed dutifully on and off with a fluorescent glow.

  Missy never put the darn thing off, she was probably hoping for some walk-in overnighters. He smiled at the two men snoring on the bench. “You boys ain’t giving Missy any business tonight, no sirree.”

  She didn’t need the business. She was plenty fine off, if he were to believe the rumor mill. Poor, lonely woman.

  Mac opened the back of the mortuary van. He sauntered to the blond guy. He was a dead ringer. He heaved the man over his shoulder, dumping him in the back of the van. The other guy was shorter and skinnier. Both were looking the worse for wear, beaten shitless.

  Mac removed the shorter guy’s wallet and passport. He flipped it open, just to make sure. “Reg Voelkner, French citizen.” He nodded. Pulled him into the back of the truck, and bound the men’s arms and legs.

  McAllister looked up as a pair of lights bounced up and down on the main strip, a mile away. He glanced at his watch. The next tanker, right on time.

  He slammed the doors and jumped into the drivers’ side of the vehicle. He shifted the car in gear and gunned the gas. The car shot forward, spraying the bus stop with flying gravel.