by Jace Killan
The Unknown Soldier
a Joaquin Serrano Novel
Jace Killan
Contents
Dedication
Author’s Note
Prologue
I. Freedom
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
II. Debt
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
III. Captivity
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
IV. Action
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
V. Redemption
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Epilogue
This novel is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, dialogue, and plot are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.
The Unknown Soldier by Jace Killan
www.jacekillan.com
ISBN-13 978-1986485173
ISBN-10 198648517X
Copyright © 2018 by Jace Killan
All Rights Reserved
Cover Design by Holly Heisey
www.hollyheiseydesign.com
For Porter.
Author’s Note
Qui Bono?
On April 20, 2010 a rig owned by Transocean and operated by British Petroleum (BP) exploded in the Gulf of Mexico, resulting in nearly a dozen deaths and leading to an environmental nightmare. Two hundred million gallons of crude oil seeped into the Gulf for eighty-seven days, affecting thousands of miles of US coastline. Over the nine trading days that followed the spill, BP’s stock price lost approximately $40 billion in value, roughly 22%. Additionally, BP was fined $56 billion.
BP’s CEO sold a third of his company stock, just one month before the rig explosion and subsequent spill. Eleven days before the oil spill, Halliburton purchased Boots & Coots, a company specializing in oil disaster cleanups. These may be coincidences, but if someone had foresight of the explosion, they had merely to purchase put options for a nominal amount to then purchase the stock and sell it in a cashless transaction, making a twenty percent spread: in other words, millions of dollars.
Qui Bono?
On Valentine’s Day, 2013, Carnival ended its hellish “Poop Cruise,” when the ship Triumph, carrying thousands of passengers docked. A generator malfunctioned, resulting in an engine room fire that immobilized the cruise. The passengers were stranded for five days, living on top of one another with inadequate facilities and supplies. The media termed the disaster, “Poop Cruise” to describe what happened when the restroom facilities clogged and the passengers resigned to doing their business in bags that the crew stored openly about the ship.
But this wasn’t the only disaster Carnival Cruise Lines experienced. A year earlier, a ship ran aground killing 32 people. After the first event, ticker symbol CCL traded 14% lower and 12% lower after the second event.
The naïve might conspire that if these events were indeed intentional, the natural culprit might be their competitor. But with more research, one might discern that Carnival’s largest competitor, Royal Caribbean, also suffered losses because of the two events, dropping four and nine percent respectively.
Qui Bono?
November 24, 2014, hackers stole vast amounts of data when they cyber-attacked Sony Pictures Entertainment. Of course the media pinned it on the North Korean government, the same government that forgot to add shadows to a Photoshopped piece of propaganda in 2013.
The hack exposed Sony executive emails that had the combined effect of a ten percent drop in stock price over a week.
Qui Bono?
Prologue
The news broke at 7:04 a.m. Arizona Time. The markets had already opened to trading and Guzman’s heart raced as he typed in the ticker symbol for TexAm Petroleum.
He sat up in his king size bed, back against a couple plush gray pillows. On either side, lay a beautiful young thing. Though he’d been out of prison for over a year, he still tried to make up for lost time. His four-year stint seemed like one bad dream now. Guzman shook off the memories and his sleep, returning his attention to the laptop.
He laughed. The stock had dropped from $72.66 to $64.39 in just minutes since the news broke.
Guzman’s phone chimed. “See?”
“Yeah, I see,” Guzman texted in reply.
“Ten percent.”
“And growing.” Guzman refreshed the browser: $61.25.
“Told you.”
The guy had been right. Had Guzman shorted the stock, a term he only recently learned, he’d be rich. Well, richer. And with clean money. Well, cleaner. A ten million dollar short would have made close to two million in gain. The scheme was much easier than managing runners and dealers as well as managing the DEA and ICE.
The hardest part of their little trial run had been mobilizing the dozen men who sabotaged the oilrigs. Under the guise of global warming activists, they’d destroyed a drill at three different sites and set fire to the wells, releasing bellowing black smoke, spreading over miles of southern Texas sky.
Guzman’s phone chimed. “Like I said, there’s good money in chaos.”
He typed his reply, “That you did. So how do we get some of it?”
“How much clean cash can you throw at this?”
“A quarter of a billion.” He had more, but that seemed like a nice start.
“Ok,” read the text, “I’ve got a firm that can serve as our front. Situation is perfect.”
“What do you need from me?” Guzman asked.
“Besides the money, a liaison for the firm. Someone smart who has a good sense of business. And I’m not talking street business. I mean someone that can hang with the egocentric traders of Wall Street. But they also need take orders and not ask questions.”
Guzman thought a moment. “My guys are soldiers. They take direction. But they’re not smart. Not like you say.”
Another chime. Guzman smiled and nodded at the reply.
“I hear Joaquin Maxwell gets out of prison soon.”
Part 1
Freedom
Freedom is not worth having if it does not include the freedom to make mistakes. – Mahatma Gandhi
1
“My name is Joaquin and...” I killed my girlfriend. He only thought that last part. It happened a long time ago and his sponsor told him repeatedly that he needed to get over it. But how could he?
Her name was Brina. She liked cheesy knock knock jokes and played softball. She’d been accepted to UCLA but Joaquin took that away from her. There’d be no college
, no marriage, no children. A whole life that could have been, gone because of his addiction.
“My name is Joaquin,” he repeated, “and I’m a recovering meth addict. Today, I’ll pass.”
He wanted to share and didn’t know where his reluctance came from. Was he afraid to open up? Own his mistakes? Or perhaps his victories? He could tell this new group how he was over five years sober. How he’d sponsored many inmates over the last several years. He’d worked the steps to change. And he had changed, hadn’t he?
He fantasized about pulling a Jean Valjean from Les Miserables, leaving the ex-con life he had created for himself, changing his name, moving away, maybe even becoming ridiculously rich. But Valjean was no meth addict. Instead, his crime was noble, unselfish, stealing a loaf of bread for his sister’s starving children. Joaquin’s motives were the opposite, much more like Fernand Mondengo of The Count of Monte Cristo than Valjean. He’d killed Brina out of selfishness. Out of pride.
Joaquin had read Les Mis four times in prison, three times in English and once in French. He’d also read The Count of Monte Cristo, once in English and once in French and a whole mess of other books. Along with getting a degree in general business.
The girl to Joaquin’s right went on and on about her recent breakup. He tried not to judge. He fought the urge, knowing that judging was his way of avoiding his own problems—and there were many. So avoid he did. The guy that dumped her was probably better off.
The next recovering addict, Carlito, had been arrested a couple weeks ago. The Hispanic youth swore he’d never touch the stuff again as a bargain to God if God would keep him out of prison. Joaquin wanted to shake the kid. Help him see that his newfound sobriety came from fear and not real change. The pobre chicano would probably go away for a few years.
“Gracias,” Joaquin said instead, when Carlito passed.
Joaquin was raised bilingual, his mom Mexican and father from Arizona.
Joaquin had been trained by his mother not to refer to a citizen of the United States as an American, because Mexico also pertained to America as did Canada, Brazil, Argentina, and Peru. The haughtiness of Americans bugged her, thinking they somehow had a monopoly on the term when it essentially described a third of the world’s inhabited continents and included some two-dozen countries.
Dodging eyes and extended hands, Joaquin slipped out of the group right after closing prayer. He would be that one guy the others would wonder about. Would he ever return? Would he ever get his act together? Some would even pray for him. Maybe that’s why he didn’t share. He wanted someone to pray for him.
He had gotten his act together with nearly five years of sobriety, albeit court mandated sobriety. He had only used once since Sabrina died. Someone in county had swallowed a meth-filled balloon before being arrested. Joaquin only sniffed one hit. Then he tried to commit suicide for having betrayed Brina all over again. Soon after that attempt he started step one. Honesty.
He often wondered if he could have gotten sober on the outside. Could he stay sober now? Maybe that’s why he ducked out. Because he knew that if he put his mind to it, he could detect the one person in the group that wasn’t quite committed to recovery as he or she put on, so with a flash of the wad of cash in his pocket he’d score—he’d be high within the hour.
The thought made Joaquin’s stomach turn. He’d made mistakes, he’d served his time. The words of Ericson, his sponsor, burrowed into his mind. “At some point you’ve got to just let it go. Give to God what you can’t handle and focus on what you can.” He couldn’t change the past. And dwelling on it would only keep him from focusing on the present.
Standing in the yellow light of a street lamp, he withdrew a cigarette and lit it. Smoking had been allowed in prison, though he tried to quit several times. It was a vulgar and disgusting habit, yet he couldn’t live a day without a puff.
He breathed in deep, savoring the bitterness and warmth that filled his throat and lungs. That familiar scent of his cheap cigarette comforted him.
He told himself that nicotine was more addictive than meth and pushed a familiar thought from his mind—the thought that he would’ve never kicked meth if it hadn’t been court ordered. And the scarier thought that he would return to the addiction that had already destroyed so much, now that he had obtained freedom.
After one more drag he flicked the cigarette into the street and stood on it like a victorious barbarian.
His mom pulled up to the curb in her pink Jetta. She didn’t look at Joaquin, just unlocked the doors so he could get in. She turned her nose up at the smell of smoke.
He repulsed her and he resented her for it.
They sat in silence, as his mom drove to her home—no longer his. Joaquin’s stay there would be temporary. He needed to find wheels first, though Joaquin hadn’t driven since the accident. Having his mom drive would load her with more ammo for her gun of disappointment. Something else she could hold over his head, more opportunity to be let down by her only living son.
Joaquin reached for the radio to drown out his thoughts. He settled on an alternative rock station.
His mom didn’t turn it off but turned the volume so far down that he couldn’t recognize the song.
“Jaqui,” she said. “What are your plans?” She steered onto a dim-lit street.
“I don’t know, ma. I just got out yesterday.”
“Yesterday has gone, mijo.” Now she looked at him and sighed. “You have so much of your father in you.”
Not much she said would cut deeper than that. “Give me a break, ma. You have no idea what I went through over the past six years.”
“Do you have any idea what I’ve gone through?” His mom pulled into the driveway and parked the car. Short muffled sobs hit Joaquin’s ears and gut, like suppressed rifle fire. She left the car and hurried into the house not waiting for Joaquin.
He took his time going in. He didn’t have a clue what she had been through with him, or Chorch, his late older brother. And his mom played on that guilt. But deep down he knew he deserved it.
He went into her room and found her sobbing into a pillow. How many nights had she performed this ritual on his behalf?
“Ma, I--I’m sorry.”
She didn’t move, though her crying slowed.
He sat on the bed next to her and stroked her coarse black hair. Upon further inspection in the dim light, he found that the roots were mostly grey. Surely that too was his doing.
“Ma, I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you when Chorch died. You’re right. I’m just like my father.”
She rolled over in bed and stared back, mascara smeared, hair matted to her face, but something in her eyes--misunderstanding.
“He wasn’t here for you either,” Joaquin clarified. “For any of us.”
Joaquin wondered how much she knew. She was a smart woman and had to have suspected that his dad had cheated on her.
Joaquin had friends who used drugs for years but their parents hadn’t a clue. Those parents didn’t want to know. They rationalized the missing money, the late nights, the lack of appetite, the lying. All of it they ignored. It wasn’t that they didn’t know--they just didn’t want to know.
But his mom had known. She knew the first time Joaquin used. She didn’t say anything but she knew. She had to have known about his father also.
Joaquin had been the ignorant one. He believed a logical explanation would justify his dad not being around much. Why he had two cell phones. Why he would get calls at three a.m. And why he’d often go out of town unexpectedly.
It got to the point that Joaquin couldn’t deny that something else was going on, so he followed his dad, hoping for anything but an affair. How could it have possibly been? His father loved his mother, deeply. He treated her with kindness and respect. He worshipped her like a queen. Joaquin never heard him tell her anything hurtful or unkind. The greatest con. His father acted like he loved her while he screwed some chick across town.
When Joaquin found out, he flip
ped. He could think of nothing other than hooking up with Brina.
That night, for the first time, he used and his mom knew. So she had to have known about his father’s affair.
“Jaqui, your father worked a lot, but he only ever did what he did for me and you and your brother.” She spoke of him as if he were one of the hallowed saints.
“C’mon, Ma, you really believe that shit?” The curse slipped out. He had tried to curb his language, understanding that folks on the outside spoke with less profanity. Especially his mom.
She ignored it. “I don’t just believe it, I know it.”
Joaquin gritted his teeth. He didn’t dare destroy her fantasy. He’d caused her enough hurt for several lifetimes. She didn’t need any more.
She sniffed and wiped her nose with her sleeve. She also attempted to clean the smeared makeup. Joaquin went into the bathroom and retrieved a wad of toilet paper.
She rose from bed, accepted the toilet paper, and hugged him. Joaquin hugged back.