Malice, coming early December 2012

Below is the first chapter to my next book, Malice, due out early December 2012.

In the heart of Midtown Manhattan, near 2:00 AM, a mysterious man didn’t seem bothered with the night’s air or the uncomfortable heat, but something else was eating at him. He knew what he was about to do was going to upset a lot of people, but to him, this was something he had to do. I’m a dead man either way, he thought. He shivered when an unsuspected chill ran down his spine.

The mystery man wore a long, black trench coat with loafers of the same color protruding out from under its bottom seam. Though it was nighttime, he wore sunglasses to hide his eyes. He gripped the handle of a black briefcase tightly in his hand.

He stopped on the curb, needing to cross Broome Street in order to reach his objective. Although there was no traffic on the empty street, he looked both ways to ensure a safe crossing. Nothing coming, he thought, and then made his way across the street.

On the other side, the man walked between an apartment complex on the left and a hotel on the right. He needed to pass through a courtyard that was near fifty-foot square and void of people. In the center was a metal table surrounded by four metal chairs. About ten feet away from the table and chairs was a wooden bench that ran lengthwise on three sides. In the far right corner of the courtyard, a lone light illuminated a wooden shed, which jutted out from the back of the hotel. A single door in the brick wall led into the side of the hotel. At the other end of the courtyard, an eight-foot high concrete wall that blocked of an alley.

The mysterious man stayed close to the apartment complex wall. He passed two darkened windows, a door, two more dark windows, and then another door. A light shined from the inside of the next two windows. The second door was his objective. He placed his hand on the knob, turned it, and opened the door. He stepped through the doorway and let the door close on its own. He looked down the hall to the intersection about twenty feet away to make sure no one was around. The light at the far end flickered, giving the hall an eerie feeling. He made his way to the intersection, turned the corner to the left, and made his way to room 112.

He stopped in front of the door, but before entering, he looked around to make sure no one had followed. He knocked twice, paused, knocked again, and then waited for a response.

Within moments, the door opened to reveal a large, Mexican man with wide shoulders. He had a mean look about him. He wore a blue muscle shirt with tattoos covering both arms and his neck. Etched in the corner of his eye was a teardrop tattoo. He stepped aside and motioned with his hand for the newcomer to enter. “Sup, Holmes,” he greeted.

Without a word, just a nod, the mysterious man entered the room, the door closing behind him.

Unfortunately, neither man noticed the figure in the shadows down the hall. Read more.


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Behind the apartment building, a black vehicle pulled up to the curb and turned its headlights off. Two men exited and made their way to the back of the car. Both leaned back against the trunk and waited.

Soon a tall man with short, blond hair came from the alley behind the apartment building. Lean muscles covered his stout frame. Hatred resided in the man’s eyes and gave him a look of pure meanness. He possessed an attitude, which indicated he could back it up. He walked up to the two men leaning against the car.

Aldridge surveyed the streets to make sure they were empty. He threw his thumb over his shoulder. “He’s in there,” he said. “Our informant was right. The meetin’s goin’ down tonight. We’ll find Bruce in room 112,” he concluded with sarcasm.

Carlo’s lip rose in a snarl and his eyes narrowed. “He’s a dead man,” he said with words that crossed his lips in a slow murmur, but loud enough for the others to hear. “If he can’t be controlled, then he’s gotta be put down.”

Carlo needed something to remove the bad taste residing in his mouth. Without looking, he pulled a pack of gum from his pocket, opened the wrapper, and stuck a piece in his mouth. He didn’t bother to offer any to the other two men. Instead, he chewed a few times, and then spit on the ground. “These are my streets and Bruce thinks he can take them over,” he growled. “Who does he thinks he is?” He removed the nine-millimeter handgun from its holster under his arm to make sure it was loaded. He checked the weapon, removed the clip, and then slammed it home. “Aldridge,” he said. “You’re comin’ with me. Martinez, you wait here.”

Michael Carlo was a tall man with close-cut, jet-black hair above beady eyes, which offset his long, clean-shaven face. A scar ran from the center of his forehead to disappear into his hairline on the left side of his face, which was a constant reminded of the bullet from a gangbanger’s gun that almost took his life. Not one ounce of fat attached itself to his body, and he worked hard to keep himself in shape. He was the lead detective in the district. He was the boss of these streets and everyone knew it, but those who didn’t accept the fact that he was, found out the hard way.

Carlo adjusted his bulletproof vest, and then stepped closer to the other two detectives. He nodded towards the hotel. “I don’t want anyone in there gettin’ away,” he said quietly. “I want this situation taken care of.” His eyes narrowed. “Is this understood?” He looked directly at Detective Martinez and didn’t speak again until Martinez looked at him. “I want you to head around to the front just in case Bruce tries to run.” Carlo’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t call for backup unless I say.”

With a grin, the short, rotund Martinez said, “You got it, boss.” His tone was nervousness. “Hey boss, kill the bastards. Kill ’em all!” 

Martinez was a couple years Carlo’s junior. His troll-like face bugged out from his short, fat-covered neck. He tied his long, brown hair back in a ponytail. This didn’t aid with his appearance. His medium build carried its extra weight on his front side.

Aldridge nodded towards a man whom walked along the sidewalk in their direction. “Hold up,” he said in a hushed tone.

“What’s up,” the person said as he passed.

Carlo felt the man’s presence was a nuisance. “Move along,” he stated with a growl.

Once the man crossed the mouth of the alley and was out of earshot, Carlo nodded to Aldridge. “Let’s go,” he said.

The two detectives stepped into the alley, headed for the back door to the apartment complex to the right, and then entered through the door. Each man had the same purpose in mind, which was to kill those who weren’t on their side, and Bruce was first on the list. Nothing else mattered at this point.

Both continued through the apartment complex until they stood in front of the door to room 112. With a nod from Carlo, Aldridge knocked twice, and then again.

Within moments, a rather large Mexican man stood on the other side of the open door. His eyes went wide as soon as he realized who was standing before him, and then he tried to close the door.

Aldridge put his arm up to prevent the door from closing. He aimed the nine-millimeter at the teen’s forehead, and then used the weapon to push the teen back, at the same time pushing the door the rest of the way open for Carlo to enter the room.

With a smirk on his face, Carlo walked past the Mexican man and purposely bumped him with his shoulder. As he stepped into the room, he glanced out the window he passed on the wall to his right. With his right hand, he drew his handgun and aimed it at the other three occupants in the room. As he quickly surveyed the room, he snarled, “Nobody moves!”

The three occupants froze at the sight of the two newcomers. Cigar smoke filled the dry, stagnant air. The heat of the day enhanced the smell of sweat and fear. The front half of the apartment consisted of a couch, chair, and coffee table next to a fireplace to form a room within itself. The other half of the room was a dining area, with an eight-foot long kitchen counter, which squared off the room. In the far corner of the kitchen area, two doors met, leading to other rooms.

 

Aldridge led the Mexican man, whom opened the door, into the room. The man didn’t stop until he stood to the left of a short man with a cigar hanging from the corner of his mouth. He appeared to be the leader with huge, python arms and tree trunk legs. He shaved his head bald. He was also of Mexican descent.

 

Hatred entwined itself amongst the six men whom stood across from each other with four on one side and two on the other

 

With his arms crossed, another Mexican man, whom was shorter in stature with muscles just as big, stood on the right side of the leader.

Bruce stood behind the three Mexican’s, nervously glancing between the two detectives.

Short, black hair covered the top of the Bruce’s head. The sunglasses no longer hid a long, stout face with a hawk like nose.

As soon as Bruce made eye contact with Carlo, he quickly looked away, because he knew the detectives were there for him. He tried his best to disappear, but failed miserably.

“You can’t hide from me anymore, Bruce,” Carlo taunted as he watched the sweat roll down the side of the Bruce’s face. He snickered, knowing it wasn’t from the heat.

Carlo glared at Bruce with narrowing eyes. “What are you doin’ here, Bruce?” he asked. When he didn’t receive an answer, he added, “Word on the street is you want me gone. I heard you want to take me and my men out.” He took a step towards his adversaries. “Nobody threatens me, or my men,” he snarled with conviction in his voice. “I offered you a lot of money to keep your mouth shut,” he growled towards Bruce. “And here you are hidin’ behind these scumbags?” He his eyes narrowed as he looked at the Mexican leader. He could tell the man was ready for a fight. He lowered his weapon in hopes of antagonizing him.

“I don’t care who you think you are, Holmes,” the Mexican leader growled. He turned his head to look at the men on either side of him, and then back at Carlo. He threw a thumb over his shoulder towards Bruce. “He is my friend,” he concluded with an arrogant smile. “And I protect him!”

He must be feelin’ brave, Carlo thought. He knew the men would be packing firepower of their own. “You got some nerve,” he said smugly. He looked around, contemplated the situation, and then returned his gaze toward his adversaries. “This is my city,” he shouted. “And you’re not about to take it over.” He clenched his left fist with a want to destroy the men in front of him, but kept the nine-millimeter held low. “Did you really think you could?” he asked in a tone near a whisper.

“Screw you, Carlo,” Bruce shouted.

Carlo saw movement outside the window. He made eye contact with a man whom he presumed was with the Mexicans. He began to raise the nine-millimeter.

While Carlo had gone on with his tirade, Aldridge had circled behind the men and moved towards Bruce whom took a step back. He came to a stop behind the leader and waited for the signal, which came when the Mexican insulted his boss.

Without hesitation, Aldridge placed the nine-millimeter against the back of the leaders head and squeezed the trigger.

Carlo stepped to the side as the front of the leaders head exploded outward to send red crimson flying in all directions.

Aldridge took advantage of his surprise attack and turned his sights toward the man that had opened the door, whom was now wiping the blood splatter from his face. He fired twice with both rounds hitting the man in the temple.

The third man turned and pulled a forty-five-caliber handgun from the front of his pants. He was on the move and dove over the kitchen counter. Without looking, he held the weapon above the counter, aimed, and squeezed the trigger.

A volley of hot lead dotted the wall and shattered glass from the window just above Carlo’s head. Another burst flew out the window. The slugs didn’t stop until they crossed the alley, passed through wood, and slammed into metal.

When the gunfire began, Carlo used his momentum and rolled backwards, tipping the couch along the way. Now, he crouched behind the couch and fired several rounds from his nine-millimeter toward the kitchen.

The Mexican behind the counter fired another volley.

Carlo heard more glass shatter and the rounds ricochet against metal. He picked up the sound of hissing gas. He didn’t like it one bit. Usually means trouble, he thought. From outside came a loud horrendous Ka-boom! As the explosion rolled through the window, he rolled under the overturned couch to cover his body. He felt the blast rush over the top of the couch, and then pulled his hands closer to his body when his fingers felt the heat of the flames. The deafening crack caused his head to ache, which he felt was going to explode. The ringing in his ears was almost to the unbearable point. Through the pain, he made his mind up. I’m not leaving this building until Bruce is dead, he thought.

When the blast erupted, Aldridge crossed the room and dove into the same bedroom, right behind Bruce. He landed on the floor on his side next to his intended target. He grinned. “It’s good to see ya again, Bruce,” he stated. He placed the nine-millimeter under the man’s chin and squeezed the trigger with the force of the round sending blood and brain matter splattering across the floor.

With a crazy laugh, Aldridge rose to his feet. He was about to leave the bedroom when a round slammed into the doorframe to send splinters of wood flying through the air. Blindly, he returned fired through the doorway towards the kitchen and smiled when he heard the Mexican grunt, and then a thud as something heavy hit the floor.

Aldridge made his way into the kitchen, and looked over the counter. He snickered as he looked down at the face of the dead teen to see that one of the rounds from his handgun managed to slam its way through the teen’s forehead to create a third eye.

He dodged his way through the flame on his way to the overturned couch. As soon as he saw Carlo, he pushed it out of the way. “You okay, boss?” he asked. “For the record, I got Bruce! Splattered his brains all over the floor, I did.” He chuckled at his own comment while helping the disoriented Carlo to his feet. “Let’s get out of here,” he said.

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Warning: some of the material above may not be suitable for the faint-hearted. This writing is a work of fiction. The businesses, characters, events, incidents, names, organizations and places, here in, are the product of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, events, or locales, is purely coincidental.