Broken

By Edward R. Murphy

Jared Stover is kidnapped by a stranger from the past. Caged and out of options, he is beaten but not broken. Henry Walters is sent on a mission to find him. Struggling with his sinful past, Henry is torn between faith and fear. Alejandro Escobar is a drug lord with nothing to lose. Faced with ruthless angels that will do anything to tear down the Chosen, each must overcome his own demons.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Edward R. Murphy
• Release date: Feb 18, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465917690

Edward R. Murphy

Edward R. Murphy began writing at the age of seventeen. As he matured and his style evolved, he developed a unique skill for writing in multiple genres. Edward R. Murphy has a B.A. in Social Science and is currently pursuing a Masters in Professional Counseling. He was born in Fort Payne, Alabama, and moved to Texas in his early teens. Edward is a father of five and resides in Louisiana with his wife and family.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Alejandro Valdez Escobar was a hard man. He was cold and ruthless. He was a killer of killers, and no one ever made the mistake of underestimating him twice.

Escobar was flamboyant, and untouchable. The way he saw it, he was born to sit on the throne of the Mexican Drug Empire he had created.

He had dark chocolate eyes below thick black brows and brown skin that seemed to glow when he smiled. His jet black hair was flat and covered his forehead. The only sign of a possible imperfection was a small mole just to the left of his perfect nose, only a finger’s width above his thin mustache. Escobar complained bitterly about it, mostly to his wife, but the truth was that he actually felt it gave his face a little extra character, and he liked it.

Over the span of some fourteen years, Escobar had amassed an untold fortune. The drug trade had been good to him. His biggest issues now were: not knowing who to trust and what he wanted next, since he had everything money could buy right at his fingertips. Even though, somehow, those issues had taken a back seat to something else that was sucking the life out of him.

Escobar pushed himself away from the oak desk in his home office. He reached out and pulled the top right hand drawer open. His hand brought back a .45 caliber Smith and Wesson. His eyes didn’t notice the golden inlayed cobras on both sides of the handle, even though he knew they were there.

He dropped the clip out into his left hand and laid the pistol down on the desktop. His right hand was back inside the drawer retrieving a box of shells. Escobar filled the clip with bullets and dropped the box back inside the drawer. Then he popped the clip in the pistol and sat it on the desk again.

Escobar played with his mustache, pulling at it with his thumb and forefinger, moving left to right across it and then back. In his mind he could not believe it had come to this. Early in his life he had clawed and scratched. He had crawled when he had needed to, ran when he had to, and stood facing the devil himself when there was nowhere to hide.

Achieving the success he had dreamed of wasn’t easy. There had been sweat from his brow and the brows of others. There were blood sacrifices from strangers and even best friends. Along the road to fulfillment much was lost, but without any one of those necessary evils, the life he had created would not be defined as it was.

He put both hands behind his head and massaged his enormously thick neck. Most people thought his nickname of El Toro came from his appearance, the thick neck and wide shoulders, but he was called The Bull because of the speed in which he rolled over those standing in his way. A friend, dead now, once told him that those in opposition were left bleeding and suffering in the dust. Escobar disagreed. There was no suffering, because he did not leave them alive.

Escobar opened the bottom drawer on the left hand side of the desk and pulled out a $38,000 bottle of Macallan 1926 Whisky and a small glass. It had never occurred to him that such a treasure should be under lock and key. After all, visitation to his office was by invitation only. It was a commandment that no one wanted to break.

He sat the bottle and the glass down on the desk. When he had made the purchase, his intentions were to use it in celebration of the birth of his first born. A year of effort in that direction had yielded no results, so Escobar called the doctor out to his home. After an exam, the doctor determined that Maria, Escobar’s wife, was unable to conceive. With the rage of ten thousand wild bulls, El Toro shot the doctor to death with the very pistol that now lay on his desk.

With two pieces of a four piece puzzle in place, Escobar slid the middle drawer of his desk open and took out a $1,150 Gurkha Black Dragon Cigar. Only five hand carved camel bone chests housing a hundred cigars had been made, and one of those chests was in Escobar’s mansion.

He trimmed the end, grabbed a lighter from the still open drawer, and fired up the Black Dragon. He took long deep drags on the tobacco, drawing it in and holding it before letting it out slow.

For a moment his troubles were gone, and he found himself thinking of his father. He was a man of vision, a man of action, and a truly loving father. The man had an answer for every problem that arose.

The pistol on the desk drew Escobar’s attention. He wondered what advice his father would give him if he were still alive. This was one problem that seemed to lack any reasonable solution.

Escobar held the Black Dragon with his teeth. He used his hands to open the whiskey bottle and pour some into the glass. He sat the open bottle down on the desk, pulled the cigar out, and held it with his right hand. His left snatched up the glass of whiskey. He brought it up slowly to his lips and breathed it in. It smelled nice. He let it roll out of the glass into his mouth, and it burned down his throat until it was all gone.

With empty eyes, he plugged the cigar back in his mouth, took another long drag, and poured another glass of whiskey, exhaling smoke around the cigar wedged tightly in his mouth. He drained the alcohol and crushed out the Black Dragon, dropping the remains into the glass.

Escobar, feeling the whiskey now, reached over and picked up the Smith and Wesson. The handle was cool and comfortable. He bucked a shell into the chamber. This was it. He had the cigar, whiskey, pistol, and now he would complete his puzzle.

Everything in his life came down to this one moment. All the good, all the bad, and everything in between had been funneled down and packed into a single second of his meaningless life. With one stroke of his finger, he would send darkness, silence, and painlessness over his body.

First he put the barrel under his chin but feared that he might not have it at the correct angle. That could be devastating. The last thing he wanted to do was maim himself.

Next he tried the top of his head. He pointed it down, trying to find the center of his skull with the barrel. That didn’t work either. The same problem of a possible faulty angle kept surfacing.

Finally he just decided to place the barrel in his mouth and point it upward. That would be the best he could do, he thought.

Alejandro Valdez Escobar pulled the hammer back on the pistol. He set his feet on the floor and began taking short choppy breaths that rolled around the barrel of the pistol. In and out. Like a woman in labor. He was preparing for the impact. Getting ready for the pain, if it should come.

On the off chance that there was a God, Escobar asked for forgiveness and nodded a short quick movement as if that amen wiped the slate clean.

The quick breaths stopped. He held it in. Abdominal muscles went taut. Eyes closed. Ready for the pain. He squeezed the trigger, and click. Nothing happened. The gun did not go off.

Escobar opened his eyes, pulled the barrel out of his mouth, dropped the gun down by his side, and remembered to breathe. His brain processed the information. He was still alive. Oxygen pumping into his lungs. Blood flowing. Heart pounding fast. By his own assessment, he should be dead.

He ejected the bullet from the gun and pushed another one into the chamber. His body leaned forward in the chair. He set his feet again. Short broken breathing. Barrel back in his mouth and the hammer pulled. The courage to squeeze the trigger had faded somewhat, but his resolve to stay the course was still present. Besides, the word failure had never been in his vocabulary. He squinted but didn’t fully close his eyes this time.

His finger eased down on the trigger. Another click. The let down was tremendous. He dropped the gun by his side again and began shaking his head. His eyes were wide now, and he felt himself breathing hard, pushing the air out through his rounded lips.

Escobar raised the gun up and examined it. He flicked the bullet out into the air, and it flew to the floor. He reached down and picked it up, looking it over. Nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary. He rechambered it, pointed the gun over his desk, thumbed the hammer back, and pulled the trigger.

The gun jerked in his hand. The sound was deafening inside the confines of his office walls. The bullet blew a hole in the spines of two books on the bookshelf positioned in front of him. They split apart and fell to the floor. Escobar was stunned. He flipped back into his chair, left with a haunting revelation.

Chapter 2

Dust particles rode the wind, surfing in it, until they reached the dying outer edge and faded away, drifting slowly to the ground. The Las Cruces, New Mexico sun was merciless. A two month long drought was taking its toll, and an increasing heat wave was relentlessly extracting any and all moisture that could be found.

Jared Stover wasn’t worried. He had a smile, as he always seemed to have, glued to his imperfect face. He had traveled from Shreveport, Louisiana, on I-20 through Dallas and Odessa, Texas. Then he had taken I-10 into New Mexico. He had just stopped for gas and still had more driving to do, as he was headed for his hometown of Apache Junction, Arizona.

That was the same place that Reggie Ironhorse, an Indian man, had given his life to save Jared. It was the same place that Henry Walters, Jared’s best friend now, had participated in a spiritual battle that put both of their lives on a new course.

Henry and Jared were responsible for a Christian revolution that was sweeping the nation. They traveled the country speaking and teaching God’s word. Both men had given themselves heart, mind, and soul to His will.

Jared was making the trip home to attend the funeral of his uncle. He was not undone about the death. The man had merely made a transition. Besides, Jared knew that the bible said to rejoice at death and to mourn at birth. So, Jared was overcome with joy behind the wheel of the Nissan Pathfinder, on the southern outskirts of Las Cruces.

He stopped at a red light and began asking God to give him more direction for his life. He told the Almighty that he would do whatever was asked of him. He was thankful for his friendship with Henry, and tears began rolling down his cheeks while he recalled all the blessings in his life.

The light changed to green, and Jared pushed the accelerator. The Nissan came to life again and glided into the intersection.

Suddenly, a tan Mercedes plowed into the passenger door. The impact drove the Pathfinder sideways. It pushed Jared against the restraint of the seat belt and toward the middle of the vehicle, before slamming him into the driver’s door. His head banged into the window, momentarily causing his vision to blur and then blacken.

Twenty seconds later, Jared could hear a rapping sound on the door glass. His vision was returning. Through the haze and confusion, he saw a man with a gun standing next to his door. The man was tapping the barrel on the window.

Unlock the door, the man yelled!

Jared tried to focus and fight off the cobwebs in his brain.

Unlock it, or I’ll shoot the window out, the man growled.

Horns blared from observing motorists. Jared had no chance to think it through. He reached over and pulled the handle, opening the door.

The man jerked the door, swinging it all the way open.

Move over, he shouted.

Jared unlatched the seatbelt and tried to brush some of the broken glass out of the passenger seat before climbing over into it. He avoided contacting the mangled door as much as he could.

The man tossed a briefcase into the back seat and climbed into the driver’s seat. He closed the door and glared at Jared.

I told you I would get you, he said, shoving the pistol into the crack between the seat and the middle console.

Jared looked into the man’s charcoal black eyes. It was Lucas, an angel that had once tried to kill Henry.

I told you that associating yourself with that dog was going to get you in trouble. Lucas crammed the shifter into park. He turned the engine over until it was churning again. Then he dropped the shifter into drive and sped away, leaving the Mercedes in the roadway.

You look different, Lucas. Jared was focused now. I almost didn’t recognize you.

I can take many forms, Lucas hissed. You dogs only see what you want to see anyway. So, what difference does it really make?

Jared agreed with the statement. He just sat still, staring at Lucas.

And, if you don’t mind, Lucas grinned. It’s Lucian now.

Lucian? Jared was a little confused.

Different looks call for different names, Lucas was smiling.

Jared laughed. Lucas or Lucian as he preferred now, was an utter lunatic, he thought.

I know what you are thinking right now, Lucian spoke without giving Jared his visual attention.

Another laugh slipped from Jared’s mouth. You’re a good liar, you know that? Jared said.

Well, aren’t you smarter than the average dog? Lucian cut his eyes over at his passenger and then put them back on the road.

My thoughts are protected from you now, Lucas. I mean Lucian. Jared rolled his eyes.

Lucian snorted. Let me rephrase my statement. I can guess with some degree of certainty what is going on in that canine mind of yours. Lucian found I-10 and directed the Nissan south toward Juarez, Mexico.

This ought to be interesting, Jared smiled.

You sound skeptical, but we both know I’m more intelligent than you will ever be. Lucian flashed a smile.

Jared raised his brows, And your confidence in that matter is just one of the many things that will ultimately be a credit to your downfall.

So, here it is in a nutshell, Lucian began, seeming to ignore Jared’s last statement. First, you thought about hiding behind Him and telling me to leave. Next, you wondered if that was the correct thing to do in this particular situation. Finally, you determined that this must be some kind of test, ordained by Him, to give you the opportunity to do more. Lucian gritted his teeth. How am I doing so far?

Jared’s face showed no expression. He was simply looking at Lucian with no apparent fear.

I thought so, Lucian said. And with that comes the undeniable truth that you are arrogant and think that you can go toe to toe with me and survive.

Jared remained silent.

Lucian glanced over at him and then back to the road. He held his left hand on the steering wheel and retrieved the pistol with his right.

Enough of that. This is where the fun begins, Lucian laughed. Then with a lightning fast extension of his arm, he brought the gun around and smacked Jared in the head with it.

Jared saw the gun coming at him but didn’t have time to react. He wasn’t expecting it. He heard the thud and felt a twinge of pain before his vision went black.

Chapter 3

Henry Walters had given up his devious ways. It had been almost three and a half years since Joshua, a perceived angel that turned out to be much more, had shown him that he could not serve under an umbrella of good and evil at the same time. Back then, Joshua had defeated Lucas in a battle for Henry’s soul. Since that time, Henry had been walking a path of truth in an effort to bring as many souls as he could to the knowledge that there was more awaiting them in the afterlife than they could ever imagine.

Now Henry was driving a rental car to Shreveport, the place he had called home for the past six months. He opted to go solo on this evangelizing trip and left his teammate, Jared Stover, behind. Jared was busy in his work with a project called Homes for the Homeless. It was his way of trying to help less fortunate people and their children.

Henry had missed his dear friend in Denver, Colorado, but he understood that there would be times that the two men had to work separately in their mutual callings.

The return plane had taken Henry as far as Dallas where he was forced to rent a car and travel the remaining miles. He was not fond of driving alone late at night or extremely early in the morning, as was this case. It was the lack of sleep that bothered him. At least with someone else in the car he would have a voice to keep him coherent.

Henry glided along I-20 and was almost to his destination when he remembered that he had not turned his phone back on since the day before. The thought had crossed his mind once he had gotten off the plane, but he didn’t bother with it. He took the phone out and pressed the button. Almost immediately a tone sounded that told him there were messages.

The first one was from a man in Fort Payne, Alabama, telling him that his church and some of the other surrounding churches had agreed that they would love to host Jared and Henry in a local auditorium so they could speak. Henry had spoken to him twice the day before and was excited now