Shady Palms

By Allen Dusk

A sleazy motel, burrowed on the edge of town, is haunted by rumors of dead hookers found between mattresses and peep holes drilled through walls.When Special Agent Daniels targets the motel during an investigation, the nefarious owner, Sanjay, must scramble to conceal evidence of his own dark deeds. Just when he believes things can’t get any worse, motel guests begin to vanish without a trace.

Can Sanjay discover the truth behind the phenomena threatening his motel before the Feds get suspicious, or does he risk exposing his own sordid enterprises to seek help from the outside?

Why don’t you book a room for the night and find out? At these bargain rates you’ll be lucky if you only find dirty sheets and a few skeletons in the closet.

Welcome to the Shady Palms Motel. Check out is at 11, if you live that long...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Allen Dusk
• Release date: Sep 6, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301230990

Allen Dusk

Allen Dusk is an award-winning writer and filmmaker. He enjoys experimenting with photography, and lusting over old horror movies.

Book preview

Part I: Jihad

Chapter 1

The Shady Palms Motel sat on the eastern edge of San Diego, just a block from Interstate 8, in the suburb of El Cajon. The motor lodge once offered tourists free local calls and color television, or so the faded signboard advertised in the lobby window.

For the past several decades, the businesses surrounding the motel had suffered from the dwindling economic effects of double-dip recessions. The abandoned industrial park across the street, which had once supplied the motel with a steady diet of consultants with plush travel allowances, had become a ghost town overrun by weeds and vagrants. The strip mall down the street had suffered the same fate.

The towering motel sign, which easily caught the eyes of motoring tourists, now served as a beacon for criminal surplus. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, a person could score drugs or take their pick from the hookers lined up around the block. Panel vans offered stolen goods for sale and dark alleys served as the perfect place to negotiate murders for hire. Wild stories about the area flourished to the point where police officers refused patrolling its streets at night.

For the unfortunate tourist who booked a room in the crumbling establishment, awakening to a crack of gunfire or tripping over a corpse the next morning were as routine as the paper strip wrapped around the grungy toilet that read Sanitized for your PROTECTION.

All of the lights were turned off inside Room 110. The warm glow from several scattered votives provided just enough light to reveal the shape of a young Muslim kneeling on his prayer rug and bowing in the general direction of Mecca. A passport resting on the chipped bedside table contained the name Mandhur Luqman. Federal authorities would never be able to determine the actual identity of the al-Qaeda operative. Intel from overseas indicated they most likely recruited him from Pakistan, but nobody would ever know for sure.

Mandhur finished his prayers and rose to his feet. He carefully surveyed the equipment spread over the gaudy palm tree comforter on the stiff, double bed. Numerous people had slept, fucked, and died beneath its dingy yellow and green pattern. Everything he needed appeared to be there: a variety of tools for cutting, prying, and drilling as well as a stolen uniform and a fake transit pass one of his many contacts had supplied for him. He picked up each tool and ensured it was in perfect working order before slipping it away inside his black backpack.

He'd been one of the brightest and deadliest graduates from the training camps in Afghanistan. There was no doubt in his mind that he could infiltrate the target, obtain the desired materials, and sneak back to the motel without raising any alarm. He slapped a fresh clip into his automatic pistol before tucking it into his rear waistband. Two extra clips were stashed inside his jacket pocket. This was his insurance policy in case shit went bad.

Mandhur peeked through the narrow gap between the tattered curtains and observed the parking lot for several minutes. A bright half moon rose in the clear night sky. Across the street, a tubby black hooker wearing a tight miniskirt hobbled around on tall stiletto heels. A tweeker with balding hair and piss-stained clothes staggered from his rusting Chevy truck and collapsed against the door to Room 114. However, there wasn't a cop in sight.

He hoisted his backpack onto his shoulder, slipped his room key with its oversized orange key tag into his pocket, and slipped out the door. A quick double-check of the doorknob made certain he locked it. It didn't really matter anyway if somebody broke into his room. Other than his prayer rug and a copy of the Qur'an, there was nothing of value or incrimination inside. He spun around to dash away when he slammed into a small woman who grunted like a clubbed seal as she collapsed backwards. She struck the ground hard, her pink high heels flew off as her legs spread wide.

Mandhur stared down at her in disgust. She had defiled her skin with a lollipop tattoo and he could see straight up her tiny plastic skirt. The sight of her shaved pussy made him sick. In his country, those flowery bits were carved off at birth and sewn shut, only to be torn open by a man on his wedding night. But he wasn't in his country; he was within enemy territory, deep within the sinful, festering heart of the infidels.

Whore. He sneered before forcing his way past her and a nerdy-looking guy who was trying to help her up.

The guy stared back and forth through his thick glasses at Mandhur and the woman. His lips parted as if he was about to speak. Mandhur glared at him and he quickly shut his mouth.

The woman quickly sprang back to her feet. She stuck her arms out straight and extended both her middle fingers. Fuck you, you mother fucking towel-head son of a bitch!

Mandhur never looked back; instead, he glanced at his watch. The time was 7:38 PM. He quickened his pace through the parking lot.

Soon my mission will be complete, he thought with grim satisfaction. And infidels for ten city blocks will be dying in agony as their gums bleed and their hair falls out. Praise Allah!

Chapter 2

An electronic chime echoed through the dim motel lobby as the front door opened. Dense haze from spicy incense glided in layers through the room. Candy limped inside with fresh blood oozing from her scraped knees. Somehow, she managed to wear a smile as she led the nerd by his hand. By now, she knew his name was Brian, he worked as an electrical engineer for a telecom company, or at least that was his story for tonight. She really didn't care who the fuck he was. She'd seen the wad of cash in his wallet and now she was determined to suck it, fuck it, or just beat it out of him.

An old Indian man sat behind the front desk. His gray, spidery comb-over wasn't fooling a soul. If anything, it just gave people another reason to joke behind his back. His pudgy belly stressed the bamboo buttons of his white shirt to just about their breaking point.

Candy had heard rumors about the old man, some of which led her to believe he was far more dangerous than his wrinkled hands led on. He had never been upset with her, but then again she knew better than to make him angry.

He lowered his New Delhi Times just enough to peer at Candy through his thick reading glasses. Weeks of sleepless nights seared dark circles beneath his eyes.

Candy walked up to the counter, smacking her gum in rhythm with her jiggling ass. Hey, Sanjay, I need a room.

He sighed profoundly to protest the interruption while setting his newspaper aside. His Punjabi accent was thick, freely exchanging Vs and Bs, but never in a consistent manner as he spoke through tobacco-stained teeth. I do not know why I keep permitting you to conduct your lewd activities within my establishment.

Sarcasm froze Candy's face still. She blew a large pink bubble through her puckered lips until it swelled to the brink of rupture. Air hissed from the thin membrane as she sucked it back into her mouth and popped it under her tongue. That's because I'm your number one girl, and I also give you one hell of a percentage.

You do have a point there. Sanjay reached toward the key rack hanging from the wall. The orange key tags endured many deep scars from years of passing through filthy hands. Scribbles from a black marker replaced those room numbers that had faded away.

His fingertips glided across the rack, caressing each tag as if it were an old lover. Finally, his hand settled on the key for Room 108. He plucked it from the rack and tossed it onto the counter.

Candy snatched the key with her bright pink nails. Thanks, Sanjay! She then blew a kiss at him.

Sanjay inhaled a deep breath of smoke from his unfiltered cigarette as he returned to his newspaper. He waved the couple on their way with a slow nod of his chin.

Candy grabbed Brian's hand and winked. Come on, let's fuck!

Sanjay returned to his newspaper as the door chimed upon the couple's exit. He watched them from the corner of his eyes as they rushed past the lobby windows. Once the clicking of high heels faded, his gaze traveled toward the tarnished Ganesha statue sitting near the window.

After studying the elephant-headed deity for a moment longer, his brain finally detected the anomaly. He reached into the drawer and picked up a half-empty value pack of Nag Champa. He set several incense cones in the brass dome clutched in the deity's hands and lit them using a box of Strike-All matches he always kept in his pocket. He was a purist when it came to starting fires. He insisted on always using wooden matches, even if he had a lighter on hand. Matches were cheap, never left fingerprints, and could be purchased by the case from the Cash N Carry. If a match blew out, there were thirty-nine more in the box begging for a spark. If he tossed away a Zippo every time he needed to torch some screaming motherfucker tied to a chair, things could get expensive quickly.

The old man savored the smell of thick smoke flowing up his hairy nostrils. There was something magical about the first puffs from the incense, which reminded him of home. He tried to gather his memories, but tonight they weren't cooperating. He couldn't quite put his finger on it yet, but something in the air told him it was going to be another long night.

Sanjay stifled a yawn as he returned to his perch behind the desk. He grabbed his laptop and entered his password. The screen came alive with a thumbnailed grid of videos. Some of the videos were dark; others glowed green with night vision. Images of people having sex filled in the rest.

In the top left corner of the screen was a map of all forty-five rooms in the single-story motel. Sanjay double-clicked on Room 108 as he took another drag from his cigarette. A window appeared in the middle of the screen, filled with grainy video footage of the empty room. An excited itch tickled his balls when Candy and her client entered the scene.

Sanjay knew he would never be able to make a decent living operating an honest business in a terrible neighborhood, so he formulated a plan to squeeze every penny he could out of the motel's operation. He enlisted his nephew, who graduated with honors from MIT with a master's degree in Network Engineering, and together they installed video cameras in every room, which broadcast the live footage through a pay-per-view website.

Sanjay was never concerned with privacy laws or any of the other legalities he blatantly ignored. Authentic voyeur content earned premium cash flow on the web, and he was in total control of what streamed out to his twelve thousand subscribers. There were plenty of hookers renting rooms from him so perverts could always jerk-off to something. Occasionally the cameras captured a mob hit or drug overdose, but Sanjay let the footage air completely uncensored.

Hushed whispers about the website circled water coolers and chat rooms. The stigma of the hardcore content only added to the notoriety of his website and kept the money rolling in. He planned to run the website for a few more years before he returned to Mohali and retired.

Chapter 3

Candy plugged a set of portable speakers into her iPod and set them on the rickety bedside table. With a quick circle of her bright pink fingernails, she selected Fuckin' for her playlist. Techno music pumped through the speakers, sadly lacking the thundering bass the tune truly deserved. At least it was something she could keep a rhythm with.

Sit down lover, Candy said as she gently pushed down against Brian's shoulders to lower him toward the edge of the full-sized bed. Her sparkling blue eyes bewitched him. Let me undress for you.

She was twenty-two, a college-dropout turned stripper turned escort turned prostitute. Unlike most of the other unsightly women who attempted to squeeze into tramp suits around here, she had a tight little body on her. She used it to her advantage several times a night.

Brian's eyes focused on her hands as they unzipped the side of her skirt, revealing the lace edge of her thigh-high stocking. She could imagine the blood pulsing through his loins with every accelerating heartbeat as he watched her slide the skirt down her firm thighs. She smiled, her left eyebrow rising slightly higher than the other, and she slid off her sequined tank top. She never bothered with underwear of any sort; they were just a waste of time in this business.

Brian marveled at her perfectly palm sized tits; their perky pink nipples were pierced with glittery purple barbells. His eyes continued absorbing every detail of her body, from the cursive letter C dangling from her necklace to her strip of blonde pubic hair to the spiral lollipop tattoo above her ankle.

Did you get that because of your name? He gestured toward the ink inside her skin.

Sure, you could say that.

She walked over and kneeled between his legs. Aromas of cheap perfume pulled him under her spell. She slowly rubbed her cheek across his lap and admired the size of the bulge swelling against his zipper. Her fingers traveled up his chest and gently cranked his nipples. Just as he was about to cry out, she stopped and gave him a playful wink.

Her wide, blue eyes focused on his while her hands made expert work of opening his pants. He held his breath as her fingers slipped through the front of his boxers and caressed the pre-cum oozing from him. Before he could surrender to the guilt creeping into the back of his mind, she gripped the base of his stiff cock and slid it inside her warm mouth.

Chapter 4

Sanjay clicked away on his laptop. His eyes darted clockwise around six live video feeds crowded onto his display. In one, a man wearing only an undershirt and necktie was lying across the bed. He stroked his cock while he thumbed through a lingerie catalog.

In the video just below him, an old man with long nose hair scrubbed his dentures over the bathroom sink.

Beneath that, three junkies huddled around a table, cooking heroin in a spoon.

Beside them, a chunky Latina squatted over a black man and spritzed his chest with squirts of piss from her spread, hairy crotch. She went by the name Stardust, and Sanjay hoped she would come back to his motel often. He knew a majority of his subscribers would pay any price for a chance to watch more of her special services.

Above her, a naked black woman with poorly drawn tattoos mopped blood out of her ass with a motel towel.

Smack dab in the middle of the depravity, Sanjay summoned a new media player and selected the viewpoint from a camera concealed inside a smoke detector. Buffering, a circular animation spun in the player.

Is it my laptop or is something else being the matter? Impatience forced Sanjay to tap his fingers on the desk. He dreaded the thought of troubleshooting anything tonight. After another rotation, the graphic faded away and was replaced by a blurry video of Candy's head bobbing.

There we go, wait, not again. He summoned the camera controls with another click and recalibrated the autofocus. He smiled at the crystal-clear video of slobbery spit tendrils dripping from Candy's chin. Now we are cooking with grease!

He opened his web browser and clicked Lucky Live from his list of bookmarks. A neon web page promptly loaded. Large pink letters screaming LUCKY LIVE MOTEL floated over a cartoon motel flanked by two nude blonde-haired women, each clutching Motel Property towels over their fake boobs. A flashing banner along the bottom promised Unscripted Live Video from a Real Motel.

Sanjay switched over to the admin program for running the site. The real-time statistics in the upper corner told him 6,512 members currently surfed around the site. He broadcast a message to all of them through a pop-up window, announcing a new room had come online.

Sanjay sat back and chuckled while users swarmed to the new live stream. Within seconds, more than 4,000 people from around the globe were watching Candy give Brian the blowjob of his life. With numbers like that, Sanjay would be able to retire sooner than he had planned.

Chapter 5

Special Agent Jack Daniels nursed a steaming cup of coffee while sitting behind the wheel of his government issued SUV. Dark limo-tinted windows concealed his actions from the bystanders on the sidewalk. Everybody called him Daniels, except his girlfriend. She usually called him Sugar and reserved Jack for when she dug her nails into his back as she came hard.

He was dressed in a black AC/DC t-shirt and faded jeans. It was indeed juvenile attire for a Special Agent in Charge, but he always dressed down when he was staking something out. He could wear a dark suit and starched collar with the best of them, and he always kept one in the trunk, just in case.

The week's worth of dark beard infesting his face was beginning to itch worse than a bad case of crabs. He'd endured the wrath of infestations during his college years, so he knew the feeling well. The urge to scratch until the skin fell off his face was frequently intruding his thoughts.

Okay, he thought, maybe it's time to shave this shit off.

Daniels graduated from Langley three years ago and already he was neck deep in one of the largest Homeland Security operations ever staged. Not bad for a kid who grew up on a farm and spent nights bartending to pay his way through school. His black hair, chiseled features, and hint of Alabama twang made him a lady-killer on campus, and that reputation followed him into the Bureau.

A soul-draining hangover from a drunken bender with two knockout co-eds had prevented him from taking the top score in linguistics while he was at the academy. It was his own damn fault and he knew it, so he was determined to make up for it by spending extra time on the firing range and practicing tactical simulations. He often laughed to himself when he thought back to all the times his mother told him to get off his ass and stop playing X-Box. Now he was a Special Agent hunting down sleeper cells and he was amazed how many times his tactics from Call of Duty had actually worked in the real world. Who would have guessed? Certainly not his mom.

His eyes studied the secure FBI Intranet displayed on his laptop. He clicked through surveillance photos of several Middle Eastern men, identified only by codenames and aliases. If the Analysts could stop wagering in football pools and organizing Sudoku tournaments around the office, their data may have been more reliable. These men were members of al-Qaeda in America, a new sophisticated network of terrorists who relied on coded messages across social networks to communicate. While Homeland Security had managed to prevent any other major attack on American soil since September 11, there was growing concern that this new group of radicals might actually be able to pull off something.

A pop-up window appeared; its neon colors and synthesized jazz music sidelined his concentration from memorizing the suspects' faces. A New Room is Now Online, it read. View or Ignore?

Daniels loved online porn just as much as anybody else did, so of course he clicked View. His brain needed a break anyway, and the dark windows provided him with the voyeuristic privacy he enjoyed. He could have been dressed in a clown suit, smoking a joint, and the woman fixing her hair in the window's reflection would never see him.

The Lucky Live Motel slowly loaded into his web browser. The mobile broadband connection the government provided certainly worked anywhere he needed it, but it would never win kudos for its stellar bit rates. After several seconds of dragging ass, the video window finally appeared. It took another Stone Age minute of buffering for the actual video to start playing. The status bar indicated 4,127 other viewers were watching the feed, which could have explained the slow speed as well.

Candy is as sweet as her namesake, a scrolling message read. Watch our favorite girl suck and fuck at the Lucky Live Motel.

As the images transitioned from frozen, stuttering images to streaming video, Daniels did a double take on the name, then scrutinized the girl in the grainy video a bit closer.

Yeah, he mumbled under his breath, new hair color from last week, but same lollipop tattoo.

The Special Agent resisted the urge to pull out his cock and fire a load across the floor mat. His cock stiffened against the seam of his jeans. He forced another swallow of hot coffee down his throat as he contemplated the odds the website was a hoax. The urge to masturbate eventually consumed his gray matter as he watched the blonde minx get fucked. He rocked the edge of his coffee cup against the monster inside his pants. His judgment retook control of his hormones when he realized that anything could happen now. Catching his dick in a zipper when he jumped into a gunfight was no way to win another performance award.

A polyphonic rendition of Danger Zone rattled through the special issue cell phone that rested in the center console. Daniels jumped; a splash of coffee scalded his crotch. He shutdown the website with a quick double-tap and shook the leg of the agent napping in the rear seat.

Rogers! Get your ass up! It's our guy.

Special Agent Rogers sprang up. It took a moment for Daniels' words to register with his drowsy brain. He grabbed the phone and answered with an Arabic accent. Hello?

Grandmother, how are your kittens? a scrambled voice on the other end of the call spoke with a thick Arabic accent as well.

They need some milk. Could you bring them some? Rogers tapped Daniels on the shoulder and pointed at the laptop.

Daniels raised the display so Rogers could watch. A call-tracing program was cranking data, tracing the call across airwaves, cell towers, and hard lines. A black window furiously spit out green digits across the screen. In another window, a red line drew itself across a satellite map of San Diego as the program plotted a route between their location and the caller's coordinates. The network started to lag again. Four more seconds and they would own his ass.

To you, this I will bring, the scrambled voice said. Allah is mighty.

The line went dead.

Daniels punched the dashboard. Damn it! Two more seconds and we would have had him!

I'm going back to sleep. Rogers laid back and folded his hands over his beer belly. Wake me up when we actually get to shoot somebody.

Chapter 6

Mandhur tossed the pre-paid cell phone into the trashcan at the bus stop. He had slipped into the stolen uniform in a taco shop bathroom around the corner. He stepped onto the number 875 MTS bus and flashed his counterfeit transit pass. After exchanging nods with the old, fat driver, he found a seat near the back. If he'd boarded an airliner, people would have stared in fear at him simply because he appeared Middle Eastern. However, this was an inner-city bus, and he blended in perfectly with the other blue-collar minorities.

For nine bus stops, he tolerated the black girls shouting racial slurs at one another and the stench from the Mexican migrant worker. The screaming brat kicking the back of his seat tested his patience to the brink of its snapping point. It would be another two hours until a different bus driver offered him salvation from the dregs of society.

Next stop, Eastgate and Olson Drive, the old lady said. Her voice rattled as if marbles bounced around her throat.

Mandhur stood and nudged his way past another pack of rude black girls as he took his place by the rear door.

As the bus halted, he happened to glance up and lock eyes with one of the girls. He'd seen her limp onto the bus earlier. Tufts of fake, bright yellow hair zigzagged through her black braided pigtails. Her blubbery cheeks squeezed her lips into a crooked pout. Her eyebrows curled with rage.

What the fuck you lookin' at, you ugly ass sand nigger?

Many apologies, my sister, he said. The doors opened at that moment and he stepped off the bus.

She screamed back at him, I ain't yo mutha fuckin sista!

The doors closed. She was still yelling at him through the glass as the bus drove off. It was the second time that evening a woman had given him the finger.

Mandhur never looked back. His watch read 11:07 PM. He walked quickly with his head bowed and concentrated on his mission.

A handful of people moved about the street, mostly janitorial crew walking to their jobs. He followed a few of them, using them for cover as he surveyed the area for the telltale signs of Uncle Sam setting a trap. The rooftops were empty. Nobody seemed out of place, and the streets were

Reviews for Shady Palms

[slvoight_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I received this book as a Goodreads ARC giveaway. This was a great book and I really enjoy it