Alexa : Book 2 : Peak Oil: Alexa - The Series, #2

By Arno Joubert

Andy Fitch has the perfect life. A rich oil billionaire, having recently been chosen as the Texas businessman of the year, he leads a charmed life. But all great men have their vices.

Andy Fitch loves snuff movies.

Interpol suspects that he's downloading these illegal porn films. They despatch two agents to investigate the man, but they soon disappear. Captain Alexa Guerra and Sergeant Neil Allen need to find them, soon.

They visit Fitch's hometown called Dabbort Creek where they uncover a plot so sinister, it threatens to bring America's economy to a grinding halt. Millions will lose everything they own, and Anderson Fitch will add billions to his bank balance.

Anderson Fitch needs to eliminate the threat that Guerra and Allen pose. So he decides to make his own real-life snuff film, starring Alexa Guerra and Neil Allen.

Will Alexa and Neil finally overcome a past that haunts them both to be together? Will they be able to stop a sick psychopath wo wants to rule the world and wouldn't hesitate to wipe them off the face of the earth?

Get ready for a roller coaster ride of mystery, hand-to-hand combat, bar fights and assassination attempts, with a final twist in the tale that will make you come back for more.

So you want to meet the female Jack Reacher? Well, allow me to introduce you to Alexa Guerra.

Inspired by the same indomitable character created by Lee Child, Alexa Guerra takes no prisoners, hates bullies and doesn’t suffer fools.

The difference between her and Tom Cruise, that actor they chose to play Jack Reacher in Lee Child’s latest blockbuster movie, is that Alexa Guerra is taller, prettier and tougher. And yes, she is a hot chick.

Like all hot girls, she has a boyfriend (sorry guys), his name is Neil Allen. Neil is a tough former US Marine, dishonorably discharged for a crime he didn't commit. He will take a bullet for Alexa, in fact, he already has. If you screw with his girl, be prepared to die.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Arno Joubert
• Release date: Apr 15, 2013
• ISBN: 9781497749801

Arno Joubert

Arno Joubert (1973 - ) was born in Cape Town, South Africa. He studied to become a doctor, but fainted after witnessing his first Cesarean. Unfortunately the trend continued whenever he saw blood or open wounds; so he decided to become a computer specialist instead (less gore). After climbing the corporate ladder, he started his own company, and has been an I.T. entrepreneur for the past 12 years. His company web site is available at www.omniholdings.co.za. Arno loves animals, traveling, scuba, overlanding and the great outdoors. To connect with Arno, please visit his "hobby" site at www.africaskyblue.com. Subscribe as a member to receive the latest updates on his books, or send him a mail at [e-mail].

Book preview

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 makeup shrieked one-liners that the snot-nosed kids on their hips shouldn’t have had to hear at such a young age.

Neil rolled on the ground, leaving a trail of dust in his wake. The crowd around them jostled backward, 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 opening and closing 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, Neil 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 toward 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.

Oy, 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 and grinned sheepishly as he 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 before turning around on his heel and trotting away.

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

A short, plump, dark-haired woman wearing a miniskirt 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 makeup, 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 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.

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 blonde guy beside 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 Mr. Fitch’s instructions to the T. He had been a Refatex driver for the past three years, and he was doing well. Show me a truck driver whose unemployed wife drives a brand new Benz SLK. Nope, I’m doing better than well. I’m doing A-OK.

So whatever Mr. Fitch asked of him, Bubba always did, no questions asked. And Mr. Fitch’s instructions had been clear. He had found the young man off Route 288, exactly where Mr. 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 Mr. Fitch didn’t like his drivers being late.

Why don’t you fill it from the stuff in the tank? the blonde 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 Mr. 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 blonde man as they plodded into town. How ya’ keeping up back there? he hollered.

The man smiled and gave 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 website. The following day, Mr. Fitch phoned him personally.

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

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.

As Bubba jogged closer, Jackson exchanged a greeting with the driver and 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 backseat. 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 toward 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 siree.

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 blonde 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 driver’s 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.

Mac McAllister lit a cigarette and leaned back in his seat, puffing contentedly. He looked up in the rearview and smiled as one of the men groaned. They may be hungover now, but they were going to need a lot of liquid to recover from the beauty treatment he had planned for them.

Alexa gulped down the tequila and then bit into the lemon. She screwed up her face in disgust, but the barman had already refilled her glass. This was going to be a long night. She glanced at Neil. He was staring at her, cupping his chin in his hand. She shrugged. What?

He smiled at her with his boyish grin. You’re beautiful.

Alexa leaned back against the bar. And you’re drunk.

He chuckled. Getting there. Besides, doesn’t make you any less pretty.

She folded her arms. Hey, I’m no pushover, buster.

C’mon, Alex, that’s not what I meant.

She licked her lower lip as a stocky man with a skew nose punched Neil playfully on the shoulder and handed him a drink. Neil tore his eyes away from Alexa to accept it.

Two weeks ago, Neil had suggested they visit his family in Texas, and she had readily accepted.

They were a boisterous bunch, but they hadn’t taken kindly to Alexa in the beginning. She was a gaje—an outsider. But Neil wasn’t the quintessential gypsy, either. He had joined the army after completing high school, something unheard of in the traveling community.

He had told her the army was in his blood; wasn’t it what gypsies originally were? Traveling soldiers, mercenaries?

Alexa's phone rang and she muttered an excuse, scampering to the exit to get away from the noise. She slid her thumb over the phone. "Bonjour, General."

Alexa, my girl. I’m fine, how are you? General Laiveaux answered in French.

Alexa smiled, happy to talk to her commander for the first time in weeks. I’m fine, thank you, General. Getting to know Neil’s family.

Ah, yes, the general said, sounding distracted. Quite a fortunate coincidence, my girl. I need your help once again.

The old fox, he always had some reason. Yes, General? Alexa asked with a frown. My flight is booked for the day after tomorrow. I’ll be back at the Legionnaire headquarters in two days’ time.

Captain Guerra, the League needs your services now more than ever, the general said, hesitating a moment before continuing. But not in France.

Alexa snapped her fingers. Okay, please continue, Alexa answered, willing Laiveaux to get to his point.

Very well, then. We followed up on Metcalfe’s distribution network, and a certain name popped up on several occasions.

This information piqued her interest. Senator Robert Metcalfe had run a human trafficking ring; he had made snuff movies of young girls. Interpol was following up on the whereabouts of their parents as well as tracing the recipients of the movies to bring them to justice. Yes, General?

Portions of the snuff films were e-mailed, and we managed to trace the destination address to a certain individual.

Alexa rolled her eyes. Laiveaux had a manner of building up to the crux of a story, and he was stretching this out for effect. She clicked her fingers impatiently. Yes, General?

A gentleman called Anderson Fitch, Laiveaux said, pausing for effect.

Alexa stood up straight. Andy Fitch, the Texan oil billionaire?

Yes, Laiveaux grunted. He continued in a disgusted tone. We sent two Interpol agents to question Monsieur Fitch.

Who?

Voelkner and Latorre.

Okay, she said, smiling at two young women who waved at her. What have they found?

Well, they haven’t reported back yet. Their last communication was seventy-two hours ago, Laiveaux said with an irritated tone. And we’re starting to get edgy.

Alexa bit her lower lip. Voelkner and Latorre had been her fellow troops at the French Foreign Legion. They had saved her life more than once. Where are they?

The last time we heard from them, they were in Houston. They were on their way to a small town called Dabbort Creek, a hundred and fifty miles southeast of your current location.

Why?

We don’t know. That was their last message.

Alexa turned around and marched back to the tent. Very well, General. I’ll get Neil. We’re leaving now.

Excellent, Captain. I’ll e-mail you the intel we have. I must admit, it’s sparse. We have an approximate address. He hesitated for a second but then cleared his throat. She guessed he was worried about her safety. Good day, my girl. Be careful.

"Au revoir, General." She disconnected the call. The general’s tone told her more than his spoken words. She was starting to get worried now.

Alexa made her way through the milling crowd toward a group of people gathered around Neil. They laughed and told stories, their hands waving and gesticulating in the air. Neil looked up at her. She jerked her head toward the exit, and he stood up and excused himself, following her outside.

What’s up? he asked, slipping his arm around her waist.

Have you ever heard of a place called Dabbort Creek, Texas?

Neil thought for a moment. As a matter of fact, I have. We passed through there when I was a kid. He scratched his chin. Didn’t have much going on. Why?

Alexa shrugged. We’re going on a road trip, she said and pulled him toward their caravan. Courtesy of the French government.

Neil hummed to Bob Marley’s Redemption Song as they drove the scenic route into town. He squinted and peered ahead. The sun beat down from a cloudless sky, a hazy mirage shimmering on the tarmac ahead.

After a few miles, the road started a gentle climb as they wound their way up the side of the foothill to the town above. When they caught up to a large tanker truck, Neil was forced to slow down.

For the first time in his life, he felt happy, content with the hand he had been dealt. He glanced sideways at Alexa. She smiled, her green eyes sparkling, and put her hand on his leg. She seemed to understand him, what he was thinking when he looked at her in a certain way. Probably their military training or something else. Love, maybe? He grunted. He remembered loving someone a lifetime ago.

A murky, brown river flowed gently to their left, halting the advance of a dense, green forest growing up to its edge. Neil slowed down even more, allowing the tanker truck to gain a hundred yards. He opened the window and inhaled deeply. He smelled the earthiness of the rich soil; a moldy waft of decomposing leaves blew in from the forest. The river started to recede into the distance below as they climbed higher. 

They crawled past an ornate sign on the side of the road that said, Welcome to Dabbort Creek, population 685, Home of the Ocelot. They followed the tanker truck into town.

The village was nestled on the side of a wooded hill. The neat blacktop meandered past a police station to their left. They saw a diner and a bar farther up the road to their right. Various signs in front of shops and stores vied for their attention.

Neil glanced at Alexa. Alex, what’s an ocelot?

Alexa shrugged. Let’s ask. She pointed toward the bar, and Neil nosed into a parking space in front.

––––––––

Alexa and Neil entered the dimly lit barroom and stood still for a couple of seconds to allow their eyes to adjust to the light. The sound of Mac Wiseman skinning a cat emanated from a vintage jukebox in the corner. Four elderly men were playing cards in a corner booth, talking softly under their breaths as they flipped the cards on the table. They stopped their game to eyeball the newcomers.

A cowboy sat on a stool at the bar, his Stetson pulled low over his brow. Ice rattled as a burly barman filled a bucket from the ice machine.

The barman shifted his attention to them as they sauntered to the counter. He stooped forward and planted his hands flat down on the counter. The man wore a denim jacket with the sleeves torn off at the shoulders, and his triceps bulged impressively.

What can I do you for? he asked with a gravelly voice. His eyes lingered on Alexa's chest for a moment before he dragged them away and looked up at Neil. The old-timers continued with their game in a hushed tone. Neil ordered two Sols and sat down at the bar. The barman wiped two glasses dry, placed them in front of Neil, poured the beers, and pushed a bowl of peanuts toward them.

What’s an ocelot? Neil asked him.

The question drew a smile from the barman. One of the card players sniggered.

The barman scratched a bearded chin. It used to be some wild cat folks would find in these parts. But they were wiped out years ago. He twirled the side of his long, handlebar mustache between a thumb and forefinger. They used to be a tourist attraction.

Neil tossed a handful of peanuts in his mouth, chewed noisily, and chased them with a chug of beer.

Alexa turned around and examined the room, noticing a couple of pool tables at the far end. You see two French guys come in here a couple of days ago? Alexa asked the barman.

The hushed conversation stopped.

The barman shrugged. Nope.

Alexa considered his answer with her head cocked to the side. You sure?

Yep, the barman answered and refilled the cowboy’s glass with bourbon. The man grunted a thanks.

Can we play? Neil asked, jerking his head toward the pool tables.

Knock yourself out, the barman answered and stooped below the counter. He placed a white ball and chalk on the counter. Five dollar deposit, includes the first hour. Two dollars an hour after.

Neil placed a fifty dollar bill on the counter and picked up the ball and chalk. Run a tab until it’s done.

The barman nodded, picked up a glass, and started wiping it dry.

They carried their beers to the pool tables. Neil switched on an overhead light suspended from the ceiling above one of the tables and started packing the balls.

Alexa broke, shattering the cluster of balls and sinking a stripe in the corner pocket. She lined up her next shot, glancing up at Neil. I went through the intel Laiveaux sent me.

She positioned herself, leaning over her cue, one eye squeezed shut as she took aim, and sank the yellow in a side pocket. She stood up and rubbed some chalk over the tip of the cue and blew the excess away. Metcalfe sent an e-mail to Fitch with a downloadable link to a snuff film. Fitch, or whoever was monitoring the mail account, downloaded the movie a couple of days ago.

She lined up another shot, and the white cracked into the side of orange, bouncing it off the side of the table and sinking it into a side pocket.

Neil sighed.

She took a long shot at blue and pocketed it in the corner pocket. She looked up with a smile and saw Neil grimace. How do we know that it was Fitch who downloaded the movies?

Alexa shrugged as she considered her next shot. We don’t. But the mail was addressed to him. It’s the only solid lead we have to go on. She took a sip of beer. Frydman traced the location of the computer to approximately thirty miles east of town. The IP address points to Refatex, Fitch’s refinery.

Alexa proceeded to clear the table. She was about to break for the second game when the bar door crashed open. The silhouette of a large man blocked the blinding outdoor light.

The guy entered the bar, and a second man followed him inside. They wore leather biker clothes with long ZZ Top beards. They walked up to the barman, and a seemingly urgent conversation ensued. Alexa observed them casually, leaning on her cue as the barman nodded his head toward the pool tables. The two men looked up and strode purposefully toward them.

Alexa leaned forward to take her