The Bitter Fruit of Vengeance

By Christopher Howard Lincoln

A man gifted with mathematical genius uses his miraculous formulae for purely selfish and materialistic ends, and the path he's chosen lands him in a life or death situation from which there may be no return. Now, with the odds stacked against him, he's got nothing but survival on his mind and vengeance in his heart as fate makes an unexpected turn in the bleak landscape of the Nevada desert.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christopher Howard Lincoln
• Release date: May 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781533788276

Book preview

Wendel Matheson had very little room in which to move, sitting in the back seat of the speeding sedan. He was wedged between two pug-faced men who were much larger than he. They were better dressed too: their dark, well-tailored suits were a stark contrast to Wendel’s cheap jacket and slacks. Both of the men wore stony expressions, and Wendel knew that no amount of pleading on his part would sway them from their tasks. In the common parlance of criminals, he was being taken for a ride—they were going to kill him.

He tried swallowing, but his mouth was too dry. Wendel couldn’t tell if it was his frayed nerves or the dry desert air that had caused him to become so parched. A scotch and soda would have worked wonders right about then, but, alas, it was not to be. Miles separated him from the nearest cold drink, and even if there were a chance to quench his thirst, he doubted that his present companions would have granted him such a simple last request: there wasn’t the slightest trace of romanticism in their bones; they were all business.

In addition to the men flanking Wendel, two more occupied the front seats. Staring over their broad shoulders and out of the sedan’s windshield, Wendel could see the distant brightening sky. The sun hadn’t yet made an appearance, but the upper atmosphere was filled with the rich, warm glow that signaled the onset of dawn.

From the direction of the light, Wendel knew that they were headed east, further into the desert. He pondered on how many other unlucky souls might have made this very same journey, destined for a shallow unmarked grave among the cacti. The thought chilled his blood.

He glanced out of the side windows. The early morning light was enough for him to make out the passing scenery. It was dull, almost hypnotic: sand, red rock and scraggly low-lying brush, followed ad nauseum by more of the same. Objects that were close to the roadside whipped past with an astonishing speed, and Wendel wondered just how fast they were going. He craned his neck to see around the bulk of the sedan’s driver and located the speedometer. The dial, marked off in small increments, went up to one hundred and twenty. The gauge’s needle hovered somewhere between the final mark and the one before it. The vehicle was certainly going fast—very fast.

Wendel could understand the excessive speed, though. The driver and his stoic partners had an unpleasant job ahead of them and, probably, wanted it over and done with as soon as possible. Before long, the sun would be beating down upon the broken landscape and make grave digging very sweaty work, no matter how shallow the hole. Although, thought Wendel, the men would most likely be grave filling; he figured they planned on making him do the actual digging before they put a bullet into the back of his skull.

Wendel’s gaze shifted back to the view out of the front of the sedan. Suddenly, something streaked across the roadway ahead, illuminated in the vehicle’s headlights—something tawny and low to the ground. Wendel only glimpsed it briefly, but he recognized the swiftly moving shape: a coyote.

The sedan’s driver, eyes intent upon the road ahead, which the vehicle ate up at an alarming speed, saw the animal too. The big man panicked. He stomped on the brake pedal and yanked the steering wheel to one side in an effort to avoid hitting the coyote. Tires screeching along the pavement, the vehicle slewed over and missed the frightened animal, which promptly vanished into the desert scrub. Curses exploded from the driver’s mouth; his voice was edged with fear. The sedan continued to careen down the road at terrific speed as he attempted to straighten its course.

Momentum worked against the driver’s intentions, and the sedan began to drift sideways. A light patina of sand and grit on the dusty, desert road gave the skidding tires poor purchase. The driver wrenched the steering wheel around in the opposite direction, trying to stop the slide by turning into it. He overcompensated.

The sun was just beginning to show itself on the distant horizon as the sedan left the road. Wendel shut his eyes, too frightened to watch. The vehicle bounced once before it slammed into the rough terrain adjacent to the roadside. Metal twisted, shrieking in protest, and Wendel heard the rattle of small branches, sand and gravel scraping along the sedan’s chassis; then came a quick series of sickening crunches and the distinctive sound of glass shattering as the sedan plowed into larger rocks and boulders. Wendel lost all sense of up and down as the vehicle began to tumble sideways; he felt the force of gravity repeatedly jerk him first one way and then another. The mass of metal encasing him flipped over several times, lasting