Lethal Greed: Greed Thrillers, #2

By John W. Mefford

Two drug-related murders fracture a community.

A thousand miles away, a brazen abduction devastates an old friend.

And Michael Doyle must make a choice that could destroy his life.

 

Seduced by an insatiable urge to escape reality, North Texas teens are falling prey to the one weakness parents fear most—the use of illicit drugs.

 

And North Texas is just the tip of the iceberg.

 

With his city under siege by a series of drug deaths and a kidnapping, Michael and those closest to him are sucked into a twister so toxic and destructive, no one will be the same in its wake. 

 

From the jagged mountains and alluring beaches of Mexico to the suburban concrete jungle in North Texas, Michael defends an entire drug-ravaged generation against ruthless killers who attack on every front possible.

 

And just when you think the dragon has been slayed, a vile act of cruelty threatens to shred Michael's own family.

 

The perfect read for thriller fans of Harlan Coben, John Sandford, James Patterson, and Robert Crais.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John W. Mefford
• Release date: Jul 28, 2019
• ISBN: 9798224962273

John W. Mefford

Amazon Top 50 Author, #2 bestselling author on Barnes & Noble, and a Readers' Favorite Gold Medal winner. A veteran of the corporate wars, former journalist, and true studier of human and social behavior, John W. Mefford has been writing his debut novel since he first entered the work force twenty-five years ago, although he never put words on paper until 2009. A member of International Thriller Writers, John writes novels full of intrigue, suspense, and titillating thrills. They also evoke an emotional connection to the characters.  When he’s not writing, he chases three kids around, slaves away in the yard, reads, takes in as many sports as time allows, watches all sorts of movies, and continues to make mental notes of people and societies across the land. To pick up two of John's thrillers for free, copy and past this URL into your browser: http://bit.ly/20WJzqi Connect with John on Facebook at www.facebook.com/JohnWMeffordAuthor

Book preview

Chapter One

Three Years Ago

The textured white ceiling offered the teenage boy a multitude of dream paths. A scab-infested human arm dangled at an awkward angle. To the right, the cartoonish jowls of a grisly old man sagged at least a foot. Above that, a powerfully built, yet graceful, reindeer prepared to launch into the pale sky.

Which one should he take? Did he have an option? He saw more—crevices, undulations of a possible moon. Maybe it was the skin of the man downstairs. The man who’d teased him. This couldn’t be a dream if the scarred complexion of that man was seeping into his thoughts.

Lying on his back in the twin bed he’d slept in since he was five years old, the boy rubbed his eyes and exhaled, but couldn’t catch his breath. His hand touched his chest. The pulsating beat thumped like a steam locomotive, reverberating in his core, quickly migrating up his shoulders, neck, even his eye sockets, until his entire body felt like it might explode.

A wave of adrenaline came over him. It lifted him off the bed, hovering near the ceiling, high above the panic, to a place void of the unyielding anxiety. And the unbearable guilt for not being everything he should be for his parents.

A quick drop. He clutched the silk comforter with both hands, his chest and body convulsing.

Please make it stop. I’ll do anything to make this stop!

His teeth clenched, his head shook violently from side to side. Minutes passed, then momentary relief.

Drenched with a layer of sweat, he focused on his breathing. His eyes drifted around the room, and he noticed his old train against the wall. The tracks...yes, he now remembered. The man with the creepy face had teased him relentlessly until he did it. Finally, with hordes of teenagers chanting, Snort, snort, snort, he put his nose to the coffee table and sucked two lines of cocaine up his nostril. He’d given in to the temptation, the pressure—a daily sidekick in his life. Somehow, he’d stumbled upstairs to his room, ashamed of what he’d let his life become at age fourteen.

No convulsions in the last few minutes. But the delirium, the mind-bending thoughts and sensations only increased. Suddenly, his arm itched like never before. He scratched and scratched until he smelled blood. He blinked his eyes, and his skin peeled apart as if acid had been poured into an open wound. His arm felt like it was on fire.

Is any of this real? Maybe this is how life would end. High, whacked-out beyond belief, and alone.

He deserved no better.

A door slammed.

Who’s there? he thought he asked.

He felt tugging. Someone was on top of him. A face...brown hair. I think I know this girl. He put his hands out. She grabbed his finger and put it in her mouth. What the hell is she doing? He had no control of his body, of anything. This wasn’t right. He was only fourteen.

Suddenly, another adrenaline rush, but this one was different than the last. The girl was gyrating, digging her nails into his stomach, screaming.

Stop, stop! Don’t! he begged. And then it was over.

Time passed, and she was no longer in the room. He’d just had his first sexual experience. And it was fucked up. Tears pooled. Everyone would soon know. He closed his eyes and then quickly reopened them, staring at the ceiling, wishing he could sit on the reindeer’s back and leap into another life, another world. His innocence forever lost, he couldn’t take any of it back.

Shame was Zachary Taylor’s closest confidante.

Chapter Two

Present Day

The lip of the sun hung to the edge of the ocean in the distant western sky, as rolling waves calmed beneath the disappearing orange hue. Whitecaps subsided, giving way to evening boaters looking for a high-dollar sunset, sipping their martinis of choice on their fifty-foot yachts. Bronze bodies, platinum on their fingers, and gold in their pockets.

This was the life. The life Benicio envisioned for his family, friends...mostly for himself. Sitting on the rocky sand, elbows resting on his sandpaper knees, he often observed the tourists, las turistas, and vicariously traded places with all of them at some point in time. He scratched his nose, paused, and then viciously attacked the itch again.

The portly man had few remaining friends and had alienated his entire family. He leaned back and searched each of his pockets. His breathing increased with the exertion and the hope he might find some remaining choro—marijuana. Nothing. He rubbed his nose again and cursed under his breath.

Benicio felt the unrepentant urge rising like a tidal wave inside him. He had to relieve the pressure. He thought back to past moments of weakness and desperation. For a brief time, he’d attempted to live a normal, mostly sober life. He’d even had a girlfriend. Sure, she was demanding, even blatantly rude, but she cared. She’d make him dinner twice a week, gave him back massages when he got home from the days he was able to garner a day job. But he couldn’t hold it together. Twice he’d used her rent money to go out with the boys. He didn’t know when to stop, how to stop, before it was too late. He wasn’t sure which was worse, his grifo—drug-induced stupor—or the berating she gave him. It only took two strikes, and he never saw her again.

The inside of his nose tingled, and he couldn’t help but pinch it. He burrowed his feet deeper into the sand, and his thoughts drifted to su madre. After moving back home to save money, his saintly mother had him swear on her St. James Bible that he’d stay clean. A week later, she caught him stealing her grocery money.

He couldn’t tell her another lie. I’m going to buy some weed, and I’m going to smoke it and enjoy it. I can’t help myself.

If only weed were my problem. But it isn’t. Not by a long shot.

She ushered him out of her home and hadn’t spoken to him since. She’d given Benicio more chances than he could count. He’d always planned to repay his debts, show everyone what Benicio was really capable of. But luck was not his friend. At least not until recently.

His gaze returned to the calming ocean, and he dreamed of a hopeful future.

Suddenly, sand sprayed his face.

Benicio, Benicio! We need you, quickly. The roosters have flown the coop. We must act on our plan. Luis tugged on Benicio’s blood-stained shirt. We have our instructions, Benicio. Are you listening?

Benicio momentarily refocused his attention on the largest yacht in his view, ignoring his willowy partner, just as he had grown to disregard the bleakness of his own pathetic life. At thirty years of age, he had no real skills, only unquenched desires and fading dreams. Having worked on one of those yachts for just one day, rubbing elbows with the high and mighty, he couldn’t resist the diamond Rolex resting on the tray in the master bathroom. Only hours into a job that he believed was a God-given opportunity to start his life anew, Benicio was fired on the spot. He’d somehow managed to flee from the marina without having to return the watch, explaining in rapid-fire Spanish that the opulent timepiece had accidentally fallen overboard. He pleaded ignorance, as if he couldn’t speak or understand much English.

Though mesmerized by the countless diamonds clustered on the piece of jewelry, he had no intention of using it to better his life, at least not in the traditional sense. The ostentatious timepiece stayed in his possession for only a few hours, slipping through his tattered fingers like the pebbled, sand-lined beaches of Puerto Vallarta. He marched directly to one of his most prodigious drug contacts and proudly flaunted the watch, then bartered it for a few bags of cocaine—cabello.

As he came down from his high, he regretted his lack of restraint for not safeguarding the only extravagance he’d possessed in his life. Then again, he felt remorse nearly every time he snorted or shot up.

***

Benicio and Luis crouched behind a stone retaining wall near a partially lit alley. My little amigo, we have a great opportunity before us, Benicio said. He nodded at two other team members across the way. "We will make our mark on this world. We will soon have what we’ve always wanted. Dinero. Respect."

Benicio could hear the footsteps of people rounding the corner, similar to the pop of horseshoes bouncing off the cobblestone streets. The shoes were thick-soled, very expensive. He wiped beaded sweat from his forehead.

With dusk giving way to near darkness, the targets moved within sight. One man, one woman. Her stilettos lifted her body at least five inches. She was spry, playful with the older man, tickling him intermittently. As planned, Benicio waited for the two uniformed men to make the initial move.

"Detenerse! Stop right where you are!"

Chapter Three

The captain scooted his chair back and paused, shooting a quick glance at the private in the corner of the twenty-by-twenty room. He crossed his legs, pulled out a bent cigar, and lit it. A couple of puffs then a slow release. The naked light bulb in the cracked ceiling illuminated the smoke as it rose into the air.

"Agua, water?" The captain motioned for the couple to sit in chairs with chipped red paint.

Distracted by his surroundings and hearing shuffled footsteps draw closer to the room, the slender American didn’t answer.

Do you want water? the captain asked again, this time with a more distinct enunciation.

Uh...no, no thank you. Arthur Spanarkel could feel his heart pounding at nearly twice the rate of his age, sixty-nine years old. The publisher of the Times Herald rubbed his forehead, wondering why this was happening. It seemed shady, possibly a complete farce, but it was a reality he couldn’t escape. He ran his hand across the blemished wooden table, wondering how this would play out.

Arthur peered at his younger wife. Trudy was physically better equipped for a stressful event like this—she spent a good amount of time working out, staying toned and healthy. Her daily interactions with the world, however, were not demanding ones. Haggling with overpriced caterers or car salesmen...that was her forte. She believed her insistent demeanor was her most important contribution to the family’s bottom line. And Arthur was okay with that. He just worried now about how this would affect her mentally.

There was nothing he could do about it at the moment, except see this through and be there for her when it was done.

Trudy sat stiffly, her clasped hands pressed against her chin, elbows on the table. She was dressed impeccably in a white halter top covered by a sheer blouse, red capris, and red heels, her blond hair arranged just so. But underneath all that, Arthur could see her body shaking slightly. She was frightened, and that killed him. Her eyes fixated on the square table, occasionally glancing at Arthur, who gave her small smiles, attempting to reassure his wife, eighteen years his junior.

The captain opened a bottled water, took a couple of swigs, then wiped his mouth with his blue uniform sleeve. Two other men entered the room, spoke briefly to the private, and then stood next to the open doorway. Arthur noted that the second pair of men wore frayed shorts and flip-flops. One was a young man, thin, with stringy hair and scraggly stubble on his chin. The other man was older with a potbelly, an overabundance of dark body hair protruding out of his stained, holey shirt, and prominent pockmarks all over his face. Arthur wondered what their role here would be.

Empty your belongings on the table. The captain ran his fingers through his bushy mustache.

Trudy glanced at her husband then turned her white leather purse upside down. Even Arthur was stunned to see how much stuff rolled out, some of it falling on the bare wood floor. She leaned to her left, but the captain held up a hand. He did the honors, rummaging through every item, discarding countless makeup kits, trinkets from los mercados, traveler’s checks, glasses cases, and a bottle of blue pills.

Illegal contraband, no?

Arthur shook his head as he rubbed his face, aggravated. Those pills are none of your business. We have a perfectly legal prescription.

What are you hiding? The captain’s eyes shifted between the two.

I have an issue that... Arthur looked down at the mess on the table.

They are to enhance our sex lives, Trudy blurted out, her cheeks now blushing and green eyes screaming defiance.

The captain’s lips curled up at the corners. He looked over Arthur’s shoulder toward his comrades, and they all shared a laugh. He continued sifting through the couple’s belongings and came across a wad of cash, a mixture of American dollars and Mexican pesos. He focused on the US currency. It took him three times to get through the stack without confusing himself, but he counted out loud: thirty-five hundred dollars. We will accept this down payment on taxes you owe. The captain folded the cash and slid the wad into his shirt pocket.

Arthur straightened his wire-rimmed glasses as blood rushed to his partially bald head. I’m sorry. What taxes are you referring to?

You owe the state a special vacation tax, equivalent to the tax bracket you occupy back in the States, the captain said matter-of-factly. Our tax bracket is none of your business, thank you. We will pay for any taxes—legally—that are required to be paid. But we will not pay out bribes, sir. Sweat trickled down his temples, but Arthur didn’t blink, looking boldly into the captain’s eyes.

You owe us, the state, five hundred thousand dollars. The captain blew a cloud of smoke directly at Arthur’s face.

A half-million dollars. Are you kidding me? Arthur exclaimed while swatting at the polluted air.

"Five hundred thousand per person. One million total." The captain took another long drag of his cigar.

Arthur dropped his head and let the words resonate. He stared at the array of floral colors on his Tommy Bahama shirt. Deep, rich shades of blue, accented by crimson and white flowers. Vibrant, alive...everything he’d associated with this tropical wonderland—until they were accosted minutes earlier and forced to enter this deserted building.

The bare-bones structure had no signage, no evidence of association to any legitimate business, let alone a government entity. The only noticeable entrance came through a nondescript, unmarked metal door directly off the alley. Raised nail heads littered the twenty stairs to the second-floor room in which they now sat. Arthur realized he’d never asked for identification. But his thoughts now were more clear and logical than they had been at first. These men, whether they were police, military, or simply dressed in costumes, wanted their money—and a lot of it. What was their purpose, their endgame? Arthur shot a glance at Trudy, and his stomach formed a quick knot. He admitted to himself that he truly feared for her safety, even his own.

Arthur was certain that at his age, and given the current odds, he had no way of fighting his way out of this predicament. They had one shot at getting out of this dilemma without it escalating into a hostile situation, but doubt lingered in the back of his mind. He wiped his clammy hands on his khaki pants, then gave a slight nod to Trudy.

I’m sorry, but we’re not going to participate in such fraudulent behavior. He rose out of his chair, grabbed his remaining credit cards, and stuffed them into his pocket. Good evening, gentlemen.

His heart hammering at his chest cavity, Arthur stepped toward the lone open door, with Trudy right on his heels. He looked purposely at the two men on either side of the exit. They appeared stunned, searching for direction over Arthur’s shoulder.

Arthur exited the room, and one of the men followed. Three paces later, he arrived at the top of the stairs. He heard a shrill behind him, quickly turned, and saw Trudy kicking her legs in the air. The wiry man had lifted her off the floor, one arm around her waist and the other trying to cover her mouth.

Arthur’s heart dropped. He started to go back, but the large, hairy man used his considerable girth to shove Arthur down the first few stairs. He tripped on a raised nail and lost his footing, falling three more steps before his head rammed into a wall. Trudy’s muffled screams echoed in the barren space. But he could do nothing; a meaty hand jabbed him in the ribs. He tumbled down the remaining stairs, awkwardly bouncing off the last step.

Trudy, are you okay? Trudy! he shouted, despite the pain. But the big man shut him down once again, kicking Arthur in the kidney and sending him sprawling through a doorway into the alley.

Get to your hotel room. You will hear from us. His chiseled scars and vein-filled eyes told Arthur this man had nothing to lose. Tell no one, or we will have to kill her. Now go!

Chapter Four

Colossal stone columns outlined the structure’s brick facade like sentinels guarding a fortress. I plodded up the front stairs of the oldest church in Franklin. A few small groups huddled outside the place of worship, some dotting their eyes with tissues and consoling their friends and family members, while others, hands in their pockets, shuffled their feet and stared at the ground.

I hesitated, taking in the somber scene, then glanced back to see if my wife of less than a year had arrived. From this higher elevation, I noticed dusk had settled in, with shades of purple reflecting off three of the city’s contemporary glass buildings down the street.

With a single railroad track splitting the east and west sides, this one-time farming community had developed into a thriving suburban city. One that no longer relied on the nearby metropolis to define its existence. But given recent events, Franklin, my adopted hometown, was quickly gaining a reputation that would put it on the map for an entirely different reason.

A teenage boy handed me a program, and I found a spot five rows from the back on the right side of the sanctuary. Marisa slid in next to me a few minutes later, wearing a conservative black pantsuit. She rested her hand on my leg and looked into my eyes, connecting with me as she had so many times during our four-year relationship.

I didn’t enjoy funerals. Who did? I wasn’t friends with the deceased or her family, yet in my new role as associate publisher of the Times Herald, it was my duty as a community leader to attend and lend support. Just as the minister of the city’s largest Baptist church exited the side room and walked to his chair, I noticed our education reporter, Rose Tipton, three rows in front of me. Her jet-black, curly hair was clipped behind her head. As if sensing my eyes, she turned, and we gave each other a brief nod. Our photographer wasn’t allowed inside during the service, but he’d been given permission to take pictures, including that of the casket and any attendees, outside the church.

Music played, first from the organ with the massive steel pipes pointing up to heaven. Then a youngster from the high school band performed a moving solo of Amazing Grace on her flute. White handkerchiefs and tissues fluttered amongst the crowd. Finally, the minister stood before the broken, scared congregation, hands gripping each side of the pulpit.

The circle of life is inevitable. The middle-aged preacher appeared to have grayed as much as a first-term president in the last three months. Burying the young, however, is not natural.

He looked down to check his notes—or maybe he was just gathering himself to remain resolute, a symbol of strength for a community looking for guidance and answers.

This young lady, Ashley Gervin, will never meet her potential. She dreamed of being a veterinarian. She dreamed of continuing her dancing in college. Her dreams, her parents’ dreams will never be carried out. I do not say this to create pain. Muted sobs interrupted his tenor voice. I say this to wake us up. We are at war in our own back yard. Our children’s lives are at stake, yet the culprit is mostly transparent and elusive, at times focusing our pain and anger at those who deal drugs. In reality, the end result of a beautiful, energetic life being taken can’t be blamed solely on the provider of the drug. It’s connected to desire...our human, imperfect craving to want more and more and more and more! A better high, a longer high—an orgasmic high!

Every head in the sanctuary froze, not a sound to be heard.

We can only do so much to stop the flow of drugs into our community. We must end the yearning. We must love our kids by spending time with them, not allowing them to fall further from their families and support system. Ashley’s family are good people who showed their love to Ashley in many ways.

The stalwart minister cleared his throat.

My friends, it takes a village to raise kids into respectable men and women. Our neighborhoods used to provide that support. Please, please take this opportunity to rekindle that spirit and to never let the flame burn out. If we fail to wake up and unite, we will repeat this horrific exercise of burying our young. We might as well start serving cocaine and heroin for dessert. It will get to them. It will overtake them. It will change them. It will kill them. We can rebuild our spirits. Let us begin now.

Weeping returned, echoing throughout the chamber. Heads and shoulders