Black Moon

By Andrew Ceroni

A Riveting Sizzler with Nonstop Action by Multi-Award-Winning-Author & Former Special Agent ANDREW CERONI When a second new moon appears in the same month, it’s called a black moon. In parts of the US, superstitions abound concerning black moons. CIA Agent Dave McClure is on a flyfishing trip with colleagues in the Bitterroot Wilderness of western Montana…during a black moon. Simultaneously, members of a Mexican cartel break from a prison transport bus in eastern Montana, kill everyone, and head for the Bitterroot Wilderness, thinking police will bet they went back south. If this isn’t bad enough, Chinese agents kidnap former DCI, Jack Barrett, on the Army Navy Club golf course—China needs to know what the US installed on the mountains of Taiwan. McClure must rescue Jack…and blood will flow. China decides to take revenge on McClure at his residence with four armed Chinese assassins… McClure’s greatest challenge ever. Will he prevail?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Outskirts Press
• Release date: Mar 30, 2024
• ISBN: 9781977274021

Andrew Ceroni

AMAZON best-selling author Andrew Ceroni served a distinguished career as a Senior Supervisory Special Agent in the conduct of global counterespionage and antiterrorism operations. He received his BS degree from the U.S. Air Force Academy, CO; MA degree from Case Western Reserve University, OH; and studied the German and French languages at the University of Maryland, MD. He is a member of the Authors Guild. 

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Interstate 94

Miles City, Montana

Wednesday, September 28th

Fred Burke glanced briefly down at his watch, then stared out again through the windshield into the dark night ahead. A tad past seven-thirty in the evening. The windshield had some frost gathered around its edges…early for September, but then, not so much for Montana where cold nights often came on early. It was a tad chilly in the bus to boot, so he reached to the dash and turned up the heat a bit.

Fred tried without success to blink the sleepiness from his eyes. This was his second prison transport of the day, and he had been driving now for nearly eleven hours. He was hoping there might be still time to get home for a hot dinner with his wife and kids.

The sky was black with a new moon and a sprinkling of stars. Tonight, this moon happened to be the second new moon in the month of September — a black moon, something known as such to astronomers. While the normal period of a black moon’s appearance is usually twenty-nine days, rarely however, the black moon’s appearance could be 27—28 days based on an inexplicable anomaly during the period of the moon’s revolution about the earth. September was such a month.

The Blue Bird prison transport bus Fred was driving had just passed through the northern outskirts of the town of Miles City in eastern Montana. It was a small town, but nevertheless, Fred wasn’t fond of long, day and night drives.

The good news at this moment was that tonight’s prison transport movement was nearly over. He only had about another half hour or so of driving left. They were right on schedule to arrive by eight o’clock at the tall, steel gates of the Dawson County Regional Prison at Glendive, Montana.

Fred’s bus continued north on I-94, a highway now bordered on both sides by thick, dark, and gloomy woods. Passing around every curve, the bus’s brakes wailed like a banshee gliding in the air from the woods. Fred made a mental note for the mechanics that the brakes obviously needed work.

Even though the end of the journey was in sight, Fred was still fatigued from being at the wheel and squinting at the blinding glare of oncoming headlights throughout the entire evening hours. He nevertheless managed to smile and glimpsed over at U.S. Marshal Steve Bauman sitting in the opposing front seat across from him. Bauman nodded back, but with a slim, weak smile.

Tedious, Fred said.

Yeah, I know, but hell, it’s almost over, Fred. We’ll be at the prison soon and free of these cartel members, Steve replied.

Good. I don’t like transporting guys from the cartels. They seem to make some kind of trouble every time they’re onboard.

That’s why you’ve got a U.S. Marshall traveling with you tonight. Things will be okay…we’re close to wrapping this movement up, Steve responded.

Behind Bauman sitting in the second row of the bus sat the younger Todd Bigelow, a Montana State Corrections Officer. Bigelow was keeping a wary eye on the prisoners who sat behind the bars at the rear of the bus. And for good reason…just beyond the cell-like bars that separated the guards from the prisoners were six heavily tattooed and hand-cuffed members of the Los Cinco Dedos Cártel, The Five Fingers Cartel. The Los Cinco Dedos cartel was a spinoff of the much larger, more powerful, and well-known Sinaloa Cartel.

Alvaro Machado, the oldest gang member among them and leader of the six men, had a reputation within the cartel for being ruthless and at times absolutely blood thirsty hateful. Alvaro nodded across the aisle at Carlos Espinoza.

Carlos nodded back, then lifted the heel of his right foot from his shoe and reached down under the leather padding for his steel shiv. The razor-sharp shiv’s handle was wrapped with duct tape.

"Carlos, lo hacemos aquí. Ahora, Carlos, we do it here. Now," Alvaro said in a low voice. He bent over and slipped off his handcuffs, having picked the lock with a small needle-like tool he also had secreted on his person from his previous prison incarceration in the Montana State Prison at Deer Lodge. The state prison had apparently reached capacity, so they were farming inmates out to other prisons in the state.

"Bien, Jefe, Okay, Boss," Carlos replied. He in turn leaned to his right over his shoulder and glanced at Marco Becerra seated behind him, then smiled, and winked. Marco nodded, and Carlos leaned back in his seat.

Marco reached down into the stretch band of his left foot’s sock and pulled out a small plastic bag of baking soda. He gently ripped the bag open and began stuffing the baking soda in his mouth. His mouth immediately began to froth…foam oozing from Marco’s lips. He had to struggle to keep from gagging.

Marco began to shriek at the top of his lungs. He fell sideways out of his seat and onto the aisle floor, his hands clutching his neck and chest. He feigned shaking, his hands trembling.

Appearing to be gasping for breath, His body twisted and thrashed about violently. His feet slammed into the metal legs of the bus seats.

The other cartel members abruptly stood up from their seats and yelled for help. Alvaro rose with them and began to shout.

Some of you bastards up front need to get off your white asses and help this man. Marco’s having a heart attack, a seizure, or something! Look at him! If he dies, it’ll be on you! Negligent homicide! Get off your damn asses! He howled, pointing to Marco writhing on the floor, his mouth continuing to spew foam.

Staring into the rearview mirror, Fred pressed the brakes hard and steered the bus off the highway and onto the narrow right shoulder. He brought the bus to a stop, shut down the engine, and turned on all the interior lights. He glanced over to Marshall Steve Bauman with a nervous glare.

Can you do something, Steve? I don’t have any medical skills at all myself, Fred exclaimed.

All right. No, guys, I’ll go in. Here, take my weapon and open the cell door, Todd intervened. He handed Steve his pistol.

Steve rose, walked to the cell door, and unlocked it. With a firm glare, he stared at each gang member separately.

All of you men, sit the fuck back down in your seats and stay there! We’ll treat Mr. Becerra! Steve barked.

Todd squeezed through the barred doorway as Steve then immediately locked it behind him. Todd walked toward Marco and knelt beside him. Steve yanked his pistol from its holster and kept it at his side as he watched the scene.

Alvaro abruptly leaped from his seat and lunged at Todd. He shoved the cutting edge of a shiv in front of Todd’s throat, then pulled Todd up to his feet. He jerked Todd around and in front of him. Alvaro faced Steve. Steve raised his pistol and moved into a shooting stance with a two-hand grip.

Go ahead, Gringo! Go ahead and shoot, Marshal! You dumb ass cop, if you do, then this white ass corrections officer dies! It will all be your fault, your bad judgement! If you want to spare his life, then put down your gun and open the cell door! All you white bastards will get to live! Do it now or I swear I’ll kill this sonofabitch! Alvaro yelled.

Machado, this is hopeless. It’s a no-win situation for you. I’ll shoot you if you harm the officer. You know that a United States Marshal is not going to lay down his gun! I can’t do that. So, just drop the knife down on the floor and back away. That way, you, that’s right—you, Machado, will get to live. Put the knife down, Steve said.

Have it your way, you stupid white shit! I’ll cut his throat! Alvaro said as he pressed the edge of the blade into Todd’s neck. Blood trickled down as the razor-edged blade sliced lightly into the skin of Todd’s throat. Todd screeched at the sharp pain.

Damn it! All right! Stop! Machado, stop! I’m putting my pistol down. It’s okay. Don’t harm Officer Bigelow!

You’re smarter than you look, you Gringo sonofabitch! Alvaro laughed, Okay, asshole…now, toss a key to the handcuffs through the bars! After that, you can unlock the cell door and back away! Alvaro exclaimed.

All right, but let Officer Bigelow go, Steve said, pitching a handcuff key through the bars to Alvaro.

It’s me who gives the orders here now, not you, Mr. US Marshal! Unlock the damn cell door and back away. Leave your pistol on the floor! Do it now! Alvaro growled.

Steve unlocked the cell door, leaned over to place his pistol on the floor, and backed away into the forward section of the bus. The other cartel members took turns unlocking their handcuffs with the key, then rose up standing and waiting for further orders from Alvaro.

Alvaro pushed Todd ahead of him through the barred doorway. He shoved Todd forward, then bent down to pick up Steve’s pistol. He checked to see that a round was chambered, then slipped the shiv into his pocket. He held his arm out and aimed the gun at Steve. The other five gang members slipped through the doorway and gathered behind Alvaro.

Where’s the other pistol? The one this corrections officer gave you. Where is it? Alvaro said, pointing his pistol at Steve.

It’s lying on the seat up front. I can go grab it for you, Machado, Steve said, backing up further.

No, you dumb shit, you can’t! Don’t move an inch from where you’re standing! Alvaro exclaimed. He pointed the pistol at Steve’s head and fired a single round that bashed into Steve’s forehead. Blood spurted from the bullet hole as Steve’s eyes opened wide then rolled up into his sockets. He collapsed, falling with a thud backward on the floor of the bus.

Todd spun around and lunged at Alvaro. Alvaro dodged sideways and fired three rounds point blank into Todd’s chest. Todd fell, thudding face down on the floor. A pool of blood began spreading out beneath him. Alvaro stepped over Todd’s lifeless form and marched forward toward Fred Burke. Fred held his hands up, palms forward.

No, please, please don’t shoot! I’m just the bus driver. I’m not armed! I have a family and children! I… Fred wailed.

Alvaro shot Fred directly in his forehead twice. Fred was propelled backward against the steering wheel. Blood streamed down his face. His body went limp as he slid to his left, his head dropping off the steering wheel and slumping against the side window.

Carlos, come and get the extra pistol! The rest of you take the wallets from these three dead idiots! Pull the cash, credit cards, and driver’s licenses! Quickly! And Carlos, you look to be about his size…change your clothes. Change clothes and put the corrections officer’s uniform on you, Alvaro said.

Okay. And? Carlos replied.

Get outside on the highway and flag down the first large SUV that comes toward us from either direction. Make sure it’s one big enough to seat all of us. Tell the driver you’re a state police officer and you need to commandeer the vehicle! Get him or her out of the vehicle, push him to the bus doors, then shoot him or her in the head. Compadres, there will be no witnesses today! None! We don’t want anybody to see which way we end up heading from here. Remember to take the cash, credit cards, and driver’s license from their wallets! Do it fast! Go! Alvaro shouted, turning to Marco.

"Marco, you did excellent! Gracias!" Alvaro said, smiling.

Thanks. I’m still trying to get the rest of this damn baking soda taste out of my mouth, Marco said, swiveling about to move up the steps into the bus.

After dressing in Todd Bigelow’s uniform, Carlos stuffed a pistol under his belt. He stepped down from the bus and walked out near the edge of the asphalt road surface. After letting four cars pass by, he saw the right vehicle they needed coming north on I-94. It was an older Chevy Suburban. A man wearing a ball cap and a red and black plaid shirt was at the wheel.

Carlos hailed it down, pointing to the badge on his shirt. The Suburban slowed to a stop and the driver rolled down the window.

Problem, officer? the man said.

Yes, sir. We’ve had some issues with the prisoners on our bus over there. I’m sorry, but I have to commandeer your vehicle for a couple hours. Please turn your engine off, sir, and step outside, Carlos said.

Okay, officer, but I don’t like this. It’s late and I was on my way home for a late dinner, the man said.

I understand, but we have to do this, Carlos said as the man climbed out of the Suburban, Let’s go over here by the bus. You can step up and sit inside to stay warm.

Okay, the man said, walking around the front of the bus.

As the man eased around the hood of the bus, heading for the door, Carlos fired two rounds into the back of the man’s head. A spray of blood, bone, and a patch of hair burst into the air around him. The man collapsed to his knees, then fell to his side. Alvaro turned to see Carlos’ action from inside the bus.

Good work, Carlos. Get the cash, credit cards, and driver’s license from his wallet, then pull the Suburban off the road. We need to get going as fast as we can. We don’t want to stay here on the road any longer! Alvaro yelled out the doorway.

Alvaro continued, Okay, everyone. Move quickly. Turn off the interior lights in the bus, then go climb into the Suburban. Where’s Hernando?

Here, boss, Hernando Rosas replied, pushing forward from standing behind the group of men.

You’re going to drive the Suburban for the first leg, Hernando, okay? Stay below the speed limit. We don’t want to get pulled over. It’s an older Suburban, so it’s got bench seats. Carlos and I will sit up front with you, Alvaro said.

Okay, Hernando replied.

Minutes later, all six men had climbed in and were seated in the Suburban. Alvaro looked over the seat back.

Hombres, all the cash, credit cards, and driver’s licenses you took off these dead pigs, pass them up to me. I want to go through it all to see where we stand with the money. Okay, let’s roll. Hit the gas, Hernando, Alvaro said.

"Where do we go from here, Jefe? Boss?" Hernando asked.

Do a U-turn. We’re going to go back the same way we came. We’ll stay on I-94 until it connects with I-90.

Okay. Let’s go, Carlos replied.

All right, it looks like we have between $250 and $300 in cash. Good. We’ll stop for a little while in Butte. I can go inside a Walmart or someplace like that and buy you all some new clothes. We might need to change out this vehicle. When they find the driver’s body, the cops will be looking for his Suburban,

That would be smart, Jefe, Marco responded.

We’ll see, but maybe we can also get something to eat. Oh, and how about some Tequila? Alvaro said, followed by a rush of yells and applause from the men.

Then, it’s west for us to Missoula and into the mountains. The Bitterroot Wilderness. The cops are going to think we most likely went south back to Mexico, maybe east or north. But I don’t think they’ll suspect that we went west into the mountains that are called the Selway Bitterroot Wilderness. They won’t think we would go there. So, that’s where we’re going. Once we’re there, we’ll need to lie low for a while, stay out of sight as much as possible. We’ll do that until I think it’s safe to travel back to Mexico. Okay? Alvaro explained to which everyone nodded.

The truth was that Alvaro had his own reason for going west to the Bitterroot Wilderness, but he wasn’t going to share it with the other men. He had a mission to accomplish.

Good. Fasten your seat belts. We’re rolling, Alvaro added as the vehicle lurched ahead.

CHAPTER 2

Lolo, Montana

Wednesday, September 28th

Cindy Rayburn raised her right hand and pushed her long and wavy auburn hair back from the side of her forehead. Purse in hand, she ambled wearily down the old and roughly hewn wooden steps at the rear of the Outlaw Brewing Tavern. Her shift as a waitress had ended just after ten thirty that night.

There was no need for a waitress after ten thirty in the evening as the patronage inside the tavern after that hour was comprised of most men drinking at the bar except for some rare occasions on a Friday or Saturday night. She knew she wasn’t too crazy about being there when the men were drinking. Too many of them got so drunk, they were annoying and continually pawed at her.

Cindy wasn’t married. She had several offers from a couple of local men, but she wasn’t interested in any of them. She was still looking for the right guy to come along, and at 28 years old, she figured she still had time. She wanted to be sure as she could that she’d found the guy who was not just some beer guzzling dullard.

She stepped onto the small gravel parking lot where her 2011 Ford Expedition was parked. She reached into a pocket of her skirt and pulled out the keys. Cindy looked up at the sky and paused. The dark sky had an abundance of stars, but they provided little to no light at all.

There was no moon tonight. This was the beginning of several days with a new moon. And it was the second new moon in the same month—a black moon. She frowned as she glanced around at the black night surrounding the little parking lot.

Growing up, Cindy’s mother had told her that a second new moon in a month was called a black moon. In Lolo, legend had it that it was not a good thing to be out at night during a black moon. Weird things could happen. Surreal, strange things. As a teen, whenever there was a second new moon, she had often got the shivers when she heard Credence Clearwater Revival singing Bad Moon Rising on the radio.

Cindy inhaled a gulp of mountain air and continued walking toward her Expedition. Her eyes scanned the edges of the parking lot. While the locals claimed that there were no mountain lions or grizzlies in the area, at the border of the Bitterroot, where the town of Lola was, it was always advisable to be on the alert for the presence of wandering predators. She saw nothing that concerned her.

As she approached the driver side door and opened it, she heard the scraping sound of shoes crunching on gravel. Footsteps. It wasn’t coming from some far end of the lot—it was near, very near. And it was approaching her even closer.

"Hola, Señorita. Hello, Miss." It was a strong male voice that came from somewhere behind her.

What…? Cindy said, spinning around to face the man.

I’m an officer with ICE…Immigration and Customs Enforcement, Miss. We’re in a bit of a fix and need to borrow your Ford Expedition for a few hours. Don’t worry, we’ll return it, Alvaro Machado said. He had taken the corrections officer’s uniform from Carlos and was now wearing it.

No, I don’t think so. ICE or not. I need my Expedition to get home. So, go borrow somebody else’s vehicle, Cindy said emphatically.

I’m sorry, Miss, but this is a law enforcement matter. We have the authority to commandeer your vehicle.

That’s just too bad…too bad for you that is! You’re not taking my Expedition! Cindy exclaimed.

Alvaro