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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781504927284 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | AuthorHouse |
| Publication date: | 09/30/2015 |
| Pages: | 476 |
| Product dimensions: | 6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 1.19(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Parker Strip
By Jeff Osterhage
AuthorHouse
Copyright © 2015 Jeff OsterhageAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-5049-2896-0
CHAPTER 1
Hot. Wet. Wild. Sizzling waves of tan bodies roasted dark in the midsummer heat, as thousands of sun-worshipping 'river rats' reached ultimate bake down on this fifteen-mile stretch of warm Colorado River water, better known as Parker Strip. Bikinis, boats, bars, booze, if there was a mood gauge in this paradise it would've registered 'redline scorch' ... and the mercury just kept climbing. Wave runners kissed white lace crests of turquoise swells. Topless beauties flaunted oil-slicked flesh across jet boat bows. Margarita soaked barflies rocked out to the throb of sax-driven blues perched along floating, shoreline cantinas.
Far upriver, through a two-mile, cliff-lined divide, referred to by the locals as 'Dog Leg Rocks', a high-powered, twin-turbo Scarab, with a twenty-foot roostertail, approached at a fast rate. The pilot was Jay Fallbrook, a seventy-six-year-old venture capitalist - powerful, shrewd and extremely charismatic - the quintessential CEO, with all the charm of an Italian matinee idol. He was a man's man who would never hesitate to reach half way to heaven to guarantee a good time was had by one and all. When Mr. Fallbrook needed something done, however, it got done quick, if not by generous fiscal persuasion, then by strong physical diplomacy. He closed contracts quicker than Gotti closed coffins, and actually closed a few dozen himself during his early years with the mob.
This gentle giant had been raised just beyond the shadows of traditional, underworld corruption until one rainy afternoon on the sidewalk outside the restaurant of his sixteenth birthday party, when his father got whacked by a misguided, contract killer who had inadvertently been issued the wrong assignment. The devastated teenager was so enraged, he twisted his grandfather's mob-soaked arm until the old guy finally taught him everything there was to know about fundamental, selective exenteration, and it didn't take long before that misguided, contract killer lost his lower intestines along the edge of Fallbrook's ten-inch, split-toothed, saber blade.
And that was only the beginning, because not only did the angry sixteen-year-old eventually seek out and execute the unapologetic mobster who had carried out the erroneous hit, but he made damn sure the guy's equally guilty cousin paid a price by amputating both his hands, to serve, in Fallbrook's words, 'as a walking billboard' announcing a new arrival in the unforgiving, incendiary world of organized crime.
Fallbrook wasn't necessarily proud of his achievements, but he certainly didn't lose any sleep over them. In fact, he didn't lose sleep over any of his subsequent acts of retribution ... and there were plenty to follow, many of which made that initial vendetta seem like child's bedtime fantasy.
But all the blood and bullets had fallen behind him during his later years, because his career was at a point, whereby if someone chose to cross him, all he had to do was give the word and that someone disappeared. He no longer had to 'pull the trigger' on anything except business, and this weekend the boatload of business he usually carried on his shoulders, had been relegated to the back burner.
Especially today. All was pleasure. No contracts, no strongarm, no blades ... just fun. And he was having the time of his life, waving to passing boaters, smiling to bikini-clad water babes, totally proud of the hundred thousand dollar toy rumbling under his ass, and the thousand dollar rug stuck to the top of his head ... which, at twenty-five knots, was barely hanging on.
Two miles downriver, high up on the cliffs on the California side of the waterway, a blond, spike-haired man was making his way across the massive, Baja boulders that lined the top edge of the river, like Mother Nature's bathtub tiles ... lending a transcendent beauty of sienna and gold to the deceptively dangerous landscape.
He had a metal Halliburton in his grip and a small, French Montecristo tight in his teeth that he barely drew from ... evidently more for show than pleasure, because with his shirt off, this thirty-two-year-old stud, who went by the name of Pier, looked more like a GQ coverboy ready to hit the beach at the Cannes Film Festival, rather than some mountain climbing goat herder his current surroundings gave reference to. Tan, strong and ripped to the bones, he obviously didn't lack for a dedicated workout regimen throughout his global travels. In fact, he was so buffed he was barely breaking a sweat, as he jumped from boulder to boulder, moving precariously closer to the edge with each step.
A chunk of granite suddenly broke away from under his right foot nearly sending him into a tumbling freefall down the side of the rock wall. Thankfully he was able to maintain his balance with little effort and watch in silence, as the busted stone dropped to the water far below, with a tiny dollop of a splash.
No big deal, he continued on, moving quicker with each leap. He finally came to a gnarled, almost mutated-looking Ash tree twisting out over the edge of the cliff, which, from his European perspective, offered an eerie exemplification of what an old west, hangman's tree might look like. All it needed was a noose, he imagined. It was his landmark. He gave it a pat, then jumped out onto a large, flat ledge and looked down at the busy river sixty feet below.
Boats, jet skis, pontoons, catamarans, hydrofoils; watercraft of all shapes and sizes zipped past at various breakneck speeds, appearing from his elevation like quick snails laying out trails of white foam. His eyes darted fast across the quarter-mile wide channel, up one end and down the other. He was searching for something specific, or rather someone specific, and he needed to be at a lower vantage point to make that happen.
He jumped down onto another ledge, then another, descending at least thirty-five feet along a natural, rocky staircase. He finally found the perfect spot, one that he had obviously scoped out on an earlier occasion, in that he located it rather easily. To accomplish whatever 'exclusive project' he was pursuing, he would've definitely needed prior recon of the area to pull it off.
He set the steel case on a flat rock, squatted down in front and flipped open the lid. Inside was some sort of metallic, composite looking device, along with clamps, bolts and cables. He took one last draw on his cigar and wedged it between a couple small rocks behind, making sure to keep any residual smoke from interfering with his line of vision.
Back to the case, he pulled a pair of nitrile-coated gloves from a panel under the front lid and snapped them on with all the ease of a surgeon. He reached deep into the back corner and removed two, ten-centimeter, carbon-fiber brackets from polystyrene compartments, slotted the threaded end into the socket and began screwing them together.
Fallbrook continued to slice his boat through the waves at about thirty knots. He saw a pontoon up ahead loaded with college kids partying their grades away, so he angled off toward them just to say hi. He blew his horn and waved big. Half the group raised their beer cans in a toast to his beautiful craft and one young babe, not surprisingly, lifted the C-cups of her bright yellow Roxy, flashing him a gorgeous set of twin 'power plants'. Twenty years earlier, he would've slowed to investigate, but now all he needed was a satisfactory eyeful and a hearty thumbs up, with the knowledge the kids were having fun. Just like he used to. He shoved the throttle up to forty knots and continued onward.
Suddenly a young jet-skier appeared just off his starboard quarter panel and began flanking him from behind. Fallbrook didn't realize anyone was there at first, but when he finally noticed how close the kid was, he practically did a double take. He tried to veer left, but the Kawasaki 150 stayed tight with him and fearlessly closed the gap to within five feet of the Scarab's aft rail.
Fallbrook had spent many long years on the river, but had no clue what the kid wanted. Considering his age, however, it appeared he was itching to race. Fallbrook juiced the throttle on his twin Mercs ever so slightly, like a top fuel dragster gunning the pedal at an NHRA burn line. Needless to say, the Scarab's powerful deuce could've easily outgunned the sleek waverunner in a New York second, but the kid stayed right with him, making no effort to compete. Curious, Fallbrook thought. Wonder what the hell the boy was up to.
Billy was his name. A twenty-four-year-old 'river rat', who was known up and down the strip as The Kid, or Billy Bee Bop, being that he was such a fly-by-night, daredevil punk who'd snag any bet or take any challenge for a quick buck ... a notorious free spirit, wild child, with a crazy reputation for living on the edge, always a heartbeat away from making short money as fast as humanly possible, just to get to the next party, or the next drug of choice, whichever came first. He gunned his jet ski forward and amazingly pulled even closer without actually touching the boat. He counted on the water being calm that day, at least on that particular stretch, otherwise one rogue wave could've easily sent the two crafts into a bash fest, with Billy coming out on the bottom ... literally at the bottom.
Fallbrook was actually enjoying the joust and tried to keep his Scarab as steady as possible, while attempting to stay within the spirit of the crazy 'river rat' attitude. He started to rudder left, to avoid the small island looming ahead, but Billy suddenly backed off his throttle, swung around behind, shot boldly through the Scarab's wake and accelerated along the port bow, forcing Fallbrook to go right. Nothing the experienced pilot couldn't handle, so he went right.
"Hey!" Communication at last, as Billy glanced between Fallbrook and the water ahead. "Aren't you Jay Fallbrook?!"
Even though Fallbrook was oblivious to who Billy was, he wasn't surprised that the kid recognized him, because, well, most everybody on the river knew who he was, and he was always grateful when somebody paid him respect. He nodded a huge smile with a theatrical sweep of his arm and that was all Billy needed.
He returned the gesture with, "Nice sled, buddy!" then swerved his jet ski into a gushing turn, shooting a spray of water across the Scarab's bow. He slowed to cruise speed, leaving Fallbrook's machine to power on through the rocky doglegs alone. Fallbrook saluted a farewell, but Billy obviously had more important fish to fry than just a friendly visit. He grabbed an orange, skier-down flag from the back compartment, raised it high in the air and started waving it toward the distant cliffs, exactly where Fallbrook was headed.
Pier saw the signal and immediately snapped down the last bolt on what turned out to be a high-tech, titanium, compound crossbow with a Bushnell 400-1 digital sight. It was a unique weapon, in that Pier had designed and built it from frankensteined parts off several of the finest 'hunting' crossbows from the European world of espionage; composite and double-lined, remarkably precise, extremely deadly, and meticulously machined to a dull, lusterless finish to prevent reflective shine that could possibly compromise his position. He slid a sleek, twenty-centimeter, graphite arrow with a shaved, broadhead blade across the cables and raised it to his shoulder. For jobs like this he always made sure the hollow shaft was loaded with a fifty-grain, heavy-hit, bolt insert for more weight-forward distribution, assuring a longer flight, pinpoint accuracy and deeper penetration.
He rested his elbows on the flat boulder in front, looked through the lens and easily located Fallbrook's boat. He made an adjustment, then dialed Fallbrook's face dead center between the crosshairs. He calmly drew in a deep breath, through his nostrils only, then gently exhaled, bringing his pulse down to a tranquil sixty taps per minute, something for which he had trained extensively. He slowly squeezed the trigger.
Phhhtt ... the arrow launched into a silent, deadly trajectory, about twenty-four degrees downward, with a velocity of two hundred eighty feet per second, straight over the river, like a low-altitude, Tomahawk cruise missile, directly for Fallbrook.
Thunk! ... it slammed into his chest so hard it broke through his scapula and pinned his back against the seat. His mouth jolted open in gaping pain. Blood oozed from his sternum; his throat. He reached up with both hands and tried to pull it out - reminiscent of J.F.K. grabbing his neck in Dealey Plaza - but it was too late. His head and arms went limp, leaving his out-of-control Scarab cruising alone at full power, with him sitting straight up in the captain's chair as if nothing sinister had even occurred.
Pier lowered the weapon and watched the Scarab thunder past. He never took much pleasure in termination itself; although the physical act of picking off a live target at long range always hit a soft spot with his reptilian brain and on rare occasion would give him a sense of sybaritic gratification that went beyond the job itself. This time it was a little of both. Another fine shot, he smiled to himself, and another proud notch on his deadly résumé. He swiftly, but calmly, started breaking down the crossbow, dispassionately placing the pieces back into the case.
CHAPTER 2Further downriver at Emerald Cove Campgrounds, one of the many RV parks along the California side of the strip, a camper loosened the winch on his fishing boat trailer. Chester Buckner was a middle-aged, middle-class, mild-mannered warehouse foreman, whose selfless goal of creating fun for his family, came second only to his struggle of keeping up the medical payments on his crippled, twelve-year-old son's Muscular Dystrophy treatments.
Poor Ricky had been in a wheelchair practically his entire life and until 'Jerry and the medical community' could find a cure, Chester desperately wanted the young boy to live a full, happy childhood. Unfortunately that wasn't always easy, what with Chester's current position at the sheet metal stockroom back in Calexico, California, just this side of the Mexicali border. His job description was so industrial and blue collar the opportunity for advancement was close to nonexistent. In fact, Chester's status along the lunch pail hierarchy had already reached its pinnacle and the only thing higher would be management. Needless to say, that wasn't about to happen anytime soon, because that would take an education, something that wasn't even in Chester's bush league, ballpark playing field. Basically he was pretty much stuck where he was for the rest of his life, and until any kind of leap from blue collar to white collar was even remotely possible, all he could hope for were the occasional cost-of-living adjustments and sporadic, holiday bonuses.
In between that, he relied on prayer and lottery. Every Sunday - at least the ones when they weren't at the river - his family would attend the Calvary Baptist chapter two miles from home, and every Wednesday and Saturday, until those heavenly petitions were answered, he religiously played his favorite numbers in the Mega and Super Powerball Sweepstakes. At a dollar a ticket, it was well worth the expense. Sometimes he'd even play more than one line at a time, but not often. He knew the chances of winning were astronomical and he needed every penny to put toward gas for his monthly river sabbaticals.
Ricky maneuvered his wheelchair behind the trailer and dad threw him the dragline. He was so excited to be at the campgrounds again, he even managed to get his wheels unstuck from a tire rut left in the dirt by the previous boat launcher without any help from the old man. They both shouted a well-rehearsed countdown, "Three ... two ... launch sequence initiated!" Chester snapped open the winch release and gave the cheap, aluminum, bass trawler a shove, sliding it smoothly down into the water.
"Alright!" Ricky shouted with glee. Sure, they had done it dozens of times before, but the fun never ceased to amuse, especially with the anticipation of all the fish they were planning to catch over the busy, July Fourth weekend. Chester watched to make sure there were no new leaks in the freshly welded panel joints, where rust had been settling over the years, then he climbed back into the twenty-year-old station wagon and drove the trailer out of the water, leaving Ricky to take care of matters all by himself.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Parker Strip by Jeff Osterhage. Copyright © 2015 Jeff Osterhage. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse.
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