PIPER'S, INC. 2 - JUDAS KISS. Joaquin De Torres
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PIPER’S, INC. 2
- JUDAS KISS -
by
Joaquin De Torres
Edited by:
Dr. Joseph De Torres
Copyright 2016 Joaquin De Torres,
All rights reserved.
Published in eBook format by eBookIt.com
ISBN: 9781456627515
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
For My Children,
who have grown and developed into people so much
better than I could have ever dreamed of being.
“And now...farewell to kindness, humanity and gratitude. I have substituted myself for Providence in rewarding the good; may the God of vengeance now yield me His place to punish the wicked.”
Alexandre Dumas
People sleep peaceably in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf.
George Orwell
DISCLAIMER
This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
Permission to use actual names of real people who have a relationship with the author, and are characters in the book, was granted beforehand by the actual people via personal correspondence, and/or per their requests.
Any resemblance to actual events, locales, controversies, conspiracies, or real persons– living or dead-is entirely coincidental. Content of this work is protected by the 1st Amendment of the Constitution of the United States:
The First Amendment to the United States Constitution prohibits the making of any law respecting an establishment of religion, impeding the free exercise of religion, abridging the freedom of speech, infringing on the freedom of the press. . .
Foreword
Before the blood spilled out, her blood, there were the deafening blasts. They were short, rapid, snapping explosions so loud that conscious thought seemed to freeze instantly.
Her reflexes went dull, her movements ground down to lethargic lurches, as if her body was injected with muscle relaxers. The ringing in her ears was now a hollow, distant drone. She clenched her eyes shut then opened them again for clarity.
The mist was still thick, billowing green and ominous in some places. She didn’t know who was killing or who was being killed. The shapes and shadows moved so fast, frantically bouncing, rolling and dodging in and out of her vision that she could not identify the people on the ground until she tripped over them. Confusion, panic and chaos blurred in the fury of the ear-splitting mayhem. It was all around her when she approached blindly and cautiously into the wall of green fog.
FOCUS, GODDAMN IT! she yelled within herself, THEY NEED HELP! The wailing and moaning were haunting, but more chilling were the screams – twisted mouths expelling their last breaths and cries for help, for loved ones and for religious redemption.
I’M NOT WAITING ANY LONGER! She rushed in despite the warnings, and made it only a few steps into the mist before she was hit – twice – in rapid succession. A sizzling pain tore through both her leg and her chest, penetrating flesh then bone. Her body burned as if impaled by two lightning bolts but she dared not scream. In truth, she couldn’t scream if she wanted to; the impacts slammed the wind out of her and all she could do was pant.
Dr. Katarina Valero, callsign Stroke, collapsed when the bullets struck her left thigh, just missing her pelvic bone and femoral artery, and her upper chest just below the clavicle. Her motor functions ceased and she went limp. The natural organic scent of freshly cut grass entered her nose as her body slammed onto the green. She struggled to roll over to keep the wounds facing upwards so she wouldn’t bleed out into the soil.
She swallowed but her throat was dry. Her heart stammered erratically in her bleeding chest. She turned her head as the blasts of gunfire continued without abatement above her through the mist. Now at ground level, hidden by other fallen bodies, she looked from side to side viewing all the horrific carnage. Another slice of eternity lasting about 20 seconds ensued before the gunfire ended. She remained motionless as she tried desperately to listen for those she thought were still alive.
Besides a few sporadic blasts of distant gunfire there was only eerie silence laced with weakening groans and whimpers of dying men. She saw one man looking at her about two yards away, unmoving and silent. His mouth was frozen open as were his bulging lifeless eyes. She turned away from his stare. Other than her head, her body was done, paralyzed and now she felt the blood spreading throughout her entire upper torso.
If this is how it ends for me, then let it be.
She looked to the blue sky which was now coming into view through the green haze. She wanted to die looking at the Sun, or clouds moving, or a bird flying overhead, but none was available in her final moments. At least she had the innocent natural fragrance of the grass. With her eyes closed, she inhaled deeply as tears slid down her face.
This would be fine, she determined. This would be a good death – silent, satisfying, brave. Her nose searched for the grass with every breath and she was not disappointed - the bullets, the bodies and the blood did not hinder the wholesome fragrance of this last ethereal connection to the Earth.
She tried to open her eyes one last time and was surprised to see a bold, blue sky. She heard the sound of voices yelling, coming closer. It won’t be long now. I’m ready. She tried to smile and utter her final words as she pictured one last image before fading to black – the face of the man she loved. One last whisper. . .
“Temujin, I’m sorry.”
Prologue
SIX MONTHS PRIOR
White House
Oval Office
President Turo Marin Sanchez’s glassy eyes glimmered as he gazed at the licking tongues of the fire. With the fireplace crackling and a snifter half-full with cognac in his hand, he settled into his personal ritual of introspection. All lights in the room were turned off while the warmth and glowing dance of the flames comforted him. As per this ritual, he undid his two top buttons, loosened his tie to a lazy noose and rolled up his sleeves.
This was a special night, a memorial of sorts. He turned slightly to look down at the floor a few feet away, an area of carpet in front of one of his couches. It was there that he watched his then Attorney General Will Zachary die. Tonight was the three-year anniversary of his death. It was an occasion that he had planned when he committed himself and his administration to PIPER’S, Inc.
He raised his glass to that patch of carpet in tribute. There was no remorse in his silent toast, no detailed imagery of that night, no sentiment of any kind. Sanchez was too far beyond such trifles. Zachary had to be gone, plain and simple. He was a thorn in the side of progress, and like all hard-Right politicians of yesteryear, he had to be eliminated. How ironic, Sanchez mused, that Zachary’s last dying breath would resuscitate the nation with new life.
“To you, my old friend.” He downed his cognac and refilled his glass.
The exploits of PIPER’S, Inc. had been a boon