Martinez, p.1
Martinez, page 1
Martinez
A Sinatra Thriller
Alan Lee
Sparkle Press
Martinez
A Sinatra Thriller
by Alan Lee
All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2021 Alan Janney
First Edition
Printed in USA
Cover by Damonza
Formatting by Vellum
Sparkle Press
Created with Vellum
Contents
First Blood
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
First Blood
“You picked the wrong man to push.”
-First Blood
The Rambo Series, created by David Morrell
1
Day One
Deputy United States Marshal Manny Martinez, fearsome in repose, had his feet propped on his stainless steel desk. Ankles crossed. He wore leather Piloti driving shoes, a rare import but so beautiful he thought the world would benefit from seeing them. In his hands he cradled a Yeti of coffee. The coffee was rich and creamy, a mixture of strong brew, half-and-half, butter, and collagen. Nutritionists called the recipe ‘bullet proof,’ a term he endorsed. A plate of eggs rested beside him, steaming—he’d decided to put on ten pounds of muscle and couldn’t get enough protein without a second breakfast at eleven.
The frantic pace of his career had quelled in the previous months, enough so that he felt human. He was in rhythm and health, and life was good. As intended.
His desk butted against the desk of Noelle Beck. Their gleaming workstation sat in the middle of the deputy bullpen, surrounded by drab particleboard affairs. The occupants of the drab desks were typing, scribbling reports, ignoring ringing phones or mumbling into them.
Manny said, “Did you know the Camaro is being discontinued?”
“I’m not buying a Camaro.” Beck was hidden from sight by three large computer monitors needed for her job as NSA analyst. She was on loan to the Marshals, an assignment that kept getting extended for reasons that were classified. On one of the screens, she skimmed reviews of Toyotas.
“Because you think you don’t need the muscle.”
“Because I don’t need the muscle. I like small quiet cars,” said Beck.
“You believe the Revolutionary War was small and quiet?”
“I’m not fighting in the Revolutionary War.”
“You’re American. We have the Revolutionary War in our veins. Our hearts beat to the pounding of a field drum.”
“My heart prefers a cappella.”
Manny listened to her mouse clicking. “What’s the big American word? Means a drumbeat.”
“I’m not sure.”
“Cicada.”
“That’s an insect. I think you mean cadence,” she said.
“Our hearts beat to the cadence of a field drum.”
“If I could afford a Tesla, Manny, I’d get that. The opposite of a Camaro.”
“A Tesla drives itself, amigita. Where’s the fun in that?” He drank his coffee. A stack of USM-285s waited on his desk, paperwork he’d put off for three days. Looking at them drained his energy.
“I don’t drive a car for fun.” Beck was responding on autopilot, a defensive habit when Manny was bored.
“You’re depressing me. Why shouldn’t driving a car be fun?”
“Why would it be? I only get in to transport myself to work,” she said.
“You spend hours in it every week, Beck. Make those hours count.”
“I do. I listen to a cappella music. I want something smaller and quieter than an Accord.”
“Ay dios. You should drive a stick.”
“A manual? You’re joking.”
“I don’t joke. When’s the last time I told a joke?”
“Very few cars are stick shift anymore, Manny.”
“And depression in America has skyrocketed. That’s not a coincidence.”
Her attention snagged by the statement, she grinned. “That is absolutely a coincidence.”
“It’s not.” Manny set down his coffee and stood. He felt the need to see her face over the monitors. “The messages we tell ourselves are important, Beck. And America has been telling itself the wrong messages.”
“What message does buying a manual versus an automatic send?”
“That your life matters.”
“How—”
“That the things we do matter. How we spend our minutes matter. We’re human beings, Beck. We’re glorious. We send one another to the moon. We perform brain surgery, we write poems, we have opposable thumbs! Ay, we’re the pinnacle of creation. We live on Earth, the most important planet in the universe, and America is the most important spot on that planet. Comprendes? But the pendejos who make Netflix and video games think we should spend our lives sitting and staring. That our perfect bodies and minds should get fat and lazy. Like you would in a Tesla! Fight against it, Beck. Tell yourself you are important. That you are more than a consumer of yogurt and television. I might get capitalism chiseled into my gravestone, but the nasty underside of it has to be resisted. Just because you have the right to sit on a couch that you bought and shove popcorn into your face and watch a screen during your free time, doesn’t mean you should. That’s where depression comes from! From not living! Remind yourself that you’re alive, Beck. Remind yourself that you’re a human, and even better that you’re an American, and that you only get one shot at this life. You’re so important that even your drive to work matters, Beck! Buy a stick.”
Manny finished, his face red. Behind him, three of his co-workers clapped and cheered. Even Ms. Mavis Taylor, the new deputy admin, was laughing. Manny was sweet on her, thought she looked like a feminine version of a young Morgan Freeman, a great American.
Beck enjoyed a good Manny lecture now and then. She liked it when his sleeves were rolled up, tattoos visible, his fists on hips, him glaring and righteous. It had the same effect on her that coffee did on him.
His wavy black hair was a little longer recently. A few strands always fell forward and she’d heard the girls talking about how much they liked it.
Her mouth was a tight mocking smile. “Maybe I should take Ubers. Ownership is overrated.”
Manny’s fingers twitched, eager to break her monitors.
“That’s not funny. Cuidado con lo que dices! Better to run here in heels than let someone drive you.”
The crowd who’d gathered to hear Manny’s tirade returned to various duties before Bert Warren, the Marshal, caught them loitering. Manny watched Ms. Taylor go, thinking that if he were to ever date a woman ten years his elder, she’d be it.
Beck was saved further haranguing by the arrival of Collin Parks, unofficially Manny’s partner on warrants. Short and compact with cauliflower ears. Pale skin, like he couldn’t tan living in Manny’s shadow. He was next in line to be Chief Deputy, having recently aced the exam.
Today Parks had a prisoner and he was triumphant.
“I got you, Martinez. Order is restored, because today I got you.”
Manny, hot from delivering the truth about stick shifts, drained his coffee. “Nobody knows what you’re talking about, Parks.”
Deputy Parks roughly shoved his prisoner into a chair. “This guy look familiar?”
The prisoner was a Hispanic man. Not Mexican, not Cuban, something else. He was handsome despite the scars, including one that sliced his lower lip at the corner, a permanent defacement. His jaw and cheekbones were strong, his dark hair thick. Fit and athletic. He wore his handcuffs like a prince would and he stared at Manny with interest.
Manny’s heart stirred. He did recognize him. From somewhere he couldn’t place.
“You don’t know?” Parks grinning like a fool.
“He’s familiar.”
“Here’s a hint. He’s on your caseload.”
“No he’s not,” said Manny.
“Manny Martinez meet Fransisco Morales, living in America illegally, wanted for ducking court, for robbing the 7-Eleven on 419, for—”
“Don’t be an ass, Parks.”
“What?”
Manny walked around Beck’s desk and leaned against it, crossing his arms. She inserted earbuds and moved her keyboard away from Manny’s butt.
He said, “This isn’t Fransisco Morales.”
“Yes it is,” said Parks.
“This doesn’t look anything like Morales.”
The prisoner in handcuffs learned t oward Manny. “Te acuerdas de mí.”
- You remember me.
Manny shrugged. “Tal vez. Maybe.”
Parks twitched the photograph out of his stack. “I mean, it kinda does. He said he’s Fransisco.”
“Fransisco is from Mexico. This desperado is not,” said Manny.
The prisoner grinned. Grinned with his mouth, not with his eyes. "Te ves bien, hermano.”
- You look good, brother.
The hairs on Manny’s neck stood. “Brother? You think you know me?”
“Ya no nos conocemos. Los chicos que solíamos ser están muertos.”
- Not anymore. The boys we used to be are dead.
Parks held up the photograph and looked between it and his prisoner. “You may be right. They don’t look the same. Shit.”
Something about the prisoner’s voice had touched the lower level of Manny’s brain. The contact made him tip backward through time. Memories and sounds and smells from decades ago swirled.
“I know you,” he said.
“Sí.” The prisoner was breathing deeply. Perched on the edge of the chair. Eyes glued to Manny.
Manny hadn’t thought about his youth in years and he was forced to fight through the wall. “You were… We were kids.”
“Antes de que todo se rompiera. Antes de convertirnos en los asesinos que somos hoy.”
-Before everything broke. Before we became the killers we are today.
Collin Parks didn’t speak Spanish well. He shoved the prisoner’s shoulder. “Hey. You aren’t Fransisco? Why’d you say you were?”
In rough English, the prisoner replied, “Fransisco is dead.”
“He’s dead? How do you know?”
“I cut his heart out.”
Some of Manny’s co-workers heard. They stopped to listen. Even in a marshal’s bullpen, it was a bold proclamation.
Beck was humming, lost in her earbuds.
Parks dropped the photograph to his desk. “You killed Fransisco Morales?”
“In the middle of the day.”
Parks swallowed. His prisoner was morphing, taking on a new menace, a wolf shedding sheepskin. Not all men were built the same— some were dangerous even in cuffs. Realizing you stood next to one was a shock to the system.
The prisoner said, “I took his place to come to this room. Like…” He nodded at Manny. “Like this golden gabacho took the place of my brother, Manuel, to come to this room. To be policía.”
Manny had grown still. So still Beck felt him like a black hole. He was there, on the cusp of remembering, tiptoes hanging over the edge…
Years ago. In another life, another world. He smelled frying empanadillas. He tasted steamed plantains. Hot blacktop under his feet. A memory of himself running through the streets, running with his friends…
Awareness crashed home, stole his breath.
“Julian.”
“That is right, brother.” The prisoner, ravaged by time, grinned. Like the racer, a venomous snake in Puerto Rico. “You did not run far enough.”
Manny had left both guns on his desk, out of reach. “Parks, get back.”
The prisoner’s hands dropped to his shoes. Came out with a Spyderco blade tucked behind his heel. Manny, frozen in time, watched it happen like a movie. The prisoner snapping his wrists upward, one smooth motion. Parks was carved open from navel to neck. The blade, hollow ground steel and sharpened to a scalpel’s edge, could have been slicing through peach pulp, and Parks’ carotid artery was severed.
Blood spattered onto Beck’s computer screen.
Deputy Parks had been eviscerated and would be stone dead in ten seconds.
Manny screaming, “Move!”
He crashed into Beck, hauling her away. He felt no pain but registered a slash across his back that would soon burn white hot.
The bullpen banged into action. Shouting, chairs crashing. Manny rolled off Beck and tugged her behind their steel desks. He wasn’t bleeding yet.
“Stay down!” He reached above the lip of his desk, blindly groping for a gun.
The prisoner was crouched over the dying deputy marshal, feverishly going through his pockets. He found the key and unlocked his cuffs. Last, he unclipped Park’s gun.
“Manuel!” he shouted. “You are so pretty now, I think maybe you are a women!”
Manny, fifteen feet away, both men hidden behind desks. “Raise your hands, Julian! Levanta tus manos!”
“I am new to your city. The police, they are not good, no? They die fast.”
Manny’s hand closed on the grip of his Glock. He rose to his knees, arm extended, and opened fire. Five shots, aiming at the voice and blowing Parks’ chair backwards.
More screaming. Deputies Griffith and Underwood were in the bullpen now, aiming around a corner. Griffith shouted into his radio. Everyone else stayed out of sight. Mavis Taylor was covering her ears. No sign of Marshal Warren yet.
Julian’s voice, “I will be here a few days, Manuel. We will talk. Drink a beer. Get into a fight, like we were kids!”
“We’re already fighting, amigo. Hands way up!”
“Amigo? You say hermano.” Julian, crouched behind the desk, aimed Parks’ service pistol at the ceiling and fired twice. The sound rocked the room and Manny ducked.
Beck whispered, “Manny, you’re bleeding!”
“I come to deliver a message, Manuel! You should not leave your family. Without your family, you are not a man. You are nothing. You are dead.”
Behind them, the elevator doors dinged, security personnel peeking into the bullpen.
“Gun down, Julian! Te mataré!” shouted Manny.
“I must go, brother! But we talk soon. You used to be the fastest. Tell me, can you still run?” Julian shot twice more, once toward Manny and once toward Deputy Griffith. Then he was up. Sprinting toward the far window, the foot speed of an Olympian. He shot the big window three times, starbursts splintering the pane.
Manny stood, aimed, fired, the crack of his pistol, and he missed by a heartbeat.
Julian crashed through with his shoulder. A thousand shards reflected the April sun, raining light onto the parking lot. Julian landed on the roof of a US marshal’s Chevy Tahoe, rolled off without losing momentum, and ran south on Franklin deeper into the city.
There were no sirens yet.
2
Day One
The marshal’s office still rang with gunfire, Manny and Beck partially deaf from it. He stood between her and the window.
She shouted, “Who is that?”
“Are you hurt?”
“Me? The back of your shirt is ripped and you’re bleeding.”
Manny darted to the window. He slipped through a spatter of Parks’ blood and refused to think about it, not yet. Spotted the figure sprinting from the Poff Building.
Ay caramba, Julian was fast.
Manny leaped from the window and landed lightly on the Tahoe, crunching glass. Ran down the windshield and the hood. Bolted from the parking lot.
Julian! Julian from Puerto Rico. The boys had been inseparable in their teens. He hadn’t seen Julian since…
Since a bad, bad day, the day before Manny boarded a plane. Separating them in every way possible. Now Manny spent fifty dollars on haircuts and bought luxury night cream, while Julian’s face was marred with scars.
Manny’s shoes barely touched the street, chasing Julian north onto First. Cars honking. Pedestrians huddling backwards against the buildings.
“Julian! Para!”
Sirens began to wail at the police station, three blocks removed on Campbell. He knew Beck would already be tracking his phone.
