Never Bloodless Read online

  SUMMARY

  In a world of CIA hidden agendas, Mediterranean arms dealers, and cutthroat mercenaries, nothing is ever black and white.

  Preston McSweeney is a war hero and soldier of fortune who’s fallen on hard times. No money, no family, no future. Selfish and solitary, he’s hired by a humanitarian billionaire to overthrow a small African nation.

  Meanwhile, ambitious federal agent Jasmine Needham finds herself investigating a murder in Los Angeles. It looks like an open-and-shut case but why does McSweeney’s name keep popping up?

  Before long she discovers that McSweeney and she may be unwittingly part of a conspiracy which could bring the world crashing down...

  NOTE: Previously published as Dying for Money

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  Never Bloodless

  By Steve Richer

  Copyright © 2012 Steve Richer

  Second Edition © 2015

  Previously published as Dying for Money

  The cover art for this book makes use of licensed stock photography. All photography is for illustrative purposes only and all persons depicted are models.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Also by Steve Richer

  The President Killed His Wife (Rogan Bricks 1)

  Counterblow (Rogan Bricks 2)

  Terror Bounty

  I'll Kill Her for You

  The Kennedy Secret

  The Gilded Treachery

  The Atomic Eagle

  Sigma Division

  The Pope’s Suicide

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  Chapter 1

  The deal was about to go down. Any minute now.

  Pablo Rodriguez allowed himself a faint smile as one of his favorite songs came on. Of course, he had loaded each and every song in his iPod so the possibility of a bad musical piece was nonexistent, yet he was still getting used to this new technological age which allowed you to skip the Afternoon Delights and Muskrat Loves of this world.

  Despite the smile, Rodriguez didn’t allow himself to relax. He was behind the wheel of his Lincoln SUV, a showy vehicle to be sure but not in this small Maryland town.

  Jarrettsville was a comfortable suburb of Baltimore and nice cars blended in easily in the scenery. The SUV was currently parked by the side of a secondary road. Now that it was past midnight, the risk of detection was minimal.

  Every time he saw headlights he tensed up. His right hand was permanently glued to the passenger seat where a Beretta pistol rested. He caressed the rough grip, aware that his proficiency in shooting was the only thing that would keep him alive tonight if it all went sour. It was loaded with 15 full-jacketed rounds and he had two other magazines in the pockets of his leather jacket.

  The iPod held every track recorded by Elvis Presley, who was, for his money, the epitome of the American Dream. Here was a poor farmer who had used his talent to achieve fame and fortune.

  His mother, Rodriguez remembered, had been a huge fan back in El Salvador and it was Elvis who had inspired her to move the family to America. Well, to try anyway. The closest they ever got was across the border from El Paso, Texas.

  Still not relaxing, trying to keep his mind off his impoverished childhood in Mexico, he tapped his foot along the music. The beat was catchy. Boom boo-boom boo-boom boom boom. The song was called Marie’s The Name, His Latest Flame and it had special resonance with him. He was currently seeing a woman named Marie in Panama. Her actual name was Maria but it was close enough.

  Boom boo-boom boo-boom boom boom.

  He saw headlights in his rearview mirror and he tightened his grip on the handgun, his thumb cocking the hammer to make sure his first shot, should it ever come to that, came out fast and effortlessly.

  Boom boo-boom boo-boom boom boom.

  The headlights grew larger in the mirror and the car came to a stop behind him. This was it, Rodriguez decided. This was the moment he was waiting for. He would either get killed or get rich. He turned off the music, pocketed the iPod, and returned his right hand to the pistol, leaving it on the seat in a non-threatening manner.

  He heard two car doors open and then close. Blinded by the lights, he could only see two shadows coming his way.

  The good news was that if these people had wanted him harm, they would have parked ahead of him to block off his escape. Then again, maybe they knew that’s what he was thinking and were trying to throw him off. Either way, he didn’t let go of his gun.

  The two figures stopped next to the driver side window. As his eyes adjusted he made out military fatigues. The two persons were tall and were dressed in the grey-tan-green of the US Army Combat Uniform. They knew they were expected and didn’t knock. Rodriguez took a deep breath and pressed the button to lower the window.

  “Howdy,” the closest soldier began.

  “Hey.”

  His eyes had adjusted enough to the darkness to make out the nametag on his right breast pocket. It was Yates and he was a corporal. He remembered him from the last time.

  “So you recall how we do this?”

  “’Course. I play the ki’nap victim,” Rodriguez answered with his thick Spanish accent. Still, his tone was bordering playfulness, making Yates smirk.

  “You got it, that’s how we roll.”

  Yates, in his mid-20s and sporting a buzz cut which highlighted his head’s disconcerting egg shape, took a step back to let Rodriguez out of the SUV.

  Once outside and no longer bothered by the glare coming off the mirrors, Rodriguez locked his gaze on Yates. He remembered him, all right. The last time he had seen him he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Dan Aykroyd in that movie Coneheads.

  “What’s so funny?” the other soldier asked when he noticed the dim smile on the older man’s lips.

  Rodriguez shrugged it off. “Nothing, yust the prospec’ of makin’ money.”

  Not exactly satisfied with the answer yet recognizing himself as the low man on the totem pole, the other soldier, Private Mankiewicz, nodded. He then noticed the Beretta Rodriguez was still holding.

  “Uh, Yates?”

  Yates spun around and followed his subordinate’s eyes to the firearm. The kid was barely out of his teens and nearly shot his wad whenever he saw a gun, which was doubly strange considering it came from a soldier with a side business such as theirs.

  “It’s okay, Mankiewicz. Let him keep it. You’re not gonna shoot nobody, right, Rodriguez?”

  “I ne’er shoot nooo-body on Wendays,” Rodriguez replied as he uncocked the weapon, put on the safety, and stored it in one of his jacket’s pockets.

  “See? It’s all good.”

  The young soldier nodded again and decided to do what privates do best: let somebody with a higher pay grade do the worrying.

  Rodriguez followed the kid to the other car and sat in the passenger seat. Yates would drive the SUV. As soon as his seatbelt was on, he put on the blindfold which was waiting for him on the dashboard. It was standard procedure so he couldn’t identify the precise location of their destination.

  On his last visit a month ago, he had protested, having been vehemently opposed to anything that put him at a tactical disadvantage, but he had ultimately agreed to put it on. He could see the logic. Need to know, they called it in the military.

  They drove 15 minutes before stopping which told him they were still within the confines of Jarrettsville.
He heard the unpleasant grinding of rusted hinges, indicating they were closing hangar doors behind them.

  “You can take off the blindfold now,” the nervous and youthful voice of Mankiewicz said.

  Rodriguez complied gladly, undid his seatbelt, and exited the sedan. He noted that his Lincoln was parked right next to him in the hangar which served as a warehouse. A third vehicle was present. It was a Ford pickup truck and it barely fit inside. Most of the space was occupied by stacks of crates which were covered with tarps.

  Rodriguez knew what was inside those crates and it brought him feelings of both pleasure and fear. Should anyone remove the tarps, they’d find boxes with stenciled inscriptions such as M-4 Carbines, M-9 Pistols, M-203 Grenade Launchers, M-240B Machine Guns, and Javelin RPGs. Lots of firepower.

  Lots of money.

  “Place is better stocked than before, right?”

  Rodriguez turned around and found the source of this new voice. It was Captain Durham. He wasn’t quite 30 but he carried more authority in his eyes than most people—hell, most officers—twice his age. He was leaning nonchalantly against some crates, his arms folded across his chest.

  “Chu got the in’entory?” Rodriguez asked.

  “You got the meeting set up?”

  Rodriguez raised both his hands in a Latin shrug. “All I need is the in’entory. Chu got it?”

  Durham smiled, produced a small envelope from inside his ACU jacket, and waved it. The Hispanic man in his mid-30s walked over to him, took the envelope, and read its content.

  Satisfied, he put it away in his pocket. He wasn’t comfortable with carrying such incriminating evidence on his person. At his first opportunity he would copy it in an encrypted computer file.

  “Satisfied, Pablo?”

  “I am. What ‘bout the sample? What d’we use, M-203s?”

  “I think I have something even better to whet their appetite. Follow me.”

  Durham went to his pickup, opened the passenger door, put on latex gloves, and retrieved a beautiful, sleek submachine gun which he showed to his guest.

  “’Ery nice, Yerman. It’ll work fine.”

  He was in a hurry to leave. He had to drive across the country.

  There was somebody to whom he wanted to say hello.

  Chapter 2

  Tommy Wrenshall was scared that people would notice his secret. The little boy and his family had just moved in Tujunga Sunset Estates and his life depended on his secret.

  If anybody found out his Mongoose Domain BMX bike was actually a Chinese knockoff called McGoose Domain, his reputation would take a beating and would never recover. His solution was to put some Transformers stickers where the brand decals were located to obscure the fraud.

  Just as he was getting onto the bike, Adam, the kid who lived two trailers down, showed up.

  “Yo, you ready to go?” Adam asked.

  “Yeah, let me just tell my mom.”

  Tommy went into their new home and told his mother who was still unpacking that he was going riding with his new friend. She made him promise that he wouldn’t leave the trailer park and that he would be back before dinner. Geez, mothers could be such a drag, he thought.

  A minute later, they were pedaling like they were in a race. They were aiming for every imperfection in the gravel road hoping it would launch them in the air for acrobatics. It never did but Tommy’s heartbeat climbed nevertheless. After a few minutes of this, they slowed down.

  “So, how often do you get to see movie stars?”

  Adam looked at him funny, like he had just witnessed a retarded kid eat a cockroach. “What are you talking about?”

  “Well, this is, like, Hollywood, right? Isn’t this where all the movie stars live?”

  Adam broke into unabashed laughter and Tommy wasn’t sure what to think of it. Was he laughing at him? He’d been happy to make a friend on his first day here but he didn’t want to be the object of anybody’s mockery.

  “Sure, Tommy. You see that trailer over there,” he pointed to an old mobile home which sat next to piles of junk and trash. “That’s where George Clooney lives.”

  Tommy was about to rejoice and then he realized Adam was making fun of him. Dejected, he said, “So the movie stars don’t live in Hollywood.”

  “Oh, I’m sure they do. It’s just that this isn’t Hollywood, it’s North Hollywood.”

  “So?” Tommy asked with a clueless shrug as he failed to see the difference.

  “North Hollywood is as much Hollywood as Draco Malfoy is a mud-blood,” he explained, inserting a Harry Potter reference to clarify his point.

  Tommy nodded his understanding and tried to hide his disenchantment. After his father lost his job in Iowa and the bank repossessed the house and his mother explained to him they would move to California, he had been told about the beaches and the movie stars. Now he understood it was all a lie, a fairytale. Just like his McGoose.

  For the next half hour, they sped through dirt paths with the haste and enthusiasm that only 10-year-old kids can pull off. Adam told Tommy about everybody in the trailer park.

  He told him about the lady who lived with a pet raccoon, the Filipino twins who would be trying out for the football team this summer, and the alcoholic geezer who somehow liked rap music and always tried to make friends with kids.

  They finally skidded to a halt in front of a particularly clean trailer as they caught their breath.

  “Did you hear about this guy yet?” Adam asked.

  “We just moved here two days ago, remember?”

  “His name is Crazy McSweeney.”

  “His mother didn’t like him very much,” Tommy commented. “That’s not much of a name.”

  “There’s only one rule in this place: stay away from the guy who lives there.”

  Tommy picked up on his new friend’s ominous tone. “Why?”

  “Because you want to live, okay? That guy is a killer.”

  “Yeah, right. You’re just trying to scare me.”

  Tommy pulled out a bottle of red Gatorade that was clipped to the bike frame and took a long swallow. He didn’t offer any to his friend because he was afraid that Adam would realize it was nothing more than Kool-Aid. He wiped sweat from his forehead.

  “Swear, he’s a killer. I heard he was in Iraq for like five years or something.”

  “No way.”

  “I heard from Barbie McIntyre that whenever there was a dangerous mission that’s the guy they called. She heard it from her brother who heard it from his best friend. He would know because his uncle is in the Navy.”

  “Geez,” Tommy whispered, shaking his head in disbelief.

  “They say he once went into a village and killed everybody, including children and babies.”

  “Didn’t they arrest him?”

  Adam couldn’t hide his incredulous scowl.

  “Why? That’s what war is.”

  “Not killing children and babies, it isn’t.” Tommy wasn’t stupid, he’d seen soldiers arrested on TV for doing bad things.

  “Anyway, they tried to arrest him but he shot everybody around and he escaped. They say he’s been shot more than a hundred times and he’s never been more than 20 minutes in the hospital. The government is too afraid to come arrest him now.”

  “Did you ever see him?”

  “Are you crazy? I don’t hang around here waiting to be murdered. I heard he’s twice as big as The Rock, all muscles. He’s supposed to be covered with scars from the bullet wounds. He’s so ugly that his own mother doesn’t want to see him.”

  “He’s like a monster,” Tommy murmured.

  “They say he kills people in his trailer, noisy kids most of the time. He’s always covered in blood and he puts the bodies in the garbage. Well, the parts he doesn’t eat.”

  “No wonder they call him Crazy McSweeney.”

  “But I’m not afraid of him,” Adam declared. “If I ever see him, I’ll go up to him and spit in his face.”

  “Yeah, me too.”
>
  Seconds later, the trailer’s door swung open and a tall man, presumably Crazy McSweeney, stepped out carrying a garbage bag. There were red spots on his jeans and naked chest.

  Before the kids even realized what was going on, before they could take a long look at the mysterious monster, they spun their bikes around and pedaled away like a Tour de France winner on steroids.

  To hell with spitting in his face, Tommy wanted to live long enough to see a genuine movie star.

  Chapter 3

  “Goddamn kids,” Preston McSweeney mumbled as he put the Hefty bag into the garbage can.

  He wasn’t fond of children in general and these trailer trash rascals in particular. He knew they got their kicks hanging around here, making fun of him.

  There was a rumor people referred to him as Crazy McSweeney behind his back. He wasn’t exactly sure how the nickname had come about; certainly that insane bitch with the pet raccoon deserved it more than he did.

  He didn’t even look like the monster he was accused of resembling. He was actually not bad looking. He was pushing six feet and was quite muscular without being the bodybuilder type, something he maintained with a daily routine of jogging and calisthenics.

  There were two scars on his torso; one came from an accidental stabbing during Ranger School and the other had been caused by Taliban gunfire. He was 32 years old.

  Watching the children disappear at the end of the road, he wiped his hands on his pants and walked back into his trailer.

  The place was small, even for a trailer, but clean. A tiny LCD television was broadcasting The Joy of Painting with Bob Ross, that grandfatherly dude with the trademark beard and afro, knocking himself out with happy little trees.

  Preston returned behind the small easel set up on the kitchen table and watched this show which came from an old VHS tape he had received from his mother. He was trying to replicate the landscape Bob Ross was painting on TV, using lots of red, which explained the spots on his person the children had mistaken for blood.