Excerpt from "Escape from Ambergris Caye"
Reporter Izzie Campbell has gone missing. Frantically searching for his friend, TV cameraman Jackson Taylor fears she's been kidnapped and sold into a human trafficking ring. Despite the threat of being fired, Jackson refuses to give up finding her and continues the pursuit. But he's not going it alone. His free-spirit brother Zac gets involved along with Leon Donatello, an unsavory and violent man who the brothers' suspect knows more about Izzie's disappearance than he is letting on. From sunny Florida to an island hotbed of human trafficking off the coast of Belize, they battle to keep themselves alive and save Izzie from being forced into a life of slavery.
Chapter 1
The weight of the gun surprised Hester. It was cold, meat-locker cold—a dead thing. Oil stained the paper bag she’d hid it in. She abhorred the mechanical stink of it. Tears filled her dark brown eyes, making the weapon appear wavy, as though underwater. She began to sob.
Her free hand made its way behind her ear where she traced a circle of rough skin. Almost without realizing it, she pinched and scratched the hated thing, as if she could somehow obliterate it.
Looking out the window at a cement-grey sky, she breathed a long heavy sigh. The rainy weather made her despair even more palpable. Never had she imagined life would serve up such a cruel helping. For her, things wouldn’t get better, no matter what she did or how hard she tried.
Taking in a lungful of air, she wiped her cheek on the sleeve of her thin yellow blouse. What she had to do was clear. There was only one path available and much as she would have liked to go a different way, there simply was no other.
She had been fondling the small revolver for several minutes. It felt warm, having absorbed heat from her sweaty palm. It seemed to reach out to her, beckoning almost seductively. It won’t be that hard, it seemed to say.
The shabby room was barely nine by nine with a single curtainless window to which ornamental security bars were attached. A metal frame bed sporting a lumpy mattress and a three-drawer bureau populated it. Carved out of the wall was a minuscule closet scarcely large enough for her few articles of clothing.
Hester wouldn’t miss the place, for damn sure. Unable to tolerate life any longer, she knew without a doubt only she could change it—and for her the change-agent was this gun.
The odor of yet another greasy supper wafted its way up the stairs and beneath her bedroom door. Rather than stimulate her appetite, it made her nauseous. The damned dog was barking again. That was another thing Hester wouldn’t miss.
She swallowed, tried to push down the lump in her throat and then glanced at the cheap watch encircling her wrist. A faint smile played on her lips as she recalled the joy she’d felt upon receiving it. It had been a gift from her mother the last Christmas she was home.
Remembering that caused Hester the same exquisite pain it had countless times before. Intense longing for her family overwhelmed her, nearly threatening her resolve. Tears came in swift moving torrents, overflowing her cheeks and dripping onto her lap. Annoyed with herself, she shouldered them away and returned to her plan.
It was time. If she delayed or lost her nerve, the opportunity may never present itself again and she’d be trapped. For the rest of her life, however short or long it might be, she’d be stuck—like a pig in mud, she’d be up to her ears in it, incapable of changing a thing. Hester understood this with deadly certainty.
The revolver drooped in her hand, its barrel pointing to the floor. Hester had never handled a weapon before but had watched countless TV shows in which they were used. The shooter “cocked” something before firing. She located a knobby thing on top and pulled it back.
Her hands trembled. Geez, get a grip girl, she counseled herself, there’s only one chance to get this right. If she screwed up, she knew without a doubt the consequences would be dire.
Taking in several mouthfuls of air, as if preparing for a race, Hester hooked her long black hair behind her ear, raised the gun to her right temple—and fired.
Chapter 1
The weight of the gun surprised Hester. It was cold, meat-locker cold—a dead thing. Oil stained the paper bag she’d hid it in. She abhorred the mechanical stink of it. Tears filled her dark brown eyes, making the weapon appear wavy, as though underwater. She began to sob.
Her free hand made its way behind her ear where she traced a circle of rough skin. Almost without realizing it, she pinched and scratched the hated thing, as if she could somehow obliterate it.
Looking out the window at a cement-grey sky, she breathed a long heavy sigh. The rainy weather made her despair even more palpable. Never had she imagined life would serve up such a cruel helping. For her, things wouldn’t get better, no matter what she did or how hard she tried.
Taking in a lungful of air, she wiped her cheek on the sleeve of her thin yellow blouse. What she had to do was clear. There was only one path available and much as she would have liked to go a different way, there simply was no other.
She had been fondling the small revolver for several minutes. It felt warm, having absorbed heat from her sweaty palm. It seemed to reach out to her, beckoning almost seductively. It won’t be that hard, it seemed to say.
The shabby room was barely nine by nine with a single curtainless window to which ornamental security bars were attached. A metal frame bed sporting a lumpy mattress and a three-drawer bureau populated it. Carved out of the wall was a minuscule closet scarcely large enough for her few articles of clothing.
Hester wouldn’t miss the place, for damn sure. Unable to tolerate life any longer, she knew without a doubt only she could change it—and for her the change-agent was this gun.
The odor of yet another greasy supper wafted its way up the stairs and beneath her bedroom door. Rather than stimulate her appetite, it made her nauseous. The damned dog was barking again. That was another thing Hester wouldn’t miss.
She swallowed, tried to push down the lump in her throat and then glanced at the cheap watch encircling her wrist. A faint smile played on her lips as she recalled the joy she’d felt upon receiving it. It had been a gift from her mother the last Christmas she was home.
Remembering that caused Hester the same exquisite pain it had countless times before. Intense longing for her family overwhelmed her, nearly threatening her resolve. Tears came in swift moving torrents, overflowing her cheeks and dripping onto her lap. Annoyed with herself, she shouldered them away and returned to her plan.
It was time. If she delayed or lost her nerve, the opportunity may never present itself again and she’d be trapped. For the rest of her life, however short or long it might be, she’d be stuck—like a pig in mud, she’d be up to her ears in it, incapable of changing a thing. Hester understood this with deadly certainty.
The revolver drooped in her hand, its barrel pointing to the floor. Hester had never handled a weapon before but had watched countless TV shows in which they were used. The shooter “cocked” something before firing. She located a knobby thing on top and pulled it back.
Her hands trembled. Geez, get a grip girl, she counseled herself, there’s only one chance to get this right. If she screwed up, she knew without a doubt the consequences would be dire.
Taking in several mouthfuls of air, as if preparing for a race, Hester hooked her long black hair behind her ear, raised the gun to her right temple—and fired.
