Blood Rose

Victoria Bach

Description

Jessica Moran is walking up the pathway to her apartment when she suffers a waking nightmare. Like a fly on the wall, she is witness to a man’s gruesome murder. Sucked into the grisly scene, she is overcome by the smell of shit and vomit. Looking down, she discovers her hands are thick with blood. Confused and afraid, she clutches the white rose amulet that always rests between her breasts. Normally, pristine and pure, it is now tinged crimson. It was happening again - the fits. As a youth, Jessica sees things others cannot. She is teased by her classmates – Quack, quack, queer duck. Her mother has her medicated and refuses to acknowledge her visions, so Jessica ignores them until her sister mysteriously vanishes. The stress of her sister’s disappearance causes this psychic ability to take on a feverous pitch as Jessica is catapulted into a series of horrific waking nightmares. To find her sister, she must come to terms with her strange ability and learn to trust in the horrifying visions. Following a trail of clues, she discovers her sister has become involved with a ruthless high ranking member of a drug cartel. Things go from bad to worse when she is found out, drugged, and taken to the farm. The farm is not like anything anyone can envision. However, it is the perfect place to get rid of human remains—both living and dead.

Sujets

• Thrillers
• Suspense
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Outskirts Press
• Date de parution: 20 juillet 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781977246172
• Langue: English

Extrait

Blood Rose All Rights Reserved. Copyright © 2021 Victoria Bach v3.0
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, 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.
The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.
This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Outskirts Press, Inc. http://www.outskirtspress.com
ISBN: 978-1-9772-4617-2
Copyright Registration Number: TXu002242073
Cover Photo © 2021 www.gettyimages.com . All rights reserved - used with permission.
Outskirts Press and the "OP" logo are trademarks belonging to Outskirts Press, Inc.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
T ABLE OF C ONTENTS
MIAMI
Chapter One: COLORADO SPRINGS
Chapter Two: DENVER
Chapter Three: DENVER
Chapter Four: COLORADO SPRINGS
Chapter Five: DENVER
Chapter Six: DENVER
Chapter Seven: DENVER, LAURA’S TOWNOUSE
Chapter Eight: DENVER, THE CELL
Chapter Nine: LAURA’S TOWNHOUSE, DENVER
Chapter Ten: THE CELL, DENVER
Chapter Eleven: DENVER, LAURA’S OFFICE
Chapter Twelve: DENVER, THE CELL
Chapter Thirteen: DENVER GENERAL HOSPITAL
Chapter Fourteen: DENVER, JOSEPH’S LAIR
Chapter Fifteen: LAURA’S TOWNHOUSE
Chapter Sixteen: LAURA’S TOWNHOUSE
Chapter Seventeen: LAURA’S TOWNHOUSE
Chapter Eighteen: JOSEPH’S PRIVATE JET
Chapter Nineteen: MIAMI
Chapter Twenty: LAURA’S TOWNHOUSE
Chapter Twenty-One: MIAMI
Chapter Twenty-Two: THE FARM
Chapter Twenty-Three: MIAMI
Chapter Twenty-Four: THE GARDEN
Chapter Twenty-Five: MIAMI
Chapter Twenty-Six: THE FARM
Chapter Twenty-Seven: THE FARM
Chapter Twenty-Eight: TITAN
Chapter Twenty-Nine: THE FARM
Chapter Thirty: THE FARM
Hello friends,
I made it. Blood Rose has been a twenty-year trek filled with ups and downs, tears, and just plain hard work. Without the help of some very special people in my life, I would not have crossed the finish line. I am lucky and grateful for all of their support.
I want to thank my creator for giving me a love of reading, a curious mind, and a hunger for fiction and non-fiction alike, and the gift to put my thoughts and ideas down on paper. Writing has given me an outlet for life’s frustrations and has allowed me an escape from reality when times were rough. This book should have been completed a long time ago, but things always seemed to get in the way. I have endured many obstacles and tragedies as well as joys during the writing of this novel, and there were times when I just had to put it aside. Today, my mission is complete.
I am particularly grateful to my husband and best friend, Bob, for always being there and for the hundreds of hours he spent at movie theaters enduring cartoons and children’s films with our daughter, Rachael, so I would have a quiet home in which to write. His selfless acts also included our many vacations where he would entertain our daughter while I sat on the balcony of our resort working out the plot of my next chapter. I am so appreciative for all the days he spent line editing my first draft and for giving me honest feedback. I could not have done it without his love and support.
A deep thanks to Karen Steinberg, my friend and fellow author, who urged me to join her writer’s group in 2002. That year the idea for Blood Rose was conceived. Over the last 20 plus years, Karen has encouraged me to keep writing. Karen put aside her own pursuits and spent many hours helping me become a better writer. She was my cheerleader. Without Karen this book would have never been written.
Thank you, Megan McKeever, a New York developmental editor, for helping improve my manuscript and taking it to the next level. Her suggestions made Blood Rose more powerful and exciting. As an author, it is hard to let some of your writing go, but Megan helped me focus on the heart of my story and allowed me to make it leaner, stronger, and more powerful.
To my copy editor, Pam Schroeder, a former English teacher from Wisconsin, who approached my manuscript with an attention to detail that was over the top and really tightened up my sentence structure making it potent and concise. She made the words on the page pop with excitement.
To all my friends and family, I know that working on this book may have driven some of you bananas, but I am grateful for all your unwavering support.
Sincerely,

Victoria Bach Motazedi
M IAMI
Carl could hear the distant sound of sobbing, muffled and distorted, a man’s sobbing. It echoed off the concrete walls. One set of tormented gasps reeled and faded into another. He smiled, eager to get started.
The late afternoon Florida sun still filtered in through the warehouse’s dusty windows, illuminating the concrete floor in cube-like patterns. Scattered crates and boxes cast ghostlike shadows along the deserted corridor. Weighted down with a large duffel bag, Carl struggled to keep up with his boss, a middle-aged man with dark chocolate eyes dressed in a cream-colored suit, his dark hair smoothly slicked back. Carl was beginning to sweat. His wrinkled shorts were chafing his inner thighs.
The warehouse hadn’t been used in several years. The air was hot and muggy and smelled of dirt and decay. Billowing clouds of dust swirled around his shoes. Swallowing, he tried hard not to cough and focused his attention toward a tall, muscular Cuban man standing next to a door at the end of the filthy hallway.
" Buenas tardes ," the Cuban man said, opening the door as they approached.
Carl winced slightly as the smell of putrid body odor wafted over him from the open doorway. His boss, seemingly oblivious to the noxious fumes nodded and stepped through the entrance. Carl followed close behind.
The room was small and windowless. A large fluorescent light buzzed overhead as it filled the room with a murky glow. Two Hispanic men played cards on a crate in the middle of the room. With a look of surprise and recognition at their entrance, the two men immediately stood up.
Carl’s senses, already assaulted by the stink of sweat, were swiftly overcome by the thick smell of excrement and urine. Setting down the heavy duffel, he covered his nose and mouth with his hand, trying to block the stench. The man in the linen suit pulled out a handkerchief and held it up to his face. Both men turned, focusing their attention on the source of the foul odor. A young Latino man, no more than twenty, was seated in a metal office chair in a corner of the room. He had been tied securely to the chair with restraints. As they approached him, it became evident that he had been beaten. The side of his face looked like an overripe eggplant that had split open in the hot summer sun. Dried blood covered his clothes, and flies buzzed around the open wounds. His head wobbled up and down like one of those bobblehead dolls you see in the back windows of classic Chevys.
Turning away in disgust, the man in the linen suit bellowed at the two men standing by the crate. "I thought I told you he wasn’t to be harmed! What the hell happened?"
One of the men dropped his cards onto the dirty floor and began ushering forth an explanation in Spanish. Apparently, the young man in the chair had resisted, and they were forced to subdue him with physical force.
"Enough!" shouted the man in the linen suit, raising his hand.
Several moments passed. No one breathed.
Composing himself, the man in the suit began again. "Has he told you where he hid the box of tequila?"
"No, Tio . He claims he didn’t take it, and we found nothing at his house."
"Felipe, I’m holding you responsible for this screwup. Find that case!"
" Si, Tio , I understand."
"Does he know what was in the shipments he was delivering?"
"No, he’s only a delivery boy."
"If he dies before we find out where that case is, there are going to be a lot of dead bodies piling up, and it won’t take long for the DEA to start putting two and two together."
" Tio , I promise you that I will find the tequila."
The man in the linen suit glared. "If you weren’t my nephew, I’d …" Turning to Carl, he clenched his teeth and rotated his neck side to side. For a brief moment, the man in the suit shut his eyes, and Carl could hear a small puff of air exit the man’s nostrils. Calmly, in a low voice devoid of emotion, his boss continued, "I need him alive, and I need the information now. Understand?"
Carl nodded. For the last two years, they had been bringing in millions of dollars’ worth of cocaine, fentanyl, and pure heroin into the United States from South America. Their chemist in Colombia had dissolved the narcotics into bottles of tequila and other hard liquors that were being legally imported. Not all the shipments were drug laden, only certain specially marked cases. Apparently, this kid had snatched one of those cases.
Carl watched as his boss slowly walked past the Cubans and exited the room.
"How long has the kid been tied up in the chair?" Carl asked the man who had dropped the cards.
Avoiding his gaze, the man spoke to his feet. "Since last night."
"Has he had any water or food?"
"No, Senõr. No water. No food."
Carl shook his head in disbelief. Idiots! He was surprised that his employer trusted any of them enough to take care of things while he was away. If it were up to him, he would have gotten rid of all of them long ago. Hiring relatives always opened up a can of worms.
Carl swallowed his annoyance. "What’s his name?"
"José … José Santiago," replied one of the men.