WRITEALOT: NO PRISONERS - book excerpts

NO PRISONERS

When Leon Cazador discovers the body of a fellow investigator who was working with the British National Crime Agency to infiltrate a pedophile group that uses the pursuit of golf as a cover for their organized abuses, he refuses to chalk it up to coincidence. Seeking justice for his fallen friend, Leon is presented with another missing person’s case. But this one is decidedly different. Diving deeper, Leon finds himself one step closer to uncovering the deadly pedophile ring that took down his comrade. Finding missing persons is all in a day’s work for Leon. But can he fight his ultimate nightmare in a race against time to save a group of innocent children and exact revenge on their abusers?

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“But you can’t tell me about it,’ Leon said. A statement, not a question.

“I’d like to – you know, unburden myself. The luxury of catharsis. But no, I’ll leave you out of it. Just breaking bread with you helps, even if I don’t divulge any details. I tell you what, though – I’ll never look at golf in the same way again!”

And with that cryptic remark he seemed to cheer up and they had finished the bottle of red.

If only he had quit the job, Leon reflected. Instead, the poor guy had quit this mortal coil. (p5)

Carlota Diaz had high cheekbones which flushed at sight of him. She was twenty-four yet had a mature head on relatively young shoulders, which had served her well in the police – until she was shot in the leg by an escaping felon. Afterwards she’d been offered a desk job but she decided to resign instead. Leon made her a better offer.

She limped up to him, her warm and smooth hands clasping his. “I waited in for you.”

“Thank you. There was no need.” He gently released her hold and shut the door. He was pleased to see her. She was always full of life, a beacon of hope in the gray world he tended to inhabit.

They had a good relationship, despite the difference in their ages; God, it didn’t bear thinking about: he was thirty years older! His heart held a special place for her, but they had not taken it further than the occasional kiss. That age difference inhibited him. (p10)

Wanda stood up at the head of the table and explained: “You all may not appreciate that this is a fairly radical venture. For too long paedophiles have been shunned by society. You’re probably aware that in the bad old days homosexuals were ostracized, hated and hounded, and yet, nowadays, they are widely regarded as ordinary, healthy people, no more ‘ill’ than people who are left-handed. It really is time that paedophilia should perhaps gain similar acceptance.”

“I can’t see that happening any time soon,” moaned Curtis. “I’m no youngster and I fear it won’t happen in my lifetime.”

“Oh, don’t be so pessimistic,” countered Nige. “What PG is doing is quite exciting! The fervent following of a popular sport – what could be more innocuous and acceptable, eh?” (p93)

From the office safe he took out his Astra A-100 automatic snug in its black leather shoulder holster, and dumped it on his desk.

Then he opened the closet in the corner. He removed his shirt, bunched it in a roll and gave his underarms a swift wipe with it then dropped it in the wastebasket. From the closet he took a black silk long-sleeved shirt and put it on , kicked off his shoes, unbelted his pants and replaced them with a black pair of cargo pants.

Carlota was unfazed. The first time he’d needed to change in a hurry, he’d asked her to go into her office. She’d complied but halfway through changing she’d entered with an urgent phone-call. “Don’t worry,” she’d said, “nudity is no big deal.” So this wasn’t the first time he’d undressed in front of her. Nor would it be the last, he suspected.

He selected a pair of black rock hopper neoprene shoes and fastened them.

She delved into a filing cabinet and handed him two magazines for the gun.

He distributed them in the various pants pockets so they wouldn’t make a noise knocking against each other. Finally, he pocketed two pairs of latex gloves and a set of wire-cutters.

“I guess you’re ready to go?” she said, stroking his cheek. (p111)

Victims don’t stop being victims once they’re dead, Leon thought, facing the sick individual. “I’m not going to shoot you,” he said.

Andrés let out a sigh of relief and hastily crossed himself. Hypocrite.

Instead, Leon kicked Andrés between the legs, putting as much power and anger he could muster into the movement. The contact was immensely satisfying.

Andrés yelped and bent forward, wobbling with his pants round his ankles, trying to retain his balance while intent on clutching his damaged manhood. Next instant, Leon deployed the ninja Fudo-ken, the clenched fist slamming full into the bastard’s nose, shattering the bone structure. While the bone and cartilage probably wouldn’t penetrate this sick person’s brain, the blow would undoubtedly cause subdural hematoma which was bound to deny the brain adequate blood flow. As a result, a biochemical cascade was in all likelihood happening right now as Leon dispassionately watched. Brain cell death was imminent. No great loss to humanity. (p121)

Myriad stars and a full moon shone in the deep blue night sky and reflected in the waters of Marsaskala Bay. Other reflections, from the odd occupied moored boat and buildings, bars and restaurants, diminished the magical effect. Dressed in their gray-and-black wetsuits and wearing their buoyancy compensators, an air tank each, and neoprene gloves and footwear, Leon and Carlota carried the rest of their scuba gear down to the rocky shore. Here, in the light of the moon they did their pre-dive checks on each other – air switched on, all quick-releases and straps secure, visible and within reach, and contents gauges showed “full”. Then they put on their fins and face-masks and swam a short distance into the wide bay and then submerged. (p184)

The far door opened and a man walked in carrying a full bottle of vodka. Replenishment time. He saw them immediately. He was right-handed and the bottle was in his right hand. He fumbled. Instead of dropping the bottle – which would have smashed on the tile floor – he grabbed it with his left hand, clutching it to his chest, then reached for the revolver in his shoulder-holster.

Leon fired once. His bullet went through the vodka bottle, shattering it, soaking the man, and penetrated his chest, the vodka doubtless anaesthetizing the wound in the process. Not that it would do any good. He collapsed noisily to the floor amidst the shards of glass and liquor, dead.

“No prisoners,” Carlota whispered behind him. (p189)