I’ve been hitting the cognitive neuroscience and gunslinging stuff pretty hard lately. I’m going to put on my novelist hat here for my die-hard readers out there (thank you, by the way, for sticking with me all these years) and post a snippet from a new novel in progress.
You can find my most recent novel, WYLDE: BOOKS 1-3, which is a collection of the first two WYLDE novels with a new and final book. I went through and cleaned up plot lines, typos, etc. and put it together in a GAME OF THRONES length tome, which you can pick up for a mere $5.98 on Amazon here: https://www.amazon.com/WYLDE-BOOKS-1-3-Marcus-Wynne-ebook/dp/B07LDZ3JWV/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1548885663&sr=8-1&keywords=wylde+books+1-3
If you’ve already read WYLDE, please consider leaving a review on Amazon.
The new novel considers a recurring question in my fiction: Who watches the watchers? With the recent revival of the amazing 80s series THE EQUALIZER in Denzel Washington’s remake, the remake of DEATH WISH and some other higher quality revenge and action series, I thought I’d tackle that sub-genre of action and adventure.
The new series is called THE REVENGERS. It’s the WYLDE series meets THE EQUALIZER. I expect the first one to be out late May. Sign up for my newsletter at www.marcuswynne.com and you’ll be the first notified. Later this summer I will be merging my author website with this blog and putting neuroscience, gunslinging, fiction, tactics and Old One Eyed Fat Man meanderings into one online portal. Stay tuned for that.
Enjoy the read.
SALT: BOOK ONE OF THE REVENGERS SERIES
Copyright 2019, Marcus Wynne
Romans 13:4 – For he is the minister of God to thee for good. But if thou do that which is evil, be afraid; for he beareth not the sword in vain: for he is the minister of God, a revenger to execute wrath upon him that doeth evil.
Exoriare aliquis nostris ex ossibus ultor (Aeneid, IV 625). “Let someone arise from my bones as an avenger.” Queen Dido of Carthage in the Avenida.
When the call came to kill the Achy Man, Salt was in his garage, systematically breaking the bones of the last man he’d killed. He ignored the buzzing of his iPhone. He only answered when he expected a call which was not often. Anyone who knew his cell phone number knew he’d call back.
His usual disposal method was to transport the body to one of his designated dump points, remove the head and hands, then open the torso to expose the intestines. He prepped his dump sites for months in advance. They were all out in the country, on the edges of older or abandoned farms, where feral dogs and coyotes competed for dinner.
He trained the canids by dumping pig carcasses in his site, and returned over a period of weeks to gauge progress. After two or three carcasses, the scavengers knew to check the site, and within twenty-four hours the meat was rent and spread wide. What scraps remained melted into the old farm soil beneath the trees and in the brush.
Heads and hands were different.
He hammered the teeth out and scattered those by the handful as he drove along a country road, or the night highway. The head and hands would go into a spring, or a pond, or a river, to be fed upon by fishes, turtles, water birds.
He enjoyed watching the fish snap at the meat, or a turtle or osprey dive for a treat. Salt found it satisfying to participate in the Great Wheel of Nature, returning meat to the Great Cycle, to feed another one of God’s creatures.
He rarely brought bodies home. Don’t shit where you eat was Marine wisdom. Don’t kill or take bodies home was a logical progression from known wisdom. This kill had become complicated when someone drove through the kill zone and slowed to watch the target struggle against the rear naked choke Salt had laid deep on him. Salt bundled the unconscious man into the stolen car and exfiltrated in a hurry. Per tradecraft the vehicle was compromised, so he finished killing the man in the alley beside his car. With the body stuffed in his trunk, he drove off to beat the sunrise and returned home where he could work in the privacy of his garage.
He liked his garage. He had room for any of his five vehicles. The one that he associated most with this address was a discreet and battered Honda Accord. The USMC globe and anchor flag took up the back wall over a heavy work bench with his gun smithing and reloading equipment set up. Hand tools were mounted on pegboard, each tool outlined on the pegboard in black paint, so that any visitor, and he occasionally had some, would replace any tool they laid hands on to the exact place it came from.
Salt required order in all things.
He didn’t want to deal with blood, fecal matter and urine in the garage, so breaking the big bones would make it easier to stuff the target into the wheeled duffel he’d pulled out of his bin of assorted carriage methods for just these instances. He had a folding tree saw and pliers set aside for the fine work, which he’d do out in the field. The particular one he had in mind had a nice isolated pullout down the dirt road.
He’d already shattered the spine and was dislocating the hips when his phone buzzed.
He was curious who would call him twice. He paused in his work and checked the phone.
He’d return that call.
Her phone rang in his ear. She answered.
“Baby, I got a problem.”
He waited. She, as usual, became nervous with the prolonged silence.
“You tell me not to talk about this kinda stuff on the phone, baby.”
“It’s one of those things.”
“Can you come by?”
Salt considered the remaining tasks. Break the body, pack it up, take it to the dump site, cut the head and hands off, drive those to a water location and dump them…estimated another 2-3 hours. He looked at his battered and scratched USMC issue GSAR wristwatch. 1100 now, be done around 1400, get something to eat and a cup of coffee, swing by and listen to Lydia.
“Be there at 1500.”
“Baby…what is that in regular people time?”
He did the calculation. “Three o’clock.”
“Georgie gets home about three thirty or so…”
She paused. “Okay…thank you.”
He disconnected the call and went back to his task.