Brown Jillian Must Die

1. Auflage 2016
ISBN: 978-1-5069-0210-4
Verlag: First Edition Design Publishing
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Wasserzeichen (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 100 Seiten

Ten million Americans face certain death. The culprit: a One-A-Day vitamin with lethal side effects. There is no cure. There is no hope. With only weeks to live--an antidote materializes. A psychopath gains control of the cure.Beautiful young heiress Jillian Summer meets Orlando Jones, a handsome former drug dealer who has become a legitimate Brazilian businessman manufacturing the revolutionary new One-A-Day vitamin Vita-Bliss for her father's company. There is an immediate and compelling attraction between them - one that is temporarily sidelined by friction between her father, Jack Summer, and Orlando as they argue over the future of Vita-Bliss. Jillian and Orlando join forces to recover the antidote, but a hitman is on their trail.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Brown, Michael

Leseproben

                  Chapter Three
  Orlando Jones’ eyes calmly tracked the narrow twisting streets as he maneuvered the black convertible Porsche Carrera4S as fast as he dared through the heavily populated Racina Favela in Rio de Janeiro’s largest slum. He shook his head at the incongruous sights whipping past on either side of the narrow road. Whenever he contemplated the existence of the favela, which wasn’t often, he was mystified how its population of over 300,000 souls could paradoxically have been situated in one of Rio’s richest neighborhoods. Decrepit apartment buildings and tin-roofed homes, little more than hovels, stood sandwiched between modern glass-fronted high rises and stately mansions. It was an inexplicable anomaly. Downshifting with the precision of a professional racecar driver, Orlando settled into the familiar thrill of driving the high-performance vehicle, accelerating on straight stretches, braking as the Porsche Cabriolet slid around corners and wove past vehicles, pedestrians and the occasional stray animal. He nodded as he glanced at his watch. Less than thirty minutes before his flight left for Miami. He would make it with time to spare. Galeão International Airport was nine miles from city center. Fortunately, when the emergency call had come in from the States, he had been downtown attempting to negotiate shipping rates with Federal Express. He was enjoying the sound of high-performance tires squealing over centuries-old cobblestones when a gunshot shattered his reverie. A spit of glass flew by his face. The bullet had blown a hole the size of a dime in the windshield, missing him by inches! What the hell? Braking hard, he pulled the Porsche over to the side of the street, facing a small square dominated by a 200-year-old church. “Damn it!” he muttered, squinting past the hole in the glass. His eyes were drawn to a half-dozen street children, ranging in age from six to twelve, running across the quadrant. Not far behind, four male teenagers were chasing them like a pack of jackals closing in for the kill. Orlando spotted the shooter, a tall scrawny kid, who was now raising his gun, aiming. Orlando watched helplessly as the shooter fired. A little girl, appearing to be no more than eight, fell like a ragdoll onto the stone steps of the church. Her friends screamed and turned back for her just as a portly, white-haired priest pushed open carved wooden doors. Orlando immediately recognized Padre Gomes, an old acquaintance. The terrified children glanced from the wounded girl to the thugs, and then to the man of God. They raced up the stairs and grabbed onto the padre’s robes, pleading for help. The priest allowed the children to cling to him as he made his way down the steps, dragging them with him to the wounded child. The thug and his cohorts stopped several yards from the padre and raised the gun, aiming at the cowering children. “Stand back, bastard priest!” Orlando slammed the gearshift into first and stomped the gas pedal to the floor. 3000 pounds of metal shot forward, tires squealing, smoking. RPMs screaming. The sound of the 320-horsepower engine resonated across the square like the roar of a charging lion. The shooter and his gang whipped around, faces contorted with surprise and fear. With only seconds to avoid certain bodily injury, they jumped aside as the Porsche skidded to a rubber-burning stop between the two groups. Orlando threw the door open, leaped out and raged, “You! All of you. Move out of here, now! Out of the square! Move, God damn you!” Startled by the appearance of the tall, irate driver, the gang backed up…but didn’t leave. The thug with the pistol sneered. One of his companions suddenly blanched. His bottom lip quivered. He whispered to his companions, “Ter cuio…Ter cuio! Es Dom Orlando Jones. O homen a muito ruim!.” “Cuio?” the skinny gang leader scoffed. “Shut your pussy face! Don Orlando’s time is past. He is nada, nothing!” “Orlando, thank God!” Padre Gomes said, cradling the child who was gasping, trying to suck a breath through the red froth that bubbled from her mouth. “This little one needs a hospital. Quickly.” Turning, ignoring the thugs, Orlando knelt beside the little girl. His gut twisted. A deep sense of sorrow settled over him when he saw the gaping hole in her chest where the bullet had passed through from the entry wound in her back. “Oven! Voca! Senhor Jones!” the gunman snarled. “Isso nao e da sua empresa. Isso nao e your business. Leave now—sair!” Orlando’s eyes narrowed as they swung back to the gang. The thug added, “They are all putes—whores, prostitutes. They work for me. They are my people. They were running away. They stole from my pocket. No one steals from me and lives. Voce entende, Senor? Entende?” A rasping gasp from the wounded child drew Orlando’s attention. Padre Gomes felt for a pulse. A moment later, he said, “She’s gone.” Orlando shook his head as he stared at the beautiful little girl who, only moments before had been a living breathing young creature. Rage inflamed his psyche, burning his brain as he struggled to control a temper that had at one time almost destroyed his life. Seething, yet maintaining his equilibrium, he stood and faced the gang. Pointing to the gun-toting murderer, he ordered softly, “Come here.” “Ou o que vai acontecer?” the thug responded defiantly. “Por que?” “I want you to take a close look at this little girl. I want you to see what you’ve done.” The murderer spat. “I could give a fuck!” He stepped arrogantly forward, brandishing the revolver. “And I don’t give a shit if I kill you, either. Give me the keys to your Porsche. It is mine now. Quickly, or I shoot you in your pretty face.” He grinned, displaying a dentist’s nightmare, then added, “Your choice, babaca.” Orlando felt fire searing within his veins. A fuse had been lit and was now burning toward its inevitable explosion. A sad sense of déjà vu swept over him. How many times had he been in similar situations? How many times had he been forced to kill? Would it ever end? Knowing it would be tempting fate to deliberate further, Orlando kicked his foot out with such blinding speed that the gun flew out of the murderer’s hand before the gangster even registered its loss. The second kick smashed into his opponent’s jaw.  Orlando felt facial bones break and teeth shatter. The thug staggered back and toppled to the ground. Orlando motioned to the three gang members. “Pick him up. I want you all out of here. Now!” The gang leader sat up groggily, cursing and sobbing. Clutching his broken chin, he spat blood and teeth fragments to the ground and began screaming in a slurred voice, “Kill the son of a bitch! Kill him! Kill him!” The threesome pulled knives, but hesitated to attack as Orlando stepped over to their leader. He knelt in front of the bleeding thug and said, “You murdered a beautiful little girl.” “Fuck you!” he said. Spitting blood, he shrieked, “I said kill him! Cut him up! Cut the motherfucker! Kill him! Mata lo!” Orlando turned to the gang, raised his palm and said, “You don’t want to even think about that.” The will to fight sputtered out of them like air escaping from deflating balloons. They pocketed their knives and raised hands in a capitulating gesture. Orlando picked up the fallen gun and turned to the moaning thug. The murderer’s eyes widened with terror as Orlando pressed the gun against his knee. “No! No!” he begged through bloody lips. “No! Por favor…Don’t, please!” “I should execute you. But that would be too easy. I want you to remember the life you took with every step you to try to take.” He pulled the trigger. The gang leader’s kneecap shattered. The thug screamed and cried! Orlando aimed at his other kneecap and again pulled the trigger, effectively crippling the murderer, who rolled over, writhing and squealing like a dying pig.   Orlando turned the pistol toward the threesome, whose faces had become white as chalk. He knew these gangland monsters well. They were part of a large dysfunctional family. Thousands of others like them roamed the favelas and back streets of Rio, preying upon the weak and the helpless. But as he looked closer, he saw frightened teenagers. They reminded him of another young man who, not too many years ago, had been running in the streets with his own gang. Fortunately, that youth, a twelve-year-old Orlando Jones, had been saved from a life of drugs and thievery by a priest, a friend of the padre who was now administering last rites to the fallen child. Tempering his rage, Orlando swallowed and motioned to the thugs. “You,” Orlando ordered. “All of you. Over here.” They stepped nervously forward, stopping by their crippled leader. Orlando asked, “Do you wish to live?” They nodded rapidly, eyes darting side to side; cornered animals searching for an avenue of escape. “I may let you live…on one condition.” He tapped the crippled gang leader on the head. “Are you listening?” “Sim…,” the thug groaned. ...