The Mascot, Ground Zero in the cave sun series
One Man Alone
Prostitution is not glamorous, but why is the undercover soldier so proud to keep up appearances?
Several contenders vie for power in the hidden, forbidden territory in Latin America. Their fighters are organized militaries; only their inner cores know the truth. To the populace, they appear as morally bankrupt criminal gangs.
Top candidates must undergo brutal training and conquer the tortuous race to destroy evil for the only livable land, the victorious state code-named Ara Pacis, or Altar of Peace. That one is led by an illusive insider. He is priceless, and not only in cash.
When Washington D.C. human rights attorney Craig Malcault’s investigations uncover connections to U.S. military intelligence and the mysterious wife of an international biochemical conglomerate’s founder, the assassins are dispatched. Craig’s job is to extract evidence from the hellish pitfall while the top candidate is en route to face and pass his final test. From the executive branch in Washington D.C. to devastating underground hide-outs, from all force of arms to one man alone, Craig is on the terror-stricken path to discover some of the world’s top intelligence secrets, while justice might be done … if Craig and his career can survive the lies and the hate.
Excerpt
Froth steamed down the most perfect, finely muscled body Craig had ever seen, including the Roman and Greek statues in museums. The youth protruded tense like a spear from the calming waves. Craig almost reeled. This one was au naturel, in no disguise at all! Large dark eyes, naturally rimmed jet black, gleamed steady as if set in metal. The heart-shaped face was alabaster and astute, his long black hair poised and straight, as if he had not been underwater at all. A wisp of a surprise fleeted over lips parchmented as if from lack of drink or from repeated and too many gasping inhalations. Then his lips curled into the shape of a kiss, attempting a weathered, thin smile, caressing his high, even cheekbones. A leather, native-motived necklace dripped wet from around his neck, knotted strings holding miniature amulets. A stunned look at this nude convinced Craig the apparition could not be older than sixteen years of age.
Yet it was a disguise, Craig summoned. The vision lasted a second only. The surprise evaporated from the styled visage. He spat out some water. Craig subdued pangs of panic at this youth swimming under-water, so close to shore, in hiding on this beautiful day, now measuring him up, ready for combat, then retreating a notch. He appeared to live in a world of hit or be hit, yet at this moment convinced attacking Craig was not a good idea. The pallor of his skin denoted the youth had not seen the light of day for some time; the redness pulsating in the web of veins around his eyes betrayed he was suffering pain. The continued tautness of his body in unarmed and concerned Craig’s presence should instead have jumped into shape at the night under attack in dangerous, inhospitable environs.
“Are you mute, man?” Craig blurted out. “How can I help?” He stared incredulously at the youth’s lips now tightly shut as if on harsh order, yet still forced into their wistful elegance, ever ready to please. Even the most hardened criminal clients had mellowed and given in at Craig’s disarming warmth and bustling readiness to go the extra mile. But not so this one.
He raised his right hand shoulder high as if taking an oath. “Re-prieve,” he muttered, his tone not yet a man’s. “You are not with them!” Then he turned, immaculate waist curved as he targeted the shore, dashed like a flash and was gone.