White Horse Chapter 1 from the Dark Paradigm series by Jay Tinsiano and Jay Newton.
All Rights Reserved.
11.40 AM, March 11
Three miles outside Madrid, Spain
Vibrations shot through the toilet floor, followed by a high-pitched metallic grinding that sounded like a demonic scream. A rush of force violently threw Hugo Reese’s whole body into the mirror, fracturing the glass into a spiderweb of cracks.
Panic flashed across Hugo’s mind; the carriage shook, and then he was in free fall. The world turning upside down.
Time slowed, senses went into overdrive as his body pumped adrenaline and he felt himself curling into a fetal position, waiting to die.
Inevitable impact.
The railway carriage was turning, metal crumbled by an unseen force crushing it up like a foot on a tin can. The small window darkened as the ground quickly filled the space.
A vicious crack.
The smell of sticky, stale urine filled the air before Hugo’s body slammed against the window. Then, as if someone pressed play again, the moment jumped back into action.
Blackness.
Just like an earthquake.
His mind spiralled in the darkness, consciousness slipping through the cracks. Then he was standing in Firestone, LA, and the buildings, the concrete under his feet, all began to move like nothing he had ever known. Senses playing tricks on him.
One weird feeling. No control.
Like free-falling into a volcano, the heat of the lava burning his skin. Steam surrounding him, making it hard to get air.
Hugo pulled at a mask that wasn’t there, as if something was there to stop him breathing. No matter how hard he tried, it would not shift, and his time was up.
No air, no life. Adios.
He almost jumped back into consciousness, head springing up as if physically gulping for oxygen. As his vision slowly returned, he saw smoke forming all around him.
Then he realised he was still on the train, still in the familiar surroundings of the toilet cubicle. Nick Batchman’s lifeless body was juxtapositioned into place as if arranged like that by an unseen puppeteer; his back curved in a U shape, limbs flopped by his side. Dead eyes stared ahead in frozen fear, just as Hugo had first discovered him. His round glasses still hanging around a bruised neck.
An overwhelming silence followed that seemed to draw on for an eternity. Then, slowly, the screaming began—a child crying, panicked cries for help from someone trapped, and moans from children, men and women alike. All barely audible, all in extreme pain.
Hugo realised he was in a similar position to Batchman on the other side of the sink. He tried to move, but a sharp pain shot through his neck, making him wince, and he cried out like he hadn’t done since he was a kid.
And then the blackness returned.
***
Kem and Droops were hanging out on the sidewalk, leaning against the wall of a yard and arguing about which recent Narcocorrido tunes were best.
Narcocorrido was narco music, a subgenre of the Mexican norteño-corrido northern ballad music genre, traditional folk music from northern Mexico. The lyrics usually centred around cholos—tough gang members—or the killing of rivals. Either way, it helped audiences be the narco gangsters that they aspired to. Narcocorrido had a massive following in the Latino communities on both sides of the border, so much so that chains like Walmart eventually overlooked the violent nature of the lyrics and stocked the various albums.
Kem, nicknamed for his panache for ketamine, preferred the raw, homegrown Mexican talent called The Kommander, who came from the Mexican side of the border in Juarez, near El Paso.
Droops growled that only the Stateside singers were any good.
Hugo was trying to tune out the banter as he had that feeling again. He rubbed a hand over his shaved head and spat onto the sidewalk. He was stocky, brown arms covered in tattoos that depicted alliances to Florencia 13 followed by their own clique markings. A feeling of uselessness and numbness beset him. There should be something more than this. There must be.
It was a tapping thought that nagged at the fringes of his consciousness and one that frustrated him as he could never put his finger on—whatever the fuck it was—and now it was eating at him again, just like it always did.
Their clique was a subsect of the much wider Florencia 13, the gang that had dominated the Florence-Firestone district of South Central LA for decades and now stood at over three thousand members. It was like a corporation. All the cliques paid allegiance to F-13, who took orders directly from La Eme—the Mexican Mafia, a prison gang that had higher connections. La Eme, or M, was also the thirteenth letter in the alphabet, a respectful nod to F-13.
Their business was extortion, drugs, arms dealing—anything that made money, and they would go to any length to hold on to that power. Hugo refocused on the present situation. Their clique was small in size. Although they were part of F-13, they were on the edge of the territory, and beyond it was enemy turf. He could see the corner no more than one hundred metres away to the east, controlled by Chinos, and they were a ten-minute walk from South Watts and the Crips. Hugo had spent a few days mulling it over. Their clique needed a lot more green coming in.
More green, more members.
The Chinos were no friends to him or any other Latino gangbanger, but he was shrewd enough to know it was about doing business, nothing else. Hugo and his clique could supply the powder, and he knew full well they would undercut the Crips’ own operation. It was the longball game. Eat away at the Crips. That would take the heat off Hugo’s crew while the Crips would have to defend against the Chinos. It would also make their clique look good with F-13 for shifting so much product.
So, Hugo had set up the meeting, but his car had died a death. Now Tonio, the only other guy who was available in their clique with a vehicle, had just called. Couldn’t make it. No show. His mother was just taken to the hospital, and he was pretty upset about it. What was Hugo supposed to say? Fuck your mother?
Droops and Kem were too young at fourteen to have wheels, and the useless fucks would probably crash anyway. It was a shame he couldn’t rustle up more vatos, but everyone else had let him down at the last minute with some shit. Besides, they weren’t too enthusiastic about Hugo’s plan and the low profits involved.
If they didn’t turn up for the meet, they’d lose any kudos that Hugo had managed to front so far. No, they had to be there, and time was ticking. They needed to hoof it and skirt Crips territory to get there on time.
“I’m not sure, vato. They got Scott this way, remember?” Droops said warily.
Hugo remembered only too well. Scott had been another close amigo whose grave he now had to pour bourbon over every month, the standard gang ritual when respecting passed compadres. He had been loyal to Scott, who had a vision for the gang’s growth and had taken the first steps, but he had made a mistake, got himself caught in a sticky situation, and then boom! Adios, Scott.
Scott had always looked out for Hugo, taking him under his wing in the clique, like the father he never had, and they had gunned him down near Florence Avenue right on their own turf.
Forming the new gang had been a challenge as members often saw the formation of a new clique as divvying up the turf, but Scott had a good standing with one of the F-13 senior members and got the nod after arguing it would bring in more members and strengthen their position in the area.
Scott had led the clique, with Hugo being his numero dos, but they had struggled to turn it into a high-money operation, and their numbers were still way too small. Not only that but because their territory dangerously bordered the Crips’ zone of influence, it often sparked shootings or fights-on-sight.
His death had hit Hugo hard.
Drinking liquor until he was stumbling, Hugo wandered the streets with a Glock 13 held tight in his thick hand, trying to find the scumbags who did it. The truth was he had no idea and somehow ended up back home without being spotted by the feds or any other gangs.
“Yeah, course I remember, Droops. ’Course, I fucking remember. You think I would forget that?” Hugo said bitterly, fixing him with a deadly stare.
Droops looked away, shrugged, and mumbled something that might have been an apology. Hugo immediately felt bad for talking to Droops like that. That’s what he loathed about all the bullshit of this life. You had to be the Big Man, full of hate at all times; otherwise, you’d soon be hung out to dry. Droops was a good guy—his friend.
Hugo waved a hand nonchalantly and fixed his compadre with a smile. “Hey, Droops, if we see any of those fuckers that got Scott, we can take ’em down.”
Droops grinned at the thought. “That would be sweet.”
The three figures—all donning long white shorts, vests, and expensive trainers—moved confidently across the baked tarmac that split the Florence-Firestone district with South Watts. Stolen Beretta 92s or their gats were tucked into their belts, hidden by long vests and baseball shirts. They headed along Ninety-Second Street, past numerous backyards, ignoring fearful glances from the residents, and then walked down Compton Avenue towards South Watts, their demeanour becoming more alert the deeper they moved into enemy territory.
Hugo spotted an F-13 tag that he had sprayed on a house wall that had been crossed out, indicating Crips had been back in the last twenty-four hours. The three young men threw each other a casual glance but said nothing.
As they reached East Century Boulevard, Hugo could see the cafe on the far side of the busy street. The sound of a whistle pierced the air, and then he saw a young black kid, no older than eight, start running away from them down the avenue.
“Keep your eyes open, amigos, and let’s do this quick,” he said. He guessed the kid was a lookout, and they had already been spotted. It would be easy to turn back and run to Firestone, but Hugo was too pumped up to abort now. They crossed the street, playing leapfrog with the traffic until they reached the far side and regrouped outside a liquor store.
“Kem, keep checking behind us. Droops, stay on me, a few paces behind, OK, Bruh?” Both nodded, and they started strolling along the sidewalk past a line of stores before a barren car lot appeared on their left.
“So, this is good biz fer the clique, huh, ese?” asked Droops, turning his head to glance at Hugo.
Hugo nodded and jerked his head as if shooing Droops ahead. A few hundred metres in front of them was a dilapidated café that hadn’t served food for years, the windows shuttered by blinds.
One of the Chinos leaned against the wall—thin but toned, bare arms covered in gang tattoos as was the norm. He exhaled a cloud of smoke from his joint, gaze raising to meet the figures coming towards him.
Droops stopped in front of the man without acknowledging him, turned, and nodded at Hugo, who also stopped.
“We’re here to see Tony Yong,” said Hugo.
The Chinese guy appraised Hugo and dropped the roach on the pavement before grinding it with the heel of his trainer.
Without saying anything, he swung back and knocked on the glass with a rap of his knuckles and then turned back to face them with cold, unsmiling eyes.
The door opened, and another guy peered out at them, checking them each out in turn.
“Tony Yong?” asked Hugo.
“Who’s asking?”
“I’m Howzy,” replied Hugo, using his gang call sign.
The Chino jerked his head, indicating they should come in.
Hugo turned to Droops and Kem, who were both looking up and down the street.
“Stay here, keep an eye out. This’ll take two seconds.”
They both nodded, but Hugo could tell they weren’t happy about it. Inside, the dark room that used to be a buzzing café was now trashed. A crate serving as a table was in the middle, and three heavily tattooed Chinese men dressed in vests, long shorts, and trainers were hunched around it. They looked up at Hugo with a nonchalant, stone-faced casualness that half threatened to explode into violence at any moment. One muttered something in Chinese, which Hugo ignored. He needed to focus on getting them to do the deal.
A stocky, muscular man stood up from the crates. He could have been any one of the gangbangers that Hugo hung around with: bald head, tattoos, basketball vest. The only difference between them was race. Yong jerked his head slightly. It came across as a half greeting, half command to follow him. They walked into a small room at the back of the derelict café that had another table and chairs, a slashed sofa, and more debris scattered on the bare floorboards.
“So, what have we got?” said Yong, eyeing Hugo with razor-dark eyes.
Hugo took out his sample and threw it onto the tabletop—white powder wrapped in plastic. Yong unwrapped it and proceeded to rack up a line on the table. He rolled a twenty up and snorted up the coke within a second.
“What are you looking for?” he said, pinching his nostrils with his fingers.
“Fifteen for half a key, amigo.”
The Chinese snorted harshly and slammed his hand onto the table. His snorting slowly turning to a laugh as his eyes reddened, focusing back on Hugo with veiled contempt.
“Fifteen? I was paying that for a whole key less than a year ago. I can get this same shit for less, much less. Bounce already; we’re done.”
Hugo dismissed it as bravado. The Chino knew it was good shit and was just playing hardball.
“You know that’s the real deal; there’s five hundred ounces you can turn into crack and easily cut out the Crips on their own turf.”
Yong shook his head. “I sell at whatever price I want, vato.” He rasped the last word between his teeth like a snake and fixed Hugo with a stare.
After a few seconds of staring back, Hugo shrugged.
“OK. You miss out, and I’ll take the deal somewhere else.”
He started to walk towards the door, and the Chinese tutted behind him.
“Ten…and we got a deal.”
Hugo smiled and turned back to face him. The snake was negotiating at last.
***
An hour later, they moved back across the street towards the beginning of Compton Avenue and safer streets. Hugo felt relief. Yong had agreed to $12K per half key, which was around what Hugo had hoped for. A small profit but enough product to fuck the Crips. He hated having to deal with all this drug shit. But now, at least, they could start doing the drops and focus on business while the Wah Ching did the dirty work of eating away at the Crips territory, which would only strengthen their clique. Hugo started going over the figures in his mind as he watched a blue-grey Ford van turn onto Compton Avenue just ahead of them. It pulled over sharply, and Hugo felt a spike of adrenaline surge through him. He whistled to get the others’ attention and reached under his shirt, grabbing the handle of his gat. The van had blackened windows, so he couldn’t make out who was inside, but his instinct was screaming at him that it was a trap.
“Hey! Hey!” Hugo shouted, turning back and gesturing with his hand for the others to follow his lead.
“The van, the van…”
Droops glanced across the avenue and seeing the vehicle Hugo was frantically gesturing at made a grab for his piece.
“Well, let’s take ’em, vato.”
“We don’t know how many…”
A series of loud cracks pierced the air around them. All three dived onto the ground through pure instinct. Hugo kept his eyes trained on the van, confirming he was right. It was a trap. The side door was open, and Hugo could just make out a couple of Crip boys in khaki-green trainer tops aiming directly at him. Hugo fired in their direction; the first bullet punctured the side of their van. The Crips quickly slid the door closed as a shield, not that it would really protect them any better. Hugo turned his head back to the others.
“Get back the other way!” he shouted.
Droops and Kem didn’t hesitate and jogged back down the street. Somewhere across the block Hugo heard a scream and caught a glance of people taking cover behind cars. Drivers raced past to avoid the escalating incident, and one screeched to a halt in the middle of the lane, blocking the road. Hugo turned back and fired another shot towards the van before making a run for it back in the same direction as his friends. There were a series of gunshots ahead. Hugo watched in horror as Kem and Droops both fell to the ground in a volley of bullets. Four black guys suddenly appeared, stepping out onto the sidewalk from behind a wall.
Shit!
They had been trapped in a classic pincer move. Hugo stared in disbelief. Droops was gripping his stomach, crying in agony as he rolled around on the sidewalk. Kem was facedown, his body unmoving. One of the Crips casually took aim at the dying boy’s head and fired once, and Droops was still. Hugo froze, and every fibre of his being wanted to run at them, guns blazing. A bullet whistled past Hugo from the other direction, barely missing him, shaking him out of his fixated state. The gangbangers were out of the van, taking cover at the corner, taking pot shots.
Hugo felt surprisingly calm as he returned a series of shots, hitting one of the gang in the chest as they mistimed a run across the sidewalk to take cover behind a parked car. As he caught a snapshot of the body, he realised it was a kid; no older than nine or ten. His lifeless eyes stared in Hugo’s direction, mouth caught open in frozen horror.
Dios perdóname. A kid!
Hugo swung around looking for escape routes. He was almost surrounded. The only option was a wooden fence directly ahead. Vaulting over it, Hugo was running fast, through backyards and over more fences. An old man cowed back as he ran by, hearing another gunshot behind him. As he ran, he was already replaying the scene in his head, as vivid as the trees blurring past him. Suddenly, he was in the middle of a nightmare, all recent feelings and misconceptions about his life morphing into one spearhead that struck him once again in the pit of his stomach. Distant shouts and screams carried across the road, drifting through the neighbourhood. In that moment, he knew he was out of the conflict. But his amigos, his compadres…
Shit.
Dead on the sidewalk.
And that little kid, lying in his own blood, his lifeless eyes forever imprinted in Hugo’s mind.
Read a sample chapter from Dark Paradigm #2: Red Horse
Order White Horse (Dark Paradigm # 1) on Amazon Kindle or these stores.
