by Bernard Maestas
on Tour February 1-28, 2017
A crooked conglomerate makes a move on fictional Newport City by first attempting to incite a war between its existing criminal organizations before taking over with its own “in-house” group. Hired by a major gang leader to avert the war, freelance information broker Kevin recruits his ex-enforcer, ex-con brother Chance, and Kaity, a reporter with a vendetta, to uncover the conspiracy.
Genre: Crime, Thriller
Published by: Rebel ePublishers
Publication Date: December 2016
Number of Pages: 270
ISBN: 1944077154 (ISBN13: 9781944077150)
Series: Internet Tough Guys, #3
Purchase Links 🔗: Amazon 🔗 | Barnes & Noble 🔗 | Goodreads 🔗
Read an excerpt:
Lost somewhere in Newport City’s densely crowded, late-night skyline, six bulky bodies packed into some unimportant restaurant’s musty storeroom.
Bulging with prison muscles and bulletproof vests, their dark skin branded with black tattoos broadcasting their gang affiliation, the men were silent. They crowded around a single rickety card table, the room’s only furniture, and toiled under the dim glow of a single yellow bulb dangling from the ceiling. A masonry bucket full of glittering brass ammunition sat centered between them. None spoke. The rhythmic clicking of guns and bullets was the only soundtrack accompanying the tension.
Aside from their silence and the grim, practiced precision with which they pressed the unstamped cartridges into their magazines, they each had one other detail in common: Each man, whether dangling from a pocket, knotted around a wrist, or cinched across his brow, displayed a deep crimson bandana. That bandana, the gang flag of The Reds or Red Nation – the umbrella under which all the African-American gangs in Newport City fell – was the most crucial accessory.
Durel Rivers, better known as Bones, set aside his last loaded magazine and grabbed his weapon. Exceedingly illegal, the fully automatic Tec-9 machine pistol, with its taped grip and folding stock, actually had a Federal law banning it by name. A loud slap cut the stifling air as he locked a magazine into the receiver and jacked the first round into the chamber.
Bones covered his body armor with a baggy sweatshirt, loose enough to conceal the illicit firearm beneath it, its papoose pocket stuffed with the ready reloads he’d prepared. Behind him, the rest of his crew wrapped up their own loading tasks, donned jackets and hoodies of their own and then followed him out of the storeroom.
The creaky storeroom door swung open into the deep gloom of a deserted kitchen. The restaurant’s legitimate business hours long over, the white-coated cooks and staffers long gone, Bones and his crew had special access. He led them past the stainless steel appliances and shelves to and then through the back door.
Windows down, keys in the ignitions, a pair of black SUVs waited in the greasy shadows of the narrow alley behind the restaurant. Bones climbed into the shotgun seat of the leading truck while the rest of the crew split up between them, wordlessly sliding into their plush leather seats.
Bones gave a simple and wordless nod to the man who took the driver’s seat beside him. Engines came to life with deep rumbles but the music that came on in the cabins was low. They were on a mission and there would be no distractions.
As one, the pair of SUVs rolled out of the alley and onto the darkened Newport City streets. While the bustling city of nearly five million had plenty of nightlife, Bones’ crew stuck to the quiet streets of closed businesses, darkened storefronts, and slumbering apartment dwellers. It was late, or more precisely, early in the morning, and only the creatures of the night were out haunting the streets. Moving patiently, always five miles per hour over the speed limit – no more, no less – they rolled to their first stop at the fringe of a housing project complex, a U-shaped cluster of old tenement towers.
Silent and pensive, Bones scanned every inch of the block around them, scrutinizing each of the people who made up the sparse nighttime populace. A pair of teenagers with Reds’ flags
on display occupied one corner while a homeless man wandered the block further down.
No police, no “jackers,” Bones was as certain as he could be of that. He twisted in his seat and said it all to the gangster in the back with another wordless nod.
The back door popped, as did that of the trailing SUV, two men emerging into the street and crossing, their hands beneath their shirts and gripping the handles of their guns. As they disappeared into one of the building lobbies, Bones let his attention slip for just a moment. He plucked a cigarette from his pack, set it between his lips, bringing it to life with the click of his lighter, and blew the fumes from his nose.
He had only taken two deep drags when the gangbangers emerged. The one from the trailing truck led the way, alert and ready. The man behind had a small gym bag slung over his shoulder. Bones turned to look as the man climbed back aboard the SUV.
“All there,” he said simply, ripping open the zipper to give Bones a look inside at the bricklike bundles of cash.
Bones straightened in his seat, his cigarette hand pushing out through the open window and waving the trailing SUV forward. Together, they pulled away from the curb and rolled off into the city.
It was after three when they finally pulled away from their last pickup in East Charity, a sleepy neighborhood on the southeastern side of the City’s eastern borough. Bones lit up a third cigarette and then threw a glance into the backseat. Aside from the burly gangster riding with them, more of those bulging bags of cash now packed the seat to shoulder height. Over the last hour and change, they had stopped everywhere from drug dens to basement casinos, collecting the week’s deposits.
With the trucks laden with money, the first half of the job, in some ways the easy half, was done.
Alert, mind focused, Bones allowed himself to relax just a little, let the flood of nicotine calm his blood slightly. From here on, it was a straight drive to their final destination where they would turn over the money to be cleaned. No more stops, no more tense minutes of waiting on the street like sitting ducks. That said, he also knew that the best time to hit the convoy would be
now, when it was flush and the crew had backed off the razor’s edge of their nerves.
The bold glow of their headlights swung down a street heavy with shadows, most of the streetlights out except for some pale yellow ones at the far end. Bones’ hackles came up and he was just about to order them off the street when shrieking tires sang their discordant chorus into the night as something flashed out of the driveway ahead. No headlights had offered any warning.
“Shit!” Bones’ driver seethed as he stood on the brakes, grinding them to a hard halt.
In the glare of their SUV’s headlights, Bones now made out the form of the battered minivan that had darted across their path and stopped. He was already pulling his Tec-9 from beneath his shirt when the van’s sliding door scraped aside with a raspy grind of worn metal.
Crouched tightly in the back of the van, shoulder-to-shoulder, a pair of masked men took aim and opened up torrents of fully automatic gunfire.
The driver beside Bones jerked and flopped violently, his body riddled with relentless fire. Bones himself managed to duck down below the dash, behind the protection of the engine block, the only part of a normal car that would actually stop a bullet. Jagged pebbles of shattered glass rained down on the back of his neck.
Behind Bones, the back door kicked open and the armed gangster ducked out as he sprayed the van with his own vicious rake of fire.
Without rising from behind the dash, Bones reached out, shoving open the driver’s door and rolling the bloody, shredded corpse of the driver into the street. He was halfway over the center console when he saw his doom.
From behind the row of parallel-parked cars lining the far side of the street, cloaked in the heavy shadows, more gunmen popped up, bracing and steadying their rifles on the hoods, trunks or roofs of the parked cars. Bones threw his machine pistol into line but it was too late.
The last thing Bones ever saw was the hellish strobes of the muzzle flashes popping in the darkness as they poured another withering hailstorm of copper-jacketed death into the street.
Don’t shit where you eat. Words to live by in Kevin Wyatt’s book. So, even at three in the morning, making the drive across the Admiralty Bridge into the peninsular eastern borough was just smart business. Polished black paint gleaming, throaty engine growling melodically, Kevin’s ’67 Mustang fastback made short work of the trip, weaving only occasionally around slower moving traffic.
An oasis in the night of closed businesses on an otherwise nondescript street in East Charity, a brightly lit parking lot snipped off the corner of the block. It wrapped around two sides of a large diner that, despite its size and popularity with the late-night crowd that knew of its existence, still looked like a greasy hole in the wall.
Kevin had grown fond of the place, though. Referring to it as his office, he conducted those meetings there that required a certain degree of public exposure mixed with only a modicum of privacy. He’d chosen the spot for the food initially and had quickly adopted it as a regular haunt. Despite this, no one greeted him by name as he entered and left the biting air of the early November chill in the parking lot.
The diner was warm inside, full of the aroma of food frying in grease. At least a half-dozen parties of three or four twentysomethings in nightclub attire were scattered among the booths and tables. His regular booth, the one at the far back corner, just on the fringe of the last overhead bulb’s halo of light, was unclaimed, he noted with a smile.
Kevin took another moment to scan the diner’s patrons and confirm that his clients hadn’t arrived yet. He pivoted and swung down the row of booths running along the diner’s storefront of greasy picture windows. As he went, he sloughed his black leather jacket, a dark T-shirt with a stylish designer logo beneath.
Though he could have melded into one of the packs of club goers in the diner with his age and good looks, he wasn’t here to socialize. He had a narrow face of mildly chiseled features decorated with a light dusting of freckles that went appropriately with the rusty copper color of his short hair. He was above average height at just under six feet, but his fit and trim frame was not particularly remarkable.
A waitress, mopping the countertop with a rag, glanced up as he passed her. She made contact with his bright hazel gaze and a faint smile of passing recognition turned up the corners of her mouth. “The usual?” she asked, getting a nod and a smile in reply.
Kevin dropped into his booth’s far side, his back to the wall, his face to the door, and slid into the corner. It was a good spot, behind the wall and out of the frame of the big window while still giving him an excellent line of sight into the parking lot and the establishment.
Kevin scanned with intent while taking care to seem oblivious, just another late night customer out for a midnight snack. A nondescript sedan, gray, neither old nor new enough to be noteworthy, coasted to a halt outside. Three young men, cautious and patiently panning their gazes over every angle of surrounding night, sat in the car for a few long moments before dismounting and approaching the diner door.
The waitress returned and slid Kevin’s order in front of him just as the trio filed through the front door. She turned and left the table while he raised an arm, brushed with a sleeve of freckles, and waved them over.
In a moment’s pause of prudent appraisal, they sized Kevin up from the door before sliding down the row. They were dressed to slip under notice, plain jeans and plainer hooded sweatshirts, but that didn’t fool Kevin for a second.
“You the guy?” the first, a deeply tanned Hispanic in his late twenties, asked with no discernable accent.
“I am,” Kevin confirmed with a nod. “Have a seat.”
“How’d you know it was us?” asked the second, a black man of the same age as the first, as the whole trio – rounded out with a smaller and younger Asian man for diversity – took the opposite side of the booth.
“Lucky guess,” Kevin replied plainly. He lifted his steaming cup of black coffee and nursed a sip, careful to keep his eyes above the rim to watch the three of them. “You have something for me?” He set the cup beside the plate holding his so far untouched “Heartstopper” sandwich.
The trio exchanged glances before the leader threw one back over his shoulder at the rest of the diner. Kevin didn’t have to look so obviously to know no one was paying them any mind. Satisfied, the leader nodded at the Asian at the end of the booth. He slipped an envelope from the papoose pocket of his sweatshirt, laid it on the table and slid it across.
Kevin took the envelope and peeled it open in his lap, leafing through its stack of crisp twenty-dollar bills. He kept his poker face firmly in place as he did, lifting his head to nod to his clients in approval. He reached across the booth, stuffing the envelope into the inner pocket of his jacket and slipping out a coin-sized SD card. He slid it across the table the same way he’d received his payment.
The Asian man took it, plugging it into a small tablet and scanning through it.
“As promised,” Kevin said, his focus on the leader. “Truck routes, communications protocols and duty rosters for Allied Armored Couriers. Good until the end of the month.”
The leader looked from Kevin as he finished, to the Asian, who had completed his scan and nodded. Kevin scooped up his mug and took another sip of his coffee, watching as the leader turned back to him.
“How’d you get this?”
Kevin smiled a thin smile that didn’t reach his eyes as he lowered the mug. He offered his hand across the table for a shake. “A pleasure doing business with you.”
The leader’s eyes narrowed, but he clasped Kevin’s hand in a brief squeeze before he and his crew exited the booth. He watched them leave, as did the waitress, who glanced over at him and met his eyes. This time, his smile was a little warmer as he offered her a shrug and dropped his attention to his plate.
The Heartstopper was an egg sandwich, in simplest terms. To be more exact, however, it was a heaping serving of scrambled whole eggs capped with a slice of full-fat American cheese and enclosed in two slices of grilled and buttery bread. It was decadently delicious and so worth the bloated feeling in Kevin’s gut as he left his booth, leaving cash, including a generous tip, on the table top and exited the diner.
He mounted up the Mustang, kicking it to grumbling life, and swung out of the parking lot, aiming for home. Business for the night finished, it was late and, crucially, he had a very early and very important errand awaiting him in the morning.
Blue and red strobes blazed through the Mustang’s rear windshield as the howl of a siren drowned out even the healthy rumble of his powerful engine. Kevin’s heart nearly stopped as his eyes flicked to the rearview mirror framing the police sedan rushing up on his bumper.
“Fuck me,” he breathed, hands tightening around the wheel. For half a second, he considered running. Lean fingers coiled around the shifter, his dress boots settled over the pedals, and Kevin sketched out a plan for his flight for freedom. It started with a downshift and a ferocious bellow of acceleration but he had no idea where it went from there. Instead, he reminded himself he wasn’t carrying anything illegal, nor did he have any warrants out for him. At least, as far as he knew. Easing toward the first gap in the row of cars lining the curb, Kevin blinked as the patrol car blew past him.
Before he had a chance to relax, crack a smile of relief, three more cops in roaring sedans, their emergency lights screaming their urgency, sirens wailing, blasted down the road. They were moving fast, fast enough that their passing rocked Kevin’s heavy car as they went.
Kevin stared after them as they faded into the distance before whipping around the corner at the end of the next block. His hands squeezed the wheel tightly and his mind reached, pondering the possibilities. Slowly, his thin lips spread in a smile.
Something big had happened. He had a pleasant influx of new business to look forward to.
From CONCRETE SMILE, A novel, By BERNARD MAESTAS © BERNARD MAESTAS
Bernard Maestas lives in paradise. A police officer patrolling the mean streets of Hawaii, he has a background in contract security and military and civilian law enforcement. When not saving the world, one speeding ticket at a time, and not distracted by video games or the internet, he is usually hard at work on his next book.
Q&A with Bernard Maestas
INTERVIEW QUESTIONS FOR GUEST AUTHORS
Writing and Reading:
Do you draw from personal experiences and/or current events?
Absolutely! My first series, “Internet Tough Guys,” was inspired by a mix of both, with headline-ripped plots and some of my real action sequences mixed in.
Those who have been following the development of “Concrete Smile” on social media and/or have followed this tour already know that a big portion of the novel was written as a way for me process my feelings after a loved one’s death a few years ago. Digging deeper, the three novels I mashed together to create this book were all, in one way or another, written for the same purpose of coping with grief.
Do you start with the conclusion and plot in reverse or start from the beginning and see where the story line brings you?
I have a habit of skipping around. I struggled so much the first two decades of my writing career because I couldn’t start at the beginning and write straight through anything. I’d always have an idea for something in the middle, or I’d be missing something in between, and I’d lose interest. Now, I write what’s fresh, in the forefront of my mind, and work around it. Whether it’s a chapter, a paragraph, even just a great sentence, I put it down and move on to wherever my imagination takes me next.
Everything starts with an idea, though. Sometimes it’s an ending, sometimes it’s a beginning, sometimes it’s something in the middle.
If I had to pick a jumping off point for “Concrete Smile” (harder to do than you might think)… No spoilers, but there’s a certain scene with Kaity, a sweatshirt, and a cigarette. I remember mourning and thinking up that scene and it grew into a whole book. You’ll know it when you read it.
Are any of your characters based on you or people that you know?
Definitely. In “Internet Tough Guys,” the two protagonists were based off me and one of my oldest friends – quite loosely, of course.
In “Concrete Smile,” it’s a longer story. One of the two males started as the hero of his own series who was, in turn, inspired very distantly by eighteen-year-old me. He grew from there but his story was partially inspired by something that happened with a friend of mine from high school. I borrowed that friend’s look to make the second male protagonist in this book.
Your routine when writing? Any idiosyncrasies?
Ugh, I wish I had a routine. I wish I knew the formula for the magic when I get in the “zone” and can churn out thousands of words at a sprint.
Music is always a thing, for sure. I used to rely on Pandora shuffling – which is how I wrote “Concrete Smile.” For the book I just finished, I made a (extremely long) playlist on YouTube but I did it mostly while I was procrastinating.
Speaking of which, if there’s one thing that’s constant when I’m writing, it’s procrastination. I click away from Scrivener for just a minute to confirm something on Wikipedia and two hours later…
Tell us why we should read this book.
Because I asked nicely and I want to get a puppy.
Seriously, though, aside from the “only if you want to” stuff, I think people will like it. I learned a lot from my first three published novels and I feel like this is a new pinnacle for me. I really did a lot of things right with this book. All the flaws in the novels I combined to make it cancel each other out.
Everything’s been done at this point, nothing is truly original anymore. But with “Concrete Smile,” I feel like I’ve captured some really good film noir tropes but presented the whole thing in a different package that’s sort of original. The characters are really solid and play off each other well. Plus, the story, the mystery, I’m really proud of the whole thing.
Beyond those reasons, if it counts for anything, is all the blood and pain I let out onto the pages. Sometimes, some really bad things can pave the way for something beautiful. If that’s true, “Concrete Smile” is a perfect example of that.
Who are some of your favorite authors?
Rob Thurman of the Cal Leandros (among other) series is likely my absolute favorite. Her wit and clever fantasy have spoken to me since I picked up her first, “Nightlife,” on a whim. Karen Traviss – who rocked my world by blurbing my third “Internet Tough Guys” novel, 2015’s “You Think this is a Game?” – runs neck-and-neck with her, though. She can write the hell out of some military sci-fi and techno-thrillers, let me tell you.
Comic writer Alan Moore has had a hand in just about every one of my favorite comics and I credit him a lot with inspiring me as a writer.
I have to take this time to mention Orson Scott Card. By the time I picked up “Ender’s Game” in grade school, I’d read a decent amount, done a few short stories, made a lot of comic books and even short films and screenplays… but “Ender’s Game” changed everything for me. Not only did I love the story – though I never did read any of the sequels – it might singlehandedly have pushed me to write prose novels. Even though it was over a decade before I actually finished one, I remember that being the moment that the seed blossomed in my brain of writing only in prose. That’s gotta be worth a vote or two for favorite, no?
What are you reading now?
Two of my friends, separately, just finished (hopefully) debut novels and I’m beta reading those
Are you working on your next novel? Can you tell us a little about it?
As I write this, I just wrapped up my latest manuscript. I can’t share too much about it, obviously, but it’s an urban fantasy and superhero tale, sprinkled with a bit of horror and wrapped up in a YA package. I think it’s going to be great! Hopefully it’ll get published…
That said, I’m also working on another thriller, this one sort of a military/spy one. I’m debating on a course for the future of “Internet Tough Guys” as well. I have book four hanging in limbo until I decide.
Your novel will be a movie. Who would you cast?
Gosh, I loved this question the second I read it but, as I went to answer, I found it harder than expected. First off, I’d really love to see some no-name, up-and-coming young actors step into the roles and shine. People even I’ve never heard of. That would be ideal.
If I had to pick… Carlson Young (of the “Scream” series) almost has the look for Kaity and I think she could pull off the role. For Chance and Kevin, even though they already starred in something together, I could almost see “Awkward’s” Beau Mirchoff and Brett Davern, respectively, playing them. Beau would need to bulk up for the role (quite a bit) but I feel like their looks, their talent, and their chemistry would actually really capture what I was going for.
Favorite leisure activity/hobby?
Most of my fans know that meme-slinging and PC gaming are definitely in the conversation. I’m also a karaoke superstar and take any opportunity to do that. I enjoy NFL football, anime, Netflix/Hulu shows, and I also play in an adult kickball league. (Yes, that’s a thing. Shout out to Team Ridiculously Good Looking!)
Steak. Or pizza. But mostly steak. And also pizza.
This is a rafflecopter giveaway hosted by Partners In Crime Virtual Book Tours for Bernard Maestas. There will be 2 US winners of one (1) autographed paperback copy of Concrete Smile by Bernard Maestas AND 2 WORLDWIDE winners of one (1) eBook copy of Concrete Smile by Bernard Maestas. The giveaway begins on January 29th and runs through March 3rd, 2017.
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