Good Night Moon

By Francisco Javier Guerra Jr.

Emma Gutierrez is on the run with a duffel bag full of money. She hopes to return home to Boulder, Colorado, to seek redemption from her long-lost lover. But unfortunately for her, her plans don’t set out the way she hoped they would when the boss of the Texas Syndicate from Houston sends his two most loyal henchmen to track her down and retrieve the drug money she stole from them. Little does Emma know that the duffel bag she has stored inside her car’s trunk has a tracker hidden inside it. To make things even worse for Emma, there’s a serial killer who’s murdering people on US Route 54, which she is traveling on. All these players will come down with a violent crash in one big and bloody final collision course.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 26, 2019
• ISBN: 9781796042962

Francisco Javier Guerra Jr.

About the Author Francisco Javier Guerra Jr. was born in McAllen, Texas, and raised in the small humble town of San Juan, Texas. He is the author and playwright of the ten-minute play The Ghost that Haunts Penelope, which was published in the University of Texas Rio Grande Valley’s Gallery magazine for 2018. He is also a former alumnus of UTRGV, having graduated with two bachelor’s degrees from that school in criminal justice and English creative writing. The one person who has truly inspired him is his mother, who once told him in Spanish, “Son, God blessed us all with many talents, so don’t hide them and don’t be scared to use them.”

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Copyright © 2019 by Francisco Javier Guerra Jr..

Library of Congress Control Number:   2019908518

ISBN:           Hardcover           978-1-7960-4298-6

                     Softcover             978-1-7960-4297-9

                     eBook                  978-1-7960-4296-2

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 06/25/2019

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CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1     Dead Man from Houston

Chapter 2     Battered Women’s Syndrome

Chapter 3     A Long Way from Home

Chapter 4     Traveling on a Treacherous Highway

Chapter 5     A Diner from New Mexico

Chapter 6     Stalked and Hunted

Chapter 7     Revelations

Chapter 8     The Brown Wolf

Chapter 9     Desert Showdown

Chapter 10   Reunited Alas

Chapter 11   No Rest for the Wicked

Epilogue

About the Author

PROLOGUE

Set on a Collision Course

1

The TV was left on, and the brightness of its screen illuminated through the darkness of a small motel room. Inside the room, a white raven-haired woman lay on a queen-size bed, where she struggled to sleep. She tossed and turned under the white sheets that covered her topless, white slender body. The cold sweat that ran from her skinny neck and small shoulders stained the pale cover sheets that were underneath her pearly white skin.

No! she cried out as she wrestled on bed, trying to wake herself up from the vicious dream she was having.

But after she opened her blue-hazel eyes and viewed her surroundings, she knew she was just having another nightmare and that the blood-spattered man who chased her with a knife in her dream was just a figment of her imagination. She then turned to the nightstand to take a look at the clock and noticed it was three o’clock in the morning.

Insomnia had her awake.

2

Many miles away, somewhere in a lonely town along a busy highway, a lean young man dressed in all black, with a black beanie on his head, sat inside his black 1970 Chevrolet Chevelle SS 454. The shady young man smoked a cigarette inside his car while he stalked a weary traveler in the parking lot of a run-down motel. And as the full moon’s celestial light shone through his car’s tinted windows, he shredded his cigarette on the built-in ashtray inside his car and then slipped on a pair of dark leather gloves to cover his handprints. He then put on a gray sweatshirt jacket over his black sweater and covered his head with the hoodie so that no one would be able to see his identity.

Clunk! He opened his car’s door, stepped off from his vehicle, slammed the door shut, and began to walk on foot towards the weary old traveler.

The young man who was dressed in black was also wearing a pair of black running shoes, making his appearance twice as darker in apparel. He wore them that night in case he had to run, and because they made less noise compared with boots, he would also wear them to avoid getting caught. And as he silently crept up behind the unsuspecting traveler, he pulled out a hammer from behind his jeans waistline and readied his arm for a sneak attack against him.

Thump! The young killer banged his hammer on the back of the weary old traveler’s head, knocking him out cold.

It only took one blow to the back of the head for the shady young killer to drop the weary old traveler on the doorstep in front of his motel room’s green door. The man fell face-first on the concrete floor, bashing his face on the pavement and splitting a gash on his forehead. The poor man didn’t even have a chance to defend himself as he lay unconscious on the floor, waiting to be killed. That was when the silent killer looked around the parking lot to try to see if there were any witnesses present. And just as soon as he saw that there weren’t, he quickly grabbed the weary old traveler’s legs and dragged him inside his room so he could finish him off.

After the young killer closed and locked the door behind him, he began to viciously pound his hammer on the wrinkly face of the unconscious traveler. The young killer bashed his hammer so violently on his victim’s white face that he split the poor old man’s skin apart and crushed all his facial bones into small pieces. Blood scurried down from the traveler’s battered head, ruptured like water from a fractured pipe, and by the time the young killer finished his hammering, the face of the weary old traveler was left completely disfigured. His face was so badly smothered that it looked like a pile of bloody flesh. If it weren’t for DNA testing and fingerprinting, no one would be able to identify him, so as the blood from his head spilled out on the floor and formed a small puddle on the soft blue carpet, the mysterious young killer walked out of the room and fled the scene unnoticed.

3

The following day, at noon, the raven-haired woman woke up by the rays of the sun that gleamed through the partially curtained windows of the small motel room she had rented. She was tired from not getting enough sleep the night before, so she sleepily got off from her bed and stood on the fluffy white carpet, where she then stretched her back and arms out while yawning at the same time. She then walked over to a brown wooden desk that was near the TV stand, where she picked her long loose-sleeve gray sweater from the brown desk chair that was pushed inside. And as she slipped on her gray sweater that loosely covered her black panties like a skirt, she overheard the local news reporter say, I am here at the site where the Lincoln County Sheriffs were called in this morning to investigate a possible murder that occurred at the High Sands Motel and RV Park in the outskirts of Carrizozo, New Mexico. The identity of the man has yet to be released, but authorities have stated that he is not a resident of Carrizozo. If this incident is presumed to be a homicide, this will be the third person killed along the U.S. Route 54 within three weeks. This is Sandra Gonzalez reporting in for Channel Four news at noon.

As soon as the dreamy raven-haired woman heard the breaking news about the series of killings that had occurred along the highway she was traveling on, she began to wonder if those murders had a connection or if they all somehow happened coincidentally. That was when thoughts of murder, death, and bloody corpses ran through her head as paranoia started to slip into her mind. She felt helpless as her heart rate started to race. The sudden pressure on her chest made her feel breathless, so she scurried down the sink counter to grab a pack of cigarettes from her brown purse, and as she frantically searched inside her purse’s pocket, her hands trembled uncontrollably from the nervousness of the desperation she had to grab herself a cigarette and lighter.

The raven-haired woman would chain-smoke a lot of cigarettes because she thought it would calm her anxieties down, so she did the same for this situation. She smoked and smoked from her busted lip until her panic attack faded away. Then she thought, as she sparked another cigarette, These murders could not have happened coincidentally. There must be a connection. It’s probably some kind of fucking sick maniac who’s killing these people… Yeah, a serial killer. A fucking deranged murderer, and he’s probably out to get me too. Fuck! I need a gun… Damn it, I should’ve taken it with me when I had the chance…

4

Somewhere inside a two-story red brick house eight hundred miles away lay a man on his back with five bullet holes in his chest. The blood from his wounds spilled out through the cotton of his blue collared shirt and stained a red canvas on the olive-green carpet. Next to him on the floor lay the weapon used against him, a small stainless steel Beretta with a black handle grip finish. A few steps away, on his king-size crimson red bed lay a stuffed black duffel bag, packed with several pounds of pure Colombian cocaine.

The middle-aged man who lay stiff on his bedroom’s olive-green carpet lived a somewhat pleasant life in the rich suburbs of Houston, Texas, but his life changed when he got handed a duffel bag full of money. The Texas Syndicate had tasked him to make an exchange of four and a half million dollars for 22.8 kilograms of cocaine, but the man had other plans. His greed took ahold of him and convinced his heart and mind that he had no other choice but to kill the Mexican drug dealers and steal their drugs. He planned on killing them so that he could keep the money for himself after he would deliver their cocaine to his crime boss, Mr. Rooney. But unfortunately for him, things don’t always go according to plan.

5

In Downtown Houston thirty miles further, a white-bearded man in a gray suit sat on his black desk chair, where he smoked a big cigar inside his strip club’s backroom office. He was waiting for a phone call from one of his business associates. The rough-faced man had a broad nose, prominent ears, high cheekbones, and hollow cheeks. His facial features were very distinct, and his presence was dangerously intimidating. And as he slicked back his long white hair with a small black comb that had his initials, W. R., engraved on it in gold, he puffed smoke off his well-rolled Cuban cigar and rested his ostrich-booted white feet on his gray steel desk.

Suddenly, two dangerous-looking men dressed in black leather jackets with black steel-toe boots and dark blue jeans walked into his office, where they then pulled up two black steel foldable chairs in front of his desk. As the two men quietly waited for their boss’s response, the black telephone rang on the gray steel desk. Ring! Ring! Ring! The white-bearded old man quickly dropped his feet off the table, picked up the phone, and huskily said, Did the mouse get the cheese?

No. The cat got the mouse, the Spanish-accented man said before he ended the call.

Dung! The white-bearded old man slammed the phone on its base, hanging it up while shouting in frustration, Son of a bitch!

What’s wrong, boss? the tall, lanky man with the black leather jacket asked the white-bearded man after he had glanced over at his fat partner.

Go visit our friend Stevie and take Fat Pat with you, the white-bearded man replied as he rested his hand on the side of his face while he shook his head in disappointment and sighed in frustration.

You got it, Mr. Rooney, the tall, lanky man said as he stood from his chair and walked off with his partner, Fat Pat.

After the two men in black leather jackets left his office, Mr. Rooney stood from his chair and walked over to his wooden hat holder, where he then grabbed and fitted his black cowboy hat on. He then walked out through the backroom door of his office and entered a phone booth that was stationed outside on the sidewalk near the back parking lot of his strip club. He then made a collect call to the Spanish-accented man whom he had spoken to in his office.

Since paranoid thoughts of wiretappings loomed over Mr. Rooney’s mind, he never used landlines or personal cell phones to discuss conversations that implicated him in the involvement of criminal activities. Instead, he would use payphones, phone booths, and throwaway phones to negotiate all his evil deeds. And just as soon as the phone rang once, someone on the other end of Mr. Rooney’s call answered and told him, Mr. Rooney, we have a big fucking problem.

I know we do, Mr. Cervantes, but don’t you worry about a thing because Ima get this fixed.

Oh yeah? You are? You’re going to get this fixed?

Yeah, whatever it takes.

"Well, could you explain to me how you’re going to repay me the twenty-two kilos of cocaína and the lives of my three soldados, including my sobrino, whom I practically raised as my son? So tell me now, hijo de puta! Tell me, how are you going to fucking repay me?"

Look… I feel sorry for your loss and all, but remember, you’re not the only one who has lost something here. I lost my money too. I didn’t know that that son of a bitch was going to run off with our merchandise.

"Sí, sí, tú no sabías," Mr. Cervantes sarcastically remarked in Spanish.

What? You think I had something to do with this? Mr. Rooney responded in an aggressive tone with a frown look upon his face.

"It doesn’t matter. Whether you did or not, it’s not going to bring my nephew back… So now this is the new deal: You’re going to bring me my coke back plus the money you were going to use to pay for it and also that mierda de perro who robbed me and killed my nephew. You do all that and I’ll give you a pass, Mr. Rooney."

Heh! You’ll give me a pass? Jeje! He chuckled. "Let me remind you, ‘Mr. Traficante,’ that you’re in my side of the river, and I’m in charge here. I call the shots, not you."

Yes, you are right. I am in your country. But let me remind you, Mr. Rooney, that I have more people working under my payroll than you do. I could even buy off your men and have them kill you with your own gun… And if I wanted to, with just one call, I could have your whole entire crew, including you, wiped out… and we’ll target your family first too.

Ima take that as a threat.

Well, you should because I’m being very serious… You see, Mr. Rooney, we all live with death behind our shoulders, but unlike you Americans, we are not scared of dying. In Mexico, we embrace it.

Well, my men aren’t scared of dying too, and neither am I.

We’ll see about that. Get me what I want by tomorrow, at noon, and we’ll avoid any unnecessary bloodshed.

No! he shouted through the black speaker of the phone. I’ll call you when I get the stuff. There won’t be no ‘tomorrow at noon,’ and there won’t be no other deal. You’ll get your money, and we’ll keep your coke. You’re just gonna have to wait until my boys retrieve it all back, Mr. Rooney proclaimed before Mr. Cervantes hung up the phone, leaving him talking on his own inside the phone booth.

6

Puh-puh-puh-poof! The two men in black leather jackets busted open the front door of a red brick house. They were looking for Stevie, but when they found him dead on the second floor inside his master bedroom, their reaction to his cadaver was unordinary to the common person. It was because these two men were stone-cold killers, and they had already seen their share of killings in the past.

Shit, he’s dead, Richie, Fat Pat said as he looked down at Stevie’s pale corpse.

Yeah, of course, he’s dead, genius, obviously. What, you think I’m some kind of moron who can’t tell the difference between someone being dead or not? Richie responded to Fat Pat while he waved his shiny pistol around above his shoulders.

Nah, I’m just sayin’, you know…, Fat Pat replied, hoping Richie wouldn’t pistol-whip him for his stupid comment.

I’m just fucking with you! Jajaja! He laughed. Anyways, go get me that duffel bag that’s sitting over there on the bed and load it in the car. Ima call Mr. Rooney.

All right, Fat Pat replied as he picked the bloodstained duffel bag that was full of cocaine.

After Fat Pat loaded the duffel bag full of Mr. Cervantes’s cocaine inside his car’s trunk, he waited on the driveway inside his black 2016 Cadillac CTS, while Richie spoke on the phone inside Stevie’s home, where he used code words to communicate with Mr. Rooney.

Hey, Dad, I just got Mom’s gift. Should I drop it off at your house, or should I give it to you? Richie asked Mr. Rooney while he spoke to him through the speaker of his black cell phone.

Well, son, why don’t you come over to my office? You could drop it off here.

All right, sounds good, Dad. I’ll be there right now.

7

After Richie and Fat Pat delivered the packaged cocaine to Mr. Rooney, inside his strip club’s backroom office, Mr. Rooney tasked them with yet another mission.

Is there anything else you need us to do for you, Mr. Rooney? Richie asked.

Yes. There is another thing I need you boys to do for me.

All right, what is it, boss? Fat Pat responded.

Phh-phh-phh-puff! Mr. Rooney took some puffs off his cigarette and then told them, I think I already know who has my money. Phh-puff! He puffed some more.

Just give us a name and an address, and we’ll be on our way, Chief, Richie commented.

I want both of you to track down his wife.

Whose wife, Mr. Rooney? Fat Pat asked.

Stevie’s wife. I think she’s the one who killed him and stole my money.

You didn’t mention he had a wife, Richie said.

I didn’t think she would be important.

Then why do you think she has your money?

Because you guys didn’t find her dead. If the cartel had something to do with this, they would’ve killed her too.

That’s true. And now that you mentioned he had a wife, it did look like as if there was some kind of scuffle in the room we found him in. There was a broken lamp lying on his carpet when we got there, and he did have some scratches on both sides of his forearms, so I think you may be right, Chief, Richie commented again.

Then Fat Pat added, saying, Yeah, it does make sense, which would also explain why we only found the cocaine that Stevie robbed from the Mexicans… The bitch has no use for it. That’s why she left it behind.

Bingo! You’re right on point, Mr. Rooney said as he pointed his right index finger at Fat Pat to let him know that he agreed with him.

So how can we find this bitch? Richie asked.

It’s simple, Mr. Rooney replied as he pulled out a small black device from the left inside pocket of his gray suit jacket and then continued, saying, I turn on this device right here, I give you guys the pass code to install the app for this tracker on your phones, and voila! That’s how you guys are going track down my money and bring it back to me.

And what about the girl? Fat Pat asked.

Do whatever you want with her. Just bring me back my money, Mr. Rooney replied, while Richie and Fat Pat quickly glanced at each other with a perverted, sinister look on their faces.

And Cervantes’s men, are they going to be after us too? Richie asked, concerned about the Mexican cartel sending hitmen after them.

Nah, don’t worry about the cartel. I’ll deal with them. Just worry about getting my money.

Okay. Well then, we’ll be on our way, Chief, Richie said as he and Fat Pat stood from their chairs and got ready to leave Mr. Rooney’s office.

Yeah, all right. Let’s just hope this bitch doesn’t hear the on-switch trigger of the tracker I placed inside the duffel bag, Mr. Rooney told his two henchmen while he pressed down on the circular red button to turn on the tracking device he had planted inside the money bag.

Click!

8

Beep! An electronic device turned on inside a dark black duffel bag. The red light that flashed from the small square black device illuminated the four and a half million dollars that were stored inside.

The black duffel bag that was packed with Mr. Rooney’s money lay hidden inside the trunk of a red 2014 Ford Mustang GT/CS. The mysterious young woman who drove that car was wearing a black leather jacket that once belonged to her husband. Underneath that jacket, she wore a small gray shirt that covered her large braless breasts. On her lower body, underneath the suede leather patent of the black steering wheel, she wore a white belt that kept her dark blue jeans tight along her thin waistline and a pair of gray-and-white women’s shoes that looked a bit old over her small feet. The raven-haired woman, with that long and lustrous hair, was the owner of that shiny metallic Mustang. She smoked a cigarette while she roared her vehicle on the long and scorching road of a desert highway from New Mexico. She puffed and puffed on her smoke, unaware of the tracker that remained tightly tucked in between the stacks of cash that belonged to Mr. Rooney, so she drove and drove and drove until she stopped again to rest her wearied, over-driven body.

But little did the raven-haired woman know, Mr. Rooney’s two henchmen were tracing her every move from their cell phones’ GPS tracker. And unlike the raven-haired woman, Mr. Rooney’s two henchmen had no intentions of resting. They were on the hunt, and they wanted to reach her as quickly as possible before she crossed another state line.

CHAPTER 1

Dead Man from Houston

1

Beams of red and purple neon lights shone from above the roof’s ceiling while a smog of gray tobacco smoke traveled across the open area of the club and clouded the inside of the building. The club was mostly surrounded by men in business attire; it was a classy gentlemen’s club for well-suited customers, although some of the audience who came were dressed a bit sleazy. But either way, the club was still elegant. It had a raised platform as a stage that was stationed in the middle of the club, and there were special stage lights that were specifically used only to focus the lighting on the exotic dancers who performed on stage. Below the stage, in the open area of the main floor, there were tables and chairs neatly organized for the customers who hung around, crowding the area. They were like dogs, staring, drooling over their mouths, thirsty for their favorite dancers to come up the stage.

The club was mostly known for the choreography its voluptuous strippers would incorporate whenever they would perform group dances for special events. Every year, the club would host its annual bash parties for holidays and birthday parties for the rich. Christmas Eves were the best; the club’s choreographer would have the most experienced and most attractive exotic dancers dress up as Santa’s little sexy helpers and would then have them perform on stage together for the song Santa Baby.

Most of the dancers who worked in that club were young and attractive females from the ages of eighteen to thirty-five. They had no cellulite and minimum stretch marks, and they were in good health too. Monthly routine checkups with the doctor were a strict policy; the owner wanted to make sure that all his girls were clean of sexually transmitted diseases because these women were not only strippers, most of them were also prostitutes.

And as far as the cops messing with this place? Well, they were corrupt, and they never bothered to intervene. The entire police force of Houston was nearly bought off by the Texas Syndicate, and they were obliged to keep a blind eye on the illegal gambling and prostitution that took place upstairs in Mr. Rooney’s strip club.

Because Mr. Rooney, well, he was also a well-connected man, and he ran his criminal enterprise in a well-organized fashion, he virtually almost had all the criminal justice and government officials in Houston working under his payroll. His cousin was the police chief for almost four years, and his uncle was a former mayor of Houston during the ’90s, so Mr. Rooney was a very powerful and influential man in his city, and he ran his clubs and businesses as he pleased.

But anyway, back inside the crowded cabaret, the latest music was being played tremendously loud by the club’s DJ. It reverberated across the building, echoing inside everyone’s ears, while the topless dancers, who were dressed in lingerie and high heels, attracted all the men and lesbians who were getting wasted in that place. So while some of the exotic dancers were performing on stage for their drunken audience, most of the other strippers were walking on the main floor, offering lap dances and hustling men for their money. Men and women from different backgrounds sat on their black comfy chairs, smoking, drinking, and ordering bottles from their round tables. They enjoyed watching the topless strippers, who danced on stage and stripteased their clothes off around the stainless steel poles.

On the chairs surrounding the stage, groups of men gathered around, where they tossed dollars at the naked strippers who collected their dollar bills from the stage’s platform. As these voluptuous strippers shook their asses on the floor while the pink neon lights flashed from the dance stage’s edges, a lean, middle-aged man dressed in a white long-sleeve shirt with charcoal skinny jeans and tan suede boots stood alone in the darkness of the club.

He was standing at the strip club’s bar table, resting his arms on the counter’s ledge, and sipping on a cold glass of Jack and Coke. The middle-aged man was waiting for Mr. Rooney to send his bodyguards to escort him to the backroom office of the cabaret. As he waited to be escorted, another man from inside the crowded strip club spotted him and began to approach him.

The light brown Hispanic man in black collared shirt walked up from behind him, tapped on the back side of his shoulder, and told him, Stevie! What’s up, man?

When Stevie recognized the booming voice that called to him from behind, he turned around from the bar table and responded to the man who tapped on his shoulder, saying to him, Hey, what’s up, brotha? How you been? And then they both shook hands out of friendship.

Good. I heard from above that you’re going to do the ‘exchange’ tomorrow night. Is that true?

Yeah, that’s right.

Is it your first?

Yeah, it is. Got any advice?

Yeah, don’t run off with the money. He chuckled.

Aww, hell, no, I wouldn’t do nothin’ like that.

Yeah, because that’d be suicide. But I know you wouldn’t do something stupid like that. Anyways, if you need an extra hand on this job, lemme know.

All right, Alex, I’ll let you know if anything.

All right, man, you give me a call then. You got my number, right?

Yeah, I do.

All right then, Stevie, I’ll see you around. I got this girl waiting for me in the back. She gives a nasty fucking blowjob. Jejeje! He chuckled. Laters, brotha.

Laters, man. Have a good one, Stevie said to Alex as they both shook hands to say goodbye.

And then five minutes after Stevie had that small conversation with Alex, Fat Pat arrived at the bar table and told Stevie to follow him to the club’s backroom office. They zigzagged through the crowded strip club and made their way to Mr. Rooney’s office, where Fat Pat escorted Stevie inside. When both men entered the room, they found Mr. Rooney wearing a blue suit outfit while sitting behind his gray steel desk at the front left side of his room, where he was conducting business with a short stocky brown Mexican man who had a black ponytail on and an all-black cowboy suit, with black alligator boots as well. Richie was also present in Mr. Rooney’s office. He was standing guard at the center of the room, by the pool table, where he pretended to be playing pool on his own but was actually watching over the meeting that Mr. Rooney was having.

Hey, boss, I got Stevie here to see you, Fat Pat said, announcing Stevie’s presence to Mr. Rooney.

Aye! Just the man I wanted to see. Come, have a seat with us. Mr. Rooney waved at Stevie to come forward. Let’s talk about tomorrow night’s business, Mr. Rooney told Stevie and then introduced him to the middle-aged Mexican man who sat across his desk. This is our friend Victor from the other side. He’s our middleman to the cartel, so treat this man with respect, and listen to him whenever he tells you to do something at the exchange site. You got that?

Yeah, I got that, boss, Stevie replied as he shook hands with Victor.

Well, good because after I hand you the money bag, Victor is going to pick you up from here, and then he’s gonna drive you to the site where the deal will be taking place. Are you all right with that?

Yeah, I’m all right with that. All I gotta do is just arrive at the deal, listen to Victor, make the exchange, and that’s it.

Easy stuff, right? Victor asked Stevie as he looked up at