We're not Murderers We are Killers. There's a Difference.

The following excerpt is from Flatline my next book, a full tilt running crime novel in which the heroes of the story are not the good guys. It's a wicked twist on the Robin Hood story. Our protagonists, who are not very nice men are preparing for their first sortie into the streets of Recife, Brazil. Their mission is to kill the murderers of street kids. 

Troy is the retired motorcycle gangster. Enrique is a sixteen-year-old boy who he rescued from a contract hit that he performed. And, Hercules was their bodyguard but is now their great friend.

July was my original target for completion, then October, but the characters just wouldn't stay in the box. I am on the second revision/edit and hope to be published by the end of January. March at the latest.

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That information added to intel provided by Commander de Lima helped them develop their first hard target.

It was ten o’clock on a Tuesday night. The weather was warm, and the stars were fuzzy points of light thanks to the smog of the city. At their clandestine safe house, room 107 in the Hotel Veraneio, Troy spread the old map and went over their positions and instructions for the fifth time. Inventorying their weaponry, ammo, and surveillance gear for the first strike, they felt like exterminators riding out to rid the city of an unseen plague.

Four Remington Compact Sniper Rifles were broken down into small custom-fit rucksacks. The rucksacks went into backpacks similar to what a school kid would carry and then all four packs were stowed into a single duffel until they reached the site. They tested their earwig communications. When Troy had been teaching him how to fight and use guns, Enrique never imagined that one day this would all come to life.

“Boy! Get those dreamy thoughts out of your head!” Hercules snapped. “You need all your wits about you, or we'll be dumping your carcass in the water along with those murderers.”

“Ain't we murderers Herc?” Enrique rocked on his heels thinking he might have bested the large man.

Hercules fumed and stamped, and the sound reverberated off cheap walls. Even the concrete underfoot rattled as if it might crack from his undecipherable bellowing. “No!” he shouted. “We're not murderers.” He jerked open the threadbare drapes and pointed his finger out the window and into one of the largest cities in South America. “Those baby killers out there, they are the murderers! We're killers. Get that in your head. There's a difference. God doesn’t murder; he kills.”

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