Not Raw Enough, Book 1
Suspense Thriller
Outer Banks exporter Seth Tinsley watches in horror as friends and fellow
businessmen die in bizarre accidents. His trade to an exclusive segment of
Japan’s Tsukiji Seafood Market inexplicably deteriorates threatening
an end to his exports. Seth is forced to step up the timing for the launch
of his new aquatic technology created by his unique start-up, SAAK Inc. Seth
gambles everything sure that his PELTS products will alter the hierarchy of
the worldwide seafood business—especially in Japan.
Grieving its dwindling ocean resources from over-fishing in the Sea of
Japan, they realized their culture continues to diminish from the loss of
Hirame, the iconic fish once essential to their most sacred rites and
traditions. Committed to reclaiming their culinary heritage, an ancient
Japanese warrior caste pursues the unique fluke caught in the abundant
waters of the Pamlico and Albemarle sounds.
A mysterious woman shows up as the Federal Seafood Inspector to the
Hatteras Islands, then begins an inquiry about Seth and his businesses.
Still struggling with so many unsolved murders and the loss of close
friends, Seth still doesn’t believe he is targeted by an international
conspiracy. When an Osaka trading company surprises him with a lucrative
buy-out offer for his Kill Devil Hills, NC export company, going against his
instincts, he accepts the puzzling buy-out offer.
Instead of collecting the rewards for the sale of his company, Seth ends up
alone in Japan, wanted for mass murder and an expendable pawn of the US
Government.
EXCERPT
Reese had married well and most of the time, Big Red treated him like family. Tinsley’s going-down could open up some real opportunities. Might be the last time he’d have to act like he was actually working at this fisherman crap.
He squatted, picked up the square-stock black pistol from his gym bag and slipped the gun into the rear waist-band of his cut-off jeans. Reese could hardly wait to fire the “gently used” nine-mil Berretta he’d bought two days ago up in Norfolk from his reefer supply-guy. He twisted his head around to peek at his butt making sure the gun was perfectly concealed by the long shirttail of his black Metallica tank top. Satisfied with no bulge, he climbed the six- rung ladder up to the pier.
Reese blended perfectly with the gang―the players loitering around the bench at the center dock-hub area, all freakishly appearing like they’d answered a casting call as mascots for the Pirate’s Berth Marina.
The clique liked to stay near the action, but not so close that it might involve anything like real work. They trolled more for easy hits like an impromptu tourist charter after all the quality boats had booked-out and sailed. Or maybe a quick dope deal, or at the very least find out a little of the inside poop on local goings-on.
Realizing his good-time buddies ignored him, Reese barged through the middle of the group’s banter and parked his cooler in front of the man with a deformed hand sitting next to the pylon supporting the center-hub. Reese pried the cooler top open and handed out a round of nine A.M. beers.
Thinking his entrance fee paid, Reese primed the subject he was most interested. “So, Claw, what’s the scuttle-butt on those hot-tub murders? Thought for sure they’d fry Tinsley’s worthless ass this time. What happened?”
Claw squatted on an upturned five-gallon bucket leaning back against the pylon. He finished off his first beer, crunched the can into a small wad with his good hand, tossed the clump next to the cooler then waited for round two.
Reese snorted, dug another beer out of the ice and offered it short-armed so that Claw had to rise up off the bucket as he leaned out with his good arm to take it. After a long guzzle, the old man belched and now properly primed, spoke. “They made a mistake arresting him to begin with,” Claw said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Smart folks don’t cook. You know that, or your daddy-in-law would’ve been burned to a crisp long ago.
“Tinsley’s even sharper, bringing down that D.C. lawyer—one of Senator Belk’s partners. Old Belk still has some ass in these parts. Word is, Seth spent a ton of money. Musta been worth it though. Judge Doll had no choice but to let the jury bring in the not guilty.”
“Jury only took two hours, I heard,” said the shirtless man with fish tattoos on his back. “Tinsley hardly talked none. That D.C. guy did all his speaking for him.”
“And they just let him go — Scott-free?” Reese asked, raising his arms.
“Why not? He didn’t do anything,” Claw said. “I’ve already told you that once. They tried to show how he was into some kinky sex stuff and that he was balling every broad on the Islands. Didn’t count for nothing.
“Reckon Big Red had anything to do with all those rumors about Tinsley’s love life?” Claw glanced at Reese as he finished his beer, crushed the can and tossed the wad at Reese’s feet. He grinned and belched again. “Had to really piss-off ole Red that Tinsley walked.”
“That D.A. kept bringing up Seth as a lady’s man,” Fish Tattoo said. “But that D.C. Lawyer turned the trick with facts, showing that it truly had been an accident and how Tinsley called nine-one-one so quick, the lack of motive, and all the legal shit they do.
“Word is, both them girls actually died of heart attack―not drowning. That D.C. lawyer finally told the jury it was nothing but a locally financed rail-roading that wouldn’t float in any real court. Old Judge Doll had his bluff called, couldn’t keep steering it toward a guilty verdict and folded.”
“I guess heart attacks have become contagious now days,” Reese said turning away to conceal his anger, then spotted a familiar figure lugging an ice chest up the dock’s center walkway. Reese smiled and in a loud voice announced, “Hide your women, boys. Mad-dog killer loose right here on our docks. What’ do y’all reckon it cost to buy your way out of double homicide now days?”
Seth strolled on, carrying his cooler while keeping his eyes straight ahead.
“Watch yourself, Reese,” Claw whispered. “You really shouldn’t get him riled up.”
Reese’s shrill voice punched into a demeaning tone as he tuned up his razzing. “Hey boys, it’s the wet killer, Seth. How’s jail life been for you? Find everything nice and tight?”
A few in the group laughed, encouraging another escalation from Reese. “We ain’t seen you down here in a month of Sundays. You been too busy selling off all your stuff while sitting in the poky, ain’t ya.”
After no response from Tinsley, now only ten feet away, Reese continued. “Hell, Tinsley, we don’t even know what the hell to call you anymore. Do you have a prison handle yet?”
Claw cautioned in a low voice, “Reese, hush your stupid mouth, he’s not a man to trifle with.”
Undaunted, Reese added, “hell, Sethy, weren’t that long ago, you were just another bum-fuck like the rest of us—out looking for a few croakers. Now you’ve become a local celebrity by croaking a few lookers.”
Reese jumped up and down shrieking in laughter as he turned to the group. He raised his opened arms in victory. “How’d you like that— croaking a few lookers!” He cackled again, “shit, I amaze myself sometimes. I ought to go on the damn Comedy Channel.”
Reese glimpsed a change in Claw’s expression and turned. Tinsley had set down the cooler and stood glaring at Reese from three feet away.
About the Author
Randall Boleyn – Writing as a Reader.
When those first few novels transported Randall into the intrigue of other
cultures and the complexity of foreign lands, his life changed forever. He
wanted to experience those kinds of adventures and ended up traveling the
world doing international business while living his own bizarre experiences.
Realizing he wanted to create the same kind of stories he loved to read,
Randall coaxed the Muse by writing, studying and learning the craft. After
years of toiling with the words, the stories suddenly just seemed to happen.
It was startling! It was the same joy and surprise he had relished as a
reader in guessing how a plot might unfold affecting the characters’ lives.
He now writes with the eye and passion of creating that next great story
like he would want to read.
Randall now lives in the hills of the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia and
is focused on completing the Powers Meant for Gods trilogy to publish by
January 2021.
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