can a frustrated single mom and failed big city journalist save her family and salvage her career by returning to a town run by a gang of bungling thugs?
“The Resurrection of Puerto Cielo” is a novella published in serial form, 43 posts.
2
Unnoticed, the small drone hovered over the two men striding down the emerald green fairway. Surrounded by swaying palms and the calls of brightly colored birds, Ricky Ruiz felt his shoes softly squish in the lush grass. Finally it had stopped raining and he could resume his favorite activity, a solitary round of golf on the Palm Estates course.
The club members had been put on notice – Ricky wanted to be alone while he was golfing, no exceptions. This edict had been cemented in everyone’s minds when, early one morning, Ricky was confronted by four visitors already on the first tee.
The intruders had only advanced to the second green when sirens wailed and a plume of black smoke shot up from the parking lot. Hastily retreating to the scene in their golf carts, the foursome stared in disbelief as firemen drowned the charred remains of what had once been their shiny new SUV. Hushed whispers informed the offenders of their transgression. They were never seen again.
And Ricky always had the course to himself.
He stopped, looked down at his ball, then out to the green. An easy shot, about one hundred yards to the pin. He turned for his club. Two huge hands presented the bag.
Frank was always at Ricky’s side.
The thick, compact man with a square jaw, buzz cut grey hair, and a ragged scar down his right cheek, smiled. Frank owed his nickname to the movie monster Frankenstein. His real name was Octavio Morales Francisco Salazar, but only his mother knew that, and she was long gone. Smart enough not to offer advice unless asked. Frank had one job – to protect Ricky, just as he’d once guarded Ricky’s dad, Don Ricardo.
Pulling an iron from the bag, Ricky stood over the ball, then eyed the distant hole. The pin flag barely fluttered. His tall, athletic body stilled in concentration. With an elegant, effortless swing, the golf club launched the ball high into the air. It floated against the azure sky and dropped softly onto the green, rolling to within three feet of the cup.
Ricky’s tanned face flashed a radiant smile. He touched his pencil mustache and ran a hand through his thick black hair. A good day, he thought, returning the club to the bag.
Golfer and caddy walked towards the green, then gaped in astonishment.
A small helicopter swooped down, scooped up the ball in a basket, rose up, and flew right at them. At the last second, the drone veered over a nearby pond.
Stunned, they watched as the drone swooped down and dropped the ball on the head of a drowsing crocodile. The ball thunked off the reptile’s head and bounced into the water.
With a thunderous splash, the startled monster chased the ball into the inky depths.
The drone turned. Froze. Stared Ricky down.
The man known as “El Tiburon,” the shark, for his silent, dark menace, lost it. Pulling his gun from its shoulder holster, Ricky filled the air with bullets and profanity.
“D-d-d-damn it t-t-t-to hell!”
Surprises always unleashed Ricky’s stutter.
The drone spun and disappeared.
Unseen on the far side of the pond, a long haired figure stuffed the drone in a knapsack and crept away.
***
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