Hunt the Jackal by Don Mann, Ralph Pezzullo Read Free Book Online Page A

wasn’t familiar with  Mictecacíhuatl and knew very little about Aztec culture and worship, except that the Aztecs had devised an elaborate sun calendar and believed in human sacrifice.
    “Others say she is the spirit of the Virgin Mother, who still haunts the earth.”
    Lisa shivered, then asked, “What does she represent?”
    “I don’t know what you mean.”
    “What does she do?”
    “She’s very powerful and grants special favors to people in need,” the guard answered. “If you pray to her, she can protect you from all kinds of violence.”
    “Violence?” The word frightened her.
    “Yes, Señora. For the magic to work for you, you have to give up your conscience first. Because the black arts demand this.”
    “I don’t understand.”
    “La Santísima Muerte knows the reality,” the young woman explained. “This is a dark world, Señora. We didn’t create this world of violence, obstacles, and enemies, but we are not naive. We know that love and kindness don’t work.”
    “Who are we ?” Lisa asked.
    “The people, Señora . The ones who understand the power.”
      
    Pushed by the same wild, relentless energy he’d had since he was a kid, Crocker rode his Harley south, winding through country roads, not really aware of where he was going or why, just enjoying the rural scenery, the sunshine, smells of nature, and fresh air. There was something liberating about being on the open road with no real destination. Edenton, Tarboro, Rocky Mount, Smithfield, Clinton, Whiteville, Marion, Lake City. Towns flew by, schools, churches, golf courses, junkyards filled with rusting cars and buses, lakes.
    He was searching for an answer or direction. Was it time to retire, leave the teams, and start something new? Had his string of narrow escapes from tragedy run out?
    As he rode, he thought about his mother and father, and the cycle of life and death.
    His mother had died of emphysema several years ago, but his father was still alive and living in Fairfax, Virginia. Lately, he’d befriended a thirty-five-year-old Gulf War vet named Carla and her nine-year-old son. According to Crocker’s sister, their dad had been giving Carla money—possibly as much as twenty thousand dollars so far.
    Maybe the old man was lonely and she was taking advantage. Or maybe Carla was a good person and meant to pay him back.
    When Crocker was eighteen and constantly in trouble with the police, his father had told him a Cherokee story about a man and his grandson.
    The grandfather, seeing that his grandson was being self-destructive, said, “My son, there’s a battle between two wolves inside us. One is evil. It’s jealousy, greed, resentment, inferiority, lies, and ego. The other is good. It’s joy, hope, humility, kindness, and truth.”
    The boy thought about it and asked, “Grandfather, which wolf wins?”
    The old man replied quietly, “The one you feed.”
    For the past twenty-some years, since joining the navy, Crocker had fed the good wolf. But now he could sense the bad wolf’s hunger. It was a big hole at the bottom of his soul carved out by the people he’d killed in the line of duty, and his anger at life’s injustices, and the wrongs that had been visited on the people he loved.
    Last night he had stopped in Santee, South Carolina, and eaten blackened catfish for dinner, washed down with several Skull Coast Ales. Later he’d parked near the state park, watched the stars, and reminded himself that even they weren’t immortal. Everything in nature came and went. Stars died and broke up into asteroids. Trees felled in lightning storms rotted into mulch. People died and were consumed by worms. Maybe there was such a thing as reincarnation. He didn’t know.
    What he understood was that life went on, mysteriously, hurtling toward something new, like he was now.
    He parked his bike outside C J’s Sports Bar & Grill in Ellabell, Georgia, a few miles west of Savannah. He was minding his own business, sitting at the