Don't Kill Norman - Sneak Peek at Chapter 1 rough Draft
I screamed, my desperate howls mingling with the waves crashing on the rocks thirty feet below, my salty tears engulfed by the Indian Ocean as they fell into the salty spray. My right hand held a death grip on a frangipani tree root protruding from the cliff, its rough surface giving me traction against my sweaty palm. The tree rose in a twisted grace overlooking the precipice, the happy yellow and white flowers giving off their beautiful scent and contrasting with my dire predicament.
My left hand tried in vain to find something, anything, to clutch as my feet scrabbled against the side of the cliff. One of my flip-flops slipped from my foot, spinning to the craggy shore below. Looking down, I watched it fall. My stomach clenched. I could see the body laying crumpled and broken on the rocks, the water lapping at its side and turning pink as the blood mixed in.
I’m Ellie Fox, I screamed inside my own head, saying the name I had given myself when I reinvented my life. I had put Eleanor Orange Kowalski aside when I became the smuggler and criminal that I was. As if taking on a role, the character of Ellie Fox gave me the strength to do things I couldn’t have done otherwise. I’m a goddamn pilot, and I’m not afraid of heights!
Although I was only trying to boost my courage, it was true; I was comfortable in the air. I loved to watch the scenery of the world from above the fray, and my ultralight airplane provided the perfect view.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t in my cockpit. I was dangling by one hand over the side of a cliff, waiting for the moment when I could no longer hold on as my fingers slipped one by one, and I’d fall into the angry mouth of the ocean below.
Imminent death was on the horizon.
When Max was hired for a job in Bali, we were both excited. We took the opportunity to make it a vacation. April was still chilly in Northern Vermont, and we were living in the barn. The palm trees, the sunshine, and the bright colors of tropical life were the perfect distraction from our own problems. Not only that, I thought it wasn’t a bad idea to get as far from Montreal as possible, at least until things cooled off a bit.
Our vacation started as a dream. Bali was more stunning than I imagined. The people painted the landscape with their colorful clothing, beautiful culture, and exquisite offerings to the gods. They were gentle and graceful, always smiling and saying hello.
The vegetation was lush, displaying the most varied shades of green, sprinkled with wondrous flowers of every color. There were lizards and monkeys, birds with bright feathers, crazy insects, and snakes of every size, some venomous, some not.
Amidst all this beauty and wonder was a pocket of poison, a nasty den of vipers not of the reptilian kind. They called themselves the Bali Bratva, the Russian word for Brotherhood. Max and I had landed right in the middle of their nest. Our dream vacation quickly melted into a nightmare.
When I heard the gunshot, I knew Max was dead. Konstantin Borovsky, the fat Russian mobster who led the Bratva, found sport in shooting stray dogs on the beach. Max had strayed from Borovsky’s plan and was put down like an unwanted mutt. I had a horrible image I couldn’t get out of my mind of Max lying behind the sofa, eyes open and vacant, a single hole in the middle of his forehead where a thin line of blood dripped from the wound.
As I held onto the root, I screamed until my throat was hoarse, crying so hard I couldn’t see, my tear-stained cheeks streaked with mud. The pain of loosing him was physical, as if someone squeezed my heart until it burst. I banged my fist against the rock, over and over, screaming his name. In that single shot, I lost my perfect mate, and there was nothing I could do to bring him back.
I had lost hope, and I was close to losing my grip. My fingers, slippery with sweat, were beginning to go numb. I kicked at the rocky cliff to find a foothold but only further loosened the dirt and soil. My arm ached, tired from holding all of my weight. I had torn my left hand bloody trying to find something I could get my fingers into. It came up empty, and my strength was failing.
Even if I did mange to pull myself up, I wouldn’t be safe. Borovsky’s compound was guarded around the clock. I’d have to sneak across the yard and down to the beach, making my way around the rocky base of the cliff, and if I weren’t swept away or crushed against the rocks by the wild waves, I’d have to find a spot past his property line where I could get to a village and find help.
My curly dark hair had come loose and was blowing furiously around my face in the ocean breeze. I pushed it away with my free hand, my fingers leaving bloodstained mud tracks on my cheek. I tucked it behind my ear, but the wind freed it only to blow back in my eyes.
I looked down once more. As dark as everything seemed, I had no interest in joining the crumpled body below me. It gave me the determination to hang on. I tilted my head back, casting my gaze upward. It wasn’t far to the top, but it seemed a stretch to infinity.
Movement in the vegetation just above my hand caught my sight, startling me. At first, I thought it was a rat. My luck couldn’t have been that good. It was a spider. A huge spider.
I may not have been afraid of heights, but there was one thing I was terrified of; I had a major case of arachnophobia. Indonesia had its fair share of some of the most terrifying spiders on earth. Some were poisonous, some as big as my hand, some hairy, some colorful, and all were just plain scary.
It zipped out from under a leaf and crawled toward me at an intermittent pace, running forward on skittering legs then stopping to pause. My heart, already in pieces, seemed to freeze altogether. I didn’t know if this one was poisonous or not, but that hardly mattered. If that fucker touched me, I’d let go of my precarious grip just to get away from it.
I took a deep, shaky breath, trying to calm my nerves. The eight-legged monstrosity crawled out over the top of the root, feeling its way toward my hand. I could see its eyes, staring at me with intent. Only a fraction of an inch away, its hairy leg stretched out and grazed my fingers. I let out a shriek that could pierce Kevlar.
Talk about a cliffhanger.
My left hand tried in vain to find something, anything, to clutch as my feet scrabbled against the side of the cliff. One of my flip-flops slipped from my foot, spinning to the craggy shore below. Looking down, I watched it fall. My stomach clenched. I could see the body laying crumpled and broken on the rocks, the water lapping at its side and turning pink as the blood mixed in.
I’m Ellie Fox, I screamed inside my own head, saying the name I had given myself when I reinvented my life. I had put Eleanor Orange Kowalski aside when I became the smuggler and criminal that I was. As if taking on a role, the character of Ellie Fox gave me the strength to do things I couldn’t have done otherwise. I’m a goddamn pilot, and I’m not afraid of heights!
Although I was only trying to boost my courage, it was true; I was comfortable in the air. I loved to watch the scenery of the world from above the fray, and my ultralight airplane provided the perfect view.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t in my cockpit. I was dangling by one hand over the side of a cliff, waiting for the moment when I could no longer hold on as my fingers slipped one by one, and I’d fall into the angry mouth of the ocean below.
Imminent death was on the horizon.
When Max was hired for a job in Bali, we were both excited. We took the opportunity to make it a vacation. April was still chilly in Northern Vermont, and we were living in the barn. The palm trees, the sunshine, and the bright colors of tropical life were the perfect distraction from our own problems. Not only that, I thought it wasn’t a bad idea to get as far from Montreal as possible, at least until things cooled off a bit.
Our vacation started as a dream. Bali was more stunning than I imagined. The people painted the landscape with their colorful clothing, beautiful culture, and exquisite offerings to the gods. They were gentle and graceful, always smiling and saying hello.
The vegetation was lush, displaying the most varied shades of green, sprinkled with wondrous flowers of every color. There were lizards and monkeys, birds with bright feathers, crazy insects, and snakes of every size, some venomous, some not.
Amidst all this beauty and wonder was a pocket of poison, a nasty den of vipers not of the reptilian kind. They called themselves the Bali Bratva, the Russian word for Brotherhood. Max and I had landed right in the middle of their nest. Our dream vacation quickly melted into a nightmare.
When I heard the gunshot, I knew Max was dead. Konstantin Borovsky, the fat Russian mobster who led the Bratva, found sport in shooting stray dogs on the beach. Max had strayed from Borovsky’s plan and was put down like an unwanted mutt. I had a horrible image I couldn’t get out of my mind of Max lying behind the sofa, eyes open and vacant, a single hole in the middle of his forehead where a thin line of blood dripped from the wound.
As I held onto the root, I screamed until my throat was hoarse, crying so hard I couldn’t see, my tear-stained cheeks streaked with mud. The pain of loosing him was physical, as if someone squeezed my heart until it burst. I banged my fist against the rock, over and over, screaming his name. In that single shot, I lost my perfect mate, and there was nothing I could do to bring him back.
I had lost hope, and I was close to losing my grip. My fingers, slippery with sweat, were beginning to go numb. I kicked at the rocky cliff to find a foothold but only further loosened the dirt and soil. My arm ached, tired from holding all of my weight. I had torn my left hand bloody trying to find something I could get my fingers into. It came up empty, and my strength was failing.
Even if I did mange to pull myself up, I wouldn’t be safe. Borovsky’s compound was guarded around the clock. I’d have to sneak across the yard and down to the beach, making my way around the rocky base of the cliff, and if I weren’t swept away or crushed against the rocks by the wild waves, I’d have to find a spot past his property line where I could get to a village and find help.
My curly dark hair had come loose and was blowing furiously around my face in the ocean breeze. I pushed it away with my free hand, my fingers leaving bloodstained mud tracks on my cheek. I tucked it behind my ear, but the wind freed it only to blow back in my eyes.
I looked down once more. As dark as everything seemed, I had no interest in joining the crumpled body below me. It gave me the determination to hang on. I tilted my head back, casting my gaze upward. It wasn’t far to the top, but it seemed a stretch to infinity.
Movement in the vegetation just above my hand caught my sight, startling me. At first, I thought it was a rat. My luck couldn’t have been that good. It was a spider. A huge spider.
I may not have been afraid of heights, but there was one thing I was terrified of; I had a major case of arachnophobia. Indonesia had its fair share of some of the most terrifying spiders on earth. Some were poisonous, some as big as my hand, some hairy, some colorful, and all were just plain scary.
It zipped out from under a leaf and crawled toward me at an intermittent pace, running forward on skittering legs then stopping to pause. My heart, already in pieces, seemed to freeze altogether. I didn’t know if this one was poisonous or not, but that hardly mattered. If that fucker touched me, I’d let go of my precarious grip just to get away from it.
I took a deep, shaky breath, trying to calm my nerves. The eight-legged monstrosity crawled out over the top of the root, feeling its way toward my hand. I could see its eyes, staring at me with intent. Only a fraction of an inch away, its hairy leg stretched out and grazed my fingers. I let out a shriek that could pierce Kevlar.
Talk about a cliffhanger.