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  BLACK to Reality

  Russell Blake

  Copyright © 2014 by Russell Blake. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, contact:

  [email protected].

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  Contents

  Thrillers by Russell Blake

  The Assassin Series by Russell Blake

  The JET Series by Russell Blake

  The BLACK Series by Russell Blake

  Co-authored with Clive Cussler

  Non Fiction by Russell Blake

  BLACK to Reality

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Excerpt from The Geronimo Breach

  About the Author

  Thrillers by Russell Blake

  FATAL EXCHANGE

  THE GERONIMO BREACH

  ZERO SUM

  THE DELPHI CHRONICLE TRILOGY

  THE VOYNICH CYPHER

  SILVER JUSTICE

  UPON A PALE HORSE

  The Assassin Series by Russell Blake

  KING OF SWORDS

  NIGHT OF THE ASSASSIN

  RETURN OF THE ASSASSIN

  REVENGE OF THE ASSASSIN

  BLOOD OF THE ASSASSIN

  The JET Series by Russell Blake

  JET

  JET II – BETRAYAL

  JET III – VENGEANCE

  JET IV – RECKONING

  JET V – LEGACY

  JET VI – JUSTICE

  JET VII – SANCTUARY

  JET – OPS FILES (prequel)

  The BLACK Series by Russell Blake

  BLACK

  BLACK IS BACK

  BLACK IS THE NEW BLACK

  BLACK TO REALITY

  Co-authored with Clive Cussler

  THE EYE OF HEAVEN

  Non Fiction by Russell Blake

  AN ANGEL WITH FUR

  HOW TO SELL A GAZILLION EBOOKS

  (while drunk, high or incarcerated)

  BLACK to Reality

  Chapter 1

  Ten months earlier, Los Angeles, California

  A spotlight played over the crowd at the Pomona Fairgrounds as the band onstage delivered the last song of their short set to cheers and whoops. The sky was dark, night having fallen an hour earlier, and the assembled throng’s eyes glittered as the beam lit them as it passed from section to section.

  Four bikers in denim and leather eyed a pair of tipsy sorority girls dancing with each other to the pounding beat. Oblivious to their admirers, they swayed together as the harmonies kicked in on the funky chorus. A trio of Latino youths with tattoos running up their necks pushed by, bandannas tied around shaved heads, eyes darting furtively as they avoided the bikers. The metal detector at the entry gates had discouraged any weapons from entering the venue.

  The band hit the final chord, and the singer, Goth ebony ducktails gleaming, held up a black-gloved hand with two fingers extended in a victory sign. He soaked up the applause while pretending to ignore the camera crew filming his practiced stance, adoring his shirt bedecked with ruffles and Victorian frills and his shiny latex pants that left little question about his endowment. Peals of feminine laughter greeted the guitar player’s tossing of his soaked T-shirt into the audience, and then the stage went dark in preparation for the set change. The band sauntered off to the side, led by flickering flashlights as the crew took possession of the area and spirited the equipment away so the final act could perform.

  The concert was part of the Rock of Ages competition, a musical talent show and reality TV show whose goal was to find the “best band of the year,” per its much-hyped tagline, centering around the trials and tribulations of the bands as they competed in a series of elimination rounds. On this, the show finale, a roster of name acts had been invited to play for the packed crowd, and each band had worked hard to outdo the others in sheer intensity, if not talent. The earlier song by the first of the two surviving groups had been a showstopper, and the tension was palpable as the final act prepared to deliver the performance of its career.

  Backstage was pandemonium as hangers-on, band members, roadies, and film crews contended for limited space. The performers kept to themselves while burly men carried amplifiers to the exit, to be loaded into the U-Hauls that waited like orange sentries on the dirt behind the line of temporary dressing rooms erected that morning. A comedian dabbed his brow by the monitor mixing board, wisecracking with his manager, who’d turned out for his client’s first national television appearance, albeit only the entertainment between the main attractions.

  Recorded music blared from the PA system as the final band’s roadies began the laborious process of readying the equipment for their performance. The comedian got the cue from the stage manager and strode out. A single spotlight followed him to center stage, where a lone microphone awaited his shot at fame and fortune. The canned music faded and he began his shtick. The audience shifted restlessly as he quipped, not being there for a comedy routine but willing to endure it as part of the show.

  The upcoming band members exited their dressing room and moved to stage left. The diminutive female singer was visibly agitated as she checked her watch.

  “Where is he?” she fumed. “This is a disaster.”

  Christina’s band was the favorite going into the hotly contested final round. Her group, Last Call, a bluesy southern-inspired rock quartet reminiscent of the Black Crowes, was neck and neck with the remaining contender, Nth Degrees, a pop-oriented act in the mold of Maroon 5. Christina’s voice, a scratchy croon reminiscent of Janis Joplin, had been a consistent crowd pleaser, and the band’s laid-back boogie approach had won many over – but she understood, now more than ever, that none of that would matter if they didn’t turn in a heart-stopping final performance.

  The bass player shook his head. “He seemed fine earlier at the bar.”

  “But nobody’s seen him since. Which leaves us completely screwed, Peter,” she fired back.

  “Don’t worry. He’ll be here,” Ed, the drummer, assured her. “Rick wouldn’t miss it. He’ll be here any second.” He twirled a drumstick with pudgy fingers, his perennial grin beaming, offsetting Peter’s near-constant frown.

  “I swear I’ll cut his balls off…” Christina threatened and then spun as loud voices called from the backstage entrance.

  “Yo, homeboy. You better check yourself,” one of the gargantuan security guards warned R
ick, the guitar player, who was clutching the wall for support as he made his way toward them.

  Christina’s eyes narrowed as she took him in – he looked whacked out of his mind on something. His usually serious expression twisted into a crooked smile as he lit a cigarette and approached unsteadily.

  “What the hell is this?” she demanded. “Are you stoned?”

  “Just a little something to take the edge off. A few hits of weed. No biggie.”

  “You ready to rock, wild man?” Ed asked, holding up his beer, trying to lighten the mood.

  “Dude. How much did you drink?” Peter muttered to Rick as he scowled at his sister, fearing one of her infamous explosions.

  A young woman a head taller than Christina marched up with a clipboard, followed by a camera crew, and Christina choked back her rage, not wanting to air her issues on national TV. By now the cameras were a constant in their lives, and she barely registered their presence, inured to them over the twelve weeks of the show’s run. The tension between Christina and Rick had been conspicuously documented as time had worn on, but that was to be expected between boyfriend and girlfriend in a high-stakes proposition like the contest. Still, she wanted to avoid any more dirt being plastered across the websites and tabloids that were following their saga, so Christina fixed a lackluster smile in place as the woman cleared her throat.

  “T minus five and counting. Is everyone ready?” she asked, looking Christina dead in the eyes.

  “Sarah. What a delightful surprise. I wasn’t aware we were going on shortly,” Christina said, her tone mild even as each syllable dripped with hate. Christina had cornered Rick several weeks earlier and forced a confession out of him – he’d been having an affair with Sarah for most of the last six weeks, a dirty little secret they’d managed to keep out of the viewers’ eyes but not out of Christina’s. The obvious source of the friction that had developed between Rick and Christina, it was made worse because Christina couldn’t do anything about it. Sarah was the production head and answered to the impresario who ran the show, and if Christina complained, she was afraid her big break would nosedive. Besides, if her boyfriend couldn’t keep his dick in his pants, that wasn’t anyone’s fault but his – and it wasn’t like Christina had their trysts on film, so it would be her word against Sarah’s.

  She turned to watch the comedian build his bit, ignoring Sarah in a deliberately dismissive manner. What Rick saw in her, with her prim slacks and dressed-for-success blouse, escaped Christina, but every time she saw the woman, it was like a slap, and angry as she now was, she didn’t want any more interaction than necessary.

  “Just doing my job, Christina. Looks like the comedian is finishing up.” Sarah glanced at Rick, who was weaving slightly as he smirked at her. “Are you all right?”

  “Tip top. Never better. Gonna rock the walls down, baybee!” he declared overly loudly.

  Sarah frowned and checked her watch. “When the lights go down, you have two minutes to get on stage and ready to perform. You know the drill by now.” She hesitated. “Good luck.”

  Ed shook his head. “Never say that. You’re supposed to say, ‘break a leg.’”

  “Right,” she said, her tone betraying her lack of interest. Sarah turned on her heel and marched away, leaving the band to its last minute preparations.

  Rick blew a cloud of smoke over their heads and grabbed a bottle of beer from the cooler strategically positioned near the stage.

  “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” Peter cautioned in a stage whisper.

  “Dude. Relax. You’re not my dad. I got it covered.” Rick chugged two-thirds of the bottle in four swallows and belched loudly, drawing another furious glare from Christina.

  The comedian delivered his trademark punch line, and the crowd rewarded him with half-hearted laughter. The lights dimmed and the taped music came back on. A short, wiry man with ebony skin approached, wearing a rainbow-hued three-hundred-dollar silk shirt. “This is it. You gonna kill ’em dead. That’s what I’m talkin’ about,” he assured them, slapping Rick on the back. Rooster was their show mentor, a blues legend who had shepherded the group through a series of successful performances. “Give it everything you got, for real, like at that last rehearsal. This is yours. You own these people.”

  “Tell Rick,” Christina fumed. She strode with catlike grace onto the darkened stage, her trademark black unitard a second skin. The rest of the band trailed her, and the roadies handed Rick and Peter their instruments as Ed climbed behind his drum kit. A buzz of anticipation rose from the audience when Rick flipped on his Marshall amplifier and gave his guitar a quick check, which always infuriated Christina, who felt it was unprofessional and reduced the impact when they began playing.

  A disembodied voice emanated from the PA speakers as the host’s voice announced them, and then the lights blazed megawattage and Ed launched into the snare roll that started the song. The crowd cheered. Rick and Peter ground out a raucous blues riff, Rick all peacock strut as he did a modified duckwalk, and then Christina let loose, her voice a thing of magic, smoldering soul and bitter lament.

  The groove was powerful, and everything was perfect until Rick approached the mike for the chorus and stumbled, his suede boot catching on the edge of one of three oriental rugs that were part of the band’s trappings. He saved himself but flubbed one of the chords, shooting Peter a panicked glance as he momentarily lost the notes.

  It was a small thing, but enough, and when Rick sang his harmony it was flat, his moxie evaporated. He recovered by the next verse and tried to make up for his glitch with attitude, but when he launched into his solo, it lacked his usual flair, ending on a sour note that elicited winces from the audience.

  Christina had tears in her eyes as the song ended, her voice as strong as it had ever been, disappointed realization clear even as she battled her emotions. Rick whipped off his guitar strap, swung his guitar by its neck, and shattered it in a display of rage before storming away, cursing. He tripped again and went down face first at the edge of the stage, drawing a shocked gasp from the audience, and a chorus of boos followed him as a roadie helped him to his feet.

  The telephonic votes were tallied, and the results were unambiguous. Last Call had indeed had its last call; Nth Degrees was the winner of the first season.

  Within four months their hastily recorded debut album went on to break sales records, and its charismatic front man, Alex Sage, was propelled to the forefront of notable new artists.

  Rick and the band parted ways after the show. His departure from Christina’s Hollywood apartment followed shortly thereafter. The band soldiered on with a string of guitarists, none of whom lasted for longer than ninety days, as Christina waited for her second chance: the runner-up band would get to return on the second season of Rock of Ages, and this time, she intended to win.

  Chapter 2

  Artemus Black stood next to his Cadillac Eldorado while the gas pump dial blinked as if mocking him, knowing that his meager ten dollars of fuel would be barely enough to get him to his office for the rest of the week. He’d contemplated taking the bus, but nobody except crazies, illegals, and the homeless resorted to public transportation in Los Angeles, and he didn’t count himself in their number. Yet.

  At the rate things were going, though, he’d soon be sleeping in his car. He hadn’t had a case for two months and owed back rent both to his landlady and for the new office he’d leased after solving several high-profile cases that had paid him handsomely. Of course, like most things in his life, that had turned out to be a case of the gods first raising up those they would destroy, and things had taken a nosedive ever since the ink on the rental agreement had dried. Roxie had badgered him into getting the larger suite in a prestigious building against his normally conservative better judgment, which had turned out to be a huge mistake as the bills mounted and his bank balance shrank.

  Payday was on Friday, and he had no money for her – a first in their relationship, and one that he’d been rac
king his brain for ways to avoid, but to no avail. He’d rarely been this broke before, and while he desperately hoped for something to shake loose, nothing had manifested yet. All he was currently holding was the money in his wallet and a depressing future.

  The pump clicked off, and he shook the nozzle, trying to eke out every last drop before sliding it back into its socket and twisting the gas cap into place. His head was splitting as he slid behind the wheel and cranked the ignition. The big V8 roared to life, consuming a quarter of his fill-up, he was sure. The fuel gauge barely moved from its position on empty. He sighed as he pulled onto the street and gently eased down on the gas pedal in a futile attempt to stretch the go-juice as far as he could.

  Black had recently been moonlighting at a club on the strip for ten bucks an hour under the table, providing security from ten till two – the only reason he had any money at all, but an insult to the value of his PI license and skills, such as they were. After only five hours of sleep, the headache was a constant companion, and he regretted rolling out of bed instead of dozing until noon.

  The new building was hardly high-end, but with a granite-tiled lobby and an elevator, it was worlds nicer than his old digs. When he arrived at his floor, he approached the office. He hesitated, debating slinking off and not putting in an appearance, but discarded the idea. Roxie would simply badger him via his cell phone until he answered, and she could be relentless.

  He twisted the knob and breezed into the foyer. Roxie was at her desk, on the web. Mugsy’s porcine form slumbered at her feet. The faint taint of cat box perfumed the air, and Black’s nose wrinkled as he moved toward her. Several weeks ago she’d adopted a bleached white hairdo with orange tips and looked somewhat like a polar bear – although her leather pants and stretch top quickly took his mind off her coif.