Piranha (The Falau Files Book 4) Read online

  Piranha

  The Falau Files, Volume 4

  Mike Gomes

  Published by AddictiveBooks, 2018.

  While every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this book, the publisher assumes no responsibility for errors or omissions, or for damages resulting from the use of the information contained herein.

  PIRANHA

  First edition. January 22, 2018.

  Copyright © 2018 Mike Gomes.

  ISBN: 978-1983979477

  Written by Mike Gomes.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  FREE BOOK

  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

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  GET BOOK ONE OF THE Falau Files, The Fixer, free by clicking the link below or cutting and pasting it into your address bar. Enjoy!

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  Chapter 1

  GUYANA 1985

  The rich red and brown clay that sat mixed in with the dirt on the floor of Guyana was beautiful to the eye. The colors came alive as it was dug from the ground. It held itself together in large chunks even after being tossed to the side. It was ideal when it was packed down for the purpose of forming roads that cars and trucks could travel on with ease. The wet season was the only thing that could change that, and as soon as it left, the South American sun would work its way to the ground and pack the dense material hard again. The earth gave to the people, but it also took from them as well.

  The hard clay soil held gold and a lot of it; the amounts comparable to the great gold rushes of Alaska and California. The problem was that gold held tight to the clay refusing to let go in the usual manner. The job could not be left to machines and sluice boxes designed to have the dirt run down them and then the bits of gold would be caught in a series of ripples on a decline. The clay filled the ripples giving the gold no place to settle causing it to wash itself off the end of the board and back into the earth.

  The waste in gold was more than Lawrence Whitmore could accept. If his gold operation were to succeed the mining would need to be done by hand by his small army of workers that he employed from an unnamed mining town a few short miles away.

  Whitmore stood tall and strong. Dressed all in white wearing a panama hat on his head, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket wiping the perspiration from his face and forehead. Looking out over his workers frustration grew in him. His lips drew together hard and his head nodded up and down.

  “Get them all here at once! Everyone!” he snapped to a boy less than 10 years old.

  The owner of his own mining operation, Whitmore was not one to suffer fools lightly. He had left his home country of Australia at eighteen years old looking for fortune after a childhood of poverty. He worked his way up from being a field hand on a farm in Chile to managing a cattle operation in Argentina. There he took a holiday with a friend to do some gold mining by pans and caught gold fever. Less than a year later he worked for himself mining the land by hand on a small claim. His operation built over the next few years to over thirty workers, mostly families, where children and parents would work side by side.

  The big man sat under a canopy held up by sticks and watched as his workers came running to him at his request.

  “All are here, sir.” reported the child in a trembling voice.

  Standing back up the man in white pointed to the group of workers.

  “In the pit. All of you.”

  Behind the group sat a pit eight feet deep and twelve feet wide. It was a test hold to see if the gold had reached this spot as it settled over the years.

  The boy conveyed the message to the workers in a mixture of English and several other languages that had been blended together to form a local dialect. The group stood motionless not understanding why they were being asked to enter the pit.

  “I said in the pit!” screamed Whitmore stepping out from under his canopy and causing the workers to back away in a scurry. “Do as you are told!”

  The boy frantically spoke in his native language to his co workers causing them to enter into the hole and assemble themselves looking up at Lawrence Whitmore.

  The big man paced back and forth looking down into the hole. His head shook with disapproval and he rubbed at his chin with his forefinger and thumb. He walked to the right side of the pit placing his hand onto an inlet that held the water from the main water source. All the pits had them to soften the ground and make the mining easier.

  “We have a thief amongst us!” called out Whitmore. “A dirty godless person is stealing my gold. Taking a little bit each day.”

  A rumble drew up from the pit by the workers as the news was translated by the boy and the others in the pit who knew English.

  “They say no sir. Nobody would take the gold from you.” said the boy.

  “So we have more than a thief, we have a liar as well.” The man in white reached into his pocket pulling a small glass bottle containing numerous small nuggets of gold no bigger than wood shavings. “We found this behind the outhouse. My guess is someone gets some gold and then they swallow it. Later when they go to the outhouse they sift through their own waste to pluck out the gold and hide it with the rest of their bounty.”

  Calls of “No” came up from the group in the pit with pleading eyes looking for their boss to believe them.

  “So you all say no. This bottle just arrived out of nowhere and had God place the gold in it.” Whitmore looked back to the boy as he translated and then back to the workers in the pit. His right hand rose and pulled the lever sitting above the inlet a few inches letting a steady stream of water start to make its way down the shoot and into the pit causing a small panic for the workers. “I wish I had that faith that miracles like this could happen. I am a man of God and you all know it. I came here and gave you all shelter, food and clean water in exchange for you work in my mines. But now someone wants more. You steal from my pocket after all I have done for you?”

  The workers in the pit called out again saying “No.” As the water started to build up to their knees. Children climbed into their mother's arms to avoid the falling water and the restlessness of the group.

  Whitmore pulled the lever two more inches while he looked down into the pit as the water crashed over them muting their screams of impending death.

  “Show yourself now and you will save your own life and the lives of all the workers here today. If you do not you will all die in this pit and I will simply cover you with dirt where you stand.”

  As the water reached the chest of the workers a young voice called out. “Me! Was me!”

  A young boy less than eight years old waved his arms and called to Whitmore with earnest enthusiasm.

  Whitmore pushed the lever back
to the closed position and ordered for the boy to be hoisted up to the top of the pit.

  The boy stood barefoot and without a shirt. His pants fell halfway down his calf and were tattered at the cuffs. A rope held them on as he stood looking wide eyed at the large white man he had only seen from afar. It was known he was not partial to children.

  “You took my gold?”

  “Me. Take.” He said nodding his head.

  “You?” questioned Whitmore. “You came up with the plan to ingest the gold and then take it out of your own waste. You then thought to hide a small bottle that had to have been stolen from the gold room. That’s quite a plan for a young boy.”

  The child stood silent hearing the translation and again nodded his head.

  “I think you lie to me child. I think you’re a good boy who is doing what someone told you to do. Who?”

  “No. Me take.”

  “No you did not. Someone told you how to do this. Who?”

  The boy shook his head no in a frantic manner causing his hair to shake wildly.

  “You two up here and hold the boy.” said Whitmore to two young men in the front of the pit. They climbed out and grabbed the arms of the boy.

  “Did one of these boys tell you to do it?”

  “No. Me.”

  Whitmore’s hand lashed out slapping the boy across the face causing a stream of tears to fall from his eyes. His hand reached out grabbing the boy by the face and squeezing it and pulling him close to his own face. “Do not lie to me boy. Who told you to do this?”

  “Me?”

  The man in white stood up and turned away marching over to the lever again and placing his hand on it. He reached into his pocket with his open hand retrieving the handkerchief and wiping the sweat and frustration away. The handkerchief fell from his hand and landed next to a machete that was leaning against the inlet. Whitmore took the handkerchief from the ground and placed it in his pocket and then reached out taking the machete in his right hand.

  “What coward makes a small boy do this. What coward risks the life of a child to protect themselves?” said Whitmore swinging the machete in a circle as he walked in front of the pit. “The worst kind of person is the one who does that. The one that will know that it is his cowardliness that is causing me to cut this boy up in front of you. You will feel his blood and you will know that you did this to him because you could not take responsibility for what you did.”

  Whitmore turned his back to the group in the pit and pulled the machete up in front of him walking hard to the boy. He placed the blade under his chin and stared him in the eye. “I am sorry for this child. It is not you that has forsaken me. The one to do that is the same one that has forsaken you and shall hold your death in his mind for the rest of his miserable life.”

  “Me!” called out a voice from the pit. It was low and firm, but shame could be heard in it in the form of a quiver. “Not him! Me! I steal!”

  “No, papa.” called the boy.

  “Your father did this to you?”

  “No.” said the boy taking his eyes away from the man in white.

  “Tell him truth.” said the strong handsome young man pulling himself from the pit.

  “Yes. He told me.” the boy said with a tear running down his face.

  “Put the boy in the pit.” said Whitmore.

  The older boys tossed the child to his mother who caught him before he fell to the ground.

  “Hold him.” directed Whitmore with a hardened jaw and anger building in his face. “What man asks his child to do this for him. You could have done it yourself, but you ask him to do it. Why?”

  “We need money. You treat us like slaves.”

  “I treat you all like slaves! I am your savior! You lived in huts and on dirt floors before me. I have given you survival and health. You owe me your lives!”

  “We have no freedom. We work every day.”

  “Then leave! All of you leave! Go back to the malaria infested places you came from that had nothing for you. You work for me and I pay you with the gift of life you ungrateful slug!” Whitmore raised the machete high and fire filled his eyes. His fingers tightened on the handle as his desire to crash the machete down on the man filled his soul.

  The workers screamed in fear causing Whitmore to stop and regain his composure. The machete was lowered to his side and he looked hard at the young man who was now filled with fear.

  “Do you want to leave here or stay.”

  “Stay, sir.” said the man looking down to the ground.

  “OK. You can stay. I expect this will never happen again.”

  Whitmore extended his hand for the man to shake.

  He caught the tips of Whitmore’s fingers coming into view and his head raised looking at the mine boss offering his hand to him. He reached out to shake it putting the conflict to a close.

  Woosh!

  Whitmore swung the machete up with his opposite hand causing the hard steel blade that was sharpened to a razor's edge to cut through his right wrist severing the hand clean off from the arm. The hand fell to the ground amidst the screams from the man and the workers.

  The boy looked in horror staring at his father’s hand laying on the ground. His eyes drifted up to his father and the stump where his hand once stayed.

  Wiping the blade of the machete on the man Whitmore started to back away. He pushed his attention to the two young boys who had been holding him. “Burn the wound shut for him. Then tell him he needs to come to my tent each night to get an antibiotic. We don't need an infection out here. Tell the rest of them to get back to work. We still have a lot of daylight.”

  Chapter 2

  CURRENT DAY BARTICA, Guyana.

  “One moment while I check to see if Master Whitmore is available.” said the thin young man sitting inside the guard shack unwilling to raise the bar to let the car enter. He wore an all brown uniform sporting a small moustache that was lacking thickness. A fan blew across the small room making his hair wave in in the wind. Speaking into the phone it was impossible to hear what he was exactly saying other than a few stray words that popped from the door of the guard shack.

  “Move ahead and check in at the front door. Don’t get lost.” said the young man pulling himself back into the shade of the guard shack and hitting the button to raise the gate.

  The larger yellow bar pulled itself up allowing the old model Ford to move forward and drive up the dirt road. The dry hardened ground cracking beneath its tires leaving a small cloud of dust as it rolled along.

  In the distance the mansion of Lawrence Whitmore stood famously against the skyline. Painted in a sparkling white with red trim the home held over twenty thousand square feet housing just one man. The estate sprawled over 100 acres sitting on the outskirts of the small town. The house grew larger the closer that the Ford got to it feeling more like a hotel than a home. The large walls that encased the property with its armed patrolling guards stood ten feet tall keeping the thieves and beggars away. People that Lawrence Whitmore found equally offensive.

  The old Ford pulled into the large circular paved driveway and stopped at the steps that lead up to the front door. A teenage boy in a red blazer ran down the steps and opened the door for the man inside. Stepping out of the car the man handed the keys to the boy and the car was driven away as quick as it had arrived.

  Standing at the bottom of the steps after getting out of the car was a middle aged black man who held more years on his face than he had lived. His skin looked hardened and held no shine to it. The natural moisture was gone from years spent outdoors. He was not big or strong. He was looked at to be slight in stature and most likely to be the runt of the litter. But his hardness was unmistakable, and few would think to challenge such a man. He wore black shoes and black pants. His suit jacket was black as well as the shirt. The only bit of color was the white color that wrapped around his neck and a ring he wore symbolizing his devotion to his God. The garments of a catholic priest.

  Walking up the
long wide stairway the house seemed to hang over him and then enveloped him onto its front portico. The door was ostentatious with gold inlays and carvings; the work done by hand and a one of a kind. He reached out and knocked the large brass knocker and dropped it down three times then placed his hands behind his back and waited.

  A small slide cracked open in the door allowing the person inside to look at the priest that stood before him. No level of security was too much. Despite the call from the front gate and the young man taking the car, there was still the need to make sure the person was who they felt it should be before opening the door.

  “One moment, please.” said the voice of a man from inside the door. The slide closed and the sound of several locks being undone filled the priest's ears. The last lock was undone, and the door opened revealing an elderly black gentlemen in a black suit.

  “Welcome, Father.” said the older man. “It is my understanding that you would like an audience with Master Whitmore.”

  “Yes.”

  “Is Master Whitmore expecting you?”

  “No, he is not. I would only like a short amount of his time.”

  “Master Whitmore is a busy man. But considering you’re a man of the cloth I can ask him if he would be willing to speak with you.”

  “I would appreciate that. Thank you.”

  The elderly man walked away hardly making a sound as his feet stepped off the marble floor. The foyer was wide and high. No less than two stories. It held a double staircase that ran up each side of the room and joined together at the top. In the center of the floor was a table holding a vase with several flowers in it. The vase was missing a small piece at the top and looked to have dirt ground into it. The vase was the show piece and not the flowers. It held an inscription around the edge and the priest was sure that it had been dug up on the mining sites that Whitmore owned. On the ceiling a massive chandelier dangled down and cut the light from the sun shining in the windows. The crystals grabbing the light and dispersing it into numerous beams and prisms bouncing off the walls. The room was impressive and costly, but it simply turned the stomach of the priest shaking his head at the extravagance and funds that were being wasted.