The CODE OF SILENCE
“Big Daddy” runs the most productive, if not most law abiding, Narcotics unit out of the back of the Police Department. The ultimate puppet master, “Big Daddy” controls EVERYTHING: the drugs, the money, and ultimately who lives or dies. His crew knows why “Big Daddy” should be feared, but these dutiful foot soldiers never discuss such things as they carry out his orders in denial. “Big Daddy” is calculated in his plans and will not stop until he gets what he wants – and what he wants is to take out Oscar Salazar, the blood thirsty Columbian drug lord and Gloria, his sexy, crime hardened niece. When he recruits the squeaky-clean Medal-of-Valor winning beat cop, Ramon “Mo” Martinez, for his first undercover mission inside the Salazar family, “Big Daddy” has everything planned out, or so he thinks. But something goes terribly wrong – something that puts everything at risk.
The CODE of Silence takes the reader inside the world of undercover drug enforcement, to the underbelly of truth that is only talked about behind closed doors, and never questioned. This fast paced action filled book, full of twists and turns that will keep the reader in suspense and create questions about who should really be trusted, is based in part on the real-life experiences of former police office turned author, Mark Mazza.
The sputtering from the 1991 black Ford Econoline van was a familiar but unwanted reminder that all hell was about to break loose.
Elderly Hispanic women peered from behind tattered drapes to confirm their suspicions, before rapidly retreating into their dilapidated bungalows.
Inside the van, it was hotter than hell. The attackers, dressed in black ninja garb, their entire faces covered with nylon stocking caps, usually waited until one minute past six before cruising the tiny barrio. Their purpose was two-fold. Not only were they assured of getting what they came for at such an early hour, but it also provided a kind of sick, perverse sense of satisfaction to awaken the innocent from a dead sleep. However, no one was fooled with these predawn attacks; they were frequent this time of the year. The shipments were plentiful, and the prices were down. The only question running through any of the minds behind the steel clad doors was "Who is next?"
It had been days since the assailants’ last visit, one that put two more in the hospital, and they were ready for more blood. One could almost hear their panting from within the confines of the black van. Maybe that's why they exploded out of it every time, in a fit of rage for being so hot and crammed in the back. And when those doors fly open, the nightmare begins all over again for the poor little neighborhood that huddles together like puppies in the rain
The sun was just starting to pour its intensity onto the black asphalt.
The vehicle traveled near idling speed. It was a crappy looking beat-up old van when the assailants got it a year and a half ago and started running havoc on these refugees from south of the border. Soon after they acquired it, the cargo door took four nine-millimeter rounds while they performed their sadistic ritual. Since then, the headlights have been bashed out, and the passenger side front windshield was graced with the sweet spot of a Louisville slugger.
The black smoke from the dual exhaust stopped suddenly, the brakes emitted a piercing squeak, and movement from within meant only one thing – show time!
The van stopped curbside, four houses south of their intended target, though the objective was no surprise to the elderly spectators who poked their heads through the one-inch opening of their doors. The objective gray stucco, mid-sixties, a one-story cottage was a frequent target of these ghouls, a place that always yielded enough to satisfy their needs, with a little something extra in the kitty for "Big Daddy."
As the springs shifted the vehicle’s weight, the back doors exploded open, producing a thundering echo of sheet metal. Bouncing back, four black-clad figures emerged from within, trotting in unison, clutching the barrels of their MP5's.
Scurrying along the perimeters of the front lawns that were guarded by the vigilance of a junkyard pit bull, the tall, muscular bodies in black tried desperately to work their way up the four-foot chain link fence before the goods were tossed.
The last man jumped from the back onto the street, then grabbed the “Key to the City.” That's what they called it, always smirking through their face mesh. It was a two and a half-foot cylindrical metal battering ram, with a five-inch square surface that has graced the dead bolts of half the front doors in this tiny little village. By the way he was maneuvering it, it must have felt like a ton of black hardened solid steel.
They all fell into their rehearsed places, two by two at each comer of the front door. The key man in tow, squared off with precision, aligning his sights on the plated surface of the exterior lock. He rattled off the demands quickly, so out-of-breath from his adrenaline rush that the screams from inside were barely discernible.
The clock started now. No more than twenty seconds in this neighborhood.
He stood by the west flank and counted down on his watch. “Nineteen… twenty… HIT IT! HIT IT! NOW! HIT IT!" he barked.
The key man unleashed his burly frame upon the jam and once again sent the casing splintering into every direction. Then he flung the solid instrument to the ground, chipping a piece of concrete, sending an ignition of sparks bouncing up from the metal.
The front door yielded to the pressure and gave way, allowing the five bodies to reign instant terror on the quiet serenity.
The whole house seemed to shake as they traversed through each room. The muffled sounds of faint screams were immediately quashed. It was like all the other times – blood-curdling at first, then… SILENCE.
Only the bloodied victims knew the men’s sadistic tactics. But like all the others, the horrifying details of what really controlled this barrio would never leave their lips, for that would be fatal for sure.
One of the figures stood smirking through his black mesh, panting over a tall, slender Hispanic boy who was face down on a green shag carpet, in a pool of blood.
"Hey Big Daddy, in here, " the figure bellowed with delight.
He wiped the smeared blood off the butt of his weapon with the end of a soiled pillowcase and threw it in the comer of the room.
A grossly fat man, tipping the scales at three hundred plus, waddled in. “What’s up, J.J.?” he asked as he lit up a smuggled, twenty-dollar Castroland stogie and shoved it through his black mesh opening.
“I’ve got a present for you,” J.J. gleamed.
“I knew you would.”
J.J. was the first to pull his face stocking off, exposing long blond hair and a fu- man- chu mustache. He nodded to a piece of carpet that had been cut away near a flimsy pine dresser, with a two-foot piece of plywood sitting upright near the opening in the floor.
The fat man took a deep drag on his cigar and blew the smoke near the face of the bloodied boy, then pulled his stocking cap off to reveal he was in his mid-fifties, with a red complexion, and a bulbous nose.
Picking a piece of tobacco from his teeth, he strolled casually over to the opening. He tried to bend over at the waist, but his enormous gut kept him erect, so he grabbed a flashlight from a back pocket and focused the powerful beam into a cavern that had been carved into the ground beneath the sub-floor of the residence. He pulled back, clicked the light off, took another drag from his cigar and smiled.
“Chacon is going to be happy with this, huh?” J.J. asked.
NOW AVAILABLE ON AMAZON.COM-KINDLE FORMAT
Click on the link below