A high tech motorcycle, a black disguise, a crusading newscaster’s quest for justice.When a car bomb kills the prosecuting attorney and a key witness against a powerful bioengineering industrialist, the blast shatters the life of the attorney’s husband, popular Phoenix television investigative reporter, Parker Knight. After authorities hit a dead end, Parker risks his career and his life to seek his own revenge. Riding a high tech motorcycle and wearing a black disguise, the crusading newsman inadvertently becomes a media created superhero jeopardizing his quest for justice.
Parker counted on Carl thinking he was just some pretty boy television reporter. Lenny cleaned his fingernails with his knife and seemed more interested in the sports report about the Suns. Parker might not get a better chance.
“Tyler, Remember me, Punk? How’s your head?” Carl said on the cell phone. “Shut up and listen. Someone wants to talk to you.” He held out the phone to Parker.
Parker leaped to his feet. He swung a kick that cracked across Carl’s face. Blood gushed from the man’s nose as he howled and tumbled against the table. The cell phone clattered to the floor as Lenny shrieked and dropped the knife.
With shock giving way to hatred in his eyes, Carl pulled the gun from his waistband. Parker punched the bastard in the jaw with both fists, knocking him off balance. As Carl stumbled backward, blood flowing down his face, he pulled the trigger. A shot shattered Marissa’s image on the television. The screen exploded into a shower of sparks and burnt electronic smell.
Lenny picked up the knife and jabbed the blade toward Parker’s neck.
Parker sidestepped the thrust and kicked Lenny’s ass, sending him sprawling under the table.
One more punch to the face sent Carl onto his back. The gun cracked against the wall and fell to the floor. Parker kicked it across the kitchen.
Lenny scrambled from beneath the table and lunged with his knife. Parker blocked the blow with his forearm but the blade sank to the bone. Ignoring the pain, Parker sprinted into the living room and threw open the front door. A shot splintered the doorjamb above his head.
Outside, Parker spotted his Kawasaki parked in the driveway in front of the white van. Biting at the tape around his wrists, he dashed across the rain-slickened lawn and ripped off the binding.
Parker sprinted to the bike and grabbed the extra key he always kept in the saddlebag. He leaped onto his bike and inserted the key. A shot blew the left mirror apart in a burst of shards. Parker gunned the bike behind the van as two more shots slammed into the side of the van shattering the quiet of the dark neighborhood.
The motorcycle fishtailed on the wet street. Parker glanced back to see Carl and Lenny scramble into the van. With cold rain lashing his face, Parker skidded around the corner, regained control and checked back over his shoulder as the van shrieked in pursuit.
Unfamiliar with the neighborhood, Parker raced through the streets and approached a red light at the six-way intersection of Grand Avenue near the fairgrounds. Hoping to elude the two men in traffic, Parker took a quick glance over one shoulder then ran the light, turning north in front of a fast moving one-ton pickup.
Blasting its horn and squealing its tires, the pickup swerved and clipped the back of Parker’s bike. The Kawasaki’s rear tire slid, the handlebars wobbled and the motorcycle veered toward the center island.
With a jolt, the bike hit the curb. Parker somersaulted into the landscaped median and landed beside a saguaro cactus. His head slammed against the hard ground as the bike slid into oncoming traffic. A squeal of tires on the wet pavement was followed by a crunch of metal. A semi crushed the Kawasaki like a cheap beer can.
Head buzzing and rain dripping onto his face, Parker saw the driver from the pickup climb out and rush to his side. “Don’t move,” the man said. “I called nine-one-one.”
“Where’s the white van?”
“What white van?” The man ripped off his Diamondbacks jacket and stuffed it under Parker’s head. Feeling lightheaded, Parker gazed across the intersection and spotted the van stopped at the traffic light. The image blurred, and Parker drifted into unconsciousness.
Award winning novelist Michael Murphy is a full time writer and part time urban chicken rancher. He and his wife make their home in Arizona with their two cats, four dogs and five chickens. He enjoys writing mystery and suspense novels with twists and turns and splashes of humor. Scorpion Bay is his seventh novel.
Click here to read the first chapter of: Scorpion Bay
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