Chronicles Of A Runner Ch 00

**This is the story of a cocaine runner and his rise and fall to glory. I am testing the waters with this one. Have many more chapters waiting if is something you are interested in post some feedback and I will keep posting.**

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Prologue

The sleek outline of the black Jaguar XJ-8 nearly disappeared against the darkness of the desert. Quick and sexy, the car cut through the heavy blackness like a sharp knife through tissue paper. Rumbling and growling the big six speed, V-12 engine pulled the machine deeper into the California desert's Coachella valley.

I checked the clock built into the hide-a-way face head unit for the car's after market stereo system. It was 12:33 on a Saturday morning. The rap song, Dial M for Murder, sang in Ja Rule's gravely voice was pounded into my ears by 250 watts of pure power.

Usually I don't listen to rap, I like Jazz and oldies. Every now and then a bit of good old fashion country. Tonight was different, it had to be rap. Tonight I could meet my death, tonight I was running.

Eight weeks hand gone by since I had made that fate full phone call from my Grand mother's pool. Not the smartest thing I had ever done, but nevertheless I have no regrets. This is what I had become, and the only way out was to push through it and hope you were still human on the other end.

This life does have its benefits though. I was sitting on a three thousand dollar Louis Vitton wallet stuffed with fresh hundred dollar bills. I was driving the runner's dream, a Black Jaguar XJ-8 with an after market stereo system, limo tint windows and plenty of NOS. Basically the car was a sleeper street racer.

I had a net worth of just fewer than 15.8 million dollars. Not bad for a back woods Missouri redneck. The icing on the cake was my age. I had turned eighteen just ten weeks before.

My hand dropped to the stereo and clicked off the CD, which was now playing Down Ass Bitch from Ja Rules Pain is Love CD. My hand then slid from the dash to the leather covered stick and dropped the car into neutral. I eased the car to a stop; I didn't bother to pull off the road because there wasn't one. I was being lead by a Magellan GPS unit mounted to the dash board.

With the car stopped and braked I looked over at the seat next to me. The aluminum brief case sat proudly in the seat. It was almost as if it knew about the nine hundred and fifty thousand dollars it carried. Soon the case would be in the hands of Columbian cocaine traders.

I was a drug runner. Plain and simple. I got a phone call on Friday afternoon and given the information I needed. At ten o'clock that night I would saddle up my runner's bag, check the car, and head to a pick up zone. We would trade case for case and I would return to a safe house. There, I would wait for another call giving me the drop time and place, make the drop, pick up my pay, and go home.

I reached into the back seat and pulled a black duffle bag upfront. Stepping out of the car I set the bag on the ground and opened it up. I calmly took inventory of the contents. A change of clothes, an extra two hundred thousand dollars in a zipper pouch, and three wallets each with cash and a false identity all compliments of my cartel. I pushed all this aside and reached for another zipper pouch, the weapons bag.

I wore a black suit, specially made to fit my large and ridged physique. It had some sort of tailoring trick that allowed for a better range of motion and agility. I really liked this feature because it allowed me to use my martial Arts training if need be. The cartel made sure that I could handle what I was doing. They trained me to be fearless.

I slipped nimbly out of the coat and pulled a knife from the pouch. A Fairbairn Sykes fighting knife, if you know anything about knives you have heard of this. For those who haven't, this knife was designed in World War II and became the best in the world. I strung this into a concealed position on my belt.

Reaching to the pouch again I removed a gun in a shoulder holster. Nothing flashy, a nine millimeter Glock with that new poly frame stuff. I don't really like guns so I don't know much about them. I would much rather have a good knife, which goes hand in hand with my martial arts training.

I put the shoulder rig on and the jacket. I moved around a bit to get everything settled. To most people reading this, it would seem that I am ill armed for the fight I was going to face, but as a runner it pays to pack light.

I tossed the bag into car and pulled the gun. I jacked out the clip and checked the magazine. Fifteen rounds loaded in an alternating pattern of armor piercing rounds and incendiary tipped rounds. One round in the chamber, an armor piercing shot. I liked everything I saw. Content, I holstered the gun and got back in the car.

I fiddled with the GPS a little and discovered that I was about ten miles from the pick up zone. I checked the clock, 12:54; I had six minutes to cover ten miles. No problem.

I moved the stick into first and tore off across the desert. By the time I hit fourth gear I was pushing 125. I love this car. Three minutes and five miles.

I spotted the plane easily. We are out in the middle of a pitch black desert and the plane was lit up like a baseball field. I could see them and they couldn't see me, just the way I liked it. I turned the CD player back on and the car was filled the Ja Rule's They'll Never Take Me Alive.

My car circled the landing strip at about five hundred yards so I could see what they had. A twin engine Sesna, a black Hummer, and a dark green Mazarati. That meant at least two security guys, two drivers, the boss and the pilot. I felt satisfied and pulled into the pool of light.

Leaving the engine running I stepped out of the car. You learn quickly to leave an easy out. Two guards approached and I retrieved the noble case and set it in the sand. Next, I spotted the boss. He was fat sweaty Columbian in a cheap suit. I already didn't like him. He carried a case identical to mine. The cocaine.

"You're late." he said with more spit than sound.

"Only one minute. You'll live." I said in a caviler tone. In an instant the two guards were at my sides pinning me to the car and I didn't resist yet.

"I should kill you for your disrespect." He said. Spit flying as he pronounced the 'p'.

"You should, but you won't." I said switching to Spanish

"If you are going to tell me to be afraid of you because you work for Juan Vittio save your breath. I have no respect for that no good fucking whore of a pig." He was pushing it now but I kept my cool.

"You respect his money though." I said "And no you shouldn't be afraid of my boss you should be afraid me." Like I said the Cartel had made me fearless.

He literally laughed out loud as I said this. "Oh and who are you that I should be afraid of you?"

"My name is Roger James Carson." I saw the fear flash in his eyes and the fade quickly. I learned that I am the most feared and wanted runner in the state of California. By now the thugs and found my Glock and had relieved me of it.

"That makes no difference. You will learn to respect me or..."

I struck. Using the strength in my right hand I threw number one off me and pulled my knife. I spun and pulled the blade through the midsection of one and then two. Once clear of the Columbians I spun back and sliced an even line about an inch from their throats to show that they could die very quickly at my hand. I took the step separating me and Sweaty and pushed the tip of the knife to his throat just enough to draw a trickle of blood.

"Or what?" I said with my eyes on fire. It was false, but he didn't know that. So, he said nothing. "Take three steps back."

Sweaty pulled his self off of my knife and did as he was told. Fear and lies are an awesome weapon. I never took my eyes off him as I reached down and plucked my gun up. The two thugs lay on the ground moaning and cussing in Spanish.

"There are more people here. How many?" I asked with the gun now pointed at him.

'My pilot, the two drivers and two more security on the plane."

"Call them out. Now. No one will die if you are not stupid." he complied and thirty seconds later I had a Columbian drug Cartel at my mercy.

"Slowly draw your weapons and cell phones." I said "Set the phone on the ground in front of you. You will put one round into your phone and drop the gun. Any more that one round and you will die. Kick the gun away when you are finished. Now." I still had a bead on the leaders head so they complied.

After they were disarmed and with out communication I fucked them over. I put a round into the planes engine. It was an armor piercing round. It did nothing. The second was incendiary. The plane exploded into a fire ball.

I wiped out the other vehicles and pulled the brief case the boss was still holding out of his hand.

"You are a bunch of sorry ass mother fuckers who are to pussy to even defend yourselves. It's a long walk back to Columbia."

I got in the car and said. "It's been a pleasure doing business with you." I tore off into the desert. All I really did was send a message. I let the Columbians know that the Vittio Cartel was not to be fucked with. That I was not to be fucked with. They would use the phones of the wounded men and call for retrieval, they weren't really stranded.

This was the man I had become. A hardcore, no bullshit drug runner. Now let me show you the man I was.