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  Broken Seed

  Volume Two

  The Deceiver Saga Continues…

  Broken Seed

  Volume Two

  R. J. Machado De Quevedo

  Broken Seed

  Copyright © 2013 & 2018 by R. J. Machado De Quevedo.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any way by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the author except as provided by USA copyright law. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, descriptions, entities, and incidents included in the story are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, events, and entities is entirely coincidental.

  Author R. J. Machado De Quevedo

  PO BOX 640| Elk Grove | California 95759 USA

  www.RJMachadoDeQuevedo.com

  Book design and cover copyright © 2018 by R. J. Machado De Quevedo.

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States of America

  ISBN: 978-1-947932-01-2

  1. Fiction / Thriller / Suspense

  2. Self-Help / Christian Life / Spiritual Warfare

  18.11.13

  Dedication

  I would first like to thank my Lord, Jesus Christ, for his unending love and grace. He continues to give me hope and a purpose. Without him, life is a flickering mirage lacking any true direction and void of the enriching substance of faith.

  Also, to my adorable husband, my silly family, and my nuttier but loyal friends: Thank you all from the bottom of my heart for your love, support, enthusiasm and helping me spread the word!

  And a special thanks to my best friends a.k.a. my trusted beta readers, April and Bethany, for feeding me with your enthusiasm, curiosity and questions. And to my “after edit” editors, Ruth Ann, Shauna, and Camilla. Thank you for of your hard work and your labour of love. You are each a true blessing!

  Is it so small a thing

  To have enjoy’d the sun,

  To have lived light in the spring,

  To have loved, to have thought, to have done.

  — Matthew Arnold

  Empedocles on Etna (1852)

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  Peace and Turmoil

  Though Love

  Training Wheels

  Public Announcement

  Duel Confession

  Picture’s Worth

  Hunger, Heat, Have To

  Resistance Is Not Futile

  Chaos

  Oxygen

  Melo

  Special Report

  Wide Open

  Total Recall

  Tidal Wave

  Whisper from the Dark

  Rush to Blush

  The Rest

  Moment of Truth

  Chambered

  Mistake

  NCO

  Lesson Learned

  A Beginning

  Crushed Roses

  To Be Continued In…

  Books By

  Follow Information

  Author’s Note

  When I received word in January 2017 that the traditional publishing house I had first published this book through in 2013 was closing, Tate Publishing and Enterprises LLC, I was upset. Well, truth be told, I was more than upset. I was angry, frustrated, and nearly in tears. All that time and effort I’d poured into getting these books off the ground seemed to have been wasted. And the promise of publishing more books felt as though it was being stolen from me.

  But then I felt the Lord whispering a gentle reminder into my heart. It wasn’t for nothing. It wasn’t in vain. I had been given the opportunity and the privilege to publish three books the “traditional way”. I’d learned a lot about being an author and experienced the production process of publishing three books. I had knowledge I could draw from.

  I decided then and there, rather than let the bad news devastate my dreams, I would use what I’d learned to republish these books myself. It was a hidden blessing; an opportunity to take more control of my future and the destiny of my books.

  Having re-released book one in The Deceiver Saga just a few months ago, I’m very pleased to have book two back out into the public’s hands.

  To all my faithful fans reading this, I say to you, THANK YOU for your support and patience. I appreciate you more than you could ever know.

  Prologue

  The cell was quiet except for the heavy breathing and hog-like snoring of the man in the top bunk. A dark, hairy arm flopped over the edge and dangled down. The tattoos that wrapped around the forearm and extended down to the front of the hand were a complex tangle of names, dates, and naked women.

  Dwayne glared at the arm of the man above him. He wanted to slice that wrist where it hung, limp and unprotected.

  “It’d serve you right,” Dwayne snarled under his breath with contempt. He rolled over onto his back and resisted the urge to break Rooster’s chubby stumpy fingers. It was the least he deserved. He had promised to get him that phone weeks ago, but the guard he had bribed hadn’t managed to slip it to them until yesterday afternoon because Rooster hadn’t bothered to call his cocaine buddies in time to get the guard a refill on his stash.

  Unsatisfied and agitated at having to let this kind of disrespect slide, he kicked his covers off and glared with bunk-piercing hatred at the man above him. “Get you next time, Rooster,” he snarled in a breathless whisper. No one treated Dwayne that way. Never more than once.

  Dwayne had been awake for awhile now. The morning call to rise for breakfast was only an hour away, but at 6:00 a.m., breakfast wasn’t really the right word to use for it in Dwayne’s opinion. It was too early for a full breakfast, but if you didn’t eat at six in the morning, you didn’t eat again until eleven. Just one more meal and he’d be out of this filthy hole. One more meal of looking over his shoulder and keeping a paranoid eye out for shanks in the back. One more meal.

  Someone in the cell across the cold cement hall coughed and cursed as he spat, a loud wet splat being heard from where Dwayne lay. A sly smile curved up Dwayne’s lips. The powder was working perfectly. Over the last three days, Big Mack’s cough had been getting progressively worse. Not much longer now and he’d be in the prison medical ward. It wouldn’t kill him, but he’d wish he was dead before he got better. Dwayne stifled a begrudged sigh at the realization that he’d miss the worse that was still yet to come. Rooster was lucky he’d ran out of the odorless white powder slipping doses to Big Mack. Rooster was damn lucky.

  The hour passed with a painful slowness. The last four years had been nearly unbearable. Dwayne occupied his time with fantasies of the outside life only hours away. His thoughts streamed with what he would eat first, the satisfaction of having the ability to take a crap when he wanted—in private, taking a shower as long as he pleased, getting to choose to change his clothes from this godforsaken orange jumper, and having shoelaces!

  But the best thing of all was access to women. Women. Oh, he couldn’t wait. They offered much more in the way of emotional reactions and intimidation than bullying the younger inmates ever could. Besides, he’d never touch a man the way he longed to touch a woman. He would never let a man touch him that way either.

  Dwayne smiled in anticipation at getting his hands on a woman and smacking her until she’d shut up and lay still. A face swam up into his fantasies, then another, and another. Women he had already had. And then the face of the one he wanted to have next. She was his. She just didn’t know it yet. Dwayne licked his lips in anticipation and stroked the half-moon scar along the
side of his temple absent mindedly.

  Sighing, he rolled back over to face his dim narrow cell. The alarm buzzed throughout the cell block, and the groans of the other inmates filled the silence with a predictable murmur. The bright block lights flashed on in quick succession from the far end of the hall until they reached Dwayne’s cell, second from the last on the right.

  “Shoot, man. I freaking just fell asleep,” Rooster complained in a whiny voice from above him.

  Dwayne cringed at the predictable feminine drawl Rooster laced his words with. Dwayne hated that about him, and he was so glad he wouldn’t have to listen to him whine anymore past today.

  “You’ve been snoring like a sow all night,” Dwayne said and smacked Rooster’s arm still dangling over the top bunk. “But don’t worry, Roost, I’m sure they’ll have a new roomie for you by tomorrow. Maybe that one will be willing to give you your good night’s kiss, so you’ll sleep better.” Dwayne laughed bitterly at the other man’s hopeful exclamation.

  His first night in prison, his cellmate had offered to give him some nocturnal comforts. Dwayne had punched the man so hard he knocked out a tooth and split his lip from the wet inside ridge to the bottom of the outside. Rooster never offered again. He didn’t so much as look at Dwayne when he had to use the toilet in their small five-by-nine cell. And if Rooster was ever in the showers when Dwayne was in there, he always averted his eyes.

  The first guy to make a comment to Dwayne in the showers was the last one. He had somehow accidently slipped in the showers and cracked his head open. That was what the official report said anyway. And since that accident hadn’t finished him off, the day after he got out of the medical ward, he got himself shanked in the back at breakfast. None of the guards knew who had done it, or maybe they didn’t care to know. One less inmate was one less to babysit. But Dwayne knew who had done it. Dwayne had been the one to stick the man eight times in less than six seconds. Quick, clean, and down for the count.

  “Dwayne, you packed up your junk yet? You get released at noon today. We’ll send someone to get you around eleven to get you processed. Don’t go hiding out somewhere we can’t find you, okay?” The correctional officer was tapping on the bars impatiently. “You hear me?” The officer shouted in his big commanding voice.

  Dwayne sat up and glared at the officer. “Do dogs lick their balls?” he asked dryly.

  “Mouth off to me one more time. Just one more time, and you may not get out of here today,” the officer warned, putting his hand on his weapon and puffing out his chest.

  Used to the displays of machismo by the correctional officers, Dwayne looked at the man with a stone-like, uninterested face. The officer eventually lowered his hand from his weapon. “Watch your step on the way out. Wouldn’t want you to fall and bust your teeth. That’d be a shame,” the officer growled and walked off with heavy footsteps.

  “Bite me,” Dwayne said under his breath and got up to get changed.

  At ten o’clock in the morning, Officer John McCormick came to get Dwayne out of his cell where he had decided to wait. The officer was early. Dwayne smiled to himself. He just might get out of here before noon. While everyone else on his cellblock were out roaming the courtyard waiting for the instruction to start making their way to the mess hall for lunch, Dwayne was being escorted to the booking intake by a squat, graying officer.

  Dwayne had been given a brown paper bag to stuff what he had in the way of personal belongings into. There wasn’t much. A few smoke-scented letters from his old pals on the outside, his toothbrush, his comb, a few pairs of socks and underwear, and a tattered photo of a family—his family. Dwayne pulled out the photo after returning to his cell shortly after breakfast and looked at it with a hungry expectation. His wife stood stiffly in front of the large oak tree outside of their home, her face serious, eyes a little too wide. He soaked in the memory of her fear and let out a shuddering breath. The two little girls that stood obediently in front of her were holding hands, their mother’s arms wrapped around their shoulders protectively.

  Dwayne smiled. She hadn’t even been able to protect herself. What a useless sow. She hadn’t been worthy of carrying his offspring. Not that he had ever wanted any to begin with. He detested the little bitches. The expression on the oldest one’s face still infuriated him. Her chin was lifted in challenge, a show of will he had finally broken. The little one was biting her lip, her eyes wide and tearful, her hair slightly disarrayed from where he had dragged her by her pigtail into position so he could take a picture of his family. His women.

  Inmates were discouraged from displaying personal photos of any kind in their cells, so Dwayne had simply kept it in the lining between the inside sole of his shoe and the foam insert. That’s where they belonged anyway, under his feet.

  “Bet you can’t wait to smell that fresh air, eh, Dwayne?” McCormick asked to fill the cold silence as he opened the locked room and escorted Dwayne inside.

  “Yep,” Dwayne replied dryly. “About time, too.”

  “Okay, I need to search you one last time, and then we’ll let you change into these sweats. Assume the position, please,” the officer instructed.

  Dwayne did what he was asked and spread his arms and legs out, hands flat against the wall, his head looking forward. The officer patted him down thoroughly. Dwayne hadn’t expected to be patted down on his way out of prison. It surprised him. He figured it must be a safety concern of McCormick being that he looked like he was too close to retirement to take a chance. Probably didn’t want to get stuck in the side of the neck by a resentful inmate while being closed up in this little room. Dwayne smiled at the gruesome idea. If he had been serving life without parole, he would have done it. Just for fun. But he knew better than to follow through with his impulses this close to being released. He could hold out a little longer. Besides, he was saving up the best of what he had for a certain young woman he knew.

  Dwayne closed his eyes at the rush of lascivious eagerness that pulsed through his body and made him quiver. He took in a breath and fought to control himself; the anticipation was almost too much.

  “All right, now the bag.” The officer picked up the bag from the table where Dwayne had placed it when they had walked in. He unrolled the top and started taking out the items and placing them in a neat row, then piled them back into the bag after patting each one down for sharp objects or illegal items. It was their last opportunity to catch him in the act of doing something wrong.

  “Great. No problems there.” McCormick handed Dwayne the bag and slid a pile of dull gray sweatpants over to him. A clean white undershirt and socks lay on top of the neat pile. “Here you go. Please remove your jumper and change into this. Place the jumper in the crate to your left.”

  “Yes, sir,” Dwayne said sarcastically. He couldn’t wait to be out of here and get new clothes.

  He hadn’t expected them to give him back the faded old jeans and red-and-white flannel shirt they confiscated when he was arrested back in ’06. Those were long gone in an evidence lockup somewhere. He would like to have kept them. He had so many appealing memories in those clothes. He could remember the origin of each stain and whose blood it had been, a collection of mementoes of sorts.

  Dwayne stifled a growl as he thought of how he had gotten thrown in here in the first place. A man like him deserved to be free to roam and take what he wanted. He would make them sorry for this.

  It had been a lucky arrest, a fluke encounter of chance. The odds had always been in his favor up until then. Dwayne saw himself as superior to the wandering, blabbering idiots around him. He hated them. He hated them all. Especially the women. They were only good for two things—serving and taking his pleasure from them, in whichever way it suited him.

  He’d gone to Caldwell Park several times over the last thirty years to satisfy his darker cravings. No one had ever been able to identify him as the perpetrator of the crimes he’d committed; he was too careful, too intelligent, and too cunning for their pathetic att
empts to successfully uncover his identity. But that night, a cop stopped to use the john in the middle of his graveyard shift and found Dwayne in the middle of enjoying himself with a sweet young thing. So he had roughed her up and was sexually assaulting her when the cop walked in, big deal. The little prude needed to be taught her place. It made no difference to him that she was fifteen. He wouldn’t have cared if she was thirty. But apparently the law cared.

  “Dwayne, you need to change,” McCormick nagged him.

  “Can’t wait to see me strip, hey Mick? Why? Wanna see how a real man’s hung?” Dwayne jabbed.

  McCormick ignored the taunt. He pulled a writing clipboard from the side panel mounted against the wall and started writing down notes on the form attached. He read over it, rubbed his eyes, then read over it again.

  “Looks like you’re being released with less than half time served. Budget problems paying you a favor, huh, boy?” McCormick smiled up at Dwayne. The smile wasn’t very friendly, more sickened. The paperwork had said why Dwayne was serving time, and his ability to remain civil to this inmate was close to disintegrating.

  “Lucky me,” Dwayne said, meeting the man’s smile with a mocking one of his own as he pulled the sweatshirt over his head and started taking off his shoes to put on the fresh socks.

  “Please fill out this form when you’re ready. Every line must be filled in. Any blanks and you’ll be stuck in processing until it’s done.” McCormick set the clipboard and pen down on the table in front of Dwayne.

  “I thought you boys were supposed to play secretary? What happened, forgot how to spell?” Dwayne asked dryly.

  “No, we’ve been too busy babysitting your fellow inmates to come interview you in the comfort of your own cell.” McCormick answered, his attempt to keep his voice calm showing in the red blush that was creeping up over the top of his collar to color the side of his neck.