BLUE WATER HUNTER

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B09QK9ZH11

John Hoon-nah Hetaw Becker was born between worlds—the son of a Montana rancher and a Shoshone-Arapaho mother on Wyoming’s Wind River Reservation, then raised for a time in Iwakuni, Japan by a stepmother who was never truly his own. By the time he was eight, he’d already learned the hardest lesson: he belonged nowhere.

A former Marine and soldier of fortune, Becker now lives in self-imposed exile on the island of Saipan, making just enough to survive by spearfishing the deep waters of the western Pacific.

But the past never stays buried.

When the widow of his closest friend vanishes in Mexico, Becker discovers she’d risked everything to rescue her late husband’s niece—kidnapped and held by narco-traffickers in Sinaloa. Seeking redemption he isn’t sure he deserves, Becker heads straight into cartel territory.

There, in a small pueblo strangled by corruption, violence, and a sadistic killer no one dares name, he allies with an idealistic young police chief and her seventy-two-year-old deputy. Outnumbered and outgunned, they make a last stand against the chaos—knowing full well that justice may not survive the night. AMAZON & AUDIBLE Also

Sample:

 BLUE WATER HUNTER: The two fishermen, father and son, had found her on the west side of Isla Santa Marga just inland from Bahia Lechuguilla. The early morning sun, reflecting from the rare, scattered nimbus clouds, had turned the beach cinnabar red. A bad omen, the older one said, He had never seen the beach, in this desert country, such a color. Initially they thought a dolphin had washed up on shore. Approaching closer they could see it was a person. Beaten, burned and with what appeared to be a gunshot wound in the right torso, covered with dried blood. At first, they thought she was dead, but an ear pressed against her back detected a heartbeat. They debated what should be done. It was dangerous to get involved with what was surely the business of the evil ones. But in the end, she was brought by boat to the clinic. Dr. Garcia, a small unnaturally thin man with deep lines of sadness from all the misery he had witnessed recently in this poor village, had treated her, and done what little he could. Cleaning the surface wounds with alcohol and hydrogen peroxide. Afraid to probe deeper he bandaged the entry and exit points wishing there were antibiotics to give. The bullet had gone straight through, back to front, obviously missing the aorta and heart. Otherwise, she would have long since bled out in the first case or almost immediately died. But probably, at the very least, nicking, if not puncturing, her lung.

Before sealing the wounds, he had scrutinized the entry and exit holes for foaming blood and listened for the hissing sounds indicating a sucking chest wound. There was blood on both sides of her torso, most was dried and not fresh. She had lost much blood, and he thought her chances of survival were slim. With his ear near the projectile exit wound, he could detect no sound whatsoever, but she was breathing very shallowly, and his hearing was not what it once was. He sent the younger of the two for la Jefa de Policia de Municipal not the Policia Federal, if any were around, he stressed. Marisol Munoz, a 26-year-old Mestiza with light brown, almost amber eyes and café au lait skin was five and a half feet tall with thick dark hair done up in a loose ponytail. Less than a month on the job as the village chief of police. A job declined by the only other officer on the small force, 72-year-old Jorge who had come out of retirement at the murder of the old chief, Marisols father. She was also a month today into widow hood.

Marisol moved closer to the bed and examined the woman. She appeared Asian, of above average height between 35 to 40 years old. One eye, the right one, was swollen shut. It seemed someone had attempted to blind her. With a cigar, the doctor thought. “Is the eye gone?’ Marisol asked. “I don’t know. I think she was conscious during the obvious torture she was forced to endure, so I assume the eye lid was closed. But how bad the damage is, we won’t know until she starts to heal, and the swelling goes down. But who would do such a cruel thing?’ Marisol was sure she knew who did this, but said nothing she just asked, “Will she live?’ “Well, the heart is strong, but I don’t know if there is any internal damage, infection or if she will regain consciousness. She needs to go to the hospital in Los Mochis. I have no equipment here. If you have a car maybe you can take her, but there is no money, she has nothing.’ Marisol lifted the woman's right hand. There was dried blood across the knuckles. So, she fought back. The doctor handed her a wet cloth. As she wiped the blood away Marisol was surprised at how callused the hands were. The joints at the base of the index and middle fingers had especially large calluses. ’’Have you seen her around here before? She must do manual work, look at her hands.’ The doctor took her left hand and gently turned it palm side up, the underside was tough as leather, more so than the right hand. “She has the hands of a luchadora.’ he said. “A fighter? what do you mean, like the WWE wrestlers?' Marisol asked incredulously.

The doctor shook his head “No I mean like in the orient, kung fu or karate. But no, this is a small pueblo, I have never seen her before today.’ Marisol walked over to the window and looked out on the brown dusty street. There was no one around, how many people knew about the woman? The two fishermen and the doctor for sure. Somebody had tried to kill her and left her for dead. She feared that she might have another murder on her hands, if the woman died. But even with proof of the crime, there was nothing she could do about it. “Doctor, can you keep her here?’ Marisol asked. “Did you think I would throw her on the trash heap?’ “No, I mean keep her hidden and tell no one?’ “For now, yes.’ the doctor answered. Marisol was troubled by the woman. Was she an innocent who somehow had strayed here for some unknown reason, or was she with the others who had started all this wickedness? Santa Cruz was a small village with a one-time population of one thousand at the south end of the bay of Santa Maria on the east side of the Sea of Cortez. Growing up she thought of the town as the most wonderful place in the world. Not far but close to the ever-changing blues of the ocean sometimes teal, often cobalt with every hue in between. The multicolored flowers and vegetables and....