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Neverglades
Neverglades
Neverglades
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Neverglades

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Drug smugglers stranded in the Everglades seek help from a Seminole shaman and his orphaned grandson. Their brutal violence claims the shaman's life—but not before he sets supernatural retribution in motion, turning the swamp into a primeval monster's hunting ground.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateAug 15, 2011
ISBN9781466114371
Neverglades
Author

Michael Newton

Michael Newton, PhD, held a doctorate in Counseling Psychology, was a certified Master Hypnotherapist, and was a member of the American Counseling Association. He was also on the faculty of higher educational institutions as a teacher while active in private practice in Los Angeles. Over many years, Dr. Newton developed his own intensive age regression techniques in order to effectively take hypnosis subjects beyond their past life memories to a more meaningful soul experience between lives. He is considered to be a pioneer in uncovering the mysteries about life after death through the use of spiritual hypnotic regression. He trained other advanced hypnotherapists in his techniques. Dr. Newton is the author of three best-selling books, Journey of Souls: Case Studies of Life Between Lives, Destiny of Souls: New Case Studies of Life Between Lives, and Life Between Lives: Hypnotherapy for Spiritual Regression. Dr. Newton has an international reputation as a spiritual regressionist who mapped out much of our life between lives experience. He appeared on numerous national radio and TV talk shows to explain our immortal life in the spirit world. For information about Life between lives Hypnotherapy (LBL) and how to arrange an LBL session please contact The Newton Institute for Life Between Lives Hypnotherapy at http://www.newtoninstitute.org

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    Book preview

    Neverglades - Michael Newton

    Neverglades

    By Michael Newton

    Copyright 2011 Michael Newton

    Smashwords Edition

    Smashwords Edition, License Notes

    This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

    Table of Contents

    Chapter 1

    Chapter 2

    Chapter 3

    Chapter 4

    Chapter 5

    Chapter 6

    Chapter 7

    Chapter 8

    Chapter 9

    Chapter 10

    Chapter 11

    Chapter 12

    Chapter 1

    The fuck should I know where we are? Jax asked, defensively.

    How should you know? You're spose to be the fucken guide, said Calderon.

    That's from the airstrip, Jax replied. "After we land. Not crashing in the middle of the goddamned Glades."

    So what, then? The Colombian leaned toward him, tilting with the Cessna's cabin, eyes so dark they looked like slivers of obsidian. You think you can jus' wash your hand of alla this, cabron? Leave us to hump out by ourselves?

    Did I say that? Jax challenged him. "Tell me, did I say that?"

    You fucken better not, Quintero cautioned, sitting with the Uzi submachine gun in his lap, his feet in brackish water that would soon be ankle-deep.

    Ignoring him, Jax focused on the man in charge. The only thing I said is that I don't know where we are, okay? I'm not the pilot.

    Ask the fucken pilot, then, Quintero rumbled.

    Be my guest, said Jax, if you think he can hear you.

    All of them looked toward the Cessna Model 510 Mustang's cockpit, where their pilot—Ernie Peyson, out of Lauderdale—sat slumped against his safety harness. Jax wasn't a neurosurgeon, but he knew the purpling half-inch divot over Ernie's glazed left eye meant brain damage. When Jax had tried to rouse him, all the pilot did was moan and mutter something that had sounded like Paducah farts.

    Whatever.

    Any way he sliced it, Ernie didn't know which way was up, much less which way they ought to head out when they left the plane. None of the aircraft's instruments meant anything to Jax when they were functioning, so how in hell was he supposed to read them now that they were powered down and useless? Christ, he couldn't even find the compass, much less bring it back to life.

    So, does this heap have what you call it for emergencies? asked Calderon. A black box?

    I don't know, Jax answered, but you'd better hope it doesn't?

    Ay? How come? Quintero asked.

    Jax glanced back toward the cargo hold and Calderon caught on.

    "The llello, he advised Quintero. We can't use no fucken help."

    "Chingar! Now, what?" the shooter asked.

    "What do you think, pinche? We pack it out ourselves," said Calderon.

    Jax grimaced at the thought. Two hundred keys of flake split three ways still was too damned much for humping through a swamp that could be armpit-deep or worse, for all he knew. The powder could get soaked despite its plastic wrap, but if he drowned, Jax wouldn't give a rat's ass either way.

    He had a sudden inspiration. Said, The raft! There's bound to be one, flying over water all the way like we were. All we've gotta do is find it.

    So, start looking, Calderon instructed. Cut a glance in the direction of his soldier, adding, Both of you.

    It wasn't hard to find, in fact—which figured, since you'd have to grab it in a hurry, ditching over water. The raft was in a cabinet above the Cessna's toilet, clearly labeled, zipped inside a black rubber bag. It felt like thirty pounds or so while Jax was grappling with it, shoving it ahead of him, out of the crapper and into the cabin, dirty water and the plane's wet carpet sloshing underfoot.

    Awright! Quintero said. Open it up.

    It has to be outside, Jax said. He didn't need to read the short list of instructions printed on the raft's black slipcover to know that much.

    "So, what choo waiting for, payaso?"

    Streaming silent insults in his head, Jax hauled the life raft to the exit over the left wing. It took a minute for him to unlatch the door and open it, then he was breathing in the smell of muck and rotting vegetation from the swamp where they had crashed, stretching away for untold miles in all directions.

    Full of snakes and alligators. Snapping turtles that could take your hand off. Scorpions and spiders. Black bears. Panthers slinking over wooded hammocks. Razor grass that earned its name by lacerating flesh.

    Fuck me, Jax thought, and wobbled out across the fractured wing, dragging the raft behind him. When he reached the point where slimy water washed over the flaps, he tossed it clear, then jumped and sank chest-deep.

    ***

    It had seemed oh so simple in Mayapo, setting up the deal, planning the trip. At twenty-four, Jackson McDonough had an MBA from USC that qualified him for exactly nada once the damned economy began circling the drain, and he decided that he'd rather microwave his eyes than take another run at higher education. High being the operative word, since he had smoked his share of herb and more while coasting through a list of bullshit classes, dealing

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