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    Recursion
    Recursion
    Recursion
    Ebook58 pages51 minutes

    Recursion

    By Richard Gazala

    ()

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    About this ebook

    “Recursion” takes place a few years after the events of the award winning international conspiracy thriller, "Blood of the Moon." The devastating global Oil Wars rage on, and nobody’s winning. But a strange and dangerous auction in Washington, D.C. may hold the key to controlling the Wars’ outcome, and changing life as we know it, forever. “Recursion” is the bridge between "Blood of the Moon" and its upcoming sequel, "Blood of the Earth." An aperitif, if you will. And there’s more! As a special bonus to “Recursion” readers, “Recursion” includes a sneak peek at "Blood of the Earth."

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherRichard Gazala
    Release dateDec 26, 2017
    ISBN9780983924715
    Recursion
    Author

    Richard Gazala

    Richard Gazala was born in Ohio, at the bleeding edge of the 1960s. When he was young, his family moved to Beirut, Lebanon, where they lived until the Lebanese Civil War erupted. After Beirut, he finished high school in Massachusetts, and England. While living abroad he traveled around the Middle East and Europe, picking up enough Arabic and French to embrace or avoid trouble as circumstances dictated. He attended Vanderbilt University in Tennessee, where her earned a B.A. and a J.D. He has practiced law for over thirty years, and is a member of the bar of the United States Supreme Court. He currently lives in Virginia, where he's a thriller author, voracious reader and reviewer, lawyer, music aficionado, guerrilla chef, excursionist, and public speaker.

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      Book preview

      Recursion - Richard Gazala

      Recursion

      How long can I run? I’m not as young as I used to be.

      That’s the point of all this … right?

      No … not quite.

      I do it all for Rose.

      A few minutes ago, cops raided my illegal auction in an abandoned high school gym. Now I’m blocks away and panting hard. The thunder’s loud, but I can still hear jackboots pounding through puddles in the gloom behind me—getting closer. Frantic cop dogs howl, yanking against steel chain leashes. I’m counting on the rain to drown my scent like I’m begging the night to even my odds in these deserted city streets. The streetlamps are lightless husks, shot out long ago in gasoline riots. There’s nothing to maneuver by but fickle lightning tricking my eyes, and tactical flashlights in my wake stabbing the night while I bob and weave. I’m praying for a hole to open up and swallow me.

      One of the beams finds me.

      Behind me, a furious voice bellows. There!

      The air around my head screams with gunfire. Slugs slam into potholes under my running shoes. Sparks fly from the rusted bones of a burned-out Audi on my left. I’m center stage in a bullet ballet.

      Dodging the beam, I keep running. The loaded pistol in my jacket pocket beats my right hip with every step. Despite the cushion of thick wads of cash, I hear the plastic vials in my bulging backpack clatter against each other. My stash. The brand-new strain—allegedly. The strain that’s supposed to work—allegedly. Everybody says so … even Adela. Any minute now, one of the Strainers will be the next Outlaster. Then our President-For-Life Wilkins can have soldier farms and maybe start winning instead of losing the Oil Wars.

      But not my stash tonight. Sure, I promised the bidders it was the new stuff. I lied. It was the old stuff. I’m clearing inventory. Desperation and hope don’t make for discerning purchasers. Or honest sellers.

      Cutting to the right, I dive and roll. Landing on broken asphalt hurts. Pain shoots through my shoulder. I put a dumpster between me and my pursuers, stopping for a moment to catch my breath. An emaciated rat crawls out from beneath the reeking garbage skip. Brave rat. It’s undeterred by rain, gunfire, and howling hounds. It looks up at me, head cocked, one eye watching me curse the cops under my jagged breath. The other eye is just an empty socket. I fish a piece of jerky out of my pocket and drop it on the ground. The rat sniffs it, and I have a new friend. Snatching the jerky, he darts back underneath the dumpster. Fair-weather friend, bolting from the storm.

      I could stop, turn around with my hands high and empty, and tell them I only sell the stuff. Just a regional sales rep supporting his daughter. I’m no Strainer—living forever’s too exotic for my simple tastes.

      But having no desire to live forever’s a long way from itching to die right here, right now.

      Besides, the cops wouldn’t care. Shooting unruly citizens is more fun than arresting them—less paperwork. Maybe even a disingenuous commendation from Her Honor, the mayor, condemning what I do and where I do it. Protecting the rabble from pushers like me surely makes for more uplifting television than the Wars.

      The rabble can’t afford what I sell, and Her Honor knows it. But if some low-level grunt like me has to die to gin up some good press, so be it. Rivers Pharma is a huge company. Sacrificial lambs are always in demand, and there are plenty more like me to go around.

      Jackboots and snarling dogs closing in, I scope for a viable exit strategy—preferably one where I stay alive. A pair of headlights zips by on the cross street ahead … then another … then nothing. It’s North Capitol Street. Before the Wars and riots, North Capitol was gridlock day and night, but that world is gone. There’s not much traffic this curfew time of night, and most of it is tinny, autonomous robot cars running algorithmic routes. My getaway car has to be more substantial.

      Although it’s only a couple dozen yards from my position of dwindling cover behind the dumpster to North Capitol, it looks like a hundred miles. The

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