Narco Hotel

Preface

I know fiction books don’t normally include a preface. Especially ones about superheroes. However, due to the events which took place in the year 2020, I felt it was important to include one for Narco Hotel. I know that when you strip it down to the nuts and bolts, The Silver Ninja is an action series. As an action series, it doesn’t have the obligation to carry a profound message or eye-opening revelations. All it has to do is deliver on the thrills and spills of a mighty heroine.

Unfortunately, I can never be satisfied with writing just an action book. There must be meaning behind the violence. I never expected a story about Mexican cartels invading New York City to become so personal.

The quotes and scenarios written in this book were written months before the incident with George Floyd and the Black Lives Matter movement. Though I completed the rough draft on May 5th, 2020. The quote I included at the beginning of this book was written in the fall of September 2019. Although my book focuses on discrimination against illegal immigrants, specifically Latino immigrants, the core issue of injustice against people who are non-white remains the same.

This book became a challenge to write when I realized the implication of having a straight white female as a protagonist, who also happened to be a former police officer. Therefore, her use of excessive force against criminals who happen to be minorities carried ramifications which extended far beyond the elastic boundaries of vigilante justice.

I couldn’t allow Cindy to become a symbol of oppression. I needed to ensure the reader understood she only hurt those who deserved punishment regardless of their race, gender, or ethnicity.

The Mexican Cartel is evil because they are a criminal organization, not because they are Mexican. Cindy hurts individuals who want to hurt others, not because of the color of their skin, but because of the suffering they inflict on others. I think now more than ever, this is a story that must be told.

Thank you for reading,

Wilmar Luna

Dedication

For Oscar Alberto Martinez and Angie Valeria.

May their desperate attempt for freedom never be forgotten.

Title Page

Wilmar Luna

Proudly Presents

The Silver Ninja

Narco Hotel

©2022

DISCLAIMER

Narco Hotel contains:

-  strong language

-  adult themes

-  and realistic violence

If you are uncomfortable with swear words, this book will not be for you.

The Story So Far . . .

Superheroes ARE REAL. One is living in NYC. SEE THE TRUTH, HEAR THE TRUTH!!!

Posted by: The One True Voice

Hello true believers, I am the One True Voice and you’re listening to the Truthseeker podcast. Transcription services brought to you by, Capthis. Capthis, is the premiere AI generated transcription service for all your podcasts, audio interviews, videos, and more. Go to capthis.com and type in THETRUTH at checkout for a ten percent discount on your first project. Onto the show.

Now, I know this is going to sound like the bull you hear on Impress News and all those other phony baloney mainstream news media outlets but hear me out Believers. There is a hero among us, a SUPERhero as a matter of fact. We don’t know what her name is, yes you heard me right —her— but I have it on good authority that this chrome-dome, karate chop action, criminal killing machine is the real deal.

My illicit sources call her The Silver Ninja, but not everybody believes in the myth.

I know. You’re probably thinking she’s just a marketing stunt in form fitting tights, but I’m here to tell you, God as my witness, this wasn’t a ClickTocker wannabe trying to make a claim to fame. This shorty came to slay.

Remember a few months back when a cargo ship exploded in Red Hook and the police said it was a ruptured fuel line? Well, turns out that big ol’ boat was a convention for all the meanest, baddest, hardest mother f*censored*ing criminals this side of the Hudson. And they all turned up dead, chopped up like sashimi in a bento box. You ever heard of an explosion cutting people into fillet? No sir. That rings FALSE to me!

I believe the ninja was at work. Doing what our police are too scared or too corrupt to do. Taking care of crime. But I have no proof. It’s all conjecture and hearsay. Or at least it was.

Believers . . . I saw the ninja with my own eyes.

I happened to be downtown resolving a minor disagreement I had with the police. When suddenly I heard the sound of a jet engine. It was so close I thought a seven forty-seven was about to land on my head. I looked up at the great big blue and saw . . . I don’t know what I saw, a plane? Helicopter? Either way it was some kind of ship, a huge ship with guns and missiles hanging from its black bat-like wings. It shot a missile into Police Headquarters and blasted a hole so big you could make another Lincoln tunnel. Turns out that wall was the office to his majesty himself, the police commissioner, Patrick Gates.

From the size of the explosion, I thought the NYPD would be under new management. Then lo and behold, from out of nowhere this woman flew into headquarters like Tarzan on a vine. She was decked out from head to toe in silver bling, looking like a mirror darting through the air. She went in, slung his majesty over her shoulders, and jumped out before his office ate another rocket.

I pressed the big red record button on my phone faster than lightning. And I tried believers, I really tried to get footage of the whole thing, but technology failed me. I uploaded the file to my website, link in the description, but you’re only going to see a strange static. Personally, I think she has some kind of jamming equipment because my phone worked fine when I went home to tinker with my toys.

I know this makes me sound like a false prophet but believe me, I was there, I saw her with my own eyes.

I ran ten to fifteen blocks trying to keep up with the action, but these old bones ain’t as limber as they used to be. Eventually, I caught up and I saw this woman shoot down the ship with some kind of cannon attached to her forearm. The explosion from her gun nearly knocked me off my feet. Believers, I have never seen this kind of technology before. I couldn’t tell if she was an alien from outer space or a super soldier from the future. All I know is that she swatted that fly and then came after the pilots like a spider to its supper.

If this is some kind of corporate marketing stunt, it’s a really good one.

But I don’t think it was a marketing stunt because I found out that the pilot was none other than billionaire golden boy Raymond Levreux and his co-pilot, which was the most surprising of all, was America’s Most Wanted, Ned Pickler. I guess Wall Street really is full of crooks.

Listen believers, I’m not going to lie because I cannot tell a lie. I was more than a little pissed that my footage turned to snow. In an age of fake news, foreign hackers, and mongoloids spreading misinformation, it’s important to bring proof with the truth. Without it, all we have is someone’s ill-informed opinion. I failed you this time, but I’ll try to find proof, somehow.

Before we wrap, I have some questions for y’all:

Number one, why would Raymond Levreux, the richest man in the world, be partnered up with a criminal like Ned Pickler? Raymond . . . owned . . . everything. I can’t imagine the feds would ignore his criminal associations and let his vice president take over. But at the same time, Credit Guard has the most market shares in the entire world, I should know because I’m also a member. How’s the destruction of First Continental going to affect us?

Number two, how quickly do you think someone is going to find out who’s under that chrome plated mask? Is she a sister in disguise, a visitor from another planet, or a terminator getting ready to enslave us all? If she’s human, who made her suit? Was it created at the technology conference in Javits where the mayor was almost assassinated? I still wonder what went down on that bitter winter night. I also think it’s a weird coincidence the Ninja showed up a few months later.

Maybe someone should do a gobble search on Jonas Ames and see what that cat’s hiding.

Number three, a listener emailed me and said there was a red ninja being taken out of First Continental before the building collapsed in Midtown. Like I said, I don’t have the proof, but I’d be interested to know if we have two ninjas stalking the streets.

If any of you see or hear about the ninja, I want to hear about it. I need to know who this woman is. Is she a cop? A soldier? A security guard? Where’d she get that suit? Did she steal it from the technology conference? I need to know her origin story. What sort of lab accident turned her into that muscle bound silver killing machine? Send me those digital letters, and hit me up on the social medias, The Truth Knows All. Shout out to my homies, Cashmere, Ghostface, B-Block, Smoke, and all y’all brothers and sisters. You want to meet real people? Get off that island and come to the outer boroughs. East Brooklyn is where it’s at.

Holla at y’all later.

Peace n’ love –The Truth

Prologue: Across the Rio Grande

Octavio Madrazo stood at the edge of the mighty Rio Grande with his daughter Valencia hoisted in his arms. He squinted across the calm waters of the river and gazed longingly into the land of freedom known as Texas. Earlier that day, after hitching a ride on the back of a dusty old pickup truck, he and his daughter arrived at the port of entry into the United States at Matamoros. He waited, standing shoulder to shoulder with migrants from across the narrow swath of Central America. Immigrants from El Salvador, Honduras, Nicaragua, Guatemala, Mexico, and every land between the tip of Argentina to the borders of New Mexico, all stood under the sweltering sun for a chance to be granted asylum into the United States of America.

Families gathered around the chain link fence with what little belongings they had, envious of the vehicles with American license plates passing through the border without conflict. While mothers bounced their three-year-olds in their stout arms, unaccompanied children stood in line with nothing but Jimmy the Mouse backpacks and a perpetually frightened look in their eyes. Uniformed border patrol officers walked up and down the ingestion lines with polarized sunglasses covering their apathetic eyes. They held onto their belts and told racist jokes while migrants huddled under the pitiful shade of a narrow metal overhang.

This was a far cry from the peaceful, idyllic life he lived on the coast of El Salvador. There, he lived on a beach and owned a clothing shop specializing in swimwear for American tourists. After work, he would take his family to the beach and swim in the ocean until sunset. On Friday nights, he would give his wife a break from cooking, and they would go out to local restaurants to eat pupusas, tamales, and ceviche. He didn’t know it, but his life was the envy of every hardworking American in the United States. One day, on an ordinary Tuesday afternoon, the restaurant that sold pupusas burned to the ground.

The next day, the dry-cleaning shop next to his store was boarded up and tagged with graffiti from the Thirteen Saints. On the third day, a man ran towards his store as if his life depended on it. Three gunshots later, he fell face first and stained Octavio’s floor with blood. Octavio was so taken aback by his death; it didn’t seem real. He thought it was the mutterings of an overactive imagination. The police came, asked their questions, and left.

A week later, a Thirteen Saints gang member approached him while he was hanging swimwear. He told Octavio it was his turn to pay the protection fee. Three hundred dollars a week. Octavio reluctantly agreed. At the end of every Friday, instead of date night, he would hand the hoodlum an envelope full of hard-earned cash. And when the tourists didn’t show, he borrowed money from friends and family.

This agreement continued for several months until a gang war between the DeMarcos Cartel and the Thirteen Saints erupted. The enforcer for the Thirteen Saints returned to Octavio’s store and told him the price was now six hundred dollars a week. He paid the fee, but the price increased again. Seven hundred, eight hundred, one thousand, and finally a bank breaking three thousand dollars a week. Octavio tried to explain he had never seen that kind of money. Three thousand dollars wasn’t even possible on a good week. All he could offer was eight hundred dollars.

The enforcer happily took Octavio’s life savings, smiled, and told him the fee was paid in full. Octavio rejoiced in gratitude while secretly conspiring to get away from the Thirteen Saints for good. The next day, Octavio prepared to go to work as usual. He got on his bike, put his daughter in the child seat, and rode towards the ocean. Yet, as he drew closer to the sand, he could tell something was wrong. The air tasted of carbon and the sky was tinted a queer dark grey. As he drew closer, he could hear the roar of fire. His eyes stung from smoke. The straw hut he had spent years trying to grow was aflame, its thatched roof collapsed unto itself in a fury of flame and embers. Perched atop a pile of soiled swimwear like a rotten jack-o-lantern was the decapitated head of his wife. A note stuck to her head warned that if he didn’t pay the three thousand dollars next week, his daughter would be next.

So, he did what any sensible person would do. He ran. He grabbed what little belongings he had left, packed as much of his daughter’s supplies as he could carry, and left paradise behind. He rode his trusty little motorbike until there was nothing in the tank but fumes. He hitchhiked on dirt roads and crossed borders by hiding in the engines of semi-trucks. He sacrificed the country he loved, the language he spoke, the family he had, all to have a future. This was the same story shared by the tens of thousands asylum seekers from neighboring countries. He joined the mass exodus like everyone else, waiting months to be processed for entry into the United States. And in that arduously long span of time, no one had been allowed in. If it weren’t for the volunteers of a nearby church, he and his daughter would have starved to death at the foot of the gate.

Then, as if sent by God himself, a man from the U.S. Customs and Border agency approached Octavio. For five hundred dollars and an additional two hundred for his daughter, this man promised to put Octavio at the front of the line. Seven hundred dollars was all that stood between him and a chance at living a life free of cartels. But the trip from El Salvador to Mexico had left him penniless. Octavio promised to pay after getting a job in the U.S. The officer shrugged and told him, Too bad, bud. No dinero, no America. Comprendé? The officer walked away to another family like a pan handler and offered a similar deal.

Holding Valencia in his arms, Octavio walked to the banks of the Rio Grande (Rio Del Norte as it was known south of the border). He stared across the calm water into the lush green vegetation sprinkled on the other side of the river. With his experience swimming out of riptides on the coast, Octavio convinced himself he could swim across. But one look at the great expanse of water left him feeling unease.

He kissed Valencia’s forehead and asked if she wanted to go for a swim. Valencia giggled and poked his nose. He kicked off his shoes and tip toed around the jagged rocks surrounding the riverbank. He stepped into the water and felt his toes go numb. The current was gentle and lacked the strength of the mighty Pacific Ocean. He smiled excitedly at the prospect of calm waters. With Texas squarely ahead, Octavio knew what had to be done.

He imagined what life would be like in the United States. He had heard stories of immigrants becoming successful business owners in New York City, like the man who made his fortune selling roasted nuts. Maybe he could get a job working at a clothing store or maybe he could move to a beach town and set up his own shop. He knew it would be hard at first. That he and Valencia would struggle for a little while, but his cousin Curly lived in America. If anyone could help, he could. He stretched out the neck of his t-shirt and squeezed Valencia’s head through the hole creating a makeshift baby sling.

The child pushed against his face and told him no. Octavio told her they were going for a short swim like back home. He poured water over her head and tried to convince her the water was nice and refreshing. She started to cry and hit him on the head as hard as she could, but he was already knee-deep in river water. He kissed her chubby cheeks and told her to hold onto his neck as he waded through cold current. He gripped Valencia tight against his body and continued until he was waist deep.

He made the sign of the cross and muttered a short prayer. With God’s blessing, Octavio pushed off from the shallow end and kicked his legs into deep water. He swam sideways with one arm while the other held onto his precious little human. He swam farther and farther away from the Mexican shoreline with his eyes solely focused on U.S. sands.

He didn’t want to say goodbye to his life in El Salvador or to his wife, God rest her soul. He wanted to stay in his country and live the life he loved, but he couldn’t let the Thirteen Saints hurt his daughter. As he approached the half-way mark across the river, he smiled knowing that freedom was just a little bit farther.

He kept paddling forward, defiant against the resistance of river current. Valencia remained quiet, too frightened to whine or cry. It was if by instinct she knew now was not the time to distract her father. Rogue waves splashed against their faces and entered the child’s throat. She choked in his arms. Octavio smacked her back while simultaneously trying to keep her