Apple Hill: Two sisters face off against a Boston drug kingpin, a French drug lord, the Columbian Cartel and a Turkish hit man to save their neighborhood from the onslaught of drugs and crime.

Apple Hill: Crime

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EXCERPT: Apple Hill

Perpignan, Southern France

Noel Renard sat deep within a cushioned chair on the balcony of his chateau; an umbrella shaded his baldness from the afternoon brilliance. He wore an open pale blue shirt displaying a gold chain hanging from his neck, the medallion lost in a sea of white chest hair. A slight paunch touched his khaki shorts removing traces of a younger, athletic form, a form nearing mid- sixties.

He peered with pride at the vast orchard rolling over his estate and relaxed, crossing his ankles, allowing thin, tanned legs to stretch out in front of him. He sipped from a flute of chilled Dom Perignon Rose as he thought how the orchard glowed with color in the warm Mediterranean sunlight. It seemed alive with a gentle breeze caressing the tree canopies, moving them in a ballet of dance.

Renard savored the champagne flowing down his gullet, and then smiled. Without blinking he spoke to his security chief he knew to be nearby. “Look, you see?”

The man, a former Legionnaire, came from behind Renard and stood by the edge of the balcony. He had a shaved head, with dark reflector glasses matching dark trousers and shirt. He retained an unshakeable devotion to his profession and scanned the scene before them, observing every detail with the same intensity of a commando. Finding all in order, he answered, “I see nothing, Monsieur.”

Renard grinned, nodding in agreement,“How can I expect my trusted bodyguard to envision what potential lies at my feet, oui, Armand?”

Armand leaned against the iron railing encompassing the balcony. He unconsciously felt the bulge of the automatic against his hip then folded his hands together in front of him, comfortable yet at the ready.

“Monsieur?” Armand replied. Renard sipped from his flute enjoying the tingle of its taste then smiled, never taking his eyes from his trees.

“Cork oak, my forest of beautiful cork oak,” Renard said with a sweep of his hand, and then sipped again from the flute. “It’s my heritage, Armand, my present and my future. Supplying the world’s finest wineries with my cork, oui?”

Armand remained watching the treetops sway in the afternoon breeze as he thought of Renard. You’re a fucking international drug dealer, a lord of selling death, head of a worldwide Cartel. Your future, you insane maniac, lies in prison.

Armand wished his mission were over. He detested the time away from his wife and child, but recalled the Code of the French Foreign Legion: A mission once given becomes sacred to you, and you will accomplish it to the end, at all costs.

Renard continued, his voice calm and sure, cocky of his existence, “We French have certain, how you say, panache. Oui,panache, for the wine making.”

Armand nodded in agreement, “Oui, monsieur, oui.”

“Panache,” Renard repeated, contently raising the flute to his lips.

Armand’s ears perked when he heard the sound of tires rolling upon the estates crushed stone drive. He peered over the side of the balcony where two vehicles slowed to a halt beside the chateau staff ready to greet the travelers.

Armand watched the doors open allowing two men to exit the lead Mercedes; one displaying a bald head, the other always a white baseball cap. Armand recognized them instantly as Mateo and Julio, security for the Columbian Cartel liaison called Andre. Neither bothered to look up.I could kill them easily, Armand thought.

Each took a defensive position to the larger sedan and each held a visible automatic weapon near the rear door of a second Mercedes. It opened, allowing a dark haired man to exit. He stood straight, taking in the ambiance of the chateau, tugged on the sleeve of his light green shirt, placed on sunglasses and then glanced up.

Armand showed a smug grin as Andre pointed with his hand resembling a gun, lowering the thumb as if firing and smiled exposing two gold front teeth.

“The guest have arrived, Monsieur,” Armand reported politely.

“See they are made comfortable,” Renard said coolly, his vision glued to a nearby gull testing inland haunts for scrap morsels. “We will let them wait until I am ready to conduct business.”

Renard returned to the flute, sipping until it emptied. His free hand waved back and forth as a conductor’s wand leading the moving treetops in dance. He whispered, “Panache… panache.”

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