Was sitting in front of the boob tube late last night when the itch hit me ... a new beginning for my second novel in the Viktor Orlov series: The Asylum. I'm introducing a new character that gets repeat performances and maybe even a series of her own. She's an integral part of the second book which takes place in Kiev, Ukraine and Grozny, Chechnya, Russian Federation. My first attempt was too violent and hard for a typical reader to connect with the character. She's dark but not that dark ...
Anyway, the juices started flowing so I went to retrieve the old MacBook and started pounding. An hour later I finished what you can read below. This is pretty raw with just a few passes to rub out the rough spots but I'm already smitten with it. This is how I wanted to introduce her ... in action and loving life. How much it changes before the story ends.
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The young woman squeezed her knees against the gas tank as she slalomed the small dirt bike along the pothole-strewn street that angled toward the city's center. She was in a hurry and way behind schedule. The sun was already past its zenith and she had too many deliveries to make before the day's end.
Approaching a busy cross street, she slowed her momentum slightly, timing her entry to take advantage of a small opening between careening cars. She was an impatient type, unwilling to wait even a few moments for a favorable advantage. There was another reason not to wait; she was afraid of being overtaken or driven off the road by someone bent on inflicting harm. There were those who didn't agree with her chosen profession or her loose allegiances.
The little Kawasaki KX100 screamed as she pushed the engine to its redline, weaving in and out of the chaotic traffic approaching the center of Grozny. Her head swiveled left and right as she neared each cross street where she repeated the deft maneuvering to take advantage of breaks in the incessant flow of traffic. Only a sure hand and vast experience made these insane moves possible.
She thought lovingly about the little lime green motorcycle, her one remaining connection to her murdered father. She remembered squeezing the little gas tank between her outstretched arms as he sliced the tall grass at top speed. She'd scream with joy as they careened over the loose dirt and mud, the knobby tires throwing small missiles that stung her tiny face and exposed arms. He'd laugh and scream with her; a shared connection only a father and daughter could understand.
Deep melancholy sweep her body as she once again though about the powerful presence that had been ripped so violently from her life. She could still smell his foul Russian cigarettes, the cheap cologne and pungent sausage that permeated his clothes and skin. She'd grown so accustomed to his lingering scent that it had taken years for the odors to fade from her memory. Now they were just faint whispers that tickled her emotions whenever she thought about what had been lost.
There wasn't time for her to give into the welling emotions, as another frantic driver cut her off from her preferred line. She fought the fishtailing cycle while simultaneously planting her heavy, booted foot firmly into the soft sheet metal of the offending car, leaving a noticeable dent where once smooth paint had shown brightly. The driver slammed on his brakes, ready for a confrontation but she didn't falter in her drive to build distance from the showdown. Before he could exit the front seat she was gone, a cloud of blue smoke all that remained of her little conveyance.
She punched the air and let out a loud "Whoop" as the adrenalin rush pushed her body to the extreme. She loved the wind in her face and the high-speed vibration of the tiny engine pounding between her thighs. Flying through town on her little rocket was better than sex, better than almost anything. It was freedom with a capital "F" and she wouldn't give it up for the world. Those who'd tried in the past had thought better of their intentions after she finished with them. There was something about a baseball bat and soft tissue that left a lasting impression. She'd learned that from her father too.
As she approached the city's center she could see the changes wrought by the Russians and their Chechen puppet, Ramzan Kadyrov. Putin had spent billions remaking the ruined capital into a showplace. Bombed out buildings and destroyed streets were transformed into shiny edifices, broad boulevards and even a world-class mosque. But it was all a cheap facade, unable to cover the real rot eating at the population. The revolution had been crushed but the war was not over. The defeated warriors simply retreated to the high, inaccessible mountains where they waged a low-level but still deadly gorilla campaign. Nothing had really changed since the war's end in 2000.
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