Queen of belize, p.1
Queen of Belize, page 1
Queen of Belize
Book 4 of the Queens of the Castle Series
Aiken Ponder
Words to Ponder Publishing
Contents
Dedication
Prologue
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 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Epilogue
About The Queens Of The Castle Series
80 Days of Pleasure
About the Author
Copyright Page
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Queen of Belize
Text copyright @ 2021 by Words to Ponder Publishing Company, LLC
Cover Design by Woodson Creative Studio.
First Print
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States and other countries throughout the world. Although inspired by actual events, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed are fictitious. No identification with real persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, or products are intended or should be inferred.
All rights reserved. No part of this book, or the characters within it, may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, Words to Ponder Publishing Company, LLC, except by reviewer, who may quote passages in a review.
Address inquiries to Words to Ponder Publishing Company, LLC
eBook ISBN: 978-7358795-8-1
Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-941328-58-3
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Words to Ponder Publishing Company, LLC
Printed in the United States of America
For more information, visit https://www.florenza.org or
https://www.wordstoponderpublishing.com.
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I dedicate this book to my husband, best friend, and soulmate, my Papa Bear. To my children, Jessica, and Missy, who are my first and loudest cheerleaders. To family and friends, who are my most incredible supporters. To Naleighna Kai and the NK Tribe Called Success for taking me under your wing and teaching this bird to soar. To Stephanie M. Freeman, my “drink and two-step” partner in crime. To my editors, who take the broken pieces of my words and ensure they are woven together in such a fashion, they create an amazing literary tapestry. To the beta readers who dedicate countless hours to be the first set of eyes to partake of the deliciousness of this story. And to you, the reader, for your encouragement and support of the magnificent gift of writing given to me by God.
Dedication
I dedicate this book to my husband, best friend, and soulmate, my Papa Bear. To my children, Jessica, and Missy, who are my first and loudest cheerleaders. To family and friends, who are my most incredible supporters.
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To Naleighna Kai and the NK Tribe Called Success for taking me under your wing and teaching this bird to soar. To Stephanie M. Freeman, my “drink and two-step” partner in crime. To my editors, who takes the broken pieces of my words, ensuring they are woven together in such a fashion, they create a beautiful tapestry.
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To the beta readers who dedicate countless hours to be the first set of eyes to partake of the deliciousness of this story. To JL Campbell for embracing me during this project and helping my light to not dim. I appreciate you so very much. And to you, the reader, for your encouragement and support of the beautiful gift of writing given to me by God.
Prologue
“Don’t kill her,” he begged as his hands went up, and the unmistakable stench of fear permeated the air. “Please … let me live.”
Robert’s eyes bulged to the point of nearly popping out of the sockets and ricocheting across the living room floor. His amber skin was ashen with terror. “You don’t have to do this.”
With each tearful plea, he inched ever so slightly to the left.
“Do you really think I’m that stupid?” Her lips curled over her upper teeth. Within nanoseconds, she was in his face spitting out each word. Dirty fingernails chewed down to nubs gripped the handle of the M5. “I know what you’re trying to do.”
Ironically, the weapon had been a Christmas gift from him.
The thought that he once loved the demon in a meat-suit now standing before him, masquerading as a human, caused bile to rise in the back of his throat and nearly choke him.
How could someone who’d once taken his breath away now want to end his life?
“I know what you’re doing.” She instantly became judge and jury of his actions. “Dumb ass. I helped you to retrofit the curio to hold the weapons.”
She kicked several empty moving boxes out of the way as she stomped over and yanked open the top drawer. “Ah, the .38 Special on steroids. It’s still loaded just like I left it.” She thrust the Smith and Wesson .357 Magnum revolver into her belted waistband. “You won’t be needing this.”
Robert immediately dropped to his knees, laced his fingers together, and swayed from side to side trying to contain the excruciating emotional pain. “Why’re you doing this?” His throat was on fire. Vocal cords felt as though they were being sliced with a white-hot sword. At that moment, he didn’t exude the swagger that accompanied being the youngest Black attorney with Appleman, Greenhagen, and Einhorn, LLP; Robert sounded like a television commercial that warned about the dangers of nicotine. “You already killed my father,” he moaned.
“Daddy,” Ivy Davidson bellowed over her shoulder, loud enough for her voice to carry into the adjacent room. “Show the good attorney that we mean business with his lady friend.”
Rahul Perez’s soiled, steel-toe boots trudged along the hand-scraped teakwood floors. Heavy steps left thick, black scuff marks in his path.
Bam! The bathroom door splintered as it flew completely off the hinges. It bounced against the wall and shattered on the floor removing the sole source of protection for his new bride.
Robert collapsed to the rug, protesting, “She never did anything to you. Please don’t take this out on her. Our marriage was over long before—”
“Before what?” she seethed. “Before you tried to steal my babies? Or when you left me homeless?” Ivy jammed the barrel of the gun so deeply into his left temple, droplets of blood dripped down his face and onto the collar of the linen shirt, instantly turning the white fabric bright red.
He leaped to his feet and lunged at her, attempting to snatch the weapon but lost his footing. His chin smacked against the floor as he went face down. Ivy struck his head with such force, his teeth rattled. The droplets of blood became a river and gushed uncontrollably. His left eye swelled shut, and his head began to pound.
Urine drenched his organic cotton khaki shorts, saturating the hand-woven Persian rug.
Her nose wrinkled as she sniffed. “Daddy,” she shouted. “The son of a bitch pissed himself.” Her laughter was maniacal. “I should kill you right now but witnessing your pain is so much sweeter.” She stooped and stared him in the eye. “And, trust me, you will lose everything!”
She whispered in his ear, “Where are my manners?” Her hot, putrid breath invaded his nostrils. “You shouldn’t be having all this fun without your fiancé, now, should you?”
She shouted into the next room, “Kick her in the face, Daddy.”
Blood-curdling screams reverberated throughout the spacious rooms and bounced off priceless African artifacts. In a previous life, the statues had witnessed unspeakable carnage. Robert brought the relics home from his many excursions in hope that they’d find solace. He had freed them, but who was going to rescue him?
The faint sound of police sirens rang in the distance. “Dammit, Daddy! Get it over with.” A string of saliva defied gravity as it dribbled off her chin. “Just put a bullet to the back of her head.”
Rahul Perez pulled the trigger of the Glock 19 and fired just as the Westminster Quarters in the grandfather clock marked seven o’clock. Robert’s screams exploded from a place so deep within his soul that his heart shattered into a thousand pieces.
“You are next,” Ivy warned.
Robert looked up through tears as the bright light of the muzzle flashed nanoseconds before the bullet ripped through his chest. He never saw the second, third, or fourth shot. Robert Davidson fell dead on the floor he had laid with his own hands.
Chapter One
The excitement from the live audience was electrifying. The buzz of voices rose and fell as camera operators spoke through earbuds to a broadcast technician backstage. Spotlights were adjusted, and makeup artists dashed to the stage, brushes, lipstick, and powder in hand to make the host and guest look their very best.
“Ms. Eituk.” A young lady wearing a huge afro held up a makeup brush. Her flawless skin and radiant smile reminded Naysa of a younger version of the American actress Rutina Wesley. She loved her character in the gritty drama True Blood. “May I?”
“Of course,” Naysa replied. “You’re the exp
“Thank you for those very kind words,” she said.
Thirty seconds later, the director put up two fingers, followed by one, then pointed to the reporter. His paisley necktie was loose at the collar of a coffee-stained, wrinkled white shirt. “And we’ll begin in five, four, three.”
The host’s red curls bounced as she spoke into the lapel microphone. The black silk blouse accented her ample bosom when she leaned forward. “Thank you for tuning in as we interview ordinary people who are doing extraordinary things. Joining us today is Ms. Naysa Eituk.”
The camera panned to Naysa, and she looked through the lens as if she was face to face with the television audience.
“Ms. Eituk has exciting news she’d like to share with us,” the reporter announced.
Connecting with the people was Naysa’s superpower. As a citizen, she was in touch with the concerns of Belizeans. This brought high praises from most, but not all. Her ears were tuned in to those who’d lost their voice. She boldly spoke what they feared to whisper.
The reporter fingered a stray curl and placed it behind her ear. “But first, we have the weather updates from meteorologist John Kressley.” She turned her head slightly to the left. “Take it away, John.”
“Thank you, Vanya. Happy Independence Day, everyone.” He clicked the handheld device which controlled the images that only appeared on the monitor situated offstage. As he spoke about the heatwave forecasted next week, many audience members never took their eyes off Naysa.
“That’s the report for the next ten days,” he said. “We’ll return following this short commercial break.”
While the meteorologist chattered on, Naysa glanced at Ian, positioned at the far end of the room. The suit perfectly hugged his six-foot four-inch muscular frame. He sat quietly, observing everyone. Seven other well-built men in identical tailor-made suits were scattered throughout the audience. They were recently redirected from their duties at the Castle to protect Naysa and Luiza. Naysa’s vehement protests that she was more than capable of providing her own security fell on deaf ears. After an unknown assailant shot into their residence, Khalil Germaine, her godfather, and head of the Castle, overrode her objections. To her dismay, Ian Richardson was sent.
Godfather, did you have to send him? It could’ve been anyone but him.
Today, they were on elevated alert. The number of those in attendance was higher than the information given during the briefing. Plus, those in opposition to Naysa’s mission never rested from their protests and attempts at sabotage.
Naysa panned the audience, then connected with Ian’s steel-blue eyes and raised an eyebrow.
Ian nodded, a sure sign he’d made a mental note to check into the inconsistency.
Naysa praised her security team daily for allowing her to stay visible while at the same time feeling protected. The hardest adjustment she’d had to make in her drive to rebuild and protect the coral reefs was being constantly surrounded by men carrying guns. She dared not complain. Especially not to the very ones who stood between her and a bullet. She wished someone had been as diligent for her mother.
Maybe she wouldn’t have ended up in a wheelchair because of a crazed female bent on revenge. Thank God she’d made it through the horror of that attempt on her life. Her father hadn’t been as lucky.
Chapter Two
After the thirty-second break, a young man in a white polo shirt with the station’s logo carried a microphone to an older female situated on the front row.
She cleared her throat then folded a slip of paper she’d been reading before speaking. “Ms. Eituk, I’ve heard a major cruise line is developing on one of our islands and plans to divert tourists there rather than to our southern shores.”
A chorus of whispers rose from the audience.
In a strident tone, she added, “Our island depends upon those tourist dollars.”
The stage assistant attempted to pull the microphone away, but she raised her index finger, indicating she wasn’t done with her question.
Ian took a few steps forward and stood beneath the elevated cameraman’s chair.
“If a new port does develop, what can be done to ensure they don’t divert all ships there instead of here?” She then relinquished the microphone with a sharp nod, emboldened by the applause and pats on the back as she reclaimed the seat.
“Thank you for your question,” Naysa responded, watching Ian move from the center of the aisle to sit a row behind the woman. “I didn’t get your name.”
She blinked several times rapidly then chewed the inside of her lower lip. “Angel,” she finally said. “Angelica Norman.”
“Ah, Messenger of God,” Naysa said, acknowledging the meaning of her name. “Ms. Norman. I’m mindful that development has begun on one of our smaller islands. Please know, this will not hinder—”
“We’ll be back in five, four, three,” the announcer said as he counted down his fingers. When he got to one, he pointed to the reporter.
“Welcome back,” Vanya said in a voice that had been perfected from hours of training. Focusing on Naysa, she said, “You have achieved a lot in terms of your education.”
She listed Naysa’s qualifications, which included a master’s degree in Rural Development from the University of Sussex, England, and a bachelor’s degree in Anthropology from Trinity University in Texas.
“That’s correct,” Naysa interjected. “And don’t forget, I also hold a BS in Nursing.”
“That’s impressive,” Vanya said. “You’ve dedicated time to study the culture, history, and indigenous rights of the people of this island. You’ve worked with the Belizean Studies task force and authored several books that are now used nationwide in secondary schools. Correct?”
Nods of appreciation came from the audience.
“You did your homework, Vanya. I’m indeed impressed.” Naysa gave her a smile.
Vanya straightened in her seat and spoke directly into the microphone. “While on break, Ms. Eituk graciously took a question from a member of the audience.
“For those not in the studio, it involved tourist dollars being diverted to a new port.” She looked at Angelica. “And time ran out before Ms. Eituk could respond fully. I wonder if you might like to address it now?”
“I appreciate the opportunity.” Gazing into the camera, Naysa said, “I’m certain that if there is such a new port, it’ll employ hundreds of Belizeans.” She held up one hand to stem the rumble of dissenting voices. “It will also include some who are not originally from our shores. I’m also mindful that with each ship that comes to port, tourist dollars follow.” She paused to allow her words to sink in. “My position has been, and continues to be, seeking out ways we can protect our land so that future generations may enjoy our way of life as well as creating a safe, pleasurable experience for our more than two million a year visitors.”
“When you say protect, does that mean you want to do away with cruise ships?” Heads turned in multiple directions in search of the source of the inquiry. No one immediately claimed ownership of the question.
“Not at all,” Naysa countered. “It’s possible to protect the land and our way of life.”
She watched as Ian glanced over his shoulder when her assistant, Amara Robinson, abruptly stood and stormed out of the studio, all while texting. Her flawless caramel skin was flushed, a sure sign of worry.
