Jonathon Marcel’s debut novel is an epic crime story of a young coed who gets involved in organized crime. Action packed with gritty, cynical characters you won’t forget. Get ready to take a roller coaster ride on the noirish side of college life in this original, hard-boiled story inspired by actual events.

Gangland meets new adult!

Rochelle Donovan is preparing to leave her rural-Kentucky home for Ohio State University when her father’s sudden death leaves the family in dire straits. To save the family from financial ruin, Rochelle and her lover, Chris Porter, take over her father’s small criminal operation, and one conspiracy soon leads to another. After getting in bed with a Russian exchange student, Rochelle discovers she has landed in the middle of a mob war for control of the one thing she has to offer.

Meanwhile, the FBI is closing in on Russian smuggling, a DEA FAST team led by Agent Kelly Reed has tracked a drug cartel to the streets of Columbus, Ohio, and the ATF are just steps away from ensnaring the Ghost of Appalachia. The three agencies have now joined forces to stop the lawlessness, and they’re all noticing an otherwise unknown coed at every turn.

Torn between two lovers, Rochelle is about to lose everything, including her life. She faces her greatest trial when the bloodstained streets of Columbus go on lockdown, and graduating takes on a new meaning.

Prologue

SHE WASN’T DEAD. Lost, maybe, but that was still to be determined. Twenty-two was too young to be lost.

Rochelle Donovan stared bloodshot out the fifth-floor window of the library in the U.S. Southern District Courthouse. The past couple of weeks in Columbus, Ohio, had been more trying on her than the summer her father died.

A cool November fog rolled in off the Scioto River. It was unusual seeing fog this late in the day, but Rochelle was no stranger to fog. It was a regular visitor among the Appalachian foothills surrounding her Ashland, Kentucky, home, and she hated how disaster always seemed to follow with it.

She wiped her sweaty palms on her skirt then folded her arms tight to her chest. “What’s taking the jury so long?” She glanced at her watch, not realizing she had surpassed thirty hours without sleep.

Movement drew Rochelle’s focus to the far banks of the Scioto. She could barely make out a freight train passing down the track through the dense fog.

A pigeon nesting on the ledge stared in at her.

Her focus drew back to her reflection in the window. Even now, stressed and tired, she had exquisite beauty. Her chic business attire complimented her figure to the point most men in the courtroom were unable to keep their eyes off her. It had often been that way with the boys at school. Whether this was a blessing or a condemnation, her lawyer, James Bowers, had yet to ascertain. Usually it didn’t bother her. She had always relished the attention until now.

An Armani skirt just reached the top of her knees, hugging her shapely hips and thighs. Sheer nylons blanketed her long lean legs, while stiletto heels drew out the lines of her calves and emphasized her curves. A tailor-fitted blouse amplified the fullness of her breasts, and emerald earrings complimented her outfit, with a simple barrette holding her shoulder-length brown hair in place.

Her Mexican mother had blessed her with a fabulous body. Her light complexion, inherited from her African-American father, added the perfect touch to her physical attributes. Where she got her green eyes remained a mystery.

Rochelle tried not to think about which way the jury was leaning. Nonetheless, she replayed each day of the trial in her mind, searching for some unassailable assurance.

The pigeon flew off the window ledge, fluttering its wings against the glass and breaking Rochelle’s train of thought.

A court officer appeared in the library. “Mr. Bowers, Ms. Donovan, the jury is back.”

James Bowers acknowledged the court officer with a nod. He stood and slipped his suit jacket onto his six-three frame, then straightened his tie.

“Rochelle, it’s time. Take a moment to gather yourself.”

She forced a smile as if to say, “Okay.” Seven months on bond, two weeks in trial, a day and a half deliberating, and now she was out of time. She took one more look out the window at the Scioto. The fog was disappearing as quickly as it had rolled in.

A tear swelled in her tired eyes. “Let’s get this over with.” She popped a chunk of chocolate into her mouth and chased it down with a can of orange juice, hoping to calm her nerves.

The moment she entered the courtroom, Rochelle attempted to surmise the verdict in the body language of those in the gallery. It felt like a good time to squirrel away, but there was nowhere to run. Fortunately, she found enough willpower in the commanding persona of Bowers to stand bravely for the next few minutes.

Reporters lined the back wall.

Rochelle’s mother lagged in the front row just behind the defense table, gripping a photo of a five-year-old Rochelle hamming it up with her father. With her were several of Rochelle’s hometown friends who had made the trip to show their support.

Assistant District Attorney Melanie Cochran entered the courtroom as apprehensive as Rochelle was. Behind Cochran followed ATF Special Agent Laurent Daniels, who for twenty years had chased the Donovan-family moonshine all across the Kentucky-West Virginia border.

Daniels worked his way through the gallery and took a seat next to DEA Special Agent Kelly Reed and two members of her FAST team.

Rochelle scanned the rest of the gallery; her eyes darted everywhere for any sign of Mikel, hoping if she saw his sweet face she’d wake from this wretched dream.

The bailiff positioned himself at the front of the courtroom and bellowed out, “All rise. This court is back in session, the Honorable Francis Ellen Smith presiding.”

Judge Smith took her place at the bench. “Bailiff, show in the jury.”

After the jury took their seats, Judge Smith issued instructions to everyone in the courtroom and then addressed the foreperson. “Has the jury reached a verdict?”

“We have, your Honor.”

“The defendant will rise.”

Rochelle stood with her lawyer. Shaking and gasping, she smoothed out her skirt and blouse ready for judgment.

“As to count one, murder in the first degree of Mexican national, Damon Ochoa, how does the jury find?”

Rochelle pressed her sweaty palms together and squeezed her eyes shut.

 “We find the defendant, Rochelle Maria Donovan...”

Chapter 1

Four Years Earlier
THE BLUE WRANGLER cruised along I-64 with its three passengers at an exhilarating seventy-five miles per hour, slipping in and out of the light traffic. Beyonce blared from the jeep’s stereo with the three soon-to-be graduates singing along as if they were on stage with the diva herself.

The warmth of the spring sun beamed down on their bodies giving them their first tan of the year. Smiles stretched across their faces with no cares in the world.

It was their time.

“I can’t believe we’re back from visiting colleges already,” Leah Marquette said, with her jet-black hair blowing in the wind. “We should’ve stayed for that frat party.”

Jennifer O’Dwyer kept her souped-up jeep pointed toward home. “Relax. A couple more senior parties and we graduate, and then we’re outta here!” Her white Elton John sunglasses hid her blue eyes from the blinding sun.

“I don’t mind being back,” Rochelle said, standing in the back of the jeep, leaning against the roll bar. “I’m going to miss home.” She tilted her head back to absorb the rays.

“Sit down before you fall out or get me pulled over.”

“I still can’t believe you applied to every college in the Midwest,” Leah said.

“I like coming home and scouring the mailbox for admission letters.”

Jennifer bit off a strand of Twizzler candy. “I would too if I had your GPA. You’re wicked smart in math, and it’s not fair you get college credit for speaking Spanish fluently without taking a single class.”

“That’s the benefit of being half-Hispanic. I get to milk it for everything it’s worth.”

“It also doesn’t hurt that your mom is a school teacher,” Leah quipped.

Rochelle barked out in laughter. “You guys, quit hating on me. All those letters make me feel like everyone in the world knows me and wants me to come live with them.”

“You’re such a goof. I’ll give you three months before you’re crying about missing home.”

Home was the Donovan-family farm that encompassed two hundred acres outside Ashland on the borders of Ohio and West Virginia. Rows of corn stretched across eighty acres, a large pond covered five more, and another five had been cleared for their house, outbuildings, and grain silo. Small woodlots and fields made up the remaining acreage. Deer and turkey moved freely across the farm and neighboring properties. A small forest provided cover for the Big Sandy River flowing behind the farm.

Jennifer steered the Wrangler into Rochelle’s gravel driveway just in front of an oncoming matte-gray Chevy Silverado belonging to the Donovan’s farmhand, Chris Porter.

Louise Donovan waved to them from the front porch. “Hola, amigas!”

Jennifer and Leah waved back. “Hola, Señora Donovan!”

Rochelle jumped out and grabbed her tote bag and purse from the back of the jeep. “I’ll see you guys Monday.”

She sashayed over to Chris unloading cases of fresh fruit from his truck. The sun glistened off his shaved head. She pressed her breasts against his colossal arm and dragged her palm across the crotch of his jeans.

“Hey, big boy. Did you miss me?”

Chris’ gaze darted to the house. “Girl, if Mrs. D or your father sees you...”

“Relax.” She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him.

Chris knew all too well the excitement Rochelle was going through. She was a freshman when he graduated. Watching her bounce around with her head in the clouds made three years ago seem like yesterday.

For Rochelle, remembering when she first fell for Chris seemed to have been forever ago. In those six short years, Rochelle’s adolescent crush had blossomed into something more.

Rochelle relished in teasing him. She gave him one last look over her shoulder and blew him a kiss before she entered the house.

*****

Saratov, Russia
The square-jawed Ukrainian pulled deep on his Cuban cigar and held it in his lungs longer than usual. The cigar’s sweet stench filled the stale air throughout the berths, providing a more pleasing aroma than the lingering smell of fish, machine oil, and body odor. After a lifetime operating the ports of the Volga and the ships navigating the deep river, Aleksandr Sergeyevich had come to miss, even appreciate, the variety of foul smells that made him feel manly and forever young.

He paraded through the gangways of the Antillean and made his way topside. After an uneventful five-hundred-mile trip across the Baltic Sea, down through Moscow, and into Saratov, the small Lithuanian cargo ship was nearing port.

Three miles out, Aleksandr watched from the bridge as tug boats tied with the Antillean. Another boat pulled along her portside to deliver the harbor pilot.

A flame-colored crescent moon dotted the sky. Seagulls, unshaken by the concussive blast of the Antillean’s signal horn, drifted and hovered in the light breeze above the ship. Few of the crew were on deck. Most of them remained in their quarters waiting to dock.

Aleksandr sipped black coffee and watched the midship’s monitors with eyes set beneath a heavy brow. Thick silver sideburns framed his weathered face.

The harbor pilot climbed the gangplank, followed by four young men.

“Hmmm. I wasn’t expecting them to board until we docked.” Aleksandr set his coffee cup down and patted the captain on the shoulder.

The captain acknowledged his friend with a sinister grin.

Aleksandr exited the bridge and headed below deck. He made his way aft through the container hold to a yellow container marked “Korizon 331.”

Anyone shipping goods through St. Petersburg and wanting protection for their shipment had to deal with the Pistilli mob. But their showing up in Saratov was an audacious move. They were becoming reckless, believing they could steal anything from anyone at anytime. Maybe they didn’t understand you can’t charge other criminal organizations protection for shipments and then rip them off in transient.

At least not the Rimskys.

Young Kven Pistilli’s boldness was about to be his undoing.

The four thieves split into pairs.

Aleksandr maneuvered along the starboard side of the hold, staying in the shadows of the containers, tracking one of the pairs as they spotlighted containers. Where the other pair had disappeared to he didn’t yet know, but he knew where they would be soon enough.

He circled ahead and secured a suppressor to the end of his Walther PPK .22 caliber pistol.

The two thieves approached with their flashlights scanning over every container. The sixty-something-year-old Ukrainian edged up behind them.

Fifteen feet.

Aleksandr raised the PPK level.

Ten feet.

He pulled the trigger—two bullets each.

He left the bodies where they fell and made his way back to the Korizon container.

One of the remaining thieves called out he had found what they were looking for.

Kven Pistilli shined his light on its steel doors and grinned with a devil’s delight. “Open it.”

“What for? We can’t unload it from down here, and we sure as hell can’t move it out of the hold.”

Kven glared at his crewmember. “Open it because I told you to.”

The thief pulled his bolt cutters and clipped the padlocks free from the container doors. He swung one of the doors open.

Empty.

A blank look and slack-jaw covered Kven’s face. “What is this?”

His comrade dug out a piece of paper from his pocket. “Korizon 331.” He pointed at the side of the illuminated container. “Korizon 331.”

Kven’s mind raced to answer the riddle of the empty container. His eyes suddenly bulged and a wave of heat rolled over him telling him to run.

It was too late.

Aleksandr stood over Kven’s lifeless body, admiring the blood spilling from the kid’s shattered head. He slipped the PPK back into his jacket and gathered the bodies into the empty container.

“I’m too old to be dragging you children around.”

Stacked directly across the hold were two green Viking Corp. containers marked “25342” and “36538,” each one loaded with a hundred barrels of black market, American-made grain alcohol.

Back in his passenger berth, Aleksandr stared himself down in the mirror and pulled proudly on his fine Cuban cigar. His vanity satisfied, he gathered what few belongings he had and waited topside for the Antillean to dock.