Mike Ramirez Killer Novels & Stories

I rubbed the dust from my eyes, and slowly got back up. Amidst the tornado of dust particles and tiny concrete pieces, Señor Ramirez emerged, holding what looked like a handheld rocket launcher. “You guys are still alive and I don’t know how you’ve managed that,” he said. Zak and Rachel sprinted to hug him, but Señor Ramirez held his hands up. “No time for that!” I stared at him, still in shock. “I can’t believe you’re here. How did you get here?”

Mario said in frustration which surprised Emiliano and Angelo "Ramon is dead?" It was Emiliano who asked and Mario nodded. Ramon was some powerful drug dealer based in Italy. Apparently Ramon was an old man with an ambition to rise to the top and gain billions and to achieve that he had some extra help to make dirty fast cash and that was being an underground drug dealer and Armando's number one enemy but if he died then his beloved son was to take up the business and of what he heard Ramon's son was twice as shrewd as his father

“I spit in their food every day. If they charge me something, it's because of the moral damage, or the diseases I transmit with each piece of the way.” Ramirez laughed restrainedly, although his face still showed a remnant of concern. That's all I didn't need. Ramirez had his own shit to deal with. He was a married man, father, and who had been arrested for smuggling. He shared my cell because, as far as justice believed, I had also been arrested for the same reason.

Detective Ramirez accepted the file, his expression grim as he flipped through the pages. Lillian and Mr. Alfred exchanged puzzled looks, uncertainty clouding their features. "I'm sorry to say this, but it seems your family has been the target of a deliberate attack," Detective Ramirez said finally, his voice solemn. Lillian's eyes widened in shock, her heart pounding in her chest. "What do you mean?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper. Detective Ramirez took a deep breath, his gaze fixed on Lillian and Mr. Alfred. "All the incidents involving your family members—Maya's accident, and now your Mrs Alfred's death—they all share a common thread," he explained, his voice steady.

"He wanted out when he realized what he'd gotten into. They killed him for it." "Name?" Jax's eyes never left her face, searching for tells, for cracks in her story. "Michael Rodriguez. They called him Spike." Another carefully constructed lie. Michael Rodriguez had been real—a low-level dealer who'd been found floating in the harbor two years ago. His death had made the papers, been forgotten within a week. Perfect cover for her fabricated grief. "Don't know him," Jax said, but something in his expression suggested he was filing the information away. "What makes you think the Diamondbacks killed him?"

But as usual he hadn't let her get the satisfaction of seeing a frown on his face. “If you ever run away from me, Vina, I will come and find you. This world isn't big enough to hide you from me,” he boasted, almost making her want to play this game of chase. She was very close to testing him if not for the mission that she had been assigned with. Killing someone would definitely take priority over anything else. According to the profile of the victim that she had been given, this woman herself had been a killer or an Assassin once. This should have scared Vevina instead it made her nerves tingle from the excitement of meeting someone of her own caliber or mental state.

“The footage that we had gotten from the club shows someone giving you money and sending you away right before the killing. The thing is we weren’t able to really see who that person was.” “Wow, but remember it was my fault.” “Look, I’m not going to sit here and pin this whole murder on you. Yes, I feel you should’ve focused on your customers a little more, but the person who knew about those humans is the real culprit and I need you to tell me who he was.” “What do I get out of this, Officer Ramirez? You’re trying to get free information out of me and you think I’m going to tell you for free?” “You getting out of here will be your payment.” He said.

“That's exactly why I need to explain everything here today.” I opened the folder and pulled out the first document. “The patient scheduled for surgery is Victor Lancaster, the surgeon responsible for my mother Linda Lowe's death twenty years ago.” The room fell silent. Everyone stared at me in shock. “On July 10, 2004, my mother was admitted to the Department of Neurosurgery at Kingsford General Hospital after suffering a cerebral hemorrhage. “The lead surgeon was Victor Lancaster, then Chief of Neurosurgery. During the procedure, the surgical instrument deviated from its intended path by less than a quarter inch, damaging a critical branch of the middle cerebral artery.

“Ariella… you’re not alone.” But she barely heard him. Because her gaze had landed on one last document. Pinned low. Old. Yellowed. A police report. The one from the night her father died. Except this version… had details missing from the official record. And one line was circled in red. “Primary suspect remains unidentified.” Ariella’s voice broke as she whispered: “Then who killed my father…?” Rafael stepped forward again. His expression shifted—slowly, almost painfully.