Welcome to TRB Lounge! We’re thrilled to host author Morgan Hatch today, who will be unveiling an intriguing excerpt from the first installment of their new suspense-thriller trilogy, Gone to Ground. Dive in and get an exclusive sneak peek into the intriguing plot they’ve crafted in their latest work!
About the Book
Gone to Ground
The first in a suspenseful new trilogy, a fast-paced thriller set in the streets of Los Angeles, featuring a Mexican American high school senior embroiled in a conspiracy that threatens to destroy his neighborhood.
Javier Jimenez is on a glide path to college while his brother, Alex, has done a 180 and is heading for trouble. Neither, however, have any idea what’s coming their way when George Jones sets in motion his plan for their neighborhood. “Some people flip homes. I flip zip codes.” It’s a cataclysmic vision of urban renewal replete with manmade disasters, civil unrest, and a tsunami of ambitious Zoomers.
Meanwhile, Alex and Javier’s feud quickly escalates, even as Alex finds himself in way over his head with Denker Street, the local gang. The bodies start falling, and Javier soon realizes Jones has put a target on his back. It’s time to go to ground. Can he keep Alex from falling further into the streets? Can he outplay Jones at his own game? All this and his own hopes, once so bright, now fading like a smog-shrouded LA skyline.
You can find Gone to Ground here:
Goodreads
Excerpt
Halfway through lunch, the pair from Denker would arrive, Itchy and Scratchy, the former notable for his insistent, vacuous smile and the latter for his slightly forlorn appearance. They’d take the bleachers two at a time, stepping over lunch trays on their way to the back row. Itchy always had on a pristine ball cap turned at a jaunty angle, a shiny decal still affixed to the bill, and Scratchy, hands shoved deep in his pockets, wore a hoodie that bisected his skull and swung off the crown of his head as if glued in place. Itchy would plop down next to Alex, stick one hand in the bag of chips, then drape an arm over Alex’s shoulder, a telling combination of coercion and brotherhood that had grown over the first semester. Three months ago, Alex would have given the boy all shoulder, kept his eyes on his phone. Here it was October, now with the dap and the head nods, a steady drip of street-love like water for the thirsty. Itchy, the salesman, brought the hype, and sad-sack Scratchy brought the promise of violence. Javier held the most contempt for guys like Scratchy, follow-ons who kept the whole charade going. Javier had known a handful of Scratchies—his friend, Chuey, exhibit A—and knew they had more choice in their lives than the Itchys of the world who couldn’t help but inspire the worst in others. Scratchies lacked imagination, and without them, Itchys were just gas.
The Gaither lunch bell rang. Scratchy scanned the quad like a farmer looking for a good place to plant corn. He clutched the side of his jeans and climbed down the steps, a pop-and-lock that gave him the appearance of old age. Then Itchy stood, having sold Alex a vision of vida loca now for ten minutes, and offered the cherry-on-top out of view of the school cameras. His hands, belt-high and with the fluid grace of an interpreter for the deaf, flashed the Denker trademark S-R-V: the first letters of the three street names, Sepulveda, Roscoe, and Van Nuys, which bounded their neighborhood, Barrio Horseshoe, or as everyone called it, the Shoe.
There was no fourth street because the southern boundary of the Shoe was a lunar landscape called Dogtown, a 500-acre vacant lot in the middle of East San Fernando Valley big enough to site a football stadium. Fifty years ago, when this part of Los Angeles had been mostly farmland, the area had been a man-made lake. Seen from above even today, it resembled an enormous footprint minus the toes. On Google Maps, it was cryptically referred to as a hazard abatement area, a lake long since dried up and now a tent city for the Valley’s destitute. Both code and law enforcement took a hands-off approach, certain that a close look would trigger enough paperwork to keep everyone behind their desks for months.
Javier watched Alex slow-walk to class like he was underwater. Another bad sign.
“Dumb and Dumber come by?” Raffa broke in.
Class was ending, Patel now returning to the mundane world of homework and Friday’s quiz. Javier looked at the whiteboard and made a mental note of the page numbers to read and the problem set to finish. Raffa knew Javier had been watching Alex and the daily ritual. “He’s in eighth grade, big brother. They’re all stupid.” Raffa zipped up his backpack. “Trust me. Jocelyn belongs in a cage.” Jocelyn was his sister. “I say put ‘em all on an island, come back in a year. Whoever survives gets to go on to high school.”
Javier thought of smiling but couldn’t. “Kid’s a follower, and he’s angry about something.” He stuck his notebook in his backpack and watched Alex disappear around a building. “Those two mooks been working him since August.” He couldn’t shake the fact that it was Alex, not Beto or Augusto, who’d been the target these past three months.
The bell rang, and the class stood to leave. Javier nudged Gio who was now staring at McRibbs, the skeleton parked in the corner, its head tilted toward the floor as if he’d dropped a set of keys. Enrique was already macking on the girl next to him who had the hunched posture of someone expecting a bomb to go off. Javier, Raffa, and Gio left him there and walked into the hallway traffic, a human salmon run after fourth period.
Raffa turned to Javier over his shoulder. “Relax. He’s gonna join a tagging crew, throw up his placa three times, get busted on the fourth when he shows up on camera.” They wound down the stairwell and outside to the quad. “Then Mendez’s gonna turn the jets on his ass.” Raffa took out his water bottle, offered a sip first to Gio then to Javier; both declined. “Then you’ll take him to Walmart to buy a new set of chones.”
Officer Mendez was the school police officer who’d made it his life’s mission to put wayward boys like Alex back on the path their mothers wanted them on. Twice a year he’d round up the Gaither frequent fliers and put them into a room with a group of veteranos who’d lived the life, done the time, and now put the fear of God into boys like Alex. Their facial scars webbed with stitch lines belied a history of violence, their jailhouse tats now blurred and illegible. Eight of them would put their chairs in a row, a firing squad for each of the Gaither bad apples.
See this paperclip? That’s what Papi will use to ink his initials on your neck, entiendes? Then another would push in closer, an ugly, staring face with dead eyes. Each fatherless boy, an unexpected spark of need suddenly welling up, as if summoned by this stranger, so close now, he could hear the man’s breath whistling through his nose. One by one, their chairs scraping the floor, until they formed an OG semicircle. One of them—whichever one still had his prison swole—would whip off his shirt to reveal a torso slabbed with muscle.
Gonna put salt on yo ass. Hahahahahaha. Yo ass taste better with salt. More riotous laughter then Mendez would get up and leave the room to take a call, and that’s when some of the boys would pee themselves.
About The Author
Morgan Hatch
Having been a teacher for thirty years in the public schools of Los Angeles, Morgan Hatch now writes about the people and places he’s encountered in the classrooms and neighborhoods in which he’s worked. Inspired by true events detailed in his blog, Gone To Ground is his debut novel. He lives in Los Angeles with his wife where he is forever trying to learn his mother-in-law’s dal dhokli recipe.
You can find author Hatch here:
Author Website | Twitter | Facebook | Instagram | YouTube
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