Chapter 1

AUGUST 27, 2004

BRETT COLLINS AND his commando unit had no idea that his covert mission would turn into a bloodbath. It was eleven minutes past midnight in sub-Sahara Africa. The vast and remote tropical jungles of the Republic of Dargombi lay in semi- darkness about 15,000 feet below as a camouflage- painted MC-130H special operations transport aircraft snuck toward the drop zone. A smiley half- moon cast an eerie illumination from a clear, stark- naked sky.

Inside the cockpit that was jam-packed with electronic indicators, the pilot made a scrambled radio transmission: “Bravo-Alpha approaching drop zone. Over!”

A raspy and commanding voice belonging to a middle-aged man filtered through the pilot’s earphones.

“We copy Bravo-Alpha! All clear on LZ. Proceed to next phase. Over!”

In the partial-darkness of the aircraft cabin, the heavily-armed twelve-man commando team in jungle camouflage fatigues and face paints was now making final preparations, checking and re-checking their weapons and gears—M4 assault rifles, Glock 9mm pistols, pineapple grenades, rocket launchers, commando fighting knives, Night Vision goggles…

Brett Collins casually glanced at the eleven camo-painted faces in black berets and headsets, and reminded himself once again that these were men he could depend on, specialists who knew more than a dozen ways to kill with their bare hands, let alone with a gun, knife, explosives or an improvised weapon.

He also knew they were all aware that they could depend on him. They would follow him into a hellhole if he asked. Brett felt a sense of pride, mixed with an unusually deep feeling of apprehension, which nobody around him could detect. A premonition of danger was manifesting itself far too early in the mission. Brett knew that his sharp and well-developed survival instincts rarely sent a false alarm. Something’s very wrong, he thought to himself. He wondered what it might be.

IN THE DENSE tropical jungle below, under barely perceptible streaks of light from the half moon, about 100 heavily-armed men in black private army uniforms were maneuvering secretly through the bushes with AK-47 assault rifles at the ready. Led by a sinister-looking, 51-year-old, American mercenary notoriously known as The Colonel, the army of foreign mercenaries slowly and cautiously inched their way toward a field in the middle of the jungle. The Colonel wore an olive green sabotage uniform without an insignia, a dark-green beret, and a black eye patch that covered his right eye. Spread out over a large area in the jungle, the advancing army scrambled for deeper cover as the unsuspecting American aircraft flew past overhead.

Less than two minutes later, the Colonel, who hid behind a mahogany tree, whispered instructions into the mouthpiece of his headset:

“All units, this is the Colonel. Maintain radio silence from here on. Hold your fire until the enemy is at treetop level.”

IN THE NIGHT sky above the jungle, the aircraft’s rear ramp door opened, causing a gush of warm tropical wind to surge into the cabin as Brett Collins and his commando team shuffled forward and began jumping out in the semi-darkness. Less than a minute later, all twelve warriors were freefalling toward the jungle below. Their Black Spider parachutes began opening up shortly thereafter, filling the foreboding night sky. The MC- 130H transport aircraft banked and made a wide, 180-degree turn, and departed from the area. The twelve unsuspecting CIA contract operatives slowly drifted downward…

Far beneath them in the jungle, the Colonel and his foreign fighters began maneuvering hastily to have the landing zone surrounded.

Chapter 2

CLUTCHING HIS M4 rifle at the ready as he drifted downward under the wide parachute canopy, Brett’s sharp eyes scanned the jungle below through his Night Vision. He quickly detected movements— several armed men darting through the bushes.

“Mission is compromised!” he yelled into his headset mouthpiece, “Hostiles on LZ!”

His M4 was already blazing away with ferocious intensity. The floor of the jungle suddenly lit up with spectacular and deadly muzzle flashes and tracer bullets from out-going gunfire as some fighters began dropping dead from in-coming volleys. Firing and taking hits while still airborne, the commando unit blazed its way down into the hell below, crash-landing under fire.

In the field that served as the landing zone, half of Brett’s men, six, lay dead still attached to their parachutes. Three others had multiple gunshot wounds in the lower parts of their bodies but were still in the fight, engaging enemies on their flank with fierce gunfire, and rocket attack, killing, and forcing some of the fighters into a momentary retreat. Brett and two commandos survived the landing safe and sound; they were now busy cutting down anything that moved outside the perimeter.

Brett sprang to his feet with hellish fire, going on the offensive, and cutting retreating men to pieces. Some of the enemy fighters scrambled up tree branches as others, who were laying cover fire, began dropping to the forest floor like flies under fast and furious slaughter fire from Brett. He directed his fire upward cutting men from tree branches and treetops, splintering wood and foliage. A few yards ahead of him in the semi-darkness, a fighter threw a grenade. It landed on the forest floor about two feet in front of Brett, who saw it, dove at it in a flash, and, in one swift motion, grabbed and hurled it at the fleeing group of fighters. Half a dozen men flew to pieces in a blinding fireball explosion. Already flat on the forest floor, keeping his head low behind the cover of a tree trunk, Brett quickly reloaded his M4 rifle as he yelled into his headset mouthpiece while heavy firefights raged around him.

“Intruder Romeo to Control Delta: ambush on LZ! Fifty percent KIA! Mission aborted! Requesting immediate extraction! Over!” A throaty voice quickly came through his headset. “Control Delta to Intruder Romeo: negative! Extraction not possible! You must cease transmission immediately. It’s an order! Godspeed, Intruder Romeo! Over and out!” “Control Delta! Fuck you!” Brett Collins cursed into his headset mouthpiece. Then, he sprang to his feet with fearsome rapid-fire, running through the forest with maddening rage, killing, dodging, knifing, blasting, terminating… And then, he ran out of ammunition for his M4. He quickly pulled his sidearm, a Glock 9mm, and kept shooting and dodging as enemy fighters relentlessly popped up from behind every tree in front of him, and from his left, and right flanks as he pursued them, killing with precision single shots and two-shots. Then a bullet hit him in the back, just below his bulletproof vest. He lurched forward and fell…

Chapter 3

AS HIS BODY met the forest floor in the semi- darkness, his left hand pulled a pineapple grenade from his waist belt. He pulled off the grenade pin with his teeth as he was struck again, this time in the buttocks. A group of enemy fighters surged out of hiding a few yards ahead of him to finish him off.

Brett threw the grenade at them, the Glock pistol still in his right hand. He buried his face in the forest bed as the explosive detonated in a thunder blast killing several of them.

Brett winced with pain as he quickly dragged himself up, but fell again as an AK-47 stuttered from his left flank, putting three bullets in his left arm, just above the elbow. The shooter started sneaking closer to Brett’s position. Brett fired a single shot through the foliage, hitting the shooter dead-on between the eyes. The man dropped to his knees and collapsed to the forest bed.

There was a momentary lull in the firefight around Brett, but sporadic gunfire still echoed through the forest from the landing zone area. Painfully, he dragged himself up with a grunt. He was in a bad shape—his back and buttocks were now drenched with his blood. The bullet holes in his left arm furiously dripped blood. He turned and began to limp agonizingly through the forest, heading back in the direction of the distant, weak, but on-going firefight at the landing zone.

He came upon a dying enemy fighter in his path, who roused slightly on the jungle floor. Brett raised his Glock and pulled the trigger to finish him off, but heard a familiar click sound.

“Fuck!” he cursed. “Now, I’m totally out of ammo. Good grief.” He re-holstered the pistol, and pulled his commando fighting knife from a scabbard on his waist belt as he limped along wincing with pain.

THE LANDING ZONE was being overrun. Dead bodies of Brett’s men and those of enemy fighters littered the clearing as the last two commandos left standing—and wounded—lunged at the enemies with fighting knives, having run out of ammo and grenades. The Colonel and his remaining fighters, about twenty men opened fire at almost pointblank killing the two men. They crumpled to the ground in the overkill.

And then, all was quiet…

The American mercenary and his foreign hired guns began slowly inspecting the eleven fallen CIA commandos, at times, using their feet to turn the bodies over and make certain they were dead. Standing over a body, a fighter called out in a heavy foreign accent, “Colonel! I think this one is pretending.”

At this moment, hiding in thick foliage outside the perimeter, Brett Collins flung his commando knife at the fighter. The cold steel blade darted through the air and buried itself deep in the fighter’s throat. He staggered backward, dropping his AK-47, and fell dead. The Colonel and his men reacted quickly; they turned and opened furious fire. Brett Collins was already tearing through the bushes in a painful, life-and-death zigzagging. He tripped over a stump and fell. Bullets puffed off dirt and foliage around him and zipped past his head in close calls as he rolled onto his feet in the semi-darkness. Wincing and grunting with pain, he tore through the jungle growth. Several yards behind him, the Colonel and his fighters mounted a hot pursuit; some of the men reloaded their rifles without stopping as they gave chase.

Brett made a sharp turn in the jungle, disturbing a swarm of fireflies; he tore through with unbearable pain and suddenly came upon a swamp river infested with over-grown crocodiles. He stopped abruptly at the river’s edge, almost falling over headlong. “Fuck!” he cursed. Six of the large crocs scuttled toward him with lightning speed. Two of them rushed out of the water as Brett leapt into the air with a grunt and caught a tree branch high enough, as both crocs swung their open jaws to bite off his legs. More of the crocs rushed out of the river excitedly, and began gathering under the tree. Perched precariously on the tree branch, Brett glanced over his shoulder in the semi darkness. He could see his pursuers closing in.

He was trapped.

Chapter 4

DRAGGING HIMSELF HIGH up the tree limb as fast as he could, and at about 12 feet above the crocodile-invested river, Brett began painstakingly crossing by leaping from one connecting tree branch to another in a heart-stopping high-wire act. Not far behind him, his pursuers stopped dead in their tracks as they came upon the crocodiles. They opened fire on the reptiles.

AT SUNRISE, THE sub-Saharan tropical jungle brightened up as rays of sunshine streaked through the jungle canopy and penetrated all the way to the forest bed. The cries of wildlife harmonized with the gushing resonance of a magnificent waterfall crashing down the side of a 200-foot, vertical cliff that was covered with lush, evergreen foliage. Soaking wet from head to toe, and barely alive, Brett Collins found himself at the foot of the waterfall. He’d been drifting in and out of consciousness for some time now. He’d lost too much blood. Extremely weak and dying, he crawled with difficulty, inching away toward dry land. He had struggled and stumbled through the wilderness for several miles through the night, successfully evading his pursuers. But now, he was lost in the middle of nowhere, and was quickly losing his cognition. No search-and- rescue aircraft was hovering overhead. No sign of an approaching and friendly search party beating through the jungle either. I’m fucked! From jungle treetops around him, colorful birds and a school of baboons observing him cried animatedly.

An adult leopard napping on a nearby tree branch became alerted. The big cat turned its head in Brett’s direction, saw him, and promptly descended from the tree, leaping into nearby foliage. Dazed and shivering from head to toe, Brett Collins was vaguely aware of the predator. By now, he’d managed to drag himself to dry land, but was too sick and exhausted to continue.

The leopard started moving very slowly through thick foliage that framed the open clearing, stalking him in a semi-circle. Brett lay face down in the undergrowth and fought desperately to stay awake, but he lost consciousness again.

Suddenly, the leopard was standing directly behind him, only about two yards away in the clearing. The hungry cat glanced around. Then, in self-assured strides, it began to close in…

Chapter 5

THE DEAFENING RIFLE shot scored a bull’s eye hit that crashed a high-caliber bullet deep into the brain of the leopard. The big cat was flung to the ground by the deadly impact. It lay motionless as blood oozed from the hole between its eyes. It was excellent marksmanship by the stunningly gorgeous woman in safari outfit emerging from the bushes, and accompanied by two middle-aged armed men, who carried powerful hunting rifles as well. Agatha Cornwell and her companions were British. She was an impressive 29-year-old with blond hair, full bosoms, and wide, curvy pelvis. As she moved toward Brett’s body, she could tell he was a tall, handsome Caucasian with blond hair like hers, although he was covered with dirt and blood.

THE MEDEVAC HELICOPTER with International Red Cross markings flew out of the jungle less than a half hour later, and headed North toward the sprawling refugee camp along Dargombi’s northeastern borders with the smaller African republic of Sudini. Inside the short, narrow cabin, Brett Collins lay unconscious on a gurney with intravenous drips from IV bags as Agatha desperately performed a CPR—he’d gone into a cardiac arrest. Two Red Cross medics—a young Frenchman and a Dutchwoman—were assisting in the urgent efforts to revive him. “Come on, bloody stranger!” Agatha yelled in a heavy British accent, “Don’t you die on me!”

“Dr. Cornwell, he’s flat lining,” said the young Frenchman as he monitored an EKG machine. “We’re losing him—” Then, he quickly added, “Disregard, he’s pulsing again.”

Agatha heard the familiar electronic beeping sound from the EKG machine and stopped CPR. She quickly grabbed a two-way handset, “Unit B, this is Dr. Agatha Cornwell. Surgical Theatre Four is expecting me,” she transmitted. “I have a high trauma patient with multiple gunshot wounds. Vital organs may have been damaged. I need to operate immediately. Trauma Team Four is already on standby. Over!”

The chopper landed on a wide helipad at the center of the massive refugee camp, its noisy rotor blades kicking up a cloud of red dust. Nearby, three long lines of about 700 African refugees waiting to obtain food and medicine curled around large Red Cross tent structures. Thousands of smaller tent structures dotted the landscape as far as the eye could see in every direction, occasionally punctuated by unpaved access roads with relief truck convoys coming and going.

As Brett was being transferred from the chopper to a makeshift hospital on the enormous camp, a scrawny-looking old man, who wore a load of graying and unkempt beard, watched the flurry of activity from a discreet distance as he swept rubbish from a pathway. The old African knew right away that he had to report this incident to his handlers— the soldiers who came across the border in plainclothes and paid him for information at discreet meetings outside the camp. The government in Dargombi needed to know what went on in these camps, particularly amongst the White men and women who operated them. The old man watched and noted that it was a severely wounded White soldier, who was being rushed into the camp’s hospital. He knew that was enough information to earn him money for a keg of palm wine. He could not wait to contact his handlers using the secret cellular phone they had provided him.

UNDER ANESTHESIA A few crucial minutes later, Brett Collins was fighting for his life as Agatha, assisted by a surgical team, carefully began extracting bullet fragments from his body. As she worked painstakingly, she had serious doubts that Brett would survive.

Chapter 6

FIELD MARSHALL HASSAN Itabuna had been a war criminal long before the United Nations declared him one. Forty years earlier, in a different “war”, he had been initiated as a child soldier at the age of ten by being forced to murder his own mother and father in cold blood with a machete while they were tied up and pleaded for their lives. Having lost his soul after that harrowing incident, like a zombie, he followed the rebel “army” that had stolen his innocence on a five-year killing rampage, where he took innocent human lives on a daily basis. At 15, after the “war” ended and the rebels lost, he found himself in a Catholic orphanage which expended all efforts to rehabilitate him.

But Hassan Itabuna and four of his fellow former child soldiers were beyond salvage. Three years later, at 18, and with minimal education and zero job skills, they joined the government army as another armed conflict was breaking out in sub- Sahara Africa’s perpetual retaliatory conflicts often stemming from tribal and religious differences. Soon, they became known in the army as the Gang of Five for their ruthlessness and efficient brutality.

Decades later, they had all risen through the ranks. And after mounting a bloody and successful military coup, they gained control of the army. And, in the Republic of Dargombi, the army controlled everything else. Itabuna proclaimed himself a Field Marshall and Head of State. He appointed his four cronies as Defense Minister, Foreign Minister, Finance Minister, and Military Intelligence Chief.

A mineral-rich former British colony sandwiched between Egypt, in the East and Sudan, in the West, Dargombi gained its independence in 1965 and became a republic three years later. It had since been embroiled in intermittent armed struggles. The latest conflict had begun about ten years earlier, as soon as Itabuna and his Gang of Five seized power and declared that the ethnic minority group, the Yandes, would be exterminated. The Yandes represented about 10% of Dargombi’s population of roughly 30 million, but accounted for almost 90% of the wealth. They were simply far better educated and more industrious than the dominant ethnic tribe, the Katumus, to which Hassan Itabuna and 97% of Dargombi”s armed forces belonged.

Overwhelmingly outnumbered, the Yandes tribal members of the armed forces put up a futile resistance and were quickly crushed.

Then the horror began.

Chapter 7

THE ENORMOUS GOVERNMENT building in the capital city of Zuma in Dargombi was heavily guarded by Katumu army troops as the Dargombi
national flag flew high on the well-manicured front lawn. A sign identifying the building as the Supreme Military Headquarters was erected outside the gated entrance in bold colors and graphics.

The coldblooded American mercenary known as the Colonel had already arrived. Now in a civilian outfit, a dark two-piece suit and a grey open-collar shirt, his face was masked with a pair of dark sunglasses as he strutted down a high-floor hallway leading to Field Marshall Itabuna’s office, briefcase in hand. Escorted by two machine-gun toting Katumu soldiers, the American could easily pass for a highly regarded international businessman. Come to think of it, he was a highly regarded merchant of death. The door to the office he was approaching was guarded by two sentries who quickly saluted him. His reputation had already preceded him.

Inside the ostentatious office, two army bodyguards kept watch, as Hassan Itabuna—a tall, slender, 50-ish man with ebony black skin and wicked brown eyes—sat behind his power desk, loading an open briefcase on the desk with bundles of fresh US 100-dollar bills. He was grabbing the money from an open top drawer. Itabuna glanced at a closed-circuit TV monitor in the room and saw the Colonel at the door. He pushed a button under his desk that caused the double doors to swing open inwards, admitting the visitor. Itabuna rose from his chair with a mischievous grin as the Colonel walked in with an equally roguish smirk.

“Good morning, Colonel!” He greeted with a firm handshake. “And thank you!”

“You’re welcome, Field Marshall! They’ve all been wiped out. I lost eighty percent of my men, but don’t shed any tears for them. They knew what they’d signed up for.”

Itabuna motioned to a chair at his desk, “Please, have a seat, Colonel. I was just preparing your care package.” He waved to the open briefcase full of money.

“It sure looks good,” said the Colonel, eyeing the money. “I love doing business in Africa. But I can’t hang around here too long.”

“I perfectly understand.” Itabuna took his seat.

Once the Colonel was seated, he said, “I’ve advised your men to go out there right away, and clean up—before the next fly over by American spy satellites.”

“They’re already on their way,” Itabuna replied. He pushed the open briefcase toward the Colonel. “We cannot compensate you enough, Colonel.”

“Thanks!” The Colonel closed the lid on the briefcase.

“I’m already being well compensated by the senator and his associates.” “I’m quite aware of that, Colonel. This is merely a token of our appreciation. We’re a very gracious people. It’s quite unfortunate that the United Nations, and the rest of the world, including other African nations, see us as bloodthirsty. They’re calling this civil war a genocide campaign—an ethnic cleansing. How absurd?”

The Colonel grinned mischievously under the dark sunglasses masking his face.

“I’m a straight shooter, Field Marshall,” said the Colonel. “You’re using an organized army to kill thousands of innocent and defenseless men, women and children per day cuz they belong to a tribe that’s better educated and has more economic power. If that isn’t ethnic cleansing, Field Marshall, you ought to have your fucking head examined.”

“I beg your pardon?” Itabuna was incensed.

“How fucking dare you insult my intelligence?” The Colonel queried. “I have just killed my fellow Americans in order to keep them from overthrowing your ass, and put an end to your madness.”

“This is uncalled for, Colonel,” Itabuna was furious. “You may leave now! This meeting is over!”

“It’s not over until I say it’s over!” The Colonel fired back. “The only reason you’re still in power is because crooked-ass senators in Washington are funneling humanitarian aid into your crackerjack government in exchange for kickbacks! American tax dollars is funding your fucking army. The same army you’re using to commit genocide! I got caught up in all these cuz I’m totally fucked up! That’s why I got kicked out of United States Army. You do not want to fuck with me, Field Marshall.”

The tension between both killers was palpable as they regarded each other in foreboding silence.

Writing and Reading:

Chapter 1

Kandahar Airfield, Afghanistan, 6 a.m., Three Months Earlier

            “Alpha Charlie, Alpha Charlie, get ready for action!  The target’s on the move!”

The words vibrated in Charlie’s earpiece as he sat bolt upright, and flexed his 220 pound, 6 foot 2-inch frame.  He had spent the last four days glued to the monitors, never leaving the control center, even as the other eight members of the Air Force forensics team took brief meal and sleep breaks.  Alpha Charlie was a CIA-hired civilian contractor whose mission in Afghanistan was to control pilotless aircraft and destroy enemy targets.  Ninety six hours ago, he was scheduled to return to his civilian job in America, when forensics identified the Al-Qaeda leader, Muhamed Bin Garza, only 230 miles away in the Mir Ali area of North Waziristan.  He cancelled his flight home.

It had been two years since they had a positive ID on Bin Garza.  And Charlie wanted blood.

The notorious Al-Qaeda leader was responsible for the suicide bombing in Mumbai, Amman, London, and Somalia, and had connections to the World Trade Center attack in New York.  Now he was a sitting duck.  He had been spotted while entering a complex of tents and adobe houses adjacent to the mountains and caves.  He would be leaving any moment now.  This was the one and only chance Alpha Charlie would ever have to eliminate Bin Garza.  Bin Garza’s death would be the ultimate notch in his gun barrel.  His job back home could wait.  He had taken out terrorists before, but Bin Garza was the trophy he had been training and waiting his whole life for.

Alpha Charlie was stationed in one of two identical Quonset huts on the base, both sitting within 50 meters of each other.  In the first hut, the US Air Force forensics team was housed.  Their function was to make the drones airborne, to locate and identify targets, and to land the vehicles when their missions were completed.  Alpha Charlie sat in a single chair in the second hut.

But this was no ordinary chair.  It was a one-of-a-kind control chair loaded with hundreds of computer systems that required delicate manipulations.  At the end of each armrest were two joysticks, one for each hand. Both were equipped with a dozen buttons, some black and others red, all with separate and distinct functionalities.  Ever since he was 12 years old, Charlie played video arcade games.  He had mastered the games almost immediately, having innately good reflexes and hand-eye coordination.  He also lacked moral qualms… about anything.  After winning several gaming competitions in his late 20s, he was contacted by the CIA and accepted their offer to move from murdering virtual foes to slaughtering real ones.

The CIA granted him access to a new program which involved piloting drones.  Very quickly, Charlie had learned to operate them as well as the Air Force’s best pilots.  His penchant for video games made his skills acute, and these gaming skills readily transferred to drone operation.  His immediate mastery of the pilotless aircraft meant an underlying talent that many of the professional pilots lacked.  They were readily trainable, but not one had the innate ability to pick up the controls of an aircraft with which they had no experience and so quickly be able to operate it with such a sharp degree of precision.  Charlie had even proven himself to be brilliant under pressure and once he tasted actual combat, he gained a voracious appetite for it.  The thrill of killing a virtual terrorist couldn’t compare to the rush of killing one made of flesh and blood.

Air Force Colonel Ben Edwards, the director of the operation, ran into Charlie’s hut.  He glanced at Alpha Charlie’s hands as they moved the joysticks.  Edwards marveled at how Charlie’s fingers glided over the controls and easily performed maneuvers that his other “pilots” struggled with.

Suddenly Edwards saw it – the blinking red light on the fuel gauge.  One hundred pounds of fuel left.  Seventy two miles of “life” left in the fuel tank, not enough to get the aircraft halfway back to Kandahar.  He screamed, “Charlie!  You’re running out of fuel!”

Alpha Charlie pretended not to hear.  He had already extended the flight time five hours using the updrafts of the mountains to conserve fuel and lowering the speed to 320 MPH, but he was concerned.  An hour ago, he ordered his Global Hawk fuel carrier, yet it was not on his radar screen.  Well, that’s a problem he didn’t have time for.

His focus remained locked on the three monitors in front of him.  Screen A showed a scurry of activity in the small, peaceful Haqqui tribal village.  Bin Garza was going for a ride.  That was it!   Charlie’s waiting was over.  He leaned forward and watched carefully.

In the center of the village, a 1960s Mercedes sedan and a 1980s Chrysler New Yorker were parked in front of an adobe house.  Alongside the two cars, a small entourage surrounded three men who had just left the house and were walking to the vehicles.  A dozen cheering villagers reached to touch the men as guards pushed them aside.  On Screen B, the forensics experts focused on the faces of the men and enlarged them.  Screen C showed a broad view of the 5 square mile area surrounding the target.

Screen A showed the men getting into the two cars, while screen B flipped through stills of the faces.  Then the camera fine-tuned portrait quality images.  Charlie heard excitement build from the other hut, “That’s definitely Bin Garza!”

“And that’s his number two, Shakel, with him!  We can get two for the price of one, if we hit ’em now!”  The third man on the screen kept his shumag pulled over his face and was not able to be identified.

Colonel Edwards shouted across the room, “Alpha Charlie, we have Al-Qaeda’s two top men together.  Targets confirmed!  It’s now or never.  Get ’em!”

Alpha Charlie turned to Screen A, the target monitor showing live pictures from the MQ-4A Global Hawk drone he controlled.  This model was the largest and best equipped drone in his fleet, but it was brand new and untested.  It had been airborne for nearly 48 hours and circled the area at 50,000 feet, filming the area where Pakistani intelligence had said these men were staying.  Sweat dripped down Charlie’s brow as he saw the plummeting fuel gauge now reading empty.

Time was running out.  Charlie focused the camera, centering it on the now moving car.

A pissed off Edwards looked at Screen C.  “Fuck!  There’s a hill!  They’ll disappear behind it in 20 seconds!  Charlie, you gotta strike NOW!”

Alpha Charlie did not respond, but he heard Edwards.  He had one shot and didn’t want to fuck it up.  His mental clock ticked down – 20, 19, 18; he remained calm and showed no signs of tension.  His left hand guided a blinking red target square over the car.  With the image of the square fixed to the target, Charlie centered the X.

CLICK!  The Hellfire missile locked on the Mercedes.  Twelve, 11, 10…

Charlie quickly touched the red trigger button with his thumb and fired the 5 foot long missile which carried over 30 pounds of explosives.  At a speed of 950 MPH, the missile would be paying the Mercedes a surprise visit within 3 seconds.

But would it get there in time?

 

The Mir Ali Village, 6:04 a.m.

            A high-pitched WHIRRR, like that of a model airplane, filled the sky above the village.  The driver of the Mercedes looked up and saw the silvery flash of reflected sunlight emerging from the obscurity of the mountain behind.

As the driver accelerated, he saw the 5 foot long Hellfire missile speeding towards them.  Bin Garza screamed in terror as he gripped the seat of the car and braced himself.  The explosion was tremendous, ripping the men and car to pieces.

A hundred feet away, the unidentified man in the shumag, Omar Farok, felt his Chrysler bounce around like a toy ball.  The concussion of the impact nearly deafened him.  He watched from the Chrysler as a fireball swallowed up the Mercedes; then, there was only a blinding cloud of smoke and dirt.

Fortunately for Farok, his driver was familiar with the terrain of this village and the Chrysler instantly turned left onto a mountain path dodging around three trees.  As the Chrysler slammed to a halt, a petrified Farok dove out of the car and ran into a mountain cave.  He sat trembling in the cave as he watched another Hellfire missile devour the Chrysler in a ball of red flames, engulfing his driver as he tried to escape.

Farok’s voice echoed inside the cave, “American pigs, I swear on Allah’s blessed name, you will pay for this!”

 

The Kandahar Drone Control Center, 6:05 a.m.

            Col. Edwards and his forensics team cheered!

But Alpha Charlie did not celebrate, even as the refueling aircraft in the sky above saved his drone from sputtering to the earth on its last pound of fuel.  Sure, Charlie was pleased about the millions that he had made from this kill.  This extra money would allow him to shift his drone control station and missiles back home and continue his missions from there, but still, he wasn’t about to jump up and down and cheer.  He’d done his job.

He stood as bottles of Dom Perignon were uncorked.  Without fanfare, Charlie grabbed a drink and downed it.  Then, he poured himself another.

As he swallowed, he thought to himself, ‘All in a day’s work’. 

Chapter 2

The Surgery Center, Jackson City, N.C., 7 p.m., Three Months Later

If you were to walk into my cosmetic surgery office, you’d see that I designed a space that is healing, orderly and serene.  There are no crystals or there is no new age music playing, but there’s a little waterfall and many of the walls and open spaces feature my favorite flower – the orchid.

My orchids are always resplendent with gorgeous colored blooms – hot pink, deep magenta, white with mauve spots.  I care for all the plants myself by watering them, limiting the amount of sunlight, and constantly measuring and altering the composition of the soil.  In my office, you’ll always find a colorful Doritaenopsis.

My favorite is the pure white Phalaenopsis to the left of the waterfall.  When I first opened my office, a patient sent that to me, but it was solid blue — an unnatural color for an orchid.  I sensed that someone blue-inked the roots, like the blue roses in Kipling’s poems.  Saturating a flower in ink always seemed wrong and angered me in the same way that a bad facelift did.  In my mind, there were absolute rights and wrongs in this world.  A person’s face shouldn’t be stretched so tight that their eyes and lips get distorted, and a white orchid should remain pure white.

I became obsessed with that Phalaenopsis, nurturing it (in a back room, of course) until it bloomed again and this time, it was the purest white of any orchid I ever had.  I look at the broken pieces of Orchis sitting in my waiting room every day and I try my best to put her back together.  And most of the time, I succeed.  Except today.  Today was not going so well…

“Why’s it taking her so long to recover from the anesthetic?” I asked as I removed my surgical gown and gloves.  I arched my back, stiff from bending over so much.  After 12 hours of surgery, I was exhausted.  I’d just hit 40 and I was really starting to feel it.

I smiled at my anesthesiologist, Dr. Boyd Carey.  “Two face lifts, two liposuctions and three augmentation mammoplasties is enough for one day.”

Dr. Carey did not return the smile.  He looked over his half-frame glasses and shrugged.  “If you hadn’t bowed to Keyes’ ridiculous demand to keep her privacy by sending your two nurses home early, her “auggie” would have only taken 45 minutes.”  Carey was a thin vegan who would’ve probably been happier if he ate a burger once and awhile.  Fine wrinkles in his 45-year-old dark skin made him look 60.

I took off my surgical cap and finger-combed my hair.  “Come on now, Boyd.  Relax.  Hey, at least we aren’t working in the tobacco fields.”

“Oh God, you’re not going to start in again on your childhood stories of slaving away in the fields to pay for college—”

“I could if—”

“Please, spare me.”

Carey turned to the patient for a minute and then tilted his head back and faced me again.  “No.  She’s still sound asleep.  And that’s another thing, Scott.  We should have given her Propaphol, like we do on all our patients.  She’d be awake by now.  But no! You always grant all your patient’s every wish and kiss their surgically-raised asses.”

Ethel Keyes had been my office manager for the past two months.  She was a hard worker with a sweet personality; everyone who came in contact with her liked her.  I had never before employed anyone who so quickly endeared herself to everyone.  And it probably didn’t hurt that she was a 32-year-old blonde who looked like a high fashion model.

Just a few days ago, Keyes had confided to me that she always felt uncomfortable with her body as she thought her breasts were too small.  She had done such a great job in the office, revamping my billing system, changing the office health insurance to a less expensive and more comprehensive plan, and computerized all my office records, that I offered to do a breast auggie surgery for her – pro bono.

However, it was a mistake.  Beyond the ethical issues involved in operating on employees, she proved to be a difficult patient from the beginning: refusing Propaphol as her anesthetic because it killed Michael Jackson; forbidding the use of the second best medication, intravenous Versed, because she didn’t like its amnesic properties, and insisting on an older style of anesthesia, Valium and Demerol, but in reduced doses.

She argued that she was sensitive to all sedatives.  Sure enough, it took only 2 mg of Valium and 50 mg of Demerol to knock her completely out.  Most people required 10 mg of Valium and 100 mg of Demerol with touch-up medications given as the patients got “light”.  No additional drugs were needed today as she slept soundly.  And kept on sleeping even after the procedure ended and Dr. Carey and I waited … and waited for her to wake up.

I leaned over the OR table and tapped her cheeks lightly.  “Ms. Keyes, Ms. Keyes, can you hear me?”

Her response was a snore.

I clasped my hands behind my back, pressing on my tired paraspinal muscles.  My perpetual smile turned to a frown.

Dr. Carey growled, “She hasn’t had enough sedation to hurt a fly.  You should just go home.  I’ll watch her until she wakes up.  At least one of us should be able to enjoy this evening.”

“No.  I’m not leaving until she’s awake.”

“Fine.  Go into your office.”  Carey reached out, cupped her left breast and with a smirk uttered, “I’ll keep you abreast of everything here.”

“Jesus, Boyd, get your hands off of her.  She’s under for Christ’s sake!”

“Alright, Sir Galahad, guardian of fair maidens.  Go get some coffee and I’ll call you when she’s awake enough for discharge.  It shouldn’t be long.”

I hesitated before leaving the room.  “I’ll be in the waiting room.  Call me and I’ll be back in a second it there’s a problem.”

As I left the OR, I pulled out my IPhone and called my wife, Alicia.  I told her of the situation with Keyes.

She answered, “Alright, do what you have to.  But there’s always something to keep you there late.  The boys wanted to see you and— I’ll put the boys to sleep and keep your tuna casserole hot in the oven,” she sighed as she continued, “Again!”

I walked to my waiting room to talk to Anna Duke, the friend that was to pick up Keyes after surgery.  But when I got there, she wasn’t there so I sat down on the sofa and relaxed.

This room is my favorite part of the office.  It’s got a huge skylight, custom stereo, a waterfall with a 4 foot drop, and a dozen blooming orchids.  I turned on a Miles Davis CD and flicked on the multi-colored lights that glowed behind the flowing water.  When my architect had told me that it was impossible to put everything I wanted in this room without knocking down all the walls, I paid him his fee and let him go.

Then I went online, did my research, and installed it all myself.  I’m sure I could have hired someone else to do it faster, but I found that I really enjoyed learning about plumbing and wiring.  In fact, I’d had so much fun doing it, next on my agenda is to buy and fix up an old Victorian house in the low country of the Carolinas one day.  The operative word being “one day” since these days I really couldn’t imagine doing much of anything else with my 80-hour work schedule.

I sat back, smelled the sweet fragrance of his cymbidium and zygopetalum orchids, closed my eyes, and dictated the seven operations I performed that day.

* * * * *

Meanwhile in the operating room only 30 feet away,  a shadow caught Dr. Boyd Carey’s eye.  Carey quickly turned and saw a light reflect off of something in the air, something swinging at him.

It hit him hard in the neck, almost knocking him over.  Immediately, he reached towards his neck and felt a painful jab and a burning sensation.

He tried to turn to face his attacker, but his body wouldn’t move.  Again, the hand slammed him with the sharp object.  Carey wanted to lift his arms to protect himself, but they dropped limply at his side.  His legs grew weak.  His muscles quivered uncontrollably.

His mouth opened to scream, but he couldn’t make a sound.  Both knees buckled and his body dropped to the floor.

* * * * *

I heard a THUMP!  I ran to the OR, opened the door and saw Dr. Carey lying there!

I looked over at the OR table.  Keyes was still sleeping with the monitors showing a normal blood pressure, pulse, and EKG.

I dropped to my knees beside Carey.  There was no pulse.  Jerking the stethoscope from his white lab coat, I listened to his chest.  There was only a faint bump…bump…bump.  I pounded my fist on Carey’s chest and listened again.  Placing the heel of my hand on his lower sternum, I compressed the chest six times before blowing into Carey’s mouth.  His heart sounds were slow and distant.

For the first time in my surgical career, I felt panic-stricken.  What had happened?  I’d only been gone a few minutes.

 Quickly, I dialed 911.  “A man’s been stabbed.  He’s dying!  I need help.  Please send an ambulance STAT!”

Prologue
She wakes up earlier than usual. It’s not even eight yet. The apartment feels empty, but that doesn’t surprise her, because it is empty most mornings. To make sure, she gets out of bed, opens the curtains, waddles down the narrow hallway, stops at the second bedroom and listens briefly. Not a sound. Of course not. She would have heard the flat door open, no matter how late. She is a light sleeper.The kitchen greets her with familiar comfort. Welcome, my lonely friend. Make yourself a cup of tea. Sit down by the window. Look out, check the weather, think about what to wear for work. Stop listening. Nobody is home but you.Just another day in the big city.Vancouver is still sleepy. Yawning and slowly stretching like a lazy lion, rubbing its exhausted eyes, waiting for the helpers to brush the filthy remains of last night’s excitement from the concrete floor of its den.The water kettle switches itself off and she pours the boiling water over the tea bag and waits one minute, standing in front of the kitchen counter. It has to be exactly one minute, no point in doing anything else but stare at the twirling surface inside her cup. Sixty seconds later–the second dial on her kitchen clock is within her periphery—she discards the bag, heaps three generous spoonfuls of sugar into the cup, followed by so much cream that the tea instantly cools to drinking temperature, and sits down at the kitchen table.Still thinking it’s just another day.A gentle traffic hum outside, no sound inside her kitchen. Correction: no sound inside her flat, this two bedroom, one bathroom borderline apartment. Borderline because its location touches a good neighborhood and the Eastside. The street she lives on stops the filthy guts of downtown spilling over into suburbia. Her kitchen window points toward the high-rise monuments of downtown Vancouver. Very pretty at night, not so attractive at daytime when the not-so-high and not-so-modern buildings that envelope the skyscrapers become visible. She doesn’t want to look at the decaying grey buildings any longer that provide a battle ground between city planners who want to sell it to developers and Eastsiders who have occupied them.Just another day. And it is so quiet.Melissa turns on the TV, not realizing that it is exactly eight o’clock now. The channel is set on CTV and there is a ‘Breaking News’ banner flashing in bright orange below the female morning anchor. She increases the volume. The excited voice of the lady anchor fills her kitchen. She takes a sip of her sweet, sweet tea and leans back a little.“We have a developing story of a brutal attack on a customer at Starbucks coffee shop on Robson Street. Apparently a young woman has stabbed another woman inside Starbucks. Our reporter Emily Jackson is on location. Emily, what can you tell us…?”The upper body of a reporter, holding a microphone in one hand and fighting her wind-swept hair with the other, comes into the picture. Melissa hadn’t noticed that it is quite windy outside. Well, it’s October, at least it’s not raining. Behind the reporter a yellow band is restricting access to the crime scene. She sounds overly excited. “From what we have learned, a young woman has suddenly attacked a woman inside the coffee shop you see right behind me. We don’t know yet if the customer was already seated or still standing in line to place her order. We also don’t know the identity of the attacker or of the victim yet or have any information about the motive. Apparently the attacker suddenly produced a knife and threw herself at the woman, yelling obscenities on top of her voice. As you can see behind me, police have cordoned off the area and are processing the scene.”The anchor interrupts her. “Do we have any information about the condition of the victim? Is she badly hurt? Or…”An autumn gust blows hair over the reporter’s face. She nearly loses her microphone, trying to control the strands with both hands, but fumbles it back into position when she realizes that the camera is focused on her again. One side of her pretty face is completely covered with hair. It looks ridiculous and Melissa catches herself thinking the reporter would look a lot prettier if she had a different hairstyle.“The ambulance has transported the victim to the emergency ward of St Paul’s…”The reporter’s voice travels along Melissa’s attention span and loses its grip. Background noise quality. She likes that. And God, her tea is good.

Another developing story news-flash banner demands her attention again. The anchor sounds triumphant: “We have just received a video-clip from one of our viewers. We would like to warn you that some viewers may find the content of this video-clip offensive in nature…”

The clip starts. The picture is shaky, the filmmaker hassling for a good position between other coffee-shop customers who have jumped up to look what is going on in the middle of the room. The back of shoulders and heads pop in and out, screams of horror and confusion can be heard. Their unedited sound quality provides an unnerving authenticity to the unfolding drama.

An arm rises up in the air and down again, in kind of a wood chopping motion. Up and down, in one swift move, no hesitation whatsoever. In fact, the chopping goes on. Up and down, up and down—accompanied by ‘Oh my God’s’ and ‘Oh no, oh no’s’. The filmmaker edges closer, seems to get up on a chair, because he is above the scene now, holding his iPhone or whatever device he’s got, high above the center of the customer-circle that inched away from the dangerous situation. The victim of the attack is on the floor now, mercifully blurred by the rapid movements of the inexperienced cameraman, or maybe by CTV’s editing. The attacker, the young woman, wearing a black hoodie, is over her and chops into her with such vengeance that Melissa can feel the force of her hatred, furious and powerful. The victim is trying to protect her face and chest with crossed hands. The mad attacker continues to stab her wherever she can—face, arms, torso, it is impossible to make out exactly in the shaky clip where her knife slices into.

Bodies pop in and out of the picture and mercifully block most of what is going on. Several of them finally muster enough courage to intervene. The picture goes even more shaky and blurry. Then the anchor speaks again.

“We have word from the police that the victim you have just seen being attacked inside Starbucks on Robson about an hour ago is in critical condition. The young woman has been overpowered by three heroic young men…”

and now it happens, it’s not ‘just another day’ any longer

“they were performing a citizen’s arrest and held her captive until the police arrived…”

the anchor’s voice fades, just like the reporter’s before, because all of Melissa’s focus concentrates on what she sees on the screen. Meanwhile the filmmaker has managed to muscle himself closer to the group of guys who have pulled the young women off her victim and have now pinned her to the ground. Her face appears. The filmmaker zooms in. She smiles victoriously straight into his camera, as if she has achieved a very special feat.

Melissa is standing now, holding on to her cup of tea, frowning with the exhausting task of connecting what she sees on the screen with the reality of her life. It can not be. It can not be. But it is.

The tea cup slips from her weak hands, falls to the floor, spills its content on the cheap vinyl kitchen floor before rolling under the table.

It is. It is.

It is…her daughter.

CM:  Do you draw from personal experiences and/or current events?
TJ:  I would imagine that most writers draw on their own experiences to a greater or lesser degree. Having been through many ups and downs, been fortunate enough to travel to interesting places and taken on a variety of roles in differing professions it would be foolish not to use these experiences. It gives you the confidence to write with authenticity.

CM:  Do you start with the conclusion and plot in reverse or start from the beginning and see where the story line brings you?
TJ:  That’s an interesting one. With ‘Kiss and Tell’ I had two definite story arcs, one concerning Jill Shadow’s journey, from a poor background to a successful lawyer, and the other regarding the drugs story, or stories, which feature in the book. Both started from the beginning and I wasn’t sure at first how they would merge or even end. With ‘Defending Elton’ my latest release, I started with a ‘what if’ concept and allowed the story to develop organically. Neither had a ‘set-in-stone’ conclusion from the outset, but fortunately they came along quite naturally as the characters drove the plots forward.

CM:  Your routine when writing?  Any idiosyncrasies?
TJ:  I’m definitely a morning person. I find I’m more alert then. In an ideal world I’d start writing around 7 or 8 am and see how long I can go for. Of course life tends to get in the way sometimes! More often than not I break in the middle of the day and if possible have a later afternoon or early evening session. There are also times when I just can’t sleep and every now and again have no choice but to write down the things that are whirling around in my mind… often if I’m in the middle of a first draft and have an idea that can’t wait!

CM:  Is writing your full time job?  If not, may I ask what you do by day?
TJ:  It seems like it’s a full time job at the moment. I would like it to be one anyway, but a lot depends on how things go with these first two novels. I also enjoy my advertising work. I write and create radio commercials and would like to keep doing so. It’s a great release for a mad creative mind!

CM: Who are some of your favorite authors?
TJ:  Many and varied. I admire John Grisham, Val Macdermid, Sophie Hannah, Mark Billingham and a host of others. Grisham perhaps not so much for his actual writing but his skill at finding a winning formula. Val and Sophie I like because I find they can paint intriguing pictures and conjure up atmospheres. I also like Mark Haddon, I’m a big fan of his ‘Curious Incident’ novel.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ABOUT THE BOOK

When London lawyer Jim Harwood is introduced to the beautiful and enigmatic Sarena he is instantly smitten. However, with his jealous work colleague Loren on their tail, their dalliance comes to a sudden and catastrophic end.

Though Sarena’s demise was accidental, Jim knows that to a jury it will look like a classic ‘love triangle’ murder. He reckons he has no option but to distance both Loren and himself from the crime scene, and does so by providing the police with both an alternative scenario and a far more likely suspect…

…Enter the hapless Elton Spears, an unhinged and gullible ‘care in the community’ patient. Jim knows that Elton is potentially dangerous, and that he has committed previous crimes which might suggest he’s the likely assailant. He seems the perfect patsy. Indeed, Jim seems to have all bases covered… not only does he use all his criminal law experience to frame Elton, but he represents him too, thereby having control and conduct of his case…

Jim’s strategy to escape from culpability seems as risky as it is reprehensible, and when things start to go wrong at Elton’s murder trial he not only regrets his actions but seeks a path to redemption. He may have cleverly outwitted the authorities, and skilfully manipulated the system, but as Sarena’s death comes back to haunt him he discovers that playing with truth is a very dangerous game…

Described as a ‘devilishly clever and inventive tale’ and a ‘tense and edgy thriller’Defending Elton is full of neat twists and turns, which keep you guessing how things will turn out, right to the unexpected end.

BOOK DETAILS:

Paperback: 276 pages
Publisher: CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform (March 15, 2013)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1482751801
ISBN-13: 978-1482751802

PURCHASE LINKS:

THANKS TO AUTHOR, TJ COOKE,
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