Authors: Mark Young
After a few minutes, Joe turned toward him. “What is troubling you, son?”
Glancing at him, Gerrit just shrugged.
“I know there are many unanswered questions about your folks.”
“I thought it would end with Brandimir, Uncle Joe. But I just can’t be certain. Not until we know more about him. Who he worked with—or who he worked for. Maybe he leaked something to Hassan during the torture.”
Joe raised his eyebrows. “Torture?”
“Yeah. Frank found out that Hassan put the screws to Brandimir before killing him. Shakeela and Frank are working to try to get their hands on any intelligence that came out of that interrogation.” Gerrit placed his hands behind his head, looking up into the heavens. “I don’t know, Joe. It’s like peeling back layers of an onion. The more I peel, the more I uncover. Where does it stop?”
“I don’t know,” Joe said, his voice filled with emotion. “I will do everything I can to help you find those answers. Truth is, we may never know. My guess is that Hassan killed Brandimir after he got what he was after—contacts and sources within the United States. We will see that Iranian terrorist again—somewhere, somehow.”
“I hope so, Joe. I have some unfinished business to take care of.”
Joe just shook his head. “Revenge can work against you. Give us time to find the answers. Brandimir worked for an organization that enjoys immense power. I don’t know how organized they are or how well defined their goals might be. I do know they want to change the face of America. To make it what it was never intended to be. But that old adage
follow the money
holds true here. We need to follow those money trails until we find answers.”
“I can only imagine where that will lead,” Gerrit said, discouragement and tiredness weighing down each word. “And what will it cost?”
“I don’t know. Maybe our lives. But I know you’ll never give up. And neither will I.” Joe placed his hands on the wheels. “I’m going to turn in. Just wanted to make sure my favorite nephew was okay. Are you?”
Gerrit nodded, watching Joe wheel around and begin heading back toward the house. Once he was sure Joe got back inside without difficulty, he turned toward the lake. The night sky seemed to be laid out like a blanket above the darkened water. Pinpoints of celestial light beamed through the bleakness like a jury of angelic beings—waiting to hear all the evidence before rendering final judgment.
He rose and walked toward his cabin. Bones followed, not willing to allow Gerrit out of his sight. As he stared up at the heavens, Gerrit understood it was time to say good-bye to those he must leave behind. Letting go of the memories. A new dawn was coming.
Without looking, he reached down for Bones, feeling the dog’s warm fur. Until new challenges emerged, he chose to live a simple life. Time to enjoy what he did have—good friends, a faithful dog with an attitude, and a beautiful lakeside cabin.
And Alena—a woman who could give him a kiss one minute and kick his butt the next. Only time would reveal where the two of them might wind up. Right now, he chose to live in the present—not the past and not the future.
Tomorrow, he would take Alena out for their first date—ever. Alone! He looked down at Bones and smiled.
Atash Hassan dialed the northern Virginia phone number and waited for it to ring. A moment later, a man answered. “Good, you are home. With your family.”
“Who is this?”
Atash smiled to himself. “Look around. See where those guys came into your home and terrorized your family. I have good news and bad news.”
“What do you want?” Fear crept into the man’s voice.
“The man who came into your home and threatened your family has been killed before he could reveal your name to the FBI.”
“And the bad news?”
“Now—you work for me. That information you leaked to Brandimir about those sent to Dubai and Syria. Now, you feed that information to me. Everything you learn from the president, you tell me. Understood?” He gave that last statement a few minutes to sink in. “I will be in touch.”
Atash killed the connection and pocketed the phone. “Okay. Now we can leave.”
The dark sedan edged away from the curb as Atash glanced out the side window. He watched the house across the street as the car gained speed. He knew the man inside would go to work tomorrow for the president of the United States. A man Atash controlled.
He leaned back and closed his eyes. Time to make the Americans pay for what they and their Israeli friends just ruined in the Middle East. Time to bring the war home to their doorstep—again.
A
novel is never created by one solitary person. It is a collection and collaboration of many.
FATAL eMPULSE
is no exception.
To Katie, my soul mate, without whom my writing dreams would not have become a reality. Her knowledge of the publishing world and her thoughtful input continues to keep me out of trouble. To my mom, Lorene, who went to be with the Lord this year. I miss her. She fostered my life-long love of reading for which I will always be indebted. May heaven cherish her as much as I do. And to my daughters—Ingrid, Julia and Jacqueline—whose love and support continues to brighten my world.
A special thanks to my patient editor, Julee Schwarzburg, whose guidance and wisdom teaches me more that she will ever know. To my new friend, Cory Clubb of Go Bold Designs, whose creative gifts makes this design cover shine. And to my friends, Rob and Amy Siders of 52Novels, whose formatting skills make my eBook pleasing to the eye and easy to load. To Denise Fehlman, whose proofreading skills always seem to catch what I miss.
I want to thank those who offered their expertise in matters of military strategy, weapons, and intelligence that made this story credible.
• First, my friend and bestselling author, Austin Boyd, whose experiences as a Navy pilot, NASA astronaut finalist and a spacecraft engineer, and work as defense contractor, helped provide a better way to approach this story.
• Lt. Colonel Rick Francona, a highly-recognized Mid-East expert, who has studied the Syrian military air defense system for decades, provided me with enough insight from public sources to create a believable scenario.
• Dr. Carlos Kopp, a widely sought expert in the areas of information warfare and strategy, networking and radio frequency propagation, and operating systems/machine architecture. Dr. Kopp pointed me in the right direction for sources of information relating to electromagnetic pulse (EMP) technology.
Further, I would like to recognize the authors and their works used as research material for this novel:
1. Eretekin, Necati.
E-Bomb: The Key Element of the Contemporary Military-Technical Revolution
,” Monterey, California: Naval Postgraduate School: September 2008.
2. Jones, Ishmael,
The Human Factor: Inside the CIA’s Dysfunctional Intelligence Culture.
NewYork: Encounter Books, April 6, 2010.
3. Kahlili, Reza,
A Time To Betray: The astonishing double life of a CIA Agent inside the Revolutionary Guards of Iran.
New York: Simon & Simon, Inc.: April, 2010.
4. Salus, Bill,
Isralestine: The ancient blueprints of the future of the Middle East.
Highway, 2008.
5. Sutherland, Benjamin,
Modern Warfare, Intelligence and Deterrence: The technologies that are transforming them.
New Jersey: The Economist, 2011.
I take full blame for any misunderstandings or errors that might show up from my turning these experts’ information and experiences into fiction. Any mistakes, readers, chalk up to my turning fact and truth into fiction.
Last, but not least, to all my readers who have given their precious time and money to enter into this fictional world I created. Thank you! I hope you enjoyed the journey. Hopefully, we will meet again in the near future.
Mark Young
2012
Novels by Mark Young
Gerrit O'Rourke Novels
Off the Grid
(2011)
Fatal eMPULSE
(2012)
Tom Kagan Novels
Broken Allegiance
(2013)
Travis Mays Novels
Revenge
(2011)
Blood Quantum
(2013)
Santa Rosa, California
A
full harvest moon cast shadows of burnt-ochre over acres of dying vineyards. Trees stood like towering sentinels in the gathering darkness along the edges of the vines as Rascal raised the gun to the back of the kneeling man’s head.
The gangster felt the trigger’s taut pressure against his fingertips as he quickly squeezed off two shots, blinking each time he pulled the trigger. Two blinks, two explosions, two shots. The man collapsed face down on the recently ploughed soil. A dead silence filled the air as if all nature held its collective breath in fearful anticipation.
The gunman turned to two other gangsters standing a few feet away. “May the angels carry Paco to a better place.” A pungent odor of gunpowder lingered in the cool night breeze. All three men stared down at the body, the dead man’s hands bound behind him with gray duct tape “I’ll hand it to him,” Rascal said, still grasping the weapon. “Once he knew it was coming, he sucked it up. Took it like a
soldado
.”
The others bobbed their heads in agreement. One said, “I wonder why they ordered us to kill him? I thought Paco was all good.”
Rascal’s left hand, buried in his pants pocket, clutched a tiny piece of paper upon which Paco’s death sentence had been scrawled in code. The shooter glanced at the other two he’d recruited for this job, knowing they obeyed him out of fear. If they refused his order, their fate would be like Paco’s—a bullet to the head. The edict to kill this man shook them all up.
Nortenos
—Northerners— revered this legend lying at Rascal’s feet.
All three men knew one thing for sure—this killing would turn their world upside down.
Rascal struggled to stifle his emotions, knowing he must control this situation. He tightly clutched the gun as they walked back toward the car. If he let go of this cold piece of metal, he feared it might take his authority and power with it, leaving him once again a normal man. Glaring at the speaker who dared to question the killing, Rascal snapped, “We got our orders. That’s all we need to know.”
The inquisitive one glanced at Rascal, quickly averted his eyes as he faced Rascal’s scowl, submitting to the alpha dog of the pack.
Inwardly pleased with their silence, he reflected on the importance of keeping his thoughts to himself at times like these. Even if he admired the man he just shot. Keep it inside—for his own sake. Always accept the inevitable without question. It was the first rule of survival within the
Familia
.
They climbed into the sedan, an aging Ford Galaxy whose rust pitted body had seen better days. Rascal turned the engine over, punched the accelerator, tires spraying gravel as the car fishtailed its way back to the paved highway. Once rubber grabbed pavement, Rascal hit the gas hard and flicked on the head lights as they roared through the night.
Darkness began to give way to an umbrella of light gleaming above Santa Rosa. Low-lying coastal fog captured the city’s brightness, muffling the light in a heavy blanket of mist. Rascal matched the car’s speed to that posted on a speed limit sign looming ahead. The last thing he needed was the Man to pull him over, some nosey cop trying to boost his stats. Rascal could not explain the gun stashed under his seat, or the two gangsters sitting in the car with him both of whom were on probation. Even worse, he could not explain the spatter of blood and brains on his clothes.
Rascal dropped the others off and drove to his shack on the outskirts of town. He slid the gun behind an air vent cover. Stripping his clothing off, he carefully fished out the coded message before shoving the rest of the evidence into a black garbage bag. He’d toss the bag into someone’s garbage across town tomorrow.