C.W. Lemoine's Blog, page 3

AVOID. NEGOTIATE. KILL. - Chapter Two

We're just two weeks away from the official release of AVOID. NEGOTIATE. KILL. on May 23rd!  In the meantime, here's another sample chapter.  Happy Mother's Day!



Chapter Two
Qayyarah Airfield West30 Miles South of Mosul, Iraq2 Days Earlier2200L
“Alright, gents, we got the call,” the man said, standing in front of their makeshift briefing room.  It was an assortment of folding chairs in front of a white sheet being used as a projector screen.  The dusty room had wooden raised floors and stucco walls.  They had been using it as their operations center since arriving in country two days prior.
Spectre took his seat in one of the front folding chairs as the other dozen men gathered around.  They were a mix of special operators with full beards in desert tactical clothing and clean shaven pilots in tan flight suits with shoulder holsters supporting their issued M9 9MM handguns. 
The man waited for everyone to sit down as he quickly reviewed his notes.  Although Charles “Ironman” Steele was nearly fifty-five years old, he didn’t look a day over forty.  He had spent most of his career flying F/A-18s for the Navy, with a brief tour embedded with the SEALS as an Air Liaison Officer and embedded Joint Terminal Attack Controller.  Despite being the director of the organization and spending most of his time behind a desk or mission-planning computer, Ironman was still able to keep up with even the most lethal operators of the group.
He was in charge of an elite group called Project Archangel.  Comprised of former pilots and Special Operations Forces members from all services, Ironman reported directly to the Secretary of Defense.  Officially, they were Department of Defense contractors.  Unofficially, they were the SECDEF’s go-to unit when the President needed plausible deniability in matters involving delicate foreign relations.  Specializing in self-sustained surgical strike and counterterrorism operations, the group could be deployed anywhere in the world without a need for U.S. Military air or ground support. 
In fact, Project Archangel was best known for its ability to provide its own Close Air Support and Airborne Intelligence, Surveillance, and Reconnaissance.  With a fleet of Embraer A-29 Super Tucanos, MH-6 Little Bird Helicopters, UH-60 Blackhawk Helicopters, Pilatus PC-12s configured as U-28s, and MQ-9 Reaper Unmanned Aerial Vehicles, Project Archangel employed some of the best combat pilots in the world. 
A former F-16 pilot, Spectre had been hired by Project Archangel a year prior.  Ironman approached him at the funeral of Spectre’s ex-fiancée after he and his friends infiltrated an abandoned air base in Cuba and recovered an F-16 that had fallen into the wrong hands.  Six months later, Spectre found himself in the cockpit again, flying the A-29 Super Tucano after completing a rigorous training program.  The group required all pilots to receive comprehensive armed and unarmed combat training before beginning the aircraft checkout.  Despite Spectre’s black belt in Krav Maga, an Israeli fighting system, he was required to demonstrate proficiency in the same tactics and techniques as the former Special Operations Forces operators. 
“As you know, five days ago, a team of U.N. Chemical Weapons Experts was captured by Syrian Opposition Forces along with the Sarin and VX gas canisters they were attempting to destroy,” Ironman said as he advanced the PowerPoint slide on his laptop.
Spectre remembered all too well the gruesome images of the four team members – three men and one woman – being tortured and killed by supposed “Freedom Fighters” of the Al Nusra Front.  The video had been broadcast by Al Jazeera hours after it had been uploaded.  In it, the rebels accused the inspectors and international community of taking the side of a despotic ruler who had used those same chemical weapons on his own people.  They vowed to take the weapons themselves to fully ensure they could never be used again.
The problem with that, in the eyes of the United States Intelligence Community, was that it was widely believed that the Syrians had never used chemical weapons against their own people.  The Opposition Forces, infiltrated by Al Nusra and Al Qaeda, had used them in an attempt to draw the United States into another regional conflict – this time against the Syrian government. 
Knowing the U.S. didn’t have the stomach for putting boots on the ground in another drawn out regime change, the leaders of the Al Nusra Front would use American and coalition airpower as its own air arm.  Once the regime toppled, they would be able to install a more sectarian, Islamic government as they had done in Egypt and Libya. 
“This morning, we managed to locate the four transport vehicles just north of Al Hasakah in Syria.  This is a stronghold of Al Nusra and Syrian Opposition Forces.  We believe that the weapons will be transferred tomorrow to separate transport vehicles and be distributed throughout the region.  HUMINT sources also suggest that some of those weapons will be smuggled into Iraq and Turkey for use against the U.S. Embassy.”  He advanced past slides showing possible routes through Syria.
“Tonight, we will secure the weapons,” Ironman said, pausing as he advanced to the next slide.  The screen had changed from a black and white aerial surveillance photo of truck transports to an image of an Arab man with a thick, dark beard.  “And our secondary objective will be to capture this man, Tarik Al-Usra.  He’s a mid-level commander of the Al Nusra front in this region.  Questions so far?”Ironman looked around the room with his usual intense stare and furrowed brow.  To anyone that hadn’t worked with him, Ironman was an intimidating hardass.  His shaved head and general lack of neck made him look like an NFL linebacker.  However, to everyone that had known and worked for him, Ironman was a great leader who cared for his people with a huge soft side for his two daughters back home. 
“Shorty will be the mission commander tonight.  The floor is yours,” Ironman said as he nodded forward and took his seat in the front row. 
Spectre chuckled to himself as Jake “Shorty” Roberts stood.  At 6’4”, the man was anything but short.  He had spent most of his military career flying MH-6 “Little Bird” helicopters and UH-60 Blackhawks for the Army’s 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment.  Known by most as the “Nightstalkers,” they were the Army’s most elite helicopter unit, flying missions around the world in support of Special Forces and made famous by the movie Blackhawk Down in which a UH-60 was shot down during the Battle of Mogadishu. 
“Thanks, Ironman,” Shorty said as he took his place at the front of the room.  He stroked his bushy “deployment stache” as he set up his notes.  “Our expected launch time is 0100 local tonight.  Weather reports clear skies and no significant weather forecasted.  We will launch in two waves.  Wave One will be two Little Birds, each with two four man teams of operators, callsign Chariot 11 and 12.”
Spectre took notes on his kneeboard card as Shorty went through the lineup.  It was his second deployment with the team and his first time back in Iraq since he had been grounded by the Air Force after an Emergency Close Air Support mission in the F-16. 
Six years prior, he and his flight lead had been retasked to support a Troops In Contact scenario with a convoy that had been ambushed.  After the Joint Terminal Attack Controller was killed, Spectre was forced to provide Close Air Support to the convoy using an unqualified controller while his flight lead was refueling with the tanker.  He had saved many lives, but the violation of the Rules of Engagement set by the deployed Operations Group Commander at the time cost him his career. 
“Coach” Louhan grounded him and sent him home after sending a damning e-mail to the Chief of the Air Force Reserve Command.  The result was a reassignment to a non-flying billet and a pledge that Spectre would never fly an AFRC aircraft again.  Instead, Spectre resigned and found employment in a gun store while his fiancée continued flying with his former squadron, the 39th Fighter Squadron “Gators.”
It was only mildly satisfying to Spectre that Coach was most likely rotting in some Federal Prison, having been convicted of selling secrets and sensitive information to a Cuban Intelligence agent.  The man deserved much worse than a country club prison.  He had cost Spectre his career and his relationship with his fiancée.
“Wave Two will take off when Wave One reaches our makeshift Forward Operating Base near the Syrian Border.  This should give the two Little Birds time to refuel before entering hostile airspace.  Wave Two will consist of a Super Tucano, callsign Venom 21, and a PC-12, callsign Magic 31,” Shorty said as he clicked through more slides.
“Spectre, you’ll be solo on this one as Venom 21,” Shorty said, nodding to Spectre.  Spectre nodded as he continued to scribble notes.  The A-29 was a two seat turboprop light attack aircraft.  For more complex missions or missions requiring surveillance, another pilot would often act as a sensor operator in the back to allow the pilot to focus on flying and keeping his eyes out of the cockpit and on the objective.  Spectre didn’t mind going solo though.  He had spent most of his career as a single seat fighter pilot doing all the aviating, navigating, and communicating by himself.  He was used to it.
“Once Chariot flight has refueled, Venom 21 will escort them into Syrian airspace at low altitude.  Magic 31 will sniff ahead for any surface to air threats, and if necessary, provide Electronic Attack against the Syrian Air Defense.  Latest intel reports the Eastern Region is down, so it should not be a factor, and the Pilatus can focus on confirming the location of the chemical weapons using onboard sensors.”
“What about manpads?”  Spectre asked, referring to man portable shoulder fired surface to air missiles. 
“Our ingress route is clear and it’s in a fairly isolated area.  Plus, we have the element of surprise.  Should be fairly low threat.”
Spectre continued taking notes.  He didn’t like trusting that one of the most advanced Integrated Air Defense Systems in the world was inoperative during a civil war.  The Syrians were equipped with some of the latest in advanced Russian Surface to Air Missile Technology, and the rebel fighters even had American Stinger surface to air missiles, provided earlier in the war by the CIA. 
The good news, however, was that even if the Intel analysts were wrong and the Eastern Sector was still working, their Pilatus had an impressive electronics and jamming suite that could handle even the most advanced IADS.  The only thing the Pilatus couldn’t do was protect Spectre and the other aircraft from the Stingers, but each aircraft had its own robust self-protection suite with flares designed specifically to defend against manpad threats.
The Pilatus PC-12 was a single engine turboprop civilian aircraft.  For Project Archangel, it was a workhorse.  With advanced sensors and intelligence gathering equipment, it was a self-contained spy plane, but it also included advanced jamming Electronic Attack pods that could jam even the newest in Active Electronically Scanned Array radar technology.  And to top it off, it could even land on unimproved airstrips and drop off or pick up operators from the field.  It was a jack-of-all-trades.
“Once the Pilatus has confirmed the location of the weapons, code word ‘MaryJane,’ the Little Birds will drop off the two teams to visually confirm serial numbers and destroy the weapons.  Venom 21, you’ll transition to armed overwatch while Chariot 11 and 12 hold to the east.  Once the weapons are accounted for and destroyed, expect a hot extract and exfil as the Syrian Rebel fighters wake up and realize what’s going on.  But we should not be in country for more than thirty minutes from the moment we cross the border.  Any questions?”
“What’s the EPA for this mission?” a voice behind Spectre asked.  He didn’t have to turn around to recognize the voice of Joe Carpenter, his long time friend and former Air Force JTAC.  He had known Carpenter since college, but the two had gone their separate ways since.  Spectre had opted to find a job flying fighters for the Air Force Reserve while Carpenter had joined the Army and became an Army Ranger.  Years later, Carpenter transferred to the Air Force, where he became a JTAC while searching for a more aviation-oriented career. 
Along with close friend, Marcus Anderson, and an up and coming Air Force Office of Special Investigations Special Agent, Carpenter had helped Spectre assault the Cuban Air Base and steal back the missing F-16 while rescuing his fiancée.  And when Spectre was asked to join Project Archangel, Spectre made his acceptance contingent upon bringing Carpenter along as a JTAC.  Carpenter couldn’t refuse the generous pay and high-speed missions using the latest technology.
“The Evasion Plan of Action is fairly standard,” Shorty replied.  “Avoid populated areas, lines of communication, and contact with indigenous personnel.  Proceed east to the desert and find a hole-up site where you can establish communication.  If able to establish comms, we’ll work a pickup plan with on-scene assets.  If unable, make your way to the border.  We’ll find you and work out a Combat Search and Rescue.”
“And if captured?”  Carpenter pressed.
“The Syrian Opposition Forces are comprised of factions friendly to Al Qaeda and Al Nusra forces.  You saw what they did to the U.N. inspectors.  I know it’s not what you want to hear, but don’t get captured.  Any other questions?”
Shorty waited as pilots and operators around the room shook their heads. 
“Alright then, let’s roll,” Shorty said as he closed the laptop and grabbed his files.
As the pilots and operators grabbed their mission materials and shuffled out of the small room, Spectre was stopped by Carpenter.
“Hey, Cal, wait up a second,” he said, pulling Spectre to the side as the others cleared out of the room.
“What’s up, Joe?”
“Are you going to be ok man?”  Carpenter asked.  His brown eyes showed the concern of a long time friend and colleague. 
“We’ve done this before, Joe.  I’ll be fine,” Spectre replied.  It was his second deployment as a pilot with Project Archangel since completing his indoctrination and training.  Before going to Iraq, he had spent most of the last month in the Horn of Africa chasing down Somali pirates and disrupting Al Qaeda training camps flying both the A-29 and PC-12. 
“I’m not talking about that.  I’m talking about Iraq.  I’m talking about what happened in Basra,” Carpenter pressed.
Spectre paused for a minute.  His deployments to Iraq had haunted him for years after leaving the Air Force to work for his long time friend and Krav Maga sparring partner Marcus Anderson in his gun store in Florida City, FL.  The recurring nightmares only got worse after his fiancée went missing in an F-16 during a routine training exercise.  He just kept reliving the career changing moments over and over, as if his mind were stuck searching for answers for why his life had changed so suddenly.  His last deployment to Iraq had changed him forever.
“This is different,” he replied, shaking off the nightmares.  “I’m different.”
Carpenter looked Spectre over for a minute.  At just over six feet tall, Spectre was just barely taller than Carpenter was, and except for his lighter brown hair and sky blue eyes, Spectre could have easily passed for Carpenter’s brother. 
“Alright man.  If you say you’re good, I believe you.  Just let me know if you need to talk.  I don’t think the boss brought beer into this country, but I’ll buy you a Rip-It.” 
“Thanks, brother,” Spectre replied as the two exchanged a fist bump. 

Avoid. Negotiate. Kill. - Chapter One

We're just a few short weeks away from the release of AVOID. NEGOTIATE. KILL. on May 23rd!  In the meantime, here's another sample of the sequel to SPECTRE RISING.



Chapter One
10 Miles Northeast of Al Hasakah, SyriaPresent Day2100L
Avoid.  Negotiate.  Kill.  They were the three basic tenets of Krav Maga that his Sensei had instilled in him since day one of his training. 
First, he was to avoid confrontation.  Some even called it the “Nike Defense.”  Running away was generally the preferred option.  Living to fight another day was the highest priority, regardless of what his ego said.  He had already spent the last two days practicing the art of avoidance by evading and hiding.  It hadn’t worked.  The commandos of the Al Nusra Front captured him after he made initial contact with Iraqi Security Forces.  He had exhausted that option. 
His next priority was to negotiate.  Sometimes a person could talk his way out of a situation.  Maybe the attacker hadn’t fully resolved his will to fight.  Maybe the attacker wanted something that wasn’t worth risking life and limb over.  Or maybe a person could buy enough time for help to show up.  As Cal “Spectre” Martin stared down the barrel of his own confiscated Beretta 92FS 9MM at point blank range, he realized that option was also no longer on the table.  The man before him, in his torn and worn out camouflaged jacket and military pants, didn’t appear to be willing to negotiate as he shouted for Spectre to read the paper the man had given him.  All Spectre could do now was kill.
His ribs were sore and his face was swollen.  They had not been gentle in transporting him from his holed up location in the desert of Iraq to their small village, although from what he had noticed, it wasn’t much of a village.  The locals had likely been driven out as the Syrian Opposition fighters had taken it over as a base of operations.  It was mostly just a few small huts, war torn buildings and small trucks with bed-mounted machine guns. 
“Read!  Read!” the man holding the gun to his temple shouted from behind his black wiry beard.  Spectre could feel the man’s spit and hot breath hit him as he pushed the cold gun barrel into Spectre’s temple.
Spectre picked up the piece of paper and looked into the tripod-mounted camera in front of him.  He was kneeling in his desert khaki flight suit.  His survival vest and radio had long since been stripped from him.  The zippers of his flight suit pockets were starting to dig into his knees, adding to the pain. 
“I can’t read this chicken scratch,” Spectre said, holding up the hand written piece of paper.  He watched as the man sidestepped in front of him to see the paper.  The hammer on his Beretta 92FS M9 wasn’t cocked and the safety was still on.  Amateur.   
“What?  What you say?” the man asked in broken English as he sidestepped again and repositioned the gun to Spectre’s forehead.  He was now standing between Spectre and the camera.  “You read!   No excuse!  Or you die!”
Spectre brought the paper up to his face as if to get a better look.  It was time to kill.  As his hands reached his eye level, he dropped the paper and instantly grabbed the man’s right wrist with his right hand and the barrel of the gun with his left.  Falling to his side while securing the weapon, he flicked off the safety, squeezed through the double action of the fourteen-pound trigger, and fired at his shocked captor.  The bullet struck the man in the throat and sent him stumbling back into the camera as he gasped through his last breaths.  
Spectre reset his aim for the door.  The small hut had only one door, and he remembered an armed guard standing watch as his captor, presumably a leader, had taken him in to make the propaganda video.  Seconds later, the door flung open as a screaming attacker rushed in.  Spectre sent two rounds to the man’s chest and followed up with a round to the head as the lone man fell forward. 
Scrambling to his feet, Spectre rushed to the guard’s lifeless body.  He grabbed the AK-47 from his hands and found two extra magazines and a fragmentation grenade in his pocket.  Shooting his way out of the village had a low probability of success, but Spectre resolved to go down fighting.  He wouldn’t make the mistake of being captured again.
Spectre put the extra magazines in his flight suit along with the Beretta and readied the AK-47.  He had no idea how many men were alerted by the sounds of his gunshots, but he assumed the worst.  He took a deep breath and stepped out into the crisp night air.  Taking cover behind a burnt out car in front of him, he watched as a group of men advanced toward his position. 
He tried to get a feel for his surroundings as he waited for a clear shot.  He was still unclear of exactly where he was in the village and what the best route of escape was.  They had kept a burlap sack over his head as they walked him from his initial holding location to the small building where he was held.  The sack had been just worn out enough that he could barely make out guards as they shuffled him into the building.  He knew he was roughly one hundred paces from his original location, but that was it. 
He looked around as he crouched behind the car.  He could see clear night air behind him and more huts to his left and in front of him.  Fight or flight.  Spectre had a decision to make.  It was time to revert back to avoidance until that option was once again exhausted.  He would never be able to hold his position with the combined one hundred rounds of 7.62 x 39 and 9MM for his AK-47 and Beretta 92FS. 
Holding his rifle low and ready, he took off in a sprint toward the rear of the long building.  As he reached the corner, rounds began peppering the walls as the men saw him.  He took cover and assessed his new position.  It was completely dark.  Desert.  He could tell by the dark abyss behind him that he had been held near the edge of the village. 
Spectre held up his rifle as he peered around the corner.  As one of the men reached the burnt out car in front of the building, Spectre fired off two rounds that sent the man running for cover.  Spectre sprinted to the opposite corner of the building.  The other two men were attempting to flank his position from the opposite side.  He pulled the pin on the grenade and tossed it in their direction.  The grenade landed between the two men, sending shrapnel and debris everywhere as it exploded.
He sprinted back to the opposite corner and took aim at the man behind the burnt out car.  As the man peered around the rear bumper, Spectre fired a round, hitting the man in the forehead and instantly dropping him face first into the dirt. 
Spectre could hear vehicles in the distance as more men approached.  He took off into the darkness, his boots kicking up sand as he sprinted through the soft desert.  He could hear the yells of the rebel fighters behind him as the vehicles got closer.  At this rate, he would be overrun before he reached civilization.
Clearing the first sand dune, he turned around and dropped to a prone position while taking aim toward the village.  He could see two vehicles with mounted machine guns and spotlights quickly approaching the edge of the village.  They were firing wildly in his direction, but in the darkness, their unaimed shots were in vain.  
Spectre cleared his weapon and checked his magazine.  They would surely run him down if he kept running.  It was time to make his last stand and go down swinging.  At least he had made it this far. 

Avoid. Negotiate. Kill. - Prologue

I know it has been a while since I've updated this blog.  There are many reasons for that, and eventually I will get to a post explaining the six month lull. 

More importantly, however, I am pleased to announce the upcoming release of the sequel to SPECTRE RISING   - AVOID. NEGOTIATE. KILL.   available May 23rd on Amazon and most online retailers.  It is currently available for preorder in the iTunes store and Barnes and Noble.








PROLOGUE
Key West Regional HospitalKey West, FL1500L
                “I’m Jessica Kratzer,” she said, handing her ID badge to the shift supervisor.  “I’m here for the 3PM shift.”  The badge had a photo of her that looked exactly as she did standing in front of the older nurse.  It identified her as a Registered Nurse with NextGen Nursing Solutions, Inc.  Her light brown hair was held tightly in a bun and her burgundy scrubs fit tightly around her athletic body.                  “You’re a bit early,” the older woman replied.  She appeared to be in her late fifties, her hair almost completely white.  She was several inches taller than the contract nurse standing before her was.  “But we can use the help.  I’m Anne Millsaps.  Have you worked ICU before?”                Kratzer shook her head as Millsaps returned the badge and motioned for her to follow through the automatic double doors and into the main area of the Key West Regional Intensive Care Unit.  Kratzer followed close in trail as the woman led her to the nurses’ station.                  “It’s not bad.  There are eight rooms here, which usually means we generally have four nurses on staff.  We’re a bit short staffed right now, but luckily, there are only three patients right now.  We just transferred one to third floor.”                “Who are those guys?”  Kratzer asked, pointing to the men in suits standing outside the door of one the rooms.  “They look serious.”                “Protection detail.  This morning we had two patients come in on a helicopter.  No names, just Jane Doe and John Doe.  Both had gunshot wounds.  I’ve been in nursing thirty years.  Never seen anything like it.”                Kratzer watched as the men standing outside the room stopped talking and eyed her.  They appeared to study her for a minute as she stood next to the older nurse.  Seconds later, they seemed to relax and returned to their previous conversation.                “You’ll get used to it,” Millsaps reassured her, “although, pretty little thing like you?  You’re probably already used to it.”                Millsaps grabbed three charts from behind the desk and set them down in front of Kratzer as she watched a middle-aged male nurse exit the guarded room.  “That’s Tom,” she said.  “He’s married, so don’t get any ideas.”                Kratzer frowned.  If this lady only knew.                   “Hey Tom, this is Jessica from the temp agency.  I was just about to give her the run down.  How’s our Jane Doe doing?”                Tom smiled warmly at Jessica.  He looked to be in his late thirties with dark brown hair and brown eyes.  Like the other two nurses, he was wearing burgundy scrubs.                  “She’s doing better.  Vitals are stable.  I just hung that unit of blood for her,” he said as he scribbled notes in the patient’s chart.                “We also have Mrs. Mary Lee, 77, congestive heart failure and Mr. Gary Hall, 74, who’s just out of surgery with a hip replacement,” Millsaps said.  “Why don’t you take Mr. Hall this evening?”                “What happened to the John Doe?”  Kratzer asked.                “That was the one we transferred up to third floor about an hour ago,” the older nurse replied, handing Kratzer the chart of Gary Hall.                Kratzer hesitated for a moment and then said, “Do you mind if I take the girl?  I would feel more comfortable with the younger patient.”                “Oh, honey,” the woman said, taking off her glasses, “I’ve probably been nursing longer than you’ve been alive.  Trust me, dear, they’re all the same.  Don’t think that just because they’re younger, they’re easier patients to deal with.”                “It’s ok, Anne, if it makes her more comfortable, I don’t mind switching,” Tom interjected with a warm smile.                Kratzer smiled as he handed her the younger girl’s chart.  “Thank you, Tom.”                “Buy me a coke later,” he replied with wink as he grabbed the older man’s chart and set off for his room.                “Like I said earlier, don’t get any ideas,” Millsaps warned.  “It’s probably about time to check on the blood transfusion on your patient.  Have at it.”                Kratzer quickly flipped through the chart as she gathered herself.  The girl had spent nearly six hours in surgery earlier in the day having bullet and bone fragments removed.  One of her kidneys had been hit and had to be removed, and she had nerve damage in her spine.  Her vitals were fairly weak, but stable.  She was in a medically induced coma for the time being.                  The two men standing outside the room eyed her as she approached the door.  They appeared to be federal agents, but she couldn’t pinpoint which branch of government.  She guessed FBI, based on their suits and demeanor.                  She smiled as she walked by them and opened the door.  Another agent, this one female, sat in the chair at the edge of the bed.  Kratzer walked in as the woman stood.  Kratzer eyed the woman’s badge clipped to her belt and handgun.  The FBI shield and standard issue Glock 22 confirmed her previous guess.                “What happened to Tom?” the female agent asked.                “My name is Jessica,” Kratzer responded with a disarming smile, “I’m going to be taking care of Mrs. Doe.  Tom is with another patient.  How is she?”                “She’s still out,” the woman replied, sitting back down, “but she’s doing better than she was when she got here.”                “Do you know what happened to her?”  Kratzer asked as she walked over to the IV and blood transfusion unit.  The girl’s curly brown hair was dirty and stuck together with blood.  Her face was swollen and bruises covered her body.                  “I can’t discuss that,” the woman said sternly.                  “Sorry,” Kratzer replied, “just curious.”  That was all the information she needed.  She was in the right room with the right patient.  She pulled out a small bottle and packaged syringe from her pocket and unwrapped it.                  “What’s that?  I thought she couldn’t have anything while she’s getting blood?”                “This is to prevent blood clots,” Kratzer responded as she filled the syringe.  “Big concern when getting blood.”                Satisfied, the agent returned to her Sudoku puzzle as Kratzer stuck the needle in the IV line and injected her patient.  When she was finished, she discarded the syringe and needle in the red SHARPS container on the wall and walked out.                “I’m not feeling very well,” Kratzer said as she reached Millsaps at the nurses’ station.  “Where’s the nearest bathroom?”                “Just outside the double doors on the left.  You ok, sweetie?” she asked.                “I don’t know.  Stomach bug has been going around and it may have just hit me,” Kratzer replied, clutching her stomach.                “Well don’t wait around here!  Go!”  Millsaps responded, shooing her away.                Kratzer nodded as she scurried out of the ICU and through the double doors.                  “Those damned contract nurses,” Millsaps said, shaking her head as she picked up the chart and headed for her patient’s room.                Kratzer bypassed the bathroom and continued out toward the main corridor.  As she reached the lobby, she entered the women’s room and locked the door behind her.  She found the backpack she had stuffed in the upper vent a few hours prior.  She pulled out her jeans and jacket and pulled the blue Marlins baseball cap low over her face as she balled up her scrubs and stuffed them into the backpack.                  As she reached the door of the bathroom, she heard, “CODE BLUE, I-C-U, CODE BLUE, I-C-U,” indicating a patient was coding and required a crash cart in the Intensive Care Unit.                She smiled as she unlocked the door and walked out.  The Potassium Chloride she had injected into the girl’s IV line was working, and within minutes, Chloe Moss would be dead.  She had only completed fifty percent of her objectives, but for Svetlana Mitchell, that’s all that mattered.  Her handler had been crystal clear – kill the girl.  The secondary objective would only be a target of opportunity.  It was unfortunate that they had moved him, but that was part of the game.  She was sure her handler would understand, and she could always get him later if necessary.She cleared the lobby, keeping her head low to avoid security cameras as she exited the large hospital.  It was another beautiful South Florida day.  She decided to spend the rest of her afternoon on the water after she collected her payout.

Front Page article in the Eunice News

My new book SPECTRE RISING made the front page of the Sunday edition of my hometown newspaper.  Check it out!



Special thanks to Mr. Jim Butler of the Eunice News for running the article.  Eunice News Official Website

Spectre: Origins is now available!

Click Here For More Information!

SPECTRE: ORIGINS is now available for $0.99 in the Kindle store!  This is a great companion to SPECTRE RISING if you've already read it, or a stand alone series of short stories.

Spectre: Origins is a prequel series for the new thriller SPECTRE RISING by C.W. LEMOINE. Each of six short stories gives a look into the lives of the main characters before the events of SPECTRE RISING. 

- Sneak through the snow covered hills of Bosnia with Marine Sniper Marcus Anderson as he completes his final mission. 

- Join TSgt Joe Carpenter as his convoy is ambushed on a highway in Afghanistan. Under heavy fire, he calls in airstrikes and rescue helicopters to save his disabled convoy. 

- See promising young wingman 1LT Cal "Spectre" Martin in his first flight in the F-16 as a 39th Fighter Squadron "Gator" as he learns the art of dogfighting. 

- Watch Cuban Intelligence agent Victor Alvarez infiltrate a major Federal Agency. 

- Ride shotgun with Trooper Sean Baxter on the highways of East Texas as he uses his keen attention to detail to save a young child. 

- Follow Capt Chloe "Eve" Moss as she struggles through her flight lead upgrade sortie in the F-16 during a 2 vs 1 engagement. 

Plus an exclusive preview of the first three chapters of SPECTRE RISING (Available now!). 

First Official Review of Spectre Rising is out!

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Spectre Rising - Book Trailer # 3

Spectre Rising - Book Trailer

SPECTRE RISING - Chapter Two

R-2901Four Months Later
            “Rattler 21, Thunder 11 checking in as fragged, ready for words,” the metallic voice said over the Harris PRC-117F Manpack Radio.  The dismounted radio, called a manpack, served as a multi-band, multimode radio that covered the gamut of waveforms.  Frequencies covered included VHF, UHF, and UHF SATCOM radio.  The unit was also compatible with the Single Channel Ground and Airborne Radio System, an Army system.  It served as a lifeline for any JTAC to support assets in the air.            “Roger Thunder 11, Rattler has you loud and clear, situation is as follows: we have several wounded friendly forces holed up in the urban village.  They are unable to move at this time and are surrounded by multiple hostiles in pickup trucks,” he replied looking up at the jets circling over their position.  From his observation position, he could barely hear the two F-16s in a right hand orbit high above, but with the overcast sky, he could clearly see two dark specks speeding across the clouds like ants on a blanket.            The two men were set up on the roof of a metal building overlooking a series of tin buildings just a quarter mile away.  The terrain was relatively flat, and from atop the two-story building, they had a relatively unobstructed view of the village.  Even for a village, it wasn’t much.  A dirt road running north from their observation position was split by fifteen tin buildings before intersecting another dirt road that led out to a narrow tree line.              “Do you recognize the voice?” he asked, turning to the man standing next to him.  The man was about six feet tall with a narrow frame and muscular build.  He wore khaki 5.11 Tactical pants with a black Survival Krav Maga t-shirt.  Oakley Half Jacket mirror tinted sunglasses masked his deep set, blue-gray eyes, and a desert camouflage boonie hat covered his light brown hair.  His square jaw clenched as he pondered the question.            “C’mon Joe, you know I don’t fly with those assholes anymore,” the man replied with a grin.  Tech Sergeant Joe Carpenter laughed and turned back to his Toughbook Laptop and PRC-117 radio.  He was wearing the standard issue Air Force ABU digital camouflage uniform complete with flak vest and ballistic helmet.  A former Army Ranger, he had been a JTAC for three years after going Green to Blue in search of a more aviation-oriented career.  Unable to fly because of a color vision test, his search landed him right back with the Army, as an embedded JTAC.            Perhaps one of the most physically demanding jobs in the Air Force, JTACs were frontline battlefield airmen.  They were embedded with ground forces to advise the ground commander on Air Force air power capabilities, and in the heat of battle, to control aircraft during close air support scenarios.  Of course, it was just Carpenter’s luck that he’d get out of the Army just to go right back in a new uniform, but he didn’t mind, he was at the tip of the spear and he loved it.            To Carpenter, though, the best thing about working for Mother Blue was the toys.  He knew the Army had the same technology and capabilities, but in the Air Force, he always seemed to have the latest and greatest at his fingertips.  At the moment, the latest and greatest happened to be his Toughbook Laptop equipped with the newest Precision Strike Suite for Special Operation Forces software – PSS-SOF.  With PSS-SOF, he could pass airborne operators high fidelity GPS coordinates of his own position or the enemy from the comfort of whatever foxhole he happened to be operating out of.              “Damn Spectre, still no love for the Gators?”  Carpenter asked sarcastically.  The Gators were the 39th Fighter Squadron stationed out of Homestead Air Reserve Base in Southern Florida.  One of only two fighter squadrons remaining under the Air Force Reserve Command, the Gators had been Spectre’s squadron until the aftermath of his final flight that night in the skies over Iraq.              “None.  Don’t you think you should pass them a nine line and get this party started?”  Spectre was never known for his tact.  It was one of many reasons he and Carpenter got along so well.            Carpenter nodded and keyed the microphone as he read from his Toughbook, “Thunder 41, nine line is as follows: items one through three are NA, line four: one hundred twenty feet, line five: group of trucks, line six: One Six Romeo Mike Lima Nine Three Eight Four Four Eight Zero Six, line 7 NA, Line 8: five hundred meters southeast, line 9 as required, remarks:  final attack heading 270 plus or minus 10 degrees.  Call in with final attack heading and expect clearance on final.  Read back lines 4, 6, and restrictions.”              The fighter repeated the 9-line perfectly as the F-16s maneuvered into position overhead.  By using the standard 9-Line format, Carpenter had given the fighters all the information they needed to take out the target, including elevation, coordinates formatted in Military Grid Reference System, distance from friendly positions and restrictions on attack direction.               “It’s Magic,” Spectre muttered.            Carpenter turned and gave Spectre a puzzled look.            “Magic?  No man, it’s science.  We give them the coordinates of the bad guys with this fancy laptop, they plug it into their system, and the bad guys go boom.”              “No shit smartass, I mean the guy flying.  It’s Magic Manny,” Spectre fired back.  Lt Col Steve “Magic” Manny was the Director of Operations for the Gators.            Carpenter picked up his binoculars with one hand and the handset of his radio in the other as he watched the F-16 roll in on its target.            “Thunder 11, in heading 275,” announced the tinny voice of Magic over the PRC-117.            “You’re cleared hot,” Carpenter replied, clearing the pilot to employ ordnance while ensuring that the fighter’s nose was pointing at the right target.              Spectre watched as the F-16 rolled in and hurled itself toward the ground.  Seconds later, two objects fell as the jet turned back skyward.  He winced in anticipation of the impact only to be greeted by two barely audible thuds.            “Good hits!  Good bombs!”  Carpenter exclaimed on the radio.            “Inerts are so anticlimactic,” Spectre sighed.              “What do you expect?  They drop two five hundred pound pieces of concrete that are shaped to look like real bombs.  It’s way better than when they roll in and just ‘simulate’ without anything coming off the jet.  Now that is boring.”  Carpenter always had a way of putting a positive spin on things.            Just as Spectre was about to explain the merits of training without any ordnance on the aircraft, his cell phone rang.  It was his boss.            “I have to go Joe, thanks for letting me spot for you,” he said as he hung up the phone.            Carpenter gave him a nod and turned back to the target.  He had invited Spectre to make the drive from Homestead to Avon Park to catch up and observe the Forward Air Controller side of Close Air Support.  They had been friends since college, but aside from an e-mail or phone call here and there, they rarely got to see each other nearly ten years later.              Spectre picked up his backpack and climbed down the connex container to begin the mile hike back to his truck.  His boss had been brief but the sense of urgency was apparent in his voice.  It was time to quit playing and get back to the office – something new had come up.With the boss as vague as he was, Spectre was forced to wonder what could be going on until completing the three-hour drive back to Homestead to find out.  Was the store finally going to be bought out by a bigger chain?  Did some new, rare find show up that needed an immediate appraisal?  These were the new questions that weighed heavily on his mind since his transition to civilian life.            It wasn’t a very easy transition to make.  When Spectre was told by his superiors upon returning from Iraq that he’d never fly an Air Force Reserve aircraft again, he refused the non-flying staff job they tried to force on him.  For him, flying the F-16 hadn’t been about the adrenaline rush or the need for speed.  It was about serving a higher purpose.  In the current world climate, that meant providing close air support for boots on the ground.  When the powers that be decided he was no longer fit to do that, he decided his services could be better used elsewhere.            Unfortunately for Spectre, the economy he escaped to wasn’t conducive to his unique skill sets.  And after several rejected applications to a myriad of three letter agencies and private contractors, he found himself quickly burning through his savings.            That was until he met Marcus Anderson.  The gruff Mr. Anderson had been a classmate of Spectre’s in their Survival Krav Maga class.  And although Marcus was nearly twenty years his senior, the two became fierce sparring partners.  The former Marine versus the former fighter pilot, each did a good job of keeping the other on his toes.  A black belt himself, Marcus had helped Spectre earn his black belt in Krav Maga.            Through their training and constant ribbing, the two became good friends.  And when Marcus learned that Spectre was down on his luck, he didn’t hesitate to bring him in on the family business.              Anderson Police Supply in Florida City, FL was established in 1981 by the late John Anderson.  A former Miami-Dade County detective, John Anderson had retired to the more rural Florida City to escape the explosive expansion of Miami and Ft Lauderdale, while still being close enough to visit.  What originally started as a hobby of collecting rare and unique guns soon became a fairly lucrative business for John.  His buddies from the force appreciated the discounts on firearms and supplies, while the locals enjoyed having a full service firearms dealer with a huge inventory right down the street.            After returning home a decorated Marine Recon Sniper in 1999, Marcus decided to leave the Corps and join his father in running the store.  By the time his father passed away in 2001, Marcus had watched the store grow from the back corner of a bait and tackle shop to a 20,000 square foot facility equipped with an indoor shooting range and a fully configurable electronic shoot house.              When Marcus learned that Spectre had a business degree and extensive web design experience from college, he didn’t feel so bad about giving Spectre a chance.  And after only a year, Anderson Police Supply had become one of the foremost online dealers for firearms and tactical gear.               Spectre arrived at the store well after business hours, but the parking lot was still full.  Something must really be going on, he thought.  He had spent the three-hour drive going over the possibilities in his head, but none of them seemed likely enough to cause Marcus to be so tight lipped.  He really had no idea what to expect.            He swiped his access card and opened the heavy metal door as the lock clicked open.  The access control system had been installed shortly after the latest renovations, allowing better control and tracking of those employees who were able to access the building after hours.  He then proceeded inside the large showroom, complete with multiple glass showcases.  Handguns of all calibers and types were proudly on display inside each case, organized by manufacturer.  Rifles of varying calibers and sizes were mounted behind each of showcases on the wall.  It was a gun lover’s heaven.            Specter noticed the staff crowded around the range rental counter of the store.  He could barely make out Marcus’ gray hair standing behind it, apparently talking to the staff.  He threw his backpack on one of the showcases without slowing down and continued to where the others were gathered around.            “No, it does not mean you’ll lose your job,” Marcus continued, apparently already midway through his speech.  He paused and nodded as he noticed Spectre join the crowd.              “Then what does it mean?”  one of the junior salesmen asked.            “Would you let me finish?  Do you think I won’t tell you?”  Marcus barked.  The junior salesman retreated, his face red.  Spectre chuckled.  That was Marcus.  Patience and diplomacy would never be his legacy.            “What’s going on?”  Spectre whispered to the girl next to him.  She was barely five feet tall with long brown hair and bright blue eyes.  To Spectre, and most of the males in the store, she was probably the most attractive girl there.  Were it not for his pending engagement, he might have made a move on her.  Perhaps even more successfully than the hundreds of guys that were being shot down on a daily basis.            “The boss just announced that the store is downsizing,” she replied.            “Downsizing how?”             She replied with a finger to her mouth and pointed to Marcus who was still staring down the junior salesman.  Even at 5’9” and just over 170 lbs, Marcus was an expert in creating the fear of God in just about anyone.            “As I was saying,” he continued, “we’re not downsizing staff for now.  We’re going to move a lot of the floor salesmen... err... salespeople to the corporate accounts, internet sales, and range.  We’re also going to be cutting back on the store hours.  I don’t want to have to let people go, but you’re all going to have to work with me.  This is the best I can do with the shit sandwich we’ve been given.”            Marcus made a point to make eye contact with every man and woman standing around that counter as if he were readying the troops for a final charge into battle.  To Marcus, that wasn’t that far from the truth.  For his business, this was do or die time.  They had to either pull themselves out of the red and adapt to a changing economy, or face extinction.            “That’s all I can say for now, folks.  Just know that we’re going to work together and pull this through.  Cal, can I talk to you in private?”            Spectre nodded and walked behind the counter.  He followed Marcus into his office and closed the door behind them.  Marcus collapsed into his big leather chair and rubbed his temples.            “Nice speech, boss.  The troops are ready for war,” Spectre poked with a grin.            “War is a lot easier than this shit.  Way easier.  You have a target.  You have an objective.  You kill him.  This?  This is a cluster fuck.”            “What’s going on?  When I left yesterday, things weren’t so doom and gloom.  Sure we had a bad quarter, but nothing we haven’t seen before,” Spectre replied.  He was referring to the quarterly financial reports their accounting staff had put together the day prior.  As expected, gun sales were down across the board.  The only thing doing well was the internet sales department.              “We were doing fine.  Until this morning, and I got this,” he said as he handed Spectre a letter.            Spectre took the letter and started reading.  He couldn’t believe it.  It was non-renewal notice from the local Customs and Border Protection branch.  One of their largest government contracts for supplying firearms, ammunition, and tactical gear was being terminated.             “I’ve got a buddy at CBP; I’ll ask what’s going on.”            “Don’t bother, I already talked to the Air and Marine Branch Chief in Homestead,” Marcus said, eyes closed as if what he was saying was also physically painful, “the President has cut funding to all Customs Air and Marine branches nationwide.  He thinks this one might be closing altogether.”            “It can’t be!  This is one of the busiest branches in the country!”  Spectre was beside himself.  The Homestead Air and Marine Interdiction branch of CBP was the front line in the country’s battle against smugglers, drug runners, illegals, and terrorists.  With a fleet of Blackhawk helicopters, ASTARS helicopters, Dash-8 surveillance aircraft, and trained interdiction agents, it was second only to the Tucson branch in activity.                “I know.  Fucking Democrats.”  Marcus sighed.   

Prequel Series - Victor Alvarez: "New Friends"

Miami, FL2007
“You’re much better than he is,” she said, rubbing his chest.            Victor Alvarez sat up and swung his feet over the side of the bed.  He looked over at her.  She was laying there naked and sweating from their second lovemaking session of the evening.  Her long, dark brown hair just barely covered her exposed breasts.            “We’ve got time for one more,” she said as she sat up and kissed his neck.            Victor rubbed is hands through his jet black hair.  These women always seemed to get so clingy.  “What time will he be home?”            “It’s Thursday night.  Jay goes to the track on Thursday nights,” she said as she caressed his back.               “There will be more time for us later,” he said as he turned to kiss her.  She grabbed his face and kissed him sensually.            “When are we going to run away together like you promised?  I’ve already started talking to divorce lawyers,” she said.  Her brown eyes were deep with concern.  He had been working her for the past two months.            “Soon, my love,” he said, kissing her forehead, “but for now, I should go so as not to make a scene when he returns.”            Victor stood, grabbing his pants and shirt from the foot of the bed.  The woman crawled out of bed behind him.  He took a moment to take in her toned body and caramel skin.  He loved this job so much.              “Give me a moment and I’ll walk you out,” she said as she grabbed wrapped her robe around her.              Victor smiled as he continued putting on his clothes.  As she walked into the bathroom, he slowly eased toward the dresser.  Next to it sat a dirty clothes bin.  When she was safely out of view, he carefully searched the drawers.  Nothing.  He looked into the dirty clothes and found a pair of men’s slacks.  He picked them up and dug through the pockets, pulling out two pieces of paper.            Victor glanced back to the bathroom as he opened the two crumpled pieces of paper.  The first was an ATM receipt.  Nothing unusual - just a one hundred dollar transfer.  The second was a betting slip for the Flagler Greyhound Track in Miami.              Victor smiled as he stuffed the papers back in the pants and then put them back into the clothes bin.    He had what he needed.*****            “Rubio says this guy is ten grand in the hole,” the man said as he sat next to Alvarez.  It was Jose Herrera, his most trusted asset in Miami.  Jose was a native of Miami.  His parents had set their roots in Hialeah in the late sixties after fleeing Cuba, and although he didn’t officially work for the Cuban DGI, he was very much on their payrolls.            The Dirección General de Inteligencia was the main state intelligence agency of Cuba.  Since opening for business in late 1961, the DGI had been involved in intelligence and espionage operations across the globe.  They had been involved in aiding leftist revolutionary movements in Africa, the Middle East, and mostly Latin America.  In the United States, the DGI had been heavily involved with international drug trade, assisting homegrown terrorist cells, and intelligence gathering operations for third party countries.              “Total?” Alvarez asked as he watched the greyhounds speed by on the track.  He was wearing a white button down shirt and straw fedora with khaki slacks.            “This month,” Jose replied.            Alvarez put down his binoculars and looked at Jose.  He had been using them to search for his target in the opposite stands.  He knew the man would be there.  It was Thursday night, after all.            “Rubio must appreciate that,” Victor replied.  Juan Rubio was one of the most vicious bookies in South Florida.  He was known for extracting money from his clients at any cost and with his ties to the Latin Kings gang, he was immune from retribution or prosecution.  No one dared to cross him.            “He already owes Rubio five grand,” Jose said, lowering his voice, “he’s giving this guy just enough rope to hang himself.”            Alvarez chuckled as he went back to his binoculars.  He scanned the crowd in the stands across from them looking for his target.            “So he has the same plan we do,” Victor said as he watched the man wearing shorts and a blue polo shirt.  It was Special Agent Jay Leon, the new agent assigned to the Foreign Intelligence/Espionage desk of the Miami Field Office of the FBI.              Jose shrugged, “Do you want me to talk to him, boss?”            “See how much money it will take to buy him out,” Alvarez responded.  “I’m going to have a chat with our new friend.”

*****            Victor Alvarez waited patiently in the dark corner of the VIP room of the club.  Strip clubs were ideal for meetings like this, especially the VIP room.  The loud music and dark rooms made it harder for people to eavesdrop.  People rarely paid attention to anything but the girls, and no one gave a second glance to suspicious activity.              But Victor’s target had no idea they were meeting.  His presence in the corner of the little strip club was the culmination of months of work spent selecting the target, working his way in, and finding his leverage.            A mid-level agent in the DGI, Victor Alvarez had spent his entire career working South Florida.  He had served his country through building a network of intelligence assets throughout the local community.  If a foreign country had an operation in Miami, he was their man.  He was proud of the work he had done and was known as one of the agency’s most effective operatives, especially when it came to developing assets in government organizations.  His superiors were always impressed at how he managed to turn even the most difficult targets into productive intelligence assets.            Special Agent Jay Leon was a project Victor’s own government had given him.  They had control of most of the local police departments, but their presence with the local feds was minimalist at best.  They only had low level analysts who could feed them information if they happened upon it.   They needed someone with a hand in it.  The man would be their eyes and ears, and if necessary, divert attention from whatever operations they were working.              So when Victor learned that the Foreign Intelligence desk of the FBI was going to a new transfer originally from the area, he knew he would have his opportunity.   Leon’s father still lived in Cuba.  He could be used as leverage if necessary, Victor had thought.            It hadn’t been necessary.  Victor worked it the best way he knew how – in the bedroom.  He watched Leon and his wife over the course of several weeks.  They had no kids.  She was a bored housewife following her husband from assignment to assignment.  He could work with that.            And he did.  Over and over again.  He promised her adventure and excitement.  He promised her a new life and a romantic getaway.  It was all a lie, of course, but it had gotten him close enough to get the information he needed.  He didn’t feel bad.  She could do better than Leon anyway.  Leon apparently had a gambling problem, and judging by his frequent trips to the establishment Victor was sitting in, a fidelity problem as well.              Victor sat back as he watched a stripper guide Leon up the stairs and onto one of the couches.  She kissed his cheek and walked away, promising that his girl would be up shortly.            Leon looked around for a second, and then began to unzip his pants.            “Keep your pants on,” Alvarez said from the corner.            Startled, Leon jumped up, holding his pants.              “Who the fuck are you?” he demanded.  “Where’s Candy?”            “Prostitution is illegal in Florida, Mr. Leon,” Alvarez said smoothly.            “I said who the fuck are you?” Leon demanded, zipping his pants.  “How do you know my name?”            “I know everything about you, Special Agent Leon.  Please sit down.  Let’s chat.”            Alvarez sat patiently as Leon approached.  “That’s right, asshole.  Special Agent.  Now tell me what the fuck you’re doing here before I arrest you.”            “If you want to continue being ‘Special Agent’ Leon, I suggest you sit down, please,” Alvarez said.  “Does the Bureau know about your gambling problem?”            Leon stopped in his tracks as Alvarez tossed a set of large photo prints on the table in front of him.  “Look familiar?” Alvarez asked.            Leon picked up the pictures and studied them.  They were pictures of him sitting in the stands at the track.              “So what?” Leon asked indignantly.  “Are you trying to blackmail me?  Going to the track isn’t illegal.”            Alvarez said nothing as he tossed two more pictures on the table.  In them, Leon was giving cash to Rubio.              “So tell on me, I don’t fucking care.  They’ll slap me on the wrist and make me get counseling.  Big deal.”  Leon was playing it off pretty well.  Alvarez had to give it to him.            “I understand,” Alvarez said as he tossed two more pictures on the table.  This time, the pictures were black and white and of him with a naked woman on top.  “That doesn’t look like your wife.”            “I’m sure that bitch is cheating on me anyway, and you can’t prove this is illegal,” Leon replied, tossing the pictures back at Alvarez.  “Now if you’ll get the fuck out of here, I’ve got an appointment.”            Alvarez smiled as Leon mentioned his cheating wife.  If he only knew.            “About that gambling thing,” Alvarez said, pulling a piece of paper out of his pocket.  “Ten thousand dollars in the hole this month.  Ten thousand last month.  Five thousand dollar debt to Juan Rubio at 60% interest.   Twenty one hundred dollars left to your name.   I don’t think Mr. Rubio or his associates will accept Gamblers Anonymous as payment, Agent Leon.”            Leon stumbled back and sat back down on the couch.  “Who are you? What do you want?”            “My name is Victor,” Alvarez responded.  “And I would like to make all your problems go away.”            “I’m listening,” Leon said, cautiously leaning forward.            Alvarez tossed a black duffle bag to Leon’s feet.  He waited as Leon unzipped the top and pulled out a stack of neatly packaged $100 bills.             “There’s one hundred thousand dollars in cash in that bag, Agent Leon,” Alvarez said as he sat back and crossed his legs.  “You can use that to pay off your debt to Mr. Rubio.  After that, you are done with that track.  You will then receive ten thousand dollars per month.  All cash, of course.”            “In exchange for what? Why would you do this?” Leon asked, thumbing through the bills.            “Friendship.”            “Friendship?”            Alvarez stood and extended his hand to Leon.  “I would like your friendship, Special Agent.  That is all.”            Leon stared at the outstretched hand.  He considered it for a moment, and then grabbed Victor’s hand, shaking it as he stood.  Alvarez seemed to tower over the short little man.            “To friendship,” Leon said with a crooked smile.            “You’ve made the right choice,” Alvarez responded, patting Leon on the shoulder with his free hand.