Charlie Moore: The Adventurer

The Upcoming King of Spy Thrillers

 charlie
       MOORE Says,

“If it doesn’t leap out of the page and slap you across the face, I didn’t write it!”

Yes, You read it right! Charlie Moore is the upcoming king of Spy Thrillers!

Again, when I first was approached by the man who lives in the land of scorpions, stingrays,and stinging jellyfish  via Google chat, I was like “Hey, sorry Charlie but their are no Tuna here. Just us Sharks. We write Urban Fiction and this here is the real deal.”

Nevertheless Charlie laughed and said, “Let me just say this mate. My book is the real deal, and if the words don’t leap out of the page and slap you across the face then I didn’t write it.”

Indeed after a brief conversation and a few sample chapters I was totally convinced that Charlie was the real deal. In fact I was so intrigued that I read the book twice…hence my long await to write the review as you will see down below. Here on this site I gave him a Terminator’s thumbs up, and Charlie Moore is a force to be reckoned with, and is hereby Street Certified by DionCheese.Com. Hell, Charlie lived in Austrailia among the likes of  Steve Irwin AKA The Crocodile Hunter. Now I don’t know about you all, but, a man who lives among venomous snakes and spiders such as the Redback spider and so forth deserves the utmost respect in my book. Hell, all we mostly have to worry about here is a few bee stings and a gun. Over in Sydney, Charlie wakes up kicking a some deadly spider’s ass! So you better recognize peepz!

Within I have included a sample chapter with my review. So judge for yourselves if what Charlie says is true, and feel free to leave a comment or two I’m sure that he would appreciate it.

Against The Clock Synopsis

Shirin Reyes has come out of the cold with a vengeance. Determined to kill the men responsible for her husband’s death, she finds herself torn between her all consuming vendetta and the consequences her actions have on thoseshe cares about.

Unrelenting. Unstoppable. Uncompromising. Shirin ruthlessly hunts down each man, working her way to the top, never realizing she has penetrated the inner sanctum of a covert operation – entangled within an explosive web of scandal, treason, murder and government corruption.

AGAINST THE CLOCK is author Charlie Moore’s authentic action-packed expose of spies and counter spies. This is NOT just another espionage novel. So sit back with a double shot of smooth whiskey—neat—put your feet upand get ready for an exhilarating read driven by the most deadly, most intriguing characters brought to the page.

The Sample Chapter

chapter 1

 

 

“loss is the moment you find something worth keeping”
the book of seekay

10:08am

Trent Barratt looked away from his reflection in the shop window. What he saw there disgusted him. The small phone in his large hand was almost crushed between the force of his rage and the depth of his embarrassment. There was little he could do now but to report his failure.

“We lost her, sir…” he said into the phone.

A steely silence bellowed back at him.

There was more to report, and for a moment he considered keeping it to himself until he could somehow turn things around, but he was not a coward. He would admit his errors in full, then he would hunt her down and make her pay for his humiliation.

He took a deep breath and continued, “Three of my men are down, sir.”

A moment of pause let his failure hang in the air before he heard several loud smashes on the other end of the phone. The line went dead.

He returned the cell to his pocket and started planning his next step toward finding her. It troubled him that she had escaped his grasp, and it troubled him more that she had killed three of his men.

Barratt was seasoned. He’d survived too long in an unforgiving business to have a false sense of ability. He recognized that he was not the best operative in the field, but his track record also told him he was better than most. For this woman to have eluded him, indicated the reports on her ability and her resources were modest at best. He vowed never to underestimate her again.

But something else bothered him. He had caught a glimpse of her as she was crouched over one of his men. She was in her late twenties, wore black loose fitting jeans, and a floppy shirt two sizes too large. She looked homely, unremarkable at first glance, but he saw in her movements a woman capable of great speed and agility.

She moved with fluidity uncommon in most people, and she had a sense about her that screamed of an intense alertness. He understood those traits. He had them too.

Their eyes had met. There was something familiar in them. Something wild, hungry and unafraid. He felt challenged by them, and then, behind a flash of blonde hair, they were gone.

Her face had been a blur, obscured by movement, yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that he knew her.

He had moved toward her, angling to get a better view, trying to get within an accurate firing range for his pistol, when a car had driven past, obscuring his view for a moment, and by then she was gone.

 

10:09AM

Director Selig swept the debris of the shattered phone off the desk, ignoring the cuts and scrapes on his bare knuckles. Whoever this woman was, she had managed to stay one step ahead of his team.

As if on cue, a gentle knock came on the closed door, and April, his assistant, tentatively popped her head inside.

“Is there anything you might need, sir?”

Selig waved absently at the smashed phone strewn on the floor. “A new phone,” he said dryly. Already lost in thought, he added, “Thank you, April.”

With a nod, she quietly slipped away and returned moments later, unpacking equipment as she walked.

Selig barely registered his young assistant cleaning away the debris and hooking up the new phone. When she was gone, he picked up the receiver and made a call.

“Barratt lost her,” he said into the phone. His voice soft, monotone, barely concealing the rage that boiled inside him, “We need to get rid of him, then we need to get that girl.”

Measured carefully, the voice on the other end of the line spoke almost mechanically, “Barratt is a good operative. We could still use him. It’s time we seriously consider that this woman is in fact Shirin Reyes.”

“Impossible! She’s out! She’s been out for years.” But even as he spoke the words, Director Selig felt the seeds of doubt spouting in his mind. If this was Reyes, the danger to his mission, and the risks for himself, were considerably worse than he could have imagined. Selig fought to control the rage bubbling up in his voice and took a moment to settle himself before he continued, “Find out who this girl is. If it is Shirin Reyes, kill her. And don’t be nice about it. Just make sure she’s dead!”

The voice on the phone, the voice of the man known only as “Smith”, was quiet, without emotional inflection, “I have good reason to believe this woman is Reyes. And that she is back in play.” The voice paused for effect but continued before Selig could speak, “I had the agent guarding Bill Civic send me a screenshot from the security footage.”

“And?”

“I believe it was Reyes. The image is dark and grainy, but it was her. I’m sending you a copy of the photo now,” the voice said matter-of-factly.

Director Selig logged into his private email while the voice he knew only as “Smith” continued. “My man has spoken with Bill Civic, and he claims it was a girl by the name of Marisol Keplor. She had ID matching that name, sighted by my security man. Mr. Civic is adamant that this woman was clean. He says he had been watching her at his club for weeks. I am in the process of collecting recordings from the club for verification. He is also adamant that nothing had been touched or taken from his apartment. He says they had sex all night, and that she left in the early hours of the morning. My security team has confirmed that. Security cameras have her leaving the apartment at 0400. Her bag, and person, were searched before entering the apartment, and again when leaving. There was nothing of note.”

The photo had arrived in his email. Smith had been correct; the image was dark and grainy. Bill Civic was easily identifiable, whereas the girl was not. She was huddled under his arm, her face hidden.

“I have the image,” Selig said into the phone. Leaning closer to the screen he strained to discern any identifiable features of the woman. “What makes you so certain this woman is Reyes?”

“It’s her.”

Selig was not so convinced, but Smith had been a trusted, highly valued colleague far too long to dismiss his opinion so hastily. Instead, he said, “I’m sending you another team now. Track her, get me better pictures. We need to ID her quickly. Keep your man on Civic. I’ll have a forensic team there within the hour to go over his apartment. If this is Reyes, she had a reason to be there. We need to find out what it was.” He didn’t wait for a reply before ending the call.

Director Selig often considered the termination of a conversation as being the equivalent of solving the problem; he gave an instruction, his command would be done, his mind would be free to focus on the next task. But this time, terminating the phone call left him more unsettled than he cared to admit.

Reyes had been an unparalleled agent when she had worked for him. A pain in the ass, crazy as hell, and the source of many headaches, but she never failed; no matter the cost. In his world, that level of success was all that mattered. Regardless of rules, laws or intelligence protocols, success warranted certain freedoms. Freedoms that he had readily provided her.

But after the death of her husband, her missions grew reckless, her behavior dangerous. And then, she vanished! He had hoped she was dead but knew better.

It bothered him deeply that if this mystery girl was in fact Shirin Reyes, it would indicate she had been active for at least several months. But “active” on what? What was she doing? Who could she be working for?

Rubbing at the stubble forming on his chin, Selig started making mental notes on the phone calls he would need to make.

If she were truly back and in play, extra precautions would need to be put in place. Selig grudgingly conceded to himself that perhaps having her husband killed may not have been one of his best decisions.

 

10:24AM

Shirin Reyes stepped off the platform. Without looking back at the departing train, she walked through the terminal gates and out into the crowded streets of the CBD.

No one was following her, she was sure of it. But for the next hour, she would navigate her way through a labyrinth of shops, fitting rooms, and glassed store-front windows before returning to her safe house.

Her blonde wig lay at the bottom of a trash receptacle outside a Starbucks café, and her handbag, emptied into and deposited in the ladies room. She kept none of its contents.

The baggy shirt and black jeans she had been wearing were scattered through various waste bins on her shopping spree through the Grand Plaza.

The guns collected from the dead men were secreted within the pockets of a new gym bag. Wearing her newly purchased Lycra long-cut shorts, running shoes, and tight singlet top, she looked like one of many other young ladies on their way back from the gym.

Her breath had come back quickly, and the adrenaline of the encounter was just now ebbing slowly away. Sipping a tall, full cream cappuccino, she headed back to the train depot. Her mind worked quickly over the events of the last few hours.

The ambush had been well executed; a four-man team, three converging on her from intersecting planes, the fourth she assumed from a higher vantage point. She had identified two of the three quickly, the third soon after, but too late to slip free of their sightlines. Deciding to wait for a better opportunity, she let them get closer to her, steering them toward a busy outdoor café close by.

Hoping to obscure any field of vision for potential snipers or security cameras, Shirin had ducked under the outdoor canopy, walked through to the middle of the crowded café, and headed toward a small vacant table.

She paused at the table as a steward deftly cleared it, wiped it over, and set down new cutlery. She had taken mental note of where her pursuers would be and prepared herself.

She felt the firm hand on her shoulder before she saw it. It squeezed hard on the pressure point toward the top of her shoulder joint.

Before the man could whisper in her ear his practiced threats, encouraging her to do exactly as he said, Shirin thrust her arm up and slightly forward, releasing the pressure on her nerve. Gripping his wrist with her other hand, she pulled him in toward her while thrusting her head back violently into his face.

The impact had been fast and hard. She’d felt his nose give way on the back of her head, and before he could react she had his hand twisted up and out, opening him up, exposed to the brutal assault on the side of his neck.

Her fist connected with force, and as he buckled under the blow she followed through with an open palm strike to his throat. The trauma was instant. The blood flow to his brain stopped. His airway, crushed. He fell, dying.

The second man had pushed his way through the crowded café, only a few feet away and was drawing his weapon before the first man hit the ground. The silenced weapon had begun its sharp arc up from the folds of his jacket as Shirin hurled herself forward.

Her left hand reached for the cutlery on her table, gripping a metal fork while her right hand parried the gun up and away as she side-stepped fast to her right. She ducked under his raised arm and thrust forward and up into his neck with the fork. The first silenced shot bucked in his hand, sending the bullet wildly toward the sky. Still moving fast around his side, she stabbed the fork into his throat a second time while continuing to circle around him away from the gun.

His shock lasted only a moment before she left the fork dangling from his flesh, gripped his head and chin, and twisted vertically with a sickening crunch.

His body crumpled on the spot like a rag doll. He was mid-fall when Shirin caught the gun hand of the dead man, dislodged the silenced Glock from his grip and pointed it toward the third man as he stood momentarily stunned.

Four seconds had passed since the first man had gripped her shoulder; two men were down, the gun in her hand was pointed toward the third man, and the crowd snapped free from their initial shock and started screaming and scrambling away. The third gunman seemed uncertain which path to take – to continue after her or to run.

She gave him little choice and fired the silenced weapon at him quickly while running at full pace straight toward him.

The first shot missed its mark. The second shot found his collarbone, the third his bicep, the fourth his gluteus as he turned to run and the fifth ricocheted off the brick wall inches from his turned face.

Shirin bounded after him, chasing him onto the street. His vision seemed impaired as he stammered forward reaching out with his unwounded arm. His gun still gripped awkwardly at the end of his ruined arm. She was close enough to grab him.

Whack! His body flung forward, twisting and turning in the air. A speeding van had passed by, missing Shirin by only a foot, the sound of the impact reaching her moments later, and then the screeching of tires braking on the road, and the broken body falling, landing 20 feet away on the pavement, completely still.

Tucking the silenced pistol into the waistband of her jeans, Shirin ran toward the motionless body, hoping her baggy shirt would conceal the shape of the bulky gun.

He was dead. He would answer none of her questions now. In the distance the chaos of the café seemed to galvanize into a morbid curiosity. She worked quickly to search him for any signs of identification or clues as to who he was, and who had sent him. There were none. Even the labels of his clothes had been removed. A professional. Although, judging by his momentary hesitation earlier, new to the field.

Pocketing his gun, she peered into the massing crowd. She looked through them, searching faces, searching behavior, looking for the telltale signs of other killers out there coming for her. There were more of them, she was sure.

A big man loomed through the crowd, glanced at the two men dead at the café, then looked out, beyond the crowd. It was then she had seen his face. Their eyes had connected from a distance. It was Trent Barratt. She had recognized him instantly, turned her head, and then, she had left.

Two hours after the ambush, she found herself staring at the empty coffee cup in her hand as the train pulled to a stop. She exited just as the doors were closing, her mind still focused on how they had managed to know where she would be and when she would be there.

Her mind worked quickly over the possibilities. There were not many. Somehow, they had found her. Somehow, they had followed her. The burning thought in her mind, was how long had they been following her?

The arrival of Barrett also clung to her consciousness. She could never forget those eyes. Would never forget that man.

Barratt was muscle, the kind of muscle that made people disappear, and he was good. In a past life, she had known him well. She wondered if he knew whom he was hunting.

If they had sent him, it meant they wanted her gone. She had to believe they had not been watching her long. They wouldn’t take the risk that she would spot them and run. Barratt didn’t work that way. When he got the target, he worked quickly. Find them, track them, kill them. That was his way.

Crossing the road to a taxi rank, she considered for a moment what it meant that Barratt was tracking her. They had found her. And they either knew what she was doing or were scared of what she might be doing…

Letting them know that she was coming after them had always been part of the plan, just not so soon.

She had to assume they had found her safe house and the files she had kept there. It pissed her off that they had gotten to her.

She gave the taxi driver the address of a townhouse in the suburbs. She knew where they would be now. Time to hurt them.

 

___

 

Director Selig sipped instinctively from the cup of coffee on his desk. It was cold. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d finished a coffee while it was still hot. His colleagues had joked constantly that when he died they would pour hot coffee on his grave. His reply was always the same: they’d be dead before him. He wasn’t joking.

It was nearing 10:30am, and he was expecting his secretive associate to contact him with an update on the Shirin Reyes/Bill Civic fiasco.

How it had come to pass that he relied so much on a man he had never met and didn’t really know was still robbing him of sleep each night. But as he grew older, he was beginning to see the merit of letting someone untraceable and unknown to him do much of his dirty work.

He had tried to find Smith once. He’d woken in bed with a knife to his throat and a warning. He’d not tried again.

Instead he had given Smith the tasks he could openly not complete. Over the years their relationship had garnered many successes. Selig had risen in the ranks within his agency, and they had both grown very rich in the process.

Selig’s private cell buzzed in his coat pocket. Without the pleasantries, Smith relayed the latest findings at the apartment.

“Mr. Civic remains resolute in his beliefs regarding this woman. My men believe him.” Without pause, Smith continued, “The forensic team you sent have found numerous finger prints throughout the apartment, but at this stage they have not been able to match any to the prints on file for Reyes. My man did find a miniature camera fixed to the outside of the office window. Mr. Civic is adamant that he was not aware of it. Whoever installed it must have rappelled down from the roof and fixed it to the masonry wall without triggering the sensors on the glass.”

Selig gripped the cell harder in his palm. He wanted to smash it to pieces. He knew of several missions where Reyes had used this same technique to monitor targets in the past. He calmly asked, “What could the camera see?”

“It transmitted wirelessly to a recorder. I’m told the range could be 100 meters, possibly more. We hacked into the wireless feed. The camera had an unobstructed view of the entire office. Given its positioning, anything on Mr. Civics’ desk could be clearly identified. The resolution and automatic zoom would have allowed the observer to see in finite detail anything that happened in that room.”

“Tell the forensic team to stop whatever they’re doing. I want that room stripped clean! Nothing left! Peel off the paint if you have to and look behind it. And I want Bill Civic either dead or talking!” Selig thumbed the “end call” button hard, looked at his watch, and stormed out of his office. He had someone to blackmail, and he was running late.

 

10:47AM

It took just over twenty minutes in the cab to get out of the city. The young driver had been talkative at first, his friendly nature infectious, but he soon understood Shirin’s focused look and silent responses.

She told him to take the next street on the left.

“The street you gave me is the next one after that…” he said, trying to be helpful.

“I know.”

He looked at her and didn’t argue. Her face seemed to have changed in an instant. Her eyes burned with a concentration that frightened him.

“Drive slowly,” she said calmly, “but don’t stop.”

They traveled down the long street in silence. She glared past the driver, out past the houses on their right. Her safe house was on the other side of the block, behind these houses. She could see its roof from the cab in the pockets between the houses, then, she could see the window of her ensuite, then the bedroom. It was only a glimpse, but she saw movement in them, then her line of vision to her townhouse disappeared as the cab continued along the road.

They were inside!

“Okay, turn right at the end, and then right again onto the street I gave you.”

The cab rounded the corner. Shirin saw it straight away. A dark blue van parked 100 meters before her townhouse, on the opposite side of the road. Its windows were tinted, the antenna coming from its roof unmistakable.

“See that blue van up ahead?”

“Yeah…?”

“I want you to keep driving slowly, and when I tell you to, hit the accelerator and speed past that van. Got it?”

“You’re really starting to freak me out, lady!”

Shirin looked at him and said “I’ll make it up to you.”

The cab drew closer to the van, she saw movement on the chassis; people were inside it. Her hand disappeared into her backpack, felt the comforting grip of the silenced pistol she had taken from one of the dead men at the café.

“Okay, get ready… not yet… Now! Hit it!”

Adam didn’t understand why he listened to her, why he obeyed her so willingly, but he did. His foot stomped on the accelerator and the cab lurched forward. The van was only meters away.

In her mind time slowed. She smoothly drew the gun from her bag, Adam’s eyes grew wide in shock, she struck him hard in the sternum, gripped the wheel, spun it hard to the left, opened her door, and jumped out. She landed in a full run and circled around the back of the cab as it continued in its trajectory, veering straight into the side of the van.

The collision was loud, and it rocked the van sideways. Its right wheels lifted off the ground for a moment before bouncing back down onto the road. Adam was stuck behind the wheel of the crumpled taxi, gripping his chest, struggling to breathe, his eyes wide and bulging.

Shirin crouched low as she circled around the front of the van. There was no driver behind the wheel. By the time she reached the rear axle, she could hear the men inside scrambling for their weapons and shouting at each other in preparation to exit the assaulted van.

Two men flew out of the back barn doors of the van, their guns at the ready. They looked clearly shaken. Holding their guns tightly, they scanned the unfamiliar area. They were looking in all directions, confusion painting their every expression, their guns pointed at the stunned and dazed cab driver. Shirin knew instantly they were not killers, they were techies.

She came up behind them fast, without hesitation. She shot the first man in the back of his leg just above the knee and followed through with an elbow to his head as he fell under his injured leg. She kept rushing forward, and as the second man spun to face her she delivered a quick bullet to his upper arm, then used her forward momentum as the powerbase for a flying kick to his sternum. He was flung backward, connecting hard with the stalled taxi, and sunk slowly to the tarmac.

Both men lay useless on the road. Their guns out of reach, Shirin wasted no time, turned, and jumped into the back of the van, gun drawn and ready. There were no other men inside. Instead a mess of computers and electronic monitoring equipment littered the inside. The internal access to the driving cabin was completely blocked. The impact of the taxi into the side of the van left more damage than she had anticipated.

She searched quickly over the computer towers, looking for portable memory cards or accessible hard drives. The monitors were off. All internal power seemed to have been reset from the collision. If there was information to be gained from the systems in the van, it would take more time than Shirin had.

Jumping from the back of the van, she scooped up the techies’ weapons and headed for the driver’s side door. As she tucked one of the collected guns into her waistband, she saw Adam struggling to get out of the cab. His door was jammed shut from the crumpled front end. Pointing her gun at him as she walked, she said, “Adam! Stay in the car! Do exactly as they tell you. Tell them everything. If you don’t, they will kill you.” She stopped, locked eyes with his. “Do you understand?” He nodded meekly.

Taking her eyes off him, she fired one shot through the window of the van’s driver’s side door, cleared a larger hole through the shattered glass with her gun, unlocked the front door, and slid in behind the wheel. The keys were still in the ignition; standard practice for a quick escape. The engine turned over on the second attempt. The radio squawked alive.

“Team Theta, check in.”

She recognized the voice instantly. Barratt! She put the van in gear, gunned the engine, and pulled away from the curb. The front fender of the cab clung precariously to the side of the van before tumbling free as Shirin did a sharp U-turn and left the street as she had come.

 

___

 

Barratt looked at his watch. They had been there too long, and with nothing to show for it, he felt the pressure mounting. He ran through the final communications checks with his team. All was good.

The two-story townhouse had yielded no results. It was frustrating but expected. This woman was clearly a professional. He didn’t expect her to return here after the failed ambush in the morning, but it was the only lead left to chase.

At first glance, it looked like any normal suburban home. It was nicely furnished inside, there were photos on the walls, pot plants growing, knick-knacks on bookshelves, and even shampoo bottles, toothbrushes, and towels left laying about. But what Barratt noticed more than these homely artifacts, was that there was no hair in the brush, no hair in the shower drain, and no fingerprints anywhere. It was as though the house had been lived in by a ghost.

His team had searched the house vigorously. There was nothing to find. He only hoped that whoever this woman was, she might return at some point, and then, he would have her!

He brought the radio transmitter to his mouth and gave the clearance for all teams to evacuate. This woman had chosen her safe house well. It was in the middle of a long, quiet street. Any surveillance here would be quickly discovered. It was the kind of neighborhood where all the neighbors knew each other. He made a mental note to interview them all if he couldn’t find her within the next few days.

Looking at his watch again, he gave the final signal for the surveillance van to swing past and pick him up. He made his way back downstairs.

From his encounter with the woman in the morning, to seeing her safe house first hand, Barratt knew in his gut that this woman was no ordinary threat; she was of a caliber he had not seen in years. Not since…

Crash!

Barratt heard it from the top of the stairs. It was from a good distance away, but it was still loud. He bounded down the stairs. Two of his agents met him at the door. They had heard it also. Something was wrong. He instructed one of the men to take up a position by the back door, the other to get a higher vantage point from upstairs while he took a look outside. He grabbed the transmitter from his belt and tried to contact his men in the van. There was no response.

Running onto the footpath, he saw instantly but could not believe. The van was gone, and in its place a taxicab sitting perpendicular in the street with a crumpled front end, but no van. As he reached the middle of the road, he saw the back panel and tail lights of the van disappear around the corner.

 

10:47AM

Shirin sped around the corner. They would find the van eventually, she knew. It was sure to have a tracking beacon attached somewhere. She didn’t plan to be around when they did.

She didn’t slow for the next corner but instead skidded deeper into it, accelerating out of the skid and racing down the long road. She was parallel to the street of her safe house, on the same road she had arrived with the taxi.

She pulled up outside the house that shared her own house’s back boundary and was already jumping out of the van before it had stopped moving.

She knew all the people in the properties surrounding her safe house. She knew them better than their own families, she was sure. This single-story home belonged to Loren and Dan Francis. They were both at work now. They had no dog. No external alarm. She raced down the side access, leaped over the six-foot gate, and skirted the Colorbond side boundary fence until she reached the back of the block.

She could see one man at the back of her safe house, near the laundry door, and another upstairs in her bedroom. Both men looked distracted but dangerous.

She deposited her bag in the corner of the side fence and back fence, behind the trunk of a gum tree. She needed to travel light, and fast. She took one pistol, tucked it behind her waistband, and leapt up and over the fence.

Her feet landed silently, she rolled, and was up, gun raised, waiting, listening, watching. She had not been seen yet.

She deposited the gun in her waistband again, and ran straight for the laundry door. Four strides from the door, she drew her weapon, let loose two bullets into the lock, and saw them splinter as her foot made contact with the door. It burst open, with the sound of splitting timber and she dove forward along the ground, sliding on her side, then rolling onto her back.

The agent near the door had been sideswiped by the force of the imploding door, his gun was drawn and finding its mark as Shirin sent two bullets in a double tap to his heart before her body had stopped sliding.

She rolled back to her side, found her feet and in one smooth motion was up and running toward the stairwell before the dead agent had hit the ground.

Running through the kitchen, she entered low. There was no one there, same for the dining room. She heard the dull footfalls of the man upstairs heading down. She turned the corner. A bullet snapped past her and buried itself into the wall. She fell back instantly and returned fire on instinct as she readjusted her body to curl and roll out of the line of fire.

The agent retreated back up the stairs. She had little choice. Abandon him and get out before back-up arrived, or chase him up the stairs and into his waiting crosshairs.

 

10:48AM

Barratt ran to the scene to find the driver of the taxi looking dazed and confused. His two men were sprawled on the street, bleeding, unconscious but alive. They’d both been shot. It was her!

He tried to reach his two men at the house on the radio. There was no reply.

He could hear the taxi driver trying to get out of the vehicle, pulled his gun, pointed at him and demanded, “Was it a woman?”

The young driver looked deathly pale from shock. All he could manage was a muted nod.

Barratt cursed himself. Cursed her. Then headed back to the safe house in a sprint. She would die for this!

 

10:49AM

The agent hid in a small alcove near the top of the stairs. He labored to control his breathing and his nerve. This woman was good. Better than him, he feared. But he had her now. If she came after him, he would pick her off like a sitting duck. If she didn’t, more back-up would arrive, and then she would die.

He didn’t know where Barratt was. Maybe she had gotten to him already. If so, it was one less thing for him to do. He had his instructions. If Barratt failed again, kill him.

Sweat formed on his forehead, but he dared not wipe it, his total concentration was focused on the sounds from downstairs, waiting for the woman to show her head.

A whisper of air wafted past him. He wasn’t sure if he heard it or felt it. Then the distinct thup thup sounds of a silenced pistol, the dull, wet pain in his neck, and then, nothing.

 

10:50AM

Shirin stepped out from the upstairs bedroom. The agent was motionless, dead. Her bullets had ripped cleanly through the plasterboard internal wall and lodged into his neck and skull.

He had not heard her exit the bottom floor, climb the lattice to the master bedroom balcony above.

She moved quickly to the front of the house, stayed clear of the windows, and peered down into the street from the side. She could hear sirens in the distance. And Trent Barratt charging across the front lawn toward the door.

She had less than a minute.

 

___

 

Barratt threw his radio mic on the ground. There had been no reply from his men inside. He bulldozed the front door down with his size and speed, then quickly backed himself against the wall as he surveyed the scene.

Down the long corridor he could see the back door shattered in, bullet holes, and one of his men lying in a pool of blood.

He ducked his head around the corner quickly. There was no one there. Toward the stairs, more bullet holes told the story of a gun fight he should have been there for.

Careful of where he placed his feet, he moved silently around the stairwell. Nothing made sense to him! Why had she come back? And once she saw the surveillance, why didn’t she just leave?

“You could move, but then I’d have to shoot you.” Her voice was calm, almost relaxed. Barratt froze. It took him a moment to identify where it had come from. He was out of position to draw his weapon in that direction and get a shot off without her bullet finding him first. She had out maneuvered him.

Barratt lowered his head. So this was it, he thought. “What next? You shoot me anyway?”

“No, but I would like to talk. Drop your gun so we can do that.”

Barratt did nothing. He stood there. Contemplating which way he preferred to die.

“Drop the gun, turn around, we’ll talk, then you can go,” Shirin said more forcefully. “I did not give your men that choice, and in a moment you won’t have it either.”

Barratt dropped his pistol. Ready to die, he turned around. His eyes clung to her face, they registered recognition, then shock, then, he said “Shirin?”

Two wires shot out at him. Hit him hard in the chest. He looked at them, looked at Shirin, then, 50,000 volts coursed through his body.

 

About The Author

Charlie Moore was born and raised in Sydney, Australia. He started work on his first full length novel at age 18. When running through final edits for the book, he put it aside; wanting to live and experience some of the adventures his characters were thrust into. He became an accomplished martial artist, winning his first full contact fight by TKO and gaining over 30 medals before retiring from competition. He traveled the globe, got lost in dangerous parts of the world, swam with sharks, jumped out of planes, and became a Private Investigator.

Resuming his passion for writing, Charlie started ghost writing to build and harness his skill, and in mid 2012 “Against the Clock” was born.

Charlie now shares his time between rock climbing with his wife, and writing deadly action-packed thrillers.

 

My Review

Charlie Moore’s book Against the Clock was one book we couldn’t wait to dive into! And as soon as we began turning the pages we wished the clock would stop! Can somebody please get us a bucket of water because this book is pure fire! A new king has arrived on the scene in the literary arena. Against the Clock is a book that’s so good that we could not turn Charlie away. I will explain more to you all later.

Yes, if your name is Robert Ludlum, James Patterson, or Tom Clancy which are three authors I greatly admire. To be frank as can be, what I am about to say might make your head spin, some may even consider it heresy. Yet here it is straight from the mouths of us here at The Urb.

“Sirs, could you all please slide your askmewhats to the left so Charlie Moore can present himself on the set.”

Yes, Charlie Moore, The Adventurer from Sidney Australia, home of the whatnots such as the Crocodile Dundee, Steve Irwin who wasn’t afraid of anything, and the Big A AKA Arnold Schwarzenegger, who came to terminate s**t! Charlie Moore’s first novel is a topnotch spy thriller that will have you hanging on the edge of your seat as soon as you open the first page one can purview that Charlie must have written this novel with a bucket of gasoline by his side and a flame thrower to ignite it. All I can say is, if Charlie was a prized fighter this novel; Against the Clock would easily be a first round knockout! The main Character in this espionage fiction maybe a light weight physically but is hell on wheels as she exacts judgment against those forces behind the murder of her beloved husband. This story most certainly gets a thumb up from me!

From the onset of this novel, the highly crafted prose will have you screaming WTF! As Charlie tells his exciting tale of espionage afresh. His character Shirin Reyes, will have you cheering for her like a high school cheerleader at a championship game as she executes her vengeful wrath upon the unsuspecting team of nemesis’s who consist of veterans within the spy world; a place of untold ruthlessness, cut throats, and backstabbing agents, and chiefs who won’t stop at nothing until they see Shirin lying 6 feet under with the daisies. At least that is their intent.

To sum up this great adventure without giving up too much detail let’s just say that Shirin is a character who is full of life, and is skilled as a cheetah would be in human form. Shirin Reyes delivers an action packed performance which reminded me of Angelina Jolie in the movie Salt. Shirin is as lethal as an Indian Gray Mongoose is to a 7 foot long Cobra

Yes, iurban.org is mainly about Urban Fiction indeed but we are not stupid enough to turn down this sumptuous feast of words delivered by a possible would-be king of Espionage Thrillers. Charlie Moore we tip our hats too you and are looking forward to part 2 of this thriller.

Show Charlie Moore some real love by clicking the link below if you like action packed novels and feel you need a break from the urban thrillers for a while. I will guarantee you that you won’t be disappointed…

The post Charlie Moore: The Adventurer appeared first on Dion Cheese.