BLURB:
When a suicide bomber shatters the peace of a winter afternoon on the
National Mall in Washington, D.C., former pilot and undercover Cerberus
operative Nick Baron receives an eerie invitation from the chess app on his
phone—a mysterious figure named The Emissary wants to play.
Nick and his covert unit—the Triple Seven Chase team—soon find
themselves drawn into battle against an unknown opponent who has resurrected an
ancient order of assassins: the legendary Hashashin. And there is a
long-awaited prophecy being fulfilled by a series of violent attacks which may
culminate in a final apocalypse over Jerusalem.
As the Triple Seven fight to stop each attack, Nick tries to keep The
Emissary on the hook by playing their digital chess game. The lines between the
game and the fight begin to blur, as every time Nick loses a piece on the
board, he loses one of his men. And if Nick cannot find a way to stop the
terrorist mastermind, a checkmate may kill millions…
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Excerpt:
Washington, DC
The Christmas decorations are up. That was the first thought
that passed through Nick Baron’s mind as he walked beneath the grand arched
entrance of Washington, DC’s Union Station. He was six feet tall and plainly
dressed in a brown leather jacket and faded jeans. His wife, Katy, walked next
to him, pushing a stroller. She was more elegantly dressed, still resisting the
inevitable soccer mom persona. Her auburn hair fell to her shoulders beneath a
stylish winter cap. She wore jeans as well, but they were midnight blue and fit
her slender form snugly, descending into high-heeled riding boots. Katy was
enjoying her afternoon. Nick was not.
His attention to the Christmas decorations did not spring
from a yuletide appreciation for the thirty-foot tree in the main hall or the
lighted garlands that adorned every horizontal surface, or amusement at the
model-train displays stretching across the usually empty floor space. He took
notice of the decorations because they cluttered the station, and clutter in
public spaces made him uneasy.
They paused in front of the welcome center, a two-story
island of cherrywood in the center of the marble hall. While Katy checked the
marquee, Nick’s steel-blue eyes roamed the crowded station. Smaller versions of
the central Christmas tree created shadows in every corner and alcove. Rows of
poinsettias and ten-inch riser skirts masked the empty spaces beneath the model
trains. All the extra floor displays compressed the heavy holiday traffic into
nicely segmented kill zones. What a nightmare.
“You’re doing it again,” said Katy, letting out a little
oomph as she thrust Luke’s stroller into motion again. “I can see it on your
face, the way your eyes are moving. Relax. This is family time. You’re off
duty.”
“We could have had family time waiting in the car at the
passenger pickup,” he replied, still searching rather than looking at his wife.
“You know I hate train stations. They’re death traps.”
Other terms used by Nick’s colleagues in the
counterterrorism community were low-hanging fruit and easy pickin’s. In the
post-9/11 world, airports had become ultrasecure, with the latest in screening
technology and mountains of rules. In some countries, getting to the aircraft
with so much as a toothpick was a challenge. Train stations, on the other hand,
remained largely unchanged. Most didn’t even use metal detectors. Over the past
thirteen years, train lines and their unions worldwide had lobbied hard to keep
security lax, in hopes that a public frustrated with being poked and prodded at
airports would switch to railways for their domestic travel. Their efforts
succeeded in attracting a few extra passengers. They also attracted terrorists
in droves.
Since September 11, 2001, eighty-nine people had died in
terror attacks against airliners, all of them in a coordinated attack on
Russian commuter planes by Chechen Muslims. In the same period, nearly one
thousand people had been killed and around five thousand wounded in attacks
against railways. Britain, Spain, Russia, no country was immune. Maybe train
bombings didn’t get the attention they deserved because the body counts weren’t
high enough, but one day that would change. One day, probably in the United
States, some group of radicals would find a way to use the rail system to make
a big splash.
Nick quickened his pace and steered Katy toward Platform C,
where his father’s train was supposed to arrive. As they passed the
midconcourse shops, he spied a rolling suitcase sitting by itself, tucked
halfway behind one of the little Christmas trees. A security guard a few feet
away was too busy gawking at a pair of attractive young window shoppers to
notice.
As Nick started toward the bag, a man in a business suit
came out of the Starbucks and reclaimed it. He strolled away, oblivious,
nursing a venti nonfat sugar bomb.
“There he is,” said Katy, tugging Nick back the other way.
Dr. Kurt Baron emerged from Platform C with two small
suitcases. He raised one of them in a half wave.
Thanks to strong genes, the older Baron shared Nick’s medium
build and youthful features, but where Nick’s hair was thick and golden blond,
his dad’s was thin and dark, turning gray. And now it seemed his father had
decided to grow a goatee. It looked absurd.
“I told him not to wear that Go Air Force sweatshirt when he
travels,” he muttered to Katy. “It makes him a target.”
“Be nice. You promised no fights.”
“He’s only wearing it because I told him not to.”
AUTHOR Bio and Links:
James R. Hannibal is a former US Air Force Stealth Bomber pilot
with over a thousand hours of combat experience including over-watch, close air
support, and HVI captures. He graduated from the US Air Force Academy in 1997
with a bachelors of science in Middle
Eastern Studies and earned a masters of science from Central
Missouri State University in Aviation Safety Sciences. His flying career
included the A-10 Warthog, B-2 Stealth Bomber, MQ-1 Predator, T-38 Talon, T-37
Tweet, and the Boeing 737, 757, and 767. When he is not flying or writing
thrillers, James occasionally reviews for the New York Journal of Books.
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