Mr. Jones, the author behind the exciting thriller novel,
Arctic Wargame has taken over my blog and he wants to tell you all about his new release coming up:
Tripoli's Target! Don't forget to leave a comment and you will automatically be entered in a contest where several copies of Tripoli's Target will be given away courtesy of Mr. Jones!
Blurb
Justin Hall and Carrie O’Connor, Canadian Intelligence Service Agents,
find themselves in lawless North Africa on the trail of an assassination plot.
The target is the US President, and the hit is scheduled to take place during a
G-20 summit in Libya’s capital, Tripoli. But the source of their information is
the deceitful leader of one of the deadliest terrorist groups in the area.
Ambushes and questionable loyalties turn an already difficult mission into a
dark maze of betrayal and misdirection.
Forced to return to Tripoli, Justin and Carrie dig up new intelligence
pointing to a powerful Saudi prince bankrolling the assassination plan. What’s
worse, Justin and Carrie realize something crucial is very, very wrong with
their plan. The summit is only forty-eight hours away and they still have to
stop the Saudi prince, dismantle the assassination plot, and save the life of
Tripoli’s target.
Tripoli’s Target promises to take the reader through a great story as it
becomes the next international bestseller. Fans of David Baldacci, Vince Flynn,
and Daniel Silva will love this high-octane spy thriller.
Excerpt
“An
army of sheep led by a lion would defeat
an
army of lions led by a sheep.”
“It
is better to die in revenge than to live on in shame.”
Arab
proverbs
Prologue
Tripoli, Libya
May 13, 6:15 p.m.
local time
Satam, the driver
of the fifth suicide truck bomb, turned onto Ar Rashid Street, merging with the
warm evening traffic. He rubbed his sweaty palms against his short khaki pants,
his gaze glued to the silver BMW Suburban in front of him. He heaved a wheezing
sigh and tapped on the brake pedal. A red traffic light halted the five-vehicle
convoy.
A
stream of cars rushed through the intersection leading to the business district
of downtown Tripoli. Tall skyscrapers rose over most of the city’s old
colonial-style buildings. The green and gold banner of Jacobs Properties—one of
the major British real estate developers in Libya—beamed from atop the
glass-and-steel façade of the newly finished Continental Hotel. The same logo had
been painted hastily on the left side of the BMW packed with Semtex explosives.
Walid, its driver and a Jacobs subcontractor, had exchanged his blue coveralls
for a business suit and the promise of martyrdom.
A
glance at the dashboard clock told Satam the synchronized explosion would take
place in ten minutes. The thought of the coming carnage drained the last drop
of courage from his heart. He rolled down the window, but the humid air—blended
with the aroma of fried falafel, onions, and lamb donairs from a nearby street
vendor—made him nauseated. He gasped for air, sticking his head out of the
window. He coughed and struggled to catch his breath. The drivers in the other
vehicles shot him curious glares. Behind the truck, the driver of an old
Mercedes honked his horn twice. Satam swallowed hard and wiped the sweat off
his narrow forehead. He waved at his audience to show them he was doing all
right.
“Satam,
what’s the matter, brother?” the radio set on the dashboard crackled. He
recognized Walid’s gruff voice.
Satam
looked at the BMW. His watery eyes met the reflection of the driver’s face in
the rear-view mirror of the Suburban. The driver’s usual wicked smirk stretched
his lips, revealing his large buckteeth. Walid waved his hands wildly. Satam
could not see behind Walid’s black aviator shades but assumed his eyes were
ablaze with rage.
“Nothing’s
wrong. Just needed some air,” Satam replied over the radio.
He
rolled up the window before Walid could scold him with another howl.
“Great.
Now that you’ve closed the window, open your eyes!” Walid barked. “You’re not a
coward like the infidels, are you?”
Satam
shook his head.
A
third voice came on air before he could say anything.
“Cousin,
I pledged my honor so you could be a part of this mission. Don’t you back down
now!” Satam’s cousin said. He was driving the Toyota at the head of the convoy.
Satam
sighed and paused for a couple of seconds. “I’m not backing down. You can trust
me. I will not disappoint you or the brotherhood.”
“That’s
my flesh and blood who is soon to be a martyr,” said the cousin in a relaxed
tone. “Our families will be proud of us, and our reward will be glorious.”
“It’s
easy for you to say, since tonight you’ll be welcomed to paradise,” Satam said.
He
noticed the traffic lights changing and stepped cautiously on the gas pedal.
The truck jerked forward a few inches before the ride turned smooth again.
“Won’t
take long before you join us there,” Walid said.
“Yes,
but not before being dragged through the secret police hellish cells…” Satam’s
voice trailed off.
“Allah
will give you strength, cousin, and soon he’ll take you home.”
“He
will, brother, he will.” Walid revved the BMW’s twelve-cylinder engine. “For
sure, I’m going to miss this ride.”
“There
will be plenty of rides up there to keep you and everyone else busy,” the
cousin said with a quiet laugh. “Now may Allah be with us all. Over and out.”
Walid
nodded and turned left toward the Continental Hotel.
Satam’s
destination, the Gold Market, was to the right. He steered in that direction.
He zigzagged through a few crooked streets and slowed down when reaching the
Old City. The blacktop disappeared, and the uneven gravel crackled under the
tires. Old cars, horse carts, and pedestrians came into view, along with
whitewashed stores selling gold and jewelry. The streets narrowed into barely a
single lane.
Satam
rolled down the window for sideways glances to avoid brushing against planters,
chairs, and vendors selling all kinds of junk. A stomach-churning stench from
days old fish, fried grease, and sweat overwhelmed him. Satam felt his head
grow heavy, and he hit the brakes.
The
street vendors lost no time peddling their wares. A crowd of young boys swarmed
his truck. He yelled and shoved away a few of the bravest salesmen waving
handfuls of souvenirs in his face. He kept brushing away the hagglers, when
suddenly a pointed metal object was shoved against his forearm. Startled, Satam
withdrew his arm inside the cabin. He glanced at one of the boys holding a
string of scimitar replicas, the sword tribesmen in North Africa carried in
ancient times. The curved blade was dull with a rounded point to prevent
accidental stabs. Still, the swift jab at his forearm summoned awful visions of
the future.
He
saw himself hanging upside down in a dark, grim dungeon, tied to the ceiling
beams, while three secret police agents “interrogated” him. They would use
various methods to “jog” his memory and break his psyche. Sleep deprivation and
intimidation by police dogs were just the welcome package. Other techniques
included breaking fingers and simulated suffocation with plastic wraps and
water boarding. I will tell them
everything right away before they even touch me. He struggled to wipe the
vivid images from his mind.
Satam
slammed on the truck’s horn to clear a path through the crowd. The blaring horn
startled him more than the boys and the occasional onlookers. He glanced at the
dashboard, realizing he had less than two minutes to reach the busy marketplace
square five blocks away. It will be
impossible to make it on time.
He
blasted the horn again and stepped on the gas. The truck moved slowly, and
Satam wrestled to make a left turn. The alley grew wider. The truck sped up,
its wheels dipping and climbing in and out of the potholes. He rushed straight
ahead, inches away from oncoming taxis, their honks protesting his unsafe
speed. A few sidewalk vendors dove out of the way, their overflowing baskets of
bananas and grapes spilling all over the place. Tires screeched as he turned
right, jumping the curb and narrowly missing a large bronze planter outside a
soap store.
The
Mediterranean Sea was now visible to his right, through palm trees, coffee
shops, and fruit vendor stands. Satam stared ahead at the wide square, one of
the busiest markets in El Mina, the ancient city. The bazaar rumbled with
vendors squabbling over a few dinars with tight-fisted tourists. I made it. Yes, I made it. He turned his
gaze to the left, toward Tripoli’s skyline, and slowed down before parking the
truck in front of a small restaurant. He took a deep breath and dabbed at his
forehead with the back of his hand, wiping off a sea of sweat.
The
dashboard radio crackled and he picked up the receiver.
“Allahu
Akbar! Allahu Akbar!” The loud voice echoed over the radio. Satam recognized
Walid’s shouts.
A
second later, a loud explosion rocked the entire square. Satam’s gaze spun
toward the business district, where a cloud of grayish smoke billowed around
the Continental Hotel. Chaos erupted among the street vendors who scattered and
forgot about their produce and the evening’s clients. The patrons of coffee
shops rushed to the streets, staring in disbelief at the sight. Cries of
hysteria overtook the growing crowd. Elderly women beat their heads and chests
with clenched fists. Young men pointed and shouted, their bodies restless. The
sharp siren of an ambulance sliced through the cacophony of terror.
With
a quick movement of his wrist, Satam consulted his watch. Just as the digits
registered 6:31, another explosion shocked the crowd. This time, the bomb hit
closer, much closer, merely five blocks away. From inside his parked truck,
Satam looked at the bright yellow glow of the blast. High flames leapt at a
ten-story office building. A thick cloud of black smoke began to swallow up the
tower. The crowd broke into smaller groups. People scurried in all directions.
Some ran back to their shops and apartments. Others simply circled the area, perhaps
unsure of the safe way out.
Satam
knew his time had come. He revved the engine and stomped on the gas pedal. The
truck arrowed toward the vendors’ tables. The market was mostly empty, and the
truck crashed into crates of fish, baskets of grapes, and barrels of olive oil.
Produce scattered everywhere as the truck rampaged through plastic tables and
chairs.
A
police truck zipped toward him. Satam steered around, not to escape, but to
meet the approaching vehicle. The two policemen in the truck ignored Satam.
They were going to drive past him, but Satam swerved hard. The right fender of
his truck smashed into the left side of the police truck. The police truck
jerked to the other side. He pulled over and stopped less than thirty feet
away. The other policeman rolled down the window. Satam stared at the muzzle of
an AK-47 assault rifle.
“Don’t
shoot. Don’t shoot,” Satam shouted and opened his door.
A
quick burst of bullets sent him ducking for cover in the front seat. A shower
of glass shreds fell over his head.
They’re going to kill me before I even have
a chance to open my mouth. Or one of the bullets will blow up the truck. I can’t
let that happen.
He
looked at the back of the truck. Thirty pounds of Semtex explosives wired into
a homemade bomb were stored inside the seat compartments. He noticed the
cellphone on the floor mat by his left hand. He reached for the phone. All it
would take for him to set off the explosives—and pulverize himself and the
policemen—was to tap three preset numbers. His fingers hovered over the phone,
but he remembered his family’s honor and the reward waiting for him in
paradise. He dropped the phone to the floor, buried his head in the seat, and
locked his fingers behind his head.
A
minute or so passed before the shooting stopped, but the screaming continued.
At some point, he heard the distinct thuds of combat boots marching down the
street. The police were approaching his truck. He looked up slowly as a
policeman pulled open the driver’s door of his truck and aimed an AK-47 at his
head
“Don’t
move!” the policeman ordered.
Satam
nodded.
Without
a word, the policeman juggled the rifle in his hands and slammed its buttstock
hard against Satam’s head.
Biography
Ethan Jones is the author
of Arctic Wargame—the first spy
thriller in the Justin Hall series, released in May 2012, and Tripoli’s Target—the second book in this
series, released on October 4, 2012. He has also published several short
stories. Ethan is a lawyer by trade. He lives in Canada with his wife and son.
Links
I
love readers' feedback. They can get in touch with me via e-mail at this
address: fictionwriter78@yahoo.com I promise to write to each and every one of
them.
My
works can be found here:
Don't forget to leave a comment to automatically be entered for a free copy of Tripoli's Target. Ethan is also running a free promo on Arctic Wargame on Amazon on October 9th through 11th. On the 11th, we'll announce the winners of the contest of Tripoli's Target!
