My untitled novel.

Hullo everyone.

I am an exisiting forum user that has been writing a book for the last few months. I managed to get myself stuck along the way and so it has kind of stalled but I am trying to get some enthusiasm to carry on.

Please be aware this is a manuscript, has not been edited or proof read so I hope the language and continuity etc mean it makes sense as it is right now.

Appreciate your comments... I will add a chapter at a time and see how it goes.

Would also probably be quite fun if people could try and work out which regular forumer I am.... not that I am going to tell you for a while!

The world had fallen silent. Everything seemed to have moved in to slow motion. Danny Marshall and his team had seen it unfold but it was over before anyone could react. Now he lay crumpled in the back of the Hummer. The air tasted thick with dust and gunpowder. Somewhere on the dirt roads of Kenya a local gang or greedy warlord had decided that the convoy of three Hummers and a five ton flat bed truck was worth having for themselves. Although this part of the country was dry and barren this time of year, there had been enough cover to hide five or six well armed men to disable an equally well armed group, with only the element of surprise on their side.
Marshall felt himself for wet patches. Apart from a bloody nose that left an unpleasant, metallic taste in his mouth and an apparent lack of sound, he was relatively unscathed. The Hummer had managed to be pushed off the road and was now lying on its side in a small, dusty ditch. Marshall was lying against the door. His colleague, Robert McKnight, was suspended next to him. McKnight had been plugging the health and safety issues associated with a trip to Africa and had thought it best to wear a seatbelt on this trip. He was now half hanging, unconscious on the high side of the car. Marshall and the guys in the front of the car had not thought seatbelts were a good idea since providing security meant needing to be able to move fast. Although Marshall was okay, they were not.
Thomas Ndlovu had been driving. Thomas was part of Marshall’s team on this trip, however was based locally. As a local, he had been an advisor during planning process and was to escort them everywhere in case of any problems. He was now lying somehow wedged sideways between the door and the steering wheel. His eyes were still wide open as if he had died of shock and he been left with the exact expression on his face. A trickle of blood ran from his left ear and had branched out across his smooth forehead and through his short, curly hair. In the front passenger seat was someone Marshall had not met before, Tony Johnston. Johnston was relatively new to the team and had been asked to join the trip because of his extensive time in the British Army. He looked like a typical army type, short back and sides with the physique of a bodybuilder. Despite surviving a brief tour of Iraq and assisting with security for the international force of delegates in Afghanistan, he had taken the brunt of the attack. A gunman had popped out of a small wooden shed like building on their right had unloaded his AK47 at close range in to the door of the car. Amazingly only two found their mark, piercing the lower portion of his chest and embedding in the seat behind him, however they had preceded an explosion on the same side. What was probably a small homemade mine had detonated more or less under the front right wheel, practically ripping apart the wheel and chassis, through to the roof of the car. While not having the power to destroy the whole car, it was enough to send the two and a half tonne vehicle fifteen feet from its original spot on the road and sideways in to the ditch that he now found himself.

Sitting as upright as he could, Marshall tried to steady his mind. Remembering the flash of the explosion, he figured his hearing had disappeared from the percussion of the mine meaning he could be deaf for another thirty seconds, or the rest of his life depending on the damage. It wasn’t long before some of his old military practises kicked in. The most important thing for him to do right now was assess if there was still any threat. It seemed strange that someone would take the time to prepare an ambush and not want anything from it. The small fields of view provided by the now vertical font windows showed no sign of movement so he began to move to his feet. The emptiness which seemed to have consumed his head had begun to turn to a high pitched ringing, which was good news. From what little he could tell, everything outside seemed relatively calm. Either the remaining cars had been quickly overwhelmed or some had managed to escape instead of trying to fight back, presumably with the attackers in pursuit.
As Marshall looked for a way out of the car, McKnight began to come around.
‘Robbie, wake up!’ whispered Marshall, ‘we gotta move, now!’
‘What’s going on?’ answered McKnight.
‘Right now, I have no idea. We got hit. I haven’t heard anything for a few minutes so don’t know what’s going on outside. We gotta get you down.’
Still dazed, McKnight instinctively released his seatbelt without realising just where he was in the car. Marshall had been trying to lean towards the front of the car to provide some room, however not quickly enough to avoid McKnight’s boot as his fell on to the broken glass below. Both men stayed silent expecting voices outside to react to the noise. None came.
‘Why would someone go to the trouble of setting this all up and then not come finish the job or strip the car?’ Marshall said.
‘Maybe they didn’t want us,’ said McKnight, ‘We need to get out and see what the fuck is going on out there. Where’s my gun?’
‘Whatever took us off the road was enough to throw everything around in here. Mine was by the back window. Take Tom’s, it’s still strapped to his side’.
Marshall moved back to the rear of the car as McKnight reached for the sidearm. He clearly couldn’t help look at Tom’s eyes as he leaned over the seat to reach the holster, his face contorting in disgust. McKnight had brought his deck of cards and played a game of ‘bullshit’ with Tom the night before. That was enough time to find out he wasn’t married and had no kids, but he was young, only twenty-six and had big ambitions of making it with his own security business. He would now be lucky to make his mark in a book of national crime statistics.
‘The back window is out,’ said Marshall ‘I’m gonna crawl out that way. I’ll let you know if it’s good to go.’

Marshall slowly crawled between the back shelf and the roof and out through the rear window. Since leaving the armed forces he hadn’t given up on his daily workout routines and his large frame struggled to get through the relatively small space. Broken glass on the floor gnawed at his palms and knees, some piercing his skin, leaving small crimson patches of blood behind. As he pulled himself out he made a brief tactical assessment, looking for any movement or traces that anyone was still around. He had his small pistol, a Walther PPK drawn and was half crouched with his back against the bumper of the upturned vehicle. He gestured to McKnight to follow him.
Both men were now at the rear of the car, still within the small, dry ditch at the side of the road. To their left, the remains of the second car were in the middle of the street. A small flame produced a plume of black smoke that drifted across the street as the rubber and fabrics of the tires burnt. With the amount of blood and the extent of the damage, it was extremely unlikely that anybody had survived. The lead car and flat bed truck, however, were nowhere to be seen.
‘Did the others get away or you think they got caught?’ said McKnight, squinting as the smoke filled his eyes and lungs. The taste of burning rubber was not pleasant and was making him feel nauseous.
‘There are tire marks in the road up ahead. Looks like Eddington and the guys made a run for it. I’m guessing by the glass and blood on the street behind that there was a fight for the truck. Maybe that is what they were after; they must have known we were coming.’
Michael Eddington was the Head of Security for the whole company and was riding in the lead car with two of Hartland Hawkes’ directors. As with many of the security personnel, including Marshall, Eddington was ex-military and had decided to put his skills to use in security and became head of the department within a few years. He had planned this excursion over the last four weeks, picking everything from who would be going and what routes they would take to what vehicles they would be traveling in. In this case, Eddington had gone for the Hummer H2 as the preferred mode of transport. These, however, were not the armored Humvees that are readily advertised by the U.S. military, with bullet proof windows and Kevlar plating. These were more type you would see on MTV chauffeuring the latest rapper star around his video set with blacked out windows, chrome alloys and trims and a few mod cons inside. A round from a pistol or automatic weapon would easily pierce the body and hit anyone unlucky enough to be on the other side, as had happened to Johnston. Comfort and space had obviously been preferred to security this time around. Eddington’s car had disappeared leaving black tire marks in the road at the head of the column.
‘Well, what’s the plan?’ asked McKnight.
Marshall was still trying to work out what had happened. Up the road to his left was a small town about two miles away. This would have marked around the halfway point of their journey. Back in the opposite direction the bleak asphalt road ran in a straight line through small bushes and trees back towards Mombasa.
‘It looks like Eddington’s car made for the town over there,’ he replied, pointing in the general direction of the whitewash buildings in the distance, ‘we should follow and see if they are holed up somewhere. The truck may have made it out that way too. I can’t see any tracks heading off of the road so it either went back or followed the road further.’
‘OK. We only have side arms though. Let’s try not to run in to those other guys again.’
‘We might not have a choice when we get there.’
McKnight pulled a face to show his lack of enthusiasm. He had spent several years in the Thames Valley police as both a traffic cop and on the beat. Following a short lived transfer to CO19, the Metropolitan Police’s firearms unit, he decided to call it quits. Now, despite many heated exchanges with drunken teenagers and desperate drug addicts, today was the first time anybody had been trying to kill him and the first time he might have to fire his weapon at something other than pieces of paper with cartoon pictures of bank robbers. Marshall, however, had no such reservations. Although he had once made a decision to never fire a weapon at a person again, he was now in a situation were he may have no other choice.

They both made their way towards the town along the ditch, using whatever little cover was available to them. A few malnourished bushes dotted here and there meant they would be relatively easy to pick out if anyone had been looking for them. After a few minutes McKnight stopped.
‘Hey, looks like there is a car heading out towards us’ he said.
‘Cover your weapon. If they are looking for us we’re not gonna be able to hide anywhere, if they’re not then we shouldn’t draw any attention,’ said Marshall.
They both tried to make themselves look as pedestrian as possible as the car approached. Marshall guessed that the road wasn’t often walked and that two westerners walking away from a burning car wreck was always going to provoke some interest. His hope was that the interest would come late enough for them to get in to town and find somewhere to regroup.
‘Err, Danny. That looks like a technical,’ said McKnight. ‘Those are guys on the back.’
The ‘technical’ McKnight was referring to was a converted pick-up truck type vehicle, often with a heavy weapon on the back and carrying a small group of well armed men. He had obviously picked it up from a war movie or two. While such things were often seen as a symbol of power in places like Somalia and Chad, they were relatively scarce in this part of the world.
‘Don’t draw your weapon,’ replied Marshall. ‘They will cut us down pretty easily if they want to.’
‘We just going to let them do whatever then?’
‘We’re not gonna take all of them out McKnight. If we can give ourselves a chance here then we need to.’
Both of them were on the edge of their nerves as the car approached. Although he didn’t show it Marshall was struggling to control the urge to either run or fight. Standing and waiting for doom to come to him was not something that felt natural. He hoped that they would just drive past to look investigate the smoke back down the road. They didn’t. As the truck got closer, several men in the back or the truck started shouting and pointing their guns. Neither Marshall nor McKnight understood what was being shouted and instinctively raised their hands in the air and awaited their fate.
The men jumped out as the car pulled up and quickly began frisking the both. All were dressed in typical desert fatigues with either balaclavas or small, patterned scarves covering their faces. Those that were not conduct the search continued to shout, waving their automatic weapons in the air, a multicultural mix of Russian AK-47s, American M14s and various other battered looking rifles. The already tense atmosphere was intensified when both side arms were found hidden in their clothing. As things looked to get bad, a small man that had been sitting in the front passenger seat of the technical calmly got out and ambled towards them. The noise died down. The man stopped a few feet away and looked them over, his gaze seeming intense combined with the hot sun or their faces.
‘Someone will pay money for you?’ he said. Marshall assumed this was a question from his tone. The man’s accent was very thick and he had picked up some bad habits with his English.
‘Probably not, we’re not important,’ he replied, realising as he did that his aim of losing their interest may just as well end up in them being mugged and killed anyway.
‘Bad for you then yeah,’ said the man with a smile. ‘You must come with us now.’
The man turned around and walked back to his seat in the truck. Marshall and McKnight had failed to notice another car coming down the road towards them. This time, it was a small, beaten up Daihatsu van. As it pulled up beside them the side door opened and they were ushered in. The door slid closed behind them.

I will get back to this when I have peace, quiet and a buckie in hand! Mystery author in our midsts!

Me too. Just got home. Going to bed, Mr Anonymous writer --- or was that Mrs, Ms or Miss? How mysterious!


{{{Note to self: I know it's not me! So I can narrow it down already! }}}

Hullo,

I look forward to your comments.

Yours,

?

Just skimming through I'm pretty sure who it is, but as I feel any artistic critique deserves far more time and thought than I can spare right now I will refrain from comments.

Have only just discovered the creative corner... few good threads here for me to get in to (looking forward to getting home and seeing Norc's pics on the story thread (Needle-somewhere) as cant see them from work).

As I am new myself, will need to start looking at people's writing a bit closer to see if I can work out who you are.....

Sure the others will work it out before me though.

Its not me. not enough smelling mistakes.

lol, it's easy.. you just wait and see who of the regular forumshirlings who comes here, and the one that's not here.. well.. I deduce






obviously.

though I probably ruined that now.

well its a man with some military training I suspect, so maybe Ringo or Turembar, or maybe smeone like Semiramis who I dont know is male or female.

I will read it properly tonight.

Just read it and my moneys on Turembar.

It was great very gripping I want to know if they get ransomed or put in some nasty prison with scorpions.

Hullo,

Thanks for your comment Mrs Figg. You may have to wait a little while for some answers.... here is chapter 2 for now.

A white Volvo XC60 made its way along the George Washington Memorial Parkway, through one of the many wooded parks around Washington D.C. After a few minutes, the vehicle took a slip road on to the large looping road that rounded the main buildings of the CIA headquarters in Langley. The driver was a thirty-two year old woman wearing a crisp white blouse, black trousers and black heeled shows. Around her neck, secured to a black lanyard, was an I.D. card. On the right hand side stood the seal of the CIA, a shield with a 12 point star and an eagle in the background mounted in a blue circle. On the left, a headshot of the woman with long, brown hair and hazel eyes. At the bottom was the name Catherine Anderson.
Kate, as most of her colleagues called her, had just spent most of the morning caught in traffic behind. Some idiot had decided that he hadn’t quite consumed enough alcohol that night and needed to go to the local liquor store for a few more bottles. He made it only as far as the street lamp a few blocks from his dingy apartment. The bald tires on his old Chevrolet had failed to grip as he threw the car round a corner, narrowly missing traffic crossing the junction. As he had hit the post, the momentum threw him forward and in to the windscreen, killing him instantly. By the time Kate passed, after more than 2 hours stuck in the resultant tailback, all she could see was the shattered, blood stained front window and local police taking whatever information they would need for what would probably be a very short investigation. As with most commuters being held up, she had cursed the man for the actions the made her late rather than feel any sympathy.
It was now 8:15am and a good majority of the workforce had already arrived and found themselves a parking space. As she was normally in at around 6:00, she would normally find a space relatively close. Today, however, she was not so lucky. After a further twenty minutes looking for a space in what seemed like the most remote part of the entire complex, Kate stepped out of the car. The blue sky and bright sunshine provided a welcome break to the dismal weather over the last week, although this mid-February day had struggled to hit 3°C. She put on her jacket and strapped her holstered Beretta on to her belt.
Kate had been due to meet a colleague, Jose Hernandez, in the park area between the old and new headquarters buildings at around eight that morning. She had already given him a call from the car to advise him of the stupidity of the crash victim and that she would have to rearrange. Kate had just been given a new assignment following her recent successes in tracking down a few gun smuggling rings in the North East United States and was due to meet with Jose to get an update on what information they already had and where to begin with any contacts. As she passed the multi-storey car park, another of the six main parking areas, she reached in to the jacket pocket and pulled out her mobile phone. The CIA had been in the process of rolling out newer phones to its agents and Kate had only just received hers the previous day. As she fumbled with the tiny buttons and menus, she finally found Jose’s number and called.

‘Hi Jose, it’s Catherine Anderson. I’ve just got here, you ok to meet now?’
‘Oh, hey Catherine.’ Jose had grown up in one of the many Hispanic areas of California to which his parents had moved from Mexico a few years after he was born. He had just begun to pick up his first words there and had carried his Mexican accent with him since. ‘Yeah, I’m just grabbing a coffee, you want anything?’
‘I’d kill for a vanilla latte, it’s freezing out here.’ She replied.
‘No problem. Gimme five and I’ll meet you in the park.’
As she hung up, Kate had now got to the main building and was approaching the main, arched entrance of the New Headquarters Building, or NHB. The huge, sky lit ceiling followed the main corridor through to the Old Headquarters Building, OHB, and to the courtyard in between where she would be meeting Jose. She passed through security and made her way down the corridor and in to the courtyard. She had never met Jose before today and didn’t know who she would be looking for. As she sat on one of the benches and waited, she noticed a short, dark haired and olive skinned man in a silver grey suit and red, open collared shirt. He was carrying two drinks and was looking around at the various other people going about their daily activities, apparently for someone in particular. Kate got up and approached him.
‘Jose, I’m guessing?’ she said.
‘Hey Catherine. Nice to meet you,’ he replied, holding out her drink.
‘You’re an angel,’ she replied, gladly accepting the hot cup. ‘Let’s go up to my office and you can let me know what we got.’
Kate’s office was located on the third floor of one of the towers of NHB. The office itself was open plan with desks arranged in banks and separated by blue baffle boards. Kate’s desk was near a window overlooking the grounds. She quickly grabbed a cream file from her desk and headed to a small meeting room that joined the office.
‘So,’ she started as she went through some of the papers in the file. ‘What have we got?’
‘As you know, we work with the ATF and various international agencies to track any illegal arms trafficking. Well done on your recent haul by the way. I’m sure you also know that our troops in Iraq and Afghanistan have been coming up against insurgents with newer and more advanced equipment. A few weeks back a Black Hawk helicopter was taken down by a US made Stinger missile. Eight soldiers were killed along with the three crew.’

Kate nodded in agreement although she hadn’t been keeping up on foreign affairs for the last few months. Jose continued.
‘Our Special Activities Division on the ground has been tracking movements of weapons coming over the border from Iran but this is obviously not where a lot of the weapons are coming from. UN sanctions and our own foreign policy would stop any major corporations selling them directly. Basically, we need to find out where these weapons are originating from and make sure any illegal trading is stopped. It would make our boys jobs a lot easier if the Taliban weren’t better equipped than half of the International Security Forces out there.’
‘Ok, so where do we start then? You said we have assets in Iraq?’
‘We have a few small teams in Iran right now but it is much easier for them to exfiltrate back to friendly soil and let us know what they are finding then trying to get that level of information out of Iran.’
‘Ok. It is also a lot easier if I can actually talk to them face to face to find out what’s going on than misunderstand from five thousand miles away by which time they have disappeared. I’ll arrange to get out there with a team and talk to them.’
‘Sounds good. The list on page nine is our main contacts out there,’ he said pointing at the small type on the file. ‘I’ll let you know where and when they can meet you. You may be out there a few days before anything happens.’
‘That’s fine. Gives me a chance to look through this file and start getting a picture of what we think is going on.’
After they were done, Kate took Jose back to the lobby and said goodbye. She headed back to her desk to run through the finer details of the operation. Around her, the other three members of her team were tying up the paperwork from the last case and she would soon need to call a briefing and be ready for the questions that were likely to come thick and fast. This was probably the part of the job she liked the least, briefing her team on details that she really did not know herself and to a least have a plan of attack as to where to start. The good thing was she had complete confidence in her team. They had proven their worth more than once and this had clearly been recognised by the operation they were now being asked to get involved in. She spread the files across her desk and began her attempt to make some sense of it all.

Mrs Figg wrote:well its a man with some military training I suspect, so maybe Ringo or Turembar, or maybe smeone like Semiramis who I dont know is male or female.

I will read it properly tonight.

Just read it and my moneys on Turembar.

It was great very gripping I want to know if they get ransomed or put in some nasty prison with scorpions.

Yeah, that was my guess.

who ever the author is I am enjoying reading it a lot. tell me tell me tell me?

I would guess Turembar too, although I haven't read much of what he's written.
It's not Ringdrotten, he is barely here and it seems it's a native english speaker.

I would go for a he in this case, since it seems it's kind of military oriented. You started with a he as a main character but then a she. I'm still guessing man. maybe my theory isn't that good after all. You use the celsius degrees, not farenheit (up to date, knows that the celsius is best known and more people on this planet use that system). You say apartment, not flat (so american?)
but if I'm not mistaken, americans use the farenheit system, correct? so maybe not a native speaker? or an international, though native speaker..

though I've just skimmed through this for now, haven't read it carefully just yet. Maybe I'll get another impression.

another reason why I think it's turembar is because I've noticed that he is very active on the haddon hall thread, but not so much on the other ones, so my guess is that he likes to write and get feedback.

since I haven't read it througly I don't know where the action takes place, maybe you correct what words you choose (apartment/flat, elevator/lift) to where the action is.

Only had a chance to read the first section of the first paragraph and seemed quite good. Will comment back when I have some more time (not this weekend unfortunately).

Mrs Figg seems to be liking it though so you have 1 book sale when it comes out!

Hullo,

Glad you are enjoying it Mrs Figg. And Lancebloke, as I mentioned it is unfinished at the moment. I have about 16 chapters finished so far, some a little shorter and some a lot longer.

As it is the weekend, I will post chapter 3 and 4 on here and pick up on Monday as not sure if I can get on line this weekend or not.

I hope you all enjoy.

Chapter 3

Serah was secretary to the board of Hartland Hawkes. She often worked long hours in the office making travel arrangements, typing up minutes of executive and client meetings or making sure that other departments were not slacking. She had learnt what each of them expected either through light hearted conversation or some difficult times standing in front of their desks. Serah was one of the few people in the company that had access to virtually all sensitive information as most of the paperwork came through her desk before being passed up the chain.
This week, her top priority was to make arrangements for a number of the executives and the majority of the security team to travel to Africa to visit a potentially large client. Hartland Hawkes supplied various types of arms and equipment to government institutions from its military to local police forces. With the tightening of international arms dealings over the past decade, business had become a little more competitive. Companies were now taking trips ever further to get business without crossing the lines that would have various intelligence services watching very closely. The most sought after markets were in Africa and South America where large state corporations did not already monopolise contracts like in the more developed nations.
A meeting had been held the day before outlining what was required and where exactly it would be. Serah took her Dictaphone everywhere to ensure she did not miss anything.
‘I don’t care Mike, I’m not going in one of those fuckin’ jeeps again. Get something comfortable, like a Hummer or something.’ The heavy Texas speech coming out of the small speaker was that of Bradley Levington. Levington was a shrewd, cut throat type businessman that had made a name for himself as a hedge fund manager in New York some years before. Although he didn’t compare to some of the big Wall Street moguls, he had earned himself enough money to take a share in the company and get on the board. As Director of Finance, he was a regular in visiting clientele. He was talking to Michael Eddington
‘Mr Levington,’ Eddington responded in his thick East London accent, ‘I really don’t think it is a good idea travelling across the middle of nowhere in a glorified piece of tin foil. If they start throwing rocks at us we’ll be in the shit!’

‘Who are ‘they’? Mike, how many trips to middles of nowhere have we had? And how many of ‘them’ have given us any trouble? Fuckin’ rocks.’ Levington wasn’t good at concealing sarcasm or that he clearly thought someone else thoughts were utterly ridiculous.
‘He’s right Mike. Get us something that won’t require me to look like we had ridden donkeys there when we got out.’ This was now the voice of Roger Hartland, the CEO of the company. He and Todd Hawkes had created the company in the mid-80s with the idea that, with the break-up of the Soviet Union, many more Eastern European countries would need to arm and protect themselves. Initially they made a lot of money; however it wasn’t long before more established companies with their big budgets had gotten involved. Priorities had to change and this new deal could lead to a stable company for the foreseeable future.
As she listened back to the tape, she remembered her surprise to hear Danny Marshall’s name as one of the eight security personnel being taken. Danny had been in the company a while but had always been seen as the ‘guy that stays behind’, not least because he knew more about the building and its security than everyone except Eddington, and he wasn’t going to stay.
‘Right then, Serah,’ came Eddington’s voice ‘you need to get everything sorted for us three, Todd, Jeremy and my security team. Oh, and put Danny’s down too. It’s about time he got to do something fun’.
The local office in Kenya was located in Mombasa and had seen a fair amount of activity in recent months. Internal political turmoil had seen an increase in spending by the government to strengthen its police and military as well as an increase in private security firms which would often support foreign companies that were investing in the country. This trip would be to one such company that had been looking to consolidate its presence in the country as far as the capital, Nairobi. This would require a large amount of small arms and equipment to support its recent recruitment drive and contracts that were close to being signed. The ongoing contract was worth several million pounds and was seen by the executives in the company as a big step in establishing an ongoing presence in East Africa. A sample of equipment was also to be taken and looked over before any contracts were signed.
Arrangements were to be made locally for a secure residence to stay the week and transport around the city and to the meeting. Serah had been involved in setting up the Mombasa office about two months ago and her contact, Thomas Ndlovu, was someone she had spoken to many times before. She flicked back her long, crinkly blonde hair and put a small silver hands free device in her ear. She did not have an actual phone on her desk, instead a virtual keypad on her computers desktop displayed various options, one of which was a speed dial to the office in Mombasa. As the computer dialled, the headset made a series of beeps with each number and the sound of an international ringing came over the speaker.