Terrorists kill Jimmy Tag Along - Excerpt, The Devil's Darning Needle
A counterterrorism thriller by Ben R. Furman
The entrance to the Roosevelt Roads Navy Base was less than three blocks away and for the military and civilian personnel working there, the station was a convenient stopping place. El Gordo couldn’t afford to have his Coke machine out of commission long, so it was always quickly repaired. In about a week it would be ready for salting again. Easy money.
Johnny took a bag of rock salt from Frank, who had carried it from home and complained all the way. “You do the heavy lifting because you’re stronger. Quit complaining. I, Johnny el Grande, do all the hard work. Grab the sprayer I hid behind the big bush.”
Johnny screwed off the top, poured several handfuls of salt into the sprayer and carried it into the women’s bathroom. He turned on the hot water tap and waited. When the brackish water faded to tan, he filled the sprayer and stirred it. Satisfied, he screwed the plunger back in and pumped the air pressure as high as he could.
Jimmy signaled El Gordo was still under the pickup. Johnny stuck the sprayer nozzle into every opening, pumped the witch’s brew deep inside, and in short minutes the sick machine threw up its treasure. Johnny grinned and did his victory dance.
Frank scooped up the last of the coins and Johnny signaled Jimmy that it was time to go. The high pitched squeal of a cargo van’s tires ripped the air when it missed the turn at the intersection. It jumped the curb, smashed into the pumps, and spewed a fountain of gas in every direction. Five men in army fatigues with guns jumped from the back. El Gordo ran out of the service bay yelling and waving his lunch bucalaito menacingly in their direction. He was killed with one shot. Frank felt and heard the slap of a bullet as it passed his right ear. A meek groan came from behind. He turned. Jimmy had been shot in the head and crumpled slowly to the ground.
A second van screeched to a stop and the men leaped inside. Frank stood frozen, and then he saw the shooter who was only a few years older than he, pointing a rifle at his chest. In a rush of rage and defiance, Frank spit in his direction.
The barrel rose slowly and the teen, who had so calmly killed El Gordo and Jimmy, gave him a nod of acknowledgement and said, “You’ve got guts cabrito.” Then he pulled a lighted cigarette from his lips and motioned toward the woods behind the station. Frank ran toward the path with Johnny on his heels.
The driver of the van shouted, “Damn it, Ojeda, come on.”
As the van sped away, Frank took a quick glance as the flipped cigarette touched the widening pool of gasoline.
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The entrance to the Roosevelt Roads Navy Base was less than three blocks away and for the military and civilian personnel working there, the station was a convenient stopping place. El Gordo couldn’t afford to have his Coke machine out of commission long, so it was always quickly repaired. In about a week it would be ready for salting again. Easy money.
Johnny took a bag of rock salt from Frank, who had carried it from home and complained all the way. “You do the heavy lifting because you’re stronger. Quit complaining. I, Johnny el Grande, do all the hard work. Grab the sprayer I hid behind the big bush.”
Johnny screwed off the top, poured several handfuls of salt into the sprayer and carried it into the women’s bathroom. He turned on the hot water tap and waited. When the brackish water faded to tan, he filled the sprayer and stirred it. Satisfied, he screwed the plunger back in and pumped the air pressure as high as he could.
Jimmy signaled El Gordo was still under the pickup. Johnny stuck the sprayer nozzle into every opening, pumped the witch’s brew deep inside, and in short minutes the sick machine threw up its treasure. Johnny grinned and did his victory dance.
Frank scooped up the last of the coins and Johnny signaled Jimmy that it was time to go. The high pitched squeal of a cargo van’s tires ripped the air when it missed the turn at the intersection. It jumped the curb, smashed into the pumps, and spewed a fountain of gas in every direction. Five men in army fatigues with guns jumped from the back. El Gordo ran out of the service bay yelling and waving his lunch bucalaito menacingly in their direction. He was killed with one shot. Frank felt and heard the slap of a bullet as it passed his right ear. A meek groan came from behind. He turned. Jimmy had been shot in the head and crumpled slowly to the ground.
A second van screeched to a stop and the men leaped inside. Frank stood frozen, and then he saw the shooter who was only a few years older than he, pointing a rifle at his chest. In a rush of rage and defiance, Frank spit in his direction.
The barrel rose slowly and the teen, who had so calmly killed El Gordo and Jimmy, gave him a nod of acknowledgement and said, “You’ve got guts cabrito.” Then he pulled a lighted cigarette from his lips and motioned toward the woods behind the station. Frank ran toward the path with Johnny on his heels.
The driver of the van shouted, “Damn it, Ojeda, come on.”
As the van sped away, Frank took a quick glance as the flipped cigarette touched the widening pool of gasoline.
action adventure action books adult counterterrorism books adult fiction thriller adult novels adventure series counterterrorism books counterterrorism stories fiction thriller independent publishing publisher suspense thrillers
Labels: action, action adventure, adult, adventure, counterterrorism, independent publisher, publisher, terrorism, terrorist attack
