Suicide Bomb

by Bobby Nash

  John Kilgallon had written his first novel featuring Archer Chase, the daring government agent who wasn’t afraid to break the rules to save the world. The first Archer Chase novel, A Fistful of Evil soared to the top of the New York Times bestseller list in its first week of publication. No one had been expecting such a meteoric rise from a first-time novelist, certainly not the publisher, and especially not John Kilgallon himself.

  Naturally, with the first book selling so well, his publisher began pushing him for a sequel almost immediately. By the time the book dropped to number two on the bestseller list, he was already thirty thousand words into the sequel, The Icarus Sanction.

  Then he hit a wall.

  Many writers will tell you that writer’s block is a myth, while others will swear that it is an

  affliction that has happened to each of them at one time or another. No matter if it was a myth or simply all in his mind, Kilgallon found himself utterly unable to write word one on the new novel.

  He tried writing a short story to help loosen him up. That worked to a point, but nothing he tried seemed to work long term. The novel’s story simply refused to come together for him and for a time it looked like he might never finish. Even his publisher had begun to worry. Then, they began to threaten.

  Despite everything the author tried, Archer Chase’s next adventure continued to elude him.

  Until he realized what was missing.

  He had written A Fistful of Evil quickly, using his personal experiences from his days working for the CIA. He also imbued his protagonist with traits from some field operatives that he knew as well as a lot of his own. It gave the story just enough hint of truth to make it believable and it was that amount of detail that had caught on with the readers.

  When he had started on the sequel, he was making it all up as he went along and the results were less than stellar. What he needed, he concluded, were more “real” facts to enhance the fiction. He knew it would work, but he had to be careful. Most of the work he had done during his stint with the CIA was still classified as top secret and the last thing he wanted was to draw undue fire from his former employer.

  He poured over his old case notes and cherry picked the best parts from various unrelated cases. Using this research allowed him to come up with a few ideas that worked within the confines of the plot that his publisher had already approved and even gave him an idea for the next novel in the series. With renewed vigor, he planted himself behind the keyboard for ten hours a day until the manuscript was finished.

  The publisher loved it.

  So did his fans.

  Like its predecessor, The Icarus Sanction hit the bestseller list the week it was released. With two hit novels, Archer Chase was a hit.

  And so was John Kilgallon.

  Now more confident in his storytelling ability, Kilgallon third novel threw his hero into an adventure that ended with the character thwarting a terrorist plot that involved the International Space Station. This time there were only a few details that came from the experiences he had personally witnessed and very few of them related to the main plot since the CIA, to his knowledge, had never operated in outer space. The plot involving the space station was pure pulp fiction.

  Like its predecessors, Shoot the Moon sold extremely well, but received mixed reviews from critics and fans alike.

  Suddenly his publisher was nervous again.

  Despite the fact that his novels had sold millions of copies and had brought in quite a bit of money, his editor asked for a return to what had made the first two novels so successful. In her words, “what made them more real.”

  Now that he knew the formula for a successful novel, Kilgallon dug back into the files for another case to “recycle” into a challenge for Archer Chase. It didn’t take him long to find what he was looking for. He had been on the periphery of a project back in the 90’s that had failed. The project was ambitious, to say the least, but the eggheads in charge seemed confident that they could make it work.

  By the time John Kilgallon was assigned to it, the project had suffered setback after setback and was on the verge of collapse. The powers that be were contemplating pulling the plug if results didn’t happen soon. A Senate Sub Committee had been overseeing the project from the beginning and they were growing nervous. Especially so since it was an election year and budgets were under tighter scrutiny than usual.

  Kilgallon himself was not a scientist and had little aptitude for the type of work the project was doing. His gifts lay more on real world applications. Scientists, by nature, were narrow-minded with their research, working toward a specific goal. Most often, they did not see opportunities that lay just to the right or left of the target they were focused on.

  His job was to not only to see those opportunities, but also to exploit them to their fullest potential. He worked with the team to find a successful application for that which they had created.

  Unfortunately, despite his efforts, the project was eventually moth-balled and the team was dismantled and sent their separate ways. The Senate Sub Committee for the project was also disbanded and their findings were classified as ultra top secret and locked up in a secure location under the control of the Central Intelligence agency. Not even his substantial security rating was high enough to know the final resting place of Project: Blood Shot. Not only had it been buried due to the morally iffy aspect of the research, but when the senator who headed the sub-committee eventually became President of the United States, the project was buried as deep as it could go.

  None of that mattered though. All he needed were a few details to use as the basis for his plot, which were easy enough to procure from his memory as well as the notes that remained on his computer. Once he had those in place, he was off and running. His editor loved the premise of using mind-controlled operatives as assassins. And, of course, only Archer Chase could stop the terrorist who had engineered this deadly weapon.

  The fourth Archer Chase novel, Requiem for Blood was released and like the three before it, the novel was a certified hit. Advanced reviews praised the author for a return to greatness after the small hiccup that was Shoot the Moon and copies flew off the shelves the day it hit the book stores. Requiem for Blood shot straight to the top of both the New York Times and USA Today Bestseller’s Lists. Suddenly, Archer Chase was a full-blown phenomenon.

  And so was his creator, John Kilgallon.

  After the launch of the fourth novel, the movie offer for A Fistful of Evil came in. Suddenly, Hollywood was buzzing about the upcoming film and praising the writer for creating such an enduring, well-written character. When Ryan Gosling signed on to play charismatic CIA agent Archer Chase after Clint Eastwood picked up the directing honors, the author was ecstatic.

  Meeting his childhood movie hero, Eastwood, was enough incentive to sign the movie-licensing contract on the spot. However, it was the check the studio handed over to him that almost sent him into orbit.

  John Kilgallon’s life was going great.

  Of course, there wasn’t a lot of time to enjoy it.

  His publisher wanted book five and they wanted it fast, so he sequestered himself away in a rented beach house and began writing. He had a first draft finished four months later.

  Now, as he sat at his first signing for Archer Chase’s fifth adventure, Legacy of Pain, he couldn’t help but smile. Despite his initial reservations, he had grown to love making these personal appearances. It had taken a little time to grow accustomed to being the center of attention, but he had learned to live with it after the tour for the second novel. He had even grown accustomed to the oft-asked question, is that your real name?, which he always delighted in telling them that it was the name he had been born with. It was probably the only worthwhile thing his parents ever gave him, but he kept that part to himself.

  He signed his name and handed the book back across the table to the middle-aged man wearing a suit and tie. He shook the man’s hand and thanked him for reading.

  This
was his second stop on a nationwide book tour that would have him stopping in thirty different states. His first two stops were in Georgia. The day before, he had made an appearance at a book festival where he took questions, yes, including that one, from an audience of a few hundred fans, read a couple chapters from the new book, and signed some autographs.

  Today he was sitting behind a table with a cloth cover in a Barnes and Noble in Atlanta, watching the line snake out the front door of the bookstore and out onto the sidewalk. He was thrilled. Despite the rainy weather, there was a great turnout.

  One unexpected bonus to the appearances was that most of his fans were women. He couldn’t believe it when his editor informed him of the demographic. Women had idealized the title character, and in a way, they began to have an idealized image of the writer as well. Women loved reading Archer Chase’s adventures. Many referred to him as their ‘book boyfriend,’ which he found endearing. Add Gosling to the mix for the upcoming movie, which opened a week later, and the women came out in droves.

  He hired a publicist, who had wisely molded his wardrobe and convinced him to add a little color to his hair. The hair issue had been a hotly contested one, but the publicist eventually talked him into adding a little color, but leaving the sides with its natural salt and pepper look, also a slight nod to the man portraying his creation on the big screen. His readers found it charming and some reviewers had taken to referring to him as the debonair author, which he found oddly amusing. His publicist also played up the fact that he was single in his bio for each book, which had its advantages.

  Now that he was in his late forties, Kilgallon got laid by more hot babes between twenty and thirty years olds than he had when he had been their age.

  Judging by the talent he saw in line to have their book signed, he suspected he would not be alone in the hotel tonight. He studied the line and wondered which of these lovely Georgia peaches he would be peeling later.

  After signing and taking photos for a few lovelies, not to mention collecting a handful of phone numbers from several beautiful women, a man stepped up to his table and dropped two books on the table. One was the new release he had picked up at the bookstore, a pre-requisite for being able to get an autograph, and the second was a well-worn copy of Requiem for Blood that had obviously been read multiple times. Even though he was only supposed to sign the new release, he made it a habit to never refuse a fan an autograph.

  “Wow,” Kilgallon said as he flipped open the cover and started to sign. “Looks like you’ve really enjoyed this one. Would you like me to personalize it or…”

  “Hello, John.”

  Kilgallon did a double take. He hated to admit it, but he hadn’t really been paying that much attention to the man, instead focusing on the book in front of him, but there was something familiar about the stranger’s voice. He was fairly certain they had met somewhere along the way.

  “Do I know you?”

  “Not for a very long time,” the man said. “We used to work together once upon a time.”

  “Forgive me,” the author said, trying to recall the man. “I’m terrible with names.”

  “I remember,” the man said, not offering to help the author’s recollection. “That’s okay. It doesn’t really matter. I just wanted you to know how much I’ve enjoyed your books. Especially that one.” He tapped the copy of Requiem for Blood that Kilgallon was signing.

  “Thank you.”

  “Are you going to be in town long?”

  “Heading out for Nashville tomorrow morning.”

  The man handed a card to Kilgallon. He read the name and the pieces clicked into place. He recalled from where he knew the man. He also understood why Requiem for Blood was so special to him.

  “Okay. Now I got you,” Kilgallon said. He was all smiles. “Right. Wow. It has been a long time, hasn’t it? How’s life been treating you?”

  “Yes, it has,” The Controller said with a practiced smile. “And life has been exciting. When I heard you were in town I just had to stop by and say hello.”

  “I’m glad you did,” Kilgallon said. “It’s good to see you again.”

  “Say, if you want to grab a drink or dinner and catch up while you’re in town, just give me a call.”

  “Thanks. If I get out of here at a decent hour, I just might do that,” Kilgallon said as he personalized the novels and passed them back across the table, knowing full well that he would not be spending any time with his former acquaintance. Especially not with all the lovely ladies he had to choose from waiting in line. Pussy always trumped talking old times with someone whose name he could barely recall to begin with.

  The two men shook hands and Kilgallon’s attention automatically shifted to the next person in line, a beautiful brunette with big blue eyes wearing a tight knit sweater over a short black leather skirt and knee-high black leather boots. The author introduced himself and shook her hand as he stared into her bright blue eyes.

  Suddenly, the man whose books he had signed only moments before was forgotten and their reunion already a distant memory. The only thing on his mind now was how the brunette looked without the sweater. He took the copy of the novel from her and asked for her name. She told him and smiled, showing dazzling white teeth.

  Guess I’ll find out soon enough, he thought as he signed his name.

  Twenty-five

  Washington DC

  Sunday

  Ted Brown was in hell.

  For a day that had started off so well he could not believe that it gone so wrong within the span of only a few hours. He had drifted off to sleep before Sarah had left his apartment. The last thing he remembered was the sight of her heading toward the bathroom to take a shower before heading to do lab work at the college. He had fallen asleep with the image of her cartoony yellow face Moon tattoo sticking his tongue out at him from across the room atop those shapely legs.

  A ringing telephone woke him from a very pleasant dream.

  He was surprised to hear his employer’s voice on the other end of the line. The fact that Richard Pearce was at the office on a Sunday and calling him on his cell immediately put Ted on the alert. Pearce was a good employer and he enjoyed the work he did for the company, but the projects his boss took a personal interest in were miles above Ted’s pay grade. He knew something was wrong the second he heard the man’s deep timber.

  “What’s happened?” Brown asked immediately.

  Unfortunately, no answers were forthcoming. The only thing Mr. Pearce would tell him over the phone was that there had been an incident at the office and that his presence was required A.S.A.P. To the world at large, A.S.A.P. meant As Soon As Possible, but when Richard Pearce used the term it meant drop what you’re doing and get your ass in here immediately.

  Ted had worked for the company long enough to know better than to argue with the summons. With Pearce Analysis’ government contracts and top-secret classifications, he could have just as easily sent the FBI to pick him up and escort him to the office. The fact that he had called and requested a face to face was a courtesy based on years of loyal service. And so, despite it being his day off, Ted Brown headed out into the chilly Sunday morning and pointed his car toward the office.

  Being early on a Sunday, traffic was lighter than normal, so he made the drive far quicker than during a weekday when DC traffic was at its worst. He pulled into the lot and was waved through the security arm that blocked the entrance by a uniformed DC Metro police officer. He had to show them his driver’s license before they would let him through.

  “They’re waiting for you inside, Mr. Brown,” the officer said once he had called in his arrival via the mic clipped to his collar.

  The Hester Building was awash with flashing lights from numerous police cruisers. Brown asked what was happening, but the only information the officer would give him was where he was allowed to park.

  Another uniformed officer was waiting for him there and motioned him into a specified parking spot close to the building.
He was not used to parking so close. The officer told him to head to the front door where another officer would escort him inside.

  “I do know the way,” he told the officer, feeling very uneasy. They were treating him like a suspect in a crime. He had no idea why they might think that, but it didn’t matter. Mr. Pearce would explain everything, he was sure. There had to be some sort of misunderstanding.

  When he reached the entrance, yet another uniformed police officer led him inside and into the elevator. The officer accompanied him as the elevator ascended to the eighth floor. He asked this officer to explain what was going on, but, like the others, he wouldn’t speak of any details, telling him that all of his questions would be answered shortly. Then he stared stone-faced at his reflection in the polished elevator door for the remainder of the trip. Once they reached the proper floor, the officer remained inside the elevator while Brown stepped into the hallway.

  Another police officer, this one wearing a suit and tie instead of a uniform, met him outside the elevator.

  “Ted Brown?” he asked.

  He nodded.

  “I’m Matthew Fitzpatrick,” he said as he showed his credentials and introduced himself. “I’m a homicide detective with the DC Metro Police Department, Mr. Brown,” he continued.

  He offered a hand and Ted shook it.

  “Nice to meet you,” Brown said. “What is going on?”

  “Follow me, please, Mr. Brown,” was the only thing the detective told him.

  “Will someone please tell me what is going on around here?” he demanded as they reached the entrance to the office where he worked. “Where’s Mr. Pearce?”

  “Come this way, sir,” the detective said politely. “All your questions will be answered inside.”

  “That’s what the guy downstairs said too.”

  “Please remain calm, Mr. Brown.”

  “I think I’ve been very cooperative so why don’t you tell me what’s happened?”