“A little. Why?”
“A wise man once said, ‘If you don’t toot your own horn, there will be no music.’ Did you ever hear anyone say that?”
“You’re the first,” Miyo answered. “Are you going to toot your own horn now?”
“Toot, toot.” I beamed at her.
She leaned back where she could see my face. “Did you help with that case?”
“Along with Snoop, and the FBI, and a whole bunch of Port City cops, and Flamer, and the District Attorney, and the U.S. Attorney, and Tank Tyler. Yeah.”
“My, aren’t we modest.”
“Toot, toot.” I smirked and took a long pull on my Margarita.
“Was this connected with those four men who tried to kill you in the Everglades?”
“That I can tell you because it was in the newspaper. They were sent down from Chicago by a gangster named Adam Wolenski.”
“Was your trip to Chicago?” Miyo asked.
“I’ll never tell.” I handed her a newspaper story I’d printed from the previous morning’s online edition of the Chicago Tribune.
Miyo set down her Margarita and unfolded the sheet of paper. “This says that a prominent Chicago attorney, Nelson Victor, was gunned down in his own home Tuesday night by an unknown assailant who was delivering flowers. The gun the killer used belonged to Lawrence R. Lambert, Jr., one of Adam Wolenski’s gang.” Miyo looked up at me with a quizzical expression. “Wasn’t that one of the men who tried to kill you?”
I grinned. “Toot, toot.”
She continued reading. “Lambert’s fingerprints were on the bullets used to kill Victor, but Lambert was already dead here in Port City.”
“Strange, isn’t it?” I asked.
“Who the heck is Nelson Victor? Or can’t you tell me?”
“I can tell you because it’s a matter of public record. Nelson Victor was a law partner of Katherine Shamanski’s father.”
“Funniest thing. Okay, let’s put this together.” She held up her index finger. “Wolenski sends four guys to kill you. Instead, you and Snoop kill them.” She held up her middle finger. “Katherine Shamanski is involved with the train bombing and she gets arrested at her parents’ house in Chicago.” She added her ring finger. “Her father’s law partner is killed with a gun that belongs to one of Wolenski’s men.” She added the little finger. “And that man is already dead.” She ticked her thumb. “And that happens when you are away on business.” She handed the printout back to me.
I held the sheet of paper over one of the candles on the table until it caught fire. I walked to the edge of the balcony and held the sheet as it burned, the ashes flying into the void. I dropped the last corner and it floated away.
Miyo joined me at the railing and grabbed my hand. “And how do you explain all that?” she asked.
“Coincidence.”
Acknowledgments
My thanks to Michael H. Hatfield of Hatfield & Stack, LLC, Attorneys at Law in Tavares, Florida. Michael has litigated numerous Federal and State jury trials to verdict throughout the State of Florida and United States. He earned a Bachelor of Arts from the University of Florida and a Juris Doctor from Cumberland School of Law, Samford University and is a member of Florida Association of Criminal Trial Attorneys. Michael reviewed my draft for technical accuracy on criminal law and procedure. Any inaccuracies are solely my responsibility.
My thanks to my editor Marsha Butler. Her Website is http://www.swmpwriter.com. She makes me a better writer. And to my cover designer Michael Butler of Michael by Design. His Website is http://michaelbydesign.com/.
About the author
Dallas Gorham is a sixth-generation Texan and a proud Texas Longhorn, having earned a Bachelor of Business Administration at the University of Texas at Austin. He graduated in the top three-quarters of his class, maybe.
Dallas, the writer, and his wife moved to Florida years ago to escape Dallas, the city, winters (Brrrr. Way too cold) and summers (Whew. Way too hot). Like his fictional hero, Chuck McCrary, he lives in Florida in a waterfront home where he and his wife watch the sunset over the lake most days and where he has followed his lifelong love of reading mysteries and thrillers into writing them in his home office. He is a member of Mystery Writers of America and the Florida Writers Association. He also chairs the Central Florida annex meetings of the Florida Chapter of the Mystery Writers of America because he can’t get anyone else to take the post.
When not writing fiction, Dallas is frequent (but bad) golfer. He plays about once a week because that is all the abuse he can stand. One of his goals in life is to find more golf balls than he loses. He also is an accomplished liar (is this true?) and defender of down-trodden palm trees.
Dallas is married to his one-and-only wife who treats him far better than he deserves. They have two grown sons whom they are inordinately proud of. They also have seven grandchildren who are the smartest, most handsome, and most beautiful grandchildren in the known universe. He and his wife spend waaaay too much money on their love of travel. They have visited all 50 states and over 90 foreign countries, the most recent of which was Morocco, where their cruise ship stopped at Agadir (don’t bother).
Dallas writes a blog at http://dallasgorham.com that is sometimes funny, but not nearly as funny as he thinks. The website also has more information about his books, including the characters. If you have too much time on your hands, you can follow him on Twitter at @DallasGorham, or Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/DallasGorham.
Hello from Dallas Gorham
Now that you have finished Dangerous Friends, can I ask you a favor? Please go to the amazon.com and goodreads.com and write a review. We authors live and die by our reviews. Your review can help someone else decide whether they might like my book.
Thanks.
Your entertainment is the reason I write. I would love to hear from you now that you’ve finished reading my story. Email me at [email protected]. Tell me how you liked my story and what you’d like to see Chuck McCrary do next. Or tell me anything else on your mind.
All the best,
Dallas
Also by Dallas Gorham
I’m No Hero
A short story thriller introducing Carlos McCrary when he was a sergeant in the U.S. Special Forces in Afghanistan. Free to Kindle Unlimited members. Available on Amazon.com.
On a clear night in June 2006, Special Forces Operational Detachment Alpha 777, the Triple Seven, gets their mission: Free an Afghan mountain village from a ruthless Taliban blockade which is starving the people to death. The village's crime? They educated girls in the village school.
A courageous young boy from the village sneaks through the hot summer night to escape the Taliban blockade. He runs ten miles barefooted to get help, arriving at an Afghan National Army garrison with bloody feet. He seeks the help of Afghan Major Ibrahim Malik. But Malik knows that his ANA small force is no match for the well-armed Taliban terrorists. Malik and the boy come to the Green Berets of the Triple Seven for help.
The Taliban have a larger force, heavily armed with Kalashnikov AK-47s and rocket-propelled grenades. The Americans must rely on their equipment, their training, and themselves.
This is a story of Sergeant Carlos "Chuck" McCrary, a Mexican-American Green Beret, and his team of soldiers who risk their lives to save two thousand Afghan townspeople they have never even met. Chuck and his fellow Special Forces soldiers live the motto: “We own the night.” They set off in the darkness to defeat the Taliban and break the blockade. But when the soldiers of the Triple Seven don their night vision goggles and show up in the dark hours to liberate the village, they are surprised and outnumbered by an ambush of heavily-armed Taliban terrorists.
The soldiers of Team Triple Seven must fight for their lives, or the villagers won’t be the only ones the Taliban wipe out.
A preview of
I’m No Hero
Chapter 1
Operational Detachment Alpha 777
Alpha Compan
y, 3rd Battalion
7th Special Forces Group (Airborne), Team 7
Mountains of Central Afghanistan, June 2006
Sergeant Chuck McCrary had spent most of his watch crouched behind two Volkswagen-sized boulders at the top of a rocky foothill. His knees were killing him. Wonder why they call it “standing guard” when I spend most of my time hiding in the rocks? Two days into the Triple Seven’s training mission no one had taken a shot at him yet, so he couldn’t really complain. He yawned in the dry night air. He was starting to relax.
A scraping sound on the rocks below snapped him back to full alert. He raised his sound-suppressed carbine and peered down the scrubby hill through his night vision goggles. Two ghostly green images climbed toward him on the rock-strewn trail. McCrary’s gut knotted as he recognized the distinctive shape of the Kalashnikov AK-47 slung over the shoulder of the larger figure. He steadied the crosshairs in the center of the man’s chest, but kept his finger off the trigger.
The man made no effort to be stealthy; he seemed to want to be noticed. His cigarette glowed brightly through McCrary’s goggles. Probably Afghan National Army, but better safe than sorry. A smaller figure, limping badly, accompanied the man. Either a woman or child. Gotta be a boy. No woman would be out here with a man unless he was her husband or a family member. And no man in his right mind would want a female family member out at night in this neighborhood.
The two stopped about fifty yards from McCrary’s post. The glowing cigarette flew off the trail into the darkness. A flashlight flicked on, and McCrary flipped up his goggles to avoid being blinded.
The taller figure waved the flashlight. “I am Major Ibrahim Malik,” he called in accented English. “I have a local boy with me. May we approach?” He lit up his own bearded face with the flashlight so McCrary could see the ANA rank insignia on his brown beret. The knot in McCrary’s gut loosened. He lowered his carbine but kept it at the ready. “Come on up.”
Malik and the boy climbed the dusty hillside to where McCrary waited. He aimed his flashlight at the boy, who wore a shapeless tunic over ragged pants, his bare feet caked with what looked like dirt and blood. That explains the limp. “Does the boy need medical care, Major?”
“Yes, but I will…” he groped for the English words “…take care to him when we return to my barracks in Dashkalah. Captain Ramirez said I must come to him if your team could help us.”
“Please wait here, Major.” McCrary keyed his mic. “Toro, tell the boss that ANA Major Ibrahim Malik is here with an Afghan boy. Bring some water and a couple of energy bars, will you?”
Sergeant Torres arrived a few minutes later. “I brought some MREs too, Chuck.”
McCrary looked at the boy. “Meals-ready-to-eat?”
The boy nodded and grabbed the food.
Torres patted the boy’s shoulder and turned to the major. “Follow me, please.” As he led the two Afghans into the interior of the outpost, McCrary shined his flashlight on the boy’s footprints—a trail of red splotches—and shook his head.
Minutes later Torres returned. “I’m to relieve you, Chuck. Boss wants to see you.”
As McCrary stood to go, Torres stopped him. “Did you speak to the major in Pashto?”
“No, he spoke to me in English first.”
“Good. Boss said not to let him know you speak the lingo.”
“Boss doesn’t trust the guy?”
Torres laughed. “Boss don’t trust nobody. You know that. ‘Be polite. Be professional. But always have a plan to kill everyone you meet as quickly as possible.’”
McCrary laughed and made his way to the rough stone building that served as the Triple Seven’s temporary command post. He knocked twice on the wooden frame of the empty doorway.
“Enter.”
McCrary pulled aside the curtain, took two steps inside. “You wanted to see me, boss?”
Captain Ramirez sat across from Major Malik at a rough-hewn table in the center of the small room. The boy sat on one side, arms wrapped protectively around one of the MREs, wolfing down the food by lantern light. Ramirez waved McCrary in. “Sit down, Chuck. You need to hear this.” He looked to the Afghan officer. “Go ahead, Major.”
Malik gestured at the boy. “This is Atash. He is twelve years. He live in the village of Ghar Mesar.” The boy heard his name and looked up from his food long enough to nod.
“Atash walked fifteen kilometers tonight from Ghar Mesar to my headquarters.”
That explains the bloody feet, McCrary thought.
“He is very brave.” He turned back to the Americans. “The Taliban starve his people. They will no allow food into town, and they will no allow the people to go outside the walls to pick fruit from the orchards or feed the animals.”
“Tell the sergeant why, Major.”
Malik put a hand on Atash’s shoulder. “The Taliban raid the village school three days ago because it teach girls.” He glanced at Atash. “They cut off the magistrate’s head and rape and murder his wife and daughter. They burn the mosque with the Imam and his wife inside. Atash father was Imam. The Taliban… blockade? Yes?” Ramirez nodded. “Blockade Ghar Mesar to make example of the people.”
Malik looked at Atash and spoke a few words to him in Pashto. The boy thrust his empty MRE tray away and jumped up, his fist raised toward the ceiling. His eyes blazed in the lantern light as he wiped his mouth on his sleeve, then spoke rapidly in Pashto.
McCrary silently translated the boy’s words. I will kill them all.
The boy seemed on the verge of tears. McCrary looked at the major. His eyes were moist also. McCrary’s mouth compressed into a thin line as he envisioned the horrors Atash had survived, the guilt the boy might feel because he’d survived when his own family had not. “So Atash snuck out tonight to go for help?”
“Atash ran from Ghar Mesar to Dashkalah in the dark. He tell the local Imam about his people’s troubles. The Imam bringed him to me.” Malik looked at Atash. “How much food do you have?”
The boy frowned as he answered in Pashto. “They won’t let us milk our goats or pick our apricots. My neighbor has been feeding me, but they have no more.”
Malik turned back to the Americans. “He say the village is soon out of food.”
Ramirez tapped two fingers on the battered wooden table. “Show us on your map what we’re up against, Major.”
With calloused hands, Malik unfolded a wrinkled map of the province and spread it on the wobbly surface. He questioned Atash again and translated his answer. “The Taliban are in the town hall on the square.” He tapped a spot on the map with a nicotine-stained finger. “Here.” The worn topo markings showed a hill rising steeply above the town square with a rectangular building indicated on top.
McCrary pointed at the rectangle. “What’s that, Major?”
Malik questioned the boy.
Atash answered, “Old stone building. Thick walls.” He gestured, indicating the thickness of the walls. “We climb the rocks and play in the building. It’s very old and it’s empty.”
Malik said, “That must be Mughal fort.”
McCrary asked, “Why aren’t they holed up there?”
Malik shrugged. “I know many of these places. These old stone forts are four hundred years old, from the kingdom of Sher Khan, the Mughal Emperor. He build many small forts. Thick walls to fight a siege, but no other military value. No water, no indoor plumbing, no electricity. The Taliban do not worry about a siege.”
McCrary studied the map. “Forty meters above the village, though. Good view of the surrounding area.”
Malik spoke to Atash, then translated. “Atash play in the fort many times. He say is one path to the top, carved in the rock by the Mughal. It starts on the side away from the square and winds around the hill as it climbs to the top. Too hard to get in and out. The Taliban can no be up there if they want to keep the people in the town.”
“How many Taliban?” asked Ramirez.
“Atash think about fifteen men, maybe
twenty. Captain, I have twelve soldiers; not enough for a successful attack. I think maybe your men come with us.”
“With respect, Major, for an operation like this, we’ll be more effective if it’s just our guys. We’ll get our briefing from you, with assistance from Atash, but my men know how each of the others operates. We haven’t trained with your troops, and we might wind up in each other’s way or—worse yet—shooting at each other. If we get there before dawn, we’ll have the advantage of surprise. We own the night.”
From the look on Malik’s face, McCrary thought he was about to object. “Captain, I have two sons about Atash’s age. He could be my son. I want to do this.”
“Major, how long would your men need to be ready to move?” Ramirez asked.
Malik narrowed his eyes as he studied Atash’s bloody feet. “After I attend to Atash, we can be ready in two hours.”
“Good, then you can reinforce us and drive the trucks of food for the village and a couple of medevac units for any wounded. Fair enough?”
Malik nodded. “We will be there to help.”
Ramirez turned to Atash. “Armaments?”
Malik asked Atash. “AK-47s, of course. Three RPGs that he see; maybe more. He not know how much ammunition, but say four men to carry it to the village hall. His cousin saw more ammo put in the gatehouse on the north end of town. Taliban come in two trucks with ANA… markings? Colors? The trucks leave empty. That is how Atash know the Taliban will stay until his village starves.”
Atash spoke again. He clenched his fists and the tears began to run down his cheeks. “They carry machetes too. They used machetes to kill the magistrate and his family. Just let me have a weapon, Major.”
Malik translated for the Americans. “He wants me to give him a weapon,” he finished quietly.
All three men looked silently at the boy for a moment.
Dangerous Friends (A Carlos McCrary novel Book 4) Page 28
