by Arno Joubert
“But then she hasn’t had a very good start.”
“I know, that’s why we’ll have to make up for it,” Alexa said, putting on her sunglasses. “Latorre said the orphanage is up and running at the Happy Sunshine Clinic. All the girls who haven’t been placed with foster parents are there at the moment.” She folded her long bangs behind her ear. “You should see how beautiful the place is going to be. Laiveaux said they’re building additional dorm rooms and a library and a movie theatre. It’ll be wonderful.”
Neil smiled. “That’s great news.”
“Yes, the Thai government is managing it until all the support personnel have been employed. They’ll have enough money to run it for a very long time.”
Neil propped his head on his hand. “How much did they finally get from Wattana’s estate?”
“A lot. At the moment it’s around fifty million dollars. But they found some paintings his grandfather had stashed that he stole from the Jews during the Second World War. Laiveaux said the artwork would probably be worth double that amount.”
Neil whistled.
Alexa smiled then jumped up and pulled him up with her. “Let’s go play with our daughter,” she said with a giggle. She ran toward Yumi and grabbed her, swinging her in the air. “Come on, slowpoke!” she shouted at Neil.
He smiled, trying to etch this moment in his memory. He felt the happiest he had ever felt in his life. Kodak moments. He jogged toward them, then he picked both of them up and ran into the water with them. The girls shrieked and laughed.
This was what life was all about.
Let’s Talk!
I would like to say a very big THANK YOU to all the readers for making Fatal an Amazon Best Seller!
That’s right! Fatal has made me one of the Top 100 Authors in the Romantic Suspense charts on the Amazon Best Sellers list, and I would like to extend my most heartfelt thanks to all of the readers who have made this possible.
Still.
Writing is a lonesome occupation. So I’m going to ask you, my reader, a huge favor.
Please get in touch with me. Write me at [email protected] and tell me what you think, what you enjoyed, and where you reckon I should improve. Hey, I’m no Stephen King or Thomas Mann for that matter, but I do think I spin an interesting yarn, and if you would like to continue on this journey with me, please let me know.
And if you have a moment to spare, please leave a review for this book or any of the other books you may have read.
It would be greatly appreciated.
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Hope to hear from you Guerrians soon!
Arno Joubert
Author of the FATAL Series
~~~~~~~
Acknowledgments
Writing a novel is lonely, challenging, intimidating, monotonous work. But also extremely self-fulfilling and gratifying, especially when a reader comments on your expert knowledge on a particular subject area.
That feels good.
When a novelist starts his career, he or she often makes mistakes and they subsequently get one star reviews for the work that they’ve poured their heart and soul into perfecting.
Why?
Because, as a writer, we are stupid, or too lazy to do some proper research. You see, we make things up for a living, so who would care that army troops cannot parachute from a B-52 bomber? But people do care. To suspend disbelief and truly submerge yourself in a story, it has to be as close to reality as possible.
As a writer, you need to get your facts straight.
Luckily there are some gifted readers and confidantes who gently point out our mistakes and indiscretions, reminding me that I cannot simply hit someone’s septum into his brain, and that it is disrespectful to toss bags of donated blood on the ground.
Without these specialists who have painstakingly taken their valuable time to pore over my tomes, the work would have been so much weaker, and I cannot thank them enough.
So here is a shoutout to all the people who have helped me during the past year:
Doctor Rob Gentz for your medical expertise, useful comments and observations and just your humorous way of pointing out my mistakes. Man, I should have paid more attention in those anatomy classes. Also, thanks for being a pal! Next beer’s on me, man.
To Colonel Kenneth Gerchman, thanks for all the advice on how to blow various things up, explaining to me which is the weapon of choice in CQB’s (Close Quarter Battles) and thank you as well for pointing out that the term “Ex-Marine” is a misnomer. I get it, the men worked hard to earn the title; they will always stay Marines. I salute you, sir.
Laura Kingsley, my Content Editor. You’re brilliant mind and sharp wit inspire me to be so much more than I can be. They day you said that, ‘there's a good book lurking in the mess’, I felt so proud that you didn’t simply say that I should stop writing this blathering rubbish. Thank you for your observations and guidance, and soon, another piece of hogwash will make its way to your inbox to be ripped open and torn apart and cajoled into some coherent tome that I will be proud to display to the world. But, all jokes aside. Honestly, thanks. I couldn’t have started this journey without your expert guidance and advice. You’re the best, and don’t stop chastising me, I’ll get there in the end.
Amy Maddox, copy editor extraordinaire, perfectionist and all-round fantastic human being. If I had a penny for every mistake you have picked up, and another for every time I asked “Now how did I miss that?” I would have been a gazillionaire by now. You put so much effort into polishing my work, whatever I pay you is not enough. Thank you so much for all your help and God Speed to a truly nice person.
~~~~~~~
Excerpt from Book 4 of the Fatal Series starring Alexa Guerra.
“Just one more, please daddy,” Franky begged. He swopped the melting ice cream cone to another hand, then licked his sticky fingers.
Pete Ricco smiled and fed another euro into the coin-operated telescope. His boy handed him the ice cream and plastered two tacky hands to the sides of the scope.
Kids.
Pete licked the ice cream as he absorbed the sights and sounds of a warm Parisian afternoon. A balmy breeze wafted over the observation deck of the Eiffel Tower, and people mulled about excitedly, babbling and pointing to the various landmarks that they recognised from their travel guides.
The view from the top of the Eiffel Tower was spectacular. The grey River Seine meandered a sluggish path through the heart of Paris. A variety of brightly painted vessels churned this way and that along the river, like confused ants. Pete leaned forward on the handrail as he admired the architectural intricacies of the Chaillot Palace and the lush greenery of the Bois de Boulogne which separated the old city from the new.
He stood up straight and paged through his travel guide, trying to decide what to do next. The damn thing kept referring to the popular landmarks to the left side of Seine and to the right side of the Seine.
“How the hell did you know which side was the left and which side was right?” he had asked the pretty girl manning the reception desk at the hotel.
She nodded knowingly. It was pretty simple, really, if you looked downstream, left was left and right was right. Which didn’t work either, until he remembered not to assume that all boats were travelling downstream. Sometimes he was such an idiot.
He fished his cell phone from his pocket as he felt it vibrate for probably the tenth time that morning. He read the message then cursed under his breath before slipping it back. It was a message from the bank, a transaction for a thousand five hundred Euro had been cleared on his card. His wife, Carmen, was in Paris shopping, maxing out his credit. Paris wasn’
t the cheapest city in the world to take your impulsive wife on a damn spending spree, that was for sure.
He shrugged involuntarily. Suck it up Pete, she was pretty and she was young and Franky seems to have accepted her. He would do anything for Carmen. Well, almost anything, he wouldn’t give her half of his wealth if he ever decided to divorce her, that was for damn sure.
She came from a very wealthy Spanish family, and she was a prized catch. A lovely face without any blemishes or wrinkles. She was toned, spent hours in the gym. He scratched his balls without thinking. Damn, she was a handful in bed.
Financially he was doing just dandy, although he had to start over twice. First was 911, when he saw his entire empire that he had spent ten years building go up in smoke and dust, literally.
Then that bastard Madoff took him and his clients for everything they had back in 2008. But he had slowly built up his base and relied on his contacts to get back to his feet. He was an investment broker, in the past he had dealt mostly with venture capitalists, but now penny shares were his bread and butter.
He knew that it was risky business, but he would research the companies meticulously, if they had solid financials, a good product and paid regular dividends, he would advise his clients to invest in them. The commissions were excellent. He never risked any of his own money on the smaller shares. Blue chips were his thing. Solid companies, Google, Apple, Anglo American. Companies with large market caps and double digit growth.
He sighed and slapped the handrail with the guide. Nothing taxed a relationship more than financial strain. When the market crashed, that bitch Tina left him stranded, taking him for every last penny he had. She didn’t even bother with Franky, the two-timing bitch.
In 2010 he met Emerico Barba, a wealthy shipping tycoon with too much money on his hands. The man was looking at investing some money offshore, and wanted to know if there were any tax loopholes he could take advantage of. The meeting didn’t go well. Franky couldn’t keep his eyes off the sexy minx that Barba had draped over his arm. And man was he overjoyed when Barba finally introduced her as his daughter.
They had hit it off like a house on fire, her sensual looks mesmerising him. The sex was good, sure, but she also came from an influential family which meant more clients for him. It was a win/win situation.
He couldn’t complain, life was good.
“Look, dad, a plane,” Franky shouted excitedly, pointing at the sky.
Pete looked up as the Airbus A300 made a wide arc in the sky. It was awfully low. The engines whined as it banked to the side on its slow, wide turn, the flaps engaged as it tried to reduce its speed. Pete had heard that sound once before. The only difference was that he had stood on the ground on the corner of West Broadway and Park, watching in awestruck disbelief as the scene unfolded. Surely not again?
The plane straightened out its flight path.
And headed straight their way.
He grabbed Franky by the arm and pulled him onto his hip as he ran. Shit. The crowd panicked and surged towards the lifts. Plenty good that was going to be, folks. He headed towards the stairs.
A siren sounded from somewhere, like those that they rang during the second world war bombings. People hustled and shoved and jostled for position. He slipped and fell, then pushed himself up as he looked back.
The plane was less than a hundred yards away, the whine of the jet engines becoming an insistent and deafening tone that he could literally feel in his head. He closed his eyes and sucked in a raspy breath as the people mulled around him. This was futile.
He turned to face the roaring monster swooping down on him. People bumped into him, trying to shove him out of the way.
“It’s useless folks,” he whispered.
Franky’s eyes were squeezed shut, his fingers in his ears.
People screamed as the plane thundered towards them. Then time and place became one, as if he was watching a movie in slow motion, frame by frame, although it only lasted two seconds. He could smell the vanilla and chocolate cone on Franky’s hands, the wind jerked at the shirt that was now plastered to his back as the sweaty rivulets oozed from his over-sensitised skin.
He saw a young couple leap into the lift-shaft. The were holding hands. If the fall didn’t kill them immediately, the explosion would, Pete thought. The weapon of mass destruction screeched and Pete stood frozen as he watched the plane’s nosecone grow larger and larger.
The bearded pilots had a manic look on their faces, delirious smiles like they were entering the gates of heaven.
And then it hit. The Tower shook as the plane plowed into the lower observation deck below them. The impact jolted him off his feet. And then everything went ghostly quiet as his eardrums popped. He was watching a silent movie.
Pete screamed as the high propane jet fuel exploded and engulfed his body in flames. He didn’t scream because he was in pain, the explosion had severed all the nerve endings in his skin as it was scorched off his flesh.
He screamed because he was still alive as the Tower started to topple over, he screamed because he couldn’t believe what was happening and he screamed because he wasn’t ready to die.
He lived for one more second, saw Franky’s arms and face turn black and then a sickening red oozing mess of boiling flesh.
And then Pete exploded into a million tiny bits.
