Sleeping Dogs: The Awakening

by John Wayne Falbey

  Rickover gave him a puzzled look. “Yeah, so? What are you getting at, Mitch?”

  “Do you know what happened to Whelan and the others about twenty years ago?”

  Rickover shrugged. “Didn’t they die in…were supposed to have died in a plane crash? In the ocean off Puerto Rico, maybe?”

  “The Puerto Rican Trench, Aaron. The deepest part of the Atlantic Ocean.” Christie paused and stared hard at Rickover. “Do you know much about baseball, Aaron?”

  Rickover’s face brightened. “Yeah, I know a little bit about it. My uncle Herb used to be a big fan. Talked about it a lot. Why?”

  “Do you know who Yogi Berra is?”

  “Yeah, the cartoon bear.” He smiled like a kid who had just aced an exam.

  Christie stared at him for several seconds, shaking his head. Then he slowly turned his chair one hundred eighty degrees and looked out his misted sliver of a window.

  He said softly to himself, “Déjà vu all over again.”

  A Note From The Author

  This novel is a work of fiction and isn’t intended to preach or condemn any particular political philosophy. It’s just a story. It was fabricated, however, on events occurring in the U.S. today, and tells the story from the perspectives of various players. Likewise, any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. What is not coincidental are most of the scenes of violent confrontation. These actually occurred. I either was present or learned of them through media reports or from persons who witnessed it firsthand. For example, the scene on the porch at Remy’s bar, the Bitter End, is based on a real incident. It took place in the Everglades west of Miami, not in Louisiana. But a gang of motorcycle thugs had a come-to-Jesus moment with a single opponent in a manner similar to Marc Kirkland’s actions. The scene in the war game with the Army Rangers, where one of the Sleeping Dogs sneaks up and paints a white X on a log while an officer is using it as a makeshift toilet, is based on fact. One of my ex-Green Beret buddies related the story to me. The scene in the country bar in North Carolina is based on fact, but it happened in a pizza joint in Florida. I was there with some teammates following a flag league football game. One of them, a former All-American super heavyweight wrestler who stood six feet seven and weighed 300 pounds performed the honors. He yanked the abusive boyfriend out of the booth and held him off the ground with one hand while calmly explaining what would happen if he ever abused another woman.

  Whelan’s departure from Levell’s house in Georgetown in a freezer is based on tales that the eccentric billionaire, Howard Hughes, used the same technique to come and go from his home. The setting for the restaurant scene with McCoy and Levell is based on a number of memorable meals I had in a classic dining spot in Washington, D.C. Likewise, Whelan’s visit to Hawaii is based on my own travels and the tales of a former NFL player who retired to a mountainside in Hawaii and threatened harm to anyone who came to see him.

  The theory of genetics explored in the book is based on considerable research, but is mostly speculation. The statement that scientists have determined that those with Western European bloodlines have some Neanderthal DNA is true, however. Descriptions of weaponry, including stealth helicopters, Laski’s Patek Philippe World Time Platinum watch, and other symbols of the super wealthy are factual. The Puerto Rican Trench and the Challenger Deep are the deepest points in the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans, respectively. Dingle, Ireland, is much as I have described it.

  A Reading Group Guide is available at: www.sleepingdogs.biz/reading-group-guide.html.

  A Special Preview of John Wayne Falbey’s next Sleeping Dogs thriller:

  Endangered Species:

  Princes and governments are far more dangerous than other elements within society.

  - Niccolo Machiavelli

  PART ONE:

  TIGHTENING THE LEASH

  Chapter 1

  Some people can sleep through an earthquake or hurricane. Few people wake up at the sound of a fly landing on the wall—in another room. Brendan Whelan was one of those few. Something woke him up, but it wasn’t an insect. It was something common, yet out of the ordinary for the time and place, like a car horn in the middle of a trackless desert.

  He couldn’t quite place the sound, but he sensed danger was near. He kept his eyes closed and listened carefully, intently. He was gifted with an usual genetic makeup that gave him unique physical abilities most people would never have. That, and years of highly specialized military training, made him appreciate the value of caution. It had been reinforced by years of living underground, constantly glancing over his shoulder for the pursuit he knew would come someday.

  Slowly, almost imperceptibly he slid his hand across the sheet and gently touched the warm, still form beside him. He could hear Caitlin breathing gently and steadily. He strained to hear sounds coming from the room their boys, Sean and Declan, shared. There was only silence and darkness. He opened one eye very slightly, just a sliver. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, he slowly opened both of them. Nothing seemed amiss. He slid silently from beneath the covers and slipped out of bed.

  The original part of the Fianna House Bed and Breakfast, or teach an Fianna in Gaelic, had been built in the late eighteenth century as a small farm bungalow on the outskirts of Dingle, Ireland. By the early part of the twentieth century, it gradually had been expanded into a three-story manor house. Before they were married, Whelan and Caitlin had acquired the property and expanded it into a ten-bedroom, ten-bathroom inn with kitchen, dining room, library/sitting area, and a small office. Their third floor bedroom was part of the original structure.

  The wooden floor in that part of the house had been worn smooth over the decades. It felt cool on the bottoms of his bare feet. The old floor had spots where it creaked in complaint at human footsteps. Whelan found all those areas on his first night in the house and was careful now to avoid them. It was mid-April and the temperatures in Dingle ranged from the mid-forties to the mid-fifties Fahrenheit, or from 6°C to 12°C.

  Whelan, who slept naked regardless of the temperature, grabbed a pair of well-worn denim cutoffs off the top of a chest that stood at the foot of the bed. He quickly and quietly slipped into them. He thought momentarily about reaching for the SIG SAUER P226 MK25 he kept in a drawer in the nightstand next to the bed, but decided against it. It had been converted from the original 9mm to .40 caliber. With three family members and a guest in the house, that weapon would be too dangerous to use. An errant slug could rip through the walls and strike an innocent victim.

  The Kel-Tek KSG shotgun would have been his weapon of choice. Its internal dual tube magazines each held six rounds of three-inch 12 gauge shells. The chamber held a thirteenth. He clenched his teeth in momentary frustration. He’d let his oldest son, Sean, practice field stripping it. It was still in the room Sean shared with his younger brother.

  Whelan was six feet two inches and two hundred twenty-five pounds with no measurable body fat. And he had those unique genetic gifts. Unless there were armed intruders in the house, a firearm would be overkill.

  The Dingle peninsula, in Southwestern Ireland, juts out into the wild and stormy Atlantic. As a result, the area experiences a more difficult and unpredictable climate than almost any other location in Ireland. Whelan was grateful that this night was one of the rare calm moments. It made it easier for his ears distinguish aberrant sounds. He paused in front of the closed double doors that opened into the hallway and listened intently. Somewhere in the house he heard something that didn’t belong. It sounded like a muffled cry. It was there for just a moment, and then it was gone.

  He flattened himself against the left panel of the door and slowly cracked open the right panel. Nothing moved in the hallway. He heard only silence. Moving quietly, he eased the door open farther and slipped through it, closing it softly behind him. Somehow the gesture made him feel that Caitlin was more secure. Gliding silently along the hall dimly illuminated by nightlights, he reached the door to his sons’ room. It was open a
crack. He hoped it was because one of the boys had gone to the bathroom and neglected to close it all the way on his return.

  He glanced through the crack and neither saw or heard anything out of the ordinary. Gently pushing the door open, he slipped into the room. Except for the two boys curled up in their respective beds, it was empty. As he was about to turn and leave, Sean sat up. Whelan quickly raised a finger to his lips cautioning silence. Sean looked at him for a moment then raised his hands palms up in the universal questioning gesture. Whelan pointed at each of the boys then at their beds, signaling that they were not to get up. Sean nodded his head.

  Whelan stepped back into the hallway and continued silently toward the staircase at its end. There were no guests staying in any of the other rooms on the top floor. Nonetheless, he checked each room before moving on. He descended the stairs quietly and carefully, still straining to hear something, anything, besides the normal sounds an old dwelling makes in the night. He thought he heard a bedspring squeak followed by what sounded like a shoe scraping against the wooden floor.

  It was a slow time of year for tourists in Dingle. Only one guest room was occupied that evening. A retired spinster schoolteacher, Miss Elenora Tankersley from Sheffield, England, had been an annual visitor for several years, preferring to come during the off season when rates were at their lowest. She was an excellent guest, always prim and fastidious. She demanded the same room every year. Her days were spent strolling the surrounding countryside between the frequent rainstorms, or alone in her room editing her memoirs, which she intended to publish one day. Brendan and Caitlin Whelan wondered how such a solitary and introverted soul could have memoirs of any consequence. Although she was invited frequently to join the Whelan family for dinner, Miss Tankersley preferred to dine alone at one of the pubs she favored in Dingle. Following dinner, she would retire early. Tonight hadn’t been an exception.

  Whelan paused at the bottom of the stairs. Miss Tankersley’s room was two doors down the hall and on the left. Her door was open, as were the other empty guestroom doors. That was an anomaly. A very shy and private person, she always kept the door closed when she was in her room. His adrenaline level began to climb. He moved swiftly to the first open door, crouched very low against the jamb and peered quickly into the room. Empty. He edged along the hallway to Miss Tankersley’s room and repeated the process.

  This time he saw something. There were two men in the room. One was stretched across an inert body on the bed, Miss Tankersley’s. The man clearly was pinning her down. The other man was holding a pillow over the elderly woman’s face. Both men were large, but that wasn’t what stopped Whelan from rushing into the room. It was the Makarov PM 9mm suppressed pistol being brandished by the man pinning the victim’s body. Whelan silently cursed himself for deciding not to bring the Sig with him. He needed a plan, and quickly.

  As his mind raced to connect the necessary dots, the man who was smothering Miss Tankersley slowly raised the pillow. He placed two fingers against her neck above the common carotid artery. After a moment, he glanced at his companion, smiled and nodded. The second man rose slowly from his victim’s lifeless form and spoke softly to his companion. Whelan recognized it as an Eastern European language and thought it might be Ukrainian, a language he had heard in the past.

  He quickly edged away from the doorframe and backed along the hall to the room nearest the stairs. Ducking into it, he flattened himself against the wall just inside the door. He could hear the two men as they exited the late Miss Tankersley’s room. They were coming down the hall toward him. They would have completed a search of the second floor and eliminated anyone there. It was Miss Tankersley’s misfortune to be on holiday at the wrong time. Whelan knew they would take the stairs to the third floor where his wife and sons were. He harbored no doubts about the men’s intentions.

  As they walked past his hiding place, Whelan sprang out behind them. He grabbed each man by the nape of his head and smashed them together with tremendous force. Only a handful of individuals with similar genetics were capable of such power. Instantly unconscious, the men collapsed. Whelan cursed silently as the Makarov fell from one of the men’s hand and hit the floor with a dull thud. He pinned their bodies with a knee in each man’s chest. He wrapped a hand around each of their exposed throats. His fingers and thumbs closed around the pharyngeal muscles, aortae, trachea, and esophagus with such power they nearly met in front of the cervical vertebrae. He leaned forward from the waist then suddenly straightened and yanked his arms upward with all of his power. It ripped most of the anterior portion of each victim’s neck completely free of the body—a huge wolf dismembering lesser beings that threatened his mate and their pups.

  He wiped his gore-covered hands on the dead men’s clothing, picked up the Makarov, and rose to continue the hunt. If someone or some organization wanted him dead, they would leave no witnesses. His family members also were targeted. The party responsible knew who he was and what his physical capabilities were. They wouldn’t send only two men.

  Whelan knew the remaining assassins, however many there were, had to be on the first floor. He intended to kill all but one, saving that poor soul for interrogation using methods that would shock even the CIA. He quietly approached the staircase and peered carefully around the corner. There was a man with a bulky build standing at the foot of the stairs looking up. He must have heard the sound of the Makarov hitting the wooden floor and was coming to investigate. With the inhuman quickness his rare genetic gifts provided him, Whelan spun around the corner in a crouch, the suppressed Makarov extended in front of him. The other man didn’t have those genetic gifts. Before he could even raise his own weapon, Whelan double tapped him; the first shot in the thorax, the second in his head. His body bounced off the wall behind him and toppled forward. This portion of the floor was carpeted. This time there was minimal sound as the dead man’s weapon hit the floor.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A great many people have contributed to the experiences that have shaped me as an individual, and developed the perspectives that shape my writing. I’m grateful to all of them, even the ones who were involved in the not so pleasant experiences. Each of us, after all, is the product of the sum total of our life experiences.

  There are some people to whom I am especially grateful. Most important is my wife, “Annie”. She has been my most ardent supporter in this effort.

  My dad, a self-described (tongue-in-cheek) “fine Irish bastard”, played a major role in my desire to write. He encouraged my thirst for adventure stories as a youngster. More importantly, he totally freaked out when, at about age ten, I announced that I wanted to be a writer when I grew up. I remember the salient bits and pieces of his diatribe: “freeze to death…bare, unheated attic…starvation…no friends…no money”. It was a blessing in disguise. I spent years moving in other directions and gained much valuable experience and insight, which, hopefully, have made me a better chronicler of the human condition.

  At a very early age, my mother taught me to read and took me to the local library where I was introduced to a vast treasure trove of adventure. She also instilled in me toughness in the face of challenges, an unwillingness to settle for second best.

  My son Ryan, an articulate, intelligent young man, spent many hours proofreading my efforts and offering valuable comments and suggestions, including cover art and layout. Do not be surprised to see his name on bestseller lists one day.

  Suzanne Anderson, a friend, former student of mine, and published author (Mrs. Tuesday’s Departure, among other books), was very generous in taking time to review this novel.

  I’m grateful to Caitlin Alexander, a former editor at Random House and freelance editor for independent authors. She provided invaluable developmental and line edits, feedback and constructive suggestions for improvement on reader engagement, structure, narrative voice and dialogue, pacing, plot, character development, suspense, and marketability, with a particular eye toward tightening the manuscript to
a more commercially viable length.

  My thanks also to Tatiana Villa at Vila Design for her creativity and talent in designing the cover of the book.

  About the Author

  John Wayne Falbey writes techno-political spy thrillers and adventure novels. His debut novel, Sleeping Dogs: The Awakening, has been endorsed by Compulsory Reads. He also is the author of The Quixotics, a tale of gunrunning, guerilla warfare, and treachery in the Caribbean. A native Floridian and former transactional attorney, Falbey is a real estate investor and developer in Southwest Florida. He invites you to visit him at www.sleepingdogs.biz.

  Connect with the author online:

  http://Twitter.com/jwfalbey

  https://www.facebook.com/wayne.falbey

  jwfalbey@sleepingdogs.biz