NOTES: Thanks for your kind words yesterday. I'm glad you enjoyed a snippet of my grandfather's life. Amazon's Kindle Unlimited (KU): G. Younger asked a question about the NY Times article (read it HERE) that talked about author's current struggles with Amazon, specifically with the new Kindle Unlimited program (this is the $9.99 monthly subscription that allows you to read an unlimited number of books per month within the list of books enrolled in the program). Here's my quick take: I love Amazon. I bought most of my Christmas gifts there and its publishing arm has allowed me to make a full-time living as an author. Up until Kindle Unlimited went live this past summer, I had no complaints. I'm am an entrepreneur. I ran businesses before I started writing novels. I understand what Amazon is doing as a business. They want a huge market share. They're not stupid. Starting this past summer, I went along with the Kindle Unlimited (KU) program and enrolled all my Corps Justice titles. While this cut my per unit profits to roughly half (and now a third), I thought it was giving me more visibility, which would hopefully increase the number of units I could sell, and maybe boost my gross income. After a few months in the program, I'm rethinking my decision. I did not enroll Disavowed in KU, and plan on taking the rest of my books out once my exclusivity time requirement runs out. (the other rub is that I can't sell my books on Apple iBooks, Barnes & Noble, etc... while enrolled with KU. I'm required to be exclusive to Amazon.) So to answer G. Younger's question of "What can you do as readers to support C. G. Cooper?" Hmmm...KU is a good program if you read a ton and you like the books that are included in KU. Not all books sold on Amazon are in KU. I won't tell you to boycott the program or demand that Amazon tear it down. Just know that I am making the informed decision to not include my own titles. This is actually good news for most of you because I'll be allowed to sell my titles on other websites. So if you want to help, keep reading my books and recommending them to friends :) Hope that answers you're question. Now back to the story... (CAUTION: The following contains unedited material that may be unsuitable for the grammatically inclined. Keep in mind that I don’t review what I write until after the first draft of the whole novel is done, so please keep your spelling and grammar fixes until the Beta Reader rounds.) Chapter 11 Disney Yacht Club Resort
9:03am, December 6th Cal was just leaving. He’d spent the last two hours trying to help the Ellwood family in any way he could. It turned out that the best thing he could do was entertain the kids as the adults went about their duties. The little girl, Lily, had taken an instant liking to him, saying, “Up, up, Cow,” every time he put her down. The adults had finished their packing with drawn faces and puffy eyes. More than once Cal felt their eyes on the back of his head. He knew the healing would take time, and judging by the tone of Gen. Ellwood’s son’s voices, they were far from understanding what their father had done. Cal sat down and waited for the bus that would take him to Downtown Disney. From there he would walk to the Hilton where he and Daniel were staying. They were supposed to be calling the Commandant at noon. He hadn’t heard from Daniel since he’d left earlier that morning. The bushes behind the bench rustled. He turned to see what animal was back there, but was surprised to find Daniel’s face instead. Cal noticed faint traces of mud along the sniper’s jawline, like he’d unsuccessfully tried to clean off his face. “What are you doing back there?” “We’ve got a problem,” said Daniel. His calm face was a stark contradiction to the comment. “What happened?” Cal asked, rising to join his friend. He took in the rest of Daniel’s appearance. His jeans were scuffed and wet at the ankles. They moved deeper into the tree line, Daniel not answering the question. They came upon a man sitting on the ground, his head between his legs. He was rocking slowly and looked up when he heard the two Marines approaching. Cal’s eyes went wide. The man looked ten-times worse than Daniel. His preppy clothes were soaked through and there were multiple tears on both his paisley shirt and his tailored pants. It took a moment for Cal to recognize the guy. It was that NCIS agent. Cal frowned. “What the hell is he doing here?” Cal asked. “They tried to kill us,” blurted Special Agent Barrett, wiping a droplet of blood from the gash on his forehead. Cal looked at Daniel. “What’s he talking about?” “My hunch was right." “What hunch?” Daniel shrugged. “I told you I was going back to take a look at the crime scene.” “And?” “I found a sniper’s nest.” “What? You never said anything to me.” “I didn’t want to get your hopes up.” Cal shook his head, trying to understand what his friend was saying. “Are you telling me that General Ellwood was shot by a sniper?” “No way,” interrupted Barrett. “The ballistics all came back positive for a self-inflicted wound.” Daniel nodded in agreement. “I’m not saying that anyone else took the shot.” Cal exhale almost came out in a huff. “So what are you saying? How do you even know it was a sniper’s nest?” He knew it was a stupid question as soon as it left his mouth. Daniel wasn’t just any Marine sniper. He was the Marine sniper. Cal had never seen or heard of anyone better. “First, from the faint markings and general settling in the area, I’m eighty percent sure whoever was in that nest was there when General Ellwood pulled the trigger. Second, whoever it was, and it was one man without a spotter, they knew what they were doing.” “You didn’t say anything to me about that!” said Barrett. “Are you telling me that there’s a sniper running around?” Daniel cocked his head, regarding the disheveled NCIS investigator. “Who else did you think was shooting at us?” Barrett’s mouth dropped open. “Hold on. You’re telling me that a sniper took the time to infiltrate the area, setup a perch, watch the general shoot himself, and now he’s dumb enough to come back and shoot at you guys?” Cal shook his head. “It doesn’t fit, Daniel. Why would he do that?” “I’m not sure. Maybe he left something. Maybe he was checking in on the investigation. Who knows.” Cal tried to imagine what might possess a professional to risk detection by revisiting the location he’d successfully exfiltrated. It didn’t make any sense. “Okay. Let’s assume it was the same guy. Let’s assume that he’s just dumb enough to snoop around again. Why was he there in the first place? Why didn’t he kill Ellwood himself?” Daniel crossed his arms over his chest and said, “Because he was only there to make sure General Ellwood took his own life.” +++ The sniper cursed as he watched the smoke from the small fire he’d lit at his former hide. He’d misjudged the Commandant’s emissaries. If it hadn’t been for that Boy Scout troop who’d literally almost tripped over him the morning of Ellwood’s suicide, he wouldn’t have even considered coming back. He heard them before Ellwood took a shot, and assumed incorrectly that they’d take a more circuitous route, or even run away from the gunfire. Instead they’d found the highest point they could. That spot happened to be right where he was gathering his gear and preparing to leave. The six Boy Scouts and the parents hadn’t seen him. He was too good for that. But in his rush he hadn’t had time to fully cover his tracks. That had necessitated the return trip. If he hadn’t it would have nagged at his fastidious brain for months. What he hadn’t counted on was Daniel Briggs make his own visit. The sniper had hoped that Briggs had already had his fill of the scene. Briggs and Stokes were reportedly booked on a three o’clock flight back to Virginia. But once again all his planning was for naught. Luckily his rifle was in the trunk of his car, just in case. He’d stalked his prey and whomever the companion was. His shot was ready, crosshairs leveled. But at the last moment he’d recognized the other man. It made the sniper hesitate. Killing Briggs and stashing the body was one thing, but getting the NCIS even more involved could mean real trouble, trouble he and his employer didn’t need. His hesitation not only cost him the killing blow, it also complicated the situation. They’d gotten away, somehow disappeared. He didn’t dare chase them down. Not now. It would have been too risky. But his employer would understand. He knew the uncertainties of the battlefield and the fog of war whose untimely presence rarely failed to make itself known. He smiled as he put his car in drive and pulled out onto the dirt access road. If he and his employer could make a Marine three-star general take his own life, it would be easy to take care of Daniel Briggs and Special Agent Barrett.
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NOTES: Well, lucky you. I woke up this morning with this scene in my head, and I couldn't get it out. I had to draft it so I can enjoy the last of today before the week really starts. I hope you all had a wonderful Christmas. I ate WAAAAY too much, but had a great time with the family and enjoyed your comments from Chapter 8. More tomorrow, but for now, enjoy the show... (CAUTION: The following contains unedited material that may be unsuitable for the grammatically inclined. Keep in mind that I don’t review what I write until after the first draft of the whole novel is done, so please keep your spelling and grammar fixes until the Beta Reader rounds.) Chapter 9 Lake Buena Vista, Florida 6:02am, December 6th Special Agent Robbie Barrett had a pounding headache and it had nothing to do with overindulging the night before. Although he lived well and liked to enjoy the finer things in life, he maintained certain peculiarities in with his work. One of his steadfast rules was that he never touched alcohol while he was on a high-profile case. The death of the Assistant Commandant of the Marine Corps was a tragedy, but it was also an opportunity for Robbie Barrett. He’d spent the evening before with a young woman his mother had introduced him to at a family event at the Barrett home in Orlando. She was cute enough and plenty smart, but his mind couldn’t focus on the conversation. He could tell that she thought he was off cue for not even taking a sip of the eighty-dollar bottle of wine he’d ordered, but she didn’t say anything. He’d deposited her back at her brand new apartment, and barely gave her a peck on cheek before he was speeding away back to his home office. And there he’d stayed until well past three in the morning. The case was as plain as he’d seen. A guy has a shitty day, or maybe even a shitty life, and he decides to end it all. Nothing new in Barrett’s world. He’d investigated possible murders and countless suicides in military barracks, run-down motels and even the one time he’d had to pick through a pile of stinking red snapper to get to the body covered underneath. As he walked another loop around the scene of the Gen. Ellwood’s ultimate demise, Barrett wondered if he was looking because there was actually something there or because he wanted something to be there. If there was another angle, some conspiracy that the Marine general had wriggled his way into, that could mean lots of media exposure. That could thrust him into the spotlight, a proposition that made him more than a little excited. Maybe if his mother and father finally saw that he was doing something important, something that could garner the attention of the public, then maybe, just maybe, they’d stop pestering him about using his law degree for something useful. They hadn’t understood his decision to leave his father’s firm and enlist with NCIS. That’s what they’d called it: “enlisting”. As if either of them had the faintest idea what military service meant. He hadn’t know much when he’d started, but he learned quickly, busted his ass to prove that he belonged amidst the ranks of former-military. So while his parents schmoozed their friends and whispered their hopes that someday Robbie would “get over his service and come back to the family”, he spent his days doing what he could to rise through the ranks at NCIS. He knew that the other NCIS agents called him names behind his back, Pretty Boy, College Boy, Trust Fund…but he ignored it all. The Barrett family’s fuel was success, and Robbie Barrett had stuffed handfuls of it in his pockets as his colleagues watched, mouths watering. They could say whatever they wanted, but it didn’t change the fact that he was fast becoming the face of the NCIS in Florida. Only half paying attention to his surrounding, he backpedaled to get a better look at the crime scene. His heel caught on a something hard and Barrett felt his momentum propelling him back, arms already moving to stop the fall. Before he hit the ground, something grabbed him, arresting the wipeout. “Gotcha,” came a voice. Much less gracefully than he would’ve liked, Barrett regained his footing and whipped around, his hand searching for his firearm. He stopped when we recognized the man standing in front of him, blonde hair pulled tight in a ponytail. If he was amused, he didn’t show it. Daniel Briggs stood with a look that bordered somewhere between curiosity and determination. Barrett could feel the man’s eyes taking him in, as if he were assessing NCIS agent’s worth. “What are you doing here?” Barrett asked, a bit of quiver in his voice that he tried to cover with a quick cough. “I thought I’d take a look around,” said Briggs, bending down to look at something on the ground. “Where’s Stokes?” If Barrett was being honest with himself, he would have admitted that the two Marines unnerved him. It wasn’t the fact that they’d been sent by the Commandant, or even that they were treading on his turf (he dealt with Washington outsider on a too-frequent basis). It was the way they carried themselves, especially this Briggs character. He had the look of a man who’d seen things, done things. Like a poet who’d finally found his harmony with the world, Daniel Briggs exuded something that Barrett wished for daily: tranquility. “Cal’s seeing what he can do to help Mrs. Ellwood and the family,” said Daniel, not looking up as he moved to another spot a few feet away. “You know we’ve been over the area a hundred times,” said Barrett, seeking to regain the upper hand. “I know. Not trying to step on any toes. Just thought I’d soak it in without anyone being here.” At that moment Barrett realized that the Marine had probably been there much longer than he had. What had he seen? What was he looking for? But rather than snap a reply, Barrett’s mind wondered if his hunch had been right, if there was something more to the case than a run-of-the-mill suicide. “You have much experience with this?” he asked, following Briggs’s path. “You mean crime scenes?” “Suicide.” Briggs looked up. “Yeah.” “Personally or professionally?” “Both.” There was something in the comment and the tone that subtly told Barrett to back off. “You don’t say much, do you?” Briggs shrugged on continued his inspection of the area. “How far out did your teams look?” Briggs asked. “A couple hundred yards. Figured there wasn’t much need considering the circumstances. Briggs nodded. “Hey, if there’s something I need to know, it sure as hell would be helpful to know it before I file my initial report,” said Barrett, matching Briggs’s pace as he moved farther into the brush. “I want to show you something.” Open space turned to tangle, and then back again. While Barrett swatted away branches, Briggs seemed to melt in and out of the landscape. His footsteps were light, his gaze moving constantly. They reached a small rise and climbed it, the pines needles under their feet still wet from the morning dew. Briggs turned around when they’d reached the top. “Look,” he said, pointing back the way they’d come. Barrett did as he was told, squinting, and then taking off his suddenly fogged sunglasses to see what Briggs was seeing. It took him a moment, then his eyes went wide. They were probably half a mile away, but there, clear as day, was the yellow taped crime scene, his Escalade parked just where he’d left it. “How did you know this was here?” asked Barrett, the possibilities already tumbling around in his head. “I had a hunch.” Briggs walked over to a clump of trees, his eyes taking in the area. He went to his knees, and then down to his hands. Barrett watched as he maneuvered around the small copse that looked more like a nest on the ground, probably big enough to be home to a deer. It dawned on the special agent what he was seeing. This wasn’t a private refuge for animals, it was… The loud crack of splintering wood overhead made him look up on confusion. He saw the shattered remains of the tree branch not a foot above his head. It took a split second for him to realize what it was. Just as he did, the wind was knocked from his chest as Daniel Briggs tackled him and the pair rolled down the backside of the hillock. Over and over they went, pitching over prickly palmettos and narrowly missing saplings as they went. They finally came to rest with a splash in a knee high body of water. Briggs had a pistol out. He put his index finger to his lips and motioned for Barrett to follow. Embarrassed by his slow reactions, Barrett slid his own sopping wet weapon out of its holster and tried to pretend that he knew what was going on. He’d never been shot at before. He’d never pulled his service pistol in the line of duty. “What happening?” he whispered, trying to calm his breathing. Another crack overhead. This time Barrett realized it was high-caliber round, a rifle most likely. He ducked involuntarily, but Briggs just kept moving. If he was worried, he didn’t show it. “Who knew you were out here?” asked Briggs, his voice dead calm. “What? I…I don’t know. Why?” stuttered Barrett, the edge of panic in his brain creeped down his arms. Briggs shook his head. “Nevermind. How well can you swim?” “What?” “How well can you swim?” It was then that Barrett noticed that they were up to their chests in the murky water. “I can take care of myself.” Briggs nodded and pulled off his shirt with a swift tug. “Strip down if you need to. We’re going that way.” He pointed deeper into the gloom when trees hung over the waterway with their drooping tendrils, roots visible and they formed skeletal cages against the banks. Barrett debated kicking off his shoes but thought better of it. As he gulped the thought of crocodiles and whatever else was lurking under the surface, he followed Briggs, hoping they’d make it out before a bullet found them and left them for the swamps. Please support this project by leaving an honest review for Disavowed >>HERE <<
NOTES: The more I write, and read what you guys are saying, the more I think this is going to grow into an epic. There's so much to put on paper, so many issues to tackle. I want it to be such a tangled web that none of us have a clue how to get out. Fun times for us all. Today you get to see an old character again, one of my favorites. Enjoy... (CAUTION: The following contains unedited material that may be unsuitable for the grammatically inclined. Keep in mind that I don’t review what I write until after the first draft of the whole novel is done.) Chapter 6 Washington, D.C. 2:25pm, December 5th Congressman Antonio “Tony” McKnight (R-Florida) didn’t come from money. His father had been a drunk and died serving a life sentence in some backwater Florida prison. His mother…who knew. He’d lost track of the woman years ago. McKnight was a survivor. He’d ascended the political ranking system despite the dead weight of his lost family. A quick learner, McKnight had stepped into the bureaucratic arena like he was slipping into a pair of well-worn house slippers. It just fit. He was young, good-looking and single. He surfed the web and scoops up social media followers with ease. There were weeks when a new model clung to his arm daily, and there were others when his relentless work schedule imposed a celibate break for the dashing up-and-comer. The Washington Post had recently named him America’s Number Two most eligible bachelor, one step behind President Brandon Zimmer. Nicknamed ‘The Miami Matador’, a nod to his Hispanic heritage, his electorate base and his dead serious talents., McKnight was becoming known for facing down the onslaught of stalwart old-timers of both parties, much like a matador in the bull’s ring. McKnight had at first laughed at the moniker, but the name and its deeper meaning grew on the social media savvy politician. He’d taken to re-tweeting photo-shopped pictures of his face on some matador’s body, usually shirtless. His favorites were the amateur cartoons that cropped up every other week, depicting him in one or another scene where he (as the matador) was taking on some stodgy bill or lumbering curmudgeon in the nation’s capital. Tony McKnight had never been to a bull fight, but his publicist was working on it. It would be a perfect photo op, another notch in his belt. As the Hispanic community swelled in America, so did the need for fresh-faced newcomers on the political scene. McKnight was the right’s coming Hall of Famers. He’d made it to the Majors but he hadn’t cracked into the All-Star game. It was just a matter of time. In the beginning McKnight sought out benefactors, men, and occasionally a woman, who had their own needs. Most were wealthy investors or business owners. In exchange for his ear and a chance on The Hill, they lavished him with trips and donations. There were legal ways of turning these thinly-veiled bribes into legitimate income. Again, his chameleon-like ability to blend in ensured that there would alway be a fresh supply of cash. Instead of going to them, donors were coming to him. It was always satisfying to the man who’d once stood ashamed behind his mother as she handed over food stamps for milk and cereal. He liked his life. Men of lesser talent and middling ambition might let things ride. That wasn’t McKnight’s way. He looked around at his colleagues as they convened for another four hour session. McKnight didn’t see competition, he wasn’t even in awe of a single one of them. No, what he saw as plain as if it were, in fact, the case, was a herd of cattle, the odd bull mixed in, milling about like cow on the plains. It would soon be time for The Matador to tame them, one by one if he had to. He was smart enough to know that it wouldn’t happen overnight. Overt frontal attacks would rarely be the way. There were plenty of ways to break a man, to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat. He smiled, relishing the moment, his hopes for the future. If they were anything like the dreams of his past, he had no doubt that his vision would become a reality. Not for the first time, McKnight silently addressed his father, who he could only assume now rested in Hell, I’ll be President of the United States in spite of you. +++ Rep. Tom Steiner sat down with a smug grin. He’d played second fiddle to fellow New Jerseyean, Ezra Matisse, since his first day in Congress. He replayed the look of shock on Matisse’s face after the comment of the Marine Corps’s defunding. “Mind if I scoot by?" Steiner looked up to see the face of the handsome Floridian, Tony McKnight. He didn’t know the man, but he sure knew the upward trajectory of the charismatic newcomer. He hadn’t been in Congress a month before he was gracing magazine covers nationwide. Steiner didn’t have anything again McKnight, but he wouldn’t have minded a sliver of the recognition the Miami native got on a weekly basis. “Sure,” responded Steiner, moving his legs to the side so McKnight could walk by. “Thanks.” McKnight moved by then turned around like he’d forgotten something. “Hey, are you going to the U2 concert tomorrow? I heard you were a fan.” Steiner perked up. The question surprised him. He’d probably never said more than a few words to the younger statesman. But Steiner had been a fan of U2 since their debut record, Boy, hit the airwaves in the States in the eighties. He wasn’t about to tell McKnight that though, and he was always wary of favors. “No. I couldn't get tickets,” he replied. McKnight flashed his world-famous smile. “I'll let you know if I hear of any extra tickets.” Steiner nodded as McKnight went on his way. The New Jersey rep watched McKnight go, wondering what it was like to live a day in the life of political superstar. +++ McKnight waved to friends and enemies alike as he made his way to his seat. He’d never officially met Tom Steiner before, but he knew his type. Steiner was a fringer, always on the outskirts of the big time. If McKnight was the soon-to-be All Star of the team, Steiner was the sometime reliever that was sent in during throwaway games. His reputation was nonexistent. He could disappear and few would notice. Every reelection Steiner faced was hard-fought and always contentious. He didn’t have the bag of money like McKnight. But Congressman McKnight had seen the flicker of jealousy in the man’s eyes, followed by the “just wait and see” grin. Tony McKnight knew all about Steiner’s proposal. Steiner was looking for the big payoff. High risk, high reward. Steiner didn’t have a clue. He wasn’t even the architect. McKnight knew the man behind the plan. He was intimately familiar with every word in soon to be public file. How did he know? Because he, a Republican, a staunch conservative, the youthful face of his party and a likely contender for the next Presidential election, was the man behind the idea, the conductor making the music, the plan that would see him ushered straight to the White House. Comments? Questions? Concerns? Tell me in the COMMENTS section below.
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