A Triple Thriller Fest Read online

  A Triple Thriller Fest

  A collection of three

  best-selling action thrillers

  By authors

  Gordon Ryan

  Michael Wallace

  Philip Chen

  Biography of Michael Wallace

  Author of State of Siege

  Michael Wallace has trekked across the Sahara on a camel, ridden an elephant through a tiger preserve in Southeast Asia, eaten fried guinea pig, and been licked on the head by a skunk. In a previous stage of life he programmed nuclear war simulations, smuggled refugees out of a war zone, and milked cobras for their venom. He speaks Spanish and French and grew up in a religious community in the desert.

  Synopsis of State of Siege

  Tess Burgess, expert in medieval warfare, is building siege engines in France, while running a sting operation against collectors of stolen artifacts. She finds these collectors through her ex-boyfriend, Peter Gagné, heir to an oil fortune.

  Obsessed with the collapse of civilization, Peter’s latest grandiose scheme is a simulated war, like a giant paintball match for billionaire survivalists, but with crossbows and catapults. He asks Tess if she is good enough to defend an actual castle against medieval siege engines. One of the world’s most notorious artifact collectors will be on hand.

  Unfortunately, Peter’s friends mean to turn the play war into the real thing.

  Biography of Philip Chen

  Author of Falling Star

  Philip Chen was born in China in 1944 and immigrated to the United States in 1949. Growing up in Washington, D.C., during the 1950s and 1960s, Philip learned both the pains and triumphs of American society at a crucial turning point in America’s history. His multi-faceted career as an ocean research engineer in the development of deep submergence systems, trial attorney, and investment banker provides the background for this very realistic science fiction thriller. He has one Patent for an underwater mooring system to his credit.

  Synopsis of Falling Star

  Only One Man Can Save the Planet - But He Just Died.

  In 1967, mysterious but silent objects were accidentally discovered buried deep in the ocean. Dormant for decades, they awoke in 1993, sending messages to outer space. Mike, pulled back into a clandestine world to finish a job he had started as a young navy ensign to help decipher these messages, is brutally attacked by gangs of ordinary Americans. He also learns that a revered friend has died. Is the death of this friend mankind’s last hope for understanding what lies beneath the waters?

  Biography of Gordon Ryan

  Author of State of Rebellion

  “Political thrillers are in my blood. They’re more real, than fiction.”

  Gordon Ryan has been a traditionally published author since 1994 and an Indie author since 2009. Ryan was a Recon Marine in the aftermath of the Cuban missile crises. He served in Bangkok with the Air Force during Vietnam and at the American Embassy in Dublin, Ireland, during the violent 70’s. Ryan holds a Bachelors degree with Honors in Political Science and has completed graduate work in Public Administration. After his time in the military, Ryan served as a city manager and HOA chief executive officer for much of his career.

  Synopsis of State of Rebellion

  California is on the brink of secession and those who oppose this drastic political maneuver are turning up dead. Federal Agent Nicole Bentley is sent to discover what she can about the movement and meets up with Assemblyman and National Guard JAG officer Daniel Rawlings, a man whose commitment to his country runs deep in his blood. Resisting their mutual attraction, they uncover a plot devised by greedy men bent on taking power at any cost.

  As Colonel Pug Connor, working under the direction of the President of the United States, seeks to root out the leaders of the Western Patriot Movement—a military cadre with a chip on its shoulder—Nicole and Dan find themselves literally in the crossfire. Can they end the dispute between the various factions before they all end up martyrs for the cause?

  A fast-paced, edge-of-your-seat political thriller, State of Rebellion, Book One of the Pug Connor series, will keep you turning pages long into the night.

  State of Rebellion

  Falling Star

  State of Siege

  State of Rebellion

  State of Rebellion

  A Pug Connor Novel

  Book One

  by

  Gordon Ryan

  www.gordonryan.com

  * * * * *

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Pegasus Publishing

  Copyright © 2010 by Gordon Ryan

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  “It is the liberals who fear liberty …”

  —George Orwell

  “We need a constitutional convention in the State of California.

  We need to change the framework of governance.”

  —Gavin Newsom, Mayor, San Francisco,

  1 Feb. 2010, Fox News

  Author’s Note:

  State of Rebellion introduces a new character, Pádraig “Pug” Connor, initially a career Marine Corps officer. Pug plays a small, but very important role in Book One. His role will become increasingly central to the plot of this series as subsequent books are released. Pug is not the traditional, thrust-and-parry, seek-and-destroy protagonist of many thriller action heroes. His sidekick, retired Command Sergeant Major Carlos Castro is more that type of hero. I trust that Pug and Carlos will become a welcome addition to your list of ‘what comes next,” fictional characters.

  Chapter 1

  Vietnam Veteran’s Memorial Bridge

  Interstate 5, north of Sacramento, California

  June, 2011

  Had the gallows knot been properly placed to the side, behind the ear, Richard McFarland’s neck would have snapped, delivering a swift death. As it was, the young California National Guard lieutenant twisted and convulsed for a long, agonizing two minutes before he died.

  In the predawn hours, the light was barely sufficient to see, but Otto Krueger, First Sergeant of the Shasta Brigade, a northern California militia unit of dubious intent, kept his eyes riveted to the gruesome scene. Otto’s younger companions had less stomach for the sight of Lieutenant McFarland slowly swinging in the stillness of a purple dawn.

  Killing the two California Superior Court justices with a quick bullet in the back of the head had been easy compared to this assignment, but Commander Shaw had been adamant: “Make it plain that the brigade will not tolerate traitors or spies.”

  “Can’t we just get the hell out of here, First Sergeant?” one of the two men with Krueger pleaded.

  The grizzled veteran pulled his eyes from the ghastly sight and glanced derisively toward the whining kid. He spat a stream of tobacco juice on the ground and returned his gaze to the body. Standing five feet nine inches and weighing one hundred eighty pounds, First Sergeant Otto Krueger was rock solid. Dense tattoos extended from beneath his rolled-up sleeves, running from biceps to
wrists on both arms. His sandy hair, cropped to a uniform half-inch length, added to his appearance as a balding, but very fit, muscular man.

  He looked back at the young would-be soldier who was now on his knees in the dirt, struggling to avoid further embarrassment.

  “It’s a war, Private. This loser chose the wrong side,” Krueger said. He stepped to the slowly swaying body, took hold of a dangling boot and turned the body enough for the available light to reflect off McFarland’s distorted face.

  The sound of retching caused Krueger to turn around again. The smaller of the two young recruits who had been assigned to accompany Krueger on this mission was still on his knees, several yards from the truck, relieving himself of the sandwich he had eaten on the drive south.

  Krueger sneered. “Stand up, maggot. There’ll be no mama’s boys in my outfit. You volunteered for this mission. Now get in the truck and shut up. If you puke again, you walk home—or you could join our friend here,” he said, jerking the boot and swinging the body around in circles.

  The kid didn’t reply, but wiped his mouth on his sleeve and stumbled toward the pickup.

  “Ted, close it up and let’s get out of here,” Krueger ordered the other, even younger, teenage recruit.

  Ted vaulted into the back of the truck and closed the lid on the side-to-side aluminum toolbox bolted to the back of the cab. The lieutenant had been confined in this coffin-like enclosure during the drive from their base camp in the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Ted then jumped down and slammed the tailgate on which, moments before, the trembling accountant, who doubled as a weekend soldier, had been made to stand, his desperate eyes silently begging for mercy.

  The First Sergeant climbed behind the wheel and started the engine on the Ford F-150 pickup. With a final glance at the slowly twisting body, Otto spat a wad of chewing tobacco out the window and floored the accelerator, spinning dirt and debris beneath the lifeless remains.

  The truck bucked and lurched as Krueger steered out of the dry river bed and up the embankment toward the end of the bridge. As they neared the highway, headlights suddenly blinded them as another vehicle rounded the bridge abutment, facing Krueger’s truck and blocking their return to the highway. Otto jammed on the brakes and reached to the seat beside him for his pistol. He sat motionless for several seconds until the occupant of the other vehicle got out, trained a flashlight on the driver’s side of the Ford, and approached from the front.

  “Got a problem here?” a voice called out.

  In the dusty glare of the headlights, Krueger recognized the uniform of a Yolo County sheriff’s deputy.

  “Quiet!” he mouthed softly. “Not a word from either of you,” he added, climbing out of the vehicle, his pistol shielded behind his back.

  “No problem, Officer,” Krueger called out. “Just looking for a good spot to fish.”

  “Step into the light, please,” the deputy called toward Krueger.

  Dust hung in the air, reflected by the headlights, as Krueger came forward into the space between the two vehicles while the deputy continued to stand to one side of his Chevy Tahoe.

  “Not looking for any trouble, Officer,” Otto said, his voice friendly. “Like I said, just looking for a good fishing spot.”

  The deputy stepped forward a couple of paces, shining his flashlight toward the interior of Otto’s truck and catching the reflection of two additional faces. He hesitated and moved his hand slowly toward his holster. Otto quickly moved, closing the gap between the two men, his smile visible beneath the twin headlamps of both vehicles.

  “Just my two nephews, Officer. Nothing to worry about.”

  “Can I see some identification, please?” the officer asked.

  “Certainly. Will this do?” Krueger extended the pistol toward the deputy and continued to smile as he closed the remaining distance between them.

  The deputy’s face changed immediately, and he quickly reached to unsnap his holster and withdraw his revolver. Krueger remained calm, even smiling, as the seconds extended to what seemed like minutes. Before the deputy’s weapon cleared the holster, Krueger reached out and seized the man’s wrist in a vice-like grip, preventing him from raising his arm. His eyes only inches from the deputy’s face, Krueger slowly shook his head while holding the officer’s arm rigid, rendering the revolver immobile in his hand.

  “It’s a dangerous profession you’ve chosen, young fella,” Krueger said, raising his .45-caliber military-issue pistol toward the man’s face. Without a further word, Krueger fired one round directly into the deputy’s forehead, released his grip on the man’s wrist, and watched the wide-eyed law enforcement officer sprawl backward. Krueger stared at the fallen deputy for several seconds, then turned and fired one round into each of the Tahoe’s headlamps, extinguishing the glaring lights. Then he leaned down, grasped the dead man’s hand, which still held the revolver, and using the man’s own finger, fired two rounds into the air before dropping the hand and the gun back to the ground. He retraced his steps to his truck, entered the driver’s seat, and threw the vehicle into gear, once again spinning tires as he maneuvered around the sheriff’s vehicle, pulling onto the highway.

  “Dude, that was a sheriff’s deputy,” the young man in the rear seat whined to his young companion, “and he shot him. He killed a cop!”

  Krueger growled. “You’re right, Private, he was a deputy. Now he’s meat for worms.”

  Chapter 2

  Davis, California

  Daniel Rawlings stood under the shower nozzle, his head tilted back and his eyes closed. Rivulets of steaming hot water ran down his face as he tried to wash away the night sweat and anxiety that always accompanied the dream. For over two years, he had been haunted by a recurring nightmare. It always woke him and left him sitting up in bed, his heart racing. Over and over, he had been forced by an involuntary, self-inflicted penance to watch Susan die, each time as realistically as the first, though in the dream his wife’s face was absent—replaced by a blurred image beneath her fur-lined hood.

  He’d knelt in the snow and held her in his arms while she died, but she’d not been able to speak. Ever since, he’d been unable to convince himself that there wasn’t something, anything, he could have done to prevent her death.

  The dream always brought Dan awake, sweating and trembling, wishing for the thousandth time that it might only be a dream. Then, unable to erase the gruesome image from his mind or fall back to sleep, he would get out of bed and climb into the shower, hoping the hot water and steam might somehow purge the painful memories.

  Stepping out of the shower, Dan toweled off, wiped the fog from the bathroom mirror, and lathered his face. Staring back at him were the same blue eyes, the same thick, dark brown hair and heavy overnight beard. There was even the same body, exercised regularly in an almost ritualistic pattern. At slightly over six feet, Dan had maintained every aspect of his physical attributes that Susan had so loved. It seemed peculiar to him that all physical signs were void of the devastation that had occurred within his heart, his soul. Those he had been unable to maintain, to exercise, even to control.

  He and Susan had been married for less than a year when she died, and his morning ritual—a return to reality more than an awakening from sleep—was born of frustration at a reluctant but forced acceptance of the ever-present nightmare, of Susan’s absence, and the brevity of the marriage they had been promised. A widower at the ripe old age of twenty-eight, eternity seemed a long time away.

  The one redeeming benefit of waking so early was that after clearing his head of the memories, he was able to shift mentally into another frame of mind and make good use of the pre-dawn hours to work on the novel he was writing. He had spent hundreds of hours at his computer, his imaginary characters filling the lonely void in his life. In many respects, Voices in My Blood had been his salvation.

  Despite the bitter cold of the winter morning, sweat saturated the young soldier’s ragged uniform, and salty droplets ran from his forehead, stinging his eyes.
Four of them lay abreast in their shallow log bunker, awaiting the next assault by the British regulars.

  “There’s no hope, Ned,” the young man said, his voice tight with fear.

  “Don’t give in, Tommy, we ain’t dead yet. An’ you’ll see, sure as shootin’, Ethan’s boys’ll come swoopin’ down outta them Green Mountains, and the redcoats’ll scatter like scared rabbits.”

  Nearly four hundred and fifty pages of his heart and soul, not to mention personal satisfaction derived from the effort, lay on his desk, ready to be sealed in a U.S. Priority Mail envelope and sent off to a New York literary agent. Born of a year’s worth of sleeplessness, early morning hours, and long, nighttime sessions that had replaced, in large part, any semblance of a social life, the book he hoped would be the next great American novel was finally finished.

  Rawlings had needed an outlet for the persistent pain, and he had turned to what he had come to think of as “the voices in his blood” for diversion. Fired by the stories told him by his grandfather, Jack Rumsey, Dan’s feelings for his ancestors had always been strong, but in researching and writing their histories, he had developed a sense of being literally connected to them. Unable to objectively judge its worth, Dan came to view his novel—tentatively titled Voices in My Blood—as a catharsis for his grief following the death of his bride. The task of writing a novel had proven far more daunting than he had imagined, but it had also consumed him.