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Overview
A martial arts expert, a greedy corporate attorney, and a self-proclaimed conspiracy theorist form a shaky alliance initially intent on solving a missing persons case, only to get caught up in a bigger political plot in which they must uncover the assassin’s identity before he can claim his next victim. Together, they race across the country, desperately trying to piece together an intricate puzzle of murder, deception, and betrayal through a mire of passion, behind-the-scenes deals, and false identities. Along the way, they encounter corrupt government agents, Secret Service cover-ups, and a high-speed car chase.
Only as bodies begin to pile up do the protagonists realize that the killer may be in their very midst, and that they must dig into each other’s pasts to stop the deadly chain of events that has them in its crosshairs. In the tradition of Ludlum’s Bourne series and James Patterson thrillers, Bradley’s debut novel will leave you breathless and eager for more with every twist and turn.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781620873113 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Skyhorse |
| Publication date: | 09/01/2012 |
| Pages: | 336 |
| Product dimensions: | 8.90(w) x 6.20(h) x 1.20(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
The mouse pointer slid to a bright purple button labeled Chat Rooms.
Click.
"Select an existing room, or press the NEW button to create your own," the computer directed.
A long scrolling list of well over one hundred chat rooms appeared across the right half of the screen. To the left were prompts for creating a new cyber room. The cursor moved past a variety of names, including Popcorn Daddy, XXX Peepshow, and Fussy Feminists, before finally settling on a room titled Pecos Bill's Bunkhouse.
Click.
"Enter a personal identity," the voice prompted.
Letters slowly materialized on screen, Bulls-eye.
The laptop whirred again for a moment, and then a soft white bulletin board filled the screen. To the right of the board was a register of participants currently in the chat session. Only two names were listed: Bulls-eye and Pecos Bill. An icon of a small black padlock flashed in the corner of the screen indicating the room was now secure.
Pecos Bill: Nice to see you, Bulls-eye. How's the roping going?
Bullseye: We have a problem.
Pecos Bill: 'Course we do. Why else would you be resting your feet in the bunkhouse?
Bullseye: This one requires immediate attention.
Pecos Bill: What's got your drawers in a wad? One of your heifers get free?
Bullseye: No. The targets are unaffected, but ... the map is loose.
There was no response for several seconds.
Pecos Bill: That's as serious as rattlers in the outhouse.
Bullseye: It was personal but can still be contained.
Pecos Bill: Sounds like you're losing your edge. Maybe we got the wrong gunslinger for this here rodeo.
Bullseye: A bit late for that now.
Pecos Bill: Never too late.
Bullseye: I am not replaceable.
Pecos Bill: That a threat?
Bullseye: If you try to remove me, this will not end well.
More silence.
Pecos Bill: Perhaps we're going down the wrong path. We've been kemosabes for a long time, you and me. Seen some things that would make lesser men shake in their boots.
Bullseye: Yes, we have.
Pecos Bill: What's the varmint's name? The cursor blinked for a very long time.
Bullseye: Maria Sativa.
Pecos Bill: Ah, now the dust is clearing. But why haven't you just ridden out after the dangerous outlaw?
Bullseye: I believe she has hidden it. I will need assistance convincing her to reveal its location.
Pecos Bill: Lucky for you, convincing is what I do best. Rest your heels, partner. Pecos Bill's hot on the trail.
CHAPTER 2
The men moved in unison with the cautious gait of two feudal samurai locked in mortal combat. Each held onto the other's lapel and extended sleeve, connected as if their hands had been sewn into the reinforced cotton uniforms. Their heavy calloused feet scraped across a spongy white canvas mat covering the entire floor of the large open room.
The taller man stood well over six feet, sported an overweight but muscular physique, and looked to be in his late twenties. A crew cut of sandy blond hair topped his head, and his face was perfectly shaven to the point of shining with a glossy cleanness. The large man's opponent, and teacher, was his senior by a handful of years. Thick black hair hung in small sweat-soaked clumps, and a trace of stubble shadowed his chin. The instructor's physique was athletic but dwarfed by comparison.
As with each of his advanced self-defense classes, the teacher followed basic stretching and throwing warm-up exercises with short extemporaneous matches of randori, the Japanese term for sparring contests. Victory could be achieved either through voluntary submission, indicated by slapping the mat in resignation, or when an opponent was physically unable to continue because of injury or unconsciousness.
Each match typically lasted only a single minute or two, and the intensity could vary from the slow, careful execution of techniques to a chaotic, vicious competition. For students, the exercise provided a real-world opportunity to test new ideas and develop skills against the master. For the teacher, randori allowed him to get an honest measure of each student's ability and progress.
Both men involved in the competition wore traditional judo gis, although the mixture of black pants and white tops was considered unconventional by many martial artists and even sacrilegious by a few old-timers. The only difference between the two combatants' uniforms was the belts they wore around their waists. The burly student wore a neat brown cotton belt tied below his belly and hanging low in front of him. The instructor's was black with tattered white stitching fraying the edges, betraying the hundreds of times it had been tied and untied.
Eleven men and three women, all in identical uniforms, surrounded them in a makeshift circle. Kneeling with legs tucked neatly beneath them, each observer sat absolutely still. Only their eyes moved, following the two interlocked figures grappling in the center.
Adam Reece felt his student press the offensive forward and then back, forward and back. The sequence of steps moved them both slowly in a wide clockwise circle. With each movement forward, he felt a firm push, and with each retreat, a controlling tug. Adam was not surprised that Jim Hatchet was using his advantageous size and strength to control their movement. He was also certain that the rough treatment was meant to hide Jim's reluctance to attempt an attack. What a less experienced practitioner might have taken as danger, Adam saw only as a lack of confidence. Without an attack, control alone could not hold.
Forward and back. Adam continued to move with a practiced grace, feeling the flow of the other man's weight and momentum, never resisting, never completely yielding. The careful surrendering of motion kept Jim from finding an opening. Both men understood that without resistance or some form of excessive motion, it was impossible to correctly execute a judo throw. Jim had not yet fully mastered the ability to dislodge a skilled judoka like Adam. Not finding a definitive opportunity, Jim chose instead to be cautious and control their movement, waiting for a pressure, a resistance that he could use to affect his attack. Forward and —
Adam shot ahead. His shoulder struck firmly into Jim's chest, executing kuzushi, the breaking of an opponent's balance. He lifted his leg high in front and sliced back with tremendous power, reaping both of Jim's legs out from under him. As he swept backward, Adam screamed a sharp kia. The kia, a single high-pitched syllable sounding vaguely like the bark of an angry hyena, served three purposes. First and foremost, it helped to focus Adam's energy. It also tightened his abdomen, making him less vulnerable to having the wind knocked out of him. And finally, the guttural shriek could unnerve an opponent, forcing a critical hesitation.
Both men released the other's lapel as Jim was lifted high into the air. After a brief moment of weightless flight, gravity reasserted itself, slamming him back to the padded mat. Jim's free hand struck out in ukemi, hitting the mat with a powerful slap and effectively breaking his fall. Adam further helped to minimize the fall by maintaining a supporting grip on Jim's sleeve.
After the throw, Adam stepped back and waited quietly. With a younger student, he would have immediately dropped to the mat and fought for a submissive choke, but with Jim it was unnecessary. Jim was already quite aware of the disadvantage of being thrown on his back. Besides, Jim was skilled on the ground, and Adam was already weary from his previous matches.
In little more than an instant, Jim was back on his feet and facing his teacher. Both men bowed, their hands glued tightly to their sides.
"Thank you, sensei," Jim said, trying to hide a grin.
Adam nodded.
Jim took his cue to return to the surrounding circle of students.
As with every class, Adam had started their instruction by sparring with the students one by one, with Jim being his last fight. He'd managed to win every bout, but the task was getting harder as his students improved. He knew the day would come when one of them would cause him to tap out. Until then, however, he was going to enjoy the title.
"Still the champ," he said, slowly turning around so his students could see just how badly they'd worn him out.
They replied with smiles and supportive nods.
"I remember the good old days when I barely broke a sweat. Either I'm getting older, or you're getting better." Adam pulled at his sweat-soaked gi to emphasize the point.
His students sat up straighter, pride stiffening their spines.
"Jim, what was that last throw?"
"Osoto gari." Jim's voice was loud and confident.
"Osoto gari," Adam repeated, the resonant pronunciation betraying his study in Japan, "is recognized as the most dangerous of all judo throws. Imagine what would happen if you threw someone like this on concrete."
He stopped for a moment to survey the students staring up at him. He had worked with them for a long time, most over two years, and now counted each as a friend. "It'd be ugly is all I can say."
His students laughed and looked to one another sharing their satisfaction.
Adam smiled too. He would often mix humor with his training. Such lightness was not to soften the intensity but rather to help the students feel comfortable enough to perform their best. Adam also held to the belief that a friendly environment helped establish a lasting camaraderie — something that gave him great personal satisfaction. He vehemently disagreed with the traditional self-defense teaching methods in which instruction often resembled military drills.
"The other advantage of the throw," he continued, "is that it actually works. Don't ever forget to make that assessment of any technique before trying something on the street. All of you know that Jim is quite capable. I'll bet he's driven everyone here into the mat a few times. Yet even a skilled practitioner can be thrown cleanly with this attack. Other throws might not be as effective against such a capable opponent. This is why we practice randori. It allows us to test the effectiveness of our techniques, reminding us that some are purely for sport, others for flashy demonstration, and a few for dropping three-hundred-pound bikers on hot pavement."
Adam could see Jim staring doggedly at him as he spoke. Adam found Jim to be serenely humble at times and yet aggressively certain at others. For a time, the apparent discontinuity had confused him. But as he grew to know the young man, Adam came to realize that Jim valued honesty above all else. When Jim was paid a compliment he felt he didn't deserve, he would likely stare at the ground or otherwise indicate his discomfort with the praise.
In this instance, however, Jim apparently agreed with Adam's assessment of his prowess, and thus held his head high as if to challenge any who might doubt his instructor's words. When Adam had thrown him a moment earlier, Jim had been strangely elated at his pronounced defeat. Adam believed it was the honesty of the defeat that Jim found so exhilarating. Jim was not the commercialized martial artist who liked to wear hats or T-shirts that openly declared his study. Rather, he'd made it known that he was much more comfortable grappling in a pair of old sweats, executing chokes, arm bars, and pressure points. Simply put, he liked to put things to the test. When they worked, he was the first one to stay after class to get it right. And when they didn't, he was the first to lose interest.
Jim Hatchet was Adam's most senior student and had been studying diligently with him for over three years. During their time together, Adam had seen him change from a lumbering, uncoordinated brawler to an agile and dangerous grappler. In addition to possessing a genuine knack for physical combat, Jim also worked as a bouncer at Tiny Titties, a local dance club with a reputation for attracting blue-collar workers who played hard. The daily routine of ejecting obnoxious diesel mechanics had helped him hone his martial skills.
Soon you will be ready for Shodan, your black belt, thought Adam.
Jim and the other brown belts were tangible examples of what the training offered. For Adam, they were his "tigers of the dojo." To measure any studio's effectiveness, he believed one had only to observe the brown belts. The senior students served as a measure of the training. Adam was very proud of his advanced students and would have been confident putting them in competition against any group of similarly experienced practitioners.
As with many martial arts studios, several of the diligent students were law enforcement officers. Of his advanced class, seven were peace officers ranging from county deputies to city police. He'd discovered on more than one occasion that his close contact with the community's law enforcement personnel had its benefits, whether it be a friendly slap on the wrist when caught speeding or the occasional release of investigative information.
"Let's work osoto gari for a bit, along with the front sacrifice throw uki waza," he directed. "This should keep your partner guessing." With Adam's command, the students came alive as they began pairing up with opponents they considered to be their equals.
A soft ring chimed from a small office to the side of the practice area. The dojo was in reality a dilapidated YMCA center that Adam rented weekly for his martial arts club. He suspected the call was likely someone inquiring about the various recreations the center offered. Adam considered letting it ring, but experience told him callers looking for a free dip in the pool could be relentless.
He moved quickly to the edge of the thick practice mat, bowed slightly, and turned to enter a small, carpeted office. The room smelled of mold, undoubtedly due to a persistent leak in the ceiling that the caretakers had never been motivated to correctly fix.
"Kenju-ryu Dojo," Adam said, announcing the school's name as he put the receiver to his ear. He had founded the studio on a combination of kenpo karate and judo, hence the name Kenju, which translated only as ten fists. The careful blend of two dissimilar styles provided a unique study of vicious strikes along with grappling and throwing techniques. Mixed martial arts of this type were quickly growing in popularity after having demonstrated their effectiveness in sports competitions, including the Ultimate Fighting Championship and Pride.
The voice on the other end was familiar but sounded far away. "Hello, I need to speak with Adam Reece." Without pausing, the voice continued, "Will you get him for me? It's important."
"This is Adam. How are you, Elliot?" He wondered why his only sibling would call him at the dojo, especially now after not having heard from him in over a year.
"Oh ... Adam. I, ... uh..., I didn't realize it was you," Elliot stammered, obviously uncomfortable at not having recognized his brother's voice. "How's everything going? Life treating you okay?"
"Everything's peachy here," Adam answered, knowing the meat of the call would not be long in coming. Elliot rarely wasted time.
"Good, good. Hey, I'm calling for a favor. You know, brother to brother."
"A favor?" Adam was stunned. "What's wrong?" If Elliot was nervous and asking him for a favor, it meant he was in some sort of trouble. Trouble the likes of which a rich hotshot lawyer couldn't easily escape through litigation or payoff. He couldn't recall the last time his brother had asked anyone for anything. Certainly not a favor. Favors implied debt that might later have to be repaid, and Elliot hated the compromising position that indebtedness carried with it.
"Nothing's wrong. I mean, there might be. I'm not sure." Elliot was struggling to strike the right tone. "It's ... well, you see, I've found myself in sort of a difficult situation. One that I thought a man with your skills might be able to help with."
A man with my skills? Adam grinned, choking back a laugh. Now that was an expression he hadn't heard before. Certainly not from his older brother who had repeatedly told him there was no future in working as a private investigator or a part-time martial arts instructor.
In truth, they both knew Elliot was right. Investigation was a difficult profession as far as money went. Even with occasional security protection services, it left little at the end of the month. This fact, however, never worried Adam. He had enough to eat and pay the rent on time. More than that was gravy. Sure, it tasted good, but if you worried about it too much, you'd forget about the potatoes.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Process of Elimination"
by .
Copyright © 2012 Arthur T. Bradley.
Excerpted by permission of Skyhorse Publishing.
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