Russell Blake
The Manuscript
About the Author
Russell Blake lives full time on the Pacific coast of Mexico. He is the acclaimed author of the thrillers: Fatal Exchange, The Geronimo Breach, the Zero Sum trilogy (Kotov Syndrome, Focal Point and Checkmate), The Delphi Chronicle trilogy, King of Swords and Night of the Assassin.
Non-fiction novels include the international bestseller An Angel With Fur (animal biography) and How To Sell A Gazillion eBooks (while drunk, high or incarcerated) — a joyfully vicious parody of all things writing and self-publishing related.
“Capt.” Russell, 52, enjoys writing, fishing, playing with his dogs, collecting and sampling tequila, and waging an ongoing battle against world domination by clowns.
Foreward
The goal of any good fiction is to blend fact and fantasy with such dexterity that it’s difficult to tell where the invention ends and the truth begins. The best lies are always based in fact, and writers are liars — they make things up for a living, or sometimes just for fun. They fabricate; they twist events to suit their whims; they tell fish stories, spin yarns, erect tall tales. They’re like politicians in that regard, although I believe that most writers are basically honest.
It’s almost impossible to verify with one hundred percent certainty what is fact and what is fiction when examining the world of covert operations and intelligence agencies. Those interested in learning more about the allegations used as the basis of this fictional story are invited to do an internet search on The Pegasus File, or to explore the allegations of sustained criminality in the market system made by any number of websites, or to read the essays of brilliant social commentators like Noam Chomsky.
The underlying sentiment that the criminalization of drugs in the U.S. has resulted in a centi-billion dollar expense to the nation for a completely failed ‘War On Drugs’ that began in the 1970s under then-president, Richard Nixon, is rooted in fact. As is the observation that the U.S. is the largest consumer of drugs in the world — after over forty-something years of this war — ensuring that those who profit from the continued battle, either financially or through consolidation of their power, will have a continued windfall for as long as the battle wages. The U.S. currently spends $500 dollars a second waging the War On Drugs and has the highest incarceration rate of any nation on the planet.
Some cynics believe that in our modern geo-political world, large-scale wars like those common throughout human history are no longer viable; so the ideal strategy for a military/industrial/financial complex run amok to maximize its earnings is to formulate limited-scope wars without end — conflicts with no defined goal, and thus no definition of what constitutes a win. The War On Drugs certainly falls into that category, and it is without question that the bloated profits associated with the traffic, as well as with battling the traffic, are maintained by the illegality of it. That might be morally uncomfortable for some readers, however, it is also undeniable.
There are no easy solutions to this quandary; and so the status quo result is obvious: more of the same.
Epigraph
It is said that if you know your enemies and know yourself, you will not be imperilled in a hundred battles; if you do not know your enemies but do know yourself, you will win one and lose one; if you do not know your enemies nor yourself, you will be imperilled in every single battle.
Introduction
The warm glow of the two story house’s lights glinted off the water, where a rubber inflatable boat approached, propelled by a nearly-silent electric motor. The small craft was almost invisible against the inky surface at that hour of night, as were the two figures in the bow of the black-hulled skiff.
The pilot pulled up to the rickety floating platform at the water’s edge, where a 38 foot Mediterranean sports fishing yacht rested, rocking gently from the breeze and the barely perceptible surge of the inter-coastal waterway. His two passengers soundlessly pulled themselves onto the dock, scrutinizing their surroundings to verify they were alone. They’d researched the area and studied reconnaissance photos taken during the day; the closest neighboring house was thirty yards away, and dark, the residents evidently on vacation during the low season. A 65 foot Hatteras bobbed gently in the gloom at the empty residence’s dock, beyond which were still more private estates with various sized watercraft dotting the shoreline.
Crickets chirped their nocturnal mating call from the surrounding trees. The area was verdant, lushly landscaped and thick with exotic plants arranged to simulate a tropical botanical garden.
Even at eleven at night, the temperature was oven-like, the humidity rivaling that of a rain forest. It was hurricane season, muggy and still; the climate on the Florida gulf coast mirrored the sub-tropics from June through October.
In spite of the heat, the two men wore black pants and long-sleeved windbreakers. The smaller man made a hand signal to his partner, who crept stealthily up the gangplank and onto the path that led to the back yard. Solar lighting along the boundary of the lot provided scant illumination as the moon lay hidden behind the cloudy night sky.
Barking sounded from a garden a few docks down — the strident yapping of a highly-strung lap dog. Sound carried eerily on the water, distorting volume and direction; an elderly female voice reverberated off the glassy surface and seemed to come from everywhere as the dog was called back inside. Both men instinctively froze and crouched low while the battle of wills played out between owner and animal. ‘Pooka’ yelped out a parting canine soliloquy, followed by the distinctive slamming of a door. The lights in Pooka’s house went out now the dog was safely inside, leaving the coast largely darkened except for the home that was their object of interest.
The men exchanged glances; the one still on the dock made another hand signal — an abrupt gesture the smaller man correctly interpreted as one of impatience.
From inside the house, Billie Holiday’s voice crooned a bluesy ballad in the living room, where a pregnant woman sat on the sofa reading a magazine by the soft amber light of a table lamp. In the office at the far end of the house, a man’s head shook almost imperceptibly through the partially-closed blinds as he pored over a stack of paperwork atop a cherry-wood desk. The walls were decorated with nautical equipment — an ancient sextant, a barometer, several shark jaws, a rusted harpoon tip. The seated figure was absorbed in his task, so he didn’t register the movement a few yards outside the window.
Sarasota, Florida was a peaceful retirement community, largely inhabited by those life had rewarded with reasonable prosperity and a love of the water. Crime was predominately limited to vacant home burglaries and the occasional stolen car. The well-heeled paid a premium to live along the bay; the exclusive waterfront neighborhoods were considered safe and inviting.
The muffled report of a silenced rifle caused a flock of seabirds to alight from the marsh grass at the water’s edge, as two of the small window panes in the office shattered and the man’s head exploded in a spray of bloody emulsion. The pregnant woman looked up from her reading and called the man’s name over the dusky, soulful singing. Outside, the black-clad assassin hastily jogged in a crouch back to the dock and the waiting inflatable.