Sabotage

by Dale Wiley

Overview

Every hour, explosions rock the United States.

Without warning of where or when they will occur. Big cities, small towns, and rural back roads. Sinister messages appear on computer screens across America, and that message is clear.

No one is safe...

- Not disgraced FBI agent Grant, awaiting his call back to the big time;
- Not rapper Pal Joey, an international sensation;
- Not savvy beauty Caitlin, the ultimate “Sin City” party girl;
- Not even Naseem, the would-be martyr who helped plan the attacks.

An unhinged mastermind paralyzes a nation, and unlikely heroes must put aside their differences and forge an alliance to stop the attacks before the passing hours bring down a Nation.

All roads lead to Las Vegas. Can four people, united only by their hatred of a common enemy stop ... Sabotage?

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781944109059
Publisher:	Vesuvian Books
Publication date:	06/01/2016
Sold by:	Barnes & Noble
Format:	eBook
Pages:	296
File size:	3 MB

About the Author

Dale Wiley has had a character named after him on CSI, owned a record label, been interviewed by Bob Edwards on NPR’s Morning Edition and made motorcycles for Merle Haggard and John Paul DeJoria. He has three awesome kids and spends his days working as a lawyer fighting the big banks.

Dale is the author of the bestselling novel, The Intern, and his original pilot script, The East Side, co-written with Andréa Vasilo, is in development for a TV series.

Check Dale’s site at www.dalewiley.com for updates and details.

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

The money, all forty thousand dollars, was lined up on the counter when Seth got there.

It might as well have been a million to Seth. He was used to big deals but that was when the economy was good, and people threw money around for fun. He did too, back then. Then everything changed, and the money people, even in Vegas, went into their holes and stopped sharing. This was important and different and better. And it came at the right time, too.

The deal worked like this: he got to leave with half the cash — twenty thousand dollars — right then. He rented a safe-deposit box to keep it in; that was the first time he had been in a bank in years. Yes, this was risky, but he got to leave with that unthinkable amount of money this morning. He would spend one hour on a plane, and then he was done — pretty much, anyway. And the rest of the money? His before nightfall.

He stood on the thirty-fourth floor of the Trump Tower, one of the newer and more impressive addresses in Las Vegas. It was seven a.m. The sky was a warm yellow and promised heat, like almost every day in Vegas, but he didn't get to see it much, not like this anyway. He couldn't remember when he had last been awake at this hour of the morning or, at least, when he had woken up at this time. In a town like Vegas, you often went down when the sun came up. Normally, he was either rolling in about now or sleeping off the after- effects of a long night. But an early morning was what the job required, and Seth desperately needed this.

Seth had been to this apartment several times before. He was initially wary of his benefactor's strange behavior — aloof and put-on, far from the passionate pawing of his other suitors — but he began to understand. He felt sure he was hired because he looked so much like the man who paid him so well to come and visit. It was uncanny. His own skin was a shade darker than his doppelganger, but both men were handsome, around six feet tall, dark complexion, and had dark hair with light eyes. Twice on his visits, the doorman smiled at him as if he were the building's resident. It took some getting used to, to sit across from yourself and talk, but Seth got used to things very quickly.

Seth was an escort, a plaything. He liked his job most of the time, but it led him into odd circumstances. Men paying to suck his toes. Men wanting to cut his hair. He still wasn't fully sure what to make of the quiet man who brought him here to his apartment. Most other men desired Seth's body, wanted to devour him, to come out of the closet in Vegas before stepping back in and heading home, or to add him to their strange Vegas menagerie — not Yankee. He told him he just wanted companionship and conversation, just like the ad on Seth's website said — no sex and no toe-sucking. Seth wondered if Yankee liked the idea of talking to himself, given their similarity in appearance.

Yankee's apartment, where they always met, was big and somewhat bland, looking and feeling more like a nice, big hotel suite than a real place where someone lived. Most of the men who lived in Vegas and invited him to their places loved to show off expansive and well-decorated homes, with Rothko's, Hockney's, and other tasteful paintings. The rest were festive and overdone palaces straight out of a Fellini film. Yankee's place felt like the junior suite at the nicest hotel in town but nothing more. It featured maid service and a kitchen that looked like no one ever cooked there. Seth walked by the kitchen every time he walked in, and he always took a longing look inside. Seth, who was a good and thoughtful cook, hated to see such a wonderful space wasted by someone who didn't appreciate or have time for it. He wondered how much time Yankee actually spent here.

After the third visit, when Yankee said he knew him well enough, he asked Seth if he would be interested in a big job — not just a thousand dollars here and there but a score. Yankee told him he looked into his background — or what he thought he knew of it — and felt he could be trusted. He also knew from Seth's profession he long ago lost his tendency to gag.

Yankee looked at him seriously. "Are you interested? I understand if you're not."

Of course, Seth was interested. He occasionally made good money, but there were all of the craps tables and party drugs to think about. Seth wanted to have a nest egg. He nodded and waited for what Yankee would say.

"Just swallow three condoms, filled with drugs. Take a one-hour flight. Take some laxatives and release. Make twenty thousand upon swallowing, twenty thousand upon releasing the packages back to the owners. Some chance of death, some chance of prison."

As Seth saw it, he dealt with those risks every day he sold himself in Las Vegas and for a much smaller return.

He was nervous. He sat on the stiff leather couch, which seemed like no one ever sat on, knowing Yankee would appear after what seemed like an eternity. This was his way. Seth sat and looked at the money.

He thought about just taking the money, grabbing the first elevator, and praying for ground, but he looked around and once again sensed he was being watched. He knew there was another entrance to this apartment, and he didn't know whether Yankee was already here or coming through that entrance. But he knew enough to be sure he didn't want to cross this man. Despite his kindness, Seth knew Yankee could be cruel without losing his quiet demeanor. There was always a chance that a condom would rupture in his stomach during his flight, or he would get caught by officers waiting in Los Angeles, but those risks were nothing compared with dashing away with the money. He assumed that indiscretion would assure an all but certain death. And though he might say in a fit of boy-induced drama that sometimes he wished he would die, he really didn't. He wanted this to go well, and he wanted to pocket the rewards.

Seth wondered if you could see his thoughts on the surveillance screen. He didn't want to give anything away. He didn't want to risk Yankee pulling back. He went back to thinking like a mule. That was what this job required. If he got paid this well, he would think like a mule, act like a mule, be a mule.

Finally, some fifteen minutes later, in came Yankee. He kissed Seth gently on the cheek as he always did. This was their only physical contact.

"Big day!" said Yankee in an overly fey manner. Seth knew he wasn't gay. "Are you ready?"

"I'm ready," said Seth, who had been anticipating this for weeks.

"Well, they're in the fridge." Yankee went and opened the refrigerator and took out a plate with three pink condoms on it. "I put some strawberry jam on them," Yankee said. "I know that's your fave."

The condoms were filled with a gelatinous substance. They were the size of small bananas, but not difficult to get down. At the last visit, they practiced swallowing some condoms close to this size with a similar liquid. They timed how long it took them to come out: two and a half hours. Yankee paid him double for that session.

Yankee assured him that these were double-bagged. Seth smiled and said, "Down the hatch." He opened up the back of his throat and swallowed the three packages easily, followed by lots of water.

"Lie down. Like last time," Yankee said, a little hurried. "Then I'll take you to the airport."

Seth did. This place made him sleepy anyway. He moved to the couch, took off his shoes, and laid down. He closed his eyes and relaxed.

Yankee went to the kitchen. He opened the knife drawer and took out the H&K pistol that was hidden in the back. The silencer was already on.

Seth started to drift. Then it hit him. Why would Yankee want someone who looked like him to make this run? Why wouldn't he want someone completely different? Why would he want connections?

Checking one more time to make sure Seth's eyes were closed, Yankee emerged from the kitchen. He strode stiffly across the room. Yankee bent over Seth and held his breath.

Seth felt the weight on top of his chest and opened his eyes in terror. He realized what was happening. He tried to push Yankee away but couldn't. There was no leverage. He started to yell "No," but it was too late. Yankee put the gun up to Seth's left eye and pulled the trigger. All that was heard was a sound no louder than a handclap. Seth slumped. Yankee started to shoot again but saw it was unnecessary. Seth, the greedy escort, was no more.

Yankee flipped his body off the couch and onto the floor, where he landed face-down, exactly as planned. Blood rolled down the leather couch where Seth's head lay. He took the coffee table and flipped it on top of the body, enough movement to cause papers to scatter but not enough to make much of a sound. He eased it on top of the remote-operated bomb that was now Seth the Escort. Yankee looked down and saw he managed to get some blood on himself, which was not surprising. The room, normally so neat, was now oh, such a mess. Yankee laughed. He was still playing the fake fairy.

It didn't matter. Yankee was never coming back. He took off his clothes and placed them in a black garbage bag. Just like the condoms filled with plastic explosives that now rested in Seth's belly, he double-bagged them. He turned the thermostat all the way down; he wanted it to feel like a meat locker in the apartment. Then he went into the heat and steam of the shower and took his time. Lather, rinse, repeat. Stay calm and think. He breathed deeply and fully, slowing his heart rate as best as he could, and made sure his plan was ready. He came out of the shower, put on his delivery man getup, replete with white coveralls and a red cap, put the trash bag in one hand and a clipboard in the other, and found the service elevator. He keyed in the code and rode down, happy that no one shared the ride. He made it to the ground floor and tossed the trash bag into the back of the trash truck, which backed into the bay, nodding at a couple of workers as he headed for the parking lot. He walked to the other side, got in his ride, and was on his way.

Yankee enjoyed his last minutes of anonymity, driving a red Ford pickup into history. Soon, he was going to be the most hated man in America or, at least, the devilish new character he created would be.

CHAPTER 2

Naseem Amin knew all there was to know about Lake of the Ozarks. It was originally Lake Benton, which was about 130 feet deep. It had the most crowded docks, the most forgiving entries, and a few spots that were rather difficult to navigate. He spent the past month understanding his place in American history, just as he ran off to do whatever else his leader told him to. The lake became an obsession, and he became an expert. He didn't need to know all this detail, but it seemed important to know about where you're going to die. Unless he changed his mind rather quickly, Naseem Amin was there to die.

The phone vibrated and Naseem saw the message.

702-555-2312: IN PLACE?

He captained the big boat, but it seemed the boat had control of him. All of his certainty, all of the things he promised himself, all of them had become muddier than the Lake of the Ozarks water beneath him.

Naseem: IN PLACE. TEN MINUTES TOPS.

702-555-2312: PICTURES?

Naseem rolled his eyes and slowed the boat. He kept it steady with his left hand, gripped his iPhone with the other, and snapped a couple of shots of the boats in the distance. He took one of Ashlee and other lovelies on the boat, knowing that it would either offend this high man of Allah or turn him on. He was no longer sure. At this point, he barely even cared. He attached them to a new message and hit send. Was this some new form of terror porn?

Ashlee came up and put her hand on his arm. Naseem turned and looked at her and still didn't know what to think. Here was this beauty, with sun-streaked, sandy hair, high cheekbones, and piercing gray eyes, wearing a bikini that showed off her surgical enhancements, and she had unknowingly trusted Naseem with her life. She was dumb as a telephone pole, but, despite the mounting years and miles, there was a sweetness that completely caught Naseem off-guard.

"You good, baby? We doin' okay for you?" She kissed him sweetly on the neck, showing him a vulnerable side he had all but forgotten about in a woman.

She was wearing a red bikini with a scarf covering her shoulders. He lived eighteen years ogling this kind of titillating display and followed that with eleven years of loathing it. Now, after he thought he was totally protected from the West and its many mistresses, these past weeks had shown him he knew very little; all that was sure now seemed jumbled. Was this what God really wanted from him — to destroy people who did nothing but trust him?

"You're great," he said, and meant it. She tiptoed up and kissed him again, this time on the cheek, marking her territory. "Yay! I'm gonna go check on the others."

He reminded himself that these people flaunted everything he held dear. They raped the planet and made mockeries of their bodies and their lives. They were vermin and vermin needed to be exterminated. Where had that state of mind gone? Why could he not summon it?

"Okay. We're about ten minutes out. Get them up here."

She turned and mock-saluted him, winked, and headed in the other direction. He was eighteen again. For a moment, he almost felt giddy, a word he hadn't used to describe himself in years. What an ass she had, he thought as he watched her go. Where did all those years of training go? Was he really so weak that this girl could so easily turn his head? If one woman could so quickly undo him, what had he devoted his life to?

Naseem lived in America, just east of Hollywood in L.A., during his first eighteen years. His parents were devout Muslims but were as American as Ronald Reagan. They talked as much about the opportunities in America as they did of the Quran, and Naseem had really never considered any other life. He was an Americanized Muslim. He played video games, chased girls, and did not keep Halal. When he spoke about his experiences later, in London and other places, he knew what happened: he became one of them. He spat the last word like the vilest curse.

Then came 9/11, and everything crumbled. He felt the hatred and mistrust, not from his friends but from nameless people who did not know him and had no understanding of his family's commitment to this country.

One day, two ignorant, no-necked lowlifes harassed his mother just because of her skin color and the prayers she said. They were about to defile her, in a way that Naseem's father never could have understood, in her own home, no less, in some sort of drunken, hate- filled joke. Naseem had left for the store but turned around, praise Allah. He came back to retrieve his wallet and saw these men. He charged them with a strength he did not know he possessed, plowed straight into the one who was unzipping his pants and did so with such fury he sent the other man scrambling for the door. If they had stayed a minute longer, he surely would have killed them. He saved his mother that day, but, now looking back on it, he wasn't so sure he hadn't lost himself.

He felt shame, guilt, and anger — anger like no man should feel — and lost any sense of his place in this new world. He needed rules and guidance. He felt betrayed. His parents healed, dealt with "the situation," as they called it, and, most disappointing to him, adapted. This made it worse. He helped them move to a better neighborhood. Sad and bitter, they still bought this lie. They still were a part of America. He was now its enemy.

He moved to London, the home of the most radical of radicals. It took a while to completely transform from the American way of life, even when seen through the eyes of an increasingly radicalized Muslim, to the hard and rigid existence of his new world. But he hid his transition from these men who never knew the duality as it existed in America. He forced it down. He detached. He did not return or regret. He wrote his parents benign things so they wouldn't worry, but he was sure they knew what was happening. They wrote him of Muhammad's promises in the Quran. He read that book so differently than they did. His instructors programmed him with hate, stripped him of the individuality that America encouraged, and sent him further east, where he learned hand weapons in Afghanistan and bombs in Iraq.

(Continues…)

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Excerpted from "Sabotage"
by .
Copyright © 2016 Dale Wiley.
Excerpted by permission of Vesuvian Books.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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