Shockwave

By Norm Applegate

Thriller writer Norm Applegate, author of Into the Basement, introduces us to a new character, Jack Dwyer.

Shockwave.

Loner Jack Dwyer.
Pretty woman Kelly Paul.
Homegrown terrorists use pipe bombs to kill.
The cause? They want America back.
Violence breeds violence.
Never underestimate a loner!

Book Description:

Jack Dwyer is observant. Sitting at Starbucks he watches a van come to a stop. A nervous guy gets out, looks around, seems strange. Dwyer watches him. The guy crosses the street. Dwyer realizes the guy’s staring at a pretty woman, Kelly Paul. Dwyer makes eye contact with her. Dwyer looks left, right, reacts, moves fast, pushes her down, saves her but the bomb explodes. People are killed. She goes missing and Dwyer is the suspect.

Dwyer can’t forget her. Doesn’t understand why she’s missing. He’s a loner, ex-military, a psychologist and he has seen death. He’s wildly attracted to the pretty woman and he goes after her.

Beau Redell, and a group of sadistic followers, is the problem. Kelly Paul has been taken, abducted, terrorized. But Dwyer finds himself alone and a violent conclusion is inevitable...

Shockwave by Norm Applegate
Pipe Bomb. Hostage. Terror.

Edited by Deborah Levinson.

Cover art James Rone.

Shockwave is approximately 79,000 words long.

This ebook also contains bonus material:

Chapter 1 of Into the Basement by: Norm Applegate.

“Into the Basement introduces us to Norm Applegate's no nonsense staccato writing style and realistic approach to the thriller/suspense/genre.” - Withersin Magazine June issue 2008, withersine.com

"Norm Applegate is a new voice just emerging onto the field of the mystery/thriller novel that has the rest of us looking over our shoulders." - David Hagberg New York Times & USA Today bestselling author of Dance With the Dragon, Allah's Scorpion and Mutiny.

"Norman Applegate’s writing truly delivers with all the raw force and prose of a top rate storyteller, seasoning his tales with a mixture of classic genre skill and infusion of intrigue and characterization that makes the stories move." - Nicholas Grabowsky Horror author of "Halloween IV.
“Applegate creates a very graphic and violent story filled with blood, gore, and sex.” – The Book Faery Reviews

Books by Norm Applegate:

First to Die – Just $2.99!
Blood Bar - Just .99!
Into the Spell – Just .99!
Jumpers (short story) - Just .99!

...and thriller novel
Into the Basement – Just $1.99

• Language: English
• Publisher: Norm Applegate
• Release date: Sep 20, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465820983

Norm Applegate

I live in Sarasota, and I write thrillers, horror and paranormal books.I’m also a Mac Fanatic. Smooth Jazz enthusiast. Drummer. Former hypnotist and Horror Movie Fan.Norman Applegate is an author and consultant, with a growing body of work to his credit. Born in Glasgow Scotland, growing up in Toronto Canada and now residing in Sarasota Florida with his wife Cheryl, Norm Applegate works and travels for an international consulting company, then occasionally scares the “heck” out of his family with his thoughts and writings.Bibliography:Novels* (2012) The Prisoner* (2011) Shockwave• (2011) First to Die* (2011) Sadist (Turkish translation of Into The Basement)• (2009) Blood Bar, a vampire tale• (2007) Into the Spell• (2006) Into the BasementShort Story• (2011) JumpersAnthologies:• (2008) From the ShadowsScreenplays:• (20010) Grotto• (2009) Into the Basement (co-writer Nicholas Grabowsky)Norm’s writing began while travelling through New Zealand and Australia as a Hypno-therapist with colorful letters to his family of his tales as a hypnotist and the weirdness it attracts.His early years in Toronto were filled with aspirations of the 60’s Yorkville music scene, and as a drummer in numerous bands led to a short lived career playing the bars and clubs in the Toronto area. The band Photograph, signed to a recording studio, made some noise on the coast to coast CBC radio show, the Entertainers. In 1973 the band worked with Canadian artist & producer Tony Kosinec, (All Things Come From God), and after legal issues strangled them into submission, they went their separate ways. The band members were George Szabo and Stan Meissner, (Stan later wrote for Céline Dion, LeeAnn Womack, Eddie Money, Rita Coolidge, BJ Thomas, Ben Orr (The Cars), Triumph and Toronto). The life of drugs, sex and rock and roll were over, sad but true.After a few years of travel, he had the bug, and entered the world of management consulting to become a road warrior, and is now a 2 million miler with Delta. Away from home and with the desire to write a novel it began. His first book, “Into the Basement,” is a raw, dark thriller, described as "juicy." His second novel of the Kim Bennett series, “Into the Spell,” explores the horror of a copy-cat Son of Sam killer and hypnosis.Early 2008, Norm contributed with a short story called “Jumpers,” into the horror anthology “From the Shadows.”In 2009, Norm developed the screenplay for his novel “Into the Basement,” with Nicholas Grabowsky and director J. L. Botelho of Triad Pictures.In 2010 he released, Blood Bar, a vampire tale and wrote the screenplay for a short horror film, Grotto.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Jack Dwyer was alive because he observed things. He observed things because life had taught him that if you can’t see it coming you can't stop it. He was ex-military and had a good sense of what was going on around him. He was sitting in Starbucks. Late afternoon, still light out. To his left was a pretty woman. He didn't know her. Never seen her before. She was drinking coffee. To his right, two couples. Talking loud, having fun, life hadn't taught them to be observant. The place was busy. All around him people were chatting, students, homemakers, mostly young. Dwyer liked the look of the pretty woman. He was studying her, watching her play with the white plastic lid, watching her lips press against the cup. Watching her because he was observant.

The Starbucks was new; small corner location. Not like the big ones in the mall. Lots of seats, and room to move around. This one had a few tables inside; most people sat outside. Held maybe thirty to forty guests. Tables and chairs arranged kind of tight on a large patio. Inlaid brick covered the ground. Small wall to the left, flowerpots, peaceful.

Jack Dwyer was on vacation. Not looking for trouble. Didn't expect to find any. He was retired after fifteen years serving as a military psychologist. Got a job working for an oil company observing things. Human behavior, terrorists, bad people. He had taken a couple of weeks off. Thought he would travel around the south, Miami, Tampa, check out the beaches see how the sane people live.

Jack Dwyer sat by himself, off to the side. Not close to the front. Not close to the sidewalk. He liked his back protected. Old habit, safe habit. He was reading the news. Not a newspaper but an iPad. Modern, efficient, not old school. Headlines read something about a man shot in the face felt the bullet four years later.

It was a warm day. Sun was still high in the sky. He was in Tampa Florida. Close to the University, north of the city, east side. Not far from the highway. He pulled off, took the exit. He'd been driving for a few hours. Left Atlanta early morning. Made good time on I-75, not much traffic heading south, kind of relaxing. He wasn't in a hurry, wasn't expected anywhere.

He saw a van pull to a stop, close to the front, close to the sidewalk. It made a noise when it stopped. Bad brakes. It caught his attention. It was old, rusty, out of place. The driver got out of the van and moved around the front. It was a Dodge Ram 250. Two-toned, blue and white. Nineteen-ninety, maybe ninety-two. The guy was tall, white, dark hair. Crew cut style, military look. He was thin made him look even taller. Maybe twenty-five or thirty. He put some kind of a cap on. Adjusted it to his head. He was nervous. Dwyer watched him from the corner of his eye. He wore black pants, a dark t-shirt and an old red baseball cap. Never saw his shoes. But he was definitely nervous, looking around too much. He stood still for a moment. Looked left and right. Stepped onto the sidewalk. Looked left then right again.

Jack Dwyer put his coffee down. Paid attention.

He was ninety, ninety-five feet away. Dwyer knew the distance. He measured it with his arm span. Knew his arm span was six feet. Calculated the distance, did the math. The guy was focused on the Starbucks. He studied it for a beat. Pretending not to look at it. But Dwyer saw that. The driver turned and walked the other way, quickly. Looked back over his shoulder. Crossed the street. He didn't walk; he jogged across. No traffic. Kept looking back to his van, to the Starbucks. Didn't seem right.

Dwyer knew if he was going to do something, now was the time.

The nervous guy disappeared around the corner. Dwyer stared. The guy appeared again. Only partially this time, his upper body. Like he was shielding himself. Like he was hiding. He was now further away, one hundred and fifty maybe one hundred and sixty feet. Staring at his van. Staring at the Starbucks.

Dwyer got up. Moved quickly. Pushed his table over; blocking the pretty woman. He kept walking. She yelled at him. He ignored her, there wasn't time. He was looking at the driver. The guy's mouth was thin. Eyes were dark. Kept looking around.

Dwyer got to the sidewalk. Glanced down the street to the truck. He was seventy-five feet away. Nobody inside, it bothered him. Then he walked to the curb. The driver was looking past him. Past the Starbucks. Something about where he was looking. Dwyer followed his line of sight. There was a car parked down the street, two guys in it. He kind of nodded. Then something caught his attention, he shifted his focus. The pretty woman.

The first thing Dwyer saw before the sound hit him was a blinding flash of light hitting his retina. White light, bright, blocked everything out. Almost painful, like getting hit in the eye with a fist. This wasn't a small explosion like a pipe bomb or a large one like Oklahoma City in '95. It was a medium explosion.

Explosions are a buildup of pressure and a sudden release of energy. At some point the pressure is greater than the container and then things happen. The container blows apart and a shockwave travels like a rocket from ground zero to some distance depending on the power of the explosion. It's not the detonation or the searing temperature that is so destructive. It's in the air. The shockwave, a thin layer of rapidly moving air is what you have to look out for. This one produced a shockwave traveling over three hundred meters per second.

Jack Dwyer was on the sidewalk. Sprawled out on his back. He moved to his side. Propped himself up on one elbow. Stunned at first, took a few seconds to come to. He wasn't knocked out, maybe close to it, but he was shook up. His leg hurt, kind of twisted. Not broken, just a sprain. Ears ringing, eyes blinking. He knew what had happened. He'd seen it before. Dwyer knew about bombs.

Dwyer had seen a few in the invasion of Iraq. He remembered two bombs hitting a home. It was a large structure, three stories. He was sitting in a vehicle across the street from where they exploded. He was doing fieldwork. It was a safe zone. He was talking to soldiers. Assessing their mental state. Then it happened. The first one penetrated the roof, hitting the central heating unit sending boiling water over the women and children below. The second bomb, a few seconds later blew the house apart. Dwyer was knocked out of the vehicle. When he stood up he saw the bodies of dead women and children charred from the intense blast scattered along the road.

Dwyer got to his knees. He was bent over in pain. Pressed his fist into his side. He figured something from the van hit his stomach. He felt a knot. There was part of a fender lying beside him. He twisted around and looked at the restaurant. Starbucks was damaged. Part of the front blown apart, windows shattered. So was the building next door, and the one beside that. All the windows were blown out. Then he heard the screaming. Moaning, peopling crying, it was loud. Then he saw body parts. Feet, arms, faces covered in blood. Some were trapped under the debris, some were injured, and some were dead. Either way it was a mess. He switched his attention to the guy across the street. The guy who placed the bomb in the van. The guy who had parked the van in front of the buildings. The guy who killed innocent people. He was gone.

Dwyer sat for a moment in silence. Staying calm. Assessing the situation. He was okay. He'd seen worse. He glanced left. Where the pretty woman was sitting. She was gone. He scanned slowly. Then he caught a movement. Under the table. His table. He recognized her sweater. But it looked different. Crumpled, wet, messy. She sat upright, shaking her head. Brushed dirt from her face. Rubbed her eyes and just sat there stunned. He glanced around the debris field. People were running to help. He looked back at the pretty woman; she was staring at him. They held it for a moment. He got to his feet. Staggered once, twice. Made his way to her. He reached down, put his arm around her and helped her up.

Chapter 2

North Florida, old farmhouse about a five hour drive on I-75 north of Tampa. A solid thirty minutes east doing the speed limit, fifty miles per hour and difficult to see from the road. The guy in charge was instructing two workers. They were putting away materials. Boxes and bags of stuff. He kept barking orders and pointing. They had loaded everything into a cinder block room in the far corner inside the barn. It wasn't used as a barn. Those days were long gone. Beside the cinder block room was a heavy wooden table, eight feet long it still needed to be cleared.

Now this stuff doesn't need to be locked down, he said. Put the pipes in the corner and the cotton in the bin, keep it dry, got it?

The two men nodded.

Now follow me.

They walked out of the small room in the back of the barn. The leader, a large man, overweight, short hair, kind of reddish complexion. Dressed in dark green pants and a shirt that matched, military look. Reached into his pocket and pulled out eight or ten keys on a ring. Fiddled with them and locked the wooden door behind him. The main area of the barn was a big space with two vehicles parked inside and plenty of room for working. Thirty feet high with light coming in from a window above the double doors. It was quiet. Between the two vehicles was an open space. He led them to a blanket thrown over something in the middle of the room.

The leader smiled.

We ready? One of the guys asked.

You betcha, the elder said.

He pointed to the blanket. One of the guys reached for it. But stopped short, checking with his boss before pulling it away.

Go on now, the leader said.

The guy pulled the blanket up from the bottom. The wooden legs of the chair were scratched where metal cuffs had scuffed up the finish and sawed away some of the wood. Secured to the cuffs were legs. Thin legs, male with sneakers on his feet. White Nikes.

The blanket was lifted higher.

A young man twenty, twenty-five was seated in the chair. Arms cuffed behind his back. Mouth taped shut, eyes big as saucers. He was wet, sweating, shaking. Breathing fast, blinking rapidly. His eyes shot to the three men staring at him. Then to the pipe bomb in the leaders hand.

The leader nodded. The guys moved toward the twenty year old.

Panic. The cuffed guy bounced around the chair, hopping up and down. The chair bounced around the floor. The leader walked over and slapped him across the face, hard. He stopped bouncing. Started crying. No sound, his mouth was covered tight. Two-inch duct taped wrapped twice around his head. He sat still. His stomach heaving up and down. The guy was gasping for air.

The leader looked at him. He was about three feet away. Something about the eyes is very telling. The cuffed guy’s eyes were wet, big pupils. He had blue eyes, but they were black now. Big black saucers. They were pleading, as if to say this can't be happening. As if to say let me go, I won't tell anyone.

The leader stared at him. He moved his arm kind of raised it a bit. Turned it over, palm side up. Held a pipe bomb in his right hand. Laid in on the cuffed guys lap with a thud.

You know what this is? he asked.

The cuffed guy glared at it. Focused on it. Started crying again. Hyperventilating, bouncing up and down.

Yeah, you know what it is, don't you Jimmy?

The cuffed guy wet himself.

That's right! You know what I'm going to do? the leader said. Ten inch pipe loaded full.

He picked it up. Held it close to the cuffed guys face.

You know what kind of damage this does? he said.

The cuffed guy's eyes shot back and forth. The leader, the bomb, the leader.

Blows things apart. All kinds of things.

Jimmy, the cuffed guy moaned.

Two inch pipe. Threaded ends, tight. Industrial twisted cord, the fuse, placed in a drilled out hole at one end of the pipe. The blast will kill you. The shockwave will just scatter what's left over around the farm.

The cuffed guy screamed muffled noises into the tape. His nose was running.

The leader nodded to his workers. Stand him up.

The two guys jumped. They undid the ankle cuffs. They undid the handcuff holding his arms behind the chair. They stood him up. His knees collapsed. They had him by the elbows. He was crying. They twisted his arms behind his back. Something cracked. The guy yelped. They cuffed him again. They started to walk. He froze. His legs went stiff. They dragged him out of the barn. They hit the sunlight. It hurt the guy's eyes. He was squinting, trying to see where they were taking him. They dragged him seventy-five feet to a pole. Took two minutes, the guy was resisting. His body went rigid. His feet dug into the dirt. It was standing by its self, an old wooden pole about two feet in diameter. A rough pole, looked like it was chewed up, lots of splinters. Maybe thirty feet tall. They turned him around, pushed him up against it, and held his back to it. The leader tossed them the tape. One of the guys wrapped it around him a couple of times. Two-inch wide duct tape, the grey stuff, very strong. The other guy had his hand on his chest pinning him to the pole. The guy was having trouble breathing. They backed away. Five feet at first, then a few more. The guy swayed back and forth straining against the tape. The leader moved closer.

Explosives are very dangerous. Pipe bombs are simply explosive filler placed inside a closed metal pipe and detonated by a fuse. High explosives like TNT are not used, because they explode prematurely. The leader had taught the men to cut the tops off match heads and pack them tight with cotton balls into one end of the closed pipe. Then fill the pipe with gun power and Double-ought buck, which they got at a local gun shop. Double-ought buck serves as shrapnel. Any remaining space was filled with more cotton balls. Cleaned threaded caps wrapped with Teflon tape were screwed on the pipe ends and sealed with glue to prevent them from coming lose. A hole was drilled in one end of the pipe where the fuse was placed.

The leader pulled the guy’s pants open, placed the bomb in the man's waistband. He undid the button on his trousers and forced the pipe in. When he buttoned up the pants, the pipe bomb was tight against the guy’s stomach. It was cold against his wet skin.

The guy was shivering. Uncontrollable shaking.

The leader paused. Shook the pipe bomb to make sure it was snug. The guy made a snorting sound. He was screaming into the tape around his mouth.

The guy looked down at the bomb then adjusted his focus on the leader. Begging.

The leader looked at his eyes. Big black saucers.

I have nothing personal against you. But when your family does the kind of work they do you give up all rights. Religious bullshit. I have the moral authority to stop you from using God to steal money, the leader said.

The two guys watching were silent. They were holding their breath. Backing away slowly.

We're not the bad guys, the leader said. Any good American would stand up against you. You and your family. We'll stop you.

The leader moved to the cuffed guy's side. Pulled a lighter from his pocket. Held it up to the guy's face so he could see it. Flicked it once, only a spark, then again and held the flame to the fuse. There was a sizzling sound. The fuse ignited.

The leader looked at the burning fuse. Looked at the guy's face and smiled.

The leader turned and walked away. Took his time. He knew how long the fuse was. He was counting it in his head. His two men raced ahead. Launching themselves like rockets to get clear. The leader smiled. He watched them run. They reached the barn before the leader, placing themselves against the wall for protection. One of the guys stuck his fingers in his ear. When the leader reached the barn there was an explosion. The noise of it was deafening. They felt the shockwave. A pink cloud appeared where the kid stood. Pieces of something flew through the air.

The leader watched for a moment. Watched the debris fall from the sky. Off in the distance a flock of birds scattered.

Then it went quiet, but after a few moments the leader turned and faced his two workers.

That's how you build a bomb, got it?

Chapter 3

It had been less than ten minutes since the explosion in front of Starbucks. Jack Dwyer had been thrown to the ground and managed to get to his feet. In the hysterical chaos on the patio Dwyer knew what had happened, but not why.

He was holding the woman in his arms. The pretty woman. She was shaking. He'd brushed the dirt away from her face and helped her stand up. At first they didn't speak. Just stared at each other. Stunned.

His immediate thought was safety. They had just been victims in a roadside bombing. They were out in the open anything could happen next. There was no cover. Dwyer figured his best move was to get them both away from ground zero. He led her to the street. Past bodies, past carnage. He looked to his right. A young man on the ground, dead. He'd seen dead people before, he knew what dead looked like. He stayed calm, surveying the situation. Looking for the bad guy, gone. Looking for the car down the street. It was moving, slowly. Drove past him. The two guys stared at Dwyer. They looked upset. Not from the explosion, upset from something else. They had an angry look, mean eyes. They stared at Dwyer. He stared back. They drove off toward the corner, where the driver from the van had been standing. They were a team, on a mission. It didn't go as planned. Something went wrong. Then Dwyer realized that he was that something.

The car moved slowly, weaving between the debris. He watched it. Black Mustang, late model, and no license plate. Red flag. Only amateurs would remove a plate. Too easy to get pulled over for a routine traffic stop. Not smart, if they were smart they would have switched plates, stolen plates. They reached the corner, turned left; both men were looking back at the destruction, looking back at Dwyer. Neither man was smiling. The car disappeared.

The pretty woman stepped over a body. Grabbed Dwyer's arm tight. He looked at her. She was looking at the pain around her. Dwyer glanced back at the corner. The bad guys had left. He turned a chair right side up. She sat down. Held her head in her hands. Then she did something. She screamed, then a second time. She looked up at him. Her eyes calm, in control.

What the hell happened? she said.

Dwyer, Jack Dwyer. he said.

She looked him over. He watched her eyes as she sized him up.

Kelly Paul.

Car bomb, Dwyer said.

Bomb?

Van was detonated. It was parked by the curb, Dwyer said. Nice to meet you.

He was sizing her up. Narrow face, delicate features, big eyes, and blue eyes. Perfect lips. Good looking, forty-five, maybe forty-six. He liked what she was wearing. The clothes fit well. Black knit dress, tight, shoes to match. Kind of overdressed for sitting in Starbucks. Professional; doctor, lawyer, maybe on lunch.

Dwyer heard a siren. Ambulance was approaching fast. Right in front of it a fire truck. First responders. They arrive first in an emergency. Dwyer knew this. Fire stations are strategically located around a city, not random. They can respond to a situation in four minutes, the critical time to save a life. Medical support teams are attached to a hospital; not as strategic, usually take longer.

I need to get out of here, she said.

A determined woman, not weak. Dwyer looked at her. She seemed rational. His focus shifted to the fire truck. He could feel her staring at him. He glanced back. She looked away. Looking up and down the street. Searching.

Go where? he said. You running from something?

You saw what happened, she said. You said it yourself. It was a bomb.

That's right, he said. The guy that did this is gone. Now it's the medic's turn to check us out.

He looked at his clothes. Started brushing himself off. Chances of a second bomb going off are rare. He looked left, down the street nothing parked close. Looked right, clear for one hundred and twenty feet, maybe one hundred and fifty.

Why do you think I'm running, the woman said.

She was staring at him again.

The bomb was for you, he said. They were amateurs, they messed up.

She was watching him, his eyes. The way he moved. She was confident. Thinking. Wondering who this guy was who saved her life.

You were the target, he said. Don't think they wanted to kill you.

She tilted her head. Kept eye contact.

You saved my life, she said. I wasn't planning to be here.

The guy spotted you, Dwyer said. He signaled to someone.

You called them amateurs? she asked.

You're still alive, he said. That says it right there. It was an easy operation. Big bomb, covers a large area. Don't have to be precise. If they were pros you'd be dead. They'd have a back-up plan, a shooter, and sniper. That's what I would have done.

A back-up plan? she asked.

You did something unexpected, Dwyer said. Let's assume you work next door. You're there everyday. Maybe get to work early morning, eat lunch inside. You don't usually go out. Probably leave work same time everyday. But today you did something different. They weren't prepared for that. That's obvious right? You're still alive, no back-up plan.

Dwyer shrugged his shoulders and looked around. Medics and firefighters were attending to the injured.

It was your lucky day. You aren't dressed for work. Maybe you're a doctor, or a lawyer. You were going somewhere, meeting someone. You've got some position of influence or power and somebody wants you dead.

She looked at him. Still wondering who he was.

What if I said you're all wrong?

He looked at the blown up van.

"The bomb was only part of the plan. It was a big bomb, daytime when people are working which meant they didn't care how many they killed. They had been