Second Strike

By Ron Whittington

Parker Glynn was the epitome of America, combining his natural intelligence and business savvy to build one of the most successful computer consulting companies in the United States.
He had it all – money, a beautiful wife and daughter, and top clients on Wall Street that made him a major power broker in the business world.
But he still wanted more.
Socializing turned to womanizing, and then came the mistress he selected for his Manhattan apartment. But Glynn never thought his choice of the sensual, exotic woman to share his second bed wasn’t his own...until September 11.
When passenger jets slammed into the Twin Towers, Glynn came to the sick realization that his wife and child were among the 2,752 people killed on 9/11...and the betrayal of his mistress was somehow linked to the attack.
Glynn's shock, disbelief and profound sadness turns to anger at what the terrorists did to his country, his family and himself – with no way to avenge their deaths.
Glynn travels along the Atlantic Coast to escape his memories, unaware a federal agent is charged with finding him and discovering his link to the terrorists, when an explosion at sea and a lone kite boarder lead to the discovery of another terror cell planning a another assault on the U.S.
Befriended by a waitress who has her own suspicions of local terror connections, the two find themselves in the fight of their lives to prevent the “second strike” on the US – while Glynn confronts his last chance for revenge and redemption.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ron Whittington
• Release date: Jun 19, 2011
• ISBN: 9781476196107

Ron Whittington

Over the last 20 years, Ron Whittington has worked as a ghostwriter on two national best-selling books and his freelance writing has appeared in Texas Business, Texas Monthly, Water's Edge, Jacksonville Magazine, Beson Publications, and The Florida Times-Union. A native of Atlanta, Whittington started his career as a journalist with CNN Radio and the Dallas-Fort Worth Business Journal before going into the public relations profession. He has served as the media spokesman for the Dallas Chamber of Commerce, Dallas Area Rapid Transit, the Metropolitan Atlanta Rapid Transit Authority and Atlanta Committee for the Olympic Games, JEA (Jacksonville Florida’s municipal utility) in addition to work as an independent public relations consultant. He is currently a senior account executive for the southeast U.S. regional office of London-based Mulberry Marketing Communications.

Book preview

Chapter 1 – Prologue - Rape of the Blue Lady

August 31, 2001

Crazy Hal’s trip had been fairly monotonous since he picked up his load outside Sacramento...until he saw her.

The trucker had gassed up his eighteen-wheeler and stopped at the weigh station near Laramie a few minutes before and was back on the interstate. He and his rig, which he named The Blue Lady, had been on the road for more than thirty six hours with twelve to go.

Definitely time for another pick-me-up, Crazy decided. He grinned to himself at what he liked to call his ‘daily treat’ – a couple of snorts of meth.

Just ahead he spied one of his favorite spots, an abandoned two-lane highway that was virtually unused since the completion of the interstate and where a long-forgotten roadside picnic area waited around the second bend. It was a place forgotten by most everyone, except Hal.

His rig sighed to a stop at the top of the exit ramp. As he turned right and the eighteen-wheeler struggled to gain speed up the ascending grade, he saw a small red convertible sports car that seemed to appear from nowhere. In his side mirror, he could tell it was a woman, watching as the wind whipped about her long brown hair.

For the first few minutes, Crazy was puzzled by her actions. She stayed dangerously tight to his rear bumper as their lone vehicles climbed the mountain road. No one was coming in the opposite direction and she certainly had the power to pass, Crazy thought. Why the hell is she on my ass?

Once The Blue Lady crested the hill, the car finally emerged and entered the opposite lane. She passed him fast. He didn’t get a good look at her face, but Crazy managed to catch a glimpse of a bronze thigh, a tight skirt as red as the car and a billowing sheer white blouse. Her horn gave a few high-pitched flirty beeps as she pulled ahead and back into the southbound lane. The woman gave a playful wave and gunned her engine. The car sped out of sight over the top of the next hill.

His primal thoughts were aroused. The brief encounter left Crazy with several full blown fantasies to play out in his mind. Even though nothing might come of his imaginings, Crazy would keep an eye out for the red sports car, and the little hottie behind the wheel, for the rest of the afternoon.

The trucker’s vivid thoughts about the woman stayed with him until he came upon a short taper of road. He slowed and pulled in where the familiar sign depicted a white picnic table on a background of blue.

As always, the area was deserted.

With the brakes engaged, Crazy pulled his duffle bag from the back bunk to the passenger seat. He reached in and retrieved the vial of methamphetamine, along with the miniature metal spoon he kept inside it. Crazy grimaced as he took two snorts of the powder in each nostril.

There were the random drug tests required by the federal transportation department, but Crazy didn’t worry much about them or his habit. He kept a fresh bottle of a putrid-tasting drink hidden away under the sleeping berth at all times. The mix of herbs and other drug-masking chemicals, which he bought from a paraphernalia shop back home, had always proven effective in the past. Also, the random tests were typically administered in truck-stop restrooms. Crazy had become a semi-expert in doping, using soap, air fresheners and other chemical ‘helpers’ hidden beneath his fingernails to mix with his urine to hide his occasional recreation from inspectors.

Sufficiently braced, Crazy got his rig back on the state road and in twenty minutes he was merging onto the eastbound lanes of Interstate 70. Once well outside the congested highways of downtown Denver, the mountains fell away and the driving became faster.

He owned his rig, a Kenworth powered by a Caterpillar engine equipped with thirteen-speed overdrive. Crazy removed the governing mechanism from the engine when he bought it. Without the inhibitor, he could push it well over one-hundred miles per hour when necessary. The extra speed came in handy for certain jobs, especially when he was competing against company-owned vehicles for routes. But he kept both his exhilaration from the meth and his urge to accelerate in check. Crazy maintained the speedometer around ninety as long as the radar detector was quiet.

About ten miles from the Kansas border, Crazy spotted the red sports car again. It was ahead of him in the left lane. The Blue Lady was gaining on it. As long as the highway stays flat, I’ve got the chance to get alongside her, Crazy thought. Maybe she’ll want to hook up.

His imagination raged with possibilities. He floored the gas pedal. The car was getting closer, almost as if she was slowing down so he could catch up. At a distance of three car lengths, Crazy started to roll down the window. The glass was half way down when the red car suddenly exploded with speed. While most of her face was obscured by her blowing brown hair, he caught her reflection in the car’s rearview mirror as the ragtop sped away. Crazy saw her laughing.

Damn woman’s teasing me, he said aloud. He relaxed his leg on the accelerator and fumed about her until he crossed the Kansas state line and, finally off the interstate for the day, decided to focus his attention on the night ahead. He was ready for a meal, as much beer as he could consume and, if he was lucky, a roll in the sack. And he knew just the bar where he might find that opportunity.

He leaned toward the window to look himself over in the side mirror. A slightly sinister grin glared back at him. His blue eyes were lightly etched with bloodshot from lack of sleep and methamphetamine, but Hal saw none of that in his reflection.

You good looking som’bitch, he said aloud. Tonight’s your night!

The smell of cow manure started to permeate the inside of the cab. The air conditioner had succumbed to the odor generated by the miles of cattle ranches that bordered the highway as he approached the outskirts of Dodge City. Crazy flexed his arm above the shifter to shake the usual ache in his forearm. He slowed to await two passing cars then turned into the entrance of the motel lodge. The hydraulics hissed and moaned as he maneuvered to bring the truck to rest at the far end of the parking lot, carefully lining his rig up alongside five others.

Crazy gathered his lighter and pack of cigarettes from the passenger seat. After a quick side-to-side glance out the windows to ensure he wasn’t watched, Crazy slipped the vial of meth into his front pocket. He felt for his wallet, grabbed his fatigue-green duffle bag and extricated his six-foot frame from the sticky leather seat. He climbed down from his cab to the gravel lot and locked up The Blue Lady for the night.

Crazy pulled up on the loops of his blue jeans as he stood beside his rig, which made his slight beer belly even more pronounced. He surveyed the other rigs and the flat terrain of Kansas then took to a swagger as he crossed the lot toward the manager’s office at the motor lodge. He checked in and paid his forty dollars for the night.

Once in the motel room, Crazy took a quick shower and shaved again to erase his five o’clock shadow. Afterward, he wet his head and slid the razor carefully to ensure the stubble was gone from his ‘dome.’ Satisfied with the man in the bathroom mirror, he carefully tapped out a thin line of white powder from his vial onto the sink counter and inhaled it with precision.

That’ll do it, he said aloud. A good bump to keep me going for the night.

The sun was ebbing behind the mountains when Crazy left his room. The majesty of the western sky, painted with brilliant strokes of orange and pink above faint purple mountain peaks, was lost on the trucker as he made his way across the main street toward Witchburner’s Bar.

When he was lucky, and his broker had the right truck routes available, Crazy jumped at the opportunity to make a stop-over at the honky-tonk. And, like previous trips, Crazy tried to schedule his stop on either Thursday or Friday, hitting the nights he had scored with ladies in the past.

He discovered Witchburner’s by accident years before, when he was twenty-six and working his first trucking job for a seafood distributor. Although nearly a decade had passed, Witchburner’s hadn’t changed much. Resurrected by a Massachusetts transplant who had run a bar of the same name near Boston, it still had the same worn dollar bills stapled to the walls that Crazy remembered from his very first visit. The dark wooden floors showed the scuff marks from a million pairs of two-stepping boots. As before, the familiar stench of spilled beer was in the air, though Crazy knew it would soon be replaced by the smell of cigarettes and cigars as the evening progressed.

A hamburger plate with greasy fries came and went, along with the six-pack of bottled beer in a bucket. Crazy consumed it over two hours as he watched the honky-tonk fill with truckers, bikers, farmers and other locals.

By the look of the crowd, it would be a good night.

Thursday was ladies night, when the ‘back-country’ young women came down from the even smaller towns and surrounding farms to have a good night of two-for-ones, live music and dancing past midnight. The draw was much the same on Fridays, too – only the drinks were full price.

Tonight’s band was The Dueling Crypts, its name air-brushed on a cloth banner draped above a cramped stage in the corner.

After Crazy watched enough from the table, he left a two-dollar tip and shifted to the bar. He ordered a shot of Jack Daniel’s and another beer. The first round went quickly. Crazy ordered another and began an hour of trading small talk with farmers, cowboys and cowgirls as he held court from a barstool.

It was just after ten o’clock when Witchburner’s entered the typical Thursday night frenzy Crazy remembered so well. Cigarette and cigar smoke floated and hung at the ceiling like a toxic fog. The band started its second set. The bass line, drums and lead guitar pulsed as the Dueling Crypts drew two-steppers and younger grinders to the dance floor, along with the occasional older couple that joined in to rekindle the disco magic from their youth.

The music, conversation and yelping from the pool tables in the game room clashed in crescendo of sound that converged at the bar.

Added to the overriding speed high, the beer and shots were beginning to take hold. Crazy was buzzed, but oblivious that he was starting to leer at the dancing couples and those who came and went from the bar. Most ignored his stare as they ordered their drinks, while some were vaguely aware that the stranger at the bar was close to becoming a belligerent drunk if a diversion didn’t soon come his way.

So far, each woman Crazy hit on during his hour ‘on patrol’ begged off, opting for their boyfriends or other locals they knew better, and certainly not the strange, talkative trucker with the wild eyes.

The agitation showed on Crazy’s face. He rubbed his hand over his freshly shaved head. This sucks, he thought to himself. Those bitches.

Give me another one and tab me out, Crazy said abruptly to the bartender. He nodded with a smile, hiding his relief that his DWI-in-the-making would soon be on his way.

But Crazy’s irritation was forgotten when he looked into the long, horizontal mirror behind the bar and noticed a woman looking directly at him from across the room. She was seated at a table near the entrance. Dark eyes with a nice sparkle. Cute face. That was all he could see through the crowd that stood behind him at the bar.

Crazy looked away, took a short pull on his beer and then swiveled on the bar stool. He craned his head to peer around the pockets of people to get a better look.

She was gone. The table was empty. Then, he spotted her in the crowd. Was she walking his way?

As she approached, he noted she was younger than he, maybe late twenties, and had a dark complexion. She smiled at him. Crazy was confused. There was a look of recognition in her eyes. He looked over her face, then down to her short, black skirt and her smooth light-chocolate legs, amply exposed from mid-thigh to the black straps of her Espadrilles.

You don’t remember me, do you? she said in a firm, controlled voice with a slight trace of a foreign accent.

Honey, I don’t think I’d forget a girl as pretty as you, Crazy replied with a grin.

You drive a truck with a blue cab, don’t you?

Yes...yes, I do. But I don’t think we’ve met before.

We haven’t actually met. I passed you earlier today...tooted my horn and waved...back before the interstate. Saw you a couple of times.

That was you! In the red car, right?

That was me, she replied. She looked sheepishly down at her feet then back at Crazy. I’m sorry I blew you off the second time...when you came up on me. I was just having some fun, you know, playing around. Hope it didn’t make you angry.

Oh, I figured I just scared you, Crazy lied. Anyway, I should be thanking you. Seeing you was the only interesting thing that’s happened since I left out of California. It’s a pretty boring trip. I just decided to take a break from the wheel a few minutes ago. The road’ll still be there in the morning!

She laughed.

I’m glad you came over to say hello, Crazy continued. I’d never known it was you. I could only see your brown hair, he lied again, remembering the dancing nylon skirt flitting high on her thigh. My name’s Hal. My friends call me Crazy.

My name’s Deena. That’s an interesting nickname...Crazy. How did you get it?

I really don’t remember when I got hung with it. I just do some crazy things from time to time, I guess.

What about tonight? she asked quizzically.

Well, not anything to go to jail over, but I’m always out for a little fun. Can’t always be out walking the dog.

Walking the dog?

That’s what we call driving a big rig, honey. Dragging the wagon, tanker hanker, carrying a reefer…there’s a lot of ways to say it, depending on what you’re carryin’.

That’s cute.

Crazy noticed the man had left the barstool behind her while they spoke. He leaned across, put his hand on the empty stool and pulled it over for her to take a seat.

Sit down and I’ll give you the low-down on trucker lingo, he said. I’ve got a million of ‘em.

The young woman settled atop the barstool beside him. As she did, Crazy realized she definitely wasn’t white. She’s an Indian or something, he thought, and she definitely doesn’t fit with the typical Witchburner’s crowd.

She wiggled on the stool until her body faced slightly toward him. Crazy saw something in her deep brown eyes. She leaned over. Her mouth drew close to Crazy’s ear. She cupped it with her hand to block the loud music of the band. The move offered him a fleeting view of cleavage as her thin, beige blouse fell forward.

I’ve got a secret, she said. I like a little fun, too. That’s why I’m here.

She sat back and giggled, looked toward the dance floor and back at Crazy.

When I heard the music, I had to come over and check it out, she said. The people here aren’t so plastic, so superficial, like they are at home in L.A. Quite different out west, isn’t it?

Crazy, now encouraged with his prospects for the night, came alive with conversation. He launched into a dissertation on the different cities he had visited and delved into his observations on traveling the country as a trucker. Deena listened intently, smiling and laughing at his stories as the trucker poured on the charm. The two exchanged small talk for about twenty minutes, making observations about the people on the dance floor, the price of the drinks (which she thought a bit pricey for the location) and the quality of the band.

A lull finally fell in their conversation. Crazy was enjoying the band’s rendition of Sweet Home Alabama when Deena unexpectedly leaned over again.

This place is getting too noisy, she whispered in his ear. Let’s take a break for a few minutes. Is there another place where we can go party in town?

Crazy was taken aback, but his expression didn’t show it.

Darlin’ Deena, you're readin’ my mind, he said conspiratorially. How about I buy you and me another round and we can take a walk. There’s another pub down the street and we can check it out before it closes.

Sounds good. But I’ve got some wine and beer in a cooler back at the motel. Why don’t we get out of here for a few minutes, have a drink there where it’s quiet, then we can check out the other bar? They’re all open until one o’clock, right?

They are and that sounds like a plan. Hot damn, I like you more every minute, Crazy exclaimed with a grin. I think I’ll start calling you ‘Crazy,’ too.

With that, the trucker quickly flagged down the bartender, paid the bill and the two made their way toward the exit. They dodged flailing arms and butts as Crazy cut a path along the edge of the dance floor until they reached an open area near the bouncer’s station and were out the door. Crazy held her hand as they crossed the parking lot and the two-lane highway. He noticed her palm was more calloused than he expected given her feminine looks. As the couple walked beneath the humming orange neon motel sign, the young woman moved slightly in front of Crazy to lead the way.

The sound of the band faded as they rounded the corner of the outside corridor and stood at the door of her motel room.

As she looked into her purse for the key, Crazy had a fleeting worry. Maybe she and some ‘friends’ are planning to roll me, he thought. It’s happened before. She doesn’t know me at all...seems a bit too trusting...and to bring me to her room so quickly after meeting up. It doesn’t make much sense.

Crazy looked over the parking area. There was no one loitering around. That reassurance, along with the drugs and alcohol, swept away his momentary caution. And when she opened the door and they entered the empty room, he was satisfied there was nothing to fear.

The sparse amenities were similar to those in his room on the opposite end of the motel – a chest of drawers and wall mirror, queen bed with a nightstand and reading lamp, and a television bolted to the wall. It had the same putrid green carpet on the floor, with a narrow remnant on the aisle that led to the bathroom.

The door shut behind them with a loud click.

Let’s get those drinks, she said. She opened a plastic cooler to reveal a six pack of beer and several twist-top bottles of red wine. The beer may be a little warm. Do me a favor, will you run and get some ice for us?

No problem, darlin’. Just don’t forget to open the door when I get back.

Crazy left with the plastic ice bucket and returned a moment later. The door was slightly ajar. He stepped inside the doorway to see she had taken a seat on the bedside, her shoes off, with a glass of wine in one hand and extending him a beer with the other.

Now that’s a wonderful sight, said Crazy, dumping the ice in the cooler and taking the wet can of beer from her hand. A beautiful woman with a brew for her man. I love America.

I think it’s still cool enough to drink. The others can get cold while we wait.

I’m sure it’s fine.

He sat beside her, toasted her glass and threw his head back to take several gulps of beer. He put his hand on her knee, stroking the soft, bare skin above her knee before he put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close.

You’re so warm, she purred, nuzzling her head against his chest.

Warm? You’re making me hot.

She laughed and took another sip of wine. Then, as she leaned toward him again, her blouse fell forward as if she was taunting him with her breasts.

You’re sweet, she said and cut her eyes at him. You’re kind of sexy, yourself.

Crazy suddenly felt faint. The room began to blur. He shook his head quickly side to side to right his vision.

What’s wrong? she said. She shifted away from him. Are you okay?

I think I’ve just caught a major buzz from all the beer, Crazy said. Give me a second...I think I just need to put my head down for…, his voice trailed off as he started to fall backward on the bed.

The woman was ready. She grabbed his beer can and held it upright as he collapsed, ensuring no residue spilled on the sheets.

The drug worked well...much more quickly than she anticipated.

She looked at Crazy for a moment then calmly placed their unfinished beverages on the nightstand. She stood, nonchalantly straightened out her sheer black skirt and retrieved a cell phone from her purse.

Now, she said simply into the phone.

She moved expertly to the nightstand, took the beer can and glass into the restroom and emptied both into the sink. She cleaned them thoroughly. She took a washcloth and sprayed it with a perfume atomizer that sat on the counter. She vigorously rubbed the sides of the can and the glass with the cloth to remove any fingerprints and tossed both into the trash can. She looked over the bathroom intently, then turned off the light switch with the bottom of the perfume bottle and returned it to her purse.

She busily cleaned up what little there was in the room, since she had arrived only a few minutes after the truck driver. The young woman picked up an empty black suitcase and sat it next to the cooler and her purse. She walked over and stood over Crazy’s body, then suddenly pulled her hand back and slapped him hard across the face several times.

Fat, stupid dog, she spat out in Arabic.

She dug into the trucker’s front pocket to retrieve his keys, then bent slightly and pushed hard with both arms to roll his large body over on the bed. Pulling out a portion of the bed sheet, she covered her hands and wrestled Crazy’s bulging wallet out of his tight back pocket. She thumbed through the contents, removed the cash, rubbed the black leather briskly several times with the sheet and threw it on the bed.

The young woman tucked her shoulder-length dark hair behind her ears. Her brown eyes narrowed to slits. She methodically studied the room once more for any traces she could have missed. Satisfied, she thoroughly went through the ritual she had planned. To the dresser. Purse into the suitcase. Sit the suitcase and cooler by the door. To the bathroom. Retrieve the atomizer and a tissue. Spray and wipe down the counter, faucets and doorknob.

Finished in the lavatory, she repeated the same rubdown on the knob and deadbolt lock on the entry doors. The interior was complete. She sprayed the tissue once more, put the atomizer in the cooler and slowly opened the door.

She peeked out and scanned the walkway and parking lot. Still deserted. She slid the briefcase and cooler out into the corridor and carefully wiped