Remote Control: Wynn Garrett Series, #3

By Bruce A. Borders

The best way to deal with terrorism? Kill the terrorists!

The terrorists are getting smarter, but are they smart enough to beat Wynn Garrett? When Thomas Wardahl and Richard Scorby, uncover a terrorist plot to target several American cities using multiple simultaneous attacks from unmanned missile launching sites, they are quick to initiate a response. The co-directors of the Anti-terrorist Operation contact their operative Wynn Garrett who is confident he can deliver - but he doesn’t plan on trying to do his job from jail. Meanwhile, an unknown number of missiles are waiting to be launched at the push of a button…

“My favorite new series!”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Borders Publishing
• Release date: Sep 1, 2011
• ISBN: 9781497769229

Bruce A. Borders

Bruce A. Borders was born in 1967 in Cape Girardeau, MO. Bruce’s childhood years were spent in a number of states, including Missouri, Oregon, Wisconsin, and Wyoming. During his high school years, he was a member of the football, basketball and track teams, involved in various non-athletic activities such as school yearbook production and photography, and won numerous awards for his artistic creations. Bruce graduated Valedictorian in 1984 While in school, Bruce held three part-time jobs; a store clerk, a janitor, and a dental technician, working about 60-70 hours per week. After graduation he became employed full time as a dental technician. Other jobs have included restaurant manager, carpenter and grocery store cashier. For the past sixteen years, he has worked as a commercial truck driver, logging more than two million miles. At the age of fifteen, Bruce decided to become a writer. He began by writing songs, news articles and short stories. Eventually, books were added to the list. Over the years, he continued to write and currently has a catalog of more than 500 songs, numerous short stories and over a dozen completed books. He writes on a variety of subjects such as the Bible and politics, as well as fictional novels of legal issues and westerns. Titles include: Inside Room 913, Over My Dead Body, Miscarriage Of Justice, The Journey, and in The Wynn Garrett Series - Mistaken Identity, Holy Terror, Remote Control, Judicial Review, Even Odds, and Safety Hazard.

Book preview

A

Wynn Garrett Series

Novel

WYNN C. GARRETT

#3

Remote

Control

Bruce A. Borders

BORDERS

PUBLISHING

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

Copyright 2005, 2012

Bruce A. Borders

Cover Design 2012

Bruce A. Borders

All Rights Reserved.

Except for use in any review, the reproduction of this book in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any informational storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the express written permission of the author and publisher.

The Wynn Garrett Series

#1Mistaken Identity

#2 Holy Terror

#3 Remote Control

#4 Judicial Review

#5 Even Odds

#6 Safety Hazard

#7 Dark Day (2014)

Warning: This book is unapologetically pro-American and anti-terrorist. It contains language that some may consider offensive. This language, along with multiple acts of violence, is directed toward Islamic radicals. If you are sympathetic to the terrorist’s cause, sensitive to criticism of radical Islam, or are easily offended by such content

DO NOT READ.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

About the Author

Other Books by Bruce A. Borders

CHAPTER ONE

Cops. He had no use for them. It was a classic catch-twenty-two. While a certain law enforcement presence is needed to curb criminal behavior, the very fact the men in blue were there, limited the freedom of everyone else. That’s what he couldn’t stand.

In his experience, most police officers were nothing but imbeciles with a badge and he’d never seen such a whiny self-important bunch. Unfortunately, they possessed the legal authority to issue citations - at their discretion - to otherwise, law-abiding citizens.

Virtually everyone in law enforcement claims they entered their career field with the laudable aspirations of making a difference in the world; to fight crime and catch criminals; to make our social environment better and a safer place. Yet, what do they do? What consumes most of their time and comprises the majority of their duties? Traffic control. They’re given a radar gun, or a laser, and sent out to earn their keep; to generate revenue for a woefully slothful and inept governmental entity that typically squanders any money it receives. Tax revenues and a myriad of other profit-making ventures provide a steady, reliable source of a more than adequate income, but apparently, for the greedy government officials, it’s not enough. It’s never enough. Rather than quench the insatiable desire to spend, and fix their cash flow problems, officials searched and schemed for additional methods of separating citizens from their money. Hello traffic laws, highway enforcement, and traffic court.

On a limited level, the practice made sense, because despite the projected facade of bravery and pretense of protection, police officers were no more heroic than the average Joe. Routine traffic stops were, as a whole, much safer than pursuing actual criminals. Sure, there maybe an occasional danger associated with stopping a speeder or pulling over a little old lady whose car has a burned out tail light but, compared to the likely chance of being shot at or otherwise accosted when tracking down murderers, rapists, or drug dealers, the risk is nothing. They conduct their useless patrols and go home feeling confident they’ve done their part to make the world a safer place. Ill-fated drivers pay the salary of an overstaffed department, while America’s most wanted roster steadily grows, and violent crime rates increase. But hey, the public is much safer because no one is speeding and everyone is wearing a seatbelt.

Well, that is, everyone except the man behind the wheel of the gray Chevy truck waiting impatiently at the stoplight. With a police cruiser parked at the curb beside him, the driver of the pickup casually glanced to his right. Seeing the grim look of Norwellian intent on the officer’s face, he knew as soon as the light changed, the squad car would pull in behind him, the red and blue strobe lights announcing to the world he’d been caught. He knew it, and didn’t care.

The light turned green, and waiting for the car ahead of him to get moving, he calmly accelerated, keeping an eye on the rearview mirror as the petulant police officer whipped into traffic. As expected, a split-second later, the flashing lights told him he’d been chosen to contribute to the county’s Support A Lazy Cop fund.

Without signaling, he guided the pickup to the side of the road, still watching in his mirror while the out-of-shape cop waddled up to the vehicle.

I’m Officer Mitchell of the Jackson County Sheriff’s Department, the uniformed man introduced himself. Do you know why I stopped you today?

Because you’re too much of a wimp to go after real criminals? the driver guessed.

Officer Mitchell’s face showed immediate visible signs of agitation. But taking a deep breath and swallowing hard, he continued his spiel, in the same even tone. I noticed you weren’t wearing your seatbelt.

Very observant of you, came the patronizing response.

The Deputy was not amused by the wanton display of disregard for his authority. License, registration and proof of insurance, he rattled off, keeping his right hand close to the butt of his firearm.

Without a word, the driver of the pickup produced the requested documents. Silently, he handed all three out the window.

Snatching the ID and other papers from the outstretched hand, Officer Mitchell stomped back to his patrol car. Slamming the door, he scooped up the microphone to call in his latest victim.

Writing up the ticket took only minutes. The driver of the pickup, still watching the scene in his mirror, chuckled at the angst he’d so easily been able to evoke, and smirked with amused glee while the uniformed officer made his way back up to the side of his truck.

With a contemptuous look of disgust, the cop handed back the driver’s license and other papers. He thrust the familiar yellow piece of paper with its nearly illegible writing through the window. Then with a pompous air, he arrogantly declared, You need to learn to show some respect.

Last time I checked, it wasn’t against the law to not show respect, the driver said. You were going to give me a ticket anyway, so what’s the difference?

You might find things would go a little easier, the officer growled.

Shaking his head in disagreement the man said, It’s faster this way. And I don’t have to listen to your sorry voice, dripping with false concern about my safety.

Buckle up! was all the officer had to say as he clomped back to his car.

Heeding the officer’s suggestion, whether it was advice or a warning was open for speculation, would have been the wisest thing to do, but the man in the pickup was in no mood to back down now. Turning the key in the ignition, the engine roared to life, and without a backward glance, he pulled onto the road, intentionally not fastening the seatbelt. The cop could pull him over again and issue another citation, but he knew that wasn’t likely. If it happened though, it was no big deal. It simply didn’t matter how many times it occurred. He was betting the cop would give up long before he did. Eventually, the man would just get tired of pulling him over and going through it all.

He almost wished that would happen. With three or four, or more tickets, all issued by the same cop, it would doubtlessly be an easy chore to have them dismissed by a judge. If not, at least the process would be fun!

The whole thing was just a game. A unique form of entertainment. He just liked to antagonize egotistical cops.

Someone has to make ‘em earn their pay, he grumbled.

Finally, he sneaked a peek in the mirror. Apparently, Officer Mitchell had chosen to overlook the second infraction of the precious seatbelt law. The black and white cruiser suddenly made a U-turn, and slowly disappeared over the horizon. The man behind the wheel of the pickup smiled to himself. He’d won - again.

Retrieving the ticket from off the dash where he’d thrown it without even looking, his eyes scanned the paper, searching for the dollar amount. Near the bottom, he spotted it. One hundred fifty dollars! He frowned. The fine had been raised. An episode like this used to only cost him ninety dollars. He’d have to remember that the next time. The extra money had to be worth another insult or two. Not that he actually planned on paying it. He wasn’t stupid enough to give them his real identification.

The game was ultimately pointless, but it served as a form of stress release. A way to vent his frustration at the sorry state of affairs in America. He missed the good old days. Back when cops went after real criminals and freedom actually meant something. When liberty was appreciated and people believed in the idea. Believed in it strong enough to fight for it. Not just militarily, but simply as a matter of principle. Freedom in America was slowly fading, quickly becoming a relic of the past. Seatbelt laws were only one example, but they were a striking indication of the trend in modern society, both with the passage of such a law, and the willful acceptance of that law by the public.

The safety factor. That’s what he called it. Attach any legislation, any restriction of freedom to safety, and gullible, safety-crazed people went for it.

In recent years, the movement had transcended petty feel-good regulations, and was now prevalent in the highest halls of the nations government. The terrorist attacks of 9/11 hadn’t helped either. Concerned and worried for their safety and the well-being of their children, Americans in general, readily embraced the resulting asinine legislation of the Patriot Act, as well as the various subsequent bills in Congress. Legislation, which when it became law severely restricted and limited the freedom of the citizens of the United States. Of course, the terrorists were not bothered, that would be profiling.

And that’s why he refused to wear a seatbelt. It was his own personal statement of protest, political and social dissent.

Rounding the corner, turning onto his street, he gulped in surprise at the busy scene of emergency vehicles. A large crowd of onlookers had already gathered. Steering toward the curb, he coasted to a stop and climbed out. Approaching the closest bystander, he asked the lady what had happened.

The Johnson’s came home to find two men loading all their furniture and belongings into a moving van! Right in their driveway! she panted. In broad daylight!

So why are all the people here? he wondered aloud.

Because we all heard the gunshots! the woman exclaimed.

Gunshots?

The woman nodded excitedly. Mr. Johnson shot one of them, but the other one got away.

Yeah, another witness joined in, with a van load of stuff!

"Where are the cops when you need them? the first lady asked.

Probably busy, the man said sauntering back to his pickup. He paused, and turned half way around, Preoccupied with writing seatbelt tickets or something.

CHAPTER TWO

The middle-aged man didn’t feel the slightest bit of guilt that his bout with the cops over seatbelts had possibly prevented the police from responding to the 911 call in a more timely manner. In his mind, it was a matter of displaced priorities by the Police Department. Everyone knows an officer’s time is better spent issuing citations for traffic violations than helping to thwart crime, don’t they?

Wynn slammed the door of the pickup, glad his freedom and well-being wasn’t dependent upon the police. Despite the reluctance of incompetent law-enforcement agencies nationwide, measures were being taken to keep America safe and the country’s freedom intact. And he was the sole representative. While the literally thousands of police departments and other law enforcement agencies concentrated on seatbelt crimes, he fought against a more genuine threat - the threat of terrorism. As a secret weapon of the government, he worked to keep the radical ideas of terrorism and the hate of Islam outside America’s borders. Authorized by the government, his services were legitimate and legal, sort of.

Born Wynn C. Garrett, the C stood for Chester, to Clyde and Louise Garrett; he’d been raised as a military brat. His father had served his country admirably for thirty-five years in the U.S. Army. At age eighteen, Wynn had crushed the old man’s hopes of his son following in his footsteps, when he’d announced he would not be joining the Army, or any branch of the military for that matter. He’d very patiently, he thought, explained that while he had nothing against the armed services and applauded what they did, he couldn’t be a part of it. If it became necessary he’d gladly join and fight for the country, but he’d seen too many cases; heard too many horror stories, to join, just for the sake of joining. Drill sergeants who reveled in humiliating and demeaning the privates, and the utter stupidity of arrogant commanders giving absurd orders, which soldiers were supposed to unquestionably obey, just wasn’t for him. He had a brain, and it worked quite well. The military didn’t want people who could think, they wanted zombies. He wasn’t interested.

His father had never mentioned it, but he could tell the man was extremely disappointed. He doubted his dad had ever really forgiven him. And he’d never know now, both his parents had passed away more than ten years ago. His father had taken his disappointments and opinions to his grave.

After leaving home, Wynn had bummed around a while, and then landed a job managing a small restaurant. Soon, the thrill and challenge of that was gone and he moved on. A forklift operator, a janitor, and even an insurance salesman for a few months. He’d kept busy, and was able to live a lifestyle on the high side of middle-class. And that suited him fine.

Along the way, he had met a woman. Jennifer Brody. He’d fallen deeply in love, and mistakenly believed she felt the same about him. For a while, she’d appeared to share his dreams of a life together. They’d been engaged and he’d purchased the two-story Victorian-style house, where he still lived, in expectation of raising a family in the quiet suburb.

Then his world came crashing down when three days before the wedding, Jennifer had called it off. Without explanation, she’d told him she could