National Security Dad

By Antony Davies

A Movie Length Tale™ from Aisle Seat Books™.

When a highly-dedicated CIA operative returns to suburbia to raise his two daughters, an old enemy and a small army of fanatics follows him, forcing him to fight for his family while protecting the new life he is trying to build.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Aisle Seat Books
• Release date: May 21, 2012
• ISBN: 9781935655657

Antony Davies

Antony Davies is the Milton Friedman Distinguished Fellow at the Foundation for Economic Education and the associate professor of economics at Duquesne University. The co-host of the weekly podcast Words & Numbers, he writes frequently for The Philadelphia Inquirer and the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review, and he also has written for The Wall Street Journal, The Washington Post, Los Angeles Times, and many other publications.

Book preview

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A Movie Length

Action & Adventure Tale

For Readers

13 and up.

Written by

Antony Davies.

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Lyme, New Hampshire

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Copyright © 2012 Antony Davies

All rights reserved.

ISBN-13: 978-1-935655-65-7

ISBN-10: 1-935655-65-5

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012939005

Published by Aisle Seat Books, an imprint of

GrayBooks LLC

1 Main Street

Lyme, New Hampshire 03768

www.Tales2Film.com

www.AisleSeatBooks.com

Electronic Edition

About Tales2Film™ and Aisle Seat Books™

Read a good movie lately?

Every good movie starts with a script, and every good script tells a riveting story. Long before the actors are chosen and the filming starts, a writer sits down, crafts that story, and submits it for consideration by the producers, directors, and other creative talents in the film industry. It can take a long time. A script may spend years making the rounds before getting the elusive Hollywood green light. If it ever does. Some of the greatest movies ever written are ones that none of us will ever see on the screen.

Tales2Film finds the best of those not-yet-produced tales and brings them to you as Movie Length Tales™ just as the writer envisaged them. Each of the tales in this series has been converted by the script’s writer from the technical shorthand of screenplay format into the familiar prose format you see here, a process called novelization.

These little books are not novels, or even novellas. Think of them as written movies. Like the screenplays they come from, each is presented in real time, written in the present tense to allow you to see the movie’s scenes in your mind’s eye as if they were unfolding on a theater’s screen before you.

So. Here’s a movie. Take your favorite aisle seat and enjoy it.

And when it’s over, take a look at out Featured Previews in the back of this book. Your next Movie Length Tale™ is already here...

Now Showing:

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Action & Adventure

Ages 13 and up

Theater lights dim.

Fade in:

On a dusty village street lined with Pakistani traders, the sun beats down, glinting off a huge modern 4x4 as it rumbles by. From the passenger seat, a muscular Caucasian man in his early forties, Dillon Swift, observes it all with an intense focus.

Traders hassle shoppers, hocking fruit, CDs, clothes; men in robes and western dress, women in Islamic veils; children play; a people in poverty, simply getting on with their lives.

The 4x4 thunders on, billowing dust, traders and shoppers shaking fists, yelling. A man in a turban throws a banana.

The banana thumps off the rear window and inside the 4x4 Dillon, the largest of four men, jumps at the noise and says, That guy just throw a banana at us?

The geeky-skinny driver says, Wanna get his insurance?

Pakistan does banana insurance now?

All are American, with loose cotton shirts, cargo shorts, sunglasses. The two in back are broad and athletic, one blond the other dark-haired, grinning silently.

Tom, the thin driver says, Bananas can be a real problem. Splat on the window and suddenly we’re covered in blowflies.

Boyle, the dark-haired one in back, rolls his eyes. You got your shots.

That’s not the point. I don’t want some filthy insect planting its eggs in my skin.

>>

Arriving at Café Qalat, the Americans climb out of their 4x4, swatting at flies. They stand before the cafe labeled in both English and Urdu: a stand-alone modern-looking bar, with outdoor tables occupied by robed men smoking bubbling ‘hookah’ pipes.

This is stupid, says Tom, the geeky-thin driver. They can smell the tourist on us.

McManus, the blond, looks around. We’re white, we’re healthy, we got money. ’Less we put on one of them ninja outfits the chicks’re wearin’, they’re gonna know we’re tourists.

Boyle frowns McManus’s way. Ninja outfits? Seriously?

They look like floppy ninjas. Don’t start on any racism stuff. That’s just observation.

Dillon interjects: It’s called a burka, McManus. If you remember, it was one of Tom’s more hysterical suggestions.

We can still go back, says Tom. I’m sure someone will—

Dillon steps forward, blocking out the sun. This is the place they told us about … This is the place.

>>

As Dillon leads the three Americans inside Café Qalat, six locals, all dressed western-style, lounging on plush, bright-colored furniture, pause their smoking to watch the new arrivals. Dillon removes his sunglasses, approaches the bar, a friendly smile for the traditionally dressed, leathery skinned bartender. Speak English?

The bartender shakes his head. No.

Dillon’s gaze finds a heavy, metal door to the bartender’s right. My friends and I were told Café Qalat serves the best kebabs in all of Pakistan.

No English.

We’d like four lamb skewers with some of that gotdamned delicious mint yoghurt stuff I can’t get enough of, and … Dillon turns to the guys. Anyone for hookah?

That those hinky pipe things? asks McManus.

Right.

Nah.

Boyle says, I’ll try one.

Yeah, adds Tom. Hit me up.

Dillon holds up three fingers to the bartender. Three hookahs and four Diet Cokes.

The bartender says, No speak English.

Dillon indicates a table. Okay if we sit here? He sits down.

The other three join him, watched constantly by the motionless locals. The bartender makes no move to serve them. The locals continue to stare.

Boyle taps McManus’s shoulder. You should try the local delicacy. It’s rude coming in here and not smoke some herb through a waterpipe.

McManus says, I’m eatin’ their dirty lamb sticks ain’t I? Why I need to fill my lungs with crap too?

Tom looks to the bartender and back again. I don’t think the bartender speaks English.

He speaks English, says Dillon.

Tom stands, trots over to the bartender. You speak English.

The bartender just dead-eyes him. No. English. He picks up a glass, inserts a towel.

You gotta speak English. Know why?

No reply.

’Cause if you don’t, that means my pals and I are in the wrong place, which means I got flies on me and dust all in my nose and I’m out in this ungodly heat which, by the way, is playing havoc with my rash—

You still got that rash? says McManus.

Yeah, it’s spreading.

McManus pulls an urgh face.

Tom turns back to the bartender. If you, and none of these guys, speak English, then the scumbag who sent us here is lying, and I’m going home in a bad frickin’ mood.

The bartender leans closer. No. Freeeeking. Eeenglish.

Dillon, at the table, grins mischievously. Now that’s more like it.

He reaches behind his back, under his shirt, and whips out a huge Desert Eagle .50 caliber handgun, stands, aims it right at the bartender.

The locals shuffle, startled, but Tom, Boyle and McManus all produce their own Dezzys, covering the room with military precision.

One local shifts his hand. Dillon covers him. The local freezes.

Tom instinctively covers the bartender. Dillon speaks slowly. We’d like a quick word with Blaine Hadji. Wall Street guy? Enjoys a bit of jihad on the side?

The bartender shakes his head, places the glass on the counter. His eyes meet Tom’s. He taps the glass with one finger.

Dillon says, If he doesn’t tell you in ten seconds, we go in by force.

McManus shifts a little to the side. Shoulda just bombed this place.

Right. These guys pop out for a bit of hookah, and their bar blows up. How’s that work for you?

Yeah, McManus, says Tom, grow a conscience.

Dillon adjusts his grip. "Wasn’t usual chatter we picked up. And I don’t buy that this guy just switched from