Plowed

By Vance Hughes

Time is running out and for every decision there is consequence.

PLOWED

U.S. Intel Officer Irene Bonelli's last rendition in Islamabad, Pakistan, ended in a cover up and involuntary transfer back to Langley. She soon learns being assigned to headquarters can't hide the relentless lies and betrayals committed by her own government. After meeting a former asset, she is willingly thrust back into a life of dangerous liaisons and is on the run from a hit squad of rebel arms dealers.

On the edge of discovering the truth, she has become an expendable pawn in a world of conspiracies, money, and ego. Her journey overlaps the murder of her asset, now being investigated by Blake Dower, a veteran homicide investigator – and the man she left behind for a career in the CIA.

Drawn into the quicksand of deceit, Irene Bonelli must now rely on the trust of those she disappointed in the past and come to view a hidden assassin as an ally, rather than an enemy, to prevent the assassination of a world leader. But to expose the evidence in her asset's murder and capture those responsible, she must first inherit the resolve not to kill again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Vance Hughes
• Release date: Jun 15, 2015
• ISBN: 9781513090672

Vance Hughes

Vance Hughes is a novelist by night and sworn investigator by day. With over twenty-six years of law enforcement experience, his skill sets include criminal investigations and intelligence operations and analysis. Hughes brings his in-depth knowledge and training to the pages in a fascinating glimpse behind the people and events inside the police and intelligence communities, which Hughes recreates in vivid color. His stories challenge its characters to make the world a safer place in a fast-paced combination of international espionage, treachery and hidden secrets.

Book preview

Dedicated to those who fight the war at home and abroad so Americans may live in peace.

While this is a work of fiction, specific technical information as well as certain knowledge was purposely omitted or altered. As the enemy learns from their previous mistakes, they will continue to improve upon their actions until defeated.

Thank you to everyone who contributed in this enormous effort. You know who you are and what role you played. To the many civilian and military intelligence contacts and specialized law enforcement personnel, and my editor, I couldn't have accomplished this without your infinite patience and willingness to help.

To Terri: Thank you for finding me. You’re my Wonderwall.

PART I

1

Baltimore, Maryland

Money, ideology, compromise, ego. The former CIA asset had kept one of each in her back pocket.

Streetlights flashed through an open sunroof as the cell phone vibrated between her legs.

Prearranged location. Park in adjacent deck, said her former handler. Use the house phone.

The platinum blond hit END and within minutes, countersurveilled each floor of the parking deck under flickering lights and numerous dark spots. She then hid her VW between a large pickup and SUV. Glancing in the rearview mirror, she straightened her hair and applied lip balm. The woman then clutched her purse as she moved toward the hotel lobby, her strut exhibiting certain victory.

******

Less than sixty seconds later, a black Ford Expedition backed into an empty space. The driver killed the lights.

Dimitru Moscovitz, senior officer with Romania's Foreign Intelligence Service, or SIE, Serviciul de Informații Externe, American Section, motioned to the man next to him while continuing to scan the parking deck through binoculars. We don't have much time. Search her car.

The man walked across the parking deck with hands in pockets, hood pulled over his head revealing nothing more than a set of dark eyes and pointed nose. From his pants waist, he pulled a coat hanger out, twisted it several times then popped the passenger door lock. A sun-bleached coconut air freshener hung from the rearview mirror. Confidence abound, the man searched the glove box and middle compartment area. He tossed a pair of sunglasses, loose change, and old receipts aside. He then backed out and pivoted, peeking over the roofs of the dually and SUV to make sure no one else was around and most importantly the traitor hadn't returned in surprise.

An annoyed Moscovitz continued his watch.

Inside the trunk, Moscovitz’s accomplice uncovered a pocketbook stuffed between a worn spare tire and metal toolbox. He immediately retreated to the SUV and placed the pocketbook between his legs, toolbox on the floorboard.

What is that? Moscovitz asked in Romanian pointing to the toolbox.

What is what?

That.

The man shrugged. A toolbox.

A frustrated Moscovitz waved his fingers for the purse then shook his head with displeasure. The pocketbook contained a worn cell phone case, expired coupons, a small makeup kit, and loose change. He then lifted his rotund frame off the seat and grabbed a knife from deep in his pocket and cut along the inside lining. Nothing.

Dimitru Moscovitz nodded to himself while a dark smirk came across his rotund face. Without worry, he turned to the man and said, We'll put an end to this when she comes out.

******

An hour later, the curvaceous woman appeared from the elevator corridor of the parking garage, her pace now obviously nervous as she clutched a purse under her arm.

There she is, the accomplice said to Moscovitz.

Moscovitz focused a set of heavy eyes on the target, put the SUV in gear, and accelerated slowly.

The woman heard the SUV before it came into view and seconds before the headlamps blinded her. She froze as it came to a soft stop.

Ravina, Moscovitz called as he exited the vehicle, arms open wide.

She knew the voice.

The woman then slowly turned and continued walking. A few feet later and knees buckling, she fumbled for a set of keys at her driver’s door.

Come with us. We must talk, he said.

About what? she asked defiantly.

Moscovitz gestured to his associate.

Get in the car, the man demanded as he sprung from the passenger side of the SUV. He then positioned himself between the motionless woman and her escape.

Ravina Pásztor swallowed and held position. She knew why Dimitru Moscovitz and Yuri Filas had finally come for her. But as she cut her eyes at Filas while slipping the ignition key between her index and middle finger, she relished in the fact she'd succeeded in handing over the damning evidence to her former handler. Ravina then glanced at Moscovitz, who now mirrored Filas at the other side of the VW, hands across his chest, demanding compliance.

Her endocrine system released a flood of cortisol and norepinephrine, increasing her fight or flight response, and keying her senses to top proficiency. Her heart raced as agonizing seconds passed. She had known for a while if caught spying, she would either have to fight her way out or accept an impending death with dignity.

Last chance, Moscovitz said, extending his left hand toward the SUV.

Ravina fixated her blue eyes on the stained floor. Inside, her lungs filled with oxygen while her core body temperature rose. It had now become a battle between mind and body, her mind fighting for options, her body a way to explode with physical force. She’d promised her handler years ago she’d never disseminate information to the enemy, and in return, her handler promised to protect her association with the United States government. But none of that mattered at this point, not even a good cover for action, utilizing the hotel’s solid address as a bonafide. Someone—Moscovitz, Filas or another network of eyes within SIE—had learned of her association with the CIA and now it was up to Ravina to rescue herself.

In an instant, she lunged at Filas with the tip of the ignition key striking him below the collarbone. He winced and fell back.

Ravina tried to rush past Filas but the wide trailer mirror boxed her in.

Filas let go an angry kick to her midsection.

Ravina bounced off the truck and onto the floor.

Moscovitz rounded the front of the VW and grabbed her arms utilizing the chicken wing maneuver, a painful tactic practiced by the vilest of Cold War spies from Moscow to Budapest. Filas pushed Ravina's head downward while Moscovitz lifted her arms higher. Her piercing voice rang throughout the deck before the pain had become too intense from the pressure. Then she stopped resisting. Sobbing, saliva rushed from the corner of her mouth and down her blouse.

With a hard slap to the face, Filas again repaid the Romanian spy for her sucker punch.

Ravina's soft cheek burned from the blow.

Destule! Moscovitz barked in Romanian.

Releasing his grasp, Ravina dropped to the floor.

Moscovitz then grabbed her by the collar, heaved her upward and escorted a limp Ravina to the SUV. Filas then shoved her one hundred and fifteen pound frame into the back seat and positioned himself beside her. Ravina gasped when he pulled her by the hair, then let out a high-pitched scream that ended with a low groan.

Moscovitz snapped up her purse and searched every pocket. Within a few seconds, he located the flash drive her handler had duplicated then erased a few hours before. He raised the hardware and signaled to Filas with a smile.

Filas wrestled away Ravina's sailor coat from her body. Next, he shred off her cotton stretch shirt and when he didn’t located a body wire, threw a plain sweatshirt in her face. Cover yourself.

As the SUV sped toward Washington, D.C., Moscovitz turned to catch a glimpse of Ravina in the rearview mirror. Tell the truth and I let you go.

She didn’t answer.

Who did you meet tonight? he asked. And what did you give them?

Among light sobs, her lips quivered.

Moscovitz asked several more redundant questions but changed the manner in which they were asked. We know what you gave your friend. You have betrayed your country. The people will never forgive you.

Ravina lifted her head and held Moscovitz’s glare. I’m an American now, she replied.

Yuri Filas laughed out loud, then ran a finger down her chest. I'm first, he said, circling his finger around her breast.

Ravina looked away in disgust, physical pain lingering at the slightest movement of muscle.

You no answer my questions? Moscovitz asked.

Ravina held a solemn expression on her swollen face. After a few seconds, she responded but not to his statement, but with a ruse toward an escape. I need to use the restroom.

Moscovitz stole another peek in the rear view mirror then lifted his head for a full visual. You no cooperate with me, I no cooperate with you.

He dialed a number on his cell then pressed SEND.

When the man answered, he said in cryptic language, I picked up the rabbit.

Did you get its food?

Yes.

Good. Now bring her and the food to me immediately. No stops. In the meantime you locate the mother.

My men are working on it now, Moscovitz said. He then hung up and motioned to Filas, who had by now climbed into the third-row seat. Filas searched the floorboard with a mini-flashlight and after a moment found what he wanted.

Ravina sat in silence as the SUV rumbled over an ill-repaired highway for the next thirty minutes. Aware of her pending fate, she peered out the tinted window and viewed the last stretch of America she’d ever see.

2

CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

The thirty-six year old CIA case officer hadn't slept much the night before, every so often while in bed checking her cell for a missed call or text message from Ravina Pásztor. In fact, not a word from anyone Irene Bonelli knew, friends or family, amplifying her loneliness since an involuntary exile from the field.

Within a few minutes to an hour, Ravina had always communicated her location after a meeting. But now a premonition had taken over as if something dreadful had happened to Irene’s former asset. Maybe the decision to meet in Baltimore had been too risky. There were far better and safer ways to pass messages such as at a pre-arranged site accessed by both Ravina and Irene at different times of the day, just like they’d successfully performed dozens of times in Bucharest. But then again, Irene knew they’d be in the gap of surveillance for only a few seconds, the time it took them to make it through the lobby and into the hotel room. Then there would be no microphones, cameras, or eyes watching them, both able to speak uninhibited.

Irene also knew it wasn’t her job to protect Ravina because Ravina hadn’t been on the Agency’s payroll as an informant for two years. And then there was the fact Irene had been forbidden to perform intelligence work in the first place, an order from Director Robert Tate himself.

Now sequestered in the basement at Langley, Irene’s eavesdrop-proof, ex-polygraph office was too far for most employees to venture. In the long hallway, she met the usual musty smell she’d become accustomed to and felt the same cold, damp air greeting anyone who found themselves lost in the maze. Below HVAC piping and hundreds of fiber optic cables hanging from an exposed ceiling, stacked paper boxes and new computers sat haphazardly in the hallway dividing her straight walk.

It was a little after seven o’clock when Irene drifted into her secretary’s office and met the aroma of fresh brewed coffee as she jotted down a note. After slapping the sticky on the monitor and wrapping her hands around her hot cup, she entered her office, pulled the chain to a desk lamp and plunged into her chair. Before shoving her long legs behind the L-shaped executive desk and slipping off her heels, Irene checked her blood sugar. To her, diabetes was God's punishment for life’s mistakes. At thirty-six, she had enough medication to match a senior citizen on their deathbed. High blood pressure pills complemented kidney and cholesterol medication, baby aspirin, and two kinds of insulin, forever linking her to a constant life of self-monitoring. Day-to-day blood sugar spiked and dropped, adding unintended stress on her heart, slowly killing nerve endings and if not enough carbs in her system, she’d drop too low, too fast. Irene was convinced she'd incurred a fraction of irreversible brain damage for every low, hastening debilitation and death.

The dimly lit office was large enough for several people to utilize without bumping into one another. The man who had held her position before found a way to ditch the office relics and replace with tasteful, well-hidden furniture. Cherry bookcases covered often-painted walls, a coffee table sat in front of a comfortable leather sofa. A large area rug included an intricate, mosaic-like field, covering a stained carpeted floor. Near the door, six safe-type combination filing cabinets stood in unison, covered with remnants of thirty years’ worth of cellophane tape, old bumper stickers, and reversible Open and Closed magnetic signs.

Quarantined like a sadistic, flesh eating virus, Irene’s simplistic duties included ordering supplies and maintaining a procurement database inside the world's most mysterious building, hidden from everyone in a windowless office to serve out her punishment. Boring. Beneath someone specially trained to gather intelligence and create a network of sources. Irene had felt like an afterthought even though her clearance remained in good standing after the incident in Islamabad. Instead of throwing an astronomical amount of American money to worthless informants at lavish European hotels and dining at fine restaurants, she had been relegated to the bowls of Langley. Like a politician waiting for a scandal to pass, she would have to finish her penance without accruing an additional black mark. Only then would she be released back to the field like a once-caged lioness.

Wendy, Irene's secretary, shuffled in the hallway. She crossed the threshold into Irene’s office wearing a blue and red patterned dress purchased from her favorite thrift store. Wendy’s strawberry blonde hair was in a noticeable new perm. Irene checked her out from top to bottom, disliking Wendy’s cheap perfume and the fact she always stood less than five feet away when talking. But Irene appreciated Wendy’s genuine personality and solid protection from mid-level managers trolling upstairs.

In a long, southern drawl, the dewy-eyed, fifty-two year old Wendy said, I thought I heard someone in here. Wendy then checked the wall clock and handed Irene a stack of papers while giving her the once-over. Irene's olive skin reflected a woman who hadn't slept in days, light makeup shrouding a set of puffy eyelids under bloodshot eyes. She tapped the desk in a motherly fashion. Didn’t sleep again?

Irene twirled a strand of hair, as she always did when preoccupied. Not a chance. She then moved the subject. Did that blouse I gave you fit well?

Yes, she said with a smile. Wore it to church Saturday night. Thank you so much.

Well, I have plenty more that don’t fit so I’ll bring them in after I clean out my closet.

Wendy said nothing as she repositioned the inbox that had remained untouched since Wednesday of last week. Holding Irene’s note in the air, she said, I’m not sure I have access to CAP.

Irene looked up from the computer monitor and emitted a faint smile. Oh, forget it. I have everything I need.

Irene forgot to call Frank O’Neill, her former supervisor and mentor while assigned to the European desk, to request access to the Contractor Access Program.

The two had remained close since parting ways after her transfer. Irene had felt a change in her friend when she’d run into him several months ago. He called her less frequently and when they did talk, had a distant tone of voice. They hadn’t spoken in over a month, last time nothing more than useless small talk and a declination to a free lunch. Irene couldn’t figure out the change in him. She figured he was over worked, as most managers at headquarters were, or that his wife had threatened him with divorce again. O’Neill had denied there was a problem and Irene, as good natured as she was, believed him. She just wished the old Frank would return soon.

Wendy broke away while her feet squeaked in God-awful sandals and humming her usual love songs. Irene averted her gaze as Wendy turned at the door.

Don't forget the staff meeting this morning. Nine o'clock, Wendy said.

Irene let go a deep sigh. She loved that Wendy had always been her physical reminder, a wonderful secretary who did most of Irene’s assigned work herself. I have a plane to catch. Can you go in my place, fill me in later? Irene then let go a pleading smile.

A plane to catch?

Figure of speech.

Oh, okay. Anything to get out of here. Door open or shut?

Shut.

In the office's quiet elegance, Ravina Pásztor came to mind. The time since she last spoke with her Saturday night had progressed into a day and a half. Did Ravina take Irene’s advice to spend time with friends, remain out of sight until contacted again? Irene hadn’t the answer but her gut told otherwise.

Whether Irene liked it or not, she had become Ravina's close friend over the course of their professional relationship. She recalled Ravina's face before she left the hotel, filled with doubt and concern regarding Max Haldeman, Ravina's boyfriend, a man who by Ravina’s accounts, was all too secretive about his personal and professional life.

The meeting had taken less than twenty minutes with follow up conversation lasting an hour. In her rightful place, Irene held the role of police officer, social worker, psychologist, counselor, confessor, and magnet for intimate conversation, not to mention deploying certain mind tricks to remove unwanted hands from her inner thighs and neck. The best case officers cared for their assets, the recruited agents, using their best tradecraft to protect them. Irene knew she'd failed but in a much different way this time.

Haldeman and Ravina had an argument the night before and this fact rubbed deep into Irene's conscience. Her intuition told her the man had panicked when he learned Ravina had located critical information on his computer as a paid contractor for the CIA. But now the booming ramifications of her intentional trespass meant his livelihood and his future were in peril.

Headquarters had defined Ravina Pásztor as a risk. But to Irene, the young woman was savvy and dignified, someone whose smile could melt the grumpiness away from anyone nearby. Even though Ravina had been a low-level clerk for the Romanian government by day, bartender at one of Bucharest’s most glamorous restaurants by night, Irene insisted Ravina had a knack for eavesdropping on conversations between powerful politicians and mobsters. The woman’s mannerisms, her low, confiding voice in talking to strangers as if she believed every lie they told, and the ability to stand with deceptive tranquility had convinced Irene, and eventually headquarters, not to give up on her. Soon the foundation had been built and after two months of recruitment, Ravina was assigned code name SUNDANCE after her affinity for American beaches.

Nine o’clock had arrived. Irene pushed up in her chair and unsuccessfully attempted to wall off her emotions. She yanked Ravina’s sensitive materials from the desk drawer then hurried out the door on a mission to locate Frank O’Neill.

******

Irene zigzagged through the maze of hallways leading to the compartmentalized sections of the labyrinth inside the New Headquarters Building. Lost more than once after resurfacing into administrative hell, she relished the supportive network; co-workers welcomed her back with handshakes and hugs. They talked about her family and personal life, covered the latest gossip, and if the moment allowed, inquired about her temporary position while reinforcing their support.

By coincidence, she rounded the corner on a second floor hall and bumped into Frank O’Neill at the elevators.

Tall and broad shouldered, the fifty-something manager and savvy case officer wore a gray, pinstriped suit, blue silk tie, and fashionable cuff links. O’Neill had been transferred from his position as chief of station, London, to head the Counterterrorism Center’s Special Operations unit. The move, as O’Neill would have one believe, was a resume builder, but in fact it was nothing more than to placate a demanding wife who wanted him back home.

After attending college, he traveled to Canada and later on, to Ireland while earning a master’s degree in European studies. When he arrived back in the states, O’Neill had answered a newspaper ad for the CIA. Many years later, he accepted the challenge to become station chief in Madrid before London, soon becoming a favorite of Director Robert Tate.

O’Neill had a different style of management than those opposite in rank, a softer approach when supervising case officers, analysts, and managers. He accepted their faults as long as they learned from their mistakes on a single run, rather than afraid to do their job the correct way, thus repeating the mistake, which he never tolerated. He also believed a rush to judgment and complacency would get any case officer killed if they weren't prepared. And they better have perfection when handing assets. Many at headquarters praised O’Neill’s approach to career case officers inside the National Clandestine Service. He taught them how to handle the mental and physical stresses of surveillance while veterans running assets in grimy hotel rooms spoke of him in high regards. Each had gained invaluable knowledge from his training lectures on clandestine operations and appreciated his volunteer work at the Farm in his free time. And those are the reasons Irene had difficulty realizing what she may have said or done to push her confidant away.

O’Neill did a double take when Irene, impish in black dress slacks and a white blouse under a simple cardigan, her wavy, dark hair cascading to mid-back, approached him from behind.

We need to talk, she said.

O’Neill turned in surprise. He then scanned his watch as if he had more important things to do. I have to be somewhere.

She cocked her head in annoyance.

O’Neill relented. All right. What?

I have information about some illegal arms dealing by one of our contractors.

The elevators dinged and a second later the doors opened. O’Neill backed away from the exiting crowd and stared at her for a moment. He then herded Irene to an open area overlooking the lower level. You better not be running anything on the side, he whispered. You’re going after the NLF again, aren’t you?

The information came to me, Irene said, pointing to herself. She then folded her arms across her chest, envelope in hand. You need to see this stuff. She held the envelope out.

Where did you get the information?

SUNDANCE.

He shook his head. Which asset?

The one I ran in Bucharest. Irene raised her eyebrows before it registered with him.

The crazy one? The one who moved to D.C.?

She's not crazy. So coming to America is wrong?

Let me rephrase that. Unreliable.

Her information was always reliable.

He checked his watch again while his shoes pointed in the direction where he wanted to go. Hand extended, he said, I’ll pass it along.

Irene pulled the envelope back and narrowed her eyes as if to say she wouldn’t be rushed, pushed away, not by the confidant who had guided her though the toughest time in her career. I haven’t heard from her since we met on Saturday.

O’Neill rubbed the palm of his hand over the back of his collar length curly hair. You’re doing it again.

What?

Going out of your way to fight the world.

A prolonged blink. Don't try to protect me. I know how to do my job.

Protect you? Flush your romantic idealism. Need I remind you it’s your job to manage spreadsheets, not run informants?

So walk away? She's proven herself before. World Security Group is an Agency contractor, run by a Max Haldeman and he’s smuggling weapons on the black market to Romania for the National Liberation Front. And the fact we have Russia and the Ukraine in a volatile situation.

And how is she connected to this guy again?

Haldeman is her boyfriend. I have a thumb drive with copies of an exchange of money for arms including his passports, driver’s license, other—

He held his hand up and with a shake said, Wait. This sounds like a reality show. It’s a domestic. She's pissed over something and wants revenge.

Irene batted her eyelashes at the lame excuse. Umbriel ring a bell?

No. He let go an apathetic shrug. Sponsorship happens every day. Besides, Romanian intelligence wants us out of their business. Nothing has changed. You know the climate and rules governing our liaisons.

In full vigor, she replied, Where is this risk-aversion coming from? You live in a world of paranoia. The radicals are taking over and we do nothing.

I agree, he said without hesitation. Europe is a transit point and not a target but that's out of my hands. I don't make the decisions.

Dammit Frank, I need access. The NLF is aiding Russian expansion beyond Crimea.

He shook his head. You’re wondering above your pay grade, Irene.

She wrinkled her face. What is your problem? All I’m asking is for you to run some checks.

I can’t.

O’Neill then pivoted and began to walk away.

Irene didn’t budge and held a piercing stare at his back. She raised her voice. So that’s it? She waited a second then added, No help? Nothing?

The words hung in the air until he did a one-eighty and returned as if he wanted to clasp a hand over her mouth. I’m not going down or sacrifice my people for a petty witch-hunt. You better quit while you’re ahead.

O’Neill had never talked down to her. Now he’d done it twice.

Wow. A witch-hunt? Irene mashed her lips and nodded. There you go bringing up the past. Is there something you need to tell me?

O’Neill remained silent.

Irene held an acid gaze and continued. When did you become so weak? Ever since I’ve known you always took chances, stood up to these self-serving bureaucrats around here. Irene glanced off into the distance. She then came back to O’Neill. But I guess when you’re at headquarters everything changes.

It does. I have a lot of responsibility now unlike others.

She cut her eyes back at O’Neill. That’s the whole problem.

He squared his shoulders. What is?

You’re part of management under this cycle of microscopic detail. Since you came back, you’ve been a complete ass. Remember, I saved you a few times too. Don’t ever forget where you came from, Frank. You told me that when I first met you. I was always your friend before and after my debacle. I thanked you a thousand times for helping me in more ways than one. But I can’t understand why you’ve been so distant, as if we never became friends.

Irene let her words sink in for a moment. She’d struck a nerve with the truth. He’d been a fearless supervisor when she worked for him. He had defended his case officers like they were his children, argued with Langley as if it were an inexpensive hobby. Now the stress of additional responsibility wreaked havoc on his psyche. Since he’d returned to headquarters a minimum eighty hour work week became mandatory. He’d recently complained to his peers he resented the fact how middle management handled operations and were afraid of liabilities. The new protocol was to stay out of most operations; if disaster occurred, blame and failure were nonexistent.

Irene had graduated at the top of her class at the Farm and regarded as one of the best case officers in the Agency. She was, however, aggressive and sometimes arrogant. Her male colleagues contended she needed a strong male partner to provide a reality check when needed. O’Neill had been completely at sea in handling her inflexibility.

Over the railing, he scanned the polished marble as if he were caressing the incredulous idea of offering to help Irene. He breathed deep, pinched the bridge of his nose and asked, I know. Maybe I’m not fit for this job. I like the field. Away from here. This place can make enemies between a man and his coffee cup.

Searching for words in an attempt to offer an unconditional surrender, Irene said, Well, the director has faith in you or you wouldn’t be where you are. Everything new must have time to adjust. And he picked the right person to get it going.

A private man, O’Neill rarely discussed his intimate feelings. He believed leaders should be modest in their approach to success, rather than boast about minor accomplishments.

O’Neill returned to the subject. What specifically do you have?

In a fit of optimism, she said, "Shipping

Reviews for Plowed

[Marti Hanba · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Good story line with lots of action. Poorly edited. Would appreciate more character development.