Angels Need Not Apply

By Steven M. Moore

An F.B.I. agents son is murdered, and the case is given to the detectives. It leads to their joining a task force up against the cartel. The cartel's leader has a sinister plan that will make him the illegal major drug provider for the entire U.S., and it involves the two other groups. While The Midas Bomb partnered up Chen and Castilblanco for the first time, they both have separate and independent undercover work in this one, showing they are also effective working alone. The plot twists make this a mystery that will keep the reader guessing, and the action makes this a thriller that keeps the reader turning the page.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steven M. Moore
• Release date: Oct 23, 2016
• ISBN: 9781772420548

Steven M. Moore

If you’re reading this, thank you. Not many people find me...or recognize me as an author of many genre fiction novels. Maybe it’s because my name is too common—I thought once about using a pen name...and probably should have. Maybe it’s because I don’t get many reviews. (It's not hard to write one once you've read one of my books: just say what you like and dislike in a few lines, and why.) I know you have many good books and good authors to choose from, so I’m honored and humbled that you are considering or have read some of mine.You’re here on Smashwords because you love to read. Me too. Okay, maybe you’re here to give someone the gift of an entertaining book—that’s fine too. I love to tell stories, so either way, you’ll be purchasing some exciting fiction, each book unique and full of action and interesting characters, scenes, and themes. Some are national, others international, and some are mixed; some are in the mystery/suspense/thriller category, others sci-fi, and some are mixed-genre. There are new ones and there are evergreen ones, books that are as fresh and current as the day I wrote them. (You should always peruse an author's entire oeuvre. I find many interesting books to read that way.)I started telling stories at an early age, making my own comic books before I started school and writing my first novel the summer I turned thirteen—little of those early efforts remain (did I hear a collective sigh of relief?). I collected what-ifs and plots, character descriptions, possible settings, and snippets of dialogue for years while living in Colombia and different parts of the U.S. (I was born in California and eventually settled on the East Coast after that sojourn in South America). I also saw a bit of the world and experienced other cultures at scientific events and conferences and with travel in general, always mindful of what should be important to every fiction writer—the human condition. Fiction can’t come alive—not even sci-fi—without people (they might be ET people in the case of sci-fi, of course).I started publishing what I'd written in 2006—short stories, novellas, and novels—we’d become empty-nesters and I was still in my old day-job at the time. Now I’m a full-time writer. My wife and I moved from Boston to the NYC area a while back, so both cities can be found in some novels, along with many others in the U.S. and abroad.You can find more information about me at my website: https://stevenmmoore.com. I’m also on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/authorStevenMMoore; and Twitter @StevenMMoore4.I give away my short fiction; so does my collaborator A. B. Carolan who writes sci-fi mysteries for young adults. See my blog categories "Steve's Shorts," "ABC Shorts," and the list of free PDF downloads on my web page "Free Stuff & Contests" at my website (that list includes my free course "Writing Fiction" that will be of interest mainly to writers).I don't give away my novels. All my ebooks are reasonably priced and can be found here at Smashwords, including those I've published with Black Opal Books (The Last Humans) and Penmore Press (Rembrandt's Angel and Son of Thunder). I don't control either prices or sales on those books, so you can thank those traditional publishers for also providing quality entertainment for a reasonable price. That's why you won't find many sales of my books either. They're now reserved for my email newsletter subscribers. (If you want to subscribe, query me using [e-mail].)My mantra has always been the following: If I can entertain at least one reader with each story, that story is a success. But maybe I can do better than that? After all, you found me!Around the world and to the stars! In libris libertas!

Book preview

The Secret Lab (Carrick Publishing, 2011)

The Midas Bomb (Infinity Publishing, 2009)

Full Medical (Xlibris Publishing, 2006; Carrick Publishing, 2011)

Evil Agenda (Carrick Publishing, 2011)

Soldiers of God (Infinity Publishing, 2008)

Survivors of the Chaos (Infinity Publishing, 2011)

For more information, see: stevenmmoore dot com

ONE

October 1, Thursday morning, 4 a.m.

The old Ninja model Kawasaki sped through the sleeping New Jersey shore towns. It was close to 4 a.m. Even the famous Stone Pony was quiet, due to the hour and crisp fall temperature. The man piloting the motorcycle felt the cold but accepted its bite as but another test of his worthiness to perform the Prophet’s work.

There was one car on the road with him, an old Cooper whose driver seemed content to follow a few hundred yards behind him. Fawzi could hear the pounding beat of heavy rock music. Damn vehicle must leak air like a sieve if I can hear the din with its windows closed and over the cycle’s engine . Maybe kids?

He wore a helmet, leather jacket, and boots de rigueur, but it wouldn’t take a Hell’s Angel to know he was not an experienced biker. He soon came to the motel he searched for. It was five blocks from the shore road. He saw in his rearview mirror that the Cooper continued on the main highway. Good riddance.

Frequented in high season by high school and college kids who couldn’t afford seaside digs, current guests were off-season patrons drifting in and out of town—mostly sales people plying their trade along the Atlantic seaboard. He preferred the present solitude—it kept things simple.

They had managed to patch up the old place after hurricane Irene, but it still wasn’t much to look at. In both England and America, extreme weather systems produced by global warming were taking their toll. The current two-day cold snap was exceptional. Peeling paint on clapboard siding reminded him that the Prophet, on a long time scale, needed no help from mere mortals. Everything returned to earth.

He sprayed some gravel turning in and came to a stop in front of unit Number 7. He smiled as he took juvenile pleasure in the swath in the gravel and powering down.

7—my lucky number, thought Fawzi. At least, I hope so.

This meeting was important. Its purpose was to form a pact between two different groups of terrorists.

He pulled the cycle onto its kickstand, went to the door, and knocked. The door had a peephole but no eye appeared. Pros. Eye in a peephole is a target. Nevertheless, he saw with his peripheral vision the slight motion of a curtain. Maybe not so professional.

The door opened just enough to let him enter. Three men were inside. One searched him but didn’t find his only weapon, a thin switchblade hidden in a shoe. They found the package he wanted them to find.

I’m Pedro Huertas, said the one with the cleanest dirty shirt. He took the package to a table where an old hanging chandelier provided some light in the otherwise darkened room.

Fawzi assumed Huertas was their leader. For one thing, he was older, but that didn’t mean much. His hairline had receded and he was missing part of one ear. The eyes were an intense blue that added a chill to his gaze. He appeared to be in good shape.

It’s quality product, said Fawzi. I doubt he’s a user, so he won’t know one way or the other.

I’ll determine that, said Huertas. "Not that I don’t trust you, amigo, but I don’t trust you. You fuckin’ Arabs have screwed me over more than once. Manuel, trae a la niña."

Fawzi spoke Spanish. In fact, he was fluent in most major European languages. Huertas had asked his accomplice to bring the girl. One man left. Fawzi became apprehensive as he heard the door of an adjoining room open. Are there more of them?

Fawzi was an information addict. It was a survival mechanism. Any lack of essential information could mean death. I can probably take these three, but more?

Manuel returned with a young girl. Fawzi guessed she was not even old enough to be a teenager. She wore a dress that was little more than a stained sack and was barefoot. A faded ribbon failed to add any style to her matted hair. Her breasts were not developed and she was emaciated. He recognized the beginning of withdrawal symptoms.

Huertas sat her in a chair at the table and yanked her head up by her hair.

"Dulce Juanita, I’m going to give you what you need, but you gotta tell me if it’s quality stuff. OK?"

She nodded with a smile, but her eyes were glazed over with pain.

Huertas prepared a dose for her, using a candle and spoon. After it cooled a bit, he filled a syringe. After Manuel used a rubber strap to find an injection site—there were tracks along each arm—Huertas injected the drug.

Fawzi watched the change in her as the fix took hold.

"Well, mi puta linda, how was it?" said Huertas.

The best, said the girl. Her eyes were still glazed but Fawzi could see now that the pain was gone.

***

Manuel took the girl back to her room. When he returned, Huertas invited Fawzi to sit.

Well, it looks like we don’t have to kill you after all, said Huertas. He seems disappointed, thought Fawzi. "It’s good stuff. What’s your name, amigo?"

Fawzi, but I’d prefer you use it as little as possible. You should call me Professor Barrett.

OK, Mr. Fuzzy Barrett. Anything to help a business associate. The other men laughed. How much of this shit can you ship each week?

Our business, I’m afraid, is not just about finding a buyer for our excellent product. The buyer also needs to provide a service in addition to funds. We will reduce cost to receive the service.

I can only represent the big guy for purchasing. Anything else you will have to negotiate—in person.

Do you like the product?

Huertas thought a moment and then nodded. You probably noted that Juanita is not an unbiased tester. But I’d say maybe it’s the best. And my word’s good. I’m the quality control engineer.

Again the other men laughed. Fawzi now knew they laughed out of obsequiousness, not because the jokes were good.

Then tell your boss that. I’m ready to meet with him at the time and place he suggests in order to continue our negotiations. We’re willing to cut him a long-term deal at reasonable cost for a little favor in return.

You can’t give me a hint?

No. You don’t think big enough. Presumably your boss will. He gestured towards the package. Give him that if he needs proof. He tossed Huertas a cell phone. There’s one number in the memory. Call it with details on time and place. Then please destroy the phone.

And who do I ask for?

No one. I’ll know it’s you. I have a good memory. And I never forget a betrayal, Senor Huertas. Fawzi said all of that in Spanish.

He turned and walked out the door. As he turned the cycle north again, he didn’t notice the Cooper parked in an alleyway.

***

Fawzi was staying in Paterson but arrived there just as morning rush hour began, so he stopped at a MacDonald’s and ordered two portions of home fries, two egg sandwiches, and a large black coffee.

He ate in a small booth by a window, far away from other clientele. Whites were scarce and most people there were Hispanic. Other fast food breakfast eaters were Blacks and people from the Middle East. In particular, he heard both Arabic and Pashto dialects, but he paid no attention to conversations beyond that.

He looked at his reflection in the plate glass. He was thinking about his role as a teacher.

In England, he was popular among his students. They were mediocre, but there was an interested minority that tried to understand history. As Rufus Barrett, he could rant against the British Empire’s mistakes and problems they had created in the world. As an al Qaeda terrorist of Palestinian origin named Fawzi, his pet peeve was the Brits’ carving up the Middle East in such a way that Palestinians became a people without a country and the Jews, who had no country, received one. In his lectures, he focused on the big picture, not just his little personal piece of it.

The reflection wasn’t flattering. He was getting old. Power struggles were occurring in the al Qaeda leadership. Bin Laden was dead. The Egyptian was old and barely held on to power. The struggle’s center had shifted to Yemen, Indonesia, and the Philippines. The Taliban were not al Qaeda. They are too traditional, too set in their ways, and too ignorant and stupid. Moreover, neither they nor the Iranians are native Arabic speakers. We are too different.

He had spent much of his vacation time and sabbaticals in terrorist camps. That’s where he had met the Russian Lydia Karpov. Her hatred for Russia and the U.S. had been raw and unfocused, resulting from the death of a Chechen lover. He had molded her into a lethal weapon and unleashed her in New York City. She had died in the terrorist attack he had planned.

She had effectively died years before, when the CIA did the Russians a favor by killing Yuri, he thought. Again, he glanced at his reflection. Am I also a zombie? He was wiry and had a build that deceived his enemies. Where others had strength, he had speed. He knew many ways to kill a man and was happy to train his colleagues in the assassin’s black arts.

However, his face was wrinkled, the beard gray. He wore small German style glasses. It was the face of an academic. Not ugly by any means, although he had a lazy eye, but not handsome either. He shrugged. My life has come to this, eating in a McDonald’s, planning where to attack the imperialist dogs yet again.

***

Halfway through his McDonald’s breakfast, Fawzi’s cell phone rang.

The voice on the other end gave a place and time and hung up. He smiled. It’s hard to beat an Arab in bartering, even if they are Mexicans. The problem now at hand was to decide on the best way to travel.

As a respected university professor of ancient antiquities from the U.K., his well-worn passport would cause no raised eyebrows, even though he had made many trips to the Middle East. His new destination might baffle some, though. I need an excuse to visit Ciudad Juarez. A bit of research on the internet is in order.

Leaders of al Qaeda had been impressed with his plan. Its many facets were all positives for the movement. It was win-win-win, as Americans would say. Making money off the heroin was just one win. The others were more important. Yankee ingenuity, indeed. These bastards have met their match.

There was another win even, one that the upper terrorist echelons would never know. He would avenge the loss of Lydia Karpov. He felt no animosity towards the people that killed her, though, only for the country that had made her life so miserable. And mine.

TWO

October 1, Thursday evening, 7:25 p.m.

I popped a Tums and washed it down with tepid java. Somewhere I had dessert. I patted my faded tweed sports coat and found it in the left inside pocket, just below my Glock. I removed the soggy cannoli, unwrapped the pastry, and took a healthy bite.

This is a mess. I was referring to the cadaver of the young boy, not the dessert. What is he, fourteen?

My partner looked up at me, her black eyes narrowing against the dying sun. I didn’t step around to the other side. Dao-Ming Chen always looked good, even at the end of day. Tall, elegant, and often dressed in black, she looked like some retiree from a fashion runway, just not anorexic enough now to continue her modeling. A few extra pounds made her a bit more human than when I had first met her, but she was still the inscrutable oriental.

With the anti-terrorist case just over a year ago, Chen had received a promotion, bringing us to the same level. I had turned down one because I knew the rank of lieutenant usually meant running a squad room and too much time behind a desk.

With those events, the ten years between us disappeared into irrelevancy. Chen was still learning and I was still teaching, but I’ll have to confess she had taught me some things too. I had also learned a bit about her background—it wasn’t that much different from mine, but she kept it a better secret. To many she was a mystery woman. For me, she was my partner, and we worked like hell to solve every homicide case that was given us.

However, I wasn’t getting any younger. Some days a desk job didn’t sound all that bad. I wasn’t happy with sore knees when it rained and increasing acid reflux due to irregular dining hours and unhealthy food.

I was the team’s sloppy member, especially when, late in the day, I’m yanked out of a nice early dinner with Pam, the other woman in my life. Two women who make me a better man, I thought. And they both tolerate my slovenly appearance.

Moreover, I looked out of shape. I’ll admit it—my looks are somewhat cultivated. While fast food, lots of joe, and daily doses of liquor had long ago defeated the conditioning I had enjoyed as a Navy SEAL, I wasn’t in bad shape. Looks can be deceiving, as some perps can testify. It helped that I also knew ways to render a perp helpless, or even kill him, although the latter was not recommended—too much paperwork and a visit to the NYPD shrink were required. Another good quality of yours truly—laziness makes me efficient.

***

I waited for Chen to apologize for interrupting my dinner with Pam. She didn’t.

Freshman here at Bronx Science, she said instead. He stayed late because his father was picking him up for a dentist appointment.

So, as much as I love the Bronx, I said, looking up the famous school’s steps to the mural the students and faculty called the swimming pool, why are we here? And where are his parents, by the way?

A witness saw an old blue Ford Focus take off in a hurry. Happened in between the last class and the time sports teams go home. The kid was a bit of a jock but, like I said, he had a dentist appointment.

I looked down 205th to the parallel stripes of burnt rubber. Drive by, maybe? What’s dad drive?

My computer-nerd partner had already checked, as I’d expected. A blue Ford Focus, she said. I guess he didn’t want to take his kid to the dentist?

Kid’s mom?

Died six years ago from pancreatic cancer. I’ve interviewed some people. Some say father and son took the loss hard, but they have become best friends over the years. She stood. What took you so long?

Traffic’s still bad. And you didn’t answer me. Why are we here? Kennedy doesn’t have enough work for us to do back at the Precinct?

Victims of our own success. Remember, we’re also ‘counter-terrorism experts’ now, not just homicide detectives. She held up two curled fingers from each hand so that I understood the quotes. She was doing her best to be cynical through all that oriental mysticism. Our territory for the former is all the Mayor’s blessed boroughs. And beyond. As honorary members of the Commish’ counter-terrorism bureau.

So, Kennedy thinks this is terrorism? I tried to put incredulity into my voice but the third cannoli morsel muffled it.

Father is Eric Hunter, an FBI agent, local federal terrorism task force member. Cannoli remnants stuck in my throat. I couldn’t swallow. We’re also honorary members. It’s possible, I suppose, that he’s not the perp but the victim. Something wrong?

As I tried to clear my throat, my mind time-traveled back six years….

***

Pam left her keys, remote mike, and PDA on the entrance table, entered the darkened living room, and gave me a smooch. This was at the very beginning of our relationship—before we split up and then later reconciled. I still knew her every move, all her habits, good and bad. Our romance was hot and heavy back then. Now we were more mature, adding companionship and good times to the standard hormonal mix of naked apes.

It’s just after three. She gestured towards bottle and glass. Housework too stressing?

Back then, I often helped with housework on Friday nights and Saturday mornings when Pam Stuart, Channel 7 crime reporter, was busy on the job. That assumed, of course, that I didn’t have homicides to attend to myself. Crimes she reported on were often homicides, but they also were often out of my precinct. Crime was a citywide phenomenon.

Drinking for a friend, I said. Eric Hunter. His wife passed.

She sat down on the couch beside me and gave me a hug. Pour me one too. Let’s talk about it.

I rose, found a glass in the nearby hutch, and blew dust out of it. Her living room and dining room formed an L, but she still didn’t see me do it. I went to the bar and poured her a generous portion. Like a true Irishman’s daughter, she drank it straight without ice—twelve-year-old Paddy’s, smooth and potent. I sat again.

Not much to talk about, Stuart. Shit happens. Hunter is taking it well from what I can see, but he’s hurting inside, I’ll wager. His new religion will help him. He did say he’s worried about his kid. I’m also worried about Bobby.

Hunter, an FBI agent, had been going through a rough time after accidentally killing a child in a skirmish with homegrown terrorists, neo-Nazis who thought it was their parental duty to get their kids involved in the cause. His depression led to a divorce. He sought solace and was in a Japanese Buddhist monastery for a month, planning on five more, when he received the message that his ex-wife was ill. Now, six months later, his ex was dead.

He had stayed by her side all through her illness, so much so that the boy figured they were a couple again. The agent was going to have a tough time being a single parent. The job didn’t lend itself to that—it didn’t even lend itself to a healthy marriage. It was one reason Pam and I later split for a time.

Are you going to the funeral?

It’s tomorrow. I think I’ll go.

Too many, huh? she asked, reading my thoughts.

I don’t mind bad guys dying so much. Often it’s street justice if they go down in a firefight. It’s good guys—and gals—dying that stress me out. Rolando Castilblanco, homicide detective with a heart. How ‘bout that?

It’s one reason I love you. I also see too much of society’s underbelly and bottom feeders that make life miserable for normal people. Some of my colleagues say I’ll develop a thick skin. I don’t think so. She tipped her glass and swallowed a healthy portion. I could see her enjoying the golden burn. Puts things in perspective. Want me to go with you?

"I’d like that. You didn’t