The New Americans

By Kyle C. Fitzharris

Michael Mick McCann spent ten years of his life in a Belfast political prison for his active involvement with the Irish Republican Army. Although now free from captivity, McCann is not yet free from the IRA. He no longer wants anything to do with the organization, but they wont let him loose until he fulfills one final mission.

McCann is sent to Los Angeles, where he has been assigned to protect Ciara OMalley, the daughter of a powerful IRA general. Ciara, a Red Cross Aid Worker, places children orphaned by the devastating Indonesian tsunami with American host families; compared to McCann, shes a saint, and he figures his final assignment will pose no problems.

Unfortunately, fate is a cruel mistress; McCann arrives in LA to find that Ciara has been kidnapped by the ruthless Russian mob. Desperate, he soon enlists every gang-banger and criminal he can find to rescue Ciara. The City of Angels may break out into explosive battle if McCann doesnt move quickly. This is his last chance at freedom, a clean slate, and redemption.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jul 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781475991055

Kyle C. Fitzharris

KYLE C. FITZHARRIS is an American novelist, screenwriter, and the best-selling author of political thrillers, The Eighth Plague and The New Americans. Fitzharris worked intelligence in Central America and Mexico and led a task force of eight federal agencies. His efforts helped indict international conspirators responsible for drug smuggling, money laundering, murder-for-hire, and terrorist funding. In 2012, Fitzharris was handpicked by the U.S. Secretary of Defense, Leon Panetta and nominated by the Joint Chiefs of Staff as well as the Department of Defense to the prestigious JCOC & DOCA. He was honored further by being tasked with the mission of bringing greater attention to Wounded Warriors, as well as creating awareness of the struggles facing the families of deployed and post-deployed men and women of the U.S. Armed Services. His upcoming thriller, Scorched, centers on a Wounded Warrior amputee fighting the effects of PTSD while racing to stop cyber terrorists bent on starting World War III. Fitzharris resides in Southern California. HARRY STEDMAN, one of nine brothers, spent the first 10 years of his life growing up and working on his father’s farm in Kansas. As a young adult, Harry spent four years in the Air Force and then eight years in mechanical and electrical training and servicing equipment, most of which was at Vandenberg AFB, in the early days of missile development for the space program. He then had the opportunity to get into the horse business and he never looked back. Work ethic is a must if you make a living farming and raising livestock and it’s also important in the breeding and training of Bloodstock horses, which Harry did for over 30 years. His most enjoyable part of working with horses was training the young horses. While a trainer is putting miles, that translate to hours, on a horse for the purpose of conditioning and then later to create muscle memory, one has a lot of time to think… which is when the ideas for the characters and story in this novel came to Harry.

Book preview

THE

NEW AMERICANS

A Thriller

KYLE C. FITZHARRIS

iUniverse LLC

Bloomington

THE NEW AMERICANS

A THRILLER

Copyright © 2013 Kyle C. Fitzharris.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

The New Americans is available at retail bookstores like Barnes & Noble Booksellers, online at www.barnesandnoble.com, www.amazon.com, or other online bookstores. For more information on The New Americans, The Eighth Plague, or the author, Kyle C. Fitzharris, please visit www.kylefitzharris.com

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4759-9107-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-9106-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-9105-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013908570

iUniverse rev. date: 6/17/2013

Disclaimer: The use of the great seal on the cover is in no way is an endorsement, sponsorship, or approval by the United States Government or by any department, agency or instrumentality thereof and is in accordance with the guidelines of Title 18, Subsection (a) of § 713.

Contents

PROLOGUE

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

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 47

CHAPTER 48

CHAPTER 49

CHAPTER 50

CHAPTER 51

CHAPTER 52

CHAPTER 53

CHAPTER 54

CHAPTER 55

CHAPTER 56

CHAPTER 57

CHAPTER 58

CHAPTER 59

CHAPTER 60

CHAPTER 61

CHAPTER 62

CHAPTER 63

CHAPTER 64

CHAPTER 65

CHAPTER 66

CHAPTER 67

CHAPTER 68

CHAPTER 69

CHAPTER 70

CHAPTER 71

CHAPTER 72

CHAPTER 73

CHAPTER 74

CHAPTER 75

CHAPTER 76

CHAPTER 77

CHAPTER 78

CHAPTER 79

EPILOGUE

PRAISE FOR THE NEW AMERICANS

Kyle Fitzharris has done it again. His new book, The New Americans is his best novel yet. It literally starts out with a bang and never lets you go! His writing is so visual, and being a cameraman for a living, I can really appreciate his descriptions, and deep dynamic writing that are in this book. He takes you into the characters minds and makes you feel you are traveling the world along with them.

— Stephen Campanelli, Director/Cameraman- J. Edgar, Gran Torino, Million Dollar Baby, Changeling, Space Cowboys,

& over 87 motion pictures

A chilling, frightening side of L.A. you don’t want to believe exists is vividly brought to life by Kyle FitzHarris in this engaging page turner.

— Kirstin Wilder, VP/Managing Editor, Variety

Kyle Fitzharris did an excellent job with this novel, I couldn’t put it down. The action is cover to cover and the characters are outstanding and truly believable. The conflicts that develop between the Latino Gang, The Russian Mob and IRA remnants are intriguing, suspenseful and memorable. This book has the potential to become a major blockbuster movie!

— Roger Burlage, Former CEO of Live Ent., Former President of New World Entertainment/Marvel, Creative Director for the best seller: The 911 Report: A Graphic Adaptation

"Kyle Fitzharris didn’t obtain his expertise in a weekend ride-along, he lived it! His experiences are reflected in his writings. His latest action-packed thriller, The New Americans, delivers a powerful punch. Buckle up and hang on."

— Bob Hamer, FBI (retired) Author of THE LAST UNDERCOVER, ENEMIES AMONG US, and TARGETS DOWN.

"The New Americans is extraordinary, riveting and full of suspense. From beginning to end, Fitzharris pulls you in, gives you a bite of the suspense apple, but never let’s you go… Fitzharris’ first novel, The Eighth Plague was great, but The New Americans is even more gripping – I cannot wait for the big screen debut."

— Dr. Valarie J. McCall –Government Executive,

City of Cleveland, Ohio

I love this book! The New Americans is a fast paced, action packed, intriguing, even frightening thriller you won’t be able to put down. Kyle Fitzharris did a phenomenal job creating vivid characters and allowing us into their minds and into the dark underworld of Los Angeles and beyond. This book HAS to be made into a movie, it’s too good not to!

— Bas Rutten, UFC Heavyweight Champion, 3-time King of Pancrase Champion, Actor, TV Host

"The New Americans is my kind of thriller! It kept me guessing with each plot twist and turn and I especially liked the international cast of characters and how they all coalesced in their world. I read a lot of thrillers, but The New Americans is my new favorite!"

- Anonymous, OSD, DOD the Pentagon, Washington DC

"Kyle Fitzharris is such a great storyteller in that great tradition of Irish storytellers…his insight into the Irish and Russian mobs in this country and internationally is fascinating …The New Americans grips you by the throat from the beginning and doesn’t leave go… "

— Timothy V Murphy, Actor, The Lone Ranger, Sons of Anarchy, Appaloosa, Shallow Ground, National Treasure: Book of Secrets, Criminal Minds, CSI LA

Amazing mental illustration that Kyle Fitzharris has brought to us through his writings. You are able to capture his experiences and different living conditions that you didn’t even know existed. The New Americans is a must read… and when a motion picture comes out it will be a must-see!

— Jesse Nicassio, CEO, Juke Performance, Former NFL Athlete, Inventor of the Mass Suit

To Áine - who lifts me up everyday, shows me the joys of life, and loves me unconditionally…

PROLOGUE

THE SUBDUCTION MEGATHRUST DEEP within the Sumatran Trench manifested itself on the surface of the Indian Ocean as a mere belch from Poseidon. The vertical displacement of seawater above amounted to just inches, but below, a Kraken had been released that would rush, at nearly mach speed, to dispatch a quarter of a million souls.

This part of Asia was unique in many ways, not the least of which was the latitude and longitude of the Indonesian Archipelago’s Island of Sumatra. A few degrees north of the Sunda Strait, just south of the Strait of Malaca, flanked by both the South China Sea and the Indian Ocean, it laid smack dab in the middle of the Equator. Sumatra was an easy kill.

This night, Srivajaya, a humble bayside villager, would put the final touches on his Wayang Kulit Prince and Monkey King. He was a master Shadow Puppet maker who used a white cloth background and the fire he’d made from dried palm fronds on the beach to illuminate his creations.

While Srivajaya finished stretching the water buffalo hide and dabbing gold flake on his masterpieces, the other villagers prepared for the great feast that approached. All manner of food and tropical fruit was dried, roasted, and jerked. The excitement in the air was palpable. But first things first: evening prayers and the giving of thanks for the blessings of Buddha, even some to Mohammed, as the Malay did religiously.

The gentle tropical breeze caused the long dugout fishing boats to list slowly like a hand rocking a cradle, and on the beach the tinkling of bells and tiny chimes at the end of fishing lines signaled another eel or shark.

The evening waned, and as so, the villagers would soon be asleep to dream of their holiest day of the year. Yet this night’s dreams would not come, because by dawn’s break, the Asian and Middle Eastern developers would smile an evil smile while the Indonesian government would feign grief for the untold loss of life.

Officials would smirk in anticipation of the fortune in illegal payoffs and bribes that would come from finally being rid of the squatters that could not be formerly moved by violence or intimation of any kind.

The prime seaside real estate would now go to the greedy, ruthless, bankers and investors. After all, the successful plunder of over 48% of Sumatra’s Tropical Rainforests had not only yielded huge dividends, but also brought millions in donations for the now endangered Tiger, Rhino, Orangutan, and Elephant species. The corrupt couldn’t ask for better disasters: earthquakes, fires, civil war, and the greatest of these about to be bestowed upon them this night.

Srivajaya and his wife had already placed their young children in hammocks strung between each corner of the makeshift shanty and blessed their heads. He had thrown wet sand onto the fire for a dead out, and carefully aligned the colorful paints and dyes for his shadow puppets on a flat spot on the beach. He was just about to retire for the evening when he felt a strange, dizzying pressure in his ears. He turned toward the source, and witnessed a horrifying scene the likes of which he had only seen once before as a boy. Water began to rapidly recede from the bay, revealing only bare sand for over a mile out to sea.

Then, as suddenly as it had raced away, a great dark beast arose from the sea blocking even the glow of the large harvest moon. Not believing his eyes, he glanced higher to check the stars and gain relation to the sky, but the darkness now enveloped the stars as well.

A gasp slipped past his lips as he instinctively took a step backward. Then Srivajaya spun around to warn his sleeping family. He wanted to scream but no words came. The monster was too great, too dark, too fast. Srivajaya never took a single step.

CHAPTER 1

THE EARLY MORNING MIST lingered over the quiet green fields adjacent to the flats as the first graying lights of morning crept in.

Although the Belfast projects were dingy from the damp moss that covered the buildings, the emerald tinted Irish grey-green stone walls looked elegant as the mica flakes twinkled in the advancing dawn light.

The streets were empty, with the exception of the occasional stray dog, and the unmarked police car looked like any other car on the street that early morning, except for the two silhouettes inside.

The Royal Ulster Constabulary (RUC) primarily represented the British Protestants in the community, but had established dominance over the majority Catholic populous as a brutal and dictatorial police force. More paramilitary than peacekeepers, they were tasked, among other duties, to locate and capture Irish Republican Army soldiers through any means possible.

British Intelligence officer Charles Tetley waited patiently, sipping his coffee from a paper cup as his partner, Louis Smythe spied through a pair of binoculars.

A light rain obscured his view, and the developing fog on the inside of the windshield from their breath wasn’t helping, either. Smythe rolled down the passenger side window ever so slightly to balance out the air pressure and temperature inside the vehicle.

The rain had already glazed the bricked street in front of a stone duplex Smythe had trained his sights on.

Any sugar? asked Smythe.

Nope! Tetley responded as he looked around the empty paper sack.

You know I need it for my bleed’n coffee! Smythe barked.

Tetley turned toward his partner, Forget the sugar, what are you so keyed up about? Relax, we’ve done this hundreds of times, he said in a calming voice.

A two-way radio cackled to life. Smythe nearly jumped out of his seat. Tetley looked over at him again.

What the hell has gotten into you?

A man’s voice burst out of the tiny speaker, Hold on position – GREEN is GO – Repeat, GREEN is GO!

Tetley tilted his head to look out of his window and saw a military helicopter hovering over the ghetto housing project. Today was exciting because the British Special Air Service (SAS) was on his joint task force to raid a suspected IRA safe house. He was quite chuffed with himself, as he was team leader and ultimately in charge of the specialized brigade. It had been put together due to his tenacity and diligence, which really amounted to the threats and pressure he’d put on his CIs and other local informants. Yet, it was quite the promotion for an inspector in his mere 30s, and as such, endeared him to both his superiors and his intelligence community colleagues. He really needed to land this big fish.

Tetley glanced down at the manila folders on his lap that read: DOSSIER and opened the top file. It was well organized with photos clipped to the left side and corresponding documents on the right.

Michael McCann, Lieutenant, he said quietly. Smythe glanced over as well as Tetley read on. They both took the opportunity to familiarize themselves with their subjects.

He flipped the next few folders, Tony Murphy, Billy ‘Hammer’ O’Brien, Peter Morrissey, he snickered.

What cliché Irish names, Tetley laughed to his partner. He held up the file, but Smythe had already turned his attention back to surveilling. Tetley closed the file and looked out the window at the prelude to the day’s entertainment.

In his side view mirror an Armored Personnel Vehicle roared into the quiet neighborhood.

Right on time! Tetley grinned. The APV stopped at the edge of the complex as soldiers deployed quickly, spreading out to their assigned grids. From there, they hopped fences, rolled over stonewalls and began to scour the back and side yards of the dilapidated buildings.

A young soldier clumsily stepped on a small child’s toy that lay on a tiny landing. All movement froze. Four SAS Commandoes quietly maneuvered from the flank into single file position with automatic weapons at the ready in front of the other soldiers. They shot to the entrance of the nondescript apartment and reconnoitered.

The Captain nodded his head and flashed his green light toward his men, then at Tetley and Smythe. They quickly exited their unmarked car and hoofed it across the street, crouching behind a hedgerow near the home interspersed within the battalion.

Tetley’s voice could be heard in everyone’s earpiece, Hit ‘em, hit ‘em now with everything!

The four commandoes raised their guns and each fired large mortar-like shells through the windows. Instantly tear gas and smoke grenades breached the interior of the home. More canisters flew into the already smoke-filled flat. Tetley smiled as the fireworks began, perhaps pondering about what his future held. He was a very ambitious man who knew where he wanted to end up, but wasn’t sure how to get there. However, this would be a giant steppingstone.

We’ll be home for tea, he chuckled to Smythe who was still fidgeting like a child with ADHD.

Four SAS soldiers retreated to the front gate and began spraying the house with automatic gunfire. The bullets ripped through the door and aged mortar of the exterior, pulverizing stone, steel and most likely, flesh. Not to be outdone, the RUC soldiers began firing into the home in kind. This would soon become a cluster-fuck of unimaginable size.

A small fire had erupted from the incendiary devices burning the carpet and drapes and anything else flammable in the home. Tetley and Smythe watched safely from over the wall as the house was quickly set ablaze.

That should sort the rest of those bastards out, Tetley said, titling his chin higher in a Romanesque fashion. Smythe dutifully nodded, but didn’t seem to possess the bloodthirsty desperation as his partner had this day.

AAAAHHHH! Screams suddenly poured from the home. Neighbors around the ghetto began to shoot to their windows as they could only helplessly watch the horror unfold.

Then suddenly, a large sport utility vehicle crashed through the garage door of the adjoining duplex and barreled out into the street, taking more than it’s share of refuse bins, lampposts, and stone pillars. Tetley had not seen that coming.

Tetley could tell from his dossier photo the driver was Peter Morrissey, one of McCann’s underlings. He was hardly worth the effort as his inexperience had barely put him on Tetley’s radar. McCann was real prize, and Tetley could now see his prey riding shotgun. In the backseat, he could see Hammer and Murphy through the cheap, European window glass. Check, check and check. Tetley signaled with his hand for the commandoes to redirect all their firepower toward the vehicle.

Morrissey fishtailed and skidded, jumping curbs, seemingly to draw fire away from the second home that was now engulfed in flames. The truck shot past the SAS unit as they hauled ass through the center of the gauntlet. Stepping from behind a hedgerow, Smythe rose in front of the speeding truck, took aim with his pistol and double tapped, shooting young Morrissey in the upper torso, then continued to spray the truck with bullets until his magazine was empty.

The truck swerved erratically sending everyone in its path diving for cover. Everyone that is, except for one. Caught off guard, Smythe stood frozen like a deer in the headlamps. The damaged truck careened out of control and slammed hard into Smythe, catapulting his now broken body high and far. He landed hard with a thud a dozen yards away. The truck gasping to right itself, spun sideways and flipped out of control end over end, only stopping when it finally crashed into the army jeeps that were blocking one of the road exits. The collision punctured the lower carriage and caused gallons of petrol to spew everywhere. Amid the heat, bullets and friction, suddenly, the SUV ignited. A fireball quickly rose from the wreckage as black smoke and metal flew skyward.

Tetley, watching as his partner sail through the air, could only run to Smythe’s limp body to triage. He shoved his index and middle fingers deep into the side of Smythe’s neck. Nothing. He stared into the lifeless eyes. Tetley grimaced, then gently closed his eyelids with the palm of his hand.

The soldiers rapidly advanced toward the wreckage in standard four by four formation. Murphy and Hammer, both injured and bleeding, managed to quickly crawl from the truck and dart through the black smoke and flames, eyeing freedom in the form of a neighboring hedgerow. Suddenly remembering, Murphy reached back into the burning vehicle and managed to grab two black canvas bags. In all the confusion and blinding chaos, they managed to escape over the wall and into the depths of the bleak Belfast alleyways unnoticed — their partners would not be so lucky.

Bloodied and battered and hanging upside down in the front of the burning truck, McCann reached over, unbuckled his belt first, then grabbed the boy. He pulled and yanked until they both made it through the hole in the jagged broken passenger side window. McCann pulled with all his might and dragged Morrissey’s bullet-ridden body from the twisted steel.

We surrender, don’t shoot, we’re unarmed! I’ve an injured man here! McCann yelled as he struggled to hold upright his young friend’s bleeding body. The soldiers advanced and rushed in to draw down on the two.

We sure gave those Brits a run fer their money, didn’t we, Mick? Morrissey coughed as blood filled his mouth with each breath from the holes in his lungs. Just then, an SAS soldier stepped forward, flipped the toggle from Semi to Auto, and began spraying Morrissey with bullets. The blast had such an impact it tore the teenager from McCann’s arms like a demon on high and sent them both in opposite directions. McCann slowly opened his eyes as he lay on the wet road. Dazed and bloodied, he slowly attempted to stand with fire now in his eyes as brain matter covered his face.

You bastards! McCann yelled.

But before McCann could swear revenge for the murder of an injured, unarmed teenager, a huge explosion tore apart the home he’d just come from. McCann quickly jumped to his feet, spun around and began to run toward it. But he couldn’t escape the barrage of bullets and was knocked to the ground a second time as the soldiers surrounded their kill. From behind one of the commandos, Tetley slowly appeared, grabbed the soldier’s rifle, raised it high so as to be as conspicuous as possible, then brought it down hard onto McCann’s head.

CHAPTER 2

RILEY WAS ALWAYS GRUMPY after an international flight. He never slept, was always dehydrated, looked like crap, had a three day old beard that was more grey than brown, and his ass was so numb, he could barely feel it when he stood up.

The only glimmer of hope, Riley thought, was there had been no terrorists on board or any bomb threats… this time. He never underestimated his luck and if he were to ever take it for granted, he knew the pooch would be thoroughly screwed.

As Riley rose from his middle seat, or the coffin as he called it, he stretched his stiff and throbbing back and knees, reached up to retrieve his laptop bag from the overhead bin, then suddenly caught a glimpse of something heavenly.

A few rows ahead was a gorgeous redhead that was newly tanned, freckles and all, and at an optimal breeding age. An evil grin spread across Riley’s lips.

Slyly, he sidled up a few folks behind the redhead as he pretended to check for new texts on his iPhone. That’s odd, he thought, a young beauty not glued to her Crackberry. What was wrong with this one? Afterall, he was a crazy magnet, and as yet, no red flags were flying. Riley was getting a little insulted as she hadn’t yet felt his magnetism and turned to look his way. Okay, Plan B. He began to gently push his way through the crowd waiting to disembark, but realized quickly he wasn’t going anywhere. Shit, a mass of Asian tourists. This could seriously fuck up his day. Riley knew he and his fellow Americans were considered amateurs when dealing with crowd control by meager Western standards. The sheer number of people that your average Asian had to deal with on any given day in Tokyo, Hong Kong, or Taipei was mind-boggling. From Riley’s face, it looked as though he had long known they were better at advancing through blockades of human flesh and could always get away with it by smiling and ignoring everyone completely.

Have a nice a trip, a male flight attendant said to the striking redhead, yet seemingly more interested in Riley’s approach. Riley peered his eyes as to just make out his name badge: Tim Kesick.

Y’all watch your step, now, he continued. As Riley got closer, the male flight attendant straightened up, partly perhaps because Riley may have reminded him of his father in some way, and, it seemed, partly to impress. This passenger was one of Tim’s favorite eye-candy, but Riley had other ideas as he was chasing different prey.

Thank you for flying with us, Mr. Riley! Tim said beaming in anticipation there would be a reaction.

Take it easy, Timmy! Riley said as he lightly smacked the steward’s shoulder as men do. Riley flew a lot, and although he wasn’t gay, the pink mafia loved his ass. And Riley had NO problem with that. This kind of acknowledgment meant better meals, more pillows and the occasional upgrade. It paid to be nice.

Oh well, Tim sighed to Margaret, his colleague, I didn’t get the tickle, but I got the slap this time! Margaret gave him a disapproving look then broke out in laughter.

The redhead had just begun her stride up the jet way when Riley saw his chance. An older woman had dropped her purse and, as protocol dictated, someone would have to help her — someone, but not Riley.

A bottle-neck was just beginning to form when Riley, like a Dale Earnhart, Jr. or any decent NASCAR driver, faked right, then juked left and slid his ass hard against the left hand rail to pass—checkered flag! Still, momentary guilt struck the lapsed Catholic hard.

What the hell am I doing? Riley thought to himself. I’ve got a girl back in D.C. I can’t be chasing skirt, especially with my track record. He’d once been accused of being a sex-addict by an old girlfriend, but Riley knew he was just horny, all the time. Maybe it was just abnormally high testosterone levels. Whatever.

Nope, she’s just a cute girl, no reason to — he suddenly remembered he had a pair of balls and quickly changed his thought process. Hey, I travel hundreds of days a year, and hell, I may be no Tiger Woods, but this is Los Angeles, damn it. He had to justify it to himself. After all, a man may be simple, but Goddamn it, we have needs.

Riley burst out of the tunnel, into the terminal rotund and merged with the mass exodus toward baggage claim.

She’s got to be at the escalator, he chanted his mantra like some brainless Jihadist thumbing his prayer beads before a suicide attack.

The luggage carousels were in a sequence separated by glass doors and when looking down the line, reminded Riley of widened train cars. He scanned the entire area in baggage claim one, then briskly walked to two, and then walked all the way to where his flight ultimately dumped their packs.

A crowd had already gathered around each carousel, and Riley’s patience was wearing thin, as he had not yet reacquired his target. She’s my new muse, he thought.

He arrived at his spot, strode up, took point, then stood shocked as he saw the same group of Asians he had already passed waiting patiently for their bags. How the fuck did they get here before me? Feeling a combination of dejection and exhaustion, Riley propped himself up against a concrete column as he knew he was in for a long wait.

Slowly, his chest deflated and he began to relax for the first time since Banda Aceh. Whether it was the fact that he was finally back on U.S. soil, or that he could temporarily forget about the Post-Traumatic Stress he’d been suffering from his last assignment South of the Border. Either way, Riley just took it all in. Phew, he exhaled a long breath.

His eyes took inventory as he scanned the airport terminal. Look at them all, he pondered. White, Black, Asian, European, Croatian, African, that guy’s definitely Venezuelan or at least Brazilian with that metro walk. Salwar kameez, sarees, that burka looks scary and that one, whoa, there was some serious inbreeding in that family.

Nowhere else in the world, Riley thought, has such real diversity… nowhere. He’d been to Paris, Cairo, Cape Town, Sophia, you name it, Riley covered it, and the U.S., particularly L.A., was the real melting pot of the world.

As Riley stood uncharacteristically transfixed, almost hypnotized, a sweet voice suddenly ripped him from his daze.

Oh, I’m terribly sorry to bother you, but could you tell me if this is the luggage roundabout for flight Double 3-7?

From over his shoulder, Riley turned to see none other than the redhead he’d been stalking.

Yeah… I mean, yes, this one’s for flight 337.

Riley stuttered a bit like a schoolboy caught staring too long at his sixth grade teacher’s angora sweater. He knew he had to recover and recover fast. The redhead was shorter than Riley, but not by much which meant she was strikingly tall and slender. She was right up Riley’s alley, which, surprisingly, wasn’t hard to be, if you had breath in your lungs and a nice pair of tits. She had crystal-blue eyes, sparkling white teeth and smiled so genuine and meaningful, Riley knew right off she was no L.A. native.

As he raced for a strategy, he leaned forward, but lost his balance, grabbing her shoulder to catch himself. Shit! Now I’ve got pervert written all over my face, he thought.

Ah, you’re grand, just grand, she said in a fine Irish lilt. Huh? Slowly, another sly, tightly controlled smile emerged on Riley’s face because now, this was his house.

You’re Irish - hmm, and by the accent, I’d say Northern, maybe Antrim, The Derry – no it’s gotta be Belfast. He knew she couldn’t be from Dublin as Northerners said good or fine, but never grand. Yet something told Riley this girl was from the North of Ireland. The redhead arched her back and seemed momentarily shocked.

You’ve a good ear, yes, Belfast. Riley’s brow narrowed like a cat that was about to eat a canary. His renewed confidence caused him to stand up a little taller, straighten his neck, and extend his hand.

"Riley: Terrance Francis Xavier, but