Trouble Man

By Thomas E. Gibson

In a chaotic post-war America, Army Sergeant Major Craig Jones has returned home a pariah. Jones, a former Ranger was one of the most decorated soldiers in the Special Services until one strange night his entire Unit disappeared in the town of Fallujah.

Fearing the worst, Jones began interrogating the townspeople and accidentally kills a civilian in the process. For his violation of the Geneva Convention, the army turned Jones over the Iraqi's where he spent three years before the prison was relentlessly attacked by an airstrike which freed hundreds of prisoners. 


 Jones found himself back in his hometown of Chicago, disavowed by his beloved military, homeless, and searching for his wife and daughter who were last seen boarding a flight to the Middle East.

In a twist of fate, Jones is introduced to a mysterious older woman, who hires men with his skills to perform various tasks. Destitute and hopeful of finding his wife, Jones begins work and immediately finds himself in more peril than at any time during the Gulf War.

In his years locked away, the world has become more complex and treacherous. Jones is more than up to task as he is entangled in violent confrontations globally while being hunted by Interpol for the Iraqi government.

Jones quickly learns to cope with his new reality, while uncovering secrets his past and fighting some of the most ornery and clever villain's in the world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lapdog Digital Media
• Release date: Aug 22, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393937890

Thomas E. Gibson

Thomas E. Gibson is an award winning documentary filmmaker and television producer. Gibson has also written for various magazines and newspapers and was a finalist in Playboy’s College Fiction contest in 1991. Trouble Man is Gibson’s debut Novel.

Book preview

Chapter 1: Crisis

The Chicago wind is relentless in the wintertime. It whistles as it slithers between the massive skyscrapers downtown. They call the frigid chill the hawk and for a good reason.

I hadn’t been here in years. But just like I remembered, the city was large and majestic. The people were friendly and rude at the same time. I still hated it, but I don’t visit Chicago to sightsee. I only dropped in from time to time to check on a friend and, as usual, he was late.

I stood outside our favorite café and meeting spot. The wind was sharp as a knife. People were scurrying in search of warmth. I stood there in a daze happy to see movement, to witness life even though the conditions weren’t ideal.

In the war, we learned how to deal with the elements. During the Desert Storm, I nearly died from the heat. Every day the sun beamed down on our heads and not a shade tree was in sight. I adapted. I learned to love the cold weather.

Night time in the dead of winter in Chicago can make a person feel isolated. The later it got the quieter the streets. Finally, he arrived. I could see his large eyes in the distance, his bald head and the long vein that ran down the middle of his forehead.

His name was Barry Shelton. He saved my life during the war not from the enemy, but from myself. He rescued me from insanity. He taught me how to have mental toughness. His stories about the bible kept many in our platoon alive. He was a bit older and wiser than all of us. He was very religious and acted as our chaplain, yet he was one of the toughest motherfuckers I’d ever met.

My brother, how are you? he said, as he gave me a bear hug. It’s good to see you. It has been way too long. We headed inside and grabbed our table near the fireplace. 

Are you still married? Barry asked as he sipped from a café Americana.

Not anymore, I added, Don’t even ask, and laughed.

Life is something else. We talk all the time, yet you have made some drastic changes that I never would have known about without seeing you I said.

Sergeant Major Craig Jones, Army intelligence. When we first were deployed I never thought your scared ass would grow up to be so serious, Barry said.

He reached into his trench coat and poured a shot of Macallan Scotch in his coffee.

Drinking now? I asked. Yes and fucking as much as I can, he laughed.

Well, I take it you are divorced or else you wouldn’t have mentioned the fucking, I added.

I’m getting the fuck out of Chicago and leaving this country. I’m tired of everything, my ex-wife, blah blah blah, he continued to sip on his whiskey-spiked coffee.

Are you ok, Barry? Drinking isn’t your thing, I said.

Nothing stays the same, Craig.

Not when it’s good, does it? I asked. He nodded in approval. The bottle of scotch came out again, but this time I ignored its existence.

Something was strange about Barry. The insanity he saved me from during the war seemed to become his country. He had been a minister who spoke to throngs of people and had lived an exemplary life.

He was an upstanding citizen. Although one can never have enough drinking buddies, his transformation was unsettling. Like always, I began to drift as he talked. I paid close attention, but not to his words. To his mannerisms and inflections.  All those years in Army intelligence kicked into high gear.

Hours passed, and we reminisced about life. I held back a few things. I didn’t want to clue him in on how broke I was and how I was circling the drain of life. Maybe it would not have mattered much as he appeared to be a battle with something as well.

Look, I love you like a brother. I wanted to see you before I skipped town. You know when I go deep undercover I don’t come up for air, Barry explained.

Where are you going and why? I asked. 

"I came into some money. I did a job for this old lady. Her husband is a fucking bastard; she needed somebody to tune his ass up, so I saw him one time when he kissed his mistress good night.

When he came back to his car, I started fucking wailing on him. He was an easy mark. I took his wallet to make it look good. This lady paid me fifty thousand dollars to do it," he said.

Now I was scared because this was not the person I had grown to admire and respect.

I took a drink from the scotch that now sat in plain view on the table.

So now what? I asked him.

He laughed profusely. She has another job a good one. It’s going to pay big. I’m leaving. I need to lay low plus I’m not greedy. This fifty thousand will do me just fine, he said, adding plus, I’m sure you could use a few bucks in your pocket.

At the time, I wondered was he a mind reader. All I had in my pocket was three dollars and enough money on my gas card to get my ass out of the city. He passed me the old ladies number on a piece of paper and insisted I do some detective work for her.

I’m not beating this guy up. I don’t want that type of heat on me, I said.

"It’s nothing like that. I did the hard part the rest is up to you. I’m just trying to keep the money in the family.

I told her you would be at her house at 10 a.m. You know old people get up early. Don’t fuck me on this," he took his last swig of the coffee, and we both stood up. 

I’m out of here. You don’t need to know where I’m going just know that it’s far from here, he said.

So, how did you go from missionary to mercenary? I asked. It was about fifty thousand ways it could have happened. We will see each other again soon. Take the fucking gig.

He walked out the door in a haste.

I followed Barry out the door and gingerly walked to my car in the cold wind. It was below zero, bone-chilling cold, but at the time I couldn’t feel a thing. I jumped into my SUV, turned on the radio, drove down to the Navy Pier and parked.

The quiet was overtaking my thoughts that night as I tried to sleep in the car. I looked at the piece of paper, stuck it in my pocket and finally went to sleep.

The next morning, I awakened to a tap on my front driver side window. It was Chicago’s finest.

You can’t sleep here, he mouthed. I motioned to him and drove off.  It took almost an hour to drive up to northern Wisconsin to reach the old ladies house. It was in a remote location. So many thoughts raced through my head. I wondered how did I get to this point in life? When did I become desperate? How did I take the wrong turn at the fork in the road?

I stood outside of her large home in awe. It was beautiful. A white mansion that seemed even brighter and blinding in the snow. I ambled up the front porch steps that were in encased in ice. For a rich person, there didn’t seem like much preparation for the bad weather at her home.

A butler greeted me outside. He was stereotypically snooty yet polite. I walked in and felt like a transient being offered refuge from the weather.

She wants to meet you in the study, the butler said. I followed him as I admired all of the Ansel Adams photos on the wall. She, at least, had good taste. The mansion felt very feminine and didn’t appear to have a male presence other than the uptight butler.

I entered the study. I didn’t see the woman, at first, as she blended in with all of the tapestry and the books. There was a large window in front of me with see-thru white drapes and, like magic, I saw the old lady staring out of the window, cigarette in hand.

Do you smoke Mr. Jones? she asked. No, I don’t, but please don’t mind me, I added.

She took a drag off the cigarette and faced me. She was very old, but not elderly. Her hair was a beautiful shade of white, in her eyes, while everyone else saw a bright blue mess. She reminded me of Mrs. Chancellor from The Young and the Restless.

My husband spends most of his days overseas. He stays in fancy hotels and eats at the finest restaurants while he keeps company with woman after woman, she said.

You come highly recommended. I hear you are a brave man, fearless and adventurous, she said.

I tried to lighten the mood with a small quip, It depends on what day you catch me on, I said jokingly.

I see you have a sense of humor Mr. Jones, she was not amused.

I sat down before her, and she stared me down for nearly thirty seconds without a word.

You were Army Intelligence, yes? she still stared.

Yes, I said.

Her husband was the former Ambassador to Zimbabwe. He left the country when the dollar bill fell next to nothing. There was no reason for the United States to have a presence until the President sorted out the economy.

I’m a writer Mr. Jones, and I’m wealthy. Like my husband, I have my own eccentricities. I’m writing a book about my husband. I want you to follow him. He’s in Africa with some bitch.

It all felt a little weird. I was uneasy in my chair. I felt trapped in a Mickey Spillane novel, but it was real, and I couldn’t believe it, at first.

I want you to watch him and tell me everything he does. I’m writing about his life, so I must know everything.

Excuse me Mrs....what is your name? I asked, as I almost called her Mrs. Chancellor, a fictional character.

Call me Mrs. Billingsley, she said, as she nonstop took drags from the cigarette.

The butler will give you all the details. I’m paying you one hundred thousand upfront plus all travel expenses and two hundred thousand upon your return. Do you accept my terms? she asked sternly.

I hesitated.

There is no such thing as easy money, yet I was in desperate mode. I didn’t have enough gas to get back to Illinois. The snooty butler handed me a briefcase full of cash, pictures of her husband and a plane ticket.

You leave on the red-eye tonight to Frankfurt, Germany then to Johannesburg, he said as he whisked me out the door. He handed me a cell phone. A car service was parked in the front ready to take me to the airport.

For better or worse, I was on my way to Africa.

It was the longest drive to O’Hare airport. I sat in the back with the suitcase open making sure the money was real. I forced the driver to make a quick stop at a Western Union. Once there, I wired seventy grand into my bank account.

I’ve always flown by the seat of my pants; traveling on a moment’s notice, but this was even abnormal by my standards. The flight to Germany was intolerable. If it weren’t for the single malt scotch served on the plane, I would have parachuted after ten hours.

I couldn’t take another ten-hour flight to Johannesburg, so I scored an Ambien from a German who was selling them in the bookstore.

I woke up in South Africa. As we de-planed, you could feel the heat from outside. It was summertime, people were dressed appropriately, and I was ready for winter with my heavy coat and scarf. I was feeling out of place.

My itinerary was spot on. A driver picked me up and took me to an exclusive part of Johannesburg called Melrose Arch. It was 6 p.m. People walked along the cobblestone streets, restaurants bustled, and music played in the distance.

My hotel was in the center of all the activity. I wanted to participate, but I needed to study up on the fellow I was hired to follow.

My hotel was posh, towering ceilings, spa tub and a steam room for a shower. I wasn’t used to this. I spent the last ten years in relative poverty reading books and getting along the best way I could.

I jumped on the computer and began to study my assignment. On the surface, Ambassador Charles Billingsley seemed like an ordinary fifty plus-year-old man. He had plenty of pictures online with random men and women, but none of them with his wife.

The only photo of the two together was on their wedding day, nothing else.

Battling jet lag, I decided to take a walk outside. South Africa was different than I imagined. It didn’t feel like a third world country. It appeared Western. I sat outside a restaurant and ordered a steak.

By a stroke of luck, Mr. Billingsley sat down at the table in front of me. A pretty, South African woman met up with him. He greeted her with a long kiss. He noticed my stare but tried to ignore it.

There was nothing abnormal. He wasn’t much of a techno guy because he still used a Blackberry. The woman spent the majority of time drinking and rubbing on his leg, while he paid no attention to it.

White people don’t stand out much in this part of town. It’s a known tourist destination.

Billingsley felt right at home like a fish in water.

Once he sat down his phone, he entertained the woman with smiles and more drinks. He fed her with his fork, and she accepted. She didn’t appear to be a hooker. 

She seemed comfortable and familiar with him.

After dinner, they walked hand in hand through the crowd of people. I followed from a distance but noticed I wasn’t the only one who trailed him.

There was a mysterious man who looked out of place, who was also watching. Ironically, the two stepped into my hotel lobby. They made a beeline to the elevator. I quickly entered as well. They kissed like two lovers in high school.

They got off on the sixth floor while I was on the seventh. 

I went back to the lobby and sat for a moment. The hotel bar was energetic. The mysterious man I saw on the street was nursing a beer in a dark corner with an eye on the elevator. 

In South Africa, people love the nightlife much like New Yorkers. Drinks flow into the middle of the night and spill over into the next morning. I didn’t care. I had money and plenty of time.

I kept my eyes on the workers to see if I could spot one employee who might be on the take. More often than not, hotel workers who go the extra mile for tips are fair game for bribery. I needed someone to keep tabs on

Mr. Billingsley’s coming and going. I found an ambitious bellhop. He was a dark-skinned South African young man who smelled and dressed nicely.

What can I do for you sir, he asked. I’m doing a little bird watching, and I need for you to help me out, I said.

Sir? he inquired.

I handed him a picture and a thousand U.S. Dollars. Every time you see this man make a move, I don’t care if he’s taking a shit; I need to know. You can text me at this number. When I leave, I’ll give you a few more bills. He smiled and took the money.

The next day, I bought attire fitting for the summer season here. I wanted to be cool and blend in, but I was too old for tight shirts and skinny jeans. Shorts and a t-shirt did the trick.

Billingsley was having the time of his life. He had yet another young woman. They both were on their way to play tennis. As the days passed, I was getting a little jealous of him.

He was carefree, barely worked and he partied and drank like he was Hugh Hefner. He was an international lover. Outside of being immersed in a mid-life crisis, I didn’t see any odd behavior.

What was odd was that his wife wanted to be clued in on every gory detail. What didn’t quite fit was his marriage to an old lady. After meeting her, I really couldn’t see what the attraction could be unless she was the one who was rich. If this is the life of a detective, it’s quite dull and uneventful.

Weeks have passed, and Billingsley is doing nothing more than taking meetings and fucking young girls.

I contacted his wife, and she said I must keep tabs on him until she called and said it was finished.

The World Cup celebration had begun. Thousands of people from across the globe came into the country.

I hired my own assistant to babysit Mr. Billingsley. I had better things to do. It turned out South Africa wasn’t so bad after all. I met a woman who worked at the Ocean Bar as a waitress. She reminded me of Iman with her flawless looks and sexy accent. She was much younger than me, maybe 25, maybe. I didn’t want to ask yet.

My days began to mirror Billingsley’s. I read the reports from my assistant. He was still on a work vacation. I found out he extended his stay. He was a big futbol fan and wanted to attend the World Cup games. I didn’t mind. There wasn’t much for me to do in the United States anyway. I didn’t have a family anymore. My business was right here.

As I watched Billingsley and examined his human frailties, it dawned on me that I had a similar problem. My good friend, Brian, also had the same problem. We were all at the crossroads of life, suffering from what to do next. All our lives were in a crisis.

Mr. Billingsley loved to work and play. I don’t believe he took time to call or write his wife. And, after my dealings with her, I started to understand why. She was weird, distant and demanding. Attributes most men his age try to avoid. But I worked for her, so I decided to not think about being on