Think Fast or Die

By Simon W Clark

This fast-moving thriller, set in the war-torn Middle East where danger lurks around every corner finds Rick Jensen, former CIA Operative, on the trail of terrorists, stolen Egyptian artifacts, slave traders, and a murderer.

Rick’s uncanny knack for acquiring information, assistance, and stumbling into the right people at the wrong time has him wondering. Who can I trust? How do I get out of this alive? And when can I take a vacation?
Wherever he is and whatever situation he finds himself in, he must always,
THINK FAST

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ink & Quill Publishers
• Release date: Jan 21, 2020
• ISBN: 9781948266345

Simon W Clark

Simon Clark has been writing all his life. Never formally trained, he holds a Commerce Degree in Marketing. His latest novel ‘Think Fast or Die’ is a spy thriller set in the Middle East. The last published novel he wrote was a supernatural thriller that is now out of print. Simon lives with his wife and daughter in Melbourne, Australia. He continues to travel whenever possible to unexplored destinations that also provides inspiration for his novels. Otherwise, he can be found working his day job in online advertising or relaxing with family and friends.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Rick focused on the runway of the private airport. Dust in his eyes blurred the orange-red horizon. He checked the skies for an imminent attack.

The Russians have targeted four military bases in the past month and all in Pakistan.

But politics didn’t concern him, only his meeting with the head cook. The highest commanding officer hid somewhere near in a subterranean bunker. In a valley cradled in the Thar Desert, Northeast Pakistan, communication links were limited. Rick glanced across the field at the faded symbol of a green circle with two crossed swords, a crescent moon with a star above, the Pakistan Army emblem. Guards spilled out from the doorway beneath the decrepit sign.

Options faded fast. Rick’s mind clocked a hundred miles per hour. Ideas and solutions came and went. He took a deep breath.

A soldier clamped Rick’s wrists together and tightened the handcuffs. He stepped onto the Jeep, dread sinking his spirit. His foot, heavy as lead, stomped on the running board with a thud.

Just a precaution, the nearest Pakistani soldier said, Arabic accent evident.

Never seen so much security for a simple exchange.

Their driver mounted his seat, turned the engine over and the windowless car hummed to life. Driving onto the strip, the Jeep merged into a lane between two other Jeeps. His party of one prisoner and three soldiers forged along the tarmac.

Deep in the Pakistan desert a mountain range loomed distant, isolation crept over him. Rick’s head throbbed with the realization that no team could mount a rescue, not even one black-ops trained.

The Jeep gathered speed nearing a large squat shelter, surrounded by smaller hangers on either side. Overhead, a disused chimney stack towered, part of a derelict power station. Soldiers scurried from every direction, the base buzzing like an ant’s nest.

Rick squinted against the glare, his exposed neck burned as two well-built guards yelled over him in Arabic. Rick blocked out the noise. A pungent aroma wafted under his nostrils. The base reeked with a cocktail of cigar smoke and stale alcohol.

His eyes searched, combing the horizon’s rugged landscape for familiar markers—a small triangular control tower, a massive spear-head. These points helped him place his bearings for a fast exit.

The vehicle slowed. A guard pointed the driver westward toward a busy platform about fifty feet away. Rick’s head weaved back and forward to decipher the letters painted in red, sprawled across the building’s flank. His heart banged a tattoo against his chest.

Making a sharp turn, the driver slammed on the brakes at the platform’s edge. The soldiers disembarked. One guard shoved Rick across concrete, grunting obscenities in Arabic.

How do I deserve this hell?

Inside gloomy, silver walls, Rick tumbled to a hard floor. The cuffs restricted his mobility, so he leaned forward to compensate. He tripped on an uneven surface and his body weight drove him to his knees. Help didn’t come. He struggled to a standing position and stared over the busy concrete scape. Soldiers sat at tables placed in even rows, engaged at computers or shuffling paperwork.

Make the buy and get out.

Hands pushed him. He followed the white lines, shuffled into a noisy atmosphere. The escort turned his back and Rick scanned the surroundings. Through low-set windows he saw a fleet of state-of-the-art stealth fighters, private jets, and even a military tank ready for battle.

Where does a power station, off-the-grid, hidden in desert dunes, get a budget for this? There’s enough to start a decent war, and end it.

Rick fell behind the soldier who walked between cream tables and old swivel chairs. He coughed on the blue, smokey air that permeated the room.

How can anybody work here?

Glass broke underfoot, a crack pipe.

Terrorists-come-junkies.

Rick ambled past two technicians operating a keyboard beneath a large mounted aerial map. He recognized the German-made instrumentation. This satellite-jamming antenna ensured complete privacy from surveillance. He stared at the most sophisticated digital technology in the Middle East.

No wonder his government’s agency satellites couldn’t intercept data from this base.

The guard beckoned and Rick trudged into a narrow corridor. He followed the soldier, who disappeared into darkness.

Stomach acid swelled in his mouth and he forced back a dry-retch. Rick took small steps, as he descended toward a distant glint.

My intestines will never work right again.

A solitary globe swung from a chain, showering bursts of yellow into the darkened atmosphere. The walls, roughened with older digging technology, revealed the age of the tunnels. Deep within the bowels of steel and beams, he and the guard reached a sealed space with a long row of cubicles. The guard dumped him at a desk and removed the cuffs. Fluorescent tubes reflected on the gray bunker walls.

Rick forced a smile at the soldier closest to the exit.

A calloused hand waved through the cigar smoke, but it did little to dissipate the air. I take you.

Through a separate annex, Rick stumbled behind his escort. Each step Rick took on the grooved concrete caused more dizziness in his head. Pain spasmed from his thigh, trickling up into his midsection. The wave of nausea swirled from his stomach. Acid rose in his throat and threatened to erupt. Rick dragged his injured leg and struggled to keep up with the soldier.

How deep does this place go?

Rick staggered a hundred feet then leaned against the wall. He sucked thin air to his lungs and breathed heavily from the effort of limping.

Through murky darkness, silver reflected on a glass wall. He glimpsed a translucent petition ahead. The hairs on his neck stood straight. Dozens of cigarette butts lay in bunches, many still smoldering.

This has to be the worst dump I’ve seen in a long time.

A huge, red hookah balanced on a bench, cones burning. Gray trails of smoke hovered in a thick cloud. He checked for ventilation and realized most of the duct fans weren’t moving.

I give up on civilization in the east.

The soldier led him into a wide chamber. It had no windows, poor lighting and product stacked on pallets. He squinted into the darkness. Sleek, semi-automatic rifles, piled to head-height, lined the left wall.

These guys are mindless warmongers.

He reached a concrete bunker and the weapons changed to rocket launchers and missiles.

To block out the pain in his leg, Rick imagined a Hawaiian resort. I’m relaxing on a sun-lounger with a tall cocktail brought by an exotic waitress. He smiled to himself. The image worked for five seconds, enough time to get composed and focus on his next step.

There’s an easier way I can make a buck.

Standing at a grimy door jamb, the soldier paused, In here. Voices exploded through the walls.

Rick squeezed through the gap.

Seven militants crammed around an old table, eyes glued to a dusty screen. Military personnel cheered, but not for the new visitor.

The room closed around him. Rick sucked in dirty air and tried not to think of death. Within chaos, Rick worked out the leader.

The Pakistani officer had the most decorated shoulder. In the center of this mob the alpha male-maintained control. It’s Hiraj, the cook running this dodgy kitchen. This guy appeared on both Interpol and CIA top ten lists.

If I could shoot you dead and get away, it would solve many problems.

Hiraj swiveled the chair to face him. The officer studied Rick and chuckled, You look near death.

If you only knew.

Rick didn’t flinch at the insulting remark. He found the officer’s English stunted, but fluent considering the circumstance.

Soldiers broke out in raucous laughter. With a proud expression on his face, Hiraj leaned to the wall and lit a cigar.

A mind weaved to serious territory in these moments.

These pricks won’t show mercy.

He straightened. I’m Rick Jensen.

The officer butted his cigar. You’re late.

I got held up with your boys at customs. Are they always this polite?

You want the pendant? The officer’s face opened into a kaleidoscope of yellow-black teeth.

Rick winced.

It’s time to see a dentist.

That’s right, Rick nodded.

The leader gestured to his thugs. Get the bronze, he said, switching back to Arabic.

Two men rushed around the room, searching nearby furniture. One man shouted at the group. The gamblers separated. A glint bounced off a large metal cabinet. A soldier dived to the fourth drawer.

Rick released the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

This is it? Hiraj held a chain with the disk on the end.

This officer runs the place with an African warlord’s temperament.

Rick examined the markings on the object. He squinted at the patina-it was the wrong era.

I will not argue.

Rick placed the pendant back on the table.

Money? the officer glanced at Rick’s injured leg.

Rick lowered a carryall from his shoulder. He’d lugged it through their customs without issue because Hiraj had given the word.

Soldiers grasped their weapons and pointed barrels at him as if he was strapping a bomb.

Rick concentrated, making his hand movements slow and deliberate. He leveled his gaze on Hiraj and unzipped the top. The flap fell open. Bundles of American dollar bills bound tight together tumbled out. Good enough?

Hiraj studied the cash and gripped the pendant until his fist turned white. The mob drew closer.

From Rick’s left and right, soldiers waited to pounce, any reason to fire.

Thirty seconds lapsed and nobody moved. Then one soldier raised a piece of black fabric and dangled it.

What the hell is that?

The thug gave him a nasty smirk.

A knot in his stomach formed, twisting his insides. Rick’s palms slickened and his knuckles whitened as he gripped the chair edge. He conjured a propaganda image of a kneeling prisoner in an orange jumpsuit. In his mind the executioner stretched above a victim holding a large sword.

I’m the victim.

He’d lose his sanity if he hung around this place too long.

The officer chuckled at the soldier with the hood.

Put it away.

Forty-thousand American dollars, Hiraj spat the words at him, sharp as snake venom.

How much? Rick spluttered, That’s more than we agreed.

You heard me. The officer gave him a hard look. Take or leave it.

Rick clenched his fists and refrained from a curt retort. This monster deserved a thrashing. He shook his head and glanced at the exit, no other choice. Still clutching the bag, he contemplated the cash, calculating his odds.

Think fast or you’re dead.

You want to pull out? Hiraj’s face turned a shade of crimson. He slammed a palm on the desk. An ashtray tumbled to the floor. Butts and ashes spilled across the concrete.

A soldier raised an AK 47 and the barrel end stopped inches from Rick’s face.

I must save the transaction before it goes sour.

Rick’s heart fluttered, a buzz coursed through his body. The room fell silent, and for once he prayed.

Let me get out alive.

His eyes blurred with dripped sweat as sheer evil drenched the walls of this place.

Yeah, Rick said, it’s good with me.

The officer with the terrible teeth smiled. That wasn’t hard, was it?

Count the money, you greedy bastard.

The officer sorted the cash. Satisfied, Hiraj opened a drawer and shoved the bag away. Rick’s gaze shifted to the other soldiers. He searched for any standout features. One had a scar across his neck, an angry slash, thick white, cut through his trimmed beard.

Here. Hiraj flicked the talisman across the table top. The piece spun sideways and landed in Rick’s lap.

Thanks, he whispered.

A wave of screams erupted among the soldiers.

Rick exhaled and glanced at the door.

Wait, Hiraj disappeared under the desk. In a minute the officer emerged and pushed a printout forward. Rick glanced at the words, it appeared official with a military letterhead. Although, his Arabic was basic and rusty, he recognized the official military stamp.

If guards ask questions, show this.

Sure. Rick shoved the paper in a pocket.

Now I get customer service from these animals.

The officer pointed at his crew and said, Azu, walk him.

A tall, long-faced man came forward.

I’m leaving. Rick rose from the chair, held his right palm to the group, and backed toward the exit.

Azu guided Rick out of the room. In minutes they re-entered the bunker storeroom. He still heard the screams of soldiers ringing in his ears. The hangar’s main entry formed into view and the reek of octane overwhelmed his senses.

Rick’s retinas adjusted to the bright UV streaming into his eyeballs. He blinked in rapid succession, a shock coursed through his veins.

Am I dreaming?

Out of nowhere, a soldier materialized and demanded ID. Rick’s brain wanted to talk but his mouth froze, useless to form words. Then he remembered Hiraj’s print out and pulled out the crumpled paper.

The guard looked it over and nodded at him.

Rick staggered on the asphalt. The first step from the hangar became his focus. He clenched a fist, trying to assess sharpness of mind. A distant scream of jet engines echoed off nearby mountains. There wasn’t much time for an exit so he stumbled forward on rubber legs, the brightness of sky surreal.

A Toyota Rav4 appeared in the last afternoon dust. The car screeched to a halt, dirt covering the side window. Rick squinted as the glass buzzed open, revealing a broad face with a brown, cropped beard.

Get in, Rick. Abbas’s lips formed a creased smile.

Rick savored the stuffy breeze, pulling big gasps of pollution into his lungs. Dirty air never tasted so sweet, but his will to get off the base drove him forward.

Chapter 2

Rick jolted upright. He looked straight through the dusty windshield at the jagged skyline of Karachi City. He awakened from having passed out, to a magnificent mirage reaching above the amber mist. The mountains and sand features blurred during the three hours of driving. Drops of sweat ran into his matted hair and dripped over his brow. He swiped with a backhand.

It took a second to gather his bearings. I’m still alive.

He glanced at Abbas who gripped the steering wheel, preoccupied with avoiding dirt bikes that plunged from every direction, the first sign of crossing over from the desert’s edge. Rick pulled a swig of water and concentrated on the horizon, pushing the anxiety somewhere deep. The ordeal of the base was over, but faces from the recent exchange flashed before his eyes.

As orange clouds dropped behind the city, the truck’s blue headlight beams followed the curb. The lights found the hotel entrance framed by palm trees on either side with a deteriorating neon billboard.

Rick’s stomach settled as the dumpy hotel came into view.

The vehicle squeaked to a halt, opposite a single globe illuminating the rough timber deck. Rick’s foot struck familiar road pavement. A dank odor emanated from the ground as they moved toward the porch.

Graf, the night watchman, waved through the glass pane, never shifting from his sofa except to check-in the occasional guest. Since Rick moved in three weeks ago, the Iranian did nothing but watch a soap opera on a thirty-two-inch flat screen, while he ate snacks from a bowl. Sometimes his wife, a heavyset lady with a high-pitched voice, ventured into the back room and pulled the plug from the wall socket. A massive screaming match ensued on these occasions.

Regardless of the drama, Rick maintained a pleasant but not memorable persona.

Always stay invisible if possible.

A kitchen annexed the main chamber, patchy stairs climbed to a second level. Rick navigated through the grimy hallway amid the aroma of vegetables and garlic. He quickened the pace eastward bound, avoiding eye contact with a maid.

In Rick’s short but interesting tenure, this hotel, though always half-empty, attracted a colorful variety of residents. Last week, a colonel brought an underage girl and passed out next to a bottle of vodka. Just enough time for Rick to spirit her to safety aboard the earliest train. Other occupants included soldiers with nasty drug habits and a young couple eloping from their strict but disagreeable parents.

The cracked floorboards groaned under Rick’s weight. He slid the dead bolt open at number forty-five and clambered into the sitting room. A cool breeze flowed from high-mounted vents, the flickering fluorescent tube making it difficult to stitch his wound. He checked the computer equipment set-up against the kitchen wall.

Abbas raided the small sub-zero but only found coca cola. The driver lifted a can, released the top, drained the contents, and sank into an upright chair.

Sorry I haven’t been shopping. Rick emerged and popped the microwave, arranging plates of rice on the worn laminate counter.

His hotel defense network operated on simple principles but proved effective against crisis. A connecting door between the separate residences meant Rick accessed only the external entry through number forty-five. Room forty-four stayed locked from the outside and shuttered, providing permanent cloaking from prying eyes.

Rick always booked two connecting rooms, using one as a decoy in case of being tracked. It bought precious time against intruders. A lead time of twenty seconds, invaluable in his business, kept him alive.

Half his equipment was state-of-the-art, the rest good old-fashioned know-how and gadgetry. A motion sensor connected at shin level near the stair, another three meters from his doorway. He flicked a large TV to the AV channel, hooked to a hidden camera in the north wing monitoring the events.

A screen shimmered with playback from the afternoon. Rick fast-forwarded through the long sections, double checking any irregularities. If a compromise occurred, it registered with the server, an email notification fired in response, and finally a backup text message followed. Rick logged into his Inbox, confirmed the rooms free of bugs and intrusion. He leaned into the sofa, sank deep and exhaled.

Here you go, the driver pushed forward a Beretta 9 mm. Try not to lose it.

The expert handy work on the pistol, serial number evidence scratched off, was invisible to the untrained eye. Rick pulled the slide back, exposing the breech and revealing a brass cartridge in the chamber. Satisfied, he shouldered the weapon in a pancake holster and looked at the saggy bed.

This place will do.

He dropped his keys on a scratched table surface.

You’re right, said Abbas gazing around the cramped space.

Nobody searches for you in such a dive.

The two men ate rice and discussed a new contract starting in a month. Rick wasn’t sure if the next mission comprised infiltrating a base.

Rick’s pain required something stronger than drugs. He eyed the half pint of whisky perched on a shelf. The perfect natural pain-killer.

I may not need a driver, Rick said, shrugging.

Abbas smiled and told

Reviews for Think Fast or Die

[jp.100 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This is a heart-pounding ride with a great narrative and interesting people and places. It's set in the Middle East and the main character Rick is deep undercover in the Pakistan desert. Get it today if you dare.