Brooks McLaughlin

By T M Nugent

My name is T M Nugent. I am an Author of Novels, short stories, and poetry. I have published ten poetry books and a Short Story book at Xlibris Self Publishing Company and sell them through Amazon.com. 

I published two novels through Amelia Publishing: The Man With a Limp and The Chameleon Returns. I decided to publish

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stratton Press
• Release date: May 10, 2022
• ISBN: 9781648958120

T M Nugent

My name is T M Nugent. I was born in Chicago Illinois in 1949. I had a normal childhood and served in the military. I work in the hospitality business for fifty some years and owned my own restaurants for fifteen years. I married a wonderful woman and we were together until her death of brain cancer. We were together for forty-two years. After her death I quit working and traveled the western United States writing poetry. I rode a full dress Harley and bought an I-pad to write my poetry and stories. I met a wonderful woman, Corina and we traveled the country together. We ended our travels in San Luis, Costa Rica where we live today. I have written ten poetry books and one short story book which I published with Xlibris Self-Publishing Inc. I have written six novels to this publishing. Two are published with Amelia Publishing and four with Stratton Press. I like to write and spend every day writing something in my I-Pad. I hope you enjoy my writing.

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T M Nugent

Brooks McLaughlin

Copyright © 2022 T M Nugent

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 information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Stratton Press Publishing

831 N Tatnall Street Suite M #188,

Wilmington, DE 19801

www.stratton-press.com

1-888-323-7009

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 the 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.

ISBN (Paperback): 978-1-64895-811-3

ISBN (Ebook): 978-1-64895-812-0

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

Part One: The Early Years

Chapter One: Father

Chapter Two: The Marriage

Chapter Three: New York City

Chapter Four: Carlo Chianti

Chapter Five: The Divorce

Chapter Six: Preacher

Chapter Seven: The Black Widow

Chapter Eight: Don Giovanni

Chapter Nine: Assassin Smith

Chapter Ten: Daisuke

Chapter Eleven: Paul Ticks Massey

Chapter Twelve: Margo Commons

Chapter Thirteen: General Abraham Botha—Genocide

Chapter Fourteen: Emanuel Guitierrez—Drug Dealer

Chapter Fifteen: Me and the FBI

Chapter Sixteen: The New List

Chapter Seventeen: A Reverse Ponzi Scheme

Chapter Eighteen: John Riley—Domestic Terrorist

Chapter Nineteen: The Kid and Fingers Jock Castellano, the Racketeer

Chapter Twenty: Maybel Devine Child Pornographer

Chapter Twenty-One: Bill Smith,Russian Spy

Chapter Twenty-Two: Carlos EstabanCocaine Manufacturer

Chapter Twenty-Three: The Rancher, Joe Dallas

Chapter Twenty-Four: Carlito

Chapter Twenty-Five: Terrance Montgomery, Illegal Trafficker of Illegal Aliens

Chapter Twenty-Six: Lucky Graduates from West Point

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Conclusion

Part One

The Early Years

Chapter One

Father

My name is Art Johnson. Little did I know as a young man, I would grow up to be a lethal weapon. My father, Art, was a Pennsylvania logger. Raised in the mountains by his father, he was a tough, no-nonsense kind of guy. My mother died at childbirth, and my father never remarried. He told me he could not find a match for his wife. She was one of a kind, and he expected every woman to be like her. Art raised me the best he could, being a single father with a son. He was tall like the trees he cut down. Lanky, physically strong, mentally sharp, he had no peers as an individual. He had no training as a fighter, only an instinct for survival. I saw him angry with a man who slapped me to the ground. He was drunk, something my father could not abide. I was eight years old at the time. I accidentally bumped into him while chasing my dog, Archie. He grabbed a hold of my hair and slapped me hard. He went to hit me again, and Art caught his hand and twisted it down hard. Bringing him down to his knees and holding him there as he brought his fist across his chin, hitting him until he went unconscious. He kept hitting him until I grabbed my father’s arm as he lifted me off the ground with the force of his punch.

Dad! I am okay now, stop please!

I looked into his brown eyes, black with anger, scared the life out of me as I hung on to my father’s arm. My father let go of the man’s hair as he slumped to the ground. It was as if my father got lost and disappeared as this animal came forth to protect his young. Art walked away with his hand softly holding mine.

You let no man or woman treat you that way again. If you need to pick up a rock or brick to protect yourself, you do that. I will let no one hurt you! Do you understand?

He spoke softly, in a matter-of-fact way. His tone was instructional and the beginning of self-defense lessons; Art wanted me to learn how to defend myself. From that day forward, he began to put me to work welding an ax, saw, sledgehammer. He was getting me in shape to face a difficult world in the Pennsylvania Mountains. He taught me the nuances of incapacitating the enemy: those soft points in the body, kidneys, liver, ends of ribs, kneecaps, and that soft tissue between the chest bone and rib bones. He never took karate lessons; he was intelligent in the art of self-defense, taught to him by his father. He called it the art of mountain survival.

One day, walking home from school, four boys attacked me. They were a few years older than me and wanted me to know my place in their community. It was the Bower brothers and their hooligan friends. They took my money I earned washing the floor of the gymnasium that morning. I was twelve years old and a shy scrawny twelve-year-old. They slapped me around, and I ran home crying. As I ran up to the cabin, Art was chopping wood and saw me crying.

What is wrong, son?

I told him what happened. His eyes turned dark as if something possessed his body. He reached back and slapped the back of my head, knocking me to the ground.

Get up! Art demanded.

He reached down, picking me up off the ground by my arm, and walks me to the wood shed. He releases me and walks over to the wall and hands me a homemade cane, two inches thick and four feet long; he hands me the cane and tells me to find those boys, one at a time and get my money back.

Use this cane to disarm them and make them fear you. Only that way will you be free from fear! Now go and do not come back without your money!

I left the cabin shaking with fear of what my father would do if I did not succeed in my task. I was not worried about me; I was afraid of what Art would do to the Bower boys. I walked with a purpose; how do I make them understand I mean business? As I walk down the hill, I spy Tom Hawkins walking toward me. He is Tom Bower’s best friend and the meanest kid I knew. He was one of the boys who slapped me around.

What are you going to do with that little stick, little man?

As Tom reaches to grab me, I swing the cane behind his right knee, causing him to fall on his back. I push my cane as hard as I can into that soft spot of his chest. Forcing the air out of his body, and as his head moves forward, I kick his head back against the dirt. He passes out, and I check his pockets for my money, and it is not there and I walk away, slowly looking back as Tom Hawkins wakes up and I stop.

You ever attack me again, you may not get off the ground!

His face turns pale, and he turns and runs away.

I continue to walk down toward the park, looking for my adversaries, and find Bill Smith swinging on a swing. He pushed a little girl named Sammy from the swing, and she lays crying on the ground as he laughs at her from the swing. I walk up to Sammy and comfort her and tell her to give me a minute and I will get the swing back for you.

What do you think—

I place a perfect shot across his eyes, knocking Sam from the swing. He jumps up wobbly, and I crack his kneecap as he screams in pain.

Where are the Bowery boys and my backpack? I demand as he sits on the ground crying.

He tells me the Bower boys are riding their bikes to the store to buy some cigarettes and candy and should be there now.

Do not ever hurt Sammy again or I will find you. Let her play on the swing. Go play on the swing, Sammy. Do we have an understanding, Bill?

Bill nods in agreement and wobbles away. I walk to the market, as Joe and Tom Bower ride into the driveway of stone. Tom pedals and jumps off his bike before it stops to dash toward me as I hit him in midair with the blunt end of my stick. He falls backward, hitting his head on the ground. Tom attempts to get up, and I kick him in the head as he falls back unconscious. Joe is mesmerized on his bicycle, as I ask him for my money and backpack. He joyfully hands it to me, saying, I did not like pushing you around today. I did not know how to tell my brother not to do it. Friends?

Stand up to your brother and be your own man and we can be friends.

I walk up and shake his hand.

The Bower brothers are twins and three years older than me. I walk home to face my father and tell him what happened. He tells me never to start a fight, but when put into that position, try to walk away. If you are forced to fight, do it without hesitation and be victorious. Joe and I became great friends as we went through school. He would graduate from high school with honors. He would receive a scholarship to Annapolis, Maryland, as a naval cadet. He would have an illustrious career in the Navy as a Navy SEAL. His brother Tom would spend forty years in prison because of drug use.

From that incident, I found a penchant for righting wrongs. I did not realize it at first until I entered the Naval Academy, following Joe Bower three years after his graduation. A year into Annapolis, I receive a phone call from my neighbor Sammy. My father died of a heart attack at the age of seventy-four. He married late in life; he was fifty-four years of age when I was born. His wife, Georgia, was forty years old when she died giving me birth. I thought Art would live to be one hundred years of age because he kept a healthy lifestyle. No drinking or drug use in his life and he loved the outdoors. I never met his family until I came back to the Pennsylvania Mountains for his funeral. His only living relative was his estranged sister, Carolyn Potts. She married an evil man who died in prison. Art’s two brothers died of heart attacks at fifty and fifty-five years of age respectively. I am fortunate I did not inherit the congenital heart disease that my father had. Aunt Carolyn had no place to live. She rented a room at a friend’s house. In a few days, we developed a kinship, and I let her stay at our cabin. Sammy took care of the funeral arrangements for Art. He left me enough money to care for his body to be cremated and to pay for any taxes that was necessary. My aunt would support herself by growing vegetables and fruits and selling them. I would send her money every month and spend my leave with my aunt. I could never figure out why Dad did not keep in touch with his only living relative, his sister. Maybe it was because of her husband whom he disliked.

Sammy would watch my aunt and help her grow food. They would start a company together called Mountain Vegetables Incorporated. They would grow from a hundred square feet of land to a five-thousand-acre vegetables farm. Sammy was a smart lady who was good with money and organized. Every year, they would buy land with their profits as the land around the two cabins would expand, and the community would go to work and share the profits of the farm. A town would grow from the farm. Aunt Carolyn and Sammy would build a produce store and the first fire station in that part of the mountains. My aunt petitioned the state for a post office which she would run, Monday through Friday, eleven to three in the afternoon. She would supervise the farm and go work the post office. She petitioned the state to name the town Farmers Landing and was registered with the state. Sammy would marry my best friend, Joe Bowers, who would leave the Navy after ten years of service to help run the company and take the edge off my aunt who was very grateful to Joe.

I spent six years in the Navy as a Navy SEAL. I spent time in Vietnam as an advisor to the Vietnamese Army. It was a terrible time as I was privy to atrocities of the war. It was apparent that the government was running the military and tying their hands and I never resigned to the Navy. I was traveling through the countryside of Vietnam with a Vietnamese general when we stop in a village. Women and children murdered, lying down in the muddy streets. Reports of an American squad was seen leaving the area. Why did they not help these people? Could they have done this atrocity? Months later, we find out that the Viet Cong massacred the village because the men would not fight for them. Politics kept the army from cleaning up the village as they were told to leave the village alone. My time was up and I left the military. I went back to Farmers Landing for a few months and decided to go back to school for my master’s degree in Santa Cruz, California, at Santa Cruz University. I met a wonderful woman named Sunny O’Brien. Sunny was working toward her surgical nursing degree. She loves to hike, bicycle, and surf. We became constant companions and enjoyed each other’s company. I loved the Santa Cruz area, and I enjoy the school life.

It is summertime in the Santa Cruz Mountains. Late June and it is hot. Ninety-five degrees in the mountains as Sunny and I are hiking the trails. We have an eleven-mile hike we decided to attempt. A backpack of water and sandwiches to help us along. Tomorrow, Sunny wishes to teach me how to surf. Halfway on the hike, we see three men attacking a man and woman.

Hey! What are you doing? I ask as I run up the trail.

Mind your own business or we will take care of you next! was the command as I begin to interfere.

The man holding the woman drops her and attacks me. He throws a left, leaving himself open for a swift kick in the ribs. It was a nice shot. I could hear the ribs in his lower left side crack as I counter with a kick to his face as I watch him fall. I kick the guy in front of me in the balls. He did not see it coming for his back was turned to me. I jump on his back, swinging myself over him to kick the last fellow as I continue to choke this other man into unconsciousness. The last man stands up and pulls a knife. Very sloppily, he lunges toward me, making it easy to disarm him. I twist his arm and break his wrist as he yells out in pain and drops the knife and falls to his knees. I kick him three times in rapid motion as he falls lifeless to the ground. Sunny called the park rangers, as I look after the man who had been stabbed in the side.

Why did they attack you? I ask as the woman speaks up.

They tried to take me. I could not understand the language they spoke, but they wanted me, cries the young woman.

I take water out of my backpack and throw it on the man in front of him. The rangers arrive as I ask questions.

Who are you? I ask.

None of your f—— business!

I bend back his hand, causing extreme pain.

Again, I ask him but in Albanian, Why do you want his woman?

I push back harder on his hand as the rangers handcuff the other men and Sunny helps the man on the ground.

The man will say nothing, as the rangers arrest all three men. I tell the rangers to call the FBI, as we will wait for the ambulance. The FBI is walking up the trail to talk to the man and woman as the ambulance arrives to go to the hospital. I tell Curt, a new recruit for the FBI, that the men are Albanian and I believe they are running a sex trade/slavery business.

How do you know this? asks an inquisitive agent.

They speak Albanian, and they wanted the girl, I reply calmly.

Come down to FBI headquarters so we can talk, says Curt.

No, thank you, you have my statement and we will go home now. I do not want their crew noticing where we live, I explain.

How about if I talk to you tomorrow, I will call you to meet me somewhere? asks Curt.

I tell him okay, as Sunny and I leave the park. Curt is busy watching for someone to follow us and he sees no one. Sunny begins to cook dinner and has not said a word.

You okay, honey? I ask.

No, I am not okay! I thought you were going to kill those men, cries Sunny.

Better them than us, I calmly explains.

There are no half measures when someone is in danger.

Couldn’t we have walked away? asks Sunny.

If you were that woman, would you want us to walk away? I asked befuddled.

You’re right, I am scared, that’s all, cries Sunny as she cuts the carrots, almost cutting her finger.

I say nothing as I see the pain and anguish in Sunny’s face. I walk up close to her, and I give her a kiss and a hug.

As long as I live, no one will ever harm you.

I continue to set the table as the doorbell rings. It is Curt.

Someone killed the young man while he was in the hospital and they took the woman. We have a bulletin out to find this crew. I want to leave a policeman here to protect you, I am sorry, says a sincere Curt.

No, I do not want an advertisement that we are home. I will set up my defense, and we will be fine, I say as Curt begins to argue with me and stops.

Call me if you get visitors. He hands me his card and leaves.

What are we going to do, Art? asks an anxious Sunny.

Wait for trouble, let us eat dinner and do not worry. I will fix the house so we can protect ourselves.

Sunny continues to make dinner as I go to work. I place a rifle on the staircase by the upstairs bedroom. I lock all windows and doors and turn on the air conditioning. I put a chair under the door handle in the kitchen. With no basement, the only way in is the kitchen and living room. After dinner, I help clean up and hand Sunny a forty-five automatic. It is loaded and cocked, and I hand her two extra magazines with fifteen-load capacity.

Do you know how to fire a pistol? This is how you load the magazine into the pistol.

I show her the safety and how to unload.

You aim for the chest and fire until he goes down. Understand?

Nervously, Sunny nods in compliance, as I walk into the garage and make sure no one can enter unless they saw down the door. It is ten o’clock and all is quiet. A person is at the back door, unable to knock through the chair. Machine gun fire is heard as windows explode and men jump through the front window. Art fires two shots. Ping! Ping! As the two men fall to the floor and two more rush into the living room. Bang! Bang! Sunny hits one of the men and Art fires, ping! wounding the other. Sunny hears the bedroom window break and jumps up and walks to the bedroom door as a man fires at her, missing her, and she returns fire. Bang! Bang! She fires three more times as she watches the man fall. Another man comes through the bedroom window, and she fires and he falls back through the window and falls off the roof. Suddenly, a car peels away down the asphalt. It disappears into the night. Curt arrives fifteen minutes later.

What the hell happened here? Is anyone alive so we can question him? asks a serious agent.

Yes, I have a handcuffed individual in the kitchen, says Art. Honey, you were awesome, unafraid of danger.

I was scared to death, besides no half measures, I did what you told me, Art.

Sunny smiles and feels the rush going away. Her eyes are moist and tired; she has never killed a man before and hopes she never will. Curt calls the coroner, as I begin the long hours of cleanup. He hands Curt a floppy disk.

What is this, Art? asks the inquisitive agent.

I have cameras and you should get the car and license plate. You will get a good view of our attackers. I know it is unorthodox, but can I go on the raid with you? I ask.

My boss will not allow that, but I will ask if we find them, smiles an interested agent.

I am leaving a man in your living room in case they are dumb enough to return.

Quickly, Sunny thanks Curt as they leave the house and a man is boarding the windows in the house.

I was amazed at Sunny’s resolve, unafraid of protecting what is hers.

I was not afraid, my adrenaline took over, and I knew I had to do my part to keep us alive. Although I never want to be in this position again, exclaims Sunny as we both go to bed and the agent watches the house.

Curt calls me in the morning.

The bosses will not let you go with the raid, but I will call after it is over, explains Curt.

The raid is tonight at eight o’clock as the FBI begins the drive to a restaurant. The restaurant is dark, which seems odd to Curt. He and fellow agent Dawson begin the raid, Dawson through the back and Curt through the front door. Ten agents get ready to break into the restaurant. As Curt enters the front door, he sees a note.

The FBI released these criminals this morning, and I finished your job for you. Signed, The Chameleon.

Curt walks through the restaurant and finds eight dead criminals and one injured boss.

What happened here tonight?

An old man with long gray beard down to his chest, long gray hair to his shoulders, and a black Giants baseball cap came down from that window. My men fired at him, but it did not matter. He shot back with uncanny accuracy and killed them all. My men came in from the front of the restaurant, and he shot them dead. I never saw such a thing. He wounded me twice until I told him where the women are. I did not want to die, so I told him. He said you would be by shortly, and I should not move or he would kill me. He went to the docks on Fifth Avenue to release the women from the cargo containers.

Curt leaves Charles Dawson to take care of the restaurant and rushes to the docks with seven men. He arrives at the docks and cannot believe his eyes: thirty half-naked woman standing out on the docks, holding two injured men, and six dead men lying on the docks.

These men abducted us and used us as sex slaves. The Chameleon wanted us to thank you for saving us, says a relieved young woman.

Let me guess, he was a little old man? Correct? says a smiling Curt Carlyle.

Yes, that is the Chameleon, says another woman.

Curt wraps up the investigation by looking at the dock camera footage of a little old man walking away from the docks. He had long gray hair down to his shoulders, a long gray beard to his chest, and a black Giants baseball cap on. He knew how to hide his face from the cameras. He had no unusual marks, tattoos on his body, and he walked very slowly. Not in a hurry to leave the area as if he was out for a walk. A police car drives by him, and he waves to the car and smiles.

This man is very good, thinks Curt. Will I ever meet you, Mr. Chameleon?

Chapter Two

The Marriage

Sunny is busy after graduation and the adventure as a couple is a memory. We have been married for ten years, and we are happy. Her work with the hospital is exciting. Sunny works with different surgeons and is always busy. She is excellent as a surgical nurse; she knows how to set up the operating room. Her mind is what attracted me to her; not only was she beautiful and disciplined, but her logical mind astounded me. I am meticulous, but Sunny took it to a different level. Very seldom was her intuitive nature wrong, which helped the doctors in surgery. Her knowledge of her work was exact; quickly, she could guide the process. I think she would have been a great surgeon if she pursued being a doctor, but she enjoyed being the big fish in a small bowl. No other nurse came close to her abilities. Doctors always asked for Sunny, the nurse that ran the surgical ward with an iron fist.

I was an opportunist. I developed companies by analyzing inventors, real estate, looking what they call out of the box. I took a tech company and turned it into an everyday necessity. The tech was brilliant, and I showed him how to take to market and procured a million dollars. Twenty percent went into my pocket. I never wanted to own his company. Let him do all the grunt work; I show him how to do it and streamline his business. That way, he is grateful for the tutelage and the knowledge someday I will not be needed. I had several company ventures and made a great income coming and going as I pleased. I needed to watch the ventures closely and guide the people along. It was a win-win situation. I was good at finding intelligent, aggressive people who wanted to succeed. Each time we found success, the owners wished to involve me in the company, as a vice president or controller, and I balked at the idea. I needed to be separate. It gave me freedom to be with my busy Sunny.

One morning, Sunny and I awaken. It was a Saturday; we were both off and planned a surfing day in Santa Cruz. I prepared a lunch basket while Sunny was taking a shower. She walks out of the bathroom, pale and hot.

Honey, I think I am pregnant, I keep throwing up and feeling very funny, says Sunny.

Well, let’s get a hold of your doctor, Tom Benson, and find out for sure.

I suggested we do it as soon as possible because I have an appointment in New York City.

We go to the doctor’s office on Monday, and he gives her a test to take. It is a new product out that is a stick that turns blue if you’re pregnant:

*Pregnancy tests are designed to tell if the urine or blood contains a hormone called human chorionic gonadotropin (hCG). This hormone is made right after a fertilized egg attaches to the wall of a woman’s uterus.

This usually happens—but not always—about six days after fertilization. If you’re pregnant, levels of hCG continue