Ten Seconds to Die

By Marshall Mattingly

Ten Seconds To Die has the readers' attention from the onset with a gripping plot full of pulse-pounding scenes and twists and turns that keep you guessing. The novel is a fast paced thriller filled with political intrigue, suspense, mystery, and action." Readers' Favorite Review

"The intense anger that had driven him now gave way to pure, cold hatred. He had changed and there would be no going back. His eyes became the icy stare of a predator. At this moment, for the first time, Deputy Bob Denton knew he was a killer."

When a hiker turns up dead at the base of a cliff near Dahlonega, Georgia, Deputy Sheriff Bob Denton believes he has an accident on his hands—until the hiker's sister discovers a peculiar clue. Joined by Marlane Somer, a young journalist in search of a story, Denton investigates what becomes a string of unusual deaths, all apparently tied to a pharmaceutical plant in the North Georgia Mountains. Denton and Marlane realize they're onto something much bigger, darker, and more dangerous than a murder investigation. Bob is convinced the truth lies deep underground in an abandoned gold mine. He risks his life to uncover an operation that puts him on a collision course with a well-funded terrorist organization having Nazi connections.
The reader is plunged into a fast-paced thriller featuring an international conspiracy whose tentacles reach into major U.S. cities, Germany, the Middle East, and Africa. "Ten Seconds To Die" is an enthralling page-turner, filled with unique and compelling characters, unexpected twists and turns and a jaw dropping revelation at the end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Apr 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9781667879390

Marshall Mattingly

Marshall spent ten years working for "The Wall Street Journal" in Chicago, Houston, and Atlanta. During his time there, he was exposed to excellent journalism and discovered his love for the craft of writing. Tiring of the corporate life, he opened a full-service advertising agency in Atlanta. For the next decade, he wrote and produced award-winning TV and radio commercials, marketing campaigns, and public relations campaigns. Marshall and his wife Carolyn now live in the coastal South Carolina Low Country. Carolyn is an accomplished artist and Marshall is working on a sequel to "Ten Seconds to Die."

Book preview

November 1989

PROLOGUE

Would Reinhold Schmidt take the bait? If his sources were right the plan should work. If not, the thought of spending considerable time in a German prison wasn’t pleasant. David Reese would have the answer soon enough. He glanced at the headlines in his copy of Der Tagesspiegel. Hard to believe it’s been a year since the wall fell. He leaned back against the limousine’s soft leather seat listening to the rhythmic slap of the wipers.

A steel-gray November sky shrouded Berlin in a dismal haze. Colorless buildings and drab pedestrians sloshed through wet snow accumulating on the sidewalks. Even the modern corporate edifices along Kurfurstendamm appeared dull and lifeless. Morning traffic had stirred last night’s snow into a dirty slush. The forecast was for more by noon.

If things went as planned, Reese would be on his way to London and then on a connecting flight to New York. From there he would fly to his next destination in a private jet.

The delay at Gatwick had cost him two hours. There would be little time to close the deal and still make his flight. Reese ran his hand through his expertly styled blond hair then checked his gold Rolex.

Hurry, he said to the chauffeur.

I’ll try, sir. The driver swung the car into the inside lane.

At 37 years old and just over six feet tall Reese looked much as he did when he graduated from Harvard in 1975. Deep green eyes on a youthful face masked a dark intelligence.

When the car slid to a stop, he reached over the front seat. Give me the package.

The chauffeur opened the glove compartment and removed a thick brown envelope. It’s all in order, he said handing it to Reese.

David examined the envelope’s contents, then slipped it into his suit coat pocket. A phone call to an American-owned firm in Dusseldorf had arranged for the delivery of the package. There was no need to risk unnecessary questions at customs. At his destination the driver stopped the car, stepped out and opened the door for Reese. Light from a street lamp glistened off a thin glaze of ice covering the sidewalk.

Watch your step, sir.

Reese climbed out squinting against the blowing snow.

I won’t be long. He drew the belt of his black leather topcoat tight. Wait here.

As you wish. The driver shut the door while stretching to hold an umbrella over his passenger.

Forget it, Reese said. He avoided a woman hidden behind a crimson umbrella and hurried to the entrance to one of Germany’s largest chemical companies. He had done his homework. The concern was a vestige of the firm that supplied chemicals to the Nazi regime.

It was widespread knowledge the corporation did business with Libya, Iran, and Iraq. Some of their products may have ended up in Scud missile warheads during the Gulf War. Many German firms made tidy profits by not asking too many questions of their customers. Loopholes in the country’s lax export laws were quite easy to manipulate. Last spring, the British stopped the delivery of missile components manufactured in the Ruhr Valley and shipped through London. The customer was a Middle East potentate.

Reese pushed through the revolving door and entered the lobby. He was still uncertain Schmidt would take the enticement. Circumstances change, but people never do. A wry smile appeared then evaporated. He folded his top coat over his arm then smoothed out his well-tailored suit.

In the lobby two uniformed guards in quiet conversation leaned on a mahogany counter. The click of a woman’s heels echoed across the marble floor.

Reese walked toward them and said, Guten Morgen. Ich habe einen Termin mit Herrn Reinhold Schmidt.

Your card, please, the taller of the two said, extending his hand. He glanced at the card, and then inspected David Reese.

Is Herr Schmidt expecting you, Herr Buehler?

Why yes, of course. Reese tapped his watch. My appointment is at ten o’clock.

The guard asked to check Reese’s briefcase. After examining the contents, he returned it.

Please sign here, the guard said, handing him a clipboard and pen.

Reese took the pen and wrote Heinrich Buehler, Chemical broker.

You may go up, the guard said. Herr Schmidt’s office is on the twenty-seventh floor.

"Danke," Reese replied and walked to the elevator.

Reinhold Schmidt was expecting him. He shook his hand then ushered him into a small conference room. Closing the door he motioned to a wooden chair in front of a gray metal desk. Reese sat down and placed his briefcase on the desk. After a brief casual conversation he opened it and removed a one page document. He appeared to examine it then slid it across the desk to Schmidt.

Schmidt removed a pair of reading glasses from his jacket and balanced them on his nose. After examining the paper a slight frown emerged from below his moustache. He looked up and gazed at Reese from across the top of his glasses.

Um, this is the list of chemicals you wish to buy for your client? His voice sounded like it was dragged through a gravel pit.

You are correct. My client would be most grateful for your help in procuring these products.

Harrumph. Schmidt cleared his throat.

So far so good, thought Reese.

Schmidt fumbled with his collar.

Um, there could be some problems. He lowered his voice and leaned forward. As you know, Methylphosphonate for example, is somewhat difficult to export. In some circumstances it could be quite dangerous. Yes, quite dangerous.

Reese drew the brown envelope from his coat and pushed it across the table toward Schmidt. This might make its exportation less difficult.

Schmidt stared at the envelope.

This is quite unusual. He shifted in his chair. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead. Pulling a handkerchief from his vest pocket he patted his brow.

Reese did not reply, but stared at Reinhold Schmidt who was doing his best to appear most uncomfortable.

Schmidt reached for the envelope. Without lifting it, he raised its flap. A small tic flicked across his eyelid. After all, the compound is banned for export. He thumbed through the stack of Deutsche Marks. Then, with one swift motion, the envelope vanished inside his jacket.

Quite a practiced move, Reese thought. His source had been right about Schmidt.

Reinhold Schmidt became all business.

How do you wish to pay for this order, Herr Buehler?

With a cashier’s check drawn on a Dusseldorf bank. Is this acceptable?

Most certainly, Herr Buehler. It’s a pleasure to do business with you.

Reese rose from his chair.

I’m sure it is.

David Reese left the building pleased with his results. On the flight from London to Detroit, he firmed up his plan for his next assignment.

In January, a container ship arrived in Hong Kong’s Victoria Harbor. Its cargo included a shipment of chemicals from Germany. The bill of lading listed the recipient as an obscure Hong Kong pharmaceutical company. Its ownership was buried in a maze of corporate subsidiaries. The shipment never reached its initial destination. It was immediately off loaded onto a freighter of Belgium registry. The next morning the ship sailed from Hong Kong, bound for Savannah, Georgia.

March 1990

ONE

The clock on the pedestal outside the Gold Rush Bank said 7:30 and Dahlonega was beginning to stir. Richard Somer pulled his jacket tight and watched traffic wind its way around the circle. Sitting on the cold concrete bench outside the courthouse chilled him further.

But this morning Richard Somer was glad to be out. He was thankful to still be alive. And Marlane had come home, at least for a few weeks, and he was happy.

The Dahlonega Dispatch office was in the two story building at the corner of Maple and Ash streets. Other than the courthouse, it was the only brick structure on the square. Its walls had worn its age well during the lean years. But now its mortar was crumbling and ocher and rust stains marred its surface. Still it remained a solid anchor on its corner of the square.

The frame structure next to it housed the town’s only drug store. It was now dressed up in a fresh coat of sage green paint and a new RX sign hung over the front door. Next to the drug store was Hollowell’s Café where the breakfast crowd was beginning to arrive. As they entered, the delicious aroma of fried food escaped into the morning air.

The whirr of an electric saw and hammering echoed off the bare walls of the Smith building. It had been vacant for over fifty years and Somer heard there would be a book store and an art gallery there. Town chatter said more development was coming and might include a theater. And now, after living just above the poverty level, the citizens of Dahlonega had jobs.

He could see the sign in front of a cinder block building down Ash Street advertising Somer’s Auto Service. It was no longer his. The heart attack forced him to sell the business and he missed it.

So she’s back, eh? The voice belonged to his friend Carl who eased down beside him on the bench.

At least for a while, Richard replied.

So how is it having your daughter back at home?

Makes me think of Arlene. Hard to believe it’s been two years since her passing. He smiled then wiped away a small tear sliding down his face.

I hear Marlane will help out Clay over at the Dispatch.

She will but I don’t think she’ll stay too long. She has that job at the Chicago Tribune and they agreed to hold it until she returns. She seems a little restless and I think she misses her boyfriend, too. He’s a guy she met at Northwestern. I hear he has an earring and a small tattoo. Marlane would not say where on his body it is. Guess we’re kind of behind the times here in the mountains.

Seems Dahlonega is growing, though, said Carl. Guess we should thank that Doering fella. Hasn’t been this many new jobs since ole Jeb Parks kicked over the gold rock almost two hundred years ago. If you listen to the mayor you’d think it’s all because of him. But it’s cheap labor, that’s what. People around here hadn’t had much work in so long . . . . his voice trailed off.

As they were talking, Deputy Bob Denton came out from the courthouse and walked over to where the men were sitting. After speaking to them he said to Richard, I hear Marlane’s back in town.

She is, Bob. Thinks she needs to take care of me but she’ll be going back soon.

Please say hello to her for me.

He turned to Carl. I’ve wanted to talk with you. Dad found one of our prize heifers dead near your lower pasture. Have you lost any livestock lately?

Not that I know of. I haven’t walked that pasture in a day or two but I’ll check it out today, said Carl. A couple of days ago they were all there.

My main concern was that we may have a disease in our herd that could spread to yours. Our vet ran extensive blood tests and they all came back negative. His necropsy didn’t turn up anything either.

Then what killed your heifer? Carl asked. A bit of uneasiness crept into his voice.

It is perplexing. The vet thought it could be Bovine Respiratory Disease but the blood tests ruled it out. He said the animal appeared to be in good health. Nothing showed up in his examination that would have caused its death. He said the cow should still be alive.

Mighty strange if you ask me, Carl said. Cows do not drop dead without a cause. Let’s hope whatever killed the heifer isn’t contagious.

Denton checked his watch. My shift is about to start. I’ll give you a call if anything else turns up. Let me know about your herd. He turned and headed to his car.

There’s one for Marlane. Carl said, suppressing a chuckle.

Carl, she’s not interested in any boy here. As I said, she already has a boyfriend in Chicago.

Yeah, but weren’t Bob and Marlane in high school together?

They were a couple of years apart. He’s older.

Anyway, I like him a lot, said Carl. His dad is a friend of mine. They have grown their operation. Bought up some more acreage and expanded their herd. And Bob is pretty special. There’s talk he’s brought quite a bit of professionalism to the police force. Some folks wanted him to run against Sheriff Willis last time. Bob had too much respect for the sheriff to do that. He might have the top job at some point though."

He stood up and patted Somer on the shoulder. Need to go and check my cows. I’m worried about what killed Bob’s heifer.

MARCH 1990

TWO

It was well past closing time and the lights in Dr. Frederick Ingles’ office were still on. He sat at his desk listening to the whirr of his computer dumping the last bit of data onto a floppy disc. With the remaining files copied he removed the disc and placed it atop the stack on his desk.

Dr. Ingles was afraid. His gambling debts had piled up and the menacing phone calls had started. He hated what he was doing but felt he had no choice. Now his main goal was to get the discs through security and out of the building. He had less than an hour for his nine o’clock meeting.

Ingles placed the discs in an envelope and stuffed it in the inside pocket of his topcoat. He tossed some non-classified papers in his briefcase and turned out the lights. The security guard on duty knew him and waved him through.

Relieved, his pace quickened as he hurried to his car. Thirty minutes later Dr. Ingles stood in the yellow glow of the street light outside Mary’s Bar. Mary’s was the one place near Dugway Proving Grounds where one could get a proper drink. The temperature had warmed somewhat but an icy north wind still chilled the air. Ingles checked his watch. After nine o’clock, his contact was late but it was too soon to assume the deal was off. He patted his coat pocket, felt the discs, and waited.

The wind was picking up. A few snowflakes danced in the street light then fluttered away into the darkness. Then a voice came out of the shadows.

Dr. Ingles, please move away from the light.

Ingles turned toward the voice and saw a man standing in the darkness at the corner of the building. After making sure no one was leaving or entering the bar he made his way to meet him.

After a brief exchange, Dr. Ingles handed over the discs. In return he received an envelope containing $20,000. It was not enough to pay off his debts but it could buy him some more time.

A week later as Dr. Ingles entered his apartment the phone was ringing. He hardly ever had phone calls and wasn’t expecting any. He ignored it but moments later the phone jangled again. This time he lifted the receiver and said, Ingles.

Dr. Ingles, my name is David Reese. I represent a company who’s interested in your services. It will be worth your while to talk with me. When can we meet? I can be in Dugway tomorrow.

I’m sorry, I have a job and I’m under contract for another year.

Buying out your contract will be no problem for my company, so what time can we meet?

Dr. Ingles was preparing to hang up until the caller mentioned a signing bonus of $100,000. He thought about the money he received for the discs and realized this would be substantially more significant.

Okay, I’ll listen.

Besides the signing bonus, your salary will be in the neighborhood of $200,000. There is plenty for your research as well.

Interesting. But I’ll need some time to think about it.

Unless you agree to at least meet with me at eight tomorrow evening, the offer will be off the table. Understand?

Ingles took a deep breath. All right. He realized his voice was unsteady. My apartment at eight o’clock. Here’s the address.

Not necessary, we have it. I’ll be there at eight.

David Reese arrived precisely at eight p.m. He placed his rich leather briefcase on the kitchen table and removed an official looking contract. He placed it in front of Ingles who began to study it. After reading about half of the contract his eyes narrowed with suspicion. Ingles tossed it back across the table to Reese and stood.

You should take your contract and leave now. If not, I will call the authorities. I’ll have none of this.

Reese ignored the remark and took a small portable tape recorder from his briefcase and placed it on the table. He then removed a stack of 8 x 10 glossy photos and spread them out in front of Ingles. You wouldn’t want these to fall into the wrong hands, now would you?

Ingles sank back into his chair. He stared at the images of him accepting money and passing documents to the man outside Mary’s Bar.

Reese pressed the play button on the recorder.

Stunned, Ingles listened to his voice describing the material he had stolen.

Reese picked up the contract from the table and flipped to the last page and pointed to a blank line.

Dr. Frederick Ingles took the pen, signed the contract, and put his life in danger.

APRIL 1990

THREE

David Reese sat at his desk on the fortieth floor in Doering Industries Headquarters. He leaned back in the leather chair and watched the April sunlight glisten on the Detroit River below. He was waiting on a phone call.

Reese had come a long way from the mean streets of Philadelphia. After a year running with a local gang he caught the attention of the Irish Mob. David was smart enough to know he would have a better future as a lawyer. There was also a better future for staying alive.

He worked his way through Harvard Law School and graduated near the top of his class. David did not identify with students who would work for some prestigious law firms or in the securities business. There were offers but when the chance to interview with Doering Industries turned up, he jumped at it.

Relying on his street smarts he handled the interviews with the ‘suits’ in HR. His next meeting was with Randolph Doering. Doering recognized David was clever, somewhat ruthless and devious. These were the qualities Randolph most admired.

His first assignment had been with International Shipping in Djibouti. Four years later he headed the division. In his climb to the top he destroyed the careers of two executives and made a few enemies as well. But unknown to him Randolph Doering was watching his progress. He had other plans for David Reese.

Now as Director of Security for Doering Industries David was back in Detroit. The job had little to do with the operations of the company. He glanced at his watch. Almost 4 p.m. He calculated the time difference. Should be almost midnight in Djibouti. The call from Nick Grooms should come shortly.

The trips to Berlin and Dugway had accomplished his purpose to this point. One more to go, he thought and opened a thick folder on his desk. The label on the file read PROSPECT.

A soft tone confirmed a secure phone connection. He pressed a button on his desk activating the video screen. Nick Grooms’ face appeared ghostlike but he got right to the point.

We’ve located our target.

Good, Reese replied.

Grooms oversaw Doering’s operations at the Port of Djibouti. He was also Randolph Doering’s eyes for that part of the World. The port was at the crossroads of the world’s major shipping routes and melded well with Doering’s oil tanker business.

Doering’s ‘gifts’ to key government agency heads gave him considerable influence in the region. It also furnished a reliable source of information about Djibouti’s neighbors.

Here’s what we know. The guy’s name is Jack Dugan. He served two tours in Vietnam. He also dodged a couple of investigations about his treatment of prisoners. He did get the intelligence he needed but two of the prisoners ended up dead. There was not enough information to pin the alleged torture and deaths on Dugan. A fellow ranger, Frank McAllister, corroborated Dugan’s story. They are pretty tight and we may have to hire them both. After Vietnam they ended up at Riyadh.

Grooms continued, he and McAllister went AWOL about a year ago. Somehow they found out the Eritrea strong man was in the market for mercenaries. If you have a little money, there are many fishermen who would be happy to take you on a jaunt across the Red Sea. We don’t have much good intelligence on the ground, but what we do have seems to be reliable. Dugan appears to be heading up a small mercenary force in Eritrea. He has Frank McAllister in tow. Not sure how he fits into the picture. The Army says they’re still looking for them but my guess is they’re glad to be rid of them.

What more can you tell me about Dugan’s group?

Ethiopian insurgents create some havoc with raids across the border. So there seems to be some regular conflict along the boundary. Dugan’s commandos have the responsibility of dealing with it.

You are certain he is still alive?

According to my source as of three weeks ago he was. We do know he was injured in a small border skirmish. We don’t know how serious it was.

David Reese folded his hands in front of his face. You’re sure Dugan is the best candidate?

He has all the characteristics we detailed in our profile. Matches up better than the other folks we’ve looked at. It took almost a year to find him.

Assuming he is our guy, how do we contact him? Better yet, if he agrees with the proposition how can we extract him from Eritrea?

Not sure. The informant I have is a fisherman named Anbessal. He lives on Norah Island off the coast. Norah is populated by two small fishing villages. Anbessal makes his living there by harvesting a few pearls and the fish he catches. He does go into the capital to sell his catch if it’s worth it.

How did you find this guy?

A stevedore at the port. He’s an Eritrean expat and still has some contact back home. I put out some feelers through him about looking for a mercenary who would like a job protecting the port.

Can we trust this Anbessal?

"His teenaged son was arrested on a trumped up charge of espionage. Anbessal has not heard from him in two years. He has no love for the government and especially the president. He