The Martial Art: Adam Emerson Novel, #1

By Dane Andrew

Amid a brutal epidemic, a business executive enacts his nefarious plan to honour a neglected son and make himself billions. But when those plans result in the death of an unintended, an unlikely hero emerges.
Forged in the fire of ancient traditions; Adam Emerson, armed with hard-earned skill and inherent mental prowess, disrupts those plans as he attempts to solve his family's murder.
Meanwhile, a mysterious group that is feared by criminals and law enforcement alike; systematically eliminates rising threats, while simultaneously redirecting suspicion to their business partner.
From Japan to Jamaica, ancient mansions to advanced technology; Adam joins forces with a band of misfits and mercenaries to end the effects of a deadly virus and dismantle a plot that could cause the death of millions and shift the global balance of power.
Caught between Big Pharma and the DEA, this is a fight he cannot afford to lose.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dane Andrew
• Release date: Aug 11, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223446620

Book preview

THE MARTIAL ART

An Adam Emerson Novel

DANE ANDREW

Copyright © 2023 by Dane Andrew

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permission requests, contact Dane Andrew at

https://www.daneandrew.net/contact

The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.

Book Cover by Dj Danskter

Illustrations by Dj Danskter

Edited by Josiene Brown Nelson

Second edition 2023

For more in the world of Dane Andrew visit:

www.DaneAndrew.net

Follow Dane Andrew on all social media:

@daneandrew876

Imprint: Independently published

ISBN-13: 9798750863174 - Paperback

ISBN-13: 9798750938377 - Hardcover

For Marjorie, whose dreams became my reality.

For Errol, who fed my craving for reading.

For Josiene, who drives me to be my best self.

For Shannon, whose support is never-ending.

Thanks

Prologue

March 15, 1898

Fortymile Creek

Alaskan Yukon  

The bullet nearly took off his head; the projectile searing his ear. Testament to his luck thus far; good or bad? A shootout with unknown assailants, for known reasons.

GOLD. That was the craze in the late nineteenth century. Travis Murray, one of the many prospectors settled here seeking their share. He lived in one of the newly thrown up frontier towns, built especially for the infamous Gold Rush.

A man named Henry Leon had discovered a large deposit of the ore on the east end of the Yukon. So obviously, everyone concentrated their efforts there, but Murray’s reckoning convinced him most of the deposits were more to the north.

Travis grew up in a poor family; his father, a simple farmer, and his mother was the typical homemaker. He had three older siblings, two brothers, one sister.

Simplicity seemed to be hereditary; thankfully, having skipped him. Both his brothers eventually became farmers, while his sister found a nice young man to wed.

The brothers weren’t as fortunate, both having chosen poorly in the spouse department.

Eventually, their marriages improved, and they were content; simple, but content.

Travis; the brightest of the clan, had different visions of contentment. Unlike the rest of the family, who were fine having manure filled days and coyote howling nights, he had aspirations of becoming a lawyer.

His father had him pegged for the family business; lawyer? Really? But, being the baby of the family allowed him to pursue his dreams, eventually with their full support.

While in his second year of college, one of his professors, doctor Wayne Wright, struck gold on his monthly visits to California; promptly retiring a very rich man.

Travis switched majors, from law and political science to geology and metallurgy; graduating with honours.

Three months had elapsed since he’d been excavating in the north and, besides a few bits, he barely found anything of consequence. The east end of the Yukon fared much better.

The constant jeering from other prospectors finally weakened his resolve, the east it was.

The pickaxe slipped as Travis gathered his tools; the gloves providing a brief respite from the biting cold. He jumped back in response, losing his footing.

The corrosion visible on the tool uncomfortably detailed; a few inches more might’ve left him blind, or worse.

A rock lay split open, and even under the fading sunlight, the pieces shimmered.

Finally.

He leapt to his feet and heaved the offending tool above his head, striking the rock surface dead centre.

More gold.

The concentration grew the deeper he dug.

The bitter cold became irrelevant.

Secrecy was essential; Murray returned to town under cover of darkness, ensuring his turnaround went undetected.

A slight change in his routine yielded optimal results; early mornings, late nights.

Drinking with other unfortunate souls became a necessary component; suspicions ran high among miners and misery loves company. The stench of stale liquor and shattered dreams only steeled his resolve to keep digging; never again.

Travis accepted drinks offered by a lucky miner, indulging more than intended; the resulting intoxication loosening his tongue.

The inebriated laughed and congratulated; memories of the tale soon forgotten in the morning haze; one man, however, had little to drink and hung on Travis’ every word.

A nasty hangover delayed Travis’ departure. The resulting headache and fog hanging over him fuelled his paranoia; memories of his indiscretions slowly revealed themselves.

He noticed the figure of a man trailing, but a second look turned up nothing. Being the only fool in this section of the Yukon warranted his scepticism.

The site seemed different somehow; rather than a source of rebirth, it resembled a large open grave. His attackers would kill and bury him in an icy hollowed out gold mine and take the rest for themselves.

His family would never know what happened. Just another miner lost while seeking his fortune.

Two six-shooter pistols and a rifle; all the firepower he had. Normally on the sleigh; not today.

He tucked both pistols in his waistband, hidden by his shirt; cord secured the rifle to the pickaxe, ensuring the business end remained out of sight.

Pretending to dig, he focused on the wind, the trees, the… a twig snapped, rustling in the bushes; he fought the urge to investigate.

Still pretending.

An unfamiliar voice.

Murray!!

Who’s there? He turned; the pickaxe held out of sight.

Just someone who’d like to offer some help,

Help with what, pray tell?

"You were so drunk last night, you probably don’t remember; but if what you say is even half true, you’re going to need help, to carry and spend it all."

Confirmation.

Shit.

"So, if the amount is what I said, how are you going to help?"

I brought friends, two men emerged from their hiding places.

Surprise is a powerful weapon, but being outnumbered and outgunned tipped the odds in their favour, and unlike the cans, these targets move.

And if I don’t want your help?

Don’t see how youz’ got a choice in the matter.

Travis saw the draw and beat him to it.

The pick bucked in his hand as the trigger squeezed; the bullet exiting the barrel at two thousand five hundred feet per second.

The thief’s abdomen tore open; his pistol released from his fingers, hitting the ground a second before its owner. His shriek so loud it followed the gunshot on the wind, echoing the last sound he would ever make.

Death took him before his face hit the dirt.

The exchange caught his two cronies off-guard; Travis dived behind rocks close by. The men shot wildly. Travis noticed their pistols; six-shooters, so he listened and counted.

The shooting paused; they were reloading.

Now or never.

He jumped up from cover and cut a wide arc of the nearest hiding place; his gun rose as he moved. He caught the shooter unawares; still anxiously reloading.

Diving through the air, he fired twice; the victim laid eyes on him just long enough to register the smoking gun; he didn’t hear the shots.

He observed extra holes in his shirt; when did this happen, the overwhelming smell of burnt flesh and… what was that, copper; it’s true what they say about blood smelling like that.

Two bullets entered his body, one lodged in his sternum, the other found his heart. The blood flow to his brain ceased. He saw Travis rolling out of his dive and scrambling for cover as bullets kicked up dirt about his feet.

Something important was happening, but he couldn’t remember what. His heart failed in its attempt to sustain; his eyes rolled over in his head, never to refocus.

His only living compatriot had finished reloading while Travis got off his two shots; just in time to see him roll for cover. He opened fire again, this time with an unrestricted view of the target.

Travis hid in a thicket of bushes, not very suitable cover. A bullet struck his leg, the shriek mimicking his first victim. The gunman ceased; the upper hand secured,

Throw down the weapon and come out with your hands up.

This is it. He put up a good fight, but it’s over. Wait, he said weapon; no way he could know about the other gun. Travis grabbed it.

Okay, I’m coming out, don’t shoot, here’s the gun, I’m throwing it out. Don’t, shoot.

The pistol’s hang time provided the required distraction; Travis sprung up and fired twice; the first missed its mark, but the second punctured the thief’s eye socket and exited the back of his skull.

Last man down.

Travis fashioned a tourniquet from the deceased clothing. He took deep breaths, attempting to slow his adrenaline-fuelled heart.

The carnage shook him; three sorry souls lay dead before him.

The concentration of deposits had significantly reduced, and considering what just occurred, quitting was sensible; his fortune was already massive. Greed would not do to him what it had done to them.

He fed the bodies to the eight-foot hole; payment for his new life.

June 27, 1898

New Amsterdam

North America

Travis left the Yukon for New Amsterdam (now New York), to trade his gold. His knowledge of the market allowed him to negotiate the best prices for his commodity; though he did not trade it all. Each member of the Murray clan received a sizable gift from their sibling, enough to stop farming and live happily.

Continued living in a hotel was not on; a mansion suited to his status is a must; the severe allergy to simplicity stilled existed, now even more so.

Wealth the foundation; extravagance and marvel the floor-plan, and security the studs, that’s what he required. The room he currently occupied boasted a bath and a balcony; his current location. Pipe in his left hand, whiskey in right; his aristocratic look practised in the mirror.

The sounds of the night providing a catalyst for his imagination. The odd gunshot from the saloon and continuous piano music; sounds he could do without. Private security was at the door just so he could sleep in peace.

The house was essential.

Coyotes’ silhouettes cast against the moon on a distant cliff; another intriguing sight. Adolescent dreams placed him on a summit, not unlike the one he saw now; but that was just a dream.

Dreams could now become reality; no longer the poor son of a farmer; now he was a rich sonofabitch, no offence mother.   

His readings in college mentioned the Montgolfier Brothers from France. They invented the first manned Hot-Air Balloon. Someone would have under-studied them long enough to replicate it; now he needed to find them.

Always up for a challenge.

November 18, 1898

Lens, France

Europe

Mr Berger, there’s an envelope on your desk, it’s’ from America. Simone Boucher, his secretary; though sometimes he swore she was his mother incarnate; always had a smile to offer; able to improve his day, no matter how bad it started.

Thank you, Simone, and how are you this fine morning?

Oh, splendid sir, just splendid; my husband got a promotion yesterday, so we celebrated last night.   

Celebrated! Then I’m happy you could make it.

Mr Berger, you’re so rude!!!

Ramone Berger, the premier shipbuilder in France; one of the best, if not the best. Fluent in five languages, including English and one of only three people in Europe with working knowledge of the construction of the Montgolfier balloon. An academic pursuit; no one took the practice seriously, as currently, applications for such a craft were non-existent.

Ramone unfolded the hand-written sheet; the smell of jasmine emanating invaded his nostrils, Simone’s favourite fragrance.  

August 6, 1898

Ramone Berger

21 Rue De La Gare

Lens, France

Dear Mr Berger,    

Fate has recently blessed me with a sizable fortune, and that makes me a target for bandits. I am therefore in need of a residence that caters to my proclivities while addressing my security concerns.

I have bought a piece of land and on it is an enormous cliff upon which I would like to build my house, but I have no way of reaching the summit.

This is what I propose; I want you to construct a Hot-Air balloon for me.

I know fully that such an undertaking would be both expensive and time-consuming, but money is of no concern. Therefore, if this interests you, please let me know as soon as possible. All accommodations will be more than adequate and all expenses covered.

Yours sincerely,

Travis Murray

Ramone contemplated the letter before him, hardly believing its contents. He returned it to the envelope.

Simone, I need you to come and take a letter; but before you do, send a telegram to your husband; let him know you’ll be going on a paid holiday.

Holiday sir? Why thank you, Mr Berger, I’m sure he’ll be able to get some time off, so we can celebrate proper. How long shall I tell him I’ll be off sir? So we can plan,

Oh… about a year.

January 12, 1899

New Amsterdam

North America

Ramone arrived in America; coincidentally via a ship he designed and built; constructing it was much more fun than travelling on it.

A luxurious stagecoach in which he was the lone passenger greeted him. Immediately, the stage hand took his luggage and thrust it on top,

Be careful with that!!  

Sorry sir; just don’t want to keep Mr Murray waiting,

He’s been waiting two months. What’s another five minutes?

Yes sir, sorry sir.

The sights and sounds of America; just as he imagined they would be; full of hustle and bustle, erratic energy you could almost feel. Loved ones were being embraced; business partners were being greeted, and the scalawags lurked. Paranoia is not a personality trait applicable to him, but one would have to be downright dim to not notice the attention being paid to him; an infinitesimal twitch of the eyebrows at the sight of the gold nameplate affixed to the lapel of his bag.

Ramone was being targeted and a quick reconnaissance of the area revealed three other delinquents skulking nearby. The new assistant oblivious to the dangers;