The Mule: The Max Jones Thrillers, #1

By Mark David Abbott

 

In the shadows of Dubai, justice takes a stand.

 

Fleeing a deadly confrontation in India, former soldier Max Jones seeks to atone for the sins of his past and start anew.

However, in an unexpected twist of fate, he witnesses two young women in distress while waiting for his flight. In an instant, Max is propelled into action, using skills from a past he'd rather forget.

As Max delves deeper into their plight, he realizes it's merely the prelude to a perilous odyssey, with higher stakes than he ever imagined. In the heart-pounding thriller that follows, Max transforms into a relentless vigilante, determined to dismantle the criminal empire responsible for their suffering.

Armed with combat expertise and a desire for justice, Max becomes a solitary force against Dubai's criminal underworld. 

Will Max's quest for justice and redemption lead him to closer to the light—or deeper into the darkness?


The Mule is the first book in the Max Jones Thrillers

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark David Abbott
• Release date: Sep 29, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223277590

Book preview

1

Vikram ‘Vikki’ Malhotra yawned, stretched, then padded softly on bare feet across the rough concrete floor to the open doorway of his beach shack. A gentle onshore breeze brought the smell of salt to his nostrils and fine particles of sand gathered around his feet. Two stray dogs gambolled in the shallows, play-fighting, one rolling onto its back while the other nipped at its ears. A young Indian couple walked hand in hand, their flip-flops held in their spare hands as they ambled along the edge of the high tide line.

Vikki rubbed his face and shook the sleep from his head. A dull headache pulsed behind his temples and his mouth was dry. He guessed it was midmorning, still a couple of hours before he was due at the bar, but he didn't feel like sleeping anymore. A good strong coffee or, even better, a can of Red Bull would set him up for the day.

Come back to bed, Vikki, came a soft voice from inside the room, and he looked back over his shoulder and grinned.

The mosquito net rippled in the breeze and he could just make out the shape of the naked girl in his bed. He felt a stirring in his loins as he remembered the previous night’s activities.

She was Swedish, and not yet twenty years old, her body firm and her skin the beautiful golden tan only Scandinavians seemed to get. He walked back to the bed, realising what he could do to fill the time before work. The front of his cotton shorts bulged as he lifted the edge of the mosquito net and gazed down on her. She lay on her back, her thick blonde hair spread out over the pillow like a golden halo. A sheet covered most of her body, just a long tanned leg, and one very white breast exposed. Her eyes were closed, and a soft smile lingered on her lips.

His grin widened as his arousal grew. Sometimes he thought he had the best job in the world. These foreign girls were so easy to bed. All it took was a couple of drinks, some flirty banter, and they would throw themselves at him. With his lean tattooed body, his dreadlocks and ready smile, they jumped at the chance for a taste of the exotic east, and he was more than happy to provide it. The best thing was, every week there were new ones.

He was about to slip under the netting when his phone buzzed with an incoming call. Bending down, he retrieved it from the floor and glanced at the screen. A flicker of irritation crossed his face and his heart rate increased a beat. With one more look at the girl in his bed, he turned and walked out of the shack until he was out of earshot.

The sand between his toes scorched his skin, and he jogged down to the harder wet sand near the water before answering the call.

Are they coming? the caller asked without preamble.

Vikki had never met the man, but had spoken to him many times, and he was never friendly on the phone despite the amount of business he sent him.

Don't worry, they’ll be on the plane.

Have you checked?

No.

Then fucking check and call me back.

The line went dead and Vikki ground his teeth together. It was like this every time. He hadn’t let him down yet, but still he didn't get the respect he deserved. Perhaps it was time to re-negotiate his share?

He took a breath, then hit speed dial and waited.

Hello?

Are they on the plane?

They checked in and the flight will leave soon.

Good.

My payment?

Have I ever not paid you?

Well no, but…

Then don’t ask, Vikki snapped and ended the call. He really needed that Red Bull.

He redialled the first number, and it was answered immediately.

All on schedule.

Good. The money will be in your account as soon as we receive the package.

Vikki took a breath. Ahh… about that…

What? the man snapped.

Vikki grimaced, losing his courage at the last minute. He turned and looked back toward the beach shack.

I… ah… I’ll have another one for you soon.

Good. And the phone went dead.

2

Max Jones found a seat with his back to the wall, a seat that afforded him a clear view of the other passengers at the boarding gate.

He sat down and placed the sports bag at his feet. It was empty apart from a spare change of clothing he’d bought as soon as the shops had opened that morning.

He stretched his legs out, leaned back in his chair, and scanned the crowd.

He was exhausted.

He had been running on adrenaline for the past twenty-four hours. In that time he’d helped fight a fire, killed a man, stolen a fishing boat and then escaped the Indian Coast Guard by swimming ashore in the darkness. ¹He desperately needed sleep, but forced himself to remain alert. There was still an hour to go before boarding his flight from Mangalore Airport in India to Dubai. Until he was in the air, he didn’t consider himself to be safe.

The flight looked like it was full. Most of the seats at the gate were occupied, and more passengers stood nearby, staring at their phones, their bags at their feet. The majority were male, heading to Dubai for work, but there were a few couples and families dotted amongst the crowd. He was the only westerner.

His gaze wandered further, and he caught sight of two men in camouflage uniforms walking slowly toward the gate. He stiffened and casually slid the sports bag to one side with his feet. The last thing he needed was to trip up if he had to make a quick getaway.

The guards were still too far away to notice him, so he studied their body language, assessing whether they could be a threat. They were Central Industrial Security Force personnel, the branch of the police tasked with patrolling the airports. They walked slowly, talking to each other, two colleagues out for a stroll through the airport. But it didn’t fool Max. Back in his time in the IDF, the Israel Defence Force, he had patrolled the same way. He saw the way they continually scanned the crowds, looking for anything that shouldn’t be there. They were both armed. TAR-3s, the compact Indian made version of the AK47, with folding stocks, on single point slings across their chests, their trigger fingers resting across the trigger guard. They looked fit and alert.

Max looked away, avoiding eye contact. He pretended to be observing the other passengers while watching the police approach out of the corner of his eye.

He could feel his heart rate spiking, and he slowed his breathing, concentrating on the inhalation and exhalation, keeping them equal, lengthening the breath. After several repetitions, he added a pause in between. Four seconds in, four seconds hold, four seconds out.

The men were closer now, much closer, but he felt calm. The last three years of working for the disgraced and now dead guru Atman had taught him a thing or two.

His heart rate was now under control, his mind empty, but he remained alert, ready to spring into action.

He gazed down at the floor, as if he was a normal passenger who had risen early to catch a flight and was bored with waiting.

He sensed rather than saw the eyes of one guard pass over him, then move on, and he watched their boots move past. Only once they had passed did he look up and watched their backs receding as they walked away and turned a corner, disappearing out of sight.

He adjusted his position, leaned his head back against the wall, and closed his eyes. There was no point in worrying about what might or might not happen. It was all out of his control.

He couldn’t afford to sleep, not just yet, so he continued his measured breathing, scanning his body, starting from the toes, consciously relaxing each body part. It was a relaxation technique he had learned in the Ashram, one that refreshed his body just as much as sleeping.

He had reached the top of his head when his eyes snapped open.

Someone was crying.

3

Nicola Watson placed an arm around the girl beside her and leaned in.

Stop crying, Tracy. You’ll attract attention and we don’t want that.

The only response was an increase in sobbing.

Nicola clenched her jaw and let go of her travelling companion. She too had done her share of crying, but there was little point in continuing. Crying would help no one, least of all her family, back in England.

How had things gone so wrong?

She crossed her arms, leaned back in her chair, and looked around. Across from her, an elderly couple shot curious glances at the crying Tracy before whispering to each other.

Tracy, stop crying. Nicola muttered from the side of her mouth. People are looking.

Tracy sniffed, then wiped her nose on her sleeve.

Diagonally opposite them to her right, Nicola spotted the camouflage uniform of the airport security. Her heart stopped for a moment, and she closed her eyes. Please God, keep us safe, she whispered, then opened her eyes again and watched the policemen approach. They looked like two men out for a stroll and seemed to be completely disinterested in the people around them. But the machine-guns slung across their chests terrified her. There would be no way they could escape if anything happened.

She clasped her shaking hands together on her lap and shot a quick glance at her friend. If Tracy noticed the cops, there was no knowing what she would do. Fortunately, she was so deep in misery she just stared at the floor, sniffing and chewing her lip.

Nicola turned her attention back to the police. They were closer now, still chatting and walking slowly. One of them glanced at her, and she held her breath, but he quickly looked away and said something to his colleague, who laughed.

As they passed by the end of her row of seats, she breathed out. They were safe.

It was then that she noticed the foreigner.

He was young, perhaps late twenties, and had very short hair over a deeply tanned face.

Was he one of them? Was he following them, keeping an eye on them so they didn’t run away?

The text on her phone had said there were people in the airport watching them. Was it the cops or was it him?

He was looking in the other direction, so she studied him carefully. His face was lean, his cheekbones pronounced. She wasn't sure, not very good at that sort of thing, but he didn't look English and was definitely not Indian. Maybe Spanish? She studied his clothes; ill-fitting jeans that had been out of style for several years, a loose checked shirt and cheap-looking running shoes. His luggage, a sports bag, didn’t look expensive either.

No, he didn’t look like he was a threat. Probably just another traveller like them, seeing India on a budget.

Satisfied, she turned away as Tracy started crying again.

Oh, for God’s sake Tracy, shut up.

4

He hadn’t noticed them before, and he mentally kicked himself for his lapse in awareness.

He wasn’t the only foreigner, after all. There were two girls sitting in the row of seating that ran at right angles to his. They both had dark hair and were tanned and had blended in with the other Indians on his first scan of the passengers. But now the seats next to them were empty, he could see them clearly.

They were young, perhaps not much over twenty, and were dressed for comfort in the clothes most female travellers adopted after a few weeks in India. Loose fitting cotton shalwar kameez and flip-flops.

Their suntan and dusty hand luggage suggested a lengthy stay in the country, but they didn’t look like the usual ashram crowd he was used to. More like those who spent time in Goa, at the beach shacks and bars popular with young travellers from all over the world.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees so he could see their faces.

The girl furthest from him was the one crying, her shoulders shaking as she held her face in her hands. Max studied her, wondering why she was so upset. Perhaps the end of a holiday romance?

Whatever it was, it wasn’t affecting her companion the same way. She looked irritated and, as if to confirm his impression, he saw her mutter something to her companion, as if telling her to shut up.

Max shrugged and looked away. People come and go in your life. There was no point in being so attached that it destroyed your happiness when they were no longer part of it.

The crowd stirred as the airline announced preparations for boarding, and Max checked the boarding pass in his hand. He was seated near the front, so there was little point in rushing. He watched as passengers hurried to join the boarding queue as if worried the plane would leave without them.

The girls were standing, too. Well, at least one of them. She stood and tugged the arm of the other, the one who was crying, then leaned down and said something. The girl reluctantly got to her feet, wiped her face with her sleeve and then walked toward the end of the queue, pulling her carry-on behind her. The other girl followed, adjusting the sling bag on her shoulder and she looked up, catching Max looking at her.

She frowned, and he looked away, but it was enough for him to imprint her face in his memory.

It was a skill he had developed in the Occupied Territories, when recognising faces could mean the difference between life or death. Once he saw a face, he never forgot it, and now he would never forget hers. Striking green eyes, and high cheekbones accentuated by hair tied in a high ponytail. Her neck was slim and long and colourful earrings hung from delicate earlobes. She would have been pretty if it wasn’t for her frown and the lines of worry around her eyes.

The crowd around the gate soon swallowed them up, and Max checked his watch. Still thirty minutes before departure. He could feel nerves creeping in, so he returned his attention to his breathing. Four seconds in, four seconds hold, four seconds out. He would either get on the plane safely or he wouldn’t. There was nothing in between.

Ten minutes later, the queue had shortened, and he got to his feet and picked up his bag. He was about to cross the aisle and join the end of the queue when he noticed the airport security walking back toward the gate. Turning his back, he dropped his bag on the chair and unzipped it, pretending to look for something until they had passed.

Once they had passed, he turned around and looked back at the queue. Right at the front, near the turnstile, where they scanned the boarding passes, were the two girls.

There was something about the girl with the green eyes that caught his attention. She was watching the airport security with an expression Max had seen before.

He’d seen it when he’d been out on patrol, in the eyes of the Palestinians as he walked the streets of Nablus with his men.

Fear.

5

Max stowed his bag in the overhead locker and glanced back down the aisle.

The plane was almost full; he being one of the last to board. He noticed the girls were about ten rows back on the opposite side. One in the window seat, one in the centre. The one with the green eyes had visibly relaxed once the airport security had passed by, and then taken control of her unhappy travelling companion and helped her onto the plane. But there was no denying what Max had seen in her eyes.

Right now, though, it wasn’t his problem.

Max turned away, nodded at the two men sitting in the seats beside him, and then took his seat in the aisle. He kept his seat belt unfastened and one eye on the door. Until the plane took off, he wouldn’t relax.

A few stragglers entered the plane and then came the announcement he had been waiting for, ‘Boarding complete.’

He watched one of the cabin crew pull the door shut and felt the tension leave his body. The breathing exercises and the mind control techniques he’d learnt in the ashram could only go so far, and it was only now that he realised how nervous he had been.

The plane pulled back and began its taxi and he clipped his seatbelt and settled back in his seat for the three and a half hour flight to Dubai.

Sometime later, he sat up with a start, his shirt damp with sweat, and realised he had fallen asleep. The plane was airborne, and he checked his watch to see they had been flying for over an hour. The men beside him were asleep, and the crew were busy in the galley preparing for meal service.

He sat forward, peeled his shirt from his body, and shivered. Reaching up, he closed the air vent blowing cold air onto his damp shirt. Something had made him sweat, and it wasn’t the temperature in the cabin.

He allowed his mind to roam, and the events of the last twenty-four hours flashed before his mind's eye. The fire in the ashram. The young girl fleeing from Atman’s room, clearly distressed, clothes awry. His jaw tightened as he remembered the look of terror on her face. ¹

That had been the last straw.

By the end of the night he had killed a man with his bare hands… and watched Atman die at the hands of another.

The man he killed, Georges Haddad, had been Max’s Samal, his fire-team leader in the Israel Defence Forces, the IDF. He had saved Max's life once, and Max had been in his debt ever since. So when Georges left the IDF and asked him to join him running security for the world renowned spiritual leader Atman, Max didn’t hesitate.

He’d had enough of fighting wars for old men in suits. When he had first enlisted, he truly believed he was doing the right thing; protecting his country from an existential threat. That the people on the borders were the devil and had to be exterminated. It was only later he realised how much he had been brainwashed. No race was uniformly wicked. If he had been born on the other side of the border, he would have been one of them. The things he had seen and done in the service of his government filled his days with guilt and the dark hours with nightmares.

He had hoped that by joining Georges and protecting a spiritual leader, he could make a change. That the scales weighing his good and bad deeds would tilt in his favour.

Max grimaced. It hadn’t worked out that way. At first, he had loved the job. He didn’t get shot at, travelled to exotic locations, and learnt meditation and yoga techniques that brought him a lot of mental peace. But gradually there were things that didn’t sit right with him. He’d pushed the thoughts aside, thinking he was in the service of a holy man who could do no wrong. But he knew now that by doing so, he too had played a part in the disgraced guru’s crimes.

The guru Atman had taken advantage of his position to amass great wealth and to sexually abuse his female followers. As his Head of Security, Georges Haddad enabled him. He supplied the girls, covered up when things went wrong and made problems… and people disappear.

The actions of one man had finally pulled the veil from Max’s eyes.

A man called John Hayes.

John had infiltrated Atman’s organisation not once, but twice, and had been the catalyst for Atman’s downfall and very recent demise. ²

Max pressed his head back against the headrest and frowned up at the bulkhead. John Hayes wasn’t even anyone special. He had no military background or training, but despite that was brave enough to take on a foe more powerful than himself. If an ordinary man like him could take a stand against evil, then why couldn’t Max?

It was time to change his life. Whatever he did next, he had to do good. Maybe, in that way, he could really make amends for his past actions.

He thought back to the beach, where John Hayes helped him launch the fishing boat after fleeing the burning ashram. John had told him it was never too late to redeem himself. ³

Hopefully, he was right.

Max sat up and casually glanced over his shoulder as if looking for the toilet. He could just see the girls sitting about halfway down the aisle. One appeared to be asleep, but the girl with the green eyes was awake and staring out the window.

Perhaps he could start with helping them?

6

The flight passed quickly, Max sleeping for most of it, and it wasn’t long before he was exiting the plane with his bag slung over his shoulder. He walked slowly, allowing most of the other passengers to rush past. He was in no hurry, had no particular place to go and besides, wanted to observe the girls and find out what they were afraid of.

Standing to one side, he pretended to sort through his bag while watching the passengers.

The two girls passed, their arms linked, heads close as they whispered urgently to each other.

Max allowed several more passengers to go past before following them. He joined the immigration queue, keeping about five travellers between him and the girls, and readied his passport.

Even though he had passed through Indian Immigration without a hitch, nerves still churned in the pit of his stomach. Last night he had tossed his genuine passport overboard, consigning Israeli citizen Maxim Klein to the ocean. He was now Maximilian Jones, British Citizen. ¹ Despite the false name, the passport was genuine. Atman had bought it for a considerable sum of money from a corrupt consulate official. At the time, Max hadn’t questioned the need for a false passport, but he was grateful for it now. The disgraced guru had some uses, after all.

The girls reached the immigration desk and Max focused his attention on them, observing their body language and trying to hear what they were saying. Green Eyes pushed the other girl forward, and she placed her passport in front of the official, her head hung low. The official gave the passport a brief look, then stamped it and handed it back. The girl hesitated as if surprised, then snatched it from him and walked through, only to stop and look back at Green Eyes with a wrinkled brow.

Green Eyes stepped forward and greeted the official loudly, Good morning, sir.

He nodded a reply, muttered something Max couldn't hear, then after a cursory glance, stamped her passport. He slid it back toward her and dismissed her with a gesture of his fingers.

Thank you. She took the passport in her hand, walked through, put her arm around her friend, and led her away quickly.

English. That’s what Max could guess from the little he’d heard, and Green Eyes was obviously the leader of the two.

Several moments later, it was his turn, and he fixed a smile on his face and stepped forward.

Max was fluent in Arabic, but he greeted the man in English. An Arabic speaking Englishman travelling on a UK passport would attract too much attention.

The official grunted a reply, then began leafing through the passport. He scanned the visa stamps, then flipped through to the photo page. Lifting his gaze, he studied Max’s face for long enough to make Max feel uncomfortable. Max kept smiling even as a trickle of sweat ran down his spine. Finally, the official reached for his stamp and stamped the passport.

Welcome to Dubai, he said robotically, his eyes already