Chokepoint: The Shadowboxer Files

By Chris Lowry

The mission went off without a hitch.

One less bad guy in the world.

But when he calls to report the job's success, someone tries to shoot him.

He barely escapes alive.

Now the Shadowboxer is on the run, hunted by the men who taught him how to kill.

No where is safe.

They know his secrets. His habits and his routines.

And when he tries to go to ground, it's like they know exactly where he's going.

Is inside help turning this inside job upside down?

He's going to have to figure it before his luck runs out and he ends up like one of his targets.

 

Fans of action packed spy thrillers are going to enjoy The Shadowboxer Files.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chris Lowry
• Release date: Nov 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223567264

Chris Lowry

Chris Lowry is an author and adventure seeker who has traveled the globe exploring new worlds and writing about his thrilling experiences. With over one hundred thrillers, science fiction, and urban fantasy novels to his name, as well as more than a thousand articles published across various publications, Chris has established himself as a master storyteller and a leading voice in the world of action and adventure. Whether he's fighting off hordes of undead in a post-apocalyptic wasteland or braving the depths of outer space, Chris is always ready for his next thrilling adventure. Follow his journey as he battles against impossible odds and becomes the hero that the world needs.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

XALATAN — SOUTHEAST MEXICO

Southeast Mexico is a weird place. The beaches are gorgeous and undiscovered, archaeological marvels dot the landscape and even more are hidden under the green canopy of verdant jungle that stretches down to the border with Central America.

The desert marches from Texas and New Mexico across the flat expanse to butt up against the edge of the jungle to bleed brown scrub and yellow sand into the green thick plant life.

Xalatan was a small city on what was generously called a highway that catered to the beach bound tourists. It was a jumping off point for tours into the jungle to see monuments of the past, a haven for surfers and wayfarers making an adventurous trip across the continent.

Juan’s was a dive bar off of a back alley that was simple four walls and a tin roof.

The bar was made from an expensive looking jungle hardwood, probably harvested almost a hundred years ago with the smooth sweat stained top that comes from a lot of elbows and arms propped against the edge.

The walls were adorned with cheap beer promotions, the shelves behind the bar had an assortment of shot glasses, beer mugs and a couple of tequila tumblers. Almost all of them had small cracks or chips.

The door was propped open with a chair, the windows were folded up and chained to the roof in an effort to catch any breeze that might stir the fetid air inside. Two bamboo leaf ceiling fans were connected by a rubber belt, so that when one turned it caused the other to turn with it.

Old worn tables were scattered around the room in no apparent pattern, some with three chairs on the sides. Two men sat at one of the tables engrossed in a chessboard and an almost empty fifth of tequila that rested between them.

Brill Winger was five eleven and almost forgettable. His face was handsome in a plain fashion, what could be seen of it behind a thick beard. His hair was long and drawn in a ponytail that rested between muscular shoulder blades hidden under a loose white shirt.

A man almost his polar opposite sat across from him and glared under a thick brow with piggish eyes.

Where Brill was athletic and ripped, Johnson was a man who took his pleasure to excess. He topped the scales at three hundred pounds and stood almost six inches taller than Brill. He had a balding pate with a fringe of hair trimmed short and he was clean shaven. His baby face that made him look younger than he actually was, but the perpetual scowl was meant to keep people away.

You’re up, said Brill.

Johnson took a shot glass full of amber tequila and slurped it down. He set it on the chessboard in a new position among the rest of the empty shot glasses.

Check, he slurred.

Brill lifted an almost empty bottle of tequila in a steady hand and tipped the last drops into a shot glass.

That was a gutsy move.

Johnson mopped his sweaty head with a frayed rag.

I thought you might like it.

Brill rolled the bottle across the floor. It clinked against the bar.

Barkeep! Another.

Who calls them barkeep anymore? You think this is the wild wild west?

What would you call him? Bartender? Keeper of the bottle? Server of the tequila and whiskey and wine? He sets the bar high by keeping the bar to serve us until we’re low. Hence, barkeep. Pour us another one, we’re finished with the other one.

You’re not gonna need it.

That’s tough talk from a man in your position.

You can only make two moves. It’s a classic offense.

Brill sat up and studied the table with bleary eyes. The grease stained Barkeep gently set a fresh bottle of tequila beside him.

What do you think of this?

The barkeep studied the dirty chessboard and shrugged. He walked back behind the bar and turned up the boom box. He pretended to wipe down the glasses with a grime covered rag.

What’s your name again? Brill asked his opponent.

Johnson. Cooper Johnson. My friends call me Digger.

He stuck out a sweaty paw that Brill shook. It was limp in his hand.

Not Coop?

Nope, Digger. That’s what they called my grandfather and after he died, they said I looked like him, so the family started calling me Digger.

You look like your dead grandfather, Coop? I don’t know if that’s a good thing.

Your mind games won’t work on me friend. I mean when he was alive.

I don’t know if that’s a marked improvement, Brill smirked. It could be the tequila though.

Let’s blame the tequila and save my pride.

I can agree to that. Do you know what I do in situations like this, Cooper Digger Coop?

Admit defeat and surrender gracefully?

Brill smiled. He uncorked the bottle and took two long swallows before he pushed it across to Johnson.

I’ll be back.

Where you going?

Brill grabbed his crotch.

Digger, we just met and I’m not that easy on a first date.

Johnson waved him off.

"Clock’s ticking.

I know.

Johnson watched him stumble to the dark hallway that led to the back of the bar.

CHAPTER TWO

Brill nudged the bathroom door open with the toe of his hiking boots. The wood, caked from years of greasy beer soaked fingers, was three shades of black where patrons had touched it. It looked toxic.

Inside was worse. The small space had a toilet and two urinals in a length of five feet. It looked like any two people doing their business would be forced to stand toe to toe to get it done. The floor was an amalgamation of misses, near misses and deliberate soakings, combined to create a stinking cesspool of waste.

A small window above the back of the toilet offered the only potential relief.

It was edged open. He shoved against it gently and pushed the crack open two inches. Brill reached into one of the baggy pockets on the side of his cargo pants and pulled out a sleek pistol. From the other pocket he produced a three-inch silencer he screwed on the end of the pistol.

He rested the pistol against the edge of the window and peered out at the road. He checked his watch and waited.

The bartender banged on the door.

Why you got it locked? There’s room in there.

Be out in a minute, Brill called.

He turned his focus back to the window.

A long black Cadillac rolled into view. Diplomatic flags fluttered on the hood of the car. The windows were tinted, but one rear window was half way down. A cloud of cigar smoke filtered out in a blue smog.

Brill sighted down the end of the pistol and pulled the trigger twice. A misshapen head bounced against the car window and rested there. The car screeched to a stop.

Brill shoved the gun in his waistband and shouldered through the door.

Ain’t you gonna wash your hands, the bartender asked in a thick accent.

Sorry, Brill moved past him down the hall.

CHAPTER THREE

Brill strolled to the table and grabbed a shot glass. He swallowed the tequila and set the glass down to a new spot on the board.

Johnson smiled as he swilled down a shot of tequila and set his piece in place.

Checkmate, he grunted.

Brill dropped a crumpled twenty-dollar bill onto the table.

Good game, he said.

Let’s make it two?

The front door crashed open and four giant thugs ran through. They were dressed in matching khaki uniforms, huge swaths of fabric stretched tight over giant muscles. They raced toward the back of the bar.

Too crowded, said Brill. Maybe next time.

He lowered his head and walked slowly out of the door. One of the thugs with a unibrow