Winning Numbers: An Introduction to the Riley Family

By Randall Jarmon

Imagine that organized crime has, in effect, targeted family values. Further imagine the result just might resemble this heartwarming Christian novel's story. Specifically:

He is a scientist, secretly winning the world's major lotteries. The Russian mob wants him dead.

She is a single parent on the run from a vicious dru

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mikvelk Publishing, LLC
• Release date: Jan 15, 2024
• ISBN: 9798869096739

Randall Jarmon

Randall Jarmon, Ph.D., has followed such an unusual path that few novelists will tell a story the way he does.Dr. Jarmon started out as an English major at heart, but ended up with an engineering degree. It imparted keen interest in technology.He once got more than his share of elite military training. Those few years were a good opportunity to learn about tactics, weaponry, martial arts, and so forth.He has worked in a world-class manufacturing setting and a world-class R&D center. Part of the fun for readers with technical backgrounds is determining when the technology in his stories goes from fact to fiction. The shifts will be subtle. Expect to miss some.He earned a pretty good MBA. Later he earned a doctorate (in Management) well worth having. Among other things, he now easily explains the complex organization of human effort. Look for good plots clearly set forth.Randall Jarmon and his wife divide their time between Texas and Arizona. They have two children, six grandchildren, and a golden retriever named Virgil.MIKVELK Publishing, LLC

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cover-image, Winning Numbers: An Introduction to the Riley Family

WINNING NUMBERS

An Introduction to

the Riley Family

by

Randall Jarmon

Mikvelk Publishing, LLC

mikvelk.com

Before we publish a new novel, we at Mikvelk Publishing, LLC test the title’s quality by sending it to Readers’ Favorite for review. Below are excerpts of what Readers’ Favorite had to say about this story. The boldfacing was added by us at Mikvelk.

… Technology plays an integral part in making the reader believe the novel's central premise. Through the detailed action scenes and the twists and turns along the way, the core of this thriller isn't about guns or death, but about relationships and how they can make an individual better than they currently are, and help them realize their true potential. Winning Numbers: An Introduction to the Riley Family is a good stepping stone to the future adventures of this eccentric, brilliant, and fascinating clan, and gives readers a promising look at what Randall Jarmon has in store in the future.

--- Eduardo Aduna for Readers' Favorite

... overall, the action sequences and general idea behind the story line were spectacular. I could easily see this being a movie if the characters were tweaked a little. I love the whole lottery story line; it was absolutely brilliant. There is definitely a lot of creativity inside Randall Jarmon's head and he brings it all to the plate with Winning Numbers.

--- Samantha Coville for Readers' Favorite

"... Randall Jarmon did a fantastic job with Winning Numbers. The story was engrossing and very well written. I did feel that the Riley family was a little too good, but other than that the novel was perfect. I really like the way Jarmon handled two different narrative voices and portrayed the personality of the character through it. Plus, Daniel is a super cool nerd. Who wouldn’t want to be his friend?

--- Rabia Tanveer for Readers' Favorite

... Winning Numbers - An Introduction to the Riley Family by Randall Jarmon is a deeply captivating tale that perfectly blends sci-fi, family values, and thrilling stealth action. Without wasting any time, the story dives straight into the body of the plot and sets the pace for what turned out to be one of the best novels I have read. The Riley family is one special family; everything about these characters is fresh, unique, deep and compelling. Randall Jarmon brought out the best on every single page through these characters and the meticulously planed escapades …

--- Faridah Nassozi for Readers' Favorite

...If the movies Ocean’s Eleven and The Expendables were to have a love child, then it would be this book. The parts of Winning Numbers that are similar to Ocean’s Eleven are the way everything seemed to go smoothly for the Riley family, even though they were running from the mob, and the chemistry the characters had with each other. Also, the access to all the technology they had was interesting. The thing that reminded me of the movie The Expendables was that Jarmon’s main characters were in their sixties and up, which I happened to like. His character, Daniel Numbers" Riley, reminded me of Chuck Norris with the way he fought his battles. Sometimes the story was a little predictable, but one thing it did not lack was action. I rather liked the thought that the numbers for lottery drawings could be predicted.

--- Jessyca Garcia for Readers' Favorite

Publishing Information

Winning Numbers: An Introduction to the Riley Family is 100 percent a work of fiction. The characters in this story are entirely products of the author’s imagination. Any correspondence to actual persons is purely coincidental. Events in the story either are imaginary or, if real (e.g. the Vietnam War), are used in completely fictitious ways. Likewise, organizations mentioned in this story are imaginary (e.g. Trenchant Security) or, if real (e.g. West Point), are used in completely fictitious ways.

This novel is copyrighted (2008, 2010, 2015, 2020 and 2024), and is the property of its author, Randall Jarmon. All rights are reserved by him, except as he may formally confer in writing. The author permits the use of very short passages for review purposes. Randall Jarmon may be contacted via Mikvelk Publishing, LLC, at mikvelk.com.

An early version of this novel appeared under the same title, but under Dr. Jarmon’s pen name at the time, which was Randall Franklin.

The ISBN for the ebook you presently read is 979-8-8690-9673-9. The ISBN for the corresponding print version is 979-8-8690-9672-2.

MIKVELK Publishing, LLC

January 2024

(to Table of Contents)

Table of Contents

Title Page

Publishing Information

Table of Contents

Part 1: A Secret Meeting in Siberia

Section 1

Part 2: The First Attempt to Murder Daniel Riley

Sections 2 through 7

Part 3: The Third Attempt to Murder Deborah and Shawn McSweeney

Sections 8 through 12

Part 4: The Main Story

Sections 13 through 20

Sections 21 through 30

Sections 31 through 40

Sections 41 through 50

Sections 51 through 60

Sections 61 through 66

Part 5: The Wedding Gifts

Sections 67 through 74

Part 6: Epilogue

About the Author

Afterword

Part 1: A Secret Meeting in Siberia

1

The cartel that controlled Russian crime was headed up by five men, one of them a politician. They had gathered hurriedly in a comfortable Siberian lodge. It was an emergency. At stake was a project disclosed to fewer than four other persons. Alexander Kravtsov, the Russian genius who had sought their funding years ago, made his report.

Bad news. Somebody knows how to do it. Some Americans. I’ve almost solved the puzzle. But they figured it out two years ago.

And why are you sure of that? asked the politician. He was a thin, tall man in his early sixties—an intellectual easily mistaken for a professor. The tweed sport coat he wore bolstered that image.

There’s a new Swiss firm. A very small one. Its computers track which company owns which other company—throughout just about all the world. And they answer ownership questions for a fee.

Kravtsov’s plump body combined a good mind with bad posture. His large frame carried well over a hundred pounds more than it should. Kravtsov seemed unable to pull himself up straight under such a load. That was especially true at stressful times like this.

This story has a point? asked another leader, a thick-necked, barrel-chested man already annoyed with Kravtsov. He never had thought Kravtsov’s idea would work. Heavy eyebrows made his scowl more pronounced.

Yes. I’m sent the name of anybody winning a high-payoff lottery. It’s not common for organizations to win. I just finished having ownership checked for the organizational winners. Twenty-two major lotteries in the past twenty-six months have been won by dummy corporations indirectly controlled by an American company called Trenchant Security.

You think they can predict random numbers? It was the politician asking.

Yes. Definitely. There’s no other way to win so often.

That angered Kravtsov’s critic. The eyebrows lowered slightly more. I told you he’d waste our money! Millions of dollars down the drain and Americans get there first. I say, kill Kravtsov and be done with it.

Kravtsov turned pale, doing so just before the politician spoke up. No, I advise against that. Our investment looks better, I think, than before. Now we know that what Dr. Kravtsov said could be done is actually possible. Random outcomes can be predicted.

But not by us! It was Kravtsov’s critic again.

The cerebral leader took the outburst in stride. Quite so. I haven’t explained fully yet. You see, suppose we killed these Americans. We’d be the ones ahead rather than the ones behind. It would take a while for us to start winning, but maybe not all that long. And it could get better. Suppose we made the American scientists talk—or maybe just seized their equipment—before we killed them?

I like that, said a third leader. He was a gray-headed man with a pock-marked face. He finished his cigarette with one puff, and crushed the butt into an ashtray. Like you say, we’re already getting close. Remove the Americans and maybe we’d be months away. But add what they have to what we know, and we might be only weeks away. It should work.

The sullen leader grew pensive, quickly concluding Kravtsov’s fate should be determined another day. His big eyebrows relaxed. So, Kravtsov, do you know anything useful? Anything that would help us get hold of the scientists? Or their equipment?

Kravtsov, now much relieved, adjusted his wire-rimmed eyeglasses and nodded. The next Synchronization will be best observed from the middle of Australia. I don’t know what the Americans will do there. I do know they must get it done within a four-day time period. I’m sure of that. I also know they’ll need considerable equipment—enough to require a small truck.

It’s a good start, asserted a leader who had been silent until now. But is that all we’ve got to go on?

Kravtsov beamed. No. I have a list of all companies controlled by Trenchant. Over a hundred of them. Most are just names on some attorney’s door. Maybe the truck we seek, or its driver, will display one of those names.

(to Table of Contents)

Part 2: The First Attempt to Murder Daniel Riley

2

Three cold-blooded killers drove their pair of SUVs slowly across the Australian desert, three hundred miles northwest of Melbourne. Except for the man they stalked, nobody was within fifty miles. When they finally attacked, there’d be no witnesses to the murder. It would be easy. Indeed, the whole job was easy. They just had to follow this old guy’s truck-like mobile laboratory, with its six, big, dust-churning tires. Stay five miles or so behind. Follow the dust cloud. Stop when it stops, move when it moves. Keep out of sight until the man’s vehicle stayed in one place twenty-four hours.

The twenty-four-hour pause would mean he’d set up the apparatus so important to the men whoever had hired these killers. They then were to seize intact as much of the equipment as they could. They were to videotape everything, to include the extended torture sessions planned for their victim. Once they had his equipment, and his full account of how to use it, they’d kill him. Apart from many flies and the blistering hot sun, it was very easy money.

Suddenly, the cloud three miles ahead of them stopped. It was the man’s usual lunchtime break. He might or might not set up the apparatus. If he kept on going after lunch, the killers wouldn’t care. It bothered them not at all to follow him farther. They were paid by the day, an arrangement that already engendered great patience among them. They stopped their two SUVs, still confident the man didn’t know he was followed. Big rocks, sufficient brush, and the five miles to their prey should easily hide their movement. Unlike his six-tired behemoth, their little SUVs threw up hardly any dust. Compared to their prey, the predators were invisible.

Grateful for the rest, however short it might be, the killers set about their recently acquired routine. Their SUVs were parked next to each other in a perfect location, not far from a little spring. The spring was unexpected good news—a rare chance to remove the dust, sweat, and body odor that clung to them. One man stretched a tarp between the SUVs, providing welcome shade. Another unlatched one of the external jerry cans and topped off the two SUVs with fuel. The third got out three cans of beer, which were still cool, and three, military-style rations. Soon the killers were eating heartily, checking every few minutes for a new dust cloud in the distance. If they ate quickly enough, one reminded the others, there might be time to wash off in the spring.

Two miles away, the prey—a sixty-one-year-old scientist named Daniel Riley but code-named Numbers—used his laptop computer to watch the would-be killers. Numbers was a thin, wiry man with a gray beard, gray hair, and intense, brown eyes. He seemed a gentle, thoughtful man—someone who looked helpless against the professional assassins. He did not, however, seem afraid.

Thousands of miles away, his four partners were watching the same assassins on their computers, all through the magic of a very advanced satellite hook-up. It was time to discuss next steps. The distinguished man in one of the four thumbnails on Numbers’ computer screen began the conversation. His nickname, which had become his code name, was Spook. He was Numbers’ eldest brother. A seventy-year-old athlete, Spook had the good looks other board of directors chairmen might envy.

They fell for it, Spook said. One spring. Two SUVs. Three bad-guys. All in living color on Bytes’ little spy camera.

Thanks, Bytes. Numbers spoke to the middle brother. Your techies built one even I could set up quickly.

Bytes, in his own screen thumbnail, smiled. He was five years older than Numbers, but four years younger than Spook. Like Spook and Numbers, he had Riley good looks. Yeah. As if you weren’t the ultimate super-techie. Anyway, what do we know about these guys?

His attractive blond wife, Lady Bytes, answered. She still sounded like the Texas Supreme Court justice she once had been. Lady Bytes handled Trenchant’s administration and all legal issues. "Well, it’s a good thing Numbers spotted them in that little mining settlement. Our contacts needed some extra time.

The heavy-set one’s a known contract killer. Does a lot of work for the Australian mob. About twenty-five probable kills, a few of them as far off as Hong Kong. Definitely a high-end assassin. He’s on the run, too. Wanted in New Zealand for three grisly murders about a year ago. The other men are probably high-end wannabes—young goons starting out. Now that we have pictures, our contacts can identify the wannabes. Give me a couple hours for that.

Spook’s turn again: Let’s jump to the worst case scenario. Suppose Numbers has to kill all three. It’s clear self-defense now, right? Spook Riley was a man of action. He liked simple answers to complicated questions.

Lady Bytes sounded annoyed. "Spook, settle down. It’s not all that clear. It also depends on how Numbers does it. If he uses firearms and gets caught, it could take two months to get him quietly released. The Aussie government owes us a big favor. They also won’t mind losing these three citizens. But there’d be a lot of anti-gun rhetoric. It’d take maybe sixty days for the demagoguery to die down. Worse still, the Aussies would want to know exactly why Numbers was in their desert."

Look! Bytes responded to movement on the spy camera piece of the screen. One of them just took out an assault rifle. He’s cleaning the thing! I’m getting it all recorded. That’s got to help.

Lady Bytes shook her head. It only helps if the laws make sense. You’re talking about Australia. They take guns from good guys while bad guys run around armed. How’s that for logic? Sixty days, Bytes. No less. If you want me to keep Numbers out of jail, it’s best to kill them without guns. Assuming Numbers has to kill them, that is. That settled it.

Back to Spook: We’ve got other problems. We only have thirty-four-point-eight-two hours left until The Event. Numbers needs at least twenty-four hours to set up and run the equipment. Also, we agreed not to use a backup team. There’s nobody to help Numbers this time. Nobody. What do you want to do, Little Brother? Spook’s thumbnail face showed his frustration.

Numbers had expected that. Spook hated his brother being in harm’s way alone. Numbers smiled, ever so slightly. I don’t think I’ll need to kill them. I’ll just pay them a visit.

Daniel Riley came from a family of heroes. A little action-adventure should suffice.

3

Numbers had a good seven hours of daylight left. That would be enough, he thought, even if the run—and the careful stalking that would be necessary at its end—took him ninety minutes in the heat. Gloves got pulled on to avoid leaving fingerprints. He pried up some of the truck’s flooring to expose his weapons cache. Numbers took out a 7.62mm M1A SOCOM semi-automatic assault rifle with an optical sight custom-mounted forward of the chamber. It was a heavy gun, but powerful. Its big bullets would fly straight in brush and often would fully penetrate small trees.

He selected two, twenty-round magazines of hollow point ammunition, just in case things didn’t go as planned. He loaded another magazine with twenty cartridges of armor-piercing ammunition. The magazines, three pairs of plasti-cuffs, three pairs of leg irons, first aid supplies, his satellite phone, and other gear all went into a hydration pack that held two quarts of water. He expected to use nearly all the water during his steady jog-walk-jog cross-country to the spring, two miles distant.

GPS in hand, he set off through the brush and rocks at a disciplined pace. In little more than seventy-five minutes, he could hear voices ahead. His assigned killers seemed to be enjoying the spring, so much so that all three were lying about it with their bare feet immersed in the cool water.

Numbers was surprised. He had anticipated at least one sentry. Spook’s men would have used two, for sure.

Numbers crept up to within fifty yards of the killers’ position and pulled on a black balaclava mask. It felt uncomfortably hot immediately. When one of the men began to put his boots back on, Numbers stood up with the rifle at his shoulder.

It was the high-end killer who saw him first. He reached for an assault rifle three feet away. The SOCOM fired at the same moment. Its heavy bullet slammed into the killer’s rifle, destroying that rifle’s mechanical action. The big man backed away from the useless gun and glared at Numbers.

Numbers smiled under the mask, keeping the SOCOM trained on the killers. G’ Day, Mates. Now tell me … who wants to keep on living?

4

Numbers had the men lie face down. One by one, he plasti-cuffed their hands behind them, SOCOM ever at the ready. The big, high-end killer tried threatening him. You’re dead if you harm us. You’re even dead if you don’t get these cuffs off now! I’ve got friends. Very powerful friends.

The man began to curse Numbers loudly as the killer-wannabes stayed silent.

Numbers ignored the curses, set down the SOCOM, and began rummaging through his backpack. That was all the opportunity the high-end killer needed. Suddenly, he rolled to his side and kicked hard at Numbers’ head, which was just within range. Had the man connected, the kick would have crushed in Numbers’ temple. As lethal moves went, this was a good one. The high-end killer had long been an accomplished street fighter.

Numbers barely noticed. He threw up his left forearm to block the kick, sprang close to the killer, and judo chopped him near the base of the skull. The big man went unconscious. Numbers calmly went back to fumbling with the contents of his backpack.

He finally pulled out a pair of tweezers. Lots of thorns around us, he explained to the two men who were still conscious. A couple nasty ones got me on the run over here .... Won’t be long getting them out.

Two minutes later, he was satisfied. He put the tweezers away, pulled out some antiseptic, and treated both, tiny wounds. Then the antiseptic went into the pack, and he was ready for the work at hand.

He faced the wannabes. Expect the big guy to stay out cold for a while. I hit him a little harder than I should have. Tell him I said he was lucky. Real lucky. You see, I’m in a good mood today. It’s much less trouble to kill someone like him. That last observation had its intended effect on the wannabes. They became putty in Numbers’ hands, even before he chained the three goons’ feet, which he did next.

Bad guys under control, Numbers took a thumb print from each and checked their pockets, which contained nothing of interest. There was no need for taking photographs of them. Bytes’ camera had provided those already. Numbers did a quick search of both vehicles. He found a GPS, a satellite phone without any numbers stored in it, a pair of expensive video cameras, and the killers’ wallets.

Those few items went into evidence bags along with the killers’ several weapons. Numbers tossed their boots in, too. He didn’t really want the killers following him on foot once he got done at the spring. Numbers carefully placed the bags into the SUV he would drive away in. About halfway through his long jog-walk-jog, Numbers had decided he’d much prefer driving back to his own vehicle when finished at the spring. Maybe, he thought, he was finally getting too old for this commando stuff.

Logistics taken care of, Numbers unchained the big, still-unconscious assassin’s feet, and dragged him to a small tree nearby. It was like an American mesquite—a hardwood about four inches thick at the base, roughly ten feet high, and comprised of outspread, thorny branches. Numbers wrapped the chain twice around the tree trunk and re-shackled the man’s feet. The tree now held the big man securely.

Numbers turned his attention to the remaining SUV, the one he planned on leaving at the spring. Raising its hood, Numbers fired the SOCOM into the transmission, engine block, radiator, fuel injection, and fuel tank. The armor piercing bullets hopelessly disabled the vehicle.

There was too little time left until the Event. The police, he thought, would have to do the main interrogation. Spook could get access to whatever the police found out. No problem there. Even so, Numbers sensed the fear building in the wannabes. He just might learn something from them quickly if he went about it the right way.

He shackled one foot of each wannabe to the inoperable SUV’s front axle, carefully avoiding eye contact with his prisoners. He removed the plasti-cuffs. The two men could stand, but were afraid to do so without permission. Numbers gazed off at the horizon, said nothing, and allowed uncertainty to stoke the wannabes’ fears. Meanwhile, gasoline seeped from the bullet hole in the SUV’s fuel tank. The fumes became noticeable.

Numbers finally spoke. You could pull hard on your chains, I suppose. You could drag them across the steel axle you’re chained to. But then you might make a spark—a spark with all this gasoline vapor nearby. Makes a fellow want to sit real still, right?

5

As the experienced assassin lay unconscious, Numbers explained to the wannabes their grim, new reality. I’ll arrange for the police to arrest you. You’ll be safe in police custody. Otherwise, expect to die horrible deaths.

That last part puzzled the two men. Numbers could see it in their eyes as he continued. That man over there’s a very successful assassin. Top of the line, even. He has a valuable reputation to think about. He has connections. To protect his reputation, he’ll blame you for my getting away. The people who hired you will believe him. Even if you run and hide, they’ll find you. They’ll kill you painfully—over many days, I think—because of my escape. I’m the only hope you have.

The men looked at each other and then at Numbers. One spoke. We believe you. Maybe you’d like us to kill the third man for you?

Numbers shook his head. If I wanted him dead, I’d have killed him already. I don’t care if he lives or dies. You’re safer, though, if he’s alive when the police get here. That way the police will want you to testify against him. You’ll get a better deal. Right?

The wannabes nodded. It was odd, thought Numbers, that they should trust him more than their leader. That was how it was with contract criminals. Lady Spook had told him that. Since they had no higher purpose than themselves, their loyalties were easily turned.

Tell me everything you know, said Numbers. This is how you thank me. Prove my efforts to protect you are worth the trouble. I might change my mind, you know.

That prospect badly frightened the men, who talked freely, but knew little. They explained that they usually worked along the country’s northern rim. They had done two jobs in the past for the third man, and gave detailed descriptions of each killing. In each instance, they claimed, the third man had actually been the one to pull the trigger. As to their present employers, that was all a mystery. They didn’t know who’d hired them and only had met Instructor, who was sent for an afternoon of training.

Instructor? prompted Numbers. Yes, they said. A man weighing close to three hundred pounds. Late fifties or early sixties. Wire-rimmed glasses and long, curly, gray hair. He limped a little and spoke with a Central European accent. No. There was no name. They were told to call him Instructor. He had taught them how to handle, pack, and transport the sort of laboratory equipment they might find. The equipment was even more important than Numbers was, they said. Instructor called it Synchronization equipment.

Numbers had them describe the procedures taught them. The techniques were consistent with protecting ultra-sensitive instrumentation, but much wasn’t relevant to the equipment he used. Clearly this Instructor character had no more than a partial idea of how Numbers took his measurements. That discovery was encouraging.

Did Instructor touch anything that’s still here? asked Numbers.

The men searched their memories, both now being eager to win Numbers’ favor. One remembered that the man had spent over an hour shooting their assault rifle, under the careful tutelage of the high-end assassin. Instructor said he had never fired a weapon before, and was fascinated by the noise. He emptied all four of their magazines. He might have reloaded them all by himself. He might have left fingerprints.