Management Alternatives

CTK01

Readings from "Choosing To Kill"

This reading begins on page 1 of the printed novel. 

The dynamite opening of the first scene sets the stage for this surprising novel.  Enjoy reading #1.

    Hard rain pounded the roof of the van. A crack in the passenger’s window and a broken heater brought biting cold discomfort to both occupants. Curbs and drains controlled most of the torrent but extensive disrepair in this warehouse neighborhood made too many intersections unsafe.

    The plans for the evening were already behind schedule.

    Neither occupant spoke. That was how the operations had been designed, absolutely no talking during a mission. A map of the destination and a set of hand signals had been prepared to handle the necessary communications. Neither man knew the other and the driver always wore a disguise.

    Definitely not the kind of night for most to be out of the house, but tonight those who chose the street were free of prying eyes. Doug knew crime was usually down in such bad weather and that some individuals welcomed this kind of night as a cloak to cover their deviancy.

    Doug looked at his watch hoping the lost twenty minutes would not matter. He motioned for the driver to turn right at the next corner. He adjusted his ski mask as the wake from the van washed waist high onto the sidewalk.

    Earlier weather reports forecast heavy rain through the night. Silently he cursed them for being correct with this one. Just another block or two, he thought. He breathed deeply as the van slowed to enter the next intersection.

    Looking like a SWAT team member from a metropolitan city, Doug felt powerful. With a holstered .45 on each hip and assorted other weapons secreted on his clothing, he was certainly deadly and ready for serious action.

    Although he had done this before, he had not yet grown accustomed to its demands, consequences or the feelings that gripped him afterwards. For a moment, he was lost in contemplation. The focus of this mission also threatened to stir up other equally dreaded feelings.

    The van slowed to a crawl.

    Both sets of eyes darted over the surroundings for clues about their destination. With an exaggerated hand gesture, the driver brushed Doug’s shoulder and pointed to their left down a darkened alley.

    Doug scanned the immediate vicinity to verify this was where he wanted to get out. He recalled the detailed description of the area. Everything seemed to match. He signaled for the driver to turn into the alley. As they drove, the combination of windows and doors in the building matched his recollection of the intended target. This was it, he thought.

    He began the final check of his equipment. Within seconds, the van stopped next to a fenced area containing power and phone equipment. There should be a door to the brick building just behind that fence, Doug thought.

    The driver pointed to an obscure sidewalk adjacent to the fence in front of them and then signaled an enthusiastic thumbs up. Doug reciprocated with a gloved-clinched fist.

    He inhaled deeply as the details of planning the mission played one final time in this head. This one would be tough in more ways than one, he thought. Doug sighed at the wide range of uncomfortable possibilities it held.

    Without hesitation, he moved to the second seat of the van and unlocked the sliding door. In near darkness, he brushed the seat to find the lightweight bag he would need. Grasping it, he opened the door and stepped to the street.

    The intensity of the rain seemed to be at its height. High winds joined the pounding rain as both rushed furiously into the opening of the van. Doug fought the blowing torrent to close the side door. Standing in three inches of water, he watched the van drive slowly away.

    Now his part of the mission would begin.

    Doug moved to the edge of the building, hoping for relief from the storm. None came. He searched the darkness for any unusual movement. Feeling confident there was none, he selected a mini-flashlight from a holder on his sleeve, then scouted in near darkness for the fire exit. Providing everything went according to plan, this door would serve as his own private entrance and exit.

    Twenty feet away, he saw the badly weathered metal of the street level door. It had a locked heavy-duty handle at waist height and a deadbolt about a foot higher. Neither would present a problem for him.

    Within seconds, both yielded to Doug’s skilled probing.

    With a drawn, silenced .45, he descended the stairs into a fuzzy darkness. In the distance, he could see a reddish glow where the passageway turned to the right. That was where the fireworks ought to start, he thought.

    For Doug, these last few seconds before the first encounter were always the worst. After that, his danger quotient shot off the scale and then he would be locked into seeing the mission through to the bitter end regardless of any unintended consequences. That was when timing was the most critical. He had learned that the longer it took, the greater the danger would be.

    He had been lucky so far. His skill, planning and support resources had been top notch. The administration of death sentences was an awesome responsibility, and he did not take it lightly. This would be his fourteenth mission.

    At the same point during each of those previous missions, he had wished for it to be the last one, but he was beginning to feel that would never happen. His exceptional access to insider resources, which law enforcement did not usually get, made it imperative for him to continue playing the part of judge, jury, and executioner.

    At the corner, he peeked to the right.

    Seven feet away was another door composed of a two-inch metal frame with round, metal bars every four inches. A three-quarter inch link chain and heavy duty padlock secured it. He sighed, acknowledging that not even a small child could escape through the openings in that door.

    Within ten seconds, the lock was open.

The second selection starts on page 39 of the printed novel. 

Doug is in the middle of his next mission in the loft of a Miami warehouse.  These two men crossed paths near the end of What Goes Around, but Doug had no clue Marc was with the FBI.  Ramirez is Doug's intended target.  Enjoy reading #2.

    Doug picked up the sniper rifle and placed it across his lap. As he slowly pressed bullets from the first clip into the magazine, each soft click brought lingering cringes over his face. His actions continued in the darkness but his eyes remained focused on the seated men for any sign that they detected his presence. He saw none.

    He took a deep breath, raised the rifle to his shoulder, and placed the scope next to his right eye. Pausing, he scanned the magnified faces of each man at the table. He found a mole barely hidden in Ramirez’s mustache. That was the point of identification he needed to take his shot.

    Looking away from the scope, Doug tried to acclimate his eyes to the contrasted lights. He blinked several times before placing the scope back on his eye.

    He took a deep breath, held it briefly and exhaled. He adjusted his aim to the middle of Mr. Ramirez’s face.

    A cold hard object pressed against the bare skin of Doug’s neck, just below the edge of the mask he wore.

    He halted but did not lower the rifle.

    A man’s voice whispered slowly, "You shoot. I shoot."

    Doug straightened his back and lowered the rifle slightly. He was ready to defend himself but was not in a good position to react quickly to this challenge.

    "Okay, I’m putting it down," he whispered. Doug slid a few inches to the left and laid the rifle on the floor.

    "Carlson, is that you? Doug Carlson?" the man asked.

    "Huh! What the hell’s going on? Who are you?" Doug fired back, not paying attention to the level of his voice.

    In a lower voice, the man replied. "This is Agent Turner. I’m with the FBI from their LA office." He withdrew the pistol resting on Doug’s neck but kept it pointed at him as he stepped back into the darkness.

    "Are you following me?" Doug asked.

    The reply was hushed. "No, it’s just your bad luck."

    Doug searched his thoughts for a second before continuing. "Marc. It’s Marc Turner, right?" A soft chuckle from Doug filled the empty air.

    "That’s right," Marc acknowledged. "What the hell you trying to do? This isn’t a place for you, especially now."

    "Looks like the tables are turned." Doug quipped, as he stood to get a better look at the clumsy kid, he had spared two years earlier in his war with the Mafia. Leaving the rifle on the floor, he stepped deeper into the same darkness that hid Marc.

    Both men strained to see outlines of the other.

    "I thought even back then you were part of a covert-ops group," Marc offered. "So—who do you work for?"

    Doug paused to consider how he could make this mistake work for him. "You know I can’t talk about any of that. Are you after Ramirez too?"

    "I’m here on a stakeout. It looks like your boss is really gunning for bear," Marc suggested.

    Nodding, Doug raised his voice. "Yeah, and you’ve stumbled right into the middle of it."

    Doug moved to pick up the rifle.

    Marc stepped aside.

    "I’m not sure about this, Mr. Carlson. How can I fail to report this shooting since I’m suppose to be watching the same guy you’re taking out?" Marc asked.

    "It looks like you have a problem. Do you mind, if I complete my mission?" Doug whispered insistently.

    Marc hesitated.

The third selection starts on page 194 of the printed novel. 

Doug has completed a tough mission and finally managed to evade his pursuers.  Enjoy reading #3.

    A layer of Gulf Coast fog shielded the countryside and obscured the heavens. Floating in the water for what seemed like hours, Doug had lost all sense of time. Fortunately a gentle current helped push him along. That was fine as long as he managed to keep his head above the water.

    He began to feel lost and helpless.

    For too long now, aching muscles and waterlogged fingers had seized his attention and tortured his mind. At first, his thoughts wandered wildly, but eventually a nagging fear took their place as he settled on the idea that he would be arrested or shot when he climbed out of the water.

    Doug tried to be rational, to stay calm and reclaim his senses. He had to make a phone call for extraction. That needed to be his first priority after evading capture.

    I can travel faster on dry land than floating along like this, he thought. Cautiously he bobbed several times in the water, attempting to see over the embankment. Along both sides of the bayou, he could see lights in the distance.

    He chose the bank on the other side. Silently he swam the twenty-five feet and pushed himself ashore.

    Listening for sounds of activity, he crawled slowly onto dry dirt. He stayed on his stomach and slid forward until his feet were out of the water.

    He shivered from a light chill in the air. Raising his head, he scanned the area for movement ahead of him.

    Sixty feet away, beyond a single-lane asphalt road, stood a broken-down service station. It looked to be at least fifty years old. It was closed, but the late-model cars parked around it in various stages of repair suggested it would open for business in the early morning hours.

    Doug crawled through weeds and brush toward it.

    A dim security light illuminated the front of the building where two antique gasoline pumps were mounted on a decrepit wooden base. Broken asphalt and patches of gravel covered the area between the building and the road.

    Raising his head, Doug paused to listen. He cupped shriveled fingers over each ear.

    It was quiet. Crouching, he advanced slowly.

    Kneeling at the edge of the road, he saw a dark house in the trees behind the service station. He squinted to pick out details in the darkness.

    The lack of discernable movement made it appear safe.

    Doug stood and stepped onto the asphalt. His head moved from side to side, scanning the poorly lit terrain. He heard gravel crunch under his weight as he approached the antique pumps.

    At the front of the building, he cringed at his dim reflection in a plate glass window. Peering through the window, he sought a phone. There was none in sight.

    He walked to the edge of the building, and around the corner, he saw an equally antique phone booth.

    Sliding the door open, he reached for the receiver and inspected it. Hmmm, seems to be operational, he thought. His hand slipped into a front pocket for a quarter.

    Not finding one, he searched another pocket, then in frustration, he rummaged through them all. He swore silently, realizing he had lost his cash in the water.

    "Y’all lost?" a ten-year-old black boy asked.

    Doug jerked in surprise, then turned to face the boy.

    He giggled. "Y’all named John Folger?" the boy asked.

    Doug nodded. "How’d you know that?"   

    "It’s all ’bout town what y’all be trying to do."

    Quickly pondering the situation, Doug decided to trust the boy. "What’s your name, young man?"

    "Rodney Earl Jones."

    Doug extended his hand. "It certainly is a pleasure to shake your hand, Rodney."

    Rodney stood straighter as they shook hands. "Your name’s kind of like the coffee, isn’t it?" the boy asked.

    "Yes, but I’m not part of that family."

    "Oh."

    "Do you know what the time is, Rodney?"

    The boy squinted to read his watch. "It’s 3:23 a.m."

    "Does your mom know you’re out so late tonight?"

    "I was sleepin’ outside tonight over yonder." He took a flashlight from his pocket and shined it in the trees where his blankets and surplus military poncho made a poor-boy sleeping bag. "When Auntie E saw da news ’bout y’all last night, she come to visit right away, sayin’ to keep a lookout fer y’all and help if’n we could."

    "That’s very nice of you and your folks."

    "Where’s your guns, sir?"

    "I seem to have lost them, but it’s okay now," Doug answered as he looked around.

    "Shucks! I’s sure hopin’ to see ’em."

    "Rodney, I’ve got a big problem. I need to make a phone call and I’ve lost my money. Do you have any?"

    "A quarter? Let me check. I had one this morning." He began unloading his pockets on the ground. In a few moments, he handed Doug a shiny quarter.

    Doug stepped in the phone booth, then dialed the number he had memorized and waited.

    A very relieved voice came on the line. "Control here! Is that you, Mister—?"

    Doug interrupted, "Sir, don’t forget your phone protocol. This is 4744. I need extraction ASAP."

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