"Nerve gas and terrorists threaten Washington, D.C. in this action-packed thriller!"
Reviewed by Patricia (Pat) Pascale
Posted August 23, 2018
Thriller | Thriller Spy
THE CONSULTANT introduces us
to Jonathan Hunter, a CIA "consultant" working at a post in the Middle
East. When he receives a plea for help from his brother, Kevin, who he
has not heard from in over 18 years, he goes AWOL from Kandahar,
Afghanistan, and heads to heir hometown of Winchester, VA. He arrives
at the designated location just as Kevin is shot. Lying and dying in his
arms, Kevin talks about: "Khalifah... Maya..." and "Not them." Jonathan
promises he will avenge his brother. Here, the action truly begins. He
meets Noor, his brother's Iranian wife, and their adopted teenage son,
Sameh, a shifty, very hostile young man. Jonathan did not know Kevin
was married and had a family, and getting to know them was his first
difficult task. Neither of them wanted or expected Jonathan in their life.
He also does not get on well with the investigating officer. Kevin
worked with the local force, and they are suspicious about why
Jonathan suddenly appeared and if he was involved in Kevin's killing. Oscar La Rue, Jonathan's CIA boss, mentor, and longtime friend,
arrives in Winchester and is not pleased with his departure from the
CIA without permission. He has impounded all of Jonathan's substantial
savings and promises to give it back in the future after more missions
are accomplished. They must work together on this mission and find
out why Kevin was killed and what he was involved with that needed his
brother's help. Jonathan is a great hero, slow but sure. He is also very
funny, and I enjoyed his wisecracks. THE CONSULTANT is a story not
for the faint of heart as it depicts brutality, killings, tortures, and a
diabolical scheme to kill thousands of innocent people with a deadly
nerve gas in Washington, D.C., This plot could come easily from our
daily headlines. There is non-stop suspense and action. Just when I
thought I knew who the guilty party is, there is a quick sudden twist
and turn that throws my theory out, as I rush to find another one. The
locale is mostly in quiet, rural Virginia. I especially enjoyed that as I live
in the Land of Lovers, many of the descriptions are easily recognized
and adds to this exciting tale of terrorists and traitors. The ending was
a surprise to me as I am a good sleuth and usually can forecast the
villains. Not so this time. TJ O'Connor is on my list of authors to follow
and await his next offering, coming soon I hope. THE CONSULTANT has my best praise!
SUMMARY
Terrorism hits Main Street America When a rogue CIA consultant goes AWOL from his Middle
Eastern post in response to his brother’s plea for help, he
arrives just in time to witness his brother’s murder. For
years, Jonathan Hunter and his brother Kevin Mallory had
not
spoken―until Kevin’s final words, “… Khalifah …
Not
Them
… Maya.” Pursuing his brother’s killer, Hunter stumbles into a nest
of horrifying terrorist activity by Middle Eastern
refugees,
which sparks a backlash across America. In the shadows,
Hunter’s mentor, the omnipotent Oscar LaRue, is playing a
dangerous game with Russian Intelligence. Neither Hunter
nor
LaRue realizes that a new threat―the Iranian
threat―has
entered the game. Stakes rise as two shadowy players are
one
step ahead of Hunter and LaRue―Khalifah, a terrorist
mastermind, and Caine, a nomadic assassin who dances with
the highest bidder. As attacks escalate and the country drifts toward another
Middle East conflict, innocent refugees become trapped
between the terrorists and the terrorized. Prejudice, hate,
and fear vent everywhere. Is this who we’ve become? Before
the country explodes, Hunter must find Khalifah, learn the
next terror target, and pray he’s in time to stop further
annihilation.
ExcerptDay 1: May 15, 2130 Hours, Daylight Saving TimeEast Bank of the Shenandoah River, Clarke County, Virginia
The gunshots took me by surprise and, without luck, might
have killed me. The first shot splayed a spider web across my windshield
before it whistled past my head, peppering glass needles
into my face. The second smashed my driver’s side mirror.
An am¬ateur might have panic-braked and skidded to a stop—a
fatal mistake. The shooter hesitated, anticipating that
decision, and readied for my failure. Training. Muscle memory. Response. I gunned the engine, wrenched the car to the left to put
more steel between me and the shooter, and sped forward,
looking for cover. My headlights exploded and flashed dark. Bullets breached
the windshield. The rearview mirror and rear window were
gone. Had I not flinched, one shot would have found my
right eye but pounded my headrest instead. I careened to a stop at the bottom of the boat launch—
vulner¬able. The shooter was ahead in the darkness, likely
maneuvering for another shot. A closer shot. The kill shot.
He’d be closing the distance and finding a new advantage. Luck had its limits, so I dove from the car and rolled to
cover be¬hind it. I fought to control the adrenaline and
bridle my thoughts. Easy, Hunter, steady. Listen—watch—survive. I stayed low and crept along the side of the car, looking
for bet¬ter cover. Spring rain made the darkness murky and
dense. The Shenandoah River was to my left some fifty feet.
A blind guess. Overhead, two dark spans of the Route 7
bridge blocked what little light there was but provided
some cover from the rain. The six substructure supports in
front of me might afford me cover. They also afforded the
shooter cover. He was hidden and waiting. Still, Kevin
Mallory was nowhere to be seen. Under normal con¬ditions—
and normal is relative with me—I might have judged the
shots’ origins. Driving headlong into an ambush on terrain
I’d long ago forgotten, in darkness and rain, I was all but
defeated. Silence. Easy, Hunter, easy. Count your breaths. One, two, three. Out there, somewhere, someone wanted me dead. Worse. I was unarmed and alone. Jesus. Where was Kevin? The boat launch was just a small gravel lot tucked beneath
the expanse of the Route 7 Bridge across the Shenandoah. At
night it should have been empty. It was nearing ten p.m.
and I hadn’t ex¬pected to find anyone but Kevin. Yet, while
we’d been estranged for years, under bad circumstances, I
doubted he was hunting me. Although, I do tend to bring out the worst in people. Ahead, perhaps seventy-five feet, a dark four-door SUV
faced an old pickup. The vehicles were nose to nose like
two dogs sniff¬ing each other. No movement. No sound. One, two, three. I ran to the nearest bridge support,
stopped, listened, and bolted to the rear of the SUV. Silence. Safety. But something else—a dangerous odor. The
pungent scent of gasoline. A lot of gasoline. I got down on one knee and looked around. The dome light
was on and the driver’s door was ajar. Something lay on the
ground near the left front fender. A large, bulky something
that washed an angry tide of flashbacks over me.
I’d seen silhouettes like that before. A body. Bodies look the same in any country, under any dark sky. It
didn’t matter if it were the rocky Afghan terrain or along
a quiet country river. Their lifeless, empty shells were
all hopeless. All forsaken. All discards of violence. The
silhouette three yards away was no different. Except this
wasn’t Afghanistan or Iraq. It was home.
I made ready. No muzzle flash. No assassin’s bullet. I crept to the SUV’s
rear tire, crouched low, and slithered to the front fender. The body was a man. He lay three feet in front of the
fender and precariously vulnerable beneath the spell of the
SUV’s dome light. He was tall and bulky. Not fat, but
strong and muscled. No. No. God, no! After fifteen years of silence and thousands of miles, I
knew the body—the man. His hair had grayed and his face was
creased with age and strain. The years had been hard on
him. Years he was here while I was forever there. Always
elsewhere. He’d built a life from our loss while I’d
escaped—run away. He once warned me that my life’s choice
would leave me as I found him now, alone and dead. The
irony churned bile inside me. Kevin Mallory. “Kevin,” I blurted without thinking, “Kevin, it’s me. It’s
Jon.” My mouth was a desert and the familiar brew of adrenalin
and danger coursed through me. In one quick move, I leaped
from the SUV’s shadow, grabbed his shoulders, and tried to
drag him back to safety. No sooner had I reached him when a figure charged from the
darkness toward us. His arm leveled—one, two, three shots
on the run—all hitting earth nearby. I threw myself over
Kevin. An¬other shot sent stone fragments into my cheeks
and neck. The fig¬ure reached the rear of the pickup,
tossed something in the bed, fired another wild shot, and
retreated at a dead run. Lightning. A brilliant flash of light, a violent
percussion, then a whoosh of fire erupted from the pickup.
The flames belched up and over the side panels. They spat
light and heat. The truck swelled into an inferno. The heat singed my face. I gripped Kevin’s shoulders and
dragged him the remaining feet behind the SUV. He was limp
and heavy. The raging fire bathed us in light, and I
finally saw him clearly. His eyes were dull and vacant. His
face pale—a death mask. If life was inside, it was hidden
well. The truck was engulfed in flames, and the heat was
tremen¬dous. It reached us and felt oddly comforting amidst
the spring dampness and dark. “Kevin, hold on. Hold on.” I looked for an escape. I saw the next shot before I heard it—a flash of light
where none should be—uphill near River Road. Seasoned
instincts threw me atop Kevin again. Glass crackled
overhead and rained down. I grabbed for the familiar weight
behind my back, but my fingers closed on nothing. Dammit. I hastily searched him. No weapon. All I found was an empty
holster where his handgun should have been. Where was it?
In a desperate move, I rolled off and snaked forward
beneath the truck’s firelight and groped around where he’d
been. It took sev¬eral long, vulnerable seconds. I dared
not breathe or even look for the shooter, fearing I’d see
the shot that would end me. Finally, my fingers closed on a
wet, gritty semiautomatic. As I retreated to the SUV, something moved in the darkness.
I pivoted and fired two rapid shots, spacing them three
feet apart. Response. A shot dug into the gravel inches away to my
left. Rule one of mortal combat—incoming fire has the right of
way. Retreat. The flash was a hundred feet away. The shooter had
withdrawn and angled south down River Road. Should I take him? Could I? One, two, three. Reason, Hunter, reason. The shooter had fired at least fifteen rounds. Fourteen at
me and at least one into Kevin. Had Kevin returned fire?
How many rounds did his semiautomatic have left? I was on
turf all but for¬gotten, armed with a handgun that was
perhaps near-empty. The shooter must have a high-capacity
magazine with plenty of ammo to cut me to pieces. He’d
already proven willing and capable of killing. He knew my
location. I knew nothing. Revenge would wait. I sat back against the SUV’s tire and pulled Kevin close,
keeping one arm around him and the other holding the
handgun ready. The truck fire raged but was easing. The
gasoline that had been splashed over it was consumed and
only the paint and rubber were burning. Soon, though, the
fire might breach the gas tank. I pulled Kevin close and braced myself. “Kevin, wake up. It’s me—Jon. I’m here.” “Jon?” His eyes fluttered and half-opened. “I . . . so
sorry . . . Khalifah . . . he’s . . . find G. Find G . . .”
He gasped for breath. “Khalifah . . . G . . . Baltimore . .
.it’s not them. Khalifah . . .so sorry . . .” “Sorry for what? Who’s Khalifah? Did he shoot you?” “Tomorrow . . .not them. G . . . Khalifah is . . .” His
body went limp. I shook him easily. “Kevin, I don’t understand. Tell me
again.” “Find G . . .” His eyes fluttered again, and he clutched my
arm with limp, sleepy fingers. “Find . . . Hunter . . .” “Tell me who did this.” “G . . . Jon . . . tell no one. Maya . . . Maya . . . Maya
in Balti¬more . . .” He fumbled with something from his
pants pocket. He gasped for breath and pressed that
something into my hand. “So sorry . . .” I opened my hand. He’d given me a small, ripped piece of
heavy folded paper with handwriting scrawled on it. I
couldn’t make out the writing and stuffed it into my
pocket. “Kevin, what are you saying? Hold on. Dammit, hold
on.” “Go . . . please . . . not them . . . it’s not . . .” He
tried to breathe but mustered only a raspy gag. “Kevin!” Silence. His body shuddered. A long, shallow sigh. No. No. No . . . My fingers found warm, sticky ooze soaking his shirt. The
rain had slowed to a faint mist and, except for the river’s
passing and the grumble of fire, there was only silence.
Then, somewhere along the highway miles in the distance,
sirens wailed. “Hold on, Kevin. They’re coming. My God, hold on.” I checked his pulse and wounds. Both were draining away
life. I pressed my hands into the ooze but couldn’t force its
retreat. For a few seconds, I was fourteen again. The dull
sickness invaded me as my parents were lowered side-by-side
into the earth. The ache started in my gut and swelled
until I spat bile and rage. It was happening again. The man who raised me—the man I’d abandoned—slipped away.
The emptiness and loss attacked. I had to fight or it would
destroy me again. This time, there was nowhere to run. I closed my eyes and willed the anger in, commanding it to
take hold and fill me. I remember, Kevin. I made you a promise. I’m late, but I’m
here. He was limp, and I clutched him. A rush of words filled me
that I’d wanted to say for so many years. But before I
could speak just one, my brother was gone.
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