CHAPTER 9

Roya FetovaRoya Fetova

A Crowdsourced Novel

Read it here – Say what comes next.

Tony cursed the traffic. A four-hour drive stretched to five in the aftermath of the downpour and it was getting dark. He pulled into a gas station. Tony wanted to keep tabs on his patsy, Frank Smith, but had to remain anonymous. It wouldn’t do to have two Frank Smiths around. Any number of two-bit street thugs might turn him in to the mob. In the dirty men’s room, he took off his suit and pulled on a worn pair of blue jeans and plain white tee shirt, tight, showing off his shoulders and biceps. He hadn’t shaved that morning and he let the stubble grow. A Cubs hat and a pair of wire-rims completed the disguise.

Tony decided to crash at his sister’s house. Dolores would hide him. His brother-in-law, Mario, had a two-month union job putting in A/C and heating units at a Wal-Mart distribution center somewhere in South Carolina.

His phone rang. “That flight you asked about diverted to Joliet Municipal.” The line went dead. Okay, he’d check out the airport then plan his next move. He paid for the gas with cash, carefully laid the suit flat in the trunk of his car and drove back onto the expressway.

Tony cranked up the radio when a Mustang passed his car and he got a quick look at the driver’s face in the light of the car’s panel. The babe from the garage? If so, she was on the loose and Frank Smith must be free. He wasn’t in the car–maybe she’d meet up with him.  Tony let her make some ground then followed her running lights from a distance.  Easy with such a flash car.  The triple tail lights of a Mustang could be spotted a mile away.

*      *     *

Desi Grasso keenly felt the sting of his uncle’s opinion. Uomo Grasso thought him weak. Said so plenty of times. True, he’d been sickly as a child and never showed any aptitude for family business—drugs, gambling, extortion, prostitution. He hated the brutal enforcement side of the operation. But that didn’t make him a pansy and Desi had a skill that Uncle Uomo needed—a knack for cyber-crime.

In a little storefront located in the Chicago suburb of Oak Park, he set up shop between two third-generation businesses—Bertinelli’s Deli and Bracco’s Barber Shop. What was once a TV and Radio store became a legitimate computer repair business. Desi liked electronics. On the second floor, he maintained a sophisticated computer hacking operation. Identity and credit card theft made the bulk of the daily work of Desi Grasso.

The phone rang and his computer monitor signaled a direct line from his uncle. He punched the keyboard and talked through a headset. “Hi, Uncle Uomo.”
 
A pause on the line. “Yes. A small errand only.” The voice of the fat man intoned deep and smooth.  “Find if Luigi’s credit card was used recently and specifically where it was used.”

“Hold on.” Desi keyed the computer and immediately got a hit showing a charge at a mid-grade hotel in Joliet. “Here it is. Got a pen?”  That didn’t take any time at all. Desi hoped he’d impressed Uncle Uomo.

“Go there immediately and meet Nicklaus and Petro. I want you to find whoever is using that card and bring him to me.”

Desi grinned. “On my way.” Uncle Uomo had just handed him a job and assigned some muscle to take care of the nasty work. It must be important if Uomo wanted to see this guy himself. This was a chance to be in charge—a chance to prove himself. He crammed an automatic into the belt of his blue jeans, right at the small of his back, and slipped on a suit coat.

*      *     *

In the upper deck, Frank sat on a vinyl seat, his back to the window. He sweated freely and repeatedly craned his neck, looking outside at the lighted platform for Roya. She was the only one that could corroborate his crazy story and exonerate him—the only eyewitness to the shooting of the truck driver back in Missouri—the only one who could testify that they killed the kidnappers in self-defense.

There she was.

She stepped onto the train just as it started to move. The door opened and a tough-looking guy in a ball cap came in behind her. A recording announced the next stop. From the aisle below, she spotted Frank and soon slipped into the seat next to his.

“You almost missed the train.”

“Worried about me, Frank? That’s nice. I had business.” She graced him with a smile. “I’ve got a good friend in the city where we can lay low and develop a game plan. What say we stop there for dinner?”

*      *     *

Desi Grasso found Nick and Pete sitting in a Cadillac in a dark section of the motel lot. Nick rolled down the passenger-side window.

Desi put his sweaty palms in his pockets. “Whatta you got, Nick?”

Nick didn’t turn his head as he spoke. “They wasn’t at Midway. No Luigi, no passenger—nothin’. We got a call to meet you here. Took you long enough.” Finally he turned and handed a photo of Tony Ferragamo out the window. “That’s the guy Mr. Grasso wants.” Desi met Nick’s eyes and wished he hadn’t. No life behind them, no emotion. A cruel face.

“Okay, let’s go.” Desi headed for the motel lobby while Nick and Pete climbed out of the car and followed. He smiled inwardly, knowing he was in charge. He also knew the appearance of the two enforcers was enough to encourage cooperation.

The desk clerk looked at Nick and Pete, then settled on Desi. “Yeah, a guy about 30 checked in earlier. Terrible storm. Suit was soaked—filthy. Asked for laundry service. Funny thing—he left a few hours later with a girl. Didn’t spend the night. Drove off in a red Mustang.” The clerk gave Desi the tag number.

“Ever see this guy?” Desi flipped the photo of Ferragamo.

“Yeah, that’s him. You shoulda seen that gal—blonde, nice.” 

“What room?”

The clerk handed him a key card in a paper jacket with the number written in ballpoint pen.

What happens next? TAKE YOUR TURN [click here]

HOW TO PLAY–This is an interactive story based on Nate’s game in my novel. You get to say what comes next:

1.) KEEP IT SHORT – It’s easy to play Nate’s game. Just enter your idea as a comment like, “their jeep drives off a cliff.” Don’t worry about form—just suggest the next step in the story. I’ll pick one, write it, and post it as a scene in serial form.

2.) KEEP IT CLEAN – I hold the veto pen. In general, if it wouldn’t fly in an old 60′s Bond movie, then it’s out. Since this is an experiment, I get to add rules as we go along.

3.) SHARE – Your posts are a precious gift to me. Maybe you’ll help write my next novel. If so, I’ll list your name prominently as a contributor. If not, then we’ll just have a great time. I take you at your word that all ideas are your original thoughts. No criticism. No arguments. No lawsuits allowed. Let’s have some fun.

Published in: on May 2, 2011 at 10:57 pm  Comments (2)  
Tags: , , , , ,

EPISODE SUPPLEMENT

Roya FetovaRoya Fetova

A Crowdsourced Novel

Read it here – Say what comes next.

 

CHARACTER SUMMARY TO DATE

FRANK SMITH–St. Louis insurance agent. Lives alone. Former Air Force fighter pilot. Wife, Peggy, divorces him when he’s at war. He still loves her. Straight-edge—won’t get involved with another woman. He gets mistaken for a hit man who has stolen his identity for that purpose. He gets framed for murder and is on the run from both the mob and the police. He kills a mobster during an escape and lands a small plane in heavy weather while fleeing for his life with Roya Fetova.

ROYA FETOVA–Former Federal agent on special undercover assignment to investigate a turf war between the Russian and Italian mobs. Her lover, Sergey, is killed by order of Uomo Grasso, a big-time mobster. She’s taken off the case because of emotional involvement. Looking for justice and revenge, she goes rogue. She finds Frank in the hands of the mob, leaves her weapons behind and lets herself be taken and held with him. She’s using him to get to Grasso. Provocative, resourceful, devious, dangerous. When her abductor claims ownership over her, she strangles his huge gunman, steals a car and escapes with Frank.

TONY FERRAGAMO alias FRANK SPECK alias FRANK SMITH–Hit man. Former Air Force grunt. Takes pay for a big hit and fails to deliver. Keeps the money but goes to the Feds. Placed in witness protection program in Burlington Iowa as Frank Speck. Gets wind that his cover is blown. Steals the identity of Frank Smith who bears a physical resemblance to him. Uses Frank as his surrogate to fool the mob. Plans for Frank to die in his place. Uses connections to keep him on the tail of Frank till he’s sure the plan works. Once Frank is dead, Tony can steal a new identity and live on his payoff.

AGENT STAN HARRIS–FBI agent, Chicago bureau. Hunting Feragamo and knows his false names. Learns that evidence points to a real Frank Smith in a murder.

UOMO GRASSO–Chicago crime boss. Pays for a hit that doesn’t happen. Puts out contract on hit man, Feragamo alias Speck alias Smith.

LUIGI GASTRONI–Italian gangster working for Grasso. Middle aged, cultured, expensive suit. Uses a knife. Kidnaps Frank Smith, mistaking him for the wanted hit man and also captures Roya. Frames Frank for a murder. Frank kills him to save Roya’s life and escape.

GORT–Nickname for Giovanni Ragliani. Physically huge and powerful. Hired muscle working for Luigi. Killed by Roya in a resourceful way during her escape with Frank.

Published in: on May 1, 2011 at 9:08 pm  Comments (4)  
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CHAPTER 8

Roya FetovaRoya Fetova

A Crowdsourced Novel

Read it here – Say what comes next.

The rain stopped when Roya pulled onto the I-55 ramp and the Mustang’s acceleration forced Frank against the back of the passenger seat. “Nice car but it draws too much attention. So does your driving.”

No response.

Roya hadn’t said a word since Frank stepped out of that cold shower. Now she stared ahead, eyes narrowed, jaw set, tapping the wheel with a finger. Frank knew an angry woman when he saw one. He figured on waiting her out—she’d talk about it sooner or later. He watched her as she squeezed between cars, braked, shifted gears and jammed her foot on the gas. She yanked the wheel and the g-force pressed Frank against the door.

Finally she spoke. “How could you?”

“How could I what?”

She clucked her tongue. “You know what I mean.” A definite sneer in her tone. She twitched her head. “Don’t say it, Frank.”

Frank just looked at her. He wasn’t about to say anything—didn’t have anything to say.

She jerked the wheel and passed a truck, rounding it on the wrong side, then clear of traffic, picked it up to 85, 90. “Nobody ever turned me down like that.”

Frank ran a hand across his mouth and chin. So that was it.

She squeezed out a tear. “Why Frank?”

What could he say? “Look, they abducted me, right? They tied me up with duct tape. They said I’m somebody I’m not. They were gonna torture me. They stuffed me in a trunk. They murdered a guy. The police want me. The mob wants me” He looked at her again. She looked good. “I know next to nothing about you except for some Russian connection and you’re gunning for a big-time mobster. What do you want with me? I watch you strangle this huge thug with your underwear and I have to kill Luigi so he doesn’t knife you—kill him with my bare hands—you think I do that every day?” Frank looked at his palms, wiped them on his suit pants. “Then I shoot a non-precision approach in a light plane. Right through a thunderstorm. Bust minimums. Find the runway. Get us on the ground like a miracle just so you can steal this hot rod—and you want to play house?”

She didn’t respond immediately. Then, “Don’t you like girls, Frank? Or were you…” She paused. “Were you just too tired after all that…” She glanced him “…exertion?”

Frank closed his eyes, rubbed his temples. He still felt a conscious love for his wife—even after the divorce. When he got back from Iraq, he never saw her—not once. Most of the stuff was gone from the apartment—the rest scattered across the floor. Peggy was gone for good. It felt like she was dead and buried. He grieved as if it were so.

Roya was talking again. “…and Sergey always said the action made him feel more like a man. Do you feel like a man, Frank?”

It was Frank’s turn to be silent. He felt like a murderer even though his logic called it self-defense.

As they cruised toward Chicago, traffic hit the skids. In the sudden stoppage, Roya came to a swerving halt behind the bumper of a minivan. Frank looked back. At the speed she’d been driving, nobody rode their tail, but the other cars soon joined them in the stop-and-go traffic of the rush hour.

What was it the kids called it? When the right word came to mind, he blurted it out. “Straight-edger—that’s what they say. Think of me that way.”

She gave him a quick angry look. “Straight-edger? You’re judging me.”

“It’s not about you, Roya.”

She appeared to think about that a moment. Then, “No sex, no drugs—what do you do?” She repeated the words then broke into unexpected laughter while Frank felt the heat of a deep blush burn his face and ears. “What’s the matter, Frank, afraid of girls? Or maybe I’m not pure enough for a holy man.”

“Shuttup.” The word came loud, savage.

She opened her mouth, then clamped her jaw and turned to the car ahead. The storms moved off in time for the sun to get low as they crawled toward the city at a pace little better than a walk. It seemed like an hour but by his watch only five minutes passed when she spoke. “So if we were married…”

“Yeah. Like that.”

She slowly nodded and moved the car a few feet. “I’ve heard of that but it seems kinda harsh, I mean what’s the point of being so—”

“That’s how it is.” Frank knew there wasn’t any way to explain it to her. Part of him regretted it and he had to fight down that urge. There was plenty to think about and he still didn’t know if he could trust her.

Without warning, Roya pulled off the highway, into the weeds of the center median. The rear of the Mustang slid right and the tires dug in and spit mud as she executed a U-turn and forced her way into the traffic heading back to Joliet. It wasn’t highway speed but at least the traffic moved. Frank held back the urge to ask why she’d reversed her course.

She drove back into town and cruised around, then pulled up to a curb. “Frank, where’s the train from here?”

“What—the Metra? Just four blocks over there.”

“Buy us some tickets, will you? I’ll see you onboard.” She pulled his phone out of the bulging purse and handed it to him. “I’ve got a friend will put us up without questions.”

Frank climbed out. Leaned down to speak. None of it made any sense to him. “Downtown?”

She puckered her lips and kissed the air. He closed the door and she drove off. The throaty exhaust of the Mustang sang around the corner.

What happens next? TAKE YOUR TURN [click here]

HOW TO PLAY–This is an interactive story based on Nate’s game in my novel. You get to say what comes next:

1.) KEEP IT SHORT – It’s easy to play Nate’s game. Just enter your idea as a comment like, “their jeep drives off a cliff.” Don’t worry about form—just suggest the next step in the story. I’ll pick one, write it, and post it as a scene in serial form.

2.) KEEP IT CLEAN – I hold the veto pen. Since this is an experiment, I get to add rules as we go along. In general, if it wouldn’t fly in an old 60′s Bond movie, then it’s out.

3.) SHARE – Your posts are a precious gift to me. Maybe you’ll help write my next novel. If so, I’ll list your name as a contributor. If not, then we’ll just have a great time. I take you at your word that all ideas are your original thoughts. No criticism. No arguments. No lawsuits allowed. Let’s have some fun.

Published in: on April 26, 2011 at 2:19 am  Comments (3)  
Tags: , , , , ,

CHAPTER 7

Roya FetovaRoya Fetova

A Crowdsourced Novel

Read it here – Say what comes next.

The aircraft radio crackled in Frank’s headset, “Three-Six-Victor, do you copy?”

Frank keyed the mike. “Three-six Victor. Negative 140 knots. Request vectors to Joliet.” He knew Midway got busy in bad weather. The heat of the city kept the ceiling high and everybody declared it as an alternate. Control would be happy to get him out of the way.

“Three-Six-Victor, new heading Two-Two-Zero. Maintain altitude.” Frank obeyed, gently bringing the bucking airplane around in the jarring turbulence of the storm.

Over the intercom: “Listen to me, Roya, I don’t want to go to Midway. I don’t know how much fuel we’ve got and Joliet’s close. But it’s a non-precision approach and this weather’s really bad. That’s on the negative side. On the other hand, the VOR is only 6 miles from the airport so we’ll probably come close to the runway. That’s on the positive side. There’s not much tall and hard stuff to hit and that’s in our favor. Runway 13 is long enough for a sloppy landing with lots of grass on both sides and that’s in our favor, too. But we gotta see the runway to land on it and I’ll have to bust minimums to do that. It’s dangerous. It’s illegal. There’s no tower there watching us, so I won’t get my wrist slapped, but if I make a mistake, we’ll be dead. You willing to chance it?”

Roya crossed her arms and grabbed her shoulders with her fingertips.  She closed her eyes. “Uomo Grasso’s goons are waiting at Midway. If we land here, we’re dead. I want to meet that bastard on my own terms.”

“Good girl. I’ve been to Joliet a few times. It’s a quiet little place. Lots of abandoned tie-downs growing cobwebs. Runway needs paint. If we manage to put it down in this weather, we’ll be the only ones there.”

She planted a kiss on his neck. Frank’s skin tingled and he felt a new confidence.

* * *

The fingerprints of Tony Ferragamo, alias Frank Speck, didn’t match the prints on the murder weapon. Those prints belonged to Frank Smith—a real Frank Smith. Agent Harris ran a thick hand across his face. Both these suspects had service backgrounds—one a grunt in the Air Force, the other a pilot. Their faces looked alike. Why did an Air Force pilot shoot a truck driver? What was coming off here?

He decided to let local law enforcement hunt down Smith while his boys took on Ferragamo. So many Smiths in the country. Let the locals deal with that.

* * *

Tony Ferragamo, alias Frank Speck, alias Frank Smith answered his cell phone. “Yeah?”

“It’s Bill.” His contact at the FAA. “That Cessna is bound for Chicago Midway.” The connection went dead.

It would take Tony four hours to drive to Midway. The plane was probably on the ground. Uomo Grasso would already have them. Tony had a lot of connections in Chi-Town. He knew it like the back of his hand. And he knew where to find Uomo Grasso, that fat SOB.

* * *

Frank counted the time on his watch and pushed it down to 300 feet before he broke out of the clouds. He made it a quarter mile visibility in heavy rain, but the runway lights glowed through the gloom at his right as he flew past the runway. Missed it. He made a tight circle around the strip and planted it on the ground. Roya let out a cheer as he switched off the radios and taxied to the rows of planes in the grass. “We’ll tie it down as if it belongs here. With luck, nobody will spot these two bodies for days.” He popped his door and scrambled out, sheltered from the driving rain by the wing.

Frank waited until Roya finally climbed out of the plane. Her bulging purse hung from her shoulder.

“You go through their pockets, too?”

She smiled. “Let’s go.”

“First I want to tie this thing down. That way it might not get spotted so fast.”

By the time they reached the parking area, Frank was soaked right through his suit. He shivered. Looked at Roya. Looked again—a long look.

She glared back at him. “I told you to keep your eyes on business.” She slowly slipped a long flat piece of steel from the waistband of her jeans—a Slim Jim. She slipped it between the window and door of a new-looking red car with black racing stripes.

“Don’t you want something more inconspicuous?”

She tossed her head, then finger-combed wet hair from her face. “I always wanted a Mustang. Don’t you want a Mustang, Frank?”

She climbed behind the wheel and he took his place in the passenger seat. Within seconds she had the car started, then faced him. “Where’s a hotel?”

“There’s one three miles down the road. Turn left here.”

In less than five minutes, Roya pulled up to the entrance. “Here’s one of their credit cards. Check us in, Frank. I’ll wait here.”

Frank glanced at the card. “Luigi Gastroni.” Remarkable—he’d picked that name as a joke. At the desk, he handed the card to a boy who took a hard look at Frank’s wet, filthy suit. “We only got one room. Queen.”

“I need two rooms and laundry.”

The boy tapped computer keys and turned back to Frank. “Sorry mister, Gastroni. Laundry’s no problem but just one queen left. I gotta take an impression of your credit card.”

Frank nodded.

At the room Frank inserted the key card in the slot and pushed the door open. “Should I carry you across the threshold or what?”

“We’re not staying—just getting cleaned up. She walked into the bathroom and in a few seconds tossed her clothes out the door in a wet heap. ”See if they can get these things clean and dry—and do your suit. You look awful.”

“Give me a towel—and a ten spot.” He made the phone call then stripped to the skin and wrapped the towel around his waist. When the maid knocked, he handed her the pile of laundry. “How long?”

“Four hours, maybe five,” she said in a Spanish accent.

Frank handed her the ten-dollar bill. “For you. One hour. Okay?”

She nodded and he closed the door and switched on the TV, cycling through channels till he found the news. Roya was taking a long time in the bathroom and suddenly Frank saw his face on the screen. He leaned forward to focus on the report.

“A manhunt is underway at this hour for Frank Smith for the deaths of two men. Smith was last seen in the St. Louis area. Patrick Murphy was found shot by the quarry road, execution style…”

Frank switched off the set and buried his face in his hands, sick to his stomach.  He’d never clear himself of that shooting at the quarry, even though he was innocent. Not now. Not after he actually killed a man with his bare hands.  Frank had the training but in the war, killing had been distant–from the cockpit of a jet. The image of Roya strangling the giant made him sick, but much worse was the feeling in his own fingers of the life draining out of Luigi. He felt like crying but the tears would not come.

He heard the bathroom door open, felt Roya stroking his hair. He looked up to see her wrapped in a towel and opened his mouth to speak but no words came. 

Roya smiled. “So, am I safe with a wanted man? A fugitive from justice?” She sat on the bed. “How long for the laundry?”

“An hour.”

She ran a hand across the surface of the covers. “That gives us some time.”

Frank closed his mouth, bit his lip. He stood and paced the floor.

Roya grinned. “Bad habits, those, Frank. Do you bite your nails, too? Actually, I suppose now’s the time to start. The police will get you if the mob doesn’t first. Hey, I might get arrested for aiding a felon! Yes, I really should get rid of you, Frank.” She broke into a long laugh.

Frank walked into the shower and turned the water to full cold.

What happens next? TAKE YOUR TURN  [click here]

HOW TO PLAY–This is an interactive story based on Nate’s game in my novel. You get to say what comes next:

1.) KEEP IT SHORT – It’s easy to play Nate’s game. Just enter your idea as a comment like, “their jeep drives off a cliff.” Don’t worry about form—just suggest the next step in the story. I’ll pick one, write it, and post it as a scene in serial form.

2.) KEEP IT CLEAN – I hold the veto pen. Since this is an experiment, I get to add rules as we go along. In general, if it wouldn’t fly in an old 60′s Bond movie, then it’s out.

3.) SHARE – Your posts are a precious gift to me. Maybe you’ll help write my next novel. If so, I’ll list your name as a contributor. If not, then we’ll just have a great time. I take you at your word that all ideas are your original thoughts. No criticism. No arguments. No lawsuits allowed. Let’s have some fun.

Published in: on April 19, 2011 at 12:14 am  Comments (12)  
Tags: , , , , ,

CHAPTER 6

Roya FetovaRoya Fetova

A Crowdsourced Novel

Read it here – Say what comes next.

They probably removed the back seat of the Cessna to make room for contraband. Whatever the reason, something dug into Frank’s bruised side as he lay face-to-face with Roya and the turbulence got stronger.

Frank craned his neck and looked between the seats. The cockpit glass had the appearance of a fresh coat of white paint when they first entered the cloudbank. Now it took on a nasty shade of green-gray. Post lights illuminated the instrument panel. Luigi wore an old green David Clark headset that stuck out ludicrously from both sides of his head. The man would keep his vision glued to his instruments and the headsets would isolate him from everybody but air traffic control.

Gort bumped the headliner and jerked his shoulder belt tighter as the dip and yaw of the little plane grew more violent. Bound as he was, the movement pressed Frank’s arms and feet against the cabin wall. Lightning flashed simultaneously with a thunderclap—louder than anything he’d heard since artillery in the desert. He knew all about avoiding a thunderstorm and he’d gone directly through only once, during training in California. The air force didn’t risk its jets that way—not if they could help it. What kind of power did this Uomo Grasso wield to compel two thugs to fly into a storm in a light plane? Was it so important to be on time for a meeting in Chicago? Maybe these guys were tough but they must be scared to death of their boss. Luigi fought to keep the plane straight and level—over-controlled. It looked like he was trying to outmuscle the storm. An amateur pilot. If he made one correction too hard, he might tear off a wing.

Turbulence was nothing new to Frank and he lay on the floor brooding. The loud drone of the single prop bore into his skull. The buck and sway lulled him into a daze. He’d gone a tour of duty fighting the Taliban in Afghanistan and not a scratch. Two more in Iraq and his wife walked out on him. Thank you very much, Peggy. He came back to the States in the middle of a recession. His job at the mortgage company—gone. The airlines–not interested. He worked a few months for the US Census then found an insurance agency willing to put him at a desk while he went through training and exams to get licensed as an agent. And he was good at it—already built a book of clients. He put the Air Force behind him. Ignored news and politicians 24/7. Life seemed almost normal when everything changed in the space of a minute on a quiet street near his home.

Something in his thinking snapped and he felt his anger grow. What made these scumbags think they had a right to treat him this way? To treat Roya like that? There had to be something he could do about it. His military survival skills and warrior instinct began to surface—something he thought he’d left behind for good. They trained him to kill in so many ways.

A flash of lightning and an immediate thunder clap. Roya rolled onto her back in an awkward arched pose and worked her hands against the seat rail. In a moment, her arms came free and she unwound the tape from her ankles. When she leaned over and spoke directly in his ear, static electricity pricked his skin. “Can you fly a plane?”

He nodded. He wished he knew more about her but he had to trust Roya Fetova. Like it or not, they were in this together.

Roya rolled him on his belly and pulled tape from his wrists. The plane pitched wildly and while he unwound his ankles, Roya unfastened one pearl button after another. Unhitched a strapless bra and slipped it out of her top. In one motion, she looped it over Gort’s head and pulled.

Frank stared. Nothing in all his years of war surprised him more than this.

Gort’s hands came to his throat. Roya planted her knees against the seat and leaned back, her arms straining, her teeth bared and gritted as she tightened the noose. Gort arched his back, his mouth wide. He had to be making noise but Frank couldn’t hear it amid the roaring prop and thunder and violently pitching aircraft.

Roya flashed a look at Frank–that same fierce look he’d seen when Gort had held her like a rag doll. It broke him from his stupor. He turned his attention forward. Luigi’s black oily hair. The headset protruding from both ears. The man turned toward the struggle. It looked like he reached in his coat. Frank took hold of the man’s head with both hands and in one quick movement snapped his neck. Then he leaned over the seat and punched the autopilot.

Roya tied the giant’s neck to the headrest with her bra and Frank motioned for help. Together, they unbuckled the Italian, hauled his body over the seat and dumped it in the back of the plane. Both thugs were dead—there was no doubt about that.

He scrambled into the pilot seat, checked the gauges and donned the headphones. When he reached back and handed a second set to Roya, she was doing up her top. She slipped its spaghetti straps back on her shoulders, put the phones over her head and adjusted the mike. “Can you hear me now?” She repeated the slogan and grinned.

The adrenaline rush left Frank breathing hard and fierce with no room for her joke. He was horrified. He’d just killed a man with his bare hands. Roya’s actions had taken him completely off guard. A giant corpse sat next to him, tongue lolling out like a hound.

“Testing, testing.” Roya’s voice over the intercom—strangely clinical. Didn’t anything faze this gal?

“Loud and clear.” All he could think to say. The clouds lit up and thunder roared, but not as deafening with the tight headsets. The plane dropped a wing and Frank switched off the autopilot and took command.

Her voice, metallic in the headphones, “You did okay. Next time, keep your eyes on business where they belong.”

“I didn’t…I mean I didn’t expect—“

“Yeah, sure. I heard it before. Hey, don’t turn around again, I’m getting decent.”

Frank blushed shamefully and focused on the instruments.

She made an exclamation and this time Frank recognized it as Russian. Then her accent quickly vanished. “This monster here killed my Sergey. We would have been married. Uomo Grasso ordered it. Turf war with the Russian mob.”

A wing dipped and Frank gently brought the plane to level. “You’re with them?”

“No, undercover. Special task force. They pulled me off the case—said I was emotionally involved.” She stopped talking.

After a moment Frank turned. She’d closed her eyes and tears lined her cheeks. “Nobody can stop me from getting justice.”

A voice on the radio, “Continue straight to ILS approach. Runway 22L. Be advised–wake turbulence. 747 on approach. DC-10 at your six. Can you give me 140 knots all the way?” Frank knew that was way past the Cessna’s landing speed. Where were they? He studied the chart mounted to the yoke. Midway airport.

Again the radio, “3-6-Victor, do you copy?”

What happens next? TAKE YOUR TURN [click here]

HOW TO PLAY–This is an interactive story based on Nate’s game in my novel. You get to say what comes next:

1.) KEEP IT SHORT – It’s easy to play Nate’s game. Just enter your idea as a comment like, “their jeep drives off a cliff.” Don’t worry about form—just suggest the next step in the story. I’ll pick one, write it, and post it as a scene in serial form.

2.) KEEP IT CLEAN – I hold the veto pen. Since this is an experiment, I get to add rules as we go along. In general, if it wouldn’t fly in an old 60′s Bond movie, then it’s out.

3.) SHARE – Your posts are a precious gift to me. Maybe you’ll help write my next novel. Maybe we’ll just have a great time. I take you at your word that all ideas are your original thoughts. No criticism. No arguments. No lawsuits allowed. Let’s have some fun.

Published in: on April 13, 2011 at 2:38 am  Comments (5)  
Tags: , , ,

CHAPTER 5

Roya FetovaRoya Fetova

A Crowdsourced Novel

Read it here – Say what comes next.

Tony read the tail number on the Cessna as it took off—November-9-6-3-6-Victor. A fixed-gear 182—a little utility plane that he particularly liked. It hauled whatever you could fit inside and landed on short, rough strips—perfect for running drugs. That big shed must be a hangar. He looked inside and saw the stolen gravel truck.

Although Tony grew up in the ‘hood, his two years as a grunt in the Air Force taught him a few things. He still knew a contact at the FAA he could squeeze. If they’d filed a flight plan, he’d get their destination.

Driving back to the highway, he considered whether to retrieve Luigi’s gun. He’d watched the older goon wipe it clean and press it into Frank Smith’s bound palm then toss it to the pavement. No, he’d leave it. That way the real Frank Smith would be in trouble with the Feds as well as the Mob. Nowhere to turn. After Uomo Grasso made him a corpse, the killing of the truck driver would seal his identity as alias Frank Speck, alias Tony Ferragamo. Even if the Feds dug deeper and compared prints, it bought Tony time. The important thing was to fool Grasso, not the Feds.

* * *

Frank and Roya lay in a heap in the back of the plane, both securely bound. Pain shot from Frank’s knees, elbows and hips after landing on the gravel in that truck.  Blood clotted at Roya’s hairline and ran down her arm from a wound at her shoulder, her skin and clothes dusty from the gravel truck. Frank looked down at his suit. Streaked with filth.  A blood stain spread across his trousers at the knee. He couldn’t see his hands and feet but felt sticky blood between his fingers. The roar of the airplane deafened him.

Roya twisted position and her lips brushed his ear. “My hands tingle. That’s a good sign. Thanks for freeing my elbows—that tape felt like a tourniquet.”

Frank wondered again about Roya. Could he trust her? She wasn’t some random motorist whose car broke down. She knew his name. Her identification was forged. She’d been hauling weapons in her vehicle. Whatever she wanted must be big—she was going through hell to get it. One thing—she must see a way out of this mess or she’d never have let herself get trapped.

* * *

Agent Stan Harris sat at his desk in the FBI Chicago Bureau working through a stack of reports. A snitch looking for favors had given a lead on Tony Ferragamo alias Frank Speck. Tony had now slipped away from the witness protection program and assumed the name of Frank Smith. Harris didn’t much care what happened to Tony but he was in charge of the case and a witness gone missing didn’t help his career.

One report was about the shooting of a truck driver outside St. Louis. Something for the local police. He noted that ballistics confirmed the gun at the scene as the murder weapon. But then something peculiar. A search of the prints turned up the name Frank Smith and that brought it to Harris’ desk. That was interesting—those prints came from Census duty. Ferragamo must’ve used that alias a lot of times. Harris pulled out the proper form and filled out a request for the prints of a protected witness. Might as well cover all the bases.

What happens next? TAKE YOUR TURN [click here]

HOW TO PLAY–This is an interactive story based on Nate’s game in my novel. You get to say what comes next:

1.) KEEP IT SHORT – It’s easy to play Nate’s game. Just enter your idea as a comment like, “their jeep drives off a cliff.” Don’t worry about form—just suggest the next step in the story. I’ll pick one, write it, and post it as a scene in serial form.

2.) KEEP IT CLEAN – I hold the veto pen. Since this is an experiment, I get to add rules as we go along.

3.) SHARE – Your posts are a precious gift to me. Maybe you’ll help write my next novel. Maybe we’ll just have a great time. I take you at your word that all ideas are your original thoughts. No criticism. No arguments. No lawsuits allowed. Let’s have some fun.

Published in: on April 6, 2011 at 10:14 pm  Comments (20)  
Tags: , , , ,

CHAPTER 4

Roya FetovaRoya Fetova

A Crowdsourced Novel

Read it here – Say what comes next.

Tony had stolen a cheap Chevy for this job. When they reached heavy traffic, he closed to within two cars of the BMW and grinned. Either these guys didn’t expect a tail or they didn’t care. The one in front leaned his seat back. The one in back slid down out of view. The driver didn’t turn his head. Nighty-night boys.

* * *

The BMW wasn’t big on trunk room. In the dark, the woman’s shoulder dug into Frank’s face and her hip pressed against him. Then she gasped and took three deep breaths before he felt her teeth. She scraped at his cheek, working the duct tape off his face. With a rip it was gone. He spat out the rag and coughed. “How—how did you do that?”

“Tape doesn’t stick so good to makeup. Those idiots should’ve wrapped it all the way around.” She paused, then whispered, “We better keep the noise down. What’s your game in this?”

“I don’t know. Don’t even know what they want.” Frank realized she had no reason to believe him. The car abruptly slowed then accelerated and when they pressed against one another, the heat of a blush traveled across his face. He knew she couldn’t see it in the dark of the BMW trunk and didn’t speak again until he got his breathing under control. “I don’t even know your name.”

“Call me Roya.” She breathed on his wet skin. “Roya Fetova. And you’re Frank, right?” Suddenly she made a sharp exclamation. “I hate duct tape. Taping my elbows. The sadistic—” She stopped, then whispered again. “They trussed my wrists to my ankles. Can’t even kick my way out. Try to roll over and I’ll work you free.”

“No room. They tied me the same way.”

“Then I hope your teeth are sharp.” He felt her shift position. “Try to reach my elbows—my hands are numb.

Frank spoke in low tones as he struggled to work his way down her back. “Sorry you got mixed up in this. You must be worried about your twins. I bet they’re smart kids. They’ll probably know to wait for the police and it will turn out all right.” It sounded lame but he hoped it gave her some comfort.

A quiet laugh. “My twins are what I call my two Glocks. My Beagle—well that’s another piece of hardware. Just say I was making a delivery.”

Frank thought about that for a few seconds. “Did your car really break down?”

“You don’t need to know. I can tell you they took my purse just like they took your wallet. They’ll use my phone and ID to find out all about me, but they won’t learn anything real. And if that Italian smoothy thinks he owns me, he’s in for a surprise.”

Frank bit at the tape and she gasped. “That hurt?”

“I’ve had worse.”

He spit out a chunk of the sticky stuff. “It’s all twisted. This is gonna take some time.” He spit again, then rubbed his mouth clean against the carpet. “Who are you really?”

“All we need to talk about is how to get away.”

“Well, you seem to be the one with the answers.”

“Yeah, but not to that particular question.

* * *

The sun came up behind Tony as they left the city behind. Tailing under these conditions was easy. Then the BMW took an off-ramp. Tony stopped at the top of the bridge and watched it head north.

He backed down the apron and then drove onto the ramp. This road headed past some gravel pits then into the cornfields. Not a town in miles. He drove fast till he saw the black car crest a hill, then followed at an easy pace.

He came over the hill and spotted them just as a gravel truck appeared and drove right over the front of the BMW like a speed bump. The noise–even at that distance. The clouds of dust. Tony came to a stop and watched through binoculars. Watched a man kick open the back door. Watched him climb out. Pull a gun. Shoot the approaching truck driver. No hesitation whatsoever. Holy—

A huge man crawled out the same door head first. He opened the trunk and hoisted the man out, then the girl. Carried them like luggage. Slung them high into the bed of the truck, one at a time. Tony knew if he ever faced Gort, he’d shoot first and shoot to kill. The two men climbed into the cab of the truck and rumbled down the highway.

Tony cruised up to the wreck and got out. From the dashboard forward, nothing but crumpled metal. Glass windshield a sagging mess. He grabbed the long hair of the driver and turned his head. Neck broken. Bloody face. He felt for a pulse. Dead.

He walked to the truck driver. The smell of whiskey and blood. A fly crawled across the man’s face.

Tony got in his car. Pulled into the ditch and around the wreck. Drove off in search of the gravel truck.

In five miles he saw dust at a side road. Pulled to a stop. Approached on foot. A private drive, led to a large shed. A grass runway in the cornfield. A single engine Cessna turned into the wind. It’s prop got loud and it tore down the runway and into the sky.

What happens next? TAKE YOUR TURN [click here]

HOW TO PLAY–This is an interactive story based on Nate’s game in my novel. You get to say what comes next:

1.) KEEP IT SHORT – It’s easy to play Nate’s game. Just enter your idea as a comment like, “their jeep drives off a cliff.” Don’t worry about form—just suggest the next step in the story. I’ll pick one, write it, and post it as a scene in serial form.

2.) KEEP IT CLEAN – I hold the veto pen. Since this is an experiment, I get to add rules as we go along.

3.) SHARE – Your posts are a precious gift to me. Maybe you’ll help write my next novel. Maybe we’ll just have a great time. I take you at your word that all ideas are your original thoughts. No criticism. No arguments. No lawsuits allowed. Let’s have some fun.

Published in: on April 4, 2011 at 12:14 am  Comments (9)  
Tags: , , , , ,

CHAPTER 3

Roya FetovaRoya Fetova

A Crowdsourced Novel

Read it here – Say what comes next.

In the huge garage, Frank regained his balance, stepped away from the tool bench and rubbed grease from his hands. Oil soaked through his suit to the skin of his back. Across the garage, a gleaming black BMW was parked in the fourth bay, the limo driver working under its hood. Frank looked back at the two men confronting him.

Gort was huge—some kind of hired goon. The flat nose. The protruding brow. The older man sounded cultured, somehow foreign and wore a better suit than his crony. Probably European. Frank decided to call him Luigi then looked to the other side and peered through a small dingy office, spotting a grey steel door.

“I have clients waiting for me in the morning. I don’t know who this Speck person is and I don’t care. I’m leaving.” Frank started for the exit.

“Gort.” A single sharp command.

Just as Frank reached for the doorknob, he was lifted off his feet. Gort deposited him in a swivel chair and held him down while Luigi secured his wrists to the chair arms with duct tape, tight, then bound his ankles.

“Mr. Speck.” Again the smooth accented tones. “Why do you not cooperate and make it, how you say, pleasant for all of us?”

“I told you, my name’s Smith and I’m due at the office at nine.” Frank felt his face flush. What kind of guy was this Speck anyway, and how did this mix-up happen?

The foreigner sighed. He produced a knife, flicked it open and turned it over in his hands. “I am quite sure your fictitious clients will wait. You are now supposedly a peddler of, what was it? Insurance? Is not hard to rent an office and print business cards.” He clucked his tongue. “Not even a secretary. Yes, I do not think you will be missed.”

Frank knew he was in for a brutal questioning and he didn’t have any answers. “Now look here. My wife will miss me. She’s probably already called the police.”

The man’s mouth distorted in a sarcastic grin. “You live alone, Mr. Speck. You have been in St. Louis only a short time. You were traced to Burlington Iowa where you wisely left the government witness protection program, at which point I was called. You took this obvious name Smith for what reason, I know not. Did you think I would not find you? So you see,” he turned up a palm and shrugged, “there is no point lying. You are in a great difficulty, Mr. Speck. Uomo Grasso demands an audience with you. But, as you say, I have you now. Would you care to tell me where the money is hidden?” Luigi ran a thumb across his knife blade. “I have not been informed in what condition you must arrive.”

A knock at the door. They all turned. Frank shouted for help.

“Gort, silence him.”

The big man shoved a rag into Frank’s open mouth. As he struggled to spit it out, huge fingers tore a length of duct tape and stretched it across his face. The knocking turned to pounding, then what must have been kicking as the door shook. Frank prayed for it to be the police.

Luigi pocketed his knife and opened the door a crack. “I am afraid we are closed, young lady.”

Frank heard a woman’s voice from outside. “Let me in. My car broke down.”

“I am sorry. We are closed for the night.”

“But your lights are on. I need help. Your sign says roadside service—is that false advertising or what? I left my twins and my Beagle in the car and need to get back. It’s just a mile or so.  Listen, I’m tired and there’s nowhere else open this time of night. Won’t you please help me? I bet it won’t take a minute for a smart guy like you—hey you’re dressed kinda fancy for a mechanic.”

“Precisely. Will you please go away?”

“How will I get home? At least rent me a car. Let me use the phone—my cell’s dead.” Luigi pulled the door closed as she called out, “I guess I’ll just flag down a squad car.”

Luigi turned with a look of exasperation. “Gort.”

The giant pushed the door open, yanked the woman inside and held her while Luigi stepped behind and wound duct tape around her arms at the elbows. She flailed at Luigi with high heels. She kicked Gort’s shin with a pointed toe then struck him with a knee. The giant dropped her and doubled over.

Luigi struggled to bind her feet and gasped when she kicked at his head. He swore and pinned her legs, wrapping five circles of tape around her ankles. She cried out until he taped her mouth shut. He got to his feet. Wiped blood from his brow with a handkerchief. Straightened his jacket, brushing off grit while Gort lifted her like a rag doll.

Frank was shocked. A pretty woman. Blonde. Twenty something. Designer jeans. White summer top. Spaghetti straps. Pearl buttons straining from the way she’d been tied. She flashed him a fierce look.

Gort licked his lips, then mumbled, barely moving his mouth, barely audible. “You want I should take her out back and ask some questions?”

“Shuttup.” Luigi’s face contorted with rage. He brought up his knife. Sliced off a pearl button and placed it in his pocket as if he’d taken ownership.  Grabbed her chin. Turned her head. Touched the point of his knife to her throat and spoke through gritted teeth. “You cause me no more trouble. Capiche?” He turned his back to her. “Gort, put her in the trunk with Mr. Speck. We have wasted too much time. We must get to the airstrip.”

* * *

From his car, Tony Ferragamo watched while the woman got pulled into the garage. That was her problem, not his. It looked like the hired help took the bait. This Frank Smith even bore a physical resemblance to him. He congratulated himself but wanted to be sure the plan worked to completion.  It had to fool Uomo Grasso.

Tony skipped out on witness protection just in time—needed a change anyway. Living in a flophouse as Frank Speck in Burlington Iowa almost drove him crazy and he was glad to be on the loose again. A few hundred bucks got him a Social Security card, a drivers license, and credit cards in the name of Frank Smith and he left a wide trail to St. Louis–one he was sure would be followed. Now he’d need a different identity. Frank Smith would die—Uomo Grasso would see to that—and the names Frank Speck and Tony Ferragomo would die with him. Nobody would ever find the money paid for a hit that never happened.

The overhead door rolled open and a BMW backed out. Tony cranked the ignition and followed.

What happens next? TAKE YOUR TURN [click here]

HOW TO PLAY–This is an interactive story based on Nate’s game in my novel. You get to say what comes next:

1.) KEEP IT SHORT – It’s easy to play Nate’s game. Just enter your idea as a comment like, “their jeep drives off a cliff.” Don’t worry about form—just suggest the next step in the story. I’ll pick one, write it, and post it as a scene in serial form.

2.) KEEP IT CLEAN – I hold the veto pen. Since this is an experiment, I get to add rules as we go along.

3.) SHARE – Your posts are a precious gift to me. Maybe you’ll help write my next novel. Maybe we’ll just have a great time. I take you at your word that all ideas are your original thoughts. No criticism. No arguments. No lawsuits allowed. Let’s have some fun.

Published in: on March 29, 2011 at 9:06 pm  Comments (4)  
Tags: , , ,

CHAPTER 2

Roya FetovaRoya Fetova

A Crowdsourced Novel

Read it here – Say what comes next.

The burlap bag restricted his breathing and chaffed his face. Trying not to panic, Frank brought to mind mystery novels, movies, crime shows—anything that might help him know what to do. He sensed occasional headlights and the movement of the big car. Memorizing every turn, he listened for clues to pinpoint their location. Crowded between the two goons, he counted seconds, minutes, and sweated freely.

His cell phone—it might ring and he didn’t want it taken away. He slid his hand slowly into his suit pocket and silenced it.

The car stopped. The engine went dead. By his count, a twenty minute ride, probably north of home. The sound of an overhead door rolling closed. The car door opening. The sudden flash of light through the burlap fibers. The bag abruptly pulled from his head. The gravelly voice of the larger man. “Get out of the car, Mr. Speck.”

Frank Smith didn’t argue, didn’t try to claim his true identity. He merely obeyed. He found himself in a mechanic’s garage, the last of four bays. The man shoved him and he backed into a greasy tool bench.

The older man’s cultured tones. “Not so rough, Gort. That’s no way to treat our guest.”

What happens next? TAKE YOUR TURN [click here]

HOW TO PLAY–This is an interactive story based on Nate’s game in my novel.  You get to say what comes next:

1.) KEEP IT SHORT – It’s easy to play Nate’s game. Just enter your idea as a comment like, “their jeep drives off a cliff.” Don’t worry about form—just suggest the next step in the story. I’ll pick one, write it, and post it as a scene in serial form.

2.) KEEP IT CLEAN – I hold the veto pen. Since this is an experiment, I get to add rules as we go along.

3.) SHARE – Your posts are a precious gift to me. Maybe you’ll help write my next novel. Maybe we’ll just have a great time. I take you at your word that all ideas are your own original thoughts. No criticism. No arguments. No lawsuits allowed. Let’s have some fun.

Published in: on March 27, 2011 at 12:35 pm  Comments (5)  
Tags: , ,

CHAPTER 1

Roya FetovaRoya Fetova

A Crowdsourced Novel

Read it here – Say what comes next.

On a soft summer night, Frank Smith strolled around his neighborhood when two men in dark suits came beside him and took firm hold of his arms.  “You’re coming with us, Mr. Speck.” A black limo rolled to the curb and the men propelled him into the back seat.  The door slammed and they pulled away.

Crowded between the two, he became aware of the smell of sweat and garlic. The driver wore a black leather jacket and shoulder-length hair. Frank looked from one man to the other and settled on the older one. “My name’s Smith. You’ve taken me for somebody else.”

The man sneered. “Don’t insult my intelligence. We know all about you, Mr. Speck.”

“No, really. You’re making a mistake. You can check my driver’s license.”

The other man stuffed a bag over Frank’s head.

What happens next? TAKE YOUR TURN [click here]

IF YOU ARE READING THE ENTIRE NOVEL FROM THE BEGINNING — Chapters are in reverse-chronological order.  Scroll up to find the next chapter.  When you reach the top of a page, scroll to the very bottom and select “Newer Entries.”

HOW TO PLAY–Just for fun, I’m taking this blog in a new direction—an interactive story like the one Nate and Zachary play in my novel. With many players, a few rule changes are in order:

1.) KEEP IT SHORT – It’s easy to play Nate’s game. Just enter your idea as a comment like, “their jeep drives off a cliff.” Don’t worry about form—just suggest the next step in the story. I’ll pick one, write it, and post it as a scene in serial form.

2.) KEEP IT CLEAN – I hold the veto pen. Since this is an experiment, I get to add rules as we go along.

3.) SHARE – Your posts are a precious gift to me. Maybe you’ll help write my next novel. Maybe we’ll just have a great time. I take you at your word that all ideas are your own original thoughts. No criticism. No arguments. No lawsuits allowed. Let’s have some fun.

To get us started, I’ve taken the first turn. Now it’s your turn.

Published in: on March 25, 2011 at 2:01 pm  Comments (12)  
Tags: , ,
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