Hook, Line & Sinker

Hook, Line & Sinker

By

J.T.Twerell

HOOK, LINE & SINKER

Published by arrangement with James Terry Twerell

ISBN-9781311993700

Smashwords Edition

Published by arrangement with James Terry Twerell

Copyright © 2011 Living Word Publications

All rights reserved

For more information Visit www.JTTWERELL.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is dedicated to the only person in my life who makes it all a fun journey. My wife, I am forever yours; Hook, Line & Sinker.

Chapter 1

The black unmarked SUV moved rapidly through the hills of Virginia as Jack Swanson sat in the back, contemplating how complex his life had become. A year and a half in federal prison was not a comfortable place for an ex-FBI Special Agent and former head of the Miami operation, especially one who was convicted of crimes against his country. The authorities treated him like a venomous snake, which included a minimum of protection during his incarceration. On the other hand, the local derelicts inhabiting the prison treated him with disdain because he was a former cop. Today was the first good day he experienced in almost two years, and it was only a short-term reprieve from the crappy life he now endured.

Jack stared at his reflection in the tinted window and realized it was a clear demonstration of how the last year and a half had aged his prior image. At forty-two he looked more like someone in their late fifties who had survived a long and painful war. His dark hair was now almost gray and his green eyes reflected the look of a man more dead than alive. Two years ago he was the head of the Miami FBI office, secure in his position as well as healthy in his own body. Now he was a convict, beat up by the penal system and at a loss how to ever recover.

Recover, that’s a joke, he smirked as his thoughts continued. Twenty years from now there won’t be enough left of me to recover.

He pushed through his reflection and watched the rolling hills fill the horizon with an almost purple haze. Periodic house lights speckled the almost undulating landscape, an indication of isolated humans who were enjoying the tranquil surroundings in their hermit life. He knew he should enjoy this short change of scenery, a major departure from the gray walls of his prison cell in Falls Church, but somehow even this small reprieve from desolation didn’t bring him much joy. He may be passing though the wide-open spaces of the lower Smoky Mountains, but he was simply moving forward to another set of gray walls, which would form his habitat for the majority of his remaining life. The hell comprising his current habitation provided an ongoing challenge to both his mental and physical life, and his only hope lay with the band of thieves who composed his legal representation. They finally succeeded in getting his sentence remanded to a minimum-security location in Virginia, where he might be able to have some better protection from the frequent abuse so prevalent during the last year and a half of hell.

He watched some type of large bird fly low over the distant mountain range and remembered the seemingly thousands of seagulls constantly filling the sky and land around the Miami area. From his condo on the bay, he often watched them swarm around bunker masses in the water, feeding on the abundance provided by nature. Like the seagull, he was once the one who could soar high above the masses and then swoop down to feed in whatever place he desired. Now he was one of the multitude of small fish who frantically swam for survival, never sure when the latest predator would plunge down and end his fragile life.

Swanson wasn’t bitter about his current situation; it was the result of trying to feast on too much too fast, and then being left with no choice but to live with the consequences. He had been a good agent for a long time and followed the rules of discipline drummed into him during the early training years of his career. Then the sharks came into his life and he succumbed to their power and cunning. He thought he was smart enough to look evil in the eye and control its reality, but evil took on many disguises, and in the end he was just another piece of bait who thought it was a privilege to be on a hook in dangerous waters.

Senator Mike Harris, the illustrious member of the Senate Arms Committee and Chairman of the Subcommittee on Readiness and Management Support was the shark who seemed to have everything Swanson needed in order to move up the food chain from bait to predator, and for a few years it all worked perfectly. Harris arranged for arms to be diverted to various nonmilitary locations and then Swanson used his contacts to sell them off to a cross section of dealers who paid a lot of money for this product. If Jack had simply stayed in this section of the ocean, he probably could have lived as a respectable shark, head of Miami FBI and a very happy big fish. But other sharks came along and offered even more incentive, so he jumped into a pool of Columbian drug dealers who fattened him up until he became large enough to use for their purposes. When it all came apart, he was a small fish on a big hook who was swallowed up with one swift gulp.

Former Senator Mike Harris served three months in prison and now played golf at his local country club with only the inconvenience of an electronic tracking device attached to his ankle. Harris was rich and powerful, a shark who may be taken into captivity but would never be truly tamed. A lot of people got swallowed up when it all fell apart, but Mike Harris just moved on with his life.

The sharks in the drug cartel were a different story. Juan Cardova was the kingpin in the filthy underbelly of Miami drug business and a great white shark in the world of big sharks. Jack feared few people, but Juan Cardova was one of those who kept Jack awake at night. Juan valued nothing and no one except himself and would eliminate any threat without a second thought. Cardova was known as Senior Grandes Bolas, the man with the big balls. Jack laughed when he thought of this irony. Senior Grandes Bolas had been shot in his big balls by Special Agent Jennifer Blade and was now a lifelong inmate with no balls at all.

Jennifer Blade, Jack said softly with a very sour taste in his mouth. He worked with Jennifer in both New York and Miami, respected her work as an FBI agent, but never truly had her under his control. She lived according to her own set of rules and in the end, played the game so it all ended her way. Jennifer, also known as J, was as tough as nails and as beautiful as Venus. She knew how to use each aspect of her strength to accomplish her goals. She moved all the pieces on the board until she was able to provide a perfect checkmate, toppling Senator Harris, Juan Cardova, Jack Swanson and others. She paid for it all with her life as a bullet took her out when they were all brought down, something for which Jack always felt a deep guilt. She had been a woman of integrity who died because of his lack of concern for her safety. He was her boss, but she decided to do it her way and he hadn’t protected her. Juan was a big fish, but, Jack smiled, in the end, the biggest shark had been a woman.

A sudden blow to the side of the car shocked Jack out of his thoughts. The SUV rolled over, landing on its side and tossing Jack first onto the ceiling, then leaving him sprawled across the opposite window. His arms strained over his head, shackled to the restraining ring on the car floor. Gunshots sounded from several locations, followed by a complete silence that was interrupted only by footsteps on the far side of the SUV. Suddenly the door above him jerked open and a man leaned in with a long-handled device. With a quick move the man snapped the chain from the floor, grabbing Jack’s arm and pulling him up through the door and out into the cool night air.

Jack glanced back at the SUV, shocked to see a dead guard on the ground and another dead behind the steering wheel. The man held his arm tightly as he pulled Jack across the road and threw him into the open door of another van. Jack tumbled to the floor as the broken chains on his arms were pulled roughly behind his back and clamped tightly together. Two gunshots rang out as the door was pulled shut, then Jack saw the SUV with the dead agents explode in flames.

Just lie still and don’t make a move, a voice said from above him.

Who are you? Jack shouted, but the car began to head rapidly down the road and no reply was given.

Chapter 2

A block away I heard the clang, clang, clang of the big green trolley as it moved down St. Charles Street toward the divide through New Orleans. This was definitely a crazy town with a flavor unlike any place I’ve ever lived. Often called The Big Easy, a title reflecting the almost daily party-like atmosphere perpetrated by the inhabitants, the city replicates a culture and heritage not found in the remainder of the country. As a person raised in the eastern section of the USA, I pictured my country’s history through the eyes of our ancestors who landed on Plymouth Rock, declared our independence in Philadelphia, fought the British in Boston and then spread out over a semi-inhabited land to establish America.

New Orleans is from a very different background and provides an abundance of history and culture, proving that my eastern America understanding was very presumptive. Created by the French, run periodically by the Spanish, inhabited by Canadians, molded by the Caribbean and planted in the south, it is a part of America truly declaring its own independence.

The afternoon breeze pushed through the banana palms with the promise of a cooling afternoon rain on this hot August day, a welcome relief in this tropical part of southern Louisiana. The air was filled with the smell of magnolias and gardenias reminiscent of a beautiful woman fresh from a long shower. The intense green of the tropical foliage seemed to have a strength and beauty not found in more urban parts of the world, and it all blended together in a rather mesmerizing place known simply as New Orleans.

This ambiance guided me into my usual routine of doing as little as possible, and as I sat next to the pool in the backyard of this recently acquired home, I wasn’t feeling guilty in the slightest. I often thought back on my driven days in New York City and thanked all the powers of the seen and unseen world that I was now far from such a life-sucking routine.

The main reason I’ve enjoyed my highly unmotivated life is probably because of the absolutely unpredictable woman I have chosen to live with and love abundantly. We met in a trout stream in upstate New York, had a wonderful dinner in the woods, made love behind a waterfall, killed a man and lived happily ever after. It was a more complicated story than this brief summary could describe, but generally this introduction set the stage for what I declared as my life-changing roller coaster ride with my traveling companion known as J. Actually her name is Jennifer Blade, often called J for short, but legally known as Kelly Anderson. The more I’ve tried to explain my life, the more complicated the story seemed to become.

My name is Steve Sanders and I am the loving companion of this Jennifer Blade who legally became Kelly Anderson after she was legally declared dead by her former employer, the Federal Bureau of Investigation. The man we killed in upstate New York was a drug dealer who attempted to murder Jennifer. I determined I needed to stop his intent, and I did it with a bullet to his head. He was a lowlife creep, but I still have moments of anxiety when I think back on that day. I also have a working knowledge of anxiety, as my former life occupation was as a clinical psychologist with the title of Dr. Steve Sanders. I am still Steve Sanders, as I was never declared legally dead and found no reason to pursue another identity. My love had no choice, as she was in deep trouble with a drug cartel and very high powers in the United States Congress. She broke up a very lucrative business relationship between a ranking member of Congress and a rotten member of a Columbian drug cartel. For her efforts, many not-so-nice people wanted her dead. She assured me she was safe with her new identity as Kelly Anderson and I chose, as I often did in this relationship, to simply not argue with the woman. I lived thirty-eight years of my life in a very predictable and safe fashion, only to discover it created nothing but boredom. The last two and a half years allowed me to experience the true joy of living, and for this I’ve been truly grateful.

The door opened on the patio, momentarily interrupting my review of my somewhat complicated life. Into my vision stepped this young, vivacious woman who was just over five feet five inches tall, deeply tanned, thirty-five years old, with short blond hair and a smile capable of lighting the darkest recesses of my world. In addition, she was sexy beyond description and had a sexual appetite second only to mine. This glorious package surrounded one of the brightest and often most devious minds I’ve ever encountered. This was the woman known as Kelly Anderson, a self-employed private investigator who, in the last two years, had yet to investigate anything other than beautiful museums throughout the world and magnificent places to fish for every type of aquatic wonder a person could imagine. She and I shared a deep love for fishing, which mapped out most of our travels in the last two years. From Costa Rica to Australia, we fished until we finally decided to take a break and settle down for a while. It was three months ago when we bought a house in the Garden District of New Orleans for no other reason than it sounded like a good idea. J (I refuse to call her Kelly unless we were in public) is a woman who loves to express herself in very explicit and wonderfully sexual ways, so New Orleans is a good place to settle for a while because, as I previously indicated, it is The Big Easy.

This distraction to my life wandered across the patio, sat on my lap and gave me a big kiss. This was a wonderful part of any relationship, especially since J was wearing one of her favorite outfits – absolutely nothing –, which exposed her beautiful full breasts and slim hips to my well-trained eye.

Is this what you’re wearing tonight? I asked as I pulled her close and felt the magnificent warmth of her body as it intimately surrounded mine.

I might, but only if we stay home. She chuckled as she rested her head on my shoulder. What are you thinking about so deeply?

Just thinking over my life and how this crazy woman turned it upside down.

J stretched up and ran her hand through my hair. Any regrets?

Confronted by a magnificent pair of breasts, I had a little problem maintaining concentration. About you and me, I have no regrets. I wish we could be more open and not have to play hide and go seek from dark forces, but after two years, I’m getting used to Kelly Anderson and her sexy body. I just hope my girlfriend J doesn’t find out.

J laughed and bit my ear as she moved off my lap and stretched out in the chaise next to mine. I remembered the first time I saw her standing in the trout stream in the Catskills of New York. She was in the corner of a stream wearing a baseball cap and baggy shirt, which covered her very female body and left the impression this was another male angler on the stream. She was deep in concentration on a pool in the river where she was trying to coax a rainbow trout onto the dry fly she had cast over his head. When I made a noise, she jumped and shouted, You just scared the shit out of me! I was startled to realize that this man was really a very beautiful woman, and I think I stammered something ridiculous as an apology. She was beautiful in that early morning sun as her smile and easy-going nature seemed to bring a peace to my very empty existence. I wasn’t overly miserable with my life at that point; I was just lost in my personal direction.

I had a successful private practice in Manhattan, been married and divorced once and enjoyed most of my life. Yet I was somehow lost in my journey. Then along came J, a woman who didn’t know the meaning of living a simple life. As an undercover agent for the FBI she became a steady girlfriend with one Juan Cardova, a slimy kingpin in the Miami and New York operation of a drug cartel out of Columbia. Over the last few years, J shared more of her story about life with Juan and all the dirty crap she had to go through just to bring him and his friends to justice. For Juan, justice ended up with J putting a bullet in his groin as we raided his yacht in the Miami harbor. I say we because J decided to deputize me as Special Agent Robert Klingman so I could assist her in her rather complicated and dangerous investigation. This rather faulty title caused me to end up getting shot when she and I raided Juan Cardova’s yacht one night. Needless to say, my life with J has not been boring and in all honesty, I don’t feel lost anymore.

We’re supposed to meet Jerry and Kim at seven, so that gives me half an hour to do something fun and then I have to get ready. J stretched her beautiful naked body and then closed her eyes. I wonder what I could do for fun?

I knew what she wanted to do for fun and I was always ready to join her in her activities. Jerry and Kim McCullough were a couple I had met at the hospital where I worked two days a week. He was some type of developer in New Orleans who appeared to have made a small fortune since Hurricane Katrina ravaged this beautiful Crescent City on the Mississippi River. Kim did something, but I had yet to really understand what it was, as she seemed rather vague in her descriptions – not a problem for us as we hid from bad guys and J had several different names. I could do vague if that was what someone wanted to be.

My time in the hospital consisted of doing volunteer work as a psychologist for patients who had little or no financial support. It kept me active and I could pretend I was still a Ph.D. with some type of focus. Financially I didn’t need the work, since my wonderful J and her friend Bingo, in all their work with cartels and crooked government officials, put away enough money so neither of us had to work for a living. Bingo, an individual who is a separate part of this story is still a part of our lives, and I will tell more about him later. But J was lying next to me naked and wanting fun, and I just didn’t want to think anymore.

I pulled off my shirt and shorts then felt a light warm rain begin to fall like a mist in a rainforest. The clouds in the horizon darkened and it was clear we were about to receive our afternoon storm designed by nature to wash away the stains of the day and prepare New Orleans for a beautiful night. I sat next to J and watched the mist cling to her hair and darken her blond fibers. Want to go inside the house? I asked.

She opened her beautiful green eyes and pierced my very soul with her look. No, let’s stay here, she whispered as she lifted her hand behind my neck and pulled me close. She spread her legs and then kissed me tenderly. I think your body will protect me from the storm.

I do love rainy days in New Orleans.

Chapter 3

We finished our beautiful time in the warm rain and finally gave in to the necessity of wearing clothes. Catching a cab, we headed to Frenchmen Street on the far side of the French Quarter. In our three-month sabbatical in New Orleans, we discovered many of the best places for food and music were actually outside of the tourist section of the French Quarter. Gertrude Stein, a woman who had a major impact on the creative style of Earnest Hemmingway, one of my favorite authors, once visited New Orleans and declared it was a place "hot and