Read Angelfall: Parts 1 to 5 Online
Authors: Conrad Powell
Angelfall: Parts 1 to 5 (20 page)
#(2) - Collection: Parts 6 and 7 of Angelfall (Twilight at Dawn Saga, Book 1).
(Coming Soon the Final Part in Book 1) Twilight: Part 8 of Angelfall (Twilight at Dawn Saga, Book 1).
All titles are available for purchase wherever eBooks are sold.
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7. Bonus Excerpts - Other Works by Conrad Powell:
7(1). [BONUS EXCERPTS] - Start (Detective John Aston Martin Start Thriller Series, Book 1):
(Detective John Aston Martin Start Thriller Series, Book 1):
By Conrad Powell.
©
Copyright 2008 Conrad Powell.
EXCERPT…
Chapter 1
Ten Years Later - Downtown Brooklyn – Monday Evening, October 11, 2011.
The Blue-Eyed Blond-Haired assassin sat patiently by the fourth floor window of their short term rental at the Donald Trump Grand Arms Apartments on Joralemon Street in Downtown Brooklyn.
The Grand Arms used to be The Brooklyn Bureau Action Center until Trump decided to anoint it as his latest renovation project.
The Grand Arms was directly across from 210 Joralemon Street, the home to the Brooklyn Division of New York City’s Police Department.
The assassin had a clear view to the entrance of 210 Joralemon, or The Coliseum as most officers called it because of its grandiose white marble columns rising to the sky.
Of course thanks to New Jersey’s pollution, they were now smoky gray.
And to make matters worse, dirty pigeons fluttered about etching Rembrandt style artwork on the marble canvases with their sepia-toned droppings.
Blue-Eyes watched the entrance like a crow as he patted the wall feeling for Peter Pan. Peter was his specialty sniper rifle.
He named it Peter since it wasted no time in sending victims swiftly to Never Neverland. This Peter Pan adventure had no magic dust, no flying tinker bells, just straight cold mini missiles that melted the flesh with shrapnel crafted to rip through the chest with deathly accuracy.
Blue-Eyes kept a watch while his Green-Eyed Red-Haired twin brother sat inside the dark apartment devouring the carcass of a triple cheese, pepperoni, mushroom, olive, anchovy and Canadian bacon pizza. He gobbled it three slices at a time stacked together which he washed down with a two liter bottle of Dr. Pepper taken straight to the head.
Despite having executed 302 assignments spanning a period of twenty years that touched the shores of Asia, Africa, North America, Australia and Europe and which netted millions of pounds in their Seychelles Island’s account, and in spite of the botched bombing five years ago in Stalingrad that left Green-Eyes blind and Blue-Eyes deaf, they showed no signs of letting up. They were always booked solid two years in advance.
Detective John Aston Martin Start, the newest recruit to Brooklyn’s Special Crime Cadre, emerged from the coliseum as the sun set. The Norwegian twins’ latest assignment was all things GQ. Start was tall, dark and strikingly handsome.
Blue-Eyes grabbed Peter and pointed it at the detective who appeared blurry in the night vision scope. He wiped the scope with the long sleeve of his black Versace turtleneck.
On instinct, Rembrandt’s protégés scrambled away from the detective and perched in low lying oaks in the near distance.
Start turned up the collar on his blue blazer. He had forgotten his coat upstairs but had no intention of turning back.
Blue-Eyes stared into the scope and pointed the rifle at the detective’s chest.
“Don’t leave Start. Don’t do this leaving,” said Blue-Eyes under his breath. “Come, come. Be good little birdie. Stay still.”
Meanwhile Green-Eyes continued the pizza onslaught.
Blue-Eyes caressed the trigger like it was the perky breast of a Norwegian girl and aimed at John’s heart. He cocked it.
Green-Eyes heard the rifle in mid-gulp.
“Brother, no,” said Green-Eyes but he remembered that would do no good.
So he dove in the direction of the sound crashing into his brother who almost dropped Peter Pan out the window.
Blue-Eyes toppled to the ground in laughter as he watched his brother’s lips.
“This not funny,” said Green-Eyes as he felt for the wall to lift himself up.
“Is okay brother,” said Blue-Eyes in between the chuckling. “I observe his movement. This all. I observe his movement.”
Start walked down the street and jumped into his dark blue Toyota Corolla. With the danger gone, the dirty pigeons came back to finish their masterpiece.
***
(Detective John Aston Martin Start Thriller Series, Book 1):
By Conrad Powell.
©
Copyright 2008 Conrad Powell.
EXCERPT…
Chapter 6
Brooklyn
I eventually reached Willmohr Street in East Flatbush. The cross street, 95th Street had a Terra Cotta brick church with stained glass windows glistening with the Star of David.
In the 70’s East Flatbush was a strong Hasidic community until Caribbean migrants flooded the area.
They now called it Little Jamaica.
Church Avenue, its longest avenue, boasted shops stocked with all things Caribbean.
I pulled up beside the police barriers blocking Willmohr. Officer Wilcox stood guard. Cox had been my partner until they took him off front line duty.
“I heard about your promotion Start. Damn good partner. You ain’t got nothin’ to worry about now brother,” said Wilcox.
“You know what they say Cox,” I said. “What we got here?”
I peered past the barriers.
“I hear it’s some Jamaican connection thing. Them Jamaicans come to America and take all our jobs. Their asses should stay in their own country. Damn curry goat eatin’ nig-”
“I see.” I intentionally cut him off. The memory of what happened flashed in my mind. Cox and I were on duty in the Bushwick area about eight years ago. We were chasing a boy suspected of dealing drugs. Cox reached him first knocking him to the floor. When I was a closer distance, I saw the boy lying on his stomach begging for his life with Cox stooping above him with his gun firmly planted in the boy’s back.
By the time I reached, Cox had shot the boy several times. Protesters cried murder but the Kings County District Attorney’s Office failed to file charges. I was the sole witness. I knew he had murdered that boy but I kept my silence. Officers honor. Right? That was our code. We didn’t rat on each other just like lawyers or doctors don’t.
If you ever did that they would make life hell for you. Internal Investigations interrogated me for hours but I lied to cover Cox. We never talk about it though. I didn’t care to and tried to put it out my mind.
Cox was suspended for 3 years and when he returned, the most they let him do was traffic duty and guarding police barriers.
Wilcox pulled the barrier for me.
“Enjoy,” said Wilcox above the noise as I drove past him. I didn’t answer.
Talk about a swarm. I could hardly drive through with the throng of Looky Lou’s. I left Bessie near the police barrier and grabbed my black knapsack from the trunk.
With the crowd and flashing emergency vehicle lights, for a split second I thought I was at the Palladium. All I needed was the musical elements known as Earth, Wind and Fire.
I squeezed past the crowd and the Channel 7 news crew.
Officials swarmed in and out of the crime scene at 1078 Willmohr Street, a run down three story apartment building sandwiched between an abandoned four story building and a large apartment complex on the left.
As I approached the entrance, I spotted Weidermeier.
Robert Weidermeier, Channel 7 news’ superstar anchor, always had a toupee out of place.
His makeup crew swarmed around him like worker bees trying to salvage what was left of a Ted Coppell like relic. His young director shouted that they were on in fifteen.
As good as Channel 7 was, no one was better than my Aunt Genie from Bed Stuy. Nothing escaped her in the community. I mean nothing. I am convinced CNN sought her out when they needed the low down on the streets.
As I reached near the entrance, the director motioned to Weidermeier that they were on in 5...4...3...2...
“Breaking News out of East Flatbush. Man found dead in apartment. No Witnesses. Details at ten. This is Robert Weidermeier for Channel Seven news.”
His voice tapered off as I followed the human traffic up the stairs. Everyone headed to the third floor.
I reached the third floor landing as Officers Rodriguez and D’Agostino were ducking under the - Police Line Do Not Cross - tape.
It was draped across a smashed in door to Apartment #3A.
“Well, well. Detective Start. Nice seeing you back on the beat, Mano,” said Rodriguez as they laughed.
“Don’t be jealous Rodriguez. You know you’re too short to make detective.”
Rodriguez stopped laughing. D’Agostino chuckled.
“It ain’t pretty in there Start,” said D’Agostino, as he stifled a chuckle. “I think you’ll need your spy goggles.”
Rodriguez and D’Agostino laughed.
“Sure beats crime squad, huh fellas?” I said. “What are you guys doing here? I thought this was a special crimes assignment?”
“It is but we were in the area and got a transmission over the radio. We responded first. A little old lady called it in. She is a doozie,” said D’Agostino as he and Rodriguez descended the steps.
