New Thriller Novel from-McMahon Books, LLC- Excerpt from The K-7 Directive

The K-7 Directive
by Paul N. McMahon
Athens, Greece, Internet Café

Nick D’Abruzzo was stirring the thick black coffee he was drinking with the small
wooden stirrer the waitress had given him. He had checked his email, but there
were just ads and old emails he hadn’t deleted. Seemed like these days he only
ever heard from one or two people and they usually just sent him those bullshit
jokes everyone sends out. It didn’t matter; these days he really preferred to be
alone anyway. He re-read an old email from his father that he hadn’t replied to.
His father, despite their strained relationship, had always tried to keep him up-to-
date on family matters, especially his glorious younger twin brother. Sometimes
he felt like his dad was just rubbing it in, but, deep down, he knew he meant
well. But did he have to constantly hear things like, Francis got some damn
award, or Francis got another fucking degree! Francis is a god and you are a big
disappointment! Even though they were identical twins, he sometimes felt like
they had a completely different set of genes. He had always played catch-up
with his younger brother. Even though he was the older twin, he was shorter and
wasn’t as athletic as Francis. He had always tested high in intelligence tests, but
when it came to translating that intelligence into high marks and scholastic
accomplishment, he continually came up short.

By their college years he had decided he needed to get as far away from
Francis as he could. While Francis stayed close to home and attended the
University of Virginia, Nick went out west to the University of Idaho. He had
started out as pre-med, thinking that if he got into medical school, he could
finally get some respect from his father, and maybe he would get the first line of
the annual Christmas letter his father sent out. But, again, his efforts fell short—
he tanked on the MCATS and his chemistry grades were abysmal. He ended up
having to stay an extra year and finished a degree in Animal Science instead.
Thinking back, though, that year was probably one of the happiest years he had
ever had; he met some great people and had a blast, but his happiness was
short lived. For the next ten years he jumped from one miserable job to another
while Francis continued outclassing him. He looked at the email again and
closed it, not deleting it because he knew he would have to come back to it
again. Hell there was nobody else around to beat the Francis is God bullshit into
his head but himself.

He took a sip of coffee, lit a cigarette and typed www.jewishdefensecouncil.com
into the URL locator of the browser. “Damn slow connection,” he muttered as the
page loaded. He hadn’t checked the site in days, but expected there would be
some new instructions for him. A smile came to his face as the pages finally
came up. If some random person were to read and believe the lines of text on
the site, he would think it was a group of well-to-do Jewish businessmen who
provided financial assistance to Jews who had suffered alleged hate crimes. He
laughed and the young girl at the computer next to him looked over. He glared
at her and she turned away. Nick thought this was one of the best things he’d
ever done. Not even Francis could have conceived of such a brilliant scheme.

The Jewish Defense Council was a front he had created; a portal whose main
purpose was as a communication platform between Nick, Olsen and other
members of the Aryan Front. Olsen was very pleased with the idea and gave
him, as a reward, a number of guns, including a German Luger. What pleased
Olsen even more was that some unsuspecting fools had even sent them money
and made donations through the website. Not bad, using the Jews own money to
destroy them. It wasn’t much, but it did help pay for the upkeep of the site. Hell,
if needed, they could max out the credit cards of the donors, but they didn’t
want to attract too much attention to the site and detract from its main purpose
as a communication portal.

Nick selected the link that had the requisite photos of the Holocaust and some
survivors. He looked at the twenty or so JPEG images and scanned to see if there
was a recent posting. Yes, there was a picture of someone with the caption Saul
Stanski, Holocaust survivor. He selected the image and hit a combination of key
strokes, launching a prompt box for a password. He typed his password and a text
window was opened. The message was brief, but very detailed, describing the
location, the man he was supposed to meet and the phrase he was to use when
he met him. He closed the site, cleared the computer cache and history and
logged off. He left some money for the coffee.

As he stood and put on his coat, he didn’t noticed the young woman following
him with her eyes. As he left the café, the girl picked up her cell phone and
made a call. Nick was dressed in casual clothes, posing as a vagabond hippie
traveling through Europe. As he stepped out onto the sidewalk outside the café,
he hailed a cab. Throwing his large backpack into the back he said to the taxi
driver, “Eleftherios Venizelos.” The airport was northeast of the city and not too
far away, only thirty minutes or so when traffic was good. The taxi driver nodded
and pulled out into Leoforos Amalias Street.

As the taxi made the right turn onto El Venizelou, a small white car with two
passengers cut in front from the left lane. This was not an abnormal experience
for the taxi driver and he successfully avoided the car, which had come to an
almost complete stop. Nick looked over at the car as his taxi driver braked and
skillfully maneuvered his vehicle to the left and sped past. The men in the car,
which seemed to be stalled, were shouting at each other and pointing at the
taxi Nick was riding in. Feeling shaken, but anxious to get out of Athens, Nick
took it in stride. He had experienced similar bad taxi trips in his travels around
the world and this one had not been that bad so far.





				© Copyright Paul N. McMahon 2011. All rights reserved.



			© Copyright Paul N. McMahon-McMahon Books, LLC 2008. All rights reserved.