Set to Kill, chapter 1

I've banged out about 2,000 words on Set to Kill.

Have a quick look at some of them.

Yes, some of them. I'm not going to show you the ENTIRE book... And I haven't written it all yet.

But just to show you that I'm doing something.

Chapter 1: The Return

Atlanta, GA

Sean Aloyisus Patricus Ryan shot the first FBI agent in the face, and the next in the kneecaps.

He took a step forward, wheeling around the doorway, firing three more times. Two of those bullets punching into, and through, his target's face, and a third went right through agent number four's eye.

Sean grabbed the survivor by the collar and dragged him into the hotel room.

Sean tossed the whimpering mass of flesh to the floor, disarmed him, and stomped on one of the ruined kneecaps.

Sean did a tactical peek outside the door, looking both ways. “Okay, who sent you?”

“We're FBI agents!” the wounded man bawled. “We said that!”

“FBI agents come in twos, or in whole tactical teams. They don't show up with four people at the door. You still have your balls, so don't think I can't hurt you some more.”

“I told you–”

Sean didn't say anything, just swung the muzzle down to aim for the balls.

“No! No! Don't! There's a bounty on your head!”

“How did you hear about that?”

“The darknet. I can show you—”

Sean stomped on the bounty hunter's head. “Thanks.”

Sean dropped to one knee, gun up, and patted down his still-breathing victim. He came up with a cell phone, unlocked with a biometric thumbprint reader. He unlocked it with the owner's thumb, and the first thing that came up was Sean's cocky, smiling face, and a caption that read, “WANTED DEAD: $10 MILLION.”

“Only ten?” Sean thought, shoving the phone into the luggage. “Someone doesn't know me that well. I'm worth at least twenty. They're going to put at least that much effort. And pay out that much life insurance.”

Sean slammed the door closed, and threw the bolt. His next step was to grab his luggage, close it up tight, and hurled it through the hotel room window.

And people wonder why I buy Halliburton cases for my luggage.

Sean then backed up, charged, and leapt right out the window of his tenth-story room.

Thankfully, no one was in the pool when he landed.

Sean arose from the pool, trudged his way towards his suitcase, and stormed down the concrete. He glanced at his diver's watch. “Dang it. I might be late. Must be Tuesday.”

Sean shot two more of the gun-wielding idiots in the lobby. He stopped at the concierge and shrugged. “Sorry about the mess.”

* * * *

Sean Ryan walked into yet another hotel and just looked up, the atrium going through every floor, straight to the ceiling of the Hilton.

“Nice. Why can't I ever stay in places like this?”

“Mister Ryan?”

Sean looked to the side at the newcomer, then looked up again. The lady was well poised, brunette, and freaking tall. Her black hair flowed down her body, framing strong features, with really deep brown eyes. Her outfit was monochromatic, with knee-high black boots, white vest and pants, with black, long-sleeved t-shirts. She had a little flair pin of a cute gray kitten with dragon wings, and coughing up a fireball -- the caption read "Kitty Dragon." 

“Hi," he said. "I'm Yvonne Wicklund.”

“Sean Ryan.”

She looked Sean up and down, her glance clearly showing that she was not expecting an international badass to be only 5'6” – six inches shorter than her. “A pleasure.”

Wicklund took Sean over to the plush chairs over in the lobby. He frowned at the layout, dragged a chair against the nearest column, making sure to angle at a mirror on the wall.

“Paranoid much?”

Sean cocked an eyebrow. “You're kidding me, right? I'm in security. Paranoia is a job requirement, but it's one of the few things I can't actually put on my CV.”

Wicklund smiled and pulled out a sheet of paper. “Which is interesting, considering that you've put property damage and body count on your resume.”

“It's a gift.”