Bula Bridge (Galiwee Visions, Book 2) by J. Drew Brumbaugh
Release date: April 23, 2019
Subgenre: Action thriller, Paranormal thriller
About Bula Bridge:
The exciting sequel to "War Party." Tommy has another vision and this
one shows a plot that will endanger thousands of innocent people. The
only problem is the vision doesn't provide the exact location, only a
railroad bridge that will be destroyed. What can he do?
Excerpt:
At the moment he was Roger Shultz. It was one of a long
list of aliases he’d used and it wouldn’t be his last. He sat
calmly in a worn booth in a restaurant in downtown Cleveland
waiting for the waiter to bring him a glass of lemon
water. Glancing around, he checked for surveillance
cameras and didn’t see any. He wore faded jeans, a CAVS
sweatshirt and ball cap. He adjusted the cap hoping to blend
in with the crowd of basketball fans going to the game tonight. His
puffy, black winter coat lay in the booth beside him. Loud rock and
roll music blasted from speakers around the room. The
noise would make talking more difficult but it would also mask the
discussion that was coming from prying ears or
microphones. The music was even loud enough to silence
Allah’s voice in his head. That was okay. That
voice would be there again when he needed it.
He remembered the first time Allah spoke to him. It was right
after he’d gotten another severe beating from his
stepfather. For a while, he didn’t know exactly how
long, he’d been unconscious. When he woke up, the voice
was there, strengthening him, advising him, calming
him. It wasn’t until much later that he realized it was
Allah talking to him.
Watching the people in the crowded restaurant turned his
stomach. Heathens; godless people, every one of them.
Women dressed like sluts, heads uncovered and more exposed skin
than should be allowed. Indulgent men, women and
children, stuffing themselves greedily with food that certainly was
not clean, drinking alcohol and laughing about it, blatantly
violating Allah’s laws. They would all be punished one
day, some maybe sooner if he completed his next
assignment. And they deserved exactly what they were
going to get. Roger would play his part for tonight, appear to be
one of them, but in his heart he hated them.
The waiter arrived with his lemon water, interrupting Roger’s
thoughts. The twenty-something man with tattoos and a
clunky earring set the glass in front of Roger and asked, “Are you
still waiting for someone?”
Roger saw his contact entering through the door from Prospect
Avenue. He turned back to the waiter and said, “He’s
here now. Give us a minute.”
“Sure. Just wave when you need me,” and the waiter moved off.
Roger watched the man come up the stairs that separated the bar
area from the dining room. He was bulky, like a bear and
had long dark hair, matted and sticky. His pockmarked
face remained serious while his dark eyes were full of
mischief. He wore faded blue jeans, a red and black
plaid shirt, and a fresh, new CAVS jacket.
Roger knew the man from their assignment in Montana. He didn’t
know the man’s real name; no one knew real names. What
he did know was the man professed no particular religion, and
certainly was not Muslim. That bothered
Roger. He knew he was Allah’s instrument, knew that the
heathens needed to be punished, destroyed. Allah’s voice in
his head assured him that only true Muslims deserved to
live. This man had other motivations. He was
not driven by Allah, or revenge, or any other reason that Roger
knew. Roger guessed that the man just like killing; he
probably would have been a serial killer if he hadn’t joined jihad.
The newcomer slipped between nearby tables and settled into the
booth across from Roger. He nodded and said, “I made
it.”
“I see that. What do I call you?”
“Buck Marshal.”
“I’m Roger Shultz.” Roger picked up his lemon water,
took a sip, set it back down and said, “How’d you get here?”
“Drove. Paid cash. Nothing
traceable. What are we doing in Cleveland?”
“We have orders,” said Roger and then stopped as the waiter
returned.
Buck ordered a coke. They agreed on an appetizer and had
the waiter put that in too. As soon as he’d gone, Roger took
up the conversation.
“We’re going to make the Ashtabula River railroad disaster look
like a picnic.”
“The what?”
“Ashtabula railroad disaster. Look it up. In
1876, a railroad bridge that was built using a lousy design
collapsed and dumped everyone hundreds of feet down into the
river. Typical infidels, money is more important than
people. That mistake killed a lot of
people. We’re going to do better.”
“We’re going to blow up a railroad bridge?”
“That is the general plan. We’re going to blow a bridge
over the Ashtabula River with a train on
it. Unfortunately, it’ll be a freight train so no
passengers. Not sure what the train will be
hauling. I hope tank cars full of toxic
chemicals. I don’t have details yet.”
Buck took a sip of his coke. “This is different than
Montana,” he muttered. “Why us? We don’t do
explosives.”
Amazon.com | Amazon UK
About J. Drew Brumbaugh:
J Drew Brumbaugh lives in northeast Ohio where he spends his time
writing sci-fi, fantasy and suspense novels, teaching and training
at the karate dojo he founded, building a Japanese garden in his
back yard, and taking walks in the local metro parks. He
has six novels in print, a collection of short stories, and a
co-authored children’s book. He continues to work on his
next book and seems to always have several stories in various
stages of completion.
Comments
Post a Comment