Drone Strike #Thriller #Suspense

Posted: April 15, 2019/Under: Uncategorized/By: Christine Young

Drone Strike: Karim’s family is killed by a U.S. drone strike. ISIL recruits him for a terrorist attack on the U.S., and only Anthony Provati, can stop him.

Drone Strike: Thriller/Suspense

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BLURB: Drone Strike

Karim’s family is killed as “collateral damage” by a U.S. drone strike in Iraq. The Islamic State in the Levant exploits his rage, recruiting him for a terrorist attack on the U.S., and only Anthony Provati can stop him. Drone Strike takes you on a fast-paced adventure across the Mediterranean, into Mexico, finally arriving in the States. Drone Strike explores the psychological realities that seduce Karim to commit an act of terror, includes a love story between Moslem Karim and Miriam, a Christian woman he defends in Turkey, and highlights the plight of Middle Eastern and Central American refugees.

EXCERPT: Drone Strike

Don’t call me Tony. That was my father’s name, and I’d rather not be reminded. Hearing “Tony” recalls my mother screaming. For him to stop beating me with a leather strap. For him to stay away from her. I’m Anthony Provati. Thirty-four, hazel eyes, dark, wavy hair, and a deviated septum that some say looks dangerous.

Slim, blonde Nori Vernice, twenty-two was the angel of my Elysium, Santorini. Formed by an earthquake three millennia ago, the Greek island featured a gray and red-ochre caldera crater sprinkled with azure-domed churches amidst gleaming white stucco homes with postcard-worthy vistas of a sparkling blue sea.

Nori’s a painter. Let me amend that. She’s the most talented artist I’ve ever come across. All the prospective Pablo Picassos and Frida Kahlos that New York drew like it wore pheromones eventually dropped by my closet-sized gallery in Manhattan’s West Village,Anghiari. None had the palette or could create the captivating emotional experience of Nori’s canvases.

Nori showed up in Anghiariwith a couple of paintings. She looked cute, with a stud under her lower lip, a silver ring in her left nostril, and piercings down both earlobes. Her left arm displayed a sleeve tattoo of a brunette woman in a Venetian carnival mask, her right, a naked blonde in a floral field with the words “Fools gold” inscribed below. I had the impression she lived on the street. Without much optimism, I asked her to show me her work. She revealed iridescent pointillism seascapes. I smelled the ocean, heard the roll of waves, and felt the sun on my skin. Initially, my mercantile instincts were engaged. I had several uptown clients clamoring for something fresh. When I offered Nori a section at the rear of the gallery to paint and to lend her money for a small studio apartment on Mott Street, she put a hand on hip and gave me a, “What’s-this-guy-really-want?” look. I flashed my boyish smile, and she accepted my offer.

Nori proved herself to be smart and adept. She ran Anghiariwhile I scouted for art.To tell you the truth, the clients liked her better. Working together, my admiration for Nori grew. Our relationship warmed to friendship and inevitably, romance.Maybe I’d fallen in love, but the word’s a tongue twister for me.

While Nori and I enjoyed Santorini, Jean O’Donnell, widow of my best friend Terry, and my high school crush, looked after Anghiari. After Terry’s death, we stayed in touch. I reckoned that she and her two kids could use the income, plus she acted as a pilot light for the remnants of my artistic pursuits. Jean hadn’t any art or business training, yet she ran the gallery without needing to phone me in Greece. Her competence wasn’t a surprise. Unlike me, she didn’t disappoint. Jean lived seven time zones away and was the only reason that I’d return to New York anytime soon. At least, that’s what I thought.

My love for Greece began as a teen. My mother wanted me off Brooklyn’s streets and away from my father. She saved her hairdresser tips and enrolled me in the Paerdegat sailing school. The Greek instructor had family in Athens, and my mother’s wrangling landed me a job. Every summer, I flew standby to Greece to work and sail for Hektor Christos and his shipbuilding company, Hellas Marine.

My mother’s pennies also funded piano lessons from a myopic Mr. Magoo-looking retired teacher. He allowed me to use his upright Baldwin for no extra charge. When my father learned of my musical bent, he sneered, “Sissy,” under his bourbon-stale breath.

In Greenwich Village, I played piano professionally at Leroy’s tavern and restaurant. On Santorini, I picked up a gig at the Panoramabar and tavernain Oia, the town on the northwest tip of the island with a perfect view of the sun setting into the ocean. The owner, Helena, raven-haired, forties, had a face that I wished I’d seen in her twenties. She carried herself with the confidence of a woman expecting to have the upper hand with men. Before I played my first note at the audition, her impish smile told me that she fancied my dark, wavy hair and hazel eyes.

Dining at Panoramawas al fresco. The tinkle of tableware and droning patron conversation blended with the roll of the surf and the jazz selections I played. Nori sat at a nearby table and nursed a chilled glass of white Assyrtiko wine. Whenever Helena approached the piano, Nori’s retractable claws emerged. Helena flirted to confirm her attraction to younger men. Pre-Nori, I would’ve proven Helena’s point in the sack.

Helena, red lipstick and nail polish, in a plunging black dress, leaned an elbow on the piano and surveyed the restaurant crowd consisting mostly of British and German tourists.

I said, “Another packed house.”

Helena’s English had a throaty Greek accent. “More Europeans selected Santorini this year to avoid the refugees.”

Helena spoke of the tsunami of Syrian and other Middle-Eastern peoples fleeing by raft from Turkey to the eastern Aegean islands of Leros, Samos, Lesbos, and Kos.

I said, “I suppose there’s not enough booze on the planet to dispel the image of a drowned Syrian child washed up on the beach at your feet.”

Helena nodded. “Poor people. Tragic situation.”

When I finished my set, I joined Nori.

She tilted her head. “What did Helen of Troy want?”

“Do you think that she has a face to launch a thousand ships?”

Nori replied, “All I know is, she’d like to float your boat.”

I chuckled and kissed Nori’s cheek. “I’m sticking to my one-woman diet.”

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