crime thriller. The first stage of her plan makes 9/11 pale in
comparison – but she is not finished. She has one more target in
Shelley Harper, being involved, Kramer and his canine partner,
Shadow, are forced to take on a new team member. As they chase down
the diamonds they uncover the truth behind the theft. Harper has
joined forces with an international terrorist organization and
intends using them and the diamonds as part of her diabolical plan to
exact retribution from America on a monumental scale for the deaths
of her family.
become all too real in this day and age. Kramer must struggle with
his own doubts and demons as he leads his team against a malevolent
opponent. They are faced with an almost untenable situation; one that
has their survival highly questionable.
Afghanistan — but worse awaits them back home.
crime, absolutely! A thrilling ride, most definitely! But Greg Smith
takes it up a couple of notches, pulls you, the reader, into a
dangerous, action-packed FBI operation. You enter the world of 2 U.S.
Marines who offer their services to bring down a diabolical kingpin.
he’d been prepared for anything life had to throw him. He returns
from deployment to Afghanistan with a new dog, Shadow. Back in
Oceanside, California he and Shadow are drawn into a struggle to oust
local gangs involved in a bloody sport. Kramer and Shadow’s
activities capture the attention of the FBI who quickly enlist their
help in an operation to bring down a major crime lord based in
Florida. Captain Kramer, USMC and Corporal Shadow, USMC soon find
themselves in their deadliest fight ever.
always conjuring up stories and filling them with colorful
characters, sharing them with anyone and everyone who would listen.
Since then, I’ve progressed quite a bit to formulating longer and
more complex stories and sharing them with much larger audiences. As
a professional storyteller, I’m adept at using my imaginative
thinking and creative flair to bring my stories to life in engaging
and entertaining ways.
Australia, I moved to America in 1999 and now live with my wife,
Trish, Sydney, our 12 year old Border Collie, and part-Bengal cat,
The General (Bugsy), in our 36ft 5th wheel as we travel and explore
the United States.
has come to pass, I am turning my artistic bent from graphic design
and illustration to that of writing.
series is an action, adventure, crime thriller series that
encompasses the world and has our two Marines fighting hard against
organized crime at many levels – but always involving do-or-die
writing so that my readers can have an active role in helping me grow
and develop as an author in the years to come. I invite you to join
me in this adventure.
It is rare for most people to experience the real meaning of ‘dead weight.’
It was equally strange for the thought to come to mind as Kramer muscled the man into a sitting position against a garishly painted door. It wasn’t the first time he’d needed to handle the dead. He studied his handiwork. For all intents and purposes, the figure appeared to be asleep.
Kramer surveyed the alley and ancient balconies overhead checking for witnesses. No one. A last glance at the body, then he slipped away from the scene.
He had to catch up with his target. The man he was following had entered the medina–old walled city–of Tangier from the port and headed directly into the warren of alleyways. He was wearing white cotton slacks, a bluish grey lightweight jacket, and a white fedora–all of which made him somewhat of an easy figure for Kramer to tail.
Although his Global Security Corporation partners, Darci Tucker and his wife, Maria, hadn’t said as much when they pressured him gently into this assignment, Kramer was well aware it was done out of their concern for him.
The flight from Los Angeles to London to Amsterdam had provided the retired United States Marine captain more than enough time for circumspection, and for the ugly truth to reveal itself. Losing his parents and his fiancée, FBI Special Agent Sarah Hunter, thirty months ago, had decimated Kramer’s life and left him intolerable company for anyone, especially his close friends. Darci and Maria needed a break from him as much as he needed a new focus and a chance to reprioritize his life.
So here he was in Tangier, Morocco, three weeks after leaving LA, tailing a man they suspected had ties with Shelley Harper—a woman at the top of INTERPOL’s ‘most wanted’ list as well as those of most governments worldwide. For Kramer though, the reasons for hunting down the elusive Harper were by far more personal than anyone else’s.
Ahead a shaft of sunlight snapped off a bluish grey jacket and white fedora. Kramer quickened his pace. A minute later he stood at the junction of four alleyways.
As he scanned the crowds strolling the centuries old terraced alleys, Kramer was oblivious of the many things the Moroccan port of Tangier offered travellers—the sense of exotic mystery, interesting history, beautiful vistas, and unspoiled beaches.
One of his favorite movies, The Bourne Ultimatum, had used the medina for one of its glamorous backdrops but it hadn’t prepared Kramer for the spice-filled air with its intriguing aromas that permeated the ancient city.
He overheard a tourist enquire after the most comically named door in all of Morocco, Bab Haha, from a street stall owner who waved a dark olive skinned arm at one of the intersecting alleys. Kramer instinctively glanced in that direction and happened to catch sight of his target. He lit out after Fedora.
Kramer’s situational awareness was as keen as ever but he couldn’t be certain whether his unfortunate assailant had merely been a street thug or someone protecting Fedora. The assignment was supposed to be a simple task of arriving at an address in Cairo where GSC had been informed they would locate the fedora-wearing courier. From there all Kramer need do was shadow the man to his next meeting and capture everything on video, upload the file to Maria at GSC headquarters in California, and await further orders.
It all sounded simple enough—except for the joker who jumped Kramer in the medina alley flashing a dagger. The encounter surprised both of them.
A gap in the buildings afforded him a glimpse of the ancient walls of the Tangier Kasbah that loomed over the medina. Moments later Kramer found himself standing before Bab Haha. It proved to be one of the several doors or gates that lead into the Kasbah.
Kramer glanced at the map to the left of Bab Haha that highlighted the walk tourists could take around the Kasbah. Overall, the old fortified area looked surprisingly small.
He spotted Fedora weaving through the populace and followed him. Houses lavishly decorated with sculptures of cherubs, colorful shutters, and balconies flanked the alley that took him into the Place du Méchouar. He fended off the hordes that descended upon him begging for money or trying to sell something, dodged past the snake charmers and dancers, and skipped around gawking groups of tourists.
At first, he thought Fedora intended to enter the Kasbah Museum but then he ducked through an unassuming door off to its side. The sign over the entrance welcomed Kramer in several languages to enter Les Fils du Detroit, helpfully translated underneath as The Sons of the Strait. He stepped in and found himself transported back in time.
The ten by sixteen foot room proved to be a tiny café. Several people, mainly locals, occupied the two narrow rug-covered bench seats that ran the length of the room. The walls were covered in Moroccan tapestries and numerous old framed photographs hung precariously above the patrons’ heads. A couple of circular, hand beaten bronze tables took some valuable space from the narrow floor and carried several small glasses of mint tea.
The customers paid scant attention to Kramer as he joined them. They continued sipping their hot drinks while a group of four elderly Arab-Andalusian musicians held a jam session at the far end of the room. The authentic melodies and ambiance recreated Morocco’s rich, cultural past.
Kramer accepted a glass of tea and whipped out a tourist guide from his back pocket. He pretended to read it, glancing occasionally at the musicians when, in fact, his focus was really on his target seated opposite.
The man was in his mid-thirties, olive skin, lanky, sported a pencil-thin moustache, and wire-rimmed glasses that framed deep-set dark brown eyes. Thick black, wavy hair flowed from under the fedora and skimmed the collar of his jacket.
He leaned close to an older gentleman dressed in the traditional neutrally colored Moroccan djellaba–a long, loose, hooded garment with long sleeves. The craggy weather-beaten face was topped by a black bernousse, or Fez, and a silvery white beard completed the classical Arabic countenance. Both men were deep in conversation.
Kramer shifted slightly to align himself with his target. Once back in his hotel room he would upload the image and audio file from the second button on his shirt.
Darci Tucker, CEO of Global Security Corporation, had designed the ultra high-tech surveillance device. His wife, Maria, would work her digital wizardry to garner every bit of intelligence from it in order to create the next link in the chain that would hopefully lead them closer to Shelley Harper.
All three had a score to settle with the woman.
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