by S L Shelton
Contents
Unexpected Gaines
Acclaim
Copyright
Books by S.L. Shelton
Dedication
Dear Reader,
1 - July 13th
2 - July 14th
3 - July 15th
4 - July 17th
5 - July 19th
6 - July 20th
7 - July 22nd
8 - July 23rd
9 - July 24th
10 - July 25th
11 - July 26th
12 - July 27th
Epilogue
Scott`s Condo
Acknowledgments
Danger Close
Excerpt from Danger Close
Unexpected Gaines
A Novel by
S.L. Shelton
The 2nd novel in the Scott Wolfe Series
Acclaim for
S.L. Shelton’s
HEART-POUNDING
Action Thrillers
Waking Wolfe
“Waking Wolfe is a tightly written story with engaging characters and fast-moving events… Throw in loose nukes, colorful Russian mobsters, nefarious Serbs, and some CIA guys and you’ve got yourself a thriller.”
—Susan Hasler, Former CIA Analyst
Author of Project: Halfsheep
“The pages of this novel are filled with non-stop action and atmosphere so rich you feel as if you are there. Shelton is amazing at keeping tension throughout the storyline, and it was incredibly difficult to put this book down… This is an amazing debut novel. There’s no wonder why S.L. Shelton has received high praise and five-star ratings from a slew of high-profile reviewers.”
—J.C. Wing
Author of Alabama Skye
“This was a great read. From the start it engaged my interest with an exciting setup that quickly drew me in… I highly recommend this book to anyone who likes spy or action thrillers. It's a roller coaster filled with great characters and nearly non-stop excitement.”
—C.C. Bradley
Author of Interim
“Shelton hits the bull’s eye dead center for political espionage with Waking Wolfe… Imbued with rich detail and realistic, high-powered adventure, this action-packed, cleverly devised plot whisks the reader along for a non-stop ride where ‘boy-next-door’ techno geek, Scott Wolfe, evolves into amateur international spy.”
—Donna Cummins
Author of Rain of Terror and A Reason to Kill
“[Waking Wolfe] was one of those books where you jump in hoping for, at the very least, a semi-entertaining read, but instead end up craving more after turning the last page. Shelton's debut took me by surprise and I have to say, it was awesome.”
—Book Addict 24-7 Reviews
Bookaddict24-7.com
Unexpected Gaines
“Shelton has created in Scott Wolfe a character that may just rise in importance to the level of Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan—this story will cover a mere two weeks of time, but the action that occurs is compacted so tightly that the timeframe is soon forgotten.”
—Grady Harp
Amazon Top 100, Hall of Fame Reviewer
“A gripping tale from cover to cover! Superb characters with flaws as well as heroic attributes, with a thunderous storyline that leaves you craving more! Excellent!”
—Amazon Reviewer
“If you liked Shelton’s first book then you will really like [Unexpected Gaines]. If you have not read his first book, then shame on you because you are depriving yourself of the chance to read one of the best new authors writing today.”
—LTC R. Huber
U.S. Army (Retired)
Danger Close
“I was a fan of this series from the very beginning. S.L. Shelton’s first novel kicked off a wildly entertaining ride, and his story just keeps getting better and better with each installment.”
—J.C. Wing
Author of Alabama Skye
“Certainly a book series just waiting for the big screen… True to form, the author has given us a spy thriller with all the action needed to get our attention… S.L. Shelton leaves us ready and eager for the next adventure. Awesome.”
—W.N. Amazon Reviewer
Wolfe Trap
“Wolfe Trap will grab you from the first sentence, and before you know it, you’re on the last page. The book is fast-paced and action-packed.”
—Melissa Manes
Author, Editor
“I’ve spent a good deal of time with Scott Wolfe in the recent months…he’s taken me on some hair-raising adventures. None so wild as this latest one. My advice to you, fellow readers? Buckle your seat belt, hold on tight and enjoy the ride. You have no idea what’s in store for you…but I can absolutely guarantee that you’re going to love it.”
—J.C. Wing
Author of Alabama Skye
Harbinger
“S.L. Shelton is without a doubt one of the best spy/espionage novelist I have run across in a long time. I'd put his Scott Wolfe series in the same league as Lee Child's Reacher series. Fast paced, fun interactions between characters and great action.”
—Chuck Hester
Author
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 by S.L. Shelton. Published originally under the title 2nd Amendment Remedies. Second edition released as Unexpected Gaines, May 2014.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
Front cover, maps, and artwork contained in this book are Copyright © S.L. Shelton
The cover image is a modified and stylized rendering based on a photo obtained courtesy of the Department of Defense photo library. Photo credit, Cpl. Melissa Tugwell.
104,614 word count
Books by S.L. Shelton:
Hedged
The Scott Wolfe Series:
Waking Wolfe
Unexpected Gaines
Danger Close
Wolfe Trap
Harbinger
Predator’s Game
Splinter Self (Coming 2017)
Back story: Lt. Marsh
Follow S.L. Shelton at:
wolfeauthor.wordpress.com
www.goodreads.com/WolfeWriter
facebook.com/SLShelton.Author
SLShelton.com
For Don Cooper
Thank you for being my friend and an endless source of information on all things from law enforcement to chemical compounds. Your value to me is immeasurable.
Dear Reader,
Thank you for making the Scott Wolfe series such a huge success, putting it into the Espionage, Political, Conspiracy and Techno Thriller top 100 bestsellers for its main outlet, the Amazon Kindle. I watch with gratitude, overjoyed by the growing attention.
When I started this series back in May of 2012, I had intended to write it as a multiple-point-of-view third-person novel. I quickly realized that I wanted a much more personal point of view when it came to Scott Wolfe. After rewriting the first few chapters to address that desire, I realized I was much more satisfied as an author and was encouraged to continue in that direction by my early readers.
While it can sometimes be jarring to jump from Scott’s brain into third-person narration, I’ve taken steps to reduce those moments to “bonus” perspectives: gifts to you, the reader, to help give you a deeper awareness of what’s going on outside Scott’s line of sight.
I hope as you read the series, you enjoy the unfolding saga as much as I have enjoyed writing it. There is little more that an author can hope for than what you
have already provided—being emotionally entangled in the lives of our characters.
Thank you once again for taking the time to discover Scott Wolfe, and I hope that if you enjoy it, you will mention it to others and post a review of your time with him. Scott and I both thank you.
S.L. Shelton
Author
NOTE: Descriptions of facilities in this novel have been fictionalized for reasons of security and to reduce the number of future encounters the author might have with federal officers.
one
Tuesday, July 13th
4:15 a.m.—Fairfax Virginia
I woke just before sunrise—sweating again. I had been doing that a lot.
I slipped out of bed, quietly, so as not to disturb Barb before padding as softly as I could to the closet.
She had taken to sleeping at my condo after we’d arrived back in the US. At first she would sleep on the couch next to the window in my bedroom, but as my night terrors got worse, she began coming to bed with me, fearing I’d reopen my wounds. The injuries had healed over enough not to be a threat any longer, but my dreams had gotten worse—and Barb was now a regular bed partner.
I heard her stir as I gathered my clothes and started to leave the bedroom. “Trouble sleeping?” she asked sleepily.
“Yeah. I’m sorry I woke you.”
“Scott, it’s okay,” she insisted, rising from bed. “I’ll get up and make some coffee,”
“Don’t do that,” I complained, already feeling the guilt swell up in me. “You can’t get up every time I have a bad dream or get a cramp. One of us needs to have our wits about us.”
She paused, looking at me, a worried crease on her brow. I walked over and kissed her as I pulled the covers back over her shoulders.
“Go back to sleep,” I whispered gently.
That was enough to undermine her resolve. She slowly, hesitantly, dropped back to her pillow. I knew she was tired—I had woken her nearly every night for the past two months with shouts and thrashing in bed.
The past few weeks had been hard—on both of us. I felt guilty for being such a burden, especially when she tried desperately to baby me. But I was constantly reminding her that she had been kidnapped and nearly blown up as well.
I tried to open the front door quietly so as not to disturb Barb any more than I already had. But the annoying squeak that had developed was impossible to silence no matter how the door was opened and despite the copious amount of lubricant I’d doused it with. It would take a resetting of the hinges, and I wasn’t in the mood for a woodworking project. All I wanted to do was get the hell out of the house.
I got into my car and drove away from Fairfax in the dark. I could just see the beginnings of pink on the horizon in my rearview mirror as I drove west on Route 50 toward the Loudoun County/Clark County line.
I needed a climb—my first climb since Europe. Actually my first climb since the day before I left for Europe.
During my appointment the day before, my doctor had given me the green light to work out, which had made my decision easy. I, of course, had not disclosed that by “work out” I meant “rock climbing”. It was a detail I also hadn’t mentioned to Barb…she would have vetoed the idea immediately.
My brain quickly gave me the various displays of the time since my last climb:
2.13 months
65 days
1,560 hours
93,600 minutes
5,616,000 seconds
I remembered that I had started climbing at around 1:30 p.m. on that day in May, so my brain graciously adjusted the hours, minutes, and seconds in the virtual readout that was constantly assaulting my vision.
1,568.5 hours
94,110 minutes
5,646,600 seconds
Roughly.
God, I need a climb, I thought as I raced down Route 50.
I chose Crescent Rock because of its remoteness—it was on the Appalachian Trail. There, the hike alone would keep most weekday climbers away. Add in the extra heat this summer, and I figured I’d have the rock to myself. That, at least, was as I had planned.
Crescent Rock was a cliff that popped up in the middle of a stretch of the Appalachian Trail on the Blue Ridge Mountain ridge line. It was surrounded by dark green foliage, bugs, and the occasional outcropping of rock…until you reached the cliff. It sort of snuck up on you. You’d be hiking along, swatting flies and sweating pints of water under the canopy of green, and then you would suddenly be standing in front of a magnificent wall of rock.
If a hiker wished to continue north on the trail, they’d either have to climb the impressive face or snoop around until they found the trail that led up the side.
I preferred the climb. In fact, the only reason I could think of to strap several dozen pounds of equipment to my back and walk through rough terrain was to climb. I didn’t understand the appeal of hiking for the sake of the stroll. It seemed like wasted effort with no reward—but, to each their own.
It only took me ten minutes to tie in my protection point after the forty-five minute hike, and then I warmed up on a low free climb to get my fingers limber for the main event—a craggy overhang nearly fifty feet above the base.
My performance was less satisfying than I had imagined it would be.
The climb route I had chosen would have given me little trouble just a few months earlier. But the recovery from my burn, stabbing, and gunshot wounds had been slow and painful—as was the climb. I wasn’t going to be happy until I could climb without feeling the internal tension and bruising caused by my previous adventure.
At that moment, however, I would have been happy just to finish the damned climb.
Reaching with my left hand for a handhold above my head, the skin on my shoulder and arm would pull and tighten, flashing with pain. When I switched arms and reached with my right, my gut screamed in agony.
My doctors had told me that I could attempt outside exercise within reason, but to take it easy and not to over stress my wounds. But the emotional wounds were pushing me further than my physical wounds would allow. Between the near-death experience, my apparent schizophrenia, and lack of emotional enthusiasm for my relationship with Barb, my head felt ready to explode. It almost felt as if I were trying to put on a pair of shoes I had worn when I was ten: I remember them fitting before; why won’t they fit now?
I had also been dreaming about my dad. I thought more of my dad when I climbed—I’m not exactly sure why—but I rarely dreamed about him. So the new ‘visits’ I was receiving from him in my dreams weren’t welcome.
I was still ten feet below the overhang when I reached for a palm-sized handhold above my head. It was slightly out of reach, so I stepped forward, off balance for a fraction of a second to grab for it.
Pain flashed like a lightning strike across my belly and I lost my footing.
CRASH.
Down on my harness I fell, sending yet another jolt of pain through my bruised body.
As I dangled there, trying to shift my weight to muscles that weren’t sore—a losing proposition in itself—I wondered if I would ever feel whole again…physically or mentally.
Why am I doing this to myself? I wondered. It’s too soon to be climbing again.
Bone and meat heal on their own, came the whisper from my schizophrenic hitchhiker. Healing your mind requires effort.
“Aren’t you afraid if I heal my mind, you’ll be cast into the void?” I muttered to the ghostly other voice in my ear.
I heard snickering in my head. Apparently it wasn’t worried.
“How about some help then?” I asked sarcastically.
Nothing.
“As expected,” I muttered and then leaned forward to grasp the rock and try again.
I had become eerily accustomed to the intrusions from the voice in my head—a recent addition to my personality that had occurred for the first time in Amsterdam when the Bosnian Serb mercenary, Majmun, tortured me. The voice didn’t intrude often, but I became less concerned, tho
ugh more irritated, each time I heard it.
I still hadn’t told the CIA psychiatrist about it. Each time I got close to revealing the secret, my extra voice would warn me not to.
The sessions were doing some good though—and some damage. They were dredging up questions about myself that I had never addressed.
I had resisted going at first, but between the weekly calls from John Temple and the urging from Barb and her father, I finally gave in and made the appointment.
The catalyst for the first call to my CIA shrink had been an unpleasant midnight awakening; I’d found myself on the bedroom floor trying to drag Barb under the bed.
That thought pushed my attention away from my climb again, and I popped off the rock. My harness caught my weight with a sharp jerk, shooting sharp jolts of pain through my gut again.
I was usually comfortable solo climbing. The ascender device attached to my climbing rope was tied to my harness with a short piece of tubular webbing. It was long enough to give me a snap when I reached the end of it after a fall.
The image of my dad’s face flitted across my mind. He was looking up at me.
When did he ever look up at me? I asked myself.
No answer from my other voice.
“Fat lot of help you are,” I said out loud.
The memory had probably just been part of my dream. My dad never climbed with me—not that I could remember anyway.
I rested, suspended thirty-five feet off the ground, before getting my feet back on the rock wall and attempting to climb again. I reached out for the rock, straining beyond the tightness in my shoulder.
Once I settled my feet down on a thin bump of granite and arched my back to lean into it, I reached higher this time and found a more substantial handhold with my fingertips. My fingers walked across a thin lip of the stone, looking for a solid grip. When they found a crevasse, I sank them in as far as they would go, and then, pulling with agonizing difficulty, I rose back to where I had been before.