Losers Weepers (Flash Finnegan Series Book 2)

Book summary

"Losers Weepers" plunges readers into an exhilarating journey with Flash Finnegan, a man entangled in a perilous conflict on the vibrant island of Kauai. A high-stakes gambling debt spirals into a lethal struggle, involving a billionaire's son and two rival security agencies, Omega and Allied. Flash must maneuver through a web of international espionage, stretching from Las Vegas's glitzy casinos to Hawaii's lush scenery, in a desperate bid to safeguard his friends and avert disaster. This thrilling narrative combines danger and intrigue, set against a backdrop of exotic locales.

Excerpt from Losers Weepers (Flash Finnegan Series Book 2)

Ford Petty, a forty-seven-year-old, level-two security agent working for Omega Security International of Beverly Hills, California, had spent the last four days ostensibly touring the island of Kauai in a rented red Mustang convertible. He had little need for cover. He was just one tourist among thousands vacationing on the garden isle, soaking up the sun, maybe looking for a place to buy, or a time-share deal, or a beach to walk on, or perhaps just chilling out.

But, in actuality, Ford’s all-expenses-paid mission was to deliver a violent, two-fisted wake-up call to a twenty-six-year-old scumbag named Wu Chen, son of a Chinese billionaire. Piece of cake.

Ford was a fitness fanatic, trim and tight; he was an ex-Marine, ex-FBI, a confirmed heterosexual bachelor with a buzz cut and a permanent squint. He didn’t stand out in a crowd, had no roots to speak of and no siblings, wives, or other complicated social entanglements. His only interests were his job and the slightly wild off-hours life in LA LA land, boosted by alcohol and weed. His current assignment was to roust Wu Chen. Ford knew the billionaire’s boy to be holed up in a gated compound of three homes surrounded by an eight-foot lava-rock wall riddled with detection devices to discourage unwanted visitors.

From his stakeout perch on a hill one ridge away, Ford counted five security goons who were housed in the smallest of the three buildings; seven day workers who came by first light and left every afternoon; and, of course, the good-for-nothing kid.

Each morning at seven-forty-five, three male gardeners and four women housemaid-cooks appeared at the main gate and were admitted onto the property. That’s one way for me to get in, Ford thought, noting how one of the security men nonchalantly stood at the open gate, hardly paying attention as the workers entered the compound. The same routine reversed itself each afternoon at five.

During the day, the perimeter was breached by deliveries, three or four of them. Five security people, plus Wu Chen, had to eat and use toilet paper, while the housekeepers needed cleaning supplies. So mounting a fake delivery was another way for Ford to sneak into the compound. The problem with sneaking in, though, was that once inside, with the gate closed, the man on a mission became a rat in a maze facing odds of five or six to one. He scratched that idea.

But Wu Chen himself, the rich, obscenely spoiled, restless little shit, would provide the opening Ford needed. Two nights in a row at about eight, he’d left his estate in a black Mercedes-Maybach S-Class sedan driven by one of the security goons. Ford had tailed them to the Grand Hyatt Resort on Shipwreck Beach, a twenty-minute drive from the compound where Chen Wu had apparently taken a liking to the Scotch-tasting table in the hotel’s Library Bar. Ford waited in the parking lot until Chen Wu and his tough-guy driver left the Hyatt and returned to the compound, around midnight.

On the third night, Ford was waiting for them. Sitting in the corner of the Library Bar, he nursed a Mai Tai. Chen Wu had befriended nine boys and girls who liked to party, especially with the wealthy Chinese guy picking up the tab. At about ten, the revelry moved to a suite apparently occupied by one of Chen Wu’s new best friends.

At eleven forty-five, Chen Wu left the fourth-floor suite and walked unevenly toward the elevator. Ford was watching from a service closet down the hall. He slipped into the elevator behind Chen Wu, who took out his cell phone, touched a button, and mumbled something unintelligible into the phone.

The boy was short, maybe five-eight; his black hair combed to one side. He had a flat nose, short arms, short legs, and rounded shoulders. His face and forehead glistened with sweat.

Piece of cake, Ford thought. This guy is a marshmallow.

Chen Wu replaced the phone in his pants pocket as the elevator door opened into the hotel’s lobby.

Ford held back a beat, then after Chen Wu turned to walk toward the entrance, he stepped out of the elevator, pausing to look around the high-ceilinged lobby. To the right were banks of reception desks. Beyond were the main entry doors. Outside was a covered portico for pick up and drop off, and beyond, one-hundred-and-fifty yards away, was a huge parking lot lined with banyan trees and tropical gardens, lit by orange halide streetlights.

Ford followed his prey, looking to see if the Mercedes was waiting under the portico. It wasn’t. This is it, then, he thought, time to deliver the message. One, two, and I’m out of here.

They walked toward the parking lot, Chen Wu leading the way, staggering slightly, with Ford five paces behind. Just as the marshmallow was about to step onto a bridge over a water feature, Ford moved forward and shoved Wu Chin to his right, into a garden of towering tropical plants, pushing him deep into the dark fringe, out of sight from the walkway. Ford clamped his right arm under the boy’s neck, applied pressure, and leaned backward. He lifted the little shit off the ground, holding him in the air, choking him, the boy’s feet kicking frantically.

“You left a very large unpaid tab at the Grand Casino in Vegas, Mr. Chen Wu.” With his left hand, Ford yanked the boy’s arm into a hammerlock. He both heard and felt the boy’s elbow snap; the marshmallow body jerked and thrashed in pain.

“You have three weeks to pay your tab, plus two-hundred-thousand for the inconvenience. That is one-million, six-hundred-thousand dollars, due now. If you stiff us again, the price goes up, and we come and get you.” Ford let go of the broken arm and stuffed a folded piece of paper in the boy’s pocket. “That’s your invoice. Tell your father or whoever pays your bills you may not live through the next reminder.”

Ford stepped away. Chen Wu fell to the ground, sobbing.

Suddenly, Ford’s head was jerked back as a wire garrote cut into his neck. He couldn’t breathe. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. He felt a knee being forced into his lower spine while the wire was pulled tight. Ford reached for his throat, reacted with an explosion of panic, saw a flash and a strange red mist, then nothing at all.

Sergeant Kellie Jackson wiped the sleep from her eyes as she drove her patrol car to the Grand Hyatt at Shipwreck Beach. The time was six-thirty. Kellie had been jolted awake by a call from dispatch saying that a body had been found at the resort; responding patrol officers were standing by, awaiting her instructions. Whatever had happened at the Hyatt, this was her case.

Twenty minutes later, Kellie turned right at the resort entrance toward the temple-like, four-story portico, where a patrol car was blocking one side of the circular drive. She swung her car to the other side and pulled the steering wheel to the left to block the entrance entirely. The sun was up, the sky was clear, but the ground was wet. It must have rained last night.

Kellie walked over to where officers Josh Rossi and Sandra Amos were standing near the hotel entrance. The scene was eerily quiet, with no traffic and only a few staff members sweeping, dusting, mopping, and pruning potted plants in the entryway.

“Hey, Josh, Sandy, what have we got?”

Sandy said, “Dead body, Sarge, a man, over there.” She pointed into the maze of tropical plants along the side of the walkway. “Ten feet or so back in there. You can’t see it from here.”

“Okay, I don’t want to mess up the scene, so I’ll go in from over there.” She pointed toward the hotel entrance. “I’ll take a quick look. Has crime scene been called?’

Josh said, “We called them right after we called dispatch. They should be here in fifteen minutes.”

“And you’re sure he’s dead?”

Sandy nodded her head. “Yes, Kellie,” she said. “I’m sure. His skin is cold, probably killed last night sometime. And then, well, ah, you’ll see soon enough—it’s not pretty.”

Kellie looked at Sandy, an imposing figure, six feet tall, trim, black hair pulled back into a short ponytail, tan complexion, brown eyes. She looked like an athlete, even in her police uniform. The short-sleeve shirt showed off her strong arms.

“Are you okay?” asked Kellie. “You look as though something’s wrong.”

Sandy drew herself up, took a deep breath, and said, “It’s the body.” She shook her head. “Go see for yourself, Kellie. I’ll be fine.”

Kellie looked over at Josh, standing four feet away on the sidewalk, next to their parked cruiser. Whenever she saw the two of them together, she couldn’t help but think of Mutt and Jeff. Sandy—tall, strong, statuesque—was Mutt, and Josh—wee Josh as he was sometimes called at the cop shop—was Jeff. He wasn’t that short, five feet six inches or so, but when standing anywhere near Sandy, which he often did, the height difference made people laugh. Height differences aside, they made a good team.

Kellie pulled on a blue evidence suit, paper booties, and latex gloves, then stepped into the garden. Four steps in, she was lost in a jungle, unable to see the walkway for the plants. She turned left, walking in and around yellow frangipani, white and red hibiscus, sweet-smelling gardenia, yellow kahili ginger, bird of paradise, and more, planted in the fifteen-foot-wide verge between the walkway and the building. She walked slowly, looking at the ground, placing her feet carefully.

The dead man was in one of those physically impossible poses: on his back, one leg bent back under his body, arms akimbo. His head, slung aside, exposed a red, gaping slash like a surgeon’s cut with muscle, tendon, and glimpses of white tracheal cartilage showing. Kellie felt as if she’d been hit in the gut, recoiling a step at the sight. She had to force herself to look away and shook her head in an attempt to get a grip.

The victim was dressed like a tourist, in blue jeans and a short-sleeve Tommy Bahama shirt with tropical blooms on a white field. The collar and front of the shirt were heavily bloodstained. His mouth and eyes were open, as if he’d died of fright. Kellie looked at the neck gash—too straight for a knife cut. The wound was spread open because his head had been pulled back. The line of the slice looked as though it might have been cut by a laser. Then she thought, Garrote. Garroted with a thin, sharp wire. She felt bile rise in the back of her throat; she swallowed and took a deep breath, hoping not to vomit.