Saturday, February 22, 2014

Spotlight - Sleeping Dogs:The Awakening (a Techno-Political Thriller) by author John Wayne Falbey


      Author John Wayne Falbey                       
Today's Special Spotlight is about an intriguing and fast paced Techno-Political thriller titled Sleeping Dogs:The Awakening. This novel is written by the multi talented, creative and adventurous author John Wayne Falbey with a host of creative, managerial and professional achievements to his credit.
From the Author's Desk : Sleeping Dogs:The Awakening is the first book in a trilogy. The second volume, Endangered Species, is in process and is expected to be available in summer 2014.
Author Links: Connect with author John Wayne Falbey

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Author's Twitter handle:@jwfalbey

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Author Bio: John Wayne Falbey writes techno-political spy thrillers and adventure novels. His debut novel, Sleeping Dogs: The Awakening, has been endorsed by Compulsory Reads. He also is the author of The Quixotics, a tale of gunrunning, guerilla warfare, and treachery in the Caribbean. 
A native Floridian and former transactional attorney, he is a real estate investor and developer in Southwest Florida. The writers currently at the top of his reading list include Brad Thor, Alex Berenson, Lee Child, and David Baldacci, among others. 
His latest novel, Sleeping Dogs: The Awakening, is the first in a planned trilogy about the deadly black ops group known as the Sleeping Dogs. Book Two in the series, Endangered Species, is planned for publication next summer. 
In addition to the Juris Doctor degree, he earned Master and Doctoral degrees in business management. 
He is a frequent lecturer, panelist, and moderator for professional symposiums in the real estate development industry, and is Managing Director of the Falbey Institute for the Development of Real Estate, as well as a Managing Director of Capital Four Advisors. In his spare time, he is a competitive cyclist and triathlete. 

Book Spotlight - Sleeping Dogs : The Awakening

Ebook :  SLEEPING DOGS : THE AWAKENING ( A Techno-Political Thriller)

Author :  John Wayne Falbey

Genre :  Techno - Political Thriller

Amazon Stores :

Reviews : 22  ( 18 x 5 stars)

Achievements : Endorsed by Compulsion Reads -

Book Synopsis 

The President of the United States has been targeted for assassination—by his own party’s power structure. A national election is pending and the killing must look as if the opposition party is responsible. Desperate to prevent the crime and avoid an overwhelming defeat, the opposition turns to the only force that can stop it this late in the game—a mysterious hunter-killer team known only as the Sleeping Dogs. 

This blackest of black ops units was formed to carry out the wettest, most illegal missions. But a U.S. President, fearing exposure of the unit’s existence could spark an international crisis, ordered its members terminated with extreme prejudice. They faked their deaths in a plane crash and went underground. Now, 20 years later, they are asked to leave the safety of their anonymity and risk their lives for their country one more time. 

A seemingly unconnected car crash rapidly escalates into a series of plot twists and rising body count involving Russian agents, crooked politicians, Ukrainian gangsters, a billionaire international arbitrageur, a secret society of individuals in the military and intelligence communities, the CIA, a doggedly determined FBI agent, and the six deadliest men on earth—the surviving Sleeping Dogs. 

Sleeping Dogs: The Awakening is a techno-political spy thriller that combines relentless action, crisp dialogue, fully drawn characters, and thought provoking plot twists. If you enjoy books by David Baldacci, Brad Thor, Lee Child and other best-selling thriller writers, this book is for you!


Chapter Excerpt
“It is nought good a slepying hound to wake.”

- Chaucer, Troilus and Criseyde


1 Georgetown: Coincidence

The tilting streetlight acted like a floodlight in the mist, focused on the Jeep. Through the crazed pattern in the damaged windshield, Whelan saw that the limo had stopped in the middle of the intersection. The limo driver and another man got out. Both were large men, dressed in badly fitting, out of fashion dark suits and solid color ties. Each wore an earbud. As they drew closer, he saw that each was wearing a brass nametag pinned to a breast pocket. The limo driver’s said “Borys.” His companion’s said “Vadim.”
As they approached on the driver’s side, Vadim stopped near the rear of the vehicle. Borys leaned his six-foot-five-inch frame down and peered carefully through the driver’s window. Whelan knew what he’d see: an ordinary looking man. Except for his eyes. They were an icy blue, like the color of a deep glacial crevasse, and they were locked onto Borys’s eyes with no sign of emotion. Whelan saw that it unnerved Borys.
“You are all right, yes?” Borys said. Whelan recognized an Eastern European accent.
“You have identification, yes?” Borys held out a meaty hand for emphasis.
With his right hand, Whelan reached slowly into his front pocket and pulled out his wallet. He removed a driver’s license and handed it to Borys. As the large man took it, Whelan noticed the back of his hand was heavily tattooed, even his fingers.
Borys squinted at the ID in the poor light and said, “Walter Bailey. From Omaha, Nebraska.” His W sounded more like a V. English was his second language. Barely.
“That’s right.”
Borys spoke a single word in his native tongue and pointed to the ground next to the Jeep. The word was foreign to Whelan but he understood the gesture. Get out of the truck.
He kept his right hand visible on the steering wheel. With his left, he slowly reached down and opened the door. In the process, he nicked his little finger on a piece of glass from the broken windshield. A small trickle of blood began to ooze from the cut.
Borys motioned Whelan out into the street. The three men stopped directly beneath the tilting streetlight. As they did, Borys suddenly raised a hand to his earbud. It drew Whelan’s attention to the additional tattoos on Borys’s neck. He glanced quickly at Vadim and saw similar body graffiti. He recognized them as gang symbols—for an especially ruthless Ukrainian crime syndicate.
Borys listened for a few moments to the voice coming through the earpiece then glanced at Vadim. They each took a step backward, swiftly pulling Glock 17s from the waistband of their pants.  Borys said, “You are not this man, Bailey.”
Whelan said nothing.
Borys stepped closer and raised the Glock so that it was angled about 45 degrees with the ground and pointing just to the outside of Whelan’s left kneecap.
“I have good nose for bullshit,” said Borys, tapping the side of his thick nose with a meaty forefinger. He turned slightly to smirk at Vadim. When he did, the muzzle of the weapon edged away from Whelan’s knee. It was his moment of opportunity.
Whelan moved faster than Borys’s brain could relay a message from his eyes to his trigger finger. He wrapped his left hand around Borys’s thick right wrist just above the gun in his hand. Half turning to his left, he wrapped his right arm over and around the big man’s right arm. His forearm was just above Borys’s elbow. Borys, like a hound with a flea, tried to shake free of the man who was more than 50 pounds lighter. To his shock, he couldn’t.
Whelan swiftly brought his right knee up, then drove the heel of his shoe down and into the outside of Borys’s right knee. The technique forced the tibia out of the knee socket, destroying the tibial collateral and anterior cruciate ligaments and ripping the meniscus. He heard the satisfying pop as Borys’s knee buckled at a grotesque angle. He quickly and smoothly swung Borys’s bulk into Vadim’s line of fire.
Seamlessly, Whelan’s left hand pulled down forcefully on Borys’s wrist while he simultaneously drove his forearm upward against the big man’s upper arm. With another popping sound, Borys’s elbow joint dislocated and the weapon fell from his hand. Its polymer frame made a dull clattering sound as it hit the pavement. As Borys screamed in agony and began to collapse, Whelan literally threw the 300-pound man at Vadim. He sprinted up Borys’s massive falling body like a running back scaling linemen at the goal line. At the top, he launched a flying kick, his right heel smashing Vadim’s nose, nearly ripping it from his face. It snapped his head back. Stunned, Vadim staggered backward and almost fell.
Before Vadim could recover and refocus his weapon, Whelan closed the gap and grabbed his gun hand, thrusting a finger behind the trigger to prevent firing. He drove a knee forcefully into Vadim’s groin. A loud grunt exploded from the injured man’s lips. His knees buckled and he grabbed desperately at his assailant for support. But Whelan was too quick. He had both hands on Vadim’s right wrist and swung it up and around, careful to keep the weapon pointing away from him. He continued to sweep the arm backward and up, a difficult maneuver for ordinary people with a man as large as Vadim. But, genetically, Whelan was far from ordinary.
He tugged Vadim toward him, forcing him to shift his weight to his right foot, which Whelan swept from under him. The big man did a forward somersault and landed on the back of his neck. Before he could recover, Whelan drove the heel of his right shoe deep onto the soft tissue of Vadim’s unprotected throat, destroying his windpipe, larynx, and the scream that tried to rise from it. Unable to breathe, he quickly lost consciousness and would be dead in less than three minutes.
Whelan turned back to Borys, who was writhing in pain on the street. He picked up both men’s Glocks, then bent over Borys for an instant and brought the butt of one of the Glocks down, crushing the man’s forehead and driving bone splinters into his frontal lobes. It may not have been a deathblow, but at the very least it was enough to destroy motor skills, libido, and problem-solving and creative thought processes. Borys, if he survived, would be in a vegetative state for his remaining years.
Whelan shifted his attention to the black limo, knowing that time was running very short. Neighbors would have heard the crash. By now, they would have called the authorities. He walked swiftly, but cautiously, toward the car, keeping one Glock focused on the middle of the windshield and the other on the left rear window. When he was still fifteen feet away, the right rear door opened and another large man climbed out. He was dressed similarly to Borys and Vadim. He brought his weapon up, bracing his arms on the limo’s roof for stability. Whelan opened fire with both of the 9mm Glocks. One hollow-point round pierced the bodyguard’s left eye and exited the back of his skull, taking much of his brain matter with it. His head snapped backward, and his body countered by toppling forward. The corpse slid clumsily down the side of the limo, leaving a bloody streak all the way to the rocker panel.
As Whelan drew close to the limo, the left rear window began to slide down. He aimed both Glocks into the darkness behind it. A face slowly emerged. He kept both weapons trained on it and made a quick scan of the car’s interior. The passenger was alone. He was wearing a dark brown double-breasted Burberry trench coat and clutching a cordovan leather attaché case in his hands. His face had collected more wrinkles and his hair, still parted in the same style, was much grayer and thinner, but the years had been kind to him and Whelan recognized him immediately.
“My God! It is you!” the older man said. “But…you’re dead!” And then it was he who was dead; shot in the middle of the forehead by a slug from one of the Glocks.

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