Friendly Fire

Mark Pawlosky

Description

In the tradition of the best legal and political thrillers, Friendly Fire is an explosive tale of greed, revenge, treason, and murder. 

When Geoffrey Tate, one of the world’s richest individuals and the CEO of Yukon, the country’s preeminent artificial intelligence company, is shot and killed by his young trophy wife, it’s going to grab headlines. And seasoned Newshound reporter Nik Byron intends to be the one generating them. But Nik’s investigation quickly leads him down a treacherous path he didn’t foresee. 

The sensational trial that follows Tate’s death threatens to derail Bullwhip—the military’s next generation of AI-inspired war machines—and scramble the fortunes of political heavyweights and Pentagon brass alike. His journalistic instincts aroused, Nik embarks on an uncertain hunt for the truth that takes him deep into the murky worlds of Washington lobbyists, the military-industrial complex, and the Saudi intelligence apparatus. 

Undermined by a vindictive boss and a jealous rival reporter, Nik turns to trusted Newshound colleagues, Mia Landry and Patrick “Mo” Morgan—as well as a Pentagon whistleblower—to land his story and unravel the mystery surrounding Tate’s death. But in doing so Nik risks alienating Samantha Whyte, the chief investigator for the Northern Virginia County Sheriff’s Department and his lover. Worse still, the story puts him in the sights of a contract killer. 

 

Sujets

• Policier & Thriller
• Thriller
• International Mystery
• International Crime
• Political
• Pentagon
• Detective
• Politics
• Mystery
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Girl Friday Books
• Date de parution: 07 mars 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781954854635
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 3 Mo

Extrait

Praise for Mark Pawlosky’s Nik Byron Series
“Written with all the speed and blunt force of a high-speed car chase, Mark Pawlosky’s debut, Hack , is a thrill ride you don’t want to miss. Part Jim Crumley, part Don Winslow, Pawlosky’s prose is delivered with the confidence of an old pro. A killer thriller, to be sure.”
— Vincent Zandri, New York Times bestselling Thriller and Shamus Award–winning author of the Dick Moonlight PI series and The Girl Who Wasn’t There
“ Hack by Mark Pawlosky is a heart-pounding novel and nearly impossible to put down. It’s a compelling storytelling with hairpin twists. Not for the fainthearted.”
— Jon Bassoff, author of Beneath Cruel Waters
“Nik Byron is flawed, charming, and always flirting with being down on his luck. But tell him he can’t get a story and his smarts and ambition take over. Mark Pawlosky’s clever plotting and affection for the craft of journalism and its rituals barrel through every page. Don’t let this book’s title fool you— Nik and his creator are first-rate storytellers.”
— Joe Drape, New York Times bestselling author of The Saint Makers , American Pharoah and Our Boys
“With fluid prose and a journalist’s keen eye for detail, Mark Pawlosky’s Hack delivers a rich and fast-moving tale populated with a fascinating collection of characters that readers will find equal reason to love and loathe. Hack will keep you up even after you stop flipping the pages.”
— Bryan Gruley, Edgar Award–nominated author of the Starvation Lake Mystery trilogy.
“A propulsive conspiracy tale with a credible and capable hero. Pawlosky has a deft touch in conveying character.”
— Kirkus Reviews



This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2023 by Mark Pawlosky All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Published by Girl Friday Books™, Seattle www.girlfridaybooks.com
Produced by Girl Friday Productions
Cover design: Emily Weigel Production editorial: Bethany Davis Project management: Sara Spees Addicott
Image credits: cover © Shutterstock/Frontpage
ISBN (paperback): 978-1-954854-62-8 ISBN (e-book): 978-1-954854-63-5
Library of Congress Control Number: 2022905924
First edition

To the memories of Joseph W., Margaret A., and James E. Pawlosky.

Author’s Note
Friendly Fire, the second novel in the Nik Byron series, is set in Washington, DC, where I once lived and worked and which I still remember fondly. The city and its environs have changed considerably since my days there, but, out of a sense of nostalgia, I’ve resurrected several long-shuttered establishments for the telling of this story. I have attempted to remain true to the more iconic landmarks, but, for my purposes, I have altered some locations and institutions and conjured up whole entities —the Northern Virginia County Sheriff’s Department among them —where none exist.
Likewise, part of the action in Friendly Fire takes place in South Florida. My descriptions of the area are inspired by my travels there over the years, but they are not meant to be true-to-life representations. The baseball academy in Islamorada, for example, lives only in my imagination.

Part I
The Intruder

Chapter 1
March 17, 2019
Had she still been living in the crumbling Adams Morgan apartment building with the shabby lobby, broken elevator, rickety staircase, and foul-smelling courtyard, she would have heard the rasp on the jamb as the window was forced open, felt the air’s cold sting on the back of her neck, noted the creak of the floorboards, but as it was, this new twenty-five-thousand-square-foot house was airtight, with reinforced concrete floors overlaid with old-growth timbers and thick Persian rugs, the ambient murmur of mechanical equipment drowning out any sound.
She didn’t hear a thing. Until he was on her. And then all she could hear was the thundering of her heart exploding in her ears.
One moment, she was at the bathroom sink gently cleansing her face, brushing her hair, softly humming a tune from Wicked , her favorite Broadway show; turning down the covers, looking forward to starting a new book. And the next, she was fighting for her life, the intruder’s hands at her throat, a knee shoved up in her crotch, a man’s body pressing down on her with all its weight.
She couldn’t think, let alone breathe, then survival instincts kicked in. She dug her nails into the intruder’s back, neck, and scalp and, when he momentarily loosened his hold, raked his face and drove her knee into his nuts. He groaned, and she slithered partially out from under him and clutched for the bedside table. She yanked out the drawer and thrust her hand inside just as he grabbed a fistful of her hair and kicked the drawer shut on her wrist. She screamed in pain, or at least she thought she heard herself scream.
He had a stocking over his face, and she could hear him panting hard. He tried to lever himself up on his elbow to get a better purchase but only wound up sinking deeper into the soft bedding, his foot slipping from the table. When it did, she withdrew her hand from the drawer. In it, she held a .38 Special stainless-steel revolver and shot him, point-blank, twice through the chest. She rolled out from under him, dropped the gun on the floor, grabbed her phone off the bedside table, ran down the stairs, out the front door, and dialed 911.
___________
A female deputy for the Northern Virginia County Sheriff’s Department was consoling her when Sheriff Jake Korum, investigator Samantha Whyte, and a heavyset detective walked out of the Georgian-style mansion, with its six twenty-foot columns, down the sloped lawn, past rippling fountains, to expansive gardens where the pair stood silhouetted by flashing blue emergency lights.
“You holdin’ up okay, Mrs. Tate?” the sheriff drawled, putting a reassuring hand on her shoulder, tilting back his signature wide-brimmed off-white Stetson, and bending over so he could look her in the face. She was fighting back tears, eyes red and watery, nostrils leaking, a heavy blanket draped over her back.
“I don’t know,” she said between whimpers and wiped her nose with the back of her hand, the blanket sliding from her shoulders to reveal a bloodstained lace negligee. A cold rain had fallen earlier in the evening, and the air was chilled, the ground wet, her slippers soggy, mud caked. “I think so. Is he dead?” she asked and closed the blanket back around her neck.
“Oh, yeah, he’s dead awright, Mrs. Tate,” the sheriff assured her. “Business end of a .38 at that range does the trick every time. One round would have gotten the job done.”
“Mrs. Tate,” the detective asked, “you call anyone else after dialing 911?”
“My husband, Geoff. He was on his way back from a business trip in Europe. His jet should have landed by now.”
The detective nodded his tree stump of a head knowingly. “That’s what I would’ve guessed, Mrs. Tate,” he said. “That’s what most people would do in a situation like this, I suspect. Call a loved one, or spouse, if they’re married. That’s what I’d have done. Called Patsy. You get ahold of Mr. Tate?”
“No, he didn’t answer his phone.”
“Figures.”
“Why’s that?” she sniffled.
The burly detective swept his eyes over the manicured gardens, stone paths, statuary, tennis courts, koi ponds, and said, “Mr. Tate, he’s lying up there on your bedroom floor, two slugs through his breadbasket. You killed your husband, Mrs. Tate.”
She wailed and collapsed.
“Your bedside manner needs work, Dee-tec-tive ,” the female deputy spat angrily, struggling to support the slumping body as Mrs. Tate’s dog, a cockapoo with little red ribbons pinned to its ears, ran laps around her legs, yapping incessantly.
“Careful now, Deputy. You’re holding on to what just might be the world’s richest woman,” the detective said over the dog’s barking and tucked a pinch of Copenhagen tobacco in his lower lip. “And somebody better muzzle that goddamn mutt before I shoot it.”

Chapter 2
March 17
He hated crowds and preferred to work behind the scenes, undetected, but tonight was different. It was important he stood out, be seen. The Georgetown bar was packed and noisy with Saint Patrick’s Day revelers, and he had already bought the house one round of drinks to celebrate. Two drunk brunettes, in matching short green skirts and sequined tops, had him hemmed in as he stood facing the rowdy gathering, back to the bar, elbows propped up against the railing.
The heavier of the two flashed him a green thong she was wearing under her skirt. The other pulled him closer and whispered in his ear, “I don’t own green panties, so I’m not wearing anything at all.” She belched softly in his face and giggled. Her breath smelled like licorice.
He remained in the bar for another fifteen minutes, settled his tab, and ordered up an Uber, but not before buying a second round of drinks and engaging in some heavy petting with the two females, running a fleshy hand up the skirt of the pantyless one while the other massaged the inside of his thigh. He downed what was left of a mug of green beer, slipped the bartender a fifty-dollar tip, and escaped the claws of the two women.
The Uber driver was wearing a Washington Nationals baseball cap and kept up a running dialogue on the team’s chances to get back to the World Series as spring training approached. “I still can’t believe they got rid of Harper,” he said, referring to the perennial all-star and two-time MVP Bryce Harper. “Who would have thought.”
When he reac