With my the second book of my Agent O’Neal Saga going live, here is a post dedicated to that. I have the link below, as well as a the first chapter for you reading pleasure.
I hope you enjoy.
Not everything is as it seems – especially when it comes to Des.
Des O’Neal struggles to do what is right in defending the orbital colony station, Jov 1-H. Then the walls close in around him as his brother is kidnapped, Susan is captured, his safehouse is destroyed and no one can be trusted.
Des and Elsie must find a way to save his friends, family, and the station. Except he has no back up, no plan, and there is no one else to do what must be done. Failure is not an option.
Can Des rise to the challenge and save his brother and station? If you like Space Opera and Spy Thrillers, then you will love this action-packed adventure.
Sample Chapter One.
Sixteen-year-old Des O’Neal stood on a skinny ledge three stories off the ground. He contemplated the events which got him to this unpredictable point in his life. Dressed in black, he was tall and scrawny for his age, making it easy for him to stand on the eight-inch ledge. His fingers grasped at the red bricks to keep from splattering on the ground underneath.
This is a foolish idea, Des thought.
He considered himself lucky it was nighttime, and no one would see him prowling around. With his luck, he would be spotted by a station guard and arrested like a common thief.
Des snorted derisively. Working for a tyrannical taskmaster, Captain Kusheeno with station security, Des was forcefully recruited into being a spy. He screwed up and got caught exploring through the station’s undercroft. A short bit of blackmail later and he now worked for the Captain.
Being employed by the asshat, had gotten him beaten up, almost thrown out into space, and chased across the station multiple times before the year was out. He had nearly died a couple of times. Des had tried to get out. Except, he was informed he was involved deeper than he fully understood. He had to see it through to the logical conclusion, or no one else would.
Des shimmied along the ledge. His plan was to shimmy along the wall to a ninety-degree corner. If he could get past without falling to his death, he could get to the unlocked balcony door of the target apartment.
This is very stupid, Des thought.
His feet edged his way along the ledge. Each time Des moved he gripped the cracks in the bricks for dear life. The task felt like forever as his soft-soled shoes scrapped along the ledge. He shimmied six meters to the corner. He grasped onto the corner and pulled himself over to the other side.
Des looked back at the building where he had come up. A large oak tree grew from the park beside the apartment building. Its large, thick branches were a route to the third story of the building.
Climbing up the balcony railings would have saved me thirty minutes of tree-climbing followed by scrapping along the narrow ledge. But no, there is none, Des thought.
He continued to shimmy along the ledge, reaching the edge of the balcony. The rain in the sealed colony station was not enough to cause more than fart of wind. If there was wind, it would have blown him from the ledge.
The easy way over was partially blocked by a large potted plant, hanging from a hook on the side of the building. Des hopped over the railing, twisting himself around the potted plant. With both feet firmly on solid ground, he let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He cared his feet were on something substantial, and he took a moment to enjoy the feeling.
He knelt onto the balcony and listened. Des hunted for any sign he was caught where he wasn’t supposed to be. After waiting a minute, no alarm had rung, and no heavy-handed station guards were going to beat him to a pulp.
Des walked up to the balcony door, checking to see if it was locked. Being on the third floor, it slid open with the lock disabled. Des had it from a good source the owner felt no one would be stupid to climb to the third floor.
He slipped into the apartment, sliding the door closed behind him. The apartment was a three-bedroom flat, decorated with fancy pictures and paintings on canvases bought before the war when those goods were easy to find. After five years of conflict, they would only be on a second-hand market to discover anything as nice.
Des walked through the apartment’s great room toward the front door. The target he hunted for was a key card, something the owner would shed when he got home. He would’ve left the card at the front door, in the kitchen, his office, or bedside table. Des hoped that it would be the first one and not any of the later ones. The owners were currently at home and asleep.
A few weeks ago, his espionage professor, Mr. Smith, gave Des a disk to insert into the computer of a teacher at the school. It would alter his grades and raise them. He hoped it would lessen suspicion from his peers and teachers. If he didn’t do something, he would get in trouble.
At the start of the school year, he was at the top of his class. The school and his family considered him a genius and allowed him to be pushed ahead a year. Once being wrangled into being a spy with its long hours, his grades suffered, putting him mid-level, causing a plethora of suspicion.
Some teachers made accusations he was getting in with the wrong sort of people. It wasn’t all his fault, not entirely at least. The stress of living a secret life caused him to lose focus, and his grades had suffered as a result.
The apartment belonged to Des’s history teacher, Mr. Mixon. A dull man with a nasally monotonous voice. He felt terrible to steal from the man. However, if everything worked out, he would get the key card back when he got to school.
Des reached the front door, and the metal entry table. On top was a pile of keys, small denomination credit chips, a wallet, but no key card. Des searched it to see if it was in it, but it was not there. Only his Station Identification Card, a bank card, an old photo, and another credit chip. He put the wallet back on the table and walked away.
His next place would be the kitchen countertop. Judging from the man’s need for coffee, it may be beside the coffee maker. He walked through the apartment, being careful not to make any noise. The last thing he wanted was to be caught by his teacher. Breaking and entering would be the least of his problems.
Des checked the kitchen, and it was spotless. No specks of dust or food debris were seen. The key card was not in the kitchen. The last place to check was the office or the bedroom. Being closer to where the teacher was sleeping. Down the hallway toward the bedrooms, a single light clicked on from a bedroom.
He’s up to use the bathroom.
Des crab-walked his way back toward the glass door. Sliding the door open, he exited the apartment and closed the door shut behind him.
In the apartment, the flabby figure of Mr. Mixon, wearing nothing but his boxers, appeared from the hallway. He looked tired and rubbed at his face.
Des twisted himself over the railing and onto the ledge. The soft soles of his shoes slipped, his left foot flying away from the wall. He grabbed hold of a brick. He held on with his fingertips and his right foot.
The noise of the sliding glass door opening rang in the quiet of the night. The slap of bare feet on plastic decking vibrated out in the darkness. Des looked back at the patio. Mr. Mixon left his apartment and leaned against the railing. He stared out away from Des at the station in the distance.
Jov 1-H Colony Station was seventy-five kilometers in diameter built like a large pop can with all the people living on the inside surface of the can. Most of the twelve different sectors had the glowing light of buildings, while only four of them were darkened as they were for farming.
The interior was made out to be Earth-like. It had plants and trees, wild animals roamed the parks, and birds sang when the daylight was turned on. It was different, but the only difference Des knew was a cramped colony built on the terraformed moon of Europa. Where he and his older brother grew up until their mother disappeared, and father died.
A woman walked out of the apartment, dressed in a tank top and panties, except Des didn’t recognize her from anywhere but pictures. It was his wife, Reanna.
“Can’t sleep?” Reanna asked.
“Just stress,” Mr. Mixon replied.
“School?”
“That and other stuff,” Mr. Mixon said.
“Well, come to bed,” Reanna said.
The two of them padded back into the apartment, the sliding glass door locking behind them with an audible click.
Atomic Slingshot Press 