About
John
John Arthur Wooden received a
B.S. from Tennessee State University and Master’s from Webster
During his military career, John
traveled the world—from the nation’s capital to Moscow; from Guam to Sicily;
from Hawaii to the Philippines. As a young man, John wanted to see the world
and now considers the world his stage for many stories of suspense and mystery.
During his junior year in high
school, John was tasked to read and complete a book report on Richard Wright’s
Native Son. After reading this classic literary piece five times within one
month, his love and fascination with books began. Already a fan of comic books,
John would branch out and read whatever he could get his hands on. Words and
meanings, coupled with his active and creative imagination, forged a twenty-five
year burning sensation in his heart—a sensation that didn’t cease burning until
he wrote his first book, A Collection of Thoughts, in 2003. However, this was
only the beginning. An avid reader of mystery and suspense thrillers, John set
a goal to become one of the top mystery/suspense authors in the world.
In 2005, he released his second
book, A Moment of Justice, A Lifetime of Vengeance, a novel that introduced the
world to FBI Special Agent Kenny “KC” Carson and surprised many with his
storytelling abilities. An Eye for a Deadly Eye, released in 2008, is John’s
third novel and the second in the Kenny Carson series.
John is the proud father of two
children, a son currently serving in the United States Air Force and a daughter
who is currently studying at Georgia Southern University.
Contact John:
Website: http://www.jwooden.com
Twitter: https://twitter.com/jwooden61
About
the Book
Misery. That’s what
Sasha McCoy knew as a child. The streets were her first mother. Her birth
mother was a coked out junkie who had no ideal which john fathered her
daughter. Determined not to be like her mother, she got her hustle on while
bouncing from one foster home to the next. That is, until the Queen B named
Deana McWhorter rescued her from the streets and put her on a path of
salvation.
THE PRESENT
Betrayal. A mission
goes wrong. While assigned to take out three terrorists on the most wanted
list, other Company operatives are killed. Is Sasha McCoy to blame? Death by ambush. The woman who saved a young girl and
claimed her as a daughter is brutally killed in her home. Sadness. Someone must pay for the new misery in
Sasha McCoy’s life. Vengeance.Now an assassin for the CIA, Sasha McCoy has
a new task—clearing her name and seeking revenge for her mother. Was her last
mission sanctioned or unsanctioned? Did her handler at the CIA set her up as a
rogue agent? Was her uncle involved in her mother’s death? Are both cases
related?
THE WOMAN
Sasha McCoy, Freelancer, will take you on a wild ride inside the mind of a female
operative. Raised in a world of pimps, whores and players, she goes from orphan
to CIA assassin to a woman out for vengeance and redemption. Classified as a
rogue operative, she must now face her weaknesses and demons while
simultaneously clearing her name and delivering those who killed Deana
McWhorter to justice. The only justice she knows—death.
Purchase the Books:
Excerpt
A GOOD DAY FOR KILLING.
I was sure that’s what my horoscope
said that morning. If not, that was what it should have said. From my
viewpoint, it was a great day for killing, a better day for dying.
Partying late, waking up later.
Nice swims, day and night. Damn, I loved this island. Nothing quite like
Hawaii, except the beaches in Sicily, the Caribbean, Mexico and a host of other
places to which I had traveled.
I wasn’t being disrespectful to
Hawaii. I really did love the island. There was nothing like the morning,
waking to the rising sun or feeling the drizzle of falling raindrops during
monsoon season. Just before dawn on the main island of Oahu was heavenly, and
certainly worth living for.
I also loved Hawaii because it
seemed as if it was a million miles away from where I was born and raised—the
original city of sin, Las Vegas. Always copied, never duplicated.
I sat in my Orange Pineapple taxicab outside the Honolulu
airport in the pre-dawn light, waiting on my fare, Abdullah Azizi Mufar, son of
a Saudi Arabian oil baron. My employer had arranged with the Orange Pineapple
Cab Company that I would be the driver for our special guest. Mufar was an
enemy of the United States. He was behind many acts of terrorism throughout the
world. He had been connected to at least seven terrorist attacks within the
past two years. The last two involved the bombing of American embassies in Peru
and North Africa. He’d finally gotten what he wanted—enough national attention
to put him on the Top Five hit list. He’d gotten the attention of the U.S.
government and the attention of The Company—my employer.
I continued to chill in my borrowed
taxi, snacking on fresh pineapples from one of the plantations on the island.
As I waited, thoughts of my time on the island in the past and during this
visit drifted through my head.
Driving, touring and exploring the
island of Oahu brought me a certain peace, a serenity I never found in the
continental United States.
The first place I visited every
time I set foot on the island was the U.S.S. Arizona Memorial. A solemn site
for many, it gave me a sense of pride. I proudly served my country, and just
the thought of what those who had perished did to make it possible for me and
others to serve the country filled me with pride and gratitude.
Sometimes I wondered about the
eleven hundred plus sailors who’d lost their lives on that dreaded day in
December of 1941. I could feel their spirit and soul whenever I visited the
site. I thought about their families and hoped the wives and children they would
never see again or the grandchildren or great grandchildren they would never
meet visited the memorial every now and then to pay homage to the sailors’
sacrifices.
While here I also made my rounds to
the six military installations on Oahu. And if I was fortunate enough to be in
Hawaii on a Wednesday or Saturday, I always made it a point to visit the flea
market held in Aloha Stadium—the home of the NFL Pro Bowl.
As thoughts of the things I’d done here before floated
through my mind, I realized I wanted to spend some leisure time in Oahu after
this mission. It was a mindless thought on my part. Maybe it was just wishful
thinking. Even if I didn’t have another mission after this one, spending time
in the city after the mission was frowned upon at the CIA, especially if that
city was a small island called Paradise.
My phone rang, bringing me back to
reality. It was my handler.
Codename: Cobra Blue.
I’d never liked my middleman. He
was a parasite from the first day I met him. His beet red face gave him the
appearance of permanent sunburn, he was short and a hamburger away from being
pudgy. His hair was thinning up top, and his face always sported a five-day
growth of beard. If his purpose was to throw off the bad guys by looking like
something someone discarded, he was doing a great job of it.
Cobra Blue was calling from inside the Honolulu airport.
Every blue moon, he supervised a
mission in country. Meaning, he stepped away from his office in San Francisco
and stepped out where the rubber met the road.
This time the road was in Hawaii,
so he definitely wanted to be on the frontlines for this mission. The man was
responsible for at least three other field officers that I knew of and I
wondered if he was a pain in the ass to them as well.
He informed me the target was on
his way out.
Mufar had briefed his partners in
crime in Honolulu that he would be arriving in two days. We intercepted the
call and coerced his small contingent of bad players into dealing with us. Of
course, the coercion included killing three members of their group before the
other two would cooperate.
Sometimes, we must do what we must do. I laughed at my own silliness. Death wasn’t funny to me,
but destroying our nation’s enemies made me feel good inside.
I spotted the ambitious Abdullah
Azizi Mufar as he exited the terminal. I could see why he fit in well in
American culture. He was smooth shaven with a chestnut brown complexion, a
neatly trimmed thick, black mustache and a combination curly and nappy
mini-Afro. The only thing that distinguished him as a Middle Easterner was his
mustache, but a casual glance at his appearance made him look more like an
African-American man with a thick mustache.
I pulled up slowly by the curbside
and parked. The man recognized the cab and its number. He had also been given
my basic identity: Dodgers baseball cap, light brown complexion, short hair.
Nothing extravagant, just blending in with the other cabbies.
He immediately jumped in with only
a small carry-on bag in his possession. It was strange, but Azizi Mufar didn’t
believe in traveling with an entourage. He believed in blending in and what
better way to stay low key than flying on a commercial airliner by yourself.
He didn’t speak. I knew where I was
supposed to drop him off. That was if I was his real scheduled driver.
As soon as I turned onto the main
drag departing the airport I looked in my rearview mirror and saw my passenger
looking out the window. He started to yawn and I immediately surveyed my
surroundings for other vehicles and pedestrians, then lifted my SIG Sauer P6
from the side of my seat and surprised my passenger with a point-blank shot to
the head. The hollow point round exited his head and cracked the back
windshield.
I pulled off the main drag at the
next turn fifty feet away before anyone noticed the bullet hole or the brain
matter splattered over the back windshield. I parked the cab in a back alley
not far from the airport. I had been there before. Cobra Blue had already
arranged for someone to pick up the car, clean it up, wipe it down and return
it to the cab company. The bullet hole in the windshield could easily be
explained away by our clean-up guy. Besides blood and brains, the clean up
would be easy. I didn’t believe in leaving a mess. Because of the gloves I
wore, no fingerprints or hair follicles would be trace back to me. And our guys
were the best at cleaning up a mess, including ensuring no traces of Azizi
Mufar were in the cab.
Mufar had pressing business in
Honolulu. He had plans to meet with two other terrorist leaders—Jin Con Chen of
North Korea and retired Army Brigadier General MacLean Baxter, U.S. born, and
Army bred and raised.
My job was simple. Eliminate all
three before the planned meeting. One down, two to go. Number two would
certainly be easier.
Or so I thought.
The sunrise was so beautiful this
time of morning. Damn, I loved Hawaii.
