Simply Trigger

By Max Brinkman

Trigger is a natural-born killer, who slays quick, capable and clean. Combat honed him and disgust cloned him and now he lives to kill. The shadows supply him his targets. The Underworld equips him his gear. His instincts protect him from danger. His street-smarts bequeath him his edge.

In a world gone to garbage, join Trigger as he fights to clean up criminal scum.

Adult language. Sexual content.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Max Brinkman
• Release date: Nov 23, 2013
• ISBN: 9781310794926

Max Brinkman

I am a writer who strives to entertain -- and entertainment is the essence of Trigger's World.Accordingly, Trigger originated out of my frustration with reading too many novels with too many axes to grind.As a reader and a writer, I enjoy action and have little tolerance for anything that destroys movement.I often believe I should have been born during the heyday of pulp fiction, when writers were allowed to write fantastic stories without the need to change the world. Back then, writers spun tales brimming with adventure and readers ate them up like jelly beans. Nowadays, most agents and publishers search for heavy content over entertainment -- a poor choice given the decline in the number of people who read novels for enjoyment.Oh, I suppose much cannot be said about Trigger and his adventures. But what can be said is that he's one mean mother who puts up with no guff and shoots straight from the hip or shoulder, and always gets the job done on schedule and well under budget.Now, if you are a person with similar tastes in fiction, by all means join Trigger in his quest to rid the world of riff-raff. And one thing is for certain: If Trigger's world becomes bogged down with rhetoric, he's coming after me -- and as a hit man, his competence is more than legendary.In final analysis, Trigger's World aims for fast-paced fun.And what harm can there be in that?Sincerely,Max Brinkman

Book preview

Chapter 1

He doubted natural callings came around all that often. Maybe Thomas Alva Edison was destined to invent and John D. Rockefeller was destined to grow rich. But he didn’t think his need to kill came without nurturing. And deep in his heart, he hoped cold–blooded murder wasn’t really his way.

He killed for the first time in Afghanistan on an Army infantry patrol in the dead of night. The boy had jumped from behind a burned truck with an AK–47 shouldered and ready. Skill had favored him and he killed the boy first.

The sight of the small body in the soft moonlight with a dark pool near its smashed head should have sickened him. Instead, he shrugged and appealed to his squad leader: I had to.

Sergeant Sellers bobbed his head. "He had to, too. Nice trigger, Soldier."

It was a well–learned lesson that shaped a lifestyle and a career. Killing came in an instant with talent favoring him over another. Never would he flinch. Never would he ponder. React to survive and react again became his essence. That was the day his calling surfaced –– whether natural or by mere circumstance. That was the day he adopted the nickname Trigger. It stuck like detonator chord wound around honeycomb. It came without fanfare and it came with a price. The price paid well, but cost him more than he dared consider.

Now, one year after an honorable discharge, three stripes, an Army Commendation Medal, Silver Star and no Purple Hearts, he sat in a small dinghy off–shore in Lake Powell, Nevada, prepared to continue his killing as a civilian.

The call came in the early hours six days ago. It came through a secure line on an encrypted communicator he had paid plenty for. The purchase had come through the black market, the same as his fully–silenced .357 Magnum and his M–16 over and under –– both custom weapons crafted by Meirheim LTD out of Tel Aviv, Israel. Meirheim supplied many operatives on both ends of the spectrum, many of them hit men like himself, many of them terminating cutthroats who muddled with progress.

His communicator rang once as programmed. Snapping it up, he cleared his throat and spoke. Speak your business in one minute or less.

This message is for Trigger.

Listening.

"Mark of the Inland Sea, a 90–foot silver and black yacht, moored at Canopy’s Marina near Mexican Hat, Nevada. One week from today. Kill everybody on board and leave the yacht unharmed. Twenty thousand U.S. upfront. Thirty thousand the day after. Bonus for slick and clean. Acknowledge with account information."

Trigger looked at the countdown in his communicator’s window – 15 seconds remaining. Account info follows through encrypted channel 2350. Acknowledge?

Acknowledged.

And Trigger switched off his communicator.

He prepared like he would have in Afghanistan –– scout, think, listen, plan, no showboating, no emotion. A simple kill, well performed, well rewarded. Mix me another martini, two French picholine olives, of course –– thank you so much.

The yacht sat at anchor 100 yards starboard. Moonlight skimmed the still water like silver paint. The party sizzled. Trigger saw naked women, young and beautiful, free–spirited and stupid. He saw mafia types, no doubt usurpers of the interests who hired him. Some were young, with stiff cocks bouncing as they pranced, others gray or balding, with pricks like raisins and capacities expanded by power and privilege.

Security couldn’t have been more obvious. Strapped to big pistols, thick–muscled morons with the savvy of amateurs. Trigger guessed he had killed over 300 aggressors in two tours in Afghanistan. He always reacted with sanity, composure and finality. Tonight would be no different.

When the yacht party finally ended, he slipped into his scuba gear, slid overboard and swam smooth and silent.

At the stern, he pulled down his mask and bobbed to the surface. Stars stared down sharp and bright, with nothing appearing out of the ordinary. He slid out of his scuba gear, took up his Magnum, slipped over the side and dropped silently to the deck. He felt a passing wake. He waited until the yacht settled and he moved in a crouch.

The first security guard stood like a statue guarding a castle. I hate it when they make it so simple. And Trigger sliced the guard’s throat with his Fairbairn–Sykes fighting knife. The big man crumpled easy into Trigger’s arms. So many times Trigger thanked his genes for a large, strong and flexible body. Maybe he was a natural.

After easing the man into the water, he moved along portside where he came to a ladder. He paused and thought better of climbing it. Instinct is a friend if it’s heeded. Trigger had always listened. Instinct had always spoken.

At the bow, an older man had passed out. He stunk of rum and looked pathetic. Kill everybody aboard. Leave the yacht unharmed.

Trigger grabbed the old man’s fleshy mouth, disdaining his spittle, and plunged the F–S into his heart. The old man didn’t flinch. Efficiency brings rewards. A tidy bonus for slick and clean.

Two more guards conversed at the bow, one smoking and the other scratching at his crotch. Two at once presented a challenge, but certainly no problem for an expert.

One guard went down with a silenced Magnum round and when the other turned, Trigger slashed his throat. Clean meant proper disposal. Both bodies went to the bottom of Lake Powell to remain long after Trigger’s departure.

So it went through seven more killings –– all slashed, all in silence, all in cabins off the stateroom.

Trigger creeped to the captain’s hatch and listened. He heard talking, mixed laughter, drunken pleasure. He wanted to burst in and open fire. Bonuses are nice, so play by the rules. Discipline always earns high returns.

He knocked and moved to one side. The hatch opened, revealing a stunning brunette, huge naturals, pussy shaved and ready. Trigger stepped back and shot her in the face, jumped in and killed the fat guy with a fake rod strapped to his groin. How do the rich grow old with dignity? Trigger smirked and quickly reloaded.

At the ladder to the bridge, he hesitated. Silence still carried the night –– but Trigger sensed imminent danger. Reaching for a fire extinguisher, he snapped it loose, tossed it to the front of the yacht and made ready.

A burly thug jumped forward and fired at the noise. Trigger shot him in the temple, leaned sideways, avoiding his topple. Another thug followed, killed through the heart pointblank.

Trigger jumped into the water and swam for the stern. When the bilge pumps whined and the engine compartment evacuated, the big diesel throttled alive and the yacht moved quickly forward.

Damnit, there goes my bonus.

Trigger grabbed the deck railing and pulled himself through the water to the middle of the yacht, snapped on his flashlight and fired a round into the bridge right through the skipper’s throat.

When Trigger came out of the water and climbed to the bridge, he killed the engine and the skipper went overboard, along with his silly Mickey Mouse sailor’s hat.

Fifteen minutes later, after a quick search of the cabins, heads and compartments, Trigger went to the bar and mixed a martini. The Manzanilla olives were large and tasty, and he enjoyed his sips from a fisherman’s chair at the stern off starboard.

An hour later he started the engine in his old Range Rover and headed back to his motel.

Two days later, $50,000 richer, with guarantees of more work, he arrived home at his double–wide trailer in Sandusky, Texas. His neighbor, Frank Nelson, greeted him with a cold Pabst Blue Ribbon Beer, a grilled bratwurst and a bowl full of homemade baked beans.

How was the fishing on Lake Texoma?

Trigger popped another Pabst and shook his head. Water was too calm to stir up anything big. Had to throw them all back.

Too bad. Good to see you. Got any stories worth a crap?

Just something I observed from the small boat I rented.

What’s that?

Rich folks are fat and don’t age worth a damn.

Frank laughed. Just noticing that, neighbor? And they don’t tip worth a damn either.

Trigger tilted his head. Sometimes they do, if the job’s done clean and slick.

Frank shrugged. Come on, let’s go watch some baseball.

How ‘bout them Rangers?

They went inside, switched on the A/C wall unit, iced down some more PBRs and watched America’s favorite pastime.

The next day, Trigger received a second call over his communicator.

Slick and clean earns a bonus. Good work. What do you fancy, Trigger?

Trigger sat back in the leather recliner his dad’s estate had provided. Another job’s good enough.

Not good enough for us. Where would you prefer to go? We likely can provide you work once you’re there.

I’ll send you my choice in 12 seconds, and Trigger hung up.

Not bad, he thought after he finished his beer. I’m off to Denver to see the Colorado Rockies baseball club –– set up on a tidy expense account at the Brown Palace Hotel. Got a week to kill before more work is scheduled. Life after the U.S. Army is anything but bad.

Trigger slept well that night and left the next morning for Dallas/Fort Worth Airport, for a luxury visit to the Front Range along the great Rocky Mountains.

Just doing what comes natural.

But he liked to think he was not.

* * * * *

Chapter 2

Trigger peered out the starboard window of the Boeing 737 as it entered final approach at Denver International Airport. The flight path was north by northwest affording a fine view of the Rocky Mountains.

The massive peaks reminded Trigger of a mountainous operation years earlier in Afghanistan. The operation went particularly bad, resulting in Trigger losing his closest buddy. A roadside bomb took out the middle of the military convoy as it climbed toward a terrorist base camp in the mountains north of Kabul. Trigger’s Hummer had sneaked through, but five seconds later his buddy and seven other fine soldiers were blown apart.

Filthy Taliban bastards.

Trigger shook off the memory and reached down and took up his backpack. Quickly, he double–checked a zippered compartment for the address of the mini–storage where he had shipped his gear.

Base of operations in east Denver. Make this fast and nasty. Got to send a message.

As he watched the white, spiky tops of the Denver airport roof grow larger, he recalled his handler’s phone call.

Target is hard … in a bunker near Glenwood Springs. Show your mettle and you’re a permanent fixture. Beware of booby traps. American M–14 anti–personnel mines everywhere. Target is Miguel Rodriguez –– a chief distributor. Controls over 300 pushers. He’s gone rogue. Make a mess and leave it nasty. Need to send a message. Collateral damage acceptable.

Trigger looked around, then slid a folder out of the front pocket of his backpack and mulled over the details of his hit. He had five days to enjoy Denver, take in the Colorado Rockies out at Coors Field before exterminating the traitor. Turncoat bastard. I hate selfish opportunists.

The photograph of Rodriguez was good enough. He appeared around 40, was well groomed and liked to hang lots of gold. Trigger frowned and shook his head. Gold teeth really disgust me.

The 737 bounced onto the runway as Trigger put away the folder. Got to send a message. Got to make it impressive.

The Brown Palace proved too plush for Trigger’s blood. He took one look at the primped–up doorman and drove his rented Dodge Durango away for less opulent digs. The Sleepytime Inn on West Alameda Avenue proved perfect.

The weeklong vacation passed in a whirl of activity and final planning. The Colorado Rockies performed better than Trigger had hoped. Over the last several weeks, their bullpen had sucked and their power lineup had twiddled its collective thumbs. They took two of three from the BoSox. Both by at least four runs. Their sudden resurgence pleased him.

In the Dodge Durango, Trigger left Denver and headed west on Interstate 70. Glenwood Springs proved a touristy stop along the thoroughfare. The sulphur springs smelled inviting –– nice, maybe next time.

At the motel, a cozy little oldie named The Stowaway, Trigger took a double room and prepared. When he headed for a late breakfast in the adjacent cafe, he noticed a black Escalade in the parking lot. Hmm, a 50 dollar room attracts a 75,000 dollar SUV. Now that’s some serious food for thought.

The waitress at the counter was young, perky, full of high country spirit and stacked like the four–hotcake special.

Want more syrup?

More coffee, if you don’t mind. Those real?

She took the question in stride. You bet and they love attention.

Trigger grinned. Lots to attend to.

She grinned back, grabbed her five–dollar tip and took off.

Trigger returned to his room and pored over details –– how he planned on entering the bunker through the ventilation shaft, the location of the master bedroom and where he might expect interference.

At half past midnight, he left his room, noticing the Escalade had moved. Taking out a small pressurized can, he casually walked by and sprayed a transparent line down the Escalade’s passenger side. Inside the Dodge Durango, he switched on his communicator to see if he could pick up the signal from the high–tech nano–transmitters he shot onto the side of the SUV. The signal came through beasty and brought a smile. Expect to see you again, and you’d better be prepared when I do.

The drive out of town went as expected. The trek to the bunker proved less strenuous than he anticipated. Every ounce of strength counted.

Near three in the morning, when a thick, gray cloud shutdown the moon, Trigger made his move.

Five minutes to locate landmines, eight to loosen the ventilator lid, 10 to scuttle down 40 feet and he was inside.

After a quick scan located a crisscross of four laser beams, Trigger carefully avoided them and moved through the large recreation room and into the hallway leading to the master bedroom. At every door along the way, he planted a tidy explosive device, powerful enough to blow the door and anything behind it. When he came to the master bedroom, he frowned. Hell, the door’s heavy–duty steel. Hope there’s a dumbwaiter.

Trigger returned to the recreation room and eased up the staircase. Sure enough, the kitchen was situated above the master bedroom and had a neat little dumbwaiter in the nearest corner. Umm, convenient, but, oh so stupid.

Trigger slid into his gas mask, placed a canister of sarin nerve gas and a video camera into the dumbwaiter and lowered it. As it dropped, he switched on his communicator and watched. When the dumbwaiter stopped, the bedroom came into full view. A huge HD TV hung off the opposite wall from the round bed. The flickering screen gave off enough light to see two bodies fast asleep. Got to be sure.

Trigger’s gloved hand went to the dumbwaiter button. Toggling it, the dumbwaiter bounced up and down, making a slight rattle. A man came out of bed to investigate and Trigger snapped a picture. The instant he