Tag Archives: action adventure

Jack Murphy Guest Starring in New Mack Bolan Novel, “State of War”

Huge news! The latest Mack Bolan novel is out. It is called “State of War” and written by Chuck Rogers. For those who don’t know, Mack Bolan is only the baddest, and longest running, action hero going. This book is special because one character is a ex-Ranger, ex-Special Forces veteran named…JACK MURPHY! That’s right, I stand shoulder to shoulder with Mack Bolan in some crazy suicide mission to Guatemala! I flipped through it and I’m shamming on guard duty and pulling off Saving Private Ryan type shit. Of course Chuck had to change my last name a little so that he didn’t get sued…and to try to contain how AWESOME I am! Thanks Chuck for finally letting me live out my childhood dream of running ops with Mack Bolan!

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Buy it on Amazon today!

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Target Deck Excerpt: Police Station (pt. 2)

Deckard pulled Lopez out from behind the desk as a barrage of auto fire chopped through the thin Formica board. Tucking the stock of his Kalashnikov into his shoulder he punched the first cartel gunmen through the door with a double tap. The second shooter got off a burst with a MAC-10 submachine gun that exploded the television screen behind him before Deckard gunned him down.

“We need to extract!” he shouted into his radio as more sicarios pushed their way into the police station.

Samantha’s .357 nearly took the head clean off the shoulders of one of the shooters. The gunfire was deafening indoors.

Pat’s transmission came through garbled and unreadable.

Moving into rooms adjacent to the hallway, the gunmen took cover as the two police officers offered suppressive fire. One of the sicarios lobbed a fragmentation grenade down the hall, a gift from post-Cold War stockpiles left over from one of Central America’s dirty little guerrilla conflicts that had been delivered to the cartels.

Deckard didn’t hesitate. Reaching down, he palmed the grenade and overhanded it back down the hall before turning and driving both officers to the ground under his weight. Overpressure washed over them, filling the dark narrow confines of the police station with smoke.

Taking a knee, Deckard indexed one of the remaining shooters, his silhouette visible through the haze. Squeezing the trigger, the assassin spun around under the force of the 7.62 rounds that knocked him to the ground.

“Get the money,” Deckard said taking charge. With an unknown number of gunmen attempting to make entry, he knew they wouldn’t be able to sustain themselves in place for long.

Lopez was turning the key and opening the jail cell when more shooters exploded through the rear entrance, somehow getting passed Pat. Deckard didn’t know how and didn’t care to dwell on what that meant for his friend.

Throwing himself back down to the dirty linoleum floor, the AK-103 chattered off another burst, striking one of the black-clad gunmen in the chest and knocking him backwards into his companion behind him. Deckard noted the black combat fatigues and paramilitary gear. Only the best for Jimenez’s men.

His follow up shot drilled the remaining gunmen, sending him stumbling back out the rear door in a splash on crimson.

More gunfire raced up the hallway towards him, sending splinters flying in all directions. Deckard rolled to his side the enemy fire traced passed him and into the gunmen’s comrades at the other end of the hall who committed the fatal and costly mistake of attempting to catch him in an envelope.

Getting to his feet, he keyed up his radio once more, speaking a single phrase into the headset he wore.

Prairie fire!

Lopez looked up at him over the giant bale of cash on his hands.

“We’re trapped,” he said choking on his own words, sweat running down his face.

Pushing the police officer aside, Deckard snatched up one of the office chairs and flung it through a window. It smashed through the glass and landed outside in the alley.

“Go,” Deckard said, letting his rifle hang on its sling.

Samantha threw her bale of money through the broken window before grabbing Lopez’ bale and hurling it out after the first wad of cash.

Deckard reached for the pouches on his combat rig and grabbed two of his own grenades. Carefully pulling the pin out of each while keeping the spoons held in place was tricky. Outside the offices, he could hear the enemy regrouping, someone shouting orders.

As the two police officers cleared the broken window sill, Deckard leaned out of the doorway. Tossing the grenades to either side, he ignored the panicked screams of the cartel assassins as he double backed towards the window. Running, he hurtled up and out, brushing against the jagged glass that jutted out of the sides of the frame.

Coming down on the hard concrete, he almost stuck the landing before slipping on a piece of trash and landing on his backside. Inside the building, twin blasts shattered most of the remaining windows, the walls nearly buckling under the pressure of the explosives.

Mi Dios,” Lopez said helping him to his feet.

Flicking his wrists, Deckard shook the grenade pins from his fingers.

“Let’s get out of here before they figure out what happened.”

Letting the officers reclaim the bales of greenbacks, Deckard took the lead, stalking down the alley towards the back of the police headquarters.

“Prairie Fire, this is Sierra Six,” he said into his radio.

“Go ahead Six.”

“How far out are you?”

“Two minutes,” the Russian accented voice sounded above the static.

He knew they needed to keep moving.

The Quick Reaction Force was not going to make it in time.

The alleyway wound by a rusting car hulk that was propped up on cinder blocks before terminating back out on the street. Glancing around the corner, Deckard saw two blacked out SUV’s with all doors thrown open. Four cartel hit men were maintaining rear security with German made Heckler and Koch sub-machine guns pointed absently into the night sky.

Jose!” one yelled as a bloodied figure came stumbling out of the rear exit of the police station. Streams of blood flowed from punctured ear drums. Blinded by the blast, he tripped and fell in a heap in front of the parked trucks.

Deckard sighted in, lining the red dot of his rifle’s reflex sight on one of the cartel men as he bent over to pick up his comrade. Maybe sensing his impending doom, the gunmen looked up, spotting Deckard in the shadows just as he stroked the trigger. The Kalashnikov bucked into his shoulder, the Mexican assassin catching a face full of lead.

The three remaining members of the cartel hit squad spun towards him, weapons ready. Their firefight was interrupted, hi-beams flashing across the SUVs and temporarily whiting out their vision as their eyes struggled to readjust.

The black Mercedes slammed into the SUV that the gunmen had foolishly clustered themselves around. Weighing in at over two tons, the car broadsided the truck, crushing two gunmen as metal mixed with flesh. Both vehicles were nearly lifted off the ground by the force of the impact before gravity slapped them back down to the pavement.

The last gunmen had avoided the wreck by mere inches. Now he leveled his MP5 at the driver’s side window. Holding the trigger down, 9mm parabellum rounds spider webbed the multi-layer laminated glass. As per industry standards, the bullet proof window maintained its integrity until Deckard stepped from the alleyway and expended the rest of his magazine into their antagonist.

The driver’s side door on the Mercedes was flung open in a plume of smoke, Pat coughing as he emerged from the cloud.

“Nice shot,” he said through teary eyes.

“What the fuck was that Pat?”

“Improvising.”

“Now how the hell are we supposed to clear out of here?” Deckard asked, pointing with his muzzle toward the smoking wreck that up until a few moments ago had been their ride home.

“The suspension on it was fucked anyway,” Pat shrugged. “Ortega should have had it switched out months ago with an armor package on it that is this heavy. Inconsiderate bastard.”

Two more SUV’s were now racing towards them from down the street. Samantha and Lopez were caught in the open as they jogged over to Deckard and Pat, taking cover behind the car wreck. Deckard dropped his empty magazine, exchanging it for another full thirty rounds. The fumes of leaking gasoline were now overtaking the stench of garbage that permeated throughout much of the city.

Machine gun fire rattled out in several long bursts from behind them. Throwing himself to the ground, Deckard saw two Samruk assault trucks approaching from the opposite end of the street. Gunners went cyclic, cutting a stream of fire that crisscrossed over the enemy SUVs. The Quick Reaction Force had arrived on target and not a moment too soon.

With the windshield caved in by twin streams of 7.62 PKM rounds, one the SUVs swerved sideways, tires bursting as it skidded over the curb and slammed into an empty mechanics shop. Fixating on their second target, the machine gunners riding in the turret of each truck drilled the driver before walking their tracer fire down into the engine block.

The black SUV decelerated abruptly, slowing to just a few miles per hour. The windows were shattered, the bodies inside torn open when the truck played bumper cars with what was left of the Mercedes and finally came to a halt.

“Exfil. Now,” Deckard ordered.

Lopez rose on shaky feet, the veteran cop and de facto combat soldier of the streets of Mexico, was still in disbelief after their several near misses. Samantha spurned him on with a few curt words, dumping the money bales onto one of the assault trucks.

“Sorry about that, Deck,” Pat apologized. “It got to hot out here when the cartel showed up. I had to circle around the block and try again.”

“Everything turned out okay, so we’re both off the hook this time.”

Pat grunted as he climbed on the back of one of the Iveco assault trucks, his ribs still bruised from the beating he had taken several months ago, including a shot gun blast to the chest, barely stopped by the body armor he had been wearing.

Deckard still sported some bruising of his own where his nose had been broken during that engagement.

Compulsively checking to make sure a round was seated in the chamber of his Kalashnikov, he found himself a seat and the trucks peeled out, headed back for the dead drug lord’s compound. Scanning the streets as they flashed by, he knew the night wasn’t over yet.

This has been a preview of Target Deck, the upcoming sequel to Reflexive Fire!

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Reflexive Fire, FREE, today and tomorrow on Amazon!

Get it today for free!

An assassin who is in over his head.
A cabal that wants him to lead a secret army.
A conspiracy decades in the making.

“The hero is everything you could hope for in an action-adventure–intelligent, charismatic, honorable, a combat veteran from an elite unit, and just slopping over with badassity.” -Hank Brown, author of Hell and Gone.

As a freelance assassin, Deckard is no stranger to the shadow world of covert operations, but when he is summoned to Bohemian Grove and hired to train and lead a battalion of Kazakh mercenaries, he soon discovers his employer’s real agenda: a doomsday plot decades in the making.

“If you’re the kind of guy who loves action movies, but grimaces with every technical and tactical fail… you NEED to buy this book.” -a combat veteran from a NATO nation.

Now, free humanity’s only chance for survival rests with Deckard’s renegade Private Military Company. From Afghanistan, to Burma, and beyond, the clock is ticking down to global extinction.

“A military novel, written by a true expert on the subject, just takes the story to another, higher level, compared to books made up by ‘civilian’ authors with vivid imaginations.” -Frank Jones, 15-year military veteran and private security contractor.

“Fiction has a new star in the making. This awesome work of fiction (is it really..?) will rank right up there with ‘Dogs of War’ and ‘The Forever War’ in defining a new era in action/adventure novels or genre.” -JG Scott

“With Jack Murphy, you know he’s been there and done that, so you wonder where the line is between the made up stuff and where he’s drawing upon his real-life experiences.” -Dan Eldredge

I wrote this book for those of you who are ready for this genre to go to the next level, beyond superficial political messages and stereotypical terrorists wearing turbans on their heads, I hope this book connects with a different breed of reader and action-adventure fan. -Jack Murphy, author, Special Forces veteran.

 

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A special excerpt from the sequel to Reflexive Fire:

Deckard woke up underwater.

Bubbles escaped around his regulator as he checked the glowing hands on his wrist watch. Time sometimes seemed to stand still while submerged. Maintaining neutral buoyancy, he floated, his wet suit insulating him against the cold that threatened to creep in even while in warm waters.

Pulling the rubber sleeve of the wetsuit back over his watch, he breathed evenly, if a little to fast, recognizing the first signs of pre-combat jitters. He was burning through oxygen faster than normal.

In the darkness, the mercenary could feel, rather than see the presence of his team. They floating alongside him in silence, waiting.

 

 

* * *

Samantha Diaz struggled against the handcuffs, rubbing her wrists raw.

“How about we play a little game.”

Jose Ortega stood in front of her, his arms folded across his chest. The ratty black mustache on his upper lip wiggled as he suppressed a laugh.

“Yeah, let’s turn off the lights and play a game of whose in my mouth?”

Ortega’s crew broke out laughing, anticipation in their eyes. They lounged around the master bedroom, wearing flamboyantly bright t-shirts with different stenciled designs, all from designer labels. Their hair was all identically slicked back with the same product, jeans with the same prefabricated tears and wear marks that came pre-worn from the store.

“Try not to cry like a little bitch,” the cartel leader demanded. “We already suffered enough of that from your father.”

Samantha lunged, the handcuffs digging into her wrists once more.

Ortega bent down and grabbed her by the hair.

“You were stupid to come back,” he said with rotten breath. “Now you pay the price.”

Reaching into his pocket, he flicked open a switchblade. Running the blade under the inside of her shirt, he began slicing through the fabric to the cheers of his lieutenants.

“Everyone will know that the Diaz family produces nothing but whores.”

Several of Ortega’s men got to their feet, their hands moving towards pants zippers.

The explosion was deafening.

Two walls immediately collapsed followed by smoke and what sounded like thunder strikes that were sent skipping through the bedroom.

Gunfire erupted from the multiple breach points created through the cinder block walls, screams cut off by short controlled bursts of gunfire. New voices filled the room, speaking some strange language that Samantha was unfamiliar with.

When the smoke began to clear, she saw Ortega laying on his back with splotches of crimson staining his over priced shirt. Attempting to speak, a strained gurgling sound was the best the cartel don could manage.

The heel of a combat boot came down on his throat.

Grinding his boot into Ortega’s neck, a large black clad man snarled, his lips curled back, bearing teeth like fangs.

“Get security up,” the man ordered in English. “Nikita, get those bolt cutters over here.”

A brown skinned man with Asian eyes moved forward, slinging his rifle over one shoulder, gripping the cutters in his hands. As he maneuvered the chain links of her handcuffs between the shears, she noticed that he was wearing a wetsuit, dripping wet despite being no where near the ocean.

With the grunt, the commando severed the links with a loud snap, freeing her from the bed post she had been chained to.

Muffled shouts sounded from outside. One of the soldiers cracked open the bed room door, peering outside before pulling the pin from a fragmentation grenade. Rolling it outside, the grenade exploded, the voices suddenly going silent. Taking another glance outside, the grenadier turned to the large gringo with his foot still on Ortega’s throat and said something in what sounded like Russian.

Looking up from Ortega’s lifeless eyes, he replied similar rapid fire manner in the same language.

The man who had cut her free dropped the bolt cutters and took a knee next to one of the gaping holes created by the breaching charges, his rifle at the ready, waiting for targets to present themselves.

The gringo undid a waterproof bag that had been riding over his shoulder, producing a stack of papers before moving towards her.

“Ms. Diaz, I need you to-”

“Need me to what?” she asked pressing a .357 magnum into Deckard’s cheek.

“Uh,” the mercenary paused. “Where did you get that?”

“Ortega kept it in his waistband under his shirt.”

“I didn’t see you reaching for it.”

“You should be more careful or are you another dumb son of a punta?”

“Ma’am, I just need you to sign the-”

“Don’t tell me what to do jackass. I-”

Her words were interrupted by Nikita cutting loose with a staccato burst of gunfire, the wall he was taking cover behind chipping away under enemy return fire.

“I don’t think we have time for this.”

“Don’t have-”

The ground shook as an explosion rattled somewhere in the drug lord’s compound.

“What the hell was that?”

“My boys blowing the front gate,” Deckard informed her.

“Your boys?”

“You know, my outfit. Your father contracted us but with him being killed seventeen hours ago, I’m afraid we are now here illegally, which is why I need, I would like, for you to sign the-”

“Sign?”

“The contract, extending it’s duration until we can finish the job we were originally hired for.”

Nikita lobbed a grenade through the breach and resumed firing.

“What job?” she yelled over the noise.

“To take care of your drug cartel problem.”

Outside it sounded like the fourth of July back stateside where she had attended university.

“What the fuck is going on out there?”

“My platoons just drove their assault trucks into the compound. They are in the process mopping up the rest of Ortega’s men.”

“I can’t sign a contract with mercenaries, I’m a deputized police chief, not the provincial governor.”

“Actually, he was killed twelve hours ago.”

“The provincial judge?”

“He was with the governor,” Deckard said looking out of the corner of his eyes towards the door, with the massive revolver still stuck in his face. “The chief prosecutor too.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah, so if you could just sign here,” he said handing her a ball point pen.

“And you work for me?”

“That’s the idea.”

“And we clean these motherfuckers out?”

“Precisely what I had in mind.”

Samantha snatched the pen out of Deckard’s hand and signed on the dotted line.

“Initial there.”

Another explosion sounded.

“Okay,” Deckard said flipping through the stack of papers. “Initial here.”

Samantha grimaced, sketching her name all over the papers.

“Right, and one more time right here.”

“Anything else.”

“That should do it,” Deckard said sliding the papers back into his bag. “But do you mind getting the cannon out of my face?”

Samantha looked at him long and hard before lowering her newly acquired pistol.

The mercenary posted next to the door leaned out, sending a barrage of gunfire down the hall.

“Pleasure doing business with you,” Deckard said, taking her by the hand and helping her to her feet. “We’ve got work to do.”

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Reflexive Fire, the new military thriller, shipment arrives!

Yes, this is a show-off post.

Pretty much all of these books have been spoken for at this point.  If there is enough interest I may order another shipment if enough people ask me for autographed copies.  Otherwise, you can always order the paperback (or Kindle edition) on Amazon.  It’s been a wild ride and I’ve met lots of interesting people along the way.  In a few days I will be sending the book out to Canada, Spain, Switzerland, Singapore, all over the United States, and maybe I can drum up some interest from my buddies in South Africa as well.  Thanks for reading!

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