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RAG DOLL

rag doll

International villain Joseph Bohacik’s efforts to imprison the beautiful Nakita Cervenka were thwarted when he was captured and imprisoned. His deadly accomplice, Varvara had been shot and presumed dead. 

So ended the story in Daniel McKinnon’s “Czech Point” ...

With Bohacik securely in jail, the reluctant hero, James Bergan settled into a harmonious, bucolic existence in a country cottage in Europe with the love of his life, Nakita.  Freedom, peace and happiness were all theirs—or so it seemed.  The couple were blissfully unaware of evil and deadly forces that were building elsewhere on the planet—this was a movement with insidious powers travelling on a collision course with James’ and Nakita’s own paradise ...

The time was approaching when the inexplicable mysteries of the spirit world and earthly criminal subterfuge were on a disastrous trajectory. Beautiful things were about to turn ugly and ugly situations were about to find beauty.

On a cold and frosty night in London, all hell was about to be let loose….. 

In Store Price: $32.00 
Online Price:   $31.00

AMAZON

ISBN: 978-1-922229-17-5  
Format: Paperback
Number of pages: 367
Genre: Fiction

 


Author: Daniel McKinnon
Imprint: Poseidon
Publisher: Poseidon Books
Date Published:  2013
Language: English


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This book is dedicated to all of my wonderful and supportive friends and to anyone and everyone who has a dream to chase. Be it small or be it immense; chasing the exciting, the different and the ‘change’ of daily pace makes it a journey of wonderment instead of an accepted internment. Embrace the mysteries of this life with an open mind; understand with your heart not just your brain; see with your mind and not just your eyes. Most of all, struggle as hard as you must not to be cloned by ‘the system’ and those who would manipulate you. Always be you, unique, wonderful and different.

 

By the same author 

 

Butterfly Kisses (Poseidon, 2006)

Curse of the Wings (Poseidon, 2007)

Czech Point (Poseidon, 2011)

 

The author

The author makes the point that this is a work of fiction. Connections to the props of the story such as characters, names, places and events are to be considered as coincidental. The flavour and traits of people, places and events encountered in daily life enhance the essence of the story’s tale but in no way represent any direct relationships. Religious and political undertones of the story, once more, are a soup of many collected viewpoints underpinning a fictitious story.

The writer had been a successful businessman and self-made millionaire in his earlier days. He had worked with his hands performing menial tasks and had also sat in tailored suits in corporate boardrooms. Having experienced great changes in his personal life, circumstance had taken much of what he had slaved for away from him. In some ways he found himself back at the starting gates. Following a corporate career path took him to live the inner-city life in more than one Australian capital city but he found it all left him feeling empty.

His home was always the tourist strip of the Sunshine Coast in Queensland. Home had been an umbilical cord he found difficult to sever. He made his continuous trips back to touch base with home whenever he was living away. Finally, feeling dissatisfied with the hurried life within the streets of Sydney he made a hard decision to quit a lucrative corporate appointment and return to the Sunshine Coast and set up his life again in more familiar surroundings.

What he found was that during the years that he was living an alienated life in the big city; his laid-back coastal retreat had also changed. The pace had quickened, the original unique flavour of the place had altered somewhat and the seeds of yet another clichéd city on the beach were already growing. The ambience was not as he had remembered it and the magical reunion with the past he’d expected didn’t happen that way.

Various managerial roles, taken to pay the bills, brought the same meaningless and unappreciated results of the daily grind. With nothing bringing any winds of favourable change to his life, a seed of need to cut that umbilical cord began to grow. He decided, out of the blue, to take a trip to Tasmania to refresh himself. He booked an air ticket and a hire car. He had no set destination in mind. He picked up the hire care and just drove. What he found during those weeks circumnavigating the little natural paradise was a wonderful sense of peace.

He had always lived a life of structure and sensibility. He did a really strange thing considering his well-thought-out life to date. About four days before the due date to return from his holiday, he found himself standing at an auction sale for a rundown cottage in a tiny village. His head was spinning when the auctioneer pointed to him and said, “Sold! To that man over there.”

Without paid work to go to and without knowing a soul in that village, he went back, sold his home and shifted everything he had to a place he knew nothing about. With some money left from the difference in the house prices he employed himself to renovate the cottage to an acceptable level over the following six months. Still with no paid work to go to, he took one more chance to write his fourth novel.

During the many confusing years after the big changes in his personal life, the writer met many wonderful people. The people he met had also been instrumental in adding the flavour and spice to an otherwise mundane existence. Connections to new friends brought trips to places he had never been before. The trips bore new and adventurous happenings. Some of the people he met brought the romantic mysteries used as base material for this story.

The writer was born into a religious family and spent much of his life in biblical studies. The research however had always been confined by sectarian bigotry. This always sat as a festering thorn in his skin. After renouncing his affiliation to one set point of view, he opened his mind up to many writings with many opposing observations. One of those points of view he read was in a book entitled, Jesus Lived in India written by Holger Kersten. Holger Kersten’s findings and reasoning provided him a prop for the romantic thriller in his brain but the details in this story surrounding that prop are fictitious.

His own dissatisfaction with the ‘system’ he often noted, mirrored that of the people he met, so he also researched many of the various conspiracy theories freely available. From these he drew more fabricated material to pad out the framework of Rag Doll. What saddened him was there were many people, in actuality, who had no dreams, little imagination and just accepted the burdens the puppet masters kept heaping upon the backs of the brick makers. He came to see while this story is fictitious there did also seem to be a purposeful and designed subjugation that, in reality, wore away at the souls of many.

After many years of alienation from his only sibling, the writer’s break from confined thinking brought his sister back into his life. Her views on life were underpinned by the more mystical and inexplicable connections that often happen every day unnoticed by many. The writer also had many of the same connections and this common ground fostered many fertile conversations and material that once again formed background for the story.

The writer received construction awards for homes he had worked on in years past. In his present state he had gone from waterfront mansions to a cottage near a hundred years old. He went from his own beach and jetty to a hothouse vegetable garden and a pumpkin patch. And so it was, in these very different surroundings compared to his more opulent previous life, Daniel McKinnon sat in the first small room he painted in the old cottage to write this adventure.

One of the most valuable things in this life, he believes, is art of any kind. Paintings, movies, plays, poetry, books and mystical stories take us away from the mundane treadmill and transfer us into another dimension. They give our spiritual being refreshment. Life is just a thought, our minds a playground for whatever adventure we want to take.

Take a short journey into Rag Doll.

Preface

 

At the conclusion of Czech Point (Poseidon, 2011) Joseph Bohacik’s efforts to imprison the life of Nakita Cervenka were thwarted by his capture and imprisonment. His beautiful and deadly accomplice, Varvara had been shot, assumed dead. James Bergen and the attractive Nakita Cervenka found a new beginning for their lives within the freedom that allowed.

Oblivious to what was about to happen, James and Nakita shared a life of love and good things in a country cottage just outside of Prague in the Czech Republic. Unbeknown to them, Varvara’s wounding, at the hands of a British Intelligence agent, was not fatal. While Joseph served the beginning of a long term of incarceration, Varvara took charge of the illegal and malevolent business empire she had assisted him to build. Varvara was going to make sure Joseph was not going to stay in his prison cell. Everything was about to change in a whirlwind of chaos for James and Nakita.

As James enjoyed special moments in an oasis of peaceful things with Nakita, he was unaware of the changes that were about to come to the personal world around him. Even during this time of peace however, he never took for granted those who sewed the fabric of the political and religious global web, a web many people were caught in. They were insidious spiders that sucked away the life of many to benefit the few. He could see the world on a countdown to a clash with destiny.

While the conspirators conspired and the evil grew fat on the carcasses of the unsuspecting, this was not unnoticed by the virtuous energies of the planet. The time approached where the inexplicable mysteries of a spiritual world outside the walls of an organised and fabricated global subterfuge were building in defiance to it.

  Beginnings lead to endings and endings lead to beginnings and the circles within circles continued to spin. James and Nakita’s serenity was about to end. There was yet another act to the performance that was their lives and there was yet another act being set up in the global play at the same time. Beautiful things were about to turn ugly and ugly situations were about to find beauty.

On a cold and frosty night in London, all hell was about to be let loose ...

 

Chapter One - PART SAMPLE

Escape Without a Key

 

The intermittent illumination of the pale, blue light cast shadows around the small and somewhat musty, dark hotel suite in Southend. The whirring of the device’s vibrations woke the ageing senior detective. William Bowden was a year off retiring for good from the force, but had taken his first few days leave in as long as he could remember. In his younger years he had enjoyed his role in preserving justice but the ever-changing, and as he saw it, compromising of the same, had made it an irritating internment in bureaucratic stupidity. The younger boys coming through the ranks lacked the balls to get the job done, in his eyes, and the system just made it worse.

A faded flower-decal decorated pillow plopped to the floor as Edith, his wife of some thirty-five years, stirred and then rolled over in the single bed on the other side of the worn lamp table that separated them. It had been years since they had slept in the same room, let alone engage in any other nocturnal activities associated with sharing a bed. With eyelids barely able to support themselves and the stale aroma of a goodly swallow of his favourite whiskey nightcap still on his breath, Bill Bowden fumbled with the tiny keys of the small Asian-built phone. He was too intolerant these days to be bothered to lower his voice out of courtesy for the sake of his good lady wife. After listening to the animated gibberish delivered by the much younger man recently appointed to team up with him, Bill gave an expected reply.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, lad. Can’t a man have one moment of bloody peace in this godforsaken life? Can’t you handle it yourself, you incompetent little twerp?”

Alex White had dreaded making the call as testified to by his sweaty hands that were almost losing grip of the phone on the other end. Truth was, he was doing his best but had been instructed to call in his senior partner. The tall, thin and always crisply-groomed young man enunciated the details of the problem as concisely as he could.

“Jesus bloody Christ, Alex. Belmarsh is a high security prison. What? Did the bastard have his own key? Get yourself onto to finding him. That’s the main priority. He can’t be too far away, as yet. How long ago did this all happen? You’re not sure? Not sure? Exactly, you never are. I think I’ll rename you Detective Alex Notsure. What a waste of taxpayers’ money putting you little pricks through all that useless training. Arrh! Go and make yourself a cup of bloody tea then. I suppose I’ll have to stop making love to me wife and come to hold your hand.”

Alex well knew that half of that last comment wasn’t true, but he also knew that Bill Bowden would be on his way. He started things in motion to get a search underway for the escapee before Bill got there.

In the Southend hotel room, a rather overweight Bill Bowden grunted and puffed as he pulled his neatly-creased trousers up around his sagging girth. “Pack of blithering fucking pillow biters,” Bill mumbled to himself as he laced up the second of his highly polished leather shoes.

“Language, Bill! And stop spreading our personal life all around your office! Why don’t you just tell them that you’re on a break and that you’re not coming in?”

“Personal life! What would you know about a personal life? I have a job to do, so you can shut the fuck up too, ya moody ol’ cow! On second thoughts, it’ll probably be better than sitting here listening to you drone on.”

“So you’re leaving me here on my own, yet again? When do you think you’ll be back?”

“Think? Think?  If I was a thinking man, I wouldn’t be.”

Bill might have nodded into sleep that night dreaming of a small sailing boat and a cottage near the sea, but the realities of his day-to-day life had him now heading to his car on yet another cold and frosty English evening.

Alex White had just issued a full alert to the uniformed boys to look out for a small brown laundry service van that had been pursued speeding in the streets near the prison area earlier that morning and was last seen heading in a southerly direction. The patrol car had failed to catch, let alone stop, the vehicle. It might not have been related to the prison escape but it was within the suspected time frames and Alex had to be seen to be on the ball. He had gathered together most of what he could in the way of relevant details surrounding the events, ready for the ensuing grilling and barrage of derogatory comments coming his way once the boss arrived.

What he had to date was; three prison guards were dead and at least two had been interfered with or at least mutilated. Two had been shot, by what was believed to be a handgun of some description and one had his throat cut by someone who knew what they were doing. The examiner put the timing of the events at the early hours of the morning. The men had been shot at close range. The bullets used were not common and it appeared they may have been handmade rounds. A shell had been found and was being examined.

The upshot was that it had to have happened quickly and professionally and Joseph Bohacik was now free. Bohacik had served only two years of a long sentence for international arms dealing, fraud, murder, attempted murder and other related crimes in Europe. He was also linked to similar activities in other parts of the world. He was being held at Belmarsh awaiting extradition to a similar incarceration facility on the continent. He was a big fish in a big pond. Alex didn’t really have the experience for this size case, but he had been landed with it by default as he was the first one available at the time. He certainly wouldn’t have chosen it if it had been a matter of choice, and he felt like a very small fish in that big pond at this moment.

 

Several hours later, Alex checked his wristwatch, the one his mother had given him at the time of his graduation. He was keen to brief Bill when he arrived. However ‘Mumbling Bill’ as he was called behind his back, had already been there for some time. Bill Bowden liked to get the facts upfront for himself. Alex didn’t hear the door open to the starkly appointed prison office before Bill Bowden slopped a cup of sweet white tea over his spread of paperwork.

“Is there any bloody cake or biscuits around this asylum? What a fucking joke. High security prisons, my arse.”

“Bill! I didn’t know you were here. Look, I’ve gathered most of what I could to go through it with you. It seems that two of the guards were ...”

“Shot with a small calibre pistol, a specialty piece. They have teeth marks around their penises, or should I say where their penises used to be. Signature kills, by the looks. The brown van. What’s the status with that, me boy?”

Alex was glad that Bill had asked that question because that was the one area that was looking hopeful. His organised patrol sweeps had located a vehicle similar to the description and prison-issue clothing was found in the back of the van. For once he had pursued the correct option. He let his enthusiasm spill out into an excited reply.

“I’m all over it, Bill. We found it at Otford a few hours ago, parked beside the old stone bridge at the end of the main street. They’ll be headed for Dover I’d say. Probably had a car waiting and will be headed for the tunnel. I’ve put every available man on it. They won’t make it to France. I’ve alerted the Froggies to be ready at the other end just in case, by some slim chance, they get past us. I’ve got men checking the ferries at the same time. ”

“Yep, you’re quite right, my boy. They won’t make it to France through the tunnel or on a ferry.”

Alex’s chest swelled a little with the small bit of recognition. It had been a long time since his senior had said anything positive to him, let alone agree with his actions.

“They won’t because they ain’t headed in that direction, you daft baboon!”


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