No End of Bad

A DC conspiracy novel of grand proportions …

Washington, DC, housewife Margaret Turnbull’s life literally blows up after her husband, FBI agent, Clayton Turnbull, is falsely arrested and killed by agents working for an international drug cartel.

Unbeknownst to Margaret, her enemies’ tentacles reach all the way to the White House and control senior personnel. Their powerful enterprise in jeopardy, the assassins will stop at nothing to cover their tracks. With cutting edge surveillance—CIA, FBI, NSA—there’s nowhere to hide, no one to trust. No one is safe—anywhere.

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Her husband was dead, and now she and her daughter were in danger. Who could she trust?

A light flickered in the distance. She watched it. It came closer, two lights now. The headlights of a car moving toward this house. Her breath came faster. Margaret felt her brain shift into a gear she didn’t know she had, some kind of primal instinctive place where the word “go” inspired instant movement.

“Melissa,” she said, standing rooted to the spot. “Melissa, wake up. Get your shoes on. Your jacket. Melissa,” she was almost shouting now, if you could shout when all you could do was barely whisper.

The car pulled up to the house, practically under the window where she was standing. Two men got out. They were carrying guns. Big guns. Margaret whirled around, took three long strides to her child in bed, and shook her.

“Melissa, get up now.”

Melissa opened her green eyes and looked at her mother. She was instantly awake.

“Shoes,” Margaret said as she heard the first shot. “Jacket,” she said as she heard the solid front door of the house slam back against the wall downstairs. She heard running and another shot. She went back to the window and cranked open both sides of the casement. This bedroom was on the second floor. Her fear of heights hit her hard. Just thinking of what she was going to do, she could hardly breathe.

“Go out the window,” Margaret ordered Melissa. “Climb up onto the hip of the roof and then up to the top. Lie flat. Wait for me there.”

Melissa had slipped on her backpack. Whatever was in there, the kid thought it was worth her life. For a second, Margaret thought she should do the same, gather those precious documents together and keep them with her. But there wasn’t time. Clay’s letter was in her hand. She stuffed it into her pants pocket. Shots downstairs reverberated in her ears. She locked the bedroom door, pulled the sheet off the bed Melissa had been sleeping in, tied it to the foot of the bed, dragged the bed toward the window, and threw the sheet out the window. She grabbed the jacket Agent Erol had loaned her, threw her arms into it, and climbed out the window after her daughter.

Margaret scrambled along the slippery roof, getting snow in her mouth and eyes, scraping her chin, holding onto each shingled edge of the old slate tiled roof that she could find with her freezing fingers. Her toes clutched the edges of roof tiles beneath her. She saw Melissa above her, lying flat along the roofline, holding her hand out for her mother, her eyes encouraging. Margaret panted, trying not to sob. Finally, she reached Melissa’s hand and scrambled up onto the rim of the roof. They heard more shots.

Margaret closed her eyes for a minute. Those poor men.