Finisher

The casual word around town is I'm wasting my education, especially after I got out of the Army. The Army. I can say for a fact the Army shaped me, both for good and for bad, but I imagine everyone can make that same claim.Since I was a child working in my dad's machinist shop, I have been inventive and helped my dad develop many marketable products and this trailer could sell if I cared enough to go into mass production. I was named after my dad and after the recession and the closing of his shop, he handled it by shooting himself in the forehead with his favorite handgun, a Colt Model 1911 .45 ACP. He carried one just like it through two Special Forces tours in Vietnam with MACV.He called me Trap since I first showed interest in running a trap line for the extra cash I made selling furs, but my entire name not only reflects my dad, but our Jewish German heritage - Rutger Manfred Goldschnieder III. With all the Mexicans and Anglo's living in Fort Davis, Trap seemed the logical choice.The Finisher Series is book fifteen, titled Psalms (Harris County code term) and features reoccurring characters along with a bevy of bag guys and gals and adult situations. Trap lives in the violent underbelly of society and will take you along with him, if you dare to follow.

Growing up, I was the kid no one noticed. In group photos or school activities, I was the child on the end behind and out of the way. I made straight B's mainly because I was never challenged. In organized sports, my dad pushed me, but I just didn't seem to have the drive to excel. I was simply average in every way including looks.I worked after school and saved every penny I could. I wanted to join the various school clubs, but I reasoned it a waste of time when I could be making money. When I was fifteen, I was hit by a car on my bicycle on my way to cut grass. I spent fourteen weeks in the hospital recovering from a head injury that not only changed my personality, but the course my life would take.I began to grow and develop and by the age of sixteen, I went from 5-4 to 5-11 and began to put on muscle. I went out for JV football and was added as a running back. I became aggressive both on the field and in class and was soon on the honor roll. On the field I averaged over a hundred yards rushing every single game and by the end of the season, I was moved to start on varsity the next year.Now with all of this change, you would think I would be the BMOC, but I was quiet, abnormally so and word got around that the bike injury had fucked me up in the head. Everyone wanted to be seen with me at school, but no one wanted to hang with me at the Friday night parties. I never bothered to refute the whispered claims and didn't go out for football my sophomore year no matter who tried to convince me including my dad.Instead I joined a karate school. It was a traditional Korean style called Tang Soo Do Moo Duk Kwan and in this, I found a brotherhood who appreciated my quiet disposition. I rapidly moved up through the belts by studying two hours after school and working out up to six hours on Saturdays. Sundays I attended the local church with my parents and there I learned the moral rights and wrongs I carry with me today... Well, most of them.

Ever since I can remember, folks called me Dickey. Word is it was after the famous guitar player Dickey Betts. Never mind that my name is Harold James Parker and I look nothing like the man. It all started when I was 8 and got a kid's plastic guitar. Supposedly I was spotted trying to trade licks with the axe man on You Tube. Someone said I was a natural, just like Dickey and that stuck on me whether I liked it or not.I was a clumsy enough kid but put a guitar in my hand and I could flat play slide like Warren Haynes, Sonny Landreth, or even Derek Trucks; at least that is what everyone said. I never believed it. I had a couple other passions that I later took on after I busted a tendon in my left hand bailing hay on my Uncle Elmore's farm near Liberty, Texas.To say my guitar playing suffered because of the injury would be an understatement, as I simply could not get my finger placement on the frets. I was 14 years old and it was the summer between 8th and 9th grade. I would have been lost without Uncle Elmore's support. He had been in the United States Marine Corps and limped from being shot in the right thigh during the invasion of Iraq. He loved guns and taught me to hunt and shoot and how to harvest an animal, fish, or bird for sustenance.He also taught me to grapple to help strengthen my messed up left hand. He never talked much about the war or how he earned his 3rd degree black belt in Small Circle jujitsu. Dad and Mom were more than happy to let me stay on his farm, as we never had much of nothing. Dad drank a lot, if I remember correctly as he was never home. Mom had a boyfriend and he and I didn't see anything in common other than we both wanted momma to ourselves. I lost out. I didn't even realize this until I was in boot camp, but I'm getting ahead of myself.The Finisher Series is book sixteen, titled Job and features reoccurring characters along with a bevy of bad guys and gals and adult situations. Dickey lives in the violent underbelly of society and will take you along with him, if you dare to follow.

My name is Barnabas Lucas Stivers and folks call me Luke. This is my story.Enter 9-11 one week after graduation from A&M and I was off to Officer's Boot camp in the United States Army. I was 22 years old and thought I was a player both on and off the field. I look at the Air Force calendar on the wall at the Michael E. Debakey VA Medical Center in Houston, Texas and realize many years have passed since that day she gave me the clap. I did not learn her name or ever see her again, but that started a fire that still burns very strong today.I like women and I like to fight. I like to fight so much, the US Army let me fight a lot and evidently now, my Army shrink thinks they over did it. I have had increasingly violent nightmares over the last year to the point I sought out help. I figured they would write a prescription, but Noooo, they decided I was crazy."You are not crazy Sir, you are fatigued. I'm writing you a couple of prescriptions and I want to see you again in a month." My personal VA doctor is a woman of about 50 who is as tall as I am and looks like a Farmer's wife with wide hips and nice full bosoms and I ask her what my chances are of re-enlisting.

From as far back as I can remember, I hated the name Sammy, or Sam, or anything other than my given name of Samuel. My mom named me after a profit in the Bible and he wasn't called little Sammy that I know of. I don't think people picked on him either like they did me. Maybe it's because I was shorter than most everyone my age? I don't know.My mom began calling me Spike when I was maybe five, because she liked to listen to the old radio comedy featuring Spike Jones and seeing our last name was Jones, it just kind of stuck, if you follow me. I didn't much care for my middle name either. Everett. Samuel Everett Jones. Sounds like a lay preacher's name and I sure as heck ain't no saint.Sure, I went to church and catechism, like all the other Lutheran kids, but I never really plugged into it, or so I thought. Years later I would come to realize most of my true values were because of my church teachings, seeing the church became my guardian after my parents and three older sisters died in what I later learned was caused by a drunk driver, who just so happened to be a county judge.I was nearly eighteen when a long time friend of my parents told me the whole thing was covered up and the judge is still actively pursuing justice at the Harris County court house in Houston, Texas. Judge Roy Buckhannon is his name and I vowed right then to kill the man who stole my family from me. Judge Roy as he's fondly known is familiar with me, believe it or not because I was arrested when I was fifteen as an accessory in a grand theft auto case. I spent three years in juvenile correction and that is where I learned everything I know about guns, knife fighting, hand to hand combat, picking locks, how to get away with rape, breaking and entering and not leave a trace, ATM machines - well, you name it and I learned it.

Dustin Anderson Barton was nicknamed Dab by his uncle when he was 3 years old and it stuck. At first it was Little Dab, then The Dabber, and now at 28 years of age, his college and U.S. Army days behind him, he's just known by everyone as Dab. A lot of his acquaintances don't even know his real first name.Dustin was the go-to man in 4 different sports in school, excelling in everything he did. He had his choice of classes and cheerleaders and lived the life of the privileged, even though his dad was a drunk and his mom, basically a whore. He was so good at sports that at the age of 14, the local city councilman teamed up with a church and bought him the finest of clothes to match the image of success they groomed him for. They planned early on to make Dustin a poster child of success. A rags to riches promo story for his small home town.Although he doesn't physically appear to be impaired, his highly tuned body is a road map of cuts, healed bullet wounds, permanent abrasions, and surgery scars, including a wicked line that runs from the left corner of his mouth up behind his ear, or what is left of it. TB, as his friends call him was discharged not for his physical injuries, but the sociopathic mental state four tours in the Middle East left him.This is book four in a series where justice is meted out in a sanctioned vigilante style. The anti-hero is allowed to plot and plan to accomplish the goals set forth by his emplyer, the Harris County, Texas District Attorney's Office.

My mom once told me that she thought I would grow up and become a serial killer. I think I was seventeen when she said that and I had settled down quite a bit by that time. When I was quite young, I hated to hear her say the words Kevin Jonathan Harris, because it meant I was in trouble. The rest of the time, everyone called me KJ and this nickname has stuck with me all my thirty-fours years of my existence.I grew up in North Shore, Texas in a predominately black and brown environment and picked up Tex-Mex Spanish at an early age. By the time I was fourteen I had a total of four knife wounds and at eighteen, one bullet scar. I was what people referred to a "gang-banger" or more politely, a disturbed kid. Oddly enough I maintained honor roll status mainly because of all the hot chicks in the advanced classes. I found school too easy and the answers effortlessly came to me while others failed miserably.I played football, basketball, and baseball for Robert E. Lee High school when we moved to Baytown right after my sixteenth birthday. I took Spanish and with the help of all the cute Latinas learned it could unlock the legs of most girls and on occasion, their mother's also. Hispanic women dress like do because they need constant validation that they are sexually appealing and I learned that my six foot three frame made me look like I was in my late teens and the moms were accessible because I told them they looked as young as their daughters.

I knew what it meant to be called the teacher's pet and later on I learned how to defend myself. As a mature adult, I never hit five feet ten inches in height and my best attempt at bulking up for any kind of school sports still left me sadly lacking at 140 pounds soaking wet. The girls liked me because I was no threat, but that didn't stop the jocks from slamming me into the lockers because their girlfriends showed me attention, or maybe it was because I didn't try to stop them and was no threat.In class I was the go-to kid, even for the bullies and I was hounded to help them pass their classes, which I did in return for protection... and that is how I was initially introduced to the life of crime via"sharking" money. Loaning money to friends is common among school kids, but what I started was far more elaborate and the hush rule went along with the loan. In other words, if I loan you ten dollars, tomorrow you owe me twenty and if anyone finds out about it, I will never loan you money again.If you try to strong arm me, I will pay someone bigger than you to simply get my money out of you one way or the other.The Finisher Series is book sixteen, titled Proverbs (Harris County code term) and features reoccurring characters along with a bevy of bag guys and gals and adult situations. James Michael O'Rourke lives in the violent underbelly of society and will take you along with him, if you dare to follow.

Major Thurston "TB" Bryce Caldron III was medically discharged in an honors ceremony at Wiesbaden AFB, in Germany. This time around, he was awarded a Silver Star, his second, another Purple Heart, his fourth, an Army Commendation medal, his fourth, and Turkey's highest medal for bravery, the Turkish Armed Forces medal of Honor..Although he doesn't physically appear to be impaired, his highly tuned body is a road map of cuts, healed bullet wounds, permanent abrasions, and surgery scars, including a wicked line that runs from the left corner of his mouth up behind his ear, or what is left of it. TB, as his friends call him was discharged not for his physical injuries, but the sociopathic mental state four tours in the Middle East left him.Unable to adjust to the mundane life without violence and bar fights, TB finally seeks counseling at the VA. The Harris County District's office takes an interest in him after learning of his unique skill set. A Marine Colonel at the VA introduces him to the kind of action he ultimately must have to live in today's society; the war on terror the terror of human trafficking and rampant illegal drugs.Set near Houston, Texas, TB takes up the path of a Finisher in the war on drug cartels, Houstone gang-bangers, and the network dealing in illegal aliens. Battling severe post traumatic stress disorder along the way, he finds relief in the adrenaline and violence his new trade affords. The financial rewards are incredible, but he lives a simple life and rubs shoulders with a few beauties along the way.This is book two of the Finisher Series, titled Exodus and features reoccurring characters along with a bevy of bag guys and gals and adult situations. TB lives in the violent underbelly of society and will take you along with him, if you dare to follow.

Persevel Jacek Davies is what is written on my birth certificate and that's why people simply call me Jake. I was born in England and my parents we so traditional, that I was given my great, great grandfathers name on both sides. It also makes me the whitest black person in Houston, Texas because I speak with a British accent and have nothing in common with the majority of American black fellows.Back when I was what? Seven? We left Long Eaton and moved all across the globe doing mission work. My parents who were Baptist missionaries had made triple sure that I maintained a very high level of education; so much so that I passed my high school equivalency test at sixteen and enrolled in Texas A&M on a foreign exchange scholarship. I guess you can say this is where I learned that females have a lot more to offer than eye candy.

I've heard all my life that big things come in small packages and that is probably because I was almost a midget until the 10th grade. Over the next two years I went from 5-4 to what I like to think is 5-10, but is probably a bit shy of it. Hell, with cowboy boots on, I'm okay and taller than most of the girls and women I've been with. Anyway, they didn't complain and I more than make up for it below the belt, or so I've been told.I took to boxing like some people take to fishing and soon Pedro began giving me private lessons. One of his stipulations is every one of his students had to make straight A's in school and between his classes and school, I hardly had time for the ladies. "The ladies" as I called them found ways to fill in the blanks and the fights continued, but after only 6 months with Pedro, I began to get a reputation that if you came after me, you better bring a stick or a friend.I began competing and winning and by the time I graduated, I was state ranked number two in my weight class. The number one guy was from Brownsville and I simply could not out-box this quick guy and we became friends. Years later I heard he was killed by an IED in Afghanistan. Hell, the same thing almost happened to me over a dozen times while serving in the Marine Corps.How this came about was I received a full scholarship to Texas A&M to train in Judo. I earned a 2nd degree black belt after 4 hard years of training, which was almost a record advancement, but due to my superior athletic ability and great health, I managed to get nationally ranked and ultimately recruited by the Marines after a national crisis in the Middle East.All my combat experience led up to one event. I was destined to be a Finisher where I operated in the shadows to rid Houston Texas of the earth's scum.

Michael Strong Champion was born in July of 1983 to two loving parents who planned to raise him to be a doctor or lawyer. He had the best of everything they could give on their meager earnings. Dad was a diabetic who was often very ill and mom did every sort of household task around town to keep food on the table. At age five his dad succumbed to his illness and mom, having no other option, reluctantly rented her body out to make ends meet.This is how I grew up in Long Beach, California and I thought it was normal for a kid's mom to entertain men late at night. At six years of age I would act out Mario brothers with the other kids in between the twin apartments until about ten o'clock and then mom would call out to me and I would shower with her. I remember her loving touch and the hair between her legs and how she would tell me I would be something one day.I loved my mom and cried fountains of tears after she got the sickness and died on my eighth birthday. Having no real family around us, the State of California became my parents and my first week in the dorm; I was raped by a fourteen year old boy that took whatever he wanted. I hated him and this activity was repeated many times before he was transferred to a facility in Oregon when I was nine.I made a lot of friends and a few enemies and after that pervert left, I told myself I would rather die than be subjected to treatment like that again. Three weeks before my tenth birthday, I stabbed one of the keepers at the orphanage with a Phillips screwdriver when he tried to violate me. He died in the parking lot and I slept in a state of terror, knowing they would come and get me when they found out I did it... but they never came!This is book five in a series where justice is meted out in a sanctioned vigilante style. The anti-hero is allowed to plot and plan to accomplish the goals set forth by his employer, the Harris County, Texas District Attorney's Office.