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About the author:
Charlie Moore was born and raised in Sydney, Australia. He started work on his first full length novel at age 18. When running through final edits for the book, he put it aside; wanting to live and experience some of the adventures his characters were thrust into. He became an accomplished martial artist, winning his first full contact fight by TKO and gaining over 30 medals before retiring from competition. He traveled the globe, got lost in dangerous parts of the world, swam with sharks, jumped out of planes, and became a Private Investigator. Resuming his passion for writing, Charlie started ghost writing to build and harness his skill, and in mid 2012 “MOMENTUM” was born. Charlie now shares his time between rock climbing with his wife, and writing deadly action-packed thrillers.
What inspired you to write your book?
The idea that would become Against The Clock, and the whole series, came from a graphic novel I was developing at the time. It was in that vein; wild, crazy, fun, scary and thumping with action. The story of a spy working against powerful enemies in the pursuit of justice became a solid vehicle for me to explore just how far a person would be willing to go, and how much of themselves they were willing to sacrifice to bring closure to their pain. That quickly developed into the action packed espionage adventure series ‘The Clock’
Here is a short sample from the book:
Shirin Reyes stepped off the platform. Without looking back at the departing train, she walked through the terminal gates and out into the crowded streets of the Central Business District.
No one followed her; she was sure of it. But for the next hour, she navigated her way through a labyrinth of shops, fitting rooms, and past glass storefront windows before returning to her safe house.
Her blonde wig lay at the bottom of a trash receptacle outside a Starbucks café, and her handbag, emptied into and dumped in the ladies’ room. She kept none of its contents.
The baggy shirt and black jeans she wore were scattered through various waste bins on her shopping spree through the Grand Plaza.
The guns collected from the dead men were secreted within the pockets of a new gym bag. Wearing her newly purchased Lycra long-cut shorts, running shoes, and tight singlet top, she looked like one of many other young ladies on their way back from the gym.
Her breath had come back quickly, and the adrenaline of the encounter was just now ebbing slowly away. Sipping a tall, full cream cappuccino, she headed back to the train depot. Her mind worked quickly over the events of the last few hours.
The ambush had been well executed, a four-man team, three converging on her from intersecting planes, the fourth, she assumed, from a higher vantage point. She had identified two of the three quickly, the third soon after, but too late to slip free of their sightlines. Deciding to wait for a better opportunity, she let them get closer to her, steering them toward a busy outdoor café close by.
Hoping to obscure any field of vision for potential snipers or security cameras, Shirin had ducked under the outdoor canopy, walked through to the middle of the crowded café, then headed toward a small vacant table.
She paused at the table as a steward deftly cleared it, wiped it over, and set down new cutlery. She had taken mental note of where her pursuers would be and prepared herself.
She felt the firm hand on her shoulder before she saw it. It squeezed hard on the pressure point toward the top of her shoulder joint.
Before the man could whisper his practiced threats encouraging her to do exactly as he said, Shirin thrust her arm up and slightly forward, releasing the pressure on her nerve. Gripping his wrist with her other hand, she pulled him in toward her while thrusting her head back violently into his face.
The impact had been fast and hard. She’d felt his nose give way on the back of her head, and before he could react she had his hand twisted up and out, opening him up, exposed to the brutal assault on the side of his neck.
Her fist connected with force, and as he buckled under the blow, she followed through with an open palm strike to his throat. The trauma was instant. The blood flow to his brain, stopped. His airway, crushed. He fell, dying.
The second man had pushed his way through the crowded café, drawing his weapon before the first man hit the ground. The silenced weapon had begun its sharp arc up from the folds of his jacket as Shirin hurled herself forward.
Her left hand reached for the cutlery on her table and gripped a metal fork while her right hand parried the gun up and away. She sidestepped fast to her right. She ducked under his raised arm, then thrust forward and up into his neck with the fork. The gun bucked in his hand as the first shot was fired, sending the bullet wildly skyward. Still moving fast, she stabbed the fork into his throat a second time and circled behind his back.
His shock lasted only a moment. She left the fork dangling from his flesh, gripped his head and chin, then twisted vertically with a sickening crunch.
His body crumpled on the spot like a rag doll. He was mid-fall when Shirin dislodged the silenced Glock from his grip and pointed it toward the third man as he stood momentarily stunned.
Four seconds had passed since the first man gripped her shoulder. Two men were down, the gun in her hand pointed toward the third man. The crowd snapped free from their initial shock and started screaming and scrambling away. The third gunman seemed uncertain which path to take―to continue after her or to run.
She gave him little choice and fired the silenced weapon at him quickly while running at full pace straight toward him.
The first shot buried itself into his shoulder. The second shot found his collarbone, the third his biceps, the fourth his gluteus as he turned to run, and the fifth thumped into his shoulder blade.
Shirin bounded after him, chasing him onto the street. His vision seemed impaired as he staggered forward, reaching out with his good arm, gun still gripped awkwardly in his ruined arm’s hand. She was close enough to grab him.
Whack! A speeding van passed by, missing Shirin by only a foot but smashing into him. His body flew forward, twisting and turning in the air. The sound of the impact reached her moments later, and then the screeching of tires braking on the road, and the broken body falling, landing twenty feet away on the pavement, completely still.
Tucking the silenced pistol into the waistband of her jeans, Shirin ran toward the motionless agent, hoping her baggy shirt would conceal the shape of the bulky gun.
He was dead. He would answer none of her questions now. In the distance, the chaos of the café galvanized into a morbid curiosity. She worked quickly to search him for any signs of identification or clues as to who he was, and who had sent him. There were none. Even his clothing labels had been removed. A professional. Although, judging by his momentary hesitation earlier, new to the field.
Pocketing his gun, she peered into the massing crowd. She looked through them, searching faces, searching behaviors, looking for the telltale signs of other killers out there coming for her. There were more of them, she was sure.
A big man loomed through the crowd, glanced at the two men dead at the café, then looked out, beyond the converging onlookers. It was then she saw his face. Their eyes connected from a distance. Trent Barratt. She recognized him instantly, turned her head, and left.
Two hours after the ambush, she found herself staring at the empty coffee cup in her hand as the train pulled to a stop. She exited just as the doors were closing, her mind still focused on how they had managed to know where she would be, and when.
Her mind worked quickly over the possibilities. There were not many. Somehow, they found her. Somehow, they followed her. The burning thought in her mind was, how long had they been following her?
The arrival of Barratt also clung to her consciousness. She could never forget those eyes. Would never forget that man.
Barratt was muscle, the kind of muscle that made people disappear, and he was good. In a past life, she had known him well. She wondered if he knew whom he was hunting.
If they had sent him, it meant they wanted her gone. She had to believe they had not been watching her long. They wouldn’t take the risk that she would spot them and run. Barratt didn’t work that way. When he got the target, he worked quickly. Find them, track them, kill them. That was his way.
Crossing the road to a taxi rank, she considered for a moment that they either knew what she was doing or were scared of what she might be doing…
Letting them know that she was coming after them had always been part of the plan, just not so soon.
She had to assume they had found her safe house and the files she had kept there. It pissed her off they’d gotten to her.
She gave the taxi driver the address of a townhouse in the suburbs. She knew where they would be now. Time to hurt them.
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