Barracuda

BARRACUDA___________________________________________________________A JACK WHITFIELD THRILLERBook 1JOHN W. MEFFORD Table of ContentsTitle PageBARRACUDA (A Jack Whitfield Thriller, #1)123456789101112131415161718192021222324252627282930313233343536373839404142434445464748495051525354555657585960616263646566676869707172737475767778798081828384858687888990919293949596979899100101102103104105106107108109110111112113114115116117118119120121122123124125126127128129130131132133134135136137138139140141142143144145146147148149150151152153154155156157158159160161162163164165166167168169170171172173174175176177178179180181182183184185186187188189190191192193194195196197198199200201202203204205206207208209210211212213214215216217218219220221222223224225226227228229230231232233234235236237238 The Story Behind JackTo me, Jack has always felt like an iconic name. That is likely born from my relationship with my late grandfather. A large man with a larger-than-life personality, “Jack” Whitfield was kind-hearted, the life of the party, and a bit grumpy if he had a bad day on the golf course (which usually meant one of his buddies won some money from him). “Ga-ga” once danced with Jackie Kennedy, allowed me to drive a car by myself at the age of ten, and cooked the most amazing southern breakfast. More importantly, for decades he helped countless people from both sides of the track get jobs in the state of Tennessee. He also was a big fan of the after-dinner ice cream cone and could hit a wicked blind hook with his five-wood on the dogleg-left sixth hole at Carnton Country Club just outside of Nashville. He had a profound impact on so many people, but none more so than this grandson, his namesake. When he passed away—I was only sixteen at the time—I was shocked to see hundreds of people show up to his funeral, including Minnie Pearl, a famous comedian from the Grand Ole Opry.I made a vow as a teen that I would someday name a son after him. And I did. While the Jack Whitfield in this thriller series shares a few traits with my memorable grandfather and son, no one can replace Ga-ga. And no person, fictional or otherwise, can match the character or heart of my son, Jack. How he got that way is anyone’s guess, but I certainly won the lottery when he entered my life.So, while the name “Jack” might have turned trendy in recent years, I can honestly say that I know Jack better than just about anyone.And now it’s time you got to know him. I hope you enjoy the new Jack Whitfield Thrillers. “The opportunity to secure ourselves against defeat lies in our own hands, but the opportunity of defeating the enemy is provided by the enemy himself.”~ Sun Tzu, Chinese strategist“He who has a why to live for, can bear almost any how.”~ Friedrich Nietzsche, German philosopher PART I 1Donelson, TennesseeA yawn escaped my mouth, and I accidentally dropped my keys on the darkened front porch. “Can’t see a damn thing,” I muttered, running my hand along the wood planks. It took a couple of seconds to register, but when it did, I smiled. “Your lovely wife expects you to turn on the porch lights.”After more than sixteen hours of poring through spreadsheets and dealing with grumpy clients, I couldn’t wait to put up my feet, eat some home-cooked spaghetti, and let Anna massage my shoulders—but only after I tiptoed into Maddie’s room and gave her a kiss goodnight.“I get the not-so-subtle message,” I called out to Anna as I closed the door. I paused, waiting to hear her playful snicker.No laughter, no reply of any kind. Not even the sound of soft jazz music. And no garlic marinara wafting in the air.“Anna?”My voice quivered just slightly—my mind sensing an imbalance in the world—as I started up the steps. “Hey, are you reading to Maddie? Let me join you.” My throat turned bone dry the moment my foot hit the landing. No response from Anna. No talking or giggles from Maddie’s room. I hurried into our bedroom. The bathroom light was on. A hairbrush sat on the counter. But no Anna.My heart in my throat, I dashed into Maddie’s room. “Maddie?” I flipped on the light. Covers thrown back on her bed. Stuffed animals on the floor. Empty.I tore out the door, ripped down the staircase—a quick head turn into the living room—then rushed into the kitchen. A red streak smeared the tiled floor just 2I staggered toward the black Suburban in front of our home and slid into the back seat. The man behind the wheel demanded my wallet, keys, and phone. Incensed, I lunged for his neck, but a nearly invisible glass separator blocked my attack. The kidnappers had apparently anticipated such a response.“Where’s Anna and Maddie?” I shouted.“Your things. Put them in the tray in the middle console.”“I’m not doing a damn thing until you tell me where you have my wife and daughter.” The engine purred, but the driver said nothing.“Did you fucking hear me? Tell me where you took them!” I palmed the glass separator, my faced pressed against it.The driver’s head turned slightly. “You heard the terms. And I would comply. Quickly.”My gut churned like hot magma. “What do you mean?”“Put your things in the console,” he repeated, monotone.I threw my belongings into the small compartment. “Done. Now tell me what’s going on. Where have you taken my family?” “There’s a hood on the seat next to you. Put it on and cinch it under your chin.”I merely glanced at the hood before I went back to the glass partition and whacked my fist against it. “Not doing it. Do you have a ransom? Are they hurt? I swear to God, if you hurt them...” I clawed my nails into the seat. “If you don’t put on the hood, then we will sit here until the cops show up and you are charged with the abduction and murder of your wife and daughter. When they dig into your lives, they’ll also find that you abused