Lulu Press Author Patrick Dent Reaches #1 Position on Amazon Action Adventure With His New Psychological Espionage Thriller, Execution of Justice

Lulu Press (http://www.lulu.com), the world's fastest-growing provider of print-on-demand books, announced today that Lulu author Patrick Dent has reached the number 1 position on Amazon.com under the category Action Adventure under the keyword Action Adventure with his new psychological espionage thriller, Execution of Justice. Execution of Justice ranks in the top 10% bestsellers on Lulu Press.

Morrisville, NC (PRWEB) November 17, 2006 -- Lulu Press (http://www.lulu.com), the world's fastest-growing provider of print-on-demand books, announced today that Lulu author Patrick Dent has reached the number 1 position on Amazon.com under the category Action Adventure under the keyword Action Adventure with his new psychological espionage thriller, Execution of Justice. Execution of Justice ranks in the top 10% bestsellers on Lulu Press.

Book Synopsis
When an international terrorist organization kidnaps a US Congressman's daughter, Special Forces operative John Drake is called to action. Quickly, Drake uncovers the dark truth about an operation that threatens the entire free world.

In the world of genetic engineering, anything is possible -- even the unthinkable

Professional Reviews
"If you want a thrilling, action packed, espionage novel with strong characters, this hits the target," writes Colin Kirby, Senior Journalist for the Western Sun Newspaper.

Dr. Lorraine P Winfield, Coordinator of Creative Writing at the Newport News Institute for the arts, reports Execution of Justice is "filled with nonstop action, adventure and psychological suspense."

"This psychological espionage thriller is a gritty, fast paced, all-action story," says 3- time Lulu Author Tony Thorne, MBE

"Dent has a clear knowledge of his subject matter and an instinctive knack for gripping, action plots. I could barely put it down during the final action sequence. The action and espionage tactics employed are both creative and realistic for covert operations."
Major Jeffery Benedict, US Army Ranger, Combat Veteran

About The Author
Patrick Dent currently resides near Columbia, SC. Although Execution of Justice is purely fictional, Dent drew heavily upon his experiences in advanced infantry at Ft. Benning to keep the tactics realistic. "I've merged the espionage thriller with the psychological thriller to give the book more substance. Apparently, my readers like this approach," says Dent.

Dent's book is available at
http://www.lulu.com/eoj
as well as nearly fifty online booksellers, including, of course, http://www.amazon.com/o/ASIN/141163747X/ref=pd_rvi_gw_2/102-7686284-0036155.

Dent's next novel, Mortal Coil, is due to be released in 2007. "In the world of genetic engineering, anything is possible -- even the unthinkable," Dent says about Mortal Coil.

About Lulu
Founded in 2002, Lulu is the world's fastest growing print-on-demand marketplace for digital do-it-yourselfers. See www.lulu.com for more information.

Media Contact
Patrick Dent 803-874-259

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New Espionage Thriller, Execution of Justice, reaches a #1 ranking on Amazon. - PRWeb Press Release Group from New Espionage Thriller, Execution of Justice on Nov 17, 2006

Execution of Justice CHAPTER ONE Safi, Morocco In a lifetime perhaps three or four events will outweigh all others combined, punctuating an otherwise mundane tapestry with vivid explosions of color. First Lieutenant Elan was on the brink of just such an explosion. The young American approached the Moroccan bar, pretending to be in no hurry. His eyes constantly surveyed the horizon; it never changed. About a dozen rugged, four-wheel-drive vehicles were parked randomly around the building. Otherwise, he saw only sand without end. The locals called the bar Shaqra, although it bore no markings either outside or in. It had a wooden frame plastered with a tan adobe, rendering it invisible from a thousand meters out. The slate roof appeared on the verge of collapse. The windows were arched and glassless, about twenty feet from the ground, with heavy wooden shutters latched open with hasp locks. Elan’s tan robes concealed his slightly trembling hands, as well as the Colt .45 automatic in his shoulder holster. The arid environment worked in his favor, immediately evaporating sweat. The faintest signal of nervousness would almost certainly cost him his life. Elan grabbed the huge iron ring doorknob and pulled. The thick wooden door eventually surrendered to his will and swung open with a creak, attracting the attention of some of the locals inside. Rheumy, bloodshot eyes turned toward the offending desert sunlight cutting through the dimly lit room, but quickly lost interest when they saw Elan. This was exactly the reaction he had hoped for – nothing. Shaqra’s main bar occupied a single room with a thirty-foot ceiling. Elan blinked as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. In the center sat a square bar. The bartender cleaned his fingernails with a US Army issue bayonet. Elan saw no evidence of wait staff. Once Elan’s eyes adjusted to the shadows, he had to contend with clouds of hashish, opium, and tobacco smoke evenly spread from the ceiling to about six feet above the floor. The air hung motionless despite open windows near the ceiling. 'This is it', Elan thought, 'the next fifteen minutes will decide the course of my career'. Elan knew his Arabic heritage was the main reason Major Briggs had selected him for Operation Sierra. Nonetheless, he prided himself on the progress he had made. For the past six months he had worked his way up through the Moroccan black market, establishing contacts and credibility through a series of increasingly larger business deals. With a little help from Uncle Sam, Elan had been able to produce enormous quantities of valuable merchandise ranging from toilet paper to Soviet AK-47’s. He gained popularity quickly. Now, he waited to meet the man who ran the most powerful and despicable enterprise in the Western Hemisphere. Tartus ran an ancient business, but one that had only recently begun to test the waters of Western civilization. It only took a few incidents before the President declared Tartus’ operation a threat to national security and sanctioned the creation of the Sierra task force. Elan felt honored to be selected as the principle Sierra operative - Sierra One. Men such as Tartus stained the reputation of good Arabs all over the world. Elan would enjoy bringing this black operation to its knees. When Elan reached the bar he ordered whiskey in Arabic, with the hint of French accent so common among Moroccans. He had lost his university grammar and enunciation months prior. The bartender gave him a menacing look, but reached below the bar and placed an unopened bottle of Jack Daniels on the counter. When Elan did not reach for the bottle, the bartender begrudgingly produced a glass of questionable cleanliness, giving Elan a look saying now what; you want me to drink it for you too? Elan paid the exorbitant price of fifty Dirham - equivalent to about twelve US dollars. Such robbery, commonplace in countries whose religion forbade alcohol, did not surprise Elan. Still standing at the bar, he poured himself two fingers, neat. Just one drink, he vowed, I need my wits about me today more than ever. He took his bottle in hand and began working his way through the crowd; scanning for the red neckerchief Falon told him would identify Tartus. Falon was perhaps the nastiest man Elan had ever met. A calm sadism in the man’s eyes always unsettled Elan, despite his training. While other black marketeers wanted American and European creature comforts, Falon shopped for dangerous merchandise – rocket-propelled grenades, anti-tank weapons, heroin, and much, much worse. Elan knew his newfound friend would relish killing him slowly if he suspected he were an American agent. Elan reminded himself - 'Remember your training. This is what you do'. In a city where black and brown were the predominant wardrobe choices, Elan had little difficulty spotting the red neckerchief. His pulse quickened. He could smell the fear on his upper lip as he considered the man he prepared to meet. It had taken months of courting Falon to gain an audience with Tartus. Men that cautious were not to be underestimated. He downed his drink in one motion and approached the man who would become the instrument of his destiny. Elan estimated Tartus was about forty years old. Tartus’ face - lean, taught, and weather-beaten from years spent in the desert – carried no expression. Elan could feel Tartus’ coldness even from a distance. Tartus seemed to be a golem – a body without a soul. The tables surrounding Tartus were all empty. All Elan’s training and months undercover had led to this moment. He braced himself to start a conversation with one of the world’s most dangerous men. Although Falon was a local icon, he lacked the fear and respect Tartus commanded. “Hello,” Elan said in Arabic, meeting Tartus’ level gaze, “I notice the weather here is much harsher than in the South.” “But the opportunities are so much better,” Tartus replied, completing the code phrase. “Please, have a seat and let us discuss such matters.” The cordiality in Tartus’ voice belied the brutality and heartlessness Elan knew were the staples of his trade. He maintained contact with Tartus’ deadpan, black eyes. Those eyes evoked primal fears from Elan’s genetic memory. Images of alligators and sharks flashed through his mind – ancient predators, machines designed exclusively for killing. Elan, a seasoned covert-op veteran, felt the first familiar tingling of fear. As always, he tried to let the adrenaline work in his favor. When Elan sat, Tartus immediately began his business. “So, you have gone to a great deal of trouble to talk with me. What makes you think I have any interest in what you have to say?” Elan calculated that Tartus would respect nothing less than complete candor, and replied, “Well, that you’re here, for one thing. And that I have access to merchandise that would bring a much greater price than your normal wares.” “So Falon told me. And what, exactly, is the source of this wonderful merchandise?” “America, of course. West coast. California.” Elan paused to let the statement sink in. Maintaining a semblance of calm before this man’s deeply malevolent visage - those eyes that seemed to probe him in constant search of weakness – aged Elan about five years in as many minutes. “Surely there will be abundant profit for all parties involved.” “You propose something with great risk.” Tartus’ hard eyes bored into Elan’s face. “High risk, high return,” Elan said. “Besides, you don’t impress me as a man afraid of a little risk.” This statement skirted dangerously close to arrogance, but Elan had to pass himself off as a callused murderer, a man who knew fear merely as something he saw in the faces of his victims. He behaved as Tartus’ equal. “You should not confuse wisdom with fear, my friend,” Tartus’ voice took on an icy, challenging edge. “However, I am still listening.” “I have a friend who is a travel agent. His operation is a perfect front for moving merchandise of this sensitive nature through American customs.” Tartus’ eyes narrowed to slits. He leaned forward on his elbows until his face nearly touched Elan’s. “Just like that? You appear out of nowhere and want to cut me in on your foolproof enterprise?” Elan refused to back away from Tartus. At this distance, he could smell curry mixed with alcohol on the man’s breath. “Tartus, like you, I’m a businessman. I don’t have the network you have and I don’t have access to the end users. That’s where you come in. We’re both familiar with the Brazilian and Philippine crap flooding the marketplace. I propose moving a top-end product into the market, the business opportunity of a lifetime. I can deliver in quantity. How does one unit per month sound?” Tartus mulled this over for a few seconds that seemed an eternity to Elan before he responded, “You do make a good case. I’ll discuss this with some of my high dollar clientele and meet you here tomorrow at midnight with an answer.” As Elan listened, he kept the most important poker face of his life, all the while staring into those reptilian eyes. Inside, he surged with triumph. He looked at Tartus differently – meaner. “This conversation is over,” Tartus said. He stood abruptly and walked away. When he opened the door, an intensely bright light flooded Shaqra, temporarily blinding anyone whose eyes followed him. Elan’s mind struggled to process what had just transpired. Could he actually expect to cut a deal with Tartus after his first meeting? If so, this mission would exceed his wildest imaginings. He couldn’t wait to call Major Briggs to arrange the sting. Once they had Tartus in custody, they could begin to dismantle his entire operation, beginning with that beast - Falon. After waiting an excruciating five minutes, Elan recapped the bottle of Jack Daniels on the table and left. Outside, he squinted against the desert glare and turned left toward the parking lot. As he walked toward his jeep, he began to plan Phase Two. He would need at least two squads from special ops, maybe more. From what he had observed, Tartus would have several layers of security, ranging from well-paid locals in the crowd to short range snipers armed with AK-47s. Tomorrow at midnight, he would earn his captain’s bars. Elan’s pensive trance suddenly twisted into an anguished mask. The piano wire garrote cut through his esophagus, trachea, and both carotid arteries before his mind could register that he had grossly miscalculated Tartus’ business ethics. As he lay on the ground with his life force rhythmically gushing into the Safi sand, Elan thought of the daughter he would never see again.

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