Author: Anthony Baltimore
Publisher: JourStarr Quality Publications
Pages: 780
Genre: Scifi/Fantasy
Lt. Othello Greene, the leader of America’s most lethal and efficient elite special ops group is captured, tortured, and mutilated by a ruthless, maniacal terrorist named Genesis and his group, the Global Supremacy Federation (G.S.F), who is hell bent on world domination.
Moments before his execution, Othello is rescued by a centuries old Islamic group intent on convincing him to use his unmatched skills and abilities for the good of mankind.In the backdrop, is the story of Othello’s past and the events which led to his life as an elite assassin.The entire world is racing towards the war to end all wars. Will Genesis prevail or will Othello put an end to his reign of terror?
Othello Greene: The Story Begins may be purchased at Amazon.
Book Excerpt:
Every inch of his body was in pain. Its intensity caused a numbing
effect. The stench of blood, urine, feces, and burnt flesh permeated the room. The
air was acrid and unbearably hot, making it difficult to breathe. The unfamiliar
room was dimly lit, a single flickering bulb hanging from the ceiling. His
newly awakened eyes had yet to acclimate themselves to the environment. His
head was pounding like a sledgehammer against a wall. Over the clamor of
confusion in his mind, he could hear the faint murmur of a sobbing woman.
“Name!” he heard a voice scream in his head.
“Othello Greene,” he answered.
“Rank!” the voice continued.
“First lieutenant,” he mumbled, as his senses began to gain clarity. His
heart sank like an anchor at the sight of the severed head of his longtime
friend and counterintelligence operative Second Lieutenant Jack Strong. The
cloud in his mind completely dissipated when he saw Jack’s nude, mutilated body
lying slumped over in a corner several feet from the head. Their termination
mission, he realized, had gone terribly wrong.
Othello’s unclothed body lay in a pool of his own blood. A fierce pain
exploded through his torso as he stuck the severely burned stub where his right
hand used to be into the ground beneath him. The failed attempt to get to his
feet caused him to instantaneously collapse, quivering in agony.
He teetered between consciousness and death, staring into the face of
his dead friend. Suddenly the eyes of the severed head opened and a menacing
expression appeared. “This is all your fault!” it growled. “Look what the hell
you got us into! You and all your guts and glory bullshit!”
“This is not my fault. I didn’t put a gun to your head. I didn’t make you
do shit!” Othello screamed, blood and drool flying from his mouth.
“Huh,” Jack grunted. “Look at your dear sweet Ramirez over there. What
a shame. They’ve been taking turns raping her for the last eighteen hours.” One
of the arms on the headless body motioned across the room.
Othello was horrified to see his intimate friend and partner, First Sergeant
Helena Ramirez, lying naked in a fetal position, brutalized and cowering in a
corner. She was whimpering like a child. He felt helpless and ashamed, not for
himself but for the team he had let down.
“You’re one self-righteous bastard. You knew she would have gone to
hell to assassinate Satan with you. Now, because of you, she’s seen more dicks
than Kim Kardashian,” said Jack with a sinister grin.
“Shut the fuck up, damn it!” Othello continued to scream. “This is not
real! You’re dead!”
“This is very much real, hero. But don’t worry. You’ll be joining me soon.
And speaking of Satan, he told me to tell you that he’s keeping your side of
the bed warm, and that you and he are going to get real personal when you
arrive,” Jack responded with laughter.
“I am not paying attention to you. You are not real,” Othello said, to
himself. He tried once again to get to his feet. This time, using his still
operable left hand, he pushed himself up but could not feel his legs.
Turning over on his back, he was in shock to see both of his legs
severed at the knees. The miasma of burning flesh was his own. His captors had
burned the stumps to stop the bleeding. The hopelessness of the situation hit
him like a pile of bricks. Despair set in as he collapsed, waiting for the
moment of death.
Helena crawled over to him and gently kissed
his forehead. The Latina beauty who could make any man risk it all for one night of passion
was unrecognizable.
“Othello, I thought you were dead,” she cried.
“Helena, I’m sorry,” he replied, looking away, not able to look at her
bloodied battered face and racked with guilt.
“Shhh. It’s not important,” she said, with tears flowing, caressing the
side of his swollen face. “Baby, I need you to help me.”
“There’s nothing I can do. It’s over, Helena. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“No, don’t apologize. I knew the risks and I loved the ride. But I need
you to listen to me. Please,” she begged, turning his face back toward hers. “I
need you to help me.
“It’s over, Helena. Only God can help us now.”
“No. That’s not true,” she cried, grabbing his hand and placing it on
her throat.
“No . . . No, I can’t,” he sighed, attempting to pull his hand away.
Even under these nightmare conditions, the touch of his hand against her
skin brought back a flood of memories. How much he loved her. The thousand
times they shared each other, holding nothing back. She grabbed it tightly,
with both hands, kneeling her broken, battered, and violated body in the pool
of blood around him. “Yes, you can. I’m already gone. Please don’t let them
hurt me again. Those bastards did so many terrible things to me. Please . . .
Please . . .,” she pleaded, pulling his hand harder against her throat.
