PULPWORK PRESS

There are five Gantlet Brothers, which is five more than the world's assorted espionage agencies think there needs to be! Join Fritz, Sly, Matthias, Mitz and Otto as they lie, cheat, steal and shoot their way through concerts and conspiracies alike!

Joel Jenkins' amazing adventure series comes to PulpWork Press, beginning with 2009's THE NUCLEAR SUITCASE. Below you'll find the first chapter of that book, as well as an introduction to the world of the Gantlets! 

Since their escape over the Berlin wall in 1982 the Gantlet brothers have led a dangerous life of adventure. As one of the premiere metal bands of the eighties they played to sold out stadiums all over the world. However, in some circles they were also known as one of the most elite mercenary teams in the world. Despite their renown in the rock and roll arena, their musical talent paled in comparison to the raw reservoir of talent for bloodshed, carnage, and mayhem that each of them possessed.

Sly: (Lead and Rhythm Guitars) Bearded and blond-maned, the boisterous second oldest Gantlet is known for his immense strength and deadly kick boxing skills.

Fritz: (Lead and Rhythm Guitars)The oldest Gantlet brother is a student of ancient culture, and his disappearance into the nether reaches of Japan taught him the skills of the martial arts masters.

Matthias: (Lead Vocals) Strictly disciplined, he abstains from alcohol and adheres to a bodybuilding and training regimen that keep him operating with bloody efficiency.

Mitz: (Percussion) With long curly hair and his own fashion line, Mitz is the only Gantlet comfortable mixing with high society folks. Some have mistaken his savoir faire as a sign of weakness, but have rued the day they messed with this Gantlet.

Otto: (Bass Guitar) The youngest of the Gantlet brothers, Otto is the electronic and computer genius of the group. When not hacking into big business databases, he likes to explore tribal rhythms and syncopations.

The various Gantlet anecdotes (and there are quite a few about well known musicians and Hollywood personalities) are stories related to me mostly by Matthias Gantlet who I ran into after a gig at the Colourbox in Seattle one night when I was singing with the now long defunct band Red Die #5. After he found out that I did some writing he eventually approached me with the idea of putting some of his own and his brothers' adventures onto paper. So most of this stuff comes through Matthias.

Before Otto died they put out five full-fledged Gantlet albums: Gantlet, Point of Destruction (from which I took the title for one of the Gantlet novellas I wrote), Death Machine, Matter of Splatter, and Walkin' on Thin Ice.

After Otto's death they split up and did a variety of solo projects, sometimes sitting in on each other's recording session and contributing a track or two.

Chapter 1

January 24th, 2000 a former Soviet colonel and GRU operative named as Stanislav Lunev testified in front of a United States congressional hearing that suitcase-sized nuclear devices were planted at ‘deaddrop’ sites in the United States in case of a future war.


1983, Miami Florida

“I could use a few burgers,” said Otto. “I am starving.” The youngest Gantlet brother shifted his lanky frame in his hard wooden seat, his deep-set blue eyes watching the black and white surveillance monitors that surveyed a half dozen angles outside of the house.

The same age as Otto, sixteen-year-old Patricia Ronson coyly toyed with her pale blond hair, her pert eyes more interested in Otto’s high cheekbones and the raven black locks that fell to the young Gantlet’s shoulders than in anything that was going on outside of her house.

For the most part Otto seemed oblivious to the pretty girl’s attentions, his expression very serious as he studied the live feed that was playing out across the six screens in front of him.
“I didn’t know there were any bodyguards my age,” said Patricia. “I’m used to old men guarding me.”

“I’m just here to do the surveillance,” said Otto. “My brothers will take care of things if the guy that sent you the death threat shows up.”

Patricia pointed to the Glock pistol that rested on the table within easy reach of Otto. “Then what is that for?”

“Just in case,” answered Otto. He toggled the switch on one of the monitors and it switched to a view of the street behind the mansion.

“Have you ever shot anybody before?” she teased.

Otto answered Patricia without looking at her. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

1987, Rome Italy

Tinaccio Gaspari stumbled against the brick wall of the alley which emerged along the Via Del Corso. He stretched out his shaking left hand and felt the rough texture of the brick and mortar work; though the evening air was cool, the bricks still retained the warmth of the day and they radiated heat to his fingertips. He bent, his lungs heaving and gurgling with each desperate breath.  Dark strands of his unevenly cut hair fell over his eyes as he coughed and spat crimson to the cobbled street. Inside of him a lead bullet moved further into his lungs.

Though Tinaccio was scarcely twenty-five years of age, dark crescents hung beneath his eyes, and his once flawless olive complexion was rough and lined from years of hard drinking. He caught sight of the dark scarlet stain that was wicking into the fabric of his shirt. 

The hole the gunshot had made in his chest was barely visible through all the blood. His failing body told him that he should sit down and let his pursuers catch up with him so they could finish the job they had started in the back room of the Vineri tavern a few minutes ago; but Tinaccio had always been stubborn and there was one last thing he wanted to accomplish—to spite the men who had put a bullet into him.

Pools of yellow lamp light illuminated the storefronts that populated Rome’s ancient street as Tinnacio staggered out onto the Via Del Corso. His mind didn’t once consider the historic events that had once taken place on the ground he now trod. Bloody horse races and the parades of Kings and Popes, all this was forgotten as Tinaccio stumbled from shadow to shadow. Here in the dead of the night, the street was sparsely visited and only a few daredevil sightseers and stragglers coming home from the taverns, steeped in wine, were out on the road.

Rapid footsteps pounded on the pavings, and Tinnacio ducked between a Mercedes Benz and a yellow compact car. As he hid from his pursuers, he hung his head, trying to quell the racking coughs that fought to dispel the blood running into his lungs. Three men burst from the alley where he had paused. They were dressed in dark slacks and, despite the temperance of the evening, turtle neck shirts. Each of them carried Russian-made Makarov pistols low by their sides to avoid drawing unwanted attention from the few people who were out on the roads.

With only six-inch barrels, these nine-millimeter pistols were normally quite easy to conceal, but each of them were outfitted with a suppressor, which screwed onto the end of the barrel and added another eight inches in length. Tinnacio ruefully remembered that only the hiss of escaping gasses, and not the loud crack of a gunshot, had marked the firing of the bullet that now sluggishly worked its way through his innards. He took shallow breaths, hoping he could avoid hacking up more blood and giving away his position.

The lead Russian agent stopped and surveyed the street, sharp eyes glaring from beneath caterpillar eyebrows. The second agent halted slightly to his right.  His protruding Adam’s apple dipped noticeably as he nervously swallowed and his oblong head swiveled to the left and right on his skinny neck. The third of his pursuers knelt down and examined the cobblestones. Tinnacio could only see his black knit cap, but he remembered the pallid face of the man who had killed him—for that was what this bullet in his lung would surely do.

The killer lifted his pale face, and his thin lips sneered as he saw the blood that wet his finger tips. “He went toward the Piazza Del Popolo,” he said in Italian. Even with Russian pistols in their hands, they kept up the pretense that they were Italian born.

The three men looked down the historic street toward the massive theatre which interrupted the Via del Corso. Its construction spanned the course of three hundred years, a fantastical gateway that welcomed Kings, Queens, and Popes into the walls of ancient Rome. Domed churches frescoed with the work of the great Renaissance and Baroque artists flanked the gateway, and at the center of the plaza a seven-hundred-year-old obelisk rose toward the sky, brought to Rome by Augustus from Heliopolis—and placed in the piazza by Pope Sixtus hundreds of years later.

“He’s got a bullet in his chest,” growled the bushy-browed assassin. “He can’t have gotten as far as the piazza.”

His narrow neck craning to look down the night-shrouded road, the second killer frowned. “He’s hiding from us. I’d bet my life he’s not more than a few hundred feet from here.”

Mist drifted across the roadway, stringing in from the Tiber river, which cut Rome in two. It slowly began to collect in miasmic pools.  Time passed interminably slow for Tinaccio, the pain in his chest eating at him. He stifled several coughs and let blood drool from his lips and pool in a crevice between paving stones. He wondered how much longer he would be able to hang on. Reaching slowly down to the right hand pocket of his jeans, his fingers brushed across the hard plastic canister that lay within.

That was what they wanted. He cursed Ptachko Wlascek and regretted the day they had met. He regretted having made contact with Russian secret intelligence, and having ever done anything to further their cause. It had all been because of the money. What a fool he had been! Now look at him, wedged between two cars and bleeding to death in the dead of night.

The three men fanned out across the broad street and began striding in the direction of the Piazza del Popolo. The thinnest of the killers stayed nearby, and Tinaccio could hear his footsteps come closer. Dropping down between the cars, the Italian painfully lowered himself to the ground so that he hugged the uneven stones of the street. He began to shiver uncontrollably as a dazed sort of shock began to sweep over him. Still, he hung on to a shred of rationality, and he dragged himself forward, leaving a bloody trail as he pulled himself beneath the Mercedes. Only by lying completely flat could he fit beneath the vehicle.

He stopped worming his way forward as the leather shoes of his stalker came into sight, striding slowly along the walkway. Tinaccio’s breaths were ragged, and crimson flecked the stones with each exhalation. He rested his cheek against the street and watched the feet come to a halt.

“I’ve got some more blood over here,” the black-capped Russian called to his compatriots.
The thin Russian followed the trail of vermilion drops to the gap between the two cars where Tinaccio had been hiding only moments earlier.

The Italian knew that he had only seconds before his stalkers found his hiding place. Just as he was about to give up all hope, he heard the buzz of a small motorcycle approaching from the south. Gathering his strength and steeling himself against the pain, he dragged himself from beneath the car and leaped to the center of the Via del Corso, the headlight of the oncoming motorbike limning his bent body in a cone of blinding light.

Tinaccio waved his hands in desperation, blood frothing at the corner of his lips. As the surprised motorcyclist screeched to a halt only a few feet from their bleeding prey, the Russian agents cried out and leaped to intercept him. Their momentary hesitation to shoot him down in front of this new witness was Tinaccio’s only chance at salvation.

Grimacing, he leaped to the motorcycle and shoved the bewildered rider from his seat. In truth, Tinaccio’s shove was weak, and the youth might have been able to resist, but he had seen the dark outlines of the silenced guns in the hands of the three shouting men. He didn’t realize they were chasing Tinaccio, and not in league with him to relieve him of his transportation.

The confused youth staggered from his motorcycle and Tinaccio bent low over the tear-drop tank, shifted into first gear with his left foot, and pulled back the throttle with his right hand. The motorcycle jerked forward, the front wheel pulling off the ground as it lurched into motion. The caterpillar-browed Russian leaped from in front of the charging wheel of the bike, and in a moment Tinaccio rocketed past his assailants. He shifted into second and third, his newly-appropriated bike leaping over the rough roadways toward the looming Piazza del Popolo, and each bump causing excruciating pain as the bullet in his lung worked deeper.
Wind rushed at Tinaccio, throwing back his unruly black hair, and tearing at the grimace on his face.

A series of hisses and pops rattled from the mouths of the silenced Makarovs, and the left wing mirror, and the rear brake light of the motorcycle simultaneously shattered, throwing glass, plastic and metal into the air. The 9mm Makarovs were not designed for long range shooting, and in a moment Tinaccio veered the motorcycle to his left and around the grand gateway which the Via del Corso circled. While the Russians cursed the escape of their prey, the youth who had been divested of his motorcycle wisely fled into the shadows.

In the space of minutes, Tinaccio barreled across the Ponte Matteotti, a graceful bridge arching over the dark waters of the Tiber, which glittered with the reflections of the city’s lights. His head was swimming when he pulled up to the Prati apartments on the Via Silvio Pellico. Trees shrouded the edges of the white building, which extended upward several levels beyond their leafy embrace.

Tinaccio tried to set the kickstand, but the motorcycle collapsed on its side at the edge of the roadway and he staggered to the broad front steps, flanked by flaking white pillars. By the time he found the number of an apartment on the fifth floor and pressed the intercom buzzer, black spots crept in around the edge of his vision. There was no response, so he pressed again. For a moment he blacked out, and when he came to, he heard an angry voice barking at him from the intercom.

“Ermes,” he croaked. “This is Tinaccio. I’ve got some information for you.”

“Information? Tinaccio, are you there?”

There was no verbal response. Tinaccio tried to speak, but coughed once before his heart ceased beating. He pitched against the wall and fell into a sodden pile at the foot of the intercom within the vestibule of the Prati Apartments...

What starts out as a simple case of economic espionage for Fritz and Sly Gantlet turns into a deadly game.  Forced into an uneasy alliance with the CIA, Fritz, Sly, Matthias, Mitz, and Otto find that this is one game that they cannot afford to lose, because in this game every life in the western world is a pawn.

The first in Joel Jenkins' action-adventure series, THE NUCLEAR SUITCASE is available  in our store, on Amazon, or on Fictionwise!

Read a review via Pulp Fiction Reviews here! 

 Trade: $12.95

 E-Book: Coming Soon!

ISBN-10: 144217191X

ISBN-13:  978-1442171916

JOEL JENKINS

Joel Jenkins lives with his wife and children in the misty, heron-haunted reaches of the Great Northwest, shadowed in the perpetual gloom of the Rainier Mountains. This former rock vocalist for Static Condition, and Red Die #5 enjoys weightlifting, weapons collecting, and concocting a good tale. Visit his site.