Greatest Agent Ever

7 Figure Lane

Probably, New York

10012

Dear Greatest Agent Ever:

I’m lost. I don’t know what kind of query letter to send you. One expert says "sell yourself." Another says anyone who writes anything in a query not pertaining to the story only hurts himself. And the expert who said "never sound desperate," has probably never had to use a query.

Here goes. I have a finished novel, but before I began writing full time, I worked as a corporate instructor in Holland.  I have experience editing and have written human-interest features for an international petroleum magazine.

My novel is titled BOMBAY WEST. It’s an action/adventure, written with a touch of humor. The story’s about an oil worker named Hampton Boyd, who lives in Dubai, the United Arab Emirates. Hampton’s dream is to open his own nightclub back in the States, but some horrific financial decisions by his brother are about to cost him his life savings.

One day Hampton reads a newspaper story about an Indian mafia boss who’s living free in Dubai, because they have no extradition with India, and how the Indian government is offering a five million dollar reward for his return.

More terrible news from his brother pushes Hampton into action as he plans to kidnap the godfather and smuggle him back to India.

In capturing and moving this man to Bombay, everything that could possibly go wrong does. They’re turned around in the Persian Gulf by Navy SEALs, forced down out of the air over Oman by jets, and chased through the desert by the army.

Once in India, the story takes a bizarre twist when they turn over the mafia boss at a police station, then are told the reward has expired. Out of options, Hampton raids the station and takes the godfather back, with the intention of selling him to a rival mob.

The story takes its biggest twist toward the end, when the godfather convinces Hampton he can get the money he needs by joining him in a caper to knock off another gang.

Although the story takes place in and around the Middle East, there are no terroristic themes or heavy violence. In fact, the story shows the westernized Islam few are familiar with.

I wrote this book because it’s been on my mind for years. There actually was a wanted mafia boss in Dubai while I was living there. The reward was tempting and I discussed kidnapping him with a close friend, but when my associate reminded me that the police were still executing people on the beach, we decided to leave it alone. The plan I laid out is the book.

Good scenes make entertaining books. Whether it’s a car chase through a sandstorm, using a cobra to escape from the police, or being rescued from a tiger by an elephant, BOMBAY WEST has a lot of unpredictable action; that’s why I believe in it.

I guess this letter was a catchall. You know about me and my book, and I’ve managed to sound desperate. Thank you for considering my material.

Sincerely,

Wiley Russell  (wileyrussell.com)

Adventure

About 98,000 words

BOMBAY WEST

CHAPTER ONE

One hundred miles from Bombay, the morning sun glowed orange on the horizon as tall waves broke against the substructure of a jack-up oil rig. Its triangular-shaped hull rested between three massive legs; round beams crisscrossing one another, disappearing underwater where their pads had settled into the silt on bottom.

"They are saying he was the most dangerous man in India," one roughneck said to the other.

The two Indians dressed in baggy blue coveralls, covered in grease, stood on the catwalk outside the massive drilling derrick studying the back page of the Bombay Times.

"Do they say how many people he has killed?" The second roughneck pulled at a corner of the paper, trying to see better.

"No." The other squinted at the type. "Here they have used an English word . . . ser--ia--l killer. What does this one mean?"

"Serial," the roughneck read, then paused. "That is a type of food. What the Americans and English eat for breakfast, made from grain."

"He killed for food?"

A gorilla of a man in coveralls big enough to make a tent out of stepped from inside the steel doghouse onto the catwalk. "You two ditch that paper and get yourselves a couple paint brushes and head down to the motor room!"

A long streamer of brown tobacco juice landed in the spot where the two roughnecks had been standing as they hurried down the stairs escaping the giant Texan driller.

# # #

On a third-floor balcony, outside the living accommodations, a tool pusher stepped outside. Hampton Boyd watched as the roustabouts on the pipe deck guided the crane loads of tubing down onto the rig.

Hampton stepped to the railing and looked out over the sea. He unfolded a one page fax, reading it for the third time.

Dear Hampton:

I hate to keep giving you horrible news, but I know you have to hear it. A bad storm blew into Houston Saturday and tore a ton of shingles off the restaurant. About a quarter of the sub-roof was damaged, as well as some of the drywall in the dining area. And I’m sorry, but I can’t return the money I borrowed against the credit card because I spent it buying supplies to stock the bars.

Hampton’s left eye twitched as he tried to focus on the facsimile. It was his brother’s writing, but the words had gone through so many telephone lines to get to this side of the world, it had given them a ghoulish appearance.

Also, the double doors at the entrance didn’t fit quite right, so we had to leave the place open one night and some kids got in with a can of spray paint and messed up a wall really bad (sorry it wasn’t the same wall as the dining area). The police are looking for them. I’m just glad they didn’t spray the oak bar. I’ll do all I can and keep you updated. Tim.

"Give me a break." Hampton wadded the paper in a fist. "Can’t anything go right?"

# # #

The Mary Donner was one of four offshore rigs Sutterfield Drilling had working internationally. Based in Houston, Sutterfield began drilling wildcat wells in the Texas Panhandle eighty years ago. Three generations of Donners had worked the company into a healthy operation spread throughout Texas and Oklahoma. Now they were trying to make a name for themselves overseas.

The Mary Donner worked in a field that belonged to O.G.A.I.--the Oil and natural Gas Association of India. The crew was an oddball mix of cultures and languages. Under the contract with OGAI, only the supervisors and specialists could be expatriates. The government of India insisted nationals be employed and trained wherever possible. There were Hindus from Bombay, Muslims and Sikhs from up north, and a sprinkling of Christians from here and there.

Hampton shouldn’t have been on the rig at all. He was a superintendent, his job was back in Dubai, the United Arab Emirates, troubleshooting problems and making sure the rigs had everything they needed. But the day tool pusher was in the States on a drilling seminar, so Hampton filled in for a week.

Hampton was thirty-five years old and a strong six foot, but the lean one hundred ninety pounds had gone to two fifteen when he began riding a desk in Dubai two years ago. He walked into the radio room, at the very top of the accommodations, slipped off his boots, set down his hardhat and pulled a tally book from his back pocket.

Two men in the middle of discussing something important stopped the rapid-fire dialog of Hindi as he entered.

"Sparky, get OGAI base on the radio--" Hampton shook the tally book at the radio operator. "Tell them if I catch another supply boat coming alongside us and dumping contaminated diesel fuel, drilling mud or anything else in the water I’m going to shut down the rig and report them to the World Bank."

"Yes," Sparky said, "I will tell them. Again."

"And find out when the freshwater is supposed to be here," Hampton added.

The radio operator twisted a dial and pressed the mike. After a short discussion, a voice came back swearing there would be no more waste products going into the sea. And an explanation that the rig’s freshwater supply had been delayed by a Ganesha festival going on in the streets of Bombay; where it was customary to construct giant statues of the multi-armed elephant god, then rush into the sea with them. Unfortunately, each year several people drowned as the enormous papier-mâché constructions melted on top of them.

If it’s not one thing, it’s another. Hampton shook his head.

Behind the radio operator, a roughneck stood holding a folded newspaper in front of him. Eyes on the floor, he shifted his weight nervously from side to side.

"What’s up, James?" Hampton asked.

"My wife, she is having a baby. Radio operator at base is waiting for a call from her brother."

"What the hell you doin’ out here then? Didn’t you tell anyone she was expecting?"

James kept his eyes down. "I have asked Fred, he said I must stay."

"Son of a--" Hampton gave James a half pat, half shove. "Go pack your bags. There’s a crew-change chopper in half an hour. Make sure you’re on it."

"Thank you!"

"After she has the baby, take a day or two then phone the base and we’ll arrange a chopper for you," Hampton said.

James grabbed the doorknob, then let go and spun around. "This, I wanted to give you this--" He poked the newspaper at him.

Hampton took hold of it as James hurried out the door, thumping down the internal stairs. Hampton studied the back page of the Bombay Times. He didn’t have a clue what it said; the print resembled something from a UFO flight manual. On the top middle, however, there was a picture: an Indian man who appeared to be in his forties, with a sinister-looking, pencil-thin mustache, and behind him there was a building. Hampton raised the paper to the light of the window, there was definitely something familiar here.