Book Synopsis:
With Saddam Hussein deposed and an entire country in need of rebuilding, former Royal Marine John Pierce hears the siren call of adventure and opportunity. His fledgling UK business is struggling to support his young family and he has connections in the Iraqi capital – fate seems to point one way.
In early 2004, Pierce rolls the dice when he jumps into a taxi in Jordan and heads for the turmoil of postwar Baghdad to grab a share of the reconstruction gold rush. But when Iraq spirals into the hell of a full-blown insurgency, he must rely on his wits and his local friends if he’s to evade the rampant bloodshed.
As the action rolls across the blood-stained Iraqi landscape and embraces London’s seedy underbelly, Pierce tangles with the authorities at home and finds himself thrust into the heart of British and American covert operations against Al-Qaeda in Iraq.
Having set out with little more than ambitious goals and an appetite for risk, can a determined ex-bootneck survive the mounting chaos unscathed and succeed in hitting the jackpot?
Appetite For Risk is available in ebook and paperback now. You can purchase your copy using the link below.
Extract:
The opening scene from Chapter 1 is based on a similar incident that happened to me in identical circumstances. Soon after the events of that day, I vowed that it would be the opening scene if I ever tried to write a novel.
Chapter 1
Basra, Iraq – November 2004
‘Alpha Victor Two-One-Alpha: static vehicle right, six hundred metres, over.’
‘Two-One-Bravo: roger static vehicle right, out.’
I peered over the driver’s shoulder and spotted the car ahead through the heat shimmer rising from the tarmac. It sat alone at the agreed location: parked on the verge along a stretch of empty desert road between two shallow berms.
Our Land Rover approached with caution and rolled to a halt ten metres short of a black BMW saloon; the vehicle description and plate number matched my notes. The Two-One-Bravo Land Rover stopped twenty metres behind us and three soldiers emerged to scan the car and surrounding area through the magnified sights on their SA80 rifles.
We’d left the sanctuary of the large military base at Basra Airport a few minutes earlier, nipping out just before an inbound armoured patrol would have delayed our exit. This spot was out of sight from the base, but still close enough to sense an invisible cloak of protection from the resident British forces. Apart from the black car there were no other signs of life, and only the rhythmic rattle of the Land Rovers’ diesel engines disturbed the silence of the bleak desert landscape.
I waited until one of the BMW’s rear doors opened and a familiar figure appeared. He held up his hand in greeting and shielded his eyes from the sun’s glare.
‘Okay, here goes,’ I said through the headrests to the patrol commander up front, my long-time friend, Ian.
He turned to me with concern etched on his tanned face. ‘We’ll see you at Khor Az Zubayr this afternoon. Call me if you run into any issues. Be careful, John.’
‘Any issues’ might mean bad news for me, but Ian’s army officer career would also be at risk if his unofficial support for my activities was revealed, especially if the revelation came courtesy of my being kidnapped, shot, or otherwise compromised in downtown Basra.
Judging by the banter over the last week, his men thought it likely I was a spook of some kind. Ian’s last, familiar comment sparked interested glances in my direction.
‘Roger that mate, thanks.’
I nodded to the other guys, clambered over the tailgate, and dropped onto the road. When I neared the car, my eyes roved across the rough ground for any sign of IEDs before I stepped off the tarmac.
Clear.
A bead of sweat trickled past my left eye before I caught it with my sleeve. Admittedly I was apprehensive about the impending meeting, but it must have been over eighty degrees in old money, despite being November.
Ian’s young translator, Hassan, stood by the open door of the BMW wearing his usual smile. A slim, friendly graduate in his early twenties, he was dressed in polished shoes, black trousers, and a white shirt without a tie. Business casual – like me.
‘Morning, Hassan. Are we all set?’
‘All set, Mr John.’
‘Good. Let’s get this show on the road.’
After tossing a wave towards the two departing Land Rovers, I removed my sunglasses and slid into the BMW, taking a moment to adjust from the searing sunlight to the darker interior.
‘Gentlemen. John Pierce, good to meet you.’
Hassan climbed in and shut the door. The central locking clicked and an unexpected silence engulfed the car, putting me on edge and causing the smile to drop from Hassan’s face.
‘Are you a spy for the Israelis?’
Where the hell did that come from?
The dust cloud kicked up by Ian’s patrol grew smaller ahead as they raced off along the stark, black thread of road; my link with safety slipping away. Little sign of the invisible cloak of protection now. A shock of alarm pulsed deep inside.
Hassan on my right, a large stony-faced guy on my left. If this was an abduction, I needed to force my way out of the car, as fast as possible and as violently as necessary.
The fuse lit by the question burned.
Stolen glances round the car detected no obvious weapons, but impossible these guys were unarmed – no-one was in these parts. Not the friendliest-looking bunch I’d met either. I doubted they were unfamiliar with the sight of bloodshed or the use of violence. Useful if they were on my side, not so good if they weren’t.
The Land Rovers dropped out of sight once they passed the sandy berm. I tried to hold on to a composure wanting to disappear with them and focused on the forty-something questioner glaring from the front passenger seat. With a dodgy suit, shiny black hair, thick moustache, surly expression, and personal hygiene enhanced by a strong cologne, he was rocking the same look as stony face on my left and what I had seen of the driver.
A former bootneck, or Royal Marines Commando, I’d been around a bit myself, although accusations of spying were a first. Time to roll the dice: stay put or make a run for it?
Images fast-forwarded through my head: orange boiler suit, sharp knives, unwanted TV stardom – switching to a violent struggle, haring down the main drag, locals asking, ‘Why did the crazy Brit attack us?’ – switching again to questions, answers: ‘We’re so sorry, Mr John, but we had to ask.’ Hassan apologetic on their behalf.
The last option worked for me. ‘Stay put’ it was then. Best the old bootneck charm worked its magic.
With the silent tension needing to be punctured, I blurted out, ‘No.’
Not much charm there, not much composure either.
About The Author:
Jack Leavers is a former Royal Marines Commando with over thirty-years’ experience in the military, private security, corporate investigations, maritime counter-piracy, and risk management. His varied career has included numerous deployments to conflict zones around the world such as Northern Ireland, Bosnia, Iraq, Afghanistan, trouble spots in Africa, and the Somali pirate-infested waters of the Indian Ocean.
He continues to work in challenging environments and has now begun to pen novels inspired by some of the more enterprising projects that got the green light, and other audacious plans that didn’t.
When knuckling down to write, he’s normally based in London, UK.
Website: jackleavers.com
Twitter: @jackleavers
Over The Rainbow Blog 
Thanks so much, Jo x
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