Here’s a sneak peek of Chapter 1 of my latest thriller, Burning Ambitions. The book is available at Amazon and other major book retailers.

August, 2019 – Buffalo, NY

Matt Gleason paced back and forth across the security office inside Municipal Stadium.  He glanced at his watch for the fourth time in the past 10 minutes – 2:35 a.m.  Marco had told him they’d be here by two at the latest.  But still no sign.  So he continued to wear a path across the small office, growing more irritated with each passing minute.

“How am I supposed to explain not noticing two of the security cams being down for 30 fucking minutes?” he said out loud in the empty room.  “Fucking Luther will think I’m an idiot.

That was just fine with Gleason.  Whatever dreams he had of “protecting and serving” the people of Buffalo faded a long time ago.  After twenty-three years of unremarkable and barely passable work on the Buffalo police force and another seven years in this job, Gleason had no illusions about himself.  The last thing he needed or wanted was to be face to face with some punk with a knife or a gun.  Let some other sucker risk his life for $60 grand a year and two weeks vacation.  Gleason considered himself lucky to have this job.  Yeah, he worked nights, but he basically got paid to sit back, drink his 50-ounce Double Gulp of Coke, which he spiked with cheap rum, and watch sports.  Plus at least once a season he would get free tickets to a game. 

Sports were Gleason’s only passion.  Watching was more than just a pastime, usually he had action going on at least one game a night.  If the sport involved a ball or a bat he would lay down a wager.  Gleason had been a gambler as long as he could remember.  His addiction had almost gotten him into trouble a few times when he was a cop.  Fortunately he was able to get out before it cost him his pension.  

However, the legalization of sports betting and the proliferation of betting apps since his retirement proved to be a toxic combination.  The ease with which he could place bets fed his addiction no different than a drunk taking a job as a bartender.  When he maxed out his credit cards and the betting apps froze his accounts, Marco Salvano, his local bookie, was more than happy to take his action.  Now Gleason was $50 grand in the hole.  

As he continued to pace, Gleason promised himself for the hundredth time that he’d swear off gambling once he did this “service” for Marco.  “Easiest money you’ll ever make,” Marco said.  All Gleason had to do was disable the appropriate security cameras, let two of Marco’s friends into the stadium and guide them to the locker room.  

“None of your fucking business,” Marco blurted with a mouthful of chicken wings when Gleason summoned the courage to ask him what this was all about two days ago.  “Do me this favor, and you and I are square.  That’s all you need to know.”

But now that the day was here, Gleason was tormented with second thoughts.  More than once he considered texting Marco to call off the whole thing.  He was about to take another healthy chug of his spiked Double Gulp when his phone vibrated with a call from an “unknown caller.”  This had to be it.

“Yeah, Gleason,” he said in the phone, trying to sound irritated.  Whether they were friends of Marco or not, he had to let these guys know that being late put him in a tough spot.

“South Gate,” the voice responded before abruptly hanging up.  Who was this asshole to give him attitude?  He was late.  

Five minutes later Gleason nervously unlocked the access door at the South Gate and saw two men fully clad in black from head to toe, wearing oversized backpacks.  

“You guys are late,” Gleason whispered.

“Cameras?” the taller of the two men asked, ignoring Gleason’s rebuke.

“Take us to the locker room,” the other man said.

Gleason nodded.  “Follow me,” he said, with a wave of his arm, as he started walking. He wanted to be rid of these guys as soon as possible.

  “Remember the way, because I’m not taking you back.  I need to get my ass back to the security office before someone notices.  You’ll have ten minutes.”

Gleason moved quickly, scanning every direction as they navigated the stadium’s interior passageways.  His heart pounded, and sweat stains spread like lava down the back of his shirt.  He wasn’t used to this much exertion and stress.  Even with the heavy backpacks and containers they were carrying, the two men moved with ease.

“No touching the players’ stuff.  No souvenirs or you’ll get me in trouble,” Gleason said in between breaths.  He wasn’t sure why these guys needed all the gear.  He assumed Marco wanted photos of game plans and playbooks, maybe to sell or use somehow to rig a game to score a big payday.  Gleason didn’t know and he didn’t want to know.  He just wanted to make sure these guys did nothing stupid that would get him in trouble.

As they made a series of turns through the bowels of the stadium Gleason said, “Hope you guys are paying attention, it’s kind of a maze down here.”

The fact is Gleason didn’t need to worry about them getting lost.  The men knew the way.  They had spent the past week memorizing every last inch of the stadium.  They had no interest in the locker room or the coaches’ offices.  So as they approached the doorway to their real destination, one of the men removed the small hard rubber billy club he carried inside his vest and slammed it into the back of Gleason’s head.  Gleason crumpled to the concrete, never knowing what hit him.

“Fat pig.  Let me finish him,” said one of the men as he unsheathed his knife.

“No.  He’ll roast like the swine that he is.  Now grab his feet and help me drag him in here,” the other man responded.

They grabbed Gleason’s keys and unlocked the door that led to the stairway to the basement.  Once inside they closed the door and rolled Gleason’s body down the stairs.  His head bounced off the concrete steps like a basketball before his body came to rest in a heap at the bottom.

“They’ll think the drunk pig tripped when he came down to investigate,” said one of the men with a chuckle.

They walked down the stairs and aimed their flashlights at the array of electrical equipment that lined the room.  All power to the stadium from the outside routed through here.  It was the perfect place to start a fire.

One of the men set the timer on his watch, and they got to work.  They had timed the operation down to the second.  In and out in less than fifteen minutes, that’s all it would take.  

When their work was done, they scanned the room one final time before heading for the stairs.  One of them kicked Gleason in the ribs for good measure on the way out.  Gleason grunted but remained unconscious.  It was the last sound anyone would hear him make.  

Five minutes later the men drove away in a commercial van with the cheap, block lettering “North Buffalo Plumbing Supplies” sticker on the side.  There was no such business, and the plates on the van were stolen.  Within the hour the van would be abandoned, and neither man would be within forty miles of Buffalo

They headed south on Abbot Road away from the stadium.  When the stadium was a mile behind, the man in the passenger seat removed the burner phone from his pocket and dialed the number he had memorized.  He exchanged glances with the driver before hitting send.

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