South Florida adventure, crime and violence in a fiction story based on a true life experience. A book you will not want to put down until you reach the past page.

Based on a true story that unveils the reality behind Washington pornography, politics and finance. Engineer and entrepreneur Mark Hansen is determined to carve out his destiny as the manufacturer of an innovative locator device for finding people lost at sea. Mark soon discovers that venture capital has hazards never mentioned in textbooks, and as the plot thickens, he gets locked in a struggle to save not only his company but his life.

“This book is like Dave Barry meets Tom Peters at Daniele Steel's place.”

--James McNamara, North Carolina

 

“I took the book home, my husband devoured it--I'm shocked, he never reads!”

-- C. Huml, Ft. Lauderdale

 

“A business lesson, without the pain, a love lesson with the pain-- who knew?”

-- Dee Gykes, New Orleans

 

“The writing equivalent of shooting the curl.”

-- John Felton, San Jose, California

 

About the Author:

 

After a jealous business competitor fired six 9mm hollow point bullets into his office, author John Rushing knew that he had a lot to say about the adventure of being an entrepreneur in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. A veteran in the world of venture capital and business, Rushing, who is also an inventor and college professor, became an author by default. “Adventure Capital literally wrote itself,” says Rushing. “It is based on my own experiences and those of my friends. I suppose you could say that it took a total of forty years to write this book – thirty years to collect the scar tissue and another ten to write about it.” Rushing and his wife continue to enjoy the good life in South Florida.

 

Excerpt:

 

First Chapter:

 

CHAPTER ONE - THE SENATOR

 

"A bribe," he thought.  "The bitch wants a bribe."

            Limpid brown eyes scanned Mark, seeking any reaction, any change in expression.  There was none.   He was young and damned good looking, with a rugged body that LL Bean would use to peddle anything from Rugby shirts to running shorts. Jade green eyes, clear lightly freckled skin that softened his chiseled features.  Hair like burnt umber, still burning.  Smart?  She wondered.

"Senator --"

            "Please, Mr. Hansen -- Mark," she interrupted as she came out from behind her desk, "call me Connie. My friends do." She sat down in the chair opposite him and allowed her skirt to ride up above her knee.

            "Senator . . . Connie . . . I'm not sure I understand just what you’re suggesting." He knew damn well. He just wanted her to say it.

            "Look around, Mark," her hand swept the room, "tell me what you see."

             "Marble, wood, paintings, all expensive -- very Senatorial."

            That was an understatement. Mark estimated that the desk alone cost more than his car. The paintings were almost certainly originals and included what was probably an early Picasso. Not that he cared.

            "And --"

             "I don't know. Leather, furniture . . ." He had little patience with the game playing, but had no choice if he wanted her help. And . . . you.”

             She ran a hand over her knee and let it slide down the side of her leg. Mark tried not to look at her legs, tried not to fall into those gorgeous brown eyes.

She lowered her voice. "Mark, look at it this way. I am a U.S. Senator and this is my office.  You are a citizen who’s looking for some help getting your product – your invention, on the market. You need to cut through some red tape so you can – what? Save someone lost at sea? Get rich and retire -- whatever. She paused, again scanning for a response. 

Mark nodded and a faint trace of a grin briefly flashed across his face. Connie continued, “Assume for now my husband is not the Secretary of Transportation and that you didn’t come to me because he controls the people you need to see.”

"I'm not sure what you're driving at," he said haltingly, “but my associates --"

            "Are wonderful people whom I have not had the pleasure of meeting," she interrupted pointedly.

            "All that aside . . . We, my associates and I, feel strongly about your candidacy. We wonder how you would feel if we were to form a PAC and provide some support for your re-election."   He paused, scanning her carefully.  Nothing. Not a twitch, not one nostril move; nothing.    

            "Well, Mark that is very thoughtful, but you know some people might misunderstand such support."  What would her husband think of him, she wondered. The senator’s smile broadened.

            Mark caught himself bathing in her smile. It was warm.  Hell it was devastating.  No wonder she was so effective.  She could melt titanium with that smile.  But not him.

             "I hadn’t thought of it like that."  A white lie.  He didn’t think this up, his associates did.  "But maybe my people could talk with your people and come up with a suitable way for handling such matters so we could avoid any, uh—possible misunderstandings."

            "Maybe so. So . . . why don't you suggest that to your associates?" Connie stood up, casually smoothing her skirt.   Even in a blue business suit, white blouse and practical coiffure, she was a show stopper.  Tall, maybe five ten in flats, fit, yet round.  Not Rubinesque, but round, very round.  She moved toward his chair.

Mark rose, assuming he was being dismissed.  He was only half right.

            "Mark, I have a vote on the Senate floor, but I would like to continue our conversation.  My secretary will arrange it." She extended her hand, "We are always happy to serve our constituents."

            He was left standing awkwardly with his "thank you" trailing her out the door.

Alfred, the senator’s secretary was waiting for him, pencil poised over the appointment book. "Senator Johnson will be available Friday at 11:30. Will that be satisfactory?"  He peered at Mark over his antique spectacles.

            "Lunch would be good," Mark started.

            "No sir." Alfred cleared his throat, making no effort to hide his amusement. “Sir, this would be PM. 11:30 PM, at the Gateway Hotel, suite 516."

"Oh, uh . . . that's fine too," Mark stammered. "Thanks."

“Here is an appointment card, with the time and the address. Attire will be casual, sir."

            Mark almost asked what "casual" meant, but decided he could figure that out well enough. Figuring out how Alfred was able to set the appointment so quickly was another matter, although maybe that wasn’t so difficult after all.

            Friday came quickly.  He managed to keep busy, doing the obligatory ride on the underground, the grand tour.  The monuments.  The memorials, a few good-byes at the Viet Nam wall, souvenir shopping . . . It was hot and the city was loaded with tourists. Hell, why should he complain? He was one, too, wasn’t he? Well, not exactly. The only reason he’d made the trip, especially at this time of the year, was because he had to. All the way, he told himself resolutely, hailing a cab and glancing at his watch. Six more hours before he was due.

Mark wondered what he should or should not say to the Senator.  She obviously knew enough about his invention to understand that her husband could make or break Mark's business. But how much did she know about his partners and the deal he was proposing; anyway, would it matter? 

 

 

A light drizzle was cooling the air as Mark stepped out of the cab in front of the Gateway. He looked around before entering.  The Gateway had become a part of public consciousness when the conspiracy had unraveled there.  Today, it was just one more fancy DC hotel where pols hung their hats and wannabes came and went. 

The street, usually populated by panhandlers and vagrants, was silent. That was a relief. At least the rain was good for something. The panhandlers were way past aggressive. Many were openly threatening like the punks in Miami that offered to wash you car windows, or break them.  

Mark pushed past the rotating glass doors and into the lobby, glanced at the card and proceeded to the fifth floor.

            The door snapped open as if gripped by a powerful spring. "Mark, come on in, Connie will be with us in a few minutes." The muscular man motioned toward the interior. "I'm Bill, Connie's husband.  She's been delayed but is on the way and asked me to hold the fort.  May I offer you something to drink while we wait?" 

            Mark looked past him into the room. It was large, sparsely yet elegantly furnished. It looked unused, uninhabited; strangely so.  It seemed to emphasize the strange informality with which he was treated.  One doesn't expect the Secretary of Transportation to jump to a first name basis with a total stranger.

            "Coke, water, anything's fine," Mark replied as they walked into the room.  Bill was wearing a blue pin-striped suit and his gray hair peppered with brown was cut short military fashion. Like Connie he appeared fit, but definitely was not round.  More like a halfback, and nearly as tall as Mark.

            "Pepsi okay?"  He passed the can to Mark, then eased into a chair, motioning to another chair for his guest. 

Mark noticed Bill favored one leg as he sat. He understood that Bill had been wounded in battle. He also understood that Bill did not appreciate it very much when people made a point of noticing it.

Bill continued, "Connie tells me you're having a little problem with some of my people."

            "Well, yes." Mark gulped a deep breath and dived in. "I am not sure how much of the background you know, but --"

"Let me save you a long dog and pony show. You need help. The wheels of bureaucracy turn slowly, if at all.  You need to speed up the process and more importantly you need a favorable outcome. You cannot even get in the door. That about it?" 

            "Yes, but --"

            "Do you have any idea of how many people are in exactly the same position as you and your partners?"  He stared reflectively out over the city, then snapped his gaze back to Mark. "Never mind, it was a rhetorical question," he paused reflecting, "Anyway, Connie has taken a liking to you, probably something to do with her . . . well, anyway . . ."

            This time the pause was much longer, leaving Mark wondering if he would continue.  He wondered what Bill had omitted.

Bill, now looking more than his sixty years continued. "This is a very delicate thing.  I've looked at your locator invention, at your particular situation, and frankly it looks questionable. You probably do not know that the government tried a similar idea and never could get the damn thing to work. If I stick my neck out and suggest -- I can't order, an okay -- and if things go wrong . . ."

            Mark leaned forward. "Oh, but they won’t -- not with this device! The entire system has been tested. It’s bulletproof.  And furthermore --"

"No offense, but I've heard that before,” the Secretary interrupted. “Mark, this is an act of faith on my part.  I'm the one who will get the bad press, and worse than that, I'm the one who will be pegged as a meddling jerkoff by the troops."  He paused again, but this time a faint smile crept across his lips. "Of course, it wouldn’t be the first time, in either case."

            "Does that mean that you --"

            "It means I'll seriously consider it.  But there’s another matter that’s even pricklier."  The smile vanished.  "If you and your people choose to support Connie in her re-election bid and I arrange to help you, some cynical people might misunderstand my motive, your motive -- and more importantly my wife's motives."   He stopped to make sure Mark fully got the message. "I would take it very unkindly if there were anything bad that happened to Connie as a result of this."

            Mark had heard rumors about Bill's extra-governmental connections.  He knew what he was being told.  The consequences of a screw-up would be ugly, probably terminally ugly.

            "Sir, I understand your concern, both for the Senator and yourself, as well as for me and my people.  I can only vouch for myself.  You'll have to make your own decisions about everyone else."

            Bill eased back in his chair. He understood why Connie liked the kid.  Still, he wondered just how much had to do with the PAC, the situation, and . . . and the kid was young . . . and . . . he did see the resemblance . . .

His musing was interrupted by a familiar rapping at the door.

            Connie slipped into the room and moved to Bill. She hugged him allowing her hand to slip around his back and gently rub while she kissed his cheeks.  She whispered something in his ear and for an instant Mark felt as if he were an intruder in some special private moment.  

            Breaking the embrace, Connie smiled at Mark, motioning him back into his chair.  She was wearing a simple gown with a floral print, and she looked ravishing as she perched on the bed and fluffed out the folds of her skirt, spreading them around her.  Bill returned to his chair.

            "So you gentlemen have had a chance to get acquainted while I was playing dodgem with the press?"

            As Mark watched Bill he understood. He would do anything short of murder for her.  Maybe even that.  It was touching in some bizarre way.  But everyone had an agenda, including himself, and his agenda was deeper, broader and more compelling than any other.  Whatever happened to anyone else, it would just have to happen.    

            "Yes," Bill replied, "but I think all the guy talk is over for now and I have to check in with the troops. We have a little situation in the Caribbean." He rose, moved directly to the door and paused. "Mark, nice meeting you. Connie, see you later." He was gone.

            Connie rose and headed toward the rear of the room. "Mark, I'm going to freshen up. Just make yourself comfortable. There is TV and stereo, I'll just be a minute."

            Puzzled, Mark watched her open the door and exit. He heard water running as if a bathtub were filling. What the hell. Was this his lucky day or some bizarre trap?  He thought back over the past few months to when it all began.