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The Prosecution of General Hastings
A. A. MacQueen
THE PROSECUTION OF GENERAL HASTINGS
Copyright 2015, A. A. MacQueen, LLC
All rights reserved.
ISBN-13: 978-1511869706
ISBN-10: 1511869704
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Back Matter
PROLOGUE
Just after midnight, the American walked into the shabby motel that was located two blocks off of Pueblo Nuevo on the north side of Hermosillo in the northern Mexican state of Sonora. The man sitting in the dusty ’72 Chevrolet Impala had been waiting and saw him arrive. Not being Mexican himself, he watched closely to ensure that his prey was the American. He was good, this man in the motel; he seemed to fit in. If the observer in the Chevrolet had not seen him earlier, he might not have identified the man to be the American. But it was him. He was sure of it.
He watched as the American chatted with the man at the desk. The American handed the clerk something and the clerk handed him something in return. Then the clerk handed the American two bottles of beer from the fridge behind the desk. The American pushed his hat far back on his head, turned away from the desk and walked down a hallway carrying the two beers in one hand and his brief case in the other. Now the man in the Chevrolet would wait again, but his plan was in motion. He would wait a couple of hours. There was no hurry. Why rush a man’s last night on earth?
With the windows rolled down, there was a pleasant breeze that passed across the front seat of the Chevrolet. It was a star filled night with no moon and the motel was far enough away from the lights of Pueblo Nuevo for the man to enjoy them in the dark Mexican sky. He played the radio softly, continually watching the doors of the motel. From the time that he began his vigil earlier in the evening, no one, save the American had entered or left.
At five minutes to three o’clock in the morning, the man got out of the Chevrolet. He reached into the backseat and retrieved the heavy glass bottle. It smelled of the gasoline that it contained. He was careful not to touch the wet rag that hung from the neck of the bottle. The man walked behind the motel and identified the glass window of the room where the American now lay sleeping. It was an old motel and the thin glass window panes would break easily. This would not take long.
The man reached into his pocket and withdrew the plastic cigarette lighter that he had purchased at the gasoline station. He turned the small striking wheel with his thumb and held the flame to the gas soaked rag hanging from the bottle. With all his might, he then threw the heavy glass bottle. It crashed through the window and loudly exploded into a massive ball of fire. The man could see the fire covering the interior of the motel room, the door, the walls, the bed clothes. It raced up the inside door leading to the hallway blocking any chance of escape. It happened in seconds. The room was completely engulfed in flames. The man thought he saw slight movement of the bed clothes. But they were completely aflame.
The firelight danced across the man’s face revealing an evil grin. He stood watching for a moment. He was certain the American had not survived this.
“Allahu Akbar,” he said. He turned and walked back to his car.