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About the Author: Michael Condon

Michael was born in Cincinnati Ohio in 1954. He attended Catholic schools and lived in a nice middle class home in the suburb of Cincinnati.
He was a circus roustabout, a factory worker, a truck driver, and a laborer until he attended school at Edgecliff College which became Xavier University. He attended school there from 1976 to 1977 where he studied English courses, Theatre Arts and Creative Writing.
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He attended the USAF in 1978 through 1985. When he was removed from the Air Force he came to settle in Tampa Florida where he had the time to be creative again on paper.
A friend gave him an Olivetti typewriter, the old kind with ribbon and high keys, and he started writing short short stories. Years later he rewrote those stories. The same friend, who gave him the typewriter, later gave him a computer and was able to acquire a printer and continued writing.
Those stories are now published in "A Collection of Short Stories" by Create Space.
In the span of years since he started writing he also published a short Novella called "Pipelines in the Sand" 2008 also published by Create Space and "Judgement Day" a novella. His latest book is "The Applicant"




The Applicant - Border Zone Available in 2014. It will be a continuation of The Applicant published in October 2013.Available at author page link above. I contracted tuberculosis when I was thirteen years of age. That’s what I told the border control officers during the first attempt at smuggling the youth across the Rio Grande river into Texas. “Run, run go get back,” the officer called to his partner. My group of four was intercepted after crossing over in a raft. “My God Sanchez this guy tells me he’s got TB.” I was coughing and spitting up phlegm as the agent backed off and called his partner. Human trafficking is a federal crime in the United States, and not willing to spend the rest of my life in prison, I was prepared to do anything to avoid it. I hacked up another Louie and spat it out ten feet away. The officer backed away as I scrambled onto my feet and leapt toward the raft alongside the river. I crawled down the embankment, hopped into the raft and began to paddle toward the other side. The officer at the same time began shouting for me to stop, but I continued paddling across. He could have stopped me, as these officers had twenty or more years of training, but from the look on his face he was relieved I got away. When I reached the other side I watched as the group of four that trusted me, were led away by the agents. I felt guilty for the position they were now in. And there was nothing I could do about it now.
They would eventually be taken back to their hometowns in Mexico and further south where the life was not promising, as they were hoping to enter the land of opportunity where it was better than the meager twelve dollars a day on this side. They would be flown back after a detainment and they would likely not try to get across again, at least until some time had passed. A few would go back to searching the garbage dumps for anything salvageable and grow whatever seeds they could find in their plot of land.
Born near the mining town of Real De Catorce, where my father mined silver all his life, had its challenges. One challenge was learning English at an early age. The other challenge was seeing my father come home tired and worn on the meager wages the companies paid. Early, as a prospector he did well until the laws changed and the silver mines were taken over by the larger companies. I learned to lie, cheat and grab anything I could to get ahead in life as the silver could lead men into a psychosis of greed. I did not care for nor had any interest in following in the footsteps of my father. (To read more please visit my blog or read predecessor The Applicant here)http://www.amazon.com/author/michaelc...


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Paperback, Published in Nov 2011 by Createspace

ISBN10: 1467956872 | ISBN13: 9781467956871

Page count: 280

It was snowing lightly as the driver maneuvered the vehicle across the Potomac. Inside it was warm as Special agent of the FBI field office out of Virginia turned on the wipers. Special agent James Henson continued to drive slowly, avoiding the snow drifts that were beginning to accumulate along the side of the road. He drove for the next twenty minutes until he reached the Washington Office of the FBI on Pennsylvania Avenue. He found a parking garage across the street from Washington DC and walked the rest of the way on foot through a mist of snow. Inside the building he continued through a maze of metal detectors and past armed guards, until he reached a desk, signed a ledger and noticed an older woman in perhaps her sixties. She asked him, "Can I help you?" "I'm here to see Director Johnson. He's expecting me." "And you are?" the woman stopped short and waited the last name. "Special agent Henson." he commanded. "Oh, yes sir, go right up the elevator to the fifth floor. He is waiting for you." He rode the elevator up to the fifth floor and once the door opened, Director Fred Johnson was there to greet him. "Welcome agent Henson. You are to follow me." He led him down a corridor to a door with the word Director on it, and opened it. It opened to a large room with books occupying the length of the wall, a large desk with papers covering it, and two chairs opposite each other. The director said, "Have a seat agent." Agent Henson sat down. The director continued. "I've read the report on David Harrigan and his associate. May I call him associate?" "We don't have his name sir. He had no ID on him when our agents brought him in." "And you learned nothing from Harrigan while he was detained?" "He was cooperative. But David didn't know his name. David said he showed up at his Indiana home one day." "Well, let's call this partner of his, associate for now," director Johnson said. He continued. "Like I said, I read the report. What do you want me to do about it?" asked the director. "He seems to have some powers of persuasion," agent Henson said flatly. "Have you done your research agent? You must know there are places, perhaps in the orient where they teach mind control. Anyway, there's little I can do. I have a full plate with terrorism cases, forgery, murder cases. I will leave it up to special divisions to deal with this. If there's anything you need just ask," director Johnson said. Then he continued, "I see you tried to run them off the road, unsuccessfully, but you tried, according to the report." "Yes we tried. We will succeed next time." "Where are you originally from agent?" "I was born in upstate New York." "How long have you been with the agency Mr. Henson?" "It's been seven years, this December sir." "Has it been your experience, Mr. Henson, during that time, to ever have that type of order?" "No sir. Not until this case." "You're only following directives from your unit? Is that right?" "Yes sir." "Who asked for your approval?" "It was suggested by all the doctors. It was unanimous sir." "Very well agent Henson." The director got up from the chair. "Let's take a walk down to the cafe down the hall. We can talk more, but not about the case." "How about some coffee?" the director asked, as they walked out the door. They walked down the long hallway. They passed three doorways with agent's names on them, along with a few private doors until they reached a small cafe. Inside it was brightly lit with a few tables with windows alongside. Outside, a mist of snow had turned a green lawn, white, if even for a short time. A little frost was building on the window pane as they walked to the self-serve coffee machines. "They have a good black coffee here, if you like it black," said the director. Agent Henson flipped the handle of the coffee machine and filled the small Styrofoam, waiting for the director to finish. They proceeded to a table by the window and sat down"

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