book preview of RAG DOLL



rag doll

villain Joseph Bohacik’s efforts to imprison the beautiful Nakita Cervenka were
thwarted when he was captured and imprisoned. His deadly accomplice, Varvara had
been shot and presumed dead. 

So ended the story
in Daniel McKinnon’s “Czech Point” …

With Bohacik
securely in jail, the reluctant hero, James Bergan settled into a harmonious,
bucolic existence in a country cottage in Europe with the love of his life,
Nakita.  Freedom, peace and happiness
were all theirs—or so it seemed.  The
couple were blissfully unaware of evil and deadly forces that were building
elsewhere on the planet—this was a movement with insidious powers travelling on
a collision course with James’ and Nakita’s own paradise …

The time was
approaching when the inexplicable mysteries of the spirit world and earthly
criminal subterfuge were on a disastrous trajectory. Beautiful things were about
to turn ugly and ugly situations were about to find beauty.

On a cold and
frosty night in London, all hell was about to be let loose…..

In Store Price: $32.00 

Online Price:   $31.00





Number of pages: 367
Genre: Fiction


Daniel McKinnon

Imprint: Poseidon

Publisher: Poseidon Books
Date Published:  2013
Language: English


This book is dedicated
to all
of my wonderful and supportive friends and to anyone and everyone who has a
dream to chase. Be it small or be it immense; chasing the exciting, the
different and the ‘change’ of daily pace makes it a journey of wonderment
instead of an accepted internment. Embrace the mysteries of this life with an
open mind; understand with your heart not just your brain; see with your mind
and not just your eyes. Most of all, struggle as hard as you must not to be
cloned by ‘the system’ and those who would manipulate you. Always be you,
unique, wonderful and different.


By the same author



Butterfly Kisses
(Poseidon, 2006)

Curse of the Wings

(Poseidon, 2007)

Czech Point
(Poseidon, 2011)


The author

The author makes the
point that this is a work of fiction. Connections to the props of the story such
as characters, names, places and events are to be considered as coincidental.
The flavour and traits of people, places and events encountered in daily life
enhance the essence of the story’s tale but in no way represent any direct
relationships. Religious and political undertones of the story, once more, are a
soup of many collected viewpoints underpinning a fictitious story.

The writer had been
a successful businessman and self-made millionaire in his earlier days. He had
worked with his hands performing menial tasks and had also sat in tailored suits
in corporate boardrooms. Having experienced great changes in his personal life,
circumstance had taken much of what he had slaved for away from him. In some
ways he found himself back at the starting gates. Following a corporate career
path took him to live the inner-city life in more than one Australian capital
city but he found it all left him feeling empty.

His home was always
the tourist strip of the Sunshine Coast in Queensland. Home had been an
umbilical cord he found difficult to sever. He made his continuous trips back to
touch base with home whenever he was living away. Finally, feeling dissatisfied
with the hurried life within the streets of Sydney he made a hard decision to
quit a lucrative corporate appointment and return to the Sunshine Coast and set
up his life again in more familiar surroundings.

What he found was
that during the years that he was living an alienated life in the big city; his
laid-back coastal retreat had also changed. The pace had quickened, the original
unique flavour of the place had altered somewhat and the seeds of yet another
clichéd city on the beach were already growing. The ambience was not as he had
remembered it and the magical reunion with the past he’d expected didn’t happen
that way.

Various managerial
roles, taken to pay the bills, brought the same meaningless and unappreciated
results of the daily grind. With nothing bringing any winds of favourable change
to his life, a seed of need to cut that umbilical cord began to grow. He
decided, out of the blue, to take a trip to Tasmania to refresh himself. He
booked an air ticket and a hire car. He had no set destination in mind. He
picked up the hire care and just drove. What he found during those weeks
circumnavigating the little natural paradise was a wonderful sense of peace.

He had always lived
a life of structure and sensibility. He did a really strange thing considering
his well-thought-out life to date. About four days before the due date to return
from his holiday, he found himself standing at an auction sale for a rundown
cottage in a tiny village. His head was spinning when the auctioneer pointed to
him and said, “Sold! To that man over there.”

Without paid work to
go to and without knowing a soul in that village, he went back, sold his home
and shifted everything he had to a place he knew nothing about. With some money
left from the difference in the house prices he employed himself to renovate the
cottage to an acceptable level over the following six months. Still with no paid
work to go to, he took one more chance to write his fourth novel.

During the many
confusing years after the big changes in his personal life, the writer met many
wonderful people. The people he met had also been instrumental in adding the
flavour and spice to an otherwise mundane existence. Connections to new friends
brought trips to places he had never been before. The trips bore new and
adventurous happenings. Some of the people he met brought the romantic mysteries
used as base material for this story.

The writer was born
into a religious family and spent much of his life in biblical studies. The
research however had always been confined by sectarian bigotry. This always sat
as a festering thorn in his skin. After renouncing his affiliation to one set
point of view, he opened his mind up to many writings with many opposing
observations. One of those points of view he read was in a book entitled,
Jesus Lived in India written by Holger
Kersten. Holger Kersten’s findings and reasoning provided him a prop for the
romantic thriller in his brain but the details in this story surrounding that
prop are fictitious.

His own
dissatisfaction with the ‘system’ he often noted, mirrored that of the people he
met, so he also researched many of the various conspiracy theories freely
available. From these he drew more fabricated material to pad out the framework
of Rag Doll. What saddened him was there were many people, in
actuality, who had no dreams, little imagination and just accepted the burdens
the puppet masters kept heaping upon the backs of the brick makers. He came to
see while this story is fictitious there did also seem to be a purposeful and
designed subjugation that, in reality, wore away at the souls of many.

After many years of
alienation from his only sibling, the writer’s break from confined thinking
brought his sister back into his life. Her views on life were underpinned by the
more mystical and inexplicable connections that often happen every day unnoticed
by many. The writer also had many of the same connections and this common ground
fostered many fertile conversations and material that once again formed
background for the story.

The writer received
construction awards for homes he had worked on in years past. In his present
state he had gone from waterfront mansions to a cottage near a hundred years
old. He went from his own beach and jetty to a hothouse vegetable garden and a
pumpkin patch. And so it was, in these very different surroundings compared to
his more opulent previous life, Daniel McKinnon sat in the first small room he
painted in the old cottage to write this adventure.

One of the most
valuable things in this life, he believes, is art of any kind. Paintings,
movies, plays, poetry, books and mystical stories take us away from the mundane
treadmill and transfer us into another dimension. They give our spiritual being
refreshment. Life is just a thought, our minds a playground for whatever
adventure we want to take.

Take a short journey
into Rag Doll.



At the conclusion of
Czech Point (Poseidon, 2011) Joseph
Bohacik’s efforts to imprison the life of Nakita Cervenka were thwarted by his
capture and imprisonment. His beautiful and deadly accomplice, Varvara had been
shot, assumed dead. James Bergen and the attractive Nakita Cervenka found a new
beginning for their lives within the freedom that allowed.

Oblivious to what was about to happen, James and Nakita shared a life of love
and good things in a country cottage just outside of Prague in the Czech
Republic. Unbeknown to them, Varvara’s wounding, at the hands of a British
Intelligence agent, was not fatal. While Joseph served the beginning of a long
term of incarceration, Varvara took charge of the illegal and malevolent
business empire she had assisted him to build. Varvara was going to make sure
Joseph was not going to stay in his prison cell. Everything was about to change
in a whirlwind of chaos for James and Nakita.

As James enjoyed special moments in an oasis of peaceful things with Nakita, he
was unaware of the changes that were about to come to the personal world around
him. Even during this time of peace however, he never took for granted those who
sewed the fabric of the political and religious global web, a web many people
were caught in. They were insidious spiders that sucked away the life of many to
benefit the few. He could see the world on a countdown to a clash with destiny.

While the conspirators conspired and the evil grew fat on the carcasses of the
unsuspecting, this was not unnoticed by the virtuous energies of the planet. The
time approached where the inexplicable mysteries of a spiritual world outside
the walls of an organised and fabricated global subterfuge were building in
defiance to it.

  Beginnings lead to endings and
endings lead to beginnings and the circles within circles continued to spin.
James and Nakita’s serenity was about to end. There was yet another act to the
performance that was their lives and there was yet another act being set up in
the global play at the same time. Beautiful things were about to turn ugly and
ugly situations were about to find beauty.

On a cold and frosty night in London, all hell was about to be let loose …


Chapter One


Escape Without a Key


The intermittent
illumination of the pale, blue light cast shadows around the small and somewhat
musty, dark hotel suite in Southend. The whirring of the device’s vibrations
woke the ageing senior detective. William Bowden was a year off retiring for
good from the force, but had taken his first few days leave in as long as he
could remember. In his younger years he had enjoyed his role in preserving
justice but the ever-changing, and as he saw it, compromising of the same, had
made it an irritating internment in bureaucratic stupidity. The younger boys
coming through the ranks lacked the balls to get the job done, in his eyes, and
the system just made it worse.

A faded flower-decal decorated pillow plopped to the floor as Edith, his wife of
some thirty-five years, stirred and then rolled over in the single bed on the
other side of the worn lamp table that separated them. It had been years since
they had slept in the same room, let alone engage in any other nocturnal
activities associated with sharing a bed. With eyelids barely able to support
themselves and the stale aroma of a goodly swallow of his favourite whiskey
nightcap still on his breath, Bill Bowden fumbled with the tiny keys of the
small Asian-built phone. He was too intolerant these days to be bothered to
lower his voice out of courtesy for the sake of his good lady wife. After
listening to the animated gibberish delivered by the much younger man recently
appointed to team up with him, Bill gave an expected reply.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, lad. Can’t a man have one moment of bloody peace in this
godforsaken life? Can’t you handle it yourself, you incompetent little twerp?”

Alex White had dreaded making the call as testified to by his sweaty hands that
were almost losing grip of the phone on the other end. Truth was, he was doing
his best but had been instructed to call in his senior partner. The tall, thin
and always crisply-groomed young man enunciated the details of the problem as
concisely as he could.

“Jesus bloody Christ, Alex. Belmarsh is a high security prison. What? Did the
bastard have his own key? Get yourself onto to finding him. That’s the main
priority. He can’t be too far away, as yet. How long ago did this all happen?
You’re not sure? Not sure? Exactly, you never are. I think I’ll rename you
Detective Alex Notsure. What a waste of taxpayers’ money putting you little
pricks through all that useless training. Arrh! Go and make yourself a cup of
bloody tea then. I suppose I’ll have to stop making love to me wife and come to
hold your hand.”

Alex well knew that half of that last comment wasn’t true, but he also knew that
Bill Bowden would be on his way. He started things in motion to get a search
underway for the escapee before Bill got there.

In the Southend hotel room, a rather overweight Bill Bowden grunted and puffed
as he pulled his neatly-creased trousers up around his sagging girth. “Pack of
blithering fucking pillow biters,” Bill mumbled to himself as he laced up the
second of his highly polished leather shoes.

“Language, Bill! And stop spreading our personal life all around your office!
Why don’t you just tell them that you’re on a break and that you’re not coming

“Personal life! What would you know about a personal life? I have a job to do,
so you can shut the fuck up too, ya moody ol’ cow! On second thoughts, it’ll
probably be better than sitting here listening to you drone on.”

“So you’re leaving me here on my own, yet again? When do you think you’ll be

“Think? Think?  If I was a thinking
man, I wouldn’t be.”

Bill might have nodded into sleep that night dreaming of a small sailing boat
and a cottage near the sea, but the realities of his day-to-day life had him now
heading to his car on yet another cold and frosty English evening.

Alex White had just issued a full alert to the uniformed boys to look out for a
small brown laundry service van that had been pursued speeding in the streets
near the prison area earlier that morning and was last seen heading in a
southerly direction. The patrol car had failed to catch, let alone stop, the
vehicle. It might not have been related to the prison escape but it was within
the suspected time frames and Alex had to be seen to be on the ball. He had
gathered together most of what he could in the way of relevant details
surrounding the events, ready for the ensuing grilling and barrage of derogatory
comments coming his way once the boss arrived.

What he had to date was; three prison guards were dead and at least two had been
interfered with or at least mutilated. Two had been shot, by what was believed
to be a handgun of some description and one had his throat cut by someone who
knew what they were doing. The examiner put the timing of the events at the
early hours of the morning. The men had been shot at close range. The bullets
used were not common and it appeared they may have been handmade rounds. A shell
had been found and was being examined.

The upshot was that it had to have happened quickly and professionally and
Joseph Bohacik was now free. Bohacik had served only two years of a long
sentence for international arms dealing, fraud, murder, attempted murder and
other related crimes in Europe. He was also linked to similar activities in
other parts of the world. He was being held at Belmarsh awaiting extradition to
a similar incarceration facility on the continent. He was a big fish in a big
pond. Alex didn’t really have the experience for this size case, but he had been
landed with it by default as he was the first one available at the time. He
certainly wouldn’t have chosen it if it had been a matter of choice, and he felt
like a very small fish in that big pond at this moment.


Several hours later,
Alex checked his wristwatch, the one his mother had given him at the time of his
graduation. He was keen to brief Bill when he arrived. However ‘Mumbling Bill’
as he was called behind his back, had already been there for some time. Bill
Bowden liked to get the facts upfront for himself. Alex didn’t hear the door
open to the starkly appointed prison office before Bill Bowden slopped a cup of
sweet white tea over his spread of paperwork.

“Is there any bloody cake or biscuits around this asylum? What a fucking joke.
High security prisons, my arse.”

“Bill! I didn’t know you were here. Look, I’ve gathered most of what I could to
go through it with you. It seems that two of the guards were …”

“Shot with a small calibre pistol, a specialty piece. They have teeth marks
around their penises, or should I say where their penises
used to be. Signature kills, by the looks. The brown van. What’s the
status with that, me boy?”

Alex was glad that Bill had asked that question because that was the one area
that was looking hopeful. His organised patrol sweeps had located a vehicle
similar to the description and prison-issue clothing was found in the back of
the van. For once he had pursued the correct option. He let his enthusiasm spill
out into an excited reply.

“I’m all over it, Bill. We found it at Otford a few hours ago, parked beside the
old stone bridge at the end of the main street. They’ll be headed for Dover I’d
say. Probably had a car waiting and will be headed for the tunnel. I’ve put
every available man on it. They won’t make it to France. I’ve alerted the
Froggies to be ready at the other end just in case, by some slim chance, they
get past us. I’ve got men checking the ferries at the same time. ”

“Yep, you’re quite right, my boy. They won’t make it to France through the
tunnel or on a ferry.”

Alex’s chest swelled a little with the small bit of recognition. It had been a
long time since his senior had said anything positive to him, let alone agree
with his actions.

“They won’t because they ain’t headed in that direction, you daft baboon!”


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