Hey everyone, I'm an aspiring young writer. I'd like to present a novel that I recently started writing. I havn't yet picked an appropriate name for my novel but I'd like to display it here anyways. Let me give you guys a general introduction. In my novel, which is based in contemporary times, the world balance is splitting. The world's largest democracy, India, is suffering internal problems characterized by, bombings, assasinations, and full out rebellions. American CIA agent "Howard Jo" is sent into the ailing republic with one mission only "gather as much information as possible about the turmoil and rebellious in India, and if necessary elminate their leaders". With s seemingly impossible task at hand, our story begins.

While I post my story, I'd like you guys to give me your thoughts and any ideas which would help (and if possible, a title). Please I also participate in the poll above so I can find out what I need to imrpove on. Thanks a million. 

ONE

MUMBAI, INDIA

The roar of tens of thousands of voices echoed into the clear, Mumbai night sky. The crowd, although diverse and unique, had assembled in-order to express their solid support, and ultimately send out a message. Their message, unlike their identities, was solid and conformed. It had been withheld for several weeks, after delay upon delay which was due to security threats. But on this warm and clear night, each and every one of them wished to make it clear that, despite what was being peddled around in foreign news, democracy was alive and well in India.
The crowd, amid their obvious diversity as Hindus and Muslims, Buddhists and Christians, stood there and took pride in themselves and most of all, their party; the I.P.D.P. (The Indian People’s Democratic Party). The Party was their last chance for political stability in the nation, which had been rocked by bombings and rebellions in the previous months. The Party itself was quite disappointed and distraught by the low turn-out of supporters. It had planned for over 500,000 to be present at the rally, but alarmingly, only about 35,000 were there. This was a sign that the people had not yet restored their faith in the government and that the effects of the bombings and attacks over the previous months were still fresh in the minds of the people. And restoring the people’s belief and faith in the government proved itself a monumental task to I.P.D.P. spokesman Dr. Sutmir Skidrah.
Dr. Sutmir Skidrah was a medium-sized dark-brown man. He was a well-travelled and well-read man whose skills in political science were an asset to the Party. He wore rectangular-shaped eye-glasses which seemed to enlarge his dark, inquisitive eyes. His freshly-ironed blazer and trousers sent out a professional, yet comforting message to the people. It told them that there was still sanity in the sub-continent, and this played a large role in developing Skidrah’s popularity with the people, and ultimately landing him the position which he is now in. To him, image was everything.
Skidrah sat at his seat, watching the crowd and waiting for the roar to die down. As soon as he sensed it was fit, he got up and walked to the podium which was atop the stage directly facing the crowd. He reached into his blazer and retrieved a pack of neatly organized papers bundled with a paperclip. Here I go, he though to himself. He quickly cleared his throat and then began reading. At that moment, a bright white light exploded on the stage and a loud explosive boom quickly followed. Before he knew it, he was lying belly-up on the ground. Skidrah felt a throbbing sensation on his legs and attempted to inspect it but he then discovered that he could barely see. There was a thick haze of smoke and all around him he heard indiscriminate shouts and screams. He pressed his palm against his face and felt a warm liquid against his skin. His palm was oozing blood. There was nothing he could do. He just lay there helplessly.

You have to give a bit more. At this point its hard to decide whether i like it or not. But a good start.

Sure, I will upload the second and third chapter shortly, please stay tuned!

TWO

NEW DELHI, INDIA

Ajay Mundas spent the warm summer evening enjoying a rather bland meal with his wife. The elevated crystal chandelier, which hung above the dinning table, cast a dimmed superficial light across the interior of the room creating a soft glow. The atmosphere itself was uninviting and rather unpleasant resembling the expression and the thoughts that raged within the mind of Mr. Ajay. As the Prime Minister, he had been less than impressed with his own performance and the performance of those beneath him in concerning the recent events that had occurred all around India.
However, as disturbed as he was, he tried to keep this away from his wife, First Lady Kali Mundas. He engaged her in simple conversation in an attempt to lure her out of suspicion, but she was aware of her husband’s intentions. Like her husband, she was well positioned, witty and often very caring. She could sense and sniff the unrest in her husband’s voice and decided to take action.
“Is everything alright, my husband?” she asked as she dabbed her lips with a napkin. The Prime Minister forced a shallow smile to his wife. He then ate a forkful of food, indirectly delaying an immediate response to her question.
“Don’t worry about it my dear,” he began as he sat back and relaxed in his chair, “I assure you everything will be alright.” His wife, clearly unsatisfied by his response, let out a soft sigh. “If you say so, dear,” she responded.
The two of them continued dining in soft chandelier-light for about another hour. Ajay Mundas, savoring this little moment of tranquility, which he was opportuned, relaxed in his chair and closed his eyes. In his head ran various thoughts, many of which were not to be released to the likes of his wife. He didn’t want her to worry for him, nor did he want to worry himself. He thought that if someone had to worry, or think, let it be him and not his beloved. At that moment, as if bursting the invaluable bubble of peace, the Secretary to the Prime Ministry, Said, hastily but reverently burst into the private dining room. He whispered something into the Prime Minister’s ear which caused him to immediately sit up and widen his eyes.
“I’ll be back momentarily, dear,” he sad to his wife as he and the Said marched out of the dining room, down a flight of stairs, through the passageway and into the Prime Minister’s office.
“Said, what did you say just happened?” asked Ajay, as if rebuking what he was previously told.
“Your Excellency, Mumbai has been bombed.”

THREE

NEW YORK, U.S.A.

Filtered beams of sunshine drifted into the Queens home bedroom of Howard Jo. Howard sat up on his bed, comatosely with his palm on his half-asleep head.

The alarm-clock blared.

Howard lethargically formed his hand into fist and slammed it upon the alarm clock, soft enough so as to not awake his sleeping wife. He turned and looked at her. She lay there on the bed sideways, gently snoring. Her golden hair lay in messy-loose strands all around her head and they somewhat resembled her defiant character. She was at times a stubborn, yet heedful woman, independent, in every sense of the word, but somehow, since their marriage a year ago, she had come to depend a bit on Howard, and this he enjoyed.

Howard didn’t bother waking her; he fumbled sleepily out of their bedroom and through the corridor into the bathroom. He had a quick shower and after brushing, went downstairs into the kitchen and began brewing two cups of coffee—one with an extra cream (just the way his wife liked it). He opened the newspaper, which he had picked at the front door, and began reading while causally sipping his coffee. His wife, Angeline Jo, descended from the steps in her white tank top and sleeping robe.

“Morning dear,” they both exchanged kisses.
“How as your night?” Howard asked her.
“Pretty fine just a bit too humid, don’t you agree?” she said as she sipped her coffee and picked up a newspaper.
“Yeah, I suppose so. Oh yeah, remind me to call up the air-condition repair guy,” Howard said.
“Oh my God!” Angeline exclaimed as she stared wide-eyed at the newspaper.
“What is it?”

She raised the newspaper above the table, so he could clearly see the large legible print which read, “BOMBING KILLS 7,000 IN MUMBAI AND INJURS THOUSANDS MORE”.

FOUR

Howard looked wide eyed at the large title on the newspaper. “It’s a pity,” he managed to say as he stood up from his chair and walked to the toaster. He popped in two pieces of toast and cranked the timer.

“It’s a shame,” began his wife, “and isn’t Kalina from there?” Kalina was their former neighbor who used to live a few houses down from their house. She had sold her quaint little home some months back, and even till this day, the house was empty save for the repair men who labored on it on certain days of the week. The sight of the house, empty and hollow was saddening.
“Yeah, it is,” He replied. “India’s getting out of control; this is the fifth bombing in the last two months.”

“Who knows what’s being done about it?” Angeline pondered. As a human resources manager, at her company, it was natural for her to sometimes worry about the well-fare of others. Howard had gotten very used to her generous displays of sympathy that at most times he would just reply with a simple “that’s too bad.”

“Wow, look at that!” Howard said in delight as he flipped the pages on his newspaper, clearly trying to change the subject. “What?” Angeline asked. He showed her the color advert of a Jersey resort which was printed on the page of his newspaper. “Wow that does look great.”

“Anyway,” began his wife, “that reminds me. Aren’t we supposed to go somewhere today? I hope you haven’t forgotten your promise,” she said.

Howard laughed. He had promised her that they’d go and relax somewhere for a day or two, since she thought that they both needed some time to get away from the “hustle and bustle” of city life. “No, I haven’t forgotten,” he said as he walked to the toaster and removed the two pieces of toasted bread and placed them on a piece of china. He served them to his wife and prepared another set for himself. They both conversed for some time and ate.

By a quarter-past noon, their dark-onyx sedan was packed with the last of their luggage and they slowly pulled out of the driveway and onto the
street. They cruised down a couple of blocks and pulled into a self-service gas station. Howard exited the vehicle and walked toward the pump. He sensed a faint vibration on his hip and immediately produced his cell phone and answered the call.

“Hello?” “Listen, we need you to report to H.Q. as soon as possible,” commanded the sturdy voice, ludicrously.
“Do you mean now?”

He heard a beep that signaled the call had been cancelled. How could he break it to his wife? She’d never forgive him. Despite his qualms, Howard popped the fuel–cap back onto his car and returned the fuel pump. He entered the car, sighed, faced his wife and then said, “Honey, I have bad news.”

FIVE

VIRGINIA, U.S.A

A black Chevrolet impala pulled into the parking lot of Ronald Reagan Airport. The lot was fairly buzzing with the activity of other cars and pedestrians, but despite this, the car was able to park inconspicuously.
A tall slender man, wearing dark slacks and a dress shirt exited the vehicle and slammed the door. He had an especially dark Mediterranean skin tone and normal sized inquisitive eyes that seemed to scrutinize whatever thy focused on. The man walked out of the parking lot, up a ramp, and into the airport’s main terminal. His eyes darted from side to side and analyzed all that he saw, after this he walked casually to the desk and approached a clerk.
“Excuse me ma’am, has the six-o’clock plane from New York landed yet?”
A small middle-aged lady sitting at the desk looked up at him and then back at the computer on which she was focused. She shuffled her mouse and after a few mouse-clicks replied, “Yeah, it landed some time ago. They should be exiting just over there.” She pointed to a place to their left.
“Thanks.”
He walked to where the woman had pointed and saw a large crowd of people. He didn’t attempt to join the crowd so as to not lose focus of his objective. That was the way his thinking complex operated; much like a checklist. Whatever was his goal was his primary objective, and he had to avoid anything that would compromise it. His eyes scanned the people exiting the door with a placard above it titled “ARRIVALS” he studied their faces and then compared them to the one on the photograph which he produced form his pocket. None matched. He stood there for almost fifteen minutes, watching.
Just as he thought the last of the passengers had exited, a man wearing cargo shorts and a red flannel shirt, pulling a medium sized case of hand-luggage walked through the doors. The face was an exact match.
He grinned, and gently forced his way into the crowd, making sure to keep sight of the man. He walked up to the man and gently tapped him on his shoulder. As the man turned around, he studied his face once more to make sure that this was the guy. After verifying, he leaned forward and said to him, “Howard Jo, come with me.”