Out the Back Door

Rhodo-and-Mountains

Life was pretty good in Atlanta for Tim and Tracy Latner and their two children. Tim managed a steak restaurant, Tracy was a financial planner for Merrill Lynch, Alex was one of the best grade school girl basketball players in the area, and younger brother Casey played whatever his friends played, usually baseball or sometimes basketball. But occasional escapes to beautiful western North Carolina near Asheville began to gnaw at their hearts. Why not move there? Then COVID-19 hit, Tim became less satisfied with managing the restaurant, and Tracy discovered Jack Bogle’s (founder of Vanguard funds) wisdom to buy and hold low-cost market index funds which lead her away from full-service (pricy) brokers toward self-employment.
And so, in 2022, Tim and Tracy and the kids moved, on faith and hope but no jobs, to Burnsville NC, the quant little gateway town to Mt. Mitchell. Finding well-paying jobs in the NC mountains has never been easy, and that’s why so many people follow their brains to bigger cities such as Atlanta.
“Out the Back Door” is a story set in western NC about this gutsy family with heart, featuring meaningful and quirky conversations about life, religion, pickleball, tadpoles, compound interest, middle school gym, free markets, Milton Friedman, and government overreach. Take a look inside the Latner’s family and friends to see how they adapt to Burnsville, and how they nurture shields against groupthink on climate change, corporate, government or university “wokeness,” and race-relation hustlers that dominate much of American culture.

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Butterflies Are Free to Fly

Monarch-Butterfly-Plants (1)

INTRODUCTION

Sweet freedom whispered in my ear
You’re a butterfly
And butterflies are free to fly
Fly away, high away, bye bye

~ from Someone Saved my Life Tonight,
music by Elton John, lyrics by Bernie Taupin

George had a problem.

Although he hid it fairly well, George was basically unhappy. He was feeling unfulfilled; his life had become dull and boring; he hated his job; he was probably going to be fired soon because of the economic recession; his relationship with his wife had gone south; he couldn’t communicate any more with his kids; he had no real life except working, eating, watching TV, and sleeping; he could count his real friends on one finger; and he saw no real way of changing anything, of making anything better.

But that wasn’t George’s biggest problem at the moment. His most pressing concern was that he had begun to walk in his sleep.

One night while George was out sleepwalking, he fell into a very deep hole. When he woke up, he discovered he was lying on the bottom in just his pajamas, and there was nothing in the hole except him. He looked up and saw the morning sky above him, with a few bare branches of trees overhanging the perfect circle of sunlight at the top. It was early spring, and there was a chill in the air. He saw no one, but he could hear the faint sound of voices.

He knew he had to try to get out; but the walls of the hole were straight and slippery and high, and there was nothing to use for climbing. Each time he tried, he fell back to the bottom, frustrated. He started crying out for help.

Suddenly, there was a man’s face peering down at him from the top of the hole.

“What’s your problem?” the man asked.

“Oh, thank God,” George cried. “I’m stuck down here and can’t get out!”

“Well, then, let me help,” the man said.
“What’s your name?”

“George.”

“Last name?”

“Zimmermann.”

“One ‘n’ or two?”

“Two.”

“I’ll be right back.”

When the face disappeared, George wondered what was so important about the spelling of his name; and then the man was back.

“This is your lucky day, George! I’m a billionaire, and I’m feeling generous this morning.”

The man let go of a small piece of paper he was holding in his hand and it floated slowly down into the hole. George caught it and looked up again. The man was gone.

George stared at the piece of paper. It was a check for a thousand dollars, made out in his name.

“What the hell? Where am I going to spend this down here?” he thought to himself. He folded it and put it in his pajama pocket.

Then he heard another voice coming.

“Please help me,” George yelled to the empty space at the top.

A second man’s face appeared, a kind and compassionate face.

“What can I do for you, my son?”

George could see the man’s clerical collar as he leaned over the edge.

“Father, help me get out of this hole… please.”

“My son….” The voice was soft and loving. “I must perform mass at the church in five minutes, so I can’t stop now. But we will say a special prayer for you today.” Then he reached into his pocket. “Here, this will help,” and he dropped a book into the hole before leaving.

George picked up the Bible, studied it and tried to imagine any possible way to use it to get out of the hole. Eventually he gave up and tossed it aside.

The next passerby was a woman. When she understood George’s predicament, she threw down some organic vegetables, along with vitamins and herbal supplements.

“Eat only these,” she said.

George put them in a pile on top of the Bible.

A doctor stopped and donated a few bottles of the sample medications he was being paid to peddle that week.

A lawyer came by and talked for a while about suing the city for not putting a fence around the hole. He left his card.

A politician promised to pass a law to protect sleepwalkers if George would vote for him in the election tomorrow, assuming he could get out of the hole.

By this time George had taken a seat on the bottom of the hole, shivering slightly from the chill, starting to give up hope that anyone would help him get out. He felt lonely, helpless, and a little fearful. He moved the drugs aside, picked up an organic banana off the pile and took a bite.

“I can help you get out.”

He heard a strong, convincing, powerful female voice. He wasn’t quite sure…. Did he recognize that voice? Had he seen her on TV or something?

“You just need to let go of all your negative thinking, learn to visualize, and then use the ‘Law of Attraction’.”

“But that’s exactly what I’m doing – trying to attract someone to help to get out of this hole!” George protested.

“You must not be doing it right,” came the response.

She tossed something thin and square that landed at George’s feet.

George yelled up to her, “But… wait!”

There was no one there to answer.

He picked up the DVD, still shrink-wrapped, and stared at the cover. The Teachings of Abraham Master Course DVD Program.

“At least you could have thrown down a portable DVD player,” he said quietly, to no one in particular.

In a little while a Zen Buddhist sat down in a lotus position at the edge of the hole, wanting to teach George to meditate. “If nothing else,” the Master said, “if you practice long enough, you’ll feel better about being in the hole. Who knows, you might even be able to levitate your way out in a few lifetimes.”

George was about to resign himself to being in this hole forever when he heard the voice.

“Can you move over a few feet, out of the way?”

George looked up. “What?”

“Could you please move away from the center of the hole?”

George stood up and took a few steps back toward the side. “Why?” he was about to ask, when the man jumped into the hole, landing at George’s feet.

“Are you crazy?” George exclaimed as the man got up and brushed himself off. “Now we’re both in this hole together. Couldn’t you just throw me a rope or a ladder or something?”

The man looked at him gently. “They don’t work.”

“How do you know?” George asked incredulously.

“I’ve been here before, and I know the way out.”

* * *

I assume you’re asking for help, or you wouldn’t be reading this book.

Something’s not right in your life and you want to change it.

So I’m about to jump into your hole, but not because I feel any desire or obligation to help anyone. Helping someone else is one of the biggest traps anyone can get caught in.

I also have no intention of becoming a teacher – yours or anyone else’s – or a guru, or a mentor, or a coach, or someone who pretends to have any or all of the answers.

If you want, you can think of me as a “scout” – like a scout on a wagon train in the Old West, whose job it was to ride ahead looking for a way over the Rocky Mountains to reach the Pacific Ocean, finding a path for others to follow with relative safety and security against the elements and the Indians.

I’m not the only scout out there, and I don’t claim to have reached the ocean yet. But I’m the only one who has taken this particular route, which turned out to be a very effective way to go and safe enough for me to return to talk about it.

On my journey, I explored some very radical territory and collected a lot of information about which paths work and don’t work that might benefit someone else. That’s the main reason I’m writing this book, to pass on that information, knowing there are others – not that many, but some – who want to go where I’m going and where I’ve been. Maybe you’re one of them.

You hired me to be your scout (whether you’re conscious of it or not), but you should know that it doesn’t matter to me what you think about this information, or what you do with it. You can take it or leave it. My only job – and my total joy – is to report back to you what I’ve found.

So I’m jumping into your hole because it seems like fun and in alignment with what the universe has in store for me at the moment.

However, maybe you don’t want me in your hole. You should really think about this. If you keep reading, there will come a point where there’s no turning back. In a way, switching metaphors, it will be like climbing Mt. Everest. The journey can be very difficult, physically and emotionally; and it takes a while.

As I said, I’m not yet at the summit, but it’s in sight. I’ve reached a point high enough along the way that the appreciation, the joy, the peace, the serenity of being are already beyond expectation. What I know with certainty – and confirmed for the most part by eye-witness reports from other scouts – is that arriving at the peak is definitely worth the effort of getting there.

You may or may not want to go all the way. I will let you know when we reach the place where you can only go on and not back.

On the other hand, you may decide you don’t want to leave your hole at all. If so, you should stop reading now. There is nothing “wrong” with your staying there. You’ll have enough money and good organic food and books to read and DVDs to watch and drugs to take to keep you occupied and entertained.

It’s your choice.

Are we living in a holographic universe? A Philosophical Journey

Philosophical arguments about leaving in Simulations

What you are about to read is shocking and admittedly has not been “proven” yet. But most of Einstein’s theories ― now widely accepted ― weren’t proved during his lifetime either. So, allow yourself to at least consider the possibilities you are going to read because they may well become mainstream in a few years and you will have to change your beliefs and your life accordingly, either now or then….

SHOCKER #1: According to some of the most well-respected and well-known physicists in the world, and based on the latest research, we are living in a hologram: Our “reality” is a virtual image, an illusion that isn’t real.

Described as one of the most significant theoretical physicists of the 20th century, David Bohm was an American-Brazilian-British scientist who believed “that objective reality does not exist, that despite its apparent solidity, the universe is at heart a phantasm, a gigantic and splendidly detailed hologram.”

Amit Goswami is a theoretical nuclear physicist and member of The University of Oregon Institute for Theoretical Physics since 1968…. “Quantum mathematics — which is, in our belief, the most fundamental mathematics, the most accurate mathematical description of nature that we have discovered — this mathematics shows us clearly that the movements of objects are describable only in terms of possibilities, not the actual events that happen in our experience.”

And here is what Dr. Leonard Susskind, professor of theoretical physics at Stanford University, said in one of his lectures in 2011…

“There’s a quote that I like… very much that comes from a famous intellectual by the name of Sherlock Holmes, and it says, ‘when you have eliminated all that is impossible, whatever remains must be the truth, no matter how improbable.’

“The thing I am going to tell you tonight is one of those things which seems nutty; It seems wildly improbable. But it wasn’t just something that some of us — I wasn’t alone in saying this — that some of us just said one day, ‘Oh, maybe the world is a hologram.’ That’s not the way it happened. The way it happened was exactly this way: when you eliminate everything that’s impossible, whatever is left over must be the truth.

“Good. Okay. What is this thing which Sherlock Holmes might have eventually concluded after trying everything else? And the answer is that in a certain sense, in a certain peculiar sense, the world is a hologram.
“Now… the idea that the world is a hologram is a wild idea, or at least a seemingly wild idea. But that is what we now believe, and there’s an enormous amount of very very sharp mathematical evidence for this. It’s not something that was just made up for fun… ‘Oh, the world is a hologram, or a black hole is a hologram.’ There is very sharp mathematics to it…. And what I’m going to tell you next is it’s not just black holes which are holograms. But in a certain sense the entire universe can be represented as a hologram, or any finite region of the Universe, any big chunk of the Universe can be represented as a hologram.

“Is the three-dimensional world an illusion in the same sense that a hologram is an illusion? Perhaps. I think…I’m inclined to think Yes, that the three-dimensional world is a kind of illusion, and that the ultimate precise reality is the two-dimensional reality at the surface of the universe.”

Dr. Jacob D. Bekenstein, Professor of Theoretical Physics at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, said, “An astonishing theory called the holographic principle holds that the universe is like a hologram…. The physics of black holes — immensely dense concentrations of mass — provides a hint that the principle might be true.”

There is a TV series on the Discovery Channel called Nova, and in November of 2011 they broadcast a show called “The Fabric of the Cosmos: What is Space.” It was hosted by Brian Greene, theoretical physicist and professor of physics at Columbia University, who wrote the book called The Fabric of the Cosmos. He said…

“Surprising new clues are emerging that everything — you and I, and even space itself — may actually be a kind of hologram. That is, everything we see and experience — everything we call our familiar three-dimensional reality — may be a projection of information that’s stored on a thin, distant two-dimensional surface.

“Now, holograms are something we’re all familiar with, from the security symbol you find on most credit cards. But the universe as a hologram? That’s one of the most drastic revisions to our picture of space and reality ever proposed.”

“Here’s a way to think about this… imagine I took my wallet and threw it into a black hole. What would happen? We used to think that since nothing — not even light — can escape the immense gravity of a black hole, my wallet would be lost forever. But it now seems that may not be the whole story.

“Recently, scientists exploring the math describing black holes made a curious discovery. Even as my wallet disappears into the black hole, a copy of all the information it contains seems to get smeared out and stored on the surface of the black hole, much the same way that information is stored in a computer.

“So, in the end, my wallet exists in two places. There’s a three-dimensional version that’s lost forever inside the black hole, and a two-dimensional version that remains on the surface as information. The information content of all the stuff that fell into that black hole can be expressed entirely in terms of just the outside of the black hole. The idea then is that you can capture what’s going on inside the black hole by referring only to the outside.

“And in theory, I could use the information on the outside of the black hole to reconstruct my wallet. And here’s the truly mind-blowing part. Space within a black hole plays by the same rules as space outside a black hole, or anywhere else. So, if an object inside a black hole can be described by information on the black hole’s surface, then it might be that everything in the universe — from galaxies and stars, to you and me, even space itself — is just a projection of information stored on some distant two-dimensional surface that surrounds us.

“In other words, what we experience as reality may be something like a hologram. The idea that we live in a hologram probably sounds absurd, but it is a natural extension of our best understanding of black holes, and something with a pretty firm theoretical footing. It has also been surprisingly helpful for physicists wrestling with theories of how the universe works at its most fundamental level.”

And Dr. S. James Gates, Jr., who holds the Clark Leadership Chair in Science with the physics department at the University of Maryland College of Computer, Mathematical, and Natural Sciences, put it this way….

“This is a real disconnect, and it’s very hard to get your head around. Modern ideas coming from black holes tell us that reality is two-dimensional, that the three-dimensional world — the full-bodied three-dimensional world — is a kind of image of a hologram on the boundary of the region of space…. This is a very strange thing! When I was a younger physicist, I would have thought any physicist who said that was absolutely crazy.”

Michael Talbot, author of The Holographic Universe, explained it this way: “Creating the illusion that things are located where they are NOT is the quintessential feature of a hologram…. If you look at a hologram, it seems to have extension in space, but if you pass your hand through it, you will find there is nothing there…. Despite what your senses tell you, no instrument will pick up any energy or substance where the hologram appears to be hovering. This is because a hologram is a virtual image, an image that appears to be where it is not…. It is relatively easy to understand this idea of holism in something that is external to us, like an apple in a hologram. What makes this difficult is that we are not looking at the hologram; we are part of the hologram.”

To which Amit Goswami suggests: “This is the only radical thinking that you need to do. But it is so radical, it is so difficult, because our tendency is that the world is already ‘out there,’ independent of my experience. It is not. Quantum Physics has been so clear about it.”

It’s hard to argue with the impressive, heavyweight firepower behind the idea that we’re living in a beautifully conceived and constructed hologram ― like we’re inside one of our best video games available today. But so what? What if we are living in a hologram? What difference does it make?

I think you’re going to find it makes all the difference in the world when you understand, accept, and apply the knowledge that what you see “out there” is not real ― the very definition of a hologram.

Want to learn more?

Check out the complete book on Amazon.

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America’s 1st and Last Great Black Midfle Class, A Memoir

American family black

We (FLINTSTONES) Flint, Michigan natives and residents are so much more than those “tough people” from that city with the lead poisoned Toxic Water. Our hometown city is also the original home of General Motors/Chevy, the birthplace of the UAW, known by it’s High Violent Crime/murder rates, Exceptional Athletes of Basketball, Football, Baseball Students and Professional levels, Vacant and Abandoned House Properties.

But, because I am a Flint Native, and more importantly because I was born, when I was born, at the place I was born, which was at Hurley hospital, I’m flat out saying, “those labels”, descriptions, and stories are just too incomplete to tell Our story.

This story is not “my story”, but is in deed and effort, our collective story that “fills in” some details and paints a clearer picture, of this mystical, popular city just north of Detroit that almost every body in America has at least “heard about” or many actually have some kind of “family ties” connection to the place called , The Vehicle City, Flint, Michigan.

Kaboom is a “rags to riches, back to rags” story “uniquely” told by a first descendant Baby Boomer offspring and Generation X’er.

I wrote this book and entitled it KaBoom because I believe it is important for my generation, The middle child Generation X to tell “this story, my parents generation story, A story, that is, in essence, OUR “Once upon a time in America” American story.

After much and many conversation with those born between 1940 and 1965, this is my attempt to “stitch together” shared memories, the research and my own life experiences to capture and tell this story. Kaboom is a story about about how, when, and why some Black American migrated from “down south” to Up-north after the wars, Vietnam, World War 2 and at a time of heightened racist attacks against blacks.

The paradigm shift from agriculture based to industrial based “economics” was so drastic that it eventually formulated into the Industrial age. The Great Migration of black Americans from the south, mostly from Alabama, Texas, Mississippi, and Georgia, brought with it the “physical laborers needed to work ”indoors”.

Those laborers joined other “factory workers”, they formed the unions and negotiated lifetime employee contracts that positioned and elevated them, to become The First and Last Great Black Middle class of The Industrial Age.

So because We are the “first direct decedents” of that progress, it is my generation, Generation X, those born between 1966 and 1985 who are the best people to tell this story.

Our story is about what it was actually like, and what it has meant to be born and raised in The Vehicle City during the development and overall evolution of the “middle of the country (we call Midwest). From the middle of the country spreading outward, it was no doubt the black population of American men who did what needed to be done to progress before, during, and after becoming, Middle class workers, Property Tax Paying Citizens of shared communities, and became Black Middle Class Family households.

Geographically speaking, Flint, Michigan sits near the middle of country, and historically, if traveling from the east to the west coast (gold rush days), was once a midway (Midwest) stopping point” whether traveling by horse/carriages, locomotives or train routes, which evolved into automobile highways and expressways.

As I mentioned, I want to be clear, as you read because I do not want you to become”bored with the “flow and story line of KaBoom, This is a multi faceted personal, family and “historically based”, black American, multi-generational, story, that stitches together real life African American experiences and shows how, when and why we made it to The Middle class level being today, still counted as less than 14% of the total number population of people , living in The United States.

This book, Kaboom as a whole piece, tells the story of the “outdoor to indoor” transition and “labor force” evolution, when black men and their families exchanged and replaced the use of their agricultural mastered skills, for sharecropping and other work related” skills to help formulate both the Agricultural and Industrial age and associated industries that preceded the robotic age.

The social “fabric” of this book capture past down “stories” childhood memories, popular and little known political and industry related events, acknowledgment of the cultural influences of “black” community church life, and my personal reminiscing of school age years and high school experiences, that capture the essence of what it was like to be “project community” born, heavily influenced by the musical culture of gospel, disco, soul, blues, hip hop music/dance, the pop music genre, and the street/gang life intersections in Flint, Michigan.

I am no doubt just one native from this city, who knows and understands that it was growing up in Flint , that prepared me (us) for the “uncharted” opportunities and experiences that existed beyond The Black Middle Class life I (we) lived in Flint.

Without any doubt, I know that growing up in Flint from 1970-1990, prepared me for any where I wanted to go in the world. I believe in my heart that all of us, Flint natives feel the same way about our city and can attest to how it helped to build and shaped us to become who we are today and yet still influences us beyond measure in who we will become in the future.

THE BOOM of Slavery

Once upon a Time in America,The Europeans came to this “native land of others” and spread their “ideas to “expand on their aristocratic formulated high, middle, and bottom level economically tiered “caste system” engineered by “the first bankers” of Government, Bourgeoisie and Peasant classes.

The European designed three level tiered staus(income based)system was incorporated into a new system, of “Have and The Have nots”. In the new “tiered” system the “middle tier” becomes settle minded enough to be
“indoctrinated” into long term, debts as “consumer borrowers” in essence helping to establish and sustain the “gaps” between Owners and “the owned”. The Rich and the Poor, Masters and Slaves.

Once upon a time, there was no middle “American” economy between these two realities. America first began building and borrowing from it’s two-tiered European “caste system” “traditions and methods of nation building.

However, the “open Land” attraction and opportunities “dreamed of” in and across America required that mobility became more important and valuable than the need for totaland complete control of black people lives, who were “once upon a time” legally owned property of white Americans, not indentured servants for a set period of time, like the Irish, but enslaved for a lifetime to work for their owners on slave plantations.

Slave Jobs, Skilled trades and Domestication Black Africans brought to, and black slaves born in America are typically portrayed in history as field hand laborers or domestic servants, but were in fact skilled laborers whose creativity, especially in tool making and crafts were a vital part of the American economy, particularly in the South.

However, one can use “common sense and there is ample evidence that the black man slave-labor force, always included those with creative, artistic and design engineering skills that they used to be home and church builders, ship wood-carvers, bricklayers, blacksmiths, furniture makers, shoemakers, basket weavers, metalworkers, pottery makers, and masonry.

There was also other jobs and duties of black men, while working on plantations, that included a designatio of being the “lead” black slave was referred to by such titles as the “slave foreman,” “manager,” “superintendent,” “leader,” “gang boss,” and still a “nigger,” depending upon the circumstances of the moment. He was chosen by the planter (owner of the plantation) to work under direction of the planter or overseer (if there was one), and in many cases functioned alone, and at times was giving the role of running the plantation during the absence of the planter or overseer.

If there was a black overseer, than he would often also be the horse or mule carriage driver for the “massa” and/or his wife/family on extended road trips.

A number of plantation owners preferred their black slaves to oversee their “property/assets” who had earned their trust because “white/Irish” men who were hired as overseers was comprised mainly of unskilled and often brutal white Eastern European migrants who were prone to: a) dishonesty (lying, stealing); b) excessive cruelty to blacks; c) sexual abuse of female slaves.

In the absents of a white overseer, and whenever the black driver did not accompany the “massa” on his business trips, he would be placed in charge and responsible for the the field gang.

His duties included supervising and setting the work pace of the slaves.

He was also responsible for the general deportment of plantation hands, not only while they were working in the fields, but also their behavior in the quarters. At times, the duties of the slave driver were not only supervisory; but he also worked alongside the blacks in the fields and over seeing the “weigh in”collection of the cotton crop.

Planter/owners devised a system of incentives to encourage his black slave driver to have allegiance to him. Rewards for zeal in service were given chiefly to the drivers or gang foremen. As part of their incentive program, planters often showed trust in their drivers, sometimes instructing drivers to check-up or spy on the white overseer, if asked to.

This controlled “balance of power” system was set in place so that the black slave drivers would feel obliged to be faithful to the master’s interests and not be tempted to be involved in any slave rebellions, uprisings or planned run-ways.

The slave driver was trained and employed by the planter/owner to supervise, lead and sometimes to administer punishment towards the other slaves. This turning of black against black was one of the most degrading and dehumanizing aspects of the American slavery institution. But most black drivers instinctively bent the other way, and they often used their position to protect the slaves and ease the burden of bondage.

Irish White Overseers did not possess the paternalistic attitudes of some planters; they possessed no property or investment in the slaves, and, therefore, self-interest failed to check their abuses. Their only and primary aim was to harvest high crop totals for a given year. They, therefore, had strong inducements to overwork the slaves.

Some planters encouraged this inducement in their overseers by stressing yearly production quotas on their farms as the standard measuring of an overseer’s worth. Others paced their plantation for sustained value and discovered the “benefit” to providing an environment where black slaves could mate, have children, and keep their own families together.

Most plantation owners blamed or praised the overseers for the numerical standard of production alone, without concerning the demeanor in which things were managed, or whether they may have lost more in the diminished value of their slaves by the overseer overworking the labor force. Experienced Plantations owners knew all to well that it was detrimental to have the “right white overseers” because overworking slaves produced premature old age, body deformity, and a decrease in the number of females, thereby negatively effecting the overall value and net worth of his most valued property and wealth, which was, the physical human bodies and minds of black slaves.

The defective education and consequent habits of white overseers of the South, with a few exceptions, disqualified them for the high and sacred trust confided to them, and yet the extravagant salaries which they received, from one to three thousand dollars should’ve commanded the services of men of exemplary character and distinguished abilities.

The most usual causes for overseers being discharged from their position and duties were drunkenness, absence from the plantation without permission, failure to get along harmoniously with the slaves, cruelty to slaves, chronic illness, incompetent management and the general failure to attend to duties. By their own behavior and actions, Irish overseers often maintained a brutal attitude toward slaves.

The floating Irish population of “non educated overseers” from plantation to plantation, contributed greatly to the unsavory reputation of Southern overseers. Their general lack of competence brought a storm of abuse from Southern planters.

It was planter discord and owners dissatisfaction with white overseers that provided an impetus to use black slave drivers as overseers on the plantations.

Confession and Corruption

Confession and Corruption

The arrest of Sam Johnstone’s mentor Press Daniels had Sam feeling restless, irritable, and discontented. He pouted and slouched around the house until he sullenly looked in the refrigerator and found only a jar of jalapeños, a stick of butter, a pitcher of sweet tea, and a rotting onion.

Despite knowing he was only one drink away from disaster, he drove to the Longbranch Saloon—ostensibly to order food to go. Jamey Johnson was playing on the jukebox, and he hummed along, enjoying the bar’s smoky haze. When he ordered a longneck and whiskey back, owner/bartender Gino Smith asked him three times if he was sure.

Three times he assured Gino he was fine. “I’m okay—really.” Two hours later he had downed four or five tall beers and an equal number of shots. He was halfway to feeling all right . . . and he only felt right when he was wrong.

Before he left the bar, he walked to the men’s room and practiced walking heel-to-toe, turning around, and reciting the alphabet backward in an effort to gauge his probable success on the standardized field sobriety tests used by law enforcement—just in case. He was pleasantly surprised that he had remembered the drills so well and headed for the bar to pay his tab. He had no business driving, of course, but risk was part of the kink for an addict/alcoholic.

He paid his tab, tipped big, and purchased two small bottles of vodka “for the road,” assuring a grim-faced Gino he was good to go and that he could make it home safely.

“Damn it, Sam,” Gino groused. “You get busted, and the police report and the newspaper will note you’d been drinking here.” Sam had assured Gino he was fine, then grabbed the Styrofoam container with his cold food and walked unsteadily out the door.

Now, as he neared the turn on a darkened road approximately one mile from his apartment, he uncapped one of the miniature bottles of vodka he’d purchased, drained the contents, and tossed the empty out the open window, enjoying the feel of both the icy April evening air and his burning esophagus.

Keith Whitley was on in his old truck’s CD player, and Sam sang along until flashing blue lit up his cab, bringing him out of his reverie. He looked in the mirror, and upon seeing his reflection cursed himself and slapped at the offending glass, then took deep breaths in an effort to control the onrush of adrenaline that always accompanied drinking trouble.

The stakes were high—a conviction for drunken driving would imperil his career as an attorney. More importantly, it would disappoint everyone who had cared enough to help him when he was struggling.

Relapse was neither inevitable nor uncommon, of course, but in Sam’s case it was predictable—he’d been “too busy” to meet with either his VA counselor, Bob Martinez, or his AA sponsor of late. His secretary, Cassie, would scold him mercilessly. Forgetting to signal, he steered his truck uncertainly to the side of the road, put it in park, and pounded the steering wheel in frustration.

All the work, all the effort, all the people who had faith in him. He should have called Bob. He should have called his sponsor. Hell, he could have talked with Cathy, Cassie, or someone—anything but go to the bar. How many times had he listened to a man or woman in a twelve-step meeting lament their actions while smugly thinking it would never happen to him?

He struggled to retrieve his driver’s license from his wallet and was searching through his glovebox for his truck’s registration and insurance card when he felt a presence at his window. He prayed it wasn’t an officer he knew. “Evening, Sam.” Christ. It was Ron Baker of the Custer Police. “Hi, er, Ron,” Sam replied. “How you doin’?” “I’m well, Sam.

Do you know why I pulled you over?” The proper response was, “I have no idea, Officer,” but this was Baker. Sam shrugged. “I was probably speeding.” “Well, that and weaving all over the road,” Baker replied. He made a show of sniffing the air in Sam’s truck.

“You been drinkin’?” Again, the proper response was, “Of course not.” “A little,” Sam admitted, somehow incapable of following the legal advice he had provided innumerable clients over the years. Baker nodded. With a traffic violation, the smell of booze, and an admission to drinking, he had reasonable suspicion, enabling him to extend the traffic stop to investigate possible drunk driving.

“Well, how about you step out and we’ll do some tests to make sure you’re okay to drive—sound good?” “You bet.” When Sam unsteadily exited the car, the remaining bottle dropped on the ground at his feet. He struggled to retrieve it while Baker watched. “I’ll take that,” he said, extending his hand when Sam had finally picked the small vodka bottle off the ground. “Did you toss one of those out the window a ways back?” “Maybe,” Sam admitted, feeling extremely fatigued.

He turned to face Baker and noticed a line of cars driving slowly past. It seemed he knew the face of every driver and occupant. He looked to Baker, who was shaking his head.

“Sam, are you okay?” Another day, another bad decision. He’d been sober for months, but remained halfway between who he was and who he wanted to be. “I—I’m fine,” Sam replied. “A little tired, is all. Leg’s hurting,” he lied, knocking on the prosthesis. “Let’s just get this over with.” He heard himself say, “Letth” and “thith.”

“Okay,” Baker said. “Before we get started, could you turn off the music?” “Do what?” “The music. Turn off the music on your phone.” Sam turned off his phone. “There,” he said, but when he looked up, he didn’t see Baker. Instead, he saw the stark white walls of the small bedroom in his apartment. He was home. And sober.

It had been a relapse dream—and not the first he had experienced, of late. He swung his remaining leg over the side of the bed, then reached for and shakily donned his artificial left leg. In so doing he felt slightly repulsed by the soaking wet T-shirt sticking to his body. Later, in his kitchen, he texted his sponsor.

Got time for a call? Hours later, Sam was in his office trying to focus. The events of the past week had brought a whirlwind of emotions—never a good thing for a recovering addict/alcoholic. Last Tuesday his client Mike Brown had been rightfully acquitted of the murder of his father-in-law, billionaire cryptocurrency mogul Maxim Kovalenko.

Hours later, Marci Daniels had died following an extended illness. On Saturday afternoon, he and Cathy Schmidt had attended Marci’s funeral and graveside services with Daniels, only to stand by helplessly as Daniels was arrested for her murder. Daniels’ arrest was unnecessary, gratuitous, and provocative.

Now, two days later and despite prayer and meditation, Sam’s fury at Lee hadn’t abated and had probably contributed to last night’s relapse dream. Still shaken hours later, he had to remind himself to breathe. Later this morning, he would enter an appearance on Daniels’ behalf and this afternoon he would join Daniels in court for his initial appearance in front of Judge Downs.

Try as he might to focus on the task at hand—crafting an argument to convince what he anticipated would be a highly skeptical judge to release an accused murderer on pretrial release conditions—his thoughts were clouded with memories of Marci and Press. They’d been like the parents he hadn’t had since his mother’s death decades past.

After Daniels’ retirement and even during the early onset of Marci’s illness they had him over from time to time. He’d sit on the couch and listen to Marci give Press hell and marvel that the old judge had someone to tell him what to do—just like everyone else. Following each visit, Marci would send Sam home with plates and plastic containers full of food.

“You’ve got to eat, young man,” she would say. “You’re too thin.” The change in her had been gradual but drastic.

Loss of weight, loss of hair; ultimately, she had turned a sickly gray color. Daniels’ degradation had been just as marked; he’d gone from curmudgeonly to flat-out angry, and the change in his appearance had been a topic of discussion in town. For a time, Daniels had attempted to continue some part-time legal work for Sam’s firm as an “of counsel” attorney, but frequent trips abroad to attempt risky, unapproved-in-the-US treatments for her advancing cancer had taken their toll.

At last, when he’d been too worn down to work or care for Marci alone, Daniels had brought on Julie Spence, a recovering methamphetamine addict and home health care assistant upon whom he came to depend. But by then it was too late, and last week Marci had passed. Until Daniels’ arrest, Sam assumed her death had been a natural one.

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A Deadly Game on a Deserted Island

A Deadly Game on a Deserted Island

“Brock, are you there? I can’t see you!” There was screaming in the background of the call, and Yara’s face was stricken with terror. She frantically searched for Brock’s face, the screen crackling a little indicating the signal was bad.

“Yes, we’re here. What the hell is going on, Yara? Are you on the plane?” There was a delay in Yara’s reply as the screen shifted and went static. But then her face returned, and she looked even more terrified than before. “I’m on the plane,” Yara confirmed. “But I think something’s wrong. The plane is going down.”

“What? Yara!” Olivia blurted. But it was too late. After another scream from Yara, the call was cut short, and Olivia’s heart plummeted into her stomach. Brock immediately tried to call her back, but this time, there was no response. He ran a hand through his hair, clearly terrified. How could he not be?

One of his closest friends was in a plane that was quickly plummeting to the ground. There was no way she’d make it out alive. “What do we do?” he asked, turning to Olivia. She fumbled for words, but for once, she didn’t have a solution. What were they supposed to do? Yara’s plane was going down somewhere in the middle of nowhere.

They didn’t even know exactly where she was going. Olivia knew how unlikely it was that anyone would survive the crash, but they had to try something—if only for their own sanity. She knew Brock couldn’t just accept what they’d seen before their very eyes. “We’ll, um, we’ll make some calls. See if we can get a fix on the location of the plane. Which airport did Yara fly out of?”

“I… I don’t know. LAX, I guess? But it could’ve been anywhere. I wasn’t paying attention. I should’ve been paying attention.” Olivia guided Brock to a seat.

“Breathe. You need to breathe. I’ll see what I can do.” Her heart raced as she tried to find a way to call the airport. She didn’t want to just sit there and wait on hold with customer service, and she couldn’t exactly drive down there herself; so all she could do was try to get through to air traffic control or security and hope for the best.

“How can I help you?” an operator answered on Olivia’s third ring. “I’m Special Agent Olivia Knight with the FBI. I need to be transferred to operations,” she said. “And what’s this regarding?” Olivia bit back the scathing reply on her tongue.

The woman was just doing her job. She didn’t know that the lives of Yara and dozens of others were at stake. “I’ve just received a call from a passenger onboard a flight. The plane is going down, and they need urgent assistance.”

“Are you sure?” “Yes, I’m sure. The passenger was certain of it.” “Do you have the flight number?” “No. It was a private jet. There weren’t many people on board. It was headed to… I don’t know where it was headed. Somewhere in the mountains…” “Ma’am, are you being serious?” Olivia bristled again. “I’m dead serious.

My friend called and said the plane is going down. We were cut off from her—there were people screaming. I’m a damn FBI agent! Of course, I’m serious!”

“Yes, ma’am, I’m sorry.” Olivia hated to bite the woman’s head off like that, but it had to be done. She was placed on hold and transferred over to operations where a harried-sounding man picked up. Olivia was a little calmer and explained the situation as quickly and concisely as possible. “There were several private flights that departed this evening. Do you at least know what time the flight took off?”

“I… I think it was around six in the evening your time. And the passenger’s name was Yara Montague, if that helps.” “It does. Give me one moment.” Olivia held her breath as the man typed away on a keyboard, the click-clacking of the keys putting Olivia even more on edge.

She knew that he was trying his best to help, but nothing felt like enough to soothe her frayed nerves. She glanced at Brock and saw that he had his head in his hands. Now wasn’t the time for him to fall apart on her, but she had no way to stop it. If he was going to spiral, then she’d have to be strong for both of them.

She took a deep breath and tried to stay calm. That was the least she could do. “The flight in question… we’ve lost GPS signaling. You’re right; there’s something wrong with the plane,” he said. “It looks like they’ve gone totally off the map… but their location disappeared over twenty minutes ago.

I’ll alert the necessary—” “So, you don’t know where the plane is? Not at all?” “Well, according to the flight path, it should be on its way to Colorado, but the signal we received from the plane was going in a different direction. Straight across the Pacific. I don’t know how this wasn’t picked up on sooner.

Bear with me—I’m doing everything I can to find out what’s happening.” Olivia’s stomach somersaulted. What on earth was going on? If the plane wasn’t even flying in the right direction, then what had the pilot been doing? Perhaps he’d been intoxicated and didn’t know what he was doing. Or maybe he was deliberately going off course, but Olivia had no idea why that would be. Why fly across the ocean if they were supposed to go to Colorado?

Whatever the scenario, he’d likely doomed Yara and the other passengers to death. “I need to know where that flight is going.” “Ma’am, I’m going to have to let you go.

I’m sorry. I’ll return your call when I have answers. Lives are likely at stake here. This needs my full attention.” “But—” Before Olivia could say anything more, the man hung up on her. She let out a frustrated cry, tempted to throw her phone across the room. But one glance at Brock reminded her to keep it together.

Losing her cool wouldn’t help anyone. “She said the plane was going down,” Brock whispered. “In the middle of the ocean… there’s no chance she’s surviving that, Olivia. No chance at all.” Olivia knew it was likely true. Not even the most expensive private jets could survive crashing into the choppy ocean waters.

But Olivia couldn’t admit that out loud. Not when Brock’s face was already stricken with grief. She rushed to him and put her arms around him, holding him close to her.

“Don’t give up. We never give up,” Olivia murmured. “The officer will call back when he knows more. He said the flight was on an unusual path, not the one that was planned. I think there’s more to this. Pilots don’t just veer off in a different direction.” “What are you saying?” Olivia swallowed. “I don’t know what I’m saying.

But I don’t think we’ve heard the end of this. I think there’s something bigger going on.” “You’re not making any sense…” “Do I ever?” Olivia said, a half-hearted attempt at a joke. “We know from experience that crazy things happen every day.

Crazier things than people surviving a plane crash. Maybe they just hit heavy turbulence.

Maybe by changing their flight path, they found somewhere safer to crash land. There could’ve been an issue on the plane that required an emergency landing… we don’t know. We can’t begin to speculate.

We’ll just have to sit tight and hope for the best, won’t we?” Brock didn’t look the slightest bit convinced by Olivia’s pep talk, but he said nothing more on the matter. They sat there for a long time, trying to hold themselves together. Olivia tried to make more calls to find out what was going on, but it soon became clear that no one had the time to talk to her about it when they were working hard to find the plane.

Instead, she resigned herself to making sure Brock was okay. She knew all too well how uncertainty could break a person down. She had to be there for him while he muddled through the anxiety and the pain. All the while, Olivia had to sit in the hurt of losing a new friend. She hadn’t known Yara for very long, but she cared for her anyway.

After everything the actress had been through with her addiction, it seemed so cruel that life was being stolen from her now. She was finally on the path to recovery, and now even that might’ve been snatched from her. If she even survived this ordeal, would she be able to keep that up? Olivia closed her eyes and prayed for a different ending to the story.

She prayed Yara would make it out alive. And that’s when she heard the phone ringing. Brock didn’t look up at the sound of his dial tone, lost somewhere in his grief, but Olivia’s eyes widened when she saw the caller ID. “Brock… it’s her. It’s Yara calling!” Brock snapped out of his daze, staring for a moment at the phone.

Olivia felt a surge of hope, but it was shortly followed by a sickening suspicion that something was wrong. As Brock picked up the video call, Olivia waited to see Yara’s face appear on the screen. But it wasn’t her face that greeted them.

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A Rising Storm: A Man Against the Silent Coup

A Rising Storm: A Man Against the Silent Coup

DARKNESS. Suffering. Prison. Of the mind. His soul in chains. His body in solitary confinement. Nothing but darkness. All life is suffering, Reece remembered.

How long have I been in here? Days? Weeks? Certainly not a month. It was hard to tell when you were living in darkness. But he wasn’t living in silence. The voices were his companions. What are you looking for?

“Salvation,” Reece said. What truth do you seek? “I seek a reckoning.” You’ve found it. “Have I?” You are going to die in here, Reece. You deserve to die in here. In the dark. Alone. Your wife died alone.

“No, she didn’t. She had Lucy.” And an unborn child. You failed them, Reece. You failed them all. Just as you failed your men in Afghanistan. Freddy died on that rooftop in Odessa because of you. You deserve what’s coming. “And what is that? The grave?” Death would be too merciful for you. You killed them, Reece.

“No!” You are beyond redemption. You killed your wife and daughter. Had you been home, had you hung up the gun years earlier, they would still be alive. It was an unwinnable war. You knew that from the start. You studied your history. Those who sent you neglected to study theirs. “Imperial hubris,” Reece whispered.

They failed you and those they sent to fight. For twenty years. They filled the coffers of their defense industry allies, enjoying dinners and drinks with lobbyists, none of whom had the balls to step into the breach. You knew it. You went anyway. And you didn’t do it for God and country. “Then who did I do it for?” You did it for you.

“No.” Where is your faith? “It’s gone.” Gone or dormant? “I don’t know.” It never fully disappears. “I feel forsaken.” You should. By surviving the ambush in Afghanistan, you sentenced your family to death. Had you died in the Hindu Kush, they would not have been killed in your home. You know it’s true.

“I wanted to hold those responsible accountable.” But accountability wasn’t enough, was it? “There needed to be consequences.” Consequences? “Yes. I believe in consequences. Judgment.” Darkness. Pain. Suffering. Is vengeance yours? How does it feel? “I did what was necessary.” Did you?

“Yes.” Or was it because that is all you know? Because that is what you do best? Because that is where you feel most alive? “I wanted to die.” You needed to die. Death becomes you, Reece. War—it’s in your blood. You became war. “It was the only way.” And you are beyond redemption. “I know.”

You brought it home. You brought war home to those who sent a generation into combat. You put the fear of God into those growing fat off the dividends of death. You got what you wanted. “I wanted justice.” No, you didn’t. “I wanted revenge.” You became vengeance. “A reckoning.” Did you get it?

And what of Katie? Reece tensed. If you stay with Katie, she will die. “I’ll protect her.” The way you protected your wife and daughter? The way you protected your troop? The way you covered Freddy on that rooftop? “I need to get out of here.” You won’t leave this cell. Its walls are already closing in.

Soon, even you won’t be able to survive. “I will.” Are you a survivor, Reece? “I’m a fighter.” Every fighter goes down. “But they get back up.” Darkness. Welcome it. Become it. Get comfortable being uncomfortable. You are sealed in your tomb. Forever. “Bullshit.” Life is pain. Life is suffering.

Why didn’t they just kill you? Why didn’t you kill yourself? Save Katie. She deserves her life. “There’s a safe-deposit box I need to find.” What’s inside is poison. And now Katie has the safe-deposit box key. A key to a box you will never find. You put her in danger again. If she dies, you are responsible. “What’s in it?”

Your father knew. “What was his tie to Russian intelligence?” What do you think? “I don’t know.” You will rot in this cell, Reece. You will die in darkness. You will never get answers. “Where there is darkness, there is light.” Somewhere, but you will never see it again. Death is on the wind. “No.” Yes. “Then this is what I deserve.” It is what you deserve. Suffering. Darkness. This room will drive you to madness. “I know.” All you have is your mind.

Your mind and one meal a day. Why do they want you locked up? “Who is ‘they’?” Did Alice betray you? “She warned me.” Maybe she did both. Is she friend or foe?

“Alice, where are you?” All those who killed Lauren and Lucy are dead. “I know.” You killed them. The man behind 9/11; you killed him, too. “I did.” The man responsible for Freddy Strain’s death. “Dead.” The man responsible for your father’s death? “Dead.” Is he? “They are all dead.” Then what of Russian intelligence?

Why would Mikhail Gromyko take his own life? The head of the SVR, Russia’s Foreign Intelligence Service, went to the grave with your father’s list on his last breath. The list and Thomas Reece. What was Gromyko protecting? Who was he protecting? You will never know, Reece. “I will.” You are not leaving this cell alive.

Be it a day or decades, you will die here. Your brain will deteriorate, and you will spend whatever time you have descending into madness. You should smash your head against the wall until death comes. Force yourself to choke on what passes for food. Get creative. End it. Everyone will be better off without you.

“They will.” No one even knows where you are. “Someone knows I am here.” You don’t exist. “The food coming in once a day tells me someone knows where I am. Existence is enough.” Is it? “It has to be. There is still work to do.” You will never do it. “Katie is looking for me. She will find me.” Then she will die.

“No.” Just like all those you have loved. Dead. “No!” You are granite, Reece. You will not change. But those who love you—Katie, the Hastings family—they will be battered to death against you, protecting you. Save them now. “That’s not true.” It doesn’t matter. You are locked in this cell. A prisoner of your own mind.

“Freedom.” No. “Hope.” No. “To exist. That is enough.” Pain is life. Life is pain. Suffering and pain. That was your life out there. That is your life in here. “Someone killed the president.” Someone killed him and framed you. “Why?” The answers are out there. “I am in here.” You need to get out. “I do.”

You will never get out. That is your truth. “What is truth?” Give up. “No.” Quit. “No.” Fail. “No.” Die. “Not today.” Suffering. Nothing but darkness. Life is darkness. All life is suffering. “It must be enough to exist.” For now. But if you once again see the light of day, existence won’t be enough. Reece felt the cold concrete wall against his back. “No. But it’s enough for today. I’ll get out and get my answers. And when I do, there will be a reckoning.”

The Residence at Cape Idokopas Krasnodar Krai, Russia PERCHED ON A CLIFF overlooking the Black Sea and sitting on 168 acres heavily forested with Turkish pines is a lavish estate protected by walls, sensors, and drones. The perimeter security and barricades along connecting roads are manned by enough armed uniformed guards to rival any military base in the world.

Residents of the nearby resort village of Gelendzhik first suspected it could be a new hotel complex, then concluded it was to be a vacation home for one of the oligarchs, but as construction continued and rumors swirled, it became apparent that this property was for one man in particular, the president of the Russian Federation.

Ownership of the estate is hidden through a myriad of corporations, shell companies, and offshore holding firms all put in place to give the actual owner plausible deniability, especially when its construction cost the Russian people the equivalent of $1.4 billion in U.S. dollars.

Protected by a natural reef near the base of the cliffs and prohibited special-use airspace above, more commonly referred to as a “no-fly zone,” the structure draws inspiration from nineteenth-century Italianate architecture.

The sprawling 191,000-square-foot residence boasts a host of amenities, including swimming pools, spas, saunas, a greenhouse, bars, a casino, an underground ice hockey rink, a shooting range, multiple wine cellars, a hookah bar, game rooms, theaters, a library with reading room, a 2,800-square-foot master bedroom, guest rooms to accommodate the entire Russian Security Council, and a strip club to keep them busy.

The grounds contain multiple helipads, an airstrip, a chapel, a teahouse connected to the main structure via a bridge, an outdoor amphitheater, barracks, and administrative buildings. Bordering properties are owned either by Russian oligarchs or the FSB, Russia’s internal security service.

A marina at the base of the cliffs allows access to the surrounding waters by security boats of the Federal Protective Service (FSO). In addition to the impressive array of structures aboveground, an entrance dug into the hillside off the marina leads into an underground bunker complex designed to withstand a nuclear detonation.

It was within one of those underground rooms that Pavel Dashkov and his longtime secretary Kira Borisova waited. An electric rail system had transported them from just inside the entrance deeper into the bunker system to one of the conference rooms. Kira had taken a seat against the wall.

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The Unseen War in Ukraine

The Unseen War in Ukraine

The hit, deep inside the Russian client state of Belarus, had required a tremendous amount of planning in a very short period of time. The target would be moving soon. Once the window had closed, no one knew when or where it would open again. The final go/no-go call was left to the team leader, Scot Harvath.

The opportunity was too juicy to pass up. Faisal Al-Masri was a big fish. Taking him off the board would have global repercussions. After reviewing all of the intel, Harvath had given the mission the green light. Al-Masri was one of the highest-ranking members of the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps and the head of Iran’s drone program.

The fact that the Israelis, who were exceedingly good at what they did, had tried and failed—not once, but twice—to take him out wasn’t lost on Harvath. The man was particularly smart when it came to his security. In other areas, however, he had been making nothing but bad decisions. In Iraq and Syria, under his orders, IRGC drones had been targeting Americans.

U.S. military members, diplomatic personnel, and civilian contractors had all come under attack. For that, Al-Masri had earned himself a VIP position on the CIA’s kill list. But his problems didn’t end there.

He and the IRGC had been selling their Shahed-136 drones to the Russians, who in turn had been using them against civilian sites and critical infrastructure across Ukraine.

With winter approaching, Russian President Fedor Peshkov had stepped up his attacks on hospitals, schools, power stations, water treatment facilities, bus stations, train stations, and rail lines. His goal was to terrorize and demoralize the people of Ukraine, making them as miserable as possible.

What he ended up doing, however, was pissing them off more. When Ukrainian Intelligence learned that Al-Masri and a team of ten drone instructors were headed to Belarus to train Russian forces, they passed that information on to the CIA.

Knowing that they would likely be blamed for anything that happened to Al-Masri and his team, the Ukrainians had only one request—that the strike be audacious. Harvath was happy to take it under advisement. America’s hit a few years back on the head of the IRGC’s Quds Force, Qasem Soleimani, hadn’t exactly been low-key.

They’d used a Hellfire missile on his motorcade and splattered him across four Baghdad neighborhoods. As fitting as it would have been to also take Al-Masri via a drone-fired weapon, the United States didn’t have anything in the skies above Belarus. Harvath and his group were going to have to be more creative.

They were also going to have to assume a lot more risk. Al-Masri and the IRGC instructors were being protected by the Russian National Guard and officers from the Federal Security Service, also known as the FSB, successor to the KGB. In theory, they would be alert, disciplined, and well practiced in close protection.

But in reality, they were still Russians, which meant they were prone to being lazy, undisciplined, and assigned at the last minute to work they were unqualified for. President Peshkov placed little value on the lives of his citizens. He had been feeding his people nonstop into the wood chipper that was the war in Ukraine.

What kind of talent he had in reserve that he could assign to protect Al-Masri and his people was anyone’s guess. Not that the level of talent being fielded by the Russians would have any impact on his operation. He didn’t plan on getting in a gunfight. There were too many of them. Instead, he was going to take them in transit.

Because of the sensitivity of this operation, the CIA didn’t want any official fingerprints on it. They wanted the United States to maintain full deniability. That’s why it had been given to Harvath and his team at the Carlton Group—a private intelligence agency named after its founder, Reed Carlton.

A legendary maverick at the CIA, Carlton had come up with the vision for and had helped establish the Agency’s famed Counterterrorism Center. Unhappy with what he saw as the growing timidity of management, and choking to death on the bureaucracy and red tape, he decided to give retirement a whirl.

While Mrs. Carlton had enjoyed riding off into the sunset, being out of the game drove Mr. Carlton insane. America’s enemies were only growing more dangerous and more emboldened. Something needed to be done. And so he had done it. He started his own organization. With the rise of private military corporations, Carlton had seen the next wave of opportunity as the creation of private intelligence agencies.

He had made a big bet and it had paid off handsomely.

Despite his violent passing, the organization he had founded not only lived on but was thriving, accepting some of the most dangerous assignments the CIA and the White House could throw at it. At the center of it all was a highly skilled team of former spies and ex–Special Forces operatives.

Harvath, who had distinguished himself as a U.S. Navy SEAL before being brought to the White House to help bolster their counterterrorism expertise, eventually caught the attention of Carlton. The “Old Man,” as those who had known him best called him, had handpicked Harvath as his successor and had taught him everything he knew.

He had taken an apex predator and had made Harvath even more cunning, more deadly, and more resolved to take the fight to America’s enemies. In essence, Carlton had enhanced an already exceptionally lethal weapon only to realize that he couldn’t control it, at least not fully. When Alzheimer’s kicked in and his health began failing, he had asked Harvath to take over for him and run the organization.

To everyone’s surprise, including Carlton’s, Harvath had said no. He wanted to remain in the field, to keep hunting bad guys, and to make sure that America’s enemies had a constant reason to lose sleep at night. In short, he didn’t think anyone could do better at his job than him. To a certain degree, he was right. He had learned a lot of things over the years and had an impressive set of skills.

He was very good at what he did. He was also getting older. He was now working out twice as hard and taking a range of performance-enhancing drugs just to keep up. Bumps and bruises that he never used to feel often hurt like hell and were lingering much longer than they used to. Recovery time from serious injury was bordering on ridiculous.

The long and the short of it was that there was only so much more he could take. As his current superior, Gary Lawlor—the man who had been brought in to run the Carlton Group—was often heard to say, Harvath was a selfish prick who should have been spotting and developing the next generation of talent, not running around the globe kicking in doors and shooting bad guys in the face.

Harvath possessed a vast wealth of knowledge. To risk it by going downrange and constantly putting his life on the line was not only foolish, it also spoke to some sort of deep-seated issue that probably required professional help. Having heard it all countless times, Harvath let it roll off his back—though the “prick” comment stung, just a little bit, coming from Lawlor, whom Harvath had known for a very long time.

Gary’s choice of language notwithstanding, Scot wasn’t going to step off the field and hang up his cleats until he was good and ready. And right now, he wasn’t ready. Though he was beginning to think that he might be getting closer. For the moment, however, the only thing that mattered was the Al-Masri operation.

The plan was unconventional, right down to its codename, and that was exactly what he had loved about it. In an old thriller film called Ronin, a group of ex-spies and former Special Forces members are hired to conduct a dangerous assignment. Among them is a British man who lied about his background, claiming to have been with the SAS.

An American who used to work for the CIA—played by Robert De Niro—pushes the Brit on his tactically unsound plan for an ambush. When the Brit starts to stammer, De Niro presses harder, demanding, “What color is the boathouse at Hereford?”—a reference to the training facility for the SAS.

The imposter is unable to answer and exposes himself for the fraud that he is. The film was a favorite around the Carlton Group offices. So, when it was proposed that the team structure a similar ambush to what the phony SAS character had suggested, “Operation Boathouse” was born. But instead of placing shooters across the road from each other, they were going to use explosives.

The Iranians were training their would-be Russian drone pilot students at a village in Belarus called Mykulichi. Iranians being Iranians, however, they wanted to take full advantage of being away from the watchful, disapproving eyes of the mullahs back in Tehran.

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A Tale of Obsession and Survival

A Tale of Obsession and Survival

THE NYPD BOAT lurched and I almost slipped on the deck. The waves made a monotonous slapping sound against the boat’s hull, like an uneven drumbeat, as we cut through the choppy water.

I sucked in a deep breath and could practically taste the Hudson River. The toxic odors of rotting fish and garbage didn’t do anything to help the nausea I felt. I prayed it would pass. One of the officers assigned to the boat tapped me on the shoulder. He grinned and offered me a piece of beef jerky. “Very funny, asshole,”

Detective Terri Hernandez said as she snatched the jerky from the smirking cop and gave him a shove. “We’re here to work. There’s a woman’s body out there.” She turned to me. “You okay, Mike?”

“Never better. Fresh air, the sea. Who could ask for more?” She smiled and said, “That’s called karma for all the pranks you’ve played.” Terri was trying to distract me. That’s why I like working with her.

I was on edge, terrified that I’d recognize the body we were on our way to recover. Suzanne Morton, a friend of my oldest daughter, Juliana, had gone missing three weeks ago. The last place anyone saw her was at a prestigious acting class in SoHo.

Suzanne and my daughter had been in a few classes together in the past. The NYU sophomore kept a busy schedule but never missed an acting class. She had been a good influence around my house, encouraging my younger daughters to pursue their passions. I’d spent hours with Suzanne’s parents.

I had first met them six months ago when we attended a short play both the girls were in. Since Suzanne’s disappearance, they’d asked me over and over again what the NYPD was doing to find their daughter. I understood. If your child is missing, you want the whole world to stop and go look for them.

As a parent of ten kids, I always seem to have something to worry about. At least none of them was missing. I didn’t need to use my imagination to worry about what might have happened to Suzanne.

I’d seen enough as a homicide detective. It felt like a knife in my abdomen every time I pictured the young woman, her light-brown hair framing a beautiful face that had deep dimples when she smiled. I felt a change in the engine just as the pilot looked over her shoulder. She yelled in my direction, “Wind chop is really bad today!

I’ll get as close as I can.” I looked out over the whitecaps and spotted a figure floating in the water. A second boat, a Zodiac inflatable-hull outboard, discharged a diver. Recovery takes a lot of resources. We idled alongside the body. Now that we were closer, I could see more clearly that the body was a woman, floating facedown in the water, with waves of long hair fanning out around her head.

She was wearing a sparkly black cocktail dress that had attracted sea life. A fish nibbled at something in her hair. Terri stepped behind me. “Is it her?” Salt spray stung my face as I watched the grim procedure to recover the body. I shrugged. “Can’t tell yet.” I appreciated Terry’s reassuring hand on my shoulder.

The female crime-scene tech on our boat pulled the winch line so the diver could attach it to the recovery basket. The wire basket was over six feet long, with sides tall enough to keep a person firmly inside. I was relieved to see the care they used. They didn’t know about my possible connection to the victim.

They were just professionals. Against all sound judgment, I stepped closer for a better look. The other crime-scene tech, a doughy guy in his mid-thirties, leaned over the edge of the boat. He’d been the first victim of the beef jerky prank. All it had taken was a quick whiff of the smelly, dried meat, and the tech had vomited over the side of the boat.

But now he showed great concentration and focus, leaning so far out of the boat his face almost touched the water. I heard a helicopter in the distance.

When I looked up, I noticed it was a news helicopter. I hoped to God they didn’t try to get too close and film the body coming onto the boat. I couldn’t imagine a family ever seeing that on TV, but reporters continue to amaze me. I heard one of the crime-scene techs say they were bringing the body on board. I took a deep breath and steadied myself.

The crime-scene technicians and police diver struggle in the choppy water. My stomach lurched as I stepped over to help. Forensic scientists and crime-scene investigators can be territorial. The crime-scene tech waved me off.

Then the male crime-scene tech slipped during a particularly rough wave. He grabbed the basket holding the body. It tipped. I tensed, expecting disaster. The other tech sprang from the deck and managed to straighten the basket. At least temporarily. When the winch holding the basket swayed, the basket came forward onto the boat deck. That’s when it happened.

The body tumbled onto the deck of the patrol boat with a sickening thud. I kept my mouth shut.

It was an accident, and conditions were dicey. It could’ve happened to anyone. One of the basket’s black straps fluttered in the wind as both crime-scene techs carefully picked up the body, turning her so that she faced up. We all stared at the victim for a moment as the female crime-scene tech kneeled and meticulously brushed wet strands of hair away from the woman’s face.

It was not Juliana’s friend. But whoever she was, this young woman had been stunning. Not just pretty or cute but an honest-to-God beauty. Long, gorgeous dark hair, a straight, petite nose, and high cheekbones. She hadn’t been in the water long. She was fully clothed, and even still had her high heels strapped on.

She looked like a peaceful angel lying on the deck of the boat. Terri Hernandez leaned in close to me. She said in a low voice, “This is really similar to a body we found in the Bronx about two months ago. Both pretty, both in formal wear, and both discarded like an old fast-food container.” She stepped past me and pointed at the body on the deck.

“Looks like a puncture wound in the chest. It’s small but noticeable.” Terri turned and added, “See the red soles on those heels? This girl has really expensive taste. Those are Christian Louboutin stilettos, and the dress looks like a Gucci.” I just nodded. I always need a few minutes after recovering a body.

I tried to picture the circumstances that led to the victim’s death. There was something about being dumped in the water that felt extra evil. It’s one of my nightmares. I said a quick, silent prayer for this poor woman. At the moment, the only thing I could think of was catching whoever killed her. The crime-scene techs took photo after photo from every angle.

The male crime-scene tech looked up from the body and said, “No ID of any kind. I’d put her age between nineteen and twenty-two. We’ll try to get her fingerprints back at the lab. We’ll see if she ever applied for a government job or has ever been arrested, but we might have a hard time figuring out who she is.” I shook my head.

“Somebody’s missing her. She’ll match a missing person’s report. We’ll know in a day or two who she is.” The thought of this girl dying alone caused a wave of sadness to pass over me. I’d promised myself that if these kinds of feelings didn’t come to me whenever I saw a body, I’d know it was time to retire.

BY NOON, I was headed back to my office. Every time I walk through the doors of the Manhattan North Homicide unit, in an unmarked building on Broadway near 133rd Street, I am thrilled not to work anywhere near One Police Plaza. I was hoping there would be more information waiting for me at my desk.

I also intended to track down our criminal intelligence analyst to help me sift through the data from my newest death investigation. I headed to the seventh floor, where my squad took the center of the space, with half a dozen small offices and interview rooms ringing it. I slid behind my desk and took a moment to make a few entries in my notebook and just think about what to do next.

Even though we’ve moved on from physical case files to an electronic system called ECMS, Enterprise Case Management System, I still trust my own handwritten notes. Then I hustled to my boss’s office. Harry Grissom’s tall and lean frame fit well behind a desk, and I knew that sitting eased the discomfort he always felt.

Harry favored his left side when he walked, the result of a knife wound that had severed his femoral artery when he was a young patrolman. He never complained, but it was clear from his gait that it was painful for him to walk too long. I realized Harry was starting to show his age lately. The creases around his eyes were now cracks.

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A Tale Told in Shadow

A Tale Told in Shadow

They don’t speak as William walks her to her car parked behind the motel; they never leave their cars out front, where they might be recognized. No one will ever know they were here.

At least, this is what they tell themselves, what they have told themselves every time over the last few months as their affair kindled, burned brightly. But now it has been abruptly snuffed out. By her. He didn’t see it coming. They’d met at their usual motel on the outskirts of town, where no one knows them. It’s on the main highway. They had to be discreet.

They couldn’t meet in their own homes because they’re both married, and she, apparently, wants to stay that way.

Until half an hour ago, he hadn’t really had to think about it. He feels like he’s had a rug pulled out from beneath his feet, and he still hasn’t regained his balance. They stop at her vehicle, and he leans in to kiss her. She averts her face. Despair and desperation take hold, the realization that she really means it. He turns quickly and walks away, leaving her standing there, keys in her hand.

When he gets to his car, he looks across to her, but she is already starting the engine and driving away in a burst of speed, as if making a point. He stands there, bereft, watching her go. Something had seemed different about her today. He always arrived at the motel first, checked in, paid in cash, got the key, and texted her the unit number.

Today, when she knocked and stepped inside, she’d pulled him close and kissed him more hungrily than usual. There were no words. They tore off each other’s clothes the same as always, made love the same as always. Afterward, she usually lay with her head on his chest, listening to his heart, she’d say. But today she sat up against the headboard and stared straight ahead, looking at the two of them in the bureau mirror.

She’d pulled the white sheets up to cover her breasts. Also unlike her. She wasn’t listening to his heart anymore. “We have to end this,” she said. “What?” He looked up at her, startled, then pulled himself up to sit beside her. “What are you talking about?” He studied her—such a beautiful woman.

The bone structure, smooth blond hair, and natural glamour reminiscent of an old-fashioned film star. He felt a surge of alarm. She turned her head and looked at him then. “William, I can’t do this anymore. I have a family, kids to think of.” “I have kids too.” “You’re not a mother. It’s not the same.” “It didn’t stop you before,” he pointed out.

“It didn’t stop you today.” She looked angry then. “You don’t have to throw it in my face,” she answered. He softened, reached for her, but she shrugged him away. “Nora, you know I love you.” He added, “And I know you love me.” “It doesn’t matter.” There were tears in her lovely blue eyes. “Of course it matters!” He was panicking. “It’s all that matters! I’ll divorce Erin.

You can leave Al. We’ll get married. The kids will adjust. It will be fine. People do it all the time.”

She looked at him for a moment, as if surprised he suggested it. They’d never spoken about the future; they’d been living in the moment. In their pleasure and unexpected happiness. Finally, she shook her head and brushed the tears from her face. “No, I can’t. I can’t be that selfish. It would destroy Al, and I can’t do that to my kids.

They’d hate me. I’m sorry.” Then she’d risen from the bed and quickly started putting her clothes back on, while he watched her in disbelief. That things could change so quickly, so fundamentally, without warning—it was disorienting. She was reaching for the door when he cried, “Wait,” and hurriedly began to dress.

“I’ll walk you to your car.” And that was it. Now he gets into his car to drive down the highway back to Stanhope. It’s 3:45 in the afternoon. He’s too upset to go back to his medical practice offices or to the hospital. He has no patients scheduled. It’s Tuesday; he always reserves the afternoon for her. At loose ends, he decides to go home for a bit instead. The house will be empty. Michael will be at basketball practice, and Avery has choir after school. His wife will be at work.

He’ll have the house to himself, pour a much-needed drink. Then he’ll leave again before anyone gets home. Their house is at the top of Connaught, a long, pleasant residential street that ends in a cul-de-sac. He’s still thinking about Nora as he uses the button on the car’s visor to open the garage door. He drives in and presses another button to close the door behind him. She’ll be home by now, in her own house farther down the same street, maybe already regretting her decision.

But she hadn’t looked as if she would change her mind. He wonders now if she has had other affairs. He’d never asked. He’d assumed he was the only one. He realizes he doesn’t really know her at all, even though he thought he did—even though he loves her—because he’d been taken completely off guard. He puts the key in the lock of the side door leading from the garage into the kitchen.

He thinks he hears a sound and pauses. There’s someone in the kitchen. He opens the door and finds himself looking at his nine-year-old daughter, Avery, who is supposed to be at choir practice. She turns and stares at him; she’d been reaching for the cookies on the counter. For fuck’s sake, he thinks, can he never get a moment to himself?

He doesn’t want to deal with his difficult daughter right now. “What are you doing here?” he asks, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice, but it’s hard. It’s been a shitty day. He’s just lost the woman he loves, and it feels like he’s lost everything. “I live here,” she says sarcastically. And she turns away from him and reaches for the cookies, opening the package with a crinkly sound and plunging her hand in.

“I mean, aren’t you supposed to be at choir practice?” he asks, reminding himself to breathe. To not get upset. She’s not being deliberately obnoxious, he tells himself, she can’t help it.

That’s just the way she is. She’s not wired like other people. “They sent me home,” she says. She’s not allowed to walk home from school alone. She’s supposed to be picked up by her older brother; basketball practice and choir end at the same time, at 4:30. He sees the time on the stove clock—4:08. “Why didn’t you wait for your brother?”

She’s stuffing Oreos into her mouth. “Didn’t want to.” “It’s not always about what you want,” he tells her crossly. She eyes him warily, as if sensing his darkening mood. “How did you get in the house?”

“I know about the key under the front mat.” She says it as if she thinks he’s stupid. He tries to control his growing temper. “Why did they send you home? Was choir canceled?” She shakes her head. “So what happened?” He finds himself wishing that Erin were here, so that she could handle this. She’s much better at it than he is.

He feels a familiar pain starting between his eyes, and he pinches the bridge of his nose and begins moving restlessly around the kitchen, tidying, putting things away. He doesn’t want to look at her because the disrespect in her expression infuriates him. He thinks of his own father: I’ll wipe that smirk off your face. “I got in trouble.”

Not today, he thinks. I can’t deal with this shit right now. “For what?” he asks, looking at her now. She just stares at him, stuffing her face. And he can’t help it, he feels that familiar spurt of anger at his daughter. She’s always getting into trouble, and he’s had enough. When he was a kid, his father smacked him when he misbehaved, and he turned out fine. But it’s different nowadays.

They have coddled her. Because the experts say she needs patience and support. What they’ve done, he thinks, is enabled her to become a spoiled brat who doesn’t understand limits. “Tell me what happened,” he says, a warning in his voice now. “No.” And it’s that defiance in her voice, as if she holds all the cards, as if he’s nothing and has no authority over her at all, that sets him off. I

n three long strides he’s across the kitchen, in a blind rage. Something inside him has snapped. It happens so fast, faster than conscious thought. He strikes her across the side of the head, harder than he meant to. She goes down like a stone, the expression of defiance wiped from her face, replaced by shock and then vacancy, and for a fraction of a second, he feels satisfaction.

But it’s short-lived. He stands over her, horrified at what he’s just done. He’s shocked, too, that he could do this. His hand is stinging with pain.

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