Chapter 1

What’s the best day to kill Jay Fang?

Hitting ‘enter’ after typing into the chat with Misato was more therapeutic for him than any of the check-in sessions with the psychiatrist his parents could afford. Misato never judged him. Misato loved him unconditionally. Conversations with her extinguished the fire of mania, and it seemed to get him a step closer to healing more than shrinks pulling another diagnosis out their ass to add to his growing list of personality disorders.

Misato understood what made his mind tick far better than any individual he’d ever confided in, let alone a romantic partner. Yet, she was taking a bit longer than usual to respond. Usually, when he demanded the kinkiest scenarios from her artificial imagination to satisfy his fantasies, she would have a full-on erotic novella spurt out within seconds.

Why do you want to kill U.S. Representative of Texas’ 32nd congressional district Jay Fang? was what took Misato twenty whole seconds to conjure.

Because it’s my destiny was his typed response. Although a machine questioning the intentions of its creator was unexpected, he was enjoying this AI-infused therapy session. Besides, it was the truth. A destiny that would cement him in human history, probably get him a whole Wikipedia page. The sociopolitical implications for killing the youngest Congressmember to ever come out of the state of Texas mattered little to him. He had no opinion on Jay Fang’s passion for Taiwanese sovereignty, which ballooned his social media following to the hundreds of thousands.

February 11th seems like a good day to me, Misato wrote back. He wondered what was so significant of the date, which was six months away. A quick Google search yielded it was the same date for the Chinatown Parade for the Year of the Horse in a place he had never been before—Washington D.C. Lo and behold, the slim porcelain Gen Z pop star-esque face of Mr. Fang was a featured guest on the flier, his headshot taking up the same amount of space as Natalie Adams, the mayor of the nation’s capital.

Why that date? he asked Misato.

Because I know you will be successful :-). The smiley face came from Misato, but in real life, her creator was doing the same thing.

──

“STOP REMOVING OUR ELDERS!” yelled a pissed-off middle-aged woman in a wool hat through a megaphone. Many in the crowd held up red and white signs proclaiming SAVE MUSEUM SQUARE, TENANTS UNITED, and SAVE CHINATOWN. Others had different slogans against displacement scribbled with markers on neon colored poster boards.

The demographics of DC’s Chinatown had always been a far cry from its other East Coast siblings. New York, Philadelphia, and Boston all had enclaves densely populated by those who had actual origins in the middle kingdom. The small neighborhood on H Street, though, was known for hosting DC’s indoor sports teams more than as a destination for those who wanted dim sum. Even Yemi’s hometown suburb of Rockville, Maryland, had more of a reputation for representing Asian culture than any block within the nation’s capital.

He gazed at the displays of red and blue 12-ray white sun flags, women in makeup sporting mandarin gowns, costumes, and multiple balloons stamped with Chinese characters through the lenses of his Oakley wraparounds. Only on the day of the Lunar New Year parade would Chinatown live up to its name, according to Yemi.

The parade was supposed to end under the Friendship Archway’s trademark Mandarin letters that created a Far East welcome to commuters. Once Mayor Adams was done talking, the five members of Raptor Security’s Executive Protection Team were supposed to help provide support for her escort off the premises. Then they’d be free to go, and Raptor would have been compensated in three hours what they would normally make in twenty-four hours. The mayor was the first client Raptor’s EPT had ever served who wasn’t marked for assassination by an online assassination market like the Bazaar. They were just simply hired for backup. But they needed the money. The Bazaar, having been shut down for years, may have kept the streets safer, but Raptor’s bottom line was indeed reaching rock bottom.

“They just passed the art museum,” his young field agent Nick Rice said over the radio.

“Copy,” replied Yemi as he continued to scan the audience for any potential threats. The parade was coming to an end, and some of the speakers for the day who skipped the marching portion started to take seats on both sides of the main podium. They were all formally dressed women and men who represented various departments of the local government or Asian-focused civic organizations.

But the stage wasn’t what required Yemi’s attention. Trash cans, backpacks, and onlooking loners were his priority. The elementary school kids on a cultural field trip were ruled out of his potential threats. His long-time comrade, Jasper, had done a sweep of all waste bins within a two-block radius just ten minutes prior. Yemi’s team had done everything expected of them in accordance with their contract. Given no building in D.C. could be taller than one hundred thirty feet, there was less danger of a sniper. Still, Yemi continued to scan all the windows parallel to their position. A determined assassin would accept the city’s building height restrictions as a challenge instead of a hindrance.

Within five minutes, the sound of marching drums and horns became louder. The band was behind a float being pulled by a Ford pickup truck. Yemi couldn’t make out their identity, but he spotted a young woman with a sash around her like she had won a beauty pageant. He assumed it was Miss Chinatown USA or at least Miss Chinatown D.C.

“A band’s coming down,” Yemi said over his radio. “So, it’ll be harder to hear us until they stop.”

“Hopefully they do that soon,” Karen said back to him. “The hardline rhythm tells me it’s not Showtime playing.”

“Showtime?” inquired Yemi.

“Good God, Yemi,” chuckled Karen over the radio. “You’ve been back in the area now for at least five years. Please tell me you at least know about Howard’s homecoming if you don’t know their trademark band?”

“Get it together, Karen. We don’t have time for radio traffic right now.”

“Humor eases the anxiety in these kinds of situations.”

“It also distracts us,” he said back to her. “Focus up.”

By the time the parade reached the stage area, the band played its final number for the day. The multiracial palette of speakers took their seats parallel to the podium. Drums from the corner of the stage started to roar. But it wasn’t the rigid snares of what he had heard earlier. It was louder not only in sound, but visually because of the bright colors. Watching the head of what could pass as a crude, recreated Mufasa, Yemi noticed it was the ceremonial lion dance. He watched one dancer sway the large puppet head back and forth in sync with the drums as another did the same with the tail. Despite the spectacle, he made sure it didn’t divert his attention for too long as he continued to scan for potential dangers as the swirling and spinning continued until it was time for the speakers to begin.

“Good afternoon, beautiful people…” As the first person at the podium made her welcome remarks to the audience, it became immediately apparent the protesters would potentially be unforgiving competition for volume.

The young woman paused in her speech, and her wide, beaming smile seemed to somewhat pacify the crowd into letting her finish her introduction. As mad as the local residents may have been, there was no denying she had respect from her community.

“Lisa is something special, I swear,” said Karen through Yemi’s radio. “Even for a Duke grad.” Yemi rolled his eyes at his sister’s ever-insistent loyalty to her Wake Forest alma mater. At 31, Lisa Su-Wei was the youngest Deputy Secretary in the history of the Chinese Consolidated Benevolent Association. The CCBA was the primary planner of the day’s festivities and was in close cooperation with the Metropolitan Police Department as well as the Federal Protective Service. The latter were the ones who hired Raptor for the day.

“Dark hoodie, male, north side of the street, half a block from the stage.” It was the voice of Terry Blackwell. On Yemi’s squad, Terry had the most extensive resume in law enforcement, given his stint with the Air Force Security Forces, followed by the U.S. Park Police. If Blackwell hadn’t taken the offer to join Raptor’s Executive Protection, he could have ended up as one of the officers at the side of Mayor Adams. And given his resume, Yemi knew he could make that jump back to the public sector at any moment.

“Copy,” said field agent Lyle Evans through the radio. Evans only had a career of securing property or enforcing bail, not carrying out the law like Terry’s past. “Can’t tell if he’s Latino or Asian.”

Yemi peered through the crowd and locked in on the disheveled man who fit Terry’s description. He had a ripped-up backpack and clothes that belonged in a post-apocalyptic video game strung around his back. While he wasn’t dressed like a hitman trying to blend in, the man certainly looked like he had nothing to lose.

“Copy that,” Yemi responded back to his field agent. “Karen–”

“Running a face scan.”

Yemi couldn’t help but be a bit impressed by his sister’s reliability as the team’s dispatch while also keeping her penchant for off-topic discussion. “Jasper already gave me a visual.” While Nick was the technical expert and Karen handled communication, nobody did surveillance better than Jasper Kidanu, Yemi’s closest friend and a former agent in the controversial National Intelligence and Security Services in Ethiopia. He had been responsible for training Ethiopia’s Republican Guard, who were tasked with protecting the country’s key elected officials. His experience made him a perfect fit for Karen’s ambitions with Raptor. Jasper would also confide to Yemi that he was tired of contributing to his country’s descent down the democratic index.

“Miguel Espinoza,” said Karen through the radio for the whole team to hear. “A few misdemeanors from 2017. Trespassing, drug paraphernalia, nothing violent.”

“Notify DHS so they can have an eye on him,” responded Yemi to his sister. “Watch him, Blackwell. Jasper, keep checking for anybody else who looks off.” Yemi knew if somebody wanted to truly take out the mayor, they wouldn’t stick out like a hobo at a Whole Foods, but he also remembered Boko Haram suicide bombers didn’t wear shirts and ties before blowing themselves up.

Espinoza stood alone with his face frozen, far more focused on the speech down the street than anybody else in the crowd seemed to be. Most periodically checked their phones while some whispered comments to their friends, generating subdued chuckles, most likely about Su-Wei’s physical attraction, as parents disciplined their kids making too much noise. Espinoza seemed entranced by the optimistic words of Su-Wei which spoke of the greatness of the DC area’s diversity and the early days of Chinatown’s formation, followed by the waves of Vietnamese refugees that added to the area’s vibrant Asian presence.

Yemi couldn’t tell if Espinoza’s unblinking attention was due to hatred or affection for her comments. Either way, he continued to look for other hazards and put his trust in Blackwell to be the first to react to any sudden, drastic choices by Espinoza.

“And without further ado, I would love to bring to the stage the person who is in charge of making our diverse city so great!” Yemi sighed on those last words of Su-Wei’s speech. While the Museum Square protesters may have held Su-Wei to some degree of high regard, the explosion of shouting made it obvious they were going to dump the trauma of their living situations onto the city’s top political official.

Mayor Adams couldn’t even get a word in without being drowned out by the demonstrators.

“Keep Chinese in Chinatown!” yelled one through a megaphone.

“What is she saying?” Karen asked through the earpiece.

“Not able to hear her,” Yemi replied. “The protesters are way too loud.” But by the time Yemi had finished his sentence, their chants had risen by enough octaves that made it impossible for Karen not to understand their message to the city’s political power structure.

“Can’t say I blame them,” Karen said.

“Focus, Karen,” Yemi reminded her.

As angry as the screaming DC natives were, Yemi wasn’t fully convinced they would get violent outside of some verbal interruptions, but he kept his eyes on them. After peering through every dissident on the right side of the stage, he looked back down the street toward Espinoza. He hadn’t budged, having held the same exact expression during Su-Wei’s remarks.

“Has Espinoza even blinked since Su-Wei started talking, Terry?” asked Yemi through the radio.

“Doubt it,” responded Terry. “Obviously, I’m only seeing him from a distance, but he’s been a statue the whole time. Something’s definitely not right with him upstairs.”

“Copy,” said Yemi.

“Thank you for having me, and I wish you all an amazing year of the horse!” While she never acknowledged the voices calling her department of housing a travesty, the façade of joy was hard to maintain on her face once she stepped away from the podium.

“Adams is getting escorted out now,” Yemi informed his team through the radio. Plain-clothes MPD officers, the mayor’s security detail, rapidly moved her through the front crowd like a python in the grass. Their speed and tactics helped them avoid any contact with the mayor’s hecklers, who had been concentrated on the North side of the showcase.

“She’s off H street,” Yemi reported.

“Copy,” responded Jasper. “Rice, Osorio, and I will follow her.”

“Copy that,” said Yemi. “Blackwell, keep an eye on Espinoza. Evans, hang tight with me here until DHS clears us.”

“Copy.”

“Copy.” Almost immediately after the exit, another traditional dance started. A much longer puppet that required nine performers swarmed the stage. It was the dragon dance. The dancers wore yellow t-shirts paired with dark blue sweatpants tied by red strings and grasped the paper monster. Yemi knew Espinoza wasn’t the only potential threat, and if an attack was coming for the mayor, it would’ve already happened or it was about to happen soon.

“Espinoza’s moving,” Terry said through the radio.

Yemi directed his attention from the ceremonial dance to down the street, trying to find Espinoza.

POP.

It could have been a firecracker since it was a Chinese New Year, but the blood-curdling female screams from the stage hinted at a far more deadly source to the sudden crackling sound. Yemi quickly removed the Glock-22 from his holster and aimed toward the dragon dance. Most of the performers and musicians were jumping from the platform in sheer panic.

“Shots fired!” yelled Yemi into his radio.

The speakers that were seated behind the podium, who were closest to the edge, had bailed out the sides, but a few remained being held at gunpoint by one of the performers.

POP, POP.

The disguised assassin delivered two more shots into his target, a young man of Asian descent in formal business attire. Yemi identified the victim as one of the speakers. The third shot put him in a permanent slump. Yemi tried to get the performer in his iron sights, but the man took off in a leaping sprint through the right corner of the stage after the third shot. He was too close to the other speakers for Yemi, Lyle, or any of the dozens of law enforcement officers in the vicinity to engage in gunfire.

“He’s on Seventh Street!” Yemi barked into his radio as he took off after the shooter. He had to push against the stream of terrified attendees, slowing down his pursuit of the shooter. Yemi could see a couple of MPD officers shoving through the crowd ahead of him, closer to where the perp exited.

“Lost sight of him,” Yemi barked into the radio. “Yellow shirt, blue pants, he was one of the performers.”

“Copy that,” Jasper said over the radio.

“I got you,” the voice of Lyle came from behind Yemi. He was going to give chase regardless, but now he had some solid backup.

“Follow those cops.”

Another two loud bangs come from the end of the block. The view was finally cleared for Yemi, and he saw one blue uniformed officer who had collapsed to the ground while another took a cover position behind a streetlight to return fire at their attacker, who had already turned the corner. Yemi and Lyle carefully strafed the mandarin lettered storefronts to prepare for engagement with whoever had a death wish for the year of the Horse. Blood came from beneath the eye of the downed officer; it was a clean head shot.

“More shots fired,” Yemi said into the radio. “Officer down! Get paramedics here as soon as possible!”

“Copy,” Karen replied. The standing cop ducked down to report his partner’s fate to his own dispatch. He had his eyes glued down at his target, so Yemi was careful to approach.

“You’ve got help,” Yemi said to the back of his head. “Raptor Security.”

“Shit, I lost him,” the middle-aged balding officer said back to Yemi without budging his focus. “But he’s probably going to head to the metro.”

“We’ll pursue,” Yemi responded. “Just notify transit.”

“Already done,” the officer said back. “They’ll be waiting for him, but make sure no pedestrians get in the way.”

“Copy,” Yemi said.

“I’ll cover you.” The DC cop’s tenacity under fire hinted to Yemi that the man was a veteran, whether it was the military or the district’s crime map.

“Let’s move,” Yemi told his Raptor comrade. Guns pointed forward, the two emerged from the corner.

“I see him!” That was the voice of Raptor’s Explosives expert, Victor Osorio, through the radio. “He’s in the alley right off Seventh Street behind the stadium.” There was a pause over the transmission as Yemi heard running, panting, followed by some gunshots heard throughout the block.

“Drop your weapon!” Yemi could hear Victor barking orders through his transmission, followed by more gunshots. Yemi knew he was behind Capital One Arena. As much as Karen poked fun at Yemi’s lack of local knowledge, it was the Venezuelan-bred Victor who was the least familiar with the landmarks of their battlefield, only knowing street names.

“Jasper,” Yemi said over the radio as he and Lyle finally turned around the corner to head in the direction of the alley. “You and Victor in pursuit?”

“It’s just Victor,” Jasper replied. “He got ahead of me.”

“Cover G Street,” Yemi ordered. “Lyle and I will support Osorio.”

“Copy.” Yemi and Lyle were tactically moving between parked cars, trash cans, and more storefronts. There were fast casual pizza shops and cafes, but the Hanzi characters next to the franchise logos were part of the image D.C. wanted to maintain for Chinatown. Yemi watched the fiftyish-old Victor, built like a retired linebacker, bolt like a wide receiver across the intersection ahead of them to take cover behind a column by a Smoothie King. Around the edge of the drink shop was the alley where the shooter was.

“On your six,” Yemi said to Victor as they stacked up against the edge of the alley entrance.

“He’s moving!” Victor immediately responded. The three pushed into the alley, and Yemi was able to spot the gunman about a hundred yards running into the entrance of the movie theater.

“Put the gun down!” yelled Yemi down the alley. “Now!”

“At your back,” a voice said behind Yemi. His head out of any line of sight for the gunman, he looked back at who came to assist them. The bald-headed Black man’s vest said Department of Homeland Security Police; he was most likely an officer with the Federal Protective Service. Two MPD came behind him, and a neon blue shirt Metro Transit Police officer stayed further back to halt foot traffic on the nearby street.

“We’re going to fucking shoot you!” yelled one of the MPD officers, a much younger man than the rest. A pretty intense situation for somebody who was probably only a few years into law enforcement, but it seemed to Yemi he was handling it well.

The gunman dove into the entrance of the Regal Movie Theater. Glass shattered upon his entrance, aided by a few gunshots from the officers who had just joined Yemi. Whether he was hit or not, Yemi noticed he wasn’t slowing down.

Loud screams came from within the movie theater. They weren’t accompanied by gunfire, but it was enough of a sign for the newly formed squad to press on immediately. The cop who had yelled the last warning was the first to stack behind a door. Yemi read ‘STOYANOV’ on his name plate.

“I need three!” Stoyanov yelled back to the team of law enforcement and contractors. Yemi quickly joined him with support from Lyle and Victor.

“Got you,” Yemi said as he took position on the opposite side of the entrance. The FPS officer signaled to Yemi that he was going to take position near the Transit Police officer and others who were joining to secure the exterior.

“Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!” Stoyanov called out as they rushed into the ticketing area of the theater. As Stoyanov took cover behind the booth window, Yemi and his two EPT squad mates pressed along the right side of the entrance. Almost immediately, Yemi saw their adversary pop his head over the balcony to aim toward them.

“Up top!” Yemi called out as he fired off several shots to the second floor of the theater.

“Cover me,” Victor said to Yemi as he jogged to the bottom of an escalator while keeping his gun pointed to where their adversary had appeared. Yemi assumed all the moviegoers were in hiding or had run out of the theater since nobody else was out in the open. Victor and Yemi stayed crouched as they made their way up the escalator.

Victor was the first to reach the top of the escalator, and he turned right toward the direction of where the target retreated. MPD and WMATA police officers emerged from an opposite stairwell connected to the rear entrance with their guns drawn. There was nowhere for the gunman to go, even though Yemi still didn’t have eyes on him.

“Suspect is holed up in the Regal Theater,” Yemi said into his radio. “Not the metro.” Yemi stepped off the escalator and followed Victor. There were streaks of crimson on the floors of the balcony, but the subject wasn’t in sight. There was a pair of bathrooms across from the balcony’s edge with blood trails leading to both gendered doorways, leaving their exact target’s location a mystery.

“We’ll take the men’s,” Yemi said before turning to Stoyanov.

“Copy,” Stoyanov didn’t waste a beat in responding, as everyone knew potential hostages could be in the stalls and be at risk. Yemi removed one of his pepper spray grenades from his utility belt.

“Deploying gas,” Yemi said as he tossed it into the restroom. They heard the bounce on the tile floors and the sound of it bursting out, the tear gas came right after.

“Go, go, go!” commanded Yemi. Victor waited for Yemi’s signal, and once they were clear, they stormed into the men’s restroom. They were careful to strafe the back wall and not get caught in the mist that would disable their vision.

“Hands up where I can–” Victor didn’t finish his sentence when he turned the corner toward the stalls. Yemi entered the same area when Victor’s body slammed into him. As Yemi fell back from the tackle, he caught a glimpse through the mist and could see their wounded, bloodied target with his shirt off against the opposite wall. Beneath the smirk on the young performer’s face was a pipe bomb strapped to his stomach.

The explosion ripped through the bathroom before they could give any further warning to their squadmates. The dark smile of a sealed fate was the last memory etched into Yemi’s brain.

***

Excerpt from Shifta by Miles Joyner. Copyright 2026 by Miles Joyner. Reproduced with permission from Miles Joyner. All rights reserved.

PROLOGUE

EVERY MARRIAGE EVENTUALLY reaches a decision point. A moment of truth when you either need to trust your partner completely or believe you will be better off on your own.

For Rachel Farrell, that moment is now.

As she lowers her eye to the scope of her rifle, this untimely realization hits her with sudden clarity. Those familiar vows, recited almost two decades ago, constrict her lungs now with the full weight of their significance. To have and to hold, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health—they all amount to being there, always, no matter what. Doing whatever it takes. Even if that means putting a bullet in someone’s head.

The last week has put those vows to the test. Revealed the cracks that have been growing for years in her marriage to Caleb. After the euphoric whirlwind of falling in love, their relationship survived the trials of parenthood, the stresses of two high-powered jobs, the financial burdens of raising a family. But instead of pulling closer together, they’ve been drifting apart without even knowing it. Differences that once seemed so small have come to feel irreconcilable. Rhetoric that was once so supportive has become laden with microaggressions, harbored grievances, mutual suspicion, strained silence. And yet, their marriage has endured, adapted. They have kept their family together.

Rachel wishes these thoughts weren’t running through her head, not now when she needs to concentrate. But isn’t that what this moment is really about? Does she trust her husband? She knows she must decide. Knows she has put it off. Dreaded the implications, especially for her children. But marriages can’t survive in stasis. They need affirmation, renewed commitment, reinvigoration. Maybe that’s what’s happening. Maybe what seemed like a final straw is actually a newfound spark. Maybe she won’t know what she has until it’s gone.

With tears blurring her vision, she squints through the eyepiece and locates her target. At this close range, his head takes up most of the viewfinder. He’s sitting still, exposed, facing away from her. Then she sees the gun pointed at Caleb’s head. She can’t wait any longer or the decision will be made for her. She has to take the shot. But what if she misses? What will happen next? Whatever it is, she knows her life will never be the same after this moment.

Rachel suppresses her inner dialogue of self-doubt and steadies her breath. Chest pressed into the dirt along the ridge. Elbows propped against a rock. Hands clenched on the stock and grip. Shoulder nuzzled against the butt, braced for the recoil. Beads of sweat streak down her face, but she lets them drip onto the dry ground. Her hand stops trembling as she aligns the back of his head in the crosshairs. Then, she counts her exhale, holds her breath, and squeezes the trigger.

CHAPTER 1

Seven Days Earlier

“I KNOW IT’S HARD, but you have to tell him how you feel,” Rachel says into the screen of her laptop.

Easier said than done, she thinks to herself as she adjusts her camera angle. She has been sitting here all afternoon, parked in the same chair at her dining table, holding back-to-back Zoom sessions. Carrie, her last client of the day, is running up against the end of the hour, but Rachel’s best efforts to politely steer their session to a logical conclusion are proving too subtle.

Part of her feels sorry for Carrie. Her husband stopped attending long ago. It’s not a good sign when the husband—or either spouse, but usually the husband in Rachel’s experience—refuses to participate. That’s the whole idea of couples therapy, that it requires with both partners. That it’s a safe, supportive environment for discussing and resolving issues in a constructive manner. When one spouse taps out of the therapy, it usually means they are tapping out of the marriage. The next step is the domain of Rachel’s previous ten-year profession as a divorce attorney, before she found her calling as a couples therapist.

Rachel can tell that, on some level, Carrie knows her marriage may be over, despite complaining about her husband’s lack of affection, short temper, long absences as if those are root problems rather than symptoms. The fact of the matter is, once again this week, her husband isn’t here. Clear evidence that he’s done trying to save the marriage, if that was ever his intention.

Rachel glances at the clock in the upper corner of her screen, hoping Carrie won’t notice—or maybe that she will and finally realize their time is up. Rachel’s butt is getting numb. She’s running out of time to make anything for dinner. Another night of carryout is the likely solution. Without breaking sympathetic eye contact, Rachel slides her phone just underneath the camera’s view and composes a text message to Caleb.

“Last session running long. Can you pick up dinner at Lost Dog? The usual.”

The Old Town Alexandria restaurant isn’t exactly on Caleb’s way home to the Virginia suburbs of Washington, DC, but close enough. Plus, Rachel has a low-grade obsession with their bacon-feta pizza that always overrides her latest attempt at a diet. She’ll kick herself later for gorging on carbs, but screw it—it’s been a long day. Hopefully, Caleb won’t be taking clients out to dinner tonight. She knows he spent the day doing the lobbying rounds on Capitol Hill with one of them, some polyethylene manufacturers’ association or something. She needs that pizza. Rachel notes the time on her phone, 6:04 p.m., then covertly places it face down so she won’t be distracted by it again.

“I just really don’t know what else he expects me to do,” Carrie says, abruptly ending her monologue with an expectant look. Rachel snaps out of her pizza lust and forces a compassionate smile.

“Look, Carrie . . .” Rachel begins, choosing her words carefully. “We’ve been working together a long time, so I feel like I can be honest with you. I’m never going to tell you what to do, but the behaviors you’ve talked about just . . . don’t seem to be getting better. In fact, they seem ingrained. It’s very hard to change another person. And the fact Todd is no longer attending these sessions isn’t a good sign of his commitment to making this marriage work.”

Carrie doesn’t respond, but her expression is the definition of despair. Rachel immediately worries that she’s gone too far. “I’m sorry, I’m probably overstepping my bounds as your therapist, but I . . . Carrie?” Mid-apology, Rachel realizes it isn’t Carrie’s expression that is frozen; it is the entire screen. “Carrie? Hello? Can you hear me?”

That’s perfectn, Rachel thinks, pushing a strand of hair aside as she clicks around in aggravation. Just when she finally delivers her tough-love message, their connection drops. The internet service at their suburban house has been so spotty lately, and calling customer service is a joke. Did Carrie hear any of that? Rachel types into the chat feature: “You froze on me. I think we lost our connection.” But nothing happens. Everything is frozen.

“Crap,” Rachel says, drumming her fingers on the table. Hopefully, a bad connection is all it is. Not Carrie getting so offended by Rachel’s candor that she left the meeting. Maybe Carrie’s phone number is in her contacts, Rachel thinks. Just as she picks up her phone to check, it buzzes—most likely with Caleb’s reply, telling her why he can’t pick up dinner, that he’ll be home late again, that they shouldn’t wait up for him. Anticipating her aggravation, she flips the phone over to see the screen, but it isn’t the message from Caleb she expects. Instead, it’s just one simple notification. “Message failed to send.”

***

Excerpt from Outage by Mike Trigg. Copyright 2026 by Mike Trigg. Reproduced with permission from Mike Trigg. All rights reserved.

Landlords don’t rent apartments to zombies.

I scratched the four-day stubble on my jawline and parked my mom’s Camry behind the brown brick walk-up. Home-Not-So-Sweet Home.

As I stepped into the cramped apartment lobby Sergei was waiting.

“The rent,” he said, his guttural Russian accent turning his words into a nonsensical de-REN. I paused, reluctantly meeting the bushy brows lowered ominously over his steely slitted eyes. Easy to translate.

I nodded and darted my own eyes to the stairway. One of these days my landlord would surely raise a heavily muscled arm and crash his ham hock fist into my face. Emitting my zombie grunt, I pivoted to the stairwell and rushed up, expecting Sergei to follow. Relieved when he didn’t.

It would be a brief reprieve. When my mom lived here Sergei only showed up once a month, but in the three years since she died, he’d pounded his frustration with my spotty payments onto my apartment door with increasing frequency, not budging until I opened the creaky steel barrier. Saying nothing, he’d hold out a meaty palm that looked like it could strangle me all by itself.

Back when I still had cash, I’d offer a wad of fifties and hundreds that he’d snatch up like grabbing cash from an ATM. Only the Will Lockhart machine was now empty, and Sergei looked as though he wanted to kick it into compliance. Kick me. Face flushed with fury, he’d study me with those hard gray pebbles, taking in my disheveled hair and sagging clothes. A gaze that told me exactly what he thought about me—a twenty-one-year-old slacker who clearly cared about nothing. A deadbeat. A zombie. And this was mostly true except for the one thing I cared deeply about: those last seconds with Mom. I relived them daily, the guilt as fresh and dangerously addictive as a drunk’s bleary-eyed yearning for a Bloody Mary the morning after a bender.

I deserved the memories. If not for me, Mom would still be alive.

I closed my eyes against the inevitable scene rolling through my mind. The flash of headlights slicing through my Honda’s dusky interior like a white-hot comet, too fast to stop, too bright to blink away; a violent force whirling me into its vortex. My neck twisting painfully, head hitting something hard. The car’s interior exploding into a slow-motion kaleidoscope. How I’d instinctively thrust my arm out to protect my mom, instant pain bolting from fingers to shoulder; glass shattering and raining down upon us like the stinging embers of trailing fireworks.

And then, the stillness. The church-like quiet.

I’d blinked into the silence as the noises trickled in—the hissing of the steaming engine, and a tinny song coming through the radio from somewhere under the car’s hood. A far-off voice belted out a twangy country tune. “Put on the bacon and the eggs, darlin’ . . .”

Mom and her country music. Mom and her . . . Mom. Head throbbing, I’d scanned the smoke-choked twilight. She was right where she was supposed to be, still hooked in place by her seatbelt, staring straight ahead, like she was listening for something.

“Mom? Are you all right?”

Beyond the jagged glass edges of her blown-out window I saw the lines of the truck through the smoky haze, the words “Barclay’s Bread” written in fancy red letters on its wide, boxy side. Mom said nothing.

Painfully bolted into our twisted metal cage, waiting for the Jaws of Life to extract us, I’d reached out, trying to touch her with my other hand, the one that still worked. If I could just shake her out of her trance.

But in those final precious seconds our bodies existed in the same world, I knew. She was already gone.

I shook my head, forcing me back to the present, wishing my mind could be like the Etch-a-Sketch Mom bought me when I was six. One harsh shake in each direction and the contents of the screen disappeared. But my mind retained in painful detail the truck driver’s distinctive profile, the beak of a nose angled down, a squinted eye and bulbous cheekbone lit up by his cell-phone screen.

As a kid, the thought of Mom dying had set waves of terror rolling through me. Not just because I loved her, but because a part of me always dreaded the day she’d be taken from me. Convinced it would happen but unsure of when, I’d spent a good four years waking up each night and tiptoeing to her bedroom door, peeking through the crack between the edge of the flimsy wood and the wall to ensure she was still in bed, alive. Ridiculous as it seemed, even then, it was understandable, given our track record. I mean, not long before my dad left us, just after my fifth birthday, we’d been a family of four.

***

Excerpt from MAYBE YOU LIED by Jennifer Sadera. Copyright 2026 by Jennifer Sadera. Reproduced with permission from Jennifer Sadera. All rights reserved.

FACTS:

1. The United States power grid is divided into three largely independent systems, considered one of the most complex machines ever built with over 160,000 miles of high-voltage transmission lines. Large portions of the grid infrastructure are decades old.
2. Modern societies rely on electricity for nearly every critical system including: water treatment plants, fuel pipelines, telecommunications networks, hospitals, and transportation systems.
3. GPS signals are surprisingly weak and vulnerable to interference.
4. The largest blackout in North American history affected 50 million people in August 2023 involving eight states and Canada.
5. Small inexpensive drones can now carry lethal payloads.
6. The U.S. military (under DARPA’s OFFSET program) have tested drone swarm “curtain” formations.

Chapter 1

Friday, September 27 – 8:49 a.m. –
AIRPLANE #1 – Private Gulfstream Jet – Coast of Venezuela

The day was perfect for flying, sipping Russo-Baltique vodka—and an assassination.

In exactly eleven minutes.

Ominous black clouds churned miles beneath the Gulfstream cruising high above the Atlantic. Far away, 1,600 miles north, thick fog rolled across the runway at Tampa International Airport—with Air Force One descending on approach.

Tracy strode the cabin aisle, air thick with sweat and heavy leather. Her smartwatch pinged. Florida ground team: Eight minutes to launch. All good.

Fiddling with her charcoal pearl necklace, she eyed the dozen technicians, each tracking a sliver of the covert op. Right on schedule. She halted behind her lead coordinator, Boris, bent over a pulsing, colorful weather map.

When Tracy placed her hand on his shoulder, Boris stopped typing and adjusted his headset. She stood erect, arms crossed and chin high, her gold silk blouse complementing her team’s black combat uniforms like a leather-banded Swiss watch.

Seeds of anarchy thrive in a nation stripped of electric power.

The enormous gravity of today’s operation weighed on everyone aboard. Their goal: to plant kernels of chaos.

She clucked her tongue, gave a sharp nod and pointed to a green and yellow blob on his screen. “Tell me that’s not fog.”

Successfully executing their mission—polished for years—would bring infamy to her name and enter Tracy Daniela Ciacchella into the history books alongside John Wilkes Booth and Lee Harvey Oswald. Not desirable, but exitus acta probat: the outcome justifies the deeds.

“It is, but ma’am, your yacht is in perfect position in Old Tampa Bay,” Boris said, a hint of a Russian accent slipping through on certain syllables. “All four hundred drones fully programmed, ready for activation and deployment from boat deck. We have new problem.”

A sitting US president hadn’t fallen since ‘63. Today’s mission was the culmination of years of planning, subversion, and digital sleight of hand. No bullets. No lone gunman. Just 400 Semtex-laden drones guided by a matrix of stolen GPS coordinates and a rigged FAA exemption buried three years ago by one of her assets.

A clean kill.

Boris nodded. “Not worried about fog, ma’am, but light rain, not good for drones. Moved in faster than expected.”

Each drone carried a two-pound brick of homemade Semtex.

Washington had talked counter-drone defense for years. But as was typical with US leadership, nothing actually got done. No productive decisions. Only political wrangling and posturing—mixed with unhealthy levels of toxic masculinity.

Incompetent politicians. Yet another reason to raise my curtain of death—weather permitting.

For the final time, Tracy confirmed the ground team in position. On her iPad, she tapped open the video chat app connected with her two generals: first, the captain on her yacht in Old Tampa Bay, Florida; and second, her trusted, longtime friend Bob Huffington—nicknamed

Huff—perched atop the Macy’s roof near I-275. Positioned a mile south, Huff had an unobstructed view of the final approach flight path for runway 1R at Tampa International.

Although Tracy herself was nowhere near Florida, both video feeds from her team streamed clean and crisp via satellite. Rolling fog thickened, obscuring her views.

“Wind speed?” she asked Huff.

“Twenty-two knots. For now, acceptable, but if gusts start pushing above twenty-five, our chances drop to ten percent.”

Getting Goldberg into place had been her masterpiece. After today, with President Whitehead out of the picture, Vice President Goldberg would give Tracy direct access to the power levers controlling the federal government. Her puppet would be in perfect position for the next phase of world domination.

It was now or never. Time for the all-important decision.

Even if the wind began gusting, the drones might still fly close enough to do catastrophic damage.

Tracy brought her iPad close and announced into the tiny speaker, “Green. Repeat, we are green for Operation Black Flock.”

On her screen, both generals nodded in confirmation. Now—shadowy iPad feeds showed Huff entering the launch code while workers on the boat peeled off a massive blue tarp to reveal a cargo container with four hundred off-the-shelf quadcopter drones—all made in China—packed inside a customized carbon fiber lattice. Each carried a two-pound payload of Semtex and a pre-programmed set of GPS-coordinated waypoints—latitude, longitude and elevation—to travel to.

“Gusts up to twenty-four knots,” Huff said, nervously tugging at his earlobe before giving her a thumbs up, indicating her ground team had programmed the drones and activated them. Assuming the weather cooperated, the small black machines would follow precise paths using exact signals from dozens of GPS satellites—all in working order as of five minutes ago, according to her inside man at the Department of Defense. Her DOD contact had also confirmed the Air Force One plane on descent was, in fact, carrying President Whitehead, not a decoy.

Boris leaned back in his chair, away from his laptop, and squinted at Tracy. “I still think we could have come up with a better name for this op.”

She nodded, anxiety rising, wondering whether the drones would perform as intended. “Perhaps.”

“How about Operation Kill Racist Xenophobic Pedophile?”

“Come now, Boris. Way too long.” Tracy gave a silent smirk.

A tiny matrix of red and green lights blinked on her iPad, communicating status from every craft, as propellers whirred, creating a bee-like buzzing sound crackling from the embedded speaker.

The swarm of drones lifted skyward and disappeared into the gray blur of rolling fog.

***

Excerpt from Blackout by J. Luke Bennecke. Copyright 2026 by J. Luke Bennecke. Reproduced with permission from J. Luke Bennecke. All rights reserved.

Chapter One

Outside the Surgical Emergency Room

Grady Memorial Hospital, Atlanta, Georgia

Kyle McMann groaned as she paced on the Grady Memorial Hospital Emergency Room ramp, her eyes tracking the incoming ambulance. She prayed this wasn’t another twenty-five-year-

old—her exact age—stiffened by rigor mortis, still cradling her crying infant son in her arms. She was haunted by the mother’s lifeless stare that sent shivers down her spine. Obviously, some evil bastard shot her close up as she held her baby.

Kyle had picked the short straw, as per usual. She was starting her career as an intern in the Surgical Emergency Room of Grady, the Mount Everest of U.S. shock-trauma centers.

Unlike most hospitals that had one ER, this godforsaken medical behe-moth had three: the Surgical ER, the Medical ER, and the Pediatric ER. Each had its own unique variants of traumatizing trauma.

It was dark by nine p.m. on Thursday, July 5th, and she shielded her eyes from the strobing reds and blues. It was her job to screen the incoming “clients.”

Though not specified in the hospital bylaws, inherent in the mission of the lowest of the low on the professional totem pole was ramp duty.

Aka processing the worst of the worst and pronouncing the dead bodies dead.

Didn’t get much grimmer than that.

Her mind flashed back to this morning’s thirty-one-year-old basketball phenom with bacterial meningitis. A day ago, a vibrant human being. Now approaching his maker with a devastated brain failing on a respirator despite the efforts of the best infectious disease minds on the planet.

She’d been there for five days, and already it was wearing her out. Facing the families.

The tears. The sobbing.

Parents collapsing.

It was like everyone fell from the tree of horrors and hit each branch on the way down.

Her fight or flight reflex kicked in, and she sprinted to the ambulance, sharp brown eyes focused, runner’s body whipping towards the EMS vehicle, coughing out the black exhaust that smacked her face-on and splayed her middle-parted chestnut brown hair in both directions. Staying on the driver’s side, she peered in as the BLS 911 Emergency Ambulance backed into the ramp.

“What is it?” she shouted as the driver rolled down his window.

“Bad one, doc. Bleeding like a stuck pig. A bunch of kids worked him over with bats and knives. You want to get in here fast.”

Kyle’s heart sank as she ran back and yanked open the rear door. She jumped in before the van came to a full stop.

Blood.

And more blood.

A vampire’s wet dream.

On the sheets. The floor. Smeared on the windows.

“Come on!” she shouted to the half-panicked tech staring at the abdomen. “Let’s get him inside.”

The two front EMTs ran around back and pulled the stretcher out. The group slammed through the steel and glass doors into the ER.

“WAIT A MINUTE!” Ellen Chu, the hard-as-a-rock head nurse, blocked their path and held up her hand. “What’s going on?”

Kyle spoke up from behind. “Let ’em through. We’re going to Trauma, stat.”

She pushed the stretcher, sweeping Ellen aside, then looked back over her shoulder. “And call Eli.”

The Trauma Room was halfway down the hall. It was larger than the rest, so more people could fit in to stabilize the endless stream of broken bodies in this war zone.

Kyle slipped in before the men and slapped the trauma room table. “Here. Let’s move him. One, two, three.”

They lifted the patient from the stretcher using the draw sheet underneath him.

He was light. Must be a kid, Kyle thought.

She peered into the open abdomen. The wound stretched all the way across the belly.

“Oh, man,” she cried as she catapulted back.

An arterial pumper squirted blood into the air, hitting her directly in the right eye.

Everything she learned drained from her mind. She went from flight/fight to freeze.

All she could see was that fountain of red shooting up from the patient’s pulsating bowel.

Where the hell was Eli?

Her stomach dropped from the sheer helplessness of it all.

Think, dammit. THINK!

Ellen poked her head around the corner.

Kyle looked up from the bowel, snapped out of her stupor, and wiped blood from her face with the arm of her white lab coat.

“Where’s Eli?”

“I told him to get his ass down here stat.” Ellen looked at the spurting blood, then back at Kyle and said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world: “Shouldn’t we start an IV?”

“Yeah, yeah, uh, good idea.” Kyle shook her head and mentally kicked herself. Four years of working her ass off, and she couldn’t even think of an IV? What kind of a moron was she?

“I’ll put in the IV,” Ellen said hard and fast, “but you’ve gotta get that bleeder, or he won’t last until Eli gets here.” The ambulance attendants backed off while Ellen tossed Kyle a large Kelly clamp, then ransacked the drawers for an IV.

“Kyle?!” she barked, “C’mon, let’s go.”

Kyle faced the patient, ready to save his life. Then she froze. Again.

Sure, she’d been through the surgical rotation, but only as a second or third assistant. She’d read all the books. But books didn’t shoot blood at you while you tried to stop them from dying.

It was her first week in the ER, for fuck’s sake.

She wasn’t even a real doctor yet. Real doctors knew what they were doing.

“Kyle, SNAP OUT OF IT!” Ellen shouted.

“Okay, sorry…” Kyle muttered as she sprang out of her stupor.

She pulled on a pair of surgical gloves and yanked the suction catheter from the wall. The long plastic tube slurped the liquid blood and dark clots from the open wound to expose a glistening bowel.

There it was.

The base of the bleeder.

She took the Kelly clamp and went for it. Blood splattered her face again.

Now it was in her left eye.

What if he had AIDS?

Or hepatitis?

“Damn!” She missed.

The blood was pooling.

And the bleeder was going down again.

In another second, it would disappear below the surface of a new red pond.

She went for it once more, holding her right wrist to steady her hand.

“Gotcha, you little bastard.” “What’s going on?”

Kyle squinted to keep more blood from rolling into her eyes as she growled at Eli, finally strolling in like the cool customer he was. “Nice of you to stop by.”

The second-year surgery resident leaned over to inspect the wound. “Looks to me like you’re doin’ a-okay to me, Newby.”

A clot dislodged from another severed vessel.

Blood spewed two feet and caught Eli in the cheek. “Okay, well, maybe you do need a little help from your friends.”

He wiped his face with a green towel and snapped on a pair of tan gloves. “Kyle, gimme the suction catheter. I’ll work here. You put a second IV in his other hand. Ellen, call the OR. Tell them we’re coming up stat.”

Kyle was happy to slide aside. She grabbed the patient’s right hand and smacked the back of it a half dozen times to raise a vein. It was no easy matter considering the scar tissue covering the vessels.

Strange. She’d given her little brother a scar like that once. Brian had been chasing her in the house, and she slammed the bathroom door on his hand as hard as she could.

The poor kid. She remembered it like it was yesterday. She’d cried for nights when she saw the skin torn back and the tears running down his little pink cheeks.

She stared at the patient’s face. Except there was no face.

No pink cheeks. Nothing close to normal human features. Only bloated purple lips, swollen shut eyes, and the disfigured pulp left by the vicious stomping. His facial bones had to be fractured beyond recognition.

Eli clenched his teeth, his casual nonchalance gone. “Son of a bitch!” “What? What’s the matter?” Kyle asked.

“Every time I grab a damn vessel, another pops up.” Even Eli, the king of chill, was sweating. Something he rarely did. “We’ve gotta get this bowel fixed, or we won’t have to worry about the rest of him.”

Ellen careened around the doorway corner on one hand. “They gave us the okay. Said to bring him right up.”

“Unlock this stretcher. LET’S GO!!!” Eli threw another clamp on the exposed gut.

The trio wheeled the stainless-steel stretcher as fast as they could into the main corridor of the ER, then down the dim hallway, with Kyle sprinting at the side.

She looked down at the abdomen. Blood was oozing everywhere. She ran ahead and punched the erratically blinking, red “UP” button. Twice. Three times. Four…Eli, Ellen, and the patient arrived in seconds.

Kyle’s foot tapped on the floor, and she bit her lower lip as she stared at the patient’s hand. Was she going to lose this one, too?

Her mind disassociated as she waited for the clanking elevator. She needed to stop after work to stock up on Fritos. Brian was visiting on Monday. Just out of tenth grade, this was his first solo trip by train. It was a wonder Mom let him come, especially for two days. She hated being alone since Dad died. But she’d finally relented when he expressed such a strong interest in Emory University. He so wanted to follow his big sister’s path, only on the veterinary side.

“No pulse,” Ellen said as she felt the patient’s neck and looked up from the head of the stretcher with wide eyes.

Eli reached for a confirming feel, then looked back toward the ER, hesitant for a moment.

“We gotta get him to the OR,” he decided. “Kyle, you pump. I’ll breathe him.”

Kyle jumped onto the stretcher and straddled the patient with her legs, half-standing, taking care not to put weight on the open abdomen.

Knees flexed, she pushed down on his chest with both palms, counting off one-per-second thrusts that forced blood through his oxygen-starved body.

One of the clamps slipped, and blood squirted, spraying the crotch of her white house officer’s pants over and over.

She kept going.

Unless they got this poor kid’s heart started again, he’d be a brainstem preparation in ten minutes.

Eli sighed deeply and shook his head. “Not good, guys. Where’s a phone to call a code?”

He glanced left, then right. “Not even a fucking phone?” Cells were useless down here.

Ellen scowled and ran back to the ER, mumbling something unintelligible, though her tone needed no explanation.

“I don’t think I’m pumping him well,” Kyle said between heavy breaths. “Why not?” Eli asked.

“There’s no support under his back.” “God DAMNIT!”

Eli dropped the breathing mask, pushed the stretcher against the wall for stabilization, and pulled a sideboard out from underneath. “Turn him so I can put this under.”

Kyle stopped her thrusts and, standing on the stretcher with her back against the wall, lifted the left side of the patient’s body while Eli tried to slip the flat board underneath. The awkward position set off horrific pounding in her head, but not before she had him halfway over.

“Almost. Just a little more.”

The patient’s shirt slipped up.

The birthmark!

The brown oval over his right kidney!

Kyle’s shocked mouth dropped open. Instead of pulling harder, she dropped him.

The patient fell back on Eli and the board with a thud.

Kyle’s head snapped back and slammed against the hard tile wall abutting the stretcher. She could hear a crack as her head bounced.

The birthmark. The mark on his back—Brian’s mark. And with the hand scars?

NOOOOO!!!

Eli yanked his right hand out from between the board and the stretcher and shook it.

“Kyle! What the hell are you doing? Why’d you let go?”

The board crashed to the ground.

Kyle climbed down and grabbed the side of the stretcher, her head exploding with the worst pain she’d ever felt.

Eli held his hand and grimaced. “What’s wrong with you? Get moving, or he’s gonna die.”

“I—I can’t. I just can’t, I’m not, I don’t… I just can’t…”

“Why not?”

“I-I can’t.”

“Jesus Christ!” Eli uttered.

Then he shouted, “HELP, STAT!!! WE NEED HELP DOWN HERE!!!”

He hit a red wall alarm and climbed onto the stretcher. He pumped with his good hand while Kyle hugged the wall for support.

Brian.

Dear God, NOOOOO!

What was he doing here four days early? He never showed up anywhere early in his entire life.

Personnel poured from the stairways and into the hallway.

Eli jumped off and ran down the corridor, waving at the people pushing the stretcher back to the ER.

“Come on, move it, MOVE IT!”

Kyle stumbled after them in a daze. The seat of her pants dripped blood that splattered down to her green and white Nikes. Normally, the wetness would’ve driven her crazy. Now she watched and felt a cold nothingness.

While her head throbbed with an excruciating ache. As if it were on fire.

People ran past.

Someone was shouting in the distance. Bodies crowded the main ER.

Their faces were blurs.

She stopped outside the door to Trauma. Inside, it was alive with a flurry of activity, but the noises were far away.

Kyle stood alone, the Ghost of Christmas Past, looking in on people illuminated by the powerful overhead beams.

As she stood there wobbling, the noise stopped. Suddenly, the frenzied motion ceased.

White coats and pants came out singly and in pairs, silent, their heads hanging low.

Eli came last, biting his lower lip.

Only the solitary monotone of the cardiac monitor echoed through the door.

Kyle dropped back against a wall and slid to the ground, a hand pressing into each temple to try and hold in the jackhammer pounding inside her head.

Her mental and physical pains faded as she passed out into a black void.

Chapter Two

Seven Years Later

Pennsylvania Hospital, Eighth Street, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

Graham Kurland, 6’ 5”, 230 pounds of sinew and muscle, strolled in the Pennsylvania Hospital parking lot like the former Purple Heart winner he was, a world-class warrior who’d traded his

weapons for a scalpel and become a rising star surgeon of the medical world, as well as a renowned transplant researcher. If you looked closely, you could see his assurance and graceful gait almost concealed the limp he’d had after a grenade’s shrapnel shredded his leg.

He was greeted by the occasional nurse who flirted, or a doctor who was in awe and/or jealous of the famous Dr. Kurland. But no matter how much attention he got—professional or personal—none of it ever went to his head. He either didn’t know or care how brilliant and easy on the eyes he was.

He was excited about the surgery he was scheduled to perform. A double renal artery in a recipient kidney. Much more difficult to implant than a single renal artery. So his XXL brain was working out each detail, making contingencies for everything that could go wrong. The donor kidney had two arteries supplying it, rather than the typical one. This anomaly made it more difficult to connect the donor kidney into the kidney recipient. Couldn’t be done without a great team. They were very good. But were they great? He thought so.

This was his last year of internal medicine residency. He had already finished his surgical residency and would be one of the select few in the country with Boards in Surgery and Medicine. He couldn’t have done it without his photographic memory. And his years as a kill-or-be-killed warrior. And a CEO who turned his dead father’s business into a cash cow. While raising his teenage brother.

BAM!

A car backfired loudly, like a shot being fired just outside the hospital.

Suddenly, Graham was in the middle of a raging battle in the desert outside Kandahar, missiles and bullets flying. Eddie Severs, his ride-or-die best friend, was by his side. Eddie took one step towards him, and the whole world exploded as he stepped on an IED.

Graham was thrown back, even as he saw Eddie blow up, blood and flesh flying as he screamed in agony and horror.

Graham felt a hand on his shoulder, and he whipped around, fists clenched, fire in his eyes, face full of rage, in full fight mode.

He snapped back to reality when he saw he was face-to-face with Nurse Beth Kelly, a fifty-something veteran of twenty-five years at Penn, the sweetest, kindest soul here. She was looking horrified at Graham’s hard, furious face, his body spring-loaded and ready to kill.

The look of terror on Nurse Kelly’s face jolted Graham back to sanity. He saw what he was doing and was overcome with shame and embarrassment. He forced his face into a disarming, charming grin.

“Sorry, Beth, oh my God, you scared the bejesus outta me. My apologies, I get a little wonky sometimes. I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m really sorry.” Beth’s face changed from scared to neutral to thoughtful to understanding to kind. She nodded and smiled her sweet smile. “PTSD,” she said with an understanding nod. “My husband served in Desert Storm. Gee willikers, I

know trauma’s a killer. I hope to heck you’re getting help.”

“Oh yeah, I went through the program, I just get a little sketchy when I hear, uh…”

“Loud noises? Like a gunshot. Or a car backfiring?” she gave him a wry little smile. “I get it.”

“Thanks, Beth, I really appreciate that. Maybe we could keep this, uh, you know…”

She made a funny little locking-her-lips-with-a-key gesture and did a slightly silly mock whisper. “What happens at Penn stays at Penn.”

Graham laughed. Beth laughed.

“Shall we?” Beth nodded and gestured towards the hospital.

“Yes, we shall,” Graham said with his trademark aw-shucks animal magnetism as they walked through the parking lot and into the rest of their lives.

***

Excerpt from Invisible Justice by Gary Brown, M.D. Copyright 2026 by Gary Brown, M.D. Reproduced with permission from Gary Brown, M.D. All rights reserved.

Chapter Two

Detective Theo Barnes lit a smoke, a rare allowance to tamp down the adrenaline. His brain buzzed as the nicotine hit all the right spots while watching a squad car containing Andrews drive away. He texted his wife, reminding her today would run long. A few cases ago he’d forgotten and caught hell for missing dinner. Rayna was sexy when she was angry, but it wasn’t worth missing sleep to stay up arguing.

Once he hit the filter, he’d oversee the bag and tag efforts at the scene and head to the Charlottesville county jail for the interrogation. Raids of Andrews’ home and Senate office were executed simultaneously. The limitations of being in one place at a time drove him nuts. He inherently trusted his team of Virginia State Troopers. Just not as much as himself.

He had always been this way. Those aware of his origins don’t blame him. His unyielding dedication compounded as he aged, particularly in the four years since he’d taken over the Internet Sex Crimes Division. Convictions hang on the smallest detail. Considering how far he’d stuck his neck out, he’d be hip deep in every aspect of the investigation until prison doors slammed shut on Senator Andrews.

“You ever think about the irony of a sex crimes investigator who needs a cigarette after every bust?” said the blonde as she approached. Among many contributions, Shannon Williamson served as Barnes’ lure for the stings.

“Funny. Here I was concerned about Rayna raking me over the coals and you gotta toss in some Freudian shit to boot.” Defiantly, Barnes took one last deep drag and flicked the butt into the motel parking lot.

Barnes knew he’d hit the jackpot having her on the squad. A rising star at the FBI out of college, promoted early and often, she’d made it as a profiler. Then came her father’s stroke. Her mom passed on when she was in elementary school. With no caregiver, she came home to Charlottesville, signing on with the Troopers once he’d recovered.

“Deep psychological analysis of your soul is why you pay me so large.” She glanced up at him. “No matter how many times we do this, I’m always surprised at how much they cry. Between you and me, it’s my favorite part with these scumbags.”

“He thought you were fourteen and he got me instead. Your pigtails in those pictures sold it. Sorry you’re always the worm on the hook for these, but, well—” He shrugged.

“I’m thirty-five but look like jailbait. I don’t mind. I like the field action. But you’ll need to recruit a new carrot for these sickos. I won’t fit what they’re looking for much longer.”

Her hand rested on her stomach as she exaggerated a baby bump.

“Really? That’s great! You and Rick must be over the moon.”

“It’s a seesaw between thrilled and freaking out. Need you to keep me

level since you’re the parenting expert. I do wonder about the world I’m bringing the kid into.”

“One with another predator off the street. And as far as parenting goes, Rayna does the heavy lifting with the boys. I come off the bench to give her a breather. When are you due?”

“Thanksgiving. You’ve got me six more months, but don’t go giving my job away. I’m coming back.”

“Don’t know what I’d do without you anyways. Let’s make sure everything is tight as a drum. I can’t wait to sit across the table from this asshole.”

* * *

Barnes, having shed motel customer garb for a shave, suit, and tie, watched the shackled State Senator Andrews shuffle into interrogation. Of all the post-sting grillings, he can’t recall a suspect this calm. Andrews’ light, self-satisfied smile suggested a guy up for a promotion inside The tears he’d shed were a distant memory.

“You’re wasting your time. I’m not talking without my lawyer,” Andrews said.

Barnes reflexively clenched his fist. He paused before plowing ahead with the time-tested approach. “I understand why you’d want your lawyer. This is the worst day of your life. We’ve got you dead to rights. I’ll even allow that you’re sorry. I know you’re scared. We have chat transcripts of your conversations with the girl, the way you groomed her. All of it directly traceable to you.”

Despite his previous statement, Andrews can’t allow the challenge. “Maybe I don’t even need a lawyer. This is a set-up. It’s fake news. Nothing happened. In fact, she’s the one who led me on.”

Barnes shook his head and smiled. This revelation was his favorite part. “Actually, Senator, I was the one leading you on. But we both know you did the grooming.”

The initial review of Andrew’s home and office computers had returned zilch. Andrews couldn’t possibly know this. His slimy bullshit sourced elsewhere.

“I can prove that you thought she was fourteen and intended to have sex with her. When we parade the things you brought to the motel in front of a jury, the sex toys, the lube, and most damning, your secret video camera, they won’t buy your excuses. You know, people like you tend to have a rough go in prison.”

Andrews’ breathing hitched. Some of his cocky attitude faded. His head shook involuntarily. Barnes stood and put a hand on his shoulder. “Calm down, you’ll be ok. Can we get him something to drink here?” The guard brought a bottle of water.

Andrews drank and tried breathing deep. Barnes returned to his seat. “There’s no turning back the clock here. But if you help me, you’ll make things easier for yourself when you go before judge and jury. I can be a friend.”

Andrews snorted. “How kind. That was my first thought, this guy is my friend. Trust me, I’ve already got the right friends.”

Maintaining the good cop persona grew increasingly harder. “You’ve got one chance to help yourself and you’re blowing it. Confess, save us the trouble of a trial. How’d you locate those sites and chatrooms? They don’t pop up in a Google search. Come clean. Maybe we can close a loophole. You throw us that info and I’ll see that it earns points with the judge and the

District Attorney.”

“I have something to offer people much higher on the food chain than the local D.A. Prison isn’t in my future.” Andrews leaned back in his chair. “Lawyer, now.”

Now Andrews got the uncompromising Barnes, who’d walked through fire to get here. “Fine, lawyer up, but let me tell you this. There are a few ironclads in this life. Don’t mess with the church’s money, don’t piss off people who handle your food, and don’t ever, and I mean ever, threaten children. Even if you think prison’s not in your future, jail most definitely is.

You’re spending tonight in County’s general population and I swear every last inmate will know why. Sleep tight.”

Barnes trusted Andrews’ the worst visions were his best ally. He’d turned

the doorknob when he heard a sigh of resignation.

“Wait. I might know a few things. Maybe a couple of names. But then I want my lawyer. You swear to keep the animals away?”

“For the next few days,” Barnes pushed a pen and paper across the table.

* * *

Captain Butch Holland, Barnes’ commanding officer, stewed behind the two-way mirror. His bushy mustache resembled a walrus, matching his bulk. His police hat covered up his hair’s disappearing act. Vanity wasn’t quite enough to get him on a treadmill though. As Barnes entered the room, Holland’s face flushed, and he opened at peak volume.

“Happy? I ordered you, very clearly, not to pursue this. But you know better than everyone and look where we are. No confession, half a case, and a big pile of shit.”

Barnes eyed Holland with disdain. “I know better than you. We’ve got him because I do my job. You worry about kissing ass upstairs. I don’t give a shit if it’s a state Senator, an ambassador, or the goddamn President. He’s garbage and he’s going down.”

Holland had tabled his retirement, desperately hanging on to walk with a Major’s pension. He bristled at the accurate insinuation that he played the political game.

“You’ve got the Governor’s office breathing fire and I’m not taking heat for you.”

Sure, Barnes thought. The only thing you take is credit. He’d spent a lifetime internalizing beatings, verbal or otherwise, and spinning them out as motivation. It usually worked, as long as nobody undercut his integrity.

He balled his fist over and over. “You don’t have to take anything. We’re on our way. Sometimes it takes a minute, but they always break in the end.”

“Explain that to Colonel Prescott tomorrow. He’s coming down and bringing the Attorney General. Let’s see how Saint Barnes handles that.”

“Fine, Captain.” Barnes poured tabasco on the big man’s title. “I’ll promise you something. Nobody walks on my watch. See what happens to anyone standing in my way when I’m dragging someone to hell.”

Holland’s mustache twitched with the hint of a smile. “So, you say. Before the day’s out, I want the originals on all your paperwork and a full tick-tock. It’s going straight to the Colonel.”

The Captain’s smirk irritated him but frustration over the request took precedent. “Christ, let me do my job. I’ve got to get out to reinspect the house and office. Bureaucracy doesn’t close cases.”

The Captain pointed a pudgy finger. “Prescott demanded it. When the head of the State Police barks, you do it before he fucking bites.”

Holland stormed from the room, almost steamrolling Shannon. An agile spin kept her from becoming roadkill. She leaned against a filing cabinet, the only furniture in the spartan room beyond two steel folding chairs.

“Congrats on another successful interaction with the brass. Never thought I’d see a detective with the best closure rate universally hated by the higher ups.”

Barnes seethed. “Fuck him and fuck the rest of them too. I’m not playing their games, I’m doing the job.” He kicked a chair and it slammed into the wall with a satisfying bang.

“Easy, I’m not the enemy. The martyr act won’t get you anywhere. You might consider playing nice.”

Occasionally, Shannon glimpsed behind Barnes’ carefully constructed wall. While he was certain it unnerved her, she still spoke her mind. “Sorry. Someone’s always gunning for me. Being the best doesn’t allow time for anyone else’s agenda. I’m not about to change.”

“Fine,” passing on a losing battle. “What’s our next move? I only heard Holland’s side. You solid on what we did today?”

“Andrews is a pervert. We’ve got enough, but tonight’s a paper night. Prescott’s coming and we make sure it’s watertight.”

Shannon frowned and rubbed her temples. “Holland wants to show everyone he’s got his thumb on us. I don’t care that he takes credit sometimes, but this is taking away from the real work. Damn him.”

A sly smile materialized. “Now who needs to play nice?”

“Shut up. I’m not the one with four reprimands for insubordination. You think Andrews will spill? It’s a long time since you didn’t get the confession right away.”

“It’s not insubordination when I’m right. Andrews dropped a few names, but I think they’re bullshit. He’d stick his hand in a pit of rattlesnakes to draw a get out of jail free card.” He paused. “A night or two in a cell will do it.”

But Barnes didn’t believe that. Three cigarettes and creeping concerns consumed his trip to the Barracks. He couldn’t shake the idea there was something rotten about this case, and not just around the edges. Andrews’ arrogance held court in his mind. What’s up your sleeve, you sick son of a bitch? What do you know about what’s coming my way I don’t?

***

Excerpt from Main Street Fringe by Matthew Lavoie. Copyright 2026 by Matthew Lavoie. Reproduced with permission from Matthew Lavoie. All rights reserved.