Jana Oliver - Blog

About Those Edits . . .

Sat, 02 May 2026 23:00:00 GMT

Caerphilly Castle
Caerphilly, Wales (UK)
(c) 1997 - Jana Oliver

The edit of my DragonFire series continues. This is a quick post as to what's new and how close we are to the first book's publication.

The final edit of The Circle of the Swan (DragonFire Book 1) is complete. It's currently being eyeballed by yet another beta reader who will let me know if anything doesn't track. Because there's always something.

Why did this book need a complete rewrite? I'll be honest -- I was a newbie back in 2001 when this was originally published. I knew how to spin a tale, but often the execution of that tale wasn't as polished it needed.

So polishing I have been. Since then I've learned to not "head hop" in a scene. That means I'm no longer switching points of view from one character to another and confusing the reader. The first edit was simply deciding who needed the POV in a scene and then rewriting all the text to make that happen. Usually it's whichever characters as the most to gain or lose in that scene. I also had a habit of repeating something a couple times just in case the reader didn't get it. No, really. No surprise, the book's total word count dropped dramatically (20%).

Edit #2 got into verifying that the plot moved forward like to should and Edits #3 & #4 dealt with timeline issues and getting deeper into the characters' heads. The final edit tied all this together. Things that were glossed over in the original version have been clarified, the characters strengthened, and the timeline is correct. Which meant I had to go back thirty years in the storyline to figure out who did what when.

These are all things I've learned after a quarter century as a writer. Once the beta reader is done and any inconsistencies are corrected, COS goes to my proofreader, followed by the typesetter, and then publication. Estimated launch date is sometime this summer.

The second book's edit went faster (slightly shorter book), but I found some major timeline issues. Clearly The Healer's Path is gonna need some heavy duty fiddling. Somehow I'm not surprised. And yet, it's doable.

Future blog posts will talk about how I did some local research (Portugal has sooo many castles) and how I changed around some of the boring medieval terminology and freshened up the storyline. But right now I'm really, really happy with how Circle of the Swan turned out.

Onward!

Free E-book!

Sun, 02 Nov 2025 15:49:04 GMT

Fancy a trip to 1888 London? A chance to wander around the streets of Whitechapel? Then join Time Rover Jacynda Lassiter as she tries to find a missing "tourist" from 2057. One who doesn't want to be found.

For once time is not on her side. Jacynda knows her employer is running out of cash and would happily strand her in Victorian England forever. Then there's the man known as Jack the Ripper who is about to begin his bloody killing spree in those same back alleys.
History can't be changed. Or can it?

Winner of numerous awards, SOJOURN is the first book in the Time Rovers Series.

Right now the ebook is **FREE** on Amazon, Apple, Kobo and Googleplay in the U.S., U.K., Canada and Australia.

https://www.bookbub.com/books/sojourn-by-jana-oliver?ebook_deal

For more about the Time Rovers series, my research, and the links to the books, go here.

Time Travelers, Shapeshifters and Jack the Ripper.

What could possibly go wrong?

Killing Game - Chapter Five

Tue, 14 Oct 2025 23:00:00 GMT

Cat's Paw
Chapter Five

Brannon only half listened to Preston’s list of canoeing dos and don’ts. He’d been in and around watercraft since he was a baby. In fact, his mom had gone into labor on a boat.

Susan, the secretary, smiled over at him and he made sure to return it. The other girl, Patti, was glowering at nothing. The distance she’d put between her and the guy named James promised trouble.

“Any of you been in a swamp before?” Preston asked.

Brannon zeroed back in on the conversation and raised his hand. He noted that Susan did as well, but no one else.

“Okay, then, take your gear down to the dock and we’ll get you loaded,” the assistant ordered. “Stay alert and you’ll stay healthy. Zone out and you could get hurt.”

There were mumbles in the group and they set off as ordered, except for the younger couple.

“You lied to me,” Patti hissed to her companion.

“No, I didn’t. I said we’d be camping in the swamp,” James replied.

“But for six days? Are you crazy? No way I want to do this!”

“Come on. Don’t be a wuss. It’ll be fun, you’ll see.”

Brannon shook his head as he headed toward his car. When someone said “it’ll be fun, you’ll see,” it was always time to walk away.

His buddy Cort had used that line to get them out into the Gulf one summer day. A storm that seemingly came out of nowhere had pushed their kayaks miles away from shore, and it’d taken another twelve hours before the Coast Guard found them. They’d been sunburned, dehydrated, and as scared as two eleven-year-olds could be.

But that half a day spent in watery hell had revealed a toughness Brannon didn’t know he had, and that few possessed. He’d kept Cort from drowning, kept him from giving up. That “I refuse to die” mantra had gotten Brannon through Ranger School. Cort had become an inner-city high school teacher, which required a different kind of raw courage and discipline. They remained friends to this day. In fact, his eldest son was named after Brannon. But Cort had never set foot in the Gulf again.

While the others gathered their gear and got to know each other, Brannon walked to his rental car, surreptitiously taking photographs of each vehicle’s license plate as he walked by them. He would forward them to Veritas, and then it was just a matter of waiting. Sooner or later, his contact would reveal himself—or herself—and it would be time to take this game to the next level.

* * *

“Is everyone for real?” Cait asked as she scanned the roster. Preston gave her a confused look, so she rephrased her question. “Does everyone have the skill set they claimed they had, especially when it comes to being in a canoe?”

He gave a half nod. “Keith, the photographer, and James are fine. Susan is pretty good, and the girl? I don’t know. I can’t get within three feet of her without getting some lip in return.”

“Not a willing participant?”

He shook his head. “I think this is her boyfriend’s idea. And she smells like weed. Or at least her clothes do.”

Cait sighed. “Great. How about the author guy?”

“Bill doesn’t have a clue which end of a boat is up. What about Hardegree?” he asked.

“He’ll be fine. I just can’t figure out why he’s on the tour.”

“Picking up chicks?” Preston suggested.

“I’d think a bar would be a better hunting ground, but who knows?”

“Any word from Kia?”

“Not yet.”

“Let’s pray it goes well,” the man replied, then walked away toward the group.

“Hardegree?” she called out. He turned toward her and for a moment, she swore she saw him in desert camo, an M4 rifle in hand. Cait blinked her eyes to clear the vision. “Help me load our canoe?”

“Sure.”

The packing went faster than Cait had anticipated. He handed down the backpacks and other supplies as she pointed to each one, never second-guessing her placement inside the canoe.

“Why are we carrying so much of the gear?” he asked, sounding only curious, not annoyed.

“The first couple of days we’ll have some of the others’ gear just in case someone decides they should flip their canoe. Mike warns them about ensuring their stuff is waterproof, but some don’t listen. Once I know they’ve got a handle on things, everyone will have their own gear in their own canoe.”

“Makes sense.”

Cait checked out the other canoes and found them ready to go. “Load up, we’re outta here,” she called out. She hesitated. “You’ve been around boats, right?” Brannon nodded. “You up for steering, so I can focus on the group?”

“Sure.” He nodded again, taking his place in the stern. “I was raised in Florida. Spent almost every waking hour on the water.”

“That explains it.” But it doesn’t explain why you’re here, mister.

It didn’t matter. After six days she’d never see this guy again. As long as she could keep her personal demons in check, this trip would just be a quick detour.

* * *

The first hour or so was filled with the nearly silent rhythm of oars cutting through the water, with the occasional motorized boat passing them, leaving eddies in its wake. As Brannon and Cait’s canoe led the others single-file along the broad canal that led into the swamp, she set a slow pace, apparently wanting to break in the newbies as easily as possible.

The water acted as a dark mirror, reflecting the trees and the brilliant blue sky above, dotted with a few airy clouds. The farther they went, hardwoods gradually gave way to cypress trees, their broad bases narrowing to tall trunks as they reached high above the canal. Cypress knobs clustered around the base of those trees, like wooden stalagmites. Birds were in motion, sometimes quickly, sometimes in a leisurely glide over the water. Brannon had already spotted a pair of ibis, an anhinga, and what might have been a sandhill crane.

He savored the silence, and he found himself relaxing more than was prudent. The same could not be said about the woman sharing his canoe. Cait Landry’s tension bled through every move. Why had she agreed to take Montgomery’s place? Why hadn’t the assistant taken the lead?

Knowing the answers would come eventually, he turned his attention to a pair of Florida cooters resting on a log as they paddled by. One of the turtles raised its head to study them. He caught a quick glimpse of an alligator tail sliding into the underbrush.

“Did you see it?” Cait called out.

“Yeah. Smaller one. Probably a couple years old,” he replied. Growing up in the Sunshine State had taught him a lot about gators, especially when they ended up in his family’s swimming pool.

As the afternoon passed and the day grew warmer, he kept working the oar, switching sides effortlessly when Cait signaled a change. There were quiet conversations and the occasional faint click of a camera shutter. No doubt Keith, who was right behind them, sharing a canoe with Susan. Behind them was the younger couple, then Bill and Preston bringing up the rear.

His attention returned to Cait as they paddled along the canal. She didn’t chatter, but kept focused on the water, constantly assessing the situation around them. Definitely military, and most likely someone who had seen action.

As if she’d known he was thinking about her, she ceased paddling and turned around.

“Let’s wait here a moment, give the others a chance to rest for a bit. I’ve been pushing them pretty hard.”

“If anything, you’ve been easy on them,” he said, placing his oar inside the boat. Since they had some time, he fetched his refillable water bottle and took a long swig, clearing the dryness in his throat.

“Not all of them are water babies from Florida,” she replied.

He chuckled. “Where are you from?”

“Everywhere. Nowhere,” she said.

“You were in the military?”

Her brow furrowed. “Why would you think that?”

He pointed at her bloused pants.

Cait glanced down at them as if it had never occurred to her that she did it differently than anyone else. “My mom was Navy, my dad is active-duty Army.”

Which doesn’t tell me what branch you were in.

Because he doubted she’d blouse her pants just because of her parents. “Married?”

Cait frowned. “Pretty personal with the questions, Hardegree.”

“Brannon. Since we’re about to spend a week together in the middle of God knows where, I figured I should get to know you better.”

“If that’s a come-on—”

“It’s not. It’s just being polite, like my mother taught me.” She relaxed a notch. “So, married or not?” he pressed.

“Divorced. You?”

It was time to pony up some info, or she’d close down. “I was engaged once, but she called it off. She didn’t like what I did for a living.” That gained him a puzzled look, as if she didn’t believe him. She appeared about to follow up on that, then closed her mouth as the other canoes slowly drew closer.

“Are we there yet?” James joked, as he and his girlfriend floated up to join them.

Patti groaned. “No kidding.”

“Not even close,” Cait replied.

The other two canoes circled around them.

“We’re about half an hour out from the toilet so rehydrate yourselves, but don’t overdo it,” Cait warned. “While we’re resting, Preston, can you give them a bit of history about the swamp?”

The man perked up. “Sure.” Then he launched into a well-rehearsed account of how the canals had been carved into the wilderness, the alligators decimated for their hides, and how the swamp had finally become a national wildlife refuge.

“It’s really big, right?” Susan asked.

“Hundreds of thousands of acres,” Preston responded, “a lot of which isn’t accessible unless you’re in a canoe or willing to hike across some of the islands. Me? I stick with the regular routes. You get hurt out there and no one’s around, you’re in deep trouble.”

“Will we have cell phone service once we’re ‘out there’?” Bill asked. He earned a few stares. “I’ve got a manuscript on submission at a few of the major publishers, and I’m dying to find out if I’m going to get a contract.”

“The cell phone service is spotty,” Cait said. “Some places it’s fine, others not so much. Like Preston told you at the beginning of the tour, keep your phones on vibrate; that way we can enjoy the quiet out here.”

“You know, it’s kinda creepy how quiet it is,” Bill replied, looking around.

“In time you’ll crave it,” Cait replied. Her eyes met Brannon’s, then darted away as if she’d revealed too much.

She pointed back the way they’d come. “See that bird?” Heads swiveled. “That’s a great blue heron.”

“Wow, it’s huge,” Patti said.

“They eat small fish, rodents, and reptiles, and are all over North America, not just in this swamp.”

As if not pleased by all the scrutiny, the bird took wing and swooped low over the water in a blur of gray-blue, heading down the canal.

“Beautiful,” Brannon murmured. That earned him another glance from Cait, who nodded in return.

“Okay, let’s head out. We’ll stop for the bio break, then continue on to the first night’s camp. Don’t worry, you won’t regret all this exercise.”

Patti groaned again. “Riiight.”

As they set off, this time the two middle canoes lined up, side by side. James chatted with Susan, which didn’t seem to make Patti any happier.

Tuning them out, Brannon found himself watching Cait’s back, her muscled arms and her firm butt. If he’d met her anywhere but on a mission, he’d definitely be trying to get her in the sack, despite her aloof behavior.

She stopped paddling, then stripped off her hat and T-shirt, revealing a sleeveless camo tank top beneath. She replaced the ball cap, pulled her ponytail through the back, and began paddling again.

Now, not only was the tattoo completely visible, but Brannon could see a long white scar running down the side of her shoulder to the upper portion of her left arm.

A knife wound.

His eyes moved to the tat again, and he realized what it represented: the distinctive tread on a pair of combat boots. Between the treads, running vertically, were the initials JDS, and a small red heart. He knew what it was in an instant: a memorial for a soldier who had fallen in service to his country. Or her country, because death didn’t respect one sex over the other.

JDS. The last of the initials didn’t match Cait’s last name. Maybe she hadn’t kept her married name after the divorce, or this was in honor of a family member. Was this an indication that she had an axe to grind with the military or U.S. government?

Cait looked over her shoulder to catch him staring at the tat. When she recognized what he was doing, she turned back toward the water without offering an explanation. Her way of saying it was none of his business.

Brannon knew when to back off, so he refocused on the journey, paying attention to the snippets of conversation behind him. So far, everyone was acting as he’d expect. But he knew it was only a matter of time before someone made contact; the fifty thousand dollars in his rucksack would prove the ultimate lure.

Killing Game
Veritas Book 2
(c) 2016 Jana G. Oliver
All Rights Reserved.

Available on Amazon

Killing Game - Chapter Four

Mon, 13 Oct 2025 23:00:00 GMT

Killing Game
Chapter Four

Cait had avoided the group and headed directly to the dock to check over her canoe in preparation for the trip. Mike kept an eye on it when she was gone, and as usual it had its cover on. She stripped it off and was pleased to see the canoe looked in good shape.

Her phone rang. “Landry,” she said.

“It’s Kia. We’ve got a problem.”

Cait looked back at the tour office and realized Mike wasn’t around. As the tour operator he usually went out of his way to make the campers feel welcome, ease their nerves.

“What’s up?”

“We got in an accident this morning on the way to the office. We’re at the hospital now. Mike needs surgery and—” There was a pause. “Hold on. He wants to talk to you.”

“Landry?” a gruff voice called out.

“Colonel.” It was impossible not to refer to his rank. “What’s going on?”

“It’s all fucked up,” he said. “Can you believe it? I busted up my leg in some goddamned car accident.”

If he was swearing, he was fine; for Mike, cursing was like breathing. Cait began mentally editing out those particular words. Because if she didn’t, her own curse rate went up dramatically, something her mother would not tolerate, despite being married to an Army major. Cait’s expletives had earned her more than one lecture at the dinner table, even after she’d left the Marines.

“Is Kia okay?” she asked.

“Just a few bruises. She got lucky.”

“So what happened? Did you hit a deer or something?” she asked.

“No. The brakes failed, and I just had the car serviced last week. The problem is that I have a full tour today.”

“I’m sure your assistant can handle it.”

“Yeah, but I don’t want Preston to handle it. I want you to lead the tour.”

“What?” she blurted.

“You heard me.”

“I—”

“Sergeant, I need you to keep those folks safe.”

He was pulling rank. “You know I’m not in a good place right now.”

“What I know is that you’re not accepting the fact that you’re no different than any other damned soldier who’s seen action. That you have bad shit in your head that’s doing a number on you. I get that, but you need to SITFU.”

Suck it the fuck up.

“Mike . . . ” she said. There were voices in the background now.

“Do this for me, Cait. You owe me.”

He’d never thrown a guilt card like that before, not in all the years they’d served together.

What’s really going on?” The noises increased, then ended. “Hello?” Cait called out.

“They took him back to surgery,” Kia said.

“How bad is it?”

“Two fractures in the right leg, both real nasty. They’re going to put in some pins.”

“Damn.” Cait hesitated. “I owe him everything, but I can’t handle the tour right now.” I can’t handle me, let alone anyone else.

“I know you’re in rough shape, but there’s a reason Mike wants you out there. In the last few months, there’s been increased activity in certain parts of the swamp. More boats, for one. Mike thought it was because it was spring, more tourists, but now he’s not so sure. There’ve been rumors of people camping out on some of the remote islands.”

“Like me?”

“You’re not running guns, Cait.”

“What? He has proof of that?”

“No, but Mike met up with a couple guys in a Jon boat who didn’t act right. They didn’t have any fishing poles or cameras, and when he tried to talk to them, they blew him off. There was a big wooden box in the bottom of the boat. Mike said it reminded him of what you’d use to ship AR-15’s.”

“Not dissing him, but that’s a stretch. Somebody would have to be crazy to bring unauthorized weapons into a national wildlife area.”

“He knows that, but he says something feels wrong and that’s why he wants you on the tour. His sixth sense has kicked in. You know what that’s like.”

Damn. Her former commander’s instincts were why Cait was still above ground, or not a prisoner of Al Qaeda. She took a shaky breath. Could she handle it?

Before she could reply, Kia added, “I know what it’s like for you. I was there when Mike was going through it. He’s better now. You’ll get there too someday.”

So you all keep telling me.

“We have no one else we can trust,” she added. “It has to be you.”

“Why not Preston? He knows what he’s doing.”

“He’s not a Marine.”

Which meant Mike thought those skills would be needed. Now Cait really had no choice.

Okay, I’ll do it. But just this once.”

“Thank you,” Kia said, not bothering to hide her relief. “I’ll call Preston and explain the situation. You met him before?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Oh, okay. He only comes along when the tours are full. Where are you now?”

“I’m at the boat dock.”

“After I give him the news, I’ll send Pres down to talk to you. Don’t be surprised if he’s way pissed. Please be very careful,” Kia added.

Cait ended the call, her hands shaking. She took a series of calming breaths, which failed.
I can’t do this. I can’t do this. I can’t do this.

But she had no choice. She owed Mike her life.

Six days. Just six days.

Then Cait was going off grid for a long time. Maybe she’d never come back.

* * *

Brannon had assumed his role with ease. He’d claimed to work in a lawyer’s office—that part was easy as his dad was an attorney, so he knew the lingo—and that he was from Florida. Also the truth. It was easier to keep track of your cover story if part of it was based on reality. If someone went digging, they would find information that matched what he’d told them, though his work with Veritas would not be public knowledge.

The others in the group were a mixed lot: an Atlanta real estate secretary named Susan Townsend; a teenaged couple, James Gray and Patti Irwin; Bill Adams, an author; and Keith Rockwell, a professional photographer.

Not one of them struck his “you don’t feel real” meter. Which meant they were what they claimed, or someone was as adept at being undercover as he was. None of them had seen the tour operator, though it was nearing noon. That had provoked some concern.

The door to the office opened and a man in his mid-forties exited. Sanjay’s research bio pegged this guy as Preston Taylor, the assistant guide. Instead of greeting them, he plowed right through the group and then down the stairs. Looking around, he spied a woman near the dock and set off to intersect her.

“Is that our guide?” Rockwell asked.

“No, I think he’s the assistant,” the author replied. “I saw his picture on their website.”

When Preston intercepted the woman, he gestured animatedly. She appeared about Brannon’s age, probably five foot eight or so. She obviously worked out, the subtle curve of her arms showing muscles, and her tan indicated she was not a cube dweller. Her ash-blond hair was caught up in a ponytail and threaded through the back of a baseball cap. He guessed it would reach just past her shoulders if unbound.

She wore khaki green, both T-shirt and pants. The edge of a Blackwork tattoo peeked out from the right sleeve of the shirt. But it was her boots that made him pause; they were military issue, her pants properly tucked and bloused. He’d done the same in the Rangers, mostly to keep out the sand flies. In fact, his were the same today.

The woman’s posture was ramrod straight; the way she balanced her weight, telling. He’d bet a month’s pay she was either on leave, or ex-military. Was she part of Ellers’s team, his contact to guide him to the militia leader? From the woman’s expression, he could tell she was growing irritated with Preston, who continued to wave his arms around. Unfortunately, they were far enough away that Brannon couldn’t hear them.

Time to change that. He purposefully walked down to join the pair, putting on a pleasant smile. As he drew near, he called out, “Hi. I’m Brannon Hardegree. Are you guys with the tour?”

Two sets of eyes swung toward him. Hers were dark brown with amber and gold flecks. The assistant frowned at the interruption, but the woman pointedly checked him out, from the top of his head to his combat boots. Only fair, since he had done the same to her.

“Yes, we are,” she replied, not missing a beat. “I’m Cait. This is Preston.”

Brannon nodded at both of them politely.

“The rest of the group is right over there,” she said, indicating the others on the porch, as if she hadn’t known he’d just come from the office. “We’ll be with you in a bit to start the orientation.” Which was a polite way of telling him to scram.

“Thanks.”

As he walked away, he heard Preston say, “Look, I don’t give a damn how long you’ve known Mike. This is my job, not yours. How do I know you can handle this tour?”

“Kia told you this is how it’s going down. I don’t like it any more than you, but if that’s what Mike wants, that’s what’s going to happen.”

“You have no clue what you’re doing,” Preston argued.

“Actually, I do. So when you’re done nursing your butthurt, come join us and let’s get this tour on the water,” she replied, heading toward the office.

Brannon smirked. Maybe this mission wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

* * *

Cait walked away from Preston, counting slowly to ten. The little prick had gotten in her face the moment he’d heard the news, even though Kia had no doubt patiently explained the situation, which meant Preston was going to be a giant pain in the ass if she didn’t get him on board quickly. Sadly, she wasn’t in the habit of ego stroking, and wasn’t particularly good at it.

As she walked toward the tour group, she couldn’t help but notice the fine butt on the Hardegree guy. At least that was a plus. He was at least six foot three, probably weighed two-twenty. All muscle, but not buff just for vanity’s sake. This was working muscle, the kind that kept you alive in dangerous situations. His face was angular, but not so much that it overwhelmed his good looks, with trimmed dark hair and a hint of a beard. She noted that his brown eyes were highlighted by a touch of rust.

Like her, he wore a T-shirt and cargo pants. She’d already made note of his worn rucksack and how it seemed to be part of him, not just something he’d bought the weekend before. The combat boots, properly bloused, told her he was probably ex-military.

She doubted an active-duty soldier would bother to take a tour like this one. Most guys on leave, unless they were married, headed for the nearest bar and a horny female, or male if he swung that way. Once upon a time, Hardegree would have been the type she’d take for a spin, but not now.

If her guess was right, this man already knew wilderness-survival techniques, could probably teach a grad-level course on the subject. Why saddle himself with a group of clueless newbies? In so many ways he reminded her of the men on her team, Special Forces hunters the country sent to handle the dirty and dangerous jobs. The kind that rarely made the evening news, because they were off the radar or top secret.

She pulled her attention away from Hardegree and checked out the remaining members of the group. A couple of them appeared nervous, others were trying to act like this was no big deal. Once Preston chilled down she needed him to give her the skinny on each one of these people. A successful mission required intelligence, and this one was no different.

When she stopped at the bottom of the stairs she gave her Jeep one last look, the desire to take off colliding with her responsibility to an old friend.

All of the campers were watching her now.

You can do this. At least here, no one was shooting at her.

“Hi. I’m Ser—” She stumbled, nearly revealing her rank. She started over. “I’m Cait Landry and I’m filling in for Mike Montgomery on this tour. Mike had a car accident this morning, and he’s laid up in the hospital.”

“What?” one of the men said. He was older, with salt-and-pepper hair and tired eyes. “I decided to come on this tour just because of him. He knows everything about the swamp.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure to handle everything just like he would.”

Preston joined them now, still sullen, but trying not to look like he’d been sidelined. Time to throw him a bone. “This is Preston. He’s Mike’s assistant and he’ll be helping me on the tour. If you have any questions, ask either of us and we’ll get you what you need.”

That seemed to mollify Preston, and he nodded solemnly.

“You qualified to take us into the swamp?” the older man asked, frowning now.

“Yes, I am.” The Hardegree guy chuckled quietly, which she thought was odd. She ignored him and eyed the skeptic. “How many varieties of snake are in this swamp, Mr. . . . ?”

“Adams. Bill Adams. And I don’t know.”

“Thirty-six. The water moccasin, or cottonmouth, is the deadliest. It’s a pit viper, like a rattlesnake. You get bitten, things go bad very quickly. But it isn’t aggressive until you get in its face.” The man stopped looking angry, pulled out a notebook, and began penciling notes. “What do you know about alligators?”

“Not much. Go on.”

“Are you a reporter, Mr. Adams?” she asked, confused.

He hesitated, then shook his head. “I’m an author. I’m working on a novel.”

Of course you are.

“Then let’s make this a learning experience for all of you.” She turned to include the others. “You will encounter alligators during the tour. To keep from losing your arm like Captain Hook, your body parts must remain inside the boat. If you come across a gator on dry land, slowly back away. Those things can move a whole lot faster than you’d think, and they can weigh up to nine hundred pounds. I repeat, no leaning over a body of water. Alligators lurk just under the surface and will reach up and make you a meal.”

“But wouldn’t you be able to see them?” the teenage girl asked.

“No. The swamp waters have a mirror effect, so you can’t see below the surface. The gators take advantage of that. They’re very well adapted predators. They’ve had eons to learn how to hunt.”

“Is it true they eat you alive?” She sounded fascinated, not afraid.

Cait looked over at Preston now, giving him the stage and hoping she wouldn’t regret it.

“Sometimes they do,” the man said. “Sometimes they drown you and stick you in their larder for a snack later.”

“Yuck,” Bill said, but he kept penciling notes.

The cookie needed to ensure the author’s good behavior? Feed him information. For Preston, it was the opportunity to show off his knowledge. That she could do. Now all she needed was to find what fueled the others and this trip would be much easier.

“How many of you have been in a canoe before?” she asked. There was a show of hands; only the author was a virgin when it came to that skill.

Better than I expected. When she looked at Preston he nodded his approval.

“Okay, that’s good. We’ll pair you up with a buddy. The majority of your backpacks and sleeping bags will go with me and . . . ” She checked over her potential canoe mates. “Hardegree.” Because she had no doubt the man knew his way around a canoe. If she was lucky, he might not talk her ears off. That wouldn’t be the case with the author.

“I’ll keep an eye on the two younger ones,” Preston murmured.

“Thanks.” She turned back to the group. “The first day is light—four hours before we make camp. There will be a bio break about two hours in, so use the latrine . . . uh, the restroom before we leave. We’ll take it easy today. Tomorrow we’ll push harder.”

“What if we have to go before we get to the toilet?” the girl asked.

“Then you better be able to hold it. Unless you’re a guy, that is.” That got a few laughs, which seemed to reduce some of the unease. She turned toward Preston. “How’s about you give them a refresher on how to board the canoes?”

“Okay.”

Cait lowered her voice. “Before we head out, I need an idea of who these folks are and what they do in real life.”

“Can do that, too.”

Since he wasn’t being a jerk . . . “Look, I know this isn’t great for either of us, but we’ll get through it.”

He didn’t reply, but at least he wasn’t arguing with her. As she walked off into the office, she wondered why he’d suddenly become helpful.

It sure as hell isn’t my charming personality.

Chapter Five

Killing Game
Veritas Book 2
(c) 2016 Jana G. Oliver
All Rights Reserved.

Available on Amazon

Killing Game - Chapter Three

Sun, 12 Oct 2025 23:00:00 GMT

Killing Game
Chapter Three

Monday, April 13th
South Georgia

Caitlyn Jayne Landry purposely slowed her Jeep as she turned into the long drive that led to the swamp tour’s headquarters, watching for alligators that might be sunning themselves on the path. Sure enough, one rose on its stubby legs and waddled across the road. As the seven-foot prehistoric monster slid back into the water, memories of another gator rose.

When she’d been about ten Cait’s parents had taken her and her brother on a photography tour in the Everglades. Since her mother was an avid amateur shutterbug, the tour operator had used a trolling motor so they could check out the scenery. Cait had spied a mallard resting on a log, watching the boat as it drew near. As she went to point it out, a gator lurched out of the water, grabbed the duck and vanished back under the surface in the span of a heartbeat.

She’d gaped, stunned at what she’d just seen. When she began to tell the others about it, her dad warned her off. No reason to upset her little brother, or her mom, he’d whispered.
It was the first time she’d seen death up close, and the lesson had struck home: Someone, or something, might be smarter then you, and that could cost you everything. In many ways, her life had changed that day, all due to one hungry alligator.

During her eight years in the Marine Corps she’d been the predator, but that had taken a toll, so much so that her last six months as a civilian had proven a difficult readjustment. She’d spent most of that time camping on her own in various national forests, or in the swamp.

Even visiting her parents in San Diego had proven hard. They pushed her to get back into everyday life, find a job, learn to cope with the horrors she’d seen, lived through. It was like someone telling you to “shake off” an amputation, though she knew they meant well. She’d kept in touch with some of the Marines was her unit, but they had their own problems. Some were homeless, or struggling with drug addiction. Others just wanted to get on with their lives.

As soon as Cait could politely escape the last visit she’d flown back to Orlando and picked up her old Jeep at a friend’s place. She’d even managed to catch a few hours of fitful sleep at a Motel Six on the way north, trying to ignore a drunk next door arguing with his wife. When the man had begun to beat her, Cait had intervened, told the asshole if he did not knock it off she would put him down. Considering she was wearing a USMC T-shirt and had a tactical knife strapped to her thigh, it got quiet after that.

Though the swamp tour didn’t start until noon—and with it a much-needed opportunity to reconnect with her former commanding officer—she’d risen way before dawn, the nightmares serving as a wake-up call. She slept as little as possible nowadays in a futile attempt to keep them at bay. Sometimes she’d go two or more days without sleep, then crash, only to have the past roll through her mind leaving a trail of blood, bodies, and brains in its wake. Sometimes she wasn’t sure if waking up was a blessing or a curse.

After getting breakfast to go, Cait had found a roadside park and eaten at a picnic table, leaving a bit behind for the squirrels. Then she’d taken the scenic route north over the backroads of rural Florida and Georgia, past cotton fields, peach orchards, and run-down shacks.

Her desire for solitude told her she needed this trip into the wilderness, needed the quiet, the lack of people and everyday noises. Mike Montgomery, her former commander and now the owner of a swamp tour operation, would consistently remind her that this was her reality now, that the endless struggle to adapt to “normal” was worth it. She didn’t want to argue with him, because he was probably right. Some days the noise in her head just got too loud, and all she wanted to do was make it stop.

It wasn’t like Cait hadn’t known what she was getting into when she joined the Marines. Her family had a deep military tradition beginning with her great-grandfather. Her grandfather, also a Marine, had been a veteran of the Vietnam War, her mom had served in the Navy, and her father was an Army major. Even her brother had put in his four years in the Army and was now starting college in Phoenix. To her, none of them had shown outward signs of post-traumatic stress. They claimed otherwise, but Cait knew it was a lie to make her feel better. So far, she’d been the only one to crack.

The doctors at the Veterans Administration had recommended various medications for her “issues.” She’d tried a few of them, and they only made her a zombie. She flushed them all and tried hard to keep it together, though day after day, hour after hour, she felt the darkness talking to her, giving her thoughts that didn’t bode well for a future. With more than twenty-two veterans killing themselves every day, she knew she wasn’t alone on this journey, but it still felt like it.

Only after a trip with Mike into the swamp, she’d realized that the wilderness was her drug of choice, her way of keeping herself alive. Once he’d recognized this as well, he’d invited her to join him on the tours anytime she wanted, no questions asked. He’d obtained the proper camping permits, as well as a permit that allowed her to carry a firearm within the national park. He knew what was at stake if she gave up.

She’d found the first tour difficult because of the other campers. Fortunately, Mike had been there as her backup. Once acquainted with the swamp’s natural rhythms, from that point on she would split off from the group, going it alone, seeking whatever didn’t make her blood pound and her heart race. Seek a tangible means to turn off the nightmares, the memories, the feeling that she’d left too much of herself behind in Afghanistan to ever be whole again.

After swinging into a parking place at the far end of the tour headquarters, Cait turned off the Jeep. While she was roughing it, she stored the keys at the office and Mike’s wife Kia would keep an eye on the car. As she pulled out her gear and locked the vehicle, she noticed a group waiting on the building’s broad porch, no doubt the others on the tour. She steered away from them; people asked questions, wanted to know what she did for a living, if she was married, did she have kids. The effort to explain was too much, sometimes even made her head ache.

As was her custom, she would bring up the rear of the group until she reached the point where she’d head off on her own deep into the swamp. Mike insisted she check in with him every day via cell phone or satellite phone, and though it grated, she was willing to accept that stipulation. He knew she could handle almost everything, but having a lifeline back to civilization was wise.

If she was lucky this trip would buy her another month or so of sanity. Deep down she knew that one of these days, even nature wouldn’t have the power to save her. That would be the day the war claimed yet another victim.

* * *

Brannon parked his rental car near the tour office, next to an old red Jeep with Florida license plates. It was dented and had a bit of rust, but the tires looked new which seemed an odd combination.

He’d spent most of his time trying not to worry, especially when he was getting closer to his goal. To chill, he had taken a five-mile run, worked out, then gone kayaking. The exercise had helped, but he’d still remained on edge. Time spent on the militia boards hadn’t given him any insights into Ellers’s plans, either.

The call finally came in late Sunday night, during which Clarke had been short and to the point: Brannon was to head to Georgia the next morning and be at this particular location in time to take a swamp tour at noon. Everything else had been taken care of. During that tour, he’d be contacted and the money would change hands. When Brannon had tried to gain an assurance he’d be meeting Ellers, he had been told to just follow orders and it’d all work out.

As he’d driven north from Jacksonville, the armored truck robbery was still on the news, though so far his name hadn’t been connected with it. His mother would be appalled if she ever learned her eldest son was a criminal, even in the pursuit of justice. Still, to Ellers and his cronies, Brannon was the perfect recruit, an anarchist leader’s wet dream: a former Army Ranger who was a pro with explosives and had experience as a sniper. Both of those skills could easily be turned against a government that the “sovereign citizen” types hated.

There were a number of right-wing militant groups, including those associated with Posse Comitatus, a movement that believed no law-enforcement official above the rank of sheriff was legitimate. To show their defiance they often refused to file income taxes or obey federal laws. Some even printed their own driver’s licenses. Others were affiliated with the League of the South, a white supremacist group, or the Christian Identity Movement, which held that Jews ran the financial institutions and were working with Satan to destroy civilization.

When these people decided to break the law they were usually heavily armed and had the capacity to generate maximum body count. No matter their beef with the government these guys weren’t any different than the Taliban or Al Qaeda, and he’d had plenty of experience dealing with those bastards. It was time to use his expertise and do some much-needed housekeeping stateside. If he’d wanted armed insurgents roaming the streets he would have stayed in Fallujah.

As he turned off the car, his cell phone rang. “Hardegree.”

“It’s Sanjay. I’ve got mixed news,” Veritas’s chief data analyst replied, his Mumbai accent clipped.

Sanjay was one of the go-to folks for information and often served as the point of contact for those currently on a mission. If the intel was on the internet or tucked away in some computer database, he would eventually find it. It was like a cyber game of hide-and-seek to him, and he was incredibly good at it.

“The FBI is going ballistic because of the robbery,” Sanjay continued. “Best you complete this mission before they figure out you were part of it, because our boss isn’t sure he’ll be able to shield you if you’re arrested. His contact in the D.C. Bureau office has suddenly grown skittish about our involvement.”

“Affirmative,” Brannon said. Dammit.

“We finished the background check on the tour operator you’ll be meeting today. Mike Montgomery is a former Marine with an excellent service record. He’s married, three adult kids, has been conducting the tours since he retired two years ago. Financials are solid.”

“Any sympathies with anti-government groups?”

“Not that we can find. His assistant, Preston Taylor, isn’t as clean. He’s spent some time on a few of the sovereign citizen forums. Mostly, he comes across as a wannabe. Lots of talk, no action.”

“Let’s hope he stays that way.”

“Montgomery conducts his registrations by snail mail, not online. It really screws up what intel I can get for you up front.”

Brannon grinned at the annoyance in Sanjay’s voice because it was a rare thing. “Sounds like the man is a Luddite, or paranoid.”

“Probably a bit of both. If you can get me pictures of the campers, I’ll run facial-recognition software, try to figure out who is who.”

“Consider it done.”

“How often do you intend to check in?” Sanjay asked.

“Every ten to twelve hours, provided I have phone service. You don’t hear from me after twenty-four, something’s wrong.”

“Good. We’ll monitor the tracking chip.”

“At least you’ll know where to send the body-retrieval team.”

“Let’s not joke like that, okay? You may be the Lone Ranger, but we’re here to back you up.”

Brannon rolled his eyes at the nickname. Everyone who went out on missions had one. Well, except Crispin Wilder, the head of Veritas. No one had the balls to call him anything but “sir” or “boss.” It was never smart to jack around with a former international arms dealer.

“How’s Iceman doing?” Brannon asked. One of his fellow operatives had been on an undercover mission in South America.

“He’s good, headed back to the States. He’s your backup if things go bad.”

“That works for me.” Brannon was originally going to be lead on the South American mission, but the plans hadn’t worked out right. Now he knew he was where he needed to be. “Let them know I hope to wrap this up soon.”

“I will. Keep safe.”

“Always. Thanks, Sanjay.”

The moment Brannon stepped out of the car, his back twinged. Stretching his arms over his head, he heard a satisfying pop. It sucked to be an “old man.” At least that’s what some of his fellow Rangers had called him, ribbing him about being the graybeard on the team. As if thirty-two was old.

Sometimes it feels that way.

It was only after his thirtieth birthday that he began to be aware of the passage of time. Before that he’d been totally focused on the missions and the “downtime” in between. Something had shifted, and it made him pensive.

Once his back cooperated, he gave a slow look around, checking out the scenery. The smell of the swamp immediately filled his nose, but he didn’t find it unpleasant. Earthy maybe, but not bad. The vegetation was shrugging off a chilly winter, enthusiastically embracing the warmer temperatures. At least it wasn’t full-on bug season yet or he already would have been bitten to death. In the distance, he could see Spanish moss hanging from sprawling oaks and bald cypress trees, hear the lazy calls of waterfowl. Overhead an egret winged by. He’d love to spend time here just enjoying nature, but this mission was too critical. Especially now that his future hung in the balance.

Brannon stowed away his phone and grabbed his rucksack from the passenger seat. Despite the extra couple of pounds the money added, the ruck felt light in comparison to the seventy-five-plus pounds he’d carried on his Ranger missions.

Once the car was locked, he set off for the building. As he passed the rear end of the Jeep, he spied a Marine Corps bumper sticker—the signature eagle, globe, and anchor. Probably Montgomery’s car.

The tour office was a nondescript structure, weathered, but the roof was in good shape which meant someone had spent money on the place. He thought it a curious business venture for a retired Marine, but then you had to do something when you reached your “twenty and out.” It was better than sitting at home, or comparing war wounds with your buddies down at the VFW.

A knot of people stood on the building’s porch, unevenly split between the sexes: two females, four males. One of the females appeared to be in her late teens, with pale-blond hair slashed with a thick streak of blue. Tall and thin, she was accompanied by a young man of the same age. His hair was less outlandish, just everyday brown, a little on the short side.

The other woman was older, prettier, probably in her thirties. Her light-brown hair was pulled up in a messy bun, and she wore shorts and a pink T-shirt. The remaining men were nothing out of the ordinary. Brannon guessed at least one of them had a desk job, if the guy’s spreading middle was any indication.

Any one of these people might be his militia contact, the person who would lead him deep inside the organization. With a heavy sigh, he put on his happy tourist face and joined them.

Chapter Four

Killing Game
Veritas Book 2
(c) 2016 Jana G. Oliver
All Rights Reserved.

Available on Amazon

Killing Game - Chapter Two

Sun, 12 Oct 2025 09:00:00 GMT

Killing Game
Chapter Two

After returning to his two-star hotel room and checking it for bugs of the electronic kind, Brannon called Veritas. The call lasted twenty minutes, and none of it was pleasant. There was no good way to tell your employer that you were now a felon, and that crime had happened on their watch. While the bad news percolated up the command chain to his boss, Brannon headed to the closest big-box store to buy camping gear.

As he shopped in the sporting-goods department, he grumbled under his breath. He had all this at home, and in much higher quality, but that was at the cabin in Kentucky. At least he’d brought his own rucksack and duffle bag on the mission.

Where the hell are they sending me?

As Brannon rolled his cart toward the front of the store, he spied a man following him, and doing a piss-poor job of it. Which meant the guy was either incompetent, or he wanted Brannon to know he was there. Probably a bit of both. After he’d counted the cash, he wasn’t surprised: Clarke had given him fifty thousand dollars, currently stashed in the rucksack on his back until he could find a place to hide it in the hotel room. This was yet another test, and one that could easily bite him in the ass.

He’d just loaded all his supplies in the back of his car when his phone pinged. The text was short and to the point: He was to meet up with Morgan Blake, one of his fellow Veritas operatives, at nine tonight. He needed to pick the location and devise the “scenario” to protect his cover.

With a sigh, Brannon sent back the requested information, then deleted both texts. Then he dummied up a text to a buddy in Vermont, telling him that he’d be in Florida for a bit longer and that the fishing was great. He sent that to a fake account at Veritas, so if someone confiscated his phone and managed to hack the security code, it would all look legit.

Grumbling under his breath, Brannon headed back toward his hotel room. His employer didn’t send someone down from Chicago to check on an undercover operation unless things were really heating up. Whether this was because of the robbery, or something else, he didn’t know. He’d find out soon enough.

* * *

Though Brannon had been to this particular bar regularly, mostly because it was the best place to meet like-minded separatist types, he still paused just inside the door to conduct a threat assessment. It was habit. As expected, a few of the regulars appeared to be on their third or fourth beers, while the local hustler worked his mark at one of the pool tables. There were new faces, any one of which could be with the militia. Since he was holding their money, he expected to be tracked wherever he went. To his relief, neither Clarke nor the doper was here tonight.

He’d left the cash behind at the hotel because carrying a rucksack into a bar would look suspicious. Fortunately, his seedy room had a serious case of rot just below the so-called air conditioner, the kind that sat just above the floor and managed only a feeble wheeze of air. It’d taken some maneuvering, all of it on his back on the floor, but he’d managed to jam the cash into the hole, encased in a plastic bag. Someone would have to spend a lot of time hunting for it, and he suspected the kind of person who would wasn’t that smart.

The smell of spilled beer and body odor hung heavily in the air, along with perfume. Typical watering hole found in the smaller towns outside Jacksonville. Worn tables and chairs, a dartboard, a big-screen television playing some basketball game. There was an American flag on the wall, right next to a Confederate flag. Which actually wasn’t the official flag of the Confederacy, but the battle flag of the Army of Northern Virginia. But to some, that bit of history didn’t matter.

After winking at a cute server, Brannon made his way to a booth in the back and settled in. His sixth sense told him he was being watched, so he made sure not to let it show. Instead, he pressed an icon on his phone, then tapped in a passcode. A minesweeper game came up, or at least it appeared to be such. He activated the app and the little clock whirled on the screen, then blinked green. No audio bugs, at least not in this corner of the room. That was good news.

Brannon left the game open and set the phone on the table as a server appeared in front of him, her smile genuine. He had that effect on women, and at one time had reveled in it. Not now; something that came easily wasn’t usually worth it. He ordered a beer and a plate of nachos, because the ones they served here were actually good. As he waited, he checked out the clientele. One guy in a Royals T-shirt near the bar kept watching him, but other than that, everyone seemed to be doing their own thing.

The beer arrived first and he took a long sip, thinking through his situation. Why trust him with all that cash? Why the camping gear? It made him wonder if the rumors Veritas had heard about Ellers having a base in some remote location were true. If he could locate that camp, this whole mission would be worth it.

A few minutes later his Veritas contact arrived, and as he’d anticipated Morgan Blake was an immediate hit with the testosterone crowd. Dark brown hair swinging freely around her shoulders, she was clad in a tight white T-shirt, painted-on jeans, and cowboy boots. From the male patrons’ reactions, it was as if someone had just dropped a busload of Playboy bunnies into the bar. Which was the whole point. Brannon hitting on a hot woman would be expected, and wouldn’t ring anyone’s alarm bells.

Morgan didn’t immediately head his way, but hung out at the bar, where she drank a bottled beer while chatting up the bartender. A former FBI agent, she was suited to this work. Morgan had been with Veritas for a few years now, and if Brannon was going to have someone watching his back, she was on that very short list.

Just last fall she and her partner, Alex Parkin, had taken down a major Russian drug lord in New Orleans. Brannon had been in Calcutta during that time, but from everything he’d heard about the mission it was a miracle the two of them were still alive.

After a quick dance with a beefy biker who kept trying to grab her ass, Morgan drifted through the room, laughing and messing with the males’ heads—and the bulges behind their zippers. Brannon had always envied her ability to blend in, be it at a seedy bar or a Fifth Avenue cocktail party.

After ten minutes or so, and after he’d received both his nachos and a second beer, she wandered into Brannon’s part of the bar. Then, as if it all hadn’t been planned ahead, he raised his beer glass at her and she cocked her head and started walking his way.

He made sure to turn on the charm as she reached the table. “Hi there, babe.”

“Hi. You on your own?”

“Not anymore,” he said. Lame, but expected.

“Oh no,” she said, waggling a finger at him. “You have to answer a question, or I won’t waste my time with you.”

“So that’s why you’re not sitting with anyone else?” She nodded. “Okay, what’s the question?”

“Which musician has won the most Grammys in one night?” she asked.
They’d set this up in advance, too. If he answered incorrectly he was telling her the situation wasn’t secure. At that point she’d wander away and eventually leave the bar. No one would ever know she was his contact.

“Shit, that’s not easy. You sure you’re worth it?”

She grinned. “Answer correctly and you’ll find out.”

“Ah . . . Grammys, huh. Was it that Black guy? Jackson?”

“Michael Jackson. You win.”

“Damn!” he said, grinning back.

When Morgan slipped onto the bench seat next to him, Brannon didn’t need to check the crowd to know there were at least a dozen guys who would have cheerfully castrated him at that moment.

“You’re a hunk,” she said, running a finger down his cheek. He smiled back, though Morgan was way off limits. He’d thought about hitting on her when he’d first come to work for Veritas, but quickly found out he liked her more as a friend. Most times, dating where you work didn’t pan out.

But in her case, it had. She and Alex Parkin were a couple, a seriously into-each-other couple likely headed to the altar. Parkin had worked for the DEA, but he’d also been in federal prison. He could hold his own. Brannon knew that crossing the line with this woman was asking to have his nuts cut off. The only question was whether it’d be Morgan or Alex doing the cutting.

“So . . . ” she whispered, nuzzling his ear. “What the hell have you got yourself into?”

In between playing with her hair and acting like he was seducing her, Brannon filled in the missing pieces from his report, mindful to keep his mouth angled toward her so no one could read his lips. He felt her tense when he told her about the dead FBI agent.

“There’s been no word of that from any of our contacts,” she said.

“They might have been lying to me, but it didn’t feel that way.”

“We’ll check it out. I can’t believe they gave you that much money.”

“It’s a test, like the robbery. Has to be.”

She sighed. “The boss isn’t happy with the way things are playing out.”

“Hell, if there had been any other way,” Brannon replied, keeping his voice low.

“He knows that. The D.C. office is acting hinky right now. Something is going on, and they’re not sharing intel.”

He sighed, then laid his arm over her shoulder as if claiming her. “Let the boss know I’ll try to keep in touch, but if I’m out in the middle of nowhere it’s going to be hard.”

She nodded, then leaned forward and ran her hand up the outside of his thigh, pausing at his pocket. He felt her tuck something into it, and then her hand drifted upward onto his chest. “Plant the tracker in with the cash. We need to know where you are twenty-four seven.”

“I will.”

Picking up a nacho, Morgan dropped a hot pepper ring onto it. Popping it into her mouth, she licked her full lips, tempting Brannon to rethink his promise to keep his distance.

“You’re a tease,” he said. No wonder Alex loved her.

She laughed. “You need to get laid, my friend.”

“Yeah, I know. But not until this is all over.”

Morgan leaned closer now. “There’s another problem that might be related to the mission. A significant number of explosives went missing from an Army base in Texas. We think Ellers was behind the theft.”

“What’d they steal?” he asked.

“C-4. Enough to do a helluva lot of damage.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah. Anything else you need from us?” Morgan asked. He shook his head. “Then it’s time for Act Two.”

Puzzled, he watched as she sent a text message, then tucked her phone into her pocket. She scooped up another nacho, smiling the entire time.

“You’re not down here on your own?” Brannon asked, and she shook her head. “But Alex is still in Hungary, right?”

“Nope,” she said with a grin.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the door open and her lover glaring around the bar. The moment Alex saw her, he stomped toward the booth, pushing people out of the way.

“Incoming,” she murmured.

To play to the crowd, Brannon leaned over to collect a kiss from her. He never got the chance, as a hand grabbed Morgan, yanking her from the booth.

“You tramp! What the hell are you doing?” Alex bellowed. He was in a dirty T-shirt and stained jeans, his hair a mess. Just the opposite of the man Brannon knew.

“Just getting what I can’t get at home,” Morgan said, pulling free of his arm.

“The hell you can’t. You just got to put out, that’s the only problem.”

“Well, it helps if I’ve got something worth playing with, you know?”

Brannon whistled under his breath. These two were good. If he didn’t know them, know how much they were in love, he’d believe every word.

“Who’s this bastard?” Alex demanded, his eyes flashing.

He slowly raised his hands. “Hey, no problem, man. I didn’t know she was spoken for.”

“Yeah, damned right,” Alex snarled. “I see you with her again and I’ll kill you.”

“She’s all yours. I don’t need the drama.”

As Alex towed Morgan out of the bar, catcalls followed them. The server returned to Brannon’s table, watching the door slam.

“Wow. That was something,” she said. “Another beer?”

“Nah, I’m done. It’s not my night.” He handed her enough cash for the meal and a good tip, then headed out.

As he strode across the parking lot, he could hear Alex and Morgan arguing. Then suddenly, they were leaning up against a car, making out.

“Get a room!” he called out, fighting to keep the smile off his face.

He was working with a team of solid professionals who would watch his back, no matter how bad it got. Since he might be headed into the devil’s backyard, that was a damned good thing.

Chapter Three

Killing Game
Veritas Book 2
(c) 2016 Jana G. Oliver
All Rights Reserved.

Available on Amazon

Killing Game - Chapter One

Sat, 11 Oct 2025 09:00:00 GMT

Killing Game is the second book in my Veritas series. A combo of romantic thriller and suspense, this one is, as they say, "ripped from the headlines."

Red hot danger, white hot romance!

This book was originally published in 2016 using under the Chandler Steele pseudonym. I decided to reissue the books under my name, along with new covers. I'll be posting the first five chapters so you can get a sense of Cait's and Brannon's story. And I truly hope you enjoy it!

The book description can be found here: Amazon

^^Content Warning: This is a contemporary, adult novel with some profanity and sex. There are racial and ethnic slurs as well as frank discussions about military combat and Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). ^^

Killing Game
Chapter One

Saturday, April 11th
Jacksonville, Florida

They were waiting for him. The two good old boys near the rusty beige pickup—the one sporting a faded bumper sticker of a U.S. map made of guns—had always been lackadaisical about meeting times, showing up whenever they damned well pleased. But today they were waiting for him.

Something’s going down.

As Brannon Hardegree pulled his cheap rental car into the parking lot, he swept his eyes over the open area around them. It was early on a Saturday morning, so there were only a few cyclers taking advantage of the Baldwin-Jackson Rail Trail nearby. This lot was empty but for the three of them.

Mason Clarke leaned up against the pickup, his arms crossed and resting on his prominent beer belly. He wore his usual wrinkled shirt, worn jeans, and shitkickers. In his mid-fifties, he had a string of arrests in his past and had been a member of various anti-government groups for over two decades. Right now he was affiliated with one called New America.

It was the other man, Clarke’s cousin Craig Bettis, who bothered Brannon most. Bettis was in his mid-thirties, hooked on what he cooked. This morning he was amped up like a high-tension wire, constantly on the move, the drug burning out his body, fix by fix. Bettis had all the classic meth-addict markers: rotting gums, skeletal appearance, delusions. He’d be in his grave by summer. The problem was who else Bettis might take with him on that final ride.

Veritas, a private security agency and Brannon’s employer, had been monitoring a series of armed robberies across the South during the last three months. To date, over one million dollars had been stolen, and it looked to have been funneled toward New America, the latest in a growing number of sovereign-citizen militias. New America’s leader, a man named Quinton Ellers, had a long history of anti-government sentiment. Sources within the Department of Homeland Security and the FBI office in Washington, D.C. believed that Ellers had something big planned, something as deadly as the Oklahoma City bombing nearly twenty years earlier.

Which was why Veritas was involved because sometimes it was easier to have a private agency do the legwork before you turned the might of the U.S. government loose. In this case, the FBI’s D.C. office and the DHS were turning a blind eye to Veritas’s operation, which meant Brannon was on his own, at least until he gathered enough intel to interest the feds. In particular, he’d been instructed to remain off the local FBI office’s radar, and so far he’d done just that.

For nearly a month he’d been undercover as himself, a former Army Ranger supposedly pissed off at the government and mouthing the expected nauseating rhetoric. Getting these losers to believe he was just as much a racist and anti-Semitic asshole as they were. Did these two finally trust him enough to bring him into the militia? Tell him where all the money from the armed robberies had gone? Was this the day it’d all pay off?

Brannon parked the car, then climbed out, scanning the area again. It was in the low seventies, with a light wind. Typical north Florida day—though right now it felt anything but.

“Hey guys,” he said, keeping his tone light. He also kept his arms hanging loosely at his side so he could easily reach the Glock in a paddle holster under his shirt.

“About goddamned time you got here,” Bettis said, still jittering around.

“So what’s up? Why we meeting here instead of the bar?”

“Got business to attend to,” Clarke replied, his brows furrowed.

Brannon walked toward them with deliberate steps. He could feel the tension in the air, smell it. “More important than having a brew and banging some babe?”

“Even more important than that.”

Brannon halted about ten feet out from them. Had he been made?

He channeled his own tension into hyperawareness, the kind that had kept him alive as a Ranger, and beyond. “So what’s this about?” he asked.

“We got a job. We need a third,” Clarke said.

“Doing what?”

“We’re gonna rob an armored truck,” Bettis said, grinning. The sight was repulsive.

Maybe I’m further inside this group than I thought.

Then he felt that familiar twitch across the back of his neck, the one wired to his survival instincts. The same instincts that had ensured he came back from Afghanistan alive rather than in a flag-draped coffin.

“Armored truck, huh? How much?” he asked.

“Usually three hundred thou per haul,” Clarke replied, watching him carefully. “You in?”

It’s a test.

If he declined they’d think he was a federal agent, and that might buy him a bullet. Brannon’s mind whirled through his options, such as they were. This may be his only chance to burrow deep into the heart of the militia. If he backed away, and they didn’t try to kill him, he might lose weeks of undercover work. But if he went along, he’d be committing a felony. His eyes moved to Clarke’s cousin as the man twitched around. Bettis was unpredictable, and nothing prevented him from killing someone during the robbery.

Dammit. He really had no choice.

“Let’s see,” he began, pasting on a fake grin. “Have a couple cold brews or rack up some serious cash? What do you think my answer would be?”

“You’re in?” Clarke asked, surprised.

“Hell yes, I’m in. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Didn’t figure a war hee-ro like you’d go for this kind of thing.”

Brannon never liked being called a hero. Especially out of this bastard’s mouth. “I need money just like everyone else. So when and where?” he asked.

Once he got the details, he’d let Veritas know. That way the cops would be in position to take them down. Faced with thirty years in prison for armed robbery, maybe these two would roll over on Ellers, reveal whatever plans he had in the works.

Clarke leveraged himself off the truck. It was only then that Brannon saw the gun stuck in the man’s waistband. “We’re going now,” he said. “We got just enough time to get to the third pick up point.”

Now? “Am I following you to the site?” Brannon asked.

“No.”

So much for calling Veritas and giving them a heads-up. They’d done this on purpose.
Clarke noticed his hesitation. “You changing your mind?” the man asked, his hand closer to his weapon now.

“No. Just didn’t expect it to go down so quick.”

Brannon could take both of these men down now, but then what? So far, they hadn’t committed a crime, at least not one in his presence. With no opportunity to warn anyone, he had no choice but to go along with the heist. He knew that with Bettis flying high—mumbling to himself about the roaches running under his skin now—this whole thing could go south in a heartbeat.

Brannon paused. “So who’s driving? You or me?” He nodded toward the meth head. “Sure as hell isn’t gonna be crazy pants over there.”

Clarke frowned. “I’ll drive. Once it’s done, we’ll come back here.”

“And then?”

“Then we’re all golden.”

The hell we are.

* * *

As a Ranger, Brannon had a decade’s worth of missions under his belt, missions planned and executed with a precision that bordered on obsession. That’s what gained you success, and a chance to keep breathing.

Clarke had a plan as well, one fairly well thought out, if not a bit amateur: They’d wait until the armored truck parked in the liquor store parking lot, and when the guard came out with the cash, they’d ambush him, grab the money, and run. Every plan had a flaw, and this one was Bettis.

As they waited at the edge of the parking lot, on foot, the doper quickly began to unravel, his movements increasingly erratic, his head swiveling around like a hyperactive owl. He kept touching his gun under his shirt. Any little noise made him jump.

“Get him on a leash,” Brannon warned. “I’m not doing hard time because of some damned meth head.”

Clarke glowered at him, then sighed because Brannon was right. “Craig, you with us now?” The man nodded five times more than necessary.

God help me, he’s going to blow.

The door to the liquor store opened and the guard exited. The plan had been for the three of them to walk casually across the lot and surround the man. But even before Clarke gave the order for them to move, Bettis took off across the pavement. Shouting obscenities, he grabbed the guard before he could react, and forced him to his knees.

“Shit, I’m going to do him right here. I’m going to kill the fucker,” Bettis cried.

As he shouted, a woman exited from her car, talking on her phone. The instant she took in the scene, she screamed. Bettis shifted his gun in her direction. “Shut up, bitch!” he shouted. “Shut up!”

Brannon sprinted across the lot and slapped Bettis’s hand down before he could take the shot. “Get the hell out of here!”

“No, I’m gonna do him,” he said, raising the weapon in line with the back of the guard’s skull. The man’s eyes grew wide as he trembled in fear.

“No! Let’s go!” Clarke called out, grabbing the bag full of cash where it had fallen on the pavement. “Go!”

Brannon shoved Bettis away, this time extracting the gun from his grip. The fool tried to fight him, but lost.

“Run!” Clarke bellowed.

Swearing, Bettis finally got a clue and ran across the lot, right behind his cousin.

“Don’t kill me, please don’t kill me,” the guard begged, shaking so hard it was difficult to understand him.

“It’s not your day to die, man,” Brannon said, then took off at a jog.

He heard a shout as the guard inside the truck broke company rules to come to his buddy’s rescue. Bullets impacted the fence near him, and he picked up speed. Once they finally reached the truck, Brannon’s temper blew. He shoved Bettis up against the vehicle.

“What the fuck were you doing?” he demanded.

“I was going to kill that spook!” Bettis said. “You stopped me! Why’d you do that?”

“Shut the hell up!” Clarke bellowed. “Let’s get out of here.”

Brannon muscled the doper inside the cab, and the engine roared to life. As they drove out of town, Bettis continued to fidget, laughing and making shooting noises. Brannon glared out the window while his guts churned.

Jesus, what have I gotten myself into?

Bottom line? He was facing a long prison sentence if his boss couldn’t pull a few strings and get the charges dropped. Crispin Wilder would go to bat for him, there was no doubt of that, but it all depended on whether someone at the DHS or FBI was willing to play nice. If Brannon couldn’t deliver more than a couple of low-level militia members, he was history. All his years in the military would have been for nothing.

I have to get deeper inside the group. No matter the cost.

As soon as they reached the bike trail, and his car, Brannon hopped out of the truck, his anger down to a slow burn now. If they hadn’t been extremely lucky there’d have been bodies all over that parking lot.

“Next time, lose this damned fool,” he said, jabbing a finger at Bettis. “I don’t work with dope heads.”

“Not your call,” Clarke argued. “My cousin goes where I go.”

“Then you’re both headed to prison, or the grave.”

Bettis’s high had finally wound down. He crawled out of the truck and settled on the gravel. Humming tunelessly to himself, he pulled out the straps of cash from the bag and played with them like they were building blocks, stacking them, then knocking them over.

“God,” Brannon muttered. He frowned over at Clarke. “Give me my cut. I want out of here. I got a beer calling my name.”

Clarke ignored him, pulled out his phone and punched in a number. His posture straightened the moment the call went through.

“Sir, it’s Clarke.” A pause. “Yes, sir, he did.” The man’s eyes tracked to Brannon now. “You sure you want to do that?” The voice on the other end of the phone grew louder. “No, sir. Sorry, sir. I’ll tell him.”

Sir? Could he be talking to Quinton Ellers?

The call ended and Clarke shook his head in resignation. “Word is you need to stick around until I get further orders.”

“Word from who?”

“Commander Ellers.”

It appeared that Brannon had just taken one big step closer to his goal.

When he didn’t reply, Clarke continued, “You said you wanted to help us make this country better, right?” Brannon nodded. “Then you have to learn how to take orders.”

“So my time as a Ranger counts for nothing?”

“That’s the government’s army, not ours. I’ll call you when it’s all put together. Until then, stay in town and keep your phone on.”

“If you’re just messing with me . . . ”

“I’m not. You rat us out to the cops, you’re going down for a very long time. And we got people on the inside who will shiv you the moment you turn your back.”

“Is that what this was all about? Insurance? What if I hadn’t gone along with the robbery?”

“Then you would have gone missing, just like that other guy,” Bettis said, smiling up at him as he dug grimy nails into his arm, drawing blood.

Brannon tensed. “What other guy?”

“FBI agent,” Clarke replied. “He was trying to play us, but we figured him out. He’s history now.”

“Dead?” Clarke nodded. “What did you do with the body?”

“It’s not anywhere it’s gonna be found.”

No one had mentioned a missing agent during Brannon’s mission briefing, which meant that bit of news had been kept so quiet, even Veritas couldn’t sniff it out.

“When was this?” he asked.

“A couple days after we met up with you at the bar.”

Hell. Would the FBI believe he’d had something to do with the death of one of their own? If they did, he’d have zero chance of walking away from all this.

Clarke squatted down near his cousin, counted out the cash, then tossed it at Brannon’s feet. The brown currency straps around the cash indicated that each strap held fifty-dollar bills.

“You need to deliver this when I give you the word.”

He stared down at the cash, doing a quick count. If his guestimate was correct, there had to be at least forty or fifty thousand dollars. Why is he giving me this?

“Deliver it where?”

“Go buy yourself some camping gear, and keep your head down. I’ll call you when I have all the details.” He looked at the stacks of money at Brannon’s feet. “You take off and we’ll find you. We’ll hunt you forever. You got that?”

“I’ll hang around. I’d like to meet the commander. It’s time to take back our country from all these pissy-assed libtards who keep fucking things up,” Brannon replied, coughing up the party line and nearly choking on it. “Time to make things right again.”

“I told you he’s no fed,” Bettis insisted, grinning like a fool.

“Time will tell.” Clarke spat on the ground, his eyes narrowed. “Time will tell.”

Chapter Two

Killing Game
Veritas Book 2
(c) 2016 Jana G. Oliver
All Rights Reserved.

Available on Amazon

Cat's Paw - Chapter Five

Sat, 27 Sep 2025 23:00:00 GMT

Cat's Paw
Chapter Five

Alex stirred from the couch, too keyed up to sleep, and began to explore the dinky house. He wasn’t surprised to find roach traps everywhere—a nod to the bugs he’d always thought large enough to be Louisiana’s state bird. Given that the duplex next door was empty, he could well imagine there’d be a problem.

Miri hadn’t been lying about having her mattress on the floor, and even then, she’d made up the bed covers. The bathroom was small and tidy. He put the toilet to use, pointedly reminding himself to put down the seat. Out of curiosity, he popped open the medicine cabinet and found the usual things: bandages, razors, makeup . . . and condoms.

He sighed. Once again the passage of time bitch-slapped him—his baby sister was now a young woman who had sex. At least she was being sensible about it. There was only one toothbrush, which meant if she had a boyfriend, he didn’t do sleepovers. Not that he would while Alex was here. No guy—unless he was a goddamn saint—was good enough for Miri. Even a saint was going to find it rough sailing.

A stack of file boxes in one corner of the bedroom caught his interest because they had his name written on them in black marker. He pulled one down and opened it, discovering the contents of his desk at the DEA: pens, blank notepad, his Dallas Cowboys coffee cup, which now had a chip in it, and all his citations from the agency. It was as if someone had created a time capsule and dumped it in this box.

Alex sat on the floor and shuffled through it, acid brewing in his stomach. That last morning had gone well—he’d just delivered a report on his undercover work, and he’d gotten a big break that brought his investigation one step closer to busting Buryshkin’s organization. Then Alicia had called, frantic. His partner Dennis was at their house, executing a search warrant. Even before Alex could leave for home, he’d been arrested for cocaine possession. A small bag of it had been found in his home office.

He would always remember the shock, the anger, the click of the handcuffs as they closed on his wrists. His outrage and embarrassment during the perp walk past his astonished coworkers on his way to jail.

That dark suspicion rose once again, the one he’d nursed over the years. The one that tore him apart every time he thought about it. Only a few people had access to his home office, to the locked desk drawer where the coke had been found. Had it been Alicia, or his former partner? The man he’d trusted, only to find out he’d been shagging Alicia all along. Had they worked together to land him in jail?

Or had it been someone else? Someone like the Russians.

After all these years he still didn’t have the answer, but Veritas claimed it did. Was selling his soul to them worth the truth?

No.

Alex kept digging through the box, hoping to find something to counteract the agony of the past. Instead, he found the picture of him and Alicia, the one that had sat on his desk at work. He’d been so proud of it: their wedding photograph, taken that hot summer day in Austin at Horseshoe Falls Ranch. She was beautiful, always had been, a honey blonde with bright eyes and a quick smile. A woman whose rich daddy ran her life and who had cracked Alex’s heart in two like a hammer blow to a walnut.

“Why did you do it?” he asked, as if the photograph could answer.

Why had she cheated on him with Dennis? That had been a bitter enough betrayal, and then, the instant it looked like Alex was headed for prison, she’d divorced him, all because her father had told her to. No “stand by your man” for that woman. Just to twist the knife, she hadn’t even bothered to stay with ol’ Dennis. It was as if his buddy had been a convenient escape route, a handy parachute out of the smoking airplane of a marriage.

Alex hurled the photo and its metal frame across the room, hearing the glass shatter. He swore his heart did the same.

“Why the hell would you do that to me?” He’d always been faithful to Alicia, even when undercover and presented with the opportunity to get a little on the side. Lord knows, there’d been plenty of offers.

Alex leaned his head back against the wall, heart pounding and fists clenched. God, he wanted revenge. Wanted it for all those lost years. There’d been so many times he’d fantasized about that, how easy it would be. One bullet in the forehead, one in the chest. First Dennis, then her. Bang. Bang.

Revenge would be so sweet, but he knew it would destroy what was left of his and Miri’s lives. The lovers’ deaths wouldn’t make one damned difference. He’d get the death penalty and Miri would be alone. With all Alex had lost, he wasn’t willing to sacrifice any more.

Old Russ had asked the right question: What was the price he’d be willing to pay? In prison, he would have said “anything.” Now? Now it wasn’t so cut and dried.
With a long sigh, Alex closed the box, rose, and set it by the bedroom door near the broken glass. There was nothing in there he wanted. That was the old Alex.

He moved the other boxes onto the floor, only to discover a door hidden behind them, which apparently led to the abandoned unit next door. He turned the knob, and found the lock busted. That gave him the creeps. The sooner he got his sister out of this house, the better.

Inside the other boxes he found clothes, books, and a few of his favorite CDs. Somehow his old life hadn’t entirely vanished, and he had his sister to thank for that. It appeared that Miri’s harsh words weren’t equal to her actions; she could have easily ditched all this crap, and he never would have known. Instead she’d kept it for him.

“Love you, Monkey,” he murmured. “Even if you think you’re too old for me to call you that.”

After restacking the remaining boxes, he swept up the broken glass, ripped up the wedding picture, and tossed it in the trash where it belonged. The wastebasket was nearly full, so he headed outside to find the garbage can where it sat near the back fence, battered and grimy. As he drew near, he could see the flies boiling out of the lid, which was ajar. The stench hit him ten feet away, and he stopped in his tracks.

That wasn’t garbage. That was something dead. He edged closer and shifted the lid, then dropped it, gagging. In the midst of the garbage was a calico cat, painted with flies.

Mr. Toes.

Only when Alex covered his nose and mouth to step closer did he find the note, scrawled on a piece of lined notepaper.

NOWHERE TO HIDE

* * *

The Hotel St. Sebastian was in the French Quarter, one of those true New Orleans beauties that had survived hurricanes, floods, and decades of dirty politics. Morgan’s boss sat in an overstuffed armchair near one of the windows, a position she thought was inviting trouble. Though Veritas’s home office was in Chicago, whenever the boss was in town he stayed here, and his enemies knew it. The Russians would love to take this guy out, and yet he made no effort to conceal himself.

Doesn’t he realize how important he is to us?

As if he’d heard her thoughts, Crispin Wilder’s attention rose from the tablet in his lap, his distinctive dark-gray eyes troubled. At present, he was wearing a black T-shirt and a pair of jeans, totally at odds with the elegant room around them.

It was actually a suite of rooms named after a famous author, decorated with crown molding, still-life paintings, a glittering chandelier, and comforting sage-green walls. The floors were wood, highly polished, a thick rug denoting the center of the room. A white fireplace was built into the far wall, and in a nearby hallway, an orchid bloomed on a carved table. The space spoke of tranquility, a sanctuary in a city known for glittery excess.

Morgan shifted on the sofa. As she waited, she noted that Crispin’s beard had been trimmed, closely cropped. It revealed a few gray hairs. His long, dark-brown hair was graying at the temples as well, not unusual for someone in his forties. Caught in a ponytail at the nape of his neck, it made him ruggedly handsome. Both of his hands had a series of small scars in no discernible pattern.

She’d heard a lot of rumors about how those scars had come to be, but no one knew the real story. At one time Crispin had not served the forces of good, but had been a ruthless gunrunner supplying weapons of war to greedy despots across the planet. The kind of weapons needed to decimate whole villages or countries, sometimes in the name of God, but most times in the name of the Almighty Dollar.

Something had happened along the way, something that had changed Crispin Wilder forever. No one really knew the whole tale, and the man wouldn’t speak of it. All Morgan knew was that he’d abruptly quit the arms business and vanished, only to resurface a year later, the head of Veritas. His vast fortune helped fund their activities, cultivating those nefarious and legitimate contacts he’d made across the globe.

Except this time he was peddling justice, not arms.

When Morgan shifted on the sofa again, her boss noticed.

“I did ask you to come see me, and now I’m ignoring you. That’s rude,” Crispin said, closing the tablet.

“That’s okay. This is about Parkin, isn’t it?”

He nodded. “Had any second thoughts since you met him?”

She cut to the chase, now that she’d had time to reflect on the situation. “I think we can still get him on board, but you really need to send someone else after him. He’s not listening to me.”

Crispin nodded, leaning back and crossing his arms. A tattoo peeked out from the right sleeve of his T-shirt. Morgan couldn’t make out what it was, and she wasn’t going to ask. Her superior was open about some matters and totally closed on others, and you never knew where a topic fell on that scale.

“Buryshkin’s shipment arrived last night,” he said. “Cocaine. Street value in the millions.”

“God,” she murmured. “It never ends.”

“My source says they will start moving the coke in a few days, but he has no idea where they’re storing it in the meantime. He’s trying to discover that, but I urged him to use caution.”

Morgan sighed in resignation. “I’m sorry. I let Parkin push every one of my buttons.”
One of her boss’s eyebrows rose. “I’m surprised. Usually you’re the one who does the button pushing.”

“I don’t know what was wrong with me,” she admitted.

“Maybe your timing was off. Our ex-DEA agent might be a lot more receptive later tonight or tomorrow. Make another run at him. If you find Parkin’s still playing games, turn him over to Iceman. If Neil can’t convince him, then we’ll cut our losses. I have a couple of other options, but neither is as good as the ex-con. Revenge is a very powerful motivator.”

Morgan felt her breathing falter. That was a little too close to home. Buryshkin had destroyed her life, killed her husband and her career. Revenge was all she had left.

“I’ll give it another try.”

Which meant that, once again, she’d have to look at that face, see those eyes and the history behind them. Though she’d never admit it to her boss, Alex Parkin unnerved her on too many levels.

Crispin pulled a sheet of paper from under the notebook and handed it to her. “Just so you’re not duplicating efforts, here’s a list of locations we’ve already cleared. The coke isn’t at any of these. Work your contacts, see what you hear on the streets.”

She scanned the addresses. “I’ve got a couple folks who might know something—with the proper monetary incentive.”

“If you do find the dope, call our contact at the DEA and let them conduct the bust. Only deal with her, not anyone else, you understand?”

Morgan nodded. The majority of the agents were clean, but a few couldn’t be trusted. They’d found the lure of the drug lord’s money too tempting.

“When you talk to Parkin again, push his weak spot—his sister.”

She grimaced. “He’ll hate us if I go there.”

“Better that he hates us than he or Ms. Parkin ending up dead.”

Crispin had a point. Veritas played hardball when needed, but there were certain lines they never crossed. Hurting some guy’s sister just to get him to work for them was one of those. The Russians wouldn’t recognize a line if they tripped over one.

As Morgan left the suite, her boss placed a call on his cell phone and began speaking in Dutch. He did it effortlessly, switching from one language to another like it was as simple as taking a breath.

As she quietly closed the door behind her, for some reason Parkin’s dark eyes came to mind. It was time to let him know just how bad it could get if he didn’t pull his head out of his ass. Because no matter what, the Russians were either going to recruit him . . . or kill him.

* * *

Shaken by the discovery of his sister’s pet, Alex retreated into the house. How was he going to tell Miri her cat’s throat had been cut? She’d hate him for that. Was this a warning to him that Miri was next if he didn’t fall in line?

He knew what she’d say: Life was fine until you came home. Which wasn’t the truth, not when she owned a gun to keep punks from breaking into her house and hurting her. Still, she wouldn’t see it that way. Once again, somebody was playing God with their lives. But who had done it? One of Buryshkin’s people? Or the babe in the Beemer?

Maybe he and his sister should just bail, take off for Texas in the morning. Anywhere but New Orleans. They could start over where no one knew them.

But what if whoever had left the threat tracked them down, caught his sister alone . . .
Someone knocked on the front door, at first a light tap, then growing stronger. He flipped the locks and flung open the door to find Morgan Blake on the doorstep. Veritas’s mouthpiece had no idea that her timing was perfect. It was time to start lighting fires under these people and see who screamed first.

“I got your message,” he said, glaring. “And you can just fuck off.”

“What message?” she replied, looking confused.

“You know what I’m talking about. Don’t play stupid.”

“No, I don’t know what you’re—”

“Let me show you, then.” He grabbed her arm and towed her through the house, ignoring her protests.

“What are we doing?” she demanded as he marched her out the back door.

“Letting you admire your handiwork.”

He let her go right before they reached the trash can. Whipping off the lid, he waited for her to admit this was her doing. Instead, the woman’s face went pale. Her hand covered her mouth and she stepped away. He lowered the lid, then stepped back to escape the cloud of flies.

Ms. Blake swallowed hard as she took another step back. “Who did that?”

“Your people.”

“What? No way,” she said. “We don’t do that kind of crap.”

His resolve wavered. “Then who? The Russians?”

To his surprise, she shook her head. “No. That’s not Buryshkin’s style.”

If it wasn’t her or the Russians, there was another player in the game.

No, it has to be one of them.

“That was my sister’s cat,” he said. “There was a note with it. It said, ‘Nowhere to hide.’”

“Was it a message for you . . . or for her?”

That, he didn’t know.

The frown on the woman’s face grew. “Admit it, you’re in deep trouble, Parkin. You’ve got enemies who’d love to break you in half, and they don’t care who they hurt in the process.”

“My problem, not yours.”

“It’s your sister’s problem too. They won’t hesitate to use her as a way to put a ring in your nose. You piss them off, and you’re both taking a one-way trip to the swamp.”

“Is that any different from you guys?”

“Hell yes.” A fly landed on her face and she swiped it off. “With us, you get a chance to make things right. A chance to get even. Don’t you want revenge?”

“Of course I want revenge,” he said, stepping closer to her now. “But I won’t be a pawn for anyone. I’ll take care of my sister on my own. That’s my job now.”

His visitor shook her head in dismay. “You’re so out of your league.” She dug a business card from her purse and offered it to him. “Call me if you change your mind.”

“I won’t.”

She tossed the card in the grass at his feet. “Someday, you may not have a choice anymore.”

He made no move to pick it up. “Not going there, lady. I’d rather kiss the devil’s ass.”

“Dial that number and maybe we’ll still have time to pull your ass out of the fire. Because we’re going to be the only ones who can do it.”

As the woman marched around the side of the house through the weeds, he stared down at the business card, then picked it up. A mobile number was listed beneath her name. He crumpled the card, then threw it toward the trash can and the rotting corpse, where it belonged.

By the time Alex was back inside, the kitchen clock told him he needed to get a move on; Miri’s tire needed fixing, if for no other reason than to get in her good graces. Especially when he would have to tell her Mr. Toes was dead.

Who the hell would do something like that? Clearly it was some sick bastard, and the fact that he’d been anywhere near his sister scared Alex senseless.

After making sure the back door was bolted, he collected the ring of keys and the money from the kitchen table. Locking the front door behind him, he paused and took a deep breath as the open space loomed around him, pressing down on him like it had its own weight. Some cons took time to adjust to the outside, and apparently he was one of them. He wondered if he would ever be normal again.

No routine.

That was what he was missing. Routine meant stability. Relative safety. Now he felt like he was completely adrift in a sea of unknowns. Other people would go to the cops, tell them about the cat, maybe get someone to investigate. But not Alex. Not with his record. He was on his own.

It took work to get the tire off the car as the lug nuts weren’t cooperating. The heat didn’t help; he was dripping sweat by the time the task was complete. Slowly, he ran his fingers over the tire and found a slice in the sidewall, not a nail hole. His first guess had been right—someone, probably Veritas, had slit the tire to allow Morgan time to lure him into their web.

Their plan had failed.

Hefting the tire, Alex set off down the street. If he was lucky, he’d find a neighbor kid who could point him toward the closest tire-repair place. Once it was fixed, he’d order some pizza and decide what to do next. Figure out how to fight back.

Mr. Toes had been an innocent victim. Alex was determined that he’d be the only one.

* * *

Morgan flipped the locks on her front door, then tapped in the code to disable her apartment alarm. She was still fuming at Parkin’s stubbornness. How could he think they would kill his sister’s cat? They weren’t monsters. This wasn’t like the Russian’s goons, either. They wouldn’t mess with some pet—they’d go right after Parkin or his sister.

As Morgan kicked off her tennis shoes, her cell phone began to play “Ride of the Valkyries.” She checked the caller ID and smiled—it was Lars Ericson, who had been assigned the task of keeping an eye on Parkin. Lars was the son of a Scandinavian pharmaceutical executive and a British-Jamaican flight attendant. He was a whip-smart operative and a devastating handball player. Morgan had learned about the latter talent at great personal humiliation and expense, because there was always some money riding on each game.

“Hey Lars, what’s new? Parkin get his ass shot yet?” she said, bending down to scoop up her shoes.

“Nope. He’s currently carrying the flat tire down the street. I’m guessing he’s off to an auto shop.”

“Being the dutiful big brother, then.” She caught Lars up on what their subject had found in his trash can.

“Ah, hell. What kind of sick SOB would do that to a cat?”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t feel like Buryshkin. Could it be an ex-boyfriend who wasn’t happy to be left behind?”

“According to our research, the sister’s last steady guy was over eight months ago and he lives in Detroit now.”

“So maybe it’s a stalker,” Morgan grumbled.

“Always possible. I didn’t see anyone around the house, but then, I didn’t start surveillance until six this morning.”

“There were no maggots on the corpse yet, so it probably died sometime last night. They take about twenty-four hours to hatch out.”

A brief pause and a shuffling noise, perhaps Lars switching the phone to the other ear. “What happened between you and Parkin? I saw him haul you into the house. I figured you could handle him, so I held back.”

“Parkin was blaming us for the cat. He’s got a short fuse, and the fact that his sister’s space has been invaded has made him even more volatile.”

“You want me to keep watching him?”

“Yeah, at least for another couple days. The Russians will be in touch with him soon.”

“Who’s taking the night shift?” Lars asked.

“Bill.”

A laugh came down the line. “No surprise there. I swear that man is a vampire. He’s pale enough to be one.”

“True.” Which was one thing that Alex Parkin wasn’t—his time in the prison fields had made sure of that.

“I gotta go. Our guy is turning the corner so I better catch up with him. I’ll call you later with an update.”

“Thanks, Lars.”

“Later, Valkyrie.”

Morgan ended the call and tossed the phone onto the bathroom counter. Eyeing the bathtub, she turned on the water and began to strip. Dropping in a scoop of sandalwood bath salts, she climbed in.

Morgan slid farther down into the water, hoping it would wash away some of her worries. She had good people—Lars, Neil, and Bill were top-notch operatives, and they’d keep an eye on Parkin and his sister.

“Come on, you idiot, work with us,” she muttered.

God help her, she was willing to use his desire for revenge to fuel her own.

Cat's Paw - Chapter Four

Fri, 26 Sep 2025 23:00:00 GMT

Cat's Paw
Chapter Four

Alex’s luck had finally turned on the main highway to St. Francisville. An older Black man in a truck picked him up. The man even let Alex use his phone. The first call on the outside was to his sister.

“Miri? It’s Alex.”

“You got my message, right?” His sister sounded upset, angry, all of the above.

“I got the message that you weren’t picking me up. I know you’re pissed at me, but stranding my ass—”

“I had a flat tire and no spare. I didn’t have a way to get it fixed fast enough, so I couldn’t come get you.”

Oh. No doubt the prison office had gotten her message and just hadn’t bothered to pass it on. One final way to screw him over. And he’d thought she had blown him off.

“Sorry, sis. I got a ride,” he said.

“Where are you now?”

“Nearing St. Francisville. I’ll try to catch a ride from there to Baton Rouge.”

“Okay,” his sister said. “I’ll see you later.”

She hung up on him. No “glad to hear you’re out, bro.” Nothing.

Hell. He knew it was going to be hard, but not this hard.

Year after year, he’d worried about a lot of things. Staying safe, avoiding anything that might lengthen his sentence, keeping on the right side of the right people so he didn’t end up a corpse. Worrying about how his sister was surviving without him.

Alex had made a list of things he had to do once he was out; get a job was number one on that list. It’d probably be working at a car wash or burger joint because of his criminal record, most likely at minimum wage. He’d tried to convince himself that anything would do at first. Maybe he could move up the ranks and . . . then what? Become a night manager at a convenience store or a Bourbon Street restaurant?

It was as if all his years with the DEA meant nothing; he was back to square one. Worse than that, because how many people wanted to hire a guy who’d been convicted of cocaine possession?

Fear wasn’t his usual emotional setting, at least not until the last month or so. Was he ready for the real world? Six years was a long time—one year awaiting trial and five inside the country’s largest maximum-security prison. He’d tried to stay current by reading news reports on the internet in the prison library, but that wasn’t like really living out here. How much had changed?

“Everything okay?” the driver asked. He’d said that his name was Russ and he was retired. Alex noted that he hadn’t said what he’d done for a living.

“Life’s not great right now.”

“You just get out?” the man asked, examining him with bloodshot eyes.

Alex gave him a long look. “Yeah. How’d you know?”

“The muscles. The tan. You get them from working on The Farm. You on parole?”

“Nope. 12/12.” The full sentence.

“I did the same. That’s why I picked you up. You looked like an ex-con. I can see it in your eyes.”

“It’s that noticeable?” Alex groaned.

“Only to those who’ve been there. You gonna do something stupid to get yourself back in there?”

“Hell no. I’m done with that.”

“Good. I was the same. My life turned out okay. Maybe yours will too.”

Like I believe that shit.

* * *

Once in St. Francisville, Russ took Alex to a convenience store, where he bought a pay-as-you-go phone, water, and protein bars. Then they were back on the road to Baton Rouge, because his driver refused to let him hitchhike any farther.

“The cops will check you out if you’re hitching,” Russ warned. “If they find out you’re just out of Angola, it could get rough.” That, he didn’t doubt. “What were you in for?”

Alex told him the story.

“Well, shit. That sucks. I was in for armed robbery. I was good for it.”

“I wasn’t. It didn’t matter either way.”

“That’s often the case,” Russ replied, shaking his head.

Thirty minutes later, they were closing in on the Baton Rouge bus station.

Alex cleared his throat. “If you were me, would you want revenge on whoever fucked up your life?”

The older man sighed. “If I were your age, yes. My age? No. Wouldn’t matter now.”

“That’s not really an answer.”

“There isn’t a right one. You gotta ask yourself how much this revenge is gonna cost you. What is the price you’re willing to pay? You will have to decide whether that’s a bill you’re willing to cover.”

When they pulled into the Baton Rouge bus station off Florida Boulevard, Alex thanked the man and offered to pay for gas.

“No. I won’t accept it.” Russ smiled. “Just do me a favor: Be sure you don’t ruin your future to settle the past. The past isn’t worth it. Only your future counts because that’s all you’ve got left.”

It was sound advice, which Alex knew he’d ignore.

After a quick trip to the restroom, he made his way to the ticket counter, skirting around various travelers. The noise in the station felt off, not the routine sounds he was accustomed to. He found himself becoming increasingly jittery. Prison routine had a purpose: It reminded the inmates they weren’t in charge. Out here, he could go anywhere he wanted. Do anything he wanted. In many ways, that scared the hell out of him.

Alex was relieved to see he could easily afford a one-way ticket to New Orleans. The next bus left in fifteen minutes, so he bought a ticket and found himself a seat on the bus. One step closer to his sister.

He’d always been tight with his only sibling, from the moment Miri was born. That had been a given, since their mother was a drug addict and their father an over-the-road truck driver. It’d been up to eleven-year-old Alex to take care of the new baby, who probably wasn’t even his dad’s kid. He didn’t care about that. All he knew was that Miri was the brightest light in his miserable life and he adored her.

For a time, his sister had felt the same about him, right up until he’d been arrested for possession of cocaine and her rampant hero worship had imploded. Miri grew to distrust most everyone.

Especially me.

He had to mend fences with her. Then, after he had a job, he’d figure out who had sent him to prison—and decide exactly how to take his revenge.
No matter what, there’d be blood and a lot of screaming. None of which would be his own.

* * *

Despite the uncomfortable position and the low murmuring of the other passengers, Alex didn’t wake until the bus pulled into the station in New Orleans.

Or at least back where he’d started years earlier. As he trudged down the bus steps, he caught the smell of a city unlike any other, a blend of fish, river, people, and swamp. With a bit of jambalaya and evil thrown in to spice up the mix.

The place was busy, doubling as the city’s Amtrak station. Alex half expected to see the Blake woman waiting for him, tapping her foot, arms folded over her chest in annoyance. But there was no one to greet him except a panhandler outside the station. Alex dug into his pocket and dropped a few coins into the guy’s paper cup.

“Thanks,” he said, looking up with watery eyes.

“No sweat,” Alex replied. He’d been at the bottom himself, what with the time in prison, but during all those years, they’d fed him and given him a place to sleep. This guy didn’t even have that.

Not needing to claim any luggage, he walked outside the white stone building, his plastic bag over a shoulder. Looking up, Alex studied the hazy sky, then the buildings toward downtown. He paused for a moment, picturing where he was on a mental map, and then set off.

Miri’s place was located in Central City, on the other side of the interstate. He still couldn’t believe she’d be living in such a dangerous, run-down neighborhood, and that told him she was squeezing every dime she earned.

Not now. I can help her.

No one messed with him as he walked along. Prison had given him a hard look, and the people who could read that message respected it. A couple young gangbangers called out to him, but he kept moving and they made no attempt to follow.

Finally, he made the turn onto South Liberty and then paused. The street was a classic example of poor New Orleans—small one-story houses, sometimes two stories, with a few steps up from the street in case of flooding. Most had dilapidated fences shielding them from the street. Weeds grew in some of the yards, but not in others. He passed several houses that were boarded up, abandoned. A bird flew out of the broken second-story window of one.

Alex finally found Miri’s rental house—not by the street number, but by the old car sitting in front of it with a flat rear tire. The house was small, and if it had been a person, it would have been drawing Social Security.

A dirty, uneven teal, it desperately pleaded for some maintenance, starting with a coat of paint. Clearly, the landlord didn’t give a damn, as the hurricane shutters were either damaged or missing, and Alex bet you could read a newspaper through the roof's pathetically thin shingles.

Jesus.

His baby sister lived here. Why the hell hadn’t she told him it was this bad? Probably because there was nothing he could have done about it, not when he was earning a few cents an hour on prisoner’s wages.

The place was divided into a duplex, the apartment door on the right sealed shut with warped plywood. Graffiti added a colorful touch to the dull and blackened wood. The neighbor’s house to the right was even worse, with a sheet of plastic covering a broken window and a rickety porch leaning lazily to one side, seemingly unable to decide whether to collapse or keep fighting gravity. At least the place on the left was a little better, with intact windows and an old tricycle in the yard.

Gathering his courage, Alex fought the rusty gate, then walked toward his sister's front door, taking note of a few scraggly flowers growing in little plastic pots along the cracked sidewalk. Miri had always loved to garden.

He was on the porch and about to knock on the door when he felt his pride sting. If it’d been Miri coming home after so long, he’d have been watching out the window, waiting for her. But she wasn’t watching for him, as if he’d just been gone for a few days. When he knocked, it took a while for the door to open, revealing a thick security chain.

His sister’s brown eyes peered at him, a decade older than her twenty-one years. They looked like his—same color, same pain.

“Oh, it’s you,” she said. She removed the safety chain, and the worn door opened. He couldn’t help but notice that she held a pistol down by her side.

When the hell had that happened?

“Always meet people at the door with a gun?” Alex asked, stepping inside and letting the flimsy door close behind him.

“Yeah. Lock it, will you?”

He did as she asked, then turned to study the house’s interior. It was better than he had expected, the walls painted a pale blue and the curtains a bright white. A pale lime-green dining table—just big enough for two people—sat in a tiny kitchen.

The floors were warped wood and promised splinters to anyone adventurous enough to go barefoot. The living room furniture was likely scavenged from thrift shops and yard sales. Despite the fact that it screamed “No money here!” it felt like a home. Something he hadn’t had in over six years.

A lump grew in Alex’s throat as his eyes dampened. He blinked to clear them as he set the plastic bag on the lumpy black couch. Miri put the pistol in a kitchen drawer, then turned toward him. Her hair was lighter brown now, cut shoulder length, her features more filled out than he remembered. She was about four inches shorter than him, five-eight or so.

Of course she’d changed—he hadn't seen her in three years, not since her last visit to his private hell.

“Well? It’s a dump, right? Just say it,” she demanded.

He shook his head. “No. It looks good. I’m so damned proud of you.”

He’d meant it as a compliment, but somehow that set her off.

“Well, I’m not proud of you, okay?” she shot back. “If you think you’re staying here more than a couple days, you’re wrong. Get a job, move on. I have my own life now.”

She couldn’t have hurt him more if she’d taken her gun and shot him in the heart.

“You’re serious? You don’t want me around?”

“No.” Then she frowned. “Just . . . this isn’t easy, Alex.”

“Not for me either, Monkey.”

“Don’t call me that! I’m not some kid.”

No matter what he said, it was wrong. “Okay, whatever you want. I’ll get a job and move on. But . . . ” He swallowed hard. “If you need me, I’m here for you.”

“You weren’t for six years, why would you be now?”

“Don’t you think I know that?” he said, his voice rising. “Every damned day. Every damned night, I thought of you, and—”

“Don’t tell me how rough it was,” she retorted, taking a step closer now. “You got three meals a day, no matter what. You didn’t have to worry about someone breaking in, beating you, trying to—”

He was in front of her now, his heart thudding, wanting to hold her but not sure if she’d allow it. “God, tell me that didn't happen.”

Miri shook her head. “I ran out the back door and hid a few streets over. The bastard took the TV and ripped up the place. It’s why I have the gun now.” She shrugged like it didn’t matter, but he knew it did. “I didn’t bother to get another television. They always steal them.”

Tears rolled down his cheeks, shocking him. “Miri . . . Jesus, I never . . . ”

She blinked at him as her own tears formed, and then they were in each other’s arms, sobbing like they had when their dad had died in that truck accident. Like they had when their mom had taken that final overdose and left them orphans.

“If there is any way I can make this up to you, I will. I swear to God,” he whispered.

She tugged out of his grasp, as if embarrassed to be crying. “Just don’t go back to jail, you hear? No cocaine, no pills, no nothing.”

“I didn’t do any of that in the first place,” he said, wiping away his tears. “That cocaine was planted, Miri. I’ve told you over and over.”

No matter how many times he explained that he’d been framed, she wouldn’t accept it. They were right back to where they’d been all those years earlier. It was why she had no longer come to visit him at Angola—because it’d always come down to this.

“Just admit it, Alex. You got caught and you did the time. Now use your head and don’t do something that stupid again.”

His anger roiled. “You know, you’re right. I’ll find a job and get out of your life. Because if my own sister doesn’t believe in my innocence, why the fuck bother at all?”

“It’s not my fault,” she said. “Never was.”

“Not mine, either,” he shot back.

Miri shook her head, like he was just being stubborn. “I have to leave for work in a bit. There’s some food in the refrigerator. There’s only one bed, so . . . ”

“I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“No, you sleep on the floor. That’s where I put my mattress. People like to shoot through the windows around here, so it’s best you’re not up high. If they find out you used to work for the DEA . . . ”

Time to change the subject. “How are you getting to work?”

“A friend’s picking me up. She’ll bring me home, too. It’ll be late. It’s Shanita’s birthday, so we’re going for drinks after work.”

Alex nodded his approval of that plan. He couldn’t stand to have her walking around these streets alone.

Miri dropped a set of keys on the kitchen table. “If you could get my tire fixed, that’d be good. Shanita can’t drive me tomorrow.”

“I’ll take care of it.” At least he could do that much.

“Oh, and if you see Mr. Toes . . . ” She paused. “He’s my cat. If he shows up at the door, feed him. His food is under the sink.”

“I can do that, too. What kind is he?”

Some of the frost fell away. “Calico,” she said with a faint smile. “The males are kinda rare. I found him in an alley. He’s got six toes and he’s really cool. You’ll like him.”

Maybe the cat was the way into Miri’s heart. He’d find out soon enough.

Alex parked himself next to his plastic bag on the couch, his legs feeling like they couldn't hold him up any longer. He remained there while his sister dressed for work. When she exited her bedroom in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, he frowned.

“Don’t you have to wear a uniform or something?”

“I change at work. It’s easier that way,” she said as she dropped some money by the keys, probably for the tire.

He dug in the bag for his new phone, found the number in the package, and gave it to her. “You call me if you need a way home tonight, you hear?”

“You don’t have a driver’s license.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he replied. “Keeping you safe does.”

She looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. “I am glad you’re home.”

His heart beat double. That was exactly what he’d been dying to hear.

Miri had always looked like their mother, at least before their mom started doing drugs. His sister was blessed with fine features, dark eyes, and a lithe build. “You’ve turned out to be a really pretty girl,” he said.

“Yeah, I hear that all the time when some guy is trying to grab my ass or my breasts.”

“So how many have you shot so far?” he said, trying to lighten the moment.

It worked, as Miri grinned. “I’m tempted, but I need my job.”

“I can teach you a couple self-defense moves to make those assholes back off.”

“Really?” she asked, interested now.

“Yup. I learned a few in the joint. They’re the kind that will bring serious pain, but not the kind that will likely get you fired.” Or thrown in solitary.

Miri cocked her head, then nodded as if his peace offering was appreciated. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

A car honked outside. When she reached the door, Miri flipped the lock, then hesitated. She turned back to him and a weary smile came to her face, erasing a year or two. “Stay out of trouble, okay?”

“I will.”

Alex locked the door behind her, plugged in his new phone to charge, and stretched out on the couch, ignoring her warning about sleeping on the floor. If he hadn’t died in prison, he sure as hell wasn’t going to die in the real world.

* * *

When Miri ducked inside the late-model Ford, her friend Shanita smiled at her. The twenty-five-year-old blonde was the tallest of the cocktail waitresses at the Down and Dirty Bar, topping out at six-one. Add three more inches for her heels and she was an Amazon.

Miri was shorter and a bit bustier, which played well with the horny tourists who visited the French Quarter watering hole. She’d never understood it, but something about coming to New Orleans meant they left their good sense and morals back home. The cheap booze did nothing to help the situation.

Still, the money Miri made in tips more than compensated for the grabby hands. Or at least she told herself that. She hadn’t let Alex in on the fact that she wasn’t at the restaurant anymore, because he’d just go Older Brother on her and insist she quit. She was too close to having enough money to move to give that up.

As if tapping into her thoughts, Shanita said, “This neighborhood sucks. Tell me you’re going to move in with me . . . like, tomorrow.”

“Soon. I’ve almost got the money together.”

“You don’t have to have all of it.”

“I know, but I want to have enough that I don’t have to worry.”

“Okay, it’s your thing. Let me know when moving day is, and make it soon.” Shanita headed down the street and turned the corner. “Your bro get home?”

Miri usually didn’t tell anyone that Alex was in prison, but she needed someone to talk to and Shanita wasn’t judgmental. Not when her own father had served time.

“Yeah,” she replied. “He just got home. He had to hitch a ride because of the tire thing.” She sighed. “He looks old, Shanita. I mean, he’s older than me anyway, but it’s even more than that now.”

“Hard time does that. My daddy came home looking bad.”

“Well, Alex looks healthy, but it’s what I see in his eyes.” Miri shook her head. “Of course, I got in his face right off. Rather than hugging him and saying I was so scared I’d never see him again, I went total bitch.”

Her friend sighed. “Love will do that to you. Tell him tonight. Don’t let him think you don’t care.”

Miri blinked back tears. “I do love him, but he keeps insisting he had nothing to do with that cocaine. Why can’t he just admit he screwed up?”

“Was he always on the right side before he was busted?”

Miri nodded. “Totally straight arrow.”

“Then maybe he wasn’t good for it.”

“But if someone set him up, that means . . . who did it? His ex-wife? His partner at the DEA? Who? Because it sure as hell wasn’t me.”

Shanita quirked an eyebrow. “If your brother was really doing his job, not just phoning it in, he’d have a lot of people who’d want to take him down. What better way than planting coke and busting him for possession? Five years out of circulation, easy.”

Today, when Miri had seen Alex’s face, seen how prison had changed him, her certainty of his guilt had begun to develop cracks, like a piece of flood-damaged concrete. It’d been easy to lay all the guilt on him for the hell she’d faced while he was gone. Now, she wasn’t sure if that was still possible.

“I’ll wait and see,” she said. “If he stays clean, then I know they screwed him over.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

Miri frowned. “Then he’d better be dead, because if not, I’ll kill him myself.”

Cat's Paw - Chapter Three

Fri, 26 Sep 2025 09:00:00 GMT

Cat's Paw
Chapter Three

"Stupid, stubborn prick!” Morgan said, barreling past the speed limit.

No wonder Parkin had made enemies at the DEA. That lone-warrior, “I’m smarter than anyone else” crap was what had gotten him hung out to dry. It still was.

She should have expected his reaction. She’d read everything she could about Alexander Michael Parkin: his psychiatric evaluations, his medical and college records. She expected him to have changed—you didn’t do all that time in a maximum-security prison and not come out scarred. Now he was a powder keg waiting for an open flame.

“You’re trouble,” she muttered. The kind of trouble that ruined missions and that wasn’t an option with this one. She wanted revenge. So did he. “Which is why we should be working together.”

With another long string of swear words, Morgan let her foot off the gas, allowing the car to slow of its own accord. She didn’t need a ticket.

I blew it.

She’d been so sure he’d want a chance to clear his name that she hadn’t even considered it might be a hassle. Now, looking back, it would have been better to have had one of the others in her team serve as Parkin’s contact. Someone male, maybe.

As she got within spitting distance of the speed limit, she knew it was time to report the bad news. “Phone CW,” Morgan said, and the car obediently connected to her boss.

“I’m guessing it’s a no go if you’re calling me,” Crispin Wilder said, not bothering with a greeting. His accent was hard to place, a blend of British and European, with a dash of the Old South.

“It was a total wash. He wants nothing to do with us. He’s on his own crusade.”

“I gather the Russians haven’t made their move yet.”

“Not from what I can tell. I give it a week before Parkin’s facedown in an alley with a bullet in the back of his head. They aren’t going to allow for that kind of disrespect.”

“We’ll see. Knowing Buryshkin, he’ll find a way to push the con’s buttons. We may yet have a chance to bring him onto our team.”

Not likely.

But then, Crispin was a strategist. In his forties, he spoke at least ten languages fluently and had logged serious time doing super-secret activities that he never spoke of. He had good instincts.

Morgan often envisioned him as a very savvy spider sitting in the middle of a massive global web. If a twitch at the far end of that web caught his notice, one of his people would check it out. Then he’d decide if the issue needed Veritas’s intervention, or if it was something that could be safely ignored. Buryshkin and his organization were way past the “let’s ignore this” stage.

“The Russians will make their move soon,” Crispin added, bringing her thoughts back to the situation. “Please take precautions to ensure that his sister is not harmed.”

“I already have.”

“Excellent.” He paused. “The people in London send their regards. Your work on their behalf has made them very happy. They’ve offered to help us in any way possible in the future.”

“Good.” The ache in her lower back eased a bit. At least the bullet wound had healed properly. “Is their daughter getting better?”

“That will take time, I fear.”

It always did in kidnapping cases. Especially when the kidnappers buried their victim in a pit and left her to die.

“Keep me in the loop on Parkin,” Crispin added. “If he doesn’t go for our offer, we’ll have to decide what to do next.”

“How aggressive can I get?”

“As aggressive as you want. If my sources are correct, there’s a power struggle about to erupt inside the Russian’s organization, and if we don’t get a handle on it, there may be open warfare.”

“I’ll let you know how it plays out.”

“Thank you, Morgan.”

As the miles rolled by, she found herself replaying the confrontation with Alex Parkin. At six-two or so, all muscles after his stint in prison, he was ruggedly handsome with dark hair, a deep tan, and flinty brown eyes that had seemed to pierce right through her skin. But that all-male package included a strong dose of arrogance, the kind that made her angry. Now she’d been forced to protect the fool from himself.

After two more phone calls to put her plan in motion, she synced up her smartphone with the radio. Carlos Jean’s “Prisoners” filled the car.

Parkin’s dark eyes occupied her thoughts again. For all his bravado, the man was hurt and angry and confused. It was like finding an injured puppy on the side of the road. You just couldn’t drive by and leave him behind.

But she had done just that, and dammit, now she felt guilty.