THE ACCIDENTAL EXISTENTIALIST

Joshua Graham

Published by Dawn Treader Press

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2010 Paul C. Tseng

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual locales, events or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

Praise for Joshua Graham’s debut novel BEYOND JUSTICE:

“…A riveting legal thriller…. breaking new ground with a vengeance… demonically entertaining and surprisingly inspiring.”

~PUBLISHERS WEEKLY

“…hits the ground running…handled by a deft hand.”

~Adrian Phoenix, IN THE BLOOD (Pocket Books)

“This tense, fast-paced story of outrageous injustice, insidious evil, and looming disaster has everything the savvy reader should expect, and more. [Graham] belongs to a new, emerging wave of writers who dare to color outside conventional lines. And he does so with style!”

~Glen Scorgie, THE JOURNEY BACK TO EDEN (Zondervan)

“…a genuine page-turner with a twist that makes it stand out from most thrillers and legal dramas.”

“…What sets this thriller apart is the deft handling of religion.”

“…When Graham turns to courtroom drama, the writing is tense; when he’s inside Sam’s mind, the emotions are wringing.”

~Author Magazine

“This book was so much more than a mystery novel; it was an exercise in faith, understanding, joy and mercy in their purest forms.”

“…twists, turns and surprises to be found here.”

“…filled with so much in the way of emotion.”

“…Take the time to read this book. You will not be disappointed.”

~ Suspense Magazine

“This is not a tame Christian book

…full of heart wrenching scenes that will make you shudder.

…one surprise after another

…a “can’t put down” thriller

…the ending was brilliant!

…This is Joshua Graham’s first book and it is a doozy!! I can’t wait to read more from this very talented author.”

~ReadingAtTheBeach.com

Visit Joshua Graham’s website: www.joshua-graham.com

On Facebook: www.facebook.com/j0shuagraham

On Smashwords: http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/joshuagraham

The Accidental Existentialist

Joshua Graham

There could be nothing stranger than looking at your own casket adorned with wreaths and an American flag on the day of your funeral. Warm sunlight flowed through verdant oaks, blanketing the gravesite with a golden lattice. Sparrows sang a song of Spring, celebrating new life, a new season. For all the world.

But not for Chris Connor.

From behind the tinted windows of a black limo, he looked on through binoculars as they lowered the casket into the ground. Unjustly beautiful and dressed in a slender black dress, Marlena held little Robbie’s hand—an image evocative of John F. Kennedy Jr. as a child, saluting his father’s coffin.

I may as well be dead, Chris thought, swallowing the tumor in his throat. But this was the only way. Unless Khrenikov believed him dead, Marlena and Robbie would never be safe. No way around it regardless of what chief of police Benson said. And there was no way in hell Chris could have taken this matter up with the FBI or any other agency. The reach of Khrenikov’s tendrils knew no bounds.

Chris winced at the blast of the gunshots. Three rounds, seven rifles. Then the bagpipes. Marlena dabbed her eyes as Colonel Masterson handed her the folded flag. Robbie kept looking down into the hole in the ground where the coffin meant for Chris lay. “Daddy, daddy,” he cried, but from this distance, Chris could only see his boy’s lips quiver, his two little fists wringing the tears from his eyes.

His only remaining child.

Fatherless.

Chris couldn’t watch any more.

He rolled up the window, put on his sunglasses and chauffeur’s hat and started then engine. This plan hadn’t been well thought out, but it had to be executed. Now, as he drove down the winding road of Cypress Hills, he’d take the Jackie Robinson out to the LIE and disappear somewhere in Great Neck, or Little Neck, or hell, maybe skip town altogether before devising a strategy for taking Khrenikov down once and for all. But like the many heads of Hydra, the mythical serpent dragon, cut one off, and two more grow back. And at this point, Chris didn’t fill his mind with Herculean delusions.

Clouds white as wool hung before their powdery backdrop. A Peterbilt roared by, its driver flipping Chris the bird for only driving 70 in a 55. Then a candy red Prius cut him off. Too numb to get angry, Chris simply ignored them both.

He was alone. Had to be for now. But he’d be back. He made an oath to heaven, to the Almighty. Chris would see to it that Khrenikov and his entire network would not only be stopped, but pay for what he’d done as well.

It’d gotten to the point that all he wanted was someone to look him in the eye, greet him, just acknowledge his existence. Alas, such was the burden of invisibility. How much more of this isolation he could take?

Soaring above him in the ash colored sky, a seagull let out a plaintive cry. Chris sat on a bench with peeling green paint and stared into the murky waves of Sheepshead Bay. He hadn’t shaved for three days, wore tattered jeans and let his hair become disheveled. The affectation of a bum was deliberate, especially because he now sat in the lair of the Bratva—the mob controlled by Khrenikov. But this was the last place they’d expect to see Chris, if they even bought his staged death.

The time on his watch: 1:47 PM. Soon Rayshkin would arrive and one of two things would happen. He’d continue to accept Chris’s cover and lead him a step closer to the ever elusive Khrenikov, or Chris would soon be —to borrow phase from the Bratva’s Sicilian counterparts—sleeping with the fishes.

He set down the brown paper bag in which his coffee cup lay nestled and picked up his copy of the Times. The front page headline confirmed the successful conclusion of the staged death business.

Lt. Christopher Conner gunned down

Russian Mafia suspected

The report went on to discuss everything he and Masterson had leaked to the press, the police and even to staged witnesses. A messy but necessary measure, though he and Masterson held divergent agendas and priorities.

As a director of the United States Marine Corps Criminal Investigations Division, Masterson had kept Khrenikov in his cross hairs for upwards of three decades. The “Big K”, as they not so endearingly called him, had been responsible for a frightening number of criminal operations ranging from narcotics, to illegal immigration, to human trafficking. The number of deaths Big K was responsible for (directly and indirectly) numbered in the hundreds. He had to be stopped.

All of this, Chris agreed with. But for him, it was so much more personal. You don’t attach spreadsheets and statistics to the life of an eight year old child. Khrenikov was responsible for the cold-blooded murder of Ben, his firstborn.

Last year when he first transferred to CID, Khrenikov sent several warnings. Unfortunately, the subtly of those messages was lost on Chris. He didn’t heed them. In fact, he didn’t even bother reporting them because they were personal threats and as the new guy, he didn’t want to appear intimidated before his C.O.

That pig-headed pride resulted in the abduction and drowning of his son. Sins of the father. That’s why there was no way he would make the same mistake. Not when his wife and four year old would pay the price for his folly.

He was still reading the article when someone sat on the bench next to him. Chris ignored him, but could already smell the cigarette smoke on the guy’s breath as he opened his mouth and cleared his throat.

“They go fishing every day.” The guy’s Russian accent could choke an elephant. Chris turned the page and said nothing. “You like to fish? I take you on boat, now. We catch snappers, bluefish.”

“No thanks.” He remained aloof, though he knew the guy sitting next to him was Rayshkin, one of Krhenikov’s most ruthless assassins who would not think twice about gutting him in broad daylight and dumping his entrails into the bay, just to watch the silvery glint of fish coming up to the water’s surface to feed on them.

“You called me, Nyet?”

“Da.”

“And now you mock me?” Rayshkin ripped the newspaper from Chris’ hands. “You don’t want to waste my time, O’Reilly!”

Slowly, Chris turned his head to face him, lifted his coffee cup and took a slow pull. “That’s Mister O’Reilly, to you Sascha.”

“I call you whatever I want!” Rayshkin swore in Russian and stood up. The white of his snarl contrasted with the black scruffy goatee. The scar that ran from his ear to the middle of his right cheek screamed B-movie bad guy and almost made Chris laugh. But Rayshkin’s hand loomed dangerously near his back, where no doubt he concealed a cruel weapon. “Go to boat now. Or I put you under boat. You choose.”

“Don’t get your babushka panties in a bind, Rayshkin.” Chris-O’Reilly-Connor said. Then in flawless Russian: “You never mentioned any damned boat.”

“You want to discuss with my boss, I take you. You change mind, I kill you.”

Chris snatched back the newspaper. “I wasn’t finished with that.” He opened the page and showed him the headline about Lieutenant Connor’s murder. “Are you the guy who turned this Connor guy’s face into Swiss cheese?”

Rayshkin leaned over, read the headline and laughed. “I wish! Connor was pain in ass!”

“So who gets the credit?”

“I don’t know. Organization too big. Could be anyone.” He rubbed his fingertips together. “Khrenikov pay big money to guy who kill Connor. And not rubles. Euros.”

“So it was someone from outside the States?”

“Why you care so much? Deal or no deal?”

“What’s with the boat?”

Rayshkin shrugged, pursed his lips, took another puff of his cig, and flicked it into the water. “He likes fishing. What can I say?”

“Tell him, I’m not about to give—”

With surprising speed for a man who looked too lazy to scratch his own back, Rayshkin grabbed him by the neck. Pushed him back to the iron rails. Bent Chris backwards so half of his body dangled over the inky water. “You come on boat now! Understand?”

The pain in his back nearly tempted a shout out of him. But Chris refused to let that happen. Instead, he focused on a much greater pain—the thought of what they’d done to Ben, and his next move.

With all his strength, he hooked his leg upwards with such relentless force that when his shin crashed into Rayshkin’s ‘nads, he almost felt a sympathetic cramp.

To his surprise, though Rayshkin grunted and strained, though his eyes bulged, red with tears, he only clamped down harder on Chris’ throat. Flecks of light shot around his eyes like a fireworks show with no color but white.

He was fading.

Unable to draw a breath.

Again, Chris kicked him in the crotch. This time with the steel reinforced tip of his boot.

Rayshkin let out the breath he’d been holding and cried out in agony. He let go, fell to the ground in a fetal position holding his family rubles.

When Chris straightened up and rushed over to Rayshkin, the pathetic assassin lifted a hand as though to shield the next blow, and curled up even tighter. Like a pill bug.

Catching his breath, Chris glanced around and watched pedestrians walking by, ignoring the entire scene. He reached down, grabbed Rayshkin by the arm and pulled him to his feet. “All right. Where’s this boat?”

“Pier…Seven!”

Before Rayshkin could do anything about it, Chris relieved him of a Glock, a cellphone, and a box cutter. And a tiny two inch blade that was sheathed and strapped to his ankle. Looked like a silver arrowhead, but it was probably sharp enough to slice through rope like it was spaghetti.

Could come in handy.

He strapped it to his own ankle, and then shoved Rayshkin forward towards the pier. “Let’s go and talk to your boss now.”

A look of terror mixed with respect emerged on Rayshkin’s countenance. “Now I know why my boss likes you, O’Reilly. You’re crazy.”

Chris Connor smirked. “You have no idea.”

It wasn’t one of those big fishing boats that takes fifty or more out to water. Just a nice looking yatch—the kind you might hold a small party on with a few friends, no more than a dozen. Nothing impressive. Rayshkin stepped aboard first, then Chris followed. That’s when he saw the name panted on the hull.

Potemkin

Oh please, delusions of grandeur, ya think? This ain’t no battleship—Boris, a short man in a black leather jacket smirked at Rayshkin. The entire conversation was conducted in their mother-tongue and went to the effect of Rayshkin’s manhood being question. Rayshkin tried to laugh it off, but his tell-tale limp betrayed him.

Boris stiff-armed Chris as he tried to pass him. He opened his palm and wiggled his fingers. “Come on, you should know better.”

From his pocket Chris produced his Beretta, held it by the muzzle and placed it in Boris’ hand. Then he took out Rayshkin’s Glock, box-cutter and slapped them down on a bench. Recognizing his comrade’s weapons, he laughed and called out to him. “Evgeny, you are getting soft!”

Rayshkin turned around and gave him the one-finger salute and went below decks.

His face otherwise stone cold, Chris cracked a tiny grin from the side of his mouth. To Boris (in Russian): “He’s a lamb.”

Boris slapped him on the back and snickered like the rat he was. His blue ball-bearing eyes narrowed and he rubbed his bald pate as he shook his head and continued to make jokes about the Evgeny Rayshkin, aka “Evgeny the Terrible”.

Chris stood still, though the deck of the Potemkin tilted with the gentle tide. It was enough though. He rarely went out on boats, and when he did, Dramamine was his only salvation. “I don’t like boats very much.”

“That is your problem.”

“Tell your boss that we’ll talk right here.” Chris pointed to the red padded seats at the aft.

Boris just shook his head and laughed. “He will speak with you wherever he wants to. Now, come. He has been waiting.”

Affecting an arctic scowl, Chris prayed to God they would not sail out into the Atlantic. The last thing he needed was to get sick all throughout this mission. “Fine.”

The boat actually had an office. Boris led Chris inside and had him take a seat on the sofa facing the window of the starboard bow. Before him sat a polished mahogany desk, with gaudy souvenirs: a figurine in a coconut bra, its grass-skirt covered hips swaying with the motion of the boat, a gold pistol-shaped cigarette lighter, and on the wall next to the port holes, a framed picture of dogs playing poker. Where did this guy get all this crap?

Boris stood at the door, his hands behind his back and rocking back and forth on his heels. Every once in a while he would make eye contact with Chris, wag his eyebrows and smile. He must have hated Rayshkin’s guts and was glad to see that someone had taken him down a notch.

Or ten.

The office cabin was dank, an invisible cloud of dusty carpet fumes and salt-water hung in the air like a dead rat in the basement. The only light came from the green banker’s lamp on the boss’s desk, and the gray light through the window. Every time he lifted his foot, the carpet made a sick peeling sound as its surface clung greedily to the sole of his shoe.

Chris had been waiting for ten minutes now. He refused to engage Boris in any conversation, abruptly answering his questions with yes, no, or with a silent, menacing grin. He checked his watch.

2:15PM.

Time to make contact.

He reached into his jacket—which made Boris stiffen—pulled out his iPhone and held it up for Boris to see. “Just need to contact my guys about another deal.”

“What other deal?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Why?”

“You’d have to die.”

“Pftt!” Boris started to laugh again. This time, anxiety creased his brow. “You are too close to deal here. You won’t do anything so—”

“That’s what Rayshkin thought. Now shut up, and let me send this text.”

“Whatever.” Which came out: vhatewer.

Chris’s heart felt like it would blast out of his rib cage any moment. However calm he appeared on the outside, he was passing bricks inside. Only someone who really was involved with this kind of business would dare send text messages in a situation like this. Or someone who wanted to get caught and killed. He was betting on the former being the impression he gave.

He fired off the text message and within seconds the reply came.

Everything in place. Tracking you.

“Good.”

“What?” Boris leaned over and tried to steal a glance at the iPhone. But Chris clicked the button on top and shut the display.

“All I can say is, seven billion doesn’t come easily. Had to break a lot of heads.”

Boris rubbed the shiny top of his head and did not smile. “You just watch yourself here, O’Reilly. Maybe we all get rich today.”

“Only a fool thinks in terms of money only.”

“What else is there?”

Chris put his iPhone back in his jacket. His fingers brushed over the little package wrapped in plastic and his heart nearly stopped. He’d almost forgotten it was there, it was so light. “Money is only a tool.”

“You just made seven billion.”

“Like I said, it’s not just money.”

A line stretched across Boris’ face where his mouth had been. He crinkled his blonde eyebrows. “What could be more important than money?”

Chris put his feet up on the glass coffee table and sank back into the pleather upholstery. It let out a nauseating puff of air. He stared right at the space between Boris’ eyes and held his gaze. He did this until Boris swallowed, looked away, looked back and shifted from one foot to another. Then he told him.

“Power.”

The sound of heavy footfalls and two people shouting approached. The door swung open and a tall, lanky man with dark brown hair draping over his eyes stepped in and slammed it shut. He wore loose khakis and his shirt had not been buttoned properly.

Boris stepped forward and gestured to Chris. “Yuri, this is— ”

The door flung open with a bang. Chris continued to sit with his feet up on the table, unperturbed and only mildly curious. In came a blonde, wearing nothing but a large white shirt, presumably Yuri’s, the red of her bikini bottom flashing as she gesticulated wildly and swore at him in Russian.

Yuri glanced over to Chris and spun a finger around his head (the international “whacko” sign) and with the fingers of his other hand made a chatterbox gesture. Finally, he said to the girl, “Shut-up!”

She continued to swear.

“Boris,” Yuri said. “Would you show Svetlana off the boat, please?”

“Of course.” Boris grabbed Svetlana’s arm and pulled her out of the office.

Eyebrows angled in embarrassment, Yuri shut the door, stepped over and shook Chris’ hand. “Yuri Stogorsky. You must be Mark O’Reilly.”

“In the flesh.”

“Yes, well. Your flesh smells like it hasn’t had a shower in weeks.”

“All part of my disguise.”

“I see. Or smell—rather.” Yuri went over to his desk and sat. He bent down and disappeared for a second, then emerged with a bottle of Rodnik and a pair of vodka glasses. “You’ll have to excuse me. Sometimes the girls they send are—how do you say?—spirited. Care for a drink?”

Chris frowned severely and shook his head.

“But you know, it is a trade-off. The spirited ones, as you know, are like sports cars…eh…like Ferraris. High RPM, strong drive. Me? I like fast women and beautiful cars.”

“Man’s gotta have a hobby.” Chris felt sick. He wasn’t sure if it was the rocking of the boat or the sleazy role he had to play in order to get the job done. Colonel Masterson was counting on him to get to Stogorsky, who would lead him straight to the Big-K. But from the looks of it, Khrenikov wasn’t even on the boat.

Yuri set down his glass, lit a cigarette with his chintzy gun-lighter and puffed a toxic cloud into the cabin. “So, I see you’ve introduced yourself to my body guard.”

“Rayshkin? My grandmother could kick his ass. Frankly, I think Boris would do a better job.”

“Boris?” He took another puff then exhaled loudly. “Maybe.”

“Listen, Stogorsky.”

“Call me Yuri. Please.”

“I’ll call you Stogorsky and you’ll call me O’Reilly. We’re not friends, were doing business. Nothing personal. Got it?”

Impressed, he nodded and lifted his glass to salute him. “All right, then. I knew I liked your style from our phone calls and emails. You’re even better in…in...what was that you said? I like that phrase.”

“In the flesh.”

“Yes, yes… in the flesh!”

“So this deal we talked about? It’s solid. But like I told you, I speak directly with Khrenikov or it’s off.”

From the window behind Yuri Stogorsky, a flash of fair skin, a large white shirt, and a hint of a red bikini bottom stumbled by. Then the black pant legs of Boris. A few more choice Russian cuss words from Svetlana, then a huge splash of water which sprayed the port holes on the starboard side.

Yuri turned his head slightly towards the sound and hiked a thumb at it. “Ferrari sometimes run too hot. I’ll try a Porsche next time.”

“Whatever.”

Stogorsky grinned briefly, then turned to confront Chris. “Look, Khrenikov is a busy man. He counts on me to vet potential dealers. Talk to me, then we’ll see about your meeting with him.”

Impatience boiled to the surface of Chris’ mind. Slowly, he lowered his feet from the table and leaned forward. As he had with Boris, he fixed his gaze on Yuri’s forehead and waited until the Russian blinked. “You’re changing the terms on me. And if you’ve done your homework, you’ll know that’s a very dangerous thing to do.”

“Relax, O’Reilly. I’ve changed nothing. You’ll still get to talk with Khrenikov. But if you’ve done your homework, you’ll know that he never meets anyone without his lieutenants clearing them first.”

That he’d come this far was no small feat. Chris knew and appreciated the magnitude of it. For years, Masterson had come up empty handed and frustrated. No one could ever track Khrenikov’s movement, much less get within a dozen or so miles of him. Now, if Yuri was being truthful, all that Chris and Masterson had planned would pay off. If he succeeded, he’d be able to return to Marlena and Robbie, get a new identity, move to Montana and start a new life.

But if he failed…

And there was plenty that could go wrong. Things Chris never quite trusted Masterson with because of those wild suspicions, his misgivings that teetered on the razor’s edge of paranoia.

There was that sickening feeling again.

The boat was moving. And fast.

“Where are we going?”

“Tell me about the deal you will propose to Khrenikov.” Yuri blew a stream of choking fumes towards Chris, which made his eyes water. He wanted to cough, but willed himself not to. All this he had to endure. For Marlena, for Robbie.

For Ben.

“I’m sure you’d like to know. Look. I told you several times: you bring me to Big-K and I’ll give you your cut.”

Stogorsky scoffed. “You think I am like Boris, like Rayshkin? Like eight million dollars impresses me?”

“That’s what we agreed to.”

“That is walnuts!”

“You mean peanuts.”

Stogorsky swore and started to laugh sardonically.

“So you don’t want it?”

“I want my cut, O’Reilly. But the money is not all. I spend eight million on my cars and women in three months. I want something more.”

Chris got up, stretched his aching neck and clicked his tongue. “Forget it.”

“No, listen. I get my cut, you get yours.”

“Khrenikov hears you talking like that and you can say goodbye to your stick shift.”

“You are a funny Man, O’Reilly. I like you.”

“I’m dead serious.”

“Interesting choice of words.”

“Take me to Khrenikov, or I’ll see to it he finds out how you were trying to skim off the top.”

“Skim?” Stogorsky opened his hands and stretched them wide. “I have all this and more, what else do I need?” The question—presumably rhetorical—conjured up the Tin Man’s aria, from The Wizard of Oz. “I am talking about an opportunity.”

“You have no idea what I’m—”

“K42 drones. Only the United States will have them. But then, you Americans always had the unfair advantage. I have clients who believe it our moral obligation to…” Stogorsky grinned so wide, his gold tooth flashed behind his canines, “…to even the playing field.”

Chris feigned ignorance, but the truth was, it caught him off guard. How could Stogorsky know the details of this deal? “K…what?”

“Don’t insult me.” Stogorsky snuffed out his cigarette, though he’d only smoked about a fourth of it. “I know you’re trying to sell Khrenikov the plans for the prototype. But if you will just hear me out—”

It was as he feared. There had been a leak in intel. Had always been. Chris got up and started for the door. “We’re done here.”

“We’re too far from shore to swim, O’Reilly.”

“I’ll take my chances.” He turned and went for the door. But the sound of a gun’s hammer cocking stopped him.

“You’ll want to sit down and talk some more, I think.”

The package in his jacket’s breast pocket tempted him to use it now. But it was not the right time. Still, this unexpected discovery had changed everything. And his worst suspicions were all but confirmed. “All right.” He returned to the sofa.

“Come now, we’re both men of opportunity.” Something in Stogorsky’s tone smacked of overconfidence, advantage. It hollowed a pit in Chris’ gut, as all the possible explanations began to emerge. “Surely we can come to a mutually beneficial agreement.”

“Surely not.”

“Listen. In five minutes we will be meeting Khrenikov. I am offering you a chance to change your life forever. The opportunity to change the world we live in.”

“What, are you recruiting me for the freakin’ Peace Corps or something?”

Yuri Stogorsky rolled his chair over and sat directly in front of him. He leaned forward and looked directly into Chris’ eyes. “I know a bit more about you than you realize. And I know we have a mutual interest.”

“Is that so?” I’ve been compromised. The only question now was, to what extent?

“Yes. We both want to take Khrenikov down.”

There must be a hidden camera somewhere in the cabin. Or a recording device. Chris was not about to drop his cover. “I couldn’t care less about Khrenikov,” he lied. “All that matters are the terms of the deal, which you, my unfortunate friend, are cutting yourself out of.”

“This is not just some capricious whim of mine. I’m supported by powerful people both here and back in Moscow.”

No doubt. “You’re insane. No one can take down Khrenikov single handedly.”

“Who says I’ve only got one hand?”

“Interesting.”

“The way I see it, with the support I already have in place, we can use this opportunity to take out Khrenikov and transfer his resources to a more progressive, more enterprising leader.”

“Such as?”

Yuri slapped Chris on the back. “Me, of course!”

“So what’s in it for me?”

“Billions of dollars, full access to the Russian Syndicate as well as—”

“Whoa, back up a minute. What makes you think you can suddenly mobilize an operation of thousands spread out across the globe?”

“I am just missing one piece of the puzzle—an arms broker at the level of the Legendary Mark O’Reilly. What do you say?”

He needed time. Time to think ahead, anticipate the next move, now that the proverbial monkey wrench had been thrown into his mission. And worse still, he was truly on his own now. “I’ll think about it.”

Yuri stood and went to the port hole. “Think fast. We’re coming up to Khrenikov’s boat.”

“You just sprung this on me.”

“It’s very simple O’Reilly. Work with me, become a billionaire and international power broker. Otherwise, I leverage someone else who will make you irrelevant to myself and Khrenikov. And we both have no use for people like that. Okay, we’re here. Time to choose.”

Chris went to the porthole and could not believe what he saw. He gazed at Khrenikov’s yacht with mixture of awe and disgust. Its slick white hull looked sharp as a blade, its very angles made the ship look like it was in motion even when still. The tinted windows concealed whatever shady transaction was about to take place. But how many millions did this cost? How much blood did this floating altar of murderous decadence represent? “All right. I’m in. Let’s go.”

Yuri grabbed Chris’ hand and pumped it enthusiastically. “Wonderful!” He pulled out his Blackberry and typed in a quick text message. “I’m just letting my contact know that you’re with us.”

But Chris agreed to this plan only to keep his mission on track. No way in Hell he’d lock arms with this dirt bag. He just needed to buy enough time to complete what he’d set out to do.

They stepped out onto the deck. Anchors cast, both ships floated side by side. Boris and Rayshkin had already crossed over a long wooden plank to the deck of Khrenikov’s ship.

The sun had cut a blue swath through the clouds offering an almost ironic sense of hope in the brine. The expanse of the sea stretched forth in every direction for as far as the eye could perceive. There was no turning back now. Not when the game plan had been changed. Now more than ever, Chris had to succeed. Not even his faked death would protect Marlena and Robbie, if he failed.

The sun hit his eyes, making him squint. He pulled his New York Mets baseball cap from his rear pocket, unfolded and put it over his head. His beard itched like the Devil, and he wanted to scratch at it madly. But that would draw undue attention. “Some Yacht he’s got there.”

“Lazzara LMC 76. Just one of Khrenikov’s many ships.” Yuri Stogorsky gestured to the makeshift bridge between the two boats.

“Makes yours look like a canoe.”

“Size doesn’t matter.”

Chris followed him onto the plank. “She lied.”

Yuri turned his head back. A wicked grin cracked across his features. “I like you, O’Reilly. You are very funny.”

When they boarded the aft of the Yacht, Yuri and the other Russians began to speak in hushed tones. Trying to conceal his anxiety behind a granite demeanor, Chris looked around the ship. Three decks, light wooden floor boards, shiny chrome, padded seating around a rectangular table within the covered area of the main deck. All he wanted was to study his surroundings as quickly and thoroughly as possible.

“All right.” Yuri took a deep breath. “Let’s go. He’s waiting.”

“Lead the way.”

One deck below, two armed men wearing silk shirts of purple and navy blue along with black pants, stood at either side of a walnut grain door. Neither made any effort to hide the guns tucked behind their belts. Yuri muttered something to them and the both stepped aside.

“This way,” Yuri said and opened the door for Chris.

Upon entering the expansive room, the first thing he noticed was one end of a long cherrywood boardroom table. But as the door opened wider, before he saw the face of the person sitting down at the opposite end, he heard his voice.

“Hello Christopher.”

The back of his neck prickled like a thousand ants nibbling on his skin. It shouldn’t have surprised him, but the very confirmation of his suspicions sat there in a black leather executive chair.

His nightmares manifested.

“Colonel Masterson. I didn’t want to believe it.”

Yuri lifted a finger, his eyes darting back and forth between the two. “Hold on. Christopher?” To Masterson: “Don’t you mean O’Reilly? Mark O’Reilly?”

Masterson pointed to a chair by the table. “Sit down and shut up.”

“Right.” Yuri obeyed, his eyes still squinting in confusion.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t have let you in on this earlier, Lieutenant.” Masterson straightened his red necktie and leaned back cockily. It must have been the first time Chris had ever seen him in civilian clothes, much less a fine Italian suit. “The truth is, I wasn’t sure you would agree.”

“To sell military secrets to the Russian mafia?”

“I had a feeling that Yuri would persuade you, this was the only way.”

Chris remained standing. His stomach sank as whatever vestige of respect he once held for the colonel evaporated into something that resembled steam from a cow pie on a hot summer day in Pennsylvania. “You’ve left me little choice.”

“Come on, Chris. With all the intel we’ve gathered, we’re in the perfect position to take this over. The potential is without limit.”

He wanted to launch a diatribe about Masterson’s despicable betrayal of the very nation he professed to serve. But he had to keep a level head. Navigate through the twisted shards of his own goals and motivations, some of which were sickeningly entangled with Masterson’s. He had to play along just a bit longer.

“The way I see it, the three of us have one goal in common.” Chris said and touched the package in his jacket pocket. He hoped it didn’t protrude enough to draw any attention.

Yuri looked to Masterson, who gave him an acknowledging nod. “If I’m not mistaken, we are all still on the same page?”

Just then, the door behind Chris opened again. Right away, Masterson and Yuri stood. Chris turned around and saw the man he had been chasing for all these years.

Mikhail Khrenikov.

Holding a glass of some hard drink, he stood even larger than the pictures portrayed—about six and a half feet tall and built like a bulldozer. He black hair was slicked back with something straight out of the 1950’s. Deep wrinkles etched subway maps on his face. His fleshy pink lips seemed to be in a permanent state of pucker, reminiscent of Charlie the Starkist Tuna, but with the teeth and ferocity of Jaws.

Without hesitation, Masterson stepped forward and stood by Chris. “Mikhail, allow me to introduce you to our broker. Mark O’Reilly.”

Khrenikov lowered his eyes to examine Chris, as though he were trash to be taken out. “Yes. It has taken some coordination, but finally, we meet.” He removed his black leather jacket and tossed it at Yuri. “Everyone, sit.”

Chris took a seat between Yuri and Masteron, while Khrenikov took the head of the table.

With a handkerchief, Khrenikov dusted the surface of the table. He put it back in his pocket, then set down his drink on a round coaster with a gold trim. Scrutinizing Chris with his eyes, he said, “Mister O’Reilly. Please. Remove your hat.”

“Of course.” Chris did so, but felt even more uneasy. This was the man responsible for countless murders, tortures, and a list of atrocities as long as the Verrazano Bridge. And the man responsible for Ben’s death.

“You look like someone…” Khrenikov scratched the back of his head.

“I get that everywhere I go. It’s part of my success as an international weapons dealer.”

“Shall we begin?” Masterson said, a hint of irritation in his tone. “We’ve got many plans waiting to be executed, all of them waiting for this deal to go through.”

Khrenikov shot an annoyed glance over to the Colonel. “I am not in rush. Why are you?” He turned back to Chris. “You remind me of that person in the news recently. What was his name…that soldier…?” He banged his fist on the desk and his eyes lit up. An ugly tobacco stained smile slipped through his fish lips. “Da! Connor. Christopher Connor.”

“That’s amusing.” Chris said, but feared his voice might betray him.

“And they say my people did it. I say: If they would like to believe it, that is fine.”

In the periphery, Masterson leaned over and whispered something to Yuri. Chris however felt his face heat up. He was gripping the arms of his chair so hard, the shaking alerted him.

Calm down.

A few more seconds and he would excuse himself to use the restroom. And carry out his plan. He smiled back at Khrenikov but wanted nothing more to leap onto him and break his neck. But not before he made the Rushkie Kingpin painfully aware of who it was that was repaying him. “Connor should be familiar, to you. After all, you ordered the kidnapping and drowning of his son.”

Masterson cleared his throat. “O’Reilly, I really think—”

Khrenikov slapped his heavy hand on the table to silence the Colonel. “Wait!” To Chris: “What did you say?”

“You killed Connor’s son.” He almost said, my son. Chris could barely contain his rage now. Behind his placid mien, his teeth gnashed in blazing anguish. Eyes sharpened like spears, he flexed his fingers, tensed his legs in preparation to launch at the bastard.

But Khrenikov shrugged, his massive shoulders bouncing as he laughed. He stood and strode with elephantine steps over to Masterson. “Can you believe this? He thinks I killed the Connor boy.”

Masterson made an incredulous face but didn’t look to Chris.

“Isn’t that ironic, Masterson?”

The Colonel tugged on his cuff and slid a finger under his collar, as though his necktie had become a noose. “Mikhail, don’t you think we should—?”

“Nyet, nyet! Why should I take the blame? For once, set the record straight, Masterson. Tell Mister O’Reilly the truth. After all, you are the man that whores himself out to the highest bidder. You are the one who would betray your own people.”

Masterson stood up. “Mikhail!”

“I get bad enough reputation for things I did. You tell him what you did.”

Chris’ head was spinning now. Whether for sea sickness or the overwhelming revelations, he could not tell. He squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed them. Somehow everything made sense, and yet it made no sense. Chris anticipated Masterson’s response to Khrenikov’s goading. But he could not have predicted what happened next.

“The deal, Mikhail!”

Khrenikov seemed genuinely amused at Masterson’s sudden loss of composure. “Tell Mister O’Reilly about how it was you who murdered the Connor boy!”

A muffled crack. Shattering glass. A heavy thud.

Chris lifted his eyes and found Khrenikov on the floor, his eyes and mouth agape, still smiling with twisted fish lips—a look of surprise that was perversely comical and at the same time sickening, thanks to the blackish-red hole in the center of his forehead, and the blood oozing from it.

The door opened.

The guards in purple and blue stepped in. They glanced over to Yuri who nodded. They nodded back, and bent over to pull Khrenikov’s body out of the room. Each of them took turns straining and grunting as the hissing sound of wool sliding against the bright red carpet faded out the door.

“Why?” Chris said, an angry tear escaping his eye and rolling down the side of his face. He turned and glowered at Masterson.

“Chris, you have to believe me. It was all part of the plan to infiltrate Khrenikov’s…I never meant for it to happen like that. The person I hired to kidnap Ben just couldn’t—”

“You killed my boy, you filthy sonofabitch!” Driven by rage that had for years been contained, compressed and superheated, Chris rushed over and coiled his fist back. But before he could strike Masterson across the face, a rock hard blow hit him in the gut. Knocked the wind out of him.

Yuri grabbed his arm and threw his knee into his gut again.

Doubled over in pain, and barely breathing, Chris straightened up and launched his elbow into Yuri’s face.

There.

The nauseating crunch of nose bones followed by a whimper.

Still holding his stomach, Chris staggered over to Masterson. But the click of his gun, its muzzle adorned with a silencer, stopped him in his tracks.

“Chris. Listen to me. It’s not too late. I can’t bring Ben back and I’m sorry. But we can still make something good come out of this all.”

Between breaths, Chris said, “Would you just listen to yourself?” How long had Masterson been so delusional? When did he get sucked into the event horizon such that there was no turning back for him?

“Don’t you see? We did it. Khrenikov’s dead. And now we can take over all his trade channels. But we can do it cleanly. No more cruelty, rapes, or torture. Just clean business.”

“You hypocrite! You were in it for the money all along.” Chris motioned to their surroundings, the yacht itself. “But you got greedy. You wanted all Khrenikov’s blood money could buy.”

“We can do good. Why shouldn’t we profit from it?” Masterson’s tone softened. “Look, you’re already dead to this life, to your family. Come with us to Moscow and join us.”

Taking the moment to evaluate his situation, Chris pretended to consider the offer. Then he took a deep breath, faked a smile and shook his head. “I’d rather die.”

“That’s too bad.” Still aiming his gun, Masterson looked over to Yuri. “Tie his hands. It was too much to hope for.”

Yuri fished through his pockets and took out a white nylon tie-wrap. He fastened Chris’ wrists behind his back. Then he took out his own gun, put it into the back of Chris’ neck and urged him out the door. As they climbed the steps to the main deck, he called out in Russian to Rayshkin and Boris. Within moments the Yacht was moving.

Yuri brought Chris to the aft section of the main deck, where he watched The Potemkin grow smaller and smaller into the distance. The two guards who had taken Khrenikov’s body now pushed it over to the edge of the deck. With one good kick they shoved it overboard. It splashed into the white foam of the wakes.

“You should have chosen to work with us,” Yuri said, with the affectation of sincere regret. “It would have been much better than ending things this way.”

“If you say so.”

He kept his gun aimed at Chris’ head, but shrugged and made one of those aloof Russian frowns. “I really liked you. You made me laugh.”

“Go ahead and laugh all the way to Hell, Stogorsky.”

Masterson arrived. He pointed his chin to the edge of the deck and Yuri prodded Chris over to it. “It’s tragic, Chris. But for the record, I want you to know this. If you’d come with us to Moscow, Ben’s death might not have been completely in vain.”

Right now, he would do anything to exact upon Masterson the justice he so deserved. “You should worry more about your own death.”

“Considering our relative positions, I find that hard to comprehend.” He gave Yuri a throat-slashing hand signal. “Okay, that’s far enough. Cut the engines.”

Shouting up to the bridge in Russian, Yuri gave the command. The boat stopped. He then pushed Chris back to the edge of the boat with his gun.

“Well, my friend. It’s time.” Masterson sighed. “If it makes you feel any better, I won’t tell Marlena about Ben, next time I see her.”

If his eyes were lasers, Chris would have burned a pair of holes into Masterson’s chest. But now, words failed him. He could only snarl and glare with the most hateful look he could muster.

“Good bye, Chris.” Masterson flipped off a callous salute and went below decks.

Yuri gestured for Chris to turn around.

“No. I want to face my killer. Look you in the eye as you pull the trigger.”

“I’ll shoot you right now, you hooy morzhovy! Now turn the hell arou—!”

Just then, with his hands still tied behind his back, Chris leapt up and drop kicked Yuri in the head. But this didn’t stop him from firing his gun. As Chris toppled into the water, a dull pain went through his arm.

He splashed into the cold waves. Red streams floated up over him from his wound. Bubbles floated from his lips. Sinking, he struggled to bring his knees to his chest, and ankles as close to his hands as possible.

This attempt caused him to invert and sink head first. Panic seized him as the water around him grew darker. Finally, he righted himself and brought his hands under his feet and around in front.

Another couple of seconds and he would lose his breath. He reached down to his ankle and pulled out the mini blade he took from Evgeny Rayshkin before boarding Yuri’s boat. With one quick flick, he cut the tie wraps, dropped the blade and swam back up towards the large shadow that was the yacht.

From above he heard muffled shouts, bullets whisking thought the water. Pulling as close to the hull as possible, he stuck his face out of the water just long enough to exhale and take in another deep breath.

Now, he would carry out plan C, which along with plans A and B (though they never panned out), he’d rehearsed over and over in his head, weeks before he went dark.

Chris submerged himself again. The shouting and shooting continued. Now with rapid, sustained automatic fire. But he clung to the submerged hull of the ship where no bullet could reach.

From his breast pocket he pulled out the package, still tightly wrapped in plastic. Thank God the hull was made of steel. The magnets inside the package did the trick and it stuck.

Just then, the engine started.

The blades of the propellers spun, sending streams of bubbles out into the emerald expanse. Chris swam up the side of the boat to the surface one more time and took a deep breath. Then pushed away and swam down.

The gunfire continued, but faded as the Yatch pulled away.

He waited until the boat’s shadow seemed far enough for him to stick his face out of the water and not be spotted easily.

Treading water, he watched to make certain they didn’t see him. He then reached into his other breast pocket and unzipped it. In his hands, he held a small remote detonator, sealed in a Ziploc freezer bag. Pressing his thumb through the folds, he found it difficult to push the switch into the “on” position.

“Come on, come on!” The boat would soon be out of range.

Finally, the switch clicked into place. A green LED lit up.

With his thumb on the detonation button, Chris took a deep breath.

And pressed it.

But nothing happened.

Chris swore and pressed it again. And again. “No!”

Either the boat had indeed sailed out of range, or the package of C4 had dislodged. Only one way to find out. He began to swim towards the boat. But he didn’t have to do that for long.

Like a bandolier of firecrackers, gun shots resumed and crescendoed. Chris ducked under the water. The boat was turning around and coming at him.

Perfect.

He stayed under until he had to breathe again.

Then lifted his head and swam, so as to give away his position and lure them towards him.

A deep breath and then under the waves again. He looked at the detonator in his hand. The power light still glowed. But he noticed some water seeping into the bag.

The boat was coming closer.

But there was no way he could tell if the package was still stuck to the hull.

He pressed the button.

Nothing.

Out of breath. He surfaced again.

This time a bullet flew right over his ear and hit the water. He looked up and was shocked to find them so close.

Under again.

The green power light flickered.

It was starting to short out.

Like rain drops in a bucket, bullets hit the water all around him.

Come on, dammit! Chris pressed the button repeatedly.

The boat must not have been more than fifty feet away. But nothing happened. He would never know now if he’d failed because the package had fallen off, or if the remote had been damaged by the water. Probably both.

It was over.

Images of Marlena and Robbie floated through his mind. Her smile, during those carefree days before he joined the CID with Masterson. He saw his sons, Ben and Robbie, as newborns. Holding them for the very first time, his chest swelling with pride. And he saw the tiny casket that held Ben’s body. Something no parent should ever see.

I’m sorry. I’ve let you all down.

His lungs grew urgently tight. He had to surface and get shot, or drown.

The Yatch loomed just about ten yards away now.

He started swimming to the surface.

Through the salt water, he could feel tears streaming from his eyes as the green light grew dimmer and dimmer.

Ben’s death, his own. All in vain.

Just as he reached the surface and gasped for air, Masterson began to shout. Weapons drawn, the men all ran to the side of the boat facing Chris.

Oh God, help me.

Exhausted, he shut his eyes. Squeezed the button one last time before…

A sudden blast rocked the air. Shards flew all over, splashing into the water. A black plume expanded and tongues of fire licked wildly into the air. Like a blossoming rose, the entire yacht expanded in a dazzling array of black, yellow and amber. Chris blinked, and wiped his eyes. He could not imagine a more beautiful sight.

It didn't bring Ben back, but it sure felt good to know that the people who'd held the lives of countless innocents in their slimy fists were gone. And their American enabler, whom Chris would never forgive himself for colluding with in order to get to Khrenikov, had paid for what he did to Ben, and God knows how many others.

He swam in the direction of the abandoned Potemkin as best as he could recall. But the euphoric sense of relief and closure overshadowed his need to find it. Instinctually, he reached into his pants pocket. He wanted to look at pictures of Marlena and Robbie on his iPhone. But as it had been soaked in sea water, it was, of course, dead. No way to contact anyone, even if there was a signal out here.

Didn’t matter.

He'd gotten the message out in time while they were still in cellular range. And he’d gotten the response:

Everything in place. Tracking you.

Smiling, he lay on his back and floated. Thinking on all that had happened he could not help but laugh.

And cry.

Like a madman.

But there was no one around to witness it, so did it really happen? What defined his existence anyway? What would Kierkegaard have thought? Had he lived his life with sincerity, with passion? Did his life have meaning now, as a result? He hadn't chosen this path, just the job which led him here.

As he pondered these matters, the sky over the Atlantic transfigured into a heart-breaking shade of red and purple. Soon, amidst the whistling wind, the lapping waves, and seagulls calling above, the steady beating of rotors and propellers filled the air.

As the CH-46 Sea Knight pressed a wide crater into the water around him, Chris thought of holding Marlena and Robbie in his arms.

And never letting go.

FROM THE DESK OF JOSHUA GRAHAM

Dear Reader,

I’d like to take this opportunity to thank you for reading THE ACCIDENTAL EXISTENTIALIST. It means so much to me.

Did you know that you as the reader are the reason we writers write? Sure, we write to make a living, but most of all we write to entertain and take you places you might not otherwise go in “real” life.

As writers, we owe such a great deal of our success to you, for it there were no readers, there would be no way for a writer’s career to succeed. Yes, I am stating the fairly obvious, but what you may not know is that you hold the power to turn your favorite authors into bestsellers. That’s right, you.

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It’s a simple thing you do all the time without even thinking about it. It’s called “word of mouth.”

If you have enjoyed any of my work, please recommend my books and stories to your friends. One day, you can say with pride that you helped me become a bestselling writer! Wouldn’t that be fantastic?

Here are some other ways you can support your favorite authors:

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Thanks, and I look forward to “seeing” you in my next story or book.

Best wishes,

Joshua Graham

PS: Be sure to check out my debut novel BEYOND JUSTICE, available at all major online retailers including Smashwords.com

EXCERPT from the Bestselling Legal Thriller BEYOND JUSTICE, by Joshua Graham

PART I

The descent into Hell is not always vertical.

— Bishop Frank Morgan

Chapter One

The question most people ask when they first meet me is: How does an attorney from a reputable law firm in La Jolla end up on death row? When they hear my story, it becomes clear that the greater question is not how, but why.

I have found it difficult at times to forgive myself for what happened. But a significant part of the answer involves forgiveness, something I never truly understood until I could see in hindsight.

Orpheus went through hell and back to rescue his wife Euridice from death in the underworld. Through his music, he moved the hearts of Hades and Persephone and they agreed to allow Euridice to return with him to Earth on one condition: He must walk before her and not look back until they reached the upper world. On seeing the Sun, Orpheus turned to share his delight with Euridice, and she disappeared. He had broken his promise and she was gone forever. This failure and guilt was a hell far worse than the original.

My own personal hell began one night almost four years ago. Like images carved into flesh, the memories of that night would forever be etched into my mind. The work day had been tense enough—my position at the firm was in jeopardy because of the inexplicable appearance of lewd internet images in my folder on the main file server.

Later that night, as I scrambled to get out the door on time for a critical meeting with a high profile client, my son Aaron began throwing a screaming fit. Hell hath no fury like a boy who has lost his Thomas Train toy. In my own frenzied state, I lost my temper with him. Amazing how much guilt a four-year-old can pile on you with puppy-dog eyes while clinging to his mother's legs. His sister Bethie, in all her seventh grade sagacity, proclaimed that I had issues, then marched up to her room, slammed the door and took out her frustration with me by tearing though a Paganini Caprice on her violin. All this apocalypse just minutes before leaving for my meeting, which was to be held over a posh dinner at George's At The Cove, which I would consequently have no stomach for.

I couldn't wait to get home. The clock's amber LED read 11:28 when I pulled my Lexus into the cul-de-sac. Pale beams from a pregnant moon cut through the palm trees that lined our street. The October breeze rushed into the open window and through my hair, a cool comfort after a miserable evening.

If I was lucky, Jenn would be up and at the computer, working on her latest novel. She'd shooed me out the door lest I ran late for the meeting, before I could make any more of a domestic mess for her to clean up.

The garage door came down. I walked over to the security system control box and found it unarmed. On more than one occasion, I had asked Jenn to arm it whenever I was out. She agreed, but complained that the instructions were too complicated. It came with a pretty lame manual, I had to admit.

The system beeped as I entered the house, greeted by the sweet scent of Lilac—her favorite candles for those special occasions. So much more than I deserved, but that was my Jenn. Never judging, never condemning, she understood how much stress I'd been under and always prescribed the best remedy for such situations.

From the foot of the stairs I saw dimmed light leaking out of the bedroom. It wasn't even date night, but I had a pretty good idea what she was thinking. So before going up, I stopped by the kitchen, filled a pair of glasses with Merlot and set out a little box of chocolates on a breakfast tray—my secret weapon.

As I climbed the stairs I smiled. The closer I got, the more I could smell the fragrant candles. From the crack in the door classical music flowed out: Pie Jesu from Faure's Requiem. Must've been writing a love scene. She always used my classical CDs to set her in the right mood.

A beam of amber light reached through the crack in the doorway into the hallway. The alarm system beeped. She must have shut a window. It had just started to rain and Jenn hated when the curtains got wet.

Kathleen Battle's angelic voice soared.

Pie Jesu Domine,

Dona eis requiem,

Requiem sempiternam.

Jenn didn't know a word of Latin. She just liked the pretty tunes.

I nudged the door open with my foot.

"Honey?" Caught a glimpse of a silky leg on the bed. Oh, yes. I pushed the door open.

Shock ignited every nerve ending in my body like napalm. The tray fell from my hands. Crashed to the ground. Glasses shattered and the red wine bled darkly onto the carpet.

Jenn lay partially naked, face-down, the sheets around her soaked crimson.  Stab wounds scored her entire body. Blood. Blood everywhere!

"Jenn!"

I ran to her, turned her over.

She gasped, trying to speak. Coughed. Red spittle dripped from the corner of her mouth. "The kids..."

I took her into my arms. But her eyes begged me to go check on them.

"You hang on, honey. With all you've got, hang on!" I reached for my cell phone but it fell out of my belt clip and bounced under the bed.

On my knees now, I groped wildly until I found the cell phone. Dialed 9-1-1. Barely remembered what I said, but they were sending someone right away.

Jenn groaned. Her breaths grew shorter and shorter.

"Bethie... Aaron."

Her eyes rolled back.

"I'm going. Hang on, baby. Please! You gotta hang on!" I started for the door. Felt her hand squeeze mine twice: Love-you.

No.

Tears streamed down my face. As I began to pull away, she gripped my hand urgently. For that split second, I knew. This was the end. I stumbled back to her. Gathered her ragdoll body in to my arms.

"Jenn, oh God, Jenn. Please don't!"

"Whatever it takes," she said. Again, she squeezed my hand twice. "Mercy, not...sacrifice.” One last gasp. She sighed and then fell limp in my arms, her eyes still open.

Holding her tight to my chest, I let out an anguished cry.

All time stopped. Who would do this? Why? Her blood stained my shirt. Her dying words resonated in my mind. Then I remembered. The kids. I bolted up and ran straight to Bethie's room.

Bethie's door was ajar. If my horror hadn't been complete, it was now. I found her exactly like Jenn—face down, blood and gashes covering her body.

Though I tried to cry out, nothing escaped the vice-grip on my throat. When I turned her over, I felt her arm. Still warm, but only slightly. Her eyes were shut, her face wet with blood.

"Bethie! Oh, sweetie, no!" I whispered, as I wrapped the blanket around her.

I kissed her head. Held her hand. Rocked her back and forth. "Come on, baby girl. Help's on its way, you hold on," I said, voice and hands trembling. She lay there unconscious but breathing.

Aaron.

Gently, I lay Bethie back down then got up and flew across the hall. To Aaron's door. His night light was still on and I saw his outline in the bed.

Oh God, please.

I flipped the switch.

Nothing.

I dashed over to the lamp on his nightstand, nearly slipping on one of his Thomas Train toys on the carpet. Broken glass crackled under my shoes.

I switched on the lamp on his nightstand. When I looked down to his bed, my legs nearly gave out. Aaron was still under his covers, but blood drenched his pillow. His aluminum baseball bat lay on the floor, dented and bloodied.

Dropping to my knees, I called his name. Over and over, I called, but he didn't stir. This can't be happening. It's got to be a nightmare. I put my face down into Aaron's blue Thomas Train blanket and gently rested my ear on his chest.

I felt movement under the blanket. Breathing. But slowly—irregular and shallow.

Don't move his body. Dammit, where are the paramedics?

I heard something from Bethie's room and dashed out the door. Stopping in the middle of the hallway, I clutched the handrail over the stairs. Thought I heard Aaron crying now. Or maybe it was the wind.

My eyes darted from one side of the hallway to the other. Which room?

Faure's Requiem continued to play, now the In Paradisum movement.

Aeternam habeas requiem.

Something out in front of the house caught my attention. The police, the paramedics! Propelled by adrenaline, I crashed through the front door and ran out into the middle my lawn which was slick with rain. I slipped and fell on my side.

Nobody. Where were they!

Like a madman, I began screaming at the top of my lungs. My words echoed emptily into the night.

"Help! Somebody, please!"

A dog started barking.

"Please, ANYBODY! HELP!"

Lights flickered on in the surrounding houses.

Eyes peeked through miniblinds.

No one came out.

I don't know if I was intelligible at this point. I was just screaming, collapsed onto the ground, on my hands and knees getting drenched in the oily rain.

Just as the crimson beacons of an ambulance flashed around the corner, I buried my face into the grass. All sound, light, and consciousness imploded into my mind as if it were a black hole.

Chapter Two

It's never been clear to me when my neighbor, Pastor Dave Pendelton scraped me off the lawn and brought me back into my house. Outside, neighbors all gawking through the blinds in their windows, not one of them had come out.

Except Dave, of all people. Pastor Dave of City on a Hill, Jenn's church. He seemed nice enough, but I never completely trusted him. This was due in no small part to my absolute distaste for organized religion. Ironically, Jenn had become born again soon after we got married and began attending not only Sunday services at Dave's church, but their weekly small group Bible study as well.

I sat on my sofa in a chilled stupor, a blanket draped over my shoulders while paramedics worked feverishly around both of my children upstairs. According to Dave, they had arrived just as he came out to get me. I was so shell-shocked that I didn't recall their arrival.

Another team had gone to the master bedroom.

"Jenn?" I bolted up. "Jenn!" They carried her down in a gurney, a white sheet over her face. The anguish within couldn't crack through the frozen wall of shock around my mind.

Next came my kids, but they were not covered. The paramedics worked on them as they brought them down and wheeled them to the ambulance. "Bethie! Aaron!" I shouted and tried to run over. Dave held me back.

"Let them, Sam."

I was trembling, shaking my head, as they raced off. Jenn couldn't be gone. It couldn't be my kids in that ambulance. It was like watching a movie. Flashing lights, sirens.

"Let's go." Dave grabbed my arm and rushed me into his car. We chased the ambulances, leaving behind a pair of squad cars, their red and blues groping out into the rain like a lighthouse in a hurricane.

My home had become a crime scene.

___________________

As soon as we arrived at Children's Hospital's Trauma Care Center, a medical team rushed Bethie into one room and Aaron into another. Frozen, I stood, chest rising and falling, eyes darting between the two rooms.

"Bethany's a lot worse," Dave said.

I nodded and went for the door to Trauma One. He caught me and turned me around to the correct room. Dave went into Aaron's room just as I entered Bethie's.

The next thirty minutes were torturous. About a dozen doctors and nurses crowded around Bethie, two of them squeezing a plastic bag to assist with her breathing. Instruments rattled in the crash cart as the trauma surgeons surrounded her. IVs webbed around her, into her arms.

Speaking in rapid succession, overlapping each others' words, yet somehow maintaining some form of intelligible communication, the team's dialogue all meshed together.

"Epi's in."

"She's bradying down."

"Atropine in."

"We're losing her!"

They began CPR. Then the whine and snap of defibrillator shocks. Jolted me as well. One of the nurses announced that they'd gotten a pulse back, but a very weak one. Bethie just had to pull through.

Doctor Yang, one of the doctors not completely engrossed in the code, came over, pulled down her face mask. "She's lost a lot of blood. We're doing everything we can, but you should prepare yourself."

"For what?"

"Is there anyone you'd like to call?"

I wanted to scream that her mother had been murdered, less than half an hour ago. I could not accept the fact that my little girl was within moments of death…"Please, you have to save her!"

Doctor Yang nodded and returned to the team. Seconds later an alarm from the EKG blared again. Bethie's pulse was gone.

The lead doctor called out something about joules. "Clear!"

Again, with the defibrillator. Bethie's torso arched up and fell. The EKG blipped, but the line remained flat, the tone static. The lead doctor was now performing chest compressions with both hands. Gently! I wanted to cry out. But I knew they had to do this to help her. This went on for a while, but it was clear that her pulse continued only because the doctor's efforts.

"Bethie?" I managed to whisper. It was starting to hit me. Not even an hour after Jenn's death, I was about to lose my daughter.

"Mr. Hudson," Doctor Yang said as she approached. "Do you want to be with her now?"

Tears stung my eyes like acid. Gradually, the cacophony of voices died down. I could now discern something that I had vaguely heard earlier through all the commotion—one of the doctors in the background announcing each elapsed minute since Bethie's heart had stopped.

"Thirty-seven minutes since arrest." The chest compressions continued.

"Mister Hudson?" Doctor Yang said, again, her tone sympathetic, but a bit more urgent. Less and less of the team were looking at Bethie now. They kept eyeing the clock.

The lead doctor had been doing chest compressions for some time now. He looked to his team. "Shall we?"

"He just lost his wife," one of the nurses replied. "Can we try a little longer?"

He nodded and continued the compressions. After a while, they tried the defibrillator again. No response. A solid green line slithered across the screen. The nurses looked up at the other doctor. He stood still for a second, glanced at the wall-clock and shook his head. "Time of death..."

"We did all we could, Mr. Hudson," Doctor Yang said. "I'm so sorry."

"NO! Save her, dammit!" I rushed for the table on which Bethie lay as still as silence. "Don't let her go!" I reached for the defibrillator paddles. A large orderly grabbed and pulled me away. I shouted at the top my lungs. He didn't release me until I stopped thrashing. The nurses stepped back.

When I calmed myself, the lead doctor approached me.

"We did everything possible, but her injuries were too severe. I'm sorry."

I couldn't speak. First Jenn, now Bethie. Anger ebbed, giving way to despair. I walked over to my little girl.

"Sweetie..." I held her lifeless hand, brushed the hair out of her face and kissed her forehead. "I'm sorry. Daddy's so sorry." Before I knew it, I was curled up on the floor and sobbing, still reaching up and holding her hand. The orderly tried to help me to my feet but I couldn't do it. Eventually, they managed to get me up and pour me into a chair.

"Sir, do you need a moment?"

I nodded.

They drew a curtain and left me alone with my daughter. That's when I lost it. I don't think I'd ever cried so hard, or pounded my fist so many times into a wall, or screamed so loud in my entire life.

Aside from the wounds and blood, Bethie looked like she could have been sleeping. How could she be gone? How could Jenn? I felt disembodied.

The activity outside the trauma room increased. Walkie-talkies, intercom pages, hurried footsteps, gurneys rolling.

The doctor emerged from the curtain.

"I'm sorry, but there's someone outside you need to speak to." Outside the room, an officer from the Sherriff's department tipped his hat.

"My condolences on your loss, sir. But I need to ask you a few—"

"This isn't the best time."

Dave Pendelton arrived.

I gripped his sleeve. "Aaron?"

"He's still in surgery. Trauma One."

Behind him was one of the TCC doctors.

"Is he going to make it?" I asked.

"Too soon to say. He's suffered severe trauma to the head and internal organs."

"Can I see him?"

"Not yet."

I spent the next hour answering the deputy's incessant questions.

What was my name, date of birth, social security number, place of employment, phone numbers? He asked for identification.

"Do we really have to do this now!" I huffed, fumbling with my wallet.

Dave helped take it from my shaking hands and gave the deputy my driver's license and social security card.

The officer asked for the same type of information for Jenn, Bethany and Aaron—the victims. My mouth became bitter. Dryness impeded my words. The deputy was sympathetic and seemed genuinely sorry to put me through this. I couldn't concentrate.

Dr. Salzedo, the trauma surgeon arrived.

"How is he?" I asked.

"We've stabilized him. He's been moved to the Pediatric ICU."

I exhaled in relief.

"PICU's on the third floor."

I got up immediately and turned to Deputy Schaeffer. "If you'll excuse me." If there was anything to hold onto amidst the devastation, it was the hope that Aaron had survived.

I wasn't prepared for what I saw when I got to his room.

___________________

For some delusional reason, I had expected to find my son sitting up, with a few bandages and other dressings, but smiling at me. He would call out, "Daddy!" and we'd embrace, holding on to each other as the last surviving remnants of our family. When I entered, however, I found him unconscious. Tubes of all sorts invaded his body. A ventilator assisted his breathing and all I could hear was hissing, buzzing and beeping medical equipment.

"The next twenty-four hours are crucial," Dr. Salzedo said. "We'll know better with time."

Aaron was in a coma with injuries to his head, spine, and internal organs. Internal hemorrhaging had been controlled, for now. But things could get better or much worse, unexpectedly. Everything was still iffy.

I stood by his bed and held his hand. Warm. Thank god. He would have appeared peaceful and simply asleep, but for all the equipment he was hooked up to. It seemed grotesquely uncomfortable.

Dave stood over Aaron, laid his hand on his bandaged head and mouthed a silent prayer. I didn't like him imposing his religion, even if Aaron had attended his church with Jenn and Bethie since his birth. But I was too exhausted and beyond objecting.

"You're welcome to stay with Aaron as long as you wish," said Dr. Salzedo. "But there's nothing to be done now but wait and monitor his progress. You've been through hell and really should get some rest. We'll call you if anything changes."

"No, I'm staying."

"Sam," Dave said, his hand on my shoulder. "Maybe you should—"

"I said, I'm staying."

He leaned over and said something to the doctor, who nodded in turn.

"I'll stay too, then," Dave said. "We can take shifts."

"Thanks, really. But..." I couldn't think of a good enough excuse besides the fact that he was starting to creep me out with all his kindness. "If you don't mind, I'd like to be alone with my boy."

"I understand." He pulled a business card from his pocket and handed it to me. "If you need a ride home, give me a call."

I thanked him again and he left. The Sheriff's office was good enough to post an officer outside the room. "You hang tough, buddy," I whispered into Aaron's ear and kissed him. "When you wake up, I'll take you to McDonald's for a happy meal." My voice broke. I had to believe he would get better. It was the only shred of

hope left.

Chapter Three

The yellow tape had been removed. A squad car idled on the sidewalk in front of my house as the neighborhood awoke to a new day. At the wheel sat Chris, the young partner of Lieutenant Jim O’Brien. Chris glanced my way then turned away. I couldn’t tell if it was intentional, his sunglasses obscured any hint. O'Brien was talking to one of the investigators at my door. Good to see a familiar face. When he saw me get out of the taxi, he came over and removed his hat.

O’Brien and I first met under tense circumstances—with his rifle pointed into my chest. It was during a shooting and hostage crisis at Coyote Creek Middle School, where Bethie attended. Along with all the other parents, I stood for hours in the parking lot not knowing what was happening inside.

I grew tired of waiting around not getting any answers. So I marched right up to the police line. My cell phone started buzzing and I reached for it. He thought I was reaching for a weapon and he drew his rifle. Pissed and defiant, I pressed my chest right into the barrel. He wasn’t going to shoot me. The other parents might have, though. On that, the longest afternoon of my life, two girls were killed. One of the stray bullets grazed Bethie’s arm.

Afterwards, Jim and Chris came over to question Bethie. Chris, who couldn’t have been more than twenty-five years old, seemed not only to enjoy Bethie’s starry-eyed attention, he almost encouraged it. I was never completely comfortable around him since.

As I walked up the very lawn, on which I'd slipped last night, Jim removed his hat. "My God, Sam. I’m so sorry about Jenn. And Bethie? Dammit. You dodge a bullet, only to—" he stopped himself and scowled. "How’s Aaron?"

"He’s hanging on."

"You should get some rest."

"I spent the night at Children’s." From the corner of my eye, I noticed his partner looking our way. I turned my head and again he averted his gaze. "What’s with Chris?"

Jim drew a deep breath. "Dunno. He’s been in a mood since he found out. He really liked your family. ‘Specially the kids." Suddenly, I felt the need for Zantac. Jim pulled his hat from under his arm, placed it on his head and nodded. "Don’t hesitate."

"Thanks."

"Oh, by the way," he stopped and handed me my cell phone.

"Found this under your bed. It’s already been dusted and checked, so I guess you can have it back." With a strong pat on the back, he said good-bye and got in the car with his partner, who for some reason hadn’t looked my way once since I arrived.

Just then, a news van pulled into the cul-de-sac.

"Oh jeez, not again." My rifle-in-the-chest standoff had been captured by a photographer and the picture appeared in the North County Times. Made me look like freakin' Tank Man of Tienanmen Square. One thing led to another and the next thing I know, I’m doing a taping in my house for Channel Seven news. A couple of days later, Brent Stringer, best-selling writer and op-ed writer for the Union Tribune did an interview feature. The media, in all its wisdom, spun me up as San Diego’s Superdad. The subsequent fame was about as welcome as a tax auditor in mid-April. I’d just gotten out of the limelight.

O'Brien stepped out again and intercepted the reporters and paparazzi.

"Thanks, Jim," I said silently. A young woman stood in my open door. I hadn't noticed her until I padded halfway across the lawn. She wore black slacks, a black blazer and black sunglasses. I figured it was her black BMW parked in my driveway. Had to wonder what her favorite color was. Silently counting the steps to the second floor, she dabbed the air with her index finger repeatedly.

I cleared my throat, extended my hand.

"Mister Hudson?" Her hand felt like a dead fish. "I'm detective Pearson, County Sheriff's Department. Do you have any form of identification?"

"Do you?" I reached for my wallet.

"Driver’s license, social?" Pearson flashed her badge quickly then examined my driver’s license. She looked back up at me, scrutinizing my face. "Hmm." She handed it back. "Let’s go over a few questions, shall we?"

"Would you like to come inside?"

"No." She proceeded to ask the same questions the deputy had asked last night at Children’s.

"I’ve already answered these questions."

She looked up from the PDA. "It’s routine. You’re probably thinking clearer after resting."

"Doubt it."

Again, Pearson tapped her PDA with a thin, black stylus. She fired off the rest of her questions with chilling detachment. "What time did you come home?"

"About eleven o’clock." A thousand cockroaches skittered up my back as she studied my face. Thankfully, she returned to her PDA.

"What room did you go into first?"

"My daughter’s"

"When did you first realize something was wrong?"

"No wait. I first went into the master bedroom, where I found Jenn." My knees grew weak. I braced myself against the door frame.

"So, you first went into your own bedroom, not your daughter’s."

"That’s right. I was thinking of which child’s room—"

"Once again, Mister Hudson," she said, enunciating. "When did you first realize something was wrong?"

"I didn’t think anything was wrong until I found Jenn, stabbed and bleeding to death."

"Let’s not jump to conclusions. Exact cause of death has not yet been officially determined."

"Excuse me?"

"Why don’t you leave that to the coroner and stick with the facts."

"Fine."

"Are you aware that we came here to speak with you last night about the pornographic materials found on your work computer?"

Taken aback, I gasped. "No, but that stuff wasn't mine. What the hell’s that got to do with anything?"

"Where were you around 7:30 PM last night?"

"On my way to a client meeting in La Jolla. Is that when you came?"

"Can anyone vouch for your whereabouts around 11:00 last night?"

"I was on the 52 freeway, driving home. Alone. Oh my god, did you say anything to my wife about the porn?"

"No, sir."

"It wasn’t mine!"

"As I said, we didn’t mention it. That’s still under investigation." More tapping. "Mister Hudson, relax. I’m sure you’ll want to do everything to help us move this investigation along. Right?"

"Of course."

"Then you won’t mind going to the crime lab to provide samples."

"Samples?" The hair on the back of my neck became thistles.

"DNA swabs, blood, fingerprints."

"What for? Am I a suspect?"

Her dark brown eyes glazed. "We routinely take samples to exclude you as a potential suspect. The longer you wait, the colder the trail gets. Refuse, and you’ll raise the question as to why, and then—"

"Of course I’ll do it. It’s just that...it feels like you’re treating me as a suspect."

"Unless you’ve got something to hide—"

"What is your problem?"

She scribbled something on a business card and handed it to me. "County Sheriff Crime Lab. That’s the case number. You don’t need an appointment. If I were you, I’d get to it this morning before eleven, or things might start to appear unfavorable."

"Are you threatening me?"

"I would never do that, sir."

"Yeah, well…" Before I could say another word, she was halfway to her BMW. She got in, lifted her wrist, tapped on her watch, then pointed at me.

My head spun as her Beamer roared out of the cul-de-sac, leaving me standing in the doorway. Dread coursed through my veins like Freon.

~~~

BEYOND JUSTICE is available for all ebook formats (Nook, Kindle, iPad, SONY Reader, and Kobo) and in trade paperback.

Table of Contents

PART I

Chapter One

Table of Contents

PART I

Chapter One