Thompson Training and Rehabilitation Facility
Near Fayetteville, West Virginia
USA

FADE MANAGED to achieve a state between sleep and consciousness that he could more or less maintain. His eyes were open but didn’t register the hospital-like room he’d occupied for the last three months. And the dreams didn’t come. They were out there, though. Hiding under his bed. Peeking through the crack in the bathroom door.

A sound slipped through his barriers, but it was hard to say if it was real or just one of those monsters on the move. In the end, it turned out to be both.

“Hajjiiiiiiiiiii!”

The shout was followed by ham-sized fists hammering Fade’s locked door. The handle rattled uselessly, followed by more pounding, this time hard enough for dust to rise off the jamb and hang pale in the air.

“Come out and play, Haji! You’re going to die soon anyway! Haven’t you heard? All you old bastards!”

Fade frowned. He was only a few years Thor Erickson’s senior, and it was almost three in the morning. Apparently, the NFL lineman he was sharing the facility with found a way into the pharmaceutical cabinet.

Fortunately, the door was original to the old building, lovingly created from solid oak. Back before robots, assembly lines, and particleboard. When craftsmen learned at their fathers’ sides and took pride in what they did.

“Thor!” A woman shouted. “What’s wrong with you? Go back to bed!”

Fade groaned and muttered to the empty room. “What are you doing, Lisa? Lock yourself in your room.” The pounding went silent.

“Are you high? Have you been taking drugs?”

Heavy footsteps, still slightly off rhythm from his knee injury.

“Stop it! Go back to bed! Now!”

His response was muted but intelligible. “Oh, come on. You said you’d do whatever it took to put me back together . . .”

Then running. Light footsteps with a quick, even beat. But then the chase was on. It shook the entire building.

Fade swung his feet off the bed and stood, stretching his back and registering once again that it felt good. Probably not good enough to save him, though.

When he arrived at the open door to Lisa’s office, she and Erickson were on opposite sides of the desk, staring at each other like the lecherous boss and pious secretary from an old sitcom. When he feinted left, she moved right. When he feinted right, she moved left.

Of course, he could go over or through that piece of IKEA plywood any time he wanted. The question was whether that was really what he had in mind. So far, his violence had been limited to the psychological kind. Would it stay that way?

Best to hang back and wait for an answer. Fade knew his involvement would only escalate the situation. If this was nothing more than a little harmless fun, better to let the god of thunder get bored and end it on his own.

Erickson’s knee brace was conspicuously absent, exacerbating some residual instability to the outside. It caused him to move right more confidently than left. The power, size, and incongruous grace that had made him famous on the field were all there, though. As was the laser-like focus on destruction.

“Okay, this isn’t funny anymore,” Lisa said with impressive calm. “It’s time for you to go back to bed. If you don’t, you could do damage that I can’t fix. It could end your career, Thor. Do you understand?”

The discipline necessary to conjure such a serene tone was noteworthy but also a complete misreading of this piece of shit’s psyche. He fed off the fear he instilled in others. Denying him that would just cause the fire to burn hotter.

Erickson threw himself forward and managed to get hold of her upper arm. She tried to break free but, despite being a hell of an athlete in her own right, had no chance. Instead, she was dragged over the desk and spun around. With his hand now clamped around the back of her neck, she ended up bent at the waist with her cheek shoved into the blotter.

And so it began.

Fade tore himself from the wall he was leaning against and walked to the doorway.

“Hey, big guy.”

Erickson spun, knocking Lisa to the floor. Instead of using her newfound freedom to bolt, she waved Fade off. “Go back to your room! It’s okay.”

He wondered if she actually believed that she could control this douche-bag or if she was just willing to take the bullet to keep her first— and unquestionably most charming—client safe. Not that it mattered. Either she had an unwavering faith in humanity or bigger balls than anyone he’d ever met. That made her worth something. If Lisa Thompson existed, maybe humanity was actually worth saving.

“Looks like you got a hold of a little too much, Thor. Why don’t you and I go outside and walk it off. Let Lisa hit the—” It was impossible not to marvel at the man’s charge. It was like getting shot at by a hippopotamus cannon.

Options were limited, and Fade had already considered all of them. Showing up to this fight in nothing but boxer shorts was intentional. Not just because it was becoming a bit of a tradition, but because football players tended to make good use of their opponent’s clothing to gain control.

The second decision had been even harder than condemning himself to being beaten to death in his underwear. He’d committed to not retreating into the hallway. While bigger than the office, it was certain death. Outrunning this prick over a quarter mile would be a piece of cake, but not so much over the length of that passageway. Further, there was nothing out there that could be used as a weapon. Going up against this bulldozer empty-handed wasn’t going to end well. Anything short of an RPG was going to feel light.

Fade slipped into the office, staying on Erickson’s weak side and ramming a shoulder into him as they came even. The hope was to nudge him in line with the door and let his momentum carry him through. Then they could barricade themselves inside and wait for whatever he’d taken to wear off.

It turned out to not be that easy. Hitting the guy was like colliding with a sack of wet cement. And the idea that his momentum could be counted on to carry him anywhere turned out to be a complete fantasy. The son of a bitch could stop on a dime.

Erickson spun, swinging an arm that caught Fade in the shoulder he’d used so ineffectively a moment before. The force nearly lifted him off his feet, sending him crashing into— and then over— Lisa’s desk. He landed face-first in her chair, which immediately rolled away and sent him to the floor. The illusion of having a bit of cover disappeared when Erickson swept the desk away like it was made of papier-mâché.

Admittedly a bad start, but finally, part of Fade’s master plan worked. Sweaty, bare skin was hard to hold on to. It wasn’t a lengthy reprieve, but it provided an opportunity to throw a magnificent punch directly into the man’s groin. Perfect leverage, great technique, propelled by Mystery Machine–enhanced muscles.

The motherfucker didn’t even notice.

A moment later, Fade felt himself being lifted. His head penetrated the acoustic tile ceiling, providing him with a brief view of the AC ductwork before he was yanked down again. The bear hug he ended up trapped in was centered on his lower back, and he expected his spine to fail. It didn’t, though. Whoever performed his surgery was due a gold star. No numbness or paralysis from the waist down. Just a complete inability to breathe.

A quick review of his situation uncovered a number of problems, the worst of which was that he was being slowly crushed to death. On the brighter side, he was facing his opponent, and his arms were free. Also, Lisa was releasing a steady stream of obscenities that would have made even his old master chief blush.

Hilarious.

He leaned forward and bit down on Erickson’s nose while simultaneously trying to drive a thumb into his eye. Accustomed to having his face protected by a helmet, he was taken by surprise, and Fade once again found himself sailing through the air. This time he landed on the sofa, which wasn’t too bad until he went over the side and landed on Lisa’s guitar. It shattered beneath his weight, driving a sizable shard into his left triceps. By the time he yanked it out, Erickson was coming at him, adding his own screamed epithets to Lisa’s.

The sofa took the brunt of the collision, but the lineman was still able to get a handful of Fade’s hair. Putting up a fight would just waste energy, so Fade allowed himself to be dragged, focusing on keeping hold of what was left of the guitar. Erickson’s knee finally started to show signs of weakness, reducing the force with which he was able to slam Fade onto the desk. Still hard enough to loosen a few fillings, but not sufficient to prevent Fade from winding a couple of the guitar’s strings around the man’s nearly nonexistent neck.

A massive fist connected with his ribs, but Fade ignored it as he tried to fight his way into a position where he could exert some force. Then Erickson made the fatal error of jerking back.

The strings tightened, opening a deep gash that caused his incredible strength to falter. Fade held onto the broken neck of the guitar with one hand and the detached bridge with the other, allowing himself to be pulled to the floor. Erickson kept swinging, connecting repeatedly, confused as to why he was inflicting so little damage.

Lisa appeared from the right, pressing a cloth to his neck in an effort to stop the fountain of arterial blood. A swipe of the man’s hand was still enough to send her spinning across the floor.

Fade got a hold of wrists too thick to wrap his fingers all the way around, gaining a certain amount of control. “You’re dying, man! Pay attention!”

Erickson’s eyes widened, revealing pupils dilated into manhole covers. Imminent death was a hard thing to process. Fade knew that better than anyone. But it was something to be stared in the face. No one should be cheated out of life’s last and most profound experience. Not even this tool.

Erickson finally went still, and Fade tried to stand, using the edge of the desk for balance. He righted Lisa’s chair and sat, not sure for a moment whether it was spinning or if it was just his head. He looked down at a desk drawer hanging broken to his right, trying to bring the image into focus.

When his vision finally cleared, one of his many suspicions was confirmed. It was refrigerated.

He retrieved an icy Coke and then forced the drawer above, revealing an elaborate junk-food stash. Ho Hos. Twinkies. Chips of various crunch profiles and flavors. The mother lode.

His first sip of Coke in years tasted like blood, so he spit it out. The second was heaven.

“Help me!” Lisa was on her hands and knees, once again pressing a cloth to Erickson’s neck.

“You’re wasting your time.”

“Then do something!” He opened a packet of Pop-Tarts and took a bite. Cinnamon. What kind of sick taco bought cinnamon? “He’s not going to make it, Lisa. Take my word for it.”

“Call an ambulance!”

He made a show of searching his nonexistent pockets. “No phone.”

She retrieved hers from her sweatpants and threw it at him. He scrolled through her contacts until he found one that said Matt. No last name. It took six rings, but a familiar voice finally answered. “Lisa? Is everything okay?”

“We’ve got a problem.”

A full second passed before Egan responded. “How big?”

“About three hundred and twenty-five pounds.”

The next pause was longer, accompanied by what sounded like fingers on a keyboard. “It’s going to be a few hours before I can get anyone there. Can you not screw anything else up until then?”

“Sure. No worries.” Fade disconnected the call.

Despite not being a particularly long conversation, sometime during it, Erickson had expired. Lisa fell back into the blood pooling behind her, blond hair glued to the tears and sweat on her cheeks. Fade grabbed a bottle of chocolate Yoo-hoo and rolled the chair alongside her.

“Here. Drink this. It’ll make you feel better.” She grabbed it and removed the lid with a practiced twist, draining almost half before coming up for air. “Better?”

No response.

“Are you hurt?” When she shook her head, he put a hand under her arm and lifted her to her feet. “Good. Now let’s get you cleaned up before the cavalry arrives.”

***

Excerpt from Fade In by Kyle Mills. Copyright 2025 by Kyle Mills. Reproduced with permission from Kyle Mills. All rights reserved.

Chapter 1

The East Texas sun was hotter than usual for September, the few clouds high above providing no relief. A half-hour earlier, overcome by heat and exhaustion, Crystal had let her sign reading “Save Kwami” slip to the ground. Standing near the front of the crowd, Crystal pushed up the visor on her baseball cap to get a better look at her surroundings. She was pleased with the impressive turnout which she estimated to be close to one thousand people. It was the largest they’d ever had. Most of the other protestors continue to hold their placards high, displaying myriad slogans such as “Justice for Kwami,” “Let Kwami Live,” “Impeach Gov. Percy,” and the most popular, “STOP.” She took a deep breath and lifted her sign again, fighting the pain in her fingers as she held it as high as she could.

The crowd of protestors was comprised of a cross-section of the community— young, old, couples, families, Black, White, Hispanic, and Asian. A colorful array of baseball caps, bucket hats, visors, straw hats, and cowboy hats protected most of the heads from the constant flood of the sun’s rays.

The makeshift podium and public address system were rudimentary, and there was the usual milling around often seen in large gatherings, but the audience, for the most part, was paying attention to the pudgy young man with a man bun speaking to them. At times, the crowd burst out in synchronous claps and hoots of approval. The assembly was peaceful, with only a few skirmishes breaking out at the edges where police stood watch.

Still thirsty after having finished her bottle of water, Crystal let her mind wander as the speaker droned on about the immorality of what was about to take place. Her clothes clung to her sweaty body, and despite wearing sunglasses with polarized lenses, the bright sun hurt her eyes. Looking down, she swatted away a bug that landed on her arm. Uncomfortable and impatient, she was eagerly awaiting the next speaker.

Finally, the man at the podium looked up and announced, “And now, the man you’ve all been waiting to hear, the leader of our organization, Mr. Derek Rigler.”

The mood of the crowd changed, and participants started chanting “STOP” in unison as they raised and lowered their signs. A tall, muscular man with tan skin and wavy blond hair, took to the stage next to the previous speaker and scanned the crowd with his magnetic blue eyes. Crystal looked up and smiled. His handsome, chiseled features gave him the look of a confident leader. Although he was nearly fifty years old, he looked at least ten years younger. He hasn’t lost the ability to attract attention whenever he enters a room.

Derek took his place on the podium and held out his arms as if to give a benediction. After almost a full minute of roaring applause, he raised and lowered his hands several times to quiet the crowd.

Crystal looked around, energized by the enthusiasm bubbling over. She noted more press vans set up around the perimeter than in the previous protest. Their organization, STOP, was gaining traction.

She wondered if Derek had picked her out of the crowd. If she were taller, he’d probably see her—she wasn’t far from the front—but she imagined her five-foot two-inch frame made her visage difficult to identify in the sea of people. From what she could glean, Derek hadn’t spotted her. After all, she was just another brunette under a baseball cap, surrounded by many others. Even so, Crystal smiled widely, wondering if anyone nearby recognized her. After all, she was notable as Derek’s wife and the mother of his child, Cordelia.

As Derek started his familiar diatribe against the Texas death penalty laws, Crystal tried to lock eyes with him, but his eyes never found her. Instead, he focused on members of the audience near and far, concentrating his gaze on one person for several seconds before moving on to the next pair of waiting eyes.

Crystal recognized the usual arguments against the event that was scheduled to take place momentarily—the uneven death penalty sentencing, the ugliness of exacting revenge, and the irreversibility of the punishment once meted out. The speech was powerful, and she agreed with everything Derek said. She could recite the words by heart, not only because she had heard them during Derek’s practice sessions, but because she had written them herself. Every time the crowd reacted with hollers and claps, she felt taller, each breath a bit more satisfying. She’d been to over six of these rallies in the past year, each protesting the execution of a prisoner found guilty of a crime deemed fitting for capital punishment.

The death penalty had never sat well with Crystal, but over the past two years, the practice had escalated, with four more executions scheduled over the next six months in Texas alone. Not only was the ultimate punishment meted out more often, but the evidence leading to convictions was frequently less convincing. She’d made up her mind to do something to stop the injustice and had established STOP almost a year earlier. A small, grass-roots collection of like-minded people, it was taking hold, thanks to her speech writing, community outreach, and organizational skills, bolstered by her husband’s charisma. He was the face of the organization.

Derek’s address was interrupted by a loud commotion as the officers stationed around the perimeter began to forcefully clear a path through the protestors to the entryway of the large building looming behind the speaker. Despite shouting and resistance from the crowd, with the most passionate demonstrators being handcuffed and dragged away, the police were able to open a wide berth.

“We are nearing the time,” Derek shouted above the commotion, “the time when our brother Kwami will be taken from us in an act that can only be described as state-sponsored murder. Let all those who have participated in this mockery of justice one day pay for their crimes, and let all those who directly benefit from this violent act realize the wrong they have participated in.”

A police transport moved through the clearing in the crowd as demonstrators chanted “Kwami, Kwami” in unison. Although the windows of the vehicle were covered, all knew who was inside—Kwami McKinney, sentenced to be executed that day. The van didn’t stop until it was a mere five feet from the door to the building. A massive construction of cement and glass six stories high, the structure dwarfed the trees and other buildings nearby. Derek was silent as he turned to watch the Black prisoner, his head shaved, exit the van’s side door.

Dressed in an orange jumpsuit accessorized with ankle and wrist shackles, Kwami was escorted by two armed guards, each holding onto one of his arms. Two more prison officers took up the rear. As the party of five walked towards the glass doors of the building, a Black woman around fifty years old ran towards them screaming. She was forcibly stopped by police, who grabbed onto her arms long before she could interfere.

Everyone there knew the woman was Sally McKinney, Kwami’s mother. She yelled and cried hysterically, flailing against those restraining her as her son was led through the automated doors that opened before him and the guards. They disappeared inside the structure as the glass doors shut.

People in the crowd yelled and cried, drowning out Ms. McKinney’s wails. Frustrated tears filled Crystal’s eyes; their protest had done nothing to dissuade the authorities from carrying out their sentence. She hadn’t expected the proceedings to be halted, but held onto a glimmer of hope until now, irrational as it was.

She looked to Derek for comfort, hoping they might finally lock gazes and convey their sadness to each other, but Crystal’s thoughts were interrupted by a female acquaintance. “Fantastic speech,” the woman said.

“I can’t disagree,” Crystal answered, buoyed momentarily by the woman’s words.

“You must be very proud, being his wife. He’s so handsome, and brilliant to boot. You two are the perfect couple. I’d sure like to be a fly on the wall at your dinner table to hear about all his great ideas.”

The words stung slightly, as Crystal chuckled politely. She was accustomed to being thought of as a mere appendage of her charismatic husband, but, she’d tried to convince herself that a successful protest, with Derek delivering a resounding speech, was all that was important. She didn’t need the admiration of others like he did. “Our dinners aren’t as interesting as you might think. Mostly, we talk about how we’re going to pay our bills.”

Members of the press, who until now had been scattered amongst the protestors while taking notes and silently recording videos, were now talking and interviewing people on camera. The crowd thinned, but Crystal didn’t want to leave. She’d have liked to remain until she knew Kwami had taken his last breath, but that moment was hours away.

She listened as a nearby male telecaster spoke into a camera. “Emotions are again high as another execution is about to take place. While many people feel that the crimes Kwami McKinney was convicted of, armed robbery and hostage-taking, justify the death sentence, some feel the punishment is too severe for the crimes the prisoner was convicted of. Still others believe he is innocent of the charges against him.”

The reporter turned to a middle-aged female bystander and asked, “What do you think of today’s events? Do you think justice is being carried out today?” After posing the question, he shoved the microphone close to the woman’s mouth.

“This is a travesty of justice,” she answered. “The real criminal was wearing a ski mask during the robbery, and escaped capture immediately following the crime. That was made clear during the trial. We also learned that Mr. McKinney was picked out in a lineup by two unreliable witnesses days later. There was a boatload of evidence that the so-called witnesses had drug charges against them dropped shortly after identifying Mr. McKinney. What kind of justice is that?”

The telecaster quickly turned to the camera and continued his reporting. “Despite the controversy, Kwami McKinney is still scheduled to be executed here and now at New Lake Hospital. While we are happy for the families of the six unnamed individuals who will be the recipients of much-needed organs, many are questioning the legality and morality of what is now becoming a common method of organ procurement. The objections are being led by the organization STOP, which stands for Stop Transplants of Organs from Prisoners.”

***

Excerpt from The Organ Broker by Deven Greene. Copyright 2025 by Deven Greene. Reproduced with permission from Deven Greene. All rights reserved.

Chapter 1

Dakota Judd wasn’t a man who questioned decisions once made. He’d had more than enough time to dissect every moment of the incursion. He could’ve turned a blind eye; after all, it was war. But reliving the raid, in fractured dreams that continued to insinuate themselves into his waking moments, was a burden he’d carry for life. His action sure as shit created an unexpected detour. But with disciplined daily pushups, chin-ups, and laps, his body was still intimidating. He lived by the Ranger credo, “Further, Faster, Harder.” That much he could control. Life behind bars, he took one day at a time. Rangers were trained to expect the unexpected, but nothing could prepare him for what was in store from the woman who sat across the metal table from Dakota.

Jean Steele was an African American FBI Agent with high cheek- bones, chestnut skin, shoulder-length brown hair, who wore a professional navy pantsuit. She was an attractive woman, something not lost on Dakota.

They were in the Greeley Federal Penitentiary’s visiting room designated for cops and lawyers. No cameras or recorders allowed. Steele removed her sunglasses before starting the interview, revealing sharp, intelligent, brown eyes that locked on Dakota’s.

“So, Mister Judd…you’ve served six years of a seven-year sentence,” she said, glancing up from her notes.

Dakota picked up the light scent of J’adore. The perfume his ex- fiancé wore.

“And three months before your early discharge, having been granted early release for exemplary compliance with institutional regulations, you blow it all by stabbing a Black inmate in the thigh, severing his deep femoral vein, leaving him to bleed out in the weight- room, almost killing him. Dakota…you don’t look like a foolish man.” “Is that a question, or an answer?” Dakota’s eyes creased into an easy smile. He hadn’t had a conversation with a good-looking woman for a very long time, and was intrigued by her visit and up to the challenge.

“In this case, it was kill or be killed,” he said matter-of-factly. “The man was out of his league, and I had no choice.”

“They didn’t find a weapon on the victim.”

“I left it in his leg. I’m sure it’s all in your report.”

“The Federal paperwork is in process to rescind your early release.” Dakota was aware they weren’t only going to rescind, they were going to add two years to his original sentence, bringing the life-killing number to nine.

“Why are you here, Agent Steele?” Dakota asked, cutting to the chase. “What did I do to deserve a visit from the Feds?”

Steele held his gaze. “The government needs your help.”

“Why the interest?”

“You’ve had no gang affiliations since your arrest and conviction. That couldn’t have been an easy ride.”

Dakota leaned back in the metal chair and let her talk.

“The OC Wolf Pack are an anti-government white supremacist militia operating out of Orange County. We’ve been picking up chatter on the dark web and social media. The Wolf Pack may have a link to California Senator Jack Bradley, who’s up for re-election.

“Bradley’s constituency leans heavily to the extreme right. He hides their bias like a momma bear protects her cubs. The Wolf Pack are crude. And even though they share similar philosophies with the senator they are to be seen and not heard. That’s where Blackfox Elite Protection fits in. We think Blackfox is providing the money used to fund Bradley’s re-election and a growing list of homegrown militias.”

“What’s their MO?”

“Blackfox recruits ex-military, retired cops, FBI, and guns for hire. It’s an elite private security force that has no compunction employing known felons. They’re supported by a group of wealthy right-wing patriots…their description. Blackfox is getting fat on government contracts, assisted in part by the CEO’s tight relationship with the senator who’s the Chairman of the House Armed Services Committee, to the tune of forty-five million in the last quarter.”

Agent Steele had definitely piqued his interest.

“Aren’t you gonna ask where I stand?”

“If I thought you stood with them, I wouldn’t be sitting here. Neither would you.”

Dakota didn’t argue the point. “Where do I fit in?”

“We need someone outside local law enforcement.”

“And outside of the FBI,” Dakota intuited.

Steele nodded. “A few of our retired agents still have friends in high places. We’re aware of leaks. We need to shore them up. You’ve got the bona fides. Your skill set, your attack on a commanding officer while serving in Afghanistan. Your exemplary record before the assault charges, your silver medal. That, and now, stabbing a Black inmate three months before your release, should make you a rock star with the skinheads in quadrant-D.

“We need someone to cozy up to the supremacists who have ties to the Wolf Pack in Orange County and a probable link to Blackfox, our main target. Best-case scenario, you infiltrate Blackfox upon your release, and deliver their plans.”

“Why?”

“The Alt-right’s first armed insurrection on the U.S. Capital failed, but shook the world. We want to shut these militia groups down before there’s a second attempt that succeeds.”

“Why would I sign on?”

“That’s up to you. The Army is about to rescind your pardon and add time to your release date for attempted manslaughter. When you get out…you’ll be handed over to the United States Probation Office, where they’ll dog you with years of probation and a host of rules that if not followed, will stack on more prison time. You’ll be living in purgatory.”

“I don’t respond to threats,” he said without attitude.

“We’re offering you a lifeline.”

“I’m sure you’ll understand, Agent Steele. I’ve got trust issues with the government.”

“I understand, and Blackfox will understand. I’ll be your handler. You won’t have to deal with the suits.”

“You’re wearing a suit.”

“I’ll have your back. Infiltrate Blackfox. Become our eyes and ears, and you walk away a free man. Your conviction, expunged. Pension reinstated. You can work, vote, get married, have kids. A normal life.” Steele pulled a contract out of her attaché case and slid it across the table.

“How do I explain you?”

“I work at your law firm.” Steele hands him a contact card. It read, Jean Clarkson. Associate at Peluso, Costa, and Litto, Attorneys at Law. “It passes the sniff test.”

Not the way Dakota thought his day was going to unfold.

“Take some time,” she continued. “Read the fine print. I already had a conversation with your representative, Joseph Peluso, and sent him a copy of the contract. It guarantees your future for services rendered.”

“What did he say?”

“He was inclined to accept, but wouldn’t give me a definitive answer until we spoke. Said it was your call.”

“Sounds like Peluso.” Dakota Judd lifted the paperwork, maintaining eye contact, trying to get a read on this federal agent before diving into the contract that might just be the answer to his prayers. He held the life-changing document in his hands, but his mind drifted on the scent of J’adore. The contract was fifteen pages of legalese that protected the government from any liability in the execution of said agreement. Shorthand for: If Dakota signed the contract, he was agreeing to risk his life in service to the government. If successful in the mission, he’d have his life back. He’d be a free man with no one looking over his shoulder. If he failed, well, he’d be back in the slammer, or he’d be dead. Dakota straightened the pages, looked deep into Steele’s eyes, and nodded his assent.

Steele handed him a pen.

Dakota signed on the dotted line.

“Good,” Agent Steele said. She slid the contract into her attaché case and pushed away from the table. “I’ll be in touch.” Steele started toward the door and then turned on her heel.

“And Dakota…try and stay alive for the next eight weeks.”

***

Excerpt from Embedded by John Lansing. Copyright 2025 by John Lansing. Reproduced with permission from John Lansing. All rights reserved.

From Chapter 1

It is a day of firsts. My first day on the job and my first dead body. Chief Baxter wants me to see it. His whole face is concentrated with the effort to make his point, as though he were explaining blood spatter analysis or the biomechanics of tasers. He is wearing gold cufflinks shaped like barbells. Short and barrel chested, he looks like a well-dressed fireplug. I can imagine him as a street cop, pugnacious and badge heavy.

“Don’t sit around your office and wait for cops to come to you. That’s why I’m giving you a car and a scanner. Get out in the field.”

He speaks in short staccato bursts as though he is transmitting over the radio, dropping any unessential words. A slight spray of saliva leaves shiny droplets on his desktop. He walks around the desk and stands close to me. I smell his pine-scented aftershave and mouthwash.

“This is why I have credibility. I make it my business to suit up and get out on the street once a month. I stay in shape. And I always carry.” He opens his jacket and shows me his shoulder holster. He is wearing “a custom fitted dress shirt that shows off the inverted triangle made by his broad shoulders and narrow waist. “Street cops are the lifeblood of this organization. The street is where I started. I’ve never forgotten that and I don’t want anyone else to.”

He leans against the edge of his desk, his arms folded over his chest. “I have a rookie on scene at a suicide. Ben Gomez. He’s been having trouble. Talk to his field training officer. See what you can do to help him. I’ve met the kid. Not my best hire, but I think he’s salvageable.” He lifts his index finger. “I’m putting a lot of faith in you, Dot. I’ve had a lot of trouble in my organization since I took over as chief. Some days I feel like Typhoid Mary. I’ve got four officers on stress leave and three on admin leave under investigation. No telling when any of them will come back to work. I have a small organization—seventy-five officers. I can’t afford to lose this rookie, too. It’s bad for morale plus my overtime budget is off the charts.”

He extends his hand to me. “It’s one thing to study us and write books about us. It’s another thing to hit the streets with us. You come highly recommended by Mark Edison. That says a lot. Most men don’t have much good to say about their former wives.”

He laughs a little too loudly. I wonder if he has an ex and, if he does, what she was like.

“So, welcome aboard. I know this is a tall order, but Dr. Edison said you’re the one for the job. Don’t disappoint me or him. Now, get in your car and get out in the field.” He opens the door to his office and shows me out.

As the new department psychologist, I am in no position to protest or to tell him that I’m scared to death because I’ve never seen a dead body before. Not even my father’s. What if I embarrass myself, faint or, God forbid, get sick to my stomach? I wonder how he expects me to suit up. Maybe I should put wheels on my “couch and tow it behind my car?

The radio traffic on my scanner crackles briskly, drowning out my thumping heart. Listening to it is a guilty pleasure, like eavesdropping. This is the best of two possible worlds, close to the action but at a safe remove– the unobserved observer listening to the breathlessness of the chase, the escalating octaves that betray fear, the barked commands, the unnatural calm of the dispatcher, and the final “Code 4” signaling that the short reign of terror has given way to hours of report writing and investigation.

I drive under a cool green canopy of old oaks. Light filters through the leaves dappling the street. Fifty years ago this old northern California neighborhood was considered the ultimate in affordable, architect-designed family houses. Now the current selling prices are beyond my reach and the reach of any Kenilworth cop, firefighter or schoolteacher. Neighbors are congregating in small worried clusters on the sidewalk in front of a uniquely shabby one story home. They watch as I park my car. I take ten slow deep breaths and step to the sidewalk. Spindly trees flank the walk that leads to the front door. The grass on either side of the cracked concrete path is brown and freckled with splotches of hard, dry dirt. The front door is open. I grit my teeth and walk in.

***

Excerpt from Burying Ben by Ellen Kirschman. Copyright 2013 & 2024 by Ellen Kirschman. Reproduced with permission from Ellen Kirschman. All rights reserved.