Irene Hannon Presents An Eye for an Eye: Heroes of Quantico Series - Book 2 - Merging Law and Religion...

While I didn’t relish killing, I couldn’t ignore God’s command. It was right there in the Bible for all to see. An eye for an eye.

Yesterday, I tried to open this book on my desktop. Over and over I tried. Finally I gave up. I had another job to do... This morning, as soon as I opened YouTube, the above video was there, front and center... It was to be used along with this review. A sure God Incident??? I hope I can share what I am supposed to...

“How bad is it?” Though the clipped question from the dispatcher registered, Mark’s brain stalled. He’d been in plenty of situations where people got hurt. Had learned to steel himself against blood and terror. But nothing in his years of training and field experience had prepared him for watching Emily bleed. Somehow he managed to squeeze two words past his tight throat. “I’ll check.” He pressed the speaker button, laid his phone beside him, and eased Emily onto her back, keeping his head low. The wound was on her left arm, halfway between her shoulder and elbow. The flow of blood was heavy and steady. Not comforting, but better than spurting from an artery. “The bullet went all the way through her arm. I think it nicked a major vein.” He needed to stem the flow of blood. She was losing too much too fast, and they weren’t going anywhere for the next few minutes. “I’ll alert the ambulance crew. You should be seeing activity at the perimeter momentarily. There was a patrol car three minutes away.” He did a quick three-sixty as he stripped off his T-shirt. Flashing lights were approaching in the distance on the road that bordered the park. “I see the car. I also need you to contact Steve Preston at the St. Louis FBI field office ASAP.” He recited the phone number. “I copy that.” Working in the restricted area behind the bench, Mark folded his T-shirt into a long strip and wrapped it around Emily’s arm, exerting as much steady pressure on the wound as his prone position allowed. It wasn’t his first choice for a dressing, but it was all he had. 

When Emily drew a ragged breath, he touched her cheek. Frowned. Her skin was cool and clammy. Her eyes, though open, were starting to glaze. And her breathing was becoming shallower. Classic signs of shock. She needed more help than he could provide. “Hang in there, Em, okay?” He tucked her hair behind her ear, maintaining the pressure he was exerting on the wound with his other hand. “W-what happened?” “Someone decided to use us for target practice.” “Are you hurt?” She was bleeding profusely and she wanted to know if he was hurt. He swallowed past the lump in his throat. “No.” “Good. I wouldn’t want to miss that cold drink with you.” Her voice was fading. “Agent Sanders, I have Officer Fisher from Oakdale on the line. He was first on the scene. I’m going to patch him in.” There were a few clicks as the dispatcher connected the call. “Go ahead, Officer Fisher.” “Agent Sanders, I’m on the south side of the park, and I have you in sight. We’re securing the perimeter, focusing on the wooded area on the east end where you pinpointed the shooter. Have there been any additional shots?” “No. I suspect he’s long gone. And I need medical assistance. Now.” “Understood. We’re preparing to send in two paramedics. In the meantime, we’re sweeping the perimeter of the woods, and a chopper is on the way to do a thermal scan.” The thlump-thlump-thlump of rotors sounded in the distance. That was one lucky break, anyway. The rapid response meant the helicopter must have been close by on a training mission or doing aerial photography. But they could use a few more bits of luck. Emily’s blood had soaked through his shirt, and the flow wasn’t showing any signs of abating. Mark drew a shaky breath. He was almost desperate enough to pray—but after twelve years with the FBI, he’d seen too much. The loving, compassionate God of his youth had been lost somewhere in the blood and gore and man’s inhumanity to man. As the seconds crept by with agonizing slowness, the temptation to pick up Emily and run toward the flashing lights in the distance was strong. But he’d been too well trained to take that chance. If the shooter was still in the woods, a rash action like that could be a death sentence for both of them. He had to follow protocol, no matter what his heart was telling him to do. “Mark?” Emily’s voice was growing weaker. When he touched her cheek, her eyelids flickered open, and she turned her head toward him, mere inches separating them. He was close enough to see the gold flecks in her green eyes. Close enough to feel her breath on his lips. Close enough for memories of their brief summertime romance to surge back—and make him wonder why they’d ever lost touch. “I’m here, Em.” “Remember Wren Lake?” So she was remembering too. Another flood of sweet memories swept over him from her six-week visit to her grandmother’s house two decades ago in his Tennessee hometown. Most of them tied to Wren Lake. They’d spent hours there during that summer of his seventeenth year. Swimming, picnicking—and kissing. Quite a bit of the latter, in fact. Enough to give them both a first, tentative taste of physical intimacy. It had been an idyllic time. A magical interlude that had never been repeated. “Of course I remember.” “Everyone should have a Wren Lake.” Her words were a mere whisper as she drifted away, her eyelids fluttering closed as she let out a long breath. Mark’s lungs locked. Pressing shaking fingers against the carotid artery in her neck, he didn’t breathe again until a steady pulse tapped out a rhythm against his skin. But it was weak. A quick look confirmed that help was on the way, and a surge of relief shuddered through him. A police car was moving across the grass toward them, protective vests jury-rigged over the far windows. It stopped a few feet away, providing additional cover between the bench and the woods. Two paramedics exited, crouched low, and ran toward them as two officers with automatic rifles took up positions behind each end of the car, their weapons trained on the woods. The paramedics dropped down to flank him as he rose to a kneeling position. While one of them wrapped a blood pressure cuff around Emily’s uninjured arm, the other snapped on a pair of latex gloves and reached toward the bloody T-shirt. “I can take over now.” Mark eased his hand off the makeshift dressing as the paramedic slid his in. “I think the bullet hit a vein. She’s been bleeding steadily for seven or eight minutes.” “Pressure’s low. She’s shocky.” As the other technician spoke, he prepared to start an IV line, sparing Emily’s injured arm a quick look as he addressed his partner. “You’ll need a pressure bandage on that.” 

For several minutes Mark watched them work—until he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to find Steve behind him. No surprise the man had already arrived. The lean, mid-fortyish agent might have a few flecks of silver in his dark hair, but he showed no signs of slowing down. As supervisor of the reactive squad, he was known for his rapid-response mentality—and he expected no less from the agents who reported to him. “You got here fast.” Mark gave Emily one more look and stood. “I was at a meeting in Clayton. The thermal scan indicated the woods are clear, so we’re free to move about.” He inclined his head toward Emily. “I understand she’s a friend?” “Yes.” Mark took a deep breath. “I haven’t seen her in twenty years. Not exactly the way I would have planned a reunion.” More paramedics arrived, with a gurney in tow. Mark stepped aside to give them room to work. “You need to get that taken care of.” Steve nodded to his forearm. Frowning, Mark examined the expanse of skin that had been scraped raw from his slide on the asphalt. “Later.” “Now.” Steve caught the attention of one of the paramedics standing by the gurney. “We’ll talk while he works on you.” It wasn’t worth arguing about. There were more pressing matters to discuss. “I take it the shooter got away?” He angled sideways to give the paramedic access to his arm. “For now. The chopper’s going to hang around and do some aerial shots, though. The ERT and the county CSI unit are on the way. We’ll sort things out when they get here.” 

Interesting that Steve had called in the FBI’s Evidence Response Team. After all, the St. Louis County Crime Scene Investigation unit was good. But when one of their own was involved, it was understandable that Steve would want to use FBI resources. Once everything was “sorted out” to his satisfaction, odds were the ERT would take over the crime scene. “Is the perimeter secure?” Mark scanned the park. “The tape and barricades were being put up as I arrived.” Mark winced as the paramedic cleaned a particularly sensitive area. “Sorry. You’ve got a lot of dirt in there.” The man apologized but didn’t pause as he treated the wound. “It’s okay.” He’d endured far worse. And he’d learned how to distance himself from physical pain. “I called the Bureau and talked to your boss in Quantico. He wants to set up a conference call as soon as possible. And we need you to debrief the team. We’re going to have to decide how to coordinate this with local law enforcement.” True. Sorting out jurisdiction issues would be tricky, since a shooting like this would usually be handled by the local cops. However, when a federal officer was involved, the FBI would play an integral role in the investigation. In all likelihood, they’d consider it a joint investigation with the Oakdale PD, at least until they got a better handle on the target and motive. In the meantime, his position on the HRT and his recent media exposure would mean serious involvement from the higher-ups back East. 

As the paramedic working on his arm taped a final strip of gauze in place, Special Agent Nick Bradley—aka his temporary roommate—joined them. “And you thought St. Louis would be quieter than Quantico.” He held out a T-shirt. “Based on information you provided before I accepted this assignment.” Mark scowled at him as he took the shirt. “Maybe you brought trouble with you. HRT operators do make enemies.” “You want to retract the offer of a spare bedroom in your house for the duration of my stay?” He pulled the shirt over his head. “You know better.” He tugged the shirt down and regarded his friend. With his startling blue eyes, sandy hair, and lean, athletic build, Nick was the epitome of the all-American boy—and he’d taken plenty of ribbing for that at the academy, where the two of them had been in the same new agent training class. And those twenty weeks they’d spent together had been the beginning of a beautiful friendship. “Yeah, I do. Thanks.” Nick dipped his head in response. “They’re setting up a command center over there.” Steve indicated a cordoned-off area surrounded by emergency vehicles, shielded as much as possible from the media trucks already converging on the scene. “Let’s head over and get Quantico on the phone.” “Give me a minute.” 

Without waiting for a response, Mark turned toward Emily. The paramedics had put her on the gurney and were preparing to transport. “How is she?” He addressed his question to the closest technician. “The bleeding’s under control and she’s stable. But she lost a lot of blood.” The man took a look at Mark’s hands, withdrew a pack of sterile wipes from his kit, and held it out. “Some of it’s on you.” As the burgundy stains on his skin registered, Mark took the pack and ripped it open, cleaning up as best he could. But it would take a thorough washing to remove the traces of Emily’s blood from his hands. And he had no idea how to wash away the taste of fear that lingered in his mouth. “Is she conscious?” He eased closer to the gurney. “Barely.” “Can I have thirty seconds?” “No more.” Moving beside her, Mark took her hand. She remained pale as death, and her tank top, pristine white half an hour ago, was soaked with blood on one side. Leaning close, he brushed the hair back from her forehead and spoke softly. “Em?” Her lashes fluttered, and she squinted, as if struggling to focus. “Mark?” “Yes. The paramedics are going to take you to the hospital now. I’ll come by and see you later.” “Give me a...rain check on that frappuccino, okay?” She somehow managed a smile. His throat tightened. “You got it.” The paramedics moved into place, and after an encouraging squeeze, Mark released her hand. 

“You ready to try to find this guy?” Nick moved beside him as they watched Emily being wheeled away. A muscle ticced in his jaw. “More than.” The command center was teeming with activity when they ducked under the yellow police tape. Steve was already putting through the call to Quantico, and he placed his hand over the mouthpiece. “Go ahead and pick up the other line, Mark. We’re both patched in.” Mark took the phone from the communications specialist. A few seconds later, a familiar, gruff voice came over the line. Les Coplin—aka the Bulldog. A nickname the HRT commander had earned thanks to his stocky build, close-cropped gray hair, square jaw, and tenacious determination. “You there, Mark?” “Yes.” “Okay. Steve already filled me in on the basics. What’s your take on this?” Mark shifted into analytical mode at the man’s clipped, cut-to-the-chase manner. He might be a victim in this incident, but he was also expected to provide a professional assessment. It was possible the shooting had been random, perpetrated by some nut who’d decided he’d had enough and wasn’t going to take it anymore. Someone who wanted to send a message to the world. But that didn’t fit. Shooters who wanted to attract attention tended to seek crowded, very visible places to make their statement. Places where they could inflict the most amount of damage in the least amount of time. And in general they expected to be caught—or to take their own life rather than surrender. Today’s shooter had chosen an isolated park on a quiet Saturday morning. Only two people had been in range when he’d opened fire. His aim had been sound. And he’d made a fast getaway.

~~~~~~

I was so impressed with the first book that I had gone out to purchase the two left in this Quantico series... That was almost a month ago and apparently it was time to conclude the series. Today would have been my mother's birthday. I think we were close enough that I would have been able to talk to her about what is going on in today's world. It was she who had all of her children in church each time it was opened. It was she who worked to have at least two of her children learn the piano so that we could assist in the music portion of services as needed. And when we all were given voices that were half-way decent, each of us participated in the choir or special singing... I think that it is important to let my readers know that I've depended on God as part of my life for much longer than most of the individuals who are now leading our government... So that, when I watched the above video, well, I felt like gagging... When a man has to include himself within such a speech, which was so obviously written by somebody else, it is sad to recognize that the speaker has no idea of who God is and How He Talks With Us...

For surely, Irene Hannon has such a relationship. Hannon writes books that allows her readers to enter into the lives of her characters, with only the story to see God at work. And in this particular book, she places the villain as a man who claims he is following what God requires him to do... He refers to one phrase "An Eye for an Eye" and uses it to proceed with what he wants to do. Get revenge for losing his family...

This phrase, an eye for an eye, is used in two Biblical locations, Leviticus 24:17-22 and in Matthew 5:38-42. It is provided purely for your information. Pointing out only one thing - that Jesus spoke against the original use...

While arguments could be made by many, Hannon clearly writes about how she sees the issue from a legal standpoint. To seek retribution, especially when an individual is only peripherally involved, is wrong. Illegal. And the FBI Will be on the case... In a personal and professional way...

If this is the first time visiting my blog, you may be confused by my expansion beyond a regular review sometimes... This is one of those times. I thought the above particular video was relevant. You may recall the big discussion on critical race theory, which was pulled out of the cosmos as a political "bang" at some point in the republican race when they started talking about being "woke." No matter how many times it was pointed out that critical race theory was a college-level concept, it continued to be incorrectly used. In my opinion, it was to attempt to discount the use of critical thinking which is, in my opinion, what each of us routinely does in daily life, if they are allowed to... In any event, take this from the standpoint of thinking clearly about "an eye for an eye." Not only are there hundreds of ways to consider how that phrase could or should be used, it is also relevant whether and who is using the phrase... Hannon has done an excellent job, I believe, in teaching us how Jesus would teach...

My quarry was late. Very late. Shading my eyes, I scanned the deserted jogging path and shifted the rifle cradled in my arms. I couldn’t linger much longer without risking detection. In the past couple of hours I’d already seen a few too many runners and dog walkers, despite the oppressive August heat. But no one had yet ventured anywhere near my concealed position in the woods at the edge of the park. After studying my quarry’s habits, I’d chosen the time and place with care. And I’d walked through the exercise dozens of times in my mind. Park behind the First Congregational Church, unoccupied on this hot St. Louis Saturday. Leave the car at the far end of the isolated parking lot, next to the woods that separated church property from the park. Cut through the dense thicket. Wait for my target. Take my shot. Return to the car, slide the rifle back inside the weed-eater box on the back seat. Drive home. Dispose of the gun. I stroked the sleek steel barrel, the taste of regret sharp on my tongue. Destroying my favorite hunting rifle would be hard. But hanging on to it once this job was finished would be too dangerous. My only consolation was that it would end its life doing God’s work. Shifting position, I lifted my arm and wiped the sweat from my forehead, leaving a wet splotch on the sleeve of the dark green shirt that provided excellent camouflage. Then I turned to scan the empty church parking lot barely visible through the shrubby undergrowth beneath the trees. I hadn’t sought out a house of God as my staging area, but it was fitting. For I was here to follow a directive from the Good Book. I was here to claim an eye for an eye. And if my quarry didn’t show today...I’d find another time to carry out my mission. Ten minutes later, as I was about to scrap my plans and head back to my car, my patience was rewarded when my target appeared in the distance. My pulse surged, and I wiped my damp palms on my slacks. Closed my eyes. Lord, guide my aim as I do your work. After exchanging my cotton gloves for a pair made of snug-fitting latex, I lifted the rifle. Fitted the stock against my shoulder. Pinned the figure in my crosshairs. And waited. There was no need to rush. I could do the job at 150 yards, but why not wait until a hundred? The closer the target, the better the odds I could finish this in one shot. Either way, in three minutes, max, the score would be settled. Justice would be done. Timing and patience were everything—whether hunting animals or people. * * * Warmth rose in shimmering waves from the asphalt jogging path, the humidity already stifling at eight o’clock in the morning as a trickle of sweat headed south between Mark Sanders’s shoulder blades while another tracked down his temple. Man, it was hot. Without breaking rhythm or slowing his pace, he tilted his head and lifted his arm to swipe the sleeve of his T-shirt across his forehead. Bad as the heat was, though, he’d endured far hotter conditions.

It may have been called a God Incident when Mark was on the location where Emily would be that particular day. There are many writers out there, maybe even more these days, who are writing books to express what they believe in relation to what actually happens in the United States or other location. Mark and Emily had known each other as teens. Mark was the first who remembered that she had been the first girl that he'd ever kissed... And, now, it was a beautiful memory returned to his mind. 

As the sniper took his shots, both had been within the planned range of the villain. Not only had he missed, but he decided to move quickly out of the area to plan for a next attempt. In the meantime, both Mark and Emily, by protocol, were both placed under constant watch... Mark would be watching Emily, while Mark's former partner was sent in to act as his backup... BTW, this trilogy features three FBI agents from different sections and three women in need of assistance, which also results in all three falling for the Quantico hero ... That triples the involvement and storyline for the trilogy and the three men and women who are slotted to fall in love... I enjoyed getting to know the characters as each of the books continued the male trio of friends, and their wives.

The storylines are all wonderfully written and the personal friendships of those six were intricately drawn in order to ensure readers have the full impact of character development... And the relationships that develop when God is part of storyline.

Because if she had nothing left to give, she wouldn’t notice there was no one to give anything to.

Nick was spot-on. He did have marriage on his mind. Like it or not.

The renewal of vows had been surprisingly moving. As the service concluded with an instrumental meditation piece on the harp, Mark glanced at Emily. After two weeks, she bore little physical evidence of the trauma that had nearly taken her life. The bruise on her temple was gone, the remnants of the abrasion on her cheek masked by makeup. While the bandage on her arm remained, peeking below the edge of her short-sleeved silk jacket, the bulk had been reduced to Band-Aid thickness. In another few days it would be gone. And in two weeks, so would he. For good. Unless he chose to stay. The burning decision of the day. “Mark? It’s over.” At Emily’s soft comment, he looked up. She’d risen, and the other guests were moving toward the exit. He stood and took her arm as they left the pew. “Sorry. I was lost in thought.” “That’s what a meditation is for.” Coop was waiting for them in the vestibule. “Nice service.”

And, as each found love in the other, so, too, the love of God was shared.

Because, of course, both Emily and Mark had a personal backstory that had led them to be good and effective on the jobs to which they'd dedicated their lives and time. This increase tension, confusion, and discussions among friends. Could a relationship that began many years ago, actually be rekindled through the chaos that now surrounded them?

And so it was that the book ended and there had been no retribution for the man who lost his family. At the same time, two young boys who had gotten involved with the case had been part of the fascinating ending. Simply by thinking through what they were seeing, knowing what was right or wrong, and taking responsibility for speaking out... as their parents had taught.

Whether you see the connection that I automatically did is only a choice for you... Each of us must critically think through what they read or hear... If it results in violence, serious review and contemplation should be part of our thinking... Consider how the work of the heroes of Quantico actually used legal actions to reveal that what one thinks is true may actually be nothing but somebody using the words of the Bible, a book, or even a phrase--An Eye for an Eye--out of context. The purpose is selfish--to attempt to skew not only his own thinking but the thinking of others to commit criminal actions. Violence is never the answer in my opinion, but even I know that each situation can and must be considered before assuming what should be done in any given situation.

I encourage you read this book... The characters' actions are those that you might find are worthy of considering as to what is right or wrong in your life. Choosing to act in violence is not a choice that should be easily taken. Especially if you are being told something by those who are known for not speaking Truth...

Good, Hope, Truth, Love

These are the ways we Are Given

Basic Moral Beliefs 

Love for all...No violence...No Hate

GABixlerReviews

Vic Robbie Presents The Violinist's Revenge: A Gripping WWII Thriller Inspired by True Events - WWII Secrets & Sacrifices

 

A solitary red poppy shivers in the breeze, swaying on a long stem. Fragile and vulnerable, yet defiant. She sits cross-legged near the barbed wire, the grey dust seeping through the holes in her mismatched shoes. A raven, its eyes blinking, perches on a fence post, watching as her nail-bitten fingers cup the petals. Stay with me, she whispers and leans in as tears cut tracks in the grime of her cheeks. She wants the flower to survive, but is afraid to love it as she has lost everything she loved. Will this nightmare never end? Distant voices raised in song make her lift her head, but there’s no joy in the singing, interrupted by a shouted order followed by a cry and a gunshot. Silence settles before the singing resumes, broken and tuneless, like the whimpering of wounded animals. Music is a punishment here, and the guards amuse themselves by making prisoners sing as they march. Sing louder, they exhort, until their lungs ache, and often they sing until they collapse. Once, they pulled out two prisoners, shaking and snivelling, and forced them into a duel to outdo each other, singing louder and longer, their voices rising to a crescendo before turning to a wail and dissipating to a croak. The guards dispatched the vanquished with a bullet, and the victor returned to work another day. I will never sing again.

The growl of a Mercedes-Benz 320 cabriolet sparked a spasm of expectancy that sliced through him like a knife. ‘Right on time,’ Jan Pastorek muttered and took a cigarette case from a pocket of his leather jacket. The silver case caught the sun’s rays, and he angled the reflection down the road. Its light flickered across a parked tram full of passengers and flashed on its targets, Jozef Gabcik, wearing a heavy trench coat almost reaching his ankles, and Jan Kubis, carrying a battered leather briefcase. The driver of the Mercedes, Hartmut Schmidt, a corporal in the Wehrmacht, drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Every time he accelerated, Gruppenführer Reinhard Heydrich ordered him to slow down. That irritated him. He hadn’t wished to chauffeur a general, but the General’s usual driver had called off sick at the last minute, and he had no choice. As a regular soldier, he had little time for the SS, whom he regarded as politicians with a fetish for pantomime uniforms, but he kept that to himself. In his opinion, the slower they drove, the more the general could be at risk, and many would enjoy spreading the Butcher of Prague’s brains over the car’s leather upholstery. Anyone who encountered Heydrich, with his receding fair hair plastered over a bony skull and a long, aquiline nose as sharp as a stiletto, never forgot the experience. Hitler called him the man with the heart of iron. He’d crushed the Czechs under his boots like ants and now aimed to exterminate the Jewish race. A mere corporal couldn’t challenge him, so he eased his foot off the accelerator. The daily drive from the north of the city to Heydrich’s office in Prague Castle reminded the people that they were untermensch and expendable. That pleased the general, who seldom showed emotion but allowed himself a satisfied smile, confident his work here was another positive step in a brilliant career. He expected to travel to Berlin later that day, May 27th, 1942, for a meeting with the Führer. His spy in Reichsführer Himmler’s office suggested it might be a posting to France, where the Resistance was causing problems. He had completed every task required of him, from his strategy of Night and Fog, where dissidents disappeared overnight, to his Wannsee master plan to rid the world of Jews. And it had all but removed the stain of his dishonourable discharge from the Navy as a junior officer. Anyone who crossed him was dispatched by the apparatus he’d built around him, and Hitler regarded him as a role model for the Aryan race and his successor rather than Himmler, an overweight little man who resembled a bespectacled hamster. Himmler lived for the day Heydrich failed, but he couldn’t admit it. From the tram stop at the junction of Kirchmayerova and Holesovickach, Gabcik and Kubis watched the car approach as Pastorek strolled towards them to avoid attracting attention. The previous night, they had shared a meal, which could have been their last, and a few beers in a safe house. Like Pastorek, trained by the Special Operations Executive at the commando base in Arisaig in Scotland, they were handpicked for Operation Anthropoid, which would strike at the heart of the Reich. If they could assassinate a senior member of the Nazi hierarchy, anything might be possible. Gabcik and Kubis readied themselves as the vehicle slowed for a tight curve before turning westwards, and as the Mercedes drew closer, Gabcik pulled a Sten gun from under his coat and aimed at Heydrich, who was raised behind the driver and an easy target. He squeezed the trigger, but the weapon jammed. ‘Christ.’ Despite the danger, Heydrich stood, holding a Luger as the car braked, and Kubis withdrew a grenade from his briefcase and pulled out the pin. He missed the target, and the grenade landed by a rear wheel. As Pastorek approached the car, the blast lifted him off his feet, and he lost consciousness, his Colt M1903 spilling onto the road. Kubis dived for cover, but shrapnel sliced into his face and passengers in a stationary tram on the other side of the road were also hit. Although wounded on his side, Heydrich was determined to confront the terrorists and followed Schmidt out of the shattered Mercedes. As his attacker attempted to get the Sten gun operational, he limped towards him, firing from the hip. Diving for cover behind a telegraph pole, Gabcik returned fire with his pistol before retreating. Grimacing in pain, Heydrich limped back to the car and turned on Pastorek as he regained consciousness. ‘You bastard!’ He bared his teeth in an animal smile and raised his pistol. Stunned by the blast and unable to focus, Pastorek struggled to his feet, but the German forced his face into the road and rammed the Luger into the back of his head. He closed his eyes. They had failed. 

She was of a catholic family that lived in a town where the Germans had decided to attack, taking people off the streets no matter who they were it seemed. And, so, it was that day that her mother had taken her family out to shop--their father was away--and it was there that Germans were out looking for anyone that they might choose to remove from their homes. To be taken away at the direction of Hitler, a man who had decided it was his time to seek and hold power over others who he hated. It was the Jewish people he was aiming for, but it was more important that the white Germanic race be retained in the world that he cared most about...

But from the standpoint of those who were soldiers, they had more personal thoughts as they watched the family--a mother, two girls and a boy that could be useful... They were grabbed that day, never to be seen again by the old woman who lived next to them... Even though she kept watch, hoping one day they would return...

Of course the family was taken to a camp--the story is well known as the family was divided up, taken away from each other, not knowing what would be happening... Only one was left. She was the oldest daughter and she had a skill that was very much of use... Anneliesa was added to the camp orchestra which was very grateful to have the new violinist...

And it was while she played that she saw her family being guided away, by the guards...

In the meantime, their father had returned home, reacting to the signs of the Nazis and all that they represented to the world...

The time within the camp follows traditional stories, not that it does not draw readers in, but rather that it serves to document that the book was indeed inspired by true events. The twist in this story is unique, so unique that it leads to an extension out of the camp, through an escape, and on to follow the life of Anneliesa... and the character who was introduced in an earlier chapter and took a much more dominant role.

Jan Pastorek was a Czech who had a job to do, with the Germans watching him closely; however, we become more involved in his life as he takes on the responsibility of helping our Violinist to escape... And, of course, this brings a bit of romance into this time of war and death...

A driven and conscientious activist, Wächter had been involved in the assassination of Chancellor Engelbert Dollfuss. His exploits had attracted the attention of the Führer and Himmler, which led to him being appointed governor of Katowice and then Galicia. He met his targets with enthusiasm and believed that for the Aryan race to prevail, the removal of Jews, Czechs, Slovaks and Poles was justified. Approaching all tasks as logistical problems, he never considered the impact on individual lives. But the woman’s presence in the camp made little sense. A mystery. ‘Wounded?’ he said, rejoining the heated conversation between the two officers. They fell silent. ‘Who was wounded? The man or the woman or both?’ ‘Impossible to tell.’ Jünger offered a deprecatory smile. ‘I hit at least one of them. There was a lot of blood at the scene, but I’m not sure how serious it was.’ ‘Man or woman, they can die of their wounds for all I care,’ Höss said. ‘Once we catch them, they’ll face a firing squad after they reveal the names of everyone who helped them.’ He sneered at Jünger. Wächter looked away. This was how the Nazi system worked. Everyone is set against each other. Every slip reported. Never safe, especially at his level and if the Gestapo were involved, the truth was twisted so tight it evaporated. ‘With your permission, Herr General,’ Jünger requested. ‘I will question the guards who had the prisoner in their custody.’ He nodded. Höss tried to speak, but Jünger waved him away. ‘There are anomalies requiring investigation, and there may have been a greater conspiracy.’ While the commandant looked pained, Wächter suppressed a smile. ‘We will meet again in the morning after you have interrogated the guards and caught the escapees, hopefully.’ He stood, signalling the end of the meeting and turned to Höss. ‘How you deal with the man is up to you, but the woman should not be harmed. If she is wounded, do everything possible to ensure her survival.’

A stillness settled over the place like an ancient, forgotten battlefield as Anneliesa lifted the violin to her shoulder with an overpowering sense of fear and self-loathing. She didn’t want to play and dreaded facing them. When she had finished her audition in the hut, she opened her eyes, but she was still in hell, although the woman showed a glimmer of appreciation. It had saved her life, although it led to this. Music should be a creation of the gods, not an instrument of torture, she thought, but she had no choice and, shamed by her weakness, she maneuvered the instrument under her chin, the once-reassuring texture of varnished spruce now rough on her skin. Anger fluttered in her chest like the wings of a trapped bird and bile burned her throat and she swallowed as she clamped her lips tight because sickness was verboten. So as not to witness their pain, she closed her eyes. Please, don’t make me look at them. Shuffling skeletons, devoid of gender or age, who would soon become memories, their shaven heads and eyes buried deep in sunken cheeks. A woollen skull cap protected her shaven head from the biting cold and fingerless gloves warmed her hands while leaving fingers free for their work. Her body was shrouded in a dirty overcoat, as heavy as a blanket and still smelling of its former owner, an old man so deprived of food he no longer had shoulders able to support its weight. The music was a prelude to their deaths, but playing prolonged her own life. The guard rapped a wooden post with his Luger, signaling it time to play as a guttural command and accompanying whistle started the column moving. The prisoners took faltering steps, heads down, showing no interest in their destination, and, in the distance, the chimneys were smoking. Do I look like them? She hadn’t seen her face for a long time. If the prisoners were uncertain about what would happen, she wasn’t, as she’d witnessed it too many times. Every morning, she played the violin as the prisoners marched off for a day of hard labour, and every evening she played them back. A few collapsed and were shot where they lay, and their colleagues carried the bodies back to the camp for disposal. Today, these lost souls, some holding the hands of infants carrying toys as broken as their owners, would embark on a walk from which there was no return. Some were stoic, living only for the moment. I’m alive now, they’d say with a detached acceptance, and next, I might be in my grave. Here, death was a demanding companion. No one left their hut in the morning expecting to return in the evening. We all must die and this would be their time and, in death, there would be relief from suffering. Unable to endure the barbarity, some walked to the electrified fences surrounding the camp and embraced the barbed wire and a flash illuminated the sky, followed by a lingering cloud of smoke and a sickening smell of flesh burning. Only the fading hope that one day she’d be reunited with her family prevented her from joining them. What awaited was beyond reason. Their masters, regarding them as useless, had scheduled them for extermination, but many didn’t suspect their fate or wouldn’t acknowledge it. Those who attempted to flee were encouraged by rifle butts to return to the line, but the guards were reluctant to kill them here because they would have to clear up the mess. Others wailed like sirens and a few sank to their knees in silence and prayed. The result was always the same, and the knowledge made her complicit. They marched two miles from the main camp to a field with two cottages, the Little White House and the Little Red House and there, guards ordered them to strip on the pretext of taking a shower. The prisoners are ushered into the buildings and the doors bolted behind them while an SS guard, wearing a gas mask, climbs onto the roof with canisters of Zyklon B Prussic acid. At a signal from the officer in charge, he drops the canisters through an opening into the house, and their screams carry to the camp for fifteen minutes. Afterwards, other prisoners arrive and collect the contorted black and blue corpses for the ovens. Her colleagues stiffened when their guard, Horst, appeared. A red face, neck bulging over a buttoned-up tunic, he enjoyed using his shapeless hands and often he prodded them with his Luger as a prompt for them to look happy while they played. All had felt his anger, although not her for some time, meaning punishment was imminent. She’d welcome it, for experiencing pain eased her guilt. ‘We have a special guest this morning.’ He pointed at a raised wooden dais on the other side of the mass of prisoners. ‘Play as though your lives depend on it .... or it’s the frauenblock for you.’ He winked at the ensemble, but they ignored him. Their so-called women’s orchestra comprised two violins, a cello, a saxophone, a mandolin, an accordion, sounding like the squawk of a strangled bird, and a bullet-riddled piano. Sufficient for ausrucken, the daily marches to work, and einrucken, the return home in the evening and, for a day like today, when they sent off marchers and played until the screaming stopped. Horst wanted more to entertain the SS officers on Sundays, but it was the best he could do. Even musicians didn’t last long here. Over the bowed heads of the column, she recognised an SS general, whom she’d seen before, once when he dined at the camp commandant’s quarters as they sat outside for hours playing in sleety rain. As he left, he smirked at her. ‘She plays well,’ he remarked to his host, and Commandant Höss beamed as though complimenting his daughter. They said he was the governor of Galicia and the architect of all their misery and had consigned hundreds of thousands to execution. He talked animatedly to the officers surrounding him, basking in their fawning attention as they responded with deferential smiles, their faces still brutal. And he appeared immune to the tragedy before him. With his aristocratic countenance, he stood out from the others and several times he took off his cap and swept back a full head of almost golden hair from his brow. And the casualness of the action chilled her. The first time she saw him, she thought his face was familiar and trawled her memory for when they might have met, but starvation plays havoc with the mind. He was also an Austrian. They had shared the same air, so why was there this chasm between them? Perhaps I’m fantasising about a life that never existed. She closed her eyes to prevent the scene from being imprinted on her retina, although at night, as she drifted into a fitful sleep, the horror returned like a perpetual nightmare. As with the others in the orchestra, she had no choice but to play, yet still experienced guilt. And they were protected in their compound because the other prisoners regarded them as collaborators and called them names and spat on them. The music flowed through her fingers, travelling up her arm and resonating in her mind, carrying her above the double rows of barbed wire fencing and the machine-gun posts and floodlights and the misery. It transported her back to performing at home in Vienna before an appreciative audience, including Mama and Papa and Little Bird. Although she couldn’t see their faces in the darkness, love and pride shone from their eyes and, at the finish, Papa was on his feet applauding. No matter where or how well she played, nerves always affected her, but they also sharpened her talent, especially when playing for her life. To her despair and shame, she hoped they’d never find another violinist.

~~~~~~

Planning to leave the camp was something to contemplate. Jan would be leaving, why not help the beautiful Anneliese go as well. There were always ways and always those in the resistance who could help... they both agreed it was worth the risk...

Marek and Tomasz hid in a copse a hundred yards from the farmhouse. When they returned, taking a route over the fields because it was safer than the roads, the Nazis were arriving. The soldiers’ superior firepower and their involvement would have risked Jan and Anneliesa’s lives, and they could only watch as Jan was led to a vehicle and driven off. There had been one shot, but who was the target? For the moment, Jan was alive, so it must have been the woman, but Tomasz tugged his sleeve and pointed to the bike propped against a wall. Marek stopped him from going down to the farmhouse. ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘They might drive a little way off and creep back to surprise you.’ He lit a needle-thin, roll-up cigarette, his hand trembling, then offered the tin of tobacco to his partner, who declined. Deep in contemplation, he smoked the cigarette down until it burned his fingers. ‘Now we can go,’ he said, ‘but be careful, soldiers might still be there.’ They found her in the bedroom, sitting cross-legged on the floor, cradling the doctor’s body, and there was a lot of blood. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked, laying down his rifle. ‘I hate this stupid war,’ she said. ‘Why shoot him? He’s just a doctor and, because of me, he’s dead.’ The woman had been Jan’s responsibility, but now she was his, increasing his problems. ‘What did they do to you?’ he asked, seeing blood on her. ‘They didn’t touch me,’ she said, putting a hand to her side and wincing. Marek took a sharp intake of breath. ‘Tomasz, go find another doctor, and he must come now.’ He turned, shaking his head. ‘Then you must leave.’ To his surprise, she snapped back, ‘Not until I know Jan is okay.’ ‘You can’t stay.’ He frowned. ‘He’ll give them what they want, and they’ll return for you.’ ‘I’m staying,’ she said, but didn’t return his look. 

‘If the Nazis take you, you don’t come out.’ He stepped in close. ‘Anyone they regard as an enemy dies. The officer didn’t realise Jan’s importance, but to Hitler, he’s enemy No.1. They’ll get out of him the names of everyone who’s helped him and if there are other hit squads and who their targets are. Once they’ve got what they want, they’ll execute what’s left of him. There will be no mercy.’ Her face screwed up as she bit on her fist to silence a gasp. ‘Jan would expect you to escape,’ he said. ‘It would be a victory of sorts.’ In her confusion, his words were lost in her thoughts, and she stumbled and clutched his arm to stop from falling. He put out a steadying hand, and his voice had a finality brooking no argument. ‘You must get far away from here, believe me, there’s no alternative.’ All the time his eyes were alert, searching, as though expecting the Nazis at any moment. His colleague returned alone. ‘Couldn’t get a doctor,’ he said and stared in her direction, but through her as though she didn’t exist. ‘Every minute she stays here, she’s endangering our lives.’ Marek flashed a warning look, but he persevered. ‘We can’t leave any witnesses behind.’ ‘Are you going to shoot me?’ She stared back at him. Marek confronted his colleague and pushed him in the chest, saying over his shoulder, ‘We’re not barbarians.’ ‘I didn’t mean that.’ Tomasz looked at his feet, unwilling to meet her gaze. ‘Is there a chance Jan might be freed?’ she asked. ‘No,’ Marek said. ‘Hopefully, death comes quickly for him.’ He tried to avoid her eyes. He had been committed to guiding Jan out of Poland to continue his work against the Nazis, but now? To make amends, Tomasz shrugged. ‘What I meant is it takes many people risking their lives carrying out an escape like this. Jan was a war hero and she’s an inexperienced woman, so what use can she be against the Nazis?’ Marek kicked a chair, sending it skittering across the stone floor. She stood hunched, silhouetted in the light from the window, vulnerable, and he knew he couldn’t abandon her. He summoned his colleague outside, and there was shouting and Marek lifting both arms in frustration. She left them to it and found clean bandages in the doctor’s discarded case and also a vial of what she took to be morphine, which she swallowed, and then dressed the wound, which lessened the bleeding. Marek returned, his face set. ‘We go now. Come.’

~~~~~~

This morning as I began with items from the news affecting the world, a question soon came to mind. This is Monday. Who's turn is it to be hated...? The individual spotlighted was a Jew, but also a gay man, who was at a rally for the transgender people... While next, there was a statement that a new agreement with Iran was supposedly made, while at the same time experts were giving opinions about what, exactly, had happened over the weekend... Yes, WWII was an extremely difficult time in the world... One that cannot be forgotten...

And yet, the Jewish man was being harassed because of how the people of Gaza had been and now are being treated... How does so much hate keep people at each other's throats? Again and Again... And why does the storyline never change--only the characters within this country or another...???

Robbie has gone beyond the prejudice against the Jewish people. He's added characters from various countries which were part of World War II, even commenting on what the Catholic Church was involved with, while purposely choosing to have a catholic family disappearing from the streets by the German soldiers and also taken to the camps controlled for war prisoners of the Third Reich... Prejudice against the Jewish people was always part of it... But, as we consider today's world versus the time of WWII, it leads to some, to me, very obvious questions as we consider what is happening in the United States right now...

Is it really about personal bias of one sort or another? Or is it a methodology by which men seeking power can "use" our emotions to bring about hatred for this group or that? Or, perhaps, is there still a different type of individual who likes to use his financial riches to control the world from the background, as seems to be coming even more clear than ever before...

Key to this overall activity which leads to millions being killed by one group versus another, while the costs of those wars are held and controlled by the individual (or rich observer behind the scenes) is that it thrives on the manipulation of all those who inhabit the planet called Earth? Robbie takes a new twist into his book by sharing that the Catholic Church supported not the people, but those who initiated and/or controlled the use of violence against another group or country.

As we consider what occurred in The Violinist's Revenge, while working to create a thriller novel, Robbie has done sufficient research to bring in parts of that significant war that are not as well known... It was this additional research that I found added intrigue and mystery as readers explores the gamesmanship of warfare which, at the same time, rarely changes... What I mean by that is that the methods used by Hitler and his staff have been written about, explored by military members, as well as used by politicians from the beginning of time. And still we learn more about who and how people were affected by these events, and either copied or improved upon by the invention of even more and better military hardware. 

For instance, many have stated that the present U.S. president kept Mein Kampf next to his bed to read... At the same time, we have all also learned that there is little reading performed during his presidencies. Was his reading of just one book sufficient to result in what is now happening related to violence and war-like activities now being initiated? For surely one wonders just how somebody chooses to get rid of enemies by whatever means possible? At least I do... Because it can be clearly recognized that Robbie has succeeded in creating a novel of significance as both of historical value, but also related to today's world...

Because bottom line is the question. Why is violence and war-like events also suitable for entertainment? To be enjoyed as fiction, yet continue to explore the world of dominance, violence, and even create video games to duplicate the emotional impact of "winning" versus "losing..." I've already admitted that I was curious about the inclusion of a main character as a violinist... But, the writing, the storyline and the characters led me to sink into the story itself in a meaningful and satisfying way. So, I don't have an answer of why we read fiction which copies the violence of war--and the prejudice against people who are different..."

And still long for peace...

Have we turned away from the peace that the majority of people seek? I don't think so, but we certainly have been influenced by our history in which we have chosen, always, to hate "somebody," have a war, find peace, and then move on to another target or decide to love this neighbor or that one... We, then, are a very complicated species, don't you think? Do check out my thoughts further as The Violinist's Revenge is highly recommended...

GABixlerReviews

Behcet Kaya Presents Murder at Tutley Brewery - A Fascinating, Extraordinary Set of Events! A Jack Ludefance Novel!

 

“The other day I wanted to buy some music, so I went over to Lenox to a music store. I asked if they had any Otis Redding tapes, and the guy at the counter just stared at me. “He finally said, ‘Uhmm, I’m sorry, sir, we don’t have any tapes.’ “So, I came back with, ‘What do you mean you don’t have tapes? This is a music store, isn’t it?’ “He tried not to sound snarky, but it still came off that way. ‘Yes, of course we sell music, just not on tape. Tapes were replaced, oh, maybe nine years ago. Music’s on compact discs now. How long has it been since you bought any?’ “I felt completely deflated, ‘Obviously too long.’ I was so embarrassed I just turned around and walked out. That’s what I’m trying to say. I’ve been so caught up in solving crimes that I’ve fallen behind. I don’t even know how to catch up anymore.” “Maybe. But I don’t think it’s that bad. And I’m not sure what that has to do with what we’re working on.” “I see the connection clearly, Ludefance. I’m so out of touch I didn’t even realize pimps operate openly now. I didn’t know that escort services are considered legitimate businesses. That’s what I meant. Anyway, let’s get out of here while we still can.”

January 19, 2022 The night watchman had lost count of how many times he had circled the second-floor observation walkway that night. Although the storm had begun to subside, the wind still howled outside, heavy rain lashed against the building, and lightning struck so close it shook the platform beneath his feet. As he approached the first row of fermentation tanks numbered one, two, and three on his final round, he noticed the fluorescent light above tank three had burned out. “Shit, now I’ve gotta change a friggin’ light.” Swearing under his breath, he climbed down the narrow stairs to the first floor. As he gathered the necessary equipment, he continued muttering, “Friggin’ past time for this old building to be torn down and replaced. So what if it was built in 1913? So what if it’s considered historic? So what if it still has the original fluorescent lighting? GD! Don’t they know what a pain it is to change them when they go out?” Still grumbling, he climbed back up, replaced the light, and switched it on. 

Out of the corner of his eye, something faintly blue caught his attention. He looked down into the tank and gasped. A body lay face down, floating atop the fermenting liquid, long dark hair spread out around it. What had once been a bright blue dress was now darkened by the liquid, and the shoeless feet were beginning to sink. Shaking, he climbed down once more and grabbed the emergency phone, preprogrammed with his boss’s number. He knew there was no time to waste. Jacob Wasserman, lead foreman at Tutley Brewery in Tutley, Georgia, received the call early that Wednesday morning, January 19, 2022. The night watchman’s urgent report of a body floating in tank three triggered a profanity-laced tirade. Wasserman arrived within ten minutes. Stepping out of his haphazardly parked car, he hurried past several idling 18-wheelers that had arrived early to transport the fermented liquid to another facility for bottling. He knew he would have to deal with them later. There would be no transfers from the fermentation tanks today. 

As he entered the building, he glanced up at the towering tanks, each nearly two stories high. Even in the midst of the emergency, the sight of the stainless steel structures never failed to impress him. There were fifteen in total, covering an area nearly the size of a half an acre. The pungent smell was strongest inside but could be detected miles away. This ground-floor area also housed the temperature controls, keeping the tanks at a steady 72 degrees Fahrenheit for the brewery’s prized golden craft ale. The night watchman approached, quickly recounting what he had found. Choosing the narrow metal stairs to the second-floor observation walkway instead of the vertical ladder welded to the tank, Wasserman made his way up to the platform. As he peered into the opening of tank three, he saw the body, the bare feet now under the surface. Another string of curses escaped him as the heavy scent of fermenting grain hit him full force. He cursed himself for not putting on a mask before climbing up. He descended as quickly as he could and picked up the phone by the front entrance, which connected directly to the brewery’s business office complex less than a five-minute walk away. Despite the early hour just before 6 a.m. he knew the Wein siblings, Hardy, Wolfram, and Wilhelmina, would already be in their offices. Hardy answered, listening as Wasserman quickly explained the situation, then instructed him to keep everyone out of the building. There would be no employees allowed in the building today. 

Wasserman stepped outside to get some much-needed fresh air. As Hardy and Wolfram approached, he frowned. “Where’s Wilhelmina?” Hardy replied, irritation evident in his voice, “No idea. Her office is locked, so she obviously hasn’t come in yet. Let’s go up and take a look.” All three donned masks and climbed the narrow stairs to the second floor. 

Looking down into the tank, Wolfram was the first to voice the unthinkable. “That’s Wilhelmina’s blue dress!” “It can’t be! Are you sure?” Wasserman’s voice cracked with shock. “Yes, I’m sure! She was wearing that dress when I said goodnight to her last night! We’ve got to get her out of there!” Hardy immediately dialed 911, notifying the local sheriff. With no time to waste, he called for a heavy forklift to be brought in, delaying the recovery effort by nearly fifteen minutes. In the meantime, the two-story double doors were opened wide to allow the forklift to be positioned near tank three. 

As the sun began to rise, Tutley County Sheriff Tom McFee arrived with Deputy Cal Jackson, Detective Hucksley Bail, Coroner Jim Bailey, and a photographer. Leaving their car doors open, they hurried toward the scene just as the forklift was put into position. No other vehicles would be allowed in the parking lot today.

~~~~~~

No other fingerprints? No unidentified fingerprints? How could that be? How could an unknown suspect have been in her office and not left any fingerprints? And how could that person have lifted and carried her without leaving a trail of blood? Despite these unanswered questions, a scenario began to take shape in my mind. Murder by severe head trauma. The location was her own office. The suspect was unknown. Premeditated? Or possibly an accident triggered by an argument, one violent enough to shatter several priceless antiques? Then, her body was carried to the fermentation building and dumped into the tank. Carried. Not driven. But why?

This just might be the best book written by Behcet Kaya. Of course, I've been know to quip that my favorite book is the one I'm reading now, so don't hold me to the fact that I found this a fascinating, extraordinary book from an author I've been reading since his first book was published. Nor that on the night before a major medical procedure, I couldn't stop reading until I finished this, even though I had to be at the hospital the next morning around 6 AM...

Kaya has the wonderful ability to move from one book to the next while creating a totally new and different chain of events that stops readers cold. What will happen in this latest?! And I must say that this book wins the prize for storyline. Yet, in some ways, it's right from today's headlines if you think about it...

Kaya hit me cold with concern when his main character was adamant that he was not going to take a case! After a case in which he'd been physically incapacitated and decided to take a lengthy time off, he still felt he didn't want to return to a case where he might get into a similar situation... And, when he had the call from the owner of a beer brewery he immediately explained that he wasn't taking cases.. But the owner had done his research of who he felt could find the answer to who had murdered his granddaughter, and he kept calling... It was only when his own family started pressuring him to return to what "he loved" that he changed his mind. It was clear, however, that he resented his family for taking the position they had.

Detlef Wein Jr. Please! Please do not hang up on me this time.” It was the same voice, the one that was now starting to wear on my nerves. When I didn’t respond, he continued. “Mr. Ludefance, just hear me out. I am calling because nothing in my life is more important than finding out who murdered my granddaughter.” The desperation in his voice was unmistakable. “Sir, you need to understand. As I told you before, I no longer take cases. Period. End of conversation.” I ended the call and immediately blocked the number. Honestly, some people have a lot of nerve.

Kudos to Ben because even I saw the difference in his main character and his desire not to return to his role as a private investigator and was hoping that he didn't plan to close out this series (I peeked and saw that there was another coming, LOL) In any event, after he had met with the owner and decided to take the case, he had learned that there might be a connection with another family in Germany who had been a competitor and bad family feelings.

Then, readers learn that his granddaughter had been placed as head of the company, while two brothers were also given high positions. As we continue reading, both brothers had quite different issues which might have played a part in how they felt about their sister. Their parents had died so the owner, who was now in his 90s had moved to try to get the hierarchy established in a timely fashion. Me, I was already wondering about family relationships at that point.

And, right there is where Behcet placed a major twist that could shake the entire plot... What?! 

So while investigations continued on the possible brewery competitors, the investigation took an entirely different angle. And Jack was forced into exploring the personal lives of each of the three siblings much deeper than had been planned.

And that's when an entirely different plot twist was revealed. Actually, I didn't first see where the book was going, but once I did, the revelations related to certain files that are now being discussed and sought after to be released by the government soon was identified as, perhaps, how the choice of actions took shape by Kaya...

This is the type of book, however, where any revelation other than the previous paragraph, could be a problem, so I'm closing out discussion of the mystery and investigation as it moves further.

Jack Ludefance takes on a different personality during this book... Set during Covid, he had easily stopped accepting cases, so much so that, he had begun to appreciate being able to stay home and become closer with his child. In fact they had become so close that when he finally had taken this case and would need to travel, he would ensure that he spent face time with his child. Was it a combination of Covid, plus being given drugs without his knowledge, that began him thinking about retiring from acting as a Private Investigator? In any event, readers spend more time with his introspection than perhaps normal. There are several times when he flashes back to other cases that we learn about at an overview level. And we meet with one of his contacts with whom he'd worked in the past... From that individual, Jack learns a secret that shocks him and he becomes agitated as to whether this should be revealed to his client... I enjoyed getting to know internal thoughts of our main characters as he faced each extraordinary set of events that were revealed during the murder investigation.

Indeed, the amount of personal revelation was so high that readers will watch as he ponders just how he will present his findings--and to whom. One character, in particular, had admitted to an early sexual affair which ultimately led to being able to close the case. However, again, there was a request to ensure confidentiality of what he'd learned. In one important way, readers are placed into the character, Jack, as we wonder just what we would do, if we were an investigator, and had become so intimately involved with those involved with the murder. So much so that I was still worrying about whether this was a series heading for a possible ending... The author had several ways in which he could have closed this case and still meet the requirements of identifying the murderer...

I was gratified that I agreed with everything that Kaya chose to have as endings for his various characters--that were exactly what I wanted to see happen.  No wonder I've turned to Behcet (Ben) Kaya as a favorite author who I do want to keep reading! Congratulations for a story that is both important in content, as well as a murder mystery/PI case that keeps readers on the edge as we strive to determine the whodunit, as well as an ending that closes out every single event that came along... This is a personal favorite for me! Kudos to the author!

GABixlerReviews

Guns Everywhere - Humble Ourselves, Heal the Land - The Final Climax to The Crooked Places Made Straight

 

I finished the last two chapters of this book yesterday. This was the second time for the chapter related to Guns... I found myself highlighting even more--indeed, I'd highlighted almost the entire chapter of words... Words about our children, Uvalde springs first to mind, although that is just one of the latest we all watched occur, isn't it? 

The thing is, as I finished reading, I immediately wondered... What could I say about the fact that Guns are Everywhere in America... in our schools, in our churches, in our grocery stores, theatres, musical events--everywhere... Many times when I come on YouTube, I see the picture of a young child with his father talking about how he came to die while he was in school...

My heart--our hearts immediately begin to swell in pain, in anguish, in the final moments though, we are always asking WHY? But it is a rhetorical question... A hopeless question because we all know the answer, don't we? Every attempt to do something is stopped through the use of big money in the business of selling guns. And guns proliferating faster than we the people! Yes, there are far more guns in the United States than there are people! Far more than in any other country in the world!

And we have mass shootings in our country every day...somewhere... Someone--more than one--dies every day here in the land of the free?????

Right about then I began to ponder whether it was worth sharing further... For, as most writers do, they build up to the important points as we move further into a book. And Reverend Warnock does indeed know the pain of somebody who has died from a gun... Just as many have...

And, of course, the question was discussed... What are we doing to our children??? What are we teaching those who must attend schools, fearing for their lives... Practicing for a potential attack...

And we know that, for our Black neighbors, death has been a part of their lives right from the beginning when they were brought to America to be slaves to white men. Some may have died on the ship and were tossed overboard with no thought of grieving... Black mothers know that they must quickly begin to explain about how they can "live" with the white people who will consider them "beneath" their attention... How? Why? One thing I have learned is that what the white man has created is a race of people who are now prepared to survive, even more, to fight back...

I have learned that this is a significant difference between the black and white people... In different ways, I admire them more than many of those of my own color.

But as I went on to read the next chapter regarding climate control, with a few specific cases, documenting how it is we the people who are destroying earth, once again I came to the same conclusion... These two issues have been around for decades. Guns used for hunting were then used for sports; e.g., sharpshooting... sharp shooting led to children being familiar--too familiar with guns--guns that could kill more than animals.

So, too, has man chosen to use more and more of the earth's resources so that ultimately they needed to look for other ways to obtain them... Oil being one of those resources which is now, right now, costing all the world because of lack of control and/or consideration for planning for the future, rather than just continuing to use, use, use... Wars being fought or resources stolen, such as from South America... by those who are rich but not rich enough to be happy and live well in world around us...

And you know what, folks, from a time when, as a poor single woman, I was working to make a living to help my own family, I began to learn of those in the United States and from other countries who had much worse living conditions than we had ever had... AND, during the last decade, I have taken time to listen to multiple news sources and have read books from people who had the qualifications to help me learn more about what and why things had reached the point where we could in 2016 vote in a television reality character who had a background of bankrupted corporations, and a history of getting federal funds, while not following laws related to renting to all people, et.al. I Now Know Stuff...

And one thing I know is that the republican political party is the reason in almost every situation when guns and climate are being discussed that they have refused to even negotiate--or they may play at it, even approve it, only later to also agree to overturn what improvements have been made... 

Then beginning in 2016, it was the now president who began to either pull out of what was already established as a working group planning for the future, or removing the regulations and laws that had been put in place by earlier presidents to respond to these two important needs.

Let's face it, these two issues result in the most deadly situations that can occur. Yet congressional republicans continue to not only not support, but in some cases refuse to even negotiate on these subjects!

You know folks when I listened to the above video, I hesitated to include it, even if what was said was true.  You see, it was using satire to spotlight exactly what and how the republican party is treating the majority of United States citizens. It has exploded during this last term of the Trump presidency... So, why and how do I, we, think that anything can be done. Decades have gone by and little has been done to regulate and control guns... Decades have also gone by when not only is nothing being done on the climate crisis. In fact, many of the safety regulations have been removed by this administration... And they actually try to deny any problems with our environment. While we all watch and see more and more signs of natural and man-made created problems... Isn't it time that we begin, again, listening to our experts in science related to future plans for wind or other options...

Isn't it time that we ignore the claims of conservatives pushing pro-life, while at the same time, that same party is allowing children to be killed in devastating ways? What can we do but assume that their moral code is either ignored or not even known to exist? Just trying to understand how to proceed within this, right now, badly damaged country...

You know, folks, I woke up to a wonderful dream this morning. I was back to a time when I was young, my mother was still alive and we were living in a little town called New Geneva. There was a small store there and a woman ran that store. It was a day that Bertha, the owner and a member of our church, had fixed a meal to sell as a special. Time had no meaning, so I was also working and had come home wondering about what to fix for supper so I stopped in that little store... It smelled wonderful. The meal was Baked Ham, scalloped potatoes, green beans and creamed new onions... I have no idea how that last item got on the menu in "my" dream since I don't think I've ever tasted them... But I woke up happy. I woke up knowing that I had been given freedom to be very specific about what the republican party is attempting to do to the United States... And to all God's children... I knew that the stuff I had learned was to be openly shared and documented and sent out to whoever wanted to learn more... Speaking Truth is our Freedom!

Because, you see, I had also had a song identified... Almost Persuaded. Some of you may know that this is one of the songs that can be used at a closing of the sermon where the pastor performs what is called an altar call. It is a time when individuals who have not yet decided might have been persuaded by what was learned on that day, and would choose to formally received Jesus as our Savior...

I never really liked the song, but now I ran through the words, especially as it ended... where the one singing might be in some way affected, but is not really ready to give up what he or she thinks a Christian life might mean to them personally...The individual decides that "some more convenient day..." may be the one... But not that day...

And I wondered just how someone else had gone about deciding whether to follow a god... And then in amazement actually, I wondered whether each of us has created their own god... How else can religions have been formed in so many ways and by so many different people, Yet assume or believe that their god is the one god... 

But mostly I wonder just how religion and politics can ever be interactive without Love...without truth?

Or, at least, a basic moral code that would be acceptable to all people...

There wasn't a thing about this book that I didn't agree with. That was a confirmation needed at this particular time when the days have one thing said only to hear that it has been changed by the next day or even the next news program. Life in such chaos is not only confusing, but is not sustainable, given that there is no way any of us can really be secure in hearing, or, stating what they consider facts...

On the other hand, Reverend Warnock has opened my eyes to the value of the Book of Isaiah, and perhaps more, in helping to deal with today's world... For we know that the Bible has been interpreted to mean one thing while another might believe some other meaning... Or perhaps we just need more people like Raphael Warnock explaining how and when the old testament words reflect on today's world...

Because right now, many still believe that Trump was chosen by God... And, at least in one way, perhaps I agree... Because he certainly has opened the eyes of millions of people across the world and we can see why scripture says that the rich man will never find a home with God...

Key to this book, therefore, is finding the proof of Truth AND Love in Reflecting on the Moral Code of America... Confirming that something extreme has happened to create an atmosphere where words of our citizens have different meanings based upon a political party which is using criminal actions to try to stay in power and recreate a nation in the image of male white supremacists who are paying for their political officials to do what is best for the rich rather than for the majority of the United States citizens... Wow! That's a long sentence, but it seems to be accurate. LOL

Warnock ends with a CODA telling about a little country called Liberia--Land of the Free. It is a location where Reverend Warnock visited on a mission trip. It was formed at a time when some who lived in America were going back to Africa after slavery had been abolished, or at least, proclaimed by the government. This small place was working hard to create some part of the freedom known in America, even naming their capital city in honor of James Monroe, who supported repatriation. But this small location has had similar problems of civil unrest as has occurred in America... Yet they continue to believe... Warnock spoke at the local Baptist church about how the two areas have seen similar pains of separation of people. But our Senator confirmed there and now that he continues to support our country--even one which is now so divided. He urges us to recognize the dangers of our divisions. Of allowing demagogues* with no vision to deepen the differences and tear down what has been built with blood and sacrifice.

Urging for a future of hope for everyone, as Isaiah shared so clearly:

As the book closes, the Reverend shares that if the earth cannot sustain us, still those who are the least of these shall be with him... but to ensure that freedom shall survive, we must all work to raise the valleys, those of us who are in the lower "classes" of society, while the mountains--those at the top of society, the rich, shall fall lower... I've tried to share my understanding of this scripture... so I hope I've at least given you sufficient info to conduct your own research... For our Lord is stating that we must work to support the lowest in our land through voter selection and working against those who've corrupted out nation's government... 

I believe this book should be on your bookshelf and read before November...

God Bless

Gabby

*a political leader who seeks support by appealing to the desires and prejudices of ordinary people rather than by using rational argument.

"a gifted demagogue with particular skill in manipulating the press"