by TR Kohler
Another after, they are both tearing toward the water, a stand-up paddleboard and the turquoise Pacific calling their names.
Epilogue
The amount of time that passes is longer than Kari Ma expected. A response to a relatively simple question, merely asking President-Elect Wilson Pruitt how his father is doing.
A reasonable inquiry given it has been a couple of days since the elder Pruitt left The Ranch.
Time enough since his visit with Anika Purna to have a good idea as to whether or not it worked. If the cancer ravaging his body had been eliminated.
Head turned to the side, Wilson Pruitt makes a point of avoiding the camera. Gaze fixed on some indeterminate point, he remains that way as his eyes glisten. As his nostrils flare.
As several deep inhalations are taken, trying to prevent himself from breaking into outright sobs.
A response that answers Kari’s question without him saying a single word.
Body fixed in such a pose for nearly two solid minutes, when Pruitt does eventually turn back to regard her, red permeates the sclera of his eyes. His cheeks are blushed and slightly puffy.
“Thank you,” he whispers. “You, and the girl, and the man that went and got her, and...”
Before he can go any further, Kari cuts him off with a simple, “You’re welcome, sir.”
“From this point on, if you need anything, you only have to ask.”
“Thank you, that’s very generous,” Kari replies.
Shaking his head slightly, Pruitt replies, “No, this isn’t me being generous. I’m not sitting here giving lip service to a room full of donors or delivering some speech.
“Your program, whatever it needs. Funding, resources. I’m even appointing Perry Walker, my Deputy Chief of Staff, to serve as our direct liaison.”
“Thank you, Mr. President-Elect,” Kari says. “I’m glad we were able to help, and I’m glad your father is doing well.”
Again succumbing to the same bit of emotion that had stifled him moments before, Pruitt bobs his head. His cheeks bunch up as he presses his mouth into a tight line. His eyes narrow to slits in the face of another wave of oncoming tears.
A tempest that this time he is unable to beat back, giving his leave with a simple wave before extending a hand and ending the videocall.
A blessed sign off for both parties.
“Well, that was...” Doc begins.
Using the mouse on her desk to close the videoconferencing window on her computer, Kari makes sure the connection is completely disconnected before leaning back in her chair. Folding her hands in her lap, she turns her gaze to Doc across from her and says, “Yeah.”
“Is he always so...” Doc says, again letting his voice drift. Waving his hands before him, he makes to try and conjure the right words from thin air, seemingly coming up with nothing.
A finishing statement that Kari can only guess at, there being more than a few viable options.
“Appreciative?” she ventures.
“I was thinking more like emotional,” Doc offers, “but yeah, that too.”
The word far less pointed than she had expected, Kari raises her eyebrows in a small shrug. “No, and no.”
Lifting the towel clutched tight in his massive paw, Doc runs it back over his head. An unnecessary gesture that seems to become a habit, even now as his scalp remains free of a single drop of sweat.
A tic, as much a part of him as the coffee consumption or the gray sweatshirts.
“What do you make of that direct liaison business he mentioned?” he asks.
Rotating a few inches to the side, Kari fixes her gaze on a folder sitting next to her keyboard. A file matching the one on Anika Purna that she gave to Kidman just a couple of days earlier.
The latest in another round of research, this one even further away than the last.
“Guess we’ll see,” Kari replies. “We were pretty forthright about our autonomy before ever agreeing to this.”
In her periphery, she sees as Doc jabs a finger her way.
“Exactly.”
Having thought the same thing when Pruitt first mentioned the new position, Kari pushes it aside for the time being. How that will look moving forward, there is no way for them to know.
No need for them to fret about it at the moment.
Not with plenty of things still needing to be done where they are.
Taking up the file, Kari extends it across the desk. A reach that makes it barely halfway, Doc rising just far enough from his seat to accept it before falling back in the chair.
An unceremonious return that causes the wood to creak slightly as he drops the file onto his lap and flips it open.
A cleft appears between his brows as he studies the top sheet.
“Jakarta,” he says, raising his attention to look her way. “Isn’t that-”
“Yes,” Kari inserts. “And I think there’s someone there that can help us.”
Turn the page for a sneak peek of Mike’s Place, A Bulletproof Novel Book 1.
Sneak Peek
Mike’s Place, A Bulletproof Novel Book 1
In the semi-darkness of the space tucked up tight beneath the machinery, the glowing red digits stand out plainly. Bright block numbers counting backward, steadily working their way down from sixty.
Less than a minute before the ending Mike has been dreading all evening comes to fruition.
A scene infinitely worse than what he’s found at any of the other locations. Incalculable destruction, this time within one of the busiest sectors of Jakarta.
No way of avoiding being seen. Certainly, no chance at escaping without mass casualties.
“Oh, sweet Jesus,” Tania mutters beside him, again bringing her best friend into the conversation. Yet another invitation that will no doubt go unanswered.
“Get out of here,” Mike whispers. A sideways comment made while focusing entirely on the numbers continuing to dwindle down. Precious seconds before an inevitably he can do nothing to prevent.
An ending he already foresees along with the pain it will inflict upon him.
“Now,” he adds. Jutting his chin to the side, he finishes with, “And take her with you.”
Not one word of what was just uttered is up for debate. Not a conversation about the best way for her to exit. No back-and-forth about what his next steps are.
Sentiments that he expects were made clear in his tone.
If not, by his striding directly away from both her and the young woman lying unconscious on the floor between them. Trusting that his impromptu partner will do as instructed, he goes deeper into the cavernous space that comprises the main floor of the warehouse.
Each step spiking the anticipation, the agitation, within him.
For days now, he has been playing catch up. Ever since that woman first walked into his bar and threatened to decapitate someone with her cane.
Time spent chasing ghosts. Trying to put together the evidence spread before him. Match it against whatever memories or experiences he still has lingering from his previous life.
An approach that wasn’t necessarily wrong, but it damned sure wasn’t right.
Not if he is going to get out ahead of things. Finally, put an end to all of it.
A realization that fuels him as he walks directly up to the device resting at the base of the machine. A conveyor belt lined with metal rollers all waiting to become shrapnel. Flying projectiles that will disintegrate anything nearby.
Already, he has taken one quick peek inside the duffel bag. Leaving the top peeled back, he can still see the intricate web of explosives stowed inside.
A concoction meant to start a cascade effect, taking out not just the building he stands in, but a decent chunk of the crowd gathered outside. And a few of the neighboring buildings. And even pieces of the two major thoroughfares that bisect the area.
Wrenching it away from the base of the mechanical apparatus, Mike grasps a strap for the bag in either hand. Adrenaline starting to seep into h
is system, he carries it before him. Arms held at ninety-degrees, he duckwalks away.
A straight march as his gaze flicks between the timer dwindling down and the warehouse around him.
Quick passes as he searches for the optimal spot. The place where he can dispose of the thing in a way only he can.
The fact that it is going to hurt like hell be damned.
The most important part of the assemblage is the closure. A multi-faceted final step that is so much more than simply screwing down the metal cap onto the end of the pipe. A slow, methodical process that means ensuring not a single grain of gunpowder works its way into the threads. That the carefully placed fuse inside isn’t jostled in the slightest, knocking it from equilibrium.
That everything within is packed just tight enough to hold it secure for upcoming transit.
Otherwise, the whole damn thing is wasted. Nothing more than the world’s ugliest paperweight.
A trophy announcing the maker’s failure to all who may see it.
Magnified more than five times its actual size by the magnification glass extended out from the wall beside him, Firash stares down at his newest creation. Thick-framed glasses perched on the tip of his nose, his eyes are squinted to nothing more than slits.
Beads of sweat travel through his close-cropped hair. They lay in a heavy blanket across his forehead. Drip from the tip of his nose and chin.
Oversized droplets, adding to those already saturating the stained cotton tank top he wears. Perspiration from the combination of the oppressive humidity in Java and the concentration needed for his current task.
A continuation of a project now more than a week in the offing. His first in more than three years. An offer coming from a most unexpected source, luring him back into a life believed to have been left behind three years prior.
A proper use for skills long held dormant.
His entire worldview reduced to the enlarged image before him, Firash moves with extreme care. A steady hand honed through years of dedication to the art of destruction.
Muscle memory returning to the fore as if no time has passed at all.
Taking up the metal cap from the bench before him, Firash moves it into position. Placing it directly above the pipe held tight in a vise, he lowers the endpiece down and begins to turn it. A gentle fitting, taking care to make sure the threads align.
No unnecessary movement.
No jostling of anything inside.
In this moment, nothing else matters. Not the heat in the small shack that he calls a home. Not the sway of the palm fronds rising high above or the animals no doubt lurking in the jungle outside his door.
Not the people that will show up later to pick up his newest creation or even the self-righteous bastard that is covering the tab for his work.
Nothing save the slow turning of the metal piece. The way the pre-cut threads spiral downward, tightening it into place. The compact design that is attained once it is complete, the device barely a foot in length, capable of knocking out an entire corner of the building where it will be deposited.
A matching piece to the half dozen already completed. Solid iron soldiers lined up on the bench nearby, ready to be deployed.
Implements designed to take down not just the next target in order, but the things it represents. The product it produces and the people flown in to run it.
The emblem stamped on the side of the building and the flag that flies high overhead.
Mental images that Firash keeps at bay until the final moment the task is complete. An instant that arrives once the cap will go no further, the tension of the moment broken as he rocks back in the wheelchair where he is seated.
Snatching his glasses from the tip of his nose, he glances at the clock hanging from the wall beside him. The sole thing adorning any of the walls inside the structure, there not as decoration, but to serve a very specific purpose.
One it fulfills as he registers the time, running it against the schedule already laid out in his mind.
A window that he is still well ahead of as he nods once before replacing the glasses on the tip of his nose.
And immediately moves to begin the next in line.
Continue reading Mike’s Place Fall 2021: dustinstevens.com/MPwb
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Author’s Note
Hello, friends!
For those that have been following my work for some time now, you may have noticed two distinct things about this book. First - and most apparent - is that it marks a return to my TR Kohler pseudonym after some time away. A measured pause to step back from what my original intent was for this space so I could properly plan and outline how I hope for things to look moving forward.
A sequence that this is but a single part of, with much more set to arrive in the very near future. (For a sneak peek of what that will be, read on for an excerpt from the next in order, Mike’s Place – A Bulletproof Novel)
The second thing that you likely picked up on is this was a bit of a departure from my usual stories. A lateral step away from traditional thriller/procedurals into a world where things like special abilities exist. Stories that I hope read like a cross between a traditional adventure novel and a Marvel movie script, meant to combine classic action elements with some things I don’t often delve into, all set in a shared world that should look quite familiar.
An amalgam of wondrous people and adaptations, all hiding in plain sight. An endeavor that is only possible because of you and your unending support, for which I am eternally grateful.
As always, I’d love to hear your thoughts on the new line. Please feel free to review or contact me directly at [email protected].
Until next time, happy reading!
Much love,
Dustin, writing as TR Kohler
Bookshelf
Works Written by TR Kohler:
Hunter Series:
The Hunter
Street Divorce
Coming 2022
Jumper Series:
Into The Jungle
Out To Sea
Coming 2022
Bulletproof Series:
Mike’s Place
Coming 2021
Translator Series:
Translator
Coming 2022
Works Written by Dustin Stevens:
Reed & Billie Novels:
The Boat Man
The Good Son
The Kid
The Partnership
Justice
The Scorekeeper
The Bear
The Driver
The Promisor
The Ghost
Coming 2022
Hawk Tate Novels:
Cold Fire
Cover Fire
Fire and Ice
Hellfire
Home Fire
Wild Fire
Friendly Fire
Coming 2021
Zoo Crew Novels:
The Zoo Crew
Dead Peasants
Tracer
The Glue Guy
Moonblink
The Shuffle
Smoked
Coming 2022
Ham Novels:
HAM
EVEN
RULES
My Mira Saga
Spare Change
Office Visit
Fair Trade
Ships Passing
Warning Shot
Battle Cry
Steel Trap
Iron Men
Until Death
Standalone Thrillers:
Four
Ohana
Liberation Day
Twelve
21 Hours
Catastrophic
Scars and Stars
Motive
Going Viral
The Debt
One Last Day
The Subway
The Exchange
Shoot to Wound
Peeping Thoms
The Ring
Decisions
Standalone Dramas:
Just A Game
Be My Eyes
Quarterback
Children’s Books written by
Dustin with Maddie Stevens:
Danny the Daydreamer…Goes to the Grammy’s
Danny the Daydreamer…Visits the Old West
Danny the Daydreamer…Goes to the Moon
(Coming Soon)
About the Author
TR Kohler is the pseudonym for bestselling author Dustin Stevens. A new platform allowing him to create a universe filled with ordinary characters possessing extraordinary abilities. A host of different talents and enhancements, adding a new dimension to the action-adventure thrillers readers have come to love.
Writing under his own name, Stevens is the author of more than sixty novels. Among them are the award-winning Reed & Billie series, Hawk Tate, HAM, My Mira Saga, and a number of standalone novels.
A member of both the International Writers, Inc. and the Mystery Writers of America, he calls a number of different places home, each the setting for at least one of his previous works.
He can be reached at [email protected].