She Is Risen (She Is Risen: The Gun Control Case Studies)

by Adams Irish, Travis

  SHE IS RISEN

  THE GUN CONTROL CASE STUDIES

  BY TRAVIS ADAMS IRISH

  Cover Design by Tierney Roberts

  She Is Risen. Copyright © 2013 by Travis Adams Irish. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Twitter account: @isiahsskirmish

  FIRST EDITION

  Dedication: For Tatyana Alexandra Khorishko, a brave and magnificent woman whom I admire more than anyone; my inspiration for the priestess character, and someone I love very much.

  To my mentors Jacque Turner-Schettler and Don Miles. I hope this work does justice for the strong wisdom you have shared. I’m very grateful.

  To Lonna Marie for performing a beautiful, original song, as featured in the audio version of this book. Please visit: www.LonnaMarie.com for more great music.

  Twitter: @LonnaMarie

  Performance and Editing by Lonna Marie

  Song Lyrics by Travis Adams Irish

  To Tierney Roberts for your beautiful and inspired cover artwork. Please visit: www.TierneyRoberts.com for some incredible artwork.

  Twitter: @TierneyRoberts

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  I. NATIVITY OF THE CALDERA

  II. PER DIEM

  III. WHAT HAPPENS IN THE JUNGLE

  IV. PARANOIA – RESERVATION FOR ONE

  V. SUNDOWN

  VI. REFLECTING ON THE DEVIL’S PROTÉGÉ

  VII. THE CASES – LORABELL CARDIGAN

  VIII. CARTEL ALL

  IX. THE CASES – MAN OF MANY MANIPULATIONS

  X. CARTEL EXODUS

  XI. THE CASES – DEVLIN IN THE DETAILS

  XII. ARMANI – DOES THIS MAKE ME LOOK DEAD

  XIII. DON’T TALK TO STRANGERS

  XIV. LET’S TALK PRESSURE

  XV. THE CASES – NOT YOUR ORDINARY BLOCK PARTY

  XVI. STATS & STRIPES – BRIEFING THE EAGLE

  XVII. IT’S BEEN A PLEASURE

  Part I. Your Move

  I. Nativity of the Caldera

  The earth shakes in the shadow of the massive Popocatepetl Volcano just a few miles outside of Mexico City. Beneath the surface stones are turned to dust as the earth wrestles with powerful forces of nature. From the crater, white plumes of smoke and ash shoot over 1,000 feet in the air. A fury is building deep within the center of the mighty mountain. Within its core, the decades of brutality and slaughter of innocent people have created the rebirth of a forgotten martyr. The dark mountain begins to quake with violent bursts of tectonic rage, and soon a plume of ash erupts nearly half a mile into the air as the crater bursts forth an unforgiving amount of pressure, exploding off the summit of the volcano, as if kicking open the doors of hell.

  In the intensity of the blast, those observing below can only witness with despair as the massive juggernaut unleashes its deadly payload into the cloudy, black sky. From just above the rim of the volcano, a pyroclastic flow of gas and ash begins to descend on the Mexican valley in its path. Like a deadly hand, it moves rapidly down the mountainside at 175 feet per second, extending its fiery fingers over every living thing, turning the earth bare and black. As the flow begins its descent toward the valley, raindrops start to pelt the ground, and a fierce wind blows against the deadly cloud of gas. Soon the wind speed reaches over ninety miles an hour, and drops of rain fall thick as the sea, thrown down from the enormous dark rainclouds above.

  An elderly woman stands less than a mile from the volcano. She is wearing a torn, straw hat that is now fully drenched by the deluge of violent rain. Her eyes are fixed on the 1,200 degree cloud of gas and ash that is barreling down the mountain to claim her home and family. She looks on with acceptance; not a hint of fear in her deep, blue eyes. Her thick, weathered skin shows the strength of a people who face death on a daily basis. The incendiary cloud approaches closer, and she puts her hands on her hips atop her tattered, salmon-colored shirt, standing proudly in her gray, home-made pants, waiting for the volcano to finish her. Her entire body is drenched in cold rainwater, and the chilly winds rip the straw hat from her head, carrying it into the massive cloud just 500 feet from her face. She purses her lips together hard after watching the treacherous cloud incinerate the hat.

  When the cloud is within 300 feet of the woman, it slows to a halt, like a dog being ordered by its master to stop attacking. Soon afterward, the heavy rains pour down amidst the hurricane-force winds, pounding the ash back to the earth, and extinguishing the deadly heat of the massive volcanic flow. Once the rains have drowned out the deadly eruption, brilliant rays of sunlight are cast through the thick, ominous clouds. The woman looks up at the heavens in awe, amazed to be alive, but also enjoying the spectacle of over a dozen beams of light breaking through the cloud cover, shining down on the wider, newly formed crater of the mountain. The black volcano no longer appears foreboding in the late afternoon sky; its summit is illuminated with brilliant white light, like a nativity of hope and righteousness.

  “My God!” The woman exclaims in Spanish, showing an expression on the verge of tears. “The holy mother has risen!”

  After the ash clouds abate, the earth is shown bare beneath the destructive forces of the volcanic eruption. Over 4,000 feet of scorched earth, laid out like a black towel of ash to welcome a new, and equally violent visitor.

  II. Per Diem

  ‘This is a horrible way to start the week,’ Devlin thinks to himself as he strides cautiously up the bustling Chicago city street on his way to a private videoconference. He looks down at the ink on his hand, the smudged numbers drawn with a fine-tipped black marker just a few hours ago. The IP address on his palm is as misshapen and mysterious as his life has become these past few days. As a former US Army Colonel he is no stranger to living on the edge, but this week feels more like tiptoeing alongside The Grand Canyon.

  Devlin twists his head from side-to-side, allowing his long blonde hair to swing a bit as he tries to gather his wits, feeling out of place, and needing a cathartic reprieve. His bright blue eyes are lit with determination as he walks through the city wearing an unflinching poker face. He rolls his tongue over his teeth like a tropical fish flailing on corral, frustrated to have not recently gone to the gym. His body is strong and tall, something reminiscent of the olden cowhands that used to work from sunrise to sunset.

  As he moves, his feet feel comfortable in a pair of Dover Split Toe Shoes from Edward Green, and his Armani Duster Coat keeps him warm under the expanse of gloomy rain clouds. He keeps his head down as he walks, admiring the smooth, red silk tie that bounces under his black polyester jacket.

  After traversing a few blocks, and checking to ensure he is not being followed, Devlin enters the tinted glass doors of the Time Is Money company; a host for virtual offices and executive suites. He steps up to the front counter, intrigued for a moment by the wall-mounted waterfall to his left amidst the faded lighting and modern interior design.

  “Can I help you?” The young receptionist asks, brushing back her short, red hair, which emphasizes her fair skin and sporadic freckles.

  “Yes, I booked a videoconference at eleven under Mr. Stinson.” Devlin says with a winning smile, pretending everything is business as usual.

  “Sure thing,” the young lady says with a smirk, flashing her blue eyes at him, “I have you booked in C3. Do you need support?”

  “Excuse me?” Devlin asks with a bit of confusion, resting his right hand on the sleek, black countertop that is nearly l
evel with his chest.

  “Do you need technical support?” The woman inquires with a confident grin and the stare of a tigress as she hands him a small, round key fob.

  “No, I’m good. Thanks.” He responds quickly, feeling himself starting to perspire at the thought of engaging the CIA on its own terms.

  Devlin ignores the flirtatious, smiling redhead, and with some hesitation, shuffles down the hall, across the expensive black carpet to a door marked C3. As he reaches the stainless steel doorknob, his right hand passes the fob above it while he uses his left to open the heavy, decorative oak door. The conference room opens up to him with delicate incandescent lighting, and there are six tall, black ergonomic chairs spaced evenly around an oak conference table. He wastes no time, closing the door behind him, and moving to the seat at the head of the table where a keyboard and mouse are waiting for his use. Devlin looks up at the eighty-inch LCD display to his left, watching a cursor move as he slides the mouse around on the conference table. He pulls up an Internet browser and looks down at his right hand as he types in the IP address with his left.

  “Hello, Devlin.” A woman says as she appears on the screen, looking at him in a manner that is halfway friendly and half otherwise.

  “Linda Rosenfeld.” Devlin nods at the screen with sudden surprise, looking up at her and then at the earpiece on the side of her head.

  Linda is seated behind an expensive cedar desk, watching him cautiously with her suspicious brown eyes. She is sporting a rich, red shade of lipstick and heavy makeup beneath her dirty blonde hair, which is pulled back into a neat ponytail with the long bangs draped over her forehead. The tall woman looks at Devlin like an objective in her day planner as she straightens her body to engage him.

  “I would say that I’m confused…” Devlin begins with a snide expression. “As to why Henri would connect me with his PR manager at a time like this, but I guess that makes sense… I’m sure The Congressman is listening, so let’s keep this short.”

  “Don’t worry about us tracing you,” Linda begins with a confident gaze, “we know that you’re at Time Is Money, just a few blocks from downtown… I also know that you just checked into room C3 for this conference bridge.”

  “What do you want, Linda?” Devlin demands with fading patience, surmising that the CIA has the upper hand. “Or, what does your MASTER from Henri Edwards North America want?”

  “Devlin, this is a delicate situation, but let me make you aware of a few ground rules.” The savvy business executive states, clasping her hands together on the shiny, glass surface of her desk. “We have already killed your passport, so that will prevent you from going Edward Snowden on us. All of your accounts and lines of credit are frozen, as I’m sure you’ve ascertained over the past few days.”

  “Right…” He replies with a slight nod, embodying a lack of enthusiasm.

  “However, at this time, you are still an employee in good standing with Henri Edwards North America.” She continues with a bright smile, placing her hands with palms downward on the glass. “We feel that this misunderstanding can still be rectified, and no one needs to cry foul, or breach of national security.”

  “Misunderstanding!?” Devlin raises his eyebrows with an incredulous stare. “Would you still call this a misunderstanding if that were your daughter at the hotel?”

  “Devlin, I’m well aware of the…” She raises her hands for a moment and lets them flop back down on the glass. “Situation here. We all have eclectic tastes when it comes to pleasure, and nothing that you saw happening was illegal.”

  “Right, it’s not illegal to deceive someone if they have no idea what the hell is going on…” Devlin spouts off with building rage. “I mean, for instance, if someone can’t see… If they can’t identify you, then they don’t know a crime was committed.”

  “Devlin, all the participants were well compensated for their time and everything that happened prior to your interruption was consensual…” Linda mutters with an electric stare. “The only person who could have faced charges for their actions that evening was you. And you should be more concerned about Yulia, and your future in this country…”

  “Is this how we go forward?” He replies with a serious demeanor. “An explanation, then a threat, and around we go... You’re worse than Henri, Linda, because you’re the enabler. How the hell do you live with yourself?”

  “Devlin, I’m here to broker a deal to get this train back on the rails.” She retorts with an earnest look, as if begging for a compromise. “Henri thinks of you like a son, and he really enjoys working with you… Don’t let one of his… quirks get in the way of what could be a promising career with H.E.N.A.”

  “A promising career doing what!?” He fires back, folding his arms in an indignant manner. “Pushing hardworking Americans over the edge by scaring the shit out them? …So that you can have more ‘data’ for your gun control case studies? I don’t really know what my job is supposed to accomplish, and I didn’t see that until now… If a woman is scared of being abducted, and we keep making that possibility seem real to her- just to trigger a potential… episode of gun violence? I mean is that what we do now for national security? Drive people past their breaking points until they shoot up their neighborhood?”

  “What you’re telling me is classified information,” she says dismissively, “and I can’t engage you on it further.”

  “Well, the project is what it is,” he admits, “but that doesn’t change what Henri did.”

  “Are you so perfect?” She erupts with a bit of passion. “Look at your record after you got back from Iraq; you cheated on Yulia with a stripper or two.”

  “That wasn’t about sex, you pinhead.” Devlin says with a fierce stare, narrowing his eyes and gripping the edge of the table as he looks up at her. “I needed someone to dump my war stories on, and the strippers were just convenient.”

  “Because you didn’t want to dump that on your wife?” Linda responds with a slight smile. “Not every man can get what he needs at home… Whether it’s someone to talk to about the war… or other things…”

  “Don’t fucking compare me to Henri!” Devlin says immediately, raising his left hand and pointing at the screen in a threatening manner. “Why am I talking to you, anyway? You’re no better than him… As long as you’ve got money in your purse and a shit ton of expensive shoes in your closet; you’re good to go.”

  “That’s bold talk from a man who used to kill people for living…” Linda says calmly, resting her chin on her hands as she leans forward. “Look, Colonel, I’m not playing games with you here. Henri has made a generous offer to wipe the slate clean and let you come back to the CIA. You can forget about what you saw, and reengage after having a face to face discussion with him.”

  “No.” Devlin says, shaking his head slowly, pushing back against the easy temptation that comes with her offer. “That’s the difference between us. I don’t forget what I saw in Iraq, and most of all, what I did there… When it comes to Henri, that image will always be burned in my mind, and no matter how you try to garnish it with words like consensual, and compensation; I know better. If you’d been in a war, you’d understand, everything catches up to us eventually…”

  “Devlin, I can see you’re going to be stubborn on this…” She says with an irritated expression. “You have twelve hours to accept Henri’s generous offer, or we’re going to bring the hammer down on your head… You’ll be marked as an enemy to this country; a traitor... There will be charges of stealing government property; our bomb sniffing dog, and your communications equipment. We’ll take your home, put your wife in the street, and destroy your reputation; all in the name of preserving national security.”

  “Everything you’re doing is to protect Henri’s reputation…” He begins with a hateful grimace. “First, you were his campaign manager, now you’re his public relations cleaning lady… He gets blood on his hands, and you’re right there to lick it from his fingers. We’re done here!”


  “I urge you to consider the offer.” She says with a fake ambience. “You have twelve-“

  Devlin disconnects the videoconference by closing the browser window before she can finish her sentence. He looks down at the delicate chrome and green arms inside his expensive silver wristwatch, breathing out with a slow, frustrated gasp. Within twelve hours, his life will turn into a manhunt, or he can go back and pretend that Satan doesn’t exist while they all cleanup at the craps table of life. ‘I hate you, Henri,’ he thinks to himself as he gets up from the large table. ‘I hate you more than ever; for putting this option at my feet.’ He decides to make the best use of his time, walking out toward the lobby as he thinks of a dozen ways to lose the surveillance team. Devlin tightens his hands into large fists, trying to decide if a clear conscience is worth all the devastation that will be coming his way in just twelve short hours.