In no particular order, and with apologies to any I may inadvertently overlook:
The writers—T.F. Allen, Lee Child, Anthony Franz, Barry Lancet, Jon Land, Bill McCormick, Brad Meltzer, Christopher Reich, James Rollins—who already know how to do it. Read their books if you haven’t already done so, and you’ll see for yourself. Writing is an incredibly busy profession. For those who generously and graciously took time out from their demanding schedules to read my manuscript and favor me with their praise, encouragement, and fraternity, there is little that could make them more noble, and me feel more welcome and grateful.
The editors—Charlotte Herscher and Stephanie Cook, and others informally as well—who beat me up, over and over, and who put up with me when I resisted. Through it all, they have made me a better writer—and JK’s Code a better story.
The loyal members of my beta readers team who toiled over multiple drafts of JK’s Code—Todd Allen, Barbie Barak, Mark Barak, Hollace Brown, Larry Callagy, Cheryl Deariso, Stephen End, Lew Henkind, Larry Lugash, Mike Lurey, Marla Markman, Bill McCormick, Jaye Rochon, Sonny Wallensky, and Chuck Yarling—and made it better for their efforts.
The professionals—Cindy Doty, Sue Ganz, Jared Kuritz, Marla Markman, Jaye Rochon, Gwyn Snider, and everyone at Gander House Publishers—who have helped get my message out and make sure JK’s Code looks like a book, inside and out. They have made sure you know this story exists, how and where to find it, and why you might want to read it. And, finally, they have ensured my website and newsletters are informative and entertaining and are worth visiting and reading. While I’m unequivocally grateful for the help and support of everyone mentioned, the contributions of the magnificent Js—Jared Kuritz, publicist extraordinaire and co-founder of Strategies PR, and Jaye Rochon, social media and graphics specialist extraordinaire and founder of Clever Unicorn—are especially invaluable because without them you might not know I exist!
And last, but certainly not least, the members of my family—the Wife, Barbie; the Brother, Gregg; the Son, Mark, who never ceases to amaze his mom and dad that he can do whatever he wants, and do it well; and the Granddaughters, Madison and Peyton—all of whom have provided me with their own special kind of love, support, and sustenance.
AUTHOR NOTE
THANK YOU FOR READING JK’s Code. I hope you enjoyed it. If you did, I think you’ll also enjoy three more in the Brooks/Lotello thriller series, The Amendment Killer, The Puppet Master and Payback, each on sale wherever books are sold. Pick your poison: hardcover, trade paperback, ebook or audiobook. Hopefully, enticing samples of each appear for your reading pleasure at the end of this work.
If you are not among my growing reader community who have already done so, please sign up for my newsletter at www.ronaldsbarak.com to learn everything exciting about me (well at least my writing), including when and where my books can be purchased. Hey, what’s an occasional additional email in your inbox?
If you enjoyed JK’s Code, I will be eternally grateful if you will spread the word wherever and however you can. Please tell a friend, or ten, and post a brief online review wherever you look for good books. It’s easy (honest) and exciting (well, at least for me it is). Simple instructions on how to post online reviews can be found at www.ronaldsbarak.com/how-to-leave-an-online-review. Besides growing my fan base, it will impress my family and friends, who still aren’t convinced why I do all this.
Thanks for connecting and for all your support.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
RON BARAK, Olympic athlete, law school honors graduate, experienced courtroom lawyer, is uniquely qualified to write this suspenseful novel that will appeal to all political and legal thriller aficionados. Ron and his wife, Barbie, and the four-legged members of their family reside in Pacific Palisades, California.
To learn about preorder availability, new book launches, and limited-time discounts, please connect with and follow Ron by visiting:
www.bookbub.com/authors/ronald-s-barak
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To book Ron to speak, please contact [email protected].
MORE … BROOKS AND LOTELLO
Want more of Brooks and Lotello? Please read the following samples of The Amendment Killer, The Puppet Master and Payback, each on sale now wherever books are sold.
WE HAVE YOUR GRANDDAUGHTER. Here’s what you need to do.
Thomas T. Thomas III reviewed the language. Again. He closed the phone without hitting send. Yet.
He stared through high-powered binoculars from atop the wooded knoll. As always, the girl hit one perfect shot after another.
Cassie Webber. Age 11. He’d been tailing her for three months. It seemed longer.
She was chaperoned everywhere she went. Two-a-day practices before and after school. Her dad drove her in the morning. He watched her empty bucket after bucket and then dropped her off at school. Her mom picked her up after school, ferried her back to the practice range, and brought her home after daughter and coach finished. Mom and daughter sometimes ran errands on the way, but always together. Even on the occasional weekend outing to the mall or the movies, the girl was constantly in the company of family or friends. Having someone hovering over me all day would have driven me batshit.
His childhood had been different. When Thomas was her age, he walked to school on his own. And he lived a lot farther away than the girl. His daddy had never let his driver chauffeur him around. Wasn’t about to spoil him. Spare the rod, spoil the child. Didn’t spoil me that way either.
He kept telling himself patience was the key. But his confidence was waning. And then, suddenly, he’d caught a break. The girl’s routine had changed.
She started walking the few blocks between school and practice on her own. Dad dropped her off at morning practice and Mom met her at afternoon practice instead of school. Only a ten minute walk each way, but that was all the opening he needed.
Everything was finally in place. He would be able to make amends. He would not let them down.
This time.
She completed her morning regimen, unaware of Thomas’s eyes trained on her from his tree-lined vantage point. No doubt about it, he thought to himself. She was incredibly good. Driven. Determined.
And pretty.
Very pretty.
He relieved himself, thinking about her. A long time … coming. Haha! As the girl disappeared into the locker room, he trekked back down the hill, and climbed into the passenger side of the van. He returned the binoculars to their case. He removed the cell from his pocket, and checked the pending text one more time.
Moments later, the girl emerged from the locker room, golf bag exchanged for the backpack over her shoulders. She ambled down the winding pathway, waved to the uniformed watchman standing next to the guardhouse, and crossed through the buzzing security gate. She headed off to school.
Without taking his eyes off her, Thomas barked at the man sitting next to him. “Go.”
CASSIE LEFT THE PRACTICE range, looking momentarily at the clock on her phone. School began at eight. She had plenty of time.
She strolled along the familiar middle-class neighborhood route to school, sticking to the tree-hugged, concrete sidewalk. Well-kept houses on modest-sized manicured lots, one after another, adorned both sides of the paved street that divided the opposing sidewalks.
Mouthing the words to the song streaming through her earbuds, she made a mental note of a few questions from her morning practice to ask Coach Bob that afternoon.
Using her ever present designer sunglasses—a gift from her grandparents—to block the sun’s glare, Cassie texted her best friend Madison:
Hey, BFF, meet u in cafeteria in 10. Out after 1st period to watch ur mom & my poppy in S Ct—how dope is that? 2 excited 4 words!
As she hit “Send,” she was startled by the sound of screeching tires. She looked up from her ph
one and saw a van skid to the curb a few houses ahead of her. A man in a hoodie jumped out and charged straight at her.
She froze for an instant, but then spun and raced back in the direction of the clubhouse. “Help! Help!! Someone help me!!!”
As she ran, she looked all around. No one. She saw no one. The guard kiosk was in sight, but still over a block away. Does he want to hurt me? Why? Why me?
Hearing the man gaining on her, she tried to speed up. If I can just get close enough to the gatehouse for someone to help me. She glanced back, shrieking at the top of her lungs, just as the man lunged. He knocked her to the ground, shattering her glasses in the process. “What do you want?! Leave me alone! Get off me!!!”
She saw him grappling with a large syringe. “No!” She screamed even louder, clawing and kicking him savagely—until she felt the sharp stab in the back of her neck. Then nothing.
THOMAS GLANCED AROUND TO make sure there were no witnesses. He yanked the girl’s limp body and attached backpack into his arms. He stumbled to keep his balance. Her backpack opened and spilled its contents to the ground, a bunch of books and papers. Shit! Not so fucking easy. He hauled her to the back of the van. As if on cue, his accomplice, Joseph Haddad, opened the rear doors. Thomas managed to lift the girl up to Haddad, who pulled her into the cargo area. Thomas ran back and gathered up the books and papers from the sidewalk. He returned to the van and stuffed them in the backpack. He made sure its latch was now secure.
His breathing had become labored, but Thomas was more interested in the girl’s vitals than his own. He climbed into the van and checked her pulse. It was a little weak, but she seemed stable. He’d done his homework and opted for more of the drug than less. He wanted her out of sight as quickly as possible.
Thomas preferred to keep her alive. For now. Might help him control the grandfather. But if she ODs, so be it. Just a matter of time anyway.
He took stock of his wounds, acknowledged to himself how tough the brat was. He taped her mouth shut, placed a hood over her head, and handcuffed her to the inside of the van.
He downloaded the contents of her phone to his, verified the transfer completed, and then used the butt of his revolver to demolish her phone. He stored the remains in a plastic bag partially filled with rocks.
“Damn, Thomas,” Haddad shouted from the driver’s seat. “The hell you doing? We need to get the fuck outta here.”
Thomas ignored Haddad. He climbed outside the van with the plastic bag in hand and looked around again to make sure no one was watching. He hurried back to where he’d knocked the girl to the ground. He scooped up the scattered remains of her sunglasses, added them to the plastic bag, and returned to the van.
Satisfied that he had removed all evidence and that there were no onlookers he needed to eliminate, he scrambled into the passenger seat and stored his gun and leg holster in the glove compartment.
“Take the route I gave you,” Thomas said to Haddad. “Make sure you stay under the speed limit.”
Five minutes later, they crossed the Potomac. Thomas directed Haddad to pull over and stop. He rolled down his window, tossed the weighted plastic bag into the river, and watched it sink below the surface. Let’s see what anyone does with her damn Find Phone app now.
He looked over his shoulder and observed the girl. Nothing.
“Okay, let’s head to the cabin. Mind the speed limit.”
“When this is all over, you oughta think about renting yourself out as an echo.”
Thomas scowled at Haddad, but said nothing further.
THOMAS REMOVED THE HOOD, tape, and handcuffs, and the girl’s backpack.
She’d be dead in a week no matter how the Court ruled, but she’d be less of a nuisance in the interim if she didn’t know the fate that awaited her. Nicer digs would give her false hope. Besides, he’d had some time to kill—so to speak—before he grabbed her. And putting his design and construction skills to work while he waited beat working on crossword puzzles and was … oddly therapeutic: a stocked mini-refrigerator beneath a small open cabinet with two shelves and a microwave sitting on top of the cabinet. The air-conditioning system he’d installed was working fine. He’d also rigged a portable bathroom in the corner, fully equipped with toilet, sink, shower, and even a second, larger cabinet with a few changes of clothes and toiletries. Always like my ladies to smell nice.
Written instructions for her if she woke up were on the table next to the bed. He really did hope she was just sleeping it off. The grandfather might insist on some form of evidence that she was alive. And well. He took out his phone, snapped a few pictures of her. Live video would, of course, be a lot more convincing. But she wasn’t moving. The pictures would have to do if necessary.
AS THOMAS SHOT THE still pictures of the girl, he noticed a small device protruding from her pant pocket. He froze, scared he might have missed a second GPS monitor in addition to the one destroyed with her phone. He had an involuntary urge to turn and look behind him. At what?
Cautiously, he pulled whatever the object was away from her body, spotting an almost invisible, clear, miniature plastic line coming off one end of the gadget and disappearing under her T-shirt. Now more curious than cautious, he peeled back the girl’s top and saw the other end of the thin line—disappearing into her belly, no less.
His mind was racing. One question after another. What the hell is that? Steroids? Is this why she plays golf so well? Does she have health issues? Does she play golf like she does despite a medical problem? Is this thing sending messages somewhere? He wondered what would happen if he removed it.
He had to decide. If he left it in place, the girl was in control. If he removed it, he was in control. He grabbed the line where it entered her stomach, and pulled. It popped right out. Nothing. Just a couple drops of blood. Quiet. No alarm bells. At least none that he could hear.
Not happy. He hated loose ends. Literally.
He’d had no time to examine the contents of the girl’s backpack when it opened and spilled out on the street. He emptied it out on the bed next to her and sifted through the contents. He found a bunch of school items, including those he had previously spilled and retrieved when he’d seized her. And a zippered canvas bag. He unzipped the bag and peered inside.
“WE’VE ACTUALLY HAD TWO prior constitutional conventions, Anne. The first in 1781, when the thirteen states adopted and ratified our first Constitution, the Articles of Confederation. The second in 1787, when the Articles of Confederation were repealed and replaced by our second Constitution. The one we still have today. The NoPoli convention last July 4th was actually the country’s third constitutional convention.”
“And the details of the convention?”
“A great deal of planning and work went into structuring our convention, but its conduct was fairly straightforward—and democratic. You reported it.
Delegates participated from all fifty states—50,000 in number, plus another 20,000 alternates. Selected by the respective NoPoli chapters in every state, they assembled in the New Orleans Superdome and enacted the amendment by a two-thirds super-majority vote of each state delegation.”
Elliott made a living as a wordsmith, but Nishimura observed that Kessler was the stronger speaker. “Gentlemen, this would probably be a good time to take a moment to show our viewers exactly what this amendment looks like. Chris, would you please walk us through its provisions displayed on the giant electronic screen on the wall behind us?”
THOMAS LAUGHED OUT LOUD. Mystery solved. Not some kind of GPS.
The unzipped bag contained a partially used vial of insulin, a couple of syringes, and some other paraphernalia. What he’d just yanked out of the girl’s stomach was an insulin pump. He’d read about those somewhere. Geez, she’s a diabetic. Maybe she can reinsert the pump, he thought. If not, she’ll have to use those backup syringes. That’s obviously what they’re for. He wondered how long this insulin supply would last.
He returned everything to the backpack, includi
ng the pump he’d removed from the girl’s body—and perhaps irretrievably damaged. He dropped the backpack on the floor near the table with his note. He was on a tight schedule. No more time to admire his handiwork.
He locked the basement door, double-checked that it was secure, and ascended the stairs. He expected to find Haddad in the front room where he’d told him to wait and keep a lookout.
But Haddad was gone.
THOMAS LOOKED OUTSIDE AND saw Haddad leaning against a tree, smoking a cigarette, in full view of any hikers who might happen by.
Thomas was livid. He went out the front door and locked it behind him, again double-checking that it was secure.
“Thought I told you to stay put. Indoors. Out of sight.”
No response.
“Did you not hear me?”
Haddad glowered. “Needed some fresh air. And a smoke. What’s the fucking big deal? No one around here anyways. Just like we planned it.”
Thomas shook his head. “Like I planned it. Let’s go.”
Haddad turned and stepped toward the van. With lightning speed, Thomas reached across Haddad’s left side with his own left arm and latched onto Haddad’s right shoulder. He pulled hard on the right shoulder as he simultaneously grabbed and jerked down on a fistful of Haddad’s long hair just above the right ear. The loud snap of the man’s neck told Thomas his accomplice was now his former accomplice—even before the released body slumped to the ground.
THOMAS LOOKED DOWN AT Haddad’s body lying motionless on the ground. “Cigarettes are hazardous to your health, fool. So was your long, ugly mop of hair. You woulda done better with a buzz cut.”
Thomas knew that discarding Haddad had only been a matter of time, but it frustrated him that the timing turned out not to be of his own choosing. Especially when some of the work in the days ahead would have been easier spread over two backs.
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