July Short Stories and More

Debbi Mack

Jul 16, 2024

∙ Paid

Happy July! Hope you’re having a great summer. Keep cool and keep reading!

Here’s where we left off in Habeus Corpus (my Sam McRae novelette).

Episode Seven

Ramon entered with a large envelope clutched in one hand. I raised my coffee cup to snag his attention. He acknowledged me with a nod and moved toward the counter to place his order. As he waited for his drink, I used the time to finish Questions Three and Four. As I reconsidered Question Four, he plunked himself into a chair across from me and placed the envelope on the table.

I skipped the preliminaries. “Thanks for showing us that video.”

Ramon had the good grace to look slightly abashed. “Those men in the footage?” he said, not bothering to be more specific. “I’ve seen one of them before. I—” He stopped short, barely coughing out the word, then composed himself. “I didn’t want to get involved. But then I found this in my locker.” He tapped an index finger on the envelope.

“Let’s see what you got.”

As he removed the contents, I dug out the photo of Carla and the note from my files. Holding them nearly flush with the tabletop, I displayed the items to Ramon and asked, “Did you have these delivered to Room 405?”

Ramon flinched, then stared at them.

“I did not. I’ve seen them, though. And there’s more you’ll want to see.”

I slipped the photo and note back into Carla’s case folder, hoping like hell that he was right.

He sipped his coffee. “This is everything from the envelope.” He gestured toward the objects he’d produced—a burner phone, a flash drive, as well as copies of the same photo of Carla and the accompanying note. “I found them this morning. There was a note to me signed by one of the managers. He didn’t go into detail, but asked me to …” His voice trailed off into a second or two of silence.

He muttered a few Spanish words I couldn’t decipher, as he retrieved a folded paper from his shirt pocket. After unfolding it, he read, “Keep these in case something happens to me.” He tossed the note in with all the other potentially admissible stuff.

The note, sporting the same distinctive block lettering as the note to Carla, read:

Things are getting out of control. I think we both know why. Keep these in case something happens to me. Phil Rinaldo

“What’s he talking about?” I asked. “What’s out of control?”

Ramon visibly steeled himself. “Phil suspected someone on staff was paid off to hide cameras in rooms and get evidence that would ruin The Majestic’s reputation.”

It seemed the hospitality business wasn’t as hospitable to its own as it was to its customers.

“On the phone, you mentioned that Phil Rinaldo was dead. How did you know that?”

He nodded. “One of the cleaning ladies noticed an odor from Room 405. So, I go by the room to check it out. I—” He paused, blinking and breathing unsteadily, then collected himself. “I was shocked to see Phil lying there. Then, I go to my locker and this envelope’s there. Plus I heard the cops came by the hotel today.”

“What did you do when you found the body?”

“I reported it to security. They told me not to speak to the police, but to let management handle it.”

“Has anyone questioned you?”

Ramon shook his head. “Far as I know, only the hotel manager has been questioned. But rumors among the staff about that room are spreading. Eventually, it’s all going to come out.”

“Yeah,” I said, followed by a quick exhale of a laugh. “I would think so. Is the body still there?”

“I don’t know. I’ve been trying to stay out of it.”

I nodded, both in acknowledgment and concurrence. “What time did you find Phil Rinaldo?”

“About an hour before lunch. Around eleven, I guess. Maybe a bit before.”

Before or after Carla and I had stumbled across the body? I hadn’t noted the time, but we’d likely passed each other on the elevators.

Under the law, hotel rooms get the same Fourth Amendment protections as a private residence. Could a prosecutor argue that my anonymous tip, along with the odor from the room, provided the exigent circumstances needed to conduct a warrantless search of an occupied hotel room. Maybe. Maybe not.

“What made you come to me instead of mailing this to the police?” I thought about adding, “I’m not your lawyer,” but left that unspoken.

He shook his head. “I just … wish to avoid the police.”

That made two of us. Three, counting my client.

“But why me?”

He hesitated. “When you asked to see the video, I recognized one of the men.”

I opened the camera roll on my phone and found the photo of Wayne. “This one?”

“Sí. He’s a recent hire.”

“Well, guess what?” I explained how the body by the cemetery pond had been identified. Ramon’s eyes widened and I caught a trace of remorse in them.

“What do you know about his work for the hotel?” I asked.

“Phil told me his name was Warren and he was hired as a consultant. That’s all he would say. But the way he snuck around as he watched us work, I wondered if was a kind of spy.”

“Mmm-hmm,” I said, taking notes and waiting for more. When nothing more came, I verbally nudged him. “You mean, like a hidden shopper? For hotel services.”

“Maybe. Or maybe something worse.”

“Such as?” I wasn’t going to assume his worst thoughts.

“An efficiency expert. Someone who would judge whether the hotel should downsize its staff. Decide whether our jobs could be automated. Or someone to keep an eye on us. Make sure we weren’t slacking off. You know, taking too many breaks, things like that.”

Did they still hire people to do this sort of thing, or did they have an app for that? The question occurred to me, but what I asked was, “What’s covered under hospitality services?”

“Housekeeping, room service, maintenance.” He recited the names of departments as if they were obvious. They might have been, but I still needed the confirmation. That’s one of those things about lawyers. We understand the need to confirm what’s obvious to anyone else. Or to confirm the opposite.

“I take it management doesn’t use cameras to surveil your work areas.” I stated it in a tone that posed a question.

He shook his head. “Only outside the building. Anyway, when I questioned Phil about it, he said he assumed the guy was an efficiency consultant but wasn’t sure. Management claimed they brought on a consultant to generally assess our operations.”

A smooth answer that gave away nothing, like a bowl of fog. “And the hotel manager hired him?”

Ramon nodded. “He handles all the major hiring.”

“Did Catherine Daniels know?”

Ramon’s eyes widened and relaxed in the time it takes to blink. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Is Catherine Daniels your direct supervisor? And does she work for Phil?” The image of hotel management hierarchies flashed through my mind as I tried to picture who else, if anyone, would know why Wayne was hired.

“Ms. Daniels oversees operations, part of hospitality services. Phil is—was the desk manager. He’s kind of at the hub between upper management and everyone else.”

“Are you guys close?” I asked, wondering about their relationship since it seemed to be closer than one might expect between a near-executive manager and a worker bee. “Phil seems quite inclined to share with you.” I kept Phil alive in our thoughts with my use of the present tense.

“We’ve been friends a long time. We’re both part of a men’s book club.”

I wondered if it was a men-only book club or the reading was limited to male authors or just a book club for men who liked to read or an excuse to leave the house. But I didn’t ask.

“When I saw this, I remembered her.” Ramon nodded toward the photo of Carla and Wayne’s body. “From when you and your client watched the video. It made me wonder how many other people might have received photos like this one, except with live bodies.”

“The potential for blackmail could go much farther than the random hook-up,” I said. If anyone caught wind of the cameras, imagine the public relations nightmare for The Majestic. Wayne must have figured out who was behind it.

“Anyway, it seemed to me that your client was simply in the wrong room at the wrong time,” he said. “The cops can’t help her, but I figure you can.”

“I’ll do my best.” Let’s hope it’s enough.

EXCERPTS FROM NEW RELEASES

SENTINEL

DUFF OPENED HIS EYES AND FOUND HIMSELF ON HIS SIDE, HIS BODY armor hiked up to his nose, his right temple and right shoulder hurting like hell.

His jaw felt like he’d just taken a left hook from a heavyweight.

It was so dark at first that he thought it was nighttime, but quickly the choking fumes in his throat and lungs told him something else was going on.

A sudden loud banging sound, somewhere close, helped to bring him back to the present.

He felt around and quickly figured out he was in the back of an armored car that had flipped onto its right side.

Another bang, just ahead of him, sounded like something had slammed into the roof of the vehicle at high velocity.

There were three men in here with him; he couldn’t see them but he remembered now.

Two rapid pounding sounds came next, bullet impacts on armor, and now the smoke began to clear.

Condor was in front of him, on his side and moving. Caruth was strapped in behind the wheel, arms and head hanging down, either unconscious or dead.

Duff heard a voice, just a foot or so away from him on his left. “Fuck me.” Mike Gordon coughed, and Duff felt a splatter of either spit or blood on the side of his face.

He slowly sat up to help Gordon out of his seat. Condor spoke up now after a raspy cough. “Sound off.”

“Gordon’s good,” Mike said with a cough of his own.

“Duffy’s okay.”

Caruth was moving now. The South African shook his head and spoke weakly but with humor. “Andy C’s in the house.”

Suddenly, automatic gunfire raked the truck. Bullets pinged off the armor, snapped against the bulletproof glass of the windscreen.

Condor reached for his radio, but then a heavy machine gun somewhere out on the street laid down fire on the stricken vehicle.

Condor screamed to the men in back. “Back hatch! Back hatch! Bail, bail, bail!”

Duff climbed over the big crates of AK‑47s, making his way to the rear of the truck. He flipped the lever to open the hatch, then fell out of the door and onto the street, pulling his rifle along with him.

All the gunfire seemed to be directed at the front of the fallen Askar, so Duff used the machine to shield his body as he posted security for the other men while they bailed.

Almost instantly he saw a technical roll into view from a side street; a man stood in the back of a white pickup behind a Russian‑ made machine gun. Duff went prone on the asphalt and opened fire. His first half dozen shots hit the vehicle itself or sailed high, but then he slammed a .223 round into the machine gunner’s stomach, causing the bearded man to fold up and fall out of the bed of the vehicle. Turning his attention to the two men in the cab now, Duff fired until he saw blood splatters on the glass, and then the technical rolled slowly forward until it hit an empty food stall and stopped.

He felt someone kick his boot and looked back to see Gordon on one knee just behind him, covering to the west. Caruth crawled out of the back of the vehicle next, blood dripping out of his beard, and took up a position facing east.

The last man out of the ruined armored car was Conrad Tremaine, call sign Condor.

He stayed low, walking on his kneepads, until he had his M249 light machine gun out the back, and then he rose and peered around the side of the vehicle, just under the still‑spinning back left tire, six feet in the air.

He started to raise his weapon, but after a moment, he pulled his head back around.

He shouted to the three men around him. “PK shooter is reloading! We’re going to that wall! Move!”

Duff looked up and saw a long, low concrete wall around a parking lot in front of a two‑story building under construction. It looked like it could have been a shopping center of some sort, and Duff assumed he and the others would try to use the structure for cover as they bounded on foot away from the kill zone. He rose and led the way to the wall, his rifle up, and as soon as he came around the side of the fallen APC he began firing short bursts in the direction of where they’d been taking fire.

He wasn’t even trying to hit anything, that would have been too much to hope for at the moment; rather, he was simply trying to keep heads down while he and his mates got to cover.

In seconds he’d crossed the fifteen yards to the low concrete wall; he rolled over it, then crawled a few feet along the wall so he wouldn’t pop up right where he’d gone over. He brought his weapon up and emptied the rest of his magazine at a group of armed men positioned on a rooftop across the street while the other three contractors tum‑ bled over the wall next to him.

Tremaine rolled back to his kneepads, ducked down low, and then grabbed his radio. “J‑Bad Op Center, J‑Bad Op Center, this is Con‑ dor, we are in heavy contact from technicals and dismounts at this time, how copy?”

There was no response.

*****

#1 NYT bestselling author Mark Greaney’s debut international thriller, THE GRAY MAN, was published in 2009 and became a national bestseller and a highly sought-after Hollywood property.

Netflix released the film version of THE GRAY MAN, starring Ryan Gosling, Chris Evans, and Ana de Armas, in 2022.

Twelve subsequent Gray Man novels have been released to date, including his latest, THE CHAOS AGENT.

Mark is also the #1 New York Times bestselling author or co-author of seven Tom Clancy novels, including his most recent TOM CLANCY TRUE FAITH AND ALLEGIANCE. He collaborated with Tom Clancy on three Jack Ryan novels before Tom’s death in 2013.

RED METAL, a military thriller written by Mark Greaney and Lt Col Hunter R. Rawlings, USMC, became a New York Times bestseller in 2009, and ARMORED, the first book in the Joshua Duffy thriller series, was released in 2022. A sequel to Armored, Sentinel, was released on June 25th, 2024.

KING OF THE NIGHT

PROLOGUE

ATHENS, GREECE

Deep in the shallows where darkness lingered, a secret disrupted a delicate balance within the hallowed halls of freedom. Whispers in alleyways of depravity exposed shattered fragments of loyalty, tilting the scales of truth and power.

Chase Hardeman was not always a truth seeker, but he’d seen firsthand the depths those in power dove to keep their deepest secrets hidden. At times loyalty blurred the lines, bringing death at his hands. For that, he buried his shame in the graveyards of tormented souls. There was no doubt, he was a sinner, not a saint. So, how does a sinner fight in the shallows? One target at a time.

A grim silence echoed beneath a moonlit sky. Breathing steadied as he tucked the Sig Sauer (SIG) against his chest, moving stealthily through a parlor of the Vihkrov’s mega-yacht. Red lasers reflected off the windows, beaming across the interior. With his wetsuit partially on, he stood motionless in a corner, aiming the silencer at a shadow. Two quick shots left the body slumped against a glass door. More shadows appeared dead ahead. No hesitation. All neutralized, inviting an eerie silence back into the night.

Nearly a year out of sight, sailing across the oceans aboard the Midnight Moon, left him at a crossroads. He’d sworn to never take another life, and yet death reached out from the grave. Slipping below deck, his pace quickened toward the master bedroom. Ears zoned into the slightest sound. On a nightstand, an antique clock jackhammered as the seconds passed.

Carrying an extra twenty pounds of muscle on his bones, sweat seeped down his cheeks and neck. The Stars and Stripes tattoo sleeved on his forearm disguised a crude memory. The unthinkable never should’ve happened, but it did. And time had never healed—it merely tormented the waking hours.

Snapping out of a downward spiral, one that left empty bottles by sunrise, Chase slipped both arms into the wetsuit, pulled it over his shoulders, and zipped it tight. From a hidden compartment beneath the king-sized bed, he grabbed a leather-bound book, ammo, a rugged hard drive, and a small dented Speed Racer tin box. Before returning upstairs to the parlor, he shoved all of it in a waterproof backpack knowing his actions had sent him back to a legend he’d buried in the deserts of the Middle East.

A sense of urgency washed over him as unanswered questions played on an endless loop. When his eyes caught movement, he instinctively aimed the SIG with accuracy, ready to fire, surprised at how easily he’d once again crossed the lines. He eased his index finger off the trigger as a familiar voice stopped him.

“Quiet as an anchor outside,” Dax whispered.

“Everything rigged?”

“As good as it’s gonna be.”

Dax stood beside Chase, wearing an identical wetsuit, taking in the scene. For a moment, they stared at the lifeless bodies. A ritual done countless times as part of their covert operations under the Red Venture Group. Instincts and training returned as naturally as a Greek strolling through the Parthenon. Dax snapped photos of each intruder. With any luck, he’d track down their identities and confirm what they’d both feared. After hiding out on an oligarch’s yacht, they were being hunted. Again.

“You know it’d be easier if we just dug our own graves,” Dax said.

“It’s not too late for you to cash in your chips and go off the grid.”

Dax handed Chase a remote trigger. “Who else is gonna save your ass?”

Watching Dax limp across the parlor was a reminder of the battles waged and sacrifices made to keep each other alive. They’d said it thousands of times—while they weren’t blood, they were brothers bonded by life and war. Secrets they shared, and the ghosts they fought, were one and the same.

Tonight at the Piraeus Marina, the city of Athens would be shaken by what many would believe to be a terrorist attack, leaving global intelligence agencies questioning whether it was merely retribution against Dmitry Vihkrov and the Kingpin’s daughter, Elena. From the moment her eyes pierced Chase’s soul, he was captured under a spell. She’d grabbed his heart like no other and more than once kept it beating in the fog of war. Nightmares. Loss. Betrayal. After Mosul, she was the one who brought him through the darkest days—which made his actions on this night indefensible. If they were ever face-to-face again, she’d know it was he who betrayed her trust.

Before stepping outside, he tucked the SIG into the waterproof backpack and slipped the remote detonator into a zippered pocket in his wetsuit. Scanning the dock and the surrounding marina, there was only one way to avoid the security cameras. He climbed overboard with Dax right behind, lowering themselves into the frigid water. Wading between the docked mega-yachts, they left no disturbance in the stillness of their wake.

Eight months had passed since she disappeared. Now death was the only way to find proof of life. Chase retrieved the trigger, and with a flip of a switch, the Midnight Moon exploded into a fiery inferno.

Prologue from King of the Night by DJ Williams, used with permission from the publisher. Scheduled for release on Sept. 9, 2024. Available for pre-order.

Here’s the book trailer!

*****

With the DNA of a world traveler, D.J. Williams was born and raised in Hong Kong, igniting an adventurous spirit as he ventured into the jungles of the Amazon, the bush of Africa, and the slums of the Far East. His global travels submerged him in a myriad of cultures, providing a unique perspective that fuels his creativity.

As a fresh voice in mystery, suspense, and YA fantasy, his novels have climbed the charts ranking as high as #1 on Amazon Hot New Releases. His books The Auctioneer and Hunt For Eden’s Star have received stellar reviews from Kirkus Reviews, the most trusted voice in book discovery. Williams has also been featured in Publishers Weekly and Writer's Digest.

Currently living in Los Angeles, D.J. is always on the hunt for the next story as he prepares to launch the next novel in the Chase Hardeman series in 2024, as well as finishing the third book in the Beacon Hill series with tentative release of January 2025.

Follow D.J. on Instagram (@djwilliamsbooks) for the latest news.

SEEN AROUND THE WEB

“Against Extinction” by Eve Maisey.

Crime Writers of Color Coming Attractions: July – September 2024.

New Mysteryrat’s Maze Podcast featuring Conversation With the Murderer.

“The Ghost Drinking My Gin Wasn’t the Worst of My Problems” by Lynne Curry.

“Tubthumping” by Tom Andes.

Okay, I have an earworm now. :)