Book Excerpt from The River: A Pastor Stephen Grant Novel by Ray Keating

 

Chapter 6

 

 

The taxi ride from McCarran International Airport to The Twenties was less than eight miles. It took a few minutes longer than normal, though, as Jennifer asked the driver to take the Strip – or Las Vegas Boulevard South – rather than scooting along the Las Vegas Freeway.

As they drove past the landmark “Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas Nevada” sign, Jennifer squeezed Stephen’s hand. “I love that sign.”

Stephen was a bit surprised. “Really?”

“It’s one of the very few things around here that hasn’t changed since I was a kid.”

“Isn’t Vegas all about change, my economist wife?”

She nodded. “The change here just since I was growing up is incredible. I don’t think people from many other parts of the country fully get it. But when you live it, it’s actually kind of natural. In fact, living it was one of the things that led me into economics.” She turned from her husband, and looked out the window. “Still, no one ever said change was always easy.”

Stephen joined Jennifer in looking out at casinos and hotels of wildly different shapes and sizes – from the Luxor’s Great Sphinx and pyramid to the MGM Grand’s golden lion, along with the “Eiffel Tower Experience” at Paris Las Vegas. While Stephen had been to Las Vegas a few times, the last visit had come more than fifteen years ago – long predating Jennifer, his becoming a pastor, and a chunk of what he was now seeing. 

Stephen turned to Jennifer. “Can I tell you something?”

“Of course.”

“I’ve never been able to fully fit you and Las Vegas together. And now that you and I are here, I still really can’t.”

Jennifer smiled. “There’s more to Vegas than the Strip and gambling. While I was growing up, even with my father in the casino business, my parents, especially my mom, tried to keep me away from much of it. Many people here have little to do with gambling, and only wind up on the Strip when giving the tour to relatives visiting from out of town. At the same time, though, it’s hard not to be influenced. So much of recreational and cultural life occurs at or around the casinos. And let’s face it, few would be here without gambling. But all in all, my childhood was pretty normal, at least until I hit late high school.”

“I know…”

“And there’s still a good deal of Las Vegas in this girl of yours.” She leaned over and kissed him. “That includes some Vegas heat.”

“One of my favorite parts.”

The taxi pulled up to the front doors of The Twenties Club and Casino. The massive building was an amalgamation of 1920s-era architecture. At the street level, the building offered large, two-story arches, red brick, and clear windows. Above the arches, a huge retro-neon sign proclaimed “The Twenties Club and Casino.” As one’s eyes ascended further, the red brick gave way to an art-deco look, with stainless steel, chrome, and stained glass arranged in symmetrical, geometric forms. Crowning the top of the building was a replica of the upper floors and spear of New York City’s Chrysler Building.

The door of the taxi was opened by a young man dressed in a burgundy, white-striped blazer, white oxford shirt with a blue bow tie, pleated, ivory trousers, and white buck wingtips. “Welcome to The Twenties,” he announced with a smile.

After Jennifer and Stephen got out of the taxi, Lou Hammett stepped forward, and said, “Pastor and Dr. Grant, I’m so pleased to meet you. I’m Lou Hammett, the executive director here at The Twenties.” After exchanging quick pleasantries, Hammett turned and gave instructions to his staff to take care of the Grants’ luggage.

Following Hammett down the stairs was Dixon Shaw. “Jenny, I’m so happy to see you.”

As Shaw gave Jennifer a hug, Stephen could see his wife tense up. He also heard the unease in her voice, when she said, “Hi, Dad, how are you?”

Stephen understood how out of character this was. It was the most rare of occasions when Jennifer failed to be engaging and welcoming. She was adept at making others feel at ease. Watching Dixon Shaw, Stephen actually saw the same traits in her father. I guess you’d need that running a casino.

Jennifer’s father turned to Stephen, “Pastor, it’s about time we met face to face.”

Stephen said, “Mr. Shaw, it’s a pleasure…”

Shaw interrupted with a laugh. “‘Mr. Shaw’? Come on. It’s Dix.”

“Of course, Dix, and it’s Stephen.”

Shaw replied, “If you don’t mind, can I stick with ‘Pastor’? It makes me feel better when I worry about my Jenny, knowing that she is being taken care of not only by a man of the cloth, but one who knows how to handle himself in a time of danger.” Stephen knew that Dix was referring to the shooting that occurred at St. Mary’s before Jen and Stephen were married. Dix lowered his voice. “And former CIA to boot. You sure as hell are a vast improvement over that asshole politician Ted Brees. How did that sleazy bastard become a U.S. senator? But then again, it’s politics, right? After I found out what he did, I was going to…”

Jennifer, with a hint of daughter-like scolding in her voice, said, “Dad, please.”

Stephen pondered what Dixon Shaw might do to Ted Brees, and part of him was okay with it. He also picked up the slight shrug of the shoulders and pleading eyes directed his way by Jennifer.

Shaw’s smile broadened a bit more. “Sorry, Jenny.”

Stephen saw Dix enjoying his daughter, and thought it appeared genuine. Stephen even picked up a bit of tension draining from Jennifer.

A small, gentle clearing of the throat came from behind Shaw.

He turned, “Baby, I’m so sorry.” He took Candy Welles’ hand and brought her forward. “Jenny and Pastor, this is Candy Welles, the beautiful light in my life.”

Stephen extended his hand. “Of course, we’ve met Ms. Welles before. It’s good to see you.”

Jennifer seemed taken off guard. “Well, yes, hello, Ms. Welles.”

“I wasn’t sure if you’d remember me,” Candy replied.

“As the flight attendant on Dix’s Casino Beach jet on our wedding night, it would be hard to forget,” answered Stephen.

“You certainly had more interesting things to be focused on that night, but that’s so nice. And please, call me Candy. It’s like we’re almost family.”

Jennifer replied, “Um, family? Yes, well, Candy it is.”

Dix added, “It was shortly after that flight that we started seeing each other.”

Jennifer observed, “How nice.”

Stephen could see Jennifer’s emotional conflict. Move things in a different direction, Grant, and quickly. He looked around, and said, “The Twenties looks like an intriguing resort.”

As he slid his arm around Candy’s waist, Dix replied, “I’m very proud of it, and of the work being done by Lou. How about a quick tour, then you two can settle in a bit and we’ll have dinner later?” Looking at Stephen, Dix added, “I thought you could meet my business partners.” 

“That sounds great to me,” answered Stephen. “How about you, Jen?”

She answered slowly, “Yes, of course. But I already know Nicky and Chet.”

Dix commented, “But you’ve never seen The Twenties, have you, Jenny?”

“No, Dad, I haven’t.”

Dix nodded at Hammett, who was standing off to the side. “Lou, give us the grand tour.”

“Yes, sir, Dix,” said Hammett. He signaled over a waitress, who was wearing a short flapper dress with sequins and dangling fringes, a long strand of pearls, bobbed hair, and a cloche hat. She presented a tray of champagne flutes. Jennifer was the first to take a glass, followed by Candy, Stephen and Dix.

Dix toasted the arrival of his daughter and son-in-law, and they all took a sip of the 1995 Krug Clos d’Ambonnay.

As the small group turned to follow Lou, Jennifer whispered in Stephen’s ear, “I’ll be needing a few more of these, I think.”

Lou, along with Dix and Candy, took Stephen and Jennifer on a nearly hour-long stroll throughout the massive hotel, including the Speakeasy Lounge that featured various musical and comedy acts. The Round Table was the resort’s top-tiered restaurant, fashioned after and saluting The Algonquin Round Table of Dorothy Parker fame. Harlem Jazz served up some of the best music in all of Vegas. The two casinos in the building had different personalities – Prohibition sought to capture a 1920s Chicago feel, while the Miami Deal served up palm trees and a large windmill in the middle of the room as a tip to the Roman Pools & Casino of 1920s Miami. The tour went on to include pools, dozens of shops, a spa and salon, fitness center, art gallery, and a small arena.

The tour ended at the door of the suite that Dix insisted Stephen and Jennifer stay in as his guests.

In response to protests from both Jennifer and Stephen, Dix declared, “A beautiful suite for a few days, as my guests, is the very least that this negligent father, not to mention negligent father-in-law, can do.” 

He kissed Jennifer on the cheek, slapped Stephen on the back, took Candy’s hand, and walked away. 

While heading down the hall, Dix said over his shoulder, “We’ll see you at dinner. Nine o’clock in the Speakeasy.”

 

Book Excerpt from "An Advent for Religious Liberty: A Pastor Stephen Grant Novel" by Ray Keating

Prologue

The Grand Ballroom of the Waldorf Astoria on Park Avenue crackled with the energy of political euphoria.

Supporters of Adam Pritchett were celebrating what appeared to be a victory of historic proportions in the New York City mayoral race. Expensive champagne flowed among the two-thousand-plus revelers in the elegant four-story, two-tiered room. Money wasn’t really an issue for Pritchett, and by extension, for his campaign. Nothing could derail what had come to be known as the “Pritchett Juggernaut.”

Or, at least, that’s how it seemed to everyone in the room, including campaign staff, donors, volunteers, Democratic Party officials, and even the media.

Pritchett ran one of the most unorthodox and expensive mayoral campaigns in New York’s history – and that was saying something. He spent a prodigious amount of dollars on all kinds of political advertising, including television, radio, Internet and social media, newspapers and magazines, direct mail, billboards and seemingly every other paid advertising outlet. 

At the same time, Pritchett completely ignored the media. He failed to do even one interview during the race, did not hold any press conferences, refused to participate in debates, and ignored questions shouted by reporters at campaign stops.

Pritchett, whose net worth topped the $280 million mark, built his wealth as one of New York’s leading commercial real estate developers. The man’s confidence in his own abilities was legendary in New York business circles, and when he decided to jump into politics by running for mayor, his arrogance only seemed to grow. Pritchett simply hired the best political advertising people in the nation, brought on a few political consultants willing to carry out his wishes with few questions, and saturated the largest and most expensive media market in the nation, perhaps the world, with his message.

That message was simple. Pritchett would bring crime, which had spiked over the past couple of years, back under control. He pledged to make sure that every city government job and program was protected, and the budget for public schools would rise. He was more than willing to jack up taxes on “my fellow wealthy residents who receive so much from this great city.”

The unions loved him, as did the rest of the Democratic Party. After all, what wasn’t there to love in a place like New York City? Pritchett was willing to spend his own money to get elected, and spend other people’s money to expand government and fight crime, all while hiking taxes on the rich, of which he was a member. He was a liberal dream.

Pritchett’s opponent didn’t stand a chance. 

The polls had closed a mere twenty minutes ago. The crushed Republican, Robert Nesci, already finished his concession speech. Now, the Pritchett faithful drank, danced and chanted their man’s name. They grew ever more excited, with anticipation mounting for Pritchett’s victory speech.

The only group in the room uniformly unenthused was the media. Despite the fact that they overwhelmingly subscribed to the same party affiliation and policy ideas as Pritchett, these reporters and commentators uniformly hated the guy for his arrogance and, more importantly, his cutting the media out of his campaign. It didn’t matter if they agreed with his agenda or not, access denied was unacceptable. But they looked beaten, resigned to being on the outside looking in for the coming four years.

Just outside the ballroom, Pritchett buttoned his dark blue suit jacket, looked at a key aide, Maureen Donahue, and said, “Well, Maureen, ready to make history?”

She responded, “You’ve already done that, sir.”

“You’re right. But let’s go make some more.” 

Donahue spoke into a cellphone. “Mayor-elect Pritchett is ready. He will be entering in a few seconds.” The 30-year-old Donahue had a soothing voice, bright blue eyes, round face, easy smile, and shoulder length blond hair that combined in a way so that people seemed to automatically like her, and were willing to get things done for her.

Donahue waited about ten seconds, and then pointed to and smiled at a member of Pritchett’s security team, signaling him to open the doors.

The security team formed a wedge in front of Pritchett, with Donahue and two other campaign officials trailing behind.

As Frank Sinatra belted out “New York, New York” amidst applause and shouts of approval, a spotlight focused on the smiling, waving Adam Pritchett. He didn’t look the part of a powerful politician, nor business tycoon, for that matter. Pritchett was short and thin with messy, grayish hair, a pointed, pinched nose, and a nasally voice. He wore thick, square glasses, and somehow, his expensive, tailored suits never seemed to hang right on his body. The entire package combined to make him appear older than his 52 years.

At the podium, Pritchett eventually calmed the faithful long enough to begin his speech. Beyond the generic thank you to voters, his campaign staff and volunteers, Pritchett’s comments were noteworthy for their lack of generosity toward anyone. 

While acknowledging his opponent’s concession speech, Pritchett took a moment to point out, once more, just how wrong Nesci had been on the issues. There also was no use of the word “we” when talking about the campaign or his upcoming administration. Instead, it was “I” and “me.”

But few of Pritchett’s supporters seemed to notice or care.

Then he came to crime. Pritchett said, “And make no mistake, I will make sure that our city is retaken from criminals, that every man, woman and child, every resident, commuter and visitor, will again be safe in this leading global city.”

The crowd erupted once more. A chant of “Pritchett, Pritchett” began and grew ever louder.

After nearly a minute, Pritchett lowered the volume of the crowd.

He began to speak again. “So, as your mayor…”

But a woman’s voice rang out from the floor in front of Pritchett’s podium. She yelled, “God bless you, Adam. We’re praying for you!”

While many in the room responded with hoots of approval, Pritchett’s face instantly transformed from victorious joy to controlled anger.

He pointed in the direction from where the call for blessings and prayers came, and said, “No! No, thank you. I don’t want prayers. I don’t want any god’s blessing. I don’t need it, and New York City certainly does not need it. And let’s be clear, New York does not need religion in the public arena. So, save any talk of prayer for the pews and your private lives. Let’s move away from such nonsense, and get back to the real world and real issues.”

Several individuals cheered Pritchett’s comments, including enthusiastic clapping from two of his three top campaign aides. Some of the Pritchett faithful half-heartedly applauded. But many in the room seemed bewildered, not sure how to react. That included Maureen Donahue.

Why Join the Pastor Stephen Grant Fellowship? Find Out Right Now!

Here's the latest on joining the Pastor Stephen Grant Fellowship. If you enjoy Ray Keating's Pastor Stephen Grant thrillers and mysteries, then consider joining the fellowship. A new option is to join at the Book of the Month Club level - it's a great deal. For more information go to https://www.patreon.com/pastorstephengrantfellowship

Excerpt from ROOT OF ALL EVIL? A PASTOR STEPHEN GRANT NOVEL by Ray Keating

On the Church calendar, August 24 marks the day we celebrate St. Bartholomew, the Apostle. In the Pastor Stephen Grant thrillers and mysteries, Father Tom Stone is the rector at St. Bartholomew’s Anglican Church on Long Island. For good measure, as the days pass in August and we head into September, we hear more about schools and education. The following chapter is an excerpt from ROOT OF ALL EVIL? A PASTOR STEPHEN GRANT NOVEL. The reader gets a feel for Father Stone, a bit about St. Bart’s, and we are introduced to Mike Vanacore and how education works into the story. Oh, yeah, and surfing.

Enjoy, and read the entire book by getting the paperback or Kindle edition at Amazon.com, or order a signed book. Thanks!

Chapter 22

Part of Mike Vanacore’s story seemed to be a replay of others’ in the computer, digital, broadband economy.

The thirty-two-year-old billionaire fell in love with electronics and computers while growing up in Hawthorne, California, which happened to be the Beach Boys’ hometown. Vanacore’s hard-working parents supported his interests and talents as best they could, and rejoiced when his excellent grades in high school, particularly in math and science, earned him a full ride to the School of Engineering at Stanford University.

Since they were intense gamers, Vanacore and two college friends decided to do more than complain about the shortcomings of various video games. By their sophomore year, they were consumed by creating their own video games, and managed to generate some buzz. Vanacore’s buddies, however, moved on under parental pressure when grades slipped badly.

But Vanacore had little trouble maintaining high marks, while at the same time creating a video game business.

He found a couple of angel investors to provide start-up capital, and by his senior year, Corevana Entertainment had grown to more than 100 employees, and $30 million in sales.

But rather than dropping out to focus exclusively on his firm, as other young tech turks had done, Vanacore finished his degree. After graduation, Corevana’s growth only accelerated, and its initial public offering made Mike Vanacore a billionaire at the age of 26.

Along the way, Vanacore became known in various circles for maintaining his Christian faith taught to him growing up. Compared to some of his fellow tech nerds, who earned reputations for power trips and/or wild parties that came with newfound wealth, Vanacore was highlighted now and then in the business media for being, well, Christian. 

As the U.S. Episcopal Church wandered away from the traditional Episcopal parish of his childhood, Vanacore actually spoke out. Some in the Episcopal Church took notice given his wealth and youth, but he was quickly discounted as just another “conservative” who refused to change with the culture. Some noted the irony of such criticisms given how he made his fortune.

When Vanacore decided to buy a home across the country on Long Island as an occasional escape from his California-based business, he stumbled upon St. Bart’s one Sunday. He apparently fell in love with the beautiful, castle-like stone church set on four lakeside acres in Eastport, and most importantly, with what was being taught and preached in the building. When the parish decided to leave the Episcopal Church, eventually joining the Anglican Church in North America, it was Vanacore who ponied up a majority of the funds needed to purchase St. Bart’s property from the local Episcopal diocese.

Vanacore was now expanding his charitable giving into primary and secondary education. His plan was to use his wealth to make substantive changes in individual local public schools, that is, in the kind of school he attended.

But his parish priest, Father Tom Stone, was about to ask Vanacore to listen to an alternative.

On the way out of Mass on Saturday night, Stone asked Vanacore if he had a little time to talk.

Ten minutes later, they were seated in Stone’s office, talking across the priest’s unique redwood, surfboard-shaped desk. A friend and parishioner had the desk specially made as a gift, given Stone’s off-duty love of wearing Hawaiian shirts, and his high school and college years spent living and surfing in southern California.

In fact, though about 20 years apart, Stone and Vanacore shared more than a common faith, but also a southern California connection.

Vanacore ran his right hand along the front of the desk. “As I said before, you have the best desk ever. A surfboard. Love it.”

“It was a gift from Clint Gullett. Handmade. It’s a great reminder of my California days. I’m sure he’d be glad to let you know who makes them,” replied Stone.

“I’ll ask him. So, when was the last time you hit the surf?”

Stone laughed. “It’s been at least, what, 25 years.”

Vanacore slipped into a mock surfer voice, and declared, “Dude, we have to remedy that.”

With his thin, tall frame, topped off by thick blond hair, and Clark Kent glasses, it was easy to see Vanacore moving comfortably in either the video gaming or surfing communities.

The young billionaire continued, “But I’m sure you didn’t ask me to stop by to talk about surfing.”

Stone replied, “No. Ever since you told me about the education foundation you’re starting up, something has been nagging at me. But I was not sure if it was my place to say anything, and then I got a call this morning.”

“Tom, you know I’m open to hearing your ideas and thoughts on anything, and considering that you’re a priest, and therefore, you teach people, I’d love to hear what’s on your mind.”

“I appreciate that. I know your focus is on targeting and helping select public schools.”

“Right.”

“Have you thought about supporting parochial schools instead, or as well?’

Vanacore paused. “Well, not really. I went to public schools growing up, and that’s kind of guided my thinking on this.”

“I can understand that. But given what you’ve told me about your childhood and your parents, do you think they would have sent you to a Christian school if they could have afforded it?”

“Actually, I have no doubt about that. I remember overhearing them talking about it late into the night at the kitchen table, and regretting they couldn’t afford it.”

“Today, it’s even tougher. Most families simply can’t take on the added cost of a religious education for their kids.”

“Like my parents. I understand that. But does it matter? I went to public school, and it was my parents, our priest and parish that kept me in the faith.”

“I’d say you were very lucky then. Given the state of our culture, it’s not easy to keep kids strong and active in the faith. Listen, Maggie and I have sent all our children to parochial school, and they obviously have gotten an up-close-and-personal church experience growing up as well. But when you consider the impact that schools have on children, just given the time spent in school and what’s being taught, there is that possibility of what’s being taught at home getting undermined in school. We only saw the upside in sending the kids to parochial school.”

“Yeah, that used to drive my parents nuts. My father complained about having to undo what was being done in school at times.”

“Now think about how many parents don’t even know what’s going on and being taught in school, or when they do know, not having the confidence to take it on, like your father did.”

Vanacore took his glasses off, and chewed on one of its arms. After a few seconds, he put the glasses back on his face. “Okay, Tom, you make a good case. What more were you thinking? What was the call about that stirred you to set up this little meeting?”

“As you know, the school that Maggie and I sent the kids to, and still send one, is St. Luke’s Catholic School. It’s been a tremendous blessing. And by the way, make no mistake, you can send your children to what you think is a faithful, traditional Christian school, and even then it unfortunately can turn out to be something different. But that most certainly has not been the case with St. Luke’s.”

“Well, that’s good.”

“Absolutely. However, there is a lot of uncertainty about the school’s future, given recent closings of Catholic schools. I’m not asking this because of my family’s link, but because St. Luke’s is a great place and it’s in the midst of planning how to grow and secure its future. I thought it would be an ideal opportunity for you to talk to the people who run a quality parochial school, see what the school offers, and consider the challenges it faces.” Stone paused. “I can set up a meeting or meetings with Father Burns and Father McDermott, the principal, Mrs. Fleming, staff, parents, whatever. What do you think?”

“I would love to meet with the people at St. Luke’s.”

“That’s great. Shall I set it up?”

Vanacore smiled. “Yes, but on one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“Before the end of the year, you have to promise to come out to my place in California and go surfing. The entire family is invited, and you’ll fly on my jet.”

“Mike, that’s really nice, but I …”

“No ‘buts,’ Tom. Either you promise to get back on the board at my place, or no deal on meeting with St. Luke’s.”

It was Stone’s turn to smile. “You drive a hard bargain, Mike. Take a free trip to surf in California, or else? What can I say, but yes, and thanks?”

“It’ll be sick.”

After Mike left, Tom called a friend for a little guidance on the economics of education.

Book Excerpt: Prologue from "Warrior Monk: A Pastor Stephen Grant Novel" by Ray Keating

Prologue

A few years after the fall of the Soviet Union

      A suppressor never threw off his aim.  But it served as a distraction while the gun rested in his shoulder holster.

     He felt like the target could spot the weapon more easily. Objectively, he understood this wasn’t the case below a suit jacket and trench coat.  Still, it didn’t feel right.

    The two Americans drove on a narrow country road about an hour outside of Paris. Rain was in the forecast, and the dark gray clouds appeared ready to burst. But not a drop had fallen yet. 

Sunflowers populated field after field along the way.  He wondered how the tall, top-heavy plants could stand so erect.

His partner on this particular assignment dropped him off around the corner from an old church, a small wood and stone structure at the center of a bucolic village.  If all ran on schedule, the target, Vladimir Chenko, would be waiting in a pew.

     Chenko not only had been a veteran military officer for the Soviet Union and then Russia, but also was a CIA asset. The Russian reported on the communists for years, and more recently, tried to spot any nuclear materials wandering off.  Or, at least, that was his assignment from the CIA.  

The nugget was money and an eventual life of capitalist leisure.  Chenko retired, and was ready to be united with a bank account packed with U.S. dollars. The Russian sought a safe, preferably tropical location with America’s help.

     But Chenko played both sides, and it had resulted in several deaths.  

One happened to be the American’s mentor and friend.

     By sheer luck, the agency stumbled upon evidence that Chenko had passed on information over the years from loose-lipped field operators who got too trusting, too comfortable and, therefore, sloppy.  That information cost the lives of two U.S. operatives and perhaps as many as ten Russian assets who worked to undermine Soviet communism.  

     With the Cold War over, Chenko apparently thought no one in the West would care enough to unearth his duplicity, or that his tracks were well covered.

    Chenko was wrong on each count. The Americans found out and were quite displeased.

    The American entered the tiny stone church, and stepped into the rear of the nave.  He could smell the age and decay of the place.  Like so many others in Europe, this church appeared empty – but for his target.  It increasingly seemed that if you wanted to arrange a discreet meeting, a church in Europe was ideal. 

He noted the side exit was open, only steps from where a man sat in the third pew, staring at the altar.

     Is the bastard praying?

He paused briefly, taking another look around, then moved forward and sat in front of Chenko.  The pew creaked.  From the sound on the stone outside the doorway, he knew the rain had started to fall. His gaze remained straight ahead, while giving the pre-determined phrase in fluent French. “This church has seen much over the centuries.”

      Chenko responded in Russian, “Yes, and it, no doubt, will see more.”

      He turned halfway around in the pew, and the Russian smiled broadly. 

      Chenko switched to English, “I am ready, my American friend.”

      Friend?

    He didn’t expect the Russian to be armed. After all, this was to be a happy occasion. Nonetheless, he looked Chenko over carefully.

     “My wife is on one floor of a Paris hotel, and my mistress on another.” Chenko laughed in delight as some do when they relish getting away with something. “Both await new lives.  How are we to proceed?”

     Without a word in response or to declare judgment, the American rotated back toward the altar, and reached his right hand inside his jacket for the Glock. 

    The fat, gray-haired Russian double agent moved with surprising quickness and strength. Chenko whipped a cord around his neck, cutting into his skin and cutting off his air.  

  He fumbled the gun as his hands reacted instinctively trying to pull away the cord. He was being hoisted back over the pew via this line of strangulation, feet just off the ground, seemingly helpless to fight back. 

        “I spotted the gun, comrade. Silencers make pistols so bulky,” Chenko spewed into his ear.

        Shit, I knew it.

      Darkness and death were not far off. He snapped his left wrist back hard, allowing the tactical knife strapped low on his forearm to slip forward. He grabbed it, pressed the thumb stud to open the 3.1-inch serrated-edge steel blade, swung it around, and plunged it into Chenko’s left calf.

         The Russian screamed a curse in his native language, but Chenko’s grip on the wire did not falter.

         Son of a bitch!

        Summoning the last bits of his faltering strength, he began pulling the knife up, slicing through skin and muscle, scraping against bone. 

         The double agent screamed.  Chenko’s left hand flinched and loosened ever so slightly. 

   Finally, he had his opportunity, jamming his right hand under the wire, and spinning his body away from Chenko and onto the floor, with the bloody knife still in his left hand.

       Struggling for air, he staggered to his feet. Chenko was pulling up his right pant leg, and grabbing a small revolver strapped above his ankle. 

         Crap!

         The Russian was straightening up to fire.

   One chance existed. He flipped the knife into his right hand, looked at Chenko’s chest, and threw it. The knife struck home.  The Russian dropped the gun. There was a strange, disturbing look of fear on Chenko’s face as he turned and looked around the church briefly, and then toppled to the floor dead.

   That’s the first of two.

        He picked up and holstered the gun; pulled the knife from the dead Russian, closed it and shoved it into his pocket; and took steps toward the side exit. 

    A voice from the back of the church asked in French, “Why, my son?”

         He did exactly what he was trained not to do. 

   He stopped and turned slightly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a dark figure in the shadows at the back of the church. A glimmering gold cross hung from a chain around the shadow’s neck, the only clear feature in the dim light.

    For some reason, he answered, “It had to be done. Justice.”  He walked out into the hard rain.

   Less than a minute later, he was picked up at the designated location.  Other than an exchange on how the mission was completed, they drove in silence.  

    In the heavy rain, the sunflowers growing in the roadside fields drooped their heads ever so slightly.

   Two hours later, he was on a commercial flight heading back to the United States.  

  But he felt different this time.  It wasn’t guilt, nor regret.  There was no satisfaction, which surprised him.  He felt empty.  

   Why risk answering that priest?

  He always saw his work as having meaning and purpose.  His head continued to recognize this.  However, a gnawing for something more had been growing deeper inside.  

   The vision of the priest and that light-gathering cross kept creeping back into his thoughts during the flight.  He tried to read or watch the in-flight movie, but to no avail.

    What did that priest think today?   Was Chenko praying?  Do I care?

   On that flight from Paris to New York, he realized that he did care.

PRESS CLUB C Podcast with Ray Keating – Episode #20: Summer Writing, Summer Reading

Ray loves summer reading and summer writing. In this episode, he talks about writing his novels, and the three goals or objectives that govern what he tries to accomplish in his thrillers and mysteries. Tune in Now!

Summer Reading with Pastor Stephen Grant!

Ideal Summer Reading – Ray Keating’s Pastor Stephen Grant Thrillers & Mysteries, Along with His Nonfiction Books – Paperbacks and for the Kindle at www.amazon.com and Signed Books at www.raykeatingonline.com

Pastor Stephen Grant Novels Monthly Price - May Winner, June Prize

Check out who won a free copy of the forthcoming VATICAN SHADOWS as the Pastor Stephen Grant Novels Prize for May, and find out what the prize is for June. To get in the random prize drawing, buy anything at RayKeatingOnline.com during the month of June!

Review of Behind Enemy Lines

by Self-Publishing Review, ★★★★

The Keating Files – June 8, 2020

The journalistic side of Ray Keating’s writing comes to the fore in Behind Enemy Lines: Conservative Communiques from Left Wing New York. Boasting a traditional conservative voice that is measured, self-aware, confident, and persuasive, Keating’s arguments are original and thought-provoking, while many of the ideas explored in this book are surprisingly nuanced.

As a journalist, fiction writer, and general observer of life, Keating has written more than 8,000 columns and pieces over the past thirty years, remaining steadily in the lane of idyllic conservatism – family, God, and country matter above most else. Having read many of Keating’s Pastor Grant novels, the conservative bent to much of this book’s arguments is unsurprising. His iconic protagonist is a gun-toting, Constitution-defending, God-fearing vigilante hero, an appealing figure for a steadfast conservative operating in a bastion of liberal progressivism like New York.

Ranging from lauding praise on Margaret Thatcher and Ronald Reagan to questioning Obama’s ultimate motives and decision-making ability, these opinion pieces are anything but impartial, but they are also well-structured and level-headed. Criticisms of taxpayers picking up the NASA tab, scathing reviews of governmental function (regardless of party leadership), and discussions of the quiet titan of Christianity within American politics are just a few of the subjects touched on in this unexpectedly riveting collection.

Keating’s journalistic style is similarly fearless to his fiction writing, unafraid to dabble in any realm and apply his firmly held beliefs into peaceful debate with those who would disagree. Unlike so much other conservative writing in recent years, especially pro-Trump partiality, Keating has a frank and honest voice that appears to be morally uncompromised. He makes it clear that while his economic, social, and geopolitical opinions may fall on the conservative spectrum, his principles are still very much in place...

Read the rest of this review here...

A Podcast Doubleheader – Two PRESS CLUB C Episodes with Two Lutheran Pastors!

PRESS CLUB C Podcast with Ray Keating – Episode #8: Joy, Seriousness and Fun with Christianity and Pastor Bryan Wolfmueller – Ray and Pastor Wolfmueller talk Christianity, the Internet and the Church, joy, martyrdom and more! Tune in right here!

PRESS CLUB C Podcast with Ray Keating – Episode #3: Interviewing Pastor Tyrel Bramwell, the Host of “Alone Together” – Ray interviews Pastor Tyrel Bramwell, who, in addition to being a parish pastor and author, hosts a fascinating daily video program called “Alone Together: A 15-Minute Isolation Conversation.” Tune in right here!

PRESS CLUB C Podcast with Ray Keating – Episode #10: Streaming Fueling the Nerd

Are there any Pastor Stephen Grant nerds out there?

Ray Keating goes full nerd in this episode, mainly focusing on how online streaming services are fulfilling many of his nerd dreams pertaining to DC comics and movies – the Snyder Justice League cut! – Marvel comics, movies and shows, Star Wars, Star Trek, film stuff, and yes, Chuck. Join Ray, and embrace your inner nerd.

PRESS CLUB C Podcast with Ray Keating – Episode #9: Reminders on Socialism, Reagan Conservatism and Bad Column Writing

Ray Keating finds himself having to remind people that socialism doesn’t work; that the lesson for conservatives is not to back away from Reagan; and that just because you agree with some points made in a column doesn’t mean that it necessarily was a well-written column. Tune in!

Order Ray Keating’s new book Behind Enemy Lines: Conservative Communiques from Left-Wing New York  –  signed books  or at  Amazon.

Read Keating’s latest columns on a wide range of issues at www.KeatingFiles.com. 

And one of Keating’s newest books is  Free Trade Rocks! 10 Points on International Trade Everyone Should Know, which is available at  Amazon  in paperback or for the Kindle edition, and signed books at  www.raykeatingonline.com. 

Sign up for Ray Keating’s email list at  www.raykeatingonline.com/contact.

Please take a look at Keating’s Pastor Stephen Grant novels, which are available in paperback and for the Kindle at  Amazon.com, and signed books at  www.raykeatingonline.com. The newest book is  The Traitor.

Check out www.DisneyBizJournal.com.