Read She Is Risen (She Is Risen: The Gun Control Case Studies) Online
Authors: Travis Adams Irish
She Is Risen (She Is Risen: The Gun Control Case Studies)
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
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
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
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.
‘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
level 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.