2

Holcroft stared at the banker in disbelief; the blood drained from his head. Outside, the sounds of the huge station were a cacophony of muted chords, barely penetrating the thick walls of the car.

“Don’t try to absorb it all at once,” said Manfredi, placing the letter to one side. “There are conditions, none of them, incidentally, offensive. At least, none we’re aware of.”

“Conditions?…” Holcroft knew he could hardly be heard; he tried to find his voice. “What conditions?”

“They’re spelled out very clearly. These vast sums are to be channeled into a great good for people everywhere. And, of course, there are certain benefits to yourself personally.”

“What do you mean there’s nothing offensive that you’re … ‘aware of’?”

The banker’s magnified eyes blinked behind his glasses; he looked away briefly, his expression troubled. He reached into his brown leather briefcase, which lay at the corner of the table, and pulled out a long, thin envelope with curious markings on the back side; they were a series of four circles and appeared to be four dark coins affixed to the border of the flap.
Manfredi held the envelope across the table, under the light. The dark circles were not coins but waxed seals. All were intact.

  “Following the instructions given to us thirty years ago, this envelope—unlike your father’s letter here—was not to be opened by directors in Geneva. It is separate from the document we prepared, and to the best of our knowledge, Clausen was never aware of it. His own words to you would tend to confirm that. It was brought to us within hours after the courier delivered your father’s letter, which was to be our final communication from Berlin.”

  “What is it?”

  “We don’t know. We were told it was written by several men aware of your father’s activities. Who believed in his cause with great fervor; who considered him in many ways a true martyr of Germany. We were instructed to give it to you with the seals unbroken. You were to read it before you saw your father’s letter.” Manfredi turned the envelope over. There was writing on the front side. The words were in German and written by hand. “You are to sign below, so to state that you received it in the proper condition.”

  Noel took the envelope and read the words he could not understand.

  DIESER BRIEF IST MIT UNGEBROCHENEM SIEGEL

  EMPFANGEN WORDEN. NEUAUFBAU ODER TOD.

  “What does it say?”

  “That you’ve examined the seals and are satisfied.”

  “How can I be sure?”

  “Young man, you’re talking with a director of La Grande Banque de Genève.” The Swiss did not raise his voice but the rebuke was clear. “You have my word. And, in any event, what difference does it make?”

  None, reasoned Holcroft, yet the obvious question bothered him. “If I sign the envelope, what do you do with it?”

  Manfredi was silent for several moments, as if deciding whether or not to answer. He removed his glasses, took a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket, and cleaned them. Finally he replied. “That is privileged information.…”

  “So’s my signature,” interrupted Noel. “Privileged, that is.”

  “Let me finish,” protested the banker, putting back his glasses. “I was about to say it was privileged information that can’t possibly be relevant any longer. Not after so many years. The envelope is to be sent to a post-office box in Sesimbra, Portugal. It is south of Lisbon, on the Cape of Espichel.”

  “Why isn’t it relevant?”

  Manfredi held up the palms of his hands. “The post-office box no longer exists. The envelope will find its way to a dead-letter office and eventually be returned to us.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I believe it, yes.”

  Noel reached into his pocket for his pen, turning the envelope over to look once again at the waxed seals. They had not been tampered with; and, thought Holcroft, what difference did it make? He placed the envelope in front of him and signed his name.

  Manfredi held up his hand. “You understand, whatever is contained in that envelope can have no bearing on our participation in the document prepared by La Grande Banque de Genève. We were not consulted; nor were we apprised of the contents.”

  “You sound worried. I thought you said it didn’t make any difference. It was too long ago.”

  “Fanatics always worry me, Mr. Holcroft. Time and consequence cannot alter that judgment. It’s a banker’s caution.”

  Noel began cracking the wax; it had hardened over the years and took considerable force before it fell away. He tore the flap open, removed the single page, and unfolded it.

  The paper was brittle with age; the white had turned to a pale brownish yellow. The writing was in English, the letters printed in an odd block lettering that was Germanic in style. The ink was faded but legible. Holcroft looked at the bottom of the page for a signature. There was none. He started reading.

  The message was macabre, born in desperation thirty years ago. It was as though unbalanced men had sat in a darkened room, studying shadows on the wall for signs of the future, studying a man and a life not yet formed.

  FROM THIS MOMENT ON THE SON OF HEINRICH CLAUSEN IS TO BE TESTED. THERE ARE THOSE WHO MAY LEARN OF THE WORK IN GENEVA AND WHO WILL TRY TO STOP HIM, WHOSE ONLY PURPOSE IN LIFE WILL BE TO KILL HIM, THUS DESTROYING THE DREAM CONCEIVED BY THE GIANT THAT WAS HIS FATHER.

  THIS MUST NOT HAPPEN, FOR WE WERE BETRAYED—ALL OF US—AND THE WORLD MUST KNOW WHAT WE REALLY WERE, NOT WHAT THE BETRAYERS SHOWED US TO BE, FOR THOSE WERE THE PORTRAITS OF TRAITORS. NOT US. AND PARTICULARLY NOT HEINRICH CLAUSEN.

  WE ARE THE SURVIVORS OF WOLFSSCHANZE. WE SEEK THE CLEANSING OF OUR NAMES, THE RESTORATION OF THE HONOR THAT WAS STOLEN FROM US.

  THEREFORE THE MEN OF WOLFSSCHANZE WILL PROTECT THE SON FOR AS LONG AS THE SON PURSUES THE FATHER’S DREAM AND RETURNS OUR HONOR TO US. BUT SHOULD THE SON ABANDON THE DREAM, BETRAY THE FATHER, AND WITHHOLD OUR HONOR, HE WILL HAVE NO LIFE. HE WILL WITNESS THE ANGUISH OF LOVED ONES, OF FAMILY, CHILDREN, FRIENDS. NO ONE WILL BE SPARED.

  NONE MUST INTERFERE. GIVE US OUR HONOR. IT IS OUR RIGHT AND WE DEMAND IT.

  Noel shoved the chair back and stood up. “What the hell is this?”

  “I’ve no idea,” replied Manfredi quietly, his voice calm but his large, cold blue eyes conveying his alarm. “I told you we were not apprised.…”

  “Well, get apprised!” shouted Holcroft. “Read it! Who were these clowns? Certifiable lunatics?”

  The banker began reading. Without looking up, he answered softly. “First cousins to lunatics. Men who’d lost hope.”

  “What’s Wolfsschanze? What does it mean?”

  “It was the name of Hitler’s staff headquarters in East Prussia, where the attempt to assassinate him took place. It was a conspiracy of the generals: Von Stauffenberg, Kluge, Höpner—they were all implicated. All shot. Rommel took his own life.”

  Holcroft stared at the paper in Manfredi’s hands. “You mean it was written thirty years ago by people like that?”

  The banker nodded, his eyes narrowed in astonishment. “Yes, but it’s not the language one might have expected of them. This is nothing short of a threat; it’s unreasonable. Those men were not unreasonable. On the other hand, the times were unreasonable. Decent men, brave men, were stretched beyond the parameters of sanity. They were living through a hell none of us can picture today.”

  “Decent men?” asked Noel incredulously.

  “Have you any idea what it meant to be a part of the Wolfsschanze conspiracy? A bloodbath followed, thousands massacred everywhere, the vast majority never having heard of Wolfsschanze. It was yet another final solution, an excuse to still all dissent throughout Germany. What began as an act to rid the world of a madman ended in a holocaust all its own. The survivors of Wolfsschanze saw that happen.”

  “Those survivors,” replied Holcroft, “followed that madman for a long time.”

  “You must understand. And you will. These were desperate men. They were caught in a trap, and for them it was cataclysmic. A world they had helped create was revealed not to be the world they envisioned. Horrors they never dreamed of were uncovered, yet they couldn’t avoid their responsibility for them. They were appalled at what they saw but couldn’t deny the roles they played.”

  “The well-intentioned Nazi,” said Noel. “I’ve heard of that elusive breed.”

  “One would have to go back in history, to the economic disasters, to the Versailles Treaty, the Pact of Locarno, the Bolshevik encroachments—to a dozen different forces—to understand.”

  “I understand what I just read,” Holcroft said. “Your poor misunderstood storm troopers didn’t hesitate to threaten someone they couldn’t know! ‘He will have no life … no one spared … family, friends, children.’ That spells out murder. Don’t talk to me about well-intentioned killers.”

  “They’re the words of old, sick, desperate men. They have no meaning now. It was their way of expressing their own anguish, of seeking atonement. They’re gone. Leave them in peace. Read your father’s letter …”

  “He’s not my father!” 
interrupted Noel.

  “Read Heinrich Clausen’s letter. Things will be clearer. Read it. We have several items to discuss and there isn’t much time.”

Althene Clausen gave her husband an ultimatum on a warm afternoon in August: Withdraw. Stand against the paranoiacs and the maniac before it was too late. In disbelief, the Nazi listened and laughed and dismissed his wife’s ultimatum as the foolish ravings of a new mother. Or perhaps the warped judgment of a woman brought up in a weak, discredited system that would soon march to the step of the New Order. Or be crushed under its boot.

  That night the new mother packed herself and the new child and took one of the last planes to London, the first leg on her journey back to New York. A week later the Blitzkrieg was executed against Poland; the Thousand Year Reich had begun its own journey, one that would last some fifteen hundred days from the first sound of gunfire.

  Holcroft walked through the gate, down the ramp, and on to the long concrete platform. Four, five, six, seven.… The seventh car had a small blue circle stenciled beneath the window to the left of the open door. It was the symbol of accommodations superior to those in first class: enlarged compartments properly outfitted for conferences in transit or clandestine meetings of a more personal nature. Privacy was guaranteed; once the train was moving, the doors at either end of the car were manned by armed railway guards.

  Holcroft entered and turned left into the corridor. He walked past successive closed doors until he reached the fifth. He knocked twice.

  “Herr Holcroft?” The voice behind the wood panel was firm but quiet, and although the two words were meant as a question, the voice was not questioning. It made a statement.

  “Herr Manfredi?” said Noel in reply, suddenly aware that an eye was peering at him through the pinpoint viewer in the center of the door. It was an eerie feeling, diminished by the comic effect. He smiled to himself and wondered if Herr Manfredi would look like the sinister Conrad Veidt in one of those 1930s English films.

  There were two clicks of a lock, followed by the sound of a sliding bolt. The door swung back and the image of Conrad Veidt vanished. Ernst Manfredi was a short, rotund man in his middle to late sixties. He was completely bald, with a pleasant, gentle face; but the wide blue eyes, magnified beyond the metal-framed glasses, were cold. Very light blue and very cold.

  “Come in, Herr Holcroft,” said Manfredi, smiling. Then his expression changed abruptly; the smile disappeared. “Do forgive me. I should say Mister Holcroft. The Herr may be offensive to you. My apologies.”

  “None necessary,” replied Noel, stepping into the well-appointed compartment. There was a table, two chairs, no bed in evidence. The walls were wood-paneled; dark-red velvet curtains covered the windows, muffling the sounds of the figures rushing by outside. On the table was a small lamp with a fringed shade.

  “We have about twenty-five minutes before departure,” the banker said. “It should be adequate. And don’t be concerned—we’ll be given ample warning. The train won’t start until you’ve disembarked. You’ll not have to travel to Zurich.”

  “I’ve never been there.”

  “I trust that win be changed,” said the banker enigmatically, gesturing for Holcroft to sit opposite him at the table.

  “I wouldn’t count on it.” Noel sat down, unbuttoning his raincoat but not removing it.

  “I’m sorry, that was presumptuous of me.” Manfredi took his seat and leaned back in the chair. “I must apologize once again. I’ll need your identification. Your passport, please. And your international driver’s license. Also, whatever documents you have on your person that describe physical markings, vaccinations, that sort of thing.”

  Holcroft felt a rush of anger. The inconvenience to his life aside, he disliked the banker’s patronizing attitude. “Why should I? You know who I am. You wouldn’t have opened that door if you didn’t. You probably have more photographs, more information on me, than the State Department.”

  “Indulge an old man, sir,” said the banker, shrugging in self-deprecation, his charm on display. “It will be made clear to you.”

  Reluctantly, Noel reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew the leather case that contained his passport, health certificate, international license, and two A.I.A. letters that stated his qualifications as an architect. He handed the case to Manfredi. “It’s all there. Help yourself.”

  With seemingly greater reluctance, the banker opened the case. “I feel as though I’m prying, but I think …”

  “You should,” interrupted Holcroft. “I didn’t ask for this meeting. Frankly, it comes at a very inconvenient time. I want to get back to New York as soon as possible.”

  “Yes. Yes, I understand,” said the Swiss quietly, perusing the documents. “Tell me, what was the first architectural commission you undertook outside the United States?”

  Noel suppressed his irritation. He had come this far; there was no point in refusing to answer. “Mexico,” he replied. “For the Alvarez hotel chain, north of Puerto Vallarta.”

  “The second?”

  “Costa Rica. For the government. A postal complex in 1973.”

  “What was the gross income of your firm in New York last year? Without adjustments.”

  “None of your damned business.”

  “I assure you, we know.”

  Holcroft shook his head in angry resignation. “A hundred and seventy-three thousand dollars and change.”

  “Considering office rental, salaries, equipment and expenses, that’s not an altogether impressive figure, is it?” asked Manfredi, his eyes still on the papers in his hands.

  “It’s my own company and the staff is small. I have no partners, no wife, no heavy debts. It could be worse.”

  “It could be better,” said the banker, looking up at Holcroft. “Especially for one so talented.”

  “It could be better.”

  “Yes, I thought as much,” continued the Swiss, putting the various papers back in the leather case and handing it to Noel. He leaned forward. “Do you know who your father was?”

  “I know who my father is. Legally, he’s Richard Holcroft, of New York, my mother’s husband. He’s very much alive.”

  “And retired,” completed Manfredi. “A fellow banker, but hardly a banker in the Swiss tradition.”

  “He was respected. Is respected.”

  “For his family’s money or for his professional acumen?”

  “Both, I’d say. I love him. If you have reservations, keep them to yourself.”

  “You’re very loyal; that’s a quality. I admire. Holcroft came along when your mother—an incredible woman, inciden 
tally—was most despondent. But we split definitions. Holcroft is once removed. I referred to your natural father.”

  “Obviously.”

  “Thirty years ago, Heinrich Clausen made certain arrangements. He traveled frequently between Berlin, Zurich, and Geneva, beyond official scrutiny, of course. A document was prepared that we as”—Manfredi paused and smiled—“… as biased neutrals could not oppose. Attached to the document is a letter, written by Clausen in April of 1945. It is addressed to you. His son.” The banker reached for a thick manila envelope on the table.

  “Just a minute,” said Noel. “Did those certain arrangements concern money?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m not interested. Give it to charity. He owed it.”

  “You may not feel that way when you’ve heard the amount.”

  “What is it?”

  “Seven hundred and eighty million dollars.

1

JANUARY 197—

“Attention! Le train de sept heures à destination de Zurich partira du quai numéro douze.”

The tall American in the dark-blue raincoat glanced up at the cavernous dome of the Geneva railway station, trying to locate the hidden speakers. The expression on his sharp, angular face was quizzical; the announcement was in French, a language he spoke but little and understood less. Nevertheless, he was able to distinguish the word Zurich; it was his signal. He brushed aside the light-brown hair that fell with irritating regularity over his forehead and started for the north end of the station.

The crowds were heavy. Bodies rushed past the American in all directions, hurrying to the gates to begin their journeys to scores of different destinations. None seemed to pay attention to the harsh announcements that echoed throughout the upper chambers in a continuous metallic monotone. The travelers in Geneva’s Bahnhof knew where they were going. It was the end of the week; the new mountain snows had fallen and the air outside was crisp and chilling. There were places to go, schedules to keep, and people to see; time wasted was time stolen. Everyone
hurried.

The American hurried, too, for he also had a schedule to keep and a person to see. He had learned before the announcement that the train for Zurich would leave from track twelve. According to the plan, he was to walk down the ramp to the platform, count seven cars from the rear, and board at the first entrance. Inside, he was to count again, this time five compartments, and knock twice on the fifth door. If everything was in order, he would be admitted by a director of La Grande Banque de Genève, signifying the culmination of twelve weeks of preparations. Preparations that included purposely obscured cablegrams, transatlantic calls made and received on telephones the Swiss banker had determined were sterile, and a total commitment to secrecy.

He did not know what the director of La Grande Banque de Genève had to say to him, but he thought he knew why the precautions were deemed necessary. The American’s name was Noel Holcroft, but Holcroft had not been his name at birth. He was born in Berlin in the summer of 1939, and the name on the hospital registry was “Clausen.” His father was Heinrich Clausen, master strategist of the Third Reich, the financial magician who put together the coalition of disparate economic forces that insured the supremacy of Adolf Hitler.

Heinrich Clausen won the country but lost a wife. Althene Clausen was an American; more to the point, she was a headstrong woman with her own standards of ethics and morality. She had deduced that the National Socialists possessed neither; they were a collection of paranoiacs, led by a maniac, and supported by financiers interested solely in profits.

This book is going to be revamped. In that light I have taken it down. As I have written I have gotten better and the story is more developed. I believe I need to make sure my first story is as good as it's sequels and I would like to add More. More details, more scenes. Just more. So please know it will come back and it will be like a phoenix from the ashes.

MARCH 1945
The hull of the submarine was lashed to the huge pillings, a behemoth strapped in silhouette, the sweeping lines of its bow arching into the light of the North Sea dawn.
The base was on the island of Scharhorn, in the Helgoland Bight, several miles from the German mainland and the mouth of the Elbe River. it was a refueling station never detected by Allied Intelligence and, in the cause of security, little known among the strategists of the German High Command itself. The undersea marauders came and went in darkness, emerging and submerging within several hundred feet of the moorings. They were Neptune's assassins, coke home to rest or going forth to press their attacks.

On this particular dawn, however, the submarine lashed to the dock was doing neither. For it, the war was over, its assignment intrinsic to the origins of another war.

Two men stood in the well of the conning tower, one in the uniform of a commanding officer of the German Navy, the other a tall civilian in a long dark overcoat. Both looked down at the long line of passengers who slowly made their way toward the gangplank amidships.

As each passenger reached the plank, a name was checked off against a list, and he or she was led or carried aboard a submarine.

A few walked themselves, but they were the exceptions. they were the oldest, some having reached their twelfth or thirteenth birthdays.

The rest were children. Infants in the arms of stern faced army nurses, who surrendered their charges to a unit of navy doctors at the plank; preschoolers, and early graders clutching identical travelling kits and bone another's hands, peering up at the strange black vessel that was to be their homes for weeks to come.

"Incredible," said the officer. "Simply incredible."
"Its the beginning," replied the man in overcoat, his sharp, angular features rigid. "Word cones from everywhere. From the ports and the mountain passes, from the remaining airfields all over the Reich. They go out by thousand. to every part of the world. And people are waiting for them. Everywhere.

" An extraordinary achievement" said the officer shaking his head in awe.

"This is only one part of the strategy. the entire operation is extraordinary."

"Its and honor to have you here."
"I wanted to be. This is the last shipment." The talk civilian kept his eyes on the dock below. "The Third Reich is dying. These are its rebirth. These are the Fourth Reich. Unencumbered by mediocrity and corruption.
These are the Sonnenkinder. All over the world."
"The children ....."
"The Children of the Dammed," said the man, interrupting. "They are the Children of the Dammed, as millions will be. But none will be like these. And these will be everywhere."

In 1945 the children of the Third Reich were secretly hidden allbover the world to be concealed until the 1970s when they would come of age.

Then the most elaborate plans and $780 million in a Swiss bank would be waiting. There would even be an unsuspecting outsider to set the plan into action. That outsider is Neil Holcroft, the American son of a high ranking Nazi. He's just been shown an amazing document, the Holcroft Covenant. If he signs, it will be his own death warrant and a devastating threat to the security of the world.

Ameverywoman:
Am already a fan

welcome to the deadly story ma'am

The day had gone by slowly for FBI Special Agent Sally
Roux. She was tired and hated having to deal with the local
detectives. She looked over a report from Detective
Gonzales. He was a piece of work. Normally, Sally didn’t
mind working with men like Gonzales but on top of being a
total control-freak…he clearly had some issues working
with women. Sally recalled her conversation with him
earlier that day.
“So you’re not going to let me in on the meeting?” Jerry
Gonzales had asked through clenched teeth. He had wanted
to sit on the FBI’s profiler meeting.
Sally stayed professional. The local detectives never liked it
when FBI took over. She gave him her standard response,
“Thank you again for all of your hard work. If we need your
assistance, I’ll let you know.”
Sally had turned to leave when she heard Gonzales mutter,
“Stupid bitch.”
Working in a field dominated by men, this wasn’t the first
time she had been called a bitch and it wouldn’t be the last.
She decided to ignore it. She made a mental note to keep
an eye on Detective Gonzales. She wasn’t quite sure why,
but there was something about Gonzales that she definitely
didn’t like.
~AT THE HOME OF EVA LEWIS~
As day turned to dark, Eva told Joelynn she was going to
the grocery store to buy some almond milk.
Joelynn reminded her, “Don’t forget we need Lucky Charms
cereal too.”
Eva rolled her eyes, “You should stop eating that and start
eating Raisin Bran or something.”
“Only old people eat Raisin Bran,” Joelynn joked and stuck
out her tongue only to feel a pillow from the sofa hit her.
“Stop calling me old! Twenty-eight is not old!” Eva knew
Joelynn was joking but they still liked to give one another a
hard time. After she left, Joelynn went to her room and sat
down in front of her laptop, staring at its screen. She was
contemplating whether or not to check out the dating site
Love Match. She looked out her window and noticed a car
she didn’t recognize parked across the street.
Joelynn thought it was strange and closed her curtains. She
sat back down and said, “Oh hell…desperate times call for
desperate measures.” Joelynn typed in the web address for
Love Match and waited for the site to load. A giant heart
popped up on the screen asking her to register or log in.
Joelynn clicked on the register button. The last guy she
dated, James, didn’t seem too into her and they had broken
up. It hadn’t been serious. Even Jacob hadn’t met him. Still,
she hadn’t dated anyone since then and she was ready for
the excitement that a new relationship would bring.
After watching Eva leave, the man parked across the street
looked at his watch. It wasn’t yet nine. He watched the
woman at the window. Her curtains were open and allowed
him to see the soft glow of her computer screen. He ducked
down when she stood by the window. His breath caught
when she stared in his direction. Did she notice him? He
wasn’t sure if he wanted her to or not. She closed the white
curtains to her window and sat back down. He could see
her shadow through the window’s curtains.
He leaned against his steering wheel. Where did Eva go? It
was late but he didn’t care. He wanted to see her. He had
decided that he wanted to meet with her today even if she
wasn’t ready for him. He picked up his phone and checked
for messages. He had a few that he started to respond to.
He looked up at the window and then again at the empty
driveway. He reminded himself, “Good things come to
those that wait.” He would wait all night if he had to.
~AT THE HOME OF STELLA MEYERS~
Back at her home, Stella was nervous. It had been so long
since she went out on an actual date. She hoped her friend
would finally show up tonight. She still didn’t know his real
identity. They only referred to one another by their
usernames and his profile picture had been of a man skiing
so she couldn’t see his face as it was covered in large
goggles and a thick ski jacket. She bent down and smelled
the flowers that were now on her kitchen table. Stella
couldn’t help but smile.
“Stellaaaaa,” a young boy came into the kitchen carrying a
math workbook. “Stella what time are you coming back
home tonight?”
Stella looked at her younger brother, “I don’t know JB. Not
too late. Don’t worry. Aunt Denise is going to come watch
you while I’m gone.”
JB was Stella’s younger brother. He had light brown hair
and big brown eyes. He was the sweetest kid Stella knew. “I
still need someone to check my math homework.”
Stella laughed. “Denise is an accountant. I’m pretty sure she
can help you with your math work.”
“Do you have to go?”
Stella couldn’t help but think JB was cute. Ever since their
parents passed away in a car accident, he was very
attached to her and didn’t like for her to leave him alone.
She knew that he was afraid of losing her too.
“What’s the matter JB?”
He looked down and drew a circle in the carpeted floor with
his big toe, “I don’t want you to go. My friend Billy said
there’s a killer on the loose. What if something happens to
you?”
Stella smiled, “Don’t worry JB. Nothing’s going to happen to
me. I’m only going to go have some coffee with a friend. It’s
the same friend that sent me the flowers on the table.” JB
looked at the flowers and then sighed.
Stella continued, “Have you ever heard of a killer sending
flowers before?”
JB shook his head.
Stella smiled, “There…you see? It’s fine. I’m just going to
have coffee. I’ll be here when you wake up tomorrow
morning.”
JB sighed again and looked up, “You promise?”
“I promise.”
JB held up his pinky to her, “Pinky swear.”
Stella laughed and crossed her pinky with his while saying,
“I pinky swear.” This seemed to relieve JB because he
hugged her and she kissed him on the cheek. “I love you
baby brother.”
JB smiled, “I love you too Stella. Don’t forget your promise.”
With that he ran to his room to finish up his homework.
The doorbell rang and Stella opened the door to her aunt
Denise. When she saw Stella, she pretended to wolf whistle.
Stella laughed. She was wearing a denim dress with dressy
cowgirl boots. She thanked her aunt for watching JB and
stepped outside to get into her car. When Stella arrived at
the coffee shop fifteen minutes later, she checked for any
messages from her friend. None so far. She hoped he didn’t
stand her up again. She ordered a café mocha and sat
down at a table when her phone buzzed.
“Hello sweetheart. I’m almost there.”
Stella blushed and texted, “I can’t wait to finally meet you.”
“Same here. I have a feeling we’re going to have some
deadly wicked fun.”
Stella felt a slight chill run up her spine, “Deadly?”
She was about to respond when she felt a hand on her
shoulder. She jumped up and turned to look into a pair of
pale blue eyes. Her eyes widened in surprise. “You’re
king27?” King27 was the username of Stella’s online friend.
The man smiled, “Please just call me Tom.”