Into the Fire

Anyone remember this one? In keeping with the love theme. 

Lord, you're the lover of our souls. Thank you is never enough. In the Name of Jesus, Amen. 

but the wicked will be cut off from the land,

   and the unfaithful will be torn from it.

. . . 

Do not set foot on the path of the wicked

   or walk in the way of evil men.

Avoid it, do not travel on it;

   turn from it and go on your way.

For they cannot sleep till they do evil;

   they are robbed of slumber till they make someone fall.

They eat the bread of wickedness

   and drink the wine of violence. 

Proverbs 2:22; Proverbs 4:14-17 (NIV) 

YAY! It's Friday, and I get to present my ongoing initial meet-up for Mitch Rapp with the woman I've selected for the love of his life. Probably only those in the die-hard Mitch Rapp fan cult will understand why I created her. It's simple really: I can't stand the women he's selected who've been his love interests. Apparently, there are many more fans with the same opinion. So. Continuing . . . (with a little from last week to start it off)

      Once inside the car with their desserts in her lap, Christine said, “I won’t keep you long at the office, Rapp. I just need to speak with you for a couple of minutes.”

     He glanced at her noticing the subtle worry on her face. “Okay.”

     After arriving in the private parking area, he turned to her. “You seem worried about something. Want to tell me why?”

     “I do. I’ve been given something to give to you. Many years ago. It’s a letter from my father addressed to you. He instructed me not to read it but to give it to you if I ever had the opportunity. I’ve kept it with me wherever I’ve been and gone. It was one of the last things he gave me on that fateful 21^st birthday.” She dropped her head and took a deep breath. Sitting back upright and looking straight ahead, she said, “He gave me one also. About you. My instructions were to read it if and only when I ever felt truly threatened. I haven’t read it yet.” She looked at him and met his serious gaze.

     He undid his seatbelt and said, “Well, let’s get to it then.” He got out, did his usual inspection as he walked around to let her out. Before she got out, she left his dessert on the console. 

     Once inside her office, Rapp took his seat, relaxed. He watched her set her dessert on the desk and quickly attend to the phone. Keeping her purse, she came around her desk to sit across from him, unzipped a compartment of the large leather bag and pulled out two long envelopes, handing both of them to him.

     Picking up on her nervousness, he listened as she said, “I apologize for the wear and tear. I did my best to keep them somewhat pristine. I know Dad wrote them in his own script, and I was afraid the ink might bleed or something might interfere with his message.” She stopped.

     “One of these is yours.”

     “I know, but I want you to read it. In case there’s anything in there you’d rather I didn’t know.” She looked down at her hands, having not felt this nervous since she couldn’t remember when.

     “What do you think is in it?”

     She looked directly at him, knowing he could see her discomfort. “I suspect he was truly concerned that at some point his family would be in danger due to his . . .”

     “I get it. Definitely a concern. So you assume he wanted you to contact me somehow if you suspected your life might be threatened?”

     She nodded, thinking she might not be able to utter another word without either saying something stupid or resorting to ugly crying, both of which she considered embarrassingly unprofessional. The loss of her dad still resurrected that intense grief, something she'd never displayed so openly with anyone else, keeping it well-hidden until now. 

     He stood. She stood, clutching her purse, then quickly set it on the chair, trying to hold his gaze and find her voice. 

     "I'll call you," he said. 

     "Thank you." It came out just above a whisper. 

     He turned and left her office, quietly shutting the door behind him.

     Back in the car, he put the key in the ignition but didn’t start it. Instead he took the envelope addressed to him and used his knife to slice it open. Unfolding the letter, he scanned the handwriting. Easy to read, so he began.

     Hello, Mitch.

     This is no doubt an unusual circumstance if you’re now reading this. I’m assuming I got to know you a whole lot more since writing this. We’ve met in passing, and I’ve talked to Stan about you. I won’t bother writing his colorful reply, but beneath all the rhetoric he had a certain gleam in his eye when he spoke of you.

     I’m sure you can relate to that innate trust factor which very few people in this world inspire in us. It’s the nature of the beast. I knew the first time I spoke with you on the one assignment where our paths crossed that I had it in you. It was instantaneous for me, and, because of that, I’m writing this to you with specific instructions for my daughter which I know she’ll respect and obey.

     Personal experience tells us there’s potential for our loved ones to come under threats and terrible danger – some we see coming, and those we don’t. I’ve done my best to educate my daughter and teach her “the ropes” of self-defense. You know the drill. Know this: if you ever have the pleasure of meeting her – which I hope the reason for that isn’t because she’s in terrible danger – she probably could’ve been one of us with her talents, but her tender heart would’ve prevented it, and I’m grateful for that. I’ve told her to change her name as a professional, but her real name I want you to know: Raven Christine – and you know my surname. Her first name was decided upon by something significant between her mother and me.

     All of that brief background to say this: I’m asking you, if there’s any possible way that you can, if you will rescue her if she is in trouble. There is no one else I trust to do what will need to be done. Since her mother’s death, we’re all we have, and we don’t have near enough time together. And if I’m around when you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask. I’ll be there for you no matter what. Just, please, if you can, take care of my daughter if I’m unable to do so.

Daniel Wilson   

     Mitch lowered the letter to his lap and stared straight ahead through his bulletproof windshield. He remembered Daniel well as he’d told his daughter. Respected his skills, professionalism, but mostly his heart. He didn’t “eliminate” unnecessarily. Their “jobs” made them cynical at best, but he also noted it could make psychopaths out of some, sociopaths of others, and almost suicidal and broken operators of still more. As he’d admitted to Christine, he’d wondered why and how he was still around – especially of late.

     Should he read the letter addressed to Daniel’s daughter? Picking it up off the console where his dessert rested, he slit it open and began to read.

     Hey, Sweet Girl.

     No time to waste here if you’ve opened this. You must find a way to contact Mitch Rapp. If you can’t locate him quickly, get to Irene Kennedy for assistance immediately on one of those burner phones I told you to keep handy.

     Mitch is the best of the best. I’ve worked with the best and have even been the best at one time, but Rapp is the absolute top of the line. He’s around your age, and if anyone can help, it will be him.

     I hope you will meet him one day simply because you need to know that there are others out there giving their all in this thing we do. He’s young, focused, and utterly skilled. He knows good and evil and never confuses them. He’s had to do things – as I have – which are soul-crushing, but he’s withstood them and will continue to.

     If you’re in trouble, find him, Sweet Girl. Do it quickly. Tell him I sent you. I love you more than life itself, and I hope I can always be there for you, but you know that’s not a given. Take good care, Raven. I love you.

     Always,

     Dad  

     What hit him first was that he wasn’t “young” anymore and was truly astounded that Daniel Wilson had given him that much credit so many years ago when the letter had been written, before he became more experienced – back when Irene was constantly running interference for him after his assignments.

     And then it occurred to him that Daniel had an inkling of his approaching death.

     He inserted the letter back into its envelope, grabbed both letters and his dessert and got out of his car, locked it, and headed back up to “Raven’s” office. 

Father, only you can give me what I need to write. Only you. Thank you is never enough. Ever. In the Name of Jesus, Amen. 

Let's get right to Part Two of those thriller authors. I've noticed Prologues serve a precise purpose in thrillers. They establish two noteworthy factors for the oncoming story. One: they can be used to depict something in the past responsible for something else which will be occurring in the future. Two: it might reveal the motive for vengeance, it might be considered a debt to be resolved, or it might present the reason for an unforeseen opportunity which has yet to be apparent. Considering thrillers are at some point action-packed, that action either begins in the Prologue or sets the stage for the onslaught. The reason for that preview is either quickly brought to the forefront or languishes in the reader's memory while other events hustle into the present. 

Thriller authors keep an accelerated pace, as inferred by the genre title, but it does waver according to the story. If the author is involved in perpetuating a particular hero throughout a series, he's responsible for many circumstances threatening the hero's life. I've noticed that with most of the thriller series I've read, each novel attempts to hold open the possibility of making the book a standalone while trying not to be repetitious with necessary inclusions. I've also watched as the character development of the hero and those semi-peripheral characters included in the series expands to give the reader a view of all of them from the inside out, showing who they are through the life-and-death struggles within the chaos of the plot as well as slipping in the varying degrees of their relationships to each other. 

Most of the heroes in the series thrillers I've read are insanely tough men, a cut above because they've wanted to be, they've trained to be, and they've had to be — either to survive or to be an example to those who come with them or after them. Not all of them have that keen sense of good and evil, but all of them recognize the evil. They are more than "proficient" in weaponry of all kinds and how to kill another human being. Their personalities reflect the seriousness of their assignments, and most of them earnestly work against emotional reactions to their work out of necessity. The thriller author determines how their character will respond to what's placed in his path and that determines how the reader responds to the hero. 

I'll do a Part Three on thriller authors' individual heroes next week. 

Father, thank you for the wonderful art of writing characters and developing stories. So many gifted authors. Thank you for each one and may they know you, the real author of those gifts. In the Name of Jesus, Amen. 

I've been reading a lot of thrillers lately – and it's one of my favorite/primary reading genres, as you know. I've noticed some things about their authors. If you also enjoy reading thrillers, let me know if you agree with my assessments. 

First of all, I need to make one distinction. Christian authors of thrillers do present a succinct difference in their work. Not in the mechanics but in the plot point. There is a faith factor, not always detailed but definitely a point at some juncture in the story. It's what separates their novels from the general market thrillers. 

I'll begin with the best Christian thriller writer I've had the utter pleasure of personally meeting: Robert Liparulo. Robert has an uncanny knack for making the reader hold his breath or take a breath because the pace is breakneck at times. Racing through dangerous circumstances in some of his older books, it is indeed a thrill ride to read his stories.

Okay, let's move on to the general market thriller writers. Here's what I've deduced:

Type One: Timing is everything. Some authors want to assault you with a jolt immediately in Chapter One or in a Prologue. And it's no simple bump – it's a life-or-death situation, and the hero or multiple characters are hard-pressed to escape it with their lives. Once that's resolved, there's a chapter or two to get comfortable or let down before the next assignment appears with another deadly situation to be faced. While preparing for that, there's a sub-story or a backstory presenting an emotional attachment or reaction to be addressed and hopefully resolved before the expected crisis takes the hero away again. This is one formula I've noticed. Definitely varies from book to book in a series, but this has been a pattern for some thriller authors. The pacing rushes and slows, builds again and then races to either one or many highly contested and dangerous trials before the mostly satisfying conclusion. 

We'll address Type Two tomorrow.   

Father, you've gifted so many with gifts and talents for all kinds of writing. Thank you for it all. May each one of the many know from whom their talent comes. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.  

Eric Clapton, one of the best guitarists back in the day and still able to rock 'n' roll, in one of his most recognizable hits from the "Derek and the Dominos" band, one of several in which he performed.

Lord, you're able to reach anybody. You know just when to call us. Thank you for every rescue, every heart yielded to you. In the Name of Jesus, Amen. 

From my latest novel Then . . . you.

From Chapter 5 

She finished getting ready and walked down the hall to the tantalizing aroma of bacon and biscuits which quickly reminded her that she hadn’t eaten since a light lunch yesterday at work. Does the man cook too?

     Walking into the kitchen, she observed him standing over the stove, maneuvering eggs around in a pan. Dressed in black Levis without rips and another black long-sleeve T-shirt with a depiction of a yellow “Don’t Tread on Me” flag on the back, he asked, “Hungry?” without turning around.

     “I didn’t think I was until I smelled your cooking. Now I am,” she said. “What can I do?”

     “Get us something to drink. I’ll take a glass of milk. You help yourself to whatever you want. Are you a coffee or tea drinker?”

     “Both actually, but coffee in the morning usually does it for me.”

     “I’m out right now which doesn’t happen very often. We’ll stop on the way at a stand. That okay?” He turned to look at her then.

     “You shaved off your beard,” she said without thinking, seeing the moustache remained.

     With his free hand, he rubbed his face. “Yeah, I was being lazy. Feels better this way.” He turned off the burners, grabbed the biscuits out of the oven and tilted them into a towel-lined basket. He set them and the butter on the island along with two kinds of jam he snatched from the fridge and a container of honey.

     “Here ya go,” he said, handing her a plate. He’d already set out silverware on a napkin.

     She’d poured him a glass of milk, setting it on the island and selected a small bottle of orange juice.

     “This looks delicious.”

     “Glad you think so,” he said, taking a bite of bacon. “Help yourself.”

     She buttered a warm biscuit and dabbed some honey on it, savored the taste. She put a small portion of scrambled eggs on her plate and took a strip of bacon. “This is a treat, Stone. It’s rare when I eat a real breakfast. Thank you.”

     “You’re welcome. I’m a breakfast junkie.” He shook some green Tabasco on his eggs. “Probably because I tend to eat early in the evening but rarely get to bed early. So I wake up hungry.” He stopped eating and talking and looked at her. Serious.

     “What?” she said, intimidated.

     “It’s weird talking to you. No one’s ever here. I’m surprised we’ve had a conversation.”

     “Really? You seem so easy to talk to. I wouldn’t normally admit to just anyone all the stuff I said to you last night. I mean, I did of course owe you an explanation for the intrusion, but I could’ve opted to tidy it up a bit, I guess. That didn’t even occur to me. I do apologize for being such a wreck.” She felt the color heat her face.

     He kept his eyes on her and took another bite of eggs. His stare did tend to unnerve her, but she did her best to hold his gaze.

     “Your eyes are green,” he said.

     “You walk with a limp. Your right leg. It’s permanent. Some atrophy from a serious injury.”

     “Shattered the femur. Enemy sniper. He missed his target. Should’ve been my head. Hardware keeps it together.”

     Her professionalism kicked in. “Please understand how I say this. A massage could help you. And by that, I mean it could give your musculature some stimulus to increase the circulation, the blood flow, plus there are other specific techniques which could relieve pressure areas. I would love to help you.”

     Her sincerity and business-like delivery impressed him, but she had no idea what her words actually said to him. He kept his eyes focused on her, trying not to watch her lips speaking them. He almost missed when the words ended. He continued to look her in the eyes for an extra couple of moments.

     He finished his nearly full glass of milk in one large, quick gulp. “Understand how I say this: under the circumstances it probably wouldn’t be a good idea. But, thank you.” He said it quieter than he normally spoke and with a respectful consideration to his tone.

     His look once again unnerved her while the flame consumed her entire face. She hurried and collected their plates and rinsed them in the sink.

Father, apart from you, I can do nothing. Thank you for it all. You've blessed me more than I can ever know. In the Name of Jesus, Amen. 

. . . I [Paul] have become its [the church's] servant by the commission God gave me to present to you the word of God in its fullness — the mystery that has been kept hidden for ages and generations, but is now disclosed to the saints. To them God has chosen to make known among the Gentiles the glorious riches of this mystery, which is Christ in you, the hope of glory. 

Colossians 1:25-27 (NIV)