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Excerpt One:


     The Sand Stalker yacht, and his personal fortune, both left to him by his father as an inheritance, afforded him the ability to travel and conduct his business with ease in the mundane to the most exotic playgrounds around the world. But the important underlying and thus biggest benefit to traveling and conducting business in international waters was in being away from prying eyes and the interfering reach of law enforcement agencies worldwide. This magnificent yacht could adapt and accommodate perfectly, no matter what the business venture entailed—be it drugs, arms, or one of Zahid’s personal favorites: human trafficking.

     The ding of a bell on a channel marker they were just passing awoke him from his thoughts. The grave would have to wait, but deep inside, he knew it called his name.

     He yawned.

     Tomorrow is an important day. He had the personal task of finding the perfect, quintessential American woman for Zahid’s collection: a slim, tanned, blonde American woman with plenty of spunk and fight in her. Zahid had no preference of eye color—blue, brown, green, it made no difference. Kalil, on the other hand, liked brown eyes. He didn’t have his own collection like Zahid, but in the course of human trafficking over the years he had his share to sample and that was good enough for him. This American playground, Newport, Rhode Island would be good hunting grounds, he was sure.

Excerpt Two:


     The cold waters of the North Atlantic revived the woman. The last thing she saw

before sinking below the surface, was moonlight spilling across the stern of the yacht, 

and revealing its name: SAND STALKER.

     Jamal and Omar turned around to face Kalil who had quietly walked up behind them

as they had thrown the woman overboard.

     Kalil stood before Omar face to fac “You made me look foolish before Zahid today, Omar.” He shook his head, “Not a wise thing to do.”

     “I am sorry, Kalil, sir. I—” He stopped speaking, staring at Kalil in horror and disbelief.

     Kalil stretched out his arm, raising the pistol’s barrel six inches from Omar’s forehead. With his left hand, he raised the other Egyptian cotton towel he’d taken from the stateroom unobserved on his way out, and held it between himself and Omar. Without the slightest hesitation, he pulled the trigger, blowing the back of Omar’s head out to sea. The rest of the body crumpled and fell over backwards to follow. He lowered the towel and tossed the blood and brain splattered towel in after him.

     He turned his attention to Jamal and raised the gun again. “Do we have an understanding or do you want to join him?”

     Shaking, Jamal answered him back, “Yes sir. I mean no sir. Ah, I, I mean, yes sir, we have an understanding.” He stood there waiting to be dismissed or killed with parts of his friend Omar splattered across his clothes and his pant legs, which mixed with his own urine.

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