Signed copies of books are available in the shop in paperback and hard cover. You can also get it on kindle from Amazon. Audible production for book 1 has started with a new narrator and should be available around the end of March (plus Audible review time).

Book 1 – The Meadow Protocol

Chapter 23

Still Quick with the Kick

“Anything else and they knew they’d regret it. Sarge was fast, especially so for a man his age.”

#
He can still kick a heavy bag so hard the chain sings.

At the barbecue he proved it again: ten perfect roundhouse kicks in under eight seconds, barefoot on the gravel, then walked back to the potato salad like he’d just taken out the trash.

Nobody laughed. Nobody dared.

Okinawa, long ago.

Triad kidnappers had Masaaki Hatsumi’s teenage daughter in a rain-slick alley behind a Naha nightclub. The Sergeant Major went through three armed men like they were made of rice paper and carried the girl out without ever breaking stride.

Her father, Sōke Hatsumi (thirty-fourth sōke of Togakure-ryū, last living bridge to the old shadow warriors) did not thank him with words. He took him into the dōjō and kept him there.

Not for days, but for seasons that bled into years.

He taught him the forbidden scrolls of Togakure-ryū the way they were meant to be taught: only by touch, breath, and blood.

The shinobi-irimi entry that slips inside a blade’s arc before it is drawn.

The sanshin no kata performed so slowly it looks like tai chi and so fast the eye cannot follow.

The kukishin ground-fighting that turns the earth itself into a weapon.

The shuriken that is thrown with the wrist, the elbow, the foot, or the mouth depending on what is bound.

The metsubushi powders mixed from crushed wasp nests and ground glass that blind in silence.

The kyoketsu-shoge ring-and-cord that can disarm, strangle, or climb a castle wall in the same motion.

The taijutsu that uses the enemy’s own skeleton as leverage until joints separate with a sound like green bamboo snapping.

The onen walking method that leaves no print in snow or sound on wet leaves.

The kuji-kiri and kuji-in patterns traced in the air that the old men swore bent probability itself.

He taught him that the ninja was never an assassin. He was the space between lightning and thunder, the moment when the guard blinks, the breath the enemy never finishes.

He taught him until the Sergeant Major moved like wind through bamboo, carried death in the same hands that could cradle a child, and could vanish from a locked room without disturbing the dust.

To this day the Sergeant Major still bows (just a flicker at the waist) when he enters a room no one else realizes has changed.

#
At the ranch he is the quiet axis around which everything turns.

He doesn’t speak much. When he does, chairs scrape back like the insertion bird is two minutes out.

The years have come and gone, but the kick is still lightning, the eyes are still winter, and the hand that rests gently on a grandchild’s shoulder is the same hand that once ended three men in the rain for reaching toward a child.

When the manila envelope finally lands on the picnic table with CERBERUS IS AWAKE written across it, he is the first to stand.

No one has to ask what happens next.

They already know.

Book 2 – The Brush

Chapter 12

The Man Who Wasn’t Supposed To Survive

“Plans fail the moment the wrong man lives.”
— internal Cerberus memorandum, undated

The Wound That Didn’t Kill Him

He should have bled out before sunrise.

That had been the math—clean, dispassionate, signed off by people who preferred numbers to names. A femoral nick. Cold exposure. No evac window. No redundancy.

Instead, he woke up choking on iron and snowmelt, his leg on fire, his breath tearing in and out of his chest like a broken pump.

Alive.

He lay still for a long time, eyes open, counting heartbeats and waiting for the darkness to come back and finish the job.

It didn’t.

So he did what men like him always did when the plan broke.

He adapted.

Improvised Continuity

The bandage was wrong. Civilian wrong. Tourniquet placed by someone who knew enough but not doctrine. The bleeding had stopped anyway.

That bothered him.

He dragged himself upright against a frozen culvert, vision swimming, teeth chattering hard enough to hurt. The road sign above him read FAIRPLAY – 2 MILES, the reflective paint dull under gray morning light.

Fairplay.

That hadn’t been on his route card.

Which meant either the map was wrong—

—or the world had shifted farther than command anticipated.

He laughed once, a dry, humorless sound that turned into a cough.

“Figures,” he muttered.

The Town With No Eyes

Fairplay was quiet in the way places got when the noise left but the people didn’t.

No engines. No grid hum. No background hiss of civilization pretending it was permanent.

Just footsteps. Muffled voices. A generator somewhere dying a slow death.

He moved through town carefully, leaning on a scavenged shovel handle like a crutch, keeping his jacket closed to hide the blood. People noticed him—but not enough.

That was the trick.

Too clean and you got questioned. Too desperate and you got avoided.

He aimed for injured but functional.

It worked.

At the courthouse steps, he listened.

Rumors flowed easier than fuel.

“Substation burned out south of here.”
“Heard Denver’s dark too.”
“They say there’s a place north of town still running power.”

That last one made him pause.

North.

Still running.

Interesting.

The Name That Didn’t Match the File

He heard the name twice before he trusted it.

“Callahan Ranch.”
“Guy named Bill. Ex-something.”
“Quiet place. Antennas. Disciplined.”

That was wrong.

The file didn’t say Callahan.

The file said Asset Node: RANCH / ALPHA-3.
No surname. No personality. Just capability and risk scores.

And according to the file, ALPHA-3 was nonviable post-event.

The file wasn’t wrong.
It was just late.

Which meant one of three things:

The file was outdated
The Ranch was bluffing
Someone wanted it underestimated

He didn’t like any of them.

Orders Without a Sender

He found a place to sit near the old hardware store, back to brick, eyes on the road north. Pulled the folded paper from inside his jacket—laminated, creased, stained.

The last orders he’d ever received.

Primary Objective: Verify survivability of nodes following Event Window
Secondary Objective: Confirm leadership structure
Tertiary Objective: No engagement unless compromised
Contingency: Terminate on capture

He looked down at his leg. At the blood soaked into borrowed bandages.

“Capture,” he said quietly. “Right.”

The command net was gone.
The beacon schedule was broken.
Phase Two had accelerated without him.

He was operating on inertia now.

Which made him dangerous.

Wrong Assumptions

By afternoon, he’d learned enough to make his first mistake.

The Ranch wasn’t hoarding.

It wasn’t recruiting.

It wasn’t broadcasting.

That meant it was either:

smarter than the rest, or
waiting for instruction

He assumed the latter.

Men like him always did.

He adjusted the story he’d tell if he made contact.

Injured traveler.
Valuable information.
Loose affiliation.

He could trade truth in pieces. That was the art.

What he didn’t consider—

What the file hadn’t prepared him for—

was that the Ranch didn’t need his information.

They already knew the world had changed.

The Survival Error

As the sun dipped and the cold crept back in, he stood with effort, facing north.

He would walk when he could. Hitch if he had to. Observe first. Signal later.

If the Ranch was active, he would confirm.

If it wasn’t—

He didn’t finish the thought.

Because something about this place, this silence, this broken timetable…

It felt like he had survived past his usefulness.

And men like him didn’t usually get second acts.

He limped toward the road, unaware that he was already misclassified.

Already behind.

Already moving toward people who would never see him as an asset.

Only as a threat.

Air Before Blood

They got him inside just before his leg gave out completely.

Hands cut his jacket away with practiced speed. Boots stayed on. Someone swore softly when they saw the soaked bandage and the way the skin above it had gone gray.

“Bleeding’s bad,” a younger voice said, already reaching for pressure.

“Stop.”

The word wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.

Joe leaned in, eyes on the man’s face, not the wound. “What kills him first?”

No answer.

“He’s not moving air right,” Joe said. “Look at his chest.”

The man’s breaths were shallow, uneven, each one delayed like it was being argued with.

Alison was already at his head. “Tongue’s falling back,” she said. “Cold’s making it worse.”

“But the blood—”

“And he’ll bleed slower if he’s alive,” Joe said. “Explain it back.”

A beat.

“Airway,” the younger voice said, quieter now. “Then breathing. Then circulation.”

Joe nodded once. “MARCH isn’t a checklist. It’s an order.”

They repositioned the head. Cleared the airway. Waited.

Only when the man’s chest rose evenly again did Joe step back.

“Now,” he said, “we deal with the blood.”

For the first time since the plan failed him, the man stopped fighting to stay conscious.

And that, more than anything, told Joe he might actually survive.

Book 3

Chapter 13 – Line of Sight

“Trust is not declared. It is verified at distance.”

Planning

The planning began before anyone said the word meet.

Bill gathered them in the main room instead of the shack. The topographic maps were already spread across the long table, Kauffman Ridge centered beneath tight contour lines and shaded relief. Elevation profiles ran east to west. Approach routes were marked in grease pencil.

Most of the Ranch came without being asked.

Wyatt stood near the wall studying contour spacing. Katherine had a notebook open before Bill finished speaking. CJ stood near the door, quiet but alert. Roger compared a folded paper topo to the digital overlay. Spoon and Pikie stood opposite Bill. Alex and Peter watched the ridgeline through the window as if terrain itself might shift. Sarah sat at the head of the table. Finn and Jonah hovered just close enough to see.

No one treated it casually.

“We assume nothing,” Bill said. “Even if it’s who I think it is.”

The Sergeant Major nodded once. “Capability over familiarity.”

Sarah circled the ridge crest. “Forty miles straight line. Valley floor won’t carry VHF. Ridge-to-ridge will.”

Roger tapped two narrow cuts in the contour lines. “Wind channels here and here. Setup won’t be stable unless anchored.”

“You don’t rush antenna alignment in that,” Wyatt added.

CJ spoke quietly. “Vehicle placement below tree line. No skyline profile.”

“Two vehicles max,” Spoon said.

“No convoy,” Pikie added.

Peter pointed to a shallow saddle. “Partial cover. Not a funnel.”

“It’s also where someone would wait if they meant harm,” Alex said.

The Sergeant Major nodded. “Which is why we don’t descend together.”

“Abort triggers?” Jonah asked.

“Deviation from window. Unexpected personnel. Signal inconsistency,” Sarah replied.

Finn added, “Or hesitation.”

No one dismissed that.

Katherine wrote in steady block letters:

Overwatch. Two teams. Staggered descent. No extended dwell.

Who Goes

“I’ll take SGM and Caleb,” Bill said.

Wyatt frowned slightly. “Caleb?”

The Sergeant Major’s tone remained even. “He’s not field experienced.”

Caleb met his gaze. “I’m the only one here who can validate thirty words per minute without thinking.”

“That’s what voice is for.”

“Voice can be imitated,” Caleb said calmly. “Fist can’t.”

Roger studied him. “You’re assuming they’d test.”

“They would,” Caleb said. “Because we would.”

Bill watched him carefully.

“You stay on the ridge until I signal,” Bill said finally. “You do not descend without confirmation.”

“Yes.”

“Overwatch first,” the Sergeant Major added.

“Yes, sir.”

The decision locked in.

Pre-Trip Discipline

Preparation looked quiet, not hurried.

Two VHF handhelds were staged for ridge contact. Fresh batteries clipped and separated. Compact medical kits divided between personnel. Sidearms checked and concealed.

Roger brought out two AN/PRC-163 radios and set them beside the handhelds.

“Primary ridge traffic on handheld,” he said. “Secondary on the 163.”

“Reach-back?” the Sergeant Major asked.

“SATCOM channel programmed. Burst capable.”

The dual-channel radios provided redundancy—VHF for line-of-sight, satellite for beyond it. If ridge contact failed, the Ranch would still hear from them.

“Thirty-minute check-ins unless compromised,” Sarah said.

“Encrypted?” Wyatt asked.

“End-to-end,” Roger replied.

“If we lose both?” Pikie asked quietly.

“We exfil,” the Sergeant Major said.

No debate.

Katherine underlined the protocol:

Information first.
Material later.
Two-week reassessment.

At 0900, they moved.

The Roadblock

The road from the Ranch to town passed through a narrow choke point where the community had erected its own barrier—heavy equipment, stacked timbers, sand-filled barrels. Not military. Not professional.

But effective.

Two men stepped forward as Bill’s truck approached. One held a clipboard. The other rested his hands loosely near a slung rifle.

“Morning,” one of them said.

“Morning,” Bill replied, stepping out slowly.

“Heading out?”

“Ridge work,” Bill said evenly. “Comms validation.”

The men exchanged a glance.

“You expecting company?”

“Possibly,” Bill said. “Nothing hostile.”

The second man nodded slowly. “You need town standby?”

“Negative. Short window. We’ll report back before dusk.”

The first man studied him for a moment. “If you see anything moving east, we’d like to know.”

“You’ll know,” Bill said.

There was no salute. No handshake.

Just mutual understanding.

As they rolled past the barrier, the men repositioned the timbers behind them.

The Ranch didn’t operate above the town.

It operated alongside it.

The Roadblock

The road from the Ranch to town narrowed at the community barrier—stacked timbers, heavy equipment, sand-filled barrels. Not military. Not polished.

But effective.

As Bill’s truck approached, two men stepped forward. One held a clipboard. The other rested his hands near a slung rifle.

One of the men said, “Morning.”

Bill stepped out slowly and replied, “Morning.”

The man with the clipboard asked, “Heading out?”

Bill answered, “Ridge work. Comms validation.”

The second man asked, “You expecting company?”

Bill replied, “Possibly. Nothing hostile.”

The man with the rifle nodded and said, “You need town standby?”

Bill answered, “Negative. Short window. We’ll report back before dusk.”

The clipboard holder studied him and said, “If you see anything moving east, we’d like to know.”

Bill replied, “You’ll know.”

There was no handshake. No salute.

As the truck rolled forward, the barrier was repositioned behind them.

The Ranch did not operate above the town.

It operated alongside it.

The Ridge

The climb was steeper than it looked from below. Wind met them near the crest and stayed.

Caleb assembled the Yagi carefully. The Sergeant Major scanned east with binoculars. Bill watched both their approach route and the western slope.

At 10:59, Caleb keyed the handheld at one watt and waited.

Static hissed in the wind.

A carrier rose through it.

The unknown voice said, “Station on ridge. One-minute window.”

Caleb replied, “Copy. One-minute window confirmed.”

The unknown voice said, “Signal strength five by three.”

Caleb answered, “Five by two. Wind interference.”

The unknown voice asked, “Visual confirmation of antenna structure?”

Caleb glanced at the Sergeant Major, who gave a small nod.

Caleb transmitted, “Affirmative. Portable Yagi. Three-element.”

After a pause, the unknown voice said, “Same.”

The Sergeant Major lowered his binoculars slightly and said quietly to Bill, “Orange panel east quadrant.”

Caleb keyed and said, “Panel confirmed.”

The unknown voice replied, “Reciprocal confirmation.”

The unknown voice then asked, “Proceed to staggered descent?”

Bill leaned closer to Caleb and said quietly, “Stage two first.”

Caleb nodded and transmitted, “Hold position. Thirty minutes.”

The unknown voice replied, “Agreed.”

The carrier dropped exactly at one minute.

Midpoint

They stopped roughly twenty yards apart.

The wind had eased in the saddle, no longer cutting sideways the way it had along the crest. For a moment neither side moved. Both men studied the other as if confirming something that radio alone could not.

The man opposite Bill removed his sunglasses and said, “Bill.”

It wasn’t a question.

Bill nodded once and replied, “Tom.”

A faint smile crossed Tom’s face. “Didn’t expect the next time we met to be on a ridge.”

Bill answered, “Didn’t expect the next time I heard you it’d be at thirty words per minute.”

Tom glanced toward the ridge where Caleb remained in overwatch. “That was one of my boys,” he said. “They still argue over who gets the key.”

Bill let out a quiet breath that might have been a laugh. “Which one?”

“The one who wouldn’t stop asking you how fast was fast,” Tom replied. “He pushed himself after that. Thirty-two now, on a good day.”

Bill nodded slowly. “Caleb couldn’t copy him the first time he heard you transmitting.”

Tom looked back at him. “That so?”

Bill said, “He didn’t like that. Been practicing ever since.”

Tom raised his voice slightly toward the ridge. “Speed test?”

From above, Caleb transmitted immediately, clean and fast. “CQ TEST QRP K.”

The reply came back just as quickly, steady and controlled. “ROGER QRU K.”

Tom nodded once. “That’s him.”

Bill said quietly, “That’s ours.”

There was a brief pause. Then Tom stepped forward and extended his hand.

Bill closed the remaining distance and took it.

The handshake was firm and familiar. No hesitation. No caution. Just recognition between men who had once stood in folding chairs at a community center talking about redundancy and licensing exams.

Tom said, “Good to see you, Bill.”

Bill replied, “Good to see you, Tom.”

They released hands but remained closer than before.

Tom said, “We’re operating family core. Extended ring beyond.”

Bill nodded. “Same structure.”

Tom asked, “Grid?”

Bill replied, “Solar partial. Inverters took damage after the CME. Stabilized, not expanding.”

Tom said, “Micro-hydro held. Fuel limited.”

Bill added, “Nuclear complicates everything.”

Tom’s expression tightened slightly. “We saw the flash.”

Bill answered, “So did we.”

The silence that followed was not tense. It was shared.

Tom said, “Information first.”

Bill replied, “Material later.”

They compared notes calmly—fuel stability timelines, transformer failures, water depth, movement along 285, which bands were still alive.

After several minutes, Tom said, “Two-week reassessment?”

Bill nodded. “Confirm via five megahertz. Same window.”

Tom smiled faintly. “And maybe slow the boys down.”

Bill shook his head slightly. “Don’t.”

Tom gave a quiet chuckle. “Fair enough.”

They stepped back into professional spacing.

Tom said, “We’ll withdraw east.”

Bill replied, “We’ll withdraw west.”

No second handshake was needed.

On the ridge above, Caleb remained focused on the geometry of the valley, unaware that below him an old friendship had just been restored.

Preparation had found preparation.

And this time, it shook hands.

Synchronization

They did not linger in familiarity.

Bill shifted the tone back to structure. “You’re operating family core?”

Tom nodded. “Core group. Extended ring beyond that. Rotating responsibilities. No single point of failure.”

Bill said, “Same principle.”

Tom asked, “How stable is your power?”

Bill replied, “Solar held. Inverters took damage after the CME. We stabilized output but we’re not expanding load.”

Tom said, “Micro-hydro’s been steady for us. Fuel’s limited. Generator use is controlled.”

Bill nodded. “Resupply routes are unpredictable.”

Tom said, “Agreed.”

Bill asked, “Movement along 285?”

Tom answered, “Initial drift west. Then it stalled. Fuel scarcity’s limiting range.”

Bill said, “We’re seeing similar patterns.”

Tom asked, “Amateur bands?”

Bill replied, “Forty meters noisy. Twenty inconsistent. Five megahertz predictable. Sixty meters sporadic eastbound traffic.”

Tom said, “We’re logging but not engaging beyond region.”

Bill nodded once. “Good.”

They compared notes efficiently—transformer failures, water table depth, crop viability projections, winter preparation timelines. Neither man exaggerated. Neither concealed anything essential.

After several minutes, Bill said, “Trial exchange. Limited scope. Two-week reassessment.”

Tom replied, “Agreed.”

Bill added, “Confirm via five megahertz. Same window.”

Tom nodded. “Same window.”

The business portion of the meeting felt complete.

Withdrawal

Tom stepped back first. “We’ll withdraw east.”

Bill replied, “We’ll withdraw west.”

Tom looked toward the ridge one more time and called out, “Tell your operator he’s solid.”

Bill answered, “I will.”

They turned deliberately and began moving away from the saddle. Distance re-established. Spacing restored.

On the ridge above, Caleb watched through binoculars until both eastern figures cleared line-of-sight. He waited another full minute before keying the handheld.

Caleb transmitted, “West team, ridge clear.”

Bill’s voice returned steady over VHF. “Copy. Begin descent.”

Caleb disassembled the Yagi carefully, wiping grit from the connectors before stowing them. The wind continued sweeping across the crest as if nothing significant had occurred.

Return

Once below tree line, the Sergeant Major keyed the AN/PRC-163 and established the scheduled satellite check-in.

The Sergeant Major said, “Ranch, this is West Team. Contact successful. No compromise.”

Roger’s voice came back over the secure channel. “Copy, West Team. SATCOM link stable.”

Bill took the handset briefly and said, “Advise roadblock we’re inbound.”

Roger replied, “Already notified.”

When they approached the town barrier again, the same two men stepped forward.

The man with the clipboard asked, “Everything hold?”

Bill answered, “It held.”

The second man asked, “Friendly?”

Bill replied, “Disciplined.”

The man nodded once and said, “That’s better than friendly.”