In The Lake Of Lies Are Many Dead Fish
Matt Barnes sat in the last pew in the Catholic church. He was not praying, not confessing; he had nothing to pray for or confess to. Instead, he found peace in the sanctuary.
His wooden pew was unforgiving and hard. He sat in pain because he believed he deserved suffering for all he had done. Or what he may do.
Three Threats To The King Ends The Game
Stator Popov’s thick fingers stroked the white pieces that he considered as possible actions.
“In my day, chess was a sport, like football—soccer, whatever you Americans say—or baseball. It was not a game, not a pastime. We practiced each day. We studied moves, scrutinized defenses, investigated strategies for attack. We put ourselves into powerful positions to protect and to strike.”
His pawn captured Matt’s pawn. He looked at Matt. “We were determined to checkmate our opponent. Even a stalemate was a disgrace to us.” Stator Popov spoke sharply, like he would spear Matt. His shoulders broadened, like he intended to control anyone who stepped in his way, whether on the chessboard or in an ivory city.
Matt captured the pawn with his queen-side bishop. “I enjoy the game—sport, whatever you call it.”
“Ah, the Dutch Defense.” Stator Popov straightened the collar of his shirt. “I am not surprised.”
“Impressed?”
“Not impressed, no.” He spoke flatly. He jumped his knight over the wall of pawns toward the center of the board. “When there is a checkmate, then I will respect you.”
Never Be A Guest In An Enemy's House
The orders: Remain distant from the caravan but follow it.
Quite the opposite had happened. A scout noticed his truck. Now Matt was a guest in the Sheikh's tent.
“Mr. Barnes,” the Sheikh said, “I am not surprised to meet you here in the middle of the Sahara. The desert is unfriendly to those who do not know its way
A Man Who Wants Must Pay For That Want
The snow had fallen on Finland for days and now was several feet deep. With the freezing temperature, the snow, and the hours upon hours of darkness, it was truly a Nordic winter.
In that deep snow and midday darkness stood a one-room wooden cabin. A light plume rose from a small duct in the roof, and inside sat an old man and Matt Barnes.
Both were sweating while doing nothing. In the steam room, the minutia became titanic. Single beads became like boulders rolling down steep hills. Sweat slid down Matt’s forehead. It dripped through his eyebrows to sting his eyes. Others slid to the corners of his mouth.
Their saltiness seeped through his lips to his tongue. He felt a single bead glide down the nape of his neck, to the center of his back. That bead coursed along his spine and raised enough sensation that Matt’s skin crawled and his body quivered.
The Man, The Series
Matt Barnes
His life is a story.
Surviving a swim in a frozen lake in Finland and fighting rabid beasts in the Philippines. Resting in a rattling apartment in New York City and investigating an empty ivory city in Turkmenistan.
The saga is written and recorded.