Triangle: False Mirror – Chapter 1

March 16, 11:12 a.m. PDT

The air rushed by with frightening speed as Steve Tate plummeted through it. Angled head down, arms in tight, legs together, he spotted his target and aimed for it—another parachutist fighting his rig.

As he closed in, Steve saw the skydiver struggle to pull the release on his chute. Each tug sent the parachutist into a tumble, his movements growing more panicked.

Okay, once more. Approach from behind, maneuver beside, secure harness and tandem down on my chute. The instructions hovered in his mind’s eye—a simple checklist, easy enough to follow. Piece of cake. Steve took a deep breath, then leaned back and spread his arms and legs. The change to his aerodynamic profile added resistance and his rate of descent slowed as he came upon the target from above.

Steve leaned left and started to rotate so he would be face-to-face with his target. He slid into the target’s field of vision and held his hands out in front of him, palms up, indicating for the skydiver to grab onto his harness. The guy did and flattened his body out, stopping his tumbling. He looked grateful for the moment’s stability.

Steve made a quick series of hand gestures, indicating what he planned to do, and signaled to the other guy to acknowledge. He gave Steve a thumbs-up signal, indicating he understood, and Steve set to work.

First, pull this guy in and upright. Rate of descent will increase, but we’ll be all right for a minute. It’s just the express elevator down. Clip harnesses here, here and here. Recheck those points—1, 2, and 3 are set and secure. Good. Quick glance at the altimeter—passing 1,000 feet. Ready, on three…pull!

Steve yanked on the release for his own chute. The drogue popped open, sliding the main canopy out behind it. Two seconds later, Steve heard the snap of his fabric pulling taut as it filled with air and felt the familiar yank, like God pulling back hard on a yoyo. The wind rush stopped, and Steve and his cargo hung there, floating downward.

Steve reached up, grabbed the steering rings in the rigging and dumped some air, angling them down and right toward the target—a large painted set of concentric red and white rings. Surrounding these were the words ‘Welcome to Harvey Field – Snohomish Jump Center.’ A couple of small adjustments to their spiral and they landed, just to the right of the center ring. As soon as they hit, Steve fell backward, pulling his passenger down atop him. The parachute billowed down beside them.

Steve smiled. “So…welcome to Earth.”

The grizzled face looking at him scowled. “Cute. Get me unhooked, boy.”

Steve sighed. “All right, Dad, relax. It was a good landing.” He reached to hit the quick release on his harness. His father rolled off him and onto the ground.

“Told you I’d be able to make that rescue.”

The old man grumbled noncommittally as he climbed to his feet. Steve followed suit, climbing out of his harness as he did so. Typical, he thought as he started to gather his chute. His father didn’t say a word. He looked once at Steve, his face unreadable, and then walked over to help gather up the chute.

When Steve and his father had all the fabric bundled up, they turned and started walking down the flight line toward the low hangar and jump shop at the opposite end of the airfield. It was just before noon and the last of the morning jumpers would soon be in. After lunch, another bunch would join the cycle—fly, plummet, land—and then the hot air balloonists would take over the field, using the south end to prep their equipment for sunset flights over the Snohomish River Valley. High overhead, the sun was playing hide and seek among some clouds, giving rise to that unique Pacific Northwest term, the ‘sun break.’

Steve kept waiting for his father to say something, but the silence just seemed to grow the farther they walked. Grey Tate didn’t say anything, didn’t even acknowledge his son’s presence; he just continued walking, ramrod stiff in his military flight suit. Steve glanced at his father again and shook his head.

C’mon, Dad, you’re not gonna do this again? Steve glanced down at his jump outfit—compression leggings and shirt and lightweight running shoes. Yeah, I know, you’re not thrilled with my jump gear—but I like wearing my running gear up there. And who made you the fashion police, anyway? Besides, what does it matter? I made the catch—exactly as we’d discussed. You made it down safe—never even touched your emergency chute. No one got hurt. Not even a second of pucker factor up there. No, this one’s a win and you—

“Keep up, son. You’re falling behind.”

Steve had fallen out of step with his father and was now a half-dozen yards behind him. He broke into a light jog and caught up. “Sorry, Dad.”

Grey grunted once in acknowledgement and kept walking. Steve fell in step beside him, the elation he’d felt at landing draining away.

But I made the rescue, Dad! You’ve got to give me this one.

They reached their destination—a low, two-story orange wood and aluminum hanger that looked like it had been shiny and new when Lindbergh crossed the Atlantic but never since. Above the tall rolling doors was a brushed aluminum sign that said ‘Tate Aerospace.’ It was completely out of place in this small town airport. Grey reached for a small service door, opened it and stepped inside.

The inside of the hanger was an eclectic mixture of old and new. The building structure looked like it was from the turn of the 20th century, with oak beams, windows tinted by years of windblown dust and belt-driven ceiling fans turning overhead. But the repair equipment and tools were modern, the workspaces and hangar floor meticulously clean. This was a serious working environment. The back third of the shop had a lower set of rooms housing a machine shop and parts storage. Above them were the main offices.

Rollie Johannsen, the shop’s longtime chief mechanic and technician, waited for them in his customary outfit—grease-stained gray coveralls, Hawaiian shirt and faded Mariners ball cap. Rollie was a beach ball of a man—5’10”, 300 pounds, white hair, and a matching beard. His eyes twinkled merrily behind a pair of wire-rim glasses. If the whole aviation mechanic thing failed, Steve figured Rollie had a real future in toys at the North Pole.

Rollie held out his hand to congratulate Steve. “Nicely done, kid. Pretty as a picture. I have ground shots if you want.”

“Thanks, Rollie. Can you upload the footage, too?” Steve detached the small HD camera from his helmet and handed it to him.

“Sure thing. Lay out your chute on the left workbench and let’s get to cleaning and repacking. Grey, let’s use the center bench for yours.”

Steve nodded and carried his chute to the bench indicated, while his father dropped his pack on the center. As Steve started to roll out his chute, Grey watched him with a discerning eye. Your next jump was only as good as the work done here—miss something and you were unlikely to win the argument with the ground on appeal.

The atmosphere in the hangar was subdued. Jumpers are normally a friendly, confident lot, prone to joking, but Grey was all business, and his attitude set the tone in the shop. There was little conversation, just laying the canopy out, making sure the lines weren’t tangled or frayed and the hard-points on the harness were secure and functioning properly. Grey nodded, more satisfied than pleased, and leaving his pack behind untouched, headed up the stairs to his office.

Steve and Rollie watched him, a puzzled expression on their faces. As the door closed, Steve turned to the chief mechanic. “Rollie, what gives? He’s in a particularly foul mood.”

Rollie walked over to his personal workbench and terminal, plugged in the camera and started to download the footage. “Well, it’s really not my place to say, Rusty. You know that. I’m just the hired help.”

Steven sighed, rolling his eyes. “First, Rollie, you’re no more the hired help than I am. You’ve known dad longer than mom, for Pete’s sake. So cut the ‘I don’t know nuthin’, mistuh’ routine; I ain’t buying it. And second, how many times do I have to tell you, quit calling me that. You know I hate that nickname.”

Rollie just grinned and pointed his right thumb up at a faded picture on the shelf above his computer terminal. Taken on a perfect summer’s day at a baseball game years ago, it showed a bunch of people out in the center field bleachers, looking back toward home plate; you could see the words ‘Welcome to Safeco Field’ just visible behind them. There was Steve’s dad, and Rollie, minus 100 pounds and a lot less beard, and a 9-year-old Steve in a Mariners hat and baseball glove. Behind him was an elegant woman, tall and winnowy, red hair in a ponytail, looking so happy. She had her hands on Steve’s shoulders, as if anchoring him safely to the ground.

Steve heard Rollie’s voice as he studied the picture for the millionth time. “She thought it was a good nickname. Who am I to argue?”

Steve smiled, for a moment nine years old again. “All right, Rollie.” He pointed at another person in the picture; a 9-year-old girl in black hair and pigtails, a frown on her face, looking at Steve with her tongue sticking out. “But just for you. Please, don’t use it any more around the Thorn Bush there, okay?”

They were interrupted by the sound of Grey Tate’s voice echoing around the hangar via the PA system. “Steve, if you’re finished goofing off down there, get up to my office now.”

Rollie looked up at Steve quizzically. “Seriously, Steve. Any idea what’s eating him?”

“Beats me. I mean, he was so hot on this rescue jump, to have me show him that I could handle it. It’s all he could talk about me doing since I got back from Nice last month. But since we’ve landed, he’s been a wall. I mean, come on, it went well. You saw that.” Steve hesitated a moment, then looked back at Rollie. “Ummm…it did go well, right?”

Rollie held up both hands in surrender. “From here, it looked textbook. But I wasn’t up there. Maybe he saw something else we both missed. He’s always had a talent for that.” Rollie handed Steve back the camera. “The footage won’t lie. It’s on the server for analysis.”

“Thanks, Rollie.” He started across the hangar floor toward the office, then paused and turned back. “Oh, and would you mind finishing repacking both those chutes for me?”

“Of course. That’s what I live for—cleaning up after you.” He gave Steve a mocking salute. Grinning, Steve returned a slight bow from the waist, Japanese style.

Rollie watched him stride across the hangar floor for a moment, and then looked skyward, muttering, “Oh, he is definitely your son, Rose. Most definitely your son.”

Steve took the wooden steps up to the office two at a time. At the top, he knocked on the door.

“Come in.”

Steve opened the door, and closed it behind him. It was like stepping into another time machine—this one set to circa mid-1960s. The walls were lined with oak paneling and covered with pictures of various aircraft, all with Grey Tate standing in front of them—planes he’d flown in the service, as a freelance pilot for hire, or for fun. If you knew the right order, you could see Grey aging gracefully, his hair changing from a sandy blond to the current shock of pure white, still close-cropped in a military cut.

In the center, two desks faced each other. Grey had done this a few years back, when there had been other plans for the business. Grey’s desk had papers, a computer and monitor, a model of a modern plane, and a phone. The newer desk had become Steve’s four years ago, but other than a nameplate and a framed photograph, there was nothing to indicate it was even used—no files, no papers, not even a pen. On the nameplate, there was a piece of duct tape over the original first name. Steve’s name was written on it with a Sharpie, as if to remind his father that he really wasn’t supposed to be here. It was still, most definitely, Grey Tate’s office.

Steve flopped down in his chair and waited for his father to say something, anything. After a few moments, it became clear this still wasn’t happening. He leaned back in the chair and put his feet up on the desk, then glanced over at Grey.

“So, you’ve decided to go all stealth on me? Rig for silent running and all that?”

Grey never glanced up from his computer. “Rig for silent running is navy. I was air force.”

“And I was neither. But, hey, the mummy speaks.” Steve sat up and leaned forward, resting his chin on one hand. “Come on, Dad, lighten up. It was a good jump. And I passed the test.”

Grey stopped typing, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. “Test?”

“The ‘Grey Tate’s son actually accomplishes something’ test. You said it yourself—you weren’t sure if I’d ever grow up enough to succeed at anything.” Steve stood up and walked over to the window overlooking the hangar floor. “I’d say a mid-air rescue counts, don’t you?”

One eyebrow rose as Grey’s voice became drily sarcastic. “You complete one rescue jump and declare victory. Really.”

Steve shrugged as he turned back. “Sure. Who else do you know who could pull that off?”

Grey leaned back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling. “Off the top of my head? At least three dozen people.” He leaned forward and swiveled around to look directly at Steve. “Only they’ve also got their jump instructor certificates. And their own jump schools. And their business degrees. And the rest of their lives in place. How much of that do you have, son?”

Steve started to protest, but Grey cut him off. “You know the answer—none. You can jump, but not instruct. You aren’t a pilot. You aren’t qualified to use a wrench, let alone fix a plane. In short, you have a really low definition of success. One lucky jump is not going to change that.”

Steve sputtered, “Lucky? Lucky! Come on, Dad! How old am I? How many jumps have I made in the past five years?”

“Look, we both know you can jump. You do have skills.” Grey paused. “Of course, there is your…other… talent.”

Steve narrowed his eyes. “Dad, unless you plan this to be a really short conversation, you’re going to drop that subject. Now.”

“Why? Just because of when it showed up? Now you’re just being stubborn.”

Steve walked over to his desk and picked up the framed photograph—a family portrait of Grey, Steve, his mother Rose, and his twin sister, Marie. A whole family, complete, frozen in another time, another world…

Five Years Earlier
July 20, 5:29 p.m. PDT

The smoke alarm blared in the kitchen as Steve ran in. White smoke wafted upward from the oven door. Oh, man, Mom is going to kill me!

Steve rushed over, silenced the alarm and hit the switches to turn on both the overhead and stovetop vents. He turned off the oven, put on a pair of oven mitts, and carefully opened the oven door. An acrid white cloud boiled out toward him. He waved his hands to dissipate it, and slowly the source of the alarm became clear—a meteorite that had once been a meatloaf sat in the middle of the oven.

“Smooth move, Rusty. Mom’s going to kill you.”

Steve turned his head and saw his sixteen-year-old twin sister, Marie, leaning against the kitchen doorway. Like him, Marie was tall and redheaded. She was wearing a basketball uniform. Uh-oh, Steve thought. If she just got back from the gym, that means Mom—

“Ronald Steven Tate, what have you done?”

Three names. Not good.

Steve turned around slowly, holding the pan with the charred remains of dinner in his oven mitts. Rose Tate looked at it and sighed.

“What happened this time?”

“I’m sorry. I was working on some tensor calculus problems for my freshman summer classes at Caltech and I…I…”

“Yes?”

He shuffled his foot sheepishly. “I must not have heard the oven timer go off.” He looked up over at his mother and grinned weakly. “Sorry?”

“Steve, how many times have I told you, when food is cooking, you need to stay in the kitchen? I swear you’re just like your father sometimes. You get your teeth into a problem and you don’t let go.”

Marie snorted. “Yeah, like how to get in Rose Johannsen’s pants.”

Steve blushed. “Gee, thanks, sis.”

“Marie, that’s enough out of you. Go get changed. Since your brother decided to turn our dinner into an experiment on carbonization of animal flesh, pizza night comes early this week. I’ll call your father and have him meet us at Giorgio’s.”

Marie let out a whoop and headed upstairs to change, while Steve dumped the dead husk of dinner into the trash. Putting the pan into the sink, he turned and hugged his mom. “Thanks for not blowing up at me.”

“Oh, you’re not off the hook, young man. Trust me, you’ll pay for this. I just haven’t thought of a good way yet.”

She kissed him on the cheek and turned away, reaching for her cell phone to call his father. Steve gulped. He knew how creative his Mom’s punishments could be.

On the ride to Giorgio’s, Steve’s mind was somewhere else. Both he and Marie had graduated three weeks ago from Issaquah High School. It’s going to be weird, going to school and being away from Marie. I mean, she’s a pain in the butt at times, but she’s always been there. But she’s headed into the aerospace engineering program at UW next month. Huh. I wonder if Dad’s golden girl ever thought of doing anything other than follow him into the family business. But I’ve seen what being an engineer does to your family—no, thank you!

Now Pasadena and Caltech—different story completely. Mom and Dad might not understand how much I need to get away…but to be in a place like the physics department there, where I can just think about theorems and calculations and formulas…heaven!

I hope Rose understands. And maybe if I drop a few hints about Caltech and JPL partnering to build the next generation Mars Rover there, she’ll consider applying for the computer engineering and robotics programs there—

He was interrupted from his musing by a sharp punch to his arm. “Hey!”

Marie grinned at him. “Stop thinking about your girlfriend, lover boy. We’re here.” She pointed out the window at the restaurant.

The three got out and started across the parking lot when Steve’s cell phone chimed. He glanced at the caller ID. Rose. “Mom, I’ve got to take this call. I’ll be right in.”

“Okay, honey.”

“Say hi for me, Rusty.”

Steve grinned at his sister and opened the flip phone. “Hi, Rose, what’s up?”

“Not much, RST. Are you available tonight?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

“Not sure yet? What does that mean?”

“It means, I burned dinner, and now we’re out at Giorgio’s, and I’m still waiting for the other shoe to drop. You know how creative my Mom can get when it comes to punish—”

The flashes and gunshots from inside Giorgio’s startled Steve. He’d seen violence on TV, of course, and every kid his age played first-person shooters on their Playstations. But he’d never been this close to a real gunshot before. He froze for a second.

“Steve, what was that?” Rose’s voice brought him out of his shock.

“Rose, call 911, tell them there’s been shots fired at Giorgio’s! I gotta go.” He put the phone in his pocket and started running toward the restaurant. As he did, a woman came running out—tall, thin, blonde, wearing an overcoat. She bumped into Steve and kept running toward a car. Steve glanced at her, puzzled for a moment, then ran to the door and opened it.

His world stopped. On the floor, in spreading pools of blood were his sister and mother. They’d both been shot—his mother in the chest, his sister…

Marie has a bullet hole in her forehead. Steve swallowed hard, his world spinning. Both his mother and sister stared at the ceiling, their eyes dark and glassy, the sparks gone from them.

Steve wanted to scream, but something inside him grabbed and clamped down on it. He turned and ran out the door, searching for the woman. As he reached the curb, she started to speed by in a black SUV.

And then, suddenly, without warning, the world stopped in place.

Steve heard his heartbeat slow down, and the car seemed to freeze in front of him. The woman was achingly close—no more than 6 feet from him.

Suddenly, the data appeared in front of him. Actually, 6 feet, 4 inches.

Wait. How do I know that?

Around him, other data appeared, cascading at him rapidly about the car, the environment. It was unlike anything Steve had ever seen before. It was like being trapped inside a computer program.

How do I know she’s travelling 48 miles per hour to the southwest? And that the only way I could intercept her would be to increase my running speed to 28 miles per hour—faster than the record speed of an Olympic sprinter? And only if I change my vector to the left by 72 degrees?

What the hell is happening to me?

Steve tried to move, and found he couldn’t. He was frozen in place. All he could do was observe. But in that moment, he committed the woman’s face to memory. A grid outlining all her features, just like the most advanced facial recognition programs he’d seen in documentaries appeared in his mind’s eye and he face was seared into it—the angular lines of her nose and cheeks, the small white crescent-shaped scar just above her right eyebrow, the smirking curl upward of her mouth on one side…

As suddenly as the world stopped, it sped up again, and the car zoomed past him. Steve staggered for a moment trying to chase it, and then he tried to will time to stop again, to spot the license plate.

Nothing happened.

From behind him, a gray SUV pulled into the lot and turned into a vacant parking space. Grey Tate stepped out, unaware that his life was about to be shattered. Steve looked at his father, and the tears started down his face. Sirens wailed in the distance, getting closer, as he walked up, and started to tell him the news.

Present Day
March 16, 12:03 p.m. PDT

Steve opened his eyes, back in the present, back in the world he never wanted.

“No, Dad. If this…if this talent is the universe’s way of balancing the books for taking Mom and Marie, then it’s a crappy bargain. And I want no part of it.”

Grey watched his son staring at the picture for a moment, and then sighed. “All right. If you choose not to use it to your advantage, I can’t do anything to change your mind. Leave it off the table. But since that day, you’ve been running away from it. What are you doing with the other gifts, the other skills you already had—your intellect, your education, your looks? Nothing.”

Steve looked up sharply. “Not nothing. It’s not like I’ve been just sitting around for five years—”

“Really? Yes, you graduated high school early, before…”

“Just say it, Dad. Before Mom and Marie were murdered.”

Grey nodded. “Yes. But since then, you’ve dropped out of college—not once, but four times—”

“Technically, it was only three times. The fourth time, they asked me to leave.”

“Ah, what a subtle difference. So fine, if academic pursuits aren’t your thing, you could have instead pursued ways to assist others – a career in service. But instead, you’re off by yourself, going from town to town, doing this free-running stuff. It’s risk-taking, stuntman stuff, with competitions where no one wins.”

“You don’t understand, Dad—”

“You’re right, I don’t. I haven’t for some time. If you applied yourself in a single direction, with your intelligence, you could accomplish anything. You could have been a pilot in the military service, or working for an airline. If you’d wanted to, given your head start, you could even have been my junior partner here. But are you?”

Steve carefully put down the photo and picked up the nameplate. He traced over the duct tape, feeling the five engraved letters hidden below it. “Yeah, well, that was never really your plan, Dad. I was just your fallback position.”

Grey crossed to his son and took the nameplate from him. “You cannot keep using your Mom and your sister as your excuse to hide from doing anything.”

Steve’s laugh was bitter. “Me, hiding? I think your pot’s just as black as my kettle, Dad.” Steve walked over to the window looking over the airfield. “After all, you sold off most of the company after that day. All hail the mighty Tate Aerospace—the world’s most pretentiously named general aviation repair shop and jump school.”

Grey’s closed his eyes for a moment, looking weary. “I had my reasons, son.”

“And so do I, Dad. Look, we’ve been over this. I’m looking for what feels right—and so far, nothing does.”

Grey’s voice showed his frustration. “Steve, you’re twenty-one years old. You need to stop wasting everyone’s time. You need to start accomplishing…something. Pick a direction, start it, and finish it. Yes, finish it!” Steve started to protest, but Grey cut him off. “You’ve been living a dilettante’s life, Steve—going away for a few months, doing whatever you please, then coming home and expecting me to greet you like the prodigal son each time. Well, that changes today.” Grey opened his left desk drawer, reached in to pull out a manila envelope and tossed it onto Steve’s desk.

“A friend of mine from my air force days and his daughter own a jump school in south Florida. They need someone on staff, temporarily, for a few months. I volunteered you.”

“You volunteered me?” Steve asked incredulously as he walked over and picked up the envelope.

“Yes, I did. I figured you’d enjoy the cruise better.”

“Cruise?” Steve arched an eyebrow. He opened the envelope and pulled out a brochure for Celebration Cruise Lines.

“It’s a 3-month gig, helping tourists parasail off the Lido deck, or something like that. My buddy had the contract, but a little mishap left him with a broken leg and he needed a replacement. His daughter would have filled in, but she’s four months pregnant, so going to sea is out of the question. I told them you’d be happy to help out.”

Steve glanced through the documents—fly to Fort Lauderdale, a one-week parasail course, and then three months on the Celebration Goddess. He looked back at his father.

“Let me get this straight. I’m a screw-up that can’t accomplish anything, and as punishment, you’re sending me to work on a cruise ship? This is where I’m supposed to say ‘Oh, please don’t throw me in the briar patch’, right? Seriously, Dad, what’s the catch?”

Grey sighed. “Look, son, I don’t think you’re a screw-up—at least, not most of the time. You have skills. You assimilate data as fast, or faster, than most people I know. Your ability to adapt is amazing. And whether you admit it or not, your…talent is a skill, a tool you can use, if the need arises. You just have to decide where to apply it. But you lack focus—a long-term strategy. I figure this will maybe give you some exposure to something you could see a future in. Not just on the ship – but in the ports as well. Just keep your eyes and ears open, okay? And, trust me, you’ll be working. It won’t be a vacation.” He turned back to his computer and checked the time.

“Your plane leaves Sea-Tac tonight. Go home and pack. A Town car will pick you up in three hours. I’ll arrange for your place to be taken care of, the same arrangements as when you were on your trips to Europe. And I’ll see you back here in just over three months.”

Steve looked at his father, then at his tickets, and shrugged. “Fine. I’ll do it. But don’t think this changes anything.” Steve walked to the door. As he reached it, he turned and looked back at his father.

“I’m sorry I’m not Marie, Dad. But I’m never going to be her. And the sooner you understand that, the sooner you are going to let me find my own way.”

Grey just looked at his computer screen and didn’t acknowledge his son. Steve shook his head again. “Whatever, Dad. Stay safe.” He closed the door and started down the stairs.

Grey watched the security feed on the monitor as Steve exited the hangar and made his way to his car. As he pulled out of the parking lot, Grey unlocked his right desk drawer. Inside was a black box. It looked like it was made of wood polished to a high glossy shine, and atop it was a white symbol shaped like a three-cornered Möbius strip. When Grey placed his hand atop it, the symbol glowed and then the box clicked and slid open. He removed a cell phone from inside. The second Grey touched the device it recognized him biometrically and made the connection automatically. Grey closed his eye and waited. Moments later, a cultured voice spoke to him across the connection.

“You have news, Grey?”

“Yes. He’s on his way. Are you sure about this?”

“Of course. He’s ready, Grey. You’ve trained him well.”

“I should never have had to.”

“I agree, but that wasn’t our choice, or our doing. And Steven is key to our future now.”

“He won’t fall for her, you know. I’ve seen her profile; she’s not his type.”

“Have faith, Grey. We’ll see to that.”

“Perhaps. You’ll keep me informed?”

“One of my best will be shadowing him from the moment he arrives. And nothing is scheduled to happen for a while.”

“Right. Well, keep me informed. And I’ll have the other intel for you tomorrow.”

“I know you will, Grey. I’ve been able to count on you for years.”

“Yeah, well, let’s just hope it runs in the family.”

___________________________________________________________

Triangle: False Mirror
the exciting new thriller by D. G. Speirs
462 pages
Published September, 2012 by Perfect Impressions Books
Available as a Trade Paperback and Kindle e-book.

Purchase it here on Amazon.

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