T.R. Hendricks - Tor/Forge Blog

Peering Skyward: Looking Up from the Bottom of the Research Rabbit Hole by T. R. Hendricks

April 12, 2024June 11, 2024Ariana Carpentieri

T. R. Hendricks’s Derek Harrington returns in The Infiltrator, an adventure of man vs wild—and the domestic terrorists hidden there.

One year after the clash with his former students in upstate New York, retired Marine Warrant Officer and SERE instructor Derek Harrington is the tip of the FBI’s spear in their mission to eradicate the domestic terrorist group known as Autumn’s Tithe. After several successful operations, intelligence points to one final camp in the remote Kentucky wilderness, and Derek prepares to take down Autumn’s Tithe for good.

At the same time ex-FBI Special Agent Hannah Kittle, or Sarah as she is known to the group, devises a plan to meet Derek and her one-time Bureau colleagues head on. Yet her benefactor’s faith in Sarah’s ability to lead Autumn’s Tithe is waning, and other plans are being enacted. Knowing full well what it means for her should those plans succeed where she has failed, Sarah will stop at nothing to see that she is the victor.

As the competing agendas unravel, events place Derek and Sarah on a collision course, setting the stage for a confrontation that will bring Autumn’s Tithe right to Derek’s doorstep.

Read below to see T. R. Hendricks’s take on what it means to do in-depth research for the sake of writing, and how falling down ‘the research rabbit hole’ is paramount in developing precise details that’ll help build an excellent story!

By T. R. Hendricks:

Chances are that if you’re on this website right now, you’re just as familiar with the jokes and memes about writers and their research as I am. The ever classic, “If the FBI ever saw my search history,” elicits no small number of chuckles, but it also rings true with dogged perseverance. Yes, we all go down the rabbit hole at times, but in this context it is done so in the pursuit of those elusive details. The ones we know that once discovered will add an extra layer of authenticity – even credibility for having done the work – in turn elevating our manuscripts to the next level.

In the, “this will surprise no one category” there was no small amount of research into prominent components such as survival skills, military equipment and weaponry, and even the psychology of cults when writing both THE INSTRUCTOR and THE INFILTRATOR. But the devil is in the details, and those details at times required lengthy stretches searching for them. I can recall specifically with THE INSTRUCTOR (we’ll keep it here to avoid sequel spoilers) numerous ventures into the undiscovered country that is the world wide web.

There was one iteration researching the Yankees schedule in early summer of 2018 that resulted in a blowout win. In a podcast I recently did, I explained how I had to spend an hour searching for the USMC regulation articulating the number of folds and measurements of each for the sheet and blanket on recruit racks (beds) just to be certain my Army upbringing didn’t skew that point. “How long to bleed out from a puncture wound of the femoral artery” I’m sure made a great addition to my NSA watch list tally, especially since I made one of those memes I mentioned earlier out of it.

The physics of beaver dams. Velocity of a ball bearing fired from a slingshot. Man traps utilized by the Viet Cong. The physiology of envenomation by bamboo vipers and timber rattlers on the human body. Fun times.

I’m of the opinion that this research, even if delving into hours-long rabbit hole sessions, not only counts as writing, but is indicative of talent that manages to blend them into the story so that they are seamless rather than just window dressing. It may be that the research is limited in its application. For a recent project I’m working on, I spent two weeks getting the details down for a single chapter. Other times the research may result in only a paragraph, even a sentence. Sometimes you’ll never use them at all, because the idea that spawned the search didn’t materialize in the story. Other times you’ll nail it, and then have to kill that precious research bunny darling in the editing phase.

My point being, the rabbit holes are a necessary process (provided you stay on topic and don’t miss deadlines because of it – looking at you, TikTok.) The time put into research early on will manifest into productivity later because you know exactly what you want to say with the details to back it up. Moreover, that single chapter/paragraph/sentence could mean all the difference between readers saying, “this author gets it” and “this author hasn’t the first clue what they’re talking about.” Yikes. I’m sure you’ll agree that we’re all trying our damnedest to avoid the preposterous-induced eye roll.

All that said, I thought it might be a fun take to show you how I arrived at the bottom of a particularly long hare hollow. This journey relates to both preliminary overall plot construction and specific scene orchestration elements for the yet-to-be-title-revealed third installment in the Derek Harrington series. Reader beware: beyond this point is a front row seat to how my mind chains stuff together.

No shit, there I was (obligatory Army vernacular to start the story) sitting down to an afternoon free of obligations, save for the blank page on my screen and the keys beneath my fingers. First I needed a remote location to set the scene, but not too remote. There needed to be an airport nearby and a town large enough to accommodate the presence of a VA hospital or clinic. I settled on a place in Michigan, which then led to the next need, a Mom and Pop coffee shop in said town, complete with their menu and specialty caffeinated concoctions.

To work another angle, I drifted into U.S. Government Accountability Office reports and a congressional mandated assessment on the current state of Veterans Affairs infrastructure (stimulating reading, by the way). For a conversation in the upcoming scene, I needed to search for terminology denoting the study of the way in which certain body movements and gestures serve as a form of nonverbal communication (it’s kinesics). Obligatory hardware searches into the Army’s next generation rifle followed, so as to give my sentries the latest in available weaponry.

Do you know what corner of the U.S. government handles experimental web hosting? Yeah, neither did I. To facilitate the ensuing conversation resulting from the kinesics dialogue, I then went diving for that little nugget. Turns out there’s a whole organization called the Defense Information Systems Agency. Who knew?

The set up for a character introduction turned into looking up the various departments within the FBI, most notably what would be considered Internal Affairs for the Bureau. However, as I wanted this character to be a woman of Israeli-American descent, I then ventured into dual citizenship requirements between the two countries, which chained into female combat positions within the IDF, which prompted a prolonged search for a PDF copy of a Krav Maga combatives manual, and ultimately landed me in a search for the top ten most beautiful Israeli women in the world to model my character’s appearance after (I can assure you that any lingering on this last search parameter was purely for character development).

To make a comparison to turbulence, I wanted to reference a mechanical bull. My next search was, “Average mechanical bull ride times for beginners.” However, to accurately place the bull in Derek’s backstory, I had to spend the next few minutes venturing into the location of the USMC’s School of Infantry. After finding it was Camp Lejeune, I had to then research what the School of Infantry’s weekend liberty policy was, to see if it was even feasible that a young boot Derek would be allowed to venture into a bar in nearby Jacksonville, North Carolina to witness and/or participate in a mechanical bull ride.

Since I had now introduced turbulence during a flight – a flight involving a prisoner transfer – further down the tunnel I went. Stick with me here. I started with the Justice Prisoner and Alien Transportation System utilized by the Federal Bureau of Prisons and Immigration and Customs Enforcement. This turned into research on the aircraft assets available internally to the Department of Justice, which subsequently led back to another GAO report on the misappropriation of DOJ aircraft (again, riveting stuff).

Thus ruling out the government’s air transportation, I turned to researching the types, range, passenger capacity, and cost of chartered private jets. These planes had to then be cross-referenced with the size of the airport in the town I picked in Michigan, plus the nautical miles necessary to travel to New Jersey, to ensure that the jet I chose would both have the fuel to make the trip and capability to land on the runways in both locations.

Having arrived at the end of my three and a half hour writing session, I saw that the research rabbit hole had allowed me to produce a whopping 309 words. However, they were 309 highly detailed and accurate words that lent themselves to not only authenticity, but also critical and convincing components to the story. Do I wish I had put more down that day? Sure. Do I regret spending that much time burrowing? Not at all.

This is how I like to write. It’s the level of exactness I want to get to. Sure, some details could be fictionalized. I could easily extend the runway in my Michigan town if I needed to. Things like that fall in the reasonable suspension of disbelief all the time, and I make allowances for them when necessary. But for the others, the ones that shouldn’t be glossed over, this is the pursuit that in my humble opinion, takes a story from good to great.

So yeah, stop worrying about time spent searching. Go ahead and follow the rabbit to that elusive tidbit. This session might have only been 309 words, but having done the work, future sessions would be in the thousands. If it’s your style, look for those details until it makes your writing pop and your heart content. Just make sure you don’t branch off (at least not too much).

Gal Gadot is quite distracting. I get it.

Click below to pre-order your copy of The Infiltrator, available April 23rd, 2024!

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Excerpts / New Releases / What's New

Excerpt Reveal: The Infiltrator by T. R. Hendricks

January 17, 2024June 11, 2024Ariana Carpentieri

T. R. Hendricks’s Derek Harrington returns in The Infiltrator, an adventure of man vs wild—and the domestic terrorists hidden there.

As the competing agendas unravel, events place Derek and Sarah on a collision course, setting the stage for a confrontation that will bring Autumn’s Tithe right to Derek’s doorstep.

The Infiltrator will be available on April 23rd, 2024. Please enjoy the following excerpt!

CHAPTER ONE

The time had come to hit the hammer against the anvil, instead of just letting them feel the fire of the forge.

It’s simple. They’re not getting the picture. Not his words but they roll around inside his head all the same. Passed down from higher-ups, the sentiment preceded the new shift in strategy. A harder approach. Time for a pounding.

Easy to say when you’re in a conference room back in D.C.

Derek Harrington, retired Marine Force Recon and wilderness survival expert, now press-ganged into service with the FBI, doesn’t have that luxury. As point man in the effort against the domestic terrorist group Autumn’s Tithe, not only does he have to watch the hammer fall, but he has to be the one to swing it.

Raising his binoculars, he scans the hilltop directly west of his position. He’s in a good spot. Slightly lower than the hill across from him but the difference in elevation is negligible. Derek can still observe everything. The West Virginia trees and foliage provide ample cover as he lies in the prone position, glassing the enemy’s camp.

A long, low saddle runs between the hills. Off to his left a twotrack dirt road winds its way from west to east through the forest floor. Just enough of a break in the canopy allows him to see along its length. For his part, Derek only has to turn his head slightly and he can observe the entirety of the path as it weaves past his hill and continues on. The perfect vantage point for viewing comings and goings as well as the compound.

Across the way he can see their silhouettes moving through the trees. The larger shadows of cabins and workshops fill in the spaces between the pines and oaks. It’s a clear morning and although the sun shines down, a mountain chill hangs in the air. Perhaps it’s the air, or perhaps it’s just him. Maybe he’s getting soft in his old age. These people are trying to commit mass murder, after all, but still. Some of those shadows across the way are no bigger than his boy back home.

The thought intrudes despite Derek’s operational disposition. Michael. His boy. His poor boy. A pang of heartache ripples through him. Will his son ever be the same after what happened? Michael seems to be a normal, happy kid so long as he can stay in his bed and play video games most of the time. Venturing out of his room, much less the house, could be a crapshoot with how he would respond. Getting him to school was difficult on the best of days and downright impossible on the worst. The only things that Michael regularly enjoys are playing baseball and fishing, no doubt reverting back to those activities for the comfort they brought to him before his kidnapping. Derek would need to keep easing him out there. Helping Michael to adjust to life outside the walls of the home.

They’re not getting the picture. Send them a message.

The directive pulls Derek back to the mission at hand. The intel developed from the logging camp in upstate New York had given the FBI enough of a lead to put him into the field eight weeks later, this time in northwestern Pennsylvania near the Allegheny National Forest. It didn’t take long for Derek to track down the second compound and call in the cavalry. The group there had received a lot of support staff from the first camp and had barely begun preparations for any sort of attack before HRT rolled them up without a shot being fired.

The subsequent interviews and plea deals divulged even more intel, which when processed and war-gamed by enough people in suits standing in rooms making themselves feel important, gave Derek his next foray. That time it was into a little no-man’s-land where the southwestern tip of Pennsylvania meets the West Virginia border.

Word from the mastermind still at large had reached this cell ahead of him, despite what the Feds would discover later as an attempt to alter their tradecraft and forgo the use of electronic communications. The people there were well on the way to staging their attack, but in their haste they overlooked other logistics. When Derek called it in and the FBI arrived, the entire camp threw themselves at the feet of their apprehenders, begging for food, clothes, and an escape from the brutality of winter.

Still, the correlation was apparent. Not only was Autumn’s Tithe growing more sophisticated, they were accelerating their operational timeline. Whereas that crazy old bastard, Marshal, had wanted each cell to carry out an attack every fall until he brought the United States government to its knees, it seemed Sarah—Hanna—was pushing the individual groups to launch against their targets as soon as possible. Maybe it was because of his interdiction that she felt the need to act quickly. Or maybe it’s because she’s a ruthless maniac bent on murder. Either way it didn’t really matter. After the third camp was neutralized, the Feds had her and the group on the ropes.

Or at least so they thought. Derek had felt the same way until he came upon this compound, nestled in southwestern West Virginia. If he hadn’t found it when he did it might have been too late. When word was sent back to higher-ups about the preparations being nearly complete, the reactions were furious. Hence the need.

Send them a message.

His radio earpiece crackles. “Hey, Slingshot.” Derek cringes every time he hears the call sign. It had been given to him by Jason and Rob as some good-natured ribbing, but all things considered, Derek would rather have something a bit less obnoxious. “Can we get a SITREP?”

Derek takes one hand off his binoculars and keys the button attached to the front of his tactical vest. “Grizzly 6, nothing new. Developing the situation further. Will advise. Over,” he whispers just loud enough to be heard on the other end.

“Roger that, Slingshot,” Jason replies. “Hopefully we get some movement soon. The aviation boys are getting antsy. Said they don’t think they can hold much longer.”

Derek lowers his binos altogether and slips the cuff of his Marine woodland pattern camouflage blouse back enough to expose his watch. He keys up again, not bothering to hide the confusion in his voice. “Grizzly 6, Slingshot 6. My count has Reaper time on station for at least another seven hours. You mean the Apaches, over?”

“Bingo, Slingshot,” Jason chimes back. “Flyboys getting nervous as usual.” His own voice is laced with a modicum of exacerbation. Not surprising given his Airborne Ranger pedigree. The swagger of line troops almost always led to no small amount of eye rolling when it came to the concerns of other branches. This was especially true amongst the straight-leg infantry types of the world.

Marine Force Recon wasn’t any different from the Army in that regard. Derek depresses his push-to-talk button. “If they’re so nervous, get me Marines in Cobras instead of these National Guard wannabees next time. Devil Dogs will fly those things on spit and harsh language if they have to.”

A few moments go by before the radio crackles again. Derek can make out the last vestiges of laughter dying out on the other end as Jason’s voice comes through. “Wilco, Slingshot. Oorah!” the former Army noncom adds mockingly.

Derek smiles as he scoops up his binos and resumes surveillance of the opposite hill. Despite their less than auspicious start together, a mutual respect and admiration had grown between the three former members of the military’s elite. Derek found Jason and Rob to be seasoned professionals capable of proficient operational planning and execution the more time they worked together. Likewise, the duo had expressed to him on more than a few occasions their disbelief at Derek’s survival skills, field acumen, and technical and tactical expertise.

The shared “mission first, people always” mindset set the stage for their successes. With each camp neutralized it was another notch on his handlers’ belts, so much so that Derek was helping make their careers for them. Jason was now the leadership element’s point man in the field, while Rob had been elevated to Assistant Special Agent in Charge of the entire task force. In return, they watched out for Derek, insulating him from the inevitable reach of FBI politics and logistical nonsense, while ensuring that he had every piece of state-of-the-art equipment, weaponry, and supplies at his disposal to make his time in the wilderness as smooth as possible.

Derek had to give it to the Feds on that front. His next-gen gear capabilities bordered on near-future science fiction at times. Not prototypes, mind you. Field-tested and certified equipment just waiting on budget appropriations for widespread distribution to the military. Billions will be spent fielding the gear en masse, but for a single individual the cost was negligible.

The concept for his loadout was all about combining multiple pieces of equipment into singular units to keep Derek light and mobile. His AN/PRC-177 multi-band encrypted radio with satellite uplink gives him the ability to reach the forward command center, the helicopters holding so far out that their rotor blades can’t be heard, and the drone pilot sitting in a trailer somewhere in the Arizona desert.

A specialized wrist-top computer, essentially a glorified, encrypted iPhone on steroids, sits in a camouflaged sleeve, reminiscent of what a quarterback wears to reference plays, on his left forearm. With it Derek can send and receive text messages with his command element, upload and download content like photographs or map overlays, mark his GPS position for satellite tracking, and passively transmit his vital signs. The computer even has a flora and fauna identification scanner, complete with a database of every known species indigenous to the United States.

A woodland camo boonie hat with a harness sewn into the interior lining supports an Enhanced Night Vision Goggle Monocular borrowed from the Army. Derek carries an M38 Designated Marksmanship Rifle, an upgraded version of the Marine Corps M27 Infantry Automatic Rifle, which has greater range, accuracy, and cycle rate of rounds than the standard M4 carbines that he was familiar with during his time in. A cutting-edge Leupold illuminated reticle scope combined IR beam, laser rangefinding, target designation, and live streaming capabilities into a singular optic. The enhanced rifle gives Derek the ability to see farther and shoot faster.

He only carries four magazines on the front of his vest in addition to the one already seated in the well of his rifle. The relatively low amount isn’t ideal, but Derek accepts the trade-off for the alleviation in weight. He knows that if he ever gets into a major firefight his greatest weapon will be the radio on his back, not the rifle in his hands. Strapped in the drop-down holster attached to his right leg platform is a Sig Sauer M18 pistol should shit really hit the fan.

The remainder of Derek’s tactical vest is outfitted with pouches containing the absolute essentials he needs should he become separated from his assault pack. A compass and maps. A trauma kit complete with hemostatic bandages and a combat tourniquet. A LifeStraw personal water filtration unit. One pocket contains tinder, lighters, and waterproof matches.

His assault pack, just a little bigger than a standard backpack, holds other items considered necessary but not essential. An insulated bivy sack to sleep in that can act as a VS-17 signaling panel if turned inside out. A larger field medical kit. A Katadyn water filtration pump to fill the integrated CamelBak reservoir. A solar recharging panel and spare batteries for his electronics. Four grenades: incendiary, smoke, fragmentation, and a flashbang. A suppressor attachment for the M38 rifle. Wire for setting snares. Tackle for fishing. Extra socks. Derek has a few emergency rations just in case, but he never starves while he is out, even in the dead of winter.

Rounding it all out is Derek’s trusted StatGear Surviv-All survival knife strapped to his left leg platform. Matched with his survival skill set, the consolidated equipment further enhances his ability to travel quickly and quietly, allowing him to infiltrate and observe the enemy with lightning speed.

The loadout was proving itself so effective that the Marine Corps procurement guys were already getting hard-ons about fielding it to larger numbers, mainly Force Recon, Raiders, and snipers.

Trucks turning over heightens his attention. Derek forgets about the equipment and focuses his binoculars. Through the trees he can see the shadows of large vehicles moving. Derek punches the button to his radio. “Grizzly 6, we’ve got movement. Going to open channel.”

He doesn’t wait for a response. Rotating the housing ring around his push-to-talk button, Derek switches his radio to the frequency dedicated to coordinating the involved parties. “All task force elements, this is Slingshot 6. Report readiness condition, over.”

“Slingshot 6, Saber 1. Redcon one.”

“Cherokee 6, redcon one.” The whir of the helicopters’ rotors can be heard in the background of the pilot’s transmission.

Jason’s voice comes over again. “Grizzly 6. Redcon one.”

“Roger,” Derek replies, “all elements redcon one. We have vehicle movement inside camp. Stand by. Saber 1, you’re on deck.”

The pilot in Arizona keys back. “Roger over. Standing by.”

Through the binoculars he can see the vehicles heading away from camp toward the west. Derek watches until the shadows and the decline of the hill swallow them from his sight but the sound of their engines never fades completely. He listens for the straining, sudden exertion of gears not meant for this mountainous terrain or navigating the steep twists and turns.

After a few moments the sounds of the engines begin to increase. Derek shifts his gaze to the base of the hill, where the dirt tracks disappear into the tree line. Sure enough, three vehicles appear. A Chevy pickup in the lead, a U-Haul box truck in the middle, and a white panel van bringing up the rear. All three amble along, rocking back and forth as they move slowly over the uneven ground.

He keys his radio. “Sabre 1, Slingshot 6. Type-three control, bomb on target. Advise when ready for 9 line.”

The drone pilot crackles back. “Go ahead, Slingshot.”

“Lines one through three, NA, break. Two eight niner eight feet. Civilian vehicles moving west to east. Grid mike lima eight four two, three niner seven, break. Slingshot laser, code one six eight eight. Northeast eight five zero meters. Acknowledge and advise when ready for remarks.”

The vehicles continue toward him as the reply comes over his earpiece. “Roger, Slingshot, ready.”

“Laser target line two three six. Final attack heading three three zero to zero three zero. Read back lines four, six, and restrictions.”

“Slingshot 6, good copy. Two eight niner eight feet. Mike lima eight four two, three niner seven.”

“Saber 1, good readback. Call in with heading.”

“Copy Slingshot. Saber 1 in, heading three three zero,” the drone pilot replies.

Derek lowers his binoculars and pulls his rifle over. Before looking through the scope he notices movement out of his peripherals. A quick glance shows the patrons of the camp coming out of the wood line to stand on the hill’s edge. They wave to the vehicles as they bounce along the road, now a little less than halfway between the two hills. “Fuck,” he mutters before acquiring the U-Haul in his scope.

“Slingshot 6, overhead. Ready for spot.”

“Proceed south. Run in three thirty to one fifty. Laser target line two three six.”

“Roger. Three thirty to one fifty for laser handoff. Ten seconds.”

“Saber 1, roger. Ten seconds.” Derek takes a deep breath.

“Slingshot 6, laser on.”

Derek steadies his aim, keeping the red dot produced by his riflemounted laser on the side panel of the U-Haul. He tracks the truck as it moves from right to left in his field of vision. “Lazing.”

After a few moments the pilot comes back. “Spot. Cease laser.”

Derek switches off the laser but keeps his scope on the vehicles so that those in the forward command unit can watch the live feed. “Saber 1, do you have contact?”

“Slingshot 6, affirmative. Contact. Three vehicles moving west to east. Box truck is center mass.”

His heart starts to thump in his chest. Despite the cool air, beads of sweat break out on his brow, and Derek can feel dampness in his armpits. “Correct, Saber, that’s your target.”

“Tally target,” the drone pilot says, further acknowledging the acquisition.

Derek has the pilot call in the attack heading again. Upon receiving the appropriate response, he pauses momentarily. Derek swallows. “Cleared hot.”

“Slingshot 6, Saber 1. Commencing engagement. Time on target, thirty seconds.”

Derek squeezes his eyes shut. He waits a few moments, letting his years and experience dictate the length of his tactical pause. A couple of counts go by before he keys up again. “All Cherokee elements, proceed to incursion points, over.”

The whir comes back through the radio. “Slingshot, Cherokee 6. Roger, inbound time now.”

Derek’s stomach gurgles. He spares a quick glance for the people watching on the hilltop. There is a steep and sudden whoosh, and then a flash. The concussive wave comes next followed by the erupting sound of an explosion.

The Hellfire missile detonates on impact when it hits the U-Haul. The contents inside, stacks of fertilizer laden with ball bearings and other forms of shrapnel, ignite immediately in a massive secondary explosion. The shrapnel and fireball produced burst through the windshield of the van trailing the box truck, engulfing it and the fully armed team riding in the back. The blast lifts the Chevy and throws it through the air like a Matchbox car, the vehicle crashing through the upper heights of the surrounding trees, severing limbs all the way back down to the ground.

Dirt and dust flies up in an all-encompassing cloud. Derek drops his head, one hand holding his boonie hat in place, the other pulling his rifle under his chest as the hot air rushes over him. A shower of shattered trees and rocks immediately follows the echo of the blast. Derek waits for the rain of debris to cease before conducting his battledamage assessment.

“Saber 1, Slingshot 6. Mission successful. Three vehicles destroyed.” He clears his throat, his mouth suddenly dry. “Estimate twelve casualties. Out.”

Derek looks over to the camp. The entire landscape is awash in gray dust save for the flaming wreckage down below. For a few moments there is absolute silence. Then the screams come.

He can’t see the families of those that were in the vehicles, but he hears their laments of shock and loss. It’s a blessing that the hum of the rotor blades from the choppers comes a few seconds later and drowns them out.

The gray dust curls away as two Apache attack helicopters race in from the west and east. They flare up to halt their speed, the pilots briefly showing the underbelly of their aircraft before leveling out. As the aircraft dip back down, rockets, missiles, and 30mm cannons are menacingly brought to bear. A moment behind them, two UH-60 Black Hawks enter the airspace and form an outer perimeter. Ropes are dropped from both sides on each chopper and members of the FBI’s elite Hostage Rescue Team begin fast-roping down to the deck.

They wear uniforms close to that of the Army. Fatigues in the operational camouflage pattern with olive drab plate carriers fastened over their chests and backs. Assault rifles and submachine guns dangle from their slings as the men zip down the lines. Once on the ground the individual teams get into wedge formations and race up the hilltop.

Derek glasses over the camp one more time. The group is in total disarray. Shock from the explosion. Staggered with their losses. Frozen by the sudden appearance of helicopters swarming all around them like a hornet’s nest that’s been kicked. As the members of HRT breach their perimeter the camp members fold, collapsing to the ground only to be put in the prone position, zip-tied, and searched. Already he can hear the sirens of the state police and fire departments making their way up the mountain road. Derek sighs.

Message sent.

Click below to pre-order your copy of The Infiltrator, available April 23rd, 2024!

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New Releases / What's New

Forge Your Own Book Club for The Instructor by T. R. Hendricks!

May 12, 2023May 17, 2024Ariana Carpentieri

By Ariana Carpentieri:

Are you on the hunt for your next pulse-pounding thriller? Then we’re going to instruct you to read The Instructor by phenomenal debut author T. R. Hendricks!

Derek Harrington, retired Marine Force Recon and SERE instructor, is barely scraping by teaching the basics of wilderness survival. His fledgling bushcraft school is on the cusp of going out of business and expenses are piling up fast. His only true mission these days? To get his ailing father into a full care facility and to support his ex-wife and their son.

When one of his students presents him with an opportunity too good to be true—$20,000 to instruct a private group for 30 days in upstate New York—Derek reluctantly takes the job, despite his reservations about the group’s insistence on anonymity. But it isn’t long before the training takes an unexpected turn—and a new offer is made.

Reaching out to an FBI contact to sound his concerns, Derek soon finds himself in deep cover, deep in the woods, embroiled with a fringe group led by a charismatic leader who will stop at nothing to get what he wants. When what he wants becomes Derek’s head, the teacher is pitted against his students as Derek races against time to stop what could very well be the first attack by the domestic terrorist cell.

The Instructor is the an excellent choice for your next book club discussion. Here’s a breakdown on what to watch, what to eat, what to drink, and what to listen to while you read it!

WHAT TO WATCH

Mark Greaney, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Burner, hit the nail on the head: “Packed with action, tension, and humanity, The Instructor delivers.” And a series that delivers the same level of intensity that The Instructor does is Survivorman: a Canadian-based show that focuses on how one might survive alone, in a remote location, with minimal supplies until being rescued. Finding food, water, and materials to make fire and shelter pose the main challenges of each episode. This is very similar to the situation main character Derek Harrington from The Instructor finds himself in: deep in the woods, embroiled with a fringe group led by a charismatic leader who will stop at nothing to get what he wants, and fighting for survival!

WHAT TO EAT

Derek, a character of pure mental and physical strength, is someone who I bet knows the importance of having a high-protein diet. But I can’t just suggest any regular protein-packed snack here–it must be one that’s fit for survival. Legacy’s supply of freeze-dried beef comes with 100% USDA beef that has a tender texture, amazing flavor, and 17 grams of protein per serving. It can be stored for up to 10-15 years or made into individual servings that are convenient for cooking on outdoor trips!

WHAT TO DRINK

“The apartment is dark and strangely quiet, save for the buzz of the fridge and the clock ticking on the wall. Derek sits at the small table wedged in the space between the two bedroom doors. A rocks glass of bourbon sits perspiring on the tabletop. The phone Marshal gave him and a digital recorder next to it. He stares at the empty chair across from him and takes a sip” (page 81). It’s no secret The Instructor is a book that packs a serious punch. A hot read like this (there’s literal fire on the cover, folks) deserves a drink with a kick. So you can raise a glass and toast with Derek by joining him in sipping on some bourbon! But if alcohol isn’t your thing, then you can substitute it with something like Kentucky 74, which is a non-alcoholic spirit that comprises the familiar notes of oak, vanilla, caramel, and smoke–reminiscent of an excellent bourbon.

WHAT TO LISTEN TO

In this amazing guest post by the author himself, T. R. Hendricks mentions some staple anthems that helped him set the scene as he wrote the book. Here’s the Spotify playlist so you can head-bang along with us!

Click below to order your copy of The Instructor, available now!

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Author Features / New Releases / On Writing / What's New

Author Mixology: Crafting a Military Thriller that Packs a Punch and Goes Down Smooth

April 14, 2023July 11, 2023Ariana Carpentieri1 Comment

Dive into The Instructor, former Army intelligence officer T. R. Hendricks’ fast paced, action-packed debut thriller that’s Jack Reacher meets Survivorman, the first novel in the Derek Harrington series!

Interested in getting a taste of what inspired T. R. Hendricks to write his pulse-pounding debut thriller, The Instructor? Then read onwards to see all of his ‘ingredients’ and how he mixes them together to create a recipe for the perfect story!

By T. R. Hendricks:

“THE INSTRUCTOR”

5 ounces of active duty service
3 ounces of 80’s action movies
½ cup of heavy metal anthems
1 tablespoon wilderness survival research
1 teaspoon adrenaline
Equal parts experience and emulation
A few dashes of cynical dark humor
Garnish with effort, determination, and belief

A lot of people ask the question, “what was your inspiration” behind my debut novel. While that is a unique story in its own right, in this age of the influencer I thought it might be unique to explore things that shaped my imagination and ultimately led to the story in THE INSTRUCTOR. An inspiration explanation with a twist, if you will…

At least in my case, it helps to have a solid foundation of military service to develop your story from, but this isn’t a necessity. Plenty of phenomenal authors like Nick Petrie and Connor Sullivan have crafted military veteran protagonists that so convincingly leapt from the page that I believed they both were veterans themselves. For me, my time on active duty lent itself to a wealth of experiences, interactions, knowledge, and even consequences that when blended with the rest of the recipe, made up the base of my story.

This can be both a blessing and a curse, if I’m being honest. Yes, technical items like unit structure and equipment; tactics, techniques, and procedures; even the slang servicemembers might use is easier to reproduce having lived that life for five years. On the flip side, many of the recollections of certain memories, ones that I may have worked a long time to banish and forget, can be difficult if not outright painful to work through as I impart them to the page. That’s the rub of experiences like that. They lend authenticity, “the been there, done that” feeling I want my readers to come away with. I benefit from relating my service and subsequent ramifications in that I gain a realism while also expunging some things I don’t wish to hold onto any longer in my own little cathartic methodology.

Foundation in place, we start adding in the ingredients that make up my military thriller. As a blue collar family, we didn’t have cable TV growing up. What we did have was an affinity for movies, action movies in particular, and an older brother who worked at the local library that happened to have a healthy selection of VHS tapes you could borrow. Through our constant consumption and evaluation of movies, I formulated from a very early age what elements work and where the fat can be trimmed when developing a kick-ass plotline.

For THE INSTRUCTOR in particular I have a couple of favorites that were the most relatable to getting this story going. One of my all time go-to’s, the kind of movie that you have to watch anytime it is on, is First Blood. Readers should easily be able to see the parallels between John Rambo and Derek Harrington in their training, internal struggle, and conflict with the antagonists. I was fixated on the scene in the movie where Rambo fashions all manner of booby traps and uses his superior tactical experience to neutralize the Sheriff’s deputies one by one. It’s still one of my favorite sequences in a film loaded with amazing sequences.

Predator tops the list of movie influences as well. A rescue mission deep in the jungle against an enemy camp that turns into a blistering fire fight. Add to that the “Boy Scout” traps that Dutch and team attempt to snare the Predator with and later the primitive weapons and traps that he uses to fight the alien hunter one on one. The movie has all of the action you need to create an edge-of-your-seat ride.

I would be remiss if I didn’t include perennial 80’s action giants like Lethal Weapon and Die Hard. I loved the Special Forces turned cop character of Martin Riggs, especially his expertise during the fire fight at Dry Lake, his fury during the pursuit of Mr. Joshua through the streets, and ultimately the hand-to-hand combat on Murtaugh’s front lawn. Riggs employed a triangle choke well before the popularity of BJJ and MMA, a move that I forever associated with elite training for that time. Riggs, like Rambo, is a flawed character dealing with his internal demons as much as external enemies.

I love the impact the John McClane character had on me. While true that McClane is not entirely untrained, as an NYPD detective he is much closer to that of the everyday Joe like you and I than he is to elite combatants found in the Special Operations community. This “everyday hero” concept stuck with me and, being a native New Yorker, I loved the inherent attitude and snark that John threw at Hans every chance he got.

Need to ratchet up the adrenaline even more when turning the pages? There’s a few choice songs that were my soundtrack to THE INSTRUCTOR. Anthems that got my blood boiling as I churned out the words, and ones that lend themselves to the heightened pace of the action sequences. Add these to the mix of my military thriller cocktail:

“Fuel,” “Blackened,” and “Master of Puppets” by Metallica
“Hail to the King” and “This Means War” by Avenged Sevenfold
“Savior” by Rise Against; “Kickstart My Heart” by Motley Crew
“Faint,” “Numb,” and “Bleed it Out” by Linkin Park
“Ace of Spades” by Motorhead
“Wash it All Away” by Five Finger Death Punch

As an extra track, I’ve always envisioned the movie trailer to THE INSTRUCTOR set to the cover of “Bad Company” by FFDP. Something about the lines, “I was born, a shotgun in my hands. Behind the gun, I’ll make my final stand,” always resonated with me for Derek’s arc in the book. A man seemingly put on this earth to fight, and despite his best efforts to not do so any longer, he finds himself right back in the thick of battle.

Experience is that which adds the human element. What makes Derek a tangible, realistic person with all of his complex flaws and attributes. In this I relate most of my own struggles with reintegration to civilian life after the military, and the at times crushing nature of wrestling with the full spectrum of PTSD symptoms and episodes. For emulation, all of the credit in the world goes to my own father. A man who sacrificed his personal safety, security, and well being in order to ensure his family had exactly that for 20+ years. In doing so, he set the example to my brothers and I of what it means to be a person of honor, integrity, and loving devotion.

He was also a major contributor to those dashes of dark, cynical humor being developed in all of us, but in no way was he the only one. The types of jokes and overwhelmingly raucous nature with which we all communicate is a direct result of being raised in and a part of a family of soldiers, Marines, corrections and police officers, and yes, even mailmen. If you pick up on the edge in Derek’s dialogue and humor, now you know where it came from.

Rounding out this boozy beverage are critical components. For the sake of the recipe I labeled them as garnishes, but make no mistake, effort, determination, and belief are as critically important to this cocktail as any of the other ingredients. Maybe even more so, and you don’t want just dashes. You want teeming fistfulls of them. Belief in yourself, in your abilities, that you will one day succeed in this writing endeavor gives the drink all the flavor you can muster. Yet talent only can only get you so far, so being determined and putting in the effort is what will up the proof and deliver the kick that will have people screaming for a refill as soon as they’re done.

So there you go, thriller fans. The concoction to compliment your dive into my debut. Throw everything in the mixer. Give it a good shake. Pour it over an ice mold, let it mellow a bit, and then enjoy each sweet and savory sip of adrenaline soaked wilderness survival. Down the hatch.

This round’s on me.

Click below to order your copy of The Instructor, available now!

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Excerpts / New Releases / What's New

Excerpt Reveal: The Instructor by T. R. Hendricks

February 16, 2023February 15, 2023Ariana Carpentieri

The Instructor will be available on April 11th, 2023. Please enjoy the following excerpt!

CHAPTER ONE

Everything capable of combustion has an ignition point.

The key to survival is knowing when and how to produce that flame, and then, once it’s burning, to keep it fed. Even if a fire dwindles down to a few embers, it can always be revived. A single glowing coal can be stoked into a raging inferno.

Derek drills this into his students as much as he does the other survival mantras. The rule of threes. The four priorities. He doesn’t like parsing the first three priorities out. They’re all critically important. Without shelter, you freeze, but the same can be said for fire. What good is water if you can’t boil it? You’ll either die of thirst by not finding it or giardiasis if you do nothing to remove the parasites. Three weeks is a hell of a long time in the survival world, and you can go without food for most of that stretch. Without the others, you’re in deep shit in short order.

His latest class stands in a loose semicircle around him as he crouches and demonstrates the proper construction of a tinder bundle. They’re the typical weekend mix. Three guys on a bachelor party. A couple of people on a corporate team-building outing. Two seasoned hikers preparing for a multimonth trek across the Appalachian Trail. Another small group of overzealous, doomsday-prepper types.

“So you have to be able to identify the different types of trees and from them select a medium wood.” As he lectures, Derek rubs a piece carved from a nearby cedar between two rocks, grating the material down. “Hardwoods like oak will take too long to ignite. You’ll burn through calories that can be better spent elsewhere. Softwoods like pine might seem like a good option, but they’re not. True, the sap is flammable, but the wood itself is so resinous and full of moisture that it’ll take you forever to get a flame to catch.”

He takes the piece of wood from between the rocks and holds it up. It resembles a cotton ball that has been stretched thin. “So medium woods are the perfect balance. Cedar trees. Weeping willows. Those are the ones you go for. Then you work it over mechanically until you get it processed to this point. You want it nice and fluffy.”

“Light enough to wipe your ass with, I reckon!” This comes from Gil, a gangly hayseed with a mess of blond hair. Since arriving at the class, he hasn’t shut up. The others give him a look. No shortage of eye rolls. Gil doesn’t seem to notice.

Derek plays it off. “Yeah . . . well, whatever helps you remember.” He adds the newly processed tinder to a larger bundle of dried leaves, grass, and shredded bark formed like a bird’s nest. He walks the class through the rest of the operation. With a single stroke of his ferro rod, a shower of sparks lands on the cedar tinder, and slowly, the bundle ignites. He places it under a tepee of kindling he had prearranged and, when the flames catch, adds larger pieces of fuel.

With his fire going, the demonstration is complete. Derek breaks out the groups to begin practicing their own bundles. They all work in unison to exclude Gil, so Derek teams up with the redneck. He bites the inside of his mouth as he watches the man floundering the process Derek just painstakingly walked them through, much in the same way he had the night before when Gil was constructing his hasty lean-to shelter. The man was more concerned with chatting than he was getting the skills right.

“And then I told that fat bitch—”

“Wait. Gil. I thought you were just talking about your wife.”

The man turns to look at Derek and furrows his eyebrows. “I was. Guess I left that detail out, eh, D?”

Derek grinds his teeth. The degradation of the woman aside for a moment, he isn’t sure when he started letting this country bumpkin call him “D.” Sheer necessity forces the modicum of customer service he had developed to tolerate the abbreviation. The disparaging remark, however, was putting Gil on thin ice, prepaid or not.

“Yeah, my old lady is a real pig. Fuckin’ two sixty that bitch is pulling down. Easy.” The man cackles with a laugh as he turns back to his bundle.

One of the women with the corporate group clicks her tongue while another’s mouth drops open. Several of the students look over at Derek. He raises his hand and gives a small nod. They turn back to their bundles with shakes of their heads.

It comes upon him so quickly that for a moment, Derek has trouble wrestling it under control. His teeth clench while a muscle throbs in his jaw. His pulse quickens, his heart thundering in his chest. Derek exhales forcefully out of his nostrils. He feels his limbs tingling with the onset of a fight-or-flight blood rush.

With effort, he tamps the anger down, slowly unclenching his fists. What remains is a simmering undertone of tension. It was bad enough that after twenty-two years of service he had to scratch a living this way. A military pension only went so far, especially with circumstances being what they were. To look a man in the face and smile while his ignorance threatens the bread crumbs Derek is bringing in is more than enough to set him off.

Thankfully, logic takes over. Logic, and the guidance of his counselor at the VA clinic, her words echoing through his mind. Deep breaths. Remain grounded. As bad as Gil might be for business, it would be far worse if Derek broke his nose. He can’t allow the anger that comes with his PTSD to dictate his actions. Still, Derek sighs. In another time and place, he would have called Gil into his office for some wall-to-wall counseling.

But this isn’t the infantry anymore, and while banter like this was common in the barracks, civilian life is something else entirely, and Derek is always just one bad online review from going out of business, something that absolutely cannot happen. That said, he can’t let the remarks go without some sort of redress. Derek squats down on his haunches and lowers his voice so only Gil can hear. “Hey, partner, I know you’re having fun and all, but let’s keep that kind of language quiet for the rest of the weekend.”

Gil turns his head from his bundle, a broad smile on his face until he sees the look on Derek’s. The grin vanishes as the man’s eyebrows arch up. His Adam’s apple gives a bob as he swallows. “You serious, aintcha, D?”

Derek affirms with a nod. “Dead. You’re not the only one in this class, and I won’t tolerate you ruining it for the others. You speak out like that again and I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Staring at Derek for a moment, Gil breaks out into another wide smile. “Shit, no problem, boss. Won’t hear nothin’ like that no more from me.” As he finishes speaking, Gil slaps at his ferro rod repeatedly.

“Whoa, whoa. Ease up, Gil. I told you. You’re not peeling a carrot here. One deliberate strike is all it should take.”

“Oh yeah. You did. Right.” The man makes an exaggerated swipe. As his striker comes off the rod, his right hand flies forward, knocking over his tepee of kindling.

“Easy, Gil. Remember, slow is smooth. Smooth is fast. Your striker hand should be stationary over the tinder bundle. Pull your rod across the striker toward you, so you’re moving it away from the tepee and avoiding what you just did.”

“I got it, boss, I got it.” Gil sets up his kindling again and immediately goes back to striking his ferro rod as fast as he can.

Derek stands up. “Keep at it. I gotta check on the others.” He doesn’t wait for a reply. Not getting the material is one thing. He never expects people to master this stuff in a weekend. It is his basic class, after all. Some of these guys come out and he can tell they’ve never roughed it a day in their lives. Nothing but picking up the phone for whatever they need, whether it be takeout or a plumber.

Disregarding everything he teaches. Not listening to a word he’d just said. That’s another thing altogether. It angers him to no end, but Derek can’t afford to tear into any of his students. If he laid into every attendee who pissed him off, he’d be screaming from dawn to dusk.

Instead, he steps a few feet away, closes his eyes, and lifts his head to the sky. A light breeze rattles some of the branches above the group. Remembering one of the recent discussions with his counselor, Derek takes a deep, cleansing breath. The scent of the fresh pine lifts to his nose. The remnant of the early-morning rain that hit their camp. The richness of the soil.

Ignoring the chatter of his students, he listens to the symphony of the songbirds and buzzing insects. Beyond that, silence. The constant buzz of the Long Island parkways is notably absent in this place.

Derek revels in it. No matter how insane life can get, nature is his sanctuary. His redeemer. The one place he can be himself and forget everything that has happened. That is happening. That will happen. The dread of all that is waiting for him back home. In this place, he can just . . . be. No one, not even this rube, can take that from him.

The tract of land Derek conducts his classes on is just north of the city and belongs to his father, a future investment for the retirement cabin he had planned on building. His father was the latest in a long line of Harringtons that fell short of the family dream. The way Derek’s postmilitary life is turning out, he won’t be achieving the dream either.

He takes the class through the rest of Saturday, showing them some basic snares for trapping, and then has them improve their shelters before nightfall. The attendees boil stream water on their newly made fires while Derek passes out rations of beef jerky for dinner. Another point driving the survival process home. You’re not going to be comfortable. Or full. This is about staying alive. Nothing more.

In the morning, before they hike back out, Derek gives them a quick lesson from his advanced class. He shows them primitive firemaking techniques using the hand drill and bow drill. The difference between a shower of sparks from a rod and nurturing a single ember into a flame isn’t lost on the group. Even the hikers have trouble with it, but after a few hours and his help, everyone has fires going.

Everyone except Gil.

The man is a shit show. First, he builds his bundle wrong, putting hunks of pine so thick and resinous that they’ll never catch. He doesn’t work the hand drill consistently. The bow drill too slowly. When Derek finally gets an ember into a corrected tinder bundle for him, the yokel blows on it like he’s trying to put out forty birthday candles. The coal instantly winks out of existence.

It takes three more tries before Derek can get the man to blow gently enough to get his tinder smoking. Gil turns his face to take another breath but fails to keep his hands moving in a figure eight pattern, threatening to extinguish the ember from lack of air. Derek pops in and moves the man’s arms for him. When Gil breathes back into the bundle, even more smoke pours out. The redneck somehow manages to suck it in like a bong hit and immediately doubles over coughing and choking.

“All right, everyone,” says Derek as he stands, stamping out the smoky bundle. “That’ll do it for this class. Let’s put out the fires and break camp. I want to get you all back to your vehicles in time.”

As the group hits the trail, Gil lingers behind, still coughing. Derek grabs the man’s rucksack. If he doesn’t take it now, the entire group will lose ground, and he has to get them back in time. He spares a moment to glance at his watch again—12:15. Forty-five minutes to his promised 1:00 p.m. conclusion. If he can gain some ground, they should still make it.

The redneck drones on and on about God knows what as they fall farther behind the rest of the group. “One hour, baby. One hour to go. Then it’s some pushin’ on that hog tonight! Know what I’m sayin’, D? You know it, baby! Balls-deep!”

He throws a sideways glance.

Gil catches the look and shrugs. “What? Come on, D! Ain’t no one back here but us. They can’t hear me. Besides, can’t kick me out when the class is over, amirite?”

Derek focuses on tuning him out, especially since he has to haul the man’s bag. Readjusting the shoulder straps, he hefts the ruck onto his upper back and tightens them down without breaking stride. The bag has to weigh forty-five, maybe even fifty pounds. Add to that the ten pounds that he carries in his own bag, now tied to the top of the other man’s pack.

Who knows how much crap this rube packed? Ninety percent of it is probably unnecessary. The whole point of Derek’s class is to learn how to survive without all this gear. Hauling it the last three days defeated the purpose of what the guy signed up for, but hey, Derek wasn’t about to tell a paying customer he couldn’t bring what he wanted. Of course, now he wishes he had. He makes a mental note to update his website with some guidelines on packing before his next class.

When it becomes clear that Gil can’t move any faster than a straggle, Derek asks the two hikers to take the rest of the class ahead. Ninety minutes later, he and the hayseed trudge into the clearing where they left their cars on Friday evening. The rest of the group already has their gear off and stowed in their vehicles. The hikers and corporates talk quietly with one another. The bachelor party laughs and passes a bottle of scotch between them. The preppers congratulate themselves for “accomplishing” the weekend. Derek drops the man’s ruck and quickly undoes the straps to free his own bag. Gil collapses to the ground next to his backpack while trying to catch his breath.

Small victories. In the last half mile, Derek had picked up the pace on him, forcing the man’s cardio to the point that Gil couldn’t talk if he wanted to keep up. That, at least, saved Derek from the inane babbling. He pulls the front of his sweat-soaked shirt free from clinging to his chest, mops his face with one hand, and adjusts his ball cap. Ignoring the gasps for air behind him, Derek steps into the center of the clearing.

“Hey, folks, if we can gather around one last time,” he announces to the group.

The participants make their way over and form a semicircle in front of him. Derek starts his conclusion speech even though Gil is still sitting down and hasn’t joined the rest of them.

“I want to thank you all again for coming out this weekend. You’ve made remarkable progress in just a few days. Normally, I like to get back here a little earlier so that we can do a final review and some Q and A, but unfortunately, we didn’t make the best time today. Which is okay. It happens sometimes. Still, I know a bunch of you had a hard out of one o’clock, so I don’t want to hold you any longer. At the same time, I don’t want to rob you of the final class, so for the next week, if you have any questions or want to do any reviews of the things we covered, feel free to shoot me an email or give me a call. No extra charge.”

The preppers and corporates nod appreciatively while the hikers throw a grimace Gil’s way.

“Just remember your priorities,” Derek continues.

“Shelter, water, fire, food,” the group responds in unison, echoing the mantra a final time. Their collective tone is filled with monotonous exacerbation.

Derek smiles. “Right. You guys got it. But above all else, the number one priority is a positive attitude. No matter the problem. No matter the challenge, keep hold of that and you’ll make it out alive. Thanks again for coming. Make sure you tell your friends and family. If they mention that you referred them, I’ll give them a ten percent discount.”

The group smiles and breaks up. Derek shakes hands with the corporates, who then quickly retreat to their vehicles to make their way back to NYC. He circles back to Gil, who at this point is at least on his feet and hunched over with his hands on his knees.

Derek places a hand on his back, and the man looks up. “You feel all right, Gil? You’re not light-headed or anything, are you?”

Sweat pours down Gil’s face into his blond mustache and goatee. “Nah. Just ain’t walked so far so fast in a bit. I’ll be fine in a minute.”

Derek nods. “Okay. You gonna be all right to drive back upstate? I don’t want to hear about you passing out behind the wheel and ending up in a ditch on the news tonight.”

Gil smiles in return. “Fit as a fiddle. Yes, sir,” the man replies and then immediately begins coughing.

“All right, then. Be safe. Thanks for coming.” Derek pats him on the back one more time and walks off. He shakes his head as he approaches the rest of his attendees. Saying his final goodbyes, Derek watches as the cliques get in their respective vehicles. He spins and makes his way back to his pickup, noting the familiar rust around the wheel wells.

Really need to do something about that. Maybe after the next class. As he gets closer, Derek sees Gil approaching from the corner of his eye. Quickening his pace, he throws his bag into the bed and opens the door to the cab.

“Hey, D! D!” Gil yells after him.

Derek sighs. Silently setting a goal to end the conversation as quickly as possible, he turns. Gil ambles over the rest of the way. Despite Derek’s waiting, the hayseed makes no effort to close the distance any faster. The thin ice is about to crack.

When Gil is within a few feet, he starts speaking in his slow drawl. “I just wanted to apologize for slowin’ you down back there.”

Derek flashes him a smile and waves him off. “No worries, Gil. We didn’t get back too late. It happens. Take care now.”

“No, no. I mean it. I feel terrible that you didn’t get to do your final class on account of me.”

Behind Gil, the last car drives out of the clearing. The bachelor party honks and waves as they speed away. Derek waves back, smiling at the thought of whatever strip club they’re about to frequent. They had privately shared the plans for their anticipated “stink and drink” with him over the weekend, bringing back memories of him and his buddies spending their paychecks as young, single, and stupid Marines.

Gil watches the car as it goes farther down the gravel path, still talking but eyes fixated on the vehicle. “You see, I ain’t never had to do something like this before. Heck, I guess you can say I was a little in over my head. That damn Bear Grylls makes it look so easy and all, and I . . .” The car disappears from sight as he trails off. “All right. Enough horseshit.”

Derek snaps his head back to Gil. The last four words came out as if spoken by a completely different person. The drawl vanished. The statement was sharp and exacting. Even as he looks the man over, Derek can see Gil change. His posture goes from stooped to standing erect. His gangly frame now seems to ripple with wiry strength. The man’s features tighten from a slack-jawed idiot to someone with a hardened disposition. Gil’s eyes alight with a fiery intelligence that hadn’t been present the last three days.

It’s enough to set off internal alarms.

Click below to pre-order your copy of The Instructor, coming April 11th, 2023!

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CHAPTER ONE

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WHAT TO WATCH

WHAT TO EAT

WHAT TO DRINK

WHAT TO LISTEN TO video soruce

Click below to order your copy of The Instructor, available now!

“THE INSTRUCTOR”

Click below to order your copy of The Instructor, available now!

CHAPTER ONE

Click below to pre-order your copy of The Instructor, coming April 11th, 2023!

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WHAT TO LISTEN TO