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190 pages

English

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Description

It took businessman Derrick Myden 60 years to find and mine enough gold to help him become the richest MAN on Earth. However, Derrick’s tiny twin sister, Helen Troy used the same amount of time as a banker to become the richest PERSON in the World. A family competition, fairly waged.

Derrick figured he’d catch up; after all, every planet in the Galaxy is bound to have gold.

He didn’t consider that those planets might have owners.

Number two in a three-book fun romp through political mayhem.

See, A Touch of Gold

Sujets

Political

Fantasy (canción de Mariah Carey)

Politics

Adventure

Fiction

Action

Fantasy

Informations

Publié par	Outskirts Press
Date de parution	20 décembre 2022
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781977265005
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0500€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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A Shield of Gold All Rights Reserved. Copyright © 2023 Nick Nelson v3.0
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.
This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Outskirts Press, Inc. http://www.outskirtspress.com
Cover Photo © 2023 www.gettyimages.com . All rights reserved - used with permission.
Outskirts Press and the "OP" logo are trademarks belonging to Outskirts Press, Inc.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
The end is the start

Ivan Goodman

PhD

The start is the end

Ivan Goodman

Enlightened
For Bill Flint,
He loved, A Touch of Gold, and was waiting for the sequel.
Thanks, Bill for the assistance on, A Shield of Gold.
I’m sorry you weren’t able to hang around for the publishing.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY ONE
CHAPTER FORTY TWO
CHAPTER FORTY THREE
CHAPTER FORTY FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY SIX
CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY SIX
CHAPTER FIFTY SEVEN
CHAPTER FIFTY EIGHT
CHAPTER FIFTY NINE
CHAPTER SIXTY
CHAPTER SIXTY ONE
CHAPTER SIXTY TWO
CHAPTER SIXTY THREE
CHAPTER SIXTY FOUR
CHAPTER SIXTY FIVE
CHAPTER SIXTY SIX
CHAPTER SIXTY SEVEN
CHAPTER SIXTY EIGHT
CHAPTER SIXTY NINE
CHAPTER SEVENTY
CHAPTER SEVENTY ONE
CHAPTER SEVENTY TWO
CHAPTER SEVENTY THREE
CHAPTER SEVENTY FOUR
CHAPTER SEVENTY FIVE
CHAPTER SEVENTY SIX
CHAPTER SEVENTY SEVEN
CHAPTER SEVENTY EIGHT
CHAPTER SEVENTY NINE
CHAPTER EIGHTY
CHAPTER EIGHTY ONE
CHAPTER EIGHTY TWO
CHAPTER EIGHTY THREE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER ONE
An icy blast of wind stung Derrick Myden’s face. Startled he glanced up from the mining documents lying on his makeshift desk of rough planks. Framed in the tent’s doorway, dressed in a long fur-lined canvass coat one of the Russian miners in the camp held back the tent’s door flap, swirling snowflakes surrounding his silhouette.
Aiming a pistol between Derrick’s astonished eyes the intruder stepped toward the crude desk.
Instinct sent Derrick’s hand under his unzipped parka.
The man snarled in a deep angry voice, "Copotolastic !," then yanked the trigger.
Derrick’s Colt 1911 was only halfway out from under his parka when the man’s pistol flared, the blast assaulting his ears. For an instant the only sound was the ringing in his ears and the wind slapping the loose tent flap. The man’s thick eyebrows knitted and he jerked the trigger again, but the gun only two feet from Derrick’s face failed to respond.
The burly, heavily bearded man yanked the limp trigger of his disloyal pistol a third time just as Derrick put a .45 caliber hole in the man’s coat a little below and left of his long black beard.
The would-be assassin’s mouth flopped open exposing a row of rotting teeth. "Oof!" he exhaled staggering back a half step. His gun arm lowered and a hang-fired bullet drilled a nine-millimeter hole through the desk top and into the packed dirt floor between Derrick’s legs.
Derrick reared up from the empty explosives crate he’d been using as a chair his pistol tracking the man as he dropped heavily to his knees. He tilted sideways then settled without ceremony to the dirt.
A few minute-long seconds passed. Two men barged into the tent pulling up to stare into the muzzle of Derrick’s gun.
"What the hell!" his mining engineer, Steve Galloway yelled.
"Da…" The other man began then remembered his English. "What is happen?"
Nodding down at the body Derrick answered in a wavering voice, "This fellow didn’t use a lot of words, Alexei, but I think he called me a capitalist pig."
Alexei Dvorkin was the Russian security agent in the Siberian mining camp. In the old days he would have been KGB. He was young but instantly took control. He relaxed his hand on his own gun letting it slip back in the pocket of his winter coat. His darting eyes scanned the scene. An old, rusted German Luger lay near the dead man’s hand. He spotted a greenish brass shell casing glittering in the lantern light on the cot next to the tent wall, and then another just under it.
"How many bullets you shoot?" Alexei asked?
"One." Derrick carefully laid his weapon on the desk.
"I see." Alexei stepped to his left, stooped and picked up a spent .45 caliber bullet casing at the foot of a metal filing cabinet. "Three times shoot." He leveled his gaze into Derrick’s eyes, pointed at the corpse, and forgot his English. " ?, Excuse. Why you not down here?"
Derrick understood a little Russian. " ." Sitting down, he stared at his shaking right hand, then turned, and peered at the small bullet hole in the dark gray canvass wall behind him; right at his eye level.
Pivoting back toward his questioner he answered in English, "I don’t know, Alexei, why I’m not down there instead of him, but it sure seems I ought to be."
CHAPTER TWO
Sylvia Crow emerged from a reverie of irritation looking out her window at the window of the building next door. Washington DC had been growing so fast with faceless, useless bureaucrats that new buildings to put them in were being erected, sometimes butting up to each another. In the opposite window a young jerk in a white shirt and loosened tie was leering at her, demonstrating a two-handed obscene gesture. She made a one-handed sign back, and twisted the Venetian blinds shut.
"Jeese," she blurted to the small room she’d been waiting in for fifteen minutes; a standard doctor’s cubical, two chairs, an examination table, cupboards stuffed with bandages, rubber gloves, syringes, and other doctor’s stuff. On a small shelf a blank computer monitor waited for somebody to activate it with the wireless keyboard in front of it.
She checked her wrist watch and noted that it was now 16 minutes since she’d been shown into the room by the pudgy nurse with a big-toothed smile contrasted against a very black face who told her the doctor would be right in. Her name tag identified her as, Nancy.
Sylvia wondered why she had bothered to show up at this doctor’s office at 9:15 for a 9:30 appointment only to wait 30 minutes to be escorted to this tiny room to wait another quarter of an hour. At least the extremely white room was clean. She looked at the watch again. It hadn’t changed.
She peeked out the blinds, noted that the jerk was gone and wondered if she should bitch to somebody about him. What good would that do? None. She sat down and snatched up a People magazine from the chair next to hers. It took at least ten seconds before she realized her own scowling visage was on the cover.
"Oh hell," she muttered remembering the arrogant, sneering woman who conducted the interview, whose name sounded like, Madcow. "What a bitch," she said to the uncaring room.
"What was it like," Madcow had asked her breathlessly, "to hang out with Derrick Myden for over a year?"
"Huh?" Sylvia had responded. "What was it like? Don’t you want to know how he and his tiny sister managed to change the whole world, saving our sorry butts from the doom of a total, world-wide financial meltdown? Hanging out? Am I the only real reporter left?"
In the middle of that memory, she barely heard the quick rap on the door just before the bustling emergence of her health care person for the last six years; Doctor Pamela Johnson. She swept into the room swishing an open white smock. Sylvia jumped to her feet and looked at her watch. 17 minutes.
"Please don’t get up, Sylvia," Doctor Johnson said as she hit the button that turned on the computer.
Sylvia stood at an even six feet and the middle-aged Pamela topped out at about five four in her going-to-the-beach shoes. It wasn’t a fair fight. She tossed the magazine face down and reclaimed her chair. "What’s the verdict, Doc?" she asked. "Why have I been puking my guts out for the last few days? A bug?"
"Well," the Doctor replied. "Not really. We’ve just gotten the results of yesterday’s tests and..."
The door slammed open. "Doctor!" nurse Nancy blurted, "Mister Hansen in room four...he just keeled over! Manny’s giving him CPR."
"Heart attack?" the doctor asked calmly.
"He ain’t breathin’!," the chubby nurse screeched.
The doctor turned to Sylvia. "It appears we have an emergency."
Sylvia stared at the closed door, grabbed the magazine, ripped the cover off, wadded it into a crinkly ball, and from a good six feet launched a three-point shot into the pristinely clean waste basket. She sat looking aroun