Breaking Destiny

By Mitty Walters

"RESEARCHER UNLOCKS FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH!"

When her discovery makes headlines around the world, Dr. Yoonie Brandt becomes an instant celebrity. But her study is soon attacked and ferociously discredited.

The headlines vanish overnight. So, too, does the young geneticist.

Three years later, wealthy businessman Joe Kettleman is on the run from a wife who wants him dead, detectives who want him for a double homicide, and a tumor that wants him for an early grave. Badly wounded and out of options, he slips away to a remote cabin in New Mexico.

When supplies dwindle, Joe is forced to take a perilous journey through the deserts of the Bisti Badlands. Two days into what was supposed to be a five day trek, he comes across a town.

A small city, really. Right in the middle of nowhere. And it's not on any map.

That's when Joe's fate collides with that of a beautiful young woman, desperate to escape the strange city and making wild claims about a genetically-enhanced virus that will soon wipe out most of humanity.

She's delusional, right? 

But within the city, Joe uncovers a mind-blowing secret. A secret protected and controlled by a global conspiracy... with a terrifying plan to change the world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: MoBetter Productions Inc
• Release date: May 27, 2019
• ISBN: 9781733911719

Mitty Walters

Yes, Mitty Walters is a pen name. It's a tribute to James Thurber’s classic, "The Secret Life of Walter Mitty" (1939).  When I read that story, I was a homeless teenager who was never sure where he would be sleeping the next night. I had an instant connection with Walter Mitty. But I always felt like his dark reflection. Walter's wild fantasy life helped him to escape his boring reality. But my fantasy was just to have a boring reality.  Too bleak? Fine.  The truth is I joined the Merchant Marines when I was fifteen. When they asked for ID, I gave them my dead cousin's birth certificate. Next thing I knew I was on a bus headed to Savannah. When I hopped my first freighter, my heart was filled with all kind of romantic notions. But three straight days of puking cajoled me back to reality. I didn't set foot on land for another four months. The Merchant Marine is not some mysterious gateway to adventure for young lads. It's just work, sweat, and misery. I didn't get marooned on any island, didn't rescue any damsels in distress. I just toiled away pointlessly. The most adventure I had was getting arrested in Thailand with a bunch of drunken idiots that I didn't even know. I learned to speak a little Cantonese while I was in there, though. But mostly I wasted away for eighteen long months. Until the riots began, anyway. Crud. Too bleak again? Look. You can be honest. You don't care who I am. You just want to go on a wild ride. I'm cool with that. Just scoop up one of my books and let's bounce!

Book preview

1

There She Goes

Few things in this world are more soul-crushing than facing a parent’s disappointment. For Yoonie Brandt, fate had multiplied the devastation through timing.

The door opened, a nurse stepped out, looked around briefly and spotted Yoonie. Dr. Brandt?

Yes.

Your mother will see you now, spat the nurse, not bothering to disguise her contempt.

Get in line, thought Yoonie, pushing the door open. Thank you.

One of the suits crowded in before she could close the door.

Really? she asked irritably.

Orders, ma’am.

Whatever annoyance Yoonie may have felt for the intrusion dissipated immediately upon seeing her mother. Only three months had passed since the diagnosis, but in that time Hye Kim-Brandt had shriveled into a pale husk of her former self.

Mommy, whispered Yoonie, pulling a chair close to the bed. You look well.

More lies, returned the older woman, refusing to look at her daughter.

Yoonie’s eyes stung as she gingerly removed the newspaper from her mother’s hand. Yoonie folded it in half to hide the headline—Researcher Faked Results—and dropped it into the waste bin.

Who is this? asked Hye, nodding toward the man at the door without making eye contact.

He… he’s just a friend, Mom.

Lies upon lies.

Mom, I… even if it was all true, it’s too late to help you. It was always too late. I never said—

I believed in you, Hye said bitterly.

Stomach twisting, Yoonie changed the subject and tried to sound happy. You’re being transferred to a better place today, Mommy.

The two sat in miserable silence until Yoonie leaned forward and took her mother’s hand.

The touch seemed to impart strength into the fragile older woman. She turned and stared fiercely into her daughter’s eyes. Speaking in Korean, the dying woman begged, Tell me it’s not true. Everything they say, it’s all lies. You’d never do those things, never!

Mommy, I love you, Yoonie whispered in English, tears now rolling down her cheeks. Let’s talk about where they’re moving you to. It’s called—

The older woman’s grip tightened as she switched to German. Speak to me! I know your heart. We didn’t raise you this way.

Yoonie bit her lip and hung her head. There was no way she could make this right, not in any language.

2

Crack of Doom

Three years later…

In this world of digital records, fingerprint databases, surveillance cameras, and passive facial recognition systems, few are ever able to truly disappear. Rarer still, those who manage the feat twice in a single lifetime. The man known as Joseph T. Kettleman was about to do exactly that, though he didn’t know it yet.

He was preparing to wrap up a perfectly ordinary weekend just as he always did, with a ride up the Ortega River to a secluded fishing hole. The only mildly unusual thing was that his wife was already awake.

Morning, Joe, Carolyn said brightly. Made you some coffee.

Morning, sweetheart, he said, slipping his arm around her waist and kissing her cheek. Going with me again?

He held his breath.

Oh, no. I don’t think so, she said disdainfully.

Too late, the damage was already done. Joe dug in his pocket for the bottle of antacid.

Last Sunday had been a disaster. Despite his warnings that she would hate it, Carolyn had insisted on going with him. Apparently some article in Cosmo had convinced her that she needed to take an interest in the things he enjoyed.

Despite his better judgement, Joe had relented. The thirty-minute ride out had been fine, Carolyn barely saying a word, but that had just been the calm before the storm. The fog had been thick and she’d almost seemed to share Joe’s reverence, quietly watching sleepy docks slide by. Her only complaint had been about why they couldn’t have taken one of the bigger boats.

Carolyn had always hated the bass boat. He’d bought it two years ago, but last Sunday was only the second time she’d been on it, even though she was the one who had talked Joe into buying it. He’d been ready to pull the trigger on a sixteen-foot Carolina Skiff when she’d asked the salesman to show them the most expensive bass boat on the lot. That turned out to be a Ranger Icon which was still painfully boring, but must be better because it was ten times more expensive.

Joe was not a flashy guy, a point that annoyed Carolyn to no end. She had tried to talk him into a Porsche, and then been furious for weeks when he’d come home with a pickup truck.

Oh my god, you’re the only person on the whole island with a hick-mobile!

The ‘whole island’ amounted to about fifteen houses. It was a man-made island—part of a much larger neighborhood—that had been severed off by deepening the low-lying portion of a parcel of land that jutted out into the river, creating a canal that separated the island from the rest of the neighborhood.

Kettleman would never have found the house, had he not been introduced to his wife-to-be. Carolyn had just received her Florida real estate certification when they met three years ago. He was looking to lower his profile and had settled on Jacksonville.

Jacksonville fit the bill perfectly. It was small enough to stay off the radar, large enough to conduct business. The deciding factor had been the profitability of a shipping interest in Mayport that he’d acquired the year before. For that reason, he had become familiar with Jacksonville during his frequent trips down from Atlanta.

Needing new office space, he bought an old building in the heart of downtown, off Hemming Plaza, and moved into a condo in Riverside to oversee the renovation.

Carolyn had been introduced to him by one of the contractors, her brother. The brother, Jacob Tatem, had been one of four names flagged during hiring. Tatem had a checkered record that included dings for petty theft and check kiting. But he was a competent craftsman and cheap, so Kettleman gave him the contract anyway.

The introduction to Carolyn had been a clumsy trap. Jacob had pulled him aside and was pretending to be confused by some aspect of the drawings, kept asking about the same thing, only from a different direction each time.

Stalling.

And then in fluttered Carolyn, a more beautiful butterfly he’d never seen. She was wearing a clingy, floral sundress and white strapped sandals, twirling about the room excitedly.

I did it, I did it! she sang out, grabbing her brother’s hand to swing around him. Even her sweet, southern twang was delicious. I’m officially a real estate agent!

Kettleman was enraptured. The whole room smelled like the gardenias on her dress. Didn’t matter that he was being manipulated. Didn’t matter that yesterday he’d been on the phone discussing arrangements to transfer some key employees down to Jacksonville while Jacob was standing right there, listening. And it didn’t even matter when, two days later, Martin Goodall pointed out that Carolyn had actually received her license six weeks earlier, pointedly not on the day she’d met Kettleman.

He knew he was being set up. It didn’t matter. The moment he laid eyes on her, a spell was cast and logic took a backseat to desire.

Barely two days later, Carolyn was appointed as the buying agent for the employees transferring from Atlanta. Everybody has to start somewhere, so Kettleman saw no harm in giving her a break. The only minor hiccup was that she had a fixation on two particular areas of town—Avondale and Ortega—and was stubborn, almost obstinate, about showing properties in less expensive areas like Mandarin or Flemming Island. San Marco was apparently ok, though she steered everyone away because the area was mostly new money.

To offset the push in real estate prices, he’d had to raise the housing stipend for his employees. Small price to pay, though, for the fun he was having.

A whirlwind romance began, one that lasted only a few weeks before Carolyn started dropping hints about which cut of diamond—a marquise—she prefers. The two were engaged a few weeks later, then married in Aspen shortly thereafter.

The first time Kettleman put his foot down was when he refused to pay more than two million for a home. Carolyn begged and pleaded, but he held his ground. If she insisted on living in Old Ortega, then it couldn’t be on the water. She pouted, stamped her feet, withheld affection, pulled out all the stops. It was a stormy two weeks, but he rode it out.

Eventually Carolyn settled for Ortega Forest. Poor-tega, as she called it because it was not in Ortega proper.

But the island is nice, she’d said. And we’ll be on the water.

For Kettleman, crossing the little cobblestone bridge onto the island and seeing the house for the first time was very similar to meeting Carolyn that first day. Without ever looking inside, he knew right away he had to have it.

Buying the house had pleased his wife as well, killing two birds with one giant bag of stones. But keeping her happy had proved more difficult. One of the signs that she wanted something was unexpected kindness—for instance waking up early and brewing coffee for him, as she had this morning.

Kettleman eyed his cup suspiciously. If you’re not joining me, why you up so early?

I’m meeting Meg and Joani at the Metro in a few minutes, she said, glancing at her watch.

Joe’s brow furrowed. Despite the deep summer tan, Carolyn had the sleeping habits of a vampire. Her girlfriends as well, especially those two. Did the Metro Diner even open this early?

He decided to let it go. Anything was better than what he’d thought initially, that she was going to give fishing another try. Counting his blessings, Joe hastened his routine to get out the door and onto the boat before she could change her mind.

The Ortega is a lazy tidal river. Tidal because it’s attached to the St. Johns which flows north through the city of Jacksonville and empties into the Atlantic at Mayport. Twice a day the Atlantic pushes back, causing the St. Johns to stymie and its murky waters to rise.

The tide was rising as Kettleman set the tension on the line and settled in after his first cast of the morning. Good thing Carolyn wasn’t here, he’d already spotted three gators. There was one lazing in the reeds, not twenty feet from the boat.

Carolyn was Jacksonville, born and raised. Made no sense to him that she was so afraid of the wildlife, but she was. She really seemed to hate the river. She had pushed for a speedboat, but never skied. She’d insisted he buy not one but two jet skis—in case they had guests—though she refused to ride either. She’d pushed for the Sea Ray, but insisted on flying down both times they went to the Keys.

Pretty much the only time that yacht got used was when there was a huge event downtown—like the Georgia-Florida game—and she wanted to make a big entrance. In Jacksonville, it doesn’t get much bigger than the Georgia-Florida game. Every year, the football rivalry between the universities filled the stadium to its capacity of seventy thousand. Almost as many showed up without tickets just for the tailgating, which was rightfully billed as the World's Largest Outdoor Cocktail Party.

For the last three years, Kettleman had been paying ridiculous money for premium docking during Georgia-Florida weekend, right in front of the Landing. The Landing was a large mall—filled with bars and restaurants—in the heart of downtown on the St. Johns, and played host to much of the partying. Carolyn and all her friends would spend the whole weekend on the yacht, looking like rockstars.

Joe didn’t mind, it made his wife happy. That’s what a husband was supposed to do, make his wife happy. Right? Besides, it was only money.

And that was the key to the relationship. Kettleman never understood women, but he understood money. Until meeting Carolyn, being good with one did not help with the other.

He didn’t have any close friends, but he’d learned to network for business and that generated plenty of acquaintances. He was easygoing, affable, and well liked, despite the fact that he was a man of few words. He was good looking—tall, dark hair, dark eyes, athletic build—and very well established, financially speaking. In the eyes of those who knew him, Kettleman’s one failing was that he was single. And this was a problem many sought to fix by setting him up with a relentless procession of blind dates. The matchmaking might never have ended, had marriage not closed the door for good.

Now, there were two men in a small boat approaching at about twelve knots, ignoring the fact that this was a ‘No Wake’ zone. Joe had been coming out here for two years and hadn’t spotted a single manatee, despite what the sign suggested. The boat abruptly slowed to idle speed.

He’d been on plenty of dates. And many of those dates had led to subsequent dates. It wasn’t that he was bad with women, just that…

What the hell are these clowns doing?

He recast the line, this time intentionally in their direction. There was plenty of room out here. But they didn’t take the hint, and kept right on coming.

What’s biting? asked the skinny one conversationally, killing the engine. It coughed and sputtered before dying.

Nothing yet, Kettleman answered, biting back on his irritation, munching on a mouthful of antacid. Catfish and bass out here, usually.

Hey, I know you, said the shaggy-haired gent. Joe, right? Joe Kettleman.

Kettleman’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t recognize the speaker, nor the other. And something was off. The way they were dressed, the way they’d crunched in on his space—now less than twenty feet away, almost on top of his line.

Yep, guilty as charged, he admitted, setting down his rod. Sorry, can’t say I know you.

That’s alright, you can a have a beer anyway, said ‘Shaggy’, turning and leaning away, then back with something in his hand. Catch.

We ain’t close enough, Jim! shot the skinny one.

Before Kettleman could agree, Shaggy leaned forward and tossed the object underhand. It landed on the carpeted deck, rolled toward Joe, and dropped into the captain’s seat.

Not a beer.

A grenade.

GRENADE!

Kettleman froze for a split second, mind not believing what the eyes were seeing. The eyes might have lost the dispute, were it not for the action on the other boat. Both men had taken cover.

Joe leaped up, took two quick steps, and then fell overboard, tripping before he could dive.

Good thing, too. The water was shallow, maybe four feet. He lost a shoe in the thick mud trying to put distance between himself and the boat.

Nothing happened. No explosion.

Kettleman stopped. Was this some kind of joke?

Are you kidding me? howled somebody. It’s a dud. A gawd damn dud! You stupid son of—

How’s I s’posed to know! I paid damn near two grand ‘cuz they said…

Nope. Not a joke.

Kettleman stopped listening, started swimming. Right for the reeds where the gators were. Contrary to popular belief, alligators are less dangerous than people. People with grenades, anyhow. And fifty yards on the other side of the reeds, just a quick climb up the bank and he could disappear into the woods beyond.

The would-be killers were cursing at each other, struggling with a stubborn engine that refused to turn. About the time it started, Joe reached the patch of reeds. The alligator was already gone, gliding away. The water became very shallow, so he stood up and tried to run. But his feet sank in, deep.

Suddenly, gunfire. One shot after another, just as fast as the trigger could be squeezed. So loud, each shot seemed to shatter the air itself. Kettleman dove for the muddy waters, bullets whizzing by.

Shaggy was shouting for his cohort to stop shooting. S’posed to be an accident, an explosion! Idiot!

Kettleman was belly-down in the mud and shallow water, using elbows and knees to push through the reeds toward the deeper channel that separated him from the bank. Suddenly the mud dropped away and he could swim again.

What the hell we s’posed to do if I can’t shoot his ass?

Take over. Get up ‘side him.

The bank was still thirty yards away when the skinny guy navigated around the shallow and glided up beside Kettleman. Nowhere to hide, he dove down as deep as he could.

When he came up for a breath, Shaggy took a swing with a metal baseball bat. Kettleman’s shoulder took most of the hit, but the glancing blow to the cheek was explosive. When he dove down again, he was seeing stars.

Joe stayed down as long as he could again, this time swimming under the boat. They heard him come up and switched sides, but Kettleman was just outside of swinging range.

Give it up already, growled ‘Skinny’, pointing the revolver at Joe. I’m over this fucking game. ‘Bout’a just shoot your ass.

Kettleman was treading water. How about we just call it a day?

Skinny chuckled. Nah, sorry friend. Cain’t do that, neither.

This is about money, right? asked Kettleman, stalling as he weighed options. He had counted four shots. I have money. Lots of it.

How much?

No, dammit, growled Shaggy. We done been paid, just shoot the fucker and be done with it.

But that’ll mess everything up, right? asked Joe, treading backward slowly. What happened to using the bat? Shoot me and that’ll leave bullets in my body. Cops chase bullets.

Skinny shrugged. They ain’t tracing this gun.

This was it. Joe was experiencing the final moments of his life.

Ok, sure. Right. But what about… stalled Joe, mind racing for anything that could delay the inevitable. What about—

KA-BOOM.

The gentle rocking of Joe’s boat had caused the grenade to fall to the floor—jarring loose a metal burr and allowing the spring-loaded striker to drop. A full three minutes after the grenade had been thrown, it finally