Two days later, Bernstein's body was found by his housekeeper. On his nightstand was an empty bottle of Halcion and an unfinished suicide note.

EPILOGUE.

It was all too clean, all too neat. April was right. The bank had gotten away with murder. But not the murder of her parents. That was, most likely, the work of Bernstein and his "kill for hire" team. Now those silent truths were buried forever.

Brent pondered it as he looked out at the harbor. It was a crystal clear day, and the horizon was a thin, defined line between cobalt and sky blue. The air was as fresh as the ocean spray. The fishing boats were running, the whale watchers were filled with tourists looking for packs of dolphins and humpbacks. The world seemed normal again, but it would never be the same.

So much had been lost in this case. April's parents, Brent's best friend, and almost Angela. And, in the end, the bank just got out its checkbook and it all went away. He remembered Joshua Banks, who always spoke in bible verses and the one that seemed appropriate now was the love of money. It certainly was the root of all evil.

The world could not be changed with one court case. It might take another, thought Brent.

AFTERWORD.

Of course, this story is fictional, but it is based on solid historical research. If you care to read on, I have summarized some of the research. If not, I would like to ask you now to please leave a review. If you scroll to the last page, you will be prompted to do so. Also, there are excerpts from some of the other books in the Brent Marks series. Finally, I love to get email from my readers. Please feel free to send me one at info@kennetheade.com. I would also like you to join my mailing list, for advance notice of new books, free excerpts, free books and updates. I will never spam you. Please subscribe here: http://bit.do/mailing-list.

The financial meltdown of 2008 was not the result of mysterious economic forces. What caused it was rampant fraud in the financial markets. Before the 2008 mortgage crisis, thousands of subprime real estate loans on over-appraised real estate were assigned to mortgage pools and then resold to investors as mortgage backed securities. When U.S. home prices declined sharply after a peak in 2006, it became difficult for borrowers to refinance those loans. As monthly payments on adjustable rate mortgages began to increase, mortgage delinquencies soared, causing mortgage backed securities to lose most of their value. This led to what is known as the financial crisis of 2008 the worst financial crisis since the Great Depression.

The big banks were on the verge of failure. Instead of letting them fail, the Government enacted the "Emergency Economic Stabilization Act of 2008" and bailed them out. The Act authorized the U.S. Treasury to spend up to $700 billion to purchase devalued and virtually worthless bank assets, especially mortgage backed securities, which provided billions of dollars in cash to the banks. Unfortunately, programs to help consumers avoid foreclosures did not get as much support as the bank bailout. They only got lip service.

Bank fraud played the major role in the crisis, by deceiving investors who purchased mortgage backed securities. But holding the banks responsible for the disaster could have plunged them back into insolvency all over again, so the biggest banks have paid relatively small fines in relation to the profits that they have reaped from the bailout and recovery of assets. In short, not only did they get away with murder, but, thanks to the bailout, their profits are at an all time high. And, with a few notable exceptions, bank executives who took part in the fraud were able to keep their huge bonuses, escape criminal and civil liability, and fly away on their golden parachutes.

One more thing...

I hope you have enjoyed this compilation and I am thankful that you have spent the time to get to this point, which means that you must have received something from reading it. If you turn to the last page, Kindle will give you the opportunity to rate the book and share your thoughts through an automatic feed to your Facebook and Twitter accounts. If you believe your friends would enjoy this book, I would be honored if you would post your thoughts, and also leave a review on Amazon. Click here to leave your review.

Best regards, Kenneth Eade.

A PATRIOT'S ACT.

KENNETH EADE.

In memory of J. Howard Standing, My first associate in law.

Patriotism is a kind of religion; it is the egg from which wars are hatched.

-Guy de Maupassant.

Voice or no voice, the people can always be brought to the bidding of the leaders. That is easy. All you have to do is tell them they are being attacked, and denounce the peacemakers for lack of patriotism and exposing the country to danger. It works the same in any country.

Hermann Goering.

Democracy is not freedom. Democracy is two wolves and a lamb voting on what to have for lunch. Freedom comes from the recognition of certain rights, which may not be taken, even by a 99% vote.

- Marvin Simkin.

PART I.

THIS ISN'T WHAT THE GOVERNMEANT.

CHAPTER ONE.

Ahmed felt the butt of the rifle strike his spine between his shoulder blades as his knees buckled, and he hit the floor. The sensation of falling was even stranger because he couldn't see anything. It was as if he were in slow motion, spiraling out of control.

His hands were shackled behind his back, so there was no way to break his fall. He landed on his side, slamming his shoulder into the cold concrete floor. He could feel the fibers of the black hood against his lips, and smell the sweat of the last person who had been forced to wear it. He stood up and started to walk again.

"Move faster Haji!" commanded an authoritative voice in a Southern American drawl. Ahmed felt the rifle butt hit hard against his spine again and he shuffled faster, within the confines of his ankle chains, which allowed only a minimum of movement. Thoughts of his wife Catherine, her silky brown hair, soft brown eyes and captivating smile, and their two small children, Karen and Cameron, back in their home in Santa Barbara, flooded his brain. These thoughts were the only thing lately that kept him sane.

"Up against the wall! Stop there! Up against the wall I said now!"

Ahmed stopped and did as he was commanded.

"Listen up!" barked a mechanical voice in the darkness, "My name is Sergeant Brown. You have been placed in my custody. You're here because you have refused to cooperate in interrogations. The decision has been made to execute you by firing squad."

"Wait!" said Ahmed, "I'm an American citizen."

"Sure you are, A-hab."

"My name is Ahmed."

"Your name is A-hab. A-hab the A-rab and the only thing I need to hear from you today is whether you want your mask on or off."

"Off."

Ahmed felt the black bag ripped from his head and, for the first time, faced his aggressors. The man who had ripped off his bag was a young man in military camouflage fatigues, holding an M16 to his chest. In front of him was an eight-man firing squad, also in camouflage fatigues, with rifles at their sides in ready position. Standing at their side was obviously Sergeant Brown, a hefty black man with huge hands, the only one not holding a weapon. For a 25-year-old man like Brown, who was always inept in every way outside the service, power was orgasmic. He basked in it like the sun, as if he was on a white sand beach in Maui.

Brown was proud to be in United States Army, the finest military service of the greatest country in the world, a beacon for freedom, the leader of the New World Order. The Army was his life, a life that had so much more depth, meaning and importance than it did before. He was entrusted with the valuable task of shaping young men and women under his charge to destroy the enemy and wipe terrorism from the planet. The enemy was the low-life, stinking Arabs, those sand niggers, the little maggots who had strapped bombs to themselves and had blown his comrades to bits in Iraq. They were like a disease, a plague that had to be wiped out.

"I have the right to talk to an attorney," Ahmed pleaded.

"You what? You don't have any rights, A-hab," said Brown, "You're a terrorist. The only right you have is to choose to wear the mask or not, and you already exercised that right."

The young soldier fastened a leather strap around Ahmed's waist, pinning his spine to a wooden post. He turned his head to look behind himself at the canvas wall, pocked with gunshots. The soldier then strapped his ankles to the post.

"Please, let me call my lawyer. This is all a big mistake!"

"Yeah, yeah, a big mistake. I've heard that one before. All you fucking Hajis say the same goddamn thing it's programmed. You should have cooperated when we asked about your superiors in al Qaeda."

"I don't know anyone in al Qaeda."

"Don't bullshit me, boy!"

Brown, like a machine, pivoted, walked a few paces, and then pivoted again, so he was face to face with Ahmed, took a piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it and recited in a military monotone, "You have been found guilty of terrorism. The penalty is death by firing squad. Do you have any last statement?"

"But I..."

"I repeat, do you have any last statement?"

"Yes, please, I want to cooperate, I really do, but I don't know what you want from me. I don't know anything!"

The young man with the M16 then approached Ahmed, pinned a white heart onto his chest, and moved back. Brown marched off to the right of the firing squad.

Sweat was dripping into Ahmed's eyes, stinging them. He said a silent prayer, thought about his wife and children, then looked at Brown with defiant eyes.

"I'm not a terrorist. I am an American citizen. I have the right, like any other American citizen, to a lawyer and a trial before any execution. I have been denied these rights. You will answer to God for your crimes."

"To hell with your rights, boy. We got all the rights here," said Brown, who raised his arm and shouted, "READY!"

The eight marksmen cocked their rifles.

"AIM!"

The eight pointed their rifles at Ahmed, who shivered uncontrollably. His knees gave way and he hung on the post like a man crucified.

"FIRE!"

The deafening explosion of the eight rifles was the last thing Ahmed heard. He felt the bullets hit his flesh and his body crumpled forward, hanging lifelessly from the post like a scarecrow.

CHAPTER TWO.

Catherine Khury sat in the plain-wrap waiting room of the FBI's Santa Barbara field office, fidgeting in her purse for her phone. Hold it together, Cate! she told herself. She had been living in hell the past few weeks. She was an attractive woman, but her ordeal made every one of her 30 years appear as if she had lived her life without sleeping. She looked at the time. Only five minutes had passed since the last time she had checked. A friendly looking, pretty young woman entered the room.

"Hello, ma'am, I'm Agent Wollard," the woman said, extending her hand, which Catherine shook.

"Catherine Khury."

"Would you please come in?"

Catherine sat in a small steel and vinyl black chair and Agent Wollard behind an aluminum desk with a false wood veneer surface.

"How can I help you, Mrs. Khury?"

"My husband, Ahmed, is missing." Catherine's bottom lip began to quiver, as she fought back tears. She had to remain strong; strong for her husband, and especially for her children.

"Mrs. Khury, we don't really look for missing persons here at the FBI."

"That's not what I heard."

"Well, we do maintain a database of missing persons, but unless it's a child, and foul play is suspected, we don't really get actively involved."

"Agent Wollard, I don't know where else to go. My husband and his brother have been missing since my husband went to Iraq to help him."

"Your husband is in Iraq?"

"The last I heard. But nobody has seen or heard from him in days," Catherine sobbed, struggling to keep her composure.

Angela handed her a tissue from the box on her desk. "Is your husband a United States citizen?"

"Yes, he has been for many years."

The tears finally made their way over the spill gates, and Catherine emptied them into the tissue.

"Have you tried to find him in Iraq?"