Assassin Years

By Melody Ryan

In October 1968, teenager Denise Reid falls asleep one evening just like every night. So does, in October, 2012, Taylor Williams, also 17 years old.

In the morning, they discover they exchanged personalities.

Denise wakes up in 2012, in Taylor's body. Taylor now occupies Denise's body and time.

Each must learn to cope with the forty-four year-switch. And each attends a presidential campaign speech central to a European billionaire's plot to destroy the United States.

His plan? Assassinate presidential candidate Richard Nixon in 1968 and President Obama, running for reelection, in 2012. Only Denise and Taylor stand between him and success, but how can two teenaged girls stop the armed killers?

To Denise, 2012 and cell phones, personal computers, and $6 per gallon gasoline come straight out of an episode of The Jetsons.

To Taylor, 1968 feels like a museum come to life. The pink Princess telephone won't work unless plugged into the wall. Typewriters. Clothes either too demure or too outlandish.

However, her high school teachers horrify Denise the worst. They criticize the United States more than the hippies of her time. Teachers! And the students agree!

But not all. Soon she meets Andre, who writes the blog the Voice of Young Black Republicans. She doesn't know a blog from Wi-Fi, but he answers her many questions. He takes her to a meeting of a conservative. He doesn't know an inner circle of the group, manipulated by an agent of the European billionaire, plans to meet President Obama's upcoming campaign speech with bullets instead of protest signs.

Taylor hates Denise's annoying boyfriend, but comes to rely on the hippie Georgie. He helps her find the ancient library book that promises to send her back to 2012.

Georgie also tells Taylor of the Black Cougars' plan -- also caused by manipulation by the European billionaire -- to assassinate Richard Nixon when he makes a campaign speech.

Taylor thinks it's not her problem until Georgie convinces her Nixon's death by assassination in 1968 would plunge the United States into violence and chaos . . . that would inevitably change 2012 as she (and we) know it.

Georgie proclaims himself a lover, not a fighter, and he won't stand by and watch his country overrun by hate.

And Taylor loves Georgie.

How can the two teenage girls, in shock from time travel lag, stop two presidential level assassions separated by forty-four years?

And what happens when they must return to their own years?

In this teenage adventure fiction, two teenage girls battle ruthless men determined to carry out the crimes of two centuries. An unusual young adult time travel adventure and romance.

Two presidential level assassinations that don't occur in history as we now know it -- but young adult time travel political thriller, a powerful, wealthy man plans to change that. He hates history as we know it, because the United States remains strong.

To download this exciting teenage paranormal thriller, just scroll up now.

• Language: English
• Publisher: In Dreams Extreme Press
• Release date: Sep 12, 2015
• ISBN: 9781516316014

Book preview

Assassin Years

Melody Ryan

Published by In Dreams Extreme Press, 2015.

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

ASSASSIN YEARS

First edition. September 12, 2015.

Copyright © 2015 Melody Ryan.

ISBN: 978-1516316014

Written by Melody Ryan.

Assassin Years

Melody Ryan

Copyright © 2013 by Richard Stooker, In Dreams Extreme Press, and Gold Egg Investing LLC.

Cover, book, and graphic design Copyright © 2013 by Richard Stooker, In Dreams Extreme Press, and Gold Egg Investing, LLC.

The right of Richard Stooker to be identified as the author of this book has been asserted in accordance with Sections 77 and 78 of the Copyrights and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved.

Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying, and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the author.

All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

NOTE:

Laughing Deer is a fictional small city in the fictional state of Kiowa, which lies somewhere between Iowa, Nebraska, Kansas, Illinois, Indiana, and Missouri.

Prologue

1.3 miles and 44 years apart, two extremist groups plot presidential-level assassinations…

Dan O’Malley

Thursday, October 10, 1968 8:37 PM

To hide his anxiety over the vote, Dan O’Malley leaned back in his chair.

After months of complaining petitions, protests and demonstrations weren’t accomplishing anything, and sounding out, influencing and manipulating the group’s members, Phase 1 of his mission was almost accomplished.

The Laughing Deer Black Cougars were finally ready to start the revolution.

The thugs.

O’Malley took another puff of his Marlboro. The body he occupied, one Peter Brown, was a smoker, so he had to smoke. The Cougars couldn’t know he wasn’t Peter.

What a filthy habit. He’d sure be glad to return to 2012.

Not to mention receiving the one hundred million US dollars or equivalent he’d been promised for this job. He had yet to decide whether to buy a chateau in Switzerland, France or Italy.

The Cougars raised their right hands and said, Yeah, Do it, or Right on.

So it passed.

The chairman and founder of the Black Cougars, Willie McGhee, turned to Dan.

Peter, we’re putting Brother King behind us.

That cracker Ray put Brother King and his philosophy of nonviolence down, Dan said. It’s time the White Man learned we’re going to trade bullets for bullets.

The others murmured agreement and nodded their heads.

Besides, Dan said, we’re the Black Cougars, not the NAACP.

I hope to God you know what you’re doing, McGhee said. I don’t never want to go back to jail.

That’s why we can’t play it sneaky, Dan said, leaning forward to emphasize his words so these men wouldn’t stop to think, wouldn’t understand he was making no sense.

That’s the way the FBI did it. Set up a dumb-ass, small-time white crook like James Earl Ray to take the fall, then claimed it wasn’t really a racist plot. If we try to hide, they’ll find us anyway. And the people won’t support us. That’s what we need, the people behind us. We got to swim in the sea of the people.

These gangsters turned fake revolutionaries didn’t even recognize the reference to Chairman Mao Zedong.

McGee said, Brother John Thomas ought to handle the details of the plan and the training, since he’s just six months out of the Army.

A Vietnam war vet, Dan thought. Perfect. Probably the only one of them who could shoot straight. Oh what a shit-storm they’d unleash.

We ain’t one single crazy man, Dan said. And that’s the advantage we have over the Secret Service. They’re looking out for Lee Harvey Oswald up on the sixth floor of the Texas Book Depository. We go after the candidate with three cars full of guys with guns, we’ll run right over them.

On October 20, while the Republican candidate was making a campaign speech in Front Street Park in Laughing Deer, Kiowa, the Black Cougars would avenge the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King by carrying out people’s justice on Richard Milhous Nixon.

Brian Brunswick

Thursday October 11, 2012 8:37 PM

Brian Brunswick sat in the turned-around wooden kitchen chair, the top of the back reaching his chin. He knew these Midwestern, right-wing Neanderthals saw it as a take-charge posture. Everybody present knew him as Jack Hatcher.

Lance Delgado, one of the softer members of Americans Against Internal Communism (AAIC) Steering Committee, said, Look, the polls show Obama’s going to lose the election. Three more months and he’s history. Why risk this? Why not just wait?

Brian had to answer that argument or his mission would fail.

The Republican’s not a Muslim-loving communist, Brian said, but that’s the best we can say for him. He’s the not-Obama candidate. He’s still a big spending progressive. America’s still being invaded by illegals.

He heard a lot of murmurs of agreement.

We take out Obama at this stage, Brian said. The American people will learn we’re serious. We’re fighting back. We’re not going to let Europeans boss us around anymore. We can run a candidate who represents our values, real American values.

And if you believe that corn fertilizer, Brian thought, you hoosiers deserve what it’s going to get you.

Maybe federal prison guards will let you listen to Rush Limbaugh and Glenn Beck in the penitentiary.

Not that it matters to me. I’ll be one hundred million US dollars richer and sitting out your fascist revolution on a far-away tropical beach.

His motion won the vote.

On Sunday October 21, 2012, while making a campaign speech at Front Street Park in Laughing Deer, Kiowa, President Barack Hussein Obama would become the fifth president in United States history to die by assassination.

1

Denise

Wednesday October 16, 1968 9:07 AM

This is the wildest and most frightening election year since our Founding Fathers drafted the Constitution.

Denise’s Civics teacher Mr. Svoboda let his words hang in the air like gunpowder puffs following a fireworks display.

After he got no response, he continued to pace back and forth, necktie jiggling, tossing a piece of yellow chalk from hand to hand.

Seated in the front row, Denise spotted a small stain on the front of his beige slacks. Sloppy.

On January 1, all experts overwhelmingly believed President Johnson would win the election. Then came the Tet Offensive. And Eugene McCarthy threatening him in the New Hampshire primary.

Mr. Svoboda stopped, turned, then stared at the class like Marlin Perkins examining a herd of lions on Wild Kingdom.

In March Johnson became the first president in American history to withdraw from running for re-election—and that was just the beginning.

Denise wrote that down on a piece of notebook paper, carefully molding her letters, proud of her penmanship.

King’s assassination a few days later set off riots across the country proving we’re on the edge of massive, violent anarchy. Then demonstrations and incredible protests. Students taking over Harvard. The assassination of Robert Kennedy right after he won the California primary. That’s another first.

Denise knew everything Mr. Svoboda was telling the class. She read The Laughing Deer Intelligencer every morning and watched Huntley and Brinkley every evening. And listened to her father complain about communists taking over.

The problems seemed so far away, but they still worried her. She woke up every morning in her same, safe bed and went to school. Laughing Deer was still the same terrific small city she remembered since she was a little girl. But for how long? Even kids here in Laughing Deer were hippies and radicals.

It seemed impossible they could overturn the system, but they’d closed Harvard and Paris and Chicago—just this year.

And I’m sure many of you saw the Democratic Convention riots on TV, Mr. Svoboda said. I don’t care which side you were on, police or demonstrators, that’s not the way a democratic country picks new leaders. It threatens the freedom so many of us take for granted.

He pointed to Denise. Isn’t that right?

Her lips tightened, pressed together like a picture glued to construction paper. She could barely swallow to clear her throat. Yes, sir.

What did you think when you watched the convention on TV?

Though she kept her knees pressed together while she sat at her desk, her maroon wool skirt had risen up her thighs.

She straightened her back, but looked toward the corner of the room, away from Mr. Svoboda as she spoke. I, I…don’t know.

Miss Reid, we both know you’ve already read the entire textbook. By now you know the Constitution better than most law professors. You’re going to ace every test and I’m going to give you the A you deserve. But I would appreciate class participation as well, so the other students can benefit from your point of view.

Denise’s stomach felt as twisted as a towel in the washing machine. The heat of a roaring barbecue pit burned her face. She wanted to disappear into a hole in the ground.

Her head turned quickly back and forth as her eyes searched for an escape. But the bell wouldn’t ring for another twenty minutes.

I, I…I’m sorry. I don’t know. They upset me. The police tried to maintain law and order, but the protestors kept fighting them.

Mr. Svoboda lifted his head to address all the students. Civics is not just about what’s in the book. That’s important, sure, but only for what it represents.

Denise looked around. Georgie Sanders, sitting as always in the back, long legs stretched in front of him, standard flat look of uncooperative boredom on his face, had been there on stage with her in the fourth grade when she fell down, everybody laughed at her, and she threw up.

As usual Georgie was wearing his hippie chain, a crude homemade necklace that included wood and colored plastic beads, a silver and turquoise tourist trinket from an Indian reservation, and a shark’s tooth. Denise shuddered inside. She didn’t understand why Georgie liked to draw attention to himself with that silly thing.

Mr. Svoboda stood by her again, the stain right in front of her eyes. You all right, Denise? he asked directly to her. I’m sorry if I upset you.

She shook her head as though the weight of the universe held down her face.

I’ll give you pass to see the nurse.

No, thank you. I’m all right now.

Back to his teacher voice, Mr. Svoboda said, American History class is about how we became a free country. Civics class is about how to remain free.

Did Georgie remember that play? Probably not. He laughed too, then forgot. If only she could.

She could still taste the peanut butter and jelly mingled with her gastric juices.

Mr. Svoboda said: Our democracy is under attack now, and not just by the Soviet Union. We need to defend it, here as well as in South Vietnam. I’m sure when the time comes, Denise will do the right thing. Won’t you?

Denise didn’t even nod. Of course. What else? She didn’t even have to think about that part of her, like the sun rising tomorrow morning or putting her hand to her chest when she heard the national anthem.

I hope all of you will do the right thing when the time comes, Mr. Svoboda said. You can start by going to see Richard Nixon at Front Street Park this Sunday. It’s been forty-four years since a presidential candidate made a stop here at Laughing Deer.

Georgie Sanders raised his hand, said, Can we protest him?

Denise couldn’t stop the small smile pulling up the corners of her mouth. She remembered when in the sixth grade she had a crush on Georgie. He’d never even known it. He was still cute, and a nice guy, though such a radical he made her angry.

Mr. Svoboda joined the laughter. That’s your right in a free country, so long as you keep it peaceful. That’s my point.

Not to worry, Mr. Svoboda. I’m a lover, not a fighter.

Denise had to admit, if all the protestors were like Georgie, she wouldn’t worry about the future.

But, she knew, they weren’t. Radicals like the Students for a Democratic Society and the Black Cougars were trying to destroy everything she loved about Laughing Deer and the United States of America.

2

Taylor

Wednesday October 17, 2012 9:07 AM

Is anarchy possible in the United States?

Taylor’s Civics teacher Ms. Brownley flipped the long braid of her black but graying hair so it lay over her left shoulder. Her eyes widened, inviting a response although, from her tone of voice, she expected none.

Taylor shifted around at her desk. Just in front of her, Lorraine McPherson was texting on her iPhone.

Ms. Brownley continued: We have seen the most contentious and hostile election since 1968—and that was just the Republican primaries.

She paused like a comedian, waiting for laughs that didn’t come.

And like 1968, we’re in the middle of vast social protests. The 99% Movement is making history, and in some places pushing the limits of constitutional freedom. Some of them are anarchists and calling for a revolution.

The boy next to Taylor smiled into space in a glassy, silly way. Taylor couldn’t understand why so many kids got drunk or high in the morning. She had enough trouble keeping up with school without making it harder.

Whoever wins next month’s election is going to face a nation divided by the economy. What would you do? Taylor Williams.

Picking on me again.

I don’t know. Nobody would vote for me.

What if an extreme rightwing reactionary coup d’etat happened?

Or a leftwing takeover. Andre Peterson called out. Taylor thought he was a hot guy. Broad shoulders and a thin waist. Clean, stylish though not expensive clothes. He kept all his hair shaved closed to his head, except for a large tuft on top.

But most of the African-American kids didn’t seem to want to hang with Andre. He said crazy things.

Ms. Brownley said, Okay, let’s be nonpartisan. If some extremist group took over the government, what would you do? Taylor?

The idea made Taylor feel as though she’d eaten two too many slices of pepperoni pizza. I don’t know.

You’d let them destroy the Constitution which protects our freedom?

What did Ms. Brownley expect her to say? What could I do?

You turned in an excellent report on Eugene Sharpe.

It was okay. Voice so low Taylor almost couldn’t hear herself speak.

He’s an expert on nonviolent revolutions, Ms. Brownley told the entire class.

Those things happened in other countries, Taylor thought.

I’d be afraid I’d screw it up, she said.

Do you think Eugene Sharpe’s teachings should be applied to a constitutional democracy such as the United States? He writes about how to overthrow dictatorships, not countries with lawfully elected governments.

What a question. Taylor never thought of applying Eugene Sharpe to overthrowing the United States government. Score one point for Ms. Brownley.

The 99% Occupy Movement are reading him, Taylor said. I guess they believe the United States is really a dictatorship.

Lorraine stopped texting, turned around and used her eyebrows to strike Taylor with bolts of lightning. Without raising her hand first, Lorraine said, The US is a dictatorship.

Why do you say that? Ms. Brownley asked.

Look at how the police cleared out all the Occupy camps last year. And they shot Scott Olsen in the head. The Laughing Deer police used tear gas to break up our demonstration in front of Bank of America. The 1% control everything.

Would you still speak out if you thought the KGB might take you away to be tortured and imprisoned or killed? Ms. Brownley asked her.

What’s the KGB? Lorraine replied.

Chin resting in his palm,