No W.W.M. (Western White Males): Thrill Ride - the Magazine, #3

By M. L. Buchman, E. Chris Ambrose, L. M. Whitaker and 9 more

12 Tales not led by WWMs.

Thrillers may be the last great bastion of the Western White Male. From Doc Savage to James Bond. From Dirk Pitt to Jack Reacher.

Now is the time to venture into the rest of the world. Who rides to the rescue? Vietnamese magicians, female undercover operatives, Chinese assassins,  and women like you never imagined.

Western White Males? Who needs them!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Buchman Bookworks, Inc.
• Release date: Sep 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9781637211144

M. L. Buchman

USA Today and Amazon #1 Bestseller M. L. "Matt" Buchman has 70+ action-adventure thriller and military romance novels, 100 short stories, and lotsa audiobooks. PW says: “Tom Clancy fans open to a strong female lead will clamor for more.” Booklist declared: “3X Top 10 of the Year.” A project manager with a geophysics degree, he’s designed and built houses, flown and jumped out of planes, solo-sailed a 50’ sailboat, and bicycled solo around the world…and he quilts.

Book preview

No W. W. M. (Western White Males)

NO W. W. M. (WESTERN WHITE MALES)

Issue #3 (Fall 2023)

Thrill Ride - the Magazine

EDITED BY M. L. BUCHMAN

Buchmann Bookworks, Inc.

Contents

No W.W.M. (Western White Males)

Vanishing Act

E. Chris Ambrose

Dead People Happen

M. L. Buchman

Three Ways to Die

Rachel Amphlett

An Adventurous Nature

K.L. Abrahamson

Spooked

Diana Deverell

One More Time

Laura Ware

Hack by Hack

R.W. Wallace

Lost Cause

Blaze Ward

Run Charlie Run

January Bain

The Cost of Admission

C. A. Rowland

Panama Divide

L M Whitaker

Stark Shadows

Dixon Hill

About the Editor

Your Next Great Read

Read Even More!

No W.W.M. (Western White Males)

M. L. BUCHMAN

Thrillers (and the related military romantic suspense that I launched my career in) are rife with WWMs. For every Kay Scarpetta (Patricia Cornwell’s medical examiner), there are a hundred Dirk Pitt, Jack Ryan, Jack Reacher, and Jason Bourne characters.

According to my fan mail, I can trace much of my success in both genres to the fact that I write strong women. Not necessarily kick-ass warrior / biker-babe women, but strong. My highly successful Miranda Chase technothrillers are centered on a meek but brilliant autistic air-crash investigator for the NTSB (the real-life folks who investigate those).

So, I asked myself, what did other authors come up with when challenged to break the thriller-WWM mold.

A whole lot of fun is the answer.

Not only women warriors, like my own story, but Viet magicians, lone tourists, government agents, hackers, secret Thai assassins, and more.

One of the astonishing aspects of all of these tales was the individual bravery. Every one of these heroes and heroines stepped forward when it was the least safe choice to make. Almost all of these tales could have easily been transported into Issue #1 Honor under the heading of Personal Honor.

As you may recall from my introduction to that issue, I’ve always written women first (with I think three exceptions in over 200 titles). My romance fans tell me that I write wonderful men (finally) and that they enjoy the balance I bring to the relationship (yay). But from the writer’s chair, I’ve always written about the women—be they white, Latina, or any other heritage; be they meek, kick-ass, or anywhere in between.

I think the reason the stories in this volume felt so distinct was the old adage: To compete with a male (WWM), the woman (or other non-WWM) has to be twice as good and try twice as hard. My kid insists that this is less true in her generation than mine and I’ll take that as a huge sign of hope for the future.

But that effect is clearly evident in these tales of personal bravery and honor. And that is part of the reason I wanted to have this theme included in the first year.

I want folks, both writers and readers, to think about the wider world of thrillers. I also gave the authors a nudge to travel outside the US and did they ever. This issue will make your head spin as we wander back and forth across the globe.

I have a writing motto behind the Unexpected Characters, Riveting Adventures…& Fun! that appears on my newsletter header.

It’s simple.

To Champion the Human Spirit.

That is what drives me to write.

That is why I started this magazine.

And boy oh boy, do the stories in this issue live up to that standard for me.

The Stories

Vanishing Act launches this issue with a delightful journey beside a Viet magician performing the ultimate sleight of hand at a Kyoto birthday party.

(As before, no comments on my own work.)

Three Ways to Die may have been more like ten and could have landed in any of this year’s four issues. I loved the universality of this story’s scope, but have tucked it in here.

A true hero or heroine doesn’t necessarily have to be skilled or even particularly brave. Sometimes just finding a way to stand up when it all hits the fan can prove An Adventurous Nature.

We go undercover to Latin America to get Spooked. And perhaps to get even.

One More Time reaches deep into the emotions, one of Laura Ware’s trademarks, and unearths this tale of honor.

Since we’re in the land of hackers, it seemed only appropriate to take a look at the lighter side in Hack by Hack.

Blaze Ward returns his honorable and unlikely warrior for a third and final entry in this series as she chases a rumor of Confederate gold leading to a Lost Cause.

In Run Charlie Run, January Bain transports us from the heat of Mexico to the chill of Alaska in a tale of facing up to both your past and your future—and the price you’re willing to pay.

The Cost of Admission returns us to Southeast Asia to discover secret societies, but C. A. Rowland’s Cambodia is definitely not the Thailand we saw in K. L. Abrahamson’s An Adventurous Nature.

We return one last time to Latin America to discover what it takes to discover self, and what happens when we do, in crossing the aptly named Panama Divide.

As in the first issue, Honor, I received one story that was wholly unlike the rest, but absolutely demanded to be included. Be careful as you enter the Stark Shadows.

Vanishing Act

E. Chris Ambrose

About E. Chris Ambrose

E. Chris Ambrose writes knowledge inspired adventure fiction including the Bone Guard archaeological thrillers, and interactive superhero novel, Skystrike: Wings of Justice for Choice of Games. In the process of researching her books, Chris learned to hunt with a falcon, clear a building of possible assailants, and pull traction on a broken limb.

Chris’s frequent travels have included hiking 14,000 footers in Colorado, rappelling a waterfall in Wales, being stalked by a leopard in Nepal, and exploring Roman ruins in Germany. Who know what could happen next? Find out more at www.BoneGuardBooks.com

Why I wrote this story

At an event last year, I watched a magician’s presentation about his use of magic for social interaction. He even taught us to do a simple trick. I became intrigued by the idea of using the skills and techniques of close-up magic for other kinds of deceptions. Former Deputy Director of the CIA (also an amateur magician), John E. McLaughlin, has said that magic and espionage are kindred spirits. Researching magic has been an exciting new challenge, given that I can’t do even one kind of shuffle, much less the elaborate card play employed by the magician and the cardsharp alike. I look forward to learning more as I develop a new novel around the character you’ll meet below…

Vanishing Act

E. CHRIS AMBROSE

The well-heeled crowd in the Kyoto garden might be less complacent if Sinh Long Lai attended as a pick-pocket rather than a kidnapper, but Sinh found the latter both more lucrative and more compelling.

Millionaire and reformed bigamist Shiro Ageda had rented the entire English garden for his daughter’s birthday, the better to control every moment. Perhaps he thought the pseudo-European setting would help his foreign-born child to feel comfortable. He would shortly find out how little he truly controlled, his daughter, Kaitlyn, least of all.

Misdirection—making the audience look away from your goal. Deception—making them believe they’d seen what they hadn’t. Force—guiding them to make the choice you wanted. Control—manipulating things so you had them precisely where you wanted them, whether they were cards or people. The basic skills of magic, skills that made Sinh ideal for his other work.

The blue of the lake glinted just ahead past the trimmed hedges and rose bushes. Sinh worked his way toward the front of the gathering, gliding past women with their purses hanging open, men with wallets casually tucked into their pockets, hoping, perhaps, their tuxedo jackets would defend what they treasured, by implied status if not by concealment. The servants wore traditional kimono, their hair styled with picks and combs, their faces painted white. They moved as gracefully as Sinh himself, and none took any notice of him, his own tuxedo serving as camouflage: French cuffs with custom-made cufflinks, silver buckle on his belt, a touch of satin at the lapels, a dozen secrets even a pat down wouldn’t find.

The birthday girl’s teenage half-brother, Denki, lolled to one side with a cellphone, his own wallet half-falling from his pocket. His mother, Shiro Ageda's Japanese wife, declined to attend the birthday of this unexpected child. For years, Ageda commuted between offices in Kyoto and San Francisco, and the separate families he maintained in each. Now that a reoganization brought him to Japan permanently, he had left his American wife behind—but not the child they had together. Apparently, his Japanese wife took exception to the fact. No matter.

Shiro Ageda mobilized plenty of attendees to make the occasion. All of them ripe for harvest, if Sinh were so inclined. He no longer felt a rush from such easy marks.

Only Ageda’s two bodyguards were armed, or so they believed, their sleek pistols tucked into shoulder holsters beneath perfectly cut suitcoats. Rough and Tough, Sinh dubbed the bodyguards. Rough, with his furrowed brow and hard jaw keeping the guests in order by the power of his stare while Tough ran his hand down his coat from time to time as if to confirm his gun was still there. Nervous. A dangerous trait in a bodyguard, especially given what Sinh must do.

The pair swiveled their heads at regular intervals, looming to either side of their boss’s chair while Ageda’s own gaze remained upon the child crouched at his feet, a little girl in vivid pink, her face downcast, fingers toying with the hem of her dress. Sakura, once known as Kaitlyn, presented the image of obedience, perfectly turned out in front of her father’s guests. But Sinh, of all people, knew that presentation counted for everything, and meant nothing.

Surrounded by adults and a few other children there to help her celebrate her ninth birthday, facing a mound of birthday presents that had taken several small trucks to unload, the girl looked as if she wanted to be anywhere else. Her nanny, clad in the requisite kimono, knelt at her left side, murmuring encouragement. The woman’s eyes flashed up at Sinh’s approach, then demurely down again.

In front of the birthday girl a small clearing on the grass framed a black-draped table bearing the legend The Magic Man in Japanese, new for this party. A handcart waited beside it, taller than the table and loaded with cups, balls, rings and silken handkerchiefs. To the left stood the mound of presents. To the right, staff worked to set up tables and chairs for the next event. The so-called Magic Man would be a diversion before the banquet to come. If it ever did.

Sinh slid past the right-hand bodyguard, Tough. The bodyguard wore a large knife at his back and two extra magazines for the pistol, .22 caliber, as anticipated. Excellent. Assuming Sinh trusted his confederate to do their job. The bodyguard glanced back and down, towering over Sinh and outweighing him by half. Sinh flinched a little, wearing an awkward smile, then he dropped to sit beside the birthday girl.

She startled, tucking her hands under her arms, straight black hair swishing as she glanced at him.

What are we waiting for? Sinh asked her softly in Japanese, articulation perfect in spite of the objects concealed in his cheek in case he needed them later.

She blinked at him, her gaze flicking up, down as she took him in. With his slender build and youthful haircut, Sinh presented as a teenager himself, but presentation meant nothing. A magic show, she replied in English.

Japanese, Sakura her father prompted. Only Japanese now.

Chastened, she stumbled through the phrase again. Sinh kept his attention on her, alert, inquisitive, a little sorry he’d been the cause of the reprimand.

Ooh, he whispered in the same language. A magic show! I love magic, don’t you?

She swallowed, frowning a little; not nearly as much as her father did. Sinh met Ageda’s gaze—one of a half-dozen people who dared—and winked. The man’s frown deepened, perhaps wondering why one of his hirelings crept around among the audience.

It is polite to answer, Sakura, Ageda told her.

Sakura-once-known-as-Kaitlyn gave a shy nod, then swallowed and said, I like magic, too.

When will it start? Sinh wriggled a little in his spot, letting his jacket fall open, as if by accident, and attracting the attention of the other children in the front row.

A boy about ten leaned around to stare at him, then pointed. Hey, you have a wand!

The boy’s mother cleared her throat, and he shrank a little.

Sinh gasped as he discovered the wand protruding from an inside pocket. One of many pockets, but the only one visible to his audience.

Oh my goodness! He held his lapel away as if he were mystified and maybe a little afraid of this discovery. He drew closer to Kaitlyn. That is a wand, isn’t it? His eyes grew round, his mouth matching the shape. I think I am the magician!

As he pulled the wand from his pocket, it burst into flowers, a profusion of colorful tissue.

Laughter rippled around him, all eyes now on him. Sinh shifted his weight and rose slightly. With a flourish, he offered the bouquet to the birthday girl. For you, he said, then dropped his voice very low as he bowed to her, Kaitlyn.

Beneath the veil of her dark hair, her eyes glossed with tears and she gave a quick shake of the head. Could she accept the gift of flowers without taking the gift of her stolen name?

Keep them close, he urged gently. Look—they’re even edible!

Pressing the bouquet into her hands, he plucked a petal from one flower and popped it in his mouth, savoring the paper for a moment with a satisfied, mmmmmm, then pulled from his lips—or at least, appeared to pull—a string of silken kerchiefs longer than he was tall.

Misdirection. The crowd applauded, and Sinh coughed slightly, patting his chest. Where did those come from?

He wafted the silk in the air, forming a spiral between the girl and her father. In the space between these silken sighs, she clutched the bouquet with a gasp of her own, and saw the tiny words inscribed there just for her. Her shoulders rose, her gaze catching his, somewhere between terror and hope.

Don’t worry, yours won’t be silk when you eat it, I promise. He waved his hand over the bouquet and snapped his fingers. There. I removed the magic. Go ahead, try one. Deception.

Fingers trembling, she yanked off the petal and stuffed it into her mouth, the rice-based filament already dissolving on her damp fingertips, its message swallowed down, tasting, he hoped, sweeter than mooncakes.

Sinh popped to his feet, and bowed to the patriarch, who joined the rising mood with his own indulgent applause. The nanny’s painted face broke into a smile, then resumed its porcelain doll expression as he took his place behind the table, waving, bowing, beaming over his audience.

Thank you, thank you. Oh, sorry! Sinh cast about, found his cart, and started to pull out equipment: a stack of cups, a replacement wand, two pairs of handcuffs, a handful of red balls that immediately bounced off the table and out among the crowd. Force. Moment by moment he built the choices they would make and the moment they’d believe.

Children giggled and their parents looked to the patron for answers. How to greet this incompetent magician who spoiled anything of decorum, who was Asian, but not like them? Ageda’s expression gave nothing away. For Sinh to pull off the most important sleight of his life, he must control an audience of one.

With a cry of discovery, Sinh plucked out a deck of cards, shaking them into his hand and tossing the box behind him. He shuffled with an elaborate series of moves, overhand, underhand, a cascade of cards from one hand to the other.

What fun, drawled Denki, the teen with the phone, card tricks. We’re not all five, you know.

We’re not even all human, Sinh replied.

Some of the audience looked keen to hear more, but Denki glowered, the image of a child resenting the unwanted sister and the mandatory party, perhaps in equal measure.

Sinh cascaded the cards again, this time hinting at something else, something hiding among the numbers and faces.

Kaitlyn leaned forward, but it was the younger boy who pointed. There’s something in the cards!

My mother told me a story, Sinh began, and Kaitlyn’s brows arched up. Her father set a hand on her shoulder, squeezing a little. Presenting comfort, revealing control.

She said I am a half-blood, not all from Vietnam, but something different, something more. Again, he riffled the cards, then he tossed them upward, an execution he practiced a thousand times to perfect the arc and the way they’d fall. His hands hovered to catch them again. At the heart of what appeared to be an ordinary deck of cards, a paper dragon rippled from one hand to the other. Gasps and pointing fingers. He clasped the deck again between his hands. What was that? He looked to the birthday girl. Did you see something?

Again, the boy blurted, A dragon!

This time, his mother draped her hand at the back of his shirt, drawing him back into line. Hush. He asked Sakura, she whispered, her lowered gaze aimed toward Ageda with an edge of white.

Kaitlyn sat up straight. Her sunlit features revealed hints of her mother’s Western origins, her own half-blood status. Sinh hoped he hadn’t miscalculated, reminding Kaitlyn’s father of the woman he abandoned in San Francisco almost a year ago, the woman from whom he had stolen a child.

Show me again, please, Kaitlyn said, her Japanese as carefully executed as the magic trick.

Danger lay in repeating a trick, danger that he’d flash it and reveal a secret the audience wasn’t meant to see. For Kaitlyn, he would. To lull her father, he must. The danger only made the trick more rewarding. In one of the books Sinh devoured about his craft, magician Joshua Jay wrote that the goal of magic wasn’t to fool the audience, but to transport them, a statement never more true than today. It would be hard to transport the girl from under her father’s nose. Harder still to transport himself if he succeeded.

Watch closely! Sinh admonished, bringing his hands around before him, and once more tumbling the cards between them. The dragon flowed in blue and gold paper, complete with slender whiskers. Here in Japan, the dragon lives in water and loves it. But my dragon might be the other kind.

Sinh shuffled the deck, then parted his hands again, the cards now framing a winged lizard, tail dangling. Do you know what these dragons breathe?

Fire, mouthed the boy, and Kaitlyn said the word aloud.

Sinh snapped his hands apart as if to toss the dragon into the air. Instead, it vanished in a flash of light and a puff of smoke. Sinh sank a little downward, dropping his voice. I think that’s why I’m afraid of water. He tipped his head toward the lake behind him with a theatrical shudder, switching out the dragon deck for a fresh deck of cards while their attention was off his hands. Misdirection and control. Ageda’s brows hinted at a smile.

Ah, but my friend wanted card tricks, yes? Sinh shuffled again, this time without dragons.

A small van drove along a path to one side, enabling the crew to remove the tablecloths from the tables used earlier and swap them out for fresh ones.

Sinh walked to the front of his own table, still shuffling, then fanned out the cards face up for his heckler, displaying the array of suits all jumbled together. He flipped his hand to show the identical backs. Go ahead, pick a card.

The teenager rolled his eyes, then tapped a card near Sinh’s pinky.

Would you please take it out, Sinh encouraged, in spite of the teen’s heavy sigh. Show it to the crowd, but not to me.

The teen tugged it free, glancing at it as Sinh swirled the cards back into a stack.

He averted his gaze, holding up the fan of cards again, their faces still to the crowd. The van was almost in position, the heap of presents just beyond his table on the other side. Each piece slid into place, his grand finale gliding closer.

Done, said the teen, and Sinh held out the deck for the card to be placed on top. Sinh started to walk back toward his side of the table, backwards, performing another elaborate shuffle, ensuring the audience believed they were random as he controlled the chosen card to precisely where he wanted it—then he tripped over his cart, knocking it onto its side.

His arms pinwheeled as he worked for balance, and the cards flew up from his hand. Sinh righted himself, then thrust out his palm catching as many as he could, then sweeping up those falling on the table in front of him, with a nervous chuckle. He met the father’s eye, but this time let his gaze fall. Awkward!

Ai! How will I ever find your card now? Unless…Sinh tipped his head toward the front of the table. Are there any cards on the ground?

One card, Kaitlyn volunteered in her careful Japanese. She reached out and picked it up, then gasped and held up the card for the audience around her.

Denki’s lips pinched together, an involuntary acknowledgement, and applause scattered through the audience.

Sinh chuckled. Maybe I’m not such a great magician. The trouble is, I need the money. With a turn of his hand, the deck of cards became a wallet, conspicuously thin. Wait— He aimed a dramatic gesture. There’s another way I could use magic to make money. What do you think? Holding it open, he displayed the empty wallet to the crowd, turning to catch the eye of this woman, that child, the man in the back, then down to Kaitlyn. Will you help me?

Help me and I will help you. Be ready. Be careful. Be home soon. The words of his message on the flower petal echoed in his head, as they must for her as well. Did they now churn in her stomach, the moment she longed for and likely feared as well? Sinh found the flavor of anticipation and fear to be the most delicious.

Setting aside her bouquet, she nodded. Sinh moved in front of her, squatting down about arm’s length away. He offered the wallet for visual inspection. Do you agree my wallet is empty? At her nod, Sinh went on, I have to say the chant very carefully. I’m not very good with Japanese yet, but it will be okay. Yes?

Yes, she said, with the determination of a child hoping to please.

Sinh chanted over his wallet until the word sounded meaningless, the syllables blurring, then he snapped over the wallet. Ha! It’s heavier now.

He placed the wallet in Kaitlyn’s hand and it twitched violently.

Kaitlyn giggled.

I don’t think money is meant to move like that. I’d better look. He opened the wallet again and reached inside. Ouch! Sinh pulled out his finger, a small green crab pinched to his skin by its claw.

Shrieks and giggles erupted as he flicked the crab off of his finger to scuttle into the grass. Children pulled their feet up and adults drew back as the confused crustacean, out of its element, looked for home. Sinh lunged after the escaping crab and palmed it, appearing to pop it into his mouth and swallow, to the amazement of his audience.

What did I do wrong? Sakura, I think I need more help. He knelt again before her, the crab sinking into its own secret pocket, no doubt relieved. Sinh would be relieved, too, when he made his own getaway.

Kani, she said. That’s crab— the word in English this time. You meant okane.

Thank you, he said, bowing to her. Let’s try again. This time, I’ll chant and you snap your fingers.

People moved in their seats, trying to get a better look, or maybe preparing for whatever accident next befell the benighted