Read the first chapter (below)
SUPREME JUSTICE
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Book #3 in The Body Man Series - An International Selling Series of Thrillers
____________________________________________ When a landmark case with global implications reaches a divided court, everything hinges on the vote of one Supreme Court Associate Justice. The court prides itself on being impartial, but can one member be swayed to abandon their principles in order to ensure the safety of one they hold most dear? Merci de Atta, the female assassin from The Body Man and Breach Of Trust, accepts a new contract that leads to more complications than she expects. However, even though she kills for a living, Merci has one rule she never bends or breaks, regardless of the price a client will pay. Actions have consequences, and sometimes those consequences destroy the lives of unintended recipients. Meanwhile, Nick Jordan, the current Body Man, finds a chilling list of names when he eliminates the last elements of a global crime syndicate, The Sanctum. Nick must discover why those on the list are targets and how decades of compartmentalized knowledge can lead to the takedown of a global superpower. Nick and Merci come from very different worlds, but they are suddenly forced to coexist and work together to save not merely one person, but an entire way of life. (Release Date July 15, 2025) |
Chapter 1
The Grove Park Inn
Asheville, North Carolina
Merci de Atta’s legs compressed the torso of the overweight man and squeezed with the ferocity of a serpent as it crushed the life from a helpless prey.
The man gasped for breath, but his vain attempt to inhale life-giving oxygen only resulted in more intense pain as Merci exuded compounding pressure on his chest. Careful not to break any ribs or leave visible signs of a struggle, she positioned her body in such a way as to deliver maximum stress with minimum effort.
The sicko wedged between her thighs liked it rough. Merci intended to deliver on what he paid for, even if it didn’t result in the happy ending he expected.
Lying in the center of the bed, the man’s sole focus became a struggle to breathe. With her thighs like a vice around the side of his chest, her knees pinned his arms into the mattress. The move immobilized his arms. He struggled for sixty seconds and tried to throw her from atop, using his bent legs and waist as leverage.
But to no avail.
Years of poor diet and a lack of motivation to exercise caught up to him as his mid-section girth prevented his thrusts from effectively dislodging the petite woman, less than half his weight.
Merci weighed one hundred and twenty-five pounds, but what she lacked in body mass she made up for in lean muscle, agility, and innate skill. Her toned body was sculpted over years of focused work and dedication to her craft. She used her figure as a weapon, both the physical strength it exuded and the shapely features which enticed weak-minded men to fall into her traps.
Her skill set allowed her to administer death wherever and whenever necessary.
For the right price.
The man’s eyes scanned the hotel room. The cherry-colored bedside nightstand and brass lamp caught his eye as he entered a death spiral. Although life slowly left his body, his gaze stopped at Merci’s glossy black bra. Her pert, overflowing breasts, in a two-size-too-small bra, momentarily distracted his fight-or-flight struggle for life.
She used the weakness of the opposite sex to her advantage countless times. In fact, she counted on it to not only extinguish life, but to save hers.
Merci noticed him focusing on her breasts. She smiled, then gave him a not-so-subtle wink. She leaned close to his ear. “Men are weak,” she said in a sultry tone.
The man gasped a large gulp of stale hotel room air, exhaling with a strained voice as he uttered “Omaha,” just loud enough to be heard over the sound of the room's air conditioning.
He had spoken their pre-arranged safe word.
Merci’s face contorted to a frown. “You know you’re not Peyton Manning, right?” Seconds later, she climbed off his chest.
The man nodded, grabbed at his sternum once she got off, and the pressure abated. “That … was ... intense.” He spoke between gasps of precious air. “I thought … you … were actually … gonna suffocate me.” The words cut in and out between jagged breaths.
Merci smiled as she slid off the bed. “You’re so funny, and you got off easy that time. The fun stuff hasn’t even started, big guy.”
He coughed up a bit of phlegm. “I ... I can’t wait.” A devious grin spread across his red hued face.
“Want a drink?” Merci asked as she walked toward the bar in the corner of the room.
“Of course.” He nodded and wiped the perspiration from his forehead.
Merci smiled warmly. “Pick your poison.”
He let out an elongated breath. “I’m a Jack man.”
Before she got behind the mahogany bar, Merci turned to see him staring at her pert ass, covered in black laced panties. “One Doctor Jack to cure your ills on the way, Mr. Omaha.”
“Pour one for yourself, darlin’,” he replied in an out-of-breath tone.
“Don’t mind if I do.”
The man adjusted the oversized pillows and straightened the down comforter on the bed as he re-positioned where he lay.
Merci used the brief interlude to remove two shot glasses from under the bar, carefully pouring a small vial of clear liquid she hid in the back corner of the shelf into the man’s glass before she filled the rest with Jack Daniels.
She carried both shot glasses back to the bed, his in her left hand. Before she reached the side of the bed, she tossed down the amber liquid in her right hand in one quick motion, licked her lips, then tucked the other shot glass between her voluptuous breasts. It proved to be a tight fit in the way-too-small bra.
Merci climbed up and slowly maneuvered across the bed. She was careful not to spill a drop of the liquid as her body glided over the bedspread like a viper. She climbed atop him and slowly rubbed her body on his.
“Bottoms up.”
He sat up and buried his face between her breasts.
She leaned over and allowed him to shoot down every drop within the glass. The man fell back onto a fluffy pillow. A contented look spread over his face as his eyes slowly closed, and he almost appeared to drift off to sleep.
Merci counted to ten using the old one Mississippi, two Mississippi methodology before she climbed off him.
He lay there motionless for several seconds before his eyes popped open. A look of terror replaced the contented expression as his body convulsed. The tremors started slowly, like the motion of a mixer on the lowest setting. Within seconds, the jerking movements became intense as his body flailed about all over the bed.
As quickly as it started, he went still, and his eyes rolled back in his head.
Merci waited two more minutes and watched his chest intently. She then checked his pulse.
Nothing.
She dressed, put the same black cocktail dress on that she had slipped off thirty minutes earlier, and then donned surgical gloves. It took her twenty minutes to wipe the room down and erase any DNA she may have left in the room or on his body.
Before leaving, she removed the hair samples and fingerprints from her handbag and staged the scene as instructed by her employer.
The vial of clear liquid contained a chemical that triggered a massive heart attack. Within hours, the manufactured chemical would leave little trace, but what remained would display the same compound as cocaine. Most coroners would take the toxicology report, see the clear signs of the heart attack, along with the traces of illicit cocaine, and not dig any deeper. Considering the overweight man’s health and the activity he was involved in at the time of his death, it would be an open-and-shut autopsy.
As she opened the hotel room door, she looked back at the lifeless body with a piercing, deriding glance. Men like him disgusted her, and even the scalding hot shower she would soon take would not eradicate his body oils or the smell of his skin fast enough.
Another mark etched into the hardened wall of an already tattered soul. However, she agreed to do a job and did it better than virtually anyone who walked the planet.
###
Merci climbed into the car beside her boyfriend and handler, Marcus Rollings.
“Well, hello, honey. How was your day?” Marcus said sarcastically as he reached over and patted her toned thigh.
Merci rolled her eyes and pushed his hand off her. “Dude, not in the mood. I need a hot shower. I can still feel him on me.”
“You know you just killed the husband of a Supreme Court justice, right?”
She shrugged but didn’t reply.
“How did it feel?” Marcus asked.
With a deep sigh, Merci pursed her lips. “About like the rest of them. He got what he deserved. There’s one less asshole out there who will cheat on his wife with hookers.”
“Sounds like a win-win,” Marcus said with a toothy grin.
“Just get me to the hotel so I can cleanse his smell from my body.”
###
The blond-haired man sat in the driver’s seat of the metallic gray sedan, his back stiff, and nerves frayed. He watched as the woman with raven colored hair in the black cocktail dress left the Grove Park Inn via the side exit. The grand stone façade and deep red colored roof of the structure reflected the nearly full moon from above. The woman walked with a confident stride and gave no hint that she had just committed a murder.
He tracked her movements as she continued past the parking lot and crossed over to a side street. When she was out of sight, he started the car and moved forward, careful not to give away the tail.
Sure to stay a safe distance back, he observed the woman climb into the passenger seat of a white Aston Martin V8 Vantage three blocks from the hotel. Once she climbed inside, the car sped away.
The man reached into the center console, picked up his cell phone, and placed a call.
“Yes?” the voice asked after the second ring.
“She left the Grove Park Inn,” the blond-haired man said.
“It’s done?” the voice asked.
“Presumably. She left alone.”
“Let me know when the staff finds the body. You might want to prod them along so we don’t have to wait till morning.”
“She’s with Marcus in his Aston Martin. What do you want me to do?”
“Tail them,” the voice stated.
“I’m on it.”
“Just make sure you don’t lose her. We’ve got too much on the line.”
He audibly sighed. “I might be young, but this isn’t my first rodeo.”
“Good. Be smart. Make sure it isn’t your last. Did you put the tracker on his car yet?”
“No, not yet. Marcus stayed in the vehicle while Merci was in the hotel.”
“Just get it done tonight.”
The line disconnected, and the blond-haired man watched as the Aston Martin’s taillights faded into the darkness of Innsbrook Road.
He carefully followed far behind Marcus and Merci as they navigated the streets of Asheville, headed towards Interstate 40.
The Grove Park Inn
Asheville, North Carolina
Merci de Atta’s legs compressed the torso of the overweight man and squeezed with the ferocity of a serpent as it crushed the life from a helpless prey.
The man gasped for breath, but his vain attempt to inhale life-giving oxygen only resulted in more intense pain as Merci exuded compounding pressure on his chest. Careful not to break any ribs or leave visible signs of a struggle, she positioned her body in such a way as to deliver maximum stress with minimum effort.
The sicko wedged between her thighs liked it rough. Merci intended to deliver on what he paid for, even if it didn’t result in the happy ending he expected.
Lying in the center of the bed, the man’s sole focus became a struggle to breathe. With her thighs like a vice around the side of his chest, her knees pinned his arms into the mattress. The move immobilized his arms. He struggled for sixty seconds and tried to throw her from atop, using his bent legs and waist as leverage.
But to no avail.
Years of poor diet and a lack of motivation to exercise caught up to him as his mid-section girth prevented his thrusts from effectively dislodging the petite woman, less than half his weight.
Merci weighed one hundred and twenty-five pounds, but what she lacked in body mass she made up for in lean muscle, agility, and innate skill. Her toned body was sculpted over years of focused work and dedication to her craft. She used her figure as a weapon, both the physical strength it exuded and the shapely features which enticed weak-minded men to fall into her traps.
Her skill set allowed her to administer death wherever and whenever necessary.
For the right price.
The man’s eyes scanned the hotel room. The cherry-colored bedside nightstand and brass lamp caught his eye as he entered a death spiral. Although life slowly left his body, his gaze stopped at Merci’s glossy black bra. Her pert, overflowing breasts, in a two-size-too-small bra, momentarily distracted his fight-or-flight struggle for life.
She used the weakness of the opposite sex to her advantage countless times. In fact, she counted on it to not only extinguish life, but to save hers.
Merci noticed him focusing on her breasts. She smiled, then gave him a not-so-subtle wink. She leaned close to his ear. “Men are weak,” she said in a sultry tone.
The man gasped a large gulp of stale hotel room air, exhaling with a strained voice as he uttered “Omaha,” just loud enough to be heard over the sound of the room's air conditioning.
He had spoken their pre-arranged safe word.
Merci’s face contorted to a frown. “You know you’re not Peyton Manning, right?” Seconds later, she climbed off his chest.
The man nodded, grabbed at his sternum once she got off, and the pressure abated. “That … was ... intense.” He spoke between gasps of precious air. “I thought … you … were actually … gonna suffocate me.” The words cut in and out between jagged breaths.
Merci smiled as she slid off the bed. “You’re so funny, and you got off easy that time. The fun stuff hasn’t even started, big guy.”
He coughed up a bit of phlegm. “I ... I can’t wait.” A devious grin spread across his red hued face.
“Want a drink?” Merci asked as she walked toward the bar in the corner of the room.
“Of course.” He nodded and wiped the perspiration from his forehead.
Merci smiled warmly. “Pick your poison.”
He let out an elongated breath. “I’m a Jack man.”
Before she got behind the mahogany bar, Merci turned to see him staring at her pert ass, covered in black laced panties. “One Doctor Jack to cure your ills on the way, Mr. Omaha.”
“Pour one for yourself, darlin’,” he replied in an out-of-breath tone.
“Don’t mind if I do.”
The man adjusted the oversized pillows and straightened the down comforter on the bed as he re-positioned where he lay.
Merci used the brief interlude to remove two shot glasses from under the bar, carefully pouring a small vial of clear liquid she hid in the back corner of the shelf into the man’s glass before she filled the rest with Jack Daniels.
She carried both shot glasses back to the bed, his in her left hand. Before she reached the side of the bed, she tossed down the amber liquid in her right hand in one quick motion, licked her lips, then tucked the other shot glass between her voluptuous breasts. It proved to be a tight fit in the way-too-small bra.
Merci climbed up and slowly maneuvered across the bed. She was careful not to spill a drop of the liquid as her body glided over the bedspread like a viper. She climbed atop him and slowly rubbed her body on his.
“Bottoms up.”
He sat up and buried his face between her breasts.
She leaned over and allowed him to shoot down every drop within the glass. The man fell back onto a fluffy pillow. A contented look spread over his face as his eyes slowly closed, and he almost appeared to drift off to sleep.
Merci counted to ten using the old one Mississippi, two Mississippi methodology before she climbed off him.
He lay there motionless for several seconds before his eyes popped open. A look of terror replaced the contented expression as his body convulsed. The tremors started slowly, like the motion of a mixer on the lowest setting. Within seconds, the jerking movements became intense as his body flailed about all over the bed.
As quickly as it started, he went still, and his eyes rolled back in his head.
Merci waited two more minutes and watched his chest intently. She then checked his pulse.
Nothing.
She dressed, put the same black cocktail dress on that she had slipped off thirty minutes earlier, and then donned surgical gloves. It took her twenty minutes to wipe the room down and erase any DNA she may have left in the room or on his body.
Before leaving, she removed the hair samples and fingerprints from her handbag and staged the scene as instructed by her employer.
The vial of clear liquid contained a chemical that triggered a massive heart attack. Within hours, the manufactured chemical would leave little trace, but what remained would display the same compound as cocaine. Most coroners would take the toxicology report, see the clear signs of the heart attack, along with the traces of illicit cocaine, and not dig any deeper. Considering the overweight man’s health and the activity he was involved in at the time of his death, it would be an open-and-shut autopsy.
As she opened the hotel room door, she looked back at the lifeless body with a piercing, deriding glance. Men like him disgusted her, and even the scalding hot shower she would soon take would not eradicate his body oils or the smell of his skin fast enough.
Another mark etched into the hardened wall of an already tattered soul. However, she agreed to do a job and did it better than virtually anyone who walked the planet.
###
Merci climbed into the car beside her boyfriend and handler, Marcus Rollings.
“Well, hello, honey. How was your day?” Marcus said sarcastically as he reached over and patted her toned thigh.
Merci rolled her eyes and pushed his hand off her. “Dude, not in the mood. I need a hot shower. I can still feel him on me.”
“You know you just killed the husband of a Supreme Court justice, right?”
She shrugged but didn’t reply.
“How did it feel?” Marcus asked.
With a deep sigh, Merci pursed her lips. “About like the rest of them. He got what he deserved. There’s one less asshole out there who will cheat on his wife with hookers.”
“Sounds like a win-win,” Marcus said with a toothy grin.
“Just get me to the hotel so I can cleanse his smell from my body.”
###
The blond-haired man sat in the driver’s seat of the metallic gray sedan, his back stiff, and nerves frayed. He watched as the woman with raven colored hair in the black cocktail dress left the Grove Park Inn via the side exit. The grand stone façade and deep red colored roof of the structure reflected the nearly full moon from above. The woman walked with a confident stride and gave no hint that she had just committed a murder.
He tracked her movements as she continued past the parking lot and crossed over to a side street. When she was out of sight, he started the car and moved forward, careful not to give away the tail.
Sure to stay a safe distance back, he observed the woman climb into the passenger seat of a white Aston Martin V8 Vantage three blocks from the hotel. Once she climbed inside, the car sped away.
The man reached into the center console, picked up his cell phone, and placed a call.
“Yes?” the voice asked after the second ring.
“She left the Grove Park Inn,” the blond-haired man said.
“It’s done?” the voice asked.
“Presumably. She left alone.”
“Let me know when the staff finds the body. You might want to prod them along so we don’t have to wait till morning.”
“She’s with Marcus in his Aston Martin. What do you want me to do?”
“Tail them,” the voice stated.
“I’m on it.”
“Just make sure you don’t lose her. We’ve got too much on the line.”
He audibly sighed. “I might be young, but this isn’t my first rodeo.”
“Good. Be smart. Make sure it isn’t your last. Did you put the tracker on his car yet?”
“No, not yet. Marcus stayed in the vehicle while Merci was in the hotel.”
“Just get it done tonight.”
The line disconnected, and the blond-haired man watched as the Aston Martin’s taillights faded into the darkness of Innsbrook Road.
He carefully followed far behind Marcus and Merci as they navigated the streets of Asheville, headed towards Interstate 40.