Note: I wrote Saturn in Retrograde in 2004, based loosely on the Columbine High School massacre. At the time, school shootings and mass-casualty shooting events were rare. Sixteen years on, they have become all too common. I feel the novel is somewhat prophetic in thatregard. At any rate, it's a real thrill-ride for the reader, the story of a young man and his hostages to fortune on one fast, sexy and ultimately tragic night of violence and bloodshed.

Note: the following post is taken from the novel Saturn in Retrograde, which I wrote in 2004. It is part 1, chapter 1.

Note: I wrote Saturn in Retrograde in 2004, in one white-hot week of insoiration. Back then, the subject of violence and mass-casualty shooting incidents was very rare. Over a decade later, it is, alas, all-too-common. This novel was based on a school shooting tragedy of the period. It has become, in our era, I feel a novel that was strangely prophetic. But, you'll have to decided. I plan on posting the various chapters seperately.

Eight months, one week, four days, three hours, fifty-four minutes, and twenty-four seconds. That is how long it has been since the last job. Eight wonderful, peaceful months. Each day just as calm and quit as the last. My daily routine was simply really. 4:30 am, wake up. Run five miles, come back to the apartment, have breakfast. At 7 am go for a shower, arrive at the local coffee shop at 9 am. Enjoy two cups of coffee, read local Paper. At 12 noon, order lunch, the local favorite of grilled ham and cheese with buttered bread, and a third cup of coffee, eat. Take a nice stroll through the local running trails. At one point in time the hidden bodies would bother me, but they only calm my nerves now as I walk. And be back at the at the apartment by 3 pm. Prepared dinner, simple meat and veggie side dish. Clean all dishes. Clean the whole apartment from top to bottom. Take a shower and be in bed by 8 pm. Nothing every change. That is until today, upon getting home, a figure covered from head to toe in black tactical gear is waiting. I take a second to scan the area, as I grab the nearby vase and smash it into the intruder’s head. They draw a knife; I grab their wrist and use my elbow to snap their arm. Using my free hand, I catch the knife. Using all my strength I shove it into the left side of the attacker’s head. the Lifeless body now hits the floor. Opening my coat closet I pull out my silenced cult 45 and check the rest of the apartment. As I clear it the landline rings. Upon picking it up and placing it up to my ear, the snappy voice on the other end stated one thing, “we need you again, Silverstone.” And the line goes dead. I sigh heavily and set to work, five minutes later I head out. As I make my way north two blocks, an explosion can be heard. I turn back to glance and see the apartment complex has caught fire, I grin and head forward to the next job.

An undistinguishable chatter filled the room. Someone was speaking on the Secret Service’s earpiece and he listened intently while touching his right ear. Then, he looked at both women and they gave him their undivided attention.

Cars zipped by endlessly as he observed the movement of Agents that were assigned to secure the perimeter around the Parliament. Richard stared at the front doors as they swung open. He raised the silenced barrel of the rifle from the windowsill and aimed the crosshairs on the person exiting the building. He used the thumb of his right hand to press a button on his watch to start the chronometer. Then he hit it again to pause the time as soon as the person disappeared behind a tree.

London was awakening to a damp and gloomy day. The air coming in the room was so heavy with humidity that it became difficult to breathe. It was under such conditions that Richard Maxwell walked to the corner of the vacant room and looked out the window. The city was covered with a mist that caused the street to look eerie.

1

There has always been in Paris (but, alas, found equally everywhere in the world), a class of men whose only job is to live at the expense of others; these bold schemers have many adept maneuvers; there is nothing they do not invent, nothing their minds cannot conceive to bring, either, as they say, "by hook or by crook," or by one means or another, their victim into their cursed nets. While the main bulk of this army works in Paris, their detachments flutter by like birds into the suburbs, scattered in the rural areas, where they travel mainly by cheap public transport; this sad fact firmly established, let us now focus our attention on a nieve young woman, whom it will soon pain us to relate the story of how she was taken in such bold circumstances.

prologue

God will punish the wicked, reads the big cardboard sign on our, no, on my wall. It's still hard to think of anything as mine: for so long they have been mine and his, ours. I'll get used to it, even Sarah says that, but nowadays I don't believe it anymore. It's been two years, and he's still here. He'll be here forever. I take a sip from the mug. The coffee is cold; like his limbs when I touched him for the last time. Shit, I whisper to myself, it's been two fucking years, get over it. But the truth is that I can't get over it, I'm in it. The coffee spills all over the counter, and the cheap porcelain mug cracks at the bottom. Shit.

The city’s tall buildings engulfed the skyline as I drive, an honour which didn’t feel like much of one in these trying times. London had fallen, at least as an economic power and the pound would get you half of your journey as the price of a ticket on the underground had risen. The blotches of colour that the sun brought at night were the only comfort and similarity that rose from the churn of the now quiet city.