Let it Die
Blood for Blood, A sould for a Soul
By Glen hellman

Based on the manuscript for Let It Die, here is a revised promotional description highlighting the tragicomic tone, along with a quote from the book:

In this tragicomic thriller, the line between justice and absurdity is as thin as the patience of Greg Newsome. When a sniper attack decimates the family of mob boss Benny “The Knife” Santini, his tech-mogul son Frank trades his keyboard for a kill squad, abandoning Silicon Valley to assemble a ragtag team of mercenaries dubbed “Benny and the Jets.” Greg and his partner Izzy Rossi are forced to play babysitter to this chaotic revenge tour, racing from the manicured suburbs of D.C. to the cartel-ravaged hills of Mexico and the Iron Gates of the Danube. As they dodge bullets and bad decisions, they must keep the grieving son from turning a mission of justice into a global suicide pact.

Let It Die balances the visceral stages of grief with the dark humor of the human condition, delivering a story that is as funny as it is violent. Amidst the bloodshed, the narrative finds room for the eccentric wisdom of characters like Louie “The Bat”—who wields malapropisms as bluntly as his Louisville Slugger—and the surreal reality of a “dumpster fire on wheels.” Greg Newsome’s sixth adventure challenges readers to question the cost of vengeance and whether it’s possible to walk through hell without getting burned by the sheer absurdity of it all.

Quote from the book:

“They say revenge is a dish best served cold. Fuck that. The whole damn kitchen is an inferno, and Delgado’s the main course.”

Listen to the book here.

Prologue

Up on a hill set back from the water, the man stepped out of his $7 million mansion carrying a platter of inch-and-a-half-thick ribeye steaks, one for his wife, one for his two daughters, and one for each of his two long-term trusted employees. These men had been with him since the founding of his firm, serving as corporate guardians and family protectors. Over the years, they had become virtual family members, like uncles to his children.

It was a warm, tranquil June day with only a few wispy clouds accenting the brilliant blue sky. A gentle breeze drifted up the hill from the water. The only sounds were the low hum of pleasure boats motoring in the distance, the occasional cry of a seagull, and a Taylor Swift Spotify playlist streaming softly on the Sonance speaker system camouflaged within the well-manicured shrubs. His daughters had chosen the music, favoring modern pop over their father’s beloved Italian operas.

The built-in Lynx grill was already preheated, its stainless steel gleaming in the sunlight. The steaks hissed and sizzled as he placed them onto the grates. The aroma of grilling meat mingled with the scent of lavender, peonies, and fresh-cut grass surrounding the patio. Turning to his youngest daughter, he said, “Honey, would you grab the salad and pasta and bring them out, please?”

A large, dark-haired employee scanned the boat traffic with growing suspicion, his focus locking on a large pleasure trawler anchored about 200 yards offshore. As he raised his hand to shade his eyes for a closer look, he saw a puff of smoke. Exactly four-tenths of a second later, a bullet traveling at 2,500 feet per second pierced his right eye and imploded, leaving a sizable black crater. Brain tissue, skull fragments, and blood erupted from the back of his head. He crumpled like a marionette whose puppeteer had dropped the strings.

The man at the grill caught the movement in his peripheral vision. A second before the sound of the shot reached him, he sprang into action, dropping his tongs. “Girls, get…” The sharp crack of the first gunshot echoed across the bay, sending waterfowl into flight. “To the house!” he shouted, sprinting toward his wife and daughters to shield them. But it was too late. A second shot struck him in the chest, and he collapsed face-first onto the stone patio.

Another employee rushed from the house, racing to protect the women. Three more shots rang out in rapid succession. In moments, the mother, daughter, father, and both employees lay motionless on the ground.

Behind the safety of bulletproof glass, the youngest daughter watched in horror as the scene unfolded. The sharp crack of breaking glass pierced the air, and a spiderweb pattern spread across the window just inches from her forehead. A second later, another sniper round struck slightly to the right, creating a new web of cracks. She dropped to the floor, her screams becoming raw, animal-like sounds as she fumbled to dial 911, her hands trembling uncontrollably. She lay there in a puddle of tears, pounding the cold marble floor tiles until blood mixed with her tears.

On the trawler, the two assassins swiftly dismantled their Zastava M7 sniper rifles, packing them into their cases with the remarkable precision of master craftsmen. Meanwhile, the first mate lowered the Zodiac into the water, its outboard engine humming softly. The captain methodically poured gasoline along the deck. The liquid pooled and dripped down the steps to the lower cabin. Once all four men were aboard the Zodiac, he flicked his lighter, igniting the trawler in a fiery blaze.

Not a word was spoken. Every movement was precise, rehearsed, and executed with the precision of a finely choreographed ballet. Exactly eight minutes after the first shot rang out, the assassins sped away at 58 knots, heading toward an escape yacht waiting 10 miles to the north, ready to carry them home.