In an era of formulaic crime thrillers, “Let it Die” opens with a scene that grabs you by the throat and doesn’t let go. A perfect summer day shattered by precision violence – Taylor Swift playing while assassins take aim. The contrast is devastating.
This debut novel masterfully blends genres:
- Modern tech wealth meets old-school organized crime
- Family drama intersects with professional violence
- Corporate intrigue wrapped in mob vengeance
The first chapter showcases the author’s technical precision – noting bullet velocities and escape speeds – while maintaining emotional impact. A father’s last act is to protect his family. A daughter watches her world explode through bulletproof glass.
What follows is a story about:
- Greg Newsome, tech CEO turned reluctant mob advisor
- A son’s transformation from Silicon Valley success to potential crime boss
- The cost of violence on those left behind
- The thin line between legitimate business and organized crime
Perfect for fans of:
- Michael Connelly’s procedural precision
- Mario Puzo’s family dynamics
- Tom Clancy’s technical detail
- Dennis Lehane’s moral complexity
“Let it Die” delivers a fresh take on the crime genre, where encrypted messages replace coded conversations and drone surveillance meets old-school muscle. Don’t miss this explosive new entrant in the Greg Newsome series.. Here’s a sneak preview.
Let it Die – Prologue
Up on a hill, set back from the water, the man stepped out of the $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 trusted employees. These men had been with him since the founding of his firm, serving as both corporate guardians and family protectors. Over the years, they had become 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 and peonies 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 large 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. Suddenly, 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 hysterical as she fumbled to dial 911, her hands trembling uncontrollably.
On the trawler, the two assassins swiftly dismantled their Zastava M7 sniper rifles, packing them into their cases with the cool 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 pooling and dipping 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 like 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.
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