What is the origin of THREAT NEXUS?

Well, it all started, believe it or not, in the early nineties! It wasn’t a book, but a screenplay at that. I had this high concept idea involving a basically lone hero battling against a powerful and overwhelming evil force. Now, this basic concept had its roots in the movie premises/loglines of that time: DIE HARD, PASSENGER 57, UNDER SEIGE, AIR FORCE ONE, and others of various box office successes. But the story was a little different back then. Let me just say that the ‘eyes on the prize’, aka the villain’s goals, weren’t the same as the current incarnation that is THREAT NEXUS. The name of that fantasy on the silver screen? HIGHWAY ROBBERY.

I had enough plot for two scripts! The first story was like THREAT NEXUS. As I looked over the thirty-year-old notes on HIGHWAY ROBBERY, I changed the object of affection to good old-fashioned moola with a political thriller thread amid the action. I sketched The Set-Up or The Hook, Rough Plot Points, which oscillated between a lone cop or a buddy cop scenario. I created Motivations, Goals, Conflicts, and Transformational Arcs for the Characters. I even had diagrams for the eyes on the prize. It’s neat to look back and to see what made it through and into the THREAT NEXUS novel thirty years later!

What else made it from 1992 until 2020? A villainess named Porsha Wheat who ain’t sweet. Oh, I still have the original script too transcribed with a typewriter and the old Liquid Paper sheets and White Out stains on the pages! Okay, I’m dating myself now! Do they still sell the sheets and White Out? Insert Google Search here. White Out yes, the Liquid Paper in one form or another. They shared my thirty-year journey too!

Oh, one last thing. Sometimes what goes around comes back around. Marketing for the screenplay called HIGHWAY ROBBERY didn’t go far then. But take that same dusty, dormant, early nineties manuscript and use it as an extensive outline for the THREAT NEXUS novel. Then adapt the book into the THREAT NEXUS screenplay. I’m a better writer than I was then (still learning) and talk about learning with book marketing!

If, if, if, if… I have any dealings with the power brokers on the left coast, the new name of that fantasy on the silver screen? Yeah.

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1

Interstate 75 North

Atlanta

10:45 P.M.

A clear night as the stars twinkled high above the masses. Ignored by most except those who glanced up for whatever reason, Philip Reddinger had a reason as he sat beside the driver.

The atmosphere of the Earth. Layers of gases known as air surrounded the world and held in place by the Earth’s gravity protected the planet’s inhabitants. Beyond the shape of its atmosphere lay outer space, the home of various natural celestial bodies and artificial objects.

Mysteries of the universe. The unknown. But not all outer space possessed unsolved enigmas. He didn’t serve one, but he believed that a God existed that created man with intellect, imagination and intuition. In addition, this God made man with free will, personal choices to decide his destiny with or without His divine help. Some people lived within the laws that governed societies around the globe. Others lived independently of those laws and engaged in the cycle of sowing and reaping. Forces in place in the world mete justice against those lawbreakers of sowing and reaping. But sometimes at an exorbitant cost. On tonight, from the far reaches of space, that collision was in motion. Philip Reddinger’s plans made sure of that.

Midtown Atlanta

Interstate 75 South

11:00 P.M.

The black BMW 6-series Gran Coupe motored the highway at sixty-five miles per hour. It darted amongst the drivers of every make and model of car, van, SUV, and truck.

The BMWs driver exited off I-75 South onto Howell Mill Road. He continued south on it and viewed his rearview mirror. A series of violent coughs almost jerked the car off into others before him and in the adjacent lanes headed north. With wincing and a cleared throat, he steered the Bimmer back on course again before he viewed out the rear and side view mirrors with as much stealth as possible.

He passed DeFoor and Chattahoochee Avenues along West Atlanta. The BMW zipped best it could as it passed the Atlanta City Water Works Reservoir that rested on both sides of Howell Mill Road. He studied his rearview again.

He saw them.

A pair of white nondescript vans fifty feet back held his attention. At the intersection of Howell Mill and Hemphill Avenue, the motorist cut a sharp left onto Hemphill with three unique streets paths from which to choose.

He looked at his rearview once more and darted the BMW to the far-left lane and punched the gas. With a roar, the sports performance vehicle followed a small semi-circle of a path with a dead-end street to its left. The driver dismissed that way and floored it along the same stretch of road before he cut a quick left and sailed along the curved road for another few seconds. It ended with a decision to drive left or right onto Bishop Place. He had no choice since to the left presented another dead-end road. He eased the BMW out onto Bishop to the right. Nothing behind him. Warehouses dominated the scene. In seconds, he halted again.

Which way onto 17th Street? If he drove left, he’d run into Howell Mill Road where he traveled last. No, he sped up and took the right turn onto 17th.

The driver passed a section of the Reservoir again, heading east back toward Midtown and where he wanted to finish his destination. He smiled before the uncontrolled coughs took center stage. Amidst the traffic as he passed the Northside Drive intersection, he spotted at least one of the white vans stopped at the Bishop Place/17th Street intersection. He ceased to smile at that and as the traffic lights gave him favor; he zipped around the wide circled S-shaped road southbound. A quick right onto Mecaslin Street sent the Bimmer due south for a few blocks, and in a matter of moments, it passed a news station on its right and a restaurant on its left.

He was here. But so were they, he thought. A flash of white that hadn’t belonged to a car caught his rearview. He wasn’t sure if it was a van. He turned right onto 14th in a quick and as quiet way as possible. In the mini blur, he passed up a mosque, an urgent care, a gas station, a big golf course, and then his eyes went wide.

At the 14th Street and McMillan Street crossing, he zipped in with a smooth right turn… security gate and intercom call box.

Was there over one though?

This seemed like the sole access. He coughed several more times. This time blood came from his mouth. He fell against the steering wheel horn which pierced the busy Atlanta night life for several seconds. He grabbed ahold of himself. Walkers jogged to help him, but he waved them off with a weakened smile and nod. They returned them and left him to his own devices. As his eyes watered and breathing challenged, he perused the call box numbers. After a few seconds, jackpot. Call box for apartment number 509.