Die Trying (OPSIG Team Black #5)

“Our old friend, FBI profiler Karen Vail, returns in the pulse-pounding The Darkness of Evil that finds Alan Jacobson channeling his inner Thomas Harris… The Darkness of Evil [is] his biggest and most ambitious yet.” 
—Providence Journal

““Great characters, suspense, and stellar writing make The Darkness of Evil a classic in FBI crime literature.”
—Suspense Magazine

“The journey is filled with many twists and new mysteries…making for another great thriller/mystery. If you doubted evil exists on this earth, simply read The Darkness of Evil to disabuse yourself.” 
—New York Journal of Books

“Jacobson stages some mighty scenes, like a SWAT-team attack on a killer’s redoubt and a truly terrifying home invasion…A right-good thriller [with] top-level action.”
—Booklist

“Law enforcement procedures and profiling details elevate the story, as does the matching of the insightful Karen Vail against the intelligent Roscoe Lee Marcks.”
—Publisher’s Weekly

“The Darkness of Evil” is chock full of twists and turns amid dramatic and skillfully plotted scenes that draw the reader in and tug at the emotions. Despite the swift-moving plot and ratcheting tension, the novel is not without the trademark Jacobson-infused Karen Vail brand of humor…The Darkness of Evil is addictive reading, with more twists than a Chubby Checker album, by a master storyteller at the top of his game.”
—The Strand Magazine

“A powerfully intense psychological thriller with a gripping, complex plot. It is sharply written with lively dialog, well-devised characters and page-turning scenes. A myriad of twists and turns leads to a powerful—and shocking!—conclusion. I am always pleased when an author can surprise me, and Alan Jacobson did just that.”
—Fresh Fiction

“[A] beautifully layered…brisk, suspense-filled ride.”
—Resident Magazine/Books du Jour

“Alan Jacobson delivers another page turner packed with pulsating suspense. Special Agent Vail once again proves to be an intrepid and unrelenting investigator that you can’t help but route for…If you enjoy great character development and a plot that moves with jet speed, then this novel and the entire Karen Vail series is for you. Jacobson created a powerful character in Special Agent Vail, and you’ll appreciate her no nonsense, high-octane, intuitive approach to investigating violent crime. I’d recommend reading the entire series and becoming a loyal Karen Vail fan.”
—The 1811, Federal Law Enforcement Officer’s Association 

Die Trying | An OPSIG Team Black novel (#5)

Copyright (c) 2025 Alan Jacobson. All Rights Reserved.

 

 

Chapter 1

COMBAT READINESS TRAINING CENTER
GULFPORT, MISSISSIPPI

A dense fog hung low, early morning dew clinging stubbornly to the tips of the grass surrounding the training complex. Single-story mud-brown stucco buildings speckled the verdant pitch, with massive oak trees lining the periphery.

Karen Vail steadied her M4 rifle and adjusted her tactical helmet, which was hard and heavy and fitted with articulating ear flaps. Lexan goggles overlaid a compact black gas mask that contained filters which protruded from her cheeks like tumorous growths.

At least it was January. Wearing these uniforms layered with thirty pounds of equipment in Mississippi’s summer heat and humidity would truly suck.

Vail, backed by similarly outfitted OPSIG, or Operations Support Intelligence Group, operators Hector DeSantos, Troy Rodman, Zheng Wei, and a handful of trainees entered the mock building via the well-worn metal staircase.

One of only four such training centers in the country, the Combat Readiness Training Center was a facility used by tens of thousands of Air National Guard and Air Force Reserve Command personnel annually. In addition, special operations forces trained there to practice close quarters urban combat and total force, multiservice training exercises in simulated asymmetric warfare scenarios involving ground forces and combat and mobility air forces.

That’s what Vail was doing on this chilly morning.

She had been participating in quarterly drills to introduce her to the tactics she never learned as a member of the NYPD and FBI. Much as SWAT units in smaller cities employed part-time officers culled from patrol, Vail’s as-needed work for OPSIG Team Black provided the clandestine unit with unique abilities and experience that its operators did not possess.

Conversely, covert ops missions required an expanded skillset that complemented her Academy training and prepared for missions where life-and-death situations were a regular part of any day. It was an unconventional model for covert ops, but OPSIG made it work.

Ironically, she had joined the Behavioral Analysis Unit a gazillion years ago as a means of getting out of the line of fire that a field agent could face. But that was when her son, Jonathan, was young—and his father was an unreliable parent. She needed the safety and security of cases where drawing a handgun—or being the target of one—was less likely.

Jonathan was now a senior in college and Vail’s fiancé, Robby Hernandez, was as stable a parent as they came.

When pressed to admit it, her OPSIG work afforded her the opportunity to use a different part of her brain and get the adrenaline flowing. She was never bored with her criminal investigative analysis work, but there was something about having the freedom to think on the fly, to problem solve without the weight of a thousands-of-pages rule book that governed every action you took. What’s more, you got to stop extremely bad guys the world over—and save a great many lives in the process.

Hundreds? Thousands? Millions?

Depending on the mission, yes.

As Vail crept up to a door on the second floor of “apartments,” she was prepared for anything. She had been through such training before in Hogan’s Alley at the FBI Academy—so, on the surface, this drill was not foreign to her. But it increased her heart rate, dilated her pupils, and heightened her senses—a perfect exercise designed to reproduce what an operator could experience in the field.

Rodman blasted open the door and Vail led the way inside. As she started down a hallway, she saw a flash of movement to her left. She turned and came face-to-face with a large man clad in black tactical clothing, wearing a balaclava.

Ah, the close quarters in “close quarters combat.”

And, oh yeah—the combat.

He had several inches and at least seventy-five pounds on her. And the look on his face said that he intended to use every unit of measurement to his advantage as he stepped toward her.

But Vail was accustomed to men throwing their weight around.

My ex-husband learned the hard way that doesn’t work with me.

She shifted her M4 rifle and swung the barrel into the man’s face, momentarily stunning him and standing him upright.

And that left his balls exposed.

Which brought to mind the first lesson Vail had learned.

Never let a set of unprotected testicles go unkicked in hand-to-hand combat.

Vail unleashed a powerful kick with her tactical boot, dropping the guy to his knees, her Glock 19 swiftly drawn and pushed against his forehead.

“Karen,” DeSantos said in her ear over comms. “Karen, he’s down. Take a breath.”

She took that breath and straightened up, secured her pistol, and repositioned the rifle.

“Copy that.”

“You good?” DeSantos asked as Rodman pushed past Vail to tend to her “victim.”

She faced DeSantos, her breath still rapid and shallow. “I’d say that qualified as…short duration, high intensity conflict…with sudden violence at…close range. Yeah?”

“Yeah,” DeSantos said, wide-eyed and nodding animatedly. “Why don’t you take five? Get some air.”

“I’m good, Hector.”

“Take five, Karen.”

Even through the two sets of goggles between them, she saw the intensity in his gaze.

Vail turned and pushed past Zheng and another couple of geared-up operators, then ran down the metal staircase, pulling off her tight helmet as she went.

Guess I do need some air.

As she reached the bottom, she looked out at the stand of trees fifty yards away, her kinky red hair blowing in the gentle breeze. She felt DeSantos beside her.

“What?” she asked.

“Feel better?”

“A little. That air thing…that was a good idea.”

“Uh-huh.” He turned to face her.

She could not ignore her friend, so she met his gaze.

“So what was that back there? Picturing Deacon in front of you?”

Vail narrowed her eyes. “Damn. Was it that obvious?”

He shrugged. “It got a little intense, you know? This is an exercise. And you beat up that dude pretty good. Probably broke his nose. Burst a testicle. Or two.”

Vail looked back at the building. “Seriously?”

“A guy wouldn’t joke about that.”

“Well shit. I didn’t realize.” She looked back at him. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Maybe I should go apolog—”

“Let it go. For now.” He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Should I be concerned?”

Vail rubbed at her forehead with her black tactical glove. “I’m good. I’m fine. I’ve been fine. But I do think you’re right. Still.” She shook her head. “It’s been years since Deacon…”

“The trauma never really goes away. Like PTSD, it can trigger.”

Vail nodded. Like PTSD. Deacon’s abuse probably did cause PTSD. She never looked at it that way, but shame on her. She should have. “Probably hasn’t been an issue because Robby couldn’t be a better partner. I thought I put Deacon, that part of my life, behind me.”

“Hey, you’re the one who studies the mind, not me. But do we ever really leave our past in the past?”

Well, shit. Too early in the morning for something that profound.

He gave her a tap on the shoulder. “That was rhetorical, Karen. Get your head straight, get your shit together, and get that helmet back on. We’re just getting started. Southern Strike’s next. Lots more exercises planned for the weekend.”

“Awesome.” Vail took another deep breath, then seated her helmet and turned to face the building. Can’t wait.

 

Chapter 2

29th & N STREET NW
WASHINGTON, DC

Aaron Uziel lay in bed panting heavily. “What got into you?”

Dena took a deep breath. “You did. Quite deep, I might add.”

Uzi looked up at the ceiling and laughed as hard as his oxygen-starved lungs could manage. “Yes…I did.”

“I was worried Maya was going to wake up and come in.”

“I think you got past it,” Uzi said.

Dena giggled.

Uzi reached out and curled her hair around her ear as he rolled onto his right side to face her. Then—

Uzi winced. Sirens rang out. The air was dank, his throat full of bile. Police. Fire. Ambulance. His small apartment was strewn with debris.

Stout body, in silhouette. Its back to him: Gideon Aksel.

Intense fear exploded through Uzi’s torso like a jolt of electricity.

“Dena!”

He yelled his wife’s name as he staggered down the hallway, his legs heavy, as if stuck in knee-deep mud.

“Maya?”

Add it up, Uzi!

Police. Fire. Ambulance. Mossad Director General Gideon Aksel.

His brain couldn’t put it together, his vision mentally fogged.

He reached the bedroom. Darkness. In the sparse moonlight, two bodies. Dena? Maya?

Throats slashed.

Blood everywhere. In the bed, covering their faces.

“No!”

“Uzi. Uzi. Wake up!”

He sat up, arms thrashing. Yelling. Shaking.

Someone was shaking him.

“Uzi, you’re dreaming again. Listen to me.”

Eyes open. Heart bashing against his sternum.

I’m home. DC. No Dena. No Maya.

Emma, his girlfriend, stroked his cheek and brought his moist face against her breast. “Are you okay?”

He cleared his dry throat. “Yeah. I, uh, I need a moment.”

“You want me to tell Hector and Maggie we can’t make it?”

He took a deep, uneven breath, closed his eyes. “I want you to meet them. We’ll go.” He sat up and pushed off the bed. Felt a little dizzy. “Gonna take a quick shower and throw on come clothes.”

UZI USED THE FIVE MINUTES ALONE to clear his mind, flushing the nightmare from his thoughts, sending it down the drain along with the shampoo suds.

They left his townhouse five minutes late but arrived at the DeSantos’ Adams Morgan place on time.

Uzi introduced Emma to Hector and Maggie and vice versa, then handed DeSantos the bottle of Valley of the Moon cabernet sauvignon he had procured a couple of years ago.

“This is that bottle we were supposed to drink after the whole Moon thing, right?”

Uzi grinned. “It is.”

“Moon thing?” Emma asked as she helped Maggie set out the cheese plate and crackers.

“Inside joke,” DeSantos said, giving Uzi a wink. He leaned back. “You okay?”

“I’m…yeah. I’m good. Nightmare.” He sighed deeply. “They’d gone away, but I’ve had a few the past couple of months.”

DeSantos lowered his voice. “Guilt over your relationship with Emma?”

“Let’s not psychoanalyze.” Uzi waved a hand. “How was your training weekend with Karen?”

DeSantos laughed as he cut the foil seal on the wine bottle. “Well.” He snorted.

“That good, eh?”

He pulled the cork and set down the cabernet to breathe. “Started off a little rough, but we had nowhere to go but up from there.” DeSantos held up the wine. “Kind of like a rocket.”

“Ah,” Uzi said, nodding slowly. “Moon. Rocket. I see what you did there.”

“Well, I don’t see,” Emma said, coming behind them. “Want to share that inside joke?”

Uzi and DeSantos looked at each other and laughed out loud.

“Not really,” DeSantos said. “No!”

Emma was a well-proportioned brunette with a law degree from Hastings in San Francisco and a job in one of the legal departments at the Department of Defense. Five years younger than Uzi, she had been dating him for four months. Her introduction to DeSantos was long overdue.

As they ate dinner, Emma and DeSantos got along well, trading barbs about the military—a favorite topic of his given his own career as well as that of his father, a retired and highly decorated four-star general.

While Emma and DeSantos went at it, Maggie flirted with Uzi, as she often did. The DeSantos marriage was one not rooted in tradition—or exclusivity—by design. It made Uzi uncomfortable, but he had learned over the years to accept it and make sure nothing came of Maggie’s overt advances. The last thing the best friends needed was to share a woman.

Maggie invited Emma to join her in the kitchen to put the final touches on an apple crisp Maggie had baked an hour earlier. As they both cleared the dining room, DeSantos leaned in.

“I like her. Seems serious.”

Still bothered by his dream, Uzi shrugged. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Is it?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. I think.” DeSantos eyed him, clearly sensing something was up. “How do you feel about it?”

Uzi had lost Dena and Maya—his wife and daughter—thirteen years earlier in what was coldly described in the Mossad field reports as “collateral damage” related to Uzi’s prior work as a covert operative for the intelligence agency. As he later learned, there was a lot more to it. Regardless, Uzi had an extraordinarily difficult time getting past their deaths. He went through therapy, which helped, though it ended disastrously and resulted in more pain and suffering.

Uzi had been through what DeSantos once described as “the ringer,” a hackneyed expression, the origins of which involved physical torture. But Uzi’s hurt was emotional. It affected him deeply and led to many sleepless nights and stress lines carved into his face. Physical manifestations, yes, but as he reminded DeSantos, at least he was alive. A tortured soul, yes, but here he was, having made it through the seemingly unending tunnel of grief and misery and finally, finally emerging on the other side.

His wife and daughter would forever be in his memories, but his therapist, Dr. Len Rudnick, told him he had a right to be happy. It took a while for that concept to get through his dense skull, but he had come around to understanding what Rudnick meant.

After all, he had a lot of life left, and he had better start living it.

That particular morsel of wisdom had been imparted to him by another emotionally tortured mind-bending student of the human psyche, FBI behavioral analyst Karen Vail.

“Yo,” DeSantos said, “Alpha Male One to Alpha Male Two. How do you feel about that?”

“Huh?” Uzi looked up and realized he had been lost in thought. “I, uh, I’m good. Yeah, I’m finally good with it.”

DeSantos studied his face a moment, his mouth contorting, his eyes squinting and traversing Uzi’s. After a moment, he nodded. “Okay then. I’m happy for you. You two look good together.”

“I know. I haven’t felt this way since, well, since Layla.”

“Now that was a disaster.”

“But before that, last time a relationship felt this right was with Dena. And that ended bad, but not because of us. We had a great marriage.”

“Whoa.” DeSantos scooted his chair back, the wood legs scraping against the polished concrete floor. “Marriage? You uttered the word marriage.”

Uzi’s face shaded red. “I did, but I didn’t mean th—”

“Freudian slip?”

“I was talking about Dena.”

DeSantos chuckled. “Giving you shit. I’m happy for you, boychick,” he said, using his usual Yiddish term of endearment for Uzi. “You deserve it. And I like Emma. A lot. But what is it with you and finding beautiful women—intellectually and physically?”

“Is there a law against that?”

“If there was, we’d ignore it!”

Uzi and DeSantos laughed and gave each other a high five.

“What trouble are you boys planning?”

The voice came from behind them. Maggie wrapped her arms around DeSantos’s neck.

“Trouble,” he said. “Yep. That’s what we do best, isn’t it?”

Maggie and Emma took their seats.

“Unfortunately,” Uzi said with a glance at DeSantos. “Yes.”

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Uzi walked into the Washington field office, took the elevator to the fourth floor, and waved to his newly promoted special agent in charge, Marshall Shepard. As he approached the cubicle of Special Agent Hoshi Ko, she handed him a manila envelope stamped top secret.

“We ready to start?” Uzi asked.

“Everyone’s here, waiting for you.”

“I’m early.”

“They’re earlier.”

“Damn overachievers,” Uzi mumbled as he walked down the hall and entered the room where the Joint Terrorism Task Force worked.

“Morning everyone,” he said, wandering into the room with his eyes on the folder he was pulling from the packet Hoshi had handed him.

A wave of applause rippled across the large, open room. Uzi lifted his gaze and jutted his chin back in surprise, then realized why they were clapping.

Uzi raised a hand and nodded. “Okay, okay.” He was sure they were mocking him. He moved to the seat at the head of the conference table and tossed the folder on the polished cherry wood surface. “I appreciate the reception, even if some of you were razzing me. But let’s get started. Full agenda.”

The Joint Terrorism Task Force, or JTTF, was a presence in all fifty-six field offices across the FBI. Situated in the heart of Washington, DC—the target of both international and domestic terrorists—this squad carried additional importance and responsibility. WFO, as the Washington field office was known, was the second-largest division in the country, behind only that of New York City.

The JTTF was composed of representatives across federal, state, and local law enforcement agencies. As suggested by the name, it focused on investigating terrorism and terrorism-related activities. It also collected and shared intelligence and responded to threats and incidents at the ring of a phone. In short, its job was to efficiently coordinate information and act to prevent attacks on US soil.

In addition to meaningful but lower-profile members like the IRS, Metro PD, Federal Air Marshals, US Park Police, Federal Protective Service, all the expected “alphabet agencies” were represented. The CIA’s seat was taken by Mahmoud el-Fahad, a rare Palestinian serving in a federal law enforcement agency. Affectionately known among his colleagues as “Mo,” he sat near the near end of the conference table, to Uzi’s right.

“Mo,” Uzi said, “You’re batting leadoff.”

“Right.” Mo tapped the laptop remote and the PowerPoint began. A photo of a partially masked man splashed across the screen. “The pandemic was a boon for bad actors around the world. They were all too compliant with masking, which made it tougher for us to track these knuckleheads. We had to rely less on facial rec and more on GPS tracking of known associates and HUMINT,” he said, referring to human intelligence. “The Agency’s using artificial intelligence to work on new facial rec algos that are more eye centric and they’re making good progress. But in the meantime, we’ve got some gaps in our knowledge base, so we’ve had to fill it in using other methods, like natural intelligence.”

“Come again?” a deputy US marshal said. “What the hell’s natural intelligence?”

“Obviously,” Uzi said, “a bad joke. Opposite of artificial intelligence. Natural intelligence.” He smirked and shook his head. “Continue, Mo.”

“Sorry. Just found out my wife’s pregnant. Practicing my dad jokes.”

A round of congrats spread across the table.

“Awesome news,” Uzi said, shaking Mo’s hand. “Not to spoil the mood, but let’s get back to the bad guys. Do we have any info worth sharing?”

“We do,” Mo said, swiping to a new slide. “Al-Sharif’s network has expanded exponentially since we handled the bombing in Algeria. The Agency now has information that strongly suggests Sharif has succeeded in setting up a few cells here in the US.”

Uzi leaned forward. “How many operatives? How many cells? Do we know where—at least the states where they’ve set up shop?”

“Unfortunately,” Fahad said, “we don’t have any of those answers. I’m waiting to hear back from a CI who’s—” His vibrating phone clattered and danced across the slickly polished tabletop. Fahad glanced at the screen as it lit up, then pressed the side button to silence the call.

“This informant is supposedly on the verge of getting the location of one of the cells. I’m not expecting an exact address, but I am hopeful that we’ll at least—” His handset buzzed again. Fahad gathered it up and checked the number. “Sorry. This could be the intel we’ve been waiting for.”

“Take it,” Uzi said. “We’ll loop back to you when you’re done.”

Fahad left the room and Uzi handed off the meeting to an agent with the Drug Enforcement Administration.

Two minutes had passed when Fahad reentered the room. But instead of returning to his seat, he leaned beside Uzi’s ear.

“We need to talk. Now.”

“Now?” Uzi glanced at the participants. “We’ve got an aggressive agenda,” he said under his breath, “and I don’t want to lose—”

“Now.” Fahad nodded. “Trust me.”

Uzi threw up his hands. “Okay.” He stole a look at his Omega Moon watch, made famous by Buzz Aldrin on Apollo 11, an unexpected personal gift he and DeSantos received from Director Knox after their recent classified lunar mission. “Let’s take our break a little early. Be back here in ten.”

Uzi rolled his chair back, unfolded his six-foot-two frame and nodded at Hoshi Ko, his right-hand JTTF agent. “Nudge me when it’s time.”

“Sure thing.”

Uzi huddled with Mo in the corner of the board room. “What’s up?”

“It’s about your wife and daughter.”

Uzi narrowed his eyes. “What are you talking about? You know what happened to—”

“That’s what makes this so difficult for me.”

Uzi shifted his weight onto his right leg. “Mo. What are you not saying?”

Fahad glanced over his shoulder, then back at Uzi. “I should not be telling you this.”

Uzi squinted. “Telling me what?”

“That call. I thought it was about Sharif, but my CI had other intel. He said he heard about an unconfirmed sighting.”

“Okay,” Uzi said, leaning toward Fahad, who was a few inches shorter. “Sighting of what? Who?”

“Dena Uziel. With a younger woman.”

Uzi stood there, unflinching, waiting for the punchline. It’d be a sick joke, but judging by Mo’s face, this was not another attempt at bad dad humor. He locked his eyes with Fahad’s.

“I trust this source. And no, I obviously haven’t verified. I thought about waiting to tell you—”

“Mo, this is bullshit. Someone is using you to get to me. To hurt me.” He cleared his throat. “My wife and daughter were murdered in a terror attack on my apartment. I saw the—the crime scene. I—” His voice caught.

“I know the case,” Fahad said. “It’s—it’s my job to be informed. Especially in matters like this.” He waited but Uzi had gone silent, lost in thought. Finally, he said, “How sure are you?”

Uzi’s gaze found Fahad’s eyes. “Huh? How sure am I about what?”

“That the people murdered were Dena and Maya.”

Uzi looked around the room. He was in a secure area, among colleagues—most of whom he had known for a reasonable amount of time. Some were friends. A lot of whom he trusted with his life. But it still did not feel right discussing this out in the open.

Uzi found Hoshi and touched her right elbow. “Something’s come up. I’ll be back soon. Resume on time. Proceed with the agenda. Brief me later on what I missed.”

“Got it.”

Uzi headed for the door and pushed through it into the corridor, Fahad by his side. They entered an empty conference room, activating the automatic lights.

Uzi squared his shoulders. “Crime scene was a mess. Windows blown out. Police. Fire. Bomb squad. Or—” He closed his eyes. “No, they came later. Mossad execs on-site. My friend was outside. I ran upstairs to the bedroom…it was dark. My wife and daughter…in bed.” He swallowed hard. “Necks slashed. Blood. A lot.”

“So there was a positive ID?”

Uzi looked at the large window and squinted, his gaze somewhere and nowhere. His mind’s eye was in his old apartment, replaying the painful visual of his wife and daughter lying there in blood-soaked bedsheets. But was it them?

“Uzi—positive ID?”

“No. I don’t know. Don’t remember. I’ve got a block.” Uzi shook his head, canted his gaze to the ceiling. “I freaked out. Ran up the stairs. Dread. Adrenaline. Anxiety. Grief? I don’t know. Hard to breathe…” He rubbed his chin with thumb and index finger. His skin was slick. “Two bodies.” He cleared his throat. “So much blood.”

Fahad placed a hand on Uzi’s back. “Sounds like you had a horrible—unthinkable—experience.” He waited a moment. Quietly: “Did you see their faces?”

Uzi pried his attention back to the present. “I—yeah, of course. No.” He rubbed his temples. “I’m not sure. I didn’t go into the room.”

“Could you swear that it was them?”

Uzi opened his mouth to answer. But nothing emerged.

“You had no reason to question that it was them,” Fahad said.

Uzi’s voice was barely above a whisper. “The power of suggestion?”

Fahad bobbed his head. “And grief, sorrow, adrenaline, disbelief. Very powerful emotions.”

Uzi sat down uneasily.

“I’m just trying to assess what we truly know versus what we think we know.”

“Gideon Aksel, he was there.”

“Mossad director general.” Fahad nodded. “Who else was there?”

Uzi’s gaze rose again to the ceiling. “My friend. Nuri Peled. Outside the building. He said he was sorry. That freaked me out.”

“Did Peled know your wife and daughter?”

Uzi nodded.

Fahad spread his arms. “Call him. Ask him if he saw their faces.”

“He’s dead.” A moment passed. “This can’t be. It can’t be. It’s been so many years. Your CI. Where—where were my wife and daughter spotted? I mean, where were they supposedly spotted?”

“All I know is he heard that there was a woman who matches your wife’s description with a younger female.”

Uzi turned to Fahad. “He can be wrong, right? He can be jerking me around. He can be—this could be a malicious rumor intended to hurt me. I’ve put so many ass wipes away, this could be revenge.”

“All possible. Which is why I wasn’t sure if I should tell you.”

“I’m glad you did.” He rose from the chair and craned his neck ceilingward. “I think.”

“I’ll treat this like any case I’ve got, see if I can gather more HUMINT.”

“Appreciate that, Mo.”

“I’m going back to the meeting. Why don’t you go home?”

“No. I’ll be right in.”

“You sure?”

“Hell no. Can’t say I’m sure of anything anymore.”

Fahad gave Uzi a pat on the right shoulder and left him alone in the room.

Uzi stood there thinking of Dena and Maya. Questions about their murders filled his thoughts, things he had accepted at the time.

He started pacing the room. He had to know if this “intel” was bullshit. Or if there was even a morsel of truth to the shocking revelation that the two most important people in his life were still alive.

Uzi stopped, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. He needed answers.

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WARNING:

IF YOU HAVE NOT READ Die Trying YET, please STOP HERE. The following questions contain SPOILERS!

Discussion Questions for Die Trying by Alan Jacobson

1. What are the main themes of Die Trying? How are they developed throughout the novel?
2. If you had received information, as Uzi did, about your wife and daughter, what would you do?
3. Should Uzi have pursued information regarding Dena and Maya’s disposition, or should he have listened to the CIA and backed off?
4. How does Alan Jacobson build suspense in the story? Which techniques are most effective?
5. What role does the setting play in the novel? How does it enhance the overall atmosphere?
6. The US has endured many challenges to its republic over the years, perhaps none as great as the Civil War. When reading Die Trying, did you get a sense of how fragile our democracy is and how it relies on checks and balances and almost a voluntary adherence to established norms? Or do you feel that no matter who sits in the Oval Office doesn’t matter in terms of the policy directions the US takes?
7. There are elements of Die Trying that hew close to real-world events, personalities, and politics. The plotline was conceived almost twenty-five years ago and follows events that occurred in Hard Target, which was released in 2012. Should a novelist avoid getting too close to real world events? What about incidentally, or even purposely, approximating real political events or figures?
8. How does Alan Jacobson use real-world events and locations to frame the narrative?
9. Did you know that the US president signs an oath that he (or she) won’t advocate the overthrow of the government? Do you think it’s acceptable for a commander in chief not to sign it, as Nunn did?
10. What did you find most frightening or unsettling about Die Trying? How did these elements contribute to your reading experience?
11. Discuss the secondary characters. How do they contribute to the protagonist’s journey and the overall plot?
12. Examine the portrayal of treason and heroism in Die Trying. How are these concepts contrasted?

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