The Human Bullet. Joaquin De Torres

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      Oligarchs, corporate-owned politicians, and corrupt CEOs were by no means the only groups targeted by PIPER’S, Inc. Wall Street manipulators, governors, mayors, legislators, judges, lawyers, brutal police officers, rapists, pedophiles, radical media mouthpieces, and racist groups – all, felt the hammer of America’s new Big Brother.

      And in those five bloody years, PIPER’S, Inc. did the unthinkable – it transformed an entire nation controlled by wretched Capitalistic plutocrats, into a world-respected and economically thriving superpower.

      * * * * *

      Judge Kellen Murphy, only 52, a Baltimore 1^st District Court judge, was to benefit under these historic national revisions. He was an obvious choice for President Ericka Hedlin, who had been working with three new Progressive Supreme Court justices who replaced the previous three assassinated by PIPER’S, Inc.

      But on February 25^th, a mysterious person dressed in red, skintight clothing of strange design and material, laid his crosshairs on Murphy as he stood outside his home in Columbia, Maryland. The judge enjoyed taking a steaming cup of coffee onto his porch on Sunday mornings, lounging on his rocking chair with the Baltimore Sun in his lap, and enjoying the view of his verdant cul-de-sac, nestled in the woods just 20 miles from Baltimore.

      Standing more than 400 yards away in those same woods, the helmeted stranger squeezed his trigger, and the head of the man who fought for decades for the rights of the LGBTQ community and inner-city education, exploded like a watermelon hit by a sledgehammer.

      Kellen Murphy didn’t die because he did anything wrong or owed anybody a debt. He died because he was chosen by President Ericka Hedlin, a person the country who sent the assassin, feared and despised. They wanted to weaken her administration by taking away her best and brightest colleagues, her most loyal custodians, and those who helped shape her policy.

      Murphy was the first. And for more than a year, more of Hedlin’s cabinet choices and staff members would be hunted in a similar fashion. They never knew who this assassin was, nor imagined who he could be. Those lucky enough to catch a glimpse of him said he was dressed all in red, riding some sort of beefed-up, red hover cycle. They could never get a good look or capture it on their phone cameras for it would disappear in a blur and a roar.

      By the time he made his third killing, he already had a codename given by Hedlin’s Intel agencies who were hunting him. They called him - The Red Ghost.

      Foreword

      There is no limit to how fast a man can travel.

      If there is a speed barrier, whether it be scientific, dimensional, theoretical or mythical – Man will find a way to break through it.

      Speed has always been the greatest and most rewarding challenge to Humanity. Not height, not length, not depth, not endurance or distance – but speed! Nothing slow has ever been rewarded. But the fastest anything is always celebrated, remembered, anticipated.

      Why is this? What’s with Man’s obsession with speed? Perhaps the answer lies in the very fabric of our humanity. Maybe it’s because we all acknowledge, to our great sadness and denial, that our time on Earth is limited. It moves so fast, that there never seems to be enough of it to fulfill our goals, our needs, our fantasies, our passions.

      The end comes too quickly, sometimes abruptly; the speed of our deaths becomes horrifying in relation to how long it takes to build anything meaningful.

      Dr. John Belleci, one of the great educational minds of our time, once said: Time is a cruel master. It is a villain and a thief. . .like karma, they are both undefeated.

      But can Man use speed to his advantage against his greatest and oldest nemesis - death?

      Can a man be so fast that his life is actually extended and not curtailed? Perhaps the conquering of such a phenomenon can be the only way we shed our fear, our trepidation of death.

      In order to go on, to be immortal, I believe we as a species must increase our velocity. We must stay ahead of the river of time before it can submerge us under its current.

      Perhaps, there will be a time when it is not enough to be faster than speed. . .but to be speed itself.

      Marko Marmilic

      Founder, MIRA-CAL Technologies

      Prologue

      Sepang International Circuit

      Selangor, Malaysia

      MotoGP Superbike Grand Prix

      “CRUSH! CRUSH! CRUSH! CRUSH! CRUSH!”

      Despite the thunderous roar of his 210-horsepower machine beneath him, Chris Cordell, known by his millions of fans around the world as “Crush,” could hear the spectators chanting his name as he leaned deep into the turn.

      At least he could imagine it. It wasn’t hard. Turn after turn, straight away after straight away, the spectators – notorious for their boisterous devotion – were out in force pumping their “CRUSH!” placards in the air.

      Thousands upon thousands, wearing all forms of official and unofficial Cordell merchandise, waved their flags and pennants bearing his name, number, racing color scheme or facial likeness like military banners before a battle. Whether in Europe, South America or here deep in Asia, Crush was loved, Crush was worshipped.

      Behind his helmet’s face shield, a satisfying smile curled his lips as he overtook Steve Wilford at turn 13 to move into second place. Crush could always count on Wilford’s meticulous and textbook style of riding which experts and commentators criticized as being too conservative and non-aggressive. Nevertheless, Wilford was consistent and because of his cautious style was never involved in a wreck, skid or near miss in his career.

      Conversely, he never finished in the top two positions of any circuit race either. The rest of the superbike pack was now history. Although only some 50-75 yards behind him, they had no chance of catching him. Wilford would block them out of contention as he always did and claim third place for himself. It was clockwork.

      There was only one man left to catch. Sixty yards ahead and slicing the turns like a razor-sharp sickle on dry wheat was Jason Pines. Known as “Jace,” Pines was Crush’s nemesis on the MotoGP circuit. Both shared the fame, ranking honors and the victories throughout the last three seasons, becoming the sport’s fastest and most formidable superbike duo. They were two of the world’s most visible athletes in commercials, merchandizing and media. Handsome, young, brash, confident – they were the rock stars and red-carpet celebrities of the superbike world.

      The second-to-last straight away, Crush pressed his entire body down on his Kawasaki Ninja ZX-10 to further lessen the wind drag. The gloss black and luminescent-green paint scheme of his bike, matching helmet and suit looked like a glistening oiled python as he throttled the machine to the screams of his fans.

      “CRUSH! CRUSH! CRUSH! CRUSH! CRUSH!”

      Cordell’s sprint up the straight away moved him within 50 yards of Pines. How many races had he found himself in this position? he thought dismissively. How many times has Pines been in his very position chasing him? It satisfied him to think both he and Pines shared the highest levels of excellence, that they were close friends off the track, and that they СКАЧАТЬ