Vanderwood Mystic Messenger Novels & Stories

It’s not like they ate pastrami in Port-Au-Prince. We ate, we drank, and we passed back and forth sections of the Sunday Miami Herald someone had left on the next table. While we waited for our hundred-year-old waiter to prepare our check, I pulled my iPhone out and checked my e-mail. “Ooh, message from Vlad. At last. Where the hell has he been?” The message, when I pulled it up, was less than informative. Difficult situation. Must put launch plans on hold. “That’s all?” Jean-Jacques asked, after I read it to him.