🚨 ATTENTION: 'THE CREW' ARRIVES APRIL 30TH!🚨

Hey Everyone,

I'm thrilled to announce that Book 4 of the Eddie Anken action crime thriller series, "The Crew," will be published on April 30th! The ebook will be available immediately, with the paperback and audiobook versions following within a couple of weeks.

I'm still working toward my goal of having all formats release simultaneously. Getting the paperback and audiobook ready for the same launch day as the ebook requires more precision than I can currently manage with everything on my plate. But I'm honing my release schedules and tightening my process with each book. We're getting closer!

📖 FIRST CHAPTER PREVIEW:

I've attached the opening chapter of "The Crew" to this newsletter.

It kicks off with a sharp, tightly executed heist scene that introduces the antagonist Eddie's up against this time. The action moves quick, and there's a solid hook that should pull you right in.

Fair warning though – in this story, things aren't exactly what they appear to be. Enjoy the preview. I think you'll dig where this one's headed.

THE CREW: PROLOGUE:

NEWPORT, NEW JERSEY

Billy Lamb sits in a stolen black Camaro 1SS in the parking lot of the Newport, New Jersey train station. One black-gloved hand rests on the wheel, the other rubs his goatee, waiting.

Billy wears a black leather racer jacket, black jeans, and white sneakers. His head is shaved to black stubble. His neck is long and contoured in a way that makes his head look like a snake, which might explain the large cobra done in prison tat blue ink that wraps around the left side of his neck before disappearing beneath his black tee shirt.

Billy stole the Camaro from a parking lot in Long Island, hid it in a city garage for the night, then drove it to the New Jersey station about an hour ago. Billy stole his first car when he was fifteen. He’s twenty-nine now. He’s lost count how many he’s stolen since then. He's been sitting in the stolen Camaro, counting down the minutes until the train arrives, which according to his Breitling watch, is in four minutes. He does a line of blow off the middle console.

A silver Honda Civic pulls in and parks next to Billy’s Camaro. It’s also stolen. Behind the wheel is a surly-looking man in his mid-fifties. He’s got a military-style crew cut, small beady black eyes that peer out from a steely squint. Real soldier-type. Khaki cargo pants. White tee shirt. Brown bomber jacket. Black boots. This is Curtis O’Connor

Curtis gets out of the car, walks to the back, pops the hatchback, takes out a black duffle bag, closes the hatchback, and then walks back around the car. Only instead of getting behind the wheel of the Honda, he gets into the passenger side of the Camaro.

“Subtle,” Curtis says to Billy. He means the car.

“He didn’t say ‘subtle.’ He said, ‘getaway car.’ Billy leans forward, looking past Curtis, out the window at the Honda, and says half-kidding, “What are you getting away from in that?”

Curtis says, “The Honda Civic Type R comes equipped with a 2.0-liter turbocharged four-cylinder engine. It makes 315 horsepower.” Then, turning to look at Billy, he says, “And it blends in.”

Billy rolls his eyes, then leans forward and does another line of blow. Curtis looks on disapprovingly.

Here’s the thing: No one in their right mind robs a casino.

No one.

For starters, security is too tight. Even if you manage to make it inside the cages, get the cash, or snatch the chips, assuming the dye packs and GPS trackers don’t trip you up, then you gotta make it out of the casino and escape. The odds against success are…well, let’s put it this way, you might as well place a large wager on a single number in roulette and let it ride. The chances you’ll end up rich are extremely low, but unlike with robbing a casino, you won’t end up in jail.

Or dead.

But all this changed in 2013.

That was the year New Jersey made it legal to gamble online.

For the residents of New Jersey, this meant they could place online bets directly through their phones or computers in the comfort of their own homes. Forget Atlantic City. Two hours away on the parkway, bumper to bumper the whole ride. Why do that when you can gamble at online poker while lounging in bed in your pj's? Score one for New Jersey.

But, across the Hudson River sits the Big Apple. Manhattan. New York City. If you can make it there, you can make it anywhere. But what you can’t do is gamble. In New York gambling is still illegal. So what do you do if you’re a New Yorker with a predilection for poker or blackjack or betting the Knicks will cover the spread?

Call your bookie? Schlep out to Atlantic City on the Garden State? Gridlock baby, remember? Train to the Taj? It’ll take you three hours plus. Fughettaboutit.

The answer is you hop on the PATH train—the subway--which runs from Midtown and Lower Manhattan to parts of northeastern New Jersey. One stop from Penn Station and within ten minutes you’re in Jersey which is legal gambling territory. For the price of three bucks and a quick trip under the Hudson, every cell phone is transformed into a bookie, a dealer, a slot machine, chip stack, and even a Players Rating card. All in one. Totally legit. Place your bets, ladies and gentlemen.

Ain’t state’s rights grand?

Not surprisingly, the casinos, like every other industry in the first decade of the twenty-first century, realized people were increasingly spending their time and money online. So, they developed their online websites making it easier to gamble via the internet securely, and started marketing to this new customer base. Money began to roll in.

The government, never one to let big business have all the fun, got in on the action too. The MTA—that would be the Metropolitan Transit Authority, the government agency that oversees all transportation throughout the tri-state area—saw the increased traffic on their trains and put two and two together and like the casinos, realized there was serious money to be made. Whereas for the casinos the money was in the online world of gambling websites, for the MTA the pot of gold was in the physical world, in the trains and the stations.

Partnering with the big corporate casinos, the MTA allowed for the renovation of the Newport train station, which is the third stop on the Jersey side. We’re talking Michelin-starred restaurants and cocktail lounges that double as sportsbooks. Real classy.

The MTA wired up the train cars with high-speed wifi, making it possible for players to place their bets before the train even pulls into the station. All with the same objective as any casino: keep ‘em gambling. They hired a marketing firm who for a cool million came up with the idea of rebranding the PATH train, the “BetNewJersey Line”

However, the gamblers who make this pilgrimage across the river have another name for it…“The Casino Train.”

How could New Yorkers resist?

The answer was, they couldn’t.

For the first time since people went to the Garden State for pistols at dawn duels, New Yorkers were willingly heading to New Jersey. They weren’t the only ones. Smart thieves who long ago learned that you couldn’t rob a casino started to get the idea that maybe they could rob a casino train.

This brings us back to Billy Lamb and Curtis O’Connor sitting in a stolen black Camaro 1SS. Curtis turns around and reaches into the back seat where he sets down the black duffle bag he brought with him. He places it in his lap and unzips it. He reaches inside and hands Billy what looks like a black metal square about the size of a lunchbox.

“What is this?”

Curtis points to a button on the side of the box. Billy “It’s got ambidextrous charging handles which are used to open it. Just give it a flick.”

Billy does as Curtis says and the metal black box opens and snaps into place, revealing a grip and trigger. The end that snaps into place is the sixteen-inch carbine barrel.

“That is sick,” Billy says, looking at the gun like a kid opening a present on Christmas morning.

“That is a Folding Defensive Carbine. An FDC. It’s a Swiss-made gun. It’s all polymer. Technically, still a prototype.”

“How’d you get it?”

“Trade secrets. It’s what I do.” Curtis reaches into the bag and pulls out a second version of the gun for himself. Then, he takes out four magazines, hands two to Billy, and says, “Each magazine carries fifteen rounds.”

Billy pushes the magazine into place. Click. He sights the weapon out the window.

Curtis checks his Casio G-Shock digital watch.

Three minutes to go.

* * *

“Come on, come on…” Charlie Pierce says with mounting frustration as his cell phone tries to find a signal in the subway car.

“No signal?” John Raskob asks.

“I thought they modernized these trains so we got reception down here.”

“They did.”

“Yeah, then why isn’t it working?”

Raskob shrugs. "You can't wait three minutes to get to the station?"

“The new Vegas line is coming out and I don't want to lose this trifecta. Once we're under the river I’ll lose the connection—and the line,” Charlie says.

“What are you laying?" Raskob asks.

Charlie Pierce smiles boastfully, his face marked by acne scars and the beginning of jowls. "Warriors plus the points, Knicks over the Cavs by six, and the gimme—Spurs even money against the Hornets." He has the look of someone who lost weight fast but isn't quite thin—his skin slightly loose, his face still showing the remnants of his former size.

"The Knicks," Raskob says, sucking his teeth.

Charlie glances at the man standing next to him. John Raskob stands about five-ten with wavy brown hair that is slightly receding, making his piercing gray eyes more prominent. Raskob is not what anyone would think of as conventionally handsome, but he carries himself with a confidence that borders on swagger. "What? You don't like the Knicks plus six?"

"They're chokers this season. Against the Cavs, plus the point spread…I dunno."

"Yeah, well, I do.”

Raskob shrugs—it’s your money.

At that moment the lights in the PATH subway train car go dark as the train enters the tunnel before flicking on a moment later.

Raskob surveys the packed train car—commuters with faces buried in phones. "Train's packed."

Charlie snorts. “I haven't been this many New Yorkers going to Jersey since dueling pistols at dawn." Raskob chuckles. Charlie continues, "I remember when Jersey first legalized gambling," Charlie says. "Before they redid the stations. Just forty guys huddled outside smoking in the freezing cold, placing bets online. No TVs, no sportsbook. The best cocktail was a beer at Sammy's."

"That place had good burgers."

Charlie waves dismissively. "A hole in the wall. No one wants to play poker from a vinyl booth in a greasy spoon. I'd get off the train, cross to the other platform, and place my bets—all in the ten minutes before catching the next train back. Before they classed up Newport. Now it's ritzier than Grand Central."

"Beats going all the way to Atlantic City," Raskob says.

"Bet your ass it does. I'm like any New Yorker—Jersey makes me break out in hives. But I like my action."

The train rockets out of the tunnel, the station seconds away.

"Looks like you're about to get your chance," Raskob says.

New Jersey blurs past the windows, the sun sinking below the horizon. Charlie checks his phone—still syncing. He screws up his face. "This thing takes forever," he says impatiently.

Raskob doesn't say anything. He's busy studying the other passengers, most back on their phones now that they have service. He spots at least five other gamblers in this car alone, all going through their betting rituals.

The train keeps rolling.

A minute later it pulls into Newark, passengers exchanging places, then rolls on. By then, Charlie's connected to his Taj account, placing bets.

That's when the woman starts shouting.

"Hey!"

The sound jolts Charlie. He flinches.

"You pervert! Keep your fucking hands to yourself!"

Charlie turns, no longer focused on his phone. "Are you talking to me?"

"You're the one grabbing my ass, so yeah, I'm talking to you."

"Lady, I didn't touch you. What the hell?"

"The hell you didn't."

Raskob leans in. "Miss, we were just having a conversation. I don't see how he could've touched you."

"Oh, here we go. Mansplaining sexual assault." The blonde woman—fair-skinned with round blue eyes—turns and thrusts her behind toward Charlie. "You can see his handprint on my ass, for chrissake." She glares at him with fury.

The other passengers, normally absorbed in their devices, look up, riveted by the unfolding drama. What they don't notice is the young Latina woman in the back of the car, Vita Adam, fingers flying across her laptop keyboard with the speed of a seasoned hacker—which she is.

"Someone call the cops!" the blonde shouts.

"The cops?" Charlie says. "Lady, are you nuts?" He turns to Raskob. "Are you hearing this?"

"Don't call me a loon, you pig," she fires back. "Someone call the conductor!"

Charlie backs away, shaking his head. "Lady, you're batshit crazy." To Raskob: "Buddy, you were right next to me. Did you see me touch her?"

Raskob holds up his hands, he wants no part of this. People aren't just staring now—they're glaring. Charlie laughs nervously, unsure whether to be relieved or worried when the conductor appears—a slight, middle-aged Black man with a gray mustache.

"What's the problem?" the conductor asks.

Charlie, rattled but indignant: "She accused me of groping her, which I didn't."

The conductor silences him with a raised hand and turns to the woman. "Miss, are you alright?"

The blonde looks ready to unleash a tirade, everyone bracing—but instead, she smiles. In a calm, pleasant voice: "Yes. I'm perfectly fine."

The change throws the conductor so completely that he doesn't see the Glock .45 she pulls from beneath her blazer until it's in his face. Her expression turns menacing again. "Get down on your knees, put your hands behind your back."

The conductor raises his hands, fear replacing confusion.

"Behind your back, I said."

Charlie, eyes locked on the gun, backs away—and bumps into something solid. He turns to find Raskob pointing another gun at him.

"Have a seat," Raskob says.

Watching from the back is Curtis O'Connor—though that's not the name he's using today. None of the crew pulling guns is using their real names, which is fortunate considering the scene they're causing. But that's the point: to be seen. To draw everyone's eyes away from Curtis and Vita.

A melodic ding sounds over the train's speakers, followed by an announcement of the next station. The station name scrolls on an LED display at the head of the car, followed by the time. Curtis checks his watch. Two minutes to the next station. He wonders if passengers will even get off—they're too captivated by the blonde's performance. Some male passengers are on their feet now, shouting at Charlie, who's forgotten all about his bet.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Raskob announces, "turn your attention to the doors and notice the men with guns and bombs strapped to their chests."

A frightened murmur rises among the passengers.

Raskob raises his hands. "Don't panic. We need you calm. We just need a couple minutes of your time. Do exactly as we say and you'll get out alive."

There are scattered cries from some of the passengers, though most are too afraid to make any noise.

"Pay attention," Raskob continues. The passengers quiet down. "Follow the instructions and you'll be fine. Now, everyone pull out your phones. Turn them on if they're not. Call 911. Tell the desk sergeant your name and say you're on this train heading into Newport station. Explain that there are men with guns on the train and you are being robbed."

The passengers, moving through the fog of fear slowly start doing as they're told.

Raskob continues, "Okay, is everyone ready? Take out your phones now."

The frightened passengers comply. When Raskob sees everyone has their phones out, he says, "Make the call."

Two minutes to go.

* * *

"911. What's your emergency?"

"Hi, uh, I'm a passenger on the 6:18 PATH train from New York to New Jersey, and um, yeah, we're being robbed."

"Did you say you're being robbed, sir?"

"Yeah. I did," Charlie Pierce says, more irritated than afraid.

"Can you still see the thieves?"

"Yeah, they're standing right in front of us."

"They? How many are there, sir?"

Raskob raises his gun, pointing it dead center at Charlie's face. He shakes his head slowly. Charlie sighs deeply, then says into the phone, "I can't say."

A slight pause. "Are you able to see the assailants, sir?"

"Yeah. One of them is sticking a gun in my face. So, maybe you can, you know...send the cops!" Charlie shouts the last part.

The dispatcher asks another question, but by then Raskob has snatched Charlie's phone and tossed it into the duffel bag held open by the blonde woman who had accused Charlie of groping her. Evelyn McHale moves down the aisle, collecting cell phones.

Behind her follows a nattily dressed man—Al Smith—placing black hoods over passengers' heads. Nervous whimpers and muttering rise from a few, but within a minute all twenty-odd passengers are hooded, their phones collected.

Evelyn brings the bag to Vita Adams, still seated with her high-end gaming laptop propped on her lap, its sleek casing glinting under the dim train lights. As Raskob reaches into the bag of phones to find the one he is looking for, Vita’s fingers are already flying over the keyboard.

For ten seconds, silence reigns—only the sound of the train rolling down tracks as New Jersey landscape speeds by outside.

The automated female voice breaks the quiet: "The next stop will be Newport." The announcement repeats, then clicks off.

Raskob approaches Vita as she hammers away at her laptop. He gives her a look.

She holds up a finger, hovering it in the air between them.

Raskob's jaw tenses as he stares at her, but Vita keeps her focus locked on the screen, one hand furiously working the keys.

Then, suddenly, she stops typing. Her upraised finger drops.

Raskob checks his watch. So do the other crew members onboard.

Simultaneously, in the parking lot of Newport station, Otis and Billy check their watches.

Raskob looks from Vita to one of his crew and gives a nod. Curtis reaches into his bag and pulls out a small black gas mask, putting it to his mouth. The other thieves follow suit.

One minute left.

* * *

That’s the signal.

Curtis calmly reaches into his duffel and pulls out two metal canisters. No rush, just another day on the job. He yanks the pins with a snap, and thick white smoke hisses out like a slow exhale. With a casual toss, the canisters roll to opposite ends of the car. Within seconds, the space fills with the smoke, thick as fog rolling off the Hudson.

Passengers cough, their muffled sounds coming from beneath black hoods. A few stir, but no one dares stand. Fear keeps them glued to their seats. Whimpering rises, a low, helpless chorus as they take in the smoke and hear the ominous hiss of the canisters. Confusion blooms. Panic edges in.

Raskob adds to the confusion, pulling the fire alarm. A shrill scream fills the car, lights flashing like a disco. The real panic begins. Even through their hoods, the passengers' heads swivel, desperate to see what's happening. No chance. Not through the smoke. Not with fear crawling up their throats.

The crew stays silent, executing their moves like pros. Vita slides her laptop into her bag. Raskob, Evelyn, Smith, and Curtis eject the mags from their Uzis and stow the weapons under their seats. No need for them now.

Evelyn, the blonde with ice in her veins, pulls a plastic tube from her purse, filled with something red. She steps up to Raskob and squirts the contents onto his white dress shirt. A crimson stain blossoms, the color of bad luck. A few drops into his hairline, and a thin rivulet of red trickles down his cheek. Looks like blood. Real enough to sell.

She hands the tube to Raskob, who sprays her gray blouse—shoulder, arm, just enough to suggest violence. It's showtime.

Curtis pulls out two more canisters, hands one to Smith. They nod, no words needed. Each walks to opposite ends of the car, pops the smoke, and opens the doors between cars. They fling the canisters into the adjoining passenger cars. The white smoke floods in, and so do the shouts—panicked, confused, just the way they need it.

At that moment the train, alarms blaring, white smoke pouring from three cars, rolls into the Harrison police station. As it grinds to a stop, the platform erupts. Smoke pours out as the doors slide open, like hell leaking into rush hour. The waiting commuters take one look and lose it, shouts of "Fire!" and "Smoke!" tearing through the crowd.

Pandemonium. Passengers, some still wearing hoods, bolt from the cars, white smoke chasing them onto the platform. The crowd surges, a chaotic mass of bodies and terror, smoke curling into the evening air.

Raskob, Evelyn, Vita, Smith, and Curtis move with the flow, blending into the chaos like shadows. They shout, they run, the perfect victims in a perfect storm.

Sirens wail, and cops swarm the platform, guns drawn, their radios crackling. The five thieves move among the panicked passengers, slipping past the first wave of cops with ease. Amid the screams and flashing lights, they're just more terrified faces in the crowd.

Once clear of the front line, they break off. Raskob signals with a hand—just a flick of the wrist—and the crew heads for the sports book on the station's upper floor. The entrance is just a facade. They keep moving, making for an unmarked door along the wall.

Evelyn kneels, lock pick in hand, makes quick work of the deadbolt with practiced precision. She pulls open the door revealing the server room—racks of blinking lights and cold steel. These servers house the casino's encrypted files — the ones containing the online cash accounts, millions in cold, hard currency waiting to be siphoned.

Curtis stands guard outside as Raskob, Vita, and Smith follow Evelyn in. They spread out, each knowing exactly what they're looking for. Evelyn finds the right server and locks eyes with Vita. No words, just a nod.

Vita jacks into the server with a high-speed cable, her fingers flying over the keys. Columns of code scroll across her screen, real-world dollars converting to ones and zeroes.

"How is it?" Raskob asks.

"Like we figured. High-end. They're using BitLocker to encrypt the files."

"Can you break the encryption?"

Vita cracks a smile. "Well, you didn't bring me along for my charming personality, did you?"

In his bluetooth earpiece he hears Curtis say, "Cops are searching the train. They've got the hostages. More still showing up."

He taps Vita on the shoulder. Flashes her his watch. Time.

The door to the server room suddenly squeaks. Curtis's voice hisses through the earpiece: "Someone's coming!"

The crew freezes. Through the crack in the door, they see a uniformed PATH employee—maintenance badge, tool belt, radio clipped to his belt—heading straight for them. The man's eyes are already widening at the sight of the partially open door that should be locked.

Evelyn reacts instantly. She shoves past Curtis and stumbles into the hallway, deliberately colliding with the maintenance worker. Her face transforms—eyes wide with terror, breathing ragged, the fake blood on her blouse now a crucial prop.

"Oh my God! Help me, please!" She grabs his arm, nails digging in. "On the train—men with guns—they were shooting people!" Her voice cracks perfectly, tears welling in her eyes.

The worker stares at her, then at the blood on her shirt. "Jesus, lady, are you hurt? Let me call this in—"

As he reaches for his radio and turns to look down the corridor toward the commotion, Evelyn's hand slips into her pocket. In one fluid motion, she pulls out a stun gun and presses it against his lower back. A sharp crack, a blue flash, and the man crumples to the floor.

Evelyn drags him inside the server room, closing the door behind them. The crew stares at her—Smith with raised eyebrows, Vita still typing but watching with new interest.

"Good job," Raskob says, voice low and even. Not surprised, just appreciative.

Evelyn meets his eyes for a moment, then turns to Vita. "How much longer?"

"I'm in," Vita murmurs, not breaking stride, fingers flying across the keyboard. Columns of numbers scroll across her screen. Lines of code, ones and zeroes representing real world dollars, flash on her screen. "Thirty seconds," she says.

A few more keystrokes and the scrolling numbers vanish. She turns, gives Raskob a slight nod. As her fingers close around the USB drive, she hands it to Raskob, her face neutral, but her thoughts already on what came next. He pockets the drive. Then, to the rest of the crew he says, "Let's go."

Vita unplugs, and the crew moves out. Raskob pats Curtis on the shoulder. Without a word, Curtis signals the coast is clear, and the crew steps back into the station's main concourse.

Raskob and Smith head left, Vita and Evelyn to the right, Curtis trailing a few steps behind. Anyone noticing them would not think they were together. Their faces are masks of shock and fear, blending seamlessly into the crowd of fleeing passengers trying to get safely out of the station. But inside? They're cool as ice.

The chaos is still swirling, alarms blaring, commuters rushing to get out. There are a handful of cops posted at the exits to do crowd control—Curtis slips past a pair of uniformed officers neither of whom give him a second glance. Raskob and Smith, mixing with a large group walk past another policeman focused on what's happening inside the station wishing he were where the action is, not realizing two of the thieves walked right past him, and finally Evelyn and Vita make it out the cops none the wiser.

Maintaining their distance until they reach the parking lot they rejoin one another as they meet Billy and Otis waiting in the cars. Curtis, Raskob and Vita get into the waiting Civic driven by Otis, while Evelyn gets in the Challenger with Billy.

By the time the cops clear the smoke-filled train, the crew is gone.

💵 MOVIE LIFE LESSONS FROM THE BEST BUSINESS MOVIES

Over the past two weeks, I've been sharing my Movie Life Lessons on the best business films as part of an ongoing series. You can read them here. The first post is on The Big Short and Margin Call and expecting the unexpected. (click the links to read the posts.)

The second one is on Other People’s Money and the lesson of adaptation and evolution — which seems particularly relevant as we are at the dawn of the AI age.

🤑 Meanwhile, here's my definitive Top 10 list of the greatest business movies ever made:

1. The Social Network

2. Wall Street

3. There Will Be Blood

4. The Founder

5. The Godfather

6. Margin Call

7. The Big Short

8. Enron: The Smartest Guys in the Room

9. Other People's Money

10. Glengarry Glen Ross

Which of these have you seen? Let me know your personal favorites in the comments!

🔥 ZOMBIE: YEAR ONE – NEW EPISODE TOMORROW! 🔥

Don't miss the latest installment of my weekly zombie series, "Zombie: Year 1"! A fresh episode drops tomorrow (Friday) on my YouTube channel.

📺 Watch it here:

Catch up on previous episodes if you haven't already – things are really heating up!

Until next week, stay safe and keep reading!