The Human Bullet. Joaquin De Torres
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on February 25th, 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 didn’t mind losing to each other.
At this level, the money and endorsements were enough. They no longer raced for the prizes but for the intrinsic and unattainable motive of moving towards perfection. They had stood on the winner’s podium more times than any of their predecessors and cared not which of them were first or second.
The camaraderie between their pit teams and media sponsors was also warm despite their competitive natures. They were better, stronger and more attentive because of these two young men, not to mention the endorsements were through the roof when they were in the same race. They promoted the circuits together, appeared in commercials together, and even promoted each other’s motorcycle brands on TV together. To say they dominated the sport would be an understatement. They not only dominated the sport, but the image of MotoGP, propelling it to the level of Formula 1 in the sense of ticket sales, merchandise sales, advertising, sponsorships, TV ratings, and fan loyalty.
“CRUSH! CRUSH! CRUSH! CRUSH! CRUSH!”
He could hear them roar! He could hear it through his helmet as he leaned into the second-to-last turn - turn 14. Jace had already completed that turn and seemed to find another gear as he flew up the straight, pulling away from him. At that moment, Cordell already knew the result.
“Congrats, Jace, this one’s yours, Brother,” he conceded silently. He then began to hear Pines’ fans roaring as well!
“JACE! JACE! JACE! JACE! JACE!” Cordell smiled and gave his bike one last explosive push to close the gap.
“FOR THE FANS!” he yelled and brought his front wheel up into the air and rode on his rear wheel for about 30