Rollback

Book 1: Rollback

by Michael C. Grumley

Genres: Conspiracy Thrillers; Military Thrillers; Political Thrillers

Synopsis

Under a light rain, Mike Mansfield stands stoically beneath a large elm tree, waiting patiently for the person he has been searching for. Burly and in his mid-fifties, Mansfield was what some might call chaotically good – a person with an unshakable sense of right and wrong, and his own unique brand of justice.

However, what Mansfield doesn't know is that after years of working in the shadows, someone has now found him. And they have been watching Mansfield for some time.

That person is David Bruni. A man with both the money and opportunity to do something truly groundbreaking with modern technology. He too has been working in secret... to build a supercomputer capable of ‘stitching' together the billions of pictures taken every day to create snapshots of the world at any given time.

The capability proves to be extraordinary, and one that has coincidentally revealed to Bruni the secret behind Mike Mansfield's enigmatic success at finding people no one else can. A well-kept secret not even Bruni would have expected.

Yet it's not until a third critical piece appears, a young INTERPOL agent named Leslie Salazar, that Bruni's true reason for creating his incredible system finally becomes clear.

For years no one had any idea what Bruni was up to... and that was exactly the way he wanted it.

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Release date: July 15, 2025

Print pages: 337

Sample

1


The rain was sporadic, light and falling again as an old Jeep Cherokee entered from the street, meandering through a small parking lot before easing to a stop with an audible squeak of the brakes. It remained still, with both headlights reflecting off the glass entrance in front of them—a small discount store situated at the south end of an isolated strip mall.
Inside the Jeep, the driver stared forward through the windshield and dots of falling raindrops before looking back to scan the surrounding lot.
The vehicle’s heater wasn’t working, leaving its interior cold enough to produce wisps from the man’s breath. “I’ll be right back.”
A woman, bundled in multiple layers, nodded from the passenger seat without comment.
The man reached for the door, glancing briefly at their seven-year-old in the rearview mirror, motionless in the back seat and wrapped snuggly in her own wool blanket.
The rain was still light, producing a trickling flow of water spewing out from the building’s downspouts that spread out into a gentle stream over the nearby asphalt.
Slamming the door behind him, the man noted a couple sitting near the window inside a donut shop next door with their hands cupped around two steaming paper cups. Farther down, a woman exited a Chinese restaurant with a white plastic bag in hand, ducking her head and trotting back toward her car.
The man continued forward past the front of the Jeep and up the curb to the double glass doors, where he pulled one open and stepped into the welcoming warmth of the dollar store’s interior.
It was a place he frequented. Small, secluded, and quiet, with staff polite enough to be helpful but not friendly enough to remember him.
There was safety in anonymity.
He unzipped his jacket and grabbed a metal shopping cart, proceeding forward down the nearest aisle, retrieving various food items as he passed.
Purposely and smoothly, he moved from shelf to shelf, rarely stopping as he plucked items, all the while glancing at the store’s overhead mirrors.

***

Outside, the raindrops slowed their sprinkling upon the Jeep’s windshield until stopping altogether, while a thin beam of sunlight managed to pierce the mass of gray clouds overhead.
The woman remained pensive in the passenger seat, quiet and idly staring at their vehicle’s reflection in the large glass doors, and behind them in the distance, a shot of California’s Sierra Nevada foothills.
Three teenage boys approached on the walkway, laughing as they strutted past her. The woman’s eyes then noticed an elderly woman ambling with the help of a cane from the opposite direction. She watched as the old lady paused briefly in front of the car to rummage through her oversized purse.
Eventually, from the passenger seat, the woman’s attention turned and she looked in her side mirror at the young girl behind her, still huddled within her blanket and staring absently outside. The woman’s eyes returned to the store, waiting, until a shadow suddenly passed over her window, and she jumped at a dark figure standing next to it.
 
2




It took just over eleven minutes to finish shopping and paying for the groceries in cash, when the man pushed the small cart back through the double doors. Once outside, he headed for the Jeep but abruptly stopped. With both hands gripping the cart handle, he peered through the windshield to find the vehicle empty.
His first reaction was panic, momentarily breathless and staring forward when he felt something press firmly into his lower back.
“Make one move, and it will be your last.”

The voice was a deep baritone. Strong. A growl that caused the man to freeze where he stood, his hands still wrapped around the cart’s steel handle as his mind worked to extricate himself.
“Do exactly as I say, or I’ll kill you where you stand.”
The man didn’t move.
“When I tell you,” said the voice, “leave the cart and calmly walk to your car. Put your right hand on the door handle and remain still. Do you understand?”
The man nodded. His eyes were now scanning frantically, fearfully, searching for signs of his wife and daughter.
“Now,” said the voice. “Move.”
He obeyed, releasing the cart and moving smoothly toward the car. The hard object remained pressed into his right kidney as he walked.
Once at the car door, he reached out with a shaking hand and grasped the handle. From the driver’s side window, he could see a reflection of the person standing behind him. Tall and broad—very broad. Mostly bald and with a hardened expression obscured by a long gray beard, the man peered at him with narrow, squinting eyes and a face like stone.
“Now, take your keys out of your pocket with your left hand.”
The man fumbled, momentarily searching before remembering where they were. Reaching across himself, he pulled the keys out and raised his hand to display them.
“Listen very carefully.” The man’s voice seemed to grow deeper. “You’re going to count to five and then open your door. Unlock the rest and then slowly slide into the driver’s seat while I climb in behind you.”
Another nod.
“Go.”
The man complied, doing as instructed until he was sitting behind the wheel. “Are my wife and daughter okay?” he asked in a trembling voice.
“Shut up and close your door.”
Again, the man did as instructed, reaching out and firmly pulling the driver’s door shut, followed in unison by the door behind him.
“Now start the car.”
After a few tries, the engine roared to life.

 
3




The drive was short, less than a mile, up an empty dirt road and beneath a sprawling patch of dense trees until they reached a grassy area, open but protected from prying eyes. Two men stood waiting in front of a tan SUV. Both were dressed in dark coats and were seemingly unaware of the renewing rain.
The man in front was instructed to kill the engine and drop the car keys onto the seat next to him, and the old Jeep came to a stop. After he set the keys down, the voice behind him told him to get out.
Without a word, the man pushed his door open and climbed out onto the wet earthen ground. He turned and watched his assailant exit behind him, noting the burly man’s elongated circle beard and wrinkles around his eyes before focusing on the gun pointed at his chest.

***

Separation was key, particularly between the two women. They needed to keep the frightened girl out of direct eyesight of her mother as the little one sat on a large log, shaking nervously beneath a giant drooping cedar tree.
The woman standing in front of her was a stranger. Older and somewhat plump, she was in her late seventies. She peered quietly down at the child through a pair of clear blue eyes and a head of short gray hair.
She edged forward and gently lowered herself onto the log beside the girl.
“Are you okay, dear?”
There was no answer.
The woman studied the child’s ashen face and then her body. Her hands. Her clothes. And finally, up to her greasy dark hair.
“You don’t need to be frightened,” she said. “You’re safe now.” Unsurprised at the continuing lack of response, the older woman reached up with a hand and pulled a strand of the girl’s hair back from her face to tuck it gently behind an ear.
“Can you tell me your name?”
The girl remained still, but after a long moment, her eyes shifted nervously toward the woman.
“It’s okay,” the woman reassured. “No one’s going to hurt you. I promise.”
There was something oddly universal about the grandmotherly look that seemed to ease the child’s defenses, whether it was the mature appearance, the gray hair, the gentle voice, or perhaps even all of it. Whatever the reason, most people, regardless of culture, seemed to relax in the presence of an older, matronly woman. It was something instinctual, something inborn, and the instincts of the young girl in front of her were no different, just slower to respond.
Her young brown eyes cautiously studied the woman, glancing from the soft pink rain jacket to her blue slacks, to her black rain boots, and finally to the woman’s aged, soft hands.
“What is your name, dear?” the woman prodded again.
After a long silence, the girl spoke. “Danica.”
“Danica, what?”
The girl’s voice trembled. “Danica Morgan.”
The older woman grinned, continuing to study her for a long moment before calmly replying. “What is your real name?”
The girl’s eyes widened, and her face grew even more nervous, immediately followed by fear that was assuaged when the woman reached out and took one of her hands.
“It’s okay,” she whispered.
Unsure, the young girl looked around until she felt the woman squeeze her hand. “You’re safe,” she repeated, “I promise.”
The older woman knew safety was everything. More than anything, the girl had to feel safe enough to overcome years of psychological conditioning. She simply would not crack without an even stronger feeling of safety.
“Look at me, dear,” the woman said, staring into the girl’s eyes. “No one is going to hurt you.” She said it again, slower to let it sink in. “No one is going to hurt you.”
They were in a short window of extreme uncertainty where the girl could easily panic and pull back, shuttering and returning inward. The woman had to pull her out quickly.
“We’re here to help you, Paige,” she said softly.
The girl suddenly stiffened and pulled her hand back, but the woman didn’t let go. Instead, she maintained a grip on the delicate hand and gently tugged the girl back.
“Paige,” she repeated. “You’re safe. We’re here to help you.”

 
4




The girl was panicking. Her eyes were wide and fearful, and her hand twisted inside the woman’s as she tried to free herself.
The window was closing.
With her left hand hidden from sight, the older woman pushed a small key fob button and held it down, sending a signal. Another person quickly stepped out from the corner of the nearby store—or rather, was pushed out.
Another woman, this one in her late thirties, with brown eyes and dark hair cascading over the shoulders of her light jacket.
The girl didn’t see her at first, still struggling with the old woman. But when she did, she stopped—completely, as if frozen, staring at the younger woman and searching first with her eyes and then her memories.
And then it came. A gasp, followed by an avalanche of emotion as the girl stared at a face she’d not seen in years—the crying face of her real mother.

 
5




It took Mike Mansfield fifteen minutes to walk back to the store from the clearing, feeling the rain continue to intensify upon his bald head while more peppered his face and long beard.
When he returned to the small shopping center, he spotted the girl and her mother in the distance, both embracing beneath a large tree. His Chevy truck was parked in the lot with the passenger door open and an older man standing next to it.
As he approached, he noted the woman sitting in his passenger seat. It was the wife of the man Mansfield had just taken to the clearing and dropped off, the same woman who’d been waiting outside the thrift store in the couple’s Jeep.
The man next to the truck was in his seventies and approached Mansfield, meeting him before he reached the truck. He was older but rugged, with short white hair and a neatly trimmed matching mustache, with a gait that was strong and fluid.
“What do we have?” asked Mansfield.
The white-haired man turned and shook his head at the cowed woman. “She’s a mess,” he said. “Just as brainwashed as the girl. Says she has family in Arnold, but I’m not sure she’d go.”
“What a surprise.” Mansfield frowned under his beard before continuing toward the truck. He studied the woman inside as he approached, sitting silent and despondent.
Sensing his presence, she peered up at Mansfield. “Where’s my husband?”
“If I were you, I’d worry more about yourself.”
The woman’s eyes appeared glazed, gazing out at him as if not hearing a word he said.
“Is he all right?” she pressed.
Mansfield’s baritone voice was direct and brusque. “Your husband isn’t coming back.”

***

Charlie Hurd was the older man’s name. He, along with Mansfield, now had his back to the truck while observing the scene at the foot of the cedar tree. The girl and her real mother were still locked in one another’s arms, kneeling upon the wet ground and weeping loud enough for both men to hear from a distance.
The older woman who had spoken to the girl remained next to them, standing over the two but no longer looking at them. Instead, she was staring over the open ground and parking lot at the two men—more specifically, Mansfield. No, she wasn’t looking—she was leering.
“She still doesn’t approve,” commented Hurd.
Mansfield shrugged. “I don’t care.”