The Fund

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                      THE FUND

                            International Bestselling Novel 'The Fund", previously published under 'Vapors'. 

Reviews

“Vapors is one of those rare novels that transcends its genre. This is far more than a great thriller or a good love story.” – Nelson Demille, New York Times Bestselling author, The Charm School, and Plum Island

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A former FBI agent and SWAT team member, the author is able to combine first-hand, insider experience with a natural storytelling talent to create the thriller of the year.   By Sleuth of Baker Street, Bookstore, Canada  

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From Publishers Weekly:

Near the novel's end, the story shifts gears with unexpected plot twists and a major, clever character shift, opening up many intriguing and fresh new perspective...ending with a flourish as a stylized, turn-on-a-dime crime story where the lines between love, murder and espionage are deftly blurred.

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From Kirkus Reviews

It's about corruption in high places, it’s about the FBI, it’s about undying love.

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By Larry Craig, U.S. Senator

"Insightful and thought provoking, DeMott's latest novel is a suspenseful thriller that kept me turning the pages. Outstanding! "

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More reviews after the sample chapter:

PREFACE

 Special Agent Rich Blevins retired from the Federal Bureau of Investigation in 2009 after 21 years of working the streets. 

 Oscar Riley, the United States Attorney for The District of Columbia, declined to prosecute Peter Jamison for any of his actions between December 12th and December 18th, 1996.

 After eleven months of physical rehabilitation, Peter Jamison returned to the United States to testify for the prosecution in Federal Court.

 The case never went to trial.

 Jamison was susequently hired by NASA and worked at Cape Canaveral until the Space Shuttle program wound down in 2011.

 When this writer visited Jamison's home he noticed a framed photo of him and a stunningly beautiful woman on a skiing vacation. Jamison confirmed that the woman was Melissa Corley.

 This story tells how all of these lives violently collided over six bloody days in December, 1996.

CHAPTER 1

December 12th, 1996

 The sprawling research center was dark and cemetery-quiet as Peter Jamison worked late into the night, an emergency light casting eerie shadows through the glass panel beside his door. Even the FBI agents were gone, although they were sure to return tomorrow and the next day, as long as it took to arrest whoever was leaking government secrets.

The Board of Directors would make its final decision on the Wombat in the morning, and Jamison, as chief engineer, had to make sure their decision was an easy one. So he checked and rechecked every statistic and every cost, confirmed allowances for manufacturing delays and conversion complications, and coordinated all supply projections from outside vendors until he was sure he was ready. 

At forty-seven, Jamison was the highest-paid division head at Dillon. He loved working there, even with the threats and fears that erupted when the leaks be­gan last year. His hard work – paired with the leadership he'd learned in the Army and the education he got afterward – had well served both him and Dillon in the fierce competition for aerospace contracts. His quick movements, wild blue eyes, and youthful face always looked ready for a challenge, and Dillon had given him plenty.

He liked to believe those corporate battles were the reason he kept his six-foot frame so strong and fit, but it was a lie. The unsettling truth was that he stayed absolutely battle-ready because the crazy man commanded him he do it.

As he locked up the data he tried not to worry about tomorrow. "All the target ident parameters, the accuracy data, and the cost projections are ready. My stuff's well organized, so I guess I'm out of here. Time to knock back a few with–"

A noise slipped under his door, followed by a click that was light as breath but me­chanical as the anti-personnel mines that laced the foot trails and paddies of Vietnam, that long-ago memory as fresh and alive as if it happened this morning. He snapped off his desk lamp and turned the room to black, watching and waiting with the quiet stealth of an ambush predator, wishing he could just trust Dillon's security to keep him safe but on some basic level turning automatically to the vicious skills that kept him alive in battle.

He hated the impossibility of flushing the war's damage from his soul. His greatest fantasy – to be normal and gentle – was part of the reason he'd become an engineer, a job that required his hands to do nothing more violent than erase a poorly placed dimension line. But Vietnam had spawned a craziness in Jamison's head and right now the crazy man fought to rule his brain, shouting the basic rule of combat that enemies are destroyed by overwhelming violence.

Two times, and two times only, the crazy man had to­tally possessed Jamison, making him almost as much a victim as all the men he'd killed. He would do almost anything to keep the crazy man from controlling him again, so although he could no longer resist its demand to get moving, he did manage to focus on non-lethal tactics as he rushed for the door, respecting the value of speed just like everyone else who'd ever walked patrol in Indian country. It was his friend. Stillness too, but speed was best when suddenly put on the defensive.

He grabbed the handle, threw open the door, and shot his hands at the intruder's neck, ready to break it if necessary but hoping it wasn't.

Ted Bronovich stood frozen in the dark hall. "Hey, it's me!"

Jamison dropped his arms that trembled with energy.

"Damn you, Ted, why the sneaking around in the dark?"

Bronovich didn't answer as he looked down the hall in both direc­tions before stepping inside Jamison's office. He wasn't wearing his jacket, the sleeves of his shirt were rolled to the elbows of his thin arms, and his Christmas tie of decorated trees and candy canes drooped from his skinny neck.

He reached for the lights but Bronovich grabbed his hand.

"I've just got a minute."

Jamison checked the hall before closing the door and then leaned against the wall, listening to Bronovich move around in his office until somewhere over on the other side, completely lost in the darkness, his footsteps stopped.

"So what's up?"

Bronovich took a heavy breath. "I shouldn't be telling you this but you deserve a little warning."

The darkness would give them the same advantage if Jamison  moved noiselessly to a new spot farther down the wall.

"Tell me what?" He moved immediately after speaking, not bothering to challenge the crazy man's orders to do so, but disgusted by it all the same.

"They've taken your project off the agenda for tomorrow's board meeting. I just found out. Knew you'd want to know."

Jamison took a noisy step toward his friend in the darkness. "What do you mean they took it off the agenda? What's the delay?"

"No delay. It's been canceled."

"I had approval from Casey."

"I know. Dead now, though. Sorry."

"The Navy can't keep flying the Wombat without changes. Too many pilots have died already. You know that better than anyone. What's their reason?"

"My guess is that your system didn't measure up against the competition. Or it was a victim of economics. Maybe it's your old girlfriend's fault. I had nothing to do with killing it, so I really don't know."

"What about jobs? Will my team be reassigned?"

Bronovich moved again. Jamison tracked him in the darkness.

"You're too valuable to lose. They're already talking about where to reassign you."

"What about my team?"

Bronovich didn't answer.

"It's almost Christmas. Tell me they're not going to lay them off."

Bronovich walked through the darkness and stopped at the door. "They'll be gone next Friday."

"Friday? Severance pay?"

"You know the deal on contract workers."

Bronovich opened the door, letting in the dim light of the hall.

"Is Casey still upstairs? I want to hear it from him."

Panic crept into Bronovich's voice. "If you  go up there they'll know I was the one who told you. With all the other leaks, they'd have my ass. Dillon is too dangerous these days."

"You're telling me."

"I am telling you. And if you make trouble over this they'll just fire you too."

Jamison shrugged, thinking that there were lots worse things than being fired.

"Ted?"

"Yeah?"

"Why'd you risk coming down here to tell me?"

"As a friend, I wanted you to know what was coming and give you a little time to prepare a winning argument. I think it's impossible, but you're the rainmaker so I wanted to give you the chance."

"I appreciate it."

"And there's something else. I've heard you speak of an FBI Agent friend of yours with no connection to the investigation of Dillon's leak."

"Rich Blevins. Been friends since the Army."

"Trust him?"

"Completely."

"Can you do me a favor and tell him I'd like to talk in confi­dence."

"About?"

"I've got a small problem, that's all. Nothing urgent, just whenever he gets a chance."

"Sure. We box every Friday morning, so I'll tell him tomorrow."

"Thanks. Our secret?"

"No problem." Jamison looked around his office, then came back to Bronovich. "I'm meeting my team at Jonah's. Why don't you join us? I could use your support around them."

Bronovich smiled, just slightly, and reached for the door. "I'm anxious to finish up and get home to the family."

"Understood."

They stepped into the hall and Jamison watched Bronovich ease into the darkness, creeping along the shadowy walls until he was invisible with just the sounds of his foot­steps coming back. When they died out Jamison grabbed his coat and briefcase and ran through the darkened halls. He cleared security and hit the cold air of another winter night in northern Virginia.

It was after eleven when he reached Jonah's Bar and he thought the place might be empty and his team gone, but the parking lot was so full he had to park in the back where trees shrouded the spillover lot and the spaces weren't marked.

He turned off his car but sat for a minute, understanding his own limits and knowning the pressure that crowds put on him. He was already jacked up and it might be a bad night to push the bound­aries. But he'd promised them he would come and so bolted through the cold and entered the bar without slowing down.

Jonah's was an old and comfortable watering hole for people in the aerospace industry, the haunt of dedicated engineers who had never developed Potomac Fever. The men and women who went there to drink didn't care about politics or international affairs or defense initia­tives, they just liked to design and then see their de­signs produced and working.

Tonight it was overcrowded with faces and sport coats and women's suits, the people wearing them crushed together too tight and laughing. Jamison stared into the eyes that met his and caught them looking for some hope of recognition, the same hopeful look he'd seen as Saigon fell in '75, that sad plea of people who needed to be noticed and chosen, to be summoned through the embassy gates and onto the rooftop helicopters – quick salvation in the arms of caring strangers. The need was better behaved and nicely dressed, but Jamison saw it for what it was. Saw it clearly.

He took a deep breath and pushed himself into the crowd as he worked his way to his team's table, smiled, and then shook his head. "Okay, wild bunch, who's the designated driver here?"

Steve Harrison sat alongside three men on one side of the table, with two women and a man on the other, saving the head of the table for Jami­son but using the spot to store empty glasses. Harri­son waved for a waitress, then squinted at Jamison.

"You, Peter, are the designated driver. And I should tell you that we're damn glad you finally showed up."

A waitress squeezed up to the table and Jamison or­dered a gin and tonic. Then he turned back to Harrison. "No way are you throwing up in my car again."

All of them laughed at the old story, which made Jamison sorry he'd said it. He'd come here wanting to relay a hint of Bronovich's news, to give them some kind of a warning that tomorrow would be a bad day and it would be best to face it without a hangover, but the laughter made it more difficult. He glanced at their faces and thought about families, then looked into their future and saw how bad it would be. Defense cutbacks and corporate downsizing had killed thousands of jobs and there was no way Dillon would hold on to excess engineers in such a tight market. If the Wombat project died it would be impossible for them to find any kind of good work, leaving nothing but suffering ahead for them, a holiday present from Dillon Aerospace.

He couldn't stay once that vision hit him, so he dropped ten dollars on the table and tried not to rush his words but did it anyway. "All right, folks, I've got to run. Just stopped by to tell you not to stay too late or drink too much. Those are the rules, my friends, and now you know them."

Seven pairs of eyes locked on to him. Harrison jumped up, wobbled, then sat back down. "My good­ness, Peter, what's your hurry?"

"I just remembered something I need to do at the of­fice. You people have fun but don't be careless. I'll see you in the morning." He turned and left before they could argue.

He squeezed through the crowd as he headed for the doors, twisting his way past the bar when a woman's arm stretched out to touch him. The arm was lean and muscular, and despite the cold weather outside, there were no sleeves covering it. No jewelry, either, except for a brilliant wristwatch encircling her thin wrist. The gold band fit loosely and slid toward the woman's slender hand as she stood on the rail so she could reach down for him.

Jamison had spent hundreds of hours designing that watch, and eleven thousand hard-earned dollars having it handmade, more than all the watches and jewelry he'd ever bought for himself. But he'd spent the money gladly because he loved the woman who wore it so much that it took that kind of extravagance to express it. Despite all the women he'd dated over the years he'd never felt that love for anyone before and was sure he would never feel it again. It was impossible because all the magical elements that blended perfectly to produce it would belong to that woman for the rest of his life. He had nothing left to give to anyone else.

He was in slow motion, his feet moving while he stared at the slender arm scarcely a foot away. His heart was jumping, exhilarated and hurt­ing at the same time. God how he missed the warmth of that arm, wrapped around his nakedness, holding him close on cold nights as her hands caressed him. She had been the best thing in his life and had filled a spot in his soul that most people had no choice but to leave empty. Even now, as he suffered with the pain of losing her, he felt sorry for those who would never feel what that was like.

The beautiful arm snaked through a wall of faces and then touched his shoulder, draining him instantly of strength. He stopped so that the hand stayed on him, the long fingers running across his shoulder and along his neck, making him feel like a faithful dog in his master's presence as he tried his very best not to show it.

"Peter."

Melissa's voice was soft as a gentle rain and almost too quiet to hear over the music, talking, and laughter. But it was the only sound he heard and it glued him in place as her lithe body slid through the huddle of men who separated them, her dark blue dress a silky anomaly to the wool and cotton crowd. He saw pleasure crease the faces of two men as she squeezed past them, but he tried to ignore it, fighting the demon of jealousy who wanted all of those close feelings for himself.

Her skin was slightly dark with some long-ago mixing of Mediterranean ancestry. Her brown eyes seemed always to look past his face and into his mind. Thick brown hair framed her face with a soft curl, and behind that face was a mind he respected for its stimulating intelligence.

He didn't speak as she stepped up to him, unable to think of anything to say.

"Hello, Peter. How are you?"

He tried not to look like a love-struck idiot but knew he wasn't pulling it off.  "Fine, Melissa. I'm fine. Gosh, you look great."

Gosh? Had he really just said gosh to the woman he loved? Next time he would say something smarter or just keep his mouth shut.

She smiled a little and tilted her head. "Thank you."

"Sure. You're welcome."

They stood in silence. Jamison knew he couldn't take much more before he would throw his arms around her, so he forced himself to look away, over her head, searching around the bar for any kind of distrac­tion, noticing things he'd never seen before like aircraft models on a shelf over the bar, a signed photo of the Blue Angels hanging on the wall, and a tail hook from an F-14 mounted on a long wood plaque, but none of it held any chance of helping him. He was in her presence and nothing else mattered except, of course, acting unaf­fected by her.

"I saw you come in a little while ago and wanted to talk to you. Do you have a minute?"

He pushed his shoulders against the man behind him so he could look down into her eyes. "Why didn't you just follow me back to our table?"

She didn't blink, looking as ready as always to compete with him. "I could have done that. I just thought it would have been rude."

"I didn't think things like that bothered you."

He watched her eyebrows pinch together, just a little. No one else would have noticed that he'd hurt her.

"Maybe you're right, but I didn't think you'd appreciate it if I interrupted your party."

Her hands were on his arms, squeezing into his biceps as she turned her head and the scent of Il Bacio stimulated his senses and suffocated him with the reminder of what they'd shared and lost. He grieved for Melissa and would always want her more than he could possibly want anyone else, but he couldn't have her. There wasn't a chance their relationship could survive because the battle be­tween their employers had become a war that made them enemies, the conflict escalating every time a news­paper hit the stands with one of her charges about Dil­lon's activities.

Although he had been the one to draw the line that destroyed them he was sure she would have done it if he hadn't. The death of their relationship had been inevitable, and they were both smart enough to know it.

Despite his pleas a year ago, she refused to pass over Dillon Aerospace in her hunt for justice. It was the kind of target she'd been after all her life and nothing, she'd said, would stop her from destroying Dillon and com­panies like it.

Even now, after a year to think about it, he still didn't understand how she could put her job before their rela­tionship. Sure, he had balked about leaving Dillon, but that was only after she decided to go after them. He would have quit if he'd had to and found another job if she'd given him a little time. Now, of course, he wished he had. Wished it every night in bed alone and every morning when he woke up the same way. Wished it even more as she stood in front of him with her hands touching his body. But at the time, neither of them had been willing to give up any ground, so the ground had cracked and shifted under them.

"I guess that was smart, not coming to our table. So how are things at the Coalition?"

Melissa shifted into her lawyer's voice. "Fine, Peter. Are things okay at Dillon?" She looked down and smoothed his tie with her fingers.

"Yes, Melissa, everything's fine."

"Hmm. Good, I'm glad, because I heard a rumor about your Wombat project that made me worried about you and your job."

Jamison drew a deep breath, then exhaled. They had played this game so many times before that he was sure the rules weren't going to change now. She wasn't going to tell him anything and so there was no point in pressing her, even if she might know how he could save his project. He stayed silent in the noisy bar.

"Then I guess my information was wrong. I'm glad for you. Really." She stretched up on her toes and kissed his cheek, so lightly it almost didn't happen. "Bye."

She looked him over once more before she turned and squeezed back through the crowd, dragging his aching insides along with her. He watched until not even a sliver of her blue dress was showing through the bottles, glasses, and elbows, then shook himself out of her spell and turned for the door, ramming his way through the human obstacles.

It was freezing outside and he praised the icy wind that numbed his senses and cooled the skin Melissa had touched. He ran to his car, trying to shut out of his mind the most important story of his life with the most amazing woman he'd ever known because regardless of how much he wanted to sort through the possible endings again, it was pointless. He had to shake those feelings, or at least hold them in check because he had a job to do, an important job. His friends would turn desperate to­morrow and count on him to save their jobs, their homes, their futures, so he needed to focus, to go to the office and go over every detail again trying to find some way to change the board's de­cision.

He clicked his remote but the doors didn't unlock or make a sound. He froze, suddenly remem­bering trip wires and toe-poppers and all the men they had killed or maimed because of a casual attitude in situations like this. It wasn't a normal way to think and he knew it, but he just couldn't stop himself from doing it.

Could there possibly be a bomb? Was someone lurk­ing around the dark lot? Was he standing on anything that might be pressure-sensitive? Or had he simply for­gotten to lock the car earlier?

In less than a second the hairs on his neck prickled against his collar and sent a little shiver along his spine. He had locked his car and clearly remembered doing it. So he took a big jump back, anticipating everything, or noth­ing, then got behind the car next to his and waited.

Three or four minutes passed but he didn't move as he stayed low beside the next car, his eyes peering through the glass and watching for an attacker to rush from the shadows. But nothing happened. He began to shiver, and shivering always sucked when speed or deftness might be necessary. He stood slowly and looked over the area again, then moved to his car, looking for some sign of a break-in. He walked around it, noticing every­thing and wishing it had snowed so there'd be prints, but there was nothing to indicate tampering or a break-in. His phone was still on the charger and his briefcase on the floor. But he'd learned a lot in the jungle, and the senses that had kept him alive over there were on full alert. He was combat-ready, bladed, as Lieutenant Blevins had called it.

He crouched beside the passenger door and covered his head with one arm as he pulled the door's handle, hoping he wouldn't have body parts blown off or car parts blown into him or any combi­nation of the two.

The car didn't explode, so he elbowed over the floor and looked under the dash for unusual wires or deto­nation cord. He climbed across the center console to check for a triggering mechanism attached to the dri­ver's door.

Finally, he eased into the driver's seat, shut his eyes, and turned the key. The car sparked to life and the sud­denness of it twisted him involuntarily toward the door. He sat there embarrassed for a few seconds, then drove slowly out of the spooky lot, picking up speed as he hit the highway back to Dillon, wondering who had been in his car, and why.

*     *     *     *     *

Bronovich knew his wife would be mad that he was still at work after promising to be home in time to put their two girls to bed – one of hundreds of promises he'd broken since his brother died.

"Are the girls asleep?"

"Yes."

He waited with the phone tight against his ear, listening hard for her to say something that showed she was still on his side and hadn't lost her share of his conviction. A security guard walked down the hall toward his office and Bronovich listened to his keys jangling as he waited for his wife to speak. The sound grew loud, then soft, and finally faded away, but his wife was still silent.

"I'll be home in an hour."

"How much longer, Ted? I want to know how much longer this will go on."

"Hang on a minute." He walked to his door and opened it, looked along the dimly lit hall and lis­tened carefully before returning to his desk. "Not much longer. I'm al­most done with this. Two more weeks, a month at the most, then we'll start over, you and I and the girls. Something new and fresh, I promise."

"I'm counting on that, Ted. The girls and I are count­ing on you."

"I won't let you down so don't worry. See you in an hour, maybe sooner."

He hung up and picked his younger brother's gold wings off his desk. The Navy wings were a reminder of the last time he'd seen him alive, suited up in his flight gear and grinning as if he owned the entire world as he crouched on the boarding ladder of his Wombat aircraft sitting on the transient line at Naval Air Station Oceana. That was how Bronovich wanted to remember his brother, a wild card who'd been cocksure and ready from the day he was born.

He picked up the wings several times every day just to cement his brother's grinning face onto his brain and use it to cover up the bloody image he'd conjured from the naval investigator's finding. The sanitized report said that his brother ejected safely when his Wombat's weapons system glitched the flight-control computer, and that his parachute had opened perfectly. But the chute caught on a mountain ledge during descent and his brother swung in his harness all night, the high winds smashing his poor body against the rock face until every bone in his body had been pulverized.

 *     *     *     *     *

 Jack Kane sat in his darkened office on the top floor of Dillon Aerospace, holding pictures of the two men in his hand and imagining his wife's and children's last min­utes alive. It was part of his ritual, part of what made him so deadly – his willingness to live through the suf­fering again and again and again and then focus all of his pain and all of his hatred and all of his vengeance on whoever was next on the list.

His grief was an affliction he could hardly overcome, and tonight, as always, tears for his family came to his gray eyes and tried to work their way out. But they never succeeded. His eyes were pinched too tight to let them pass, narrow slits that saw only the evil he wanted to stop.

After staring at the pictures for twenty minutes – imagining how his family had pleaded that night and re­membering the gruesome police photos that showed exactly what the men had done to them – he put them away and headed out the door and down the hall, ready. The pho­tos had done their job and started the acid pump and built up the pressure, giving him a thirst for blood.

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More reviews:

"Author Wes Demott (a former FBI agent) has put more twists and turns into the plot than you'd find in the Chartres labyrinth. It holds your attention from the first page, and the ending is completely unexpected. Recommended for fans of espionage novels." Sharon Cathcart, Goodreads.com 

“Vapors is a great crossover book which will appeal to both men and women. I enjoyed every minute that I read this book. I loved it.” – Tracy Vidakovich, Barnes and Noble, District Manager

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Riveting, high-voltage “Vapors” returns former FBI agent to turf – George Hebert, former editor of the Ledge Star.

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“Wes DeMott’s new book Vapors … takes readers on a fast and frenetic E-ticket thrill-ride where identities, motives, and relationships are vaporous and elusive. The non-stop action packs a visceral punch.” – Bill Evans, Barnes and Noble Community Relations Coordinator

-------------------------------- “I just had to write to tell you how much I loved Vapors…I loved all the twists and turns especially the ending…the store’s whole staff is lining up to read it.” – Michelle Remain, B. Dalton, Store Manager -------------------------------- “Wes DeMott is an exciting writer on the verge of great things”. – Kelle Ruden, Manager and Editor, Barnes and Noble Discover Great New Writers ---------------------------------- The 'Full Monty' rating by a reader : feoamante The action is fast paced and the suspense builds with several plot twists along the way. This book kept me on the edge of my seat and on my intellectual toes. The final plot twist is woven smoothly enough that I did not see it coming – a rare treat for an avid reader like me. Since this novel deals with a lot of government and F.B.I. related topics, Demott’s real life experience as an F.B.I. agent brings a level of realism to the narrative that draws the reader in deep. I give THE FUND the full monty – 5 Bookwyrms- and a high recommendation to anyone who enjoys a good thriller. I look forward to reading more of Demott’s work. If THE FUND is any indication, I think Demott is destined to become one of the top names in the thriller genre.

-------------------------------------- Frank Troncale, Herald Tribune, Sarasota FL Vapors, the new one by Florida author and former FBI agent Wes DeMott, is a political thriller wrapped around government corruption and the perverse incentives of Washington politics. But at its core, Vapors, a leave-you-breathless-covered-with-goose-bumps thriller, is a love story. ----------------------------------- By a reader: This book will leave you breathless- covered with goose-bumps- political thriller at it's core, really an intense love story & is sure to appeal as equally to women as it does to men. (Salesbyrc.com) ------------------------ By an Amazon.com customer A Non-Stop Thrillride

A great story with very well developed lead characters. Got me hooked after the first few pages. Wes is a great writer with what appears to be some very good inside information, a la Tom Clancy. This book would make a great movie.

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Mia Shipiro, from the D.C. B&N wrote: "Wow! I just finished Vapors and am still reeling from its final unexpected plot twists. What an incredibly intense and gripping story. I literally could not put this book down and read it in a single (albeit long) sitting."

------------------------ 4.0 out of 5 stars A Great Book This review is from: Vapors: A Political Thriller (Hardcover) This is the first book I have read by this author, I just couldn't put the book down (except to sleep). The pace is fast, and you would think the story is predictable, but it is not. Believe me, it isn't. Good character development, and a love story becomes the core of the book. I don't want to give away too much, but Jack Kane, that is one cool character. It is apparent though, that the primary character's physical attributes seem to be quite similar to Mr. DeMott's...... Customer, Amazon UK  --------------------------------- 5.0 out of 5 stars Vapors kept me spell-bound until the last page. The Fund/Vapors is the kind of book that changes the way you view things around you. The plot is so plausible that it makes you wonder if you're reading fiction or non-fiction. Besides the fast pace and political suspense that author Wes DeMott is known for, I always appreciate his character development. The Fund/Vapors is a special treat because one of the central characters is an assertive woman operating in a man's world. It was interesting to follow the interaction among the characters and between the sexes. Having a female main character provided the extra twist that kept me guessing what would happen next.

Customer, Amazon UK

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…It’s a captivating plot well-written … A chilling tale of violence and vengeance.

By Ken Moore, Naples News.  ---------------------------------- Another strong thriller by former FBI Agent Wes DeMott, author of Walking K - Orlando Sentinel ----------------------------------- Loved the ending! KNB (Virginia Beach, VA) Probably my favorite DeMott book so far. I've loaned out my copy of "Vapors" many times. Glad to see "The Fund" is available for Kindles and Nooks. ----------------------------------