Walking K

 

The screenplay for Walking K is available through Admiral House Publishing

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WALKING K 



DeMott, a former FBI Agent, analyzed intelligence documents, Nixon’s White House tapes, Congressional Records, and interviews with commanding officers of Prisoners of War in researching WALKING K, the tragic story of a reluctant conspiracy lumbered upon the shoulders of each U.S. President since 1975. Crosscutting between dramatic battlefield scenes, heartbreaking torture, American businesses protecting their investments, and a continuing refusal by the White House to reveal the shameful truth, the emotional ending of this political thriller sadly shows why the United States Government stopped wanting the lost men of that war to come home, and perhaps sheds light on the government’s attitude toward the POW classification in wars since Vietnam.




Reviews


“Wes DeMott not only writes well, he writes with passion and conviction.” ―Nelson DeMille, Author of Up Country 

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This book stirred my emotions - patriotism, sadness, anger and pride in the strength and honor of American Soldiers! Another great read by Wes DeMott! - A.S, reader, 2012, Amazon.

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Walking K drew me into a world all too real. It celebrated the honor and courage of American Soldiers and contrasted it against the bitter reality of those 'souless sell-outs' that value perception and position over integrity. Wes managed to stir a multitude of emotions within me including pride in America's finest - the American Soldier, anger at a system that would forget and sacrifice those who paid out debt for freedom and sadness that this story portrays a segment of our society that actually exists.  Angela Stringer, Goodreads.com, 2012

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"DeMott, a former FBI agent, writes movingly of ex-PW's struggle with wartime horrors." - Publishers Weekly 

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“A writer to be watched!” --Atlanta Journal-Constitution 

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Read the speech Wes gave at the Australian Embassy in Washington D.C. about our obligation to Prisoners-of-War.


MANY MORE GREAT REVIEWS FOLLOW THE SAMPLE CHAPTER. 


Chapter 1

 

Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam

June 8th, 1994

 Jacob Slaughter paced to the bed and turned for the ninety-seventh time, an exact number of which he was absolutely positive. Either his cell had been larger or he was now faster as he made three steps to the wall, a turn, and ten steps to the window before heading back to the bed, avoiding the mirror's reflection of the terrified face of his own youth, now eroded by time to match his forty-six-year-old body, his absolute fear of this country crawling down his neck like the warm breath of a predatory animal.

The two thousand three-hundred and sixty-two new steps while waiting for Lu Kham Phong were an insignificant addition to the much larger number from two and a half decades earlier. The deep cut across his nose had healed over those years and his right cheek was now only slightly sunken from the guard's gouging, but his eyes were still wide and worried. He understood their look too well, sure of himself where fear was concerned. There were no hidden elements they hadn't forced him to explore.

Lu Kham Phong was a quiet little man who'd been insistent and demanding. "Wait in your hotel," he'd said, "and stay off the streets of Hanoi. Anything could happen here, even now, and the issues between our two governments are too important to risk an unnecessary setback."

So Slaughter waited, taking inventory of all the differences between this room and the last one Vietnam had provided him. And he worried along with Secretary of State Mills that his skills as a Foreign Service Officer might be overwhelmed by his past. But the Vietnamese Foreign Minister had personally insisted on Slaughter, leaving Mills no option but to send him.

Slaughter stopped at the open window to take in the smells and noises of Hanoi, which were less threatening than during his last visit as a pimpled teenager, a bottle of Clearasil as essential as his M16A1. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the sounds, taking comfort in the noises that could be any big city, except for the rattle of broken-down bicycles that would always set Hanoi apart.

He stayed at the window with his eyes closed and tested his courage against the vivid memories that would always terrorize him. Then someone pounded on his door and he jumped and cowered at the same instant, proving exactly how hard, if not impossible, this would be for him. But he forced himself to the door and opened it.

A crowd of men stood in the hall. The small Vietnamese officer who'd rapped on the door stepped back into line with a bitter twist on his little face. His guts ached and his vision sharpened. He stiffened against the fear unleashed by their uniforms and curled his mouth into a smile, forced his attention from the uniforms to the three men wearing suits, the negotiators. Lu Kham Phong, who had picked him up at Noi Bai Airport, stood in front of the other two. He was an intelligent man, American-educated, thirty-five years old, and handsome in that dark and precise Asian way. Slaughter wanted to like him.

Behind the negotiators were six armed men wearing the Socialist Republic of Vietnam's current military uniform, which was only slightly different from the wartime one. Like military men everywhere they hardened their faces to match the severity of their clothes. As a group and as individual soldiers they looked brutal and cold, although some managed the look better than others. Slaughter felt stupid smiling as he stepped into the hallway, passing each soldier in slow review and inspecting them closely. He stopped in front of Lu Kham Phong and did not bow.

"Mr. Phong, are these soldiers here to protect me or suppress me?"

Phong didn't bow either. He took one step forward and extended his hand. "Mr. Slaughter," he said in exact English. "They are for your protection, of course. Are you ready?"

Slaughter returned the handshake as he watched the soldiers. The oldest, a decorated warrior about Slaughter's own age, stared back. He wore his pistol high at the waist in cross-draw fashion and several small war decorations hung from his brown uniform. The five other soldiers were younger and carried Chinese AK-47s.

Slaughter turned away from the guns and looked back at Phong. "Yes, let me grab my briefcase." He turned toward the desk by the window and barely heard the noise that made him spin around as the officer shoved his way past the negotiators and rushed into the room with his weapon ready, just in case Slaughter drew a gun from some hidden place.

Panic filled Slaughter's head as if the last twenty years of freedom had never happened, and although he was cornered he was not yet trapped, not yet beaten, and so he rushed at the soldier in an explosion that raced against the man's decision to shoot him, getting to him just as Lu Kham Phong wedged his face into the soldier's and hurled urgent Vietnamese at him until the soldier backed out of the room. Phong then turned back to Slaughter.

"I am very sorry," he said. "This officer's actions are unpardonable and so I cannot apologize enough. But I will see to it that he is disciplined."

Slaughter stared at the soldiers in the hall, their fingers on triggers while the officer stared back with hate. "Let's just get on with our business."

Phong looked once more at the officer and then turned to Slaughter with a narrow smile.  "We really should go because the others will be waiting and nothing can be gained by our delay."

Slaughter grabbed his briefcase and walked into the hall where other guests had come out of their rooms to see what was happening. The officer charged down the hall, shoving the guests and forcing them back into their rooms at gunpoint while Slaughter and Phong raced after him, stomping through the lobby and into the sunny street where three vehicles waited. Slaughter and the three negotiators rode together. The soldiers split up and took the front and rear cars.

After almost an hour the cars slowed in front of a rotting concrete building several kilometers from the other government offices. Slaughter had never been here before and did not know the building. It was big and old and certainly pre-dated the war. There were few windows in the thick exterior walls, and civilians walking along the opposite side of the street did not look at it, as if it were infected and quarantined. Although Slaughter had no idea where he was, he had a weird sense of familiarity that made him look at Phong, who turned away.

Their car stopped and the officer took a position about four meters from the curb and facing the building. After everyone lined up behind him he led them through a gate guarded by army regulars, and then deeper and deeper into the disquieting old structure, down a set of worn concrete steps and onto a dirt path bordered by a sewage-filled gutter. Finally they stopped at a massive wooden door that hung from four heavy hinges. The wood was blotched by decades of ugly stains. Lu Kham Phong opened it with a clunky antique key and then led all of them into a dark room. Their footsteps bounced off far-away walls hidden in the gloom, twenty-eight or twenty-nine paces away.

There were no windows and the air tasted as though it had been used and reused until it was hardly worth breathing. Four bare bulbs dangled like ghosts from the twenty-foot ceiling and cast yellow light in dusty halos. When Slaughter's eyes adjusted he saw an eight-foot table near the center of the room with four folding chairs to the side. Directly across the room, maybe thirty feet from the table, was another door, and it, too, looked impenetrable.

Slaughter looked back at Phong, who looked out of place as he led his team of negotiators to the chairs and waited silently for Slaughter to join them. The soldiers stationed themselves between Slaughter and the exit. He set his things on the dusty table, sat and folded his hands in his lap. And then they waited, which he could probably do better than any of them. Twenty-four minutes passed in silence and the silence bred questions. Why was he here and what did this place have to do with America's trade status with Vietnam, the supposedly urgent matter that had brought him here?

He had a right to know why they were wasting time but he held back because he knew the time would pass the way it always had. If he had learned anything else from these people, it was patience. They had taught him to pass weeks, months, and years as if in a coma that shut down everything except memories.

And so the longer he sat there the harder it became to push back the jangle of panic that had rattled around in him since February 6, 1969 – the day of his last battle in the long-ago war that spawned today's meeting. He had just made corporal, humping along on a Zippo squad with the 3d Battalion, 3d Marine Division. What happened that day and the four years that followed were burned into his mind as though by a hot steel rod.

He shifted in his chair and closed his eyes to avoid seeing this dungeon, but it still burrowed into his senses and threw his mind back into the filthy cell he called home for four years, one month, and one day. Was it the stench of urine and rotting cabbage – the putrid but signature scents of Far East Prison? His mouth could still taste the stale rice while his mind replayed the images of fearless rats gnawing at his wounds during his last five hours in The Nam. Those final few hours of captivity had almost destroyed him. Three hundred and seven minutes that ruined much of his life.

The heavy door across the room banged as someone threw the bolt, and then it creaked and swung slowly open. An emaciated prisoner – a black American wearing pajama pants – shuffled into the huge room under soldiers' guard, his eyes staring at the distant wall and giving no clue to his thoughts. His ancient body baby-stepped slowly, as though his bones and muscles were tangled, having forgotten the essence of motion altogether. He had big hands – heavy weights that belonged on the arms of a much taller person. Years in squatty, bamboo tiger cages had hunched his back into an ellipse.

But the man's head stayed level, held up by pride or belligerence. Slaughter felt his legs moving as the sickly specter shuffled toward him, and then, without quite realizing it, he was standing, trying to keep his mouth closed as he lifted his hand to salute the ragged man.

Slaughter stood there erect and respectful, waiting for whatever happened next, unable to hide his shock at the sight of an American Prisoner of War so many years after the war had ended.  Then more soldiers filed in behind the prisoner, and that's when he heard the laughter.

His neck tightened underneath his coat and more than ever before he wanted to run. Run without thinking, grab the shabby prisoner and run like hell. Carry the man, drag him, whatever, but run until they made it out or were killed trying.

But he stood like stone as he fought to keep his trembling inside, lowering his salute and standing firm, bracing himself against the laughter of his old enemy. He was back, the cover of his business suit and diplomatic status lost in the indiscriminate landscape of terror.

Vu Van Vinh slid out from behind his soldiers and took in the room like a toastmaster. He squinted queerly at Slaughter, then threw back his head and gave a wicked laugh of recognition. His flat, stumpy face and jug ears had changed little since he was Slaughter's captor, back when Vinh had first learned to take pleasure and vengeance in his power over Americans – a power Slaughter knew he would show again.

Vinh smiled and waited until he had everyone's attention, then quickly, in the room's thick silence, whipped his baton through the air. It buzzed with the warning of pain and then struck the American prisoner across the back of the legs. The old man crumbled onto the floor, his knobby knees breaking the fall with an unsettling snap but his head staying erect while his mouth stayed closed and, by God, giving no sign of pain. Long ago, Slaughter figured, he'd forgotten that it was possible to live a life without it.

The blow had come too quickly and Slaughter hadn't had time to stop it. But he put his hands on the table and leaned in his old guard's direction, ready to fly over the table and dive into the impact zone if more was coming. He wasn't trembling anymore.

Vinh straightened his simple uniform and made polite introductions. "This is your Captain Charles Wooten, an American air pirate guilty of crimes against our people, having used the weapons of your nation to attack civilians in the Phuol Long Province. He is the senior officer of the twenty-three men we still have here."

Slaughter jerked his head to the prisoner. Could it possibly be Chuck Wooten? He looked harder at the man, at the pale brown skin and broken teeth, the long, gangly arms with huge, bony hands hanging helpless at the ends.

"Chuck? Captain Wooten? It's me, Jacob Slaughter."

Wooten did not look at him. Instead, he wobbled his head around toward Vinh, who slowly nodded his approval to speak. Wooten's mouth began to move slowly, as if he couldn't quite remember how to use it. Slaughter leaned closer. Everyone in the room waited in the absolute silence until finally he spoke. Almost a word but not quite. And then Wooten quit as a tear broke away from his blind left eye that wandered.

Vinh laughed again as he rested the cauliflower stump of his left hand on Wooten's shoulder.  Then he quickly struck Wooten across his back, hard enough to knock Wooten facedown onto the floor. Slaughter lunged over the table and the negotiators scattered, knocking over their briefcases and spilling secret contents as metal chairs banged to the floor and Slaughter blasted out of his little piece of the room and charged toward Vinh.

But it was pointless. The officer who'd escorted Slaughter had kept his men close, and they grabbed his legs and shoulders and dragged him back over the table as Vu Van Vinh's soldiers closed ranks around Captain Wooten.

Slaughter struggled with restraining hands and shouted at Vinh for the first time, something that would have meant severe torture or death when he was Vinh's prisoner, but he was shouting now. "All right, damn you forget it! I don't need to hear him, I believe it's Captain Wooten. You don't have to beat the poor man, you son of a bitch."

Vinh stopped laughing and strolled toward Slaughter, but he stopped suddenly, distracted by Wooten's struggle to rise. They all watched as he scraped his crippled hands along the concrete and tucked them underneath his chest, then pushed up from the floor with nothing but determination.

Slaughter wanted to turn away as his haunting nightmare and this pitiful sight finally met each other, this quiet pile of noble American flesh proving that Wooten had not died and that his imprisonment had not ended. He stared at Wooten, then at Vinh, and then Phong.

This time Phong did not look away and his face seemed apologetic as he started to speak. But Vinh stopped everyone with a command that echoed off the black stone walls. Slaughter watched Vinh come toward him and Slaughter knew he wanted to see his fear, up close, just like the day they first met. Slaughter would never forget the terror of that day and he knew Vinh still wanted to see it.

Slaughter leaned across the table and into Vinh's face, keeping an eye on the baton that Vinh kept revolving in his right hand, squeezing and then easing up and then squeezing again, keeping his muscles loose and fluid and ready. It had only taken a few minutes but Vinh had him back now, back in a place of torture and tap codes, silence and pain. Slaughter was once again standing firm and scared to death.

Vinh glanced over his shoulder and ordered his soldiers to pick Wooten off the floor. But when he ordered Wooten's food to be withheld for three full days, Slaughter reached out and grabbed Vinh's neck and then plunged his thumb and forefinger behind his Adam's apple as soldiers began beating Slaughter's back and hammering his skull. He endured and would not let go, finally killing Vinh, his fingers closing down on the windpipe like it was a handle. Slaughter was joyously poisoned with the exhilaration of vengeance as he raced his conscience and tried to kill Vinh before his personal vow ticker-taped across his eyes, a solemn promise never to kill anyone again. If he hurried he would make it and Vinh would die here.

But in the silence of this dream-come-true where Vinh's gurgling was soundless and the soldier's attacks carried no pain, he suddenly heard Chuck Wooten's voice, strange and weak like a man ready to die. Slaughter had to stop. He had to hear it.

Wooten sputtered again, much louder than before. "Khong, Khong!" And then he found his English. "No, Jacob."

Slaughter held Vinh's throat a second longer, understanding the plea and realizing that it would fall on Wooten to pay for Vinh's death. He damned himself for his temper as he loosened his grip and pushed Vinh away. Vinh dropped to the floor, coughing, his body folded over double. He tried to straighten but failed, and finally staggered out of the room behind the men who dragged Wooten away.

Slaughter shoved Phong's soldiers away from him. Blood leaked into his eyes but he smeared it away and watched the door close behind Wooten. Phong touched his shoulder, gently bringing him back to their business.

"I am unbelievably sorry for that, Mr. Slaughter. Although I know of the war from my youth I am too young to really understand this hatred. Vu Van Vinh is, how shall I say it, still at war with your country."

Slaughter stared at the dungeon door, listening to Phong with very little interest. Once the door was shut and locked he straightened his clothes, pushed back the bloody mats of his hair, and struggled for whatever diplomacy he could get a grip on. "You people are bastards, Phong. And Vinh isn't doing this alone."

Phong spoke carefully. "There are others like Vinh."

"I bet there are, and you know what, there are Americans who haven't stopped hating either. You think they should start torturing Vietnamese, maybe cruise the streets of Hometown U.S.A. with baseball bats and Vinh's sense of humor?"

"Of course not, but –"

"What you people are doing here is unforgivable."

Phong lowered his head and the other negotiators did the same. The guards did not move at all.  "Yes," Phong said, "I believe it is."

Phong kept his head down as he held out a thick file for Slaughter. "Sir, I have copies for you of everything we know about the twenty-three men still in prison here. Their names, rank, serial numbers, places of capture, squadrons or units – everything we've learned. It is not very much information, I'm afraid. Apparently they were very good at keeping silent."

Slaughter stared at the folder and thought about all the torture the prisoners had endured for the bits of knowledge it contained. He did not reach for it. Phong held it out until his arm started to droop, and finally set it on the table in front of Slaughter.

"What about the rest, Phong? There are over two thousand Americans still missing from the war. You only have twenty-three? Bullshit."

Phong lifted his head and looked genuinely surprised. "I do not know what to say. Since the end of the war we haven't held anywhere near that many prisoners. Several of the names your country has submitted over the years were never even recorded by our army. Their bodies may have been dumped in battlefield graves or swept out to sea by our rivers, or they may have escaped altogether, I honestly do not know. But these twenty-three men we do have. They are the last."

Slaughter opened the file and flipped through the contents while Phong watched. Duplicate photographs of each tattered prisoner tore at his nerves but he hid his shock from Phong as best he could until he couldn't stand it any longer and closed the file. "I will take this back to my government, Phong. I hope we'll be able to work through this, but by God I'm holding you responsible for these men regardless of what happens with your trade request."

Phong and the other negotiators bowed but held it too long. Slaughter stared at the top of their heads, frustrated, knowing the long bow was an advance apology for more bad news. Finally, Phong and the others raised their heads.

"As you know, Mr. Slaughter, we are a patient people, but the suffering inflicted on my country by the Trade Embargo of 1964 has been severe, and we desperately need an end to that suffering in order to begin to put all the damage behind us."

Slaughter gave Phong's words some time and used the extra minute to calm down. "I'm sure it's been hard for your country, Phong. Hell, that's the purpose of an embargo, the reason we did it in the first place."

Phong remained silent, his head up but with his eyes down. Slaughter turned back to the heavy door and tried to see through it. "Nevertheless, my government will find these circumstances compelling. Disgusting and outrageous, but compelling."

"I am very glad we agree in principle because the foreign minister has respectfully requested a resolution within thirty days."

There it was, just what the long bow had promised. He studied Phong for any weakness to work on.

"Thirty days? You know what a delicate issue this is in my country. A thirty-day deadline is out of the question."

Phong didn't hesitate. "Again, I am sorry, but I can only tell you the instructions I have been given. Thirty days is all I have been authorized to offer."

"And if we miss the deadline? What, you'll kill the prisoners?"

"We should not even discuss an unpleasant scenario we can work together to avoid."

Slaughter turned back to the door that had closed behind Chuck Wooten and locked the scene into his memory: The sickly skin stretched over frail old bones. The glazed eyes, the knots, bruises, and scars of torture. His rigid fingers fused by repeated breakage until they were simply claws.

"President Simons is sympathetic to your problems and we will do the best we can. That's all I can promise."

"I am pleased to have your help with this situation, and my personal hope is that this effort will help my country become an ally to America."

Slaughter stabbed the portfolio into his own ribs and felt the pain of its contents. "I don't give a damn about your country or your hopes. I'll do this for Captain Charles Wooten and twenty-two other men, but don't you dare misunderstand my motives."


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More reviews:




“A good piece of work”- Sydney Schanberg, The Death and Life of Dith Pran (1980), The Killing Fields: The Facts Behind The Film (1984)

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“Tightly plotted without the sacrifice of vivid characters and emotional depth. While double-timing us through the narrative at the pace of a S.W.A.T. raid, Wes DeMott never allows us to lose sight of his basic truth: that happiness and tranquility are often bought by horror and sacrifice. Walking K is a novel stamped with intelligence, humanity and courage.” – Sterling Watson, Deadly Sweet

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“If you’re patriotic enough to get goose bumps when ‘The Star Spangled Banner’ plays, you’ll love Wes DeMott’s debut novel, Walking K. DeMott combines exquisite action and heart-stopping suspense to create an indefatigable hero (...) the characters are credible and so well-developed that readers may even hear anxious gasps of breath when protagonist Jacob Slaughter is repeatedly faced with life-and-death decisions.” – Naples Daily News

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“Walking K is a fast-paced and engrossing read. It hits the ground running, with a plot which engages the reader from the first paragraph. The subject is both fascinating and disturbing, addressing a myriad of unresolved issues from a difficult period in our nation’s history. I thoroughly enjoyed Mr. DeMott’s book and look forward to the next.” – Larry E. Craig, U.S. Senator
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“An exciting climax and conclusion” – The Virginian-Pilot
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“Walking K generates a lot of goose bumps” – Orlando Star Advocate
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“Walking K is a thriller I literally could not put down. I read it in one sitting!” – Carol Hrdlicka, wife of David Hrdlicka, a known POW who has not returned.
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“DeMott’s debut novel, Walking K, is a political thriller similar to John Grisham’s novels – it is packed with action and just enough reality to give the reader goose-bumps” – The Daily News
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“DeMott may have found the correct path for informing America of its abandoned soldiers-something the truth alone has failed to do.” – Col. Ted Guy (Ret.), POW captured in Laos, and cmdr of all POWs captured in Laos, Cambodia and South Vietnam.
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“(Walking K) … sheds powerful light on the motivations of U.S. Government officials who are tasked to deal wit the explosive POW/MIA issue in Indochina”- J.Thomas Burch, Jr., Chairman, National Vietnam & Gulf War Veterans Coalition
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“Walking K brings focus on America’s greatest tragedy: The abandonment of our POWs’- Capt. Eugene “Red” McDaniel, USN (ret.), six years Vietnam POW
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“Walking K, based on a 1992 plea from live POWs in SE Asia, masterfully disguises fact as fiction while documenting the tragic truth of real POWs”- Col. Earl P. Hopper (ret.), Vice-Chairman, Task Force Omega
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“I read Walking K with a mixture of tears and outrage” – Sun Journal
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“This book is a real treat, a thrilling well written novel about a subject dear to all combat vets. An intriguing plot with all the twists and turns to keep you riveted”-United News Service
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“A fantastic book” – KVEN radio
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“Absolutely, a must read” – Ken Lindbloom, KCMX Radio

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“Packed with C-4 and wrapped in detonation cord” – Ray Truelove, Recon Report

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“A poignant story of love and honor. A great read!” – Barbara Black, Walking K (screenwriter)

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Hard-as-nails hero makes great reading, By Art Tirrell, author.

(...)The Vietnamese reveal that they still hold 22 more American prisoners, to be released only upon the granting of most favored nation status by the US. Slaughter must get them out or die trying.

The pace of the read accelerates as he reports what he's learned to his boss, the Secretary of State - who despite Slaughter's statements seems anxious to deny the possibility of any prisoners remaining alive.

The Department of Defense too, and maybe even the White House, play their own private hands, and everyone Slaughter goes to flatly rejects the possibility that Americans might still be held prisoner.

Slaughter is a hard one, though, completely honest and sincere. With live-in psychiatrist Laura, who once cured him of the nightmares only now beginning to haunt him again, on his side, he's not backing down, no matter what. Slaughter knows the response to his refusal to desist might be terminal, and begins to take precautions. Sure enough, he's fired. Soon, his bank accounts, credit cards, driver's license all disappear. So far as officialdom is concerned, he never existed. Slaughter must hurry. There will be an assassin too. He's out of time.

At this point, the reader is totally immersed in author DeMott's story. What began with difficulty is now a roaring juggernaut. I won't spoil the ending, but men who like hard-as-nails adventure will share my enthusiasm for this work.
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If you care at all about POW's this book is a must read!,

From the first few pages this book hooks you. I really loved the lead character, especially his name "Jacob Slaughter". Great story, it really sucks you in. I just hope none of that stuff really happens. Wes should be writing screenplays. By

Paul Rodriguez, a reader.
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Wes Demott has written a great book and that is all there is to it – Dan Riebesell, Amazon.com
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How the story opens, and a recommendation., By A Customer (Amazon.com)This is a slightly altered excerpt from my column in the STAR-ADVOCATE, March 18, 1998; WALKING K is a thriller that I couldn't put down, except for rude interruptions such as dinner and taking out the trash. The story opens with the protagonist, a Foreign Service Officer and former P.O.W., visiting Hanoi at the request of the Vietnamese government. It seems that Hanoi is seeking Most Favored Nation status, and their agent presents our hero with a bargaining chip. As he is led into the depths of an ancient, molding building, an ugly sensation of deja vu grows with each step. He is confronted by a terrible spectacle: his old cell-mate, still in captivity, broken in body but not in spirit. And there are 22 others.

I won't give the plot away. But consider the ramifications that would follow such an event, and then pick up a copy of Wes DeMott's Walking K. It will last longer, and generate a lot more goose-bumps than the pittance you were going to blow for dinner out.
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5.0 out of 5 stars A fast moving, engaging plot. More than worth the time. By A Customer, 
Amazon.UK  
This review is from: Walking K: A Political Thriller (Hardcover)

After quitting on the last "thriller" I was reading, this book was quite a welcome surprise. It pulls you in on the first page and it doesn't let you go until the conclusion. The characters are exciting, very real and believeable and easy to relate to. I found myself siding with Slaughter's cause, admiring his courage and rooting for him in the end. Without giving away the plot, it disturbed me very deeply and made me question the line between DeMott's fiction and reality. The writer came across as a very credible source, although the book jacket did not mention him as a former POW. I have already bought his second book, Vapors. I'll review it when I'm finished. You shouldn't miss Walking K. Hope DeMott does well. Be cool.

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Fast-paced, gripping, powerful and emotional. By A Customer, 
Amazon UK  

This review is from: Walking: A Political Thriller (Hardcover)

Rare is the book that combines non-stop action and ompelling story lines to evoke true emotion. But Walking K does just that thanks to the talented hand of Wes DeMott. From the opening scenes and our heroe's tortured past, to the horrific dilemna and hitman confronting him, Jacob Slaughter faces his past and future with the US government hot on his heels and the issue of Vietnam POWs once again rearing its ugly head. Not only can we empathise with Slaughter's twisted nightmares in a POW camp, we can sense his knawing need to right the injustice of those left behind and the intense heat from a bomb blast meant to silence him. Slaughter is truly a man alone set out to free those the government says is dead and in the process, his soul. The characters are real, emotions raw, the action non-stop and the hale-Mary pass delivers. Walking K is an exciting and thrilling ride through the political and emotional landscape.

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5.0 out of 5 stars Compelling, heart wrenching, nail biting storyline. By A Customer, 
Amazon UK  

This review is from: Walking K: A Political Thriller (Hardcover)

Walking K is one of those books I read in one sitting, it was almost impossible to put down. It takes a strong hold of your emotions from the very beginning. After, I went back and read some of the best parts again. It was disappointing to run out of pages. DeMott's characters come to life with such vivid intensity. They are real people. It is obvious the Vietnam conflict meant a lot to this author, as his writing reflects his feelings and frustrations on the POW situation. I thoroughly enjoyed reading Walking K, and I am looking forward to reading more of DeMott's writing.

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5.0 out of 5 stars Thought-provoking eye-opener everyone should read! By A Customer, 
Amazon UK  

This review is from: Walking K: A Political Thriller (Hardcover)

WALKING K is a very well-written, action-packed, emotionally-suspenseful book that kept me on edge from the beginning to the end. Everything is so vivid you feel you are a part of it. It is a "food for thought" eye-opener into behind-the-scenes struggle for power. I found "both sides of the coin" so to speak - One side being man's inhumanity to man for power and money and the other side being loyal, selfless commitment to help fellow-man. It brought tears of sadness and tears of joy! I hope WALKING K becomes a movie. I also understand Wes DeMott's book Vapors is going to press soon. Really looking forward to it.

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5.0 out of 5 stars Great characters in a fast-moving political thrillerBy A Customer, 
Amazon UK  

This review is from: Walking K: A Political Thriller (Hardcover)

This book did what most don't - grabbed me at the first line and refused to let me go. The characters were amazing, especially for genre fiction, and I really came to care about them. I cried at the end, and have never done that before in this type of novel. The subject matter of this political thriller seemed to be something the author had actually experienced, and cared deeply about. I read where he'd been an FBI agent. Anyone know more about this writer? Anyone know of other books by Demott? I'd like to know the titles and read them. Has he been around for awhile? 



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