The fourth novel in the Shmuley Myers series is…underway. In the same way that heading into Manhattan at 8:30 on a Monday is “commuting.” I’m on deadline for a manuscript that also has Jewish connections, but is more a light fantasy/love/relationship tale. However, I’ve got a few things to share:

A Measure of Mercy is the novel’s working title. Like previous novels, the title connects a thread running through the novel. The action picks up a few months after The Property of Blood leaves off. Here’s a draft snippet from the opening scene:

I squirmed in the car’s driver seat. I was at the edge of the Austin HEB’s mostly empty parking lot, far from the entrance, but with a good view of the loading dock side of the massive building. People from my ultra-Orthodox community shopped here, and I wasn’t wearing a head covering—kerchief or wig. At least the weather was keeping people scurrying from bus or car into and out of the supermarket.

“Two to rescue,” my anonymous Upline coordinator had said. Why on a Sunday late morning, and why somewhere in the open was beyond me. Two to disappear from the Preborn Investigation Bureau’s passion to keep women enslaved to their uteri, according to the Twenty Seventh Preborn Life Amendment, which awarded citizenship from the moment the sperm hit the egg.

I patted the net bag on the seat beside me: day-old carrots and a bundle of beets. At least had the alibi done. Now I needed to remember how to make borscht like my mother made. I glanced at my windup watch: Eleven-twenty-five. Almost late.

Shmuley would be wondering by now where I’d gone, leaving all the chores to him. Ahuvi, a part of my mind wailed. My love. I tensed, my stomach muscles pulling at the scars on my abdomen and beneath. Scars from when a religious crazy—no, a psychotic mass murderer—slashed me open. I was helpless, and Shmuley, again, was my savior. The man killed himself rather than be taken, stealing the justice—and revenge—due his victims’ families.

I got out of the car, feeling naked without my hair covering. I hung an old, heavy winter coat across my right arm—the meeting signal—and closed the car door. I walked toward the bank of loading bays, shaded from the misting rain. September meant the rain was hot, with what felt like steam rising from the cracked tar pavement.

I stretched, the muscle memory of my Krav Maga training driving me to be prepared for anything. After the…after I got better, the Shtetl psychologist, a little granny, suggested learning how to fight the demons torturing my sleep. And the instructor, after hearing my story when I cried after my first lesson, promised me knife training when I got my first belt. A month later, that started. Between teaching, grading homework, and training in martial and knife fighting, I managed to soak up any time I might have had with Shmuley. Seeing the look of guilt and pity on his face. And I didn’t have the strength to hurt him more by waving off his feelings for me. Of me. Better to wall everything off. Look ahead, not remember the nightmares of the past.

A garbage dumpster blocked the three nearest loading bays, parallel to them, flush with the front of the grocery store delivery doors. Across from the dumpster, over by the property fence, was a delivery truck. No driver in sight. Good.

As I reached the shade on the far side of the dumpster, I heard a car door slam. Two women had left an old sedan near where I’d parked my car. They were dressed like me: long-sleeved shirts and long skirts. Maybe fervent Christians? They had the most to fear from being pregnant against their wishes. Not just from the Preborn Investigation Bureau—their own communities would turn on them if they even thought too loudly about terminating a pregnancy. Jethro, my partner today, had all too many stories of how that turned out. He was Saved, just like all the babies taken away from women who’d dared…I stopped that thought and rubbed my abdomen.

“Are you here for the big giveaway?” I asked when they got nearer.

“Pink galoshes,” the older of the two answered.

That was the right code, but they weren’t acting with the usual mincing fear. Not looking around to see if anyone was watching. Oy. Now they were between me and my car. Striding. People on a mission. I backed up and gave a quick glance behind me. Nobody. Hashem willing, Jethro was somewhere nearby.

The women sped up. A sound from the direction of the truck—a man was coming at me at a sprint wielding a sword—a sword!—in one hand.

More anon!