I’m excited to finally share that my newest thriller is on the way:
Death Is Waiting for You in Dubai
A New Masada 2 Mystery — Coming April 2026
What starts with a simple phone call…
ends in a fight for survival.
This story follows former Masada 2 elite operative Stu Gove into a high-stakes world of international intrigue, danger, loyalty, and unexpected alliances. Think fast-paced action, vivid settings, unforgettable characters — and a few twists you won’t see coming.
Here’s a quick sample of the direction the book is heading — and trust me, once Stu’s journey begins, there’s no turning back.
If you’d like a copy when it’s published, just let me know. I’d love to put you on the list and be sure you’re among the first to get it.
Thanks, as always, for being part of this journey with me.
Onward,
Wayne Weiner, D.Ed.
Author | Consultant | Realistic Optimist
Death Is Waiting for You in Dubai,
Introduction
The phone rang at 2:17 a.m.
Stu Gove didn’t reach for it right away.
He lay still in the dark, listening.
Old habit.
In his Miami apartment, the air-conditioning hummed like a tired engine. Somewhere outside, a siren rose and faded. The ocean pushed quietly against the shoreline, steady and indifferent.
The phone rang again.
Two short vibrations.
That pattern meant something.
Stu rolled out of bed in one smooth motion, bare feet touching cool tile. He checked the hallway mirror as he passed—six foot two, lean muscle, scar above the left eyebrow, eyes that never quite relaxed anymore.
He picked up on the third ring.
“Gove.”
Static crackled.
Then a voice he hadn’t heard in nearly eight years.
Low. Controlled.
“Stu. It’s Amir.”
Stu closed his eyes.
Masada 2.
No one from Masada 2 ever called to say hello.
They called when things were already burning.
“I thought you were dead,” Stu said.
A pause.
“Not yet.”
Stu moved to the window and parted the blinds with two fingers. Palm trees swayed under amber streetlights. Nothing unusual.
“Where are you?”
“Dubai. For now.”
That single word carried weight.
Dubai meant money. Power. Hidden corridors beneath luxury. It meant black markets disguised as boardrooms and assassins who wore tailored suits.
“What do you need?” Stu asked.
Another pause.
Then: “They found your name.”
Stu’s jaw tightened.
“That’s impossible.”
“I wish it were.”
Silence stretched between them.
Finally Amir said, “If you don’t come, they’ll come to you.”
Stu exhaled slowly.
He already knew what he was going to do.
He always did.
“I’m packing.”
The line went dead.
Stu Gove stood in the darkness, phone still pressed to his ear.
Somewhere, very far away, death had just put him back on its calendar.
CHAPTER ONE
Mumbai Smells Like Heat, Diesel, and Trouble
Mumbai hit Stu Gove like a physical force.
Heat first—thick and wet, wrapping around his lungs.
Then sound.
Car horns screamed in layered chaos. Motorbikes buzzed past like angry insects. Vendors shouted in Hindi and English. Somewhere a temple bell rang, steady and calm, completely out of sync with the traffic.
The airport doors slid open and India poured in.
Beside him, Dijana adjusted her blazer and surveyed the crowd with cool efficiency.
Dijana Markovic had been his assistant for three years.
Former intelligence analyst. Multilingual. Photographic memory. Razor-sharp instincts.
She didn’t miss much.
“Temperature is ninety-two,” she said. “Humidity eighty percent. My hair already surrendered.”
Stu smiled faintly.
“You look great.”
She snorted.
Behind them came Bea and Shirley.
Bea was compact, athletic, and permanently amused by everything. She wore aviator sunglasses and carried herself like someone who could break a wrist without spilling her coffee.
Shirley was taller, softer around the edges, and possessed the kind of quiet awareness that made people underestimate her right up until they regretted it.
They’d been with Stu since Eastern Europe. Loyal. Capable. Dangerous when necessary.
“Smells like curry and chaos,” Bea said. “I love it.”
Shirley scanned the exits. “We’re being watched.”
Stu already knew.
Two men near the taxi stand. One pretending to scroll on his phone. Another leaning against a pillar. Both wearing Western clothes. Both too still.
“Welcome to the party,” Stu murmured.
They moved.
Mumbai traffic was a living organism. Rickshaws darted between buses. Pedestrians crossed wherever courage outweighed logic. Neon signs flickered above fruit stalls and jewelry shops. A woman balanced a crate of oranges on her head while talking on a headset.
Life here didn’t pause.
It collided.
Their driver, a thin man named Ravi, maneuvered through the streets with miraculous patience.
Dijana pulled up a tablet.
“Amir’s last ping came from Bandra West. Luxury high-rise. Twenty-four floors. Private security.”
“And?” Stu asked.
“And thirty minutes later his phone went dark.”
Bea leaned forward. “Kidnapped or dead?”
Stu watched rain begin to streak across the windshield.
“Or both.”
CHAPTER TWO
Ghosts Don’t Text Back
The building in Bandra rose like polished arrogance—glass, steel, and money.
Security was tight.
Too tight.
Private guards. Cameras on every corner. Electronic gates.
Shirley studied the entrance. “This place screams offshore accounts.”
Bea cracked her knuckles. “Let’s go shopping.”
Dijana flashed credentials that were half real and half very expensive fiction. They were inside in under two minutes.
The elevator ride was silent.
Stu felt the familiar tightening in his chest—the calm before violence.
Twenty-fourth floor.
The hallway smelled faintly of jasmine and bleach.
Apartment 2403.
The door was ajar.
That never meant anything good.
Stu entered first.
The living room was immaculate.
White leather couch. Abstract art. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Arabian Sea.
No signs of struggle.
Then he noticed the overturned chair.
The broken glass near the kitchen island.
And the blood.
Not much.
Just enough.
Dijana crouched, examining droplets on the marble floor.
“Type O,” she said. “Fresh within twelve hours.”
Bea moved toward the bedroom.
Shirley checked the balcony.
Stu walked slowly through the apartment, every sense wide open.
He found Amir’s phone under the dining table.
The screen was shattered.
Still powered on.
One unsent message glowed faintly.
THEY HAVE THE LIST.
Stu swallowed.
Masada 2 maintained a classified registry of former operatives. Names. Locations. Families.
If that list was compromised—
“Stu,” Shirley called softly.
He joined her on the balcony.
Below them, Mumbai pulsed with life.
Shirley pointed to the neighboring rooftop.
A flash of movement.
Then nothing.
“We’re not alone,” she said.
Bea’s voice crackled in Stu’s earpiece.
“Two heat signatures across the street. One above us.”
Dijana joined them, pale but steady.
“This isn’t random,” she said. “This is coordinated.”
Stu stared out at the city.
India wasn’t the mission.
India was the doorway.
Dubai was coming.
And whoever had Amir was playing a long game.
Stu Gove felt the old switch flip inside him—the one that shut down doubt and opened up survival.
“Okay,” he said quietly.
“They wanted my attention.”
He turned to his team.
“They’ve got it.”
Outside, thunder rolled across the skyline.
Somewhere between Mumbai and Dubai, someone was planning their next move.
And death was already booking flights.
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