A murdered diplomat. A dying man’s cryptic message. A conspiracy that could shatter NATO.
When U.S. geopolitical strategist Roger ‘Simms’ Osbourne receives word that his colleague and friend Aslı Green has been killed, he inherits more than grief. He inherits her secret: evidence of a sophisticated Russian operation that sank a Ukrainian tanker and made it look like an accident.
Sent to London to sell a critical NATO surveillance system, Simms quickly discovers his official mission is compromised. A powerful British political faction, backed by shadowy money and royal connections, is determined to see him fail. The deeper he digs into Aslı’s murder, the more he realizes the two threats are connected.
Forced to abandon the rulebook, Simms assembles an unlikely alliance: his embattled team, a mysterious operative named Katya who knows too much, and assets on both sides of the law. Together, they uncover a sprawling network funneling Russian profits through international shell companies to fuel a political war against the West.
But Russian Admiral Sidorov isn’t waiting for the dust to settle. His devastating military demonstration exposes NATO’s vulnerabilities and humiliates the alliance on the world stage. And lurking beneath it all is an even darker secret: Chinese technology at the heart of Russia’s most advanced weapons.
Now Simms must wage war on three fronts: political, financial, and military. Because if he fails, his friend died for nothing. And the next strike won’t be disguised as an accident.
For fans of Tom Clancy, Mark Greaney, and Brad Thor.
EXCERPT:
Ankara. Surveillance van outside Mikhail’s apartment. Evening.
Jack adjusted the lens for the hundredth time. Jones was sorting sunflower seeds by some private system known only to God and possibly his therapist.
“Stilettos,” Jones said.
“We’re not doing this.”
“We’re absolutely doing this. We’ve been here four hours. I’ve counted the bricks on that building. There are 2,847. I’ve earned a conversation.”
“You counted wrong. There are 2,846.”
“You counted them too?”
“Shut up.” Jack refused to look at him. “What about stilettos?”
“Women wear them voluntarily. On purpose. They pay extra for the privilege of balancing on pencil erasers.”
“Groundbreaking analysis. Call the sociology department.”
“I’m serious. Men’s fashion evolution went: uncomfortable, less uncomfortable, sweatpants. Enlightenment achieved. Women’s fashion went: uncomfortable, more uncomfortable, here’s a torture device from the Spanish Inquisition, but we made it beige.”
Jack checked the window. Nothing.
“Maybe they like being tall.”
“Platform sneakers exist. Wedges exist. Sensible block heels exist. Those chunky things that look like orthopedic equipment for fashionable astronauts.” Jones cracked a seed with surgical precision. “The stiletto isn’t about height. It’s about violence.”
“Violence.”
“Think about it. Historically, women couldn’t carry weapons. Swords, daggers, frowned upon. Very unlady-like. But shoes?” Jones gestured broadly, scattering shells. “Nobody regulates footwear. So some genius says, what if we put a three-inch steel spike on a pump and call it couture?”
“That’s actually not terrible.”
“I’m occasionally not terrible. Mark the calendar.”
The radio crackled. Static. The universe’s way of saying nothing was happening, and nothing would happen.
“You know they were daggers first,” Jones said. “Fifteenth century. Little needle-point shivs for punching through armor gaps.”
Jack checked the monitor. Still dark. “We are not talking about fashion history.”
“It’s tactical history. ‘Stiletto’ comes from stilus. The little metal spike Romans used for writing.” Jones pointed a shell at Jack. “It literally means ‘angry pen.’ The shoe is just a knife you can walk in.”
“You made that up.”
“Look it up. CIA even tried to weaponize them in the fifties. Program called Stiletto Rose. Pop-out blades in the heel.”
“Bullshit.”
“Swear to God. Total failure. Mechanics didn’t work. But someone tried.” Jones grinned. “Boredom is the mother of weapons development.”
Jack massaged his temples.
“Your ex-wife had stilettos, didn’t she?”
“Louboutins. Red soles. Cost more than my first car.” Jones found a seed worthy of consumption. “She never wore them. Kept them in the box. I asked why. She said they weren’t for wearing, they were for knowing she could wear them.”
“That explains the divorce.”
“Many things explain the divorce. Most of them are my fault. Some of them footwear-adjacent.”
The window remained dark. Jack was developing a personal vendetta against it.
The radio crackled.
“All teams, target vehicle approaching.”
Jack grabbed the camera. Jones swept the sunflower seeds aside.
“Finally,” Jones said. “I had a whole bit about platform shoes being siege equipment.”
“Save it.”
“Battering rams for the fashion-forward.”
Author Bio:
Başar Görür;
Writes geopolitical techno-thrillers grounded in institutions, leverage, and the real mechanics behind modern power. He has a BA degree in International Relations.
During his military service, he served on the personal staff of the Commander of the War Academies, working directly for a four-star air force general as an aide and translator. That experience informs how he writes briefings, decision cycles, and pressure under uncertainty.
He later held senior executive roles at PwC and at 3M Corporation headquarters, operating in multinational environments where cross-border incentives and capital flows shape outcomes. He now leads a private asset-management business.
Outside of work, he is a licensed captain and avid scuba diver who spends several months each year at sea and has traveled extensively. These experiences shape the Shadow Sovereign series.
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