Guest Post & #Giveaway: Bazaar by Miles Joyner
- Archaeolibrarian
- Jun 2
- 12 min read
Book Details:
Published by: World Castle Publishing
Publication Date: March 24, 2025
Number of Pages: 355
ISBN: 9798305201901 (HC) 9798891263369 (PB)
@joynermh @partnersincrimevbt
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A high-profile homicide of a former ambassador's son in the nightlife district of the nation's capital gets connected to an assassination market on the dark web, turning the DC area into a battlefield over a new generation of class warfare. When the ex-diplomat, Chiedu Attah, hires an elite executive protection team headed by siblings Yemi and Karen Uzunma to guarantee his safety, the security firm realizes they are going up against a young, inventive contract killer who is determined to finish off the political VIP by any means necessary.
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The only lighting inside the dark room was a couple of red LED lamps. They didn’t bother the eyesight of eighteen-year-old Aaron Williams, who was wide-eyed in fascination at his Ultramaker XT 3D printer going to work. The last of the white filament flew out the extruder onto the print bed, and he couldn’t have felt any more like a father watching his wife through the glass, holding their newborn baby.
He reached onto the platform and gripped his new plastic handgun that shot real, metal bullets. Like its predecessors, the Mini Talon had been banned from all sites hosting 3-D printing design files. However, Aaron was able to obtain it through torrents online, and now he had the opportunity to add it to his family of firearms that lay around the room, including an assault rifle with a lower receiver printed with the same material. But unlike the rest of its siblings, the MT wouldn’t be another one of Aaron’s toys to fire off rounds at tree targets deep in the woods. Some of the former models exploded on tests from the videos Aaron watched online, but he was confident the new version would not fail to take out his intended target in a few days with its untraceable ballistics.
Danny would be his escape. The son of a local pho restaurant owner was Aaron’s only friend outside the digital realm. Danny Phat took very little in life seriously, but for all the flaws, he knew every back road of the entire DC, Maryland, Virginia area. He could whip his raggedy-ass decade-old Nissan Altima pretty well. Either way, Aaron had no driver’s license and he wouldn’t risk getting pulled over or traced to a rideshare app.
The young 21st-century gunsmith couldn’t take his eyes off his latest creation. He loaded a magazine, cocked the weapon, and listened satisfyingly to the crisp click. It blew Aaron’s mind to think the ammunition clip had fit perfectly into a gun made from the same material as his storage cabinet.
He was ready to test the gun. Would it fire smoothly? He had two days to test it and find out before he had to execute his assigned job.
August 20th, 2024. 1:30 AM.
Washington, D.C.
Liquor-induced shrieks and screams of laughter carried over the bass thumps throughout a bumping Adams Morgan, the corridor of D.C. that served as one of the city’s nightlife hot spots. Neon lights shined on the designer-brand, clean-cut, modern-day yuppies who strut out of the nightclubs and the plaid-shirt bearded hipsters who stumbled out of the brewing taverns. A lot were on their nights off from studying, but the cost of drinks was far higher than college town prices so the professional class of everyone from policy aides to software
engineers got just as wasted. Regardless of education or socioeconomic background, many women looked for their best friend whom they lost in the partying, and many male counterparts hoped to be that lucky dude they might have run off with.
Isaiah knew that’s what his best friend Adamu Attah wanted to be at that moment. But it was past Last Call, and Isaiah had put pressure on him for them to start heading back to their university dorms. He could tell Adamu didn’t get it. The youngest patriarch of the politically rich Attah family from Nigeria had no issues getting cheeks back home, but American girls apparently weren’t as impressed with his super-forward approach. Isaiah tried to explain this to Adamu outside the Astro Lounge on 18th Street with neither a female around his arm nor a single new contact in his phone, but before he could bother to listen, a tipsy trio of curvy young women strolled out after him and caught his eye. Long braids, luscious shapes formed from their Lycra dresses, flawless different shades of ebony skin. Isaiah just knew Adamu would try again.
“AY!” The belles reluctantly turned toward the source of the attempt at a mating call. “Where we goin’ tonight?”
“Nowhere that involves ugly!” The tallest out of the three formed a smirk under her glasses, her two graduate degrees having only enhanced a life’s worth of sharp rebuttals to catcalling in her neighborhood. She laughed, and the pack began to leave the scene. No different than a kid eyeing the milk chocolate bar right before checkout, Isaiah knew Adamu just couldn’t take no for an answer. The shorter one with the most voluptuous figure became the unlucky winner to have her hand grabbed without permission.
“C’mon mami, ditch these bitches—” Adamu was snatched mid-sentence by a bouncer whose neck rolls formed a poop emoji and got tossed like a rag doll into the hands of Isaiah a few feet away.
“Dumbass!” screamed the short one as the three marched off down the street.
“I’m royalty, hoes! Some other BITCH will get blessed with this big dick tonight!”
“HEY!” The head of Astro Lounge security had enough. So had Isaiah.
“I’m so sorry, sir, he’s drunk.”
“Get him the fuck outta here before I break his jaw.”
“Yes, sir. Again, I’m sorry!”
The situation was all too familiar to Isaiah. Except now, instead of guiding a destroyed Adamu down the Terrapin-flagged residential streets of College Park, Maryland, from one frat house to another, they had graduated to bar hopping in D.C., where the young bachelor had been able to finally drink legally for the past ninety minutes.
“Sometimes you’re a freaking embarrassment, Adamu.”
“Shut the hell up and get an Uber. We’re going to Starline.”
“Starline?”
“Strip club.” Adamu gulped down a wad of vomit from coming out. Isaiah looked
away in disgust, but something else caught his eye as they turned the corner.
A Metrobus stop bench rested thirty yards from their position. He figured that was where they could gather themselves after such a night. He used the remainder of his stamina to finally reach the bench and slap the back of Adamu to the hard rubber as if to try to wake him up. Isaiah checked his phone. 2% battery.
“Dammit...Adamu!”
His eyes opened, barely able to comprehend where he was even at, let alone being able to give Isaiah a response.
“Your phone. Mine’s about to die.” Body in total slow motion, Adamu managed to tap his pockets.
“Sh-Sh-Sh-Shit” eeked out of Adamu’s mouth.
“WHAT?!” Isaiah tapped his friend’s pockets. “Where is it?! Or your wallet?” Another tap. Wow. Alcohol and a night of partying caused his buddy to lose track of his valuables. Unbelievable.
“The hell is wrong with you? This isn’t Saint Catherines anymore!” Isaiah yelled at him, referencing their boarding school back in Victoria Island.
Vomit rose through his esophagus, except Isaiah could tell from the lump in Adamu’s throat that this batch was going full projectile. Isaiah jumped out of the way right in time for only a chunk to get on his shoes. The rest of Adamu’s day’s intake became a red-yellow puddle at the side of the bench. The gross site, as well as the realization that their options were fading, prompted Isaiah to throw his fist and scream a few “fucks” to himself. He looked up at the bus stop sign and saw that the 92 bus had a destination of SHAW-Howard, a Metro station. Maybe the route was their best bet if the bus got there within fifteen minutes
and they made the last train, figured Isaiah as he composed himself.
He looked away, and something else caught his eye. Several blocks down Marion
Street walked a hooded figure. Not too brisk, but certainly with purpose right toward their position. Isaiah squinted, and the street lamps revealed a teenager in a dark blue hoodie with jeans. The getup, time of night, and even the location were enough for Isaiah’s nerves to merge into his skin. Yeah, they were in the “nice part” of D.C., but Isaiah’s classmates had been robbed on campus, so it could happen anywhere. The young male got closer. When he was thirty feet away, Isaiah was still unsure of how to react or whether to react at all. The feeling might have been what his student counselor emphasized as overthinking.
“Com’on now.” Shifting from foot to foot, Isaiah sunk his hands deep into his pockets, a reflex move he made whenever he was nervous. At the same time, he heard his parents’ judgmental biases about inner-city youth, fighting to stave off his own similar thoughts.
“Hey, bro,” the figure said once he reached the bus stop. They traded ‘sup’ nods.
Isaiah’s was way more reserved. “My phone’s dead. You got the time?”
“Mine’s dead, too. Sorry.”
“Hate when that happens out of nowhere.” Isaiah started to ease up to the source of the voice that seemed extra friendly with a hint of anxiety. The jitters he noticed from the kid were probably from him panicking over his phone being dead, figured Isaiah. Something he clearly could relate to, given his own situation. The original image shaped in his head was starting to look too judgemental. The teenager looked at Adamu who hung over the bench, motionless and barely conscious. “I’d ask him, but he looks done.”
“Yeah, he lost his at the club. Long night.” Isaiah gandered at his friend draped over the bench, now sharing sympathy with his comrade.
“Ah, so THAT’S why the phone is dead. Had it out the whole time booking them
females. Can’t even be mad at him.”
“Not even,” laughed Isaiah, trying to shake off whatever anxiety he had left.
“Word, y’all heading to Howard?”
“Nah. We go to Maryland. Trying to figure out a way back, actually.”
“Shit, I’m in the same position. Know where the closest metro is? Wonder if we can make the last train...”
The sign, Isaiah remembered. They had to just keep walking down Marion. "Yeah, I think—” POP POP. The friend of the target was not getting up from the two .380 caliber bullets that were just blasted through his skull with the utmost precision and professionalism.
Aaron didn’t waste a beat as he tactically shifted the open sights of his plastic 3-D printed pistol to a groggy Adamu struggling to get his words out. “Please,” he cried. “I-I don’t have my wallet, but I can give you anything. I’m rich as fuck I swear—” POP. Three total gunshots.
The first one might have caught attention, but the second one was supposed to send any potential eyewitnesses running. At least, that’s what he learned from observing the few shootings he witnessed around his way. Aaron stowed the pistol away in his waistband holster. He checked the surroundings for the fifth time that night. There was no sign of anybody. He picked the right spot and predicted Adamu’s every move since the club perfectly. But where the hell was Danny? His Altima was supposed to be turning that corner before the first shot. VROOM. SCREECH. There it was. Revved and making too much damn noise as it peeled from an alleyway to scoop Aaron. The passenger door flew open, and
Aaron jumped in. They took off before any sirens could be heard.
“Woo!” yelled Danny as he whipped around another corner. The two dressed pretty similar but everything Danny did was exaggerated in an attempt to blend into the projects they were heading back to. Everything from the Commander’s fitted hat to his Foamposite pressed against the gas pedal contrasted the plainer attire of Aaron, who didn’t care at all about the brands his former classmates worshipped on a daily basis.
“Fool you a BEAST!”
Aaron needed a moment to gather himself. Despite his success so far, taking someone’s life for the first time was a difficult realization to settle into. Let alone two lives. His parents never intended to raise a killer. His dyslexia limited the options the school offered. Danny’s advice about selling drugs or sketchy affiliate marketing plans wasn’t a solution either. He knew what would end up to him down that familiar path. He also took note of how naive Danny’s hype was in the latest additions to the district’s homicide rate.
“You were late” was the first thing out of Aaron’s mouth.
“Chill, fam. Traffic around the corner was O-C. Stop acting like I ain’t do my job.”
Aaron’s eyes just rolled in response. Maybe if it was another debate at Danny’s spot about Harden Vs. Curry over some french fries drenched in mambo sauce, he’d entertain the bickering. But not after carrying out his first homicide. He wanted silence.
“But yeah, slim, you did the damn thing. How much did those lames have anyways? Real live starving in this bitch.” Aaron’s eyes widened. Unbeknownst to Danny, Aaron was just supposed to make it only look like a robbery.
“Shit, I forgot to run through their pockets.”
“The fuck you mean forgot? Nigga what was the whole point of tonight?”
“I still got you...and I told you not to use that word around me.”
“Imma call you a whole lot of other things if you don’t get my bread, muh fucka. Fuck type shit you think this is—”
“DANNY! SHUT THE HELL UP! Please.” Aaron didn’t yell often, but the authentic rage in his voice shut down whatever gangsta persona Danny was going for. By then, Aaron knew Danny finally realized it wasn’t another discussion about the NBA playoffs.
“Just get us to P-G,” Aaron said. P-G was the county of their home right outside the nation’s capital, Prince George’s. “Stop somewhere, and I’ll cover, but I can’t talk right now.”
Nothing but the sound of road bumps and night traffic until Danny began to piece together a hint as to what the real motivation for that night had been.
“Aaron.” Danny had to pause for a moment. “Are you saying this was a hit?”
Aaron didn’t care to answer Danny’s curiosity. He stared at the night-lit city outside the car window. He had just clocked out, and there was no desire to talk about work. The murder of Adamu happened two hours after midnight, meaning his death landed on the date Aaron had bet on the assassination market called the Bazaar.
Predicting Violence for Profit: A Brief History of Online Dead Pools
My debut novel, Bazaar, is a technothriller which deals with the ramifications on society when an assassination market grows in popularity via the dark net. Figures of various prestige get a cryptocurrency number next to their name on a list and whoever predicts the correct date the individual will die, gets compensated by the winnings. So far, a common point made by reviewers (regardless of how many stars they gave it) has been how close to our current reality the story is, despite that there haven’t been any homicides yet tied to such a concept. They are right on the money (sorry for the pun) and it seems to have an origin that only goes back a few decades.
American cypherpunk advocates Jim Bell and Tim May were the first writers to highlight how an assassination market tied to crypto currency could act as a ‘solution’ to political discourse when elected leaders act outside of the public interest. Bell’s Assassination Politics is the theoretical foundation to how the fictional Bazaar.tor functions, and he wrote the essay in the mid 90s, far before Bitcoin was launched. Anonymous digital money had been an idea since the early 80s, though. But it was controversial dissidents like May and Bell who saw its advantage in usage over traditional fiat currency for something which couldn’t be traced by law enforcement.
None of these would be put into action until the early 2010s, however. In the same year the notorious Silk Road marketplace would be shut down by the FBI, an individual who went by the pseudonym of KuwabatakeSanjuro launched an actual assassination market that could only be accessed with usage of the Tor browser. This was only two years after the Occupy Wall Street mass protests so it was no surprise that one of the most ‘popular’ names on the list was Ben Bernanke, the chairman of the Federal Reserve during George W. Bush’s presidency as well as Barack Obama, another name who was near the top of the list.
It's now 2025 and everyone on that list is still alive. But the fact that it existed backed by actual legal tender proves that truth is indeed stranger than fiction. And it can also be much, much scarier too,
A lifelong fiction writer, Miles turned to penning novels after nearly a decade of holding various producer/editor roles in the D.C. area media industry. He still pursues filmmaking in between books and finds that writing in the thriller genre only enhances that passion even more. Miles is an active member of International Thriller Writers where his novel, Bazaar, was selected for ITW's Debut Authors Program. He also attends monthly meetings for Novels in Progress DC.
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Great guest post!
"an assassination market grows in popularity via the dark net" ~ I love reading about this kind of thing!
Sounds like a great book! Thanks for sharing.