The Righteous Men - Sam Bourne

Have you ever wondered what happens when the righteous are hunted? // If you’ve been captivated by Dan Brown’s bestsellers — The Da Vinci Code, Angels & Demons, Inferno, or Origin — then Sam Bourne’s The Righteous Men promises to pull you into a similarly pulse-pounding world of mystery, conspiracy, and ancient secrets. // This novel explores the terrifying idea that those who quietly uphold goodness in the world can become targets for unspeakable evil.

The story follows Will Monroe, a rookie journalist at the New York Times, whose life is shattered when his wife, Beth, is abducted. // What starts as a personal tragedy quickly expands into a global mystery, as Will discovers a series of murders that seem unrelated at first — until he realizes all the victims were “righteous men”, ordinary people performing extraordinary acts of moral courage without recognition. // From a New York City pimp to a far-right extremist, these men share a common link: their unseen contribution to sustaining the moral balance of the world.

At the heart of the novel lies the ancient Jewish belief in the 36 righteous men, the Lamed Vav Tzadikim, whose goodness is said to preserve humanity itself. // Bourne takes this mystical concept and turns it into a modern thriller, blending faith, morality, and suspense into a story that challenges readers to consider the fragility of good in a world teetering on chaos. // Will Monroe’s investigation leads him deep into the realms of Jewish mysticism, Kabbalah, and a radical Christian sect, creating a narrative where every revelation is both shocking and illuminating.

Bourne’s writing is both fast-paced and intellectually engaging, reminiscent of the intricate plots and historical puzzles that Dan Brown fans love. // Each chapter ratchets up the tension, moving from the streets of Manhattan to ancient rituals and shadowy conspiracies, forcing readers to ask: What price do we pay for righteousness? // How far would someone go to stop those who uphold morality? And can one man, armed with courage, knowledge, and intuition, stop a force that targets the very foundation of good?

So — why should you read The Righteous Men? // Because it’s not just a thriller; it’s a meditation on ethics, faith, and the hidden forces that shape our world. // It combines personal stakes, global intrigue, and philosophical depth, making it perfect for readers who crave high-stakes suspense with intellectual resonance. // If you loved the cryptic codes, secret societies, and historical intrigue in Dan Brown’s novels, this story will feel immediately familiar — yet fresh, surprising, and utterly absorbing.

In the end, The Righteous Men leaves us reflecting on the power of goodness, the perils of fanaticism, and the unseen threads that connect humanity. // It is a story that thrills, challenges, and lingers in the mind long after the last page — reminding us that even in a world full of darkness, acts of righteousness can shape destiny itself.

Reading 1 (Part 2)

T

CHAPTER ONE

Friday, 9.10pm, Manhattan

he night of the first killing was filled with song. St Patrick’s Cathedral in

Manhattan trembled to the sound of Handel’s Messiah, the grand choral

master that never failed to rouse even the most slumbering audience. Its swell

of voices surged at the roof of the cathedral. It was as if they wanted to break

out, to reach the very heavens.

Inside, close to the front, sat a father and son, the older man’s eyes closed,

moved as always by this, his favourite piece of music. The son’s gaze

alternated between the performers — the singers dressed in black, the

conductor wildly waving his shock of greying hair — and the man at his side.

He liked looking at him, gauging his reactions; he liked being this close.

Tonight was a celebration. A month earlier Will Monroe Jr had landed the

job he had dreamed of ever since he had come to America. Still only in his

late twenties, he was now a reporter, on the fast track at The New York Times.

Monroe Sr inhabited a different realm. He was a lawyer, one of the most

accomplished of his generation, now serving as a federal judge on the second

circuit of the US Court of Appeals. He liked to acknowledge achievement

when he saw it and this young man at his side, whose boyhood he had all but

missed, had reached a milestone. He found his son’s hand and gave it a

squeeze.

It was at that moment, no more than a forty-minute subway ride across town

but a world away, that Howard Macrae heard the first steps behind him. He

was not scared. Outsiders may have steered clear of this Brooklyn

neighbourhood of Brownsville, notorious for its drug-riddled deprivation, but

Macrae knew every street and alley.

He was part of the landscape. A pimp of some two decades’ standing, he

was wired into Brownsville. He had been a smart operator, too, ensuring that

in the gang warfare that scarred the area, he always remained a neutral.

Factions would clash and shift, but Howard stayed put, constant. No one had

challenged the patch where his whores plied their trade for years.

So he was not too worried by the sound behind him. Still, he found it odd

that the footsteps did not stop. He could tell they were close. Why would

anybody be tailing him? He turned his head to peer over his left shoulder and

gasped, immediately tripping over his feet. It was a gun unlike any he had

ever seen — and it was aimed at him.

Inside the cathedral, the chorus were now one being, their lungs opening and

closing like the bellows of a single, mighty organ. The music was insistent:

And the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together: for the mouth of

the Lord hath spoken it.

Reading 2 (Part 3)

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Friday, 10.05pm, Crown Heights, Brooklyn

see that we have both made a mistake here. Your mistake is that you have

lied to me and lied consistently, even under immense pressure. Under the

circumstances, I now understand that and even find it admirable.’ Will could

hardly hear the words over the sound of his own heart throbbing. He was

scared, much more terrified than he had been outside. The Rebbe had

discovered the truth. Something in the wallet had betrayed him, doubtless one

loose credit card receipt or a long-forgotten Blockbuster membership card.

God only knew what pain lay in store for him now.

‘You are here to look for your wife.’

‘Yes.’ Will could hear the exhaustion in his own voice. And the anguish.

‘I understand that, and I hope that I would do the same in your position. I

am sure Moshe Menachem and Tzvi Yehuda agree.’ Now both the thugs had

names. ‘It is a duty for all husbands to provide for and protect their wives.

That is the nature of the marriage commitment.

‘But I am afraid the usual rules cannot apply in this case.

I cannot let you come charging in here, no matter how heroically, and

rescue your wife. I cannot allow it.’

‘So you admit that you have her here?’

‘I don’t admit anything. I don’t deny anything. That is not the purpose of

what I am saying to you, Mr Monroe. Will. I am trying to explain that the

usual rules don’t apply in this case.’

‘What usual rules? What case?’

‘I wish I could tell you more, Will, I really do. But I cannot.’

Will was not sure if he had just been ground down by the ordeal of the last

few — what was it: hours, minutes? — or whether he was simply relieved

that it was over, but he was sure he heard something different in the Rebbe’s

voice. The menace had gone; there was a sadness, a sorrow in it that Will

heard as sympathy, maybe even compassion for himself.

It was ridiculous: the man was a torturer. Will wondered if he was

succumbing to Stockholm Syndrome, the strange bond that can develop

between a captive and his captor: first depending on the Israeli as if he was a

guide dog for the blind rather than a violent brute, and now detecting

humanity in his chief tormentor. This was surely an irrational reaction to the

end of the ducking-stool treatment: rather than feeling anger that it had

happened at all, he was feeling gratitude to the Rebbe for ending it.

Stockholm Syndrome, a classic case.

And yet, Will rated himself a good judge of character. He reckoned he had

always been perceptive and he was sure he could hear something real in that

voice. He gambled on his hunch.

‘Tell me something which I have a right to know. Is my wife safe? Is she …

unharmed?’ He could not bring himself to say the word he really meant —

alive — not because he feared the Hassidim’s reaction so much as his own.

He feared his voice would crack, that he would show a weakness he had so

far kept hidden.

Reading 3 (Part 4)

H

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Sunday, 6.46pm, Brooklyne wanted to interrogate TC for hours, about her life, about the secret she

had kept for so long. Lots of Jewish people became orthodox; they were

known as chozer b’tshuva, literally ‘one who returns to repentance’. She had

gone the other way: chozer b’she’ela. She had returned to question.

But they had no time for that conversation, no matter how much they

wanted it. They had to get to Crown Heights. Yosef Yitzhok had been

murdered, though neither of them had any idea why. The last messages Will

had received directing him to Atlas at the Rockefeller Center — had been sent

after YY’s death, proof that he had not been the informer after all. So why

would anyone want him dead? Will was baffled. All he knew was that things

were turning steadily more vicious. The rabbi had not been exaggerating: time

was running out.

Just as pressing was TC’s promise. All would become clear, she had said,

once they were in Crown Heights. She could not tell Will herself what was

going on. But the explanation lay there. They just had to find it.

‘I’m going to need to use your bathroom. And I’m going to need to borrow

some of Beth’s clothes.’

‘Sure,’ Will said, trying hard to shrug off the potential symbolism of that

request. He led TC to Beth’s closet and, steeling himself, pulled back the

sliding door. Instantly his nostrils filled with the scent of her. He was sure he

could smell her hair; he could think himself into the aroma of that patch of

skin below her ear. He breathed in deeply, through his nose.

TC pulled out a plain white blouse, one Beth wore for formal work

meetings, usually under a dark trouser-suit. It was cut high, Will noticed. We

request that all women and girls, whether living here or visiting, adhere at all

times to the laws of modesty …

She turned to Will. ‘Does Beth have any really long skirts?’

Will thought hard. There were a couple of long dresses, including a

particularly beautiful one he had bought for his wife on their first anniversary.

But they were evening wear.

‘Hold on,’ he said. ‘Let me look at the back here.’ He wondered if Beth had

gotten around to throwing it out; he knew she planned to. It was a long, drab

dark velvet skirt that Will had mocked mercilessly. He called it Beth’s

‘spinster cellist number’. She put up a mock-defence, but she could see his

point: it did make her look like one of those silver-haired lady players spotted

in every orchestra. But she felt attached to it. To Will’s great relief at this

moment, she had never got rid of it.

‘OK,’ said TC, moving towards the bathroom. ‘These will have to go.’ She

cocked her head to one side to take off her earrings. Then she pressed her face

closer to the mirror and began the complex manoeuvre of removing her nose￾stud.

Finally she gazed down at her middle and unscrewed the ring that pierced

her belly button. She now had a small pile of metal in her hand, which she

placed by the basin.

‘Now for the toughest job of all.’ She reached into her bag to produce a

newly purchased bottle of shampoo, one specially designed for the task at

hand. She started running the tap, grabbed a towel and slung it around her

shoulders. As if bracing herself for a nasty ordeal, she bent down and lowered

her head towards the water.