All posts by hahnco1st

Nick Hahn started his career as a writer while a student at the University of Notre Dame. He went on to become President and CEO of New York-based Cotton Incorporated (Cotton, The Fabric of Our Lives). Leaving Cotton in 1997, he formed Hahn International, LTD, an agribusiness consulting group focused on the Third World. For twenty-one years, Nick has lived and worked among indigenous peoples from Africa to Latin America, his travel diaries often reflecting social and political unrest. Under the Skin is his first novel. Nick is married with four children and six grandchildren. He makes his home in rural eastern Connecticut near Long Island Sound, where he writes and narrates audiobooks

The Ambassador’s Daughgter by Nick Hahn, due 2017

The Ambassador’s daughter, Alex Wintour,  endures her first interrogation by Omar, the attractive young terrorist educated in the US. He’s fluent in English, with an understanding of American culture and politics. 






I glared back at her, speaking in slow, measured tones: “you’re a prisoner of war, a casualty brought on by your government and their campaign against Allah and the tenets of the Holy Koran. You have no rights here, no diplomatic standing you are legal tender to be used in trade for Muslim leaders being held against their will in western prisons. You will be treated better than our captives are treated by Americans at Guantanamo, you will not be tortured or sexually humiliated as they are but we will not tolerate insolence. Your safe return to the US Embassy depends entirely on your father, his willingness to negotiate your release will determine your fate”.


Why was she not backing down, I sensed strength not known to Muslim women. I saw this in the co-eds at Kansas State,  wanton insolence, drinking alcohol and smoking in public. It shocked me then but here, under these impossible circumstances, this girl was challenging me, did she not know I could have her flogged or worse.


“You underestimate my Father; he is resolute with significant resources at his disposal, you and your thugs will live to regret capturing me.”


She stared at me, her blue/green eyes had darkened, her tone was guttural almost feral as she rebuked me. The next slap was harder, she almost fell off the chair, her fair skin exploded in crimson, and the swelling was simultaneous, the glare deepened, the slap strengthened her resolve.


“So this is what you and your thugs mean by not being tortured or humiliated, how dare you. I’m the daughter of the United States Ambassador to the Republic of Pakistan; my Father is an American diplomat with credentials accepted by your President and Prime Minister. You will live to regret this Omar or whatever your name is, punishing me will make it go worse for you when I and the American aid worker, Max Stein, are rescued, and we will be rescued, you can be sure of it.”


“Perhaps my young friend, perhaps but the question for you to ponder is whether you’ll be rescued alive—or dead.”


Why am I feeling this way, the girl means nothing to me, she’s the daughter of Satan, a woman sent to tempt me not help me? That last slap did not bring her to submission like Muslim women are taught, it made her defiant and angry. Allah help me why am I aroused, not enraged, the ache in my groin was disturbing, suggesting alternative motives, motives forbidden to me.


She wiped the blood from the corner of her mouth against her sleeve, bent her head down and spit out the red saliva; she glared at me and uttered the words with defiance; “fuck you, asshole”.


DRONE by Nick Hahn (due 2017)



“A drone is often preferred for missions that are too “dull, dirty, or dangerous” for manned aircraft.”

There are more slaves in the world today than at any other time in human history, an estimated 27 million in bondage across the globe. Men, women, and children being exploited for manual and sexual labor against their will.


Her name was Cosita. She was eighteen, looked fourteen and thought like twenty-two. One of nine children from El Chorillo, a poverty-stricken barrio on the outskirts of Panama City. Her brother, Javier, had been snatched from the streets six months earlier. He was nine years old and beautiful.

Cosita completed high school at the top of her class, spoke fluent English and Spanish with an advanced degree  from the streets of El Chorillo. There she was known as jefe Mujer, (boss woman).

In the developed world she would be a CEO, respected by her peers and feared by her competitors.

Interpol, the world’s largest international police organization, was recruiting undercover agents to infiltrate the dark world of human trafficking.

Panama was well known as an international hub for slave traders. They operated  with impunity while local officials  lined their pockets with the boodle from entrepreneurial traders. She was smart, street savvy, motivated and pretty; the perfect candidate for Interpol and their undercover investigation of human trafficking.

They were looking for beautiful young women with her skills, she was looking for Javier, a perfect match.

Cosita would be a Drone.


The graffiti was Spanish, neon colors highlighting varicose cracks covering the wall, like an alcoholic’s nose. The building smelled of urine and pot; there was a metal door with four bolt locks and a dirty sign:


Was a nine-year-old boy, the victim of sex traffickers  a trespasser?

The windows had frosted glass embedded with chicken wire; they swung out and up like fake eyelashes supported by notched adjustment bars.

This factory building was on the near-west side of Cleveland, an industrial area on the Cuyahoga River, known as The Flats. This building had a pedigree, a sweatshop garment factory, a warehouse for imported cheese, and a crack den for teenage potheads.

It was now headquarters for Magic Slim, the only pimp in Cleveland with a film studio, a training facility and a dormitory fit for the Ivy League.

Slim’s girls came from nothing, life in his building was an improvement.  Slim understood this, he knew about poverty, cold and hunger. The West side of Chicago was his training ground.

He was now a successful entrepreneur, business was good and he intended to make it better.

He weighed 140 pounds soaking wet, no one knew what held his pants up, he would only say “it’s magic”, the name stuck.



“DRONE” by Nick Hahn (a work in progress)

“A drone is often preferred for missions that are too “dull, dirty, or dangerous” for manned aircraft.”

There are more slaves in the world today than at any other point in human history, an estimated 27 million in bondage across the globe. Men, women, and children being exploited for manual and sexual labor against their will.


Her name is Rosita. She has a high school degree but o-LATINA-ACTRESS-facebookwas educated on the streets of El Chorillo, a dangerous barrio on the outskirts of Panama City. She’s eighteen, looks fourteen, thinks like twenty. Rosita is one of nine children from this poverty-stricken neighborhood, her brother, Javier, had been snatched from the streets six months earlier, he was eight years old and beautiful.

Sweet and unsuspecting, Javier was called “spirit child” by his mother, he never saw the pain and poverty, for him it was normal. He was fifth in the brood and the most affectionate with cocoa skin, dark eyes, and long black curly hair. Javier stood out in the family and in the neighborhood. His siblings were told to watch out for him as the streets of El Chorillo were dangerous, kidnappings were endemic along this corridor outside Panama City.

It was Rosita’s turn to walk Javier to school when she bought that banana from a street vendor. He couldn’t have been out of her sight more than a minute. She turned, counting her change with a banana stuck in her mouth, the Toyota pickup was across the street. Javier was struggling in the arms of a short stocky man with the tattoos covering his arms and shoulders clearly visible under the black wife-beater, a map of Panama outlined in white printed on the front. He wore wrap sunglasses and a sweat-stained cowboy hat, the straw brim folded tightly against the crown. There was no noise, no commotion as if pedestrians saw this as an everyday occurrence. The rag against his mouth and nose was dark green like those used in a garage, his body went limp.

He looked like all machos in the barrio, with one exception. This man had a dark red scar from his ear to the bottom of his throat that couldn’t be hidden by his unshaven face. A face burned into Rosita’s consciousness forever, like a branding iron. She screamed and ran towards the Toyota as Javier’s limp body was thrown into the bed, scarface jumped into the accelerating pickup, gravel flew from all four wheels of the AWD vehicle. She would find Javier and his abductor, when she did, there would be another scar, this one stretching from ear to ear.

Nick’s Pet Peeves

Zombies at the call center!

Ever call your utility, computer help center, insurance carrier or other vendor/suppler only to be forced through an endless series of filters when all you really want is a live, human voice on the other end of the line? Recently tried to contact a government agency, the first message I received: “your call is very important to us please stay on the line, your expected wait time is sixty minutes” followed by foul music interspersed with instructions on how I get answers to my questions on their equally inane website. GRRRRR! 1387170694_Call-centre-jokes