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The Fatal Saving Grace by Jim Nesbitt #AuthorInterview

GHott February 25, 2026 4 Comments

THE FATAL SAVING GRACE

by Jim Nesbitt

February 9 – March 6, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

ED EARL BURCH HARD-BOILED TEXAS CRIME THRILLER

MAYHEM WITH A BADGE

After wandering the peephole wilderness of a private detective for two decades, defrocked Dallas homicide detective Ed Earl Burch is finally an official manhunter again, wearing the badge of a district attorney’s investigator working in the harsh desert mountains of West Texas.

Big D, it ain’t. And life as a resurrected lawman isn’t everything he hoped it would be. Too many rules. Not enough satisfaction. And a boss who hates him for saving his life.

But Burch is back, playing the same deadly game he mastered as a murder cop, tracking a serial killer who tortured and murdered his ex-lover with a straight razor—an Aryan Brotherhood gang leader Burch thought he killed in a desert shootout.

He’s also trying to protect the fugitive granddaughter of an old friend and her four-year-old son—from this remorseless killer and cartel gunsels hired by her incestuous Dixie Mafia daddy.

Throats get slashed. Bullets smack flesh. Bodies drop. And Ed Earl Burch and his partner, Bobby Quintero, are in reckless pursuit, dodging death, closing in on their prey.

No place Burch would rather be. Unless he gets killed.

Praise for The Fatal Saving Grace:

The Fatal Saving Grace is the Independent Press Award Distinguished Favorite for Action/Adventure 2026

“Nesbitt delivers a scorched-earth tale where every shadow conceals an ambush and every road bleeds history. He paints West Texas in colors of rust, smoke and whiskey, and the result is a story that feels carved in stone. This is cowboy noir at its finest.”
~ Baron Birtcher, Will Rogers Medallion winning author of Knife River

“Ed Earl Burch, who’s partial to Lucky Strikes and Maker’s Mark, makes Mike Hammer look like Miss Marple. Jim’s novels offer wicked humor, an eye for detail, brass-knuck action and language that would strip the paint off a Hummer.”
~ Noel Holston, author of Life After Deaf and As I Die Laughing

“Jim Nesbitt knows his Texas crime and writes one fine line at a time. Hard-boiled with prickly pears, old leather boots, a bit of tobacco, freshly spit of course, he gets it right.”
~ Joe R. Lansdale, champion mojo storyteller and author of the Hap ‘N Leonard crime thrillers

“A gritty and deadly must-read, THE FATAL SAVING GRACE cements Nesbitt’s standing among the best writers in the pantheon of Southern noir.”
~ Bruce Robert Coffin, bestselling author of the Detective Justice Mysteries

“Ed Earl Burch is back, and that’s great news for readers who love classic hard-boiled noir, colorful characters, crackling dialogue and plenty of action. Highly recommended!”
~ R.G. Belsky, author of the Gil Malloy and Clare Carlson mysteries

“Some would call it justice. Some would call it revenge. No matter what you call it, the concept has been a long running theme of the Ed Earl Burch series. The same is very much true in the fifth book of the series, The Fatal Saving Grace: An Ed Earl Burch Novel by Jim Nesbitt.”
~ ‘Ace Texas book reviewer’ Kevin Tipple

Book Details:

Genre: Hard-Boiled Crime Fiction, Western
Published by: Spotted Mule Press
Publication Date: December 15, 2025
Number of Pages: 301
ISBN: 9780998329482 (ISBN10: 0998329487)
Series: Ed Earl Burch Hard-Boiled Texas Crime Thriller, Book 5 | Each is a Stand-Alone Thriller
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub

Ed Earl Burch Novels, 1-4

Read an excerpt:

From Chapter 1

When a man gets hit by a .45 ACP Flying Ashtray or three, by all that’s ballistically holy, he ought to get dead and stay dead.

All manner of official paperwork swore he was dead. All of it based on a bogus death certificate filed by parties unknown in the Cuervo County Coroner’s Office, with copies popping up like blowflies on a cow carcass. Even the federales had him playing poker with the Devil, his prison mugshot tucked away in ATF and DEA files, DECEASED stamped across his face in bold, black letters.

The con was slick and easy. Money changed hands, files were swapped or ditched, reports were shredded or faked. Somebody else’s corpse became him. The relentless power of bureaucratic incompetence and inertia did the rest.

Yessir. According to all that yellowing, lawdog paper, he was nobody they had to worry about no more. Finito. A shade. A ghost who said adios. A good thug now that he was a dead thug. Muerto.

Not hardly.

That’s what John Wayne said to all those hombres who thought he was dead in Big Jake. With a growl and a scowl.

Not hardly.

He liked that. Matter of fact, he just trotted out the Duke’s line to a guy he used to be tight with. Caught up to him climbing the three cinder block steps to the front door of his desert double wide.

Tapped him on the shoulder, saw the wild-eyed fear when the dude turned and saw who the finger belonged to. Blurted out: “You’re supposed to be dead!”

Not hardly. Said it with a growl but no scowl. Then grabbed him by a greasy hank of raven black hair, yanking his head back and cutting a crimson smile across his throat from ear to ear. With a bone-handled straight razor. His favorite.

Threw the guy into the sand at the side of the steps. Listened to the choking gurgle and death rattle. Then licked the blood off the blade.

Not hardly. He tilted his head back and laughed. Savored the kill. Alone and alive. An endless dome of stars glittering in the midnight sky above the rocky desert outback near Radium Springs, New Mexico. No moon. A dead man at his feet. Used to be a member of his crew. Frankie Sheridan.

Met him at Pelican Bay. An Alice Baker brother doing a long stretch for bank robbery. Had a shamrock tattooed on his chest with the initials AB in capital letters—Alice Baker, Aryan Brotherhood. Blood in, blood out. Ex-Army. Knew his way around diesels, alarm systems, and weapons.

Sent him a ticket to Texas when he got out. Made him a member of his crew, smuggling guns and drugs out of a ranch north of Faver, the Cuervo County seat, a bent outfit that ran cattle for cover and fleeced bitter and gullible white trash while promising them the return of the Republic of Texas for Caucasian Christians only, a New Zion based on God, guns, guts, and the Good Book. Niggers, Jews, Arabs, and Spics need not apply.

Bad move. Frankie was a ratfuck snitch. Uno chivato. Not to the lawdogs. Just as bad, though. Frankie sold him out to a rival outfit of gunrunners and drug smugglers. Kept them one step ahead of him as they chased a third outfit that held a cache of stolen military hardware everybody wanted.

Rockets, bloopers, mortars, and full-auto carbines and rifles. Bang-bangs that could tip the scales on both sides of the river. All in the hands of a crew fronted by a flashy woman in jeans, tall boots, a bolero jacket, and a blonde wig. A wet dream for the pendejos she hustled.

La Güera. Just the thought of her caused his molars to grind. He wanted her dead. No, he needed her dead. She and her lover were the reason his life got flushed into the sewer, his crew dead, his stash of guns and drugs long gone. Had him climbing out of the shitter, clawing to the top of the dung heap. Again.

He caught the lover. Sliced off his manhood. Slit his throat. Then chopped off his head and butchered his body to stuff into a giant barbecue smoker. Tucked the man’s jewels into his mouth as the crowning touch to a cannibal’s mesquite-smoked delight.

Not the same. Didn’t have her. She still needed to feel his blade, feel his eyes boring holes into hers as he gave her that crimson smile. He needed to lick her blood off that sharp stainless steel. Taste it. And grin. Only then would the circle be complete. He’d be whole again.

Well, not completely whole.

His right eye was gone, blown out by a glancing hit from one of those .45 ACP slugs that also shattered the orbital bones. Nothing extensive plastic surgery, bone implants and a new glass eye couldn’t cure. Had to stack plenty of cash up front to repair damage that severe.

Gave that part of his face a waxy texture straight out of Madame Tussauds. But it sure beat wearing an eye patch and the lopsided face of a Dick Tracy cartoon villain.

His left knee was also shattered, replaced with a titanium joint that allowed him to walk with only a slight limp. Another five-figure hit to his stash of greenbacks.

The man who fired those rounds was also on his payback list. An ex-cop. Big-ass older fucker with a gray beard. Said to be a washed-up Dallas P. I..

Beg to differ, sir. Sumbitch sure kept him from getting to her during that clusterfuck in the West Texas desert. A real Wild West shootout between rival drug gangs wanting the blonde bitch’s bang-bangs.

He was oh-so-close to grabbing her up, dodging bullets and bodies, closing the gap between him and Ol’ Dude, who was carrying the bitch draped over his right shoulder. He screamed her name and leveled an M-16A1 at the both of them.

“La Güeraaaaaaa! I got you, bitch! Got you now! Gonna slice you wide open and watch you bleeeeeeed!“

Ol’ Dude spun on his heel and emptied a 1911 mag at him offhand. Yelled this: “Not today, you cockbite motherfucker. Not in this lifetime or the next.” A lefty. On target without dropping the bitch. Only thing that kept him alive was a Kevlar vest that caught the Flying Ashtrays that would have shredded his chest.

Washed-up, my ass. The man wrecked me. His time was coming, though. Count on a reckoning. Soon. But not now. He was working his way up the ladder of a list he kept in his head. One body at a time.

Frankie was the bottom rung. La Güera was at the top with Ol’ Dude second. Five other rungs between Frankie and them.

Time to get gone. And get busy.

***

Author Bio:

Jim Nesbitt has the perfect radio face, bionic knees that can grind coffee beans and tell time and a cat who poaches his cigars and uses his cellphone to place bets on British soccer. He is also a recovering journalist who once chased politicians, neo-Nazis, hurricanes, rodeo cowboys, plane wrecks and the everyday people swept up in a news event who gave his stories depth, authenticity and a distinct voice.

A lapsed horseman, pilot, journalist and saloon sport with a keen appreciation of old guns, vintage cars, red meat, good cigars, aged whisky without an ‘e’ and a well-told story, Nesbitt is also the award-winning author of five hard-boiled Texas crime thrillers that feature battered but relentless Dallas PI Ed Earl Burch — THE LAST SECOND CHANCE, THE RIGHT WRONG NUMBER, THE BEST LOUSY CHOICE, THE DEAD CERTAIN DOUBT and THE FATAL SAVING GRACE.

A diehard Tennessee Vols fan, he now lives in enemy territory — Athens, Alabama — with his wife, Pam, and is working on his sixth Ed Earl Burch novel, THE PERFECT TRAIN WRECK. When he’s off his meds, he’s been known to call himself Reverend Jim and preach the Gospel of Hard-Boiled Crime Fiction.

Catch Up With Jim Nesbitt:

www.JimNesbittBooks.com
Jim’s Substack – @edearl56
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
BookBub – @edearl56
Instagram – @edearl74
Threads – @edearl74
Facebook – @edearlburchbooks

#AuthorInterview with Jim Nesbitt:

What was the inspiration for this book?
A perverted sense of charity for the main character of my hard-boiled Texas crime thrillers, cashiered Dallas homicide detective Ed Earl Burch. For two decades, he’s been wandering the peephole wilderness of a private detective, longing for the sense of calling and higher purpose he had when carried the badge he lost. I wanted to give him what he wished for and see how he copes with life as a resurrected lawman, forced to take orders and work with people after living life as a loner and semi-outlaw for a long time. It’s not everything he hoped it would be, as is often the case with magnificent obsessions. Too many rules, too many people, too many years as a lone wolf and semi-outlaw unfettered by rules. I also wanted to show the hard miles he’s racked up, giving him the aches and pains of middle-aged tough guy without turning him into a cripple or a poster child for Geritol. He’s still tough, profane, ornery and reckless. And he’d still just as soon shoot you as look at you — if you’re a bad guy in need of killin’. But it’s harder for him to get out of bed in the morning.

What was the biggest challenge in beginning your writing career?
Getting started. I come from a long line of hillbilly storytellers who taught me the importance of knowing where you’re from and who your people are. Seems like I’ve always had a book in my hand and started writing at a very early age. Had some talent and was able to parlay it into a fairly successful journalism career for nearly forty years. I was lucky to break into journalism when long-format stories that used the tradecraft of fiction writing was in vogue. I was also a hard-boiled crime fiction junkie, a faithful follower of Chandler and Hammett and others who broke free from the confines of the English cozy mystery and amateur sleuths, giving crime back to the criminals of the gritty urban underworld. Wasn’t a huge leap for me to tackle my first hard-boiled crime thriller. But I’m a lazy bastard so it took me way too long to start. Wish I’d cranked it up twenty years ago. Make that twenty-five.

What do you absolutely need while writing?
Used to be George Dickel Tennessee whisky (spelled without the e), preferably hundred proof bottled-in-bond, and a damn good cigar, waiting for me at the end of a writing session. These days, it’s more likely to be cornbread and iced tea, to poach a line from Hank Williams, Jr. And a cushion for my butt.

Do you adhere to a strict routine when writing or write when the ideas are flowing?
I’m not really strict about anything and I hate routine. That said, I know the key to writing a book is the discipline to keep your butt in the chair for hours at a time and writing even when the words don’t flow. If you wait on those mystical ideas to flow, you’ll never get anywhere. I don’t punch a clock or slavishly do periodic word counts but I do put in the time it takes to write a good story. I just don’t brag about it on Facebook or my blog.

Who is your favorite character from your book and why?
Rhonda Mae Mutscher. She’s just as tough and unsinkable as Ed Earl Burch. Maybe tougher. Quicker to shoot somebody, maybe. Very much like many of the women in my books, she’s smarter than most men, Burch included. But there’s a bond between her and Burch based on the earlier experience of him helping her escape from cartel sicarios and gunrunning rivals, including the serial killer of this book, a nasty piece of work named Cleve Chizik, who Burch thought he killed during a desert shootout four or five years ago described in The Dead Certain Doubt. Because of that bond, she thinks of Burch when Dixie Mafia gunsels sent by her incestuous father chase her out of the small Colorado town where the feds stashed her as a protected witness. She also has a five-year-old son she has to protect and doesn’t trust the feds to keep her or him safe. West Texas feels safer because Burch and the family of her son’s dead father are there.

Tell us why we should read your book.
Because it bristles with relentless action, has a pulse-racer of a plot, a solid storyline, and a colorful cast of characters. It’s hard-boiled detective fiction at its finest, centered on a protagonist like no other, the deeply flawed but wildly compelling Ed Earl Burch. It’s a taut, tense, uncompromising tale of revenge and redemption — a damned good story exceptionally well-told.

Give us an interesting fun fact or a few about your book?
To give myself a little more literary license, I created two West Texas jurisdictions that are both figments of my imagination: Cuervo County, because crows are smart and fascinating birds, and the town of Faver, the county seat, named for the pioneering cattle baron of the Big Bend Country, Milton Faver. Faver was an interesting character who is mostly forgotten today. Like a lot of newcomers to Texas, both before the split from Mexico and after, he was escaping something unsavory back east. He killed a man in a duel in Missouri and fled, first to Mexico, where he worked in a flour mill than as a freighter hauling goods over the Chihuahua and Santa Fe trails, surviving an Indian attack that left him severely wounded. Although hazardous, the freighting business was profitable enough for Faver to start a general store in Ojinaga. In 1857, he moved with his wife and only son to the frontier of the Chianti Mountains in the Big Bend Country, bought land around three springs and established the Cibolo Creek ranch, building herds of cattle and sheep as well as fortress houses to repel attacks from raiding Comanche and Apache. He ruled his ranches with an iron hand and meted out justice by his own lights. He didn’t believe in credit and stood at the gate during a cattle sale, taking silver coin for each cow, steer or sheep as it passed into the corral. He died in 1889.

Do you have anything specific that you want to say to your readers?
Like my earlier books, The Fatal Saving Grace is the polar opposite of a cozy mystery. There isn’t a lick of cuteness in it. It’s a hard-bitten tale told in the hard-boiled style of Chandler, Hammett and later-day writers like the late, great James Crumley. It’s raunchy and violent with no punches pulled or euphemisms used to protect delicate sensibilities. And most of the people rambling around the stark, harsh beauty of West Texas have been honed, beaten and shaped by this land. They’ve all got some hard bark on them. And even the good guys have a mean streak and do bad things to get the job done according to what they think is right. It’s country that demands rough justice and Ed Earl Burch has been given a badge again to deliver just that.

Tell us a little about yourself and your background?
The Irish say that writers are failed talkers — guilty as charged since I always tell people it’s a damn good thing I write better than I talk because the way I talk is a curious mixture of 40s and 50s tough-guy jargon and cowboy lingo. I was born up North, near Philadelphia, but my parents were both North Carolina hillbillies from around Asheville. My sister and I weren’t Yankee-raised and we spent a lot of time with the country cousins when we were young during extended summer road trips. I was a journalist for almost forty years, nearly twenty of that spent as a roving correspondent for newspapers and wire services, parachuting into big stories of the moment, from presidential campaigns to hurricanes, and chasing big trends like the ongoing battle over public land use in the West, a vicious and long-running fight about grazing rights, mining and logging, or the rise of neo-Nazis and Christian Patriots in the mountain West. That experience taught me to look for the telling detail and listen for the voices of the people swept up in an event. I was also fascinated by the features of the land where people lived and the impact of that place as they tried to extract a living from it. That fascination is very much a result of my parents instilling in me a keen sense of place — knowing where you’re from and who your people are — something I believe is vitally important in storytelling. The place where you set your story should be as alive and vivid as you can make it — a character unto itself, not a one-dimensional stage flat in a play.

What’s next that we can look forward to from you?
I’ve been accused of writing thinly disguised Westerns and, truth be told, that’s a strong undercurrent that threatens to break the surface in all my books. Ed Earl Burch doesn’t wear a white hat, but he has a code he tries to live by and a strong sense of right and wrong. I’ve decided to let him rest a bit and resume writing a Western set in the 1920s in one of the rowdy oil boomtowns of the Texas Panhandle. I’ve created a character I think fans of Ed Earl Burch will like, a morally ambiguous gypsy lawman named Charley Mack Kincaid, whose been a cowhand, a deputy, a Texas Ranger and a Pinkerton agent, tapped by a Ranger styled after the legendary Frank Hamer to go undercover and help bust open the ring running the town. I’ve also got two more Ed Earl Burch novels rattling around my brainpan that I’ll get around to writing after I finish this Western, tentatively titled Boomtown Blood, which is the most unambiguous and straightforward title I’ve ever created. Gotta do something about that.

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The First to Die by Suzanne Trauth | #AuthorInterview

GHott February 24, 2026 3 Comments

THE FIRST TO DIE

by Suzanne Trauth

February 9 – March 6, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

Connie Tucker, a free-spirited beach bartender, has been estranged from her family in New Jersey ever since her actress mother, Simone, disappeared one night during a violent storm at the theatre where she was rehearsing. Uncontrollable and in a rage at the loss of her parent, fifteen-year-old Connie is exiled to California, due to her delinquent behavior, to live with an aunt she doesn’t know. Now, fifteen years later, Simone’s murdered remains are discovered at a construction site and Connie returns to the east coast for the funeral—she owes it to her mother. The cold case unit will take over now and solve the crime. But then she discovers a message her mother left behind. It feels like a dispatch from the grave. Connie must face her tortured past, the guilt of concealing a devastating secret, and the part she played in her mother’s disappearance. Unearthing buried family history and childhood demons, she confronts the agonizing reality that she doesn’t know where she belongs, where to call home. Who to trust. When a second suspicious death occurs, Connie races to unravel the events of the night Simone disappeared. Her mother was the first to die…but not the last.

Book Details:

Genre: Domestic Suspense
Published by: Between the Lines Publishing
Publication Date: November 18, 2025
Number of Pages: 334 (Pbk)
ISBN: 978-1-965059-65-4
Book Links: Amazon | KindleUnlimited | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub | Between the Lines Publishing

Read an excerpt:

Chapter 1

Now

“They found Mom. You need to come home.”

Her older sister Gaby wasn’t one to waste words.

Connie should have been relieved, comforted, something. Unfortunately, it was fifteen years too late for that. And anguish she had buried deep in her body, and mind, erupted with a vengeance.

She cooled her heels in San Diego until the last possible moment to return for the funeral. The less time spent there, the better. New Jersey triggered chilling images tethered to that night. To the last time she saw her mother.

The plane thumped to earth, delivering Connie Tucker to the past with a bounce. Everything about this state was a rude wake-up call. She couldn’t wait to board the return flight to California. At fifteen, she left New Jersey in a rage, thrown out of the only home she’d known, dumped thousands of miles away on a relative she’d never met. Nerves twitching, her insides were a stew of anxiety and bitterness, wondering how people here would react to seeing her. Connie shook her head to tamp down the unruly thoughts and scold herself. They were the ones who should be nervous.

Down the parkway in the rental car, exit onto Lenox, right onto Mercer, left onto Third Street. Past Antonio’s Pizza where she and Gaby bought slices on their way home from school because who knew what their mother would cook for dinner. Past the playground attached to St. Gabriel’s. At the corner of Mercer and Third, a few patrons ambled in and out of a bodega. The street was mostly empty. Her heart bounced in her chest.

42 Third Street. She lowered the car window, her breathing shallow at the sight of the ancient Lincoln in the driveway. The blue paint polished and gleaming. “Buy American” was her father’s motto when Connie was a kid. The same automobile she and her best friend Brigid had “borrowed” until Gaby blew the whistle on her. Grounding was followed by exile two months later. She swallowed raging emotions—love, hate, sadness. If Connie closed her eyes, her parents magically materialized on the porch swing, creaking steadily back and forth on warm summer nights. Sometimes Uncle Charlie sat on the steps and the three of them drank beer, Charlie telling stories and her father laughing. But that was before.

Connie stepped out of the car and surveyed the neighborhood. Much had changed and much had remained the same. Down the block, Porter’s Bar and Grill still boasted the neon signs out front advertising beer, wine, and food. After his stint on the police force, and her mother’s disappearance, her father found employment at the bar—back then a hangout for current and former cops, a nerve center for law enforcement chatter. Old Man Porter was fond of her father, of the whole Tucker family.

Despite the sun shining in a brilliant blue sky, the area was tinged with gray. Sunny in San Diego and sunny in Hallison, New Jersey were two different animals. But even worn out as it was, her Jersey home beckoned, a magnet luring Connie into a tangle of sensations and history. Part of her, she hated to admit, yearned to be here again, but before nostalgia could overwhelm her, she stiffened her resolve: do her duty to her mother and then back to the other coast.

The day was already sweltering, humid air like a wet sheet clinging to Connie, her bangs plastered to her forehead, her shirt dotted with damp patches. Urban smells permeated the neighborhood—exhaust, heat shimmering off the pavement, cooking odors. Third Street radiated a kind of shabby warmth despite reopening sharp wounds. As she climbed the steps to her family’s front door, a voice boomed behind her.

“Connie Tucker!”

She whirled to her left. “Rosa!” she sputtered. Rosa Delano. Standing on her front porch. Daughter of the next-door neighbor, Mrs. Delano, whose front yard featured neat flower beds and trimmed bushes. The woman who’d been a kind of second mother after Connie’s first one disappeared.

“Yeah, that’s me.” A cigarette dangled from between bloodless lips, graying hair a tangle of frizz, her expression sullen.

She’d aged. And not well.

Rosa smirked. “Came home ’cause they found your old lady, huh? Si-mone.” Hands stuffed in jeans pockets, she extended the second syllable to mock the dead woman. “Bunch a bones by now, I guess.”

Connie’s stomach lurched, her fingers forming a fist. Attack mode. Breathe, she told herself. Stay in control. She’d forgotten how mean Rosa could be. In and out of the Delano house when Connie was growing up. Sometimes gone for months, once even for a whole year. Neighborhood gossip churned out tales of Rosa’s arrests for petty, and not-so-petty, crimes, their father warning Gaby and Connie to stay clear of her. That was easy to do since she was away for much of their pre-teen years.

“Wonder who buried her? Si-mone.”

Connie refused to take the bait. The hell with her. “Tell your mother I’ll stop by later.”

“Fat chance. You keep away from her.” Rosa opened her screen door. “Guess you figured Si-mone was still alive all these years, huh?”

The question split the air like the crack of a whip, jerking Connie’s head backwards. “How dare you talk about my—”

Rosa laughed in triumph. “Ha! Listen to you. ‘How dare you?’ Always did act like you were better than everybody else. Always had to have your own way.” She slouched into the Delano house and let the screen door slap shut behind her.

Heart hammering, Connie was left to wonder probably for the thousandth time how sweet, generous Mrs. Delano could live with someone as nasty as Rosa. According to Connie’s mother, she was already a troublemaker when her parents were killed in a car crash and she was adopted by Mrs. Delano at thirteen. Connie was only two or three when Rosa rolled in next door like a storm front that never budged. Now, twenty-seven years later, her words hung around Connie in the ether, burning through a tangle of jumbled ideas and leaving the charred truth—Connie had figured her mother was alive somewhere.

Needing a minute, she stepped back from the front door and confronted the Tucker residence, which exhibited contrasts identical to most of the other homes on the street: window frames in need of scraping and painting, and her mother’s favorite old-fashioned glider—and slightly rusty matching metal chairs—crowding the porch, hinting at benign neglect. Yet, two flower baskets hung from hooks on the porch pillars with cascading red, yellow, and blue blooms. Someone tended to those plants. Gaby, no doubt.

Connie steeled herself, donning emotional armor. Knocking brought no response, neither did pressing the bell, broken years ago and apparently never repaired. She’d kept a key to the house—from spite—and jiggled the lock a fraction, the way she’d done as a teenager breaking the curfew her father had tried to establish.

The door swung open.

With the windows shut tight, primal odors hung in the air like church incense. Lingering smells of baking, fresh laundry, furniture polish. Connie pulled a carry-on suitcase into the house. “I’m here.” Where were her sister and father? The car was in the driveway. She’d texted her arrival time and expected someone to be in the house to meet her. Instead, she was greeted by silence. Perfect.

A chair in the hallway held a stack of mail. Circumventing the living room to her right, Connie moved straight ahead to the kitchen. A used coffee mug and bowl sat in the sink. Otherwise, the room was orderly, a table in the breakfast nook had placemats, The Star-Ledger, and a vase of flowers. The sweet scents of lilacs and roses filled the air.

Back to the hallway she stopped in the arched entrance to the living room. Taking it all in. A new couch and the worn leather of the old recliner, her father’s favorite piece of furniture, and a flat screen television. The coffee table was the same. Also, the rug she and Gaby had danced on with their mother to ABBA all those afternoons. Their beautiful French mother.

A rush of memories confronting her on all sides, blocking progress, keeping her captive, nowhere to go but back into that night.

***

Author Bio:

Suzanne Trauth is a novelist and playwright. Her novels include The First to Die, What Remains of Love (a first-place winner in Women’s Fiction, Firebird Book Awards; a finalist in General Fiction, American Book Festival; and a finalist for the Hemingway Prize) and the Dodie O’Dell mystery series–Show Time, Time Out, Running Out of Time, Just in Time, No More Time and Killing Time. Ms. Trauth has co-authored Sonia Moore and American Acting Training and co-edited Katrina on Stage: Five Plays. She is a former member of the theatre faculty at a university and is a member of the Mystery Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, the Dramatists Guild, and the League of Professional Theatre Women.

Q&A With Suzanne Trauth:

What was the inspiration for this book?

I first got the idea for the book several years ago when I heard a story about an elderly woman. The details about the woman were interesting and I thought she’d make a great character. But as I wrote and rewrote—and received editorial feedback—the murder mystery morphed and the woman, who initially was a witness to a killing, became a background character. Though the plot changed over a number of drafts, the elderly woman hung around! With a name and nationality change by the final version of The First to Die, she remained in the story and helped provide clues and move the plot forward. But she triggered my initial thinking about the story.

What was the biggest challenge in beginning your writing career?

I find the first drafts fun…just letting my imagination go and playing with characters and story, knowing that most things will change in the revision process. For me, the revision process is more challenging, less freewheeling, more structured, and requires more attention to detail. Staying patient with the project and letting it develop more deeply can also be challenging for me. Early on, it was challenging to find time to write while I was still working full time. I had to carve out certain hours of certain days; once I had projects completed, the challenge was finding publishers. It took years and hundreds of query letters to finally get a publisher with my first mystery series. I was fortunate to find publishers who believed in my projects.

What do you absolutely need while writing?

I’d like to say I need a clear workspace, but unfortunately, that’s not true! My desk is overflowing with papers, notes, books, to-do lists, and post-it notes. Though it’s rather messy, somehow I am able to keep order in my creative imagination as I work. And I need my mug of tea…usually some herbal blend.

Do you adhere to a strict routine when writing or write when the ideas are flowing?

I am not a 5:30 a.m. writer like some authors I know. I tend to spend the mornings doing life chores and busywork unrelated to writing; then I settle in in the afternoon and write—often rereading yesterday’s work before tackling new material or new revisions. I write most days to keep on a self-imposed schedule, especially when I have a publisher deadline. It’s great to work when the ideas are flowing, but sometimes discipline requires showing up at the computer even when ideas are only coming in fits and starts.

Who is your favorite character from your book and why?

I have a couple of favorite characters. Of course I love my protagonist, Connie Tucker. She is obsessive about finding her mother’s killer and who can’t identify with someone so committed to a goal? So willing to pull out all the stops in achieving her objective. I also love the elderly woman I mentioned earlier—the one who hung around and wouldn’t go away. Her name is Deirdre O’Shaughnessy and she provides a bit of humor in the story.

Tell us why we should read your book.

I feel that The First to Die is entertaining, providing the reader an experience that combines both a suspense story and a family narrative. There is certainly a “whodunnit” element to the novel, but also a “whydunnit,” and, at the same time, there is a story about a family and how it handles the crime at the core of the book. I want my readers to go on a journey with the characters, especially my protagonist, and feel into the story. That may mean laughing or crying, empathizing with the characters’ wants and needs and challenges.

Give us an interesting fun fact or a few about your book.

I used a town near where I live as a model for the setting in The First to Die. It was a perfect location for the action of the mystery. I loved a particular house on a lovely street as one of the homes my characters inhabit. I would pass this house whenever I was in the town and it was my favorite. Fast forward to last month and I am discussing the book with a local library group. We had barely begun the discussion when one participant announced, “I recognized the town you used as a model in the book.” I was impressed! Then she went on to add, “In fact, I know the exact house you also used.” I was flabbergasted…she was correct.

Do you have anything specific that you want to say to your readers?

Thanks for the opportunity to talk about The First to Die—in my experience, authors love to discuss current projects. We spend so much time by ourselves with characters and plot points in our heads that it’s great to be able to share the process of creating the novel and the writing life. While all of my murder mysteries take place in New Jersey, the state really is a lovely place to live. And stay alive…

Tell us a little about yourself and your background.

I started writing novels full time when I retired from teaching at a university in the theatre program here in New Jersey, so theatres figure prominently in my mysteries. I started out with a cozy mystery series: the Dodie O’Dell Mysteries, and wrote six of them before I switched genres and published a women’s fiction/historical romance based on a true story and set in part in WWII. But for my recent novel, The First to Die, I returned to the mystery genre and wrote psychological suspense. Before the novels, I wrote screenplays and plays, both of which helped me with structure, creating characters, and writing dialogue.

What’s next that we can look forward to from you?

I am a couple of drafts into a new mystery that again takes place in a small town in New Jersey. The story involves four sisters and includes a historical element; I’m not completely sure whether this is a cozy mystery or a thriller. We’ll see…

Catch Up With Suzanne Trauth:

www.SuzanneTrauth.com
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Facebook, @SuzanneTrauth (Author)

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Bait the Devil by Winter Austin #AuthorInterview

GHott February 11, 2026 3 Comments

BAIT THE DEVIL

by Winter Austin

February 2 – March 13, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

A BOUNTY OF SHADOWS

In bounty hunting, clean jobs are a myth. Dot knows—she’s seen the blood.

Dot Ybarra doesn’t bluff. Fresh into her bounty hunting career, she’s already earning a reputation for results. But when a “routine” rogue bounty—taken as a favor to her lawyer cousin—turns lethal, she’s staring down a case with international reach, bodies in its wake, and the stench of power.

Her business partner, T.J. Roman, is hiding a secret. If Dot finds out … well, she can’t find out. It would end the effective partnership they’ve built. But the trail won’t wait. What should have been a clean pickup of a fellow military veteran spirals into a hunt through the shadows, where one wrong move could see them both buried in an unmarked grave.

To stop the predators at the center of a violent trafficking ring, they’ll have to go straight into its core—and make themselves the bait. Every step makes them vulnerable to each other as well.

The devil’s coming for them.

Dot plans to be the one still standing after he bites.

Bait the Devil Trailer:

Book Details:

Genre: Modern Western Thriller
Published by: Tule Mystery
Publication Date: January 19, 2026
Number of Pages: 285
ISBN: 9781969218651 (ISBN10: 1969218657)
Series: A BOUNTY OF SHADOWS, Book 2 {Amazon, Tule}
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | Apple Books | Goodreads | BookBub | Tule Mystery

Bait the Devil #AuthorInterview:

What was the inspiration for this book?
I don’t think I really had any inspiration. This series, A Bounty of Shadows, is more about where the characters lead me, and Dot Ybarra is running the show. If there was any real inspiration, it was to bring forth more about the plight of U.S. veterans and their silent warfare.

What was the biggest challenge in beginning your writing career?
If we’re talking about the very start of my publishing career, it was gaining traction and readers. It’s very hard right out of the gate to get as many interested readers as possible and hold them. Once you build that backlist and connections, those readers come easier and more often.
It’s also hard to make the right connections at first. But if you stick with it and network in the right circles, you will make the connections that will help drive up visibility.

What do you absolutely need while writing?
Being left alone. I’m at the point in my life where I have an empty nest, but I still have to send my husband out the door in order to focus, or he’ll drive me nuts while he’s goofing off and watching videos and such online. Course, during football season, that becomes even more difficult, but I find ways around it.

Do you adhere to a strict routine when writing or write when the ideas are flowing?
Routine? What’s that? The only thing routine for me is the day job four days a week and the farm chores I need to handle on a daily basis. I try to get writing in early in the morning before I leave for work, and on the weekends. Most of the time I’m looking down the barrel at a deadline and that’s when the butt in chair has to happen and then the words come. Otherwise, I’m such a pantser that most of the writing hits me in spurts.

Who is your favorite character from your book and why?
I love Dot, I really do, but the precocious Bethany has really taken over. Her interactions with Dot and T.J. are some of my favorite scenes in the book. If things progress as I hope, Bethany will be to Dot what Wonder Girl was to Wonder Woman. Bethany got a rough start to her life, but her newly adopted aunt in Dot has changed her path drastically and that girl will have her own starring role if ya’ll help keep the series alive. 😉

Tell us why we should read your book.
If you love anything western, thriller, mystery, and action driven, these books are right up your alley. And if you truly love having a female lead who can kick some serious bad guy butt, then you’ll really love Dot.

Give us an interesting fun fact or a few about your book?
Dot’s love of cigars stems from some wonderful women in my life who have taken up cigar smoking. In addition to being a cigar consignor, Dot does not drink. She might have a beer on a rare occasion, but her preferred drink of choice is coffee. Dot has a few other neat quirks that you’ll need to read in Ride a Dark Trail and Bait the Devil to learn what those are.

Do you have anything specific that you want to say to your readers?
If you enjoyed reading the book, liked it, or even loved it, please let the author know in some form or fashion. If that means reaching out to the author directly or leaving a rating/review for the book. We can’t do this without the readers.

Tell us a little about yourself and your background?
I’m Midwestern by birth and still. I’m a Jane of all trades kinda woman with a burning desire to run my own homestead with a huge herd of goats while I pour out more thrilling books. All of my writing education came at the feet of learning from other successful authors and professionals in the publishing industry and still learning as I grow. I love to pay it forward and when given the opportunity, I teach workshops for the younger/budding writers.

What’s next that we can look forward to from you?
I’m finishing up the 5th book in my police procedural/mystery Benoit and Dayne series and gearing up to write book 3 in the Bounty of Shadows series. I’ll be making appearances at a lot of local or Iowa-based bookstores when I can with a run out to Chicago for a one day mystery conference in April. And digging in for the upcoming show goat season with my nieces that will round out with our county fair and the Iowa State fair shows.

Read an excerpt:

From Chapter 1

Two hours later, they had managed to corral the quickly sobering Freddy into the back of the Suburban, with no more eventful chases, and turn him over to the county jail. Freddy’s bail bondsman paid out their fair share of the bond and a huge tip after some hard pressing on T.J.’s part about the circumstances leading up to Freddy’s apprehension. Once the check was cashed, a celebratory late lunch at one of the best Basque eateries Dot had found in Boise was the best way to top off a successful day of bounty hunting.

Parked behind the Bar Gernika, she and T.J. sat in the back end of the Chevy Suburban with the hatch up eating chorizo sandwiches with smoked cod croquetas and a bowl of green olives dripping in garlic olive oil. Dot slurped down half of her Coke, then shook the ice in her cup.

T.J. pointed the remains of his smoked beef chorizo at her. “We should register for the SHOT show in Vegas.”

“Why?”

“Because we can.” T.J. pulled his duh face.

Dot rolled her eyes and bit into her sandwich.

“Have you ever been there?” T.J. asked.

She shook her head, wiping smokey chorizo juice from the corner of her mouth.

“The woman raised to be a hunter and a firearms collector has never been to the great SHOT show?” He lowered his reflective sunglasses and eyed her over the top of the rims. “Never?”

“You do realize my family wasn’t made of money.” Dot popped one of the croquetas into her mouth. “And that’s in the dead of winter, when we couldn’t just up and run off while we were in the middle of lambing season.”

“All the more reason you should go now.” T.J. grinned. “A lot of the best bounty hunters meet up there.”

Dot scowled at her partner and sometimes bunk buddy. “Lemme guess. You wanna show off your shiny new partner to the boys?”

“Maybe.” His grin turned devilish. “Or maybe I wanna see you kick their asses.”

Dot wadded up the sandwich wrapper and chucked it at T.J.’s head. “I’m not a toy.”

The crumbled ball of waxed paper bounced off his forehead and landed on the Suburban floor between them.

“Really? Then why are you so easy to wind up?”

“You sonofa—” Dot lunged for his throat but was quickly subdued.

Their moment of levity was interrupted by a shrill ring from T.J.’s phone.

“Damn it,” he snapped and patted down his body in search for his cell.

Dot found it lying on the makeshift floor behind his hulking frame. She snatched it up and checked the screen. She batted her eyelashes at T.J.

“Don’t you dare,” he snarled.

She pressed the green icon to answer the call. “Well, hello, cousin dearest.”

Lawyer-extraordinaire and covert purveyor of information, Vivian Montgomery was Dot’s second cousin. And apparently had earned a spot on T.J.’s contact list under the moniker of Hot Ass Lawyer.

“Dot? When did you start taking business calls?” Vivian asked, her brisk tone underscored by the sound of her heavy breathing.

“What are you doing?” Dot asked. “You sound like you’re saving the horse and riding a cowboy.”

“Oh, grow up. I’m on a treadmill. Put T.J. on the phone.”

“You shouldn’t run on those things. They destroy your knees and back,” Dot chided.

“When I want health advice from a cigar smoker who jumps from helicopters for fun, I’ll call.”

“I don’t jump from the helo. Unless it’s crashing. Even then, that’s sketchy shit.”

T.J., giving a rumbling growl, jerked the phone from Dot, and pressed it to his ear. “Vivian, what do you need?” He waited a moment, then with another low growl, pulled the phone from his ear and put it on speaker. “You’re on speaker.”

“I need a huge favor from the two of you.”

“When you say huge favor, how huge are we talking?” Dot asked.

“You know, I think I liked you better when you were a brooding, isolated eremite whose main goal in life was equal parts trying to piss off her mother and keep her out of trouble,” Vivian shot back.

“Love you too, coz.”

“Now shut up and let me finish.” The whining sound of the treadmill belt slowing echoed over the phone connection. “I just got a call from one of my colleagues. She had a client fail to appear today.”

“Shouldn’t the defendant’s bail bondsman be calling us?” T.J. asked.

“It’s … complicated.”

Dot smiled as T.J. groaned.

“Vivian, every time you rope us into one of your firm’s problems with their unruly children, we’re out money, time, and patience. We’re called bounty hunters for a reason. Bounty is in the name.”

“Roman, if you keep up the condescending behavior, I’ll expose your dirty little secret.”

“Dirty secret, huh,” Dot piped in. “What’s that?”

He thrust a finger at her nose. “None of your business. Vivian, if you so much as breathe out of line, I’ll make you regret it.”

“Will you do me the favor?”

T.J. stared at Dot, who shrugged as if to say, Why not?

“Fine. Mark my words, I’ll be cashing in on this huge favor sooner than you think.”

“I wouldn’t have bothered you with this, expect the guy is a veteran, and you two being veterans yourself, I figured he’d be more likely to work with you than anyone else.”

“What’s on his file?” Dot asked.

“That’s the complicated part. Officially, his file says he was picked up a third time for carrying with the intent to sell. Unofficially, he’s … classified.”

Dot frowned as she and T.J. locked eyes. As a former army ranger who spent a lot of time flying in and out of forward operating bases in Afghanistan, T.J. knew all about classified situations. Dot, as the main helicopter pilot shuttling him and his team back and forth, though never read in on his actual missions, typically was under strict orders of her own.

“Vivian, I’m not getting fuzzy feelings about this,” T.J. said.

“Neither am I. It’s why I’m calling the two of you in. The judge wants to issue a bench warrant. My colleague was able to ask for a delay before it’s submitted. She was given three hours to present her client or the warrant is released. If you’d rather, you could consider this job PI work instead of fugitive recovery.”

The shingle hanging outside their business office did say private investigators. At this point, that title belonged to T.J. and T.J. alone.

“Still not selling me on this,” he said. “If there’s no bench warrant, there’s no cash for catching him.”

“Hang on.” Vivian spoke to someone, her voice muffled, then she was back. “The firm will pay you a finder’s fee.”

T.J. continued to stare at Dot. She could sense what he was thinking. He was torn. Take this off-the-cuff job and cash in on the favor department with Vivian to help a fellow veteran? Or say fuck it and play hooky for the rest of the day like he’d planned?

Dot didn’t really have much of a say in the business dealings of their partnership since she was eight months into the training phase as a fugitive recovery agent and she wasn’t a licensed PI. It didn’t stop T.J. from pressing her for her opinion, who argued that, because she was about to start taking bounties on her own, she needed to take the reins more often.

“If it helps you make a decision, I’ve got his last known address and a phone number along with a photo,” Vivian said. “This won’t be a hard catch.”

“Stop saying that. Every time you tell me it’s an easy one, it turns into a disaster,” T.J. snarled.

“He’s right,” Dot added.

“Okay, I retract my statement. But, please say yes. Huge favor to me. I’ll do anything.”

“Anything?”

Dot glared at him.

“Within reason,” Vivian shot back.

“We’ll do it,” Dot said, tired of T.J.’s runaround. “Send us the four-one-one, and we’ll go check it out.”

T.J. glared at her; his dark eyes flashed a warning. Dot returned his glare with a smug look of her own that dared him to bring it.

“Thank you, coz. Hurry. There’s only two hours left before the bench warrant goes out. Then it’ll be a free-for-all.”

“You couldn’t have called us about this an hour ago?” T.J. groused.

“Shut your yap, Roman,” Vivian said. “There. Info sent.”

His phone dinged.

“His name is Cade Porter. He was a staff sergeant in the Marine Corps.” Vivian sucked in a breath. “Oooh.”

“Oooh, what?” T.J. insisted.

“If this is right, he was in an artillery unit.”

“Oh my God.” T.J. groaned.

Dot grinned. Not only did acting on a favor for Vivian chafe T.J. in the chaps, but doing it for a Marine with explosives expertise was going to make that chafe burn. Throughout their long, storied history, there had always been a deep-seated friendly animosity between the army and the Marines. Push came to shove, however, they still had each other’s backs.

“If that crayon eater blows us up, I’m going to haunt you,” he said.

“I look forward to the visits. Now get going.” Vivian ended the call.

T.J. shoved his phone in a side pocket of his cargo pants. “Tell me again why we let Vivian help us out?”

“Because,” Dot said as she scooted out of the SUV’s backend, “she’s good for the money. And I trust her intel more than I would some of your bail bondsmen.”

“You say that because you’re biased.”

“Nire familia da. Garrantzitsua da.”

T.J. paused before closing the hatch. “I speak Pashto, Arabic, some Spanish, and Oklahoman. I do not speak Basque.”

Dot chuckled. “Time to learn, Danger Ranger.”

“Load up and let’s roll.”

***

Excerpt from Bait the Devil by Winter Austin. Copyright 2026 by Winter Austin. Reproduced with permission from Winter Austin. All rights reserved.

Author Bio:

Winter Austin perpetually answers the question: “were you born in the winter?” with a flat “nope,” but believe her, there is a story behind her name.

A lifelong Mid-West gal with strong ties to the agriculture world, Winter grew up listening to the captivating stories told by relatives around a table or a campfire. As a published author, she learned her glass half-empty personality makes for a perfect suspense/thriller writer. Taking her ability to verbally spin a vivid and detailed story, Winter translated that into writing deadly romantic suspense, mysteries, and thrillers.

When she’s not slaving away at the computer, you can find Winter supporting her daughter in cattle shows, seeing her three sons off into the wide-wide world, loving on her fur babies, prodding her teacher husband, and nagging at her flock of hens to stay in the coop or the dogs will get them.

She is the author of multiple novels.

Catch Up With Winter Austin:

AuthorWinterAustin.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
BookBub – @WinterAustin
Instagram – @iasuspensewriter
Facebook – @author.winteraustin

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New from Fran Lewis: Inverted Reality

GHott July 23, 2025 Leave a Comment on New from Fran Lewis: Inverted Reality

INVERTED REALITY

by Fran Lewis

July 21-25, 2025 Book Blast

Synopsis:

Inverted Reality is a compilation of five books that teach people, through the characters involved, the consequences of doing harmful, dangerous or mean things to others. The person will face in some cases the “mirror” that will replay their wrongdoing and then ask if they will repent. If not, the mirror will decide their fate for them.

Each story has different characters who have done something wrong or evil to someone else. Some of the stories have voices that have been silenced and can no longer be heard. One story describes someone who was wrongly accused. The last part “The Third Choice” is Fran’s favorite. It tells a story about people who do not repent, and fate or consequences will be inflicted, but she won’t tell you how.

Some of the stories are fiction while others are true and factual. You, the reader, will decide whether the story is true or false as you enter the world of Inverted Reality. You can decide what your own definition of the title means, and how you would react if you had to face the mirror or the third choice for what you might have done. You decide if it really happened and how you would react.

It’s good vs. evil, and consciousness vs. unconscionable.

Praise for Inverted Reality:

“Actions Have Consequences! Inverted Reality by Fran Lewis is a chilling look at bad people committing horrific deeds.”
~ Irma Fritz, author of novels and short stories

Book Details:

Genre: Horror, Short Stories, Suspense and Thrillers
Published by: Just Reviews
Publication Date: May 13, 2025
Number of Pages: 219
ISBN: May 13, 2025
Book Links: Amazon | Goodreads

Author Bio:

Fran worked in the NYC Public Schools as the Reading and Writing Staff Developer for over 36 years. She has three masters degrees and a PD in Supervision and Administration. Currently, she is a member of Who’s Who of America’s Teachers and Who’s Who of America’s Executives from Cambridge.‬‬
‬
Fran is the author of more than 14 titles including three children’s books. She has written several books on Alzheimer’s disease in order to honor her mom and help create more awareness for a cure. These include Memories are Precious: Alzheimer’s Journey; Ruth’s Story and Sharp as a Tack and Scrambled Eggs Which Describes Your Brain?. She also wrote A Daughter’s Promise about her walk through the disease with her mother. ‪Fran is the author of the Faces Behind the Stones series, a middle school series featuring stories growing up in the Bronx with her sister and MJ magazine. Voices from Beyond is her latest book which was preceded by Mirror Image, What If?, Population Zero, and Accusations.‬

Catch Up With Fran Lewis:
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Instagram – @ferndine49
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YouTube – @franlewis8

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Goldhammer by Haris Orkin | #GuestPost

GHott June 14, 2022 Leave a Comment on Goldhammer by Haris Orkin | #GuestPost

Goldhammer

by Haris Orkin

June 6 – July 1, 2022 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

A James Flynn Escapade

A young actress, involuntarily committed to City of Roses Psychiatric Hospital, plunges James Flynn into a dangerous new adventure when she claims one of the most powerful producers in Hollywood is trying to kill her.

Still convinced he’s a secret agent for Her Majesty’s Secret Service, Flynn springs into action, helps her escape and finds himself embroiled in a battle with a dangerous sociopath worth billions. In the process, he uncovers a high-tech conspiracy to control the mind of every human being on Earth.

With the help of his reluctant sidekick, Sancho, and a forgotten Hollywood sex symbol from the 1960s, Flynn faces off with Goldhammer and his private army in a desperate attempt to save the young actress…and save the world…once again.

Praise for Goldhammer:

“One of those books that has you laughing and turning pages well into the night.” —Len Boswell, Bestselling author of The Simon Grave Mysteries

“A riotous comic novel that’s also a legit page turner. A deftly plotted, swiftly paced thriller.” —R. Lee Procter, Author of The Million Dollar Sticky Note and Sugarball

“A fast-paced quixotic thriller that would make Miguel de Cervantes and Ian Fleming proud. The third James Flynn novel is a powerful cocktail of suspense, adrenaline and a whole lot of laughs. Orkin has the remarkable ability to keep the reader straddled between a genuine spy thriller and an off-the-wall comedy” —Joe Barret, Award-winning author of Managed Care

Book Details:

Genre: Comedy Thriller
Published by: Black Rose Writing
Publication Date: June 23rd 2022
Number of Pages: 240
ISBN: 1684339677 (ISBN-13: 978-1684339679)
Series: The James Flynn Escapades, Book 3 | Each is a stand-alone thriller
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

Chapter ONE

The Corsican wanted him dead.

Of that James Flynn was certain.

Somehow, the assassin had infiltrated Her Majesty’s Secret Service as a security officer. Flynn didn’t recognize him at first. The killer had put on a few pounds and likely had plastic surgery, but what he couldn’t disguise were his eyes. His cold, dark, pitiless eyes. The eyes of a sociopath. The eyes of an executioner.

The only question was when.

When would the Corsican come for him?

He told his colleagues what he suspected, but they refused to believe him. They claimed his name was Thomas Hernandez and that someone else on the security team had recommended him. They also said they fully vetted him. But Flynn wasn’t fooled. He tangled with the Corsican before. The man was relentless. A cold-blooded enforcer who started with the Corsican mafia but went on to do contract hits for the Sicilians, the Albanians, the Serbians, and the Russians.

Instead of waiting for the Corsican to come to him, Flynn decided to flush him out. Force his hand. Expose him for who he was and why he was there.

Flynn dressed in black denim and a black turtleneck and waited until 2 a.m. to make his move. He kept to the shadows as he trod the deserted corridors. He had no weapon since lethal weapons of any kind were now forbidden at headquarters. A foolish rule put in place by sheltered bureaucrats who had no clue. Luckily, not even security could carry a firearm at headquarters. All the Corsican had was an expandable baton and a Taser. Even so, the man was lethal enough with just his hands and feet.

But then, so was Flynn.

Flynn heard footsteps ahead and ducked into a conference room. He waited and listened as the footsteps drew closer. As they passed the doorway, Flynn peered into the corridor to see the Corsican lumbering forward, quietly peering in room after room. Suddenly, he stopped. Flynn felt a jolt of adrenaline. The air was electric. The silence palpable. Could the Corsican feel Flynn’s eyes on him? Flynn knew that scientists have identified a specialized group of neurons in the primate brain that fire specifically when a monkey is under the direct gaze of another. Humans also appear to be wired for that kind of gaze perception. Predators like Flynn and the Corsican can also be prey and have developed a sixth sense to alert them to danger.

The Corsican turned and he and Flynn locked eyes for a moment. Before the hit man could take a step, Flynn took off down the hall in the opposite direction. He heard the footfalls of the Corsican as he chased after him. Flynn had his route all mapped out. Darting down one corridor. Then another. Running until he arrived at a door that led down to the basement and the guts of the building. Flynn had picked the lock after dinner, knowing that this was the night he would lure the Corsican to his end. He had a license to kill and could have used it anytime, but Flynn didn’t exercise that power willy-nilly. Only as a last resort. He didn’t want the Corsican dead. He needed to know who put the price on his head. Otherwise who ever hired the killer would continue to send hitters until finally one succeeded.

The building that housed HMSS was huge and had a substantial infrastructure. The basement utility plant had mechanical, electrical, HVAC, and plumbing systems that fed water, air, and electricity all through the facility. Flynn moved from massive room to massive room, staying just ahead of the Corsican. He needed to lose him and lay in wait. Flynn was confident in his abilities, but to come at a killer like that head-on didn’t make much sense. Why give your opponents any edge at all?

Flynn ducked into a room that housed all the electrical panels, distribution boards, and circuit breakers. Conduit snaked everywhere and Flynn found a metal door secured with a heavy padlock. Using two straightened paper clips, he quickly picked the lock. The door led to an outside area protected by a chain-link fence topped with razor wire. The security fence surrounded three giant transformers and two massive backup generators the size of semi-trailers.

Flynn stood next to the door and strained his ears to hear approaching footsteps over the electrical buzz of the transformers. Faint at first, they moved closer. Careful. Slow. Stealthy. He saw a shoe as someone came through and Flynn took them from behind, using jiu-jitsu to slam them into the ground.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” said the man Flynn had face down in the gravel.

“Sancho?”

“Get off me, man.”

Flynn released his comrade-in-arms and helped him to his feet. Bits of gravel still clung to his face. “I thought you were the Corsican.” Flynn’s British accent had a touch of Scottish burr.

“His name is Hernandez,” Sancho said.

“That’s not his real name.”

“And I’m telling you, he’s not the Corsican.”

“Don’t let him fool you, my friend. He’s not who he says he is.”

“Then why’d he call me? He knows I know you. He knows we’re friends. He asked me to find you. Talk to you. Calm you down.”

“Perhaps he wants to take care of you too.”

“Take care of me?”

Flynn heard the Corsican call to them, his voice deep and resonant. “You okay in there, brother?”

“We’re good,” Sancho said.

The Corsican walked in with two other men. All three wore the blue security uniform issued to those who guard HMSS. The Corsican looked at Flynn with his dark, merciless eyes. “You okay, Mr. Flynn?”

“Tell them who you are,” Flynn demanded.

“Thomas Hernandez.”

“Who you really are.”

The Corsican rolled his eyes and sighed. “That’s who I really am.”

Flynn aimed an accusatory finger. “I know who you are. Born Stefanu Perrina in Porto, Corsica. Contract killer for the Unione Corse, the Cosa Nostra, and the Russian mafia. Wanted by Interpol for fifty-two confirmed kills.”

“I was born in Hacienda Heights.”

Flynn glanced at Sancho. “The man is a master of deception. It’s kill or be killed with men like him.”

The Corsican drew his Taser and the other two guards followed suit.

Sancho raised his hands. “Whoa, come on now. Easy.” He stepped in front of Flynn as the Corsican fired. The Taser darts caught Sancho in the shoulder and socked him with fifty thousand volts. He screamed in agony as his whole body seized up and shook. His legs gave out and he fell on his side, helpless and twitching.

Flynn dove behind a generator before the other two guards could fire. Each guard stalked him from a different side. Flynn clambered up over the top and launched himself from above, tackling the Corsican. He wrenched away his reloaded Taser and shot one of the guards in the crotch. The man went down with a shriek as the other guard fired on him. Flynn fell to his knees and the darts parted his hair before hitting the Corsican in the chest. The killer crumpled as Flynn sprang to his feet and pulled the Corsican’s expandable baton out of its holster. Flicking his wrist, Flynn fully extended the menacing club and turned to confront the last standing guard.

Someone grabbed Flynn by the arm and Flynn elbowed him in the face. Sancho staggered back, holding his bloody nose. “What the hell, man?”

“Sorry, mate.”

Flynn heard a Taser fire and an instant later, two darts hit him in the side. Fifty thousand volts took him to his knees as another guard fired another Taser. Those two darts hit him in the stomach. Flynn lost control of every muscle in his body. And then he saw the Corsican looming over him with his own weapon. He shot the darts directly into Flynn’s chest. Right over his heart. Now all three lit him up with electricity. One hundred and fifty thousand volts rocked Flynn as they shocked him with charge after charge until the world faded into a tiny aperture that slowly began to close.

***

Excerpt from Goldhammer by Haris Orkin. Copyright 2022 by Haris Orkin. Reproduced with permission from Haris Orkin. All rights reserved.

Author Bio:

Haris Orkin is a novelist, a playwright, a screenwriter, and a game writer. His play, Dada was produced at The American Stage and the La Jolla Playhouse. Sex, Impotence, and International Terrorism was chosen as a critic’s choice by the L.A. Weekly and sold as a film script to MGM/UA. Save the Dog was produced as a Disney Sunday Night movie. His original screenplay, A Saintly Switch, was directed by Peter Bogdanovich and starred David Alan Grier and Vivica A. Fox. He is a WGA Award and BAFTA Award nominated game writer and narrative designer known for Command and Conquer: Red Alert 3, Call of Juarez: Gunslinger, Tom Clancy’s The Division, Mafia 3, and Dying Light.

Guest Post by Haris Orkin

James Bond in the age of #MeToo

When I first found out I was going to be a father, I was happy, excited, and terrified. My wife and I knew we were going to have a son and the prospect of impending fatherhood raised all kinds of questions and fears. What kind of man am I? What kind of example would I be? What would I teach my son? What kind of man would I like him to become? With all those concerns and thoughts swirling around in my head, I started writing things down. It was a way to process my thoughts and feelings. Those thoughts and feelings eventually became a play that was performed at the American Stage Company, the Coronet Theater in Los Angeles, and at the La Jolla Playhouse.

The play was called “Dada” and the main character is David, an insecure father to be. At one point in the show he has an imaginary conversation with James Bond. 007 confronts him on the choices he has made.

“You settled. You gave up. You wanted to be me. How do you know you couldn’t have?”

“You’re not even real.”

“When you were fifteen I was more real to you than your own father. I embodied all your dreams. All your desires. You wanted to be suave and masterful and seductive and dangerous. You wanted men to fear you and women to fall all over you. Is that no longer true? Or do you no longer know what you want anymore?”

“You kill people. You force people to have sex with you.”

“I have a license to kill and because I do I will brook no insolence from anyone. I take what I want and I do what I want and no one tells me how to live or what I can or cannot do.”

“But no one cares about you. And you don’t care about anyone else. What kind of life is that?”

“A life free of sticky and unnecessary encumbrances. To love is to allow someone inside so deeply the can cause you…unmentionable pain.” Bond’s eyes fill with tears. “Why give someone that power?”

I was an impressionable 13 year old when I first saw James Bond in Her Majesty’s Secret Service. Bond was engaged to be married to Teresa Draco, played by Diana Rigg. I was a huge Avenger’s fan back then. (The English Avengers…not the one with Captain America and the Hulk.) Diana Rigg was beautiful and smart and incredibly cool. Who wouldn’t want to be engaged to Diana Rigg? But Bond wasn’t content with just one woman. He had to sleep with every woman he bumped into. Even those who seemed reluctant. At the time I didn’t realize that was a problem. I thought that’s what men did when they were engaged to be married. And then (spoiler alert) Diana Rigg died and Bond was heartbroken. It was clear even to my 13 year old self that the producers didn’t want a married Bond; a Bond who had to change nappies and help with the dishes. They killed off his fiancé so Bond could continue to be a lady killer.

The Bond ethos along with the Playboy philosophy warped the world view of my entire generation. Dan Draper on Mad Men reflected that ethos perfectly. Bond was of that age and also part of what shaped that age. By 1974 the feminist movement was burgeoning and my college years were shaped by James Bond on one hand and feminist girlfriends on the other. It was a schizophrenic time and when my son was about to be born sixteen years later, I reflected on all of that.

Connery’s my favorite Bond, but he was also the most “old school” in terms of how he treated women. Daniel Craig’s version of Bond feels a lot more nuanced in that regard. He’s just generally tortured and angry about everything. At least he’s not as glum as Timothy Dalton.

Does James Bond have a place in the age of #MeToo? I would hope he would change with the times. Or at least reflect them. It was never believable when every woman Bond met threw herself at him. That didn’t happen in the more recent Bond films starring Daniel Craig…so maybe things are changing. Judy Dench’s M always seemed wonderfully irritated with him. The first time we see her with Bond she calls him a “sexist, misogynist dinosaur, a relic of the cold war” (Though to be honest, every M since the first one has been irritated with Bond.)

When Bond is rebooted again, I’d like to see some changes. I’d like to see James Bond get rejected and ignored once in a while. I’d like to see Miss Moneypenny call HR on him. Maybe Bond should miss occasionally when he leaps off a building to grab onto a passing helicopter.

I love the daring-do, but anyone would have to be a little crazy to do what James Bond does. He’s always risking life and limb and scrotum (in Goldfinger) to save the world and rescue damsels and take down evil masterminds bent on world domination.

Do you know what other character that brings to mind? Don Quixote. A clearly delusional hero. But at least Don Quixote wasn’t such a jerk with the ladies. He treated Dulcinea with respect and followed the rules of chivalry. (Yeah, I know, turning women into untouchable objects of perfection can be just as problematic.)

I get that we like our heroes to be infallible and indestructible and always quick with a quip, but maybe it wouldn’t hurt if 007 took a few tips from crazy old Don Quixote. After Bond himself, that’s the character that most inspired James Flynn. Flynn even has his own Sancho. Together they blunder out into the world, seeking adventure, and slaying all kinds of metaphorical dragons. Flynn still loves the ladies, but he treats them with respect and isn’t a “sexist, misogynist dinosaur.” At least not all the time.

Catch Up With Haris Orkin:
www.harisorkin.com
Goodreads
BookBub – @HarisOrkin
Instagram – @HarisOrkin
Twitter – @HarisOrkin
Facebook – @AuthorHarisOrkin

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Posted in Interview, Partners In Crime Tours

What They Don’t Know by Susan Furlong || #Interview

GHott May 27, 2022 3 Comments on What They Don’t Know by Susan Furlong || #Interview

What They Don’t Know

by Susan Furlong

May 9 – June 3, 2022 Virtual Book Tour

A picture-perfect suburban life fractures. . . and a darker reality bubbles beneath the surface.

Mona Ellison’s life is as perfect as the porcelain dolls lined up on her shelves. She has a successful husband, a loving son, a beautiful home, and a supportive group of girlfriends ever ready for their weekly wine night.

But when Mona’s son gets entangled with the wrong crowd and runs away from home, her blissful suburban world begins to unravel. She tells her friends that boys will be boys, that he’ll be back as soon as his money runs dry . . . but deep down she knows there’s something else going on.

Then the police show up at Mona’s door. A young girl has turned up dead in their quiet town, and her missing son is the prime suspect.

Determined to reunite with her son and prove his innocence, Mona follows an increasingly cryptic trail of clues on social media, uncovering a sinister side of suburbia and unveiling lies and betrayal from those she trusted most. And as Mona spirals further from her once cozy reality, a devastating revelation shatters everything she thought she knew. Now the only thing she’s sure of is that she can’t trust anyone . . . not even herself.

With unrelenting psychological suspense and a wicked twist, What They Don’t Know marries small-town thriller and domestic mystery—suburban paranoia at its best.

What They Don’t Know Book Love:

“Part domestic thriller, part small-town mystery, What They Don’t Know is everything suspense fans want: characters who’ll make you think twice, a subversive plot, and pages that seemingly turn themselves the deeper you get into the story. In this portrait of suburban life tinged with malice and intrigue, paranoia lurks just around the corner. Read it at night. Don’t plan on sleep.” (Tosca Lee, NYT bestselling author of The Line Between)

Book Details:

Genre: Suspense
Published by: Seventh Street Books
Publication Date: May 17th, 2022
Number of Pages: 286
ISBN: 1645060403 (ISBN13: 9781645060406)
Purchase Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

It was the last Tuesday of the month, our normal book club night, and we were gathered at my house—Selma, Alice, Tara, and me—settled in the living room, Moroccan rug plush beneath us, immersed in the decor’s eclectic mix of whimsy and Old-World aesthetic. This would be our last book club meeting, but it was more than that, really. It was a pulled thread in the carefully woven tapestry of our friendships that had begun in college and endured careers, weddings, our first-borns, and remained constant through affairs, divorces, and much worse …

***

Excerpt from What They Don’t Know by Susan Furlong. Copyright 2022 by Susan Furlong. Reproduced with permission from Susan Furlong. All rights reserved.

Author Bio:

Susan Furlong is the author of eleven novels including SHATTERED JUSTICE, a New York Times Best Crime Novel of the Year. She also contributes, under a pen name, to the New York Times bestselling Novel Idea series. Her most recent novel, WHAT THEY DON’T KNOW, has been praised by reviewers as an engrossing and delightfully creepy read. She resides in Illinois with her husband and children.

Catch Up With Susan Furlong:
www.SusanFurlong.com
Goodreads
BookBub – @SusanFurlongAuthor
Instagram – @susanfurlong
Twitter – @Furlong_Sue
Facebook – @SusanFurlongAuthor

Q&A with Susan Furlong

What was the inspiration for this book?

One of our daughters loves horror movies. Me, not so much. But in the interests of spending time with her, I watched a creepy flick about a haunted doll. It scared the bejeebies out of me! I couldn’t get to sleep that night, and sometime in the early morning hours, a story sparked in my mind. It started with a plot twist and went from there. By the next day, I had a basic outline for What They Don’t Know.

What has been the biggest challenge in your writing career?

Finding balance between writing time and life’s other commitments. Anyone who has a job knows it’s difficult to juggle family and work but writing presents unique challenges. Creativity takes time, and I’ve never been one to be able to write in small spurts. Family always takes priority, but to make my deadlines, I need several hours each day of uninterrupted writing time. It’s difficult to fit it all in sometimes.

What do you absolutely need while writing?

Quiet time, my laptop and snacks. I try to snack healthy, but when a deadline looms, I resort to SweeTARTS and lots of iced tea to get me through.

Do you adhere to a strict routine when writing or write when the ideas are flowing?

A routine. If I waited for ideas to flow, I’d never write anything.

Who is your favorite character from your book and why?

Definitely Mona, my protagonist. She’s relatable and compelling, but unpredictable. She’ll keep readers on the edge, wondering what’s next.

Tell us why we should read your book.

Read What They Don’t Know if you want to be entertained by a complex story with a final twist that will leave you gobsmacked.

Give us an interesting fun fact or a few about your book?

One aspect of the story involves social media stalking. During research, I spent a lot of
time on Instagram and picked up my own social media stalker. Not to worry, though, that issue was easily resolved with just a couple clicks. Unfortunately, for Mona, her stalker was a little harder to shake.

Do you have anything specific that you want to say to your readers?

To those who have supported my work throughout the years, thank you. I hope you enjoy this book, too. I’ve worked hard to make it a good story.

Tell us a little about yourself and your background?

I’ve always wanted to be a writer, except when I was seven and my big dream was to become Wonder Woman and fly an invisible plane. But writing is just as fun and not quite as dangerous. Getting published is another story. It took me almost twenty years to sell my first piece of fiction. In the interim, I worked as a freelance writer, created website content, compiled medical reference books, even wrote instruction pamphlets like the ones that come with assemble-it-yourself furniture. Not glamorous stuff. Now, I feel incredibly blessed to be able to write and share my stories.

What’s next that we can look forward to?

My next book, The Killer’s Wife, will be out sometime in 2023. I’m writing it from two points of view: a serial killer’s wife, and her parole officer. It’s a fun story—really fun! —and just a wee bit creepy.

Tour Participants:

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Posted in Excerpt, Giveaway, Guest Author, Interview, Partners In Crime Tours, Partners In Crime Tours, Showcase

The Wayward Assassin by Susan Ouellette | #Showcase #Interview #Giveaway

CMash March 16, 2022 1 Comment on The Wayward Assassin by Susan Ouellette | #Showcase #Interview #Giveaway

The Wayward Assassin

by Susan Ouellette

March 1-31, 2022 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

Revenge knows no deadline.

Although told to stand down now that the Chechen rebel who killed her fiancé is dead, CIA analyst Maggie Jenkins believes otherwise and goes rogue to track down the assassin. Soon it becomes clear that failure to find Zara will have repercussions far beyond the personal, as Maggie uncovers plans for a horrific attack on innocent Americans. Zara is the new face of terrorism–someone who doesn’t fit the profile, who can slip undetected from attack to attack, and who’s intent on pursuing a personal vendetta at any cost.

Chasing Zara from Russia to the war-torn streets of Chechnya, to London, and finally, to the suburbs of Washington, D. C., Maggie risks her life to stop a deadly plot.

Praise for The Wayward Assassin:

“Ouellette, herself a former intelligence analyst for the CIA, imbues the exciting action with authenticity. Readers will want to see more of the wily Maggie . . .”
—Publishers Weekly

“Every once in a decade you read a book like The Wayward Spy, which is thrilling, addictive, and sends you reading more thrillers, but you’ll go back to this stunning book by Susan Ouellette and reread this tour de force.”
—The Strand Magazine, a Top 12 Book of the Year

Book Details:

Genre: Thriller
Published by: CamCat Books
Publication Date: March 15, 2022
Number of Pages: 416
ISBN: 0744304784 (ISBN13: 9780744304787)
Series: The Wayward Series, Book 2 || Each is a Stand Alone Book
Purchase Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads | IndieBound.Org | CamCat Books

Read an excerpt:

CHAPTER ONE

CIA Headquarters, August 16, 2004

Maggie Jenkins strode across the parking lot to the sidewalk that led her past the “Bubble,” the CIA’s white, dome-shaped auditorium. Just ahead, she paused at the bronze statue of Nathan Hale, the first American to be executed for spying for his country. A half dozen quarters lay scattered at his feet, left there by superstitious CIA employees hoping to garner good luck before deploying overseas. She fished around in her purse for a quarter, which she placed carefully atop Hale’s left shoe.

In just a few minutes, Maggie would learn whether her six-month deployment to the US embassy in Moscow had been approved. Even though Warner Thompson, the CIA’s deputy director for operations, had advocated on her behalf, there were several others, including an Agency psychiatrist and a team of polygraphers who were not convinced that she should be stationed overseas. She’s not ready yet, the shrink had opined, as if she were a piece of fruit not quite ripe enough for picking.

“Wish me luck,” she said to the statue as she turned for the entrance ahead. The CIA’s headquarters comprised two main buildings, both seven stories high, which were linked together by bright hallways with large windows overlooking a grassy courtyard. Maggie worked in the original headquarters building (OHB), which had been built some forty years earlier during the height of the Cold War. From the outside, OHB was a concrete monstrosity with no aesthetically redeeming value, at least in Maggie’s opinion. It reminded her of Soviet architecture—heavy on the concrete, light on the beauty.

And other than the expansive marbled foyer and the posh seventh-floor executive offices, OHB’s interior also was nothing to write home about. Every floor between the first and the seventh looked exactly the same—drab, hushed, windowless hallways lined with vault doors. Behind those heavily fortified doors sat rows of cubicles, a few conference rooms, and cramped offices here and there for mid-level managers.

Maggie pulled open the heavy glass entry door and ducked into a pristine lobby gleaming with white marble-clad walls. Ahead, the Agency’s bright blue logo covered a massive swath of the gray-and-white checked granite floor. To the right stood the Memorial Wall, which was emblazoned with black stars honoring dozens of Agency officers who’d perished in the line of duty. Maggie stopped and bit down on her lip.

The wall was an awesome, solemn reminder of lives given in the defense of freedom. Every time she walked past it, the sharp points of the eighty-fourth star—Steve’s star—ripped another gash in her heart. He’d been working under cover, so no outside friends or relatives had been invited to the ceremony. Warner had sat with her, stoic, as she clutched his hand and stared at the parade of speakers, not hearing a word they said.

She turned her gaze from the wall, slid her badge through the security turnstile, and offered a polite hello to the officer manning the front desk. She bypassed the elevator that she took every day to the fourth floor and made a beeline for the spacious employee cafeteria. In the far corner sat Warner Thompson, nose buried in the Washington Post.

“Morning,” she offered.

Warner rattled the paper and folded it lengthwise. “Coffee?” He pushed a Styrofoam cup across the quartz tabletop and smiled at her. His full head of hair had grayed considerably since last year, but it worked on him, enhancing his gray-flecked eyes and tanned complexion.

“Thanks.” Maggie sat.

“You ready?”

“I guess.” She sipped the coffee, still piping hot and perfectly sweetened. Warner knew her well. “What do you think they’ll say?”

“There’s no reason they should deny you the posting.”

“The psychiatrist thinks I’m obsessed with Zara.”

“He has a point.” Warner leaned forward, elbows on the table. “I told you not to bring her up in your evaluation sessions. If she’s still alive, we’ll find her, Maggie. I promise.”

“There’s no ‘if’ about it.” She waited until a man with a breakfast tray settled at a nearby table, then lowered her voice. “I saw her fleeing the farmhouse in Georgia. Who do they think set fire to the place after I escaped with Peter?”

Warner winced, obviously uncomfortable with the reminder of Peter, his former case officer, the one who’d been intimately involved in the murder of Steve, another case officer, and his protégé, nine short months ago. That Steve also had been Maggie’s fiancé made saying what he had to say all the more difficult. “The point is, the Agency needs to think that you’ve moved on from what happened in Georgia before they send you to such a sensitive overseas posting.”

“Moved on? Warner—”

He raised a hand to stop her. They’d had this discussion dozens of times since the previous November. Maggie had made it perfectly clear that there was no moving on, no closure, as people said these days, until she found Zara. “You know what I mean. You have to toe the party line and say you believe that everyone involved in Steve’s murder is dead. Period.”

“I still don’t understand why they won’t at least consider the possibility that Zara got away.”

Warner rubbed his forehead. “Because the Agency wants this to go away. A star operations officer was murdered by a terrorist and the terrorist is dead. It’s a simple, straightforward narrative. They don’t want the press finding out that another Agency employee and a senior US congressman were involved in Steve’s death. Everything is about the war on terror, Maggie. If the media found out that CIA and elected officials were mixed up with terrorists, there would be hell to pay.”

Maggie quoted the Biblical phrase inscribed on a wall in the CIA’s lobby. “The truth shall make you free.” She snorted. “The truth, unless it’s too embarrassing?”

Warner exhaled and shifted in his seat. “Both of us are lucky that the FBI investigation didn’t uncover . . . everything.”

He was right, of course. Last year, Maggie had destroyed classified documents and withheld other evidence from the FBI to protect them both. And Warner had been entangled, albeit unwittingly, with a Russian who had ties to both Zara and the congressman. Had the FBI known any of this, neither of them would be CIA employees today.

Maggie waved to a coworker who stared from the nearby coffee station. Warner didn’t frequent the employee cafeteria, so his appearance was sure to raise eyebrows. She’d grown accustomed to sidelong glances inside the Agency’s walls. Everyone recognized her. The media had splashed her face all over television and the internet after Congressman Carvelli’s death. There were some who whispered about her using her fiancé’s death to advance her career. Fortunately, they were in the minority. Most who knew about her role in uncovering the terrorist plot considered her a hero, a designation she refused to embrace. Her actions may have saved thousands of lives, but her motivation had been personal—to clear Steve’s name.

He was no traitor, and she’d proven it.

Maggie glanced at her watch. “We’d better go.”

Warner nodded. They grabbed their coffees and headed for the elevator bank. “Remember, you believe Zara died in the fire at the farmhouse,” Warner reminded her on the way up to the fourth floor.

“That’s what I told the shrink last session, but then he talked to the polygraph people.” Since leaving the House Intelligence Committee to return to the CIA earlier this year, she’d endured three marathon polygraph sessions. Every time, the stupid machine registered deception in her response to questions about whether she intended to violate government policies for her own benefit. “Now he thinks I’m up to something.”

Warner shrugged. “Aren’t you?”

Maggie laughed despite herself. “Always.”

***

Excerpt from The Wayward Assassin by Susan Ouellette. Copyright 2022 by Susan Ouellette. Reproduced with permission from CamCat Books. All rights reserved.

Author Bio:

Susan Ouellette is the author of The Wayward Spy, a thriller that Publishers Weekly calls a “gripping debut and series launch.” She was born and raised in the suburbs of Boston, where she studied international relations and Russian as both an undergraduate and graduate student. As the Soviet Union teetered on the edge of collapse, she worked as a CIA intelligence analyst. Subsequently, Susan worked on Capitol Hill as a professional staff member for the House Permanent Select Committee on Intelligence (HPSCI). Since her stint on Capitol Hill, she has worked for several federal consulting firms. Susan lives on a farm outside of Washington, D.C. with her family.

Q&A with Susan Ouellette

What was the inspiration for this book?

There were two inspirations for THE WAYWARD ASSASSIN. First, is my career in the intelligence world. After working as a CIA analyst in college and graduate school, I took a job on Capitol Hill working for the House Intelligence Committee. It was there, tucked away in a secure room in the attic of the U.S. Capitol Building, where I came up with my series’ protagonist, Maggie Jenkins, an intelligence analyst who uncovered threats to the United States and corruption at the highest levels of power. The second inspiration came from real world events. I hesitate to use the word “inspiration” for the real world event that anchored this story, so let’s just call it a “marker” in my life. In 2004, Chechen separatists in Russia killed hundreds of people in an attack on a school in Beslan, Russia. As a mother of school-aged children, this event captured my attention like no event since the September 11th attacks. I started writing fictionalized scenes about this school siege in an attempt to try to make sense of such a senseless loss of life.These scenes ended up in critical scenes in THE WAYWARD ASSASSIN.

What has been the biggest challenge in your writing career?

The biggest challenge in my writing career has been persevering through rejection. I wrote the first book in this series (THE WAYWARD SPY) in 2001 and wrote THE WAYWARD ASSASSIN in 2007. I secured agents for both books but didn’t land a book deal for either. For years, I put the manuscripts in a drawer. But even though I “gave up” on becoming an author, I never truly gave up. I’d revise the manuscripts, query new agents, and submit the manuscripts to contests. Eventually, I found an outstanding freelance editor who helped to untangle my overly complicated plots. Soon after, I signed with an agent and a publisher.

What do you absolutely need while writing?

I need my laptop (of course) and uninterrupted silence. Oh, and water or coffee and access to a bathroom.

Do you adhere to a strict routine when writing or write when the ideas are flowing?

I jot down ideas when they come to me, but I get the real work done when adhering to a strict routine. Otherwise, I find every reason in the world not to write–laundry, talking to the cat, organizing the pantry….

Who is your favorite character from your book and why?

Maggie, my protagonist, is my favorite character. She’s an every-woman, the girl next door who has to use her wits to get out of situations she never wanted in the first place.

Tell us why we should read your book.

If you like page-turning, realistic thrillers, you should read THE WAYWARD ASSASSIN. I’d like to apologize in advance for keeping you awake past your bedtime!

Give us an interesting fun fact or a few about your book?

I changed the ending of THE WAYWARD ASSASSIN more times than I can count. Most of the changes involved who lives and who dies.

Do you have anything specific that you want to say to your readers?

At the risk of sounding like a motivational speaker, I’ll say this: If you have a dream, don’t give up. Keep plugging away. It took me twenty years from Chapter One to publication. You’ll never know what’s possible if you give up.

Tell us a little about yourself and your background?

As a teenager, I was fascinated by the CIA but had no idea how to go about getting a job there. When I was in college, I went to a job fair where I met a CIA recruiter. It took almost a year from applying to walking into CIA headquarters. I loved my time at the Agency. But I also love writing. I’m so grateful that I was able to combine those two passions and entertain people in the process.

What’s next that we can look forward to?

The third book in the Maggie Jenkins series, THE WAYWARD TARGET, will be out in the spring of 2023.

Catch Up With Susan Ouellette:
www.SusanOuellette.com
Goodreads
BookBub – @susanobooks1
Instagram – @susanobooks
Twitter – @smobooks
Facebook – @SusanOuelletteAuthor

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The Pine Barrens Stratagem by Ken Harris || #Showcase #Interview

GHott March 10, 2022 1 Comment on The Pine Barrens Stratagem by Ken Harris || #Showcase #Interview

The Pine Barrens Stratagem

by Ken Harris

February 1-28, 2022 Virtual Book Tour

Private Investigator Steve Rockfish needs cash, like yesterday. The bad news is that yesterday, a global pandemic raged, and Maryland was headed toward a lockdown that would ultimately lead to cheating spouses no longer “working late,” and hence a lack of new clients.

Rockfish’s luck changes when a Hollywood producer reaches out, but the job is two states away and involves digging up information on a child trafficking ring from the 1940s. What he uncovers will be used to support the launch of a true crime docuseries. He grabs a mask, hand sanitizer and heads for South Jersey.

On-site, Rockfish meets Jawnie McGee, the great granddaughter of a local policeman gone missing while investigating the original crimes. As the duo uncover more clues, they learn the same criminal alliance has reformed to use the pandemic as a conduit to defraud the Federal Government of that sweet, sweet, stimulus money.

It’s not long before the investigation turns up some key intel on a myriad of illicit activity over the last eighty years and Rockfish rockets toward a showdown with the mafia, local archdiocese and dirty cops. COVID-19 isn’t the only threat to his health.

Book Details:

Genre: Crime Thriller
Published by: Black Rose Writing
Publication Date: January 27th 2022
Number of Pages: 250
ISBN: 1684338719 (ISBN13: 9781684338719)
Purchase Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

Rockfish sat in the Scion’s passenger seat while Jawnie drove. He wasn’t thrilled with the decision, but she was adamant that some of the dirt roads, deep within the Pine Barrens, were no place for a Dodge Challenger. Plus, she didn’t feel like playing navigator. In the end, Rockfish decided not to put up much of a fight, considering Jawnie was more than a little familiar with where they were headed, although he had second thoughts with the four cases of whiplash he had suffered before even reaching the highway.

“Do you drive with two feet,” he asked. “Because my head can’t keep jerking forward and slamming back much more. Unless you’re running an insurance scam, and if so, what would be my take?”

“Enough with the backseat driving, and can you put your visor back up? That late afternoon glare off the mirror is killing me.”

“Make a deal with you. You drive how you want. I’ll keep an eye on our surroundings the way I want. Speaking of which, can you move this right-side passenger mirror a little more to the right, all I’m seeing is the rear fender.”

“You got it,” Jawnie said, and she played with the mirror control until Rockfish let her know it was right where he needed it. He could monitor anyone approaching from behind without having to turn around.

“I do want to fill you in on something I learned before we left,” Rockfish said. “When you went into the house to fix those sandwiches, I reached out to a guy I know in the Baltimore PD, Dan Decker. He’s an old friend and helps me out when he can. He’s going to have one of their academy cadets do some research for us and see if there is anything more than a current history between the Marini and Provolone families. The Marini’s have run Baltimore as long as the Provolone’s have this area. If Edward’s notation of the two factions working together has anything to it, Decker will let us know. He said currently both families have worked together when it was profitable to do so. Sound familiar?”

“Yeah, same M.O. as our knuckle draggers and kid touchers,” Jawnie replied.

Rockfish was happy to learn Jawnie’s disdain for organized religion matched his own. “Well put. But if there is a history there, what are the odds that some wealthy, non-fertile Baltimore Catholics would be willing to pony up some cash to right the situation. And Edward was witness to it all?”

They drove in silence over the next twenty minutes, Rockfish trying to figure out exactly what he expected to find in a fifty-four-year-old decrepit building in the middle of the woods. He hadn’t arrived at a conclusion yet when something very familiar came into focus.

“Remember when you asked me about knowing when you’re being followed?” Rockfish said.

“Yeah, I just chalked it up to anxiety and paranoia. It comes standard on the Millennial base model.”

“Guess what? We are,” Rockfish deadpanned. “Don’t do a damn thing different and let me think for a second. There’s a Jeep Grand Cherokee, right now, two cars back that’s been with us since we pulled off the highway when I was telling you what Decker said.”

Rockfish pulled out a scrap of paper and jotted down the license plate.

“I’ll ask Decker to run this, if they end up sticking on our ass the whole way. I could be a tad paranoid, but I’d rather err on the side of caution. Just keep doing what you’re doing, and I’ll tell you if evasive actions become necessary. We’ll start you slow and work our way up to the infamous private eye J-turn.”

Ten minutes later, the Scion crossed the Hammonton City line and Rockfish lost sight of the Jeep. He had Jawnie drive a couple of concentric circles around the downtown area, before heading out on County Route 542 which, according to her, would point them towards the southern part of Wharton State Forest and the abandoned orphanage.

Rockfish spotted the Jeep, only a second or two after it turned on Route 542 from a side street.

“Company’s back,” Rockfish said. “I guess when we hit these dirt roads you mentioned, we’ll see how serious they are.”

When the Scion’s tires soon left the asphalt, and began rolling down the slightly larger than single lane dirt road, the Jeep’s true intentions came to light. No longer concerned about being spotted, the Jeep’s speed increased until it was only a few feet from Jawnie’s bumper. Rockfish’s head swiveled from the Jeep and back to his pilot. He needed to stay calm, but Jawnie looked petrified, and while her hands had a death grip on the wheel, they were also visibly shaking.

“Jawnie, listen to me and we’ll be alright.”

She didn’t say a word, but Rockfish could feel the car slowing down. Screw her feelings, he thought and began giving orders.

“Put your foot back on the gas. You need to keep a constant speed.” And then a minute later. “Stay in the center, don’t give them space to get alongside of us.” Lastly, he shouted. “The center I said!” His voice gave out with that last outburst and he knew she heard the fear in it.

Rockfish swore as the Jeep slammed into their back bumper. “That a girl, keep her straight! Gas, give it some—”

The rear windshield exploded, shards of safety glass like small pellets peppered the interior of the car. Jawnie screamed and instinctively yanked the wheel to the left. Likewise, Rockfish now yelled in order to be heard.

“Foot off the gas! Steer into it!”

Rockfish wasn’t sure how he got through to Jawnie, but she listened, and the Scion straightened back up and they were rocketing straight down the dirt road once again. But before he could congratulate his pupil, the Jeep was now angling to get alongside; the Scion drifting dangerously close to the right shoulder, or lack thereof. Rockfish turned and looked out the driver’s side rear window. He could clearly see the Jeep’s front end.

In the next instant, they were sliding again, Jawnie’s foot slammed on the brake and the Jeep’s right fender nudged the Scion’s left rear. Brakes squealed, and tires howled as dirt, dust and burnt rubber filled their lungs.

“Hold on, hold on, hold on!” It was all he managed to say, but her eyes told him she was a million miles away. Rockfish closed his and braced for impact.

The car spun violently to the left, a hundred and eighty degrees, and his head whipped left and then right, slamming against the window. The seatbelt dug into his chest and he had trouble breathing. A second later, the earth beneath the car’s right side began to give way and the Scion slid into a ditch before coming to a stop.

By the time Rockfish opened his eyes and turned around, the taillights from the Jeep had disappeared into the distance.

* * * * * * * * * *

“That settles it, I’m going to the police now! They, someone, fuck I don’t know who just tried to kill us!” Jawnie said. “Look at my car! Who’s going to pay for this? Not like we’re exchanging fucking information with them!” Her mask was around her neck and Rockfish could see the tears.

Rockfish took a second before he replied. His partner was still in shock, borderline hysterical, and he didn’t want to push her over the edge, unlike the car they pulled themselves from. The Jeep had performed a textbook pit maneuver and Rockfish bet Jawnie wasn’t a big fan of Cops or Live PD. Hence, her jumping straight to attempted murder.

“Now hold on Jawnie,” Rockfish said. “You’re not hurt, right? That seatbelt and airbag did their jobs?”

“Of course, but—”

“No buts about it. Your chest might be a little sore tomorrow from that belt, your eyes swollen from the air bag, and more importantly, you’ll never forget your first chase. But seriously, no one tried to kill us. If they had wanted us dead, we’d be bleeding out from gunshot wounds. Your rear window was the victim of a warning shot. When we were in that ditch, no one walked up from behind and pumped a few slugs into the back of our heads.”

Rockfish stopped and looked at Jawnie, he needed to make sure he was getting through. Her breathing had slowed down quite a bit and that was a start.

“This was a warning, pure and simple. All this tells us is that someone thinks you might be sticking your nose somewhere it doesn’t belong. Obviously, it pertains to those boxes. I haven’t been in town long enough to piss someone off yet, at least, I hope. But if they were staking out your place, they’d have my license plate number and know who I am.”

“But I’ve only dealt with Hasty on this,” Jawnie said.

“Look. You might have worked out a deal with Hasty, but odds are he wasn’t the one that went into the very back of the evidence room and pulled those boxes for you. He’s probably recounted your conversation to a few of his ‘trusted’ senior men, and God knows who else might have been in the room when those conversations took place. Was there anything else you mentioned either to him or anyone else at the station that might cause a reaction like what just happened?”

“I d-d-did tell him I had hoped to t-t-take what I found in these boxes, scan what I could, and create a website. One that would ask the public for tips. Anonymously, of course. It would be a way to get the word out and maybe get someone’s attention who might remember something. Hasty asked his secretary to check and see if he had the authority to put the PD’s logo and tip line on this site. He was only trying to help.”

“So, he’s got a secretary. Old bird, I bet?”

“Yeah, Betty Lou Sommers. I’m guessing she’s logged more than a few years there.”

“There’s your problem. Old Betty Lou sees all Hasty’s business that comes and goes out of his office. I’d lay odds her loyalties lie with others she’s worked with or for through the years and not the guy who knocked the latest Ringle out of office.”

“I’d never thought of it that way.”

“If you’re trying to be a junior special agent, I’d advise you to think that way. Someone in that department is crooked and an off-duty cop or on-duty mafioso ran us off the road. Doesn’t matter who, I’m betting they can be one and the same. Now if you feel alright, we need to call for a tow.”

“And an Uber.”

“Do you have any bars?” Rockfish said.

“Nope.”

“We were lucky this was only a warning. We’ve got some walking ahead of us. They shouldn’t be coming back.”

I gotta reach out to Davenport, he thought. The stakes have significantly increased.

***

Excerpt from The Pine Barrens Stratagem by Ken Harris. Copyright 2022 by Ken Harris. Reproduced with permission from Ken Harris. All rights reserved.

Author Bio:

Ken Harris retired from the FBI, after thirty-two years, as a cybersecurity executive. With over three decades writing intelligence products for senior Government officials, Ken provides unique perspectives on the conventional fast-paced crime thriller. While this is his first traditionally published novel, he previously self-published two novellas and two novels. He spends days with his wife Nicolita, and two Labradors, Shady and Chalupa Batman. Evenings are spent cheering on Philadelphia sports. Ken firmly believes Pink Floyd, Irish whiskey and a Montecristo cigar are the only muses necessary. He is a native of New Jersey and currently resides in Northern Virginia.

Catch Up With Ken Harris:
www.KenHarrisFiction.com
Goodreads
BookBub – @08025writes
Twitter – @08025writes
Instagram – @KenHarrisFiction
Facebook – @kah623

Q&A with Ken Harris

1. Reviewers say that “The Pine Barrens Stratagem” is fun, but also sarcastic, quirky, or irreverent… what is the tone of your story and why did you choose it?

The main theme is action, but with a heaping side of sarcasm and dry wit. I write what I know best. Loyalty is another element that means a lot to me, so it’s woven pretty well into the story. When someone says the book is ‘fun’ I hope they meant that there was a number of out loud laughs. That’s a major compliment to me. A fun read to me is one you don’t have to fight your way through. I don’t want someone to put the book down a dozen times and come back to it. I want them strapped in like at an amusement park. You’ll laugh and be taken back a few times but when you’re on the way home, you can’t wait for the next visit (or book in the series, in this case).

2. What are the most important (or relevant) do’s and don’ts in your crime/thriller stories?

I don’t expect the reader to have to suspend a ton of belief. My characters are down to earth, both good and bad. Average Joes, so to speak, not part of the Marvel Universe. I don’t want a reader to put the book down because they have to contemplate if something is plausible or even possible. There’s a good chance they might not pick it back up.
My background tends to make my writing grounded. If I’m writing about it, it happened or can, in the real world. I don’t have a character that sits down at a computer, bashes on a keyboard, tying 37 databases together into a virtual 3-D model hovering over a conference table in the course of 15 seconds. There is so much wrong with police procedurals in print and on the small and big screens. I mean, I get it, people want to be lost in a fantasy world sometimes, but it’s not something that entertains me. So I don’t write that way. I mention this further down in the questions, but if I wanted to lose people in a fantasy world, I would have managed to incorporate half a dozen zombies into the story.

3. “Don’t judge a book after its cover” – is this saying expressed somehow in your story? How?

I think it’s best expressed by the journey the protagonist, Steve Rockfish takes from start to finish. He starts off flawed. He’s a textbook 1970s private eye attempting to navigate 2020 waters. The political climate and pandemic aren’t helping matters. Compassion or lack thereof is his major flaw in the first few chapters. You see him change once he meets his co-protagonist (is there such a thing?) Jawnie McGee. She teaches that old dog some new tricks.

4. Going beyond the metaphorical sense of the saying and talking about the actual books and their covers, what is your opinion about the covers of the crime thrillers stories (old and new) and what was important for you in deciding the cover for “The Pine Barrens Stratagem”?

I love the old retro, vintage noir type of covers. They draw me in and then as a largely horror fan, I move onto the horror section. But I knew I wanted something vintage and retro for the cover of this book. Something that could portray the 1970’s detective I grew up with, but swimming like a fish out of water in the 2020s. Also Lana, Steve’s car, plays a major part in the story and I wanted her front and center on the cover.

5. What are “intelligence products” you have written in your career and what are the advantages/disadvantages for you as a writer?

Yeah. That’s classified.
Seriously though – As an analyst and then senior manager, I dealt with crafting warning pieces that would provide the President, his Cabinet, and Intelligence Community leaders across Government with the insight needed to make actional decisions based on the subject matter of the written piece. My particular team dealt with emerging technologies.
The advantages were that I know what my protagonist will do. I don’t have to research much, or try and craft him into some super secret rogue 007 FBI Agent that does crap that is totally unbelievable, like you see in the movies or on television. If I’m writing it, it’s plausible and credible.
The disadvantage is that the writing I did while working for the FBI and the writing I do now are two totally different styles. Not even close. If I wrote a Steve Rockfish adventure like a piece for the President’s Daily Brief, you’d be bored out of your skull. And worse, not laugh once.

6. The crime/thriller genre is somehow understandable. Did you ever think to write another genre – which one? What could convince you to write a totally different genre?

I am a huge fan of horror. I love horror movies and horror novels are pretty much all I read. But when it comes to writing, I find it very hard to suspend the proper amount of belief needed. I have a previously self-published novella, one could call light horror (Huckleberry’s Hail Mary) that I would like to go back and give the full novel treatment. Currently it is on my to-do list after getting a contract for the third “From the Case Files of Steve Rockfish” series.
With my 32 years in law enforcement and the majority of that spent in the fields of critical and analytical thinking, I believe I’d be hard pressed to develop the intestinal fortitude needed to suspend belief to write proper horror. It’s much easier to sit in a recline and be scared.

7. Considering the plot of “The Pine Barrens Stratagem” and that you are a former FBI cybersecurity executive, please, tell us why did you choose this subject related to the C-19 epidemic?

The pandemic plays a major role in the story. I make use of it to shape not just the premise but my characters every encounter.
I knew there was a large chance of turning off readers by placing my novel smack dab in the middle of the pandemic. People are tired of reading/hearing about it. A matter of fact, that point was brought to my attention in a query rejection email from a small publishing house. Fear of the unknown. I get it, but I wanted to write the story I wanted and you can’t please everyone. If I wanted to write what I thought the general public would willingly accept and were I solely in this for the money, I’d have tossed half a dozen zombies in the story.
I also wanted to challenge myself as a writer. First, I was interested in how a modern-day detective would operate in such a challenging landscape. How would the pandemic affect the number of clients walking through the door and how it would change normal avenues of investigation. And the second was how I as a writer could find different ways to show character emotions and non-verbal cues while they were behind a mask. It is the time we live in and I wanted to capture it the best I could. With some humor, sarcasm and thrills thrown in.

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