Camy Tang's Blog, page 141
February 1, 2012
The Phenomenon of Not Downloading Free Ebooks
Captain's Log, Stardate 02.01.2012
So here's a weird phenomenon. There are a bunch of free thriller books available today on Kindle but I'm not a huge fan of secular thriller because many of them tend to get a little more gristly than I like. I looked at the book blurbs, but they were mostly serial killer type of thrillers, which do tend to get bloody.
So I am actually not downloading free ebooks! I can't believe it!
But it also got me to thinking. These days there are so many free ebooks that people can start to pick and choose which free ebooks to download.
Isn't that a strange thing? Before, I'd be snatching up almost any free ebook available because, well, it's free.
Now, I'm like, "Thrillers, eh. I read them but not my favorite genre. I'll pass."
I probably should have had this mentality for some of the other free ebooks I downloaded in the past, because I wouldn't have so many ebooks that I probably won't ever read.
Then again, they don't take up space in my house because the ebook files are stored on my Amazon digital bookshelf or my Barnes and Noble Nook shelf, not on my computer. So I suppose it doesn't matter if I download books I'll never read since I don't have to store the files.
I wonder, does this glut of free ebooks defeat the marketing purpose of a free ebook? I'm sure it works sometimes--a reader will pick up a free ebook from an author he/she hasn't read before, and suddenly the reader is a new fan of the author.
But with so many free ebooks these days, does it make it less likely that reader will get around to reading the author's book since there are so many other free (and paid) ebooks the reader has gotten?
So would I utilize free ebooks as a marketing tool? I'm not sure. Maybe. I might offer a novella for free if it was the first of a series. Or I might offer a full-length ebook for a really cheap price, like $0.50. The reason is because I'm wondering if the people who would pay those few cents for my ebook would be more likely to read it than those who got it for free.
What do you think?
Update: I also started this discussion on Goodreads if you want to participate there!
So here's a weird phenomenon. There are a bunch of free thriller books available today on Kindle but I'm not a huge fan of secular thriller because many of them tend to get a little more gristly than I like. I looked at the book blurbs, but they were mostly serial killer type of thrillers, which do tend to get bloody.So I am actually not downloading free ebooks! I can't believe it!
But it also got me to thinking. These days there are so many free ebooks that people can start to pick and choose which free ebooks to download.
Isn't that a strange thing? Before, I'd be snatching up almost any free ebook available because, well, it's free.
Now, I'm like, "Thrillers, eh. I read them but not my favorite genre. I'll pass."
I probably should have had this mentality for some of the other free ebooks I downloaded in the past, because I wouldn't have so many ebooks that I probably won't ever read.
Then again, they don't take up space in my house because the ebook files are stored on my Amazon digital bookshelf or my Barnes and Noble Nook shelf, not on my computer. So I suppose it doesn't matter if I download books I'll never read since I don't have to store the files.
I wonder, does this glut of free ebooks defeat the marketing purpose of a free ebook? I'm sure it works sometimes--a reader will pick up a free ebook from an author he/she hasn't read before, and suddenly the reader is a new fan of the author.
But with so many free ebooks these days, does it make it less likely that reader will get around to reading the author's book since there are so many other free (and paid) ebooks the reader has gotten?
So would I utilize free ebooks as a marketing tool? I'm not sure. Maybe. I might offer a novella for free if it was the first of a series. Or I might offer a full-length ebook for a really cheap price, like $0.50. The reason is because I'm wondering if the people who would pay those few cents for my ebook would be more likely to read it than those who got it for free.
What do you think?
Update: I also started this discussion on Goodreads if you want to participate there!
Street Team Book List excerpt - Firethorn by Ronie Kendig
Camy here: Here's another book I added to my Street Team book giveaway list! You can win this book by joining my Street Team--Click here for more info!
Firethorn
by
Ronie Kendig
Blown and dismantled, Nightshade is ready to repay the favor.
Former Marine and current Nightshade team member Griffin "Legend" Riddell is comfortable. So comfortable he never sees the set up that lands him in a maximum security prison, charged with murder. How can he prove his innocence behind bars?
Covert operative Kazi Faron is tasked with reassembling Nightshade—the black ops team someone dissected. Breaking Griffin out of a federal penitentiary amid explosive confusion may turn out to be her last assignment. What will it take to convince the fugitive that whoever set him up has also dissected the Nightshade team? As Kazi and Griffin race to rescue the others and discover the traitor,
love begins to awaken in their hearts.
Can a covert operative and the felon she's freed overcome their mutual distrust long enough to save Nightshade? Will anything prepare them for who—or what is coming?
Excerpt of Chapter One:
To all American military heroes At home and abroad, Those who have gone before and those serving today— THANK YOU! Because of you, we are FREE!
RECON CREEDRealizing it is my choice and my choice alone to be a Reconnaissance Marine, I accept all challenges involved with this profession. Forever shall I strive to maintain the tremendous reputation of those who went before me.
Exceeding beyond the limitations set down by others shall be my goal. Sacrificing personal comforts and dedicating myself to the completion of the reconnaissance mission shall be my life. Physical fitness, mental attitude, and high ethics—The title of Recon Marine is my honor.
Conquering all obstacles, both large and small, I shall never quit. To quit, to surrender, to give up is to fail. To be a Recon Marine is to surpass failure; To overcome, to adapt and to do whatever it takes to complete the mission.
On the battlefield, as in all areas of life, I shall stand tall above the competition. Through professional pride, integrity, and teamwork, I shall be the example for all Marines to emulate.
Never shall I forget the principles I accepted to become a Recon Marine. Honor, Perseverance, Spirit, and Heart.
A Recon Marine can speak without saying a word and achieve what others can only imagine.
Swift, Silent, Deadly
Chapter 1The Shack
"It's sad, really." Marshall "The Kid" Vaughn trudged away from the thumping rotors of the helo that had deposited them back at the Shack, his pack almost dragging the ground. "Ya don't realize how much a person adds until he's gone."
"Legend's not gone." Max "Frogman" Jacobs hoisted his rucksack into a better group, his mind locked on Sydney and their two sons waiting for him at home. Poor woman had to be going out of her mind with two of his Mini-Me's running around.
"Yeah." John "Squirt" Dighton hit the light breaker, then waited for the six-man team to clear the door. "He's just temporarily detained."
Lights sizzled and popped to life. Groaning bounced off the grimy windows as he hauled the door closed, locked it, then started toward the showers.
The Kid grunted. "Forty-years-to-life temporary."
In the locker room, a depressive gloom hung over the team. They'd been on countless missions, hit just about every terrain and environment imaginable, but none had taken the toll the last couple had. And there was one reason—they were down a man. Griffin "Legend" Riddell. If Max could write the playbook, they wouldn't do another mission without the guy. But with the man in federal prison for murdering a congressman, it'd be a long wait.
It was quiet. Too quiet. Max looked around the Spartan room. Walls of lockers, most unused. A few benches. A giant once-white bin for dirty duds. And the team. Six men, now. All very skilled. Good men. Even the one missing. Every man here knew Legend had been set up—he didn't murder that congressman. But nobody could prove it. The evidence was damning. Justice—injustice was more like it—came swiftly. Lambert, ever the puppeteer, couldn't pull the right strings to get Legend off.
"I'm heading up to visit him tomorrow. Anyone game?" Colton "Cowboy" Neeley slumped on a bench and ran a hand over his short, dark hair. His blue eyes probed the group.
"Nah, man. I've got a date," the Kid said.
Squirt beaned him with a towel. "What girl would go out with you, mate?"
The Kid snapped the terry cloth back at the former Navy SEAL. "Your sister."
Squirt froze. His jaw went slack. Then his eyes darkened.
Laughing, Canyon "Midas" Metcalfe rose to his feet from the corner. "You just proved his point by thinking your sister would actually go out with him."
Squirt swallowed, his face drained of color. "I introduced them at a New Year's party."
Midas laughed harder. "Your mistake, mate."
Shuffling closer, Squirt pointed a finger at the Kid. "I swear, you touch her, I'll shove a fist full of witchety grubs down your gullet."
"Give me credit, dude." The Kid raised his hands. "I'm a gentleman."
Max grunted. "Right." As he strode around the lockers to the shower well, he heard more threats and much more laughter from the Kid. Max shook his head. Would the Kid ever grow up, learn when to leave things alone?
As he tossed his oily, grimy duds on the bench, Max paused, thinking maybe he should send his report to Lambert now so he wouldn't have to mess with it tomorrow. The mission had been simple enough, a snatch-n-grab of an Iranian doctor. It'd been nice and clean, in and out. The report wouldn't take long. Then he could shower, bug out, and know he had the whole weekend with Syd and the boys.
Max jogged up the iron stairs, which creaked and groaned beneath his weight. Down the hall to the right. He punched in the code and entered the secure hub, the door hissing shut behind him. The most high-tech part of this dump-of-a-warehouse.
Shouts drew his attention to the blinds. He jabbed two fingers between a couple and spread them to peeked down into the main area. Squirt and the Kid raced into the bay and back the way they came. Squirt looked ready to kill. The Kid's face revealed his fear. Max shook his head again. Man, he wanted Griffin back. The guy seemed to bring balance to the team. Badly needed balance.
Max powered up the computer. Hand propped on the warped wood, he waited for the system to boot.
More shouts. Loud thuds.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. Would they never—?
Tat-a-tat! Tat-tat-a-tat!
Instinct drove Max to his knee at the sound of gunfire. He scrambled to the window. Through the slanted blinds, he peered down into the slab of cement. His brain wouldn't assemble what he saw. Gunmen. A dozen or more. Rushing into the Shack from the parking bay. Moving swiftly, as if. . .
They know the layout.
Max darted to the door and jerked it open. He sprinted down the hall toward the stairs. As his boot hit steel, he froze. A shadow emerged. Floated into the hall.
Too late.
Max jerked back. Pressed his spine against the wall.
By the showers, the Kid looked up. Max signaled to him. Then made his best and loudest Nightshade whistle, hoping it would penetrate the building, give the men warning to take cover.
The Kid threw himself back into the locker room.
Men swarmed the corner. One looked to his left, one right. His weapon slowly rose as he traced the stairs with his M16.
Max leapt backward into the darkness and into office. He closed the door. As the lock clicked, darkness dropped like an anchor over the entire building. Behind him, a glow screamed his location. The monitor!
Max spun. Lunged across the desk. Stabbed the power button. And paused with his hand still near the monitor. If someone was coming after them. . .accessing this computer. . .
On his knees, Max yanked the cords free. With the box, he moved to the window and reassessed the parking bay. Another van with a half-dozen men with AK-47s. They streamed into the warehouse.
Max's gut wound into a dozen knots. They were screwed.
Think! Hand on the door, he considered going back downstairs. But that would get him captured. Killed. Yet he'd rather be with his guys than running like a chicken.
No, not running. Considering options, gaining the advantage. Planning. The invasion force was armed to the teeth. They knew who they were coming after. They'd brought weapons. And those guys moved with precision. Swift, deadly precision.
Though Nightshade had a stellar ops record, perhaps they had finally met their match. Still. . .two to one? Nightshade had faced worse.
A large black Suburban screeched to a halt in the middle of the parking bay. Two men emerged, both wearing trench coats.
Max cursed his luck to be up here, away from his gear, his weapons. Up here, without firepower. Thus, powerless.
Okay, enough. He was going down there. He eased the door open and slid across the hall. Bathed in darkness, he crouched at edge of the landing, using the wall for cover. A dozen men so far, rushing here and there. Quick, quiet chatter between the men.
A smirk slid into Max's face. His team had taken cover and these goons couldn't find them. If he could just get a weapon. . .
"Can't find them."
"They're here. I saw them go in," the man nearest the SUV shouted. "Find them! Lights!"
Light rushed through the building as headlamps from the vehicles stabbed the dusty, damp building. Max yanked back, out of sight. He needed to get down there, defend his men. His boot hit the landing.
Shouts erupted. A shot bounced off the steel rafters, taunting as it echoed through the Shack. Stilled, Max waited. More shouts. The sound of a scuffle. The half-dozen men waiting by the SUV lifted their weapons to the ready.
The locker room door swung open. A man walked backward, his AK-47 aimed at a large form filling the doorway. Cowboy. Arms raised, dressed only in his jeans, he stalked forward. Someone shoved him from behind, which barely moved the big lug.
Spine pressed against the wood, Max peered down into the bay.
"You move one wrong muscle," the one in front of Cowboy growled, "and so help me God, I'll kill you."
"No you won't." Cowboy lowered his hands. "If you wanted me dead, I wouldn't be out here."
Ride 'em, Cowboy.
From the side entrance to the showers, three men dragged a shouting, cursing Kid into the bay. Max smirked that it took three tangos to wrangle the Kid.
Hand clenched, Max's mind went into overdrive. What could he do? God. . .I need. . .something. What could he pray for? Intercepting the team was impossible. Twelve, fifteen armed tangos against one unarmed man?
He latched on to the hope that they'd only found Cowboy and the Kid. No Midas, Squirt, or Aladdin. Good. Maybe they could regroup and—
A man flew through the bay door from the showers and landed with a thud a yard from the others. Midas flipped over, scissored his legs, and swept the thug off his feet. The Kid seized the confusion to attack the men guarding him. And impressively. With a hard right, he dropped the first and used that weapon to disable the second.
Cowboy took a step back and rammed his elbow into the gut of the nearest guard. The gunman bent forward—straight into Cowboy's meaty fist. The big guy pivoted, slapped the interior of the gunman's wrist, effectively seizing the weapon and flipping the muzzle around. He fired at the guy.
Crack!
In the split second it took for Max to realize the sonic boom that rent the air wasn't the report of Cowboy's .45 MEU but of a rifle, Max saw the man in the black trench coat drop to the ground. A circle spread out like a dark halo.
"Sniper!" someone shouted.
The dead guy had fallen backward. Most likely shot from the front. Which meant. . . Max's gaze rose to the rafters. With no light, it'd be the perfect hiding spot. But. . .who? Squirt? Aladdin?
Crack!
The man guarding Colton stumbled forward, then went to his knees before hitting the cement.
The man in the black trench coat nearest the SUV dropped. A pool of blood spilled out.
"There!" One guard swung and fired his fully automatic at the ceiling. Four others followed suit, firing at the bank of grimy windows on the southeast wall of the building.
Max followed their direction and watched. Waited, his breath caught at the back of his throat. Cracks and shattering glass blended with the staccato punches of the guns to create a wild cacophony of noise. Max tuned it out, praying whoever—Aladdin or Squirt—wouldn't be hit.
But then he saw it. A shift of a shadow. Like someone rolling. . .
The gunfire petered out as a body plummeted the eight feet to the ground.
The thud seemed to have supernatural powers as it pounded Max's chest and pushed him back. Away from the window but not far enough that he lost line of sight.
Silence dropped on the Shack.
"Where's Max Jacobs?"
As the question streaked through the warehouse, Max registered a red glow in the far corner. Even as he noticed it, he heard a beep. Another. His gaze darted to the source of the noise. Two men were walking the perimeter, their M16s dangling as they raised their arms and pressed something against the supports. Arms lowered and the men stepped back revealing gray bricks with wires.
Explosives.
Gotta stop this. Do something. His gaze collided with Cowboy's. The big lug gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head.
Max's nostrils flared as he wrestled with what to do.
"Where's Dighton?"
How do they know our names?
"Dead," someone answered.
Pulled back into the shadows, Max clenched his eyes and bit down on his tongue. Dighton was dead. What about Aladdin—had he survived the fall?
Sirens wailed in the distance.
"Load 'em up."
"What about Jacobs?"
"Outta time." The leader left as the gunmen dragged the team out of the building.
Stealthily, Max held on to the box and sprinted the length of the hall to the side of the Shack. In the conference room, he plunged toward the window. Craned his neck to peek out. Three vehicles—twin white vans and a black town car.
The guys were loaded into the van and one into the car.
The leader shifted, held something out, then it wavered.
Detonator.
Max spun around, searching for an out. Doors. Only one way down—the stairs. But they led to the bay, which would be engulfed.
Windows. Overlooked the dock. The canal. It was January. The water would be brutal cold. His split-second assessment told him no matter what route he took, it'd be deadly. Despite his training, if he didn't find shelter out of the water once he broke surface, he'd die an ice cube. If he stayed, he'd die a fireball.
Good thing SEALs are insulated against cold water.
Max vaulted toward the window, hurtling the computer through the window. The glass shattered as a violent force blasted through the air. It lifted him. Up. . .up. . . Flipped him. Searing pain sliced through his arm. Heat stroked his back and legs. Fire chased him out of the building. Into the night.
Boom!
Another wave slammed into him. Threw him backward. Toward the water.
Something punched his gut. Knocked the breath from his lungs.
Bright white lit the night. Blinded him. Then—almost instantaneously—black. Pure black. And he was falling. . .down. . .down. . .
© 2011 by Ronie KendigISBN 978-1-60260-0785-9
Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House. All rights reserved.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the publisher.This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.For more information about Ronie Kendig, please access the author's Web site at the following Internet address: www.roniekendig.com Published by Barbour Publishing, Inc., P.O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, OH 44683, www.barbourbooks.com Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses. Printed in the United States of America.
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Firethornby
Ronie Kendig
Blown and dismantled, Nightshade is ready to repay the favor.
Former Marine and current Nightshade team member Griffin "Legend" Riddell is comfortable. So comfortable he never sees the set up that lands him in a maximum security prison, charged with murder. How can he prove his innocence behind bars?
Covert operative Kazi Faron is tasked with reassembling Nightshade—the black ops team someone dissected. Breaking Griffin out of a federal penitentiary amid explosive confusion may turn out to be her last assignment. What will it take to convince the fugitive that whoever set him up has also dissected the Nightshade team? As Kazi and Griffin race to rescue the others and discover the traitor,
love begins to awaken in their hearts.
Can a covert operative and the felon she's freed overcome their mutual distrust long enough to save Nightshade? Will anything prepare them for who—or what is coming?
Excerpt of Chapter One:
To all American military heroes At home and abroad, Those who have gone before and those serving today— THANK YOU! Because of you, we are FREE!
RECON CREEDRealizing it is my choice and my choice alone to be a Reconnaissance Marine, I accept all challenges involved with this profession. Forever shall I strive to maintain the tremendous reputation of those who went before me.
Exceeding beyond the limitations set down by others shall be my goal. Sacrificing personal comforts and dedicating myself to the completion of the reconnaissance mission shall be my life. Physical fitness, mental attitude, and high ethics—The title of Recon Marine is my honor.
Conquering all obstacles, both large and small, I shall never quit. To quit, to surrender, to give up is to fail. To be a Recon Marine is to surpass failure; To overcome, to adapt and to do whatever it takes to complete the mission.
On the battlefield, as in all areas of life, I shall stand tall above the competition. Through professional pride, integrity, and teamwork, I shall be the example for all Marines to emulate.
Never shall I forget the principles I accepted to become a Recon Marine. Honor, Perseverance, Spirit, and Heart.
A Recon Marine can speak without saying a word and achieve what others can only imagine.
Swift, Silent, Deadly
Chapter 1The Shack
"It's sad, really." Marshall "The Kid" Vaughn trudged away from the thumping rotors of the helo that had deposited them back at the Shack, his pack almost dragging the ground. "Ya don't realize how much a person adds until he's gone."
"Legend's not gone." Max "Frogman" Jacobs hoisted his rucksack into a better group, his mind locked on Sydney and their two sons waiting for him at home. Poor woman had to be going out of her mind with two of his Mini-Me's running around.
"Yeah." John "Squirt" Dighton hit the light breaker, then waited for the six-man team to clear the door. "He's just temporarily detained."
Lights sizzled and popped to life. Groaning bounced off the grimy windows as he hauled the door closed, locked it, then started toward the showers.
The Kid grunted. "Forty-years-to-life temporary."
In the locker room, a depressive gloom hung over the team. They'd been on countless missions, hit just about every terrain and environment imaginable, but none had taken the toll the last couple had. And there was one reason—they were down a man. Griffin "Legend" Riddell. If Max could write the playbook, they wouldn't do another mission without the guy. But with the man in federal prison for murdering a congressman, it'd be a long wait.
It was quiet. Too quiet. Max looked around the Spartan room. Walls of lockers, most unused. A few benches. A giant once-white bin for dirty duds. And the team. Six men, now. All very skilled. Good men. Even the one missing. Every man here knew Legend had been set up—he didn't murder that congressman. But nobody could prove it. The evidence was damning. Justice—injustice was more like it—came swiftly. Lambert, ever the puppeteer, couldn't pull the right strings to get Legend off.
"I'm heading up to visit him tomorrow. Anyone game?" Colton "Cowboy" Neeley slumped on a bench and ran a hand over his short, dark hair. His blue eyes probed the group.
"Nah, man. I've got a date," the Kid said.
Squirt beaned him with a towel. "What girl would go out with you, mate?"
The Kid snapped the terry cloth back at the former Navy SEAL. "Your sister."
Squirt froze. His jaw went slack. Then his eyes darkened.
Laughing, Canyon "Midas" Metcalfe rose to his feet from the corner. "You just proved his point by thinking your sister would actually go out with him."
Squirt swallowed, his face drained of color. "I introduced them at a New Year's party."
Midas laughed harder. "Your mistake, mate."
Shuffling closer, Squirt pointed a finger at the Kid. "I swear, you touch her, I'll shove a fist full of witchety grubs down your gullet."
"Give me credit, dude." The Kid raised his hands. "I'm a gentleman."
Max grunted. "Right." As he strode around the lockers to the shower well, he heard more threats and much more laughter from the Kid. Max shook his head. Would the Kid ever grow up, learn when to leave things alone?
As he tossed his oily, grimy duds on the bench, Max paused, thinking maybe he should send his report to Lambert now so he wouldn't have to mess with it tomorrow. The mission had been simple enough, a snatch-n-grab of an Iranian doctor. It'd been nice and clean, in and out. The report wouldn't take long. Then he could shower, bug out, and know he had the whole weekend with Syd and the boys.
Max jogged up the iron stairs, which creaked and groaned beneath his weight. Down the hall to the right. He punched in the code and entered the secure hub, the door hissing shut behind him. The most high-tech part of this dump-of-a-warehouse.
Shouts drew his attention to the blinds. He jabbed two fingers between a couple and spread them to peeked down into the main area. Squirt and the Kid raced into the bay and back the way they came. Squirt looked ready to kill. The Kid's face revealed his fear. Max shook his head again. Man, he wanted Griffin back. The guy seemed to bring balance to the team. Badly needed balance.
Max powered up the computer. Hand propped on the warped wood, he waited for the system to boot.
More shouts. Loud thuds.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. Would they never—?
Tat-a-tat! Tat-tat-a-tat!
Instinct drove Max to his knee at the sound of gunfire. He scrambled to the window. Through the slanted blinds, he peered down into the slab of cement. His brain wouldn't assemble what he saw. Gunmen. A dozen or more. Rushing into the Shack from the parking bay. Moving swiftly, as if. . .
They know the layout.
Max darted to the door and jerked it open. He sprinted down the hall toward the stairs. As his boot hit steel, he froze. A shadow emerged. Floated into the hall.
Too late.
Max jerked back. Pressed his spine against the wall.
By the showers, the Kid looked up. Max signaled to him. Then made his best and loudest Nightshade whistle, hoping it would penetrate the building, give the men warning to take cover.
The Kid threw himself back into the locker room.
Men swarmed the corner. One looked to his left, one right. His weapon slowly rose as he traced the stairs with his M16.
Max leapt backward into the darkness and into office. He closed the door. As the lock clicked, darkness dropped like an anchor over the entire building. Behind him, a glow screamed his location. The monitor!
Max spun. Lunged across the desk. Stabbed the power button. And paused with his hand still near the monitor. If someone was coming after them. . .accessing this computer. . .
On his knees, Max yanked the cords free. With the box, he moved to the window and reassessed the parking bay. Another van with a half-dozen men with AK-47s. They streamed into the warehouse.
Max's gut wound into a dozen knots. They were screwed.
Think! Hand on the door, he considered going back downstairs. But that would get him captured. Killed. Yet he'd rather be with his guys than running like a chicken.
No, not running. Considering options, gaining the advantage. Planning. The invasion force was armed to the teeth. They knew who they were coming after. They'd brought weapons. And those guys moved with precision. Swift, deadly precision.
Though Nightshade had a stellar ops record, perhaps they had finally met their match. Still. . .two to one? Nightshade had faced worse.
A large black Suburban screeched to a halt in the middle of the parking bay. Two men emerged, both wearing trench coats.
Max cursed his luck to be up here, away from his gear, his weapons. Up here, without firepower. Thus, powerless.
Okay, enough. He was going down there. He eased the door open and slid across the hall. Bathed in darkness, he crouched at edge of the landing, using the wall for cover. A dozen men so far, rushing here and there. Quick, quiet chatter between the men.
A smirk slid into Max's face. His team had taken cover and these goons couldn't find them. If he could just get a weapon. . .
"Can't find them."
"They're here. I saw them go in," the man nearest the SUV shouted. "Find them! Lights!"
Light rushed through the building as headlamps from the vehicles stabbed the dusty, damp building. Max yanked back, out of sight. He needed to get down there, defend his men. His boot hit the landing.
Shouts erupted. A shot bounced off the steel rafters, taunting as it echoed through the Shack. Stilled, Max waited. More shouts. The sound of a scuffle. The half-dozen men waiting by the SUV lifted their weapons to the ready.
The locker room door swung open. A man walked backward, his AK-47 aimed at a large form filling the doorway. Cowboy. Arms raised, dressed only in his jeans, he stalked forward. Someone shoved him from behind, which barely moved the big lug.
Spine pressed against the wood, Max peered down into the bay.
"You move one wrong muscle," the one in front of Cowboy growled, "and so help me God, I'll kill you."
"No you won't." Cowboy lowered his hands. "If you wanted me dead, I wouldn't be out here."
Ride 'em, Cowboy.
From the side entrance to the showers, three men dragged a shouting, cursing Kid into the bay. Max smirked that it took three tangos to wrangle the Kid.
Hand clenched, Max's mind went into overdrive. What could he do? God. . .I need. . .something. What could he pray for? Intercepting the team was impossible. Twelve, fifteen armed tangos against one unarmed man?
He latched on to the hope that they'd only found Cowboy and the Kid. No Midas, Squirt, or Aladdin. Good. Maybe they could regroup and—
A man flew through the bay door from the showers and landed with a thud a yard from the others. Midas flipped over, scissored his legs, and swept the thug off his feet. The Kid seized the confusion to attack the men guarding him. And impressively. With a hard right, he dropped the first and used that weapon to disable the second.
Cowboy took a step back and rammed his elbow into the gut of the nearest guard. The gunman bent forward—straight into Cowboy's meaty fist. The big guy pivoted, slapped the interior of the gunman's wrist, effectively seizing the weapon and flipping the muzzle around. He fired at the guy.
Crack!
In the split second it took for Max to realize the sonic boom that rent the air wasn't the report of Cowboy's .45 MEU but of a rifle, Max saw the man in the black trench coat drop to the ground. A circle spread out like a dark halo.
"Sniper!" someone shouted.
The dead guy had fallen backward. Most likely shot from the front. Which meant. . . Max's gaze rose to the rafters. With no light, it'd be the perfect hiding spot. But. . .who? Squirt? Aladdin?
Crack!
The man guarding Colton stumbled forward, then went to his knees before hitting the cement.
The man in the black trench coat nearest the SUV dropped. A pool of blood spilled out.
"There!" One guard swung and fired his fully automatic at the ceiling. Four others followed suit, firing at the bank of grimy windows on the southeast wall of the building.
Max followed their direction and watched. Waited, his breath caught at the back of his throat. Cracks and shattering glass blended with the staccato punches of the guns to create a wild cacophony of noise. Max tuned it out, praying whoever—Aladdin or Squirt—wouldn't be hit.
But then he saw it. A shift of a shadow. Like someone rolling. . .
The gunfire petered out as a body plummeted the eight feet to the ground.
The thud seemed to have supernatural powers as it pounded Max's chest and pushed him back. Away from the window but not far enough that he lost line of sight.
Silence dropped on the Shack.
"Where's Max Jacobs?"
As the question streaked through the warehouse, Max registered a red glow in the far corner. Even as he noticed it, he heard a beep. Another. His gaze darted to the source of the noise. Two men were walking the perimeter, their M16s dangling as they raised their arms and pressed something against the supports. Arms lowered and the men stepped back revealing gray bricks with wires.
Explosives.
Gotta stop this. Do something. His gaze collided with Cowboy's. The big lug gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head.
Max's nostrils flared as he wrestled with what to do.
"Where's Dighton?"
How do they know our names?
"Dead," someone answered.
Pulled back into the shadows, Max clenched his eyes and bit down on his tongue. Dighton was dead. What about Aladdin—had he survived the fall?
Sirens wailed in the distance.
"Load 'em up."
"What about Jacobs?"
"Outta time." The leader left as the gunmen dragged the team out of the building.
Stealthily, Max held on to the box and sprinted the length of the hall to the side of the Shack. In the conference room, he plunged toward the window. Craned his neck to peek out. Three vehicles—twin white vans and a black town car.
The guys were loaded into the van and one into the car.
The leader shifted, held something out, then it wavered.
Detonator.
Max spun around, searching for an out. Doors. Only one way down—the stairs. But they led to the bay, which would be engulfed.
Windows. Overlooked the dock. The canal. It was January. The water would be brutal cold. His split-second assessment told him no matter what route he took, it'd be deadly. Despite his training, if he didn't find shelter out of the water once he broke surface, he'd die an ice cube. If he stayed, he'd die a fireball.
Good thing SEALs are insulated against cold water.
Max vaulted toward the window, hurtling the computer through the window. The glass shattered as a violent force blasted through the air. It lifted him. Up. . .up. . . Flipped him. Searing pain sliced through his arm. Heat stroked his back and legs. Fire chased him out of the building. Into the night.
Boom!
Another wave slammed into him. Threw him backward. Toward the water.
Something punched his gut. Knocked the breath from his lungs.
Bright white lit the night. Blinded him. Then—almost instantaneously—black. Pure black. And he was falling. . .down. . .down. . .
© 2011 by Ronie KendigISBN 978-1-60260-0785-9
Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House. All rights reserved.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the publisher.This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.For more information about Ronie Kendig, please access the author's Web site at the following Internet address: www.roniekendig.com Published by Barbour Publishing, Inc., P.O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, OH 44683, www.barbourbooks.com Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses. Printed in the United States of America.
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Street Team Book List excerpt - Nightshade by Ronie Kendig
Camy here: Here's another book I added to my Street Team book giveaway list! You can win this book by joining my Street Team--Click here for more info!
Nightshade
by
Ronie Kendig
Soldiers all across the globe are returning home to their families after brutal tours of duty. They are discharged from the service. . .and on their own. Meet Max Jacobs, one of these discarded heroes, as he faces a wall of failure—in his career, his friendships, and his marriage. Failing again—this time to end his life—he is offered a thread of hope. Are covert government operations the answer for him, or will they only bring more danger and dissension upon his broken family?
Excerpt of chapter one:
Prologue
Crazy lights swirled against the evening sky. Day morphed into the merriment of night. Cotton candy and hot dogs. Teens decked out in Goth gear contrasted sharply with young couples dragged from ride to ride by squealing offspring. White smeared over a man's face as red encircled his mouth. Like a giant maraschino cherry, his nose squawked when a child squeezed it. He threw his head back and laughed. The little boy stood perplexed, as if uncertain whether to laugh or break into tears.
Olin Lambert shifted on the park bench as a parade of kids trailed the balloon-toting clown through the park. He glanced at his watch. His contact was la—
The boards under his legs creaked. A man dressed in a navy jogging suit joined him.
"You almost missed the fun." Olin tossed a few kernels of popcorn into his mouth.
Rolling his shoulders, the man darted his gaze around the carnival insanity. "You know how dangerous this is? What it took for me to get out here without being seen?"
The danger and risk to his contact were no greater than what was stacked up against Olin. They both had a lot to lose—careers, reputations, families. . . . "We could leave now."
"You know this has to happen."
After a sip of his diet cola, Olin stuffed the half-full bag of popcorn on top of the overflowing trash bin. He wiped his hands and turned back to the man. "So, the body count's finally high enough?"
Blue eyes narrowed. "I'm here. That should tell you something."
"Indeed." Olin waited as the ice cream vendor wheeled his musical cart past. "I need full autonomy for me and my team."
Music burst forth as swings whirled occupants in a monotonous circle. A performer tossed flaming sticks and maneuvered one down his throat, swallowing the flames. Ohs wafted on the noisy, hot wind from the audience gathered around him. A scream pierced the night—a woman startled by another clown.
"Okay, fine. Just get on with this. I'm a sitting duck out here." He rubbed his hands and glanced around.
Olin swiped his tongue along his teeth, took a draught of his soda, then slumped back against the slats. "I want it in writing. Two copies. Mine. Yours."
The man shook his head. "No trails."
The corner of Olin's mouth quirked up. "You've already got one." He nodded to the ice cream vendor, who reached over the register and tapped a sign with a hole in the center where a camera hid.
A curse hissed through the night. "You'd bleed me out if you could."
"Whatever it takes to protect these men."
Eyeing him, the man hesitated. "The men? Or you?"
"One and the same. If they're protected, I'm protected. Whatever happens out there, we're not going to take the fall for it."
"If it goes bad, someone will get blamed."
Olin pursed his lips and cocked his head to the side. "More dust has been swept under the proverbial Capitol Hill carpet than anyone will ever admit. You have to decide: Is the cost high enough? How many more lives are you willing to sacrifice?"
"Seven."
On his feet, Olin tugged up the hood of his jacket. "Then we're through."
The man caught his elbow. "Sit down."
Teeth clamped, Olin returned to the bench. He bent forward and rubbed his hands together, more than ready to forget he'd ever tried to deal with this man, the only man with enough power on the Hill and the right connections to both fund and authorize deep-six missions. Missions nobody wanted to acknowledge.
The din of merriment swallowed the silence between them. A beat cop worked the scene, glancing their way as he walked, no doubt making a mental note to watch them.
"Get me their names. I'll write a carte blanche."
Olin's gut twisted. "Not happening." If he revealed the names of his elite, he would essentially place them on individual crosses to be crucified by some politician who got wind of this or by someone far more dangerous—media—if something went south. "Project Overlook happens under my guidance with all the freedom and resources I need, or it doesn't happen and you have one heckuva mess to clean up."
"If I do this, I could get put away for a long time, Lambert."
"And a million people will die if you don't."
"We should sit back and let Congress grant the authorization to go in there."
A deep-chested laugh wormed through Olin. "You've been around too long to believe that. Thick bellies and big heads crowd the halls of the Hill. They want the power and none of the responsibility." Had he been wrong in talking to the man next to him? What if he went to the Hill and spilled the news about Project Overlook? They'd be dead before the elite soldiers he had in mind could get their feet wet.
He let out a long exhale. "If you aren't going to pony up, this conversation is over. You contacted me because you knew I could take care of this little snafu. So let us go in and quell this before it destroys more and the body count rivals 9/11."
He eyed Olin, a slow grin cracking his lips. "You've always impressed me, Lambert, even though you're Army."
"Navy lost the last game, Admiral." Olin let his gaze rake the scene around him. "These men are fully capable, and the situation can be tamed before anyone is the wiser. We don't have time to wrangle the pundits. Let's get it done, Mr. Chairman, sir."
Chairman Orr stood and zipped his jacket. "You'll have it by morning."
Chapter 1
Cracking open the throttle ignited a wild explosion of power and speed. Zero to sixty in less than three seconds left Max Jacobs breathless. Gut pressed to the spine of his Hayabusa, he bore down the mountainous two-lane road away from civilization, away from . . . everything. Here only pine trees, concrete and speed were his friends.
His bike screamed as it ate up the road. The thrill burst through him. He needed the rush. Craved it. Stop running, Max. Her words stabbed his conscience. Made him mad.
Rounding a bend, he slowed and sighted the drop-off in the road—remembered a full 10% grade, straight down. His gaze bounced between the speedometer and the cement. Common sense told him to decelerate. The boiling in his veins said otherwise.
He twisted the throttle.
Eighty.
Max leaned into the bike and felt the surge.
Ninety.
He sucked in a breath as he sped toward the break.
The road dropped off. The Hayabusa roared as the wheels sailed out. He tried to grip the handlebars tighter as nothing but tingling Virginia oxygen enveloped him. Silence gaped.
This could be it. This could end it all. No more pain. No more life without Syd . . .
Take me. Just take me.
The Hayabusa plummeted.
Straight down. Concrete. Like a meteor slamming to earth.
The back tire hit. A jolt shot through the bike. Then the front tire bounced. Rattling carried through the handlebars and into his shoulders. He grabbed the brake—
Stupid! The brake locked. Rear tire went right. He tried to steer into the skid but momentum flipped him up. Over. Pops snapped through his back as he spiraled through the air. In the chaos his bike gave chase, kicking and screaming as it tore after him.
Crack! Pop! The sound of his crashing bike reverberated through the lonely country lane. Scenery whirled. Pine trees whipped into a Christmas-color frosting. Tree bark blurred into a menagerie of browns, drawing closer and closer.
Thud! His head bounced off the cement. He flipped again.
Finally. It'd be over. He closed his eyes. No more—
THUD! "Oof." The breath knocked from his lungs. Pain spiked his shoulders and spine. Fire lit across his limbs and back as he slid from one lane to another. Down the road, spinning. Straight toward the trees.
He winced, arched his back. Kicking, he tried to gain traction. If he wasn't going to die, he didn't want to end up paralyzed. Just like you not to think it through.
He dumped into a ditch.
Smack!
Everything went black.
He blinked. Pain shrieked through his body, his thighs and shoulders burning. "Argh!"
Max pried himself onto all fours, hanging his head. A crack rent the face shield. A wicked throb pulsed through his temples and . . . everywhere. He fought with the helmet. Growled as he freed the straps. He pawed it off, cursing at the thing for saving his life. Those head whacks as he somersaulted through the air should've punched a hole in his skull. Warmth dribbled down his brow. He pressed a palm against his forehead. Sticky and warm. Blood. He grunted and strained to look across the road. Mangled. Twisted. His bike. Him.
Why couldn't God just let him die? Humanity would be one up, and he wouldn't have to face his consummate failures in life. "Just let me go!" he growled and pounded a fist against the pavement. He'd do anything to go back to the Middle East, pump some radicals full of lead, and unleash the demon inside. Anything that told him he still had purpose in life.
But that wasn't an option anymore. Another bad choice. Could he get anything right? Maybe his father had been right to up and leave them. Just like his mother.
A glimmer of light snagged his attention. Less than a mile down the road, a black SUV barreled up the road from town. Max tensed. He'd seen a vehicle like that three times in the last week. But out here? In the middle of nowhere, invading his self-inflicted punishment? This wasn't a coincidence. And he didn't like being hunted.
Max dragged himself into the trees, wincing. Using his forearm, he wiped the blood from his face. Why? Why couldn't he just die? Nothing here for him. No reason.
Sydney. . .
He banged the back of his head against the tree. Pain drove through him like an iron rod. Good. It felt good to hurt. A relief to the agony inside.
Glass popping and crunching snapped his attention to the road. The SUV sat like a giant spider. He wondered who was in the vehicle as he eased farther into the foliage. A carpet of pine needles concealed his steps. He glanced back to the intruder.
The SUV shifted as a man climbed out. Large, African American, and an expression that said he didn't mess around. Whatever the guy wanted, he wouldn't take no for an answer. At least not easily.
Even from ten yards away, Max could see the muscle twitching in the man's jaw. He swallowed and licked his lips, readying himself for a confrontation. He swung back and gazed up at the canopy of leaves. Could he hoof it back to his apartment? Gathering his strength, he shrugged out of the shredded leather jacket, wincing and grunting as it pulled against raw flesh.
"You through? Or you want another go at it?"
What? Max peered around the trunk, surprised to find the man at the edge of the road, hands on his hips as he stared into the trees.
"We took you for stronger." The man glanced back at the bike. "But maybe you're nothing but broke and no use to no one."
Heart thumping, Max jerked back and clenched his teeth. Who was this joker?
"So, what's it going to be, Jacobs? You ready to face a little reality?"
How does he know my name? "Who are you?" Max hissed as the tree rubbed his raw shoulder. "What do you want?"
"You."
Max drew the SOG knife from his pocket and opened it. Holding it down, he pushed into the open, making sure his injuries didn't show him weak. "What's the game?"
The man's eyebrow arched. He angled his left shoulder forward, tugged up his sweater's sleeve, and flexed his oversized bicep. A tattoo expanded across his muscle. Marine. Force Recon, if Max made out the symbol correctly.
An ally? As he struggled out of the ditch and back onto the road, Max collapsed the blade. Heat rose from the cement, aggravating the exposed flesh on his back and legs.
"Navy and Marines, you and me. Almost brothers. It's the Rangers I don't like. So, I forgive you for coming at me with a blade. This time."
Max stared. Confusion—and pain—wrapped a tight vise around his skull.
"What's it going to be, squid?" The guy pointed to the wreck of a bike on the road. "You don't have a ride back to town. So why don't you climb in and listen to what I have to say?"
Might ignore the nickname jab, but the guy assumed too much. "You flash a tattoo and think I'll just bend my knee? I don't think so." A silent brotherhood had closed Max's knife. But he didn't want company. The oaf's or anyone else's. But how else would he get home?
"What? You think you're going home? To your can opener and mattress?"
Mr. Recon had a point. Still, he knew too much, and that made Max stiffen—fiery shards prickling his back.
"No obligation. Show me a little respect, and just hear me out."
At least, as the man had said, he'd have a ride. Eyes on the large man, Max pocketed the knife as he trudged to the other side of the SUV and opened the door.
He paused at the plastic covering the seat. He jerked his gaze to the driver.
Mr. Force Recon grinned. "You're predictable, Jacobs."
Max lowered himself onto the seat, cringing as new fire crawled over his back and legs. He buckled in, the irony of the seat belt crossing his mind. "So what's this about? Why have you been following me?"
A crisp cologne swirled in the air-conditioned interior as Mr. Recon folded himself behind the steering wheel. "You've been recruited, Lieutenant Jacobs."
Max snorted. "Already did my time. I'm out." He gulped against the flurry of emotions within.
"Yeah? How's that working out for you?"
Glaring, Max resisted the urge to thrust his SOG into the guy's gut. He'd left the service for Sydney. Only it'd been too late. And in one fell swoop, he lost everything. "Why don't you tell me? You seem to know everything."
Mr. Recon pursed his lips and nodded. "Okay." He rubbed his jaw. "You were discharged ninety days ago. In that time, you've been arrested twice, once for fighting. The second time—less than three days ago—for assault against your now-estranged wife."
The words cut deeper and stung worse than his now-oozing flesh. Max looked at his hand and flexed his fingers.
"Yesterday you were hit with a permanent protective order by said wife. She filed for separation." He leaned on the console and again arched that eyebrow. "How am I doing?"
"If you knew anything about me, you'd dull your edge."
Wrist hooked over the steering wheel, Mr. Recon continued unfazed. "The military discharged you. Honorably. A veteran of two wars. Untold combat situations and medals. They tried to put you out medically two years ago, but you fought it."
"And won."
"Yessir." The man nodded for several seconds. "So, why now? Why'd you let them put you out this time?"
Max shoved his gaze to the heavily tinted windows. That was a story nobody needed to hear. Bury it six feet under and walk away.
"You're a discarded hero, Lieutenant Jacobs."
Head whipped back to the driver, Max fought the urge to light into the guy. But something in the amused eyes betrayed a camaraderie. An understanding. Acceptance.
"Who are you? What's your story?"
"Name's Griffin." He bobbed his head as they pulled onto the highway, driving east toward the Potomac. "My story. . . ?" A toothy grin. "Let's just say I got smart."
The sound of crinkling and rustling plastic pervaded the cabin as Max shifted to alleviate a pinprick fire shooting down his leg. He hissed and clamped a hand over his thigh. "So, what's the gig?"
"The gig is whatever nobody else will do. What you should ask about is our group—and I do mean our group, Lieutenant. Because you are fully a part of this. Are you ready to step out of the medical trappings of your discharge, of the devastation that has become your life since you've returned from your last tour?"
Max grunted. "Yesterday."
"That's what I like to hear." Tires thumped over docks as Griffin steered into a warehouse. "Then this is where it starts."
Elite soldiers stood in a semicircle, waiting. For what, Max wasn't sure. And he wouldn't ask. If his guess was right, then time would tell—because Griffin seemed to be the guy in the know, and his relaxed posture against the SUV said things were going according to plan.
"Hey, dude, want me to look those over?" A blond guy dressed in khaki shorts, a faded tank, and a pair of flip-flops motioned to Max's scrapes and lacerations.
Right. Beach bum wanted to play nurse. "I'm good."
"About as good as a dog in a meat grinder," the guy replied.
Max clenched his teeth. Whatever kind of circus Griffin was running. . .
A diesel engine growled, the sound reverberating off the aluminum in the cavernous space, preempting the shiny blue dualie truck pulling into the dank building. The engine cut. A guy stepped out and donned a black cowboy hat that added about five inches to his six-foot-two frame.
Griffin's laugh rumbled as he pushed off his SUV. "Colton."
A broad grin spilled under the rim of the man's Stetson. "Hey." The two clasped hands and patted backs. "How's Dante?"
A quiet dialogue carried between the two for several minutes that effectively cut out the rest of those gathered. Yeah, they had a friendship, one that said they trusted each other with more than superficial things. Something about the tight bond rankled Max. Hit deep.
"Why are we here?"
Max's gaze bounced to the shortest and youngest of the six men in the building. The Kid had read his thoughts. A warehouse full of warriors? This setup smelled rotten.
"If you'll be patient—" Griffin paused and glanced behind him. "I think it's time."
A black Chrysler 300 glided into the middle of the grouping. The hollow clunk of an opening door echoed off the steel rafters and grime-laden windows. A man emerged. White hair feathered back. A sun-bronzed nose sported dark-tinted sunglasses. The thud of the door almost swallowed the crunching of his squeaky shoes. New, expensive shoes. Maybe even tailor-made. He gripped the rim of his glasses and drew them off.
Was the old man supposed to mean something? Be someone who mattered? Irritation skittered along Max's shoulders as the old man shook hands with Riddell and the cowboy.
"Who's the hoo-hah?" Max mumbled to himself.
"You kidding me, man?" The blond look at him and smirked. "That's—"
"For those not enlightened," an authoritative voice cut through the surfer's explanation, "my name is General Olin Lambert. I am a member of the Joint Chiefs. But among the seven of us, I am merely a citizen of the United States just like you." Blue eyes probed each man.
Right into Max's soul.
"With Mr. Riddell's help, I've hand-chosen each and every one of you for a very specific purpose. There isn't anything about you or your lives that I don't know." Lambert paused, as if to let his words sink in, but Max just wished he'd get on with it. Scabs were forming on his scrapes.
"Chosen us for what, ese?" asked the Hispanic man.
"A black ops team."
And that meant two things: military and that this meeting was over. Max turned and started walking.
"It's not military, Mr. Jacobs."
Hesitation held him at the large, garage-style door he'd entered. "How can you do black ops without military aid, intelligence, and backup?" He turned around, ignoring what felt like glass stuck to his calves and thighs.
"I didn't say we wouldn't have aid or intelligence." Creases pinched Lambert's eyes at the corners. "I said it's not military."
"Come again?" the beach bum asked, disbelief coloring his words.
"Let the general explain." Griffin leaned back against the truck with his cowboy buddy.
"Thank you, Mr. Riddell." Lambert tucked his sunglasses in his left breast pocket, then threaded his fingers in front of him. Impressive and commanding. "Each of you has returned from combat changed, affected."
Nervous glances skidded from man to man. Max glued his attention to the general, refusing to acknowledge the truth of Lambert's words.
"You're what I've dubbed discarded heroes."
Grunts of approval rang through the building, and the group seemed to tighten in around the old man. Being a general, he knew what it was like to have slanted glances of pity from those who knew where you'd been, what you'd probably done, and what it was like to go against a politically correct ideology and fight for freedom on foreign soil. Or to have some tree hugger spit in your face and call you a murderer.
"You served your time, saw and experienced things no normal person would be expected to deal with. Sure, you were trained. Taught to expect evil. Demanded success. However, when confronted with the true terrors of war, no human mind can dissolve the images embedded in memory for all time.
"Then it's time to get out. They yank you back here, give you a once-over, and toss you out with a 'thank you very much and have a good life.' So you go home, try to reintegrate into society, and—"
"It's screwed up," the Kid said. He shrugged when the others scowled at him. "Well? I'm right, aren't I? From what I heard you saying earlier," he pointed to the beach bum, "you've spent time in Afghanistan—a lot." Then to the Latino, "You probably did your tours of duty in Panama or the like." His gaze came to Max.
"Don't." Fists balled, Max willed his feet to remain in place. He didn't want anyone digging in his brain.
"Mr. Vaughn is correct," Lambert said. "You've all seen combat. You've all been trained to kill; then you come back, and what do you do with those skills but go out of your mind?"
Max shifted. Was it over yet? He eyed the wide-open berth to freedom behind the blue dualie.
"Max Jacobs."
Hearing his name felt like a detonation that blasted his attention back to the general.
"You served eight years with the SEALs. Your experience in command and combat no doubt left indelible scars. Watched your best friend toss himself on a grenade to save the team."
Bile pooled at the back of Max's throat as the memory surged. He flared his nostrils, pushing the images back into the pit from which they'd been drawn.
Lambert stalked the inner perimeter, as if prepping troops for war with a pep talk. "Lieutenant Jacobs is the man I've chosen as team leader, but his position is no more valuable than anyone else's. You've all seen war. In this building are years of tactical experience. Incredible wisdom. And one element that makes each of you vital for this to work."
"What's that?" Cowboy asked, his arms folded over his thick chest.
"Loyalty, Mr. Neeley. Your duty with the Marine Special Operations Team is bloated with exemplary conduct, commendation after commendation." He waved his hand around the cozy circle. "I've reviewed all of your files and found the same thing in every one."
Awkward silence cooled some of the tension in the room, and once again Max eyed the exit.
"Mr. Reyes, your career as a pararescue jumper, specifically your medic skills, saved dozens of lives."
"Pair o' what?" Cowboy taunted.
"Hey," Reyes grinned. "You're just jealous. I'm a PJ. Why you think they call me Fix?"
"Because you put everyone in one?" Griffin chuckled, eliciting more laughter.
"Nah, man. It's 'cause of this," he said as he drew out a crucifix from his shirt and kissed it. "My crucifix. They called me Cru at first, then since I'm a medic, they started calling me Fix."
Swallowing his groan, Max ran a hand through his short crop. Religion and military. This was starting to feel worse than an AA meeting. And there wasn't a point. "This is a lot of flowery, moving discourse, but what do you want from us?" Max mentally shook off the way the others looked at him. Was he the only one who was still waiting for the boom to lower?
"Mr. Riddell, if you please." Lambert pointed to the black SUV as Griffin opened the tailgate. "Give each man one."
Griffin handed out small black packs that bore a lone symbol. A strange star backed by a sword and wings. The Kid, the Beach Bum, and the Latino dug into the packs, almost excited. In seconds, a black phone, keys, a watch, and a set of duds spilled across the gray cement floor in front of them.
Max remained in place, his pack dangling from his clenched fist. He didn't like being played. And this definitely felt like a setup.
General Lambert faced him. "Is there a problem, Mr. Jacobs?"
He dropped his pack onto the floor. "Not seeing the point."
Behind the general, Griffin seemed to grow several inches as he towered over the aged officer. "What?" he growled. "You want to take another nose-dive off that hill? Hope this time there's only enough of you left to fill a baggie? Want to make that estranged wife of yours a widow before you can be called a failure?"
Hands coiled, Max drew up his shoulders. Saw red. No. No. He wouldn't give in to the goading. He dragged his attention back to the general.
"Ease up, Legend," Cowboy said, patting Griffin's chest. "Give the guy a chance." Lambert remained unwavering. "The point, Lieutenant, is to establish a team that can penetrate hostile situations without any entanglements, without any blame on the good ol' US-of-A or any other entity or government. You returned from two tours in Iraq, one in Afghanistan, and a covert mission nobody in this room will ever know about. You were the best, a natural, your CO said. But you were so volatile after those experiences took their toll they tried to discharge you, and your compatriots nicknamed you after a volatile chemical. Somehow you held it together. Then jumped ship out of the blue." More than recitation of information lurked behind the general's blue eyes. A knowing—no, an understanding, quiet and unnerving. "Tell me, Mr. Jacobs, what are you doing with your life now?"
"Minding my own business," Max answered through tight lips.
Lambert laughed. "And that's exactly what you'll be doing as part of my team. Funding isn't a problem. You'll have unlimited resources."
"That'd be a change," the Kid grumbled.
"To go where?" the Beach Bum asked.
"Doesn't matter," the Kid interrupted. "Man, how is this any different than military? Igot out for a reason."
"You'll go wherever needed." The general turned toward the younger man. "Yes, Mr. Vaughn, you did get out for a reason. Tell me, did abandoning the one thing you loved the most give you the love of your father after all?"
The Kid paled.
"Why?" Max couldn't stand it anymore. "Why are you doing this? What's this thing to you?"
Lambert lowered his head then looked back at Max. "I am. . .discarded just like you."
"Bull." Max tucked his hands under his arms. "You sit in a cushy chair in a carpeted office. You're paid, you're connected—"
"I know what you guys have been through." The general tapped his temple. "MAC-V SOG in Nam. Two tours."
Max's eyebrows shot up. That meant the man before him had likely seen more carnage than the rest of them put together.
"Heard the phrase 'peace with honor'?"
Max shrugged. "Yeah, sure. Who hasn't?"
"It was a platitude." Lambert's eyes flamed under his passion. "The armchair generals lost the war, not the grunts on the ground. We won every battle they let us win. But that doesn't make it any easier when you're the only guy who comes home from your unit with all his parts and pieces still connected where God put 'em.
"I may not be young, I may not have done combat tours in Iraq like you, Lieutenant, but I was tossed aside, too. For years I languished." The general pushed to his feet, his voice thick and his eyes weighted by the story. "But I slowly remembered that I'd joined the military for a reason—I wanted to be a man. A real man willing to defend my country with life and limb. I knew then I could screw up my career or I could do my best to make a difference in the lives of those who came after."
Silence hung rank and thick in the abandoned warehouse. Something akin to admiration leaked past Max's barriers as he watched the indignant rise and fall of the old man's chest. A smile threatened his resolve as the old man glared at the hulking men around him.
Lambert's lips tightened over a clean-shaven jaw. "What's it going to be, gentlemen? Do you have what it takes to finish the fight with the gift God gave you? Or are you going to turn tail, accept what the government stamped on your papers, and leave—go quietly into the night?"
"Whoa-hoa!" Laughing, Beach Bum stepped forward. "Old Man's got some fire under that shiny dome."
Lambert spun toward the bum. "What's it going to be, Sergeant Metcalfe?"
The blond pursed his lips, considered Lambert, then nodded. "I'm in."
The bright blue eyes shifted to the Latino.
"You need some CPR, ese? You look worked up."
A half smile slid into Lambert's face. "A little passion never hurt, eh, Mr. Reyes?"
"You all right, old man." He hooked Lambert's hand and patted his back. "You all right." Reyes leaned in toward the general's shoulders and looked at the Kid. "But I don't know about this kid. He don't look like he's out of diapers yet."
"That's wrong. That's just wrong." The Kid's face flushed. "I spent six years in the Rangers. I have enough—"
"Rangers." Max couldn't help but grunt his disapproval. "That explains a lot."
The Kid's chin jerked up in defiance. "I'm in."
It seemed Lambert grew with each affirmation. He shifted to the cowboy. "Mr. Neeley?"
Cowboy gave a slow, firm nod, his hat shading his eyes. "I'm ready."
Lambert smiled. "Good. Good."
They were all crazy. Joining a group like this meant more problems. "What if we get in trouble out there?"
"Then get out of trouble," Lambert said. "Understand that this team does not exist. If anyone comes looking, there will be nothing to find. Only one man besides those of us in this facility knows it exists, and he'll pay the highest cost if that confidence is broken. No one—and I mean no one—will know your names."
"So our orders are coming from on high?" Metcalfe asked.
A twinkle brightened Lambert's eyes and gave silent assent to the question, although he gave no answer. Instead, he continued. "Any mission, any activity will be utterly and completely disavowed by the United States. You will be disavowed. If you get into trouble, Mr. Jacobs, count on your ingenuity to get out. If you are killed, no one will know."
"Or care." The Kid shrugged, a sick smirk in his face.
Max wanted to punch him.
"Or maybe that's where Sergeant Metcalfe, call sign Midas, will come in with his golden touch." Lambert ambled toward him.
The beach bum made a tss noise and shook his head. "Nothing golden, just hard work."
The general's smile disappeared behind a stern facade. "What is your answer, Lieutenant Jacobs?"
"This is crazy." What else could he do? Flip burgers at the nearest fast food? What was worth staying here for? No wife. No family. "Fine." The separation papers told him he had nothing left here anyway. "I'm in."
"Good." General Lambert's smile softened his commando persona. "Look around. The men here are your new brothers, your family. Only they will understand when the horrors of war invade your sleep. Only they will be there when you're pinned down and need an extraction.
Arms wide, Lambert smiled like a proud father. "Gentlemen, welcome to Nightshade."
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Nightshadeby
Ronie Kendig
Soldiers all across the globe are returning home to their families after brutal tours of duty. They are discharged from the service. . .and on their own. Meet Max Jacobs, one of these discarded heroes, as he faces a wall of failure—in his career, his friendships, and his marriage. Failing again—this time to end his life—he is offered a thread of hope. Are covert government operations the answer for him, or will they only bring more danger and dissension upon his broken family?
Excerpt of chapter one:
Prologue
Crazy lights swirled against the evening sky. Day morphed into the merriment of night. Cotton candy and hot dogs. Teens decked out in Goth gear contrasted sharply with young couples dragged from ride to ride by squealing offspring. White smeared over a man's face as red encircled his mouth. Like a giant maraschino cherry, his nose squawked when a child squeezed it. He threw his head back and laughed. The little boy stood perplexed, as if uncertain whether to laugh or break into tears.
Olin Lambert shifted on the park bench as a parade of kids trailed the balloon-toting clown through the park. He glanced at his watch. His contact was la—
The boards under his legs creaked. A man dressed in a navy jogging suit joined him.
"You almost missed the fun." Olin tossed a few kernels of popcorn into his mouth.
Rolling his shoulders, the man darted his gaze around the carnival insanity. "You know how dangerous this is? What it took for me to get out here without being seen?"
The danger and risk to his contact were no greater than what was stacked up against Olin. They both had a lot to lose—careers, reputations, families. . . . "We could leave now."
"You know this has to happen."
After a sip of his diet cola, Olin stuffed the half-full bag of popcorn on top of the overflowing trash bin. He wiped his hands and turned back to the man. "So, the body count's finally high enough?"
Blue eyes narrowed. "I'm here. That should tell you something."
"Indeed." Olin waited as the ice cream vendor wheeled his musical cart past. "I need full autonomy for me and my team."
Music burst forth as swings whirled occupants in a monotonous circle. A performer tossed flaming sticks and maneuvered one down his throat, swallowing the flames. Ohs wafted on the noisy, hot wind from the audience gathered around him. A scream pierced the night—a woman startled by another clown.
"Okay, fine. Just get on with this. I'm a sitting duck out here." He rubbed his hands and glanced around.
Olin swiped his tongue along his teeth, took a draught of his soda, then slumped back against the slats. "I want it in writing. Two copies. Mine. Yours."
The man shook his head. "No trails."
The corner of Olin's mouth quirked up. "You've already got one." He nodded to the ice cream vendor, who reached over the register and tapped a sign with a hole in the center where a camera hid.
A curse hissed through the night. "You'd bleed me out if you could."
"Whatever it takes to protect these men."
Eyeing him, the man hesitated. "The men? Or you?"
"One and the same. If they're protected, I'm protected. Whatever happens out there, we're not going to take the fall for it."
"If it goes bad, someone will get blamed."
Olin pursed his lips and cocked his head to the side. "More dust has been swept under the proverbial Capitol Hill carpet than anyone will ever admit. You have to decide: Is the cost high enough? How many more lives are you willing to sacrifice?"
"Seven."
On his feet, Olin tugged up the hood of his jacket. "Then we're through."
The man caught his elbow. "Sit down."
Teeth clamped, Olin returned to the bench. He bent forward and rubbed his hands together, more than ready to forget he'd ever tried to deal with this man, the only man with enough power on the Hill and the right connections to both fund and authorize deep-six missions. Missions nobody wanted to acknowledge.
The din of merriment swallowed the silence between them. A beat cop worked the scene, glancing their way as he walked, no doubt making a mental note to watch them.
"Get me their names. I'll write a carte blanche."
Olin's gut twisted. "Not happening." If he revealed the names of his elite, he would essentially place them on individual crosses to be crucified by some politician who got wind of this or by someone far more dangerous—media—if something went south. "Project Overlook happens under my guidance with all the freedom and resources I need, or it doesn't happen and you have one heckuva mess to clean up."
"If I do this, I could get put away for a long time, Lambert."
"And a million people will die if you don't."
"We should sit back and let Congress grant the authorization to go in there."
A deep-chested laugh wormed through Olin. "You've been around too long to believe that. Thick bellies and big heads crowd the halls of the Hill. They want the power and none of the responsibility." Had he been wrong in talking to the man next to him? What if he went to the Hill and spilled the news about Project Overlook? They'd be dead before the elite soldiers he had in mind could get their feet wet.
He let out a long exhale. "If you aren't going to pony up, this conversation is over. You contacted me because you knew I could take care of this little snafu. So let us go in and quell this before it destroys more and the body count rivals 9/11."
He eyed Olin, a slow grin cracking his lips. "You've always impressed me, Lambert, even though you're Army."
"Navy lost the last game, Admiral." Olin let his gaze rake the scene around him. "These men are fully capable, and the situation can be tamed before anyone is the wiser. We don't have time to wrangle the pundits. Let's get it done, Mr. Chairman, sir."
Chairman Orr stood and zipped his jacket. "You'll have it by morning."
Chapter 1
Cracking open the throttle ignited a wild explosion of power and speed. Zero to sixty in less than three seconds left Max Jacobs breathless. Gut pressed to the spine of his Hayabusa, he bore down the mountainous two-lane road away from civilization, away from . . . everything. Here only pine trees, concrete and speed were his friends.
His bike screamed as it ate up the road. The thrill burst through him. He needed the rush. Craved it. Stop running, Max. Her words stabbed his conscience. Made him mad.
Rounding a bend, he slowed and sighted the drop-off in the road—remembered a full 10% grade, straight down. His gaze bounced between the speedometer and the cement. Common sense told him to decelerate. The boiling in his veins said otherwise.
He twisted the throttle.
Eighty.
Max leaned into the bike and felt the surge.
Ninety.
He sucked in a breath as he sped toward the break.
The road dropped off. The Hayabusa roared as the wheels sailed out. He tried to grip the handlebars tighter as nothing but tingling Virginia oxygen enveloped him. Silence gaped.
This could be it. This could end it all. No more pain. No more life without Syd . . .
Take me. Just take me.
The Hayabusa plummeted.
Straight down. Concrete. Like a meteor slamming to earth.
The back tire hit. A jolt shot through the bike. Then the front tire bounced. Rattling carried through the handlebars and into his shoulders. He grabbed the brake—
Stupid! The brake locked. Rear tire went right. He tried to steer into the skid but momentum flipped him up. Over. Pops snapped through his back as he spiraled through the air. In the chaos his bike gave chase, kicking and screaming as it tore after him.
Crack! Pop! The sound of his crashing bike reverberated through the lonely country lane. Scenery whirled. Pine trees whipped into a Christmas-color frosting. Tree bark blurred into a menagerie of browns, drawing closer and closer.
Thud! His head bounced off the cement. He flipped again.
Finally. It'd be over. He closed his eyes. No more—
THUD! "Oof." The breath knocked from his lungs. Pain spiked his shoulders and spine. Fire lit across his limbs and back as he slid from one lane to another. Down the road, spinning. Straight toward the trees.
He winced, arched his back. Kicking, he tried to gain traction. If he wasn't going to die, he didn't want to end up paralyzed. Just like you not to think it through.
He dumped into a ditch.
Smack!
Everything went black.
He blinked. Pain shrieked through his body, his thighs and shoulders burning. "Argh!"
Max pried himself onto all fours, hanging his head. A crack rent the face shield. A wicked throb pulsed through his temples and . . . everywhere. He fought with the helmet. Growled as he freed the straps. He pawed it off, cursing at the thing for saving his life. Those head whacks as he somersaulted through the air should've punched a hole in his skull. Warmth dribbled down his brow. He pressed a palm against his forehead. Sticky and warm. Blood. He grunted and strained to look across the road. Mangled. Twisted. His bike. Him.
Why couldn't God just let him die? Humanity would be one up, and he wouldn't have to face his consummate failures in life. "Just let me go!" he growled and pounded a fist against the pavement. He'd do anything to go back to the Middle East, pump some radicals full of lead, and unleash the demon inside. Anything that told him he still had purpose in life.
But that wasn't an option anymore. Another bad choice. Could he get anything right? Maybe his father had been right to up and leave them. Just like his mother.
A glimmer of light snagged his attention. Less than a mile down the road, a black SUV barreled up the road from town. Max tensed. He'd seen a vehicle like that three times in the last week. But out here? In the middle of nowhere, invading his self-inflicted punishment? This wasn't a coincidence. And he didn't like being hunted.
Max dragged himself into the trees, wincing. Using his forearm, he wiped the blood from his face. Why? Why couldn't he just die? Nothing here for him. No reason.
Sydney. . .
He banged the back of his head against the tree. Pain drove through him like an iron rod. Good. It felt good to hurt. A relief to the agony inside.
Glass popping and crunching snapped his attention to the road. The SUV sat like a giant spider. He wondered who was in the vehicle as he eased farther into the foliage. A carpet of pine needles concealed his steps. He glanced back to the intruder.
The SUV shifted as a man climbed out. Large, African American, and an expression that said he didn't mess around. Whatever the guy wanted, he wouldn't take no for an answer. At least not easily.
Even from ten yards away, Max could see the muscle twitching in the man's jaw. He swallowed and licked his lips, readying himself for a confrontation. He swung back and gazed up at the canopy of leaves. Could he hoof it back to his apartment? Gathering his strength, he shrugged out of the shredded leather jacket, wincing and grunting as it pulled against raw flesh.
"You through? Or you want another go at it?"
What? Max peered around the trunk, surprised to find the man at the edge of the road, hands on his hips as he stared into the trees.
"We took you for stronger." The man glanced back at the bike. "But maybe you're nothing but broke and no use to no one."
Heart thumping, Max jerked back and clenched his teeth. Who was this joker?
"So, what's it going to be, Jacobs? You ready to face a little reality?"
How does he know my name? "Who are you?" Max hissed as the tree rubbed his raw shoulder. "What do you want?"
"You."
Max drew the SOG knife from his pocket and opened it. Holding it down, he pushed into the open, making sure his injuries didn't show him weak. "What's the game?"
The man's eyebrow arched. He angled his left shoulder forward, tugged up his sweater's sleeve, and flexed his oversized bicep. A tattoo expanded across his muscle. Marine. Force Recon, if Max made out the symbol correctly.
An ally? As he struggled out of the ditch and back onto the road, Max collapsed the blade. Heat rose from the cement, aggravating the exposed flesh on his back and legs.
"Navy and Marines, you and me. Almost brothers. It's the Rangers I don't like. So, I forgive you for coming at me with a blade. This time."
Max stared. Confusion—and pain—wrapped a tight vise around his skull.
"What's it going to be, squid?" The guy pointed to the wreck of a bike on the road. "You don't have a ride back to town. So why don't you climb in and listen to what I have to say?"
Might ignore the nickname jab, but the guy assumed too much. "You flash a tattoo and think I'll just bend my knee? I don't think so." A silent brotherhood had closed Max's knife. But he didn't want company. The oaf's or anyone else's. But how else would he get home?
"What? You think you're going home? To your can opener and mattress?"
Mr. Recon had a point. Still, he knew too much, and that made Max stiffen—fiery shards prickling his back.
"No obligation. Show me a little respect, and just hear me out."
At least, as the man had said, he'd have a ride. Eyes on the large man, Max pocketed the knife as he trudged to the other side of the SUV and opened the door.
He paused at the plastic covering the seat. He jerked his gaze to the driver.
Mr. Force Recon grinned. "You're predictable, Jacobs."
Max lowered himself onto the seat, cringing as new fire crawled over his back and legs. He buckled in, the irony of the seat belt crossing his mind. "So what's this about? Why have you been following me?"
A crisp cologne swirled in the air-conditioned interior as Mr. Recon folded himself behind the steering wheel. "You've been recruited, Lieutenant Jacobs."
Max snorted. "Already did my time. I'm out." He gulped against the flurry of emotions within.
"Yeah? How's that working out for you?"
Glaring, Max resisted the urge to thrust his SOG into the guy's gut. He'd left the service for Sydney. Only it'd been too late. And in one fell swoop, he lost everything. "Why don't you tell me? You seem to know everything."
Mr. Recon pursed his lips and nodded. "Okay." He rubbed his jaw. "You were discharged ninety days ago. In that time, you've been arrested twice, once for fighting. The second time—less than three days ago—for assault against your now-estranged wife."
The words cut deeper and stung worse than his now-oozing flesh. Max looked at his hand and flexed his fingers.
"Yesterday you were hit with a permanent protective order by said wife. She filed for separation." He leaned on the console and again arched that eyebrow. "How am I doing?"
"If you knew anything about me, you'd dull your edge."
Wrist hooked over the steering wheel, Mr. Recon continued unfazed. "The military discharged you. Honorably. A veteran of two wars. Untold combat situations and medals. They tried to put you out medically two years ago, but you fought it."
"And won."
"Yessir." The man nodded for several seconds. "So, why now? Why'd you let them put you out this time?"
Max shoved his gaze to the heavily tinted windows. That was a story nobody needed to hear. Bury it six feet under and walk away.
"You're a discarded hero, Lieutenant Jacobs."
Head whipped back to the driver, Max fought the urge to light into the guy. But something in the amused eyes betrayed a camaraderie. An understanding. Acceptance.
"Who are you? What's your story?"
"Name's Griffin." He bobbed his head as they pulled onto the highway, driving east toward the Potomac. "My story. . . ?" A toothy grin. "Let's just say I got smart."
The sound of crinkling and rustling plastic pervaded the cabin as Max shifted to alleviate a pinprick fire shooting down his leg. He hissed and clamped a hand over his thigh. "So, what's the gig?"
"The gig is whatever nobody else will do. What you should ask about is our group—and I do mean our group, Lieutenant. Because you are fully a part of this. Are you ready to step out of the medical trappings of your discharge, of the devastation that has become your life since you've returned from your last tour?"
Max grunted. "Yesterday."
"That's what I like to hear." Tires thumped over docks as Griffin steered into a warehouse. "Then this is where it starts."
Elite soldiers stood in a semicircle, waiting. For what, Max wasn't sure. And he wouldn't ask. If his guess was right, then time would tell—because Griffin seemed to be the guy in the know, and his relaxed posture against the SUV said things were going according to plan.
"Hey, dude, want me to look those over?" A blond guy dressed in khaki shorts, a faded tank, and a pair of flip-flops motioned to Max's scrapes and lacerations.
Right. Beach bum wanted to play nurse. "I'm good."
"About as good as a dog in a meat grinder," the guy replied.
Max clenched his teeth. Whatever kind of circus Griffin was running. . .
A diesel engine growled, the sound reverberating off the aluminum in the cavernous space, preempting the shiny blue dualie truck pulling into the dank building. The engine cut. A guy stepped out and donned a black cowboy hat that added about five inches to his six-foot-two frame.
Griffin's laugh rumbled as he pushed off his SUV. "Colton."
A broad grin spilled under the rim of the man's Stetson. "Hey." The two clasped hands and patted backs. "How's Dante?"
A quiet dialogue carried between the two for several minutes that effectively cut out the rest of those gathered. Yeah, they had a friendship, one that said they trusted each other with more than superficial things. Something about the tight bond rankled Max. Hit deep.
"Why are we here?"
Max's gaze bounced to the shortest and youngest of the six men in the building. The Kid had read his thoughts. A warehouse full of warriors? This setup smelled rotten.
"If you'll be patient—" Griffin paused and glanced behind him. "I think it's time."
A black Chrysler 300 glided into the middle of the grouping. The hollow clunk of an opening door echoed off the steel rafters and grime-laden windows. A man emerged. White hair feathered back. A sun-bronzed nose sported dark-tinted sunglasses. The thud of the door almost swallowed the crunching of his squeaky shoes. New, expensive shoes. Maybe even tailor-made. He gripped the rim of his glasses and drew them off.
Was the old man supposed to mean something? Be someone who mattered? Irritation skittered along Max's shoulders as the old man shook hands with Riddell and the cowboy.
"Who's the hoo-hah?" Max mumbled to himself.
"You kidding me, man?" The blond look at him and smirked. "That's—"
"For those not enlightened," an authoritative voice cut through the surfer's explanation, "my name is General Olin Lambert. I am a member of the Joint Chiefs. But among the seven of us, I am merely a citizen of the United States just like you." Blue eyes probed each man.
Right into Max's soul.
"With Mr. Riddell's help, I've hand-chosen each and every one of you for a very specific purpose. There isn't anything about you or your lives that I don't know." Lambert paused, as if to let his words sink in, but Max just wished he'd get on with it. Scabs were forming on his scrapes.
"Chosen us for what, ese?" asked the Hispanic man.
"A black ops team."
And that meant two things: military and that this meeting was over. Max turned and started walking.
"It's not military, Mr. Jacobs."
Hesitation held him at the large, garage-style door he'd entered. "How can you do black ops without military aid, intelligence, and backup?" He turned around, ignoring what felt like glass stuck to his calves and thighs.
"I didn't say we wouldn't have aid or intelligence." Creases pinched Lambert's eyes at the corners. "I said it's not military."
"Come again?" the beach bum asked, disbelief coloring his words.
"Let the general explain." Griffin leaned back against the truck with his cowboy buddy.
"Thank you, Mr. Riddell." Lambert tucked his sunglasses in his left breast pocket, then threaded his fingers in front of him. Impressive and commanding. "Each of you has returned from combat changed, affected."
Nervous glances skidded from man to man. Max glued his attention to the general, refusing to acknowledge the truth of Lambert's words.
"You're what I've dubbed discarded heroes."
Grunts of approval rang through the building, and the group seemed to tighten in around the old man. Being a general, he knew what it was like to have slanted glances of pity from those who knew where you'd been, what you'd probably done, and what it was like to go against a politically correct ideology and fight for freedom on foreign soil. Or to have some tree hugger spit in your face and call you a murderer.
"You served your time, saw and experienced things no normal person would be expected to deal with. Sure, you were trained. Taught to expect evil. Demanded success. However, when confronted with the true terrors of war, no human mind can dissolve the images embedded in memory for all time.
"Then it's time to get out. They yank you back here, give you a once-over, and toss you out with a 'thank you very much and have a good life.' So you go home, try to reintegrate into society, and—"
"It's screwed up," the Kid said. He shrugged when the others scowled at him. "Well? I'm right, aren't I? From what I heard you saying earlier," he pointed to the beach bum, "you've spent time in Afghanistan—a lot." Then to the Latino, "You probably did your tours of duty in Panama or the like." His gaze came to Max.
"Don't." Fists balled, Max willed his feet to remain in place. He didn't want anyone digging in his brain.
"Mr. Vaughn is correct," Lambert said. "You've all seen combat. You've all been trained to kill; then you come back, and what do you do with those skills but go out of your mind?"
Max shifted. Was it over yet? He eyed the wide-open berth to freedom behind the blue dualie.
"Max Jacobs."
Hearing his name felt like a detonation that blasted his attention back to the general.
"You served eight years with the SEALs. Your experience in command and combat no doubt left indelible scars. Watched your best friend toss himself on a grenade to save the team."
Bile pooled at the back of Max's throat as the memory surged. He flared his nostrils, pushing the images back into the pit from which they'd been drawn.
Lambert stalked the inner perimeter, as if prepping troops for war with a pep talk. "Lieutenant Jacobs is the man I've chosen as team leader, but his position is no more valuable than anyone else's. You've all seen war. In this building are years of tactical experience. Incredible wisdom. And one element that makes each of you vital for this to work."
"What's that?" Cowboy asked, his arms folded over his thick chest.
"Loyalty, Mr. Neeley. Your duty with the Marine Special Operations Team is bloated with exemplary conduct, commendation after commendation." He waved his hand around the cozy circle. "I've reviewed all of your files and found the same thing in every one."
Awkward silence cooled some of the tension in the room, and once again Max eyed the exit.
"Mr. Reyes, your career as a pararescue jumper, specifically your medic skills, saved dozens of lives."
"Pair o' what?" Cowboy taunted.
"Hey," Reyes grinned. "You're just jealous. I'm a PJ. Why you think they call me Fix?"
"Because you put everyone in one?" Griffin chuckled, eliciting more laughter.
"Nah, man. It's 'cause of this," he said as he drew out a crucifix from his shirt and kissed it. "My crucifix. They called me Cru at first, then since I'm a medic, they started calling me Fix."
Swallowing his groan, Max ran a hand through his short crop. Religion and military. This was starting to feel worse than an AA meeting. And there wasn't a point. "This is a lot of flowery, moving discourse, but what do you want from us?" Max mentally shook off the way the others looked at him. Was he the only one who was still waiting for the boom to lower?
"Mr. Riddell, if you please." Lambert pointed to the black SUV as Griffin opened the tailgate. "Give each man one."
Griffin handed out small black packs that bore a lone symbol. A strange star backed by a sword and wings. The Kid, the Beach Bum, and the Latino dug into the packs, almost excited. In seconds, a black phone, keys, a watch, and a set of duds spilled across the gray cement floor in front of them.
Max remained in place, his pack dangling from his clenched fist. He didn't like being played. And this definitely felt like a setup.
General Lambert faced him. "Is there a problem, Mr. Jacobs?"
He dropped his pack onto the floor. "Not seeing the point."
Behind the general, Griffin seemed to grow several inches as he towered over the aged officer. "What?" he growled. "You want to take another nose-dive off that hill? Hope this time there's only enough of you left to fill a baggie? Want to make that estranged wife of yours a widow before you can be called a failure?"
Hands coiled, Max drew up his shoulders. Saw red. No. No. He wouldn't give in to the goading. He dragged his attention back to the general.
"Ease up, Legend," Cowboy said, patting Griffin's chest. "Give the guy a chance." Lambert remained unwavering. "The point, Lieutenant, is to establish a team that can penetrate hostile situations without any entanglements, without any blame on the good ol' US-of-A or any other entity or government. You returned from two tours in Iraq, one in Afghanistan, and a covert mission nobody in this room will ever know about. You were the best, a natural, your CO said. But you were so volatile after those experiences took their toll they tried to discharge you, and your compatriots nicknamed you after a volatile chemical. Somehow you held it together. Then jumped ship out of the blue." More than recitation of information lurked behind the general's blue eyes. A knowing—no, an understanding, quiet and unnerving. "Tell me, Mr. Jacobs, what are you doing with your life now?"
"Minding my own business," Max answered through tight lips.
Lambert laughed. "And that's exactly what you'll be doing as part of my team. Funding isn't a problem. You'll have unlimited resources."
"That'd be a change," the Kid grumbled.
"To go where?" the Beach Bum asked.
"Doesn't matter," the Kid interrupted. "Man, how is this any different than military? Igot out for a reason."
"You'll go wherever needed." The general turned toward the younger man. "Yes, Mr. Vaughn, you did get out for a reason. Tell me, did abandoning the one thing you loved the most give you the love of your father after all?"
The Kid paled.
"Why?" Max couldn't stand it anymore. "Why are you doing this? What's this thing to you?"
Lambert lowered his head then looked back at Max. "I am. . .discarded just like you."
"Bull." Max tucked his hands under his arms. "You sit in a cushy chair in a carpeted office. You're paid, you're connected—"
"I know what you guys have been through." The general tapped his temple. "MAC-V SOG in Nam. Two tours."
Max's eyebrows shot up. That meant the man before him had likely seen more carnage than the rest of them put together.
"Heard the phrase 'peace with honor'?"
Max shrugged. "Yeah, sure. Who hasn't?"
"It was a platitude." Lambert's eyes flamed under his passion. "The armchair generals lost the war, not the grunts on the ground. We won every battle they let us win. But that doesn't make it any easier when you're the only guy who comes home from your unit with all his parts and pieces still connected where God put 'em.
"I may not be young, I may not have done combat tours in Iraq like you, Lieutenant, but I was tossed aside, too. For years I languished." The general pushed to his feet, his voice thick and his eyes weighted by the story. "But I slowly remembered that I'd joined the military for a reason—I wanted to be a man. A real man willing to defend my country with life and limb. I knew then I could screw up my career or I could do my best to make a difference in the lives of those who came after."
Silence hung rank and thick in the abandoned warehouse. Something akin to admiration leaked past Max's barriers as he watched the indignant rise and fall of the old man's chest. A smile threatened his resolve as the old man glared at the hulking men around him.
Lambert's lips tightened over a clean-shaven jaw. "What's it going to be, gentlemen? Do you have what it takes to finish the fight with the gift God gave you? Or are you going to turn tail, accept what the government stamped on your papers, and leave—go quietly into the night?"
"Whoa-hoa!" Laughing, Beach Bum stepped forward. "Old Man's got some fire under that shiny dome."
Lambert spun toward the bum. "What's it going to be, Sergeant Metcalfe?"
The blond pursed his lips, considered Lambert, then nodded. "I'm in."
The bright blue eyes shifted to the Latino.
"You need some CPR, ese? You look worked up."
A half smile slid into Lambert's face. "A little passion never hurt, eh, Mr. Reyes?"
"You all right, old man." He hooked Lambert's hand and patted his back. "You all right." Reyes leaned in toward the general's shoulders and looked at the Kid. "But I don't know about this kid. He don't look like he's out of diapers yet."
"That's wrong. That's just wrong." The Kid's face flushed. "I spent six years in the Rangers. I have enough—"
"Rangers." Max couldn't help but grunt his disapproval. "That explains a lot."
The Kid's chin jerked up in defiance. "I'm in."
It seemed Lambert grew with each affirmation. He shifted to the cowboy. "Mr. Neeley?"
Cowboy gave a slow, firm nod, his hat shading his eyes. "I'm ready."
Lambert smiled. "Good. Good."
They were all crazy. Joining a group like this meant more problems. "What if we get in trouble out there?"
"Then get out of trouble," Lambert said. "Understand that this team does not exist. If anyone comes looking, there will be nothing to find. Only one man besides those of us in this facility knows it exists, and he'll pay the highest cost if that confidence is broken. No one—and I mean no one—will know your names."
"So our orders are coming from on high?" Metcalfe asked.
A twinkle brightened Lambert's eyes and gave silent assent to the question, although he gave no answer. Instead, he continued. "Any mission, any activity will be utterly and completely disavowed by the United States. You will be disavowed. If you get into trouble, Mr. Jacobs, count on your ingenuity to get out. If you are killed, no one will know."
"Or care." The Kid shrugged, a sick smirk in his face.
Max wanted to punch him.
"Or maybe that's where Sergeant Metcalfe, call sign Midas, will come in with his golden touch." Lambert ambled toward him.
The beach bum made a tss noise and shook his head. "Nothing golden, just hard work."
The general's smile disappeared behind a stern facade. "What is your answer, Lieutenant Jacobs?"
"This is crazy." What else could he do? Flip burgers at the nearest fast food? What was worth staying here for? No wife. No family. "Fine." The separation papers told him he had nothing left here anyway. "I'm in."
"Good." General Lambert's smile softened his commando persona. "Look around. The men here are your new brothers, your family. Only they will understand when the horrors of war invade your sleep. Only they will be there when you're pinned down and need an extraction.
Arms wide, Lambert smiled like a proud father. "Gentlemen, welcome to Nightshade."
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January 31, 2012
Street Team Book List excerpt - Love Blooms in Winter by Lori Copeland
Camy here: Here's another book I added to my Street Team book giveaway list! You can win this book by joining my Street Team--Click here for more info!
Love Blooms in Winter
by
Lori Copeland
A romantic new book from bestselling author Lori Copeland that portrays God's miraculous provision even when none seems possible.
1892—Mae Wilkey's sweet next-door neighbor, Pauline, is suffering from old age and dementia and desperately needs family to come help her. But Pauline can't recall having kin remaining. Mae searches through her desk and finds a name—Tom Curtis, who may just be the answer to their prayers.
Tom can't remember an old aunt named Pauline, but if she thinks he's a long-lost nephew, he very well may be. After two desperate letters from Mae, he decides to pay a visit. An engagement, a runaway train, and a town of quirky, loveable people make for more of an adventure than Tom is expecting. But it is amazing what can bloom in winter when God is in charge of things.
Excerpt of chapter one:
Chapter 1
Dwadlo, North Dakota, 1892
The winter of '92 is gonna go down as one of the worst Dwadlo's ever seen," Hal Murphy grumbled as he dumped the sack of flour he got for his wife on the store counter. "Mark my words." He turned toward Mae Wilkey, the petite postmistress, who was stuffing mail in wooden slots.
"Spring can't come soon enough for me." She stepped back, straightening the row of letters and flyers. She didn't have to record Hal's prediction; it was the same every year. "I'd rather plant flowers than shovel snow any day of the week."
"Yes, ma'am." Hal nodded to the store owner, Dale Smith, who stood five foot seven inches with a rounded belly and salt-and-pepper hair swept to a wide front bang. "Add a couple of those dill pickles, will you?" Hal watched as Dale went over to the barrel and fished around inside, coming up with two fat pickles.
"That'll fix me up." Hal turned his attention back to the mail cage, his eyes fixed on the lovely sight. "Can't understand why you're still single, Mae. You're as pretty as a raindrop on a lily pad." He sniffed the air. "And you smell as good."
Smiling, Mae moved from the letter boxes to the cash box. Icy weather may have delayed the train this morning, but she still had to count money and record the day's inventory. "Now, Hal, you know I'd marry you in a wink if you weren't already taken." Hal and Clara had been married forty-two years, but Mae's usual comeback never failed to put a sparkle in the farmer's eye. Truth be, she put a smile on every man's face, but she wasn't often aware of the flattering looks she received. Her heart belonged to Jake Mallory, Dwadlo's up-and-coming attorney.
Hal nodded. "I know. All the good ones are taken, aren't they?"
She nodded. "Every single one. Especially in Dwadlo."
The little prairie town was formed when the Chicago & North Western Railroad came through five years ago. Where abundant grass, wild flowers, and waterfalls had once flourished, hundreds of miles of steel rail crisscrossed the land, making way for big, black steam engines that hauled folks and supplies. Before the railroad came through, only three homesteads had dotted the rugged Dakota Territory: Mae's family's, Hal and Clara's, and Pauline Wilson's.
But in '87 life changed, and formerly platted sites became bustling towns. Pine Grove and Branch Springs followed, and Dwadlo suddenly thrived with immigrants, opportunists, and adventure-seeking folks staking claims out West. A new world opened when the Dakota Boom started.
Hal's gaze focused on Mae's left hand. "Jake still hasn't popped the question?"
Mae sighed. Hal was a pleasant sort, but she really wished the townspeople would occupy their thoughts with something other than her and Jake's pending engagement. True, they had been courting for six years and Jake still hadn't proposed, but she was confident he would. He'd said so, and he was a man of his word—though every holiday, when a ring would have been an appropriate gift, that special token of his intentions failed to materialize. Mae had more lockets than any one woman could wear, but Jake apparently thought that she could always use another one. What she could really use was his hand in marriage. The bloom was swiftly fading from her youth, and it would be nice if her younger brother, Jeremy, had a man's presence in his life.
"Be patient, Hal. He's busy trying to establish a business."
"Good lands. How long does it take a man to open a law office?"
"Apparently six years and counting." She didn't like the uncertainty but she understood it, even if the town's population didn't. She had a good life, what with work, church, and the occasional social. Jake accompanied her to all public events, came over two or three times a week, and never failed to extend a hand when she needed something. It was almost as though they were already married.
"The man's a fool," Hal declared. "He'd better slap a ring on that finger before someone else comes along and does it for him."
"Not likely in Dwadlo," Mae mused. The town itself was made up of less than a hundred residents, but other folks lived in the surrounding areas and did their banking and shopping here. Main Street consisted of the General Store, Smith's Grain and Feed, the livery, the mortuary, the town hall and jail (which was almost always empty), Doc Swede's office, Rosie's Café, and an empty building that had once housed the saloon. Mae hadn't spotted a sign on any business yet advertising "Husbands," but she was certain her patience would eventually win out.
With a final smile Hal moved off to pay for his goods. Mae hummed a little as she put the money box in the safe. Looking out the window, she noticed a stiff November wind snapping the red canvas awning that sheltered the store's porch. Across the square, a large gazebo absorbed the battering wind. The usually active gathering place was now empty under a gray sky. On summer nights music played, and the smell of popcorn and roasted peanuts filled the air. Today the structure looked as though it were bracing for another winter storm. Sighing, Mae realized she already longed for green grass, blooming flowers, and warm breezes.
After Hal left Mae finished up the last of the chores and then reached for her warm wool cape. She usually enjoyed the short walk home from work, but today she was tired—and her feet hurt because of the new boots she'd purchased from the Montgomery Ward catalog. On the page they had looked comfortable with their high tops and polished leather, but on her feet they felt like a vise.
Slipping the cape's hood over her hair, she said goodbye to Dale and then paused when her hand touched the doorknob. "Oh, dear. I really do need to check on Pauline again."
"How's she doing?" The store owner paused and leaned on his broom. "I noticed she hasn't been in church recently."
Dale always reminded Mae of an owl perching on a tree limb, his big, dark blue eyes swiveling here and there. He might not talk a body's leg off, but he kept up on town issues. She admired the quiet little man for what he did for the community and respected the way he preached to the congregation on Sundays.
How was Pauline doing? Mae worried the question over in her mind. Pauline lived alone, and she shouldn't. The elderly woman was Mae's neighbor, and she checked on her daily, but Pauline was steadily losing ground.
"She's getting more and more fragile, I'm afraid. Dale, have you ever heard Pauline speak of kin?"
The small man didn't take even a moment to ponder the question. "Never heard her mention a single word about family of any kind."
"Hmm…me neither. But surely she must have some." Someone who should be here, in Dwadlo, looking after the frail soul. Mae didn't resent the extra work, but the post office and her brother kept her busy, and she really didn't have the right to make important decisions regarding the elderly woman's rapidly failing health.
Striding back to the bread rack, she picked up a fresh loaf. Dale had private rooms at the back of the store where he made his home, and he was often up before dawn baking bread, pies, and cakes for the community. Most folks in town baked their own goods, but there were a few, widowers and such, who depended on Dale's culinary skills. By this hour of the day the goods were usually gone, but a few remained. Placing a cherry pie in her basket as well, she called, "Add these things to my account, please, Dale. And pray for Pauline too."
Nodding, he continued sweeping, methodically running the stiff broomcorn bristles across the warped wood floor.
The numbing wind hit Mae full force when she stepped off the porch. Her hood flew off her head and an icy gust of air snatched away her breath. Putting down her basket, she retied the hood before setting off for the brief walk home. Dwadlo was laid out in a rather strange pattern, a point everyone agreed on. Businesses and homes were built close together, partly as shelter from the howling prairie winds and partly because there wasn't much forethought given to town planning. Residents' homes sat not a hundred feet from the store. The whole community encompassed less than five acres.
Halfway to her house, snowflakes began swirling in the air. Huddling deeper into her wrap, Mae concentrated on the path as the flakes grew bigger.
She quickly covered the short distance to Pauline's. The dwelling was little more than a front room, tiny kitchen, and bedroom, but she was a small woman. Pauline pinned her yellow-white hair in a tight knot at the base of her skull, and she didn't have a tooth in her head. She chewed snuff, which she freely admitted was an awful habit, but Mae had never heard her speak of giving it up.
Her faded blue eyes were as round as buttons, and no matter what kind of day she was having, it was always a new one to her, filled with wonders. Her mind wasn't what it used to be. She had good and bad days, but mostly days when her moods changed as swift as summer lightning. She could be talking about tomatoes in the garden patch when suddenly she would be discussing how to spin wool.
Mae noted a soft wisp of smoke curling up from the chimney and smiled. Pauline had remembered to feed the fire this afternoon, so this was a good day.
Unlatching the gate, she followed the path to the front porch. In summertime the white railings hung heavy with red roses, and the scent of honeysuckle filled the air. This afternoon the wind howled across the barren flower beds Pauline carefully nurtured during warmer weather. Often she planted okra where petunias should be, but she enjoyed puttering in the soil and the earth loved her. She brought fresh tomatoes, corn, and beans to the store during spring and summer, and pumpkins and squash lined the railings in the fall.
In earlier days Pauline's quilts were known throughout the area. She and her quilting group had made quite a name for themselves when Dwadlo first became a town. Four women excelled in the craft. One had lived in Pine Grove, and two others came from as far away as Branch Springs once a month to break bread together and stitch quilts. But one by one the women had died off, leaving Pauline to sew alone in her narrowing world.
Stomping her boots on the porch, Mae said under her breath, "I don't mind winter, Lord, but could we perhaps have a little less of it?" The only answer was the wind whipping her garments. Tapping lightly on the door, she called, "Pauline?"
Mae stepped back and waited to hear the shuffle of feet. Pauline used to answer the door in less than twenty seconds. It took longer now. Mae made a fist with her gloved hand and banged a little harder. The wind howled around the cottage eaves. She closed her eyes and prayed that Jeremy had remembered to stack sufficient firewood beside the kitchen door. The boy was generally responsible, and she thanked God every day that she had him to lean on. He had been injured by forceps during birth, which left him with special needs. He was a very happy fourteen-year-old with the reasoning power of a child of nine.
A full minute passed. Mae frowned and tried the doorknob. Pauline couldn't hear herself yell in a churn, but she might also be asleep. The door opened easily, and Mae peeked inside the small living quarters. She saw that a fire burned low in the woodstove, and Pauline's rocking chair sat empty.
Stepping inside, she closed the door and called again. "Pauline? It's Mae!"
The ticking of the mantle clock was the only sound that met her ears.
"Pauline?" She lowered her hood and walked through the living room. She paused in the kitchen doorway.
"Oh, Pauline!"
Print book:
Barnes and Noble
Amazon
Christianbook.com
BOOKSAMILLION.COM
Ebook:
Nookbook
Kindle
Christianbook.com
BOOKSAMILLION.COM
Love Blooms in Winterby
Lori Copeland
A romantic new book from bestselling author Lori Copeland that portrays God's miraculous provision even when none seems possible.
1892—Mae Wilkey's sweet next-door neighbor, Pauline, is suffering from old age and dementia and desperately needs family to come help her. But Pauline can't recall having kin remaining. Mae searches through her desk and finds a name—Tom Curtis, who may just be the answer to their prayers.
Tom can't remember an old aunt named Pauline, but if she thinks he's a long-lost nephew, he very well may be. After two desperate letters from Mae, he decides to pay a visit. An engagement, a runaway train, and a town of quirky, loveable people make for more of an adventure than Tom is expecting. But it is amazing what can bloom in winter when God is in charge of things.
Excerpt of chapter one:
Chapter 1
Dwadlo, North Dakota, 1892
The winter of '92 is gonna go down as one of the worst Dwadlo's ever seen," Hal Murphy grumbled as he dumped the sack of flour he got for his wife on the store counter. "Mark my words." He turned toward Mae Wilkey, the petite postmistress, who was stuffing mail in wooden slots.
"Spring can't come soon enough for me." She stepped back, straightening the row of letters and flyers. She didn't have to record Hal's prediction; it was the same every year. "I'd rather plant flowers than shovel snow any day of the week."
"Yes, ma'am." Hal nodded to the store owner, Dale Smith, who stood five foot seven inches with a rounded belly and salt-and-pepper hair swept to a wide front bang. "Add a couple of those dill pickles, will you?" Hal watched as Dale went over to the barrel and fished around inside, coming up with two fat pickles.
"That'll fix me up." Hal turned his attention back to the mail cage, his eyes fixed on the lovely sight. "Can't understand why you're still single, Mae. You're as pretty as a raindrop on a lily pad." He sniffed the air. "And you smell as good."
Smiling, Mae moved from the letter boxes to the cash box. Icy weather may have delayed the train this morning, but she still had to count money and record the day's inventory. "Now, Hal, you know I'd marry you in a wink if you weren't already taken." Hal and Clara had been married forty-two years, but Mae's usual comeback never failed to put a sparkle in the farmer's eye. Truth be, she put a smile on every man's face, but she wasn't often aware of the flattering looks she received. Her heart belonged to Jake Mallory, Dwadlo's up-and-coming attorney.
Hal nodded. "I know. All the good ones are taken, aren't they?"
She nodded. "Every single one. Especially in Dwadlo."
The little prairie town was formed when the Chicago & North Western Railroad came through five years ago. Where abundant grass, wild flowers, and waterfalls had once flourished, hundreds of miles of steel rail crisscrossed the land, making way for big, black steam engines that hauled folks and supplies. Before the railroad came through, only three homesteads had dotted the rugged Dakota Territory: Mae's family's, Hal and Clara's, and Pauline Wilson's.
But in '87 life changed, and formerly platted sites became bustling towns. Pine Grove and Branch Springs followed, and Dwadlo suddenly thrived with immigrants, opportunists, and adventure-seeking folks staking claims out West. A new world opened when the Dakota Boom started.
Hal's gaze focused on Mae's left hand. "Jake still hasn't popped the question?"
Mae sighed. Hal was a pleasant sort, but she really wished the townspeople would occupy their thoughts with something other than her and Jake's pending engagement. True, they had been courting for six years and Jake still hadn't proposed, but she was confident he would. He'd said so, and he was a man of his word—though every holiday, when a ring would have been an appropriate gift, that special token of his intentions failed to materialize. Mae had more lockets than any one woman could wear, but Jake apparently thought that she could always use another one. What she could really use was his hand in marriage. The bloom was swiftly fading from her youth, and it would be nice if her younger brother, Jeremy, had a man's presence in his life.
"Be patient, Hal. He's busy trying to establish a business."
"Good lands. How long does it take a man to open a law office?"
"Apparently six years and counting." She didn't like the uncertainty but she understood it, even if the town's population didn't. She had a good life, what with work, church, and the occasional social. Jake accompanied her to all public events, came over two or three times a week, and never failed to extend a hand when she needed something. It was almost as though they were already married.
"The man's a fool," Hal declared. "He'd better slap a ring on that finger before someone else comes along and does it for him."
"Not likely in Dwadlo," Mae mused. The town itself was made up of less than a hundred residents, but other folks lived in the surrounding areas and did their banking and shopping here. Main Street consisted of the General Store, Smith's Grain and Feed, the livery, the mortuary, the town hall and jail (which was almost always empty), Doc Swede's office, Rosie's Café, and an empty building that had once housed the saloon. Mae hadn't spotted a sign on any business yet advertising "Husbands," but she was certain her patience would eventually win out.
With a final smile Hal moved off to pay for his goods. Mae hummed a little as she put the money box in the safe. Looking out the window, she noticed a stiff November wind snapping the red canvas awning that sheltered the store's porch. Across the square, a large gazebo absorbed the battering wind. The usually active gathering place was now empty under a gray sky. On summer nights music played, and the smell of popcorn and roasted peanuts filled the air. Today the structure looked as though it were bracing for another winter storm. Sighing, Mae realized she already longed for green grass, blooming flowers, and warm breezes.
After Hal left Mae finished up the last of the chores and then reached for her warm wool cape. She usually enjoyed the short walk home from work, but today she was tired—and her feet hurt because of the new boots she'd purchased from the Montgomery Ward catalog. On the page they had looked comfortable with their high tops and polished leather, but on her feet they felt like a vise.
Slipping the cape's hood over her hair, she said goodbye to Dale and then paused when her hand touched the doorknob. "Oh, dear. I really do need to check on Pauline again."
"How's she doing?" The store owner paused and leaned on his broom. "I noticed she hasn't been in church recently."
Dale always reminded Mae of an owl perching on a tree limb, his big, dark blue eyes swiveling here and there. He might not talk a body's leg off, but he kept up on town issues. She admired the quiet little man for what he did for the community and respected the way he preached to the congregation on Sundays.
How was Pauline doing? Mae worried the question over in her mind. Pauline lived alone, and she shouldn't. The elderly woman was Mae's neighbor, and she checked on her daily, but Pauline was steadily losing ground.
"She's getting more and more fragile, I'm afraid. Dale, have you ever heard Pauline speak of kin?"
The small man didn't take even a moment to ponder the question. "Never heard her mention a single word about family of any kind."
"Hmm…me neither. But surely she must have some." Someone who should be here, in Dwadlo, looking after the frail soul. Mae didn't resent the extra work, but the post office and her brother kept her busy, and she really didn't have the right to make important decisions regarding the elderly woman's rapidly failing health.
Striding back to the bread rack, she picked up a fresh loaf. Dale had private rooms at the back of the store where he made his home, and he was often up before dawn baking bread, pies, and cakes for the community. Most folks in town baked their own goods, but there were a few, widowers and such, who depended on Dale's culinary skills. By this hour of the day the goods were usually gone, but a few remained. Placing a cherry pie in her basket as well, she called, "Add these things to my account, please, Dale. And pray for Pauline too."
Nodding, he continued sweeping, methodically running the stiff broomcorn bristles across the warped wood floor.
The numbing wind hit Mae full force when she stepped off the porch. Her hood flew off her head and an icy gust of air snatched away her breath. Putting down her basket, she retied the hood before setting off for the brief walk home. Dwadlo was laid out in a rather strange pattern, a point everyone agreed on. Businesses and homes were built close together, partly as shelter from the howling prairie winds and partly because there wasn't much forethought given to town planning. Residents' homes sat not a hundred feet from the store. The whole community encompassed less than five acres.
Halfway to her house, snowflakes began swirling in the air. Huddling deeper into her wrap, Mae concentrated on the path as the flakes grew bigger.
She quickly covered the short distance to Pauline's. The dwelling was little more than a front room, tiny kitchen, and bedroom, but she was a small woman. Pauline pinned her yellow-white hair in a tight knot at the base of her skull, and she didn't have a tooth in her head. She chewed snuff, which she freely admitted was an awful habit, but Mae had never heard her speak of giving it up.
Her faded blue eyes were as round as buttons, and no matter what kind of day she was having, it was always a new one to her, filled with wonders. Her mind wasn't what it used to be. She had good and bad days, but mostly days when her moods changed as swift as summer lightning. She could be talking about tomatoes in the garden patch when suddenly she would be discussing how to spin wool.
Mae noted a soft wisp of smoke curling up from the chimney and smiled. Pauline had remembered to feed the fire this afternoon, so this was a good day.
Unlatching the gate, she followed the path to the front porch. In summertime the white railings hung heavy with red roses, and the scent of honeysuckle filled the air. This afternoon the wind howled across the barren flower beds Pauline carefully nurtured during warmer weather. Often she planted okra where petunias should be, but she enjoyed puttering in the soil and the earth loved her. She brought fresh tomatoes, corn, and beans to the store during spring and summer, and pumpkins and squash lined the railings in the fall.
In earlier days Pauline's quilts were known throughout the area. She and her quilting group had made quite a name for themselves when Dwadlo first became a town. Four women excelled in the craft. One had lived in Pine Grove, and two others came from as far away as Branch Springs once a month to break bread together and stitch quilts. But one by one the women had died off, leaving Pauline to sew alone in her narrowing world.
Stomping her boots on the porch, Mae said under her breath, "I don't mind winter, Lord, but could we perhaps have a little less of it?" The only answer was the wind whipping her garments. Tapping lightly on the door, she called, "Pauline?"
Mae stepped back and waited to hear the shuffle of feet. Pauline used to answer the door in less than twenty seconds. It took longer now. Mae made a fist with her gloved hand and banged a little harder. The wind howled around the cottage eaves. She closed her eyes and prayed that Jeremy had remembered to stack sufficient firewood beside the kitchen door. The boy was generally responsible, and she thanked God every day that she had him to lean on. He had been injured by forceps during birth, which left him with special needs. He was a very happy fourteen-year-old with the reasoning power of a child of nine.
A full minute passed. Mae frowned and tried the doorknob. Pauline couldn't hear herself yell in a churn, but she might also be asleep. The door opened easily, and Mae peeked inside the small living quarters. She saw that a fire burned low in the woodstove, and Pauline's rocking chair sat empty.
Stepping inside, she closed the door and called again. "Pauline? It's Mae!"
The ticking of the mantle clock was the only sound that met her ears.
"Pauline?" She lowered her hood and walked through the living room. She paused in the kitchen doorway.
"Oh, Pauline!"
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Nookbook
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January 18, 2012
Guest blog and Street Team Book List excerpt - Allie Pleiter
Camy here: Here's another book I added to my Street Team book giveaway list! You can win this book by joining my Street Team--Click here for more info!
Falling for the Fireman
by
Allie Pleiter
There's something achingly familiar about the look in fire marshal Chad Owens's eyes. Widowed mom Jeannie Nelworth knows firsthand what it is: loss, hurt and yes—bitterness. Ever since the fire that changed their lives, Jeannie's young son has borne that same look, pushing everyone away. So she's grateful when Chad tries to get through to the boy with the help of his trusty fire station dog.
But the man who's all about safety and prevention keeps himself protected—from loving and losing again. Seems as if Jeannie will have to add his kind, guarded heart to her rebuilding efforts.
And now, here's Allie!
I'm not sure I buy into the concept of a universal consciousness, but every once in a while the world lines up in a way that makes you wonder if the Holy Spirit couldn't easily pull it off.
I needed a positive fire experience. Something a little more exotic than roasting s'mores around a campfire, but nothing huge and inferno-like, either. After trolling around the internet for a few weeks, I came upon the Chinese lantern ceremony. It was perfect. Visually stunning, filled with spiritual metaphors, and extravagant enough to feel out of place in the small Illinois town I'd created as the setting for FALLING FOR THE FIREMAN. A romantic night backdrop for a pivotal turning point in Chad's relationship with Jeannie.
Smiling smugly, I congratulated myself on having grafted a unique and somewhat exotic custom into my next novel.
Then, my nieces come to visit. For fun, we rent TANGLED--Disney's surprisingly clever re-do of the Rapunzel. What's crucial to the plot? Floating lanterns straight out of the Chinese lantern ceremony.
Some part of me wants to stand up and yell "I thought of it first!" but I didn't. I just hadn't seen the movie until months after it came out. And really, who am I to lay claim to a thousand-year-old oriental ceremony?
Nothing's ever really "new." The creative people on the planet just take old ideas and use them in new ways.
But really, I thought of it before Disney. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
Excerpt of chapter one:
TEST
Print book:
Harlequin.com (Save an extra 10% with code SAVE10AFFO at checkout!)
LARGE PRINT Harlequin.com (Save an extra 10% with code SAVE10AFFO at checkout!)
Barnes and Noble
Amazon
Christianbook.com
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LARGE PRINT BOOKSAMILLION.COM
Ebook:
Harlequin.com (Save an extra 10% with code SAVE10AFFO at checkout!)
Nookbook
Kindle
Falling for the Firemanby
Allie Pleiter
There's something achingly familiar about the look in fire marshal Chad Owens's eyes. Widowed mom Jeannie Nelworth knows firsthand what it is: loss, hurt and yes—bitterness. Ever since the fire that changed their lives, Jeannie's young son has borne that same look, pushing everyone away. So she's grateful when Chad tries to get through to the boy with the help of his trusty fire station dog.
But the man who's all about safety and prevention keeps himself protected—from loving and losing again. Seems as if Jeannie will have to add his kind, guarded heart to her rebuilding efforts.
And now, here's Allie!
I'm not sure I buy into the concept of a universal consciousness, but every once in a while the world lines up in a way that makes you wonder if the Holy Spirit couldn't easily pull it off.
I needed a positive fire experience. Something a little more exotic than roasting s'mores around a campfire, but nothing huge and inferno-like, either. After trolling around the internet for a few weeks, I came upon the Chinese lantern ceremony. It was perfect. Visually stunning, filled with spiritual metaphors, and extravagant enough to feel out of place in the small Illinois town I'd created as the setting for FALLING FOR THE FIREMAN. A romantic night backdrop for a pivotal turning point in Chad's relationship with Jeannie.
Smiling smugly, I congratulated myself on having grafted a unique and somewhat exotic custom into my next novel.
Then, my nieces come to visit. For fun, we rent TANGLED--Disney's surprisingly clever re-do of the Rapunzel. What's crucial to the plot? Floating lanterns straight out of the Chinese lantern ceremony.
Some part of me wants to stand up and yell "I thought of it first!" but I didn't. I just hadn't seen the movie until months after it came out. And really, who am I to lay claim to a thousand-year-old oriental ceremony?
Nothing's ever really "new." The creative people on the planet just take old ideas and use them in new ways.
But really, I thought of it before Disney. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
Excerpt of chapter one:
TEST
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Ebook:
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January 16, 2012
Booksigning schedule in OK and TX!
I finally figured out how to add events to Goodreads! I hope this works:
http://www.goodreads.com/event/list_author/291940
I think this link will lead to all my current "events," which are some booksignings and a couple writing workshops in Oklahoma and Texas both this week and next week.
I hope you guys who are near some of these cities will come by to say hi!
http://www.goodreads.com/event/list_author/291940
I think this link will lead to all my current "events," which are some booksignings and a couple writing workshops in Oklahoma and Texas both this week and next week.
I hope you guys who are near some of these cities will come by to say hi!
January 14, 2012
Excerpt - Stalker in the Shadows by Camy Tang!!!!!!
Some of you have been asking about it, so here it is! Available at retail stores this month only, and some online stores will have it for a few months longer, or order it on ebook (see links below).
Stalker in the Shadows
by
Camy Tang
"Consider this a warning."
Lately, nurse Monica Grant feels she's being watched. Followed. And then she receives a threatening letter—accompanied by a dead snake. If she doesn't stop her plans to open a free children's clinic, she'll end up dead, too. Terrified, Monica turns to former lawman Shaun O'Neill—who believes the same madman murdered his own sister five years before. She understands how much it means to the handsome, heart-guarding man to save her—and her dream. Even if he has to lure a deadly stalker out of the shadows—straight toward himself.
Excerpt of chapter one:
Someone was watching her.
Monica Grant glanced around the bustling central plaza in downtown Sonoma, California, and rubbed the back of her neck, but the ugly, prickly feeling wouldn't go away. She remembered the well-worn phrase from her Nancy Drew books—"the hair stood up on the back of her neck"—but she'd never realized how true it was. Until now.
She couldn't actually see anyone looking at her—there were tourists strolling around Sonoma City Hall and the fountain, cars driving slowly around the square, shoppers stepping in and out of the quaint shops. A few locals across the street noticed her looking at them and waved hello. She waved back with a smile, recognizing them as staff from a nearby restaurant. The Grant family's successful day spa, Joy Luck Life, had helped bring even more activity to the small tourist town, and all of her family was acquainted with most of the local business owners and staff.
But as she continued walking along the line of shops and historical buildings, the creepy feeling crawled up her shoulder blades. She whirled around suddenly, but didn't catch anyone in the act of staring at her, or ducking into a shop doorway to escape her notice.
It had been a silly thought, anyway. She wasn't a spy. She was probably imagining things.
She turned to enter Lorianne's Cafe, a popular new restaurant owned by one of her high school classmates, which served California fusion cuisine made exclusively with local produce. She thought the feeling of being watched would go away as soon as she entered the building, but an uncomfortable shaft of prickling shot down her spine. She turned to look out the restaurant's glass front doors, toward the green park area around Sonoma City Hall, but couldn't see anyone except a few tourists walking by.
"Monica Grant, are you stalking me?"
The voice, still betraying the slight Irish lilt of his homeland, made her turn. "Mr. O'Neill! I should say,you're stalking me."
Patrick O'Neill's light blue eyes creased deeply at the corners. "Seeing you at the Zoe International charity banquet last week wasn't enough. I had to get in more of your lovely company." He enfolded her in a hug that made her cheek rasp against his usual Hawaiian-print, button-down shirt. Quite a contrast to the tuxedo he'd worn at the annual dinner that Zoe International, an anti-human-slavery organization, had hosted to thank its donors.
"Are you here in Sonoma just for the day?" Monica asked. "Or are you staying overnight before you head back down to
Marin?"
"I'm here for a few days, spending time with my new grandson."
"That's right, I heard about the new baby yesterday from Aunt Becca." At first Monica had been shocked because she'd thought the new baby was Shaun's son, but quickly realized her mistake—it was Brady's son, Shaun's nephew. She hoped Aunt Becca hadn't noticed her initial stunned reaction.
"What have you been up to in the seven whole days since
I've seen you?" He tugged at a silver lock of hair on his wide forehead. It brought back an image of Shaun doing the same gesture.
She forced her mind away from his eldest son. "I'm still taking care of Dad since he had his stroke."
"He's doing better? Last week, we were interrupted before I could ask you about him."
"He still needs a live-in nurse, but I'm also taking him to physical therapy several times a week, and he's gaining mobility back. He doesn't need me quite as much, which is good, because my sister Naomi announced her engagement six weeks ago. She's planning her wedding, so sometimes when she has to take off work at the spa, I fill in as manager for her."
"Will she still be manager when she marries?"
"No, she's going to start her own private massage therapy business in the city, closer to her future husband's office. We're trying to hire someone to take over when she leaves, but until then.. " She had to stifle a small sigh. Because she still took care of her dad, filling in for Naomi stole precious free time that she didn't have. The spa needed to hire someone soon.
"From nurse to manager." His blue eyes were more piercing than his son's. "It doesn't sit with you well?"
His insight startled her. "I loved being an Emergency Room nurse," she said, "but I have to admit I don't regret quitting my job at Good Samaritan Hospital when Dad needed me. What I'd really like to do is run a free children's clinic for Sonoma and Napa counties."
Unlike Monica's father, Mr. O'Neill didn't roll his eyes at her. Instead, he nodded gravely. "Then you should do it, my girl. You only have one life to love."
His phrasing touched her on a deeper level, stirred up things she had left collecting on the bottom. She shifted uncomfortably, then changed gears, giving him a teasing look. "So who are you meeting for lunch? Yet another struggling hotel owner whose hotel you're going to buy and then turn into a raging success?"
"No, I'm just here having lunch with my son." He gestured behind him.
Brady, his second eldest son, lived only a few miles from Sonoma in Geyserville. Monica's gaze flickered over Mr. O'Neill's shoulder, past the hostess waiting patiently behind the desk, toward the restaurant's bar.and she froze.
Shaun O'Neill stared right back at her. Her breath stopped in her throat and seemed to hum there. She recognized the strange sensation, something she had only felt twice before in her life—at her first sight of a cherry red Lamborghini, and the very first time she'd met Shaun O'Neill, ten years ago at a Zoe International banquet.
Her heart started racing as he rose from his seat at the bar and walked toward them. His expression was unfathomable. Was he happy to see her? Indifferent? Something about the way he held his eyes made her think he felt the same rush of intensity she did.
No, she had to find a way to smother the electricity zinging through her veins. Shaun was a cop, and she would never, ever date anyone in law enforcement. In the E.R., she had seen what that profession did to the families left behind, had tried to heal the unhealable pain of losing a fine man to a criminal's gunshot. She knew her heart wouldn't be able to handle it.
She also knew she wouldn't be able to handle him.
As he approached, his scent wrapped around her—a thread of well-tooled leather, a hint of pine, a deep note of musk—a combination uniquely Shaun's. "Hi, Shaun." She gave a polite smile that hopefully masked the way he made her feel so…alive.
"Hi, Monica." The deep voice had a slight gravelly edge to it, promising danger and excitement. "It's been a long time."
"I didn't know you were back in Sonoma."
"I quit the border patrol," he said softly.
"What?" Surprised, she looked up at him and immediately drowned in the cerulean blue sea of his straightforward gaze. Shaun had always been aggressive with his stance, with his looks—and he was that way now, standing a little too close to her, staring a little too intently. "I.. " She cleared her throat. "I thought you loved the border patrol. The last time we met, you were so enthusiastic about it."
"I'm back to spend time with my family. I'm thinking of applying for the Sonoma Police Department."
"Not as exciting as the border patrol," she remarked, looking for his reaction.
He shrugged.
How strange. He still had that bad-boy air about him, but there was something that reminded her of a wounded dog. No, a wolf. A wounded wolf. She wanted to reach out to him, to help him if she could.
Wounded wolves still bite. She had to remind herself that he wasn't her type. She had to stop now so she wouldn't go any deeper. She wouldn't submit herself to the kind of pain she'd seen in the Emergency Room. She shook off the memory of a cop's widow's shaking shoulders and forced her mind back to the present.
Then something invisible raking along her spine made her jerk. She turned to look out again through the glass of the restaurant doors but only saw the same view of Sonoma City Hall, made of local quarried stone that looked more flint-gray today under the overcast skies. Different tourists from the last time she'd looked walked around the grounds now.
She was being paranoid. She had to get a hold of herself.
She turned back to Mr. O'Neill. "The last time we talked, you mentioned how you were going to sell the Fontana Hotel in Marin and do consulting work rather than buy another hotel. Do you know when that's going to happen?"
Mr. O'Neill smiled at her. "Does your question have anything to do with the rumors I heard that your father's going to expand the spa and add a hotel?"
Monica grinned. "Guilty as charged. I have a lunch appointment in a few minutes, but do you have time today to talk about possibly consulting for him?"
He gave her a sharp look. "Have you talked to Augustus about this yet?"
Heat like a sunburn crept up her neck. "Uh…Dad mentioned yesterday how he needed help now that he's actually decided to go forward with the hotel."
Mr. O'Neill smiled. "I do have time this afternoon." He turned to Shaun. "Did you want to come with me or pick me up later?"
"I'll come with you." His voice was light, but his blue eyes flickered to Monica.
She had to remind herself that she wanted to speak with his father, not with him. "Great. Thanks, Mr. O'Neill. Three o'clock at our house?"
"Sounds good. Who are you meeting for lunch, by the way?"
"It's a potential investor for my free children's clinic. Phillip Bromley."
Shaun's jaw suddenly tightened and his eyes became shards of ice. "The son of the CEO of Lowther Station Bank in San Francisco?"
She nodded. "His brother's a medical missionary in Kenya. I've known Phillip for a few months, but last week at the Zoe banquet, he expressed interest in my clinic and mentioned that his brother might be willing to donate his time to the clinic when he returns to the States this summer."
But Shaun was shaking his head. "You should stay away from Bromley."
"Shaun.. " Mr. O'Neill said gently.
"Why?" Monica said. "Phillip has always been perfectly civil to me." Whereas Shaun's wildness seemed to exude from him, only barely restrained by his conservative white cotton shirt and jeans.
There was also anger underlying that wildness as he answered, "It's just a mask. It's not the real him."
A mask? Monica hadn't seen that at all, and she prided herself on being able to read people rather well. She didn't particularly like Phillip—there was something about his manner that seemed too self-focused and self-serving—but she hadn't detected anything deceptive during the times they spoke to each other.
"He's dangerous," Shaun growled. "You need to stay away from him."
Shaun's commanding tone grated down her spine, and she lifted her chin to glare at his set face. "How is he dangerous?" Shaun's lips tightened briefly. "He just is. You don't know him."
"And you do?"
"Better than you do."
"Children," Mr. O'Neill said in a long-suffering voice, "play nice."
Monica backed down. Mr. O'Neill was right, she was being childish. The same fiery temper that got her into arguments with her dad was now picking fights with a man who only wanted to…what? Warn her? Protect her? She wasn't used to men like Shaun, whose life work was protecting people. Her ex-boyfriends had mostly been artists and playboys, who all seemed "soft" now compared with Shaun's solid presence.
She had to admit that his presence made her feel less uneasy, less vulnerable to the eyes that might—or might not—be watching her. She couldn't stop herself from glancing outside again, but saw no one lurking or looking at her.
At that moment, her cell phone rang, and the caller ID said it was Phillip.
"I'll talk to you later," Mr. O'Neill said quickly, giving her a peck on the cheek before letting the hovering hostess seat him and Shaun at a table.
She answered the call. "Hi, Phillip." Were his ears burning because they'd been talking about him?
"Hi, Monica. I'm sorry, but there's an overturned construction truck here on highway 121. I'll be about twenty minutes late."
"No problem. I'll be waiting."
She had the hostess seat her at a table, but stopped when she saw it was right in the center of the large windows at the front of the restaurant. She glanced out at the tourists and pedestrians on the street. No one was even looking in her direction, but she felt as if a cold hand gripped her around the throat.
"Could I get a table near the back?" she asked, and the hostess nodded and seated her at a small table at the back of the restaurant.
However, it was close to where Shaun and his father were seated. She didn't want to request another change so she sat, but it was hard for her to keep her head averted with Shaun only a few feet away to her right.
At least the horrible feeling of being watched was gone. She spent a few minutes checking her email on her phone, but then the restaurant's owner and chef, Lorianne, approached her table with a long white florist's box and a huge grin on her face. "Hey, Monica. I happened to be up front just now when this was delivered for you." Excitement radiated from her bright eyes as she sat down across from her. "Who's it from? You didn't mention a new boyfriend when I talked to you a couple weeks ago."
"I still don't have a boyfriend. Your guess is as good as mine." Monica didn't look at Shaun, but could sense him glancing at her at Lorianne's words. Really, what business was it of his? She wished she weren't so close to their table.
"Ooh, a secret admirer," Lorianne said. "Well, as owner of this fine establishment, I am entitled to view any and all flowers delivered." She winked at Monica.
A part of her was flattered by the gift. Who wouldn't be? But another part of her was wary. Who gave flowers to a woman through a delivery and not personally? Then it occurred to her that maybe Phillip had them delivered in advance of their meeting. He had seemed a bit friendly last week at the Zoe banquet, but she'd been careful not to encourage anything more than a business relationship. She hoped he didn't misinterpret her body language.
Well, she knew who it wasn't from. She tried to angle her body away from Shaun as she lifted the lid. An odd cigarette smell made her eyes burn, and she blinked away sudden tears.
In the box, nestled among white tissue paper, lay a huge dead snake.
Monica gasped and dropped the box onto the table, making the silverware rattle.
"Oh, my gosh." Lorianne's eyes were huge.
The ugliness of the gift seemed to stifle her, and Monica fought to breathe. Who would send her something so hateful, so horrible?
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Stalker in the Shadows by
Camy Tang
"Consider this a warning."
Lately, nurse Monica Grant feels she's being watched. Followed. And then she receives a threatening letter—accompanied by a dead snake. If she doesn't stop her plans to open a free children's clinic, she'll end up dead, too. Terrified, Monica turns to former lawman Shaun O'Neill—who believes the same madman murdered his own sister five years before. She understands how much it means to the handsome, heart-guarding man to save her—and her dream. Even if he has to lure a deadly stalker out of the shadows—straight toward himself.
Excerpt of chapter one:
Someone was watching her.
Monica Grant glanced around the bustling central plaza in downtown Sonoma, California, and rubbed the back of her neck, but the ugly, prickly feeling wouldn't go away. She remembered the well-worn phrase from her Nancy Drew books—"the hair stood up on the back of her neck"—but she'd never realized how true it was. Until now.
She couldn't actually see anyone looking at her—there were tourists strolling around Sonoma City Hall and the fountain, cars driving slowly around the square, shoppers stepping in and out of the quaint shops. A few locals across the street noticed her looking at them and waved hello. She waved back with a smile, recognizing them as staff from a nearby restaurant. The Grant family's successful day spa, Joy Luck Life, had helped bring even more activity to the small tourist town, and all of her family was acquainted with most of the local business owners and staff.
But as she continued walking along the line of shops and historical buildings, the creepy feeling crawled up her shoulder blades. She whirled around suddenly, but didn't catch anyone in the act of staring at her, or ducking into a shop doorway to escape her notice.
It had been a silly thought, anyway. She wasn't a spy. She was probably imagining things.
She turned to enter Lorianne's Cafe, a popular new restaurant owned by one of her high school classmates, which served California fusion cuisine made exclusively with local produce. She thought the feeling of being watched would go away as soon as she entered the building, but an uncomfortable shaft of prickling shot down her spine. She turned to look out the restaurant's glass front doors, toward the green park area around Sonoma City Hall, but couldn't see anyone except a few tourists walking by.
"Monica Grant, are you stalking me?"
The voice, still betraying the slight Irish lilt of his homeland, made her turn. "Mr. O'Neill! I should say,you're stalking me."
Patrick O'Neill's light blue eyes creased deeply at the corners. "Seeing you at the Zoe International charity banquet last week wasn't enough. I had to get in more of your lovely company." He enfolded her in a hug that made her cheek rasp against his usual Hawaiian-print, button-down shirt. Quite a contrast to the tuxedo he'd worn at the annual dinner that Zoe International, an anti-human-slavery organization, had hosted to thank its donors.
"Are you here in Sonoma just for the day?" Monica asked. "Or are you staying overnight before you head back down to
Marin?"
"I'm here for a few days, spending time with my new grandson."
"That's right, I heard about the new baby yesterday from Aunt Becca." At first Monica had been shocked because she'd thought the new baby was Shaun's son, but quickly realized her mistake—it was Brady's son, Shaun's nephew. She hoped Aunt Becca hadn't noticed her initial stunned reaction.
"What have you been up to in the seven whole days since
I've seen you?" He tugged at a silver lock of hair on his wide forehead. It brought back an image of Shaun doing the same gesture.
She forced her mind away from his eldest son. "I'm still taking care of Dad since he had his stroke."
"He's doing better? Last week, we were interrupted before I could ask you about him."
"He still needs a live-in nurse, but I'm also taking him to physical therapy several times a week, and he's gaining mobility back. He doesn't need me quite as much, which is good, because my sister Naomi announced her engagement six weeks ago. She's planning her wedding, so sometimes when she has to take off work at the spa, I fill in as manager for her."
"Will she still be manager when she marries?"
"No, she's going to start her own private massage therapy business in the city, closer to her future husband's office. We're trying to hire someone to take over when she leaves, but until then.. " She had to stifle a small sigh. Because she still took care of her dad, filling in for Naomi stole precious free time that she didn't have. The spa needed to hire someone soon.
"From nurse to manager." His blue eyes were more piercing than his son's. "It doesn't sit with you well?"
His insight startled her. "I loved being an Emergency Room nurse," she said, "but I have to admit I don't regret quitting my job at Good Samaritan Hospital when Dad needed me. What I'd really like to do is run a free children's clinic for Sonoma and Napa counties."
Unlike Monica's father, Mr. O'Neill didn't roll his eyes at her. Instead, he nodded gravely. "Then you should do it, my girl. You only have one life to love."
His phrasing touched her on a deeper level, stirred up things she had left collecting on the bottom. She shifted uncomfortably, then changed gears, giving him a teasing look. "So who are you meeting for lunch? Yet another struggling hotel owner whose hotel you're going to buy and then turn into a raging success?"
"No, I'm just here having lunch with my son." He gestured behind him.
Brady, his second eldest son, lived only a few miles from Sonoma in Geyserville. Monica's gaze flickered over Mr. O'Neill's shoulder, past the hostess waiting patiently behind the desk, toward the restaurant's bar.and she froze.
Shaun O'Neill stared right back at her. Her breath stopped in her throat and seemed to hum there. She recognized the strange sensation, something she had only felt twice before in her life—at her first sight of a cherry red Lamborghini, and the very first time she'd met Shaun O'Neill, ten years ago at a Zoe International banquet.
Her heart started racing as he rose from his seat at the bar and walked toward them. His expression was unfathomable. Was he happy to see her? Indifferent? Something about the way he held his eyes made her think he felt the same rush of intensity she did.
No, she had to find a way to smother the electricity zinging through her veins. Shaun was a cop, and she would never, ever date anyone in law enforcement. In the E.R., she had seen what that profession did to the families left behind, had tried to heal the unhealable pain of losing a fine man to a criminal's gunshot. She knew her heart wouldn't be able to handle it.
She also knew she wouldn't be able to handle him.
As he approached, his scent wrapped around her—a thread of well-tooled leather, a hint of pine, a deep note of musk—a combination uniquely Shaun's. "Hi, Shaun." She gave a polite smile that hopefully masked the way he made her feel so…alive.
"Hi, Monica." The deep voice had a slight gravelly edge to it, promising danger and excitement. "It's been a long time."
"I didn't know you were back in Sonoma."
"I quit the border patrol," he said softly.
"What?" Surprised, she looked up at him and immediately drowned in the cerulean blue sea of his straightforward gaze. Shaun had always been aggressive with his stance, with his looks—and he was that way now, standing a little too close to her, staring a little too intently. "I.. " She cleared her throat. "I thought you loved the border patrol. The last time we met, you were so enthusiastic about it."
"I'm back to spend time with my family. I'm thinking of applying for the Sonoma Police Department."
"Not as exciting as the border patrol," she remarked, looking for his reaction.
He shrugged.
How strange. He still had that bad-boy air about him, but there was something that reminded her of a wounded dog. No, a wolf. A wounded wolf. She wanted to reach out to him, to help him if she could.
Wounded wolves still bite. She had to remind herself that he wasn't her type. She had to stop now so she wouldn't go any deeper. She wouldn't submit herself to the kind of pain she'd seen in the Emergency Room. She shook off the memory of a cop's widow's shaking shoulders and forced her mind back to the present.
Then something invisible raking along her spine made her jerk. She turned to look out again through the glass of the restaurant doors but only saw the same view of Sonoma City Hall, made of local quarried stone that looked more flint-gray today under the overcast skies. Different tourists from the last time she'd looked walked around the grounds now.
She was being paranoid. She had to get a hold of herself.
She turned back to Mr. O'Neill. "The last time we talked, you mentioned how you were going to sell the Fontana Hotel in Marin and do consulting work rather than buy another hotel. Do you know when that's going to happen?"
Mr. O'Neill smiled at her. "Does your question have anything to do with the rumors I heard that your father's going to expand the spa and add a hotel?"
Monica grinned. "Guilty as charged. I have a lunch appointment in a few minutes, but do you have time today to talk about possibly consulting for him?"
He gave her a sharp look. "Have you talked to Augustus about this yet?"
Heat like a sunburn crept up her neck. "Uh…Dad mentioned yesterday how he needed help now that he's actually decided to go forward with the hotel."
Mr. O'Neill smiled. "I do have time this afternoon." He turned to Shaun. "Did you want to come with me or pick me up later?"
"I'll come with you." His voice was light, but his blue eyes flickered to Monica.
She had to remind herself that she wanted to speak with his father, not with him. "Great. Thanks, Mr. O'Neill. Three o'clock at our house?"
"Sounds good. Who are you meeting for lunch, by the way?"
"It's a potential investor for my free children's clinic. Phillip Bromley."
Shaun's jaw suddenly tightened and his eyes became shards of ice. "The son of the CEO of Lowther Station Bank in San Francisco?"
She nodded. "His brother's a medical missionary in Kenya. I've known Phillip for a few months, but last week at the Zoe banquet, he expressed interest in my clinic and mentioned that his brother might be willing to donate his time to the clinic when he returns to the States this summer."
But Shaun was shaking his head. "You should stay away from Bromley."
"Shaun.. " Mr. O'Neill said gently.
"Why?" Monica said. "Phillip has always been perfectly civil to me." Whereas Shaun's wildness seemed to exude from him, only barely restrained by his conservative white cotton shirt and jeans.
There was also anger underlying that wildness as he answered, "It's just a mask. It's not the real him."
A mask? Monica hadn't seen that at all, and she prided herself on being able to read people rather well. She didn't particularly like Phillip—there was something about his manner that seemed too self-focused and self-serving—but she hadn't detected anything deceptive during the times they spoke to each other.
"He's dangerous," Shaun growled. "You need to stay away from him."
Shaun's commanding tone grated down her spine, and she lifted her chin to glare at his set face. "How is he dangerous?" Shaun's lips tightened briefly. "He just is. You don't know him."
"And you do?"
"Better than you do."
"Children," Mr. O'Neill said in a long-suffering voice, "play nice."
Monica backed down. Mr. O'Neill was right, she was being childish. The same fiery temper that got her into arguments with her dad was now picking fights with a man who only wanted to…what? Warn her? Protect her? She wasn't used to men like Shaun, whose life work was protecting people. Her ex-boyfriends had mostly been artists and playboys, who all seemed "soft" now compared with Shaun's solid presence.
She had to admit that his presence made her feel less uneasy, less vulnerable to the eyes that might—or might not—be watching her. She couldn't stop herself from glancing outside again, but saw no one lurking or looking at her.
At that moment, her cell phone rang, and the caller ID said it was Phillip.
"I'll talk to you later," Mr. O'Neill said quickly, giving her a peck on the cheek before letting the hovering hostess seat him and Shaun at a table.
She answered the call. "Hi, Phillip." Were his ears burning because they'd been talking about him?
"Hi, Monica. I'm sorry, but there's an overturned construction truck here on highway 121. I'll be about twenty minutes late."
"No problem. I'll be waiting."
She had the hostess seat her at a table, but stopped when she saw it was right in the center of the large windows at the front of the restaurant. She glanced out at the tourists and pedestrians on the street. No one was even looking in her direction, but she felt as if a cold hand gripped her around the throat.
"Could I get a table near the back?" she asked, and the hostess nodded and seated her at a small table at the back of the restaurant.
However, it was close to where Shaun and his father were seated. She didn't want to request another change so she sat, but it was hard for her to keep her head averted with Shaun only a few feet away to her right.
At least the horrible feeling of being watched was gone. She spent a few minutes checking her email on her phone, but then the restaurant's owner and chef, Lorianne, approached her table with a long white florist's box and a huge grin on her face. "Hey, Monica. I happened to be up front just now when this was delivered for you." Excitement radiated from her bright eyes as she sat down across from her. "Who's it from? You didn't mention a new boyfriend when I talked to you a couple weeks ago."
"I still don't have a boyfriend. Your guess is as good as mine." Monica didn't look at Shaun, but could sense him glancing at her at Lorianne's words. Really, what business was it of his? She wished she weren't so close to their table.
"Ooh, a secret admirer," Lorianne said. "Well, as owner of this fine establishment, I am entitled to view any and all flowers delivered." She winked at Monica.
A part of her was flattered by the gift. Who wouldn't be? But another part of her was wary. Who gave flowers to a woman through a delivery and not personally? Then it occurred to her that maybe Phillip had them delivered in advance of their meeting. He had seemed a bit friendly last week at the Zoe banquet, but she'd been careful not to encourage anything more than a business relationship. She hoped he didn't misinterpret her body language.
Well, she knew who it wasn't from. She tried to angle her body away from Shaun as she lifted the lid. An odd cigarette smell made her eyes burn, and she blinked away sudden tears.
In the box, nestled among white tissue paper, lay a huge dead snake.
Monica gasped and dropped the box onto the table, making the silverware rattle.
"Oh, my gosh." Lorianne's eyes were huge.
The ugliness of the gift seemed to stifle her, and Monica fought to breathe. Who would send her something so hateful, so horrible?
Print book:
Harlequin.com (Save an extra 10% with code SAVE10AFFO at checkout!)
LARGE PRINT Harlequin.com (Save an extra 10% with code SAVE10AFFO at checkout!)
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Christianbook.com
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LARGE PRINT BOOKSAMILLION.COM
Ebook:
Harlequin.com romance, fantasy and scintillating suspense books at great low prices. Save an extra 10% with code SAVE10AFFO at checkout!
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January 13, 2012
Street Team Book List excerpt - His Steadfast Love by Golden Keyes Parsons
Camy here: Here's another book I added to my Street Team book giveaway list! You can win this book by joining my Street Team--Click here for more info!
His Steadfast Love
by
Golden Keyes Parsons
It isn't until the Civil War comes to her doorstep that Amanda Bell must choose between love and family.
It's the spring of 1861 on the Gulf Coast of Texas. Amanda never thought she would marry because of a promise she made to her dying mother, but her attraction to Captain Kent Littlefield is undeniable.
When Texas secedes from the Union, her brother Daniel aligns with the Confederate States, while Kent remains with the Union troops.
Her heart is torn between the two men she is closest to and the two sides of the conflict. Amanda prays to God for direction and support, but hears only silence. Where is God in the atrocities of war-and whose side is He on?
Amanda senses her life is at a turning point. She must trust God to deliver her family through the chaos of war with her heart and her faith intact.
Excerpt of chapter one:
Print book:
Barnes and Noble
Amazon
Christianbook.com
BOOKSAMILLION.COM
Ebook:
Nookbook
Kindle
Christianbook.com
BOOKSAMILLION.COM
Kobobooks.com
His Steadfast Love by
Golden Keyes Parsons
It isn't until the Civil War comes to her doorstep that Amanda Bell must choose between love and family.
It's the spring of 1861 on the Gulf Coast of Texas. Amanda never thought she would marry because of a promise she made to her dying mother, but her attraction to Captain Kent Littlefield is undeniable.
When Texas secedes from the Union, her brother Daniel aligns with the Confederate States, while Kent remains with the Union troops.
Her heart is torn between the two men she is closest to and the two sides of the conflict. Amanda prays to God for direction and support, but hears only silence. Where is God in the atrocities of war-and whose side is He on?
Amanda senses her life is at a turning point. She must trust God to deliver her family through the chaos of war with her heart and her faith intact.
Excerpt of chapter one:
Print book:
Barnes and Noble
Amazon
Christianbook.com
BOOKSAMILLION.COM
Ebook:
Nookbook
Kindle
Christianbook.com
BOOKSAMILLION.COM
Kobobooks.com
January 11, 2012
Redux: Reading goals for 2012
Captain's Log, Stardate 01.11.2012
I know I just posted about this but I read this post by Danica Favorite and am inspired to challenge myself with new reading goals this year.
1) Read the 4 Love Inspired Suspense novels each month. I should be doing this already, but I've been bad about keeping up with them. I'll usually only read two Love Inspired Suspense novels each month, and after looking at my book catalog, I realized that I've been reading all backlist books, not current ones. So I will be trying to read all current Love Inspired Suspense novels each month.
2) Start at least one new-to-me author each month. I copied this straight from Danica because I think it's a fantastic idea. I also recently lamented on Facebook and Twitter that I had a ton of free ebooks on my Nook but I never seem to get around to reading them. Well, here's my chance, because most of the free ebooks I get are new-to-me authors whose books I got for free because I wanted to try them.
3) Start at least one old book from my TBR pile each month. And let me confess, my TBR pile ranges in the thousands.
You will notice the language on numbers 2 and 3: Start, not read. Meaning, if I start a book and it doesn't interest me, I reserve the right to not finish it and still count it toward my reading goal for the month. Aren't I devious????
The reality is that I'm a slow reader. I'm not as slow as some, but I'm definitely not as fast as Danica and some other readers who can read a Love Inspired in an hour. (I know! Don't you hate her???)
I don't have the time to spend on a book that doesn't captivate me. Some of you will gasp, but since I have so little reading time these days, because I do so much writing instead, I have to be very protective of the time I do set aside for reading.
Now, in order to accomplish these lofty reading goals, I realized today after talking with my friend Dineen Miller that I need to set small, attainable goals each week or each day.
So I will commit to at least 30 minutes of reading each day. I will set my timer and not do anything else but read. (That actually sounds heavenly to me. I have a feeling that won't be a problem!)
If I read 30 minutes a day, that's three and a half hours of reading each week. I can definitely finish a book in three and a half hours, depending on the book. I might even get a book and a half done each week. I think this will allow me to get 6 books done a month.
What do you think?
Click here to join the conversation on Goodreads!
I know I just posted about this but I read this post by Danica Favorite and am inspired to challenge myself with new reading goals this year.
1) Read the 4 Love Inspired Suspense novels each month. I should be doing this already, but I've been bad about keeping up with them. I'll usually only read two Love Inspired Suspense novels each month, and after looking at my book catalog, I realized that I've been reading all backlist books, not current ones. So I will be trying to read all current Love Inspired Suspense novels each month.
2) Start at least one new-to-me author each month. I copied this straight from Danica because I think it's a fantastic idea. I also recently lamented on Facebook and Twitter that I had a ton of free ebooks on my Nook but I never seem to get around to reading them. Well, here's my chance, because most of the free ebooks I get are new-to-me authors whose books I got for free because I wanted to try them.
3) Start at least one old book from my TBR pile each month. And let me confess, my TBR pile ranges in the thousands.
You will notice the language on numbers 2 and 3: Start, not read. Meaning, if I start a book and it doesn't interest me, I reserve the right to not finish it and still count it toward my reading goal for the month. Aren't I devious????
The reality is that I'm a slow reader. I'm not as slow as some, but I'm definitely not as fast as Danica and some other readers who can read a Love Inspired in an hour. (I know! Don't you hate her???)
I don't have the time to spend on a book that doesn't captivate me. Some of you will gasp, but since I have so little reading time these days, because I do so much writing instead, I have to be very protective of the time I do set aside for reading.
Now, in order to accomplish these lofty reading goals, I realized today after talking with my friend Dineen Miller that I need to set small, attainable goals each week or each day.
So I will commit to at least 30 minutes of reading each day. I will set my timer and not do anything else but read. (That actually sounds heavenly to me. I have a feeling that won't be a problem!)
If I read 30 minutes a day, that's three and a half hours of reading each week. I can definitely finish a book in three and a half hours, depending on the book. I might even get a book and a half done each week. I think this will allow me to get 6 books done a month.
What do you think?
Click here to join the conversation on Goodreads!
January 6, 2012
Street Team Book List excerpt - The Rose of Winslow Street by Elizabeth Camden
Camy here: Here's another book I added to my Street Team book giveaway list! You can win this book by joining my Street Team--Click here for more info!
The Rose of Winslow Street
by
Elizabeth Camden
The last thing Libby Sawyer and her father expected upon their return from their summer home was to find strangers inhabiting a house that had been in their family for decades. Widower Michael Dobrescu brought his family from Romania to the town of Colden, Massachusetts with a singular purpose: to claim the house willed to him long ago. Since neither party has any intention of giving up their claim, a fierce legal battle ensues between the two families.
When important documents go missing from the house, Libby suspects Michael is the culprit. Determined to discover the truth behind the stolen papers, Libby investigates, only to find more layers of mystery surrounding Michael and his family. Despite their rivalry, Libby finds herself developing feelings for this man with the mysterious past.
As a decision about the house looms in the courts, Libby must weigh the risks of choosing to remain loyal to her family or give her heart to a man whose intentions and affections are less than certain.
Excerpt of chapter one:
The Rose of Winslow Street
Print book:
Barnes and Noble
Amazon
Christianbook.com
BOOKSAMILLION.COM
Ebook:
Nookbook
Kindle
Christianbook.com
BOOKSAMILLION.COM
The Rose of Winslow Street by
Elizabeth Camden
The last thing Libby Sawyer and her father expected upon their return from their summer home was to find strangers inhabiting a house that had been in their family for decades. Widower Michael Dobrescu brought his family from Romania to the town of Colden, Massachusetts with a singular purpose: to claim the house willed to him long ago. Since neither party has any intention of giving up their claim, a fierce legal battle ensues between the two families.
When important documents go missing from the house, Libby suspects Michael is the culprit. Determined to discover the truth behind the stolen papers, Libby investigates, only to find more layers of mystery surrounding Michael and his family. Despite their rivalry, Libby finds herself developing feelings for this man with the mysterious past.
As a decision about the house looms in the courts, Libby must weigh the risks of choosing to remain loyal to her family or give her heart to a man whose intentions and affections are less than certain.
Excerpt of chapter one:
The Rose of Winslow Street
Print book:
Barnes and Noble
Amazon
Christianbook.com
BOOKSAMILLION.COM
Ebook:
Nookbook
Kindle
Christianbook.com
BOOKSAMILLION.COM
