Sean Sweeney's Blog, page 6
June 1, 2016
The Next Generation: Writing a book with my nephew
Over the last year and a half, my nephew Jayson and I have discussed writing a novel together. Jayson is my sister’s eldest boy, will turn 16 in a few months, and let me just say, he has an incredibly active imagination.
Jayson is the nephew who, when I had started writing fiction, moved back to Fitchburg with his mom and lived with his grandmother and I when my brother-in-law received orders to head overseas for a year and a half. During that time, my nephew learned that I was a fledgling writer in the midst of starting this incredible journey; even to this day, the echoes of, “Uncle Sean, you wanna play a board game?” ring in my mind, along with my stiff reply of, “I’m working,” and his beleaguered reply of, “You’re always working!” Now, some eleven years later, Jayson wants to join me on this journey, which his uncle thinks is pretty cool.
In this past year and a half, Jayson and I have exchanged text messages—Him: “I’ve got an idea.” Me: “Fire away.”—about this potential novel; I’ve tried to keep up with his ideas by setting up a brainstorming file. I’m not going to give too much away, but Jayson wants to write about a dystopian United States some 40-50 years from now (I’m going to lean on him to push that timeline back a generation or two for reasons he and I will have to text about), with the country involved in a fictional war on a grand scale. I’ve gone over a few standards he needs to follow, i.e. avoiding passive voice, as well as when to show and when to tell in his narrative.
The fact Jayson and I have had a flurry of text messages about this project in the last few weeks excites me; he’s bounced ideas off me, and I’ve countered with other ideas which should help the project move along on the straight and narrow. I think he’s on the verge of getting ready to do a serious brainstorm, i.e. sketching out the reasoning of why certain events happen, before he settles in to start writing the first draft. When he’s done the first draft, I’m going to help him edit it, polish it, and whip his manuscript into reasonable, publishable shape.
In somewhat unrelated news, I’m prepared to buy a year’s supply of Samuel Adams for when that happens. But I digress.
I have a few thoughts about this:
1. I have to be patient with Jayson. He’s a teenager, obviously. There are going to be periods where he finds himself suffering from “writer’s block” (and I know he’ll text me about this; Uncle Sean will tell him, quite succinctly, “Put your fingertips on the keys and break through it, or step away from it for a while.”) or periods where he does nothing on this draft: he’s in Junior ROTC in school, has great friends in his neighborhood, and is starting to experience life. He may even do a tour of duty, which will keep him away from a computer of his own. It took me two years or so to write my first novel, and I suspect it will take him that long or thereabouts, maybe even longer, to get this initial draft out. My hope is he’ll be able to crank out a page of prose a day in order to get the story moving in an orderly fashion, but there really is no pressure on him to create in his world; if he does two sentences, I'll be happy. When he’s done, he’s done. Meanwhile, I’ll be over here, churning out novels and growing my mailing list, readying myself for the day when he texts me and tells me he’s done with the draft.
2. I have to remind him—and this goes along with the lines of me being patient—and remind myself that his first draft will be utter crap. In theory, all first drafts are supposed to be crap. This is his first novel, and we’re planning a couple, at the very least; maybe even three. Remembering my first novel, and remembering first novels I’ve edited of other authors, the first draft is SUPPOSED to be shitty. And I’ll be here to remind my nephew that we can fix crappy, broken sentences. We can fix a shit draft—but we can’t fix an empty page. When we’re done, it will be golden (this goes along with the year’s supply of Samuel Adams, which if I were smart, I’d charge it to my sister).
3. My hope is that when I’m ready to edit this book, as well as eventually send it back to Jayson so he can publish it, and knowing that it will take some time to get into publishable shape, my mailing list will be chock-full of readers who, as I update them about this book, will be ready for it—salivating over it—and will download it when it’s available. He will write it, I will edit and polish, he will read it to make sure it’s perfect, sending it back and forth on the Information Superhighway until it is absolutely PERFECT, and then we’ll publish it under his name, and I’ll promote it for him with my built-in fan base.
I don’t care how long this takes him. If he decides he needs five years to write this book, fine. Ten years? Fine. As long as he doesn’t give up on this book, I won’t give up on him. As long as I’m alive, I will help my nephew achieve this dream of his—and I’d be lying if this wasn’t a dream of mine, to work with him on this—which started over a simple text message.
I’ll keep you all updated.
www.seansweeneyauthor.com
Jayson is the nephew who, when I had started writing fiction, moved back to Fitchburg with his mom and lived with his grandmother and I when my brother-in-law received orders to head overseas for a year and a half. During that time, my nephew learned that I was a fledgling writer in the midst of starting this incredible journey; even to this day, the echoes of, “Uncle Sean, you wanna play a board game?” ring in my mind, along with my stiff reply of, “I’m working,” and his beleaguered reply of, “You’re always working!” Now, some eleven years later, Jayson wants to join me on this journey, which his uncle thinks is pretty cool.
In this past year and a half, Jayson and I have exchanged text messages—Him: “I’ve got an idea.” Me: “Fire away.”—about this potential novel; I’ve tried to keep up with his ideas by setting up a brainstorming file. I’m not going to give too much away, but Jayson wants to write about a dystopian United States some 40-50 years from now (I’m going to lean on him to push that timeline back a generation or two for reasons he and I will have to text about), with the country involved in a fictional war on a grand scale. I’ve gone over a few standards he needs to follow, i.e. avoiding passive voice, as well as when to show and when to tell in his narrative.
The fact Jayson and I have had a flurry of text messages about this project in the last few weeks excites me; he’s bounced ideas off me, and I’ve countered with other ideas which should help the project move along on the straight and narrow. I think he’s on the verge of getting ready to do a serious brainstorm, i.e. sketching out the reasoning of why certain events happen, before he settles in to start writing the first draft. When he’s done the first draft, I’m going to help him edit it, polish it, and whip his manuscript into reasonable, publishable shape.
In somewhat unrelated news, I’m prepared to buy a year’s supply of Samuel Adams for when that happens. But I digress.
I have a few thoughts about this:
1. I have to be patient with Jayson. He’s a teenager, obviously. There are going to be periods where he finds himself suffering from “writer’s block” (and I know he’ll text me about this; Uncle Sean will tell him, quite succinctly, “Put your fingertips on the keys and break through it, or step away from it for a while.”) or periods where he does nothing on this draft: he’s in Junior ROTC in school, has great friends in his neighborhood, and is starting to experience life. He may even do a tour of duty, which will keep him away from a computer of his own. It took me two years or so to write my first novel, and I suspect it will take him that long or thereabouts, maybe even longer, to get this initial draft out. My hope is he’ll be able to crank out a page of prose a day in order to get the story moving in an orderly fashion, but there really is no pressure on him to create in his world; if he does two sentences, I'll be happy. When he’s done, he’s done. Meanwhile, I’ll be over here, churning out novels and growing my mailing list, readying myself for the day when he texts me and tells me he’s done with the draft.
2. I have to remind him—and this goes along with the lines of me being patient—and remind myself that his first draft will be utter crap. In theory, all first drafts are supposed to be crap. This is his first novel, and we’re planning a couple, at the very least; maybe even three. Remembering my first novel, and remembering first novels I’ve edited of other authors, the first draft is SUPPOSED to be shitty. And I’ll be here to remind my nephew that we can fix crappy, broken sentences. We can fix a shit draft—but we can’t fix an empty page. When we’re done, it will be golden (this goes along with the year’s supply of Samuel Adams, which if I were smart, I’d charge it to my sister).
3. My hope is that when I’m ready to edit this book, as well as eventually send it back to Jayson so he can publish it, and knowing that it will take some time to get into publishable shape, my mailing list will be chock-full of readers who, as I update them about this book, will be ready for it—salivating over it—and will download it when it’s available. He will write it, I will edit and polish, he will read it to make sure it’s perfect, sending it back and forth on the Information Superhighway until it is absolutely PERFECT, and then we’ll publish it under his name, and I’ll promote it for him with my built-in fan base.
I don’t care how long this takes him. If he decides he needs five years to write this book, fine. Ten years? Fine. As long as he doesn’t give up on this book, I won’t give up on him. As long as I’m alive, I will help my nephew achieve this dream of his—and I’d be lying if this wasn’t a dream of mine, to work with him on this—which started over a simple text message.
I’ll keep you all updated.
www.seansweeneyauthor.com
May 10, 2016
A mid-project break? You can do this? Apparently, yes.
Ever since the plague hit the Farm back in mid-March and my recovery meant I had taken an impromptu week off from working on Ticket Agent: A Thriller, the eighth full-length Jaclyn Johnson adventure, I had set quite a few things aside.
A few of those things included yard work.
Of course, we also have Mother Nature, a Damsel of Distress, to blame for some of this delay, too. We had a relatively mild winter here in Massachusetts, and my plan was to remove all the gravel and stones the plowing company had pushed into the lawn when we had plowable snow, plus re-setting any sod the plow blade had injured. I had planned to get that all done in the first week of April.
Then Mother Nature reared her ugly head. Six inches of snow early in the first week of April.
Once it melted, I was in a quandary: should I postpone writing and get some stuff done, or what?
I elected not to stop writing just then; I had lost too much writing time due to the illness. Besides, we hadn't taken the riding mower off the back porch, nor had we pulled the push mower out of the cellar. Also, taking care of the gravel and stones is truly a two-person job: once all the big stones are picked up, you push the remaining gravel, which is almost like paste by now, into a shovel and dump it into the wheelbarrow for placing back into the driveway.
We also had our Cape trip during April school vacation. Nothing got done here while we were there. I managed to get to sod back in place in one of the areas, but that was it. I was covering games and writing my fiction in the interim, and there are only so many hours in the day; my stamina levels aren't what they used to be, coupled with a heart condition, means that if I do yard work or anything strenuous, I'm pretty much done. Jen was riding her pony and taking care of her grad school assignment when she got home from school; she can only do so much, too, as she had a back injury while in college, and besides, she has her flower gardens to tend. Still, as April drew to a close, we hadn't done anything, and the grass grew.
I was getting antsy, folks. I needed my lawn back.
Then last week, it rained. Poured. Continual gray skies, plus cold, gray rain, hit our area. I kept writing. For the most part, we also had weekend commitments, between games and family obligations (May 1, my great aunt's memorial service; May 7, our nephew's first birthday). Nothing was getting done.
On Mother's Day, May 8, I said enough was enough. I didn't care that it was raining, there were things to do. We got the riding mower off the back porch and pulled the push mower out of hibernation (We also planted our potatoes. Remember: I'm a gardener, too). We also pulled the garden fencing off so it's ready for our use within the next two weeks.
Then, a miracle happened: the sky broke open. The clouds made way for the sun, who had seemingly wanted to let her warmth touch Massachusetts' terra firma for the first time in a week.
I had three choices: Either work on Ticket Agent, work on plotting a future project, or go outside and get something done. I couldn't touch the lawn; too wet. I decided on tackling a project I had meant to do last year.
The property on which we reside abuts a small, man-made pond, and the shore area is a little overgrown. We had tried to clear it a few years ago, but that turned out bad: we only got a portion of the way in, and it all came back. On Sunday afternoon, I started the process of re-clearing it.
Yesterday, I finally mowed the top lawn and edged it, as well as hauled away some of the brush piles. Today, I'm planning on taking the rest of the brush piles and dumping them in a larger brush pile out of sight, then taking care of the big stones in the lawn. If I get the gravel out, good. Tomorrow, mowing the rest of the lawn, and more than likely getting out the hedge clippers and attacking the remainder of the pond project. I also want to mow that down to bare earth and re-seed it, doing that this weekend. Hopefully there will be a cold beer at the end of the day, and maybe even a back rub.
Right now, my back is sore and my left leg is stiff. But that's what I get for being a devoted writer.
Back to JJ when I get back to JJ.
www.seansweeneyauthor.com
A few of those things included yard work.
Of course, we also have Mother Nature, a Damsel of Distress, to blame for some of this delay, too. We had a relatively mild winter here in Massachusetts, and my plan was to remove all the gravel and stones the plowing company had pushed into the lawn when we had plowable snow, plus re-setting any sod the plow blade had injured. I had planned to get that all done in the first week of April.
Then Mother Nature reared her ugly head. Six inches of snow early in the first week of April.
Once it melted, I was in a quandary: should I postpone writing and get some stuff done, or what?
I elected not to stop writing just then; I had lost too much writing time due to the illness. Besides, we hadn't taken the riding mower off the back porch, nor had we pulled the push mower out of the cellar. Also, taking care of the gravel and stones is truly a two-person job: once all the big stones are picked up, you push the remaining gravel, which is almost like paste by now, into a shovel and dump it into the wheelbarrow for placing back into the driveway.
We also had our Cape trip during April school vacation. Nothing got done here while we were there. I managed to get to sod back in place in one of the areas, but that was it. I was covering games and writing my fiction in the interim, and there are only so many hours in the day; my stamina levels aren't what they used to be, coupled with a heart condition, means that if I do yard work or anything strenuous, I'm pretty much done. Jen was riding her pony and taking care of her grad school assignment when she got home from school; she can only do so much, too, as she had a back injury while in college, and besides, she has her flower gardens to tend. Still, as April drew to a close, we hadn't done anything, and the grass grew.
I was getting antsy, folks. I needed my lawn back.
Then last week, it rained. Poured. Continual gray skies, plus cold, gray rain, hit our area. I kept writing. For the most part, we also had weekend commitments, between games and family obligations (May 1, my great aunt's memorial service; May 7, our nephew's first birthday). Nothing was getting done.
On Mother's Day, May 8, I said enough was enough. I didn't care that it was raining, there were things to do. We got the riding mower off the back porch and pulled the push mower out of hibernation (We also planted our potatoes. Remember: I'm a gardener, too). We also pulled the garden fencing off so it's ready for our use within the next two weeks.
Then, a miracle happened: the sky broke open. The clouds made way for the sun, who had seemingly wanted to let her warmth touch Massachusetts' terra firma for the first time in a week.
I had three choices: Either work on Ticket Agent, work on plotting a future project, or go outside and get something done. I couldn't touch the lawn; too wet. I decided on tackling a project I had meant to do last year.
The property on which we reside abuts a small, man-made pond, and the shore area is a little overgrown. We had tried to clear it a few years ago, but that turned out bad: we only got a portion of the way in, and it all came back. On Sunday afternoon, I started the process of re-clearing it.
Yesterday, I finally mowed the top lawn and edged it, as well as hauled away some of the brush piles. Today, I'm planning on taking the rest of the brush piles and dumping them in a larger brush pile out of sight, then taking care of the big stones in the lawn. If I get the gravel out, good. Tomorrow, mowing the rest of the lawn, and more than likely getting out the hedge clippers and attacking the remainder of the pond project. I also want to mow that down to bare earth and re-seed it, doing that this weekend. Hopefully there will be a cold beer at the end of the day, and maybe even a back rub.
Right now, my back is sore and my left leg is stiff. But that's what I get for being a devoted writer.
Back to JJ when I get back to JJ.
www.seansweeneyauthor.com
March 25, 2016
An Unscheduled Visit of Illness
Writing over the course of the last two weeks has been at a virtual standstill. It's not that I don't want to progress on Ticket Agent's first draft; I do. I should be closing in on 40,000 words--novel-sized!--and nearing the halfway point by now. Pushing back the first-draft writing means other tasks--reading Beach Blanket Bloodshed before writing the blurb and uploading it for pre-order, doing the first full read-through of The Peg-Legged Privateer, writing all of the other projects filling my head--gets pushed back, too.
And there's a reason for that.
Welcome to the Noble House of Plague.
Yup. Whatever has been floating around Massachusetts lately has invaded the Farm, attacking its human denizens with the force of a shovel swung against a cranium. It swept in slowly, at first; I found myself sneezing quite a bit before aches and chills followed. Soon, I had a nose full of snot--I know, great visual--and lo and behold, Jen followed. In that time, I tried to write, even if it was just a page. Afterward, I felt as though I had run a marathon. We went through four boxes of tissues in just over a week.
Tired of feeling ill, I recently went to my doctor. The verdict: sinus infection. Meds for a week and a half. Jen went to hers the next day: bronchitis.
So to say we haven't gotten too much done over the course of the past two weeks is an understatement, and hopefully we'll be able to catch up on certain chores this coming week.
However, I am feeling better. I'm still coughing, but my head isn't filled with fifty pounds of yellow mucus any longer. The hope is I'll get to write a little this afternoon and a little tomorrow, but more than likely Monday is the best-case scenario to get back to Jaclyn's world.
www.seansweeneyauthor.com
And there's a reason for that.
Welcome to the Noble House of Plague.
Yup. Whatever has been floating around Massachusetts lately has invaded the Farm, attacking its human denizens with the force of a shovel swung against a cranium. It swept in slowly, at first; I found myself sneezing quite a bit before aches and chills followed. Soon, I had a nose full of snot--I know, great visual--and lo and behold, Jen followed. In that time, I tried to write, even if it was just a page. Afterward, I felt as though I had run a marathon. We went through four boxes of tissues in just over a week.
Tired of feeling ill, I recently went to my doctor. The verdict: sinus infection. Meds for a week and a half. Jen went to hers the next day: bronchitis.
So to say we haven't gotten too much done over the course of the past two weeks is an understatement, and hopefully we'll be able to catch up on certain chores this coming week.
However, I am feeling better. I'm still coughing, but my head isn't filled with fifty pounds of yellow mucus any longer. The hope is I'll get to write a little this afternoon and a little tomorrow, but more than likely Monday is the best-case scenario to get back to Jaclyn's world.
www.seansweeneyauthor.com
March 11, 2016
Your Kindle needs a software update
Every little device we use needs a software update from time to time, and it's time to update your Kindles, ladies and gents. According to a nifty little message I received on my Kindle this morning, Kindle users need to update their devices by March 22--that's 11 days, people--or else you'll lose the ability to connect with the Kindle Store/Shop, or the ability to update through the Wi-Fi after that date. It more than likely has to do with security, but Amazon isn't saying. And honestly, I wouldn't risk it. I always update my iPhone right away--my laptop does it automatically, even while I'm in the middle of writing--and I'm updating my Kindle as we speak. I did a little research. According to The Huffington Post, these specific devices need updating: Kindle 1st Generation (2007) Kindle 2nd Generation (2009) Kindle DX 2nd Generation (2009) Kindle Keyboard 3rd Generation (2010) Kindle 4th Generation (2011) Kindle 5th Generation (2012) Kindle Touch 4th Generation (2011) Kindle Paperwhite 5th Generation (2012) Here's how to get the update: Plug your Kindle in to charge during the update. Connect to Wi-Fi. From the Home screen of your Kindle, select Menu or tap the Menu icon. Then choose Sync and Check for Items. The update will begin automatically. Leave your Kindle connected to both power and Wi-Fi overnight, or until the update is complete. It's that simple. Cheers. www.seansweeneyauthor.com
March 8, 2016
RIP, Nook UK. We hardly knew ye.
Beware the Ides of March has new meaning in 2016.
Over the weekend, Barnes & Noble announced its plans to shutter the Nook UK shop. Starting March 15--or 15 March, if you're reading this in the UK--B&N will stop selling digital content. By May 31, though, Nook UK will disappear into the ethos forever.
I can't say I'm totally surprised by this. I don't believe Barnes & Noble did a good job of promoting the Nook in the UK, and Amazon had beat it to the punch in launching Kindle there in 2011. And I couldn't tell you how the Sainsbury aspect of this will work out, regarding its reading app in the UK. I'm not there. Apple and Kobo, though, should make their moves in the UK now in order to grab that market.
The question now, of course, is how long Nook has remaining here in the United States? That I couldn't tell you. I have no idea, really. What I do know is back in December, Barnes & Noble's stock plunged 17 percent, and had fallen 34 percent across the entirety of the year. Nook sales, according to that link, went from just shy of $160 million in the second quarter of FY-2014, to a smidge above $40 million in the second quarter of FY-2016.
I'm not an economics expert, but I can't believe that's sustainable. What is clear to me, though, is this: Nook is spiraling. What could have been a solid competitor to Amazon fell short.
And I think you all know my feelings about Nook, anyway. I'm not too saddened to see it go the way of the dinosaur. I've never been a fan of the platform, having tried out the devices at my local B&N store in the past. They just didn't look easy to use; the interface just felt clunky to me. And their in-store sales claims that they have the largest bookstore in the world and access to every ebook available is laughable, and downright false; a few years ago, I actually laughed in a saleswoman's face when they said they have the largest ebook library in the world. Apparently, they have their heads in the sand regarding Kindle Unlimited and Kindle Select. Not that I actually agree with Kindle Select and Kindle Unlimited, but you get the gist of what I'm saying.
People have always asked me what I feel they should buy for their e-reading needs, and I always suggest Kindle. I always have, and I always will. My suggestion to current Nook users here in the US: convert your Nook books to the .mobi format using Calibre, and buy a Kindle, then transfer the files via USB.
Caveat emptor, gang.
www.seansweeneyauthor.com
Over the weekend, Barnes & Noble announced its plans to shutter the Nook UK shop. Starting March 15--or 15 March, if you're reading this in the UK--B&N will stop selling digital content. By May 31, though, Nook UK will disappear into the ethos forever.
I can't say I'm totally surprised by this. I don't believe Barnes & Noble did a good job of promoting the Nook in the UK, and Amazon had beat it to the punch in launching Kindle there in 2011. And I couldn't tell you how the Sainsbury aspect of this will work out, regarding its reading app in the UK. I'm not there. Apple and Kobo, though, should make their moves in the UK now in order to grab that market.
The question now, of course, is how long Nook has remaining here in the United States? That I couldn't tell you. I have no idea, really. What I do know is back in December, Barnes & Noble's stock plunged 17 percent, and had fallen 34 percent across the entirety of the year. Nook sales, according to that link, went from just shy of $160 million in the second quarter of FY-2014, to a smidge above $40 million in the second quarter of FY-2016.
I'm not an economics expert, but I can't believe that's sustainable. What is clear to me, though, is this: Nook is spiraling. What could have been a solid competitor to Amazon fell short.
And I think you all know my feelings about Nook, anyway. I'm not too saddened to see it go the way of the dinosaur. I've never been a fan of the platform, having tried out the devices at my local B&N store in the past. They just didn't look easy to use; the interface just felt clunky to me. And their in-store sales claims that they have the largest bookstore in the world and access to every ebook available is laughable, and downright false; a few years ago, I actually laughed in a saleswoman's face when they said they have the largest ebook library in the world. Apparently, they have their heads in the sand regarding Kindle Unlimited and Kindle Select. Not that I actually agree with Kindle Select and Kindle Unlimited, but you get the gist of what I'm saying.
People have always asked me what I feel they should buy for their e-reading needs, and I always suggest Kindle. I always have, and I always will. My suggestion to current Nook users here in the US: convert your Nook books to the .mobi format using Calibre, and buy a Kindle, then transfer the files via USB.
Caveat emptor, gang.
www.seansweeneyauthor.com
February 16, 2016
Happy Book Day: Chemical Agent now available
And here we are, Pismo Beach and all the clams we can eat..... no, that's not right. Try it again.
And here we are, ladies and gentlemen... yeah, that's better. My 23rd Release Day. The day where everything in Jaclyn Johnson's world changes. Chemical Agent: A Thriller, the seventh full-length story in the series, meets readers for the first time today.
And breathe. This is a tough one, folks.
Every time an author releases a book into the wild, he or she hopes the book is well-received. He or she hopes the book leaves an emotional resonance in the soul of the reader, so much so that the reader tells a few friends about it. That's what I'm truly hoping happens with this book.
Folks, I have an admission: a major character dies in this book (of course, if you've been on my Facebook page or have read a few of the previous blogs, you know that already), and it's a character who has been a rather central part of the storyline up until now. After this book, that changes.
I hope you're all ready for the change.
Chemical Agent is a rather emotional story even more than the death of this character: Jaclyn re-unites with her father's brother's family for the first time since before the tragedy of 9/11, as well as people she hadn't seen since that day, too. Her life became twisted on that day, and in the resulting years, her life had turned into a steady ship, and meeting Tom and Tasha had only given her life more meaning.
Her life turns even more twisted in this book.
Hold on to your hats, gang. Everything changes today.
To read most of the first chapter, follow this link. To grab your copy (you know you want to), the links to buy are below.
Happy Book Day, everyone.
US Kindle
UK Kindle
Nook
Kobo
iBooks
Smashwords
www.seansweeneyauthor.com
And here we are, ladies and gentlemen... yeah, that's better. My 23rd Release Day. The day where everything in Jaclyn Johnson's world changes. Chemical Agent: A Thriller, the seventh full-length story in the series, meets readers for the first time today.
And breathe. This is a tough one, folks.
Every time an author releases a book into the wild, he or she hopes the book is well-received. He or she hopes the book leaves an emotional resonance in the soul of the reader, so much so that the reader tells a few friends about it. That's what I'm truly hoping happens with this book.
Folks, I have an admission: a major character dies in this book (of course, if you've been on my Facebook page or have read a few of the previous blogs, you know that already), and it's a character who has been a rather central part of the storyline up until now. After this book, that changes.
I hope you're all ready for the change.
Chemical Agent is a rather emotional story even more than the death of this character: Jaclyn re-unites with her father's brother's family for the first time since before the tragedy of 9/11, as well as people she hadn't seen since that day, too. Her life became twisted on that day, and in the resulting years, her life had turned into a steady ship, and meeting Tom and Tasha had only given her life more meaning.
Her life turns even more twisted in this book.
Hold on to your hats, gang. Everything changes today.
To read most of the first chapter, follow this link. To grab your copy (you know you want to), the links to buy are below.
Happy Book Day, everyone.
US Kindle
UK Kindle
Nook
Kobo
iBooks
Smashwords
www.seansweeneyauthor.com
February 15, 2016
Seven Snippets
With Jaclyn Johnson's seventh full-length adventure out and about now, I thought it would be nice to attract new readers who may have never checked out a "code name Snapshot" novel yet by giving them a free snippet or two--or in this case, seven--of Jaclyn's world.
What I've done is compiled the Sample Sunday posts from the Agent series over the last five years; I've done one for six of them, with Federal Agent being an exception for some reason or another. And they're in order, so just click from one to the other. At the bottom of the post is my bookstore link, so it's fairly easy to grab them all.
Hope you enjoy.
(Note: I did not do a Sample Sunday post for the novella, Promises Given, Promises Kept. I don't know why. It's place in the canon is between Double and Federal Agents)
Model Agent
Rogue Agent (it was so long, I needed two posts for it, part 1 and part 2)
Double Agent
Federal Agent
Literary Agent
Travel Agent
Chemical Agent
Sean's bookstore link
What I've done is compiled the Sample Sunday posts from the Agent series over the last five years; I've done one for six of them, with Federal Agent being an exception for some reason or another. And they're in order, so just click from one to the other. At the bottom of the post is my bookstore link, so it's fairly easy to grab them all.
Hope you enjoy.
(Note: I did not do a Sample Sunday post for the novella, Promises Given, Promises Kept. I don't know why. It's place in the canon is between Double and Federal Agents)
Model Agent
Rogue Agent (it was so long, I needed two posts for it, part 1 and part 2)
Double Agent
Federal Agent
Literary Agent
Travel Agent
Chemical Agent
Sean's bookstore link
Happy Fifth Anniversary, Jaclyn Johnson!
With today being February 15, today is a day to celebrate. No, we're not celebrating because I survived Valentine's Day--and I was an absolute boss this year, let me tell you: flowers (Jen loves tulips), a big teddy bear, and a very nice dinner prepared by yours truly. Jen got me the male equivalent to flowers: four bottles of craft beer. This is how we do romance at the Farm. Come at me, see what happens.
We have several book-related reasons to celebrate. Five years ago today, Jaclyn Johnson arrived in a big way--according to Amazon.
Yes. Today, we celebrate the fifth anniversary of Model Agent: A Thriller's release. Of course, we celebrate the release of Jaclyn's seventh full-length adventure Chemical Agent: A Thriller tomorrow (well, later today if you pre-ordered on Kindle; you can read most of the first chapter here).
It has truly been an amazing journey with this character, folks. Let me really tell you how it all got started, in case you're new here and didn't know.
After I had finished the first draft to Zombie Showdown in November 2009, I was in bed, sound asleep. At about 3:30 one morning, maybe two days after finishing, I had a dream of a smokeshow-esque, leggy blonde--yes, ladies and gents, I'm a red-blooded American male, and I'm dreaming of blondes as a single guy back then--walking down the street in the stereotypical Catholic school girl kilt and white blouse, wearing what looked like ordinary reading glasses on a rather cute nose. Yet in my dream, my subconscious took note of what went on behind the spectacles. While I saw the woman's eyes, I also saw red telemetry data popping up on the inside of the lenses.
Whatever could that mean? I had asked myself. For a while, I didn't know. What I did know, though, may shock you: I had originally thought of her as a potential antagonist.
Yup, that's right. Our as-yet unnamed heroine was supposed to be a bad guy. Why? Because as my dream evolved, I watched as she set charges and blew up a familiar-to-me building, walking out as if nothing had happened--and then walking to a modeling shoot down the street, whipping the blouse off to reveal a black bra while telling the photographer, "Let's get this show on the road!"
Seriously, what protagonist does this?
I put the unnamed character on the shelf for a little bit, until I had a conversation with an old high school chum on Facebook a few weeks later. Jackie and I met our freshman year at Fitchburg High School, and she's now a married mother of two, and a police officer in a southeastern Massachusetts town to boot. I had told her about this character, and I said to her, "You know, in a way, this character could be you." If I saw Jackie's face through Facebook Messenger, I would have pictured her turning as red as a tomato, all while saying, "Gosh, I'm honored!" We hammered out a couple of ideas, including the character's name--
Me: "What can we call her?"
Jackie, almost a little too quickly: "What's The Rock's real name?"
Me, smirking: "Dwayne Johnson."
Jackie: "That's it! I want to be Jaclyn Johnson!"
No B.S., that conversation actually happened. And so, Jaclyn Johnson was born out of a lifelong friendship.
However, we were still a few months away from anything really happening, writing-wise. If memory serves, I enjoyed the Christmas season. Still writing under the old John Fitch V pen name at the time, I worked on edits to Obloeron's prequels, and I hadn't really stuck my toe into the waters of self-publishing; Turning Back The Clock was out, yes. The original Obloeron Trilogy was coming. It was when 2010 rolled around and I was in conversation with another author that I brought JJ out of the dusty depths of my mind and to the forefront with a colleague for the first time. We spoke about it, and with this author pal releasing his first thriller, I thought maybe I should do one, too. Monkey see, monkey do.
In time, my thought process regarding her antagonist status changed: in further conversations with Jackie, we made this character the living embodiment of her, she who fights for the downtrodden and despises human trafficking (i.e. a small part of the plot to Double Agent, as well as the plot to the follow-up novella). Jaclyn became the protagonist and the series lead. I also decided to write with a mainly liberal political slant, unlike Vince Flynn and Brad Thor and David Baldacci's conservative ideals, and I outfitted her with all the accoutrements she uses and--on the suggestion of my author friend--gave her a handicap to overcome. Recalling a brief moment from my teens where a gentleman wore sunglasses in a friend's coffee shop, I looked up eye conditions and found one to give her (I could not for the life of me tell you what it is now, if you asked). I wanted to give my cousin's young daughters a heroine they could read and look up to (boy, if they only knew how she turned out; again, Jackie would really blush something furious if she knew what her namesake gets up to with her British boy toy). And in doing so, I needed to keep her alive somehow, to keep the series going. I knew I had something here. In essence, and because of this, Jaclyn Johnson became a comic book thriller heroine in novel form.
That's basically it, folks: Jaclyn is a comic book character . That was the key to the whole thing, to make it a fun story. I make no apologies for this. Some readers love Jaclyn. Some don't. The ones who get it, love it. The ones who don't... well, it's not their cup of tea, and I understand that. Not every reader is going to like every book and every character, not every reader is going to like outlandish, superhero-esque plots.
At first, I had wanted to write a book which would appeal to UK readers, as Kindle had just arrived in England. I came up with the plot to what became Rogue Agent--yes, I wrote Rogue Agent before Model Agent--and lo and behold, by the middle of March, I had a first draft of about 105,000 words. But I wasn't ready to release it yet. I didn't want it to be just another book.
By August 2010, I had another dream at 3:30 in the morning, and no, it wasn't about a blonde: it was a scene in Boston with a mighty explosion in a skyscraper. I vaulted out of bed and brainstormed about an anti-terrorist group named R.O.C.K.E.T. Rogue Organization of Crooks and Killers Eliminating Terrorism. I may still yet write about this group one day, but the idea morphed out of control and turned into what became Model Agent. I wrote it in the later stages of 2010 and into the first half of January 2011.
A month later, on a dare, I published it.
Did I publish it too early? Maybe. This is hindsight talking. I decided, though, I didn't want to lessen the comic book factor through re-writes, and I stand by that. But even so, it has become my personal best-selling series: I released Rogue Agent in June, then started in on Double Agent. That book came out in November 2012, and after watching author pals like Amanda Hocking and David Dalglish and Daniel Arenson have great success with free, loss-leading series openers, I made Model free via Smashwords. It went free on iBooks almost immediately.
When it went free on Kindle in January 2012, sales for the other two books went crazy. I bought ENT sponsorships for the first three, and I started writing Federal Agent the week I met Jen.
And here we are, five years after the initial release. Model Agent has been downloaded well over 105,000 times, mainly for free. The rest of the books--Rogue Agent, Double Agent, Promises Given Promises Kept (a novella), Federal Agent, Literary Agent, and Travel Agent--have seen about 8,000 copies sold in the interim, in ebook, trade paperback, and audiobook form (for the first four novels, that is; Laura Jennings is currently recording Literary). Tomorrow, Chemical Agent, the seventh book in the series, hits ebook retailer shelves, as well as a trade paperback edition. An audiobook will follow, of course.
And yes, there will be plenty more of Jackie Baby to come--I've brainstormed Ticket Agent, the eighth full-length novel in the series, and I've already written a prologue short story to set Ticket up, one I will give away to folks on my newsletter mailing list later this year (which is a hint for you to sign up for my newsletter). I'd love the sell-through to the rest of the series to improve, of course, which some would say is a hindrance to my being successful at this writing thing and supporting my family with the writing, but I do know this: my writing has improved with every book, will continue improving long after Chemical is released, and this series is uber-successful not because I say so, but because the readers I have already entertained say it is successful.
And I have the best readers, folks. I absolutely have the best readers.
With that said, I would say it's time to celebrate, don't you think? Champers for everyone.
Happy Fifth Anniversary, Jaclyn Johnson, and the Fifth Anniversary of Model Agent's release. I wouldn't be the author I am today without you.
www.seansweeneyauthor.com
We have several book-related reasons to celebrate. Five years ago today, Jaclyn Johnson arrived in a big way--according to Amazon.
Yes. Today, we celebrate the fifth anniversary of Model Agent: A Thriller's release. Of course, we celebrate the release of Jaclyn's seventh full-length adventure Chemical Agent: A Thriller tomorrow (well, later today if you pre-ordered on Kindle; you can read most of the first chapter here).
It has truly been an amazing journey with this character, folks. Let me really tell you how it all got started, in case you're new here and didn't know.
After I had finished the first draft to Zombie Showdown in November 2009, I was in bed, sound asleep. At about 3:30 one morning, maybe two days after finishing, I had a dream of a smokeshow-esque, leggy blonde--yes, ladies and gents, I'm a red-blooded American male, and I'm dreaming of blondes as a single guy back then--walking down the street in the stereotypical Catholic school girl kilt and white blouse, wearing what looked like ordinary reading glasses on a rather cute nose. Yet in my dream, my subconscious took note of what went on behind the spectacles. While I saw the woman's eyes, I also saw red telemetry data popping up on the inside of the lenses.
Whatever could that mean? I had asked myself. For a while, I didn't know. What I did know, though, may shock you: I had originally thought of her as a potential antagonist.
Yup, that's right. Our as-yet unnamed heroine was supposed to be a bad guy. Why? Because as my dream evolved, I watched as she set charges and blew up a familiar-to-me building, walking out as if nothing had happened--and then walking to a modeling shoot down the street, whipping the blouse off to reveal a black bra while telling the photographer, "Let's get this show on the road!"
Seriously, what protagonist does this?
I put the unnamed character on the shelf for a little bit, until I had a conversation with an old high school chum on Facebook a few weeks later. Jackie and I met our freshman year at Fitchburg High School, and she's now a married mother of two, and a police officer in a southeastern Massachusetts town to boot. I had told her about this character, and I said to her, "You know, in a way, this character could be you." If I saw Jackie's face through Facebook Messenger, I would have pictured her turning as red as a tomato, all while saying, "Gosh, I'm honored!" We hammered out a couple of ideas, including the character's name--
Me: "What can we call her?"
Jackie, almost a little too quickly: "What's The Rock's real name?"
Me, smirking: "Dwayne Johnson."
Jackie: "That's it! I want to be Jaclyn Johnson!"
No B.S., that conversation actually happened. And so, Jaclyn Johnson was born out of a lifelong friendship.
However, we were still a few months away from anything really happening, writing-wise. If memory serves, I enjoyed the Christmas season. Still writing under the old John Fitch V pen name at the time, I worked on edits to Obloeron's prequels, and I hadn't really stuck my toe into the waters of self-publishing; Turning Back The Clock was out, yes. The original Obloeron Trilogy was coming. It was when 2010 rolled around and I was in conversation with another author that I brought JJ out of the dusty depths of my mind and to the forefront with a colleague for the first time. We spoke about it, and with this author pal releasing his first thriller, I thought maybe I should do one, too. Monkey see, monkey do.
In time, my thought process regarding her antagonist status changed: in further conversations with Jackie, we made this character the living embodiment of her, she who fights for the downtrodden and despises human trafficking (i.e. a small part of the plot to Double Agent, as well as the plot to the follow-up novella). Jaclyn became the protagonist and the series lead. I also decided to write with a mainly liberal political slant, unlike Vince Flynn and Brad Thor and David Baldacci's conservative ideals, and I outfitted her with all the accoutrements she uses and--on the suggestion of my author friend--gave her a handicap to overcome. Recalling a brief moment from my teens where a gentleman wore sunglasses in a friend's coffee shop, I looked up eye conditions and found one to give her (I could not for the life of me tell you what it is now, if you asked). I wanted to give my cousin's young daughters a heroine they could read and look up to (boy, if they only knew how she turned out; again, Jackie would really blush something furious if she knew what her namesake gets up to with her British boy toy). And in doing so, I needed to keep her alive somehow, to keep the series going. I knew I had something here. In essence, and because of this, Jaclyn Johnson became a comic book thriller heroine in novel form.
That's basically it, folks: Jaclyn is a comic book character . That was the key to the whole thing, to make it a fun story. I make no apologies for this. Some readers love Jaclyn. Some don't. The ones who get it, love it. The ones who don't... well, it's not their cup of tea, and I understand that. Not every reader is going to like every book and every character, not every reader is going to like outlandish, superhero-esque plots.
At first, I had wanted to write a book which would appeal to UK readers, as Kindle had just arrived in England. I came up with the plot to what became Rogue Agent--yes, I wrote Rogue Agent before Model Agent--and lo and behold, by the middle of March, I had a first draft of about 105,000 words. But I wasn't ready to release it yet. I didn't want it to be just another book.
By August 2010, I had another dream at 3:30 in the morning, and no, it wasn't about a blonde: it was a scene in Boston with a mighty explosion in a skyscraper. I vaulted out of bed and brainstormed about an anti-terrorist group named R.O.C.K.E.T. Rogue Organization of Crooks and Killers Eliminating Terrorism. I may still yet write about this group one day, but the idea morphed out of control and turned into what became Model Agent. I wrote it in the later stages of 2010 and into the first half of January 2011.
A month later, on a dare, I published it.
Did I publish it too early? Maybe. This is hindsight talking. I decided, though, I didn't want to lessen the comic book factor through re-writes, and I stand by that. But even so, it has become my personal best-selling series: I released Rogue Agent in June, then started in on Double Agent. That book came out in November 2012, and after watching author pals like Amanda Hocking and David Dalglish and Daniel Arenson have great success with free, loss-leading series openers, I made Model free via Smashwords. It went free on iBooks almost immediately.
When it went free on Kindle in January 2012, sales for the other two books went crazy. I bought ENT sponsorships for the first three, and I started writing Federal Agent the week I met Jen.
And here we are, five years after the initial release. Model Agent has been downloaded well over 105,000 times, mainly for free. The rest of the books--Rogue Agent, Double Agent, Promises Given Promises Kept (a novella), Federal Agent, Literary Agent, and Travel Agent--have seen about 8,000 copies sold in the interim, in ebook, trade paperback, and audiobook form (for the first four novels, that is; Laura Jennings is currently recording Literary). Tomorrow, Chemical Agent, the seventh book in the series, hits ebook retailer shelves, as well as a trade paperback edition. An audiobook will follow, of course.
And yes, there will be plenty more of Jackie Baby to come--I've brainstormed Ticket Agent, the eighth full-length novel in the series, and I've already written a prologue short story to set Ticket up, one I will give away to folks on my newsletter mailing list later this year (which is a hint for you to sign up for my newsletter). I'd love the sell-through to the rest of the series to improve, of course, which some would say is a hindrance to my being successful at this writing thing and supporting my family with the writing, but I do know this: my writing has improved with every book, will continue improving long after Chemical is released, and this series is uber-successful not because I say so, but because the readers I have already entertained say it is successful.
And I have the best readers, folks. I absolutely have the best readers.
With that said, I would say it's time to celebrate, don't you think? Champers for everyone.
Happy Fifth Anniversary, Jaclyn Johnson, and the Fifth Anniversary of Model Agent's release. I wouldn't be the author I am today without you.
www.seansweeneyauthor.com
February 14, 2016
#SampleSunday: The First Chapter (Mostly) of Chemical Agent: A Thriller
My latest release--my 23rd novel, can you believe it?--is available this very Tuesday (or Monday night if you pre-order on Kindle), and as it is Sunday, it's time to give you, the reader, a look into Chemical Agent: A Thriller. As I've said, everything changes in this story. The seventh book in this series is based more on emotion than anything else.
Here we go, folks. Strap yourselves in. Links to pre-order are at the bottom of the post.
Chapter 1The Warwick HotelLenora StreetSeattle, WashingtonFriday, June 13/Saturday, June 1410:31 p.m. PT/1:31 a.m. ET
With tired eyes turning toward the south, Alexandra Dupuis stood on her suite’s balcony, a grin creasing her otherwise placid face. She felt a slight breeze coming in off Puget Sound ahead of her, and without hesitation, the longtime Director of the CIA inhaled deeply. The sweet, salt-tinged air filled her lungs, the weariness of transcontinental travel slipping gracefully from her shoulders.What a long day, she thought, and tomorrow is going to be even longer.The delegation from Washington, D.C. had flown to the state of Washington earlier in the day, the blue and gray fuselage of the famous Boeing VC-25 sliding onto the air strip at McChord Air Force Base shortly after noon Pacific Time. There were numerous events planned for this rather large group; along with Alex, the president, Eric B. Forrister, and his wife, Veronica, their adopted daughter Maryah, the vice president, Lucia DiVito—Alex hoped the vice president was comfortable in her hotel, several streets over, separated in order to maintain the line of succession in case anything happened to the president—as well as Alex’s protégé, Jaclyn Johnson, and her husband, Tom Messingham, had arrived to great fanfare. Not only them, but a cadre of Secret Service personnel and the White House press corps had come toddling along, too. They were all in Seattle—Jaclyn’s hometown—to honor Jaclyn’s father, the late General Edward R. Johnson, a hero of the first Gulf War, a victim of the September 11th attacks, with a statue in Volunteer Park. In Alex’s mind, it was an honor long overdue: General Johnson was an outstanding cadet at West Point, an outstanding soldier, and an even better commanding officer during his time in the United States Army. The late President Sarah Kendall was one of his many charges, and Alex had grown familiar with the general when she herself served under former CIA head Nathaniel Dyer. There was an instant respect between Alex and the general, a respect she carried to this day. The sweet memories searing her consciousness, Alex smiled.I hope I’ve done right by you with your daughter, she thought, her thoughts headed skyward. Alex leaned her forearms against the wrought iron railings, her gaze catching the floodlights of Safeco Field a few miles away. Jaclyn and Tom were there, their tickets for the Seattle Mariners and Tampa Bay Rays purchased before the season started. Alex hoped the broadcasters wouldn’t show her there, even though the papers had said she would be in town for the unveiling; she wouldn’t hold her breath, though. She also hoped Tom would enjoy himself, if but a little; she knew Jaclyn would have a grand time seeing her Mariners at Safeco for the first time in nearly a decade and a half. “Jaclyn, Jaclyn, Jaclyn,” Alex whispered into the night air. There were few cars in the area to distract her, even though she heard a bit of music coming over from the Pike Place Market, not too far away. “Oh Jaclyn, how you’ve grown since I took you away from here.”Alex’s thoughts wandered back to September 2001, even as the warmth from the steel seeped into her flesh. The country, horrified by what had occurred that morning in New York, in Pennsylvania, and in Washington, had demanded answers. The sitting president had demanded retribution. And while everyone huddled around their televisions as the dark reality of their times flooded their consciousness, Alex had met with her staff in the bowels of Langley.“The president,” Alex had said as they walked out of the secure elevator, “is going to try to capitalize on our tragedy politically.”“Huge shocker there, ma’am. He’s a politician. That’s what they do.”They had entered the bunker. The room was all in gray: soundproof, bug-proof steel surrounded them, so much so that the only method of communication to the outside world was via a red landline phone which only dialed in one direction—to the Situation Room at the White House. There were televisions encircling the room, all tuned to CNN. They had showed the towers in Lower Manhattan belching black-gray smoke, the jet fuel burning. Alex had shuddered, then spoke again.“He’s going to do several things,” she had continued. “Mark my words: He’ll go after Bin Laden. It’s only a matter of time before he admits he’s behind it; the evidence is right there. ” She had pointed at the television with a light gesture. “Four airplanes used against us, against one of his former targets. That’s a tell. This was no accident.”“What’s the next thing?” Alex had tried to swallow the bile threatening to rise to her mouth. The taste of sour milk had lingered on her taste buds. The thought had been on her mind since she received the phone call an hour before.“The next thing. He will take this opportunity to go after Hussein.”Her aides had immediately blinked, the surprise evident.“Saddam?” they had chorused.“Right in one.”“Why?”“It’s quite simple, Dave. Saddam is dancing in the streets of Baghdad right now, especially after what happened ten years ago. The president will rally Congress to his side, and I mean both sides of the aisle. This isn’t unprecedented. It happened in ’41. Everyone and their grandmothers are scared. Shit, all of Congress is scared.” Alex had taken a seat, breathing a little heavy. She had poured herself a glass of water, if only to calm her nerves; she didn’t drink alcohol while working, even in this stressful working environment. She had shot a gulp of water back into her throat, if only to rinse her mouth out. “He will be presidential, I am sure of it. He’ll go to Afghanistan first, strike them hard. Then he’ll go back to Iraq, inexplicably, much like his daddy did. This time, I doubt that Saddam can avoid the military might of the United States of America.”“And seeing that we haven’t been able to locate General Johnson in the wreckage of the Pentagon,” another aide had chirped, “that means the Army is going to be pissed.” She had swallowed hard; Alex had drinks with the general and his wife the night before the attacks. She had tried to keep her tears at bay, even now. She needed to remain strong, if not for her sake, for her son’s sake.“Correct. They’ll get Hussein for making the president’s father look foolish. He’ll say it’s to bring democracy to Iraq.” She snorted. “It has nothing to do with that whatsoever. He’ll go with a lie that says Iraq has weapons of mass destruction. He’ll pin the blame on us when that particular plan goes awry.”“Of course. Pass the buck.”Alex had nodded.“Right. And while he’s doing that,” she had said, “we need to be proactive in this new war on terror, as well.”No one blinked.“Suggestions, Madame Director?”The director had folded her hands on the table. She still hadn’t grown used to people calling her by that title, even after seven long years at the head of the CIA. To her mind and to her heart, Nathaniel was still the Director, even though he had been in the grave since 1994. He would always be the Director, in her eyes. The letter he had left on her—his desk, she reminded herself—remained in her purse, even after seven years. And as much as she wanted to read his words, it wasn’t time yet. Not even in the face of a horrific tragedy such as what had happened on this day would she pull that letter out. “I have an idea that needs to stay within the confines of this room,” Alex had said, “and it may seem a bit unorthodox to most people.” She had taken a short breath as she kept her eyes on her aides; this, she had known even then, would make or break her career. “There is a young girl in the Seattle area who I feel would be the perfect candidate for this program.”“A young girl?”Alex had nodded sharply.“A girl of 14. She may not look like much now, but with a decade or so of training at The Farm, I’m sure she can turn into one of the best.”“We can’t just go and snatch a child off the streets and train her to be a secret agent, if that’s what you’re thinking, Madame Director. Don’t you think her parents would have a problem with the United States government stealing their child?”Alex had felt her throat grow tight as her aide’s accusation hit her ears. Her eyes grew limned with tears. She had closed her eyelids tight, stemming the flow.“I don’t think,” she had replied once she had opened them, “that will be an issue any longer.”“An orphan?”“You can call her that now, yes.”“Now?”Alex had firmed her lips and nodded.“I’m talking about General Johnson’s daughter. Jaclyn.”Soft moans filled the room. A pen tinkled across the conference table.“Fuck.”She nodded again. “Fuck is right. General Johnson and his wife are survived by a teenaged daughter, one who has some family.”“Wouldn’t it be more prudent to send her to them?”Alex nodded.“Yes, I’m sure it would be the smart move to send her to the general’s brother. They aren’t too far away from them, and the girl has some cousins to help her adjust. But I reiterate: I think this is an opportunity that we as an agency cannot let slip through our fingers.” She stood, her fingertips tenting on the table. “We have the opportunity to defeat terrorism and to attack terrorism with an individual born from the ashes of terrorism itself. Don’t you see this opportunity in front of us? We can train this young woman—this orphan—to go after the ones who made her an orphan to begin with.” Then, as she looked over the heads of everyone in the room to see another replay of the towers tumbling, she lost her cool. “Can we turn off the fucking TVs?” she had yelled. “How many fucking times do we have to fucking see the fucking towers falling? It’s like the God damn fucking Challengerall over again. We already know what fucking happened.”Another aide had hustled around the room, turning the televisions off. Alex had felt a vein throb near her temple, her heart ramming the inside of her breastbone as she waited.“Thank you,” she had said, before taking another deep breath. She had bowed her head and counted to ten, pursing her lips and rubbing them together as she tried to regain control of her emotions. She had raised her head half a heartbeat after she had reached ten. “I’m sorry for that. I’m usually more in control.”“It’s alright, Madame Director. We’re all a bit fidgety right now.”Alex had smiled a half-smile.“True. Anyway, I want to move ahead with this. I think this is the right thing to do.”“We can’t get to Seattle right now. The president has ordered all flights grounded with SCATANA.”“He has grounded non-emergency civilian aircraft,” Alex had corrected. “A government-issued Gulfstream on the business of the country’s national security doesn’t count. I’m headed there in an hour.”“What if the president wants you at a Cabinet meeting when he gets back from Florida?” an aide asked as she turned for the door.“Don’t worry about that. He’s going directly to New York, then coming home. I’m hoping to get home before he gets back, heavy one passenger.”“Shouldn’t we tell him what we’re doing? We don’t have the budget for this.”Alex had shaken her head.“No. We’re not telling this particular president anything. She’s not even on board yet, and it won’t be during this president’s administration that she’ll be unleashed anyway.” She exhaled. “I’ll tell the next president about her. This one is a little too trigger happy for my tastes. He’ll use her before she’s ready.” “But Madame Director,” the aide interrupted, “why her?”“Why her?” Alex had echoed as she turned. “Why her. It’s quite simple, really. Think about it. Say you’re a soldier in the U.S. Army—hell, say you’re a cadet at West Point, and you hear the stories of General Johnson as he rose up the ranks. And some time in the future, you’re at your stationing and you get a call. It’s General Johnson’s daughter, all grown up, and she is in a bit of a sticky situation. You have a group of soldiers, all who idolized the man; the man gave them confidence like you wouldn’t believe. They questioned his orders without flinching. She calls—wouldn’t you answer that call and go to her side as if the order came directly from the general? You bet your scrawny ass you would.”“The rumor is she’s blind,” the aide had continued, his protest vociferous. “What good would a blind girl be in the fight against terrorism?”At the door, Alex had smirked.“You have no idea what the quartermasters are coming up with right now. If you did, you’d gladly pay a little more in taxes every year. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go tell her that her parents are dead.”Alex had her driver take her to Andrews, the driver not sparing the pedal. And despite some warnings from air traffic control, the Gulfstream took off the evening of September 11, bound for the west coast.The next morning, September 12, Alex had awoken early, called her then-husband to make sure he got their son off to school, before hopping in her rental car and driving to Renton. It was a rather easy drive headed out of Seattle, all while everyone else headed into the city, the morning rush apparent. She had easily found the home. It was on a side street with a well-manicured front lawn, the house painted baby blue. Another government car, this one from Fort Lewis, had met her there. She had called Lewis on the flight and spoke with the base commander, Colonel David Meadows, informing him of what she had planned to do with General Johnson’s daughter. He wasn’t against it—he had served under the general—and had said he would facilitate it the next morning.“Before school,” Alex had noted. “I don’t want to deal with pulling her out of class once she gets there.”“I can let the principal at Lakewood know that you’re—”“No, commander,” Alex interrupted. “No one outside of official channels can know where she’s going. You may tell her that she is being withdrawn—I’m sure the principal knows that the general is among the dead.”“I’m sure he knows.” There was a pause. “I can’t believe Eddie and Martha are gone.”Alex had bowed her head. She didn’t say anything about Martha Johnson’s premonition the night of September 10. Instead, she reached into her purse and felt a piece of tissue paper holding a gold band. She ran her fingers around it, the paper crinkling under her touch.I’ll give this to her, she had told Martha Johnson, when the time is right. She sighed. That should have been a warning sign, right there. Always trust in a premonition, regardless of what the non-believers say.“I can’t believe it, either.” She had cleared her throat. “I will see you at the Johnson residence in the morning.” She had hung up without another word.A pair of soldiers had stood at parade rest at the entrance, all while a few curiosity seekers, knowing that it was the Johnson house, had waited to see what was going on. She had showed identification and had entered the house after they told her the commander was inside. Alex had hid her dismay as she walked in the door.“We should have done this in the overnight, when I arrived,” she had said to the commander. “That way we wouldn’t have a circus. That’s on me for not thinking.”“I wouldn’t worry,” the base commander had replied. He was a man of about 50, with short gray hair and a little bit of black mixed in for good measure. “Besides, Jaclyn told me that she was asleep, and the security alarms set. I called her this morning and let her know we were coming.”Alex had nodded. “Where is she?”“She’s in her room.”“Packing?”The commander had shaken his head.“Thinking.”Alex had paused for a few moments, then nodded, her lips pressed together tight.“Of course. Of course she is. Lead the way.”The commander had nodded and turned, leading Alex up the stairs. There were no creaks in these steps. Family photos in wooden frames emblazoned the wall to her left. The photos had shown the general smiling, raising a can of beer to the camera. It was a wooded area with a small lake in the background, pine trees in the foreground. The general was on a lawn chair, stretched out. Martha Johnson was in another photo, peeling off the Saran wrap from a bowl of potato salad. It might have been pasta salad, though. Alex couldn’t wager a guess. And next to both parents was a scrawny blonde-haired girl; the girl had on a pair of sunglasses Alex knew helped give her eyes a rest from the painful rays of the sun—and from any fluorescent bulbs when the family was out and about.Alex had grinned.Hope you’re ready for a new life, kiddo, she had thought as she ran her fingers along the frame.She had hurried the rest of the way as she heard the commander speaking with the girl.Alex had approached as soon as the commander stepped aside, and as she crossed the threshold, she saw, for the first time, the young woman who would someday put fear in the hearts of terrorists around the globe.There, sitting on the bed, was a somewhat gawky teenage girl. Alex had noted that the girl’s hair had the color of honey, her skin creamy. Her complexion was as close to flawless as a 14-year-old’s complexion could get, her nose on the coquettish side; Alex had wondered just how it kept those sunglasses on and upright. And while the Director saw the girl had dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, as if she had gotten ready for school just like any other day, she appeared as if she had no interest in going. She held a small teddy bear in her hands; Alex thought it resembled Winnie the Pooh at one point.Alex smiled.“Hello, Jaclyn,” she had said. “My name is Alexandra Dupuis. I’m an old friend of your mom and dad’s.”Jaclyn had turned her head.“Hi.”“I hope you know that we’re very sorry for your loss.”The girl had taken a deep breath at that. Alex had looked for any signs of tightening eyes and quivering lips, but surprisingly, nothing appeared. It looked like the girl was in a daze. The girl’s cheek, though, did twitch a couple of seconds later.“Thank you.”“May I sit down?”The girl had nodded, and Alex had parked herself on the edge. Whatever pains were in her feet evaporated just by sitting down.“Have you been OK?”Jaclyn had given her a soft shrug of her shoulders.“I guess.”“Has anyone checked on you?”This time, she shook her head. She still hadn’t lifted her head to look at Alex.“Doesn’t your father’s brother live around here?”Jaclyn had offered a little nod.“I don’t think Uncle Bill knew that mom and dad were headed out. At least I don’t think so.”Alex had made a note of that. That would explain the head shake, she thought. Poor girl.“Have you been to school?”“Yes. I don’t skip school. Never have.”“So you went yesterday, even after everything that went down.”This time, the skin around Jaclyn’s eyes had tightened a bit. The head had drooped a little more, as if she had tucked her chin as close to her chest as she could.Alex had grimaced at her stupidity.Damn you, Dupuis, she thought. Not the exact time to use that terminology. What would Nathaniel tell you? Be a little more sensitive, you jackass.“I’m sorry I used that phrasing,” she had said. “I want you to know that I’m not a truant officer or anything. I work for the CIA.”This got Jaclyn’s attention. She had gasped and looked at Alex. The Director had noticed the tear streaks even through the girl’s dark sunglasses.“You’re a spy?”Alex couldn’t help but let a grin spread.“Kind of. You can say I’m the head spy in our country.”“Who are you spying on now? The people that took down the towers? The ones who plowed into the Pentagon?”Alex had nodded. Her heart had fluttered at the mention of the Pentagon.“Yes, and no. Our agency is looking into all possible leads, working with the authorities in New York and D.C. to try to find out who was behind it all.”Jaclyn’s face had fallen a little, as if she had hoped the country’s response would be rapid.“Oh.”The pair had sat in adverse silence for a few seconds before Jaclyn spoke again. “I had hoped they would have gotten out,” she had said softly. Alex had heard every word. “I had hoped that they would have called last night. I figured that the cell service was overloaded. I thought, ‘OK, they’ll call this morning.’ I stayed by the phone; shit, I practically slept on it. Oh, I’m sorry for swearing.”Alex had waved it off with a grin.“Don’t worry, sweetie. No one will know.”“I didn’t even go to practice yesterday; I told coach that I had some women’s issues, and she understood. I got home, I checked the answering machine.” She shuddered. “Nothing. So I waited. Into last night, I waited. Made myself some cereal. Mom had left some chicken, ziti, and broccoli in the fridge, but I didn’t want to touch that just yet. And then Dave called me. I thought it was Mom or Dad at first; even answered it, ‘Mom?! Dad?!’” Alex then saw the tears dripping out from underneath the girl’s sunglasses. She had sniffed hard, her nose full. Her lips had turned into sharp edges, the corners turned down as the tears continued. Alex noticed her heart had begun to race; she had wondered why this girl, this 14-year-old girl, would open up to her like this. She didn’t know Alex from Adam; Alex only knew of her from the tales Martha and the general had told her. Why did she trust her so much? She remained silent and let Jaclyn speak; she had somehow turned from the Director of the CIA into a guidance counselor as soon as she had perched herself on the edge of Jaclyn’s bed. “Dave said that he needed to see me this morning, and that it was about Mom and Dad. I told him that I needed to know right that minute.” A hard, long sniff—then a scream that Alex knew that she would never forget for as long as she lived. “He said they were dead! The fucking terrorists killed them!”Alex had bit her lip as the girl’s grief snapped apart. She had flung herself forward onto the bed, her face buried in the comforter as her tears flowed. As footsteps approached, Alex had brought her hand over and put it on the girl’s back in a comforting manner. The base commander had appeared at the door, unbidden, with a few tissues in his hand; he had passed them over. Alex had nodded her thanks as she took them. He had ducked out into the hall once again.She had waited until the girl had finished crying before she spoke again. Jaclyn had wept until she shook, her flesh trembling, the saline draining her. As soon as she lifted herself back up into a sitting position, Alex passed the tissues over. Jaclyn offered a mumbled “Thank you” before she blew her nose. Alex had taken a deep breath as the girl filled the tissues. She had come to the reason of her visit, but she had to be careful: she was an adult in a position of power, and she didn’t want to seem like she was misleading her. It was okay to sway her to her side, but no, she needed to lay everything out for the girl. She couldn’t leave anything out.“It is okay to grieve, Jaclyn,” she had finally said, “and your parents deserve every ounce of your grief. But can I tell you something?”With the relatively clean sides of the tissues, Jaclyn had dabbed at her eyes and nodded. She had pulled the sunglasses away by a few centimeters; Alex heard a slight wince as the daylight, which slipped through Jaclyn’s drawn shades, hit the girl’s eyes. She had noticed that the retinas were clouded. Alex pursed her lips again.“There are ways to channel your grief to get revenge.”“How?”This is it, Alex thought. She swallowed her heart back down.“Your father would want you to fight for us. I want you to fight for the CIA.”Jaclyn had shaken away her confusion.“How? I’m only 14.”Alex wet her lips.“I’m starting a program back in D.C. At the Farm, actually, in Virginia. It’s a program that will see us train the new line of spy. A Super Spy, if you will. A spy born from the ashes of terrorism itself, one who’ll stop at nothing to thwart the ones who wish to cause harm through fear.”Jaclyn had stared at her through the sunglasses, Alex knew, as if appraising her. The croak in her voice, though, left her. “How long will the program last?”Alex had exhaled through her nose and gave the girl a soft smile.“The rest of your life.”
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Chapter 1The Warwick HotelLenora StreetSeattle, WashingtonFriday, June 13/Saturday, June 1410:31 p.m. PT/1:31 a.m. ET
With tired eyes turning toward the south, Alexandra Dupuis stood on her suite’s balcony, a grin creasing her otherwise placid face. She felt a slight breeze coming in off Puget Sound ahead of her, and without hesitation, the longtime Director of the CIA inhaled deeply. The sweet, salt-tinged air filled her lungs, the weariness of transcontinental travel slipping gracefully from her shoulders.What a long day, she thought, and tomorrow is going to be even longer.The delegation from Washington, D.C. had flown to the state of Washington earlier in the day, the blue and gray fuselage of the famous Boeing VC-25 sliding onto the air strip at McChord Air Force Base shortly after noon Pacific Time. There were numerous events planned for this rather large group; along with Alex, the president, Eric B. Forrister, and his wife, Veronica, their adopted daughter Maryah, the vice president, Lucia DiVito—Alex hoped the vice president was comfortable in her hotel, several streets over, separated in order to maintain the line of succession in case anything happened to the president—as well as Alex’s protégé, Jaclyn Johnson, and her husband, Tom Messingham, had arrived to great fanfare. Not only them, but a cadre of Secret Service personnel and the White House press corps had come toddling along, too. They were all in Seattle—Jaclyn’s hometown—to honor Jaclyn’s father, the late General Edward R. Johnson, a hero of the first Gulf War, a victim of the September 11th attacks, with a statue in Volunteer Park. In Alex’s mind, it was an honor long overdue: General Johnson was an outstanding cadet at West Point, an outstanding soldier, and an even better commanding officer during his time in the United States Army. The late President Sarah Kendall was one of his many charges, and Alex had grown familiar with the general when she herself served under former CIA head Nathaniel Dyer. There was an instant respect between Alex and the general, a respect she carried to this day. The sweet memories searing her consciousness, Alex smiled.I hope I’ve done right by you with your daughter, she thought, her thoughts headed skyward. Alex leaned her forearms against the wrought iron railings, her gaze catching the floodlights of Safeco Field a few miles away. Jaclyn and Tom were there, their tickets for the Seattle Mariners and Tampa Bay Rays purchased before the season started. Alex hoped the broadcasters wouldn’t show her there, even though the papers had said she would be in town for the unveiling; she wouldn’t hold her breath, though. She also hoped Tom would enjoy himself, if but a little; she knew Jaclyn would have a grand time seeing her Mariners at Safeco for the first time in nearly a decade and a half. “Jaclyn, Jaclyn, Jaclyn,” Alex whispered into the night air. There were few cars in the area to distract her, even though she heard a bit of music coming over from the Pike Place Market, not too far away. “Oh Jaclyn, how you’ve grown since I took you away from here.”Alex’s thoughts wandered back to September 2001, even as the warmth from the steel seeped into her flesh. The country, horrified by what had occurred that morning in New York, in Pennsylvania, and in Washington, had demanded answers. The sitting president had demanded retribution. And while everyone huddled around their televisions as the dark reality of their times flooded their consciousness, Alex had met with her staff in the bowels of Langley.“The president,” Alex had said as they walked out of the secure elevator, “is going to try to capitalize on our tragedy politically.”“Huge shocker there, ma’am. He’s a politician. That’s what they do.”They had entered the bunker. The room was all in gray: soundproof, bug-proof steel surrounded them, so much so that the only method of communication to the outside world was via a red landline phone which only dialed in one direction—to the Situation Room at the White House. There were televisions encircling the room, all tuned to CNN. They had showed the towers in Lower Manhattan belching black-gray smoke, the jet fuel burning. Alex had shuddered, then spoke again.“He’s going to do several things,” she had continued. “Mark my words: He’ll go after Bin Laden. It’s only a matter of time before he admits he’s behind it; the evidence is right there. ” She had pointed at the television with a light gesture. “Four airplanes used against us, against one of his former targets. That’s a tell. This was no accident.”“What’s the next thing?” Alex had tried to swallow the bile threatening to rise to her mouth. The taste of sour milk had lingered on her taste buds. The thought had been on her mind since she received the phone call an hour before.“The next thing. He will take this opportunity to go after Hussein.”Her aides had immediately blinked, the surprise evident.“Saddam?” they had chorused.“Right in one.”“Why?”“It’s quite simple, Dave. Saddam is dancing in the streets of Baghdad right now, especially after what happened ten years ago. The president will rally Congress to his side, and I mean both sides of the aisle. This isn’t unprecedented. It happened in ’41. Everyone and their grandmothers are scared. Shit, all of Congress is scared.” Alex had taken a seat, breathing a little heavy. She had poured herself a glass of water, if only to calm her nerves; she didn’t drink alcohol while working, even in this stressful working environment. She had shot a gulp of water back into her throat, if only to rinse her mouth out. “He will be presidential, I am sure of it. He’ll go to Afghanistan first, strike them hard. Then he’ll go back to Iraq, inexplicably, much like his daddy did. This time, I doubt that Saddam can avoid the military might of the United States of America.”“And seeing that we haven’t been able to locate General Johnson in the wreckage of the Pentagon,” another aide had chirped, “that means the Army is going to be pissed.” She had swallowed hard; Alex had drinks with the general and his wife the night before the attacks. She had tried to keep her tears at bay, even now. She needed to remain strong, if not for her sake, for her son’s sake.“Correct. They’ll get Hussein for making the president’s father look foolish. He’ll say it’s to bring democracy to Iraq.” She snorted. “It has nothing to do with that whatsoever. He’ll go with a lie that says Iraq has weapons of mass destruction. He’ll pin the blame on us when that particular plan goes awry.”“Of course. Pass the buck.”Alex had nodded.“Right. And while he’s doing that,” she had said, “we need to be proactive in this new war on terror, as well.”No one blinked.“Suggestions, Madame Director?”The director had folded her hands on the table. She still hadn’t grown used to people calling her by that title, even after seven long years at the head of the CIA. To her mind and to her heart, Nathaniel was still the Director, even though he had been in the grave since 1994. He would always be the Director, in her eyes. The letter he had left on her—his desk, she reminded herself—remained in her purse, even after seven years. And as much as she wanted to read his words, it wasn’t time yet. Not even in the face of a horrific tragedy such as what had happened on this day would she pull that letter out. “I have an idea that needs to stay within the confines of this room,” Alex had said, “and it may seem a bit unorthodox to most people.” She had taken a short breath as she kept her eyes on her aides; this, she had known even then, would make or break her career. “There is a young girl in the Seattle area who I feel would be the perfect candidate for this program.”“A young girl?”Alex had nodded sharply.“A girl of 14. She may not look like much now, but with a decade or so of training at The Farm, I’m sure she can turn into one of the best.”“We can’t just go and snatch a child off the streets and train her to be a secret agent, if that’s what you’re thinking, Madame Director. Don’t you think her parents would have a problem with the United States government stealing their child?”Alex had felt her throat grow tight as her aide’s accusation hit her ears. Her eyes grew limned with tears. She had closed her eyelids tight, stemming the flow.“I don’t think,” she had replied once she had opened them, “that will be an issue any longer.”“An orphan?”“You can call her that now, yes.”“Now?”Alex had firmed her lips and nodded.“I’m talking about General Johnson’s daughter. Jaclyn.”Soft moans filled the room. A pen tinkled across the conference table.“Fuck.”She nodded again. “Fuck is right. General Johnson and his wife are survived by a teenaged daughter, one who has some family.”“Wouldn’t it be more prudent to send her to them?”Alex nodded.“Yes, I’m sure it would be the smart move to send her to the general’s brother. They aren’t too far away from them, and the girl has some cousins to help her adjust. But I reiterate: I think this is an opportunity that we as an agency cannot let slip through our fingers.” She stood, her fingertips tenting on the table. “We have the opportunity to defeat terrorism and to attack terrorism with an individual born from the ashes of terrorism itself. Don’t you see this opportunity in front of us? We can train this young woman—this orphan—to go after the ones who made her an orphan to begin with.” Then, as she looked over the heads of everyone in the room to see another replay of the towers tumbling, she lost her cool. “Can we turn off the fucking TVs?” she had yelled. “How many fucking times do we have to fucking see the fucking towers falling? It’s like the God damn fucking Challengerall over again. We already know what fucking happened.”Another aide had hustled around the room, turning the televisions off. Alex had felt a vein throb near her temple, her heart ramming the inside of her breastbone as she waited.“Thank you,” she had said, before taking another deep breath. She had bowed her head and counted to ten, pursing her lips and rubbing them together as she tried to regain control of her emotions. She had raised her head half a heartbeat after she had reached ten. “I’m sorry for that. I’m usually more in control.”“It’s alright, Madame Director. We’re all a bit fidgety right now.”Alex had smiled a half-smile.“True. Anyway, I want to move ahead with this. I think this is the right thing to do.”“We can’t get to Seattle right now. The president has ordered all flights grounded with SCATANA.”“He has grounded non-emergency civilian aircraft,” Alex had corrected. “A government-issued Gulfstream on the business of the country’s national security doesn’t count. I’m headed there in an hour.”“What if the president wants you at a Cabinet meeting when he gets back from Florida?” an aide asked as she turned for the door.“Don’t worry about that. He’s going directly to New York, then coming home. I’m hoping to get home before he gets back, heavy one passenger.”“Shouldn’t we tell him what we’re doing? We don’t have the budget for this.”Alex had shaken her head.“No. We’re not telling this particular president anything. She’s not even on board yet, and it won’t be during this president’s administration that she’ll be unleashed anyway.” She exhaled. “I’ll tell the next president about her. This one is a little too trigger happy for my tastes. He’ll use her before she’s ready.” “But Madame Director,” the aide interrupted, “why her?”“Why her?” Alex had echoed as she turned. “Why her. It’s quite simple, really. Think about it. Say you’re a soldier in the U.S. Army—hell, say you’re a cadet at West Point, and you hear the stories of General Johnson as he rose up the ranks. And some time in the future, you’re at your stationing and you get a call. It’s General Johnson’s daughter, all grown up, and she is in a bit of a sticky situation. You have a group of soldiers, all who idolized the man; the man gave them confidence like you wouldn’t believe. They questioned his orders without flinching. She calls—wouldn’t you answer that call and go to her side as if the order came directly from the general? You bet your scrawny ass you would.”“The rumor is she’s blind,” the aide had continued, his protest vociferous. “What good would a blind girl be in the fight against terrorism?”At the door, Alex had smirked.“You have no idea what the quartermasters are coming up with right now. If you did, you’d gladly pay a little more in taxes every year. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go tell her that her parents are dead.”Alex had her driver take her to Andrews, the driver not sparing the pedal. And despite some warnings from air traffic control, the Gulfstream took off the evening of September 11, bound for the west coast.The next morning, September 12, Alex had awoken early, called her then-husband to make sure he got their son off to school, before hopping in her rental car and driving to Renton. It was a rather easy drive headed out of Seattle, all while everyone else headed into the city, the morning rush apparent. She had easily found the home. It was on a side street with a well-manicured front lawn, the house painted baby blue. Another government car, this one from Fort Lewis, had met her there. She had called Lewis on the flight and spoke with the base commander, Colonel David Meadows, informing him of what she had planned to do with General Johnson’s daughter. He wasn’t against it—he had served under the general—and had said he would facilitate it the next morning.“Before school,” Alex had noted. “I don’t want to deal with pulling her out of class once she gets there.”“I can let the principal at Lakewood know that you’re—”“No, commander,” Alex interrupted. “No one outside of official channels can know where she’s going. You may tell her that she is being withdrawn—I’m sure the principal knows that the general is among the dead.”“I’m sure he knows.” There was a pause. “I can’t believe Eddie and Martha are gone.”Alex had bowed her head. She didn’t say anything about Martha Johnson’s premonition the night of September 10. Instead, she reached into her purse and felt a piece of tissue paper holding a gold band. She ran her fingers around it, the paper crinkling under her touch.I’ll give this to her, she had told Martha Johnson, when the time is right. She sighed. That should have been a warning sign, right there. Always trust in a premonition, regardless of what the non-believers say.“I can’t believe it, either.” She had cleared her throat. “I will see you at the Johnson residence in the morning.” She had hung up without another word.A pair of soldiers had stood at parade rest at the entrance, all while a few curiosity seekers, knowing that it was the Johnson house, had waited to see what was going on. She had showed identification and had entered the house after they told her the commander was inside. Alex had hid her dismay as she walked in the door.“We should have done this in the overnight, when I arrived,” she had said to the commander. “That way we wouldn’t have a circus. That’s on me for not thinking.”“I wouldn’t worry,” the base commander had replied. He was a man of about 50, with short gray hair and a little bit of black mixed in for good measure. “Besides, Jaclyn told me that she was asleep, and the security alarms set. I called her this morning and let her know we were coming.”Alex had nodded. “Where is she?”“She’s in her room.”“Packing?”The commander had shaken his head.“Thinking.”Alex had paused for a few moments, then nodded, her lips pressed together tight.“Of course. Of course she is. Lead the way.”The commander had nodded and turned, leading Alex up the stairs. There were no creaks in these steps. Family photos in wooden frames emblazoned the wall to her left. The photos had shown the general smiling, raising a can of beer to the camera. It was a wooded area with a small lake in the background, pine trees in the foreground. The general was on a lawn chair, stretched out. Martha Johnson was in another photo, peeling off the Saran wrap from a bowl of potato salad. It might have been pasta salad, though. Alex couldn’t wager a guess. And next to both parents was a scrawny blonde-haired girl; the girl had on a pair of sunglasses Alex knew helped give her eyes a rest from the painful rays of the sun—and from any fluorescent bulbs when the family was out and about.Alex had grinned.Hope you’re ready for a new life, kiddo, she had thought as she ran her fingers along the frame.She had hurried the rest of the way as she heard the commander speaking with the girl.Alex had approached as soon as the commander stepped aside, and as she crossed the threshold, she saw, for the first time, the young woman who would someday put fear in the hearts of terrorists around the globe.There, sitting on the bed, was a somewhat gawky teenage girl. Alex had noted that the girl’s hair had the color of honey, her skin creamy. Her complexion was as close to flawless as a 14-year-old’s complexion could get, her nose on the coquettish side; Alex had wondered just how it kept those sunglasses on and upright. And while the Director saw the girl had dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, as if she had gotten ready for school just like any other day, she appeared as if she had no interest in going. She held a small teddy bear in her hands; Alex thought it resembled Winnie the Pooh at one point.Alex smiled.“Hello, Jaclyn,” she had said. “My name is Alexandra Dupuis. I’m an old friend of your mom and dad’s.”Jaclyn had turned her head.“Hi.”“I hope you know that we’re very sorry for your loss.”The girl had taken a deep breath at that. Alex had looked for any signs of tightening eyes and quivering lips, but surprisingly, nothing appeared. It looked like the girl was in a daze. The girl’s cheek, though, did twitch a couple of seconds later.“Thank you.”“May I sit down?”The girl had nodded, and Alex had parked herself on the edge. Whatever pains were in her feet evaporated just by sitting down.“Have you been OK?”Jaclyn had given her a soft shrug of her shoulders.“I guess.”“Has anyone checked on you?”This time, she shook her head. She still hadn’t lifted her head to look at Alex.“Doesn’t your father’s brother live around here?”Jaclyn had offered a little nod.“I don’t think Uncle Bill knew that mom and dad were headed out. At least I don’t think so.”Alex had made a note of that. That would explain the head shake, she thought. Poor girl.“Have you been to school?”“Yes. I don’t skip school. Never have.”“So you went yesterday, even after everything that went down.”This time, the skin around Jaclyn’s eyes had tightened a bit. The head had drooped a little more, as if she had tucked her chin as close to her chest as she could.Alex had grimaced at her stupidity.Damn you, Dupuis, she thought. Not the exact time to use that terminology. What would Nathaniel tell you? Be a little more sensitive, you jackass.“I’m sorry I used that phrasing,” she had said. “I want you to know that I’m not a truant officer or anything. I work for the CIA.”This got Jaclyn’s attention. She had gasped and looked at Alex. The Director had noticed the tear streaks even through the girl’s dark sunglasses.“You’re a spy?”Alex couldn’t help but let a grin spread.“Kind of. You can say I’m the head spy in our country.”“Who are you spying on now? The people that took down the towers? The ones who plowed into the Pentagon?”Alex had nodded. Her heart had fluttered at the mention of the Pentagon.“Yes, and no. Our agency is looking into all possible leads, working with the authorities in New York and D.C. to try to find out who was behind it all.”Jaclyn’s face had fallen a little, as if she had hoped the country’s response would be rapid.“Oh.”The pair had sat in adverse silence for a few seconds before Jaclyn spoke again. “I had hoped they would have gotten out,” she had said softly. Alex had heard every word. “I had hoped that they would have called last night. I figured that the cell service was overloaded. I thought, ‘OK, they’ll call this morning.’ I stayed by the phone; shit, I practically slept on it. Oh, I’m sorry for swearing.”Alex had waved it off with a grin.“Don’t worry, sweetie. No one will know.”“I didn’t even go to practice yesterday; I told coach that I had some women’s issues, and she understood. I got home, I checked the answering machine.” She shuddered. “Nothing. So I waited. Into last night, I waited. Made myself some cereal. Mom had left some chicken, ziti, and broccoli in the fridge, but I didn’t want to touch that just yet. And then Dave called me. I thought it was Mom or Dad at first; even answered it, ‘Mom?! Dad?!’” Alex then saw the tears dripping out from underneath the girl’s sunglasses. She had sniffed hard, her nose full. Her lips had turned into sharp edges, the corners turned down as the tears continued. Alex noticed her heart had begun to race; she had wondered why this girl, this 14-year-old girl, would open up to her like this. She didn’t know Alex from Adam; Alex only knew of her from the tales Martha and the general had told her. Why did she trust her so much? She remained silent and let Jaclyn speak; she had somehow turned from the Director of the CIA into a guidance counselor as soon as she had perched herself on the edge of Jaclyn’s bed. “Dave said that he needed to see me this morning, and that it was about Mom and Dad. I told him that I needed to know right that minute.” A hard, long sniff—then a scream that Alex knew that she would never forget for as long as she lived. “He said they were dead! The fucking terrorists killed them!”Alex had bit her lip as the girl’s grief snapped apart. She had flung herself forward onto the bed, her face buried in the comforter as her tears flowed. As footsteps approached, Alex had brought her hand over and put it on the girl’s back in a comforting manner. The base commander had appeared at the door, unbidden, with a few tissues in his hand; he had passed them over. Alex had nodded her thanks as she took them. He had ducked out into the hall once again.She had waited until the girl had finished crying before she spoke again. Jaclyn had wept until she shook, her flesh trembling, the saline draining her. As soon as she lifted herself back up into a sitting position, Alex passed the tissues over. Jaclyn offered a mumbled “Thank you” before she blew her nose. Alex had taken a deep breath as the girl filled the tissues. She had come to the reason of her visit, but she had to be careful: she was an adult in a position of power, and she didn’t want to seem like she was misleading her. It was okay to sway her to her side, but no, she needed to lay everything out for the girl. She couldn’t leave anything out.“It is okay to grieve, Jaclyn,” she had finally said, “and your parents deserve every ounce of your grief. But can I tell you something?”With the relatively clean sides of the tissues, Jaclyn had dabbed at her eyes and nodded. She had pulled the sunglasses away by a few centimeters; Alex heard a slight wince as the daylight, which slipped through Jaclyn’s drawn shades, hit the girl’s eyes. She had noticed that the retinas were clouded. Alex pursed her lips again.“There are ways to channel your grief to get revenge.”“How?”This is it, Alex thought. She swallowed her heart back down.“Your father would want you to fight for us. I want you to fight for the CIA.”Jaclyn had shaken away her confusion.“How? I’m only 14.”Alex wet her lips.“I’m starting a program back in D.C. At the Farm, actually, in Virginia. It’s a program that will see us train the new line of spy. A Super Spy, if you will. A spy born from the ashes of terrorism itself, one who’ll stop at nothing to thwart the ones who wish to cause harm through fear.”Jaclyn had stared at her through the sunglasses, Alex knew, as if appraising her. The croak in her voice, though, left her. “How long will the program last?”Alex had exhaled through her nose and gave the girl a soft smile.“The rest of your life.”
There is so much more to tell in this story, which I hope you enjoy and recommend to friends and co-workers and anyone else you meet. Have a great weekend, folks.
Book Day is almost here. Can you smell it? Can you feel her breath on the nape of your neck?
Chemical Agent: A Thriller on US KindleChemical Agent: A Thriller on UK KindleChemical Agent: A Thriller on Nook (Save this post and I will link you to it on Tuesday; or join the mailing list!)Chemical Agent: A Thriller on KoboChemical Agent: A Thriller on iBooksChemical Agent: A Thriller on Smashwords
www.seansweeneyauthor.com
February 13, 2016
Inside CHEMICAL AGENT: A THRILLER
In only a matter of days, readers across the globe--and maybe some within reach of the Milky Way galaxy, if they have a solid wi-fi connection--will sink their teeth into and let their eyes caress the words within my next book in the Jaclyn Johnson a.k.a. Snapshot series Chemical Agent: A Thriller. Today, we're going to let you in on some of the goings-on in regard to the plot and tell you a little about certain characters who appear in this game-changing story.
First, the cover. David Wood, as usual, did a fantastic job in selecting the image--we're going to Seattle for this one. Seattle is, as we've already settled, is Jaclyn's hometown of sorts: it's where she lived with her family prior to 9/11. The early plot sees Jaclyn and her entourage fly across the country to Washington State for a statue unveiling, but a murder cancels this.
Jaclyn's mission: Eliminate the target who murdered (spoiler), all while confronting her past. There are plenty of twists and turns, as usual, but there's also a bit of emotion for Jaclyn in this story; she re-unites with her father's family, who thought her lost following 9/11, as well as some of her middle/high school friends.
She also discovers she has a bit of a stalker. Oh, boy....
Chemical Agent: A Thriller will be released on Tuesday, Feb. 16, 2016 in ebook and trade paperback form. An audiobook will be forthcoming.
Sign up for the mailing list in the upper right-hand corner for release information on how to get your copy of Chemical Agent.
www.seansweeneyauthor.com
First, the cover. David Wood, as usual, did a fantastic job in selecting the image--we're going to Seattle for this one. Seattle is, as we've already settled, is Jaclyn's hometown of sorts: it's where she lived with her family prior to 9/11. The early plot sees Jaclyn and her entourage fly across the country to Washington State for a statue unveiling, but a murder cancels this.
Jaclyn's mission: Eliminate the target who murdered (spoiler), all while confronting her past. There are plenty of twists and turns, as usual, but there's also a bit of emotion for Jaclyn in this story; she re-unites with her father's family, who thought her lost following 9/11, as well as some of her middle/high school friends.
She also discovers she has a bit of a stalker. Oh, boy....
Chemical Agent: A Thriller will be released on Tuesday, Feb. 16, 2016 in ebook and trade paperback form. An audiobook will be forthcoming.
Sign up for the mailing list in the upper right-hand corner for release information on how to get your copy of Chemical Agent.
www.seansweeneyauthor.com
