Steve Wilson's Blog - Posts Tagged "trinity-icon"
An Update on 'Trinity Icon'
The third book in the Michael Neill series is a little different from the first two. Trinity Icon gives me the chance to expand Captain Neill’s universe, flesh out more of his background, and explore the unpredictable world of geo-politics.
This third installment has allowed me to bring back several characters from Red Sky at Morning and Tempest of Fire. Andrei Ulyanov is front and center, along with the popular Ukrainian journalist, Viktoriya Gavrilenko. Readers will also be pleased (I hope) with the appearance of a few others, heroes and villains alike. And as always, Trinity Icon will be a faith-based yarn, with strong elements of espionage and mystery.
What surprised me about this book is the way some characters have taken on a life of their own. In Red Sky at Morning, Viktoriya was just such a character. Her presence in the book was almost an afterthought. At first she was just a foil to help move the story along, but she soon became an integral player.
In Trinity Icon, another individual has risen to the top. In my outline for the story, this person was nameless, intended to fulfill an important but minor role. But after adding a little depth and pathos, I am considering a corollary series built around this character.
All of that speaks to the creative process, and that fiction is truly fluid. At times I find myself as much a spectator to the series as my readers. The twists and turns compel me to keep writing, and I hope that fans of the Michael Neill series will keep coming back for more.
This third installment has allowed me to bring back several characters from Red Sky at Morning and Tempest of Fire. Andrei Ulyanov is front and center, along with the popular Ukrainian journalist, Viktoriya Gavrilenko. Readers will also be pleased (I hope) with the appearance of a few others, heroes and villains alike. And as always, Trinity Icon will be a faith-based yarn, with strong elements of espionage and mystery.
What surprised me about this book is the way some characters have taken on a life of their own. In Red Sky at Morning, Viktoriya was just such a character. Her presence in the book was almost an afterthought. At first she was just a foil to help move the story along, but she soon became an integral player.
In Trinity Icon, another individual has risen to the top. In my outline for the story, this person was nameless, intended to fulfill an important but minor role. But after adding a little depth and pathos, I am considering a corollary series built around this character.
All of that speaks to the creative process, and that fiction is truly fluid. At times I find myself as much a spectator to the series as my readers. The twists and turns compel me to keep writing, and I hope that fans of the Michael Neill series will keep coming back for more.
Chapter One excerpt--Evil Empire
The lobby was enclosed by expansive glass panels that ran from floor to ceiling. The visual effect was intentional. A local architect had designed the building, paying particular attention to the entrance, and giving the structure a certain symbolism. It was a nod to the newspaper’s mission—providing transparency to life—but the metaphor was lost on most city-dwellers.
Viktoriya Gavrilenko checked her image in the glass, heels clattering as she exited the offices of the Odesa Sivodnya. Her outerwear did little to deflect attention, but that was never her goal. The coat she wore was a double-breasted trench, made of white leather, with wide lapels on either side of the cowl-neck sweater crowning her shoulders. An ivory belt was cinched around her narrow waist, with black denim jeans and matching shoes for contrast.
The young journalist took to the sidewalk and began moving east on Balkovskaya Street. Her appearance earned a few admiring glances, but Viktoriya paid no attention. Navigating through pedestrians, her head was tilted down as she checked her phone.
“She just came out.” The man in the car had a wireless headset.
His accomplice was across the street, leaning against a kiosk and pretending to read the morning edition. A receiver was stuck in his ear.
“Right on time.”
She checked her email first. Viktoriya’s in-box contained only a few messages—which was both a relief and a disappointment. A trending story on a news site caught her eye next. Archaeologists in neighboring Poland were poking around a riverbed near Warsaw. The report looked interesting; she scanned the highlights and then filed it away for later.
There was a chill in the air, not uncommon for Odessa on an October afternoon. Viktoriya clutched her collar just a bit closer and kept walking. A tram stop was one street over on Rozumovskaya. The aging conveyance was always on time, and if she caught the 5:05, she could be home in less than twenty minutes.
From half a block away, Sergei Holcek matched the woman’s pace and kept his distance. He allowed himself a smug grin. She was making his job easy. With the way she was dressed, it would be hard to lose her now.
A head taller than those around him, he was a stocky man, in his mid-forties with graying temples. He had been watching Viktoriya’s movements for the past two days. She didn’t own a car, and the towering Russian knew she’d hop on the trolley approaching from the far side of town.
“Get into position,” Sergei ordered.
“On my way.”
The driver revved the engine. The Mercedes crept past Viktoriya slowly, allowing him one last eyeful. The woman had more curves than—
“Focus on your driving, tavarisch,” the Russian snapped.
The man in the car turned away.
“Such a waste.”
He left Viktoriya and Sergei behind, and then turned on the next street, headed north.
Holcek stared ahead, scouting the terrain. The intersection was crowded with Ladas and other Eastern European models. The congestion didn’t concern him; in fact, he was silently thankful for it. A glance to the north gave him a fix on his escape route, an alley between the main thoroughfare and Kolinsky Street. The Russian breathed deeply, measuring his steps and gauging the arrival of the tram.
Sergei resumed his surveillance. His mark was right where she should be, so the Russian began assessing obstacles. There were no militia cars in sight, and no officers walking a beat.
All the better, he thought.
Small groups began milling toward the corner, waiting for the trolley. Holcek glanced at those closest to Viktoriya and moved a little faster. She arrived at the stop just as he crossed Rozumovskaya.
It was time for one last check.
“Ready?”
The receiver crackled in Holcek’s ear. “Waiting for you.”
“Keep the motor running.”
The driver could hear the anxiety in Sergei’s voice. “I’ll do my job. You do yours.”
She was still alone. A loose-knit throng of commuters stood nearby. Sergei gave them a studied look. Most were simple office workers who wanted to go home. A few tourists had wandered up from the port, and students from the Institute huddled together, portfolios clutched under their arms. Close to the corner, an old babushka sold flowers, a display of nested matryoshka dolls on her cart.
The tourists and students weren’t a concern. Holcek was more interested in picking out individuals. Beneath the stop’s canopy, a transient weaved from side to side, his posture stooped. He wore a dirty, hooded sweatshirt; Holcek gave him a passing glance and then dismissed his presence. Another man was now standing to Viktoriya’s left, stealing glances as she waited. A third—very tall—ignored everything else except his hand-held mobile device.
Truly a shame, Holcek reflected. Throughout his life he had been a connoisseur of beautiful women. Under different circumstances, he would have liked to enjoy this one; but business was business, and his handlers were paying him well. It was just too bad that Viktoriya Gavrilenko had to die.
The Russian stood patiently as the tram slowed. The students moved toward the street, and would be the first to board. Holcek got into position next to the man with the roaming eyes, while Viktoriya fell in behind the tourists.
“Astarozheneh,” Attention; a metallic voice squeaked from a speaker. “Dveri atkraviyetseh,”—doors opening. No one disembarked at this stop, and the small group began crowding forward.
Holcek reached into his jacket. A 9 millimeter Beretta rested in a holster on his left side. The weapon was heavier than usual, equipped with a noise suppressor. The Russian had also chosen subsonic ammunition, not terribly effective over great distances—but certainly lethal at close range.
The plan was simple enough, and bold. Sergei would wait until Viktoriya took her first step into the tram. He would press in from the rear, raise the weapon to the base of her skull and fire two rounds.
Things would happen quickly from that point.
As the young woman fell forward, Holcek intended to make a hasty retreat, capitalizing on confusion and shock. Street traffic would slow anyone who might try to follow him. The Russian would then race into the alley, and the driver would take over, carrying the assassin on a pre-determined path out of town.
Holcek filled his lungs again. The tourists had taken their time—had he imagined their sloth, or was he just nervous?—but had finally entered the idling streetcar. Viktoriya paused as the last one ascended the steps, and then edged to the open door.
Time to move...
Viktoriya Gavrilenko checked her image in the glass, heels clattering as she exited the offices of the Odesa Sivodnya. Her outerwear did little to deflect attention, but that was never her goal. The coat she wore was a double-breasted trench, made of white leather, with wide lapels on either side of the cowl-neck sweater crowning her shoulders. An ivory belt was cinched around her narrow waist, with black denim jeans and matching shoes for contrast.
The young journalist took to the sidewalk and began moving east on Balkovskaya Street. Her appearance earned a few admiring glances, but Viktoriya paid no attention. Navigating through pedestrians, her head was tilted down as she checked her phone.
“She just came out.” The man in the car had a wireless headset.
His accomplice was across the street, leaning against a kiosk and pretending to read the morning edition. A receiver was stuck in his ear.
“Right on time.”
She checked her email first. Viktoriya’s in-box contained only a few messages—which was both a relief and a disappointment. A trending story on a news site caught her eye next. Archaeologists in neighboring Poland were poking around a riverbed near Warsaw. The report looked interesting; she scanned the highlights and then filed it away for later.
There was a chill in the air, not uncommon for Odessa on an October afternoon. Viktoriya clutched her collar just a bit closer and kept walking. A tram stop was one street over on Rozumovskaya. The aging conveyance was always on time, and if she caught the 5:05, she could be home in less than twenty minutes.
From half a block away, Sergei Holcek matched the woman’s pace and kept his distance. He allowed himself a smug grin. She was making his job easy. With the way she was dressed, it would be hard to lose her now.
A head taller than those around him, he was a stocky man, in his mid-forties with graying temples. He had been watching Viktoriya’s movements for the past two days. She didn’t own a car, and the towering Russian knew she’d hop on the trolley approaching from the far side of town.
“Get into position,” Sergei ordered.
“On my way.”
The driver revved the engine. The Mercedes crept past Viktoriya slowly, allowing him one last eyeful. The woman had more curves than—
“Focus on your driving, tavarisch,” the Russian snapped.
The man in the car turned away.
“Such a waste.”
He left Viktoriya and Sergei behind, and then turned on the next street, headed north.
Holcek stared ahead, scouting the terrain. The intersection was crowded with Ladas and other Eastern European models. The congestion didn’t concern him; in fact, he was silently thankful for it. A glance to the north gave him a fix on his escape route, an alley between the main thoroughfare and Kolinsky Street. The Russian breathed deeply, measuring his steps and gauging the arrival of the tram.
Sergei resumed his surveillance. His mark was right where she should be, so the Russian began assessing obstacles. There were no militia cars in sight, and no officers walking a beat.
All the better, he thought.
Small groups began milling toward the corner, waiting for the trolley. Holcek glanced at those closest to Viktoriya and moved a little faster. She arrived at the stop just as he crossed Rozumovskaya.
It was time for one last check.
“Ready?”
The receiver crackled in Holcek’s ear. “Waiting for you.”
“Keep the motor running.”
The driver could hear the anxiety in Sergei’s voice. “I’ll do my job. You do yours.”
She was still alone. A loose-knit throng of commuters stood nearby. Sergei gave them a studied look. Most were simple office workers who wanted to go home. A few tourists had wandered up from the port, and students from the Institute huddled together, portfolios clutched under their arms. Close to the corner, an old babushka sold flowers, a display of nested matryoshka dolls on her cart.
The tourists and students weren’t a concern. Holcek was more interested in picking out individuals. Beneath the stop’s canopy, a transient weaved from side to side, his posture stooped. He wore a dirty, hooded sweatshirt; Holcek gave him a passing glance and then dismissed his presence. Another man was now standing to Viktoriya’s left, stealing glances as she waited. A third—very tall—ignored everything else except his hand-held mobile device.
Truly a shame, Holcek reflected. Throughout his life he had been a connoisseur of beautiful women. Under different circumstances, he would have liked to enjoy this one; but business was business, and his handlers were paying him well. It was just too bad that Viktoriya Gavrilenko had to die.
The Russian stood patiently as the tram slowed. The students moved toward the street, and would be the first to board. Holcek got into position next to the man with the roaming eyes, while Viktoriya fell in behind the tourists.
“Astarozheneh,” Attention; a metallic voice squeaked from a speaker. “Dveri atkraviyetseh,”—doors opening. No one disembarked at this stop, and the small group began crowding forward.
Holcek reached into his jacket. A 9 millimeter Beretta rested in a holster on his left side. The weapon was heavier than usual, equipped with a noise suppressor. The Russian had also chosen subsonic ammunition, not terribly effective over great distances—but certainly lethal at close range.
The plan was simple enough, and bold. Sergei would wait until Viktoriya took her first step into the tram. He would press in from the rear, raise the weapon to the base of her skull and fire two rounds.
Things would happen quickly from that point.
As the young woman fell forward, Holcek intended to make a hasty retreat, capitalizing on confusion and shock. Street traffic would slow anyone who might try to follow him. The Russian would then race into the alley, and the driver would take over, carrying the assassin on a pre-determined path out of town.
Holcek filled his lungs again. The tourists had taken their time—had he imagined their sloth, or was he just nervous?—but had finally entered the idling streetcar. Viktoriya paused as the last one ascended the steps, and then edged to the open door.
Time to move...
Trinity Icon--The 'Back of the Book Summary'
For everyone who's been asking what 'Trinity Icon' is all about, here's the summary that will appear in all press releases and promotional material. Keep in mind that this was written a year ago when I put the outline together for the book. I'd like to think it's prescient; at the very least, it's fascinating to see how fiction sometimes gets ahead of reality.
One more thing; I'd like to post another excerpt from the book. There's no time limit, but once I reach 125 likes on The Michael Neill Adventures Facebook page, I'll post one right here. I think that's a reasonable figure, given that the page currently has 109 likes.
Enough of that. Here's the summary...
"A new president is elected, and Willis Avery is tapped to fill the position of Secretary of Defense. But before he can accept this new role, he must navigate a maze of foreign policy issues--and keep the Russian government at bay.
In Central Europe, Poland has rejected a plan to position a missile shield on their soil--until a threat from beyond their borders creates havoc. Fanning the flames of conflict, Moscow begins supplying Tehran with new weaponry, and during testing, an Iranian ICBM veers off course with tragic results. The Polish government turns to NATO--and the United States--for protection.
The National Security Advisor conceives a plan to strengthen ties with the former republics. With the defensive shield now back on the table, Willis Avery envisions an even broader network of emplacements, providing greater security to nations bordering Russia. His strategy depends on the cooperation of the breakaway states in the region--and the help of Captain Michael Neill.
After successful assignments in Ukraine and the South China Sea, Neill is tasked as a liaison. To convince the republics, he enlists the aid of an old friend, General Andrei Ulyanov—and, if he can keep her alive, the dynamic and beautiful Viktoriya Gavrilenko.
The stage is set for increased tension when the former Soviet empire threatens an arms race, and along the way, Neill becomes caught up in the search for a lost religious icon--foretold by legend to restore the faith of a disheartened people. But that’s not all; the Marine’s very heart is laid bare, and there’s no denying the growing feelings he has for someone very close to him . . ."
One more thing; I'd like to post another excerpt from the book. There's no time limit, but once I reach 125 likes on The Michael Neill Adventures Facebook page, I'll post one right here. I think that's a reasonable figure, given that the page currently has 109 likes.
Enough of that. Here's the summary...
"A new president is elected, and Willis Avery is tapped to fill the position of Secretary of Defense. But before he can accept this new role, he must navigate a maze of foreign policy issues--and keep the Russian government at bay.
In Central Europe, Poland has rejected a plan to position a missile shield on their soil--until a threat from beyond their borders creates havoc. Fanning the flames of conflict, Moscow begins supplying Tehran with new weaponry, and during testing, an Iranian ICBM veers off course with tragic results. The Polish government turns to NATO--and the United States--for protection.
The National Security Advisor conceives a plan to strengthen ties with the former republics. With the defensive shield now back on the table, Willis Avery envisions an even broader network of emplacements, providing greater security to nations bordering Russia. His strategy depends on the cooperation of the breakaway states in the region--and the help of Captain Michael Neill.
After successful assignments in Ukraine and the South China Sea, Neill is tasked as a liaison. To convince the republics, he enlists the aid of an old friend, General Andrei Ulyanov—and, if he can keep her alive, the dynamic and beautiful Viktoriya Gavrilenko.
The stage is set for increased tension when the former Soviet empire threatens an arms race, and along the way, Neill becomes caught up in the search for a lost religious icon--foretold by legend to restore the faith of a disheartened people. But that’s not all; the Marine’s very heart is laid bare, and there’s no denying the growing feelings he has for someone very close to him . . ."
Chapter Twenty-Two Excerpt--'Context'
Two hundred kilometers away, Chris Prentice pointed the nose of his Raptor east. He was the lead element for RAVEN Flight, and as he angled the fighter away from Gdansk, the colonel looked down and to his left.
His wingman today was a Polish lieutenant, fresh from of the Academy in Deblin. The young pilot jockeyed an F-16, and the respective aircraft were flying a ‘loose deuce’ formation, with vast distances between their wingtips. In reality, the aviators were jetting ahead at different altitudes, which, under normal conditions, wouldn’t hinder their ability to fly as a team.
For that, Prentice groused, we’ll just rely on the disparity in language.
The colonel’s kvetching was done under his breath. All of the Polish pilots spoke English, or so he’d been told, but the truth was a little more revealing. Joint ops had all the ingredients for miscommunication, at best, and the alternative—well, that wasn’t even worth thinking about, now was it?
Prentice gave the Poles an ‘E’ for effort. The Europeans had certainly bested their U.S. counterparts; many spoke a handful of languages, prompting Christian to consider the percentages for bi-lingual speakers in the American military. Spanish probably topped the list, to be sure, but he wondered—
“RAVEN-2, turn right and form up on my three o’clock position.” The colonel spoke slowly; the Pole’s responses had so far been sluggish—an indication that his command of English left something to be desired.
“Turning right, RAVEN Lead,” the lieutenant repeated, almost immediately. His heavily accented voice crackled in the colonel’s headset. “Forming up on your three o’clock position.”
Sunlight pierced the canopy, and a surprised Prentice smiled under his visored helmet. “That’s a good copy, RAVEN-2. Kilo’s just ahead.”
The so-called Kaliningrad Corridor was the grid square designated for RESILIENT EAGLE. Location names were typically shortened (hence the reliance on acronyms, Christian decided), and Kilo was quickly adopted.
The colonel checked his scope. To the east, and headed in the opposite direction, another pairing of American and Polish flyers traced the southern reaches of Kilo’s airspace. Their path lay parallel to RAVEN Flight. Two more groups followed from the west, and while their presence was encouraging, what he saw to the north was not.
The tactical air control center at Lask was coordinating with other assets; a Boeing E-3, with a rotating radar dish atop its fuselage. Their combined efforts gave a bird’s-eye view of the playing field, and for the first time, coalition forces had a clear picture of the Russians’ base of operations.
At this distance, they were far out of sight, but Christian’s long-range display showed Ivan’s fighters filling the sky. Hardware in the Raptor’s nose identified the aircraft as Sukhoi 27s, along with two Su-34s, the brightly colored FULLBACKs he’d seen just days earlier. The birds now aloft had sprung from the base in Chkalovsk.
Their point of origin was telling. Chkalovsk was owned by the Russian Navy, and the Su-34s were operated by their Air Force, the Voyenno-Vosdushnye Sily Rossii. That mouthful of Slavic flowed easily enough from the locals’ lips, but Prentice became tongue-tied at just the thought of saying it.
The colonel mulled over the collaboration between Russia’s forces. Fighters from the navy and air force were now working in tandem. The word had been passed that elements of the Rocket Forces were now in place, entrenched along Kaliningrad’s southern border with Poland. The Russians were clearly intent on showing some muscle.
According to Prentice’ software, eight fighters representing the opposing force were now airborne, with a couple of lumbering support platforms nearby. One was probably a re-fueler, and the other, with its larger radar return, was undoubtedly a Beriev A-50. This aircraft was far more robust than the E-3, but fulfilled the same role.
He looked on the bright side. None of Russia’s assets had behaved provocatively. Christian gave them that; Ivan could be very disciplined. The Sukhois stayed behind their line, playing it safe and observing strict rules of engagement. Coalition pilots did the same, and no one—American, Polish, or Russian—had raised their radars to paint a hypothetical target.
Prentice whispered a prayer that everyone involved would act circumspectly. Stretching out far below were the ground forces of several nations. Getting twitchy now wouldn’t help. Wars had begun over lesser things, and with NATO and the Russians poised on the brink, the senior officer couldn’t imagine a happenstance better suited to ruin everyone’s day.
His wingman today was a Polish lieutenant, fresh from of the Academy in Deblin. The young pilot jockeyed an F-16, and the respective aircraft were flying a ‘loose deuce’ formation, with vast distances between their wingtips. In reality, the aviators were jetting ahead at different altitudes, which, under normal conditions, wouldn’t hinder their ability to fly as a team.
For that, Prentice groused, we’ll just rely on the disparity in language.
The colonel’s kvetching was done under his breath. All of the Polish pilots spoke English, or so he’d been told, but the truth was a little more revealing. Joint ops had all the ingredients for miscommunication, at best, and the alternative—well, that wasn’t even worth thinking about, now was it?
Prentice gave the Poles an ‘E’ for effort. The Europeans had certainly bested their U.S. counterparts; many spoke a handful of languages, prompting Christian to consider the percentages for bi-lingual speakers in the American military. Spanish probably topped the list, to be sure, but he wondered—
“RAVEN-2, turn right and form up on my three o’clock position.” The colonel spoke slowly; the Pole’s responses had so far been sluggish—an indication that his command of English left something to be desired.
“Turning right, RAVEN Lead,” the lieutenant repeated, almost immediately. His heavily accented voice crackled in the colonel’s headset. “Forming up on your three o’clock position.”
Sunlight pierced the canopy, and a surprised Prentice smiled under his visored helmet. “That’s a good copy, RAVEN-2. Kilo’s just ahead.”
The so-called Kaliningrad Corridor was the grid square designated for RESILIENT EAGLE. Location names were typically shortened (hence the reliance on acronyms, Christian decided), and Kilo was quickly adopted.
The colonel checked his scope. To the east, and headed in the opposite direction, another pairing of American and Polish flyers traced the southern reaches of Kilo’s airspace. Their path lay parallel to RAVEN Flight. Two more groups followed from the west, and while their presence was encouraging, what he saw to the north was not.
The tactical air control center at Lask was coordinating with other assets; a Boeing E-3, with a rotating radar dish atop its fuselage. Their combined efforts gave a bird’s-eye view of the playing field, and for the first time, coalition forces had a clear picture of the Russians’ base of operations.
At this distance, they were far out of sight, but Christian’s long-range display showed Ivan’s fighters filling the sky. Hardware in the Raptor’s nose identified the aircraft as Sukhoi 27s, along with two Su-34s, the brightly colored FULLBACKs he’d seen just days earlier. The birds now aloft had sprung from the base in Chkalovsk.
Their point of origin was telling. Chkalovsk was owned by the Russian Navy, and the Su-34s were operated by their Air Force, the Voyenno-Vosdushnye Sily Rossii. That mouthful of Slavic flowed easily enough from the locals’ lips, but Prentice became tongue-tied at just the thought of saying it.
The colonel mulled over the collaboration between Russia’s forces. Fighters from the navy and air force were now working in tandem. The word had been passed that elements of the Rocket Forces were now in place, entrenched along Kaliningrad’s southern border with Poland. The Russians were clearly intent on showing some muscle.
According to Prentice’ software, eight fighters representing the opposing force were now airborne, with a couple of lumbering support platforms nearby. One was probably a re-fueler, and the other, with its larger radar return, was undoubtedly a Beriev A-50. This aircraft was far more robust than the E-3, but fulfilled the same role.
He looked on the bright side. None of Russia’s assets had behaved provocatively. Christian gave them that; Ivan could be very disciplined. The Sukhois stayed behind their line, playing it safe and observing strict rules of engagement. Coalition pilots did the same, and no one—American, Polish, or Russian—had raised their radars to paint a hypothetical target.
Prentice whispered a prayer that everyone involved would act circumspectly. Stretching out far below were the ground forces of several nations. Getting twitchy now wouldn’t help. Wars had begun over lesser things, and with NATO and the Russians poised on the brink, the senior officer couldn’t imagine a happenstance better suited to ruin everyone’s day.
'Trinity Icon' is now available
I'm very pleased to announce that Trinity Icon is now available in paperback and Kindle edition from Amazon.com. The book can also be found on the Barnes & Noble website, and I suspect other major online booksellers in the coming days.
I've also updated the Michael Neill Adventures Facebook page. You can find it here:
https://www.facebook.com/TheMichaelNe...
... and last but not least, here's the link to the book on Amazon:
http://www.amazon.com/Trinity-Michael...
Happy reading, and please pass the word!
I've also updated the Michael Neill Adventures Facebook page. You can find it here:
https://www.facebook.com/TheMichaelNe...
... and last but not least, here's the link to the book on Amazon:
http://www.amazon.com/Trinity-Michael...
Happy reading, and please pass the word!
Giveaway! Lime Award Nomination!
Okay, I couldn't come up with a better title. But that pretty much sums it up.
Most of my Goodreads and Facebook friends are aware of the Trinity Icon book giveaway going on right here on Goodreads. I'm giving away 3 copies of the paperback, and the contest runs through November 12th. There's still time to get in on this, but don't wait too long!
On Friday I learned that Trinity Icon has been nominated for the Lime Award for Excellence in Fiction. The annual awards are sponsored by thechristianmanifesto.com, and once again, the latest book in the series has garnered a five-star review, as well as this year's nomination in the Suspense/Thriller category. It's up against some stiff competition, and I am both humbled and thrilled to have my latest published efforts considered.
Readersfavorite.com and TCM are a couple of my favorite sites when it comes to reviews, and are a boon to up and coming writers and authors, so I would be remiss if I didn't give them both an appreciative shout-out. Thank you!
Most of my Goodreads and Facebook friends are aware of the Trinity Icon book giveaway going on right here on Goodreads. I'm giving away 3 copies of the paperback, and the contest runs through November 12th. There's still time to get in on this, but don't wait too long!
On Friday I learned that Trinity Icon has been nominated for the Lime Award for Excellence in Fiction. The annual awards are sponsored by thechristianmanifesto.com, and once again, the latest book in the series has garnered a five-star review, as well as this year's nomination in the Suspense/Thriller category. It's up against some stiff competition, and I am both humbled and thrilled to have my latest published efforts considered.
Readersfavorite.com and TCM are a couple of my favorite sites when it comes to reviews, and are a boon to up and coming writers and authors, so I would be remiss if I didn't give them both an appreciative shout-out. Thank you!
The Grittier Side of Michael Neill
Eye of Charybdis, book four, is progressing nicely. Not as quickly as I'd like (I've mentioned in past blogs that I am a monumentally slow writer), but this is one story that I am very interested in getting right.
In the first three books, Michael Neill has overcome many of his difficulties through prayer and the support of his colleagues. Eye of Charybdis takes a somewhat different turn; in this story, the past has begun to wear on the Captain. He's suffered personal losses; the deaths of two close friends, and he's reminded of the tragic demise of his parents (more of the details surrounding Neill's dad's death are still being unfolded). His life has been threatened on several occasions (shot by Chinese troops, nearly drowned, and on the wrong end of a rocket torpedo--all in the space of just a few hours), and in Trinity Icon, the enemies of America have targeted those closest to him.
The circle tightens further in book four, and Charybdis will reflect the real-life challenges of those serving around the world. In Trinity Icon, an assassin's bullet shatters some of Neill's confidence. He feels regret, and is forced to live with the realization that death is ever-present. His own harried experiences have left scars, obscuring his focus. The specter of post-traumatic stress rears its ugly head, not just for Neill, but for those who have shared the Captain's adventures. How they deal with these pressures is a commentary for everyday life.
But the book isn't just about challenges. There's more romance. More action. More behind the scenes political machinations. Things ramp up considerably in the new first chapter. There will be a deeper emphasis on Neill's spiritual side, and the choices he makes to safeguard the legacy left to him by his earthly father.
Just as more pressure comes to bear on the characters, opportunities for the future present themselves too. Sooner or later, this series will turn a corner, and commitments and alliances will be forced on Neill and his friends. More on that later.
I guess what I'm trying to convey is that we all face peaks and valleys, and it's no less so for those I write about. I have taken these characters into my soul, and I try to breathe life into them every chance I get. Their dynamics change. Our existence is always fluid, and not always to our liking. I've been thinking about this for some time. The world of Michael Neill is about to become grittier and more complicated, and should cause readers of the series to find common ground with protagonist and antagonist alike.
In the first three books, Michael Neill has overcome many of his difficulties through prayer and the support of his colleagues. Eye of Charybdis takes a somewhat different turn; in this story, the past has begun to wear on the Captain. He's suffered personal losses; the deaths of two close friends, and he's reminded of the tragic demise of his parents (more of the details surrounding Neill's dad's death are still being unfolded). His life has been threatened on several occasions (shot by Chinese troops, nearly drowned, and on the wrong end of a rocket torpedo--all in the space of just a few hours), and in Trinity Icon, the enemies of America have targeted those closest to him.
The circle tightens further in book four, and Charybdis will reflect the real-life challenges of those serving around the world. In Trinity Icon, an assassin's bullet shatters some of Neill's confidence. He feels regret, and is forced to live with the realization that death is ever-present. His own harried experiences have left scars, obscuring his focus. The specter of post-traumatic stress rears its ugly head, not just for Neill, but for those who have shared the Captain's adventures. How they deal with these pressures is a commentary for everyday life.
But the book isn't just about challenges. There's more romance. More action. More behind the scenes political machinations. Things ramp up considerably in the new first chapter. There will be a deeper emphasis on Neill's spiritual side, and the choices he makes to safeguard the legacy left to him by his earthly father.
Just as more pressure comes to bear on the characters, opportunities for the future present themselves too. Sooner or later, this series will turn a corner, and commitments and alliances will be forced on Neill and his friends. More on that later.
I guess what I'm trying to convey is that we all face peaks and valleys, and it's no less so for those I write about. I have taken these characters into my soul, and I try to breathe life into them every chance I get. Their dynamics change. Our existence is always fluid, and not always to our liking. I've been thinking about this for some time. The world of Michael Neill is about to become grittier and more complicated, and should cause readers of the series to find common ground with protagonist and antagonist alike.
Excerpt from 'Trinity Icon'
“They’re coming out.”
Breslov’s heart raced; he couldn’t believe their good fortune. Gripping the handle, he threw his shoulder against the door frame. “Time to deliver justice.”
Borla was both somber and resolved. “Insha’Allah.”
Exiting the car at the same time was a tactical error. It attracted too much attention—and there was something awkward about Breslov’s movements.
Borla’s pace was too hurried to be casual. The lead agent should have seen it sooner, but he was momentarily distracted by the red-headed woman advancing from his left.
• • • •
“She’s in the open.”
An odd foreboding tugged at Voskov. The hair on the back of his neck went up, and he quickened his steps. And something just ahead—
“Yuri—!”
“I see it, boss,” Tereshenko snapped.
Xander’s caution was not misplaced. There were times when a coat was just a coat, but to the captain’s practiced eye, the apparel worn by the bearded men was out of place. The lapels of each were open, and the arms of both strangers were briefly concealed in the heavy poplin.
Breslov pulled back his trench, revealing a weapon. The fabric caught on the rifle’s front sight post. Vasily jerked it free and hefted the AKM to his shoulder. Yevgeniy was also armed, and did the same, but neither man wanted to risk missing their target.
That was their second mistake.
• • • •
“Gun.” Yuri’s warning was matter of fact. “Boss—get the girl!”
He pushed Xander in Viktoriya’s direction and raced ahead, his long legs propelling him into harm’s way. Voskov didn’t argue, and each man dashed to the corner.
• • • •
The second agent brought up his Sig, but acted too late. He raised the service pistol just as Borla squeezed off a burst. Impacting his mid-section, the rounds knocked the officer to the pavement before he could return fire.
The lead member of the detail had more time to react. He brought his weapon to bear on Yevgeniy first; one slug struck his chest, while the second entered his skull, killing Borla instantly. The exit wound was not a pretty sight
Screams came from the street. Some ran for cover; others were frozen in place. Breslov ignored the din and focused on the shooter before him. He pulled hard on the trigger. Three rounds struck the agent center mass, dropping him to the sidewalk. Two more went high, chipping granite from the Bristol’s façade. He directed his aim toward the entryway, spraying another five round burst, but these went over Avery’s head, shattering the windows above the entrance.
Neill acted instantly. Reaching forward, he took hold of Avery’s overcoat and pulled him violently to the rear. As the two fell backward, broken glass cascaded around them. Before landing in a heap, the Marine collided with Arrens and Stanislaw, sending them rudely to the deck.
• • • •
With Avery’s protectorate sidelined, Vasily was free to complete his mission—or so he thought.
Marching forward, Breslov cradled his weapon at the waist, pointing the end of the barrel where his target had fallen. Neill could do little more than place his body over Avery’s. He was prepared to charge the shooter, but then his vision clouded as a dark fluid filled his right eye.
Viktoriya tensed as the world exploded. Even with the chaos around her, she knew that moving forward was a bad idea. One gunman was down, and the other was unaware of her presence. The journalist started to retreat—but her efforts were thwarted as she was tackled from behind.
• • • •
Breslov’s head snapped to the right, and he saw Xander Voskov diving toward Viktoriya. The sight was impressive; the rescuer wrapped his body around the woman, twisting in flight and landing on his back. The impact forced the air from his lungs.
The surviving member of the Faction hit squad returned his gaze to the front of the building. The image greeting his eyes startled him, and in the space of a heartbeat the gunman hesitated.
• • • •
“Stay down!”
Neill could only see with his left eye. A sharp pain came from the top of his head, and the two conditions left him dazed. Avery stirred and glass crunched beneath him, but the captain managed to keep him from rising. As he tried clearing his vision, Neill heard the sound of a slide being released on an M45 semi-automatic.
Stanislaw started to get up, his hand clutching the holster on his belt. “Mischa!” There was no response.
Aultman did a swift low crawl toward Neill and Avery. Arrens was on her feet now, stepping across the figures lying prone in the sea of glass. Her arms were extended, and she held a Colt 1911 with the business end aimed squarely at the attacker’s chest. Her finger moved from the dust cover to the trigger; she was preparing to squeeze when Yuri Tereshenko burst onto the scene.
It was indecision that robbed Breslov of success. The tall Ukrainian hit low and hard. He and the Russian tumbled across the flagstone, the rifle clattering out of reach. The two rolled to a stop. Yuri took a knee, pinning the shooter to the ground, and a stunned silence hung over the street.
The security detail began to move. Shocked but unhurt, they had been protected by their vests. The agents gripped their sidearms and got unsteadily to their feet.
Christina’s eyes and hands swept the area. She led with the pistol’s muzzle. Her priority was in judging the threat; one of the assailants was clearly dead, and the other lay subdued near the street. To her left was a woman who looked remarkably like Viktoriya Gavrilenko. On closer inspection—
“Christina!” It was Michael’s voice. He reached out, his hand gripping her leg.
That’s a first, she thought dryly.
“We’re clear.” Arrens relaxed, but didn’t drop her guard.
The captain recovered, crouching over the national security advisor. He pulled Avery into a sitting position. Small chunks of glass fell from each man as they got up.
“You hurt?” One eye was screwed shut, but Neill gave his charge a quick once-over. He was pleased to see that the man in the ruffled suit was uninjured. The sound of sirens came from blocks away.
“I’m fine.” Avery’s face was a portrait of surprise. He looked at the Marine. “Good Lord, Neill, you’ve been hit.”
Arrens dropped her gaze. “Oh, God—”
Breslov’s heart raced; he couldn’t believe their good fortune. Gripping the handle, he threw his shoulder against the door frame. “Time to deliver justice.”
Borla was both somber and resolved. “Insha’Allah.”
Exiting the car at the same time was a tactical error. It attracted too much attention—and there was something awkward about Breslov’s movements.
Borla’s pace was too hurried to be casual. The lead agent should have seen it sooner, but he was momentarily distracted by the red-headed woman advancing from his left.
• • • •
“She’s in the open.”
An odd foreboding tugged at Voskov. The hair on the back of his neck went up, and he quickened his steps. And something just ahead—
“Yuri—!”
“I see it, boss,” Tereshenko snapped.
Xander’s caution was not misplaced. There were times when a coat was just a coat, but to the captain’s practiced eye, the apparel worn by the bearded men was out of place. The lapels of each were open, and the arms of both strangers were briefly concealed in the heavy poplin.
Breslov pulled back his trench, revealing a weapon. The fabric caught on the rifle’s front sight post. Vasily jerked it free and hefted the AKM to his shoulder. Yevgeniy was also armed, and did the same, but neither man wanted to risk missing their target.
That was their second mistake.
• • • •
“Gun.” Yuri’s warning was matter of fact. “Boss—get the girl!”
He pushed Xander in Viktoriya’s direction and raced ahead, his long legs propelling him into harm’s way. Voskov didn’t argue, and each man dashed to the corner.
• • • •
The second agent brought up his Sig, but acted too late. He raised the service pistol just as Borla squeezed off a burst. Impacting his mid-section, the rounds knocked the officer to the pavement before he could return fire.
The lead member of the detail had more time to react. He brought his weapon to bear on Yevgeniy first; one slug struck his chest, while the second entered his skull, killing Borla instantly. The exit wound was not a pretty sight
Screams came from the street. Some ran for cover; others were frozen in place. Breslov ignored the din and focused on the shooter before him. He pulled hard on the trigger. Three rounds struck the agent center mass, dropping him to the sidewalk. Two more went high, chipping granite from the Bristol’s façade. He directed his aim toward the entryway, spraying another five round burst, but these went over Avery’s head, shattering the windows above the entrance.
Neill acted instantly. Reaching forward, he took hold of Avery’s overcoat and pulled him violently to the rear. As the two fell backward, broken glass cascaded around them. Before landing in a heap, the Marine collided with Arrens and Stanislaw, sending them rudely to the deck.
• • • •
With Avery’s protectorate sidelined, Vasily was free to complete his mission—or so he thought.
Marching forward, Breslov cradled his weapon at the waist, pointing the end of the barrel where his target had fallen. Neill could do little more than place his body over Avery’s. He was prepared to charge the shooter, but then his vision clouded as a dark fluid filled his right eye.
Viktoriya tensed as the world exploded. Even with the chaos around her, she knew that moving forward was a bad idea. One gunman was down, and the other was unaware of her presence. The journalist started to retreat—but her efforts were thwarted as she was tackled from behind.
• • • •
Breslov’s head snapped to the right, and he saw Xander Voskov diving toward Viktoriya. The sight was impressive; the rescuer wrapped his body around the woman, twisting in flight and landing on his back. The impact forced the air from his lungs.
The surviving member of the Faction hit squad returned his gaze to the front of the building. The image greeting his eyes startled him, and in the space of a heartbeat the gunman hesitated.
• • • •
“Stay down!”
Neill could only see with his left eye. A sharp pain came from the top of his head, and the two conditions left him dazed. Avery stirred and glass crunched beneath him, but the captain managed to keep him from rising. As he tried clearing his vision, Neill heard the sound of a slide being released on an M45 semi-automatic.
Stanislaw started to get up, his hand clutching the holster on his belt. “Mischa!” There was no response.
Aultman did a swift low crawl toward Neill and Avery. Arrens was on her feet now, stepping across the figures lying prone in the sea of glass. Her arms were extended, and she held a Colt 1911 with the business end aimed squarely at the attacker’s chest. Her finger moved from the dust cover to the trigger; she was preparing to squeeze when Yuri Tereshenko burst onto the scene.
It was indecision that robbed Breslov of success. The tall Ukrainian hit low and hard. He and the Russian tumbled across the flagstone, the rifle clattering out of reach. The two rolled to a stop. Yuri took a knee, pinning the shooter to the ground, and a stunned silence hung over the street.
The security detail began to move. Shocked but unhurt, they had been protected by their vests. The agents gripped their sidearms and got unsteadily to their feet.
Christina’s eyes and hands swept the area. She led with the pistol’s muzzle. Her priority was in judging the threat; one of the assailants was clearly dead, and the other lay subdued near the street. To her left was a woman who looked remarkably like Viktoriya Gavrilenko. On closer inspection—
“Christina!” It was Michael’s voice. He reached out, his hand gripping her leg.
That’s a first, she thought dryly.
“We’re clear.” Arrens relaxed, but didn’t drop her guard.
The captain recovered, crouching over the national security advisor. He pulled Avery into a sitting position. Small chunks of glass fell from each man as they got up.
“You hurt?” One eye was screwed shut, but Neill gave his charge a quick once-over. He was pleased to see that the man in the ruffled suit was uninjured. The sound of sirens came from blocks away.
“I’m fine.” Avery’s face was a portrait of surprise. He looked at the Marine. “Good Lord, Neill, you’ve been hit.”
Arrens dropped her gaze. “Oh, God—”
