Pamela Clare's Blog, page 26

MTM — Post-Rapture Rapture Edition

The end of the world didn't come, and a good thing, too. That leaves us all more time to pursue earthly pleasures such as those we enjoy here on Man-Titty Monday. Truly, what's the point of going to heaven anyway if there aren't hot men?

Before we get started, I want to thank everyone who participated in last Friday's "After the Epilogue" chat. We had some technical difficulties, which irritated me, especially after I whipped out a credit card to pay for a "premium chatroom." Still, we had a lot of fun. SueZ and Ronlyn helped with the chat — THANK YOU! — and Ronlyn edited the transcript, so if anyone missed it but wants to read what was said, contact me via Facebook.

We've missed a few editions of MTM over the past few weeks, but for a good cause, as that time and space was given to Breaking Point. Speaking of which, there have been some amazing reviews of the story out there, which has prompted my agent to say, "See, told you so!" and mock me for freaking out about the book last summer. Here's a review that just got posted today.

And now for man chest!

There's really nothing to say about the man at the top, except that he's absolutely perfect. He's so perfect, in fact, someone should bronze him, carve sculptures of him or put him in a museum. I would personally volunteer dust and polish him every day.


Forgive me if this fine gentleman is a repeat. With that smoldering gaze, ripped body and beautiful face, he kind of reminds me of Michelangelo's David, except that he's much better endowed. Seriously, have you ever looked at that sculpture? People suggest that Michelangelo was gay, but I just can't see a gay man giving a guy a dinky winky. Get real!

Poor David! There he is, on exhibit for all eternity, his tiny jewels right out there for everyone to see. I saw the sculpture in person during my European travels and was impressed by the detail and beauty of the work. But what struck me the most was how big David's hands were — and how tiny his penis was.

If the gentleman above — or any of these below — were rendered in marble, someone would have to carve some serious cock out of that rock.

This luscious specimen is so hot he's smoking. I've had some pretty steamy sex before, but none that set off the smoke detector. What a way to burn down the house!


I just love this one — he's ripped, hung, and wet. And though I planned to have a "Touch the Man-Titty" app up and running, it's sadly still bogged down in the development phase. So all we can do is stare and dream of the things we want to do with that body. Such as wash our panties on that six-pack.

Because I'm hard at work on Connor's book, Defiant, and because I'm behind, I'm going to offer an opportunity to all of you to be Man-Titty Consultants. Want to host Man-Titty Monday as a guest blogger here? Just let me know. You bring the beef, supply your own text, and I'll post it for you. That way I can focus on writing without depriving you of your Monday morning chesticles.

Happening this week:

On Thursday, I'm the guest at Romance & Oreos, Marie Force's book club. The wonderful and talented Ronlyn has been working on what she calls "The Most AWESOME PC Interview EVER!" I must say that she asked some interesting questions. The interview will be posted Thursday, and all of you will have the chance to ask questions, as well. In addition, I will be giving away a signed book of the winner's choice during the interview.

Coming soon:

That interview with the I-Team heroes I promised you. Now it can include Zach.
The latest word on my side projects, including a SEAL novella and An I-Team Christmas.

So stay tuned!

In the meantime, have a lovely Monday!

BREAKING POINT After the Epilogue Spoiler Chat

What's more fun than reading a book? Sharing your thoughts with friends who've also read the book. That's the idea behind the "After the Epilogue" spoiler chats.

I held my first one last year after Naked Edge was released, and it was a crazy good time. I expect the turnout this year to be even higher.

The Breaking Point "After the Epilogue" Spoiler Chat is slated for today, May 20, at 9 PM Eastern/8 Central/7 Mountain/6 Pacific time. And there will be prizes!

I will be giving away five gift certificates for $10 each to Amazon.com to five lucky participants.

Here's what you need to know:

1. The chat is only open to people who've already read the book. This is my way of saying thank you to my most hardcore readers, the ones who beat down the bookstore doors to get their hands on Zach, er... the story. Last year there was some confusion about this, with readers who hadn't read the story asking us please not to give away spoilers. But this is strictly a spoiler chat.

2. To participate, click here, or go to http://www.chatzy.com/982067085045. It's easy and hassle free.

3. There will be moderators to help control the flow of comments and questions. Please pay attention to them so that everyone has a chance to share her thoughts about the story and to ask me questions.

4. Yes, you can feel free to ask me questions. I'll do my best to answer.

5. It won't be a free-for-all with people just typing in comments. Last year, there were so many comments that entire pages went by and I had to scroll backward to get to people's questions. So there will be some traffic control. To ask a question, type a question mark and then one of the moderators will give you the floor. When I ask a question of all of you, just feel free to type your answer. These are easy rules to follow, and they make it easier for everyone to have fun.

6. Alcoholic beverages, chocolate and other forms of decadence are not only welcome, but encouraged. Grab your copy of Breaking Point, pour yourself a nice glass of wine, and get ready to have an uncensored talk with me and your fellow readers about Zach and Natalie's escapades.

Think of this as a virtual pajama party with 100 best friends.

See you there!

Thanks to you, we (sort of) did it!

This is what a bestselling breakout book looks like.

Hi, there!

I know it's been a while since I updated my blog. I left town last week to attend my younger son Benjamin's senior thesis film screening in Ithaca. My older son, Alec, and a couple of Benjamin's high school friends came to New York, too, so we had quite a contingent representing for him when The Last Raid played for the first time on the silver screen. I saw several of your names up there and wanted to hug you for contributing to his project via IndieGoGo.

I thought the film turned out wonderfully, and judging from the audience response, I was not the only one who loved it.



Here's Benjamin on the night of the screening in Park Auditorium with his beautiful girlfriend, Lucy. Alec is sitting in the background, saving seats. He's the one with the fedora.

Benjamin had to work, so we couldn't kick back together the entire weekend, but we celebrated with some nice meals out, waiting more than an hour for a table at Viva, the local Mexican restaurant. Those of us from Colorado got a good laugh out of the glossary of terms in the menu — and were appropriately outraged that the place charged for chips and salsa and then didn't refill the bowl for free. (Folks would find themselves run out of town for that sort of thing in the West, let me tell you.)


Yesterday, we hiked up to Taughannock Falls in the pouring rain without umbrellas — Colorado people don't own umbrellas — and got thoroughly soaked. It was really quite the site. Higher than Niagara Falls, it spills down a sheer wall of shale to a riverbed that is polished smooth down to the rock in some places. Really very interesting geologically speaking and breathtaking visually. The water flow was much higher than you see in this photo. The runoff was a big ribbon of white that filled the spillway.

Benjamin and I have a couple of traditions when we're out and about in upstate NY together. The first is that we get lost. They don't exactly have signs on all the roads, and the roads don't necessarily go where you think they're going — if they go anywhere. And, yes, we managed to get lost. High fives all around. One tradition upheld.

The other is that we hike in cold rain without umbrellas whenever we go hiking to the local gorges. (Ithaca IS gorges, after all.) And, as you already know, we upheld that tradition.

We weren't able to work in a trip to Fort Edward (Fort Elizabeth), which was painful for me, especially given that I'm writing Connor's book now. Still, this is Ranger country. Walking along the trail to Taughannock Falls, I was able to look into the thick forest and imagine Connor, Sarah and Joseph out there, fighting to make their way back from a Shawnee village alive. I tried to see it all from Sarah's point of view. How would a noble lady from England who'd barely ventured beyond a rose garden view the North American wilderness?

I really enjoyed getting lost in that train of thought, even if I was soaked through my jean jacket and T-shirt to my skin and my shoes were filled with water and mud. It was a lot of fun — even if it later resulted in a nappy-hair nightmare. Humidity and my hair? Not friends.

I was supposed to fly out today. But this is what Ithaca looked like most of the day:


I got up early, got to the airport, and found out my flight was delayed. And delayed again. And delayed again and again and again. And then it was clear I wouldn't meet my connecting flight to Denver. So, taking the initiative, I went to the ticket counter and asked them to pull my bag, find me a new connecting flight for later in the evening, and relabel my bag so it would arrive with me. They told me there were no later connecting flights. None.

So here I am, back at my hotel. I had an unexpected dinner of 'za (that's pizza) with my boys, my "adopted" son Chris Wu and Lucy and got a call from my agent...

And now for some very good news!

Thanks to you, my dear readers, Breaking Point is, indeed, the breakout book I've needed. It's been out for less than two weeks and is already going back to press for more than its initial print run.

I am so excited by this news, and I owe it to all of you who helped spread the word about the I-Team series.

Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!

What's more, I was told they think they're going to have to go back to press again almost right away, because most of the books in the second press run are already sold or are special orders — thousands of them placed by readers who couldn't find the book when it first came out.

And that's not all the good news. Yes, there's more.

Apparently, my ebook sales were so high that, if they had been counted together with print sales, I would have hit the big bestseller lists. That is exciting!

I was told that my publisher is very pleased by all of this. So am I. And I know I owe it to those of you who blogged, reviewed, tweeted, posted on Facebook, put up reviews on Amazon, B&N and Goodreads, emailed your friends — and rushed out on May 3 to buy a copy.

The best way I know how to thank you is to keep writing the best possible stories I can. But I'm working on something extra special. I hope to have a special I-Team e-novella ready by Thanksgiving — an I-Team Christmas. I'll make it available for free for a time. (Of course, I have to write it first. Free nuthin' is nuthin', you know.)

Oh! And more good news... I will finally be able to put Sweet Release and Carnal Gift, my first two historical romances, online for sale as ebooks. I managed to acquire a small stock of them that I can sell in print format also. It will take a while before I'll have them ready to go, but they are going to be available again sometime in the next several months.

The version of Carnal Gift that I'll be releasing is the one I wrote — not the one that was published. About 100 pages were cut out of the story to make it fit the publishers arbitrary maximum word count, and I think it really hurt the story. So those pages are going back in.

And I think I'm fresh out of good news for now.

Wish me luck getting safely back to Denver tomorrow.

And thanks again for your support! I love my readers! You are the best.

Release week highlights for BREAKING POINT

Downloadable wallpaper — find it under Fun Stuff & Extras on my website.

Breaking Point has been out for almost a week now, and thanks to you it's doing very well. I'm not sure if the momentum has been enough to put it on the lists, but I do know it's been well received by the people who count — and that's you!

For me, the highlights of this week include:

Reading all of your passionate, emotional emails, tweets, Goodreads updates, reviews and comments sharing your feelings about the book. Writers write in isolation. A book I finished last November is only now reaching its audience. Finally getting to share it with you is so wonderful.

Seeing the numbers on Amazon rise higher than they've ever been before. Though I can't monitor it around the clock, I did see at one point that the book hit #1,005 for books, #60-something for romantic suspense, #180-something for Kindle books and #30 for Kindle Romance. That's just Amazon.



Getting photos from you all whenever you saw a display with the books. SueZ sent one from Borders. Maureen sent one from her Borders store. Doreen sent one of her copy of the book together with the Mexican food fiesta she'd set up for herself to enjoy while reading the story.



Being interviewed by the Washington Post because my book, which just happened to come out two days after SEAL Team Six sent Osama off to the underworld, has a former Navy SEAL as a hero. Click here to read the article.

Getting a B from Dear Author and seeing Breaking Point as a Recommended Read on that site.

I could tell every time one of you reached a certain, specific place in the story, because you posted either, "Oh, my God!" or "Oh, no, she didn't!" I had expected angry emails. I'm guessing you all were too caught up in that particular moment to bother emailing me, however. A quick tweet and you had to see what happened next.

I'm having to shift gears to make headway on Connor's story, but I thought we could devote today (and maybe tomorrow — I'm slammed for time, so MTM might not happen) sharing favorite quotes from the story. Scenes are too spoiler-y, but quotes — note quite as much.

Still, if you haven't read the book, beware! There may be spoilers here.

So what were your favorite quotes in the story. List as many as you'd like.

And thanks for making this past week so special!

Interview with Charlaine Harris + Sookie giveaway

Last week in the midst of getting ready for my own book release, I managed to snag an interview with Charlaine Harris, the author who brought us the Sookie Stackhouse series, which is the basis for HBO's True Blood.

I say I "snagged" an interview, but that's really baloney. Truth is, Penguin, which publishes my books as well as hers, sent the journalist version of me a press release announcing her book tour, which includes a stop in Denver. I found it so funny that I'd gotten a press release from them that I called her publicist — who sits across the hall from my publicist. Not a lot of work went into getting the interview, and my editor and others at Berkley spent the day giggling over how small a world it is.

I will admit that I was nervous about doing the interview. Interviewing someone who's a colleague is always different from interviewing anyone else, whether that colleague is a fellow journalist or a writer. But the interview went well, and I was very impressed with Charlaine as a person. All the integrity we see in Sookie's character comes from Charlaine's own personality — that's my assessment, at any rate.



As part of the interview, I arranged to do a book giveaway for Dead Reckoning. So here's how to win:

Comment on this blog post. The winner gets a copy of Dead Reckoning from the publisher and a signed copy of Breaking Point from me. Double trouble, right?

Click through to read the interview and comment on the thread at the end. The paper will choose one winner from that thread to receive a copy of Dead Reckoning from the publisher.

So that's two chances to win Dead Reckoning and another chance to win a signed copy of Breaking Point.

That's this week's Friday fun.

More Breaking Point action ahead both here on this blog, on Facebook and across the Interwebs. Here are some upcoming events:

May 10: I'll be at Lady Jane's Salon.

May 12: Writerspace.com's Berkley/Jove author chat. Go to Writerspace.com, click through to the chatrooms and sign in. Couldn't be easier. Starts at 9 p.m. EST.

May 17: Canned Laughter & Coffee Blog Radio Talk. I'll be doing an interview there that evening at 7:15. Not sure about the time zone on that...

May 28: Book signing at the Barnes & Noble at 92nd & Sheridan. The time is TBA. This is likely the only signing I'll be doing for Breaking Point apart from the big author signing at RomCon in August. Ashley March and Lizzie T. Leaf will also be signing.

Extras & Fun stuff: How can you get a signed bookplate for your copy of Breaking Point? It's easy! Send an SASE to me at PO Box 1582, Longmont, CO 80502. I'll get your bookplate in the mail.

On the horizon: highlights from reader reviews and letters, an interview with the I-Team heroes, including Zach, and maybe we'll even get to that "Match the I-Team Quote to the Character" contest.

Got my first harvest of arugula and spinach from the garden last night. YUM! And now I need to write! Because you want more books, right?

BREAKING POINT IS OUT! Contests, blogs & more!

Breaking Point is out!

Today is the day! It’s here at last. Yes, it’s Release Day for Breaking Point, my 10th novel and the fifth novel in the I-Team series. Uncork the champagne!

There’s a lot going on today with lots of chances to win books. Here are some of the highlights.

First, you might want to follow me on Twitter. I’ll be announcing any special giveaways or other fun events there.

Also, be sure to stop by my Facebook fan page. We’ll be having some fun there. A few other authors will be stopping by to talk about their books and hold giveaways. Plus, I’ll be holding a drawing for Amazon gift cards and signed copies of Breaking Point. To be entered, you’ll need to comment, and to comment, you’ll need to “Like” me. But you already like me, right?

I’m the guest author today at Seductive Musings, where Booklover has outdone herself in a post that includes a little guest piece by me, as well as the MP3 playlist from Breaking Point, a collection of links to Breaking Point excerpts scattered across the web, links to all kinds of I-Team extras — and some super-sexy photos of the I-Team heroes. It really is quite the I-Team extravaganza, almost an I-Team wiki, so even if you already have a copy of Breaking Point, you’re going to have a lot of fun.

There’s a fun chat between me and Marie Force on her blog today. Yes, two author/journalists dishing about dishy heroes and some of the behind-the-scenes aspects of the I-Team series — including the scarier parts of my life that have gone into the books. It took us about a week to have this conversation via email because we’re both so busy. She would ask a question... And 12 hours later I would answer. But stop by, tell us which I-Team hero you wouldn’t kick out of bed, and be entered to win a signed copy of Breaking Point.

Reviews are popping up all over the Internet. I shared a few links to reviews in my last post, including this one by Kristin and Jess that was lots of fun. I also shared the first two chapters of the book. So if you want to peruse that, it’s still waiting for you, together with images that come out of the story.

If you want to help me spread the word, here’s what you can do:

Post about Breaking Point in your Facebook status, linking to my Facebook page or to an excerpt — whatever you believe your friends would love to know about the book.

Tweet and retweet, sharing links and updates about where you are in the story, what you enjoyed, where you saw the book on display. And don’t forget to use the hashtag #BreakingPoint.

Update your status in Goodreads to let people know where you are in the book.

Take photos with your cellphone of displays of the book or of you reading the book and email them to me (my email is listed in my info on Facebook). I might just post your photo on my blog.

Post honest reviews after you read the book, sharing your feelings about the stories strengths and weakness (as if!). Don’t try to sell people. Just tell them, reader to reader, what you liked (or didn’t like — ha!) about the book.

Mention what you’re reading in your readers groups, in chats, in threads on discussion boards.

Fricking get a megaphone and stand inside your local book store shouting, “You haven’t read the I-Team? What the bleep is wrong with you?”


On May 12, I’ll be participating in the Berkley/Jove Author Chat on Writerspace.com. The fun starts at 9 PM EST. I will be giving away a signed copy of the book to one participant in that chat. To be a part of it, click here and sign yourself in. It’s easy. Other Berkley/Jove authors will be there, as well. These chats sometimes get a bit bawdy. A bunch of romance authors and readers chatting semi-anonymously? You bet they get bawdy. I once taught a group of women how to say “big, wonderful cock” in Danish during one of these chats, and you know what? They still know how to say it. They say it every time I run into them online, in fact. And my Danish friends wonder what the hell...

Ahem. Anyway, there will be other events coming up through the month, so stay tuned! I still hope to get a former U.S. Marshal in here to talk with you, as well as the I-Team heroes, which now number five strong. And by strong I mean ripped.

Wow. Ten novels. I know some authors have written more than 100. But to write those 10 novels while working full-time and raising kids... It truly feels like a day worth celebrating.

But the most wonderful part of being an author and writing these books has been sharing them with all of you. I really do read all of your e-mails. I read your Facebook posts and tweets. And on days when I’m struggling, you really keep me going. When a book is done and it reaches your hands — that’s the best moment for me. Characters I love and have lived with for months become characters we share. Their stories become shared adventures.

So thank you to all of my readers and posters, my friends and family, for your support and for sharing this great adventure with me.

Enjoy Breaking Point!

And then come back to chat with me about it!

Contest #1: Really want to help me spread the word? Join my Fan Page on Facebook, and get your romance-reading friends to join, too. The person who brings the most new people to my Facebook Fan Page wins a signed copy of Breaking Point for herself — and one for one of her friends chosen through a random drawing. So that I can keep track, be sure to have your friends tell me you sent them.

Contest #2: Tweet your heart out. How creative are your tweets? How many times can you get yourself retweeted? The person who generates the most tweets and retweets with the hashtag #BreakingPoint will win a signed copy of the book. All I have to do to determine the winner is click on the hashtag and count.

And because these two contests might not work for people in other time zones or those who have to work all day — some bosses are total asshats when it comes to letting their employees goof off online during working hours — here’s Contest #3: Post a comment here about your favorite I-Team moment and be entered into a random drawing for a signed copy of the book.

(I can tell you right now, Breaking Point has an I-Team moment you won’t soon forget. Almost everyone who’s read the story has mentioned it.)

That’s three contests and four winners.

As for my part, I took the day off so that I could hang with you all day!

Now go get him. Zach in all of his Navy SEAL/Deputy U.S. Marshal glory is yours!

First two chapters of BREAKING POINT — 1 day to go!

Tomorrow is the day!

We're down to the last 24 hours before Breaking Point is released. Some of you have already read it, either because you won the book as a prize or you got a copy from Barnes & Noble, which released the book early.

As a result, there are reviews popping up all over the Internet. Click here to read one by Kristin and Jess that's a little different from the rest. Or click here to read one from Night Owl Romance. Goodreads has quite a number of them up. Romance Reviews Today has one that's about to go live.

In the meantime, I thought I'd put us in the mood for Zach and Natalie's story by posting the first two chapters from the book here. Enjoy!





CHAPTER 1

Natalie Benoit watched the streets of Ciudad Juárez roll by outside the bus window, wishing the driver would turn up the air conditioning. It wasn't yet noon and already the city was an oven. Even the palm trees seemed to wither in the July heat.

"With three other seasons in the year, why did SPJ have to choose summer for this conference?" She fanned herself with her copy of the day's program, perspiration trickling between her breasts.

"Don't tell me you think it's hot, chula." Joaquin Ramirez, the newspaper's best shooter, grinned at her from across the aisle, his camera still aimed out the window. "This can't be any worse than New Orleans in the summer."

"Is that where you are from, Miss Benoit—New Orleans?" Enrique Marquez, a journalist from Culiacán, glanced back from the seat in front of her, his Spanish accent making both her name and the name of her hometown sound exotic. In his fifties, he was still a handsome man, with salt-and-pepper hair, a well-trimmed moustache and brown eyes that twinkled whenever he spoke of his grandchildren.

"Can't you tell by her accent?" Joaquin gave Natalie a wink.

Natalie ignored Joaquin, refusing to take the bait. "Yes, sir. I was born there and grew up in the Garden District." Which was why she did not have an accent, no matter what her colleagues might think. "I left Louisiana many years ago and live in Denver now."



She hoped Sr. Marquez would let it go, but was almost certain he wouldn't. Mention New Orleans, and people just had to ask about the storm. Given that journalists were far more curious than most people, Natalie supposed his next question was inevitable.

"Did you live there during Hurricane Katrina?"

She looked out the window, letting the words come with no thought and no emotion, as if what they represented meant nothing to her. "Yes, sir. It was a terrible time for so many of us. I moved to Denver after that."

She said nothing about where she'd been during the storm or what she'd witnessed or what had happened to her fiancé, Beau, and her parents in the aftermath.

"Lo siento. I am sorry, Miss Benoit."

"No le gusta hablar de eso," Joaquin said softly.

Natalie didn't speak Spanish well, but she understood that much. And Joaquin was right. She didn't like to talk about it. Even six years later, it still hurt too much.

People told her she should move on, get over it, get on with her life. Oh, how she hated those words! They were easy to say, but no one had yet been able to explain to her exactly how she was supposed to "move on." Mourning her parents had been hard enough, but she'd always known she would lose them one day. She'd never expected to lose Beau. How could she "get over" him? How could she forget the man who'd died out of love for her?

It wasn't that she hadn't tried to move on. Selling her parents' home—the house at First and Chestnut where she'd grown up—had been a big step, as had moving to Denver. After a year, she'd stopped wearing her engagement ring. She'd even joined an online dating service and gone on several dates. But none of the men she'd met, no matter how intelligent, kind or attractive, had sparked anything inside her.

It was as if some part of her had forgotten how to feel.

Banamex. Telcel. McDonald's. Lucerna. Pemex.

The names of banks, businesses, restaurants and gas stations drifted before her, barely registering with her mind. What she did notice were the vibrant colors of the buildings. Bright oranges. Vivid blues. Lush greens. Lemony yellows. And blazing blood reds. Everywhere reds. It was as if the residents of Juárez had decided to strike a blow on behalf of color in defiance of the drab brown landscape that surrounded them.

Natalie had signed up for the trip because she'd wanted to get away from the newsroom for few days. She'd been working at the Denver Independent for almost three years now, and she felt stuck in some kind of professional ennui. Not that she didn't love her job. She did. Having a spot on the paper's award-winning Investigative Team—the I-Team—was every investigative journalist's dream. But journalism wasn't a low-stress profession even on the best of days.

Burn-out was a very real hazard of the job. Or maybe the lethargy that had taken over the rest of her life was affecting her job now, too.

Regardless, she'd needed a change of pace, and this trip had offered that.

She and thirty-nine other journalists—most American, some Mexican—had crossed the border from El Paso into Juárez early this morning, part of a three-day convention and tour put together by the Society of Professional Journalists and the U.S. State Department as a way of bringing Mexican and American journalists together to learn about the intermingled issues of immigration, the drug trade, and human trafficking. They'd started the day with breakfast at the U.S. consulate. Then, under the protection of two dozen armed federales, they'd toured a police station and the offices of El Diario, the local newspaper, where bullet holes in the walls reminded them just how dangerous it was to be a journalist in Juárez.

"And I thought my job sucked," one of the other American reporters had said, running his fingers over the scarred wall.

The sight of those bullet holes—and the empty desk of the journalist who'd been killed—had put a few things in perspective for Natalie, too. The worst thing she had to put up with during the course of the average workday was her editor's temper. But no amount of yelling from Tom Trent could compare to flying bullets.

Now they were on their way to the Museo de Historia—the beautiful Museum of History—where President Taft had once dined. After that, they'd visit a new five-star hotel in the downtown area for lunch. It was clear that Mexican officials were proud of their town and were making certain that the tour included a look at the beauty and culture of Juárez, and not just the violence for which the city was unfortunately known.

She couldn't blame them for that. There were at least two sides to every story, and although the drug cartels made headlines, most people who lived here were decent men and women just trying to raise families and live their lives. Despite the poverty the unremitting violence, Ciudad Juárez was a city that still dared to hope.

In the streets below, a young mother, her dark hair pulled back in a bouncy ponytail, pushed a baby in a stroller. A shopkeeper in a royal blue apron swept the stone steps of his store. Two teenage boys in bright white T-shirts and jeans walked past a gaggle of pretty girls, their heads craning for a better look as the girls passed them. The girls, well aware of this attention, covered their mouths with their hands and broke into giggles. Nearby, two elderly gentlemen sat on a bench, lost in conversation, straw fedoras on their heads, cigars in their hands.

Natalie felt the bus lurch to a stop but was so caught up in the tableau outside her window that she didn't realize something was wrong until the scene changed. The teenage boys stopped, then turned and ran up an alley. The shopkeeper dropped his broom and disappeared indoors. The woman with the stroller grabbed her baby and backed into a doorway, leaving the empty stroller to roll down the sidewalk, a look of fear on her face. The two old men dropped to their knees and crouched behind the bench.

And then Natalie heard it—the grinding fire of automatic weapons.

Shattered glass. Screams. Staccato bursts of gunfire.

"Madre de Dios!"

"What the hell?"

"Natalie! Natalie, get down!"

Joaquin's shout of warning pierced Natalie's shock and disbelief. She ducked into the small space between her seat and the seatback in front of her, crouching against the floor, shards of glass falling around her like rain. Pulse pounding in her ears, she looked across the aisle, her gaze locking with Joaquin's as he reached out and closed his hand over hers.

# # #

It was pain and thirst that woke him.

For a moment Zach MacBride thought he was back in Afghanistan, lying at the top of that canyon wall in the Hindu Kush mountains, an AK-47 round in his back. He opened his eyes to see pitch black and then remembered. He wasn't in Afghanistan. He was in Mexico. And he was a captive—blindfolded and chained to a brick wall.

He raised his head and realized he was lying shirtless on his right side, his hands shackled behind his back, his bare skin resting against the filthy stone floor. His mouth was dry as sand. His wrists were blistered and bloody where the manacles had rubbed them raw. His cracked ribs cut into his left side like a blade.

He tried to sit, but couldn't.

Damn!

He was weaker than he'd realized.

Then something hard and multi-legged brushed his chest as it skittered by, bringing him upright on a punch of adrenaline. Pain slashed through his side, breath hissing between his clenched teeth as he bit back a groan. He wasn't afraid of the mice or the spiders, but they weren't the only creatures in here with him. The one time the Zetas had removed his blindfold, he'd seen scorpions. And the last damned thing he needed was a scorpion sting.

Dizzy from hunger, his heart pounding from sleep deprivation and dehydration, he leaned his right shoulder against the brick wall and tried to catch his breath, the chain that held him lying cold and heavy along his spine.

How long had he been here? Five days? No, six.

And where exactly was here?

Somewhere between Juárez and hell.

They were giving him only enough food and water to keep him alive, his hunger and thirst incessant, mingling with pain, making it hard to sleep. Only once in his life had he been this physically helpless. Only then it had been even worse.

If he survived, if he made it out of here alive, he would track down Gisella and kill her— or at least hand her over to D.C. The little bitch of a Mexican INTERPOL agent had set him up, betrayed him to the Zetas. She'd known what would happen to him—the Zetas were infamous for their brutality—and still she'd handed him over to them with a smile on her lying lips.

At least you didn't sleep with her, buddy.

Yeah, well, at least he could feel good about that. It would suck right now to have her taste in his mouth or her scent on his skin, knowing that she'd put him through this. Long ago he'd made it a rule never to get involved with women while on assignment, and despite Gisella's persistent attempts to get him to break that rule, he'd kept his dick in his pants.

Hell, they should carve that on your headstone, MacBride.

If he got a headstone.

Would they put up a grave marker for him if they didn't have a body to bury? Barring one hell of a miracle, he'd soon be scattered across the desert in small pieces. A year or two from now, someone would spot a bit of bleached bone in the sand and wonder what it was. No one would ever know for sure what had happened to him.

Besides, who was there to buy a grave plot or erect a headstone? His fellow DUSMs? Uncle Sam? His closest friends were dead. His mother was gone, too. He hadn't spoken to his father since his mother's funeral four years ago. And there was no one else in his life—no girlfriend, no wife, no kids.

You're a popular guy.

He'd always thought he'd get married one day and do the family thing. He'd imagined a pretty wife, a couple of kids, a house near the ocean. But life hadn't turned out that way.

He'd met lots of girls in college, but none who'd held his interest. Then a confrontation with his father had sent him into the Navy. He'd tackled Officers Candidate School and then almost two years of SEAL training. The only women who'd been available during his short periods of leave were either professionals or women who were so desperate to marry a Navy SEAL that they spread their legs for every frogman they met. Call him strange, but he'd never found the idea of paying for sex or being used appealing. He'd wanted a woman who loved him for himself and not his SEAL trident. But war had interfered, and he'd never found her.

Something tightened in his chest, a wave of regret passing through him.

Feeling sorry for yourself?

No. He'd made his choices. He'd done what he thought was right. And although his life hadn't turned out the way he might once have hoped, it was better this way. He'd seen firsthand what happened to women and children when the men they loved and depended on were killed in action. At least he wouldn't be leaving a grieving wife and children behind.

Okay, so no headstone.

Mike, Chris, Brian and Jimmy were in Arlington resting beneath slabs of white marble, but for Zach it would be saguaro and open sky. That was okay. He liked the desert. And even if he didn't, it wouldn't make one damned bit of difference once he was dead.

Which will be soon if you can't find a way out of this.

Not that he was afraid to die. He'd expected his job would catch up with him one day. In fact, some part of him had been counting on it.

But not yet. And not like this.

He'd been about to wrap up the biggest covert operation of his career when Gisella had called him and asked him to meet her at a nightclub in downtown Juárez, claiming to have intel vital for catching Arturo Cesár Cárdenas, the head of Los Zetas, who was wanted in the United States for the murder of Americans on U.S. soil. So Zach had grabbed his gun and fake ID—he never carried revealing documentation when he was working a black bag job like this—then crossed the border and headed straight to the club, where he'd found Gisella, dressed to kill, sitting at the bar. She'd bought him a Coke, walked with him to a table near the rear exit, and started telling him something about a shipment of stolen coke. And then…

And then—nothing.

The drink had been drugged. When Zach had awoken, he'd found himself here, surrounded by pissed off Zetas demanding to know whom he worked for and where he'd hidden the cocaine. He couldn't answer the first question because it would imperil the entire operation, putting the lives of others at risk. And he couldn't answer the second because he hadn't stolen any coke and had no idea where it was. But his refusal to talk had only angered the Zetas more.

So they'd brought in a specialist—a man who knew how to inflict pain while keeping his victims alive. Electric shock was his area of expertise. He'd gone to work on Zach two days ago, and so far the two of them were at an impasse. He'd been able to make Zach pass out. He'd made him bite his own tongue trying not to scream. He'd made him want to cry like a baby. But he hadn't made him talk.

Zach had the Navy and SERE training to thank for that—Survival, Evasion, Resistance and Escape. Designed to help SEALs survive behind enemy lines, his training had been a godsend, helping him through hour after excruciating hour. Even though he was no longer in the military, he'd instinctively fallen back on that training, silently reciting bits and pieces of the military code of conduct, using it to stay strong.

I am an American, fighting in the forces which guard my country and our way of life. I am prepared to give my life in their defense… I will never surrender of my own free will… If I am captured, I will resist by all means available… I will evade answering further questions to the utmost of my ability… I will make every effort to escape…

As weak as he was, he knew he didn't stand a chance of escaping. And that meant there was only one thing left for him to do—keep his mind together long enough for his body to give out, long enough for him to die as he ought to have done six years ago.

Killed in the line of duty.

It had a nice ring to it.

Strange to think there'd been a time when he'd thought of taking the coward's way out. He'd come home from the war and tried to return to civilian life. But then the nightmares had started. The doctors had said it was PTSD, but didn't have any answers for him that didn't come in a pill. The Navy had pinned a medal on his chest and called him a hero. But there was nothing heroic about him. He'd come back from Afghanistan, and his men had not.

Finally, it had overwhelmed him, and he'd spent a long couple of months drinking rum and contemplating eating his own gun. But he hadn't been able to do it. How would he have been able to face Mike, Chris, Brian and Jimmy if he'd committed suicide?

At least now when he met them, he wouldn't have to feel ashamed.

Raucous laughter drifted into his cell from across the courtyard, voices drawing nearer, boots crunching on gravel.

Zach stiffened, dread uncoiling in his stomach, rising into his throat.

They were coming for him again.

Jesus!

He drew as deep a breath as his broken ribs would allow, swallowing his panic with what was left of his spit.

I am an American, fighting in the forces which guard my country and our way of life. I am prepared to give my life in their defense. I will never surrender of my own free will.

# # #

"Padre nuestro que estás en el cielo, santificado sea tu Nombre."

Holding fast to Joaquin's hand, Natalie looked to her right, where Sr. Marquez crouched against the sliver-strewn floor, eyes closed, a rosary in his trembling hands, his whispered prayers barely audible over the pounding of her heart. She didn't understand everything he was saying, and it had been years since she'd been to Mass, but she recognized the cadence of the prayer, her mind latching onto the English words, speaking them along with him in her mind.

Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven.

The door of the bus exploded inward in a spray of glass.

Too afraid even to scream, Natalie watched as three armed men in dark green military fatigues stomped up the stairs, pistols in hand, automatic weapons slung on straps over their shoulders. One stopped long enough to point a pistol at the bus driver, whose pleading cries were cut short with a pop that splattered blood across the windshield.

Screams. Black boots. Another pop.

Sr. Marquez prayed faster, his voice shaking. "Danos hoy el pan de este día y perdona nuestras ofensas así como nosotros perdonamos a lost que nos ofendan."

Then Natalie heard the mechanical click and buzz of Joaquin's camera. Somehow she'd let go of his hand, her face now buried in her palms. She looked up, saw him lying out in the aisle, his camera pointed toward their attackers, a look of focused concentration on his face as he did his job—documenting the news.

She whispered to him. "Joaquin, no! They'll kill—"

The boots drew nearer.

Joaquin kept shooting. Click. Click. Click.

"¡No! Por favor, no—" No, please don't—

Pop!

Screams.

And Natalie understood.

They were killing the Mexican citizens on the bus but leaving the Americans alive.

Pop! Pop!

She looked over at Joaquin, at his dark hair, his brown eyes, his brown skin, and was blindsided by fear for him. They would think Joaquin was Mexican. And they would kill him.

Pop! Pop! Pop!

Blood ran along the floor, pooled beneath the seats, the air stung by the smell of it.

Pop! Pop!

"Y no nos dejes caer en la tentación sino que líbranos del malo. Amen." Sr. Marquez opened his eyes, his gaze meeting Natalie's, rosary still in his hands. "I am sorry, Miss Benoit."

And then the men in the boots were there.

Sweat trickling down his temples, Sr. Marquez looked up into his killer's face, pressing his lips to the cross.

Natalie cried out. "No, don't—!"

Pop!

Then he lay dead, his sightless eyes open, blood trickling from a bullet hole in his forehead.

Without thinking, Natalie threw herself into the aisle, shielding Joaquin with her body, struggling for the right words. "Él no es Mexicano! Él es Americano! He's a citizen of the United States! He's American!"

Cold brown eyes—a killer's eyes—watched her with apparent amusement, a pitiless smile spreading across a face too young to be so cruel. Then teenage assailant's gaze shifted to his fellow killers, and he said something in Spanish that made them laugh.

Joaquin wrapped his arms around her and pulled hard, obviously trying to thrust her behind him, but constrained by the small space. "Natalie, stop! Don't do this!"

The young assailant raised his gun.

"He's American!" Natalie shouted the words. "Es gringo, americano! He's—"

Then she realized the gun was pointed at her.

Her breath caught in her throat.

He's going to shoot you, girl.

She wondered for a moment how much it would hurt—then gasped as the butt of the gun came down on her temple. Her head seemed to explode. Blinded by pain and limp as a rag doll, she fell forward and felt cruel hands wrench her away from Joaquin, who fought to hold onto her, shouting something in Spanish that she couldn't understand.

"He's American," she managed to say, her own voice sounding far away, the world spinning as she was dragged down the bloody aisle and passed from one attacker to another. She struggled to raise her head and caught just a glimpse of the man who'd struck her aiming his pistol at Joaquin. "Joaquin!"

Pop!

And she knew he was dead.



CHAPTER 2



Her head throbbing, Natalie struggled to breathe in the strangling darkness, her heart beating so hard it hurt, the sweltering air suffocating her, breath catching in her throat before it reached her lungs. She had to get out of here. She had to get out!

God, please help me! Somebody help me!

She might have screamed the words, or she might only have thought them. She didn't know. But, regardless, no help came.

She twisted in the cramped space, tried to stretch out, desperate for room to breathe, but the trunk was too small. Gasping for air, she reached out with bound hands to find only inches between her face and the underside of the trunk lid.

It was like being buried alive.

A screamed caught in her throat, panic driving her as she pushed on the trunk lid with her hands and feet, striking it, kicking it, trying to force it open.

It didn't budge.

And for a moment, she was back in New Orleans at the hospital, the storm raging.

Come see, darlin'. They were already dyin'. I jus' made it easier. Ya get on in there now. Go on.

No! You can't shut me in here. I'll suffocate!

Hush, you! Have a good death, a peaceful death.

Darkness. Cold. No air to breathe. The endless howling of the storm.

The car hurtled around a corner, throwing Natalie against the side of the trunk, her face pressed against rough carpet that stank of exhaust, the violent motion jolting her past the worst edge of her claustrophobia and back to the present, the pitch black of the morgue locker fading into the darkness of the closed trunk—and a reality just as horrible and terrifying.

Joaquin was dead.

He was dead, along with so many others. Dear Sr. Marquez, who'd loved his grandkids so much. Ana-Leticia Izel, who'd been about Natalie's age. Isidoro Fernandez, who'd survived being shot in the leg on his way home from work last year. Sergio de Leon, who'd had to go into hiding after exposing several corrupt government officials as pawns of the cartels.

All gone. All dead.

And she was a captive of the men who'd killed them.

The cold, hard truth brought her heartbeat to a near standstill.

Oh, God.

What were they going to do to her?

What do think they're going to do, girl?

The El Paso police had talked about it a lot on the first day—the unsolved murders of young women and girls in Juárez. Hundreds had gone missing, and those whose bodies had been found had been sexually brutalized and dismembered. At first, the police had believed there was a single serial killer to blame. Then they'd blamed copycat killers.

But now, years later, it was clear that rape and murder were just part of the violent landscape, with drug cartels, sex slavers, human traffickers, gangs, and serial killers from both sides of the border preying on the young women who flocked to Juárez hoping for a job in one of the maquiladoras. During the seminar, they'd shown photos of some of the victims, stark images of young women lying naked and dead in ditches, in garbage bins, in the desert.

And suddenly Natalie found it hard to breathe again, her heart tripping hard and fast, her stomach threatening to revolt. But it wasn't claustrophobia this time.

It was straight-up terror.

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to force the unbearable images from her mind, the distress and sorrow she'd felt at seeing what had happened to those women becoming fear for herself. Is that what these men planned to do to her?

I don't want to die like that. Not like that.

She didn't want to die at all.

Maybe they would hold her for ransom. She was a U.S. citizen, after all, and they knew she was a journalist. Maybe they just wanted money. Oh, God, she hoped so.

God, help me!

It was so hot, so hot. Her entire body was sticky with perspiration, her mouth dry from thirst—or was that fear? Claustrophobia began to take hold again, the close air pressing in on her. She had to get out of here. They needed to open the trunk now.

Except that…

What would they do to her when they did?

Abruptly, the car swerved, then accelerated. Men's voices rose in shrill whoops and shouts, guns firing, the terrible sound making Natalie jump. Were they being pursued? Had someone come after them, hoping to free her? What if there was a fire fight and someone accidentally fired into the trunk?

She held her breath and listened, desperately hoping to hear sirens.

More shouts. More gun shots. And now singing.

But no sirens.

And then it came to her.

They weren't being pursued. They were celebrating.

All those murders, the grief that would follow, the fear they'd caused on that street—they had committed a massacre, and they were reveling in its aftermath.

What kind of men could enjoy killing like that?

No, not men. They were monsters.

And she was their prisoner.

# # #

Zach lay on his side, no longer able to give a damn about scorpions. His body shivered uncontrollably from shock. His skin burned, seeming to shrink around his bones, every nerve ending on fire. His throat was raw from yelling—or whatever you called it when you screamed from between clenched teeth. He'd been through surf torture in BUD/s. He'd been hungry, cold, hot, sleep-deprived. He'd lain half-dead in the dirt for hours with a round lodged in his back. But he'd never ever been through anything that could touch this for sheer pain.

What was it Jimmy used to say when they went into combat?

Hoka hey! It is a good day to die.

Today was a good day to die. Yesterday had been good, too. The day before would have been even better.

Quit your whining, MacBride. You're pathetic! On your feet!

"Hooya!" Zach answered aloud and raised his head before realizing that the voice he'd just heard had come from his own mind.

He was losing it. He'd hit the wall—hard. Time to rest. He needed rest.

He closed his blindfolded eyes and sank into oblivion.

# # #

Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water
Jack fell down and broke his crown
And poor Jill got stuck carrying the water by herself.

Natalie bit at the duct tape that bound her wrists, reciting nursery rhymes in her mind to keep her panic at bay. She spat out a little piece of tape and bit into it again, gratified when she realized she was down to the layer just above her skin. The tape was so strong and sticky that she'd had to nibble through it a layer at a time. Not that having the use of her hands would do her much good. There were more of them—and they had guns.

Hey-diddle-diddle
The cat and the fiddle
The cow jumped over the moon
The little dog laughed…

And she couldn't remember the rest.

She spat out another piece of tape and another, then twisted her wrists, the tape pulling apart where she'd weakened it and at last giving way. Biting back an exultant laugh, she tore off the strips that stuck to her skin and threw them aside, her hands finally free.

Then, careful not to bump anything or make a sound, she turned onto her side and brought her knees up toward her chest, reaching down to pull off the tape that bound her ankles. It was hard to maneuver, and it took more than a few tries before she was able to find the end, get a grip on it with her nails, and unbind her ankles.

For a while, she lay there in the stifling dark, breathing hard.

She was thirsty, so thirsty, the heat unbearable, the carpet itchy against her sweaty skin. She had no idea how many hours had gone by. Wherever they were taking her, it was far outside the city, far from any place where the police would think to look for her—if they were looking for her and not in cahoots with the men who'd kidnapped her.

Jack be nimble
Jack be quick
Jack jump over the candlestick

She reached out beside her, searching the darkness for something, anything she might be able to use as a weapon. A pair of boots. Bits of cord and what felt like burlap. A box of bullets. A roll of duct tape. Something cold and hard — a tire iron? No, it was too short to be a tire iron. Both ends had holes, as if it were meant to screw on to something. Was it a scope for a rifle or part of a gun barrel?

She closed her hand around it, then froze as smooth asphalt gave way to the crunch of gravel. The car slowed, turned, and then rolled to a stop. Loud music. Men's voices. A burst of automatic weapons fire.

Oh, God.

She drew deep breaths to steady herself, fear slick and cold in her belly.

Little Miss Muffet, sat on a… sat on … on a tuffet

What the heck was a tuffet anyway?

Car doors opened and closed, scattering her thoughts, the sound of boots in gravel all but drowned out by the thundering of her own pulse. She clutched the metal rod, held it fast, rolled onto her back, every muscle in her body tense.

A key slipped into the lock.

The trunk opened, bright sunlight hurting her eyes.

She struck out blindly with the rod, kicking hard with both legs, her right foot connecting with something hard, hours of pent-up grief, fear, and fury rushing out of her in a long, strangled cry that sounded more animal than human.

She found herself on her knees, the rod still in hand, her breath coming in pants. Four men watched her from a safe distance, astonishment on their faces, assault rifles hanging from their shoulders. Another—the one who'd killed Joaquin and Sr. Marquez—stood doubled over, groaning and cupping a bleeding nose, the sight giving her a momentary sense of satisfaction.

Then the oldest one, a man with a thick moustache and a tattoo of a strange veiled skeleton on his left forearm, began to laugh. He said something in Spanish to the others, who also laughed—all except for the one still holding his bleeding nose.

The older one motioned for her to get out of the trunk. "Come, señorita."

What else could she do? Slam the trunk shut and stay inside?



Natalie climbed out, the rod in her right hand, ready to strike, a hot breeze catching her hair, the midday heat cool compared to the sweltering environment of the trunk. Her feet touched gravel, and she found herself standing on trembling legs in the center of an old, abandoned town. To her right stood what was left of a mission-style church, a satellite dish perched on its bell tower. To her left sat a small adobe brick shed with no windows. Rows of adobe brick houses fanned out around them, their walls crumbling into dust, unpaved roads reclaimed by scrub and cactus. Beyond was nothing but open desert.

Her stomach fell, a chill sliding up her spine.

There was no one here to help her, nowhere to run.

She looked to the oldest man, the one with the tattoo, thinking he might be the leader of the bunch, only to find him raking her with his gaze. They were all staring at her now, their astonishment turned to something much darker. They spoke to one another, stared at her breasts, made little telltale thrusts with their pelvises, grinning and laughing.

Natalie took an involuntary step backward, the car's bumper stopping her short.

They came closer, one of them reaching out to feel her hair.

Don't let them see how afraid you are, girl.

She raised her chin a notch. "M-me llamo Natalie Benoit. Soy una periodista. Mi periódico Denver Independent le pagará—"

The blow took her by surprise, knocking her to the ground, the rod flying from her hand.

"¡Puta estúpida!" The one with the bloody nose glared down at her, then tossed his gun aside and reached down with blood-stained fingers to unzip his fly.

The man with the skeleton tattoo shouted something at him, gave him a shove, and the two of them began to argue, their words coming too fast for Natalie to understand anything.



Ra-ta-ta-ta-ta-tat!

The sudden burst of automatic gunfire made Natalie jump.

From the direction of the old church came a man's voice, shouting at the others. Looking startled and almost afraid, her captors quit arguing, and the one with the tattoo reached down and jerked Natalie to her feet.

In the church doorway stood a man with an assault rifle perched on his bicep. Tall and rangy, he had a jagged scar that ran beneath his jaw line on the right, as if someone had tried to slit his throat but had missed, the right side of his mouth drooping. He looked at her through cold, brown eyes, then tossed a pair of handcuffs to the one with the tattoo, motioning with a jerk of his head toward the other building.

Words poured out of her. "Please let me go! I don't know who you are or what you want, but my newspaper will pay ransom to get me back alive. Please call them! Mi periódico pagará dinero para mí—mucho dinero."

But no one was listening to her.

In a heartbeat, her wrists were cuffed, and she was being shoved and dragged across the courtyard toward the smaller building. One of them opened the door, and the man with the skeleton tattoo shoved her inside.

It was a jail—or they'd turned it into a jail. Three cells that might once have been horse stalls lined the back wall. The stone floor was covered with mouse droppings, spiders clinging to webs along the edges of the low ceiling. Then something ran cross the floor in front of her.

A scorpion.

Her empty stomach lurched.

One of the men opened the first cell—a dark, windowless space, no bigger than the walk-in closet in her bedroom at home and hemmed in by thick iron bars.



Hush now! Have a good death, a peaceful death.

"Please don't put me in there! Please don't!" Her heart pounded, panic buzzing in her brain, breath trapped in her lungs. And as they closed the door behind her and left her in the pitch-black, she heard herself scream. "No!"

# # #

It was the sound of her first strangled scream that had woken him. It had been the feral scream of a woman trying to survive. Then a moment later she'd spoken, her voice soft, young, feminine, her accent unmistakably New Orleans.

Natalie Benoit was her name, and she was what the Zetas hated most after honest cops and soldiers—a journalist.

Zach had found himself sitting upright, his heart hammering, straining to hear while Zetas whose voices he didn't recognized—newcomers—joked about raping her, clearly enjoying the rush of having her at their mercy, their laughter colored by lust. Rather than crying or begging for her life, she'd tried to bargain her way out of the situation.

Either she had a lot of guts, or she hadn't understood a word they'd said. Given how poorly she spoke Spanish, he was willing to bet it was the latter.

Then one of the bastards had struck her—hard from the sound of it— and two of the men had begun to argue.

"¡La putita me rompió la nariz!" The little whore broke my nose!

Zach had found that remarkable. Good for her.

"¡Deja tu verga en los pantalones o te voy a cortar los cojones! El Jefe la quiere a ella solo para el—sin ser tocada." Leave your prick in your pants, or I'll cut off your balls! The chief wants her for himself—untouched.

The words had hit Zach square in the chest.

If Cárdenas wanted her as his personal sex slave, she was as good as dead.

A burst of AK fire had ended the fight.

I don't know who you are or what you want, but my newspaper will pay ransom to get me back alive. Please call them! Mi periódico pagará dinero para mí—mucho dinero.

Her naïveté had been painful to hear. Clearly, it hadn't yet dawned on her that life as she knew it was over. But the men had long since quit listening to her. Instead, they'd talked casually about what they hoped Cárdenas would do to her, bile rising into Zach's throat at each graphic and brutal description.

Cárdenas had a reputation for abusing women. Zach had even heard rumors that he sacrificed women to La Santa Muerte—that macabre cult saint of narcotraficantes, Holy Death—as a way of giving thanks for his success in the cartel wars. To think that Zach had been this close to taking him, to ending his reign of terror…

Gisella should be in that cell now, not Natalie, whoever she was.

Please don't put me in there! Please don't!

She'd become almost hysterical the moment they'd brought her in here, her scream when they'd closed the door and walked away laced with primal terror. And for good reason. This filthy, dark place was probably beyond her worst nightmares.

Now she was in the cell next to his, and from the sound of it, she was about to hyperventilate, her breathing shallow and rapid, each exhale a whimper. He thought he could just make out the words of a prayer.

Sorry, angel, God seems to have taken the week off.

Then he realized she wasn't praying. She was reciting a nursery rhyme.

"To market, to market, to buy… to buy a fat pig." Her voice was unsteady, and she was clearly having trouble remembering the words. "H-home again, home again… I want to go home again… jiggety-jig."

The sweetness of it hit Zach hard. He hung his head, the hopelessness of her situation tearing at him.



She might not be here if you'd done your job.

Men like him were supposed to stop bastards like Cárdenas and his Zetas from hurting people. But rather than putting Cárdenas away, Zach was going to have a front-row seat while Cárdenas raped and tortured this girl to death.

Son of a bitch! Damn it!

Zach didn't realize he was trying to break free of the manacles again until his hands were wet, water from broken blisters mixing with sticky, warm blood.
Who are you fooling, man? You can't save her. You can't even save yourself.

No, he couldn't. But he could reach out to her, let her know she wasn't alone.

He swallowed, then sucked in as deep a breath as he could, wincing at the pain in his ribs. "Natalie? Can you hear me? My name is … Zach."

One week till BREAKING POINT is out! Plus, EXCERPT

Only six days and 12 hours to go until May 3 — and Breaking Point's official release. I'm so excited to share this book with you!

I want to take a moment here to thank those of you who sneaked around behind my back to gather donations for International Midwife Assistance: Hope, Kris, Alyson, Kara, Jackie, Anne, Alison, Crystal, Christy Reece and Marie Force. I got the card yesterday with the check inside. And there on the check it said "in honor of Pamela Clare."

I burst into tears! It's the best release day surprise ever. The check is on its way already to IMA, where it will be used to save the lives of women and babies.

Back to Breaking Point: Some of you have already gotten your hands on Zach and read his story, either because you got the book as a prize or ordered it from Barnes & Noble, which has already released it. It's been a lot of fun following along with you as you read through the story, sharing your reactions with me.


Here's a photo I got today from Kristin, who is waiting till her lunch hour to finish the book. Want to know the really cool thing about this photo? The book — a story about the I-Team, a bunch of journalists — is sitting on top of Kristin's AP Stylebook. The stylebook is every journalist's bible. In fact, I've owned more copies of the stylebook than I've owned Bibles. (Someone stole mine. I suspect it was an intern.) At any rate, this just seemed so incredibly fitting, and I had a good laugh about it and pointed this out to Kristin, who happens to be a journalist, as well. She didn't do this on purpose. She just wanted to show me she had the book with her at work.

Speaking of work...

I'm doing something I've never done before. I'm taking Release Day off so I can be at home, chatting with you all about it online. Are any of you taking the day off, perhaps calling in sick to stay home and hang out with Zach? If so, we should make something fun out of that in a chatroom or on Facebook (wherever your boss won't read about it).

Watch Twitter and Facebook for interviews and book giveaways around the blogosphere in the coming few weeks.

Interviews and give-aways are already posted at Happily Ever After and Shameless Reviews. I'll be at SOS Aloha on Thursday. I'll post a list of events for May soon.

There will be several chances to win the book here or on other blogs during the month of May, but you might not want to wait, as I am holding another After the Epilogue chat on May 20 for people who've already read the story. The last time I held one of these chats, it was a crazy free-for-all of comment and discussion and turned out to be a lot of fun.

In honor of being down to only one week — and in gratitude for all you're doing to help me get the word out about this book — I'm going to share another excerpt with you. It's the final excerpt you're going to see until the book is out. It's short and sweet, but it tells you so much about Zach, my most heroic hero.

From Chapter of Breaking Point:

Zach hung limply from the manacles, unable even to hold up his head. His shoulders ached from supporting his dead weight, manacles biting into his bloody wrists. But none of that could compare to the residual pain of that last electro-shock. His muscles seized in sharp spasms, his heart slamming erratically in his chest, his body shaking, his mouth filled with the coppery taste of his own blood.

Don't give in to the pain. Adjust for it.

He willed himself to relax, slowed his breathing.

Cold water splashed over his chest, making him jerk. It wasn't to revive him, he knew, but to make his skin more conductive to electricity. He waited for the next blast of agony, but instead felt a glass bottle against his lips. A hand fisted in his hair, tilting his head back, and he swallowed, warm cola sliding down his raw, parched throat.

Electrolytes. Caffeine. Calories.

All would help him stay alive.

Then his tormenter spoke to him, as always in Spanish. "You are dying, cuñado. And for what? You are alone now, forgotten, left without even a dog to bark at you. Tell us who has the cocaine and where we can find them. Then your torment will end. There will be no more pain, only sleep."

Zach fought off a wave of despair. "¡Vete a la verga!" Fuck off!

The bastard chuckled, but Zach knew he wasn't really amused. They'd tried to break him and had failed. There'd be a price to pay when Cárdenas got the news.

Creaking hinges. Footsteps.

And Zach knew she was there. He could feel her presence, hear her rapid breathing. Hell, he could even smell her, something sweet in a world of filth.

Natalie.

"Tráela aquí." Bring her over here.

What the hell?

Zach's head came up. Somehow, he drew himself to his feet, his hands clenched around the chains for support, his heart thudding hard in his chest. Why had they brought her in here? Were they going to torture her to get to him?

Over my dead body.

Only one week to go!

P.S. "¡Vete a la verga!" literally means "go to the dick." A lot of people translate that as "Go to hell." But the specific sexual aspect of it leaves that translation flat. I think mine is more accurate. Not that you were particularly worried about this... It's just the language nerd in me that wanted to point that out.

A glimpse ahead at... DEFIANT

I just thought I'd pop in and share a few things with you.

The first is a glimpse at a draft of the cover for Surrender. I'm not sure how close this is to final. What I can say is that, unlike my previous publisher, they went to extreme lengths to be historically accurate, even bringing in a period musket for the model to hold. The detail, though subtle, is very accurate, down to the lodge in the background. They're clearly going for a very different look, one that makes the most of the verdant forests of upstate New York. And — hallelujah! — no tipis!

As you may remember, I left one publisher and took most of my historicals to another. Penguin bought the MacKinnon's Rangers books, keeping the series alive. They're re-releasing both Surrender, Iain and Annie's story, in December and then Untamed, Morgan and Amalie's story, in January 2012. Then in February 2012, the book you've been bugging me about for what feels like centuries will finally be out, Defiant, Connor and Sarah's story.

Here's the back cover copy for Connor's book, Defiant:

Charged with a crime they didn't commit, the MacKinnon brothers faced a death sentence until they agreed to serve the British Crown in the Colonies and take up arms against the French. Allied with the Indian tribes who lived beside them in the wilderness, the Scottish Highland warriors forged a new breed of soldier…

MacKinnon's Rangers

Major Connor MacKinnon despises his commander, Lord William Wentworth, beyond all other men. Ordered to rescue Wentworth's niece after the Shawnee take her captive, he expects Lady Sarah Woodville to be every bit as arrogant and contemptible as her uncle. Instead, he finds a brave and beautiful lass in desperate peril. But the only way to free Sarah is for Connor to defeat the Shawnee warrior who kidnapped her—and claim her himself.

Torn by tragedy from her sheltered life in London, Lady Sarah is unprepared for the harshness of the frontier—or for the attraction she feels toward Connor as he guides her first through the consummation of their forced union and then through the dangers of the wilderness. When they reach civilization, however, it is she who must protect him. For if her uncle knew all that Connor had done to save her, he would surely kill him.

But the flames of passion, once kindled, are difficult to deny. As desire transforms into love, Connor will have to defy an empire to keep Sarah at his side.

~ ~ ~

So the trick is finishing the book in time to meet that February release date...

Have a great weekend, everyone! I'll be a day's forced march south-southwest of Albany with Connor and Sarah, who are dealing with that whole consummation issue. I'm just starting Chapter 8 out of about 31 chapters.

Only 11 days till Breaking Point hits the shelves!

I-Team Reading Challenge — And the winners are....

I think it's safe to say there are no more virgins in the room — I-Team virgins, that is. Everyone here has been deflowered.

Thanks to all of you who participated in the I-Team Reading Challenge. As a result, I met a lot of really wonderful readers, and some of you met Reece, Julian, Marc, and Gabe for the first time. Others had a chance to review the books and remember your favorite parts of the stories... All in time to be fresh on all things I-Team before Zach's book hits the shelves less than two weeks from now.

Yes, we are in a final countdown here with 12 days to go. And although I haven't been able to do all the things to celebrate that I wanted to do, we've still had some fun.

The photo at the top was taken by Kristin of her study arrangement when she sat down to take on the I-Team Trivia. She did very well, by the way. I just love it! She's got the books, the e-books, caffeine, and her laptop. She is ready to go. I asked her for the photo and meant to share it when I announced the answers. #BrainFail.

But now, without further ado, let's announce the winners of the I-Team Reaching Challenge. (Drum roll, please.)

Ronna

Rachel

Scorpio

AHZ1

CONGRATULATIONS!!!
Pl


Please send me your mailing addresses as soon as you can, and I will get Zach, er Breaking Point, in the mail to you this week!

I-Team Trivia winners and those of you who donated to International Midwife Assistance should either already have received or are about to receive your books. International addresses (Maldivian Book Reviewer, I'm thinking especially of you) take longer, of course.

Some are already reading Breaking Point and may stop in to share their thoughts at some point. I've been getting some feedback on Facebook and via e-mail. I think Crystal is now on Team Zach...

Thank you to everyone who participated! And stay tuned for an interview with Reece, Julian, Marc, Gabe... and possibly Zach.

Plus, I'm still hoping to interview the U.S. Marshal who acted as a source for research for this book. You all will love her. Yes, her. I adored her so much, I gave her a walk-on in the story.

And my deepest and most heartfelt thanks to all of you who are working so hard to get the word out about the I-Team series and Breaking Point. I adore you!

It's the biggest edition of the year for us at the paper, so things are crazy busy. On top of that, the paper is putting on a reception to celebrate my Keeper of the Flame award. And I finished the back cover copy for Defiant, Connor's book, but am behind on the book itself. So if you don't see me online a lot, those are the reasons why.