Yes, you've seen the announcement on Facebook: Critical Mass, the third phase of The NADIA Project, is coming soon from MuseItUp Publishing, and I can hardly wait. Mainly because I'm in edits right now, and I hate editing with the white-hot intensity of a thousand anti-matter reactions. But also because I'm excited about the series. Yes, it's my intention to bring the story of Nadia Velasquez to its ultimate conclusion. Will she fulfill her mission as the last living weapon of mass destruction? Or will her medical team finally find the cure for her condition so she can live her life out as a normal woman? Well, as normal as one can be, when one is a manufactured being with little in common with an average human.
And in conjunction with that announcement on Facebook (Friend me if you haven't already), I present to you another excerpt (officially unedited) of Critical Mass:
On their own, they're deadly. Together, they could save the world—or destroy it.
Jenna Paine is a super spy, genetically enhanced to be more than human. Nadia Velasquez is a living weapon of mass destruction. When the secret organization who built them both decides they are no longer useful, two enemies are thrown together for the only purposes they could have in common: survival and revenge.
There's only one way out of The Pinnacle, and that's on a coroner's slab. Jenna lives through a treacherous attack vowing to exact her vengeance on the people who trained her to be the most deadly agent on the planet. Wounded and on the run, she turns to the man who's sworn to making her face charges for her involvement in the Pinnacle's nefarious schemes.
After years spent hiding from the Pinnacle, Nadia runs into the one thing she never counted on: Shelf life. As her body breaks down, she realizes it's only a matter of the short time she has left to redeem her existence and give her daughter a chance to live free.
In the final showdown, the two transhumans join forces against a common enemy, and the Pinnacle come to know the deadly significance of…
Jenna pulled into the parking lot of a fleabag motel outside Cleveland. In the bushes at the southwest corner of the building, she lifted the paver from beneath the downspout and dug through the moist soil until her fingernails scraped against a hard, flat surface. Prying around the edges, she pulled up a small metal box wrapped in plastic. Inside she found a brass key.
The room belonged to the Company. The master key was hers, a little extra she'd arranged on her own.
She walked around the back side of the building until she stood outside Room 211. There was no sound from within, and the lights were dark. Of course, they could have someone waiting inside, if they expected her here. But that was unlikely. The Pinnacle didn't have enough agents to cover every safe house between Virginia and California.
The door creaked open and she stood still for a moment, listening, reaching out with every sense for any sign of life. No sound of breathing or movement, no scent of cologne betrayed a would-be attacker.
Jenna slid through the door and closed it before turning on the light. A grin split her face as she thought of all the travelers and transients who'd spent nights in this room unaware what lay at their fingertips. The drawers all slid from the dresser. Against the back panel a .45 Colt automatic pistol was taped, along with two spare magazines. Around the pistol, the rest of the panel was packed with bundles of cash. These were collected and laid on a towel in the middle of the floor.
The bathroom was next. Jenna grabbed the medicine cabinet and lifted it straight up and off the bracket. Behind it lay the real reason she came. Three passports, one each for Trina Stevens, Linda Ballas, and Andi Reynolds, all bore her photograph. Inside each passport was a matching driver’s license and a credit/debit card. Each account belonged to her, and as far as she knew, the Pinnacle was blissfully ignorant of these resources.
Ten minutes later, she was on the road again. She now had two hundred thousand in cash, untraceable IDs and access to all her private bank accounts. Jenna Paine was now officially off the grid.
At a small RV lot in Indiana, she picked up a camper shell for the truck and, a few miles down the road, a few hours' rest at a campground.
A grim smile played across her face as she swung out onto the highway the next morning.
They'll never know what hit them.