Preview: Critical Mass (And a not-so-dirty little secret!)

Okay, first, I'm proud to say I have a special interview over at Nadia Kim's blog:

http://nadiakim.com/category/current-author-interviews/#.UPNfX2f-hj4

She's another really talented writer in her own right. Watch for her work when it comes out. I'm sure it will before long.

Okay, now to brass tacks. In about two and a half weeks, my third novel, Critical Mass, will be released through MuseItUp Publishing. I'm pretty excited about that, as it closes out (for the most part) the story of Nadia Velasquez and the NADIA Project.

I'll post that at the bottom of the page, but first, I want to share something with you. I know everyone loves convenience and one-stop-shopping is so popular these days, but think about this if you would: When you buy that next book on-lone, think about buying directly from the publisher instead of through Amazon or B&N online. The reason is, the list price is set by the publisher. You pay the same whether you buy from them or through a wholesaler. The difference is, the wholesaler takes a large cut of the profit for themselves. That means the royalty payment to the people who put in all the work to bring that work to market is much less.

So the best way to support your favorite authors is to buy from the publisher whenever possible. It might mean one more account. It means a few extra clicks on your device or computer. It's not as convenient. But it makes a big difference to the author, the editors and the cover artist who put in such long hours on bringing you your favorite books. We'd sure appreciate it.

Now for the fun part:(Buy link: tinyurl.com/cm-novel )

 

"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 make 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…

Critical Mass

Excerpt:

Jon left the cabin and its sleeping owner, strolled around the back, and entered the weather-beaten woodshed. His hand found the lever in the darkened corner with the ease of habit. The secret door opened on silent hinges, and he followed the stairs down to the underground bunker that served as an emergency shelter, as well as the command center for their operation.

He hit the light switch at the bottom. In the glow from the overhead fluorescent, the common room revealed itself. Wood paneling lay over the concrete walls, providing some modicum of comfort. Crouching against the left wall was a small workbench under a four-foot by six-foot corkboard cluttered with photographs, printed sheets, and napkins scrawled with notes. A couple of wooden chairs sat next to the bench, at the edge of a large throw rug. Off to the left, a concrete-lined hallway led into gloom.

A flip of a switch at the end of the hall lit up doors on the left and on the right. At the far end of the tunnel, another staircase went up. Jon entered the first room on the right and turned on the light. A small counter and fridge greeted him. On the counter sat a coffee maker. He started a pot and walked back out into the common room.

Eleven people taunted him from candid photos tacked on the corkboard. Next to each was a printout. Jon put a finger on each photo as he named them out loud, a ritual he engaged in every time he came down: “John Bowman. Armando Lopez. Bruce Wilkes. Vladimir Kuznetzov. Bernadetta Caglioni. Noor Ah’halaami. Sirdar Karina Hattangadi.” Four other photos were pegged to the board in a separate group. “Jenna Paine. Walter Brady. Alan Whitfield. Mark Boyle.” Whitfield’s and Boyle’s pictures had thick borders drawn in red marker.

Footsteps on the stairs interrupted his thoughts. Bunny came around the corner and joined Jon at the board. Today’s T-shirt said BYTE ME. When he spoke, his Brooklyn accent came through strong, showing how many late hours he’d put in on this data. “Whaddaya think, Jonny?”

Jon waved at the top group of photos. “I think we’re up to our elbows in alligators. These people have more power and influence than most kings do. Are you positive these are the ones who built Nadia?”

“They’re the ones who put in the order. I’d stake my life on it. They’re all tied into the Global Unification Alliance. They dump tons of cash into it, on the order of billions a year, but they refuse to take a bow for all their little Boy Scout good deeds for the day. They’re clients of Twin Oaks Spa, and none of them ever go there without at least two others.”

The skinny little man touched a fingertip on the note beside each picture as he recapped. “Wilkes owns more ships than most third world navies. There ain’t a thing comin’ across the Atlantic that he don’t approve. Lopez moves oil and cattle all over Mexico and beyond, and for some reason all the drug cartels leave him be.”

“Maybe he’s moving more than cattle and oil.”

Bunny scowled deeper. “Or maybe they’re all afraid of him, Jonny. Ever figure that?” He went on with his litany. “Kuznetzov started in electronics engineering and got into arms dealing about twenty years ago. Rumor is the Russian mob is his little lap dog. Caglioni owns Aeritalia Airlines and Itamax Clothing. Miss Noor Don’t-Even-Ask-Me-How-To-Pronounce-It is a secret majority holder of Vandalore Industries, and a half-dozen other major conglomerates. She farts dollar bills, Jonny. In secret, of course. And our friend the Sirdar swings a bigger stick in OPEC than anyone wants to admit. She’s a sly one, that.”

Bunny sat in one of the chairs and spun it so he faced Jon. “Bowman we know. Dude owns the news. He paid Nadia’s hospital costs from the time she came alive ’til Twin Oaks released her. So he knows about her, and he was the one who sent her to Iran to ‘interview’ President Javad.”

Jon interjected, “That implicates him in the murder of President Bello in Nigeria, because another NADIA was used in that assassination. We have the video to prove it.”

“But to bring him down, Jonny, we have to bring Nadia forward, show the world that she’s an artificial person. So unless you wanna give her up, you gotta catch him some other way.”

“We need one more person on our side, to get through his mask.” Jon fingered the photo of Jenna again. “If we can turn her, she may help.”

Bunny shook his head. “That’s like reasoning with a rattlesnake. You met her twice, and you’re lucky to be alive.”

“Exactly. She doesn’t want to kill me for some reason. I think I could talk with her, if I could just find her.”

“If you’re an example of what she does to people she likes, I’d hate to see what happens to people she don’t like.”

“You’ve seen it, Bunny. Mark Boyle, the man who took the girls hostage. She popped his head with one shot. I wouldn’t be so sure she didn’t do Whitfield, too.”

“Still think she had somethin’ to do with that breakout in Vegas?”

Jon nodded. “The Air Force thought they had Nadia. Three dead Air Commandos and a crashed police car later, and suddenly they have nothing. Jenna and Nadia have similar builds, and they had the same hair color and style then. I think that’s too much of a coincidence, don’t you?”

Bunny pushed his glasses up on his nose with a nervous finger. “You sure you wanna get within ten miles of that?”

“We have to start somewhere, Bunny. I can’t touch the big wheels yet. The OSI wants solid proof before they can call out the dogs. Jenna could be just what the doctor ordered.” Jon went into the kitchenette and filled two cups as the conversation continued.

“So you want I should change my search to her?”

“We’ve hit nothing but dead ends on the others. We sure couldn’t lose.”

“What would the Doc say?”

“I’ll make it right with Donna. She’s the team leader, but I’m still the chief investigator.”

 “Okay, buddy, it’s your neck. Myself, I wouldn’t feel safe on the same land mass as that woman.”

Handing one cup to Bunny, Jon took a sip from his, swishing the brew around in his mouth before answering. “I didn’t say I’d feel safe, Bunny. But she’s our best chance.”

“Suggestion—if we can’t find her, there’s one sure way to get hold of her.”

“Do I even want to ask?”

“We get her attention and let her find us.”

A vague sense of dread rose in Jon’s chest as he sighed and rubbed his neck. “Yeah, I was afraid you’d say something like that.”

A Writer's Tools: Coffee and Communion

I have this coffee cup.

I know, that's not such an unusual thing. A writer who has a coffee cup. Even a writer who drinks coffee. I don't know what it is, but coffee seems to be more common among us wordsmiths than almost any other profession, save cops, the military, and neurotic babysitters. Okay, we rank in the top five there, anyway. Even NaNoWriMo features a coffee cup in its logo, here:








But I have this coffee cup. It's special to me because it's been in my family for at least three generations. See, it was my grandfather's cup.

As long as I can remember, every time we went over to my father's father's house, Gandpa would be drinking his "whitewashed javelin" from this very cup. The stain on the brim, by the way, is permanent. I've tried bleach, and it's become such a part of the cup, I just gave up. As you can see, I don't drink my javelin whitewashed, but I think Grandpa would understand. Because every time I have coffee in this cup, I think of the kindly little man with the impish grin and the amazing ability to stop hurricanes just by muttering, "Iris, that's enough." It's my communion with Grandpa. And for those who are wondering, he wasn't a fireman. He built tractors for Allis-Chalmers, and when the situation arose, he built tanks and jeeps for Allis-Chalmers.

I think of coffee as a social lubricant. Coffee is a great ice-breaker. It brings people together in ways that beer doesn't. How many wild brawls have ever broken out in a Starbuck's? And that's not even honest-to-God coffee; that's someone's double-decaf-mochaccino-latte-with-a-cinnamon-stick meeting someone else's frappuccino. Ever notice no one there asks for just a plain ol' cup o' joe? But no one wants to pick a fight, even when they're all caffeinated as Morwen on Battle Haste and Haste of the Elves (Inside joke, for all you LOTR gamers)

Anyway, coffee is a variation on the Communion that the Wise One instituted with bread and wine. Nothing mystical about it. "When you do this, think of me." That's all he was asking: That we think of Him when we do that. How the Twelve hung out with him, learned from him, loved him and when they had this little bread and wine ceremony, they thought of him. So when I have coffee in my grandpa's cup, I'm not blaspheming. I'm using a time-honored method of remembering a man who was in the last horse-cavalry regiment in the US Army, who moved his family to La Porte, Indiana to find work during WWII. Who shared a joke with anyone who would listen. Who loved the open road as much as he loved his home. Whose gnarled, patient hands turned wood into art, and who loved his family with every moment of his life. Who raised the man who taught me how to dream, and hold fast to it until I saw it realized.

I should put that cup on a shelf, some have said. What if I break it? I'd lose it forever. But I can't imagine having it and not using it. The communion with my grandpa just wouldn't be there. So I put it at risk. I fill it with rich, black coffee, throw in a scoche of sugar, and sip it carefully, breathing in the sharp aroma.

And I park it next to my computer as the tank for the mental gasoline that powers me through writer's blocks and plot holes, and drives me toward my next dream.

And I think of my grandpa, Keith Cyrus.

Long live coffee.

The Civility Movement: Part One

Good evening, Castaways.

I trust your Holiday season is finding you in receipt of a thousand good things.

Myself, I have been blessed.

In starting the Civility Movement, we must realize that civility must start with us. We ourselves must 
take upon our own shoulders the burden of living at peace with our brothers and sisters.

I was once involved in a discussion with someone who was spewing some vitriol against another person with whom they disagreed. The other person wasn't even there to defend themselves, but that didn't stop this person from accusing them of all kinds of hateful; motives, calling them name after horrible name.

When I reminded them that it seemed odd for the "Party of Tolerance" to be using such inflammatory language against another, they responded with "I have no tolerance for the intolerant."

I was stymied there. This person, otherwise kind, was giving themselves a free ride to be a blatant hypocrite, hiding behind clever prose to throw their hate grenades at someone they didn't even know. Guys, get real here. We're either going to get along or we're not. If you take tolerance seriously, then apply it to everyone, not just those with whom you agree.

To paraphrase The Wise One, "If you only love those who love you, what is that worth? Even Nazis and the KKK love those who love them. Love your enemies, and bless those who wrongfully use you." (Luke 6:27-36). Do you want to really be the better man (or woman?) Do you really want to prove you're on the side of right? Love that person who is behaving like an insufferable twit. Pour peace on them. You may find yourself diffusing the situation and making a new friend.

So Part One of restoring civility is to be one who makes peace. Speak from love. No, you don't have to plant a wet smooch on everyone you meet. No, you don't have to give up your responsibility to defend yourself and your family from evil. But you do have the responsibility to give someone the benefit of the doubt if they simply disagree with you.

This country's leaders have failed miserably in their responsibility to lead by example. Shame on them all. Shame on their hypocrisy. Shame on their rhetoric. Shame on their selfish power grabs, their lies and half-truths. Shame on their bickering and petty quarrels in public forums.

Let's allow ourselves to walk different paths from theirs. The time has come for us to be the leaders we need to be, to bring our country back together, to heal the wounds of the past and forge a new, unified nation. Even if we don't agree on everything, we can at least agree to disagree, and be at peace with each other. It's the least we owe our countrymen.

Let other nations rage. Let them crumble if they must. Let us rise above worthless debates over moot points. Let us debate with thoughtful point-counterpoint the issues that try to divide, and let us overcome strife with peace.

We have to start somewhere. Let's start with recognizing that each and every one of us is a creation of a God who values no one above another. And you and I do not have the right to belittle anyone created of God. That's an insult to Him who made that other person, regardless of whether you think they're a jackwagon.

Can we all get along? I believe so.

Merry Christmas!

It seems fitting that we observe the coming anniversary of the birth of Jesus Christ

So it's to you all I wish a Merry Christmas (And a wonderful Hanukkah  to my Jewish friends).

When Linda and I were much younger, before our youngest was a gleam in his daddy's eye, we were in the midst of a deep financial trouble. It was enough just to put food on the table and keep a roof over our heads, and if we weren't already getting a deal on the rent (our landlord was Linda's brother--it helps to have connections), we very well may not have had a place to live. But by God's grace and Wayne's mercy, we at least had that.

Anyway, in this particular year, we wondered how in the world we were going to get our children a little something. Gift-giving at Christmas to some extent is somewhat shallow, I know. We weren't looking to get the kids the latest video game console, or a big-screen TV or anything. We just wanted to give them something to unwrap on Christmas morning. That's pretty important for us. As it was, our "Christmas tree" was a sprig cut from my father-in-law's pine tree in his back yard, stuck in a coffee can filled with dirt to keep it from toppling from the coffee table. As I recall, it spilled over anyway, and we spent some time vacuuming dirt from the threadbare living room carpet.

No. Material things weren't what we were about. But celebrating Christmas to us is celebrating the greatest gift God bestowed to us, and that was His very own son.

So Christmas eve came and went in our little house. Our oldest was eight, our daughters were three years and three months respectively. I don't even remember what we had bought for the kiddos, but it wasn't much. I do remember feeling like a failure as a provider for my household, in spite of the fact that Linda was working as well. It's my responsibility after all to make sure my family's needs are met. The buck stops with Dad.

The sun came up bright and clear on that snowy Christmas morn, and we prepared to head over to the in-laws to celebrate with the larger clan. I was assuaged a little by the knowledge that Grandma and Grandpa H. would be sure to have little somethings for the kidlets to open.

I opened the front door to clear the walk to the car and stopped short, bewildered. Someone had left a large black bag of garbage on our doorstep sometime in the night. I muttered a word or two about the neighborhood teens, some of whom were pretty unsavorable. It was just like them to leave us this kind of insult.

I grabbed the top of the bag to drag it out to the curb, and noticed it was lighter than I expected. Also, there were some corners that stuck out at odd angles. So instead of chucking it out, I brought it inside.

Someone (I don't know who, to this day) had decided to bless us. The bag was full (I did say "big bag," right? Like, an industrial-sized bag) to the top with gifts for our three children. The cards were all from Santa Claus. The girls got dolls, and our son got an art set, and there was more than I can recount. But rest assured, Linda and I spent some time in tears thanking whatever mysterious Santa had left for us. And it seemed like the kids knew something special had happened, because they appreciated those gifts a little more, and not because of their monetary value. The girls wore those dolls out, and every scrap of paper in that art set was covered in a joyous riot of color betraying the enthusiasm of a kid who knew what he had.

We have had others bless us in so many ways through the skinniest of our times, and we are thankful for each and every blessing we receive. But that Christmas stands out to me as one of the most blessed we've ever had.

I wish for all of you the same joy, the same wonder, the same feeling of surprise as we felt on the day.

Have a wonderful Christmas, and may your new year bring you so many blessings you have to give some away. And if you can, find a way to be a blessing to someone new.

A Moment of Silence.

This week, I am declaring silence for the events in Connecticut. As you pass through, please think of the little ones who never went home. If you must comment, refrain from all political statements.

Thank you for understanding.

Announcing: Becoming NADIA now in Print!

And good evening, fellow Castaways!

Tonight, I would like to resort to some shameless self-promotion. My debut novel, Becoming NADIA, is now available in both print and eBook formats from my publisher, MuseItUp Publishing. See my "Books" tab at the top of this page for the links.

I wanted to tell a story that not only had action and romance, but one that made my readers think without being "preachy" or condescending. I hate books that tell me what I'm supposed to think. I believe good literature asks questions and allows the reader to think about the answers. So it was important that I share some truth in a way that simply asks the reader to think about something they maybe haven't before.

So anyway, I felt it appropriate to touch base with the first novel in my NADIA Project series, to announce the print release and introduce my debut work to those newcomers to my page who may not have seen her before.

With a nod to Delilah K. Stephans, my cover artist, and my capable editors Fiona Young-Brown and Greta Gunselman. Thank you, ladies. Your hard work has enabled me to win Best Thriller honors at EPICon 2012. And of course, special thanks to Lea Schizas, our editor-in-chief at MuseItUp for making this all possible for us.

“What’s one more little white lie?”

There's only one thing that pretty, popular TV reporter Nadia Velasquez is missing: her memory from before the explosion that killed everyone else in the room, including the President of Nigeria. But from the moment she meets FBI agent Jon Daniels, all hell breaks loose. Friends turn into deadly enemies overnight, and no one can be truly trusted.

When Jon and Nadia investigate further, they discover the living terror that is the truth behind Nadia's existence, a truth that could mean the death of millions.

And here's a fresh excerpt (you can see more at our buy page: tinyurl.com/4kkf5ox)

Jon was so wrapped up in his grief he never heard the approach of the helicopter echoing off the sides of the cliffs. When it zoomed over the Hummer, he jumped. He rubbed his eyes clear and looked out his windshield as it swooped up and swung around, a huge dragonfly buzzing back down the roadbed cut through the badlands. His heart slammed inside his chest like a hammer as he jerked the Hummer into gear and took off.

The helicopter zoomed over and came at him again, the rotor blades seeming to come within inches of the cliff on his right. Lower and lower it came. A burst of gunfire erupted from the right side. Jon caught the image of a man leaning out the side door with an automatic weapon as it zoomed closer. The stream of bullets from the fusillade struck the pavement in front of him as he swung the Hummer closer to the base of the cliff. He goosed the accelerator, looking for some way off the road as the chopper slipped by overhead. Glancing to his left, he saw only a drop-off to the bottom of rocky chasm. The cliff base on his right rolled up in a sheer climb of fifty feet and more. There was nowhere to go.

A movement in his rearview mirror told him the helicopter was coming back again. He could hear the roar of the rotors as it swooped down yet once more, heard the shots from the gunner in the side door as pieces of asphalt pinged off the side of his vehicle. On he raced, swerving and dodging in the narrow track of roadway.

There, on the right, an opening! The cliff wall dropped down to a low, sloping berm about five feet high. Jon stomped on the brake, swung the wheel to the right, and then back left, counter-steering to control the sideways skid. Then he goosed the pedal hard, heading up over the bank and off into the badlands. He hoped he could lose his pursuers in a canyon or draw. He took the first turn he came to and led the chase up into the hills as fast as he could drive. Nevertheless, the chopper stayed with him all the way. Bullets panged off the rock wall next to the Hummer, spraying chips against the passenger side of the vehicle. Jon stayed as close to the wall as he could, trying to limit the helicopter's avenues of approach as much as he could.

He ducked into a narrow canyon just at it flew by yet another time. The Hummer went over the rim of the canyon at over fifty miles per hour, sailing out and down the slope. It landed hard halfway down and bounced twice, nearly toppling before settling back in, driving between the stone walls of the Wyoming badlands. He had to slow down here to negotiate around the larger rocks strewn about the sandy floor.

The helicopter passed overhead again, but instead of homing directly in on him like before, it passed as a blur across the top of the canyon several hundred meters in front of him.

The stone walls closed in yet again, and the canyon became a ravine with overhanging cliffs on both sides that often overlapped over the Hummer, obscuring Jon's view of the sky.

He doubled back under one of the deeper overhangs and stopped the Hummer. His hands shook as he waited with his window rolled down, straining to hear the sound of the rotors. He heard the chopper pass over twice more, each pass farther away, and then fade off, and then it was quiet.

Jon got out and opened the back door. He reached into the back seat and pulled out his weapons, strapping on the pistol and loading magazines for the carbine. He carefully loaded and checked each, scurried farther back under cover of the rocky overhang.

The air was thin at that altitude, and his breathing was labored as he tried to calm his pounding heart. He waited several more minutes, hearing nothing but the wind blowing down the ravine, so he rose and walked out to the edge of the shadows, ears straining.

A small sound came from above and a pebble dropped into the sand under the edge of the overhang. He looked up as he approached the edge of the shadow under the overhang, and that was when he heard a small pop from his left. He snapped his head around just as the sting in his neck registered in his mind, and he saw the man holding the small rifle advance toward him.

Jon tried to bring the carbine to bear, but it was too heavy to lift. He dropped it and reached for the pistol, but his arm seemed weighed down by an immense burden. His fingers fumbled with the holster, but kept missing the clasp. Images in his vision began to dance in erratic, shifting patterns and he fell. Blackness swarmed over his mind as he heard a man talking and an answer crackled back on a radio.

* * * *

When Jon opened his eyes again he was strapped own on a gurney in a helicopter. The metallic, copper taste of adrenaline mixed with the salty warm flavor of blood in his mouth. He must have hit pretty hard when he fell. His abdomen felt like someone had worked him over with a baseball bat. He tried to move his arms but they were strapped down, too. He heard voices above the beat of the helicopter's blades and the whine of the turbine engine, but could understand nothing. He tried to speak. A needle slipped into his neck, and a warm, sluggish feeling washed over his brain. He heard someone say, "Dude, like you didn't have to zap him again, he's tied down." and the light began to fade.

Nadia, don't let them take you. The blackness closed back around him.