Care for Another Sneak Peek of Rising from the Darkness???

Soooo...

Do you want another sneak peek at the next chapter of Rising from the Darkness?  If so, here 'tis!

Chapter 2 – Vultures Gather

The steady cadence of crunching snow occupied Samantha Bartlett’s ears but did nothing to occupy her spinning mind.  Frosty breath filtered through the air like smoke as she huddled into the coat, sniffed the familiar scent of aftershave among the leather, then increased her pace to traverse the icy road.  The deep of the night sky gradually lightened toward the east and would soon give away her position as she trudged into the open field – deathly black attire stark against the pure white of snow.

Tears had stopped.  Ducts were probably frozen shut by now anyway.  Maybe she just couldn’t feel them anymore since her face had numbed from the cold.  The stars that had greeted her earlier gradually dissipated as pregnant, gray clouds stirred and coalesced.  More snow.  Good.  It’d cover her tracks and keep Joe from following – if it didn’t freeze her to death first.

Why did she leave the warmth of Joe’s arms?  If anyone could now help her out of this predicament it’d be Joe.  He’d risked his career for her – risked his life.  Saved her from the ravaging hands of his own partner.

Make that former partner.

Actually Chris had fired the killing shot instead of Joe.  And how had she thanked Chris?  Ran off and left him for dead, a corpse upon which the vultures would feed when they got hold of him.  What a way to thank the man who’d convinced her of innocence in the murder of President Warner.

Even though she’d intended to, regardless of the fact the Elite had forced the action upon her.  Shame flooded Samantha with the memories of all of the things the Elite had forced her to do.  The big question to ponder now – why?  Chris had proved his willingness to help.  Joe too, or at least he would have if she’d let him.  Too late now.

Abandoned Chris.  Left Joe.  She was so tired of running, of leaving behind everyone who’d ever cared about her.  Would she never be able to stop?

Yeah, when you’re dead, girlie.

Samantha shook her head to clear the unwanted intrusion and shoved her hands deeper into Joe’s coat pockets.  Fingers brushed plastic and metal.  She stopped.  Gripping the contents, Samantha drew them out and stared at a flash drive and a tiny memory card. 

Were these important?  Did Joe need them?  Could she return to the little cabin and get away again before he woke?  Before daylight revealed her to the world?

Snowfall filtered through her gaze.  A crumbling barn stood out among the copse ahead, its sagging roof dusted with additional powder.  Indecision paralyzed until the roar of high-powered engines and whir of tires approached.  Samantha raced toward the tree line and dove for cover into the snow, heart pounding in dread, then counted seven black vehicles as they raced by on the road she’d crossed to reach the field.  No lights.  No sirens, but men definitely on a mission.  She’d ridden in enough government vehicles to recognize them when they passed.

They headed in the direction from which she’d just come.

***

The first cold wave nudged him from the edges of sleep, the fire having died down through the night.  Expected warmth didn’t greet him as Joe Roberts rolled over, sheets chilled where Sam should’ve lay.  Grogginess fled.

“Sam?” 

Joe’s voice sounded like gravel in his ears as he sat up and surveyed the clinging darkness of the cabin.  Memories of their night together crowded his mind, sending a stab of heat through his flesh.  Joe groaned and gouged his fingers through his tangled hair. 

Of all times to succumb to the rage of hormones.  Not as if life wasn’t already complicated enough.  First the radiation poisoning in Russia, the flight home under the assumed name Viscilly had provided.  Then the unexpected run-in with Sam and discovering that Laturno had betrayed them all.  Somewhere in the mix of things Hitchens suspected him of being a turncoat.  Then what’d he do?  Scuttled off in the night with their prime suspect.

Not only that, he’d had sex with her.  No – made love to her like he’d wanted to do ever since they were teenagers.  Still, his timing sucked.  Instead of questioning Sam thoroughly like the good FBI agent he was supposed to be, he’d kissed her.  His downfall for sure.  But since Sam had already arisen, maybe it wasn’t too late for that interrogation.

 Joe slid into yesterday’s discarded jeans and padded across the freezing plank floor.  A couple of fresh logs and a stir of glowing embers shot a glimmer through the darkness.

A glance behind the bathroom door.  “Sam?”

The tub held only tendrils of that black hair Sam now sported.  Shampoo was gone.  The toothbrush the glass on the lavatory cradled last night had disappeared.  Fear gripped his heart.

She couldn’t have.

She wouldn’t have.

“Sam!”

Terror tinged with anger colored the shout.  As Joe rounded the door frame, pain reverberated through his skull as a fist connected with his jaw.

Chapter One - A Sneak Peek of "Rising from the Darkness"

As promised, now delivered.  I'm proud to present to you a sneak peek of the first chapter of the third and final book in the Deepest Darkness series "Rising from the Darkness."

Enjoy!

Chapter 1 – The End Draws Near

The constant echo of drill and hammer gradually abated as construction in the tunnels neared completion.  For the first time in over a year, the hundreds of workers crammed into the elaborate underground chambers thinned out as transports home began.

Pablo Hernandez looked forward to a solid night’s sleep without the accompanying chatter of noise from twenty-four hour rotations.  There was then the chance to dream of Maria’s outstretched arms waiting back in Peru, to imagine the softness of her skin against his.  Once he arrived home, Pablo looked forward to seeing her dark eyes widen in surprise at the fatness of his wallet.

After they paid up, that is.

Everything had been sent back to Maria at the end of each month, a fraction of the promised payout.  But the big windfall was coming.  As one of the lucky few to have stayed until the very end, he’d receive the remainder of his salary plus a bonus.  The amount would be enough to care for his family long into the foreseeable future, at least according to Peruvian standards.  Now all he had to do was collect his money and return home – without getting caught by the United States government.

Maybe he was a poor, uneducated man, but Pablo knew well enough the company had transported hundreds of Peruvians to work on these tunnels at a pittance – and they were all in America without a visa.  Well technically under America, Chicago from what he’d picked up in conversation.  However, immigration officials wouldn’t care about technicalities if they were captured.

It had pained him to see the sleek train disappear from the station time and time again, knowing those passengers were that much closer to safety.  But his chance loomed.  The line of the last remnants pressed forward as the train eased into the station.  The doors opened and slowly the human chain entered two-by-two like animals into Arca de Noe. 

A chill swept over Pablo as he paused near one of the guards, the hard stare surveying his name badge before scratching one Pablo Hernandez off the clipboard list as if erasing him from existence.  Everything about this company was eerily meticulous.  If they could have understood one another, Pablo would have told the guard that no one wanted to be left behind in the dreary underground.  But everyone had a job to do – and he’d finally finished his.

The tunnels were forgotten as Pablo entered the train, greeted by muted purples and yellows amid the royal luxury.  Plush seating wrapped him in comfort as he sat down into the assigned chair near the front of the second car.  The ache he’d carried in his joints for months eased as he sank into the warm cushion.  Through the excited chatter, Maria called from his dreams as Pablo lay against the headrest and drifted to sleep before they even left the station.

***

Grogginess clouded his mind as Pablo was jarred awake.  It felt like he’d only been asleep five minutes before the guards roused and commanded them to exit the train.  Pablo shuffled along with the others, concern growing as to why they were getting off already.  Was there a problem with the train?  Had they even left the station?

Low murmurs rose as they stepped from the railcar.  A faint sour stench filtered through the air.  Maybe bat guano.  Several men were separated from the pack and returned to the train while the remainder of the herd pressed forward.  The stark white surroundings suggested a much older area than what they’d finished building, so this wasn’t the same station they’d just left.  It certainly wasn’t where they’d originally embarked on their journey from South America either.

As they rounded a corner and entered a large room, a more pleasant aroma replaced the first.  Long tables were lined with platters of steak, chicken, roasted potatoes and surrounded by any number of other delicious treats.  Saliva filled his mouth in anticipation of this home-going feast.  Murmurs of suspicion were replaced with whoops and hollers of excitement as plates filled to overflowing. 

Pablo ate until sated.  Then he ate some more.  Pablo tossed a half-eaten corn cob onto his plate then stared as a tall redhead strut into the room.  Long legs appeared to go on forever in the tight black jumpsuit and ended at rounded hips all topped off by an ample bosom – the first woman he’d seen in months.  His manhood ached.

Ah, Maria, I hope you are ready for a wild homecoming ride.

The woman appeared to be in charge as the surrounding guards straightened and then congregated around her.  When she leaned in to whisper to one of the tallest, Pablo imagined Maria’s lips pressed to his ear.  He couldn’t get home to his wife fast enough.

All eyes were on the redhead as she finished her conversation and strode from the makeshift cafeteria, pulling the steel doors shut behind her.  The clang resonated in the air like the bell before a fighting match.  With effort, Pablo drew his gaze away.

Just in time.

The guards raised their weapons.  The chatter of automatic gunfire peppered the room.  Row after row of workers were mowed down before they even knew what hit them.  Pablo saw the coming onslaught and ducked a split second ahead of the others.  Searing burn razed his flesh as bullets penetrated his shoulder before he slid beneath the table.  Other bodies littered the area beside him, blood streaming in rivers across the drab, white floor.  Pablo closed his eyes to the horror and bit his tongue to quell the pain – and his screams.

As suddenly as it had started, the carnage ended.  Booted footsteps clomped among the slaughter.  Doors opened then clanged shut.  Pablo waited in the unnatural calm to ensure the guards had left before slowly opening his tear-filled eyes.

Growing up, he’d witnessed firsthand the aftermath of rogue militia forces.  Pablo wanted to curl up in fear like the young boy he once was as he stared at bodies nearly cut in half by bullets, faces shattered beyond recognition, bloodied matter mingled with bits of bone. 

He was swimming in all of it.

Pablo stumbled to his feet.  The food he’d just eaten joined the carnage, pain shooting along his arm with each wretch.  With an empty stomach once again and blood dripping from his fingers, Pablo crossed himself with only one thought and prayer.

Mon Dios, let me see my Maria again.

***

Lieutenant Hassan Zafir led the small contingent through the Sa’dabad Palace labyrinth.  The luxury and history of the great Iranian palace complex never ceased to send a twinge of excitement through his mind.  Who would have believed the son of a poor family would find his way into the palace halls as a presidential military attaché?

Excitement tempered as Zafir remembered today’s purpose.  This would likely be his final march through the corridors and past the rooms of the Special Castle with the leader.  As one his unit turned the corner into the office, snapped their shoes together, then raised arms in salute.

“President Mohuzari,” Zafir began, “the car is waiting if you are ready, sir.”

Sayyed Ali Mohuzari lifted dark, angry eyes to meet Zafir’s gaze and rose from the blue settee with the grace of a military bearing.  The president’s Persian ancestry was dwarfed by his height as he towered above every man in the escort unit.  Mohuzari would have made an impressive leader in the IRGC.  As it was, he’d made an imposing president of the Iranian people.  But time in that office was short lived.

Mohuzari rested a hand upon Zafir’s shoulder as he lowered his arm.  “Lieutenant Zafir, you have been a trusted ally in the fight against Western ideals invading our ways and those of our neighbors.  I hope my successor finds it in his heart to keep you close at hand as well.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The guards surrounded Mohuzari as they escorted him down the hallway with Zafir leading directly in front.  Staff lined the corridor as they came to the portico.  Zafir stiffened, his eyes darting from face to face to detect any malevolent purposes.  Mohuzari’s voice carried urgently behind him.

“The Supreme Leader will not stand for a softening of our stance against Israel’s occupation.  Behazzadad must understand the only thing he will accomplish by pursuing such ends will be to bring down an assassin’s bullet on his head.”

The remainder of Zafir’s regiment lined the outdoor steps leading from the palace to the waiting motorcade.  As the group exited the safety of the doorway, his men saluted, their movements sharp and crisp in the morning air.  Behind him, Zafir felt Mohuzari’s tight smile of satisfaction.  Compliments would flow later, but for now Zafir kept his eyes and ears trained toward any unusual movement or sound.

Wind blew through the towering plane trees.  Murmurs rose in the distance from crowds gathered near Zaferaniyeh Gate.  Uniform swords clinked in unison as they descended.  The unmistakable spit of a gun resounded.

Zafir jerked around and tackled Mohuzari amid cries of alarm.  Blood and brain matter clouded his vision in an instant. Concrete steps battered his face, breaking his nose and sending a rush of blood down the front of his uniform and involuntary tears into his eyes.  But Zafir no longer needed to see to know the truth.

 Iranian President, Sayyed Ali Mohuzari, was dead.

A Sneak Peek

Okay, call me cruel - I've been called worse - but after thinking and thinking about it, I've decided to share a teeny tiny tidbit.  A sneak peek, as you will. 

For the past five months, I've been hard at work on the sequel to Running into the Darkness.  We're nearing the halfway point, and next month is the start of work on the cover art.  So for those who've been emailing about the sequel, Piercing the Darkness, here's living proof that it is truly in the works.

I hope it whets your appetite.

Chapter 1 – Coming to the Surface

The steady cadence of waves slapping against the boat would put the ordinary fisherman to sleep.  But Billy McCurdy considered himself a step above any ordinary fisherman.  Hell, more like ten steps.

As the line of one fishing reel played out, he baited and tossed out the next until every available inch of the deck stood at attention.  The Cathouse may have appeared derelict by some standards, but she was one workhorse of a fishing vessel.  The old girl had it where it really counted.

Best of all, she was his.  Not tied up by a partner nor a bank, but one-hundred-percent his own, and McCurdy treated her with the touch of a lover.  When he’d make port and sell his catch he always brought her back something special.  Each time her engines started up now, the purr threatened to give him a hard-on.  In no time he’d have her rigged up right nice if the fish kept biting.  Get the hydraulics for the crane and nets functioning again, maybe next season he’d be in a position to hire a real crew.

For now, he put up with his good-for-nothing son for a crew.  Joey didn’t have the common sense of an onion.  On the day God passed out personal gumption, Joey was likely sleeping off the drinking binge of the night before.  Running a boat required a minimum second set of hands, and at least Joey had the hands, if not the brains, to fulfill that requirement.

“Hey, Pops!”

Speak of the devil.  “On deck!”

Joey’s hulk blocked the sun as he leaned over the wheelhouse railing.

“That radar thingy has a pretty big area showing just off this way,” Joey said as he pointed to his left.

“My right?  That would be starboard, son.  Starboard!”

“Yeah.  Whatever.”

McCurdy took the steps up the ladder two at a time and glared down his son as much as their identical six-foot-five frames allowed. 

“Learn the damn terms, boy.  Now get down on deck while I assess the target.”

As Joey slunk down the ladder, McCurdy entered the wheelhouse and reviewed the depth finder.  He let out a low whistle as he surveyed the shadowed mass on the sonar.  The school of fish arrayed on the screen would give him a pretty hefty payload in short order.  Looked like no other fishing vessel was close enough to reach it before he secured the choicest pick.

Hot damn.  Maybe there was hope for Joey after all.

“Weighing anchor,” he called over the loudspeaker.  “Pull in the lines and get ready to work your ass off, boy.”

The engines rumbled up from idle into full power as he angled the Cathouse out of Pocomoke Sound and into the Chesapeake toward a nice chunk of change - hopefully.  Less than fifteen minutes later they pulled up in deeper waters just southwest of where sonar showed the school.  The anchor released with a rattle of chain as he set the engines back to idle.

Down on deck, McCurdy directed, “Pull out the small nets and rig the poles so we can get them in easier.  I don’t want to waste this opportunity with standard fishing line.”

Since they both had to work the deck manually with an inoperable crane, they’d be unable to tow nets and follow the school.  After the first scramble, maybe they could move on ahead and take a second shot at the mass, but larger boats would likely be on them by then and they’d lose out.  The school’s sheer size gave them a good chance to fill their tank in one go-around if they played it right.

Movement in the first nets relayed the arrival.  Father and son jumped into action and started reeling in as fast as their bulging arms allowed, then heaving the wriggling catch into the tank before lowering nets back into the water.  The furious pace continued.

McCurdy’s heart thundered against his chest as he strained against the nets.  He couldn’t tell if it was strictly from exertion or excitement – probably both.  When it appeared the school was moving on, they began releasing the catch right onto the Cathouse’s deck to facilitate returning the nets back into the water until they came up empty.

The school had advanced toward the dark recesses of the Atlantic.

They stared at each other, their arms limp at their sides, faces drenched in sweat and saltwater.  McCurdy let out a whoop.  The deck swam with writhing fish – the biggest single catch of his fledgling fishing career.  Joey had surprised him by sticking to the task right alongside him.  Yep, there was definitely hope for the kid yet.

As they set about shoveling their catch into the tank, McCurdy mentally calculated the payout.  Soon as they got to port, he’d make a call to schedule the Cathouse for her crane and hydraulics repair job at season’s end.  Then maybe he’d make a trip into the city to get rid of some of his pent-up excitement and fatten some one else’s wallet a bit.  Might even take Joey along and introduce him to his first stripper-fest.

“Shit!”  Joey’s exclamation ended the delicious thought. 

“It’s only fish, boy!  Grow a pair.”  When McCurdy turned to laugh at his son, the shovel clattered to the deck.  “What the hell?”

Near the bottom of the wriggling mass, they stared in horror at the swollen and half-eaten remains of a human body.