Close
post-featured-image

Inspiration for Wake of War by Zac Topping

Wake of War“I just hope I’m on the right side of history.”

The United States of America is a crumbling republic. With the value of the dollar imploding, the government floundering, and national outrage and resentment growing by the hour, a rebellion has caught fire. The Revolutionary Front, led by Joseph Graham, has taken control of Salt Lake City.

In a nation where opportunity is sequestered behind the gilded doors of the rich and powerful, joining the Army seemed like James Trent’s best option. He just never thought he’d see combat. Now Trent finds himself on the front lines fighting for something he doesn’t even know if he believes in. Destroying innocent lives wasn’t what he signed on for, and he can feel himself slipping away with every casualty.

Sharpshooter Sam Cross was just fourteen when American soldiers gunned down her parents and forced her brother into conscription. Now, five years later, retribution feels like her only option to stitch the wound of her past. She has accepted Joseph Graham’s offer to be his secret weapon. His Reaper in the Valley. But retribution always comes at a cost.

When forces clash in Salt Lake City, alliances will be shattered, resolve will be tested, and when the dust clears nobody will be able to lie to themselves, or be lied to, again.

Read below to see what inspired Zac to write his debut novel, Wake of War—a timely account of the lengths those with power will go to preserve it, and the determination of those they exploit to destroy everything in the name of freedom anew.


By Zac Topping:

Inspiration is a funny thing. Sometimes it hits like a lightning bolt, sudden, intense, undeniable. Sometimes (more often than not, honestly) it’s like an elusive cryptid that you only catch a fleeting glimpse of, and by the time you get to your computer to put words to page…there’s nothing there anymore.

I’d say, though, inspiration is usually a mix of both. An idea may bloom suddenly, but it’s most likely been growing for a while, hidden beneath the surface feeding on all the experiences and data we absorb throughout our lives. We love, laugh, cry. Watch, listen, learn. We rage, and we vent, and we wonder how things came to be, and how they might be different. Then a simple detail, a single thought, or a random word sparks an entire idea.

That’s how I discovered the idea for my upcoming debut, Wake of War, a near-future military thriller about a second American civil war and the terrible trials faced by those who fight in it. The concept for the book was part real-world experience, part observation, and a good amount of reflection. But beyond my own experiences as a US Army soldier during the early years of the war in Iraq, there were also a number of other external influences that helped shape the story that would become Wake of War.

First, let’s go back a bit to the HBO miniseries, Generation Kill, from 2008, based on the book by Evan Wright (published in 2004) about the actual accounts of the Marines of the 1st Reconnaissance Battalion during their initial push into Iraq in 2003. This show is hands-down the most realistic depiction of the war in that place at that time that I have ever seen. Everything from the gear, the dialogue, the sets and location, right down to the depiction of the infuriating logistics that govern any kind of military maneuver, it’s all spot-on. The show doesn’t shy away from the tough parts and it captures that chaos of combat in such shocking detail that it might be hard for some to watch. It’s rough, it’s abrasive, and it’s honest. That honesty is what makes this stand out, and I wanted to bring that same level of honesty to my own writing.

Beyond the military genre, I’m also fascinated by near-future stories grounded in reality, and Richard K. Morgan’s 2004 novel, Market Forces, is just that. The book follows a young associate of an investment firm that funds small wars around the globe in exchange for a sizable share of the host nation’s gross domestic product. Employees of these investment firms don’t move up the corporate ladder by promotion, rather they duel to the death in up-armored vehicles on city streets. It’s American Psycho meets Mad Max. Pretty much every character is a train wreck, but it’s fascinating to watch them tear through their world and spiral out of control until every last shred of their humanity has been burned away. Now, that may not be everyone’s cup of tea, but I love a good cautionary tale—especially when it’s written in such a distinct style like Morgan is known for. The story takes place in the not-too-distant future and although some of the elements are far-fetched, the majority of this book is based on real life and the kinds of terrible things that happen every day around the world. Like I said, it’s a cautionary tale. It’s supposed to hurt. Because that pain forces us to reconcile some of our own true-to-life issues that might need to be addressed sooner rather than later. If you’ve read the blurb for Wake of War, I think it goes without saying that it is absolutely a cautionary tale as well.

I’m a very visual writer and I find a lot of inspiration from film and TV, especially of the compelling and thought-provoking variety. The Netflix documentary, Winter on Fire, about the 2013-2014 riots in Ukraine and the country’s struggle to move out from under Russia’s control is a must watch. It’s heartbreaking to see how hard the Ukrainian people fought for freedom and to see where they are now, but it’s important to not look away or put it out of our minds. The documentary captures the terrifying speed in which stability can give way to chaos and violence. And it was while watching this that I wondered if it could ever happen here in the United States, and just what it might look like if it did.

The other film that I recommend to absolutely everyone I can is Waltz with Bashir, a 2008 documentary about director Ari Folman’s search for his lost memory of his time serving in the 1982 Lebanon War. It’s filmed in a rotoscope-type animated style that plays with the concept of the distortion of memory and the lengths the human mind will go to preserve itself. I will warn you, this film has one of the most brutal endings I’ve ever seen, but it is incredibly powerful. Like, take your breath away and leave you speechless. But no other film has ever moved me as much as Waltz with Bashir. If you are inclined to check out any of these recommendations, make it this one.

This last one isn’t a movie, or a TV show, or a book. It’s a spoken word poem by Kae Tempest called Ballad of a Hero about a young child watching their father go off to war and return home broken. I first heard this one recited live at a public reading and it was captivating. Tempest’s lyrical style and heartfelt commentary makes this yet another hard-hitting important piece of work that plays with irony and all the familiar themes of the consequences of military service during times of war.

Now I know this has been a long list of heavy material, but it’s important to reflect and make sure we’re not just repeating the same mistakes that’ve already resulted in so much damage. Sometimes it’s easy to ignore hard truths when we can change the channel or look away, but in order to move forward, in order to heal we need to remember where we came from, and where we have yet to go. The shape of that future is up to us.


Click below to pre-order your copy of Wake of War, coming July 19th, 2022!

Placeholder of amazon -66

Image Place holder  of bn- 73

Place holder  of booksamillion- 5

ibooks2 49

indiebound

Placeholder of bookshop -88

post-featured-image

Summertime Sweetness: 3 Treats to Make in the Summer by Heather Webber

In the Middle of Hickory LaneFrom the USA Today bestselling author of Midnight at the Blackbird Cafe comes Heather Webber’s next charming novel, In the Middle of Hickory Lane!

Emme Wynn has wanted nothing more her whole life than to feel like part of a family. Having grown up on the run with her con artist mother, she’s been shuffled from town to town, drawn into bad situations, and has learned some unsavory habits that she’s tried hard to overcome. When her estranged grandmother tracks her down out of the blue and extends a job offer—helping to run her booth at an open-air marketplace in small-town Sweetgrass, Alabama—Emme is hopeful that she’ll finally be able to plant the roots she’s always dreamed of. But some habits are hard to break, and she risks her newfound happiness by keeping one big truth to herself.

Cora Bee Hazelton has her hands full with volunteering, gardening, her job as a color consultant and designer, and just about anything she can do to keep her mind off her painful past, a past that has resulted in her holding most everyone at arm’s length. The last thing she wants is to form close relationships only to have her heart broken yet again. But when she’s injured, she has no choice other than to let people into her life and soon realizes it’s going to be impossible to keep her heart safe—or her secrets hidden.

In the magical neighborhood garden in the middle of Hickory Lane, Emme and Cora Bee learn some hard truths about the past and themselves, the value of friends, family, and community, and most importantly, that true growth starts from within.

Read below to check out what yummy treats Heather likes to make during this sunny time of year!


By Heather Webber:

With all the fruit in season this time of year, it’s no wonder summer and sweetness go hand in hand. Come June, July, and August, farmer’s markets and produce sections at the grocery store become two of my favorite places. There’s never any lack of fabulous fruits to choose from — berries and cherries and melons and nectarines and plums and pineapples (oh my!). More than once I’ve wanted to set up camp next to the displays of ripe peaches. Have mercy, that amazing scent. But in my family, we’re all about the strawberries.

I read somewhere once that nearly three billion pounds of strawberries are grown in the US each year, and I’m fairly certain most of that poundage ends up in my kitchen. Mostly, it’s piled high on bowls of heart-healthy cereal, but a fair amount of those strawberries end up in desserts.

Three of our favorite summertime recipes are strawberry shortcake, strawberry pie, and trifle with strawberries and (sometimes) blueberries.

Image Placeholder of - 34

Strawberry shortcake is such a classic, traditional treat. Sweet biscuits with buttery layers, luscious sugared strawberries, and fluffy whipped cream. A dream!Image Place holder  of - 57

Placeholder of  -41

My recipe for strawberry pie isn’t classic or traditional, except within my family, as I’ve been making it for close to thirty years now.  It’s made with strawberries, strawberry Jell-o, and Cool Whip and has a graham cracker pie crust. It isn’t the least bit good for you, but is such a family favorite that it was my oldest son’s choice for his birthday cake (pie!) for many years.

Place holder  of - 33

Trifle is another treat that has found itself used as a birthday cake replacement numerous times. It’s made up of delightful layers of vanilla pudding, strawberries (and sometimes blueberries), whipped cream, and cubes of angel food cake, which is appropriate because it tastes like heaven.

Whatever fruits are your favorites, I hope you use them to find a little bit of extra sweetness this summer, and if you happen to catch the scent of ripe peaches, take an extra whiff for me.


Click below to pre-order your copy of Heather’s new book, In the Middle of Hickory Lane, coming 07.26.22!

Poster Placeholder of amazon- 24

Place holder  of bn- 67

Image Placeholder of booksamillion- 78

ibooks2 47

indiebound

Placeholder of bookshop -41

post-featured-image

Excerpt Reveal: Midnight on the Marne by Sarah Adlakha

Midnight on the MarneSet during the heroism and heartbreak of World War I, and in an occupied France in an alternative timeline, Sarah Adlakha’s Midnight on the Marne explores the responsibilities love lays on us and the rippling impact of our choices.

France, 1918. Nurse Marcelle Marchand has important secrets to keep. Her role as a spy has made her both feared and revered, but it has also put her in extreme danger from the approaching German army.

American soldier George Mountcastle feels an instant connection to the young nurse. But in times of war, love must wait. Soon, George and his best friend Philip are fighting for their lives during the Second Battle of the Marne, where George prevents Philip from a daring act that might have won the battle at the cost of his own life.

On the run from a victorious Germany, George and Marcelle begin a new life with Philip and Marcelle’s twin sister, Rosalie, in a brutally occupied France. Together, this self-made family navigates oppression, near starvation, and unfathomable loss, finding love and joy in unexpected moments.

Years pass, and tragedy strikes, sending George on a course that could change the past and rewrite history. Playing with time is a tricky thing. If he chooses to alter history, he will surely change his own future—and perhaps not for the better.

Midnight on the Marne will be available on August 9th, 2022. Please enjoy the following excerpt!


CHAPTER ONE

Marcelle

Soissons, France

The winds shifted outside the window as the light faded, the burdens of the world clawing at Marcelle’s beautiful life and trying to rip it to shreds. She was dutiful in her indifference to it, ignoring the empty house around her with a steadfast determination.

She dreamed, instead, of Pierre. She occupied her thoughts with stolen kisses, secret engagements, and romantic wars. Not the kind of war that took place on battlefields and in trenches, not the kind that men wrote of. She dreamed of the war she had envisioned when the Germans had first announced their intentions to invade France: the soldiers in their crisp uniforms; the troops in their perfect formations; the lovers in their final embraces. She would be a soldier’s wife soon, and what could be more romantic than that?

Pierre had left for the front just two days earlier, along with Marcelle’s brothers, and, while the proposal hadn’t yet been announced, she was certain that when they all returned for Christmas in a few short months, it would become official. She would be eighteen next year, old enough to be a bride.

Madame Fournier.

The name tasted sweet on her tongue, like the candies her father had brought home from the store last year after Madame Martin’s nephew had visited with an armful of goodies from America. He had bartered them for an expensive bottle of Bordeaux from her father’s cellar, and Marcelle had never tasted anything sweeter.

But that was before her father changed, before everything changed. Her brothers had tried to explain the dynamics of the war to them at supper the night before they’d left, but it was a convoluted tale, and Marcelle wasn’t certain they’d understood it themselves. From what she had gathered, the archduke of Austria had been assassinated by Serbians three months earlier, leading to a war that pitted one faction of European countries against another. Austria-Hungary, Germany, and Turkey were the aggressors, while France had allied itself with Russia and Great Britain to defend Serbia.

Marcelle’s father had said it was a bit like a chess match, but Marcelle thought it sounded more like a schoolyard brawl, just a bunch of bullies taking sides and fighting. What it boiled down to for her was that two days earlier, her fiancé and her brothers had been marched out of town to defend their northeastern border with Belgium, not one hundred kilometers away, because Germany was poised to strike.

Marcelle felt certain that the Germans were in for a devastating defeat. How could they fight a war on two fronts? Russia to their east; France and Great Britain to their west. The boys would be home before Christmas. She was sure of it.

The sun continued to sink outside the window, but Marcelle waited until the sky had almost succumbed to darkness before she wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and walked the short distance from their home to her father’s store down the street. The shop was empty when she arrived, so she followed the soft light filtering in from above as it guided her down the stairs to the cellar. The jewelry box was the first thing she noticed. It sat on the wooden table against the far wall of the room, looking out of place by the sacks of food that had been tossed down beside it: potatoes, flour, sugar, beans.

“Que fais-tu?” Marcelle asked. What are you doing?

From a darkened corner just beyond the light’s reach, her mother stepped forward.

“Nothing, dear,” she said. “Just tidying up. Doing some rearranging.”

“Stop lying to her, Eva.” The wine bottles clinked as her father stacked them beneath the wooden table, his temper in full bloom. “She is practically a woman. We need everyone’s help here. Stop trying to shelter her from this.”

“Shelter me from what?” Marcelle stepped forward, eyeing her sister, who was handing the bottles to their father. Rosalie was an obedient girl. Despite sharing their mother’s womb and every minute of their lives thereafter, they had so little in common.

Marcelle was five when she had first realized they were special. She had seen her reflection in her mother’s mirror at home, so she knew it was the same as her sister’s, but it was not until her mother had taken them to the river for a picnic on their fifth birthday, and she’d seen their reflections side by side in the pool of water, that she had really understood what they were: two different versions of the same person.

Marcelle was the achiever. Nothing was beyond her reach. She was one of the few girls in Soissons to complete her second-level examinations, and she excelled in her studies, eager to learn every nuance of history and language and mathematics. Her plans had once included making the one-hundred-kilometer trek southwest to Paris upon her eighteenth birthday to find work as a teacher. She had never shared that dream with anyone. Her parents would have discouraged it, and by the time her second-level examinations had rolled around, she had already fallen for Pierre.

Rosalie, by contrast, was the pleaser. She was a quiet and serious girl, sullen, to a certain extent, especially since talk of war had arrived at their doorstep. Life was a chore for Rosalie, a tedious undertaking that required following all the rules in all the right order. She would never have dreamed of running off to Paris without their father’s permission. She did what was expected of her.

“Come, dear,” her mother said, smoothing her hair back and pinning the strays into place before gripping Marcelle’s elbow. “Let’s get you back home. The air down here is not good for you.”

“No.” Marcelle pulled her shoulders back and straightened her spine, pressing her heels firmly into the soft earthen floor and standing almost as tall as her mother. “I demand to know what is going on here.”

“You demand to know?” Her father almost banged his head on one of the low-hanging beams of the ceiling when he spun around. “You are a little girl with her head in the clouds. Open your eyes if you want to see what is happening here. The Germans are coming. If they have not already killed your brothers or taken them hostage, they will do so tomorrow. And then they will be here. They will destroy our town and take what they want, and we will be at their mercy.”

Marcelle stepped back at the assault of his words.

“You want to know what we are doing here?” he continued. “We are trying to survive. We are trying to save our family. And your sister is the only child I have left who is strong enough to help me do that.”

“Mon Dieu, Gabriel!” Her mother stepped between them, wrapping an arm around Marcelle and forcing her up the stairs. The light from outside was muted when they crested the final step and entered the store, and it wasn’t until Marcelle looked around that she spotted the crisscrossed mesh that had been taped to the windows. She hadn’t noticed it when she had entered just moments earlier, or the bare shelves, or the silence.

The streets were empty. The men who spent their afternoons smoking and arguing and laughing outside of the store were missing, the women who shuffled arm in arm from shop to shop were gone, and the children who chased the dogs from one side of the cobblestone street to the other were nowhere to be seen. When had this happened?

“What is that?” Marcelle pointed to the mesh that was taped to the windows.

“It is to prevent glass from shattering and spraying into the store.” Her mother hesitated before she continued. “If the Germans shell us, we need to be prepared.”

Marcelle simply nodded and followed her mother home in silence. She sat on the mattress she shared with her sister, the one her brothers had once shared, and tried not to imagine where they might be now. She tried not to think about Pierre and the letters she had already written to him. She tried not to hear their voices or see their faces. She tried, but her father’s words would not leave her: If they have not already killed your brothers . . .

She didn’t come out for supper that night. Her mother tried to take her some bread, but Marcelle refused to eat. She refused to speak or change her clothes or acknowledge her sister when she came to bed. Her father was right. She was a naïve little girl with her head in the clouds. She had refused to see the signs all around her. She had sent the men in her life off to war believing they would return safely to her.

But hadn’t they deserved that?

For all she knew, her father was mistaken. He was not the Almighty; he could not possibly know their fates. He was a man like any other man, and Marcelle would keep her head bowed in prayer to the heavenly Father, who did know the fates of all men, the Father who could perform miracles and was the only One who could deliver her brothers and her fiancé from evil.

The thunder started shortly before dawn. Marcelle didn’t realize she’d fallen asleep until the booming in the distance woke her. The storm was far enough away that the rains would not reach them for at least another hour, so she pulled the quilt her grandmother had made and gifted to her parents on their wedding day up under her chin and curled into a tight ball. She would sleep until daylight stole the darkness.

The rains never came that day, because the thunder was not born from the heavens. To the west, the sky remained a cerulean blue, but to the east, a haze of smoke floated above the horizon where men were killing men and families were fleeing for their survival.

Rosalie was the one to drag her out of bed and hand her a bag so she could pack two days’ worth of clothing. Marcelle followed her back to their father’s store and down the cellar stairs to where their family would wait out the long days ahead. She didn’t argue with her sister. She didn’t argue with anyone. She stepped in line and did as she was told, clutching her grandmother’s quilt to her chest as she watched some of the men from town help move mattresses to the cellar.

Monsieur Fournier was one of the men. Pierre’s father was forty-six, just like Marcelle’s, and they had both avoided being sent to the front by the grace of age. Soissons seemed to be shrinking by the day. The absence of the young men was made more obvious by the disappearance of families who had fled toward Paris as the Germans neared. Marcelle had overheard her father discussing similar plans with Pierre’s father, but Monsieur Fournier wasn’t ready for it yet; he was worried his daughters would not be strong enough. As she sank down onto the mattress beside her mother, who was cutting an apple and portioning the pieces onto plates for the men, Marcelle wondered if her own father felt the same way about her.

“Do you think I am weak?” Marcelle reached over and slipped one of the apple slices into her mouth before her mother could swat her hand away.

“I think this world does not suit you,” her mother replied, replacing the apple slice before moving the plate out of Marcelle’s reach.

“Is that why you tried to shelter me from it? Because I am not strong enough?”

“Not at all. You are stronger than you give yourself credit for.” She took a bite of the last apple slice before handing the rest to Marcelle. “Your father does not think you are weak, either. He is simply trying to protect you, and he is worried that you are not as careful as your sister. You speak up when the world expects you to be quiet. This could get you into trouble one day. You do not have your brothers to protect you anymore.”

“But I heard some of the men talking earlier, and they said there is still a chance that the boys are alive out there.”

Her mother nodded. “I hope they are right,” she said. “There is no greater sorrow than losing a child.” She squeezed Marcelle’s hand before she continued. “You will be such a beautiful mother one day.”

It was not until late in the night that Marcelle really thought about her mother’s words. The thunder grew louder as the shells rained down around them, and, while silence filled the space between blasts, Marcelle knew that no one slept.

She couldn’t stop hearing her mother’s words: You will be such a beautiful mother one day. Did she really believe that? Or did she think that cellar would be their tomb?

The night stretched on indefinitely. Pierre’s parents had taken refuge with them, along with their two young daughters, Lina and Marie, who whispered to each other in English until the lanterns were extinguished. Marcelle wondered what they were saying. Were they comforting each other? Were they scared? They were shy children, always giggling when Marcelle came around. Pierre’s grandmother was British and had insisted that her grandchildren be raised to speak English, but Marcelle had never heard either girl speak French, and she often wondered if they even knew how.

The cellar was only large enough for four mattresses since Marcelle’s father had refused to move the wine bottles or the wooden table against the far wall. Sleeping conditions were tight, to say the least, and though no one made a sound all night, Marcelle felt certain it wasn’t because anyone slept. It wasn’t until her father pulled the cellar hatch open, and a current of fresh air swept in around them awakening all the stagnant fears and anxieties that had festered throughout the night, that anyone stirred.

Marcelle clambered up the cellar stairs after her father, so desperate for air that she didn’t even bother with shoes. A glint of sunlight reflected off a fractured window that had not survived the night, and before she could blink away the glare, she knew she had made a grave mistake by following him.

German.

The man standing beside her was speaking German. She recognized his voice and understood his words, but she couldn’t force a breath into her lungs, and the tunneling of her vision was threatening to land her on the ground at his feet.

“Hier spricht niemand Deutsch.” No one speaks German here.

Monsieur Bauer. It was her German teacher from school, lying to the German soldier by his side about one of his most accomplished students. He had written that on her final evaluation not even two months earlier: Mlle. Marchand is gifted in conversational German. She is one of the most accomplished students I have had the pleasure of instructing. He was the one who had told Marcelle about the all-girl schools in the bigger cities and the boardinghouses for unmarried women who dedicated their lives to the education of children, the one who had placed those dreams of independence in her head all those years ago. He had not been happy when Marcelle’s attentions had shifted from school to Pierre.

“Monsieur Marchand,” he said, addressing Marcelle’s father in French and gesturing to the German soldier accompanying him. “Hauptmann Krause here has asked that all citizens of Soissons be present outside the cathedral at midday today for an important announcement. He has also commanded anyone who speaks German to come forward and assist as a translator for his troops who will be billeting in the homes along this street. I have already informed him that no one in your family speaks German and that your house is available for his troops.”

Marcelle’s father nodded along to Monsieur Bauer’s words, skillfully avoiding the gaze of the German soldier, who, judging from the medals weighing down his coat, must have been someone very important.

Marcelle could feel the man’s eyes on her. She hadn’t thought to pin her hair up before leaving the cellar, and she wasn’t even sure she had buttoned her blouse up around her neck. She felt exposed and vulnerable, and despite the chilled morning air, beads of sweat formed on her upper lip. She stood frozen in place, her senses heightened like a doe caught in the sights of a wolf, wondering if the predator beside her was waiting for her to bolt, if he delighted in the chase.

“Oui, Monsieur Bauer.” Marcelle’s father nudged her back toward the cellar. “Our house is open for the troops. We will gladly take comfort in the cellar, and I will be certain to spread the word about the meeting at the cathedral today. Merci.”

Marcelle didn’t notice the musty stench of the cellar when she descended the stairs, or the darkness that enveloped them when her father closed the hatch. The cold of the tomb-like stone walls and the dampness that endlessly clung to them was a welcome relief. It wasn’t until her father lit the oil lamp that she had to face her consequences.

“You will be more careful from now on.” His voice never rose above a whisper, but venom laced his words. Marcelle did not fault him for it. She had been reckless. She had not been paying attention, but she would not make that mistake again.

“Oui, Papa,” she mumbled, ducking into the shadows and feeling her way to the mattress she shared with her sister.

The glow of the oil lamp reached only as far as the adults who gathered around it, her parents and Pierre’s. From the periphery, Marcelle and Rosalie watched its shadows dance across their faces, unmasking the fear they tried so desperately to hide. The cellar wasn’t big enough for privacy.

Plans were being made. Besides the meeting at the cathedral square, there were supplies to gather and families to visit and meals to be made. As expected, Marcelle’s chores—childcare and meals—would never bring her out of the cellar, but she was wholly unprepared for the task her sister would soon inherit.

Rosalie jumped at her father’s words, always eager to please him. She was, without question, his favorite daughter. Maybe even more revered than their brothers. Through the anemic glow of the oil lamp, her sister’s eyes shined with pride.

“You will come with us to the meeting at the cathedral square today,” her father said. “And from there, you will accompany Monsieur Fournier to fetch a wagon and some food supplies from his storage shed.”

“No.” Marcelle’s words were cutting through the thickness of the cellar air before she’d realized she was even speaking. “You cannot mean to send her out there with the Germans. I will not let her go.”

“This does not concern you, Marcelle.” Her father’s eyes flashed to the darkened corner, but Marcelle was already at her sister’s side.

“Of course it concerns me. I will not let you send her out there. You saw how that German looked at me. It will be the same for Rosalie.”

“Rosalie can handle herself. We have no other choice.”

“Why can’t you do it? Or Maman? Or Madame Fournier?”

“Enough, Marcelle.” If not for the company of the Fourniers, her father would not have been so charitable with his patience. His voice trembled with contempt. “There are other tasks that need to be done, and Madame Fournier’s children need her here. This is not open for discussion.”

“Then I will go with her.”

“You will not!” When his hand slammed onto the wooden table between them, Marcelle was silenced into submission. “You are a reckless child. You think nothing through, and one of these days your carelessness will get people killed. You will not leave this cellar until I tell you it is safe. Do you understand?”

Marcelle slunk to the mattress in the corner without answering him, but she could feel him pressing into the darkness, hovering above her, and refusing to relent without her promise.

“Do you understand me, Marcelle?”

“Oui,” she mumbled, but turned her body away from him. She would say whatever words he needed to hear, but she would not abandon her sister. She would never send Rosalie out to the wolves on her own.


Click below to pre-order your copy of Midnight on the Marne, coming August 9th, 2022!

Place holder  of amazon- 59

Place holder  of bn- 9

Placeholder of booksamillion -77

ibooks2 22

indiebound

Poster Placeholder of bookshop- 35

post-featured-image

Excerpt Reveal: Wake of War by Zac Topping

Wake of War“I just hope I’m on the right side of history.”

The United States of America is a crumbling republic. With the value of the dollar imploding, the government floundering, and national outrage and resentment growing by the hour, a rebellion has caught fire. The Revolutionary Front, led by Joseph Graham, has taken control of Salt Lake City.

In a nation where opportunity is sequestered behind the gilded doors of the rich and powerful, joining the Army seemed like James Trent’s best option. He just never thought he’d see combat. Now Trent finds himself on the front lines fighting for something he doesn’t even know if he believes in. Destroying innocent lives wasn’t what he signed on for, and he can feel himself slipping away with every casualty.

Sharpshooter Sam Cross was just fourteen when American soldiers gunned down her parents and forced her brother into conscription. Now, five years later, retribution feels like her only option to stitch the wound of her past. She has accepted Joseph Graham’s offer to be his secret weapon. His Reaper in the Valley. But retribution always comes at a cost.

When forces clash in Salt Lake City, alliances will be shattered, resolve will be tested, and when the dust clears nobody will be able to lie to themselves, or be lied to, again.

Zac Topping’s Wake of War is a timely account of the lengths those with power will go to preserve it, and the determination of those they exploit to destroy everything in the name of freedom anew.

Wake of War will be available on July 19th, 2022. Please enjoy the following excerpt!


CHAPTER ONE

Welcome to the War

The TC-27 Chariot banked hard to port and began spiraling toward the ground, the g-force pinning Specialist James Trent to his seat. The sudden drop caused a terrible weightless feeling to slither up his guts and for some reason made his feet tingle. The others packed in around him were handling the frantic descent in their own ways; eyes squeezed shut, lips quivering in rapid prayer, white-knuckle grips on rifles and seat straps. Like it would do any good. Might as well suck on a lucky rabbit’s foot for all the difference any of that shit would make.

But on the plus side, after hours of being crammed on the aircraft, at least it was finally going down.

The main lights blinked out and LEDs in the floor switched on showing the way to the exits. The indicator over the emergency jump door was still red though, which was good because no one had parachutes equipped.

Compensators hissed and the airframe stabilized. There was a sudden flattening feeling as the craft slowed its drop and Trent’s guts were pressed down into his feet. Much more of this and he’d retch.

Trent tried to play it cool, focusing on anything other than the drop. He looked up at the ceiling, taking note of the interior of the craft which was completely naked, all the exposed wiring and piping and coolant lines running along the skin of the craft. A real genius design that was. Sure, it probably saved production costs, but it wouldn’t be hard for some disgruntled soldier to get up out of his seat and start yanking on shit and destroy vital flight systems.

He’d seen some guys lose it before. One too many deployments to combat cities and they came back all scrambled up. Did all kinds of crazy things. Wouldn’t be much of a stretch to imagine someone like that just up and deciding to go out with a bang.

The TC-27 dropped again. A quick, sickening lurch for two to three seconds and Trent knew they fell another few hundred feet closer to terra firma. He felt his throat tighten, a bead of sweat forming on his brow, and knew his complexion must be somewhere between yellow snow and filthy bath water. He closed his eyes and tried to swallow it down.

Suddenly the ship sagged, slowed, then with surprising ferocity crunched down on solid ground. Shock systems sent power to the landing gear, which shook the craft like it was in a blender. Reverse thrusters roared to slow the heavy piece of machinery until the brakes could take over and bring the entire thing to a stop.

Trent peeled his eyes open in the sudden silence that filled the cargo space as the flight systems powered down. The lights came back on and a pair of flight assistants in dark gray jumpsuits came out of the cabin and began assisting soldiers off of their craft. Trent unclipped his harness, loosened the damned chin strap that was way too tight, and dragged his rucksack out from under the seat. He strapped his rifle onto his chest rig, slipped into the aisle, and walked toward the rear of the craft where the bay doors had folded open. His boots thumped down the grated metal gangway as he disembarked.

The heat was the first thing to hit him. A dry, heavy air that squeezed around him, forcing sweat to immediately soak through his combat uniform. He squinted against the brightness of the early summer sun.

The airfield was huge, but only a handful of aircraft were on it. A few other TC-27s were parked by a maintenance bay nearby, and a pair of AC-65 Wasps sat on the opposite end of the runway staring out like hungry predators basking in the afternoon sun, their sleek armor and inverted grav-engines angling down and back like the wings of their namesake, 30mm cannons poking out the front. With the Federal Reserve collapsing and the government spending freeze in place, Trent hadn’t expected to see them here. He’d heard somewhere that the entire payload of an AC-65 was somewhere near three million dollars, American. Even if they were just intended as a show of force, it was good to know they were there.

Everyone was rounded up and marched across the tarmac into a hangar where they began the in-processing ritual. Trent shuffled along in line, constantly shrugging the weight of his rucksack in search of a more comfortable position, which was apparently impossible. After a while the line stopped moving and someone gave the order to smoke ’em if you got ’em. A moment later a cloud of carcinogenic smog hovered over everyone’s heads. Trent bummed a cigarette from the guy next to him, cupped his hands over it while the guy lit for him, and nodded thanks.

No one spoke. There was a silent sense of dread that lived just under the veil of military enthusiasm. Trent let the smoke out through his nose and gazed at the towering mountains surrounding the valley. The mountains that were home to the enemy, the violent militant faction known as the Revolutionist Front who were stoking the flames of rebellion while the country was imploding.

Trent finished his cigarette and was called forward. The soldier behind the counter was another specialist, tapping away on a touch pad. She looked up at Trent as he approached. “ID and Nat-Reg.”

Trent gave her his ID card and she entered his information into her pad. A printer whirred and spat out a few sheets of paper that she gathered up, stuffed into an envelope and thrust toward Trent. “Specialist Trent, James Oliver. Assigned to the 117th Infantry. Head over to supply for loadout. Enjoy your stay in the valley. Next.”

“Wait, I’m sorry, you said infantry?”

She glared at him. “That’s correct.”

“I’m supposed to go to a supply unit,” Trent stammered, throat going dry.

“The needs of the Army, Specialist. And the Army needs you in the infantry. Now move along.”

Trent took his file, reeling from this unexpected development, and went over to supply where he was issued tactical body armor, a various assortment of interchangeable ballistic plates, a med kit, and 210 rounds of ammunition in seven separate magazines. He signed for everything and moved off to the waiting area where he was assured someone from his unit would retrieve him shortly.

He bummed another cigarette and tried to calm himself. Fucking infantry. No way. He hadn’t practiced basic combat tactics in months, and even then it had only been half-assed attempts to appease qualification paperwork. But here he was in a real combat zone with real fighting and real enemies, not holographic targets with score meters ticking away like a fucking video game.

Gunfire cracked outside the perimeter wall no more than a few hundred meters away. Trent’s head snapped around, heart hammering in his chest, and that awful tingling feeling shot through his feet again.

“You’ll get used to it,” said one of the soldiers sitting nearby in a faded, dirty uniform. “Soon enough you won’t even notice it.”

Trent tried to relax, however the hell he was supposed to do that. The gunfire continued to pop sporadically for another minute before it ceased. No one on the airfield or anywhere on the FOB seemed to care. It was just another summer afternoon in the valley.

Not much later, a GV-6 Prowler—one of the military’s all-purpose utility vehicles—rolled up to the holding area. Trent recognized his new unit numbers stenciled on the grill and waved it down. The truck crawled to a stop as a soldier climbed out of the passenger side door. He had dark skin and dark eyes that stared at Trent without emotion. He wore the rank of specialist and his name tape said SIMARD.

“You the new armorer?” Simard asked.

Trent handed Simard his files. “I’m Trent. You guys are the 117th?”

Simard handed the files back without looking at them. “You got it. I’m Simard, this is Jenson.” He gestured to the private sitting behind the wheel, a young white man, couldn’t be more than eighteen years old. His bottom lip stuck out and a string of brown spit ran down his chin. He waved.

“Come on,” Simard said.

Trent crammed himself into the back seat. For such large vehicles there was surprisingly little room inside. Trent’s knees were jammed in tight and the rigid upright seat back was at such a severe angle it practically had him leaning forward. Comfort was clearly not part of the military design.

Jenson shoved the transmission in drive and hit the gas. They pulled away from the airfield and onto regular blacktop, passing rows of Quonset huts and bunk pods as they crossed the FOB.

Simard twisted in his seat and faced Trent. “You ever been to combat before?”

“No. Not until today.”

A grin spread across Simard’s face. “You ain’t been in combat yet. But it’s cool, I got you. We were all pumped to get here at first. Ain’t that right?” He looked at Jenson.

“That’s fuckin’ right,” the private said. “Gonna serve justice to the rebels an’ all that shit.”

Simard continued. “All that shit. That’s all it is, Specialist Trent. What do you think about that?”

“Just Trent,” he said. “Or James. You don’t really think things are gonna go bad here, right?”

“Why? You scared?”

“No. I mean . . .” Trent swallowed a lump in his throat and recovered. “I’m not here for glory is all.”

“What are you here for, then?”

Truth was Trent had enlisted for the Military Granted University Scholarship, but somehow didn’t think that would sound cool to admit. So far in his three years of service he’d been able to maintain easy gigs on comfortable East Coast stations, far from any combat. Another year and he’d be free of the Army’s bullshit, and free to subject himself to an all new type of bullshit at the University. But the prospect of working in an office with climate control sounded much better than working in the ditches for the rest of his life. Thing was, that sentiment was sometimes hard to get across to other soldiers who would forever be grunts and ditch-diggers and were happy about it. Every time he admitted that he joined the military for anything other than killing he was ridiculed and looked down upon.

Simard broke the silence, sparing Trent the admission. “I’m just fuckin’ with you, man. We ain’t hard-asses here. Shit’s all a joke in my opinion.”

“Wanna know why I joined?” Jenson asked. He continued without waiting for an answer. “To get my plumbing cert.” He laughed at his own joke, belting out a backwoods kind of chortle.

“You ain’t layin’ shit, Jenson,” Simard said, turning back around. He hung his elbow on the open window. Outside, more barracks trailers flashed past. A few units were standing outside in formation. “Anyway, Trent,” Simard continued. “This is Forward Operating Base Spearpoint.” He waved out the window. “Too many dicks, not enough equipment, no end in sight. But hey, at least we got someone to fix our busted-ass weapons now.”

“Yeah man,” Jenson said. “There’s some chicks on base, but every one of ’em’s got at least a hundred dudes houndin’ after ’em.”

“Would you fuckin’ stow it?” Simard cut in.

Jenson shut up and focused on the steering wheel.

“Anyway,” Simard said, “you’re in Alpha Company, Fourth Platoon, Third Squad. Got it? That’s us. And as far as things not getting bad, you’re outta luck. Intel says the RF just put out a new video, only this one wasn’t a PR statement like the usual.” Simard paused. “Joseph Graham just declared war on all government forces in the city. Which means this shit is real as it gets and we’re in it for the long haul, so watch your step cuz this place is a shithole.”

“Yeah man,” Jenson said. “Bet you still notice the smell? Don’t worry, that’ll go away.”

“The smell doesn’t go away,” Simard said. “You just get used to it.”

In the back seat, Trent fought down another bout of sickness. The Revolutionist Front wasn’t playing around. Joseph Graham was the charismatic and completely psychotic leader of the Revolutionist Front who’d already earned himself a top spot on the government’s most wanted list for his role in orchestrating numerous crimes against humanity. Graham, who’d once been a backwater preacher and cult leader, had managed to use his gift of persuasion to lure enough fellow crazies out of the woodworks to put together a substantial following that eventually turned into a legitimate rebel army. A rebel army camped out in the mountains surrounding the valley Trent currently found himself trapped in as a new member of a frontline infantry unit.

From the driver’s seat Private Jenson reached back and offered Trent a cigarette.

“Welcome to Salt Lake City.”


Click below to pre-order your copy of Wake of War, coming July 19th, 2022!

Image Placeholder of amazon- 32

Poster Placeholder of bn- 93

Place holder  of booksamillion- 52

ibooks2 70

indiebound

Poster Placeholder of bookshop- 52

post-featured-image

The Non-Fiction Pieces That Inspired Project Namahana by John Teschner

Project NamahanaEveryone loves a good villain: the scheming mastermind, the taunting bully, the monster under the bed. However, real world evil often stems not from one individual, but from a long line of people making small, selfish decisions. In his upcoming thriller Project Namahana, John Teschner casts a corporation as his antagonist and asks the question, can a person make evil choices without being evil themselves? Read on for Teschner’s thoughts on life changing books, his experiences in the Peace Corps, and the subtleties of structural violence.


By John Teschner:

All of us have certain “Before and After” books that abruptly changed how we see the world. Sometimes so thoroughly, it’s easy to forget we ever saw things differently. 

For instance, after 30+ years of being a know-it-all, I became slightly less obnoxious in 2014, thanks to a lesson on why that attitude could get me killed, courtesy of Laurence Gonzales’ profound book Deep Survival – Who Lives, Who Dies, and Why:

A closed attitude, an attitude that says, ‘I already know,’ may cause you to miss important information. Zen teaches openness. Survival instructors refer to that quality of openness as ‘humility.’

This February, I was reminded of another Before and After book when I saw the news that Paul Farmer, the founder of Partners in Health, had died unexpectedly. 

In 2005, I borrowed his book, Pathologies of Power, from a Peace Corps buddy during our second year as volunteers in a poorly-conceived HIV education initiative serving the Kenyan public school system. Like most HIV interventions at the time, our work focused on prevention and personal responsibility. We were told that when Kenyans asked us why anti-retroviral drugs that were widely accessible in the US were not available to them, we should say these drugs had side effects the Kenyan health system wasn’t capable of managing.  In other words, it was no one’s fault—at least, no American’s fault—that a treatable disease in one country was a death sentence in another.

The hollowness of that claim became obvious when PEPFAR–George W. Bush’s anti-AIDS initiative—made anti-retrovirals widely available in Kenyan clinics. There was no more mention of the side effects. This was vivid confirmation of Farmer’s point in Pathologies of Power: the suffering caused by systemic inequities is no different from suffering caused by more obvious sources—both are acts of violence. 

Just because no individual had made a deliberate choice to cause the suffering of Kenyans with untreated AIDS, it didn’t mean no one was implicated. In fact, we all were.

The term for this is Structural Violence, and once you see it somewhere, you start recognizing it everywhere—sometimes in literal structures, like the interstate highways constructed in the 50s and 60s that deliberately demolished and isolated prosperous black communities. It soon becomes clear that while clear-cut forms of violence—murder and war—fill up the headlines, the vast majority of human suffering is caused by structural forces with no obvious guilty party.

This, obviously, is a challenge for novelists.

The novel, by definition, chronicles the individual experiences of a small cast of characters. A novel has stakes because characters’ decisions have concrete results with a moral dimension. The more directly a decision is linked to a result, the more entertaining the story: Mark decided to hit Sam. Sam fell down. What happens next?

The more links we add between decisions and results, the less compelling the story becomes. Villains become harder to identify. Heroes’ work becomes more mundane. We are in the realm of politicians and lawyers, not detectives and spies.

My first novel was inspired by a NYT Magazine story of structural violence: for decades, as told by Nathaniel Rich, DuPont factories dumped toxic chemicals in West Virginia streams, abetted by permissive regulators and a corporate bureaucracy that distributed the action of poisoning other human beings into a chain of indirect decisions carried out by hundreds of employees. The hero was a lawyer, and the story played out primarily in conference rooms and courthouses. 

The article is compelling. And authors like Rich, Michael Lewis, and John Carreyrou have shown you can turn these stories of structural violence into riveting narratives. 

But can you make them a thriller? That was the goal I set for myself.

First, I had to understand how these structures actually function. From the sociologist Robert Jackall, I learned corporate managers make directives as vague as possible, forcing those lower down the chain to make ever more concrete decisions. And from Stanley Milgram, I learned it’s human nature to shift our model of morality when following orders, justifying actions we would never do on their own.

So, in Project Namahana, I plotted a series of events that tear down the distance between a powerful executive and the consequences of his decisions. Over the course of the novel, Michael Lindstrom is thrust into direct contact with the kind of violence his company had been doling out in a more or less legal and socially acceptable way for decades.

One of my goals was to understand why a good person can make decisions that cause so much harm. In fact, I wanted to do more than understand; I wanted to enter the characters’ perspective and force myself and my readers to ask whether we have similar self-deceptions.

After all, there’s another reason we choose clearcut stories of heroes and villains over narratives of complex social forces: it’s not just their entertainment value, it’s the fact that we all want to identify with the hero. And stories of structural violence force us to ask whether we may sometimes be the villain as well.


Click below to pre-order your copy of Project Namahana, coming June 28th, 2022!

Image Place holder  of amazon- 85

Image Place holder  of bn- 89

Image Place holder  of booksamillion- 68

ibooks2 82

indiebound

Poster Placeholder of bookshop- 47

post-featured-image

Excerpt Reveal: The Unlikely Lawman Created by Elmer Kelton; Written by Steve Kelton

Elmer Kelton's The Unlikely LawmanElmer Kelton’s Hewey Calloway, one of the best-loved cowboys in all of Western fiction, returns in this novel of his middling years, as he looks for work—but not too much work—in 1904 West Texas.

Hewey Calloway is heading north to Colorado, on a horse drive for an old friend, Alvin Lawdermilk, when he gets word that one of his hired hands is planning to rob him. After the plot is foiled, the fugitive horsehand is on the run and leaving bodies in his wake.

Deputized to help bring the criminal to justice, Hewey is bestowed with a weight of responsibility that he’s long avoided. Never known for his skill—or lack thereof—with a pistol, he can only pray that he and retired Texas Ranger Hanley Baker will be enough to put an end to this trail of dastardly deeds.

Steve Kelton’s The Unlikely Lawman will transport you to an Old West full of duplicity, gunfights, and the often-unforgiving hardships of frontier life.

The Mass Market edition of The Unlikely Lawman will be available on July 26th, 2022. Please enjoy the following excerpt!


CHAPTER ONE

Hewey Calloway was in his element.

It was spring, and West Texas had on her Sunday best. The morning sun was warm, the effects of earlier rains beginning to show. Green shoots had appeared in the few clumps where grass grew, and much of the rest of the ground boasted tallow weed and other plants Hewey knew but couldn’t name. Most of the cows he saw had babies by their sides, full udders, and a thin layer of fat beginning to show on their ribs and over their hip bones. The cows without calves were pig fat and would soon be cut off and sold as freeloaders that wouldn’t earn their keep this year.

Hewey was on horseback, taking it all in with the pride of ownership, but without the headaches or expectation of reward. These were Two Cs cattle and belonged not to Hewey but to ranchman C. C. Tarpley, who had just fired Hewey at the chuckwagon that morning.

It wasn’t the first time Tarpley had fired Hewey, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. Hewey had even quit once or twice himself, but the two always came to an accommodation eventually; Hewey was a good cowboy, and C.C. valued that, even if he didn’t value it enough to pay well. Parsimony was a common condition among the ranch owners Hewey had known, though C. C. Tarpley displayed a more severe case than most.

Hewey had a month’s worth of C.C.’s stingy pay in his pocket, a brown horse that would watch a cow, and he was gloriously unemployed.

 

So close to his fortieth birthday that he could hear it taunting him in quiet moments, Hewey was the older of two sons. Their widowed father had a restless streak that he stamped indelibly on his first-born. The three Calloways—Pa, Hewey, and brother Walter—had drifted constantly within the East Texas region of blackland farms, picking up what work was available to them. As a boy, Hewey drug a cotton sack for miles before he was big enough to put behind a mule and a pair of plow handles. They were an ill fit for his hands from the beginning, and Hewey chafed to be somewhere else, doing something else. Brother Walter, a year younger, took to farm work like he was born for it. It was only at Hewey’s insistence after Pa died that the two brothers went west looking for cowboy jobs that were said to be plentiful in the Pecos River country, and the brothers found the job situation to be as advertised.

A decade and a half later, in 1904, Hewey had earned a reputation in West Texas and eastern New Mexico as a top hand, and Walter was back behind a plow, but this time it was his own, and he was turning back native sod on his own land. Walter was the only one of the Calloway clan, what little Hewey knew of it, to own land. Back in East Texas, where it rained, Walter’s homestead would sound like an empire up against the farms that were common. In a moment of clarity, someone in the Texas legislature had realized years earlier that it didn’t rain much west of San Angelo, and not a lot even there. The state had a world of West Texas land it couldn’t use and was leasing it to cattlemen at a pittance for grazing. From then on, Texas law allowed homesteaders to claim up to four sections—four square miles—a full sixteen times as much as the average 160-acre farm back east.

It appeared generous to people in rainier regions, but it wouldn’t run enough cows to sustain a single man, much less a man with a family. Walter was one of many West Texans who had a four-section outfit and a family, and most years the money ran out before the year did. His bride refused to give up, however, and at her insistence Walter began breaking out land to farm, first a few acres, then a few more. The delta cotton of the Blacklands could never be grown here, so Walter planted feed crops instead. Hewey had counseled against the entire endeavor, reasoning that land that resented the cow would look even less kindly at the plow. That only got him cold stares from his sister-in-law.

 

Alvin Lawdermilk had his hands full supervising a small crew of cowboys sacking out young horses in the breaking pen, but he didn’t miss the approaching rider.

“Howdy, Hewey,” he said with a slight wave of his hand as Hewey dismounted, a friendly acknowledgment but not a broad enough movement to spook the excitable horses. He extended the hand to Hewey through the fence, then quietly eased out the gate and led the way to a spot on the shady side of the saddle barn.

Alvin was middle-aged and graying, a thin man with a slight stoop, but he was still strong enough to fight a recalcitrant horse or mule, his primary products. He left most of the bronc riding to younger hands, having hit the hard, dry ground more often than he cared to already. Besides, he no longer bounced like he had when he was younger.

“What are you doin’ out footloose in the middle of a workday?” he asked Hewey. “Did ol’ C.C. have a stroke and give you hands a vacation?”

“Just one of us. He gave me a permanent day off.” Hewey gave a broad, slightly crooked grin.

“You two can’t get along with or without each other. What’d you pull this time?”

“Wasn’t much, but C.C. is pretty excitable and damned unreasonable sometimes. I was toppin’ off one of the broncs in my string this mornin’, just gettin’ his kinks worked out so he’d settle down for the day’s drive. The next thing I knew, we was right in the middle of camp, scatterin’ cowboys left and right. I was doin’ good to keep a leg on either side of him, and reinin’ that renegade was out of the question, so you can see it wasn’t my fault.

“Even at that the whole thing would’ve made for a good laugh if ol’ C.C. hadn’t been right square in that bronc’s sights. I gotta admit, for a short, stoveup old man, C.C. can still move pretty good when he’s about to git ground into the dirt. By the time the dust cleared he was cussin’ me and I was cussin’ his miserly taste in horseflesh. He blowed up and said his horses was just fine, but if I didn’t like ’em I could draw my time and go ride somebody else’s horses.

“So here I am, ridin’ my own.”

“If you’d got yourself fired a week earlier, I’d have let a couple of these knuckleheads ride on past. They don’t have any trouble bellyin’ up to the table, and they can find their bedrolls just fine, but you’ve gotta lead ’em by the hand to everything else.”

“Thanks all the same, Alvin,” Hewey said, “but I ain’t looking for work just yet. I’ve got a month’s pay to carry me a while, and I ain’t been fired long enough to enjoy it.”

“Does Eve know?” Alvin’s tone took on a note of gravity as he asked.

“I haven’t been by Walter and Eve’s place yet. Your outfit is closer to where the wagon was when me and C.C. had our disagreement.”

“Well, then you’ll stay the night. You missed dinner, but supper will be ready in a few hours.”

“I’d sure like to, Alvin, but I reckon I oughta water out and get on over to Walter’s and see which way the wind’s blowin’.”

“I can tell you right now it’ll be blowin’ straight into your face.”

“Oh, Eve ain’t always on a tear, Alvin. I’ve caught my sister-in-law in a good mood two, maybe three times.”

“And how long did that last?”

“Not very long with me around,” Hewey acknowledged, wincing at the memory. He thought that Alvin’s mother-in-law was just as disapproving. Alvin didn’t need to be reminded of that, however, so Hewey didn’t.

“I’ll sure miss havin’ the company of your womenfolk at a civilized table, Alvin, but if you’ll give ’em my regards, I’d best get on.”

“You’re a damned poor liar, Hewey Calloway,” Alvin said with a chuckle. “You won’t miss Mother Faversham any more than I would if she wandered off in the dark one night and never come home. But two doses of that medicine in the same day are too many for any man, and I have a hunch you’ll get a big dose from Eve.”

Old Lady Faversham, as she was known behind her back to the Lawdermilk crew and most any cowboy who’d ever joined it for a spell, was a grumpy, bitter old woman for reasons Hewey couldn’t fathom. Someone had done her wrong at some point in her life, or at least she thought so, but it was long before Hewey met her. He just knew that she focused most of her ire against any man who came within range. She was strong in her opinions and not at all modest about sharing them.

They shook hands again, and Hewey remounted for the short ride to the water trough. Like most cowboys, it would never dawn on him to walk and lead his mount; horses were for riding.

“I’m gettin’ old, Hewey; I almost forgot. I’ll have a job for you in a couple or three weeks, assuming my good hands and those two knuckleheads have these fillies shaped up by then. A fellow near Durango, Colorado, has contracted for the lot, more than seventy head. If you’re available, I’d like you to take ’em.”

“Don’t they raise horses in Colorado?”

“They raise a lot, but not like mine,” Alvin answered with pride. “There’s something about the Pecos River.”

Hewey knew the difference was in the horse savvy, and Alvin had that.

“Sorry about you gettin’ fired, Hewey, but it was a stroke of luck for me. You’re just the man for this little job. I’ve never seen anybody take to the cowboy life like you.”

“Appreciate the offer, Alvin. I’ve never seen that country. I’ll think on it.”

Hewey was glad he’d made the slight detour to the Lawdermilk place. If he’d hit Walter’s an hour earlier, he would have come face-to-face with Eve Calloway, alone. As it was, Walter had just finished watering the wagon team and was between the rough barn and the equally spare house when Hewey rode up.

The Calloway homestead wasn’t much to look at. Even Hewey was of that opinion, and he’d helped Walter build it all. The house was what was referred to as box-and-strip construction. Set up on stacks of flat rocks, the structure was built of wide, rough-cut boards nailed vertically, the gaps between them covered by narrower strips. The roof was rude wood shingles that shrank in the dry air until sunlight filtered through in the daytime, and a full moon provided enough interior lighting to see by. The shingles quickly swelled when challenged by the occasional rainstorm, however, and the interior remained mostly dry.

Wind whistled through the walls at first, but Eve gradually stopped that with old newspapers and flour paste, light on the precious flour. With opportunities for schooling scarce, Eve made double duty of the newspapered walls by teaching both boys to read, mostly with headlines that celebrated the advances of the closing century and speculated wildly about miracles to come in the new one. Nothing stopped the wind that came up through the plank floor except rugs, and those were limited, as were other amenities.

The Calloways’ barn was of similar construction, minus the wallpaper and rugs. Neither house nor barn had seen any paint, inside or out, for paint cost money. The corrals were not a square foot larger than necessary, and a windmill and cypress storage tank with a rock and concrete water trough completed the layout. Eve’s chickens roosted under the lean-to shed attached to the barn, and she made a daily round of brush clumps to collect the hidden eggs before a raccoon, skunk, or ringtail found them first.

The Calloways lived little if any better than sharecroppers back east, with but one exception: they had lived there long enough to satisfy the Homestead law, and they had a deed from the State of Texas to prove that the land was theirs. To Walter and Eve that meant the world.

To Hewey it looked more like a life sentence of hard labor.

 

“Well, if it ain’t the Prodigal Brother!” Walter exclaimed when he saw Hewey. “What in the world brings you by here on Two Cs business?”

“I ain’t with the Tarpley outfit anymore; I’m here on my own business,” Hewey answered with a broad grin.

Walter’s own smile faded just a bit when he heard that, and Hewey noticed.

“Reckon I’ll see to Biscuit, while you break the news to Eve.”

“Break what news to me?” Eve had seen the rider and walked up on them while neither was looking.

“Now, Eve, I’ve got somethin’ lined up . . .” Hewey began.

“Speak English, Hewey Calloway.”

“I been fired, Eve.”

Eve laughed, and the two men cut a glance at each other. “I was afraid you’d fooled around and married some floozie. You’ve been fired before. The two of you wash up and come to the house. I baked a pie earlier, and there should be just enough to go around. We’ll celebrate your visit.”

With that, Eve turned toward the house, leaving two dumbfounded men staring in her wake.

“Walter,” Hewey said solemnly, “some fool’s gone and kidnapped your wife.”


Click below to pre-order your copy of The Unlikely Lawman, coming July 26th, 2022!

Placeholder of amazon -66

Image Place holder  of bn- 22

Placeholder of booksamillion -98

ibooks2 72

indiebound

Placeholder of bookshop -75

post-featured-image

Q&A with Eric Van Lustbader, Author of Omega Rules

Want to know more about New York Times bestselling author Eric Van Lustbader and his new book Omega Rules? Keep reading to see his answers to all of our burning questions!


What’s your favorite place to write about?

I’d have to say Istanbul. It’s the nexus point of Europe and Asia, East and West. It’s exotic, on the water, with many beautiful places to set scenes. Plus, it has a long history of being a hotbed for spies of all nationalities.

What’s your preferred method for writing? Do you handwrite or type?

I write my notes by hand, never on the computer. No idea why; it just feels right. Also, now that I think about it, a number of scene ideas come to me right after the lights go out for the night and I have to scribble on the notepad that’s always by my bedside. As for the drafts themselves, always on the computer.

What’s your favorite cure for writer’s block?

Honestly, I’ve never had writer’s block, per se. I will say there are times when I can’t quite see a scene in my mind. Can’t write it until the images crystalize.

What song/album/musical artist inspires you?

Oh, so many. Having spent a decade in the music business I’ve never stopped listening to music when I write. I remember years ago playing “Running Up That Hill” by Kate Bush over and over while I finished the last 30 pages of a Nicholas Linenar novel. That was fun! These days I listen to new acts all the time: The Anchoress, Public Memory, Beach House, Hatchie, Miley Cyrus. And, of course, Depeche Mode remixes. Depends on my mood and the type of scene I’m writing.

What’s the best writing advice you’ve ever received?

When I was in the music business one of the people I interviewed was Keith Reid, the lyricist for Procol Harum (fun fact. “A Whiter Shade of Pale” is one of the few singles to have sold over 10 million copies. When I asked Keith what motivated him to write, he said, “Despair.”  My version of that is: “Write about what frightens you the most.”

What’s the book you’ve read the most?

The Night Manager by John Le Carre.

What’s the first book you remember buying?

The Magus by John Fowles

What’s been the most surprising place you’ve visited on a book tour?

That would be Perth, Australia, hands down. One gorgeous place. But the entire Australian book tour was simply amazing, mainly because of the Aussies themselves who were without exception warm, welcoming, and great fun to be with. I would love to go back and see the friends I made there.

Favorite way to unwind indoors?

Reading fiction, of course!


Click below to order your copy of Omega Rules–available now!

Poster Placeholder of amazon- 50

Placeholder of bn -19

Image Placeholder of booksamillion- 15

ibooks2 70

indiebound

Image Placeholder of bookshop- 35

post-featured-image

Forge’s Father’s Day Gift Guide

Still shopping for that perfect Father’s Day gift? We’ve got you! We’ve put together a list of book recommendations based on the type of Dad in your life to make sure he’ll get a book he genuinely loves, and doesn’t give away at the next family white elephant.

Since we know dads are picky, we’ve given you two options for each dad-type.

For the Mystery-Loving Dad:

Has your dad watched Castle six times? Does he live and die by Law and Order? Here are a couple of options for you!

Carolina MoonsetCarolina Moonset by Matt Goldman:

A son returns to his South Carolina hometown to take care of his father suffering from dementia, but some of his father’s resurfacing memories point to revelations that could shatter lives. Which is already a lot, especially when a fresh murder happens.

 

 

The ChaseThe Chase by Candice Fox:

An inmate at Pronghorn Correctional Facility falsely convicted of killing his wife and son orchestrates the biggest jailbreak in history so he can discover what really happened that fateful night. Because you know your dad would totally do something like this for you (or at least try to).

 

For the History Dad:

If your dad has more World War II facts than the History Channel, he’s going to love one or both of these books!

December '41December ’41 by William Martin:

This WWII thriller is as intense as Day of the Jackal, with the ultimate manhunt to stop a German agent from assassinating FDR as he lights the National Christmas Tree in the first weeks of World War II.

 

 

 

A Thousand StepsA Thousand Steps by T. Jefferson Parker:

Laguna Beach, 1968, the summer of love, but sixteen-year-old Matt isn’t reveling in the Age of Aquarius; he has to find what happened to his missing sister before it’s too late. Perfect for dads who remember 1968, and are shocked to be reminded how long ago that really was…

 

For the Spy Dad:

For the dad who always seemed to know where you were, or for the dad who dreams of being James Bond, these books are sure to delight any Spy Dad!

Omega RulesOmega Rules by Eric Van Lustbader:

Lustbader continued the Jason Borne series after Robert Ludlum passed away, and his own books have that same white-knuckle spy thriller action that will keep your dad turning the pages faster than he changes the TV channel.

 

 

Assassin's EdgeAssassin’s Edge by Ward Larsen:

A U.S. spy plane crashes off the northern coast of Russia at the same time that a Mossad operative is abducted from a street in Kazakhstan. The two events seem unrelated, but as suspicions rise, the CIA calls in its premier operative, David Slaton.

 

 

For the Dad-Joke Dad

You love him, even if your eyes are permanently rolled to the back of your head from all the times you’ve heard “Hi Bored, I’m Dad.” So, treat him to some new material.

A Bathroom Book for People Not Pooping or Peeing but Using the Bathroom as an EscapeA Bathroom Book for People Not Pooping or Peeing but Using the Bathroom as an Escape by Joe Pera, illustrated by Joe Bennett:

If your dad spends a lot of time in the bathroom, he definitely needs this book. And yes, this is Joe Pera of Adult Swim’s hit series Joe Pera Talks With You.

 

I Will Not Die AloneI Will Not Die Alone by Dera White, illustrated by Joe Bennett:

A hilarious, feel-good story about the end of the world. Full of affirmations that are sure to make your dad smile.

 

 

 

For the Dog Dad:

Dog dads deserve to be celebrated too, with some books about dad’s best friend!

A Dog's CourageA Dog’s Courage by W. Bruce Cameron:

Any Dog Dad who hasn’t read a W. Bruce Cameron book needs to start ASAP. A Dog’s Courage in particular is the perfect gift, as it tells the story of a very good dog who must find her way home to her family.

Tender Is the BiteTender Is the Bite by Spencer Quinn:

Chet the dog helps his human, PI Bernie Little, solve crimes that require a little more than human intelligence to unravel. The Boston Globe called Chet, “the most lovable narrator in crime fiction,” which will obviously appeal to your most lovable Dog Dad.

post-featured-image

Forge’s June $2.99 eBook Sale

The eBook editions of Irish Country Wedding by Patrick Taylor, The Lights of Sugarberry Cove by Heather Webber, and People of the Canyons by Kathleen O’Neal Gear and W. Michael Gear are on sale for the month of June for only $2.99 each!


An Irish Country WeddingAbout Irish Country Wedding by Patrick Taylor:

An Irish Country Wedding is another heart-warming tale from New York Times bestselling author Patrick Taylor.

Love is in the air in the colourful Ulster village of Ballybucklebo, where Dr. Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly has finally proposed to the darling of his youth, Kitty O’Hallorhan. There’s a wedding to be planned, but before O’Reilly can make it to the altar, he and his young colleague, Barry Laverty, M.B., must deal with the usual round of eccentric patients—and crises both large and small.

Being a G.P. in a place like Ballybucklebo often means more than simply splinting broken bones and tending to aches and pains. It can also mean helping a struggling young couple acquire their first home, clearing the name of a cat accused of preying on a neighbor’s prize pigeons, and encouraging a bright working-class girl who dreams of someday becoming a doctor herself. And, if you’re Barry Laverty, still smarting from a painful breakup, there might even be a chance for a new romance with a lovely school teacher, if her passionate political convictions don’t get in the way.
Much has changed in Ballybucklebo, and bigger changes are in store, but the lives and practices of these Irish country doctors remain as captivating and irresistible as ever.

The Lights of Sugarberry CoveAbout The Lights of Sugarberry Cove by Heather Webber:

The Lights of Sugarberry Cove is a charming, delightful story of family, healing, love, and small town Southern charm by USA Today bestselling author Heather Webber.

Sadie Way Scott has been avoiding her family and hometown of Sugarberry Cove, Alabama, since she nearly drowned in the lake just outside her mother’s B&B. Eight years later, Sadie is the host of a much-loved show about southern cooking and family, but despite her success, she wonders why she was saved. What is she supposed to do?

Sadie’s sister, Leala Clare, is still haunted by the guilt she feels over the night her sister almost died. Now, at a crossroads in her marriage, Leala has everything she ever thought she wanted—so why is she so unhappy?

When their mother suffers a minor heart attack just before Sugarberry Cove’s famous water lantern festival, the two sisters come home to run the inn while she recovers. It’s the last place either of them wants to be, but with a little help from the inn’s quirky guests, the sisters may come to terms with their strained relationships, accept the past, and rediscover a little lake magic.

People of the CanyonsAbout People of the Canyons by  Kathleen O’Neal Gear and W. Michael Gear:

In People of the Canyons, award-winning archaeologists and New York Times and USA Today bestselling authors Kathleen O’Neal Gear and W. Michael Gear bring us a tale of trapped magic, a tyrant who wants to wield its power…and a young girl who could be the key to save a people.

In a magnificent war-torn world cut by soaring red canyons, an evil ruler launches a search for a mystical artifact that he hopes will bring him ultimate power—an ancient witch’s pot that reputedly contains the trapped soul of the most powerful witch ever to have lived.

The aged healer Tocho has to stop him, but to do it he must ally himself with the bitter and broken witch hunter, Maicoh, whose only goal is achieving one last great kill.

Caught in the middle is Tocho’s adopted granddaughter, Tsilu. Her journey will be the most difficult of all for she is about to discover terrifying truths about her dead parents.

Truths that will set the ancient American Southwest afire and bring down a civilization.

post-featured-image

Excerpt: MEG: A Novel of Deep Terror by Steve Alten

MEG: A Novel of Deep TerrorMEG: A Novel of Deep Terror is the book that launched New York Times bestselling author Steve Alten’s franchise and inspired an international blockbuster starring Jason Statham.

Seven years ago and seven miles below the surface of the Pacific Ocean, Dr. Jonas Taylor encountered something that changed the course of his life. Once a Navy deep-sea submersible pilot, now a marine paleontologist, Taylor is convinced that a remnant population of Carcharodon megalodon—prehistoric sharks growing up to 70 feet long, that subsisted on whales—lurks at the bottom of the Mariana Trench.

Offered the opportunity to return to those crushing depths in search of the Megs, Taylor leaps at the chance…but his quest for scientific knowledge (and personal vindication) becomes a desperate fight for survival, when the most vicious predator the earth has ever known is freed to once again hunt the surface.

MEG: A Novel of Deep Terror will be available on June 21st, 2022. Please enjoy the following excerpt!


MEGALODON

Late Jurassic– Early Miocene Period

The Coast of the Asiamerica- Northern Landmass

(Pacific Ocean)

From the moment the early morning fog had begun to lift , they sensed they were being watched. Th e herd of Shantungosaurus had been grazing along the misty shoreline all morning. Measuring more than forty feet from their duckbilled heads to the end of their tails, these reptiles, the largest of the hadrosaurs, gorged themselves on the abundant supply of kelp and seaweed that continued to wash up along the shoreline with the incoming tide. Every few moments the gentle giants raised their heads like a herd of nervous deer, listening to the noises of the nearby forest. They watched the dark trees and thick vegetation for movement, ready to run at the first sign of approach.

Across the beach, hidden among the tall trees and thick undergrowth, a pair of red reptilian eyes followed the herd. The Tyrannosaurus rex, largest and most lethal of all terrestrial carnivores, towered twenty- two feet above the forest floor. Saliva oozed from the big male’s mouth; its muscles quivered with adrenaline as it focused on two duckbills venturing out into the shallows, isolating themselves from the herd.

With a blood-curdling roar, the killer crashed through the trees, its eight tons pounding the sand and shaking the earth with every step. The duckbills momentarily froze, then rose on their hind legs and scattered in both directions along the beach.

The two hadrosaurs grazing in the surf saw the carnivore closing in on them, its jaws wide, fangs bared, its bone- chilling trumpet drowning the crash of the surf. Trapped, the pair turned and plunged into deeper water to escape. They strained their long necks forward and began to swim, their legs churning to keep their heads above water.

Driven by hunger, T. rex crashed through the surf after them. Far from buoyant, the killer waded into deeper waters, snapping its jaws at the incoming swells. But as it neared its prey, the T. rex’s clawed feet sank deep into the muddy seafloor, its weight driving it into the mire.

The hadrosaurs paddled in thirty feet of water, safe for the moment. But having escaped one predator, they now faced another.

The six-foot gray dorsal fin rose slowly from the sea, its unseen girth gliding silently across the dinosaurs’ path. If the T. rex was the most terrifying creature ever to walk the Earth, then Carcharodon megalodon was easily lord and master of the sea. Sixty feet from its conical snout to the tip of its half-moon-shaped caudal fin, the shark moved effortlessly through its liquid domain, circling its outmatched prey. It could feel the racing heartbeats of the hadrosaurs and the heavier thumpa, thumpa of the T. rex, its ampullae of Lorenzini—gel-filled sensory pores located beneath its snout—detecting the pounding organs’ electrical impulses. A line of neuro-cells along its flank registered each unique vibration in the water, while its directional nostrils tasted the scent of sweat and urine excreted from its floundering meal-to-be.

The pair of hadrosaurs were paralyzed in fear, their eyes following the unseen creature’s sheer moving mass which circled closer, creating a current of water that lifted and dragged the two reptiles into deeper waters. The sudden change panicked the duckbills—the beasts quickly reversed direction, paddling back toward the beach. They would take their chances with the Tyrannosaurus.

Legs churning water, they moved back into the shallows, feeling the mud swirling beneath their feet. T. rex, in water up to its burly chest, let out a thundering growl, but could not advance, the predator struggling to keep from sinking farther into the soft seafloor.

The duckbills neared the reptile’s snapping jaws, then suddenly broke formation, striding in separate directions, passing within a few harrowing feet of the frustrated hunter. The T. rex lunged, snapping its terrible jaws, howling in rage at its fleeing prey. The duckbills never stopped, bounding through the smaller waves until they staggered onto the beach and collapsed on the warm sand, too exhausted to move.

Still sinking, the Tyrannosaurus had to struggle to keep its huge head even a few feet above water. Insane with rage, it lashed its tail wildly in an attempt to free one of its hind legs. Then, all at once, it stopped and stared out to sea.

From the dark waters, a great dorsal fin was approaching, slicing through the fog.

The T. rex cocked its head and stood perfectly still, instincts telling it that it had wandered into the domain of a superior hunter.

The Tyrannosaurus felt the tug of current caused by thirty tons of circling mass. Its red eyes followed the gray dorsal fin until it finally disappeared beneath the murky waters.

T. rex growled quietly, searching through the haze. Leaning forward, it managed to free one of its thickly muscled hind legs, then quickly freed the other.

On the beach, the hadrosaurs took notice and backed away—as the towering dorsal fin rose again from the mist, this time racing directly for the T. rex.

The reptile roared, accepting the challenge, its jaws snapping in anger.

The wake kept coming, the dorsal fin rising higher . . . higher, while underwater, the unseen assailant’s head rotated slightly, its jaws hyperextending seconds before it slammed into the T. rex’s soft midsection like a freight train striking a disabled SUV.

T. rex slammed backward through the ocean, its breath blasting out of its crushed lungs, an eruption of blood spewing from its open mouth seconds before its head disappeared beneath the waves.

With a whoosh, the dinosaur fought its way back to the surface, its rib cage crushed within the powerful jaws of its still-unseen killer, the T. rex choking on its gushing innards.

And then the fearsome land dweller vanished beneath a swirling pool of scarlet sea.

The hadrosaurs had watched the scene unfold. They waited for their stalker to reappear, their bladders releasing in fear. Long moments passed, the sea remaining silent. The spell of the attack broken, the duckbills abandoned the beach, lumbering toward the trees to rejoin their herd.

An explosion of ocean sent their heads turning as the sixty-foot shark burst from the water, its enormous head and upper torso quivering as it fought to remain suspended above the waves, the broken remains of its prey grasped within its terrible jaws. In an incredible display of raw power, the Meg shook the reptile from side to side, allowing its upper front row of seven-inch serrated teeth to rip through gristle and bone, the action sending swells of pink frothing water in every direction.

No other scavengers approached the Meg as it fed. The predatory fish had no mate to share its kill with, no young to feed. A rogue hunter, territorial by nature, the shark mated out of instinct and killed its young when it could, for the only challenge to its reign came from its own kind. A marvel of nature that had evolved over hundreds of millions of years, it would adapt to and survive the natural catastrophes and climatic changes that caused the mass extinctions of the giant reptiles and countless prehistoric mammals. And while Megalodon’s own numbers would eventually dwindle, some members of its species would manage to survive, isolated from the world of man in the perpetual darkness of the unexplored ocean depths . . .


Click below to pre-order your copy of MEG: A Novel of Deep Terror, coming 06.21.22!

Poster Placeholder of amazon- 39

Image Place holder  of bn- 6

Image Placeholder of booksamillion- 85

ibooks2 49

indiebound

Image Placeholder of bookshop- 60

The owner of this website has made a commitment to accessibility and inclusion, please report any problems that you encounter using the contact form on this website. This site uses the WP ADA Compliance Check plugin to enhance accessibility.