Hello one and all! How are you today?
I'm back and hope everyone is doing well and happy! It’s so great to be with
all of you again. Welcome back to my writing blog page where I try to share
whatever I think may interest you. Of course, by now you all know how very much
I love promoting other authors. Today I interview a fellow writer. With me this
time is multi-published romantic thriller author, Pepper O’Neal, as she
discusses writing.
Pepper O’Neal is an award-winning author, researcher,
a writer, and an adrenalin junkie. She has a doctorate in education and spent
several years in Mexico and the Caribbean working as researcher for an
educational resource firm based out of Mexico City. During that time, she met
and befriended many adventurers like herself, including former CIA officers and
members of organized crime. Her fiction is heavily influenced by the stories
they shared with her, as well her own experiences abroad.
O’Neal attributes both her love of adventure and her compulsion to write fiction to her Irish and Cherokee
ancestors. When she’s not at her computer, she spends her time taking long
walks in the forests near her home or playing with her three cats. And of
course, planning the next adventure.
Welcome Pepper! Thanks so much for joining
us here. You’ve lead such an interesting and well-traveled life. Shall we begin
to learn more about you and your writing?
SJ: I couldn’t help noticing that you have
written a number of suspense novels, “Come for the adventure. Stay for the
romance,” is your slogan. Can you tell
us a little bit of how the idea evolved for each book?
Pepper: When I was working in Mexico and
the Caribbean, I was surprised by the number of people that I met who were
running from something. Now, they don’t always admit it, of course, but you can
usually tell that something isn’t right—they don’t tell you much about
themselves, they refuse to have their picture taken (ever), and they won’t give
you any contact information for future communication. But a lot of the time,
once you get to know them, they will open up. So many of these people were
women, most of whom were running from abusive exes (sometimes spouses and
sometimes boyfriends) and had given up everything they had, including their
country, in an effort to feel safe. It really opened my eyes to the plight of a
large percentage of women and children who cannot, or will not, protect
themselves from abuse. It’s a sad fact that there are a lot of bullies in our world,
both men and women, who pick on those weaker than themselves, for whatever
reason, and a lot of helpless victims suffer. As a result of my experiences
with these people, my goal as a fiction writer became three-fold: 1) to shed a
light on this problem of abuse and expose its ugly side; 2, to provide
information to victims of abuse, or anyone who fears for his or her safety, on
how to defend themselves; and 3, to send a message to abusers that, as all
tyrants know and fear, eventually your victims may decide to fight back, so
beware.
Pepper's 1st Black Ops Book; Still a Bestseller!
SJ: You’re a researcher and I must ask, how
extensive was your research for each one of your books? How much fact and
fiction do you roll into each one?
Pepper: Each of my books (with the
exception of Love Potion No. 2-14, which was written just for fun) is based on
a true story. I have, of course, changed names and disguised characters, but my
characters are based on real people with real stories. So most of my research
was done face to face with the person as they told me their story. Then
depending on where I set the fiction and any other elements that I might have
added, such as technology, I have had to research those elements if I wasn’t familiar
with them. In my Black Ops Chronicles series, for example, my characters use a
lot of technology that I, of course, have never used. So I have to do a lot of
research to make sure that my information is correct and that the story rings
true. I am fortunate in that I still have contact with a lot of the former CIA
officers those characters are based on, and they do a lot of the research for
me. They also vet my stories to make sure I don’t have any blatant errors. For
example, when I finished my first book in the Black Ops Chronicle series, Dead
Run, I had a scene in the book where there is an ambush at the Mexico City
Airport. And I had the bad guys hiding in parked cars. However, when I sent it
to my friend (on whom Levi, one of the main characters, is based) who is
ex-CIA, he told me that under no circumstances could that really happen, as the
first thing the CIA officer on the scene would do would be to check all the
parked cars and anywhere else a bad guy might hide before the CIA officer would
even begin to set up the ambush. So that scene had to be rewritten to reflect
that fact.
SJ: If you could turn one of your books
into a film, which one would you choose and why?
Pepper: Black Ops Chronicles: Dead Run,
the first book in the Black Ops Chronicles series. That book has won or placed
in six national contests, so I am fairly confident about that one.
SJ: For those of us just discovering
books, which book of yours should we read first and why?
Pepper: I don’t think it really matters.
I wrote each book to be a standalone, even though all of my books, except Love
Potion No. 2-14, are part of series. Each book has a separate plot that is not really
a continuation of book before it, so even though there are references in the second
book as to what happened in the first book, you don’t need to read the first
book to understand the second one. However, if you ask me which book is my
favorite, I would have to say that it is Blood Fest: Cursing Fate. Both because
I felt much more confident about my writing when I wrote that book, and also
because the characters are based on people who mean a lot to me and whose
stories mean a lot to me. That book is about shifters and vampires, and one of
the characters, Drake, is a combination of a male friend of mine whom I worked
with in Mexico, as well as a tiger on a game refuge, with whom I was privileged
to spend quite a bit of time and who was quite a character on his own. Animals
have their own personalities, and his was quite unique.
SJ:
What do you love most about being a writer? Least?
Pepper: I suppose what I like best is
what any writer likes best and that is when the story really flows and you can
just type the words, almost without thinking about it. And what I like least is
just the reverse, when the words won’t come, no matter how long you sit and
stare at your monitor.
SJ:
What writer inspired you most and how?
Pepper: I am not sure that I can answer
that. I am a voracious reader with a wide range of interests, and I like a lot
of authors: Tom Clancy, Robert Asprin, Dean Koontz, Sidney Sheldon, Ken
Follett, and Michael Crichton, all of whom have inspired me by their ability to
tell a compelling story that you can’t put down.
SJ: If you could give just one piece of
important writing advice to an aspiring writer, what would it be?
Pepper: Keep reading and writing. You
learn to write by writing and by reading other authors to see how they handle
the issues that all writers face such as plot points, characterization,
POV. While you should never copy another
author’s words without written permission, copying a favorite author’s style in
creating characters and developing plots can help you to find what out works
for you as you develop your own style.
SJ: What is a favorite book you enjoyed
reading and would recommend without hesitation? Why?
Pepper: Another Fine Myth by Robert
Asprin. It is my go to book whenever I’m feeling down. A lighthearted romp that
can’t fail to lift your spirits. Or if you aren’t into comedy, Without Remorse
by Tom Clancy, a fast-paced, hard-hitting adventure that will keep you turning
pages into the night.
SJ: In closing, and without giving too
much away, do you have any more projects in the immediate future? We’d love to
hear about it.
Pepper: When my health allows, I am
working on the third book in the Blood Fest series, Running Scared.
Unfortunately, since I am limited by the time I can spend at the computer, the
book is taking much longer than I had hoped.
Thanks so much, Pepper for participating.
It’s been a pleasure speaking with you. Thank you so much for allowing us to
take some time out of your busy schedule and interview you. Readers, as always,
thank you for dropping by. Take note you may purchase a copy of Pepper’s books
through her publisher or at online retailers and independent booksellers.
Black Opal Books, Publishers:
Amazon.com
Barnes and Noble.com
*****But before we go, we can’t depart without
sharing a bit of one book with you. From Black Ops Chronicles: Dead Men Don’t
CHAPTER 1
Wednesday,
March 27th, 5:21 p.m., the estate of Darren Merritt, St. George, Utah:
No!
This can’t be happening!
The
last thing Andi expected to encounter on the grounds of her father’s estate was
an ambush. Headed to the stables for her rendezvous with Donald, she’d had her
mind on romance and her fingers toying with the beautiful opal pendant he’d
given her last night. Can I trust him? she wondered. Or was he just another
gold digger after her father’s money? Lost in her thoughts, she paid little
attention to the stranger approaching her.
Until
he spoke.
“Excuse
me, Miss.”
His
rough voice grated on her ears. Nerves tingling, she backed away. He followed.
Big, muscular, and hulking.
God,
he looks like a thug. Incongruous in his three-piece, navy-blue suit with its
tiny white pinstripes, he made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She
stuffed the opal necklace under the neck of her T-shirt and continued backing
away.
“Who
are you?” Chills skittered up her spine. The man oozed violence and malicious
intent. “You’re t–trespassing,” she stammered. “This is private property!”
Focused
on the guy in front of her, she didn’t notice the other two come up behind her
until she felt a hand on her shoulder–and the prick of a needle in her arm.
Vomit
rose in her throat. Hot and bitter, it choked off her breath. She swallowed
hard, forcing the vile mess back down so she could scream.
She
fought them. Rage and panic poured strength into her muscles as she twisted,
scratched, and kicked. But it did her no good. The men overpowered her and
stuffed her into a cloth bag reeking of dirty socks and stale cigarettes. The
thick, heavy material muffled her cries for help, echoing them back on her.
Screams turned into sobs then into hysterical giggling as the drug took effect.
The
world dimmed. Faded to gray. And went black.
***
8:10
p.m., the Sydarian Embassy, Washington, DC:
“Did
you get the package?” The words, calm and quiet, displayed none of the seething
tension Ambassador Jamar Farahani held inside. He hated working with scum like
this–dirty, violent. Uneducated. But that was the only kind of man who would
undertake this type of job.
“Yeah,
we got her,” replied the rough voice on the other end of the line. “When are
you coming to pick her up?”
“Tomorrow.
Maybe. It depends on the weather. Right now, they will not let any planes take
off from the airport. Not even private jets.” Jamar’s hand tightened on the
phone as he watched the snowstorm outside his windows. “There is supposed to be
a break in the morning. So hopefully, I can get out then.”
“If
that’s the best you can do, I’ll just have to sit on her for a while. But get
here as soon as you can. My guys are getting restless.”
“Just
make sure nothing happens to her, Johnson.” Jamar’s voice turned cold and hard.
“If she is raped, beaten, or even scratched, you and your men will not get
paid. Understand?”
“Yeah,
yeah. I’ll make sure nothing happens. But the sooner she’s out of here, the
better. She’s such a looker, it’s hard to control my men.”
“If
she was not ‘such a looker,’ she would not be worth as much money, and you
would not be getting paid your over-inflated fee.” Jamar turned away from the
windows. And the storm. Damn it! The goal had been within his reach, then this
happened. “Tell your men I will examine the package thoroughly when I get
there. If there is a mark on her, they will not only lose the money, they will
not live long enough to regret it.” He paused to let that sink in. “I hope I
have made myself clear.”
“Yeah,
I got it.” Johnson’s voice had risen nearly an octave. “Nobody’ll touch her.”
“See
that they do not.” Jamar disconnected, fighting the urge to throw the phone
against the wall. If Johnson’s men did what kidnappers of young women normally
did, the buyer would not pay full price. A knock at the door jerked him out of
his dark thoughts. “Come in.”
Basaam
brought in a tray of coffee and pastries. “Did they get the package, sir?”
Jamar
scowled at his assistant. “Yes, they got her. But I do not know what kind of
shape she will be in when I finally pick her up.” Still frowning, he took the
coffee Bas handed him. “If Johnson cannot control his men, she may not be worth
very much to the buyer.”
“Surely,
for what you are paying them, they should be able to control their…urges.” Bas
put a chocolate éclair on a small plate and handed it over. “Shall I call
Ahasama and give him the good news?”
“Not
yet. I do not want to report success until the package is safe in our hands.
Ahasama tends to deal harshly with disappointment. Very harshly.”
Jamar
looked at his watch then out the window at the storm. He hoped it did not last
much longer. Both he and the package were running out of time.
***
Thursday,
March 28th, 4:04 a.m., the apartment of Levi Komakov, Salt Lake City, Utah:
“Bloody
hell, what now?” Still more than half asleep, Levi fumbled for the ringing
phone. “This had better be good.”
“Levi?”
“Jonas?”
Levi bolted up into a sitting position. His friend and employer, Jonas
McKenzie, never called him at home unless there was trouble. “How bad?”
“Bad
enough. Son, I need you here.” Jonas sounded tired. “Will you come?”
“Of
course, I’ll come, old man. You should know that by now.”
A
weak chuckle came down the line. “Actually, I do. But it’s still more polite to
ask.”
“Nothing’s
polite at four in the morning,” Levi argued, glancing at the clock. “I’m on my
way.”
“How
soon can you get here?”
“If
you want me awake and functioning, it’ll take me an hour. Otherwise, thirty
minutes.” Levi could hear Jonas conferring with someone else but couldn’t tell
who.
“An
hour will do.”
“I’ll
be there.”
Levi
hung up the phone. So it was urgent, but not life or death. Still, whatever it
was, it was bad.
He
reached across the bed for the hand that wasn’t there and groaned. His wife
Leanne had been dead for over two years, but he still reached for her every
morning, after dreaming of her each night.
Murdered–when
she was six months pregnant–by a drunk driving the wrong way on the freeway,
her death had left a hole in Levi’s soul that he couldn’t seem to fill.
A
former sergeant in the British SAS, he was a man who would have killed, if
necessary, to protect his wife and unborn child. But he couldn’t even go after
the bastard who’d murdered her. The bugger had died in the crash, along with
Leanne.
Levi
had always known that life wasn’t fair–he’d just never realized how bloody
unfair it could be.
He
threw off the covers, rolled out of bed, and stretched. He’d have to forego his
morning run, he realized, then he closed his eyes, disappointed at the flash of
relief he felt. He was getting older, slowing down.
Losing
his edge.
At
thirty-four, he could still do most of the things he’d done at twenty-four, but
running a six-minute mile now took seven and a half.
He
went into the kitchen, flipped the switch on the coffee pot, and headed for the
shower. Maybe the trouble waiting for him at Jonas’s estate would be big enough
to get his mind off his own problems.
Yeah,
and maybe I should be careful what I wish for.
***
4:11
a.m., a cabin in the Cascade Mountains on the Yakima Indian Reservation in
southern Washington:
Fear
and rage. They seemed to be the only emotions Andi had left. The only ones she
remembered, anyway. As if she had never known anything else, they filled and
consumed her.
When
she’d awakened from her drugged sleep, the sack she’d been shoved into was
gone. Now she lay, bound and gagged, on a lumpy double bed. Her mouth tasted
like muddy cotton. The ropes around her wrists and ankles bit into her skin.
For
hours she’d lain here, watching the sky outside the barred windows grow
lighter–as day one of her abduction passed into day two. She’d stopped
struggling, defeated by the emotional and physical pain. The ropes were too
tight, freedom impossible.
What
did they want with her? She shuddered as thoughts of what men usually wanted
from women flashed through her mind. No. Oh, God, no. Panic flared up again,
and she fought the ropes until she lay curled into a ball, sobbing and
exhausted.
Would
anyone come to help her? No one had seen her being abducted. Had Donald
reported her missing when she hadn’t shown up for their date? Or was he in on
it?
From
what she’d overheard the men in the next room say, someone close to her had
arranged her kidnapping. Her father? Donald? Could it really be true? But who
else could have given the kidnappers her picture, her schedule, and the best
time to ambush her? Not many people had known exactly where she’d be and when.
Jonas
McKenzie, head of the crime family her father belonged to, might send someone
to help. The rumors in the Family said he didn’t allow innocent people to be
hurt. Then again, he might not even know she’d been abducted. If her father had
tipped off the kidnappers, he wouldn’t have called Jonas for help.
Damn,
if only she could get to a computer! She was an expert hacker and had broken
into the FBI’s database more than once for her father, checking for arrest
warrants on his men. Only this time, she’d put out an abduction alert on
herself. But she doubted the kidnappers would loan her a laptop, even if she
asked.
Exhausted
from the effects of the drug, her ordeal, and the questions she couldn’t
answer, Andi drifted back to sleep, praying that someone out
there–somewhere–would come to her aid.
***
4:53
a.m., the country estate of Jonas McKenzie, outside Salt Lake City, Utah:
Levi
walked into Jonas’s study and found a surprise waiting for him. “Special Agent
Wilson,” he said warmly, shaking the FBI agent’s hand. “What brings you here?”
“Mr.
Komakov.” Wilson looked relieved to see him. “We need your expertise,” he said,
picking up a manila file folder from a stack of papers on Jonas’s Desk and
handing it over.
With
a twinge of unease, Levi sat down, opened the folder, and scanned it. “Anderson
Merritt,” he read out loud. “Goes by Andi.”
But
he saw nothing in the file that would explain why he’d been called in. There
was a brief dossier and a color photo, showing an exquisite young
woman–probably mid-twenties–with auburn hair to her mid-back; ivory skin; and
striking, almond-shaped, honey-colored eyes. According to the file, she was
five feet, eight inches tall, one-hundred-thirty pounds. Just about perfect.
He
whistled. “Nice. Very nice. She’s a bloody beautiful girl. And if your
informant’s correct, she’s also intelligent, stubborn, very sheltered, and a
bit of a handful.” He looked from Wilson to Jonas. “But other than wondering
who I’d have to kill to have her, I don’t see what the problem is. Is the FBI
after her for something?”
Jonas
cleared his throat. “Andi is Darren Merritt’s daughter, Levi. She’s been
kidnapped.”
“Oh,
Christ! Sorry.” Levi winced, appalled by his thoughtless comment. “By Darren
Merritt, I assume you mean your guy in St. George.” He remembered meeting the
underboss once but hadn’t been impressed with him. “Did he ask for your help?”
“No.
I knew nothing about this until Wilson called me early this morning.”
Levi
rubbed a hand over his face. “You’ve lost me, guys,” he confessed, handing the
file folder back. “You said you needed my expertise, which I assume means my
particular brand of skills.” Jonas and Wilson both nodded, so Levi continued.
“The FBI has a whole team of professionals who handle this kind of stuff–all
younger and in better shape than me. If the young lady’s been kidnapped and you
guys are involved, what can I do?”
Wilson
didn’t answer directly. Instead, he said, “I’ve checked out your background,
the part that’s not classified, anyway. You’re experienced in covert
operations–or should I say ‘black ops’–and you’ve had paramilitary training
with the British SAS. After you emigrated to the U.S. from England, you worked
in some capacity with the CIA for a while, but nobody there will say what you
did.” When Levi said nothing, Wilson smiled. “Mr. McKenzie tells me you’re a
dangerous man to your enemies but a savior to your friends. He also says you
could out-stalk a leopard.”
“What
does my background have to do with anything?”
“Are
you willing to work in an unofficial capacity?”
Levi
couldn’t stop his snort. “You mean more unofficially than I usually do?” He
looked from Wilson to Jonas and back again. “Look, just tell me what the
situation is and what you want me to do. Then I’ll tell you if I can do it.
Fair enough?”
“The
girl’s being held in a cabin on the Yakima Indian Reservation in southern
Washington,” Wilson told him. “We know exactly which cabin, even which room.”
“Exactly?
How the bloody hell did you manage that?”
“Technology,”
Wilson said with a tight smile. “The problem is there’s a conflict between the
tribal authorities and the FBI. We won’t reveal the source of the information
on the girl’s whereabouts, so the tribal authorities won’t accept that the
girl’s there. Unless we can show them some concrete proof that she is, other
than claiming we have a confidential informant, the tribal authorities won’t
allow our hostage rescue team to come in and retrieve her. And we can’t just go
up and knock on the door to get the necessary proof, or the girl will likely
become collateral damage.”
He
sighed and shook his head. “The bottom line is the bosses are all sitting
around playing with their dicks while the victim suffers.”
“So
what you’re telling me,” Levi said, remembering why he’d left the CIA, “is that
politics is interfering with the rescue of a kidnap victim?” He studied the
man. “That doesn’t sound like the Special Agent Wilson I know.”
“That’s
why I’m here,” Wilson admitted without apology. “The Powers That Be have
decided to negotiate with the tribal authorities rather than take any direct
action. So my hands are tied.”
“And
you remembered that I don’t like innocents getting hurt any more than you do,
right?”
“That’s
right. I also remembered how effective you were in rescuing Tess Horton in
Mexico a few years ago. So when I got the word that the victim wasn’t the
Higher Ups’ first priority, I–” When Levi raised his eyebrows, Wilson shrugged.
“That’s not what they said, but it’s what they meant. Anyway, I thought of you,
so I called Mr. McKenzie and–”
A
knock on the door interrupted them. Jeff, one of Jonas’s attorney advisors,
came into the room, followed closely by Garry, his assistant, carrying a tray
loaded with coffee cups and pastries. “We were passing, saw the light under the
door, and heard voices, so we assumed there was a meeting going on.” He
gestured for Garry to set the tray on the coffee table in front of the couch.
“We thought you could use an eye opener.”
“Thank
you, Jeff,” Jonas said. “And you, too, Garry. That was very considerate of
you.”
Jeff
looked at the three men, the file in Wilson’s hand, and the stack of papers on
the desk. “Is there anything I need to know, Jonas?”
“Not
at the moment, Jeff,” Jonas said dryly. “You normally don’t need an attorney
until after the crime’s been committed.”
“Right.”
Jeff eyed all three men again then beckoned to Garry and left, closing the door
behind them.
Levi
passed around the coffee before grabbing a cup for himself. “So let me see if I
understand what you’re saying. You can’t do jack shit to get this girl out of
there, so you want me to go onto federal property, by myself, armed and
unauthorized, and unofficially rescue her. Correct?”
“Yes.”
“That’s
what I thought.”
“Can
you do it?” Jonas asked. “I’ll get you whatever gear you want and anything else
you need.”
“You’re
just a sucker for a pretty girl, aren’t you, old man?”
“Absolutely.”
But
Levi knew it was more than that. Jonas hated to see innocents suffer as much as
Levi and Wilson did. The fact that Jonas focused on “victimless crimes” and
didn’t allow his organization to hurt non-combatants was the only reason Levi
had agreed to work for him in the first place.
“To
answer your question, yes, I can probably do it,” he confirmed. “I’ll know more
when I see the layout of where she’s being held.” He turned to Wilson. “My
question is, how unofficial is this operation going to be?” When the man gave
him a blank look, Levi clarified. “If I get in and get out with the girl, am I
going to be in trouble with your troops for breaking the law?”
“If
you get in and out without getting caught, then no–I don’t know you and have no
idea that you’re even involved.”
“Gee,
that sounds just like what I used to hear from the SAS and the CIA. And if I
get caught?”
“If
you get caught, you were not acting with any official authorization, but I will
do whatever I can for you,” Wilson assured him. “I strongly recommend, however,
that you not get caught.”
“That
sounds familiar, too.” Levi thought for a moment, wondering how to broach his
next question. Hell, might as well be blunt. “To do this as covertly as you
seem to want, I’m going to have to kill any hostiles, whether they pose a
direct threat or not.” He paused, sipped his coffee. “I don’t normally like to
do that. But in my book, kidnappers rate right up there with terrorists and
don’t deserve any mercy. So I’m okay with it this time. But are you?”
“As
far as I’m concerned, you can kill every one of the bastards.”
“Good.
That’s settled.” How could he not go? A woman or child in danger was a call to
action no honorable man could ignore. And Wilson had known he’d go even before
he asked. So what hasn’t he told me? “I’ll do it, but I have one more
question,” he told the FBI agent. “What don’t you want to tell me?”
Wilson
averted his eyes. “As of yet, there hasn’t been any ransom demand.”
“Bloody
hell!”
***
7:23
a.m., the Sudarian Embassy, Washington, DC:
Jamar
stood at the window, cursing the snow. From the looks of it, there wouldn’t be
a break anytime soon. He’d thought about taking the train south, out of the
storm, then chartering a plane once he’d left the bad weather behind, but that
would leave witnesses as well as a paper trail.
Bas
poked his head through the doorway. “Salt Lake City on line one for you, sir.”
Jamar
nodded then stomped over to the phone on his desk. “Why the hell did you not
call me on my cell phone?”
“Because
the feds can eavesdrop on cell phones, you idiot,” said a familiar voice. “I’ve
worked for a crime family long enough to know not to give out sensitive
information on anything but a land line. As a matter of fact, I’m calling from
a payphone in town, since I don’t know if the phones on the estate are bugged.”
“I
see. So why did you call?”
“We
have a problem. McKenzie may be sending someone to rescue the package.”
“How
do you know?”
“An
FBI agent showed up at the estate very early this morning. About an hour after
he got there, McKenzie’s trouble shooter, Levi Komakov, came in. Almost three
hours earlier than normal. They were still holed up in the study when I left to
call you. What else could they be planning?”
“I
have six guards on her, and it is in a very remote location,” Jamar said. “Do
you think we really need to worry?”
“If
they send Komakov, we do. The guy’s a freaking ghost. Trained by the British
SAS and the CIA–if you believe even half of the rumors about him. He’s no
joke.”
“How
much do they know?”
“I
won’t know for sure until I check the tapes. But someone must have called the
FBI. It wasn’t her father, so we’ve probably got a mole, which means they must
have some idea of where she is, or they wouldn’t have called in Komakov.”
“Great.
That is just what we do not need.” Jamar sighed. “I will call Johnson and warn
him. I will also send him some more men. Though, depending on the roads, they
probably won’t get there before late tonight or early tomorrow. Meanwhile, you
try to find out how much they know and what they intend to do about it.” Jamar
considered the man at the other end of the line for a moment. “Is there any way
you can take out this Komakov?”
“Not
a chance.” A dark chuckle traveled down the line from Utah. “Even with my
training, he’d gut me like a fish. Unless I managed to shoot him in the back.
But I’m not sure he doesn’t have eyes in the back of his head. What do you
think about moving the package?”
“I
do not trust Johnson to do it safely and I am stuck here. I could not get my
plane out of the airport last night as I had planned. I probably will not be
able to leave until tomorrow from the look of things.” Jamar scowled at the
snowflakes whipping past his window. “I cannot drive. The snow has closed too
many roads. So I was considering taking the train south out of the storm first
thing in the morning and chartering a plane.”
“Why
can’t you do it now?”
“I
have a meeting this afternoon that I cannot afford to miss. If I could have
gotten out last night, I would have been back in time for the meeting, but it
is too late now. It will have to be tomorrow.” Jamar massaged the back of his
neck to ease the tension. “If I leave first thing in the morning, I could be
there by tomorrow afternoon. But I do not like the idea of witnesses and an
untrusted flight crew. Or a paper trail, for that matter.”
“Dope
the package and put her in a box, for Christ’s sake. Then she’s just cargo to
any witness or flight crew. All any paperwork will say is whatever you write on
it.”
“Yes,
good. An excellent idea.” Jamar played the scenario in his head but saw no
downside. “I will be on the first train south in the morning. You see what else
you can come up with and let me know. If this Komakov is going to attempt a
rescue, he will have to be good.”
“He
is. So just make sure Johnson’s expecting him. And get him some help.”
© 2014 by Pepper O’Neal
Wow! Awesome
beginning here! It certainly wants me to read this book. How about you? Don’t
forget: The purchase links for this book are just before this excerpt.
Feel free to
connect with Pepper at one of her social media links:
Amazon author page: https://www.amazon.com/Pepper-ONeal/e/B004MFEIPW/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0
Website: http://www.pepperoneal.com/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/pepper.oneal
Twitter: https://twitter.com/pepperoneal
Thank you all for visiting with us. It’s always a pleasure to meet readers and authors. Until next month, every one please stay safe. Smile. Be happy. Show compassion. Be nice to others. Put a little love into your heart. Please speak up for those without a voice, whether it be a dog, cat, elephant or monkey. One person, one voice can make a difference. Read a book and pass it on. Leave a review. Reviews are important for authors. Believe me. I know. Thank you!
Regards,
S. J. Francis, Writing is my passion, but animals are my world.
Advocate for the underdog, and cat, and supporting writers, et al.
In Shattered Lies: "It's All About Family." Available now from Black Opal Books and for sale at all on-line retailers and independent booksellers. "Some secrets should remain that way."
Shattered Lies is a Honorable Mention in the 2017 San Francisco Book Festival.
Shattered Lies has earned the 2017 Literary Classics Seal of Approval.
Shattered Lies is a Finalist in the 2016 Wishing Shelf Independent Book Awards.
Shattered Lies is a winner in the Fall 2016 NABE Pinnacle Book Achievement Book Awards for Women's Fiction.
Shattered Lies is a runner-up in the 2016 Shelf Unbound Indie Best Book Award Competition.
Shattered Lies was a Finalist in the 10th Annual National Indie Excellence Awards.
Shattered Lies was chosen as General Fiction Official Selection in the 2015 New Apple Book Awards.
The 2nd, new book cover design for Shattered Lies was a Finalist in the 2016 Authors dB Best Cover Contest.
The first, original book cover design for Shattered Lies was a semi-finalist in the 2015 Authors dB Best Cover Contest.
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One for the Animals: http://onefortheanimals.blogspot.com
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