THIS FREE BEACH READ HOP IS NOW CLOSED.
Thanks, those who participated!
THIS FREE BEACH READ HOP IS NOW CLOSED.
Thanks, those who participated!
Today's guest is the prolific suspense novelist Debra Webb, a USA-Today and Publishers Weekly bestselling author with over one hundred and fifty books to her name.
Debra’s latest novel, THE SECRETS WE BURY, is the first in a new romantic suspense series whose protagonist, Dr. Rowan Dupont—formally Nashville Police Department’s forensic psychologist—also happens to be an undertaker’s daughter.
Rowan, who comes from the small town of Winchester TN, is haunted by the mysterious drowning death of her twin sister. Between her mother’s subsequent suicide and the recent murder of her father, returning to Winchester to run the funeral home feels fitting—even if it leaves her vulnerable to an obsessive serial killer.
Debra and I not only discussed her plotting and how her own past affects her writing, she also has sage advice to authors just starting out: “If what you write is what readers want to read, don't deviate from what works best for them—and for you.”
Unlike me, my heroine, Donna Stone, is a consumate baker. Her apple pie is mentioned throughout the Housewife Assassin series.
In honor of International Pi Day, I'll share the filling recipe now with you (you're on your own for the crust):
THE HOUSEWIFE ASSASSIN'S RECIPES FOR DISASTER (Book 6)
Donna must stop the assassinations of both US political parties' presidential candidates. But when she discovers she has a long-term vendetta with one of the targets, can she put aside her animosity long enough to save the candidate's life?
Chapter 1: STRANGE BEDFELLOWS
Donna must stop the assassinations of both US political parties' presidential candidates. But when she discovers she has a long-term vendetta with one of the targets, can she put aside her animosity long enough to save the candidate's life?
It is a truth universally acknowledged that politics is the second oldest profession—and that, sadly, it resembles the oldest profession in too many ways to count on a gentlewoman’s properly sheathed pinkies and toes.
Being the epitome of reticence and decorum, she must strive to stay out of politics at all costs—
Unless, heaven forbid, it is necessary to sully herself in the pursuit of liberty and justice for all.
But before trotting out onto the campaign trail, she must remind herself about the difference between a lady, a whore, and a politician: whereas both the whore and the politician will perform unseemly acts with the strangest of bedfellows for money (in the case of the politician, this is euphemistically called “campaign donations”), neither the lady nor the whore equates money with power because she holds all the power she needs in her dainty (if not always properly sheathed) pinky.
Speaking of strange bedfellows, the culinary combination of chocolate and peanut butter was popularized with the invention of the Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup back in 1928. This take on a pie version will have you crossing party lines to get a slice:
* * *
I lay on a large table, naked except for the sushi that has been placed strategically on and around my body.
It’s not a great look, but this doesn’t stop three Chinese diplomats (I use the term lightly; in truth, they are spies) from plucking raw fish wrapped in seaweed and rice, while staring at my naughty bits.
One of the city’s premiere sushi chefs slices and dices away at his workstation. Because his chef’s jacket and hat are insulated, he is oblivious to the cold air blowing in from a block of dry ice below the floorboards, which flows into a tube on the tabletop beneath me.
This is supposed to keep the sushi fresh. Unfortunately, it has also turned my lips blue and numbed my bum. Beneath parsley pasties, my nipples stand at attention, whetting the diners’ appetites for hanky-panky, if not nigiri-maki.
I’m in a private penthouse which crowns a sixty-story building on San Francisco’s Embarcadero, its stunningly romantic waterfront district. It is owned by one of the diners—Professor Hong Li, whose status as a world-renowned mathematician gives him the prestige he needs to hide in plain sight. My mission has me working undercover as a nyotaimori. In Japanese, the term means “female body platter,” but it is universally interpreted as “go ahead and cop a feel between bites of your dragon roll.”
The dining room’s other major attraction is its well-appointed vodka room—a large glass freezer in which hundreds of premium, obscure vodka bottles are stored at 28° Fahrenheit. Forget sake. If the way these guys have been blitzing themselves on the fermented potato juice enjoyed by their comrades to the near west is any indication, international relations with Russia are thawing at North Pole speed.
My geisha-like role demands that I lay here stock-still. I mustn’t shiver or move a muscle. This is particularly difficult whenever Li’s chopstick grazes a breast on its way to pick up yet another piece of gunkan-maki.
Either he needs lessons on how to hold his utensils, or he presumes I’m on the menu, too.
How do you say, “Be careful what you wish for” in Chinese? Will a jab in the jugular with a chopstick get my point across?
My mission’s team leader, Jack Craig, is located in the apartment directly below this suite, where he listens and watches the video bugs smuggled into the suite’s various air vents by tiny drones, just last night by our tech operative, Arnie Locklear. Jack must have guessed how annoyed I am with Li because he whispers through my concealed ear bud: “I guess it’s a bad pun to warn you to keep your cool.”
He’s right, of course. My reason for being here has nothing to do with the fantasies of these slobbering men, and everything to do with our country’s national security. Through its encryption circumvention project, Bullrun, the NSA learned that Chinese cyber-hackers have somehow pirated the Department of Defense’s secure satellite feed for its Middle Eastern battlefield data networks—the heart and soul of its network-centric warfare.
Experts predict the Chinese economy will reach one-hundred-twenty-three trillion dollars by the year 2040—or almost three times that of the entire world’s economy a mere decade ago. Now that China is building itself into a consumer nation, it is looking to curry favor with those who can help it with its skyrocketing oil demands—including the Iranians, with whom the old saying “The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” is doubly true when it comes to the United States.
The mandate of my employer—a CIA-sanctioned black ops organization that goes by the name of Acme Industries—is to stop the hand-off of this very valuable intel before it leaves the country. But the Chinese are smart enough to go old school in the delivery process: hand-to-hand, as opposed to e-mail or texting.
For the past week, we’ve been trying to infiltrate Li’s sumptuous penthouse suite, to no avail. He has stayed holed up here the whole time. Body guards are posted outside the steel-enforced, double-door entry. Even the maid who cleans the suite has been vetted by the Chinese embassy employees, as are the well-paid escorts who sleep with Professor Li.
The word sleep doesn’t begin to describe what he does with these unlucky ladies. And the way he eyes me, I’ve no doubt he wants me to experience his bedside manner first-hand.
Should I be worried? Nah. I don’t have time. This dinner was our one and only chance to stop Li’s plot. And from the chatter we’re hearing in our targets’ native language, we realize time is running out. The handoff is supposed to take place at this meeting, but the guest of honor—the person who will be taking it out of the country—has yet to arrive.
I hope he shows up soon. Otherwise, I may be too frozen to stop him.
My only way to answer Jack’s warning is to sigh, ever so slightly. When I do, a slice of fatty tuna roll slides off my midriff and onto the table. Professor Li smirks and mutters, “Zuòwéi tā de dàtuǐ, tā de rǔfáng fēngmǎn. Hǎo yīgè biǎo, dàn wěidà de, dàng zuò'ài. Wǒ jiù zhīdào jīn wǎn shāo hòu, shì ma?”
The sushi chef in the corner must get the gist of Hong’s remark because his eyebrows roll to the ceiling. Abu Nagashahi, Acme’s translator on this mission, snickers.
“Don’t tell her,” Jack and our tech op, Arnie Locklear, warn him in unison.
After a long pause, Abu mumbles, “No kidding.”
Oh, really? And what nasty little aside could our supposedly diplomatic friend here have said to earn my desire to wring his neck with my frigid fingers?
Whatever it is, he is saved by the gong announcing the visitor we’ve all been waiting for.
The men leave the table for the private dining suite’s reception room. The rooms are separated by a solid glass wall. Despite closing the glass door behind them, the mirrored ceiling and walls allow me to watch along with my mission team as two workmen roll in a large, beautiful black lacquer box. It stands vertically, and has beautiful Chinese characters on the door.
Hong Li snaps his finger at the sushi chef—the universal language for “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll get the hell out of here.”
The man is no fool. He bows slightly and hurries out after the delivery men. The click of the door closing behind him sends a shiver up my spine.
“Stay perfectly still, Donna,” Jack murmurs. “It seems they’ve forgotten you’re there.
Easier said than done. The cold is tickling my nose. I hold my breath in the hope that I can keep from sneezing.
A man enters the room. He’s in his late thirties, with a full head of long, blond shoulder-length hair. He wears wire-framed glasses over his large brown eyes.
“Arnie, tilt the living room camera down and left, so that our facial recognition software gets a better look at him,” Jack whispers. “Donna, you’ve also got him in your line of sight. Can you turn your head, just a bit to the right?”
I do so, ever so slightly. Thank goodness all eyes are on the stranger, even those of the professor’s personal body guard, a hulk I’ve nicknamed King Kong. At six-foot-three-inches tall and over two-hundred pounds, should the occasion arise, it’ll be a challenge for me to take him. I mean, let’s face it—it’s not like I can hide my Glock under the pickled ginger garnish in my belly button.
If that time comes, failure is not an option—not if I want to walk my children into their new classrooms on the first day of school tomorrow.
Hong Li smiles at the man and gives him a slight bow. His two associates follow suit.
The Chinese spies smirk at the man’s hesitant, unsmiling nod in return.
I don’t like the feel of this.
“I presume you want to inspect my handiwork?” The man’s hushed question comes out in a stutter.
Li tempers his curiosity with a shrug. “Please, do us the honors.” His English mimics his guest’s Southern inflections.
The stranger purses his lips as he twists the latch on the door of the exquisitely painted box. Inside is a clay figure—an ancient Chinese warrior. With the push of a lever, the platform on which the statue sits rolls out.
His hosts are awed enough to murmur and clap.
“Wow! What exactly is that?” Arnie asks.
“It looks like one of China’s ancient terra-cotta warriors of X’ian,” Abu answers. “Back in the 1970s, while digging a well, a couple of farmers in the Shaanxi province unearthed a similar clay figurine. When all was said and done, eight-thousand of them were uncovered. They’d been buried in the necropolis of Qin Shi Huang, the first emperor of China. In fact, there’s an exhibit of them here, at San Francisco’s Asian Art Museum.”
“So, how old do you think it is?” Jack wonders.
“Qin ruled around 209 BC, so it’s at least that old,” Abu responds. “But this one is a replica.”
“How do you know?” Jack asks.
“Because it’s the spitting image of Xi Jinping, China’s current president.”
Darned if he’s not right.
“Nailed him!” Arnie yells in my ear. “The dude who brought the box is the sculptor, Carolus Duran.”
I recognize that name, too. Known as “the Twenty-First Century’s Rodin,” Duran’s works can be seen in many great art institutions, including the National Gallery in Washington, London’s National Gallery, and the Met in New York.
“Your president should be quite pleased with the resemblance,” Duran declares.
“When will it be delivered?”
Duran glances down at his watch. “In half an hour, it is to be transported via train to the Getty Museum in Los Angeles, along with the rest of the soldiers in the exhibit now at the Asian Art Museum, just in time for the presidential reception tomorrow evening.”
“President Xi will be honored to receive such a unique gift from your president.” Li’s smile is too wide to be genuine. “I presume you’ve done as I asked?”
Duran nods. “Yes, of course! I’ve hidden the secret compartment, here.” He points under the left arm of the soldier, which is raised slightly from the torso, as if it’s holding something. “There is an indentation, here. Press slightly, and it opens, like so.”
To prove his point, Duran presses a panel in the armor directly under the soldier’s armpit. Apparently he has pushed a spring lock because it appears to fall into the opening that has magically appeared. Duran’s hand disappears into the statue as far as his wrist. He shifts it slightly, and then pulls it out. The panel drops back into place, as if the clay has never moved.
“Excellent,” Li murmurs. “Now, we shall toast your masterpiece—and the release of your parents from our hospitality in Chengdu.”
Duran winces at Li’s joke at his expense.
“Arnie, what’s he referring to?” Jack asks.
Arnie’s research is fast and furious. “Apparently Duran’s folks disappeared about a month ago, while on a group tour of China. Chengdu is one of China’s largest cities inland—much too rainy and overcast to be a major tourist stop.”
“In other words, they were kidnapped as a way to coerce Duran to alter the statue for their needs,” Abu surmises.
“I have a bottle of Russo-Baltique, for just this occasion.” Li nods at one of his associates, whom I’ve nicknamed Snapped Fingers because that is exactly what will happen to him the next time his chubby paws grab at anything on me that isn’t wrapped in seaweed or rice. I call Li’s other toady Poked Eyes, because he seemed mesmerized by my Telly Savalas, and I’d like to alleviate him of that fixation.
“Donna, don’t move,” Jack warns me.
He’s preaching to the choir. I shut my eyes tightly before Snapped Fingers passes me on the way to the vodka room, knowing full well that Jack will warn me if I need to open them again.
“He’s found the bottle,” Jack whispers. “Okay, he’s walking out now … He’s gone. You can open your eyes.”
Arnie whistles. “That vodka is worth a million and a half dollars. The flask is solid gold, made from old coins from the turn of the last century!”
I watch as Duran adamantly shakes his head at his host’s offer. “No, really, I must be getting back. The museum’s curator and transportation director are expecting me to deliver the piece as soon as possible.”
Li’s smile hardens. “We will take care of its delivery.”
Duran’s eyes open wide. “But—but that would be considered most unconventional! The artist must always be present when our president commissions a welcoming gift, specifically for another head of state—”
Snapped Fingers pours the vodka into two glasses on the sideboard, and then places them on a tray. In no time, he is standing in front of the sculptor.
“They will understand that you’ve been called away early, to Los Angeles, to meet with your president,” Li’s tone is gentle, as if he’s talking to a child. “No one keeps great men waiting, am I right? Now, let us drink up.”
The fear doesn’t leave Duran’s face, even as he watches Li take one of the glasses. Finally, he takes the other glass from the tray; he raises it to his lips.
I would wager it’s a cocktail of succinylcholine—a paralytic agent—and potassium chloride, which stops the heart. As he falls backward, Snapped Fingers is ready to catch him, and ease him onto the floor.
Li takes something from his inside jacket pocket and places it into the statue’s hidden compartment.
“That’s it—the intel!” Jack declares. “The president won’t even know that he’s handing it over to President Xi, along with the statue.”
“And should word leak out, he’ll be disgraced,” Abu adds. “His detractors can use it to call for his impeachment, maybe even his resignation—or worse, call him a traitor, and ask that he be tried as such.”
Just as Poked Eyes wheels the box out the door, I let loose with a squeak of a sneeze.
“Oh … hell.” The dread in Jack’s voice tells me all I need to know: That slight movement caught the attention of Hong Li.
He waves at his bodyguard. “Take care of her.”
He’s out the door, too, with Snapped Fingers on his heels.
I am left with King Kong.
Jack shouts, “Hang on, Donna, I’m on my way.”
I’m hanging on, alright—to the far side of the table, which is now the only thing between King Kong and me. It’s too wide for him to reach over it, but the platters I throw at him bounce off, like beer caps in a pong game between two drunks.
He tilts the table on its side and rushes towards me, swatting off my kicks as if they’re raindrops until he’s got me backed up against the wall—really, against the chef’s workstation. He grabs one of my legs and jerks it up, so that I’m now flat on the countertop. He has one hand on my throat. He smiles when he sees my eyes grow big at the realization that he’s cutting off my oxygen with his broad thumb.
Gasping, I grasp at anything, and come up with a chopstick.
When I jab his eye, he howls and backs off. He hesitates only a second before yanking it out. A torrent of blood pours forth. I’m a mother of two tweens who play sports like kamikazes and their little sister does anything they say on a dare, so granted, I’m no stranger to blood, but this has my lunch climbing into my throat.
King Kong has me cornered in front of the door to the vodka freezer. He’s only six feet away and rushing right at me when I throw my last weapon—the chef’s Blue Steel Ao-ko Mioroshi Namiuchi knife.
The good news: as it hits his chest, it stops his forward momentum.
The bad news: when he falls over, it’s forward—and on top of me.
Even worse news: As I fall backward with him on top of me, the force of our weight pushes open the door to the freezer and propels me into it—
And clicks shut behind me.
I try shoving the door, but it won’t open. King Kong’s body is, quite literally, a dead weight blocking my only way out.
My situation is dire. I’m naked, I’m freezing, and for once I’m in no mood for a vodka martini.
Despite the fact that the glass wall between me and the dining suite is tempered and thick, I pray I can penetrate it somehow. Shivering, I stalk the room, looking for a way out of my predicament.
My eyes scan the backlit vodka case. Like the antique gold Russo-Baltique, all of the bottles in Hong Li’s personal stash are works of art. Belvedere’s bottle is encased in a glass bear. The Diva bottle is especially stunning: a clear cylinder with a tube of precious gems in the center.
But neither of those will give me what I need: freedom.
However, a bottle encrusted with diamonds may just do the trick.
There are several here. Oval Vodka’s bottle is covered in them, but unfortunately its shape plays off its name. The cask-like Alizé Vodka bottle is studded with pink crystals. I slam it against the edge of the table, and most of the crystals fall to the floor, so that’s of no help.
The next bottle I grab—a brand called Iordanov—is so embellished with diamonds that it glistens in the light. Holding it by its long neck, I once again whack the center table with all my might.
I’m left holding a piece of very expensive glass still encrusted with diamond crystals, where it counts most: around its jagged end.
By now the cold is getting to me. I can barely feel my fingers or toes, and my muscles ache. I drop to my knees against the wall with my homemade glasscutter, which I hold tightly as I etch a square in the glass. Here’s hoping it’s large enough for me to fit through, and that it’s not just the size I wish I were. (Note to self: pinch that inch, then get rid of it for good.)
I don’t have much strength, but still, I kick at the etched square. I hear it give way—
Then I pass out.
* * *
In my dream, I’m treading water in a steaming lake. My children Mary, Jeff, and Trisha paddle toward me. They welcome me with warm kisses, then they swim just out of reach. I shout for them to wait for me. Try as I might, I can’t move my hands or feet to follow, but rather I bob and float, dead-man style, with my head just slightly above the water line. Their way of cajoling me to follow is to promise to bring home great grades and be the best-behaved students in their classrooms this year.
In the distance, Jack shouts at me, too. It’s hard to make out what he’s saying because my teeth are chattering and the hot water is running, but it’s something to the effect of Abu she’s coming to, so turn the heat all the way up in the bedroom and Donna can you hear me and Tell Arnie to stay on Li’s tail and Donna, I love you, please don’t die on me.
“I won’t, I promise. I love you, too, Jack.” Did I say that out loud? Am I smiling? If not, then why do my lips hurt so much?
He must have heard me because I feel him slapping my face as he lifts me out of this nice warm bath. Still, I push his hand away because the air is chilly. But he picks me up anyway, and I’m too weak to fight him off. The next thing I feel are his hot tears on my cheek. My own tears glaze my eyes, but at least they no longer sting.
As he kisses them off my face, one of my eyelids flutters open, and I’m staring into the deep green eyes of the love of my life. There is so much I want to say—that I’m glad he got to me in time. That I never doubted he would.
And that I will never leave him, ever, even if it means haunting him for the rest of his life.
But of course, he knows this—which, is why, when I mutter, “What took you so long?” he covers his sigh of relief with a laugh.
He swaddles me in a large terry robe and lays me on the bed. “Taking down the guards was the easy part. It was the damn steel door that took a bit of finagling. We finally cut it open with one of Arnie’s new toys—a laser taser. It cut through the freezer wall, too. Good thing, because we never could have moved Li’s behemoth of a bodyguard.” He warms my fingers between his hands, then kisses each, gently.
“No mission is ever simple.” I lick my lips into a smile. I wonder if they’re still blue. “Jack, do we still have a lead on the statue?”
“Yes, but we’ve got some ground to cover. It took us almost an hour to relieve Li’s guards of their duty, shall we say. In the meantime, Arnie followed Li and the box. It’s been loaded onto an Amtrak Coast Starlight, along with the rest of the terra-cotta soldiers from the Asian Art Museum. They’re already on their way to the Getty, for POTUS’s private reception with Xi Jinping.”
I slide off the bed. When I try to stand up, my legs fold under me, like a newborn colt’s.
Jack grabs me by the waist. “Steady, doll. Seriously, Donna, maybe you should sit this one out.”
I shake my head. “Are you kidding? And miss my chance to save POTUS’s reputation? No way. Besides, who looks more fetching in chest candy, you or me?”
“At this point, anything you wear—including a robe—would be an improvement.”
Point well taken. I tie the robe demurely around my waist. “You need me to positively ID Li, and anyone else who may be obstructing the mission. We both know that. However, after what I’ve been through, I’ll be glad to let you do the heavy lifting.”
He shrugs. “My thoughts exactly.” He tosses me a black bodysuit, along with a wig, glasses, and a jacket. “If we hurry, we can catch the train before it reaches Oxnard.”
Not the most romantic invitation, but hey, I’ve had worse.
* * *
Apparently when Jack said we were to “catch the train,” he really meant it. Acme’s pilot, George Taylor, flies us into Oxnard Airport. From there, Abu drives us about thirteen miles north—on the portion of US 1 that is called Old Rincon Highway, which runs parallel to the elevated tracks, a place where the two are separated by just fifty feet.
Finally we veer into a small underpass just below the tracks.
Jack looks at his watch. “The train should be coming through in another ten minutes. It’s only going about twenty-three miles an hour. At that speed, we’ll hoist ourselves onto the car easily by shooting these guns,”—he pulls out an odd looking pistol—“which hold a retractable magnet tether, attached to your vest. Once you reel in the tether, the force of the magnetic suctions on your hand and foot gear will keep us on the car until we can reach the back door. Then you’ll break the lock with your laser taser, find the right statue, and grab the thumb drive. You’ll replace it with this one”—he tosses me a black thumb drive, and pockets an identical one—“which is filled with enough believable disinformation to satisfy our Chinese friends. Abu will shadow alongside, in the van, for as long as he’s got blacktop—at the most, five miles. But then the road disappears and the tracks are hugging a cliff along the Pacific. The next stop is Oxnard, so worst case scenario, we hang on until then.”
I give him a thumbs-up. “I get it—a fast in-and-out.”
He nods. “Abu will pick us up.” He tosses a duffle bag at me. “You’ll find infrared goggles in here, as well as a vest, and magnet-laced gloves and shoes. To secure them, twist slightly to the right. To release, press down and lift up, gently.”
I snap the locks on my right shoe then I test the magnet on the van’s metal floor. Yep, it holds tight as a gnat’s arse. “Do we know which car holds the statue?”
“Arnie saw them being loaded into the last three cars,” Abu explains. “Unfortunately, he doesn’t know exactly which one holds the Duran statue. Li is on the train, too, with a lady friend. They are in the very last passenger car, which is private, and apparently owned by a Chinese conglomerate. It was hooked onto the train at the very last minute. Arnie has changed into an Amtrak purser’s uniform, in case something goes wrong and we need an ‘official escort’ out of there.”
I nod. “So, we’ll have to check all three cars for it?”
“Unfortunately, yes. Hopefully, it will still be in its black box, so that we can find it quickly and jump off before it reaches its next stop, the Oxnard Amtrak station,” Jack continues. “We’ve got less than five miles of track to pull this off. Otherwise, we lose our ride back to the plane because the road disappears completely where the track runs along a cliff beside the ocean, before going inland and adjacent to the Pacific Coast Highway.”
“Then we should split up,” I suggest. “Each of us should take a car. If it isn’t in either, the one who finishes first can hit the third car.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Now that we’re suited up, Jack and I position ourselves in the bushes closest to the track.
“Five minutes to show time,” Abu murmurs into our ear buds. In fact, we can hear the train’s whistle off in the distance.
A minute later we spot its headlight. I’m relieved to see that Jack is right and it’s practically crawling down the track.
We wait as the passenger cars roll by. Finally we count off those containing cargo berths. The last car, just beyond, is the observation deck, which is painted in bright yellow. When the last three cargo berths are just a few seconds from us, Jack touches my arm. “You take the last, and I’ll take the middle, okay? We’ll rock-paper-scissor for the first. On three, okay? One, two … three!”
He shoots his magnet tether onto the side of middle of the three cars. When I do the same with the last one, I find myself being propelled through the air, like a spider on a wind-whipped tendril of its web.
I land on all fours on the side of the designated car. I reel in the tether and tuck the tether gun into my belt. Then I crawl slowly toward the back of the car, where I’ll use the laser taser to cut through the lock on the door.
Quickly, I dart through the rows of the cargo’s hull, searching for the black box, but it’s not here. Through my video lenses, Abu is double-checking the faces on all the terra-cotta statues, just to make sure I haven’t missed it somehow, but no.
“Dead end,” I shout.
“I’ve come up empty-handed, too,” Jack says. “Since I’m closer, I’m on my way to the next car. Get your exit strategy in place.”
I wait and listen for what I hope will be his imminent success. Jack’s off-key humming of Keith Urban’s We Were Us is supposed to mask the exertion and strain of crawling, carefully and slowly, from one car to the next. If I could, I’d cover my ears because yes, he is that bad. As it is, I’m hanging by a thread, ready to jump from my car.
“Step on it,” Abu warns him.
“I hear you,” Jack insists. “Okay, I’m in … and … no go.”
“Then he has it in the observation car with him. I’m closer, so I’m going to get it.”
“I’m right behind you,” Jack says.
“I’ll be out in a jiffy. Just get ready to jump.”
“I like your bravado.” Jack is joking. The concern in his voice is heard loud and clear, thanks to the echo inside the cargo area.
I know just how he feels.
* * *
The call girl is a screamer.
Works for me. She’s so loud that I can pick the lock of the observation car without them suspecting anything.
And there’s the object of my affection: the black lacquer box. Thank goodness it’s in the front of the suite, as opposed to through the arched doorway of the car’s bedroom compartment.
The woman has her back to me. As she tightens up on Professor Li, her thighs rise and fall in sync with the rocking train. His eyes are closed and his lips are pursed, as if he’s willing himself to hold out as long as possible.
You’re paying by the mile, so show her who’s boss, dude.
Silent as a ghost, I make my way over to the box. Where was the lever again? Oh yeah, on the right side. I pull it and the doors open, and the statue rolls forward.
I slip my hand under the statue’s right armpit and press it gently. Voilà, a tiny panel falls in. I slip my hand into it and pull out the thumb drive and put the fake one in its place.
I’ve just slipped our precious intel into a tiny inside pocket on the back of my jacket when the call girl asks, “Hey, where did she come from?”
I look up to see them both staring at me. Li’s eyes narrow as he realizes what I’ve just done. On the other hand, the call girl shakes her head angrily. “My service didn’t say anything about a three-way! That’ll cost you extra.”
He answers her with a slap that sends her reeling backward on the bed. It takes him only a second to flip her over. A set of handcuffs appear, seemingly out of nowhere. Wrenching her arms behind her back, he cuffs her wrists together.
“Hey, no one said anything about rough stuff!” Now that she’s face down, her pout is muffled by a pillow. “I’m not complaining. I’m just saying I’ll have to add it to your tab.”
Li isn’t listening to her. He’s already on his way to me, gun in hand.
I dodge his bullet, which ricochets off the suite’s metal wall and slams into a lamp, shattering its base. One of the larger shards flies toward him, nicking him in the neck. He curses in pain. Instinctively, he raises his left hand to staunch the bleeding.
That gives me all the time I need to hit him with a crescent kick, which knocks the gun out of his right hand. It skitters out the open door.
I’ve gotten as far as the threshold when he tackles me. Despite being face down, I kick furiously.
One of my feet must have hit the mark because he curses me, but still he doesn’t let go. Instead, he drags me to the open door. While one hand holds me in a chokehold, the other roams over my body, in search of the pocket that holds the thumb drive. It stops over my left breast, which he squeezes with a smile.
Copping a feel—again?
I bend my knee to give him a sharp back kick, with my heel, to his groin.
As he doubles over, I knock him out the door.
His scream echoes for several moments. When it’s not followed by the usual thud that accompanies bone meeting metal, I look out the door to see why not.
By now, the train is hugging the edge of the cliff that runs high above the Pacific Ocean. There is no beach, just surf slamming rocks.
The sun has already dipped below the horizon, but there is still enough light for me to see Professor Li’s broken body, bobbing in the surf like a buoy.
“Beautiful sunset, isn’t it?”
Jack is gazing down at me from the roof.
I smile up at him. “Always is, this time of year.”
By the time he has climbed down the rooftop ladder, Li’s body has slipped under the choppy surf for the very last time.
The call girl shouts, “Hey, where’s the party?”
Jack raises a brow. “Want to introduce me to your friend?”
“Not really,” I mutter. Still, I walk over and snap open her cufflinks. “So sorry, but all the fun and games are over. Our host has been permanently detained.”
She shrugs as she rubs her wrist. “That’ll be an extra thou, for the rough stuff.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
She gives me a look that implies I’m sorely out of touch with the demands for her stock in trade.
No, I’m just sore. I’ve been frozen, slammed up against a moving train, and almost choked to death.
I dismiss her with a wave of my hand. “Just put it on his tab, he won’t mind.”
She’s not hearing it. “Sorry, cash only,” she growls.
The last thing I need is a witness who can ID me. I peel out the right amount of C-notes and toss them her way.
Through my ear bud, I hear Abu and Arnie laughing raucously.
Jack murmurs, “Boy oh, boy. I can’t wait to see Ryan’s reaction to Donna’s petty cash receipt.”
Believe me, I wish I got paid extra for the rough stuff, too.
Maybe I’m in the wrong business.
In the 10th novel in the Deborah Coonts’ series, LUCKY CE SOIR, Coont’s heroine, a fixer at the mythical and very posh Vegas Strip hotel, the Babylon, puts her business life on hold in order to meet the parents of her fiancé, the noted French chef Jean-Charles Boucle, only to stumble into a murder mystery that might destroy the Bouclet family’s reputation in the high-stakes industry of top-flight French wines.
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James Rollins has written enough bestselling novels to fill a tall bookcase. In most of them, a historical event, or artifact, is the catalyst for a modern-day catastrophe. Sometimes Rollins will find the perfect plot concept from reading an article. Sometimes it’s sparked from his travels. For his latest novel, CRUCIBLE, it came from a place that even surprised him. (You'll have to hear the interview to find out where.)
In CRUCIBLE, the Spanish Inquisition is the catalyst for a religious cult's modern-day witch hunt in the not-too-distant-future. Fair warning: should the events depicted in this novel come to pass and scientists soon develop an artificial intelligence capable of warp-speed learning capacity, fact will be much scarier than fiction.
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According to internationally bestselling author David Baldacci, when you’ve written as many books as he has—ten series, or a total of thirty books, and counting; and another twelve stand-alone novels—there is one way to keep his writing razor-sharp: “Start from Square One: create a new character, a new series—a new world.”
With his latest novel, LONG ROAD TO MERCY, Baldacci has done just that. His new protagonist, female FBI agent Atlee Pine, must cover a desolate Far West outpost on her own. And although its size is intimidating—it includes Grand Canyon National Park—Atlee is strongly motivated to succeed. She sees it as a way to avenge the tragic death of her twin sister, Mercy, who was abducted by a serial killer when the girls were only six years old.
David and I talked about his process in creating new, complex characters and weaving real-time geopolitical incidents into a heart-pounding plot.
To celebrate the Barbara Vey Reader Appreciation Weekend 2018—which takes place on the weekend for Friday through Sunday, April 27—29, 2018—I interviewed some of the 50+ authors who will be attending.
THESE INTERVIEWS WILL LAUNCH SOON.
Each author has such wonderful insights on what inspires them to write—and you'll certainly enjoy what they say about their latest novels and their writing process.