Dr Jaq Silver blows things up to keep people safe. An engineer and explosives expert, she’s also an excellent skier.
Working on avalanche control in Slovenia, Jaq stumbles across a problem with a consignment of explosives. After raising a complaint with the supplier, a multinational chemical company, her evidence disappears. Jaq is warned, threatened, accused of professional incompetence and suspended. Taking her complaint further, she narrowly escapes death only to be framed for murder. Absconding from police custody, she sets out to find the key to the mystery.
Racing between the snowy slopes of Slovenia and the ghostly ruins of Chernobyl, can she uncover the truth before her time runs out?
“Just the right blend of suspense and tension… I recommend this original and compelling debut novel for fans of mysteries and thrillers, as well as for those looking for a credible female protagonist in a genre dominated by male superheroes. Already, I am looking forward to reading the next instalment in this series.” ~ Forbes, Editors’ Pick
“Explosive science, strong women, and snowy landscapes, all within a gripping, smart, fast-paced read.” ~ Helen Sedgwick, author of When the Dead Come Calling
“Imagine the love child of Jack Reacher and Nancy Drew…a delicious cocktail of dating and detonations. Call it Mills and Boom.” ~ Evening Standard
“An audacious, female-led thriller which took the disposable women of the James Bond franchise and flipped the concept entirely on its head.” ~ Chemistry World
“Fiona Erskine is an engineer, and in Jaq Silver, who shares her profession, she has created a wonderful antidote to all the resentful, floppy victims of much domestic noir… Her adventures are eye-popping and exciting.” ~ Literary Review
Book Details:
Genre: Sexy Engineering Thriller Published by: Snickered Mole Publication Date: August 2024, US Number of Pages: 400 ISBN: 978-1-7385120-5-8 Series: Jaq Silver Thriller series, 1 Book Links:Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookBub | Goodreads | Kobo
Read an excerpt:
PRELUDE
Teesside Thursday 24 February, Teesside, England
The trouble with Semtex is the smell. Dogs can sense it. Most humans can’t. Boris could. Not the plastic explosive itself, you understand; neither RDX nor PETN – the main components – have much of an odor. The scent comes from the tracers added, to make sure it doesn’t fall into the wrong hands. Hands like his. Chemist’s hands. Wide hands with long fingers, calloused from handling hot glassware, thickets of black hair curling over the knuckles and between the joints. Hands now gripping the steering wheel of a five-axled truck hurtling toward the Zagrovyl factory in Teesside.
Boris only carried a small amount of Semtex these days, just enough for his personal use. He kept it in a Tupperware container, wrapped in Clingfilm, under his sandwiches. Sentimental value, really. He’d moved on. To some, it might look like a backward step, from laboratory shift work to long-distance truck driving. But only to those who didn’t know the tedium of analytical testing. The same samples, the same tests, the same results, hour after hour after hour. Not like the old days, when you had thorny problems to solve and real fires to fight. Nothing more boring than a well-run factory. He was glad when they sacked him. Glad to be free of the monotony. Glad to be out on the road. These days, his insight into tracers was a key skill for the job.
Boris yanked the wheel to the left and hauled the truck into a lay-by with a view. The chemical plant skulked on the far side of a chain-link fence. One factory was much like another. Plumes of steam billowed into the sky, glowing orange in the sodium lights, bright against a dark, winter day. He traced the familiar shapes in the condensation of his side window: an hourglass – the cooling tower curving to a waist and then flaring out again; two, thin vertical lines – the nitric acid absorption columns lit up like Christmas trees; three circles – the ammonia storage spheres, massive, metal balls trapped by sturdy legs to stop them rolling away; a rectangle – the ammonium nitrate prilling tower looming over the A19, the main road out of Teesside.
The wind whistled up the river, screaming through the gap between the warehouses, bringing with it a faint whiff of sulfur, reminding him of home: Pardubice in the Czech Republic. The Semtex factory where he trained.
He watched the car park from the lay-by, waiting until the last company car roared away, before driving up to the gatehouse and presenting his papers. At the collection bay he plugged a small black box into the vehicle’s lighter socket. It beeped, and flashed, a red light showing it had located the Zagrovyl computer network. He tucked the jamming device under the passenger seat before turning off the ignition and stepping down from the cab.
“Snow Science, right? Two metric tons?” The bald warehouseman tapped his keyboard. “Bloody system down again.”
Boris slid his papers through a hatch. “Twenty metric tons.”
“Fertilizer grade?”
“Explosives grade.” Boris jabbed his finger at the product code on the order.
“You sure?” Baldy frowned and inspected the order line by line. He picked up a phone, running a hand over his eggshell-smooth head as he waited. When there was no response, he shook his head and cursed, “Lazy tossers, all buggered off early.” He slammed the receiver back into its cradle. “I’ll get you loaded up in a jiffy, mate.”
The metal ramp screeched against the concrete floor as a forklift truck drove into the back of the truck, delivering the first pallet. Two forklifts worked in tandem, an intricate dance, weaving and turning on a dime as they loaded the cargo. Within fifteen minutes it was finished. Fast and skillful, these old men of the north.
Boris secured the load, signed the paperwork and drove out of the factory gate.
Instead of taking the A19 south, he headed east to Haverton Hill and a decrepit warehouse lying in the shadow of a blue bridge. A damp chill rose from the misty river. Boris shivered as he opened the cab door and scanned the quayside.
A tall, thin man materialized out of the fog, moving slowly with labored, jerky movements. He emerged into the sidelights: dark coat, spiky black hair, gaunt white face. The Spider. Christ, this run must be important.
“So?” The question came out as a hiss.
“All good.” Boris pointed to the trailer. “No problems, boss.”
The Spider pressed a button and battered doors began to open, groaning and squealing with neglect.
Boris backed the truck into the warehouse and hopped down from the cab. “How long will it take?” he asked, as he unlocked the back doors and dropped the ramp.
“Assist,” The Spider ordered. “Time is of the essence.”
Two hours later, Boris’s arms ached as he maneuvered the truck onto the southbound motorway. Bloody amateurs. Leaving him to do all the heavy work.
Boris made good time to the south coast, skirting London after the rush hour. Transport of explosives was not permitted in the Channel Tunnel, so Boris and his truck boarded the ferry to France.
He stood on deck, sipping a watery, English coffee, as the white cliffs of Dover receded into the mist. Plain sailing from here. He shivered as the towers of the titanium dioxide factory beside the Port de Calais hove into view, and returned to his truck.
The drive through France was uneventful as far as Strasbourg, but a young border guard flagged him down at the crossing into Germany for extra checks. So much for a borderless Europe. Boris remained calm. It had happened before. Nothing to worry about.
The ginger-haired guard puzzled over the papers, wrinkling his brow. “You do know what you’ve got in there?”
“Yes.” Boris lied easily now. After the first few runs, he knew how unlikely it was that anyone would check. And even if they did, what would they see?
Ginger picked up a phone and moved out of earshot. After a few minutes, he marched back. “Drive carefully.” He waved him on his way.
Boris drove on past Baden-Baden. After lunch, near Munich, he took a nap in the back of the cab. When he woke, the stars guided his way to Salzburg and the crossing into Austria.
As he approached the mountains, snow started falling, wet flakes that melted on impact. A weather report on the radio warned of treacherous conditions and several inches of snow up ahead. Great for the skiers, bad for lorries full of explosives and worse. Best to cross in the morning. He slid into a lay-by. A police car drove toward him, slowing as it passed on the opposite side of the road. Boris stared into the snowstorm, craning his neck to make sure it didn’t turn back.
Not that he need worry too much. The dispatch papers matched the Dangerous Goods Note. The bags had the correct hazard warnings. All the papers were faultless. None of the inspections, on any of the runs, had ever uncovered a thing. After all, who wanted to poke around inside bags of explosives? You could hide anything in there.
A strange bed. A naked man. And a few hours to kill before the explosives arrived. The day was looking up.
Jaq stretched, savoring the smooth cotton sheets against her skin. Snowflakes danced through a web of ice on the sloping, attic window. In the dawn glow, she could just discern the layout of the unfamiliar room. Two doors: one of solid oak with tongue-and-groove paneling, brass hinges and a sturdy lock; the other a flat, sliding panel leading to a modern shower room carved from a corner of the attic. A pine bed, wardrobe and chest of drawers, a leather sofa and a couple of metal stools tucked under a bench that divided the bedroom and kitchenette. From outside came the faint swishing and rumbling of a distant snowplow. Inside, the gurgle of a fridge, creaks and sighs of an old house waking up and the steady, slow breathing of the man beside her.
Jaq breathed in. Musk and licorice. And a faint whiff of nitroglycerine. Her scent on his body.
She slid backward across tangled sheets and ran her eyes over the golden curls decorating the pillow, down the ridge of his spine to the curve of his buttocks, sturdy thighs and powerful calves. Definitely a skier. One foot hung over the edge of the bed while the other was tucked under a leg forested in fine, bronze hairs. A tall, blond skier. Athletic. And much too young for her.
She grinned as she reached for the quilt – curved, appliqué ridges between her fingers, uneven stitching, not machine-made – and gently covered him. He stirred but did not wake.
The room smelled of pine resin with a hint of lemon. Clean and tidy. Well, at least it had been before last night. Her eyes followed the trail of clothes across the oak floorboards. Her coat and hat hung on a wooden peg near the entrance door, but her long boots had toppled over and lay at angles to the pashmina snaking across the floor, coiled around a scarlet bra and matching thong. There was no sign of her dress, but on the chest of drawers in the corner she could see his clothes, neatly folded on top. When had he folded his clothes? While she was asleep? Certainly not as she was undressing him.
The guy from the karaoke bar. Nossa. What had he done to her brains last night? She’d known he was trouble the moment she heard him sing.
What had she been thinking of? She loathed office parties, but her boss at Snow Science had insisted on it. Team building, Laurent said, a bit of fun. Laurent was a fool.
She slid down the bed, covering her head at the memory of Laurent’s excruciating impersonation of Charles Aznavour. Carapau de corrida. He’d insisted on the drinking games afterward. Sheila and Rita had the sense to refuse but Jaq could never resist a challenge.
And then the man with the golden curls took to the floor.
The moment he opened his mouth, Jaq was hooked. His voice emerged an octave deeper than she expected. He sang with authority and passion, the pitch and cadence perfectly controlled. His voice rumbled right down the small stage, across the wooden floor, up through the soles of her feet, tugging at the tight knots that held her together, unraveling all the cords of restraint with the song. An old Russian lullaby. One she knew so well.
Had she stared too hard? Clapped too loudly? Was that why the singer with the deep voice and lopsided smile singled her out afterward? She wouldn’t have danced at all if Laurent hadn’t made such an arse of himself. Sitting too close. Breathing too hard. Whispering in her ear. Escaping to the dance floor was intended to put some distance between them; Jaq always danced alone. Laurent followed her, his manbag on one shoulder, lurching and gyrating, arms outstretched in invitation to an inappropriate waltz.
The stranger interposed himself, moving between Jaq and Laurent, a subtle, sinuous barrier, increasing the separation until the drunken Frenchman found another target for his amorous attentions. Jaq danced on for a few tracks, just for the joy of the music, and then made her escape.
And there he was, outside the bar ahead of her. Waiting. Something in his eyes gave her pause, drew her in. She could have walked straight past. What was it that held her? Made her stop? The gentleness of his touch as he helped her with her coat? The deep voice bidding her lahko noč, goodnight? Had she imagined an inflection, an upturn, a question? There was no mistaking the smoldering fire she glimpsed before he hooded his eyes and turned away. It had been a long time since a man had looked at her with such honest desire. A very long time. And, oh, amor de Deus, how she had missed it.
“Wait!” Her lips found his, and there was no mistaking the interest with which he returned her kiss. Gentle, searching, increasingly confident. Hot lips and strong arms. She remembered him asking but had no memory of her reply, or how they ended up at his place.
Time to face the morning after the night before. Careful not to touch him, her detailed inspection must have registered. He brushed the curls from his face and wrinkled his nose. His eyelashes fluttered, and his breath became shorter, shallower.
She slipped out of bed and wrapped the pashmina around her. Where was her bag? Dropping to her hands and knees, she spotted it under the bed frame and took it to the bathroom. The scent of lemon behind the sliding door hit her like a wave. She sat on the toilet and grasped the edge of the sink. How much had she drunk last night? When the dizziness passed, she took stock. Clean towels neatly folded on a rail, a shower, sink and toilet spotlessly clean. Had he expected company? She opened the glass cabinet above the sink. Soap, straight razor, shaving mirror, shampoo, cotton buds, toothpaste, one toothbrush, and dental floss. A large box of condoms, somewhat depleted after last night, but no sign of a permanent, female presence. Just one tidy man.
Jaq reached for her bag. Despite her love-hate relationship with handbags, her party clothes lacked sensible pockets, and this was the least-bad option. Black with silver buckles, the fabric was lighter and thinner than leather but textured, tough and waterproof. It could be carried by the arched handle like a briefcase or, releasing three ingenious hooks, clipped onto a bike as a pannier. When carrying a laptop or other heavy items, two, wide adjustable backpack straps unfurled so that she could take advantage of the padded, contoured panel for extra comfort against the spine. The pleated sides, held in shape by concealed Velcro strips, made it capacious enough for most outings. It even had two, parallel zippers, designed to slot over the handle of a rolling suitcase, but also perfect for carrying a snowboard.
She rummaged inside the bag for her phone, encountering ticket stubs, café receipts, coins, a set of Allen keys, a socket wrench, Maglite torch, penknife, comb, and packets of hot chocolate. Ouch! She caught her finger between the jaws of a Vernier caliper. No blood, just a scratch, but she continued her search more cautiously: hydrogel plaster, crepe bandage, latex gloves, paracetamol, ibuprofen, neodymium magnet hook, PTFE tape, thermos flask, duct tape, ball of hairy string, condoms, fuse wire, superglue, paper clip, Blu Tack, ball of rubber bands, sandpaper, a fold-up kite, Slovenian–English dictionary, an unposted letter, multiplug, catapult, USB stick, fluorescent highlighter pens, snow goggles, earplugs, spare socks, tissues, tampons, a silver propelling pencil, a tube of mints, a packet of dried apricots, a tuning fork and a green marble.
Like the Tardis, the bag was bigger on the inside.
A bunch of keys fell out, clinking against the tiled floor. Odd. She unzipped the secure inside pocket where she normally kept them and, at last! There was the phone. One missed call she had no intention of returning. Amid the dross of email, a single pearl from Emma with a long, chatty message about Johan and the kids. Not now, save for later, only one bar of battery left. No message from Snow Science. She put the phone back and zipped up the keys before dragging a comb through her hair.
As she emerged from the bathroom, the naked man sat up in bed, blue eyes fixed on her face.
“Dobro jutro!” He switched to English. “Good morning.”
Now that he viewed her in the daylight, was there a shadow of surprise? If so, he hid it well. What did he see? An athletic woman, naked except for a brightly colored pashmina and a large shoulder bag. Tall – five feet nine inches in bare feet, with a Mediterranean complexion – brown eyes, olive skin and shoulder-length hair, dark brown, almost black, except for the hints of russet fire. Well proportioned, curvy even. His smile appeared uncomplicated, no hint of embarrassment or regret, only pleasure at finding her still there.
“I don’t think we were properly introduced last night.” He held out a hand. “Karel.”
She took his hand, smiling at the absurd formality. There was hardly an inch of each other’s bodies that hadn’t been stroked or kissed or explored last night, and yet the contact with his hand felt deeply intimate, sending a tingle straight to her core. Careful.
“Jaq,” she said. No second names. Polite but no promises. Civilized without commitment. “Pleased to meet you.”
“The pleasure was all mine.” He raised the quilt in invitation.
So tempting. She hesitated and was gratified by the flicker of disappointment that rippled across his brow when she shook her head.
“Breakfast, then.” He sprang out of bed, bringing the sheet with him, wrapping it around his hips. He handed her a robe. The faint hint of musk was his. She let it envelop her and perched on a stool as he got to work in the kitchen.
“A quick cup of tea, or whatever you are making,” she said.
“Scrambled eggs and smoked salmon.”
She started to protest, but the smell of butter melting in a pan made her stomach rumble. He heard it and laughed, breaking eggs into a bowl, many more than he could possibly eat alone. When had she last eaten? She’d gone straight from work to the karaoke bar, changing from coveralls to party dress in the lab toilets. There was no reason not to eat breakfast. No reason a one-night stand couldn’t be civilized.
“Nice flat,” she said.
“Belongs to a friend. He’s working abroad.” He grinned. “I keep an eye on things when he’s away.”
He served the scrambled eggs on toasted crumpets, a thin sliver of pink salmon sandwiched above the little craters of butter, turning opaque where it touched the hot egg piled in a pyramid and topped with a sprinkle of freshly ground black pepper and a sprig of parsley from a plant by the sink. A small glass of orange juice and a bowl of tea served black, fragrant with bergamot and dark tannin. The speed and ease with which he presented two perfect covers made her curious. A singer, a skier, a chef. What else could this man do? Her eyes traveled around the room and paused at the bed. Amid the otherwise orderly space it stood out, an explosion of disarray. A surge of warmth rose through her body, and she turned her attention back to the food.
“Mmmm.” Jaq wiped her lips with a napkin. “Very good.”
Karel bowed his head to acknowledge the compliment. “More tea?”
Jaq shook her head. Time to leave. He was a young man with impeccable manners, but some awkwardness was only to be expected now. She would spare him the brush-off. He would have things to do, people to see, places to go. “My clothes?”
“I hung your dress up,” he pointed to the wardrobe. “But—”
“I should go.”
“Should you?” He moved toward her.
The glass rattled in the window above. A flurry of hail blasted the ice clear enough to reveal a storm-dark sky. No skiing today. No message from Snow Science about the delivery. Time to kill.
Karel laid a hand on her shoulder. Warm, gentle, no hint of coercion. Only invitation. Promise. He ran a finger up the side of her neck and whispered, “Come back to bed first.”
Her skin tingled under his warm breath. When his lips nibbled her earlobe, she had to fight the urge to grin inanely. The good food, the cozy little attic, the storm outside, the gorgeous man, the firm bed. She might regret this, but . . .
Last night she’d taken a risk, let herself go with the flow, to see where it led her. What did she have to lose? Things could hardly get any worse. Forget about the past. Forget about the future. Focus on the moment.
Focus on the pleasure.
***
Excerpt from THE CHEMICAL DETECTIVE by Fiona Erskine. Copyright 2024 by Fiona Erskine. Reproduced with permission from Fiona Erskine. All rights reserved.
Author Bio:
Fiona Erskine, credit Gary Walsh and Stockton-on-Tees Library
Engineer by day, writer by night.
Fiona Erskine is a professional engineer, born in Scotland and now based in the North-East of England. As a female engineer, she is often the lone representative of her gender in board meetings, cargo ships and night-time factories, and her fiction offers a fascinating insight into the traditionally male world of heavy industry.
Fiona’s stand-alone portrait of a factory Phosphate Rocks: A Death In Ten Objects, made the UK Literary Review’s top ten crime novels of 2021.
Her international thriller series is published (outside USA, Canada and The Philippines) by Point Blank, the literary crime imprint of Oneworld, and follows engineer protagonist Jaq Silver blowing things up to keep people safe. The Chemical Detective (2019) was shortlisted for the SPECSAVERS DEBUT CRIME NOVEL AWARD at Crimefest, The Chemical Reaction (2020) was shortlisted for the STAUNCH Prize, The Chemical Cocktail (2022) was an FT Best Summer Book of 2022. Her latest novel is The Chemical Code (2023).
Fiona is passionate about music and outdoor swimming, though not generally at the same time.
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FIRST LINE OF DEFENSE
by Peter Berk
October 1, 2024 Book Blast
Synopsis:
Will the President risk it all to save his son?
When college student Ben Porter is murdered in his apartment near the University of Maryland, all evidence points straight to his best friend and roommate, Brian Blaine—the son of Jackson Blaine, the President of the United States. Despite Brian’s estranged relationship with his father, Brian has no choice but to await trial in the house that was never a home—1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. These staggering events exacerbate the young man’s rocky relationship with his demanding father and might very well end his budding romance with a beautiful pre-med student. To the shock of the entire nation, President Jackson Blaine, a former defense lawyer, does the unthinkable—he decides to represent his son in court.
Will Brian and his father discover the truth about Ben’s murder before it’s too late?
Praise for award-winning author Peter Berk’s TimeLock series:
“A deftly crafted dystopian style science fiction suspense thriller of a novel, ‘TimeLock’ by the team of Howard and Peter Berk is a compulsive page turner of a read from cover to cover and unreservedly recommended . . .” ~ Midwest Book Review
“Rating 8 out of 10! TimeLock is a high-octane action thriller with a classic feel, reminiscent of Michael Crichton or Tom Clancy. It’s familiar, but in all the right ways.” ~ FanFiAddict
“5-Stars. Whoa!! Okay so this was awesome and I have to say first off- I hope like hell someone picks this up to make a movie or a show out of it!! This was a super interesting premise so I was hooked. It moved at a great pace and I was on the edge of my seat the whole time.” ~ Book Blogger @gryffindorbookishnerd
“5-Stars. I vastly enjoyed this quick read . . . The writing was keenly honed and smartly detailed . . . In sum, was a well-plotted and shrewdly paced action-packed thriller featuring slightly frayed characters and storylines that were cleverly laced together with wry humor and witty snark.” ~ Empress DJ/Honolulubelle, Books and Binding Book Reviews
The early evening light in the sparse room was growing dim as the weathered photo was gently placed on top of a desk near the window. The left half of the image had been cut out of a newspaper and was then ripped in two down the middle; the shot depicted an angelic fourteen-year-old girl in a snowy setting, a pink wool cap on her head. The torn caption read: Teenaged Skiing Champ…
A few seconds later, a different image of the same girl was also set down on the desk and then another. In less than a minute, more than a dozen photos were methodically laid out—some in color, some in black and white—all of the same sweet girl, smiling, innocent, happy.
After several more minutes, the photos were organized in a symmetrical order that only had meaning to the person placing them there. The occupant of the room stared at the photos, lost in memory, consumed by anguish, anticipating the retribution about to be delivered. Though trying to subdue the rage inside, the fury soon grew too intense, and the owner of the photographs suddenly smashed both hands down on the desk and began tearing up each of the images over and over until every precious photo was sent flying to the ground in pieces, lost forever.
Just like her.
Chapter One
What I wouldn’t give to be having one of my usual nightmares instead of the real-life nightmare I’m living through now. Maybe the one where I’m only eight years old, waiting in front of my elementary school for my father to pick me up but he just keeps driving past me over and over. Or maybe the one when it’s three years ago, I’ve just graduated high school, and I pose for a cell phone photograph with my famous father and then see I’m somehow not in the image at all.
Detecting a recurring theme here? Unfortunately, for reasons too horrific for me to even begin wrapping my head around, my daddy issues are utterly unimportant now because all that matters is finding out what happened last night and why I’ve lost my best friend forever.
Not that I care what they must be saying about me, but I can only imagine the joy my family’s detractors must be feeling at this very moment. To everyone across America, my name is infamous at worst and privileged at best. Brian Blaine, the twenty-one-year-old junior at the University of Maryland who—despite his so-called genius-level IQ—has yet to choose a major, minors in ditching class, and seems mainly interested in serving as some kind of spoiler in his own family’s legacy.
And that was before last night.
Truth is I can’t blame them because I am rather a mass of contradictions. Confident one minute, deeply uncertain the next. Yearning for intimacy yet brimming with cynicism about the human animal. Pensive to the point of withdrawal at times yet surprisingly sociable when the mood strikes me at other times. Desperately wanting to love and be loved yet forever unsure whom to trust with that love.
Then there’s the little matter of my longstanding impatience with people who practice the infuriating art of “political speak”—talking in paper-thin little sound bites instead of actually saying what’s on their mind. Which makes me a card-carrying hypocrite, I suppose. Because for someone who extols straight talk, I realize at this worst moment in all of our lives that I’ve avoided just that my entire adult life.
After all, I’ve spent all this time in the public eye but rarely let anyone really see me. I’ve recited “heartfelt” speeches but never truly spoken from the heart. I’ve told my father what I’m doing, where I’m going, and who I’m seeing, but I’ve never told him who I really am. And, unfortunately, I don’t remember the last time he asked.
And now I wonder if I’ll ever have the chance.
Well, I think I’ve covered “me” as much as I can at this point. College. Drifting. Straight talk. Loneliness. Or didn’t I mention that last one?
Anyway, I guess that’s about it for now. Oh, yeah. Two other minor points.
My father is President of the United States, and I’ve just been arrested for murder.
Chapter Two
My new residence—jail—makes my just-off-campus apartment seem like Versailles by comparison. How I miss that crappy, wonderful, little place with its peeling paint, ugly carpet, and useless heater. How I miss my roommate and best friend, Ben Porter.
In deference to my father and security concerns, I’m mercifully being held in a cell by myself, thereby happily denying some tattooed bunkie named Moose lifelong bragging rights about boinking the president’s son. Nevertheless, my relief over being alone in this miserable place is more than overshadowed by my boundless grief and my ever-growing fear.
How could this have happened? How could someone—me?—have shot Ben in the head? How could I have been found apparently drunk or drugged and unconscious on Ben’s bedroom floor with my hand beside the gun that killed him? How could I not remember Ben’s murder when I was, according to everyone who saw me that night—Secret Service included—alone in the apartment with him at the time?
Yet all these unanswered questions take a distant backseat to the one question that’s dominated my every thought since this nightmare began: How am I going to ever come to grips with the loss of my closest friend? The one person I could trust and confide in completely. The one person who could see the real me and not the character I play for the press and the public. No wonder that despite my desperate attempt to maintain a veneer of stoic resolve as I wait here in this cold, dark cell, I can’t help but curl up in the corner and silently cry as I realize for the millionth time that Ben is really and truly gone forever.
Forcing myself to take my mind off my late friend for a moment, I pace the small cell and consider the reality that the court of public opinion has almost certainly already pronounced me guilty. I can almost hear them now: “Such a mercurial young man…so quiet and aloof…so impulsive…Not at all his father’s son…”
My father. Good God. I can only imagine how this is going to affect his job approval ratings, not to mention his re-election chances in November. He and I may have drifted apart the last few years, but whatever I think of him as a father, I’ve never doubted for a second how lucky I am—we all are—to have him as a president.
***
Excerpt from First Line of Defense by Peter Berk. Copyright 2024 by Peter Berk. Reproduced with permission from Peter Berk. All rights reserved.
Author Bio:
Peter Berk has written six novels, three TV pilots and a dozen screenplays, including several with his father which became the basis for the TimeLock series of novels. The original TimeLock novel is a Finalist in the 2023 Chanticleer International Book Awards for Science Fiction, Mystery, and Global Thrillers. TimeLock was also named as a Distinguished Favorite in the TechnoThriller category of the 2024 Independent Press Award. TimeLock 2: The Kyoto Conspiracy was published in 2023 and the third book in the series will be published by IngramElliott. Peter and his family live in Southern California.
This is a giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Tours for Peter Berk & IngramElliott Publishing. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.
Books, Ramblings, and Tea 