Prologue

Mustafa Muhammad was cold.

Night in the mountains near Bamiyan, Afghanistan, chilled the Taliban warrior. His robes were not enough to block mountain winds that slithered as he squatted, watching the trails that led to his master’s encampment at the top of the hill.
No enemy will come, not even the infidel’s Special Forces, but the Sheikh would have my head removed if I left this post. Eight of us guard the Sheikh’s tent. If I have to piss, I can only go three meters away to a tin bucket, and I have to smell it until my relief comes at four in the morning. Then I have to take away the bucket, empty it, and bring it back for the next man.
My sergeant is sleeping in a comfortable bag inside a big, warm tent while I freeze.
A sound, like great wings above him, made Mustafa look to the stars and lift the barrel of his AK-47.
Nothing.
Then he was there, coming up the hill. A slim man in a black uniform, an American. He approached Mustafa without speaking. In the bare light of the sickle moon, the man seemed to smile. Before the Taliban guard could bring his weapon around, the stranger had grabbed the gun barrel. He was smiling, though there was a strange look to his mouth.
The intruder wore curved sunglasses and pulled them aside as he came ever closer. The eyes were red and glowed as fiery as the burning coals they mimicked. Mustafa released his grip on the weapon and turned to run. He opened his mouth to yell an alarm, but a hand as cold and hard as a knife’s blade covered his mouth and spun him around, drawing him against a body hard as dragon’s scales. The mouth the Taliban soldier thought was eerie, opened. Fangs, like those of a viper, glittered in the moonlight.
The only sound at the guard post was a slight drumming as the dead guard’s feet trembled in the dirt.

Thema Magazine published this poem several years ago.  The theme for that issue was ” Teacups in the Sand.”

GAMES

That almost-dark-of-the-moon night,
holding hands by the fireplace,
the surf surging forevers for us…
you said, when a little girl,

you had wanted more than anything
–for a time,
had cried childish tears
for a tiny tea service to play
grownup games in the sandbox.

You were hostess to dolls and teddy bears
offering make-believe sweets,
and just-pretend sympathy
when a guest toppled from its prop.

You sipped Irish coffee from a porcelain teacup,
your hair,dark and fragrant on my shoulder,
and wondered what had happened,
what became of the tin tea service
you left behind with childhood.

We laughed then
at games girls and boys outgrow,
and went out to walk, arms about each other,
watching the faint light remaining
slide across chilling waves
ending its path at our feet
where the beach was dry.

We made our own new fable: love abides
on the spot where the last of moonlight
finds the shore under our feet.
Better than mythical gold where rainbows end,
because the shining bands are illusion,
that our fingers could never quite touch.

We sheltered from sea winds,
where dunes enfolded, and gave sparse warmth
left over from the sun.
What I finally knew then,
and did not want to know,
your eyes could no longer pretend.

We forgot the teacups, cold and empty,
lying in the sand,
then said we would go back together in daylight,
and find what we had abandoned.

Mornings now, empty spaces confront me,
like the incomplete set on my shelf,
while I sit like a plastic doll in the sandbox
until the game begins again.

Thomas Drinkard

Chapter 18

The next morning, Saturday, I was sitting at my desk in my home office going over depositions Collier had brought.  The landline phone rang. Caller I.D. showed Frost’s number. Number, not name.
“Mike. Yost came through. We can interview Sheriff Richards tomorrow—at the New Orleans airport.”
“How the hell?”
“The sheriff has an interview with CNN, in Atlanta.  They want to tape it tomorrow evening.  Richards wants to do the interview and lay out some of the border problems on a national stage, but he’s a little pissed that he has to do it on a Sunday.  He’s told the TV people he wants to fly through New Orleans with a two-hour layover.  They agreed,” Frost said.
“So where do we meet him?”
“CNN worked out a deal with Delta Airlines.  The sheriff will meet us and take us through security to a Delta meeting room.  We’ll have nearly an hour with Richards,” Frost said.
“What do you want to ask him?”
“What does he suspect may have been happening near the border the day Smallwood was shot?”
“Do you have a suspicion?” I said.
“Yep. The illegals that were coming through were terrorists, not Mexican laborers.”
“Raises the stakes by several factors, doesn’t it?” I said.

********

We got to the airport,at about 10:30 at the gate where the sheriff had told us we would meet. A skinny female TSA agent saw us approach. We didn’t try to go through the gate, but she wanted to assert her authority.  We hadn’t presented any I.D. and hadn’t asked to be admitted.  She had longish graying hair that needed washing. Her complexion was mottled and appeared to have been obsessively clawed.
Her deodorant had failed.

“You can’t come through here without a boarding pass,” she said.
Frost silently stared at her.  She moved to be sure the desk was protecting her. I decided to release any pressure out of the situation. I gave her my 200-watt smile.
“Someone will be meeting us here and taking us inside,” I said.
“You can’t come through here without a boarding pass.”
I wondered if she knew any other neat statements. Probably had them on a 3X5 card in her shirt pocket. Plenty of room there…

Did TSA intentionally recruit clueless control freaks?
“He’ll be a member of the law enforcement community—on official business,” I said.
“You can’t come through here without a boarding pass.”
This time she nodded her head hard enough that her face got even redder. The blotches stood out even more.  I suppressed the impulse to make her say it again, but didn’t want to hear her screechy—dead tree limbs scraping a rusted tin roof—voice.
A heavyset gray-haired black man in a TSA uniform came from behind her and looked past her desk.
“Are you gentlemen Ferguson and Frost?” he said.
We said that we were and showed him our drivers’ licenses.
“Please come with me,”
“You can come on through,” the female agent said.
She tried to grin.  Didn’t work.
“I’m Earl Hanson.  Cindy is a little inexperienced.  Sheriff Richards asked me to bring you through security to a meeting. He’ll bring you back and tell Cindy that your business is completed.” he said.
He led us down the concourse to a wood-paneled door that had the Delta logo and steel letters that identified the Sky Club. I hadn’t known it was no longer called Crown Room. Things change.
As we walked in the club, a man I recognized from news broadcasts of action along the border came to meet us. He was dressed in a blue blazer and gray slacks.  The TV images didn’t tell the whole story: he was a few inches under six feet, slim-waisted and broad shouldered.  He could have been a college athlete, though more likely a swimmer than linebacker.  His blond hair was cut short and graying at the temples.  Green-gray eyes flashed intelligence and determination.
“Ken Richards,” he said.
He shook our hands with a dry palm and a grip that was controlled, but strong.  He waved us into a little conference room.
“You can have a drink if you want, it’s on the house,” Richards said.
We declined, although a Bloody Mary would have been nice.  Duty.
“Sergeant Major Billy Yost speaks highly of you two.  He’s one of my best buddies.  He’s a helluva shot with that .300 Winchester of his. He dropped an elk at more than five-hundred yards last fall, with one shot,” Richards said.
I glanced at Frost. No expression—as usual. He’d probably seen Yost drop smaller targets at longer distances. I’d not been with Yost in combat.
“The Sergeant Major said you men were running an investigation and that I might help.  I know how difficult it can be to get good info.  What can I do for you?” Richards said.
“Do you remember the day someone shot the leader of the ‘Foundation church’?” Frost said.
“Sure do.  It happened a bit north of my county, but there was so damned much TV-related traffic that we sent people to help out. The cemetery where the shooting took place is about thirty miles from us and we sent four deputies in two cars to help the State Troopers,”
 Frost had made the connection—again.
The Foundation bunch was diverting resources and attention.  They were causing so much media attention and traffic that the locals were overloaded.
Frost carried the interview.
“Sheriff, I’m a former Special Forces intelligence sergeant. Yost may have told you that. I know about rumors.  I actually liked rumors when I was an operator.  The stupid ones you can eliminate pretty quickly. Some, though, are dead true. Sorting them out is the game.”
For the first time, Richards looked a little uncomfortable. Frost held him with his gaze as surely as if he had his hands on the man’s shoulders.
“Yes. Some of the Mexicans we picked up around that time said that the Coyotes—people who smuggle illegals across the border—brought people across who were not Mexican or South American.  They didn’t speak Spanish or English.”
“Is there a way to get more specific information on these people?” Frost said.
“I asked for more, too.  Someone in Mexico had paid for silence and/or the threats were too powerful—maybe both.  The first part of the rumor was vague.  Even more flimsy was the story that seven of them were black,” he said.
“Just how ‘flimsy’ is that story?” I said.
“Unfortunately, I don’t think the story is flimsy, the source was a drug mule looking for some slack, so the source was—um—doubtful.  We’ve all—the border sheriffs—heard stories of Al Shabaab, from Somalia, sending people through. The Mexicans caught a woman selling visas to Middle-Easterners for $3,000 each. Once they get into Mexico, coming across our border is a piece of cake,” Richards said.
He shrugged and shook his head.

I had to agree.
“Could you give us a heads-up if you hear any more ‘rumors’ of non-Hispanics coming through?” Frost said.
“You guys onto something that I need to know about?” Richards said.
“We’ll call you immediately if we find anything that you can use. It’d help if we had a direct phone number and an email address.” Frost said.
We exchanged business cards.  Frost didn’t have one, so I gave Richards one of mine.  I scribbled my cell phone number on the back. The sheriff wrote a cell phone number and email address on the back of his.
“This must be some heavy-duty crap,” Richards said.
“It is, and could be more than any of us suspect,” Frost said.

Virginia Lee posted an interview on this blog some time ago. She has a new five-star review of her book on Amazon. Take a look. This is the review.
********************************
Set against the Jacobite Rising/Rebellion of 1745, Dagon’s Blood is the story of a young woman caught in the conflict engulfing her native Scotland and England.

Leigha Clairemont is a woman of extraordinary beauty. So striking is her loveliness that it is, at once, an asset and a liability. Men desire her to the extent of deadly clashes.

When English forces attack Clairemont manor, Leigha’s father–a known Jacobite–is killed and she is captured by an English captain named Simon Montieth. He calls her, “Little One.” She turns into what another man will later call her, “Tigress,” and leaves the captain for dead.

Dagon’s Blood takes Leigha from the manor house of Dagon, to the Island of Crete and the slave markets of Constantinople. Her loveliness enraptures three men who long to possess her–exclusively.

Virginia Lee has created a cast of characters in this book that may remind readers of the vast sweep of bygone epic movies. The men are truly masculine and the women, truly feminine–though strong as they need to be to survive in perilous times.

Several surprises await readers as secrets of the great families in Scotland and England are uncovered throughout the tale.

This is one of those unusual books that often make readers slow down toward the end, unwilling to leave their new land and friends.

Highly recommended.
*******
I had to look up the Jacobite Rising/Rebellion to understand the setting of her story. It was worth the time.

Congratulations, Ginny!

 

T. Hello, Micheal, welcome to Pinnacle Writing. Thank you for pausing in your writing to visit. Give us a bit of background.

M. Hello Thomas, I am a paranormal thriller writer residing in the mountains of Western North Carolina. Before returning to North Carolina I was working in EMS in the city of Chicago. I am the lead investigator and founder of Smoky Mountain Paranormal with over thirty years experience investigating hauntings and collecting stories. I served my country as a United States Marine during the Vietnam War.

T. When did you start writing?

M. Exactly when the words began to flow I am not really sure. Just like a thousand others the writing bug struck and refused to leave. My first official publication was in 1992.

T. Was there a favorite writing teacher or mentor? Tell us about him/her.

M. I would have to say my favorite teacher was D. Powell. She was the type of person who personified the visions of being a true believer in her students. She was highly respected by everyone and taught me, above all else, to believe in the power and beauty of the written word. Teachers rarely get the recognition they deserve. She will never be forgotten here.

T. I know you’ve published The Black Witch, please tell us what you’re currently working on. What is the genre? Give us a thumbnail sketch.

M. I am currently in the process of finishing a new paranormal thriller titled Verliege, which is due to be published within the next couple of months. This is the story of a man who has been convicted of killing his wife with unusual circumstances surrounding the case. The final round, for those trying to prove his innocence, is when they find what is least expected in our world today. 

T. Do you have a sequel or prequel in mind or in progress?

M. I believe there may be a sequel to this book, it hasn’t been decided yet. The outline is in place if my readers decide they would like to hear more of this unusual tale.

T. What are your writing habits? Are you an outliner or do you write “by the seat of your pants?

M. I use an outline to begin the basis of every book. My story board is the most important factor involved with my writing. This affords me the opportunity to go in any direction I choose without having to chain myself to a single line of thought. The outline steadily changes and is modified to give me a direction I wish to proceed with. Just like life, as the story changes, so does the outline.

T. What are your ideas about the future of digital publishing?

M. I sincerely believe the digital market will be even greater than it is today. I do not feel digitally published books will ever completely replace brick and mortar publishing or printed books entirely. This society we live in today is a modern society with most people being raised in the world of technology. For the convenience and the ability to have a wider variety of books at your finger tips digital publishing will always be in demand. Brick and mortar publishing will eventually have to assimilate to stay in the industry.

T. Anything else to share?

M. I would like everyone to become an advocate for the promotion of helping our children read. This is a very worthy cause and will carry our children into a future where they will be able to expand their minds beyond the limits of a computer screen. Where else can they slay the dragon, travel through space, or stand beside the heroes who gave us the freedom of the world we live in today?

T. Thank you.

M. Thank you for having me with you today and all my best to you and your readers.

This is a sample from Piety and Murder. The protagonist, Mack Brinson, is armed with a .50 caliber Desert Eagle pistol.
****************
Ahead of me, a tractor-trailer rig was in the right lane, brake lights flaring. I looked in the left rearview mirror, to pull into the left lane and pass, but a blue and white pickup pulled even with me and crowded me toward the rail. As I slowed, he slowed. It looked at first like the normal stupid driving one sees on the bridge every day, until I glanced in the rearview and saw an identical pickup on my rear… much too close to my bumper.
I started bumping the brake to keep the guy behind me off the back bumper. We were all still moving at about twenty or twenty-five mph.
Where were we on the bridge?

Yes, up there ahead. Just about a half-mile lay the last U-turn.
The pickup behind me tapped the Jeep’s rear bumper, the rig in front slowed even more. The pickup in the left lane had pulled alongside, then slightly ahead. These damned pickups looked like the ones I had seen at the turnarounds with trailers to haul off vehicles that have broken down.
But these were sure as hell not driven by the Causeway emergency crews.
I had always idly wondered, and never knew, what those small trapdoors about sixteen inches square, on both sides of the large rear doors on some tractor-trailer rigs were for. Just then the one of them opened, and I saw one use. The door on the right side dropped down and the ugly nose of something that looked like an assault rifle poked out and pointed down at us.
I hit the brakes, still going about fifteen mph and was rewarded with hard smack on the rear bumper from the truck behind me. I simultaneously yelled at Rita to get down under the dash and snatched the Desert Eagle from its holster from under the seat.
The windshield exploded as two rounds slammed through. Either the bastard shooting was a lousy marksman, or the moving target and strange lighting on the windshield threw him off. He missed both of us.
Then the back window blew out. We were stopped. Surrounded. I slammed the Jeep into park. The engine was still running. I flipped the safety on the Desert Eagle to the “fire” position.

As always, in the haze that envelops me in battle, I remember tiny, insignificant detail; like how the glass from the windshield had shattered into such tiny pieces and sparkled on the dashboard. The rig ahead was silver, and needed washing. The guy in the rig was swinging the barrel of the weapon for a carefully aimed shot. He had evidently figured the angle.
I put two quick rounds just below the trapdoor, about a foot apart, blowing neat holes through the thin skin of the trailer and probably out the other end of the rig. The “double tap,” handgun instructors call it.

The rifle barrel disappeared.

The passenger door to the pickup on the left was opening. I couldn’t see who was exiting yet, but there was a weapon preceding him. I shot through the door of the truck twice. A man with a stubby assault weapon fell out to the pavement. I was about to put another shot through the cab at the driver, when I felt and heard the whip-snap of a bullet nearly taking off the top of my right ear.
The truck behind! Brinson, you dumbshit!
I was damned nearly deaf from the big .50’s roar inside the jeep, and had been totally involved in those who I could see ahead and to the left of me. I opened my door to drop out just as a round hit the left rearview mirror. As my door swung open, two rounds went through it. I pushed it to the full open position then spun across the seat to the passenger door, raised up quickly, shot through the windshield of the pickup behind us, left and right. The shooter was hanging out the passenger door with what looked like an AK-47. He dropped behind the door, apparently not hit.
I had two rounds left in the pistol and one more seven-round magazine. I shot one of those remaining in the pistol through the radiator of the truck behind me, ducked down, changed magazines and quickly popped up to see what was in front of me.
Nothing. Both the tractor-trailer rig and pickup truck to the left had gone.
I left the door open, leaned left and looking at the road between the door hinge and body of the Jeep, snatched the gear selector into drive floored the gas pedal. I nearly jolted myself out of the seat, but managed to hang on to the steering wheel. A round from the truck behind us hit the left front roof column, and I swerved back and forth a little to screw up his aim. Screaming down the road with wind tearing at my eyes, my ears ringing I managed a glance back.
The truck wasn’t following. We were alone on the bridge.
The tractor-trailer rig had evidently gone straight ahead. One of those pickups must have been towing an emergency hitch and trailer—probably for my jeep.
I reached out to check Rita. She had not moved or made any sound since she had crouched in the well under the dash. I didn’t think she could have been hit, but a cold, immediate fear blanketed me. As I touched her back, she uncoiled to face me, her face white and eyes glittering. She held a small automatic. Then, understanding she was safe, shrunk back into her seat gulping for air.
“Keep your pistol ready and your head down.” I spoke to her as if she were a fellow trooper in combat, which was true enough at the moment. I paused long enough to make sure my pistol was on “safe,” and headed the Jeep toward home.
I shook like a drenched man standing in a cold wind.

I’ve settled on a title for the sequel to  V Trooper – First Mission.

This is a short chapter from the book.  The first book, very highly reviewed, is on Amazon exclusively. It is free to Amazon Prime members, $.99 to buy.

******************************************

12

Horses! That’s how the sniper and his spotter get from the village to the edge of the mountain.
The vampire had been set down near a river on the northwest side of the mountain where the Taliban shooters had been hiding.
After analyzing the data he had sent back about the hide on the eastern side of the deep defile; he, Russell and Flynn were sure the sniper team came over the mountain from the west and made their way to the spot they used to shoot at American troops and convoys.
Wil was to go into the long valley and wait for them. He planned to capture the spotter and kill the sniper.
Wait. There was someone with the horses. It made sense. The Taliban sniping team would have a man guarding and protecting their transportation.
Three horses and a man. Two horses for the sniper team and one for the guard were in a scraggly patch of evergreen trees and underbrush. The vampire could smell the warm rich odor of the animals and the unwashed reek of the man with them.
He was still more than a hundred meters away, so he took out the black costume he’d used to terrify the village chief in the first phase of the HOLLYWOOD operation and inserted his titanium fangs.
Almost ready for action.
Boyd took out a blood gem and snapped off the sealing top. When the drop of Anna’s blood touched his tongue, a galvanizing sense of power rippled like a flooding waterfall through his body, nerves and senses.
“Do you need me, my love?” Anna.
The immediate sense of her nearness and silent voice spread over him.
“Always. Stay close, but I think his one should be simple,” Wil said.
His answer was as silent as her question.
On feet smooth and noiseless as a hunting black panther the vampire moved on his quarry.

The horse guard was smoking; the tobacco strong and caustic. It almost covered the man’s body odor.
The vampire came in from behind the unarmed Afghan. He spread his arms in the costume like black wings. A foot-wide globe of dim green appeared, hovering about four feet off the ground, casting an eerie light on Wil’s face as he opened his mouth. Metal fangs glittered.
Wil made a snarling sound and watched as the guard turned, dropped his cigarette and ran, leaving his horse behind. The sound of pounding feet diminished as the terrified man ran toward the distant village.
The glow-globe shrunk to a pinpoint and vanished.
“Again, you needed a little light to make your point,” Anna said.
There was a lilt to the silent voice.
“Yes, thank you. I’m glad you shut it off before the sniper team got here. I may have had to chase them.”
“They’re coming. Do you hear them?”
Boyd stilled himself and concentrated on sounds.
Barely above whispers the breeze spoke in evergreen limbs, he heard the rustle of boots through grass.
The vampire warrior slid into the shadows and waited. The horses were restive, unused to his strange scent, but not frightened.
The two Taliban muttered and spit words that sounded like curses when they discovered the horse guard was gone.
The sniper is carrying the rifle. He has it slung over his shoulder, in a protective case. The other man is armed with an assault rifle to protect both of them.
When the men were at their most vulnerable, mounting their horses, Boyd struck.
He shot the spotter in the back with his Taser. The Taliban stiffened and listed on the horse’s back. The animal must have felt some of the current or simply panicked when its rider jolted. It bucked the rider off and ran away across the open field.
The sniper succeeded in mounting his horse and kicked the beast in the ribs in an attempt to get away from the night-borne threat. His frightened mount made only a few strides before iron-hard hands of a black robed horror, matching the horse’s speed, snatched him to the ground.
The dim sky’s faint stars were his last sight. Honed metal fangs ripped the bare throat and emptied his brain as blood spouted a brief fountain that gushed black in the darkness.
Wil made sure his captive was still immobilized by the Taser’s electrodes, secured his wrists and ankles with nylon restraints, and gagged him with the cloth of his turban.
He’d not drunk from the sniper’s spilling blood, but now he licked his lips.
A brief rush ran through him like a bolt of electricity, dissipating within seconds. The dead man’s pooling blood called to him, even as it chilled.
“Wil, no.” Anna said.
“I understand. I had to know if what I felt before, when I tasted Babue Dostrem’s blood, was because of the hashish he’d been smoking. It was both, blood and the drug.”
A distant sound and a cold sensation along his spine made Boyd look up through tree limbs.
High above, massive bat-like wings briefly blotted stars as they passed overhead.
The odor he recalled from the cave faintly brushed his nostrils.
“The creature, Umpir. It’s hunting,” Anna said.
“Does it know we’re here?”
“I don’t know, but we can’t ignore it for long and we have an old score to settle.”

T. Hello, welcome to Pinnacle Writing. Thanks for visiting.Tell us a bit about yourself.

J. Hi Thomas! Thanks so much for having me today! I’m a mom of two darling boys. When I’m not reading or writing (or editing) I putter about with various crafts. Otherwise I try to be Supermom and keep my chaotic house in some semblance of order. I suppose I should also note I live in Ontario, Canada. Yes, we get a lot of snow. I dislike snow.

T. When did you start writing?

J. I started writing in public school, but really got into it in high school. It was just something I wanted to do, needed to do. I have so many stories in my head and they need to come out. I did go to university and got a degree, however things happen, as they tend to do, and I ended up being a Mom rather than finding a career. I wouldn’t change that for the world. I didn’t write for a number of years when the kids were little but once they were a bit older, and my brain started functioning again, the need to write came back. Writing is something I can do from home, so I certainly lucked out there.

T. Was there a favorite writing teacher or mentor? Tell us about him/her.

J. I don’t really have any teachers/mentors. I’ve just always loved reading and writing and it just comes to me. My first publisher Echelon Press was really supportive and taught me so much on editing and publishing. I have too many favorite authors to count, and too many supportive loved ones and friends to mention. I’m a lucky girl I guess.

T. Please tell us about your current book. What is the genre? Give us a thumbnail sketch.

J. My debut novel, which came out in June (Echelon Press), is a fantasy (with romance) called Sweet Light. It’s a mix of fantasy, action, love and twists. It takes place in a made up world set back in the times of castles and swords. The main character is 16-year-old Shara, who is a Healer. She travels north to work in a foreign kingdoms castle and things become complicated, both with a war that breaks out, and with various men who fall in love with her.

T. Do you have a sequel or prequel in mind or in progress?

J. The sequel, Dark Madness, has been written and I’m starting edits on it soon. It continues the story when the war gets into full swing. Because of this, it is a much darker tale.

T. What are your writing habits? Are you an outliner or do you write “by the seat of your pants?

J. I’m a total pantser. Stories appear in my head kind of like a movie, and I write as they form. I do very little outlining, except when I’m getting close to the end. I do make a lot of notes while I am writing, so I keep characters, places, plots etc straight. Occasionally I write in circles, doing scenes out of order, so notes help with that.

T. What are your ideas about the future of digital publishing?

J. I hate to sound like an activist, but why kill trees? I know a lot of diehard book fans still love the feel and smell of a real book in their hands (I do too occasionally), but technology is winning over even the most adamant stalwarts. eReaders are sleek, sexy, and fun. The biggest win they have is the ability to hold an entire library in your back pocket instead of filling up an entire room of bookshelves. Even the price of ebooks versus even paperbacks makes them more appealing. Digital publishing is going to dominate the world. Looking at it from the publishing standpoint is another whole ball of wax. The big publishers are migrating toward ebook publications; smaller presses are popping up daily. We live in a new world.

T. Anything else to share?

J. 2012 is looking to be a wonderful year. I have a number of short stories coming out with Echelon Press. I’m also currently working on edits for a new YA fantasy novel, Broken Aro, which is contracted to Hadley Rille Press and scheduled for an October release. Hopefully Sweet Light’s sequel will come out, along with some other short stories I’ve written and (yes there’s more) I’m in the planning stages with other authors for a book and some short stories. It will be a very busy year! (I need a clone!)

T. Thank you for visiting and sharing with us. Best of fortune for 2012. Keep us up-to-date on your books.

J. You’re most welcome, and thank you!

Here’s the question: I’m at about 18K words in the sequel novella to V Trooper – First Mission. I’m trying to decide on the title. Should it be

• V Trooper – Second Mission
• or
• V Trooper – Mission Two

Not a big difference, but which is a more compelling title?
I’ll deeply appreciate your input, folks.
***********************************
Here’s a sample from the sequel–early in the novella.

“Boyd turned the device to text and silent operation. Fasting from blood for several days had sharpened his senses. He loped, in long strides to the target, silent as the wings of a hunting raptor, gliding above its unsuspecting prey.

His watch showed 3:10 A.M. On time.

Boyd threw a black nylon rope with a muffled grappling hook over the wall on the side away from the gate and climbed to the top of the wall. He paused and listened.

Gate guard’s asleep. Simplifies things.

The Afghan sat in a wooden chair. His chin rested on his chest. Even without his enhanced hearing, Boyd could’ve heard the man’s ratcheting snores.

Once on the roof of the main building, the vampire paused. He pulled a huge cape from the rucksack. It was deepest black and made from lightweight non-reflective fabric. Bobby Flynn’s contribution. Wil drew it around him and fastened the single button at his throat.

When I spread my arms, they’ll look like giant wings. That’s part of the show.

He removed his normal upper teeth that were anchored in his jaw by two titanium snaps, replacing them with the glittering, sharp metal teeth. Anna had had them fitted for him within days of the moment she’d made him a vampire.
“Just for fun,” she’d said.
Only partly true. Wil had ripped Babue Dostrem’s throat out with the fangs, just a bit more than a month before.
He paused for a few seconds, concentrating on the reason he crouched on the roof, a part of the darkness on a moonless night. Someone was supplying the Taliban with bombs that maimed and killed American troops and innocent Afghans. Adrenaline flooded. Every nerve and muscle was prepared to function far beyond unaltered athletes.
He moved to the side of the house away from the gate, swung down until his feet were on a window ledge.
The window was open! Even though it was only mid-May, the resident had wanted night breezes.
Boyd pushed the curtains aside. A man lay on his side, snuffling and snoring on a western king-sized bed, wearing a gray nightshirt. His back was to the window. The vampire stepped inside and watched his target’s breathing.
Got to get the words right.
He’d learned only a few phrases of Pashto for this, the initial venture, in the psychological operations (PsyOps) and intelligence-gathering operation called HALLOWEEN.
It should be enough.
The PsyOps people had created rumors in the local community that the Americans had a demon helping them. The creature was said to be like the Eastern European vampire, which would kill a man in such a way that he’d never get to paradise, or his seventy-two virgins.
There was no moon, and clouds hid the stars. Unless the man in the bed could see him, the effect of his cloak and teeth would be lessened.
No one had prepared for nearly absolute darkness.
“Wil, my dear, you need a little light. I’ll help for just a few minutes. I felt your frustration. This should do it.”
Anna’s silent voice chimed in his consciousness.
Hanging in the air, just below the ceiling, a pale green luminous globe appeared. The light stood steady, but glowed like a giant firefly.
“Awaken, you dog,” Wil said.
He spoke a memorized phrase in Pashto, but had to repeat the command to break the man’s slumber.
When Wakil heard the voice, he turned over and, seeing a massive shadow at the edge of the bed, leaped to flee.
Before his bare feet touched the floor, the vampire had rounded the foot of the bed and locked fingers like manacles around the man’s throat. A thumb, hard as the points of desert thorns, pressed his larynx into silence.
Terrified, the Afghan looked into eyes that radiated a pulsating blood-red glow.
“Who is the bomb maker?” Wil said.
The quivering man pawed at the arm and hand that trapped him. He may as well have been groping at a steel flagpole. He garbled feeble words.
“The name.” the vampire said.
His voice was a bare whisper, but enough to send the man into a shaking spasm. Wil smelled urine.
“The name.”
He incrementally released his victim’s throat and bared his glittering teeth.
“Gafoor. Ulla Gafoor,” the man gasped.
Wil reapplied the pressure, reached under his cloak and brought out the tiny digital recorder.
“Again,” he said.
The Afghan gasped, drew in air.
Too much air, he’s going to scream.
He pressed the larynx again. Harder.
“No. The name, again. Quiet, or you die now.”
Once he allowed his prisoner a sip of air in his lungs. Wil asked another telling question.
“Where is he? Quiet, now.”
The man babbled. A hoarse, frightened stream. Boyd moved so that the recorder clipped to his vest could capture the words.
“You can live; for now,” the vampire whispered.
He chopped the side of the man’s head, just above the left ear. When the victim slumped in his hand, he removed his shining fangs and punctured the unconscious man’s neck. He didn’t want the man’s blood in his mouth.
Could cause too many problems. Tonight is PsyOps and intel gathering. Only.
The wound was just deep enough to draw blood. Sufficient.
As Wil lifted the unconscious Afghan back to the bed, the glowing green globe shrank to a pinpoint of light and blinked out.
Wakil’s mouth was hanging open, making the final part of the mission easy. Boyd slid a capsule the size of a large multivitamin pill into the open mouth and stroked Wakil’s throat to be sure the man swallowed.

Time to go. Got to get this recording back to base. We’ll have a CIA translator decipher this asshole’s blathering.

Trying something new (for me) today. I’ve written a climactic scene out of sequence. I stopped writing one scene and skipped two or three.

Hey, I know what’s going to happen between the place where I stopped and the scene I just finished (about 1,000 words). So now that I’ve committed to the major scene, all I have to do is to make sure that the words in between the scenes are consistent with the action. The connective tissue…

I’ve read that Hollywood films scenes out of sequence for a number of reasons; weather, actor availability (or tantrums), and logistics. There’s no logical reason a writer can’t do the same thing. Besides, this scene has been in dreams and middle-of-the-night writing stages for at least a week.

When I publish the book, the second in the V Trooper series, I’ll identify the scene on this blog.

Happy writing this weekend.