On April 17, Christopher begins a new paranormal thriller series geared toward young adults under the name, C.R. Smith. It will be available on all e-reading devices, such as Kindle, Nook, iBooks, etc., for .99 cents.

To the left is the cover art, which was created by Brandi Doane and Jon McCann. You can click on the image to enlarge it.

The books will be a series of novellas, three of which will be released in 2011. Writing on the first novella, "BULLIED," is finished and Christopher now is working on "REVENGE," the second book in the series. Shortly, he'll begin writing the third book, "REDEMPTION," and then he will turn his focus on a new adult thriller for a 2012 release.

His Wall Street thriller, "Running of the Bulls," is finished and it goes to his agent the week of April 11, 2011. It will be sent to a bidding war soon thereafter.

"BULLIED" is the first novella in THE BULLIED SERIES, which focuses on Seth Moore, a relentlessly bullied 17-year-old boy who is gifted an amulet that ignites within him telekinetic powers.

If Seth uses the amulet properly, it will protect him from those determined to crush him. But after so many years of being beaten down and humiliated by the school's popular crowd and the teachers who protect them, the question is whether Seth can keep away from the dark side the amulet offers--and not become a bully himself.

At first, he's able to control the amulet and use it to warn key students to keep away from him. But when an organized group of A-list students decide to come after him and his family, all hell breaks loose as the amulet's darkness consumes him.

BULLIED is an intense thriller that will speak volumes to anyone who has been bullied and wished they had a powerful way out. Further, it's a cautionary tale on the act of bullying.

The series contains violence and language appropriate for a PG-13 rating.

Christopher supports every campaign and effort to stop bullying and for creating a safe environment for children and young adults of all ages. The book will likely touch a nerve with those who unfortunately know Seth's story too well.

This series of books is for them.

On April 17, Christopher begins a new paranormal thriller series geared toward young adults under the name, C.R. Smith. It will be available on all e-reading devices, such as Kindle, Nook, iBooks, etc., for .99 cents.

To the left is the cover art, which was created by Brandi Doane and Jon McCann. You can click on the image to enlarge it.

The books will be a series of novellas, three of which will be released in 2011. Writing on the first novella, "BULLIED," is finished and Christopher now is working on "REVENGE," the second book in the series. Shortly, he'll begin writing the third book, "REDEMPTION," and then he will turn his focus on a new adult thriller for a 2012 release.

His Wall Street thriller, "Running of the Bulls," is finished and it goes to his agent the week of April 11, 2011. It will be sent to a bidding war soon thereafter.

"BULLIED" is the first novella in THE BULLIED SERIES, which focuses on Seth Moore, a relentlessly bullied 17-year-old boy who is gifted an amulet that ignites within him telekinetic powers.

If Seth uses the amulet properly, it will protect him from those determined to crush him. But after so many years of being beaten down and humiliated by the school's popular crowd and the teachers who protect them, the question is whether Seth can keep away from the dark side the amulet offers--and not become a bully himself.

At first, he's able to control the amulet and use it to warn key students to keep away from him. But when an organized group of A-list students decide to come after him and his family, all hell breaks loose as the amulet's darkness consumes him.

BULLIED is an intense thriller that will speak volumes to anyone who has been bullied and wished they had a powerful way out. Further, it's a cautionary tale on the act of bullying.

The series contains violence and language appropriate for a PG-13 rating.

Christopher supports every campaign and effort to stop bullying and for creating a safe environment for children and young adults of all ages. The book will likely touch a nerve with those who unfortunately know Seth's story too well.

This series of books is for them.

Suzanne Tyrpak's suspense novel set in Rome, "Vestal Virgin," is just $.99 through January 1, 2011 and already, she has received rave reviews from two major writers.

First, the description and then brief reviews from Terry Brooks and Tess Gerritsen:

Vestal Virgin--suspense in ancient Rome
Elissa Rubria Honoria is a Vestal Virgin--priestess of the sacred flame, a visionary, and one of the most powerful women in Rome. Vestals are sacrosanct, sworn to chastity on penalty of death, but the emperor, Nero, holds himself above the law. He pursues Elissa, engaging her in a deadly game of wits and sexuality. Or is Elissa really the pursuer? She stumbles on dark secrets. No longer trusting Roman gods, she follows a new god, Jesus of Nazareth, jeopardizing her life and the future of The Roman Empire.

* New York Times bestselling author Terry Brooks says,
"...a writer of real talent...a promising new voice."

* New York Times bestselling author Tess Gerritsen says,
"Suzanne Tyrpak weaves a spell that utterly enchants and delights. Her writing is pure magic."

Please note: Due to the setting and the times, the book includes several scenes involving deviant sex--suggestive rather than graphic--and not more than a few paragraphs.

From the Author
About seven years ago (before my divorce, when I had some expendable income) I traveled to Rome with a group of writers. I fell in love with Italy, Rome in particular. A travel book I read contained a short blurb about vestal virgins; it mentioned they were sworn to thirty years of chastity and, if that vow were broken, they would be entombed alive. That got me going! Plus, on a tour of the Coliseum, a guide pointed out the seats designated to the vestal virgins--the six priestess of Vesta were educated, and therefore powerful, at a time when most women weren't even taught to read.

I traveled to Rome twice, and on my second trip I hired a scholar who specialized in the year I'm writing about, A.D. 63-64, to give me a tour of the Forum. One of the most useful books I found was History of the Vestal Virgins of Rome, published in 1934 by T. Cato Worsfold. I also wrote to Colleen McCullough, and she was kind enough to write back. She gave me the name of an out-of-print book that I've used a lot, Festivals and Ceremonies of the Roman Republic, by H.H. Scullard. I have shelves of books about Roman history and Paul of Tarsus. Very little has been written about vestal virgins--but that gave me quite a bit of leeway. After all, I'm writing fiction!

And here is the first chapter from "Vestal Virgin," straight from the author herself:



She set down the stylus and read what she’d written. Could a person be condemned merely for thinking?

Through the narrow window of her chamber, a breeze brought the scent of roses, the last of autumn. Soon it would be winter, but sequestered within the House of Vestals the world seemed seasonless.

“Elissa—” a voice called from beyond the doorway’s curtain.

She snatched the papyrus, thrust it into the bodice of her stola, and turned on her stool. Angerona, her fellow priestess, swept open the curtain. Unfettered by her veil, her auburn tresses fell over her shoulders in a wild cascade of curls. Beside her, Elissa felt small and dark. She ran her tongue over her teeth, the tip lingering on her deformity.

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere.” Angerona’s face was flushed, which only made her prettier. She sounded breathless, “I thought I’d find you working in the garden then I checked the library—”

“Why aren’t you at the agora?” Elissa wiped ink from the stylus, replaced it in the jar with others, hoping Angerona wouldn’t ask what she’d been writing. “All you’ve talked about for days is that gold bracelet. I thought you’d be haggling with the merchant. Did you finally get your price?”

“So you haven’t heard—” Angerona’s voice trailed off.

“Heard what?”

“All of Rome is whispering. I thought, by now, you would have known.” She touched Elissa’s shoulder, and something in her touch made Elissa shiver. “Your brother has been charged with treason.”

“Treason?” The word passed Elissa’s lips, but didn’t register.

“They say, Marcus has been plotting Nero’s assassination. They say—”

“They say!” Elissa stood, toppling her stool. “You’ve been listening to idle gossip, and now you’re spreading rumors.”

“My source is reliable.”

“Who?”

Angerona shook her head.

Elissa seldom raised her voice, but now she did, “Gossip will be your ruin, Angerona. Vicious lies.”

Angerona looked close to tears. She reached into the folds of her stola and withdrew a scroll. “This came for you by messenger.”

Hands trembling, Elissa broke the imperial seal, read aloud:

                    “I, NERO CLAUDIUS AUGUSTUS GERMANICUS,
                    PRINCEPS OF THE ROMAN EMPIRE,
                    BELOVED OF APOLLO,
                    SUMMON THE VESTAL VIRGIN,
                    PRIESTESS ELISSA RUBRIA HONORIA,
                    TO WITNESS HER BROTHER’S DEATH—”

Her mouth went dry. The gods had acted swiftly, punishing her hubris. “There must be a mistake,” she said. “A Roman citizen, the son of a senator, can’t be treated like a common criminal.”

“I’m sorry,” Angerona said, tears spilling from her eyes.

“First your father, now my brother―Nero holds himself above the law.” Elissa took a breath and willed her heart to beat more slowly. “I’ve got to hurry.”

“You’re going to the circus?”

“The emperor requests my presence. Perhaps Nero’s forgotten how my family has supported him.”

“You can’t go unescorted—”

“No?”

“Let’s speak to the Vestal Maxima,” Angerona said, “request she file a petition and ask your brother’s life be spared. Even Nero can’t refuse a vestal’s intervention on behalf of a prisoner—”

“There’s no time. Marcus fights at noon.”

“I’ll call for the coach—”

“I’ll walk. It’s faster.”

“At least, change your robe. Your hem is stained from pulling weeds.”

“I don’t want to be recognized.”

Angerona thrust white slippers at Elissa. “Your shoes.”

“Yes.” Elissa slid them on her feet, barely noticed. She had to get to Nero soon, and with no pompous retinue. Digging through her cedar chest, she found her oldest palla. She flung the shawl over her head and wrapped it around her shoulders.

“You look like a beggar,” Angerona said.

“Good. No one will notice me.”

Elissa ripped open the doorway’s curtain. The cubicles where the six virgins slept stood empty, the inhabitants occupied elsewhere with their work—invoking blessings for the sick, copying documents, tending the sacred fire. She glanced at the closed door of the Vestal Maxima’s private chambers. At this hour Mother Amelia would be busy contracting wills and legal documents, conferring with dignitaries from the farthest reaches of the empire, downstairs in the library.

Angerona followed at Elissa’s heels. “At least take a lictor.”

“No bodyguard. I don’t want to be recognized.”

“You must follow protocol—”

Lifting her soiled hem, Elissa hurried down the marble stairway. Sun poured through the open ceiling of the atrium, dancing on the central pool. Serving women, carrying baskets heaped with linen, made their way along the pillared hallway and out into the courtyard where vats of water boiled. Laundry day kept the household busy—and made it easy to escape.

She opened a side door, which lead out to the street.

Angerona stepped in front of her. “You can’t go to the Circus Maximus alone—”

“Come with me.”

Elissa and Angerona faced each other, their breath mingling, their thoughts transparent. Torn from their families at an early age, bound by vows, they were closer than blood sisters.

Angerona had lost her glow. Her tear-streaked face looked pale as leaden powder. Of course she wouldn’t come. For all her bluster and emotion, she possessed a strong instinct for self-preservation. And to confront Nero bordered on insanity.

Elissa brushed a damp curl away from Angerona’s forehead. “Don’t worry, sweet.  Nero loved my brother once. I’ll remind him, and you know I can be convincing.”

“What shall I tell the Vestal Maxima?”

“Tell her what you want.” Elissa’s laugh sounded hollow. “Tell her I’ve accepted Nero’s invitation.”

She left Angerona gaping and walked briskly toward the forum.

Suzanne Tyrpak's suspense novel set in Rome, "Vestal Virgin," is just $.99 through January 1, 2011 and already, she has received rave reviews from two major writers.

First, the description and then brief reviews from Terry Brooks and Tess Gerritsen:

Vestal Virgin--suspense in ancient Rome
Elissa Rubria Honoria is a Vestal Virgin--priestess of the sacred flame, a visionary, and one of the most powerful women in Rome. Vestals are sacrosanct, sworn to chastity on penalty of death, but the emperor, Nero, holds himself above the law. He pursues Elissa, engaging her in a deadly game of wits and sexuality. Or is Elissa really the pursuer? She stumbles on dark secrets. No longer trusting Roman gods, she follows a new god, Jesus of Nazareth, jeopardizing her life and the future of The Roman Empire.

* New York Times bestselling author Terry Brooks says,
"...a writer of real talent...a promising new voice."

* New York Times bestselling author Tess Gerritsen says,
"Suzanne Tyrpak weaves a spell that utterly enchants and delights. Her writing is pure magic."

Please note: Due to the setting and the times, the book includes several scenes involving deviant sex--suggestive rather than graphic--and not more than a few paragraphs.

From the Author
About seven years ago (before my divorce, when I had some expendable income) I traveled to Rome with a group of writers. I fell in love with Italy, Rome in particular. A travel book I read contained a short blurb about vestal virgins; it mentioned they were sworn to thirty years of chastity and, if that vow were broken, they would be entombed alive. That got me going! Plus, on a tour of the Coliseum, a guide pointed out the seats designated to the vestal virgins--the six priestess of Vesta were educated, and therefore powerful, at a time when most women weren't even taught to read.

I traveled to Rome twice, and on my second trip I hired a scholar who specialized in the year I'm writing about, A.D. 63-64, to give me a tour of the Forum. One of the most useful books I found was History of the Vestal Virgins of Rome, published in 1934 by T. Cato Worsfold. I also wrote to Colleen McCullough, and she was kind enough to write back. She gave me the name of an out-of-print book that I've used a lot, Festivals and Ceremonies of the Roman Republic, by H.H. Scullard. I have shelves of books about Roman history and Paul of Tarsus. Very little has been written about vestal virgins--but that gave me quite a bit of leeway. After all, I'm writing fiction!

And here is the first chapter from "Vestal Virgin," straight from the author herself:



She set down the stylus and read what she’d written. Could a person be condemned merely for thinking?

Through the narrow window of her chamber, a breeze brought the scent of roses, the last of autumn. Soon it would be winter, but sequestered within the House of Vestals the world seemed seasonless.

“Elissa—” a voice called from beyond the doorway’s curtain.

She snatched the papyrus, thrust it into the bodice of her stola, and turned on her stool. Angerona, her fellow priestess, swept open the curtain. Unfettered by her veil, her auburn tresses fell over her shoulders in a wild cascade of curls. Beside her, Elissa felt small and dark. She ran her tongue over her teeth, the tip lingering on her deformity.

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere.” Angerona’s face was flushed, which only made her prettier. She sounded breathless, “I thought I’d find you working in the garden then I checked the library—”

“Why aren’t you at the agora?” Elissa wiped ink from the stylus, replaced it in the jar with others, hoping Angerona wouldn’t ask what she’d been writing. “All you’ve talked about for days is that gold bracelet. I thought you’d be haggling with the merchant. Did you finally get your price?”

“So you haven’t heard—” Angerona’s voice trailed off.

“Heard what?”

“All of Rome is whispering. I thought, by now, you would have known.” She touched Elissa’s shoulder, and something in her touch made Elissa shiver. “Your brother has been charged with treason.”

“Treason?” The word passed Elissa’s lips, but didn’t register.

“They say, Marcus has been plotting Nero’s assassination. They say—”

“They say!” Elissa stood, toppling her stool. “You’ve been listening to idle gossip, and now you’re spreading rumors.”

“My source is reliable.”

“Who?”

Angerona shook her head.

Elissa seldom raised her voice, but now she did, “Gossip will be your ruin, Angerona. Vicious lies.”

Angerona looked close to tears. She reached into the folds of her stola and withdrew a scroll. “This came for you by messenger.”

Hands trembling, Elissa broke the imperial seal, read aloud:

                    “I, NERO CLAUDIUS AUGUSTUS GERMANICUS,
                    PRINCEPS OF THE ROMAN EMPIRE,
                    BELOVED OF APOLLO,
                    SUMMON THE VESTAL VIRGIN,
                    PRIESTESS ELISSA RUBRIA HONORIA,
                    TO WITNESS HER BROTHER’S DEATH—”

Her mouth went dry. The gods had acted swiftly, punishing her hubris. “There must be a mistake,” she said. “A Roman citizen, the son of a senator, can’t be treated like a common criminal.”

“I’m sorry,” Angerona said, tears spilling from her eyes.

“First your father, now my brother―Nero holds himself above the law.” Elissa took a breath and willed her heart to beat more slowly. “I’ve got to hurry.”

“You’re going to the circus?”

“The emperor requests my presence. Perhaps Nero’s forgotten how my family has supported him.”

“You can’t go unescorted—”

“No?”

“Let’s speak to the Vestal Maxima,” Angerona said, “request she file a petition and ask your brother’s life be spared. Even Nero can’t refuse a vestal’s intervention on behalf of a prisoner—”

“There’s no time. Marcus fights at noon.”

“I’ll call for the coach—”

“I’ll walk. It’s faster.”

“At least, change your robe. Your hem is stained from pulling weeds.”

“I don’t want to be recognized.”

Angerona thrust white slippers at Elissa. “Your shoes.”

“Yes.” Elissa slid them on her feet, barely noticed. She had to get to Nero soon, and with no pompous retinue. Digging through her cedar chest, she found her oldest palla. She flung the shawl over her head and wrapped it around her shoulders.

“You look like a beggar,” Angerona said.

“Good. No one will notice me.”

Elissa ripped open the doorway’s curtain. The cubicles where the six virgins slept stood empty, the inhabitants occupied elsewhere with their work—invoking blessings for the sick, copying documents, tending the sacred fire. She glanced at the closed door of the Vestal Maxima’s private chambers. At this hour Mother Amelia would be busy contracting wills and legal documents, conferring with dignitaries from the farthest reaches of the empire, downstairs in the library.

Angerona followed at Elissa’s heels. “At least take a lictor.”

“No bodyguard. I don’t want to be recognized.”

“You must follow protocol—”

Lifting her soiled hem, Elissa hurried down the marble stairway. Sun poured through the open ceiling of the atrium, dancing on the central pool. Serving women, carrying baskets heaped with linen, made their way along the pillared hallway and out into the courtyard where vats of water boiled. Laundry day kept the household busy—and made it easy to escape.

She opened a side door, which lead out to the street.

Angerona stepped in front of her. “You can’t go to the Circus Maximus alone—”

“Come with me.”

Elissa and Angerona faced each other, their breath mingling, their thoughts transparent. Torn from their families at an early age, bound by vows, they were closer than blood sisters.

Angerona had lost her glow. Her tear-streaked face looked pale as leaden powder. Of course she wouldn’t come. For all her bluster and emotion, she possessed a strong instinct for self-preservation. And to confront Nero bordered on insanity.

Elissa brushed a damp curl away from Angerona’s forehead. “Don’t worry, sweet.  Nero loved my brother once. I’ll remind him, and you know I can be convincing.”

“What shall I tell the Vestal Maxima?”

“Tell her what you want.” Elissa’s laugh sounded hollow. “Tell her I’ve accepted Nero’s invitation.”

She left Angerona gaping and walked briskly toward the forum.

Looking for a good book? Hell, looking for a great book? I've read Karen Fenech's suspense-thriller "Gone" and I'm highly recommending it to my readers, so much so that I'm promoting it on the site.  Check out the book blurb below, and then you must read the first chapter, which comes after the book blurb.

Karen is a real talent--I love her spare, intense style of writing.  I admire how she drives her plot forward with admirable leanness and believable characters.  It's a fast, compelling read.

You can purchase her book here on Amazon.  It's just $2.99!

Karen has another book called "Betrayal," which you can buy on Amazon here.


Here is the book blurb for GONE:

FBI Special Agent Clare Marshall was separated from her sister Beth in childhood when their mother tried to kill them. Now Clare learns that Beth lives in the small town of Farley, South Carolina, but when she goes there to reunite with Beth, Clare discovers her sister is missing and that someone in the town is responsible for her disappearance.

Clare receives an offer to help with the search from fellow FBI Special Agent Jake Sutton. The offer is too good to refuse, though that is exactly what Clare wants to do. Jake is Clare's former lover, a man she cannot forget, and who has an agenda of his own.

Now while Clare tracks her sister, someone is tracking Clare, and finding her sister may cost Clare her life.


Now, read the first chapter and see why I'm recommending it.




   In seven minutes, her mother was being executed.
   FBI Special Agent Clare Marshall watched the clock mounted on the wall above her cubicle in the New York City Bureau office. After twenty-four years, three months and four days on death row, the state of Texas had grown tired of providing her mother, convicted murderer Jolene Marie Marshall, with room and board and was going to enact the death sentence handed down almost a quarter of a century earlier. Jolene would die by lethal injection at ten a.m. this July morning.
   . . . in six minutes.
   Clare had been five when her mother pointed a gun at her head and fired.
   Boom.
   Though Clare couldn’t recall it, she’d landed on top of the body of her older brother, Owen. Mama had shot seven-year-old Owen first. She would have shot the baby, Katie, too, if police hadn’t broken down the front door of their government-subsidized apartment before she could.
   . . . three minutes.
   Sweat broke out on Clare’s upper lip and along her hairline. Her heart pounded.
   Someone in the outer office laughed. A phone rang.
   The clock now read ten a.m.
   Clare pushed her chair back from her desk with a screech. The air conditioner kicked on, blowing a gust of cool air down on her, yet the office felt stifling. Her chest felt weighted down. It was hard to breathe.
   She had to get out.
   She stumbled to her feet and staggered out of her cubicle.
   “Clare . . .”
   It was her team member, Benita Sanchez, calling out to her. Dimly, Clare recalled they had a meeting to go to. Clare ignored Benny and brushed by a trio of her colleagues grouped in the carpeted hall, waiting for an elevator. The stairs would be the quicker way down. Clare took them at a run. Her heels tapped against the tile in a staccato beat that echoed in the stairwell.
   At the bottom, she headed for a rear exit—away from the smokers who gathered out front to enjoy a cigarette on the lawn.
   She shoved the door open and charged into the alley beyond. Hazy sunlight beat down on the cracked asphalt and the faded brick of the old building. Clare squinted in the sudden brightness.
   Fetid fumes from the overflowing dumpster wafted on a slight breeze. Clare didn’t care about the stench. She inhaled deeply, filling her lungs. In. Out. In. Out. When her breathing was regular again, she leaned back against the building. Her white jacket fell open, and a ray of sunlight glinted off the gun in her shoulder holster.
   She’d just had what the psychologists who’d treated her in childhood called an “anxiety attack.” Though she hadn’t had one since her teen years, she hadn’t forgotten the symptoms, or what brought them on: vivid thoughts of the day her mother shot her.
   The psychologists she’d spoken with over the years had blamed the attacks on fear. She’d certainly been terrified when Mama pointed the gun at her. But it wasn’t fear that triggered her panic, it was the awful emptiness of being completely alone in the world.
   Her hands were almost steady now and she pushed damp strands of brown hair back from her face. Her first attack had come on when she awakened in a hospital bed weeks after her mother shot her and was told that her brother was dead, and that she couldn’t see her sister again. Katie had gone to live with a new family forever. At two years old, the baby had been promptly adopted.
   The only thing that had calmed Clare was knowing that Mama was in prison. The officials from Child Welfare Services who spoke with Clare believed it was the reassurance that her mother would not be able to hurt her again that had given Clare ease, but they’d been wrong. Clare had been comforted knowing where her mother was—knowing where she could find her.
   In the twenty-five years since the shooting, Clare had never gone to the prison to visit her mother, had never written, had never called. What her mother had done was horrific and Clare had not forgotten, yet . . . yet Jolene was her mother. The one person she belonged to and who belonged to her.
Now Jolene was gone and Clare was truly alone. She felt abandoned by the mother who’d tried to kill her. What did that say about her?
   She closed her eyes, tight, tighter. Tears trickled from between her lids.
   A sound—like the clang of cymbals—drew Clare’s attention.
   She opened her eyes.
   A convenience store was located behind the FBI office, separated by the alley between the two buildings. The door of the store was flung open. A gangly man, dragging a sobbing woman by her black curls, charged out. The woman wore a sleeveless yellow dress, but despite the heat, Clare could see she was trembling. The man held the barrel of a .45 to the woman’s head.
   His acne-scarred face glistened with sweat that trickled from his hairline. His tiny eyes were glassy and glossy—hard and bright as diamonds. His pupils were dilated to the size of dimes. He was high on something. Damn.
   His gaze met Clare’s and he swung the gun away from his hostage and fired a round at her. Clare dove behind the dumpster as the bullet pinged against the metal receptacle. She drew her gun.
She peered around the dumpster, looking for a safe shot, but the man had crouched behind his hostage, using her as a shield.
   Clare shouted: “Federal Agent. Drop the gun and step back from the woman. Now!”
   The man scuttled back against the wall of the convenience store. He ground the gun against the woman’s temple and she cried out. He hooked his arm under his hostage’s neck and jerked her back against his skinny frame. The woman’s tanned hands sprang up and she began clawing at her captor’s grip. She was sucking in air through her open mouth, gulping and gasping. Her eyes were beginning to bulge. Clare pressed her lips tightly together. If he didn’t relax his hold on her soon, he’d crush the woman’s windpipe.
   The man tilted his head and peeked at Clare. His gaze locked on hers, staring without blinking. His lips curved in a small smile.
   “Say bye-bye to the Federal Agent, pretty lady,” he called out in a sing song voice. “Bye-bye, Federal Agent.”
   He was going to do it. Dammit, he was going to kill the woman right before Clare’s eyes.
She leveled her gun on the six inches of space between his head and the woman’s and fired.
   The man jerked back, then just dropped. Clare didn’t doubt that she’d killed him. Her bullet had made a hole in his forehead.
   The woman plopped forward onto her hands and knees. Her head was bowed. Her captor’s blood splattered her dark hair. She was whimpering.
   Clare raced to the woman and crouched in front of her. “Are you hurt?”
   The woman didn’t respond. An ambulance siren wailed, followed by a screech of tires Clare found reassuring. Someone had summoned help and it had arrived.
   “Drop your gun!”
   A uniformed cop with a sparse red moustache shouted the command from beside the dumpster that had shielded Clare.
   “I’m a federal agent.” Clare held the gun by the trigger guard and let it fall onto the stained asphalt.  She raised her arms at her sides. “My ID is in my jacket. Right outer pocket.”
   He crossed the distance to her and retrieved her weapon and identification. More police and paramedics swarmed the alley. While the mustached officer glanced at her ID, Clare rose to her feet to make way for a burly paramedic bearing an oxygen tank.
   “Can you tell us what happened here, Agent Marshall?” The officer handed back Clare’s ID and dug out a small notebook from his pocket.
   Clare faced the policeman and began her statement.

Looking for a good book? Hell, looking for a great book? I've read Karen Fenech's suspense-thriller "Gone" and I'm highly recommending it to my readers, so much so that I'm promoting it on the site.  Check out the book blurb below, and then you must read the first chapter, which comes after the book blurb.

Karen is a real talent--I love her spare, intense style of writing.  I admire how she drives her plot forward with admirable leanness and believable characters.  It's a fast, compelling read.

You can purchase her book here on Amazon.  It's just $2.99!

Karen has another book called "Betrayal," which you can buy on Amazon here.


Here is the book blurb for GONE:

FBI Special Agent Clare Marshall was separated from her sister Beth in childhood when their mother tried to kill them. Now Clare learns that Beth lives in the small town of Farley, South Carolina, but when she goes there to reunite with Beth, Clare discovers her sister is missing and that someone in the town is responsible for her disappearance.

Clare receives an offer to help with the search from fellow FBI Special Agent Jake Sutton. The offer is too good to refuse, though that is exactly what Clare wants to do. Jake is Clare's former lover, a man she cannot forget, and who has an agenda of his own.

Now while Clare tracks her sister, someone is tracking Clare, and finding her sister may cost Clare her life.


Now, read the first chapter and see why I'm recommending it.




   In seven minutes, her mother was being executed.
   FBI Special Agent Clare Marshall watched the clock mounted on the wall above her cubicle in the New York City Bureau office. After twenty-four years, three months and four days on death row, the state of Texas had grown tired of providing her mother, convicted murderer Jolene Marie Marshall, with room and board and was going to enact the death sentence handed down almost a quarter of a century earlier. Jolene would die by lethal injection at ten a.m. this July morning.
   . . . in six minutes.
   Clare had been five when her mother pointed a gun at her head and fired.
   Boom.
   Though Clare couldn’t recall it, she’d landed on top of the body of her older brother, Owen. Mama had shot seven-year-old Owen first. She would have shot the baby, Katie, too, if police hadn’t broken down the front door of their government-subsidized apartment before she could.
   . . . three minutes.
   Sweat broke out on Clare’s upper lip and along her hairline. Her heart pounded.
   Someone in the outer office laughed. A phone rang.
   The clock now read ten a.m.
   Clare pushed her chair back from her desk with a screech. The air conditioner kicked on, blowing a gust of cool air down on her, yet the office felt stifling. Her chest felt weighted down. It was hard to breathe.
   She had to get out.
   She stumbled to her feet and staggered out of her cubicle.
   “Clare . . .”
   It was her team member, Benita Sanchez, calling out to her. Dimly, Clare recalled they had a meeting to go to. Clare ignored Benny and brushed by a trio of her colleagues grouped in the carpeted hall, waiting for an elevator. The stairs would be the quicker way down. Clare took them at a run. Her heels tapped against the tile in a staccato beat that echoed in the stairwell.
   At the bottom, she headed for a rear exit—away from the smokers who gathered out front to enjoy a cigarette on the lawn.
   She shoved the door open and charged into the alley beyond. Hazy sunlight beat down on the cracked asphalt and the faded brick of the old building. Clare squinted in the sudden brightness.
   Fetid fumes from the overflowing dumpster wafted on a slight breeze. Clare didn’t care about the stench. She inhaled deeply, filling her lungs. In. Out. In. Out. When her breathing was regular again, she leaned back against the building. Her white jacket fell open, and a ray of sunlight glinted off the gun in her shoulder holster.
   She’d just had what the psychologists who’d treated her in childhood called an “anxiety attack.” Though she hadn’t had one since her teen years, she hadn’t forgotten the symptoms, or what brought them on: vivid thoughts of the day her mother shot her.
   The psychologists she’d spoken with over the years had blamed the attacks on fear. She’d certainly been terrified when Mama pointed the gun at her. But it wasn’t fear that triggered her panic, it was the awful emptiness of being completely alone in the world.
   Her hands were almost steady now and she pushed damp strands of brown hair back from her face. Her first attack had come on when she awakened in a hospital bed weeks after her mother shot her and was told that her brother was dead, and that she couldn’t see her sister again. Katie had gone to live with a new family forever. At two years old, the baby had been promptly adopted.
   The only thing that had calmed Clare was knowing that Mama was in prison. The officials from Child Welfare Services who spoke with Clare believed it was the reassurance that her mother would not be able to hurt her again that had given Clare ease, but they’d been wrong. Clare had been comforted knowing where her mother was—knowing where she could find her.
   In the twenty-five years since the shooting, Clare had never gone to the prison to visit her mother, had never written, had never called. What her mother had done was horrific and Clare had not forgotten, yet . . . yet Jolene was her mother. The one person she belonged to and who belonged to her.
Now Jolene was gone and Clare was truly alone. She felt abandoned by the mother who’d tried to kill her. What did that say about her?
   She closed her eyes, tight, tighter. Tears trickled from between her lids.
   A sound—like the clang of cymbals—drew Clare’s attention.
   She opened her eyes.
   A convenience store was located behind the FBI office, separated by the alley between the two buildings. The door of the store was flung open. A gangly man, dragging a sobbing woman by her black curls, charged out. The woman wore a sleeveless yellow dress, but despite the heat, Clare could see she was trembling. The man held the barrel of a .45 to the woman’s head.
   His acne-scarred face glistened with sweat that trickled from his hairline. His tiny eyes were glassy and glossy—hard and bright as diamonds. His pupils were dilated to the size of dimes. He was high on something. Damn.
   His gaze met Clare’s and he swung the gun away from his hostage and fired a round at her. Clare dove behind the dumpster as the bullet pinged against the metal receptacle. She drew her gun.
She peered around the dumpster, looking for a safe shot, but the man had crouched behind his hostage, using her as a shield.
   Clare shouted: “Federal Agent. Drop the gun and step back from the woman. Now!”
   The man scuttled back against the wall of the convenience store. He ground the gun against the woman’s temple and she cried out. He hooked his arm under his hostage’s neck and jerked her back against his skinny frame. The woman’s tanned hands sprang up and she began clawing at her captor’s grip. She was sucking in air through her open mouth, gulping and gasping. Her eyes were beginning to bulge. Clare pressed her lips tightly together. If he didn’t relax his hold on her soon, he’d crush the woman’s windpipe.
   The man tilted his head and peeked at Clare. His gaze locked on hers, staring without blinking. His lips curved in a small smile.
   “Say bye-bye to the Federal Agent, pretty lady,” he called out in a sing song voice. “Bye-bye, Federal Agent.”
   He was going to do it. Dammit, he was going to kill the woman right before Clare’s eyes.
She leveled her gun on the six inches of space between his head and the woman’s and fired.
   The man jerked back, then just dropped. Clare didn’t doubt that she’d killed him. Her bullet had made a hole in his forehead.
   The woman plopped forward onto her hands and knees. Her head was bowed. Her captor’s blood splattered her dark hair. She was whimpering.
   Clare raced to the woman and crouched in front of her. “Are you hurt?”
   The woman didn’t respond. An ambulance siren wailed, followed by a screech of tires Clare found reassuring. Someone had summoned help and it had arrived.
   “Drop your gun!”
   A uniformed cop with a sparse red moustache shouted the command from beside the dumpster that had shielded Clare.
   “I’m a federal agent.” Clare held the gun by the trigger guard and let it fall onto the stained asphalt.  She raised her arms at her sides. “My ID is in my jacket. Right outer pocket.”
   He crossed the distance to her and retrieved her weapon and identification. More police and paramedics swarmed the alley. While the mustached officer glanced at her ID, Clare rose to her feet to make way for a burly paramedic bearing an oxygen tank.
   “Can you tell us what happened here, Agent Marshall?” The officer handed back Clare’s ID and dug out a small notebook from his pocket.
   Clare faced the policeman and began her statement.