The Dead Sea Codex

By Sarah Wisseman
Suspense, 255 pages
Cover art by: Richard Stroud

Blurb:

Archaeologist Lisa Donahue travels to Israel to arrange a loan of artifacts for her Philadelphia museum. Even before she finds a scrap of ancient manuscript in a ceramic jar, she is the subject of intense interest from strangers. A Lebanese computer salesman follows her to her Jerusalem hotel where someone has delivered a mysterious message for her. Then she runs into an old boyfriend who hints at an extraordinary archaeological  find being sold in pieces on the black market.

Instead of spending her visit in a dusty storeroom documenting old pottery, Lisa finds herself hanging off a cliff and exploring caves near the Dead Sea, racing to find a lost codex before Christian fanatics destroy it.

Excerpt:

All eyes focused on her long blond braid and American blue jeans. Not for the first time, Lisa Donahue wished she had better protective coloring for traveling in the Middle East. Any moment now, someone would holler the remembered tag, “Hey, blondini!”

She inhaled the mixed aromas of deep-fried chickpea balls, roasted spiced lamb, and corn sold by the aggressive street vendors around her. Fragments of Hebrew, Arabic, French, and English assaulted her ears as native Israelis and visitors from many nations milled around the Tel Aviv plaza.

It was wonderful to be back. She’d been afraid the reality wouldn’t live up to her rose-colored memories of seven years earlier, when she’d been a wide-eyed archaeology student. She needn’t have worried—Israel was still noisy, vibrant, smelly, and altogether enchanting.

A live chicken, destined for dinner, squatted and clucked in a string shopping bag near Lisa’s feet. Above the bag stood a plump housewife, obviously daydreaming about chicken stew with dumplings. A few feet away, several Orthodox Jewish men wearing black hats and long curls muttered and gesticulated. Two female soldiers wearing dark green uniforms gossiped and smoked French cigarettes, and a Bedouin in flowing robes talked loudly on his cell phone.

When the Egged bus showed up, the crowd surged towards the door. As Lisa struggled to stay in front, she remembered that Israelis didn’t like the idea of “lining up.” The best way of getting on a bus—or through any kind of door—was to pretend you were an Israelite crossing the Red Sea, vigorously parting the crowd with your elbows.

Lisa bagged a prime window seat and pushed her purse under the seat in front of her. A thirty-something businessman with sleepy brown eyes and a five-o’clock shadow took the seat next to her. She dozed as they left Tel Aviv, opening her eyes occasionally to see palm trees swaying against a metallic blue sky and tall tan buildings.

As they traveled out of the city, cement high-rises and modest houses gave way to scruffy bushes and reddish-brown soil—soil that blanketed thousands of years of history.

No one could sink a spade anywhere in Israel without turning up potsherds or scrolls or ancient fortifications. When Lisa was an undergraduate here, a friend suggested the easiest way to become an archaeologist was to convert to Judaism, marry an Israeli, and dig up her new backyard.

The Hebrew chatter from the driver’s radio kept Lisa from really sleeping. As she felt the bus begin to climb, she forced her eyes open so she wouldn’t miss her favorite scenery—the passage through the Judean Hills. The flatness of the land around Tel Aviv gave way to rounded, undulating hills, girdled with stone walls. The brown earth looked thirsty, as it did everywhere except in the cool green uplands in Galilee to the north.

She glanced sideways to see the businessman watching her. Normally, Lisa liked talking to people when she was traveling. It was part of the adventure and she could try out her half-forgotten Hebrew or bits of French or Italian.

But this man’s gaze reminded her of the Chevrolet salesman with slicked-back hair who put a hand on her knee when she was sixteen on her way to visit colleges by Greyhound bus. She moved the hand. He put it back. She moved it again, sliding as far away from him as she could. Now, ten years later, she wished she’d stood and yelled, “Get your hand off my knee, you pervert!”

Lisa caught herself before she smiled. Glancing sideways, she noticed the businessman’s thick eyebrows and coffee-colored skin and wondered uneasily how long he’d been observing her reclining form. His gaze, no longer sleepy, made her feel undressed. She sat up straighter.

“You are from America, yes?” he asked with an oily little smile.

“Yes,” Lisa replied curtly, sick of being hit upon because she was young, blonde, and foreign. She began a mental catalogue of tips for young women traveling in the Middle East: Do dye your hair brown or black; Don’t wear jeans; Don’t fall asleep on public transportation…

“On holiday, perhaps. You visit our museums and archaeological sites?”
Did she look like a museum curator? She met his brown eyes briefly. “Business trip. I work for a museum at home.”

“How very interesting. Then surely you visit the Israel Museum and the Shrine of the Book—the home of the famous Dead Sea Scrolls?”

Lisa was startled. He seemed to know about her, which was impossible. “Yes, actually. I’m an archaeologist, here to look at some ancient ceramics.”

“Perhaps you plan an exhibit for your own museum?”

Several alarm bells went off in her mind. Was he an Israeli Customs officer trying to prevent the export of illegally acquired antiquities? But he was wearing a well-tailored gray suit and polished black shoes, not a uniform.

“Are you in the museum business, too?” she asked.

The man laughed gently. “No, no, I am archaeology enthusiast only. I sell computer parts—for the Beirut branch of Microsoft.”

Wyatt

By Shari Rood
The Closet Door Series, Book 3

Suspense/Thriller, 330 Pages

Cover art by Trisha FitzGerald

Blurb:

Henry Peterson, the notorious serial killer is at it again. He just can’t help himself but this time he’s turned vigilante. He only kills the deserving. After years of staying under the radar he finds himself drawn back to Virginia to help his little brother Wyatt, a police officer. Wyatt is working a difficult cold case and trying to track down his old enemy Rex Roland. He turns to his brother for help but starts to regret it when Henry decides to come to town.

Frank Tanbark is a typical Caitland county kid. His Dad went to prison long ago and he’s left with a severely depressed mother with a hoarding problem and a bunch of friends who are chomping at the bit to do something illegal and dangerous. When a botched robbery escalates, Frank collides with Henry and Rex and things go from bad to worse.

Excerpt:

Henry listened for a familiar sound. A slight rattling or even a brazen knock. He felt the relentless drive of whatever it was that drove him, push him forward…and he cringed. He looked at the door and heard nothing. He got up and walked down the hallway, out into the open plan of the large living room.

Nice. He thought that every time he walked into the room, making him wonder if somewhere inside that buggy head of his, he desired a fancy house like this. Fancy, it was a word his mother would have used, but she was gone like everyone else.

He looked into space, past the high ceilings and plantation teak floors and farther past the large deck that overlooked a private pond with a small dock, a little rowboat prettily tied to it. It was all very quaint and moneyed, but he couldn’t really feel comfortable here in this house that wasn’t his. It was like wearing borrowed clothes.

It had been almost a dozen years since Shelby. He let his mind wander to her because he knew she was safe. At least he hadn’t hurt her. It was more than he could say about Melanie, his new girl.

The phrase, she had it coming came to mind. He chuckled, his eyes still focused on the little rowboat. He hated to think he was turning into some kind of vigilante. After all, he really had no interest in helping people. Still, it was nice to know his girlfriend of four months wouldn’t be hurting anyone ever again.

He walked back into the bedroom. He pulled up a chair and faced the closet door. “Melanie, I know you can hear me. I’d like to say something.”

There was silence. That old familiar blank space. He wondered if he’d killed her. It hearkened back to the Michelle Butler days. The long hours spent waiting for her to speak. Was he crazy? He decided he must be. However, that revelation wasn’t enough to stop him. He’d changed course, however. No more hurting people he loved. He’d made that promise to himself and so far, he’d kept it.

“Melanie, why’d you kill them? I mean, you could have just kept the money. They were too addled to give up your secret. Why?”

Melanie’s cat walked into the room. “You know she’s a piece of work. One time I saw this show about a televangelist named Peter something or other. Anyway, he had this scam going where he convinced poor people to borrow and scrape together every last dime in the name of Jesus and send it to him so he could live in style in Los Angeles and drive a Mercedes. I’ve always thought Melanie had a lot in common with him. I mean, truly, who bleeds old people dry and then kills them?”

He gazed at Allistar and back to the door. Allistar was a chatty little thing. Henry missed Misty.

He got up, unlocked the door and peered into the shadowy darkness intrigued by the muffled sound she was making. He hesitated for a moment. Another mmphh sound…he shook his head, remembering the duct tape.

“MMPH!”

“Now stop it. That’s just silly,” he said as he ripped the tape off her mouth. She had been crying. He waited for a barrage of cursing, the usual from Melanie, but she was breaking. He knew the signs. “So, are you going to answer me?”

“Go to hell.”

“Okay, back on with the tape.”

“No, wait. Just wait… I’ll tell you.”

“That’s better; you didn’t even ask me if I was going to let you go this time. Does that mean we are learning?”

Henry admired her beauty. She was thirtyish and a redhead (very convenient!) and she had stunning blue eyes which at the moment just looked stunned.

“Asshole…”

He sat back down on his chair and she struggled to move against the ropes that bound her. He noticed she’d rubbed a raw patch on her right wrist and it looked infected. He decided maybe today was the day. “Last time…why… did... you... do... it?”

She inhaled a wet, snotty breath and Henry got up, took his handkerchief, wiped her nose and sat back down.

“Why do you care?”

Henry was growing weary of this. It had been interesting but it was time to move on. He felt a pang of remorse at leaving this beautiful house. He’d grown fond of walking the gardens in the afternoon; he even took the little rowboat out for a paddle one particularly lovely evening. He’d always wanted a real home. He understood this wasn’t going to be it. “I have this kind of weapon. It’s a sword actually, Japanese. I’ve never actually used anything except my bare hands and of course my trusty gun as my friend Rex would say, but I think you might be a special case.”

“Oh she definitely is,” Allistar said brightly. “You know all those medical records you found? It proves it. I don’t know why you want her to confess… it’s all there in black and white. Six wealthy elderly patients died under her care. So, one might think because she was a hospice nurse, that’s normal right? Except it was far from normal. In fact…”

If It Kills Me

By Mona Jean Reed

Suspense/Thriller, 436 pages

Cover art by Richard Stroud

Blurb:

Her dad’s song became her song—a slave’s song, a wary song of anger without the means of expression, a song of surviving--a song of escape.

Like any slave, she’d do what she had to do.

“Dad,” she whispered. “Somehow, I’ll get home. If it kills me, I’ll get home.

Excerpt:

Roz wondered if she’d ever see her dad or her brother again. She bit her pointing finger and some tears escaped, but she made no sound.

At some point, Roz slept and knew nothing more until the darkest hour of the new day. A sound like a person sniffling with a bad cold startled her awake. A novel she’d read said that if awakened in a potentially dangerous situation, the best thing is to pretend sleep. This gives you time to plan your best moves and surprise your enemy.

Without moving, she opened her eyes a little. The fire had burned so low that only embers remained. But the moon’s light let her see very well. Through a thin place in the brush shelter, she could make out a foot—a foot, not a hoof. It moved and she saw its tail. It had a tuft of hair at the end—not the brushy tail of a hyena,

Though she didn’t move, her frightened heart exchanged places with her lungs.

What should she do? Scream? No. Wake their master? Probably. But he slept on the other side of the fire.

If she called him, she’d wake Chaney. Mustn’t wake Chaney. If the squirt started screaming, who knew what that animal would do? The snuffling sound grew louder by the second and their unstable fortress shivered. That beast meant to tear it down.

Roz had to do something. What could she do? Still not moving, she searched through her pitiful store of knowledge.

Throw rocks?

No.

Stare at the beast and point at it until it went away?

Worked with a snarling dog.

Not likely. Not at all.

Fire?

That’ll do.

Their collection of sticks and small logs lay near her head. Still lying down, she raised her right arm in slow motion. Her fingers felt for a stick or two to fuel their blaze—something small that wouldn’t crush the fire’s remaining embers.

The creature’s noisy breathing stopped. Slowly Roz dropped the handful of twigs into the embers. Within seconds they blazed up.

The animal reacted with a guttural cough and a soft growl. It probably wouldn’t bother them if she made a bigger fire.

Still frightened, Roz sat up slowly, picked up a few larger sticks and put them on the fire. She waited for the larger sticks to catch and blaze.

Nothing else she could do, except pray that the beast wouldn’t decide to knock down their defense before she got the fire going. She prayed and she kept praying.

Again, the brush fortress shivered. Without thought, Roz leaped to her feet and grabbed the largest hunk of firewood in the pile.

The piece of firewood fit her hand like the handle of a hammer; the larger end looked enough like a club to be one.

Roz encouraged herself by thinking of the young King David of Israel. He had killed at least a lion and a bear when he was just a boy.

Maybe, with God’s help, I can convince this beast to go away.

Please Jesus, let it be so.

She squatted and rocked from side-to- side, like a tennis player ready to leap in any direction when her opponent slammed a serve at her.

Could be that if the Lord directed her hands, and if this creature wasn’t starving, she could convince it to leave with a solid blow on the nose. She thought about it and stopped panting in terror.

I won’t be afraid.

The Khartoum Project

By Gabriel Timar
Suspense/Thriller, 312 pages, cover art by Pat Evans

Blurb:
The Khartoum project takes the reader for a ride in the netherworld of the intelligence community. On this highway to hell, one must win or die…no matter how brave, ruthless, and inventive. Monica Brett in the mission to Khartoum pushes to the limit and beyond.

Excerpt:
After having dinner at the Cafe de Paris, Monica walked toward her hotel. The little alarm bell pounded into her mind in the intelligence school suddenly sent a warning. She looked around carefully at several occasions and realized two men wearing trench coats, felt hats and black gloves were following her.

She quickly stepped into a little accessories store no more than a block from the hotel. The two men patiently waited outside. Stepping to the cash register to pay for the pair of elk-hide gloves she bought, she kept watching the men in the mirror behind the sales clerk. Monica took as much time paying her bill as she could, and did not want to turn her face in the direction of the men. The saleslady did not understand Monica's procrastination.

"Anything wrong, ma'am?" she asked.

"No, no thank you. I was just thinking what else I was supposed to buy…"

"Another pair of gloves perhaps," she suggested, "We have a special on the white glace today."

"No, thank you. Auf wiedersehen," Monica said and spun around. At the exit, she picked up a large flyer advertising the store and walked out. Passing her shadowers, she walked in the direction from which she had come. Glancing at the two men, Monica did not recognize them; they were complete strangers.

As she did not want to lead them directly to her hotel, with deliberate strides she walked down the Rue de Mont Blanc, one of the main thoroughfares leading to the center of the city. Looking back occasionally, she noticed the men following at a respectful distance. She decided to do the wounded buffalo act, the trick she learned at the training school. The wounded beast normally withdraws into the thickest bush, stalks the hunter, gets behind the pursuer, and tramples him.

To pull this trick on two stalkers was not easy, but Monica had to try. She briskly walked to the first corner, checking the two agents more than thirty feet behind her. As soon as she turned the corner, she broke into a run for ten seconds and slowed down to her regular stride. When she looked back, the two men were rounding the corner. As she had more than fifty meters on them, when she turned the next corner, she ran flat out all the way around the block.

Passing the starting point, she stood at the corner and waited. In a few seconds, the two agents turned the corner huffing and puffing. Monica stuck out her right leg and the agent ahead of his partner fell over. The second managed to stop. Covering her left hand with the flyer, Monica stepped up to the agent still on his feet. "Hold it, buster, I've got a gun on you. Don't do anything foolish."

He looked surprised, but recovered quickly.

"Don't do anything hasty, Miss Brett. We are your friends," he stammered.

"Nevertheless, hand over your gun, please."

"My gun?" he asked in a surprised tone. "I don't carry one. In Switzerland it is against the law for a foreigner to own firearms." He opened his jacket: "You may search me if you wish."

"Why are you following me?"

"Look," he started in a convincing tone, "I'm not what you think. I'm on your side."

"Interesting," Monica said with a wry little smile.

The other agent stood up and dusted his pants.

"You don't understand, Miss Brett. We want to talk to you."

"Start talking," Monica said tersely.

"Why don't you let me buy you a cup of coffee?" he said. "Put your gun away, and I'll explain everything to your satisfaction, I'm sure you'll understand."

"That is a unique pickup line. I'm not interested."

"We work for the Rittmeister. He assigned us to provide security for your project."

Monica knew immediately that the man was not what he purported to be. The Rittmeister had not assigned anybody to protect her.

The Deal

By A. W. Lambert
Suspense/Thriller. 534 pages
Cover design by A. W. Lambert, finishing cover art by Pat Evans

Seventeen years ago teenager Nicardo Clarke grasped his brother’s hand and a sibling deal was sealed. Now Nicardo’s brother is dead, brutally murdered and Nicardo, forced to honor the deal, is drawn to another continent and a dark world where life is cheap and one man fears placing his trust in another.

Excerpt:
It was as black as pitch and Nick could see nothing. His heart was thudding like a steam hammer and his breath was coming in short cramped gasps. Pain lanced through his neck and head and one knee felt as if it had been stepped on by an elephant. But he was conscious; he could think, and slowly the situation came into focus. The car was on its roof and he was doubled in two, hanging upside down, his weight driving the still-attached seat belt deep into his stomach. It was why he was finding it difficult to breathe.

With one hand he reached down and pushed hard against the roof of the car, easing his weight from the belt. With the other hand he searched for the buckle, hoping it hadn’t been damaged and would release. It did, and with a painful thud he crumpled into the roof of the car. Screwed almost into a ball, he lay for a moment, his breathing easier now, taking stock and listening, the only sounds the hisses and creaks of a dead engine cooling in the dark night air.

Without light…probably the crash had caused the car’s battery to be ripped from its connections; he could only go by feel. He groped to where he thought Aisha should be and his hand found her head lolling awkwardly forward. She, too, was hanging, bent double in her seat belt. He ran his hand over her face and it came away sticky.

“Aisha,” he whispered. “Are you okay?”

There was no reply, but he thought he could hear the rasp of laboured breathing. He squirmed to one side and attempted to lift her body and release the belt, but the angle was too great and as strong as he was, he couldn’t manage it. Finally, turning on his back, he wriggled one shoulder beneath her hanging body and eased her weight from the seat belt, reaching round her prostrate form searching for the seat belt buckle.

Suddenly he froze.

A new sound had joined the slowly diminishing hissing and ticking of the engine. It was a gentle whoosh, a sound he instantly recognised and one that struck a cold terror in his heart.

“Jesus God,” he muttered, fumbling frantically around the front of Aisha, not caring what part of her lifeless body he clutched at. “We’re on fire, Aisha girl. We need to get out of here, so come on, move yourself.” He knew she couldn’t hear, couldn’t move anything. He was talking to himself, but somehow just talking helped, made him feel less alone. At last his right hand found the buckle buried beneath her furled up top, jammed deep into her stomach. He pulled the buckle open and Aisha collapsed on top of him. He rolled her away from him and as he did so realised he could suddenly see. He could see by the light of the flames licking around the front of the car directly in front of the shattered windscreen. The heat and fumes immediately began to permeate the car, a heavy, choking, petrol-filled fug getting thicker by the second.