Category Archives: Thrillers

$.99 Thriller Featured Book: ICE by Kevin Tinto @kevintinto


Disclosure: This website contains affiliate links and/or sponsored content. Click here to read more.

Thriller, Romance, Science Fiction


ice by kevin tinto

Dr. Leah Andrews and Jack Hobson Thrillers Book 1

125,000+ Sales, 1,550+ Amazon Reviews, Amazon Bestseller Debut Selection: Prime Reading. Archaeologist Leah Andrews stumbles upon something inexplicable in southwestern New Mexico: inside a dark cavern lies an undiscovered, Native American cliff dwelling abandoned for 800 years. While twisting through one of the narrow underground passageways, Leah’s flashlight illuminates the remains of a violent massacre.

Ancient human remains—all slaughtered in a long-ago massacre—cover the cavern floor, along with a number of brilliantly colored, granite crystals. The rare crystals are native to only one place on earth: a frozen mountain range in central Antarctica.

Could Native Americans have traveled to the frozen continent of Antarctica 800 years prior to the first known human exploration? If so how? And why?

There’s only one person who can get Leah to those mountains in Antarctica: her estranged husband and climbing guide Jack Hobson.

At their destination they make a stunning discovery that will change history and science forever. But Leah’s team is far from the only interested party.

As her secret makes its way to the highest levels of government, a race to seize the Russian-claimed Antarctic territory brings the world to the brink of nuclear conflict.

$.99 on Amazon Kindle:

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Amazon CA l Amazon AU


Excerpt:

Southwestern New Mexico

CHAPTER 1

“Just one more step and you’re gonna get a real good look at the bottom of the canyon,” said Garrett Moon.
Dr. Leah Andrews pulled the binoculars away from her eyes and watched as the toe of her boot slid over the edge of the cliff. A spray of sand floated toward the green valley floor hundreds of feet below.
“I know where I’m standing.”
Sand and gravel cascaded down the rocky slope behind them, followed by a giant who wore his hair in a short ponytail over a three-day-stubble beard. Only a well-placed sandstone boulder prevented his 280 pounds from barreling over the cliff.
“Delicate as ever,” Leah said.
Juan Cortez wiped a mixture of sweat and dust from his face. “The coast is clear, but I’d wager those park rangers are sniffing around nearby.”
“What’d you expect?” she asked, grinning despite the risk. “We are trespassing illegally in the middle of a national park.”
“She smells a cliff dwelling,” Garrett said.
Juan looked over the ledge and shook his head. “A monkey couldn’t climb that face without modern equipment.”
Tall, anvil-shaped clouds began rolling in from the southwest, signaling the beginnings of a late-season thunderstorm. The winds preceding the storm kicked dust up in flowing red curtains.
“That’s a hint of things to come,” Garrett said. “You want to be dangling from a rope when that hits?”
“Speaking of rope, where’s our climbing expert?” Leah asked.
“Resting on his climbing gear near the top of the mesa, last I saw,” said Juan.
“Figures.” Leah hoisted her backpack into place. “I’ll wake Sleeping Beauty.”
Juan took another peek over the cliff. “You’d think a couple of relatively intelligent guys would have more sense than to rappel down a sheer wall in the middle of a thunderstorm.”
Garrett grinned and pushed strands of black hair away from his face. “Yeah, but who else would look after her?”
“Don’t let her hear that,” Juan cautioned, “or we’ll both be sporting black eyes.”
“You two better not be whispering about me,” Leah called back as she climbed the slope.
“We’re just a pair of lowly, underpaid archeologists,” Garrett answered. “Our discussions are purely of a scientific nature.”
Leah was still shaking her head when she came upon Marko Kinney leaning on his climbing gear, listening to audibly heavy metal through his ear buds.
Leah poked at the shaggy young man with the toe of her boot until he killed the music. “We’re checking out a wall crack.”
Marko looked up and pointed toward the billowing clouds. “Mr. Thunder Bumper’s headed this direction, and he’s looking worked up.”
“Meet me on the other side of the rock bridge with your gear.”
The rock climber shook his head in disbelief, then gathered his gear and chased her across the rock arch toward a gnarled but sturdy-looking pine tree growing near the mesa’s edge. He dropped the pack, pulled out a nylon-anchoring sling, and wrapped it expertly around the pine tree’s trunk. Marko secured the slings, removed two 165-foot climbing lines from the backpack, and tied them together with a double fisherman’s knot.
Juan and Garrett joined them while Leah fitted herself into a padded climbing harness and fastened the metal waist buckle. Marko fed the doubled line through a standard figure-eight descender, triple-checked all the connections, and patted her on the shoulder.
“You’re cleared to fly,” he shouted over the rising wind.
She nodded and stepped to the cliff face. As sloppy as Marko looked, he was a fanatic about safety. Because of his attention to detail, Leah felt at least some peace of mind. If her dad had enjoyed the same kind of attention, he’d have been alive today.
Marko climbed into his own harness and threaded another line through the anchoring rings. He’d feed rope as she rappelled in a classic belay technique taught at most climbing schools. If she suffered gear failure, he would serve to break her fall, at least in theory.
Garrett dug out his own harness, peeking over the edge at Leah’s descent.
“I know you guys are the experts at finding cliff dwellings,” Marko said, “but I’m not thrilled about roping down that cliff face with lightning cracking around my ass.”
“Chances are she’ll shine her flashlight into the crevice, find a dead end, and we won’t be climbing down anyway,” Garrett said.
The line slackened, and a moment later Marko felt three distinct tugs on the belay. “You were saying?”
Garrett glanced up at the sky. “I guess we’re climbing down.”
Marko yanked up the freed belay. “Okay, you’re next, G.”
A minute later, Marko had a hesitant Juan in his harness and ready to join the others. “They’re waiting for you, Juan.”
The big man hesitated, then took a deep breath and leaned over the brink of nothingness. All that separated his ample posterior from a three-hundred-foot freefall were two thin strands of high-strength climbing line.
“Down you go,” said Marko.
As Juan descended, an unexpected gust of wind twisted him around, causing his face to scrape across the sandstone wall, shaving skin off his right cheek. Thunder cracked in the distance as he attempted to gain position against the rock.
“Come on, Juan,” Leah shouted encouragement from the ledge below.
Juan pushed off and rappelled until his shoes touched the ledge.
“Was that so hard?” Garrett secured him to the ledge.
“Still gotta climb back up that mother.”
Marko slid spider-like down the line and noted with quiet satisfaction that Leah had already inserted a removable locking-cam inside a weathered crack in the cliff. He crouched to examine the narrow opening. “It’s less than a meter high. How are you gonna get inside?”
“Seriously, Marko?” Leah asked. “Lie down like you’re taking a nap.”
Garrett winked and patted the young climber on the back. “You’re doing fine. Don’t let her bully you.”
Leah pushed Marko aside and dug a small flashlight out of her gear bag. “If you want something done….” She slithered quickly through the scar-like blemish in the rock cliff. Once inside, she switched on the steel penlight and crawled along on her hands and knees through the confining passageway. Ahead, the tunnel opened into a larger chamber.
“Garrett,” she called back. “You got the big light?”
Garrett crawled in behind her and handed over the high-powered halogen flashlight. Leah fumbled with the switch and then lit the chamber ahead.
“Oh, my God,” she whispered.
A massive subterranean cavern at least 50 meters high stretched far beyond even the powerful beam. The light did a fine job of illuminating the pristine remains of an 800-year-old Native American city hidden in the depths of the Gila National Wilderness.


Youtube Book Trailer:



About the Author:

kevin tinto

Check a movie trailer for ICE at www.writingthrillers.com

Kevin Tinto is based in Tiburon and Lake Tahoe, California. He has written for the San Francisco Chronicle, Reno Gazette Journal, Bike Transamerica, Scuba Diver Magazine and more.

He is an avid mountaineer, skier, scuba and free diver, Private Pilot and adventurer.
Kevin is a Level II Certified Ski Instructor and you can often find him teaching at Northstar, California, when not testing the Palisades at Squaw Valley.

Editor-In-Chief of www.slidingonthecheap.com with more than 50,000 subscribers.
He is currently working on the final edit to the second in the Jack Hobson, Leah Andrews Adventure/Thrillers titled: ICE GENESIS! Due out fall 2016.

READ TWO TWO CHAPTERS OF ICE GENESIS AT: http://www.writingthrillers.com


Thriller Feature: The Black Key by Rick Jones @rikster7033


Disclosure: This website contains affiliate links and/or sponsored content. Click here to read more.

Thriller


the black key

The Hunter Series Book 2

Release Date: 2/1/2017

During military exercises in the Sea of Japan, rogue missiles fire off from a U.S. naval battleship and head directly to the heart of North Korea.

During a return trip to Washington, D.C., Air Force Two disappears over the Rocky Mountains.

President Jack Meacham was once the former director of the CIA who was instrumental in the collapse of the Soviet regime. Now, nearly three decades later, his past comes back to haunt him with a single message: “Are you willing to sacrifice your life for the good of the whole?”

The volley of missiles and the disappearance of Air Force Two were mere flexes of muscle from one man who wielded The Black Key, a tool that is capable of controlling nuclear arsenals and weaponry systems. It can control and manipulate economies. And it could be the most damning weapon the world has ever seen with a simple push of a button.

Forced to make a choice, the president finds himself at odds with a former operative who seeks to end his life with a single twist of The Black Key. In the ‘Most Dangerous Game in the World,’ President Meacham is given two options: “You have forty-eight hours to end your life for the greater good of the whole . . . Or the United States will become a no-man’s land for thousands of years to come.”

With time winding down, the president turns to Jon Jericho, aka The Hunter, and his Special Operations Group, to locate and neutralize the man behind The Black Key. But the team quickly find themselves going up against a sophisticated military unit who protects the man behind the Key.

With the fate of the president and an entire nation hanging in the balance of five men, Jon Jericho and his team must stop a man who has the widespread capability to wipe out an entire superpower with a single turn of a key.

If Jericho’s team fails, then the president must face two critical choices: Do I live and allow the United States to be destroyed? . . . Or do I kill myself for the greater good of the whole?

The clock is ticking.

And it’s almost zero hour.

From the bestselling author of Night of the Hunter and the Vatican Knights series.

Buy this book now at:

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About the Author:

rick jones

Rick Jones was born and raised in the Boston area and moved to Las Vegas in the early eighties where he graduated from the University of Nevada, Las Vegas with a degree in English. He is retired from law enforcement and currently resides in Las Vegas where he writes fulltime. He is the bestselling author of the Vatican Knight series (THE VATICAN KNIGHTS (soon to be a major motion picture from Amber Entertainment), SHEPHERD ONE, THE ISCARIOT AGENDA, PANDORA’S ARK, THE BRIDGE OF BONES, CROSSES TO BEAR, THE LOST CATHEDRAL, DARK ADVENT, CABAL THE GOLGOTHA PURSUIT, and TARGETED KILLING); the psychological thriller, FAMILIAR STRANGER; and the bestselling action/adventure series, The Eden Saga (THE CRYPTS OF EDEN, THE MENAGERIE and THE THRONES OF EDEN); and CITY BENEATH THE SEA.

Twitter l Website


Other Books In This Series:

night of the hunter

Book 1

While on a mission in Jarablus, Syria, Jon Jericho, codename the Hunter, is severely wounded, ending his career as a Special Field Operative for Delta Force. When he returns stateside to begin life anew, he quickly finds himself caught up in a scandal involving the appropriation of documents for an undetectable state-of-the-art ICBM by the Islamic State. But what if Jon Jericho discovers something different? What if he learns that the plans were appropriated by American and Israeli intelligence, and then proffered to the Islamic State? As Jericho digs deeper he quickly draws the attention of certain CIA principals. So when a CIA paramilitary group gives chase to terminate Jericho with extreme prejudice to keep the conspiracy safe, the Hunter must utilize his special skill set not only to survive, but to bring forward the hidden truth before the world erupts into global war.

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Featured Thriller: No More Heroes by Roo I MacLeod @rooimacleod


Disclosure: This website contains affiliate links and/or sponsored content. Click here to read more.

Thriller


no-more-heroes

A murder on the streets of Ostere isn’t headline news
A vagrant robbing a body is common place
But the police want a word
As do the killers
Ben Jackman, 20 year old vagrant by day, hunter of road kill by night, isn’t the man to take the fall
Proving his innocence-obvious
Finding the killer-Not so easy
So Ben needs a gun, a big gun, because the streets of Ostere have a new breed of criminal and they aren’t looking to take prisoners.

Buy this book now at:

buy1._V192207739_ amazon uk buy button 3


Excerpt:

No More Heroes
Chapter One
Of snow, Christmas & Trouble

 

At three pm the clock in our town square chimed four deep tolls. Festive faces turned to the town hall looking at the clock in confusion. The juggler dropped his blades, the girls behind the veils stopped with their gyrations and Santa’s Ho became a Ha as his bell fell silent.

I retreated into the frigid dark of Smelly Alley and collided with old Fred the fishmonger. His large metal ring of keys fell with a sharp clatter to the worn cobbles and he stumbled against his shop window. I grabbed his arm and steadied his gait. He hauled a gold watch from his waistcoat, shook the time piece and placed it to his ear.

‘Yer making me late, you good for nothing pup.’

Seriously? Pup? Late? How could he possibly know? The silly old bugger walked with a white tap-tap-tap stick and the town hall clock was arse up.

The wind rattled at the drawn shutters and litter cavorted with the folk heading for the celebrations in the square. I stooped to retrieve his keys and he snatched them from my hand.

I pulled my coat tight and brushed at my hair. I was eager to enter the town square and chance a meeting with the bar maid from the Old Poet public house. The butcher’s boy blocked my path. He carried a dead pig across his narrow shoulders and seemed intent on sharing his burden with me.

‘Easy, eh?’ I said. ‘You closing early?’

I sidestepped his blood stained apron, alarmed by the manic look in the dead pig’s eyes.

‘It’s anniversary, isn’t it,’ he grunted. As he turned into his shop he tried to smack me with the dead pig’s trotters.

What bloody anniversary?

A shout greeted the fish monger’s entrance into the square, causing me to flinch, jump even. Man I hated random noises. My nerves were pretty crap to be honest. My mate Tommy said it was my diet being inadequate. He reckoned living on cigarettes and vodka had to play havoc with your nerves. Tommy was no intellectual but my diet did lack fiber for sure.

I pulled the hood over my head and followed the old boy’s steps. Fairy lights shone in the afternoon gloom. Sad droopy loops of tinsel glittered between the stalls. Vendors in Santa hats called out their wares and folk traipsed the frozen dirt bartering for a deal. In the corner beneath the video screen carol singers armed with a battery of flat sounding tunes shared their festive bliss. Faces beamed with Yuletide cheer, welcoming the snow bloated clouds lumbering across the sky. The weatherman had promised all good citizens a merry and white Christmas.

‘Bugger their perfect bloody Christmas,’ I muttered. I was well aware my tatty coat and I stood no chance of surviving the festive season if snow dumped on our town.


About the Author:

roo-1

Roo I MacLeod was born in Croydon, Australia on an excessively hot, humid day and fought three doctors, two midwives and the utilities type person against his entry into the world. This desperate attempt to remain womb bound, according to his mother left him with the ugliest mug yet to have graced the austere corridors of Nan Org Bush Hospital. Roo offers attached images as proof that his mother might be exaggerating, and finds it difficult to believe they’d let a utilities type person loose with a set of birthing forceps.

Time was served at a variety of schools before it was suggested he give living and working in the real world a go. So began his long sojourn trying to find the best and cheapest means of living. The Volkswagen beetle proved cheap, but uncomfortable for a man of such tall stature. In Darwin he found solace in a one bedroom house with 18 travellers (more commonly known as a squat) but found cohabiting with his own deranged thoughts hard, but 18 tourists caused neurotic tics, a dependence on alcohol and prescribed drugs and left him wandering the deserts of Australia totally unhinged.

A two man tent offered independence, until a tribe of angry locals burnt it to the ground. No one took the blame but Roo suspected the lads living in the dry river bed. They’d thrown rocks at him late one night when he wouldn’t share his hooch.

No More Heroes was conceived in a quaint English church when he took shelter from the rain. He stumbled into a funeral and found he’d doubled the mourners present. The vicar, a friend to this day, invited him to pray and sing a few tunes, and he, Roo and the young lady in black chucked dirt on the deceased come the end of the ceremony.

He now lives in West Sussex UK and has spent the last couple of years volunteering at homeless centers. He is barred from two of the five pubs in town for the same attitude that wreaked havoc in his school days and vows to antagonize the remaining four pub Landlords by the end of the year.

He is a passionate supporter of the Richmond Tigers, The Arsenal and any sport Australia are participating in. He has a partner, who doesn’t read or write or support any of the above teams.

He has two children from a previous unsuccessful attempt to cohabit.

Website l Facebook l Twitter


Featured Thriller and Interview: No More Heroes by Roo I MacLeod @rooimacleod


Disclosure: This website contains affiliate links and/or sponsored content. Click here to read more.

Thriller


no-more-heroes

A murder on the streets of Ostere isn’t headline news
A vagrant robbing a body is common place
But the police want a word
As do the killers
Ben Jackman, 20 year old vagrant by day, hunter of road kill by night, isn’t the man to take the fall
Proving his innocence-obvious
Finding the killer-Not so easy
So Ben needs a gun, a big gun, because the streets of Ostere have a new breed of criminal and they aren’t looking to take prisoners.

Buy this book now at:

buy1._V192207739_ amazon uk buy button 3


Excerpt:

No More Heroes
Chapter One
Of snow, Christmas & Trouble

 

At three pm the clock in our town square chimed four deep tolls. Festive faces turned to the town hall looking at the clock in confusion. The juggler dropped his blades, the girls behind the veils stopped with their gyrations and Santa’s Ho became a Ha as his bell fell silent.

I retreated into the frigid dark of Smelly Alley and collided with old Fred the fishmonger. His large metal ring of keys fell with a sharp clatter to the worn cobbles and he stumbled against his shop window. I grabbed his arm and steadied his gait. He hauled a gold watch from his waistcoat, shook the time piece and placed it to his ear.

‘Yer making me late, you good for nothing pup.’

Seriously? Pup? Late? How could he possibly know? The silly old bugger walked with a white tap-tap-tap stick and the town hall clock was arse up.

The wind rattled at the drawn shutters and litter cavorted with the folk heading for the celebrations in the square. I stooped to retrieve his keys and he snatched them from my hand.

I pulled my coat tight and brushed at my hair. I was eager to enter the town square and chance a meeting with the bar maid from the Old Poet public house. The butcher’s boy blocked my path. He carried a dead pig across his narrow shoulders and seemed intent on sharing his burden with me.

‘Easy, eh?’ I said. ‘You closing early?’

I sidestepped his blood stained apron, alarmed by the manic look in the dead pig’s eyes.

‘It’s anniversary, isn’t it,’ he grunted. As he turned into his shop he tried to smack me with the dead pig’s trotters.

What bloody anniversary?

A shout greeted the fish monger’s entrance into the square, causing me to flinch, jump even. Man I hated random noises. My nerves were pretty crap to be honest. My mate Tommy said it was my diet being inadequate. He reckoned living on cigarettes and vodka had to play havoc with your nerves. Tommy was no intellectual but my diet did lack fiber for sure.

I pulled the hood over my head and followed the old boy’s steps. Fairy lights shone in the afternoon gloom. Sad droopy loops of tinsel glittered between the stalls. Vendors in Santa hats called out their wares and folk traipsed the frozen dirt bartering for a deal. In the corner beneath the video screen carol singers armed with a battery of flat sounding tunes shared their festive bliss. Faces beamed with Yuletide cheer, welcoming the snow bloated clouds lumbering across the sky. The weatherman had promised all good citizens a merry and white Christmas.

‘Bugger their perfect bloody Christmas,’ I muttered. I was well aware my tatty coat and I stood no chance of surviving the festive season if snow dumped on our town.


About the Author:

roo-1

Roo I MacLeod was born in Croydon, Australia on an excessively hot, humid day and fought three doctors, two midwives and the utilities type person against his entry into the world. This desperate attempt to remain womb bound, according to his mother left him with the ugliest mug yet to have graced the austere corridors of Nan Org Bush Hospital. Roo offers attached images as proof that his mother might be exaggerating, and finds it difficult to believe they’d let a utilities type person loose with a set of birthing forceps.

Time was served at a variety of schools before it was suggested he give living and working in the real world a go. So began his long sojourn trying to find the best and cheapest means of living. The Volkswagen beetle proved cheap, but uncomfortable for a man of such tall stature. In Darwin he found solace in a one bedroom house with 18 travellers (more commonly known as a squat) but found cohabiting with his own deranged thoughts hard, but 18 tourists caused neurotic tics, a dependence on alcohol and prescribed drugs and left him wandering the deserts of Australia totally unhinged.

A two man tent offered independence, until a tribe of angry locals burnt it to the ground. No one took the blame but Roo suspected the lads living in the dry river bed. They’d thrown rocks at him late one night when he wouldn’t share his hooch.

No More Heroes was conceived in a quaint English church when he took shelter from the rain. He stumbled into a funeral and found he’d doubled the mourners present. The vicar, a friend to this day, invited him to pray and sing a few tunes, and he, Roo and the young lady in black chucked dirt on the deceased come the end of the ceremony.

He now lives in West Sussex UK and has spent the last couple of years volunteering at homeless centers. He is barred from two of the five pubs in town for the same attitude that wreaked havoc in his school days and vows to antagonize the remaining four pub Landlords by the end of the year.

He is a passionate supporter of the Richmond Tigers, The Arsenal and any sport Australia are participating in. He has a partner, who doesn’t read or write or support any of the above teams.

He has two children from a previous unsuccessful attempt to cohabit.

Website l Facebook l Twitter


Interview:

How many books do you currently have published?

Three. Book #1 & #2 from the Heroes series and a freebie of short stories featuring characters from the Heroes stories. Book #3 from the Heroes series is due soon.

What has been your favorite book to write so far? Why?

No More Heroes, because this is the book that allowed me to exorcise the demons from my own vagrant days living on the streets, crashing on peoples sofas and spending warm nights in the cells. Street Boy’s troubles are far greater than mine ever were, but I can relate and empathize with his scabby luck and his want to fight against the bastards trying to hold him down.

Are you currently working on a book? Will this be your next release?

Heroes Don’t Cry is the third book in the Heroes series and finds Street Boy in the East End trying to extricate his little friend Harry out of a gang land war between the Top Hats and the Sewer Rats. It is in its final edit and is due for release in March 2017

What do you enjoy most about writing?

Controlling the world and making it just. I have no ability to live life outside my four walls, but through writing I life a right royal existence.

Do you ever get writer’s block? If so, how do you deal with it?

I’ve never had a severe case but if I’m struggling to make the words flow I get out a my writing exercises and pound the keys for hours trying to improve my thoughts and sentences. Hemingway was known to copy out the dictionary in long hand. I find sentence construction and free writing generally steers me to an idea worth investigating and the words flow

Have you ever had one of your characters to take a twist you weren’t expecting and surprise you?

Little Billy Two Guns was always a gobby lad, but mainly harmless. One day his disability caused him to fall and trip and rather than play the game he shot his mouth off to the last breath. Now he was a character, seriously small in stature, balding, bow legged with a bit of a stutter and a terrible attitude toward minorities, but he was destined to outlive the series. If only he’d stayed down when he fell, maybe he’d still be begging on the streets of Ostere and making racist homophobic sexist remarks until the day I stopped caring.

Which of your characters is your personal favorite? Least favorite? Why?

Little Harry is the star of all four Heroes books. He has a street smart beyond his years, but is still the child who wants to fight in the dirt, play with guns and swap up to get the best hunting knife.

Pete the Nose is my least favorite. I don’t know why I gave him the mental illness I did, but it just seemed to suit him. He’s childlike, but a man mountain and uncontrollable. And he smells.

So far, what has been your favorite scene to write?

The start to No More Heroes. It has taken me hundreds of rewrites to get the write feeling of unease into the scene that confronts Street Boy in the opening page. It’s also like the opening shot of a film where it focuses a head shot on the narrator until he walks out into the square and we pan upward to see the vibrant town in all its festive glory.

What lessons have you learned since becoming a writer? Do you have any tips for new writers?

Write every day and write a lot and try not to take reviews to heart.

If you were to recommend your books to a stranger, which book would you advise them to start with? Why?

Let’s start at the very beginning … with No More Heroes. A chance meeting, a big black carryall and Ben Jackman, AKA Street Boy, finds his life spiraling downward and he doesn’t truly stop the freefall until book #4.

Do you have any extras you’d like to share, like a teaser about an upcoming new release, a summary of a deleted scene, or a teaser about a surprising plot twist or character?

Book #3 Heroes Don’t Cry, due out in March 2017, is set in a sewer and an underground river

Book #4 No Justice For Heroes, due out in July 2017, is set in the magistrates court of Ostere. There is a hanging and a romance.

Now it’s time to get to know you! What are some of your favorite books to read?

I love crime and fantasy. Raymond Chandler is my hero. On the fantasy I’m loving George RR Martin and Raymond Feist. Of course I was weaned on Tolkein. But still love to read Enid Blyton.

What about television shows? Movies?

I write with the television channel Film 4 keeping me company. It specializes in Westerns and old war movies. Randolph Scott and Jimmy Stewart brighten my writing hours. My favorite ever film is The Big Sleep with Humphrey and Lauren and I’m a big fan of Jason Bourne

Television has been dominated by the Nordic Noir, but Mr. Robot and the Preacher and Jessica Jones have inspired me and my new series of books due early 2018 will reflect these dramas

Is there a book that you have read that you feel has made a big impact on your life? Why?

Catcher in the Rye. I read it as a child and have read it yearly ever since. It is my inspiration and Holden Caulfield has been my friend for many years. Whenever I can, me and Holden hang out and revel in each others exploits.

Can readers find you at any live events, such as book signings or conventions?

I reside at the George pub in Littlehampton town center most Thursday afternoons, getting cozy with the locals and trying to build on my arsenal of characters. Of course I suckle a little on the local brew, just to be polite like, and sometimes I get some writing done. Not often.

If you had to sum up your life as a writer in ten words, what would you say?

One word at a time, with the odd comma forgotten.

Do you have anything else you’d like to share with readers?

Be gentle with me or be harsh, but leave us writers your thoughts on your favored site.


Crime Thriller Feature: Fool Whiskey Hero by Jason T. Blundell @JTBlundell


Disclosure: This website contains affiliate links and/or sponsored content. Click here to read more.

Crime, Noir, Thriller


fool-whiskey-hero

Drunken Fool Thrillers Book 1

Nyah’s father was a cop. He was gunned down and his murder was left unsolved. Three years later, Nyah watches helplessly as three people are slaughtered and barely escapes with her own life.
Now the witnesses are being erased and sixteen-year-old Nyah is being hunted by corrupt cops, drug dealers and a ruthless sociopathic killer. Everything Nyah has ever loved has been taken from her. All she wants is someone to pay.
Grady Fisk is an alcoholic whose marriage is steamrolling towards divorce and who owes $50, 000 to a drug dealer to keep his brother Reece alive. While dragging Reece out of yet another fine mess, three people are murdered, and Grady and Reece are the prime suspects.
If saving his own ass wasn’t tough enough, Grady now has to protect Nyah from every murderer and psychopath in the city. Is it any wonder Grady drinks?
Nyah wants vengeance.
Nyah needs a hero.
What she gets is Grady Fisk.

Buy this book now at:

Amazon l Amazon UK l Kobo l Barnes and Noble


Excerpt:

The scrawny guy in the Hawaiian shirt was in trouble. You didn’t have to be a genius to figure it out. He couldn’t cower any further into his seat in the corner booth unless he started digging into the plastic upholstery.
Granted, the Dirty Pickle wasn’t exactly a classy pub. Most of the chairs had been broken during one brawl or another and glued, wired or taped back together. The tables were old barrels with plywood nailed on top. It was dark because they couldn’t afford the electricity, not for ambience or any pretentious crap like that. The bar had been slapped together with whatever wood had been handy and the many layers of paint were all that kept it from collapsing. My stool wobbled and bowed as I sat on it, I’d covered it with my jacket for fear of splinters and leaned on the bar to keep balanced. The glass I was guzzling whiskey from was chipped, and the only cleaning it received was when it was filled with booze.
No, The Pickle was not pretty, but the bartender still wouldn’t be happy if the Hawaiian shirt guy tore the Hell out of the cushions in the booth.
The guy was stoop shouldered, weak chinned and had lost more of his black hair than he’d kept. Fringes poked out around his ears like unkempt bushes. His shirt was a Hawaiian thing they sell to tourists, blues and oranges that may have blinded me if it wasn’t for the dimmed lights. His back was to the wall and he was trying to sink into himself.
Hawaiian shirt guy was scared out of his mind.
It probably had something to do with the behemoth beside him. A no-neck monster with a long beard and even longer hair and massive arms. He had a belly, but there was no mistaking the muscle underneath or the fact he knew how to handle himself. He had two big handfuls of the Hawaiian guy’s shirt and was almost choking him with it.
The guy with the backwards ball cap sitting across the booth was slightly smaller, but still big, just in better shape. He had the same beard, but had gone with shorter hair and was the one in charge. I couldn’t hear from the bar, but the way snot and spittle splattered the chin on the ball cap guy, and how red his face had gotten as he spoke, they weren’t just telling the guy how ugly his shirt was.
This was going to get bloody, and the Hawaiian shirt guy looked too scared to talk his way out.
But I had my own problems
My glass was empty.
If I didn’t remedy that I’d wind up sober, and then where would I be?
I waggled my glass at the bartender. “Fill’er up.”


About the Author:

JT Blundell was born and raised in North Bay, Ontario.  He played football for the University of Manitoba and graduated with a BA in English.  He has worked in bars, a prison and an ice cream shop.   He now lives, writes and works in Winnipeg.

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