Coming Soon: THE LONG CRIMSON LINE: A THRILLER

 In honor of my 38th birthday today, here's a sneak peek--a birthday present from me to you--of the first scene of my forthcoming thriller, THE LONG CRIMSON LINE.

Chapter One

She emerged from the Government Center subway station on time, as usual, her strides across wet bricks confident, the sexual energy that oozed out of every pore apparent to the killer even from several hundred feet away. The killer and those that followed her from the new glass-and-steel headhouse kept their eyes on the target as she crossed eastward along the slightly uneven red bricked walkway of Cornhill once again: the killer remembered this had been an actual street some time ago, complete with sidewalks and berm and light poles, before illogical political dumbassery and douchenuggetry converted old Scollay Square, a rather happening place once upon a time, into this weather-worn shithole. She had her coat open to reveal a short, skin-tight black dress that screamed filthy, non-Christian words at anyone horny enough to check her and it out. It was Friday night after all, and every unmarried person under the age of thirty near the Faneuil Hall Marketplace was horny as fuck on a Friday night. Everyone would get an eyeful—and an earful, the killer thought—before the clock struck 12.

The killer, hidden in a shroud of darkness and a cloud of stale urine against the concrete pillars of Boston City Hall, shot her grin toward the darkened Sears Crescent.

Yes, she thought with a deep exhalation, they will.

The target was still relatively young, the killer knew: she was in her early-to-mid 30’s, even though her body—oh, her body… it was a personal trainer’s canvas, the killer believed, her groin quivering at the mere thought of this gorgeous woman in Spandex—appeared lithe and slightly teenaged with a gymnast’s grace complete with supple, motherly curves in all the right places. The woman’s breasts had fought hard against gravity and had seemingly won the battle, the killer recalled lustily; it was the third thing she had noticed about her. The first was that lovely rear end that swayed gently when she walked, then her crystal-blue eyes that anyone could lose themselves in; the breasts were simply an added bonus to every Tom, Dick, and Qwang that happened to fall under her sexual spell. The killer had to control herself: thinking about them made her deliciously randy, and she stayed her hand from inching toward her crotch.

She couldn’t be randy tonight, like the other denizens in this metropolis, the ones looking for a hard Friday Night Fuck. She had to be calm. She had to be quick.

She had to be ruthless.

The blonde-haired target had shunned her advances far too often in the past few months, so much so that the killer’s sexual frustrations had no off switch. The thought of this woman, naked and in her bed, the killer’s face between her legs after a night of dancing—if anyone could call it dancing; no, it was more of a sensual grind that made them the center of attention, which led to catcalls, to gropes, to free drinks from anyone that deeply desired to see more, to see the two nymphs out of their clothes—was almost too much to bear. The killer needed to shove those thoughts from her mind for her to succeed.

She sneered as the target approached ever closer to the Congress Street staircase.

This will be the last time she goes outside her daily life as a cunt tease, she thought, just as the echoes of the target’s stilettos, as black as her dress and raising her ankles three inches, bounced across the buildings that made up the Cornhill Canyon.

The target slipped around the right-hand side of the staircase and turned right onto Washington Street, breaking free of the crowd that had followed her away from the intersection of Court, Tremont, and Cambridge Streets.

“Bye, sexy,” one young man called to her backside. “See you at the club!”

The leggy target turned her head and gave a wide smile coupled with a flirtatious giggle, not breaking stride as she headed south along Washington. The killer felt her heart skip a beat as the woman’s smile shined through the artificial light.

“Maybe you will, and maybe you won’t. I wouldn’t put money on it, though,” she said, her melodic voice a taunt.

The man’s mates started a cacophony of immature, pre-pubescent jeering as they headed down the stairs.

The killer felt her cheeks burn and twist in anger as the noise died off, replaced only by the sounds of squealing brakes on Congress. She turned her head slightly, hoping that she would hear the sounds of flesh against steel, of breaking glass and pure agony rippling through the heart of the Old City. She bit her lip as nothing out of the ordinary met her ear canal.

Damn, she thought, her heart tumbling into her twisting guts. I hoped the car would take that jumped-up college boy out. Maybe I’ll have to drag my tongue across the asshole’s neck for his lack of wits, and the lack of a penis. Hmm… lack of a penis. I’ll have to remember that.

The killer barked a laugh before she stopped herself.

The target, about thirty feet further away on Washington than she was a moment ago, paused. The killer watched as she turned her head slightly, as if to see from where the laugh had come. There was a bit of movement near her lips—and what lips they were, the killer recalled—and a subtle blink of eyelid followed. The killer moved back as far as she could into the shadows, then held her breath. She fingered the hard object in her pocket.

The young woman ahead looked behind her. From the killer’s vantage point, she knew the woman saw no one; she was holed up in the shadows of City Hall, while the pedestrian traffic from the T and the general direction of old Scollay Square had lessened to almost no one in the last couple of minutes; it would be some time—maybe a minute or two—before the next Green and Blue Line trains rumbled underground, pulling into their respective halves of the station. She watched as the young woman grimaced, her mouth tight while framed by golden blonde tresses. She figured the woman’s heart raced uncontrollably right now, probably just a little faster than her own.

The blonde turned and continued walking, albeit with a bit more purpose in her steps.

The killer ran her tongue across her lips before she emerged from the shadows. She kept close to the right-hand side of Washington—this part of the street much like Cornhill and the rest of City Hall Plaza, red bricked and dimly lit—as she followed the woman to her next destination: an automated teller booth near the Old Corner Book Store.

They had gone there together, the killer remembered, recalling the late night run to the 24-hour breakfast place in Quincy, off the Southeast Expressway. They had danced up a storm, teasing the men—and some women, she remembered—with such moves that they felt the hunger pangs forming at 3 a.m. The killer had invited her, and while the blonde hesitated at first, she relented. The killer thought she had ensnared the young woman, one she had met only a week before, and almost tasted her desperation on the tip of her tongue.

But breakfast was as far as they had gone: the woman had backed out after their meal, saying something about a babysitter and maybe they’d meet up again the following week. She had left the killer with a serious case of blue bean, and she left by blowing a kiss at her across the table before leaving. The killer recalled a large truck pulling up the instant she left, a man at the wheel. She also recalled how, with the passenger door wide open, the woman leaned over and seemingly planted her tongue somewhere in his windpipe before she closed the door. As they drove away, the killer felt tears burn her eyes, all while she imagined her riding him in twenty minutes’ time.

The next week was more of the same: some flirting, some heavy petting and dancing, and lots of drinking. When closing time came, they were making out in a dark corner, hands roaming.

“God damn,” the killer remembered whispering to her as the music ended, “if we still had time, I’d ravish you like I wanted to last week.”

The blonde had giggled and smiled wide.

“I bet,” she replied, her voice husky. She moved back to the killer’s ear and flicked her tongue against the killer’s lobe. Then she nibbled it. The killer had gasped. “Maybe we still can. After some food. I’m starving.”

The killer, delirious with lust, didn’t think anything of it. She wanted the blonde so badly that she didn’t realize the events were playing out the same as they had seven days prior.

They went to the ATM once again; once again, they headed to the breakfast place in Quincy. They ate and held hands and drank coffee—a little too much coffee. It was enough, the killer remembered, to sober the target up. She disappeared into the bathroom after flicking her tongue against the killer’s lips. The killer clamped her legs together as she shuddered in the booth.

She never came out through the same door. The killer never discovered how she managed to get away, but she did note the open window high up alongside the wall with the sinks. Thankfully, she found something that remained in the blonde’s hasty escape: an embossed business card. There was a name on it—Kristine Melanson.

The killer didn’t know the target’s last name, but she had said that her name was Krissy, with a K instead of a C-h. She had pointed that out to her—yelled it to her, during a Def Leppard song that had them gyrating their shoulders and breasts in tune with the other.

But now, the killer had finally realized as she looked at the open window, she had pointed out that the spurning, the teasing, was all a game to the blonde. She had teased the blonde—shit, she made out with me and grabbed my ass!—and left her there alone in the dead of night.

And while the killer held back the emotions in public, she let them loose in the privacy of her apartment.

Still holding onto the business card—it had her smell on it, the killer mused—she noticed it had the blonde’s address printed on it.

It was then, with the knowledge in her mind, that the stalking began—and the beginning of the end for Kristine Melanson. She had found the address easily enough and, after a few hours, waited for her to come out. She did just before 5 p.m. that first Monday, and the killer, hidden in an alcove nearby, felt her eyes grow limned with tears.

Within a week, the killer had Melanson’s routine down to a near science. She worked, went home—the children were simply delightful, the killer had thought as she smiled, thinking that it was a shame they would grow up without their mother—and did nothing else: except that every Friday night, she went to the clubs in Quincy Market where she had met the killer a few weeks beforehand. She also stopped at the same ATM and grabbed a few twenties, before she returned the way she came—the killer had ducked into the shadows while she passed, not letting her know of her presence—and headed down the stairs to Congress Street.

And that strict adherence to a routine, the killer thought, would lead to her downfall.

Her smile crept along her face until it felt as if she dragged a knife along her lips.

The killer kept her in her sights as they moved further south along Washington, headed toward State Street and beyond.

There weren’t many people on Washington right now, she noticed, as October’s chill winds whipped through the cavernous easements; it made for an uncomfortable wait for when the clubs were full. She had done that before. A light fall storm had passed through only a few hours ago, and the killer noted there was still a bit of moisture in the air, the clouds threatening to let loose another torrent.

The killer sneered at the weather. The slow pursuit continued as the woman ahead swept around the back side of the Old State House and continued on Washington.

Their walk in-tandem continued until the woman ahead paused in front of the well-lit ATM booth. The killer halted and ducked toward the side, throwing herself against the side of the building as the woman rustled through her purse. Peering ahead, the woman pulled out a thin piece of plastic. She inserted it. The killer heard a slight buzzing before the woman opened the door and stepped in.

Taking a few calming breaths, the killer pulled three things out of her pockets: her own bank card, a black woolen mask, and the device from within her right pants pocket. The device was cold to the touch, even through her gloves. She donned the mask and walked toward the ATM with dreadful purpose, the pavement quaking underneath her rapid footsteps.

THE LONG CRIMSON LINE is coming to an eTailer near you! Keep your eyes on this blog, or on my social media accounts, for more on this stunning tale!

www.seansweeneyauthor.com

Cape Cod pictures from Ballston Beach in Truro

After I hit 35,000 words in CHEMICAL AGENT's first draft, Jen and I packed up the Honda and headed down to her grandmother's house in Truro, Massachusetts, on Cape Cod. I've written about this old homestead before.

Anyway, one of the things we like to do during our Cape trips is take a walk up to Ballston Beach, not too far from the homestead. It's just a little bit of a walk, and I had to stop a few times for breath. And seeing as if pretty much everything else is closed, the beach is a good option--especially this time of year, when the human congestion is nearly at nil.

With it being low tide at this point--we arrived at the beach about 10 minutes before low tide at 10:35 a.m.--I whipped out my camera and started taking some pictures.

Two different pics of the same dune, with the top picture being from today. The bottom one is from January 2, but in the afternoon. I believe it was medium tide in the second one. I like the contrast in the colors here, mainly the shading and the changing of the erosion from January to now.

I got on my side, right down on the damp sand, and got a got shot of all these stones that had washed up and had stayed as the tide retreated back into the Atlantic. All stones of all shapes and sizes.

I saw this and had to have a picture of all this driftwood, seemingly embedded in the sand. It made me wonder from where did all this wood come? Were these timbers from a downed ship that had once sailed in the 1700's, during Colonial times? I've written about one such ship, in David Wood's Dane and Bones series.

I found these slabs next to a tidal pool. I wonder about this, too.

Quite possibly one of my favorite pictures from our excursion to the beach. The earth's gravity is taking the opportunity to suck the remaining water from the beach, and it's cutting rivulets in the sand. It's like a babbling brook, and with the wind biting your ears, it's a majestic symphony. I think I stared, on my stomach, at this mini waterfall for about five minutes.

I'm just a lonely pole, and nobody loves me.

And this was the coolest shell on the beach.

www.seansweeneyauthor.com

Recipe Wednesday: Crock Pot Pork Chops

In my novella An Invitation To Drink... Or To Die, one of the minor characters is a chef. In the scene in question, he is preparing that night's dinner: a crock pot pork chop dish.

That's the dish I want to share with you while you sink your teeth into Travel Agent today. I made this dish for my wife when we started dating, and this is usually a Tuesday staple here on the Farm.

The ingredients are simple:

One package of center cut pork chops, the quantity of chops up to the amount of people you're feeding
One chopped onion
One small can of mushroom pieces, drained
Worcestershire sauce
Ketchup/catsup, depending on your particular spelling

One can of cream of mushroom soup, condensed
Pepper to taste

Procedure:

Put your pork chops on the bottom of your crock pot, then top with the onions and mushroom pieces. I like to liberally sprinkle the pork with the Worcestershire sauce before I coat with ketchup. Then I cover it with the cream of mushroom soup, spreading it over the other ingredients. Then I grind pepper on top, and cover. I cook it on low for six hours. I don't add salt as the pork has plenty of it.

In those six hours, I'll stir it once or twice. If the pork starts shredding, that's fine. In the last 15 minutes of cooking, I'll make my sides: you can serve with pasta, rice, or potatoes as my starch/carbs, but I prefer to serve with either pasta or brown rice. The reason for brown rice? Sure, it's a healthier option than white rice, but regardless if I buy the name brand or the store brand brown rice, it's pretty tasteless. Go on. Admit it. However, if you douse the brown rice with the gravy of this dish--the cream of mushroom soup will turn to a nice light gravy through cooking for six hours on low--it'll give the rice some flavor, and the mushrooms and the onions will make the gravy nice and chunky.

I serve this dish with a vegetable, too! We'll have this with buttered sweet corn, steamed broccoli, green beans from the garden, or a medley of steamed zucchini and summer squash.

Hope you enjoy this one.

www.seansweeneyauthor.com

#SampleSunday--TRAVEL AGENT, Chapter 1

For my 100th blog on this account, I give you the first scene of Jaclyn Johnson's sixth full-length adventure.

Chapter 1

Sydney Convention Center

Sydney, New South Wales, Australia

Wednesday, March 18, 2015

3:28 p.m. AEST/12:28 a.m. ET

If this is what I have to look forward to when I retire, Lavi Witz thought as he looked across the sparkling water of Darling Harbour, then retirement doesn’t sound so bad after all.

Ever since that incident in North London nearly three years ago, the Mossad agent gave serious contemplation to hanging up his gun and stepping further back from field work: Jafar Abdul Mohammed had dropped him with a well-placed bullet in his leg, only mere minutes before Jaclyn Johnson had killed the terrorist with a well-placed bullet between his eyes. Since then, Witz had worked behind a desk in Jerusalem—or as he put it, wasting away at the government’s pleasure. While he kept the well-weathered features of his Israeli heritage in his face, his hair had grown gray near the temples, giving him the appearance of a man determined to stay away from an early grave.

The more he thought about it, the more he wanted to stay behind a desk. Wasting away wasn’t exactly a bad thing.

Yet there was still a part of him—the macho, masculine side deep within him—that wanted back into the game. He couldn’t recall when his heart last had made his sternum ache as the adrenaline poured through him as he neared a target—or when certain secret agents held him at gunpoint until they truly learned of his allegiance. He always felt a tremendous rush in the field, and for nearly three years since returning to his homeland from England, his life felt meaningless, almost to the point of emptiness. He hadn’t returned to Mossad until well after Hanukkah that year, and when he came back, he walked with a slight limp, favoring his left leg. The doctors in London had removed the terrorist’s bullet, and with nimble fingers had sewn the limb up nice and tight, the surgery quick. And while he wanted to dive back into his work, hesitation still gripped him even today, the aches lingering.

When his boss had offered him the chance to get out from behind the desk and back into action, if only for one last hurrah, Witz had jumped at the chance with widened eyes and a toothy grin. If he had the power to toss his desk into the shallowest part of the Red Sea, it would have been wet within a minute.

Then he learned of the assignment: it was a protection detail, keeping Israeli prime minister Adam Mendelsberg out of harm’s way while he attended the OECD—the Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development—conference that would be held in Sydney, Australia. Even now, Witz remembered grimacing immediately, his eyebrows ramming together as he worked things out in his mind.

“Who,” he had asked, “would even dream of trying to assault the P.M. in Australia? He would be anonymous, wouldn’t he?”

“We have to be certain,” his boss had countered. “All attendees are receiving some sort of protection. We can’t be too lackadaisical in this day and age. Terrorism, of course.”

Witz had pursed his lips and nodded.

And as he recalled that conversation now while standing outside the convention center, he couldn’t help but grin. He pulled his cigarette away from his mouth with heavily-calloused, nicotine-stained fingers, the smoke spilling from between his lips and corkscrewing to the blue sky above.

If protection duty is good enough for her, he thought as he looked out toward Darling Harbour, shading his eyes against the glare of the sun against the unused concrete tramway across the water, then it can be good enough for me. He had heard of the American’s exploits from two years ago, protecting the president in Atlanta. I just hope I don’t have to run after a suspect like she did. But then again, she had two working legs on her side.

He hefted the cane, a simple stick of polished white ash, that he held in his left hand, thwapping the handle against his hip as he ran the sharp edges of his teeth against his bottom lip. He sent a blast of air from his nostrils.

I can’t be self-depreciating, his thoughts continued. I have a job to do, and if I have to struggle when I run—well, I hope the person can’t run faster than me. That would be a tad awkward, I think.

He heard the harbor water lapping against the sea wall some fifty feet away from where he stood, a swath of red brick surrounding him. Lightly-dressed pedestrians flowed across the causeway, headed to the IMAX theater for a late matinee or to the nearby restaurants for an early dinner. Some people off in the distance made their way to the Sydney Aquarium, on the other side of the harbor. Closer to him, he heard steps cracking against the hot bricks. Summer wasn’t letting go any time soon here in Australia, but he simply shrugged off the searing heat. This was nothing, him being from a rather warm, arid country, but he still looked the dapper professional bodyguard in a short sleeve Oxford with a black necktie, with a white crew neck t-shirt underneath it all to soak up any perspiration. Several of the passersby took off their hats seconds before they pulled their forearms across their brows, and even in the mid-afternoon glare, he saw sweat dripping off them. Seagulls swept in with spread, black-and-white tipped wings and landed on the bricks, toddling away as he watched them hunt for any stray bits of food. He heard the sounds of cars speeding along the Western Distributor Freeway, which hung near the Convention Center and Tumbalong Park, heading for the iconic Sydney Harbour Bridge half a mile away.

Witz took another puff on his cigarette, soon whittling it down to the nub. He dropped it and pressed the heel of his cane down on it, instead of walking to the water and flinging it to a sizzling end. He didn’t want to go too far away from the front doors. He was on duty, and had a duty to perform.

He checked his watch and shrugged.

There’s still an hour to go in today’s session, he thought. Once all the other dignitaries and their security details leave, then I’ll resume my duties. Until then, I’ll pollute the air some more.

Without preamble, he lit another cigarette, passing the time trying to blow wide smoke rings as the shadows crept over the causeway from left to right.

During that time, he thought back to North London and the mosque where Mohammed—I know I was undercover, but did I really have to call him by that honorific?—met his grisly end.

I went by the name of Achmed then, he recalled instantly. Yusef, one of Mohammed’s agents, had just blown up the Briton’s casket and sent the mourners scurrying for safety when she sped around the corner. With a deft flick of her thumb, she sent a surface-to-air missile speeding toward our location. Yusef, the wretch, died in a vicious explosion of wood and stone shrapnel as I hurried underneath to evade the inevitable destruction.

And in the World War II tunnels that lay underneath Highbury, she somehow caught up with me, threatening to kill me even though she didn’t truly know for whom I worked. When I told her that I was an ally, she staggered a bit in stunned silence before I explained everything. And I’m glad she trusted me or else I wouldn’t be here right now, breathing in the warm, salty air blowing in from Sydney Harbour.

But still, the way Mohammed—musahib—had blasted those true Muslims while they worshiped, peaceful Muslims who wanted nothing to do with the hatred that Mohammed preached, I still hear their cries in my nightmares. I could have stopped him, putting the gun I held at the back of his head and pulling the trigger, but the time truly wasn’t right. I had no back-up, and there were two more of Mohammed agents in play. Witz sighed. I should have done it then, regardless if it meant I would die then and there.

Once she arrived though—and by helicopter, too; that was rather ingenious—the odds were stacked fully in my favor. Mohammed had wanted her to come after everything she had done to his agents, everything she had done to prevent more destruction in London. He had killed one of his agents after she got the drop on him as she entered the mosque, unknowingly making it a two-on-two. Witz brought the cigarette back to his mouth, taking a long drag. He caught two twenty-something women in spaghetti-strap tank tops—one with breasts that strained against the thin, white material—checking him out as they brought straws to their mouths as they passed him. He smiled. The smoke billowed away as he looked at their rear ends as soon as he had the opportunity.

He smirked, and his thoughts of that night returned.

She had awoken from her little nap, and after I announced my presence to her, it was only a matter of time before Jafar Abdul Mohammed met his end. Especially when I slapped her sunglasses on her face. Once they were there, and I had slid a gun into her holster, there was no chance of Mohammed walking out of there alive—of course, had he walked out of there, Tom Messingham and the rest of MI5 would have pounced and put a bullet in him. Honestly, he should have run for the Scottish border when he left Oxford Circus. He was in a lose-lose situation right from the get-go, as the Americans say.

Then she dropped the other jihadist, making it two-on-one. I had pulled my gun away from Jaclyn’s waist and shoved it right at Mohammed. I even remember what I had said to him.

Witz smiled as the words came rushing back.

“Stop the launch if you want to walk out of here alive,” I had said, knowing there was no chance of that happening. Then I was on the floor just as the countdown reached its end, the terrorist that she had dropped taking me down before he finally died. Then she killed Mohammed with a twist of her wrist, stealing his gun and killing him with both weapons.

The smile didn’t end as the memory lingered for a few more minutes. An inch of ash perilously hung on to the end of the cigarette.

Then it was over. She and I went our separate ways—I hear she’s engaged now, to the Messingham bloke. He sniffed, but there was a touch of sadness on his face, as well. Good for them.

He flicked the ash away before finishing the cigarette, then hobbled over to the harbor this time. Witz flicked it in and heard it extinguish itself with a quick plop. He returned to his post and continued waiting. The shadows grew longer around him.

It was about 4:40 p.m. when the doors to the Convention Center finally opened, jarring Witz into action. He only had to wait a few seconds before his charge, the Prime Minister of Israel, came out, flanked by an aide as well as a representative from England; the accent was unmistakable. Witz fell in behind them, and immediately caught a whiff of peppermint pouring off Mendelsberg’s tan wool coat. The P.M., he knew, liked to smoke a pipe while in session, and he also carried small peppermint candies in his coat pocket. He liked to suck on those afterward, if only to mask the aroma of tobacco.

Adam Mendelsberg paused and looked back at him.

“Witz, you smell like a bloody chimney,” he said, his tone gruff, digging into his pocket at the same time. He pulled out two wrapped candies and handed them over. “Here. Suck on these.”

Witz took them and immediately caught the prime minister’s wink.

Mendelsberg was a rather old fellow. In Witz’s eyes—and many others, he was rather sure—the Prime Minister of Israel bore a striking resemblance to two other famous world leaders of a long time past. He had the craggy smile and eyes of Sir Winston Churchill, the long-dead English prime minister, as well as the size and girth of William Howard Taft, the long-dead American president. He had been the prime minister for several governments so far, leading the Knesset—the single-house Israeli parliament—through some rather perilous times. There was a bit of a hitch to his walk, Witz noticed from a few feet behind, that he thought resembled his own mottled stride.

And I don’t think the Prime Minister was shot in the leg, either, Witz thought.

“As I was saying, we in Westminster understand your position,” the Englishman said as they resumed their walk.

“I’m glad for that,” Witz heard Mendelsberg reply. He, too, walked with a cane. “Forrister isn’t too keen on our cause. He supports a peace initiative between us and the Palestinians that I’m working my damnedest to end.”

“You misunderstand me, Prime Minister.” They paused some twenty feet from the waiting limousines, facing each other. “I said that understand your position. But I must admit that Her Majesty’s Government is behind the president one hundred percent. We, too, want to see peace between—”

“Bah!” Mendelsberg roared, waving him off with an impatient hand. He waddled away from the Englishman with a rather hurried gait, leaving him behind. Witz had to rush to keep up, his cane thwacking the bricks. Witz hoped it wouldn’t snap from the stress. “No one is behind us,” he muttered. “They all want the damned enemy to take as much land from us as possible, want us all exterminated. It’s like my father’s war all over again. I came looking for sanctions against them, and no one wants to give it.” He spat upon the bricks. “Bastards. The Palestinian State won’t grow any larger while I still have life left within me, I can tell you that much.”

Witz didn’t say anything. He wasn’t in the position to agree or disagree, nor did he ever want to be in that position. That wasn’t in his job description. His job description was to keep Mendelsberg out of harm’s way. That was it. Be a sounding board, yes. Offer input, no. That’s why the P.M. had political advisers.

And I’m certainly not one of those, Witz thought as he looked at his shoes. He unwrapped and popped one of the candies into his mouth, dragging his teeth over it. Peppermint assaulted his taste buds.

It was the crack in the air, as if someone had funneled the sound of snapping a stick through a public address system, which made the Mossad man snap his head up and involuntarily chomp on the peppermint. After a sharp gasp, he found Mendelsberg falling backward, toward him, his arms and cane flailing about as if he had lost his balance trying to traverse a severely steeped incline.

But that wasn’t the case. The path through the park toward the waiting limousine was as flat as a mesa.

Witz didn’t react to catch the prime minister in time, instead watching wide-eyed as Mendelsberg tumbled to the ground, peppermint candies spilling out of his pockets and rolling away on the bricks. He wheeled around and saw that the P.M.’s face had turned rather pasty, and on his chest, a smear of crimson grew right over his heart.

“Oh, Harah,” Witz blurted, the Hebrew word for shit coming easily to his lips before he looked back toward the convention center. He felt the panic set into his face. “Quick, call for help!” he barked, spitting up pieces of chomped up candy, a light breeze coming across and carrying the pieces away from him a few feet. His heart thudded until his chest ached, but that didn’t truly matter right now. If he was in the process of having a heart attack, no one back home would give a shit: he was anonymous, the wind. But if Mendelsberg died... Witz blinked away the thought. He didn’t even want to think about an Israel without Adam Mendelsberg. Mendelsberg was Israel. He noticed that the man’s breathing had grown shallow, as if every breath was labored and a chore. His eyes, too, were wide, as if straining to see what was in front of him.

“Stay with me, Prime Minister,” Witz said as soon as he got to a knee, struggling with the movement. The pains in his leg returned, but he withstood it, biting away another Hebrew curse before it even reached his tongue. He grabbed Mendelsberg’s hand and ordered him to clench it as tightly as he could. There was a touch of tightness as the old man squeezed as hard as possible.

Within heartbeats, he heard the sounds of feet rushing toward their position. Someone pushed him aside as they began to perform emergency medicine on the victim. Witz rolled toward the limo once, craning his neck to see the men working over Mendelsberg. He heard each word—“Get the bleeding stopped, apply pressure,” all in Aussie accents—as if shouted over a megaphone. Before long, he heard the sounds of sirens blistering through the Sydney sky.

“Come quickly,” he whispered, just before he struggled to get to his feet, his leg screaming at him, his cane a few feet away from him. He winced with every movement, pain shooting through his body.

He then heard another set of footsteps, coming at a light trot, followed by a girlish giggle. He didn’t think that a man getting shot—and his security detail doing absolutely nothing about it, in truth—was quite funny, to be honest.

Then he looked up at the giggler.

He nearly choked as he laid eyes on her.

No, he thought, the disbelief flowing through him. It can’t be. It just can’t be.

The woman he saw just couldn’t possibly be a woman he respected. Sure, she was an assassin in certain situations, but… no. She couldn’t possibly be the assassin today. There was no way in the world it could be true, he thought.

But the proof, as he saw it, was in front of him, some thirty feet away. She wore black Lycra, her curves evident and different than he recalled, but there was no sign of the trenchcoat that he knew she wore. There was also the high-powered rifle she held, with a sniper’s scope attached.

There was also the wild grin spread underneath a pair of sunglasses he knew all too well. The grin turned feral, her upper lip curling into something unnatural.

Witz’s heart raced as he tried to make heads or tails of it. He couldn’t help but stare. He didn’t move forward, his cane still on the ground. He didn’t move for it, for fear of losing sight of her. His mouth didn’t move, for fear of letting loose a torrent of vomit on the streets of Sydney.

Yet he noticed there was something odd about the woman that stood practically across from him, a crowd growing on the other side of the street. Her hair wasn’t slicked back, and instead fell over her face in a golden curtain. Her skin resembled creamy coffee, but it was too dark for his liking. As he stared, he tried to detect an anomaly, something that would prove to him that it wasn’t really who he thought it was, but she turned and rushed through the crowd before he could get a closer look, disappearing into the sea of life. No one tried to stop her, the gun raised.

Witz swallowed as the sirens grew louder, the ambulances drawing ever closer to the Convention Center.

That can’t be her, he thought, shaking his head. It makes no sense. She didn’t just try to assassinate the prime minister. No. No way.

He swallowed one more time before he turned around and, after picking up his cane, hobbled back toward where Mendelsberg lay.

Witz turned his head and spat as soon as the ambulances pulled to a stop. A woman and man stepped out, the woman pulling out a gurney and rolling it toward the P.M. Their pace was slow and methodical; it wasn’t as if a man was bleeding or anything.

“Hurry up, damn it!” he called.

As they worked over Mendelsberg, Witz looked back toward where the woman stood again. The bile rose in his esophagus. Stale milk filled his taste buds.

There’s no way in hell that was Jaclyn Johnson, he thought.

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Inside TRAVEL AGENT

Now that Travel Agent has been on Kindle, Nook, and Kobo the last few days, and now it's on its way to Apple iBooks and there will be a paperback on Amazon soon (it's on CreateSpace, and I'll give a link at the bottom of this blog), it's time to take a look at see just what the sixth full-length adventure is all about.

1. An old friend is back.

Not to really give a major spoiler here, but we haven't seen this character in some time. In fact, his name is mentioned in the first sentence of the book. He's off desk duty and back into the game--to a point.

2. Jaclyn, Tom, and Tasha are on vacation.

But that doesn't stop someone from setting Jaclyn up to take the fall for an assassination.

3. All's not right in Washington, D.C.

But it's not on Capitol Hill. It's involving someone close to Jaclyn, someone who has grown weary of their current life.

4. What would a Jaclyn Johnson book be without Parkerhurst or Salt?

They're back in their minor roles, and Parkerhurst does make the cross-Pacific trip with some toys and cars--plural--for Jaclyn and the old friend.

5. And who just happens to be our antagonist?

A gentleman by the name of Resnick, a man with great political aspirations. He's the main guy, but there are a few underlings... because what psychopath isn't without those to do his will?

6. How explosive is Travel Agent?

Kaboom? Kaboom.

7. I hear there's some tear-jerking moments in this one. Is that true?

Why yes. Yes there are.

Get your copy of Travel Agent: A Thriller at all eTailers:

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www.seansweeneyauthor.com

Snowbound And Hunkered Down: The Blizzard of 2015

I took this photo Wednesday morning of our driveway/parking area.

At 37, I'm too young to remember the infamous Blizzard of '78. I was less than a year old for that storm, which seemingly came out of nowhere and blanketed the metropolitan Boston area with several feet of snow, along with high snowdrifts.


Alas, the Blizzard of '78 is just a memory to many now, but it's a memory that has many Bostonians and residents of surrounding towns scurrying to the grocery store whenever snow is mentioned. For us here, it's called "Got to get the Bread and Milk," something that everyone needs. As my wife so eloquently says every snowstorm, "Do these people just make French toast during snowstorms?" But I digress.

(Quick aside, this video here basically shows the mentality of every single Massachusetts resident when it comes to these grocery store runs pre-snowstorm. Go on, give it a view. It never gets old.)

When we heard about the upcoming snowstorm, we had just received a healthy sheet of about six inches of snow on Saturday. On Sunday, Jen and I delivered a snowblower to my brother-in-law in Connecticut, a drive of about 100 minutes or so, give or take a few minutes. When we got home, we had to unload a bed, and we were both weary from the drive that the only storm prep we did was hit the package store in Berlin, Mass. on our way back. I picked up a 12-pack of Samuel Adams Winter Lager as well as a bottle of Barefoot Pinot Grigio for Jen.

I eventually did storm prep on Monday, which included filling jugs with water in the event the power went out, and at 7 a.m., I ventured out to our local Market Basket grocery store to pick up a few storm essentials--yes, including the bread and milk. I also picked up some bananas and coffee. Afterward, I published Travel Agent, to the joy of many. When Jen came home from school, we filled some buckets with water for flushing the toilet in case the power went out.

Just before we went to bed Monday, the storm began.

We found our south-facing windows frosted over when we awoke on Tuesday, and loads of snow outside. I found my sister-in-law's car practically buried, and while our cars weren't covered, there was plenty of snow building behind them.

My sister-in-law's car, buried.

Looking out at the horse paddock beyond the blueberry bush. Can you imagine snow up to your hips?

Jen's truck, the bed full of snow with more piling around it.

We went out to feed the horses immediately. Walking to the paddock, the snow was already up to my knees at 7:30 a.m., but when we got into the paddock, the snow was nearly up to my hips. The snow just kept coming. The horses, luckily, were smart enough to stay at the shed while I trudged through it, making a path for Jen. I had to catch my breath before going back.

Jen and I simply stayed indoors as the storm raged outside. Jen's uncle came by with a front-end loader and plowed a good portion of the snow aside. We went out again at 4 p.m. to feed the boys, then came in. The storm seemingly stopped after 7 o'clock.

Jen's uncle, clearing snow mid-storm.

Wednesday morning, we fed the boys, and then we started digging the cars out. I had our new car dug out in a couple of minutes, but the truck took a little longer. Jen drove them out, then we dug Bethany's car out, plus a path to the water troughs. Some time later, Jen's uncle came by again and plowed the rest, giving us room to turn the cars around and head down the driveway. There is still a little more shoveling to do, especially in front of my sister-in-law's apartment.

All told, we got quite a bit. The National Weather Service said Bolton received 26 inches of snow, while one town over received 36 inches. I think we got more than 36, but what do I know.

And now we have some snow coming Friday, and more Monday.

I am--well, my knees are--crying uncle.

The Diva Kitty and Ziggy Puff and unconcerned about weather events.

www.seansweeneyauthor.com

OK, OK. Yes. NOW you may call me "Prolific"

I blogged a little while ago about authorial labels and why I'm pretty indifferent about them; if you want to call me a writer, call me a writer. If you want to call me an author, call me an author. Writers write, while authors are read. It really doesn't make a difference to me.

However, there's one authorial label that, over the course of my now 12-plus-year fiction-writing career, I have absolutely abhorred its usage in reference to my writing, and me in general.

And that word, ladies and gents, is prolific.

*suppresses a full body shiver*

No, don't worry about me. I'm OK. Really.

See, over the first 12 years or so, people have called me prolific because of my dedication to my craft: I write pretty much every day, for several hours, taking the words in the dictionary, re-arranging them into sentences, stacking those sentences into paragraphs, and those paragraphs into chapters. In 2011, I published six novels, pretty much one right after the other. It got to the point where I could upload to Amazon's KDP site blindfolded.

After I published Double Agent at the tail end of 2011, my friend Bill Gilman--who edited Literary Agent and had suggested the plot for Travel Agent--said, "OK, now you're bordering on prolific." At that point, I had published nine or ten books, not including short stories and novellas.

In 2013, after I released Redeemed, I went on Stephen Campbell's Murders, Mysteries, and Mayhem podcast, when the P word came up: Stephen said, "You're not just prolific; you are very prolific." I had to stop him, explaining my feelings.

I'll be honest: I've just never thought of myself as prolific. I thought of myself as a hard-working author looking to simply entertain my readers. That word, in my estimation, should be reserved for Kevin J. Anderson or R.A. Salvatore, or other authors who have churned out large amounts of fiction, their books considered doorstops. Me? I've gone over 100,000 words in a book maybe four times in my career. Maybe five? Anderson and Salvatore do that with regularity, and here I am, punching out 80,000-90,000 word stories. Of course, that builds up. Maybe one of these days, I'll add up all the words I've written--and I can guarantee you that it would only be a fraction of Kevin and Bob's totals. Yet I remind and bitch-slap myself: do NOT compare yourself to any author out there.

Well, there you go. As I sit here after publishing Travel Agent on Monday, my 20th novel, I think I can withstand people calling me prolific and not having my mind shut down from disbelief that my name and that word are used in the same sentence.

Go ahead, call me prolific. Call me someone who writes a lot. Call me someone who only hopes to entertain people, to give them an escape.

I don't mind any longer.

I. Am. Prolific.

And now if you'll excuse me... I have another book to write.

www.seansweeneyauthor.com