It's here! Today is the day all my faithful friends and followers get a look at the cover for my fourth novel, Two Evils! I started out writing this book with the intention of making it a spy thriller, but it turned out to be more of an action-adventure with a romantic twist. Here is the book description:
Wilhelmina “Billie” Ryan was a Marine Corps sniper with SpecOps training. When her six-year tour of duty came to an end she was recruited by the CIA, where she applied her knowledge of warfare tactics to the shadowy world of international espionage. But not even a tough as nails former soldier-turned-spy known as the She-Devil was immune to heartbreak: A gangbanger’s bullet took the life of her fiancé in a drive-by shooting where someone else was the target, and she was so devastated by the loss that she simply fled—leaving behind her job, her friends, and even her family.
A year later, operations officer John Courtney is tasked with finding Billie and bringing her home. Three members of her former Force Recon unit have gone missing, and she’s quite possibly the only person who can find them. When he does locate her, she’s living under an assumed name and tending bar on the beach with an old acquaintance from her early days in the CIA…and before he can explain why he’s there, the two are forced to flee for their lives when the Russian mafia makes it known that they’re after Billie too.
Back home, Billie struggles to reconnect with her family on top of finding out what really happened to her former teammates. She and John are also fighting the attraction growing between them, which he is more than willing to pursue but for which she’s not even sure she’s ready. Giving in to her burgeoning feelings for her fellow spy means taking the risk of getting hurt again, not to mention she doesn't believe she’s fully over her grief for the man she loved and lost. Matters are further complicated when it seems a high-ranking Pentagon official is not being entirely truthful, and may in fact be involved in something highly illegal.
Hired guns and a mystery with no leads make for one hell of a welcome home. When painful memories threaten to cripple her ability to keep a clear head, will Billie remember her strength in time to save the lives of everyone she loves—as well as her own?
And now...the cover!
Oh, and one more thing... that secret surprise I promised you is the FIRST FULL CHAPTER of the book! Read and enjoy—and leave a comment with your thoughts if you like!
ONE
One look and she knew trouble had just walked in.
Trouble with a
capital T.
Billie smothered a
groan, not that she could have heard herself given the noise level in the bar,
and continued to fill drink orders as if nothing was wrong.
Sergei sidled up to
her as she was mixing a cosmopolitan for a blonde in a bikini, who was tapping
too-long acrylic nails on the bar’s lacquered counter. “What do you think, FBI?
CIA? NSA maybe?” he said casually as he began to blend ice for another order.
“So you saw him
too?” she countered, spinning effortlessly toward the blonde and passing the
drink over, then heading toward the register to add the drink to the woman’s
tab.
It was several
minutes before she and Sergei—and Marty, the third person they had on
staff—were blessed with a lull in the demand for alcohol. Billie stood next to
her friend at the sink, washing glasses and handing them over to him to be
dried.
“As if anyone could
miss him with that shirt on,” the Russian said with a snort, his English
perfect but still slightly accented. “It is atrocious, even for Flamingo Bay.”
Billie chuckled.
The man she’d seen was wearing a ridiculously loud Hawaiian shirt, royal blue
with bright green palm leaves and brown coconuts. Such attire was fairly common
in Caribbean climates such as the Virgin Islands, so it wasn’t really the shirt
that made him stand out. It was the way he carried himself, the way he had
stopped just inside the door and checked out every visible inch of the bar
before coming further inside.
It was the way his
gaze had zeroed in on her, as if sizing her up rather than undressing her with
his eyes as most of the male patrons of the Crabana had a tendency to do. In
the latter instance, it took only a hard stare back for the men to realize she
was not going to play their game. The blue-shirted fed had responded to her
patented “not interested” expression by nodding his head once, smiling
slightly, and then walking into the crowd as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
Silly boy, she’d thought. They don’t call me She-Devil for
nothing.
Billie sighed as
Sergei asked her, “You want me to take him out back?”
She glanced up with
one eyebrow raised. The Crabana was a tiki bar on the beach with three open
sides—they had no “out back”. The suggestion, she knew, was Sergei’s way of
asking her if she wanted the suspected agent beaten up somewhere out of sight
to discourage him from whatever he was here for.
She shook her head.
“Nyet. I think I can handle one little federal agent, Sergei.”
Sergei shrugged.
“You’re the boss.”
Billie only grinned
as he walked away to the demand for more beer at the end of the bar. A sidelong
glance in the opposite direction told her that the subject of their
conversation was chugging down the last of the beer Marty had gotten him.
Perfect timing, she mused, for her to do a little fishing. Heading down to the
corner stool he occupied, she slapped on a bright smile and said, “Can I get
you another?”
The man, who
appeared to be early 30s and wore a buzz cut with his bad shirt, flashed a
smile as he set his empty Budweiser bottle on the counter. “Sure, why not?”
Billie moved to
retrieve another cold brew from the cooler, popping the top off and setting it
on a fresh paper coaster. “Here you go, stranger.”
He picked up the
bottle and tipped it toward her. “Why do I have to be a stranger?” he asked
casually before putting the bottle to his lips for a drink.
“Because I’ve never
seen you in here before, that’s why,” she replied smoothly. “And given your
horrible taste in shirts, I’d say this is your first tropical vacation.”
The man chuckled.
“I’ve been further south than this,” he told her. “The shirt I blame on my
buddy Rex, who said I couldn’t possibly stand out in the tropics with a
Hawaiian shirt on. Remind me to kick his ass when I get home.”
“You should,
because your buddy Rex lied to your face.”
She moved away then
to take care of other customers, but she could feel the man’s eyes on her,
watching her. Billie smiled and chatted with most everyone, serving mixed
drinks, bottled beers, and wine coolers for several minutes, before eventually
drifting back his way. Sergei passed her as she moved back and gave her a wink.
Crossing her arms
on the edge, she leaned against the bar, pressing her breasts into her arms and
purposely showing more cleavage over the scooped neck of her tank top than was
necessary just to see if his eyes wandered—which they did. Typical, she
thought derisively, though outwardly she smiled and asked, “So what brings you
to St. Thomas, stranger? Surely you’re not vacationing by yourself.”
“Call me Court. And
I’m actually here on business. Not supposed to be meeting my associate until
tomorrow, so I figured why not enjoy myself tonight?”
If he was here for
her, then ol’ Court had come here not to enjoy himself but to check her out,
getting a feel for her before he made his official approach. Well, whatever the
fuck he was selling, she wasn’t buying. She’d washed her hands of that business
a year ago.
“Court, eh? That’s
an interesting name,” Billie said, playing along. “Court” was either an alias
or it was short for something. If the latter, then he was using a genuine
nickname in order to appear as a friend, which he most definitely was not. She
didn’t have any of those kinds of friends anymore. Either that, or he was new
and had just made a classic rookie mistake, as no one in the spy game used
their real name.
Except for James
Bond.
“You’re not from
one of those fancy-pants, old money families where boys are given girls’ names,
are you? Because I gotta tell you, that would suck,” Billie said lightly.
Court took another
swig of the beer and shook his head, smiling. “No, I am definitely not from one
of those. My family is blue-collar all the way.”
Billie stood back,
cocking a hip and placing a hand there while she left the other on the edge of
the bar, tapping her fingers much as the bikini-clad blonde had done. “I like
blue-collar over old money,” she said casually. “Means you know what hard work
is.”
He nodded. “That I
most definitely understand.”
“So what about this
business meeting you have tomorrow?” she asked, determined to find out what the
hell it was that he wanted—whether it be her, Sergei, or someone else entirely.
“Are you thinking it’s going to be hard work? Is that why you’re here trying to
relax the night before?”
Court chuckled.
“Something like that. I’ve heard that the person I’m meeting can be a hard
case, and that it will take a lot of finesse to reach an agreement.”
Oh, that was
smooth, Billie noted. His entire response was calculated to reveal only what he
wanted her to know about his contact, which was really nothing at all. Being
called a “hard case” could apply to just about anybody. There was nothing to
indicate the gender of his contact or the specifics of the mission—though based
on what he had said, one could reasonably surmise that he expected to
have a hard time selling his point.
Well, if indeed she
was a part of whatever reason he was here, a hard time was what he was going to
get. She had no intention of leaving Water Island. She was done, and the CIA
knew it.
Off and on
throughout the next few hours she would chat with Court, even flirt a little,
to try and glean more information. Billie wasn’t able to get anything else out
of him, which told her that he probably wasn’t a rookie after all—just an
idiot. He either hadn’t read her file or had chosen to ignore the more salient
points contained therein. Her own reputation as a hard case was well earned,
after all, as was the nickname she had been branded with, She-Devil. He must
also be wagering—incorrectly, she might add—that she didn’t have any weapons
concealed in the bar, because there were several.
He had yet to give
her a reason to use one, but she wouldn’t hesitate if she felt threatened,
whether he was an American federal agent or not. There was always the slight
chance that he was from a foreign intelligence agency, but that, too, was
neither here nor there.
As the night wore
on, Court stayed on his corner bar stool, leaving only once—whether to find a
bathroom or check in with his supervisor was anyone’s guess. When he stood to
leave, he’d flashed a smile at Billie and asked her to hold his seat for him,
saying only that he would be back in a few minutes.
Sergei asked her if
she wanted him to tail the guy. Billie chuckled for the umpteenth time that night
and shook her head. In spite of the unwelcome appearance of Court and her lack
of knowledge as to why he was here, she was actually having fun. Although she
had given up the spy game a year ago when Travis died, it was amusing to slip
into that old skin again, even if only fractionally, and play along like she
was oblivious as to who Court really was.
In truth, he’d
piqued her curiosity. She’d been left alone by the agency, as requested, for a
year. No one had called. No one had tried to find her. And though she had
hardly been hiding, she didn’t think anyone knew where she was. Instinct and
training had told her even then that she wouldn’t be left alone forever, that
eventually the past would come knocking on her door. But just because she
didn’t want anything to do with Court or whatever case he was here to drag her
into didn’t mean she didn’t want to know what she was saying no to.
Court was still
nursing his fifth Budweiser when the last of the customers were filing out.
Marty and Sergei had already pulled the shutters down all around the bar,
closing them off from the late-night breeze coming off of Flamingo Bay. Having
suspected he might pull such a stunt, Billie had prepared ahead of time—she was
just waiting for the opportunity to put her plan in motion.
Marty stepped
behind the bar after closing the door behind an obviously drunk man wearing
board shorts and nothing else and nodded toward Court, who was pretending not
to pay them any attention.
“You want me to run
him out?” Marty asked.
Billie glanced over
her shoulder. “No, you go on home. Sergei and I will get rid of him.”
“All right then.
See you tomorrow.”
Billie nodded and
offered Marty a smile, then watched as he walked across the bar and out the
door. Out of the corner of her eye she noted Court tracking Sergei’s movements
behind him, though it was with a casual glance over his shoulder. She flung the
damp towel with which she’d been drying glasses over her shoulder and turned
toward him.
“It’s closing time,
Court,” she said lightly, giving Sergei the pre-arranged signal. The Russian
swung the butt of a pistol at the back of the other man’s head. Court had
little time to react and slumped over the bar unconscious, spilling the last of
his beer.
“He moved, so I
didn’t hit him as hard as I normally would have,” said Sergei as he shoved the
Sig Sauer SP2022 in the waistband of his Bermuda shorts and reached over to
lift Court off his bar stool.
Billie walked
around the bar as he was dragging him over to a chair, uncoiling the rope she’d
pulled out from under the counter. “If you’d hit him as hard as you normally
would, Sergei, he’d be dead and I wouldn’t learn anything.”
“This is true. But
you know, it is easily as likely that he is here for me as it is that he is
here for you,” he remarked as he searched Court’s pockets and pulled out his
wallet, a set of keys, and a cell phone. He tossed all of it on the bar and
then sat him in the chair, holding his arms behind the back of it.
Billie wrapped the
rope around the unconscious man four times and then tied it tight. He wouldn’t
be getting out of that unless she or Sergei let him out. She then turned for
the bar and picked up the wallet, opening it to find a Virginia driver’s
license for Courtney, John A. His date of birth was given as September 15, 1984—making
him nearly a year older than she was.
The picture on the
license was that of the man slumped over in the chair. The credit card from
American Express and the ATM card from First National Bank of Virginia also
bore the name John Courtney. If the name was an alias, he had covered his bases
fairly well.
The seventy-eight
dollars in cash she pocketed, then tossed the wallet back onto the bar and
picked up his cell phone. Wisely, he had password protected it, so she was
unable to access his contact list.
“Find anything
interesting?” Sergei asked.
Billie glanced at
where he now sat adjacent to their prisoner, a hand near his gun should he need
use it. “According to the plastic his name’s John Courtney. No indication as to
whether it’s genuine or created—I’d need to examine it all further to make that
determination. Phone’s password protected.”
“I can crack that
with my equipment, no problem,” her friend said.
She chuckled. “No
doubt you could, moy druk. But as your toys are back at your place,
let’s try cracking him first.”
Sergei chuckled his
“evil” laugh, and his accent deepened as he replied, “With pleasure,” while
cracking his knuckles.
Billie laughed as
she slid off the stool she’d perched on and walked behind the bar. She grabbed
a pitcher and filled it with ice-cold water, then walked back around the
counter and moved to stand in front of the man who’d introduced himself as
Court. She tossed the water directly at his face and stood back as he came to,
sputtering and yelling obscenities.
“Welcome back,” she
said simply.
“What the…?” he
said, looking between her and Sergei, and then seeming to suddenly realize he
was bound, he flexed his musculature against the rope. “What is this?”
“I should think it
fairly obvious, durachit,” Sergei quipped.
“For the moment,
you are our prisoner,” Billie explained. “Whether you are released to freedom
or death is entirely up to you.”
“Which means your
best bet is to be perfectly honest with my padruga here,” added Sergei.
The man squared his
shoulders and lifted his chin. “I’ve got nothing to hide,” he said.
Billie raised her
eyebrow as she returned to the stool she’d occupied at the bar. She picked up
his wallet and opened it again, asking, “Is your name really John Courtney?”
“Yes.”
“Brave of you to
come down here using your real name. I think I’ll call you John from now
on—Court doesn’t really suit you. So tell me, John… what exactly are you doing
here?”
“Why don’t you tell
me what a former Marine and CIA agent is doing associating with a known Russian
hitman…Billie?” John countered.
Billie turned
toward Sergei. It was a surprise to neither of them that John knew who they
were. She turned back to say, “Interesting question, I’ll give you that. But
funny at the same time, as Sergei Pomarov, as far as I know, has never killed
anyone.”
John chuckled. “I
think we all know his name’s not really Sergei Pomarov, and that he has, in
fact, killed nearly fifty men and women for the Russian mafia, namely the
Sardetsky family.” He turned his gaze to Sergei. “Of which he is a proud
member.”
Sergei gave a mock
salute and smiled.
“I’ve killed three
times that number of men and women, John,” Billie said flatly.
He looked back at
her. “Your actions were done in the service of your country. Piotr here killed
for profit. What the hell is he doing here?”
“Another funny
question, as I asked you the same thing. You never answered me.”
John sighed. “I
think you know why I’m here. I need you to come back with me, Billie. We need
you back home.”
“The agency has
gotten along just fine without me for the last year,” she remarked. “I think
they can handle whatever crisis they’re involved in just fine in my continued
absence. In fact, maybe they can give the job to you, since you’re such a pro
at blending in.”
John glanced down
at his shirt and scoffed. “I really am going to kick Rex’s ass for suggesting
this shirt,” he mused.
“It wasn’t just the
shirt that gave you away,” Billie pointed out. “Your whole demeanor screamed
‘fed’ to both of us.”
Before John could
make another reply—or excuse—his cell phone rang. Billie picked it up and
glanced at the screen. “Well, look who’s calling—your buddy Rex. Should we say
hello?”
Without waiting for
an answer, she swiped the arrow on the screen with her finger and put the phone
to her ear. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t shoot your friend John,”
she said into the mouthpiece.
“Shit,” said the
voice on the other end. “Shoulda known he’d blow it. The boy’s not used to
working a woman.”
Billie chuckled.
“You know, I could interpret that in several ways, none of which would make
John very happy. But I digress.”
“Look, Wilhelmina—”
Rex, apparently,
wasn’t aware of the fact that anyone not wishing to become personally
acquainted with her fist wisely avoided calling her by her full name. Then
again, he probably figured he was safe using it because he was nowhere near
her. Billie decided that for now, she would let it pass.
“We don’t know each
other well enough to be on a first-name basis,” she broke in. “So let’s not
pretend any of us are friends. And since I’m awfully tired from working all
evening, allow me to make myself perfectly clear to you and whoever else is
listening: I’m not interested. Whatever problem you’re trying to solve, you’ll
have to do it without me.”
She glanced at
John, who was shaking his head. “But given I’m feeling in a generous mood, take
advantage of that by collecting your friend John alive as soon as possible. He
sticks around my back yard much longer and I might be inclined to get twitchy.
I think you know what happens when I get twitchy.”
With that, she
pressed the End button on the screen. After tossing the phone back on the bar,
Billie stood and stepped toward John. Sergei stood and pulled the gun from his
waistband, stepping up next to her as she looked down at their captive and said,
“I mean it. Whatever you came here for, it was a fool’s errand. Whatever dire
straits the CIA’s gotten themselves into, I don’t care anymore.”
“Billie, I really
think you should reconsider,” John said. “Once you hear what’s happening—”
“And I really am
sure I just don’t give a damn,” she said, moving behind him to start untying
the rope holding him to the chair.
At that moment, a
noise was heard like the sound of a twig snapping. One of the shutters rattled
at the same time and Sergei, his eyes slightly widened in surprise, simply
dropped to his knees and fell forward, slamming to the floor as blood began to
pour from a gunshot wound at the side of his neck. Billie had only time to
register that fact before all hell broke loose.
On instinct, she
grabbed John’s chair and threw it to the ground and herself along with it, as a
hail of bullets of differing calibers tore through the shutters facing the bay.
Glass shattered as they struck the bottles of liquor on the island in the
middle of the bar, wood splintered as they slammed into the bar itself.
Billie jerked at
the knot binding him to the chair. “This is your fault, you son of a bitch!”
she screamed as she got the knot loose. Leaving him to peel the rope off on his
own, she crawled around him and moved to Sergei. Though the pool of blood
beneath him was quite evident, she nonetheless reached for his throat to check
for a pulse.
He was dead.
Rolling him over,
she grabbed the Sig he’d been brandishing at John and checked the magazine. It
was full, so she raised her arm in the direction of the enemy fire and popped
off six of the fifteen rounds. Then she turned and crawled past John—who was
snatching his keys and wallet off the floor and shoving them in his pocket—and
hurried behind the bar. There she rose to a crouch, keeping her head low to
avoid the debris still whizzing around, and duck-walked over the broken glass
and splintered wood toward the cash register; underneath that were a couple of
spare magazines for the Sig—she grabbed them and stuffed them into her pocket.
“How the hell is
any of this my fault?” John asked as he joined her in momentary safety behind
the counter.
“Whoever the fuck
is out there obviously followed you here,” Billie snapped. “Now thanks to you,
Sergei is dead.”
“In my opinion,
‘Sergei’ got what he deserved,” John fired back. “He’s a murderer, Billie.”
“Was, jackass, and
not for the simple fact that he’s dead. Sergei left the Sardetsky mafia years
ago and made a new life for himself. He walked away from all of it—”
“Let me guess,
because he suddenly grew a conscience? Excuse me while I go cry a fucking
river.”
Angrily she reached
out and punched him in the nose, smiling when his head snapped to the right;
when he looked back, blood was dripping from his nostril. “No matter what he
did, Sergei was my friend. A good friend. He was there for me when I needed him
the most and that is all I care about.”
Billie turned then
and reached up to slap a button underneath the bar. A panel on the lower
section of the island display dropped down, revealing a dark hole.
“How the hell did
you…?” John asked as he wiped blood from under his nose, clearly surprised.
“Any second now the
shooting will stop—whoever is out there will be coming in to make sure the job
was finished,” Billie said. “I don’t intend to be here when they do.”
Her companion moved
closer to the opening. “Where does this lead?”
“Why don’t you find out?” she replied, giving
him a hard shove. He shouted in surprise as he began to fall and she laughed,
then slid in feet first behind him.
