THREE STEPS BEHIND by Dani Pettrey

 

THREE STEPS BEHIND

by Dani Pettrey

September 14 - October 9, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

JEOPARDY FALLS

 

When FBI forensic botanist Harper Grace returns to Jeopardy Falls scarred from a traumatic assignment, she seeks refuge at the MacLeod ranch. Her time to recover is short-lived when she learns her dear friend Taylor Jackson has died of a heart attack in her thirties. As questions arise from Taylor's premature death, Harper wonders if something sinister is playing out.

Deckard MacLeod, PI, is thrilled at Harper's return, though troubled by the haunted look in her eyes. When Harper begins investigating Taylor's suspicious death, Deckard realizes she's walking into dangerous territory and joins her in discovering what happened. The closer they get to the deadly truth, the more treacherous their mission becomes. In a race against time, they cannot fall behind or their next breath might be their last.

In Three Steps Behind, bestselling author Dani Pettrey presents another heart-racing countdown in her thrilling romantic suspense series.

Book Details:

Genre: Romantic Suspense; Thriller; Action & Adventure
Published by: Bethany House Publishers
Publication Date: September 15, 2026
Number of Pages: 288, Paperback
ISBN: 9780764238505 (ISBN10: 0764238507)
Series: Jeopardy Falls, Book 3 | Learn more on Amazon & Goodreads
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub | Baker Book House

Read an excerpt:

PROLOGUE

DECEMBER 19

HARPER SLIPPED INTO THE DARKNESS of the rusty ship-ping container, praying they wouldn’t come, but knowing she was next. Five days and counting. Twenty-two people all gone, save her.

Gunfire echoed through her mind—single shots popping in succession. Never ending. Wailing and pleading had rent the stale night air, but there had been no mercy. None.

Others went by silent measures. Necks slit or torture taken too far. Whimpers had radiated through the metal box before each person was yanked screaming from it, never to return.

Her fate was sealed, and it broke her. God had forsaken her in this godless country. She would die in a land of ghosts. So much death—it rose in the air thick and putrid.

Mounds of fresh basalt littered the harsh scrubland, black volcanic dirt attempting to cover death, but it only showed more. Open pits, not yet full, held bodies tossed asunder. Legs and arms askew.

The stench of death blanketed them—saturating the fibers of their clothes, sticking to their skin like thick lotion. It consumed the abandoned village, seeped between the broken-down trucks

and crumbling walls. No more laughter filled the empty homes, no more families together, no more living.

And she was next to be dumped into a gaping hole.

Pain pulsed through her bruises. Her head, jaw, and side—all mottled in black and purple. All from beatings that had stolen her breath, penetrating deep into her marrow. With each kick, each club cracking against bone, she’d feared she wouldn’t sur-vive but she had—so far. For what? To be tortured and tossed away, becoming one of the faceless. Nameless. No grave marker. No funeral. Just another unknown ghost in this barren Syrian hill country.

Cruel laughter echoed in the dank night air as rain thundered on the metal roof. Shivering, she wrapped her arms around her waist—trying to protect herself from the coming death. But there was no protection. No one to save her. No way to save herself.

The laughter grew louder, bouncing off the walls. The door creaked open and a man—the source of her bruises—smiled wide. The lighted poles silhouetted his husky form, framing him in a halo of light, but he was no angel. Quite the opposite. She’d been left to the demons.

“You’re next, American eahira,” he slurred.

She winced. Drunk again. The worst of the beatings had come then. The desire to holler back “I’m not a whore” rose in her chest, but he’d only beat her worse.

“I’ll miss our time together.” The words ran together, but she still heard the merciless lilt of laughter under his ripe breath.

With one last laugh on a belch, he turned and slid the creaking door back, shutting her in darkness—nearly. The door stopped an inch short. A minuscule shaft of light beamed across the excrement-covered floor.

Hope rose inside. Hope. Something nonexistent for the last five days.

Would the shaft of light remain? Was he so stumbling drunk he’d missed sealing her in the coffin?

Her breath held thick in her chest. She counted the seconds, hope rising.

The inch remained.

Tiptoeing toward the door, she paused at the opening, her breath bursting in her lungs.

She braved a glance through the tiny slit. Rain, so thick it marred the land, bounced off the ground. Puddles dotted the barren hill. No cover. Her hope faltered.

The man—if a human term could be used for the swine—was not in sight.

This was her chance—her only chance. If caught, she’d die, but she was about to die anyway. Better to be shot in the back, racing for freedom, than die by torture for nothing she had to give.

She slid the door open another inch. Singing in Arabic over-powered the sound of gushing rain. She inched the door a bit wider and held again—her heart hitting the wall of her chest so hard she feared he’d hear and come running, but the singing grew distant.

Inch by inch she slid the door open. Almost enough to slip through.

A creak echoed.

Save me, Lord! she prayed to the God who’d abandoned her. Rain thudded, thunder cracking.

The man didn’t come.

Her lungs begged for air, but she refused to gasp—to make any noise. Lights gleamed in the distance, their shape marred by the rain into glowing balls. She crept out, then slithered her way to the side of the container.

You can do this. You have no choice. Die now or die worse.

Her chest squeezed tight. She struggled for air, her body trembling.

Peering around the edge of the metal box, she spotted the man standing past the last light, peeing with his back to her.

Crouching low, she headed over the barren landscape—the thin scrub good only for noise if she stepped on it.

Once beyond the edge of the camp, she broke into a run, her weak legs seeming to move without her control as if God were carrying her. But it must be the fear driving her forward.

Cold rain soaked through her ripped pajamas, sticking to her skin.

Was she free? Hope radiated through the fear—the two spar-ring for control.

The ground shifted beneath her feet, tossing her forward. Her chin collided with the loose stones, her body splayed out.

Noise emanated behind her, and light swathed the hill. A high holler rent the sage-infused air.

He was coming.

Scrambling to her feet, she pushed her body beyond its limits—barreling forward and tripping over crinkling scrub.

Light passed by again, and she hit the ground. Thorns scraped her face, tearing her bruised skin. She bit back a yelp.

The light bounced farther away, sweeping a dozen yards to her right.

Getting to her knees, she pulled the thorns from her bloody palms and crawled forward, skittering like a bug over rippling water.

Voices joined his—Arabic filling the hill.

Don’t stop. Push past the pain. Freedom lies ahead.

Adrenaline burned her limbs, the mud-slick ground slipping beneath her.

Time evaporated and somehow stalled at the same time. Was she even making forward progress?

Flashlights shone near her as she hit a grove of olive trees.

Cover. Thankfulness rippled inside.

Low walls—crumbling but freestanding—covered the land as far as she could see in the thick streaking rain and mist rising from the ground.

She bolted through the copse and tangled vines—one grabbing her hair and tugging her back. No. No. No.

Voices grew closer.

She tugged her hair, the vine refusing to let it go. Yanking hard, she broke free—a clump of wet hair remaining in the mass of vines.

Dogs barked in the distance.

She squeezed her eyes shut for the briefest moment—a flash of dogs devouring her skin passed through her mind. Blinking and sweeping away the rain clinging to her lashes, clouding her vision, she broke into a run, tumbling down into the valley below.

Reeds towered over her. “Thank you,” she murmured out of habit. How could she thank the God who’d allowed men to rip her from her bed in the middle of night—tearing her from safety and pummeling her with their fists, then throwing her into a container to wait to die?

A reed shifted, rustling. She powered forward, her feet hitting a narrow stream. Icy water swirled around her ankles as she slipped deeper into the surging water of the Yarmouk River gorge. Adrenaline infused her exhausted limbs.

Safety—if she could make it—lay on the other side.

Howling pierced the air, rising over the gurgle of the raging river, as she plunged deeper still into its seemingly never-ending depths. The freezing water pricked at every part of her, steal-ing what breath remained in her lungs. Flailing her arms, she worked to burst free of the swift current’s icy grip. The other side lay so near.

Reach it and you’re safe.

Grappling forward, she reached the shore, crawling onto the riverbank as a light landed on her from the border crossing ahead. She braved one glance back. The men held on the other side of the river, unable to cross into Jordan. She wanted to smile, but she feared she never would again.

ONE

NEARLY A WEEK LATER

HER HANDS CLUTCHING the steering wheel, Harper wove her way up the mountain—the curving road leading to the small ranch town of Jeopardy Falls. Something outside of her pulled her there—an invisible rope tugging her forward, guiding her to Second Chances Ranch and Deckard.

Cold slithered through her body—a chill that refused to leave her bones ever since she’d been shoved into that metal container prison.

Warmth refused to envelop her no matter how high she cranked up the thermostat.

Snow and sleet fell in shards—pelting like the sheets of rain on the night of her escape. The men’s voices clanged in her ears, her skin crawling at the whoosh of their harsh taunts—the memories raw and fierce. She feared they’d found her—saw their shadows bobbing in the back seat as she bounced over the juts in the dirt road. A smothering fear she’d never known until they’d thrown her into that steel container, then it consumed her, thickening in her veins—seeping through every part of her.

Their cruel, merciless faces flashed in the rearview mirror.

No. She clenched the wheel, pain shocking her sliced hands.

They aren’t real.

She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them, but the faces remained.

Stop seeing them!

Sparse tears trickled down her cheeks—the moisture still not fully returned to her body.

So dry. Her mouth still parched, her tears as weak as she was. Trembling, she turned left, entering the ranch’s drive. Would this be a second chance for her? Could she find normalcy here, though she hadn’t elsewhere? Her demons taunted that she

never would.

Her car slid sideways across the ice.

Let go. Give into the slide.

But her grip fought with the steering wheel.

She scarcely managed to right her car and avoid sliding straight off the embankment running parallel to the long, winding drive.

Freezing rain streamed down, stabbing the windshield. The wipers swished back and forth at a frantic pace, just like the pulse thwacking in her throat.

Her parents had begged her to stay with them over Christmas, but the need for safety propelled her. Get somewhere safe. Get to Deck. Only he could protect her, at least from external foes—her inner demons she was on her own to battle.

Disconcertion riddled through her. What would he think of her, bruised and broken, showing up on his doorstep like a lost animal? He’d rescue her like a feral cat. Not at the soul level—no one could rescue her there. It was as dead as the bodies littering that otherwise desolate hill in Syria. As vanished as her colleagues, Tracey and Amanda, who’d been pulled from the container—both screeching at their turn—begging the men to stop. But they’d had no mercy.

The three worked with the humanitarian group in Syria, there to identify the dead in a rebel-torn area of the hostile country. Working in an abandoned village of bodies left in the rebels’

cruel wake, they’d identified many victims, then buried them in proper graves.

Her car bounced over another rut in the ice-covered mesa road, jarring her and her thoughts as Deckard’s house—the first of three on the property—came into view. Riley’s sat in the middle and Christian’s home last on the lane. The lights from Deck’s porch glowed like fireflies in the inky black sky. Shone as beacons in the moonless night.

Shifting her car into park, she fixed her attention on the stillness surrounding her. Her bestie, Andi Forester was dating Deck’s brother, Christian. She and Greyson Chadwick, another friend of the group, were already spending Christmas at the ranch. During their call earlier today, Andi had insisted Deck would be thrilled to see Bristol too, but . . .

She bit her scabbed, swollen lip, and the metallic taste of blood trickled in her mouth.

Grabbing a tissue, she swiped at it—the red smearing on white like the victims’ blood had covered the barren scrub outside the rusted metal container, the smell of death assailing her nostrils night and day until the two blended into one inside the window-less box.

Her heart thumping against her chest, she uncurled her fingers from the steering wheel, her hands furling like claws ready to pounce, the movement lancing the slices on her palms.

The frigid temps burned her lungs with each ragged intake of breath. Pain stabbed her cracked rib, stealing the air from her in a whoosh.

She shook it off.

You can do this. You have to, or you won’t survive.

Primal instinct had drawn her here. Now it was time to step out of the car. Her hand wrapped around the door handle as the ghosts whispered from the back seat. She refused to look, to see their shadows—the faces that had tormented her for blurred days on end.

Enough!

She shoved her door open, a groan wresting from the metal screws—the sound too similar to the screeching of that prison door.

You. Can. Do. This. You have to.

The bitter air seared her lungs. Snow and ice crunched beneath her boots as she rounded the car, then grabbed her presumptuous new duffel bag off the passenger seat. Again, Andi had assured her Deck would welcome her to stay, but would it be out of caring or pity?

Hurrying for the porch and what she hoped was safety, she slipped but righted herself, avoiding slamming onto the ice-slicked earth. Reaching the door, she held her trembling gloved hand poised over the doorbell. Deck wouldn’t hound her for answers, for details of her “ordeal,” as her parents called it when they pressured her to talk. Deck held his own secrets, his own demons, so surely, he’d let her have hers.

Forcing her hand, she pressed the bell and waited.

Footsteps and a shadow breaking the inner light through the cutglass door moved toward her. She wrestled the overpowering urge to bolt but held immovable in fear.

“Harp,” Andi said, her voice a whisper as she leaned out and enveloped her with a hug, then pulled back, worry etched on her brow.

Harper had tried not to go rigid. Really, she had. But her body moved and reacted of its own accord now, and it terrified her.

Footsteps sounded behind Andi. Was it her bestie’s boyfriend, Christian, or—her breath caught in her throat—Deckard? The man she’d come to see. The man who’d keep her safe.

“Harper?” His deep voice echoed in her ears.

Deckard.

Warmth flashed through her—only for a second, but it was a second longer than she’d experienced since being thrust into that container.

She squeezed her eyes shut, afraid of how he’d react to the

bruises, to the forming scars, then on a sharp breath opened them. Concern clenched his jaw, an unknown emotion radiating in his eyes. It wasn’t pity, not like how her parents had looked at her.

The man was stunningly handsome. She’d forgotten how much so. His good looks next to her battered body and barrenness of soul marked a stark contrast.

“Are you okay?” he asked, concern lancing his raspy voice.

His question . . . Answer it. The words refused to come. She just stood there, frozen before finally managing a nod.

He struggled to get a read on her, his eyes assessing each bruise. But he didn’t freak out like her folks had at the sight of her. She couldn’t blame them on that count, but gratitude that Deck wasn’t losing it welled inside her. Anger held in the fists curled at his side, his shoulders broad, his stance tight. He wanted to take justice on who’d hurt her. But they were a world away. It was all that consoled her.

She shuffled her feet on the deiced porch—gravel-like pellets shifting and grating beneath the soles of her boots. “Can I come in?” she asked, the sound small. She couldn’t even keep the hurt from her voice. Beyond embarrassing.

“Of course.” Deck stepped back, clearing the doorway. “Please,” he said with a sweep of his arm.

Moving inside, he held out his arms, indicating a hug. They always hugged hello and goodbye.

He wrapped her in his arms, and she tried her best not to stiffen, but . . .

Epic fail.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything?” she pushed on, trying to diffuse the confusion and concern in Deck’s light blue eyes.

“Don’t be silly.” Andi moved to wrap her arm around her shoulders, and she jerked back. Again, not of her own accord.

Andi frowned but quickly masked her disappointment. “Andi, why don’t you get Harper some cider to warm her up.

It’s freezing out there,” Deck said, already looking out for her. Protecting was what he did best, and why she was here, risking the questions that would come. He would keep her safe. She trusted that with all her might, despite how her traitorous body might protest otherwise.

Riley rounded the corner, followed by Greyson—Deckard’s most trusted friend and a fellow PI in their firm. He’d been the one to sell the practice to Deck, though she didn’t know why. Riley stopped short as her gaze shifted to Harp’s swollen eye. Grey held behind Riley, resting his hands on her shoulders.

Hmm. An unusual personal touch from Grey. He and Riley were close but not that level of close . . . unless she’d missed something.

Riley schooled her features from concern to softness. “Harper, I’m so glad to see you.”

Of course Riley would read the room and react accordingly. “Let’s get you something warm to drink,” she repeated Deck’s

suggestion. “Cider or cocoa?”

Her hollow stomach flipped. Comfort from food and drink, other than water, had alluded her—pounds dropping off—but she craved warmth. “Cocoa, please.”

“You got it.” Riley smiled. “Why don’t you come into the kitchen? I’ve got a whole cocoa bar set up, and we can make it the way you like it.”

Of course Riley did. She was the Christmas elf, according to her brothers. All things merry and festive, they’d said.

“I’m so glad you came,” Deck said, keeping a comfortable distance between them. All the MacLeods, Grey, and Andi kindly did as well.

She placed her order for dark chocolate and whipped cream from Riley’s plethora of offerings.

“Thanks,” she said when Riley handed her the red mug dotted with white snowflakes. She cupped it, hoping it would infuse some heat into her bones.

Deckard’s gaze flashed to the duffel bag she’d set off to the side as they’d entered the kitchen. “I hope you plan on staying awhile.”

She would thank God for Deck’s kindness, but God had abandoned her on that scrubbed hill of death.

***

Excerpt from Three Steps Behind by Dani Pettrey. Copyright 2026 by Grace and Johnny, Inc. Reproduced with permission from Baker Publishing Group. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Dani Pettrey has sold more than a million copies to readers eager to read her next release. She is the bestselling author of the Jeopardy Falls series, Coastal Guardians series, Chesapeake Valor series, and the Alaskan Courage series. A three-time Christy Award finalist, Dani has won the National Readers' Choice Award, Daphne du Maurier Award, HOLT Medallion, and Christian Retailing's Best Award for Suspense. She plots murder and mayhem from her home with her husband in Florida. She can be found online at DaniPettrey.com.

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THREE STEPS BEHIND by Dani Pettrey | Jeopardy Falls, Books 1-3

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BLACKOUT by J. Luke Bennecke

 

BLACKOUT

by J. Luke Bennecke

September 7 - October 16, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

A Jake Bendel Thriller

 

THE LIES SHINE BRIGHTEST WHEN THE LIGHTS GO OUT.

The assassination was only the beginning. When the President of the United States is killed in a coordinated drone strike, the nation spirals into chaos. But this isn’t terrorism. It’s strategy.

Behind the attack stands a brilliant and ruthless leader of a shadowy global cabal known only as New3—a group convinced the age of American dominance is already over.

They’re just speeding it up.

Their plan is devastating in its simplicity:

• First, kill the president.
• Then cripple the nation’s power grid.
• Finally, plunge the United States into darkness long enough for rival superpowers to make their move.

Civil engineer Jake Bendel never expected to be part of that war. As one of the architects of America’s AI-driven energy grid, he helped design the very system now being turned against the country.

As blackouts spread and order begins to fracture, Jake teams up with FBI agent Kristi Konnors to follow a trail of digital clues—only to uncover a conspiracy far bigger than a cyberattack. One that could hand America’s collapse to China and Russia.

Then it becomes personal.

Evidence emerges that Jake’s wife, Cynthia—presumed dead for years—may still be alive, trapped inside the organization behind it all.

Now Jake is running out of time. Because if the lights go out across America, the invasion won’t be far behind. And the system he built may be the only thing that can stop it.

Perfect for fans of David Baldacci and Tom Clancy, BLACKOUT is a high-stakes techno-thriller where cutting-edge technology collides with global power—and one man is forced to decide how far he’ll go to stop what’s coming.

BLACKOUT Trailer:

Book Details:

Genre: High-Concept Thriller
Published by: Jaytech Publishing
Publication Date: October 6, 2026
Number of Pages: 436
ISBN: 9798990527386
Series: Jake Bendel Thrillers, Book 3 || Learn More About the series on Amazon & Goodreads
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub | Books2Read

Read an excerpt:

FACTS:

1. The United States power grid is divided into three largely independent systems, considered one of the most complex machines ever built with over 160,000 miles of high-voltage transmission lines. Large portions of the grid infrastructure are decades old.
2. Modern societies rely on electricity for nearly every critical system including: water treatment plants, fuel pipelines, telecommunications networks, hospitals, and transportation systems.
3. GPS signals are surprisingly weak and vulnerable to interference.
4. The largest blackout in North American history affected 50 million people in August 2023 involving eight states and Canada.
5. Small inexpensive drones can now carry lethal payloads.
6. The U.S. military (under DARPA’s OFFSET program) have tested drone swarm “curtain” formations.

Chapter 1

Friday, September 27 - 8:49 a.m. -
AIRPLANE #1 - Private Gulfstream Jet - Coast of Venezuela

The day was perfect for flying, sipping Russo-Baltique vodka—and an assassination.

In exactly eleven minutes.

Ominous black clouds churned miles beneath the Gulfstream cruising high above the Atlantic. Far away, 1,600 miles north, thick fog rolled across the runway at Tampa International Airport—with Air Force One descending on approach.

Tracy strode the cabin aisle, air thick with sweat and heavy leather. Her smartwatch pinged. Florida ground team: Eight minutes to launch. All good.

Fiddling with her charcoal pearl necklace, she eyed the dozen technicians, each tracking a sliver of the covert op. Right on schedule. She halted behind her lead coordinator, Boris, bent over a pulsing, colorful weather map.

When Tracy placed her hand on his shoulder, Boris stopped typing and adjusted his headset. She stood erect, arms crossed and chin high, her gold silk blouse complementing her team’s black combat uniforms like a leather-banded Swiss watch.

Seeds of anarchy thrive in a nation stripped of electric power.

The enormous gravity of today’s operation weighed on everyone aboard. Their goal: to plant kernels of chaos.

She clucked her tongue, gave a sharp nod and pointed to a green and yellow blob on his screen. “Tell me that’s not fog.”

Successfully executing their mission—polished for years—would bring infamy to her name and enter Tracy Daniela Ciacchella into the history books alongside John Wilkes Booth and Lee Harvey Oswald. Not desirable, but exitus acta probat: the outcome justifies the deeds.

“It is, but ma’am, your yacht is in perfect position in Old Tampa Bay,” Boris said, a hint of a Russian accent slipping through on certain syllables. “All four hundred drones fully programmed, ready for activation and deployment from boat deck. We have new problem.”

A sitting US president hadn’t fallen since ‘63. Today’s mission was the culmination of years of planning, subversion, and digital sleight of hand. No bullets. No lone gunman. Just 400 Semtex-laden drones guided by a matrix of stolen GPS coordinates and a rigged FAA exemption buried three years ago by one of her assets.

A clean kill.

Boris nodded. “Not worried about fog, ma’am, but light rain, not good for drones. Moved in faster than expected.”

Each drone carried a two-pound brick of homemade Semtex.

Washington had talked counter-drone defense for years. But as was typical with US leadership, nothing actually got done. No productive decisions. Only political wrangling and posturing—mixed with unhealthy levels of toxic masculinity.

Incompetent politicians. Yet another reason to raise my curtain of death—weather permitting.

For the final time, Tracy confirmed the ground team in position. On her iPad, she tapped open the video chat app connected with her two generals: first, the captain on her yacht in Old Tampa Bay, Florida; and second, her trusted, longtime friend Bob Huffington—nicknamed

Huff—perched atop the Macy’s roof near I-275. Positioned a mile south, Huff had an unobstructed view of the final approach flight path for runway 1R at Tampa International.

Although Tracy herself was nowhere near Florida, both video feeds from her team streamed clean and crisp via satellite. Rolling fog thickened, obscuring her views.

“Wind speed?” she asked Huff.

“Twenty-two knots. For now, acceptable, but if gusts start pushing above twenty-five, our chances drop to ten percent.”

Getting Goldberg into place had been her masterpiece. After today, with President Whitehead out of the picture, Vice President Goldberg would give Tracy direct access to the power levers controlling the federal government. Her puppet would be in perfect position for the next phase of world domination.

It was now or never. Time for the all-important decision.

Even if the wind began gusting, the drones might still fly close enough to do catastrophic damage.

Tracy brought her iPad close and announced into the tiny speaker, “Green. Repeat, we are green for Operation Black Flock.”

On her screen, both generals nodded in confirmation. Now—shadowy iPad feeds showed Huff entering the launch code while workers on the boat peeled off a massive blue tarp to reveal a cargo container with four hundred off-the-shelf quadcopter drones—all made in China—packed inside a customized carbon fiber lattice. Each carried a two-pound payload of Semtex and a pre-programmed set of GPS-coordinated waypoints—latitude, longitude and elevation—to travel to.

“Gusts up to twenty-four knots,” Huff said, nervously tugging at his earlobe before giving her a thumbs up, indicating her ground team had programmed the drones and activated them. Assuming the weather cooperated, the small black machines would follow precise paths using exact signals from dozens of GPS satellites—all in working order as of five minutes ago, according to her inside man at the Department of Defense. Her DOD contact had also confirmed the Air Force One plane on descent was, in fact, carrying President Whitehead, not a decoy.

Boris leaned back in his chair, away from his laptop, and squinted at Tracy. “I still think we could have come up with a better name for this op.”

She nodded, anxiety rising, wondering whether the drones would perform as intended. “Perhaps.”

“How about Operation Kill Racist Xenophobic Pedophile?”

“Come now, Boris. Way too long.” Tracy gave a silent smirk.

A tiny matrix of red and green lights blinked on her iPad, communicating status from every craft, as propellers whirred, creating a bee-like buzzing sound crackling from the embedded speaker.

The swarm of drones lifted skyward and disappeared into the gray blur of rolling fog.

***

Excerpt from Blackout by J. Luke Bennecke. Copyright 2026 by J. Luke Bennecke. Reproduced with permission from J. Luke Bennecke. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

J. Luke Bennecke is an Amazon #1 bestselling thriller author who writes about what happens when technology gets smarter—and people don’t. A former civil engineer and longtime executive, he spent decades designing real-world systems in California before turning to fictional ones that fail far more spectacularly. His novels explore artificial intelligence, surveillance, memory manipulation, and the dangerous gap between innovation and ethics. He is currently at work on his tenth novel.

Luke lives in Southern California with his wife of thirty-five years and their four spunky cats. When not writing, he enjoys philanthropy, consulting as an engineering expert witness, traveling, playing golf, creating videos, and voiceover acting.

Catch Up With J. Luke Bennecke:

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LinkedIn

 

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Blackout by J. Luke Bennecke | Gift Cards

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THE ALCHEMIST OF ALL HALLOWS EVE by Gigi Pandian

 

THE ALCHEMIST OF ALL HALLOWS EVE

by Gigi Pandian

September 7 - October 2, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

AN ACCIDENTAL ALCHEMIST MYSTERY

 

An eternally young alchemist. A gargoyle who fancies himself Poirot. A Murder House for sale the week before Halloween.

Zoe Faust has run from her past for centuries. She didn't plan on settling down. She didn't plan on falling for a mortal man. She certainly didn't plan on the gargoyle.

Now Zoe, her fiancé, and her French chef gargoyle best friend Dorian have found an enchanting home with a hidden cottage for Dorian. It’s perfect for their little family. Except for one thing. Forty years ago, the night before Halloween, a woman was murdered in their dream house. Or was she?

When an enigmatic stranger arrives and insists that a mythological Irish witch holds the secret to the unsolved crime, Halloween turns deadly once more. Refusing to let Zoe lose the home she's waited centuries for, Dorian the gargoyle sets out to crack the case.

Can an alchemist, a gargoyle, and a teashop-owning detective solve two Halloween murders before an innocent man takes the fall and their perfect home slips away?

The Alchemist of All Hallows Eve is the whimsical tenth book in USA Today bestselling author Gigi Pandian's Anthony Award-winning Accidental Alchemist mystery series. If you love cozy fantasy, Agatha Christie-style whodunits, and found family, you'll adore this charming Halloween mystery, complete with Irish fortune-telling recipes.

Book Details:

Genre: Cozy Mystery, Cozy Fantasy Mystery, Culinary Cozy
Published by: Gargoyle Girl Productions
Publication Date: September 8, 2026
Number of Pages: 288
ISBN: 978-1938213373
Series: The Accidental Alchemist Mystery Series, Book 10 | Each is a Stand Alone
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub

Read an excerpt:

Chapter 1

I dashed through the wrought iron gate that stood open, the misty rain leaving nearly invisible droplets on my silver raincoat as I made my way to the house. Ivy tendrils wound their way around the curved black iron of the gate and fence, hiding the wires of electric candles that illuminated the yard with a warm glow.

By the time I took my first step on the stone path, I already knew. The house was perfect.

A perfect family home. I blinked back tears. What an astonishing idea, after so many decades living on the road. On my own. On the run. Never staying in one place for long. Never imagining I could have something more. The last two years in a fixer-upper were two of the best years in my life, still on my own but tentatively testing the idea of putting down roots. All the joys and trials of these last two years had led to this moment. Finding a home for me and Max. For the start of a new life together.

A twenty-foot Malus domestica tree towered above me, bringing me to a halt when I should have been rushing inside to see if I’d made it in time. The apple tree’s green and yellow leaves shielded smooth branches brimming with red-gold apples ripe enough to pick. I ran my fingertips across the smooth bark and crouched to touch the spot where the trunk met soil. Gnarled roots peeking out of the earth told me the tree’s advanced age, but it was thriving. The person who tended to this tree truly cared for it. As I would.

A bright yellow door, only three inches high, rested at the base of the tree. It was a fairy door, inviting anyone who took the time to notice it to imagine a portal to the fairy realm. I wondered if the whimsical doorway was there year-round or only because it was the week before Halloween. Behind the tree, crimson delphinium flowers were blooming. Red was a rare color for the flower, and it was late in the year for the spire-like stems to bloom. They, too, had been well tended.

As curious as I was about the person who attended to this landscape, I didn’t have time to speculate. I stood and hurried on.

Old-fashioned lanterns lit the stone steps leading to the covered porch. Two massive copper owls flanked the front door, one guarding a carved pumpkin, the other an autumn vegetable I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen: a mangelwurzel. I’ve celebrated many types of Halloween traditions over the years, so I recognized the root vegetable that had been popular for Halloween carvings over a century ago in Britain and Ireland. These decorations weren’t plastic toys from a modern manufacturer, but talismans that harkened back to celebrations of the autumn harvest—and the idea that October 31 was a night when the veil between worlds of the living and the dead was thin.

I smiled at the mangelwurzel’s grotesque grinning face, wondering how a modern-day homeowner in Portland, Oregon had stumbled across the tradition of carving creepy faces into the lumpy root related to a beet.

But I didn’t have time to linger outside and wonder.

I was lucky that nobody had put in an offer on the house while I was away last week, since the housing market was so tight these days. Today, I’d hoped to arrive right when the open house began, but it was such a busy afternoon at Max’s new shop that he couldn’t get away. We decided I should go on ahead. Still, it was already twenty minutes past the hour when the showing began.

And yet, the squeaky door of my old 1942 pickup truck was the loudest sound I’d heard since arriving. Instead of a rush of other eager homebuyers, the inviting yard was deserted. No kids were exploring the whimsical décor. No voices could be heard coming from inside the house, but perhaps the walls were thick?

The old home was beautiful and the listing price far lower than expected. Why was I the only potential buyer here?

The front door stood open, and as I stepped inside a tall woman in a cream-colored pantsuit greeted me.

“Zoe?”

I nodded and took her outstretched hand.

“Simone Friday,” she said, ushering me into the cozy foyer of the house. “Congratulations again on your engagement. This is a wonderful home to begin a new life together.”

I touched my malachite engagement ring. The green stone was the most perfect embodiment of Max’s and my love for each other. Malachite, the stone of transformation.

“What a stunning ring.” The real estate agent pulled her gaze from my ring finger and craned her thin neck to look around me. “Is Max still in the car?”

She had no idea how unique the ring truly was. Not that I could ever tell her.

“Max is running a little late,” I explained, hoping that wouldn’t make us look irresponsible if the owner was making a decision between multiple interested buyers. This housing market was brutal, and homes around here were being snatched up as soon as they hit the market. The agent Max had found us hadn’t suggested this house. I’d found it while browsing.

I’d reached out to the seller’s agent ahead of time to make sure the low list price wasn’t a mistake. She told me the owner needed to sell on an expedited timeline, prioritizing a buyer who could close quickly. He’d had a bad fall and was currently recovering in the hospital, hoping to move into a retirement community as soon as possible since he could no longer handle living alone in this big, multi-story house.

Looking out the front window, I smiled as I spotted even more autumn decorations I hadn’t noticed on my way in. Sheltered on the covered porch, an owl made from a pinecone and acorns sat next to a trio of gourds with silly painted faces. With this type of creativity, wherever the owner ended up, I had a feeling he’d be just fine.

“You’re an outdoorsy person,” Simone said. “I can tell. You’re in for a treat. I’ve been doing this for decades and believe me, this place is quite a find.”

I continued through the house, enjoying the solid wood paneling and cozy nooks that included a built-in window seat in the main bedroom. The back garden included a small kitchen garden, bountiful flowers, and even more fruit trees. Three types of apples, plus two each of cherry, plum, pear, and fig trees, making a full dozen. The Spartan apple tree’s ripe apples hung unpicked, but I was more worried by its thin branches, which were drooping from more than the weight of the fruit. When I was a young woman helping with farmland that included a nearby orchard with apple and pear trees, I would have immediately known what was wrong. Was I losing my edge? What did the tree need?

“Zoe?” The agent’s voice shook me out of the memory.

I’m Zoe Faust, born in 1676, in Salem Village in what’s now Massachusetts, a hundred years before the Declaration of Independence was signed. My natural aptitude with plants led to my being accused of being a witch, and later being taken under the wing of famed alchemist Nicolas Flamel. Under his tutelage, I learned the principles of alchemy, which led to my accidentally discovering the Elixir of Life. When I said I’d celebrated many types of Halloween traditions, I wasn’t kidding.

“Ready to look at the guest house?” Simone asked.

She led me through the backyard to a small cottage almost entirely hidden by trees.

“Designed for someone who loves to cook, as you can tell!” she said as we stepped inside. “Take your time out here. I’ll be in the front section of the main house to greet others.”

She wasn’t kidding about the layout. Two-thirds of the little home’s open floorplan was taken up by a massive kitchen. The style was a bit dated, but for the one who would be using the space, it was functionality that mattered. Max and I needed a home of our own, but we couldn’t abandon our friend Dorian. It would be impossible for him to live on his own. And as a chef, he would love this space.

I stepped back outside into the miniature orchard. Everything about this place was perfect. Too perfect, the nervous part of my brain chimed in. The part of my brain that had kept me safe for centuries. That had kept me moving, avoiding being detected as an alchemist. But this house… I knew this was where I was meant to be. Where we were meant to be.

I rooted through my bag for my phone. It took Max four rings to answer.

“Zoe, is everything—”

“It’s perfect. So perfect. How soon can you get here?”

“I had no idea how wild weekend crowds could be. I don’t know if I can—”

“You’re at the register?” I imagined him ringing up the customers lined up at his cozy shop, The Alchemy of Tea, with a smile on his handsome face as he told people about how best to brew his custom tea blends or use the various styles of teapots he stocked.

“I stepped outside to take your call.”

“Mary can handle the register on her own. She did it beautifully while you were away. Truly. You need to see this place today. What if someone else puts in an offer that’s accepted? As soon as you see it in person, you’ll understand why it’s so special.”

“Do you know,” he chuckled, “it’s impossible to say no to you, Zoe Faust.”

Max arrived ten minutes later and found me in the backyard’s mini orchard, where I was trying to figure out what was afflicting the ailing apple tree.

I threw my arms around him. “I thought you were going to call me when you arrived. Did you see the house?”

Max didn’t answer immediately. More than that, his shoulders were stiff. And he wasn’t hugging me back. As I pulled away, expecting terrible news, only then did I see the look of worry on his face.

My own smile drained away. “Someone else got the house?”

“I doubt it.” He looked past me towards the house.

“What’s going on?” I followed his gaze. What was I missing?

“This is Rufus Hitchcock’s house.”

“You know the owner? It’s not on the listing—”

He groaned. “It wouldn’t be. But I know the house. You really don’t know the name?”

“Why would I?”

“I’m sorry I didn’t look more closely at the listing, or I would have spotted it. I’ve just been so busy—”

“Max. If you don’t tell me what’s going on right now, my head is going to explode like an overheated cucurbit. What could possibly be wrong with our dream house that we can’t fix?” Whatever it was, I hoped it wouldn’t need too much money. This is embarrassing for an alchemist to admit, but I’m wretched at making gold.

“It’s not fixable.” Max looked forlornly at the perfect house. “I wish it was… but—”

“Max.”

He turned back to me and shook his head. “Rufus Hitchcock is a murderer, Zoe. He killed his girlfriend in this house forty years ago, and strange things have been happening here ever since. That’s why nobody else wants this house.”

***

Excerpt from The Alchemist of All Hallows Eve by Gigi Pandian. Copyright 2026 by Gigi Pandian. Reproduced with permission from Gigi Pandian. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Gigi Pandian is a USA Today bestselling mystery author, locked-room mystery enthusiast, and fan of exploring ruined castles in the rain. She’s been awarded Agatha, Anthony, Lefty, and Derringer awards, and been a finalist for the Edgar. She writes the Accidental Alchemist mysteries (humorous cozy fantasy mysteries), the Secret Staircase mysteries (locked-room mysteries called “wildly entertaining” by the New York Times), and the Jaya Jones Treasure Hunt mysteries (lighthearted adventures steeped in history). Gigi lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her husband and a gargoyle who watches over the backyard garden. For bookish fun plus a free story and free mini cookbook, sign up for her email newsletter at www.gigipandian.com.

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INVISIBLE JUSTICE by Gary Brown, M.D.

 

INVISIBLE JUSTICE

by Gary Brown, M.D.

September 7 - October 16, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

Dr. Kyle McMann became a physician to save lives. But when she watches violent criminals escape punishment again and again, she begins to question whether the system designed to protect the innocent actually protects the evilest of villains.

Haunted by the death of her younger brother—which she’s sure she could have prevented—Kyle is drawn into a clandestine cabal called The Tribunal. Its members include physicians, intelligence specialists, and former military operatives who secretly hunt down murderous criminals that have escaped the law.

They deliver surgically precise punishment that mirror the crimes committed by these vile homicidal maniacs, disguising them as natural medical events.

Transplant surgeon Dr. Graham Kurland, a decorated former Army Ranger struggling with the scars of war, finds himself pulled into Kyle’s life-and-death efforts to protect the defenseless and punish the guilty. As the two doctors grow closer, they must confront the moral and deadly consequences of the vengeance the Tribunal has inflicted.

Praise for Invisible Justice:

"rapid-fire action scenes ... make the pages turn easily ... a delicate balance between interior emotional examination and tough medical drama ... the main players are subtly and fully developed."
~ Kirkus Reviews

"A compelling, fast-paced read that combines suspense with meaningful explorations of grief, accountability, and moral responsibility. It is both an entertaining thriller and a powerful examination of what happens when ordinary people decide that the law is no longer enough."
~ Mary Karnes, Author, Wedding Bride Doom

"Dr. Gary Brown has created a rip-roaring 'Dexter with Doctors' thriller, using his deep-dive knowledge of medical catastrophes, hard-earned as they were by one of America's top eye surgeons, from slicing into eyeballs for decades. It's so much fun to watch brilliant medical minds figure out how to murder, with as much pain as humanly possible, evil bastards who prey on the innocent. There's a fantastic love story between two hot yet damaged doctors trying to find love in a world full of blood, guts, death, and the miraculous saving of lives. This is the kind of book you keep thinking about as you go through your day and can't wait to get back to, just to see who dies next and in what excruciating way they bite the dust, knowing full well that the events are not natural."
~ Henry Sterry, bestselling author of Chicken.

"Dr. Gary Brown blends his considerable medical acumen with gripping storytelling ability to take the medical thriller to new heights. Gary is an artistic master who entertains, educates, and tantalizes our intellect . . . I can’t wait for the next book."
~ Timothy W. Olsen, M.D. Professor and Consultant of Ophthalmology, Mayo Clinic; Chair Emeritus, Emory University; Founder, iMacular Regeneration, LLC

"Gary, I found your book wonderful . . . I just kept turning the pages. I couldn’t stop. I wanted to know what happened next?. . .What happened next?. . . What happened next?. . . It unfolds in a really good way. I like that being a doctor, you have access to that kind of information. And your protagonist is a woman. She ends up joining this thing called the Tribunal, which is kind of like a – we talked about this earlier – Dexter on Steroids – as she gets the bad guys. I like reading thrillers, whether they’re legal or in this case medical. I think you’ve done a really great job. So, congratulations on your book."
~ Jack Canfield, author of Success Principles and co-author of the Chicken Soup for the Soul Series with over 600 million sales

INVISIBLE JUSTICE Trailer:

Book Details:

Genre: Medical Thriller
Published by: Level Best Books
Publication Date: April 28, 2026
Number of Pages: 416
ISBN: 979-8898201494
Series: A Kyle McMann & Graham Kurland Medical Thriller, Book 1
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub | Level Best Books

Read an excerpt:

Chapter One

Outside the Surgical Emergency Room

Grady Memorial Hospital, Atlanta, Georgia

Kyle McMann groaned as she paced on the Grady Memorial Hospital Emergency Room ramp, her eyes tracking the incoming ambulance. She prayed this wasn’t another twenty-five-year-

old—her exact age—stiffened by rigor mortis, still cradling her crying infant son in her arms. She was haunted by the mother’s lifeless stare that sent shivers down her spine. Obviously, some evil bastard shot her close up as she held her baby.

Kyle had picked the short straw, as per usual. She was starting her career as an intern in the Surgical Emergency Room of Grady, the Mount Everest of U.S. shock-trauma centers.

Unlike most hospitals that had one ER, this godforsaken medical behe-moth had three: the Surgical ER, the Medical ER, and the Pediatric ER. Each had its own unique variants of traumatizing trauma.

It was dark by nine p.m. on Thursday, July 5th, and she shielded her eyes from the strobing reds and blues. It was her job to screen the incoming “clients.”

Though not specified in the hospital bylaws, inherent in the mission of the lowest of the low on the professional totem pole was ramp duty.

Aka processing the worst of the worst and pronouncing the dead bodies dead.

Didn’t get much grimmer than that.

Her mind flashed back to this morning’s thirty-one-year-old basketball phenom with bacterial meningitis. A day ago, a vibrant human being. Now approaching his maker with a devastated brain failing on a respirator despite the efforts of the best infectious disease minds on the planet.

She’d been there for five days, and already it was wearing her out. Facing the families.

The tears. The sobbing.

Parents collapsing.

It was like everyone fell from the tree of horrors and hit each branch on the way down.

Her fight or flight reflex kicked in, and she sprinted to the ambulance, sharp brown eyes focused, runner’s body whipping towards the EMS vehicle, coughing out the black exhaust that smacked her face-on and splayed her middle-parted chestnut brown hair in both directions. Staying on the driver’s side, she peered in as the BLS 911 Emergency Ambulance backed into the ramp.

“What is it?” she shouted as the driver rolled down his window.

“Bad one, doc. Bleeding like a stuck pig. A bunch of kids worked him over with bats and knives. You want to get in here fast.”

Kyle’s heart sank as she ran back and yanked open the rear door. She jumped in before the van came to a full stop.

Blood.

And more blood.

A vampire’s wet dream.

On the sheets. The floor. Smeared on the windows.

“Come on!” she shouted to the half-panicked tech staring at the abdomen. “Let’s get him inside.”

The two front EMTs ran around back and pulled the stretcher out. The group slammed through the steel and glass doors into the ER.

“WAIT A MINUTE!” Ellen Chu, the hard-as-a-rock head nurse, blocked their path and held up her hand. “What’s going on?”

Kyle spoke up from behind. “Let ’em through. We’re going to Trauma, stat.”

She pushed the stretcher, sweeping Ellen aside, then looked back over her shoulder. “And call Eli.”

The Trauma Room was halfway down the hall. It was larger than the rest, so more people could fit in to stabilize the endless stream of broken bodies in this war zone.

Kyle slipped in before the men and slapped the trauma room table. “Here. Let’s move him. One, two, three.”

They lifted the patient from the stretcher using the draw sheet underneath him.

He was light. Must be a kid, Kyle thought.

She peered into the open abdomen. The wound stretched all the way across the belly.

“Oh, man,” she cried as she catapulted back.

An arterial pumper squirted blood into the air, hitting her directly in the right eye.

Everything she learned drained from her mind. She went from flight/fight to freeze.

All she could see was that fountain of red shooting up from the patient’s pulsating bowel.

Where the hell was Eli?

Her stomach dropped from the sheer helplessness of it all.

Think, dammit. THINK!

Ellen poked her head around the corner.

Kyle looked up from the bowel, snapped out of her stupor, and wiped blood from her face with the arm of her white lab coat.

“Where’s Eli?”

“I told him to get his ass down here stat.” Ellen looked at the spurting blood, then back at Kyle and said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world: “Shouldn’t we start an IV?”

“Yeah, yeah, uh, good idea.” Kyle shook her head and mentally kicked herself. Four years of working her ass off, and she couldn’t even think of an IV? What kind of a moron was she?

“I’ll put in the IV,” Ellen said hard and fast, “but you’ve gotta get that bleeder, or he won’t last until Eli gets here.” The ambulance attendants backed off while Ellen tossed Kyle a large Kelly clamp, then ransacked the drawers for an IV.

“Kyle?!” she barked, “C’mon, let’s go.”

Kyle faced the patient, ready to save his life. Then she froze. Again.

Sure, she’d been through the surgical rotation, but only as a second or third assistant. She’d read all the books. But books didn’t shoot blood at you while you tried to stop them from dying.

It was her first week in the ER, for fuck’s sake.

She wasn’t even a real doctor yet. Real doctors knew what they were doing.

“Kyle, SNAP OUT OF IT!” Ellen shouted.

“Okay, sorry…” Kyle muttered as she sprang out of her stupor.

She pulled on a pair of surgical gloves and yanked the suction catheter from the wall. The long plastic tube slurped the liquid blood and dark clots from the open wound to expose a glistening bowel.

There it was.

The base of the bleeder.

She took the Kelly clamp and went for it. Blood splattered her face again.

Now it was in her left eye.

What if he had AIDS?

Or hepatitis?

“Damn!” She missed.

The blood was pooling.

And the bleeder was going down again.

In another second, it would disappear below the surface of a new red pond.

She went for it once more, holding her right wrist to steady her hand.

“Gotcha, you little bastard.” “What’s going on?”

Kyle squinted to keep more blood from rolling into her eyes as she growled at Eli, finally strolling in like the cool customer he was. “Nice of you to stop by.”

The second-year surgery resident leaned over to inspect the wound. “Looks to me like you’re doin’ a-okay to me, Newby.”

A clot dislodged from another severed vessel.

Blood spewed two feet and caught Eli in the cheek. “Okay, well, maybe you do need a little help from your friends.”

He wiped his face with a green towel and snapped on a pair of tan gloves. “Kyle, gimme the suction catheter. I’ll work here. You put a second IV in his other hand. Ellen, call the OR. Tell them we’re coming up stat.”

Kyle was happy to slide aside. She grabbed the patient’s right hand and smacked the back of it a half dozen times to raise a vein. It was no easy matter considering the scar tissue covering the vessels.

Strange. She’d given her little brother a scar like that once. Brian had been chasing her in the house, and she slammed the bathroom door on his hand as hard as she could.

The poor kid. She remembered it like it was yesterday. She’d cried for nights when she saw the skin torn back and the tears running down his little pink cheeks.

She stared at the patient’s face. Except there was no face.

No pink cheeks. Nothing close to normal human features. Only bloated purple lips, swollen shut eyes, and the disfigured pulp left by the vicious stomping. His facial bones had to be fractured beyond recognition.

Eli clenched his teeth, his casual nonchalance gone. “Son of a bitch!” “What? What’s the matter?” Kyle asked.

“Every time I grab a damn vessel, another pops up.” Even Eli, the king of chill, was sweating. Something he rarely did. “We’ve gotta get this bowel fixed, or we won’t have to worry about the rest of him.”

Ellen careened around the doorway corner on one hand. “They gave us the okay. Said to bring him right up.”

“Unlock this stretcher. LET’S GO!!!” Eli threw another clamp on the exposed gut.

The trio wheeled the stainless-steel stretcher as fast as they could into the main corridor of the ER, then down the dim hallway, with Kyle sprinting at the side.

She looked down at the abdomen. Blood was oozing everywhere. She ran ahead and punched the erratically blinking, red “UP” button. Twice. Three times. Four…Eli, Ellen, and the patient arrived in seconds.

Kyle’s foot tapped on the floor, and she bit her lower lip as she stared at the patient’s hand. Was she going to lose this one, too?

Her mind disassociated as she waited for the clanking elevator. She needed to stop after work to stock up on Fritos. Brian was visiting on Monday. Just out of tenth grade, this was his first solo trip by train. It was a wonder Mom let him come, especially for two days. She hated being alone since Dad died. But she’d finally relented when he expressed such a strong interest in Emory University. He so wanted to follow his big sister’s path, only on the veterinary side.

“No pulse,” Ellen said as she felt the patient’s neck and looked up from the head of the stretcher with wide eyes.

Eli reached for a confirming feel, then looked back toward the ER, hesitant for a moment.

“We gotta get him to the OR,” he decided. “Kyle, you pump. I’ll breathe him.”

Kyle jumped onto the stretcher and straddled the patient with her legs, half-standing, taking care not to put weight on the open abdomen.

Knees flexed, she pushed down on his chest with both palms, counting off one-per-second thrusts that forced blood through his oxygen-starved body.

One of the clamps slipped, and blood squirted, spraying the crotch of her white house officer’s pants over and over.

She kept going.

Unless they got this poor kid’s heart started again, he’d be a brainstem preparation in ten minutes.

Eli sighed deeply and shook his head. “Not good, guys. Where’s a phone to call a code?”

He glanced left, then right. “Not even a fucking phone?” Cells were useless down here.

Ellen scowled and ran back to the ER, mumbling something unintelligible, though her tone needed no explanation.

“I don’t think I’m pumping him well,” Kyle said between heavy breaths. “Why not?” Eli asked.

“There’s no support under his back.” “God DAMNIT!”

Eli dropped the breathing mask, pushed the stretcher against the wall for stabilization, and pulled a sideboard out from underneath. “Turn him so I can put this under.”

Kyle stopped her thrusts and, standing on the stretcher with her back against the wall, lifted the left side of the patient’s body while Eli tried to slip the flat board underneath. The awkward position set off horrific pounding in her head, but not before she had him halfway over.

“Almost. Just a little more.”

The patient’s shirt slipped up.

The birthmark!

The brown oval over his right kidney!

Kyle’s shocked mouth dropped open. Instead of pulling harder, she dropped him.

The patient fell back on Eli and the board with a thud.

Kyle’s head snapped back and slammed against the hard tile wall abutting the stretcher. She could hear a crack as her head bounced.

The birthmark. The mark on his back—Brian’s mark. And with the hand scars?

NOOOOO!!!

Eli yanked his right hand out from between the board and the stretcher and shook it.

“Kyle! What the hell are you doing? Why’d you let go?”

The board crashed to the ground.

Kyle climbed down and grabbed the side of the stretcher, her head exploding with the worst pain she’d ever felt.

Eli held his hand and grimaced. “What’s wrong with you? Get moving, or he’s gonna die.”

“I—I can’t. I just can’t, I’m not, I don’t… I just can’t…”

“Why not?”

“I-I can’t.”

“Jesus Christ!” Eli uttered.

Then he shouted, “HELP, STAT!!! WE NEED HELP DOWN HERE!!!”

He hit a red wall alarm and climbed onto the stretcher. He pumped with his good hand while Kyle hugged the wall for support.

Brian.

Dear God, NOOOOO!

What was he doing here four days early? He never showed up anywhere early in his entire life.

Personnel poured from the stairways and into the hallway.

Eli jumped off and ran down the corridor, waving at the people pushing the stretcher back to the ER.

“Come on, move it, MOVE IT!”

Kyle stumbled after them in a daze. The seat of her pants dripped blood that splattered down to her green and white Nikes. Normally, the wetness would’ve driven her crazy. Now she watched and felt a cold nothingness.

While her head throbbed with an excruciating ache. As if it were on fire.

People ran past.

Someone was shouting in the distance. Bodies crowded the main ER.

Their faces were blurs.

She stopped outside the door to Trauma. Inside, it was alive with a flurry of activity, but the noises were far away.

Kyle stood alone, the Ghost of Christmas Past, looking in on people illuminated by the powerful overhead beams.

As she stood there wobbling, the noise stopped. Suddenly, the frenzied motion ceased.

White coats and pants came out singly and in pairs, silent, their heads hanging low.

Eli came last, biting his lower lip.

Only the solitary monotone of the cardiac monitor echoed through the door.

Kyle dropped back against a wall and slid to the ground, a hand pressing into each temple to try and hold in the jackhammer pounding inside her head.

Her mental and physical pains faded as she passed out into a black void.

Chapter Two

Seven Years Later

Pennsylvania Hospital, Eighth Street, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

Graham Kurland, 6’ 5”, 230 pounds of sinew and muscle, strolled in the Pennsylvania Hospital parking lot like the former Purple Heart winner he was, a world-class warrior who’d traded his

weapons for a scalpel and become a rising star surgeon of the medical world, as well as a renowned transplant researcher. If you looked closely, you could see his assurance and graceful gait almost concealed the limp he’d had after a grenade’s shrapnel shredded his leg.

He was greeted by the occasional nurse who flirted, or a doctor who was in awe and/or jealous of the famous Dr. Kurland. But no matter how much attention he got—professional or personal—none of it ever went to his head. He either didn’t know or care how brilliant and easy on the eyes he was.

He was excited about the surgery he was scheduled to perform. A double renal artery in a recipient kidney. Much more difficult to implant than a single renal artery. So his XXL brain was working out each detail, making contingencies for everything that could go wrong. The donor kidney had two arteries supplying it, rather than the typical one. This anomaly made it more difficult to connect the donor kidney into the kidney recipient. Couldn’t be done without a great team. They were very good. But were they great? He thought so.

This was his last year of internal medicine residency. He had already finished his surgical residency and would be one of the select few in the country with Boards in Surgery and Medicine. He couldn’t have done it without his photographic memory. And his years as a kill-or-be-killed warrior. And a CEO who turned his dead father’s business into a cash cow. While raising his teenage brother.

BAM!

A car backfired loudly, like a shot being fired just outside the hospital.

Suddenly, Graham was in the middle of a raging battle in the desert outside Kandahar, missiles and bullets flying. Eddie Severs, his ride-or-die best friend, was by his side. Eddie took one step towards him, and the whole world exploded as he stepped on an IED.

Graham was thrown back, even as he saw Eddie blow up, blood and flesh flying as he screamed in agony and horror.

Graham felt a hand on his shoulder, and he whipped around, fists clenched, fire in his eyes, face full of rage, in full fight mode.

He snapped back to reality when he saw he was face-to-face with Nurse Beth Kelly, a fifty-something veteran of twenty-five years at Penn, the sweetest, kindest soul here. She was looking horrified at Graham’s hard, furious face, his body spring-loaded and ready to kill.

The look of terror on Nurse Kelly’s face jolted Graham back to sanity. He saw what he was doing and was overcome with shame and embarrassment. He forced his face into a disarming, charming grin.

“Sorry, Beth, oh my God, you scared the bejesus outta me. My apologies, I get a little wonky sometimes. I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m really sorry.” Beth’s face changed from scared to neutral to thoughtful to understanding to kind. She nodded and smiled her sweet smile. “PTSD,” she said with an understanding nod. “My husband served in Desert Storm. Gee willikers, I

know trauma’s a killer. I hope to heck you’re getting help.”

“Oh yeah, I went through the program, I just get a little sketchy when I hear, uh…”

“Loud noises? Like a gunshot. Or a car backfiring?” she gave him a wry little smile. “I get it.”

“Thanks, Beth, I really appreciate that. Maybe we could keep this, uh, you know…”

She made a funny little locking-her-lips-with-a-key gesture and did a slightly silly mock whisper. “What happens at Penn stays at Penn.”

Graham laughed. Beth laughed.

“Shall we?” Beth nodded and gestured towards the hospital.

“Yes, we shall,” Graham said with his trademark aw-shucks animal magnetism as they walked through the parking lot and into the rest of their lives.

***

Excerpt from Invisible Justice by Gary Brown, M.D. Copyright 2026 by Gary Brown, M.D. Reproduced with permission from Gary Brown, M.D. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Dr. Brown is a retired professor and vitreoretinal (eyeball for civilians) surgeon. He performed over 40,000 operations in his award-winning career. Among his honors are inclusion in Marquis Who's Who in the World and The Leading Physicians of the World. He served as the editor of three medical journals and has 650 publications and 12 medical/economic book authorships. This is his debut novel.

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BLOOD BECOMING: HALVYN DAWN by Gail Waterhouse

 

BLOOD BECOMING: HALVYN DAWN

by Gail Waterhouse

September 7 - October 2, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

DCI Eleanor Moore is drawn into a series of brutal killings that defy explanation. As she follows the trail of evidence, she uncovers links between the crimes, the vaccine, and a shadowy conspiracy determined to control the future. The investigation becomes painfully personal when Eleanor realises a member of her own family may be entangled in the very secrets she is chasing.

Blood Becoming: Halvyn Dawn is a paranormal crime thriller set in 2046, where the aftermath of a contaminated vaccine has altered humanity in ways no one yet fully understands. Hybrid beings walk among us, their true nature hidden until violence drags them into the light.

Praise for Blood Becoming: Halvyn Dawn:

"Highly compelling with many unexpected twists."
~ Natalie Key, Female First

"It had everything you’d want in a really good paranormal crime thriller — suspense, mystery, great characters."
~ Aysha Awan, ARC Reader

"Thoroughly enjoyable… a storyline that rattles along with characters you want to know."
~ Richard Wolstenholme, Waterstones reviewer

"I loved Eleanor. The two sides of her. The detective but also the mom and the wife who has lost her husband."
~ Goodreads reviewer

Blood Becoming: Halvyn Dawn Trailer:

Book Details:

Genre: Crime Thriller, Police Procedural
Published by: Troubador Publishing
Publication Date: April 22, 2026
Number of Pages: 363
ISBN: 9781806345991 (ISBN10: 1806345994)
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub | Troubador Publishing

Read an excerpt:

PROLOGUE

Friday 23 February 2046

THE SKY OVER the Spanish port was smeared with the colour of blood smoke, a heavy red-orange haze that clung to the air like the last breath of a dying sun. The scent of burning oil and salt hung thick, carried by the heavy coastal winds. It was sharp and acrid, biting against the damp of the sea. Fires crackled along the ridgelines of the coastal city, their glow flickering in the black water below. Distorted reflections trembled with every wave.

In the distance, the sound of falling glass mixed with the wail of sirens. Their shrill cries sliced through the thickening smoke like wounded animals in pain. Puerto de Málaga, once vibrant with the clatter of trade and the bustle of travellers, was now sprawling in disarray. The heat rose from the charred remnants of buildings, still glowing faintly as they collapsed in on themselves. The air was dense, almost suffocating, with the taste of ash and burning wood. The kind of fire that was all consuming.

At the edge of the docks, where the flames hadn’t yet reached, a body stirred amongst the shadows.

He rose from the ground slowly, uncertainly, like something dredged from the depths. His shirt was torn and wet with dark stains, his skin pale and cool against the rising heat. Beneath the surface of his eyes, something had shifted... something new and ravenous.

He didn’t know his name. He couldn’t remember. Not right now. Names were small things; the world was suddenly too loud for small things.

The salt air reeked of dashed hopes and desperation, but beneath that, beneath everything, was scent. Raw. Delicate. Sweet. It curled into his senses like perfume on fire.

People.

He could smell them.

Not just the sweat on their clothes, but the life blood moving beneath their skin. He could feel their warmth like a beacon. Hear their hearts. See the trails their bodies left in the air – vibrant, electric threads.

And he was starving.

The hunger lived in him like a second spine, twisting through his ribs, pulling at his throat. It was not like needing food, not like any hunger he had ever known. This was something more, something pure. It throbbed like instinct. It demanded.

Ahead, the docks were alive with panicked life. Families clutched their documents, arguing with port guards. Children wailed, sensing the anxiety around them. Ship horns blared over the shouting. The flames had cut off the southern road, and now hundreds of people pushed towards the vessels anchored at the quay, hoping to escape the violence swallowing the city. Amongst the chaos of the port, a young couple moved quickly, weaving through the crowd with a grace that seemed to carve a path of calm through the throngs of fearful, stressed faces. They clung to each other, their hopeful laughter soft but real, a gentle sound that contrasted with the heavy tension in the air.

Their smell hit him like lightning.

They were dark-skinned, their features a striking blend of beauty that caught the light in a way others didn’t. The rich, smooth tone of their skin seemed to absorb the firelight and the fading daylight, glimmering like polished wood. They weren’t the only ones with darker skin in the crowd, but there was something different about them. The way they moved, the way they stood, set them apart. Their essence was clean... pure. Not a trace of the fear or desperation that rippled through the others.

The woman, older than the man by a few years, wore a bright red scarf that fluttered behind her like a banner, bold and proud. The younger man, possibly her brother, had a leather satchel slung over one shoulder, his posture firm, the weight of it a comfort rather than a burden. They moved with a serene assurance, as if they had walked through fire to reach this moment, and now they were here, in this place, they knew they were safe. They were running towards something: towards home.

He couldn’t explain why, but he followed.

They didn’t see him. Not truly. Just a man in a crowd. A shape in their periphery.

Nearby, another couple had stopped at the checkpoint. An argument was unfolding. The air was thick with frustration. Shouts rose above the low murmur of the crowd. A tall Englishman, face red with rage, towered over a Spanish official. His words were clipped, sharp, each one slicing through the tense silence. His fists clenched. Veins stood out in his neck. Every inch of him was pressing forwards, demanding an answer.

Beside him, his wife stood still. She cradled a baby wrapped in a pristine white blanket. She remained silent, her eyes distant, her face pale, betraying none of the anxiety in the air.

The Spanish official, weary and weathered, gestured curtly, his voice firm but tired. ‘The passports for the woman and child,’ he stated, ‘are not valid for the British ship. They cannot board.

They will have to wait for the Spanish vessel, which departs later tonight.’

‘No!’ the man barked. ‘We stay together. We go as a family!’ His words were harsh, but they felt like they hung in the air, falling into the thickening tension like stones in water, creating ripples but no true movement. The woman beside him didn’t speak, only tightening her hold on the baby, whose cries were soft, unknowing. Her gaze, fixed on the horizon, seemed to be somewhere far away, as though the entire scene were not something she could reach.

The crowd around them seemed to retreat, uneasy. The man’s frustration was contagious, yet it failed to spark any real response from the official, who remained unmoved, his eyes cold, his posture rigid. The couple was surrounded by murmurs and mutters from the crowd, but it felt like nobody was truly listening. Concerned only with their own woes.

The woman shifted slightly, sensing something, or maybe it was just the sensation of being watched. Her grip tightened on the baby, her eyes flickering towards the shadows, though she saw nothing. The air around her thickened, and she couldn’t quite place why her heart began to race.

Because he was watching the argument. But he wasn’t watching them – the brother and sister. Their scent, now feeling distant. His mouth ached. His body trembled.

They had slipped from his grasp. The moment was gone. They had vanished into the flow of the crowd, their warmth and purity fading, like smoke lost to the night air. The watcher’s pulse quickened, but the hunt had shifted. He could still feel their faint trace, a lingering pull, but they were no longer within reach.

He quickly moved through the crowd, his steps light, measured, and the scent of sweat and smoke filled his senses, dulling his focus. But then, something changed. His head tilted slightly, drawn by a new, unexpected fragrance that cut through the heavy air. It was delicate, fresh, like the first spring buds on a tree, sharp yet soft. The scent was subtle, fleeting, but unmistakable. It was the scent of a young woman.

Alone.

Nervous.

His gaze flicked in her direction, a predator spotting its next target. He couldn’t see her yet, but he could feel her presence in the air; a vulnerability that stood out against the hardened masses around her. There was a stillness in her, but the air around her vibrated with anxious energy. She didn’t belong to the crowd, not like the others. She wasn’t lost, exactly, but there was an uncertainty in the way she moved, as though the port itself was a vast, unknowable place to her.

He moved slowly through the throng; his every sense tuned to her. Her scent drew him closer, a fragile thread that wound through the chaos. She wasn’t trying to escape, not in the way the others did. She was just... there. Walking, weaving through the people, her eyes darting, scanning for something. Looking for someone. Her nerves were a song to him, soft and fragile.

He could see her now, just ahead, her dark hair framing a face that seemed too young for the worry she carried. Her posture was hunched, as if she were trying to make herself smaller, to disappear into the crowd. She wasn’t trying to be seen, but the watcher saw her all the same.

And she was still.

Thinking.

He felt a stir of anticipation, his gaze narrowing as he took another step towards her. There was something about the way she looked, not at the crowd, not at anything. Her eyes kept drifting towards the shadows, as though she felt something watching her, though she couldn’t know it was him.

He moved closer, quietly... patient. He would have her. She was his now.

He moved silently, a smudge amongst shadows, slipping from container to crate, blending into the murky dark of the port. His steps were slow, calculated, his presence a breathless whisper in the night. Each movement was precise, natural.

Her footsteps echoed on the wooden boards as she moved through the labyrinth of abandoned structures. Her pace quickened, her heart already pounding, as if some deep instinct had begun to warn her. The air was heavy, thick with the scent of rust and salt, the smell of old fish and the faint, lingering tang of blood. This area of the dock felt empty, desolate, but there was something beneath it, a presence she couldn’t quite place. She turned a corner, her pace frantic now, as if her body knew something her mind refused to admit.

She glanced over her shoulder, and there it was, that chilling feeling of being followed. Her eyes searched the darkened spaces, the shadows between the crates, the broken walls of forgotten buildings, but there was nothing. Still, the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.

She quickened her step, but then she made a mistake.

A wrong turn.

The path narrowed as she hurried down the dock, the sound of her boots slapping against the timber carrying through the silence. She didn’t see it at first, not until it was too late – a small, isolated room at the end of the corridor. The heavy open door loomed ahead like an invitation. Panic surged through her chest, but there was no turning back now. Her instincts screamed at her to flee, to find another way out, but her legs carried her forwards, into the dim light of the room.

The door slammed shut behind her.

She froze.

The room, that looked like a forgotten storage area, was empty except for some shelves, discarded crates and netting that smelt of old mildew. The walls felt like they were closing in on her, the air thick and close, the silence broken only by the sound of her ragged breathing. There was no way out. The windows were too small, the walls too strong, the door too solid.

And then, a sound. A faint click.

He had locked them in.

***

Excerpt from Blood Becoming: Halvyn Dawn by Gail Waterhouse. Copyright 2026 by Gail Waterhouse. Reproduced with permission from Gail Waterhouse. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Gail Waterhouse is a UK-based author of crime thrillers with a speculative edge. With a background in design, and an MA in Creative & Media Education, she writes grounded, character-driven stories that blend police procedural realism with darker, thought-provoking themes.

Her work explores near-future worlds shaped by scientific change and human consequence, where the line between the natural and unnatural begins to blur. Inspired by conversations about climate change and humanity’s future, her stories examine what we might become when survival demands evolution.

She lives in the North East of England.

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Facebook - @Gail Waterhouse - Author

 

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