Cold Rage by Toni Anderson

 

Title: Cold Rage

Series: Cold Justice - Most Wanted #8

Author: Toni Anderson

Genres: Romantic Thriller/Suspense

Tropes: Slow Burn, Forced Proximity

Release Date: September 21, 2026

BLURB

In the remote Montana wilderness, a child has vanished—and time is running out.

When a fugitive accused of murdering his ex-wife disappears into the Montana backcountry with his nine-year-old daughter, FBI Hostage Rescue Team sniper Sebastian Black leads an intensive manhunt, battling snowstorms and brutal terrain in a race against the clock.

National Park Service ranger and search-and-rescue specialist Nora Deacon knows the mountains better than anyone. Alongside her K9 partner, Chance, she’s determined to find the missing girl. Nora is achingly familiar with what can happen when a child falls into the wrong hands.

As the search narrows, Sebastian and Nora are forced to work together in a fight for survival as much as a rescue operation. The closer they get to their target, the more dangerous the situation becomes—and the harder it is to ignore the attraction burning between them.

With a blizzard closing in, a desperate fugitive growing increasingly unstable, and a young girl’s life hanging in the balance, they’ll have to risk everything to bring her home alive—even if it means confronting secrets they’ve both worked hard to bury.

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Toni Anderson writes heart-pounding Romantic Thrillers that blend high-stakes suspense with sizzling romance. A New York Times and USA Today bestselling author, her books have sold over three million copies and earned multiple awards—including the prestigious Daphne du Maurier Award.

A former marine biologist, Toni traded sea life for serial killers and now lives in the Canadian prairies, where she crafts stories of FBI agents, dangerous secrets, and unforgettable love.

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Dread

 

(Hades Abyss MC 15)

MC Romance

Date Published: September 25, 2026

Publisher: Changeling Press

I took an oath to save lives. Protecting Katy's more than that -- it's becoming personal.

Dread -- Nothing prepared me for finding a woman and her little girl stranded on the side of the highway. Katy’s terrified, exhausted, and hiding from something -- or someone. She keeps waiting for me to ask questions. I don’t need answers to know they need protection. The Hades Abyss Motorcycle Club takes care of its own. And whether she’s ready to admit it or not, Katy is already under my protection.

Katy -- Running was supposed to keep my daughter safe. Instead, it left us stranded with a broken SUV and nowhere to go. Then Dread pulled up. He’s gruff, stubborn, and impossible to push away. Every day I spend behind the gates of Hades Abyss makes it harder to remember why I should leave. Ellie finally feels safe, and my heart is starting to believe we might have found a home.

But the man I escaped isn’t finished with me. If he comes for us, I know he’ll discover the worst mistake of his life was threatening the woman Dread has claimed as his own.

Excerpt

Copyright ©2026 Harley Wylde

Katy

The highway stretched ahead like something half-melted, the asphalt rippling in the midday heat until the horizon disappeared into a silver wash. No shade. No cover. Just the sun beating down on two lanes of cracked blacktop and the thin strip of gravel shoulder where my SUV sat crippled, the rear end canted at a drunken angle, passenger-side tire blown and gone soft against the stones.

I’d already dragged the spare out from under the cargo hold, heavy and awkward in my hands, and positioned the jack as best I could. The metal base wobbled on the uneven gravel, finding purchase in small divots that shifted whenever I applied pressure. Not stable. Nothing about this was stable.

My fingers kept sliding off the lug wrench. The nuts were torqued down by some mechanic with gorilla hands and a pneumatic gun, or maybe years of highway vibration had fused them to the studs. Either way, the wrench handle grew slicker with every attempt, sweat coating my palms until the metal felt like it had been oiled. I wiped my hands on my shorts, left dark smears, tried again. The wrench turned a fraction of an inch before my grip failed. I adjusted, set my feet wider, and threw my weight into it. My arms shook. Not the fine tremor of fatigue -- a deep, structural quiver that started in my shoulders and ran down through my elbows to my wrists. Shaking that meant my body was running out of things to burn.

Ellie sat on the running board in the narrow strip of shade cast by the SUV’s open door, knees pulled up to her chest, arms wrapped around her shins. Her light brown hair was dark with sweat at the roots, plastered in damp curls against her neck. She watched me with a small, tight frown that didn’t belong on a seven-year-old’s face.

“Are we going to be late?” she asked.

“No, sweetie. We’re not in a hurry,” I said.

“Does it hurt your hands?”

“It’s just a little hard to turn, that’s all.”

“How much longer?” she asked.

“Not long. Almost done.”

Each answer came out in a steady voice I didn’t recognize, a measured calm that lived nowhere near the hollow panic pulling taut inside me. The heat was warping my vision. The horizon kept tilting -- a slow, nauseating roll through my skull, like the world was trying to tip itself over. I planted my feet harder. The gravel shifted under my sneakers.

I got the first lug nut loose after three tries, the wrench finally catching and turning with a metallic shriek that cut through the thick air. The second came easier. My shirt clung to my back, soaked through at the shoulder blades and along my spine. The ponytail I’d tied that morning hung heavy against my neck, the elastic digging a wet groove into my scalp.

The third nut wouldn’t budge. I leaned into the wrench until my body was at a forty-five-degree angle, heels digging into gravel, and felt something give -- not the nut, but the jack. It shifted sideways with a scrape of metal on stone, and the SUV dropped half an inch. I jerked back, heart hammering, and pressed my hand to the hot quarter panel to steady myself. The metal burned. I left it there. The sharpness helped me focus, at least. Something I could feel besides the heat and the fear.

Ellie said my name. Just “Mom,” soft and careful -- the tone she used when she was scared but trying not to show it.

“It’s fine,” I told her. “We’re fine. Almost done.”

I wasn’t almost done. The jack needed resetting. I crouched beside it, my knees popping, and wrestled the base into a new position, digging shallow trenches in the gravel with the edge of my palm. The metal was hot enough to raise a blister. I didn’t check. Sweat ran into my eyes, stinging, and I wiped it away with the back of my wrist, leaving a streak of grit across my forehead.

Back to the wrench. I braced one foot against the tire itself for leverage, wrapped both hands around the handle, and pulled. My shoulders screamed. The nut turned -- a quarter inch, then nothing. I repositioned, pulled again. Another quarter. The progress was measured in fractions, each one costing more than the last.

The fourth nut came free suddenly, the wrench spinning loose and nearly catching me across the shin. I stumbled back, caught myself on the bumper, and stood there breathing hard. The air felt thick enough to chew. My lungs worked and nothing changed.

One nut left. The last one.

I set the wrench, lined it up with shaking hands, and threw everything I had into the turn. My vision grayed at the edges. Not a gentle fade -- a hard, sudden dimming, like someone had turned a dial on the world’s brightness. The gravel tilted under me. I let go of the wrench and dropped into a crouch, head down between my knees, hands braced on my patellas. Breathe. Just breathe.

Ellie said something I couldn’t make out through the blood pounding in my ears.

“I’m okay,” I said, or tried to say. The words came out strained and hollow. “One second.”

The gray receded slowly, pulling back from the edges of my sight like water draining from a tub. I stayed crouched until the gravel stopped moving, then pushed myself upright using the bumper for support. My legs felt like they’d been filled with wet sand.

The last nut was still there. The jack wobbled on its uneven perch. The spare lay in the dirt where I’d dropped it, the tread pattern filling with fine dust.

Almost done.

I wasn’t almost done.

* * *

The sound reached me before I saw the source -- gravel crunching under wide tires, a slow, deliberate roll that didn’t belong to a highway-speed vehicle. I turned, wrench still clutched in my right hand, and watched a weathered gray pickup ease onto the shoulder behind my SUV.

The engine cut. A door opened.

The man who stepped out was large. Not just tall -- though he was that, well over six feet -- but built through the shoulders and chest in a way that suggested strength accumulated over decades rather than sculpted in a gym. Dark hair, gray at the temples. Plain gray T-shirt, faded jeans, boots that had seen actual use. And over it all, a black leather vest lined with patches I couldn’t read from where I stood, except for the largest one across the back: HADES ABYSS in white letters that caught the sun.

I straightened. My body moved before my brain caught up -- one step sideways, placing myself directly between him and the open door where Ellie sat. The wrench handle dug into my palm. I didn’t set it down.

He stopped a few yards away. Not advancing. Hands at his sides, visible, relaxed. His eyes -- steel blue, I registered distantly -- moved over me in a single pass that felt nothing like being looked at. Precise. Evaluating. Missing nothing: flushed face, sweat-soaked shirt, the slight tremor in my stance I couldn’t hide anymore. Then his gaze shifted to Ellie, the same evaluation compressed into seconds, gentler around the edges but no less thorough.

“Shay Thomas,” he said. His voice was calm. Level. No urgency in it. “Most people call me Dread. I’m a doctor.”

I said nothing. The heat pressed down between us, heavy and silent.

“Both of you need to get out of this heat right now.” He didn’t phrase it as a question. Didn’t soften it with a please or cushion it with reassurance. He turned, walked to his passenger door, and pulled it open. Cold air poured out in a visible wave, carrying the faint smell of leather and clean air underneath. The vents were already running, aimed at the seat.

I didn’t move. The wrench was still in my hand, my knuckles white around it.

He didn’t push. Didn’t repeat himself or step closer or try to reason with me. He stood beside the open door, one hand resting on the frame, and waited. The patience in him carried its own force -- steady, unhurried, taking up exactly as much space as he needed and not an inch more.

A bead of sweat traced the line of my spine from nape to tailbone. My vision pulsed once, gently, the gray creeping back along the periphery. The heat made the decision. I set the wrench down in the gravel, turned to Ellie, offered my free hand, and said, “Come on, baby. Just for a minute.”

She slid off the running board and took my hand. Her fingers were small and hot. I guided her to the truck, one step at a time, my legs functioning on some last reserve of strength I hadn’t known was there. The cold hit us in layers -- first my face, then my chest, then a full-body shock that made the sweat on my skin go instantly clammy. Ellie made a small sound, almost a whimper, and pressed against my side.

Dread closed the door behind us and circled to the driver’s side. He didn’t get in. Instead, he crouched in the open doorway, bringing himself to eye level with me where I sat in the passenger seat. Close enough to reach, far enough to leave space.

He took my wrist without asking, two fingers pressed against the inside pulse point. His hand was cool and dry. He held for a count I couldn’t follow, then released and pressed the back of his hand to my forehead. The touch lasted three seconds, maybe four.

“How long have you been out here?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Half hour. Maybe more.”

“When did you last have water?” he asked.

“This morning. In the car.”

“Are you nauseated?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Lightheaded?”

“Yes.”

He nodded once, no change in expression, and turned to Ellie. She had shrunk back against the seat, knees drawn up, watching his hands with wide eyes. Not scared, exactly. Cautious, watching him with the wariness of a creature that hadn’t decided about him yet.

“What’s your name?” he asked her. His voice dropped, not to the singsong adults use with children, but quieter. More contained.

“Ellie,” she said, barely above a whisper.

“Hi, Ellie. I’m Shay. Does your tummy feel okay?”

She thought about it. Nodded.

“Head hurt?”

Small shake.

“Throat dry?”

Nod.

He reached into the center console and pulled out a bottle of water. Not cold -- room temperature, the sort that had been sitting in a vehicle for a while -- but he twisted off the cap and handed it to her without offering it to me first. Smart. She took two careful sips, then passed it to me. I drank. The water tasted like plastic and salvation.

Dread watched us both, his gaze moving between my face and Ellie’s with the same measured attention. When I lowered the bottle, he took it back, recapped it, and set it in the cup holder.

“Stay here,” he said. “Both of you. Don’t get out until I come back.”

He closed the door. Through the windshield, I watched him walk to my SUV, crouch beside the jack and pick up the lug wrench I’d left lying in the dirt. He examined it for half a second, then set to work.

Ellie’s hand found mine under the edge of the seat. Her fingers were cool now, the heat leaching out of them in the blast of AC. I squeezed once, gently, and didn’t let go.

* * *

I watched him through the windshield. Dread moved with the ease of someone who’d done something ten thousand times and stopped counting -- each motion flowing into the next without hesitation or wasted effort. He positioned the jack with two adjustments, tested the base with his boot, and nodded once to himself. He closed his hand around my lug wrench, the same one that had nearly broken me, and started in with easy, practiced turns.

The first nut came loose in his hand like it had been waiting for permission. He set it on the hub cap, and glanced at the other four, already in a neat row where I’d left them -- the only things I’d managed before my grip gave out. No straining on his end. No throwing his weight into it. Just the smooth turn of a wrench in capable hands, one clean rotation, and he lifted the flat tire away as if it weighed nothing.

Ellie pressed against my side, her shoulder tucked under my arm, both of us slowly cooling off in the blast of AC. The cold had stopped feeling like a shock and started feeling like a state my body remembered -- a baseline it had forgotten existed. My shirt was still damp, but the fabric had gone from soaked to merely clammy, and the trembling in my arms had subsided to a faint, background hum I could almost ignore.

Dread rolled the spare into position, lined up the holes, and lifted. The tire settled onto the studs with a solid thunk. He replaced the lug nuts by hand first, tightening each one finger-tight in a star pattern, then reached for the wrench. Five rotations per nut, same star pattern, each turn measured and even. No guesswork. No testing. He knew exactly how tight they needed to be.

When the last nut was set, he lowered the jack in a smooth, controlled drop. The SUV dropped onto its new tire with a creak of suspension. Done. From blown flat to roadworthy in less time than it had taken me to loosen two nuts.

But he didn’t straighten up and wave us over. Didn’t dust his hands and head back to the truck. He crouched beside the rear wheel well instead, one hand braced against the quarter panel, and ran his other palm along the hub behind the new spare. His fingers traced a flaw I couldn’t see from inside the cab. He went still. Not the pause of a man thinking -- the complete, motionless freeze of someone who has found exactly what they were looking for, and it wasn’t good.

He stood, wiped his hands on a rag pulled from his truck bed, and walked back to the passenger window. I rolled it down. The heat rushed in, a wall of wet air that made the cold from the vents feel suddenly artificial.

“Wheel bearing’s shot,” he said. No lead-in. No cushion. His expression hadn’t changed -- same level gaze, same measured delivery -- but the words landed like stones. “You’ve got a spare on, but this vehicle isn’t safe to drive. Another mile, maybe less, and you’ll lose that wheel entirely.”

I felt my jaw tighten. The muscles along the back of my neck locked. “How bad?”

“Not a roadside fix. Needs a shop. New bearing, possibly a new hub assembly depending on how long it’s been failing.” He paused, giving me time to absorb it, then continued in the same flat tone. “Driving it risks more than a second flat. At speed, a wheel separation could roll the vehicle.”

I looked at Ellie. She was watching me, not him, her gaze tracking the minute shifts in my expression with the hypervigilance of a child who’s learned to read the weather in her mother’s face. I smoothed my features by force. Smiled at her -- or tried to. My mouth felt stiff with it.

Then I looked back at Dread.

The SUV sat twenty feet away, rear end now level on its spare tire, looking deceptively whole. Everything we owned was packed inside it. Clothes in trash bags and suitcases. Ellie’s stuffed animals in a pillowcase. My laptop and the external drive with five years of tax records and every photo I’d ever taken of her. The box of granola bars and bottled waters I’d stockpiled for the drive. The map folded in the glove box with three possible destinations circled in pen, none of them committed to, because commitment meant permanence and permanence meant he could find us.

Now the vehicle itself had become the threat. The thing I’d trusted to carry us away was falling apart underneath us, and the man telling me so stood at my window with the patience of someone who delivered bad news for a living and had long since stopped being surprised by how people took it.

My hands went still in my lap. Fingers interlaced, thumbs pressing against each other. A pose I’d held in hospital waiting rooms and police stations and the driver’s seat of a different car five years ago, watching the rearview mirror for headlights that didn’t belong.

Ellie leaned against me. Her body was slight, barely there, but having her against me quieted some of the panic. She tipped her head back and looked up at me, her blue-gray eyes clear and untroubled by anything except the question forming on her lips.

“What happens now?” she asked.

The air conditioning hummed. Dread waited at the window, hands resting on the frame, his expression giving away nothing. Beyond the glass, the highway stretched empty in both directions, heat rippling off the blacktop in waves that made the horizon waver and dissolve.

I didn’t have an answer.

 

About the Author

Harley Wylde is an accomplished author known for her captivating MC Romances. With an unwavering commitment to sensual storytelling, Wylde immerses her readers in an exciting world of fierce men and irresistible women. Her works exude passion, danger, and gritty realism, while still managing to end on a satisfying note each time.

When not crafting her tales, Wylde spends her time brainstorming new plotlines, indulging in a hot cup of Starbucks, or delving into a good book. She has a particular affinity for supernatural horror literature and movies. Visit Wylde's website to learn more about her works and upcoming events, and don't forget to sign up for her newsletter to receive exclusive discounts and other exciting perks.

 

Author on Facebook, Instagram, & TikTok: @harleywylde

 

Publisher on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok: @changelingpress

 

Pre-Order Today

This is Halloween

 

This is Halloween
Sarah Branson
(A Blue Spruce Hills Novella)
Publication date: September 17th 2026
Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance

Midwife. Halloween. A Pennsylvania hill town. A ghost with an agenda. A historian with patient eyes.

Jules Lockwood, nurse-midwife and family nurse practitioner, wants two years of loan forgiveness and a one-way ticket to Australia. Her obstacle: a town that keeps finding reasons to need her.

Eli Matthews, Blue Spruce Hills town historian, is the kind of man who came back when it mattered and stayed. He brings coffee every morning without being asked.

Agnes Bell, midwife, 1856 to 1931, has been waiting in Blue Spruce Hills since her death for the right pair of hands to pass her work to. She has found them. She is not subtle about it.

On Halloween night, when the veil between past and present is at its thinnest, everything Jules came to Blue Spruce Hills to avoid arrives at once.

This Is Halloween delivers the satisfaction of a woman choosing herself and her work on her own terms, a slow-burn romance that earns every moment, and a ghost story that will make you wish you could have known Agnes Bell.

• small town romance
• ghost mentor
• found community
• slow burn
• woman finding home
• past and present collide
• reluctant to stay
• Halloween setting
• professional woman romance
• haunted by the past (literal)
• second chance at belonging

Heat level: closed door
Series: Blue Spruce Hills, Book 1 — standalone, complete story, no cliffhanger
POV: third person limited, Jules
Tense: past
Setting: small Pennsylvania town, October through May
Comp titles: The House in the Cerulean Sea; Beach Read; A Discovery of Witches
Content notes: pregnancy and birth depicted (clinical, not graphic); brief mention of historical pregnancy loss (off-page); deployment/absent spouse (minor character)

Goodreads / Amazon

—

EXCERPT:

Juliet “Jules” Lockwood had sworn exactly six times since leaving the highway and crossing the Blue Spruce Hills town line. All six had been silent. All six had been necessary.

She pulled her Subaru into the gravel lot beside the Blue Spruce Hills Community Clinic and sat there longer than necessary, hands wrapped around the steering wheel like the car might attempt escape without her. Outside, the October sky was an intense blue with a few white clouds scudding across it. A carved pumpkin grinned from the clinic’s front step. Orange lights shaped like leaves were looped around the porch railing. Just up the street, a plastic skeleton swung from a telephone pole, rotating haphazardly in the wind.

Jules stared at the skeleton. The skeleton appeared to stare back.

She opened the car door, stepped out onto the gravel, closed her eyes, and took a deep inhale. Wood smoke and baked goods, harvest-sweet with cinnamon and nutmeg. It was, Jules thought grimly, aggressively charming. She took a step and nearly collided with a man holding a cardboard tray of coffee.

“Oh! Sorry!” he said, immediately steadying both the tray and her elbow with equal care. He was tall and laid back, with dark hair that the wind had done something unrequested to and kind brown eyes, soft and patient, the sort of eyes that suggested the person behind them listened when you talked. He wore a canvas jacket the color of cedar bark and was smiling with the easy confidence of someone who had nowhere to be and was fine with that. “You must be Jules.”

She froze. This was… unfortunate. Because those eyes were going to be a problem. She recognized his type immediately, the way one would recognize a load-bearing wall, structural and quiet, that the whole room organizes itself around without anyone quite noticing. Those eyes reflected the sort of steadiness that belonged to men who stayed. She had believed that about someone once. Believed it comprehensively and inconveniently, and at considerable personal expense. Never again.

“I’m Eli Matthews,” he said, and held out the coffee tray. “Town historian and unofficial town greeter. I brought options. Decaf, regular, and one with oat milk, because the clinic called ahead and…” he paused, reconsidering his own sentence, “okay, I asked Margaret at the post office, who asked Clara at the bakery, who said she had heard that you’d mentioned oat milk to someone at the gas station in Lehighton.”

Jules stared at the tray. “That’s a significant intelligence operation for a cup of coffee.”

He smiled, a little sheepishly. “Small town. We have patterns.” He glanced at the pumpkin on the porch. “Also, it’s October. We take hospitality seriously in October.”

She reached for the oat milk coffee. Behind her, someone cleared their throat very distinctly — the throat-clearing of someone who had been waiting a respectable amount of time and was now done waiting. Jules’s hand tightened around the cup.

She recognized that sound. She knew it the way she knew a change in barometric pressure, in her teeth, at the base of her skull, in the specific cold that moved along her spine when something was present that had no business being present.

Absolutely not. I am not doing ghosts again.

She turned slowly.

Author Bio:

Award-winning feminist speculative fiction author Sarah Branson spent close to thirty years as a midwife before turning to fiction, writing tales of action, adventure, revenge, and romance rooted in the strength and resiliency of the human spirit. Her New Earth universe imagines a future where diversity of identity is simply the texture of life, with honors including the 2022 Kindle Book Award for science fiction, the 2025 Wishing Shelf Book Award Gold Medal for A Pirates' Pact, and a Foreword Indie Award Honorable Mention for For the Love of Glitter. Her two newest releases expand beyond New Earth: This Is Halloween, a cozy women's fiction novella in the Blue Spruce Hills series (September 17, 2026), and Life Ends, Love Remains: A Revolutionary Ghost Story, a literary paranormal novel set in Ridgefield, Connecticut (early October 2026). Sarah lives with her husband in Connecticut.

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GIVEAWAY!

This is Halloween Blitz

—

KILLER FRIENDS

 

This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. Chris Karlsen will be awarding a $20 Amazon/BN gift card to a randomly drawn winner. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

Henrietta Newell stormed into the detective bureau. She claimed her adult son was missing and feared for his safety. The detectives attempted to reassure her that the absence of a bachelor in his thirties, in a city like London, wasn’t extraordinary. Despite their efforts, she insisted an investigation be conducted, reminding them of her political connections.

Detective Rudyard Bloodstone and his partner were told to look into the matter. Their investigation reveals evidence of suspicious and unusual activity but no clues regarding the man’s disappearance. The few leads they develop take them from the world of wealthy families and into the secret society of sexual peculiarities.

The detectives discover the victim didn’t simply disappear. He was murdered. They have the evidence except for one problem, they’re missing the victim’s body.

Read an Excerpt

Newell counted to one hundred out of excess of caution in case Eric and Leo remained nearby. At one-hundred he stood by the door, delayed for a couple of seconds, searching for a way to open the door. His vision, cut off by the bag when they hustled him into the room, he was unaware the knob had been removed.

Newell kicked the lock housing. The door didn’t budge. He took a few steps back to build momentum and kicked the lock again. The force knocked him on his bum and sent a shock wave of pain from his ankle to his knee. He scrambled to his feet and, gave his kicking leg a few good jerks, hoping to shake off the pain. He couldn’t say why he thought that would help other than he’d seen workmen shake limbs after hurting themselves.

The effort didn’t ease the pain. No point in repeating another kick. He took the only option left and screamed for help.

No one came.

Outside, drunks shouted challenges and curses to each other. London was never truly quiet. The seedier the neighborhood, the louder the inhabitants. Foot traffic along the river was constant, increasing during the day, but still busy at night. Surely, someone should hear him. He yelled, loud as he could.

Nothing.

He shouted for help again and again.

No one came.

Newell’s throat felt like he’d swallowed broken glass when he finally stopped for the night. Exhausted, he curled up on the cold floor and tried to sleep. Every part of his back ached. Shoulders to his tailbone throbbed like he’d been beaten with an iron rod. The pain traveled and no matter how he positioned himself, his calves and thighs cramped. When he had found a sliver of comfort, rest continued to escape him. Questions plagued his thoughts. After a while he sat up with his arms wrapped around his knees and his head pressed to them.

Another gust of fetid air from the river wafted through the only window. Three millennia of foul matter, human and otherwise, hung like a cloud over the room. He idly wondered if there was ever a time the Thames wasn’t a filthy cesspit.

“Bloody hell.” To escape the worst of the stink, Newell moved to the far corner and slid down the wall to sit on the floor.

Initially, with all the daytime activity around the river, Newell didn’t think Eric could keep him prisoner for long. Someone would discover what Eric had done. A day passed and then another passed. He still hoped he’d be heard. He removed a shoe and pounded the wall that bordered the wharf. Between hits he and screamed and screamed, “Help me, please. Someone, help me. I’m locked inside. Help me.”

No one heard or if they did, they had no desire to heed the call. Still, someone should’ve been curious enough to investigate but who knew how thick the brick walls were? Eric was clever. It wouldn’t surprise Phillip if Eric had tested how well a scream traveled.

Newell lay in a fetal position on the floor, shivering. He began to sob as he waited for Eric’s return, waiting to beg for release. He was weeping when Eric finally arrived.

About the Author:

Chris is a Chicago native who grew up with a love of history and books.

Passionate about traveling her travels have taken her Europe, the Near East, and North Africa, in addition to most of the United States.

Chris spent twenty-five years in law enforcement with two agencies. Harboring a strong desire to write, upon retiring, Chris decided to pursue her desire. She writes three different series. Her Bloodstone series, which is set in Victorian London, features homicide Detective Rudyard Bloodstone.

She currently lives in the Pacific Northwest with her husband and four wild and crazy rescue dogs.

Website: https://www.chriskarlsen.com/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/chris.karlsen.90
Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FZ5ZJ39T
Barnes and Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/killer-friends-books-to-go-now/1148667244
KOBO: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/killer-friends-2
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/243484020-killer-friends
Audible: https://www.audible.com/pd/Killer-Friends-Audiobook/B0FXDQDL9B

 Giveaway:  https://kingsumo.com/g/mn5j0xm/killer-friends 

UNLADYLIKE

 

This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. Regina Louise will be awarding a $25 Amazon/BN GC to a randomly drawn winner. Click on a tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

Unladylike: A Mythopoetic Reclamation of Love is a lyrical collection of poetry and prose exploring love, survival, embodiment, and the journey of returning to the self. Blending literary poetry with personal reflection, Regina Louise examines relationships, identity, trauma, healing, and the process of reclaiming one's voice after loss and betrayal.

Through intimate poems and essays, Unladylike maps the emotional terrain between heartbreak and self-discovery, inviting readers into a deeply human exploration of resilience, self-love, and personal transformation. Her work speaks to readers interested in emotional healing, spiritual growth, women's voices, and the reclamation of dignity through storytelling and creative expression.

Rooted in mythopoetic inquiry and lived experience, this collection moves through memory, desire, grief, and repair, offering language for those navigating change, recovery, and the search for meaning. Unladylike is both an artistic work and an invitation-to witness oneself honestly and to return to what was always there.

Read an Excerpt

Teeth Jewelry

I didn’t take it lying down—
my legs spread eagle, leaking,
like a broke-back Aphrodite,
or Erzulie Freda dispossessed of her longing.

The way you uninvited me
to the wedding—
I’d planned for two months to attend.

Fresh out of a group home,
I was certain I would arrive.
I showed up at your front door.
My hair set in Jada curls—
edges swooped in,
baby hairs laid down—
two hours under a hot-ass dryer
to get them right.

Your brother answered,
fraudulence jutting from his eyes,
said you weren’t home. Yet.
What about the black and champagne
Bentley in your driveway?
Your hubcapped feet, your only wheels.
It belonged to the girl from Baldwin Hills.
Eyes same color as mine.
Her daddy was a doctor.
Yours ran a dojo.

I took my financial aid money,
got myself a crepe de chine
Norma Kamali mini dress—
on sale, sale, sale at I. Magnin.
Fishnet pantyhose.

My first manicure—
to dig desolation from beneath
my dirty fingernails,
just to look respectable.

In pointed-toe flats,

I kicked and scratched my way
through the door,
two stairs at a time.

I followed my knowing into your lair.
My right hook, a javelin.
I threw a punch at your face—
a black belt trophy, barely missed.
You were fifth degree.

My jaw dislocated instantly
from the butt of your palm.

She ran for her life.
I ran into your fury.
And then—
my skin tore
you bit my face,
my arms,
the tops of my hands,
my wrists
my neck,
my bicep,

my shoulders,
the soles of my hands.

Clad in a blusa campesina,
a peasant shirt, off-the-shoulder,
in technicolor—my flesh on parade
fresh with the imprint of your
Central, lateral incisors.
Canines.

I returned to my social work theory seminar.

I wore your teeth jewelry
like a queen.

A gypsy skirt sashayed my hips.

I wore ankle bracelets
with fake gold coins
and fabricated seashells.

Everyone heard me coming.

I returned from Spring Break
baptized in a pain so exquisite,
one might mistake it
or all of who I was.

No matter.

I got my licks in, too.
Not just for me—
but for Tina Turner.
And all the rest of us
who stayed—
wired to do so.

About the Author:

Regina Louise is a poet, writer, teacher, speaker, executive coach, whose work explores the intersection of memory, belonging, identity, and emotional liberation. The author of three books—two of which have been adapted for film: Somebody’s Someone, Someone Has Led This Child to Believe and Permission Granted: Kick Ass Strategies to Bootstrap your Way to Unconditional Self-Love—she has spent more than three decades helping people transform adversity into authorship through story, self-inquiry, and radical compassion.

A senior teacher with the Hoffman Process, Regina is known for guiding profound conversations about restoring dignity, resilience, attachment, and the art of becoming fully oneself. Whether on stage, in classrooms, behind a microphone, or in intimate workshop settings, she invites audiences to reimagine the stories that have shaped their lives and discover the freedom that awaits beyond them.

Her forthcoming collection, Unladylike: A Mythopoetic Reclamation of Love (September 2026), marks her debut poetry collection. Blending poetry, lyrical prose, and aphoristic reflections, it is a fearless meditation on love, loss, self-possession, and the sacred work of returning home to oneself.

Regina Louise lives in California, where she continues to write, teach, and create work that honors the transformative power of language to restore dignity, deepen connection, and reclaim what has always belonged to us.

Website: http://www.therealreginalouise.com
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/therealreginalouise
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/regina.louise.5/
Bookshop.org: https://bookshop.org/p/books/unladylike-a-mythopoetic-reclamation-of-love-regina-louise/b4379cc65cf1293b
Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/stores/author/B001IQXN7M

 

Giveaway: https://kingsumo.com/g/107xkx3/unladylike-bbt  

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.

Catch Up With Dani Pettrey:

DaniPettrey.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads - @danipettrey
BookBub - @DaniPettrey
Instagram - @authordanipettrey
Pinterest - @danipettrey
Facebook - @DaniPettrey

 

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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.

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