COMING
FRIDAY
7 PM PST.
JOSEPH
BADAL
AUTHOR
OF:
When Bruno Pedace learns that his investment banking partners
are setting him up to take the fall for their own corrupt practices, he does
what he has always done—run away. But the documents he takes with him put a
target on his back. He changes his name and, for nine years, goes underground,
until an assassin tracks him down in California and badly injures him.
Befriended by Janet Jenkins, a courageous woman who works in a
battered women’s shelter, Bruno, for the first time in his life, with Janet’s
help, fights back. He constructs an ingenious financial scheme to get payback
for the crimes perpetrated by him, former partners.
Two drive-bys of the bungalow in El
Segundo in his wife’s Toyota van left Rasif Essam frustrated and angrier than
he was already. There was no vehicle in the gravel driveway on the side of the house,
no garage either. He could see no lights on inside. His left foot tattooed the
floorboard and his hands beat a riff on the steering wheel.
He thought I can’t wait around here forever. Some damned cop
might drive by and spot this van. He sorely wanted to punish Janet Jenkins.
He’d come to the point in his thinking that what had happened to his family was
all because of her. But, if she wasn’t home, he could still harass her; make
her sorry. He’d trash her shitty little house.
He parked the van in the lot of an Asian market and walked two
blocks back to the bungalow. After he eyeballed the houses on either side of
Jenkins’s place, to make certain there were no nosy neighbors, he fast-walked
down the driveway to the rear door, found it locked, and kicked it in. He
quickly went through the kitchen into a small dining room that opened onto a
living room.
Essam scoffed as he glanced around. “Nothing of value in here,”
he muttered. He moved toward the bottom of the staircase to the second floor,
when a shrill voice called from the top of the stairs, “Is that you, dear?”
Essam took in a big breath and charged upstairs.
Janet
was listening to KKGO radio when she heard her cell phone ring. She tried to
grab her purse, which had slid up against the passenger door, but couldn’t
quite reach it. I’ll deal with whoever it is when I get home, she thought. Then
she sang along with Carrie Underwood’s Jesus, Take the Wheel. She knew her
voice was professional quality and wondered what her life would have been like
if she’d moved to Nashville, rather than to L.A. She interrupted her singing,
blurted a laugh, and said, “Dream along with me.” Despite bumper-to-bumper
traffic, she was making decent time and hoped her mother had eaten the lunch
she’d left for her in the refrigerator. She then picked back up with Underwood.
“Who
are you?” Maybelle Jenkins cried her heart quickening, her breathing erratic.
“What are you doing in my house?”
The man grabbed her arm and dragged her to the bedroom at the
rear of the second floor.
“Stop it,” she yelled.
The man threw her on the bed, pointed a finger, and shouted,
“Where’s Janet Jenkins?”
“She’s not here.”
“I can see that, you old bitch. When will she be here?”
Maybelle shrugged and lied, “My daughter is out of town on
business.”
“You’re full of shit, old woman.”
She tried to stand, but the man slapped her and knocked her back
on the bed. She stared at the man and, for an instant, thought she saw her
former husband, Marvin. The guy had the same beady black eyes. Her stomach
burned and her heartbeat quickened even more.
“You wait here,” the man ordered. “You leave this room and I’ll
break your scrawny neck.” He walked out and closed the door after him.
Maybelle heard the clomp-clomp-clomp of his footfalls as he went
back downstairs. She took in a series of deep breaths to calm her heart, then
went to the window on the side of the back bedroom that overlooked the
driveway.
In “Justice,” Matt and Renee Curtis return, along with their
maniacal tormentor, Lonnie Jackson. On a trip to Costa Rica with their friends
Esteban and Alani Maldonado, Matt and Renee believe they are beyond Jackson’s
reach. But Jackson orchestrates the kidnapping of Renee and Alani and
transports them to his human trafficking headquarters in Nicaragua.
Matt and Esteban recruit former special operations soldiers
living in Costa Rica to help them rescue their wives.
As with all Badal’s novels, “Justice” is a bold and complex
thriller that weaves an intricate plot involving an international human
trafficking organization, the CIA, Washington, D.C. political leaders, corrupt
Central American politicians, Bulgarian organized crime figures, and a
compelling cast of engaging, inspiring, and diabolical characters.
The Curtis Chronicles saga is an epic series into the age-old
conflict between good and evil and will have you begging for more.
The pounding rhythm of her heartbeat
affirmed that she was still alive. But it no longer gave Miranda Sánchez comfort. It seemed to have evolved into an
alien creature that invaded her being drummed in her chest, neck, and ears; and
screamed to get out.
She gripped the
crucifix on the delicate silver chain around her neck and once again prayed for
salvation. Not for the deliverance of her soul—for which she had prayed
thousands of times in the cathedral in Ocotal—but for the rescue of her body .
. . and mind.
The sickening,
pale-yellow, muted light from a naked bulb provided just enough illumination to
see her hands. She stared down at her shadowed fist wrapped around the cross,
opened her fingers, and cringed at the filth under her fingernails and on the
back of her hand. The stench of human waste assailed her nostrils, and even
breathing through her mouth did little to allay the putrid odors.
Three days had
passed since she'd been allowed to bathe. Three days of hunger, threats, and
beatings because she resisted the man named Carlos.
She released the
symbol of her faith and dropped it between her breasts, beneath the coarse,
homespun fabric of her plain, soiled, once-white dress. The rag had fit tightly
on her full figure just one week earlier. It now draped over her like a
hand-me-down from an older, larger sister.
Miranda shifted on
the pallet set against the wall opposite the cell door, pressed her back
against the damp cement wall, and shivered. Despite the August heat and
humidity, the wall chilled her.
It took a
magnificent force of will, to laugh under the circumstances, but she forced out
a curt, cough-like chuckle, mocking herself for leaving her home in Nicaragua. Why
didn’t I listen to Mama?
“Miranda, only harm
will come to you for trying to better yourself,” Mama had said. But she couldn’t
stand the thought of looking like her mother—a worn-out drudge, a slave to a
system that offered no hope to poor women.
A sudden tap-tap-tap
interrupted her thoughts. Miranda cocked an ear. This was something new. She
tried to quiet her heart and still her breathing. There it was again—tap-tap-tap.
It seemed to come from the wall on her right.
She moved to all
fours, pushed off with her hands, and rose from the pallet. Suddenly
lightheaded, she leaned against the back wall. When the dizziness lessened, she
moved to her right, touched the cell’s sidewall, and waited for the tapping
sounds to come again. “Tap-tap-tap,” she whispered, thinking for a moment her
imagination was playing a game with her, mocking her, teasing the last of her
sanity from her terrified brain.
Maybe ten minutes
had gone by when she wailed a mournful, toneless hymn that careened off the
cell’s hard surfaces and drifted like morning mist through the small, barred
opening in the cell door. Miranda’s legs turned rubbery and she slid down the
wall to the floor. Tears flowed onto her crossed arms. Then she slowly rolled
to her side and scrunched herself into a fetal ball, making herself as small as
possible.
Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.
More rapid this time. Frantic.
Miranda uncurled
herself and scooted to face the sidewall. She removed a sandal and banged the
wall three times.
Ten seconds passed,
then the tap-tap-tap came again. The faint, feathery sound of a female voice
carried to her. The words were indecipherable, but not the tone. There was no
mistaking the high-pitched tone of fear.
Miranda felt
momentary exhilaration. She wasn’t alone. But then reality struck and she felt
more desperate than ever. Being here wasn’t an isolated incident. The man had
brought at least one other woman here. There could be dozens more. What did he
intend to do with her? To them?
Joseph
Badal is the author of 16 award-winning suspense novels, including Payback,
which was released on May 12. He has written four stand-alone novels and twelve
books comprising three series: the Danforth Saga, the Lassiter/Martinez Case
Files, and the Curtis Chronicles. He is an Amazon and Barnes & Noble
Best-Selling Author, a two-time winner of the Tony Hillerman Prize, a
three-time Military Writers Society of America Gold Medal Winner, and Eric
Hoffer Prize Winner, and a two-time “Finalist” in the International Book Awards
competition.
Joe is
a frequent speaker at a writer, civic, and business conferences, and has taught
several master classes in writing.
Prior
to his literary career, he served six years in the U.S. Army, including tours
of duty in Vietnam and Greece, from which he received numerous decorations.
After
his military service, he worked for thirty-six years in the banking &
finance industries and was a founding director and senior executive of a New
York Stock Exchange-listed company for sixteen years.
Joe is
a member of International Thrillers Writers, Sisters in Crime, Croak &
Dagger, Military Writers Society of America, Public Safety Writers Association,
and Southwest Writers Workshop.
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