THE LAST DOOR, AJAR by Michael Holly Barrett Excerpt & Giveaway

This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. Michael Holly Barrett will be awarding a $10 Amazon/BN gift card to a randomly drawn winner. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

It is 1945. The infamous Max Smartz, superspy; Eva Braun, wife of Adolf Hitler; Joseph Goebbels, propaganda minister; and Otto Klugg, intelligence officer, do not die at the end of World War II, but trick the guards in the Fuhrerbunker tunnels, allowing them to make their escape. Their escape plan is to reach war-neutral Southern Ireland, where Maxwell Smartz has an established base and is familiar with rural south Kerry and its people. They evade capture and eventually reach France. Here, they meet with a good friend and colleague, an undercover agent called Maurice Le Blanc, who asks them to assist him in retrieving some stolen gold bars.

After finding the fortune, the friends attempt to retrieve it in an old Dutch van but are continually thwarted and risk losing everything. To complicate matters, they learn that Max's brother, Victor, has been incarcerated in the notorious Spandau prison and is being tried for Nazi war crimes. They hatch a plot to save him, but is it worth the danger of going back to Berlin and being caught?

Read an Excerpt

Joseph Goebbels was a German Nazi politician who joined the Nazi party in 1933. He rose to the ranks of Propaganda Minister and Minister of Culture. He was not very tall and had a clubbed foot, which never stopped him thinking big and walking tall. Culture was fine by Goebbels as long as it was German culture, pure Aryan. His henchmen, the Nazis, would gladly kick the shit out of anyone with the slightest notion of foreign culture other than the ‘Only true German culture’. He was responsible for all publicity, films, art, books and newsreels that only showed the best of all that was German. Magda, his wife, was four years younger than him and was an avid supporter of Nazism, and a good friend of both Hitler and his wife, Eva. Eva was quoted as saying, ‘She, Magda, had no compunction about killing her six children, she feared for their safety if they continued to live’. Joseph Goebbels was a brilliant orator; his speeches were full of passion and fire for the Germany he so loved. Hitler loved his friend, Joseph, and his great enthusiasm for rousing the people into action. Now things had changed dramatically — they were losing the war, everything that could go wrong, went wrong The Yanks, English and Russians were all racing towards Berlin looking for scalps, and Joseph, Magda, Hitler and Eva made an unwritten pact not to allow that to happen. They would deny the intruders the pleasure of rolling heads, they were intent on spoiling the party for the allied army.

About the Author: My humble beginnings in a terrace house with an outdoor toilet and indoor rats. The drinking water was got from a public pump in the street. We were all sailing in the Titanic,Third Class, but we were not aware of anything better. We had so much fun, swimming in the river. As kids we had wonderful imaginations.The only luxuries we ever saw were in the Cinema, usually American films, people smoking and drinking alcohol.

Everyone in the town of County Cork, Ireland seemed to be in the same boat; we made the best of it until the swinging sixties came along and changed everything. In spite of our poverty, I managed to get a College education. But opportunities were as scarce as rich Uncles. The Christian Brothers were brutal, and handy with the cane, in National School. I was lucky like many fellows my own age to get an apprenticeship as a diesel mechanic. Soon developed a taste for Alcohol, and got into trouble pretty soon, was lucky again to find A.A. and get my act together in 1978.

My hero died in 1977, Elvis Presley, the music stopped, the sixties was over, the Beatles were broken up, CCR, too. So getting sober was the best thing to do, under the miserable circumstances. I got a job as a Pipe Welder with ASME 1X certificate and began working around Europe, finally settling in warm Spain, Barcelona and met a Catalunya woman. Started writing for the first time, mostly comedies, Peter Sellers style, another hero of mine.

This is my second published book, I also self published earlier works Like ,'Gorilla Days in Ireland' by Michael Barrett, on Amazon. The Frankie Stein Enigma, and others, I paint oil and acrylic pictures, write mountains of poetry, sing and play the guitar.

' I do just about everything, that doesn't make any money for me.' But love doing what I do, writing poetry is mind stimulating, energising.

My favourite actors are William Holden, Warren Oates, Gregory Peck, and favourite detective the great Peter Falk in Columbo, a genius and Clouseau, Peter Sellers, and Peter Ustinov.

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Everything You've Ever Wanted by Jess Ames Excerpt & Giveaway

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

Jenna Mitchell has spent her adult life under the control of her husband, her dreams of owning her own bakery pushed aside. But at twenty-eight, she's finally ready to reclaim her life and pursue her passion. Well… almost.

With the unwavering support of the Sensational Six—her close-knit group of friends—Jenna can finally envision a day where she is in charge of her own destiny, a big step forward for her. As she works at her friend’s café, Jenna begins to discover the strength and courage she needs to break free from her past and begin focusing on her future.

But can she quiet the echoes that keep finding their way back to her? Will the doubts they’ve created make it impossible for her to see—and trust—the path forward before her chance at a better life slips through her flour-dusted fingers?

Fans of Rachel Hanna will enjoy this warm and uplifting story about self-discovery, finding the courage to start anew, and the unbreakable bonds of chosen family.

Read an Excerpt

Since then, I'd been working hard to plan out the pastries that would make up the breakfasts at her writers' retreats. After months of planning and prep, they were finally starting up the following weekend. The Sensational Six had jumped into action and helped Paige put the whole thing together in a matter of a few months. It was incredible, and I was honored to be a part of it.

I'd worked hard and had proven myself, and I wouldn't let Craig ruin that for me. I felt safer with him behind bars. Safer than I'd ever felt (outside of weekends with my grandma when I was a child).

I took a lap around the apartment, trying to cool myself down a little bit. I took in everything I’d done to make the place mine in the last few weeks. I had hung white sheers and topped them with sunshine-yellow valances. The cushion on the white rattan couch that came with the apartment had been re-covered with a yellow slipcover and bright white and navy throw pillows lounged along the back. The framed prints I had found in the local thrift stores surrounded it nicely, and complemented the Iceland landscape painting centered above it that Cat had brought back from her travels and gave me when I’d moved in. “To remind you of the great big world that’s out there waiting for you,” she’d said. As I stopped to look at it, vibrant green mountains complete with a waterfall flowing into an otherwise still pool. I doubted I’d ever be brave enough to travel that far, and I admired Cat even more because she was.

I smiled at the thought, then sat back down at the table and slid my grandmother’s recipe book onto my lap. Thumbing the edges of pages I knew by heart, I flipped to one that held a memory that was equal parts fond and painful. Lavender cupcakes. The last thing we ever baked together.

About the Author:

Jess Ames is knocking on the door of fifty, but has the sense of humor of a twelve year old and the body of a fifty-four-year-old (according to her fitness app). She is “mama” to nine, “mimi” to four, “friend” to all, an adequate wife, and living the dream of the little girl who wanted to be a writer when she grew up.

They are both still waiting for that moment, so she’s writing in the meantime.

Website: https://JessAmesAuthor.com
Facebook: http://www.Facebook.com/JessAmesAuthor
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Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Everything-Youve-Wanted-Clearwater-Dreams-ebook/dp/B0D9FMKVTQ
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Unspoken Words by Linda Joyce Excerpt & Giveaway

Unspoken Words
Linda Joyce
Publication date: April 22nd 2025
Genres: Adult, Women’s Fiction

What happens when the truth you’ve hidden becomes the key to your greatest fear—and your greatest hope?

For years, Jane Landry has carried a secret that could break hearts and heal them all at once. Her son, Christopher Marcus, is the light of her life—but he’s also the boy no one knows about. Not his father, her ex-husband Mark, nor his wife Maggie, or his sister Suzanne, Jane’s best friends from childhood. Now, with a cancer diagnosis threatening her future, Jane must summon the courage to confess her secret. She prays they’ll embrace Christopher as family before time runs out.

But just as Jane takes the first step, tragedy strikes—Mark is killed in an accident after learning he has a son. The devastating loss leaves Jane grappling with how to face Maggie and Suzanne, the two women she’s avoided for years but now desperately needs. Her truth risks alienating them, yet the stakes are higher than ever. Christopher needs a home. Jane needs to know her boy will be loved when she’s no longer there to protect him.

As Jane uncovers the secrets Maggie and Suzanne have been hiding, she realizes she’s not the only one carrying the weight of the past. Old wounds, unexpected betrayals, and the search for forgiveness weave together in a story about love, loss, and the lengths we’ll go to for family.

Set against the vivid backdrop of New Orleans, Unspoken Words explores the messy, beautiful journey of redemption and the bonds that hold us together—even when stretched to their breaking point.

Discover a story that will break your heart, heal your soul, and stay with you long after the final page.

Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks / Kobo

—

EXCERPT:

Katrina had destroyed my city in August of 2005. Afterward, she huffed away like a diva without a backward glance. Her coming and going from the city I loved had proved more dramatic than my own.

I paid the cabbie for the wild ride and then stood on the sidewalk in front of the entrance to the mausoleum. My hands shook when I slipped the strap of my purse over my shoulder. My knees wobbled, but I remained upright. My heart thudded like a bass drum in a second line parade.

Thudding so hard it cut off my breath. Paralyzed, I stood in the merciless Louisiana sun.

Humidity clung to my skin like olive oil on a sweet potato before roasting in the oven. My reflection in the mausoleum’s glass doors showed a tidy dress, tidy shoes, tidy hair.

Outside, calmness.

Inside, untidy screams.

I swallowed back a ball of fear, took a first unsteady step, then another. Plodding, I entered the building and nodded to the guard at the reception desk.

“Need help finding a loved one?” He scrutinized me as though he recognized me.

“No, thank you.”

“Sign in here.” He rose and pointed to an open guest book.

I wrote Jane and started to write Maucele beside it to prove I had every right to be there but changed my mind and scribbled Landry instead.

My father had told me where to find Mark. I searched for the correct aisle. My leather flats shruffed against the hard marble floors. Mausoleums reminded me of morgues I’d seen on TV, not burial grounds. A collection of people who were dead—they couldn’t hear if I made noise. But I continued on my tiptoes just in case.

Finding the correct hallway, I let go of a raggedy breath and claimed a seat in the middle of a long, cold granite bench, then extracted a week-old envelope from my purse.

Did the words inside hold the truth of what Mark wanted?

Clutching the official message, I fought against the impulse to wad up the paper and throw it at him, the same way I’d thrown heated words the last time before we parted. Then, he’d been alive. Able to fight back. I wanted him to fight now.

Anguish spewed like liquid from a shaken can of Nehi soda. “NOoooo! NOoooo! NOoooo! Dammit, Mark.”

“Miss Landry, are you okay?” The guard’s voice echoed down the wing of the mausoleum along with the sound of footsteps beating a path in my direction. “Ma’am?”

“I apologize. Grief hit me.”

“Excuse me? Who hit you?” He frowned as though I were a naughty child.

“Never mind. I’ll be quiet.” My inner pain fought for further release, but my outer calm took control.

His eyebrows became a unibrow. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave if you are unable to contain yourself.”

“It won’t happen again.” I waved apologetically.

His toe-to-head scan told me he was trying to decide if he had a dangerous mental case and needed backup.

Author Bio:

Linda Joyce believes stories are as integral to her life as breathing. She shares the joys and agonies of characters and often wishes their stories would continue far beyond “The End.” She lives metro-Atlanta with her very patient husband and their three fur babies—Jake, Maxence, and Sugar. Linda’s addicted to Cajun food and Japanese food. She’s a fan of smooth jazz. She will deny traditional jazz music hurts her ears—that could get her banished from her hometown, New Orleans. Her current life’s adventure includes learning enough Kanji to be able to read a Japanese newspaper.

Website / Goodreads / Facebook / Instagram 

GIVEAWAY!

—

The Silver Falcon by David Tindell Excerpt & Interview

 

The Silver Falcon is down in the wilds of the Yukon, and the country that lost it will do anything to keep it out of the hands of anyone else.

 

 

Title: The Silver Falcon (Book 4 of the White Vixen Series)

Author: David Tindell

Pages: 292

Genre: Thriller

October 1990. A mysterious object is seen floating eastward over Alaska, resembling a silver falcon of Tlingit legend. Air Force radar can't see it. Fighter jets scramble to intercept the object, but all the pilots can do is watch it cruise across the border into Canada, where it comes down in a remote part of the Yukon Territory.
USAF special operator Jo Ann Geary, the White Vixen, is dispatched to Dawson City to assist Canadian Rangers in the search for the object in the Cloudy Range of Tombstone Territorial Park. They've barely started their hike when all radio comms with Ottawa and Washington go dead, but not before Jo is told about an unidentified aircraft dropping paratroopers north of the target's last known location. Who are they, and why do they want the Falcon?
As the weather deteriorates, Jo and the Canadian intelligence agent in command of the mission worry that the Rangers will be outnumbered and outgunned if they encounter the airborne troops, who are almost certainly Russians. At the White House, the president is told that the Falcon's technology, whether man-made or extra-terrestrial, could be so important that the invaders might possibly call in a nuclear strike from an offshore submarine if they're unable to keep the Falcon away from the allied force.
Thrust into the midst of indigenous Rangers who don't really trust her, unable to get help from Washington or Ottawa, and facing an enemy force that could be desperate enough to risk war, the Vixen must call on all her skills to survive and prevent the Falcon, whatever it is, from touching off a nuclear cataclysm.

The Silver Falcon is available at Amazon at https://bit.ly/TheSilverFalconEbook.

Book Excerpt

PROLOGUE

Verkhnaya Zaimka Air Base

Autonomous Soviet Socialist Republic of Buryatia

USSR

July 1977

         Ilya Dubrovsky shot to his feet when the Polkovnik entered the sparse conference room. Although Dubrovsky was a Podpolkovnik himself and thus was just one rank below the colonel who was now staring at him with a file in his hand, there was no feeling of comradeship here, not in this room, not on the entire base, as far as Dubrovsky could tell. It was all business, and he had a feeling he was about to find out it was serious business indeed. Why else would he be here?

         “Colonel Lytkin!” Dubrovsky barked the name as he saluted. “Lieutenant Colonel Dubrovsky, reporting as ordered, sir!”

         Lytkin returned the salute with an irritable wave that would have bordered on insolence, had it been directed at a senior officer. “Welcome to Verkhnaya Zaimka, Dubrovnik.”

         “Thank you, sir. And, uh, it’s Dubrovsky.”

         The colonel shook his head. The younger man could see gray bags under the colonel’s eyes, indicating a recent lack of sleep. Perhaps due to this very project, whatever it might be. “Sorry,” he said. The colonel sat at the head of the table and indicated the first chair to his left. “Please, sit.”

         Dubrovsky had to order himself to relax. He slid into the chair and placed his service cap on the table in front of him. He’d already looked around the room, but now he did so again as the colonel fussed with the file. The wooden walls were decorated with stock photos of Soviet Air Force planes. His own skill as a pilot was negligible, but he knew he was here because of his expertise in aerodynamics, not as a pilot. Still, he recognized most of them. There was the MiG-25, one that he had actually flown during training. Another was the Tu-95 turboprop bomber. But there were some he didn’t know. For a moment, he feared there would be a quiz. A cold ball of panic welled up inside him. He knew NATO aircraft backwards and forwards, but his own country’s inventory was largely—

         “Let us begin, Dubrovsky,” the colonel said. “My time is valuable here, and I’m sure yours is, too, back at Gromov.”

The younger man had been posted at Gromov Flight Research Institute near Moscow for three years, ever since his superiors had taken note of his exceptional grasp of aerodynamics. “It is, sir,” he said, “but I serve the Soviet Union, wherever the Rodina sends me. How may I be of service here?”

         Lytkin pushed the file across the table. “I am told you are familiar with these first two aircraft,” he said.

         Dubrovsky opened the file and immediately recognized the airplane in the first photo. What had been an airplane at one time, anyway. “This is an American U-2 spy plane,” he said, noting the remains of the long, narrow fuselage and the even longer wing. Wait, could this be…? He held up the photo to take a closer look. “This is the one we shot down in ’61, isn’t it?”

         “It was 1960, to be precise,” Lytkin said, “but yes, it is the one piloted by the American spy, Powers.”

         “A credit to our air defenses at the time, to bring down the plane the Americans considered invulnerable.”

         Lytkin smiled. “Yes, our defenses were able to shoot him down, but we knew Powers was coming, almost from the moment he took off from Pakistan. Our radar network saw him over Uzbekistan, but he flew another two thousand kilometers before the SAMs took him down near Sverdlovsk. Two thousand kilometers, Dubrovsky. If it had been a bomber, Moscow itself might have been obliterated without us firing a shot. I’m sure you studied the case at Voronezh.”

         Dubrovsky nodded but couldn’t prevent a nervous swallow. He was well aware of the capabilities of the American B-52 strategic bombers, but unlike the U-2, the bombers could not fly above the range of Soviet interceptors. Thankfully, the S-75 Dvina missiles had done their job to bring down Powers. Dubrovsky had indeed become familiar with the U-2 incident at Voronezh Military Aviation Technical School, the Soviet equivalent of the U.S. Air Force Academy, without the pretty mountains in the distance.

         In any event, in the years since Powers, the USSR and its main adversary had grown to rely on intercontinental ballistic missiles for their primary means of retaliation, in case the other side decided to shoot first. Dubrovsky liked to think his country’s leadership had never seriously considered such a thing. As for the Americans, well, they hadn’t fired a shot yet, had they?

The U-2 was certainly interesting, but he still had no idea why he had been brought here, to this remote area near Lake Baikal in the south-central region of his vast country. He suspected it didn’t have anything to do with a seventeen-year-old aircraft that was now obsolete, besides being in pieces somewhere in a Soviet military hangar. Perhaps the second photo would provide some enlightenment. He set the U-2 picture aside and considered the next one. It was a color photo of something that looked right out of Star Wars, the new American science fiction film. Dubrovsky had seen a bootlegged copy just two weeks ago. He studied the photo, and then the realization hit him. “Sir, is this the new American stealth fighter?”

         “It is,” Lytkin said, “and I caution you that it is not to be spoken of outside this room, and only during this meeting. Our friends at KGB will not be pleased if they find out you told anyone about this photo.”

         “Of course, sir,” Dubrovsky said, fighting to tamp down his excitement. He looked at the picture. Even standing still on the floor of a hangar, the swept-winged beauty looked ready to leap into the sky. “Are there any other photos?” he asked. “We have been working on a similar design, but this appears to be much further along than our research has taken us.”

         “There are no other pictures, unfortunately. I am told this is an experimental airframe that will fly within six months. It was built by their Lockheed company. The code name is HAVE BLUE.”

         Dubrovsky was thunderstruck. Soviet engineers were at least seven, probably eight years away from producing a stealth-capable airframe that could do anything other than look good in drawings. “They are that far ahead of us?”

         “Unfortunately, yes,” Lytkin said. “I know you have been working on our own stealth project, in particular an airframe that would allow for high-altitude reconnaissance to a degree Powers and his CIA superiors could only dream of.” He reached forward and took the file, closing it as he brought it closer to his chair. Dubrovsky almost protested, catching himself at the last moment. There were more photos in the file. What might they show? More secret American planes? Perhaps their latest space vehicle? Now, that would be truly exciting. Like every Russian boy, Dubrovsky had at one time dreamed of being a cosmonaut, but his skill as a pilot was not nearly enough to qualify him to go into space. Truly a pity.

         “As you could see, there are more photos in here,” Lytkin said, “but I think you should come with me. Seeing, as they say, is believing, and what I am about to show you, Dubrovsky, is, I would say, best experienced in person.”

         “I am…well, ‘intrigued’ is not quite adequate enough of a word, Colonel.” In truth, the young engineer was also feeling something a bit more pressing: a growing urge to relieve himself.

         Lytkin smiled. “I thought you might be.” He stood, followed quickly by the younger officer. “Follow me.”

         “Yes, sir. And, if I may ask, where is the nearest latrine?”    

***

         Lytkin led him outside, where a UAZ-469 vehicle awaited, engine running, a sergeant standing at the ready. He opened the left rear door as the officers approached and Dubrovsky squeezed himself into the back seat, followed by Lytkin. “Hangar 10,” the colonel ordered when the sergeant was behind the wheel, and no time was wasted as the driver threw the machine into gear and jammed on the accelerator.

         It only took a minute to reach a small hangar, which had a feature Dubrovsky hadn’t seen anywhere else on the base: armed guards. The UAZ pulled to a stop in front of the main entrance and the sergeant got out to open the door for Lytkin. Dubrovsky took it upon himself to exit the vehicle on the passenger side, where he encountered a stern-looking pair of guards wearing the insignia of the Devyatka, from KGB’s Ninth Chief Directorate. He’d seen them before, and knew they were deployed around the nation to guard the country’s most sensitive military installations, including nuclear weapons storage facilities. Could that be what was inside this hangar? He doubted it. Why would Lytkin want to show him a hydrogen bomb? Still, he felt goose bumps on his forearms, in spite of the warm weather.

         The colonel was in command of this base but still had to issue a password for the guards to let him through, and they demanded to see Dubrovsky’s identification. He dutifully produced his propiska, the internal passport every Soviet citizen over sixteen was required to carry at all times. They also examined his Soviet Air Force identification card. Satisfied, they nodded to the colonel and Lytkin led the way into the hangar.

         At an internal doorway there was another check of documents, and this time Lytkin had to produce his as well. They proceeded into a small room and the outer door closed behind them with an audible sucking sound. Dubrovsky turned around in surprise. “A climate-control system,” Lytkin said. “Nothing to be alarmed about.” There was yet another door in front of them, looking like something Dubrovsky might have seen on a submarine. Next to it was a small panel with what appeared to be a radio and a touchpad similar to one of the newer telephones being introduced in the West. Dubrovsky had seen them on a West German TV show a few months ago, when he was on leave in Vienna.

         Lytkin paused as he reached out for the pad. “Dubrovsky, I trust you understand that what I am about to show you is classified ‘Most Secret’?”

         “Of course, sir.”

         The colonel gave him a stern look. “If you were to speak of this to anyone outside of this base, in fact to anyone other than to me personally, our Devyatka friends outside, or some equally determined comrades of theirs, would take you away to someplace that I assure you would be most uncomfortable. And then they would come for me.”

         “I understand, sir. I do have a very high security clearance, as you know.”

         “Yes, but for this, I still had to get confirmation from my superiors at 1^st Red Banner Air Army, and they had to get it from Moscow, from the very top. That should give you an indication of the importance of what I am about to show you.” The colonel paused, for what might have been dramatic effect, but the younger man sensed something else: a tinge of fear. The colonel’s eyes flitted to the inside door, and then back to Dubrovsky. The fear was gone now. Dubrovsky recalled that the general had been a decorated aviator in the Great Patriotic War. There’d been a photo in the conference room of a dashing young pilot in the cockpit of his Yak-3 fighter, with six German crosses on the hull below him. A man who had stared down death in the skies, and yet was still fearful of something in this hangar? Dubrovsky had to make an effort to keep his hands from shaking.

Back in full command now, the colonel said, “You are to have a new assignment. You will be working for me, here, on a project that is considered extremely vital to the interests of the Soviet Air Force and the Rodina herself. Do you understand what I am telling you?”

         “Yes, sir.” Dubrovsky felt his knees beginning to weaken. What could possibly be more important than what he had recently begun working on, which was the aerodynamics of the first Soviet spaceplane?

         It was as if the colonel was reading his mind. “Your work on Project BURAN has been duly noted. We are in need here of a talented aerodynamics engineer. You are said to be one of the best in the Soviet Union.”

         “Thank you, sir. May I ask what it is that I will be working on?”

         Lytkin paused, took a deep breath, and stared at the inner door. He appeared to contemplate something, then turned back to Dubrovsky. “You are aware that we are close to Lake Baikal.”

         “Yes, sir. I flew over it on the approach to the base. Very beautiful.”

         “Yes, and very deep, as well. The deepest lake in the world, in fact. And very large, with more water than all of the Great Lakes of North America combined. Its maximum depth is over sixteen hundred meters.”

         “That is…very deep indeed, sir.”

         “Yes. Consider, Dubrovsky, that the nuclear submarines of our Red Banner fleets typically cruise at five hundred meters.”

         “I see, sir.” In fact, Dubrovsky was now becoming confused. What did his work as an aerospace engineer have to do with submersibles? Feeling at least a little more self-assured now that Lytkin had decided to take him into this supreme confidence, he said, “I must confess, sir, that I am at a loss to understand how I may be of service for a project that involves deep diving in a lake.”

         “Oh, that part is over with,” Lytkin said with a smile. “Our Navy comrades were most helpful in the first phase of our project. You see, Dubrovsky, it was something that we found in the lake that brought you here.”

         “’Found,’ sir?”

         “Yes. Fortunately, it was not in the lake’s deepest part. It rested on the bottom at about a thousand meters, well within the capabilities of our brave sailors to recover.” He chuckled. “You know, I have been in the cockpit of our best high-altitude interceptors, at over ten thousand meters of altitude. That MiG-25 you saw in the photo, in the conference room? That was mine. Ten thousand meters up, though, is a lot different than a thousand meters underwater, in my opinion. Even at ten thousand meters, I could bail out from my aircraft and survive. Theoretically, anyway. Powers ejected at nineteen thousand meters, and he made it. But try escaping from a submersible at a thousand meters, and…”

         “We would be crushed, instantly,” Dubrovsky said.

         “Exactly. So, you can understand that the commander of the naval detachment that performed this very dangerous mission received not just one, but two bottles of very expensive vodka from me when he brought his catch to my base.”

         “I…”

         “Well, enough of this chatting. It is time for me to show you what you will be working on for me, my young friend.”

         Lytkin punched a code into the number pad. Dubrovsky heard gears turning from somewhere in the wall, and then the door released with a hiss and swung outward. The colonel gestured toward the doorway. “After you.”

         Lieutenant Colonel Ilya Dubrovsky stepped through the door and encountered the future.

– Excerpted from The Silver Falcon by David Tindell, KDP Select, 2025. Reprinted with permission.

About the Author

 

David Tindell lives in northwest Wisconsin, where he dabbles in radio, trains in the martial arts and studies the warrior ethos. His White Vixen and Quest series have earned stellar reviews. With his wife Sue he travels the world, seeking out new places to feature in his next thriller. He blogs at www.davidtindellauthor.com. Connect with him at X at www.x.com/davidtindell1 and Facebook at www.facebook.com/DavidTindellAuthor. 

Interview:

Where are you from? I was born in Germany, but grew up in southwest Wisconsin, in a small Mississippi River town called Potosi. After getting a degree in radio/TV broadcasting at UW-Platteville, I ventured out into a career in broadcasting that eventually led me to northwest Wisconsin, where I resumed the writing avocation that I’d begun in college.

Tell us your latest news? My wife and I just returned from a trip to New Zealand. She and I met on the air; when I started my radio job up here in 1991, her travel agency sponsored my morning show, and I had her on three times a week. We married a few years later, and we’ve been traveling the world ever since. I’ve lost track of the number of countries we’ve visited together, but it’s pushing 40.

hen and why did you begin writing? I was inspired to write by a couple of great English teachers in school down in Potosi, Mrs. Millman and Mrs. Leonard. I wrote some things in high school and college, won a couple of short-story contests but then real life intervened, as it tends to do. Around 2012, Sue was reading a book one evening and tossed it aside. “You can write better than this junk,” she said, so I got to work on what became The White Vixen.

When did you first consider yourself a writer? I’ve retired from my “day job” three times now, so I’ve never really considered myself a full-time writer. But I’ve written nine novels and a whole bunch of newspaper columns and magazine pieces, so I guess that qualifies me.

What inspired you to write your first book? When Sue got me pointed in the right direction, I had to think about what kind of book to write. I prefer adventure stories, so that was a natural genre. As I got into it, I realized that this was a good way to explore some themes I’m interested in, like personal honor. When the chips are down, what will you do? How will you meet that challenge? I wanted to dive into that by creating characters like Jo Ann Geary, from the White Vixen series, and the Hayes brothers from the Quest series, who are presented with those challenges and have to deal with them. 

Do you have a specific writing style? I like writing dialogue, so it’s sometimes a challenge for me to write scenes where there is none. Then again, it’s always from one character’s point of view, so there we have internal dialogue, at least to a certain extent. I don’t spend a lot of time writing about how a sunbeam dances across a dusty tabletop, for example; I figure my readers are there for the action, so I have to get to it. At the same time, character development and scene-setting are important.

How did you come up with the title? The Silver Falcon is book 4 in the series, and each one has a color and an animal. This makes it a little more challenging to come up with a title, but something eventually presents itself. 

Is there a message in your novel that you want readers to grasp? There aren’t necessarily any “bad guys” in the book. Yes, there are adversaries that Jo encounters, but nothing is starkly black-or-white. Each group of people in pursuit of the Falcon are doing so out of their national self-interest, but personal motivation also plays a large part in every character. There are rarely any occasions in life when we encounter something that can be easily categorized into “good” or “bad.” That, of course, only makes our decisions even tougher. 

How much of the book is realistic? Anybody who would doubt that something like the Falcon floating across Alaska would really happen only has to look back a short time when a foreign object drifted across the entire continental U.S., and the government did nothing about it. The Silver Falcon is set in 1990, and the administration then in charge decides that action must be taken, and quickly. 

Are experiences based on someone you know, or events in your own life? I’ve trained in martial arts for nearly a quarter-century, so that informs a lot of my writing. I made Jo Ann an accomplished martial artist because I knew she’d be in personal combat a lot during these books, and I wanted her to have a realistic basis for her proficiency. Also, I wanted to use the books to help people understand a bit more about the martial arts. They’re much more than just knowing how to kick or punch. 

What books have most influenced your life? The books of Tom Clancy got me really interested in being a writer in this genre. Before that, I remember Mrs. Millman, back in 7th grade, introduced me to the Sherlock Holmes stories of Arthur Conan Doyle. More broadly speaking, the three-volume biography of Theodore Roosevelt by Edmund Morris was a great influence, fueling a decades-long interest in TR’s life and times. But of course rising way above any other book is the Bible. 

If you had to choose, which writer would you consider a mentor? I’ve been fortunate to meet some of the top thriller writers of today, in addition to reading their work: Brad Thor, Jack Carr, Michael Deaver, William Kent Krueger, and others. 

What book are you reading now? The Emperor’s General, by James Webb. 

Are there any new authors that have grasped your interest? Jack Carr exploded onto the scene a few years back with The Terminal List, which of course became a highly-regarded TV series. 

What are your current projects? I have two stand-alone novels, The Heights of Valor and The Man in the Arena, which I’ve loosely grouped together in a series I call “Men of Honor.” The next one in that series, The Dance We Shared, is in its early chapters right now. It’s about a man in his early 50s who lost the love of his life 20 years ago, thanks to a dumb mistake he made. She married another man and left town. Now, he stumbles upon a card she mailed to him, which got stuck inside a catalogue. On the card is her phone number and, in her handwriting, the words, “Please help me.” The problem is, the card was sent five years ago…just before she quit her job, left her husband and disappeared. 

Name one entity that you feel supported you outside of family members. I got a lot of support early in life from some great teachers, two of whom I mentioned earlier. Another one was Mr. Peake, my geography teacher in high school. He opened up the world to a young kid from a small river town who thought that going to Europe would be only slightly more attainable than going to the moon. My basketball coach, Coach Widelski, was a great influence on me and all my teammates. He taught us the values of hard work, sacrifice for the cause, and teamwork. 

What would you like my readers to know? If you’re ready for adventure, then the White Vixen series is for you!

 

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Only in September by Cynthia Flowers Excerpt & Giveaway

This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions to celebrate the release day of ONLY IN SEPTEMBER by Cynthia Flowers. Cynthia will be awarding a $10 Amazon/BN gift card to a randomly drawn winner. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

When Jacqueline follows her trusty Labrador Bailey down a hidden path to the beach, she's unaware that her vacation plans on a small island off the New England coast has already taken her life in a new direction. Running into an unassuming local beach comber stirs new thoughts, desires, and a self-determination she never knew she possessed. Jacqueline will need to trust her instincts and make the most of what fate has in store if she wants the future that, until now, she has only dared to dream of.

Read an Excerpt

The ferry was taking its sweet time making its way to Block Island.

Time is the ultimate dictator. Where did I hear that? I couldn’t have just come up with that one on my own.

Jacqueline French grabbed one of the last outside seats on the Block Island Ferry. It had only left Point Judith, RI, ten minutes ago, but for her, it seemed like ten hours ago. This would be her fourth September visiting this tiny tear drop-shaped island nestled between the south coast of Rhode Island and Montauk Point, located at the eastern tip of the south fork of Long Island, New York.

She always preferred visiting Block Island this time of year, after many of the Labor Day vacation stragglers dispersed and the kids were back at school. Although there were still a fair number of visitors, the din of racing mopeds was confined mostly to the weekends. Thanks to Michael, who she met on her first trip to Block Island, she came to know virtually every back road and trail on this seven-mile-long by three-mile-wide island. Beyond its beauty, Jacqueline’s deeper connection with the island was its shape. She shed many tears lately over the fate of her marriage and the direction her life had taken.

She always brought Bailey, her chocolate Labrador retriever, on her September sojourns to Block Island. Bailey enjoyed seeing the seals every year, and they seemed curious about her. But Bailey had become too arthritic to make the trip this year.

About the Author: Cynthia Flowers, a recently retired advertising professional, now grant writer, resides with her husband and four-year old Labrador named Eddie, at their “sanctuary” in Upstate New York, Although previously published, this is Cynthia's first book of fiction. Early on in grade school, Cynthia looked forward to creative writing class and enjoyed reading her stories aloud to her eager classmates.

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Only-September-Cynthia-Flowers-ebook/dp/B0DWT79L6N/ref=sr_1_1