Intimate Secret D.C. Stone (Empire Blue, #6) Publication date: April 17th 2025 Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance, Suspense
A murder was captured on satellite and multiple law enforcement agencies are trying to solve it. One of the detectives on the case, Jake Gonzalez, is led right to the front door of a local author, Francesca Conti. Sparks fly as Jake realizes he’s insanely attracted to his primary suspect, and her father is one of the most ruthless mafia bosses in the city, and someone he’s been investigating for years.
Francesca wants to escape this life her father has set for her and has been putting money away, looking for her opportunity to disappear. And much to her dismay, lately her father has been pushing her toward marrying his right-hand man, someone no woman has ever been able to say no to.
Just when she thinks she’s getting closer to escaping, Detective Gonzalez lands on her doorstep asking alarming questions, and making her heart race unlike ever before.
There’s only so many times one could say they’d been shot by the woman they loved.
Jake stared at Francesca’s shaking hands wrapped around the butt of a SIG .229. She held the gun with as much confidence as one would expect with someone who had little to no experience with such a weapon. Like a toddler taking their first wobbling, unsteady steps. Or a young child holding a chicken’s egg for the first time and being toldthey could break it if they weren’t careful.
Under the full moon, silver tears trickled down her face. A moderate wind teased at hair that had escaped the messy bun held low at the back of her head. Russet tendrils brushed along her neck and cheeks like phantom fingers. She ignored those things. But he saw it all, as if the world moved in slow motion, tracking the shifting of her eyes and hands from one person to another. Saw the way her finger tightened ever so slightly over the trigger.
The safety was off, so if she applied a touch of pressure to that metal hook, approximately ten pounds for the first shot to go off, the gun would fire the bullet waiting within.
“Frankie,” he called in a soothing yet firm voice, using the
nickname he’d started saying a few nights ago. One he’d discovered she liked when he whispered it in her ear as he sank slowly inside the heat between her legs. Her attention shifted to him for only a fraction of a second before she refocused on Dante, her father’s right-hand man. A man many did not want to fuck with. One who’d killed his fair share of folks both in and out of the city. A man who was known to be one of the most ruthless enforcers around. Dante did things in the most violent way to set examples or make a point.
It was the only way he communicated. And it was the way he got into the position he did, leading one of the most ruthless organizations in New York City.And lucky, lucky Jake was currently in a three-way face-off, like something from the Wild Wild West, with a woman he loved and a man he’d been hunting for years.
And as if his luck couldn’t get any worse, the two had a serious
history he hadn’t been able to wrap his mind completely around.
He quickly glanced around, wishing for that backup he’d called for about ten minutes ago to show up. But with how deep they were in Central Park, that wish would never come to fruition in time. The dull light coming off the yellow haze of a streetlamp reflected dark shadows of trees in the standing puddles leftover from the rainstorm earlier. The only sound outside the passing cars on the streets lining the park and Frankie’s harsh breathing was that of leaves hitting the ground, the season of fall in full swing.
“Frankie, listen to me,” he tried again, his chest growing tight with unease. “Put the gun down. Let’s talk about this.”
“I don’t want to be a woman you love,” she said, lips trembling.
Her arms shook with either fear or adrenaline, both equally dangerous when holding a weapon.
Jake Gonzalez’s heart clenched at the words, but he pushed them away. He had to stay focused, had to sort through this mess and prevent any additional loss of life. As it was, there’d already been too much.
And if she pulled that trigger, there was nothing he could do. He
wouldn’t be able to protect her. As frustrating as it was, he had an oath to uphold. Even against a woman he loved.
Francesca Conti looked broken, disheveled, and cornered. The first two had him angry and concerned. The last…frightened.
Author Bio:
D.C. “Desi” Stone is a best-selling romance author and full-time fraud investigator. She lives in the northeast with her incredibly supporting husband, two kids, a cat, and the ever-growing family of dogs.
After serving eight years of service with the United States Air Force, she went on to transition into the world of financial crimes and became a lead investigator for many years.
Reading has always been a passion of hers, getting lost in a good, steamy romance is one of her favorite past times. She soon after discovered her own love for writing and recreating stories and characters in her head. Her writing concentrates on romantic with specifics in paranormal, suspense, and erotica.
Now, when she isn’t trying to solve a new puzzle in the world of fraud, she is engulfed with coffee, her laptop, and all those crazy characters in her head. She is a member of the Romance Writers of America, Hudson Valley Romance Writers, New Jersey Romance Writers, RomVets, RWA Kiss of Death, and the Liberty State Fiction Writers. She served as the 2014 NJRW Vice President and Conference Chair. Come stop by on Facebook, Twitter, or her website and say hello!
Undercover agent, Colin Chase Rand had seen it all, or thought he’d had.
Cruising down the road, rocking to the radio, Colin came across an ethereal phenomenon, the Fata Morgana. It was no mere illusion. The shimmering surreal glow enveloped him, pulling him through a portal, setting his course to a different era and defying all explanations of reality.
Nothing could’ve prepared him for the next leg of his journey, a journey that would take him to a deceptively quiet countryside in Genoa City, 1935, where a sinister serial killer was lying in wait.
Read An Excerpt:
Undercover agent, Colin Chase Rand had spent a week with his family who had come to visit him in Duluth before he left the area.
His mother had always wanted to stay at the historic Fitger’s along the shores of Lake Superior. His father, as always, was accommodating to her wishes. She was thrilled with the stunning lake-view room they’d reserved.
His brother, Rick, was there for a few days but had to return before the week was up. They were short-handed at the fire station and he had to return to work. His mother and sister, Ilene, took advantage of the hotel spa and lots of shopping.
It was extremely relaxing. He’d been on guard, on high alert for so long he’d practically forgotten how to relax.
His good friends, Keoni and Lizette, came to share the last day with him and his family. It was awesome to have all of them together before he headed out of state to the next assignment.
The shaky goodbyes and the hugs filled him with happiness and love. He had one hell of a family. Colin knew how lucky he was to have them.
With his family, Keoni, and Lizette in the rearview mirror, Colin left Locke Bay satisfied he’d done the best job under the extenuating circumstances.
It was hard saying goodbye, not knowing if all would go well with his next assignment. It was something he learned to accept and live with. He was close to his family and, at times, it was extremely difficult to be without them, especially during the holidays, or missing birthdays.
Or, when Lizette put the gun to his head. All he could think of was how much he’d miss his family; how it’d break his parent’s hearts if she pulled the trigger.
Keoni Nani and Lizette Hill are two of the best friends a person could have. They’d met under the most unusual circumstances. When he’d first met Lizette, he didn’t trust her, knew she was hiding something. She was, absolutely without a doubt.
Funny how things turned out sometimes, he ended up knowing she and Keoni would always have his back.
Author Bio:
Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and Wall Street Journal bestselling, award-winning author, Pamela Ackerson is a time traveling adventurer. She was born and raised in Newport, RI where history is a way of life. She lives on the Space Coast of Florida where everyone is encouraged to reach for the stars!
Her literary journey is as diverse and adventurous as the time-traveling escapades she writes about. With a rich tapestry of genres at her fingertips, she weaves stories that span from the wild frontiers of the Old West to the intricate cultural tapestries of Native American history. Her work doesn't stop at fiction; she delves into the realms of history, self-help, and even marketing, showcasing a versatility that resonates with a wide audience.
Ackerson's presence on the Space Coast of Florida reflects her forward-thinking approach to writing, always aiming for the next big leap in her storytelling odyssey. Her prolific output is a testament to her dedication to her craft, inviting readers to join her in exploring the vast landscapes of human experience and imagination.
Honest reviews of my books are always appreciated.
Absolutely no AI tools were used to create this story or any story I have written.
Curran’s enemies thought he was dead.
They were wrong.
He thought his past was left on the Voula Beach Road.
He was wrong.
Now, that nightmare is drawing his enemies out.
The halls of power are being targeted—but by who?
Is the secret of the Voula Beach Road behind the chaos?
Curran knows the answer.
It’s all in The Whisper Legacy . . .
Marlowe “Lowe” Curran was once a freelance intelligence operative swashbuckling around the world—until Greece—until the Voula Beach Road. There, he lost everything and nearly his life. Now, he’s a luckless, aging PI living on guilt and nightmares—barely paying his rent if not for Tommy Astor, a well-connected Washington powerbroker. Curran becomes a suspect in the murder of a philandering husband. He has an alibi—but that will get him arrested. Is committing crimes trying to resolve other crimes still a crime? For Curran it is, especially after he’s a suspect in two murders. Chasing the real killer, Curran is haunted by his demons from the Voula Beach Road, and something called Whisper. On his trail is an angry, vengeful US Deputy Marshal, gun-happy assassins, and a shadowy figure thwarting Curran’s every success. For each step forward, there’s another threat, another roadblock, another piece of evidence stacking up against him. Whisper is at the center of his nightmares—whatever Whisper is. Is Whisper why Charlie Cantrell had to die? Why bodies are dropping across Washington? Why the President’s short list for running mates is getting shorter? Faced with old foes and aided by his last surviving Voula Beach friend, Curran must stay ahead of the assassins, rescue a kidnapped little girl, and find the deadly secrets hidden within The Whisper Legacy.
THE WHISPER LEGACY Trailer:
Book Details:
Genre: Political Thriller, Action Thriller, Detective Mystery Published by: Level Best Books Publication Date: March 25, 2025 ISBN: 978-1685129149 Series: A Pappa Legacy Novel, Book 1 Book Links:Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Bookshop | Goodreads | BookBub
GUEST POST:
Who Is Lowe Curran and Why Is He Trying to Be Me?
I have written almost a dozen novels. Of those nine have been published, two are on their way, and one was re-written into a sequel. In those stories, there is always a character or two (or four) stolen from my real-life adventures as an anti-terrorism consultant—past and present. Sure, sure, we all promise that “names, characters, and places are the work of fiction and aren’t anyone living or dead” blah, blah, blah. That’s true overall, except come on people, get real. Most of our main characters—the good and the bad—are part of us in some way. Well, except for Oliver Tucker who’s a dead detective in my paranormal mystery series. I’m not dead yet. But in my thrillers, the main characters are sort of a Frankenstein of people I’ve known along my travels. And, yes, the main characters carry a lot of me with them. Marlowe “Lowe” Curran, without a doubt, tries the most to be me—more than any protagonist I’ve ever written.
Sorry, it wasn’t planned that way.
Curran—that’s Ker-in, not Kuur-an—the narrator and main character in The Whisper Legacy, is a down-on-his luck private investigator and security consultant. He was once a hired gun for the US Government protecting big shots and bad guys overseas. Until the Voula Beach Road mission that ended his career, nearly his life, and wiped out almost all his friends and colleagues. It destroyed him for years. Now, he’s fighting back and trying to evade a murder wrap in order to find out who or what Whisper is. It won’t be easy. First, he’s coming to grips with loneliness and age. He creaks and groans too often. Can’t pass a bathroom without a pitstop. He’s slowing down and no longer the swashbuckler he once was. If he can overcome all that, he might live long enough to learn what Whisper has to do with his past and why it might end his future. Oh, and why the body count of Washington DC elite is rising.
Me, too.
Well, not the Washington body count, but everything else.
I, being of sound mind and aging body today, am a private investigator and anti-terrorism consultant. While I was never washed up in the old days, I certainly felt that way many, many times. After leaving my dream job as an OSI agent running its anti-terrorism program, I was lost. Depressed. A failure. I had to leave, mind you. Divorce took my children ten hours away and a life travelling the world and doing OSI’s bidding would have left me without them. That was not acceptable. I resigned. Boom. My life’s dream was crushed.
It took me a couple years to rebuild a career and finally feel like I was back in “the game.” Then, a few years later, the company where I was an executive, sold out and left me alone and on my own again. Boom. A failure. Alone. I was neither, but those feelings haunted me like Curran’s nightmares plagued him.
Finally, I found my feet again consulting with a Washington DC thinktank on anti-terrorism with Homeland Security. Yeehaw. Back on my feet. Off to the races. Except now, I was older. Slower. Out of shape and yep, had to keep an eye out for the men’s room. Okay, TMI. Sorry.
Even though I was supporting Homeland and doing important work, I still struggled with the loss of my prior adventures. Sure, sure, maybe those adventures were long ago and not as super-cool as I recalled. But they were mine and they made me who I am. Now, I wasn’t quite “that guy” any longer.
Why do I tell you all this poor-me? Because it somehow slipped into Lowe Curran’s character and became his resume. No, I never lost my team on Greece’s Voula Beach Road. But wait! My first brush with terrorism was on that very road back in the late 1980’s. That event gave me the realism to write Curran’s fictional ambush—the breeze of salty sea air, the smoke from roasting lamb, and the smell of gunfire and explosions. Ah, the good old days…
In The Whisper Legacy, Curran operates out of an old barn loft apartment helping his aged, yet still beautiful and alluring landlady stop her cheating husband. After OSI, I lived in a barn loft apartment. No, my landlady wasn’t a Janey-Lynn, but hey, a guy can dream. Right?
Poor Curran is trying to stay in shape and regain his glory days. Me, too. I used to run five miles a day and ten miles twice a week. I studied Martial Arts, weight lifted and stayed in great shape. Age stole all that. Oh, yeah, sure, probably a little laziness and excuses, too. Now, in my early sixties, I’m back to working out two hours a day to fight my body’s natural love of good food (which I cook, of course). I feel for Curran. He hates aging. Hates not being “that guy.”
Dammit, man, me, too!
Oh, and Curran is a man about dogs—he steals, er, rescues Bogart, a black lab, from a nasty POS. I have three rescues and two rescue cats. Just sayin’.
So, life imitates art? Or is art the canvas for life? For Lowe Curran, well, we’re stuck with each other. I love him. Not because he’s so much of me, but because he fights the good fight with laughs, good nature, and sheer will. I try to do that, too. Though, I think he pulls it off better than me most of the time.
The Whisper Legacy has far more about my world than just Lowe Curran. Give it a read. See if you can find me, my world, and my fears in there. Maybe there’s a few of yours in there, too.
Read an excerpt:
Chapter One
Marlowe “Lowe” Curran
Getting old is not for the meek. Especially when in your youth, you were an adventurer and risk taker—a man of mystery and worldliness. You know, stuff that made your heart rumba and your pulse sizzle. Having to perform menial, boring deeds in your later years is tough. Especially when you sit around with good bourbon and reminisce about the old days. You tend to drink too much and pine for those glory days and lost adventure. So much that it eats at you. Not that I’ve ever done that, mind you. Just saying, you know, it happens to other people.
For instance, if anyone had told me twenty years ago that one day I’d be standing outside an old, two-story brick Rambler in Leesburg, Virginia, at ten in the evening, wearing old, raggedy pajamas, an ill-fitting robe, and carrying a dog leash—absent the dog—I would have been offended. Such a scenario might have suggested I’d lost my faculties too early in life. Perhaps I’d gone crazy or became homeless. Of course, I’d never seen a homeless person wearing pajamas and a robe at ten in the evening, crazy or not. Still, you get my concern.
I’m Curran. That’s Ker-in, not Kuur-an. It’s Irish—not that it matters. But pronunciation is important.
Don’t get the wrong idea about me. I don’t normally dress up in old pjs and walk neighborhoods with a dog leash. It just seemed like the thing to do tonight. I’m also not that damn old, either. At present, I’m pushing my early-mid-fifties and have a full head of dark, reddish hair, and almost always in need of a shave. It’s not that I’m trying to be suave and cool. I’m sorta lazy about shaving. I’ve been told I look like the dashing Sean Bean. No, not Mr. Bean—Sean Bean. Anyway, that’s me and I’ll explain more later. For now, my pjs were falling down and the ratty robe I had on wasn’t fitting all too well, either.
My feet were sore from my ambling down a block of crumbling sidewalk in the middle of this beautiful August night. Of course, August in Virginia was hot, humid, and, well, hot. My ensemble was cooler than jeans and sneakers, but it did not include slippers. Barefoot was not accidental. It’s for effect.
See, I was going for that crazy old dude persona.
Most concerning to me was my partner. Or lack thereof. Actually, he was my long-time friend and co-conspirator in many such episodes of my life. He’s missing. Stevie Keene should have been here an hour ago and running countersurveillance. He should have been watching my back and ensuring I wasn’t walking into a gunfight or a pair of handcuffs.
He wasn’t.
Stevie hadn’t responded to my cell calls. He also wasn’t in the van parked across the street from our target like he should be. That was bad. Real bad. I was going in blind.
“Stevie? Where in the flying monkeys are you?” I whispered to his voicemail again. “You’re late. I can’t wait any longer. If you get here while I’m inside, stay put and watch my escape route. And brother, you better have a good story—like being abducted by aliens.”
I peeked at the old Rambler’s front windows and dangled the dog leash. I called out as loud as I could, “Rufus? Come on boy. I’ve got cookies.”
No, I had no dog named Rufus. I also had no cookies. Try to keep up.
The house windows were blacked out—odd even for this part of town. I knew someone was inside. First, a thin sliver of light escaped through a corner of the window. Second, the electric meter around the side was whirling away like a NASA satellite station. Third, and perhaps most important, I’d seen the short, pudgy, receding hairline kid with his embarrassing attempt at a beard slip inside an hour or so ago. He looked like he’d glued stray hair here and there on his cheeks. His eyes were inset, or maybe his fat cheeks hid them.
Billy Piper reminded me of that dumpy loser who tried to smuggle dinosaur eggs off the island in Jurassic Park. He got eaten in the first thirty minutes of the movie. Served him right—poor defenseless dinosaurs.
“Rufus? I’ve got cookies.” I banged loudly on the door and rattled the doorknob. “Don’t hide on me, Rufus. Don’t be a bad dog.”
If Piper was trying to be stealthy, he failed. I heard him approach the door inside before he peeled back the window covering and glared out.
“What are you doing, old dude? Get lost.”
As I’ve already said, I’m not that old. But, given I’d put on a shaggy gray wig and plastered fake beard crap on my face, I give it to him.
A dog barked then yelped as the face pushed closer into the window. “Shut up, mutt. What good are you? This old fart is almost in the house and you just noticed?”
Time to play the role.
“You got my Rufus? Give me my dog.” I banged on the door again. “Now, before I call the cops. Dog napper.”
“It’s my dog, old dude,” Piper yelled. “Get off my property or I’ll kick your old ugly butt.”
I held up the leash and took a step back, turned in a slow circle to appear dazed. Then, I began to cry. It took nearly a full minute before Piper opened the door and stepped cautiously outside.
“What the hell is wrong with you, old dude? My dog isn’t Rufus.”
I turned to him, reached up to wipe my tearless eyes, and let my bright red identification bracelet show below my pajama sleeve.
“Where am I? Who’s Rufus?” I turned in a circle again and let a few more whimpers out. “Who are you? What are you doing in my house?”
At first, Piper turned red-faced with anger. Then, when he saw my medical bracelet, he reached out and grabbed it. “Oh, you’re one of those Alzheimer’s people. Get the hell out of here. Understand? Go home. Shoo.”
Home, indeed. “This is my home. What are you doing here?”
Beside Piper, a brawny black lab trotted into the doorway and barked. Not a threatening bark. More like an obligatory “woof.” After two such woofs, he trotted up to me and sat wagging.
“Useless dog. What are you doing inside?” He grabbed the dog by the collar and dragged him past me. He shook him several times, cursing. After berating him again with another smack to his hindquarters, he found a short chain affixed to a big walnut tree in the front yard and clipped it on his collar. “Flippin’ mutt. You’re supposed to warn me before they get to the door.”
“Don’t hurt my Rufus,” I yelled.
The chain was twisted and wrapped around the tree. The lab only had about two feet of room to move. There was no water bowl and no signs of one anywhere. The wear marks on the grass suggested the dog spent too much time chained to that tree.
What an asshole.
“What are you doing to my Rufus?” I growled. “Where’s his food and water?”
“Screw the dog. Maybe now he’ll bark when he’s supposed to.” Piper shoved me sideways and reentered the house. “Get the hell out of here or I’ll call the cops.”
“Call? I didn’t call you.”
“Jesus, I don’t have time for this.” He squared off on me in the doorway. “Get lost, old dude.”
“What about my Rufus?” I shoved Piper back a step. That surprised him. I guess old men with Alzheimer’s should be weak and defenseless. “Get out of my house.”
Piper reared back to strike me and held his fist in a threat. “I’m gonna put you straight.” His smartwatch buzzed wildly and flashed like Dick Tracey was calling. If you don’t get the shout out to Dick, forget it. You’re way too young to understand. “Go dammit.”
“Not until I get my Rufus.”
His watch signaled him again.
“Ah, shit. No. No. No.” Piper shoved me sideways and I feigned a fall just inside the doorway. He kicked at me and barely connected as I parried with my arm. “Get outta here, old dude. Wander or doddle your way back where you came. I got my own problems.” He shoved me out the doorway, swung the door to shut it, and ran down the hallway.
I, not being a confused old geezer, lodged my foot in the door before it closed. With no more than a sore big toe when it hit, I kept the door ajar.
I followed his footfalls to the back of the house. I might be committing a few felonies soon, so I slipped on leather driving gloves to eliminate the chance of any fingerprints. After all, my felony count had just started and the night was young.
I know cool TV stuff like that.
At the end of the hall, I descended the stairs into a dark basement. There, a small room lay ahead, lighted by a single overhead light that bathed the room in a hazy illumination. There were only a few old boxes stacked around and a bicycle hanging on a wall rack. Ahead was a heavy, steel door, still ajar. A carnival of flickering lights escaped through the opening. Beyond, I heard Piper cursing and babbling in a panicked voice.
I eased inside and found a larger section of the basement. The space was lined with soundproof tiles and heavy industrial carpeting. There was a refrigerator and small stove on one side of the room, and cabinets of computers and electronics on the other. Between them was a command console and two gamer’s chairs facing a wall of computer monitors and large video screens. The walls not blocked by computer gadgets were covered with movie and book posters of every major spy thriller I’d ever heard of. One was a poster of a pale-faced Alec Guinness wearing oversized, dark-framed glasses—an aged, probably original collector’s poster of John Le Carre’s Smiley’s People.
Holy crap, Billy Piper was a wannabe spy.
“Shit, they caught me.” Piper stood in front of a shelf of electronics and spun around when I stepped inside. “What the hell, old dude?”
We had to talk about that old dude thing. I was getting there, but really, how rude?
“I told you what would happen if you didn’t leave.” Piper balled his fist and came toward me. “It’s gonna cost you. You should’ve left to find Rufus.”
“Who the hell is Rufus?” I asked.
I don’t know if it was my sudden calm, steady voice, or the silenced .22 pistol in my hand—aimed at him—that startled him the most. Either way, I had his attention.
“What the … who are you, old dude?” He stared at the pistol. “You don’t have Alzheimer’s.”
“Nope.”
“Who then?” He took a step back as his face tightened and filled with so much anger his cheeks were ablaze. “Ah, shit. Are you with them?”
“Them?” I waived my pistol back and forth to keep his attention. “Explain.”
“Screw you.” He spun around as his computers began wailing some kind of alarm. “Come on man, I got bigger problems than anything you can bring. If you don’t get outta here, those problems are going to be yours, too. Go find Rufus or whatever. Get out.”
I aimed the pistol at his head. “I think not, Billy.”
He spun back around at me. “You know me? Did they send you?”
“Oh, I know you.” Boy was he slow. “I’m here about money and information. I have no idea who ‘they” are. Although, ‘they’ might be like my clients. You hacked them and now they want their files and money returned. Right, Chip Magnet?”
“Oh, man. You are them.” His face blanched and the tough guy drained away. “Dude, I got money. I can pay. I pay you and you say I wasn’t home. Deal?”
Desperation replaced his bravado he’d taunted me with moments ago. “Chip Magnet, are you for real? What a totally bullshit handle, Piper.”
He shrugged. “It means—”
“I know what it means, idiot. Look, Billy, you hacked the wrong people—my people. I’m here to fix things. And in the future—if you have one—you might take care who you hack. Some folks out there don’t go to the police. They don’t hire lawyers or call the credit bureau.”
“Huh?” His eyes locked on my pistol as it raised to eye level. “What?”
“They send me.”
Chapter Two
U.C.
The man in the expensive Saville Row suit and Gucci loafers sipped his vodka martini and settled back on his king bed, pillows plumped and perfectly positioned by the staff. He glanced around his Waldorf Astoria suite feeling very pleased with himself. Never had his accommodation been as nice. Never had his payment been as nice—nor as often—as with this assignment. He wondered how long it would be before it would all end.
The man wore a collarless shirt that fit snug over ripped muscles. His head was mostly bald but for close-cut, thinning dark hair around the sides and back. His face was narrow and strong, accentuated by a salt and pepper beard that was three days of growth meticulously trimmed for effect—a dangerous, stay-clear effect. In the years he’d operated at the higher end of his profession, he found his persona and image as daunting to his prey as his skills. The million-dollar benefactors he serviced expected a little refinement and image, not to be confused with Hollywood assassins cloaked in black leather feigning brooding personalities. His clients demanded thoughtfulness, the ability to move in any surroundings—Washington dinner clubs or Bangkok brothels.
U.C. had mastered the chameleon persona years before.
The satellite phone on his nightstand vibrated. He scooped it up. The Controller didn’t like to wait. Not for the million-dollar price tag for U.C.’s services. Glancing at the screen, the call wasn’t from the Controller, but one of the minions sitting in a lesser hotel room somewhere in the bowels of Alexandria, Virginia.
“Yes?”
The voice was frantic. “U.C., I found him. There’s a problem.”
“Problem?” U.C.—bestowed upon him many years prior because of his preference to operate against his targets Up Close—sipped his drink. “If you found the target trying to hack our servers, just send me the address and—”
“He got through.”
“What?” U.C. bolted upright and spilled his drink. “You told me the security was impenetrable.”
Silence.
“Well?”
“Someone left some nodes insecure, maybe. I don’t know.”
U.C.’s mind raced. “An inside job?”
“Maybe.”
He closed his eyes. “Sweet Jesus.”
“U.C.?” The caller hesitated. “The hacker got all the way into the E-Suite.”
He was on his feet now, moving around the room gathering his things—the most important ones—his shoulder bag, jacket, and silenced pistol.
“Did you hear me?”
U.C. grunted, “Text me the address. Get four men there fast. I’ll meet you there.”
Hesitation, then, “Orders?”
“Don’t be stupid.”
U.C. tapped off the call and instantly activated the satellite text program. As he did, the Sat phone concurrently launched an encryption program that NSA would take years to break—another luxury of working for the Controller.
He typed out a simple message—Urgent. Hack successful. Compromised. I’ll contain.
Miles away, across the Potomac, the Sat Text arrived at the Controller’s private office. It took only moments to return a response.
U.C. rarely initiated such calls. Rarely one marked with “Urgent.”
The Controller—Define compromise.
U.C.—Total.
The Controller—Confidence?
U.C. finished his text and exited his suite—Whisper is compromised.
***
Excerpt from The Whisper Legacy by Tj O'Connor. Copyright 2025 by Tj O'Connor. Reproduced with permission from Tj O'Connor. All rights reserved.
Author Bio:
Tj O’Connor is an award-winning author of mysteries and thrillers. He’s an international security consultant specializing in anti-terrorism, investigations, and threat analysis—life experiences that drive his novels. With his former life as a government agent and years as a consultant, he has lived and worked around the world in places like Greece, Turkey, Italy, Germany, the United Kingdom, and throughout the Americas—among others. In his spare time, he’s a Harley Davidson pilot, a man-about-dogs (and now cats), and a lover of adventure, cooking, and good spirits (both kinds). He was raised in New York’s Hudson Valley and lives with his wife, Labs, and Maine Coon companions in Virginia where they raised five children who supply a growing tribe of grands.
A Dead Man Speaks Lisa Jones Gentry (The Clive January Mystery Series, #1) Publication date: November 29th 2024 Genres: Adult, Mystery, Paranormal, Thriller
Introducing the first in a new paranormal crime mystery series set in 1980s, New York City on Wall Street
Clive January is a driven, self-made Black man, a ruthless, wildly successful investment banker who had it all – until he is shot and killed from behind by an unknown assailant. As Clive lies in a pool of blood, his life slowly ebbing away, he hears voices, unearthly beings tormenting him, telling him that he will burn in hell, unless he finds out who killed him. Now before it’s too late, his ghost must solve the crime of his own murder and his only choice is to work with the white racist cop assigned to his case, Detective Bob Greene.
Their relationship begins in hate and distrust, but soon they each realize that they have more in common than they could ever believe. And in the wrenching ending, they discover the truth that frees them both.
Lisa will be at the LA Times Festival of Books on Saturday April 26th at 12 noon!
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EXCERPT:
I slipped into my car, the creamy leather seats enfolding me as I whizzed down the expressway…the smell of the ocean filled the car…an aphrodisiac, teasing my senses. I thought about her waiting for me…opening the door…And then I saw her face, the light green eyes clouded against her golden, taffy-colored skin, the thick mop of dark, curly hair framing her face. How often had I held her, how often had I seen her lips part in that same half-teasing, half-defiant smile…
“Hi…”
I grabbed her, wanting to make love to her before I told her. But she smiled playfully, pushing me away. “Look what I got.”
She pulled out a gram of icy, white coke, licking the edge of the paper hungrily. “To celebrate.” Would she still want to celebrate when I told her that I’m leaving, but not with her? All
the years between us, but I still can’t do it; I still can’t surrender my soul to her. Would she understand this time, too?
“Here, Clive. It’s good…” A sucking noise. The dull light glinted against the pipe, trembling ever so slightly. She must really be fucked up.
“Almost as good as the first time…remember…”
That’s what she always said. Ssssssssssssss, a nice long one. My eyes shut tightly, letting the feeling curl over me like a woman’s touch, soft, seductive, and always so deadly.
“I’m gonna get some champagne.” She leaned down over me, kissing me slowly. I could taste the coke on her lips. Her hand rubbed my cheek. Tiny, soft hands.
My eyes followed her small body weaving out of the room, down the hallway, and into the kitchen. I closed my eyes again, going over every detail of my plan in my mind for the hundredth or maybe thousandth time; I’d lost track now. Every step sharpened by time and urgency. One more week, and I’d have the final payment and my freedom from a life that was no longer mine.
I was finally starting to relax; the blow was starting to kick in. It always took longer when I was tensed up, but now the tingly feeling was rushing through me. A sharp, searing pain was suddenly tearing through my back, ripping the breath out of me. I doubled over. It felt as if someone had taken a thousand knives and exploded them in me. And it was all a blur, except for blood everywhere: on my chest, covering my hands, the white carpet, and the room’s empty.
And I realize, I’d been fuckin ’shot…somebody’s…but now the room was spinning. I knew this was it. The dark curtains were enveloping me and then the light…like the light at home, soft…beckoning…taking me to the place I thought I’d forgotten. And then I smiled, I understood now, all the years, all the money…the lies, but you could never escape, it would always pull you back…
Author Bio:
People would consider Lisa Jones Gentry, the author of “Forbidden Love” a true renaissance woman, because the former entertainment attorney, became an artist, author, creative executive, and writer-producer for film, television and digital content…
Lisa discovered her passion for the creative side of the business while serving as broadcast counsel at CBS in New York City, where she was the lead attorney on deals ranging from multi-millions to billions, such as the Olympics and Major League Baseball deal. But her Hollywood calling changed from “behind-the-deal” to “behind-the-laptop”, and ultimately moved to LA to break into the business as a writer-producer. As luck would have it, the first film script that she and her writing partner wrote was optioned by Paramount.
For the next four years they had several screenplays and teleplays optioned and set up at networks and studios, including development deals. She then took that creative experience and brought it to her position as EVP of Development for the stalwart Western International Syndication, formerly a division of renowned Western International Media, once the largest media buying entity in the world. Charged with expanding the company’s traditional roster of syndicated programming into network and cable, she executive produced over 100 hours of television in various formats and genres, airing on broadcast and cable. She also structured a joint venture between French broadcasting giant TF-1, Stephen J. Cannell Productions and Western for the international distribution of a one hour dramatic series.
Though “behind-the-deal: again, she didn’t stop her work behind-the-laptop and during that time wrote her first novel, “A Dead Man Speaks.” It garnered her an NAACP Image Award nomination for Best Debut Author, followed by a Literary Critics Award nomination for best general fiction. And her creative roll continued with a First Look Deal for Lisa and her writing partner at Sony Pictures under their Screen Gems banner.
With the cataclysmic changes in the “business,” like many other writers and producers, it wasn’t long before Lisa expanded her focus to digital media and due to her writing and executive experience was recruited to be the CEO of Comedy Express, a start-up broadband network targeting the young adult male demo. Ultimately, Comedy Express was acquired by the famed National Lampoon.
Following the acquisition of Comedy Express, Lisa not only managed to write another book – this time as a co-author of the nonfiction, “So You Want to be A Lawyer,” now in its second printing –she continued her expansion into digital media and technology and worked as Co-CEO of another early stage start-up company that launched two 24/7 television networks on cable, IPTV and satellite networks outside the US in Europe and Asia. Today, Lisa is a frequent speaker on technology and digital media, at the Tribeca Film Festival, the FCC start up conference and many other venues.
As if all that she’s done isn’t enough, Lisa is also an accomplished artist, and has been exhibiting and selling her work for several years. She has had worked featured in television series and TV Movies and buyers of her work have included on air talent, Arthel Neville and television Executive Producer, Samm Art Williams.
And while she loves exploring her artistic side, Lisa has no intention of slowing down her writing, as she continues to flex her creative muscle with several TV and film projects that she’s developing as well as her current book, “Forbidden Love,” the true love story of a white nun and a black priest in the segregated fifties as told by their son Joe Steele.
A murder was captured on satellite and multiple law enforcement agencies are trying to solve it. One of the detectives on the case, Jake Gonzalez, is led right to the front door of a local author, Francesca Conti. Sparks fly as Jake realizes he’s insanely attracted to his primary suspect, and her father is one of the most ruthless mafia bosses in the city, and someone he’s been investigating for years.
D.C. “Desi” Stone is a best-selling romance author and full-time fraud investigator. She lives in the northeast with her incredibly supporting husband, two kids, a cat, and the ever-growing family of dogs.
Introducing the first in a new paranormal crime mystery series set in 1980s, New York City on Wall Street
