The talented and just plain old über-cool Jeroen ten Berge turned in his cover for the print edition of Earthfall yesterday, and I have to say, it’s a nice one. For those who aren’t familiar with his work, he’s probably most widely known as Blake Crouch’s artist of choice–check out his covers for Blake’s excellent novels Pines, Abandon, and Snowbound, as well as the trendsetting illustration for RUN.
Some thanks to Craig DiLouie for his cover blurb, and of course, the long-suffering Derek Paterson for his work on the product description, something I’m horrible at. Additional kudos to Joe LeBert, ultra-amazing author Fred Anderson, Scott Wolf, and ton of other folks.
And, oh yeah…thanks to those of you who bought Earthfall and actually liked it! It’s always a thrill to see a release creep up the charts, especially in a different genre.
Errata: the free period for White Tiger came to a close yesterday, and the numbers were almost 3,000 downloads in the US, and a surprising 685 in the UK. While giving away books for free seems like a dumb business move, it actually translated into some great sales–5 in the US in one day, and 14 in the UK. That’s a month’s worth of sales right there, and it’s also generated a few borrows through Amazon’s Prime program, for which I’ll get a couple of bucks as well. If this trend continues, Derek and I will have the best month ever for this book. Not a tough feat, since the highest sales numbers to date have been 21 in one month.
I’ve pulled The Gathering Dead from the other ebook sites and entered it into Amazon’s Prime program, as well. This gives me the opportunity to offer it for free, with the hope that it would spawn substantial sales of Left with the Dead and the two The Rising Horde books. I haven’t decided when–or even if–I’ll take this step, since The Gathering Dead is still my primary money-maker, but it is something to consider.
Anyway, that’s all for now, crew. Thanks for your patronage, and I hope this weekend is full of fun and excitement for all.
For the next five days, the book I co-authored with Derek Paterson is available for free on Amazon. Here’s the product description:
Even Predators Can Be Prey.
International security consultant Jerry Manning has a lucrative sideline: he kills people for the Chinese Mob, so quickly and so effectively using his martial art skills that the Chinese call him the White Tiger, a nickname born out of respect–and fear.
When wealthy Chinese businessman James Lin’s son is brutally murdered in a San Francisco penthouse where he was engaged in an illicit affair with a beautiful actress, Manning is hired to fly back to the States to help track down the killer. But closely guarded family secrets are reluctantly dragged into the light. Lin’s older son was also recently murdered in Shanghai, with the same M.O., suggesting that the real target was always James Lin, and that the killer is an assassin with skills every bit as deadly as Manning’s.
S.F.P.D. detectives determined to uncover the truth behind the murder are on a crash course with Manning, blocking his view as the elusive assassin slashes her way through Lin’s defenses, intent upon exacting old-fashioned blood vengeance upon her hated victim, whose past crimes have finally caught up with him.
This one’s not for kiddies, folks–it’s a sexy, balls-to-the-wall thriller full of all the good stuff, for which I scored a custom acronym: MV/ASP (Massive Violence/Actual Sexual Penetration). So if anything over PG-13 offends you, prepare to curl your toes in shock! You have been warned.
I hope everyone’s doing well, and are healthy and happy!
I’ve been pretty quiet lately, but it’s not because I’ve lost interest, have been abducted by aliens, or wound up as Scarlett Johansson’s newest boy toy. (Though she apparently does like dalliances with older guys, so I might still have a chance at that.) While I needed some downtime after moving heaven and earth to knock off The Rising Horde books, I’ve also been busy at work on other related projects that I’ll briefly detail here.
Sales for The Rising Horde: Volume 1 and The Rising Horde: Volume 2 are moving right along, especially on Amazon. Even better, their release caused some renewed interest in The Gathering Dead and, to a substantially lesser extent, Left with the Dead. I’m very, very happy with the pace of the sales of all the titles, but I see the spillover hasn’t touched any of the non-zombie books. I’m a bit concerned about this, because it makes me wonder if I’m going to wind up as a one-note writer: those guys who can only sell one specific type of property. I have a widely divergent list of interests and skills, and I’d hoped to be able to tap into that for fun and profit in the years ahead. But when I see some pretty rich fare such as City of the Damned and White Tiger essentially withering on the vine, it does make me take pause. This is a business for me, after all, not a hobby. So I need to be mindful of what I can and can’t do.
Which leads me to wonder if I should release Tribes, a decidedly non-zombified science fiction adventure novel set in the Antarctic, under the Stephen Knight monicker or if I should consider breaking out with another name. There’s a lot to be said for this approach, and there is some data that indicates folks only buy specific books from specific authors. While I like writing about zombies, their retinue is fairly limited, and I’ve already encountered resistance even to my mild attempts to spice up the genre by inserting some feral intelligence into some of the stenches. I get the desire on the part of the reader to want to enjoy similar good experiences, but as a writer, it does leave one feeling a bit boxed in. This is stuff I’ll have to contemplate strongly over the next couple of months as I finish Tribes and send it into the editorial stage.
After that, I have several other projects waiting for my tender ministrations. I haven’t decided which one I’ll do next, though I do have a lot of folks clamoring for more Gathering Dead-like fare. Will I, or won’t I? I’m afraid I don’t know myself, just yet.
Oh! And if you’ve read any of my stuff, please do leave a review wherever you purchased it. That’s always a thrill!
Yeah okay, the Indiegogo crowdfunding stuff is kind of sucking wind. But that’s all right, because at the end of the day, I wasn’t expecting a groundswell of support from that venue. The Gathering Dead is a very specialized product in that it deals with the military response to the zombie apocalypse, then specializes it even further by focusing on Army Special Forces. A lot of folks know about SEAL Team 6 (which hasn’t been called that in years, by the way), but the last time the Green Berets were on anyone’s mind was during the Vietnam War and because John Wayne played one who miraculously took in a glorious sunset where the sun somehow set in the South China Sea. But to that end, look for an Indiegogo Version 2.0 campaign sometime in the summer. By then, I’ll have my multi-thousand dollar trailer locked and loaded, and I’ll be able to better show people what I’m looking to do.
And about the trailer? Work is coming along nicely. Very nicely, but it’s not stuff that I can easily show. This is going to have to cook for another couple of months, and to reveal anything that’s not fully formed is going to hurt the initiative more than help it. I haven’t even shared it with my partners yet, because I know seeing partially-formed footage is going to be something of a downer at this point in time. They want something they can use to raise funds, and gray scale polygons and non-rigged animatics ain’t gonna do the trick. So I need to wait, and let the effects team do what they need to do.
But, there are other things happening on this front as well. I can’t speak about them directly just yet, but people are beginning to take notice of my little zombie picture and are inspecting it here and there. Some of these people are quite famous people as well, people the casual reader of this blog would know and say, “Really? XYZ is interested in The Gathering Dead? Wow!”
But interest is a fleeting thing, and balances are all very delicate. So for now, the less I say on that, the better. But things are continuing to progress in this area, albeit in more stealth mode than I would normally like.
I’m still following up on converting The Gathering Dead into a 100+ page graphic novel. Since I’m a bit of a control freak, I need to ensure that I fully vet the possible printers out there and understand their requirements fully. The folks who print my current books, Lightning Source, aren’t really adept at this kind of product, so I need to determine just who the final contenders will be and move from there.
In addition, I’ll need to assemble the following team:
Overall, it looks like the project will have an out-of-pocket pricetag of around $7,500-$15,000, which is enough to make me take it slowly and ensure that I take the right steps in the right order. Because hey, I really don’t want to have to spend twice as much as I need in order to get this done.
And for all three projects, it’s pretty much the same set of circumstances. I’m committed to doing as much by myself, for myself as I possibly can. Why? Because it’s my property, and while I recognize I’m going to need the participation of others–especially for the film!–I’m not going to cede any control unless it’s absolutely necessary. Because at the end of the day, everyone else gets to walk away from these projects with money in hand. I’m the one who has to shoulder the mistakes and failures, while everyone gets to share in the glory.
And my aim is ensure there’s more of the latter than the former. Approaching it in any other way is just looney, and I’m sure you guys would agree!
Anyway, more to come. Stay tuned, folks.
For giggles and perchance for your entertainment, I present herein a chapter from White Tiger, a thriller cum police procedural cum martial arts fest I wrote with the ardent wordsmith Derek Paterson. This is a bit of a departure from my normal fare, in that there are no zombies, vampires, attack helicopters unmasking from behind intervening terrain, and no Army Special Forces shooting up the place while yelling “Hooah!”
San Francisco, California
For just a moment Hal Ryker thought the world had gone to hell in a handbasket and no one gave a damn any more, but then he saw a familiar face behind the hotel reception desk, talking to a pair of elderly Japanese. The clerk glanced at him briefly, then ignored him. Her name was … damn, he couldn’t remember, why was he so awful with names? … and she’d gotten her inspector’s shield six months ago, he remembered the frosted donuts and the coffee salute as everyone welcomed a new gladiator to the arena. He wondered what she thought of him—not that it mattered anyway because they worked out of the same precinct and only an idiot crapped in his own nest. Ryker didn’t know a cop-on-cop relationship that had ever worked out to anyone’s satisfaction, most especially his own, and he sure as hell wasn’t going down that bumpy road again … even if the bogus hotel clerk did have eyes a man could drown in and legs that went all the way up to her armpits.
Chee Wei stood waiting for him by the bank of elevators, one of which lay open with a printed Out Of Service sign on the frame. Ryker nodded hello and they stepped into the elevator. The young Chinese turned a key that was already in the control panel, then thumbed a button. The doors slid shut and the elevator climbed smoothly. The distant hum of motors and cables provided a background to Chee Wei’s inevitable question: “So, did you get any over the weekend?”
“Damn right I did. Your sister dropped by,” Ryker said, not taking his gaze from the display as the numbers got higher and higher, heading for the thirty-eighth floor. “I’m going to have to buy a new bed, she busted the springs. Neighbors were banging on the ceiling all night. Hey, I’ll bring in the tape. You can show it to your folks so they know what a talented daughter they have.”
“Tell me how much a new bed costs, they’ll want to pay for it,” Chee Wei said without change of expression. “Of course, my sister’s eye operation will have to be postponed. We’ll just buy her a guide dog instead. It’s cheaper.”
“Speaking of eyes, who’s that behind the desk downstairs?”
“That would be Sandra Raymond. Locker room says she likes girlie stuff, but that’s because she hasn’t had a solid date in over a month. You thinking about punching her ticket?”
“We have anyone else down there, or is she it?”
“Two plainclothes from the Bay area. Jackson, you know him, and a guy called Blacque, with a ‘q.’ You walked right past them.”
“I meant aside from them.”
The corner of Chee Wei’s mouth turned up, telling Ryker his bluff hadn’t worked. Then again, he hadn’t seen Jackson since spring last year when they’d rubbed shoulders on a double homicide. “Uh-huh. Couple of uniforms on permanent station round the corner with their radios open. We whistle, they come running. That’s assuming some crazy guy with a knife shows up looking for more dicks to cut off.”
The elevator slowed to a stop and the doors opened. Ryker nodded to the uniform waiting for them. The cop jerked a thumb over his shoulder indicating a cluster of bodies at the far end of the huge room, just in case they couldn’t find the corpse on their own. The dimensions of the place staggered Ryker. And the décor didn’t just impress him, it took his breath away. The furniture, the flooring, the rugs, the wood paneling, even the chandeliers hanging ten feet above his head each cost more than he made in a year. No, two years. The stench of wealth assaulted his nose. Just being here made him feel like some bum who’d wandered in off the street. He had an urge to take off his shoes out of respect, but that would only leave an embarrassing trail of foot-shaped sweat marks across the polished wood.
Chee Wei said, “You’re thinking, how much does this cost per night?”
Ryker shook his head. “No, I’m thinking what kind of loony-toon cuts a guy’s dick off.”
“A frustrated wife? A scorned lover?”
“See, you’ve solved the case already. Round up the usual suspects. You can start with my ex-wife, those alimony payments are crippling me.”
“Did Adrienne cut your dick off too?”
“She still keeps my balls in a glass jar beside her bed, that’s for sure.”
As Ryker and Chee Wei approached the emperor-sized bed, the small crowd dispersed to let them have a better look. Ryker recognized three forensics among the cops, one of them a Korean girl he’d only recently learned was hardcore lesbian. That thought was enough to send a man running to get a sex change. She walked to the top of the bed and took more photographs with her digital camera, the strobing flash turning the room into a disco. She had eyes for no one in the room except the naked Chinese lying on his back and decorated by a rusty film of dried blood. The forensics team leader, a crew cut named Klein, said, “We’re still trying to figure cause of death, but it looks like he was—” Klein paused momentarily for the appropriate comedic timing “—dismembered.”
Ryker understood only too well that humor at a grisly crime scene was essential. A well-timed joke could often stop a stomach from heaving and spilling its contents, adding to the disgust. He found himself chuckling and welcomed the emotional release, even if it was the diametrical opposite of what he felt at that exact moment.
The other forensics guy had his toolbox-cum-chemical lab open on a table. He saw he had Ryker’s attention and said, “There’s semen trace on his stomach. Looks like he came just before his assailant cut it off. And there’s trace in his mouth, too.”
“Is the semen in his mouth his own, or someone else’s?” Ryker asked, even as his brain, paralyzed by the sight of a dead man apparently eating his own penis, told him it was too soon for results to be available.
“Samples are on their way to the lab.”
“Too bad it happened last night,” Klein said. “If we’d gotten here within thirty minutes of ejaculation we could have put the two semen groups together on a slide. That would have told us whether they were exclusive.” He bent his arms at the elbows and made the motions of flapping wings, grinning all the while.
Ryker nodded; he’d seen the training film, dubbed “Cock Fighting” by the forensics fraternity. He knew the case’s history. A female student had been attacked on her way back to her dorm and raped by two men. When semen samples were examined under the microscope they were found to be very much alive—and fighting each other like crazy. Until then Ryker had assumed that semen had one purpose in life and one purpose only, to swim toward and fertilize the female’s egg. But, put those feisty little tadpoles in along with semen from another man and half of them would stop swimming and fight a rearguard action to prevent the egg being fertilized by the competitor.
Klein went on. “I’m estimating time of death at twelve thirty, give or take sixty minutes. Blood loss would have killed him soon enough. But before it did, this happened.” He pointed a gloved finger to a dark spot directly above the dead man’s heart. “Stab wound. From above, straight down. Slipped between the ribs, smooth as silk, and into the heart. You might call it a surgical strike. Either the knifeman, or the knifewoman, was very lucky not to have the blade turned by a rib—or they knew exactly what they were doing.”
Ryker examined the chest and stomach. “Just one puncture?”
“That’s affirmative,” Klein said. “There’s severe bruising around the wound, caused by the hilt impacting the flesh. Bam! Like Travolta and Uma Thurman, you know? We only have to insert a measurement probe into the hole to discover the exact length of the blade.”
“Do that,” Ryker said. He looked for Chee Wei and found him standing over by a window, looking out across the sprawling city, his back to the crime scene. Ryker joined him. He rarely got to see San Francisco from such a vantage point. Sometimes he forgot just how beautiful his adopted city was.
“I assumed, you know, this was some bi or gay thing,” Chee Wei said. “I didn’t consider the possibility that his own semen might have found its way into his mouth from his penis.”
“Just adds to the charm, don’t it?” Ryker said. “What else do we know about him?”
“Got his name from the register. It’s Danny Lin.”
He couldn’t have surprised Ryker more if he’d put on a clown’s nose and started dancing around the room. Danny Lin, aka Lin Dan, aka the son of James Lin, multi-millionaire Chinese industrialist and personal friend of at least two United States senators.
Ryker looked closely at the dead man on the bed and finally recognized him. The pale, bloated features had fooled him.
“Thought that would get your attention,” Chee Wei said. “Didn’t you have some kind of—” He broke off in response to Ryker’s stare, and held up both hands, palms outward.
Klein came up behind them and said, “We’d put Kyung on the suspects list but she has a solid alibi, she was working last night.” He meant the Korean girl. She’d moved round to this side of the bed and was close enough to have heard Klein, but if she did then she gave no sign.
“You’ve used up your funny allowance for the month,” Ryker said, perhaps too sharply. “Have you found the weapon?”
Klein frowned, suddenly serious. “No, but I’ll tell you this. We’re talking a damn sharp blade. It went through the guy’s dick like a laser beam. Perfect cut, absolutely no tearing or bruising.” He made a horizontal chopping motion with his hand. “With knife wounds, usually you can tell if it’s left-to-right or right-to-left. Not this time. Cross-section’s the cleanest I’ve seen. A machine couldn’t have done a better job.”
“It couldn’t have been a machine,” Chee Wei said. “The Three Laws clearly state that a machine can’t harm your dick, or through inaction allow your dick to come to harm.”
Klein laughed but Ryker rolled his eyes at such intellectual humor, and went to speak with the Korean forensics girl. She’d taken shots from every possible angle. Now she displayed them in batches of twelve on her camera’s 3.5-inch LCD, tilting it so Ryker could see. “What resolution?” he asked.
“Twelve megapixels, and it’s got a ten-by zoom,” Kyung said. “Not to mention a whole range of light enhancement settings. Which is how come I noticed this.” She expanded one of the thumbnails and indicated the wall section behind and above the bed. The writing was barely visible to the naked eye because of the natural shadows cast by bright daylight falling onto the floor beside the bed.
“Can you read it?”
Kyung shook her head. “Nah, I’m an American. It’s probably Chinese.”
They both looked at Chee Wei. He joined them and Ryker indicated the camera, then the wall. Kyung manipulated controls with her thumb so the characters painted on the wall in blood expanded to fill the display. Chee Wei’s eyes widened.
“Are they Chinese?” Ryker prompted him.
“Is the Pope Catholic? Sure they’re Chinese. Bu zhan bu he.” He frowned, then repeated the sounds, “Bu zhan bu he.”
“Is that somebody’s name?”
“What? No, no, it’s something, I’m trying to remember where I might have heard it before. It means, eh, it means no war, no peace. Bu zhan bu he. No war, no peace.”
“Does that have any special meaning in Chinese?”
Chee Wei thought about. “Not that I know of.”
Ryker looked at Kyung, who shrugged and moved away to talk to the forensics guy with the toolbox. She glanced back over her shoulder and caught Ryker looking at her butt. He pretended to have something in his eye even though he knew he wasn’t fooling her for an instant. Feeling like a dumb schoolboy, he turned to Chee Wei.
“Okay. The victim lost his cherry around twelve thirty. Who found him, and when?”
Chee Wei didn’t even consult his notebook. “Room service got here at eight thirty, breakfast trolley and wake-up call rolled into one. Knocked on the door, didn’t get an answer, used his pass key. He called the day manager using the room phone, the manager called nine one one. Uniforms arrived at eight forty-seven and sealed off the floor. The night manager is on his way back in, but when I talked to him on his cell phone, he didn’t know a damn thing about this. The room service logbook doesn’t list this suite after nine p.m., at which time Mr. Lin called down to order breakfast from the Chinese menu, to be delivered this morning promptly at eight thirty. If he had company with him, I guess they brought their own wine and food.”
“Or maybe he intended to order food after he had sex,” Ryker suggested. “Only he didn’t get that far.”
“Makes sense. Need to show you something.” Chee Wei headed for a door that led to a luxurious marble-tiled bathroom the size of Ryker’s apartment. The bath could have held a football team. Chee Wei indicated the wash basin. Ryker didn’t know what he was supposed to be looking for, but then the light caught something in the drain plughole. He bent down and moved over to the other side so he could see it more clearly.
“We need a plumber,” Ryker said.
“On his way. I’ll have him take out the pipe and put a bucket underneath. We’ll flush it down.”
Ryker straightened and nodded; Chee Wei had everything covered, as usual. Feeling superfluous and twenty years too old, Ryker said, “You know, I miss the good old days. You’re too young to remember, but once upon a time the only people who wore earrings were women.” He wanted to rip the sink apart and get his hands on whatever was down there. It looked like a stud diamond set in silver but maybe he wasn’t seeing all of it.
“Whoever dropped it didn’t stick around to call a plumber, that’s for sure. They were in a hurry.” Chee Wei frowned. “Now, if it belongs to the murderer, he or she would have tried to retrieve it, or flush it away so no one would ever find what might be a telling piece of evidence. But … and forgive my presumption … if the owner wasn’t concerned with leaving trace and hoped she might be able to return at some time in the future to pick it up …?”
Ryker noticed how Chee Wei had assigned the unknown earring owner a sex, following Ryker’s thoughts exactly. “Take it one step further. How would she get access to this place?”
“Hotel staff. Cleaning staff. Maintenance.”
“If our plumber turns out to be a girl, slap cuffs on her and hold her on suspicion.”
They both looked back over their shoulders as a huge shadow filled the doorway. The guy wore coveralls and carried a toolbox and a plunger. He must have weighed three hundred pounds. He looked from Ryker to Chee Wei and said, “Someone report a blocked sink?”
Chee Wei negotiated the mid-morning traffic in silence, giving Ryker a chance to think about the Lin family and in particular James Lin, father of the deceased. James Lin owned shipping, electronics, real estate. He had ties with several influential US senators eager to broaden profitable trade links with China, the growing economic and industrial giant that was gearing up to take over the world. Ryker had also heard through the private grapevine that James Lin had ties to various criminal figures, both in the US and Asia. That didn’t concern Ryker. What did concern him, and still irritated him greatly, were the events of six months ago.
An actress named Shannon Young had died at a party thrown by Danny Lin for some big shot friends of his up from LA for the weekend. The strikingly beautiful blonde had the bad manners to overdose in her host’s bathroom. The coroner’s report said the heroin she’d injected into her veins was almost pure, which suggested that someone who didn’t know what the hell they were doing had supplied the gear. The finger of suspicion didn’t just point at Danny Lin, it shoved itself all the way up his ass and tickled his prostate.
Ryker had disliked Lin instantly, not because of his father’s wealth or even because of his unconcealed arrogance and his general contempt for Westerners. No, it was because Danny Lin regarded Shannon Young as nothing more than an unpleasant smell that was stinking up his bathroom. He didn’t care that she’d died, he just wanted her removed and the place cleaned up so his party could continue. For this reason alone Ryker had intended to make things as unpleasant for Danny Lin as possible, starting with a very public arrest, and not forgetting his partying friends, not a single one of whom claimed to know the dead girl.
But suddenly the order had come down from above like a blazing meteor, commanding all concerned to regard Sharon Young’s death as an accidental misadventure, with no one to blame except herself. As if that wasn’t bad enough, twenty-four hours later Ryker had been bewildered to read an addendum to the crime scene report detailing how substance traces had been found in her purse and in her Mercedes, intimating that she had brought her own heroin to the party. When Ryker queried this anomaly, his own captain told him bluntly to stop asking damn fool questions and let it go, the case was closed. It was obvious as all hell that James Lin had used his power to derail the investigation. Equally obvious was the fact that no one could do a damn thing about it.
Which brought them to the present. What steps would James Lin take to cover up the manner in which his son had died? Ryker could well imagine. A single phone call to the mayor’s office, or perhaps even the governor’s office, and Ryker and his people would be pulled off this case too. A special team would be brought in, part investigator, part diplomatic mission. For Christ’s sake don’t piss off the mega-rich Chinese businessman. What could Ryker do about it? Absolutely nothing, but until he received the order to abandon ship he intended to operate the pumps to the best of his ability. And if his actions somehow pissed James Lin off just a little bit, then he felt he would have earned this month’s pay. Which was why he and Chee Wei had passed Japantown and Pacific Heights and were heading along California Street on their way to the Sea Cliff District, to Danny Lin’s house overlooking the beach and the Pacific Ocean. A subtle telephone inquiry had confirmed that Mrs. Valerie Lin was home. Not only had she agreed to see Ryker, she had also accepted his unwillingness to discuss the matter in detail over the phone, which Ryker thought must make her the most incurious woman in the city. He intended to find out why.
His cell phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number but accepted the call. “Ryker.”
“This is Sandra Raymond.” It took Ryker all of three seconds to remember the detective working hotel reception so she could keep an eye on everyone coming and going. Whose idea was that anyway, hers? He wondered whether her bed skills matched her cleverness. “You wanted to know about an earring?” She sounded uncertain, probably because Ryker was taking so long to respond.
“Yes. What about it?” The plumber had removed the wash basin pipe and caught the diamond stud as it fell out. It was on its way to the forensics lab together with other evidence from the Taipan Suite, but first Ryker had showed it to a jeweler in the hotel mall who’d given the single piece a four-figure value, and estimated the matching pair would have cost no less than thirty thousand dollars. The jeweler had similar merchandise but was certain these earrings hadn’t come from his store.
“Kyung printed a picture,” Sandra Raymond said. “We’ve been showing it around. Bingo, one of the room maids remembered seeing earrings just like these.”
“Time and place,” Ryker demanded, prompting Chee Wei to glance at him.
“The maid was working the thirty-seventh and thirty-eighth floors within an hour of our murder. Sheer luck we got hold of her, she’s covering early shift for a friend whose daughter’s getting married today. She describes a Chinese woman, twenties, tall, film star looks. Could have been around the Taipan Suite elevator. Mulholland’s got his laptop, they’re putting together an identikit.”
Breaks like this came only rarely; Ryker had learned to appreciate them as little acts of God. “Wire it to me as soon as they’ve got something. We’re on course for the vic’s wife.”
“Okay. Anything else?”
“You’ve done enough. Take the rest of the month off, hop a plane to Hawaii and charge it to the department.” She laughed before Ryker disconnected. He slipped his phone back into his pocket and told Chee Wei, “Some maid remembered seeing the earring. And the good-looking Chinese woman who wore it.”
Chee Wei grinned. “Shouldn’t take too long to interview every hooker in San Francisco. One of them is bound to confess.”
“Think about it for a minute,” Ryker said. “Put yourself in Danny Lin’s shoes.”
“Hey, no thanks, I like my dick just where it is, attached to the rest of me.”
“You’ve booked one of the most luxurious—and expensive—suites at the grandest hotel in town. Why? You’re not going to breeze through Chinatown and hope you pick up some street hooker on the way there.”
“No you’re not, because you’ve already arranged a very special night with your mistress.”
Chee Wei laughed. “Oh come on. Quick, Watson, a Hansom cab! I’ve solved the case!”
“Would you give a pair of thirty-thousand-dollar earrings to a one-night stand?”
“Depends how good she is. Okay, maybe not. Maybe you’re onto something. So maybe someone knows who Lin Dan’s mistress is. I’ll shake a couple of trees, see what falls out. Hey, the wife finds out about the mistress. Gets a little pissed. Takes a kitchen knife to the hotel and, zzzziiittt.” His hand slashed the air, complementing the sound effect.
“Klein said it was a damn sharp knife.”
“Twenty bucks and postage’ll get you a boxed set of ninja steak knives.”
Remembering Klein’s statement, Ryker wasn’t at all sure whether the Shopping Channel had supplied the hardware that had separated Danny Lin from his manhood, but he let it go for the moment as Chee Wei’s portable navigation system instructed them to take the next turn, and they moved down among the big, rich houses that comprised Sea Cliff District. Chee Wei’s fascination with modern electronics had compelled him to spend good money on a state of the art journey planner, a combination satellite-fed Global Positioning System and street map that boasted details of every city, town, street, “points of interest” and ATM in the United States and Canada. Ryker was duly impressed but given that Chee Wei hadn’t set foot outside of San Francisco in ten years the gizmo seemed like a waste of money that could have better spent on his other interests, gambling and hot women. Then again, money was the last of Chee Wei’s concerns. His parents owned a profitable restaurant and worked their asses off eighteen hours a day for the sole purpose of accumulating wealth for their number one son. It didn’t seem to concern them that Chee Wei would rather wear a shield than an apron and had no interest in their endeavors; the Chinese family dynamic was all that mattered to them.
“My parents are pissed with me,” Chee Wei said at that moment, surprising Ryker, who wondered whether some kind of telepathy was at work. “I mean, what era do they think we’re living in, the 1920s?”
Ryker had no idea what Chee Wei was talking about so he contented himself with admiring the packed mansions on either side of the car as it crawled along the street, headed for Danny Lin’s humble abode.
“It’s like they think I’m still a kid who can’t decide things for himself.”
“How many guesses do I get?” Ryker said. He pointed at a house half-hidden behind a high wall with overhanging trees. Chee Wei nodded and pulled in just past the driveway, occupied by a Range Rover SUV and a gleaming black Audi A8 with tinted windows. They got out and climbed the winding rock bordered path that led up to the front door. Ryker noted a carefully sculpted ornamental pond filled with fish that glinted silver and gold, which he was sure hadn’t been there the last time he’d had occasion to visit. A stooped, white-haired Asian man tended a patch of garden ablaze with warm colors.
“So who is she?” Ryker asked, arriving at the door. He thumbed the button and listened for a noise within the house, but didn’t hear anything. He wondered if the doorbell was broken and looked around for the old Chinese gardener, but he was gone. Maybe he was stealing the hubcaps off the department Crown Vic.
Chee Wei made a sour face. “I don’t know. We were betrothed when I was five years old. My mother waved the contract under my nose as if it was some kind of legal document I’d signed. Twenty-two years later, I’m supposed to marry this total stranger from another country. She’s mainland Chinese, from Guangzhou, they still go in for that stuff.”
“Maybe she’s rich,” Ryker said. “Maybe she’s good looking. You should find out.”
“Did I ever tell you I’m allergic to marriage?”
Ryker cupped his hands around his eyes and peered through the glass. A shadow moved inside the hall, coming closer, resolving itself into someone wearing a maid’s uniform. “You just haven’t met the right girl yet,” Ryker said. The maid stopped as a second shadow appeared. Something was said; the maid turned and went away.
“Oh, so you’d recommend the institution, would you?”
It was Ryker’s turn to make a sour face just as a lock clicked and the front door opened. The most gorgeous Chinese woman he’d ever met stared at him, her delicate brows coming together to form a frown that did nothing to detract from her looks. Ryker fumbled for his badge while thinking, Danny Lin was seeing other women instead of coming home to this? He found the concept difficult to believe. His badge eluded his questing fingers and he had to open his jacket wide to show it to her, at the same time exposing his Glock 17 riding in its armpit holster. Her gaze flashed to the weapon.
“I presume you’re the policeman who telephoned earlier,” she said, her English perfect and her accent almost nonexistent, the result no doubt of expensive classes. He understood that many Chinese businessmen insisted their wives learn to speak fluent American English and lose all trace of the “old country” lest they be thought rustic. “I’m Valerie Lin.”
“I’m Inspector Hal Ryker, SFPD. This is Inspector Fong Chee Wei. I hope I didn’t alarm you.” Was she smiling or was that just wishful thinking on his part?
“Not at all. Won’t you please come in?” She stood aside, inviting him to enter.
“Mrs. Lin,” Chee Wei said, just as Ryker began to move forward. “Wouldn’t you like to know why we’re here?”
Her expression didn’t change. “I presume you’re just about to tell me.”
She led them along the hallway and into a lounge that instantly reminded Ryker of the Taipan Suite. The scale was much reduced but the decor, including hand painted silk screens and jade carvings and statuettes, added up to an impressive collection that could have graced a museum. Among this moved the slim figure of Mrs. Lin Dan, widow, dressed in dark slacks and a cream silk blouse, her black hair twisted up and held in place by a silver filigree clasp. Her earrings were twin pearls, simple but effective. Ryker supposed it would have be too easy to have found her wearing only one diamond earring, the mate of the earring Danny Lin’s killer had left behind. But part of him had lived in hope. …
She sat down and invited them to sit facing her on a couch. The maid who’d almost answered the door appeared. Ryker guessed she must be in her fifties, though it was hard to tell. “Will you take tea, or coffee?” Valerie Lin asked. She exuded imperturbable calm.
“This isn’t a social call, Mrs. Lin,” Ryker said.
She dismissed the maid with the smallest of gestures. “Very well. Then let’s get down to business, shall we? What has my husband done, Inspector, and how much will it cost to make it go away?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’ll write you a check. Or would you prefer cash? That may have to wait until tomorrow.”
“Mrs. Lin, when did you last talk to your husband?”
“Oh, that would be, sometime in 1997, I think.” She turned her head so she was looking out the window, lost in her own thoughts. Rain clouds had gathered out in the bay and seemed to be moving closer to land. “Yes, I remember the occasion. It was his brother’s wedding. Everyone had moved out into the garden. I was having a conversation with some of the other wives. We were all so very happy to be there.” Her lips twitched. “We don’t get out much, you see. We were discussing how beautiful the bride’s dress looked when my husband pushed through the crowd and berated me for talking too much.”
The silence stretched over a dozen heartbeats. Ryker exchanged glances with Chee Wei whose eyebrow rose a millimeter. Taking a deep breath, Ryker said, “Mrs. Lin, do you happen to know where your husband was last night?”
“I have no idea. I knew he was in town but I didn’t know where. Or with whom. I realize that must sound awful. You must understand, my husband answers to no one except himself. And to his father in business matters, of course.”
“Your husband rented a suite at the Mandarin.”
“Is that a crime? He is a sophisticated man with expensive tastes.”
“He was not alone.”
“Are you determined to shame me, Inspector?”
“What I am determined to do, Mrs. Lin, is find out who murdered him.”
Heavy raindrops spattered the window. The sudden clatter made her flinch visibly. Her face looked terribly pale. Water ran down the window in rivulets as she clasped her hands on her lap, the tightly clenched fingers turning white and pink with pressure. In that frozen moment of time, Ryker knew beyond all shadow of doubt that Valerie Lin had not murdered her husband. The rain washed away his suspicions and replaced them with a profound sympathy that manifested itself as a desire to move to her and take her hands in his and apologize for bringing such grief to her door. His mental turmoil sent confused signals to his groin which began swelling immediately, much to his embarrassment. He wanted to laugh out loud just to gain the relief such an outpouring of emotion would offer him. He leaned forward, placed his elbows near his knees and clasped his own hands, hoping that this perfectly natural posture would conceal his erection, which over the space of only seconds had grown steel hard. He made a mental resolution there and then to masturbate at least twice every morning from now on before leaving for work. And twice more during the day. That would be easy—all he’d have to do was think about Valerie Lin with her tiny breasts, narrow waist and inviting hips with a black triangle marking the entrance to Heaven.
“Mrs. Lin,” Chee Wei said. “This is just a formality, you understand, but we must ask if there are any witnesses—family, friends, employees—who will be able to attest to your whereabouts around midnight last night.”
She didn’t appear to hear him. Chee Wei opened his mouth to speak again but Ryker gave a little shake of his head. They waited. Ryker sucked in long, deep breaths and tried to calm himself, willing his erection to go down. With primitive cunning his penis has slipped down one leg of his boxers before swelling to strain up against the material of his pants leg, like some monstrous leviathan rising from the deep. Moving his left forearm to either side would reveal his rigid manhood. How would Valerie Lin react? He imagined her eyes widening in shock. Ryker bowed his head, trying not to giggle. For Christ’s sake, focus! The thought that he’d probably tell Chee Wei about this on their way back to the station house only made matters worse. His stomach muscles trembled in anticipation of a mighty guffaw that he simply could not allow. He concentrated on the implications of such unprofessional behavior. James Lin would undoubtedly learn of it. Shortly thereafter, Ryker would be summoned to Captain Jericho’s office and thrown across the big oak desk for the butt-fucking of a lifetime.
That did it—the leviathan groaned, rolled over and descended back into the inky ocean depths. He began to relax, then realized Valerie Lin was looking directly at him. Did she know? Or had she said something, only he was too lost in his juvenile fantasy to hear? He chose a neutral gambit—“I’m sorry, Mrs. Lin ….”—and deliberately allowed his voice to trail off. She could interpret it one of several ways: I’m sorry for your loss. Could you say that again please? Someone chopped off your husband’s penis, stuffed it into his mouth, then stabbed him through the heart.
“My housekeeper should be able to verify … I did not leave the house. I also made a telephone call, to my sister-in-law. We talked for some time. That must have been around …” She shook her head, sighed, then shook her head again. “Does my father-in-law know? Have you told Lin Yubo?”
“We thought we should break the bad news to you first, Mrs. Lin.”
Something changed in her. Ryker couldn’t quite put his finger on it but the temperature of the air between them dropped a couple of degrees. “You don’t know who murdered my husband,” she said. “You came here to judge my reaction. You suspect I may be responsible.”
“Those are exactly our reasons for being here, Mrs. Lin.” She blinked in surprise at his unexpected candor but Ryker saw no reason to sugarcoat it. “The first thing we do when someone’s husband suffers an unnatural death is call on the wife. Ten will get you twenty that she did it, or knows something about it. My first impressions of you are favorable. I don’t believe you murdered your husband. That doesn’t mean you’re automatically dismissed from the list of suspects. But if you let us talk to your housekeeper and your sister-in-law, and if what you just told us checks out, we won’t bother you again unless we absolutely have to.”
Chee Wei looked bemused, which was fair indication of how far Ryker had crossed over the line. But he wasn’t a robot any more than Chee Wei was a virgin. He was also on totally unfamiliar ground. Valerie Lin spoke good English but was, first and foremost, Chinese. Was he supposed to break the news as he would to an American wife whose American husband had been found dead? Or was he doing the right thing by laying all his cards on the table? Would she take this as it was intended, as a gesture of respect, or would she take insult instead? He held his breath and waited, only too aware of the risks involved.
“Thank you, Inspector,” she said at last. “For being so honest.”
He inclined his head, a quarter-bow rather than a mere nod.
“My sister-in-law is in China,” she said. “She lives in Shanghai.”
Ryker knew that Chee Wei would have the telephone company records pulled and Valerie Lin’s claim either verified or refuted within the hour. These days all calls going through the international switchboards were electronically recorded as a matter of course and scanned for keywords that might reveal terrorism at work, before being compressed and copied to permanent storage media. He wondered if Homeland Security would give them access to that particular data stream?
“I’ll go talk to the housekeeper,” Chee Wei said. He got up and left the room. Ryker immediately felt awkward at being left alone in the presence of this beautiful woman who had captivated him from the instant she opened the front door, and who made him feel like a schoolboy caught up in the first stomach churning blossom of puppy love.
“Are you from Shanghai, Mrs. Lin?” he asked, feeling the need to make polite conversation that would put her at ease.
“I lived there soon after we were married, before we moved to San Francisco, but I am from Chongqing. Are you familiar with China, Inspector?”
“A little. Just enough to know Chongqing is a long way from Shanghai.”
“Most people don’t even know that much.”
“I was only a kid when the Bruce Lee thing hit the States like a whirlwind, but it left a lasting impression. Kung Fu schools were springing up everywhere. I became a student so I could learn how to beat up entire roomfuls of Japanese karateka. It didn’t quite work out that way, but my teacher was an elderly Chinese who introduced his pupils not only to the martial arts, but also to the history and traditions of his country. His family was from Wuhan Province. His name was Chen.”
“You surprise me. Truthfully, I didn’t think any Americans cared enough to learn about China. I once met a woman, the wife of one of my husband’s American business associates, who thought Japan and China were …” Her words became a convulsive gasp. She covered her face with her hands and closed her eyes. Ryker looked away, not wishing to embarrass her. She sobbed once, just once, and then she said, “I apologize for my unseemly behavior.” When he looked at her she was perfectly composed.
He wanted to tell her it was okay, he understood and sympathized, but again that would probably embarrass her so instead he said, “May I ask your advice? On the matter of your father-in-law. As far as I know, he is unaware of your husband’s death. Would he—would you—prefer it came from us? I don’t know how your family works. I will be the one who tells him. It’s my duty. But, if you would prefer to convey the news, if it would, I don’t know, gain him, or you, some measure of release? Rather than coming from a stranger. Please forgive me if I’m being too presumptuous.”
“Your concern is greatly appreciated, Inspector. Thank you. Truly. But … if I am being honest … I do not relish the thought of telling my father-in-law that he must bear the pain of loss for his second son. Coming so soon. I would much rather … if it is not too much to ask … I would much rather it came from you.” She rose with fluid grace and moved to the window. There she stood with her back to him and her arms wrapped around her own body as if for comfort, her white knuckled hands visible, the fingers pressing into the fabric of her blouse. If ever there was a perfect moment for him to go to her and take her in his arms and tell her she would never again have to worry about anything for as long as he lived, this was it. A hard pulse beat in his own throat and surf waves crashed inside his ears as he actually contemplated implementing this insane physical action that would destroy his career and probably his life. Such was the power this woman had over him and she didn’t even know it.
The bubble popped when Chee Wei appeared in the doorway, flipping his notebook shut. He slipped it inside his jacket along with his pen, and nodded when Ryker threw him a curious look.
Ryker reluctantly got up. “Thank you, Mrs. Lin. If we need to speak to you again, we’ll call first. I’m very sorry for your loss.”
She didn’t answer or turn from the window. The rain had stopped, only a brief shower, leaving the garden gleaming and fresh. Chee Wei turned to leave but Ryker stopped halfway to the door, a sudden thought having surfaced.
“Mrs. Lin. If I were to say, ‘No war, no peace,’ would that mean anything to you?”
For a moment he wasn’t sure whether she’d heard him or not. Chee Wei was watching her too, looking for some gesture or change in body posture that might reveal knowledge. But all she did was shake her head, the slightest of movements. Ryker realized she was watching his reflection in the window glass. He forced himself to stop drinking in every line and curve of her body, and followed Chee Wei out. Leaving her alone with her grief made him feel nauseous.
The maid, or housekeeper, opened the door for them and bade them farewell with a tight smile. Ryker and Chee Wei made their way back to the car. But as they neared the end of the path something made Ryker stop and turn and look back at the house.
He couldn’t see Valerie Lin at the living room window, not that he thought she was responsible for the unsettling feeling that had literally sent a shiver up his spine. His eyes searched the trees and, among the shadows, he found the white-haired gardener they’d seen on the way in. The old man stood motionless, his hands folded within his jacket sleeves. Ryker didn’t know what to make of it.
Chee Wei said, “If that’s how they build them in Guangzhou, maybe this arranged marriage bullshit won’t turn out so bad after all.” He unlocked the car with his remote. “Yeah, right, what are the chances? Her nickname’s probably Elephant Butt.” He climbed in behind the wheel. Ryker studied the gardener for a moment longer, then walked to the car and climbed in the passenger side, still feeling strange about what had happened.
“Yeah, four hundred pounds of blubber. I’d lose my dick in the folds of her fat,” Chee Wei continued. He turned the key, started the engine. “The housekeeper says they had a quiet night in. Watched some Chinese soaps on satellite TV, then went to bed around ten thirty. Then they had their nightly lesbian fest. Mrs. Lin got hers first. The housekeeper says she likes it rough, right up to the elbow. She squeals like a pig when she comes. Hey, you listening?”
Ryker was listening but with only half an ear. He was thinking back to the night Shannon Young had died in this very house. Valerie Lin had been out of town. Ryker didn’t recall seeing the housekeeper then either, or the gardener. Were they employees or family? Did they travel with her? He knew someone must have checked it out, just as he and Chee Wei were checking on Valerie Lin’s whereabouts around midnight last night. Maybe the records still existed. Or had James Lin conspired to have them erased, as he’d so easily erased the minor problem of his son being charged with supplying tainted drugs that led to Shannon Young’s overdose?
“So I’m guessing you’re thinking about Mrs. Lin. Maybe she’s just your type. Maybe you’ll get the chance to talk to her again. Who knows where it might lead? A quiet dinner for two. Touching knees under the table. An electric spark. An invitation back here for a night cap. With any luck her husband’s slippers will fit. Maybe his robe and his pajamas, too.”
“Let’s go talk to James Lin,” Ryker said, and Chee Wei put the Crown Vic into gear.
Gotta love it when you get not only a five-star review, but one that actually goes into some nice detail! Check this out…
Bu Zhan Bu He.These chinese words written on a hotel room wall represent the only evidence left behind at the scene of a particular gruesome murder which opens the thriller ‘White Tiger.’ With action that begins in the Asian underworld, and ends on the streets of San Francisco, White Tiger follows Sargeant Detective Hal Ryker and security specialist (and former special forces operative) Jerome Manning as they both search for a killer who moves like a ghost, and hasn’t yet stopped killing.Manning’s character is developed early in the novel against the backdrop of Tokyo, and reminded me of with the Deckard character from Blade Runner: lost, world-weary, cynical. Having lost his family in a car accident while deployed abroad in special forces several years earlier, Manning lives in Tokyo, works for the Chinese mob, and speaks Japanese & Mandarin fluently. Contracted to clean up some mob business, collateral damage haunts Manning, further damning him. Redemption isn’t an option.
Having earned the titular nickname due to his effectiveness while remaining anonymous and discrete, Manning’s mob contacts are ordered by the Godfather of the Shanghai underworld to send the White Tiger to San Francisco to find and kill whoever murdered his (less favored) son.
Meanwhile, Detective Ryker responds to the opening murder, hoping only to solve the case quickly. He has a history with the murder victim and his powerful father, James Lin – the man who hired Manning. Partnered with the inexperienced Chee Wei, a chatty younger detective whose chinese ethnicity helps the case move along (but also ultimately dooms him), the two chase down leads and introduce a number of supporting characters to the story.
Much like DeNiro and Pacino’s characters in the movie Heat, Manning and Ryker have very few interactions with each other, but find a common ground of respect for each other.
There is plenty of action, lots of steamy sex, and great set pieces. Stephen Knight is a very cinematic writer, but layers his visual action with a lacquer of impressionism which coats this reader’s mind with the feel of the places about which he writes.
The ending is satisfying, and leaves wiggle room for a potential sequel, with plenty of plausible motivation for both main characters to continue the story. I highly recommend this book!
Well, it seems like a lot of folks are interested in the dynamics behind sales, at least how they relate to the Kindle. I still don’t have the final figures for July, but I know they’re not as good as June was…which of course, makes me want to weep. But in order to retain my status among my peers as a manly man, I’ll soon elect a designate to do my weeping for me, a la Subotai in Conan the Barbarian.
So with that in mind, here are the last two weeks of sales, the first showing the final week of July, the second this past week which just closed out:
Final Week of July
First Week of August:
In the screenshots above, you can see the two titles that most directly affect my, ah, wealth have gone through a decline. (Though City of the Damned has kicked up a bit here and there.) I expected sales to roll back once I raised the prices from .99 to $2.99–it was just too much to hope for that sales would continue to be as robust by making the product “less accessible”, though in truth I’m still charging $5.00 less on average than what the traditional publishers demand for similar product. I think that what’s happening here is a confluence of things, to wit:
- It’s summer. People are out doing things with their families, their significant others, their pets, waxing their muscle cars, whatever. This could be a usual seasonal decline, which is what I’ve heard elsewhere.
- Raising the prices were guaranteed to cause a rollback in sales. This was not unexpected by me.
- The economy. It sucks, and now that S&P has elected to pay more attention to politics as opposed to financial data and reduce the U.S.A’s sovereign credit rating–a little something they apparently overlook when it comes to grading nations like, oh, China–I’m expecting consumers to be less apt to spring on nonessential impulse purchases like this. I mean, really–if your credit card finance charges are going through the roof, chances are good that you’ll be less interested in reading about Special Forces troops going to guns on zombies in Manhattan’s Upper East Side. I get that.
Of course, there’s not a remarkable wealth of datasets to back these theories up. As far as I know, the only guy out there who’s free and open with his numbers is Konrath, and he’s clearly in a league by himself. He was among the very first to jump into this fight, and he continues to lean forward in the foxhole every day. His sales are, of course, what the rest of us envy. But while trolling the web looking for contrasts, I’m not finding a great many self-pub folks who are willing to discuss their sales in such a fashion. I get that, too; I’m a very private guy in real life, and broadcasting my financial foibiles is actually tough for me to do. (But I do it for you guys–I believe this is known generically as “taking one for the team”.)
Regardless, I do very much buy into the axiom that if you want more sales, you need more product. I think this is true, as I have folks pestering me to release more work. Now, it’s blindingly obvious that White Tiger is as bouyant as a boat anchor right now, and this tells me that my readers will take a risk on my horror titles, but not so much on more commercial fare. I do have another horror work underway, the sequel to The Gathering Dead, so that should make at least two or three folks happy (especially if I pull it off and hit all the marks again). But what about my next title, which is a science fiction adventure called Tribes? I honestly don’t have a clue. Maybe the economy will improve by the time it hits the market, and since it will be late fall or early winter when I release it, more folks will be hunkering down and staying at home to read as opposed to hitting the beaches with the rest of the Polar Bear Club.
Or maybe, it will sell as well as White Tiger, which means my boat will have two set anchors instead of one. From a business perspective, it’s a very interesting challenge.
But again, I’m not bitching about it. My sales have been generally pretty damned good; even my short stories sell better than some “real” author titles, even their novels. So in that regard, I’m very lucky. Don’t think I don’t fall to my knees and thank God every chance I get (though I suspect I’m only bugging Him when I do that). But the trick to it all is to make the success repeatable, sustainable, and dependable. That’s the big friction point right there.
Would love to hear more from you folks about your own sales, if you don’t mind sharing. Hit me up with a comment, and if you want to keep it private, I’ll ensure the comment isn’t revealed to the world (I still approve them).
And now…back to writing. The Rising Horde isn’t going to finish itself, and I’m only about 30,000 words in, with another 100,000 to go. Catch all of you on the rebound.
In a stellar example of slow and steady wins the race, it took co-author Derek Paterson and I almost six years to finish this book. We laughed, we cried, we cried some more, and in the interim published about a zillion other works before this one was completed.
But hey…such is life.
Even Predators Can Be Prey.
International security consultant Jerry Manning has a lucrative sideline: he kills people for the Chinese Mob, so quickly and so effectively using his martial art skills that the Chinese call him the White Tiger, a nickname born out of respect–and fear.
When wealthy Chinese businessman James Lin’s son is brutally murdered in a San Francisco penthouse where he was sexing a beautiful actress, Manning is hired to fly back to the States to help track down the killer. But closely guarded family secrets are reluctantly dragged into the light. Lin’s older son was also recently murdered in Shanghai, with the same M.O., suggesting that the real target was always James Lin, and that the killer is an assassin with skills every bit as deadly as Manning’s.
S.F.P.D. detectives determined to uncover the truth behind the murder are on a crash course with Manning, blocking his view as the elusive assassin slashes her way through Lin’s defenses, intent upon exacting old-fashioned blood vengeance upon her hated victim, whose past crimes have finally caught up with him.
WHITE TIGER is an action/thriller novel of approximately 125,000 words/400 pages.
Revenge is a dish best served bloody!
Moving with all the speed of molasses on a cold January day, I’m getting closer to releasing White Tiger, hopefully by the end of the month.