Tag Archives: A One Way Ticket to Dead

Trick or Treat

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

(Okay, okay, I know it’s not here quite yet, but still….)

Are you ready to listen to some scary stuff? How about win some seriously spooky audiobooks? Well, have I got the event for you…

Come to our virtual Halloween party! Beginning this Friday, October 30, at 4:00pm PST and running through the weekend to the Grand Finale Extravaganza at 4:00pm Pacific time on Sunday, November 1,  a select group of authors has joined forces with me to bring you some amazing stories! Looking for something to read on cold, scary night? Come take a look at these audiobooks. You just might win one of them!

Don’t miss this opportunity! Click this link and join:
Trick or Treat
Trick or Treat Banner

Here’s what to expect:
Friday, October 30th at 4:00pm PST – Sunday, November 1st at 3:00 PST
You’ll read excerpts, listen to voice clips and watch trailers from our books.
Want to increase your chances to win them?
Then like, comment, or share our posts on the event page.
Grand Finale Sunday, November 1st at 4:00 PST
Want to know who won our books, and have spooky scary fun?
Come to our Halloween party!
Haven’t joined us yet? What are you waiting for?
Happy Halloween 1!

Winners will be chosen at random at the Grand Finale on Sunday. Here’s a sneak peek at the fantastic books that will be available:

Janet Morris & Christopher Crosby Morris
 Can’t wait to see you there!

A One Way Ticket to Dead Nominated for Readers’ Choice Award

Quick DVBerkom_AOneWayTicketToDead200update: I’m SUPER honored and excited to announce that Kate Jones #7, A ONE WAY TICKET TO DEAD, has been nominated by BigAl’s Books ‘n’ Pals in the thriller category for a Readers’ Choice Award!

Books & Pals Readers' Choice Nominee medallion

BigAl has been a major champion for indies, beginning with indie music back a few *cough* years ago. For Al, it was a natural progression to jump feet first into the independent publishing fray and get the word out about indie authors and small presses (see Al’s awesome interview here). As most of you know, there are very few “Indie Only” venues out there that truly support independent publishers and authors. BigAl’s review site, along with The Indie View, are two of the best. BigAl and his pals don’t charge for reviews, and they certainly don’t hold back on what they really think (although they’re nothing if not fair). Plus, they only review about 10% of submissions–you won’t be inundated by a gazillion non-vetted books.

So, instead of asking for your vote, I’m going to ask instead that you head on over to the site and check out the other fabulous books that have been nominated. Read the reviews, maybe even purchase a couple of the books for your reading pleasure. And yes, vote for the books you love and earn a couple of entries to win some swag. But most of all, I hope that you hang at BigAl’s for a while, check out the blog, join his mailing list to hear about authors you might never have found. It’s a great way to show your support for indie authors. (Voting ends March 28th)

Happy Vernal Equinox!

Botticelli-primavera

Botticelli – Primavera


Goodreads Giveaway

Hey everybody! It’s that time again–I’m giving away 2 signed print copies of the latest Kate Jones Thriller, A ONE WAY TICKET TO DEAD (Kate Jones #7) on Goodreads.

Although it’s “#7” it can easily be read all by its lonesome. Of course, I’m hoping that you’ll think it’s so danged good you’ll want to read the others in the series if you haven’t already 🙂 Click on the link below to enter (Giveaway ends 5/28/14)

 

Goodreads Book Giveaway

A One Way Ticket to Dead by D.V. Berkom

A One Way Ticket to Dead

by D.V. Berkom

Giveaway ends May 28, 2014.

See the giveaway details
at Goodreads.

Enter to win


A One Way Ticket to Dead is NOW LIVE

cover for a one way ticket to deadIT’S ALIVE! The latest Kate Jones Thriller, A One Way Ticket to Dead is now LIVE. This book has been a loooong time in coming and I am really stoked.  It will be available March 7th-15th for the special price of $2.99 at all your favorite etailers. (After March 15th, the price changes to $4.99.) Here are the links: Amazon, BN. The Smashwords version will be available either later today or tomorrow (The print version will be available later this month. Look for it at the iBookstore, Diesel, Kobo, et al.) **UPDATE** Here is the Smashwords link.

There’s plenty of action and suspense in A One Way Ticket to Dead, and some of your favorite characters are back: Sam, Cole, Angie, and the commandos from Yucatan Dead all make an appearance in this high-octane, edge of your seat thriller. To celebrate (and because I can’t wait, either) here’s a taste:

Chapter 1

 I NEVER DREAMED I’d come back.

I shouldn’t have.

Even though I told myself things were safer compared to when I’d passed through all those years ago, deep down I knew I was only kidding myself.

The deepening shadows brought scant relief from the blistering heat, although the lower the sun dipped on the horizon the more bearable it became. The sun set early in this part of the world. I took a deep drink from my water bottle and wiped the sweat from my face with the back of my hand.

And waited.

I’d changed my hair for the umpteenth time and wore brown-tinted contacts so I’d blend, but there’s only so much a girl can do to change her appearance short of surgery. Thanks to Quinn and his lies, the men who had tried to kill me thought I was dead. For now. The ruse wouldn’t last long, not if someone from the old days got curious about the new American woman in town.

No sense lingering longer than I had to. Find the stash if it was still there, then get the hell out of Mexico.

The tiny house on the even smaller lot looked like the owner had lost interest and decided to let nature take its course. Dirt-green vines strangled the walls as if they were trying to squeeze the last drop of moisture from the filthy stucco. The cracked and faded flower pots flanking the walkway grew dirt in profusion, their long-dead occupants a distant memory. Two lime trees in the side yard still shaded my target. The ground looked like it hadn’t been disturbed in all the time I’d been gone.

If my luck held.

I’d spent the day and evening before casing the place, watching for signs of life. The house appeared abandoned. How much longer could I stay without arousing suspicion? More time than absolutely necessary in Los Otros made me nervous, and I itched to get the deed done.

My stomach growled as I walked back to the rental. With a loan from Luis, my contact in the Drug Enforcement Administration, I’d chosen an unassuming Nissan Versa with plenty of dings and scratches. I told him I needed to find someone before going back to the States now that Roberto Salazar was dead. At first Luis had argued, asking why I’d even consider staying in Mexico, but finally relented when I told him I owed my life to this person. Nothing he said would change my mind.

Memories of the old man who’d saved me from being gunned down in the street eleven years before flooded my mind. Oggie. Vincent Anaya’s right-hand guy, Frank Lanzarotti, put a bullet in him as we left Oggie’s house. I’d never forgiven him and felt grim satisfaction when Frank had been shot. This final trip through cartel-country wasn’t only about the money.

I got in the car and turned on the air while I ate the now-cold tamale I’d bought earlier. I could have gone back into town and gotten something else, but wanted to keep my visibility to a minimum. Old friends would not be a welcome diversion and I’d already risked discovery by staying the previous evening at a nearby hotel.

Hours later, after I’d moved the car twice and taken a fitful nap, I parked in the dirt-track alley behind the house and cut the lights. From behind, the abandoned house took on a miserable, thoroughly depressive mien. I could almost make out the dark windows and back door, all three of which appeared as though they hadn’t been seen to in years. The backyard where Lana served me dinner so many lives ago was grown over with tenacious vegetation, the kind that could survive drought-ridden, remorseless summers.

What had finally prompted Lana to leave? I tried to imagine her happy, dragging her sadness and the fallout from the choices she’d made to wherever the wave of her life deposited her. All that came to mind were bottles of cheap tequila on a beat-up nightstand and dark, lonely sojourns with men who didn’t care.

Bad choices put me in this backyard of a tiny, run-down two-bedroom casa at the end of an unpaved street in a one-horse Mexican town. I hoped this wasn’t another of those.

Bad choices, I mean.

I popped the trunk and walked around to grab the pickaxe and shovel I’d purchased the day before, along with a large backpack. My idea was to work as quickly as possible until I’d unearthed the stash of gallon-sized plastic bags, backfill the hole and leave. I glanced through the rear window at the glowing clock on the dash: a quarter past three. The post office wouldn’t be open for hours. I’d have a long wait.

I walked along the back of the house to the side yard, picking my way past rampant prickly pear and creosote and paused in the shadows to listen. The wind slid past me, circling my bare legs, churning the dirt at my feet into a dust devil that swirled and crested, and then disintegrated into the night. The breathy hoo of an owl nearby assured me I wouldn’t work alone.

The three other homes on the street remained dark, signifying no one on the block suffered from insomnia, at least not tonight. The houses were far enough apart and on the opposite side of the unlit street from where I’d be working so it was reasonable to assume my efforts would go unnoticed. One of the three boasted a noisy swamp cooler that clanked in protest at the stifling night air, helping to further disguise my activities.

I proceeded to the lime trees and leaned the shovel against the house. The new pickaxe broke through the caliche easier than I remembered and soon the earth resembled a miniature plowed field. Afraid I’d damage the plastic bags or wake up light-sleeping neighbors I reined in my enthusiasm a few inches deep and switched to the spade.

Though not as noisy, the shovel took much longer to dig the remaining depth of the hole. About an hour later, when I still hadn’t hit what I was looking for, worry crept in like a feral cat scrounging for food. What if it’s not here? What if Lana somehow found it, dug it up, and is now living large somewhere in South America?

Well, then I’d have to figure out something else. If it was gone, I’d be shit out of luck. I straightened and took a deep breath, collecting my thoughts. Panicked and wired from dodging death that night so long ago, I thought I’d be back to retrieve the stash long before now. A faulty memory could be the reason I hadn’t found it yet.

Or Lana was dancing the tango in Argentina.

Discarding the tango possibility, I stepped past the freshly dug hole to survey the yard. Closing my eyes, I thought back to that night, the memories resurrecting long-buried emotions. So many years of running, of looking over my shoulder, never being able to live a normal life.

So many friends lost.

Fallout from a bad choice made long ago. Payback, I supposed, for being stupid and young and attracted to shiny things. My fingers curled around the onyx jaguar figurine I wore around my neck. Now that Salazar was dead, I hoped my life could get more or less back to normal.

Then again, what the hell was normal?

I opened my eyes and took in the lime trees, the house, the surrounding vegetation. The yard had looked different back then. Well-tended. Then it hit me.

Unchecked catclaw choked the tree trunks, creating an optical illusion. I’d misjudged the distance of the stash from the base of the tree and had dug too far out. Once again working the pickaxe, I hacked away with new purpose at the base of the overgrown shrub until I cleared a space where I gauged the target should be.

Rinse, repeat. Switch to the shovel.

Focused on digging, I didn’t realize I had company until it was too late.

“Hey,” a voice demanded in slurred Spanish. “What’re you doing?” The rank smell of cheap tequila accompanied the words. Slowly, I turned.

His features semi-distinct in the darkness, the man swayed on his feet, his thick torso and muscled arms reminiscent of a man who worked long hours lifting heavy things. I gave him a half-smile and tightened my grip on the shovel.

“My friend Lana asked me to stop by her house and pick something up for her. I noticed the vines were choking the tree.” I glanced over my shoulder at the offending catclaw. “She’d be very upset if one of her trees died, so I thought I’d clear some of it away before I left.” Not a great story, but the man was obviously drunk, so I didn’t think I’d have to be too convincing.

With a puzzled expression, he swiveled unsteadily on his feet, glancing first down one side of the street, and then back the other way before returning his bleary gaze to me and the shovel. His expression morphed from perplexed to concerned, transitioning to a leer.

“You’re a liar,” he slurred as he lurched toward me. “No one lives here.” He took another step closer. “You do somethin’ nice for me, an’ this’ll jus’ be our lil’ secret, yes?” he stage-whispered, reaching for his fly. I hoisted the shovel over my head. I couldn’t afford to wake the neighbors.

“One more step and you’re going to have one hell of a headache come morning,” I said, my voice low.

“Huh?” He gaped at the shovel in my hands, incomprehension clouding his face. Frowning, he wiped his hands down the front of his shirt, his confusion obvious. He closed his eyes for a moment but lost his balance and stumbled to one side, barely catching himself before taking a header onto the street.

Aye carumba,” he muttered, shaking his head. Obviously unhappy with the way things were turning out, he waved me away, mumbling incoherently to himself as he zigzagged a path down the street.

I lowered the shovel with a sigh. I’d have to work faster, in case he came to his senses and raised an alarm.

Forty-five minutes later the muted clang of metal against dirt changed to a dull thud. I cut in around the spot with the edge of the shovel and then scooped out the rest by hand, revealing a dirt-encrusted bundle. My heart beat faster as I slid the tip of the shovel underneath the plastic bag and pushed down on the handle, leveraging the first package out of its resting place.

Eight gallon-sized bags later, I stopped to take a breath. I leaned the shovel against the tree and knelt down. The outer bags had become stiff from the dry and the dirt and the heat, but remained intact. I grabbed one and opened it, removing the inner bag, which was surprisingly flexible. I flashed on how long it would take for plastic to degrade when it wasn’t subjected to light, like in a landfill. Our civilization would be long gone before that ever happened. For now, I had immense gratitude for the durability of plastic.

I slid open the plastic zipper holding the bag closed and reached inside for a stack of bills. Money in hand, I flipped through the hundreds with my fingers, fanning my face.

Still there. Still intact.

Yes.

Once all eight bags were safely inside the backpack, I zipped it closed and stood, kicking some of the dirt back into the hole to make it look less obvious. Since the house had evidently been abandoned and my visitor had been quite drunk, I doubted anyone would take notice, at least long enough for me to disappear. I picked up my tools and the hefty pack and returned to the car, my heart light. With Salazar dead, even if the home had been on a cartel watch list, it wouldn’t be now. They were tenacious, yes, but that would be too obsessive, even for cartel thugs. Besides, they thought I was dead.

I threw everything in the trunk and climbed into the driver’s seat. One more errand and I’d be long gone.

Goodbye, Mexico. Hello, freedom.


New Kate Jones Cover

Okay–it’s finally starting to feel like a real book! The new Kate Jones thriller, A One Way Ticket to Dead, is so close to being ready I can taste it. For someone with issues in the patience department, it’s this last bit before publication that makes me bat-shit crazy…kind of like getting to the end of a long race where you just want to %&*! FINISH. No worries, though. I can usually circumvent any impending implosion with some deep breathing and a glass or two of wine.

I’m aiming for a February release (okay, it may be closer to the end of February… 🙂 ) To whet your appetite and to appease my imprudent nature, here’s a peek at the new cover:

cover for A One Way Ticket to Dead

I especially like the visceral impact of the blood-smeared money and the MP5 standing on top of it. Definitely appropriate to the theme of the book. Don’t worry, Kate’s still got a problem with inappropriate sarcasm and there are touches of levity  throughout, but her arc is demanding a bit more maturity. I leave it to you to figure out what the hell that means. Here’s the description:

“After years of running from her ex—a vicious Mexican drug lord—and his subsequent death, Kate Jones is ready to bury the past and try to piece together a new normal. But first there’s a loose end to tie and it involves digging up old ghosts that are best left alone.

Unaware her actions have attracted the notice of a powerful enemy, Kate is plunged into a deadly fight for survival as both her life and the lives of the children of a man she once loved hang in the balance. And, with the possibility of a cartel informant inside the DEA, Kate isn’t sure who she can trust.

From the emerald-green shores of Seattle to the lush Yucatan jungle and unforgiving Sonoran desert, Kate Jones must once again face her past…and hope she survives.”

What do ya think? Do you like the cover? Does the blurb grab you? Inquiring minds want to know. Any and all comments are welcome. Really.

I’ll be sending out a new issue of the newsletter in the next few weeks and expect to have a couple of giveaways included, so if you’re interested, here’s the link to sign up: http://bit.ly/1d67TKm . I only send them out about 3-4 times a year, so I won’t spam you–promise.

Off to do ANOTHER edit. Sigh. That bottle of cab on the kitchen counter is calling my name..

.Schwappender Wein


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