Authors to Watch in 2012

A look back at what hit the proverbial thriller shelves last year:

Out in paperback and e-book in May 2011, The Bonaparte Secret was the much awaited fifth installment in Gregg Loomis’s Lang Reilly series. From Venice to Port-au-Prince, Alexandria to Paris, Lang takes readers on a fast-paced search for a lost relic of Napoleon Bonaparte’s. Even if you haven’t read the previous four books, The Bonaparte Secret  is easy to jump right into. Da Vinci Code fans will love it!


A fresh face in the thriller genre, Chuck Hustmyre brought you House of the Rising Sun (July) and A Killer Like Me (August) in 2011. His back-to-back award-winning releases are both set in The Big Easy and tell the tale of detectives caught on the wrong side of the law. Not only did House of the Rising Sun debut in trade and e-book last year, it also celebrated its film release with Lionsgate Home Entertainment!


Stacy Dittrich is no newcomer to the genre. Her years as a police officer and detective inspired her to write true crime and thrillers, of which she has almost a dozen. October release The Rapture of Omega is the fourth title in her popular Detective CeeCee Gallagher series. A Major Crimes Division detective and the top of her field, CeeCee knows too well the burden the job can bring to one’s professional, and personal, life. No matter the circumstance, CeeCee manages to pull through. Teaming up with her forbidden love, FBI Agent Michael Hagerman, the CeeCee Gallagher series brings a hint of romance to a modern day crime series.

Be sure to check in with the Dorchester Web site for more of what’s new in thriller. Follow these exciting authors and many more in 2012!


Thriller Thursdays: AFRICAN ICE

‘Blood diamond’ was a term long before Leonardo DiCaprio’s 2006 political thriller popularized it. Blood diamonds, or conflict diamonds, exist in large quantities in African war zones and are sold to finance guerrilla groups and warlords. This practice has inflicted horrors upon African peoples since the 1990s and continues to be a source of violence today.

Jeff Buick’s African Ice reveals the dangers of conflict diamonds in this fast-paced action adventure that moves through the steaming jungles of the Congo, the dirty streets of Cairo and the well-heeled hallways of De Beers. A beautiful geologist and a Navy SEAL are brought together to find a stash of diamonds buried somewhere in the Democratic Republic of Congo, but instead they’ll discover deception, murder, and injustice every stop along the way.

Enjoy this preview of African Ice, and remember, sometimes diamonds can be deadly.

Thrill on,



Springtime in New York City.

The promise of summer just around the corner. Winter laid to rest for another year. For Samantha Carlson, spring meant New York at its finest. Trees sprouting green, their new leaves softening the harsh lines of the apartment and office buildings that surrounded Central Park. And the early-morning smells. Pretzels, freshly brewed coffee, and dough rising in the bakeries. And with the longer days came mild temperatures. When the mercury rose to a sensible level, Samantha dug her jogging shoes out and brought them back into active duty. Today was day one of the new year.

She entered Central Park from East Sixtieth Street and began to run—slowly at first, her long blond hair swaying in the breeze—then faster as she settled into a rhythm. She had the park mostly to herself, with only a few other intrepid souls braving the early-morning chill. She checked her watch as she ran—six minutes after five. Her breath misted as she exhaled, then disappeared behind her. She kept an even pace for the better part of twenty minutes.

She rounded the pond and cut north until she hit the Transverse. Then east toward the park boundary. She picked up the pace as Fifth Avenue came into view, and then slowed to a marginal jog as she hit the sidewalk. By the time Samantha reached her apartment building on East Sixty-third, she was breathing normally. The doorman eased the door open as she approached. She slid effortlessly through, and made for the elevators.

“Morning, Miss Carlson,” the building employee said as she passed.

She turned, still moving. “Ernie, I keep telling you, it’s Samantha.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He smiled. They had had this same conversation at least two hundred times. There was no way he would ever call her by her first name. They both knew it. She disappeared into the elevator, and he looked back to the empty street.

The elevator slid open on the eighteenth floor, and Sam exited into the deserted hallway. Her apartment was the third on the left. She unlocked the door and let herself in. She added a bit more hot water to her shower than usual, to take off the chill from her jog. Twenty minutes later, she emerged from the bathroom, housecoat on, hair wrapped in a white towel. She stared at the telephone for a moment, then checked her watch.

Six twenty-four, and her voice-mail light was flashing. Someone had called while she was in the shower. Early for a call, she thought. She punched in her code and hit the speakerphone button. A baritone voice enveloped the room.

“This is Patrick Kerrigan calling for Samantha Carlson. Please call me at my office when you get this message. The number is—”

She grabbed a notepad from the end table and jotted down the number. It was local, somewhere in Manhattan. She considered calling it immediately, to see if he was actually up and at work yet, then changed her mind. The coffee was brewed, and Samantha settled into her favorite couch with the daily Times. She skimmed the headlines, then flipped to the business section. The Dow-Jones was up, the Nasdaq was up, but the American dollar was down against the euro. She shrugged, and wondered why she bothered; economics baffled her.

She finished her coffee and stretched. Across the room, a bank of glass overlooked Central Park. She lifted herself off the couch, moved to the windows, slid open the door, and walked out onto the balcony. The view was awesome. She found herself thinking about where she was in her life. For some reason, staring out over the park was a catalyst that triggered memories, and the balcony had become her place for quiet reflection. At thirty-two years old, she held a doctorate in geology—a piece of paper she had used to carve out a remarkable career. Her exploits in some of the most dangerous countries on the planet had earned her the reputation as the female Indiana Jones of the Geological Society. She was no stranger to the ice floes of the Canadian arctic or the steaming rain forests that bordered the Amazon River. Her trips to Africa were too many and too varied to remember. The newspapers and television stations were quick to run a story if it involved Samantha Carlson hunting down a new geological find. She was attractive, athletic, intelligent and accomplished. She was newsworthy.

Her love-hate relationship with the media had started three years ago, when she had discovered a new anticline loaded with oil in northern Texas. The skeptics insisted that the area had been exploited and a large find was impossible. She had responded by throwing the algorithm for her computer program on the table, and letting it go public. The program, she contended, was the crux of her discovery. It allowed the previously unnoticed bulge to be seen through geophysics. She recommended they punch an eight-thousand-foot hole in the ground, and they did.

The anomaly gave way to three million barrels of light Texas crude. Two million dollars to drill the well and almost two hundred million in return. The bonus they had lavished on her had paid for half the penthouse in which she now stood. She winced as she thought about where the other half had come from.

Her parents’ estate. It was almost two years to the day since their plane had crashed into the sea just after liftoff from Casablanca. They had been en route to London, to meet her and spend a week traveling through Europe. The news had devastated her. Her mother and father had been young, in their early fifties, and in excellent health. She had never entertained the thought that they wouldn’t be there, and the void their deaths left was still unfilled. Her mind relived the memorial service, and once the all-too-familiar tape played through, she let it go.

She’d tried to stop the images for the first year, but her subconscious was too strong. The sight of the two coffins, side by side, being lowered into the ground was indelibly etched into her mind. She watched as the two handfuls of dirt left her hand and splayed across the tops of the coffins as they sat beneath ground level. Empty caskets, lined with a few trinkets and pictures of her with her parents, their bodies never found. She closed her eyes and the picture stopped.

Samantha opened her eyes, feeling the wet tears, and blinked away the moisture. The park was blurry for a few moments, then it came back into focus. She turned away and reentered the apartment.

The coffee was still reasonably fresh, and she poured one more cup. She sat on the edge of the couch and looked at the number she had taken from her voice mail. She picked up the phone and dialed.

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Happy Monday Y’all!

Click to see the original cover copy

It’s that time again…time for another ReCOVERy Room where we strip down Dorchester cover copy and you and your friends make it your own! This week’s ReCOVERy Room is inspired by thrill-seeker James L. Thane’s No Place to Die. A “two-in-one treat,” says Sam Reaves, author of Mean Town Blues, “a convincing police procedural bolted to a nail-biter suspense novel.”

Get your pencils, printers, and friends ready! Stretch out your facial muscles and prepare for laughs! “Just another Manic Monday,” huh? Not with this edition of ReCOVERy Room! Enjoy!

Fans of the new blog series? Let us know what you think in the comment thread and be entered to win a collection of genre fiction worth over $30. Happy Holidays!

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Right click the image to print or click the link below for a printable PDF.

No Place to Die ReCOVERy Room