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by Tj O’Connor
July 1-31, 2018 Tour
Terrorism hits Main Street America
When a rogue CIA consultant goes AWOL from his Middle Eastern post in response to his brother’s plea for help, he arrives just in time to witness his brother’s murder. For years, Jonathan Hunter and his brother Kevin Mallory had not spoken―until Kevin’s final words, “… Khalifah … Not Them … Maya.”
Pursuing his brother’s killer, Hunter stumbles into a nest of horrifying terrorist activity by Middle Eastern refugees, which sparks a backlash across America. In the shadows, Hunter’s mentor, the omnipotent Oscar LaRue, is playing a dangerous game with Russian Intelligence. Neither Hunter nor LaRue realizes that a new threat―the Iranian threat―has entered the game. Stakes rise as two shadowy players are one step ahead of Hunter and LaRue―Khalifah, a terrorist mastermind, and Caine, a nomadic assassin who dances with the highest bidder.
As attacks escalate and the country drifts toward another Middle East conflict, innocent refugees become trapped between the terrorists and the terrorized. Prejudice, hate, and fear vent everywhere. Is this who we’ve become? Before the country explodes, Hunter must find Khalifah, learn the next terror target, and pray he’s in time to stop further annihilation.
“Tj O’Connor is that rare thriller writer with both talent and street time in the worlds he rockets us readers through. O’Connor’s stories will pull you in and race you through plots that come from behind the headlines in our crazy world.” ―James Grady, New York Times best-selling author of Last Days of the Condor
“The Consultant is a flat out, dynamite read. Fast paced, compelling, and all too real. O’Connor writes with authority and the pages fly by almost too quickly. My favorite kind of thriller, reminiscent of the best Ludlum and Forsyth.” ―Christopher Reich, New York Times best-selling author of Invasion of Privacy
“Thriller fans who value fast-paced action…will be satisfied.”―Publishers Weekly
“Hop on O’Connor’s back and enjoy this ride. Helluva fun tale full of action, layers, deceptions, twists, and surprises. Well worth finding this one, folks. Put the publication date on your calendar. It rocks.”―Men Reading Books
Genre: Thriller Published by: Oceanview Publishing Publication Date: May 15th 2018 Number of Pages: 432 ISBN: 1608092836 (ISBN13: 9781608092833) Purchase Links:Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads
The Consultant has been chosen by Amazon to be a July Kindle Monthly Deal for $.99!
The Consultant Trailer:
A Day in the Life of Jonathan Hunter
by Tj O’Connor
Dear Diary . . . Day 1: It’s me, Jonathan Hunter, CIA consultant and world traveler extraordinaire. I arrived home in Virginia today from Afghanistan. It was a long trip and three times I had to change names so my crotchety old boss, Oscar LaRue, wouldn’t find me yet. I haven’t been home in years—a couple decades almost. I haven’t spoken to Kevin, my brother, in all that time. Can’t wait to see him. Rent my car, drive to Winchester, and life will be good.
Dear Diary. . . Life isn’t good. I found Kevin tonight at our old fishing spot along the Shenandoah River. Some bastards murdered him. Worse, those bastards aren’t just murderers, they’re terrorists. What the devil is Kevin doing mixed up in terror? That’s my thing. His thing is being a cop. His last words threw me. They mean something and I have to find out what … Khalifah . . . Not them . . . Maya. No matter. Those SOBs made a huge mistake. No, they didn’t leave any evidence—they blew it up right in front of me. Their mistake was much worse than that . . . they didn’t kill me, too.
Dear Diary. . . On a lighter note, I met some fun and interesting people. First, there’s Detective David Bond. He knew Kevin well. He thinks I killed Kevin and he hates me. Fun times ahead. Then, there’s Special Agent “Wow” Victoria Bacarro. She’s just my type—she’s dark-haired, beautiful, smart, sassy, and she carries a big gun. Wow, maybe I’m in love. Oh, wait . . . Kevin was married? He has a teenage kid? Noor Mallory—another “wow” . . . dark and beautiful, sassy and intelligent . . . Oh boy, am I in trouble now.
Dear Diary. . . It’s started. Kevin’s murder was just the first step. Now, there are attacks coming. I barely made it out of one this morning and I know there are others on the way. I can’t hide from Oscar any longer. Time to get to work. P.S., Diary, the rental car manager didn’t understand all the bullet holes in my car. WTH? I bought the extra insurance!
Dear Diary. . . Detective Bond came to take me to breakfast this morning. Well, not really. He took me to jail. It’s all a misunderstanding, of course. I use aliases from time to time, and sure, I don’t have any proof who I am. None I can share. I gave up my real identity years ago. Oh, and yeah, I have an illegal gun and … I’m sure he’ll understand. Eventually.
Dear Diary … Glad that’s over. Met an old pal while being interrogated by Detective Bond. Artie Polo, from an operation in Saudi Arabia. Remember that one? We were both nearly killed—honest, it wasn’t my fault. Anyway, Artie’s with the FBI now and he’s going to help me out. That is, if I can convince him I didn’t kill Kevin. I gotta look up “obstruction of justice.” He keeps throwing that phrase around at me. That Artie, what a character.
Dear Diary. . . Losing Kevin for the second time is killing me. I came home to mend fences. He was angry with me for fifteen years after I ran off to join the Green Berets and later the CIA. He said I’d end up dead in a ditch somewhere over there. You were wrong, Kevin. You stayed home here, nice and safe, and ended up dead in a ditch over here. What have you done, brother? What did you get into so deeply that you swallowed your pride and called me home? I’ll figure it out, Kev. I promise. No matter what. No matter who. I got this.
Dear Diary . . . More attacks. I’m onto something, though. Everything seems to be swirling around Winchester—this small, Virginia town that is coming to grips with Muslim refugees, terror, and yeah, well . . . me. Kevin is haunting me. There’s more going on here, too. Some international assassin, Caine, is stalking me. Then there’s this Khalifah—he’s a master terrorist the CIA and FBI have been hunting for years. What are they doing in sleepy Winchester, Virginia? Are they here for a war? Or for me?
Dear Diary . . . The Russians and the Iranians are up to their balaclavas in this mess, I swear it. There are others, too. Too many. I’m going to get dirty on this one. I know it.
Dear Diary . . . Oscar found me. Boy is he pissed. I guess me leaving Afghanistan without permission is a problem. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but good thing there’s all this chaos going on around me—unusual as it is, right? I mean, he’s more worried about me finding some rogue Middle Eastern assassin than firing me for being AWOL. At least for now. I sure hope this doesn’t get me shot.
Dear Diary . . . It’s ugly—very ugly. There’s a big attack planned and it’s all coming together. My dead brother. Iran and Russian. Terror. Fear … prejudice. We’re headed back to war. I have to stop it!
Follow Tj and Hunter on their Jonathan Hunter Thriller adventures at . . .
Day 1: May 15, 2130 Hours, Daylight Saving Time
East Bank of the Shenandoah River, Clarke County, Virginia
The gunshots took me by surprise and, without luck, might have killed me. The first shot splayed a spiderweb across my windshield before it whistled past my head, peppering glass needles into my face. The second smashed my driver’s-side mirror. An amateur might have panic-braked and skidded to a stop—a fatal mistake. The shooter hesitated, anticipating that decision, and readied for my failure.
Training. Muscle memory. Response.
I gunned the engine, wrenched the car to the left to put more steel between me and the shooter, and sped forward, looking for cover.
My headlights exploded and flashed dark. Bullets breached the windshield. The rearview mirror and rear window were gone. Had I not flinched, one shot would have found my right eye but shredded my headrest instead.
I careened to a stop at the bottom of the boat launch— vulnerable. The shooter was ahead in the darkness, likely maneuvering for another shot. A closer shot. The kill shot. He’d be closing the distance and finding a new advantage.
Luck had its limits, so I dove from the car and rolled to cover behind it. I fought to control the adrenaline and bridle my thoughts.
Easy, Hunter, steady. Listen—watch—survive.
I stayed low and crept along the side of the car, looking for better cover. Spring rain made the darkness murky and dense. The Shenandoah River was to my left some fifty feet. A blind guess. Overhead, two dark spans of the Route 7 bridge blocked what little light there was but provided some cover from the rain. The six substructure supports in front of me might afford me cover. They also afforded the shooter cover. He was hidden and waiting. Still, Kevin Mallory was nowhere to be seen. Under normal conditions—and normal is relative with me—I might have judged the shots’ origins. Driving headlong into an ambush on terrain I’d long ago forgotten, in darkness and rain, I was all but defeated.
Easy, Hunter, easy. Count your breaths. One, two, three.
Out there, somewhere, someone wanted me dead.
Worse. I was unarmed and alone.
Jesus. Where was Kevin?
The boat launch was just a small gravel lot tucked beneath the expanse of the Route 7 Bridge across the Shenandoah. At night it should have been empty. It was nearing ten p.m. and I hadn’t expected to find anyone but Kevin. Yet, while we’d been estranged for years, under bad circumstances, I doubted he was hunting me.
Although, I do tend to bring out the worst in people.
Ahead, perhaps seventy-five feet, a dark four-door SUV faced an old pickup. The vehicles were nose to nose like two dogs sniffing each other.
No movement. No sound.
One, two, three. I ran to the nearest bridge support, stopped, listened, and bolted to the rear of the SUV.
Silence. Safety. But something else—a dangerous odor. The pungent scent of gasoline. A lot of gasoline.
I got down on one knee and looked around. The dome light was on and the driver’s door was ajar. Something lay on the ground near the left front fender. A large, bulky something that washed an angry tide of flashbacks over me.
I’d seen silhouettes like that before.
Bodies look the same in any country, under any dark sky. It didn’t matter if it were the rocky Afghan terrain or along a quiet country river. Their lifeless, empty shells were all hopeless. All forsaken. All discards of violence. The silhouette three yards away was no different. Except this wasn’t Afghanistan or Iraq. It was home.
I made ready.
No muzzle flash. No assassin’s bullet. I crept to the SUV’s rear tire, crouched low, and slithered to the front fender.
The body was a man. He lay three feet in front of the fender and precariously vulnerable beneath the spell of the SUV’s dome light. He was tall and bulky. Not fat, but strong and muscled.
No. No. God, no!
After fifteen years of silence and thousands of miles, I knew the body—the man. His hair had grayed and his face was creased with age and strain. The years had been hard on him. Years he was here while I was forever there. Always elsewhere. He’d built a life from our loss while I’d escaped—run away. He once warned me that my life’s choice would leave me as I found him now, alone and dead. The irony churned bile inside me.
“Kevin,” I blurted without thinking. “Kevin, it’s me. It’s Jon.”
My mouth was a desert and the familiar brew of adrenaline and danger coursed through me. In one quick move, I leaped from the SUV’s shadow, grabbed his shoulders, and tried to drag him back to safety.
No sooner had I reached him when a figure charged from the darkness toward us. His arm leveled—one, two, three shots on the run—all hitting earth nearby. I threw myself over Kevin. Another shot sent stone fragments into my cheeks and neck. The figure reached the rear of the pickup, tossed something in the bed, fired another wild shot, and retreated at a dead run.
Lightning. A brilliant flash of light, a violent percussion, then a whoosh of fire erupted from the pickup. The flames belched up and over the side panels. They spat light and heat. The truck swelled into an inferno.
The heat singed my face. I gripped Kevin’s shoulders and dragged him the remaining feet behind the SUV. He was limp and heavy. The raging fire bathed us in light, and I finally saw him clearly. His eyes were dull and vacant. His face pale—a death mask. If life was inside, it was hidden well.
The truck was engulfed in flames, and the heat was tremendous. It reached us and felt oddly comforting amidst the spring dampness and dark.
“Kevin, hold on. Hold on.” I looked for an escape.
I saw the next shot before I heard it—a flash of light where none should be—uphill near River Road. Seasoned instincts threw me atop Kevin again. Glass crackled overhead and rained down. I grabbed for the familiar weight behind my back, but my fingers closed on nothing.
I hastily searched him. No weapon. All I found was an empty holster where his handgun should have been. Where was it? In a desperate move, I rolled off and snaked forward beneath the truck’s firelight and groped around where he’d been. It took several long, vulnerable seconds. I dared not breathe or even look for the shooter, fearing I’d see the shot that would end me. Finally, my fingers closed on a wet, gritty semiautomatic.
As I retreated to the SUV, something moved in the darkness. I pivoted and fired two rapid shots, spacing them three feet apart.
Response. A shot dug into the gravel inches away to my left.
Rule one of mortal combat—incoming fire has the right of way.
Retreat. The flash was a hundred feet away. The shooter had withdrawn and angled south down River Road.
Should I take him? Could I?
One, two, three. Reason, Hunter, reason.
The shooter had fired at least fifteen rounds. Fourteen at me and at least one into Kevin. Had Kevin returned fire? How many rounds did his semiautomatic have left? I was on turf all but forgotten, armed with a handgun that was perhaps near-empty. The shooter must have a high-capacity magazine with plenty of ammo to cut me to pieces. He’d already proven willing and capable of killing. He knew my location. I knew nothing.
Revenge would wait.
I sat back against the SUV’s tire and pulled Kevin close, keeping one arm around him and the other holding the handgun ready. The truck fire raged but was easing. The gasoline that had been splashed over it was consumed and only the paint and rubber were burning.
Soon, though, the fire might breach the gas tank.
I pulled Kevin close and braced myself.
“Kevin, wake up. It’s me—Jon. I’m here.”
“Jon?” His eyes fluttered and half-opened. “I . . . so sorry . . . Khalifah . . . he’s . . . find G. Find G . . .” He gasped for breath. “Khalifah . . . G . . . Baltimore . . . it’s not them. Khalifah . . . so sorry . . .”
“Sorry for what? Who’s Khalifah? Did he shoot you?”
“Tomorrow . . . not them. G . . . Khalifah is . . .” His body went limp.
I shook him easily. “Kevin, I don’t understand. Tell me again.”
“Find G . . .” His eyes fluttered again, and he clutched my arm with limp, sleepy fingers. “Find . . . Hunter . . .”
“Tell me who did this.”
“G . . . Jon . . . tell no one. Maya . . . Maya . . . Maya in Baltimore . . .” He fumbled with something from his pants pocket. He gasped for breath and pressed that something into my hand. “So sorry . . .”
I opened my hand. He’d given me a small, ripped piece of heavy folded paper with handwriting scrawled on it. I couldn’t make out the writing and stuffed it into my pocket. “Kevin, what are you saying? Hold on. Dammit, hold on.”
“Go . . . please . . . not them . . . it’s not . . .” He tried to breathe but mustered only a raspy gag.
His body shuddered. A long, shallow sigh.
No. No. No . . .
My fingers found warm, sticky ooze soaking his shirt. The rain had slowed to a faint mist and, except for the river’s passing and the grumble of fire, there was only silence. Then, somewhere along the highway miles in the distance, sirens wailed.
“Hold on, Kevin. They’re coming. My God, hold on.”
I checked his pulse and wounds. Both were draining away life.
I pressed my hands into the ooze but couldn’t force its retreat. For a few seconds, I was fourteen again. The dull sickness invaded me as my parents were lowered side by side into the earth. The ache started in my gut and swelled until I spat bile and rage.
It was happening again.
The man who raised me—the man I’d abandoned—slipped away. The emptiness and loss attacked. I had to fight or it would destroy me again. This time, there was nowhere to run.
I closed my eyes and willed the anger in, commanding it to take hold and fill me.
I remember, Kevin. I made you a promise. I’m late, but I’m here.
He was limp, and I clutched him. A rush of words filled me that I’d wanted to say for so many years. But before I could speak just one, my brother was gone.
Tj O’Connor is the author of The Consultant, the first of The Jonathan Hunter Thriller series and four paranormal mysteries.
Tj is 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. He was raised in New York’s Hudson Valley and lives with his wife and Labrador companions in Virginia where they raised five children.
Dying to Know, Tj’s first published novel, won the 2015 Gold Medal from the Independent Publishers Book Awards (IPPY) for mysteries and was a Finalist for both a 2015 Silver Falchion Award and the 2014 Foreword Reviews’ INDIEFAB Mystery Book of the Year.
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This is a rafflecopter giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tours for Tj O’Connor. There will be 1 winner of one (1) Amazon.com Gift Card and 4 winners of one (1) print OR eBook copy of Tj O’Connor’s The Consultant. The giveaway begins on July 1, 2018 and runs through August 1, 2018. Open to U.S. addresses only. Void where prohibited