Let me introduce you to a favorite author of mine - Susan Sleeman
Susan is the bestselling
author of Christian/inspirational and clean reads romantic suspense and
mysteries. She grew up in a small Wisconsin town where she spent her
summers reading Nancy Drew and developing a love of mystery and suspense
books. Today, Susan channels this enthusiasm into writing romantic
suspense and mystery novels and hosting the popular internet website
TheSuspenseZone.com.
If you’re like me you love to read books that are part of a
series. So it stands to reason that I love writing books that are grouped in a
series. In fact, I’ve never written a book without thinking about how it could
be part of a series. Not a series where the same main character is the lead in
all books, but a series that brings a team of characters together to fight odds
greater than themselves. I love how the characters band together. The
camaraderie of the team. The different personalities clashing, then working to
resolve their differences. The support and bond they form. The sense of family
they develop.
Web of Secrets is part of such a series called Agents Under
Fire and it releases on May 13th. This series features three FBI agents who are
part of an elite Cyber Action Team called in to solve the most difficult cyber
intrusions. You know, intrusions like you’ve heard about on the news with
companies like Target and Home Depot. But these stories go beyond simple credit
card theft. In each book, the intrusions are very high-stakes that involve
national security and serial murders. And, each intrusion takes a crazy turn
and the agent suddenly finds herself in a run for her life.
Web of Secrets features FBI agent Becca Lange. At fifteen, she
was abducted by a serial killer but managed to escape and the man was never
caught. So she was given a new home, a new name . . . and the determination to
save other foster kids from suffering similar horrors. Now Agent Becca Lange,
she is the middle of a credit card fraud investigation when she’s faced with
her worst nightmare: the serial killer, van Gogh–given the name because he
removed his victims’ ears—has resurfaced. Back in the nineties, van Gogh
tortured, then killed several young foster girls. Becca was almost one of them.
Over the years, she’s been keeping her own investigation
going. So when the police come to her for help, she’s more than ready to do
what it takes to put van Gogh behind bars–even if it means working with Connor
Warren, the easy-going cop whose attentions she’s been avoiding. Connor is too
charming, too good-looking, too . . . tempting. He makes Becca want things she
can never have. And might never have . . .
Because van Gogh isn’t finished with Becca yet. He’s been searching
for her all these years. And now that he’s found her, he’s got a plan to keep
her . . . forever.
I hope you’ll check out this series on my website and here’s a sneak peek
from the pages of Web of Secrets.
Chapter One
She was going to die today.
He’d all but promised that. Now it was time, and he was coming for her,
moving quickly above. His heavy footsteps headed for the cellar door, the solid
footfalls confident, but uneven.
He’d developed a limp. Funny. She hadn’t noticed that until now.
Death, just over the horizon, sharpened her senses, she supposed.
Or was it the dark, the complete pitch black of the windowless space? Her
mind was shrouded in pain and despair, her senses hyper-alert, the smells and
sounds crisp and vivid. The musty scent of the basement. An old oil furnace in
the corner emitting a metallic smell. His footsteps in the distance, growing
closer as he headed for the cellar door.
For her.
Painful desperation swallowed everything around her.
Please, please, please don’t let him do this.
She heard each groan of the house. Each creak of the floor. Heard him reach
the cellar door.
Her heart kicked hard, sounding a loud echo in her chest.
A key slipped into the deadbolt at the top of the stairs with a firm snick.
She could picture the shiny new lock he’d dragged her past the first night.
Remembered her hands clutching at anything to stay aboveground, her nails
breaking as they scratched to take purchase. Raw and ragged now.
Then the descent. Down the rickety wooden steps. Kicking. Fighting. The fist
to her jaw. Seeing stars before her vision cleared. The light burning bright,
revealing metal castings stacked on old rotting shelves. The shackles she now
bore around her wrists lying limp on the scarred linoleum floor, waiting for
her.
The jars.
No, stop. She didn’t want to think about them.
She’d thought of little else since she escaped from this madman who, in the
late nineties, had pretended online to be Adam Smith, a man in his early
twenties who’d developed a crush on her though she was only fifteen. She should
have known better than to believe him, even when he’d given her a photo that
showed how handsome he was. But as a foster kid, she’d craved love desperately,
and he seemed to want to give it.
So she’d gone to meet him, but it turned out the picture he’d sent her had
been retouched. His face was grotesquely scarred, and he soon had her
handcuffed. Her foster sister, Lauren, had figured he was bad news so she’d
followed, and he’d abducted the two of them. But they’d both eventually
escaped.
The rusty hinges on the door groaned open like those on an old coffin. Only
a stairway separated them.
Bile rose up her parched throat, gagging her. She swallowed hard and
strained against the coarse rope digging into the oozing sores circling her
wrists. Days of struggling had left them open. Maybe festering. But that didn’t
matter. What mattered was the door groaning open. The air around her stirring,
dragging a putrid current into the vortex. She retched at the smell of her own
body. The stench of her own fear nearly overpowered everything. She hadn’t
showered in four days or had access to a bathroom for as long.
She was disgusting.
She’d die like this. Be found like this. Would her family have to see her
this way? Identify her?
God, please, no, she begged.
Spare them.
A shadow of light filtered through the open doorway. His foot hit the top
tread with a thud. Then the next, each step an earthshaking roll of thunder in
her ears. His flashlight bobbed on the stairs. Quick circles of light moved
down like a slinky before jerking back up. She saw his foot now in an arc of
light. A big work boot. Size twelve or larger. Heavy lug soles, worn and
scarred. His jeaned leg came next. Then a flannel work shirt. Red she thought,
but the light suddenly danced ahead.
He reached the bottom. His boot struck the linoleum with a solid thump. Not
a word came from his mouth, but his flashlight spoke for him. Sliding across
the space. Searching.
She recoiled. Dug her heels into the floor. Scooted back and tried to cover
her nakedness by drawing her knees into her chest.
Nowhere to go.
She needn’t worry about her family seeing her. No one would find her here.
He’d chosen the perfect location, an abandoned metal fabrication plant with
rows and rows of buildings. Some were in use, others had fallen into decay like
this one.
He snapped the dangling string overhead. Light from a bare bulb flooded the
area.
“Hello, Molly,” he said, as if they were meeting at a social event. But this
wasn’t social—he was coming to kill her.
Her eyes ached from the sudden brightness. She blinked. Thought to keep her
eyes closed and avoid seeing her killer’s face one more time.
Hadn’t she seen him enough in her dreams since she’d escaped his capture two
decades ago? In nightmares replaying the torture of long ago. Now she was his
captive once again, facing him for the last four days, his torment a blur of
pain.
Yet, she couldn’t look away. She didn’t have the nerve to ignore her own death.
She had to see him. To see the end of her life in his eyes.
She blinked hard until she could focus. His face was a mirror of the one in
her dreams, except the passing years had etched wrinkles like a road map across
his skin. The dark, dead eyes hadn’t changed. Hadn’t dulled. His chin was
angular and covered in graying whiskers. Scars puckered his cheeks, and his
nose was nothing more than a red knob, as if an afterthought.
Memories of their first meeting sixteen years ago came flooding back. The
same revulsion curdled her stomach. It wasn’t the scars, the stub of a nose.
She could handle the deformities from severe burns. It was the sneer of his
lips and vile hatred in his gaze. The steady stare that never wavered.
Like now. His gaze sought her out, a hunter looking for prey. He smiled.
Wide, toothy, a hint of contempt keeping his lips tight. “I hope you’ve had
enough time to think and give me what I want.”
She couldn’t abide his stare, and dragged her gaze away. It landed on the
shelf. Nine mason jars were lined up, a set of human ears in all but two of
them, preserved in clear liquid. The jars were labeled with the numbers one
through nine. Detectives had dubbed this madman Van Gogh for his penchant for
removing his victims’ ears. There had been only five jars the last time he’d
captured her. Now there were four more. The jars marked four and five were
empty. Waiting. She wasn’t surprised to see those jars. Not when she and Lauren
had both escaped. She’d figured he’d come after them again, even though they’d
both done their best to disappear.
“Well, Molly. Where is Lauren?” he asked, his tone insistent and
threatening.
Lauren. Shortly after Molly had overpowered him to escape, she’d
seen a news report indicating that Lauren had died in a car crash. But Molly
didn’t buy the story. At first, it seemed real, but the police slipped up on
one little detail that only Molly would know, proving the detectives had faked
Lauren’s death and given her a new identity.
Rebecca Lange. The regal name fit the current-day Lauren, a woman
who had become a defender of foster children and a top-notch FBI agent. It was
the name she’d always dreamt of having.
“Where’s Lauren?” Van Gogh asked again, this time removing Molly’s gag.
She gathered what little moisture she had in her mouth and spit at him.
He lurched back, anger darkening eyes she didn’t think could get any
blacker. He looked up at the ceiling. Took a few breaths. “Don’t worry, Mother.
I know she’s gone off the deep end. She will be cleansed today. Her funeral
will draw Lauren out. I can cleanse both of them, and my collection will
finally be complete.”
He often talked to his mother who was never present, so this wasn’t new. But
Molly had never been successful in getting him to explain the cleansing ritual.
“Mother says it’s time to get you dressed.” He opened a box sitting on the
shelf and lifted out a virginal white nightgown. “You remember this, don’t you
my pet? You will be cleansed and free. Too bad you won’t help me find Lauren so
she can know the joy of cleansing sooner.”
He leaned close, an ugly smile parting his lips. The whisper of his breath,
the acrid smell of his unwashed body, made her stomach roil. She couldn’t
speak. And she wouldn’t, even if she did know where Lauren lived. She’d never
betray the trust of her foster sister.
Never.
If she did, he’d go after Lauren and kill her. Molly wouldn’t let that
happen.
“Let’s get you cleaned up.” He went to the corner and ran a bucket of water,
then put it on a table near the sink. He shoved a knife with sharp teeth lining
the edge into a sheath on his belt. The knife that had once carved into her
body, leaving the number four andinto other girls, including Lauren, who bore
the number five.
Humming, he crossed the room to stare at Molly while snapping on a pair of
latex gloves. “You really are a mess, aren’t you?”
She thought to try to cover herself, to maintain her dignity. But after the
last few days, what dignity did she have left?
He unlocked the shackles, moved her out of her filth and toward the table.
She fought, kicked, but after five days without food and little water, she was
too weak to make a difference. He bathed her, each touch of the cloth making
her want to vomit. Once in the demure nightgown, she lay back, defeated, on the
table—his altar stained with blood—where he bound her to cold shackles mounted
on the corners.
“It’s time, Molly. Tell me or . . .” His evil smile took his words and
buried them in the recesses of the room. He lifted his knife. High. Advanced.
His eyes burned with the intensity of fire. He slid his fingers over her
ear—gently, almost tenderly, then suddenly backed away.
Was he going to let her live another day? Hope fluttered in her chest.
He crossed the room. Lifted jar number four, the liquid sloshing as he
returned to her. He blew the dust from the rusted lid. Fine particles lingered
in the beam of light before dissipating in the stale air. He held the knife
between his teeth, his eyes gleaming.
He started unscrewing the lid, slowly, each twist feeling like a nail in
Molly’s coffin. He set the open jar on the floor, a pungent odor smelling like
pickles floated up to her nose. Fear coursed through her body.
Lauren. Remember Lauren.
He slipped his hand into his pocket and two pearl earrings emerged. She
fixed her gaze on the burn scars crawling over his hands, not on the earring.
He inserted the first one into her left ear. The piercing stud ripped her skin,
making her feel as if she were being nailed to a cross. To her death.
This was it, for sure. The end.
She held her breath. He placed the second earring and stood back, his eyes
now vacant and his mind somewhere else. Somewhere his earring ritual had taken
him.
His breathing grew rapid and shallow, his chest barely moving. Eyes glazed
over, he raised the knife. His smile, teeth rotted and yellowing, was the last
thing she saw as he bent closer.
“Tell me or not, my pet, it doesn’t matter. The news coverage of my return
will be legendary, and your death will bring Lauren to me. She won’t miss your
funeral.”
The knife pricked her skin. Her heart seized and refused to beat. She
ignored it. Ignored everything, her resolve still in place.
She’d die before letting this butcher near someone she loved.
And, as he’d promised . . . it would be today.
Web of Deceit:
Web of Shadows:
Web of Secrets:
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