Jay Tinsiano's Blog

A blizzard. A hijacked hospital. One medic who refuses to quit.

Blake Harrow thought his days of combat were behind him. Haunted by the deaths of his squad in Afghanistan, the reclusive EMT only wants to serve quietly and keep his demons buried. But when a late-night ambulance call nearly collides with a speeding police SUV, Blake stumbles into a nightmare: a roadside massacre, an armed impostor posing as a cop—and a trail leading straight to Eastfork’s urgent care clinic.

Inside, the killers already control the building. Patients, nurses, and doctors are hostages. Among them is Dr. Sara Porter, the woman who’s managed to break through Blake’s walls. With the storm cutting off all roads and communications dead, no rescue is coming. If anyone is going to stop the slaughter, it’s him.

Armed with nothing but his combat training, quick instincts, and the tools of an abandoned hospital, Blake wages a one-man war in the darkened corridors—stalking his enemies, improvising weapons, and striking back with ruthless precision. When Blake’s every move risks the lives of the innocent patients he’s sworn to protect, he faces the ultimate question: how much is he willing to sacrifice to save the woman he can’t afford to lose?

Resuscitation by CJ Lyons and Jay Tinsiano is a relentless action thriller that will leave you breathless until the very last page.

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Pale Horse Sample Chapter from the Dark Paradigm series by Jay Tinsiano and Jay Newton.

All Rights Reserved.

Cache 5
Parque Nacional Sierra de las Nieves, Andalucia, Spain
Day 1

It was the incessant sound of early morning birdsong close to where he was sleeping that pulled Joe Bowen from his troubled dream.

That and the unfamiliar smell from the canvas tent that surrounded him in an almost claustrophobic cocoon. He rolled onto his back and sat upright on the cot bed before taking a long pull from his water bottle, the coldness of the water in his mouth sending a sharp pain through his jaw even as he swallowed.

He had set up the single-man tent when the previous evening had drawn in, just a few hundred metres from the supplies cache hidden in the woods near Iznájar.

He checked his phone: 6:25 a.m. No signal.

Within fifteen minutes, he had taken down the small tent and packed everything away so there was no sign of him being there and walked through the surrounding dry woods to where the hidden cache was located. It was unusually cold for the time of year, and Joe remembered Javier talking about some extreme cold front coming across Europe in the coming weeks. Perhaps this was the start of it?

The fresh morning air was almost sweet as Joe set off, and at a circle of trees that formed a natural clearing in the woods, Joe paused and knelt down on one knee by a clump of rocks. There, he brushed a hand over an area of dry bracken and loose stones, revealing a rough wooden hatch with a thick combination-styled padlock looped through a locking clasp. When the hatch was clear of debris, he held the padlock, forcing the little numbered wheels to correct the combination, and when it clicked open, removed it. Pausing for a moment, he looked around the still woods, straining his ears for any unusual sounds.

Satisfied he was alone, Joe pulled up the hatch door. A step ladder descended into the dark hole, and Joe took a flashlight from his backpack before climbing down. The space was just a bit higher than Joe, standing at six feet, but he still stooped a little as he moved along the recess, pointing his beam of light towards a larger space ahead that was around seven metres long and just as wide. Along the walls, metal shelves stacked with crates and tubs of supplies filled the underground room. Joe focused his light on one of the sealed tubs, marked as containing packets of freeze-dried meals. The dates, written in marker pen, told him the dry food bags inside only had a few months left before they needed to be replaced. He intended to take these back to base camp. He walked around the shelves, inspecting each one, then began moving the tubs containing outdated supplies to the bottom of the ladder, ready to take out. He regretted not bringing someone to help at the thought of hauling it all out of the hole by himself, but he’d manage.

This cache was one of many ‘holes’ in the ground that Liberatus groups on the ground had prepared in the previous years to provide supplies in whatever scenario they would be needed for. The location of such hidden stashes with food supplies, tools and basic survival packs was known only to those who needed to know.

Time to bring the truck nearer, Joe thought.

Joe climbed back out, closed the hatch and began heading through the trees, his boots crunching once more the dry bracken. The air had assumed a metallic edge, tainted now with a hint of chemicals, as if there were a distant fire.

Joe checked his phone again and frowned. Still no signal. He stopped and rummaged around in his backpack and pulled out an older Nokia ‘burner’ phone he always kept on him that had a better internal aerial. No signal on this one either, which he thought was quite unusual. He’d never had connection problems in all the previous times he had been in this area before. He continued walking until he reached the truck. It was parked in a clearing just off the narrow road that ran through the woodlands, again hidden from any passing vehicles.

Joe’s plan was to drive it a mile down the road and turn off into a track that led nearer to the cache. They had used it many times when supplying the hole, and the relative seclusion kept any supply runs away from prying eyes.

That plan wilted on the vine as Joe turned the ignition key and was met with a distant spooling of the starter motor but no spark of life from the engine. After a few more failed attempts, Joe leaned his tattooed arms on the steering wheel and considered his options. If the battery became dead by fruitless cranking of the engine, he would certainly need to commandeer another vehicle and use his jump leads to get the vehicle going. Assuming it was the battery. He checked his phones again. Both still without signal. He was going to have to take a walk and see if anyone in the nearest town could help.

This was going to take a while.

Joe took out a flask of black coffee and poured himself a mug, gulping the now cold beverage down between bites of a wrapped pastry he had bought the previous day en route.

He began to feel unsettled, as if something was wrong. It was more than the phones not working or the vehicle not starting, but he realised it stemmed from an odd quietness which had settled around him. Even at this far distance, in this relatively remote location, he could normally hear the traffic from the highway, but as he strained his ears, he could hear nothing apart from that which was coming from the wildlife. He scanned the clear blue skies and saw no contrails of any passenger aircraft anywhere, although he knew this area was under the flight path of several major airlines.

Then there was Operation Hallows. Zoe had suggested the date might be significant, alluding to October 31st. The files retrieved from Faber and Xael mentioned implementing the worldwide drill involving the military, political and intelligence apparatus of the Western Powers.

Joe knew these drills were often used as a cover for some nefarious event. Usually, the details were the same as the drill to cause maximum confusion for those involved. His own father, Frank, had once been caught up in one such event in Hong Kong where a supposed anti-terrorist exercise became an actual ‘live’ event, and his father had been caught like the proverbial fly in some web of lies and deceit. It had changed his father’s life forever and had led him into a life of deception with MI6 and Ghost 13 before he had seen the light and then used his skills to help Liberatus.

Frank, and to a lesser extent, Joe had learned valuable lessons from that, mainly that the governments and their military and intelligence agencies would do absolutely anything to keep the power structures and influence they exerted in place for their real masters.

Joe grabbed his bag, jumped down from the truck and locked it before walking back to his former campsite. He packed up his rucksack, which he had packed with dry food supplies, water, and MREs.

He was now unsure what was happening and wanted to be prepared. If there were bigger issues than just his truck not starting, he needed to get back to the hive.

Joe left the truck hidden and walked along the winding, narrow road that snaked through the woodland where some morning mist still lingered. It was a good twenty minutes before the nearest town, Tolox, came into view. This was a town Joe had only driven through a handful of times when he had visited the supplies cache. Normally, there would be little sign of any life in this sleepy town of only a couple of thousand souls, but this morning, small groups of people were gathered out on the main road and around one of the food stores in deep discussion.

Joe approached them, and a tall man on the outskirts of a group turned towards him as he approached and nodded a greeting.

“Hola. Buenos dias.”

“Buenos,” a few muttered in return before the group continued their discussion. There had been a complete loss of power by the sound of it.

Joe caught the eye of the tall man again and asked him in Spanish.

“What is happening? My truck’s broken down, and there’s no phone signal.”

The man nodded his head vigorously. “Si senor, there seems to be some kind of power outage. None of our phones work, and most of our vehicles will not start. My friend has just arrived from Madrid and said there was a rumour of a passenger plane crashing into the sea up the coast. We don’t know what is happening!”

At these words, Joe felt a lurch in his stomach. A feeling of dread. Along the street, he saw, for the first time, a handful of stationary vehicles in the middle of the road. A group of people were helping push a Subaru station wagon onto the side of the road. He drifted away from the group and walked down the street, looking into a dark café where a few customers were also in animated discussion, gesticulating at their mobile phones. A young woman behind the counter gestured to him.

“There’s no electrical power here, but our cooker runs on a gas bottle, so we can give you something.”

“Thank you. Do you have a phone? A landline, I mean,” Joe asked as he went to find a seat in the café.

The girl jabbed a thumb over her shoulder towards the back room.

“There is a dial tone, but it doesn’t work,” she said with a shrug.

“Do you mind if I look?”

The girl waved her hand. “Go ahead.”

Joe walked into the café, nodding at a few of the elderly men who simply regarded him suspiciously. Guided by the girl, he went around the back, where he saw an older man leaning over a large cooking pot sitting on a gas ring connected to a propane bottle, stirring the pot’s contents and mumbling to himself.

“Just here.” The girl pointed to the phone in the hallway. “Do you want a tortilla? No coffee until the power’s back, though,” she said, pointing to a Keurig coffee maker.

Joe smiled at her. “A tortilla would be great. And I guess just some water then.”

He picked up the phone, but if there had indeed been a dial tone, it was gone now. He drummed down the connectors a few times. Still nothing.

This was a major outage, but something gnarled inside him. The loss of power to the electrical grid and phone lines seemed to follow exactly what he had read about Electromagnetic Pulses.

Joe returned to the café, shrugged at the girl and sat down, placing his backpack under the table. He rummaged around, brought out his laptop, and fired it up. There was still battery charge. He clicked on the Internet Access icon to check if there were any Wi-Fi networks available at all, but his settings were blank.

Of course, without power, there wouldn’t be, but Joe felt compelled to make sure. With no phone signals, connecting to a hotspot wasn’t an option either.

Joe put away his laptop as the girl brought him the omelette and water, and he focused on eating his food, but his dark thoughts soon returned. He needed to get back to the base and fast.

Despite telling himself that it might just be a power outage, one maybe on a national level, and that things would still get back to normal for the country, deep down, he felt this was it. They had flicked the off switch to cause chaos, hunger and death. That would be the next phase. Now, it seemed obvious. All the signs had been there.

The massive drill that was Operation Hallows was in effect as the mask for the more sinister and real event: Pale Horse.

Order Pale Horse (Dark Paradigm #4) on Amazon Kindle or these stores.

The post Pale Horse: Sample Chapter appeared first on Jay Tinsiano.

Black Horse Chapter 1 from the Dark Paradigm series by Jay Tinsiano and Jay Newton.

All Rights Reserved.

Ed Flanagan had it all – the sleek Audi, the stylish apartment, and the six-figure salary. But behind his polished exterior, Ed was plagued by a gnawing sense that it was all spiralling out of control. Despite his high earnings, the bonuses and the stellar month for the bank, he questioned how much longer he could maintain his façade.

He killed the ignition to his Audi Sport RS5 and made his way across the underground car park to the private elevator. The bitter coldness of the concrete surroundings clawed at him, making him shiver.

Ed nodded and mumbled a greeting to another resident walking to their vehicle before sliding a key into the lock next to the number 38. The elevator rose, the floor numbers steadily climbing up to the thirty-eighth floor. Checking his phone, he saw a message from Zoe.

“Sorry, hon. Don’t think I can make dinner now. Work’s been a shit show. Ring in ten.”

“Damn. Guess I’ll order a cheeky delivery, then,” Ed muttered to himself.

He stepped into the duplex, hung up his cashmere wool coat and kicked off his cap-toe Oxford shoes, glad to be inside where the smart heating had already kicked in.

“Lights,” he said aloud, and spots from the ceiling came to life.

Panoramic wall-to-ceiling windows revealed the London Docklands. Reflected in the tranquil water of the river, the shimmering city lights of the illuminated metropolis.

The open-plan apartment contained a huge black sectional leather sofa that dominated one corner of the room, with a sixty-five-inch LED TV screen built into the wall. A retro-style rug nestled under a glass-topped coffee table, completing a space dynamic that demanded full couch potato mode.

“Goya, give me the business news on One,” he said to the room.

The voice of a male news reporter kicked in: “— following investigations into the Tehran dirty bomb explosion. The state secretary also said that “we hadn’t been this close to the cliff edge of global war since the Cuban missile crisis of the sixties.”

“Meanwhile, there is the continuing global food crisis, with vast areas of Asia still experiencing unprecedented drought. The death toll is currently over one hundred thousand due to food shortages. In China, there is a similar crisis, and although the figures cannot be confirmed due to state secrecy, experts believe their death toll to be close to half a million.”

The thought of feasting on tagliatelle and meatballs from one of the Italian restaurants at the Robot Rooftopia restaurant complex immediately sprang to mind, and Ed began scrolling through his food delivery app. However, he soon found it to be glitching.

He already had the number as it was one of his favourites, so he tapped through and called the restaurant directly. He spoke briefly to the young woman, gave his details and order, and ended the call.

Ed glanced at the stock market prices scrolling across the bottom of the TV screen, then continued into the kitchen area, brushing past an oak table with six chairs to entertain his City friends.

He selected a crystal whisky glass from the cabinet and a few cubes of ice from the dispenser on the fridge door before pouring a generous Laphroaig Lore Single Malt. He took the first pull, savouring the warming burn sliding down his throat; loosening his tie, he walked over to the sliding doors before stepping onto his private balcony.

The view always made Ed glad he had bought this flat. It had cost a modest sum, which was nothing compared to what some of his work colleagues had paid for their plush properties. Many strived for the Ferrari lifestyle, champagne party binges and cocaine nights. He had seen too many young and thrusting cocksure boys flush it all away, throwing money around like it was confetti and being proud of their profligate lifestyle.

No, Ed had a different plan. He preferred to tuck away as much money as possible: invest, diversify, sure, but be sensible while the good times lasted. After all, it would all end at some point. Ed was sure of it. Zoe felt the same, and if they were going to get married one day, which felt like a real possibility to him, they needed a way out of the meat grinder. They needed to invest in something that was real and tangible. A farm somewhere or maybe a vineyard. They had discussed it like a favourite movie repeatedly and figured it would only take another year to be able to have the cash to make their dream a reality.

He was smart, and so was Zoe, and they were going to be set with their unborn kids. It was going to be a beautiful life together.

The London skyline shimmered under a reddening sky, the cold autumn wind from the Thames buffeting the glass chrome tower block. He glanced over the edge onto the plaza, the scurrying people below looking more like ants than people.

Ed lit a cigarette and looked across at the ultra-modern office blocks of the Wharf. Many of the window lights were still blazing from late-night worker bees. His phone vibrated in his jacket pocket, and Zoe’s caller ID came up on the screen.

“Alright there,” he said in a light Scottish accent. “How’s paradise?”

Zoe sighed at the end of the line. “Hasn’t even ended for me yet. I’m buried in data sheets for this report. Deadline is tomorrow.”

“Anything I can help with?”

“No, it’s OK. Just have to plough through it. We’ll go out this weekend. We can relax more then, anyway.”

“Aye, you’re right,” he said, settling on a low seat. “Shall I let you get on then?”

“It’s alright, hon. I’ve got a minute. Managed to take a walk around the other end of the building,” Zoe said, her voice softer. “So, how was your day? Or shouldn’t I ask?”

Ed focused his attention on the plants near the balcony rail, rubbing the leaves with his fingers. The plant Zoe had given him was dying already. Need to reverse that shit, or she’d label him a plant killer for life.

“Don’t ask. I’ll give ya the full gory details on Friday, eh? Something ta look forward to, baby.”

Zoe chuckled. “Can’t wait. You sure know how to work a girl up.”

“Aye, been practising especially.”

Zoe laughed again, and then her tone changed, “Damn. Hodges has seen me. I better get on. See you at work tomorrow?”

“For sure. See you in the pit.”

“Yes. Bye. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

The line disconnected, and Ed stubbed his cigarette onto the deck of the balcony and stepped back inside. Slumping down on the sofa, he closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. He wondered how long he could keep all of this going. Juggling so many balls in his job was getting so stressful. But the money was flowing. He just needed a little longer, and then he, and hopefully Zoe, could exit the whole rat race.

The door entry system buzzed, and Ed glanced at his watch with surprise.

That was quick.

He went to answer. A delivery guy appeared on the video screen, his face partly obscured by a baseball cap as he looked down at something in his hand out of view.

“Food delivery. Ed Flag-agan?” the man said.

“Yep. Come on up, floor thirty-eight.”

Ed released the front building doors and walked back into his apartment. He took out a plate and cutlery and laid them out on the glass-topped dining table, just in case he needed it. Chances were he’d wolf it down straight out of the box. Then he picked a bottle of Argentinian Malbec, opened it, and left the wine to breathe on the kitchen island.

There was a tap at the door, and Ed strolled over and swung it open. The man standing before him was tall and well-built, with a rugged face still obscured by the cap. He looked more like an ex-army character than a delivery man. As he rummaged around in his shoulder bag, Ed glanced down at his shoes. He wore boots with some cling film wrapped around them.

Before he could process this oddity, a food box was shoved into Ed’s hands, and he took it, but something was wrong. It was too light. There was no food in it.

The man moved swiftly toward him, jerking a hand towards his face as if he would hit him. Instinctively, Ed flinched, backed away, and the empty food box fell from his hand.

“What the fu—”

The man had a syringe in one hand, and Ed felt a pain, like a bee sting, in his neck. The stinging rapidly grew into a numbness that spread across Ed’s neck and throat. It felt like his flesh was turning into concrete.

Get the fuck ou— Ed tried to shout, but no words came. The man pushed him back into the apartment and shut the door.

Ed’s head swam. His vision tunnelled and slid into a vortex of darkness. He felt his heart beat like a jackhammer, then his legs gave way, and his body slumped to the floor. The last thing he saw was a pair of boots wrapped in cling film immediately in front of him. Then, vision slowly fading, he watched them move out of sight.

Ed felt his body shutting down, the edge of his vision darkening as his conscious mind fell away from his body, and he knew he wouldn’t get that vineyard after all.

Or see Zoe again.

He clung to the thought of her as his body gradually succumbed to the chemicals coursing through his veins like a slowing tick of a dying clock.

Read a sample chapter from Dark Paradigm #4: Pale Horse

Order Black Horse (Dark Paradigm # 3) on Amazon Kindle or these stores.

The post Black Horse: Chapter 1 appeared first on Jay Tinsiano.

Red Horse Sample Chapter from the Dark Paradigm series by Jay Tinsiano and Jay Newton.

All Rights Reserved.

Secret location, Tehran, Iran.

Haleema Sheraz tapped the keyboard function to kill the screen, swung around in her chair and stood up, yawning. She looked down at the row of desks where her colleagues all focused on their screens, working on their various tasks. Some chose to sit on bean bags in the corner with their laptops or lounge in a hammock that had been set up across one of the spaces.

The election had been the main topic of conversation. The news had just come through that the ruling party had won outright. The progressive opposition leader, Mehdi Yazdi, had not been heard from since.

Of course, it was no secret that he never had a chance of winning. It just would not be allowed. It was no surprise to Haleema, and as the conversation and murmurs died down, everyone focused on their work.

The Cyber Army was not officially part of the Iranian Government, but everyone who worked there knew where the funding came from. It comprised a group of IT specialists and professional hackers. Their primary task was simply to wage cyber warfare against the West’s governments and corporations and hack “enemy sites”.

Her particular project was a malware exploit virus that was near completion. She had been tasked with focusing on hacking into corporations working within the military-industrial complex in the United States.

The Iranian authorities had been pressuring her bosses to get results faster, as if hacking and decrypting was just something you needed to “sweat over”, and then it would happen. Their work was so complicated the mullahs would hardly comprehend it. Haleema smiled to herself as she logged off, imagining the looks on their faces as she explained it was “over their heads”.

It was home time, and she needed a change of scene; the long hours staring at the monitors took their toll. As she grabbed her handbag and said goodbye to a few remaining colleagues, her eyes briefly passed across the stencilled image of the supreme leader, Ali Khamenei, that dominated the wall.

Her friend Ko looked up from his laptop and gave her a wave. To look at him anyone would think he was another one of those affluent kids from Elahieh, but he was one of the best code-breakers she knew.

She had endured a difficult few years since returning to Iran following her studies in England. Fitting back into Iranian society, with its rigid morality laws and demand for absolute service to the state, had been difficult, to say the least. Yet through her programming skills, she had come to the attention of her current employers. To do what she loved doing and get paid, she lowered her expectations after university and became a hacker, indirectly for the government.

The stuffy, windowless bunkered office, set on the basement floors of the Ministry, was a relief to escape from. Haleema buttoned up her dark green manteaux, adjusted her hijab and breathed in the night air. She glanced at her watch, not too late but late enough: 9.33 pm.

Across the quiet four-lane road, a gust of wind blew sheets of newspaper along the carriageway; a taxi slowed on the far side, picking up two men before speeding off. Haleema tutted, annoyed she had missed it and walked along the closed storefronts that lined the main road. Sunbleached posters, half ripped, of the ruling council members of Iran were plastered on the boarded-up derelict storefronts.

Years ago, the streets would have been bustling with life, but as the war with UIS intensified, no one wanted to take any chances. That, along with the fact that Tehran’s morality police had raided and forced the closure of dozens of cafes, the mainstay sanctuary of young Tehranis’, intellectuals and students tended to clear the streets.

Although it wasn’t strictly illegal to be out after 9 pm, it had become a self-fulfilling act, as though anyone found on the streets was judged somehow, if only in questioning stares.

Haleema had recently moved nearer to her work to cut down on the commute and buy her more time for other activities. She wondered whether to drop by her friend’s house. There was always something going on at Ali J’s, whether it was playing illegal Western music or messing around on his latest game console. All the usual trendy Iranian “in crowd” would probably already be there, sneakily drinking alcohol and breaking a dozen other laws as well.

This young generation of Iranians only wanted to live life on their terms and avoid the crazy laws and authoritarian regimes as much as possible.

Haleema’s phone vibrated. She slipped the device out of her bag and smiled as she read the message from her friend, Dalir. Maybe it would be another late night. A bus pulled up, and she made a run for it, jumping on just before it departed again, and sitting down hastily before checking the news feed on her phone. The situation near her hometown was worsening. The United Islamic State, or Daesh, as they hated being called, seemed to be gaining a firmer stronghold in the south as well as the eastern provinces bordering Afghanistan.

Her family home in Shiraz, where her parents and brothers lived, was right on the knife edge of danger if they made any more gains. Apparently, support for foreign radicals from Iraq and Syria bolstered the Daesh, making them a real threat to the current government.

Haleema didn’t know what to think. On the one hand, she had no time for the regime that paid her, a group of backward-thinking old men. Yet UIS seemed to be a much scarier prospect from the stories she had heard of forced slavery, beheadings and massacres. It was easy to see how a whole generation was being isolated when they had to choose between one or the other.

Two more stops went past before Haleema jumped off the bus. She headed through a landscaped garden that led to a series of concrete tenement blocks and walked around it to the rear of the building. There was a myriad of sounds; children laughing, an argument, the distorted tones from a television all drifting between the buildings.

She came to a courtyard, across which was a stand-alone building backed up by a high brick wall. There was a deep repetitive noise, indistinguishable from the other sounds. She pressed a buzzer quickly three times and waited. After a few moments, the door creaked open, and a face peeked out from the darkness inside. The thudding noise more recognisable as a bass line drifting out into the open.

“Hey, Ali. You gonna let me in before you alert the whole city of your den?”

Ali stepped aside to let her in with a nod, and she descended a metal staircase that led into a large basement filled with around twenty young Iranians. A group stood around a pair of record decks at the end of the room, nodding their heads to the beat, drinking beers and smoking.

She glanced around the graffiti-covered walls that her friend Dahir had sprayed up, inspired by the street artists from America and the UK, except the cartoonesque characters were young hip Iranians clad in baseball caps, trainers and oversized T-shirts.

“Dahir!” she shouted. A figure from the group waved a skinny arm, and Dahir made his way over to her.

“Haleema!” He smiled broadly, evidently pleased to see her, and gave her a peck on both cheeks. “So, how are you doing? Still slaving for the supreme leader?”

Haleema waved a dismissive hand and took Dahir’s beer. She took a swig and looked around pensively.

“It’s a living—for now.”

She smiled warmly at him and affectionately ran a hand across his shoulder. “And you? Still seeing that girl? What’s her name?”

Dahir shook his head and took back the beer. “No, I’m not sure. She didn’t call me.” He glanced across the room and smiled at another young guy who had drifted over towards them.

“Omar. You know Haleema?”

They both smiled and shook hands. “No, I don’t think so…”

She felt a vibration and fished around in her bag, picking out her phone. She saw from the caller ID it was her mother calling. How could she answer with this music? She placed the phone back in her bag. Omar and Dahir both looked at her questioningly.

Haleema shrugged.

“My mother. I’ll have to call her back later.”

Dahir leaned over to her. “Something I need to tell you. About why it didn’t work out with that girl.” Haleema slowly nodded her head, her eyes dropping to Dahir’s and Omar’s hands that were clasped tightly together.

“Oh…” She raised her eyebrows and nodded again.

“Don’t you approve?”

Haleema laughed and gave them both a hug. “Yes, of course, I approve. Whatever makes you happy, Dahir.” Her face became more serious. “Please, though, be careful—the authorities.”

Dahir gave her shoulder a gentle rub. “Don’t you worry, Hal…”

She swung her attention to Omar. “So Omar. Tell me more about yourself.”

***

Haleema stepped out of the taxi, swaying slightly. Maybe she’d had one too many beers. She made her way up the concrete steps leading to her apartment block; her small flat was on the third floor.

“Lights,” she said, and the main room was illuminated with a warm glow from the ceiling lights. She slipped her coat and shoes off, leaving them neatly by the door. Her modest apartment was clean and well kept, the simple furnishing carefully chosen to her tastes. The lounge area had a coffee table made from wooden crate bottoms that she had sprayed white. A long sofa ran parallel, facing a large television screen that had wires strewn across to a laptop balanced on the coffee table. On one side, a blind obscured a window, and there was a group of plants that complemented the white walls.

She went to the kitchen area in the corner and switched on the kettle, throwing her bag down onto the floor.

“Play Dahir’s mix, number 13,” she said out loud. A moment later, the audio system began to play a steady rhythmic tune, a homegrown hip-hop mix Dahir had given her. After brewing a mint tea, she slumped down onto the sofa, curling her feet up, cupping the tea in her hands, relieved to be home. She thought about Dahir and his revelation that evening and smiled to herself as she placed the cup on the table. The music filled the room, and Haleema’s eyes grew heavy, the long day finally catching up with her.

***

Haleema jolted awake with a sense of unease, her eyes wide. She hadn’t returned her mother’s call!

She wheeled her legs off the sofa and rooted around for her bag. Finding her phone, she immediately dialled her mother’s number and listened to the ringtone. Yellow streams of light fought to get through the half-shut blinds.

How could it be morning already?

Haleema promised herself more early nights and headed to the bathroom, the phone still at her ear.

“Haleema?” The answer was immediate and frantic.

“Sorry, Ma, I was with friends, and then I got home and fell asleep…”

To Haleema’s surprise, her mother did not berate her and continued talking. “Your father hasn’t arrived. He was supposed to be back yesterday, but he hasn’t turned up. Something bad has happened. I know it, Haleema!”

Read a chapter from Dark Paradigm #3: Black Horse

Order Red Horse (Dark Paradigm # 2) on Amazon Kindle or these stores.

The post Red Horse: Sample Chapter appeared first on Jay Tinsiano.

White Horse Chapter 1 from the Dark Paradigm series by Jay Tinsiano and Jay Newton.

All Rights Reserved.

11.40 AM, March 11
Three miles outside Madrid, Spain

Vibrations shot through the toilet floor, followed by a high-pitched metallic grinding that sounded like a demonic scream. A rush of force violently threw Hugo Reese’s whole body into the mirror, fracturing the glass into a spiderweb of cracks.

Panic flashed across Hugo’s mind; the carriage shook, and then he was in free fall. The world turning upside down.

Time slowed, senses went into overdrive as his body pumped adrenaline and he felt himself curling into a fetal position, waiting to die.

Inevitable impact.

The railway carriage was turning, metal crumbled by an unseen force crushing it up like a foot on a tin can. The small window darkened as the ground quickly filled the space.

A vicious crack.

The smell of sticky, stale urine filled the air before Hugo’s body slammed against the window. Then, as if someone pressed play again, the moment jumped back into action.

Blackness.

Just like an earthquake.

His mind spiralled in the darkness, consciousness slipping through the cracks. Then he was standing in Firestone, LA, and the buildings, the concrete under his feet, all began to move like nothing he had ever known. Senses playing tricks on him.

One weird feeling. No control.

Like free-falling into a volcano, the heat of the lava burning his skin. Steam surrounding him, making it hard to get air.

Hugo pulled at a mask that wasn’t there, as if something was there to stop him breathing. No matter how hard he tried, it would not shift, and his time was up.

No air, no life. Adios.

He almost jumped back into consciousness, head springing up as if physically gulping for oxygen. As his vision slowly returned, he saw smoke forming all around him.

Then he realised he was still on the train, still in the familiar surroundings of the toilet cubicle. Nick Batchman’s lifeless body was juxtapositioned into place as if arranged like that by an unseen puppeteer; his back curved in a U shape, limbs flopped by his side. Dead eyes stared ahead in frozen fear, just as Hugo had first discovered him. His round glasses still hanging around a bruised neck.

An overwhelming silence followed that seemed to draw on for an eternity. Then, slowly, the screaming began—a child crying, panicked cries for help from someone trapped, and moans from children, men and women alike. All barely audible, all in extreme pain.

Hugo realised he was in a similar position to Batchman on the other side of the sink. He tried to move, but a sharp pain shot through his neck, making him wince, and he cried out like he hadn’t done since he was a kid.

And then the blackness returned.

***

Kem and Droops were hanging out on the sidewalk, leaning against the wall of a yard and arguing about which recent Narcocorrido tunes were best.

Narcocorrido was narco music, a subgenre of the Mexican norteño-corrido northern ballad music genre, traditional folk music from northern Mexico. The lyrics usually centred around cholos—tough gang members—or the killing of rivals. Either way, it helped audiences be the narco gangsters that they aspired to. Narcocorrido had a massive following in the Latino communities on both sides of the border, so much so that chains like Walmart eventually overlooked the violent nature of the lyrics and stocked the various albums.

Kem, nicknamed for his panache for ketamine, preferred the raw, homegrown Mexican talent called The Kommander, who came from the Mexican side of the border in Juarez, near El Paso.

Droops growled that only the Stateside singers were any good.

Hugo was trying to tune out the banter as he had that feeling again. He rubbed a hand over his shaved head and spat onto the sidewalk. He was stocky, brown arms covered in tattoos that depicted alliances to Florencia 13 followed by their own clique markings. A feeling of uselessness and numbness beset him. There should be something more than this. There must be.

It was a tapping thought that nagged at the fringes of his consciousness and one that frustrated him as he could never put his finger on—whatever the fuck it was—and now it was eating at him again, just like it always did.

Their clique was a subsect of the much wider Florencia 13, the gang that had dominated the Florence-Firestone district of South Central LA for decades and now stood at over three thousand members. It was like a corporation. All the cliques paid allegiance to F-13, who took orders directly from La Eme—the Mexican Mafia, a prison gang that had higher connections. La Eme, or M, was also the thirteenth letter in the alphabet, a respectful nod to F-13.

Their business was extortion, drugs, arms dealing—anything that made money, and they would go to any length to hold on to that power. Hugo refocused on the present situation. Their clique was small in size. Although they were part of F-13, they were on the edge of the territory, and beyond it was enemy turf. He could see the corner no more than one hundred metres away to the east, controlled by Chinos, and they were a ten-minute walk from South Watts and the Crips. Hugo had spent a few days mulling it over. Their clique needed a lot more green coming in.

More green, more members.

The Chinos were no friends to him or any other Latino gangbanger, but he was shrewd enough to know it was about doing business, nothing else. Hugo and his clique could supply the powder, and he knew full well they would undercut the Crips’ own operation. It was the longball game. Eat away at the Crips. That would take the heat off Hugo’s crew while the Crips would have to defend against the Chinos. It would also make their clique look good with F-13 for shifting so much product.

So, Hugo had set up the meeting, but his car had died a death. Now Tonio, the only other guy who was available in their clique with a vehicle, had just called. Couldn’t make it. No show. His mother was just taken to the hospital, and he was pretty upset about it. What was Hugo supposed to say? Fuck your mother?

Droops and Kem were too young at fourteen to have wheels, and the useless fucks would probably crash anyway. It was a shame he couldn’t rustle up more vatos, but everyone else had let him down at the last minute with some shit. Besides, they weren’t too enthusiastic about Hugo’s plan and the low profits involved.

If they didn’t turn up for the meet, they’d lose any kudos that Hugo had managed to front so far. No, they had to be there, and time was ticking. They needed to hoof it and skirt Crips territory to get there on time.

“I’m not sure, vato. They got Scott this way, remember?” Droops said warily.

Hugo remembered only too well. Scott had been another close amigo whose grave he now had to pour bourbon over every month, the standard gang ritual when respecting passed compadres. He had been loyal to Scott, who had a vision for the gang’s growth and had taken the first steps, but he had made a mistake, got himself caught in a sticky situation, and then boom! Adios, Scott.

Scott had always looked out for Hugo, taking him under his wing in the clique, like the father he never had, and they had gunned him down near Florence Avenue right on their own turf.

Forming the new gang had been a challenge as members often saw the formation of a new clique as divvying up the turf, but Scott had a good standing with one of the F-13 senior members and got the nod after arguing it would bring in more members and strengthen their position in the area.

Scott had led the clique, with Hugo being his numero dos, but they had struggled to turn it into a high-money operation, and their numbers were still way too small. Not only that but because their territory dangerously bordered the Crips’ zone of influence, it often sparked shootings or fights-on-sight.

His death had hit Hugo hard.

Drinking liquor until he was stumbling, Hugo wandered the streets with a Glock 13 held tight in his thick hand, trying to find the scumbags who did it. The truth was he had no idea and somehow ended up back home without being spotted by the feds or any other gangs.

“Yeah, course I remember, Droops. ’Course, I fucking remember. You think I would forget that?” Hugo said bitterly, fixing him with a deadly stare.

Droops looked away, shrugged, and mumbled something that might have been an apology. Hugo immediately felt bad for talking to Droops like that. That’s what he loathed about all the bullshit of this life. You had to be the Big Man, full of hate at all times; otherwise, you’d soon be hung out to dry. Droops was a good guy—his friend.

Hugo waved a hand nonchalantly and fixed his compadre with a smile. “Hey, Droops, if we see any of those fuckers that got Scott, we can take ’em down.”

Droops grinned at the thought. “That would be sweet.”

The three figures—all donning long white shorts, vests, and expensive trainers—moved confidently across the baked tarmac that split the Florence-Firestone district with South Watts. Stolen Beretta 92s or their gats were tucked into their belts, hidden by long vests and baseball shirts. They headed along Ninety-Second Street, past numerous backyards, ignoring fearful glances from the residents, and then walked down Compton Avenue towards South Watts, their demeanour becoming more alert the deeper they moved into enemy territory.

Hugo spotted an F-13 tag that he had sprayed on a house wall that had been crossed out, indicating Crips had been back in the last twenty-four hours. The three young men threw each other a casual glance but said nothing.

As they reached East Century Boulevard, Hugo could see the cafe on the far side of the busy street. The sound of a whistle pierced the air, and then he saw a young black kid, no older than eight, start running away from them down the avenue.

“Keep your eyes open, amigos, and let’s do this quick,” he said. He guessed the kid was a lookout, and they had already been spotted. It would be easy to turn back and run to Firestone, but Hugo was too pumped up to abort now. They crossed the street, playing leapfrog with the traffic until they reached the far side and regrouped outside a liquor store.

“Kem, keep checking behind us. Droops, stay on me, a few paces behind, OK, Bruh?” Both nodded, and they started strolling along the sidewalk past a line of stores before a barren car lot appeared on their left.

“So, this is good biz fer the clique, huh, ese?” asked Droops, turning his head to glance at Hugo.

Hugo nodded and jerked his head as if shooing Droops ahead. A few hundred metres in front of them was a dilapidated café that hadn’t served food for years, the windows shuttered by blinds.

One of the Chinos leaned against the wall—thin but toned, bare arms covered in gang tattoos as was the norm. He exhaled a cloud of smoke from his joint, gaze raising to meet the figures coming towards him.

Droops stopped in front of the man without acknowledging him, turned, and nodded at Hugo, who also stopped.

“We’re here to see Tony Yong,” said Hugo.

The Chinese guy appraised Hugo and dropped the roach on the pavement before grinding it with the heel of his trainer.

Without saying anything, he swung back and knocked on the glass with a rap of his knuckles and then turned back to face them with cold, unsmiling eyes.

The door opened, and another guy peered out at them, checking them each out in turn.

“Tony Yong?” asked Hugo.

“Who’s asking?”

“I’m Howzy,” replied Hugo, using his gang call sign.

The Chino jerked his head, indicating they should come in.

Hugo turned to Droops and Kem, who were both looking up and down the street.

“Stay here, keep an eye out. This’ll take two seconds.”

They both nodded, but Hugo could tell they weren’t happy about it. Inside, the dark room that used to be a buzzing café was now trashed. A crate serving as a table was in the middle, and three heavily tattooed Chinese men dressed in vests, long shorts, and trainers were hunched around it. They looked up at Hugo with a nonchalant, stone-faced casualness that half threatened to explode into violence at any moment. One muttered something in Chinese, which Hugo ignored. He needed to focus on getting them to do the deal.

A stocky, muscular man stood up from the crates. He could have been any one of the gangbangers that Hugo hung around with: bald head, tattoos, basketball vest. The only difference between them was race. Yong jerked his head slightly. It came across as a half greeting, half command to follow him. They walked into a small room at the back of the derelict café that had another table and chairs, a slashed sofa, and more debris scattered on the bare floorboards.

“So, what have we got?” said Yong, eyeing Hugo with razor-dark eyes.

Hugo took out his sample and threw it onto the tabletop—white powder wrapped in plastic. Yong unwrapped it and proceeded to rack up a line on the table. He rolled a twenty up and snorted up the coke within a second.

“What are you looking for?” he said, pinching his nostrils with his fingers.

“Fifteen for half a key, amigo.”

The Chinese snorted harshly and slammed his hand onto the table. His snorting slowly turning to a laugh as his eyes reddened, focusing back on Hugo with veiled contempt.

“Fifteen? I was paying that for a whole key less than a year ago. I can get this same shit for less, much less. Bounce already; we’re done.”

Hugo dismissed it as bravado. The Chino knew it was good shit and was just playing hardball.

“You know that’s the real deal; there’s five hundred ounces you can turn into crack and easily cut out the Crips on their own turf.”

Yong shook his head. “I sell at whatever price I want, vato.” He rasped the last word between his teeth like a snake and fixed Hugo with a stare.

After a few seconds of staring back, Hugo shrugged.

“OK. You miss out, and I’ll take the deal somewhere else.”

He started to walk towards the door, and the Chinese tutted behind him.

“Ten…and we got a deal.”

Hugo smiled and turned back to face him. The snake was negotiating at last.

***

An hour later, they moved back across the street towards the beginning of Compton Avenue and safer streets. Hugo felt relief. Yong had agreed to $12K per half key, which was around what Hugo had hoped for. A small profit but enough product to fuck the Crips. He hated having to deal with all this drug shit. But now, at least, they could start doing the drops and focus on business while the Wah Ching did the dirty work of eating away at the Crips territory, which would only strengthen their clique. Hugo started going over the figures in his mind as he watched a blue-grey Ford van turn onto Compton Avenue just ahead of them. It pulled over sharply, and Hugo felt a spike of adrenaline surge through him. He whistled to get the others’ attention and reached under his shirt, grabbing the handle of his gat. The van had blackened windows, so he couldn’t make out who was inside, but his instinct was screaming at him that it was a trap.

“Hey! Hey!” Hugo shouted, turning back and gesturing with his hand for the others to follow his lead.

“The van, the van…”

Droops glanced across the avenue and seeing the vehicle Hugo was frantically gesturing at made a grab for his piece.

“Well, let’s take ’em, vato.”

“We don’t know how many…”

A series of loud cracks pierced the air around them. All three dived onto the ground through pure instinct. Hugo kept his eyes trained on the van, confirming he was right. It was a trap. The side door was open, and Hugo could just make out a couple of Crip boys in khaki-green trainer tops aiming directly at him. Hugo fired in their direction; the first bullet punctured the side of their van. The Crips quickly slid the door closed as a shield, not that it would really protect them any better. Hugo turned his head back to the others.

“Get back the other way!” he shouted.

Droops and Kem didn’t hesitate and jogged back down the street. Somewhere across the block Hugo heard a scream and caught a glance of people taking cover behind cars. Drivers raced past to avoid the escalating incident, and one screeched to a halt in the middle of the lane, blocking the road. Hugo turned back and fired another shot towards the van before making a run for it back in the same direction as his friends. There were a series of gunshots ahead. Hugo watched in horror as Kem and Droops both fell to the ground in a volley of bullets. Four black guys suddenly appeared, stepping out onto the sidewalk from behind a wall.

Shit!

They had been trapped in a classic pincer move. Hugo stared in disbelief. Droops was gripping his stomach, crying in agony as he rolled around on the sidewalk. Kem was facedown, his body unmoving. One of the Crips casually took aim at the dying boy’s head and fired once, and Droops was still. Hugo froze, and every fibre of his being wanted to run at them, guns blazing. A bullet whistled past Hugo from the other direction, barely missing him, shaking him out of his fixated state. The gangbangers were out of the van, taking cover at the corner, taking pot shots.

Hugo felt surprisingly calm as he returned a series of shots, hitting one of the gang in the chest as they mistimed a run across the sidewalk to take cover behind a parked car. As he caught a snapshot of the body, he realised it was a kid; no older than nine or ten. His lifeless eyes stared in Hugo’s direction, mouth caught open in frozen horror.

Dios perdóname. A kid!

Hugo swung around looking for escape routes. He was almost surrounded. The only option was a wooden fence directly ahead. Vaulting over it, Hugo was running fast, through backyards and over more fences. An old man cowed back as he ran by, hearing another gunshot behind him. As he ran, he was already replaying the scene in his head, as vivid as the trees blurring past him. Suddenly, he was in the middle of a nightmare, all recent feelings and misconceptions about his life morphing into one spearhead that struck him once again in the pit of his stomach. Distant shouts and screams carried across the road, drifting through the neighbourhood. In that moment, he knew he was out of the conflict. But his amigos, his compadres…

Shit.

Dead on the sidewalk.

And that little kid, lying in his own blood, his lifeless eyes forever imprinted in Hugo’s mind.

Read a sample chapter from Dark Paradigm #2: Red Horse

Order White Horse (Dark Paradigm # 1) on Amazon Kindle or these stores.

 

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Pale Horse (Dark Paradigm #4) is on pre-order on Amazon Kindle and will also be available widely on paperback. Release date 27th January 2024.

Here’s the description with links to pre-order below.

As the world hurtles toward the brink of collapse, the key figures of the freedom-fighting faction known as Liberatus find themselves thrust into the very apocalyptic future they both anticipated and dreaded.

In the heart of London, still grappling with the scars of her past encounters against Doctor White, Zoe Bowen embarks on a desperate quest to locate John Rhodes amidst the escalating chaos gripping the British capital.

Meanwhile, Joe Bowen, far removed from his Spanish stronghold, faces a perilous journey to reunite with his comrades.

Within the Tennessee Liberatus enclave, Hugo Reese gains a tenuous grip on their dire predicament, unaware of the treacherous betrayal brewing within his own ranks.

Deep beneath the surface in Station 12, Denver, Zak Bowen finds himself at the epicentre of a massive emergency simulation that, to his horror, transforms into a chilling reality.

As the shadowy cabal executes its devastating agenda, the world teeters on the brink of collapse.

Hold tight as this pulse-pounding apocalyptic conspiracy thriller hurtles toward its electrifying climax.

Pre-order on Amazon Kindle

The post Pale Horse (Dark Paradigm #4) appeared first on Jay Tinsiano.

Black Horse (Dark Paradigm #3) is finally here and available to purchase on Amazon Kindle (or via Kindle Unlimited) or online from selected retailers. This comes a mere five or so years since DP#2 – Red Horse, so it has been a very longtime coming.

The good news Pale Horse (DP #4) is available on pre-order for a January 2024 release, so grab that here.

Here’s the blurb for Black Horse and the retailer links:

As the clock ticks down to a devastating global event, Zoe Bowen’s investigation into her partner’s apparent suicide takes her down a dark and dangerous path.

But nothing points to suicide apart from the official verdict.

Zoe digs deeper, unravelling a string of similar suicides that make no sense and a plot to devastate the global food supply. She confides with her brother, Joe Bowen, and together they enlist the help of hacker Haleema Shiraz to infiltrate one of the front financial corporations of the cabal.

What they discover is even more terrifying than anything they could have imagined; that they stand at the edge of an apocalyptic event that will change the world forever.

Zoe and her allies race against time to stop the cabal’s devastating endgame before it’s too late.

Black Horse is an adrenaline-fuelled page-turner that will captivate fans of conspiracy thrillers and keep them hooked until the end.

Order on Kindle Paperback Retail Links

The post Publication Day for Black Horse appeared first on Jay Tinsiano.

Finally, I have exciting news on OUR books, specifically the Dark Paradigm series. We’ve re-vamped the books with new ebook and paperback editions, sporting lovely new covers by David Berens.

The BIG news is Black Horse (Dark Paradigm #3) is now available to pre-order. Go here now to be sure of your copy.

You’ll notice the series is now in Kindle Unlimited, which means the digital ebooks (not paperbacks) are only available on Kindle. I know this might upset a few readers, but we’re really trying to reignite the series, and hopefully, this will help us gain some traction. The new paperback editions will be available, as usual, to order from major bookstores, as well as Amazon.

We aim to get Pale Horse released hot on the heels of Black Horse before the year is out.

The whole eBook series is now available on the Amazon platform, exclusively for Kindle, while the new paperback editions will be available, as usual, to order from major bookstores, as well as Amazon.

Because of the KU exclusivity, the eBook formats of the series will not be available on this Bonafide Publishing store until further notice.

New print ISBNs:

White Horse (Dark Paradigm #1) 2nd Edition: 978-1-9162397-4-6

Red Horse (Dark Paradigm #2) 2nd Edition: 978-1-9162397-5-3

Black Horse (Dark Paradigm #3) 1st Edition: 978-1-9162397-6-0

(Only currently available to pre-order on Kindle Unlimited as an eBook with a September 9th release. The paperback is available to order on the release date.)

The post Dark Paradigm Series: New 2023 Editions appeared first on Jay Tinsiano.

I’ve got a brand new story in a new Crime and Thriller anthology called Breakneck! My thriller short is called Extraction Day, set in the Dark Paradigm world.

Breakneck also features shorts by Jason Cannon, Joslyn Chase, James Dain, Steve Dickinson, Tom Fowler, Trudey Martin, Sharon A Mitchell, and Ben Westerham.

Strap in and hang on!

Diverse, entertaining, and wonderfully fast-paced! These thrilling tales showcase the talents of nine superb suspense writers you’ll love meeting.

A lone man braves the wilds of Alaska to save a town from brutal annihilation.
A grocery shopper intervenes in a store shooting and gets more than he bargained for.
A retired Army cop goes up against a cold-blooded killer to exonerate his own name and close a murder case.
And more. Lots more.

Get your pulse tingling with these short story gems. Strap in and hang on—it’s Breakneck time!

Download for FREE here

The post Breakneck Anthology appeared first on Jay Tinsiano.

I recently attended the Self Publishing Show in London and were privileged to be picked to have Stuart Bache (Books Covered) give one of our titles a Tony Hart-style makeover. Stuart has designed covers for prominent name authors such as John le Carré and Stephen King as well as a cluster of indie stars such as Mark Dawson, Adam Croft, LJ Ross, and Craig Martelle.

Stuart Bache and John Dyer

The guinea pig was our thriller book, White Horse (Dark Paradigm #1) by Jay Tinsiano and Jay Newton. The current and original cover doesn’t convey that book’s genre (action/thriller) although it does hint at the occult driven apocalyptic narrative revealed throughout the series.

The session gave the 800 plus gathered indie authors and publishers a demonstration of the cover design process. No easy feat inside an hour while answering audience questions. However, Stuart did a sterling job and used his immense skills to create a stunning cover.

We really hope to work with Stuart for a relaunch of this Apocalyptic Thriller quadrilogy.

A meeting of author minds was long overdue; and this conference didn’t disappoint. It was a superb opportunity to hear inspirational and informative presentations from Indie authors and publishers and meet other authors. The latter is particularly important to me and many others after two years of restrictions.

L TO R: Jay Tinsiano, Mikey Campling, Jack Stainton, Lee Mountford and Joseph Sale.

Day 1 ended with a break that allowed time for dinner and freshening up before a party in the foyer. There were complimentary drinks to get into the spirit, and a band provided the music to get things rolling. Groups of authors did move on to pubs and bars after the close. This was, after all, London.

Other talks and panels included Joanna Penn’s The Creator Economy, Non-fiction: Failure to Fortune with Mark Reklau, Amazon Ads Targeting with Jane Margot, Big Data Unleashed by Alex Newton among many others over the two days.

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