Afghanistan: where friends look like enemies and enemies pose as friends.

Everyone in Uruzgan province, from street vendors to the American military, relies on Security Day: a weekly convoy under the command of the vicious warlord, General Mir Hamza Khan, protecting supply trucks from Taliban attacks as they cross the Kandahar desert. Security Day has made General Khan the uncrowned king of Afghanistan but American withdrawal threatens his reign.

Rookie intelligence agent Dan Bing arrives in country eager to prove himself, but he quickly finds himself shut out when he runs afoul of the emotionally unstable American commander who is fooled by General Khan’s lies. Dan instead finds an unlikely ally in Toor Jan, a loving family man turned spy with deep ties to the Taliban.

General Khan, Dan, and Toor Jan tangle in a tense and surprising tale of espionage, betrayal, deadly vanity and mercy that climaxes into the world’s most dangerous game of survival.

Based on a true story, readers call Security Day “very different and exciting—a spy and adventure story teeming with vivid, memorable characters” that is “one of those books you can’t put down.”

Targeted Age Group:: Adults

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
This novel is based on my own real life experience in Afghanistan as a spy handler and interrogator with Special Operations.

I wasn't an operator. Or a shooter, or a soldier, or an infantryman. Not a grunt. My job was to meet and talk to people—sometimes under adverse conditions—and build rapport. Rapport was drilled into us during training, even for interrogations.

A good interrogation isn't based on power, or fear, or "torture." At the core it's about connection and—though some would call this "falling in love with your source"—empathy.

Because I wasn't doing the shooting part of war, I truly got to know Afghans and the way they viewed the world. I felt an affinity with their ancient values: love your family, honor the elders, protect our village against all comers. An encounter with reality that stark and clear alters your life. If war can make anyone a better person, then I am a better person for knowing them.

Security Day is dedicated to the Afghans who, whatever their reasons, helped us.

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
Every character, from Afghans to Americans, is based on a person I actually knew or a composite of several people. I wanted to tell their stories, often unknown, and the great lengths the Afghan people were willing to go to protect their families and survive.

Book Sample
ZUBAIR GATHERS THE WEAPONS

Outside Tarin Kowt City, Tarin Kot District, Uruzgan Province, Afghanistan, 13 October 2012—

They didn’t know who had given the order. But they all met anyway after the last prayer, inside a copse of poplar trees, and waited for their local commander, known as Zubair, to lead them up the mountain where the weapons were hidden. Five young Pashtun men, blankets wrapped around their shoulders, water bottles hanging from their waists by cords, squatted in a half circle and looked at the ground.

They didn’t question their simple missions. Moving ammunition, rifles, and rockets under the cover of darkness was the best way to eat and do their duty to their village. But it was cold and the traditional fighting season was over. The big commanders had returned to Pakistan. Who was planning a large attack when they should be resting? What trouble would it bring?

Their hushed chatter stopped when Zubair appeared inside the wood line and pointed up the nearest rocky slope. The men spread out, walked across a field of winter wheat, and pushed up the scree field skirting the mountain. Their lungs burned as the incline grew but everyone knew this was the easy climb, light as they were with only their turbans and sandals. Coming down they would suffer, encumbered by the weapons.

Going up the slope they could be killed by anyone: Americans, the Afghan Army, the Afghan Police, bandits using caves as hideouts, other talibs they feuded with, villagers who resented their presence. Every noise, crack, slip on a rock, baying dog, even the whiff of smoke from a cooking fire raised a stiff hand from Zubair, signaling the men to stop and listen. Halfway up, Zubair hissed the most frightening command: “Lie down.”

In the valley, a motorcycle headlight bounced toward the mountain. The rider might have seen their dark silhouettes against the darker slope. If the rider was a bandit, he could radio other bandits already hiding in the mountain’s caves to descend upon them. They would be surrounded instantly. The armed bandits would then force them to continue up to the buried cache and steal the weapons on their behalf. If the bandits chose to let them live, they would be punished by their talib commander for losing the weapons. Each had a vision of how their lives could end that night.

Down below, the rider stopped—his motorcycle reverberating through the valley—then turned and chugged away from the mountain. Zubair breathed again and ordered them forward. They sprinted one after the other over the last bit of rock to the peak, slowing only to squeeze between the boulders at the summit. Their rasping lungs reminded them that they had to earn their money. The squalling wind froze the sweat to their skin.

The weapons cache, buried under a finger of rock, was located at an intersection of mountain paths. The Pinowa Valley sat to the east and a web of donkey tracks dropped down to the west, into Chorah. From this place the men could bring the weapons anywhere in Uruzgan Province. But the orders were to bring the weapons back to the poplar trees they had started from and wait for a truck. They didn’t know what type of truck, or when it would be there, but they must ensure the weapons arrived before sunrise.

The men cut the weapons out of tightly wrapped plastic and divided them among the group. They ate naan from their pockets, tearing into the stale bread, gulped coppery water from their bottles, and turned back down the mountain. The sun would soon rise over the Tarin Kowt Bowl.

Down, down, down, they picked their way through the rocks, fighting against the pull of gravity. Once more, they faced danger, Zubair screaming this time for his men to get down, as an American helicopter rose from the valley like a wasp. Its rotors beat overhead and they prayed to the Most Gracious and Most Merciful not to spare their lives for the sake of life but to spare them because they were so close to delivering the weapons and being paid. The helicopter floated momentarily above their heads before lifting over the mountain. It was some time before the fear left them and they could again feel the cold sweat that had soaked through their kameez.

Inside the poplar trees again, they stacked the rifles and rockets in a pyramid and covered everything with brush. Zubair ordered the men to wait. They wouldn’t be paid until the weapons were on the truck. The men, tired and impatient, complained to themselves and zipped their prayer beads along nylon string.

As the sun washed over the mountains, an Afghan National Police truck, an American green Ford Ranger, flashed its lights across the field. The truck didn’t approach and the police officers inside didn’t dismount but they flashed the high beams again for a short interval. Some of the men worried—the police were their natural enemies—but Zubair knew this was the truck. He ordered them to move the weapons.

The tired men struggled across the winter wheat field with the weapons, threw the rifles and rockets in a heap near the truck and fell exhausted into the dirt. The police officers yelled at the talibs to pick the shit up and put it in the bed, under the tarp. The sun was almost high when the talibs, wrapped in their blankets, lined up to be paid, happier with each rupee Zubair slipped into their hands. Zubair, his job done, turned to leave.

“Where are you going?” a police officer said. He was fat, with a bushy moustache and a grease-stained blue uniform. “Get in the truck.”

Zubair clicked his tongue at the order but did as he was told.

The truck drove down a thin, dusty track through Pinowa. When it stopped at a crossroad, the fat police officer told Zubair to get out and move the weapons across a freshly plowed plot and into a small, abandoned compound. He threw Zubair three Afghan Police uniforms and told him to take those too. The purpose of the uniforms was obvious, but where would it happen? And why now? Who wanted this done?

The fat police officer and the others got out of the truck, started a fire, and turned on a hand-cranked radio. They ignored Zubair as he made repeated trips back and forth to move the weapons. His purpose wasn’t their concern. After he had finished, Zubair was to wait inside the compound’s courtyard for three Pakistanis. The police officers left without putting out their fire.

Zubair slept in the dirt courtyard until the rusty scream of the gate woke him. He jumped to his feet as three Pakistani men entered and surrounded him. Zubair clutched his beard. The Pakistanis’ kameez hid their human shape and only their black eyes, popping with eyeliner, gave them any familiarity. Zubair feared the chaos these foreigners would bring.

Only one spoke Pashto. He told Zubair that they were on their way to Kabul when they were called to Uruzgan. Zubair wished the Pakistanis had ignored the call, but an order was an order and he waved to the tarp with the weapons on the ground.
Glee bubbled from the Pakistanis as they drew a Russian PKM machine gun, rocket-propelled grenades with launcher, and some old American grenades. They put on the police uniforms: a blue blouse and pants. The Pashto speaker asked if there was an explosive vest or belt. They were trained in Pakistan to be bombers and hoped to fulfill the training.

Zubair’s fear became disgust. Of course there was no belt because there was no glory in that. You won glory by facing your enemy. He gathered the ends of his kameez and walked through the compound gate without answering.

Zubair was not like these foreigners. He had the honor of a warrior.

Author Bio:
Matt Cricchio served in the United States Navy as an interrogator and spy handler, deploying to Afghanistan with Special Operations Forces. He earned an MFA in fiction in 2017. He currently lives in Richmond, Virginia with his family and their dog, Chewy, a rescue from Afghanistan.

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Buy Security Day Print Edition at Amazon

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Link To Buy Security Day On Amazon

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A brilliant scientist has disappeared, along with his potentially lethal discovery. ‘Not Yet Detective’ Charles Burns and a newly formed task force have their first mission: find the scientist and stop his discovery from becoming a weapon of mass destruction. The story unfolds in real time over one breathtaking weekend, as Burns and MCU2 race to prevent a global catastrophe.

Targeted Age Group:: 18+

What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
I'm fascinated by science and technology, and I love a good thriller. I wanted to create a story that is frightening because it's so believable. I thought of the idea of a global threat— something that would scare us all, like a pandemic. I began writing "Something in the Water" BEFORE Covid happened, and was both surprised and disturbed when the "fantasy" became a reality.

How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
I based some on real people and some are composites. Most of my characters bear at least a physical resemblance to people I've known, but I don't personally know anyone who wants to commit mass murder!

Book Sample
PART ONE: FRIDAY NIGHT 23:41
“What do you mean he’s gone, Dawson?” Detective Chief Inspector John C. Wayne had not been expecting a call from Detective Sergeant Michael Dawson, only a text message to confirm his subject was in bed. And he was not expecting that for at least another hour. Wayne had hoped to be asleep before it came.
“Gone. From the opera,” Dawson panted. “Professor Veda, and Kaia. He— they’re gone, sir.”
Wayne could tell that Dawson wasn’t his normal self but somewhere between confused and exasperated. Or drunk.
“All right, Dawson,” said Wayne. He kept his voice low and even out of habit, as the calm voice of reason. “No need to panic. They probably left early, before the fat lady sang. Purcell isn’t for everyone.” Or anyone, really, he thought.
“All right, Dawson. What happened?”
Dawson sounded slow, but even. “I fell asleep, sir. I believe I was drugged.” “You believe?” Wayne caught his voice and offered an excuse. “It’s Purcell,
Dawson.” He wanted to believe the easy explanations. But the worst-case scenario kept needling him.
“Yes, sir it was. But…”
Wayne let the silence hang as he walked back to his office, phone in hand. He put it on the desk next to his touch pad.
Wayne tapped the pad and dragged his finger diagonally to pull a 16×16 grid of camera feeds onto the left-hand screen. Each image had a small dialogue window below it with an abbreviated address and the camera’s GPS coordinates. Wayne could see the last opera-goers still filing out of the Opera House.
He sent the link in a message to Special Analyst James Tully’s phone as he continued to scan the viewers:
You up? Need you on this. More to follow. Show it to HOLMES.
Wayne knew Tully’s expertise with the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System would come in handy one day. He hadn’t expected it to be today. He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly as he continued to toggle round the camera feeds. Each highlighted image bulged out of the grid in a 3D effect as he zoomed in on his target.
Wayne saw the block of feeds from the car park off Drury Lane and highlighted and dragged it over to the right-hand screen. He watched as life played in three- second clips on each of the fourteen cameras in-and-around the three-storey car park.
He could see Dawson, dressed in a tuxedo standing next to the Peugeot assigned for ferrying Dr Veda and his date to the Royal Opera House. Wayne noticed the passenger door was slightly ajar.
“Did you open the door?”
“No sir. It was open just like this when I came up here.”
This was a crime scene now, and Wayne went into management mode. The Home
Secretary had given him Dr Veda exactly thirty-five days earlier when Veda had arrived in London from Oxford University. Wayne had no idea who Veda was before he got the call, and he said so. She explained that Dr Veda was doing important work for the Health Ministry, and his personal safety was of the highest importance.
The Home Secretary expressed concern that Veda might have difficulty adapting

to life in London, so it was decided that he would have a plainclothes officer as his driver for an undetermined short-term transition period. Wayne accepted the Home Secretary’s explanation before considering whether the professor had value to anyone or faced any threats.
Wayne had assigned Michael Dawson to the first official posting of the MCU2. Dawson’s file was one of the first few dozen files Wayne had culled from his initial candidate search of the Met’s personnel database. One phone call to Dawson’s superior in the Intelligence Command had put him on Wayne’s short list. Still in his twenties, Michael Dawson was one of the youngest officers to earn the rank of detective. But Wayne was most intrigued by Dawson’s two failed attempts to join MI6. They met once, and Wayne revealed little about the task force he was creating before Dawson volunteered to request the transfer himself. He accepted his first assignment with few questions, and Wayne appreciated that. But it wasn’t a babysitting job anymore.
“Well, you did look, right Dawson?” Wayne didn’t wait for Dawson to reply. “What did you touch?”
“I pulled it open by the latch, but I didn’t get in. Just looked. No contamination, sir,” Dawson asserted.
“But you looked,” Wayne repeated without reproach. He was curious. “Well? Anything?”
“Yes sir. Looks to be two small drops, on the inside of the door next to the lock button. Right here.” Dawson held his phone at an angle and focused the camera on the pair of droplets.
“Looks like blood, sir.”
He used his free hand to point at them from outside the window, flexing his index finger and bending his thumb to pinpoint the spots and the small gap between. Dawson held steady and waited for the inspector to respond to his find. Wayne glanced at the screen on his phone. His eyes were busy as he pulled up a map of Greater London on the main viewer on his desk.
“Have you got a photo of them?”
“The blood stains?” asked Dawson.
“No, Veda and…”
“Kaia? Yes sir. A few,” said Dawson. “From tonight,” he added. “Shall I share them,
sir?”
“Well, yes. Ms Rebane,” Wayne tapped his desk. “Send me the best one with
both. Now,” he said. “I’ll send it out A-S-A-P.” He always spelled it out, like Duke Wayne would have done in one of his classic war films. Wayne disliked the way too many people had made the acronym into a single word.
He had already dragged and dropped the file photo of Dr Veda onto the centre screen and was preparing to send it out with an alert, but a photo of both of them together would make more sense. Besides, Wayne realised he hadn’t any photos of the girlfriend, despite her seeming to take up more and more space in Veda’s world since they first met a few weeks earlier.
Dawson’s message arrived and Wayne smiled at the attachment’s title as he opened it, but didn’t laugh at the irony until he saw the image of the couple standing in front of a phone box around the corner from the main entrance to the Royal Opera House.
“Dr Who, indeed,” Wayne wondered aloud.
“Sir?” asked Dawson. “Didn’t it come through?”
“It did, Dawson. I was referring to the caption you wrote. Dr Who?”

“Oh, that,” Dawson breathed heavily. “It was a joke. The lady at the box office asked Dr Veda to repeat his name when we were picking up the tickets. I took the photo just after.”
Wayne had a dossier on the young scientist. Now he regretted not performing due diligence on the woman when Dawson had first informed him about the budding romance in Veda’s life. But he had no reason to be suspicious before tonight.
After all, according to the memo from the Home Office Dr Nicholas Veda was a relatively unknown scientist from Oxford, working on a cure for typhoid or some such disease, and of little interest to anyone outside the Health Ministry.
Wayne had read the good doctor’s bio and was quietly happy to hear that spring had finally arrived for Veda when Ms Rebane entered his life.
But suspicion rang like a fire bell in Wayne’s ear as soon as he saw the photo of the stunningly beautiful Ms Rebane standing next to the meek and humble scientist. He knew full well it didn’t only happen in the movies.
“No, it’s fine, Dawson.” Wayne cornered his dubiety in the back of his mind and went on cordially, “Well, stand by, secure the scene, and I’ll get a team over there.”
“Yessir!” Dawson exclaimed, sounding relieved.
Wayne rang off, then opened his directory. He paused, his thumb hovering over the screen. His first instinct had been to request the Home Office to call in extra military, double or triple the street patrols in the vicinity of the Opera House and give them the order to detain Veda and his date on sight.
In a moment he could send out an alert to every level of the Metropolitan Police Service, have the photo in the phones of every uniform in the Greater London area, including transit and airports, through the Met’s COMS system. And have thousands of eyes scanning the city for the well-dressed scientist and the knockout that must be accompanying him.
If he was sure there was foul play involved, he had to act. But he wasn’t.
Wayne’s unit had been officially active for almost three months but in fact had yet to engage in any official action. At the administrative level of the Met, all the commanding officers had received a directive to cooperate in any way requested if called upon by the Unit and DCI Wayne.
Despite being active, the unit was far from operational. No need had arisen to engage any other branch of the Metropolitan Police to date. Wayne had his core of First Officers in place but had deliberately kept the unit offline at the Met, and had remained on standby with the Home Office since St Valentine’s Day, awaiting a direct order.
The directive to supply a security escort for the Health Ministry’s virologist had appeared to be an excuse to be logging active hours until Major Crimes Unit 2 went operational. Wayne grimaced at his phone and scanned his directory for his contact in the HO. He read the time.
“Almost midnight.” He put the phone down and sighed. But the grimace refused to loosen as his eyes roamed the map.
Wayne wasn’t ready to call the Home Office until he was certain that the two young lovers hadn’t simply slipped out of the Opera House for a little snogging. Even now they might be thinking about calling Dawson to pick them up. He was hoping the blood at the scene was somebody else’s—preferably nobody’s.
Either way, putting the Met Police ground forces and surveillance branches on it seemed prudent. He quickly typed a draft alert on his desktop.
Getting his team engaged and up to speed came first, he reasoned, if only by a few seconds. Wayne dragged their mobile numbers into the address box on the

message pane. Then he paused to consider exactly who else needed to see the alert. How high, and how wide do I wave this flag?
His gut told him he was facing the Unit’s Inaugural Event, but his head reminded him of the potential for political disaster.

Author Bio:
Dean is an expat Canadian who lives in Europe. After working 20+ years in the Entertainment industry, he went on a "5-year hiatus" to teach English abroad. Sixteen years later, he channeled his passion for storytelling into writing thrillers and, more recently stand up comedy. Dean lives in Freiburg, Germany with his wife and son, where he enjoys cycling, being surrounded by nature, and ice hockey.

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Buy Something in the Water Book One: Drowning Print Edition at Amazon

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Link To Buy Something in the Water Book One: Drowning On Amazon

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Amelia Peabody inherited two things from her father: a considerable fortune and an unbendable will. The first allowed her to indulge in her life’s passion. Without the second, the mummy’s curse would have made corpses of them all.

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