PARALLAX: Contest Extended

After much consideration and comments (both public and private) I’ve decided to extend the Parallax contest until we sell 1,000 copies of the book. This will guarantee that someone will win a trip to the set of THE FIXER television series-so we need to sell MORE books!

Thanks to all of you who contacted me-the response was overwhelming and deeply gratifying, especially considering the rave reviews you’ve all given the book. As an author, you all mean the world to me and your feedback has been priceless. Thank you so much.

So, to reiterate the contest details: We’ve already reached the 100-copy level so someone will shortly be getting a copy of Rogue Angel:Sacrifice. And since I’ve lowered the grand prize TV set trip to the 1,000-copy level, I’ll lower the lifetime copy of Jon’s books prize to just 500 copies.

  • 100 copies: Free copy of Rogue Angel: Sacrifice written by me
  • 500 copies: Copies of every book I’ve ever written and will ever write
  • 1,000 copies: A trip to the set of THE FIXER TV series (all expenses paid from anywhere on Earth)

Okay, so get your copy of the book and then tell your friends to do the same. I want this thing to be big and get even bigger than it has been up to this point. I need your help & support to make it happen. So let’s get rockin’!

Order a copy of PARALLAX in the following formats: .pdf, .rtf, .epub, .mobi, and as zipped HTML files. You order that direct from me by clicking the button here (please specify the format you want):

You can also get it for your Kindle right out on Amazon. Click Here to Buy PARALLAX at

Excerpt #2 from novel-in-progress

Here’s another bit of that novel I’m working on right now. Hope you dig it. If you do, drop a few bucks to me via Paypal for my Holiday Toy Drive for Needy Kids. Info here: Jon’s Kick Ass Wicked Pissah Holiday Toy Drive

Chapter Two

New York City, One Week Later

      Through the foggy aftermath of another gin-soaked night of binging, the clock radio’s incessant alarm needled its way into Quinn’s molten dream world of warped faces, empty eyes, and soundless screams. He came awake arms flailing and fighting the invisible intruders. Finally, one of his hands slammed down on the snooze bar and the white noise of a New York morning reclaimed the air. Quinn’s eyes closed again, but sleep had already deserted him. He took stock. Wet. Cold. Clammy. Whatever he’d drunk last night had spilled out of him – sweated out through pores Quinn figured must have been the size of silver dollars to soak the sheets so.
      He stank.
      Before he’d kicked the butts to the curb, Quinn’s morning aroma had resembled the stench of a two-week corpse left rotting in the humid sun of an equatorial afternoon. Now, he only had the booze to contend with.
      One of these days he’d make it a banner year and give up drinking all together. One of these days. He smirked. It wouldn’t be any time soon. Not unless he could figure out some other vice to keep the demons at bay. Drugs were out. Sex was too risky unless he could find a partner who had the same raging libido he did. So far, no luck. And masturbating didn’t thrill him the way it had back when he was a fourteen year-old kid jerking off watching the leotard-clad dancers on Solid Gold.
      His hand slapped down on the snooze bar again, cutting off the alarm before it had a chance of destroying the relative calm of the morning.
      He eased himself into an upright position slowly. No sense puking first thing in the morning and dehydrating himself even more than he already was. His legs emerged from the tangled sheets and slid over the edge of the bed, feet reaching for the cold wooden floor.
      Standing now, he felt like too much liquid still sloshed against his insides. Maybe his kidneys and liver needed an overhaul. Or maybe he should just stop drinking once and for all.
      Yeah. Sure.
      Quinn knew he was unlike a lot of other alcoholics. He had a drinking problem. A big one. He knew this. And he admitted it, if only to himself. No sense denying it, he mused. Not when it absorbed so much of who he was.
      He could focus himself if he needed to, especially if it was for work. He liked working. He craved work almost as much as he craved the booze.
      But work had been absent lately. Nothing much came by way of his email. Nothing popped up on the various bulletin boards he frequented. No new messages teased him from his voicemail. It was as if the world had moved on and forgotten there had once been such a person as Quinn Daniels.
      He hadn’t been famous because fame was what he’d been taught to avoid. He hadn’t been wealthy because money never stayed with him long enough to grow.
      But Quinn once had power.
      Power over himself was what they’d taught him. Being able to see the challenges and meet them head-on. Conquer them or devise a way to bypass them in such a way that the ultimate goal was never compromised. Once he’d learned their lessons, there seemed nothing he couldn’t succeed at once he put his mind to it.
      He sat down on the toilet and let his bladder empty. No way did he trust himself to be able to stand during the five-minute piss. He was far enough along in his alcohol abuse to know what his limits were and where his weaknesses lay. Standing with one arm holding him up seemed absurd when he could just sit down and relax.
      He could feel the need to move his bowels. But not just yet. He’d get some breakfast and orange juice into his system before he had what he affectionately called his “PDD” – “post-drunk-dump.”
      Quinn flushed the toilet and padded out to his kitchen. The condo he owned sat on the Upper East Side, paid for several years back after he’d come back from a close-protection job in Egypt. He’d put a substantial down-payment on the place, but he still had a mortgage.
      Out of the refrigerator, he took the big jug of Tropicana orange juice, tilted it and his head back and drank it down deep. He took out the eggs and ham, set them cooking in the griddle and at the last moment, plopped two slices of American cheese onto the ham, waited a minute for it to start to melt and slid the whole concoction onto a plate. He mixed everything up until the runny yolk, melted cheese and ham were all combined. Then he sat down, flipped on the television and started eating.
      Vapid morning shows.
      He’d never understand why so many people felt a need to show up outside of a television studio and hold up a sign while the camera whizzed past them. Were they thinking this was their fifteen minutes of fame? Was this what they’d dreamed of? Being pandered to by some half-assed moronic host while they spoke about their anniversary or how today was the first day they’d managed to walk and breathe at the same time?
      He flipped the channel to The Military Channel and caught a special on Pararescuemen – one of the United States Air Force special operations units that never got much in the way of publicity. He smirked. He knew the feeling. And more, he respected the Air Force for keeping its secret units out of the media as much as possible.
      Quinn’s doorbell buzzed. He frowned. He wasn’t expecting anyone this morning. Hell, no one ever usually showed up at his door. He didn’t have any family. No relatives.
      He picked up the intercom receiver. “Yeah?”
      “Mr. Quinn?”
      Jimmy the doorman from downstairs who never used Quinn’s last name. “Yeah, Jimmy?”
      “Got a woman here says she knows you.”
      “Got a badge, too.”
      “Uh huh.”
      “She got a nasty manner about her?”
      “My dreams have been answered. Send her up.”
      “Thank you, sir.”
      Quinn replaced the receiver and went to his front door and unlocked it. Then he went back to the kitchen, sat down, and ate some more of his breakfast. As he ate, he slowed his breathing until he could feel the minute shifts in the air of his apartment. He waited and then turned at just the right moment.
      Deb stood in the doorway of the kitchen, her Beretta aimed at Quinn’s head. She wore a smile and her eyes gleamed. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t just kill you now.”
      “My sparkling personality?”
      “You lost any trace of that years ago.”
      Quinn shrugged. “I’m pretty good in the sack.”
      Deb lowered her gun. “Only if you haven’t been drinking. Otherwise you can’t get off at all. Stiff as hell, yeah, but there’s no end.”
      “Some women, they wouldn’t complain about that.”
      “Only the ones who have 30-second blitzkrieg fucks. Anything beyond two minutes is sheer bliss for them.”
      “But not you.”
      Deb came over to the table and sat down. “You ever had a piece of wood jammed up your ass for three hours?”
      “Well, there was that Iraqi incident. But no wood was involved.”
      She eyed him. “You lying again or is that a real war story?”
      “My secret.”
      “Well, Mr. Secretive, trust me – you don’t want to be pumped for three hours and have no spectacular finish. Even the horniest of us will get dry by the end of the first hour.”
      “Great visual.” Quinn finished his orange juice. “So, my dear, what brings you around this morning.”
      “It’s almost noon, Quinn.”
      “Morning being the relative term, then.”
      Deb slid her gun back into her holster. “You working on anything right now?”
      “I was giving serious consideration to trying to bed you for three hours.”
      “Yeah, I wore the skirt just for you.”
      “How do you run in that thing?”
      “I don’t. I got a perp, I use my feminine wiles to get them to stop and then I shoot them if they run.”
      Quinn smiled. Deb’s short brown hair and bright blue eyes would make any man stop. He’d seen her in action enough times to know. There were very few men who wouldn’t pause if she gave them one of her come-hither looks. Quinn had been on the receiving end of enough of them.
      “I think the National Organization for Women might like a word with you over that rather antiquated sentiment.”
      “Fuck them.”
      “No thanks.”
      “You never answered my question.”
      “About work? I’ve got a meeting scheduled for later this week. Nothing on right now.”
      “You want something?”
      “Why not?”
      Deb leaned closer until her face was only about six inches from Quinn’s. “There is one thing, though.”
      Quinn leaned closer. “Oh?”
      Deb frowned and pulled back. “You got to lay off the sauce until it’s done.”
      “I have been.”
      “Don’t bullshit me. You drank last night. I can smell it on you.”
      “Well, I haven’t showered yet. And you know how beer is.”
      “Quinn, you don’t drink beer.”
      “Maybe I’ve started.”
      Deb stood. “You see? This is why we never worked as a couple. All the lies. It’s like you don’t think of anyone as being smart enough to know that you’ve got yourself a real problem.”
      Quinn sighed. People had the kind of emotional baggage I’ve got, it’d be wonder if they didn’t have a problem, themselves. “All right, I had something to drink.”
      “I need you sober on this.”
      “What’s the job?”
      She looked him over again and Quinn knew she was trying to decide if she should even bother. After a moment, she sighed. “Obviously it’s not something the department can handle…properly.”
      “So a gorgeous homicide detective for the New York City police department comes to a washed up old soldier with her unorthodox problem.”
      “You old now?”
      “Feels like it.”
      “Then some action might just be the Fountain of Youth for you.”
      Quinn licked his lips. “What’s the scoop?”
      “You’re eating-“ Deb studied his plate. “…something.”
      “It’s that bad?”
      She slid an envelope on the table. “Knowing you, you’ve seen worse. I would have waited if I’d known you were eating and all.”
      “My fault for getting up late.” He opened the envelope and two photographs slid out onto the table. Black and white and grainy. It took Quinn a moment to figure out what he was looking at.
      “Am I seeing that right?”
      Deb’s painted fingers pointed at the top picture. “We found him earlier this week. He was the first.”
      “And this guy?”
      “Last night near as we can place time of death. A little old lady found him this morning while she was out walking her Pekinese.”
      “Yeah. I would have figured her for a pug.”
      “You know who they are?”
      Deb nodded. “First guy is Antonio Delineo. Worked for the Campanella family out of Brooklyn up until six months ago when he got bored killing people for them. He went out on his own with the family’s blessings.”
      Quinn looked at the picture. “Maybe they were happy to be rid of him.”
      “Probably. His specialty was using a rock hammer on skulls.”
      “And not exactly keeping with the Mafia’s attempts at a new and legitimate persona.” She pointed at the picture. “Someone did him, though.”
      “An old victim?”
      Deb looked at him. “All his old victims are in the ground somewhere.”
      “Friend or relative of a deceased?”
      “Doubtful. Look at the size of him. Pretty damned intimidating even for the most outraged soul.”
      “So, what was he working on when he got tipped?”
      “Protection work for Frankie the Seal.”
      Quinn whistled. “Ah.” Frankie the Seal, so named because of his incredible ability to skirt the law and never end of in jail. Frankie peddled young girls to anyone who wanted them, usually charging an incredible amount of money for looking the other way. His whores usually ended up dead, scarred, or deranged forever. It made Quinn wonder why anyone would ever choose to work for him.
      “Guess he kinda failed, huh?”
      “Looks that way.”
      Quinn stared at the picture again. Antonio’s face and skin were withered beyond his years and completely white. His lips were drawn back in abject terror, eyes popped out of their sockets, dangling by their optic nerves like a bad cartoon.
      Deb flipped the photos. “And this is Frankie.”
      Quinn’s eyebrows waggled some. He looked at the second picture. “Can’t even recognize him.”
      “Yeah. The damage on him seems worse than on Antonio.”
      “If that’s possible.”
      Frankie’s face was even more withered and pale than his protector. By the look of it, Frankie’s eyeballs had exploded. A mess of dark goo coated his cheeks and ran down into his neck and shirt. His hands had formed claws, frozen in rigor mortis like an extra from a George Romero flick.
      “Any idea what did this?”
      Deb took the pictures back. “You’ve used some special weaponry before. Those black bag jobs you used to do.”
      “Don’t be coy. This isn’t the time.”
      Quinn shook his head. “Never seen anything like this. I don’t even know what could make an eyeball explode that way, short of being shot.”
      “No bullet wounds anywhere. The ME is mighty annoyed these stiffs defy conventional wisdom.”
      “And you want me to figure out what did this?”
      He looked at her. “Why care at all? Someone’s obviously taking out some of the city’s most deserving scumbags. Seems to me like a good idea.”
      “Yeah, well, the vigilante side of me agrees. But the ‘sworn to protect’ side of me – and it’s a bigger side – knows we’ve got to stop this person. But first we need to find out why.”
      “So you come to me.”
      Quinn drank some more juice. “It’s a bad world out there.”
      “I can pay you.”
      He glanced at her. “Oh, I’m not worried about that. I know you’ve got my bank account numbers from the last time.”
      “I need you on this, Quinn. Before someone else gets killed. It’s obvious we’re dealing with something…unusual here.”
      “You know, I don’t exactly relish the thought of my eyeballs exploding.”
      “Why would you? What with being so busy trying to make your liver explode instead.”
      “You’re not playing nice this morning.”
      Deb kissed him lightly on the lips. “You’re concerned about your eyeballs? So watch your back.” She stood and walked to the door. “Call me when you have something.”
      He watched her go and stared back down at the table where the photos had been. He could still see the images staring back up at him. His stomach rumbled. His tongue felt thick.
      He needed a drink.

© 2008 Jon F. Merz      All rights reserved.

Writing Updates

It’s been a while since I posted news about what I’m working on, so here’s a brief recap:

1. I have one more Rogue Angel novel to complete and then I think that will be that. I will have written eight novels for the series and frankly, I’m a bit burned out on the character. They were fun and quick projects for me and the folks at Gold Eagle/Harlequin are awesome. They’ve been my favorite publisher to work with thus far and are lightning fast on contracts, payments, and feedback – all of which are awesome for a writer. I hope to do some other stuff with them, so we’ll see…

2. I’ve partnered with a great friend of mine to flesh out a new project that I will cryptically call “HOTW” for now. It will feature a strong female lead in a great setting that should appeal to a huge demographic. We’re pumped about it. It also doesn’t hurt that my friend works with Ridley Scott, which si complete awesomeness in and of itself. More news as it becomes available.

3. This same friend actually brought me on to help write another project with him and this one is about ready to boil. It’s already a comic series (and no, don’t ask because I don’t want to spoil the fun) with a sizeable following and is being actively pursued by several companies as an episodic cartoon series. I’ll be handling the novels and also working on the cartoon itself. It’s great stuff.

4. I’m actively working on SECOND CHANCE (working title) and enjoying getting back into it. I’ve been toying with this book for several years and it’s well past due that I finish the thing and get it out into circulation. It’s a standalone as far as I can tell (although you never know what the future holds) and mixes my usual genre frappe of fun and craziness. I’ll excerpt a few more chapters as December progresses. You can find the prologue a few posts back.

5. We’re slated to start shooting THE FIXER TV series in February. January will be devoted to much planning and finalizing of all sorts of things relating to getting fully up to speed. Needless to say, this has taken us longer than we expected, but it’s going to be a truly awesome project. We should have some more footage to release shortly, so stay tuned to the official website at and don’t forget to join the Forums over there as well!

That’s it for now. I’ve got some other stuff to talk about, but will hold off doing so for the time being.

Excerpt from novel-in-progress

Here’s an excerpt from a novel I’ve been working on for a few years on-again-off-again.  I’m going to finish it over the next month or so.  Let me know what you think – thanks!

Chapter One


     “There is beauty in everything.”
     Vinatoru Kocescu scanned the street, his black eyes hooded by the mop of hair falling across his brow, the flesh around them puffy and dark.  Gray concrete tenements with shattered windows abutted gutters teeming with used condoms and cigarette butts.  A vacant construction site overflowed with rusted I-beams and posters promising a better tomorrow by politicians growing fat off of bribes and corruption.
     What did they call these places in America?  The ghetto?
     Kocescu called it paradise – his paradise.
     Just after eleven o’clock this morning drizzle dribbled like God had a prostate problem.  Kocescu’s best whores formed a ragged garland across the apartment entrances, awaiting the lunchtime crowd of bureaucrats, office workers, and construction Joes to blow their pitiful paychecks on fifteen minutes of sticky friction.
     God bless them all, thought Kocescu.  Them and their money.
     A spit of rain dotted his face, rivulets stumbling through the ravine of scar tissue that spanned Kocescu’s right jaw from his ear lobe to his chin.  The souvenir came from a knife fight in Bucharest years back.  A millimeter lower and it would have been Kocescu’s body that littered the dank alley.  Enraged – giddy almost – from the cut, Kocescu had dipped his shoulder and pumped his own blade up and under the punk’s sternum, shredding the pulmonary artery.
     Kocescu took a deep breath, passing the air up his nostrils and then opening his mouth to let it escape again.  He repeated the cycle once more.  Despite the yoke of carbon monoxide from too many cars, he smelled something.
     Now he used his tongue to taste the air.  Flicking and waggling, allowing the entire range of his olfactory system to break the air molecules apart, catalog them, and confirm or refute the presence of prey.
     Kocescu could smell a woman before he even saw her.  He’d acquired the skill establishing himself as the kingpin of lust and depravity in Moldova.  Dealing with the thousands of women he’d pimped, beaten, or sold into slavery, he got to know all the weird and wonderful scents that leaked from their pores and dripped from their dark places.
     His nostrils flared again.  He knew the perfume.  And he knew the scent that lay beneath the manufactured smell.
     Old woman.
     And something more.
     Kocescu turned his head, knowing she’d be coming around the corner.  An old woman didn’t interest him.  Most of Kocescu’s clients preferred much younger delicacy.  But for those searching for more mature interaction, he had two lively grandmothers on speed dial. 
     Just in case.
     She ambled around the corner with a slight limp, leaning forward.  Kocescu figured both arthritis and an injury were to blame.
     Opportunity walked with the old woman.
     Kocescu eased back into the recessed doorway of the building behind him.  What, he wondered, would make an old woman walk through a dangerous section of town?
Arrogance.  He could see it in the way she moved.  Even with her afflictions, he could sense anger and determination in the old gal.  The way her jaw was set firm.  The way she struggled to keep her chin up.  The way she eyed the scene before her with a mixture of contempt and pity.
     Kocescu smiled.  In another life, he might have respected her.  But now, she was making a terrible mistake.
     The girl who walked with the old woman couldn’t have been any older than twelve.  But she, too, had determination.  Kocescu saw it in the way she tugged on her…grandmother? Yes.  On her grandmother’s hand.  Insistent.  Steady resolve.
     Kocescu lit a cigarette and sucked at the filterless tip until the cinder glowed bright red.  He blew out a thin stream of smoke and watched a sudden gust of wind jerk it out of the doorway.
     The old woman had stopped.  Was she rethinking her decision to come this way?  Perhaps she remembered when this part of town had been a family neighborhood.  Long before the Communists had razed the old houses to put up the apartment complexes that had then fallen into disrepair with the end of the Cold War.
     Kocescu could see it – the battle of emotions playing out across the pale slabs of baggy skin on her face.  For several long moments, she stood there, immune to the drizzle and the brash desires of her younger companion.
     Kocescu heard the girl now.  Pleading.  Something about how they had to go this way in order to reach their destination in time.
     Still the battle raged.
     The old woman took a step forward.  Then another.  And more until they had resumed their walk with the same speed as before.
     The old woman hugged the girl close to her as they passed the first of Kocescu’s whores.  He heard his girls clucking at them.  The little girl’s eyes went wide when she heard what they said to her.
     Kocescu chuckled.
     Then the old woman’s voice cut through the air, slicing at the most aggressive whores.  They backed off.
     Arrogant and spunky, Kocescu decided.  But they were trespassing in Kocescu’s domain, one he’d worked hard to acquire.  And one he was expanding into America.
     Kocescu studied the girl.  He watched the way she walked.  He saw her hips hadn’t yet blossomed.  She still had the gait of a young boy.  Her breasts were still probably absent as well.
     He sucked at the cigarette.
     They cleared the first block.  Ahead of them, an intersection on an almost deserted street that ran across this section of Kocescu’s turf.
     From his pocket, he removed the Nokia cellphone and pressed a single button.  The phone purred in his ear and then someone on the other end picked up.
     Kocescu said three words and then disconnected.
     Further down the street, the aging blue van’s engine came to life.  Black soot shot out of its tailpipe, clogging the air nearby with the smell of diesel and sulfur.
     The old woman and the girl finished walking the gauntlet.
     They had cleared Kocescu’s domain.
     He saw relief flood the old woman’s frame as her shoulders relaxed and her gait slowed.  The girl must have sensed something was wrong because she was asking her grandmother questions.
     Kocescu ground his cigarette underfoot and took a long drag on the air, feeling the cold air rush in through his nostrils, cleansing him of the tobacco he’d just ingested.  The old smells returned: the stench of urban decay, the pollution, and even the scent of the old woman.
     The new smell interested him most: the perfume of youth.  Kocescu licked his lips as if he could draw from the air the young girl’s essence.
     The old woman and the girl reached the intersection, stopping to check for traffic before they crossed.  The van shot away from the curb as the old woman stepped onto the street.
     Screeching tires and the van’s wailing horn ripped apart the relative silence of the late morning; the van’s bumper stopped inches from the old woman, but she fell to the ground anyway.
     Kocescu saw the next moments like stills in a flipbook animation sequence.
     The van’s side panel jerking open on its rails.  From inside, Vitya and Daro, Kocescu’s thugs, jumping out.
     The girl, huddling over her grandmother, looking up.
     Alarm sweeping over her face – the look of sudden realization – she starts to back away, clawing at the ground beneath her for purchase as she screams.
     Vitya reaches her first, clamping his gloved hand over the girl’s mouth.  The girl kicks and struggles but she’s no match for Vitya’s hulking form.  He drags her into the darkness of the van.
     Daro bends over the old woman’s frame.  The grandmother’s hands come up trying to fight him.  He brushes her feeble attacks off, grabs one of her wrists and snaps it at the joint.  The old woman screams now, displaying weakness for the first time as she clutches the useless limb.
     Daro squats down behind her, pats her head and then jerks it to the side.  Even though he’s too far away, Kocescu can imagine the dull snap as the old woman’s neck breaks.
     The lifeless body slides from Daro’s embrace and then he’s back into the van.  Tires screech again; more exhaust spurts into the air and the van roars off down the street, makes one turn at the next intersection and then disappears.
     Behind them, the old woman’s body lays in a crumpled heap, one hand still outstretched toward the street – still fighting, even in death.
     Kocescu lit a fresh cigarette and inhaled deep.  He’d seen a lot of grabs before.  He’d done them himself a few times in the past.  But no one had ever impressed him as much as the old woman.  He admired her resolve – her willingness to sacrifice everything for her family.
     Kocescu had never known such sentiment.  Few of the orphans he’d grown up with on the streets did.
     He watched the scene for another minute, drinking in the stark detail.  Across the street, his whores paid no attention.  They knew Kocescu would kill them if they said anything.
     He sucked another bit of the tobacco into his lungs and felt the heat clear his mind.  He had a business to run.  And his bottom line was about to get even better; the girl would fetch him a lot of money.
     Kocescu pulled the cellphone back out and pressed a new number.  He had arrangements to make.
     But as he listened to the ringing at the other end of the line, a strange thought popped into his head:
     What if the grandmother hadn’t been protecting the girl?