Wednesday, November 13, 2019

#Giveaway Interview Justice by Joseph Badal

Today I'm showcasing the latest crime drama by Amazon #1 best selling author Joseph Badal, #3 in his The Curtis Chronicles series plus Author/Guide Joseph's publicity firm is sponsoring an autographed book as a #Giveaway. See below for details!

Publisher: Suspense Publishing

Release Date: 11-12-2019



Amazon #1 Best-selling author, Joseph Badal, delivers “Justice,” the third in his Curtis Chronicles series, with the same relentless tension that is a trademark of his award-winning suspense novels.

In “Justice,” Matt and Renee Curtis return, along with their maniacal tormentor, Lonnie Jackson. On a trip to Costa Rica with their friends Esteban and Alani Maldonado, Matt and Renee believe they are beyond Jackson’s reach. They soon find out how wrong they are, however, when Jackson orchestrates the kidnapping of Renee and Alani and transports them to his human trafficking headquarters located in Nicaragua.
Matt and Esteban recruit former special operations soldiers living in Costa Rica to help them rescue their wives, sending readers on an action-packed journey.
As with all of Badal’s novels, “Justice” is a bold and complex thriller. It weaves an intricate plot involving multiple international locations, a human trafficking organization, the CIA, Special Operations, corrupt politicians, Bulgarian organized crime figures, Swiss bankers, and a compelling cast of engaging, inspiring, and diabolical characters.
The Curtis Chronicles is an epic series that delves into the age-old conflict between good and pure evil, where each book leaves you begging for more.

Giveaway is one Autographed copy of
Justice US ONLY
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Read an excerpt:

The pounding rhythm of her heartbeat affirmed that she was still alive. But it no longer gave Miranda Sánchez comfort. It seemed to have evolved into an alien creature that invaded her being; drummed in her chest, neck, and ears; and screamed to get out.
She gripped the crucifix on the delicate silver chain around her neck and once again prayed for salvation. Not for the deliverance of her soul — for which she had prayed thousands of times in the cathedral in Ocotal — but for the rescue of her body ... and mind.
The sickening, pale-yellow, muted light from a naked bulb provided just enough illumination to see her hands. She stared down at her shadowed fist wrapped around the cross, opened her fingers, and cringed at the filth under her fingernails and on the back of her hand. The stench of human waste assailed her nostrils, and even breathing through her mouth did little to allay the putrid odors.
Three days had passed since she'd been allowed to bathe. Three days of hunger, threats, and beatings because she resisted the man named Carlos.
She released the symbol of her faith and dropped it between her breasts, beneath the coarse, homespun fabric of her plain, soiled, once-white dress. The rag had fit tightly on her full figure just one week earlier. It now draped over her like a hand-me-down from an older, larger sister.
Miranda shifted on the pallet set against the wall opposite the cell door, pressed her back against the damp cement wall, and shivered. Despite the August heat and humidity, the wall chilled her.
It took a magnificent force of will to laugh under the circumstances, but she forced out a curt, cough-like chuckle, mocking herself for leaving her home in Nicaragua. Why didn't I listen to Mama?
"Miranda, only harm will come to you for trying to better yourself," Mama had said. But she couldn't stand the thought of looking like her mother — a worn-out drudge, a slave to a system that offered no hope to poor women.
A sudden tap-tap-tap interrupted her thoughts. Miranda cocked an ear. This was something new. She tried to quiet her heart and still her breathing. There it was again — tap-tap-tap. It seemed to come from the wall on her right.
She moved to all fours, pushed off with her hands, and rose from the pallet. Suddenly lightheaded, she leaned against the back wall. When the dizziness lessened, she moved to her right, touched the cell's side wall, and waited for the tapping sounds to come again. "Tap-tap-tap," she whispered, thinking for a moment IA Agent was playing a game with her, mocking her, teasing the last of her sanity from her terrified brain.
Maybe ten minutes had gone by when she wailed a mournful, toneless hymn that careened off the cell's hard surfaces and drifted like morning mist through the small, barred opening in the cell door. Miranda's legs turned rubbery and she slid down the wall to the floor. Tears flowed onto her crossed arms. Then she slowly rolled to her side and scrunched herself into a fetal ball, making herself as small as possible.
Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. More rapid this time. Frantic.
Miranda uncurled herself and scooted to face the side wall. She removed a sandal and banged the wall three times.
Ten seconds passed, then the tap-tap-tap came again. The faint, feathery sound of a female voice carried to her. The words were indecipherable, but not the tone. There was no mistaking the high-pitched tone of fear.
Miranda felt a momentary exhilaration. She wasn't alone. But then reality struck and she felt more desperate than ever. Being here wasn't an isolated incident. The man had brought at least one other woman here. There could be dozens more. What did he intend to do with her? To them?
Carlos Salgado stood on the other side of Señor José Rosales Lorca's desk and stared down at the floor. He felt perspiration roll from his head and down across his brow. He tried to blink away drops that stung his eyes. He wanted to wipe them away but his hands felt weighted, glued to the sides of his legs.
"Look at me!" Lorca barked.
Salgado bounced his eyes at Lorca, but again dropped his gaze to the floor. He was afraid that if he looked into Lorca's amber-colored eyes he would lose control of his bladder. He'd never seen eyes like El Jefe's eyes — cat's eyes. And there was ... he didn't know. Something lurked behind those eyes. Anger. Hate. Madness. Evil.
For Salgado, this was only business. That's what he kept reminding himself. He took no pride in what he did, even feeling conscience-stricken at times and sometimes praying to God for forgiveness. But he knew no other way to make this kind of money. However, for El Jefe, it seemed somehow different. It wasn't that the boss reaped pleasure from the business. El Jefe seemed to gain pleasure from nothing. The big man functioned like an automaton — absent most feeling and relationships.
Señor Lorca had only one emotion that Salgado was aware of: anger. And he was scared shitless of being the cause of his boss's anger. He'd seen the man furious a few times. And he'd seen the pain he'd inflicted on the focus of that fury.
Salgado swallowed and slowly sucked in a deep breath. Come on, maricón, act like a man, he told himself. You're bigger and stronger than the boss. Don't let him see your fear. But the admonishment did no good. He attempted to put steel in his voice, despite the fact his knees felt like Jell-O and his stomach was filled with acid.
"You need something, Jefe?"
Lorca blew out a stream of cigar smoke and squinted while the smoke dissipated toward the ceiling. He leaned back in his chair and swiveled halfway around so he could look out at the lush jungle that bordered his Nicaraguan hacienda.
"Any progress with the Sánchez girl?"
Salgado cleared his throat and wiped the palms of his hands on the sides of his jeans. "No, Jefe. She is very stubborn. She has had only bread and water for three days, but she refuses to submit."
"You realize I have orders I must fill?"
"Sí, Jefe. But she is not ready yet. The customer will be upset if we send him someone who is injured and is not ... manejable."
Lorca again drew on his cigar and expelled smoke. "Manejable — pliable. Yes, she must be pliable. And I don't want her bruised or cut. When do you anticipate that she will be ... pliable?"
"Perhaps another two or three days without food." He paused a beat and added, "Lack of food and daily beatings with a belt ..." Salgado shrugged, shifted his feet, and stared at Lorca's back.
Lorca suddenly swiveled around, and Salgado quickly dropped his gaze back to the floor.
Lorca threw his cigar at the middle of Salgado's chest where it exploded in a shower of sparks. Salgado yelped and stepped back. Lorca leaned forward and pointed a hand. "You've got one hour. Break her now. These putas do what I say. This isn't a fucking democracy. You understand?"
Salgado half-turned and sidled toward the door. "Sí, sí, Jefe."
"Carlos," Lorca said before Salgado escaped the room.
"Sí, Jefe?"
"If this girl doesn't cooperate, we'll take her down to the pond. Make an example of her."
Salgado slinked from the room, then rushed down the hall to a bathroom. His bladder felt suddenly weak. And nausea had come over him like a panther attack, without warning, without remorse. He didn't dare fail Lorca. Even if it meant doing things that would condemn his soul to Purgatory.
"Are you up for another one of these dinners?" Matt Curtis asked while he stared at his image in the mirror on the back of the hotel room's closet door. He tried to fix the black bowtie, but couldn't balance both sides.
His wife, Renee, laughed and looked over at him. "It's not the dinners I mind, nor the speeches; it's remembering what city I'm in at any one time. Tell me again," she teased. "Are we in Cleveland or Honolulu?" She rose from the easy chair, crossed the room, and stepped between Matt and the mirror. After she straightened his tie, she said, "Why don't you buy one of those clip-on things? It would make your life a lot easier."
"Nag, nag, nag. I told you I never take the easy way out. And, by the way, we're in Honolulu."
Renee giggled and pinched Matt's arm. "I guess the palm trees outside should have been a clue."
"You could probably give my speech, word for word, by now," he said in an apologetic tone. "You don't have to go to dinner, you know."
"Yeah, you're right. I probably could give your speech, and I know I could skip another one of these rubber chicken dinners. But, if you think I'm about to leave you alone and let some woman on the make hit on you, you're nuts."
It was Matt's turn to laugh. He swept a hand through his thick, gray hair and said, "I think I'm past the point where I'm hit-on- able material."
Renee gave Matt her Mona Lisa smile and wrapped her arms around his neck. Between her five feet, eight-inch height and high heels, she barely had to stretch to place her lips on his. "Don't kid yourself, Matthew Curtis; you're as handsome today as you ever were."
Matt put his hands around her upper arms and gently pushed her back so he could look into her eyes. They were so damn intoxicating — cobalt blue, with an ever-present sparkle. "You've got nothing to worry about, Mrs. Curtis."
She laughed again, made the sound that reminded Matt of wind chimes, and pinched him on the same spot on his arm.
Matt pulled her to him and kissed her passionately. He felt trembly, like a teenager kissed for the first time.
When they broke away, Renee walked to the bathroom and came back with a tissue. "You might want to wipe the lipstick from your mouth," she said. "Wouldn't want to scandalize the members of the International Society of Orthopedic Surgeons."
Matt took the tissue and rubbed it over his lips. "I'll have a tough time concentrating on my speech, with you next to me on the podium."
Renee made a dismissive gesture with her hand. "You'll do what you always do — knock their socks off." She smiled. "Let's go downstairs and get this over with, so we can come back up here and make wild, passionate love."
Matt watched Renee move to the bureau and pick up her beaded evening bag and silk organza wrap. She looked stunning in her black, strapless gown and sequined heels. He wondered at the serendipity of how they'd met, fell in love, and married. It had taken his sister's murder — ordered by that psychopath, Lonnie Jackson — to bring them together in Honolulu a little more than two years ago.
And now Lonnie Jackson had caused them to turn their lives upside-down. The threat of him coming after them once again had been too real, more probable than possible. Jackson blamed Matt and Renee for the destruction of his criminal empire, his mother's suicide, and his brother's murder. How out of touch with reality could one man be? Matt wondered. If Jackson hadn't ordered that dirty cop, Dennis Callahan, to murder Matt's sister, Matt would never have gone to Hawaii when he did, would never have heard Jackson's name, would never have met Renee.
A sudden melancholia struck Matt. He'd given up a lot. But Renee had given up even more. A pedophile client of Jackson's had murdered her son, David. Her first husband had committed suicide over the death of their son. Matt and Renee had left their New Mexico home after Jackson tried to kill them there. But they'd had no choice. Lonnie Jackson's ghost haunted their home on the east side of Albuquerque's Sandia Mountains. Since Jackson had come after them the previous New Years, Renee had been like a rabbit in the middle of coyote country. She couldn't relax. And he knew she couldn't purge the thought that Jackson might return.
Jackson's trip to New Mexico had been the act of an irrational man. He had everything to lose and nothing to gain — except maybe to expel his own demons. The fact he'd failed in his mission to murder them left Matt with the unassailable belief that Jackson was more obsessed than ever with revenge. His instincts told him Jackson would return.
Matt had now been on the lecture circuit for three months, since selling his medical practice. Renee had been with him for the entire tour. Their home base continued to be New Mexico. But they'd only been there a total of ten days in the last ninety. The arrangement with Placer Medical had been a godsend. They had offered a generous salary and royalties from all sales, plus reimbursement of travel expenses, to promote the company's line of orthotics products to physicians all over the world. For Placer, Matt was the logical choice to be their corporate spokesman. The surgical procedure he'd developed for the emplacement of orthopedic appliances had reduced the rate of rejection by fifty percent. His twenty years as an orthopedic surgeon gave him and Placer credibility.
It had been difficult for Matt to give up his practice ... and his patients. He'd treated three generations of some families, and these people had become a major part of his reason for being. And then there were the couple's dogs, Latifah and Dooney. He'd left them with an Army veteran who house-sat at their place.
Traveling for Placer was no guarantee Jackson wouldn't find them, but at least they were on the move. Matt thought being a moving target was better than being a sitting duck.
Lonnie Jackson had no doubts about Carlos Salgado now taking care of business. But that's what bothered him about the man. He always did what he was told, but never took any initiative. Salgado wasn't tough enough. This Miranda Sánchez girl should have been disciplined from the moment she arrived. Instead, Salgado had treated her as though she had a choice. He placed both fists on the desk blotter and clenched his jaw. The little bitch has no choice. "It's my way, or no way," he said aloud.
Jackson pushed back from his desk, moved from his chair to the window behind him, and peered out at the lush green jungle. It took one full-time flunky armed with a machete to keep the vegetation from encroaching on the lawn that stretched for fifty yards from the back of the house. The electrified chain-link fence that surrounded the five-acre homestead did more than provide security against two-legged intruders; it also kept out reptiles, huge rodents, and jaguars that inhabited the one thousand acres of virgin jungle that Jackson had purchased, along with the one-story, eighteen-room hacienda, stables, and three outbuildings. The deed to the property was assigned to the new owner, José Rosales Lorca, Jackson's latest alias.
The closest town of any size was San Juan del Norte, a picturesque, seaside community on the Nicaraguan border with Costa Rica. Nicaragua offered a more flexible environment for someone who didn't want to live his life by the letter of the law. Proximity to Costa Rica gave Jackson access to the sophisticated pleasures of the country's capital city, San José — and an easy escape to another country should he need to flee. It was only a one-hour helicopter ride from his hacienda northwest of San Juan del Norte, over Volcán Irazú in Costa Rica, to San José.
Salgado crossed himself while he moved down the concrete walkway that divided the two rows of cells. Five cells on each side; heavy wood doors with a metal bar grate in each. He snorted at the faint odor of straw and horses. He'd been here when Lorca had the stables converted into a cellblock shortly after he bought the place six months ago.
He hesitated outside the locked door of the next to the last room on the right, ran a hand through his thick, black hair, then wiped the hand on the side of his jeans. The summer had been unusually mild, with unseasonable rains and temperatures in the eighties. The humidity was high, as usual, but he was used to it. He knew it wasn't the weather or the temperature that made him perspire now.
He had a fleeting thought about the circumstances of his life. Raised as a Catholic, he had considered the priesthood as a teenager. But that thought had disappeared with the first girl he'd slept with. For an instant, he wondered what that girl was doing today. He'd worked for a gangster in Managua for a few years until Lorca had recruited him. Then he jerked at a movement off to his right and saw a gecko spread- eagled on the wall. Story of my life, Carlos thought. Like a chameleon. Change colors — allegiances — to survive. His job with Lorca had been just one more such change.
Books 1 & 2 Available now

Joseph Badal grew up in a family where story-telling had been passed down from generation to generation.
Prior to a long business career, including a 16-year stint as a senior executive and board member of a NYSE-listed company, Joe served for six years as a commissioned officer in the U.S. Army in critical, highly classified positions in the U.S. and overseas, including tours of duty in Greece and Vietnam, and earned numerous military decorations.
Joe is an Amazon #1 Best-Selling Author, with 15 published suspense novels, including six books in the Danforth Saga series, two books in the Curtis Chronicles series, three books in the Lassiter/Martinez Case Files series, and three stand-alones. He has been recognized as "One of The 50 Best Writers You Should Be Reading." His books have received two Tony Hillerman Awards for Best Fiction Book of the Year, three gold medals from the Military Writers Society of America, and Finalist honors in the International Book Awards and the Eric Hoffer Awards.
Joe has written short stories which were published in the "Uncommon Assassins," "Someone Wicked," and "Insidious Assassins" anthologies. He has also written dozens of articles that have been published in various

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