Tuesday, 30 March 2010

Talk about being blown away!

It is with great pleasure, and not a little shock, that I announce the following news:

My first Joe Hunter thriller, Dead Men's Dust, has been shortlisted  as a finalist for the International Thriller Writers 2010 Thriller Awards in the BEST FIRST NOVEL category. Considering the superb books published during the past year I am overjoyed and awestruck that I made the list. The winner of the award will be announced at the Awards ceremony at Thrillerfest on July 10th

Below is the full list of categories and shortlisted authors/books

Best Hard Cover Novel:

VANISHED by Joseph Finder

LONG LOST by Harlan Coben

FEAR THE WORST by Linwood Barclay

THE NEIGHBOR by Lisa Gardner

THE RENEGADES by T. Jefferson Parker

Best Paperback Original:

SHADOW SEASON by Tom Piccirilli

URGE TO KILL by John Lutz


THE COLDEST MILE by Tom Piccirilli

NO MERCY by John Gilstrap

Best First Novel:

FRAGMENT by Warren Fahy

DEAD MEN'S DUST by Matt Hilton


DRACULA: THE UN-DEAD by Dacre Stoker

RUNNING FROM THE DEVIL by Jamie Freveletti

Best Short Story:


A STAB IN THE HEART by Twist Phelan


ICED by Harry Hunsicker

BOLDT'S BROKEN ANGEL by Ridley Pearson

To see the list or to find out more about ITW, click here:  http://www.thrillerwriters.org/

Monday, 29 March 2010

Q&A with Jared 'RINK' Rington

Recently I had the pleasure of spending some time with Jared 'Rink' Rington and took the opportunity to quizz him about his background. He's a funny guy....but he says some serious stuff. Hopefully you'll enjoy his answers.



Words from the creaky pulpit

In just a little over 45 hours I will officially launch the third in my Joe Hunter series of books called Slash and Burn. Regulars visiting this blog are probably sick to the back teeth of hearing me say that (or something similar), but I set out to write this blog as a record of my high and lows on the path from base beginner to published author. The fact that I'm now approaching my third publication but still feel like a base beginner kind of proves the point about writing: you never stop learning.

Every day there's something new and exciting - sometimes scary - about the process, and I still feel that I'm only now testing the waters of the world of authorship. I'm still a minnow in a very large ocean, so still believe my words of encouragement are valid to others just setting out on this same voyage of discovery.

When I dreamed of having my by-line on a book, I never imagined anything to the magnitude of my personal success. I believed that some day I'd have a book published, maybe with a small print run and a 'let's wait and see' attitude from the publisher. To secure a five book deal with one of the major publishing houses in the world, and a three book deal with yet another (not to mention translations in four different languages), it exceeded my dream to the power of about 10,000.

Some people may envy my success, some may be proud of me, some people may think that I don't deserve what I've got, some may think that I'm the next big thing. All those emotions and thoughts I admit to having when I've heard of similar successes in the past (particularly when a ghost-written book by some second rate celebrity is the bestselling novel of the week) and I can understand people's sentiments. I've had some amazing support from old and new friends, but I've also had my detractors. That's OK. It is patently obvious to me that my writing won't please everyone. Any way, the point I'm trying to make here is that if you're an aspiring author with dreams of the big time, get ready to take bucket-loads of criticism good and bad. If you're the shy and retiring type, are you sure that you are ready to take on the challenge of promoting yourself?

I'm very fortunate in that I am under the wing of two of the largest publishing houses in the world. The efforts that they go to to publicise and spread the word about my books is phenomenal, but I still have to do my share. I set off with the intention of making this writing lark my life, and have committed to doing everything (legal and decent) to ensure that. I have to do as much writing to push myself (hence these blogs etc) as i do to complete a book. But that's all part of the deal and the world that I want to enter.

Over at Paul D. Brazill's blog, You Would Say That Wouldn't You? He quotes a line from an old movie. I'll paraphrase it as: 'Are you still working or just doing the writing these days?'. Well, if I had a (tax-free) tenner for every time someone asks me the same thing I'd be a very wealthy man. The reality is that I've held down very physical jobs, very demanding jobs, with long hours and plenty of stresses. But now, as a self-employed author, I work far harder than ever before. I put in many hours, every day of the week. Even when I'm not at the laptop, I'm considering things, answering phone calls, or organising future events and such. It's bloody hard graft, I'll tell you. But every second spent is worth it. I wouldn't have it any other way.

If you're an aspiring author - particularly if you want to break into the world of commercial fiction - are you ready for the work that you are about to undertake?

Here's another line that would make me wealthy if I was paid for listening to it: "The writing's going well, eh, Matt? I think I will write a book." This is normally from someone whose only prior writing was done at school decades ago.

When I hear that I just smile to myself. Let them try, I think. People who have been following this blog probably know what kind of task they're letting themselves in for. It's hard work writing a book. It's even harder getting it published. Then the work doesn't stop there, it only gets harder. But...and its a big BUT...I wouldn't have it any other way. I love it. And I hope it's an enduring love affair for many years to come.

Another reason I started writing this record was to encourage other writers. I've waxed lyrical about wanting to give something back before so won't go into it again. Except to say, I'm very proud that some of my ramblings have helped to inspire others and that they are now beginning to reap some of the rewards. I won't go into names because you probably already know who you are, but there are writers who are now having their work recognised throughout the blogosphere and now have their work featured at other sites and in anthologies and other print venues. I salute you all, and say, keep on keeping on.


So endeth the sermon.

Sunday, 28 March 2010

Slash and Burn in large print - coming soon

For those of you waiting for the large print edition of Slash and Burn, you'll be happy to hear that it will be released in May by Clipper Books/WF Howes Publisher (price to be confirmed). If you'd like to take a look at their catalogue entry for S&B click here: http://www.wfhowes.co.uk/catalogue/titles.php?&t=4494

Big Bamboozling going on


The Big Bamboozler, AKA blogger and author extraordinaire Paul D. Brazill, recently conducted an off the wall interview with yours truly for PULP METAL MAGAZINE. You can read the result by clicking the link above.

Paul also blogs some amazing stuff at 'You Would Say That Wouldn't You?' here: http://pdbrazill.blogspot.com/

Saturday, 27 March 2010

Four more days until voting closes.

Voting for the short story competition to win a signed copy of Slash and Burn ends this coming Wednesday. So if you haven't voted for your favourite, get stuck in now. You'll find the poll on the sidebar and a link to read the top three stories.
Also, if you haven't already done so, go to http://joehuntersfixers.blogspot.com/ and read all ten entries to the comp. They're all top action thrillers I'm sure you will enjoy.

Friday, 26 March 2010

The Skin We're In

"Even More Tonto Short Stories" is the third collection by acclaimed publisher, Tonto Books. This collection sees experienced writers brought together with new and exciting writers to create an anthology packed with original, quirky, dark and compelling fiction. It is compiled and edited by Caroline Smailes."

Some time ago, I was asked by a mutual friend of Tonto Books to submit a short story for inclusion in their latest anthology, Even More Tonto Short Stories. Between me agreeing and the book being put together, the submission process became one of a competition whereby the 'winners' won inclusion for their story in the book. Rather than mine being a 'name' for the book to trade off, my short story was entered into the competition alongside everyone else's. Now, I could have spat the dummy, demanded "Do You Know WHO I AM?" but I didn't. I decided that the story should rest on its own merits and if it was not good enough, then so be it. To say I was mildly chuffed when it was announced that I was indeed one of the winners chosen would be an understatement. Much more satisfying that way, I think.
So, my story THE SKIN WE'RE IN is in the upcoming book. It is not a Joe Hunter story, but it is a gritty action crime thriller set in the north of England, that I hope all of my readers will love. Alongside me will be a whole host of writers, both aspiring and established authors, as well as my good friend, crime writer, Col Bury. Col's story MOPPING UP also won a coveted place for inclusion and is a brilliant introduction to the book that Col is currently writing.

Even More Tonto Short Stories will be available for purchase from May 6th 2010 and can be pre-ordered now from Amazon at £6.29.

Wednesday, 24 March 2010

An interview with Joe Hunter


I recently managed to corner Joe Hunter for a candid interview. Ever wondered what his background was, what he's been up to and what's next for him? Just click the link above and hear it straight from the horse's mouth.

Tuesday, 23 March 2010

Joe's out and about and doing well.

Joe Hunter's second adventure - Judgement and Wrath - is now out in the UK in paperback and I'm over the moon to tell you all that it is very well represented in all the major bookstores, as well as train stations and airports. Also its getting well-supported by the major supermarket chains this time (Asda, Tesco, Morrisons, and Sainsbury's to mention a few). Kudos to all the team at Hodder and Stoughton who are working tirelessly to spread the word and getting the books out there for me.

Some shops are already stocking book three in hardback - Slash and Burn - though the official launch day isn't until 31st March. I'd love to do well with these books, but am up against some greats in the thriller genre, no less Lee Child's 61 Hours.

Saturday, 20 March 2010

A Thrilling, Killing Trio - Short Story competition finalists

These are the top three stories in the short story competition to wina asigned hardback copy of my third Joe Hunter book - SLASH and BURN - please read them and vote for your favourite at the poll in the right hand bar.


The way Gallance felt, he could’ve put holes in all these scumbags the minute he’d set eyes on them. But being a pro’, and not wanting to tempt fate, he’d given them the respect their actions had merited, albeit begrudgingly. They’d not earned his respect as such, but their sheer evil rep’ had warranted a cautious approach. And besides, he didn’t wanna piss three months surveillance down the drain.

Gang rape is such a primal act, but Gallance wasn’t even sure cavemen would have stooped so low. The poor victim being just a piece of meat to be chewed and spat out by the pack of baying animals; or in this case, Carlos and his cronies.

Gallance shook the torturous images and accompanying screams from his mind.

Time for focus.

Time to act.

He took out his pocket binoculars and - call it instinct if you will - the first face he saw was Carlos. He was gesticulating to the throng of fuckwits before him, his goatee twisting with his face as he spewed bullshit, his gold incisor flashing with each sneer.

Gallance flicked the binocs’ around the attentive group, recognising most of them… Mido, Two Shots and Dogger Dave… to name a few. Good… four out of his five targets, the rest were hangers on. But if they got in the way then they’d know about it. However one question still nagged Gallance: where the fuck was Granite? So-called because of his formidable fists and chin, the giant of a man should’ve been there. Gallance was adaptable and knew that no plan, however meticulous its detail, was perfect. So Granite had a reprieve, for now.

His vantage point was a quiet foothill with a backdrop of the sun disappearing behind The West Pennines, a hundred metres high above the decrepit farmhouse. He could see reservoirs dotted about in the distance; nature’s beauty unaware of the invading poison therein. The wind howled in his ears as if Mother Nature Herself was geeing him up to cleanse and protect Her beauty. He checked his Hi-Power Browning 9mm; his right hand and loyal friend. It’s 13 round magazine, as they say, unlucky for some.

Moving down through the woods now, stopping every twenty or so paces behind a tree to reassess, head pivoting, eyes darting, Browning pointing up clutched two-handed tight to his chest.

Forty metres now - within shooting range. He could hear their voices carrying in the wind as he eased forward, careful the crunches of foliage underfoot didn’t betray him. He rolled down his dual-hat balaclava.

They wouldn’t expect him as they planned their next armed blag away from the buzz of the city. No expense spared on this mission, he’d already bugged Carlos’s Subaru, hence his discovery of this meeting place miles from their mutual patch in gun capital of the North, Manchester.

Thirty metres and closing - Browning pointed leading the way, the falling dusk his ally. He saw them retreat from the wooden veranda into the ramshackle farmhouse.

Good. Contained. His ‘reccy’ of the house yesterday would now come in handy.

Twenty metres.

Movement on the veranda. He halted, side-stepped, turned, seeking sanctuary behind a sycamore’s trunk. He heard a trickling sound and sneaked a look. It was Dogger Dave taking a leak. His cock was tiny, but Gallance was a good shot.

Tempting, very tempting, but he needed to be closer before any shots were fired. He hadn’t felt the need for a silencer out here and didn’t like using them anyway as they made the Browning more cumbersome. Dogger Dave had a handgun protruding from his belt buckle. Gallance considered his options.

He stooped and withdrew his Boar Hunter knife, its nine inch blade winking at him in the fading light as if to confirm the right choice of weapon. The pissing sound became a trickle. Dogger Dave was still vulnerable, both hands shaking his tiddler.

Gallance took aim then the Boar Hunter cut through the air with a whoosh. It caught Dogger Dave in the throat and he dropped like a bag of shit onto the decking. As usual the Browning led the way and within seconds Gallance stared down at his blood-gurgling prey whose eyes still managed to muster surprise at Gallance’s presence.

A quick scan of his surroundings and he crouched and withdrew the Boar Hunter from Dogger Dave’s throat with a squelch. The rapist wheezed and wriggled, his cock still exposed like a discarded Cheesy Wotsit. Pathetic. How could something so small cause so much damage? Gallance eased the knife into Dogger Dave’s heart, stopping all movement, preventing many future crimes.

After wiping the blade on the dead man’s jeans, Gallance slipped the blade into its sheath, strapped above his right ankle under his combat pants, and reverted to stealth-mode.

Emanating laughter. Good. They hadn’t heard their friend’s demise. Complacency: the silent enemy of man.

With his back against the farmhouse’s rugged, stone wall beside a broken front window, Browning at the ready, he leaned slightly to peek inside. A snapshot… the room illuminated by a powerful Dragon Lamp… Carlos holding a map as he explained some master-plan, while sitting on an old tweed-style armchair… Mido and Two Shots standing either side…. three others squashed onto a matching settee. A hint of cannabis smoke drifted out through the hole in the window. Gallance smiled knowing the effects of the depressant.

His smile swiftly uncurled when he spotted Mido fiddling with the Uzi sub-machine gun that hung from his neck, thus making him the priority target.

They’d soon be suspicious of Dogger Dave’s absence so Gallance took a deep composing breath. He had enough shit on these pretenders to get them a ten stretch apiece… not nearly enough…

He briefly replayed the cine film he’d formed in his mind of how this damn thing would play out. Creative Visualisation: something Major Spears had engrained in him. ‘Know your aim as well as you know your own good woman, but always be prepared for the worst and adapt accordingly, as some women will stab you in the back,’ the Major had said in his own inimitable way.

He kicked the rickety door in and faced another snapshot of six startled faces. Before Mido could blink he dropped in slow motion as the 9mm bullet entered his forehead, the Uzi clattering on the stone floor. The three on the settee near on shit themselves as Gallance surged forward, manically pointing the Browning at moving targets. Bizarrely the three seated men’s wincing-back-weight tipped the settee backwards and six legs wiggled in the air. Carlos legged it into an adjacent room and Two Shots reached inside his jacket.

Gallance popped a slug into Two Shots midriff and he keeled over, a look of disbelief flashed across his once smug face. ‘One shot…’ said Gallance.

One of the three settee boys charged at Gallance who pistol-whipped him to the floor in an instant. The other two ran out of the front door. Sensible move.

Gallance turned back to Two Shots who was staggering about like a pissed up zombie. He cracked another bullet into his forehead. ‘Two Shots…’ He then stepped over the dead zombie and headed for the next room where Carlos had fled.

He entered, Browning primed, senses heightened. A swift sweep of this much darker room revealed nothing. He checked behind in case the settee boys had had an unexpected surge of spunk. They hadn’t. The third one had bottled it too. A noise of furniture scraping alerted him and his eyes pierced the gloom spotting a wooden door at the far end.

Gallance edged over and pushed the barrel of the Browning against the door, easing it open before stepping back. This room wasn’t as dim as the previous one, fading light still radiated through a generous window to the right, casting shifting shapes on the disused furniture within.

Gallance was greeted by three loud cracks from what he guessed was a revolver, the door frame splintering. He returned fire twice and stooped into a forward roll which took him into an alcove to the left. Chunks of plaster were blasted off the wall in front of him as Carlos chanced his arm again.

“Who the fuck are you, man?”

“That a Type 26 revolver you got there, Carlos?”

“Huh? What the fuck…?”

“A six-shooter…one round left, Carlos.”

“That’s all I need, dickhead. You’re a dead man walking, fucking with us… you hear me?”

Gallance knew he could now take a quick glance and what he saw confirmed his suspicions. Protruding from behind a wardrobe in the corner was a crude Japanese revolver based on the Smith and Wesson. He knew its rate of fire was low and the alignment was poor.

But Gallance wasn’t stupid and tried to extract that last bullet by goading. “One round, Carlos...a shit shot and a shit gun…”

The sudden punch hit Gallance on the temple. A sharp flash in his mind’s eye then his head bounced off the wall. He collapsed onto the wooden floor, the Browning clunking out of reach.

In a daze, Gallance felt himself being lifted up by the throat. The constricting pain jolted him from his stupor. The rape victim remained at the forefront of his mind, spurring him on. He opened his eyes and saw Granite’s glaring back, his huge forehead rushing toward Gallance.

“Ha-haaah, you’re fucked now, you prick!” shouted Carlos emerging from the shadows.

Despite his waning strength, Gallance raised his left knee into Granite’s balls. The head-butt still impacted, glancing off his cheek. Granite grunted and released his grip enough for Gallance to scramble free. He looked up and saw Carlos sneering over him, pointing the cheap revolver, gold tooth sparkling.

“Can’t miss from ‘ere now can I, dead man?”

Gallance froze on the floor. He’d fucked up big time. Complacency: the silent enemy of man…

“But first let’s see who this cheeky bastard is…” Carlos leaned down to remove Gallance’s balaclava.


Gallance withdrew the Boar Hunter and jabbed it upwards into the head rapist’s crotch, the scream was vintage falsetto. The sixth bullet from the crap gun hit Granite in the shoulder and the giant staggered back. Gallance retrieved his Browning as Carlos danced around like a pimp on acid.

Granite wiped the blood oozing from his right shoulder as if it was a bee sting and thundered forward. Gallance shot him in the belly and he buckled. Carlos tried to dance out of the doorway, but Gallance blocked his path, shoving him back.

“Pleeease, man... I’ve got cash…” Carlos said, pathetically clutching his cut cock.

Gallance took off his balaclava.

The gangster’s eyebrows nearly hit the timber beams above. “YOU?”

“Yes, it’s me… Gallance…” he said, before stopping Carlos’ heartbeat with a bullet.

Granite surged forward arms out-stretched, brick-fists swinging, and Gallance backed-up firing his last volley of shots until the big man collapsed atop of him with a thud, those dark eyes finally closing. He rocked the twenty stone corpse off his aching, blood-stained body, stood up and took in a calming breath.

Outside the farmhouse he took out his mobile phone and dialled the number. There would be no fee for this mission, but it meant more than any before.

Much more.

“It’s done…”

Her relief was tangible and he fought to suppress his emotions.

“I love you, too…” said Gallance.



- a Nathan Storm short story

I shot the Russian in the forehead just as the black Hummer blasted into the service alley behind the restaurant. Jordan Lane brought up her own gun and fired, just as the passenger started shooting at us. The car hit a green dumpster and stopped. We ran in the opposite direction.

A yellow cab screamed into the opposite end of the alley from 9th Avenue. The driver stopped and leaned out the window, opening fire as we ran towards it. Jordan screamed, and I grabbed her arm before she started shooting at him.

‘He’s with me!’ I yelled, yanking the back door open, just as the Hummer passenger started shooting again. The cab shot back in reverse, only slowing down as we hit the main street.

‘Aren’t you going to introduce us, Storm?’ the cabbie said, smiling in the mirror.

Jordan’s breath was starting to return to normal, and a line of sweat creased her forehead.

‘Jordan Lane, this guy works with me. Mickey Ridge.’

‘He works with The Phoenix Group too?’ she asked, skepticism in her voice.

‘Yeah. Me and Mickey worked with Harvey, back in the day.’ I looked at her. ‘Your husband was a good man.’

She nodded and looked out through the window as we drove past the new pedestrianised area of Times Square, a tear rolling down her left cheek.

Me, Ridge and Harvey Lane were in Delta Force together. We were in Helmand Province on a black ops job, sent in to rescue an American hostage. Things went awry when we bumped into a troop of British soldiers from the Parachute Regiment. Good guys, but a fire fight broke out with a group of insurgents, and Harvey died, along with four of the British guys. The mission was classified, so Jordan wasn’t told he was killed by friendly fire.

‘Tell me what this is all about, Jordan. Like, why you wanted me to meet you there today.’

She took a deep breath. ‘You know about the Faberge Winter Egg going missing.’ It was more of a statement than a question. The story was all over the news. “Russian artifact stolen from exhibition in City hall”.

‘Yeah, I saw on TV.’

‘Since I last you saw you a few years back, I started a business with an old friend of Harvey’s, Joey Mancuso. Manny. Our business is private security, just like The Phoenix Group, only on a smaller scale. On the night the Egg went missing, we were there as Close Protection for Marcus Smith, one of the President’s advisers. He was there for the exhibition.’ She looked at me as we sped downtown. ‘Apparently, Putin wanted the Russian government to buy the Winter Egg when it came back on the market last year. He wanted Russia to show off all the stuff they have, and the Egg is going to be the showpiece in the Kremlin museum.’

‘Somebody wants it bad enough to try and kill you over,’ Ridge said from the driver’s seat.

‘Understandable. It was bought for $12 million and it’s covered in 3000 diamonds.’

‘And somebody thinks you know where it is?’ I said.

‘I don’t know why.’

Ridge looked at her in the mirror. ‘Who were those guys?’

‘Russian mafia,’ I told Ridge. ‘I heard that guy threaten Jordan, just before I shot him.’

‘How would they know you were going to be there today?’ Ridge asked.

‘Manny said that somebody wanted to meet with him regarding the Egg. He couldn’t go, so he asked me to go along.’

‘Who else knew you were going to that restaurant today?’ I asked.

Jordan looked at me, then looked at the back of Ridge’s head. ‘Nobody.’

* * *

MANCUSO & LANE was situated in an office above a bookstore in Greenwich Village.

‘Stand to one side,’ I told her. She stood beside Ridge in the dimly lit corridor while I knocked.

The door opened. A balding man of about forty answered the door. ‘What?’ he asked. Jordan stepped into view. He tried slamming the door but I chased him into the large office. I caught him before he climbed out onto the fire escape and slammed him down onto the floor.

Ridge walked in behind Jordan. ‘Didn’t expect to see your partner back, obviously,’ he said. Jordan kicked Mancuso in the balls. Ridge and I both winced.

‘You tried to have me killed today. So now I’m guessing you have the Winter Egg,’ she said.

We waited a few moments for an answer, Mancuso’s voice a bit higher than when he had started his day. ‘I…don’t have it,’ he said, looking like he was going to puke.

‘Where is it?’ I asked him, taking out my Glock 19.

He shrugged, his face turning red.

I pointed the gun at his right eye. ‘You sent Russians after Jordan so they’d kill her. Unfortunately for you, I was meeting her there, and they tried to kill me. So you’re going to tell me where that Faberge Egg is.’

Mancuso struggled into a standing position, still slightly hunched over. ‘You wouldn’t shoot me,’ he said, smiling.

I shot him in the left arm. He screamed and fell back onto the desk. Ridge looked at his watch. Held up three fingers. Three minutes was the average response time by the NYPD to reach the location of reported gunfire.

‘Where is it?’ I said to him.

‘The St. Francis Apartments on 42nd. Ritch Brady lives there. He’s the one who took it.’

Jordan looked at me. ‘Brady’s the Mayor’s assistant.’

A man suddenly stood up outside the window on the fire escape and started firing through the glass. Three things happened; Jordan dived onto the floor, Mancuso’s head erupted and both Ridge and I blasted the guy off the fire escape.

‘Out the front door!’ I shouted, just as it crashed back on its hinges. Ridge fired at the intruder as I changed magazines fast and two of my bullets hit the guy’s chest, following Ridge’s head shot. He changed magazines and I grabbed a hold of Jordan and followed Ridge out. Two minutes later, Ridge’s yellow cab sailed past a fleet of New York’s finest.


What had once been the St. Francis Hotel was now a block of rental apartments, up for sale.

‘Help you?’ an old man asked from a small office near the elevators.

‘We’re looking for Ritch Brady,’ I said. ‘You know him?’

‘I’m the super. ‘Course I know him. A bunch of guys came looking for him earlier. Five minutes later, they left with him.’

‘What did they sound like?’ Ridge asked.

‘Russians. Why you asking? You cops?’

‘No. We’re friends of his,’ Jordan said.

‘Come in then.’ We went into his small office, which was pretty bare. ‘Want a coffee?’ he asked.

‘No thanks,’ I said.

The old man walked over to the table where the coffee pot was. When he turned back, he was holding an old 9mm automatic. ‘Just show me your hands. All of you.’

‘If it means that much to you, I’ll take a coffee,’ I said.

‘Don’t smart mouth me, sonny. I’m seventy-nine with nothing to lose.’

I smiled at him. ‘Just give me the gun. We’re not here to harm you.’ I walked over and took the gun from him. The safety was on. I turned away and ejected the mag, giving him the gun back.

I remember my grandfather telling me about this place, and how the subway cars would stop at a platform below when it was a hotel. I mentioned it to the old man.

‘Sure I remember that,’ he said. ‘I used to sell tickets to the hotel guests down there as part of my duties when I was a porter. The station closed down over thirty years ago. Me and my friends used to ride the subway down to the City Hall stop before they closed that too.’

‘Did you ever talk with Ritch Brady?’ I asked him.

‘No. I’m invisible here. I’m losing my job. No pension, nowhere to live. Today’s my last day. I’m leaving town. They can all whistle from now on.’

‘Can you still access the platform below?’ I asked.

‘Sure. It’s through there,’ he said, pointing to a doorway.

‘You got your iPhone?’ I asked Jordan.

‘Yes. Why?’

‘I want you to look something up on the net,’ I told her, explaining. ‘Mickey, come with me.’ I opened the door and felt the rush of air coming up from below. .

Four flights down, we reached the old platform. Shoe prints in the dust told us somebody had been here not so long ago. It was dark but a couple of lights still shone.

‘What now, Nate?’ Ridge asked.

‘Mancuso set Jordan up to get the Russians off his back, but they took him out anyway. Brady was taken away by them. They think somebody has it, and if it wasn’t Manny or Jordan, then Brady must have it, right?’

We both heard the subway train coming into the old station. I looked at more footprints. There was also a trench in the thick dust, as if something had been thrown onto the ground and skidded.

My cell phone rang. I was surprised we still got a connection down here, but that was technology for you. Jordan spoke to me.

‘The Lexington Avenue IRT number six still loops around the old City Hall station. It goes through 42nd Street but doesn’t stop.’

I thanked her and hung up.

‘Come on, Mickey, I think I know where the Egg is.’ Upstairs, the old man was leaving the office with a sports bag.

‘Leaving so soon?’ I asked him.

‘Got a train to catch,’ he said.

‘Give me the bag.’

He pulled the gun out. ‘Can’t do that. I need to go now.’

I smiled at him and pulled the magazine from my pocket. ‘I told you next time check the safety’s off. Maybe you should check it’s loaded too.’

He knew it was over then. ‘I just wanted a retirement package,’ he said, handing over the bag. ‘I worked here all my life and now there’s nothing.’ Inside was a twelve million dollar artifact that was going to be back with its owner very soon.

‘Jordan, call Marcus Smith. I’m sure there will be a healthy reward for the safe return of the Egg.’

‘Tell me the story of how you got this,’ I said to the old man.

‘I heard Ritch Brady talking about it with his brother. He’s a subway driver. Ritch would get the Egg before the exhibition, take it down to the old City Hall station. The brother would pick it up, drive it up here, throw it onto the platform from his cab, then Brady would pick it up. I went down and picked it up instead.’

Jordan looked at me. ‘How does a couple hundred thousand sound?’

‘Sounds like a lot of Tequila’s to me,’ the old man said, smiling. ‘And protection from those Russian Gorillas.’

‘I don’t think you’ll have to worry about them. They’ll lay off when they know the Russian government has their property back. I don’t think we’ll hear of Ritch Brady again though.’

Fifteen minutes later, a squad of black Suburban’s pulled up. A Russian diplomat came in with a bag full of money. They could have shot us all and just took the Winter Egg back, but with Marcus Smith in the background, I didn’t think that was going to happen. Men in suits and no smiles took the bag away without a word.

‘Thank you for helping me, Nate,’ Jordan said.

‘You going to reconsider coming to work for Phoenix?’

‘Yes, I’ll talk to you later about it.’

I nodded and watched her leave the building. I just hoped that she would never find out that five years ago, I picked up a fallen British soldier’s handgun, sighted it against an insurgent’s head, seconds before Harvey Lane poked his head round a wall and I accidentally shot him.

Ridge was there that day. He saw what happened. ‘Come on, bud. We can’t help Harvey now, but we sure as hell can help Jordan. Speak to the boss. Make sure he brings her onboard.’

Jordan turned at the doorway and smiled at me.

I couldn’t smile back.



Throwing my half smoked cigarette on the pavement, I ground it under my heel as I watched the car drive through the gates and into the gardens beyond. Before it disappeared out of sight up the gravel drive, I made out two occupants, both male and both sitting in the front.

One of them was my target, the whole reason I was standing in the pissing rain in the middle of the night, but the other was an unknown, either a driver or bodyguard.

My target went by the name of Peter Ferris, a big-time cocaine dealer and self styled crime boss. Apparently he thought this also gave him license to do whatever he wanted, including touching little girls, but tonight he was going to find out just how wrong he was.

My right hand drifted under my jacket and touched the comforting weight of the Glock 17 holstered beneath my armpit. Inside it were seventeen reasons that Ferris would never touch anyone again, and I shivered with a mixture of fear and anticipation as I crossed the deserted road and vaulted over the high wall.

Landing lightly on the far side, I froze as my eyes swept the sculpted gardens for any sign of guards or devices that might warn Ferris that I was coming.

Seeing nothing, I eventually moved on, creeping through the topiary like the vengeful spirit I felt myself to be.

Normally, I keep my business professional, down to earth and as impersonal as possible, but tonight things were different. The moment I’d found out who the target was I realised that nothing would stop me from bringing him to justice.

Even if I hadn’t been asked I would have done this. I’ve spent the last five years of my life hunting down scum like Ferris and dealing out the justice that the courts refuse to give, and I’ve never said no to a job, not once.

But it’s never been personal before.

Slipping the pistol out of its holster I screwed on the silencer and half crouched, half ran across the lawn towards the stand of trees that hid the house from view.

I paused at the edge of the woods, my ears straining to catch any hint of noise but all I could hear was the hissing of the rain as it soaked me to the skin.

As I moved through the woods, one slow step at a time, I could smell the fresh scent of the trees and it felt strangely at odds with my mission.

A snatch of conversation reached my ears and I froze, tilting my head to one side to pinpoint where it came from. It came again, a man’s laugh followed by the low murmur of conversation from somewhere in front of me, and I slowed my pace even more, creeping through the trees with the pistol held loosely in a two handed grip.

Moments later, light began to filter through the branches and I saw the outline of the building, a renovated Georgian mansion that Ferris called home.

The conversation was coming from two of his guards, both middle aged and going to fat, dressed in the dark gangster style suits that their boss liked them to wear.

One of them was carrying an MP5K, a nasty little SMG that could tear me in half in a few seconds, while the other carried a pump action Remington slung casually over one shoulder. They were less than thirty feet away, but the rain and the darkness made me all but invisible in the trees.

The one with the Remington had his back to me, a plume of smoke from his cigarette battling valiantly against the rain while his colleague leaned against the car I’d seen a few minutes before.

I’d done my homework, and I knew that all of Ferris’s guards were either ex-cons with a capacity for violence, or dishonourable discharges from the armed forces.

No one would miss them, and by taking them out I’d be doing society a favour.

Turning thoughts into actions, I dropped to one knee and took careful aim, pulling the trigger twice and switching to the second target before the first one fell.

Another double-tap, and the second man was sprawling back against the car, one half of his face covered in blood as the rounds struck him in the forehead.

The soft noise of the silenced pistol was lost in the pouring rain, and the sound of my harsh breathing was louder by far as I waited to see if anyone else was nearby to raise the alarm.

When no cries came, I left my cover and sprinted for the car, dropping to my knees to check that both men were dead.

A few seconds later I moved on, ignoring the glassy-eyed stares that seemed to follow me as I passed above them.

Looking at the house, I saw that about half the lights were on, and those mostly on the top floor.

Having watched the house for almost a week, I knew that Ferris wouldn’t be entertaining tonight, instead doing whatever it was he did when he was alone.

Slipping up the steps to the front door, I turned the handle and found it was unlocked. Typical of Ferris, he was relying on the efficiency of his guards instead of on physical security, and tonight it would prove to be his undoing.

Moving inside, I found myself in a long hallway that was tastefully decorated with oil paintings and gold plated candelabras. Tasteful, that is, if you’re a coke-fuelled drug dealer with delusions of grandeur.

A sweeping staircase led up one side of the hall, with three doors leading off the far side and one at the back.

Guessing that my target was upstairs, I sacrificed thoroughness for speed and chose the stairs, taking them two at a time.

No one challenged me as I ascended, and I wondered for a moment where all his guards were. I’d counted five in total, and with two lying in their own blood outside that left three more to contend with.

At the top of the stairs I paused, looking right and left to make sure that the corridor was deserted. Nothing moved, but from somewhere on the right I heard the sound of a television blaring, so I drifted down the corridor in that direction, stopping at the first door and pressing my ear to the wood.

No sound came from inside so I moved to the next one, this time rewarded with the sound of theme music coming from the other side.

Taking a deep breath, I turned the handle and moved quickly into the room, seeing two of the guards sitting on a sofa watching JedWard butchering a love song.

As the door opened the nearest one looked up expectantly, then his face dropped and his expression turned to one of horror as he saw the pistol pointed at him.

He opened his mouth to shout a warning, but I put two bullets through the opening before he could utter a word, slamming him back into his seat as the rounds pierced his brain and shut him up forever.

To give him credit, the second man was fast. He leapt to his feet, grabbing the pistol that he’d left on a nearby table. He’d almost brought it up into a firing position when I fired, two shots hitting him high in the chest and turning his white shirt crimson as he toppled lifeless to the floor.

Ejecting the magazine, I slapped in a full one and turned to leave, intent on finding my target and getting out of there as fast as possible.

Had I not turned, I would never have seen the last guard, pistol raised and aimed at my head.

I ducked just as he fired, the round flashing past my face so close that I could feel the hot wind of its passing. The noise almost deafened me and I cursed as I realised that the element of surprise was lost.

Too close to fire back, I dropped my gun and grabbed his wrist with both hands, forcing the pistol upwards and curling my finger over his to fire the rest of the rounds into the vaulted ceiling as we struggled in our grisly dance.

Aside from the shots that thundered through the night, we fought in silence, our laboured breathing the only sounds we made as we fought for control of the weapon.

Finally, the last shot fired and the slide locked back, so I dropped one hand from his wrist and slammed it into his stomach.

It was like hitting a brick.

I looked up in surprise and my opponent grinned, showing a row of uneven teeth as he twisted his wrist out of my other hand and jabbed his stiffened fingers into my throat.

Gasping, I fell back, my hands flying to my throat as I struggled for breath, but my opponent followed, his hands lashing out and striking at my ribs, my face, anywhere he could reach. He kept grinning as he came on, clearly enjoying his work, and I fought desperately to block his blows as they rained down on me.

Realising that I was outclassed and outmatched, I dropped to the ground and lashed out with both feet, kicking him in the groin as hard as I could.

His face went white and he dropped to the floor with a high pitched keening sound, both hands cupping his damaged goods.

Climbing shakily to my feet I retrieved my pistol and pushed it against the back of his head, pulling the trigger twice.

Hot blood spattered my face as he fell twitching to the floor, and without another thought I turned and staggered from the room, desperate now to get this done with.

Out in the corridor I moved towards the only door left unopened, approaching warily in case Ferris was expecting me. After all the noise, there was no way he couldn’t be, and I slowed as I reached the door, stepping to one side and trying to slow my breathing so that I could listen.

It took me almost half a minute to calm myself down, adrenaline still flooding my system and making me want to move, but eventually I forced it aside and concentrated on the door in front of me.

It was the same construction as the others, plain wood with a carved centre panel, and I pressed my ear to the wood carefully.

Nothing moved on the other side, or if it did I couldn’t hear it, so with a silent prayer I flicked the handle down and swung the door open, ducking back just in time to avoid the hail of pellets as the roar of a shotgun blast split the air, making my ears ring.

“Come and get me you fucking bastards! Think you’re tough, huh? There’d better be a few of you!” A voice called, and I immediately recognised it as Ferris despite the drugs that slurred the words.

“Give it up Ferris, put the gun down and come out slowly, or we’ll have to come in and get you”, I called back, pulling a police-issue flash grenade from the back of my belt.

“Fuck you!” He shouted, firing again and taking chunks out of the wall and doorframe, “just fuck you!”

Crouching down, I pulled the pin on the grenade and counted to three before throwing it inside the room and covering my ears.

The first bang went off accompanied by a flash of light, then another, then a third and as silence descended I rolled around the doorframe and into the room to see Ferris sprawled on the floor at the end of a four poster bed wearing only a shirt and a pair of Y-fronts. His hands were over his ears and his eyes were screwed shut as he rocked back and forth with the effects of the grenade, a shotgun discarded at his feet.

Forcing my battered body into action, I ran over to him and kicked the shotgun away before placing my pistol to his forehead.

As the cold metal of the silencer pressed against his forehead he went very still, opening watering eyes that stared at me with shock and disbelief.

“Y… You!” He managed to gasp as his brain tried to cope with the shock.

“Yes, me. Hello Dad, I think we’ve got a few things to discuss”.

Joe Hunter style short story Competition - ROUND TWO.

Voting has now closed to find the top three favourite stories in the Joe Hunter style short story competition I've been running. All ten entries were excellent - remember that you can still read them all at http://joehuntersfixers.blogspot.com/ and that all the anonymous tales will be credited to their respective authors at the end of the comp following final voting.

The top three stories are:

Short Story No 1 A Long Time Coming

Short Story No 6 Firestorm

Short Story No 7 Gallance

Congratulations to the top three short-listed entries, they move on to the second round of voting, starting today (Sat 20th until Thurs 31st March midnight GMT).

Please remember to vote for your favourite from the TOP THREE both at Thrillers Killers 'N' Chillers http://thrillskillsnchills.blogspot.com/ AND HERE AT Matt Hilton Thrills.

This is just a bit of fun, so please keep things fair folks. No Facebook campaigns or engineering mass voting.

Well-meaning friends are welcome to vote, but please keep your story anonymous from them until after the competition ends (if they recognise your writing from the names of your series character then you can't be held responsible). It is, of course, better that the story wins by the quality and enjoyment of the writing, therefore the author gains the merit he/she is due.

To keep things fair, I have decided to start all three top stories off from a level ZERO points. So...let's start reading and voting.

Friday, 19 March 2010

Matt Talk's...Again.


Here's a link to another interview I did for the West Cumbria Times and Star newspaper with Caroline Ivison. I hope you enjoy finding out a little more about my background and ambition to write.

Wednesday, 17 March 2010

Judgement and Wrath on Audio

Judgement and Wrath is now available for purchase as an audio book from Isis publishers.
Seven Cassettes/MP3 CDs/CDs, with over eight hours of top class story-telling as read by actor David John, you can purchase it by clicking this link: https://www.isis-publishing.co.uk/osb/itemdetails.cfm/ID/6215

Judgement is Nigh!

Judgement and Wrath is out tomorrow in paperback, and I'm pleased to announce that it will be featured in most high street bookshops, independents and at all the major supermarkets.

Keep an eye out for the poster campaign, that will be prevalent on the London underground, and at football stadiums around the country.

Join in the fun: if you see a poster, take a photo of yourself alongside it and send it through to me at matthiltonbooks@live.co.uk and I'll post it here on my blog for all to enjoy.

happy Hunting!


Tuesday, 16 March 2010

Coming to America

Due out in the USA on 17th August is Joe Hunter's second outing in hardback from William Morrow and Co.

Judgment and Wrath.

But also coming in mass market paperback on 27th April is Joe Hunter's first adventure in Dead Men's Dust.

Both books can be pre-ordered now at AMAZON.COM



Signed - sealed - delivered - I'm yours!


Follow the link to read an interview I did with Roger Lytollis for the News and Star newspaper. Great story, Roger. Thank you.

Up date on Slash and Burn competition

I'm glad to see so many people taking part in the voting over at Joe Hunter's Fixer's blog http://joehuntersfixers.blogspot.com/ , to win a signed copy of Slash and Burn. It looks like we have three stories racing towards the finishing post up until now. But will Gallance, Long Time Coming and Firestorm be the eventual short-list? It's down to you for your favourite to win. Make sure that you tell your friends, your family, anyone who enjoys to read a thrilling story, and send them there to vote for their favourite. Who knows where that will lead? Or who the eventual winner will be.

For clarity and fairness I'm taking no part in this round of voting. It's down to you, the readers to decide your favourites.

The stories are anonymous, so if you're one of the writers, keep things fair and don't tell your readers which is your story. Allow the story to stand on its own strengths, but do encourage people to read them and VOTE.

This round finishes this Friday 19th March at midnight GMT.

The top three will then be posted at Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers http://thrillskillsnchills.blogspot.com/
and here at Matt Hilton Thrills where voting will be opened again. Votes from this round will be carried through. But, you are then invited to vote again for the eventual winner of the three shortlisted. You are allowed to vote at both sites (because I've no way of stopping this) and indeed it will pay you to do so to ensure your favourite wins. I will also add my vote to the story that I think is the best.

Voting for round two will end Wednesday 31st March at midnight GMT and the winner announced on 1st April.

Hope this is clear.

Now, go round up the troops and keep on voting.

Monday, 15 March 2010

SLASH AND BURN - Joe Hunter three - the blurb

The new Joe Hunter Thriller by MATT HILTON

‘A sparkling new talent’ Peter James


‘Some may call me a vigilante. I think I’ve just got problems to fix.’

Joe Hunter is always ready to help a lady in distress. Particularly when Kate, the lady in question, is the sister of a dead Special Forces mate.

Robert Huffman pretends to be a respectable businessman. But the psychopathic Bolan twins he uses as his enforcers give the lie to that. Huffman is a player in the murky world of organised crime and needs Kate as bait for one of his schemes.

Joe is way outnumbered by the bad guys, but since when did that stop him? He’ll rescue Kate if he has to slash and burn to get her …

Let's start Howling!

Although I've had no creative influence into the book 'Howl' edited by Mark Anthony Crittenden, it's one I've been eagerly waiting for and am happy to say my copy is now winging its way over the Atlantic and towards my eagerly grasping hands.

There are a few pertinent reasons for this:

1. I love savage horror tales.
2. It's a new take on the man-beast/beast-man tales we're all used to.
3. It's got a cool cover beautifully modelled by author Erin Cole.
4. Some of the contributors are firm favourites of mine, and I like to even count some of them as firm friends I've made through the process of writing and through the blogosphere, including Lee Hughes, Paul D. Brazill, Erin Cole et al.


5. It marks the print publication debut of my little brother, Jim Hilton, (who occasionally writes as James Hilton or James Oliver Hilton) who for some time now has shared my ambition to be a full-time writer. Jim's story INTRODUCING GEMMA NYE is included in the anthology, and I have to admit to being proud as punch for him. Jim is a writer I admire, and he has a seriously wicked sense of humour that shines through his often very dark fiction. At present he is working on his first novel, a crime fiction thriller featuring his recurring short story characters of Danny and Matt McMurdo - collectively know as 'McMurder'. To find out more about Jim's work see http://www.jimhilton.co.uk/

Howl is available from Lame Goat Press, Createspace.com and soon on Amazon.com

Sunday, 14 March 2010

This weeks big news continues...

In the rush towards publication of my third book, it had almost slipped my attention that this Thursday 18th March 2010, the mass market paperback edition of Judgement and Wrath will also be available to purchase from all good bookshops, supermarkets and such like throughout the UK and across the world.

If you haven't got your copy yet, this is your chance to pick up a Joe Hunter novel that has been getting rave reviews. The brand new cover is awesome...and not a daffodil in sight!

What goes around Comes around.

It's with great delight that I share some news with you about a good friend and top author, Adrian Magson.

But first I'm gonna tell ya a story...

Many moons ago, way back when I was still a struggling writer out in the wilderness and hoping and dreaming of a publishing deal, I used to read the magazines dedicated to writers and writing. One such magazine in the UK is WRITING MAGAZINE, and for some time I'd been following the advice of a collumnist therein, when said collumnist had his own little success story reported. He'd just achieved a deal with publishing house Creme De la Crime, and his first novel, NO PEACE FOR THE WICKED, and the first in a series featuring Riley Gavin and Frank Palmer was about to be published. I was chuffed for him and decided - totally out of form for me cause I'm a shy lad by nature - I emailed the collumnist with my best wishes. Top man that he was, he got back to me and also encouraged me to keep on writing and also to submit to CDLC. I promptly did with my book CRITICAL CHOICES, a standalone, man in peril novel, but was sadly rejected. However, I got some really helpful advice back from the folks at CDLC that helped spur me on.

The years past, and as you know I kept writing, submitting, and finally got my very own deal. Throughout that time I always held a note of gratitude to the collumnist for kindly pointing me in the right direction.

Well, I suppose you've guessed that the collumnist was Adrian Magson. I loved his books. And, you've probably read here before where I've extolled Adrian's worth as an author - not to mention a thoroughly top gentleman. So, two years ago, when in Baltimore, at the Bouchercon World Mystery Conference, I was a little star struck when I bumped into Adrian and his lovely wife, Anne. Adrian 'actually remembered me' and we struck up a firm friendship, and I have to thank him for taking the time to blurb my first book, Dead Men's Dust, and for also featuring me in his 'Debut Authors' collumn in Writing magazine, amongst other things.

I always thought that Adrian should be a far bigger name than he had already achieved, and have also mentioned here that I believed he would become a star in the crime writing scene.

Well, and here's the news....

On Wednesday this week, thanks to the efforts of Adrian's agent, David Headley, who is also the proprietor of Goldsboro Books in London, Adrian signed a 2-book deal for a spy series with Kate Lyall Grant at Severn House, the first of which - 'Red Station' - comes out in August (November in the US).

But that's not all...

...not one to do things by half, David also got Adrian a separate 2-book deal with Allison & Busby for a French cop series set in the 60s, the first of which - 'Death on the Marais' - comes out in October.

To say I'm over the moon for Adrian is an understatement, and I want to say "Well done, mate. I knew you'd achieve everything that you are due, and I can't wait to read all four books".

By the way, Adrian also has a more sedate three part series 'Crimewave at Southbeach' starting at the end of this month (27th March) in MY WEEKLY magazine, if you would like to investigate his more gentle side.

I'm made up.


To find out more about Adrian Magson just click http://www.adrianmagson.com/

Saturday, 13 March 2010


Book 4 in the Joe Hunter thriller series is called CUT AND RUN and here for the first time is a look at the cover.



The voting is now open


The voting is now open over at JOE HUNTER'S FIXERS to determine the top three stories in the competition to win a signed first edition hardback copy of SLASH AND BURN. Please click the link above and vote for your favourite read.

Friday, 12 March 2010

Busy, busy, busy

So what kind of week have you had?

Mine has been hectic.

Last week I took a short break away to Tunisia looking to catch a little sun on my pallid flesh, but things didn't work out that way. Day one was nice, day two was nice until lunchtime, days three four and five I may as well have been in gloomy, cold overcast Cumbria, day six was cold and blowing a gale, day seven...well...talk about monsoons of all monsoons. The rain came down and continued coming down and for a time I feared that all flights back to the UK would be grounded. Travelling back to Monastir airport we'd have been better in a boat than a coach because the roads had become torrents resembling an open sewer. Thankfully though the rain went off about an hour before my flight was due (not that it meant the plane was going to be on time, we got away an hour and a bit later than we should have). If it hadn't been for the great company we had (Hello to Roy and Joan, and to Kath and David) it would have been a pretty boring old time.

Any way, I made it back to the UK and was home in time to attend the Words by the Water literary festival at Keswick's Theatre by the Lake on Monday evening, so all's well that ends well.

Because I promised my wife I wouldn't take my laptop with me on holiday, I gave in to technology in another way and purchased a BlackBerry. That way I could still keep up with emails, blogs etc, or so I thought. Have I mentioned that I'm a bit of a Luddite - of course I forgot to add worldwide coverage, so none of my emails came through and I couldn't access the web. D'OH! Therefore I had 134 emails waiting for me on my return, many of them requiring immediate responses. Many of them were submissions to Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers, my sister blog, and also short stories for the competition I'm running to win a signed copy of my next book. Monday and Tuesday were therefore spent at my laptop catching up with the backlog. I also got through the page proofs for book four CUT AND RUN and worked my way through them with the old beady eye and editing pencil at the ready. I managed to get through that by midnight on Wednesday night.

Yesterday was more of the same, posting competition stories to Joe Hunter's Fixers and then out of the blue I had a journalist contact me for an interview. Said journalist turned up and we spent the best part of two hours putting together a two page spread due to appear in the News and Star this coming Monday. I managed to get about 1,000 words of my latest book written, but that was all.

Today, I've signed and dated stacks of books and then repackaged them - if you're nearby there's 50 odd copies of Slash and Burn going into Goldsboro Books, Cecil Street, London in a few days time, and if you're in Brighton visit Alan White Fine Books for some of the same. I also did another interview with another journalist and this piece will be in the West Cumbrian newspapers sometime next week. As I write, I'm waiting for a photographer to arrive to take shots to accompany the pieces, so have looked out a decent shirt and spritzed myself up a bit. The high life, eh?

You'll also probably be happy to hear that I've got a little more writing done, and that an old 'friend' has reared his head again and will make book 6 Joe Hunter's worst day ever!

Remember that the deadline for entries to the Joe Hunter competition is midnight GMT tonight - that means around early evening for youse guys over in the states, and if you live in OZ or NZ well, you're already too late. Only kidding. Any timed before 24:00 hours at my end will still be entered into the comp.

Happy writing folks (trust me, I'm very happy).

Last day for competition entries

It's the final day for entries into the short story competition to win a signed first edition hardback copy of my new book SLASH and BURN, and I have added some new entries to the roster of fine stories over at JOE HUNTER'S FIXERS. Click the link above or here to read the latest stories: http://joehuntersfixers.blogspot.com/

Thursday, 11 March 2010

Podcast interview with little old me

Click here http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PsgkyWpns34 to watch a candid interview conducted by Sue Allan on behalf of the WORDS BY THE WATER literary festival, where I talk candidly about my writing, and in particular my second book Judgement and Wrath.

(and before anyone asks: yes, I was going for the baggy-eyed look!)

Important addition to short story competition dates


OK, because I changed the format of judging for the Joe Hunter Style Short Story comp (to allow everyone to read all the entries) I'm going to have to add an extra date in order to keep things straight. So, on Saturday 13th March I'm going to put a poll up at Joe Hunter's Fixer's Blog to determine the top three as selected by the readers. This will run until Midnight GMT Friday 18th. At this time the top three stories will then be posted at TKnC and here at Matt Hilton Thrills and a new poll opened to decide the winner. This will close Minight GMT on Wednesday 31st March and the winner announced to great fanfare and hullaballoo on the 1st April.

Hope this works for everyone.

The Clock is ticking...

This is your final reminder to get you entries in to win a signed first edition hardback copy of SLASH AND BURN. (See the box at the right for details)

Deadline for entries is midnight GMT tomorrow night (Friday 12th March). Then voting begins.

Tuesday, 9 March 2010

Story number 8 is now up


The next competition entry (number 8) is now up at Joe Hunter's Fixers for your reading enjoyment.

Voting will start following the deadline of this Friday midnight GMT. You can vote for your favourite story at http://joehuntersfixers.blogspot.com/ or at http://thrillskillsnchills.blogspot.com/

Another entry is now up for your enjoyment


And for your delectation another entry for the Joe Hunter short story competition is now up at JOE HUNTER'S FIXERS. Enjoy.

Monday, 8 March 2010

Latest short story competition entry is now up at Joe Hunter's Fixers


The latest entry in the competition to win a signed first edition copy of Slash and Burn is now up at 'JOE HUNTER'S FIXERS', why not go on over there, take a read and show your support by leaving a comment.

REMEMBER***Competition closes this Friday at 12 midnight GMT, so if you are thinking of entering you'd best get writing.