“Recursion” takes place a few years after the events of the award-winning international conspiracy thriller, Blood of the Moon. The devastating global Oil Wars rage on, and nobody’s winning. But a strange and dangerous auction in Washington, D.C. may hold the key to controlling the Wars’ outcome, and changing life as we know it, forever. “Recursion” is the bridge between Blood of the Moon and its upcoming sequel, Blood of the Earth. An aperitif, if you will. And there’s more! As a special bonus to “Recursion” readers, “Recursion” includes a sneak peek at Blood of the Earth.
“A stunning debut. Well-researched, tightly plotted, and teeming with vividly-drawn characters. Gazala has a great voice, as well as a clear gift for breakneck pacing and narrative drive. A rich and rewarding read.”
Raymond Khoury, NYT Bestselling Author
“An exciting read, highly recommended.”
Midwest Book Review
David Rivers is a second-generation oilman. From Houston he runs the multi-national oil company built by his father, former Apollo astronaut Michael Rivers, one of the last men alive to walk on the moon. Michael now spends his days confined to an assisted-living facility, his mind succumbing to the ravages of Alzheimer’s disease. Somewhere in Michael’s crumbling memory is a devastating secret he has revealed to no one in over forty years, not even to his sole surviving child. The secret is the location of a small capsule Michael brought back from the moon in 1972 containing proof that conventional wisdom is a deliberate lie.
With the cryptic aid of an anonymous benefactor deep within the ancient and powerful secret society of the Hostmen of Newcastle, David races to unravel the mysteries shrouding his father’s legacy while wars, Terrorism and riots over dwindling oil reserves enflame the planet, and a corrupted American presidential election teeters in the balance. David finds himself confronting the same crisis of conscience his father faced decades before. Should he risk his life and company to expose the Hostmen’s lies? Or will he bury what he uncovers and let the world burn?
Read an excerpt from Blood of the Moon at BookDaily.com.
From time to time when I take a break from researching and writing my thrillers, I write short stories such as the ones collected for the first time in this new anthology, Trust and Other Nightmares. Each of these stories has its germination in nights when my sleep was suddenly savaged by ethereal visions and sounds sufficiently disturbing to wrench me from tangled, sweat-drenched sheets. Some of them have seen a bit of daylight before now, and the last two debut here. All of them are spawned of the dancing skeletons and reanimated corpses that plague the bleakest, blackest hours preceding my blessed dawns. They include Trust, without which a murder-suicide pact is merely revenge’s favorite recipe; Rougarou, where a terrified boy learns it’s never easy to tell monsters from saviors in a desolate Louisiana swamp; Frankie’s Last Affair, where we’re taught that if a thing is truly art, someone has to suffer for it; Canis, a post-apocalyptic tale where the wolves in sheep’s clothing have no lock on cross-dressing, and Showtime, in which a famous television psychic medium’s dirty secret is he knows there’s no such thing as ghosts.
I hope you enjoy this collection. If it scares you enough to keep you up a night or two, I know just how you feel. As this anthology demonstrates, I sleep well rarely.
Read the Introduction to Trust and Other Nightmares at BookDaily.com.
For those among you who prefer to ingest chilling stories through your ears instead of your eyes, Trust and Other Nightmares is also available on as an audiobook, narrated by Roberto Scarlato.
Like so many damned things, it seemed like a good idea at the time. Now in my time of dying, my faith wavers. The Hand of Fate’s wrapped tight round my gulping throat in the guise of rough rope. The only friends in sight are this splintered gallows pole creaking over my head, and the spent weapon lying uselessly at my bleeding feet that hardly touch the creaking wooden slats below me. Against the exposed flesh of my ankles, I feel the hot, foul breath of the furious wolf. They’ve shackled the animal to a stump by a shard of rope just long enough to keep his snapping jaws barely an arm’s length from my legs. The rope round the wolf’s neck is thinner than the rope clenching mine.
Everything’s going to plan.