Q: Where did the idea for the book come from?
A: I’ve always been a big reader of fiction; spy & espionage, mysteries, thrillers and suspense. They say to write what you know. I decided to write what I would like to read. I also have a friend who is an FBI agent today and wanted to write a story showing the FBI differently than the bumbling law enforcement branch as they are sometimes portrayed in movies.
I was writing the story after taking a writing class, rewriting parts of it and trying to decide what story I was going to tell. Then I read a story in a local weekly paper about an urban explorer talking about what was underground. He also talked about how they were leery to explore across the river from The Federal Reserve because of heightened security after 9/11. That was all it took. I knew the story I was going to write and it took off from there.
Q: Why do you have the pregnant woman get killed in the first scene?
A: Because I really wanted you to hate the antagonist, from the very beginning.
Q: What does your family think about your writing?
A: My wife doesn’t usually read this genre, but she’s trying to read it. Sometimes, when she’s reading it, she just looks at me and asks “Who are you?”
I really am a nice guy. She can’t understand how I can come up with some of the things in the story.
Q: What’s next?
A: I’ve got the sequel started. It shows Jack a year later, on vacation in the Minnesota lake country with his family. He just wants to relax, fish and have fun. But, he gets pulled into a local problem and the vacation goes out the window.
In addition, I’ve decided to try my hand at a couple of novellas focused on Ross, aka Junior, showing him and his FBI Hostage Rescue Team on some adventures. The first one of these may come before the sequel since it is shorter.
I have an Action / Adventure series planned as well. More along the lines of James Rollins, but with a domestic bent.
About the Author
Douglas "Doug" Dorow, lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota with his wife, two children and their dog. The Ninth District is his first book. The next in the series is started and a separate book in a second series has been started.
For more info about my writing:
Website/Blog: DouglasDorow.com
Facebook: Douglas Dorow Author
Follow me on Twitter: http://twitter.com/DougDorow @DougDorow
Or contact me via email: [email protected]
The Ninth District
A Thriller
© 2011 Douglas Dorow
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the author, except for brief passages for review purposes.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents are either a product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Thanks / Acknowledgements / Dedication
For Debra, Olivia and Elliot. Thanks for waiting and supporting me during this long journey. And for my mom, who taught me how to read.
I am indebted to the members of Writers Quest, my critique group I have been a part of for so long. The various members, my friends, have been instrumental in helping me learn about the writing process through their support, example, and tough reviews. Thank you to all of you.
If you're a writer looking for a cover designer or an editor you should check out these people, great work at great prices:
Carl Graves designed the cover. He knows the genre. Check him out at Extended Imagery.
Erin Potter edited the finished manuscript. She can be found at Shamrock Editing Services.
As a fund raiser for an auction at my kids' school, I donated a kindle and the naming of a character in this book. A big thank you to Mr. Kelly Griffin for the winning bid for this item and supporting the school and naming a character after his good friend, Ross Fruen.
In addition, I solicited authors for books to load onto the kindle for the auction. I was amazed at the response. 26 authors donated 35 books.
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Confessions
All For One
The Donzerly Light
Dark and Darker
Lee Goldberg
Dead Man
The Walk
John L. Betcher
A Higher Court: One Man's Search for the Truth of God's Existence (Winner of Gold medal eLit Awards)
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Another thriller you might like
If you like THE NINTH DISTRICT, you might like WIN OR GO HOME by Daniel Clarke Smith
WIN OR GO HOME
BY DANIEL CLARKE SMITH
CHAPTER ONE
“FBI, Norton. Freeze.”
Michael Norton pulled the thumb drive from his pocket and ran like hell. He could see a storm drain fifty yards away. What would happen if they caught him without the evidence? The sound of pursuit got louder. He was no track star – not even a casual jogger. Desperation can do only so much to replace lack of talent. To make matters worse, the wet cobblestones made for lousy traction. Just when he felt his lungs on the verge of bursting, a flying tackle from behind snagged his ankle and he stumbled. He threw the drive as he fell and heard it make scuttling, crab-like sounds just before the pavement smacked his face. A starburst exploded into his vision, blinding him. Before he could get to his feet his pursuer pinned him, forcing his face into a rank tasting puddle. Water surged into his nose and mouth as he struggled to breathe.
“Lie still, goddamn you,” he heard. Panic overwhelmed good sense and he continued to fight. He summoned all his strength and tried to rise, but failed. He got one hand loose, reached back until he found the man’s hair and pulled as hard as he could. He didn’t let go until the weight left his back and he could breathe.
He lay still, panting, as the other man got to his feet and a second one joined him. Together they pulled his arms behind him. He didn’t resist now that he had air. Cold steel clicked, linking his wrists, and then they stood him up. His knees buckled and he nearly fell. They jerked him upright again and an exasperated voice snarled, “Stand up, or do we have to carry you?”
Norton nodded, tried to speak, but could only sob as they
led him away.
“Jesus Christ, get him the fuck in the car.”
The two men held Norton by his upper arms as they led him down the middle of the street. The lighting was poor and he kept stumbling. A third agent caught up and said, “I couldn’t find the drive. Have you searched him yet?” They pushed him over the hood of a parked car and spread his legs apart while they frisked him. Norton’s wallet, cell phone, keys and watch went into a yellow bag. The one who had tackled Norton said, “He’s clean. I saw him throw something during the chase. The fucking drive must have gone down the storm drain. It’ll be in the Sound before long.”
The march continued and soon a handful of onlookers trailed along at a safe distance. One of them strutted ahead of the group and began catcalling. The lead agent, the one that tackled Norton, drew his gun and walked toward the man. The group dispersed, leaving the heckler isolated. “Fuck you, pigs!” he yelled over his shoulder as he retreated.
The agent returned and ordered the others to double time it. They hustled Norton along until they turned the corner and approached an unmarked car, its lights off, engine idling. The driver got out and opened the right rear door while the lead agent helped Norton into the seat. The other two disappeared into the night. As the door closed, Norton felt stale, warm air reverse the chill that had penetrated his wet clothes. It smelled of cigarettes, coffee and nervous sweat. The front passenger door opened and the dome light illuminated the sharp features of the leader: wide forehead, bushy black eyebrows, down turned mouth. The door slammed and in the darkness Norton heard seatbelts click, gears shift and the engine surge. The acceleration pushed him into the seat back and he closed his eyes, taking stock of his condition.
His mouth bothered him so he explored the damage with his tongue. A walnut-sized lump protruded from his upper lip and he could taste blood mixed with sand. “I’m hurt,” he said. His voice sounded muffled, almost alien. The dome light came on and the agent turned around. A pair of dark, violent eyes scanned Norton’s face.
“You’ll live,” he said, and the light went out. Norton peered through the window, trying to get his bearings. He knew Seattle well but darkness and wet windows reduced the view to blurs of red, green and yellow. Then a sign flashed past: 4th Avenue. He recognized Westlake Center. In another block the car made a right turn. It had to be Virginia. After three more intersections, they went right again.
“Where are we going?” said Norton.
This time the agent didn’t turn around. “Federal Court Building.” Norton bounced as the car shot up a ramp and then spiraled down a tunnel. The driver took the turns fast, throwing Norton against the door. He felt sick. Not from the motion, but because they were taking him to jail. He had stolen something, but the sin he had committed first bothered his conscience more. He had taken from the wealthy and powerful only to pay for the damage he had done to his family. Two crimes: one public and one private. Jail was going to be bad, not for the loss of freedom but for its concentration of evil. It scared him: the strong preying on the weak. He abhorred violence but perhaps they kept the violent ones segregated. He wanted to ask the agents, but he was afraid they would laugh, or worse, look the other way if he was attacked.
The driver put the car in park and Norton’s door opened. “Watch your head,” said the agent as he pulled him out. They were in a cavernous garage, dimly lit and smelling of exhaust.
“Thanks,” said Norton.
The agent took him by the elbow and escorted him through the patches of light on the floor until they reached a bank of elevators. They joined one of the agents from the arrest, the one with the yellow bag. The men made FBI small talk as they waited. They called each other Steele and Thompson. Thompson would watch the prisoner while Steele took the yellow bag to the evidence room. Steele announced he wanted to go to the Fox Sports Grill afterwards and catch the Mariners game. Thompson said his wife would bitch if he got home late again. That got a laugh from Steele. They sounded like a couple of shift workers discussing after work plans. Steele said he just got back from a reunion with old army buddies. Thompson had been in the Marines. He gave Steele some good-natured harassment. Norton started shivering but the agents didn’t seem to notice.
After the elevator ride, Steele led Norton to a tired looking chair with a sweat-stained back. Norton plopped down, his legs feeling as if he had just run a marathon instead of a brief street chase. Questions flooded his mind. How had things gone so wrong? A phone tap? An informer? The money had been real enough: stacks of tightly wrapped hundreds. Most important of all: what had happened to Chekhov? If he had been in the square Norton surely should have spotted him. Men that tall can’t hide in crowds.
Thompson made a call from a wall phone, speaking in a soft voice while he watched Norton. He hung up and waved to Steele, who pulled Norton to his feet. A second set of elevator doors opened at the far end of the room. A man in a khaki uniform with crew cut hair stepped back and beckoned.
An hour later a door closed, a bolt slid home and Norton looked around the windowless cell. A one piece metal toilet with a matching sink a few steps away. No mirror, not that he wanted to look at his face anyway. The chill had left him, thanks to an orange jumpsuit with “Federal Prisoner” stenciled on the back. They were done with him for the moment. He had waited, mostly. Part of the time in a cage with an emaciated black man lying on a cot, coughing incessantly.
Processing consisted of a mug shot, fingerprints, salve for the scrape on his face, signing a property receipt and a body cavity search by a beefy guard with blue gloves who said “Excuse me” at the moment of truth. It did not, he learned, include a phone call or his Miranda rights. “Later,” said the jailer who put him in the room. Norton considered protesting, but thought better of it when he saw the flash of contempt in the man’s eyes.
He sat on a metal cot bolted to the wall. The skinny mattress had the odor of vomit mixed with Lysol. No sheets or blankets provided. A security camera stared at him from twelve feet overhead. He supposed if he began beating his head against the wall, someone would come in to stop him. He wondered what Samantha would have to say and if Emily missed him yet.
If you liked Chapter One of WIN OR GO HOME you can buy it here:
WIN OR GO HOME on kindle
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Epilogue
Frequently Asked Reader Questions
About the Author
The Ninth District
Thanks / Acknowledgements / Dedication
Another thriller you might like
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Epilogue
Frequently Asked Reader Questions
About the Author
The Ninth District
Thanks / Acknowledgements / Dedication
Another thriller you might like
The Ninth District - A Thriller Page 24