Here is the first chapter from my latest novel. Enjoy!

My father is going to kill me, Amy Whitmore thought to herself. Of course that was assuming that the terrorists across the room didn't decide to take care of the job for him. Amy looked up at the two men guarding the penthouse door, automatic weapons in hand. When one glanced at her, she averted her eyes, looking back to the two-toned beige carpet, and prayed that help would arrive soon.

Why hadn't she listened? Her parents, her brothers--everyone had told her that travel in this part of the world was too risky right now. Of course that was part of the problem. They had told her. With an inward sigh, Amy wondered why she kept falling into the same trap. Ask her nicely to do something and she was bound to agree in a heartbeat. Tell her to do something and she would refuse twice as fast.

Still, when the job offer to work in the Diplomatic Corps had come her way, she had jumped at it. Politics had been part of her life for as long as she could remember, and working for the State Department finally gave her something that wasn't directly in her father's control.

Senator James Whitmore had been in politics since before Amy was born. The honorable senator from Virginia was well known for his honesty, his integrity, and his ability to get things done. He knew how to play the game, and he knew how often the rules changed. When he saw something he could do to make his country better, he moved forward with an intensity that was unequaled in the senate chamber.

When Amy had graduated from college, he had offered her a job working on his staff. She could admit now that she had been tempted and probably would have even accepted the job had it not been for Jared. Their brief engagement during her senior year of college had started on Christmas Eve and ended before the new year even began.

Amy had been excited about getting married, but as she prayed each night about her decision, she continued to feel uneasy. Three days after agreeing to marry Jared, she had walked into her kitchen to find her parents standing at the stove, her dad's arms wrapped around her mom's waist. The unity of their stance, the humor in their voices, and the love that flowed from them struck her, making her realize that she wanted what her parents had--which was something she couldn't find with Jared.

Jared hadn't really taken her seriously when she broke off their engagement. Instead he thought she just needed some time before she would be ready to settle down. Despite her insistence that they had no future together, Jared had simply chosen not to believe her. Not sure what else to do, Amy had let him believe whatever he wanted.

When she had turned down her dad's job offer, she had told him that she needed to live outside of the shadow of the Whitmore name for a while. To some extent, she had been telling him the truth. She needed to find an identity separate from the rest of the family. After all, it wasn't always easy being the senator's daughter. Both of her older brothers cast pretty long shadows as well. Charlie, who was two years older than she was, had just graduated from college at the top of his class, and Matt, the oldest, was playing his fourth season of major league baseball for the Florida Marlins.

At one point, Amy had planned to utilize her artistic abilities full time. After working a few summers with her dad, however, she'd decided to pursue a career in the political arena instead of developing her natural drawing ability. What she wouldn't give for a chance to go back and rethink that decision!

Taking an overseas assignment a few weeks after her college graduation had seemed exciting and ambitious. Now it just seemed dangerous.

She had barely even heard of Abolstan, the little country tucked along the Mediterranean coast between Turkey and Syria. As soon as she'd accepted the assignment, she had read everything she could get her hands on about Abolstan, including its culture, climate, and politics. The research she had done in the weeks before her arrival had suggested that terrorist activity was inconsequential in the capital city. Obviously the person who had written that article had never stared down a man holding an AK-47.

A total of seven hostages were seated around the hotel room--five Americans and two Brits. This hotel typically housed the new arrivals for both the American and British embassies. Newly transferred employees often lived at the hotel for the first month or two until permanent apartments became available. Though the hotel was equipped with a high-end security system, it apparently wasn't good enough to withstand last night's assault, when a bomb of some sort had gone off. Seconds after the explosion, Amy and the others had been dragged out of their rooms and brought to the penthouse. Once inside the penthouse, the terrorists had separated them, making them sit far enough apart so that communication wasn't possible. One of the men guarding the door spoke English well, and Amy guessed that he had been educated in the United States.

The two armed men in the room were the latest shift of those sent to guard the hostages. She studied their faces, thinking that they would look normal if it weren't for the guns they held. She had counted at least fifteen terrorists when they had been abducted, and many of their faces were already etched into her mind. All she had to do was close her eyes and she could replay the moment her door had been kicked in.

She had originally mistaken the bomb for an earthquake and was standing in the doorway between the living area and the bedroom when her door simply fell into the room. Naively, she had thought that the two men staring at her from the hallway were part of the hotel's security staff and had come to make sure that she was okay. Then she'd seen their weapons. Eyes wide, she had just gaped at them as one trained his weapon on her. When the other man swiftly came toward her, she instinctively backed up, but she quickly realized she had nowhere to go but through the door her abductors had come through. Terrified, she had dug her heels into the carpet as the man grabbed her by the arm and dragged her into the hallway.

Any lingering hope that someone would help her disappeared when she saw six other hostages being pulled from their rooms at the same time. She considered trying to fight her way free until she saw the man next to her do just that. He took the butt of a gun to the side of his head and crumpled to the floor in pain. Amy leaned toward him to help, but the two men holding her by the arms didn't give her the opportunity. Instead, she could only watch in horror as several other hostages were brutalized for resisting. Below them, other hotel guests were screaming as they fled from the hotel.

Amy now thought the hostages had been individually targeted. Like her, all of them were new employees of their respective embassies, each of them in the process of securing a more permanent home in Abolstan. Amy was the newest arrival in the group, having landed just two weeks earlier. She had no doubt that the terrorists knew who they were and who they worked for. Specifically, they knew who her father was.

She shifted her willowy frame, leaning back against the wall. Her auburn hair was still in a ponytail from her workout on the treadmill in the hotel's gym right before their unexpected guests had arrived. Thankfully, she was still dressed comfortably in the T-shirt and sweatpants she had worked out in.

She turned her head to the left and studied the other misfortunate souls who were sharing this misery. Each of the five men had been beaten when they had tried to resist, and she could tell that if they didn't get help soon, some of them might not last through negotiations. Frank, her new supervisor at the embassy, adjusted the bandage on his leg where he had been shot. His injury provided an example of what would happen if they didn't cooperate. For now, they had little choice.

As darkness fell outside, Amy closed her eyes against the tears that threatened. She bowed her head and once more began her silent prayers.

This isn't going to be pretty, Brent Miller thought to himself as he continued through the dark shadows into the alley behind the hotel. The back of the building was charred black from the explosion nearly twenty-four hours earlier. The doors leading to the kitchen were gone, their remnants scattered on the pavement along with fragments of broken glass from the windows on the first three floors.

Brent took a moment to consider his target. The building was twelve stories high, but light was only visible from the windows on the top floor. He scanned the fire escape on the far side of the building and the wrought-iron balconies above him. He didn't sense any movement on the first several floors, leading him to believe that he could simply enter the building and make his way upstairs.

But Brent had never been fond of obvious choices, and his training as a Navy SEAL reinforced his natural instincts. Ignoring the fire escape and the back doorway, he ran a hand over the brick and found his first handhold. Slowly, meticulously, he started his climb up the side of the building. Soot covered his fingertips as he silently stepped onto the first floor balcony and proceeded to make his way up to the next floor.

Through his headset, he heard Tristan Crowther's western drawl. "Time frame?"

"Twenty minutes," Brent answered, his voice low.

The elite five-man team was well-trained for situations like this. As a Navy SEAL, Brent knew where his teammates were and how dependent they all were on perfect timing as they worked through this operation. His job was simple enough: neutralize any terrorists with the hostages. As he approached from this side of the building, two of his teammates were moving into position from other locations to help attain their objective. All were anxious to complete this part of their assignment so they could move on to the difficult task of transporting the hostages to safety.

All of them knew what they were up against. Namir Dagan, a radical who had long been challenging for power in Abolstan, had claimed responsibility. His list of demands had been long, including the removal of all American forces from the region. Unfortunately, no one believed that he would ever release the hostages alive. Whether he got what he wanted or not, none of the hostages would survive negotiations unless Brent and his team successfully recovered them by force.

Brent edged his way past the seventh floor, sensing movement inside the dark room to the left. He worked his way farther up the building before speaking once more into the microphone. "Activity on seven, southwest corner."

"Got it." This time it was Quinn Lambert's voice that came over the mike. "I'm showing eleven heat spots on the top floor. Looks like two are in the hallway."

Brent nodded to himself, grateful that it wasn't him sitting across the street staring at the building with infrared goggles. "Give me five more minutes and I'll have a visual," Brent told him, finally climbing onto the top floor balcony. He moved to the edge of the nearest window and peered inside to count the hostages who were sitting on the floor. From his angle he could see six of the seven--one woman and five men. Two terrorists flanked the door, weapons in hand.

"I've got two guns by the door, and I've got a visual on six of the hostages." Brent relayed the information, recalling the files on the hostages. Two women had been identified as missing, one a thirty-six-year-old from London and the other a twenty-two-year-old from Virginia. The woman in his view was the older one, making the missing hostage Amy Whitmore, the senator's daughter.

He'd known who she was even before he had seen her picture. After growing up in Virginia, it would have been tough not to remember the vibrant daughter of Senator Whitmore.

Sliding down onto the balcony, Brent crawled past several windows so that he could look at the room from the other direction. A sigh of relief escaped him when he saw the younger woman sitting on the floor across the room. He knew he was only a few of years older than she was, but he couldn't help thinking how young and fragile she looked sitting there with her knees pulled up to her chest, her face pale.

A need to protect her surged through him as he studied her. She was beautiful, even in these less-than-perfect circumstances. In her photo, her gorgeous blue eyes had been alive with humor, combined with a smile that was full of fun. He hoped this experience wouldn't erase that part of her--the fun-loving manner he suspected was an integral part of her personality.

He took a moment to gauge the situation. The hostages all had their backs to him, but he had enough of an angle to recognize each of them from the pictures he had been shown during their mid-flight briefing.

One of the men was badly bruised on one side of his face, and Brent could only guess that he had tried to resist capture. A quick scan indicated that he hadn't been the only one. All five of the men appeared to need medical attention. The most visibly wounded was the man who had ripped off part of his shirt to bandage his leg. Unfortunately, the man next to him labored with each breath and appeared to be in shock.

Brent indicated to his teammates that he was in position, drew his weapon, and waited for the signal.

Amy felt the tension in the room increase as one of the gunmen spoke into his walkie-talkie in some language she couldn't identify. He scanned the room and focused in on her. She saw the intent in his eyes even before he turned his weapon on her. I'm going to die, she thought to herself. Terrified, she pushed back against the wall, as if those few inches might make a difference.

A moment later gunshots sounded, and then he was lying motionless at her feet. Her scream pierced the air as the window shattered and she watched wide-eyed as two men dressed completely in black jumped into the room, one from the balcony and the other through the door. The man who had come through the window stepped on the gunman's hand, which still held the weapon, and checked for a pulse. Amy didn't have to be told that the man was dead.

A helicopter echoed in the distance, but she didn't recognize the sound. Shock paralyzed her and her breath came in shallow bursts.

"Are you okay, miss?" The voice was all-American, the face smeared with something dark.

She knew he was talking to her, but her brain wasn't functioning well enough for her to think to respond. Nervously, Amy looked around the room again. The other gunman was also sprawled out lifeless on the floor. She couldn't catch her breath, and suddenly the rapid shallow breaths weren't enough. She gasped for air, her chest tightening as she struggled for another breath.

"Take it easy." The black-clad American pushed her head between her knees and spoke in a calm voice despite the gunshots that were still sounding somewhere downstairs. "We're here to take you home. You're hyperventilating. I need you to relax."

His voice was soothing, but still she struggled.

"Come on now. In, out. In, out." He put a hand on her back, rubbing it back and forth. "That's it."

His hand stilled on her back and Amy lifted her head, finally able to get some air. She noticed for the first time the communications headset he wore as he made a comment into the little microphone by his mouth. He turned his attention back to her and gave her shoulder a squeeze. "I'm going to check on the others. Just wait right here."

Amy watched him move effortlessly from one hostage to another as his partner started at the other end and worked toward him. They gave each of the hostages whatever emergency medical treatment was necessary to transport them. Finally, he moved back to where she was still sitting.

"Can you walk?"

Amy nodded, chastising herself for falling apart. Still shaking, she pointed across the room. "Is Frank okay? He was shot in the leg."

The man nodded. "He'll be fine. The members of my team are going to move the wounded into the helicopter, and then we'll get you out of here."

He took up a position by the door, weapon in hand, as two other men came in and helped move the wounded out of the room. He appeared completely in tune with everything around him, but his stance was relaxed.

Amy watched him, wondering what it must be like to work in the armed forces. He probably didn't have any idea where he would be next month, or even next week, but would just be going where his superiors sent him. She shook her head, surprised that her mind was wandering at a time such as this. Still, she was grateful that there were people like him in the world--people who were willing to sacrifice their personal freedoms to protect her safety.

When the last of the wounded had finally been escorted out along with the other female hostage, the man returned to Amy and reached out a hand. "Come on. Let's get you out of here."

Amy let him pull her to her feet and was surprised when she had to tilt her head back to look at him. At six feet tall, she was used to looking most men in the eye. "Can I ask you a question?" she asked. When he nodded, she continued. "What's your name?"

He smiled at that as though they had just met at the grocery store instead of in the middle of a rescue operation. "Lieutenant Brent Miller, U.S. Navy SEAL."

"Well, Lieutenant." Amy brushed off her sweatpants and turned her gaze back to Brent. "Thanks for dropping by."

"Anytime."

Available at www.bn.com (Barnes & Noble), www.deseretbook.com, and www.seagullbook.com.

The reality is beyond imagination, the heartbreak universal. Just over a week ago two young boys, twins, used their combined mobility and resources to make their way past a safety gate and two closed doors to get into their parents' bathroom. They weren't out of sight for long, just long enough to step on the plug in the sunken bathtub, turn on the water, and drown.

Despite the efforts of family members, friends, and emergency personnel, the fifteen-month-old twins never regained consciousness and passed away early the next morning.

The news felt so unreal, especially in those first hours as the parents arrived back at their home after spending the night at the hospital. Each new arrival seemed to invoke a fresh wave of tears as friends and family mourned together.

The shock of this unimaginable tragedy was huge, the outpouring of love and support immediate. Friends, neighbors, and family members created a constant stream of visitors in the family's home. Support came from around the country, even from around the world, as frequent trips were made to pick people up from local airports.

As the hours and days passed, I was privileged to be on hand as the family moved through one detail after another. I wasn't a family member or a best friend. I hadn't known the twins well, nor had I frequented the family's new home often. Rather, I was simply a longtime family friend that could be a constant.

On occasion a family member would ask me why I was always on hand or how I had come to be intimately involved in funeral details. The answer wasn't easy to provide because I wasn't sure myself. I had more experience than most in dealing with funerals, some expected, some not. I have always been that person that was one step back, able to be the voice of reason as those around me tried to pick up the pieces of their lives after a devastating loss.

My compensation for my service was knowing that the parents' wishes were being honored and seeing the people around them help them move through the shock of their loss. Repeatedly, the parents expressed their overwhelming gratitude to those who had given them so much love and support during this difficult time. At one point, the father told me, "There are no words to express our appreciation for all you've done."

Late that night I returned home where my four children were already in bed. During this whole ordeal, I have been one step back from the family as they have mourned their loss, yet I often was a visible support and received thanks from many who came by to pay their condolences. My husband has been yet another step back, quietly supporting me, without question, without acknowledgement, and without thanks. That night, I sat beside him and passed along my thanks that he was willing to serve in the shadows from one step back.

In a recent conversation, my husband made the comment that he thinks much of the world, the United States in particular, is suffering from post tramautic stress after 9/11. Yes, that tragic day occurred over six years ago, but I think he may have a point.

People don't seem to care as much as they once did, about politics, the world, even their neighbors. Don't get me wrong. I have great, caring neighbors, but so many of us feel as though we can't do anything about the atrocities that occur throughout the world or even in our own country.

We are numb from the ongoing battles in distant lands, and often we don't want to hear about the number of brave men (and women) who died today trying to fight for freedom, or the innocent victims who lost their lives. Many don't even know whose freedom they're fighting for. They don't want to know.

Maybe the post traumatic stress is more extreme in my part of the country, in the long shadows of the Capital building and the now-repaired pentagon. After all, the DC area was still recovering from the shock of 9/11 when we were terrorized by snipers for the better part of a month. To this day, I am still leary of standing beside my car when I fill it up with gasoline.

I didn't realize how desensitized many of us in this area had become until a year or two after the sniper incidents. A tornado was coming through our area just as the school day was coming to a close. My daughter's elementary school teacher was new to the area, and she was very concerned at how my daughter reacted when the school went into lockdown mode and the students were all moved to the safety of the hallways.

No, my daughter didn't freak out, she wasn't screaming or yelling hysterically. All she did was pull a book out of her backpack and sit down in the hall until the crisis had passed. She was completely relaxed, completely unconcerned. Like many of us, she had accepted that she couldn't do anything to change the outcome of the day so she chose not to dwell on the possiblities.

With the political campaigns heating up, with the fighting still continuing in Iraq, can we really afford to let complacency continue? As a nation, we have to find a way to heal. We have to help this rising generation who has already lived through so much learn how to live fully, how to care about others, and that they really can make a difference. One person alone can only do so much. United, as a people, we can change the world.

After receiving several great comments on my blog yesterday (and from my profile), I thought I would write a bit about my years working for the CIA. I should premise this by saying that I can't really say much and that it's been years since I could walk through headquarters without an escort.

My last day of work was probably one of the most difficult days of my life. For more than six years I had been a part of something truly special and unique. I worked with incredible people, faced constant challenges, and I learned more about geography and current events than I ever thought possible.

Christmas music was playing on the radio when I drove past the guards that last time, fully aware that I no longer had the necessary identification to enter the compound at will. Memories, highlights flashed through my mind, some major like the Berlin Wall coming down, others seemingly minor like eating in the Director's dining room and taking my kids to work on Family Day. Then there were the life altering events.

I was working in an outbuilding the day that a gunman walked down Wilson Boulevard outside of the CIA Headquarters building and started shooting at people who were on their way to work there. I was one of many fortunate souls who was supposed to be at a training course at headquarters that day, a course that had been canceled the night before.

The day of the Oklahoma bombing was one of terror and heartache as those of us in the intelligence community tried to analyze who had gotten by through our defenses and managed to strike on our own soil. Little did we know then that it was one of our own who had caused such death and destruction.

Patriotism ran deep when our troops went in to free occupied Kuwait. Our prayers were constant that these men and women would stay safe, that we could help keep them safe.

You may not know the people who work behind the gates at Langley, and they might not know you, but take my word for it. These people care about you and your freedoms, and they are fighting the silent wars to help keep you safe.

Isn't it amazing that something that is simply a part of you can be fascinating to others? Several years ago my mother told me the story of a conversation at her annual Christmas party.

Someone asked her what her children did for a living. She responded, "My youngest daughter is the personal assistant for Bill Murray." Hopefully most of you know who Bill Murray is. (Yes, the actor.)

My sister spent a couple of years working as his assistant and loved every minute. Bill was every bit the comedian in real life and, according to my sister, a great guy. If even half of her stories are true, she didn't exaggerate.

As you can imagine, this stirred up quite the conversation and my mother quickly became the center of attention as the conversation progressed. The oohs and ahs and outpouring of questions lasted for several minutes as my mother enjoyed basking in her youngest daughter's entertaining and successful ventures.

Then someone asked, "What does your other daughter do?"

My mother replied, "Oh, Traci works for the CIA."

Conversation stopped completely. According to my mom, you could have heard a pin drop at this previously noisy party.

We laughed about this later, the fact that both my sister and I had ended up in professions that were fascinating to others. We also came to the conclusion that the fascination stems from the mystery of the jobs themselves. At the time my sister was working for Bill, he was still one of the premier comedians in the country. Certainly, there was a lot of curiosity surrounding what he is really like. As for my job, the initials CIA have long been synonymous with intrigue.

The part of this story that I thought was the funniest was that it happened at my mom's party, the one she holds every year for her clients. You see, my mother is the host of a local television show in Phoenix. Most of the people in the room had appeared on television with her at one time or another. Of course, they already knew what that was like.