Welcome to the tour for exciting medical thriller, Emergence by Shira Shiloah MD! Read on for an exclusive excerpt and a chance to win a $25 Amazon gift card!
Emergence
by Shira Shiloah
September 15th, 2020
Genre: Medical Thriller
A SCALPEL WIELDING VILLAIN.
HEALTHCARE SYSTEM THAT FAILS.
About the Author
Website-Twitter-Instagram
Dr. Shira Shiloah is an anesthesiologist and author of the debut thriller, Emergence, that details Dr. D.K. Webb, a neurosurgeon who intentionally maims and kills his patients in Memphis, Tennessee. Dr. Shiloah bring both a personal and professional perspective for what may happen when a sociopath holds a scalpel.
WHISTLEBLOWER THAT PROTECTS HER PATIENTS – NO MATTER THE COSTS.
Trusted anesthesiologist, Dr. Roxanne Roth, is healing from the loss of her fiancé by consuming her time with work. It doesn’t hurt that her new love interest, Dr. Justin Kirkland, spends almost as much time at the hospital as she does.
Entranced in the throes and complications of new love, Roxanne looks forward to work every day. Her time at the hospital would almost be cathartic if not for Dr. D.K. Webb, a neurosurgeon, who is quickly amassing a pile of complaints – and bodies.
Despite trying to avoid Webb, Roxanne finds herself working alongside the doctor during a routine, low-risk surgery. Fueled by cocaine and ego, Webb intentionally sabotages the case, leading to the patient dying on the operating table.
Roxanne’s tenuous grip on recovery is shattered with her patient’s death, quickly replaced by anger and a drive for justice. Now Roxanne will do anything to protect her patients from the killer on the other side of the sterile surgical field—before he can silence her as well.
In this gripping, sinister medical thriller, Dr. Shira Shiloah will leave readers wondering about the potential evil lurking behind every surgical mask.
Trusted anesthesiologist, Dr. Roxanne Roth, is healing from the loss of her fiancé by consuming her time with work. It doesn’t hurt that her new love interest, Dr. Justin Kirkland, spends almost as much time at the hospital as she does.
Entranced in the throes and complications of new love, Roxanne looks forward to work every day. Her time at the hospital would almost be cathartic if not for Dr. D.K. Webb, a neurosurgeon, who is quickly amassing a pile of complaints – and bodies.
Despite trying to avoid Webb, Roxanne finds herself working alongside the doctor during a routine, low-risk surgery. Fueled by cocaine and ego, Webb intentionally sabotages the case, leading to the patient dying on the operating table.
Roxanne’s tenuous grip on recovery is shattered with her patient’s death, quickly replaced by anger and a drive for justice. Now Roxanne will do anything to protect her patients from the killer on the other side of the sterile surgical field—before he can silence her as well.
In this gripping, sinister medical thriller, Dr. Shira Shiloah will leave readers wondering about the potential evil lurking behind every surgical mask.
“Authentic characters and a vivid hospital setting enhance a tense medical tale.”
– Kirkus Review
EMERGENCE: CHAPTER ONE
As Dr. D.K. Webb walked out of the hospital at noon, the surge of power he’d felt using just the tips of his fingers still coursed through him, as did euphoria. He’d twisted the pedicle screw into the exact spot along her spine, confirming with X-ray that she’d wake up a different woman because of his work. Got another one, he thought, as he mounted his motorcycle.
He revved up his customized P-51 Combat Fighter, a motorcycle built from aircraft-grade futuristic aluminum, and sold for the median cost of a local home. The level of menace underneath him echoed his mood as he weaved through the sparse weekend traffic, his license plate MD4SPINE a blur to the occasional cars he passed. Gun it and run it, he thought.
Crystal greeted him wearing nothing but a white thong and a smile when he walked into the apartment. He kissed her, biting her lower lip; her endless legs wrapped around his waist as he carried her past the dirty dishes and empty beer bottles on the coffee table to his unmade king bed. She laughed with her arms outstretched to him as her bottom hit the mattress.
“No laughing, this is serious business,” he said, and kissed her generous familiar lips. Her ebony skin smelled of coconut moisturizer as he buried his head between her breasts. His lips found her left nipple ring before his head moved in between her thighs. Afterward, they fell asleep in each other’s arms, his right arm over her waist. When they awoke the room had darkened. She kissed him and got dressed by the bed, inching into a black dress that clung to every curve.
“Don’t go.” He bounded out of bed and his six-foot-four frame pinned her arms against the wall. He bent down to nuzzle her slender neck, his soft platinum hair against her. “Come on baby, spend the night, spread those legs for me again.”
“I’ve gotta work, you gorgeous man. I’ll stay next time, I promise.” She kissed his forehead. “You go have fun tonight.”
When he walked her out of his downtown apartment he felt cooler air against his pale face. It was the first break in the humid summer heat of Memphis and his polo shirt wasn’t drenched in sweat, for a change. He navigated over the South Main Trolley’s train tracks once it rumbled past and caught a glance of the Bass Pro sign on the Memphis pyramid. He took The Peabody hotel’s elevator to the rooftop, and nodded a sign of recognition to the bouncer as he passed him. Among the white sorority girl cliques in stilettos, he spotted a solo blonde at a high top table. She stood aligned in four-inch heels, a woman who’d never suffered from back pain, or perhaps any pain. She was busying herself with the decorative carnations on the table, her manicured fingers rearranging them to her liking. Her hair, even lighter than his, was pulled into a high ponytail, and she wore red lips and cat-like eyeliner. Her skirt was how he liked it too, nice and short; she had the toned, limber legs of the Ole Miss cheerleaders he used to bang. Rah Rah Rah. Even though she was youthful, her face showed the beginning of crow’s feet. This girl liked to party, he thought. The Harahan Bridge wouldn’t be the only thing getting lit tonight.
“One dirty martini and a white wine.” He flashed his blue eyes at the petite bartender. His particular brand of Scandinavian good looks opened doors and women easily. With drinks in hand, he strode over to his mark. Holding out the wine glass he said, “If I offered you a drink, would your husband kill me?”
Her glance was emotionless. “I’m no wifey.”
“Lucky me, then.” He stepped closer. “Would you consider
celebrating with me?”
The woman took the offered glass from his hand as her gaze fell onto him, taking in his clean-shaven face with the slight overbite, his broad shoulders, and his Rolex watch. With her heels, he was just a few inches taller than her. His long fingers were free of any wedding band.
“So what’re you celebrating?” She sipped the wine. “Are you overjoyed this ancient bridge is lighting up?”
“Not quite.” He finished his glass in two sips. “A difficult case went well today.”
“You a lawyer?”
“Neurosurgeon.” He put his glass down on the table and saw a faint smile appear on her full lips. This is going to be so easy, he thought. Not as easy as paying Crystal, but he liked an occasional freebie.
When she started talking about her job as a sales rep, he focused on her lips until he spotted a stunning brunette across the rooftop. Roxanne Roth. His medical school classmate’s long dark hair was down; she wore a fitted red sweater and was talking to a man with a diamond earring and tattoos. She had gotten even hotter, he thought. When she glanced in his direction, he winked at her. Roxanne waved and turned back to the guy she was with. Since when did a piece like Roxanne Roth slum it, he thought.
His phone vibrated. It was the surgical intensive care unit calling, again. He put it on silent and slipped it back inside his jeans front pocket. The sunset had created a red glow above the mighty Mississippi River. He saw the beauty as proof of his invincibility; like the weather, he was unstoppable.
As Dr. D.K. Webb walked out of the hospital at noon, the surge of power he’d felt using just the tips of his fingers still coursed through him, as did euphoria. He’d twisted the pedicle screw into the exact spot along her spine, confirming with X-ray that she’d wake up a different woman because of his work. Got another one, he thought, as he mounted his motorcycle.
He revved up his customized P-51 Combat Fighter, a motorcycle built from aircraft-grade futuristic aluminum, and sold for the median cost of a local home. The level of menace underneath him echoed his mood as he weaved through the sparse weekend traffic, his license plate MD4SPINE a blur to the occasional cars he passed. Gun it and run it, he thought.
Crystal greeted him wearing nothing but a white thong and a smile when he walked into the apartment. He kissed her, biting her lower lip; her endless legs wrapped around his waist as he carried her past the dirty dishes and empty beer bottles on the coffee table to his unmade king bed. She laughed with her arms outstretched to him as her bottom hit the mattress.
“No laughing, this is serious business,” he said, and kissed her generous familiar lips. Her ebony skin smelled of coconut moisturizer as he buried his head between her breasts. His lips found her left nipple ring before his head moved in between her thighs. Afterward, they fell asleep in each other’s arms, his right arm over her waist. When they awoke the room had darkened. She kissed him and got dressed by the bed, inching into a black dress that clung to every curve.
“Don’t go.” He bounded out of bed and his six-foot-four frame pinned her arms against the wall. He bent down to nuzzle her slender neck, his soft platinum hair against her. “Come on baby, spend the night, spread those legs for me again.”
“I’ve gotta work, you gorgeous man. I’ll stay next time, I promise.” She kissed his forehead. “You go have fun tonight.”
When he walked her out of his downtown apartment he felt cooler air against his pale face. It was the first break in the humid summer heat of Memphis and his polo shirt wasn’t drenched in sweat, for a change. He navigated over the South Main Trolley’s train tracks once it rumbled past and caught a glance of the Bass Pro sign on the Memphis pyramid. He took The Peabody hotel’s elevator to the rooftop, and nodded a sign of recognition to the bouncer as he passed him. Among the white sorority girl cliques in stilettos, he spotted a solo blonde at a high top table. She stood aligned in four-inch heels, a woman who’d never suffered from back pain, or perhaps any pain. She was busying herself with the decorative carnations on the table, her manicured fingers rearranging them to her liking. Her hair, even lighter than his, was pulled into a high ponytail, and she wore red lips and cat-like eyeliner. Her skirt was how he liked it too, nice and short; she had the toned, limber legs of the Ole Miss cheerleaders he used to bang. Rah Rah Rah. Even though she was youthful, her face showed the beginning of crow’s feet. This girl liked to party, he thought. The Harahan Bridge wouldn’t be the only thing getting lit tonight.
“One dirty martini and a white wine.” He flashed his blue eyes at the petite bartender. His particular brand of Scandinavian good looks opened doors and women easily. With drinks in hand, he strode over to his mark. Holding out the wine glass he said, “If I offered you a drink, would your husband kill me?”
Her glance was emotionless. “I’m no wifey.”
“Lucky me, then.” He stepped closer. “Would you consider
celebrating with me?”
The woman took the offered glass from his hand as her gaze fell onto him, taking in his clean-shaven face with the slight overbite, his broad shoulders, and his Rolex watch. With her heels, he was just a few inches taller than her. His long fingers were free of any wedding band.
“So what’re you celebrating?” She sipped the wine. “Are you overjoyed this ancient bridge is lighting up?”
“Not quite.” He finished his glass in two sips. “A difficult case went well today.”
“You a lawyer?”
“Neurosurgeon.” He put his glass down on the table and saw a faint smile appear on her full lips. This is going to be so easy, he thought. Not as easy as paying Crystal, but he liked an occasional freebie.
When she started talking about her job as a sales rep, he focused on her lips until he spotted a stunning brunette across the rooftop. Roxanne Roth. His medical school classmate’s long dark hair was down; she wore a fitted red sweater and was talking to a man with a diamond earring and tattoos. She had gotten even hotter, he thought. When she glanced in his direction, he winked at her. Roxanne waved and turned back to the guy she was with. Since when did a piece like Roxanne Roth slum it, he thought.
His phone vibrated. It was the surgical intensive care unit calling, again. He put it on silent and slipped it back inside his jeans front pocket. The sunset had created a red glow above the mighty Mississippi River. He saw the beauty as proof of his invincibility; like the weather, he was unstoppable.
Website-Twitter-Instagram
Dr. Shira Shiloah is an anesthesiologist and author of the debut thriller, Emergence, that details Dr. D.K. Webb, a neurosurgeon who intentionally maims and kills his patients in Memphis, Tennessee. Dr. Shiloah bring both a personal and professional perspective for what may happen when a sociopath holds a scalpel.
Giveaway
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