When I was a kid my dad and I would have “action movie Tuesday”. My mom had board meetings on Tuesday nights, so we would rent movies we knew she would have no interest in. The only criteria was that something had to blow up, it had to take place in outer space, or intrigue, national security and/or espionage was involved in some way. If superhero movies were as big back then as they are now, I would have insisted we watch every Marvel movie on repeat. To this day they are my favorite escape.
When I wrote The Chase I used similar criteria insofar as I knew I wanted there to be lots of action and I wanted it to be fun. I also knew I wanted there to be a sequel. Even at the beginning of my storytelling, when I was just meeting Holt Lasher and Isabelle Rochat and the rest of the gang, I knew their story was not one that could be told in a single book. But wanting to write a sequel and having a good plot to fill a second book are entirely different things.
Luckily for me, a few years ago my car was stolen and Pedal to the Metal came into being. To be clear, I saw nothing lucky about the situation at the time. My wife and I had gotten married less than a week prior, had returned from our honeymoon less than 48 hours earlier, and were up at an ungodly early hour that morning waiting for movers to take all of our earthly possessions off to our new home to enjoy wedded bliss. Instead I resisted the urge to run down our street in my boxers (coffee had been a greater priority than pants that morning) looking for my car, which was long gone, and had a morning date with a Providence police officer (pants were a priority at that point).
Sadly, there was no happy ending for my little Acura Integra. Holt, or Isabelle, did not swoop in to save the day (too bad). Dubs had not taken my car for a joy ride with Max (they would have had fun, it was a great car). The only explosions were me losing my temper a time or two with the insurance company. But, as my wife and I stared at the shell of my poor car after they found it, with no engine or sellable part left, full of beer cans, and inexplicably the creepiest doll I’ve ever seen, she looked at me and said “this would make a great story. You should write about it.” And so I did.