Format: 400 pages, Hardcover
Release Date: May 26, 2026
Publisher: Minotaur Books
Source: Publisher
Genre: Thriller, Suspense
Dez Limerick has his considerable skills pushed to the limit when, to rescue a friend, he has to get to—and get into—a state of the art facility on full lockdown, with considerable forces determined to stop him.
Desmond Aloysius Limerick—'Dez' to all who know him—is a man with a shadowy past, certain hard-to-replicate skills, and a reputation as a good man to have when the going gets tough. Dez is doing his best to enjoy his retirement, wandering the country, doing what interests him, and occasionally helping friends when they find themselves needing any of his particular skills—mundane or extraordinary. For Dez was trained as a 'gatekeeper' - someone who can open any door, keep it open, and control who does and does not go through.
It's those skills that are now in demand when the State Department comes calling looking for his help. A multinational scientific research facility on the coast of Newfoundland has gone dark, the facility on full lockdown, and no one can get in or out. No one knows what is going on, but it can't be good. And a close friend of Dez is presumed locked inside the facility along with everyone else.
Even getting to the facility is an insurmountable challenge. The weather has flights grounded, some shadowy group is doing everything they can to impede the rescue team's progress, and hidden enemies are embedded in the rescue team. But anyone who thinks this is more than one man can face has never met Dez Limerick.
.png)
Desmond Aloysius Limerick—'Dez' to all who know him—is a man with a shadowy past, certain hard-to-replicate skills, and a reputation as a good man to have when the going gets tough. Dez is doing his best to enjoy his retirement, wandering the country, doing what interests him, and occasionally helping friends when they find themselves needing any of his particular skills—mundane or extraordinary. For Dez was trained as a 'gatekeeper' - someone who can open any door, keep it open, and control who does and does not go through.
It's those skills that are now in demand when the State Department comes calling looking for his help. A multinational scientific research facility on the coast of Newfoundland has gone dark, the facility on full lockdown, and no one can get in or out. No one knows what is going on, but it can't be good. And a close friend of Dez is presumed locked inside the facility along with everyone else.
Even getting to the facility is an insurmountable challenge. The weather has flights grounded, some shadowy group is doing everything they can to impede the rescue team's progress, and hidden enemies are embedded in the rescue team. But anyone who thinks this is more than one man can face has never met Dez Limerick.
Storm Warning is the Fourth installment in author James Byrne's Dez Limerick series. Desmond “Dez” Aloysius Limerick is a former military “gatekeeper”—a specialist trained to breach any locked entrance, keep it open as long as needed, and control who passes through. In his semi-retirement, he drifts between musical gigs (he plays bass), cooking, and helping friends with his unusual skill set.
When a multinational scientific research facility on the remote Newfoundland coast—the Fuchs Underground Neutrino Collector, tied to both particle physics research and a valuable mineral deposit—goes into full lockdown with total communication blackout, the U.S. State Department and an FBI Hostage Rescue Team recruit him. A personal connection seals the deal: a close friend (Petra Alexandris, a corporate executive tied to the facility’s funding) is among those trapped inside.
Getting there is half the battle. Brutal North Atlantic storms ground flights and force improvisation. Corporate interests try to insert themselves onto the mission. Saboteurs and mercenaries interfere. Hidden threats exist within the rescue team itself. An assassin from Dez’s past (the diminutive, highly skilled Ash, whom he previously spared) reappears in disguise. Once at the facility, the team faces a sealed, multi-level underground complex that has been taken over by ruthless operators.
Extreme weather, technological barriers, and human adversaries push Dez’s ingenuity, physical skills, and moral code to their limits. Byrne’s plotting is propulsive. The novel opens with a tense Paris set-piece that plants seeds for later events, then shifts into the main mission with little downtime. Action sequences feel cinematic yet inventive: Dez relies as much on quick thinking, environmental improvisation, and technical knowledge (he has a background in physics and engineering) as on combat.
The blizzard-lashed setting and the claustrophobic underground facility add authentic atmospheric pressure; the cold, isolation, and mechanical constraints heighten every confrontation. Dez himself remains the series’ greatest asset. He is tough and capable without the grim invincibility of some thriller protagonists. He cracks wise under pressure, shows compassion (sometimes to a fault), underestimates no one, and operates by a personal code rather than pure professionalism or vengeance.
Supporting characters are sharply drawn: the poker-playing State Department official, her protective detail, the assassin Ash (whose perspective and backstory add layers), and various corporate and mercenary antagonists. Byrne weaves in threads from prior books without requiring full series knowledge, though returning readers will appreciate the continuity and character development. It is not perfect.
Like many entries in the “one highly skilled operator against stacked odds” subgenre, it asks for occasional suspension of disbelief. Some villains lean toward the diabolical or over-the-top. A late twist, while effective at setting up future possibilities, struck at least one reviewer as somewhat contrived. These are minor quibbles in a book whose primary goal is relentless entertainment. Fans of Jack Reacher, Mission: Impossible-style set pieces, or inventive action heroes will find a lot to enjoy
.png)
CHAPTER 1
TODAY
Desmond Aloysius Limerick ties a red apron around his white tunic and stares at the hemp bag on the butcher-block table. “What’s all this, then?”
Sly Colehouse is tying her very long dreads into a single rope that hangs down to the small of her back. Some of the dreads are dyed red and blue. She’s just returned from the Monday farmers market in Queens. She says, “Leeks.”
“How many d’you need?”
She says, “All of them.”
Desmond—Dez to his friends—laughs. “Jay-sus, girl! How many did ye buy?”
She smiles. “All of them.”
She laughs at the face he makes. She reaches over and touches his biceps through his white, button-down cook’s tunic. “Ahhh. Are the nasty old leeks too much for your big muscly arms?”
“Y’know, there’s a reason I retired young,” he grumbles, reaching for his paring knife, “so nobody can order me around.”
* * *
Three weeks ago, Dez was enjoying the New York art scene, picking up some gigs as a bass player and pianist, when one of his bandmates told him about the Cheshire Cat. The owners were running into some trouble with a protection racket, and would Dez be willing to help? Dez has no love for bullies. He met the owners, plus the up-and-coming chef, Sly, and quickly agreed to help.
His second day there, the dudes running protection showed up. Dez chatted them up in the alley in the back, explaining that the owners wished no further visits from the gentlemen. They talked a bit. Dez returned to the kitchen and called an ambulance for them. And that was all of that. They never returned.
* * *
That was two weeks ago. Dez has been hanging around just to be on the safe side, and because he surprised himself by falling in love with the rhythm of being a cook in a high-end restaurant. He’s learning things every day. Plus, he has nowhere else to be. Why not be here?
Also, as luck would have it, Sly Colehouse has taken to the notion of sleeping with him. No strings, ships passing in the night, as it were. She’s quite a lovely bird, and she makes him laugh. This arrangement is working out quite splendidly.
He’s renting a tiny room, really, no more than a bedsitter, from a plump and pleasant Englishwoman, a Mrs. Welliver, not four blocks from the restaurant. She favors paint-speckled overalls and Crocs, and she smiles incessantly, apple-cheeked. She ribs Dez about his “lady friend” staying over. Dez thinks she’s a hoot.
One day he finds her struggling with the door to the apartment building’s cellar. She rattles the handle, yanking on the door.
“Morning, Mrs. Welliver. Need a hand?”
She says, “Are you any good with doors, Desmond?”
Dez laughs. “A bit.”
* * *
It’s late morning, and the kitchen of the Cheshire Cat has obtained the proper level of insanity. It’s hot and humid. Sly Colehouse barks orders, and her four cooks hop to. Sly is the chef de cuisine. She calls the shots, and everyone does as told.
Dez stands out among the five people working the kitchen. First, he has the least experience and the least talent, having only worked as a short-order cook a few times in his life, among many other jobs. Second, he’s from the UK, and the others are all from somewhere along the Eastern Seaboard. Third, he’s put together like a bulldozer. It took Sly ages to find a chef’s tunic big enough for his neck, chest, and biceps.
“Gonna get rich!” Sly sings out from where she’s deveining shrimp.
The four cooks shout, “Oui, chef!”
“Gonna get me that Michelin star!”
“Oui, chef!”
“Gonna beat Bobby Fucking Flay!”
“Oui, chef!”
The call-and-response is something Sly Colehouse gets going most days, within an hour of the hostess opening the front of the shop. Her team cracks up, going along with it. There are only thirty tables at the Cheshire Cat. Thirty of the thirty will fill for lunch. And for dinner; the tables will turn over thrice. And so on and so on. It opened five months ago and the place is all the rage in this part of New York City.
* * *
The lunch rush goes by in a sweaty blur. The place shuts down from two to four to restock and to prepare for whatever entrées Sly has conjured up for that day; they differ often. Dez gulps water, joshes with the others.
Natasha, a honey blonde who serves as the hostess, steps into the kitchen. “Dez? There’s a guy in a suit here to see you.”
Sly doesn’t look up from dicing shallots at her station. “If it’s a cop, pretend you don’t speak English. I’ve heard you talk; it’s mostly true.”
Dez washes his hands and hangs a towel over his shoulder and steps out into the front of the house.
A guy is waiting for him. Dez’s eyes pop wide. “Special Agent! Now there’s a nice surprise!”
Tom Fairweather is a team leader of the FBI’s elite Hostage Rescue Team. He and Dez had met earlier in the year.
The man is a bit of a legend. He’s only in his late forties but with prematurely gray hair. He’s not that tall, not that strongly built. He has largish ears and downturned eyes. No one alive has ever heard him shout or swear or express anger or anxiousness. He leads the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s number one counterterrorism force but to look at him, you’d assume he was an accountant.
He offers his hand. “Mr. Limerick. How are you?”
They shake. “Nary a complaint. Surprised to see yez.”
Fairweather nods. “We have a door we can’t open. I could use a gatekeeper.”
Dez says, “How long’s it likely t’take? The dinner rush starts soon.”
Tom Fairweather says, “It’s in a remote part of Canada. It’s in the path of a series of very nasty North Atlantic storms. And we suspect we’ll meet violence.”
Dez says, “Best get my coat.”
* * *
Dez returns to the kitchen and tells Sly Colehouse. She leads him out to the little corridor for some privacy, doffing her apron. She hugs him. “Is this goodbye?”
He hugs her back. “Likely. An’ the restaurant’s safe now.”
She arranges her dreads over one shoulder. “Dez. Look. Ah, this isn’t easy to say. This thing between us? It’s—”
Dez smiles. “Run its course?”
Her shoulders drop in relief. “Yeah. Probably. I think. You okay?”
He hugs her again. “Am. You’re amazing, but aye. I’m fine.”
She buries her head in his chest. “Thank you so much. For everything. Now get out of my kitchen and make room for a real cook.”
“You know I saved your restaurant from the ravages of evil men.”
She pecks him on the cheek, palms on his chest. “Yeah, but I tasted your béchamel, too. It evens out.”
Dez laughs and heads to the front of the house. “Ta, love. Be well.”
TODAY
Desmond Aloysius Limerick ties a red apron around his white tunic and stares at the hemp bag on the butcher-block table. “What’s all this, then?”
Sly Colehouse is tying her very long dreads into a single rope that hangs down to the small of her back. Some of the dreads are dyed red and blue. She’s just returned from the Monday farmers market in Queens. She says, “Leeks.”
“How many d’you need?”
She says, “All of them.”
Desmond—Dez to his friends—laughs. “Jay-sus, girl! How many did ye buy?”
She smiles. “All of them.”
She laughs at the face he makes. She reaches over and touches his biceps through his white, button-down cook’s tunic. “Ahhh. Are the nasty old leeks too much for your big muscly arms?”
“Y’know, there’s a reason I retired young,” he grumbles, reaching for his paring knife, “so nobody can order me around.”
* * *
Three weeks ago, Dez was enjoying the New York art scene, picking up some gigs as a bass player and pianist, when one of his bandmates told him about the Cheshire Cat. The owners were running into some trouble with a protection racket, and would Dez be willing to help? Dez has no love for bullies. He met the owners, plus the up-and-coming chef, Sly, and quickly agreed to help.
His second day there, the dudes running protection showed up. Dez chatted them up in the alley in the back, explaining that the owners wished no further visits from the gentlemen. They talked a bit. Dez returned to the kitchen and called an ambulance for them. And that was all of that. They never returned.
* * *
That was two weeks ago. Dez has been hanging around just to be on the safe side, and because he surprised himself by falling in love with the rhythm of being a cook in a high-end restaurant. He’s learning things every day. Plus, he has nowhere else to be. Why not be here?
Also, as luck would have it, Sly Colehouse has taken to the notion of sleeping with him. No strings, ships passing in the night, as it were. She’s quite a lovely bird, and she makes him laugh. This arrangement is working out quite splendidly.
He’s renting a tiny room, really, no more than a bedsitter, from a plump and pleasant Englishwoman, a Mrs. Welliver, not four blocks from the restaurant. She favors paint-speckled overalls and Crocs, and she smiles incessantly, apple-cheeked. She ribs Dez about his “lady friend” staying over. Dez thinks she’s a hoot.
One day he finds her struggling with the door to the apartment building’s cellar. She rattles the handle, yanking on the door.
“Morning, Mrs. Welliver. Need a hand?”
She says, “Are you any good with doors, Desmond?”
Dez laughs. “A bit.”
* * *
It’s late morning, and the kitchen of the Cheshire Cat has obtained the proper level of insanity. It’s hot and humid. Sly Colehouse barks orders, and her four cooks hop to. Sly is the chef de cuisine. She calls the shots, and everyone does as told.
Dez stands out among the five people working the kitchen. First, he has the least experience and the least talent, having only worked as a short-order cook a few times in his life, among many other jobs. Second, he’s from the UK, and the others are all from somewhere along the Eastern Seaboard. Third, he’s put together like a bulldozer. It took Sly ages to find a chef’s tunic big enough for his neck, chest, and biceps.
“Gonna get rich!” Sly sings out from where she’s deveining shrimp.
The four cooks shout, “Oui, chef!”
“Gonna get me that Michelin star!”
“Oui, chef!”
“Gonna beat Bobby Fucking Flay!”
“Oui, chef!”
The call-and-response is something Sly Colehouse gets going most days, within an hour of the hostess opening the front of the shop. Her team cracks up, going along with it. There are only thirty tables at the Cheshire Cat. Thirty of the thirty will fill for lunch. And for dinner; the tables will turn over thrice. And so on and so on. It opened five months ago and the place is all the rage in this part of New York City.
* * *
The lunch rush goes by in a sweaty blur. The place shuts down from two to four to restock and to prepare for whatever entrées Sly has conjured up for that day; they differ often. Dez gulps water, joshes with the others.
Natasha, a honey blonde who serves as the hostess, steps into the kitchen. “Dez? There’s a guy in a suit here to see you.”
Sly doesn’t look up from dicing shallots at her station. “If it’s a cop, pretend you don’t speak English. I’ve heard you talk; it’s mostly true.”
Dez washes his hands and hangs a towel over his shoulder and steps out into the front of the house.
A guy is waiting for him. Dez’s eyes pop wide. “Special Agent! Now there’s a nice surprise!”
Tom Fairweather is a team leader of the FBI’s elite Hostage Rescue Team. He and Dez had met earlier in the year.
The man is a bit of a legend. He’s only in his late forties but with prematurely gray hair. He’s not that tall, not that strongly built. He has largish ears and downturned eyes. No one alive has ever heard him shout or swear or express anger or anxiousness. He leads the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s number one counterterrorism force but to look at him, you’d assume he was an accountant.
He offers his hand. “Mr. Limerick. How are you?”
They shake. “Nary a complaint. Surprised to see yez.”
Fairweather nods. “We have a door we can’t open. I could use a gatekeeper.”
Dez says, “How long’s it likely t’take? The dinner rush starts soon.”
Tom Fairweather says, “It’s in a remote part of Canada. It’s in the path of a series of very nasty North Atlantic storms. And we suspect we’ll meet violence.”
Dez says, “Best get my coat.”
* * *
Dez returns to the kitchen and tells Sly Colehouse. She leads him out to the little corridor for some privacy, doffing her apron. She hugs him. “Is this goodbye?”
He hugs her back. “Likely. An’ the restaurant’s safe now.”
She arranges her dreads over one shoulder. “Dez. Look. Ah, this isn’t easy to say. This thing between us? It’s—”
Dez smiles. “Run its course?”
Her shoulders drop in relief. “Yeah. Probably. I think. You okay?”
He hugs her again. “Am. You’re amazing, but aye. I’m fine.”
She buries her head in his chest. “Thank you so much. For everything. Now get out of my kitchen and make room for a real cook.”
“You know I saved your restaurant from the ravages of evil men.”
She pecks him on the cheek, palms on his chest. “Yeah, but I tasted your béchamel, too. It evens out.”
Dez laughs and heads to the front of the house. “Ta, love. Be well.”
No comments:
Post a Comment