A Cowboy State of Mind

 

by Jennie Marts

 

Publication Date: 6/30/2020

 

 

Synopsis

 

The town of Creedence, Colorado, gets involved in horse rescue in bestseller Jennie Marts’ brilliant new series

Zane Taylor has a gift for communicating with animals, particularly horses, but he’s at a loss when it comes to women. He’s a scarred and battered loner who has sworn off love—except he can’t seem to stay away from Bryn Callahan.

Bryn Callahan has a heart for strays, as evidenced by the assembly of abandoned animals that have found their way to her doorstep. But she is through trying to save damaged men. She vows to date only nice guys, which is a category that does not include Zane Taylor. Too bad he’s the one who sets her pulse racing every time she’s around him.

A chance encounter with a horse headed for slaughter brings Zane and Bryn together. Although starting a horse rescue ranch wasn’t in the plan, now Zane and Bryn have a chance to save not just the animals, but maybe each other…

 

 

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Excerpt

 

The still-nameless dog jumped into the cab as Zane Taylor opened the door of his pickup, and he absently patted its head and rubbed behind its ears. The dog leaned into him and got that blissed-out look on its face, and Zane’s tension eased a little as it always did when he interacted with an animal. The late spring sun warmed Zane’s back, and as soon as he turned his attention away from the dog, he felt the weight of the decision he bore on his shoulders. His former boss, Maggie, had been nagging him to come back to his old job on her Montana ranch. She’d taken in a herd of wild stallions, and she needed him. He’d gotten by so far with vague replies, but it was time to give her an answer. Time to get back on the road and out of Creedence. Except the reason he was so fired up to leave was also the reason he wasn’t ready to walk away.

He shrugged the soreness from his shoulders. He’d had a good morning with Rebel, the headstrong black stallion he’d been working with for weeks now. Maybe the horse could feel the warmth in the air as well. Although it was Colorado, so they could still get a snowstorm or two before spring reluctantly slid into summer.

“Nice job today, horse whisperer,” Logan Rivers, his current boss, and friend, hollered from the corral where he was putting another horse through the paces.

Zane waved a hand in his direction, ignoring the comment, as he turned the engine over and pulled the door shut. He wasn’t fond of the nickname, even though Logan had been using it since they were in high school and working summers at Logan’s family’s ranch.

Zane could admit grudgingly that he did have a gift with horses, especially the dangerous or wild ones, somehow connecting with the animals better than he ever did with people.

The black-and-white border collie mix rested her head on Zane’s leg, and he stroked her neck as he drove toward Creedence, where no one was a stranger and everyone knew not just your business, but your cousin’s as well.

He lowered the windows and turned on the radio, contemplating the errands he needed to run after he grabbed a plate of biscuits and gravy at the diner. The thought made his mouth water. So did the thought of hopefully seeing a certain blond waitress who had been taking up way too many of his thoughts these last few months.

He slowed, his brow furrowing, as he recognized that same waitress’s car sitting empty on the side of the road. The car was an old nondescript blue sedan, but there was no mistaking the colorful bumper stickers stuck to the trunk. A bright blue one read “What if the hokey-pokey really is what it’s all about?” and the hot-pink one above the back taillight read “It was me. I let the dogs out.”

His heart rate quickened as his gaze went from the empty vehicle to a hundred yards up the road, where a woman walked along the side of the highway, her ponytail bouncing with each step and a light-colored dog keeping pace at her heels. Which was pretty impressive, in and of itself, since the dog had only three legs.

But then, everything about Bryn Callahan was kind of bouncy, and she was just as impressive as her dog. The woman was always upbeat and positive. Even now, with her car sitting busted on the side of the road, her steps still seemed to spring, and the bright sunlight glinted off her blond hair.

He drove past the abandoned car and onto the dirt shoulder as he slowed to a stop beside her. “Need a ride?”

She turned, her expression wary, then her face broke into a grin, and it was like the sun shining through the clouds after a rainstorm.

“Hey, Zane,” she said, the smile reaching all the way into her voice as she grasped the door handle. She looked steadily into his eyes, her gaze never wavering, never sliding sideways to stare at the three-inch, jagged scar starting at the corner of his eye and slicing down his cheek. Most people couldn’t keep their eyes off it, but Bryn acted as if it wasn’t there at all. “I sure do. I was supposed to start my shift at the diner ten minutes ago.”

She opened the door, and the dog bounded in, hitting the floorboards, then springing onto the seat to wiggle and sniff noses with the border collie. They could have powered a wind farm, the way their tails were wagging and their little butts were shaking.

“Hey, Lucky.” He leaned in as the dog leapt over the collie’s back and into Zane’s lap, where it proceeded to drench his face in fevered licks and puppy kisses. Lucky was like a hyper three-legged Tigger as he bounced from Zane’s lap back to the collie, over to Bryn, and back to Zane.

“Lucky, get off him,” Bryn scolded. She tried to push her way into the truck as she got her own slobbery reception from the collie.

Zane chuckled and grabbed her hand to help her into the cab. But his laugh stuck in his throat as heat shot down his spine and his mouth went dry. He swallowed and tried to focus on assisting her, instead of staring at the area of bare skin he glimpsed as the top of her dress buckled and gaped from her movement. It was just the side of her neck, but it was the exact spot he’d spent too much time thinking about kissing.

“Silly mutts.” She laughed as she tossed her backpack on the floor and plopped into the seat. Her hand was soft, but her grip was solid, and for a moment, he wondered what would happen if he didn’t let go. “Wow, what a greeting,” she said, as she released his hand to buckle herself in.

Zane’s eyes were drawn to her legs like bees to honey. The woman had great legs, already tan, and muscular and shapely from her work at the diner. Her white cross-trainers were scuffed with the red dirt from the road, and she had a smudge of dust across one ankle that Zane was severely tempted to reach down and brush away so he could let his fingers linger on her skin.

Bryn wore a pink waitress dress, the kind that zips up the front, with a white collar and a little breast pocket, and the fabric hugged her curvy figure in all the right spots. For just a moment, Zane imagined pulling down that zipper—with his teeth. His back started to sweat just thinking about it.

Simmer down, man. He took a deep breath, utilizing the stress-reducing exercise he’d learned in the military, and tried to think of something witty to say. He didn’t usually let himself get carried away with those kinds of fantasies. But he didn’t usually have Bryn in his truck, filling his cab with the sound of her easy laughter and the scent of her skin—traces of honeysuckle and vanilla and the smell of fresh sheets off the line on a warm summer day.

“That dog is serious about kissing. I haven’t had that much action in months.” He winked, then laughed with her, pulling his hand back to ruffle Lucky’s ears as the dog settled into the seat next to the collie. He tried to play it off like a joke, to settle his pounding heart, when what he really wanted to do was pull her into his lap and kiss her face and throat the way Lucky had done to him. Well, not exactly the same way.

Bryn snorted and scratched the ears of the collie, who was softly whining as she pressed into Bryn’s shoulder. “He’s just happy to see you. It’s been a while, ya know?”

“Yeah, I know.” It had, in fact, been months since he’d seen her.

“Well, Lucky has noticed you haven’t been around much.” She dropped her gaze and her voice as she focused on petting the dog. “We both have.”

Both?

“Are you saying you missed me?”

“I didn’t say missed. I said noticed.”

His shoulders slumped. Of course she hadn’t missed him.

She playfully nudged his elbow, and he felt the heat of her skin against his arm.

“Of course I missed you. You all but disappeared after the great Christmas pie bake-off in December.”

He chuckled as he shook his head. “I still can’t believe we made fifteen pies in four hours.”

“I still can’t believe you wore a frilly apron with a glittery cupcake on the front.”

He raised an eyebrow. “What other kind of cupcake is there? And I liked that glittery color. I’m thinking of having it added to the paint job on my truck.”

A laugh burst from her. “I dare you to.”

He let his voice drop and offered her what he hoped was a flirtatious grin. “I do enjoy a good dare.”

She chuckled, then lowered her gaze to the dog’s shoulder, where she scratched its fur. “So, why didn’t I hear from you? Was it something I said or did?”

Yeah, it was everything you did—everything that made me want and hope and wish for something more. “Nah. I was going to call you, but we got real busy at the ranch. Then I heard you started dating some rough-stock cowboy, and I didn’t want to overstep.”

“Is it overstepping to be my friend?”

He cocked his head, eyeing her. “Is that what you want me to be? Your friend?”

“Of course. I didn’t give you my number for you to not call me.”

Wrong question, dumbass. Should have asked her if all she wanted was to be his friend. He offered her a shrug. “I’m not much of a talker.”

“That’s perfect. Because I can talk up a blue streak, and I’m always on the lookout for a good listener.”

He chuckled. “I can do that. I can probably even throw in an occasional grunt of agreement just so you know I’m paying attention.”

She giggled softly, and the sound swirled in his chest, melting into him like molasses on a warm pancake. “That sounds great.”

 

Excerpted from Cowboy State of Mind by Jennie Marts. © 2020 by Jennie Marts. Used with permission of the publisher, Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc. All rights reserved.

 

 

About the Author

 

Jennie Marts is the USA Today bestselling author of award-winning books filled with love, laughter, and always a happily ever after. She is living her own happily ever after with her husband, two dogs, and a parakeet that loves to tweet to the oldies, in the mountains of Colorado.

 

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The Rebel Wears Plaid

 

by Eliza Knight

 

Publication Date: 6/30/2020

 

Synopsis

 

Toran Fraser encounters a mysterious rebel, and he can’t resist being recruited to her cause…

Toran Fraser is hell-bent on taking down the Jacobites. On a late-night mission, he’s intercepted by a woman known only as “Mistress J,” who’s determined to put Prince Charlie back on the throne of Scotland. Toran can’t resist her appeal—especially with her pistol pointed at his heart—and suddenly finds himself joining the rebellion…

By day, highborn Jenny Mackintosh runs her estate in the Highlands. By night, she’s one of Prince Charlie’s Angels—a band of Jacobite rebels. Scoffing at mortal danger, she raises coin, delivers weapons, and recruits soldiers for the rebellion. When she encounters a handsome Highlander who is clearly on the run, she is more than a little intrigued. She isn’t expecting to be his enemy…

 

 

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Excerpt

 

Toran jerked around. Suddenly, figures melted out from the shadows. Scots, but in the dark and dressed as they were, he couldn’t make out what clan they hailed from. At the center of the five men stood a lass. Aye, she wore trews and had her hair up under a cap, wisps of golden strands peeking through, but there was no hiding the curves beneath her shirt and waistcoat. In the moonlight filtering through the trees, she looked bonnie—high, arching cheekbones, a mouth that puckered into a frown. But what struck him most was the spark of fire in her gaze. Her eyes reflected the light of the moon, almost making her look like she was glowing.

And the muzzle of her pistol was pointed right at him. Outlaws… Of all the bloody luck. He reached for his own pistol tucked into his belt.

“Dinna move,” the lass said. Her voice was throaty, sensual. “Else I put a bullet through your heart.”

A slow grin formed on Toran’s face. “What’s to say I won’t put a bullet in yours first?”

The lass looked down at Archie and then flicked her gaze back to his. “Ye’re outnumbered. Let’s say ye were willing to pull your weapon before I took my shot, and then ye were to waste your bullet, there’d be five more cutting through ye before ye were able to see the result.” Again, she looked at Archie. “And your friend doesna seem like he will be much help.”

“We’re verra close to the English garrison, lass. Any shot ye make will be a beacon to the dragoons lurking about. And trust me, there are hundreds of them headed this way as we speak.”

“Is that so?” She glanced at Archie once more. “A prison break? So ye two are rebels, aye?”

Toran didn’t answer. Let her come to her own conclusions.

“We have horses.” She kept her gaze on his, and he had the intense urge to draw closer. “Ye and your friend can have one when we return to my camp—for a price. Why not donate your coin to the cause and join us? We’ve a need for more rebels.”

Toran did not want to join her. Now, if she’d asked him to join her for some mutual warmth under a plaid, that would be another story. Then again, she had a point about the bullets. And he truly did not want to die.

“I’m guessing from your current circumstances ye are in need of a helping hand, sir.” Her voice was smooth, even melodic, but still filled with authority. And considering that she was the one speaking, she certainly gave the impression that she was the one in charge. Fascinating.

A group of men led by a woman? Not a common thing, and intensely intriguing. Whoever she was, she had ballocks as full of steel as his own. And if he weren’t trapped in the woods with her, a hundred redcoats on his tail, he might have asked her to join him for a dram.

“Who are ye?” Toran asked.

A soft laugh escaped her, and her hand waved dismissively. “Not yet, sir. Ye’ll have to prove yourself first.”

Prove himself? He gritted his teeth. “All right, we’ll join ye.” There really was no other choice. He and Archie needed a quick escape, and her horse would provide that. Just because he was taking her up on the offer now didn’t mean he had to stick it out. In fact, as soon as he could, he’d steal the horse and somehow get Archie back to Fraser lands where he could make certain the rest of his family was safe from Boyd.

“Good.” She nodded to Dirk. “Search them for weapons, and then help the wounded man onto your horse.”

Toran stood still for the inspection, gritting his teeth as his weapons were removed. “I’ve said we’d join ye. Why then are ye treating me like a prisoner?”

The lass cocked her head to the side, a slight grin curling her upper lip. “We must first see that ye are trustworthy.” With an added challenge echoing in her words, she said, “Ye can ride with me. And dinna try any tricks, else ye find yourself verra dead.”

The lass didn’t beat around the bush, and there was no hint of humor in her tone at all. She meant what she said.

Toran climbed onto the back of her horse, his cold, wet body flush to her warmer, dry back. Beneath the icy exterior was a lass full of lush curves. Mo chreach… Good heavens, but she felt good. Hesitantly, he placed an arm around her waist.

She shuddered. “Blast, but ye’re soaked,” she hissed. “Ye should have warned me. And ye smell like the devil’s own chamber pot.”

Toran chuckled. “A hazard of escape, lass.”

Her back straightened, and she leaned forward, away from him. “Ye can call me Mistress J.”

Mistress J? Why did that sound familiar?

“And ye are?” she urged.

“I’m called Toran,” he said slowly as realization struck him. The night had taken a very interesting turn. For he was holding onto the woman he suspected might be responsible for his mother’s death.

 

Excerpted from The Rebel Wears Plaid by Eliza Knight. © 2020 by Eliza Knight. Used with permission of the publisher, Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc. All rights reserved.

 

 

About the Author

 

ELIZA KNIGHT is an award-winning and USA Today bestselling author of over fifty sizzling historical romances. Under the name E. Knight, she’s known for riveting tales that cross landscapes around the world. When not reading, writing, or researching, she chases after her three children. In her spare time she likes daydreaming, wine-tasting, traveling, hiking, and visiting with family and friends. She lives in Maryland.

 

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Synopsis

 

Private investigators Liz Talbot and Nate Andrews thought they’d put Darius Baker’s troubles to rest—then his recently discovered son ropes him into a hemp farm investment with his college buddies. When a beloved Charleston professor—and potential investor—is murdered, Liz and Nate discover Darius keeps the PIs on speed dial.

A shocking number of people had reasons to want the genteel, bowtie wearing, tea-drinking professor dead. Was it one of his many girlfriends or a disgruntled student? Or perhaps Murray was killed because his failure to invest meant the hemp farm trio’s dreams were going up in smoke?

Though Liz’s long-dead best friend, Colleen, warns her the stakes are far higher than Liz imagines, she is hellbent on finding the no-good killer among the bevy of suspects. But will the price of justice be more than Liz can bear?

Take a virtual vacation to Charleston in Susan M. Boyer’s latest Southern charmer, Lowcountry Boondoggle … It’s a trip you don’t want to miss.

 

 

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Excerpt

 

The dead are audacious sorts. Take my best friend, Colleen. I’m not saying she’s brave. She is, of course, but you’d expect that, I suppose. The thing virtually all mortals fear most is death—either their own or someone else’s. Colleen cleared that hurdle our junior year in high school, when she downed a bottle of tequila and went swimming in Breach Inlet. She’s fearless, all right, but what I’m saying here is that Colleen has abandoned all sense of decorum. I’ve resigned myself to the fact that she’ll forever be a teenager. But her behavior at times is more fitting that of a six-year-old.

By way of example, on a Monday morning in late October, Nate and I were meeting with a client, Darius Baker, and his attorneys, Fraser Rutledge and Eli Radcliffe, in their elegantly appointed offices. Rutledge & Radcliffe is one of the most distinguished law firms on Broad Street in Charleston, South Carolina. The furniture in that office is museum quality, the sound so utterly dampened by luxurious rugs you almost feel the need to whisper like you’re in church. Colleen sat cross-legged like a child on the corner of Fraser’s massive desk. In her ankle-length tangerine dress with Swiss polka dots, her long red hair loose about her shoulders, she brought to mind a big orange tabby cat.

Talbot & Andrews Investigations—that’s the name of our PI firm—had an arrangement with Rutledge & Radcliffe. We didn’t work for them directly, though they’d tried to hire us many times.

But Nate, my husband and partner, and I had an open-ended contract, and lately, a sizable chunk of our workload came through Rutledge & Radcliffe. In a switch, we’d referred Darius Baker to them recently when he had an unfortunate run of luck and a pressing need for a highly skilled local criminal attorney.

That particular morning, Darius, our celebrity client, had requested the meeting with both his legal and his investigative teams. Darius always covered his bases. The five of us, Nate, me, Darius, Fraser Rutledge and Eli Radcliffe, congregated in Fraser’s office to put our heads together regarding the developing situation with Darius’s long-lost love child. Let me tell you, between the colorful personalities present, the sensitive subject matter, and the unconstrained teenaged guardian spirit, it was a potentially combustible situation.

Fraser Alston Rutledge III may have been the most comfortable person in his own skin I’d ever met. A study in contrasts, he clearly came from very old Charleston money. His seersucker suit was light blue, his bowtie and suspenders navy. The oil painting on his cypress-paneled office wall featured him with his Brittany spaniels. But his gelled hair, spiked on top, was not a style favored amongst the South of Broad set.

Fraser sat back in his executive leather chair and gave Darius a look that called his common sense into serious question. “Mr. Baker, Eli and I have deliberated over the developments you outlined by telephone, but for the sake of ensuring we are all on the same page here, let me see if I have the details of your predicament straight.”

Wearing jeans, a white button-down, and a navy blazer, Darius looked the part of a modern Lowcountry gentleman, which he was.

His smooth skin was the color of fine milk chocolate. He wasn’t quite forty, but he was completely bald. Darius closed his eyes, sighed, moved restlessly in his chair. “Fine.”

Fraser said, “A suspicious fire wiped out Brantley Miller’s entire adoptive family up in Travelers Rest back in March. In August, Mr. Miller contacted you online and indicated that he believed you were related. Subsequently, you ascertained that he is your son. He arrived in Stella Maris in September. Today is October 26. Mr. Miller is living in your home, and you have invested in his business venture with two other young men to grow hemp commercially.” Fraser tasted the word “hemp,” seemed to find it disagreeable.

“Last week,” continued Fraser, “another potential investor in that enterprise, Dr. Murray Hamilton, a beloved local college professor, who is coincidentally the uncle of one of Mr. Miller’s business partners, was murdered in his home over on Montagu Street and his house was subsequently blown to kingdom come, the remnants burned to a pile of ash. His nephew, one Tyler Duval—Mr. Miller’s friend and business associate—has been questioned by the police, and Mr. Miller is concerned that Mr. Duval may be arrested at any moment. Am I in possession of all the salient facts?”

Darius flashed him a pained expression. “Yeah. Sounds like it.”

Fraser leaned forward. “I would not be fulfilling my responsibility to you as a client of this firm if I failed to acquaint you with the many potential exposures you face here.” He proceeded to hold forth for the better part of ten minutes, which he was prone to do.

Bored, Colleen commenced standing on her head. “I wonder if I can hold this as long as he can talk?” Through some magic of hers, her dress defied gravity and didn’t flip over her head.

Eli, Darius, Nate, and I occupied the four deep leather visitor chairs in front of Fraser’s desk. Nate and I were the only ones who could see Colleen, and we ignored her completely. We’d discovered this was often the best strategy. Colleen loved nothing more than to provoke me in front of others, make me respond to her and look like a lunatic to everyone else in the vicinity.

Fraser droned on, oblivious to Colleen’s antics. “Eli and I have discussed this at great length. It is our considered opinion that you, Mr. Baker, and all of your interests, would be best served by keeping Mr. Miller and his friends—this hemp business and the recent untimely death of Professor Hamilton—at arm’s length. Your own legal troubles are not that far behind you. To become embroiled in another murder case at this juncture would be highly imprudent—”
Darius raised both palms and shook his head until Fraser stopped talking. As a relatively new client at Rutledge & Radcliffe, Darius was unaccustomed to listening to someone else talk for such extended periods. He had little patience with Fraser’s affection for the sound of his own voice. Darius looked at each of us in turn, wide-eyed and solemn, first Fraser, then Eli, then Nate, and then me. “I’m gonna be real with y’all.”

Until recently, Darius was the star of a hit reality TV series, Main Street USA. He traveled to a different small town each week, sampled the local food, attended festivals and whatnot, chatted with the local folks, and offered colorful commentary. He was a character, is what I’m saying. And his character spoke in “down home, easygoing, funny, Southern black guy, with a bit of Hollywood,” a patois that was his brand. Darius could no doubt turn that off if he wanted to. But it was rare for him to break character, even now.

Fraser sat back in his chair, raised an elegant eyebrow, and gestured magnanimously. “Well, by all means, Mr. Baker. Do be real with us.”

For her part, Colleen came down off her head and settled back into a cross-legged pose.

Darius continued, “Now, I know y’all have my best interests at heart. And I appreciate that, I do. But we’re talking about my son here. Brantley is my son. You feel me? Family is family. Now, I’m not stupid. I know he might’ve originally got in touch with me ’cause he was all excited about maybe he was gonna get himself some of my money. But we’re gettin’ to know each other. We’re buildin’ a relationship here. And he came to me for help. So I want to help. Now, can y’all help me help him…or not? ’Cause there’s more than one high-dollar law office and more than one set a private investigators in this town.”

Fraser’s brown-and-gold-flecked tiger eyes went hard, but he was silent, an unusual situation to say the least. I liked Darius more all the time. He respected Fraser’s abilities, or we wouldn’t have been there. But Darius wasn’t going to suffer Fraser’s high-handed manner in silence either. I was torn because I agreed with Fraser’s assessment if not his style.

“Darius,” I said, “does it not worry you the teensiest bit that we haven’t been able to rule out Brantley’s involvement in the house fire that killed his entire adoptive family barely more than six months ago?”

“Naw,” he said. “Uh-unh. I believe you tried your best to find something… anything…that would incriminate him in that horrible fire that killed that poor family, but you can’t.”

Nate said, “You make it sound unsavory—like we were trying to frame him, Darius. We’re just doing our due diligence, trying to protect you. You and anyone else on Stella Maris Brantley becomes involved with.”

Stella Maris is the island north of Isle of Palms where Darius and I grew up. He’d recently retired from the Hollywood high life and moved home. Brantley, a son—now twenty years old—had shown up fast on his heels, thanks to the marvels of DNA testing and its use in ancestry research.

“I understand that,” said Darius. “That’s why I continued to pay your bill this last month while you went up to Travelers Rest and looked into all a that. But if I understand what y’all are tellin’ me, you can’t find one thing to tie Brantley to that fire.”

“We can’t,” I said. “But that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s innocent. It may mean he’s very smart.” Brantley had turned up in our hometown out of the blue the second he learned his biological father was an international celebrity. Would he have come lickety-split if Darius had been a busboy? We’d never know. But I was keeping a close eye on him for the foreseeable future.

“Y’all just cynical,” said Darius. “Probably comes with the job. But I refuse to think the worst a him. If y’all had come back and told me you thought he set that fire, even if you couldn’t actually prove it, I could see sending Brantley packin’. But that’s not what you told me.”

“I am afraid I must agree with Miz Talbot and Mr. Andrews,” said Fraser. “Best to err on the side of caution. Especially given this latest development.”

“That’s not a development,” said Darius. “The fire over on Montagu has nothing whatsoever to do with Brantley.”

“As far as you know,” I said. “But he is connected to Professor Hamilton’s death. That’s the only reason you want us to get involved. Hell’s bells—think, Darius. One brand-new son. Two fires involving deaths.”

Darius said, “Brantley ain’t got nothing to do with that professor’s house catching on fire. If Sonny Ravenel thought for a second that he did, Brantley would be sitting over at the jail in North Charleston, just like I was for four long days and three long nights not very long ago. Sonny, he ain’t shy about locking people up.”
Sonny Ravenel was a good friend and a Charleston police detective. Back in September, he’d had no choice but to arrest Darius in the case of his high-school girlfriend—Brantley’s mother’s—murder, but that’s a whole nother story, and all behind us now, thank goodness.

“You’ve got to admit, it looks suspicious,” said Nate. “Brantley and his buddies meet with the professor, Tyler’s uncle, right?”

“That’s right,” said Darius. “They were there last Monday evening.”

“They need money for their hemp business,” said Nate. “The professor is skeptical. He doesn’t give them any money. Then the professor dies and leaves a substantial sum to his nephew, Tyler Duval. And then Murray Hamilton’s house explodes into flames, possibly destroying evidence.”
What was the protocol? Was Murray Hamilton properly referred to as Dr. Hamilton or Professor Hamilton?

Colleen consulted the ceiling, the way she does when she’s using the cosmic version of Google. “Professor Hamilton. Students would address him as Dr. Hamilton. Outside the classroom you use Professor to differentiate him from a medical doctor, though you’ll hear it both ways.”

Thank you.

“I never said it don’t look suspicious,” said Darius. “Of course it looks suspicious. I know all about suspicious, believe you me. If it didn’t look suspicious, I wouldn’t need y’all to help Brantley’s friend out of this mess. Suspicious don’t mean that boy killed nobody. And it definitely don’t mean Brantley burned somebody’s house down.”

Colleen blew a stray lock of hair off her face, looked annoyed.

“I tried to tell y’all…if Darius was in danger, I would know. Right now he’s not.”

 

 

About the Author

 

Susan M. Boyer is the author of the USA TODAY bestselling Liz Talbot mystery series. She was blessed with a quintessential small-town childhood and has had a life-long love affair with books. Susan is grateful to have been gifted with an over-active imagination. She was one of those children whose teachers were always telling her mamma that her talents needed to be “channeled.” She’s been making things up and writing them down her whole life

Susan’s debut novel, Lowcountry Boil, won the 2012 Agatha Award for Best First Novel, the Daphne du Maurier Award for Excellence in Mystery/Suspense, and garnered several other award nominations. The third book in the series, Lowcountry Boneyard, was a Spring 2015 Southern Independent Booksellers Alliance Okra Pick, and was short-listed for the 2016 Pat Conroy Beach Music Mystery Prize.

Lowcountry Book Club was a Summer 2016 SIBA Okra Pick and was short-listed for the 2017 Southern Book Prize in Mystery & Detective Fiction.

Lowcountry Boomerang, the eighth book in the series was released September 3, 2019. Book nine, LOWCOUNTRY BOONDOOGLE, is scheduled to be released June 30, 2020.

Susan loves beaches, Southern food, and small towns where everyone knows everyone, and everyone has crazy relatives. You’ll find all of the above in her novels. She lives in Greenville, SC, with her husband and an inordinate number of houseplants.

 

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Synopsis

 

Aurelia has always valued love and happiness over titles and power. Though her kind-hearted father has allowed her to turn away suitor after suitor in pursuit of a love she cannot yet define, when he dies her choices die with him. Knowing that marrying the elderly governor of a neighboring province can secure her mentally challenged brother’s safety, she gives up on her dream of finding love in return for his protection.

Cassius is the ill-fated captain of the governor’s guard tasked with escorting the Lady Aurelia and her unpleasant aunt to the governor’s estate. Since the soothsayer Tullia foretold an early death for him, Cassius wants nothing more than to keep his hands busy with labor and his heart free from any connections to the world he believes he will be leaving soon. As they work through a series of misfortunes on the road to the governor’s province, the words of the soothsayer start to make sense, and together they find the courage to allow their true destiny to unfold.

 

 

 

 

Excerpt

 

Aurelia watched as Cassius struck again, and again, each strike more forceful than the last. She could see from the way he brought down the sword with each try the mounting tension in his body. Finally, no more than two steps into the field of thorns, Cassius growled a barely audible curse, then turned to face Aurelia. He wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand, his chest visibly rising and falling as he tried to catch his breath.

She knew better than to say anything, and in any case the intensity of his eyes as he looked at her told her everything she needed to know.

As his breathing slowed and his temper cooled, he sheathed his sword and stepped closer to her. “These vines do not intend to be cut today, but perhaps we do not need them to be cut. My lady, please forgive the impropriety of this request, but if you will follow my instructions, I think we may be able to make some progress against this terrible field of thorns.”

Aurelia replied without hesitation. “Ask, and I will do as you say.”

Looking as though he had expected more of a fight, Cassius nodded. “Please, if you would come closer, my lady.”

Ignoring the lightness in her stomach at his request, Aurelia moved closer to him.

“If we cannot cut the stubborn vines, then perhaps we can move them away, far enough and for long enough a time that we may pass by.”

He took his shield in his left hand and held it in front of him. It was an oval piece of wood covered in leather that extended from his shoulders to his knees.

“I will hold my shield in position and move forward through the brambles, as though charging the enemy. If you will walk closely behind me—and I mean closer than my own shadow—then I can be your shield, and we can both get through to the other side. Do you understand?”

“I do,” she began, “but your shield is not big enough to protect you from the thorns.”

“It is true, I would give anything for my legionary’s shield at this moment, but this shield is what we have, and it will do.”

He took a breath and turned around to face the enemy thorns.

She stood a couple steps behind him and did not move.

He turned his head to look at her and motioned for her to come to him with his free hand. “My lady,” he said, almost shyly.

Aurelia felt a tingling in her chest, but took a step toward him.

“My lady, I cannot protect you unless you are right behind me. Please.”

She took another step, until her toes were nearly touching his heels.

“I sincerely apologize for the seeming impropriety of what I am about to suggest, but, if you would, please, have your feet touch mine, so that we may take each step as one. And I think it may be easier if you would—if you don’t mind, that is—put your arms about my chest and bury your head in my back. Just let me lead you. Trust me, my lady.”

“I trust you, Cassius,” she said, just loud enough for him to hear. She had not intended on saying his name.

Cassius nodded, then looked away from her and raised his arms. She appreciated the fact that he could not watch her tentative movements as she willed each arm to be raised to the level of her chest, her hands still gripping the edges of the cloak he had put on her. She slid her feet forward until her toes touched the heels of the soldier’s shoes, at the same time bringing her arms full circle around his broad chest.

She felt his right hand gently grip each of her wrists in turn through the cloak she still held tightly in her balled fists and pull her arms more closely against him, until she had no choice but to allow the fronts of her thighs, abdomen, and chest to be pressed against his body.

She swallowed hard and, closing her eyes, brought her forehead to rest against the soldier’s back. At her touch, she felt his strong body tense up, then gradually relax.

“Are you ready, my lady?”

She answered softly, speaking into his back. “Yes.”

 

About the Author

 

Kathryn Amurra is an intellectual property attorney by day and a writer of Romance novels by night. Some of her best writing takes place between the hours of 10PM and midnight (or later) when she has “logged off” from her day job and her hubby, three girls, and boxer are asleep. She currently lives in Charlotte, North Carolina, where she is working on the next book in her Soothsayer’s Path series set in Ancient Rome.

 

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Synopsis

 

“A seventeen-year-old taken from her mother at birth, an Episcopal priest with a daughter whose face he cannot bear to see, a mother weary of searching for her lost child: Tea by the Sea is their story-that of a family uniting and unraveling. To find the daughter taken from her, Plum Valentine must find the child’s father who walked out of a hospital with the day-old baby girl without explanation. Seventeen years later, weary of her unfruitful search, Plum sees an article in a community newspaper with a photo of the man for whom she has spent half her life searching. He has become an Episcopal priest. Her plan: confront him and walk away with the daughter he took from her. From Brooklyn to the island of Jamaica, Tea by the Sea traces Plum’s circuitous route to find her daughter and how Plum’s and the priest’s love came apart”

 

 

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Praise

 

“The forbidden love story of Plum and Lenworth comes alive in this heart-rending novel, Tea by the Sea. Hemans has a stunning ability to give words to that elusive feeling of emptiness, and the longing for redemption is palpable. In Hemans’s deft hands, regrets are explored with precision and compassion so that the reader finds herself unable to turn against even characters who have committed the most wretched betrayals. Tea by the Sea is like the story told in a grandmother’s kitchen with the odors of fried dumplings and saltfish wafting into mouths that are set agape at the heady twists and turns delivered in an urgent and beautiful prose.”  —Lauren Francis-Sharma, author of ’Til the Well Runs Dry

“Tea by the Sea is an insightful and illuminating prism of a novel, deftly examining familial identity and personal transformation. Hemans turns the kaleidoscope, catching light at different angles, to show us how one person’s act of honor and responsibility can also be an act of unspeakable betrayal.”  —Carolyn Parkhurst, author of The Dogs of Babel and Harmony

 

Excerpt

 

Plum shook her head, moved toward the spreading pool, newspaper in hand and layered it on top of the water sheet by sheet.

And drew her breath. It was a hiccup, really. She looked again, closer this time, back bent, water dripping from one half of the newsprint. She ripped the sheet in half, dropped the wet half to the floor, then moved toward the window, sheet in hand, for a closer look in the natural light.

Unmistakable.
Lenworth.
She hadn’t forgotten the face, the half-smile, the thick brows, the thin nose. Below the photo, a caption with his name and his title: Priest.

Unmistakably him.

Outside, the rain that had set up came with force, pummeling the plants that had withstood summer, and flooding the gutters and the nearly empty roads. The wind whipped the rain around, sprinkling raindrops against the windows like pebbles on glass. East 33rd Street was otherwise quiet, with everyone, it seemed, hunkered down, waiting out the mid-afternoon downpour in place.

Plum waited out the rain just within view of her laughing, cavorting girls. She held the newspaper up, using the pages as a shield from the girls’ gaze. At least for the moment, Nia had given up the cartwheels and handstands and she sat with Vivian playing jacks. Behind the newspaper, Plum’s calcified grief, all seventeen years of it, broke apart, and tears almost as fierce as the rain dribbled down her cheeks, settling uncomfortably in the corners of her mouth.

The girls, absorbed by their game of jacks, didn’t pay attention to the sniffles coming from behind the newspaper. Plum could have moved to a quieter room—the windowless bathroom, perhaps—to cry unchecked, without worrying about the girls eventually gazing and questioning the reason for her tears. Instead, she chose to remain behind the newspaper, to cry without sound and let the tears roll down her face. Surely, if she had moved in search of seclusion, one or both of the girls would have followed her, wandering through every room until they found her again and transported their game within her line of sight.

Plum wiped her eyes on her sleeve and looked again at the man in the center of the photo, surrounded by a group of community leaders. Other than the hairline that had receded, he was exactly as she remembered him. Thick lips, a deep pink like a painted hibiscus bloom. Thick, bushy brows came close to meeting in the center of his face, their fullness like a miniature ledge shielding eyes that seemed to capture everything. A thin nose. He was a little thicker, of course, but not significantly so. That didn’t matter. What mattered was that the man who had disappeared like a deep-water creature into the depths of the ocean had resurfaced in Brooklyn, skimming the water for a long breath of air. He was within reach, a catch she could finally haul in. But how long before he dipped his head and swam again out of reach?

Nia called her mother to stand in as referee for the girls’ own inconsistent and slippery rules.

“Coming.” Plum wiped her eyes on her sleeve, roughly, quickly, and forced herself to smile as if smiling was another one of those things she had to practice how to do convincingly. She counted her breaths, one, two, one, two, then faced the girls, her actions suggesting that all that mattered were the oversized neon ball and jacks scattered before them on the floor.

 

Published with permission from the publisher

 

About the Author

 

Jamaican-born Donna Hemans is the author of the novel River Woman, winner of the 2003-4 Towson University Prize for Literature. Tea by the Sea, for which she won the Lignum Vitae Una Marson Award for Adult Literature, is her second novel. Her short fiction has appeared in the Caribbean Writer, Crab Orchard Review, Witness, and the anthology Stories from Blue Latitudes: Caribbean Women Writers at Home and Abroad, among others. She received her undergraduate degree from Fordham University and an MFA from American University. She lives in Greenbelt, Maryland.

 

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Giveaway

 

 

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You can follow the full blog tour via Donna’s website. Check out reviews and giveaways

 

 

Synopsis

 

In the high mountains of Tibet, rumors are spreading. People whisper of an outbreak, of thousands of dead, of bodies pushed into mass graves. It is some strange new disease … a disease, they say, that can kill in minutes. The Chinese government says the rumors aren’t true, but no one is allowed in or out of Tibet.

At the Pentagon, Admiral James Curtiss is called to an emergency meeting. Satellite images prove that a massive genocide is underway, and an American spy has made a startling discovery. This is no disease. It’s a weapons test. Chinese scientists have developed a way to kill based on a person’s genetic traits. But that is only the tip of the iceberg. The success of their new weapon proves that the Chinese are nearing “Replication”—a revolutionary breakthrough that will tip the global balance of power and change the way wars are waged.

Now the US must scramble to catch up before it is too late. Admiral Curtiss gathers the nation’s top scientists, including a promising young graduate student named Eric Hill who just might hold the missing piece to the replication puzzle. Soon Hill and his colleague Jane Hunter are caught up in a deadly game of sabotage as the two nations strive to be the first to reach the coveted goal. But in their headlong race, they create something unexpected … something the world has never seen and something more powerful than they had ever imagined.

With eerie similarities to today’s coronavirus pandemic, The Last Sword Maker is an exciting globe-trotting thriller with unforgettable characters that depicts a haunting vision of the future of warfare.

 

 

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Praise

 

“A gripping, frighteningly plausible techno-thriller…Nelson’s intriguing scientific predictions and distinctive near-future setting make this sure to please speculative fiction readers as well as thriller fans.”—Publishers Weekly

“A terrifying vision of future warfare in the vein of Tom Clancy’s and Michael Crichton’s novels…A powerhouse near-future thriller with explosive action and exciting science.”—Foreword Reviews

“An all-too-plausible examination of how emerging technologies could be weaponized to horrible ends. I don’t recommend reading this one right before bedtime—unless you are prepared to stay up very, very late to finish it.”—Lisa Brackmann, New York Times bestselling author

“A head-spinning sci-fi-infused military thriller, with China and the United States putting everything they have into developing the perfect weapon, no matter the cost. ”—Francisco Toro, columnist, Washington Post

“The danger is unique, and the treachery vast, in this rapid-paced adventure that delivers in equal doses of amazing, yet possible. An intriguing tale that will leave you thinking. ”—Steve Berry, New York Times bestselling author

“A compelling thriller…Nelson’s riveting narrative captures the drama of great power competition…This is a terrific debut.”—Patrick Duddy, Duke University, former US Ambassador to Venezuela

“An amazing read. The Last Sword Maker has everything”—Moisés Naím, New York Times bestselling author

 

 

Excerpt

 

 

Chapter One

 

January 27, 2025

US Naval Academy, Annapolis, MD

 

Rear Admiral (upper half) James Curtiss awoke with a gasp, instinctively reaching for the FN Five-seveN pistol on the nightstand, pulling the slide with a metallic clank, and sweeping the room. His heart pounded against his ribs as the tactical light of the pistol illuminated ghostly circles in the dark room: the dresser, his uniform hanging on the closet door, the TV. Then he saw a flicker of movement. Someone was here, in the room. He acquired the target, center mass, and began to squeeze the trigger … Then he saw his own face, painted with fear, reflected in the mirror. He lowered the pistol and let out a long exhalation.

It had taken him a bare second to go from deep sleep to “the hardness”—to the soldier with his weapon cocked, teeth clenched, ready to kill. But just as quickly as he had filled with violence, he deflated. Reality flooded in. It’s just a dream, he reminded himself. Just a f*ing dream. But not just any dream. It was the dream he couldn’t shake. Ever since Syria.

He was standing in a huge tunnel: the enormous gray fuselage of the C-17 Globemaster. He was dressed in his ceremonial whites, a wide rectangle of colored ribbons on his left breast. In the dream, there was no sound. Someone had muted everything but the staccato click of his heels on the corrugated metal deck.

Click, click, click … Attached to the fuselage, surrounding him like giant bullets in the cylinder of a revolver, were six coffins draped with American flags. Ramírez, Chen, Thompson, Anderson, Day, Edwards. As he moved forward into the belly of the plane, another six coffins appeared, draped in flags just like the first six. Moses, Brewer, Hoffman, Vargas, Lightfoot, Jackson. Click, click, click … On it went. Every few steps, another six coffins would appear out of the gloom, each name conjuring a hard drive of images: a smiling young face, a joke told at a picnic, a man pushing a child in a swing.

The cargo door opened, and he raised his hand to shade his eyes from the light. He couldn’t see, but he knew what was out there: fathers, mothers, wives, husbands, and children. They were waiting for what was left of their boys and girls—their husbands, wives, fathers, mothers. He didn’t want to go out there, but he made himself. There were hundreds of them, and they were, like his soldiers, all races and creeds—white, black, Hispanic, Asian, and, like him, Native American.  They stared at him, their faces blank, expressionless. No one spoke, no bugle played taps. But now, in addition to the clap of his heels, he heard the wind blowing—a lonely, solitary sound that whistled and echoed inside his head.

As an honor guard carried the coffins from the plane, a little girl in a white dress emerged from the crowd. She came to him and took his hand. It felt like forgiveness, her small hand in his, and he followed her willingly. She led him to a small lectern. But he had no speech prepared because there were no words that could soften this. He fumbled. He saw an interminable line of hearses moving like an assembly line toward the open aircraft. The girl was holding a present: a red box with a white bow. He took the box and untied the ribbon. Inside was a revolver. He took it, cocked it, and put the barrel in his mouth. It seemed the right thing to do; a fair trade for what he had taken from them. He glanced down at her then sideways at the families. Then he pulled the trigger.
He sat on the edge of the bed, the sudden sweat on the inside of his T-shirt cooling, making him shiver. Nothing in the room looked familiar.

Where the f* am I?

You’re back in Annapolis, you stupid Indian. He ran his left hand through his hair, then looked down at the pistol in his other hand. It had been eight years since he had last led his soldiers into combat—eight years since he was promoted to a maker of PowerPoint presentations, since he became a senior officer who conducted warfare from a command center in Florida, watching live satellite and webcam feeds as his soldiers risked their lives in dusty streets nine time zones away. Eight years, but the training was still there—the reflexes, the familiarity. The gun felt so comfortable in his hand … and the dream. He put the barrel into his mouth, just as he had done moments ago in the dream. He tasted the cold polymer and Gunslick. Just for a second, he considered pulling the trigger, but he stopped himself and put the gun down gently on the nightstand.

One thing was for sure: he needed to get that little bitch out of his head. If she hung around in there much longer, he was going to take her up on her offer.

“Jim, as your commanding officer, I think you should consider seeing a psychiatrist.”

“Shrinks are for pussies, sir.”

“That’s what I thought you’d say.”

“Then why’d you open your goddamn mouth?”

A shrug. “All right. I won’t force you, but if Evelyn takes the boys and leaves you, don’t come bitching to me.”

He looked at his watch—4:15 a.m. You’ve slept enough, old man. The chopper would be here in an hour anyway.

He got dressed, and twenty minutes later he was standing on the seawall on the east side of the Yard, looking out at the Severn River and the Chesapeake Bay beyond. It was bitter cold, the temperature just south of zero. He shivered and his teeth chattered, but he didn’t care. He welcomed the discomfort; he felt he deserved it. Beyond the snow-covered stones, the bay was undulating in grey scale, rolling high and beautiful and forbidding, as only the deep water could.
He had been summoned. Ordered to report, but without details or explanation. At his rank, that was unusual. It annoyed him, but it also piqued his curiosity. Something was up. But what, he wasn’t sure.

The world was more or less at peace. The eighteen-month civil war in Saudi Arabia had turned into a stalemate, and—much to the relief of global markets—both sides were now exporting oil as fast as they could pump it. The rest of the Middle East was as stable as it ever was. There were monsoon floods in Bangladesh, and China was rattling its saber over PACFLT operations in the South China Sea, but that had become routine. Whatever they wanted him for, it was something else. Mitch’s call had come late, and while the CNO’s voice had been cool, Curtiss had still detected an urgency there.

Behind him, snaking across Dewey Field, were the footprints he had left in the snow. They led back across Holloway Drive to Bancroft Hall—to Mother B, the biggest dormitory in the world. She was mostly dark and still at this hour, with only a few windows lit. He imagined the cadets inside clutching desperately to their last moments of peace before reveille, just as he had done when he called the place home thirty-seven years ago.

It had changed little since then. It still sat huge and daunting, at rest but never sleeping. It struck him now as it had when he first saw it. The building was a living thing—a massive respiring organism. It held not only the entire brigade of over four thousand midshipmen, but also the residue—the pain, humiliation, tenacity, and tears of every cadet who had ever come through its doors. A huge aggregated mass of emotion that encompassed everything those boys and girls had been when they arrived—brave, frightened, optimistic youth—and everything they became: hardened, beaten, and burned into officers of the United States Navy. Inside those walls, you felt their essence like a layer of greasy paint: their victories and their tragedies, wherever they had gone, even if they had gone nowhere.

All cadets hated Annapolis, but he had hated it more than most. And year after year, he had avoided coming back here. But this year, when they asked him to give a guest lecture, he had agreed. Now he knew it had been a mistake. Whatever he was looking for, whatever he needed, it wasn’t here. Jesus, you do need a shrink.

He supposed he had come looking for himself, for the man who had arrived here in 1988. The young man who had believed the recruitment posters. Join the Navy. See the world. Adventure. As well as the thing the posters didn’t say: that along with that life of adventure, someday, in some distant port, far from the shitty Oklahoma reservation he had escaped, he would meet a beautiful girl and live happily ever after.

That was the boy he wanted to meet now. The boy who had looked on the veterans with envy and saw ribbons and medals as things to strive for, not as reminders of pain and suffering and destroyed families. He saw traces of himself in the cadets, but the way they looked at him made him uneasy, because it was just the way he had looked at the decorated Vietnam vets in 1988: as heroes, as someone to emulate. They could read the ribbons and medals on his uniform like a résumé, and to them, he knew, he seemed the epitome of a badass: Bronze Star with “V.” Combat Action. Sharpshooter Award. Navy Cross. “The Budweiser.” Bosnia, Afghanistan, Operation Enduring Freedom, Syrian Liberation. As the cadets had huddled around him after his lecture, pestering him with questions, he suddenly felt that he was on the other side of a great and terrible lie.

That was when the CNO had called. He had excused himself and gone into the wings. “Jim, I’m gonna send a chopper up for you in the morning. Something’s come up, and we need to talk.”

Now, standing in the bitter cold, he turned his attention away from Bancroft Hall and back to the Chesapeake. It was rolling rough and surly, with long, deep swells, as if huge humpbacked monsters were roving just beneath the surface, stretching, trying to break free. A bit of orange sunlight reached his face, and he felt the slightest change in temperature on his lips. At that moment, he heard the approaching thump of rotors, steady and smooth. A minute later, the Sikorsky SH-3 Sea King appeared just over the treetops and banked majestically over the roof of the Nimitz Library.

It was a beautiful sight, and he was touched by a sudden sentimentality. Taken all together—his sleepless night, the history of this place, the brooding Chesapeake, the white Sea King in flight, and the way the sun flash refracted through its dragonfly rotors—it stirred something in his chest. Beautiful. But he dispelled the romantic feeling almost immediately and strode across the snow to meet the chopper. It flared up a moment, then settled onto the snowy field. The door opened immediately, a gangway was lowered, and a marine sergeant stepped out and saluted him. He returned the salute and climbed aboard. Then they were off, rising quickly.

As they banked to the west, he looked down over the Yard. He still hated the place, yet he had to admit, grudgingly, that Annapolis had also given him a great deal. He drew on this place—particularly the fact that he had survived it—over and over again. It came down to something very basic. It had trained him to do things he didn’t want to do. It sounded simplistic, but it was the truth. There was a wide gap between a man who could force himself to do difficult things, and other men who could not. And not just the horrible things he had done: killing a young man with a knife, extracting a bullet from a friend’s guts with rusty pliers, sending men off to die. No, it was the day-to-day things that made the difference: getting up at four thirty every morning, voluntarily going five days without sleep, swimming six miles. Over a lifetime, that discipline added up.

But now, as the school and his past shrank behind him, he feared the meeting with Admiral Garrett because he feared that they were once again going to ask him to do things he didn’t want to do. Terrible, terrible things.

 

Reprinted from The Last Sword Maker. Copyright © 2018 by Brian Nelson.

 

About the Author

 

Brian Nelson is a former Fulbright Scholar who holds degrees in international relations, economics, and creative writing (fiction). His first book, The Silence and the Scorpion: The Coup against Chávez and the Making of Modern Venezuela, was named one of the Best Books of 2009 by the Economist. His work has appeared in the Virginia Quarterly Review, Christian Science Monitor, and the Southern Humanities Review, among others. He lives in Colorado with his wife and two children.

 

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Synopsis

Is there a sociopathic killer murdering prostitutes in New York City? NYPD’s top cop, Homicide Commander Lieutenant John Driscoll, believes there is.

Someone who calls himself “Tilden” claims to have been sexually abused as a child by his mother’s john. But what could have triggered Tilden’s rage to place him on a mission to eradicate all of New York’s prostitutes? Tilden is not your run-of-the-mill sociopath. After all, would a common murderer take the time to embalm his victims—determined as the cause of all the deaths by the medical examiner?

Driscoll is on mission to put an end to the madness. A man haunted by the events of his own unstable childhood, he teams up with Sergeant Margaret Aligante and Detective Cedric Thomlinson to stop the killings and bring Tilden to justice before he kills again.

 

 

 

Excerpt

Excerpted from No One Will Hear Your Screams. Copyright © 2020 by Thomas O’Callaghan. All rights reserved. Published by WildBlue Press.

Pearsol opened the mortuary cooler and pulled out the stainless steel tray supporting the victim. “Lieutenant, meet Jane Doe,” he said sliding the woman’s bloated body under Driscoll’s gaze. “Harbor Patrol fished her out of the muck. I’d say she was a feast for the gulls for a day. Maybe two.”

“What’s that smell? Paint thinner?”

“Phenol.”

“She was doused in phenol?”

“Injected.”

Driscoll’s eyes narrowed.

“The complete autopsy will fill in the blanks, but I’d bet my pension I already know what killed her. The who, and the why, I’ll leave to you.” Pearsol handed the preliminary lab report to Driscoll. It identifies a mixture of substances inside her vascular system.

“Phenol, formaldehyde and Chloride of Zinc?” Driscoll looked perplexed.

“The same Chloride of Zinc they put in dry cell batteries?”

Pearsol nodded. “There’s three more.”

“Myrrh, aloe and cassia,” Driscoll read aloud. “That’s a strange mix.” He glanced at Pearsol, who nodded. “Says here you drained 851 milliliters from her circulatory system. What’s that? About two pints?”

“Just under.”

“A body contains five to six quarts of blood. So the rest of this mixture?”
“Still in her.”

Using his finger, Driscoll pushed back a lock of the victim’s hair. “What could you have done to warrant this?” he whispered, eyes on the corpse.

“Right now the unofficial cause of death is phenol poisoning by arterial injection. Familiar with the German word, ‘abgespritzt’, Lieutenant?”

“No.”

“Abgespritzt was a method of genocide favored by the Nazis in the early 1940s. Hitler’s henchmen delivered instantaneous death by injecting 15 milliliters of phenol directly into the heart.”

“What kind of syringe injects six quarts?”

“More than likely he used a centrifugal pump. And he knew what he was doing.” Pearsol pointed to the side of the victim’s neck, where a semi- translucent latex adhesive covered a two inch stretch of rippled flesh between the carotid artery and the jugular vein. “An extreme method of murder, Lieutenant. He arterially embalmed her.”

Driscoll winced.

“There’s more.” The M.E. produced a transparent evidence bag containing a locket. It was an inch in diameter and featured Saint Vitalis of Gaza; his name etched in a half circle below his likeness. “I found it under her tongue. Someone apparently placed it there before suturing the tongue to the floor of her mouth.”

“What’s that about?” Driscoll wondered aloud.

“Good question. I’m not familiar with that saint. You?”

“She‘s the patron saint of prostitutes.”

“Well, there’s a lead. Oh, and there’s one other bit of information you’re sure to find intriguing. The myrrh, aloe, and cassia injected with the embalming fluid were once embalming solutions on their own. Sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“They were the purifying fragrances applied to the linens that wrapped the crucified Christ before he was laid in his tomb.”

 

About the Author

 

Thomas O’Callaghan’s work has been translated for publication in Germany, Slovakia, Indonesia, the Czech Republic, China, and Italy. As an internationally acclaimed author, Mr. O’Callaghan is a member of both the Mystery Writers of America and the International Thriller Writers associations. A native of New York City and a graduate of Richmond College, Mr. O’Callaghan resides with his lovely wife, Eileen, a stone’s throw from the Atlantic Ocean in beautiful Belle Harbor, New York.

His debut novel BONE THIEF introduces NYPD Homicide Commander Lieutenant John W. Driscoll. THE SCREAMING ROOM is the second in the John Driscoll series. The third book in the series, NO ONE WILL HEAR YOUR SCREAMS, is now available from WildBlue Press.

 

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Synopsis

 

New apartments should come with a trial period…

I’ve just signed a two-year lease on an apartment I can barely afford.

My job hit a brick wall so I need the place to be perfect to help me get my life back on track. But the first night in, and I already know my neighbor isn’t going to make it easy on me.

Tall, sexy, irresistible (and did I mention the British accent?), Shane Logan likes his nightly activities…a lot. I can hear everything through the paper-thin walls. I’m about to tell him that in not-so-friendly terms when I realize he isn’t just sexy, he’s also friendly and eager to be of help.

Maybe having a neighbor like him isn’t such a bad idea.

I’m a writer in desperate need of inspiration. Shane so happens to turn into mine. With a deadline approaching fast, his offer to do me a favor turns into two and three. Before I know it, he’s forced his way into my life with the tenacity of a whirlwind.

I can deal with the fact that he’s far too loud and far too sexy. But when my dog likes him more than me, I start to get a little suspicious. Soon it becomes clear Shane Logan has secrets.

Plunged into the suspicions surrounding my neighbor, suddenly the only thing I can be sure of is that Shane is fiercely determined to hide the truth about himself.

Remember when I said the lease should have come with a warning?

Well, mine should also have come with a big, red, flashing signal.

Author’s note – Neighbors and Favors is a full-length romantic comedy with no cliffhanger.

 

 

 

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Review

 

This book is long on laughs, a sexy man, and an insecure protagonist that has lost her way in life and her faith.  And we can’t forget the spoiled pomeranian!

Samantha has decided she wants to strike out on her own, as most adults should do at some point in their lives.  However, she doesn’t expect to meet the sexy British guy living next door.  But he appears to have some secrets that he isn’t sharing and it leaves Sam and the reader wondering what in the world could Shane be hiding from us?  The answer was not what I was expecting.

I had a love/hate relationship with Samantha.  I admired her for getting out on her own and away from her parents that seemed to hover over her a lot.  We know they care about her, but I think that says a lot about society today and the involvement of parents in their children’s lives.  I’m glad that she has a good relationship with them, but there are times when her mom steps over the line.  Maybe some of it needed to be done, but at the same time how will Samantha be held accountable for not getting things done? I enjoyed watching Samantha work through her faith issues and finding out that maybe she hadn’t strayed that far from the path.  It was nice that several people in her life, including the Starbucks barista, were Christens and were able to reinforce that positivity.

I found myself chuckling throughout a lot of the book especially when Samantha’s mind is going wild with speculation in regards to Shane.  What was going on in his apartment with all the banging?  Who was this blonde that was hanging around him?  So many possibilities and I think her mind went to all of those options.

You will find a lot of bible verses and discussion about faith and God.  If you do not like to read books that include those things, then this isn’t the book for you.  But if you enjoy a good rom-com, then pick up this book soon.

We give this book 4 paws up.

 

 

 

 

 

Excerpt

 

“Well, hello, neighbor.”

I stare at the six-foot-three British guy, taking in his lopsided grin and the cleaning gloves and garbage bags in his hands. He’s wearing a white, snug T-shirt and jeans that hang low on his hips—nothing remarkable, really, but for some reason, he looks like he’s stepped straight out of a fragrance advertisement—you know, the expensive kind.

And for some reason, the realization annoys the heck out of me. No one looks so good in the middle of the night. I know I certainly don’t.

“What do you want?” I squeeze through gritted teeth. My good manners have apparently deserted me.

“Ah, now that’s neighborly friendliness if I ever saw some.” His lips stretch into a stunning smile with perfect, white teeth and two little dimples.

I suck in my breath as another wave of annoyance hits me.

Dimples.

Does he have to have a perfect pair of those?

I mean, why toss him a good thing or two from the genes pool when he can win the whole darn lottery?
I bet his personality sucks.

Apparently, Sammy doesn’t think so because she’s instantly stopped her barking and is now making those tiny wailing sounds that signal elation and are usually reserved for her best friends.

Aka me.

“Like I said, what do you want?” I really want to slam the door in the guy’s face but that goes against everything I stand for. So, I take a deep breath and begin my inner chant.

Patience. Forbearance. I treat my neighbor as I want to be treated.

“Anyone ever told you not to open the door to strangers when they come knocking in the middle of the night?” The guy’s grin widens.

 

About the Author

 

Kate Davis is a real-life coffee lover with her very own Pomeranian who was her biggest inspiration for this book. Yes, Sammy is real and her favorite command is “cheese.” In fact, it might just be the only command she obeys. Kate loves to play matchmaker, transporting readers to a place where her bold heroines have endearing flaws, the men are fierce and protective, the world isn’t always a safe place, and chivalry is alive and thriving!

Stay in touch. She loves to hear from her readers!

 

Website * Facebook * Goodreads

 

 

Giveaway

 

a Rafflecopter giveaway

 

 

Synopsis

 

Katrina Bradshaw is a free-spirited photojournalist who has sworn off men.

Her love life up until now has been what she calls, “a series of unfortunate events.” When she bumps into Jack, she wonders if he could be different than other men.

Jack Anders is a thoughtful young executive who lives life according to plan.

When his mom passes away, he reevaluates his priorities and considers taking risks. Meeting Katrina opens possibilities Jack had only dared to dream about.

When they finally decide to pursue a relationship, a series of near misses threatens to keep them apart.

Can Katrina learn to trust?

Will Jack take risks when it matters most?

How will they find a second chance at love?

 

 

 

 

Excerpt

 

Chapter Three

Katrina

 

I can’t believe my rental car overheated. Now this total stranger named Jack is offering to help me out. He’s leaning over, looking under the hood trying to see what’s wrong. I stand a little closer to Jack, as though I know a fan belt from a carburetor. I just don’t want him to get the impression that I’m a bimbo who needs a man to step in and rescue her.

I can’t help but notice how he smells woodsy, like cinnamon and pine. Something warm and welcoming. Not like Thomas. Thomas always smelled like a cologne a man would wear when he was trying hard to be something he wasn’t. He smelled pretentious and eager. That smell should have been a warning to me. But, what do I know? Thomas seemed solid at first.

Just because a man smells like a campfire and a warm cup of tea, it doesn’t mean he isn’t an axe murderer. Maybe that’s why Jack smells like the woods. He may have been burying bodies somewhere, and now here he is bending over the engine of my car trying to diagnose what’s broken.

Jack lifts his head from under the hood and tells me it just needs to sit a little while. He asks me my name. I tell him and then ask how long the car needs to sit. I’m trying not to look like a complete idiot. He tells me, “About an hour. Have you eaten? I need to eat lunch, and if you haven’t, I could keep you company while the engine cools and then check it again before you take off. Just figuring I could hang around to help.”

That doesn’t sound like an offer an axe murderer would make, unless he’s trying to lower my defenses before he throws me into his trunk. Oh goodness, Kat. Get a grip. This truck stop has eyes everywhere. You are probably safe eating a burger with the man.

“Sure. That sounds good. Let me just grab my purse and I’ll meet you inside.”

I shoot a quick text off to Patrice, in case, you know, I go missing after lunch with a handsome stranger. Then I head to the women’s restroom to wash up. I stare at myself in the mirror over the sinks. My mind starts wandering to thoughts about Jack’s eyes. He has the warmest hazel eyes. His voice has the tone of syrup and butter melting over a stack of pancakes. I must be hungry. Starved actually.

As I join Jack at the counter to place my order, I silently chant my mantra like a monk at vespers: No men, no men, no men … What am I doing? I don’t need my resolve right now. I’m never going to see this man again. He’s just helping me with my lemon of a rental car. This is just a one-time lunch with a stranger. Nothing more.

“What can I get you?” the teen behind the counter asks me.

“Um. A plain cheeseburger with lettuce and a large iced tea.” I guess it isn’t plain if you count the whitish slice of iceberg, but that’s a technicality. Jack gets a chicken sandwich. I stand by the counter waiting for our food while he heads over to the soda dispenser and then comes back. We take our trays to a table in the center of the dining room of the truck stop. I’m glad we’re out in the open – safety first and all.

“So, what brings you to this area, Kat?” Should I answer him? Well, I can hit a gas pedal as fast as any girl I know, and I can scream pretty loudly too, so if he pulls anything funny, I have my defenses ready. Of course, I might have to scratch the idea of driving fast as that might be part of what led to the engine overheating. I can still scream though – like an old Hollywood horror star.

He’s looking at me with a question mark in his eyes, so I decide to answer. “I was shooting a wedding. As a photographer, not with a gun or anything. And it wasn’t a real wedding. I mean, it was a fake wedding for a venue.”

Jack chuckles. Oh. Good gravy. This right here – my mouth that flows like a hot volcano of craziness – this is one reason I don’t date, and man-fasts are the very best invention since mint chip ice cream. Actually man-fasts with mint chip are even better.

“So, you shot a wedding, and …” He wants more of the mental mayhem that happens when I open my mouth? Okay. He asked for it.

“Well, see, the venue wants pictures to use for their website, ads, and promos to couples. Weddings are big business, you know. So they hire fake brides and grooms – actors or models, or random beautiful bridezillas, as was the case this week – and they have them pose all day as though they were getting married. Kiss and all.”

“And you were the photographer. Kiss and all?”

“Yep. That’s me. The photographer, not the kisser. To be clear. Of course, you knew that. Anyway, yes. I’m a photographer and I usually don’t torture myself by shooting weddings or even faux weddings, but this was a sweet gig and I got to stay at the coast and get a little downtime before I leave for Africa.”

“Is there a wedding in Africa?”

Now I giggle. “No. The trip to Africa is like my more usual work. I’m going to do a piece on the Batwa people in Bwindi, Uganda. They lived with the mountain gorilla for ages and then the government decided to turn the rainforest into a national park, so they were somewhat displaced. I’m going to write about the impact of that change to their culture and to hopefully get to spend time with the Batwa people.”

“Just wow. That sounds pretty amazing.”

“Yeah. I do love my job. So, what about you, what brings you to this fabulous truck stop outside Ventura Beach?”

“Well, believe it or not, this was not my planned destination.”

“No? You don’t say.”

“Nope. Actually, I was in Montana. My mom passed away recently and her house needed to be gone through so it can be put on the market, so …” Jack sits silent for a moment. I can’t imagine losing either one of my parents. His eyes look like he’s carrying a private weight inside his soul.

“… Anyway, so I went up there to do the job and then I popped in on my brother and decided to swing by the Central Coast on my way home to L.A. I just stopped here for gas.”

“I’m so sorry about your mom, Jack. I know people say that whenever something tragic happens, but I really am sorry.”

His face softens. “Thanks. She was one amazing woman. Coming down the coast was …” He’s silent for a minute. I don’t want to pry. “… Well, I was hoping to rekindle my connection to her. We went to Cambria together a few years back.”

“So, did it help? I mean, the trip. Did you feel closer to your mom after being here?”

“Actually, no. It really just … solidified something about her being gone. So, no, unfortunately, I felt more loss. Sorry, I didn’t mean to douse our lunch with talk of my mom.” He gives a slight shake of his head like he’s trying to dispel his grief.

“You didn’t douse anything. Losing a parent, that’s huge. Tell me about her.”

“She was something else. Of course, most sons would say that about their moms. She was soft in all the right ways – the kind of woman everyone turned to for support. She didn’t judge people harshly and was truly present for them. I don’t know how she didn’t burn herself out. It’s like she was made to care for others, and it actually gave her joy. She made you believe in yourself. If it weren’t for her believing in me, I doubt I would have gone on to get my MBA. She saw things in me I never could see in myself, and all she wanted was for me to be happy.”

“She sounds really special. And are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Happy. Are you happy?” He stares off a bit. That would be a no. If you have to think about whether you are happy, you aren’t. I feel for this man having lost his mom. He seems to have a rare kindness and depth about him.

“I have happiness in my life – some good friends, a job that pays well, not that it makes me happy exactly, but it provides for me to be able to do other things I enjoy.” He sighs. “Enough about me. What else did you do up the coast besides taking pictures of a moody model bride?”

“Well, I stayed in Cambria. Picked up some souvenirs for my friend Patrice, and a dish towel to send home to my Mama. I went to the elephant seal preserve to get some shots. Have you been there?”

“I have. They are strange creatures.”

“They are funky looking! Watching them is kind of like when you can’t look away from a car accident even though you know you should.” I try to think of how to describe them. “Hmmm, they look like, well, what do they look like? If a walrus grew a gigantic bulbous nose and had no tusks. Pretty gross, right?” Jack laughs.

“I can’t take my eyes off them when they get into dominance fights in the water. Did you know the males raise the babies after they are one year old, and the females leave each year to go north until mating season? That’s an arrangement I can get behind. Male childcare, coming back for some mating. Otherwise, living life free in the ocean.” I look over and Jack has a slightly delighted smirk on his face.

“So that’s an arrangement you can get behind, huh?” Jack raises an eyebrow at me. Sometimes my mouth gets to rolling like a go-cart careening downhill. The crash at the bottom is inevitable.

I feel a blush creep across my cheeks. “Well, I don’t know. I love freedom. Men haven’t been my strong suit.” Oh, I just said that. I should honestly bring duct-tape with me to prevent moments like this one. Jack looks so amused, but also concerned.

“Men haven’t been your strong suit? I find that hard to believe.” Now I really blush. And I have to change the subject before I unload about Thomas all over this perfect stranger. Emphasis on perfect.

“So, Jack, are you heading back to work when you get home?”

“Yes. I’ll get back into my routine. Hit the gym with my friend Brett, do laundry, all that settling back in stuff, and then it’s back to my nine to five. How about you?”

“I have my trip to Africa. Which reminds me I need to get back and start packing. You’ve been so kind to keep me company. I’m really grateful.”

“It was my pleasure. I was due for a diversion from my own thoughts. Lunch with you was just what I needed. Let’s go check your car so you can get out of here.” We stand to clear our trays and dump our trash.

As we head out the doors, I ask Jack what he does for work. I couldn’t tell you what it is except he’s indoors, behind a desk, and he helps other companies with management or something. Analysis was in there too. Some analysis. All things I don’t do: indoors, desks, analysis. Nope. Not for me. I have firmly established that he is either the nicest mass murderer I’ll ever meet, or he’s probably just a really nice guy. I’m going with Option B but reserving the right to change my mind should he try anything shifty.

Jack walks me to my car. We look at the gauge – it’s a gauge and I’m feeling brilliant for knowing that now. All’s well, according to Jack. He watches me get in and start the engine.

“It was really nice to meet you, Katrina. Drive safely.” I have this sudden urge to hug him or kiss him. No not kiss. Hug. What in the world, Kat? You have one lunch with a possible axe murderer, and you want a kiss. Pathetic.

“It was really nice meeting you too, Jack. Thanks for helping me.” I press the gas before my body decides to jump out and hurl itself at Jack. He waves as I drive off. He was right. My rental car just needed to cool off. After looking at him bending over the grill to check my engine, I can relate. That man fills out a pair of jeans just right. I know. I know. No men. Good thing I won’t ever see him again. He’s the kind of guy a girl could seriously blow her whole man-fast for.

I blast my road trip playlist – the one I created to celebrate the freedom of being a woman living life to the fullest. That’s me. Man-free and loving it.

 

 

About the Author

 

Patty Scott dreamt of being a writer before she could even set words on paper. She loves writing happily ever after stories and scenes where kisses make you melt a little. She also loves to write non-fiction books that help moms navigate motherhood, grow in their faith, and find joy in life.

Patty’s fictional characters experience real life struggles, misunderstandings, and hurts, but they make their way through and find love in the end. Patty delights in bringing her sense of humor into a story. No two characters are alike, and no story is ever like another. Patty’s relatable characters make her stories come to life.

Patty and her husband have two boys aged 11 and 18. They also have a 22-year-old foster daughter. Her joys when she isn’t writing are hiking, sharing conversation and a good cup of coffee with friends, dancing Hip Hop, and taking spontaneous road trips.

 

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Synopsis

 

After enforcer Richard “Rico” Sanders stepped in to protect his girlfriend from a local mob boss’s hot-headed nephew, all hell broke loose.

When the smoke cleared, the nephew had vanished, but three goons who had tried to help him lay dying where they’d stood.   Fighting for his life, Rico was alive but gravely wounded.

Out of the hospital but not fully recovered, he needed a place to crash – a place where he wouldn’t be found by men who surely would be looking.   A place like the cabin owned by lawyer Paul Elliott, whose life Rico had saved more than once.  Trouble was, Paul’s girlfriend hadn’t forgotten Rico’s dark history.  Or Paul’s fascination with him.

Using Rico’s girlfriend as bait, vengeful killers soon would be coming for him.  The only question was whether he would face them alone or with help from Paul.

 

 

 

Praise for the Pigeon Blood Red Trilogy

 

“…It rips along like a .45 bullet rushing past your head….a crime novel in a style you don’t … see too often… a juggernaut of a story that just won’t quit.” – Monkey’s Book Review

“A fast-paced read with complex and morally ambiguous characters that leaves you on the edge of your seat!” – AllieReads.com

“Readers in search of a tight, well-written…crime/action/adventure will find…an engrossing story that will keep them involved to the end. And like me, they will find themselves eagerly awaiting the next installment.” – Mike Siedschlag’s Review

“This charming, classically-told crime thriller is a must for noir fans…refreshingly old-school pulp, inhabited by a familiar cast of gamblers, con men and hustlers found in Dennis Lehane and Elmore Leonard novels” – 5 Stars, Best Thrillers

 “This Chicago set thriller is a pacy read, written with an edge and style… Ed Duncan’s series will sweep up fans as it goes along.” – Crime Thriller Hound

“With danger looming in every chapter… Duncan skillfully draws the reader into a complex web of characters… A few key twists within the storyline keep the reader intrigued… an outstanding crime thriller…” – 5 Stars, Red City Review

“…suspense from start to finish… a fast-paced read… Entertaining, Gritty and Nailbiting.” – The Bibliovert

 

 

Excerpt

 

Cosgrove, however, hadn’t finished venting and didn’t appreciate Koblentz’s gesture.  “You want some of this, old man?”

“I was just –”

Cosgrove interrupted him with a vicious slap to the mouth that drew blood.  Koblentz fell to one knee, head bowed, and was silent.

“You bastard!” Jean yelled.  She glanced at Rico, who was still in his car in front of her some ten yards away.  She wasn’t sure how much he’d seen because his expression, as usual, was utterly inscrutable behind his aviators.  She sprinted to Koblentz’s side and knelt beside him.  “Are you okay?”

Cosgrove glared at her, then a cruel smile lifted his mouth.  She was a mouth-wateringly gorgeous woman and his mouth watered.  Taunting her, he pressed one foot against Koblentz’s back and slowly forced him to the ground.  Jean’s eyes flashed and she straightened up and slapped him hard enough to make his head turn.  At once surprised and enraged, he immediately drew his arm back to retaliate.  Jean closed her eyes and flinched in anticipation.  Cosgrove reached far behind him to increase the momentum of his blow and then he launched his open hand toward her as hard as he could, creating a swoosh of air as his hand traveled forward to meet Jean’s face.

But it never reached its target.

Rico had appeared seemingly out of nowhere and, with one hand, had grabbed Cosgrove’s wrist from behind, stopping his hand mere inches from Jean’s face.  Now he stood behind Cosgrove holding his wrist in a vice-like grip from which there was no hope of escape.  Slender and soft, Cosgrove was around five feet ten inches tall and weighed about one hundred and seventy-five pounds.  Rico stood six feet two, weighed over two hundred pounds, and was solid muscle.

He was a killer, but not your run-of-the mill killer.  He was exceptional at what he did, but he was not only that.  He was also a killer with a conscience.  He didn’t kill kids, he killed women only as a last resort, and he only killed people who “had it coming.” Or at least that was what he told himself, because sometimes it was a close call.  But at least he tried.  And that made him unique, as nobody else in his business gave a hit a second thought.

Cosgrove tried to turn to face him, but with just one hand holding his wrist, Rico prevented him from even budging.  After Cosgrove stopped squirming, Rico twisted the man’s arm behind his back and wrenched it upward until he yelped in pain.  Then he thrust his free forearm under Cosgrove’s chin and applied just enough pressure so that Cosgrove, with some effort, could still breathe and talk. Just.

Cosgrove squealed, “What the –”

“Shut up,” Rico said and turned to Jean who was helping Koblentz to his feet.  “You all right?”

“Fine.” Her worried eyes met Koblentz’s.  She smiled.  “Are you okay?”

Gingerly wiping the blood from his face, he nodded and smiled back.

“Wait in the car,” Rico said.

“What are you gonna do with him?” Jean asked, a little apprehensively.

“Wait in the car.”

Jean started to press him but by now she knew the drill.  She collected her shopping cart and she and Koblentz headed for the car.  The boy, still on his back resting on his elbows, scrambled to his feet and stood staring at Rico in awe.  Rico said, “Kid, get outta here.”  Dejected, the boy slowly started to walk away.  Raising his voice an octave, Rico said to the other gawkers, “That goes for everybody else, too.”

The edge in his voice did the trick.  No one objected and no one lingered.  Except the boy.  He turned around after he’d taken a few steps and, in a voice just above a whisper, said, “Thanks, mister.”

The slightest hint of a smile appeared on Rico’s face.  “Nice catch, kid.”  That brought a grin to the boy’s face.  He pounded the ball in his glove and hurried away.

Rico scanned the area in a 360-degree arc and, seeing no one besides the steadily retreating onlookers, released the choke hold on Cosgrove’s neck but maintained his grip on his wrist.  Then he placed his free hand on the back of Cosgrove’s neck and, mimicking what Cosgrove had done to Koblentz moments earlier, he slowly guided him to the ground, face down.  Rico knelt beside him.

Cosgrove coughed and drew in several sweet breaths of air now that the pressure on his windpipe had been relieved.  “Your ass is mine, motherfucker,” he hissed under his breath.

“I don’t think so,” Rico said as he patted Cosgrove down.  “I’m pretty attached to it.”

The pat down yielded a Smith and Wesson Model 10 .38 revolver in Cosgrove’s belt under his jacket.  Searching him had been a basic precaution, yet Rico hadn’t expected to find a gun and when he did, he immediately regretted leaving his own in his apartment.

“Shit,” he said out loud, but it was in the same tone of voice he might have used if he’d walked down three flights of stairs only to find that he’d left his cell phone upstairs in his apartment.  In other words, he was irritated but not alarmed – yet.  After all, this was only one guy with a .38 – no, one guy who used to have a .38.  And so far, there was no evidence that he had company.

But there was no evidence that he was alone, either.

Rico tucked the gun in his own belt next to his belly, and with his free hand he reached down and turned Cosgrove’s face toward him.  He had a question. He knew he couldn’t trust Cosgrove’s answer but the inflexion in his voice might give him a clue.  “You alone, smart ass?”

Cosgrove said nothing.

Rico increased the upward pressure on Cosgrove’s arm which was still pinned behind his back. Cosgrove gritted his teeth.  Rico increased the pressure again until Cosgrove could stand it no longer.  He yelled, “Help!”

Maybe it was just a primal cry to the heavens, but Rico thought it was directed toward someone. Maybe more than one person.  Who knew?  He relaxed the pressure on Cosgrove’s arm but continued to hold his wrist in a vice-like grip.  With his other hand he checked the .38, engaging the cylinder release, snapping the cylinder free, spinning it with his thumb, then snapping it back in place.  It was fully loaded.  Six rounds.  A picture of his Sig Sauer with its twelve-round capacity magazine flashed across his mind.  This will have to do.

 

 

About the Author

 

Ed Duncan currently lives outside of Cleveland, OH. He is a graduate of Oberlin College and Northwestern University Law School. He was a partner at a national law firm in Cleveland, Ohio for many years. “It’s always been said that you should write what you know. I am a lawyer – as is a pivotal character in the novel who is being pursued by a hitman – and I’m excited to be able to use my legal training creatively as well as professionally,” says Duncan.

 

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