His Lucky Charm by Chelle Cordero: What happens in Vegas doesn’t always stay in Vegas… this time it follows Brandon and Caitlyn across the country and into a world of espionage and danger. The one thing that Brandon knows for sure is that he can’t afford to lose his lucky charm, Caitlyn.

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(copyright 2008, published by Vanilla Heart Publishing)
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Excerpt:

“Is your name really Caitlyn Smythe?” He wasn’t sure if he should believe her.

She smiled. “Actually it’s Caitlyn Price now.”

He remained quiet. “Brandon? What’s wrong? What did Amanda say?”

“Why are you worried what Amanda had to say?” He was beginning to sound as paranoid as he felt. “Do you have something to worry about?” How much of what she told him was true, if any of it was? He had begun to believe her, anything and everything she had told him, and it angered him that he now had reason to question her honesty.

“She barely knows me, what would she have to say?” Caitlyn was exasperated. “Brandon, what did Amanda say to you? What do you think I’m hiding?”

He wanted to trust the woman in front of him, he really did. He could understand why he liked her even if he had no memory of her. Her gentleness and supposed naivety had lured him into a feeling of safety. He said he had felt like he was under a spell during their lovemaking, maybe she was some kind of pro and he wasn’t thinking with the right brain. That other woman, Amanda, her voice was so familiar, how could he not trust her? He knew that he remembered Amanda. He didn’t know anything about Caitlyn before waking up this morning. And if he knew and trusted Amanda… then he couldn’t trust Caitlyn no matter what.

He paced in silence for a few minutes. Amanda had given him some information and he wasn’t sure what to do with it. Whether it was because Caitlyn was good in bed, he thought crudely, or because there was something more there, he decided to warn her. “Amanda is faxing some information to the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police. She expects that they’ll be here shortly to take you into custody.”

“Why?” She sounded totally dumbfounded.

“You’ve got a record. You’ve got a string of aliases…” He knelt in front of her. He was sure he had done the right thing to warn her. “Caitlyn, if you leave now, you’ll get away. I wasn’t supposed to warn you but I don’t want to see you arrested.”

“I haven’t done anything…” Her protest sounded genuine and it twisted his gut to think otherwise.

“Caitlyn, she has proof.” He thought for a moment and then stood to take his wallet out of his back pocket. “I don’t know how much money I have in here, but,” he pulled a wad of bills out and handed them to her. “You should be able to get somewhere with this. Go, go now while there is still time. I don’t know how far you can get but you have to get away from here.” He put the money into her hand.

She dropped the money on the floor. “I’m not going anywhere, I haven’t done anything illegal. Why would someone want to arrest me?”

He watched several bills float down to the carpet. “Damn it Caitlyn, I’m trying to help you!” Why didn’t she just take the damn money and get the hell out of there?

Her voice was a hoarse whisper. “What did she tell you I did?”

He frowned. It was hard for him to make the accusation. “You are an artist all right… a con artist. Caitlyn, she said you stole from me, and you stole from some other people. And they want to press charges. I’m not but they are.”

“You believe this?” She sounded so hurt, so wounded, and all he wanted to do was protect her.

He was consumed by guilt that he questioned her. “Come on, let’s get out of here…” He tried to take her arm and push her towards the door. She pulled herself out of his grasp.

“No!” The tears welled in her eyes. “I thought you loved me. You married me! How could you believe I would steal from you?”

He took her by both arms and shook her. “I don’t remember you!” Brandon stared in disbelief as he saw apparent fear in her eyes. He dropped his hands from her arms suddenly. “I’m sorry.” He took a few steps back and spoke in hushed tones. “I know that it felt right to have you in my arms this morning, it felt good to be so close to you, but I don’t know you. But Amanda’s voice, I remembered that, I know her voice… and her name. I know Amanda. I have to trust her.”

***

Chelle Cordero has come a long way since first joining the Vanilla Heart Publishing queue of authors nearly two years ago with her first novel, Bartlett’s Rule. Now with nine novels on the market, she has solidified her standing as a Romantic Suspense author (7 romantic suspense & 2 mysteries.) She also has short stories in the VHP anthology With Arms Wide Open, Mandimam’s Press anthology Forever Friends, the VHP anthology Nature’s Gifts, VHP anthology Passionate Hearts and Mandimam Press anthology Forever Travels.

Links: Smashwords (ebook formats) http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/11297

also available on Amazon & Barnes and Noble

website: http://chellecordero.com/
https://www.facebook.com/AuthorChelleCordero

Exchange, by Dale R. Cozort is an outstanding new science fiction adventure.  A series of Exchanges swaps town-sized realities with dangerous places and other times. Such  Exchanges have become ‘routine catastrophes,’  creating a new frontier — a wild, dangerous place that people can go to start a new life if they’re brave enough and/or crazy enough.

Excerpt:

Sharon stood at the top of a knoll. She stared across the EZ into Bear Country. Wind stirred a vast grassy sea marked with islands of trees. There was no sign of human impact to the landscape except for ruts ripped in the soil by trucks; ugly, alien slashes through thick savanna grass.

I shouldn’t have stopped.

Tracking the convoy kept her mind and body distanced from the pain and despair that threatened to overwhelm her. Stopping gave a foothold to the pain of her bruised jaw and rope-burned wrists and ankles. Pain she could deal with, but Anthony or maybe Sister West’s collection of loonies had Bethany.

Bethany, her fixed smile hiding what? Terror? Bewilderment?

A flicker in her peripheral vision startled her. She reached for the gun on her belt—Elroy’s heavy .45, retrieved from her car. A grasshopper-sized green and yellow bat hopped from a grass stem and fluttered away.

Nothing.

As she studied the horizon, details jumped into focus. In the distance, hairy, elephant-like mastodons tested the breeze with questing trunks while green monkeys scrambled between their bulky forms. Nearer, a prairie dog, big as a raccoon, stood at attention next to its burrow—watching her with suspicion. June’s hot late-afternoon sun made her squint through her sunglasses.

“You have to keep moving if you don’t want someone sneaking up behind you.”

The calm but unfamiliar voice was close. Reflex sent her hand streaking toward her belt, but he was quicker—he smoothly plucked her gun from its holster. Spinning, she turned toward the voice, acutely aware of her empty hand.

The man was tall, well over six feet, and husky. He had deeply tanned skin; his head was topped with blond hair mussed by the wind. His khaki pants and polo shirt were unwrinkled and clean, and he appeared cool in spite of the heat of the day. He smiled sheepishly—showing white, even teeth set in a square jaw.

“Childish of me to sneak up on you and take your gun. However, you looked like you were out to kill someone. I wanted to make sure it wasn’t me.”

Sharon blinked to see if he’d vanish as suddenly as he’d appeared. She moved back a step, then her anger boiled.

“I’m extremely tired of people sneaking up behind me,” she said. “If you’re real, I’m probably going to kill you.”

The man stepped toward her.

“So you are in the mood to kill someone, which is why I grabbed your gun. I’ll give it back if you promise not to shoot me.”

“I’ll think about it. Who are you?”

“My name is Leo, and who are you?”

“Sharon. To sneak up on me, you must move like a ghost—except you leave a trail.”

“Sorry about that.”

“Sneaking up on me or leaving a trail?”

“A little of both.”

“What are you doing out here?”

Leo smiled. “Good question. Wandering about in another timeline? Risky. We could get eaten by a sabertooth or we could stay out too long and get stranded. They say Exchanges last two weeks, but who really knows? Sooner or later, the Exchange will reverse itself and Rockport will disappear. Like getting off on the wrong floor and having the elevator door shut behind you, except that the elevator never comes back. Just you and me. Well, not quite. You and me and whoever made the ruts.”

“Like Adam and Eve.” Sharon intended the comment to come out sarcastic, but she heard a wistfulness in her voice that made her cringe. She hastily added, “The elevator does come back. There have been a couple hundred Exchanges.”

“But they never happen twice in the same place and only rarely even close together.”

Leo slowly extended the grip of her pistol—she grabbed it. He hurried along the ruts Sharon had been following, speaking over his shoulder.

“I can’t help but think of the Exchange fifty miles west of here, the one where the prison came back, but the guards were murdered and the prisoners were missing.”

Sharon hesitated for a second and then followed him.

“You still haven’t told me what you’re doing out here.”

“That makes us even. What are you doing out here?”

“I started out in a jeep—swerved to miss a badger. Hit a stump and broke the radiator.”

“But you kept going,” Leo said. “Determined. Well, Sharon, I think you’re trying to catch someone who stole something important. Money? Jewelry? Heirloom? What’s important enough to risk your life for?”

“How do you—”

“What’s with the bruise on your cheek?”

“Whiskey bottle.”

“Ah. And you have rope marks on your wrists, plus shallow cut marks,” Leo said. “Someone clubbed you, tied you up and robbed you of something. But what could it be? Money’s worthless here and it’s too soon for food to be as valuable as gold. And you don’t seem the type to worry over jewelry.”

“My daughter. My seven-year-old daughter.”

Leo stopped abruptly and turned to face her.

“One of the people who made these ruts took her?”

“My ex-husband. Anthony.”

“Why?”

Sharon turned so that the tall man couldn’t see the tears on her cheeks.

“He wants to live out here. He thinks the cult will help him.”

“Cult? Sister West and her flock?”

Sharon nodded. “A bunch of them got arrested for kidnapping and murder a few years ago.”

“I heard about that.”

“Anthony was a member until they kicked him out. He says he still has friends there who’ll help him.”

“Friends in Sister West’s flock, huh?”

“I think Sister West plans to stay over here,” she said.

“That wouldn’t surprise me.”

“It should surprise you.” Sharon brushed a grasshopper-sized mosquito off her arm. “They couldn’t survive out here.”

“It would be a tough life if you weren’t prepared. What will you do if you catch up with them?”

Sharon sighed. “I don’t know. Grab my daughter and bring her back. If they’re guarding her too well, I’ll go back for help.”

Leo nodded. “Did you ask the Marines to help?”

“I didn’t bother,” Sharon said. “They have bigger problems on their plate.”

Leo nodded. “Their mission is to protect Rockport—enforce quarantine and get the city back to the world in one piece, if possible. I imagine chasing down a stray girl doesn’t weigh much on their scale. So, you’re out here alone. Brave. Stupid, but brave.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Like you did when you went up against the whiskey bottle?”

“He won’t find me so easy to surprise next time,” she said. “I have a black belt.”

Leo stopped and smiled down at her. “A martial artist. How interesting. Going to use your black belt against a bear?”

He turned and walked quickly.

Sharon hurried to catch up. “The plan is to stay out of the way of bears. Or shoot them.”

“Well at least shooting one might make it mad. A karate chop wouldn’t even do that.”

“So what’s your plan to stop a bear?”

“Play dead and hope he’s not hungry.” Leo stopped and scanned the horizon. “Hold up. I hear something. Sounds like horses.”

“Are there any over here?”

“Yeah, a species of mustangs that died out at the end of the ice age back in the World. They’re close. Almost on top of us.”

He crouched in the grass and tugged her to join him. A dozen men on horseback abruptly appeared over a low hill. They wore the tattered remnants of orange jumpsuits.

“Convicts! So much for Adam and Eve.”

Leo frowned. “Two years without women. I’m sure they’d be happy to be Adam to your Eve. I hope you know how to use that gun.”

“If they try anything, they’ll find out.”

The convicts rode up, deploying in a semicircle.

A wiry man with a pockmarked face said, “What have we here? Strays from the flock?”

The man glanced at Leo, froze and stared. His face turned pale under the dirt. He talked quietly to his buddies. A short, balding convict shook his head.

Sharon heard a fragment of the reply, “…don’t care who he is. I haven’t had a woman in years.” She eased the pistol from her belt.

Not a man. Just a target.

The balding convict spurred his horse and approached at a gallop. He raised a stone-tipped spear. The others eyed Leo and stayed put. Sharon raised the pistol, thumbed the hammer back, and aimed at the center of the man’s chest.

“I’ll shoot.”

He grinned and kept coming. Sharon hesitated. The sight wavered.

No choice. Do it.

She fired. The pistol jerked against her hand and the bullet’s crack echoed in the still landscape. Above his paunchy stomach, a red stain blossomed on the man’s tattered shirt. The spear dropped at Sharon’s feet. The convict fell with one foot still in the stirrup, spooking his horse, and the animal ran off, dragging his unconscious rider. Sharon caught a glimpse of a rifle tattoo on the convict’s flailing forearm—AK. She shuddered when his head bounced off a rock outcropping and turned away, only to find the convicts’ semicircle had dissolved into chaos. Another convict fell off his bucking horse, which kicked him in the chest with both hind feet when he started to get up. The man flew backward and twitched in the grass.

When the remaining convicts got their horses under control, the man with the pockmarked face spoke to Leo.

“Don’t imagine you’d sell the bitch?”

“You can’t afford her,” Leo said.

Sharon stared at her companion. A strange, eager expression faded from his face as she watched.

“Let us just get what’s left of Joe and catch the horse that ran off. Then we’ll be on our way.”

“Good idea.”

While Sharon and Leo watched, the convicts hauled up the bodies and arranged them on horses. They rode off, several looking over shoulders to stare or gesture at Sharon and Leo.

Sharon kept her pistol pointed warily toward them until they disappeared over a hill.

“They didn’t seem like the kind of men to give up that easily,” she said. “He was an AK. I think they all were.”

“Aryan Kings? Probably. They’re in most prisons and a lot of cities in the Midwest.”

“Not people to run away from a fight.”

Leo grinned. “Maybe you scared them off. Only three of them had guns and who knows if those guns had ammunition. Could be a lot of things.”

“I don’t think so,” Sharon said. “I think you scared them.”

Leo smiled. “You had the gun.”

“I had the gun but they weren’t afraid of me. Who are you?”

“Leo.”

“That’s not enough.”

“No, it probably isn’t. You just shot a man. Are you okay?” Leo peered down at her.

“I haven’t had a chance to think about it yet.”

Sharon turned away, then felt nauseated. She fell to her knees

Leo rested a strong, callused hand on her shoulder. The touch felt right, desperately needed.

Don’t trust him! Don’t let him see you’re weak!

She stood up too soon and swayed, knees locked, dizzy but trying to look strong. It took a minute, but the sickness passed. While scanning the horizon for more trouble, she unconsciously replaced the spent cartridge in the pistol.

“Sorry,” she said.

“I understand. Taking a life is no trivial thing.”

“Anthony—”

“You won’t kill him. It won’t come to that,” Leo said. “Follow me.”

He veered off to the right of the ruts they’d been following. Sharon stopped. “Where are you going?”

“I think one of Sister West’s trucks broke down and they pushed it this way to hide it. If there’s nothing seriously wrong, maybe I can get it going.”

Sharon tried to spot a trail in the knee-high grass.

“I don’t see anything,” she said.

Leo nodded. “They hid the trail. I almost missed it myself.”

They trudged several hundred yards before Sharon spotted the truck hidden in a gully with branches piled over it. Leo opened the hood and poked around. He pulled open the driver’s side door and turned the key. The truck started.

He grinned at Sharon.

“Battery cable worked loose. They reinforced the suspension but didn’t tighten the battery cables. So, walk or ride, your choice.”

Sharon shook her head. “Good set of choices there.” She climbed in.

Leo drove back to the ruts they’d been following and swung onto the trail. Sharon looked out at the Bear Country prairie and forced her body to relax—pushing pain and worry to the back of her mind. She watched the little dramas of life around her. A tiny brown bat landed on the mirror outside her window. It glared at its reflection in the mirror, raised its wings, hissed, and flew away. A bird swooped on the bat. Sharon didn’t see if it got away. Half a dozen birds flew over the truck, darting and snapping at insects and small bats disturbed by their passage.

They drove for nearly an hour before the truck crested a hill and nearly hit a sabertooth cat feeding on a buffalo calf. The cat backed off, hissing and baring large blade-like teeth. It crouched, then charged the truck, but stopped before making contact. Leo slowed, but kept edging forward. Sharon took out her cell phone and took a picture as the sabertooth backed off. The cat came back once they were past. After growling disapproval, it went back to feeding.

“I’m glad we’re in this truck. I wouldn’t want to meet that beast on foot.”

He grinned. “I agree.”

His grin faded when Sharon pulled out her pistol and pointed it at his head.

“Too bad your ride ends now—before you drive me into Sister West’s compound to deliver me to them.”

Leo chuckled. “I knew finding the truck was too obvious, but I don’t want to be on foot out here at night. I didn’t think you bought it. Which is why I switched guns with you. The one you have is empty.”

Sharon frowned at the unfamiliar weapon. She shifted her aim a couple of inches from his head and pulled the trigger. The hammer clicked on an empty chamber. Sharon stared at the gun, then at Leo. All the anger, frustration, and pain of the day was in her voice.

“If the mind games don’t stop right now, I’ll tear off one of your arms and beat you to death with it. Let’s start with a full name; who are you?”

Leo laughed. “I have the gun and you’re making threats. I like that.”

He stopped the truck and shifted in his seat to face her. He held out a hand for a handshake.

“My name’s Leo West.”

***

Dale Cozort lives in a college town near Chicago with his wife, daughter, three cats and a lot of books. Dale is a computer programmer and teacher as well as a long-time science fiction fan. He has a huge and diverse range of interests, ranging from computers and history to martial arts. He loves animals and did a stint as a foster home for orphan Samoyeds. You can find Dale at his website: http://dalecozort.com/index.htm or at Stairway Press: http://www.stairwaypress.com/bookstore/exchange/

Click here for an interview with: Dale Cozort, Author of “Exchange

Click here to read a fascinating article: Three Things Television Tells Us About The Future of Writing by Dale Cozort

Psychologist Abigael Gallant fought her way back from her ex-husband’s brutal attack that killed their daughter and left her blind. Now she “reads” audio books, runs with a guide at a local track, and has a thriving practice that specializes in treating the newly disabled. The last thing she needs is another man in her life.

Enter Detective Luke McCallister, a cop forced into counseling a year after a gun blast during a meth lab takedown robbed him of his hearing. Luke is fighting hard to stay on the force, but computer work and fingerprint analysis are not what he has in mind. Initially reluctant to Abby’s therapy, Luke’s barriers tumble because Abby sees deeper into him than anyone ever cared to.

Though Luke’s lip reading is excellent, he refuses to “listen” to Abby’s warning that his romantic overture jeopardizes her professional ethics. But when break-ins and threatening computer messages escalate into a physical attack on Abby and her guide dog, Luke walks a fine line between cop, protector, and lover. Unable to deny their physical attraction, Abby and Luke tiptoe around their personal baggage and enter into a delicate relationship.

Then Abby is kidnapped. While Luke puts his life at risk to find her, Abby discovers the ghosts of her past are back to haunt her, and the man she once loved was as much of a victim as she.

Excerpt:

The complaint still weighed on her mind, and she worked late into the evening, burying herself in current files to free her mind. Stressed and tired, she almost fell asleep at her desk. Time to call it a night.

She called for Daisy, who’d been in the back yard for the last hour. “Come on, girl.” She waited, leaning against the doorjamb. “Come, Daisy.” Abby was dead on her feet and wanted to go to bed. She whistled and cajoled, but still no Daisy.

A noise in the far corner of the yard drew her attention. She never ventured past the chairs on the patio but knew the grassed area stretched almost thirty feet deep, enclosed on three sides by a high wooden fence attached to both ends of the house. A locked gate on the right side let the yardman enter with his key. The sound persisted, now identifiable as Daisy’s whimpering. What happened? Abby felt her way along the boxwood hedges bordering the house until she came to the fence.

One foot in front of the other. Working her way around, she followed Daisy’s mewls as they grew louder.

Thirty feet to the left corner. A splinter from the fence slivered into her finger. She barely felt it as she continued along, hugging the slatted enclosure. Daisy rustled in the grass, her whines more pronounced.

Movement on the other side of the yard. Daisy expelled a warning growl and shifted in what sounded like an attempt to rise, followed by a grunt and a thud as she dropped to the ground.

“I’m coming, Daisy. I’m almost there.” Then, another sound from farther back.

“Who’s there?” Abby cocked her head to listen, but all she heard was her own heartbeat thundering in her ears. The fine hairs on Abby’s arms stood erect like sentries warning of impending danger, exactly like the day in her office building.

Footsteps in the grass advanced toward her.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

She stood pinned against the fence, ears pricked to the sounds.

“Please answer me,” she said, her words no more than a whisper. “Why are you doing this? Tell me. Maybe we can solve the problem. If it’s something I’ve done…”

But what? What can I do to make it right? Is that what I should say?

Nothing she’d ever done merited this intrusion on her life. She wouldn’t beg, and she’d be damned before playing the role of victim again. She wanted to scream. But as she stood frozen, a Pompeii victim in her own yard, her vocal chords were as paralyzed as her body.

The steps in the grass came closer.

A shift in the airwaves. That indiscernible feeling someone sighted doesn’t notice but a blind person is conditioned to sense. To hear. The difference between a closed room and wide-open spaces. Whoever invaded her home came with a purpose, and he stood right in front of her. She felt his heat.

And she smelled cloves.

She wanted to push him aside and run, but who was she kidding? One thing running on a track with a guide, another on unfamiliar, uneven ground. Before she could say anything, a gloved hand reached around her throat and squeezed, trapping her words inside her. She pushed his hand away and started to scream, but he grabbed hold again, snickering under his breath. His other hand pressed hard against her mouth.

“Shhh,” her tormenter whispered. “Shhh.” The force of his body crushed her to the fence. Evil radiated from him, surrounding her like the devil’s fire. She looked straight at him, conjuring up an image of his height and the mass of his body, but not his face. Never his face. How safe he must feel knowing she saw nothing more than the blackness of night.
She tried to wriggle away, to raise her knee into his groin, but she couldn’t move, her strength no match to his. His hand tightened around her neck, cutting off her air supply. She drew a ragged breath into her lungs. Not enough to scream.
His breathing rose and fell like someone in a deep sleep whose heart beat half the rate of hers. The pungent smell of cloves made her want to gag.

She lunged at him, pushing her body off the fence with as much force as she could muster, but lack of oxygen rendered her light-headed, and her body went limp. Breathe. She was slipping away. It can’t end like this. Not like this. Breathe, Abby, breathe.

He released the pressure on her neck enough for her to suck in a breath of air.

Whispering, he said, “Shhh, or your dog is dead. Understand?”

She nodded, and he slid his hand from her mouth. She gasped another pocket of air. Then another. He stroked his fingers over the contour of her chin and neck, over her breasts, and down the front of her body. She shoved him away, shivering. He snorted.

Neither moved until he backed away, one step at a time. The fading sound of his footsteps retreating into the house.
Then nothing. She tried to cry out, but her voice came out in a raspy sob. She didn’t doubt for a second that if she screamed, Cloveman would return and kill Daisy with pleasure while she listened helplessly.

The front door opened, then slammed shut, and the night’s silence roared once more. She took a step but lost sense of her surroundings, as if she were levitating in space, her internal compass devoid its magnetic field. That hadn’t happened since the beginning, when space was a black hole, swallowing her into its emptiness. She reeled from the alien effect but regained her balance when she heard Daisy’s pitiful whine.

“Daisy, talk to me, baby. I’m here, talk to me. Tell me where you are.” Still lightheaded, she took tiny, careful steps toward her dog’s whimper, wishing she had her cane. About five feet inside the backstretch of fence, her foot touched Daisy’s body and she fell down beside her.

The hair on her dog’s neck felt warm and sticky. “Oh, my God, Daisy.” Abby patted her way to what felt like a gash on the side of Daisy’s head. “It’s all right, girl, it’s all right. I’m going inside to call the police. I’ll be right back.” She rubbed her friend’s neck, backing off, afraid of aggravating a wound she couldn’t see.

Retracing her steps along the fence, adrenaline pumping, she reached the sliding glass door. What if the door slamming was a ploy and he waited inside? But why? He could have killed her outside if he wanted to. Why didn’t he go out the way he came, through the garden gate? She couldn’t think about that now. She didn’t care. She rushed through the patio door to the phone and punched 911, explaining the situation and begging them to send someone immediately.

***

Polly Iyer was born on the coast of Massachusetts. After studying at Massachusetts College of Art and Design in Boston, she traveled to Italy, lived in Atlanta, and now resides in the beautiful Piedmont region of South Carolina in an empty nest house with her husband and a drooling mutt named Max. Writing novels turned into her passion after careers in fashion, art, and business. Now she spends her time being quite the hermit in comfortable clothes she wouldn’t be caught dead wearing on the outside, while she devises ways for life to be complicated for her characters.

You can find Polly’s books at:  Amazon: http://tinyurl.com/7secr4s and Barnes&Noble http://tinyurl.com/6qa3jg8

Click here for an interview with: Polly Iyer, Author of  “InSight” and “Hooked”

Blood on His Hands is one man’s tale of the inner struggles that we all deal with in our

His life seems to end the moment he pulled the trigger sending his unfaithful wife and her lover into oblivion.

On the lam, his journey takes him from rural Oklahoma to the glitz of Las Vegas. He had not however, anticipated the determined tenacity of private investigator Ian Walker, who tracks him down to northern Georgia on to the Appalachian Trail just outside of the sleepy hamlet of Helen. Was the path chosen by both men the trail to redemption, forgiveness and repentance, or was it one that will eventually pull them into tempest and despair; a black hole into oblivion?

Nine months later, in the spring of the following year human remains are discovered by a hiker just off the Appalachian Trail. How will the decisions made by the White County coroner’s office affect the final outcome of the journey Mike Renton started when he killed his wife and will he be able to deal with the repercussions that come along with the choices he made? Blood on His Hands leads us from wanton despair to the promise of a new life no matter the cost.

Excerpt:

The truck seemed to feel its way over the red dirt road. Although he had not returned home in the past twelve years Mike navigated each crook and gully as if he had been here just yesterday. A barbed wire fence still separated the ranch from the road, but when he came to the gate, it was off its hinges, rusting in the tall weeds. The branded wood sign that read Circle Y was swinging by its chain from one end of the frame work that he passed under. He drove slowly over the cattle grid, bumping and swaying.

The bank had never been able to sell the foreclosed land and it had sat, deteriorating slowly. With each gust of wind that blew across it, the dirt shifted, helping the ranch seem more desolate. Tumbleweeds danced, twirled and weaved in the wind, like straw ballerinas who finally sacrificed themselves on the barbed wire.

The house was silhouetted with the moon in back, but still he could see that the windows were boarded up. For a moment, in his mind’s eye, he saw his folks; Dad sitting out on the front stoop, in his rocking chair, corn cob pipe in his hand, and a hound dog or two at his feet. Mom, out in back, in her white linen apron, hanging freshly laundered sheets on the line, and himself as a toddler stumbling and bumbling along chasing horny toads and getting under her feet at every opportunity.

Shaking his head, to clear the memory, he drove forward, picking out the remains of the old barn just down a way. It was barely standing; just a skeleton of planks held together with rusty nails, chicken wire and cobwebs. A few old rusting tractor parts and tools still clung to the work bench and walls, a vice stood open, probably rusted solid. He pulled in and shut off the engine.

Here will be a good place to die. Popping the lid off the aspirins he palmed a handful of little white pills into his mouth and chased them down with a swig of liquor from the whiskey bottle. Tears ran down his face as he stared at the photograph of Caleb and Seth, still in their pajamas, sitting around the Christmas tree a few months ago. My boys, oh my boys. Slowly but surely his eyes closed. He sunk sideways into the passenger seat. The ball cap slipped from his head and the bottle fell from his grasp.

He opened his eyes. If this was hell it smelled an awful lot like vomit. Choking, coughing he sat upright. The spew was dried and stuck to his face and t-shirt. Wet hair was plastered to the side of his head from the cold sweat he had been in all night. Outside the wind continued to howl and light flickered in through the broken slats of the barn. Another day. Still alive. What a fucking failure.

Getting out of the truck he walked around to the passenger side and opened the door. Bending over he picked up the puke covered ball cap, and used the bill to scrape the chunks off the seat. He flung the floor mat into the dirt, followed by the ruined cap. The remaining aspirin rattled around and the whiskey bottle rolled under the seat. They could be left there; a reminder of his botched attempt. After removing as much of the dried vomit as possible he rolled the window down.

He unzipped and peed over behind the tailgate of the truck. His kidneys ached. Climbing back into the cab he turned the engine over, and put the truck into first gear. Edging forward he pulled out of the old ramshackle lean-to barn, and headed back out past the house without even a sideways glance. This place had killed his parents but rejected him. He needed to be on the road. Down the highway was Albuquerque and beyond that Phoenix. It had been a mistake to come back here; too many ghosts and memories. Without a backward glance in the mirror he peeled out off the cattle grid, leaving behind the desolate shadows of the ranch in a cloud of dry dust.

***

After a bitter divorce a walk on the Appalachian Trail blossomed into a murder mystery set in the hills of northern Georgia, near the picturesque town of Helen. Mark P Sadler set his first novel in a scenario he was familiar with and loosly based his book on the true-tale of his hike (He divorced his wife yet gave his character the ability to murder his fictional wife). Now ten years on he is happily remarried and working on the next novel. Find Mark at his website: http://markpsadler.com

Zach Kalusky, host of Sci-D TV’s Xavier Paranormal Investigators, is ecstatic when he’s given the opportunity to explore the most haunted site in Chicago for a Halloween Special: Rosewood Asylum, a place long made off-limits by the local government, plagued by decades of mysterious fires and unexplained events. It’s Zach’s dream investigation- but there’s a catch: the network forces Xavier Paranormal Investigators to partner with the more dramatic-but less ethical-Demon Hunters. Now, Zach must fight for both his show’s integrity and his team’s loyalty while trying to protect his own secret: that he, himself, is possessed.

-

Excerpt

December 26, 1981

Glenn Razzovich didn’t consider himself a career criminal—just a successful one. He glanced around to verify he wasn’t being observed by a nosy neighbor, but at three o’clock the morning after Christmas, that was highly doubtful. Most good people were fast asleep dreaming of sugarplums—whatever those were. He crept up the alleyway and through the light dusting of snow toward the darkened house. He didn’t care if he left tracks—he planned on burning the old pair of jogging shoes along with his gloves after he was done with the job.

“Good King Wenceslas looked out,” he sang under his breath, “on the feast of Stephen.”

Glenn had no idea who King Wenceslas was, but years ago he’d stumbled upon the fact that December 26th was the Catholic’s feast day of Saint Stephen. He never understood why a holiday song celebrated not Christmas itself, but rather, the day after. In fact, Glenn didn’t much believe in Christmas other than one conviction—that he could profit from people who celebrated the long-ago birth by taking trips out of town.

“When the snow lay round about.” Glenn casually unlatched and opened the back gate. “Deep and crisp and even.”

Houses in either direction remained dark. It was a mature neighborhood outside the center of town and not far from the Missouri river which snaked along the Kansas/Missouri border just east of Atchison. He advanced toward the target, an old Victorian two-story which had been unlit the previous two nights. No tire tracks marred the snow in the long driveway next to the house. He swiftly mounted the back steps and slid into the porch shadows.

“Doo-do doo do doo, that night,” he sang, while his hands worked as though operating of their own accord. The lock clicked. “On the feast of Stephen.”

Glenn couldn’t suppress a wry smile. He opened the door a crack, slipped his wry body out of the frigid air, and then in one smooth motion, twirled and then pressed the door silently shut behind him.

A warm stench invaded his nostrils. It reeked of spoiled meat and rotten cabbage. Did Mommy leave hamburger out? Could Daddy have forgotten to take the garbage to the alley? Many people would have gagged at the wicked odor, but to Glenn it was the sweet smell of an empty house. No human being could live in a home with such a stench—especially not during the holiday season.

Before hunting down the stink’s origin (more out of curiosity than any practical reason), Glenn noticed the under-the-counter TV in the kitchen.

“Jackpot,” he murmured. “Mommy gets a small television in the kitchen, and Daddy gets bigger toys somewhere else.”

Tap.

The noise came from upstairs. He instinctively froze and listened intently. There was the distant rumble of a train, a sound so common to Atchison it was rarely noticed unless one’s attention became alerted to it. For a solid minute more, he heard nothing else. Better to be safe than sorry—Glenn crept silently through the house to the front room. A 27” TV sat in the middle of an entertainment center which also housed a stereo and top-of-the-line VCR. Glen noticed the brand names of the electronic equipment and smiled. But something wasn’t right.

Dozens of presents were piled under the Christmas tree. Nicely wrapped too—silver ribbons and bows that refracted the moonlight from the front window and sent shards of white light throughout the room. The gifts were stacked in a dramatic fashion around the tree reminiscent of a shopping mall display. Why hadn’t anyone opened them? Or taken them on their trip?

Distant mumbling came from upstairs.

And a tap.

Pictures of a man, a woman and two young girls decorated the ascending wall of the staircase. Had one of the kids left a toy going? From deep in the pit of his stomach, a feeling told him to just leave, scrap the couple of nights staking the place out and just cut bait. Ridiculous. No one was home.

No one alive anyway. For all he cared, the rotted stench could be a whole dead family poisoned by Christmas cookies the week before. He’d feel even less guilty about cleaning them out. And the wrapped presents would be a bonus.

The soft speaking again. This time it sounded vaguely familiar—like a quiet chant.

Tap.

It had come from upstairs. Looking up, Glenn climbed the steps. The foul odor became more pungent and more putrid. Glenn wasn’t a hardened criminal and had never encountered a dead body, but this reeked how he’d imagined one left for days inside an abandoned house might smell.

He reached the top stair, listened intently, and then headed down the hall towards the far end where he assumed the sounds were coming from. Through the room’s open doorway, a picture window let in the moon’s blue light. Glenn heard nothing. No talking. No movement. Not even any breathing. He inched closer—a few feet from the door.

“When she’d seen what she had done…”

Tap.

Recognition didn’t click right away. Glenn peered into the room. Sitting cross legged on the floor, a girl no older than nine-years old wore pigtails and a white nightgown that glowed in the moonlight. In her hands was a large kitchen knife. Was this one of the daughters from the photo on the stairs?

“She gave her father forty one.”

She drove the blade into the wood floor where a wide deep hole had been carved.

What in the love of hell is this? He thought. Her unlikely appearance. Her vacant expression. She seemed more an apparition than real.

He slowly backed away. Through the cracked door, he caught a glimpse into the next room. An arm extended at an unnatural angle from a lump on the bed. Even in the half light, he could tell that the sheets were stained with dried blood. There was no doubt that at least one murdered body lay in there.

“Lizzy Bordon took an axe…”

Tap.

Glenn almost puked. He rushed to the staircase.

Before he took his first step down, a floorboard creaked. Not underfoot, but behind him.

He whirled and heard the “Pfffft” before he felt the stabbing pain in his thigh.

“And gave her mother forty whacks.”

Her eyes. Wildly insane—inhuman.

He pulled the knife from his groin. Some blood spewed out the hole in his jeans, but most gushed down his inseam.

He staggered down the stairs and clawed at the front door. He clutched his leg remembering to press on the wound. The blood was slippery, warm and wet.

Christ, don’t let it end this way!

He fumbled with the locks. He flung open the door and glanced over his shoulder.

She stood atop the staircase. “And when she’d seen what she had done!”

Glenn stumbled outside, across the porch and down the first two steps before tumbling into the cold dusty snow. He frantically gathered a handful of it and pressed it to his wound. He was already lightheaded. Too much blood lost.

Or was this shock?

He tried to stand and couldn’t manage. His trail of blood extended from where he was laying, up the front steps through the doorway—the warm red liquid melting the white powder.

He just wanted to live.

He cried for help. But it came out more like a gasping croak. Even to him, it didn’t sound very loud. So he inhaled deeply.

And then, as forcefully as he could, Glenn Razzovich screamed.

***

Stephen Prosapio received his Bachelors of Arts degree in Political Science from DePaul University in Chicago. For several years, he reported for one of the nation’s largest fantasy football websites, Footballguys.com. Dream War, was a top-five finalist of 2,676 entries in Gather.com’s 2007 First Chapters contest. Stephen works as an executive recruiter and resides in Oceanside, California.

http://www.prosapio.com

http://www.xavierparanormal.com

facebook page http://www.facebook.com/stephenprosapio

Goodreads author page http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4348183.Stephen_Prosapio

Twitter details http://twitter.com/#!/stephenprosapio

Click here for an interview with: Stephen Prosapio, Author of “Ghosts of Rosewood Asylum”

A top secret agent. A high profile assignment. Danger on the racetrack.

A top secret agent with enhanced strength must use her extraordinary abilities during several high-profile assignments when she escorts the first Arab king to turn to the Christian faith to the White House and the Talladega Superspeedway. Unwanted publicity and the attentions of a NASCAR champion threaten to expose her many secrets and make her a terrorist target, with danger surrounding her on all sides.

“Plenty of action and unexpected twists.”

EXCERPT:

The moment Lady Anne stepped out of the Mashkoori embassy, the Washington, DC heat hit her like a wall. The humidity wrapped itself around her like a blanket, heightening the tension writhing in her stomach like a dozen slithering serpents. Only minutes from now she would enter the White House, where Husam-Jabbar threatened an attempt on the life of King Ahmad, her companion for the day.

Placing a hand on the arm King Ahmad held out for her, she firmly pushed her misgivings aside. Premonition or not, she had a job to do.

While she settled herself near the king in the rear of the second of two stretch Hummers, two of his personal bodyguards took up positions by the driver’s compartment. She brushed a neatly manicured finger against a miniscule earbud as she tucked a stray strand of curly blond hair into her elegant updo. The wallet-shaped wireless device in her purse would pick up the chatter between the Secret Service agents at the White House. Knowing she would hear if they spotted any danger eased some of the tension that had been building all morning. But would the well-respected agency live up to its reputation and stop the planned assassination attempt against the king, or would she need to display her enhanced strength to protect her charge?

She glanced at the king. Did he know the terrorist group had announced their intentions on the Arab television network Al Jazeera earlier this morning?

“Are you ready, my lady?” Something about the glint in the older man’s sea-green eyes and the set of his jaw told her he was prepared for whatever might come today, whether he’d heard the latest news or not. Perhaps he’d become used to the constant threat. After all, every Muslim terrorist group in existence had pledged to kill the first Arabic king to convert to Christianity.

“Of course, Your Majesty. This isn’t the first time I’ve served as a bodyguard.”

The king opened a cabinet that hid a wet bar and refrigerator, pulled out a long-stemmed glass, and poured himself some water. He waved a hand toward the cabinet. “Please help yourself.”

Grateful for something to focus on, Lady Anne followed the king’s lead. A sip of the water’s coolness washed clarity into her thinking, as though it

were a dose of fresh confidence. If this had been a normal assnmentig, her veins would have pulsed with restrained energy at a reason to unleash her enhanced strength.

But nothing about this mission was normal. And if she had to use her abilities today, it would be under the watchful eyes of the media. The power the media held to expose her secrets sent a shiver up her spine. But it was far too late to back down now.

A rap on the glass behind the driver’s compartment brought her thoughts back to her surroundings. The thin, beardless guard nodded to his bearded partner. In sync, they pulled out twin S&Ws and aimed them at King Ahmad.

Lady Anne’s hand shook, spilling water onto the floor.

***

Suzanne Hartmann is a homeschool mom of three and lives in the St. Louis area. When not homeschooling or writing, she enjoys scrapbooking, reading, and Bible study. PERIL: Fast Track Thriller Bk. #1 is her debut novel. On the editorial side, Suzanne is a contributing editor with Port Yonder Press and has written an e-book on the craft of writing, Write This Way: Take Your Writing to a New Level

WEBSITES:

Write This Way blog http://suzanne-hartmann2.blogspot.com

Fast Track Thrillers http://fasttrackthrillers.blogspot.com

TRAILER: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j-G_LzhD4zE

PERIL is available on-line at Amazon, B&N, ChristianBooks.com, and Books-A-Million: http://www.booksamillion.com/p/Peril/Suzanne-Hartmann/9781602903067?id=5239659428639)

Excerpt:

Twenty days after entering the Wolf planetary system, Connie Hooper reached its largest gas-giant, W-7. A short burst of anti-grav brought the Viggan to a near stop. She never lost that tingly feeling as the gates blossomed along a gas-giant’s orbital plain. Studying the stats on W-7, she noted it contained ten gates, but only six had been explored by other Gate-Jumpers so far. Picking number 8, an unmapped gate, she designated it asW-7-10-#8/ CH-20, and turned to her AI’s monitor. “Viggy, drop a marker and send a recon probe through. Let’s hope this will be a good one.”

While waiting, always the worst part, she ran a hand over her hair. It seemed to be getting a bit long, so she considered giving herself another buzz, and maybe cleaning up a bit. Anything to take her mind off of the five or six hours it usually took for the prob’s round-trip.

Tapping on the nearest monitor, she joked, “Hey Viggy, are you still awake? How’s our water supply?”

“You know I’m always awake. My recycle-reserve is at ninety-six percent. The fresh water tank is just under forty-two percent. Are you thinking about taking a shower?”

“Yea, I think I need one…and no comments from you.”

“I would never comment on such a thing; although, you have been giving my air filters a workout the past few weeks.”

Smiling, she ran her hands over her bare breasts. “If you were a guy instead of just a male persona, I would take better care of myself. Warm up the shower bag, and give me some mood music… Brubeck’s Take Five?”

“You do seem to like that one. I feel it’s a bit repetitive.”

“Isn’t ‘repetitive’ what we do out here? Endless months traveling through empty space with the slim hope of finding something behind one of these gates? I’ve been in the Gate Jumper’s Corps for nearly ten years, and what have I found? Zip… Nada… Not a damned thing worthwhile.”

Unhooking and drifting aft, she felt her hair again, but the vac-clipper was such a hassle, she decided not to use it. Pulling a clean jump-suit off the rack, she set it aside and slipped into the bag.

Remembering the one, and only, time she’d made a jump in her usual state of undress, made her giggle.

Viggy was about to start the shower, but stopped when he heard her. “You find something amusing in there?”

“Just thinking about the time I made a jump with nothing on. It’s so seldom we meet another jumper, I forgot and opened the vid-link. Bob was it? Yea, Bob. The look on his face was priceless.”

“I recall the incident. Your face was as red as your hair. Are you ready now?”

“Yea…hit me.” The stinging spray felt great until the very last moment. Viggy, in one of his playful moods, must have switched the water to cold.

“Ouch…damn it Viggy, if you do that again I’ll shuffle your processors.” Through the vac-dry noise, and the recording’s drum solo, she heard a weak, ‘Sorry’, but he didn’t sound very sorry.

To Connie’s relief the probe came back unharmed, showing no large mass or potentially harmful objects nearby. Anticipation built as she downloaded its data, only to be smashed by an image of a gas-giant planet orbiting much too close to its primary star, forming on the Viggan’s main screen. She felt more than a bit disappointed. Holding back a tear, she looked up at her AI’s monitor. “Viggy, another dry hole. Oh-well, once we map it, it should at least be good for a few new jump-gates. No matter, it will still be ‘my’ system to name…unless other Gate-Jumpers have found it first. Twenty jumps and I still haven’t discovered a habitable world.”

“It’s only a matter of time Connie. We’ll find something eventually.”

Viggie’s deep baritone voice seemed to be trying to console her, but she didn’t want to be consoled. “That’s easy for you to say. What’s it been…sixteen months since we left New Hope? You’re just a computer…”

“An Artificial Intelligence.”

“Okay, an AI. You don’t get lonely. You don’t feel the frustration of coming up empty every time.”

“This is true. I don’t feel anything, but as I stated, we’ll find something; it’s only a matter of time.”

Slapping a jump-med patch on her arm, she strapped down. “Okay Viggy, let’s jump through and see what we’ve got.”

***

Growing from a point of light to a bright violet torus as her anti-grav excited it, the gate filled her main screen. Like a window to another star system, she could see another gas giant planet. Being close to its primary star, it was shining very bright, but far enough away from the gate so it didn’t pose a threat. Taking her hand off the ‘abort’ button, she closed her eyes as they made the jump. The nausea and stinging sensation of jump-shock had her gripping the armrests, so she let Viggy look for markers, and make a more detailed scan until the pain went away.

As an AI, Viggy’s voice didn’t convey any panic when he calmly announced, “Connie, we’re not alone here. There’s another ship, approximately three-thousand kilometers away, and it just fired three missiles at us. I’m jumping back.”

After a double jump the pain was intense. Connie applied another meds patch, and forced herself to concentrate. “Viggy. How much data did you get?”

“Not much. Several weak EM signatures; no markers. I did record an image of that ship. I’m cleaning it up now.”

While the image was coming up on the view screen, she took another dose of pain-meds and a stim.

Viggy did sound concerned now as he warned, “Connie, you know that will make you sick later.”

“I know that Viggy, but I have to to stay sharp. Are you sure it wasn’t another Gate-Jumper? No… of course not. A Jumper wouldn’t shoot at us. A rogue Saran? I understand there are still a few of those warrior bugs oround. There could be something valuable enough in that system for a Union Navy ship to have gone bad, but I find that hard to believe.”

“Negative on all counts. As you can see, that ship conforms to no known vessel. Also, it didn’t seem to possess A-Grav technology. I would say we’re looking at another species entirely. If true, that alone will get your name in the history books.”

“So maybe things are finally looking up? Okay. Get a message off to the Union Navy… and send another probe through that gate.”

***

Navigator Jausha aboard Sentinel-Six noticed an anomaly. Several points of light blossomed along the orbital plane of God’s Eye. Turning the ship towards the nearest one, he called the Captain.

“Regent Tennant, you’d better check this out. Our enemy may have a new weapon.”

Tennant came on deck just as a strange craft appeared through one of the lights. Without hesitation, he yelled at his gunner. “This may be an attack by the Moros. . .Fire all tubes at that ship…now.”

Leaning over the gunner’s shoulder, he watched the missiles streaking towards their target, but before they got anywhere near, it turned and disappeared back through that unknown light source. Astonished, he stared at the, now empty space. “Gunner, shut down the missiles for retrieval. Gasty, did you record visual on that? Gasty?”

Jausha coughed lightly, then whispered, “Regent, Sir…Gasty is in the break-room. I fear he missed it.”

“Break-room? Why is he not at his station?”

“Sir. We all need a break at times. There has been no need for imaging up to now… he just…”

“Just missed the most important thing we’ve encountered on this tour. Well nothing we can do about it now. Get me a link with the High Command. This must be reported.”

***

Administrator Regas re-read the report, then turned to General Aisha. “What can you tell me about Regent Tennant? Is he one to panic? If he fired on a Moro ship, he may have broken our treaty. Why are there no images of the ship they claimed to have encountered?”

Aisha shrugged. “They only managed a short visual sighting…but it was witnessed by several of Tennant’s crew. I know Tennant, and trust he did in fact see something. Do you wish to inform the other nations about this?”

“No. Not until we know more. I hesitate to even send more ships without more information…but if the Moros have developed a new weapon, we must be prepared. Send two… no, make that five Sentinels to join Sentinel Six… And get me a direct link to Moro.”

~ ~ ~

Ensign Reed tapped lightly on the Admiral’s door, then stepped inside “Admiral Conroy, we just received a report from a Gate-Jumper named Connie Hooper. She claims to having been fired at by an unknown vessel near one of Wolf Seven’s gates”

Setting her tea cup down, Kim held out a hand for the report. As the chip projected an image on her wall, she read the text on her desk-reader. The image was fuzzy, but it looked nothing like any vessel they’d encountered before. “Fired at? There’s not much to go on here. We may have discovered another race…but why would they shoot at her?” Stabbing a finger on the com-pad, she called Operations.

“Captain Williams, Operations. What can I do for you Admiral?”

“What do we have near Wolf Seven?

Williams checked the status-board, and made a few calculations before looking up. “We have two ships near that region. The Peace Keeper can be there in three jumps… approximately six weeks. The Enterprise is in the Vega system. It can be at Wolf in three months… maybe a bit less. Do we have a problem at Wolf?”

“Someone… or something, took a shot at one of our Gate-Jumpers. I’m requesting she stay put until the Navy can check it out. Send those two, and put more on stand-by. Imperative they get there soonest.”

“Will do Admiral… Williams out.”

Kim tossed the chip back to her aid. “Too bad I killed General Omar, he would have loved this. As for myself, I hate this shit. Why can’t people just get along?”

Snatching the chip out of the air with one hand, Ensign Reed saluted with the other. “People, or alien beings? I guess we’ll find out. Ah…Admiral, may I ask a personal question?”

“You may ask, but I may not answer.”

“When you killed Omar; the reports stated it was self defense…but there have been…ah…rumors.”

Kim smiled at his hesitant attitude. Like it was yesterday, she remembered the vivid image of Omar’s face as she pointed her pistol at his head and pulled the trigger. The war-mongering idiot was about to start an unnecessary war, just so he could play general. Her hand went to the scar on her arm as she remembered Omar’s Second in Command shooting her, then filing the ‘self-defense’ report. She gave Reed a sly smile. “We’ll stick to the official version. You’ve been reading my records?”

“I don’t intend to stay an Ensign forever. You know what they say, ‘anything to advance ones career’… So I decided to get to know my boss. Hope you don’t mind.

Looking at her reflection on the blank screen, then back at the upstart kid, caused her to laugh. “Tell you a secret. When we got back from Saran, all I wanted to do was get out of the dammed Navy. Now look at me. A grey haired, unmarried, witch…With the whole dammed Navy on my shoulders. Be careful what you wish for, it could bite you in the ass. Now get the hell out.”

Pulling her resignation letter from its hidey-hole, she tapped it against her teeth. She knew she couldn’t quit just yet. Not until they found out what was going on at Wolf. Sighing, she put it back and folded the desk screen so she wouldn’t have to look at the reflection glairing back from it.

For Every Action…

Lincoln Baker, born a ward of the state, has gone from orphan, to gang banger, to basketball superstar, to lifer at the Louisiana State Penitentiary in the space of eighteen years. During his prison term, he meets Panama X, a powerful and mysterious father figure who gives Lincoln a reason for living – he must assassinate Randy Lafitte, the sitting Governor of Louisiana.

There is an Equal and Opposite Reaction…

In order to force a pardon, Lincoln orchestrates the kidnapping of Karen Lafitte, Randy’s only daughter. But Randy Lafitte is a man who built his fortune by resurrecting a family curse from slavery to kill his own father. A curse that may or may not have been responsible for his son Kristopher’s death in the gang crossfire that sent Lincoln to prison for life. Randy will stop at nothing to save his daughter, even if it means admitting the curse is real. Even if it means committing greater atrocities.

Too bad for Anyone Stuck in the Middle.

Three days after Karen’s kidnapping, an explosive cocktail of revenge, manipulation, serendipity, fate, truth, and redemption detonates throughout Louisiana. When the dust settles, the ending is as unexpected as it is illuminating. There are secrets sealed in our blood, you see. The best answers, as always, lie within.

EXCERPT:

1963

New Orleans, LA

During the day, New Orleans’ most famous neighborhood was a tribute to architectural and cultural homogeneity. At night, the French Quarter’s multicultural legacy blurred into an unrecognizable labyrinth; especially in the eyes of the drunk and desperate.

At the moment, Joseph Lafitte was both.

Joseph careened down the dark alley and absentmindedly brushed at the dried blood beneath his nose with his free hand. His tailor-made shirt and pants were drenched with sweat and felt sizes smaller. He was overcome with the sensation that he was running in place, even though he was moving forward at a brisk pace. Until he tripped over a carton some careless individual had placed in his path.

Upon impact with the concrete his cheek flayed open, but he barely felt the sting as his priceless nickel and gold plated antique Colt Navy Revolver clattered away into the darkness, out of reach. Even now, breathing as harshly as he was, he could hear someone behind him. Somehow they managed to stay just out of the range of his sight, but within earshot.

It was the ideal moment for them to pounce, but Joseph would not give in so easily. He pushed himself to his feet, sweeping the ground for his weapon. He located it near a dilapidated doorway. Clutching it once again, he felt his self-control returning.

Then his dead wife called his name.

“Joseph? Joseph, where are you?”

That was all the motivation he needed. He broke into a full gallop but couldn’t outrun what he’d seen back at the hotel, or what he’d just heard.

They are toying with me. Trying to make me doubt my own mind.

This was New Orleans after all. A place with a well-documented history of trickery and alchemic manipulation. He must have drank or eaten something laced with some devilish hallucinogen. For all he knew, his own son—Randy—had given it to him.

Randy still blamed Joseph for the car wreck that took his mother’s life. Joseph had noted the murderous hue in Randy’s eyes after Rita’s funeral, and even though Joseph explained that it was an accident, he knew Randy would never forgive him.

Was this Randy trying to get some sort of revenge?

It didn’t matter. Randy was weak—always had been and always would be. As an only child, he grew up to be softer than cotton—Rita’s doing by babying and spoiling the boy.

Have I underestimated my son?

This thought, along with his first glimpse of light in quite some time, simultaneously assaulted him.

Where am I? And why haven’t they caught up to me yet?

Maybe they want me to go this way.

Joseph glanced down at the revolver that had once been carried by the great Robert E. Lee. He’d show them who had the upper hand; if Randy was behind this, he would soon be joining his mother.

Rather than heading toward the light, Joseph turned left down another dark alleyway. The façade of the building was damp to the touch. Other than his troubled footfalls, there was no sound. Who knew a city nearly bursting at the seams with music could be this eerily silent?

Joseph used the quiet to collect his thoughts.

***

He’d spent that afternoon as he spent most Saturdays, sipping bourbon and talking shop with other New Orleans power brokers inside the private room in Commander’s Palace. He knew something was wrong as soon as Randy appeared at the doorway, motioning to him.

“We have to leave New Orleans right now, Father,” Randy said in a hushed tone as Joseph entered the hallway.

“What are you talking about, Boy, and why are you whispering?” Joseph replied, a little louder than he needed to.

Randy jerked Joseph’s arm in the direction of the exit, his eyes pleading. “Something bad is going to happen if we don’t leave here right away.”

“No, Son,” Joseph said. “Something bad is going to happen if you don’t remove yourself from my sight this instant!”

And that had been the end of it. Randy left, looking back only once, as if to say, Don’t say I didn’t try to warn you.

Joseph returned to his drinks and colleagues. Afterward, he went downtown for a little afternoon rendezvous with a beautiful Creole whore. She came as a recommendation from his regular mistress, Claudette, who was on her cycle, and the girl certainly fit the bill.

He made it back to the hotel just as the sun set and settled down for a drink or three after taking a steaming hot shower. In the comfort of his armchair, in the privacy of his suite, his thoughts returned to Randy. It was Randy’s eighteenth birthday and the boy had been acting oddly ever since he’d arrived in New Orleans two days earlier. In truth, he’d been acting strangely much longer than that.

Joseph would never forget the revulsion he’d experienced when the maid in their Lake City mansion had shown him the pile of bloody rags at the bottom of Randy’s hamper. That disgust tripled once he found out the source of the blood. One night, Joseph waited until Randy exited the bath. The raw pink and black slashes across Randy’s forearms, thighs, chest, and abdomen were all the evidence he needed. Apparently Randy had taken to cutting himself in the wake of his mother’s death.

Randy was barely a teenager and there was only one thing Joseph could think to do to keep from locking the boy up in a sanitarium. He sent him away to a French boarding school and commissioned some distant relatives to keep an eye on him until he graduated. If he survived that long.

***

This weekend was supposed to be a celebration of sorts. Randy had returned from France a distinguished young man, and Joseph was ready to bury the hatchet.

But what if Randy doesn’t want it buried? What if he wants my entombment and has been patiently waiting all these years to get his revenge?

Joseph grabbed hold of a lamppost to steady himself. A statue of a man on a horse loomed over him. His feet had brought him to Jackson Square.

Surely, nothing bad can get me here, right?

He’d believed the same to be true of his hotel room and that had definitely proven to be false.

***

Joseph had been cleaning his prized revolver before sleep overtook him. The sound of the door opening brought him back to consciousness. Even though all the lights were still on, his bleary eyes could barely make out the two figures—a young black male and white female—standing in his doorway.

Joseph sat up in his seat. “Who are you? And what the hell are you doing in my room?” His hand quickly found the revolver on the table next to him.

The man and woman looked at each other and Joseph heard a deep male voice in his head say, “Don’t worry, Joseph. It will be ova’ soon.”

He felt the voice’s vibrations in his teeth and jumped to his feet. The young woman reached out to him and he heard her voice in his mind as well. “Don’t fight us, Joseph. It is so much better if you don’t resist.”

Joseph felt wetness below his nose and when his hand came up blood red, he bolted around the woman, out of his room, and out of the hotel.

***

Now he stood in the shadow of Andrew Jackson’s immortal statue, exhausted and nearing the end of rationality. A sudden thought occurred to him.

Maybe this is all a nightmare. Maybe I’m still sitting in my chair snoring.

He latched onto the idea. Hadn’t he heard recently that the best way to wake from a nightmare was to kill yourself?

Where did I hear that?

Ah yes, now he remembered. The Creole whore had mentioned her grandmother’s secret to waking from a bad dream.

What an odd coincidence…

Joseph stared down at the revolver as if it were some magic talisman. If this were a dream, it was the most vivid of his life. He could feel the breeze from the Mississippi River, the cold bronze of the statue beneath his hand, his sweaty palm wrapped around the hilt of the gun. And he could hear footsteps nearing.

Rita’s voice rang out across the square. “Joseph, I’m here to bring you home.”

His mind showed him an image of what Rita must look like after six years underground. He hadn’t cried at her funeral, but petrified tears streaked down his face as he gritted his teeth.

I have to wake from this dream!

The footsteps were getting louder and closer. He didn’t have much time. To offset his fear and still his shaking hand, he thought of how good it would feel to wake up from this nightmare. He put the gun in his mouth, tasting the salty metallic flavor of the barrel as his mouth filled with saliva.

God, this feels real.

But he knew it wasn’t. He attempted to gaze at the statue of Andrew Jackson riding high on his horse. The statue was gone. As was the rest of Jackson Square. It had been supplanted by that damnable live oak tree in front of his Lake City mansion. He should have chopped that thing down long ago.

Joseph let out an audible sigh of relief.

It is a dream after all.

“It’s time, Joseph,” Rita whispered in his ear.

Knowing what had to be done, Joseph squeezed the trigger.

***

Qwantu Amaru has been writing since the age of 11. An avid reader, he has always aspired to write suspenseful page turners and socially significant literature like those of his writing influences Richard Wright, Harper Lee, Walter Mosley, Tananarive Due and Stephen King. Qwantu draws his inspiration from his modest upbringing in small towns and cities across Pennsylvania, West Virginia, Louisiana, and Florida. In addition to his first novel, ONE BLOOD, Qwantu has published six volumes of poetry: Lightbringer, Lovelost, After the Storm, Midnight’s Shadow, Awakening, and Actual-Eyez. Qwantu is an active member of the outstanding socially active poetry collective Black on Black Rhyme out of Tallahassee, FL. He has performed spoken word in poetry venues from New York to Los Angeles. Qwantu currently resides in Jersey City, NJ.

Link to get autographed hard copy of the book or ebook in any format: http://www.qwantuamaru.com/the-products.html

Link to website: http://www.qwantuamaru.com

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/onebloodbook

Twitter: @onebloodbook

Click here for an interview with: Qwantu Amaru, Author of “One Blood”

When Laurence Harford, a prominent businessman and philanthropist is found murdered in the historic Rocks area of Sydney, Detective Chief Inspector Fitzjohn is asked to solve the crime quickly and discreetly. After barely starting his investigation, uncovering a discarded mistress and disgruntled employees, a second killing occurs.

Meanwhile, Laurence’s nephew, Nicholas Harford, has his certainties in life shaken when he becomes a suspect in his uncle’s death, and receives a mysterious gold locket that starts a chain of events unravelling his family’s dark truths.

Murder At The Rocks is the second book in the Fitzjohn Mystery Series.

Excerpt:

Laurence Harford emerged from the building into the cold night air and lit the cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. Drawing on it, he discarded the match and exhaled, watching the smoke blend with the shadows in the dimly lit laneway. He started walking toward the stone archway and the street beyond, but froze when a figure stepped out in front of him. As their eyes met, Laurence’s heart pumped, a sense of recognition registering in his brain. Beads of sweat broke out across his brow and his cigarette fell to the wet flagstones, its life snuffed out. Laurence lurched out into the deserted street, the sound of uneven footsteps behind him.

Mapsom opened the door when Laurence arrived home. His demeanour displayed all the attributes of an accomplished butler. ‘Good evening, sir.’

Laurence handed Mapsom his coat and, without a word, crossed the hall to his study, slamming the door behind him. He did not feel the chill of the room as he took the top off the decanter and poured whisky into a glass, nor did he hear the door open behind him when he took a gulp. He only felt the dampness of the laneway in his mind and saw the face that haunted him.

‘You’re late.’ Laurence flew around at the words.

‘For what?’ he bellowed.

‘It’s Monday. Remember? We’re due at the charity dinner at eight.’

Laurence glared at his wife, her tall, slim figure accentuated by the electric blue gown she wore. ‘You’ll have to go alone, Julia. I have a matter to deal with this evening.’

‘You can’t just not go. You’re expected.’

Laurence, his face contorted with rage, banged his glass down, its contents flying across the desk. ‘I don’t give a damn if I’m expected. I’ve got more important things to attend to.’

Julia tensed before a smirk crossed her face. ‘Ah yes, of course. Charlotte Holmes, no doubt.’ Laurence glowered at her. ‘Don’t look so shocked, Laurence. I’m not a complete fool, whatever you might think of me. I know all about you and that poor misguided creature. To tell you the truth, I’m surprised she’s lasted this long. Your women usually realise much sooner what a contemptible bastard you really are.’

‘Get out.’

Julia smiled. ‘With pleasure. Oh, but before I go, your late brother’s solicitor phoned earlier. Andrew Pemlett, I think his name is. He said Nicholas arrives back from South America tomorrow.’ Julia watched the colour drain from Laurence’s face. ‘I thought you’d be pleased to hear that bit of news.’ She opened the door to leave as Laurence’s glass flew across the room and smashed against the wall.

***

Jill Paterson was born in Yorkshire and grew up in Adelaide, South Australia before spending 11 years in Ontario, Canada. After returning to Australia, she settled in Canberra.

After doing an arts degree at the Australian National University, she worked at the Australian National University’s School of Law before spending the next 10 years with the Business Council of Australia and the University of NSW, ADFA Campus, in the School of Electrical Engineering.

Jill has two published books. The Celtic Dagger and Murder At The Rocks.

My Blog: http://www.theperfectplot.blogspot.com

http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=Murder+At+The+Rocks&x=0&y=0

Brilliant pre-med student Amoreena Daniels needs money. Desperately. Her mother is dying of cancer and her medical insurance has run out. When a seemingly perfect women’s clinic offers Amoreena a generous payment for service as a surrogate mother, Amoreena thinks her prayers have been answered. But then—much too early—her baby begins to move.

The strange dreams, another surrogate’s mysterious death and a drug-addicted former medical intern confirm Amoreena’s worst suspicions: there is something terribly wrong with the pregnancy. Amoreena embarks on a dangerous journey to uncover the truth behind the endless battery of genetic tests, sonograms and frightened patients, only to discover that she has unwittingly become a pawn in a high-stakes game of biomedical experimentation.

GARGOYLES is book 1 of the Resurrection trilogy.

Excerpt (Chapter One):

Amoreena Daniels gazed at the woman retching into the plastic emesis basin and struggled to visualize her mom as she once was, her mom prior to the diagnosis, her mom minus the cancer. It was a difficult if not futile exercise.

Wearing a hospital gown that appeared two sizes too large, Geneva Daniels adjusted her brightly flowered scarf with one hand, the cloth a replacement for her once-vibrant tresses. Seated next to her, Amoreena counted another fresh bruise coalescing under her mother’s limpid skin, where an IV line replenished her fluid stores.

Room 441 on the University of California Medical Center oncology ward no longer seemed just a hospital room; rather, a bleak reminder of what physical devastation a disease run amuck could wreak on the human spirit. Even the astringent, aseptic smell failed to eliminate completely the specter of illness and suffering.

“Amoreena Daniels.” It was the ward clerk. She waited outside the door as if what lay inside was contagious.

“Hold on,” Amoreena said curtly, throwing her thick mane of auburn hair out of her face with a toss of her head. “You okay, Mom?” she asked, helping steady the basin.

Geneva coughed twice and nodded. “How ‘bout a cigarette?”

“Not funny.” Amoreena checked the basin. No blood, only thickened saliva. She carried the basin into the bathroom.

Geneva heard the water in the sink. “You’re just like your dad. No sense of humor.” It required two breaths and a coughing spell to expel the words.

Amoreena returned, setting the clean basin on the nightstand. “I’ll develop a sense of humor when you develop an appetite,” she said, studying her mother’s skin. She thought the sallow hue had lessened, or maybe it was just the fluorescent lighting. “And will you stop with the ‘Dad jokes.’ He doesn’t deserve it.”

“Ms. Daniels.” It was the clerk again. “Dr. Gillespie’s waiting.”

“Sure, all right.” Amoreena feigned a smile. It wasn’t the ward clerk’s fault her mother had metastatic cervical cancer. “Mom, I’ll see you before I leave.”

Geneva coughed deeply and spit into a Kleenex before finding some renewed vigor. “Amy…” She called her only daughter “Amy” with a short ‘a’ whenever their discussions centered on the serious. “When you’re through with Dr. Gillespie, I have something to tell you.”

“Tell me now. He can wait.”

“No, later. Dr. Gillespie’s very busy.” She attempted a weak grin. “I’m not going anywhere. Yet.”

Amoreena bent low and pecked Geneva on the cheek. Her skin felt cold and dry on her lips. Not the way she wanted to remember her mother. “See ya.”

The conference room for the oncology ward was situated adjacent to the central nurses’ station. Amoreena was very familiar with it. It was in this very room six months ago that Dr. Gillespie had unleashed the appalling news that her mother’s cancer was a stage IV, metastatic. It had already invaded the liver and lungs. The revelation had given new meaning to the term shitty Monday. But there was still a fighting chance, he’d said. More out of a sense of duty than any realistic expectation of success, Amoreena surmised. Only later that night when she and her mom were alone did the real tears flow.

Dressed in faded denims and a loose scooped-neck T-shirt, Amoreena approached a man in a wheelchair. She moved with a certain aloofness that was both enticing and ingenuous.

The man waved. She returned the gesture. She’d seen him several times before during her prior visits, and each time he appeared thinner and more cachectic. Acute myelocytic leukemia.

“Heya, gorgeous,” he said, as she passed.

Amoreena allowed a smile. “How’s it going?”

“Another day, same old shit.”

Momentarily, she wondered how long he had. She didn’t even know his name. Quickly, she dismissed the thought when she observed the blinds to the conference room drawn shut. Ignoring the stares from the nurses and resident physicians, Amoreena paused at the door and inhaled. Fuck cancer. She knocked.

“Come in.” The voice sounded apologetic.

She entered and shut the door behind her.

Dr. Gillespie sat alone at a long table. Balding and bespectacled, he was an African-American with a well-trimmed gray beard. A medical chart lay open before him. He motioned her to a seat.

Finding the chair directly across from him, she didn’t miss the gyn-oncologist’s pained expression. The same expression he failed to mask six months ago.

In that one instant, Amoreena knew the news, whatever it was, was not going to be pleasant.

“So how’s premed these days?” he asked, breaking the ice.

Amoreena stifled saying ‘same old shit.’ “Fine,” she answered.

“Interviews?”

“Next fall with UCI, UCLA, and USC.”

“Want to stay in California.”

“UCLA’s my first choice. It all depends.” She left it hanging.

“Hm-hm.” Dr. Gillespie’s eyes scanned the blackboard.

Amoreena followed his gaze. Limned in chalk were clusters of cancer cells—she presumed they represented cancer cells—the big CA on an oncology ward was usually a dead giveaway. Adjacent to the diagram, a list of drug names had been scrawled. A second sketch demonstrated how these specific drugs attacked the foreign cells’ replicating system. Curing cancer was simply that. Stop the unauthorized replication and the patient survived. Amoreena wished it were that easy. Dr. Gillespie lightly tapped the chart on the table. “Your mother’s weight’s down.”

Amoreena felt a tinge of undeserved guilt. “I know, it’s almost like I have to force-feed her at home. This last round of chemo really took a lot out of Mom.”

“You and Geneva are waging a tough battle.” He hesitated, as if unsure how to proceed. “Amoreena…” he started again, but pursed his lips at the knock on the door.

Amoreena turned to find the door open and a woman filling the empty space. She was large, not fat, and exhibited an androgynous figure. She sported a business suit, one of those styles illustrated in catalogues targeted toward female corporate types who seemed to believe that becoming as successful as a man entailed dressing like one. The woman carried a thick satchel.

Without waiting for an invitation, she strode imperiously into the room and took the chair at the head of the table.

Dr. Gillespie made the introduction. “This is Ms. Rosalind Cates. She chairs our hospital’s utilization review committee. Her specialty is medical oncology.”

Amoreena sat in silence, staring at the only medical chart in the room. Her mother’s. With no prior experience, she suddenly knew she despised utilization review committees.

“It’s come to our attention, Amoreena,” the oncologist continued haltingly, “that…” There was another disquieting pause.

At this juncture, the imposing Ms. Cates grabbed the reins. “I’ll take it from here, Doctor,” she said.

The tone of the woman’s voice exhibited a callous knifelike quality very much like a personal-injury attorney Amoreena had seen pitching on late-night television.

Ms. Cates set her satchel on the table but remained standing. She placed both hands on the back of the chair. “Ms. Daniels, I believe your mother’s health care coverage had been provided by the Standard Care Insurance Company.”

Amoreena nodded. “That’s correct. And still is,” she added in rejoinder to Ms. Cates use of the word “had.”

Ms. Cates grunted. “Well, that’s the purpose of this meeting. As of the end of this month, Standard Care will no longer cover Geneva Daniels for health care needs. This includes any catastrophic coverage.”

Amoreena felt her face grow hot. “What do you mean?” She swiveled to face the oncologist. “Dr. Gillespie, what’s she talking about?”

“Ms. Daniels,” Ms. Cates interjected.

Amoreena ignored her. “What’s this lady got to do with Mom’s treatments anyway?”

Before the doctor could reply, Ms. Cates had removed a spiral-bound notebook from her satchel and placed it on the table. “Ms. Daniels, your mother was employed as a secretary for H&M Printing Press for fourteen years. Is that correct?”

Amoreena refused to make eye contact. “And she’d still be employed if her pap smears had remained normal.”

“When did her leave of absence commence?”

“Six months ago. After the diagnosis.”

Ms. Cates gave a satisfactory nod. “That partially explains the confusion.”

“Confusion?” Amoreena blurted out.

“Ms. Daniels, as of five months ago, H&M Printing has been in receivership, they’ve declared bankruptcy, and are no longer paying premiums for their employees’, including any retirees’ health care coverage. As per the law, Standard Care, as well as the human resources department at H&M, notified your mother numerous times that her medical coverage would be her responsibility. Unfortunately, Geneva Daniels failed to respond appropriately, no premiums were paid, and therefore, as of this moment, she is without coverage.”

Amoreena’s mouth felt gummy. No coverage. My God, she has metastatic cancer. She barely heard Ms. Cates continue.

“I took the liberty of presenting Geneva Daniels’s case to a group of other insurance agencies for gap coverage. However in light of your mother’s current situation, they felt it would not be in their best financial interests to intervene. One did agree, though, to issue a policy, however, it would not cover any preexisting conditions. I’ve referred her case to Social Services.”

Amoreena shook her head. “That’s fucking great.”

“Pardon.”

Amoreena stood. “What is this shit? This is a damn hospital isn’t it, or did I drive into the wrong parking garage?”

Ms. Cates cleared her throat. “There’s no need to be obscene, Ms. Daniels. I understand—”

“You don’t understand crap.”

“I understand this,” Cates retorted. “I’ve reviewed the chart and doctors’ notes regarding your mother’s treatments and at this stage of Geneva Daniels’s illness, her cost/benefit ratio fails to fall within the curve of a successful outcome. Unless you can devise alternative means to finance her treatments, I regret to inform you, your mother will be forced to seek care elsewhere once she is discharged.”

***

Alan Nayes was born in Houston and grew up on the Texas gulf coast. He lives in Southern California. He is the author of the critically-acclaimed biomedical thrillers, GARGOYLES (Book One in the Resurrection Trilogy) and THE UNNATURAL. His most recent releases are BARBARY POINT, SMILODON, GIRL BLUE and PLAGUE (Book Two in the Resurrection Trilogy)

An avid outdoorsman and fitness enthusiast, he is one of only a few individuals to ever swim across Wisconsin’s chilly Lake Winnebago. When not working on his next project, he enjoys relaxing and fishing at the family vacation home in Wisconsin. Website: http://www.anayes.com

http://www.amazon.com/Gargoyles-Resurrection-Trilogy-Book-ebook/dp/B005CXVVIK/ref=sr_1_3?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1326264275&sr=1-3

Interview with: Alan Nayes,