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Mailbox Monday
Mailbox Monday was created by Marcia of A girl and her books and is now hosted on its own blog.




Sunday: BROTHERLY LOVE by Jason Blacker from Author
Tuesday: FRACTURED EDENby Steven Gossington from Author
Tuesday: THE SUNSET CONSPIRACY by Steve Hadden from Author
Tuesday: THE FIXER: THE NAKED MAN by Jill Rosenblatt from Author/PICT
Tuesday: THE FIXER: THE KILLING KIND by Jill Rosenblatt from Author/PICT
Tuesday: THE WORLD BENEATH by Rebecca Cantrell from Author
Tuesday: A WINTER DISCOVERY by Lou Aronica from The Story Plant
Tuesday: A CHRISTMAS WISH by Steven Manchester from The Story Plant
Tuesday: THE THURSDAY NIGHT CLUB by Steven Manchester from The Story Plant
Thursday: GONE by Stacy Claflin Persional/Amazon Free
Friday: LOW CARB RECIPES by Jamie Watson Personal/Amazon Free
Saturday: BODY AND BONE by JS Hawker Personal/Amazon $0.99
The Visitor’s Book
by Sophie Hannah
on Tour November 1 – December 17, 2016

A collection of spine-tingling ghost stories from one of today’s most acclaimed suspense novelists. In this small but perfectly formed collection of supernatural short stories, bestselling author, Sophie Hannah, takes the comforting scenes of everyday life and imbues them with a frisson of fear. Why is a young woman so unnerved by the presence of a visitors book in her boyfriend’s inner-city home? And whose spidery handwriting is it that fills the pages? Who is the strangely courteous boy still lingering at a child’s tenth birthday party when all the parents have gathered their children and left? And why does the presence of a perfectly ordinary woman in a post office queue leave another customer pallid and quaking with fear?
Book Details:
Genre: Short Stories, Thriller
Published by: Witness Impulse
Publication Date: November 1st 2016
Number of Pages: 120
ISBN: 0062562126 (ISBN13: 9780062562128)
Purchase Links: Amazon 🔗 Barnes & Noble 🔗 Goodreads 🔗

Learn More:
Sophie Hannah is the New York Times-bestselling author of numerous psychological thrillers, which have been published in 27 countries and adapted for television, as well as The Monogram Murders, the first Hercule Poirot novel authorized by the estate of Agatha Christie.
INTERVIEW
Writing and Reading:
Do you draw from personal experiences and/or current events?
I do draw from real life, all the time — especially personal experiences. These two short story collections contain my experiences of betrayal, obsession, annoyance at the parents of my children’s friends, the horror of hosting a birthday party for an 8-year-old… Writing is a form of therapy for me. It’s how I deal with difficult things from real life!
Do you start with the conclusion and plot in reverse or start from the beginning and see where the story line brings you?
It’s one or the other. Either I think of an intriguing starting point that will hook the reader, and then work out where it will lead, or I come up with a surprising, hopefully unguessable solution, and then I work forwards or backwards.
Are any of your characters based on you or people that you know?
Lots! But as someone once said about someone else (I can’t remember who!) ‘If he didn’t want to end up in a book, he should have behaved better.’ No one ever recognises themselves anyway – we always imagine we’re wonderful and not particularly grotty, so when we read a grotty character, we don’t see ourselves, and think they’re nothing like us!
Your routine when writing? Any idiosyncrasies?
I plan a lot and obsessively. I write in the afternoon — because I’m too tired in the morning — and late at night. Often I finish a book at Lucy Cavendish College in Cambridge, where I’m a Fellow Commoner. There’s a lovely room there with an ace garden. It’s peaceful, and unlike my home there is no dog with a ball to distract me!
Tell us why we should read this book.
Because it contains all the weird dysfunctionality of real life – a lot of fiction tries to improve and tidy up real people and make them more lovely and normal. These stories don’t do that.
Who are some of your favorite authors?
Agatha Christie, Tana French, Ruth Rendell, Iris Murdoch and Edna St Vincent Millay.
What are you reading now?
I’m reading a new British crime novel called The Taken by Alice Clark-Platts. So far, it’s very interesting. The leader of a church, who is said to have been able to perform miracles, has been murdered… and the detective investigating the crime senses that his wife and daughter aren’t exactly distraught to be rid of him.
Are you working on your next novel? Can you tell us a little about it?
I’m working on a standalone thriller set in Arizona, provisionally titled Did You See Melody? It will be published in Summer 2017. Here’s the blurb:
She’s the most famous murder victim in America. What if she isn’t dead?
Pushed to breaking point, Cara Burrows flees her home, husband and children. Fifteen hours later, she’s checking into a five star spa resort in the foothills of Camelback Mountain, Arizona. All she wants is space to think, far away from everyone and everything she knows. Instead, she gets a shock in the middle of the night after being given the key card for a room that’s already occupied – apparently by a father and daughter…
Philadelphia’s most famous murder victim, Melody Chapa, has been dead seven years. Her parents, Naldo and Annette Chapa, are serving ‘natural life’ sentences for killing their seven-year-old daughter, after a successful campaign by former-prosecutor Bonnie Juno whose TV show ‘Justice With Bonnie’ brought to light crucial facts missed by detectives. But if Melody’s dead – as the evidence suggests she is – then how can a guest at a spa resort in Arizona have seen her?
Putting Annette and Naldo Chapa behind bars is the greatest achievement of Bonnie Juno’s life. When she learns what’s happening in Arizona, she laughs it off…until she discovers that the sightings of Melody are starting to stack up. At first it was just one uncertain English woman who walked into the wrong room in the middle of the night, easily dismissed as exhausted and not thinking straight after her long journey – but it turns out that Cara Burrows is not the only guest at the resort claiming to have seen Melody.
Feeling as if she has no choice, Bonnie heads for Arizona – but by the time she gets there, Cara Burrows has disappeared…
Fun questions:
Your novel will be a movie. Who would you cast?
Normal people from real life. The thing about famous actors that people have heard of is that everyone knows them already! I’d find new actors who had never been in anything before. And my dog, Brewster, would have to get a starring role!
Favorite leisure activity/hobby?
I love swimming, and walking my Welsh terrier, Brewster.
Favourite meal?
Assorted dim sum from any brilliant Chinese restaurant.
Catch Up with Sophie Hannah on her Website 🔗 & Twitter 🔗!
Tour Participants:
Enter for a chance to WIN!
This is a rafflecopter giveaway hosted by Partners In Crime Virtual Book Tours for Sophie Hannah and Witness Impulse. There will be 5 US winners of one (1) eBook copy of The Visitor’s Book by Sophie Hannah. The giveaway begins on November 1st and runs through January 2nd, 2017.
Get More Great Reads at Partners In Crime Virtual Book Tours
The Fantastic Book of Everybody’s Secrets
by Sophie Hannah
on Tour November 1 – December 17, 2016

A collection of ingenious suspense stories from one of today’s most acclaimed novelists in the genre. Everybody has their secrets, and in Sophie Hannah’s fantastic stories the curtains positively twitch with them. Who, for instance, is the hooded figure hiding in the bushes outside a young man’s house? Why does the same stranger keep appearing in the background of a family’s holiday photographs? What makes a woman stand mesmerised by two children in a school playground, children she’s never met but whose names she knows well? And which secret results in a former literary festival director sorting soiled laundry in a shabby hotel? All will be revealed…but at a cost. As Sophie Hannah uncovers the dark obsessions and strange longings behind the most ordinary relationships, life will never seem quite the same again.
MY REVIEW
4 stars
This was a “new to me” author so I thought I would start off with this book. Glad I did because I now want to read more by Ms. Hannah.
THE FANTASTIC BOOK OF EVERYBODY’S SECRETS is a compilation of 10 short stories.
Did you ever wish you could read someone’s mind? To see what they are really thinking. This book does just that.
Like Friendly Amid The Haters, where a very passive agressive timid woman has murderous thoughts. Another was The Nursery Bear where a woman has conflicting thoughts about a neigbor and The Tub where the reader gets a look into their inner most thoughts.
Some of the stories left the reader wanting more, other stories having the reader wondering what exactly was going on.
A quick read, that is a bit eerie, and because of that, the pages kept turning.
Book Details:
Genre: Short Stories, Thriller
Published by: Witness Impulse
Publication Date: October 11th 2016
Number of Pages: 120
ISBN: 0062562096 (ISBN13: 9780062562098)
Purchase Links: Amazon 🔗 Barnes & Noble 🔗 Goodreads 🔗

Learn More:
Sophie Hannah is the New York Times-bestselling author of numerous psychological thrillers, which have been published in 27 countries and adapted for television, as well as The Monogram Murders, the first Hercule Poirot novel authorized by the estate of Agatha Christie.
Catch Up with Sophie Hannah on her Website 🔗, Twitter 🔗, or Facebook 🔗
Tour Participants:
Giveaway:
This is a rafflecopter giveaway hosted by Partners In Crime Virtual Book Tours for Sophie Hannah and Witness Impulse. There will be 5 US winners of one (1) eBook copy of The Fantastic Book of Everybody’s Secrets by Sophie Hannah. The giveaway begins on November 1st and runs through January 2nd, 2017.
Get More Great Reads at Partners In Crime Virtual Book Tours
REVIEW DISCLAIMER
This blog was founded on the premise to write honest reviews, to the best of my ability, no matter who from, where from and/or how the book was obtained, and will continue to do so, even if it is through PICT or PBP.
DISCLAIMER
I received a copy of this book, at no charge to me, in exchange for my honest review.
No items that I receive are ever sold…they are kept by me, or given to family and/or friends.
ADDENDUM
I do not have any affiliation with Amazon.com or Barnes & Noble. I am an IndieBound affiliate. I am providing link(s) solely for visitors that may be interested in purchasing this Book/EBook.

ABOUT THE BOOK
A baby is born and placed in his dead mother’s arms. When the funeral shroud is cast over her, his father decides to name his son Pall. It will soon become a name that strikes a shiver into the hearts of those who hear it in combat.
A lone survivor on a battlefield many years later, Pall dazedly recovers from the wounds of war. Despite the dead cast about him, everything he looks upon is unfamiliar to him. Wandering away from this scene of carnage, he encounters John Savage, a giant of a man who puts Pall within the sight of Savage’s seven–foot, nocked longbow.
What ensues from this deadly encounter is an elusive journey for truth. Yet, it is haunted not just by a ravening demon that is out to destroy Pall and John, but by the vision of a startling beautiful young woman protecting Pall from afar.
BOOK DETAILS:
Genre: Fantasy / Epic / Science Fiction / Action & Adventure/ Visionary & Metaphysical
Print Length: 243 pages
Publisher: Copper Beech Press
Publication Date: November 1, 2016
ISBN: 13: 978-1-365-28707-7
Kindle: 13: 978-0-9973827-0-9
ASIN: B01MAZDG4S
PURCHASE LINKS:

A. Keith Carreiro
A. Keith Carreiro earned his master’s and doctoral degrees from Harvard Graduate School of Education, with the sequential help and guidance of three advisors, Dr. Vernon A. Howard, Dr. Donald Oliver and Professor Emeritus, Dr. Israel Scheffler. Keith’s academic focus, including his ongoing research agenda, centers upon philosophically examining how creativity and critical thinking are acquired, learned, utilized and practiced in the performing arts. He has taken his findings and applied them to the professional development of educational practitioners.
Earlier in his teaching career he was a professor of educational foundations, teaching graduate students of education at universities in Vermont, Florida, Arizona, and Pennsylvania. He currently teaches as an adjunct professor of English at Bridgewater State University, as well as teaching English, philosophy, humanities and public speaking courses at Bristol Community College.
He lives in Swansea, Massachusetts with his wife Carolyn. They have six children and 13 grandchildren. They belong to an eighty–five–pound golden retriever, an eight–pound Maltese, and an impish Calico cat.
Due to his love of family, he has seen his fervor for history, as well as his passion for wondering about the future, deepen dramatically.
Starting on May 23rd until October 9th of 2014, he sat down at his computer on a daily basis and began writing the first book of a science fiction/fantasy thriller in a beginning series about the quest for human immortality.
Connect with A. Keith Carriero at these sites:
Q & A with A. Keith Carreiro
Writing and Reading:
Do you draw from personal experiences and/or current events?
I draw material from both areas. Depending upon the context of the writing, the audience I am writing for and the type of writing I am doing, all help determine whether or not I select from personal experiences and/or current events.
For example, the chapter, “Crisis of Conscience: War and Peace at UMO”, I wrote in Stephen King’s (2016) Hearts in Suspension was completely based upon when I was an undergraduate student at the University of Maine Orono, which was from 1966 to February 1969, and from 1970 to 1971.
For the Penitent –Part I, I fashioned a story that takes place in the future; actually it occurs in the 26th century. The story is set there as a result of my seeing the effects and impact science and technology are now having upon the world. I am particularly fascinated with the rate of speed our scientific prowess is having upon humanity and the earth as well.
Ray Kurzweil’s (2005) book called The Singularity is Near: When Humans Transcend Biology made a great impression on me; as did Michio Kaku’s (2014) The Future of the Mind: The Scientific Quest to Understand, Enhance, and Empower the Mind. These two books, along with the great writing found in Tolkien and C. S. Lewis’s work, inspired me to write a story that could bring these seemingly disparate works together in a unified theme about the fate of human civilization. I have listed below two of my earlier blogs that describe some of the sources of inspiration that I used to begin writing The Immortality Wars:
Do you start with the conclusion and plot in reverse or start from the beginning and see where the story line brings you?
The genesis of a story seems to vary for me. In writing the first book of my science fiction/fantasy/thriller series, I started freewriting it. When I had written about 50 manuscript pages, the last scene of the novel came to me in a startling clear and lucid manner. The whole ending was crystal clear to me. I set aside the chronological order of writing it and wrote the concluding scene of the story. When I had finished the ending, I went back to where I had left off and resumed the action from that point until I reached the conclusion I had just written.
I wrote the first section of this series on a daily basis. From Friday, May 23rd until Wednesday, October 8th of 2014, and except for six days during that time, I managed to write a book that totaled a bit over 168,000 words.
Your routine when writing? Any idiosyncrasies?
I try to write in the morning, or about an hour after I awake, as I find that I am better equipped mentally and refreshed from the previous day’s writing. Sometimes story ideas come to me when I am sleeping, or at least percolate around the edges of my awareness, and starting anew in the morning helps me keep an edge to what I am composing.
I try to write a minimum of 500 words a day when I am involved in a project. I write until I feel the well has gone dry, or until the storyboard(s) I created for that passage of writing I have been working on are completed.
I am not aware of any eccentricities I have when I am writing. Since I have discovered that when I take the feather out that I had previously tucked onto the top of my right ear, that I can still compose a story, I stopped doing so a while back.
I don’t believe I have replaced the feather with any other literary whimsy since that time to ensure that I write in a disciplined manner.
Is writing your full time job? If not, may I ask what you do by day?
Writing is not my full time job, although I would like it to be. By day, and by evening at times, I teach college and university undergraduate classes on a part–time basis. I teach English courses at Bridgewater State University, as well as a variety of English, communication and philosophy courses at Bristol Community College (Fall River and New Bedford campuses). All of these courses are writing intensive. I have the distinct privilege of learning more about the craft of writing from my students and colleagues at both institutions as a direct result of teaching college level courses in the humanities.
Who are some of your favorite authors?
I am a voracious reader, and have been so since I was a young boy. I love books written in the fields of history, biography, science fiction, fantasy and detective/crime thrillers. I love to read the works of JRR Tolkien, C. S. Lewis, George MacDonald, T. S. White, Frank Peretti, General Lew Wallace, Lloyd C. Douglas, Stephen R. Donaldson, Terry Goodkind, the Brothers Grimm, Lee Child and Raymond Thornton Chandler.
What are you reading now?
I am currently reading two books by a great local author, Steven H. Manchester, Ashes (2016), and The Unexpected Storm: The Gulf War Legacy (2000). I am almost finished reading Mitch Albom’s (2015), the magic strings of Frankie Presto, Ian W. Toll’s (2012) Pacific Crucible: War at Sea in the Pacific, 1941-1942, and Newt Gingerich and William R. Forstchen’s (2005), Never Call Retreat: Lee and Grant: The Final Victory.
I just finished reading Stephen King’s (2011), 11/22/63, which is now one of my favorite books by him.
Are you working on your next novel? Can you tell us a little about it?
I am working on three novels. The first two are fiction. One of the two is the next book in The Immortality Wars series. It is called the Pilgrim, and it continues the story of the young warrior Pall Warren, his friend John Savage, and the young woman who watches Pall from afar, Evangel. As the Penitent ends on an unresolved action, I do not want to spoil what readers will be getting into when they reach the Pilgrim.
Due to its length, as well as the fact that I am on a limited publishing budget, I have split the Penitent into three respective parts. Part I was just released this past November, and it is available in eBook and paperback formats. Part II will be launched in April 2017, while Part III will be published in August 2017. Hopefully, the first part of the Pilgrim will be available to the public in December 0f 2017.
The second fictional story is still an idea, although the story and its main character, Darien de Sousa, are constantly on my mind. The action, setting, and main characterization are already set, as is the title of the story itself. It occurs in the Fall River, Providence and New Bedford areas during 1958. Darian is a World War Two veteran who is suffering, more than he readily admits to himself, from what was then called shell shock. Fellow Army officers from the European theater, where he served with distinction in the 45th “Thunderbird” Division, help him obtain a part–time job teaching history at Brown University to undergraduate students. His curiosity about what has happened to a former rival officer’s wife, who has gone missing, lands Darian into a secret and illicit world of sexual perversion and bondage. When his memories of the war are not ruining his rational ability to function, he pursues the clues he begins to amass while attempting to discover his rival’s missing wife.
The third manuscript I am working on is in making the chapter I wrote in Hearts in Suspension a full length book. After first submitting my initial draft for editing to Jim Bishop earlier this year (May/June 2016), Jim encouraged me to consider doing so. He is Stephen King’s first college English professor, and it was his idea to have King and some of Steve’s former UMO classmates and friends write about their university experience during the time period from 1966 to 1970. King’s (1999) Hearts in Atlantis is the inspiration for Hearts in Suspension. Bishop thought it would be worthwhile to take a work of fiction, which has King’s biographical roots as a UMO freshman morphed onto the fictional character of Peter Riley, and expand it into a full length nonfiction story.
To turn my chapter into a full length book will require a lot of research as I am interweaving local, statewide, regional, national and international events (cultural, scientific, economic and political strands) together with my own narrative as a college student during the 1960s. It is also not easy for me to write about those times. It was a turbulent, chaotic, and incredible era, particularly over what was happening in our popular. Music, the cinema and the visual arts were at incredible levels of expression, providing a powerful background to what was then occurring. On occasion, artists themselves made and drove the news stories of the day. They were inextricably linked to the spirit of the age.
Your novel will be a movie. Who would you cast?
Great Question. I thought that if the novel were ever turned into a movie, it would need to rely heavily on CGI. I would like to see what a completely animated movie would look like. I do not see it being “cartoonish”, but one literally expressing a civilization of mind blowing, technological sophistication set amidst stark realities of poverty and sometimes Neolithic cultures.
I would like mostly unknowns to act in it; yet, these actors need to be skilled in the artistry they are called upon to display. If the movie is done with CGI and real life animation, I would love to have any of the following actors participate in the voice overs:
Sir Patrick Stewart Jennifer Lawrence
Anthony Hopkins Scarlett Johansson
Jude Law Amy Adams
Gerard Butler Emma Stone
Steve Buscemi Zoe Saldana
Hugh Jackman Cate Blanchette
Sir Ian McKellen Ann Hathaway
Harrison Ford Hale Berry
Josh Hutcherson Sienna Miller
Chris Evans Gwyneth Paltrow
Gary Oldman Margot Robbie
Ryan Guzman Ana de Armas
Alexander Ludwig Thandie Newton
Will Smith Zoey Deutch
Colin Farrell Lucy Liu
Christian Bale Annabelle Wallis
Denzel Washington Natalie Portman
Chris Pine Kate Upton
Edward Norton Emma Roberts
Chris Hensworth Bella Thorne
Michael B. Jordan Elizabeth Olsen
James Earl Jones Jade Pinkett Smith
Paul Giamatti Emilia Clarke
Vigo Mortensen Helen Mirren
Ed Harris Rachel Weisz
David Wenham Glenn Close
Sean Connery Reese Witherspoon
Favorite Leisure Activity:
One of my favorite activities is being outdoors in nature. I love working in my organic and Japanese gardens.
Favorite Meal:
I love eating good, wholesome food that is organic and home cooked. I do not necessarily have a favorite meal, but a favorite style or approach to getting, preparing and cooking food.
PICT PRESENTS
Concrete Smile
by Bernard Maestas
Book Blast December 13, 2016
on Tour February 1-28, 2017
Synopsis:
A crooked conglomerate makes a move on fictional Newport City by first attempting to incite a war between its existing criminal organizations before taking over with its own “in-house” group. Hired by a major gang leader to avert the war, freelance information broker Kevin recruits his ex-enforcer, ex-con brother Chance, and Kaity, a reporter with a vendetta, to uncover the conspiracy.
Book Details:
Genre: Crime, Thriller
Published by: Rebel ePublishers
Publication Date: December 15, 2016
Number of Pages: 270
ISBN: pending
Series: Internet Tough Guys, #3
Purchase Links 🔗: Coming Soon!
Read an excerpt:
BUSINESS HOURS
Lost somewhere in Newport City’s densely crowded, late-night skyline, six bulky bodies packed into some unimportant restaurant’s musty storeroom.
Bulging with prison muscles and bulletproof vests, their dark skin branded with black tattoos broadcasting their gang affiliation, the men were silent. They crowded around a single rickety card table, the room’s only furniture, and toiled under the dim glow of a single yellow bulb dangling from the ceiling. A masonry bucket full of glittering brass ammunition sat centered between them. None spoke. The rhythmic clicking of guns and bullets was the only soundtrack accompanying the tension.
Aside from their silence and the grim, practiced precision with which they pressed the unstamped cartridges into their magazines, they each had one other detail in common: Each man, whether dangling from a pocket, knotted around a wrist, or cinched across his brow, displayed a deep crimson bandana. That bandana, the gang flag of The Reds or Red Nation – the umbrella under which all the African-American gangs in Newport City fell – was the most crucial accessory.
Durel Rivers, better known as Bones, set aside his last loaded magazine and grabbed his weapon. Exceedingly illegal, the fully automatic Tec-9 machine pistol, with its taped grip and folding stock, actually had a Federal law banning it by name. A loud slap cut the stifling air as he locked a magazine into the receiver and jacked the first round into the chamber.
Bones covered his body armor with a baggy sweatshirt, loose enough to conceal the illicit firearm beneath it, its papoose pocket stuffed with the ready reloads he’d prepared. Behind him, the rest of his crew wrapped up their own loading tasks, donned jackets and hoodies of their own and then followed him out of the storeroom.
The creaky storeroom door swung open into the deep gloom of a deserted kitchen. The restaurant’s legitimate business hours long over, the white-coated cooks and staffers long gone, Bones and his crew had special access. He led them past the stainless steel appliances and shelves to and then through the back door.
Windows down, keys in the ignitions, a pair of black SUVs waited in the greasy shadows of the narrow alley behind the restaurant. Bones climbed into the shotgun seat of the leading truck while the rest of the crew split up between them, wordlessly sliding into their plush leather seats.
Bones gave a simple and wordless nod to the man who took the driver’s seat beside him. Engines came to life with deep rumbles but the music that came on in the cabins was low. They were on a mission and there would be no distractions.
As one, the pair of SUVs rolled out of the alley and onto the darkened Newport City streets. While the bustling city of nearly five million had plenty of nightlife, Bones’ crew stuck to the quiet streets of closed businesses, darkened storefronts, and slumbering apartment dwellers. It was late, or more precisely, early in the morning, and only the creatures of the night were out haunting the streets. Moving patiently, always five miles per hour over the speed limit – no more, no less – they rolled to their first stop at the fringe of a housing project complex, a U-shaped cluster of old tenement towers.
Silent and pensive, Bones scanned every inch of the block around them, scrutinizing each of the people who made up the sparse nighttime populace. A pair of teenagers with Reds’ flags
on display occupied one corner while a homeless man wandered the block further down.
No police, no “jackers,” Bones was as certain as he could be of that. He twisted in his seat and said it all to the gangster in the back with another wordless nod.
The back door popped, as did that of the trailing SUV, two men emerging into the street and crossing, their hands beneath their shirts and gripping the handles of their guns. As they disappeared into one of the building lobbies, Bones let his attention slip for just a moment. He plucked a cigarette from his pack, set it between his lips, bringing it to life with the click of his lighter, and blew the fumes from his nose.
He had only taken two deep drags when the gangbangers emerged. The one from the trailing truck led the way, alert and ready. The man behind had a small gym bag slung over his shoulder. Bones turned to look as the man climbed back aboard the SUV.
“All there,” he said simply, ripping open the zipper to give Bones a look inside at the bricklike bundles of cash.
Bones straightened in his seat, his cigarette hand pushing out through the open window and waving the trailing SUV forward. Together, they pulled away from the curb and rolled off into the city.
It was after three when they finally pulled away from their last pickup in East Charity, a sleepy neighborhood on the southeastern side of the City’s eastern borough. Bones lit up a third cigarette and then threw a glance into the backseat. Aside from the burly gangster riding with them, more of those bulging bags of cash now packed the seat to shoulder height. Over the last hour and change, they had stopped everywhere from drug dens to basement casinos, collecting the week’s deposits.
With the trucks laden with money, the first half of the job, in some ways the easy half, was done.
Alert, mind focused, Bones allowed himself to relax just a little, let the flood of nicotine calm his blood slightly. From here on, it was a straight drive to their final destination where they would turn over the money to be cleaned. No more stops, no more tense minutes of waiting on the street like sitting ducks. That said, he also knew that the best time to hit the convoy would be
now, when it was flush and the crew had backed off the razor’s edge of their nerves.
The bold glow of their headlights swung down a street heavy with shadows, most of the streetlights out except for some pale yellow ones at the far end. Bones’ hackles came up and he was just about to order them off the street when shrieking tires sang their discordant chorus into the night as something flashed out of the driveway ahead. No headlights had offered any warning.
“Shit!” Bones’ driver seethed as he stood on the brakes, grinding them to a hard halt.
In the glare of their SUV’s headlights, Bones now made out the form of the battered minivan that had darted across their path and stopped. He was already pulling his Tec-9 from beneath his shirt when the van’s sliding door scraped aside with a raspy grind of worn metal.
Crouched tightly in the back of the van, shoulder-to-shoulder, a pair of masked men took aim and opened up torrents of fully automatic gunfire.
The driver beside Bones jerked and flopped violently, his body riddled with relentless fire. Bones himself managed to duck down below the dash, behind the protection of the engine block, the only part of a normal car that would actually stop a bullet. Jagged pebbles of shattered glass rained down on the back of his neck.
Behind Bones, the back door kicked open and the armed gangster ducked out as he sprayed the van with his own vicious rake of fire.
Without rising from behind the dash, Bones reached out, shoving open the driver’s door and rolling the bloody, shredded corpse of the driver into the street. He was halfway over the center console when he saw his doom.
From behind the row of parallel-parked cars lining the far side of the street, cloaked in the heavy shadows, more gunmen popped up, bracing and steadying their rifles on the hoods, trunks or roofs of the parked cars. Bones threw his machine pistol into line but it was too late.
The last thing Bones ever saw was the hellish strobes of the muzzle flashes popping in the darkness as they poured another withering hailstorm of copper-jacketed death into the street.
***
Don’t shit where you eat. Words to live by in Kevin Wyatt’s book. So, even at three in the morning, making the drive across the Admiralty Bridge into the peninsular eastern borough was just smart business. Polished black paint gleaming, throaty engine growling melodically, Kevin’s ’67 Mustang fastback made short work of the trip, weaving only occasionally around slower moving traffic.
An oasis in the night of closed businesses on an otherwise nondescript street in East Charity, a brightly lit parking lot snipped off the corner of the block. It wrapped around two sides of a large diner that, despite its size and popularity with the late-night crowd that knew of its existence, still looked like a greasy hole in the wall.
Kevin had grown fond of the place, though. Referring to it as his office, he conducted those meetings there that required a certain degree of public exposure mixed with only a modicum of privacy. He’d chosen the spot for the food initially and had quickly adopted it as a regular haunt. Despite this, no one greeted him by name as he entered and left the biting air of the early November chill in the parking lot.
The diner was warm inside, full of the aroma of food frying in grease. At least a half-dozen parties of three or four twentysomethings in nightclub attire were scattered among the booths and tables. His regular booth, the one at the far back corner, just on the fringe of the last overhead bulb’s halo of light, was unclaimed, he noted with a smile.
Kevin took another moment to scan the diner’s patrons and confirm that his clients hadn’t arrived yet. He pivoted and swung down the row of booths running along the diner’s storefront of greasy picture windows. As he went, he sloughed his black leather jacket, a dark T-shirt with a stylish designer logo beneath.
Though he could have melded into one of the packs of club goers in the diner with his age and good looks, he wasn’t here to socialize. He had a narrow face of mildly chiseled features decorated with a light dusting of freckles that went appropriately with the rusty copper color of his short hair. He was above average height at just under six feet, but his fit and trim frame was not particularly remarkable.
A waitress, mopping the countertop with a rag, glanced up as he passed her. She made
contact with his bright hazel gaze and a faint smile of passing recognition turned up the corners of her mouth. “The usual?” she asked, getting a nod and a smile in reply.
Kevin dropped into his booth’s far side, his back to the wall, his face to the door, and slid into the corner. It was a good spot, behind the wall and out of the frame of the big window while still giving him an excellent line of sight into the parking lot and the establishment.
Kevin scanned with intent while taking care to seem oblivious, just another late night customer out for a midnight snack. A nondescript sedan, gray, neither old nor new enough to be noteworthy, coasted to a halt outside. Three young men, cautious and patiently panning their gazes over every angle of surrounding night, sat in the car for a few long moments before dismounting and approaching the diner door.
The waitress returned and slid Kevin’s order in front of him just as the trio filed through the front door. She turned and left the table while he raised an arm, brushed with a sleeve of freckles, and waved them over.
In a moment’s pause of prudent appraisal, they sized Kevin up from the door before sliding down the row. They were dressed to slip under notice, plain jeans and plainer hooded sweatshirts, but that didn’t fool Kevin for a second.
“You the guy?” the first, a deeply tanned Hispanic in his late twenties, asked with no discernable accent.
“I am,” Kevin confirmed with a nod. “Have a seat.”
“How’d you know it was us?” asked the second, a black man of the same age as the first, as the whole trio – rounded out with a smaller and younger Asian man for diversity – took the opposite side of the booth.
“Lucky guess,” Kevin replied plainly. He lifted his steaming cup of black coffee and nursed a sip, careful to keep his eyes above the rim to watch the three of them. “You have something for me?” He set the cup beside the plate holding his so far untouched “Heartstopper” sandwich.
The trio exchanged glances before the leader threw one back over his shoulder at the rest
of the diner. Kevin didn’t have to look so obviously to know no one was paying them any mind. Satisfied, the leader nodded at the Asian at the end of the booth. He slipped an envelope from the papoose pocket of his sweatshirt, laid it on the table and slid it across.
Kevin took the envelope and peeled it open in his lap, leafing through its stack of crisp twenty-dollar bills. He kept his poker face firmly in place as he did, lifting his head to nod to his clients in approval. He reached across the booth, stuffing the envelope into the inner pocket of his jacket and slipping out a coin-sized SD card. He slid it across the table the same way he’d received his payment.
The Asian man took it, plugging it into a small tablet and scanning through it.
“As promised,” Kevin said, his focus on the leader. “Truck routes, communications protocols and duty rosters for Allied Armored Couriers. Good until the end of the month.”
The leader looked from Kevin as he finished, to the Asian, who had completed his scan and nodded. Kevin scooped up his mug and took another sip of his coffee, watching as the leader turned back to him.
“How’d you get this?”
Kevin smiled a thin smile that didn’t reach his eyes as he lowered the mug. He offered his hand across the table for a shake. “A pleasure doing business with you.”
The leader’s eyes narrowed, but he clasped Kevin’s hand in a brief squeeze before he and his crew exited the booth. He watched them leave, as did the waitress, who glanced over at him and met his eyes. This time, his smile was a little warmer as he offered her a shrug and dropped his attention to his plate.
***
The Heartstopper was an egg sandwich, in simplest terms. To be more exact, however, it was a heaping serving of scrambled whole eggs capped with a slice of full-fat American cheese and enclosed in two slices of grilled and buttery bread. It was decadently delicious and so worth the bloated feeling in Kevin’s gut as he left his booth, leaving cash, including a generous tip, on the table top and exited the diner.
He mounted up the Mustang, kicking it to grumbling life, and swung out of the parking lot, aiming for home. Business for the night finished, it was late and, crucially, he had a very early and very important errand awaiting him in the morning.
Blue and red strobes blazed through the Mustang’s rear windshield as the howl of a siren drowned out even the healthy rumble of his powerful engine. Kevin’s heart nearly stopped as his eyes flicked to the rearview mirror framing the police sedan rushing up on his bumper.
“Fuck me,” he breathed, hands tightening around the wheel. For half a second, he considered running. Lean fingers coiled around the shifter, his dress boots settled over the pedals, and Kevin sketched out a plan for his flight for freedom. It started with a downshift and a ferocious bellow of acceleration but he had no idea where it went from there. Instead, he reminded himself he wasn’t carrying anything illegal, nor did he have any warrants out for him. At least, as far as he knew. Easing toward the first gap in the row of cars lining the curb, Kevin blinked as the patrol car blew past him.
Before he had a chance to relax, crack a smile of relief, three more cops in roaring sedans, their emergency lights screaming their urgency, sirens wailing, blasted down the road. They were moving fast, fast enough that their passing rocked Kevin’s heavy car as they went.
Kevin stared after them as they faded into the distance before whipping around the corner at the end of the next block. His hands squeezed the wheel tightly and his mind reached, pondering the possibilities. Slowly, his thin lips spread in a smile.
Something big had happened. He had a pleasant influx of new business to look forward to.
From CONCRETE SMILE, A novel, By BERNARD MAESTAS
© BERNARD MAESTAS

Author Bio:
Bernard Maestas lives in paradise. A police officer patrolling the mean streets of Hawaii, he has a background in contract security and military and civilian law enforcement. When not saving the world, one speeding ticket at a time, and not distracted by video games or the internet, he is usually hard at work on his next book.
Catch Up With Bernard Maestas on
His Website, Twitter, or Facebook!
Book Blast Participants:
Tour Participants:
In February 2017 Bernard will be touring with his book Concrete Smile at these stops and more! Visit for reviews, interviews, guest posts, & more great giveaways!
Don’t Miss This Snazzy Giveaway!
This is a rafflecopter giveaway hosted by Partners In Crime Virtual Book Tours for Bernard Maestas. There will be 2 winners of one (1) eBook copy of Concrete Smile by Bernard Maestas. The giveaway begins on December 11th and runs through December 18th, 2016.
Get More Great Reads at Partners In Crime Virtual Book Tours
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I am in need of an Intervention and/or Amazon needs to stop offering my kind of books for $0.00 !!! I can’t control myself! And the sad thing is that I have enough eBooks and Prints where I would need at least 3 lifetimes to read!
Mailbox Monday
Mailbox Monday was created by Marcia of A girl and her books and is now hosted on its own blog.





Sunday: TWO LOVERS, SIX DEATHS by Gretta Mulrooney Personal/Amazon special $0.99
Sunday: BAILEY’S LAW by Meg Lelvis Personal/Author
Sunday: BOOKER: Streets of Mayhem (Booker #1) by John W. Mefford Personal/Author
Sunday: POISIONED HEART by Jason Blacker from Author
Monday: THE GOOD SISTER by Leanne Davis Personal/Amazon Free
Monday: GRIMM WOODS by D. Melhoff from Author/PICT
Monday: HANOVER HOUSE by Brenda Novak from Author
Tuesday: DEADLY STILLWATER by Roger Stelljes Personal/Amazon Free
Tuesday: TO KILL FOR, BLOOD SPORT, TRUE DECEITby A.J. Carellafrom Author
Wednesday: LOOKING PAST by Katherine E. Smith Personal/Amazon Free
Wednesday: STRANGER IN TOWN by Cheryl Bradshaw Personal/Amazon Free
Friday: FLOWERS IN THE SNOW by Danielle Stewart Personal/Amazon Free
Saturday: AMBER ALERT by Sara Schoen Personal/Amazon Free
2017 READING CHALLENGES
What can I say? I’m making up for not participating in Challenges when I was on my LOA!

Welcome to the 2017 New to Me Reading Challenge!
This challenge is all about pushing your boundaries and trying something new! And author, a series, a subgenre, etc.
Anything “new” to you. For example…
–First time reading an author
–first book in a series
–first book you’ve read from a series (doesn’t have to be book one)
–first time trying a genre/subgenre
–a debut book from an author (even if you’ve read them before)
*books need to be over 80 pages

Hard Rules
All books counted must be electronic – I don’t care if they’re kindle, pdf, nook, etc.
The ebook in question must have an ISBN or equivalent. If you can buy it or borrow it, it counts.
Guidelines
You can list your books in advance or as you read them. You can also change your list.
Any genre or length of book counts.
Anyone can join, you don’t need to be a blogger, just let me know in the comments.
Reviews are good but not necessary. Once again, you don’t need to be a blogger, there are lots of places to post reviews. Hopefully, they’ll link up so we can read them.
You may move up a level but not down.
Crossovers for other challenges count
Books started before January 1st, 2017 don’t count – unless you start over 😉
Levels
bit – 1 book
Byte – 10 books
Megabyte – 25 books
Gigabyte – 50 books
Terabyte – 75 books
Petabyte – 100 books
Empty the Cloud – 101+ books
. . . yeah, this look good.
Since I am doing the Alphabet Soup Challenge for Books/Titles, I thought it would be fun to do an Author A-Z. This is a personal challenge since I haven’t found a group one as of yet.


Challenge Rules:
You can read any book that is from the mystery/suspense/thriller/crime genres. Any sub-genres are welcome as long as they incorporate one of these genres.
You don’t need a blog to participate but you do need a place to post your reviews to link up. (blog, goodreads, booklikes, shelfari, etc.)
Make a goal post and link it back here with your goal for this challenge.
Books need to be novellas or novels, please no short stories. (At least 100 pages +)
Crossovers into other challenges are fine.
The Challenge will be from Jan. 1st to Dec. 31st. (Sign up ends April 15th)
There will be a monthly link up so that others can check out your progress and look at your reviews. At the halfway mark and at the end we will have a giveaway for those participating.
If you tweet about your progress or reviews please use the hashtag #2017CloakDaggerChal so others can see it.
Levels:
5-15 books – Amateur sleuth
16-25 books – Detective
26-35 books – Inspector
36 – 55 – Special agent
56+ books – Sherlock Holmes

I am guilty! So I thought that maybe if I signed up for this Challenge it would make me feel even more guilty and read at least 3 past review books that are currently sitting in my Kindle and bookcase.
Yes. We’re hanging our heads in some blogger-girl shame. lol
The Blogger Shame challenge is a cheeky way to admit our guilt…and go about fixing it. Tackling those review books that have slipped through the cracks over the years. Any review book over 4 months past due is game!
Any review book that is 4+ months PAST DUE.
Yep. Only OLD review requests that have slipped through the cracks count.
Any format, any length.
Number of books tackled is entirely up to you!
Minimum…1 review book.
Bad Road to Nowhere
by Linda Ladd
December 8, 2016 Book Blast
Synopsis:
Bad Memories
Not many people know their way through the bayous well enough to find Will Novak’s crumbling mansion outside New Orleans. Not that Novak wants to talk to anyone. He keeps his guns close and his guard always up.
Bad Sister
Mariah Murray is one selfish, reckless, manipulative woman, the kind Novak would never want to get tangled up with. But he can’t say no to his dead’s wife sister.
Bad Vibes
When Mariah tells him she wants to rescue a childhood friend, another Aussie girl gone conveniently missing in north Georgia, Novak can’t turn her down. She’s hiding something. But the pretty little town she’s targeted screams trouble, too. Novak knows there’s a trap waiting. But until he springs it, there’s no telling who to trust…
Book Details:
Genre: Thriller, Suspense
Published by: Lyrical Underground
Publication Date: December 6th 2016
Number of Pages: 300
ISBN: 9781601838568
Series: A Will Novak Novel, #1
Purchase Links: Amazon 🔗 | Barnes & Noble 🔗 | Goodreads 🔗
Read an excerpt:
Will Novak swung a leg over the starboard gunwale of his sailboat, got a good firm grip on the railing, and then stretched down far enough to reach the layer of salt and brine crusted at the waterline. Novak was a big guy with big fists and big shoulders and an intimidating look to him. People usually gave him a wide berth if they didn’t know him well, and that’s the way he liked it. It was a beautiful afternoon, late September in South Louisiana, and still hot as hell.
Unseasonably so. He was shirtless, muscles straining with effort, sweat shining on his torso. His body was in peak physical condition, banded with thick, powerful muscles that he knew how to use and that he wasn’t slow to put to good use if anybody messed with him. He followed the rigid daily workout he had mastered a long time ago while in the military, and still adhered to it almost every day. He wasn’t quite as fit as when he ran special ops missions with the SEALs, but he wasn’t too far off. He liked that kind of order and rigidity and purpose in his life, especially now when little else he had meant a damn thing to him.
The Jeanneau Sun Odyssey 379 on which he labored was a sleek and powerful craft, practically new and spotless after an entire day spent scrubbing her after over a week spent at sea. She was a forty-footer that he’d had for almost three months, new out of the factory and built to his own specifications. He’d made sure that the boat was perfectly suited to him. Everything was somewhat oversized, enough to comfortably accommodate his six-feet-six-inch frame. He’d sailed her from South Carolina on the Intracoastal Waterway to his home deep in the bayous of Lafourche and Terrebonne Parishes. He’d worked hard all day making her look like new again. Everything was spotless, inside and out, his gear clean and orderly and stowed in the proper places. That kind of thing was important to him.
On the eve of September 11, he had steered his gleaming boat down the wide Bayou Bonne that edged the back side of his property and eventually sailed her out into the deep royal blue waters of the vast Gulf of Mexico. He’d spent ten full days out there, completely alone, as was his habit every year on the anniversary of that day of infamy for all Americans. He had stayed out on the rolling waves, working through the most catastrophic event in his life, a trauma that he had fought to accept daily for so many years that he no longer kept count. It didn’t matter how long it had been. Not if he lived to be a hundred. He wasn’t going to get over it. He had accepted that now. He just forced himself to live with it. Endless day after endless day.
Out there, though, completely by himself in the dark, quiet, everswaying, ever-restless sea, under untold billions of glittering stars spangled across ink-black skies, he had suffered alone and wept fresh tears for his dead family while he fished for bonito and sea bass and flounder and mourned to the depths of his soul and studiously drank himself into oblivion every single night. But that’s the way he liked it during his own personal, self-inflicted hell week, far away from every other living being on earth, alone and buffeted by ocean winds and rocking waves and the merciless sun, and most of all, the silent solitude where he could work through the grief that never left him, not for one hour, one minute, one second of conscious thought.
But now, on this sunny day, Novak was back at home, ready to live his miserable existence once more, an empty, futile objective that he never really accomplished. But that’s the way it was. Swiping his sponge a few more times down the wide blue stripe painted along the length of the white hull, he took a few extra minutes to scrub the giant silver letters naming his boat. He had called her Sweet Sarah, in memory of his dead wife. Another way to keep Sarah close when she wasn’t close and never would be again.
Once Novak was satisfied with his efforts, he hoisted himself back up and straddled the rail. He raised his face, shut his eyes, and felt the fire of the sun burn hot into his bare skin. He was already sunburned from his time out on the drink, his skin burnished a deep, warm bronze. After a few minutes, he shifted his gaze down onto the slow, rippling bayou current. It was good to be back home, good to be sober, good to be able to think clearly. He had wrestled his demons back under control, at least for the moment. He left his perch, stooped down, and pulled a cold bottle of Dixie beer from the cooler.
He twisted off the cap and took a deep draft, thirsty and tired from a full day of hard physical labor. That’s when he first heard the sound of a vehicle, coming closer, turning off the old bayou road and heading down through the swampy woods to his place.
Grimacing, annoyed as hell, not pleased about uninvited guests showing up, he lowered the beer bottle, shielded his eyes with his forearm, and peered up the long grassy field that stretched between the bayou and the ancient plantation house he’d inherited from his mother on the day he was born. He had not been expecting company today. Or any other day. He did not like company. He did not like people coming around his place, and that was putting it mildly. He was a serious loner. He liked to be invisible. Anonymous. He liked his privacy. And he was willing to protect it.
The sun broiled down, the temperature probably close to ninety, humidity hugging the bayou like a wool blanket, thick and wet and heavy. Drops of perspiration rolled down his forehead and burned into his eyes. Novak grabbed a towel and mopped the sweat off his face and chest. Then he took another long drink of the icy beer. But he kept his attention focused on the spot where his road emerged from the dense grove of giant live oaks and cypress trees and magnolias.
The sugar plantation was ancient and now defunct, but it was a huge property, none of which had ever been sold out of his family. It took a lot of his effort to keep the place even in modest repair. The mansion on the knoll above him had stood in the same spot for over two hundred years. And it looked like it, too, with most of the white paint peeled off and weathered to gray years ago.
Once upon a time, his wealthy Creole ancestors, the St. Pierre family, had sold their sugar at top price and flourished for a century and a half on the bayou plantation they’d named Bonne Terre. They had been quite the elite in Napoleonic New Orleans, he had been told. They still were quite the elite, but mostly in France now. The magnificence with which they’d endowed the place was long gone and the house in need of serious renovation. Someday, maybe. Right now, he preferred to live on his boat where it was cooler and more to his liking.
Minutes passed, and then the car appeared and proceeded slowly around the circular driveway leading to his front gallery. It was a late model Taurus, apple-red and shiny clean and glinting like a fine ruby under the blinding sunlight. Probably a New Orleans rental. He’d never seen the car before. That meant a stranger, which in Novak’s experience usually meant trouble. Few visitors found their way this far down into the bayou. Ever. That’s why he lived there.
Claire Morgan was the exception and one of the few people who knew where he lived, but he trusted her. She was a former homicide detective who’d hired him on as a partner in her new private investigation agency. But it wasn’t Claire who’d come to call today. She was still on her honeymoon with Nicholas Black, out in the Hawaiian Islands, living it up on some big estate on the island of Kauai. They’d been gone around eight weeks now, and that had given Novak plenty of time to do his own thing. Especially after what had happened on their wedding day. The three of them and a couple of other guys had gotten into a particularly hellish mess and had been lucky to make it out alive. Novak’s shoulder wound had healed up well enough, but all of them deserved some R & R. Other than Claire, though, only a handful of people knew where to find him. He didn’t give out his address, and that had served him well.
Novak wiped his sweaty palms on his faded khaki shorts and kept his gaze focused on the Taurus. Behind him, the bayou drifted along in its slow, swirling currents, rippling and splashing south toward the Gulf of Mexico. As soon as the car left his field of vision, he headed down the hatch steps into the dim, cool quarters belowdecks. At the bottom, he stretched up and reached back into the highest shelf. He pulled out his .45 caliber service weapon. A nice little Kimber 1911. Fully loaded and ready to go. The heft of it felt damn good. Back where it belonged. He checked the mag, racked a round into the chamber, and then wedged the gun down inside his back waistband. He grabbed a clean white T-shirt and pulled it over his head as he climbed back up to the stern deck. Picking up a pair of high-powered binoculars, he scanned the back gallery of his house and the wide grassy yard surrounding it.
Nothing moved. He walked down the gangplank and stepped off into the shade thrown by the covered dock. He moved past the boatlift berths but he kept his attention riveted up on the house. The long fields he’d mowed the day before stretched about a hundred yards up from the bayou. The big mansion sat at the far edge, shaded by a dozen ancient live oaks, all draped almost to the ground with long and wispy tendrils of the gray Spanish moss so prevalent in the bayou. The wide gallery encircled the first floor, on all four sides, twelve feet wide, with a twelve-feet-high ceiling. No wind now, all vestiges of the breeze gone, everything still, everything quiet. He could see the east side of the house. It was deserted. The guy in the car could be anywhere by now. He could be anybody. He could be good. He could be bad. He could be there to kill Novak. That was the most likely scenario. Novak sure as hell had plenty of enemies who wanted him dead, all over the world. Right up the highway in New Orleans, in fact. Whoever was in that Taurus, whatever they wanted, Novak wanted them inside his gun sights first before they spotted him.
Taking off toward the house, he jogged down the bank and up onto a narrow dirt path hidden by a long fencerow. Then he headed up the gradual rise, staying well behind the fence covered with climbing ivy and flowering azalea bushes. He kept his weapon out in front using both hands, finger alongside the trigger. Guys who were after him usually just wanted to put a bullet in Novak’s skull. Some had even tried their luck, but nobody had tried it on his home turf. He didn’t like that. Wasn’t too savvy on their part, either.
When he reached the backyard, he pulled up under the branches of a huge mimosa tree. He crouched down there and waited, listening. No thud of running feet. No whispered orders to spread out and find him. No nothing, except some stupid bird chirping its head off somewhere high above him. He searched the trees and found a mockingbird sitting on the carved balustrade on the second-floor gallery. Novak waited a couple more minutes. Then he ran lightly across the grass and took the wide back steps three at a time. He crossed the gallery quickly and pressed his back against the wall. He listened again and heard nothing, so he inched his way around the corner onto the west gallery and then up the side of the house to the front corner. That’s when he heard the loud clang of his century-old iron door knocker. He froze in his tracks.
Directly in front of him, a long white wicker swing swayed in a sudden gust of wind. He darted a quick look around the corner of the house. Three yards down the gallery from him, a woman stood at his front door, her right side turned to him. She was alone. She was unarmed, considering how skin-tight her skimpy outfit molded to her slim body. While he watched, she lifted the heavy door knocker and let it clang down again. Hard. Impatient. Annoyed. She was tall, maybe five feet eight or nine inches. Long black hair curled down around her shoulders. She was slender and her body was fit, all shown to advantage in her tight white Daisy Dukes and a black-and- white chevron crop top. She turned slightly, and Novak glimpsed her impressively toned and suntanned midriff and the lower curve of her breasts. She was not wearing a bra, and her legs were naked, too, shapely and also darkly tanned. White sandals with silver buckles. She looked sexy as hell but harmless.
On the other hand, Novak had known a woman or two who’d also looked sexy and harmless, but who had assassinated more men than Novak had ever thought about gunning down. Keeping his weapon down alongside his right thigh but ready, he stepped out where she could see him but also where he’d have a good shot at her, if all was not as it seemed. The woman apparently had a highly cultivated sense of awareness because she immediately spun toward him. That’s when Novak’s knees almost buckled. He went weak all over, his muscles just going slack. His heart faltered mid-beat. He stared at her, so completely stunned he could not move or speak.
Then his dead wife, the only woman he had ever loved, his beautiful Sarah, smiled at him and said in her familiar Australian accent, “How ya goin’, Will. Long time no see.”
Author Bio:
Linda Ladd is the bestselling author of over a dozen novels. Head to Head marked her exciting return to publishing with a debut thriller after almost a decade’s hiatus. Linda makes her home in Poplar Bluff, Missouri, where she is at work on her next novel. Bad Road to Nowhere is the first in a new series featuring Will Novak.
Catch Up with Linda Ladd on her Website 🔗 & on Facebook 🔗!
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