Read-a-Chapter: BLOOD MOON, by Alexandra Sokoloff

Read a Chapter is *NEW* added feature at As the Pages Turn! Here you’ll be able to read the first chapters of books of all genres to see if you like them before you buy them. Today we are featuring the thriller, Blood Moon, by Alexandra Sokoloff. Enjoy!

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Book II of the Huntress/FBI Thrillers

Twenty-five years have passed since a savage killer terrorized California, massacring three ordinary families before disappearing without a trace.

The haunted child who was the only surviving victim of his rampage is now wanted by the FBI for brutal crimes of her own, and Special Agent Matthew Roarke is on an interstate manhunt for her, despite his conflicted sympathies for her history and motives.

But when his search for her unearths evidence of new family slayings, the dangerous woman Roarke seeks – and wants – may be his only hope of preventing another bloodbath.

Purchase BLOOD MOON

Amazon US / Amazon UK / Amazon DE

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Chapter One

 The dark concrete corridor stretched out before him, smelling of blood and semen and terror.

Roarke had been here before, these stinking hellholes, cellblock rooms barely big enough for a mattress and bed stand. Twenty-five girls to a block, locked in the rooms and drugged to the gills, servicing twenty-five to forty men a day, twelve hours a day, seven days a week. Not just ordinary johns tonight: it was a new shipment, private party for the traffickers themselves.

He could hear the shallow breathing of the agents surrounding him, feel the warmth of bodies: four men before him, three in back, encased in camouflage body armor and hoisting riot shields, brandishing an entire armory. Somewhere down the hall there was sobbing, a young girl’s cries. “Mátame. Por favor, mátame.”

Kill me. Please kill me.

The number one man gestured the signal and the team shot forward in formation, then peeled off in a fluid dance, odd men to the right, even men to the left, kicking through doors, shouting: “FBI, drop your weapon! Face down on the floor!” Elsewhere in the corridor, shots blasting, more screaming, heavy thuds and the jangle of cuffs as men were wrestled to the floor.

Roarke covered the agent ahead of him until the tiny room was secure, bad guy kissing concrete. Roarke looked once at the terrified teenage girl cowering naked on the filthy mattress, and said “Es terminado.” It’s over. Then he moved out the door, leading with his Glock, down the corridor, past doorways open to similar scenes of hell.

He kicked open the next closed door and burst in—

A man with his pants half off turned with an enormous, ugly AK 47. Roarke shot twice, straight into his center mass. The man’s chest opened, blooming red, and his body went down, jerking as if tasered.

Roarke stood, his heart booming crazily in his chest.

And then, though the trafficker was as dead as a person could get, Roarke followed procedure and turned the corpse over to cuff him.

As he straightened he saw the girl, tiny and frozen, huddled on the floor against the mattress, her back pressed into the wall, her eyes wide and glazed with fear. This one twelve or thirteen years old at most, dressed in nothing but a cheap, stained camisole. Roarke felt a wave of primal anger he was able to suppress only by telling himself he must not frighten this child any further.

 “Estás seguro,” he told her in the softest voice he could muster through the adrenaline raging thorugh his bloodstream. You are safe. Although he wondered if any of the girls who walked out of this place, this night, would ever feel safe again.

There was movement behind him and he twisted around… to see Special Agent Damien Epps in the doorway. Tall, dark, lithe, and righteously pissed.

“All clear,” Epps reported. His whole body was tense. “Ten of the fucks in custody, three —”

He paused as he glanced down at the dead man at Roarke’s feet. “Four dead.” And his face and body were suddenly tense in a different way. “Nice shooting,” he added.

Roarke felt the jab. He had twelve years of Bureau service and before two weeks ago, he had never killed in the line of duty. The man at his feet was his third since then.

He gave Epps a warning look, nodding at the girl huddled against the wall. He wanted to help her up, give her the shirt under his vest, but he figured she wouldn’t be wanting any man near her for a very, very long time. “Social Services?” he asked Epps quietly. They had social workers waiting in vans outside to take the rescued girls to hospitals and on to a shelter that specialized in support for trafficking victims.

“On their way in,” Epps said.

Roarke spoke directly to the girl. “Mujeres vienen. Usted se va a la casa.” Women are coming. You are going home.

The girl didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge him. He stood for a moment, helpless, knowing he was not the one to help her. He moved to follow Epps out. And then he stopped, his eyes coming to rest on the bed stand.

Just above the gouged surface of the table there was a small drawing on the wall. Roarke stepped closer… to look down at a figure scratched in the concrete, a crude skeleton wearing a flowery crown. Scraps of food and torn bits of lace were laid carefully in front of it.

Epps was staring, too, stopped in the doorway. “What is it?”

“An altar,” Roarke said. “To Santa Muerte.” Lady Death, Holy Death, protector of the lost.

He looked at the girl, still and silent on the floor, with her old and wary eyes, and wondered if somehow her prayer had been answered and the saint had intervened.

 

 

 

Read-a-Chapter: Before He Kills Again, by R. Barri Flowers

Read a Chapter is *NEW* added feature at As the Pages Turn! Here you’ll be able to read the first chapters of books of all genres to see if you like them before you buy them. Today we are featuring the suspense thriller, Before He Kills Again, by R. Barri Flowers. Enjoy!

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From R. Barri Flowers, award winning crime writer and international bestselling author of Dark Streets of Whitechapel and Killer in The Woods, comes a gripping new psychological thriller, Before He Kills Again: A Veronica Vasquez Thriller.

FBI psychologist and criminal profiler Veronica Vasquez returns to her hometown of Portland, Oregon to assist police in apprehending a ruthless serial killer dubbed “The Rose Killer,” who kills beautiful women in pairs, leaving a rose on top of each corpse.

Heading the investigation is homicide Detective Sergeant Bryan Waldicott. Veronica must win him over, along with the entire task force, and prove herself worthy of the job. Since losing her husband three years ago, Veronica had been focused on her work to escape the pain of loneliness and separation. A romance with Waldicott, who has issues of his own, complicates things for them both as they try to stop a serial murderer before he kills again.

When she begins to suspect that the new husband of her estranged sister Alexandra could be the killer, Veronica pursues that delicate angle and, in the process, becomes a target herself.

Before He Kills Again is tense thriller that will keep readers on edge till the very end.

Amazon Trade Paperback / Kindle /Kindle UK / Kindle CA / Barnes and Noble Nook eBook / Smashwords / Kobo

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PROLOGUE

He walked around inconspicuously, nodding in a friendly manner to other shoppers who nodded back and smiled as if they really meant it. There were flowers of every type imaginable—Dutch tulips, pretty campanula, fresh lilies, and magnificent daisies—giving him ample choices. But he already knew what he wanted long before he got to the store. In fact, he had known for months now…the notion was etched in his mind. After a suitable time spent wandering around like a lost puppy, he walked up to the counter and waited to be helped.

The florist flashed him an exaggerated smile and said: “Can I help you, sir?”

“Yes, I’d like a dozen of those white roses,” he said cheerfully, pointing at a large vase behind the counter.

“Sure thing,” she said.

He watched her ass jiggle as she walked over and pulled out twelve long stemmed roses.

“White roses seem to be pretty popular these days,” she commented.

That was exactly what he was counting on.

“With good reason,” he said, pouring on the charm. “I think they are the prettiest roses.”

“I agree,” she told him.

He knew she would have said that no matter what color roses he had chosen to buy. But that was fine with him. She was just doing her job.

The woman pulled out some red paper from beneath the counter, set the roses atop it, and began to wrap them. “Looks like some lucky lady will be grinning from ear to ear this evening,” she said.

He smiled. “You’ve got that right.”

As always, he paid for the flowers with cash, was careful not to touch anything else, and left the store humming. In the parking lot, he walked over to a black van. Once inside, he tossed the flowers on the passenger seat.

“Bought something for you lucky ladies,” he said, glancing in the back of the van at his guests. “But you can’t have it yet. I’m sure you understand. You’re not exactly in a position to show your gratitude right now.”

He laughed, pleased with his dry humor, started the engine, and took off. Within minutes, he was on Interstate 5 heading south from Portland. Dusk had settled in like sand in the desert and he turned on his lights to cut through the newly formed darkness.

In the back, he could hear one of his prisoners starting to moan and squirm, as if this would somehow lead to her rescue. Sorry, but that’s not gonna happen, he thought gleefully. Though her hands and feet were bound securely and her mouth taped shut, he could not get to his destination fast enough. Alerting the attention of a nosey passerby with a cell phone could ruin his plans in more ways than one.

“Save your breath,” he shouted at her, hiding the fact that he could never be totally at ease. Not until the job was done. The bitches had to pay…with their lives. All in good time. “Believe me,” he admonished the moaner, “you’ll need it later when you really have something to whine about. And don’t even think about getting away. Escape is damn near impossible! Hell, there is no way out—at least not in the way you think.”

The prisoner increased her moaning and wriggling with the desperation of a terrified person who knew she had nothing to lose at this point. If she only knew. He turned up the volume and sang along to Louis Armstrong’s gravelly rendition of “Mack the Knife,” effectively drowning her out.

“And the shark bites,” he sang along, “with those pearly white teeth, dear…”

Looking into the rear view mirror, he observed the woman. She was in her late thirties with almond brown skin and thick curly black hair that reminded him of a baby lamb’s wool. Taller than most women and slender in all the right places, she was just the way he liked them. She had on well-worn jeans and a bright pink blouse that was so tight across her large braless breasts he was surprised it had not ripped apart during her valiant struggle to elude capture. Of course, he had been one step quicker, physically superior, and more determined to have what he wanted.

He glanced at the other prisoner. She was motionless, obviously still under from the isoflurane he’d used to sedate her. The woman, in her mid-thirties, was white with permed auburn hair and somewhat on the slim side. She was a few inches shorter than his other captive and wore a faded, oversized jersey and jean shorts. Her bony legs were less than appealing, but he knew she would have to do.

Both bitches would do tonight. They had to pay the ultimate price for what she had done to him.

And that whining bitch will be the first to get it, he thought, eyeing the squirming, moaning black woman.

The speedometer read sixty-five and he was tempted to kick it to eighty, maybe ninety. He loved going fast and feeling the pungent air hitting his face as if to snap him back to life. Instead, he let up on the pedal, bringing his speed down to the limit of fifty-five along this stretch. He couldn’t take any chances that the cops might pick his vehicle randomly amongst the many speeders to stop.

That would certainly interfere big time with his plans for these two.

Not to mention put him on a one-way trip to prison—or worse.

As if to validate his paranoia, or perhaps ensure that he would not go down without one hell of a fight, he leaned over, opened the glove compartment, and pulled out a .357 Magnum. The cool steel felt good in his hands. He rested it against his face for a moment or two before putting it back in its resting place…knowing it was ready to grab at a moment’s notice.

He took the exit for Hillcrest. Soon he was passing by the familiar gas station and a strip of stores and places to eat. He turned onto an unpaved road and headed down about three miles, made a right, and went past farmhouses, pastures, and pine trees. It was about as far away from Portland as you could get and still be within a short drive of the city.

Soon he reached his destination. He drove onto a winding gravel road that led to his property. The one story western red cedar log cabin sat on two acres of overgrown weeds and tall evergreens. The nearest neighbor was a mile away, which suited his purposes just fine.

He pulled up to a dirt path in front of the cabin that served as a sidewalk and shut off the engine.

“Welcome, ladies,” he told his captives, “to my own little private hideaway. Now it’s your home, too…at least temporarily.” He chuckled nastily.

He dragged the black woman into the cabin first, enjoying her resistance.

“Scream your pretty head off,” he spat. “It won’t do you one bit of good—except maybe give you some pointless satisfaction that you didn’t go down without making your whiny voice heard.” He laughed. “Too bad I can’t understand a thing you’re saying with that tape strapped across your lips.”

In the back room, he left her on the floor with her arms and ankles still secured while he went out to get the white bitch. She had begun to stir, as if coming out of a bad dream.

But he knew her nightmare had only just begun.

She joined the black bitch in the room. He left them to contemplate their fate while he got the roses out of the van. He put the flowers on a small wooden table in the front room. As usual, he needed only two, tossing the others in a wastebasket to rot.

He put one of the roses on some newspaper and grabbed a can of black spray paint. After shaking it, he sprayed it liberally on the rose till it was as black as charcoal.

Perfect, he thought, nodding with approval. Just perfect. It would be nice and dry by the time he finished with his captives. Then the black and white roses could be presented to them appropriately for their cooperation and participation in his game of life and death.

The mere thought of killing them infuriated and excited him like nothing else he could imagine.

Except the thought of his next kill…

And the terror in the eyes of those who would soon become his next victims.

CHAPTER ONE

Veronica Vasquez was admittedly a bit nervous as she waited in the office of Homicide Detective Bryan Waldicott of the Portland Police Bureau. At the Bureau’s request, she had been loaned to the department as a criminal psychologist and profiling member of the FBI’s Serial Killer Unit. She was proud to have earned her stripes as a certified FBI profiler and determined to stay one step ahead of those who would like to see her “put back in her place.”

Her current assignment was to help track down a vicious sexual serial killer terrorizing Portland, Oregon and its surrounding neighborhoods. Dubbed by the press as “The Rose Killer,” the unsub had murdered six women thus far. The murders occurred in pairs, involving a Caucasian woman and a woman of color. The women had all been severely beaten, disfigured, and strangled. Most had also been sexually assaulted.

As grisly and unusual as this was, Veronica’s frayed nerves were not due to the morbidity of the case or being uprooted from her home in Washington, D.C. at a moment’s notice. Nor was she shaky at the prospect of having to deal with a temporary new boss who had once been one of the FBI’s most brash and bright special agents, until he inexplicably walked away from Quantico three years ago.

It wasn’t even the fact that she had just turned thirty-five and was already a widow with seemingly the best years of her life behind her.

No, what disturbed Veronica more than she cared to admit was returning to her hometown of Portland for the first time in nearly eight years. Not too coincidentally, that was the last time she had seen her sister, Alexandra, who was two years her junior. In fact, the two had not seen eye to eye on much of anything ever since their parents died when the sisters were in their late teens.

If the truth were told, they were about as different as night and day in Veronica’s mind, leaving little ground for a stable, steady relationship, much less a bona fide sisterly bond. It had just seemed better all the way around if they went their own separate ways.

Or at least one of them.

And it ended up being her.

Now, against her better wishes, she had come back. She knew she would have to face Alexandra sooner or later to see if they could possibly salvage anything out of their kinship or if they would remain lost to each other forever.

Veronica forced these thoughts aside as she saw a tall, well-built man approaching the office. Even from a distance, she could see that he was handsome and looked to be in his late thirties. Thick hair that was as black as the night surrounded a chiseled face with a long, pronounced nose. When he got closer, she could see that his eyes—never parting from hers as if in a trance—were pools of deep blue with an intensity that probably matched her own green eyes with gold speckles. He wore a navy suit that was only slightly wrinkled, as if to indicate that he refused to go more than a few days without having it pressed. His striped tie was only loosely fastened over a crisp, white shirt.

Veronica immediately sat up in the chair, as if she had been slouching and did not want to make a bad first impression. She had chosen to wear a gray suit that flattered her five-foot-seven inch slender frame, along with a pink shirt, and black low-heeled pumps. Her straight black hair hung across her shoulders, bordering a heart-shaped face.

She rose to her feet as the man entered the office, self-consciously pulling down her jacket. Her mouth opened to a soft smile after she saw him do the same.

Don’t let him see you sweat, she told herself. You’ve done this enough times. No reason to be intimidated now.

“Mrs. Vasquez—?” he asked in a strong baritone voice.

Veronica hadn’t been called Mrs. Vasquez much in recent memory. Not since Daniel died three years ago. Did the detective think she was still married? Had he forgotten that she was an FBI agent and should be referred to as Special Agent Vasquez, if not simply Vasquez? Or, if the conversation was strictly informal, he could just call her Veronica.

Perhaps he was just being polite out of respect. Whatever his rationale was, Veronica realized that the formal title of Mrs. had the effect of dating her current status more than she wanted it to as a single woman. Though she was not looking for love, per se, she was no longer close-minded to it.

She gave a slight nod. “Special Agent Veronica Vasquez at your service,” she said, realizing too late that she had sounded as if it was a military pronouncement. She quickly tried to correct her tone. “And you must be—?”

“Detective Sergeant Bryan Waldicott, Homicide Division, Portland Police Bureau,” he said with obvious amusement. He stuck out his hand, which Veronica shook in an obligatory show of greeting that seemed to last longer than either of them had probably intended. Waldicott was the first to pull away, while giving her a hard look. “Right off the bat, Special Agent Vasquez, I think I should be perfectly honest with you and say that I was initially opposed to calling in someone from the FBI to help with this case. I figured the last thing we needed was to have the Feds looking over our shoulders while we try to get a handle on a murder case that’s strictly local as far as I can tell.”

Veronica thought about the word initially. Why should he, of all people, be opposed to assistance from his former employer? Was there a story there? Did she need to know it? She hadn’t heard specifically that there had been bad blood when he left the Bureau. But that didn’t mean there wasn’t any.

“So what changed your mind?” she asked, assuming that he had made an about face.

Waldicott ran his hand the length of a square jaw and sculpted chin with a deep cleft its centerpiece and sighed thoughtfully. “Well, I guess I came to realize that at this point we could really use all the help we can get. Even from the FBI. We’ve got a ruthless serial killer on the prowl and he’s not only elusive, but he’s frightening the hell out of the women in Portland. And a few of us men, too. So who was I to tell my boss, much less the families of the victims, that I wasn’t willing to do anything and everything in my power to bring this monster to justice?”

“I’ll be happy to do all I can,” Veronica promised, feeling somewhat relieved that she hadn’t apparently made an enemy of the man she had been assigned to work with. “And, just for the record, I’m not here to step on anyone’s toes, Detective. I just want to fit in as part of the team working on this case. Fair?”

He looked at her for a moment as if weighing his options, before cracking a slight smile. “More than fair, Agent Vasquez.”

Veronica flashed a tiny smile of mutual cooperation. So far, so good, she thought. Realistically, she knew there was only so much a profiler could do—no matter her skills and intuition. Yes, she could draw a composite of the killer and the likely victims. She could even tell them all they ever wanted to know about the psyche of a serial killer. But the real blood and guts work was performed by the people who had to follow up on leads, which often went nowhere, and sort through mounds and mounds of evidence and would-be evidence until they ultimately captured or killed the serial killer. Or stood by helplessly as the trail went cold while he continued to evade and taunt them.

“Please, sit down,” offered Waldicott with a sweep of his long arm.

Veronica sat again in the black leather chair. She watched as Bryan Waldicott sat at a desk that somehow seemed too small for a man his size. A file folder lay open on it. Waldicott looked up at her, down at the folder, and up again.

“So this is a homecoming of sorts for you,” he commented with a brow cocked whimsically. “It says here that you grew up in Portland.”

Veronica shivered. “Yes, on both counts.”

Waldicott looked at her curiously. “So why did you leave? In many respects, this seems like the ideal place to live and raise a family.”

Veronica wondered if this was a chauvinistic statement against women being in the work force, much less law enforcement, which was still mostly a male dominated profession. On the other hand, she could also imagine that Bryan Waldicott had a knock against FBI agents, in specific, as a former member of the ranks himself.

As if he sensed the implications of the question, Waldicott answered it himself with a shrug. “Why does anyone ever move away? Usually because they found something—or someone—better elsewhere. So which is it?”

Veronica considered the question and decided to reverse the tables. “Is that why you left the FBI?” she asked bluntly, seizing the moment. Or maybe it was the mystery behind the man himself that made her curious. “Because you found something…or someone better?”

Veronica could see that she had definitely struck a nerve, as Waldicott’s brow furrowed and his eyes narrowed to little more than razor slits. Immediately, she wished she had kept her mouth shut, if only because he was technically her superior. She had placed a courtesy call to the FBI field office in Portland and they had made it very clear that her current orders and assignment came from the man before her. A sinking feeling told Veronica that she had no more right to pry into his personal life than he had to pry into hers.

Waldicott’s mouth had become an irregular line, but then softened. “Looks like you’ve done some of your own homework, Agent Vasquez. I suppose that’s only fair, all things considered.” He took a breath. “If you must know, I left the Bureau because it seemed the best thing to do at the time. I have no regrets.”

Veronica could tell that he was clearly troubled by this, whatever the issue was, but managed to put on a brave face. His smile returned and he seemed to be waiting for her to respond to his original question of why she’d left home and the idyllic setting of the Pacific Northwest for a life elsewhere.

I’m not ready to share the intimate details of my personal life with him or anyone else at this time, she told herself.

After Veronica thought about it, she realized she could be just as succinct and mysterious with her response as he was, while keeping her own little secrets to herself. “I had an offer to join the FBI in D.C.,” she said simply. “And I took it.”

“All right,” Waldicott said. He seemed content to settle for that.

Veronica breathed a sigh of relief. As far as she was concerned, you could ask her anything about her profession or skills and she would be happy to respond, but her private life was to remain a closed book. It was too painful to open. Especially for someone she just met. Even though Bryan Waldicott seemed like he was used to getting what he went after sooner or later. She was determined to be the exception to the rule.

Waldicott closed the folder and stood up in one motion. “I’ll introduce you to everyone you haven’t already met. Then we’ll put your psychology and profiling skills to work—”

Veronica was sure she detected no sarcasm in his tone, which would make it much easier to work with him. She indicated her readiness by standing up. As they locked eyes, she had an uneasy feeling that they had not finished what they started. Strangely, she was not really even sure what that was.

Waldicott proffered his arm toward the door like a perfect gentleman and Veronica walked out ahead of him, lightly brushing against his jacket sleeve. She instantly felt electricity pass between them, causing the hair on the back of her neck to rise. She wondered if he felt it, too.

 

 

Book Review: Chasing Victory, by Joanne Jaytanie

Chasing Victory is a delightful debut novel by first-time author Joanne Jaytanie.

Our beautiful protagonist, Victory Winters, is a veterinarian and geneticist specializing in molecular biology for Claremont Research in Poulsbo, Washington. She also has a special innate ability she keeps secret: she has almost a telepathic gift to communicate with animals. As head of her department, she’s currently researching canine DNA and its potential benefits to humans.

Then one day, Victory receives a cryptic call from Jeffrey, an old friend and colleague who she hasn’t seen or spoken to in 5 years. Like her, he’s also a veterinarian and geneticist working for a competitor company, Biotec. Jeffrey insists he needs her help and asks her to meet him in a picnic spot. But, to her horror, once there she secretly witnesses his murder.

Soon after, she’s approached by a representative of Biotec with an offer to work for them. They claim that Jeffrey is working overseas, and they want her to take his place. Though she doesn’t trust them, she decides to play along in order to investigate her friend’s murder. But things go unexpectedly wrong when instead she’s kidnapped to a secluded island and forced to do research, injecting humans with wolf DNA. Unbeknown to Victory at first, the madman CEO wants to create the perfect invincible army.

Thus, Victory is soon pulled into a vortex of intrigue, blackmail and murder. Together with the hero, Tristan Farraday, a naval officer who also has telepathic abilities and who is sent undercover to investigate Biotec’s experiments, Victory must find a way to stop the company from carrying out their horrific plans and to get out of the island alive.

This was a fun, light, entertaining read! They story is compelling and the hero and heroine sympathetic. Victory is intelligent, yet caring and sensitive. Tristan is the perfect combination, not too alpha, not too soft. The action moves at a pretty quick pace, and there’s a lot of action and romantic suspense to keep readers turning pages. One thing I especially enjoyed about this story is that the love between Victory and Tristan develops gradually and organically. I certainly look forward to reading more works from this author. Recommended for fans of paranormal romance!

Visit the author’s website: http://www.joannejaytanie.com/

Purchase from Amazon.

My review previously appeared on Blogcritics.

Book Review: Khost, by Vincent Hobbes

 

I was doubtful when I picked up Khost for review. I’d never read a military horror novel before, though I’ve always been a big fan of the first two Alien movies. The Alien movies are military science fiction, so I thought that perhaps the two genres would be similar. They were.

Well, as it turned out, I had no reason to be apprehensive. Khost was a very pleasant surprise, and I found myself caring about the characters and their predicament and engrossed in the story until the end.

The tale begins in 1984, with the Soviet Union engaged in the bloody war with Afghanistan. Afraid of losing, the Soviets develop a chemical weapon unlike any other in history, one with the power to enhance their soldiers in the battlefield.  They soon put it to the test in the province of Khost, where the Mujahideen hide inside a massive cave complex.

But things go awfully wrong. Instead of enhancing the humans, the chemical mutates them into beings that are way beyond human, into something horrifying and evil.

Move forward to 2010. The USA is at war with Afghanistan. And it becomes increasingly challenging in the province of Khost, where already an elite team of Delta Force Operators has gone missing. That is, except only one survivor, who has an incredible, terrifying story to tell, and whom nobody believes—nobody except the CIA, which soon sends a top-secret team to deal with the situation…

Khost is nonstop suspense, action, and thrills. The story moves at a heart-racing pace. The dialogue and descriptions ring with authenticity, and I was especially impressed with all the military language and details. I also found compelling the dynamic between the characters and their sense of comradeship.

None of them are your regular nice guy, yet they show admirable courage, honor, and responsibility for the wellbeing of their team. The scenes inside the cave are quite graphic and violent at times, but somehow they all felt essential to the story and not gratuitous. In sum, I enjoyed reading this novel and can fully recommend it to fans of thrillers, horror and science fiction, and well as those of you who would like to try something different.

Purchase KHOST on Amazon.

This review previously appeared in Blogcritics. 

Book Review: EQUITY of FEAR, by Rudy Mazzocchi

Once again author Rudy Mazzocchi ventures into the shadowy world of controversial medical technologies. In his first thriller, Equity of Evil, the author revealed a dark world involving abortion, human trafficking and organ cultures. In this his latest instalment and 2^nd book in the series, Equity of Fear, he boldly delves into subjects of the re-wiring of the brain to eliminate fear and the alteration of memory. Fascinating and terrifying stuff, to say the least.

Dr. Frank Moretti is CEO of Recon Innovations, a company that is developing a new technology designed to help millions of patients get rid of irrational fears, such as the fear of heights or darkness. He is also working on a neuroplasticity program designed to rewire the brain and restore the memory of Alzheimer’s patients. It all sounds like the perfect way to contribute to science and help humanity.

However, the USA, Russia and Japan are secretly competing for this technology, for a nation that would be able to control fear and pain in the minds of the people would also be able to create a supreme, invincible army.

Roman Citrano, a member of the Recon Board of Directors (also the protagonist in book 1 of these series), warns his friend Frank about the possible sinister repercussions, but Frank decides to move forward and license the technology to other countries. For this purpose, he flies to Japan with his teenaged son Joey—a big mistake, for soon both fall into an evil vortex of international intrigue where sadistic, unscrupulous doctors experiment on orphan children in the name of science, and where father and son have to fight for their lives.

This was a great read! First of all, the science behind it, which the author so skillfully describes and explains, is both absorbing and horrifying. It truly reminds us of the two very different fac

ets of science and what can happen when greed, ambition, and plain and simple human nature get in the way.

The story moves pretty quickly in spite of all the ‘science talk.’ I really liked the three main characters, Frank, his son Joey, and Roman, and felt compelled to stick with them to see how they were going to get out of their difficult predicament. I especially enjoyed the character of Joey; he really added spunk to the dialogue and situations. The Japanese scientist villain is well rounded, and I appreciate the tact and responsibility of the author in describing the Asian culture in the book. The ending is satisfying and utterly surprising.

One last word of caution, Equity of Fear has some scenes that are quite violent and graphic in nature, so this isn’t a read for those of you faint of heart.

Find out more on Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Equity-Fear-EQUITY-Series-ebook/dp/B00C0HAUUG

View the original article on blogcritics.org

Read-a-Chapter: SUBMERGED, by Cheryl Kaye Tardif

 

Read a Chapter is *NEW* added feature at As the Pages Turn! Here you’ll be able to read the first chapters of books of all genres to see if you like them before you buy them. Today we are featuring the suspense thriller, Submerged, by Cheryl Kaye Tardif. Enjoy!

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Submerged

Cheryl Kaye Tardif

Suspense/Thriller

Imajin Books

AMAZON

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SUBMERGED by Cheryl Kaye Tardif

Excerpt

Prologue 

Near Cadomin, AB – Saturday, June 15, 2013 – 12:36 AM

You never grow accustomed to the stench of death. Marcus Taylor knew that smell intimately. He had inhaled burnt flesh, decayed flesh…diseased flesh. It lingered on him long after he was separated from the body.

The image of his wife and son’s gray faces and blue lips assaulted him.

Jane…Ryan.

Mercifully, there were no bodies tonight. The only scent he recognized now was wet prairie and the dank residue left over from a rainstorm and the river.

“So what happened, Marcus?”

The question came from Detective John Zur, a cop Marcus knew from the old days. Back before he traded in his steady income and respected career for something that had poisoned him physically and mentally.

“Come on,” Zur prodded. “Start talking. And tell me the truth.”

Marcus was an expert at hiding things. Always had been. But there was no way in hell he could hide why he was soaked to the skin and standing at the edge of a river in the middle of nowhere.

He squinted at the river, trying to discern where the car had sunk. He only saw faint ripples on the surface. “You can see what happened, John.”

“You left your desk. Not a very rational decision to make, considering your past.”

Marcus shook his head, the taste of river water still in his throat. “Just because I do something unexpected doesn’t mean I’m back to old habits.”

Zur studied him but said nothing.

“I had to do something, John. I had to try to save them.”

“That’s what EMS is for. You’re not a paramedic anymore.”

Marcus let his gaze drift to the river. “I know. But you guys were all over the place and someone had to look for them. They were running out of time.”

Overhead, lightning forked and thunder reverberated.

“Dammit, Marcus, you went rogue!” Zur said. “You know how dangerous that is. We could’ve had four bodies.”

Marcus scowled. “Instead of merely three, you mean?”

“You know how this works. We work in teams for a reason. We all need backup. Even you.”

“All the rescue teams were otherwise engaged. I didn’t have a choice.”

Zur sighed. “We go back a long way. I know you did what you thought was right. But it could’ve cost them all their lives. And it’ll probably cost you your job. Why would you risk that for a complete stranger?”

“She wasn’t a stranger.”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Marcus realized how true that statement seemed. He knew more about Rebecca Kingston than he did about any other woman. Besides Jane.

“You know her?” Zur asked, frowning.

“She told me things and I told her things. So, yeah, I know her.”

“I still do not get why you didn’t stay at the center and let us do our job.”

“She called me.” Marcus looked into his friend’s eyes. “Me. Not you.”

“I understand, but that’s your job. To listen and relay information.”

“You don’t understand a thing. Rebecca was terrified. For herself and her children. No one knew where they were for sure, and she was running out of time. If I didn’t at least try, what kind of person would I be, John?” He gritted his teeth. “I couldn’t live with that. Not again.”

Zur exhaled. “Sometimes we’re simply too late. It happens.”

“Well, I didn’t want it to happen this time.” Marcus thought of the vision he’d seen of Jane standing in the middle of the road. “I had a…hunch I was close. Then when Rebecca mentioned Colton had seen flying pigs, I remembered this place. Jane and I used to buy ribs and chops from the owner, before it closed down about seven years ago.”

“And that led you here to the farm.” Zur’s voice softened. “Good thing your hunch paid off. This time. Next time, you might not be so lucky.”

“There won’t be a next time, John.”

A smirk tugged at the corner of Zur’s mouth. “Uh-huh.”

“There won’t.”

Zur shrugged and headed for the ambulance.

Under a chaotic sky, Marcus stood at the edge of the river as tears cascaded from his eyes. The night’s events hit him hard, like a sucker punch to the gut. He was submerged in a wave of memories. The first call, Rebecca’s frantic voice, Colton crying in the background. He knew that kind of fear.  He’d felt it before. But last time, it was a different road, different woman, different child.

He shook his head. He couldn’t think of Jane right now. Or Ryan. He couldn’t reflect on all he’d lost. He needed to focus on what he’d found, what he’d discovered in a faceless voice that had comforted him and expressed that it was okay to let go.

He glanced at his watch. It was after midnight. 12:39, to be exact. He couldn’t believe how his life had changed in not much more than two days.

“Marcus!”

He turned…

Chapter One

 

Edson, AB – Thursday, June 13, 2013 – 10:55 AM

 

Sitting on the threadbare carpet in front of the living room fireplace, Marcus Taylor stroked a military issue Browning 9mm pistol against his leg, the thirteen-round magazine in his other hand. For an instant, he contemplated loading the gun―and then using it.

“But then who’d feed you?” he asked his companion.

Arizona, a five-year-old red Irish setter, gave him an inquisitive look, then curled up and went back to sleep on the couch. She was a rescue hound he’d picked up about a year after Ryan and Jane had died. The house had been too damned quiet. Lifeless.

“Great to know you have an opinion.”

Setting the gun and magazine down on the floor, Marcus propped a photo album against his legs and took a deep breath. The photo album of death. The album only saw daylight three times a year. The other three hundred and sixty-two days it was hidden in a steel foot locker that doubled as his coffee table.

Today was Paul’s forty-sixth birthday. Or it would have been, except Paul was dead.

Taking another measured breath, Marcus felt for the chain that marked a page and opened the album. “Hey, Bro.”

In the photo, Corporal Paul Taylor stood on the shoulder of a deserted street on the outskirts of a nondescript town in Afghanistan, a sniper rifle braced across his chest and the Browning in his hand. He’d been killed that same day, his limbs ripped apart by a roadside bomb. The IED had been buried in six inches of dust and dirt when Paul, distracted by a crying kid, had unwittingly stepped on it.

One stupid mistake could end in death, separating son from parents and brother from brother. Resentment could separate siblings too.

“I wish I could tell you how sorry I am,” Marcus said, blinking back a tear. “We wasted so much time being pissed at each other.”

As a young kid, he’d hidden his older brother’s toy soldiers so he could play with them when Paul was at school. In high school, Marcus had hidden how smart he was, always downplaying his intelligence in favor of being the cool, younger brother of senior hockey legend Paul Taylor. Marcus had learned to hide his jealousy too.

Until his brother was killed.

He stared at the warped dog tag at the end of the chain. It was all that was left of his brother. There was nothing to be jealous of now.

He glanced at the gun. Okay, he had that too. He’d inherited the Browning from Paul. One of his brother’s war buddies had personally delivered it. “Your brother said you can play with his toys now,” the guy had said.

Paul always had a warped sense of humor.

“Happy birthday, Paul.”

He knew his parents, who were currently cruising in the Mediterranean, would be raising a toast in Paul’s honor, so he did the same. “I miss you, bro.”

Then he dropped the tag and flipped to the next set of photos in the album. A brunette with short, choppy hair and luminous green eyes smiled back at him.

Jane.

“Hello, Elf.”

He traced her face, recalling the way her mouth tilted upward on the left and how she’d watch a chick flick tearjerker, while tears steamed unnoticed down her face.

Marcus turned to the next set of photos and sucked in a breath. A handsome boy beamed a brilliant smile and waved back at him.

“Hey, little buddy.”

He recalled the day the photo had been taken. His son, Ryan, a rookie goalie on his junior high hockey team, had blocked out his opponents, giving his team a three-goal lead. Jane had snapped the picture at the exact second when Ryan had found his father in the crowd.

“I love you.” Marcus’s voice cracked. “And I miss you so much.”

He couldn’t hide that. Not ever.

There was one other thing he couldn’t hide.

He had killed Jane. And Ryan.

For the past six years, whenever Marcus slept, his dead wife and son came to visit, taunting him with their spectral images, teasing him with familiar phrases, twisting his mind and gut into a guilt-infested cesspool. The only way to escape their accusing glares and spiteful smiles was to wake up. Or not go to sleep. Sleep was the enemy. He did his best to avoid it.

Marcus glanced at the antique clock on the mantle. 11:06.

Another twenty-four minutes and he’d have to head to the Yellowhead County Emergency Center, where he worked as a 911 dispatcher. He’d been working there for almost six months. He was halfway through five twelve-hour shifts that ran from noon to midnight. He worked them with his best friend, Leo, who would undoubtedly be in a good mood again. Leo liked sleeping in and starting his day at noon, while Marcus preferred the midnight-to-noon shift, the one everyone else hated. It gave him something to do at night, since sleeping didn’t come easily.

He closed the photo album, stood slowly and stretched his cramped muscles. As he placed the album and the gun and magazine back in the foot locker, a small cedar box with a medical insignia embossed on the top caught his eye, though he did his best to ignore it.

Even Arizona knew that box was trouble. She froze at the sight of it, her hackles raised.

“I know,” Marcus said. “I can resist temptation.”

That box had gotten him into trouble on more than one occasion. It represented a past he’d give anything to erase. But he couldn’t toss it in the trash. It had too firm a grip on him. Even now it called to him.

“Marcus…”

“No!”

He slammed the foot locker lid with his fist. The sound reverberated across the room, clanging like a jail cell door, trapping him in his own private prison.

Behind him, Arizona whimpered.

“Sorry, girl.”

One day he’d get rid of the box with the insignia and be done with it once and for all.

But not yet.

Shaking off a bout of guilt, he took the stairs two at a time to the second floor and entered the master bedroom of the two-bedroom rented duplex. It was devoid of all things feminine, stripped down to the barest essentials. A bed, nightstand and tall dresser. Metal blinds, no flowered curtains like the ones in the house in Edmonton that he’d bought with Jane. The bedspread was a mishmash of brown tones, and it had been hauled up over the single pillow. There were none of the decorative pillows that Jane had loved so much. No silk flowers on the dresser. No citrus Febreeze lingering in the air. No sign of Jane.

He’d hidden her too.

Stepping into the en suite bathroom, Marcus stared into the mirror. He took in the untrimmed moustache and beard that was threatening to engulf his face. Leaning closer, he examined his eyes, which were more gray than blue. He turned his face to catch the light. “I am not tired.”

The dark circles under his eyes betrayed him.

Ignoring Arizona’s watchful gaze, he opened the medicine cabinet and grabbed the tube of Preparation H, a trick he’d learned from his wife Jane. Before he’d killed her. A little dab under the eyes, no smiling or frowning, and within seconds the crevices in his skin softened. Some of Jane’s “White Out”—as she used to call the tube of cosmetic concealer—and the shadows would disappear.

“Camouflage on,” he said to his reflection.

A memory of Jane surfaced.

It was the night of the BioWare awards banquet, nineteen years ago. Jane, dressed in a pink housecoat, sat at the bathroom vanity curling her hair, while Marcus struggled with his tie.

He’d let out a curse. “I can never get this right.”

“Here, let me.” Pushing the chair behind him, Jane climbed up before he could protest. She caught his gaze in the mirror over the sink and reached around his shoulders, her gaze wandering to the twisted lump he’d made of the full Windsor. “You shouldn’t be so impatient.”

“You shouldn’t be climbing up on chairs.”

“I’m fine, Marcus.”

“You’re pregnant, that’s what you are.”

“You calling me fat, buster?”

Five months pregnant with Ryan, Jane had never looked so beautiful.

“I’d never do that,” he replied.

She cocked her head and arched one brow. “Never? How about in four months when I can’t walk up the stairs to the bedroom?”

“I’ll carry you.”

“What about when I can’t see my toes and can’t paint my toenails?”

“I’ll paint them for you.”

“What about when―”

He turned his head and kissed her. That shut her up.

With a laugh, she pushed him away, gave the tie a smooth tug and slid the knot expertly into place.

He groaned. “Now why can’t I do that?”

“Because you have me. Now quit distracting me. I still have to put on my dress and makeup.”

Marcus sat on the edge of the bed and waited. Jane always made it worth the wait, and that night she didn’t disappoint him. When she emerged from the bathroom, she was a vision of sultry goddess in a designer dress from a shop in West Edmonton Mall. The baby bump in front was barely noticeable.

“How do I look?” she asked, nervously fingering the fresh gold highlights in her hair.

“Sexy as hell.”

She spun in a slow circle to show off the sleek black dress with its plunging back. Peering over one glitter-powdered shoulder, she said, “So you like my new dress?”

“I’d like it better,” he said in a soft voice, “if it was on the floor.”

Minutes later, they were entwined in the sheets, out of breath and laughing like teenagers. Sex with Jane was always like that. Exciting. Youthful. Fun.

After dressing, Jane retreated to the bathroom to fix her hair and makeup. “Camouflage on,” she said when she returned. “Now let’s get going.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He heard her whispering, “Six plus eight plus two…”

“Are you doing that numerology thing again?” he asked with a grin.

Jane had gone to a psychic fair when she’d found out she was pregnant, and a numerologist had given her a lesson in adding dates. Ever since then, whenever something important came up, she’d work out the numbers to determine if it was going to be a good day or not. She even made Marcus buy lotto tickets on “three days,” which she said meant money coming in. They hadn’t won a lottery yet, but he played along anyway.

“What is it today?”

She smiled. “A seven.”

“Ah, lucky seven.” He arched a brow at her. “So I’m going to get lucky?”

“I think you already did, mister.”

They’d been late for the awards banquet, which didn’t go over too well since Jane was the guest of honor, the recipient of a Best Programmer award for her latest video game creation at BioWare. When Jane had stepped up on the stage to receive her award, Marcus didn’t think he could ever be prouder. Until the night Ryan was born.

Ryan…the son I killed.

Marcus gave his head a jerk, forcing the memories back into the shadows―where they belonged. He picked up the can of shaving cream. His eyes rested, unfocused, on the label.

To shave or not to shave. That was the question.

“Nah, not today,” he muttered.

He hadn’t shaved in weeks. He was also overdue for a haircut. Thankfully, they weren’t too strict about appearances at work, though his supervisor would probably harp on it again.

The alarm on his watch beeped.

He had twenty minutes to get to the center. Then he’d get back to hiding behind the anonymity of being a faceless voice on the phone.

 

Yellowhead County Emergency Services in Edson, Alberta, housed a small but competent 911 call center situated on the second floor of a spacious building on 1^st Avenue. Four rooms on the floor were rented out to emergency groups, like First Aid, CPR and EMS, for training facilities. The 911 center had a full-time staff of four emergency operators and two supervisors—one for the day shift, one for the night. They also had a handful of highly trained but underpaid casual staff and three regular volunteers.

When Marcus entered the building, Leonardo Lombardo was waiting for him by the elevator. And Leo didn’t look too thrilled to see him.

“You look like your dog just died,” Marcus said.

“Don’t got a dog.”

“So what’s with the warm and cheerful welcome? Did the mob put a hit out on me?”

Leo, a man of average height in his late forties, carried about thirty extra pounds around his middle, and his swarthy Italian looks gave him an air of mystery and danger. Around town, rumormongers had spread stories that Leo was an American expatriate with mob ties. But Marcus knew exactly who had started those rumors. Leo had a depraved sense of humor.

But his friend wasn’t smiling now.

“You really gotta get some sleep.”

Stepping into the elevator, Marcus shrugged. “Sleep’s overrated.”

“You look like hell.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Leo pushed the second floor button and took a hesitant breath. “Listen, man…”

Whenever Leo started a sentence with those two words, Marcus knew it wouldn’t be good.

“You’re not on your game,” Leo said. “You’re starting to slip up.”

“What do you mean? I do my job.”

“You filed that multiple-car accident report from last night in the wrong place. Shipley’s spent half the morning looking for it. I tried covering for you, but he’s pretty pissed.”

“Shipley’s always pissed.”

Pete Shipley made it a ritual to make Marcus’s life hell whenever possible, which was more often than not. As the day shift supervisor, Shipley ruled the emergency operators with an iron fist and enough arrogance to get on anyone’s nerves.

The elevator door opened and Marcus stepped out first.

“I’ll find the report, Leo.”

“How many hours you get, Marcus?”

Sleep?

“Four.” It was a lie and both of them knew it.

Marcus started toward the cubicle with the screen that divided his desk from Leo’s. Behind them was the station for the other full-timers. He waved to Parminder and Wyatt as they left for home. They worked the night shift, so he only saw them in passing. Their stations were now manned by casual day workers. Backup.

“Get some sleep,” Leo muttered.

“Sleep is a funny thing, Leo. Not funny ha-ha, but funny strange. Once a body’s gone awhile without it or with an occasional light nap, sleep doesn’t seem that important. I’m fine.”

“Bullshit.”

They were interrupted by a door slamming down the hall.

Pete Shipley appeared, overpowering the hallway with angry energy and his massive frame. The guy towered over everyone, including Marcus, who was an easy six feet tall. Shipley, a former army captain, was built like the Titanic, which had become his office nickname. Unbeknown to him.

“Taylor!” Shipley shouted. “In my office now!”

Leo grabbed Marcus’s arm. “Tell him you slept six hours.”

“You’re suggesting I lie to the boss?”

“Just cover your ass. And for God’s sake, don’t egg him on.”

Marcus smiled. “Now why would I do that?”

Leo gaped at him. “Because you thrive on chaos.”

“Even in chaos there is order.”

Letting out a snort, Leo said, “You been reading too many self-help books. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He turned on one heel and headed for his desk.

Marcus stared after him. Don’t worry, Leo. I can handle Pete Shipley.

Pausing in front of Shipley’s door, he took a breath, knocked once and entered. His supervisor was seated behind a metal desk, his thick-lensed glasses perched on the tip of a bulbous nose as he scrutinized a mound of paperwork. Even though the man had ordered the meeting, Shipley did nothing to indicate he acknowledged Marcus’s existence.

That was fine with Marcus. It gave him time to study the office, with its cramped windowless space and dank recycled air. It wasn’t an office to envy, that’s for sure. No one wanted it, or the position and responsibility that came with it. Not even Shipley. Word had it he was positioning himself for emergency coordinator, in hopes of moving up to one of the corner offices with the floor-to-ceiling windows. Marcus doubted it would ever happen. Shipley wasn’t solid management material.

Marcus stood with his hands resting lightly on the back of the armless faux-leather chair Shipley reserved for the lucky few he deemed important enough to sit in his presence. Marcus wasn’t one of the lucky ones.

Bracing for an ugly reprimand, his thoughts drifted to last night’s shift. A drunk driver had T-boned a car at a busy intersection in Hinton, resulting in a four-car pileup. One vehicle, a mini-van with an older couple and two young boys, had been sandwiched between two vehicles from the impact of the crash. The pileup had spawned numerous frantic calls to the emergency center. Emergency Medical Services (EMS), including fire and ambulance, arrived on scene within six minutes. The Jaws of Life had been used to wrench apart the contorted metal of two of the vehicles. Only three people extracted had made it out alive. One reached the hospital DOA. Then rescue workers discovered a sedan with three teenagers inside—all dead.

They’ll have nightmares for weeks.

Marcus knew how that felt. He’d once been a first responder. In another life.

He straightened. He was ready to take on Shipley’s wrath. At least this time it would be done privately. Plus, if he was honest, he had messed up. Misfiling the report was one of a handful of stupid mistakes he’d made in the last week. Most he’d caught on his own and rectified.

“Before you say anything,” Marcus began, “I know I―”

“What?” Shipley snapped. “You know you’re an idiot?”

“No. That’s news to me.”

Pete Shipley rose slowly―all two hundred and eighty pounds, six feet eleven inches of him. Bracing beefy fists against the desk, he leaned forward. “I spent three hours searching for that accident report, Taylor. Three hours! And guess where I found it?” A nanosecond pause. “Filed with the missing persons call logs. Whatcha think of that?”

“I think it’s ironic that I filed a missing report in the missing persons section.”

“Shut it!” Shipley glared, his thick brows furrowed into a uni-brow. “Lombardo says you’ve been sleeping better, but I don’t believe him. Whatcha got to say about that?”

“Leo’s right. I slept like a baby last night.”

Shipley elevated a brow. “For a baby, you look like shit. You need a haircut. And a shave.” He wrinkled his nose. “Have you even showered this week?”

“I shower every day. Not that it’s any of your business. As for the length of my hair and beard, sounds like you’re crossing discrimination boundaries.”

“I’m not discriminating against you. I simply do not like you. You’re a goddamn drug addict, Taylor.”

Everyone in the center knew about Marcus’s past.

“Thanks for clarifying that, Peter.”

Shipley cringed. “All it’ll take is one more mistake. Everyone’s watching you. You mess up again and you’re out on your ass.” His shoulders relaxed and he folded back into the chair. “If it were up to me, I would’ve fired you months ago.”

“Good thing it isn’t up to you then.”

Marcus knew he was pushing the man’s buttons, but that wasn’t hard to do. Shipley was an idiot. A brown-noser who didn’t know his ass from his dick, according to Leo.

“This is your final warning,” Shipley said between his teeth. “We hold life and death in our hands. We can’t afford errors.”

“It was a misfiled report. The call was dispatched correctly and efficiently.”

“Yeah, at least you didn’t send the ambulance in the wrong direction.” A smug smile crossed Shipley’s face. “That was the stunt that got you knocked off your high horse as a paramedic. Got you fired from EMS.”

Marcus thought of a million ways to answer him. None of them were polite. He moved toward the door. “I think our little meeting is done.”

“I’m not finished,” Shipley bellowed.

“Yes you are, Pete.”

With that, Marcus strode from the office. He left Shipley’s door ajar, something he knew would tick off his supervisor even more than his insubordination.

He tried not to dwell on Shipley’s words, but the man had hit a nerve. Six years ago, Marcus had been publicly humiliated when the truth had come out about his addiction problem, and his future as a paramedic was sliced clean off the minute he drove that ambulance to the wrong side of town because he was too high to comprehend where he was going.

That’s when he’d taken some time off. From work…from Jane…from everyone. He’d headed to Cadomin to clear his mind and do some fishing. At least that’s what he’d told Jane. Meanwhile, he’d secretly packed his drug stash in the wooden box. Six days later, while in a morphine haze filled with strange images of ghostly children, he answered his cell phone. In a subdued voice, Detective John Zur revealed that Jane and Ryan had been in a car accident, not far from where Marcus was holing up.

That had been the beginning of the end for Marcus.

Now he was doing what he could to get by. It wasn’t that he couldn’t handle the career change from superstar paramedic to invisible 911 dispatcher. That wasn’t the problem. Shipley was. The guy had been gunning for him ever since Leo had brought Marcus in to fill a vacant spot left behind by a dispatcher who’d quit after a nervous breakdown.

“What did Titanic have to say?” Leo asked when Marcus veered around the cubicle.

“He doesn’t want to go down with the ship.”

“He thinks you’re the iceberg?”

Marcus gave a single nod.

“I got your back.”

Leo had connections at work. He knew the center coordinator, Nate Downey, very well. He was married to Nate’s daughter, Valerie.

“I know, Leo.”

As he settled into his desk and slipped on the headset, Marcus took a deep breath and released it evenly. The mind tricks between him and Shipley had become too frequent. They wreaked havoc on his brain and drained him.

Because Shipley never lets me forget.

The clock on the computer read: 12:20. It was going to be a very long day.

In the sleepy town of Edson, it was rare to see much excitement. The center catered to outside towns as well. Some days the phones only rang a half-dozen times. Those were the good days.

He flipped through the folders on his desk and found the protocol chart. Never hurt to do a quick refresher before his shift. It kept his mind fresh and focused.

But his thoughts meandered to the misfiled report.

Was he slipping? Was he putting people’s lives in danger? That was something he’d promised himself, and Leo, he’d never do again.

Remember Jane and Ryan.

How could he ever forget them? They’d been his life.

The phone rang and he jumped.

“911. Do you need Fire, Police or Ambulance?”

Marcus spent the next ten minutes explaining to eighty-nine-year-old Mrs. Mortimer, a frequent caller, that no one was available to rescue her cat from the neighbor’s tree.

Then he waited for a real emergency.

 

Chapter Two

 

Edmonton, AB – Thursday, June 13, 2013 – 4:37 PM

 

Rebecca Kingston folded her arms across her down-filled jacket and tried not to shiver. Though May had ended with a heat wave, the temperatures had dropped the first week of June. It had rained for the first five days, and an arctic chill had swept through the city. The weatherman blamed the erratic change in weather on global warming and a cold front sweeping down from Alaska, while locals held one source responsible. Their lifelong rival—Calgary.

“Can we get an ice cream, Mommy?” four-year-old Ella said with a faint lips, the result of her recent contribution to the tooth fairy’s necklace collection.

Rebecca laughed. “It feels like winter again and you want ice cream?”

“Yes, please.”

“I guess we have time.”

They hurried across the street to the corner store.

“Strawberry this time,” Ella said, her blue eyes pleading.

Rebecca sighed. “Eat it slowly. Did you remember Puff?”

Her daughter nodded. “In my pocket.”

“Good girl.” Rebecca glanced at her watch. “It’s almost five. Let’s go.”

Her cell phone rang. It was Carter Billingsley, her lawyer.

“Mr. Billingsley,” she said. “I’m glad you got my message.”

“So you’ve decided to get away,” he said. “That’s a very good idea.”

“I need a break.” She glanced at Ella. “Things are going to get ugly, aren’t they?”

“Unfortunately, yes. Divorce is never pretty. But you’ll get through it.”

“Thanks, Mr. Billingsley.”

“Take care, Rebecca.”

Carter had once been her grandfather’s lawyer and Grandpa Bob had highly recommended him—if Rebecca ever needed someone to handle her divorce. In his late sixties, Carter filled that father-figure void left after her father’s passing.

Her thoughts raced to her twelve-year-old son. Colton’s team was up against one of the toughest junior high hockey teams from Regina. With Colton as the Edmonton team’s goalie, most of the pressure was on him. He was a brave boy.

She bit her bottom lip, wishing she were as brave.

You’re a coward, Becca.

“You’re too codependent,” her mother always said.

Rebecca figured that wasn’t actually her fault. She’d been fortunate to have strong male role models in her life. Men who ran companies with iron fists and made decisions after careful consideration. Or at least worked hard to provide for their families. Men like Grandpa Bob and her father. Men who could be trusted to make the right decisions.

Not like Wesley.

Even her grandfather hadn’t liked him. When Grandpa Bob passed away two years ago, he’d sent a clear message to everyone that Wesley couldn’t be trusted. Grandpa Bob had lived a miser’s lifestyle. No one knew how much money he’d saved for that “rainy day”—until he was gone and Colton and Ella became beneficiaries of over eight hundred thousand dollars from the sale of Grandpa Bob’s house and business.

Grandpa Bob, in his infinite wisdom, had added two major conditions to the inheritance. Money could only be withdrawn from the account if it was spent on Ella or Colton. And Rebecca was the sole person with signing power.

Wesley moped around the house for days when he heard the conditions. Any time she bought the kids new clothes, he’d sneer at her and say, “Hope you used your grandfather’s money for those.”

Once when he’d gambled most of his paycheck, he begged her for a “loan,” and when she’d voiced that she didn’t have the money, he slapped her. “Lying bitch! You’ve got almost a million dollars at your fingertips. All I’m asking for is thirty-five hundred. I’ll pay it back.”

She’d refused and paid the price, physically.

Rebecca wanted him out of her life. Once and for all. But for the sake of the children, she had to find a way to forgive Wesley and deal with the fact that he was her children’s father. He’d always be in their lives.

Every time she looked at Colton, she was reminded of Wesley. Unlike Ella’s blonde hair and blue eyes that closely resembled her own, both father and son had dark brown hair, hazel eyes, a light spray of freckles across their noses and matching chin dimples.

She’d met Wesley at a company Christmas party shortly after she started working as a customer service representative at Alberta Cable. The son of upper-class parents, Wesley had created his independence by not joining the family law firm, as was expected. Instead, he went to work at Alberta as a cable installer. At the party, he’d been assigned to the same table as Rebecca. As soon as Wesley realized she was single, he poured on the charm. He was a master at that.

The next morning she’d found Wesley in her bed.

After nearly four years of dating, he finally popped the question. Via a text message, of all things. She was at work when her cell phone sprang to life, vibrating against her desk. When she glanced down, she saw seven words.

“Rebecca Kingston, will U marry me?”

She’d immediately let out a startled shriek. “Wesley just proposed.”

This sent the entire room into a chaotic buzz of applause and congratulatory wishes. The rest of Rebecca’s shift was a blur.

“Is Daddy gonna be at the game?” Ella said, interrupting her memories.

“No, honey. He’s at work.”

At least that’s where Rebecca hoped he was.

Wesley had left Alberta six months ago, escorted from the building after being fired for screaming at a customer in her own home and shoving the woman into a wall. It hadn’t been the first complaint lodged against him. He’d been employed off and on since then, but no one wanted an employee with anger management issues.

When Rebecca had asked what had happened, he mumbled something about an accident, arguing that it wasn’t his fault. “No matter what that ass of a supervisor says,” he said.

She’d given him a look that said she didn’t believe him. She paid for that look. The black eye he gave her kept her in the house for nearly a week. That’s when she filed for separation.

Since leaving Alberta, Wesley had wandered from one dead-end job to another. For the past two months he’d hardly worked at all. She hoped to God he wasn’t sitting at his apartment, surfing the porn highway.

Last time she saw him, Wesley had blamed his unemployment situation on the recession, which had, in all fairness, wreaked havoc with many people’s lives and crushed some of the toughest companies. But the economy, or lack of a strong one, wasn’t Wesley’s problem. The problem was his lack of motivation and the inability to handle his jealousy and rage.

Perhaps Wesley was experiencing a midlife crisis.

Maybe she was too.

It was getting more and more difficult to keep it together. But she did it for her children. Besides, she’d endured worse than uncertainty when she lived with Wesley. Much worse.

Rebecca glanced down at her daughter. Ella was a petite child who’d been born two months premature. Wesley had seen to that.

She shook her head. No. What happened back then was as much my fault as his. I stayed when I should’ve left.

“Hurry, Mommy!” Ella said, tugging on her hand.

The hockey arena was a five-minute walk from where she’d parked the Chevy Impala, but with the ice cream pit stop, Rebecca was glad they’d left early.

“Ella, do you think Colton’s team will win today?”

Her daughter rolled her eyes. “Of course. Colton is awesome!”

“Awesome,” Rebecca agreed.

Tamarack Hockey Arena came into view, along with the crowds of hockey fans who gathered outside the doors to the indoor rink.

Rebecca took Ella’s hand and drew her in close.

In Edmonton, hockey fans bordered on hockey fanatics. It wouldn’t be the first time that a fight broke out between fathers of opposing teams. Last year, a toddler had been trampled in a north Edmonton arena. Thankfully, he’d survived.

“Stay close, Ella.”

“Do you see Colton?”

“Not yet.”

“Becca!”

Turning in the direction of the voice, she scoured the bleachers. Then she spotted Wesley near the home team’s side. He wasn’t supposed to be there. The terms of their separation were that he could see the kids during scheduled visitations. Once the divorce was final, those visits would be restricted to visits accompanied by a social worker―if Carter Billingsley, her lawyer, came through for her. She hadn’t given Wesley this news yet.

“I saved you some seats,” Wesley hollered. The look he gave her suggested she shouldn’t make a public scene. Or else.

Rebecca released a reluctant sigh. Great. Just great.

“Are we gonna sit with Daddy?” Ella asked.

“Yes, honey. Unless you want to sit somewhere else.” Anywhere else.

Despite Rebecca’s silent plea, Ella headed in Wesley’s direction, pushing past the knees that blocked the aisle. Rebecca sat beside Ella and tried to tamp down the guilt she felt at placing their daughter between them.

“There’s a seat beside me,” Wesley said.

Her gaze flew to the empty seat on his right and she winced. “I’m good here. Thanks for saving the seats.”

Looking as handsome as the day she’d married him, Wesley smiled. “You look lovely. New hairstyle?”

She touched her shoulder-length hair. “I need a trim.”

“Looks good. But then you always do.”

She stared at him. He was laying on the charm a bit thick. That usually meant he wanted something.

Wesley chucked Ella under the chin. “So, Ella-Bella, how’s kindergarten?”

“We went on a field trip to the zoo yesterday.”

“See any monkeys?” he asked, his arm resting over the back of Ella’s chair.

“Yeah. They were so cute.”

“But not as cute as you, right?” He caught Rebecca’s eye and winked. “You’re the cutest girl here. Even though you have no teeth.”

“Do too!” Ella opened her mouth to show him.

After a few minutes of listening to their teasing banter, Rebecca tuned out their laughter. Sadness washed over her, followed by regret. If things had gone differently, they’d still be a family, and the kids would have their father in their lives. But Rebecca couldn’t stay in an abusive relationship. Her mind and body couldn’t endure any more trauma. And she was terrified he’d start lashing out physically at the kids.

So she’d made a decision, and one sunny Friday afternoon, she’d summoned up the courage to confront Wesley at his current job de jour.

“We need to talk,” she’d told him.

“This isn’t a good time.”

“It’s never a good time.” She took a deep breath. “I want you to move out of the house, Wesley.”

He laughed. “Good joke. What’s the punch line?”

“I’m not joking.”

His smile disappeared. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious. It’s not like you couldn’t see this coming. I want a separation. You know I’ve been…unhappy in our marriage.”

“I’ll try to make more time for you.”

“It’s not more time that I want, Wesley. Neither of us can live like this. Your anger is out of control. You’re out of control.”

“So this is all my fault?” Wesley sneered.

“You nearly put me in the hospital last week.”

“Maybe that’s where you belong.”

She clenched her teeth. “Your threats won’t work this time. I’ve made up my mind. I’m leaving tonight, and I’m taking the kids with me.”

There was an uncomfortable pause.

“Seems to me you’re only thinking about yourself, what you want. Have you even thought about what this’ll do to the kids?”

“Of course I have,” she snapped. “They’re all I think about. Can you say the same?”

“You’re going to turn them against me. Like your mother did to you and your father.” His voice dripped with disgust.

“Don’t bring my parents into this. This has nothing to do with them and everything to do with the fact that you have an anger problem and you refuse to get help.”

“What’ll you tell the kids?”

She shrugged. “Ella won’t understand. She’s too young. Colton’s getting too old for me to keep making excuses for you. He’s almost a teenager.”

Wesley didn’t answer.

“You know what he said to me last night, Wesley? He said you love being angry more than you love being with us. He’s right, isn’t he?”

She stormed out of his office without waiting for a reply. She already knew the answer.

That evening, Wesley packed two suitcases.

“I’ll be staying at The Fairmont McDonald. I still love you, Becca.”

His actions had stunned her. She’d been prepared to take the kids to Kelly’s. She was even ready for Wesley to try to hurt her. What she hadn’t expected was his easy submission. Or that for once he’d take the high road.

“You’re leaving?” she said, shocked.

“That’s what you wanted,” he said with a shrug. “So that’s what you get.”

For a second, she wanted to tell him she’d made a mistake. That she didn’t want a separation. That she’d be a better wife, learn to be more patient, learn to deal with his rages.

Then she remembered the bruises and sprains. “Good-bye, Wesley.”

“For now.”

She’d watched him climb into his car and waited until the taillights winked, then disappeared. Then she let out a long, uneasy breath and headed down the hallway. She wandered through their bedroom and into the en suite bathroom, all the while trying to think of the good times. There weren’t many.

She stared at her reflection in the mirror, one finger tracing the small scar along her chin. Wesley had given her that present on Valentine’s Day two years earlier. He’d accused her of flirting with the UPS delivery guy.

“You deserve better,” she said to her reflection. “So do the kids.”

Now, sitting two seats away from Wesley at the arena, Rebecca realized that her husband was still doing everything in his power to control her.

“Penny for your thoughts,” he said.

“You’re wasting your money.”

“What money? You get most of it.”

“That’s for the kids, Wesley, and you know it.”

She dug her fingernails into her palms. Don’t fight with him. Not here. Not in front of Ella.

She caught his eye. “Next time Colton has a game, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t bother showing up.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” He gave her an icy smile. “That’s my son down there.”

“What part of  ‘scheduled visits’ don’t you―”

Cheers erupted from the stands as both hockey teams skated out onto the ice and joined their goalies. Everyone stood for the national anthem, then a horn blasted.

Rebecca released a heart-heavy sigh.

The game was on…

Read-a-Chapter: Shadows Over Paradise, by Anne K. Edwards

Read a Chapter is *NEW* added feature at As the Pages Turn! Here you’ll be able to read the first chapters of books of all genres to see if you like them before you buy them. Today we are featuring the suspense novel, Shadows Over Paradise, by Anne K. Edwards. Enjoy!

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Suspense

Available in ebook and paperback

Twilight Times Books

Shadows Over Paradise is peopled by complicated characters intent on achieving their own ends, some heedless of the cost to others. Action, excitement and tension galore, blended with a brooding house set on a volcanic island with soaring cliffs and few modern amenities, along with turbulent emotions offer a perfect catalyst for the storm that is about to break over the Mantuan Islands.

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Chapter One

The cab discharged Julia and Captain Martinez on the waterfront where odors of oily brine, fish, and salt-seasoned wood perfumed the damp air. She wrinkled her nose in distaste at the stench of gasoline and diesel fuel coming from the dockside pumps. Stories and movies didn’t portray the waterfront as it really was.

She peered closely at the boats tied to the dock as they danced slowly on their lines. One of them, a squat-bodied vessel, resembled a cross between the ocean-going tugs and converted fishing boats she’d seen on a trip to New York City harbor. Large old tires gently repelled the little ship from the pilings as the watery slap-slap of the tide crept in. Scarred woodwork and peeling paint scarcely showed in the growing dark. Below deck, sturdy engines chugged softly, gurgling exhaust. In the gloom created by the dock light, Julia could see faded letters on the prow “The Flighty Maid”.

The Maid shared the dock with a charter boat that catered to tourists and several fishing boats. An inter-island ferry was tying up for the night. Out in the deep water of the harbor, a brightly lit cruise ship was anchored. On shore, a few late tourists sought out straggling locals for authentic island flavor.

Near a pile of unmarked crates a greasy-haired, unshaven man in a torn shirt emerged from the shadows. He walked with a seaman’s swagger, swinging his muscular torso and arms from side to side. This rolling gait gave him the appearance of being larger than he actually was.

Captain Martinez stiffened at Julia’s side as the man approached. His small, close-set eyes raked her in bold appraisal as he gave her a broken-toothed grin of approval. She looked away with a grimace.

Removing a red-banded cigarette from his lips, he said, “I gotta have a word, Martinez.” Thrusting hanging hair from his round face with dirty fingers, he peered down at the shorter man. “The boss wants you.” He exhaled a cloud into the air, then took another draw.

The acrid smoke drifted into Julia’s face. She sneezed.

“I don’t want to see the boss, Long,” the captain said quietly, his hand slipping into the sagging pocket of his worn black leather jacket. “You understand?”

Long tapped the rough leather knife sheath on his belt. “I get whatcha mean, but the boss ain’t gonna like it none.” His light blue eyes narrowed. “And that gun yer carryin’ won’t give you much pertection.” He crushed the smoke under his worn boot.

“Make sure you tell your boss what I said,” Captain Martinez growled, straightening his shoulders. “I carry the gun to use on vermin.”

Long’s coarse face hardened as he gave the old sailor a look of hatred. “One of these days we’ll have a long chat about that.” The words sounded like a threat.

Julia sidled behind the captain when the man cast another leer in her direction and strutted away. Captain Martinez waited until he vanished around the crates before starting for the ship with her close on his heels.

“Who was that awful man?” she asked in a low voice.

“Just someone who had something to say,” he said.

His curt manner stung, reminding her that she was an unwanted visitor.

The shadowy figure of another man lurked at the edge of the light beyond a pile of barrels. Tipping his dark cap to her, he departed behind Long.

At The Maid’s berth, dockhands shifted cargo aboard. Julia trod carefully, her leather soles slippery on the aged wharf’s wet surface. She envied Captain Martinez’s surefootedness as he leaped aboard. He turned and stretched a hand toward her. “Easy now. Grab my hand.”

Taking the gap between ship and pier in a jump, Julia landed clumsily at his side as the deck rose beneath her feet. She gripped his arm for support. The nearest dockside worker handed her luggage over the rail.

A tall sailor appeared from the hold as the laden cargo net swung out to hover above the open hatch. He quickly unloaded it, lowering heavy boxes one at a time to unseen hands below. The captain watched for a moment, before speaking, “Beau’ll stow your bags in the passenger lounge. We’ll be getting underway soon.” Then, he moved off to supervise the tying down of a large crate on deck.

Julia watched with interest as Beau emptied the net, slammed the hatch, and shoved the bolt home. Was he the stepbrother Suzanne had adored from afar during their college years?

He came forward wordlessly to pick up her baggage, disappearing with it through a narrow door on the port side marked “Lounge“.

Rebuffed by the chilly reserve of her first contacts in Marcora, Julia looked longingly at the dock as a second taxi stopped under the light. A black-haired woman in white got out and approached The Maid with obvious distaste. The cabbie followed to hand bags and boxes aboard.

“Andre?” Her throaty voice quavered slightly. She avoided Julia’s curious gaze.

“Yes, Miss Isabelle.” Captain Martinez extended a hand to her.

She came off the dock with a graceful movement, her white skirt flipping up to reveal long, shapely legs. Scanning the deck as if searching for someone, she spoke rapidly, before the captain could make introductions, “I’d like to go to the lounge. I’ve got a terrible headache.” As she passed, Isabelle gave Julia a sly, malevolent glare.

Julia reacted instinctively to the hostility in those brown eyes. She turned away, head high, to show her contempt for such behavior. Why waste time trying to get acquainted?

Captain Martinez escorted Isabelle to the lounge with the courtesy due a queen. He reappeared in moments, muttering to himself, “That woman will drive us all crazy. Why I ever let myself get drawn into her schemes, I don’t know.”

He shook his head, growling orders to the dock hands to cast off the lines. Aggravation showed in the tautness of his prominent jaw as he spoke to Julia. “You should go inside, Miss. The sea’s rough and the spray’ll ruin your nice clothes.”

“I’d prefer to remain on deck,” she told him. Being alone was better than sharing the lounge with that snotty woman.

He nodded, touched his cap with a callused hand, and went up to the pilothouse.

The Maid was soon underway, engines murmuring farewell to Orinda. Once beyond the Marcora Harbor breakwater, the ship encountered rough seas. Windborne spray coated the deck with a skin of greasy-looking water. Clutching the dripping stern rail, Julia shivered as the wet penetrated her thin jacket. Her sightseeing guide had mentioned the rough currents around some of the islands, but she had never imagined this.

The lights of the city sank on the horizon. The Maid seemed pitifully small when measured against the waves. Julia desired nothing more than the feel of solid earth under her feet instead of pitching, wooden planking. Her stomach jerked in time to the movement of The Maid. The dark was all the more alarming because she could see nothing beyond the faint glow cast by the ship’s running lights.

Julia’s resolve to remain on deck weakened and died. Bested by nerves and weariness, chilled by the wind, she made her way hand over hand along the rail to climb the metal steps to the pilothouse where the captain stood behind the wheel.

“Captain, may I stay with you?” She tried to keep the tremor from her voice as she stepped uninvited through the doorway. His bluntness would be preferable to staying on deck or spending the trip confined with the woman he’d called Miss Isabelle.

His grunt was noncommittal as his eyes remained on the invisible horizon.

The motion of the ship caused the door to swing shut. “I’m sorry to be a bother,” Julia apologized lamely, grabbing the rail in front of her as a surge staggered The Maid, “but I’ve never been on a boat at night.”

“No matter,” he said gruffly, drawing on his pipe as The Maid’s engines resumed their even beat. “The current gets a bit rough at times.”

“Please tell me about the islands.” Anything to get her mind off those waves that could swallow the little boat in one gulp.

The lines on his brow deepened thoughtfully. “When I sailed a small trader, we had a spiel for the tourists. That do?” He exhaled slowly and watched the smoke be pulled through the open window.

“Yes.” She closed her eyes against another roll of her stomach.

“The Islands were discovered in the seventeen eighties by a trader out of India who got blowed off course. Didn’t stay too long. Took on water and sailed away. Later, traders out of the Orient made contact with the natives, followed by whalers, explorers, and missionaries. Weren’t many natives left after their diseases got spread around.”

She wondered at the hint of anger as he spoke. Was he a native?

He continued, “They had a King Kaluma killed by a French pirate named Avenduc. He claimed the islands as his own and set up a government with himself as king.”

“What happened to Avenduc?”

“Spanish came. Killed him. They was pirates too. Gave the islands their name.”

A wave passed under them. The Maid shuddered, seemed to hesitate, before plunging gamely on. Julia shut her eyes, waiting for her landlubber stomach to subside. She prayed the captain would soon tell her they’d reached their destination.

Captain Martinez fell silent, his attention on The Maid broken only to relight his pipe. For several minutes he seemed oblivious to Julia’s presence, his thoughts gone like the wind-grabbed smoke.

At last, unable to bear the water-filled stillness any longer, she broke into his reverie. Returning to the subject of the islands, she hoped her interest sounded genuine. “When did the islands become a U.S. possession?”

“After World War Two. They’re a tourist attraction these days. Lot of new hotels going up.” His words were tinged with regret. “Time used to stand still in Mantua. Now we’re being caught up in the rush to modernize. What was a paradise is going to disappear one day.”

“How do the islanders make a living? Do they grow coconuts or pineapples?”

She blushed as her ignorance brought a wry smile to his lips. “We have pineapple and some sugar plantations. Many of us are fishermen or traders.” He sucked on his pipe, then held it aloft, as if addressing it. “And there are the tourists. They’re welcome, but too many stay. They put pressure on the natives who sell out without realizing they’re betraying their children’s heritage.”

“When did the LaBoudries come to the islands?” She tried to think of other questions to keep him talking.

“Beau’s grandfather came from France to take employment as a manager of the Duchense plantation and married the owner’s daughter.” His eyes took on a faraway look as though remembering a time gone by.

Julia could see the captain didn’t like the changes occurring in the islands. She understood, but that was the way of the world. Change. Sometimes it brought good and sometimes, it didn’t.

“Is Tiboo very big?” Suzanne’s description of her island home came back in bits and pieces. Green mountains, few valleys, sparse population.

“Big enough.” He gave the wheel a twist and suddenly she realized they had passed into much calmer water.

Julia breathed easier. She asked, “Is Ramon de Cordova from Mantua?” Suzanne’s letter containing the invitation to share in the festivities had given no information about the groom.

Curiosity glinted in his eyes. “He comes from an old island family.”

She sensed his skepticism. How, as a friend, could she not know about the man Suzanne intended to marry?

Captain Martinez withdrew into himself.

The ensuing silence told her much. Judging by the rigid set of his jaw, he did not view the impending nuptials with favor any more than he approved of her visit.

“You don’t think Suzanne should be getting married, do you?” His manner showed that he was uncomfortable with the turn the conversation had taken.

He raised a shoulder and let it fall, his darkened profile giving no clue to his private thoughts. His eyes were fixed on something she couldn’t see outside the range of the boat’s dim lights. She tried to follow his gaze and saw only the reflected glow of gauges, one of which blinked steadily like the beat of a heart.

Abruptly, the throb of the motors slowed as the distant light of a single beam reached toward the ship. The moon sank out of sight behind the dark form of a tall, cone-shaped mountain as The Maid entered a harbor where glittering ripples performed a watery ballet of welcome.

Read-a-Chapter: Byzantine Gold, by Chris Karslen

Read a Chapter is *NEW* added feature at As the Pages Turn! Here you’ll be able to read the first chapters of books of all genres to see if you like them before you buy them. Today we are featuring the romantic thriller, Byzantine Gold, by Chris Karslen. Enjoy!

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Purchase from Amazon

A sunken warship from the Byzantine Era carrying an unusual cargo of gold has been found off the coast of Northern Cyprus. News of the valuable cache has attracted the attention of a terrorist cell. They plan to attack the recovery team’s campsite and steal the artifacts. On the Black Market, the sale of the relics will buy them additional weapons.

 Charlotte Dashiell, an American archaeologist, and her lover, Atakan Vadim, a Turkish government agent, are scheduled to be part of the recovery team that brings up the artifacts. While en route to Cyprus, they find themselves caught in the crosshairs of Maksym Tischenko, a Ukrainian contract killer bent on revenge. Charlotte, Atakan and Tischenko share a grim history. As a result, Tischenko is a man who will stop at nothing to achieve his goal—seeing them both dead.

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Chapter One

Paris-April

Charlotte and Atakan stopped midway on Sacre-Coeur’s steep staircase to admire the basilica’s architecture. The Romanesque-Byzantine influence reminded her of historical buildings in Istanbul, their home. With the variegated onion-shaped domes and turrets similar to minarets, the church was one of the more unique city structures.

“So beautiful,” Charlotte said, “like an artifact on top of the skyline.” Atakan hadn’t said much as they came up the hill. She wasn’t sure if he was impressed or not.

“Reminds me of an Ottoman wedding cake,” he replied.

“Seeing this makes me anxious to start the recovery project,” Charlotte said, adding, “provided they select me for the team.”

“They will.”

Atakan embraced her from behind and nuzzled her neck, the uber sensitive side, then rested his chin on her head. She giggled, wrapped her arms around his and pressed deeper into his chest. He rarely showed his romantic side in public. Apparently, the romance of Paris had inspired him. She opened her mouth to say as much, but changed her mind. Why spoil the moment?

“You have a taste for Byzantine style jewelry. The Cyprus shipwreck is from that period. Perhaps we’ll get lucky and find a cache of jewelry at the site. You’ll have the opportunity to hold authentic pieces.” He released his embrace and moved next to her. “Shall we?”

A faint shiver trickled down her spine with the loss of his body’s warmth.

They continued to the entrance and inside.

“Let’s go to the dome first,” Charlotte said.

They climbed the narrow, spiral staircase eighty-three meters to the top, holding hands as they strolled along the gallery enjoying the panoramic sight.

Atakan stopped to study the elegant capitals topping the support columns. “Excellent stonework,” he said with is archaeologist’s eye for detail.

She leaned over the railing to people watch. Below her, guides led their clusters of tourists to the apse, famous for its golden mosaics and from there to different quiet corners of the basilica to point out the highlights.

“Charlotte, turn around. Smile.” Atakan played with the camera in his phone for a few seconds then snapped a photo. “I’ll be right back. I want one of the Eiffel Tower and Arc de Triomphe.”

She continued to people watch from her birds-eyes view. A lone man in a baseball cap walked up the main aisle. He wore sunglasses in spite of the overcast April sky. He kept his hands in the pockets of his bomber jacket and looked straight ahead, showing no interest in the stain-glass windows or other architectural features.

She turned her attention to the constant stream of worshipers who took seats on pews away from the tour groups. Some knelt and prayed, others sat with eyes closed, their hands folded, and listened to the nuns singing.

A large group of tourists and the lone male approached the chancel, directly below Charlotte. The man stepped aside to allow the guide and her charges to pass. Then, he removed his cap and glasses, looked up at Charlotte, and smiled.

The past terror she’d buried and fought to forget returned with a vengeance. Rocked, she sucked in a fear driven gasp and reflexively jerked back.

She shook off the panic. Angry with herself for the way she reacted and pissed the bastard still had that effect. She peered over the rail again. Maybe she was wrong.

She wasn’t. The same brush-cut hair, the same dimpled smile as he kept his eyes on her, the handsome Slavic face was forever etched in her memory…the face of the man who’d kidnapped and tortured her.

Heart pounding, she spun, dashed to where Atakan snapped pictures and grabbed his arm. “Quick, Tischenko is here.”

“Charlotte—” He followed as she raced down the twisting staircase. Visitors coming from the other direction flattened themselves to the wall, out of her way and his.

When they reached the main floor, Atakan pushed past her and blocked her path. He held her by the upper arms. “Charlotte, stop for a moment. Where did you see him?”

She tried to pull away. “Here—he was walking down the center aisle,” she stressed, searching the faces in the crowd of visitors.

Tischenko was gone.

“I tell you, I saw him.”

Atakan continued to hold onto her as he scanned the aisles and pews. “I don’t see anyone resembling him, let alone the man himself.”

“He must’ve realized we’d chase after him. Come on, he can’t have gone far.” She broke from Atakan and hurried along the aisle with the fewest tourists and out the doors.

She hesitated on the portico. The ever-present musician buskers with their open instrument cases and people resting from the long climb littered the stairs.

Her eyes darted from one person to the next. “He’s wearing a black leather jacket and ball cap. He’s not here. Which way do you think he went?” she asked, turning to Atakan. “Maybe the metro—Abbesses is the closest stop.”

“If I were running from a wild woman, I wouldn’t risk getting caught at a station waiting for a train.”

“I bet he ran through the gardens toward Place Saint-Pierre.” She glanced at her watch. “Almost noon. The square will be swarming with families and lunchtime diners, easy to blend in and get lost.”

She threaded her way through the crowd toward Saint-Pierre. Ahead, a fair-haired man, in a black leather jacket walked at a brisk pace by the merry-go-round playing a tinny version of the Star Wars Theme. Jogging faster, Charlotte caught up to him and yanked on his arm.

The man looked momentarily stunned.

Not Tischenko.

“Pardon monsieur,” Atakan apologized and took Charlotte aside. “Enough!”

“I—”

“Enough.”

“I’d swear—”

“It was not him at the church.”

She hadn’t thought of Tischenko in months. How likely was it for her to imagine seeing him? But if it was him, he did a great job of vaporizing.

She laid her head on Atakan’s shoulder for a long moment. He rubbed her back along the spine until the adrenaline rush passed and she calmed.

“You’re hungry,” she said at last, hearing his stomach rumble. “Le Barouder is charming and nearby.”

“No. We’re not eating anywhere in Montmartre. I don’t want to be in the middle of my food and have to chase after you because you think you’ve seen Tischenko again. We’ll find a café by the hotel.”

“Pretend for a minute, I’m right. It’s—”

“If it’s true, his presence here is a coincidence.”

“You don’t believe in coincidence.”

“In this case, I do.” Atakan bent and brushed her lips with a light kiss. “So intelligent and lovely, a pity you are crazy.”

“That’s what makes life with me exciting,” she said, with feigned, wide-eyed innocence.

“I’m not sure exciting is the right word.”

Still uneasy, Charlotte scanned the crowd one last time.

Across the square, Maksym Tischenko stepped from the rear of the crepe vendor’s stall. Atakan and the Dashiell woman returned the way they came. Maksym took side streets that didn’t intersect with the one Atakan and Dashiell were on. At the main avenue, he hailed a cab and instructed the driver to take him to Hotel Du Danube, where the couple was staying.

 

A Conversation with ‘Saving Grace’ Pamela Fagan Hutchins

Pamela Fagan Hutchins writes award-winning mysterious women’s fiction and relationship humor books, and holds nothing back.  She is known for “having it all” which really means she has a little too much of everything, but loves it: writer, mediocre endurance athlete (triathlon, marathons), wife, mom of an ADHD & Asperger’s son, five kids/step-kids, business owner, recovering employment attorney and human resources executive, investigator, consultant, and musician.  Pamela lives with her husband Eric and two high school-aged kids, plus 200 pounds of pets in Houston. Their hearts are still in St. Croix, USVI, along with those of their three oldest offspring.

Her latest book is the mystery/women’s fiction, Saving Grace.

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Q: Thank you for this interview, Pamela. Can you tell us what your latest book, Saving Grace, is all about?

Thank you! Saving Grace is the story of Katie Connell, a Texas attorney whose life is one train wreck after another: too many Bloody Marys, a client who’s the Vanilla Ice of the NBA, and a thing for a Heathcliff-like co-worker. She takes refuge from it all on the island of St. Marcos, where she plans to investigate the suspicious deaths of her parents. But she trades one set of problems for another when she is bewitched by the voodoo spirit Annalise in an abandoned rainforest house and, as worlds collide, finds herself reluctantly donning her lawyer clothes again to defend her new friend Ava, who is accused of stabbing her very married Senator-boyfriend.

Q:  Can you tell us a little about your main and supporting characters?

First, there’s Katie. Oh, Katie, Katie, Katie. She’s the main character, a 30-something lawyer who vacuums her rugs backwards and is as much a danger to herself as the bad guys.

Nick is the object of her unreturned affections, an investigator in Dallas with a penchant for surf boards and bass guitars.

Ava is an island seductress who convinces Katie to become her new best friend and a second for her vocal duo.

Rashidi John befriends Katie when he introduces her to the jumbie house Annalise on one of his popular-with-the-ladies rainforest botany tours.

And then there’s Annalise, a giant abandoned house in the rainforest who shows her magical side to a chosen few, and, boy does she ever choose Katie.

Q: Do you ten­d to base your characters on real people or are they totally from your imagination?

I steal most of my characters from people whose big imprints on life inspire my creativity. But if fiction is life without the boring parts, my fictional characters are those people without them either. Their fictional bads are badder and their crazies are crazier.

Q: Are you consciously aware of the plot before you begin a novel, or do you discover it as you write?

I am a planner and a plotter, but the novel takes me wherever it ultimately wants to go. Kind of like my kids do, in real life. In Saving Grace, a character named Zane McMillan shows up who wreaked havoc on my carefully constructed outline. I had a heck of a time keeping him from hijacking the whole book. I love it when that happens.

Q: Your book is set in the Virgin Islands.  Can you tell us why you chose this area in particular?

The islands are magical. I lived on St. Croix for six years, and the people and the places just burned into my brain and my heart. I had no choice in the matter: Saving Grace set itself there.

Q: Does the setting play a major part in the development of your story?

The island setting, and the rainforest jumbie house Annalise in particular, are pivotal to the story. In the islands, Katie can embrace the magic in herself and the world around her, whereas she is much too pragmatic for that kind of nonsense back in Texas.

Q: Open the book to page 69.  What is happening?

Katie is throwing caution and common sense to the wind and is about to make an offer to purchase a half-finished abandoned house in the rainforest because she believes she and the jumbie spirit offer each other a chance at mutual salvation.

Q: Can you give us one of your best excerpts?

Sure, here’s one I really like:

We had hiked for nearly two hours when Rashidi gave us a hydration break and announced that we were nearing the turnaround point, which would be a special treat: a modern ruin. As we leaned on smooth kapok trees and sucked on our Lululemon water bottles, Rashidi explained that a bad man, a thief, had built a beautiful mansion in paradise ten years before, named her Annalise, and then left her forsaken and half-complete. No one had ever finished her and the rainforest had moved fast to claim her. Wild horses roamed her halls, colonies of bats filled her eaves, and who knows what lived below her in the depths of her cisterns. We would eat our lunch there, then turn back for the hike down.

When the forest parted to reveal Annalise, we all drew in a breath. She was amazing: tall, austere, and a bit frightening. Our group tensed with anticipation. It was like the first day of the annual Parade of Homes, where people stood in lines for the chance to tour the crème de la crème of Dallas real estate, except way better. We were visiting a mysterious mansion with a romantic history in a tropical rainforest. Ooh là là.

Graceful flamboyant trees, fragrant white-flowered frangipanis, and grand pillars marked the entrance to her gateless drive. On each side of the overgrown road, Rashidi pointed out papaya stalks, soursop, and mahogany trees. The fragrance was pungent, the air drunk with fermenting mangos and ripening guava, all subtly undercut by the aroma of bay leaves. It was a surreal orchard, its orphaned fruit unpicked, the air heavy and still, bees and insects the only thing stirring besides our band of turistas. Overhead, the branches met in the middle of the road and were covered in the trailing pink flowers I’d admired the day before, which Rashidi called pink trumpet vines. The sun shone through the canopy in narrow beams and lit our dim path.

A young woman in historic slave garb was standing on the front steps, peering at us from under the hand that shaded her eyes, her gingham skirt whipping in the breeze. She looked familiar. As we came closer, she turned and walked back inside. I turned to ask Rashidi if we were going to tour the inside of the house, but he was talking to a skeletally thin New Yorker who wanted details on the mileage and elevation gain of our hike for her Garmin.

Q: Have you suffered from writer’s block and what do you do to get back on track?

I’m in a perpetual state of writer’s block, or recovery from it. The first thing I do when I feel it coming on is change locations or go outside. If I can’t nip it in the bud, I talk it out with my husband/muse. If it persists, I force myself to write something else — anything to keep me writing. I am a big believer that creativity happens when you’re putting in the work. I had a huge episode of block while writing the sequel to Saving Grace. It took me two months of other writing before the block broke and I could get back to the islands.

Q: What would you do with an extra hour today if you could do anything you wanted?

I’d love to say I’d run six miles or snuggle in the front of the fire with my husband, but it’s a lie. If I had an extra hour, I’d keep writing, but I’d at least play footsie (very vigorously) with him on the couch while I did it.

Q: Which already published book do you wish that you had written and why?

I wish I had written Lonesome Dove by Larry McMurtry, because of the characters: unforgettable, flawed, and larger than life. Gus and Woodrow, oh, how I love thee.

Q: What kind of advice would you give other fiction authors regarding getting their books out there?

More than ever, a fiction author must be fearless and relentless. The number of books published a year is growing exponentially, and you can’t just write yours and hope someone else will sell it for you. You need a marketing plan and an entrepreneurial spirit. It doesn’t hurt if you have a lot of support, too.

Read-a-Chapter: Saving Grace by Pamela Fagan Hutchins

Read a Chapter is *NEW* added feature at As the Pages Turn! Here you’ll be able to read the first chapters of books of all genres to see if you like them before you buy them. Today we are featuring the mystery, women’s fiction, Saving Grace by Pamela Fagan Hutchins. Enjoy!

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Click on cover to purchase at Amazon!

• Paperback: 278 pages
• Publisher: Skipjack Publishing (September 24, 2012)
• Language: English
• ISBN-10: 0988234807
• ISBN-13: 978-0988234802

If you’re at all inclined to be swept away to the islands to fall in love with a rainforest jumbie house and a Texas attorney who is as much a danger to herself as the island bad guys, then dive headfirst with Katie Connell into Saving Grace.

Katie escapes professional humiliation, a broken heart, and her Bloody Mary-habit when she runs to the island of St. Marcos to investigate the suspicious deaths of her parents. But she trades one set of problems for another when she is bewitched by the voodoo spirit Annalise in an abandoned rainforest house and, as worlds collide, finds herself reluctantly donning her lawyer clothes again to defend her new friend Ava, who is accused of stabbing her very married Senator-boyfriend.

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Chapter One

Last year sucked, and this one was already worse.

Last year, when my parents died in an “accident” on their Caribbean vacation, I’d been working too hard to listen to my instincts, which were screaming “bullshit” so loud I almost went deaf in my third ear. I was preparing for the biggest case of my career, so I sort of had an excuse that worked for me as long as I showed up for happy hour, but the truth was, I was obsessed with the private investigator assigned to my case.

Nick. Almost-divorced Nick. My new co-worker Nick who sometimes sent out vibes that he wanted to rip my Ann Taylor blouse off with his teeth, when he wasn’t busy ignoring me.

But things had changed.

I’d just gotten the verdict back in my mega-trial, the Burnside wrongful termination case. My firm rarely took plaintiff cases, so I’d taken a big risk with this one—and won Mr. Burnside three million dollars, of which the firm got a third. That was the total opposite of suck.

After my coup at the Dallas courthouse, my paralegal Emily and I headed straight down I-20 to the hotel where our firm was on retreat in Shreveport, Louisiana. Shreveport is not on the top ten list for most company getaways, but our senior partner fancied himself a poker player, and loved Cajun food, jazz, and riverboat casinos. The retreat was a great excuse for Gino to indulge in a little Texas Hold ’Em between teambuilding and sensitivity sessions and still come off looking like a helluva guy, but it meant a three and a half hour drive each way. This wasn’t a problem for Emily and me. We bridged both the paralegal-to-attorney gap and the co-worker-to-friend gap with ease, largely because neither of us did Dallas-fancy very well. Or at all.

Emily and I hustled inside for check-in at the Eldorado.

“Do you want a map of the ghost tours?” the front desk clerk asked us, her polyglot Texan-Cajun-Southern accent making tours sound like “turs.”

“Why, thank you kindly, but no thanks,” Emily drawled. In the ten years since she’d left, she still hadn’t shaken Amarillo from her voice or given up barrel-racing horses.

I didn’t believe in hocus pocus, either, but I wasn’t a fan of casinos, which reeked of cigarette smoke and desperation. “Do y’all have karaoke or anything else but casinos onsite?”

“Yes, ma’am, we have a rooftop bar with karaoke, pool tables, and that kind of thing.” The girl swiped at her bangs, then swung her head to put them back in the same place they’d been.

“That sounds more like it,” I said to Emily.

“Karaoke,” she said. “Again.” She rolled her eyes. “Only if we can do tradesies halfway. I want to play blackjack.”

After we deposited our bags in our rooms and freshened up, talking to each other on our cell phones the whole time we were apart, we joined our group. All of our co-workers broke into applause as we entered the conference room. News of our victory had preceded us. We curtsied, and I used both arms to do a Vanna White toward Emily. She returned the favor.

“Where’s Nick?” I called out. “Come on up here.”

Nick had left the courtroom when the jury went out to deliberate, so he’d beaten us here. He stood up from a table on the far side of the room, but didn’t join us in front. I gave him a long distance Vanna White anyway.

The applause died down and some of my partners motioned for me to sit with them at a table near the entrance. I joined them and we all got to work writing a mission statement for the firm for the next fifteen minutes. Emily and I had arrived just in time for the first day’s sessions to end.

When we broke, the group stampeded from the hotel to the docked barge that housed the casino. In Louisiana, gambling is only legal “on the water” or on tribal land. On impulse, I walked to the elevator instead of the casino. Just before the doors closed, a hand jammed between them and they bounced apart, and I found myself headed up to the hotel rooms with none other than Nick Kovacs.

“So, Helen, you’re not a gambler either,” he said as the elevator doors closed.

My stomach flipped. Cheesy, yes, but when he was in a good mood, Nick called me Helen—as in Helen of Troy.

I had promised to meet Emily for early blackjack before late karaoke, but he didn’t need to know that. “I have the luck of the Irish,” I said. “Gambling is dangerous for me.”

He responded with dead silence. Each of us looked up, down, sideways, and anywhere but at each other, which was hard, since the elevator was mirrored above a gold handrail and wood paneling. There was a wee bit of tension in the air.

“I heard there’s a pool table at the hotel bar, though, and I’d be up for that,” I offered, throwing myself headlong into the void and holding my breath on the way down.

Dead silence again. Long, dead silence. The ground was going to hurt when I hit it.

Without making eye contact, Nick said, “OK, I’ll meet you there in a few minutes.”

Did he really say he’d meet me there? Just the two of us? Out together? Oh my God, Katie, what have you done?

The elevator doors dinged, and we headed in opposite directions to our rooms. It was too late to back out now.

I moved in a daze. Hyperventilating. Pits sweating. Heart pounding. My outfit was all wrong, so I ditched the Ann Taylor for some jeans, a structured white blouse, and, yes, I admit it, a multi-colored Jessica Simpson handbag and her coordinating orange platform sandals. White works well against my long, wavy red hair, which I unclipped and finger-combed over my shoulders. Not very attorney-like, but that was the point. Besides, I didn’t even like being an attorney, so why would I want to look like one now?

Normally I am Katie Clean, but I settled on a quick brush of my teeth, a French shower, and lipstick. I considered calling Emily to tell her I was no-showing, but I knew she would understand when I explained later. I race-walked to the elevators and cursed them as they stopped on every other floor before the Rooftop Grotto.

Ding. Finally. I stopped to catch my breath. I counted to ten, took one last gulp for courage, and stepped under the dim lights above the stone-topped bar. I stood near a man whose masculinity I could feel pulsing from several feet away. Heat flamed in my cheeks. My engine raced. Just the man I’d come to see.

Nick was of Hungarian descent, and he had his gypsy ancestors to thank for his all-over darkness—eyes, hair, and skin—and sharp cheekbones. He had a muscular ranginess that I loved, but he wasn’t traditionally handsome. His nose was large-ish and crooked from being broken too many times. He’d once told me that a surfboard to the mouth had given him his snaggled front tooth. But he was gorgeous in an undefined way, and I often saw from the quick glances of other women that I wasn’t the only one in the room who noticed.

Now he noticed me. “Hi, Helen.”

“Hi, Paris,” I replied.

He snorted. “Oh, I am definitely not your Paris. Paris was a wimp.”

“Hmmmmm. Menelaus, then?”

“Um, beer.”

“I’m pretty sure there was no one named Beer in the story of Helen of Troy,” I said, sniffing in a faux-superior way.

Nick spoke to the bartender. “St. Pauli Girl.” He finally gave me the Nick grin, and the tension left over from our elevator ride disappeared. “Want one?”

I needed to gulp more than air for courage. “Amstel Light.”

Nick placed the order. The bartender handed Nick two beers beaded with moisture, then shook water from his hands. Nick handed mine to me and I wrapped a napkin around it, lining up the edges with the military precision I adored. Nick sang under his breath, his head bobbing side to side. Honky-tonk Woman.

“I think I like you better in Shreveport than Dallas,” I said.

“Thanks, I think. And I like seeing you happy. I guess it’s been a tough year for you, losing your parents and all. Here’s to that smile,” he said, holding his beer aloft toward me.

The toast almost stopped my heart. He was spot-on about the tough part, but I did better when I kept the subject of my parents buried with them. I clinked his bottle but couldn’t look at him while I did it. “Thanks, Nick, very much.”

“Want to play pool?” he asked.

“Let’s do it.”

I was giddy, the sophomore girl out with the senior quarterback. We both loved music, so we talked about genres, bands (his old band, Stingray, and “real” bands), my minor in music at Baylor, and LSD, AKA lead-singer disease. Over a bucket of beers, we swapped stories about high school, and he told me he’d once rescued an injured booby.

“An injured booby?” I asked. “Implants or natural? Eight ball in corner pocket.” I sank it.

He gathered the balls out of the pockets and positioned them in the rack while I ground my cue tip in blue chalk and blew off the excess. “You’re so land-locked. A booby is a bird, Katie.”

I rolled his use of my real name back and forth in my brain, enjoying how it felt.

“I was out surfing, and I found a booby that couldn’t fly. I carried it back home and took care of it until I could set it free.”

“Oh, my gosh! How bad did it smell? Did it peck you? I’ll bet your Mom was thrilled!” I talked fast, in endless exclamation points. Embarrassing. I was a Valley Girl on acid, like Oh-My-Gawd. “It was in shock, so it was calm, but every day it got wilder. I was fourteen, and my mom was happy I wasn’t in my room holding some girl’s real booby, so she was fine with it. It smelled really bad after a few days, though.”

I broke. Balls clacked and ricocheted in every direction, and a striped one tumbled into a side pocket. “Stripes,” I called. “So, your mom had caught you before holding a girl’s booby, huh?”

“Um, I didn’t say that . . .” he said, and stuttered to a stop.

I was more smitten than ever.

“Damn, I Wish I Was Your Lover” was playing in the background. I hadn’t heard that song in years. It got me thinking. For months, I had been fighting off the urge to slip my arms around Nick’s neck and bite the back of it, but I was aware that most people would consider that inappropriate at work. Pretty small-minded of them, if you asked me. I eyed the large balcony outside the bar and thought that if I could just maneuver Nick out there, maybe I could make it happen.

My chances seemed good enough until one of our colleagues walked in. Tim was of counsel at the firm. “Of counsel” meant he was too old to be called an associate, but he wasn’t a rainmaker. Plus, he wore his pants pulled up an inch too high in the waist. The firm would never make him a partner. Nick and I locked eyes. Until now, we’d been two shortwave radios on the same channel, the signal crackling between us. But now the dial had turned to static and his eyes clouded over. He stiffened and moved subtly away from me.

He hailed Tim up. “Hey, Tim, over here.”

Tim waved to us and walked across the smoky bar. Everything moved in slow motion as he came closer, step by ponderous step. His feet echoed as they hit the floor, reverberating no . . . no . . . no . . . Or maybe I was saying it aloud. I couldn’t tell, but it made no difference.

“Hey, Tim, this is great. Grab a beer; let’s play some pool.”

Oh, please tell me Nick didn’t just invite Tim to hang out with us. He could have given him a short “hey how ya doing have a nice night I was just leaving” shpiel, or anything else for that matter, but no, he had asked Tim to join us.

Tim and Nick looked at me for affirmation.

I entertained a fleeting fantasy in which I executed a perfect side kick to Tim’s gut and he started rolling around on the floor with the dry heaves. What good were the thirteen years of karate my father had insisted on if I couldn’t use it at times like these? “Every woman should be able to defend herself, Katie,” Dad would say as he dropped me off at the dojo.

Maybe this wasn’t technically a physical self-defense moment, but Tim’s arrival had dashed my hopes for the whole neck-bite thing, and all that could have come after it. Wasn’t that reason enough?

I cast out the image. “Actually, Tim, why don’t you take over for me? I was in trial all week, and I’m exhausted. We have an early start tomorrow. It’s the last day of our retreat, the grande finale for the Hailey & Hart team.” I handed my pool cue to Tim.

Tim thought this was a fine idea. It was clear women scared him. If I had hoped for an argument from Nick, though, I didn’t get one. He reverted to his outside-of-work “Katie who?” act.

All I got from him was “Goodnight,” with neither a Helen nor a Katie tacked on.

I grabbed another Amstel Light from the bar for the plod back to my room.

Reprinted with permission from Saving Grace by Pamela Fagan Hutchins. © 2012 by Skipjack Publishing