Recent Reads: Heist Bandidos Takedown

This was off to a rip-roaring start.  I loved the first half of the book!  But then... meh...  The second half felt unrelated to the first half, and I found it rather predictable at times, and a little bit forced (plot-wise) at other times.  I generally enjoy Da Silva's books, so my lukewarm feeling about this one won't deter me from reading more by him.

WOW!!!  This was terrific!  A weirdly, wildly wonderful tale of some of the most inept would-be tough guys ever!  Edwards has a terrific voice, and he gives enough detail to make you see and feel the places and people, but not so much that it feels bogged down.  A thoroughly enjoyable book - highly recommended!!

Totally MEH.  I was a die-hard fan of Evanovich/Plum from day one, but now... The books just feel forced and silly now.  Once upon a time, Stephanie's shenanigans were a delightful romp, but the magic is gone.  I'll probably read the next installment - because, hey, there's still Morelli and Ranger - and I hope the next one harkens back to earlier books.  

I'm in good company!

It was a pleasant surprise to see Blood and Groom listed in this "tour" of Toronto mystery novels, especially since the book came out just over five years ago!   And I have to say, I'm in great company.  I've read just about all the other authors mentioned on this page (which is from the January 2015 issue of Toronto Life Magazine, on page 97).  Pretty cool that Blood and Groom is listed as one of the "ten grisliest" whodunits!  Since it was PI Sasha Jackson's first case, I'm sure she would agree.

Guest post from Lorne Oliver, author of THE CISTERN - Just Released!

It isn’t always what’s in the dark that you should be afraid of…

When Chrys asks her brother Spencer for help to clean a foreclosed house for the bank, neither expects their lives to be on the line.  It’s supposed to be a simple Sunday: take pictures…clean out the house…collect the cash.  Chrys and Spencer are plunged into a fight for their lives when the house reveals unspeakable horrors.

…Sometimes things in the light are even more deadly.

One of the writers I have always looked up to is Stephen King.  I will first admit that I am not a huge fan of his novels. I’m scared of the dark and scared of the thoughts that build in my head when I’m in the dark, but I have read a few and seen most of the movies based on his novels.  One thing I really enjoy about them is finding the little connections between the novels.  For instance there is an organization called The Shop which shows up in a few of his novels or is just mentioned as being the reason for whatever freaky stuff happens.  A character from his novel THE SHINING appears in a flashback in the novel IT.  Then, also from IT, the character Eddie Kaspbrak’s family used to live next door to Paul Sheldon’s family who is the main character in MISERY.  The list goes on and on so much that people have made ever growing flowcharts dedicated to it.

I accidentally started connecting my novels together with tiny tidbits from the start.  In RED ISLAND one character is reading a novel I wrote 14 years ago and will be publishing later this year.  In RED SERGE some characters listen to a CD purchased from a singer at the Farmers’ Market.  On the CD is a song called RED ISLAND.

In THE CISTERN I took the connections a little further.  The female singer who sold the CD’s in Serge is a full blown character this time around.  She is found in a cinderblock room along with the dead body of another woman.  When Spencer and Chrys find her they also find a case of her CD’s.  Back in Serge, it is also mentioned about a cook coming to work at The Alcrest Gastropub which is more than the central setting in THE CISTERN.  It is a character in itself.

As time goes on there are going to be more connections from one novel to the next.  The hardest part is making a connection to a novel that has not even been written yet.  Though I am working on it.  My thriller and mystery series will be coming together when characters from the other show up at THE ALCREST.

There are a couple other connections in THE CISTERN to my other novels, but you’ll have to check them out to find them.

  

Chapter Four

 Maeve Campbell’s head snapped up.  The back of her cranium bounced off one cinder block wall then another.  For one brief confused moment she didn’t know where she was.  Then the smell hit her and her body shivered with violence.  Was the smell worse?  Was the water colder?  Was that woman’s body still out there in the dark?

She had been dreaming.  She actually fell asleep sitting in the corner.  And she dreamed.  There were daisies again, only this time they were woven in and out of her long blond hair.  Her mother always said Maeve belonged in the sixties, a flower child reborn.  She stood on a beach and her bare feet dug into the sand as the ocean's waves came over them.  A strand of green seaweed wrapped around her calf.  She wore a shear red dress that flowed with the wind and danced on the surface of the water.  You could see the outline of her body when the light was right.  Her guitar hung from one hand beside her. 

The rotting smell was back.  There were no flowers in her hair, no seaweed around her leg.  She saw nothing in the darkness.

What made her waken?  There was no water dripping from the pipe.  She struggled to hear if there were any sounds, but the hits to her head made it ring from inside her skull.  Perhaps she just woke because it was time.  She longed to be back in her dream.

What was that?  There was a sound.  She knew the top of this room had a wood ceiling and above that was another.  Was it all the way up there?  Was it all in her head?  Was it Enid?  Maybe she had come back to life and wanted revenge for being eaten.

There was the sound again.  Footsteps?  It was so faint she could barely hear it over the ringing.  Her heart pounded.  It was him.  Maybe he was back to kill her.  Maybe he was back to finally do the things she feared the most.  She knew some of what he had done to the other woman.  Her body ached from the games he had played already.  She felt so week. 

She pushed away from the corner.  Maeve didn’t want this to go on. 

More sounds came from above, something along the floor.  Something scraped like it was dragged.  Another woman?

He’s found another.  If he had another girl to play with then this might be Maeve’s last chance.  She was going to be held under the water.

She rolled forward onto her hands and knees and began crawling through the water.  She couldn’t see, but knew where the trap door was.  She had to get under it, behind it almost so that she would still be in the shadows when the door opened.  Her hand fell on the leg of the dead woman.  Enid.  Her hand flinched away.  She gently put her hand back on the body and followed down the leg to her toes.  At the far wall she let her hands crawl upward until she was standing.  Her weak legs wobbled beneath her.  Her ankle was in violent pain.  Unless she was lucky, she wasn’t going to win.  Maeve knew her only chance was to grab him when he looked in with his flashlight.  All of the possibilities played through her mind.  Either way she was going to fight.  She was going to claw and scratch and kick and bite until either she killed him or he ended it.  She widened her stance, arms out to keep balance.

Where was he?

She felt an almost excitement growing inside her.  She had tried to be nice to everyone her entire life, but she was going to kill the next person that came through that trap door.

For more on Lorne Oliver and his books, check out the following:

Amazon http://www.amazon.com/Cistern-Alcrest-Mysteries-Book-ebook/dp/B00KYHVZTY/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1402893343&sr=8-1&keywords=the+cistern+lorne+oliver

Goodreads https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/21642318-the-cistern

Facebook https://facebook.com/oliverauthor

Twitter @LorneOliver

Event: Noir at the Bar - Toronto - May 8th

Mystery fans in the Toronto area should mark their calendars for a 

cool event next month:  

Noir at the Bar!

EVENT DETAILS:  Our Toronto authors on Thursday May 8th include John McFetridge, fresh off the launch of BLACK ROCK, Howard Shrier whose MISS MONTREAL has been long-listed for the Arthur Ellis Best Novel, Jill Edmondson of Sasha Jackson fame, and Andrew Pyper, whose THE DEMONOLOGIST is a finalist for the 2014 International Thriller Writers Award for Best Novel. MCs Tanis Mallow and Rob Brunet will be reading as well, Brunet from STINKING RICH which debuts summer 2014.  We've got three out-of-town guests to juice the party: Owen Laukkanen of Vancouver just back from his U.S. tour for KILL FEE; Hilary Davidson, up from NYC to launch BLOOD ALWAYS TELLS; and Terrence McCauley, also of NYC, fresh off his triple New Pulp Award wins for best author, best novel (SLOW BURN), and best short story.

There's no cover, and PJ O'Brien's got a great pub menu if you're coming straight from work. Doors open 6:30 p.m. Short readings every half hour or so after that.

For more info please check THIS LINK.

Here's a picture of all the usual suspects at the end of the evening.  

It was such a fun event and the place was packed!

Excerpt from Red Serge by Lorne Oliver

Red Serge 

By Lorne Oliver

SYNOPSIS:

The body of a young girl is found.  She was raped and tortured before being strangled.  Sgt. Reid of the RCMP has had too much violent death in his career.  He knows he shouldn’t get involved in this one.  His marriage is falling apart, his daughter is getting involved in the wrong things, but something draws him in.  The discovery of other young girls’ bodies - his daughter’s age, some long dead, - begs the question: How long has the Devil been coming to Prince Edward Island?

It was almost his end game.  He had one last target in mind, one last conquest.  His whole life had been under the thumb of someone else.  This was his.  It wasn’t going to be a secret any more.  The daughter of a cop known for catching serial killers…how did she taste?

The Royal Canadian Mounted Police were known for their Red Serge uniform.  It was what they wore in ceremony, to honour others, and in death.

LORNE SAYS:

In my books I like to name characters after people I respect, friends, family, etc.  Sometimes people volunteer to be a character or ask to have their names put in.  The character of Cassie Michaels in Red Serge (my second novel in the Sgt. Reid Series now available on Amazon in both ebook and paperback) was named by the winner of a contest. 

In the case of the Bonaventure Campgrounds and Cottages I needed a name that I would be happy with, so I chose the name of Canada's last aircraft carrier the HMCS Bonaventure.  I didn't just pick it out of a hat though.  My father served onboard this ship.  It took him all over the Atlantic Ocean and too many countries – Brazil, Germany, Sweden, Ireland, Trinidad - but the most important moment was when it took him to Portsmouth England.  There he met my mother.

In comparison to modern aircraft carriers the "Bonnie" was tiny.  Whenever my father told me stories he described the size as a cigarette package next to his foot stool.  The landing deck would have been too short for today’s jets to land on.  According to my dad (who insists that he and his friends once caught a fish so big they had to bash its head with an ore because it was going to sink their small boat) they tried landing an American jet on her and the breaks burned the rubber of the wheels.  He never did say how they got it off the ship.  The Bonaventure was commissioned into the Canadian Navy in 1957 and though it was never involved in any wartime action it was part of NATO during the Cuban Missile Crisis.  She had a short life of peace time duties though being decommissioned in 1969.  It served its purpose though.  Without this ship me and my wonderful children wouldn’t be here.

I know back in the day I complained about having to sit and listen to his stories, but I enjoyed it then and would love to hear them again.  My dad and I don't talk much these days, but I'm really proud to say he served in the Canadian Navy.

In Red Serge I take the opportunity, okay I might have gone overboard, to educate the reader about the ship since Canadian’s don’t even know about it by having the campsite owners take the reins.

EXCERPT:

“What’s with the name?  Why call this place Bonaventure?”

“The man who started the campground years ago was a crew member on the HMCS Bonaventure, the Canadian Navy’s last aircraft carrier.  It was the greatest time in his life and when we bought it we agreed to keep the name.  We’ve actually adopted the theme throughout the grounds naming roads after decks or levels on the ship.  Some after other Canadian naval ships.  We had a local artist paint that large mural on the side of the restaurant and inside are paintings and pictures of the ship or planes that were on it.  It’s different anyway.  Aren’t you tired of things named after Anne of Green Gables anyway?  I did a lot of research on the Bonnie and Canada’s navy.  For instance, did you know that the crew on the Bonnie was twelve hundred people?  During the peak season we can have twice as many people here as they had on her.”  

He smiled at me with pearly whites.  

The campsite is the last known place of a young girl whose body is found.  Did someone from the campsite take her?  Did she wander off?  Is there a monster lingering around the site? 

FIND OUT MORE:

United States:  http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00HEBVJUS

Canada:  https://www.amazon.ca/dp/B00HEBVJUS

United Kingdom:  https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00HEBVJUS

Blog:  https://lorneoliver.blogspot.ca

Facebook Page:  https://facebook.com/oliverauthor

Twitter:  @LorneOliver

Excerpt from BETRAYED by Wodke Hawkinson

Betrayed 

by Wodke Hawkinson

SYNOPSIS:

Betrayed, a Novel by Wodke Hawkinson, Brook, a Denver socialite, seems to have a good life until she becomes the victim of a botched carjacking. In a matter of minutes, her life is forever altered. She is abducted, transported, and held for days by three brutal men in a remote mountain location. She escapes only to end up barefoot, nearly naked, and hopelessly lost in the Colorado wilderness at the beginning of a harsh winter. Lance, a man who has shunned society, lives like a recluse in a rustic cabin far removed from the modern world. He likes his solitary life. But his world is about to be turned upside down. Advisory: Contains sexual violence and strong language.

PJ and K say:

In our novel Betrayed, Brooklyn is abducted during a botched carjacking. She endures horrific abuse at the hands of her captors and her situation is desperate. In spite of the hopelessness of her predicament, she determines to somehow survive. She refuses to give up.

Parts of the novel were difficult for us to write, and are hard for some people to read. However, we didn’t want to gloss over a crime that is so horrendous it alters the victim’s life. We wanted to make the story as realistic as possible. Once Brook is free of her captors, the novel takes a turn and the scenes were much more enjoyable for us to write.

The following excerpt details one of Brook’s escape attempts.


EXCERPT:

Gina slammed Brook with her forearms, knocking her onto the mattress. Shivering, Brook grabbed the stained sheet and wrapped it around her nakedness, keeping her gaze glued to Gina all the while.

Gina’s eyes roved the room and fell on the torn garments scattered about the floor. Swooping down, she grabbed them and stormed out, bellowing, “Are you guys out of your mind? Do you know how expensive these clothes are? I would have loved….” Her voice trailed off as she moved away from the room.

Minutes later Brook heard the small ding of a microwave. The smell of food reached her, but did not stimulate her appetite. She listened to her captors through the thin walls as they talked around mouthfuls of what smelled to her like popcorn and pizza. No one offered her anything to drink or eat, which was fine with her. She didn’t think she would be able to keep anything down, even if someone shoved food in her mouth. But, the point was well taken that she would not be fed. Her life was to be forfeited. Once the initial rush of adrenaline drained away, Brook became aware of pain flaring in her feet. Her barefoot rush into the wilderness had left cuts and bruises on her soles. She rubbed them gently against the mattress. They were just more injuries to add to the list.

Darkness descended. Lightning flashed outside the window and thunder boomed, startling her. The lights in the room blinked off and then came back on. Brook pulled the blankets closer. Wiggling down between the mattress and the wall, she tried to become as small as possible. Following another loud crack of thunder, the lights went off and stayed off. Crazy patterns crawled around the room; dazzling brightness alternated with menacing shadows. Rain cascaded between the bus and the window. The storm sounded as if it were in the room with her, surrounding her, cursing her.

She wept. Her mind raced frantically away from thinking about what she had just endured. She pushed away even thoughts of Clark because the yearning for him hurt so much she could not bear it. Riding waves of pain, she let the tears flow until there were no more to tears to cry.

After a while the house grew quiet. Brook crept painfully to the door and pulled it open a crack, listening. Hearing nothing but the rain outside, she eased into the hallway and tiptoed towards the living room. Lightning illuminated the room for a long moment, and she could see Pete and Gina sleeping on the fold-out couch. Their bed filled the small room; she would have to go across it to reach the door.

Carefully, moving mere inches at a time, Brook stepped onto the mattress, swaying slightly to retain her balance. She had only taken two small steps when fingers wrapped around her ankle.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Pete’s voice came from the dark.

Brook yelped, jerked her leg free, and fell across the bed and onto the floor. Jumping to her feet she yanked the front door open and darted outside, only to be grabbed around the waist by Pete. “Noooo!” she screamed into the pouring rain.

FIND OUT MORE:

Wodke Hawkinson is the name under which K. Wodke and P.J. Hawkinson produce their co-authored works. They have co-written four novels, an alternate ending to Betrayed, three short story collections, and several short story singles.

Betrayed can be purchased here.   

Wodke Hawkinson Website: http://wodke-hawkinson.com/ 

Reader & Fellow Indie Authors site: http://findagoodbooktoread.com/ 

Amazon Author Page: http://www.amazon.com/Wodke-Hawkinson/e/B00572KLX2/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1   

On Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/wodke.hawkinson

Twitter ID: @WodkeHawkinson

Excerpt from Dark Idol: Book 5 in the Mike Angel series by David Fears

SYNOPSIS: 

 

Set in Chicago in 1964 amidst racial divisions, Mike receives anonymously a $10,000 Federal Reserve Note with an unsigned cryptic message it was for unspecified future trouble. Tracking down the sender and the purpose spins into a 40 year old kidnapping case involving four US Army officers in World War One, stolen gold with connections to the French Bonnot gang (the first to use automobiles in bank robberies); and uncovering a Babylonian sex goddess cult in a Chicago suburb. Death stalks Mike and Rick on this case, and also threatens their client. Murder, action, suspense and seduction--the kind of quicksand that is Mike's struggle with commitment to Molly. Reviewers call this "A blend of intelligence, keen observations, complex plot, and wounded soul protagonist." I call it a barrel of fun and a page-turner.

 

DAVID SAYS:

I love to read and write complex mysteries, especially private eye tales where one man stands alone down the gritty streets to fight crime and corruption. I love them also because one doesn't have to be politically correct. Scenes where Mike meets an attractive woman and the seduction temptation/dance begins are particularly challenging to write. I have tried to avoid the old "fade to black" in favor of giving the modern reader more detail of the lovemaking without crossing into pornography. The series may be read stand-alone, though each tale takes place in the 1960s, beginning with the first in the decade and each in a subsequent year. Some have commented that Mike seems to seek the perfect love. Perhaps so, but his calling and age are distractions to settling down. I also love history and put true events, persons and such in each novel.

 

EXCERPT:

The Nixon layout was as ritzy as anything I’d seen in Chicago. In fact, from the outside it would have easily passed for a top mansion in any hoity toity neighborhood from the Hamptons to Malibu. This palace made the rest of the street look shabby and put Chicago Heights on the map.

A squat Asian with a towel around his head, wearing shorts and a wife-beater shirt was spading flowerbeds. He reminded me of those villains in the old Charlie Chan flicks. Seemed like every plant lover in Chicago was out digging in dirt, trying to earn heatstroke. I parked in front and strode up the long straight walk, lined with perfectly trimmed miniature boxwoods. The Asian noticed me but didn’t acknowledge, just shifted his black distant eyes from me to the spade like he was ready to swing it at me should I make a false move. A nearby robin working for his lunch also eyed me in much the same way.

I pushed the doorbell and heard a three-note chime echo inside, followed by quick, light footsteps.

The door swung open and there she stood.

Slim, pale blonde, nearly my height and stylish without being brassy. Our eyes met on a straight line, something that can unnerve me but didn’t this time. Harp music would have put the right touch on the scene. I can imagine a good harp and liked this kind.

I took her for mid-twenties. She wore a tailor made cream-colored linen suit with navy and cream polka dotted scarf on her long white neck. She wore no jewelry save for dangling earrings, cages encapsulating silver-blue pearls. Quite expensive. The suit enhanced her curves, none of which dominated the others. But it wasn’t her body that took my breath away—it was her perfect angel face. Maybe that’s what made me think of harps. Appropriately, the sun through windows behind her kissed a glow to the edges of her hair. It might have been a halo. I stared.

Her sly smile said she enjoyed being stared at. The blood rushed to my face, though I hadn’t blushed since Miss Turner’s third grade class when Patricia Tubbs hollered out that my fly was open. My face was just as hot now. Or maybe I was coming down with something.

There are all sorts of blondes nowadays—most of them straight from a bottle—too brassy and too cheap to be passable counterfeit. Even Beasley could identify those without a magnifying glass. So many weak attempts to play Monroe or Mansfield. That sort usually sports very dark eyebrows or roots that shout “fake!” Then there’s the dirty dishwater variety who can’t make up their minds between blonde and brunette, and so they stand pat, like a scared bookkeeper holding a small pair in poker. Then there’s the rarest of the rare—a purely Swedish blonde with a complexion as clear as a tropical lagoon, whose hair is blonde everywhere. My eyes fed on that latter sort of blonde for a few harp riffs, my mind taking pictures. As fantastic as some dreams are, having a $10,000 dollar bill that lead me to this lovely’s doorstep beat any erotic dream I’d ever enjoyed.

This melody’s eyes were a rare color of ultramarine that I’d hate to have to describe—how can you convey the waters of a mountain lake on a clear July afternoon? Renoir would have gone nuts for that shade. All her features were worth staring at, enough to measure every subsequent female face by, even though it would be a futile game.

 

FIND OUT MORE:

 

David is a semi-retired college English composition instructor, who also has published the monumental 4-volume daily chronology of Mark Twain's life: Mark Twain Day By Day. His 8 novels and some 25 published short stories (of 85) may also be found on Amazon. David, a Cubs fan (they never quit), boasts an "editor cat" named Sophie, a calico who likes to rest on his arm while he drafts and claw through the shirt whenever he pens a weak sentence. "She has an aversion to adverbs," he claims. Father of 3 girls he understands drama.

Check out Dave's books on AMAZON and get updates on him and his books on GOODREADS.

Excerpt from Fair Disclosure by Joyce Strand

FAIR DISCLOSURE

A Jillian Hillcrest Mystery 

By Joyce Strand

SYNOPSIS:

Jillian and ex-husband Chad are enjoying a play at a local community theater when a scream interrupts the production upon discovery of a bludgeoned volunteer. When it turns out that the victim is someone Jillian interviewed for a job at her company, she becomes involved in another crime, drawn ever deeper by a second murder, an irate investor, the participation of law enforcement amateurs, an increasingly unreliable assistant, and suspicious trading of her company’s stock. Meanwhile, Chad is pressuring Jillian to say “yes” to a second marriage. Inspired by a networking expert firm in the San Francisco Bay Area involved with a large hedge fund that exploited insider trading through a nation-wide network. 

JOYCE SAYS:

FAIR DISCLOSURE is a who-done-it mystery set in the business environment and investor greed. I enjoyed writing the following excerpt to define my protagonist, Jillian Hillcrest, the publicist sleuth who solves the mystery—despite her best efforts to simply fulfill her job responsibilities. In the excerpt, her ex-husband Chad proposes to her hoping to re-marry, given the couple’s rejuvenating relationship caused by recent events. He presents his proposal with humor and a touch of endearment, and we understand Jillian's character through his eyes. 

EXCERPT:

Chad smiled when he remembered the afternoon that he had proposed to Jillian—for the second time. …They had driven two hours south to Monterey to spend a weekend together. They had been there many times, because both of them enjoyed visiting the aquarium, walking on the wharf, dining at one of the many great restaurants in the area, and just soaking in the beauty of the small town by the bay.

The couple had walked out on the wharf, and the sea lions seemed lazier than usual lying around the pilings and occasionally barking. The sea gulls brazenly landed on the pier, begging for food, and squawking. The day was idyllic—just right for a proposal with sunshine, blue sky, and calm bay. The smells of clam chowder, cotton candy, sautéed garlic, and other unidentifiable aromas from the nearby restaurants completed the ambience. It couldn’t have been more perfect.

Chad was wearing his derby hat, long-sleeved white shirt, and black gabardine vest and jeans. He had planned his wardrobe meticulously. His hats were an important part of his personality, representing his sense of humor, which Jillian appreciated and encouraged. He designed the rest of his outfit to show that although he liked to laugh, there was more to him, and much more to give.

When she stopped to admire the ocean view, he did indeed get down on one knee, not an easy task for the lanky, more-than-six foot Chad. Although startled, Jillian just rolled her eyes, accustomed to his often-outrageous behavior to make her laugh. He removed his hat and looked up at her with big hazel eyes and pouting lips. From his inside vest pocket, he pulled a package that was bigger than a ring case.

“Jillian, please accept this as my pledge to be the originator of your laughter, the finder of your best restaurants, the sharer of your good and bad news, your chef, your travel companion, your bellwether, your lover—” Chad hesitated, and looked doubtful, then continued, “maybe I should have started with that one—lover, I mean.” He smiled and opened his eyes wide waiting for Jillian’s agreement. When she said nothing, he continued “—your friend and producer of happiness.”

Jillian looked down at him, accepted the package, and pushed him down as he tried to stand up. She was enjoying the spectacle. She opened the package, which was wrapped in aluminum foil, another reason she made him stay on his knee. Who proposed with a package wrapped in aluminum foil? She first came across a key, which she assumed was to his house in Alameda. When she asked, “Alameda?” however, he shook his head. 

“No, that’s to the cottage at Brynn’s winery. We get to go there whenever we want. I bought a share in the winery.”

Brynn was Jillian’s boss, but only for a few more weeks. She was the Chief Financial Officer (CFO) at Harmonia, and she and her soon-to-be-ex-husband, Liam, had purchased a winery northwest of Sonoma. Jillian and Chad had stayed in the cottage at the winery for the week following Jillian’s kidnapping.

Jillian was pleased. “That’s awesome. If I decline your proposal, do we still get to go there?”

Chad appreciated the sparring, and decided to play. “No.”

The next item in the package was a notification of season tickets for two to the San Francisco Symphony, ACT Theater, and the Broadway series. “What? No Giants or Niners tickets?”

Chad smiled. “Keep going.”

She continued. Of course, he included tickets to the next Niners game. He commented, “Brynn and Liam are joining us.”

Then she came to the ring. It wasn’t a diamond. Rather it was a deep purple amethyst—her birthstone—set in platinum silver. It was striking. “Chad, it’s exquisite. And regardless of whether I marry you or not, I plan to keep it forever. It’s beautiful.” She put it on the ring finger of her left hand.

Chad looked up at her longingly, “Can I stand up now? I think my knee is cracking.”

Several people had stopped and were watching the scene, which Jillian was enjoying immensely. “Oh, can you remind me again what is the question?”

Chad laughed, stood up, and grabbed Jillian in a big hug, and yelled as loudly as he could, “Will you marry me?”

Almost everyone within earshot started laughing. Jillian simply bit her lip, shook her dark hair off her face, slowly stretched, and yawned—creating additional laughter from the appreciative on-lookers.

FIND OUT MORE:

Website: http://joycestrand.com 

Blog:  http://StrandsSimplyTips.blogspot.com

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

Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/dashboard
Amazon:  http://www.amazon.com/Joyce-T.-Strand/e/B006GSKEBK/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_pop_1

Twitter: @JoyceTStrand

Excerpt from A Cold White Sun: A Constable Molly Smith Novel By Vicki Delany

A Cold White Sun: 

A Constable Molly Smith Novel 

By Vicki Delany

SYNOPSIS:

It’s the end of March and Trafalgar, British Columbia, is preparing for the last influx of the seasonal skiers. Teachers, parents, and students are preparing to relax at home or head off on vacation. But for high school English teacher Cathy Lindsay, the week of relaxation doesn’t work out as planned. She’s gunned down by a sniper on a hiking trail, her small dog the only witness.

Cathy Lindsay is an unlikely candidate for a murderous ambush: she was a respected teacher, in an apparently solid marriage to an Internet developer, living a quiet life. Sergeant John Winters, with the help of young Constable Molly Smith, digs into the Lindsay marriage and friendships, searching for a motive, but one thought continually niggles at the back of his mind: is it possible this was not a random killing but a case of mistaken identity?

VICKI SAYS:

After writing two standalone novels of suspense I wanted to try my hand at a police procedural series in the British style I most like to read.  Small problem: I have absolutely no experience in law enforcement whatsoever.  To complicate matters, I live in Canada and my books are set in Canada, yet almost everything we see on TV or read in books is written in the US or the UK.  Policing in Canada is very different than in those countries. My main protagonist is not a detective, she is a uniformed constable and it was important to me to get the details right. 

So I set about finding out what I didn’t know. I have found police officers to be very helpful.  I’ve been on ride-alongs and walk-alongs, to in-service training, to the firearms range. I have officers I can call on if I have questions. And believe me, I have a lot.

I was observing in-service training one day, and the officers were learning high-risk takedowns.  I drew upon what I observed for this scene in A Cold White Sun.  A woman has been shot by a sniper on a residential street.

EXCERPT:

Evans gave Smith a nod and they slipped away from the throng, drawing their weapons. Evans held a flashlight. Guns clutched in hands trying not to shake, watching their footing on the thin crust of ice coating the snow, the two officers made their way into the backyard of the closest house. A motion detector light switched on. Ignoring the rain dripping down collars, soaking through pant legs, they crouched in the cover of the building, leap-frogging each other, one moving forward, staying low, the other maintaining guard, using hand signals to communicate.

She pushed all conscious thought to the back of her mind. If the shooter were here, hiding, watching, she’d deal with him. That was all she needed to know. Back in Police College when they did use of force training, the immediate rapid deployment instructor had been a woman by the name of Sergeant Angelina Sullivan. Tough as they came, Sullivan ripped the head off anyone who dared call her Angie. Smith had been surprised to come across Sergeant Sullivan at the mall one evening. Leading a tussle-headed toddler by the hand, pushing a stroller, laughing up at a tall handsome man carrying shopping bags, she looked like a real human being. Smith thought of Sullivan now. Tried to remember everything she’d learned from the woman.

It was all a blur.

She remembered making a mistake, bursting into a room that supposedly contained the shooter, seeing movement to one side, turning toward it, yelling at it, “Get down, get down, get down.” It was a dummy, set up to represent a hostage, while the trainer playing the shooter came up behind her and said, “bang.”

The class laughed as Smith’s face burned with embarrassment.

Get it wrong now and she’d be a lot more than embarrassed.

Smith whipped around the building, gun up, moving from side to side. Dig your corner, dig your corner, Sullivan bellowed at her. All was still. Thank heavens for snow. Unless the shooter could fly, he wasn’t here. The lawn was an unmarked, pristine carpet.

They cleared the yard, moved on to the next house. A garden shed stood in a dark corner against the back fence. The snow here was heavily trampled. Kids probably, out playing. Tracks in and out of the shed. Evans jerked his head toward it.

Smith went first. She stacked right; Evans positioned himself on the left. He gave her a sharp nod. She swallowed and tightened her grip on her Glock. She reached for the door knob. She twisted it, threw the door open and crashed in, gun up in a two-handed grip. Evans followed, swinging the flashlight from side to side, checking out the corners.

Nothing here but rusty garden implements and a jumble of sleds and snow shovels. 

They moved from house to house, garden to garden, tension twisting their guts. Dogs barked and the curious peered out kitchen windows. Her radio told her Mounties were sweeping the other side of the street. Every officer who lived within a hundred kilometers was being called in. 

FIND OUT MORE:

Vicki Delany is one of Canada’s most prolific and varied crime writers.  She also writes  standalone novels of psychological suspense, and the Constable Molly Smith series set in the Interior of British Columbia.  Vicki’s Rapid Reads book, A Winter Kill, was shortlisted for the 2012 Arthur Ellis Award for best novella.  Having taken early retirement from her job as a systems analyst in the high-pressure financial world, Vicki enjoys the rural life in bucolic, Prince Edward County, Ontario.  

Visit Vicki at www.vickidelany.com, on Twitter @vickidelany and Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/Vicki.Delany. She blogs about the writing life at One Woman Crime Wave (http://klondikeandtrafalgar.blogspot.com) and check out her books on AMAZON. 

Excerpt from Discreet Activities by Claude Bouchard

Discreet Activities  

Book 6 in the Vigilante Series
By Claude Bouchard

Synopsis: As a result of information gathered via electronic surveillance by intelligence agencies in the U.S. and Canada, a budding terrorist organization, the Army for Islam or AFI, is suspected of planning an attack, its target possibly NYC, Burlington, Vermont or even Canada's famed Montreal...

When four foreign students from Pakistan with known ties to the AFI's Montreal cell arrive in the area on New Year's Eve, Discreet Activities' head, Jonathan Addley, along with Chris Barry and other DA consultants are more than willing to take on the additional workload.

...After two of the DA team members die violently in an AFI related suicide-bombing, the job becomes getting revenge on those responsible for this Holy War...

Claude says:  I chose the following excerpt because, though my female operatives, particularly the gorgeous Leslie Robb, occasionally delve in the use of seduction as a means to an end, this was their first time going ‘bare all’ or nearly, to entice their prey.

Excerpt:  

“Nice looking place,” Cat commented as they came up to the house, a roomy and tasteful white stucco affair, on Little Bay Road a short walk from the resort.

“You wouldn’t expect an embezzler with over eighty million dollars in the bank to live in a shack, would you?” was Leslie’s response.

“True,” Cat agreed. “So, are you ready for some action?”

“You betcha,” Leslie grinned as they strolled up the paving stone walkway to the front door. “Like I promised Walter yesterday, this is a day he’ll never forget.”

Cat announced their arrival with the large, ornate, wrought-iron knocker and only seconds passed before the heavy, wood door was opened by a smiling Walter, wearing only tan, knee-length cargo shorts.

“Good afternoon, ladies,” he exclaimed as his gaze devoured them in their short shorts and shorter tank tops. “Come in, come in.”

They entered the foyer, both offering him a hug and a peck on either cheek before allowing him to close the door.

“You have a beautiful home, Walter,” Cat cooed as they made their way inside, the ladies slipping an arm into his on either side. “So nice and airy.”

“Thank you, Lila,” Walter replied with modest pride. “I’m a firm believer that we have only one life to live so we might as well enjoy it to the max.”

“Oh, we believe in that too,” said Leslie as she gave him a playful pat on the butt. “Where’s this amazing terrace you mentioned? I’ve no doubt the view is spectacular from up here on the hill.”

“This way, my darlings,” Walter replied, sliding an arm around each of their waists as he steered them towards the open French doors, “And yes, as you’re about to see, the view is magnificent.”

“Wow, this is nice,” Leslie exclaimed as she kicked off her sandals and stepped ahead to the pool to dip her toes, “And the water’s perfect. I’ll be looking forward to getting wet in there.”

“Just make yourselves at home,” said Walter, anticipating the coming hours with excitement. “Can I offer you ladies something to drink? I just mixed a pitcher of pina coladas but you can have whatever you like.”

“A pina colada sounds delicious,” Cat replied, spotting the pitcher and glasses on the wet-bar off in one corner. “Let me serve.”

As she headed off, Leslie approached Walter with a teasing smile, capturing his full attention. “You were right. The terrace is very private, which is a good thing because we didn’t bring any bathing suits.”

On that note, she peeled off her tank top then slid her shorts to the stone floor and stood before him wearing only the tiniest of g-strings.

“Oh, Lordy, Lordy,” Walter murmured as he gazed at her almost naked body.

“Hey there, naughty girl,” laughed Cat as she returned with three full glasses. “Are you trying to get a head start on me?”

“Oh, I’m sure that you can both catch up if you want to,” Leslie purred as she accepted her drink. “Cheers.”

She raised her glass and drained it with Cat following her lead while Walter just took a sip.

“We don’t always knock them back this fast,” explained Cat with a wink to Walter as she set her glass down before removing her top. “We just want to get our motors lubricated.”

“Well, here’s to motor lubrication,” Walter grinned before downing his drink. “How about another?”

“You’re such a sweetheart,” said Leslie as they handed him their glasses.

As they watched him make his way hurriedly back to the bar, Leslie whispered, “How long?”

“I think he’ll be needing some help over there before he’s finished pouring,” Cat replied.

At the bar, Walter managed to fill all three glasses, though the last one to overflowing, before dropping the pitcher on its side to the paving stone as he desperately clung to the countertop.

“Honey, are you alright?” Cat asked as she hurried over with Leslie close behind.

“I’m juss feelin’ real dizzy,” Walter mumbled as they helped him into a chair. “Muh legs ish like rubba…”

“He’s out cold,” Leslie commented, handing Cat her tank top before slipping her own clothes back on.

“Yep, we get some good stuff,” Cat grinned. “He’ll be out for forty-five minutes, maybe an hour. Let’s get him inside and get set up.”

For more on Claude and his writing, check out his WEBSITE, find him on FACEBOOK, order his books on AMAZON and follow him on Twitter @ceebee308