Excerpt from Harps and Tears by Phil Rowan

Harps and Tears 
by Phil Rowan

SYNOPSIS:

Harps & Tears is a dark humour thriller that centres on Bronkovski: a Polish American nuclear scientist whose wife left him for a Jewish environmentalist. He is furious, and intent on revenge against the state of Israel. When we meet him, he is making a nuclear bomb in rural Ireland's West Cork for ruthless Islamic activists.

Briefly ...
We start with US journalist Rudi Flynn arriving in Dublin. His editor in New York is really into the Land of the Harp. She wants all he can send her on Celtic Tigers and New Irish Women. Flynn, however, is more interested in a lead he has on the embittered nuclear scientist, Bronkovski, and what he may be up to in West Cork.

Our frequently wayward journalist is lured in and seduced by Irish charm and blarney - although he is aware of a powerful Dublin businessman, who knows Bronkovski, and who has politicians and cops in his pocket. Flynn's local contact, Muldoon, is up for a bit of devious blackmail, and our guy's hotel receptionist, Siobhan, agrees to seduce and probe the emotionally challenged nuclear scientist. Middle East money is funding an assassin in West Cork, while in Dublin an Israeli academic is targeted. There are ruthless rogues everywhere, but Flynn has a few cool female allies - and as his local contact takes a crucial call, mayhem is averted in rural Ireland.

PHIL SAYS:

In the piece below from my Harps & Tears story, my character Flynn is talking to Claire at a Dublin cafe. They have only just met when she tells him a little about Hans - a previous owner of  the cafe. He was once, she says, an SS guard at Auschwitz. But when the Dutch requested his extradition, the Irish Government stalled, and after a while Hans disappeared to Brazil. What interests me about this piece is that it is actually based on a true story. The Dutch man, Hans, had a cafe in Dublin called The New Amsterdam. He had been an SS guard at Auschwitz and showed his appreciation to the Irish Government, who let him stay for a while in Dublin, by presenting the Dublin Gardai with untrained wolf hounds who bit everyone - including their handlers - during Cuban missile crisis demonstrations.

EXCERPT:

'I'm Claire,' the friendly woman beside me at a Dublin cafe says when we've smiled at each other. She has interesting blonde hair and she's folding down a page on what looks like an accountancy manual.

            'And I have an assessment this evening,' she explains.

            'Ah –'

            Well, I'm Rudi, and I'm here ostensibly to cover the New Ireland. Only I want you to stop me if I start talking about my wife, Angela, who recently went off with her friend Eva ... because  all of this has left me floundering like an emotional wreck who needs serious help.

            'This is an interesting place,' Claire says when I order coffee with a croissant.

I'm trying to be cool as I take in her dark red heels and a small dolphin that's tattooed discreetly around her finely boned left ankle.

            'You bet –'

            'No ... I mean here – where we're sitting.'

            OK – it's a cafe with a courtyard, where maybe an Irish poet sat and agonised over verses that might one day immortalise the guy or his girl, or the occasional bliss of living.

            Am I being sceptical, or what? A French chain now owns the cafe, which is called La Laguna. Once though, according to Claire, the proprietor was a charismatic Dutchman called Hans. He came to Dublin in the early fifties, where he was regarded initially as a novelty, for he was a tall, gentlemanly sort of guy who spoke with a funny continental accent. His wife, Elsa, apparently made nice pastries, and his fashionable coffee bar was a popular meeting place for well-heeled women who wanted to meet and socialise in agreeable places.

            'It was looking good for Hans,' Claire tells me, 'but then an Auschwitz survivor came forward to declare that our Dutchman had been a guard at the infamous concentration camp. The authorities in Holland apparently wanted to interview him in connection with several hundred wartime deaths.'

            During his time in Dublin, however, Hans made some influential friends – particularly amongst the wives of politicians from the nearby parliament buildings at Leinster House. So the Irish Government refused a Hague request for extradition on the grounds that the evidence was tenuous. While Hans claimed it was all down to mistaken identity.

            Later, according to Claire, when the fuss died down, the Dutchman decided that he wanted to make a small gesture of appreciation to his Irish friends. His 'thank you' came as three large pedigree Alsatian dogs, which he presented to the Commissioner of the Garda.

'My mam said there were pictures of him in all our newspapers on the day he handed over the dogs at the Garda Headquarters in the Phoenix Park,' she tells me. 'They were fine, expensive animals by all accounts – only they hadn't been trained for anything in particular. So when they were let loose on a crowd outside the American Embassy during the Cuban Missile Crisis, they bit everyone they could get their teeth into, including their clueless Garda handlers ... would you credit that?'

I'm sitting speechless with my coffee cup suspended over the saucer and my croissant untouched on the plate in front of me.

            

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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 Peccadillo by Martyn V. Halm

Peccadillo 

By Martyn V. Halm

SYNOPSIS: 
The Amsterdam Assassin Series revolves around freelance assassin and corporate troubleshooter Katla Sieltjes. Under the name Loki Enterprises, Katla specialises in disguising homicide and providing
permanent solutions for both individuals and corporations.

Peccadillo is the second novel in the Amsterdam Assassin Series. With authentic details and fast-paced action, featuring an uncompromising heroine and a supporting cast of unusual characters, Peccadillo gives a rare glimpse in the local Dutch culture, information on the famous Dutch capital, the Chinese Triads, computer hacking, sniping, clairvoyance, circumventing car alarms, martial arts, and the brutal effectiveness of disciplined violence.


MARTYN SAYS:

This is a scene about one of the antagonists visiting a clairvoyant, who gives him an ominous message. The scene came to me as a whole without any effort, I still don't know much more about the woman in the scene, but she strikes a chord with many readers.
EXCERPT:

The young woman would’ve been lovely if seen from the side. The left side, so the scar tissue covering the right side of her face remained invisible. Burn marks ran down her jaw to her throat and disappeared in the collar of her shimmering black turtleneck. Nicky watched her slender hands on top of Lau’s hands resting flat on the kitchen table, her right hand a withered claw from ligaments shortened by the heat of the same fire that disfigured her features.

Lau believed the goddess of fire and light had marked the young woman before handing her psychic powers. Nicky believed the young woman’s ‘clairvoyance’ was strictly limited to her own future. Her hideously deformed face limited her options. Most occupations demanded, if not beauty, at least a pleasing countenance, while as a psychic the horrific scarring gave her a twisted credibility.

After a few minutes of silent meditation the young woman shuddered, drew away from Lau and folded her arms across her chest, hunched over as if protecting her body. Despite the warmth of the kitchen she seemed to be shivering. She slowly raised her head, eyes closed.

Lau rubbed his hands and gazed at her expectantly.

“You challenged the dark,” she intoned solemnly, her eyes still closed. “And the dark accepts. The man in the mist is the first to fall. The dark will take his voice and his shield. Out of the shadows, aided by the blind, guided by signals from debris and spoils of the dead, the dark will circle ever closer, sealing all venues of escape. Surrounded by the dead and the dying, killer bees will fly by harmlessly, but a cold whisper will silence your voice and fill your ears with the sound of leaving.”

Leaning back in her seat she opened her eyes. Sadness filled her left eye, but the right held no emotion whatsoever, as customary with glass eyes.

“Leaving?” Lau asked. “I’m going to die?”

“Leaving this life, yes.”

“Bummer,” Nicky murmured. Lau looked around sharply, then turned back to the young woman and asked, “Can I change my fate?”

“Your life evolved to this point in time. The future I see is connected to your life in the present. Cause and effect. Change your life, change your future.”

“I could do that.”

The eyebrow over her left eye rose slightly. “Could you?”

“I can change.”

“You’d have to sever all links with your current life.”

“All?”

She nodded. “Death is not thwarted easily.”

“That’s impossible. I can’t abandon everything just like that.”

“It would be difficult, but not impossible. The premonition is strong. Too many factors influence your fate.”

Lau rose and looked down at her. “How much time have I got?”

“Until the next new moon.”

He took out his money clip and peeled a couple of notes to put them in the bowl to his right, but she raised her good hand and said, “I do not receive payment for bad predictions.”

“You don’t want to get paid?”

“If you manage to change your life and live beyond the new moon, you can pay me. And if you can’t…” 

She closed her eyes. “May the next world be kinder to you than this one.”

Lau’s hand shook as he put the money clip back in his pocket. Nicky stepped aside and opened the door. Lau turned in the opening and said, “Good-bye.”

“Farewell,” she replied without opening her eyes.

Lau stepped out into the hallway and Nicky followed, closing the door behind him. They let themselves out of the apartment, not looking into the living room where other people were waiting to hear their fate.


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Excerpt from Replica by Lexi Revellian

Replica

By Lexi Revellian

BLURB: Accidentally duplicated, homeless, penniless and pursued by MI5, Beth’s replica must learn how   to survive on icy London streets. Unaware of what has happened, the original Beth falls for the agent hunting her double. As the replica proves difficult to catch and the stakes get higher, he has to decide whose side he is on.

LEXI SAYS: This is an extract from my science fiction thriller, Replica. It introduces Nick Cavanagh, MI5 spec op. He’s hunting a replica who has been accidentally created and is on the run. I wanted Nick to be not entirely likeable; I wanted readers to be unsure about whether he was a goodie or a baddie. I ride a bike in London, so to get his ambivalence clear in my head, I started with his bad driving; the sort of thing I encounter and resent every day. Nick was a lot of fun to write.

EXTRACT: 

Nick drove too fast along Kensington High Street, cutting up other drivers and speeding through amber lights, tailgating anyone who in his opinion should be driving faster.

Ollie waited till they had to stop at a red light. “What’s the rush? Paul and Dario are there if the target turns up. They’ll think it funny us arriving two hours early, anyway.”

“I don’t give a toss what they think. They let her get away.” Nick’s fingers drummed on the steering wheel. The lights changed, and he accelerated, making a woman jump back to the safety of the traffic island. “If I’d been there I’d have got her. Pete should have sent us.”

“He didn’t expect her to turn up at her flat.”

“No, and I bet when she did Paul was making a cup of tea and Dario was going through her underwear drawer.”

Ollie laughed. “So what can we do they can’t?”

“We’re going to do it better. Stay out of sight in the van and wait for her to turn up again. Follow Beth One wherever she goes. Getting to her has to be what replica Beth is playing for. The two Beths talk to the press, it’s out, nothing we can do, game over.”

“So we’ll be off our other jobs for as long as it takes, I suppose. Nice break for the terrorists.”

Nick was quiet for a while, then he said, “Maybe.”

“How d’you mean, maybe?”

“Just, I can’t see Pete throwing in the towel. Saying, oh, all right, now you two totally unimportant secretaries, who just happen to have got mixed up in this top secret research we’ve spent millions of pounds on know about each other, we’ll accept it and go public.” Nick braked hard to avoid collision with a cycle courier, then hit the accelerator. “There’s no way he’ll risk that happening.”

Ollie gripped the handle above the door. “Take it easy, Nick.”

“D’you ever worry about the ethics of what we do?”

“Not a lot. I’m too busy worrying about your driving.”

“Okay, but what about this; supposing catching her is harder than everyone seems to think? He isn’t going to keep all of us running around after her forever. I’d give it a week, maybe two, tops. He’s a ruthless bastard. I reckon, if we don’t find her fast, the original will go missing. Then if the copy turns up, it’s like, boring secretary loses marbles, gets persecution complex, thinks MI5 are after her, goes on the run, ends up in padded accommodation with no one believing a word she says. To be honest, I’m surprised he hasn’t done it already. He must be going soft in his old age.”

Ollie smiled at Nick. “If we can’t catch her in a week we’re not trying. Are you worrying about the ethics of it, then?”

“Me? No. I do what I’m told, I get paid. End of.”

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Excerpt from The Devil's Trinity by Michael Parker

The Devil's Trinity

By Michael Parker

MICHAEL SAYS: 

When I was a young man, I devoured Denis Wheatley novels, always enjoying the thrill and excitement, and sometimes fear, that he conjured up. In his book, THEY FOUND ATLANTIS, the main characters find themselves trapped in a bathysphere; a kind of bubble shaped submarine, on the sea bed. There was no way out of their predicament: they were doomed. But of course, they did survive. That particular scenario always fascinated me, and when I wrote THE DEVIL’S TRINITY, I took a leaf out of Wheatley’s book and trapped my main character, Harry Marsham, known as Marsh to his friends, in a submersible on the sea bed. Marsh is the pilot of a submersible which has been clamped to a well-head by the bad guys. Unknown to Marsh was the fact that the submersible’s escape system had been sabotaged. Marsh realises he has been double-crossed when the divers leave him to his fate. He is trapped in the cockpit with all the life support systems running on a diminishing battery power. Marsh knows there is no way out of his dilemma: he is doomed. No-one, other than the villains, knows where he is. There is no way of finding him or contacting him. And as his oxygen levels drop, and the power meters move towards zero, there seems no way out.

Writing that scene was a challenge as a writer to try and get the feel of Marsh’s situation into the reader’s mind so that the question of how would not be obvious. Not that I intended it to be. Remember: Marsh was on his own and had no way of contacting anyone on the surface, and no-one on the surface (apart from the bad guys), knew where he was. And no; I didn’t let the villains have a change of heart: Marsh was on his own.

EXCERPT:

Marsh sat slumped in his seat, the agony of despair and hopelessness weighing on him like a physical burden. He stared at the instrument panel without seeing it. The images in his mind were not those in front of him, but dark, coalescing images of revenge and despair. He wanted to reach up and tear the black heart from Hakeem Khan, from Malik, from Batista, from them all. But he could not; he had no hope. Even while his heart beat strongly within him, he knew this would be the end. He lifted his head and breathed in a sigh of deep despair and closed his eyes. Now there was only blackness where there should have been light.

Beneath the dark waters he imagined the warmth of the sun in his mind; its caress like the touch of a woman. He rolled his head back and imagined the fragrance of flowers, of new mown grass, all offering a pleasure as tangible and apposite as the fear now crawling round in his belly.

He blinked and shut the hallucinatory images from his mind, bringing it to bear on the dreadful predicament he was in. He knew there was no way out of his prison and he knew that there was no way Khan would return to rescue him from his misery. He was cocooned in an environment that was designed to support life yet ironically it was holding him in a deadly embrace and eventually he would die.

Marsh wondered what death would be like. Would he succumb to insanity before death took him? Would he grow weary and eventually suffocate in his own, exhaled carbon dioxide? Would he just fall asleep and not wake? Would he be given the last, immeasurable pleasure of being with Helen, even if only in a dream?

He shook his head vigorously and snapped out of it and began to apply his mind to the problem again. He knew that to give up so soon was to accept the inevitability of death. He checked the power meters; the instruments that told him how much longer Challenger’s own batteries would last and how much oxygen was left in the cockpit.

He knew that if the oxygen content fell below a dangerously low level, the automatic valves of the oxygen bottles would bleed a steady amount of life giving gas into the bubble’s atmosphere so that life could be sustained until an orderly recovery or rescue could be carried out.

But if the submersible’s power became low and unstable, there was a risk that the bottles could eventually pressurise the cockpit and kill him.

He began to shut down various systems that were no longer need to conserve battery power. He extinguished the low grade cockpit lighting, relying instead on the glow from the instrument panel.

After about two minutes of technical distraction, he found himself devoid of ideas and things to do. He knew the was no hope of anyone finding him on the sea bed, so his last hours would be painfully slow and would probably end in insanity.

“Damn you Khan!” he shouted suddenly. “Why didn’t you just put a bullet in me?”

His shoulders sagged and he slumped back in his seat. That was the first sign of the loss of control. How long would it be, he wondered, before he was clawing at the smooth walls of the bubble in a manic, pitiful attempt to escape? He let his mind drift again, peering out into the deep, mindful yet mindless.

How long Marsh sat in torpid despair, he didn’t know, but suddenly he sat up straight. The diving tanks! God in heaven, why didn’t he think of it?

Marsh kicked himself for not thinking of it earlier but put that down to his state of mind. He forced himself to think clearer now because he believed this would be his best chance of getting out of this alive. By blowing the water from the diving tanks and the decompression chamber, he would lighten the load and greatly increase lift, and the upward thrust of the air, less the weight of the water, should overcome the force of the clamps.

He began switching Challenger back on to full power. He knew he was taking a chance because of the drain on the batteries, but it was his only hope. Once the computer signalled that all systems were operational. Marsh keyed in the commands that would open the air valves. He listened to the rush of compressed air leaving their cylinders and flowing into the diving tanks and the decompression chamber.

All at once the sea boiled around him as the Challenger purged herself of the surplus sea water, and something moved beneath him as the enormous thrust of air fought to break the power of the clamps.

“Come on, damn you” he mumbled through clenched teeth. “Come on!”

He could feel Challenger straining at every limb to break free of the deadly grip of the clamps.

“Come on,” he urged again. “Get up, get up!”

He moved his body, pounding the seat with his own weight as if to add impetus to the mighty struggle going on beneath him.

“For God’s sake, Challenger, break free damn you! Break free!”

The noise of the rushing air reached a crescendo of sound and then began to subside until finally the pressure in the tanks and the decompression chamber reached that of the air cylinders.

“No, don’t stop now!” he beseeched her. “Not now! Please, not now!”

Challenger seemed to give one last desperate heave and then succumbed to the awesome strength of the clamps.

She didn’t move.

“No. Oh God, no” Marsh looked around him imploringly. “Please Challenger, please. Don’t let me down. Please.”

But Challenger had lost the battle, surrendering herself to the deadly embrace of the clamps.

Marsh stopped shouting and cursing. His mouth fell open as tears streamed down his face. He could taste the salt on his lips and he kept blinking the wetness from his eyes. His head fell forward into his hands and he kept asking ‘why?’

He cried alone in his tiny world; a ball of encircling light, holding life like a baby in the womb, suspended in dark waters. He cried until there were no tears left to cry and soon his mind closed down and he drifted off into the merciful world of sleep.

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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 

Excerpt from The Tainted Trust by Stephen Douglass

The Tainted Trust 

By Stephen Douglass

Synopsis:  Volume Two of The King Trilogy, The Tainted Trust is, in addition to a moving and action packed thriller, a brilliant depiction of what perfectly normal people will do for love and money. It is the continuing story of an inconvenient fortune and its catastrophic impact on a loving family. 

Stephen says:  I wrote this piece in an attempt to establish a bridge between the first and second trilogy volumes, and to introduce Louis Visconti, an evil individual. I chose this because some time ago, I entered it into an Author of the Week contest and received the following comment from the moderator: "The Tainted Trust by Stephen Douglass has the best mix of dialogue and narrative that I have read thus far."

Excerpt:         New York. April  23, 1980.

         

       Louis Visconti was a happy man. Alone at his massive glass topped desk on the fifty-sixth floor of the south tower of The World Trade Center, he stared pensively in the direction of the window, refusing to allow his steely grey eyes to focus on anything. He reflected on his considerable achievements. Thirty-three years of age, ten years out of Harvard Business School, and already a multimillionaire, he figured his income for the year would be between two and three million, his lofty projection based on annualizing outstanding results of the first half of the year.

        His personal spending had increased in proportion to his considerable investment successes. With every reason to believe the cash flow would continue forever, there was no need to save. The cost of most anything he wanted was irrelevant. Image and profile were everything. When he threw a party, his only concern was how lavish he could make it. No expense was spared to make certain it was more ostentatious than any he had attended. There were women in his life, but only one of his relationships had ever reached critical mass, the price of love and commitment refusing to allow that threshold to be breached. Money was his real lover, possessions and power his consuming passions.

       Finally realizing his dream of becoming one of the most important figures in New York's financial community, his picture had not only appeared in the Wall Street Journal and Barron's, but also in the financial sections of most important newspapers in the industrialized world. His brilliant and phenomenal investment record had become legendary. He was the man, in demand. Movers and shakers stumbled over one another to be and seen in his company. His schedule had become so tight that he was compelled to turn down numerous invitations to speak at luncheons, dinners and conventions in North America, Europe and Asia.    

         His brief experience with marriage was an unmitigated disaster, fortunately ending before wealth and children. He was strikingly handsome and extremely eligible, the only child of near penniless Italian immigrants who had fled to the United States in late 1946. He frequently boasted about the source of his survival instincts by claiming that both he and his mother had narrowly escaped death when she gave birth to him within minutes of her arrival at Ellis Island.

         Blessed with a brilliant mind and fanatical ambition, he had scratched and clawed his way through public and high schools in Queens. Hustling, working and studying hard eventually earned him a near full ticket scholarship at Harvard Business School. His lucky break was to have been offered a full partnership with his two friends and former classmates, Jerry Mara and Allen Griesdorf.  Seven years earlier, the three had taken an enormous gamble when they quit the relative security of their jobs as account executives with Green, Waltrum, a large and extremely prestigious Wall Street investment banking firm. With the horsepower of youthful courage and a boatload of borrowed money, they boldly formed their own company. 

        Mara, Griesdorf and Visconti grew quickly. The partners took a pass on ordinary money. They romanced and managed only wealthy money in a single investment fund. From the very beginning they had set an unrelenting minimum per account of five hundred thousand dollars. By investing the bulk of the fat portfolios in tangible assets during the highly inflationary seventies, they had enriched their clients and achieved personal success beyond their wildest dreams.  

        As word of the company’s brilliant investment techniques and incredible track record spread, more clients came, anxious to receive the twenty-plus percent annual return others had enjoyed for five consecutive years. Now that the partners were managing over a billion dollars, the fund had become unwieldy. Closing it and refusing further entry was now well within the partners’ contemplation.

        Visconti displayed a lecherous smirk as he watched Susan, his secretary, a shapely twenty-eight year old brunette, enter his office.  

       “I have a call for you on line eight,” she announced with a fetching smile, then placed a black coffee mug on Visconti’s desk.

       “Who is it?” Visconti asked, refusing to shift his grey eyes from Susan’s tantalizing breasts.

       “Alfred Schnieder. He’s calling again from Caracas...You know him?”

        Visconti nodded. “One of the old-time banking farts. Been around since Methuselah was a teen-ager.”

       “Want me to tell him you're busy?”

        Visconti took a micro sip of his coffee, then shook his head. “Nope. I’ll take it. Thanks for the coffee.” He lifted his receiver, then forced a smile. “Alfred, thanks for calling. What’s shaking?”

        “I have clients for you.”

         Visconti tightened his lips and rolled his eyes skyward. “Don’t do me any favors. I need more clients like I need another wife.”

        “But these are not ordinary clients.”

        “What makes them different?”

        “Over three hundred million reasons.”

         Visconti bolted upright and immediately began to salivate. “How much?” he shouted.

        “I believe you heard me the first time.”

        “Who are they? You said clients.”

        “I had the distinct impression you had no interest.”

        "Well suddenly I do. Who are they?”

        “The ownership is quite complex. I’m compelled to tell you it’s hot money.”

        “If it’s In God We Trust, I don’t give a shit what the temperature is.”

         Schnieder chuckled. “Am I to assume you’re interested?”

        “That’s a gigantic understatement! Jesus, Alfred, who the hell are these people?”

        “Shortly, you will receive a telephone call from a man named Mike King. He will arrange a meeting with you to determine your qualifications to manage that vast sum of money.”

        “Is he one of the clients?”

        “Yes. His wife was married to the man who accumulated the money. Currently, it’s under my care and control, but the wretched calendar never lies. Soon I will be too old to continue the responsibility. That is the primary reason I have referred you to Mike King. If he approves of you, I will make the necessary arrangements to transfer the responsibility to you.”

        “What’s your fee?”

        “One percent on the capital, and ten percent of real annual gains in excess of ten percent.”

        “Visconti completed a quick mental calculation and salivated more. He wondered however, why Schnieder had chosen him. “Why me, Alfred?” he asked.

        “Elementary, my friend. You are the most qualified,” Schnieder conceded, well aware of Visconti's larcenous tendencies.

        “Cut the bullshit! What’s in it for you? I know you're not doing this for the good of your health.”

        “As perceptive as ever, Louis...I want my retirement to be as comfortable as possible. If King gives you the job, I plan to give you the number of my bank account in Geneva. Then before we complete the transfer of responsibility, I will expect to see the balance increased by five million.”  

        “I’m sure you will. Maybe you can tell me where the hell I'm going to get five big ones.”

        “From the trust, my friend. Your first assignment will be to arrange five million of transitional slippage. Of course it will have to be replaced with first proceeds...Do you understand what I’m saying?”

        “Exquisite,” Visconti declared, chuckling at the irony of Schnieder’s proposition. Five million dollars would be removed from the trust during the transfer, wired to Schnieder’s Swiss account, then replaced with future income in the trust. Subsequently, the accounting would be cooked to hide the removal. “You need me to help you to steal five million dollars of stolen money.”

        “Precisely, my friend. I prefer to think of it as an interest free loan, to be used for the balance of my useful life... I expect King will call you very soon. When he does, you must be prepared to romance him.”

        “I’ll be ready. You can bank on it.”

        “Good pun...One final word of advice. Beware of interest rates. They are heading north.”

        “When and how far north?”

        “Soon. Bankers are living in fear of Paul Volcker's intentions. They’re convinced he’s serious about killing inflation. They think he’ll raise Prime to twenty percent, perhaps higher. With twelve percent inflation in the United States, you can draw your own conclusions. Real rates must climb well above historic norms to break inflationary psychology. You know that.”

        “Thanks again, Alfred. I’m gonna start liquidating. I’ll talk to you soon.”

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