Posts Tagged ‘thriller’

Elephant Safari by Peter Riva Banner

ELEPHANT SAFARI
by Peter Riva
June 24 – July 19, 2024 Virtual Book Tour

 

 

Synopsis:
A MBUNO & PERO THRILLER

A documentary team hiking through East Africa collides with a gang of deadly poachers, in this gripping adventure by the author of Kidnapped on Safari.

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Years of filming, extreme dangers, and daring rescues have taken their toll on documentary producer Pero Baltazar and his team. To relax and reconnect with the East African wildlife they love, Pero organizes a walking safari for him, his camerawoman Nancy Breiton, and their elite guide Mbuno Waliangulu. Still, Pero has trouble truly disconnecting from work. When the team comes across a herd of elephants making their annual migration north of Lake Rudolf, Pero decides the team will film their journey from Kenya into Ethiopia along the Omo River. What begins as a peaceful trip quickly turns into a chaotic nightmare as the trio crosses paths with a crew of poachers whose ivory sales are financing terrorists. The three are determined to protect the endangered herd from slaughter, and Mbuno enlists the help of local tribesmen. But the corruption of ivory poachers has deep roots that stretch to UN refugee camps, Chinese gangs, and the Iranian elite Islamic Revolutionary Guard. Faced with overwhelming odds, the trio must now rely on Pero’s contacts in the CIA, as well as Mbuno’s skills in the bush, if they hope to ever return from this excursion alive . . .

Praise for Elephant Safari:

“If you’re in the mood for an African thriller series to add to your summer reading pile, Peter Riva has got you covered. Riva’s impressive career has provided him with plenty of inspiration for his novels, which he writes as a form of relaxation.” ~ The Lakeville Journal and The Millerton News “Many readers will enjoy this story for its fast pace, engaging characters, and insights into world politic. I particularly loved the depth of knowledge about the natural history and ecology of the East African landscape. This may be a thriller but it’s also an important book about the killing of elephants for their ivory tusks.” ~ Sharman Apt Russel- John Burroughs Medal winner

ELEPHANT SAFARI Trailer:

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Book Details:

Genre: Action and Adventure Thriller

Published by: Open Road Media Publication Date: January 30, 2024 Number of Pages: 302 ISBN: 9781504085335 (ISBN10: 1504085337) Series: The Mbuno & Pero Thrillers, 4 | Each is a Stand-Alone Novel

Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | BookaMillion | Goodreads | Open Road Media

Enjoy this peek inside:
In modern Kenya and most of East Africa, elephant were dying out, Mbuno knew this and lamented. His chest ached for them. Gone were the innumerable small herds of his youth, mostly replaced by farms, settlements, human sprawl, and tourist attractions. What elephant remained had their age-old pathways and migration routes blocked, stopped, fenced, and constantly monitored. White men came and collared them, watched them on scopes, darted them, sampled them, and even shot them when they became a nuisance to farmers with cash. What elephants modern man did not manage in parks were easy prey for poachers. The days of the Liangulu hunter were over. Mbuno knew this, accepted this, and did not mind even half as much as he mourned the passing of the realm of the elephant. All of Africa had once been the realm of the elephant. As the largest beast, immune to the normal prey and hunter battles going on all around, the elephant set the pace of the land, fertilized the forests, cropped the prairies, and paved the migration routes that all the migratory species followed. In times of drought, their superior intelligence showed where water could be found and even taught man to dig in dry riverbeds for a boundary layer of precious liquid. They created mud holes for mud baths to keep the insects at bay, used also by Cape buffalo and rhino. Over the millennia, they brushed aside acacia thorns and baobab saplings with equal ease creating the open plains. And, in time, Africa’s rhythm resounded to the beat of their feet and their migratory timekeeping. Without the elephant ruling the land, the land fell into the discordant rhythm of the upright apes and began to fracture. Mbuno had known the last best years of the elephant’s realm and, sadly, was now witnessing the fall of Africa’s harnessing stability. Without the elephant to freely roam, the balance of nature would be broken, herds would grow to enormous size in protected parks and, outside that protection, devoid of traditional hunters, herds could be led by weak leaders who would fail to protect them from ivory hunters. Mbuno had heard this had happened before. At the end of the slave and ivory trade, in 1911 there were fewer elephants than now and the herds were only brought back from extinction by White Hunters—led by Teddy Roosevelt—using farm and ranch husbandry methods – culling every senile cow and bull. Young, vibrant, herds repopulated the migration routes. But now the elephant and Mbuno’s tribal way of life were both threatened once again. Mbuno looked back to make sure Pero and Nancy were crouched, waiting a few hundred yards away as he instructed. He then inched closer to the worrying herd, prone again, a sharp stone rolling under his hip painfully. He dared not move quickly, the bush above him would vibrate. He stopped any forward movement as he spotted feet, the small grey feet of a baby elephant, a mtoto. One foot had an encircling, red, puss-oozing sore. Behind the mtoto’s feet stood the mother. Mbuno could see the way the weight was shifting on both mother and child that the mother was soothing the young one who would be in pain. Silent pain, the sign of a strong herd leader. Or a very frightened herd, one that is being hunted. The mtoto’s sore had been caused by a wire snare that had probably dropped off. Mbuno had seen this far too often. Now Mbuno felt compelled to do something, not just observe. It was now a matter of honor, duty, and common ancestry, not to mention his responsibility for the safety of his safari charges. Mbuno’s mind made decisions quickly. In the bush, life and death were often just moments apart. Soundlessly, moving no bush or twig, he retreated the way he had come, donned his pants only, and set himself into a running crouch. It was his usual hunter’s pace, swift, determined, and ready for a change in direction. Circling the place where he knew the herd to be, he stayed four hundred yards away at least. Starting downwind and determinedly coming full half circle until he announced his presence to their sensitive noses, he tested their resolve. When he was sure they had smelled him, he knew there was real danger here because there was no charge, no bellowing threat, no foot stomp. The elephants could smell that he was only one man and also that he was a man of the bush. As Mbuno had feared, they clearly had a more dangerous enemy threat nearby, for they did not give themselves away. He continued his crouching circling run, sweating from adrenaline and the jini of the hunt. For he was hunting, but not elephant. When he was three-quarters the way around his circle, he sensed, and then diving behind a fallen log on his stomach, he saw the men just outside the forest’s edge. One was sitting on a pickup truck’s hood and two stood in the flatbed. They wore no uniform. The man sitting was dressed as an Arab with a face scarf and camouflage trousers and bush shirt. He had binoculars but no gun. And two standing tribesmen looked like Pokot, Mbuno thought–northern, violent Maasai cousins. Hunters, not cattlemen. The two tribesmen had black rifles with yellow wood stocks and foregrips. Mbuno knew AK-47s when he saw them. Mbuno had seen these types of poachers before. They snared a baby and, in its squeals, it attracted the herd; close and closer until the slaughter would be efficient, deadly, machine gun rapid. Standing behind a tree trunk on tiptoe, peeking out, Mbuno saw the panga (machete) on the flatbed tailgate, unsheathed, its 12-inch blade glistening, freshly sharpened. The back of the truck held two freshly drawn tusks; the brown blood still not yet black. The herd had been running and not just because of the mtoto. Mbuno did not hesitate, did not reason, did not moralize. In the bush, the law of the land was kill or be killed. These men had killed, wasted the life of elephant, wanted to slaughter the rest, and were dishonorable. He saw them as little more than wanyama—vermin—to be stopped. Without altering his run, he circled behind the pickup and approached them from behind, soundlessly, before the men could even know he was coming. *** Excerpt from Elephant Safari by Peter Riva. Copyright 2024 by Peter Riva. Reproduced with permission from Peter Riva. All rights reserved.

 

 

About Author Peter Riva:

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Peter Riva

Peter Riva has traveled extensively throughout Africa, Asia, and Europe, spending many months spanning thirty years with legendary guides for East African adventurers. He created the Wild Things television series in 1995 and has worked for more than forty years as a literary agent. Riva writes science fiction and African adventure books, including the Mbuno & Pero thrillers. He lives in Gila, New Mexico.

Catch Up With Peter Riva: www.PeterRiva.com Goodreads BookBub Instagram – @peterriva_author Facebook – @peter.riva

 

 

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Lost in the wilderness, a desolate barracks becomes a perilous attraction for risk-seekers drawn to the heart of nowhere, as a ruthless gang turns the abandoned settlement into a deadly trap with escalating provocations and brutal violence.

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Urbex Predator

by Jen Boele

Publication Date: February 4, 2024

Pages: 394

Genre: Horror / Thriller

A relic from
the Cold War, the old barracks beckon photographers, influencers, and
adventurers, shrouded in secrets and peril. Nela and Tess dare the eerie
ruins for their photography thesis, while Zander, Yelka, Vivien, and
Damon embark on a simultaneous shoot. Amid the abandoned shadows,
Yelka’s group runs into Steven and his ruthless gang, initially
outsmarting them. Yet, Nela and Tess fall victim to a nightfall ambush,
escaping but torn apart. As adrenaline courses through the gang, they
stalk Yelka and her friends, unleashing a relentless manhunt. Vivien
becomes their captive, setting off a chain reaction. Tess encounters
Damon and Yelka, while Nela, guided by Ben, the barracks’ security
manager, races to find Tess. Yelka strives to rescue Vivien, trapped in
an abandoned outdoor pool. On his lone pursuit, Zander witnesses the
gang’s brutality, delving into a darker realm within himself, spurred by
the horrifying thrill of Steven’s actions. The scene propels Yelka,
Damon, and Tess into a frenzy, unleashing chaos to liberate Vivien. Nela
and Ben, attempting to overpower the gang, witness Yelka and Vivien’s
escape as the gang closes in. With the arrival of Steven’s older
brother, Henry, the stakes are set; the old military hospital transforms
into a battleground. No one is to leave alive, and a matter of life and
death ensues. In the ruthless clash, Nela and Yelka emerge as the lone
defenders, while Zander pursues a mission for his own catharsis. In
Henry’s basement, dubbed his Hades, the teams converge for a
pulse-pounding final duel, where survival is the ultimate prize. 

You can pick up your copy at Amazon.

 

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AUTHOR GUEST POST
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Can you tell us what your book, Urbex Predator, is about? 

Absolutely! ‘Urbex Predator’ is a heart-pounding thriller that takes readers on a gripping journey into the depths of horror and suspense. Set against the eerie backdrop of abandoned Cold War-era barracks, the story follows two groups of urban explorers whose innocent photo shoots quickly turn into a fight for
survival. As they navigate through the desolate ruins, they encounter a gang of depraved hoodlums whose menacing presence escalates into brutal violence. What unfolds is a relentless battle, where the boundaries between life and death blur, and the characters are forced to confront their deepest fears.

 

It’s a pulse-pounding narrative filled with unexpected twists, sinister secrets, and unforgettable characters. Get ready for an adrenaline-fueled ride that will leave you on the edge of your seat until the very last page!

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

Absolutely, that’s a fantastic inquiry, delving into a crucial aspect of the book. The issue of character count has been raised by some readers, prompting me to create a comprehensive character cheat sheet available for download on my website. However, I respectfully disagree with the notion of an excessive character count. In a horror novel with a high body count, each character serves a purpose, contributing to the intricate tapestry of the narrative.

Let’s zero in on the key players: Nela and Tess, inseparable friends embarking on a journey to document the abandoned barracks for Nela’s photography thesis. While Nela exudes focus and determination, Tess dreams of a glamorous modeling career, their dynamic akin to yin and yang, revolving around their differing perspectives on photography’s significance.

Enter Yelka and Zander, childhood companions drawn to urban exploration for the sheer thrill of discovery. Yelka radiates warmth and curiosity, relishing in the exploration of abandoned sites, while Zander harbors unspoken affections for Yelka, channeling his expertise in urban exploration to fuel her passion. Accompanying them are Vivien, Yelka’s sister, an emerging social media influencer, and her manager Damon, solely focused on bolstering Vivien’s online presence.

When faced with the menacing gang of hoodlums, our protagonists find themselves navigating a perilous struggle for survival, prompting reflection on who will survive and, as a famous quote suggests, what will be left of them. Prepare for a riveting exploration of friendship, survival, and the shadows that lurk within the abandoned corridors of the human psyche.

Your book is set in abandoned Cold War-era barracks. Can you tell us why you chose this location in particular?

“Urbex Predator” is fundamentally grounded in the realm of urban exploration, making the selection of an abandoned locale as the primary setting a natural choice. I envisioned an isolated, secluded world nestled amidst the wilderness, drawing inspiration from my personal experiences in urban exploration. Old military compounds emerged as the quintessential backdrop, offering vast expanses far removed from urban hubs.

These compounds, apart from the barracks themselves, encompass a myriad of structures including housing, medical facilities, sports arenas, and even entertainment outlets like cinemas and theaters. Exploring these vast expanses is akin to stepping into a time capsule reclaimed by nature, evoking sensations reminiscent of an apocalyptic film set, albeit grounded in reality.

The compound depicted in “Urbex Predator” is entirely fictional, crafted as an amalgamation of various abandoned barracks I’ve encountered. Adhering to a cardinal rule of urban exploration, disclosing the exact location of these sites to the public is strictly forbidden. While real-world locations akin to those in the book exist, their anonymity must be preserved to uphold the integrity of the urbexing community.

And let’s not forget a cardinal rule of horror storytelling: transgression invites peril. In “Urbex Predator,” as in any horror narrative, defiance of established norms invariably leads to dire consequences. It’s a chilling reminder that in the realm of horror, breaking the rules comes at a grave cost.

How long did it take you to write your book?

Absolutely, each book I embark on brings its own unique journey, and “Urbex Predator” was no exception. The genesis of this tale began with a burst of inspiration in October/early November, with the first threads of the narrative taking shape by the dawn of the new year, 2022. It was a swift process, as I delved into the story’s intricacies, spending the following four months weaving together its tapestry.

However, the trajectory of my writing journey encountered an unexpected pause in late February, prompted by the onset of the conflict in Ukraine. The chilling realities of the abandoned Cold War-era barracks mirrored the unfolding horrors of the real world, causing a momentary hesitation in my creative process. Yet, I resolved not to succumb to the shadow cast by Russian aggression, both in Ukraine and across the global consciousness, and persevered in bringing this tale to fruition.

By autumn of 2022, the manuscript stood complete, poised for the scrutiny of test readers whose invaluable feedback shaped its final form. Following a series of reviews and revisions, “Urbex Predator” made its debut in Germany by the year’s end, marking the culmination of one phase of its journey. The subsequent translation into English unfolded across the expanse of 2023, a testament to the meticulous care invested in ensuring its accessibility to a broader audience.

In hindsight, while the act of writing itself spanned a mere four months, the entirety of the creative process encompassed a year-long odyssey. Each moment, each pause, and each revision bore witness to the evolution of “Urbex Predator” from a mere concept to a tangible reality, poised to enthrall and captivate readers across borders.

What has been the most pivotal point of your writing life?

Let me take you back to a pivotal moment in my writing journey—one that forever altered the course of my storytelling. It all began with my debut book, “Sunshine,” a crime thriller sparked by the adrenaline of TV’s “Breaking Bad.” Excitedly, I handed it over to friends for their honest feedback, expecting accolades and applause. Instead, I received a bewildering response: “Jens, that’s a nice short story.”

Confusion swept over me. How could my magnum opus be dismissed as a mere short story? As we delved into the narrative together, their insights unveiled a critical truth: storytelling isn’t just about pace; it’s about depth and development. “Why does the drug dealer suddenly turn into a psychopath?” they queried, prompting a deeper reflection on character motivation and narrative arcs.

In that moment, I realized the power of structure and attention to detail in crafting compelling tales. Our drug dealer wasn’t just a villain; he was a complex soul wrestling with his demons. His struggles with substance abuse, compounded by toxic relationships, laid bare the fragility of his existence. Beneath the facade of bravado lay a man clinging desperately to his last shred of identity—the business he built from the ground up.

As we journeyed alongside Mr. White Junior, witnessing his rise amidst the unwavering support of friends, we simultaneously mourned the tragic descent of our flawed antihero—the bad boy drug dealer. It’s moments like these—moments of introspection and revelation—that shape the very essence of storytelling, inviting readers to immerse themselves in worlds both familiar and fantastical, where every character, every twist, holds a piece of our collective humanity.

What kind of advice would you give up and coming authors?

Ah, now that’s a question that cuts to the heart of the matter—the business of writing. It’s not just about crafting compelling plots or spinning tales; it’s about mastering the art of selling your story to the world. Picture this: You’re a brilliant wordsmith, armed with plots that could rival Shakespeare, but without the know-how to market your masterpiece, you’re a ship lost at sea.

Welcome to the world of modern publishing, where authors are not only writers but also savvy marketers. Gone are the days of relying solely on publishers; today, you’re the CEO of your literary empire. You’ll find yourself donning multiple hats—graphic designer, editor, SEO analyst, social media guru—the list goes on. It’s a daunting prospect, I won’t sugarcoat it. But here’s the reality: Either invest your time or your money, because there’s no shortcut to success.

Lesson number two? Brace yourself for the rollercoaster ride of defining success and weathering disappointments. Even with meticulous planning and stellar execution, there’s no guarantee of overnight fame and fortune. But amidst the uncertainty lies the beauty of the journey. It’s a test of resilience, a testament to your unwavering commitment to the craft.

So, gear up, my fellow wordsmiths. Arm yourself with discipline and determination, for the road ahead is anything but smooth. But remember this: Amidst the challenges lie moments of unexpected triumphs—cherish them, for they are the fuel that powers your writer’s soul.

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Enjoy this peek inside:

We better find a way out quickly. The editorial’s deadline is getting close, we can’t afford any further delay.

Damon’s words lay upon the group like a heavy burden. He was good at making his personal problems everybody’s business. When he felt spoiled, he meant business. And Damon wasn’t done yet.

“Moreover, we have no Wi-Fi here. Zero, nada, not a bit.”

He let the words sink in, then added, “Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t post anything out here.” He put his phone away and joined Zander.

“Here’s how it’s going down: While the girls are taking photos, you’re looking for an exit that will get us out of here A–S–A–P. Get it?”

“We’ll take the pictures, don’t worry about it” Yelka hooked in from behind. “And tonight, from our hotel, we’ll be able to watch your follower numbers skyrocket in no time.”

“I assume so,” Damon replied curtly. “The sore point in the planning is the way back. But Zander will take care of that. And I know for sure he’ll find a really fast way out for us.” Appreciatively, he patted his shoulders.

“Damon, when do you think we will break the 30,000 mark? I really want that to happen by this weekend.”

“Yes, starlet, we can definitely do that. Your pretty sister will do a fantastic job and Zander will get us back to the hotel in no time.”

Zander wasn’t concerned about Damon’s problems at all. If it were up to him, Vivian should just do blunt erotic shots on the beach or in a studio. Or better, shoot soft porn. That was what it was all about, after all. Maybe he would watch that too. Vivian naked in the sand. Hmm … Anyway, none of this had anything to do with the fascination of abandoned places. And this barracks had so much of it to offer.

“If we continue along this path through the forest, we will soon reach the residential block. From there, another path leads to the recreational facilities. There is a pool, a sports field and a theater, but it could also be used as a cinema. In parallel …”

“Sis, shouldn’t we take a picture of me in this outdoor pool?” Lasciviously, Vivian played with the strap of her top.

“Absolutely” laughed Yelka.

Why wasn’t she actually on his side? After all, he had planned the whole trip just for Yelka. Zander wanted everything to be perfect today. Yet, that wouldn’t work with Vivian and Damon. Honestly speaking, they shouldn’t have joined in the first place. When the forest suddenly opened up to reveal a settlement, Zander’s heart began to pound faster.

Weathered multi-story apartment blocks rose into the sky, overgrown with birch and fir trees. Moss clung to the entrance areas; ivy sought its way upwards. The scenery looked like a modern Sleeping Beauty castle, sprung from the premonition of a sinister dystopia.

For a moment, the group stopped and let themselves be captivated by the magic of the place. Speechless, their eyes wandered up the multi-story buildings, lingering on the dark building openings and absorbing the surreal atmosphere.

“This is incredible,” Yelka was the first to return to her words. She put an arm around Zander and hugged him. “Just incredible.”

Zander felt overwhelmed. His excitement was looking for a channel. “Considering that the residents lived here for 40 years, and nature has taken over for 30 years, then … well …” He didn’t know how to finish the sentence. Zander was overwhelmed, both by the place and by Yelka’s closeness.

“Darling sister, you can start thinking about whether you want to be photographed on the steps or the old climbing frame” Yelka indicated as she dug her camera out of the small backpack.

“The steps are great!” exclaimed Vivian, settling down on the moss-covered steps.

“Perfect,” Damon joined in again as well. “That looks excellent, starlet! Lie back, let your hair fall to the right.”

Zander walked thoughtlessly over the moss that covered the former street. Here, families must have once walked home, children played on the sidewalk, and vehicles drove north to the barracks. With a kick, he plucked the green from the ground and looked at the dark asphalt. This was how the place had been left nearly three decades ago.

He squatted down and let his fingers slide over the old pavement. A shiver came over him. At that moment, he felt the same fascination for these places as Yelka. Stealthily, he glanced over at his secret love as she took photos of her hot sister.

Vivian had leaned back dramatically, her chest up, her hair hanging down behind her. Her belly was exposed, her breasts pressed against the top. She stretched her long legs, like she was riding a bicycle.

Zander’s gaze drifted off to Yelka, who held her camera with both hands. She was shifting positions from time to time. Although she was wearing cargo pants, boots and gloves, she didn’t look one bit less sexy than her younger sibling.

He averted his eyes and let them roam over the facade of the apartment block again, only to look back over at the sisters.

“So, now …” Damon was about to intervene in the shooting when heavy dog barking made their blood run cold.

Yelka stopped her shots, Vivian lost body tension and Damon turned his head.

The big, short-haired yapper hung on the leash of a young guy in his early 20s. His tattooed arms were pumped up, stretching a red shirt. His chest jutted out as he stood wide-legged, holding the dog. A sharply cut face framed his full lips. He wore a gold necklace, his hair was shaved short. Behind him, four boys and a girl had set up. Two of them held metal pipes in their hands, brandishing them menacingly.

“Good day to you all!” The words didn’t sound like a greeting, but more like a threat. “This is private property. No trespassing!” As if to underline his words, the dog growled insistently. The group slowly approached. Those two men carrying the batons grinned menacingly. “The whole compound is surrounded by a concrete wall.”

Yelka was the first to speak up, “Hey, we’re just taking pictures, we’re not destroying or stealing anything.”

“So what?” told Ryder Yelka. “Fuck it, you guys are still illegal. There are signs on the outside walls and gates that state that this place is off limits.”

“Yeah, but you’re still coming here,” the dark-haired boy with the scratched forearm shouted.

“Even though it’s forbidden.”

The group had surrounded the four, leaving no way out. Gazoo barked at Vivian, tugging at Ryder’s leash.

“What you are doing here is forbidden, you know that.”

“Okay, we made a mistake,” Yelka tried to concede. “How about we pack up and get out of here?” Seeking help, she looked over at Zander, but he was transfixed.

“Yeah, you just thought so.” A grim smile played around Ryder’s face. “I want to see everyone’s IDs!”

“IDs out!” repeated Jesse, roaring.

Yelka looked at Zander first, then at Damon. “Please, let us just go our merry way and everything will be cool,” she offered the boys.

Damon had regained his composure and was surveying the situation. Yelka and Zander getting married would be more likely than these guys being security guards. There was danger in the air. They were in the middle of nowhere and were being threatened by a gang of rednecks, carrying a loose dog.

Dave lifted the steel pipe and touched Yelka’s chin. “Ain’t nothing cool here,” Ryder told them. “Either you show us your IDs or else.”

As if to make an example, Dave hit the ground with his club.

Yelka flinched. Gazoo jumped up at her, held back only by Ryder’s leash. “Chop, chop, IDs out!”  Ryder roared indignantly.

“I think we need to make a cut here!” With a brisk step, Damon put himself between Yelka and Ryder. “To me, it seems like a misunderstanding.”

For a moment, there was silence. Gazoo stopped barking, Dave’s steel pipe hovered in the air, and Ryder waited to see what Damon would say.

“My name is Duke. Damon Duke, of Duke Executives.” He spread his arms and stood between Ryder and Yelka.

“We rented this location today to hold a photo shoot.”

He pointed to Vivian, who was still sitting on the steps. “This is Vivian Donahue, one of our most important models, known as Violet-D.”

Damon waited a moment, watching the gang as they stared over at Vivian. He could see the aggression draining from the young men’s faces. Desire appeared in their eyes.

“We are taking pictures for the centerfold today. Vivian’s work needs a relaxed atmosphere. So, I’d be grateful if we could do the shoot without any further disruptions. Later, I’m sure she’ll have time for a short meet and greet with autographs. If you have any further questions, please contact Councilor Wilbanks. Please carry on, we don’t have any time to lose. Hush, hush!”

A stunned silence hung over the scene. The gang hadn’t quite taken their eyes off Vivian when it dawned on them that they had just been set up. Yelka and Vivian were already preparing to resume the photo shoot when Ryder suddenly straightened up again. “Are you kidding me? I want to see your fucking IDs–no photos until I say so!”

“Good,” Damon turned abruptly and held out his ID to Ryder, “that’s me, Damon Duke.” He gave him a moment to compare ID photo and face, then pulled out his cell phone. “And now I’d like to know what company you’re with.”

Damon held the phone to his ear and waited for Ryder’s answer. But he remained silent.

“Mr. Wilbanks, this is Damon Duke speaking. I apologize for the interruption. Contrary to our agreements, we were evicted from the place by security.” His and Ryder’s eyes met. “They didn’t hire any security at all? Then I assume this is a misunderstanding.”

Dave looked at Ryder, waiting for any reaction. But he just stared at Damon indecisively.

“No, I don’t think we need police here. Thank you very much, and again, I’m sorry to bother you.”

Damon dropped the phone into his purse, then pulled out a slew of business cards. “Here you go.”

First, he handed Ryder his card, then to the rest of the gang. “We’re still looking for security employees. If any of you want to make money, you’re more than welcome to contact me.”

Dazzled, the gang looked at each other. “Have a nice day! Now, starlets, we’ll move on to the next location.”

Ryder looked grimly after the Urbexers as they walked on. Soon they would find out what kind of a nice day they were going to have.

 

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About the Author

 

 

Jens Boele, a veteran media designer in
the entertainment industry, brings over two decades of cinematic
expertise to his writing. Born in Germany in 1975, Jens embarked on his
writing odyssey in his youth, culminating in the publication of his
debut book, “Sunshine,” in 2015. This was followed by “Hurensohn,” and
his latest spine-tingling creation, “Urbex Predator.” Jens is a
genre-bending author, specializing in horror and crime thrillers. His
narratives often blur genre lines, weaving intricate tales that plunge
readers into the darkest corners of the human psyche. Jens’s
storytelling brilliance lies in his fascination with the criminal mind;
his villains are always profoundly human, offering readers a chilling
examination of the psychological aspects of the criminally insane. Jens
sets himself apart by seamlessly integrating classic horror with the
gritty authenticity of the present day. This innovative fusion imbues
his narratives with a dynamic quality, seamlessly blending archaic
thrills with contemporary intrigue, resulting in an immersive reading
experience that resonates with both vintage enthusiasts and present-day
readers alike. Jens Boele’s latest endeavor takes his work across
borders, as “Urbex Predator” becomes his first book to be translated
into English. A globetrotter with deep connections to the United States,
Jens’s passion for exploration and his international perspective,
nurtured by family and friends in the US, shine through in his writing,
offering readers a captivating blend of horror and cultural diversity.
Visit Jens’ website at https://jensboele.com/.

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For a list of my reviews go HERE.

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It appears you can go home again,
but sometimes, you shouldn’t.

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Come Home to Death

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by Marilyn Levinson

Genre: Suspense, Thriller

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“A master of the mystery and
suspense genre.”
—Midwest Book Review

Erica
Parker has barely been a bride nine months when two thugs show up at
her apartment while her husband is away on one of his infamous
business trips, claiming he owes their boss a large gambling debt.
Frightened for her life, and without any other options, she heads for
her childhood Long Island home she escaped three years ago. And swore
never to return.

The aunts who raised her are as
interfering and controlling as ever, but soon as the family attorney
advances the rest of her trust from her parents’ life insurance,
she can return to normalcy. Except he refuses, instead spouting
nonsense about how, if she waits, she will soon inherit millions. On
her twenty-fifth birthday.
Problem is, someone doesn’t want
her to live that long.

Her aunts are harboring secrets,
people are turning up dead, her husband is nowhere to be found, and
someone’s trying to kill her. It appears you can go home again, but
sometimes, you shouldn’t.

*Fans of Janet
Evanovich, Lisa Gardner, and Mary Russell will enjoy “Come Home
To Death” by Marilyn Levinson

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Amazon
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* Goodreads

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A former Spanish teacher, Marilyn
Levinson writes mysteries, romantic suspense, and novels for young
readers. Her Golden Age of Mystery Book Club series was a King Rivers
Life Magazine’s “Best of 2014,” and on Book Town’s 2014
Summer Mystery Reading List. She’s an Agatha nominee, a Library
Journal “Pick of the Month,” on Goodreads’s list of the 200
“Most Popular Books Published in 2017,” a Suspense Magazine
Best Indie, and was on Book Town’s Summer (and) Fall Reading Lists.
She also writes under Allison Brook.  She is co-founder and past
president of the Long Island chapter of Sisters in Crime. She resides
in New York with her family. www.marilynlevinson.com

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Website
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* Bookbub
* Amazon
* Goodreads

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Follow the blitz HERE for special content and a giveaway!

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For a list of my reviews go HERE.

For a list of free eBooks updated daily go HERE

To see all of my giveaways go HERE.

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Lies and secrets pile up in this chilling next installment of Willow Rose’s bestselling series about FBI profiler Eva Rae Thomas.

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Rest in Peace

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An Eva Rae Thomas Mystery #15

by Willow Rose

Genre: Suspense, Thriller, Mystery

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Sarah Chapman is angry at her husband. She’s also drunk… very drunk as she drives down their street, ready to face him.

When a neighbor hears the commotion and rushes to help, he finds her inside, gun still in her hand, and her husband, Steven, dead in the bed.

Sarah is arrested and taken away but claims to be innocent.

The only one who believes her is FBI profiler, Eva Rae Thomas.
She knows Sarah personally, and as she looks at the evidence in the case, she is convinced that Sarah is telling the truth, even though she was highly intoxicated when the event occurred.

But the detective on the case is determined to have her convicted for the murder.

As more bodies turn up, only Eva Rae Thomas sees the connections and soon starts a race against time to prove Sarah is innocent and to catch the real murderer before it’s too late and her own family is targeted.

Lies and secrets pile up in this chilling next installment of Willow Rose’s bestselling series about FBI profiler Eva Rae Thomas.

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Amazon * Bookbub * Goodreads

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Willow Rose is a multi-million-copy best-selling Author and an ALL-star Author of more than 90 novels.

She has sold more than six million books that are translated into many languages.

Willow’s books are fast-paced, nail-biting pageturners with twists you won’t see coming.

That’s why her fans call her The Queen of Plot Twists.

Willow lives on Florida’s Space Coast with her kids, two cats and her Goldendoodle. When she is not writing or reading, you will find her surfing and watching the dolphins play in the waves of the Atlantic Ocean.

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Website * Facebook * X * Instagram * Bookbub * Amazon * Goodreads

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Follow the tour HERE for special content and a giveaway!

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a Rafflecopter giveaway

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Thanks so much for visiting fuonlyknew and Good Luck!

For a list of my reviews go HERE.

For a list of free eBooks updated daily go HERE

To see all of my giveaways go HERE.

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Book Details:

The Heaven Spot (A Novel) by Mary Frances Hill
Category:  Adult Fiction (18+),  296 pages
Genre: Thriller/Mystery
PublisherMary Frances Hill
Release date:  February 2024
Content Rating:  PG-13 + M:
The story is about a recovering opioid addict (previously a soccer mom from Virginia) who travels to Florida to solve her estranged daughter’s (a runaway’s) murder and to learn about the life her daughter was leading.

  1. There are curse words. The F-word is used once.
  2. There are no sex scenes, but the mom discovers that her daughter was sexually fluid and in relationships with a woman and an older man. (separately/not a throuple)
  3. There is no graphic violence.
  4. The novel does deal with mature themes like addiction, suicide, and adultery as well as grief, guilt, the power of friendship, and forgiveness. However, given the protagonist’s addiction issues, it can be a bit raw at times.

Book Description:

The Heaven Spot is a modern-day mystery set in Palm Beach, Florida, that depicts opioid addict Maggie Robert’s desperate attempt to come to terms with her estranged daughter, Lilly’s, murder.

When divorcée Maggie Roberts stumbles into her Virginia bookstore for the last time to close up shop, she expects the morning to be rough. The business failure is hers alone. She took all those opioids. She relapsed. She vows to stay clean and regroup. But as she packs up her books, two cops appear and inform her that her estranged daughter, Lilly, has died in West Palm Beach.

Heartbroken, Maggie heads to Florida to find out why Lilly passed and how she lived. But when she arrives in the Sunshine State, she barely recognizes the young woman in the morgue.

​Maggie doubts she’ll ever forgive herself for her past mistakes with Lilly but believes that if she remains local, she can push the detective to focus on Lilly’s case and learn about her daughter. But as she connects the dots, Maggie wonders the unthinkable—could she have played a part in Lilly’s death while relapsing and blackout-high? Can she live with herself if she did?

BUY THE BOOK:
Amazon 
​add to goodreads
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MY REVIEW

Character driven stories are among my favorite to read. Getting inside their heads. Being shown their past and the actions that brought them to the present. And being shown why they did what they did. Being compelled to like or not like them. To care about them. All of that makes for a story I can immerse myself in. Walk in their shoes for a few hours. And hope for a happy ending. Or at least some answers to my questions.

The author did all of that. And she made me feel so many feels. Sadness. Joy. Anger. Despair and disappointment. And hope. She made me care about someone it was hard to care about. She even managed to make me care about someone that was no longer alive. Made me see her as an active character in the story.  That’s some good storytelling.

4 STARS

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Interview with Author Mary Frances Hill:
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Question #1—Why do you choose to title your novel The Heaven Spot?

Answer—I opted to go with The Heaven Spot because the murder victim/ protagonist’s daughter is a graffiti artist, and “the heaven spot” is a graffiti term referring to the most dangerous place to paint a piece. Also, the protagonist, Maggie, travels to Palm Beach, Florida, to solve her daughter’s murder, and Palm Beach is a beautiful island. It’s like heaven.

Question #2—What inspired you to write this novel?

Answer—Just prior to writing The Heaven Spot, someone very dear to me passed away. I believe that experience led me to write a story centered on grief. My own experience with grief was very complicated. I wanted my protagonist’s feelings following the death of her estranged daughter to be even more conflicted. This is why I made my protagonist a soccer mom/ opioid addict. Writing coaches always say you should put your characters in horrific situations. I can’t imagine anything more horrific than losing your son or daughter when you are not in a good place with them because of the choices you’ve made.

Question #3—Your novel is set in the Palm Beach/West Palm Beach area. Have you been there?

Answer—Yes. I owned a vacation home in Palm Beach and spent five hot, glorious summers there swimming and walking on the beach. (We rented our place out during the busy winter tourist season.) I love Palm Beach Island and the surrounding areas. The wealth, mix of people, and glitzy, tropical environment lend themselves perfectly to a secret-filled mystery with lots of intrigue and drama. This is why I selected PBI for the setting of my novel.

Question #4—How long have you been writing?

Answer—I began writing when I stopped working as a therapist so I could be at home and raise my children. My children are adults now, so that was almost thirty years ago. I wanted to write what my children were reading, so I started with writing picture books. I progressed to middle-grade and YA novels. Finally, I graduated to mystery novels. I love writing mysteries, especially psychological mysteries. I suppose I’m still a therapist at heart.

Question #5—What is your next project?

Answer—I’m writing another psychological murder mystery with a female protagonist. This one is set in a church preschool in central New Jersey, and the protagonist is the preschool’s director. The story is based on an experience my mother had when she ran a preschool near Princeton in the 1980s. In my novel, one of the moms discovers that one of the preschool dads is the son of a mafia boss and that he’s changed his name and lifestyle in an attempt to distance himself from his famous Italian family. When a body is found in the local lake, rumors and accusations fly. Of course, everyone suspects the dad.

Question #6—Do you ever get writer’s block? What helps you overcome it?

Answer—I don’t get writer’s block in the sense that I can’t think of something to write about. I’m a pantser, meaning I write and don’t outline my first draft. So, I guess you could say that I write through my blocks. However, I sometimes get stuck during rewriting when I realize something is amiss with my plot. When this happens, I talk out the issue with my wonderful critique group friends. They’ve taught me that most plot problems have easy fixes. Getting out into the world, living my life, and taking a break from my keyboard generates tons of ideas and solutions for me, too.

Question #7—One of the main characters in your novel, The Heaven Spot, is a graffiti artist, and another owns an art gallery. Your previous novel, The Worm Man, was about an aspiring artist. Are you a professional artist?

Answer—No. I’m not even an amateur artist, but I love visiting art museums. Also, when I was growing up, my father worked as a music professor in the fine arts department at a university. We regularly had his artist coworkers over for dinner. I spent hours listening to them talk about their projects and lives. I loved their passion. In fiction, you need passionate characters to propel your story forward. That’s likely why I’ve leaned toward writing about artists.

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Meet Author Mary Frances Hill:

Mary Frances Hill was born in Lawrenceville, New Jersey. The daughter of a music professor and an elementary school teacher, Mary obtained a master’s degree in counseling psychology and worked as a therapist before raising two children. Though Mary currently lives in Southern California with her Russian Blue and Scottish Straight cats, her Pyredoodle puppy, her golfer husband, and her adult son and daughter, she spent many happy vacations at her house on Palm Beach Island—the setting of her most recent novel, The Heaven Spot. Mary is an avid dog walker and home renovator and loves binge-watching true crime documentaries and mysteries. Mary’s debut novel, The Worm Man, was published in 2022.

Connect with the author:   Website  ~  Goodreads 
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THE HEAVEN SPOT (a novel) Book Tour Giveaway

 

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To see all of my giveaways go HERE.

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I am thrilled to be hosting a spot
on the WHEN CICADAS CRY by Caroline Cleveland Blog Tour hosted by 
Rockstar Book Tours.

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Check out my review and make sure to enter the giveaway!

 

 

WHEN CICADAS CRY

by Caroline Cleveland

 

 

Pub. Date: May 7, 2024

Publisher: Union Square Co.

Formats: Paperback, eBook, Audiobook

Pages: 336

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Find it: Goodreadshttps://books2read.com/WHEN-CICADAS-CRY 

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In this stunning debut by a South
Carolina attorney, Zach Stander, a lawyer with a past, and Addie Stone, his
indomitable detective and lover, find themselves entangled in secrets, lies,
and murder in a small Southern town.

A high-profile murder case—A white woman has been bludgeoned to death
with an altar cross in a rural church on Cicada Road in Walterboro, South
Carolina. Sam Jenkins, a Black man, is found covered in blood, kneeling over
the body. In a state already roiling with racial tension, this is not only a
murder case, but a powder keg.

A haunting cold case—Two young women are murdered on quiet Edisto Beach,
an hour southeast of Walterboro, and the killer disappears without a trace.
Thirty-four years later the mystery remains unsolved. Could there be a
connection to Stander’s case?

A killer who’s watching—Stander takes on Jenkins’s defense, but he’s up
against a formidable solicitor with powerful allies. Worse, his client is
hiding a bombshell secret. When Addie Stone reopens the cold case, she
discovers more long-buried secrets in this small town. Would someone kill again
to keep them?

Ideal for fans of mystery, suspense, and thrillers in the vein of Karin
Slaughter’s Pretty Girls and Stacy Willingham’s A
Flicker in the Dark
, as well as for readers who followed the high-profile
Murdaugh murder trial, held in the same small town as in When Cicadas
Cry
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MY REVIEW

There was so much that intrigued me about this book. The southern setting. The sensational murder case which created so much racial tension. A cold case that might tie into the recent one. And a killer watching as the small town imploded. It reminded me of the movie A Time To Kill.

The story is told from multiple points of view and I felt the author was right to do that. It helped me connect quickly with the characters and revealed why they had certain reactions and did what they did.

The story ebbed and flowed, kind of like the tide. There were moments where the excitement was palpable, and moments where the focus shifted to personal relationships and the past. I enjoyed all of it.

4 STARS

 

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About Author Caroline Cleveland:

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Caroline Cleveland is a labor and employment lawyer. A native South Carolinian, Caroline
grew up in the Lowcountry and earned her Juris Doctor degree from the
University of South Carolina School of Law in 1991. This is her first novel.

Website | Instagram | Goodreads | Amazon 

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1 winner will receive a finished copy of WHEN CICADAS CRY, US Only.

Ends May 7th, midnight EST.

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a Rafflecopter giveaway

Tour Schedule:

Week One:

4/22/2024

@callistoscalling

IG Review

4/23/2024

Books and Zebras

IG Review

4/24/2024

@jaimes_mystical_library

IG Review

4/25/2024

Two Points of Interest

Review/IG Post

4/26/2024

Kim’s Book Reviews and Writing Aha’s

Review/IG Post

Week Two:

4/29/2024

The Book Critic

Review/IG Post

4/30/2024

Country Mamas With Kids

Review/IG Post

5/1/2024

ENCHANTED EXCURSE

Review/IG Post

5/2/2024

One More Exclamation

Review/IG Post

5/3/2024

FUONLYKNEW

Review

 

~~~~~

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For a list of my reviews go HERE.

For a list of free eBooks updated daily go HERE

To see all of my giveaways go HERE.

Some Kind of Truth by Westley Smith Banner

SOME KIND OF TRUTH
by Westley Smith
April 8 – May 3, 2024 Virtual Book Tour

 

 

Synopsis:
A mysterious video. A cold case. A reporter hunting for answers to both.

Pittsburgh crime reporter, Steve James, returns home to find a mysterious package waiting outside his apartment door. At first, Steve fears the package could contain a deadly threat from a local mob boss pressuring him to retract his story, which helped put him behind bars. Instead, Steve finds a junior driver’s license belonging to Rebecca Ann Turner, a teenager who went missing from a party twenty-five years ago, and a USB flash drive containing a video of her murder. Horrified by the contents inside the package, Steve is determined to find out what happened to Rebecca and why someone dragged him into uncovering this mystery. But as Steve sifts through the clues and weaves his way around those trying to prevent him from exposing the truth, he continues to struggle with personal issues stemming from his time as a war correspondent in Afghanistan, where he was filmed being tortured and nearly executed by the Taliban, making what happened to Rebecca all the more personal.

Some Kind of Truth Trailer:

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Book Details:

Genre: Mystery, Thriller

Published by: Wicked House Publishing Publication Date: February 2, 2024 Number of Pages: 336 ISBN: 9781959798309 (ISBN10: 1959798308)

Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads

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MY REVIEW

Steve James never thought that monsters would once again enter his life. He thought his capture and torture by the Taliban while working as a war correspondent in Afghanistan gave him a get out of jail free card from all that. But when he finds a package left at his door containing a drivers license and a USB drive with images of a teenage girl who’d been missing for twenty five years, he must once again go on the hunt. It’s more than just a story to him.

Do you believe in monsters? You should. They’re real. They might be someone you know. Or someone you pass on the street. They look human. They act human. But it’s a glamour they wear so you won’t see the ugliness that is them. Yes, they’re homo sapiens. But they have no right to be called human. I’m a tough cookie. Don’t normally feel sick to my stomach when reading about these kind of monsters. But, the author’s writing wouldn’t let me look away. And knowing monster’s like the ones in this book are real. Are doing horrific things to people and still getting a good night sleep had a strong effect on me.

Steve, along with Amy, a young reporter, dive into the fray. They’re the unsung heroes. They’re the kind of people who hear a gunshot and run towards it while everyone else runs away. What they discover while investigating Rebecca’s disappearance should have made them run away. But, they entered the fray and faced plenty of danger. Unable to quit, even knowing they might not survive the case. I feared for them. I cheered for them. I cared for them.

There was no sugar coating of events in the story. The author put it all out there. Yes, I felt sick sometimes. But that made me eager to see how it all came together. Whether the monsters got their just desserts. And whether the characters I cared about were still alive when the dust settled.

A dark, disturbing story written just the way it should have been.

5 STARS

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Enjoy this peek inside:
CHAPTER ONE
The package was marked…
ATT: STEVE JAMES of the PITTSBURGH TRIBUNE
…and wrapped in brown butcher’s paper as if it were a poor-man’s version of a Christmas present. Steve had received anonymous packages before, some with leads to run down, others with incriminating evidence from a source he was working with. However, this package had not been delivered to the Pittsburgh Tribune like it should have been. It was left outside his apartment door. Perplexed, Steve lifted the package, gingerly, from the floor. It was light and about six inches long by four inches wide. He shook it, but nothing moved inside. He had not been expecting a delivery, certainly not one to his home by an anonymous person. His guts tightened into an uncomfortable, disconcerting knot. Turning, he looked down the hallway, to where the back stairwell led out to the rear entrance of the apartment building. Sunlight shone through the single window at the end of the hall and cut a sharp blade-like angle of light onto the floor. Dust particles floated in the air as if recently disturbed – maybe by the deliverer of the package. Someone could have gotten into the building by the rear entrance, made their way up to Steve’s apartment, dropped the package by his door, and slipped back out before anyone noticed. He did not live in one of the new high-rises being built around Pittsburgh – apartments that came with all the security bells and whistles – but rather an old turn of the century building on the lower east side of Pittsburgh. The rent was cheap, and the landlord damn-near nonexistent, especially when it came to the safety and upkeep of the building. It was what Steve could afford on a reporter’s salary. He looked back at the parcel in his hands. The sense of unease continued to coil his stomach. Was he being targeted like reporters after 9/11, with anthrax-sealed packages delivered to their homes and offices? Possibly. The fact that his article “MOB IN PITTSBURGH” had helped put Anthony Palazzo, a local money launderer affiliated with the New York-based DeLuca Crime Organization, behind bars could have something to do with the mysterious package outside his door that afternoon. Again, he wondered what was inside and cautiously shook it, like a kid trying to figure out the present under the wrapping on their birthday. Nothing moved, nothing rattled inside. Steve knew he should leave the package alone; place it back on the floor where he found it, call the police, and have them look at it first. That was the smart thing to do. The right thing to do. There could be anything inside meant to bring him harm, especially nowadays, when reporters were being unfairly besieged for spreading false information to the public. Against his better judgment, Steve forced the apprehension away like a fly at a picnic, tucked the bundle under his left arm, fished his keys from his jacket pocket, and opened the apartment door. Once inside, he closed the door and peered through the peephole to the hallway. Still, the hall was empty, and no one passed by. Again, he felt the skin on the back of his neck prickle, and the hairs stand on end with nervousness. Why was the package left and what was inside? Steve wondered. Turning away from the door, he moved into the kitchen. He placed his laptop bag on the counter beside his keys, then removed a Zippo lighter and a pack of cigarettes and placed them beside the laptop bag. He put the brown package beside his things. It looked odd on the countertop, as if it were some evil present that had been left at his home – a gift from Satan himself. There was nothing out of the ordinary with its appearance. Other than the handwritten address, there were no other identifiable words or labels on the outside. Gooseflesh rose across Steve’s body. Whoever delivered the package knew who he was, where he worked, and where he lived. Normally, Steve had all large packages sent to the Tribune’s mailroom. He didn’t trust his landlord, Horace Baker. The slimeball charged an extra ten dollars a month to hold deliveries larger than what could fit into the small gold mailboxes in the lobby. He called it a ‘holding charge.’ Steve was sure it was illegal, a scheme to get more money from the tenants. Steve was not about to pay the extra money. He had heard stories from others in the building that when they received their packages some were opened, searched, and sometimes things were missing. Of course, Baker claimed it was how the parcels arrived. This particular package, sitting ominously on his countertop, should never have made it to his floor. Or maybe it IS from Palazzo, Steve thought. It could have been a scare tactic to get Steve to retract his story, setting Palazzo free from prison, while simultaneously clearing the DeLuca Family of any wrongdoing. For all Steve knew, there could be a small explosive inside the box, just big enough to rattle his cage but not kill him. Or, if they wanted to get the job over with, they could have laced it with anthrax, just like reporters received after 9/11. Yet, he wasn’t so sure Palazzo or the DeLuca Family were ready to make that kind of move against him. At the moment, Palazzo and the DeLuca Family were letting their mob lawyers handle the process through the courts with a defamation and source exposure lawsuit on Steve and the Pittsburgh Tribune. No, Steve was confident it was delivered by someone else. But who? And more importantly, why? He pulled a bottle of Jameson Irish Whiskey from the cupboard along with a small glass and poured himself a healthy snort. Just to quiet the demons, Steve thought bitterly, taking a swig. Just to quiet the demons. He studied the package while swirling the brown liquor around in the glass, knowing he should leave it alone and call the police. But intrigue was sinking its fangs into his mind, poisoning his thoughts with fantasies of what dwelled inside its dark recesses. Someone knew Steve well enough to know he could never leave a mystery alone. He thumbed one of the cigarettes out of the box, popped it into his mouth and lit it with the Zippo lighter. He inhaled deeply. Smoke filled his lungs. Calmed his nerves. Helped him think straight – so he thought. What’s inside? a shadowy voice spoke from the alcoves of Steve’s mind, pulling him from his reverie. He could not argue with this strange, archaic voice. He desperately wanted to know what was inside the package. Taking a long drag on the cigarette, he let the smoke out slowly between his teeth with a low sssss. What to do? What to do? There was only one thing to do. Setting the cigarette in the ashtray, Steve picked the package up. He felt that familiar chill of disquiet crawl over him, like cold skeleton fingers walking up his spine, vertebra by vertebra. “Enough of this guessing-game shit,” Steve said and tore the heavy brown paper away, exposing a white box underneath which resembled something a pastry would come in. The lid was sealed shut with a single piece of Scotch Tape. Steve knew no one would send him sweets – maybe anthrax, maybe a bomb, but certainly not sweets. In a career that spanned more than twenty years as a crime reporter for the Tribune, Steve had made more enemies, like Anthony Palazzo, than friends. Such was the life, he supposed. He peeled the Scotch Tape from the box and then lifted the lid slowly, as if a venomous snake were about to spring out and bury its sharp fangs into his face. With the box lid cracked, he peered inside. Instead of finding something harmful, the box contained a USB Flash Drive secured in white tissue paper. Two words were handwritten on the front of the flash drive in black magic marker:/p>
PLAY ME!
Steve frowned. Why would someone send him a flash drive anonymously? Did it have something to do with the Palazzo story he’d spent the better part of two years working on? Some missing information that would, without a shadow of a doubt, ensure that Palazzo stayed behind bars for the rest of his life? Or was it something unrelated? Steve didn’t know. Then he noticed the USB was not the only item inside the box. Tucked beside the flash drive was a small piece of white plastic. Removing the plastic from the box, Steve found it was about the size of a credit card and coated with a reddish-brown dirt. He rubbed his fingertips together feeling a gritty dust, like a fine sand. Turning the card over revealed it was a Pennsylvania Junior Driver’s License issued to a Rebecca Ann Turner of 428 Water Street, Abbottstown Pennsylvania. Her birthdate was 10/02/1982. The issue date on the card was 11/23/1998 — twenty-six years ago. The top right-hand corner, where the expiration date should have been, was broken, the plastic chipped away, forever lost to time, leaving a jagged edge that looked sharp enough to slice through flesh. The driver’s license photo of Rebecca Turner showed an attractive sixteen-year-old girl with blonde hair and bright blue eyes that sparkled with life. Her face was long, narrow, and innocent, holding the optimism of youth. Her beaming smile radiated from the picture, enhancing her natural beauty and charm. According to the driver’s license, Rebecca was born in 1982, which would make her forty-two years old now. But Steve got the sickening feeling that Rebecca did not live to see her forty-second birthday. He looked back to the flash drive resting inside the box. He was unsure how the driver’s license and the USB were connected, but he was certain they were, or they would not have been delivered together. What’s on the flash drive? Steve wondered anxiously. His heart began to race, and his palms grew moist with sweat. A horrible notion rushed through his mind that something awful had happened to Rebecca Turner, something the USB would ultimately reveal. “H-holy shit,” he said aloud; the shudder in his voice surprised him. Someone wants you to find out what happened to this young lady, Steve ol’ Boy, and expose the truth. Reaching for the cigarette in the ashtray, he brought it to his lips and inhaled. The smoke settled on his lungs with a comfortable bite that he relished. He looked back to the box; his eyes lingered on its contents. Possible scenarios played across his mind as to why someone would want him involved. But none of these thoughts made much sense at the moment. Steve took another drag and stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray. He had smoked it down to the filter as he often did; a haze of heavy, thick smoke hovered around the ceiling. He picked up the glass of whiskey and finished it in one swallow, and then poured himself another – three fingers worth this time. His mouth had gone bone dry, but he wasn’t sure another shot – even three fingers worth – would wet his whistle. The demons inside were growing, and Steve needed to calm them. Or, at least, he continued to tell himself that on a nightly basis. Warily, he lifted the USB from the box. Dare he view whatever was on it, or call the police and let them handle the situation? He shook the thought off. His reporter instinct had taken over. He needed to know what was on the USB, how it connected with the girl on the junior driver’s license, and why he was chosen to unravel this mystery before going to the police. *** Excerpt from Some Kind of Truth by Westley Smith. Copyright 2024 by Westley Smith. Reproduced with permission from Westley Smith. All rights reserved.

 

 

About Author Westley Smith:

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Westley Smith

Westley Smith had his first short story, Off to War, published when he was just sixteen. Recently, he has had short stories featured in On the Premise, Unveiling Nightmares, and Crystal Lake Entertainment. He was the runner-up contestant in the Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine’s “Mysterious Photograph Contest,” where his name was featured in the magazine. He sold his debut thriller, Some Kind of Truth, to Wicked House Publishing, it was released on February 2nd, 2024.

Catch Up With Westley Smith: Goodreads Instagram – @wsmithbooks Facebook – @westleysmith100

 

 

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For a list of my reviews go HERE.

For a list of free eBooks updated daily go HERE

To see all of my giveaways go HERE.

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Never trouble Trouble, ‘til Trouble troubles you,

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for if you trouble Trouble, Trouble’s sure to trouble you.

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Hidden in the Shadows

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by A.D. Vancise

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Genre: Thriller, Suspense, Mystery

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“All I can ever think about is murdering her.” -C.B.

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Twenty-three-year-old Evie Day never dreamt she’d be back in Woodsville Arkansas, a small town in the

middle of nowhere, after having left five years earlier, but the death of her grandfather called for her

return. After discovering a photo from 1933 of a mysterious woman standing next to a tiny wooden box, a

strange vial of blood wrapped up in a handkerchief in the pocket of her grandfather’s overalls, and a key

hidden in his desk drawer that belongs to a secret safety deposit box, Evie is unwittingly thrown into a

world of evil where those closest to her are the ones to be the most feared and danger lurks around every

corner.


Hidden in the Shadows by A.D. Vancise shines a light on the darkness and reveals the underlying players

that have been hunting in plain sight.

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IMPORTANT NOTICE

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The survivors of satanic rituals and child trafficking inspired this book, along with a photo I found in my

grandfather’s family photos of a mysterious woman standing beside a tiny box. My grandfather died with

the real story of what happened. He was a police officer.

I knew I had to take this story down a dark path once I heard the victims’ stories and those who never

believed them. The killer’s POV is based on true testimonials of survivors. These horrific acts

happened and continue to happen to kids worldwide.

 

Having said that, I feel the importance of noting a trigger warning for intense graphic material such

as child trafficking, sadism, occult rituals, sexual and physical abuse, violence, and murder. If reading

this material evokes memories of or PTSD from abuse, please contact professionals or a safe person

immediately. This novel is in no way meant to sensualize or exploit these serious events. It requires

courage to read this story meant to bring awareness to these heinous acts and give a voice to the

children who no longer have one. It’s to shed light on a darkness that has plagued this world for far

too long. I am awed by all those who can receive this information and want to help the children. We

all need to give them a voice. Thank you for being brave enough to read this story.

 

Sincerely,

 

A.D. Vancise

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Reviews for Hidden In the Shadows

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“Writing with crisp efficiency, mordant wit, and bursts of searing terror, Vancise whets the novel’s escalating puzzles and portents with an edge of queasy uncertainty.” -Editors Pick, Booklife.

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“If you’re looking for a spine-tingling read that will leave you wondering who to trust, what dangers are lurking beneath the surface and when the next twist will come, then Hidden in the Shadows is the book for you.”-Booktrib.

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“Hidden in the Shadows by A. D. Vancise is a thrilling mystery that keeps readers in suspense from the first clue until the end.” – Five Stars. Literary Titan.

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“A.D. Vancise excels in crafting a dark, atmospheric story.” -D. Donovan, Senior Reviewer, Midwest Book Review

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“If you are a reader who is tired of reading the same old books that are lackluster and forgettable, then take a chance with this one…you will not be disappointed.” -The Red-Headed Book Lover.

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“The author vividly informs your mind’s eye.” – Five Stars. Readers’ Favorite.

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Dark, disturbing, and gripping.” -Five Stars. Bookview Review.

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A grim but exciting and compelling mystery even in its most disconcerting moments.” Kirkus Review.

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What kind of research do you do before you begin writing a book? 

Research into a story depends on the type of story being written. My first book, for instance, didn’t require much research due to it being a semi-autobiography. I knew the story, the characters, the plot etc. I may have had to research medical terms or areas that my brother and his partner had visited as well as speak to Brad, my brother’s partner, about their experiences but that was the minimal research done for that book. This book, however, consisted of close to six months of straight research if not more.

 

Do you see writing as a career? 

I want to see writing as a career, I take it very seriously. Having said that though, my reason for writing is for the love of writing, first and foremost.

 

What do you think about the current publishing market? 

The current publishing market is difficult on many levels. I much prefer the hybrid model. This model isn’t a vanity press, there is quite a difference between the two. A hybrid publisher you still must pitch, and they do not accept all manuscripts for publishing. When your manuscript is accepted the author pays the publisher for structural editing, cover design, copy editing, interior design, and some promotion.

 

Do you read yourself and if so what is your favorite genre? 

I read and read and read again. This I believe should be the pattern of all writers. I learn a great deal from other authors both bad and good or what I like or dislike. Some paragraphs, I’ll read two or three times when they are exceptional. I’ll jot it down in a notebook as well making sure to mark it as someone else’s work because I also jot down ideas or sentences that come to me randomly or conversations between strangers and I don’t want to plagiarize. I read reviews of books I’ve read as well, good, and bad as this also provides great feedback as to what readers want or look for in a book. My favorite genre is and always has been thriller/mystery.

 

Do you prefer to write in silence or with noise? Why? 

I cannot write if it’s too silent around me. I know other authors isolate themselves, but I realized at university that I couldn’t concentrate when it was quiet. I need something to block out in order to focus, so the noisier the better. I often put on music or plant myself in the middle of a room with others watching TV.

 

Do you write one book at a time or do you have several going at a time?

I never saw myself writing two books at once but here I am doing it now. I’m working on the sequel to Hidden in the Shadows and Memoirs from a Killer.

 

Pen or type writer or computer?

When I’m working on the story, I use a program called Scrivener on my computer. I find it’s the quickest way to get the words out. When they flow, they flow rapidly. I still enjoy pen to paper as I came from the era just before computers. We hand-wrote papers or typed them on a typewriter so I will keep a journal or notebooks that I prefer to handwrite.

 

Do you have any advice to offer for new authors? 

Advice to new authors read, read, read, and then read some more and in the genre, you’d like to write in. I hear people often say they want to write a book, but they don’t read. How do you expect to know what sells or what flows, works, or doesn’t work if you don’t read? I would also advise taking some writing courses to gain confidence. And write for the love of writing not because you want to get published. One more thing, you CAN do it, your story is important, WRITE it.

 

Describe your writing style. 

I would describe my writing style as atmospheric. I am a visual artist and I feel that helps in my creation of a scene but it’s a fine line, too much description and you lose the reader, not enough and you lose the reader I try to set the tone of the scene through atmosphere, smells, touch, and tastes. I want my readers to feel embedded in the scene as if they are right there in it.

 

What makes a good story? 

That depends on who is reading it. For me, a good story takes me on a journey. One with smells, textures, tastes, and with well-formed characters. What do I mean by well-formed characters? I want to know how they grew up, what friends they have or had and why, and what are their greatest fears, wants, or dislikes. A character doesn’t just enter a story at age 30 and has no background. For me, this is one of the most important things in a book. If I don’t care about a character, (good or bad) I’m not going to care what happens to them.

 

What is your writing process? For instance do you do an outline first? Do you do the chapters first? 

Outlines, oh the one question that every writer gets asked. I do not work from one. I find them restrictive like I can’t sway from the outline. My creative process I would describe as a gypsy going wherever the wind blows. Haha. Not quite that carefree but I do like to be free to write what comes next. I typically know the beginning and the ending, but everything in between is yet to be seen. I live my life the same way.

Chapters? In my first book, I just wrote not worrying about the chapter breaks but in the second I did write in chapters. Sometimes the chapters merge or rearrange but the Scrivener program is great for editing as each chapter is isolated and can be moved by clicking and dragging. It’s a great program.

 

Do you try more to be original or to deliver to readers what they want?

I would say that I try to be original without trying to reinvent the wheel. My goal is to always give the reader what I think they want with some surprises. Truth or feeling real seems to be the most important trait for readers.

 

If you could tell your younger writing self anything, what would it be?

If I could tell my younger writing self something, it would be to stop worrying about what others think, stop doubting yourself, and write anyway.

 

How long on average does it take you to write a book?

How long it takes to write a book depends on the writer, research, and desire. My latest book took six months to write but was well over a year before being published. The current books have been over two years and still are not even halfway completed. Sometimes the words flow so quickly that you can’t type fast enough and sometimes it’s an empty canvas. I’ve heard of some writers taking ten years to complete something and some never do.  I find writer’s block to be a very real thing and when it happens, I just let it be. I’ll read and write in my journal or sometimes choose a topic so far removed from my current writing topic just to spark some ideas or flow.

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A D Vancise lives in Canada. When she’s not writing, she’s taking care of her three dogs, her cat, two ducks and some chickens. Her daughter is her inspiration for all things wonderful in the world.

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Thanks so much for visiting fuonlyknew and Good Luck!

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To see all of my giveaways go HERE.

.

The South’s wealthiest, most dysfunctional family is back,

with old scores to settle and a surprising houseguest.

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Red Pines

Trapnell Thriller Book 3

by Jill Hand

Genre: Thriller

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In this hilarious third installment, Jill Hand gives us the weirdest, funniest family saga yet.”

Wayne Turmel, author of Johnny Lycan: The Werewolf PI series

The discovery of the bodies of two “honky-tonk hitmen” on land belonging to a former relative brings the Trapnell siblings, self-centered Aimee, indolent Trainor, and brilliant Marsh, back to White Oaks, their opulent ancestral home. FBI Special Agent Carson Burns is tasked with protecting them, something she finds increasingly difficult, as sinister events keep occurring which barely avoid being fatal.

Adding to the confusion is a deposed dictator who has eluded his Secret Service watchdogs and is pretending to be Marsh’s valet.

It becomes clear that someone intends to murder the Trapnells, but who? And why? A rapper called Baby Patty Cake insists the Illuminati are to blame, but that can’t be true, can it?

What readers are saying:

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Author Jill Hand has crafted a thriller that offers the ideal balance of humor and suspense to create a delightfully entertaining experience filled with quirky characters and unexpected twists. The dysfunctional dynamics of the Trapnell family are an absolute joy and a great foil to play off during the biggest surprises of the plot, while the witty dialogue and eccentric scenarios provide plenty of laughs along the way. The clues unfold at a great pace to allow us to figure things out alongside Agent Burns, yet the reader is kept in a fair amount of suspense about the true motives behind the attempts on the Trapnells’ lives, leading to a satisfying and surprising conclusion. Overall, Red Pines is a captivating read that offers equal parts humor and suspense, making it a must-read for fans of comedic thrillers everywhere.

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Amazon * Bookbub * Goodreads

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Dooley Voight drove them the thirty-five miles from the airport to Cobbs, a sleepy village not far from the Florida border. Cobbs had been the domain of the Trapnell family for generations. On the outskirts of town was their plantation house, White Oaks. It sprawled, vast and palatial, under the late afternoon sun, its meticulously tended green lawns, columned portico and dazzling white façade a vision of opulence.

Holy cow, thought Burns, stunned by the sight. It’s a genuine Georgia plantation. Leave it to Bad Choices to own a plantation.

As if he had read her thoughts, Marsh said, “A penny for your thoughts, Agent Burns.”

“My thoughts aren’t worth a penny,” she replied.

“I sincerely doubt that. I’ll show you around later. There are many interesting things to see at White Oaks. There’s a graveyard that’s supposed to be haunted, and a room where one of my ancestors kept his wife imprisoned for twenty years. The story goes that it stemmed from the having a disagreement over a game of whist. The scratches are still visible on the back of the door, where she clawed at it in a futile attempt to escape.”

“Great,” said Burns. “Can’t wait to see that.”

“I sure do enjoy comin’ out here to y’all’s stately home,” Dooley said to Marsh as he piloted his Lexus up the mile-long drive paved with white oyster shells. The shells crunched under the car’s tires as it rolled along at a sedate five miles per hour.

Dooley had the air-conditioning turned up. The thermometer on the dashboard registered eight-eight degrees Fahrenheit. That was considered normal, even a bit cool for Cobbs in late May. It would be another month before the real heat would set in, causing all outdoor activity to grind to a torpid, tropical crawl.

Aimee was already having reservations about returning to her ancestral home. The last time she was there, she and Marsh and Trainor, as well as their stepsister, Karen, had almost been murdered. The time before that, Trainor had allowed their father to strangle a sideshow performer Bad things had a way of happening at White Oaks.

Aimee resolved to watch her back. She hoped the level-headed presence of Special Agent Burns would be a calming influence.

“This is the second time today I been here,” Dooley remarked as they approached the circular turnaround in front of the house. In the center a marble fountain in the shape of a pod of dolphins sent jets of water into the air.

Pulled up to the portico steps was Blanton’s white 1959 Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith. Its tall, stainless steel radiator grille was topped by a sculpture of a crouching woman, her robes billowing out behind her. “Nellie in her Nightie,” was how jocular Rolls-Royce factory workers used to refer to the mascot, although its official name was the Spirit of Ecstasy. Parked behind the Rolls was a cherry-red BMW XM sedan.

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Black Willows

Trapnell Thriller Book 2

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A mysterious cowboy is stalking the eccentric Trapnell siblings. Is he a supernatural entity or a hired killer? To complicate things, the will making them heirs to their billionaire father’s estate is missing and a relative has returned from a watery grave.

Last time, the Trapnells saved the world from destruction. This time they may not be able to save themselves. Black Willows is a darkly funny Southern-fried adventure, complete with Voodoo, arson, and alligators.

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“And then,” Palmer Trapnell told an architect named Chase Merriweather, “An alarm will sound, one of those that goes aoogah! aoogah! The room will start filling up with ice-cold water and everyone will have to swim to safety. What do you think of that?”

Merriweather looked over Palmer’s shoulder to where her husband stood. Trainor Trapnell was shaking his head and frantically waving his hands, as if to say, No way! That’s insane!

“Well,” the architect said cautiously. “It’s an interesting concept.”

“I know! Escape rooms are popular right now. My friend Chandler Woodbury has one. It’s at Lakeland Mall, between Razzle-Dazzle Doughnuts and Sweet and Sassy Lingerie, where that store that sold things like blacklight posters and lava lamps used to be. You have to find clues to figure out how to escape from a room done up like a library in a spooky old mansion. This will be much better.”

Palmer beamed complacently. Her sandy blonde hair was cut in an asymmetrical style popularized by an actress with a starring role in a daytime television drama. Palmer was a former dog groomer who had advanced several rungs up the social ladder by marrying Trainor. With her bright pink lipstick and Lilly Pulitzer twin set, she was the apotheosis of an affluent young Atlanta matron.

Palmer and Chandler Woodbury, ostensibly friends, were locked in a mortal combat of one-upmanship. If Chandler had an escape room then Palmer wanted a better one.

“But the logistics,” Trainor said desperately. He drew up a chair and seated himself next to his wife at the polished mahogany conference table in Merriweather’s office. He spread his hands in mute appeal to the architect to put an end to this nonsense. “That’s what they’re called, right? Logistics? Ways of doin’ things? You can’t fill up a room up with water and make people swim out. It’s not safe. What if somebody drowns? And how do you empty the water out afterwards? I don’t see it.”

He turned to Palmer who had folded her arms across her chest and was pouting. “I’m sorry, Chicken Legs, but I think it might be illegal.”

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White Oaks

Trapnell Thriller Book 1

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An ingeniously dark comic thriller about greed, gluttony and murder that is destined for the big screen.” –Best Thrillers

Aimee Trapnell reluctantly leaves her apartment on Manhattan’s Central Park West to return to her childhood home in Georgia for her father’s ninetieth birthday. Also on hand are her two brothers, wily Marsh and ne’er-do-well Trainor. With a forty-billion-dollar inheritance at stake, they’re willing to do whatever it takes to make the old man happy.

To their shock they learn that what their father wants for his birthday is to kill someone. He doesn’t care who it is. He just wants to know what it’s like to commit murder.

Betrayal, double-dealing, and fast-paced action set the Trapnells on a collision course with an unexpected villain. Their journey takes them from the swamps of Georgia, to Italy’s glittering Amalfi coast, to rugged Yellowstone National Park.

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Chapter 31 – What Peewee Pelletier Found

Earlier that morning a man named Pewee Pelletier drove his pickup truck through a gap in the tall privet hedge in front of White Oaks. A discrete metal sign, white letters on a forest green background, declared it to be the service entrance to the estate.

The truck’s tires crunched on the gravel roadbed as Pewee drove past the kitchen wing, past the greenhouses and the water cascade, water burbling over its stone steps, and down beyond the old slave graveyard. He parked beside the white granite mausoleum. TRAPNELL was carved in stern block letters in the triangular pediment above the door.

It’s only seven-fifteen and already it’s hot as a crotch, Peewee thought, squinting at the white disc that was the sun, blazing mercilessly above the tangle of trees marking the beginning of the swamp. He wanted to finish the day’s work early and go fishing. He’d sweep out the mausoleum and get it looking shipshape for Blanton Trapnell’s big sendoff. Then he’d swing by Holy Redeemer and White Knoll cemeteries and cut the grass before knocking off for the day. With any luck he’d be on the lake in his bass boat by noon, along with a cold six-pack and a container of minnows from Buzzy’s. Perhaps he’d get Gordon Buzzy to sell him a bottle of Old Rocking Chair. He bit into the egg salad sandwich his wife had made for him.

Chewing egg salad on white bread liberally smeared with mayonnaise he looked at the mausoleum and snorted in contempt. The damn thing probably cost more than his house. Rich people, he thought resentfully. At least rich people died, just like everybody else. Blanton Trapnell wouldn’t be driving his Rolls-Royce through town anymore, not deigning to wave at Pewee when Peewee drove past going the other way in his truck.

Peewee always waved when he encountered other drivers. It was the neighborly thing to do, but Blanton Trapnell thought he was too good to acknowledge people like Peewee who weren’t born with a silver spoon in their mouth. Blanton Trapnell wasn’t neighborly. Now he was dead and good riddance. Let’s see what Saint Peter would have to say about his lack of neighborliness when he showed up at the Pearly Gates. Peewee bit into the dill pickle his wife had packed along with the sandwich. Pickle juice ran down through the beard stubble on his chin as he smiled, thinking of Old Man Trapnell being denied admission to Heaven and instead being cast, shrieking, into a lake of fire.

He crumpled the pieces of wax paper the sandwich and the pickle had been wrapped in and stuck them in the hip pocket of his green Carhartt work pants. Then he took the key hanging from a cardboard tag marked ‘Trapnell’ that Chapman had given him and went to unlock the door.

Leaving the bronze door open to let it air out inside, Peewee got a push broom and a pry bar out of the truck. He carried them into the cool interior of the mausoleum and sniffed cautiously. It smelled musty, like closed-up spaces always did. He also detected the unmistakable stink of decomposition.

The decomp odor wasn’t coming from any of the corpses in the crypts. Those were embalmed and would be as dry as old leather. It was something freshly dead, most likely a possum or a raccoon that had crawled through the ventilation shaft on the roof. Pewee figured he’d find whatever it was lying in the shadows, paws-up. He drew on a pair of rubber work gloves and patted the black plastic trash bag tucked in his belt. Ms. Possum or Mr. Raccoon would be going into the bag. He just hoped they weren’t too gooshy.

A stained glass window in the rear wall threw splashes of red, blue and green over the stone floor. The window’s subject was utterly inexplicable to Peewee: not Jesus or some saint but three naked men being attacked by huge snakes. Peewee stared at it, trying to recall which Bible story it could have come from. There were several involving animals. There was Daniel in the lions’ den, and Jonah and the whale, and one about a talking donkey that got pissed off when its owner kept hitting it with a stick, but he couldn’t think of anything involving snakes, other than the Garden of Eden thing.

“Rich people,” he muttered shaking his head.

He leaned the broom against the wall inside the door. He’d sweep the floor before he locked up.

The double crypt where Blanton Trapnell’s coffin would go was on the left wall, down near the snake window. Trapnell’s second wife was in there and he would be going in beside her. The late Mrs. Trapnell had been a terror. Peewee wouldn’t want to wait for the last trumpet to blow while lying beside a bitch like Deirdre Trapnell. Fortunately he wouldn’t have to. He’d be buried out at Holy Redeemer with his wife and his mama and daddy and the rest of his family. The Trapnells could keep their old mausoleum with its bizarre naked-men-and-snakes window, thank you very much.

Pewee intended to use the pry bar to remove the granite slab known in the funeral trade as a shutter from the front of the double crypt. The shutter was inscribed with Blanton’s name and date of birth, as well as his wife’s name and her dates of birth and death. A stonecutter would add Blanton’s final date and it would go back in place and be sealed, after his bronze casket went in.

The casket was a model called the Chancellor made by the Batesville Casket Company. It cost $25,000. It had a variety of high-end features, including a rounded glass seal, bronze swing-bar handles, fully adjustable inner bed with head and foot velvet pillows and matching velvet blanket and a hidden locking mechanism.

Blanton’s purchase of the most expensive casket among those on display in Chapman’s showroom had been a red letter day for Lycott and Joelle Chapman and their two children. The family celebrated by taking a trip to Jekyll Island, where they’d gone to a water park.

Peewee walked down the center aisle, pausing to kick at a drift of leaves that must have blown in under the door. As he kicked at the leaves, scattering them, his work boot came in contact with something unyielding. He looked down to see what it was and found it was a foot, clad in a narrow, polished black shoe.

The pry bar hit the stone floor with a clatter as Peewee turned tail and ran.

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Jill Hand is a member of International Thriller Writers. Her Southern Gothic novels, White Oaks, and Black Willows, are available on Amazon and from the publisher, Black Rose Writing.

Advance readers called White Oaks a fast-paced, hilarious account of three siblings who are competing for their father’s forty-billion-dollar fortune while trying to prevent the destruction of Planet Earth.

Diane Donovan, senior reviewer from Midwest Book Review praised White Oaks, calling it, “an unusually multifaceted tale that holds the ability to prompt laughter from thriller-style tension.”

A sequel to White Oaks, Black Willows, follows the adventures of the squabbling, dysfunctional Trapnell family. Red Pines, third in the series of Trapnell family thrillers, was just released in April 2024.

Facebook * Bookbub * Amazon * Goodreads

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Follow the tour HERE for special content and a giveaway!

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Thanks so much for visiting fuonlyknew and Good Luck!

For a list of my reviews go HERE.

For a list of free eBooks updated daily go HERE

To see all of my giveaways go HERE.

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Get ready for a pulse-pounding journey through the darkest corridors of power in the Otis Thorne thriller series!

In the second Otis Thorne thriller, a malevolent alliance triggers a global pandemic, forcing Thorne and Noah into a race against time. Can they unravel the sinister plot?

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Black Dust

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The Otis Thorne Thriller Series Book 2

by Arla Jones

Genre: Thriller, Suspense

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An action-packed thriller for fans of Clancy, Thor, and Flynn, Great for readers of political conspiracies and CIA counterterrorism missions.

In the gripping second installment of the Otis Thorne thriller series, the world is thrust into chaos as a malevolent alliance between Russia and North Korea unleashes a deadly biological weapon upon the United States. The insidious plan triggers a devastating global pandemic, pushing Otis Thorne and his trusted ally, Noah, into a perilous race against time. As they unravel the sinister plot, they find out who is behind the deadly biological attack against their country. With lives hanging in the balance and the fate of nations at stake, Thorne and Noah must navigate a treacherous web of deception, danger, and intrigue to uncover the truth and stop the relentless march of the pandemic.

This second book will leave you breathless and wanting more.

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 1 The Biting Dust

 

 An underground research facility, North Korea, 2027

 

The underground facility was perfect for secret tests, including nuclear and chemical experiments that they did not want any of their enemies or neighboring countries to see on the satellite. The facility was dug deep underground into a volcanic mountain that hadn’t experienced any volcanic activity for years. Only the high-ranking members of the Worker’s Party knew about this facility.

The secret nuclear weapon and chemical weapon research in this facility created an environmental change in the bugs that had come in contact with the research area. The tiny insects that survived the chemical environmental change moved in the air like a cloud of black dust, looking for a living animal or person, and then attaching to the skin. The scientists called these bugs:

무는 먼지 muneun meonji which meant the biting dust.

It was a new form of life, not exactly anything that had existed before, but they were tough and resilient, like cockroaches, and could survive almost anything. The only difference was that these bugs were microscopic and moved together, never individually.

The scientists were both surprised and horrified by what they had created. They knew that, for example, grasshoppers could change their behavior because of crowding, which is called density-dependent phenotypic plasticity and refers to the bugs changing behavior due to environmental factors. The North Korean scientists suspected that something similar had happened to these bugs that had survived the chemical and nuclear research area, and thus, this new form of black bugs appeared on Earth.

When the sun set and it became dark, these bugs searched for their next target, any warm-blooded living thing would do, and they started biting. For some reason, the bugs never moved or bit during the daytime.

The scientists first thought was that the reports of the biting bugs were just imagination or hallucination, but when they got a sample of the black dust under the microscope, the bug looked more like a blackish-green crystal than a normal bug except this crystallized bug was alive. It was a new form of life created by chemical weapons.

The researchers observed that these insects exhibited movement to locate their target specifically during cooler temperatures, typically after sunset. They hypothesized that each minuscule bug functioned like a vampire, extracting blood from the host, resulting in a sensation of biting and itching. This experience often gave the impression of something crawling on the skin, followed by a subsequent sting, with the intensity increasing based on the number of bugs present on the skin. The scientists studied the bugs some more and realized that and realized they could reproduce themselves.

The bugs displayed no distinction between males and females. The researchers observed that the life cycle of adult-sized insects spanned approximately five days, following a developmental period of one week to reach this stage.

At the end of the adult-sized bugs’ life cycle, the insect emitted a cloud of black dust, smaller than its original size and measuring approximately one-fifth of a millimeter. These entities, referred to by scientists as eggs, cracked open resembling a butterfly’s cocoon, revealing larvae inside. These juvenile bugs exhibited rapid growth, reaching the size of an adult, around half a millimeter, within a week. The most troubling discovery was that the scientists could not find any method to kill these bugs or their eggs. They tried all kinds of pesticides to no avail. They even tried to burn a building infested with these bugs, but the bugs survived.

They conceded that there was no established method for exterminating these nightcrawlers. However, the scientists soon recognized that they possessed an unparalleled weapon, unique in the world. It was now imperative to devise a strategy for employing these insects to their advantage against their adversaries.

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The next phase was to experiment with the labor camp prisoners. They chose a distant location in Hoeryong, where the notorious concentration camp was reportedly closed in 2012. However, in reality, it was still running state-supported secret experiments on the remaining political prisoners.

This infamous camp was in North Hamgyong province in northeast North Korea, close to China’s border and about 700 miles away from the Sea of Japan. Regardless of how close the camp was to the Chinese border, not many prisoners escaped.

It was heavily guarded, and the experiments and malnutrition made the prisoners weak and sick. Most of them were brought there in the back of a truck in the middle of the night, so they never saw the outside of the camp and where it was located. They had poor-quality shoes that were not made to walk long distances along the valleys and hills on uneven ground. If they escaped, their prison outfit would not keep them warm during the freezing nights when the temperature dropped below twenty Fahrenheit.

It was the perfect place for the new secret weapon experiment.

The prisoners were never told what the new experiment would be. They were just exposed to it. This time it was the bugs!

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Fathers and Sons

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The Otis Thorne Thriller Series Book 1

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A High-Stake Conspiracy with Historical Roots. A Sci-Fi Political Thriller. Moral Dilemmas. Infiltration of Trusted Institutions. International Espionage. Blackmail and Personal Stakes. Race Against Time.

In ‘Fathers and Sons,’ a riveting thriller unfolds as a clandestine organization threatens to plunge the United States into chaos by undermining both its political stability and the integrity of President Andrew Burr.

Otis Thorne, a former CIA operative, becomes President Burr’s last hope as he unearths a sinister infiltration of the White House, leaving trust in short supply. With the United Nations General Assembly looming, Thorne races against time to expose the conspiracy, exacerbated by the coercive demand that President Burr deliver a specific pro-Russian speech. The stakes intensify as the blackmailers hold the life of the President’s son in the balance, with a series of demands that trace their origins back to the darkest days of WWII, Nazi Germany, and the Soviet Union.

Will Thorne untangle the web of deceit in time to save not only the President’s family but the entire nation from an insidious plot decades in the making?

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Chapter 1 The Secret Meeting

 

On a cold, crisp night in the waning winter days of 2026, a lonely doorman stood in front of a dimly lit restaurant waiting for someone. It was past midnight. Most restaurants in the King Street area of Arlington, Virginia, closed at midnight or earlier. With the constant swarm of customers earlier that same evening, the bright lights and sounds of chatter and music gave way to soothing darkness. The night softened the sharp edges of the buildings and toned down the harsh bright colors of the restaurant signs.

If there had been an observer, he would have noticed a line of limousines arriving. In each one of the limousines was a single passenger. After the passengers got out of their luxurious limousines and walked up the few marble steps to the heavy iron door, the limousines drove quietly away. Each passenger showed his right wrist to the burly-looking doorman, who then opened the door and let the passenger inside after checking it.

An exclusive group of rich and powerful men had gathered for a clandestine meeting. This was their first gathering in person. The men had talked several times on the phone and held video conferences, but they had never met in person. Only Hydra, their leader, had met the participants individually on a few selected occasions. But those meetings had been kept discreet and in remote locations, like his well-guarded dacha, his luxury holiday country home by the Black Sea.

These men wanted to shape the global economy and international politics for the benefit of their homeland and themselves. Operation Pobeda had brought them together. Pobeda means a victory or a coup in the Russian language. The operation had started over seventy years ago and had required lots of money and time to prepare. But the most important thing was that they needed one man on their side who could fulfill their demands and get them what they wanted, namely the president of the United States.

The group called themselves Septem, the Seven. The name, Septem, referred to the number of participants in the group—seven—even though not all of them participated in person in the meetings. The Septem needed one day to start a successful execution of all the activities in Operation Pobeda that would change the world and threaten the stability of the world order.

The ages of the Septem ranged from mid-forties to seventies. Each man had a different tattoo on their right wrist: Phoenix, Hydra, Werewolf, Hippogriff, Cyborg, Nachtkrapp, and Basilisk. Each tattoo represented a mythical or a sci-fi creature. They used their tattoos both as an identity check as well as code names because they did not want to be heard communicating with each other by their real names and talking about their secret operation. Their faces and businesses were too familiar to everyone following the news. If their collaboration had been known, someone might have started asking questions. These men were too clever and too careful to let any outsiders know about Operation Pobeda. They knew that knowledge was both leverage and power. The stakes were high.

When the Septem group members entered the restaurant, they glanced around to ensure it was as private and secure as their leader, Hydra, had promised. The place was empty except for these men who had arrived.

The color scheme inside was of cool grays and blues, with metallic touches on the walls. The tiny lights on the ceiling bathed the room in a soft glow. The thick blue curtains were drawn over the windows so no one would see inside the restaurant. One wooden table was placed in the center of the room. A few flower arrangements of white Callas and purple anemones in tall vases on the pedestals were arranged around the dining room.

The table was set for seven men with as many tablet computers on it. In the middle of the table, a set of glasses and bottles of sparkling water, house wine, brandy, and vodka bottles were ready. However, none of the participants considered this visit a social one.

One seat was empty, but there was a tablet computer because this participant joined the meeting via video call. He had covered his face with a black bird mask called il dottore. The mask had glass openings in the eyes and a long, curved black beak. The bird mask was fitting because his tattoo represented a mythological bird—a Nachtkrapp, a scary night raven, inked inside his right wrist. Just like all the other participants, he showed his wrist to the others for identification purposes. He used voice-altering software that gave his voice a deep metallic sound to make sure that nobody recognized him.

They could have had all the meetings online via video conference call, but none wanted to do that because someone could still be listening, monitoring, and might discover their plans. The man with the Hippogriff tattoo on his wrist owned the restaurant, and no outsider could have planted listening devices there without him knowing it. He also provided limousines for the participants. The most important thing was to keep Operation Pobeda secret. The other reason was that if they had to make difficult decisions, it was always better to do it face-to-face, for example, if they had to sacrifice a member of this group to ensure the operation’s success.

“Is everyone in order?” Hydra, the spokesman, asked with a thick Russian accent. He glanced at the computer screen in front of him. They were all there. The operation was ready to launch.

Hydra was in his early seventies. He was a tall, slender, white-haired man with eyes as friendly as a shark’s. The many-headed serpentine monster, Hydra, was tattooed on the inside of his right wrist. He was one of the oligarchs that had emerged in Russia after its transition from socialism to capitalism, and he was well-connected to the Russian mob and the government. He knew how and who to bribe to get things done in the new Russia. His billions had come from owning media companies in Russia and transferring his investments to Swiss bank accounts before the economic sanctions sank the ruble.

“Yes, Hydra, Operation Pobeda will be set in motion today as agreed,” an elderly man with salt and pepper hair replied. “The doppelganger is ready to play his part.” He had a Basilisk tattoo, a legendary reptile that can kill with a single glance.

“Any new developments?” Hydra asked. His icy gaze went around the table. Some of the participants faced his stare with blank, brave looks, and some turned their eyes toward the tablets in front of them. Everyone feared Hydra, their government ally, their strategist, not just because of his fortune but because of his influence and his high-level allies in Russia.

“Everything is going as planned. No delays, no changes. My men are in place and ready to go to the airport,” a man wearing a black leather vest and pants replied. He had a huge, fiery-looking Werewolf with flaming eyes tattooed on his right wrist. He looked like a member of a motorcycle gang. He was in his mid-forties and had earned his fortune in drugs, sex, collecting debts, and later setting up legal shell companies to hide his more illicit businesses.

“Thank you for the update, Werewolf,” Hydra replied and asked the one person participating via video conference, “Do you have anything else to share with the rest of us, Nachtkrapp?”

“The President won’t have a clue what hit him,” Nachtkrapp replied with a metallic voice, but you could still hear a slight Bostonian accent.

“Everything seems to be in order. “If there is nothing else, then we will meet again after the first phase of Operation Pobeda is over,” Hydra said, ending the clandestine meeting.

It had started raining, and the raindrops glinted in the streetlights like silver silk. The doorman held a large umbrella for each man until they got into their limousines. Then he went back for the next one. Hydra was the first to leave, and Werewolf was the last. Each man left the same way they came, alone and in a dark limousine with tinted windows. The doorman closed the restaurant doors and turned off the lights.

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Enthusiastic about crafting high-octane thrillers packed with action and unexpected plot twists, Arla Jones, blends her personal experiences to create tales that will set your heart pounding. With each keystroke, she conjures compelling characters, some you’ll root for, and others you’ll love to despise. Beyond the keyboard, the author finds solace in gardening and draws inspiration from the vibrant world around her. Immerse yourself in her stories, where danger and desire collide, and be prepared for an unforgettable, exhilarating journey. Brace yourself, dear reader, as Arla Jones is poised to take you on a thrilling ride you won’t easily forget.

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