Monthly Archives: February 2015

THESE VIOLENT DELIGHTS by Sharon Linnea

24 Tuesday Feb 2015

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These Violent DelightsPROLOGUE
On what was to be the last evening of her life, Jane Whittle left the studio at 7:13 p.m. Traffic was slow going over the hill, and she briefly entertained her daily fantasy of working on a show that taped on location north of L.A., as more and more of them seemed to do. But her specialty had become extraterrestrials, and somehow alien life forms always headed straight for West Hollywood. She snaked along the Ventura Freeway past Coldwater Canyon, edging her Prius into the right-hand lane just after Sepulveda.

Jane was, in fact, content. Work was steady; she had a reputation for being one of the most creative makeup artists in L.A. Earthquakes and fires she could do without, but she reveled in the thought that this was March and her car windows were closed due to smog, not temperature. This time of year in London–she shivered remembering the looming gray skies, the dampness that penetrated your bones. Here, she had gardenias blooming in her backyard.

She made the turnoff onto 405 North, following it briefly to Sherman Way. She smiled as she turned onto a side street, then off into the parking lot of La Tureen, her favorite spot for gourmet takeout. Outrageously pricey, yes, but the soups and homemade specialties were to die for. She was a firm believer in treating herself, especially after a hard day’s work.

As she locked the car, she heard her name.

“Why–Jane. It is Jane, isn’t it?”

She looked up to see an old acquaintance just exiting La Tureen, carrying two green and white shopping bags laden with gourmet food.

“By the saints,” Jane said, squinting to make certain she wasn’t imagining things. “What a coincidence to run into you today.”

“Coincidence?”

“Yes, I spent the whold day on the lot discussing Tristan and Isolde. Everyone read in today’s trades about the re-release. It was all they could talk about,” she chuckled. “That film made most of them decide to go into the business, to hear them talk. Oh-sorry. Here I am, running on, and you with food getting cold.”

“No, no,” said her companion. “I’m in no rush the foie gras here’s magnifique, so I try to pick some up when I can. And when I do–” the bags were lifted, their weight tested, “I’m afraid I go overboard. Dinner for twelve, and it’s just me.”

“Can’t blame you,” agreed Jane. “It’s delightful. No one uses saffron in quite the same way.” She was feeling heady at being recognized after all this time.

“It would make me feel less foolish if I could persuade you to share the bounty with me.”

Jane felt herself blush, actually blush, with pleasure. Certainly, she felt comfortable working with different types of people, but this was a real overture of friendship, giving her the feeling she was above-the-line, inside the loop.

“Is there something else I can pick up while we’re here?” she asked.

“I think I’ve emptied their larder already. Do you know of somewhere nearby we could spread out?”

“Why, my place, of course,” said Jane, trying to remember if she’d put away the snack tray after last night’s television viewing. “It’s a couple of blocks away.”

“If it’s really no trouble. I’d hate to put you out.”

“None a-tall! Really.”

“Shall I hop in with you? I’m sure they won’t mind if I leave the car here for an hour.”

“It would be my pleasure.”

Jane was relieved to find she had indeed straightened up before leaving at dawn. The small house was polished and shiny. She hummed through the kitchen, bringing a lavendar vase of yellow Devon roses into the small dining room for a centerpiece.

The piquant aromas of basil and ginger emerged as the strong winners as containers were opened.

“Start with the soup, shall we?” asked Jane, folding navy cloth napkins under the heavy silver. “I’ll give us appetizer plates for the brioche.”

“You’re the boss. I was planning paper plates.”

“And for the wine?” Jane asked. “I do have a nice Bordeaux.”

“Perfect.”

“All this talk of Tristan has opened a floodgate of memories for me–as I’m sure it has for you.” Jane smiled to herself. “Do you hear anything of Lily–Anastasia Day? I keep meaning to write, but I’d hate to bother her.” She  brought in the wine and sat down, indicating her gues should do the same. Even as she said it, Jane knew the truth was that she was terrified to risk discovering that Anastasia had forgotten her. That would break her heart. She’d rather protect her memories and not know.

“I’m afraid I haven’t heard anything–at least, not recently. But how about you? Here’s the question you undoubtedly get all the time: are the inhabitants of that Wild West ghost town actually dead, hermaphrodites, or aliens?” her guest asked of Jane’s current series.

Jane chuckled. “All I know for sure is they’re on HBO.” Her companion was polite enough to feign interest in the anecdotes that came with the show’s strange assignments for the cast’s makeup. But as Jane described the makeup department, of which she was head, she realized in a flash of revelation that her assistants were incompetent. And she needed to order some new forehead moldings, but the producer had prohibited it. That got her goat. Did he want the inhabitants of Ghosttown to looke like dime-store trick-or-treaters, or the proud race they were? The thought made her head throb.

“Forgive me,” she said with a short laugh. “None of this is your problem. The brioche is thrilling. There must be fennel in the sausage, don’t you think?”

A wave of heat pulsed through Jane’s body, flushing her face and arms. Oh, dear, she thought. Take a sip of wine Sit and breathe…

But as the hot flashes intensified, the room began to tilt. Candles flickered wildly and went out. Darkness shrouded her. What on earth?

Jane stood, knocking her chair over behind her. She tried to lurch away, but the room was tilting and she felt vomit rising in her throat. Was it an earthquake? No–it was a thing, a presence. She knew because when it grabbed her, it had a sour, evil breath…and it had hands. Hands that held thick silver steel blades.

Jane couldn’t move. It was as if she’d turned to stone. But her flesh was still soft; she could tell because it tore so easily as the monster before her drove the daggers into her abdomen. With each thrust, a blade of pain coursed the length of her body.

“No!” she shrieked. “No, no, no!”

Her last thought was, I don’t want to die like this.

And then she was dead.

Click here to buy the book and KEEP READING!

007Sharon Linnéa is a biographer and novelist who also writes thrillers and mysteries. She lives outside New York City with her family. Visit her at http://SharonLinnea.com

 

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Now You Tell Me! 12 ARMY WIVES Give the Best Advice They Never Got

17 Tuesday Feb 2015

Posted by in Advice, How To, Non-Fiction, Uncategorized

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12 Army wivesArmy wives (in fact, all military spouses) face very specific challenges. No one can help negociate these like fellow spouses. In this very helpful and practical book, wives of many kinds of Army soldiers weigh in on what they wish they’d known.

BETH CHIARELLI: When my husband Pete took the “Vice” job (Vice Chief of Staff of the Army), my kids asked me how many times we had moved. I counted up, and this was our twenty-ninth house! Over the years, I changed my approach to unpacking. Usually, you’re tempted to do the kitchen first, and everything else later. After about ten years, I started doing my bedroom first, because every day you wake up and it’s nice. You don’t feel so defeated when you wake up. I can’t say I did that every time, but the times I did, I really liked it.

When we moved to Gelnhausen, Germany, it was total chaos. We’d been given a house, but at the last minute, they made a decision to let the Command Sargeant Major move onto post. They literally gave him our house as were were on the plane flying over. When we arrived, there was nothing they could do but put us in temporary quarters, where we stayed from August to the end of October.

I had to leave my kids playing with people we had just met so I could go house hunting. These people were fine, but I wasn’t. It was so stressful. Then one day I came back to discover that my son had fallen out of a swing and had broken both of his arms. There he was in Frankfurt with the batallion commander’s wife, and these huge plaster casts, and Pete had to take off for a training exercise in Grafenwoehr, Germany. I didn’t have my European driver’s licesence yet–and then I found out I was having a baby. Could it get any crazier?

I always tell the younger wives, when you look back, you will not believe what you did. You just will not believe it. But the thing is, you are in a culture, the Army culture, where other people are doing the same stuff all the time. When you try to tell your civilian friends, they are just horrified. They think it’s crazy, and maybe it is.

Unrealistic Expectations
I think some women have the expectation that their husbands’ jobs and promotions will supply something they’re lacking in themselves. As I described it during a talk to a group of young women, “Every time I move away, I find myself again.” You are who you are. Your personality is going to stay the same. So if you have an expectation that somehow your husband’s job, or the house or the quarters that you get will make you somehow different, it’s not that way. At the end of the day, it’s still you making decisions.

Whatever the situation, give it your best shot. You can find something wrong with any situation. There will always be some issue to face. Sometimes you have to decide what your own happiness is going to be. It doesn’t matter if you are military or civilian; there will be some hard times. Probably the worst thing for me was having to tell our son who was going to be a high school senior that he had to move. But we had made the decision as a family that we weren’t going to split up. Some families, for the sake of their kids’ potential college careers, left them behind when they moved. For some that worked out great, others not. But still, you have to follow your gut for your own family. Make your decisions, and live with them.

FRANCES SASSER: New Wife on the Block

My first experience as an Army spouse was when my husband Charles had just finished basic training and Advanced Infantry Training (AIT) at Fort Benning, Georgia, and our duty station was Fort Stewart, Georgia. I’d been on post at Fort Bragg many times.This, however, was my first time shopping ant the commissary and Post Exchange (PX) as a wife and mother.

We had a sponsor who welcomed us and showed us around. Usually assigned by the commander, sponsors are people who are usually of equal rank and have already been in the unit for a while, so they’re able to help new families get settled quickly. I learned where all the important facilities were, such as the gas station, hospital, the commissary and the PX. (The commissary sells grocery items and the exchanges carry consumer goods.) I learned the hard way that you need to present a military member ID card or military family member ID card when entering or paying for goods.

I remember feeling like everyone else was moving at the spped of light handling their business, and I was the only person who didn’t really know how to do things. People weren’t very friendly or willing to help the newbie figure things out. Maybe that’s how it seemed; I was eighteen and pregnant, and facing new challenges every day. I felt overwhelmed and very much out of the loop.

Over time I learned the ropes, and it’s become easier. However, I kept that memory; through the years, it helped me become willing to stop and help young wives who looked completely at sea.

Educate Yourself!

New families entering the military have so many resources available to them. More so than when I was a young military spouse. Take advantage of those resources and educate yourself about military customs and traditions. The military language is a beast to tackle, but if you arm yourself with the basics it helps you better understand what’s going on, and also helps you get through Army life. The Army Community Service (ACS) program is a great way for young military spouses to learn Army language and lots more. There are different levels of training that help with rank recognition, acronymns, and even military protocol. [As does this book!] You can also learn it online now–isn’t technology grand? The truth is, it’s an ongoing life course.

My husband is in the Army for twenty-seven years now, and I’m still learning things. When your husband talks to you about his job, show interest! It’s important for him and important for you. I can guarantee you that along the way you will be asked about your husband’s unit, know as a Military Occupation Specialty (MOS). I’ve run into wives who have no clue! It’s his profession, and a good part of your life, so at least be informed about what’s going on.

Perhaps the most important thing to do–as soon as possible after arrival–is to make friends with a spouse in the unit, or even a neighbor who has an outlook and interests similar to yours.

Realize that gossip can and will be abundant. Steer clear! Nothing good ever comes from it.

The best advice I can give to families new to the military is that being flexible is key. Things change constantly and the more you fight it, the harder it will be to have a positive attitude. The military does not have a conspiracy to ruin your life or to make it difficult. The Army tries really hard to make military life more enjoyable, steadily improving the quality of life for everyone.

Have Personal Goals During Deployment

Through all these deployments, I’ve learned that you can choose to be miserable or be happy. I choose to be happy, and I work at having goals to get me through.

Durning Charles’ deployment when we were in Fort Carson, Colorado, a good friend and my “battle buddy” helped us keep our bodies strong by setting goals. Our group had two large goals. The first was to hike up Pike’s Peak, which, at 14,110 feet, was quite an accomplishment. At the time, I was a full-time student, bogged down with a heavy study load. Because of this, I never completed that goal and regret it to this day. i was at least able to do several shorter hikes, and the social time along with the workout turned out to be a very important part of the process.

Our second goal was to run a half-marathon. I did complete that goal and have the medal to prove it. Our group trained together, and those are some wonderful memories of a time when my life was difficult. Army wives stick together, and decades later, those friendships are still strong and growing.

Click here to biuy the book and KEEP READING much more insider advice from Beth, Frances and others!

A KILLING AT THE CREEK by Nancy Allen

09 Monday Feb 2015

Posted by in Mystery

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Nancy Allen made waves with her first Ozark mystery. The second goes on sale on February 17. But here, you can check out the first chapter right now!

Prosecutor Elsie Arnold loves her small-town home in the Ozark hills, but she’s been waiting for a murder to come along and make her career. So when a body is found under a bridge, throat cut, Elsie jumps at the chance to work on the case, But when the investigation reveals that the deceased woman was driving a school bus, and the police recover the vehicle, its interior covered in blood…the occupant and only suspect is a fifteen-year-old boy. Elsie’s in for more than she bargained for.  START READING…

Chapter 1

The bloody yellow school bus wound through the hills of the Missouri Ozarks in the early dawn of a June morning. The blood inside the bus pooled under the driver’s feet, trickled in the aisle, drained out the back exit and ran over the rear bumper.

The young man at the wheel kept his eyes on the road as he maneuvered the vehicle up and down twisting roads shrouded by oak and sycamore trees, looking for the turnoff that would lead him back to the Interstate.

The road flattened out as he approached the Oklahoma state line. Shortly after crossing into Oklahoma, he spotted a McDonald’s, built atop and over the highway, spanning all four lanes of I-44. He took the exit and drove into the parking lot.

He could have parked at a distance from the other vehicles, but didn’t bother, pulling the bus into the open spot nearest the door. Reaching into a duffle bag, he pulled out a handful of money and shoved it in his jeans pocket.

His shoes tacky from the mess in the bus, he made prints on the pavement as he walked to the entrance. He paused to wipe his feet on a black nylon mat. A flight of stairs led up to a bathroom; he made that his first stop. The boy took care to wash his hands, rubbing them vigorously with the pink liquid soap, watching the rust colored water circle the drain. The mirror in the bathroom showed that his dark brown hair needed shampoo, and his eyes were red-rimmed, with dark circles from the long night.

He kept a neutral expression as he left the toilet. Passing an ice cream stand, he paused to examine the contents in the refrigerator case. A white haired woman in a hairnet, armed with a metal scoop, let him look at the buckets of ice cream in the case for a minute before asking, “You want something?” The boy stalked away without looking at her, toward the McDonald’s counter to order. Though there were no customers ahead of him, he had to wait while two uniformed

cashiers held a whispered conversation, two young girls laughing. One girl, a short blonde in heavy makeup, with four studs in one ear and two in an eyebrow, finally noticed him standing there. She leaned on the counter and said, “Can I take your order?”

“Big Mac. Large fry, medium Dr. Pepper.”

“Want to try the Mac Wrap?”

He shook his head. “I want what I ordered.”

Something about him made the girl take a half step back. She spun around and pushed a button to pour his Dr. Pepper. Her friend, a pretty Cherokee girl with long black hair, looked behind the boy and said, “Hey, big shot, you’re tracking mud in here. Don’t you know they make us mop that up?”

He didn’t respond. He dug in his pocket and pulled out a wad of money, mostly ones, and counted out the exact change for his order.

“For here?” the blonde girl asked him, in a more respectful tone. He nodded. She hastily set his food on a tray.

He took the tray to the video arcade, and ate his food in a leisurely fashion. Pumping quarters into the machines, he held the sandwich while he played with one hand. He lingered for half an hour, nursing his drink.

When he departed, a fry cook was walking out into the parking lot at the same time. “Hey, man,” the fry cook said to him, “can I have a light?”

“Sorry.”

“Come on, man. I can see it in your pocket.”

The pocket of the boy’s white t-shirt clearly revealed a pack of Camel cigarettes and a Bic lighter.

“Fuck off.”

The cook bristled and grabbed the young man by the arm, but he ripped his arm away and turned with such ferocity that the cook backed off. Stepping backwards, raising the palms of both hands, the fry cook said, “No problem, dude. Forget about it.”

The young man jumped behind the wheel of the bus and threw it into reverse; before he drove off, he rolled down the driver’s window and thrust his arm out, extending the middle finger of his left hand.

“Eat shit!” the cook yelled in response.

The young driver’s arm disappeared inside the bus. He grappled under the seat, then brandished a blood-stained item in his hand for the cook to see.

It was a bloody knife.

The cook took one look and ran like hell back toward McDonald’s as the school bus took off for the highway.

Click here to buy the book and keep reading!

Nancy Allen

Nancy Allen is a member of the law faculty in the College of Business at Missouri State University. She practiced law for 15 years, serving as Assistant Missouri Attorney General and as Assistant Prosecutor in her native Ozarks. When Nancy began her term as prosecutor, she was only the second woman in Southwest Missouri to serve in that capacity. During her years in prosecution, she tried over 30 jury trials, including murder and sexual offenses, and she served on the Rape Crisis Board and the child protection team of the Child Advocacy Council. She lives in Missouri with her family.

 

THE SHIELD by Lynn Sholes and Joe Moore

02 Monday Feb 2015

Posted by in Action Adventure, Fiction, Thriller

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Jump into the action with the second of the Maxine Decker thrillers by bestselling authors Sholes and Moore! 

Chapter 1 – Night Visitor

Big Bear Lake, Colorado

I sat up, startled from sleep. My first muddled thought was earthquake. The walls and windows of my cabin shuddered, shaking a picture off the wall. But then I quickly recognized the thunderous roar of a turbojet helicopter. A beam of bright light shone through the window blinds. Instinct kicked in and I rolled to my side and snatched the SIG Sauer from the nightstand drawer.

The chopper’s spotlight swept away and I used the opportunity to run to the living room with both hands locked on the 9mm’s grip.

From the light seeping through curtains and blinds I could tell my entire front yard and surrounding area were lit up as if the sun had kicked the moon to the curb. The sound of the helicopter landing was unmistakable.

I stood flush against the wall, gun still gripped with both clammy hands.

A rap on the door made me flinch, and I took aim. I’d already been shot twice in my life and had no intention of this being number three.

“Maxine Decker?”

Another strident knock.

“Agent Decker?”

“Who’s there? What do you want?”

“I need to speak with you regarding important government business.”

I edged my way to stand beside the door and pulled on a slat in the sidelight mini-blinds for a view of the porch. Backlit by the brilliance of the chopper’s spotlight was a man of medium height and trim build. Other than that, he was nothing but a silhouette.

“Identify yourself,” I yelled over the noise of the rotors.

“Peter Kepner. I’m with the government and I need to speak to you right away.”

“You must be out of the loop, Kepner. I’m no longer a federal agent. I retired from OSI.”

“I’m not OSI. I’m an emissary from Beowulf.”

“Never heard of it. And if you’re not OSI, then why do you want to talk to me?”

“In times of national security issues, Beowulf has executive authority to recruit CIA, FBI, NSA, even Air Force Office of Special Investigations agents. Retired or otherwise.”

“Tell the pilot to kill the light and shut down the engine. And tell anyone else on

board to stay put. Do it now.”

The man relayed my demand through hand signals and his radio. The spotlight dimmed and the rotors trimmed down to a slow idle.

I switched on the front porch light and pulled back the blinds on the sidelight.

“Turn around slowly.”

Kepner did a 360.

“Show me some ID. And remember I have my weapon pointed at you.”

“Got it. But for security reasons, I don’t carry any special identification. I can show you my driver’s license and a couple of credit cards.”

“I’m not Walmart, so you’re gonna have to come up with something better than that.”

He pulled an envelope from his back pocket. “Agent Decker, I have something for you. I’m sliding it under the door.”

I let the blinds snap back and saw the end of the envelope poke through. I picked it up and switched on the lamp on the foyer table. My curiosity was aroused by the embossed seal—the image of a fire-breathing dragon. Beowulf. I remembered the ancient epic poem I’d had to study in high school.

I checked to see that Kepner was still there. Then with a zip of my finger I slit the envelope.

I withdrew the stationery, shook it open, and held it close to the light. Seeing the letterhead, I whipped around and glared at the door.

Then my eyes swept the length of the paper. At the top of the stationery was the official White House letterhead. At the bottom was the supposed signature of Guy LeClaire, President of the United States.

Slowly I read the contents, then took a moment to digest it. I retrieved my cell phone from the charger on my nightstand and returned to the living room.

“You still out there, Kepner?” I called.

“Still here.”

I did a quick Google search and came up with the phone number I needed to dial according to the instructions in the letter—the White House switchboard. When my call was answered, I continued to follow the directions I was given in the letter. “I’d like to speak with Tennyson.”

“One moment, please,” the operator said.

A few seconds later, a synthesized voicemail told me to leave a message. I glanced at the letter to make sure I would reply exactly right. “I have read The Charge of the Light Brigade.”

Then I hung up and waited.

In a moment, my cell rang. “Maxine Decker,” I answered.

“Ms. Decker, this is Guy LeClaire.”

His words were steady and unmistakable with that distinctive, crisp Boston accent.

My voice had a small tremor in it, both because I was speaking with the President of the United States and because I knew that whatever the reason for Kepner’s visit, it was of utmost importance. “Yes, Mr. President?”

“I apologize for this late-night visit and call. We have a critical matter that requires swift and efficient measures. You’re needed to participate in a special assignment. Please invite Mr. Kepner inside so he can speak to you. He’ll give you more details.”

Before I could say anything else, he thanked me once more and ended the call. I stood there a minute trying to absorb what just happened. I unlocked the front door, thankful I wasn’t the sheer nightie type, instead wearing long flannel pajama bottoms and a loose-fitting tee.

With a wave of my arm, I invited Peter Kepner inside. I decided to claim the overstuffed chair and leave the sofa to him. Even though I felt confident that the visitor was legitimate, I conspicuously rested the SIG on my lap, one hand atop it. With the kind of business I’d been in for so many years, if I’d learned one thing, it was never to let my guard down. Being betrayed by my partner a few years back had clinched that for me.

I gestured for my visitor to take a seat on the couch opposite me.

Kepner sat, eyed the gun, then looked squarely at me.

“Why the personal visit, Mr. Kepner? Why not a phone call? And why couldn’t it have waited until morning? For drama’s sake?”

Other than a condescending smile, Kepner didn’t react to my jab. “What I’m about to disclose is top secret, and I can’t emphasize that enough. As with all electronic communication, there is the outside possibility of unwanted surveillance. That explains my personal visit. And, we need to move on this ASAP. Waiting until the morning would delay our response.”

Kepner leaned forward, his elbows on his thighs, fingers laced. “You were a hell of a civilian OSI agent. Top in the antiquities black market. That’s why you’re Beowulf’s choice for this project.”

“Like I said, I’ve never heard of Beowulf.”

“And that’s a good thing—the way it’s supposed to be, Agent Decker.”

He wasn’t going to let go of the agent title no matter how many times I said I was retired.

Kepner steepled his fingers then aimed them at me. “Here’s the deal. There’s been a serious breach of security at the Beowulf headquarters.”

“Excuse me, but first would you elaborate a little more on what exactly Beowulf is? What’s the function or mission?”

“I can’t give you any more explanation until we are in a protected and secure environment. All I can do at this point is echo the request from the President that your assistance is needed to help with a potentially grave threat to our national security. The United States and its allies are at risk. I would like for you to get ready and leave with me as quickly as you can.”

I’d promised myself I wouldn’t return to my old occupation in any fashion. I’d consulted on one job after retiring and it had nearly gotten me killed. But this . . . this sounded like something critical that truly put the nation in peril. I felt my resolve softening.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t say.”

“So you want me to take off with you to an undisclosed location to help with an undisclosed mission involving a government operation I’ve never heard of? Right now, in the middle of the night?” I plastered a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me expression on my face.

“That’s about it.”

I chuckled. “Who said the government doesn’t have a sense of humor.”

His expression quickly reverted to somber and so did mine. This was obviously a no-bullshit situation.

“Just one more thing. Don’t pack a bag—no clothes or toiletries. But bring your ID, including your passport. Everything else will be provided for you.”

I thought the request to take my passport was strange, especially since he carried so little. “Why my passport?”

“This may eventually require international travel.”

I stood, holding the 9mm at my side.

He pointed to it. “And no guns.”

Click here to buy THE SHIELD instantly, and keep reading!

sholes-mooreAbout the authors

Lynn Sholes & Joe Moore are the #1 Amazon and international bestselling authors of THE SHIELD, THE BLADE (bestselling Amazon Kindle book), THE PHOENIX APOSTLES (#1 bestselling Amazon Kindle book) and the award-winning Cotten Stone thriller series: THE GRAIL CONSPIRACY (#1 bestselling Amazon Kindle book), THE LAST SECRET, THE HADES PROJECT, and THE 731 LEGACY. Their novels have been translated into 24 languages and are available online or at your favorite bookstore.