$20 GC – Unnatural Intent by Brooke L French @partnersincr1me

UNNATURAL INTENT

by Brooke L French

October 24, 2024 Book Blast

Synopsis:

A Letty Duquesne Thriller

 

The last one they sent didn’t come back.

Disease ecologist Letty Duquesne is barely settled in to her new job when a colleague goes missing in the field. Letty arrives in Alaska’s Katmai National Park to take over the investigation, only to find a violent welcome and the case in shambles. No record of the last scientist’s work exists. His footsteps at the incident site disappear into nothing. And the polar bears Letty has been sent to find are hunting for human prey a thousand miles from the pack ice where they belong.

If Letty can’t figure out why, more people will die. An unimaginable threat lurks under the icy waters of the Arctic, animals stalk the people of a tiny seaside village, and the greatest danger waits where Letty least expects it.

Praise for Unnatural Intent:

“Field research has never been so riveting—and potentially deadly. Unnatural Intent is a tense combination of scientific detective work and corporate intrigue, set within the brutal but starkly beautiful landscape of the Arctic, where man is no longer an apex predator.”
~ Regina Buttner, author of The Revenge Paradox

Unnatural Intent is like Michael Crichton’s State of Fear meets Michael Connelly’s The Rapture of the Deep…”
~ Cam Torrens, award-winning author of Stable and False Summit

“French weaves a complex tale of corporate greed, ecological disaster, and survival in this thriller, inserting you deep into the minds of her characters. The science is as accurate as it is terrifying, and the plot twists will keep you engaged until the final chapters.”
~ Gary Gerlacher, author of the AJ Docker thriller series

Book Details:

Genre: Action and Adventure, Medical Thriller
Published by: Black Rose Writing
Publication Date: October 24, 2024
Number of Pages: 319
ISBN: 9781685134976 (ISBN10: 1685134971)
Series: A Letty Duquesne Thriller, Book 2 | Each is a Stand-Alone
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | Black Rose Writing

Read an excerpt:

Chapter 1

October 16, 2018
San Diego, California

Letty Duquesne wound her way through the ornate Spanish architecture of Balboa Park, dodging tourists and scanning the crowd. Even on a weekday, the place was packed. Families taking photos, school kids on their way to one of the twenty-plus museums spread throughout the park, and an assortment of street musicians playing everything from Mozart to Bon Jovi.

She dropped a few dollars in an upturned hat and aimed for the shade of an archway. As much as she wanted to pretend otherwise, her shift from the familiar comfort of working in academia to her current situation — a new job, in a new company, in a new city — hadn’t been exactly smooth. No matter how committed she was to making the Jessa Duquesne Foundation a success, the past month she’d spent “starting over” was harder than she’d expected.

Lonelier.

Which was how she’d wound up on the friendship equivalent of a “first date.”

Letty scanned the crowd again and, this time, spotted Gemma on the opposite side of the lily pond, waving to her from the foot of the Botanical Building.

The JDF’s office manager and general jack-of-all-trades looked like Debbie Harry. She had a shock of what had to be home-dyed platinum-white hair, Doc Martens, and jeans that had been hacked off mid-calf.

Gemma pointed to a short stone bench, her eyebrows raised in a question — this good?

Letty gave her a thumbs-up and made her way through the crowd to where Gemma now sat cross-legged on the bench. “This is perfect.” Letty smiled as she sat beside her. “Thanks for meeting me.”

“Thanks for the invite.” Gemma slid a silver packet from the pocket of her oversized blazer, her voice kissed with a South London accent. “I usually eat at my desk. But with everything that’s been going on, I’m glad for the break. I’m knackered.”

“I bet.” Letty pulled a takeout salad from her bag and balanced the plastic clamshell on her lap. “Seems like getting Mark ready for tomorrow’s presentation took a full-court press.” The handful of people that made up the foundation’s on-site staff had been in and out of his office all day, every day for the past week. Mark would be at his desk when she arrived in the morning and still there when she left each night, poring over binder after binder of data. Reviewing everything the foundation had been able to find about the rise in animal attacks, the increase in zoonotic diseases crossing over to the human population, and the myriad governmental responses… or failures to respond.

In a reasonable world, the volume of the data alone would’ve been enough to establish the need for greater action. The need for some centralized agency, like Jessa’s foundation, to manage a response. But, of course, things didn’t work that way. Not when half the congressional committee formed to look into the public’s concerns were the same folks who claimed climate change was a hoax.

The thready notes of “Livin’ on a Prayer” slipped through the courtyard, the street musician’s violin shrill but on beat.

“You have no idea how mad it’s been.” Gemma ripped open the silver packet and pulled out a rainbow-sprinkled Pop-Tart. “Usually Mark’s only in after hours. He’s got to be at Stafford Oil during business hours, but lately he’s at the foundation all the time. And he’s stressed as hell.” She picked a sprinkle from the top of the pastry and popped it in her mouth. “At least Kathryn came to the rescue. I can’t imagine how we would’ve gotten Mark ready without her helping to manage his Stafford Oil work load this week.” Gemma chewed another bite and swallowed. “Even if having her here does set my teeth on edge.”

“Really?” Letty forked through her salad, building the perfect bite of chicken, feta, and cucumber. “She seems nice enough.” And the day Kathryn had arrived had been the only time Letty had seen Mark smile since she’d come to California.

“She’s alright, I guess. Does so much for the JDF, she should be on payroll.” Gemma shrugged, brushing crumbs from her jeans. “I just don’t trust anyone that doesn’t age.”

Letty laugh-choked on a piece of lettuce. Kathryn’s Upper East Side vibe was sort of intimidating. “Well, Botox or not, I’m glad she’s gonna be there tomorrow to back him up.” They had too much riding on what happened at that meeting for Mark to go it alone. There was only so much the foundation could do to identify what might be causing the changes they were seeing in the animal world without having access to real-time information about what was happening globally. As much good as they were doing handling any individual case, it wouldn’t be enough to make a real difference unless they could see the trends and follow them back to the source.

Poor Mark had to know how much was riding on tomorrow’s presentation, had to feel the weight of what failure would mean. Especially when the foundation’s future would be decided by a bunch of political cronies. “I can’t imagine how stressed he must be. I mean, who gets called to speak before a congressional committee?”

“He didn’t exactly get a summons. He volunteered, so that’s a little less scary. And he’s there for the greater good. Maybe he’ll get a nicer reception than they give their usual lot.”

“True.” The other CEOs who spoke before congressional committees were usually there to get a public reprimand. A slap on the wrist after they’d used the corporate structure to get away with one form of mass destruction or another. And those people were nothing like Mark. She felt an odd sense of pride in her once almost brother-in-law, now boss, even though she couldn’t claim responsibility for all the work he’d done in Jessa’s memory. For all the things he was still trying to do.

Letty picked her way through the salad. Where would he be now? On a plane? Probably halfway to DC, with his dark head bent over another binder. Wearing the glasses that made him look so much more serious than he did in her memories.

The ones she shouldn’t be thinking about.

Gemma popped open an energy drink. “All we can do at this point is keep our fingers crossed and hope for the best.”

“Yeah, for sure.” Letty cleared her throat, forcing herself back to the present. To reality. “I’m glad we did this.” She looked up at the palm trees swaying above them, then to the giant lath structure of the Botanical Building reflected in the pond. Built for a world’s fair more than a hundred years before, it still stood proud and beautiful, giving them shade on a day too warm for October. “It’s nice to be outside for a bit.”

“Careful what you ask for.” Gemma broke off another piece of pastry. “I’m surprised they didn’t just skip orientation and send you out into the field already. We’ve been swamped all summer and now into the fall, every scientist on the team out on assignment since the doors opened. Seems like every other day we get a request from somewhere. Mountain lions turning the hiking trails in Oakland into a buffet. Or some crazy hyper-virulent bird flu popping up in the middle of Copenhagen. God knows what’s next.”

Letty shoved a bite of salad in her mouth, chewing it along with the guilt she’d been trying to ignore since she’d realized how understaffed the foundation was. A situation that was in some part — maybe a large part — her fault.

She’d been meant to start working with the foundation in August. But it had taken longer than she’d expected to end her lease, to close up her life at the university, to say goodbye to Bill and Priya. And, then, she hadn’t wanted to miss Andrew’s wedding. A smile flickered over her face. Renee had been beautiful at the ceremony, she and Andrew both glowing over Renee’s baby bump.

Of course, she hadn’t realized her delay would leave the foundation short a scientist. She cringed. It was not an ideal situation for them to be in as Mark prepared to offer up their services to the world.

Literally.

Gemma finished her Pop-Tart and took another deep swig from an eye-poppingly chartreuse can of caffeine. “You know, if Mark convinces the committee to let the foundation manage the country’s national response, you may never see the inside of an office again.”

Letty couldn’t imagine anything better. She stabbed a cucumber with her fork. “I’d almost always rather be in the field.” And a little space from Mark wouldn’t be a bad thing either. He’d be back in a few days, and so would the awkward silences that cropped up anytime the two of them were alone together.

It wasn’t that he was rude. He’d taken her to lunch when she first started, said all the right things — he was so glad she was there, she should let him know if she needed anything, maybe they could grab a coffee or he could help her get settled. But it was stilted, and no matter how nice he was when they ran into each other in the halls or at the office coffee pot, she could never think of what to say. She put her fork down with the cucumber still stuck to the tines. It was like the past clogged up her throat, wrapped her brain in cotton, and nothing but basic banalities would come out. If that.

He had eventually stopped trying.

Which was almost worse.

Gemma’s phone rang from her purse. As she went digging for it, a huge brown bird with white markings swooped through the promenade. It narrowly missed a camera-laden tour group, the crowd ducking and screeching as it swept past.

A red-shouldered hawk.

Letty tracked the bird’s ascent back into the sky as it rounded over the Botanical Building and came back for a second pass. What was it after? She scanned the ground for a mouse or chipmunk. Maybe a smaller bird? Hawks would eat most anything their size or smaller. Although it was odd for it to be hunting here, in a place so crowded with people.

“This is Gemma.” Her new friend finally answered the call, her tone now formal and pure Queen’s English, which meant the call must be important. Something for the foundation. “I’m sorry. I didn’t quite hear that. Could you start again from the beginning?”

The hawk swept back across the pond, its trajectory lower as it headed toward the entrance to the Timken Museum. It landed on the handle of a baby carriage. The mother stood with her back turned to the stroller as she searched for something in a diaper bag.

Gemma lowered her voice. “What do you mean missing?”

Letty glanced back to Gemma. Whatever that was, it didn’t sound good. She kept half her attention on Gemma, the rest on the bird.

The hawk leaned forward, as if trying to see past the cloth draped over the carriage to find what soft morsel might wait inside.

Letty’s mouth went dry, and she clapped her hands, hoping to startle the bird into flight.

It ignored her.

The animal would have no reason to hurt a child. But if the past year had taught her anything, it was that she couldn’t assume it would act predictably. Things were different now. Very different.

Letty shifted to the edge of her seat.

The bird turned, meeting Letty’s gaze. Its eyes reflected a flat, predatory black.

“Shoo.” She stood, clapping her hands again in its direction and moving closer. “Excuse me?” She called out to the mother, who was still busy digging through the baby’s bag.

The hawk kneaded its claws against the stroller’s handle.

“You’re not going to believe this.” Gemma turned her way.

Letty didn’t break eye contact with the bird. “Hang on.” She strode toward the carriage, the bird not moving an inch. A few other tourists turned to look, but no one moved to help.

The mother plucked a pacifier from the bag and turned. A shriek tore out of her, and she threw herself toward the carriage.The bird took off in a flutter of indignant feathers, and a wail came from inside the stroller as the mother hurried to wheel the child away.

Letty finally let go of a breath and turned back to Gemma, who seemed only now to have realized what had been happening with the hawk. They both watched as the bird disappeared over the roof of the museum.

Gemma refocused on Letty, and lines creased around her eyes. “Cody Crawford’s gone missing.”

“Crawford?” Letty tried to place the name. “That’s the large mammal guy, right?”

“Yeah. That’s him. He’s been up in Alaska working on our polar bear case. Seems he went out to the incident site and got lost in the woods.” She cringed, whether from worry or as an acknowledgment of how bad that sounded, Letty couldn’t tell.

Gemma dropped the phone back into her purse. “Search and Rescue’s out looking now, but they say it doesn’t look good. No sign of him.”

Letty sat on the bench, watching the sky for any sign of the hawk.

The idea that Crawford might just “get lost” in the woods didn’t sound right. She’d spent an hour after work one night browsing the bios for the foundation’s other scientists, mostly out of a perverse desire to know how she stacked up. From what she remembered, Crawford was an experienced field researcher like her, mostly working with large carnivores. He would have known not to go out to the site alone. And, even if he had, he wouldn’t just wander off and not be able to find his way back. When you spent your life working in one unknown wilderness after another, navigation was part of the basic skill package.

Letty closed the lid on her salad, her appetite gone.

If Crawford was missing, chances were good he wasn’t coming back.

***

Excerpt from Unnatural Intent by Brooke L French. Copyright 2024 by Brooke L French. Reproduced with permission from Brooke L French. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Brooke L French

Brooke L. French is a recovering lawyer, author, and boy mom. Her debut thriller, Inhuman Acts, hit number one on Amazon’s kindle charts in both medical thrillers and suspense in 2023, and her second novel, The Carolina Variant continues climbing the charts. Brooke got her undergraduate degree in English from Emory University, followed by a law degree, which, after many long and sometimes fulfilling years of practice, she mainly uses now as a coaster for the cup of coffee she puts down only to type. Brooke lives with her husband and sons between Atlanta and Carmel-by-the-Sea, California.

Catch Up With Brooke L French:
www.BrookeLFrench.com
Goodreads
BookBub – @brookelfrench
Instagram – @brookelewisfrench
Threads – @brookelewisfrench
Facebook – @brooke.l.french

 

 

Tour Participants:

Visit these other great hosts on this tour for more opportunities to WIN in the giveaway!

Click here to view the Tour Schedule

 

 

ENTER FOR A CHANCE TO WIN:

This is a giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Tours for Brooke L French. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.

Can’t see the giveaway? Click Here!

 

 

Get More Great Reads at Partners In Crime Tours

 

  • You can see my Giveaways HERE.
  • You can see my Reviews HERE.
  • If you like what you see, why don’t you follow me?
  • Look on the right sidebar and let’ talk.
  • Leave your link in the comments and I will drop by to see what’s shakin’.
  • I am an Amazon affiliate/product images are linked.
  • Thanks for visiting fundinmental!

Giveaway – The Algorithm Will See You Now by J L Lycette @partnersincr1me

The Algorithm Will See You Now by JL Lycette Banner

The Algorithm Will See You Now

by JL Lycette

October 16 -27, 2023 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

Medical treatment determined by artificial intelligence could do more than make Hope Kestrel’s career. It could revolutionize healthcare.

What the Seattle surgeon doesn’t know is the AI has a hidden fatal flaw, and the people covering it up will stop at nothing to dominate the world’s healthcare-and its profits. Soon, Hope is made the scapegoat for a patient’s death, and only Jacie Stone, a gifted intern with a knack for computer science, is willing to help search for the truth.

But her patient’s death is only the tip of the conspiracy’s iceberg. The Director, Marah Maddox, is plotting a use for the AI far outside the ethical bounds of her physician’s oath. A staggering plan capable of reducing human lives to their DNA code, redefining the concepts of sickness and health, and delivering the power of life and death decisions into the hands of those behind the AI.

Even if the algorithm accidentally discards some who are treatable in order to make that happen…

Praise for The Algorithm Will See You Now:

“I’ve been waiting for a book like this: a full-frontal assault on the dangers of artificial intelligence and the failures of our mangled health care system, all wrapped up in a clever, ripping thriller. Jennifer Lycette is an author to watch.”
~ Rob Hart, author of The Paradox Hotel

The Algorithm Will See You Now Trailer:

Book Details:

Genre: Thriller
Published by: Black Rose Writing
Publication Date: March 2, 2023
Number of Pages: 272
ISBN: 9781685131494 (ISBN10: 1685131492)
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | Black Rose Writing

Read an excerpt:

MONDAY 08 OCTOBER 2035
7:15 AM

PRIMA, Prognostic Intelligent Medical Algorithms
Main Campus, Seattle

Dr. Hope Kestrel was the only person who knew the patient in Room 132 wasn’t responding to the algorithm-selected treatment.

She shuffled forward in the hospital security line, wanting to get her day started already yet dreading how she’d tell her patient the unexpected and devastating news. The straps from her work bag dug into her right shoulder as she shifted the trays of coffee and scones in her arms, her usual Monday morning offering to the staff. From PRIMA’s lofty location at the top of “Pill Hill,” the floor-to-ceiling windows framed downtown Seattle’s skyline, lit up by the early morning sun—its first appearance in over a week. In the distance, a ribbon of pink sky silhouetted the Space Needle, the tip poking out of the murky blue of the cloud bank. She frowned down at her pale hands, unable to recall the last time her skin had seen the sun. Even her freckles were fading.

Her heart lifted when she spotted Bear, the Security Force service dog, rounding the corner. The German shepherd dashed for her, pulling Kyle, his Security Force guard, with him. The people next to her in line stepped back.

Bear nosed at her lab coat, and she lifted the pastry box in one hand higher while shielding the cardboard carrier of coffee in the other. Hot liquid sloshed onto her wrist, the sting on her skin not far off from the burn in her chest that had been present all morning, triggered by the impending meeting in Room 132. One where she’d need to engage on an interpersonal level without the usual buffering layer of technology.

Her gaze shifted from Bear to the familiar logo on the wall behind Kyle’s head—Prognostic Intelligent Medical Algorithms—and she shut out the searing pain in her chest. They were so close to the breakthrough to enhance the artificial intelligence even further. To render tumors like her mom’s curable. Because to rely on only hopefulness promised everything and got you nothing. No matter her damn name.

She had to focus on the big picture. All she needed was to maintain her top ranking for a few more months. Then the coveted post-residency position at PRIMA would be hers—complete with her own research lab. Soon, she’d work side-by-side with her mentor Cecilia, no longer an underling.

Bear gave a muffled woof and sat down obediently at her feet. Although Kyle would probably deny it if asked, she strongly suspected the guard went out of his way each morning to find her, knowing how much she loved Bear. It had been their unofficial routine for five years now.

Hope gestured with her elbow. “Kyle, could you take this for a sec?”

The burly, middle-aged man accepted the breakfast offerings with a flash of white teeth gleaming in contrast to his warm brown skin. “You got it, High Resident Kestrel.”

“For the millionth time, you can call me Hope.”

His eyes twinkled. “Whatever you say, oh most High One.”

Heat flamed Hope’s cheeks, and she tried to cover it with an eye roll. Three months into her final year, she still wasn’t used to her lofty title. She’d be called the Chief Resident—not the High Resident—at any other program, but PRIMA had its own language.

The loyal dog emitted another stifled woof from his barely contained seated position.

Hope fished in the front pocket of her white scrubs for one of the dog biscuits she always carried and tossed the treat to Bear, who snapped it up.

Kyle returned the pastries, then spoke in the deep, rumbling voice that Hope had come to learn only masked his kindly nature. “He sure loves you, Dr. K. He’d follow you anywhere. Have you reconsidered about one of the puppies?”

She shifted her grip and gave a wistful shake of her head. “It wouldn’t be fair. I’m never home.”

“So? You’d figure it out. Hire a dog walking service—and doggie daycare, too. You don’t have to do it on your own.”

“I’d be nothing more than a familiar stranger who provides shelter and food.”

Kyle bent down to rub Bear behind his ears, only to glance up and hastily straighten into a military posture, shoulders back. He tugged Bear to heel, his gaze fixed over Hope’s head.

The dog sensed his handler’s shift in mood, the fur on his neck bristling upward.

Hope swiveled, following the direction of Kyle’s eyes. More coffee dribbled on her hand, but she barely felt it this time. A man and woman in matching black suits and pressed white shirts were staring in their direction. Hope couldn’t help but stare back. The man was tall and broad-shouldered, mid-thirties, with angular cheekbones and deep-set eyes, his striking features set off by his onyx black hair. The woman appeared to be of similar age and height, equally imposing, with skin paler than Hope’s, commanding eyebrows, and white-blonde hair in an identical short haircut to her partner.

Hope’s eyes darted to Kyle, who flashed another smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Are those two—?”

“Not regular Security Forces. They’ll notice me deviating from my route.” Kyle grimaced. “And letting Bear interact with civilians.”

“But—”

Kyle dropped his voice. “Last week, another disgruntled non-responder tried to get in.”

A non-responder. A patient the algorithm had identified as refractory—resistant to all known therapeutics—and therefore wouldn’t be offered treatment at PRIMA. Or shouldn’t, at least.

Hope went cold all over. All patient volunteers agreed to abide by the algorithm’s determinations in exchange for free healthcare. What would the guards do if they discovered another non-responder already here, admitted by mistake? On Hope’s service, no less.

But that wasn’t her fault—

“You’re a busy doctor, and we shouldn’t be holding you up.” Kyle tugged Bear away before she could ask him anything more. “We’ll see you again soon, Dr. K.”

Before the dog was out of reach, Hope hurried to transfer the pastry box to the crook of her elbow, bracing it against her side enough to allow her to extend a hand to trail her fingers in Bear’s soft fur. The brief comfort the touch provided would have to last until tomorrow. She re-joined the line to watch the man and woman cut through the security checkpoint.

Her muscles tightened, and she forced them to relax. She needed to focus. At least medical training had made her a champion at putting extraneous thoughts out of her mind. Compartmentalization for the win.

A few moments later, she passed through the checkpoint and stepped onto OASIS—the Oncologic and Surgical Intervention Success Unit—and its familiar buzz of activity.

Patients strolled the oval hallway in the sunshine-yellow robes and plush slippers allocated upon admission. If not for the slim IV poles, they might be in a luxury hotel. The hidden panels in the walls and ceiling secured all medical equipment out of sight.

Abbie Fuentes, the charge nurse on OASIS for as long as Hope or anyone else could remember, spotted her arrival and trailed her into the break room. Hope wordlessly handed her one of the coffees, and she took a noisy sip while scanning Hope up and down, her impeccably bobbed hair not moving an inch. “What’s going on with you today? You’re late.”

Hope shrugged. The nurses hadn’t yet seen her patient’s latest test results, and the part of Hope that feared being perceived a failure planned to wait until the last possible moment to tell them. “Line at security. You know, it’s getting slower every day.”

***

Excerpt from The Algorithm Will See You Now by JL Lycette. Copyright 2023 by JL Lycette. Reproduced with permission from JL Lycette. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

JL Lycette

Jennifer / JL Lycette is a novelist, award-winning essayist, rural physician, wife, and mom. Mid-career, she discovered narrative medicine on her path back from physician burnout and has been writing ever since. She is an alumna of the 2019 Pitch Wars Novel Mentoring program. Her first novel, The Algorithm Will See You Now, was a 2023 SCREENCRAFT CINEMATIC BOOK COMPETITION FINALIST, 2023 READER’S FAVORITE BRONZE MEDAL WINNER in the Medical Thriller category, 2023 MAXY AWARD’S FINALIST – Thriller category, and 2023 PAGE TURNER AWARD’S FINALIST – Best Debut Novel category. The Committee Will Kill You Now is her second novel.

Connect with her, see more of her writing, and subscribe to receive the latest updates at:
JenniferLycette.com
Goodreads
BookBub – @JL_Lycette
Instagram – @jl_lycette
Facebook – @Author.JL.Lycette

 

 

Tour Participants:

Visit these other great hosts on this tour for more great reviews and opportunities to WIN in the giveaway!

 

 

Join In for a Chance to WIN!

This is a giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Tours for JL Lycette. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.

 

 

Get More Great Reads at Partners In Crime Tours

 

  • You can see my Giveaways HERE.
  • You can see my Reviews HERE.
  • If you like what you see, why don’t you follow me?
  • Look on the right sidebar and let’ talk.
  • Leave your link in the comments and I will drop by to see what’s shakin’.
  • I am an Amazon affiliate/product images are linked.
  • Thanks for visiting fundinmental!

Giveaway – The Carolina Variant by Brooke L French @partnersincr1me

The Carolina Variant

by Brooke L. French

July 11, 2023 Book Blast

Tess Oliver’s memory is a killer.

When the lead that could save her law practice is destroyed in a suspicious fire, only her recollection of it remains. Tess can relive memories, but her gift comes at a cost. The last time she used it, she nearly died.

This time, she only takes a peek. A single moment spent in her memory of the defendant’s encoded document gives her a brutal migraine and a phone number.

Luke Broussard answers her call from the wreckage of his downed plane. His charter passenger is dead. And a mutated virus seeps from the man’s broken cargo, making Luke an unknowing carrier. When rescuers take Luke to an Atlanta hospital, the virus comes with him.

Tess follows her lead to Luke’s bedside, where she finds an instant connection. As they try to outrun a psychopath who’ll stop at nothing to retrieve the document, the city falls apart around them. The code hidden in Tess’s mind may be the only thing that can keep the outbreak contained, but using her gift to decipher it could kill her. If the virus — or whoever engineered it — doesn’t get to her first.

Praise for The Carolina Variant:

“Filled with compelling characters fighting not only for their lives, but humanity itself, you won’t be able to put it down.”
~ Jeffrey Jay Levin, author of Watching, Volume 1, The Garden Museum Heist

The Carolina Variant is a taut thriller that terrifies with a too damned frightenedly plausible story about what happens when a deadly virus escapes. It’s the kind of book that makes you afraid to turn the page, but you will. You definitely will.”
~ Christopher Amato, author of Shadow Investigation and A Letter from Sicily

“What a ride! The Carolina Variant is Blake Crouch’s Upgrade with the pacing of Fox’s 24.”
~ Cam Torrens, author of STABLE

Book Details:

Genre: Thriller, Medical and Conspiracy
Published by: Black Rose Writing
Publication Date: June 2023
Number of Pages: 347
ISBN: 9781685132187 (ISBN10: 1685132189)
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

Prologue:

September 13, 2018

The girl on the video monitor stared up at the ceiling as blood trickled from her eyes and nose. Her only movement an occasional spasm of coughing.

Nothing unexpected, given the progression of the disease.

Dr. Edmund Haley shut off the overhead fluorescent lights and let himself adjust to the dim glow of the screens lining the back wall of the office. Only the girl’s monitor still played a live feed, but it lit the room well enough.

And, either way, darkness suited him fine.

He’d spent so much time stuck in this tiny godforsaken place, he could’ve found the desk and computer with his eyes closed. Haley dropped into a chair and adjusted his glasses, trying to ignore the sharp tang of antimicrobial soap that clung to his hands. It smelled like life in the hospital. Like the servitude of medical practice.

He hated it as much now as he had before he’d lost his license. But at least this time, he’d be well paid for his efforts. And soon, it would be over. He refocused on the girl’s image. The only question was when.

Light sliced into the room behind him as Margaret bumbled inside. He made no move to acknowledge the nurse, even as she pulled up a chair beside his. As idiotic as she otherwise seemed to be, she’d know by now not to bother him. He shifted his attention from the video monitor to the computer, where he pulled up the patient’s chart.

Patient: Octavia MILLS, 18 yo, Af-Am, F, #4
Vitals: 5’5”, 110 lb.
updated (9-10) 108.8 lb.
updated (9-11) 106 lb.
updated (9-12) 104.1 lb.
Provider Notes: Click to open

He scrolled to the section for his notes and, after a click of the mouse, entered the details of that day’s exam. “9-13-18; Liver and kidney function both continue to decline. Discrete purpuric patches expanding from face and trunk now merging. BSA involvement approximately 80%. Note third spacing.”

The third spacing, a condition where the skin separated from the tissue beneath and filled with blood, was something new. Margaret’s report of it had been the primary reason he’d put himself through the nightmare of protective gear and protocol it’d taken to do a physical exam himself. He wasn’t going to let it be said that he hadn’t been thorough.

Haley glanced back up at the monitor in time to see a bubble of blood form between Octavia’s lips. The thing grew with each shallow breath. When it reached the size of a small orange, it burst, splattering more droplets of blood onto her face and neck.

Octavia made no move to wipe them away. He’d given her enough morphine. She would be long past caring. And, more importantly, the extra dosage meant she’d finally quit staring out at him with that awful, confused look on her face.

He didn’t care. Not really. Except that it had been distracting, and he needed to focus. Needed to understand why was she still alive. What had he missed? Perhaps another round of blood work would—

The blare of an alarm sounded over the video feed and, more faintly, from the hall. Three more followed.

Octavia’s body spasmed, convulsing again and again as she vomited up a grainy black-red mix of blood and tissue. The progression was as repulsive as it was now familiar. The vomit mixed with the brighter red flowing from her eyes and nose as the virus moved into its final stage. Blood, still unable to clot, flowed until it covered her face and chest. Until the bedsheets were saturated and no longer white.

Octavia’s muscles tensed, seizing all at once before releasing. Her body too gruesome to look peaceful, even as she finally came to rest.

Neither he nor Margaret moved from their chairs.

The alarms echoed unanswered down the empty hall. Haley clicked off the monitor and most of the noise with it. “That’s better.”

God knew it had taken long enough. He turned back to the computer, closed Octavia’s chart, and opened another document saved to the desktop as “Subject Outcomes.” He scrolled down, missing Octavia’s name the first time, then tapped the cursor back up until he found it. She’d been number four of twenty-five subjects, and hers was the last empty field in the column marked TPOI for Total Period of Infection. From the time she had been exposed, it had taken four days for the disease to take its course. At least a full day longer than any other subject.

“About fucking time.” He spoke under his breath as he typed the final entry in with one finger. He still didn’t know why the girl had survived so long, but it was no matter. By any measure, his work there had been an overwhelming success. Haley pulled off his glasses and tapped them against Margaret’s shoulder. “Get me a copy of the subject files, including all of the relevant video footage.”

Margaret flinched away from him. “Yes, doctor.” She pulled a thumb drive from a desk drawer and plugged it into the video system. The system — which had been his idea — had not only allowed them to observe the patients from a safe distance but also recorded the progress of the disease in each subject.

Having such an accurate, time-stamped record of their experiments would be invaluable to his employer. As he had been. Haley cleaned the lenses of his glasses with the edge of his lab coat. Knowing what was coming, it didn’t hurt to have insurance. Which was why he had contingency plans stashed in safe deposit boxes across the city. It was a point he would be sure to make when he and his employer spoke.

No matter what, he wouldn’t end up like the others.

He pointed to Margaret as she collected the files. “Once you’re done, wipe the system clean.”

She looked at him, her eyes a question. What happens now?

He didn’t bother responding. Some part of her had to know already.

Stupid.

The kind of people who would hire her to do what she’d done weren’t the type to assume money would be enough to keep her quiet. She was a loose end who — unlike him — had no continuing value. Not that what happened to her mattered. And if she hadn’t been smart enough to see that going in… Well, she’d as much as made her bed, hadn’t she?

He put a layer of steel in his voice. “Do it.”

Margaret’s gaze flicked away. She pressed a few buttons on the keyboard and waited for the computer to comply, removed the thumb drive, and dropped it into his waiting hand.

He turned the small device over in his palm. Amazing that so many lives could be held in such a small device. But then, these lives weren’t the kind anyone cared about. Nobodies and throw-aways. The kind of people who would volunteer for a drug trial for pennies and not be missed when they didn’t come back. He’d done the world a service, really.

Haley slipped the thumb drive into a padded envelope, scrawled the address he had memorized at the outset of the project on the front, checked twice to make sure he’d stuck on enough postage, then slid the envelope into his briefcase.

“Take care of that, won’t you?” He tilted his head toward the hallway leading to the patient rooms, where the girl’s body lay waiting.

Margaret didn’t look up from the computer. “Of course, sir. Same as with the others.”

Haley tucked the briefcase under his arm, whistling as he left the facility for the last time. With his part done, the rest could finally could begin.

***

Excerpt from The Carolina Variant by Brooke L. French. Copyright 2023 by Brooke L. French. Reproduced with permission from Brooke L. French. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Brooke L. French

Brooke L. French is a recovering lawyer turned author. Her debut novel, Inhuman Acts, came out in 2022, and her second thriller, The Carolina Variant, came out on June, 22 2023. Brooke lives between Atlanta and Carmel, California with her husband and sons.

Catch Up With Brooke L. French:
BrookeLFrench.com
Goodreads
BookBub – @brookelfrench
Instagram – @brookelewisfrench
Facebook – @brooke.l.french

 

 

Tour Participants:

Don’t miss out! Visit these other hosts for more great features!

 

 

ENTER FOR A CHANCE TO WIN:

This is a giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Tours for Brooke L. French. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.

 

 

Get More Great Reads at Partners In Crime Tours

 

  • You can see my Giveaways HERE.
  • You can see my Reviews HERE.
  • If you like what you see, why don’t you follow me?
  • Look on the right sidebar and let’ talk.
  • Leave your link in the comments and I will drop by to see what’s shakin’.
  • I am an Amazon affiliate/product images are linked.
  • Thanks for visiting fundinmental!

The Spotlight Is On A Bad Bout Of The Yips @partnersincr1me @08025writes

A Bad Bout of the Yips by Ken Harris Banner

A Bad Bout of the Yips

by Ken Harris

March 6 – 31, 2023 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

A Bad Bout of the Yips by Ken Harris

PI Steve Rockfish’s morning meeting was supposed to focus on a case of straightforward harassment. Two clients had purchased a miniature golf course and instantly became victims of vandalism and projected intolerance.

But as the team investigates, a neighborhood’s bigoted knee jerk reaction to a new sapphic-owned business, is in fact a laser focused plan of intimidation. Before anyone can yell FORE!, violence litters the front nine after Rockfish uncovers the real perpetrator, their actual motive, and dangerous accomplices.

Soon, an old nemesis returns to raise the stakes with plans of revenge and domination. Now facing a battle on two fronts, Rockfish finds his allies thinning at the worst possible time, and recklessly goes on the offensive.

The back nine takes Rockfish and McGee on a frenetic ride from a corporate boardroom, across cyberspace, and to the 19th hole where a long overdue showdown will change everything for the partners, for better and worse.

Book Details:

Genre: Crime Fiction
Published by: Black Rose Writing
Publication Date: March 2023
Number of Pages: 356
ISBN: 1685131530 (ISBN-13 978-1685131531)
Series: The Case Files of Steve Rockfish – 3
Book Links: Amazon | BLACK ROSE WRITING

Read an excerpt from A Bad Bout of the Yips:

CHAPTER ONE

You’ve reached Rockfish & McGee, Investigative Specialists. At the tone, leave your name and message. Someone will get back to you. [Beep]

Jawnie stared down at her phone, annoyed. She hung up the call after the office’s message ended and slid the phone into her messenger bag. With a proper receptionist comes a proper voicemail message. It’s about time. Where the heck is everyone? Rockfish could be out doing God knows what, but what about Lynn? Maybe she’s in the can after an extra spicy lunch? Jawnie laughed to herself. There were a thousand and one reasons Lynn couldn’t get to the phone. Don’t go all Rockfish at once.

The sun had slipped behind the clouds on a mid-Thursday afternoon when Jawnie walked down the endless row of marble steps in front of the Baltimore County Government building. She had submitted her final report regarding former county employee Harvey Henderson, who had been sitting at home on disability from a leg injury suffered while on the job. Henderson ran a bulldozer at the county landfill. That was until he fell off the equipment and reportedly injured his leg.

Jawnie loved this type of case. She conducted a couple of surveillances to find out Henderson’s daily schedule and then one final, quick outing to snap a few pictures from a safe distance. Jawnie followed Harvey and his mistress down to the town of Laurel and out on the Rocky Gorge Reservoir, where the couple spent the day attempting to wake-board. The day served as a twofer and the future ex-Mrs. Henderson would gain the information needed to win her freedom without spending a dime.

At the bottom of the steps, she pulled her phone back out, and double checked the time. Five after two and still no notifications. Apparently, nothing of importance had transpired while she was in the meeting with the County Commissioners. Her car was across the street in the paid lot, and she glanced up from the screen. Jawnie felt flush and concern filled her brain. The green Kia Soul remained parked at the corner, blocking a hydrant. Her heart kicked it up a notch.

The damn thing hadn’t moved in the hour and a half while I was inside. Jesus Christ, I don’t need this shit today. Or any day. Fuck.

Three times today since leaving her condo, the Kia coincidently found itself parked nearby, always within eyesight. The odd shaped vehicle and the color stood out. Amateur hour or someone who clearly wants me to notice. Jawnie gritted her teeth, glanced both ways, and then kept her head down as she jogged across the street. She walked through the small lot until she found her Subaru and slid behind the wheel. She pulled around to the exit gate and paid the attendant. A second later, the arm rose, but the car didn’t move. Thoughts of the Kia had Jawnie lost deep in her mind.

What Would Rockfish Do? Probably tell me to go on the offensive, concern be damned. Well, I’m definitely not going to pull sideways in front of this guy, jump out and confront him, that’s for sure. People are crazy these days and with my luck I’d end up TikTok famous #KarensGoneWild. Okay, let’s see if I’m imagining things. Maybe give him a little I see you action instead.

Jawnie turned left onto Pennsylvania Ave and sped up. At the end of the block, when she was right alongside the Kia, she held her breath and cut the wheel. The Subaru hung a hard right onto Baltimore Ave and missed the Kia’s left front fender by only a foot. Enough to make him take notice. She straightened the wheel and exhaled. Her eyes shot to the rearview mirror. The Kia followed suit but was losing ground as she pressed down on the accelerator. The car remained a block back when Jawnie turned right again. Her eyes flickered from the front windshield to the rearview, expecting to see the Kia at any second, but it never appeared. Or at least that she noticed. Her grip on the steering wheel grew tighter.

Did I lose him? Was he some civilian who flew into road rage when I almost hit him and then gave up once his blood pressure came down? No. I definitely saw that car multiple times today.

Half an hour later and back in Anne Arundel County, Jawnie received an answer to her question. She spotted the Kia two cars back at a traffic light. Alright McGee, you aren’t imagining things. Let’s figure out who this driver is.

“Hey Siri. New note.”

“What do you want it to say?”

“Dark green Kia Soul Maryland Plate 555-RJ4K.”

“Ok, I’ve created your note. It’s called Dark green Kia Soul Maryland plate 555-RJ4K.”

I’ll call Michelle at DMV to run it as soon as I get back to the office. The favor may cost me a drink or an actual date, but it will be worth it to know who he is. Hopefully, the name will ring a bell. The last thing I need is a fresh surprise.

Jawnie was only a mile from the office but took the Kia on a short sight-seeing tour of Linthicum Heights. See exactly how dedicated the driver was to their mission. First stop was Fairway Car Wash. Jawnie got in line behind the others and when it was her turn, she lined up the front left tire to the guide and selected the Supreme.

A tapping on the driver’s side glass caught her attention. “Hands off the wheel, ma’am.”

Jawnie looked down. White knuckles. Her hands slid off the wheel and fell to her lap as the car jerked forward. She tried to relax and think calmly as the conveyor pulled her forward. Each stage coated the windshield with a different chemical and blocked the view. Because you don’t see him, it doesn’t mean he’s gone. Maybe he’s hiding behind that iHop, but with a simple line of sight as you exit the car wash? What’s next? Mario’s? She had dry cleaning that was overdue to be picked up. Big ass empty lot there, nowhere to hide and nowhere to street park. As she exited the car wash, the track gave way. Her hands returned to the wheel. Jawnie waved off the man, wanting to finish drying the Subaru with an armful of hand towels. I’m good, no thank you, she mouthed as she cracked the window and slid out a five-dollar bill.

Mario’s was four lights further down the road and by the third red light, the Kia emerged from the background. Jawnie could feel the sweat building on her lower back. A single drop formed on the side of her face. She lifted her arm and wiped away the drop with her sleeve. Mario’s came up on the left and Jawnie put on her blinker. No need to attempt some big ruse at this point.

Five minutes later, she exited Mario’s with her dry cleaning hung over her left shoulder and iPhone held in her right, ready to capture the moment for posterity’s sake. Jawnie took the picture before the guy could raise his newspaper in a piss poor effort to hide his identity. She unlocked the Subaru and hung her clothes on the back hook. She got in and slammed the door. A combination of the force and noise caused her to jump.

Goddamnit! WWRD? I should have done something proactive after the meeting back at the county building. Jawnie reached into the center console. She chose her weapon of choice and speed walked to the Kia. Deep breath, deep breath. Look and act like you belong here.

The man was blond, with very short hair. Maybe balding. She couldn’t tell with the slight window tint. When he spotted her approaching, the newspaper went back up. Jawnie snapped another picture before sliding the phone into her back pocket. She tapped on the window. The early edition of the Baltimore Sun didn’t move.

She rapped her knuckles a second time. Harder, louder. This time the paper came down and the man’s eyebrows went up. He reached over and lowered the window, roughly two inches, before speaking.

“Can I help—”

The mace streamed through the opening as if she was an Olympic crack shot. The creeper didn’t see it coming and Jawnie didn’t stick around to see the after-effects. She could hear his screams, interlaced with every curse word in the book by the time she slid behind the wheel. Her death grip returned, and she rocketed out of Mario’s parking lot without a clear destination in mind and a little less rubber on her tires.

The Subaru ended up in the parking lot of a Wawa, a good half mile down the road. Jawnie parked behind the convenience store. She pulled up the note she made earlier with the Kia’s license plate and added the photos. At the bottom of the note, she dictated the man’s description in two sentences and returned her phone to the cup holder.

Jawnie exhaled and didn’t move. How long had it been? Three months? Maybe a little longer. Well, kid, it was an enjoyable ride. I look forward to the next extended period of calm. Maybe today showed I’m not built for this line of work. Her mind went back to the night on Rockfish’s front lawn. Porbeagle’s gun. The sound of the shot. The smell of burning cotton as the bullet passed through the material of her oversized sweatshirt. Fixing middle school laptops out of my garage doesn’t sound so bad now. Granted, no one’s launching a streaming network based on that show, but then again, I don’t have to look over my shoulder every time I leave the goddamn house. Jawnie stopped rubbing her hands and dropped her head into them. The tears flowed freely.

She didn’t remember how long she remained parked next to the dumpster, but when she felt she could make it back to the office without having a complete emotional meltdown, she shifted into drive.

***

Excerpt from A Bad Bout of the Yips by Ken Harris. Copyright 2023 by Ken Harris. Reproduced with permission from Ken Harris. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Ken Harris

Ken Harris retired from the FBI, after thirty-two years, as a cybersecurity executive. With over three decades writing intelligence products for senior Government officials, Ken provides unique perspectives on the conventional fast-paced crime thriller. He is the author of the “From the Case Files of Steve Rockfish” series. He spends days with his wife Nicolita, and two Labradors, Shady and Chalupa Batman. Evenings are spent playing Walkabout Mini Golf and cheering on Philadelphia sports. Ken firmly believes Pink Floyd, Irish whiskey and a Montecristo cigar are the only muses necessary. He is a native of New Jersey and currently resides in Virginia’s Northern Neck.

Catch Up With Ken Harris:
KenHarrisFiction.com
Goodreads
BookBub – @08025writes
Instagram – @kenharrisfiction
Twitter – @08025writes
Facebook – @kah623
Twitch – @kenharrisfiction

 

 

Tour Participants:

Visit these other great hosts on this tour for more great reviews, interviews, guest posts, and giveaway entries!

 

 

Get More Great Reads at Partners In Crime Tours

 

  • You can see my Giveaways HERE.
  • You can see my Reviews HERE.
  • If you like what you see, why don’t you follow me?
  • Leave your link in the comments and I will drop by to see what’s shakin’.
  • I am an Amazon affiliate/product images are linked.
  • Thanks for visiting fundinmental!

Giveaway – In Danger Of Judgment by David Rabin @partnersincr1me

In Danger of Judgment by David Rabin Banner

In Danger of Judgment

by David Rabin

August 8 – September 2, 2022 Virtual Book Tour

In Danger of Judgment

Amazon

Synopsis:

When a covert operation during the Vietnam War ends in tragedy, one of its members resolves to kill the man who betrayed it to the enemy. Now, fifteen years later, he’ll finally get his chance.

Chicago, 1987. Home of mediocre baseball teams, gangs that rule the streets, and a Mexican drug cartel that supplies the city with heroin. Chicago Police Detective Marcelle DeSantis and her partner, Bernie Bernardelli, are working a series of heroin-related murders, and their job just got more complicated. The man who sabotaged the Vietnam operation, Robert Thornton, is now the chief enforcer for a Southeast Asian heroin cartel, and after fifteen years overseas he’s arrived in Chicago to eliminate the reigning cartel and seize control of the city’s heroin trade.

Racing to stop a drug war, Marcelle and Bernie don’t realize they’re about to be caught in a deadly crossfire: another man is circling in the wings, one of Thornton’s soldiers from Vietnam, who’s preparing to exact his long-sought revenge against his former mentor. He’s the last person anyone would ever suspect, and when he finally makes his move, the paths of these four people will explosively converge.

Praise for In Danger of Judgment:

In Danger of Judgment does a masterful job of juggling multiple, full-blooded characters through high-octane storytelling as they make their way to a shocking, violent ending. David Rabin is a name that is sure to become familiar among lovers of best-selling, full-throttle thrillers”

––David Shawn Klein, award-winning author of The Money

“Mr. Rabin brings a fresh set of characters to the tried-and-true crime drama, and his breezy narrative style and crackling dialogue kept me turning the pages well past my bedtime.”

––Ronald Aiken, author of Death Has Its Benefits and former president of The Atlanta Writers

“Kudos to Mr. Rabin on the high quality of the prose, the thrilling plot with a twist and surprise ending, and the extensive research that went into this novel. I highly recommend it.”

––Jill Caugherty, author of Waltz in Swing Time

“Well-developed characters drive Rabin’s taut thriller. . . . the story builds to a lengthy, sensational final act, brimming with well-earned suspense”

––Kirkus Reviews

“A stunning debut, David Rabin’s In Danger of Judgment is an engrossing page-turner. Shocking twists barrel full-speed into an action-packed and tense crime thriller readers won’t see coming…. Builds an intricately-plotted crime thriller that’s cinematic and wildly compelling. The author’s prose is concise and ‘unputdownable,’ skilled at giving a tangible sense of the time period these characters inhabit.”

––IndieReader

Book Details:

Genre: Crime Thriller
Published by: Black Rose Writing
Publication Date: August 4th 2022
Number of Pages: 369
ISBN: 1685130593 (ISBN13: 9781685130596)
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads | Black Rose Writing

Don’t Miss this Video Trailer

Read an excerpt:

Prologue

1968 – 1972
South Vietnam

The eight men filing into the Tactical Operations Center had six days’ beard growth, they reeked of sweat and jungle, and their clothes were smeared with soil and grime and still-wet enemy blood.

Major Henry Sampson waited for them at a table at the rear of the TOC, as far away as they could get from the beeping, static, and chatter of the radios. The men settled themselves around the table and didn’t wait for Sampson to ask a question. They’d just completed their fourth mission, and by now they knew the debriefing procedure.

“Eleven,” said the first man.

In due course, Sampson would steer them to other aspects of the mission, but they always started with what was most important: the number of enemy killed in action.

Sampson had had a rude awakening a few years earlier, during his first tour in South Vietnam. He was a West Point man, a professional soldier to the core, but Vietnam was a war unlike any he’d prepared for. In every war America had ever fought, the objective was to capture and hold territory, but in Vietnam, that was never the goal. The only metric that mattered was the body count.

“Tell me about the first one,” Sampson said.

“Sentry in the southwest sector. Older than usual, thirties, maybe, leaning against a tree with a Chicom AK slung over his shoulder. He wasn’t even scanning, just gazing into the distance, probably thinking about his old lady back in Hanoi. I snake-crawled from the rear, put my hand over his mouth, and pulled back. Three stabs and a slash through the neck. No sound.”

The man described the rest of his kills and then they went around the table. By the time they finished, the count reached 102. It was a good night’s work.

Sometimes the body count was so high that Sampson wondered whether they were exaggerating, but he questioned them carefully and they convinced him the count was true. When the two guys from the Department of Defense had given him the assignment, he didn’t dream the men would kill so many.

* * *

The DOD men had arrived by helicopter on a soggy December morning in 1968, late in the rainy season at Phu Bai, South Vietnam, where Sampson was stationed with the 101st Airborne Division. They weren’t in uniform, but from the way they exited the Huey—quickly and gracefully—Sampson could tell they’d spent some time in the bush.

There was no fanfare on their arrival. That was by design. Sampson had been told the men would meet with him and then leave, and the fewer the people that knew about the meeting, the better.

The DOD men introduced themselves as Robinson and Reese, and it occurred to Sampson that whoever gave them their code names must have been a Dodgers fan. They wore identical navy-blue suits, white shirts, muted ties, and blank expressions. Robinson was black and Reese was white, but otherwise they could have been twins.

Sampson took them to his hooch, a rudimentary structure of plywood elevated a foot off the ground and divided into four living quarters. Inside, the décor was olive drab, drab being the operative word. Sampson’s corner had a cot, a small desk, makeshift shelves, a locker, and a table fan.

He pulled over a couple of folding chairs for the two men to sit on. Sampson wished he had a conference room befitting their importance, but the hooch was the only venue at the base where they could be assured of privacy. He’d made sure that the other three officers who lived there would be absent for the meeting’s duration.

Reese got it started as Robinson shook a Marlboro out of a hard pack and lit it with a Zippo. “We’re going to tell you some stuff you may already know, but bear with us. We’ll get to the good part shortly.”

Sampson sat up straight and did his best to look attentive. “I’m at your disposal, sir.”

“When you got here,” Reese said, “you were fighting the Viet Cong and the North Vietnamese Army. The VC are still around, but we hit them so hard during Tet that they’re no longer a major threat to the South. That’s why you’re now focused on the NVA.”

Robinson took the baton. “The NVA’s constantly moving men and supplies down the Ho Chi Minh Trail, infiltrating into the South, probing for weaknesses. Occasionally, they attack us and the South Vietnamese, and then they hightail it back to the North. Now, we both know that in a war you’re supposed to pursue the enemy, take the fight to them instead of the other way around. That’s how it’s always been done, but this is Vietnam, where nothing gets done the way it’s supposed to.”

“We’re not allowed to send ground troops into the North,” Sampson said.

Reese nodded. “That’s right, and it’s not because our civilian leadership is spineless, contrary to what you guys in-country may believe. North Vietnam has a great, big patron on its northern border called Communist China. In ’64, the Chinese told us that if we sent boots north of the 17th parallel, they’d intervene on behalf of their North Vietnamese comrades. Meaning, they’d send a few million Red Chinese soldiers down south, just like they did in Korea when we drove too far north, and we all know how that turned out for us.”

“Not real well.”

“Yeah. Not real well. We want to help the South Vietnamese, but we don’t want to start World War Three. Frustrating for us, frustrating for you.”

“I don’t make policy, sir. My duty is to follow orders and execute the mission.”

“I’m glad you mentioned that,” Robinson said, “because we came here to give you a mission.”

“Sir?”

Robinson stubbed out his cigarette and leaned forward. “You are very quietly going to insert ground troops into North Vietnam.”

They proceeded to tell him about the operation they wanted him to supervise: how the men would be selected, how they’d be trained, and the nature of the missions. They spoke for nearly an hour. Sampson listened intently, saying nothing. When they finished, they asked if he had any questions.

He did indeed have a question, though he hesitated to ask it, fearing they might think him insolent. But it was such an obvious issue, he just had to ask. “Why go to all this effort? All this planning, the massive selection process, the special training? Why don’t you use the men you already have?”

The DOD men looked at each other without a trace of reaction, communicated telepathically, and turned back to Sampson. “That’s above your pay grade,” Reese said, “but if you’re not comfortable with this op, we can find someone else.”

Now Sampson wished he hadn’t asked, but he recovered quickly. “I can do it,” he said.

“There’s one more thing. The body count is important—the higher the better, of course—and it needs to be accurate. You’ll have to drill it into the men to keep an accurate count. Can you do that, Major?”

“I can do it.”

Sampson thought the whole thing was a crock, just another foolhardy operation in a senseless war. But they got through the selection process and trained the men, and when they were finally let loose on their missions, they surpassed everyone’s expectations. The body counts were staggering.

* * *

It was now late 1972, and Team One was nearing the end of its sixth mission. The Huey had inserted them six nights ago. They’d spent three nights approaching the target camp, followed by three nights of recon. Seven of them would attack the camp, and the eighth would remain just outside the camp’s perimeter to cover them as they withdrew.

They wore no insignia and bore no identification, all to give the government plausible deniability if things went south. For the same reason, they never called each other by name during their missions. They were Ares Numbers One through Eight, a bit of theater they deemed absurd but acquiesced to nonetheless.

They killed time with the usual idle chatter: their favorite bands, best road trips, girlfriends good and bad. In their three years together, they’d told the same stories so many times that the telling was no longer the point. It was how they reinforced the bonds among them.

“Okay, guys,” Ares One said, “fifteen minutes till go time.”

They synched their watches, and as they went through one last gear check, Four addressed the elephant in the room. “The war’s almost over, so this is probably our last mission.”

Silence. No one wanted to talk about it.

“You know I’m right,” Four continued. “The Paris peace talks are barreling down the tracks. Kissinger went on TV and said peace is at hand.” He absent-mindedly checked his M16 again. “When we started out, I thought you guys were a bunch of losers, and now I don’t want it to end.”

“Jesus, you’re a downer,” Five said. “Look, when we get back, we’ll do it up right. Get us a case of that black-market champagne, put on some CCR and turn it all the way up.”

“Temptations,” said Seven.

Everyone laughed. Seven loved Motown.

“Enough of this shit,” Three said. “If this is our last mission, I don’t want the perimeter again. I want some action. Lemme be on the assault team.”

Two shook his head. “If Sampson and Thornton find out you violated the orders—”

“Fuck ’em,” Three said. “What’re they gonna do, fire me?”

No one had a response to that unassailable logic, and Three turned to Six. “Let me take your place,” Three said. “Take the easy duty tonight.”

Six looked at the others. They all nodded.

Three and Six exchanged weapons and ammo, Six getting the sniper kit. They all gave each other thumbs-up, and the seven men on the assault team moved silently into their assigned sectors.

Six checked his watch. The men would breach in twenty minutes and return one hour after that. He had nothing to do now but wait.

He stared into the darkness, listening to the sounds of the jungle and imagining the men—

Gunfire.

There should not have been gunfire.

It was not the treble staccato of American M16s. It was the bass thuds of Chinese AKs.

The gunfire ended abruptly, and then all was silent.

A flood of thoughts coursed through his brain.

His friends were dead.

The enemy had known they were coming, and so the enemy knew he was here.

And now, the enemy would come for him.

* * *

Sampson sat in his hooch, drinking his fourth Scotch of the night. The operation had gone along like clockwork until that bastard Thornton went rogue, the chief instructor selling out his own men.

The higher-ups had immediately terminated the entire operation, and Sampson could just imagine the hysteria now playing out at DOD. First, there would be recriminations. Who picked Thornton? Who vetted him? How in the hell did no one foresee this? Then they’d have to invent stories to tell the families, explaining why the bodies of their sons and brothers weren’t coming home. They’d prime people to describe how heroically the men had died, so the families would buy it and not inquire further. And once the cover-up started, they’d have to cover up the cover-up. It would feed on itself and grow exponentially until the cover-up itself was more important than the events that birthed it.

As distasteful as it was, Sampson knew there was nothing else they could do. If the public ever learned the whole story, there’d be more heads rolling at DOD than bowling balls at the local alley on dollar night.

* * *

Three weeks after the operation ended, the DOD men visited Sampson again.

In the four years since he’d last seen them, Sampson’s world had changed dramatically. The war was winding down and would end soon—and for Sampson, that was a problem. The way to get ahead in the military was to serve in a war zone. He’d done multiple tours in Vietnam, but once this war ended, who knew when there would be another one? He would have to find a way to make himself invaluable.

When the DOD men arrived, they looked just the same as before, all the way down to their navy-blue suits and inscrutable faces. They assured Sampson that no one blamed him for the unfortunate way the operation had ended. They complimented him on how well he’d run it, and on the results the men had obtained. A promotion to lieutenant colonel was already in the works.

When he heard the word “promotion,” Sampson knew they were about to get to the real point of the meeting. Guys like them always dangled a prize before asking for something.

“There are two other things,” Robinson said. “DOD wants to keep the operation and its outcome confidential.”

No kidding, Sampson thought. “What else?”

“The upper echelon at DOD considers the remaining men to be somewhat unstable.”

“What you mean is, you think they’re crazy.”

“However one puts it, given their, uh, mental disposition, we consider it prudent to monitor them until the last of them has passed away.”

Sampson saw the logic of it. “Where do I fit in?”

“The perpetuation of secrecy and the observation of the men are related tasks, and we need someone to oversee both. We’d be pleased if you could do that, at least until your retirement, which we hope will be many years from now. Can you do that, Major?”

At that moment, Sampson saw his future.

These assignments were delicate. They were critical. They would last the rest of his career.

They were giving him a way to make himself invaluable.

He took his time and pretended to think about it, not wanting to look too eager, then slowly nodded.

“I can do it,” Sampson said, though it would be another fifteen years before he’d discover just how complicated it could get.

Chapter 1

Sunday, May 10, 1987
8:02 p.m.
Chicago

Marcelle leaned against the railing of an apartment building at the south end of the 3700 block of Wilton Avenue, waiting for someone, though not for anyone in particular. She’d been there for five minutes and decided to wait another two before moving on.

The street was deserted, the residents having battened down the hatches in anticipation of twilight. An empty Old Style can rolled down the street in a grating, metallic rhythm, pushed by the wind coming off Lake Michigan a mile to the east. The only sign of life was the rumbling of an L train on the tracks a half-block from where she stood. The neighborhood seemed peaceful, though she knew its tranquility could be deceiving.

She was about to give up on this spot when two men in their late teens rounded the corner at the other end of the block and began walking toward her. They wore the gray and black colors of the area’s predominant street gang, the Latin Eagles, and they walked with a slow swagger as if they owned the place, which they pretty much did. One was taller and one was shorter, and thus became, in her lexicon, Mr. Tall and Mr. Short.

The instant they saw her, they broke into big smiles and started conversing energetically. She’d gotten their attention. It didn’t surprise her, because she was accustomed to getting attention. She was about five-eight and in her late twenties, with dark brown hair that barely touched her shoulders and a face that belonged on a magazine cover. Tonight she wore a light coat that was open at the front. Marcelle always dressed for success.

The men were five steps away now.

She put her right hand in her coat pocket.

Que pasa, mami chula,” said Mr. Tall.

They walked back and forth around her from opposite sides, examining her from head to toe and leering at her, no doubt expecting she’d panic and try to extricate herself.

Except she didn’t.

Instead, she smiled at them.

It was a beautiful, radiant, magazine-cover smile, and because it was the last thing they’d expected, they froze in their tracks.

Her hand came out of her coat pocket.

It held a badge case.

“Detective Marcelle DeSantis,” she said, “and I want you to know I do appreciate the compliment.”

Mierda,” said Mr. Short.

“We don’t talk to police,” said Mr. Tall.

Her smile turned into a pout. “A minute ago, you thought I was sexy, and now you don’t even want to talk to me? My feelings are hurt.”

The men looked dumbfounded. Marcelle figured no police had ever spoken to them that way, and she took the opening. “I’m not here to hassle you guys. You’re just two fine-looking dudes strolling down the street. Fact is, I need your help.”

Now they looked intrigued. “Help with what?” asked Short.

“I want to find the guy who killed your friends. Hector, Ramon, Angel, and Luis.”

“We take care of our own business,” said Tall.

“That’s good to know. Have you found the guy yet?”

Again, they were speechless.

“I know you want to find the guy who did it,” Marcelle said. “You want revenge, and you want people to know they shouldn’t screw with the Latin Eagles. The problem is, you won’t find him on your own.”

“Why not?” asked Tall.

“Because he’s a pro and you guys aren’t exactly Sherlock Holmes. If he gets found, it’s going to be the Chicago Police Department that does it.”

Tall shrugged. “We don’t know anything.”

“Okay,” she said, “but maybe you’ll remember something or hear something.”

“What do we get if we help you?” Short asked.

Now she knew she was getting somewhere. When they asked for something, it meant they were interested.

“I’ll tell you what you’ll get. If we convict the guy, he’ll get a life sentence or death row. Either way, he’ll go to a prison. Probably Pontiac, Stateville, or Joliet, and you’ve got members in all three. I’m sure your buddies will give him a warm welcome when he arrives.”

It was the men’s turn to smile.

“I’m gonna go now,” Marcelle said, “but I want you to remember something. I didn’t give you any shit. I didn’t ask for ID or search you. I treated you like men because that’s what you are.”

They nodded their agreement.

“Here’s how I work,” she continued. “You play straight with me and I play straight with you. As long as you’re law-abiding, I’ll treat you like you live on Lake Shore Drive.” She handed each man a card. “If you learn anything that might help us, call me. I don’t know your names and you won’t have to give them.”

The men pocketed the cards. Short looked ready to leave, but Tall stood still, his face gripped in concentration, as if trying to recall something from long ago.

Now, he looked like he remembered.

He stood up straight and looked her squarely in the eyes. “It was good to meet you, Detective. Have a nice night.”

***

Excerpt from In Danger of Judgment by David Rabin. Copyright 2022 by David Rabin. Reproduced with permission from David Rabin. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

David Rabin

DAVID RABIN was born in Chicago and raised in its Lakeview neighborhood. He later moved to Atlanta, where he worked as a trial lawyer for thirty-three years. Now retired, he writes fiction, runs a competitive shooting program, and competes in rifle sports, including the discipline of Highpower Rifle, in which he holds two High Master classifications. He and his wife, a former clinical social worker, have two grown sons. In Danger of Judgment is his first novel.

Catch Up With David Rabin:
DavidRabinAuthor.com
Goodreads
Facebook – @DavidRabinAuthor

 

 

Tour Participants:

Visit these other great hosts on this tour for more great reviews, interviews, guest posts, and giveaways!

 

 

 

ENTER TO WIN:

This is a giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Tours for David Rabin. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.

 

 

Get More Great Reads at Partners In Crime Tours

 

  • You can see my Giveaways HERE.
  • You can see my Reviews HERE.
  • If you like what you see, why don’t you follow me?
  • Look on the right sidebar and let’ talk.
  • Leave your link in the comments and I will drop by to see what’s shakin’.
  • I am an Amazon affiliate/product images are linked.
  • Thanks for visiting fundinmental!

Giveaway – The Pine Barrens Stratagem by Ken Harris @08025writes @partnersincr1me

.

The Pine Barrens Stratagem

by Ken Harris

February 1-28, 2022 Virtual Book Tour

The Pine Barrens Stratagem: From the Case Files of Steve Rockfish

Private Investigator Steve Rockfish needs cash, like yesterday. The bad news is that yesterday, a global pandemic raged, and Maryland was headed toward a lockdown that would ultimately lead to cheating spouses no longer “working late,” and hence a lack of new clients.

Rockfish’s luck changes when a Hollywood producer reaches out, but the job is two states away and involves digging up information on a child trafficking ring from the 1940s. What he uncovers will be used to support the launch of a true crime docuseries. He grabs a mask, hand sanitizer and heads for South Jersey.

On-site, Rockfish meets Jawnie McGee, the great granddaughter of a local policeman gone missing while investigating the original crimes. As the duo uncover more clues, they learn the same criminal alliance has reformed to use the pandemic as a conduit to defraud the Federal Government of that sweet, sweet, stimulus money.

It’s not long before the investigation turns up some key intel on a myriad of illicit activity over the last eighty years and Rockfish rockets toward a showdown with the mafia, local archdiocese and dirty cops. COVID-19 isn’t the only threat to his health.

Book Details:

Genre: Crime Thriller
Published by: Black Rose Writing
Publication Date: January 27th 2022
Number of Pages: 250
ISBN: 1684338719 (ISBN13: 9781684338719)
Purchase Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

Rockfish sat in the Scion’s passenger seat while Jawnie drove. He wasn’t thrilled with the decision, but she was adamant that some of the dirt roads, deep within the Pine Barrens, were no place for a Dodge Challenger. Plus, she didn’t feel like playing navigator. In the end, Rockfish decided not to put up much of a fight, considering Jawnie was more than a little familiar with where they were headed, although he had second thoughts with the four cases of whiplash he had suffered before even reaching the highway.

“Do you drive with two feet,” he asked. “Because my head can’t keep jerking forward and slamming back much more. Unless you’re running an insurance scam, and if so, what would be my take?”

“Enough with the backseat driving, and can you put your visor back up? That late afternoon glare off the mirror is killing me.”

“Make a deal with you. You drive how you want. I’ll keep an eye on our surroundings the way I want. Speaking of which, can you move this right-side passenger mirror a little more to the right, all I’m seeing is the rear fender.”

“You got it,” Jawnie said, and she played with the mirror control until Rockfish let her know it was right where he needed it. He could monitor anyone approaching from behind without having to turn around.

“I do want to fill you in on something I learned before we left,” Rockfish said. “When you went into the house to fix those sandwiches, I reached out to a guy I know in the Baltimore PD, Dan Decker. He’s an old friend and helps me out when he can. He’s going to have one of their academy cadets do some research for us and see if there is anything more than a current history between the Marini and Provolone families. The Marini’s have run Baltimore as long as the Provolone’s have this area. If Edward’s notation of the two factions working together has anything to it, Decker will let us know. He said currently both families have worked together when it was profitable to do so. Sound familiar?”

“Yeah, same M.O. as our knuckle draggers and kid touchers,” Jawnie replied.

Rockfish was happy to learn Jawnie’s disdain for organized religion matched his own. “Well put. But if there is a history there, what are the odds that some wealthy, non-fertile Baltimore Catholics would be willing to pony up some cash to right the situation. And Edward was witness to it all?”

They drove in silence over the next twenty minutes, Rockfish trying to figure out exactly what he expected to find in a fifty-four-year-old decrepit building in the middle of the woods. He hadn’t arrived at a conclusion yet when something very familiar came into focus.

“Remember when you asked me about knowing when you’re being followed?” Rockfish said.

“Yeah, I just chalked it up to anxiety and paranoia. It comes standard on the Millennial base model.”

“Guess what? We are,” Rockfish deadpanned. “Don’t do a damn thing different and let me think for a second. There’s a Jeep Grand Cherokee, right now, two cars back that’s been with us since we pulled off the highway when I was telling you what Decker said.”

Rockfish pulled out a scrap of paper and jotted down the license plate.

“I’ll ask Decker to run this, if they end up sticking on our ass the whole way. I could be a tad paranoid, but I’d rather err on the side of caution. Just keep doing what you’re doing, and I’ll tell you if evasive actions become necessary. We’ll start you slow and work our way up to the infamous private eye J-turn.”

Ten minutes later, the Scion crossed the Hammonton City line and Rockfish lost sight of the Jeep. He had Jawnie drive a couple of concentric circles around the downtown area, before heading out on County Route 542 which, according to her, would point them towards the southern part of Wharton State Forest and the abandoned orphanage.

Rockfish spotted the Jeep, only a second or two after it turned on Route 542 from a side street.

“Company’s back,” Rockfish said. “I guess when we hit these dirt roads you mentioned, we’ll see how serious they are.”

When the Scion’s tires soon left the asphalt, and began rolling down the slightly larger than single lane dirt road, the Jeep’s true intentions came to light. No longer concerned about being spotted, the Jeep’s speed increased until it was only a few feet from Jawnie’s bumper. Rockfish’s head swiveled from the Jeep and back to his pilot. He needed to stay calm, but Jawnie looked petrified, and while her hands had a death grip on the wheel, they were also visibly shaking.

“Jawnie, listen to me and we’ll be alright.”

She didn’t say a word, but Rockfish could feel the car slowing down. Screw her feelings, he thought and began giving orders.

“Put your foot back on the gas. You need to keep a constant speed.” And then a minute later. “Stay in the center, don’t give them space to get alongside of us.” Lastly, he shouted. “The center I said!” His voice gave out with that last outburst and he knew she heard the fear in it.

Rockfish swore as the Jeep slammed into their back bumper. “That a girl, keep her straight! Gas, give it some—”

The rear windshield exploded, shards of safety glass like small pellets peppered the interior of the car. Jawnie screamed and instinctively yanked the wheel to the left. Likewise, Rockfish now yelled in order to be heard.

“Foot off the gas! Steer into it!”

Rockfish wasn’t sure how he got through to Jawnie, but she listened, and the Scion straightened back up and they were rocketing straight down the dirt road once again. But before he could congratulate his pupil, the Jeep was now angling to get alongside; the Scion drifting dangerously close to the right shoulder, or lack thereof. Rockfish turned and looked out the driver’s side rear window. He could clearly see the Jeep’s front end.

In the next instant, they were sliding again, Jawnie’s foot slammed on the brake and the Jeep’s right fender nudged the Scion’s left rear. Brakes squealed, and tires howled as dirt, dust and burnt rubber filled their lungs.

“Hold on, hold on, hold on!” It was all he managed to say, but her eyes told him she was a million miles away. Rockfish closed his and braced for impact.

The car spun violently to the left, a hundred and eighty degrees, and his head whipped left and then right, slamming against the window. The seatbelt dug into his chest and he had trouble breathing. A second later, the earth beneath the car’s right side began to give way and the Scion slid into a ditch before coming to a stop.

By the time Rockfish opened his eyes and turned around, the taillights from the Jeep had disappeared into the distance.

* * * * * * * * * *

“That settles it, I’m going to the police now! They, someone, fuck I don’t know who just tried to kill us!” Jawnie said. “Look at my car! Who’s going to pay for this? Not like we’re exchanging fucking information with them!” Her mask was around her neck and Rockfish could see the tears.

Rockfish took a second before he replied. His partner was still in shock, borderline hysterical, and he didn’t want to push her over the edge, unlike the car they pulled themselves from. The Jeep had performed a textbook pit maneuver and Rockfish bet Jawnie wasn’t a big fan of Cops or Live PD. Hence, her jumping straight to attempted murder.

“Now hold on Jawnie,” Rockfish said. “You’re not hurt, right? That seatbelt and airbag did their jobs?”

“Of course, but—”

“No buts about it. Your chest might be a little sore tomorrow from that belt, your eyes swollen from the air bag, and more importantly, you’ll never forget your first chase. But seriously, no one tried to kill us. If they had wanted us dead, we’d be bleeding out from gunshot wounds. Your rear window was the victim of a warning shot. When we were in that ditch, no one walked up from behind and pumped a few slugs into the back of our heads.”

Rockfish stopped and looked at Jawnie, he needed to make sure he was getting through. Her breathing had slowed down quite a bit and that was a start.

“This was a warning, pure and simple. All this tells us is that someone thinks you might be sticking your nose somewhere it doesn’t belong. Obviously, it pertains to those boxes. I haven’t been in town long enough to piss someone off yet, at least, I hope. But if they were staking out your place, they’d have my license plate number and know who I am.”

“But I’ve only dealt with Hasty on this,” Jawnie said.

“Look. You might have worked out a deal with Hasty, but odds are he wasn’t the one that went into the very back of the evidence room and pulled those boxes for you. He’s probably recounted your conversation to a few of his ‘trusted’ senior men, and God knows who else might have been in the room when those conversations took place. Was there anything else you mentioned either to him or anyone else at the station that might cause a reaction like what just happened?”

“I d-d-did tell him I had hoped to t-t-take what I found in these boxes, scan what I could, and create a website. One that would ask the public for tips. Anonymously, of course. It would be a way to get the word out and maybe get someone’s attention who might remember something. Hasty asked his secretary to check and see if he had the authority to put the PD’s logo and tip line on this site. He was only trying to help.”

“So, he’s got a secretary. Old bird, I bet?”

“Yeah, Betty Lou Sommers. I’m guessing she’s logged more than a few years there.”

“There’s your problem. Old Betty Lou sees all Hasty’s business that comes and goes out of his office. I’d lay odds her loyalties lie with others she’s worked with or for through the years and not the guy who knocked the latest Ringle out of office.”

“I’d never thought of it that way.”

“If you’re trying to be a junior special agent, I’d advise you to think that way. Someone in that department is crooked and an off-duty cop or on-duty mafioso ran us off the road. Doesn’t matter who, I’m betting they can be one and the same. Now if you feel alright, we need to call for a tow.”

“And an Uber.”

“Do you have any bars?” Rockfish said.

“Nope.”

“We were lucky this was only a warning. We’ve got some walking ahead of us. They shouldn’t be coming back.”

I gotta reach out to Davenport, he thought. The stakes have significantly increased.

***

Excerpt from The Pine Barrens Stratagem by Ken Harris. Copyright 2022 by Ken Harris. Reproduced with permission from Ken Harris. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Ken Harris

Ken Harris retired from the FBI, after thirty-two years, as a cybersecurity executive. With over three decades writing intelligence products for senior Government officials, Ken provides unique perspectives on the conventional fast-paced crime thriller. While this is his first traditionally published novel, he previously self-published two novellas and two novels. He spends days with his wife Nicolita, and two Labradors, Shady and Chalupa Batman. Evenings are spent cheering on Philadelphia sports. Ken firmly believes Pink Floyd, Irish whiskey and a Montecristo cigar are the only muses necessary. He is a native of New Jersey and currently resides in Northern Virginia.

Catch Up With Ken Harris:
www.KenHarrisFiction.com
Goodreads
BookBub – @08025writes
Twitter – @08025writes
Instagram – @KenHarrisFiction
Facebook – @kah623

 

 

Tour Participants:

Visit these other great hosts on this tour for more great reviews, interviews, guest posts, and giveaways!

 

 

ENTER TO WIN:

This is a giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tours for Ken Harris. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.

 

 

Get More Great Reads at Partners In Crime Tours

 

  • You can see my Giveaways HERE.
  • You can see my Reviews HERE.
  • If you like what you see, why don’t you follow me?
  • Look on the right sidebar and let’ talk.
  • Leave your link in the comments and I will drop by to see what’s shakin’.
  • I am an amazon affiliate/product images are linked.
  • Thanks for visiting fundinmental!

Giveaway – The Memory Bell by Kat Flannery @KatFlannery1 @partnersincr1me

The Memory Bell

by Kat Flannery

September 1-30, 2021 Tour

Synopsis:

The Memory Bell by Kat Flannery

Grace Penner’s safe haven crumbles when a body is found outside of town.

Gifted the memory bell, a family heirloom, from her grandfather’s will, Grace’s excitement is soon squashed when the bell gets broken right after she receives it. While gluing the pieces back in place, she discovers three are still missing.

Determined to find them, she is halted when the new detective, Bennet James, investigates her family. Grace is intent on showing the detective her family isn’t capable of murder, but as the investigation deepens, and pieces of the bell show up with ominous notes, Grace soon realizes the Penners are not what they seem. Amidst the tightly knit family; dark secrets, deception, and possibly even murder unfold.

Will Grace be able to save the family she loves more than anything without losing herself forever?

Praise for The Memory Bell:

“A naïve small-town girl and a disillusioned big-city cop, drawn together by an unsolved crime that is itself only the tip of the iceberg, The Memory Bell serves up the perfect steamy summer read.”
–Jenny Jaeckel, author of House of Rougeaux

“The story moves beyond a small town whodunit to probe the underlying bonds of history that connect a family.”
-Midwest Book Review

“Wonderful, engaging, and fast-paced! Flannery knows what she’s doing!”
-Jonas Saul, author of the Sarah Roberts series

Book Details:

Genre: Mystery, Suspense
Published by: Black Rose Writing
Publication Date: July 1, 2021
Number of Pages: 288
ISBN: 1684337089 (ISBN-13:978-1684337088)
Purchase Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

“Family is supposed to be our safe haven. Very often, it’s the place where we find the deepest heartache.” ~ Iyanla Vanzant

CHAPTER ONE

Detective Bennet James stood over the remains of a hand dug grave. The morning air was brisk for July, and a foggy cloud permeated the air as he exhaled. He’d woken as the first rays of dawn crept through his hotel window casting sundogs along the planked floor.

Bones were found by the grain elevators at the mill in Oakville. The sleepy town was an hour’s drive from Chicago and where he’d been stationed for the last two weeks. It was hell, but anything was better than sitting at home waiting to hear his fate. He flexed his shoulders. The muscles ached from the mounting pressure.

He took a sip of the coffee he’d bought at the local gas station. The bitter blend was cold and old. Probably made the night before and just waiting for some poor soul to drain the last of the dregs from the decanter.

With no details other than the presence of human remains to work with, Ben made quick work of taping off the area and closing all access in and out of the mill. The trains were halted and all productivity near the tracks was at a standstill. He surveyed the grounds. Three metal silos stood in a row to his left with tracks laid in front of them. Directly behind were wooden buildings with peaked roofs, and a single track led to a dead end.

He gathered the mill was over fifty years old by the way the boards heaved and sagged. Out of commission for some time, he wondered why no one had torn the dilapidated buildings down. Being that the place was pretty much deserted it’d make things difficult in the investigation. He snorted. It wasn’t his investigation, and if things didn’t work out for him with the state, he’d never see another one again.

He rubbed his hand across his face. His heart quickened with the familiar feeling of piecing together a puzzle. It was the same feeling he got every time he was dealt a new case. Except this one was different. It wasn’t his, and even though the thought of having something to occupy his mind was appealing, he doubted Sheriff Rhoads would let him take the lead on it, much less be a part of it.

Ben glanced down at the body. Nothing left but bones and a few fragments of hair which signified the death happened years before. The grave was not shallow, but not deep either. Ben guessed it was four feet into the ground. A blue blanket caught his eye. He fingered the soft cotton with a gloved hand, a crocheted throw that was now pulled from the knots someone delicately placed there. Whoever had wrapped the victim in it did so with pristine care.

“Where is the witness?” he asked the young deputy standing to his left. He couldn’t remember the boy’s name, or was it he didn’t care? It didn’t really matter. He’d stopped caring about those around him a long time ago.

The deputy looked a bit flushed, and Ben figured the kid living in the small town had never seen anything like this before. Regret settled in his stomach at making the boy stay with him while he looked over the body and its surroundings. Ben remembered seeing his first body, a young girl, no more than six. Her image still haunted him on nights when sleep wouldn’t come.

He blinked, collected his thoughts, and faced the young man.

“You’re no longer needed here,” he said.

“The men who found the body are over there,” the kid stammered. His hand shook as he pointed to the two silhouettes standing twenty yards away.

“Thanks.” Ben dismissed him and walked toward the two men sipping coffee from their mugs. A part of him wanted to turn back to his car and leave now that Rhoads was here, but his pride and his duty wouldn’t allow it. He pulled out the small note pad and pen he kept in his pocket.

“Morning. I need to ask you a few questions.”

“Ain’t you the new fella?” one of the men asked.

“Yeah.”

“You’re that swanky detective from the city.”

Ben didn’t answer.

“Why in hell would you want to come out here?”

He remained silent. It was none of the old man’s business why he’d been placed in this shithole town.

“Talk is you got into hot water up there.”

“I need to ask you some questions,” Ben repeated, an edge creeping into his voice. He wasn’t about to discuss his shit with these guys. He shifted from one foot to the other, took a deep calming breath, cleared his throat, and waited.

“Not much to tell,” the man said. His thick white moustache spanned the whole of his upper lip and the bottoms of his cheeks.

“Your name?” he asked.

“Walter Smythe.” The man leaned in to read what Ben wrote and tapped his index finger onto the paper. “That’s Smythe with a Y not an I.”

Ben nodded.

“Can you tell me how you came upon the body?”

“Ol’ Russ was the one who found it.”

He turned to the other man.

“I ain’t Russ,” the farmer said.

“Who is—”

“That’s my dog.” Walter whistled. A large St. Bernard came loping up from the field behind the buildings.

“The dog found the body?”

“That’s right.”

“What were you doing out here?”

“I come out from time to time.”

“Why if the place is closed down?”

The man shrugged.

“Have you brought Russ out here before?” Ben asked, still trying to piece together how the remains were found.

“Sure. I bring him everywhere.”

“Why was he in the elevators?”

Walter’s wide shoulders lifted underneath the plaid jacket.

“Did the dog take anything from the grave, or disturb it in anyway?”

“Once I seen him diggin’, I called him over.” Walter guffawed. “But the damn mutt just kept on going back. So, I went over to see what the hell he was after.”

“At what point did you figure out it was a body?”

“Right away when I saw the bones.”

“Russ dug up most of the grave?”

“Nah, maybe a foot of it.” Walter nudged the farmer beside him. “I called Bill and we determined it was best to call the sheriff.”

“Why didn’t you call the sheriff first?”

Walter didn’t answer.

“Did you remove or touch anything?” Ben asked.

“Nope.”

As much as the farmer was rough around the edges, he could tell Walter Smythe spoke the truth.

“One more question. Has anyone gone missing in the last ten years?”

“Not around these parts. Most people who go missing leave for the city.”

“Why is that?”

“Small towns ain’t for everybody.” Walter’s eyes narrowed. “Stuff like this don’t happen around here.”

Ben nodded before he walked away and headed back to his car. He opened the door but didn’t get in. Tall silos, train cars and tracks were surrounded by a field. Waist-high stalks of yellow waved in the breeze and from what he knew of farming, it looked to be canola. Why wasn’t the body buried in the field? There must be over a hundred acres of land. Until he received the coroner’s report, he couldn’t begin to guess at anything yet. Before he left, he’d need to talk to Sheriff Rhoads and see about any missing persons reports in the area.

“Well, that is odd.” Rhoads sauntered toward him, brows furrowed.

“What is?” Ben asked.

“A body, here, at the elevators, in Oakville.” His forehead wrinkled, and a perplexed look crossed his face. “Nobody has been here in years.”

“These things can happen anywhere. There are no rules for death.”

Rhoads focused on him, but remained quiet for some time before he said, “Not here.”

“I’d like to take the lead on this,” Ben said. The words surprised him, but he couldn’t take them back now. Besides, he needed something to keep him busy. The minor misdemeanors at the old folk’s home, break-ins, and an occasional kid in trouble wasn’t enough to keep him from going crazy with boredom.

“Not sure that’s wise, with your probation and all.”

Ben nodded, figuring that would be the answer.

“But I don’t see it as more than an unfortunate accident, so go ahead.”

Ben wasn’t so sure.

***

Excerpt from The Memory Bell by Kat Flannery. Copyright 2021 by Kat Flannery. Reproduced with permission from Kat Flannery. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Kat Flannery

Kat Flannery’s love of history shows in her novels. She is an avid reader of historical, suspense, paranormal, and romance. A member of many writing Kat enjoys promoting other authors on her blog. When she’s not busy writing, or marketing Kat volunteers her time to other aspiring authors. She has been a keynote speaker, lecturer and guest author inspiring readers and writers at every event she attends. Kat’s been published in numerous periodicals throughout her career, and continues to write for blogs and online magazines. A bestselling author, Kat’s books are available all over the world. The BRANDED TRILOGY is Kat’s award-winning series. With seven books published, Kat continues to plot what story will be next. Creativity is in all aspects of Kat’s career. She does Social Media and Marketing for her own career and businesses, writing ads, and other content.

Catch Up With Kat Flannery:
www.KatFlannery.com/Books-1
Goodreads
BookBub – @KatFlannery
Instagram – @katflannery_
Twitter – @KatFlannery1
Facebook – @kat.flannery.5

 

 

Tour Participants:

Visit these other great hosts on this tour for more great reviews, interviews, guest posts, and giveaways!

 

 

ENTER TO WIN:

This is a rafflecopter giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tours for Kat Flannery. There will be 1 winner of one (1) Amazon.com Gift Card (U.S. ONLY). The giveaway runs September 1 through October 3, 2021. Void where prohibited.

a Rafflecopter giveaway

 

 

Get More Great Reads at Partners In Crime Virtual Book Tours

 

  • You can see my Giveaways HERE.
  • You can see my Reviews HERE.
  • If you like what you see, why don’t you follow me?
  • Look on the right sidebar and let’ talk.
  • Leave your link in the comments and I will drop by to see what’s shakin’.
  • I am an Amazon affiliate/product images are linked.
  • Thanks for visiting fundinmental!