Showing posts with label Thriller. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Thriller. Show all posts

October 7, 2015

Excerpt & Giveaway! The Drowning Game by L.S. Hawker




They said she was armed.
They said she was dangerous.
They were right.

Petty Moshen spent eighteen years of her life as a prisoner in her own home, training with military precision for everything, ready for anything. She can disarm, dismember, and kill—and now, for the first time ever, she is free.

Her paranoid father is dead, his extreme dominance and rules a thing of the past, but his influence remains as strong as ever. When his final will reveals a future more terrible than her captive past, Petty knows she must escape—by whatever means necessary.

But when Petty learns the truth behind her father's madness—and her own family—the reality is worse than anything she could have imagined. On the road and in over her head, Petty's fight for her life has just begun.

Fans of female-powered thrillers will love debut author LS Hawker and her suspenseful tale of a young woman on the run for her future…and from the nightmares of her past.

COME CELEBRATE WITH LS HAWKER AT HER RELEASE PARTY https://www.facebook.com/events/856594864448466/


AMAZON * B&N * iBooks



Wednesday 

Sirens and the scent of strange men drove Sarx and Tesla into a frenzy of barking and pacing as they tried to keep the intruders off our property without the aid of a fence. Two police cars, a fire truck, and an ambulance were parked on the other side of the dirt road. The huddled cops and firemen kept looking at the house.

Dad’s iPhone rang and went on ringing. I couldn’t make myself answer it. I knew it was the cops outside calling to get me to open the front door, but asking me to allow a group of strangers inside seemed like asking a pig to fly a jet. I had no training or experience to guide me. I longed to get the AK-47 out of the basement gun safe, even though it would be me against a half-dozen trained law men.

“Petty Moshen.” An electric megaphone amplified the man’s voice outside.

The dogs howled at the sound of it, intensifying further the tremor that possessed my entire body. I hadn’t shaken like this since the night Dad left me out on the prairie in a whiteout blizzard to hone my sense of direction.

“Petty, call off the dogs.”

I couldn’t do it.

“I’m going to dial up your father’s cell phone again, and I want you to answer it.”

Closing my eyes, I concentrated, imagining those words coming out of my dad’s mouth, in his voice. The iPhone vibrated. I pretended it was my dad, picked it up, hit the answer button and pressed it to my ear.

“This is Sheriff Bloch,” said the man on the other end of the phone. “We have to come in and talk to you about your dad.”

I cleared my throat again. “I need to do something first,” I said, and thumbed the end button. I headed down to the basement.

Downstairs, I got on the treadmill, cranked up the speed to ten miles an hour and ran for five minutes, flat-out, balls to the wall. This is what Detective Deirdre Walsh, my favorite character on TV’s Offender NYC, always did when emotions overwhelmed her. No one besides me and my dad had ever come into our house before, so I needed to steady myself. 

I jumped off and took the stairs two at a time, breathing hard, sweating, my legs burning, but steadier. I popped a stick of peppermint gum in my mouth. Then I walked straight to the front door the way Detective Walsh would—fearlessly, in charge, all business. I flung the door open and shouted, “Sarx! Tesla! Off! Come!”

They both immediately glanced over their shoulders and came loping toward me. I noticed another vehicle had joined the gauntlet on the other side of the road, a brand-new tricked-out red Dodge Ram 4x4 pickup truck. Randy King, wearing a buff-colored Stetson, plaid shirt, Lee’s, and cowboy boots, leaned against it. All I could see of his face was a black walrus mustache. He was the man my dad had instructed me to call if anything ever happened to him. I’d seen Randy only a couple of times but never actually talked to him until today.

The dogs sat in front of me, panting, worried, whimpering. I reached down and scratched their ears, thankful that Dad had trained them like he had. I straightened and led them to the one-car garage attached to the left side of the house. They sat again as I raised the door and signaled them inside. They did not like this one bit—they whined and jittered—but they obeyed my command to stay. I lowered the door and turned to face the invasion.

As if I’d disabled an invisible force field, all the men came forward at once: the paramedics and firemen carrying their gear boxes, the cops’ hands hovering over their sidearms. I couldn’t look any of them in the eye, but I felt them staring at me as if I were an exotic zoo animal or a serial killer.

The man who had to be the sheriff walked right up to me, and I stepped back palming the blade I keep clipped to my bra at all times. I knew it was unwise to reach into my hoodie, even just to touch the Baby Glock in my shoulder holster.

“Petty?” he said.

“Yes sir,” I said, keeping my eyes on the clump of yellow, poisonous prairie ragwort at my feet.

“I’m Sheriff Bloch. Would you show us in, please?”

“Yes sir,” I said, turning and walking up the front steps. I pushed open the screen and went in, standing aside to let in the phalanx of strange men. My breathing got shallow and the shaking started up. My heart beat so hard I could feel it in my face, and the bump on my left shoulder—scar tissue from a childhood injury—itched like crazy. It always did when I was nervous.

The EMTs came in after the sheriff.

“Where is he?” one of them asked. I pointed behind me to the right, up the stairs. They trooped up there carrying their cases. The house felt too tight, as if there wasn’t enough air for all these people.

Sheriff Bloch and a deputy walked into the living room. Both of them turned, looking around the room, empty except for the grandfather clock in the corner. The old thing had quit working many years before, so it was always three-seventeen in this house.

“Are you moving out?” the deputy asked.

“No,” I said, and then realized why he’d asked. All of our furniture is crowded in the center of each room, away from the windows.

Deputy and sheriff glanced at each other. The deputy walked to one of the front windows and peered out through the bars.

“Is that bulletproof glass?” he asked me.

“Yes sir.”

They glanced at each other again.

“Have anyplace we can sit?” Sheriff Bloch said.

I walked into our TV room, the house’s original dining room, and they followed. I sat on the couch, which gave off dust and a minor-chord spring squeak. I pulled my feet up and hugged my knees.

“This is Deputy Hencke.”

The deputy held out his hand toward me. I didn’t take it, and after a beat he let it drop.

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” he said. He had a blond crew cut and the dark blue uniform.

He went to sit on Dad’s recliner, and it happened in slow motion, like watching a knife sink into my stomach with no way to stop it.

“No!” I shouted.

Nobody but Dad had ever sat in that chair. It was one thing to let these people inside the house. It was another to allow them to do whatever they wanted.

He looked around and then at me, his face a mask of confusion. “What? I’m—I was just going to sit—”

“Get a chair out of the kitchen,” Sheriff Bloch said.

The deputy pulled one of the aqua vinyl chairs into the TV room. His hands shook as he tried to write on his little report pad. He must have been as rattled by my outburst as I was.

“Spell your last name for me?”

“M-O-S-H-E-N,” I said.

“Born here?”

“No,” I said. “We’re from Detroit originally.”

His face scrunched and he glanced up.

“How’d you end up here? You got family in the area?”

I shook my head. I didn’t tell him Dad had moved us to Saw Pole, Kansas, because he said he’d always wanted to be a farmer. In Saw Pole, he farmed a sticker patch and raised horse flies but not much else.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-one.”

He lowered his pencil. “Did you go to school in Niobe? I don’t ever remember seeing you.”

“Dad homeschooled me,” I said.

“What time did you discover the—your dad?” The deputy’s scalp grew pinker. He needed to 

grow his hair out some to hide his tell a little better.

“The dogs started barking about two—”

“Two a.m. or p.m.?”

“p.m.,” I said. “At approximately two-fifteen p.m. our dogs began barking at the back door. I responded and found no evidence of attempted B and E at either entry point to the domicile. I retrieved my Winchester rifle from the basement gun safe with the intention of walking the perimeter of the property, but the dogs refused to follow. I came to the conclusion that the disturbance was inside the house, and I continued my investigation on the second floor.”

Deputy Hencke’s pencil was frozen in the air, a frown on his face. “Why are you talking like that?”

“Like what?”

“Usually I ask questions and people answer them.”

“I’m telling you what happened.”

“Could you do it in regular English?”

I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything.

“Look,” he said. “Just answer the questions.”

“Okay.”

“All right. So where was your dad?”

“After breakfast this morning he said he didn’t feel good so he went up to his bedroom to lie down,” I said.

All day I’d expected Dad to call out for something to eat, but he never did. So I didn’t check on him because it was nice not having to cook him lunch or dinner or fetch him beers. I’d kept craning my neck all day to get a view of the stairs, kept waiting for Dad to sneak up on me, catch me watching forbidden TV shows. I turned the volume down so I’d hear if he came down the creaky old stairs.

“So the dogs’ barking is what finally made you go up to his bedroom, huh?”

I nodded.

“Those dogs wanted to tear us all to pieces,” the deputy said, swiping his hand back and forth across the top of his crew cut.

I’d always wanted a little lapdog, one I could cuddle, but Dad favored the big breeds. Sarx was a German shepherd and Tesla a rottweiler.

The deputy bent his head to his pad. “What do you think they were barking about?”

“They smelled it,” I said.

He looked up. “Smelled what?”

“Death. Next I knocked on the decedent’s— I mean, Dad’s—bedroom door to request 
permission to enter.”

“So you went in his room,” the deputy said, his pencil hovering above the paper.

“Once I determined he was unable to answer, I went in his room. He was lying on his stomach, on top of the covers, facing away from me, and—he had shorts on … you know how hot it’s been, and he doesn’t like to turn on the window air conditioner until after Memorial Day—and I looked at his legs and I thought, ‘He’s got some kind of rash. I better bring him the calamine lotion,’ but then I remembered learning about libidity on TV, and—”

“Lividity,” he said.

“What?”

“It’s lividity, not libidity, when the blood settles to the lowest part of the body.”

“Guess I’ve never seen it written down.”

“So what did you do then?”

“It was then that I …”

I couldn’t finish the sentence. Up until now, the shock of finding Dad’s body and the terror of letting people in the house had blotted out everything else. But now, the reality that Dad was dead came crashing down on me, making my eyes sting. I recognized the feeling from a long time ago. I was going to cry, and I couldn’t decide whether I was sad that Dad was gone or elated that I was finally going to be free. Free to live the normal life I’d always dreamed of.

But I couldn’t cry, not in front of these strangers, couldn’t show weakness. Weakness was dangerous. I thought of Deirdre Walsh again and remembered what she always did when she was in danger of crying. I cleared my throat.

“It was then that I determined that he was deceased. I estimated the time of death, based on the stage of rigor, to be around ten a.m. this morning, so I did not attempt to resuscitate him,” I said, remembering Dad’s cool, waxy dead skin under my hand. “Subsequently I retrieved his cell phone off his nightstand and called Mr. King.”

“Randy King?”

I nodded.

“Why didn’t you call 911?”

“Because Dad told me to call Mr. King if something ever happened to him.”

The deputy stared at me like I’d admitted to murder. Then he looked away and stood.

“I think the coroner is almost done, but he’ll want to talk to you.”

While I waited, I huddled on the couch, thinking about how my life was going to change. I’d have to buy groceries and pay bills and taxes and do all the things Dad had never taught me how to do.

The coroner appeared in the doorway. “Miss Moshen?” He was a large zero-shaped man in a cardigan.

“Yes?”

He sat on the kitchen chair the deputy had vacated.

“I need to ask you a couple of questions,” he said.

“Okay,” I said. I was wary. The deputy had been slight and small, and even though he’d had a sidearm, I could have taken him if I’d needed to. I didn’t know about the coroner, he was so heavy and large.
“Can you tell me what happened?”

I began to repeat my account, but the coroner interrupted me. “You’re not testifying at trial,” 
he said. “Just tell me what happened.”

I tried to do as he asked, but I wasn’t sure how to say it so he wouldn’t be annoyed.

“Did your dad complain of chest pains, jaw pain? Did his left arm hurt?”

I shook my head. “Just said he didn’t feel good. Like he had the flu.”

“Did your dad have high cholesterol? High blood pressure?”

“I don’t know.”

“When was the last time he saw a doctor?” the coroner asked.

“He didn’t believe in doctors.”

“Your dad was only fifty-one, so I’ll have to schedule an autopsy, even though it was 
probably a heart attack. We’ll run a toxicology panel, which’ll take about four weeks because we have to send it to the lab in Topeka.”

The blood drained from my face. “Toxicology?” I said. “Why?”

“It’s standard procedure,” he said.

“I’m pretty sure my dad wouldn’t want an autopsy.”

“Don’t worry,” he said. “You can bury him before the panel comes back.”

“No, I mean Dad wouldn’t want someone cutting him up like that.”

“It’s state law.”

“Please,” I said.

His eyes narrowed as they focused on me. Then he stood.

“After the autopsy, where would you like the remains sent?”

“Holt Mortuary in Niobe,” a voice from the living room said.

I rose from the couch to see who’d said it. Randy King stood with his back to the wall, his Stetson low over his eyes.

The coroner glanced at me for confirmation.

“I’m the executor of Mr. Moshen’s will,” Randy said. He raised his head and I saw his eyes, light blue with tiny pupils that seemed to bore clear through to the back of my head.

I shrugged at the coroner.

“Would you like to say goodbye to your father before we transport him to the morgue?” he said.

I nodded and followed him to the stairs, where he stood aside. “After you,” he said.

“No,” I said. “You first.”

Dad had taught me never to go in a door first and never to let anyone walk behind me. The coroner frowned but mounted the stairs.

Upstairs, Dad’s room was the first one on the left. The coroner stood outside the door. He reached out to touch my arm and I took a step backward. He dropped his hand to his side.

“Miss Moshen,” he said in a hushed voice. “Your father looks different from when he was alive. It might be a bit of a shock. No one would blame you if you didn’t—”

I walked into Dad’s room, taking with me everything I knew from all the cop shows I’d watched. But I was not prepared at all for what I saw.

Since he’d died on his stomach, the EMTs had turned Dad onto his back. He was in full rigor mortis, so his upper lip was mashed into his gums and curled into a sneer, exposing his khaki-colored teeth. His hands were spread in front of his face, palms out. Dad’s eyes stared up and to the left and his entire face was grape-pop purple.

What struck me when I first saw him—after I inhaled my gum—was that he appeared to be warding off a demon. I should have waited until the mortician was done with him, because I knew I’d never get that image out of my mind.

I walked out of Dad’s room on unsteady feet, determined not to cry in front of these strangers. The deputy and the sheriff stood outside my bedroom, examining the door to it. 
Both of them looked confused.

“Petty,” Sheriff Bloch said.

I stopped in the hall, feeling even more violated with them so close to my personal items and underwear.

“Yes?”

“Is this your bedroom?”

I nodded. 

Sheriff and deputy made eye contact. The coroner paused at the top of the stairs to listen in. This was what my dad had always talked about—the judgment of busybody outsiders, their belief that somehow they needed to have a say in the lives of people they’d never even met and knew nothing about.

The three men seemed to expect me to say something, but I was tired of talking. Since I’d never done much of it, I’d had no idea how exhausting it was.

The deputy said, “Why are there six dead bolts on the outside of your door?”

It was none of his business, but I had nothing to be ashamed of.

“So Dad could lock me in, of course.”




LS HAWKER grew up in suburban Denver, indulging her worrisome obsession with true-crime books, and writing stories about anthropomorphic fruit and juvenile delinquents. She wrote her first novel at 14.
Armed with a B.S. in journalism from the University of Kansas, she had a radio show called “People Are So Stupid,” edited a trade magazine and worked as a traveling Kmart portrait photographer, but never lost her passion for fiction writing.
She’s got a hilarious, supportive husband, two brilliant daughters and a massive music collection. She lives in Colorado but considers Kansas her spiritual homeland. Visit her website at LSHawker.com.






September 24, 2015

Excerpt & Giveaway! Stalked, The Slayers #2 by H.C. Brown




Who's more dangerous – a stripper, an assassin, or a serial killer?
The Stripper Ripper is stalking the streets of New York City, preying on male strippers, and the press is making mincemeat of a helpless police force.

In desperation, the police refer the serial killer's case to the Slayers, a team of enhanced, undercover super soldiers. The commander of the Slayers puts his team on the streets to watch over the Ripper's favorite targets.

One of these targets is Micah, a twink stripper and a desirable sub. Micah's baby sitter is one of the newest members of the Slayers, Sorren, as cold-blooded an assassin as they come, and the last person you'd expect to harbor feelings for his charge.

True to form, Sorren is as surprised as anyone at his new infatuation, but Micah is hiding something. Will Micah learn to trust his protector, or is he destined to be the next victim on the Stripper Ripper's list?




Chapter 1

Club Surrender, New York

As the commander of the Slayers, Delano Briggs had his hands full controlling a unit of nano-enhanced super soldiers in a constant state of pissed. He leaned back in his office chair, glaring at the brooding form of Sorren, and cleared his throat. The six-seven hunk of muscle-bound “don’t fuck with me nasty” stared right back, unblinking.

Although Sorren had accepted his new duties without question and his professionalism was faultless, he couldn’t put a finger on the underlying uneasiness he had for him. The stripper named Snake from the leather club, Pinkies, had been under Sorren’s surveillance for ten days and nothing had occurred. The man standing before him folded thick arms across his broad chest and glared at him with intimidating menace. He would have to come down heavy to keep this alpha with cybernetic enhancements in line. “Report.”

Sorren placed both large hands on the table and pushed a long straight nose one inch from Delano’s face.

“How long do you expect me to remain sane on butterfly duty?”

“I said report, soldier.” Delano pushed to his feet then noticed Rhys, his second in command, move into the room and take a defensive stance.

Sure, Sorren was a loose cannon, but then nobody walked away from capture by Middle Eastern extremists without repercussions. His captors had not been able to brainwash him or retrieve any information by torture. His nanos had kept his secrets safe and his body in peak condition, but Sorren was suffering from three years of pent-up crazy. The nano enhancements did that to a man left alone with only his palm for company. Delano lifted his chin and repeated the order. To his relief, Sorren straightened and narrowed his unusual blue gaze.

“Nothing to report. The butterfly does his act then goes home. Guys hang around him looking for a little action but as far as I can tell, he isn’t interested. Although, he is a nervous little shit. On stage, the club bills him as Snake but his friends call him Micah, which fits him but it’s not the name you gave me. I think he is hiding his past.” He jerked a thumb over one shoulder toward Rhys. “Tell your boy to stand down unless he wants me to drag his ass downstairs to my dungeon.” He smirked. “I need a heavy scene, sending me to watch strippers every night makes me overheat – ah, sir.”

“I don’t do switch play and if I did you’re certainly not my type.” Rhys grabbed Sorren’s arm and spun him around to face him. “Why don’t you go and fuck your butterfly, then you won’t be loitering outside his apartment with a hard-on all night.”

Sorren’s wide mouth twitched at one corner then curled into a sadistic smile.

“Have you seen my five-feet-two eyes of blue?” He grasped his package. “I’d break him in half. Nah, you’ll do just fine, but just so you don’t get your panties in a twist later, you should know, I don’t do cool-down cuddles.”

“I’m bonded to Dylan and you fucking know it, but if you wanna fight, I’d be happy to grind your face into the floor anytime. Here we fight by Slayer rules, which, as you are the new kid in town, means no rules, asshole.”

Before Delano blinked, Sorren had locked one hand around Rhys’s throat.

“I like no rules just fine. Do I get to fuck you when I win?”

In a flash, Rhys cupped Sorren’s balls in his bionic hand and the color drained from the new recruit’s face.

“Wanna play?” Rhys grinned in a flash of perfect white teeth.

Delano rounded the table. Both these men could take him apart before taking their next breath and Rhys could crush an Mk.16 in one hand without taking a breath. “Stand down.” He moved closer and, standing shoulders braced and feet apart, dropped his voice to a menacing whisper, a method he employed to get his men’s full attention. “Rhys have you lost your fucking mind?”

“Nah, just teaching pretty boy here how we play in my yard.” Rhys dropped his hand and wiped it on his jeans in a repulsed gesture. “I can’t believe you trust him to guard the strippers, he’s not safe on the outside without a leash.”

“Sit down, both of you.” Delano leaned one hip on his desk and glared at them. “We run a club and the strippers who work here are good for business. These murders are bringing all strip joints under scrutiny and I’m sure you both understand why we don’t want eyes on Club Surrender. It would put the entire unit in danger. The cops have zip on the Stripper Ripper, no DNA, no witnesses, so we’ll have to find him and deal out justice, Slayer style.” He glared at Sorren. “This means surveillance and I’ve assigned a man to every local stripper that fits the victims’ profile.” He glanced at Rhys. “Small, young looking, with dark hair. From the images we were able to intercept from the local PD database it would seem the Stripper Ripper has a taste for twinks.”

Rhys grimaced. “Fuck, that covers fifty percent of the guys who work here and Jay but somehow I don’t think the fucking Stripper Ripper will be a problem for him.” He chuckled. “I guess we could throw him out as bait?”

Delano shook his head. “Not a chance in hell. Jay might be sixty percent cyborg but I’m not risking anyone until I know who we’re dealing with.” He jerked his chin toward Sorren. “The murderer is smart, very smart. It’s possible he could be a kinetic Black Ops rogue, one of Sorren’s old unit or similar. We don’t have numbers on the soldiers the government nano enhanced but we are aware of at least twenty enhanced Marines on the government’s ‘kill on sight’ hit list.”

“If they are from my unit then they’re some nasty SOBs. I can’t imagine anyone capable of catching them. I just hope they linked up and are doing much the same as you are here.” Sorren grinned. “My men are very different from your guys, although Rhys here comes close. Taking into account your unit’s compassion and adherence to the Special Ops code even though they screwed you makes me believe they added something special in the way of crazy to the nanos they shot into my guys.”

“Maybe, your blood work came back pretty fucked up. Kurt is still running tests. We all have anger management and sex-drive problems but they enhanced yours tenfold.” Delano shrugged. “It’s just as well we have Kurt as our doctor. He was on the first nano experimental team. Although, he has no idea why you carry different levels of enhancement. To date you are the only man we know of, apart from Jay, who can use mindspeak over a long distance.”

“Why didn’t Kurt ask me about mindspeak during the debriefing? Fuck! He wanted to know how many times I shit a day.” Sorren’s lips quirked into a smile. “The mindspeak distancing is a technique much the same as the one used to shield personal thoughts and easily taught. I do hope you’ve kept our mindspeak ability ‘need to know’ and the enhanced soldiers’ little weapon against Uncle Sam is still safe?” Sorren gave an exasperated sigh. “FYI, sex is used as a cooling system. Haven’t you worked that out yet?” He rolled his broad shoulders. “They didn’t enhance my anger but they did modify my brain chemistry.” His attention drifted to Rhys then back to him. “You see, I don’t have a conscience. They turned me into a psychopath – in other words when I kill I don’t give a fuck. No flashbacks, no regrets.” He rubbed his chin. “They tossed the Slayers on the trash pile because you fucking care and having feelings puts everyone in the unit in danger. The doc who treated me said it was a weakness in your nanos the government couldn’t afford.” He pointed at his face and grimaced. “The bionic eyes, well they needed soldiers who could switch from daylight to infrared without night vision goggles and with the ability to record missions.” He snorted. “I was beaming a vid straight to Black Ops the entire two fucking years I spent in prison. I had no rights because Uncle Sam didn’t classify me as human. I was one of many information-collecting drones.” He gave a cynical bark of laughter. “I’m surprised you found me, let alone got me out.”

Delano met Rhys’s incredulous stare and connected in secure mindspeak. “Fuck, just how many units are out there?” 

“Sorren has been to hell and back.” Rhys grimaced. “I’m not surprised he’s crazy, but I don’t believe for one minute he has no feelings. The way he cares for the wellbeing of the stripper he’s watching tells me there is a man inside, not a machine. But I don’t like him, he is an arrogant SOB.”

Delano cleared his throat and made a conscious effort to pull back on the interrogation. “Bret, the electronics expert, picked up your transmission and we put boots on the ground. Once we got you out of that hellhole, he took over your video link and faked your execution.” He dropped back into his chair. “Don’t look so surprised. Everything in the Slayers is ‘need to know’ until you gain full clearance.” He met Sorren’s disturbing electric blue gaze. The man’s pupils moved like the lens of a camera, constantly adjusting in a circular motion.

“Need to know?” Sorren snorted. “I’m just like you, man. I’ve been here almost a year. It’s about time you started to trust me.”

“Right now, I don’t know if you’re working undercover and although we’ve destroyed all your military tracking devices, we can’t stop you communicating by mindspeak.” Delano glared at him. “And you will refer to me as ‘sir,’ do you understand, soldier?”

“What you ‘need to know’ is I’m not doing this yes, sir, no sir, three fucking bags full shit any longer. I’m not a Marine or part of some pseudo military service under your command.”

“Yeah, well actually you agreed to join the Slayers and I didn’t force you to wear our mark.” Delano indicated to the tattoo of a dollar sign on Sorren’s wrist. “We gave you a new identity, a job, and a place to stay. Not to mention all the ass you need to keep cool.” He lifted his chin and glared at him. “Right now it looks like I made a big mistake taking you into our confidence. I admire a man’s grit but I sure as hell want to keep control of my unit. Most of us are Black Ops, Green Berets or mercenaries and prefer a degree of leadership from me. I’m not running a fucking Sunday school.” He scowled at the arrogant man. “You do know Bret has devised a program to decommission you? He can take away your special vision, slow your implants, wipe your memory, and make you almost human again. That’s the only way you leave here alive, soldier.”

Delano didn’t miss Sorren’s shudder of disgust. He stared at him, waiting for a reply, and it was like watching the cogs of an old clock grind into gear. Sure, Sorren had been alone for a long time and no doubt his art of conversation had become a little rusty but he’d had long enough to adjust. He would give him time to consider the situation because he wanted to keep this man in his unit. He’d yet to see a better specimen of nano enhancement and the doctors in the complex would learn a great deal from his advanced technology.

Sorren was magnificent and he could see why he carried the handle “The Reaper” during his call of duty. He’d selected the moody Adonis for stripper duty in an effort to calm him down. Sorren was a loner. He’d taken his edge-play domination to extremes with the house subs and sure wasn’t looking for a cozy relationship. Rhys had nicknamed him “Shadow Man” because they rarely saw him in daylight. Sorren stalked the gloom like a phantom of menace. In fact, the man might just as well hang a sign around his neck with the message, “I hate everybody” printed in bright red letters. The only time he’d seen him crack any semblance of a smile was after winning an arm wrestle with Adryck.

He rolled his shoulders. “Well?”

A crack of thunder rolled in the distance as if it had come straight from the flash of disgust on Sorren’s face.

“Your decommission threats won’t work on me. I have a failsafe reboot on my system. You’ll have to decapitate me to take me down.” Sorren straightened and his menacing look flicked over him dismissively. “I understand you integrated the Fury boys into the unit without making them jump through hoops and yet, I am one of you, military – not the fucking enemy. I agreed to do butterfly duty because I want to catch a murderer not because I plan to inform on the Slayers. If I’d wanted to betray our kind I would have contacted my commander the fucking day I arrived and neither you nor your cybernetic boy would have been able to stop me.” Sorren pushed to his feet. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m late. The stripper you assigned me to protect is due to walk home alone in twenty minutes and it is twenty-two minutes to his gig.”

Delano stood and waved him toward the door. “Sure, we’ll talk again in the morning. Do you have a med kit in the car – just in case?”

Sorren gave him a curt nod and slipped out the door. He moved like a ghost, not one sound from his boots echoed on the tiled floor.

“What new intel do we have on the murders to date?” Rhys drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. “I know they’re bloody but there must be something the cops haven’t disclosed. What has Bret dug up?”

“Nothing, the murderer is a phantom, he drops out of nowhere, strikes and vanishes. You mentioned bloody, yeah, but how does a man rip someone apart and not leave one footprint or one drop of blood?” Delano moved around his desk and sat down.

“Maybe he’s a vampire.” Rhys gave him a speculative look. “Hey, crazy scientists made us didn’t they? How do we know they didn’t experiment on cross-species DNA as well and now some guys can change into bats and fly away?”

“Scent.” Delano placed the heel of one shit kicker on his desk and tipped back his chair. “I’ve visited all the crime scenes. I would have smelled a giant bat and picked up the pheromones of anyone remotely like us. No, I’m pretty sure the Stripper Ripper is one sick human.”



H.C. Brown is a multi-published, bestselling, award-winning author of Historical, Paranormal, Sci-Fi, Fantasy, BDSM, Time Travel, Action Adventure, Suspense, and Contemporary Romance.

In 2015, she was delighted to be named Luminosity Publishing’s Bestselling Author of 2014.

In 2015, Highlander in the Mist was placed 3rd in Historical and Rock ‘n’ Leather was placed 3rd GLBT in the Easychair Bookshop Competition.

In 2011, she was delighted to receive nominations in three categories in the 2011 CAPA Awards: Favorite Author, Best GLBT Romance, and Best Science Fiction Romance.

She was nominated for Best Historical M/M in the 2013, Goodreads Book of Year Awards.

H.C writes about strong alpha male heroes and girl next door heroines in complex settings, and all her stories have happy endings.

H.C. welcomes feedback from her readers.




September 17, 2015

Excerpt & Giveaway! Black Cradle: Origins: A Warren Bennett Johnson Novel (Warren-Bennett-Johnson/New England Book 1) by Max E Stone

Black Cradle - TOur Banner copy

Black Cradle - Cover

From a massive yacht’s bow, the ocean’s deep waters call…

Jennifer Warren answers with a thrust of her bruised legs, one by one, over the metal bars to freedom.

The thick hand in her hair yanks her back to hell…

Despite the glowing reputation of the businessman who constantly visits the department, provides his fortune to fundraisers and charities, and displays a loving concern for the well-being of his wife and children, Newport Rhode Island Detective Stephen Bennett trusts his gut

And the word of the man’s new neighbors…

The man is a killer...

*This is the full story of the August to Life (Book 1) prelude*



The blast of cold water wretched the boy awake to his hands bound behind his back. Black and blue eyes stared hard at a carpeted floor, waiting for the man; the last thing—the last face—he remembered during a visit to his grandmother’s grave before everything had gone black.

How long ago?

Hours?

Days?

Weeks?

He kept trying to work it out through the fog of his mind.

No luck.

He looked up and scanned the rundown, soiled shack of a room and wished for the comforting arms of his grandmother.

But they were nowhere to be found.

Abruptly, booted footfalls bursted through the quiet.

The man was.

Tears filled the swollen slits of the boy's eyes.

"Quit crying like a pussy," the man demanded, hefting a gun from his jacket pocket and raising it to the boy's temple, and fired a single bullet. “Die like a man.”

++++

Teenaged Robert Ellis was a loner by nature.

The fifteen-year-old had a habit of cutting class and running away.

Even in the months he’d spent with Newport Police Department thus far, Detective Stephen Bennett knew it. He’d first gotten to know the kid when Robert, having hot-wired his father’s car, took a joyride with some friends. En route to the beach, the teenager hit the breaks too late and ran straight into the back of navy blue truck.

Bennett’s.

Car doors flew open and Robert’s friends hightailed it, leaving the young man to deal with the consequences—Bennett talking with his parents and arranging for him to work to pay off the damages to both cars—alone.

At least, Robert thought so until Bennett surprised him with the other half of the money needed to complete the debt. Since then, the two had been inseparable.

This morning though, a concerned call from Robert's English teacher, an older Cambridge graduate who saw more potential in Robert than he did himself, came in on Bennett’s cell.

"I’m sorry to bother you like this, Detective, but you’re on Robert’s list of contacts," the teacher, Mr. Donald Ipswich, said, panic lacing his British accent. “He may cut class, but never misses mine. Do you know where he could be?”

It took only a moment for Bennett to figure it out.

Prior to his adoption, Robert was the product of a selfish father and a self-center and dead mother. And, from what he’d found on her, the woman's excessive drug habits and spoiled lifestyle had gotten her that way.
Robert's late grandmother was the sole biological family member who had truly cared for him.

“I know where he is,” Bennett reassured before thanking the teacher for his call, hanging up, and sprinting out of the department building.

Kicking the engine to life and leaving the lot for the road, he placed a quick call to Robert.

No answer.

He glanced at his watch.
The caretaker of the gravesite was due to arrive by now.
He had to have seen him. Driving onward, Bennett called Robert again.

He still didn’t answer. That wasn’t like him.

Miles later, he turned a corner, drove a ways down the street, and parked his rig on the

graveyard’s blue gravel path.
He got out and slammed the door in search of a tombstone bearing the name Eunice…Eunice…

Try as he might, he couldn’t remember her last name. Hustled through the grass and tombstones, he found the small house on the grounds. Once there, Bennett pounded on the front door.
It groaned open. Gun ready, he eased inside; the floor creaking under his weight. 
Among the noise, a loud squish resonated.
He looked down. Blood.
Bennett followed the trail across the room.

There, he found Robert; the young man slumped over.

“Damn it,” Bennett called, placing his gun back in his holster, and running toward the body. “Bobby.”

He turned the teenaged boy to his back and spotted the blood-caked hole in his head. Unnecessarily, the detective touched two fingers to the side of the young man's neck, feeling for a pulse he knew he wouldn't find.

“Shit.”

Tears blurred his eyes. He hated this part of the job. With a heavy breath, he straightened and slid the phone from his pocket, set to call the murder in. The .45 aimed at the back of his head stopped him cold. Slowly, Bennett’s hands went up in surrender.

“Turn…around,” a deep, shaken voice commanded. “Now!”

He obeyed, turning and coming face to face with a heavy, rugged man; sweat pouring down his face and through his gray and brown beard, stress evident in the shaking hand holding the weapon.

“Easy,” Bennett ordered, composed despite the firearm now in his face. “Put the gun down.”

“I really didn’t want to do it, ya know,” the gunman choked out. “He was a good kid…but he wouldn’t…wouldn’t listen. I’m his dad. He should…he should have listened to me.”

“You’re his dad.”

“Kids should listen to their parents,” the gunman muttered in a rehearsed drone. “I told him…I told him to come with me. He wanted to go back to those people. He called them his family…I’m his family!”

Quick as a flash, the assailant bent his arm and held the gun to his own head.

“No!” Bennett cried.

But it was too late.

He watched, horrified, as Robert’s father pulled the trigger.


A writer and lover of books since the age of nine, Max first set pen to page as a hobby, constructing stories that were anything but fit for children. entertaining classmates while simultaneously concerning surrounding adults with blood-ridden tales of gory mysteries and heavy suspense that "just came to mind", max, with the help of family and the encouraging words of an inspiring fifth grade teacher, continued to develop this gift. 

Little was it known at the time, but said gift would become a lifeline. 

From horrific trauma in max's teen years, writing played an instrumental part in the difficult recovery and the Warrens, Bennetts, and Johnsons, three interconnected families all with issues, mysteries, and secrets that threaten their livelihood and lives,were born. Their stories, August to life and The bleeding, were published in 2012 and 2013 respectively. 

One minute there, the third installment, was released march 20, 2015 while the fourth is Black cradle.

Though relatively new to the publishing game, Max relishes the journey and learns something new each day.




WLK Book Promotions

September 15, 2015

Release Day Blitz! Dirty Promises, Dirty Angels #3 by Karina Halle



Blood. Sex. Revenge.

Being king comes at a brutal price.

Drug lord Javier Bernal has sliced and diced his way to the top of the Mexican drug trade, presiding over the country's largest cartel. But his rise to power comes at a brutal price: the death of his sister, Alana. Devastated and wracked with guilt, he turns away from his new wife, Luisa, forcing their marriage into a steady decline. But it isn't until she's pushed into the waiting arms of Esteban Mendoza, his right-hand man, that Javier realizes everything he's lost.

And it isn't until he learns the truth about Alana, that he realizes everything there is to gain.

Blood will spill.

Cities will burn.

Heads will roll.

Because Javier will stop at nothing until he gets what he wants.

And what he wants is raw, ruthless revenge.

Dirty Promises is the third and final book in the Dirty Angels Trilogy. While the other two books - Dirty Angels and Dirty Deeds - can be read as standalones, it is recommended you read at least Dirty Angels before reading Dirty Promises.


My gun began to feel heavy in my hands. I needed to use it, and soon.

Light was seeping in underneath the door, so I pushed my goggles up on my head and slowly pushed it open.

The kitchen was empty, and the only light came from above the stove. The fridge hummed and the house was silent except for muffled laughter coming from down the hall.

A terrible scream splintered the room.

A man’s scream.

Had the ambush already begun?

I exchanged a worried glance with Diego as we heard doors further down the hall being flung open. Footsteps.

People ran past the kitchen, heading up the stairs toward the scream, not bothering to look our way.

All of them except for Juanito, that was.

He stopped dead in his tracks at the archway, staring at us like we were ghosts. I couldn’t help but grin.

He snapped out of it, reaching for his gun, but mine was already aimed at him. I shot him in the kneecaps, both of them, just as his gun fired, bullets cracking the ceiling.

Then, as if on cue, all of the outside erupted in gunfire. The sound shook the walls, and through the rattling windows bursts of light filled the sky. My army was here.

I ran over to Juanito who was screaming in pain, and picked him up by the collar, shaking him.

“All right you little fuckface,” I sneered at him, trying to fight the urge to strangle the fucking life out of him. “Tell me where Esteban is and I’ll make your death painless. Don’t tell me and I’ll break your bones with a hammer. Which one is it?”

His screaming wouldn’t stop. I shook him again. “You can’t protect him now. You’ll never fucking walk again and he sure as hell won’t give two fucks about a pathetic piece of garbage like you. So talk.”

But before he could, Diego was calling out my name. I let go of Juanito, rolling over him just in time as the air above me burned with bullets. Diego fired back at the assailants, and I kept rolling until I was behind the kitchen island. I quickly reached for the grenade which I knew could take out enough of them without damaging the structural integrity of the house, and tossed it out of the kitchen. It rolled down the hallway.

They yelled at each other to move but it was too late. I pressed my hands over my ears as the blast went off.

“Jesus, Javi,” Diego swore as pieces of plaster rained down on him. “You haven’t even moved back in yet.”

I didn’t care if it was sloppier than my usual methods — it was efficient. I scrambled to my feet and stared at the wreckage. There was a ragged hole in the wall, smoke and flames licking the edge.

I shrugged. “I wanted to open up that room anyway.”

Miraculously, or something of that nature, Juanito was still alive, holding on to his bleeding and blasted knees as he writhed on the floor.

He was missing half his face though, so it wasn’t like he escaped the explosion unscathed. He was very scathed and crawling for freedom.

I covered my nose and mouth with the crook of my elbow and walked into the smoke, letting it wash over me. Juanito looked up at me with what was left of him, begging for mercy with an outstretched hand.

I stepped on his hand instead, crunching the bones beneath my boot.

“That was for my sister,” I seethed. “I know you intercepted her call when she was calling me for help.”

“Javier, we have to go,” Diego said, coughing and coming over to stop me. A war was raging around me, but none of it mattered. All that mattered was an eye for an eye.

This time I stomped on Juanito’s arm, driving it in with all my might, like I was squashing a cockroach, until I felt it break beneath me.

He screamed.

I smiled.

But I was the furthest thing from happy.

And Juanito couldn’t even speak at this point. His mouth was a flap of burning skin, covering a gaping hole. He was useless.

I slid the hunter’s knife out of its sheath, and with one swift motion, stabbed it downward into the top of his skull.

The screaming stopped.

​From the USA Today Bestselling author of Love, in English and The Artists Trilogy, comes a dark romance about a good girl and a very, very bad man. It’s a deliciously twisted take on forbidden love, set among the drug cartels of hot, steamy Mexico and is not for the faint of heart. It contains explicit sex, violence, abuse, drug use, bad language and sexy Mexicans. You have been warned…






Karina Halle is a former travel writer and music journalist and The New York Times, Wall Street Journal and USA Today Bestselling author of Where Sea Meets Sky, Racing the Sun, The Pact, Love, in English, The Artists Trilogy, Dirty Angels and over 20 other wild and romantic reads. She lives on an island off the coast of British Columbia with her husband and her rescue pup, where she drinks a lot of wine, hikes a lot of trails and devours a lot of books.
Halle is represented by the Waxman Leavell Agency and is both self-published and published by Atria Books/Simon & Schuster and Hachette in North America and in the UK.
Hit her up on Instagram at @authorHalle , on Twitter at @MetalBlonde and on Facebook. You can also visit www.authorkarinahalle.com and sign up for the newsletter for news, excerpts, previews, private book signing sales and more.