This is the last day for our Shamrocks-N-Sirens Crime Novel EVENT!
Below are great excerpts from the Event Authors Books. Sneak a peek inside the pages. Many of these excerpts have never been shared with readers before.
COMMENT ON THE GREEN BEER GUESS, COMMENT ON THE EXCERPT PAGES. Leave the most comments total on our blog pages during this even and WIN a MUG SET!
Check back later tonight to see WHO WON the CONTESTS! If you have not participated yet, you have until 8pm EST on March 17th for each contest. These mugs sets are awesome and if you win, you'll have 4 DIFFERENT Crime Novel Mugs, from this event. Good Luck and hope to see you today. Check the link at the bottom of this page after the excerpts and find out how to win these awesome mug sets.
COMMENT ON THE GREEN BEER GUESS, COMMENT ON THE EXCERPT PAGES. Leave the most comments total on our blog pages during this even and WIN a MUG SET!
Check back later tonight to see WHO WON the CONTESTS! If you have not participated yet, you have until 8pm EST on March 17th for each contest. These mugs sets are awesome and if you win, you'll have 4 DIFFERENT Crime Novel Mugs, from this event. Good Luck and hope to see you today. Check the link at the bottom of this page after the excerpts and find out how to win these awesome mug sets.
St. Patrick’s Day Special - Author JJ Toner - Excerpt
Jordan walked over to The Bleeding Horse on Camden Street. Dessie Bonnar was at the bar, perched on his usual stool, a half-finished pint of Guinness in front of him, a barman cleaning glasses at the other end.
The journalist was dressed in a three-piece, a perfectly aligned tie, and with shiny patent leather shoes, Bonnar still managed to look scruffy by economising on razor blades and haircuts. He was Jordan’s best snitch, a mover with a hundred dubious contacts, and cute enough to stay just the right side of the law. Jordan kept him sweet by slipping him the occasional twenty or a titbit of Garda gossip – enough for Bonnar to convince his contacts that he was in the know. Effectively, he was a double agent; his stock-in-trade was information, his pay-off insider stories – the ones the Guards wanted planted.
Jordan signalled to the barman.
...
Bonnar gave a shifty grin. “I expect Internal Affairs’ll be all over you soon.”
“Like treacle on a pancake,” Jordan said.
Bonnar grinned. “Like flies on a cow’s arse. Unless they’re in there already?”
Jordan ignored this. The man was fishing.
“So you’ve nothing for me?”
“I didn’t say that. There was a coupla things.”
Bonnar’s Guinness arrived, looking like a million dollars, the creamy head perched on a perfect black column. “Isn’t that a sight?” He said, shaking his head in admiration. He lifted the pint and sucked a third of it straight down. Then he replaced the glass carefully on the bar counter, wiped the froth from his upper lip and said, “Best pint in the city. Aren’t you having something yourself, Ben?”
“Not today, Dessie. Too busy. What have you got for me?”
“I hear our European friends have a man in town.”
“Europol?”
Bonnar nodded.
Jordan hesitated. This information was dynamite – if it was kosher. He looked at his watch and asked casually, “You have a name?”
Steps to Heaven - Author Wendy Cartmell - Excerpt
Solomon 1530 Hours 16th August
Solomon knows that people describe him as a quiet and unassuming man. A family man, a member of the local church, a Christian. But he is more than that. He is a Christian who has been chosen.
His first born. The key to that choosing. Not everyone can father a son, especially not as their first child. It is a sign. He studies the scriptures long into the night and knows that the ultimate sacrifice is the way to eternal salvation. Ensuring he and his son will climb the steps to heaven.
Now it is a matter of timing. He has his instructions and intends to follow them to the letter, like a good soldier. A soldier of Christ. It is God’s will.
Solomon decides to check the house once more. The mirror in the hall catches images of him, clad in his battle fatigues, as he closes and locks the doors to the front and back of the house, leaving the internal door to the garage open. That is the way they will come in. He knows their routine.
Mentally going over his check list, he realises he has one more task. Fishing the house keys out of his pocket he carefully locks the windows downstairs and then upstairs, before returning to his base.
Once there, he settles down to wait, crossed legged on the floor, his back against the kitchen door. After adjusting the beret on his shaven head Solomon begins to slowly, rhythmically sharpen his knife. There is no other sound in the house, save the grinding of the blade against the pumice stone. Death given a voice. Rising and falling. Ebbing and flowing. Marching steadily closer.
Solomon repeats his mantra as he works: “Follow the will of the Lord. Follow the steps to heaven. Follow the will of the Lord. Follow the steps to heaven.”
Storm Rising - Author Kenneth Hoss - Excerpt
Friday September 4th, 10:55 A.M. Washington Heights
West 175th Street - Apartment Building of Carlos Rodriguez
The ME identified the five bodies from the building. The four men that Kelli didn’t recognize were all Puerto Ricans. Everyone knew that Dominicans and Puerto Ricans had an ongoing rivalry, especially when it came to their turf. The fifth man Kelli already knew, Francisco Trujillo.
The shell casings were all 9MM and CSU recovered twenty-five of them. The most interesting piece of evidence to Kelli was a set of prints recovered from the door, and a partial on a shell casing. The partial on the casing put Carlos Rodriguez at the scene, and possibly as one of the shooters. It was more than enough for an arrest warrant.
Kelli and the rest of the squad waited down the hall as the ESU team made their approach. She watched as the tactical unit reached the door and made ready. One man stepped up to the door and broke it in with a ram.
As soon as the door swung open, the men poured inside, shouting for the occupants to drop their weapons. She could hear several more shouts from inside the apartment as they cleared each room. The lieutenant took the lead and headed for the apartment. Kelli and the other detectives followed.
When she stepped inside, Kelli saw Carlos and the two men that had run out of the building in Brooklyn. There were four others that she didn’t recognize. The men were on their knees, hands on their heads. She looked at Carlos, and he met her eyes with a scowl, his eyes glowing with contempt.
“Hey, you okay?”
Kelli turned her head and looked at the lieutenant. “Yeah, I’m good. I’ve got this dirt bag,” she said, and moved toward Carlos. She took her handcuffs out as she stepped up behind the man. “Carlos Rodriguez. You’re under arrest.” She continued, giving the man his Miranda rights as she placed the cuffs on his wrist.
The other detectives proceeded to handcuff the other men. Kelli got Carlos up and led him out the door. “I’ve got you this time, Carlos.”
“You ain’t got shit, bitch.” He turned his head and spit in her direction.
Kelli lifted up on the cuffs, causing Carlos to pitch forward. “Do that again, motherfucker, and you’ll be going to the hospital instead of the precinct.”
For the last while, the training had taken over. I had catalogued the victims as fictional, not once living and breathing individuals. With the snap-back to reality I became aware of the presence of death and the way it hung in the air as a suffocating blanket. My stomach tightened and I felt sick.
“Question is did these people threaten him in some way? Were they random? Or were these planned kills? The patience he seemed to execute with the cutting and burial indicates he was very organized. I’d almost lean to believe that they were planned, not random,” Zachery said.
“It could be they reminded him of one person who wronged him. That’s not uncommon,” Paige offered.
I was frozen in place, unable to move and unable to think clearly.
The CSI hunched over and shone a flashlight into the opening. “It spreads out after a few feet. It almost looks as high as it does in here.”
“I want to know what happened to the intestines.” Jack made the blank statement. “Slingshot, any ideas?”
“The guy knew he was going to prison and had them cleaned up?”
“But why?”
I wanted to say, what do you mean why? I thought the answer was obvious, the question rhetorical. But I reasoned on the two words Jack spoke. There was very little risk that this room would be discovered even if the bodies were. And if the bodies were, what was a little ground-up human intestine? Another toss of my stomach brought bile into the back of my throat. “I’m not sure.”
An ominous silence enveloped the room as if we were all absorbed in contemplating our mortality. The human reaction to death and uncertainty, of wanting to know but not wanting the answers, of sympathy for those lost yet relief that it wasn’t us.
The CSI made his way through the opening. His flashlight cast more light in the dimly lit space. I followed and heard the rest of them shuffle in behind me.
After a few feet, I was able to stand to full height.
The CSI looked up at the lit bulb. “The guy thought of everything.”
The electricity that had been run down here was basic and minimum. A band of wire ran from the meat room to here. But it wasn’t so much the electrical that garnered my attention.
To the side of the room there was a stretcher with metal straps and stirrups. Beside it was a stainless steel tray with a single knife laying on it. Just like the table and meat grinder, light refracted off it. A tube of plastic sheeting stood vertically beside the bed.
“This just keeps getting creepier.” Paige took up position beside me.
“Say that again,” Deputy White said. “’Cuse me.” A hand snapped to his mouth.
Jack was the last to come through the tunnel. I swear even he paused when his eyes settled on the items in the room. “What do you make of it, kid?”
I put both hands on my hips. The one near the gun wanted to pull it on the man but my control won out. Why was it only me that needed to provide the answers?
“He killed them here.” I pointed back to where we came from. “Ground up their intestines in there.” I felt sick.
“Whoa nicely put, pending.” Zachery said.
“And how did he get them down here?”
“Well there’s got to be another way in. The freezer alone discloses that and I mean obviously he wouldn’t be able to make the victims go down the ladder, past the meat grinder.” I took a deep breath. Tell me this is the worst we will ever have to deal with. I wanted to say the words audibly but knew it would be construed as a weakness. “There has to be another way in here, a passageway that connects to the burial sites.”
Dark Mind - Author Jennifer Chase - Excerpt
Two tattered wicker chairs sat on opposite sides of the porch in front of two sash windows. The screens around the sitting area used to keep most pesky mosquitoes away had long since deteriorated, curled and ripped vertically from age and constant humidity.
First step, then the second onto the porch felt like a carnival fun house with sloping sides and uneven movement from the weight of two people.
The blonde man pushed Emily’s left shoulder with the barrel of the gun urging her into the house. The rickety screen door squeaked as Emily slowly pulled it open, it slipped slightly off at a strange angle due to neglect.
Darkness greeted her with an unknown agenda.
She contemplated her next move and waited for an opening to pounce – the sooner the better. The man didn’t expect any resistance from a woman who appeared submissive and frightened – all the classic victim behaviors that Emily was not.
The brightness outside wasn’t enough to overexpose her eyesight inside the cottage. The interior windows covered with heavy black drapes and lack of any luminescent made for a creepy entrance. Slasher movies with chainsaw murderers flashed through her mind.
The hair stood up on the back of Emily’s neck even before the pungent smell of old garbage, booze, and human body sweat hit her senses. The putrid odor kept increasing as she moved deeper into the living room and made her swallow hard to keep from gagging. She knew if she continued into the house it would be next to impossible to escape – too many unknowns not in her favor.
Elements of surprise slowed her pace. She counted down the seconds and inventoried the thrift store furniture consisting of a broken down couch with protruding springs, two overstuffed, mismatched chairs, and a small fold out table with two straight back chairs.
Pieces of mangoes, pineapples, and empty beer bottles covered the table; the fruit had turned dark around the edges allowing flies to feast on the blackened remnants.
“Company.” The British man announced as the screen door slammed shut behind them, the broken door still wobbled on its rusted hinges, squeaking for a few seconds.
Emily’s odds for escape now doubled with two people in the house, instead of just one man with a shotgun.
Her uncertainties now realized.
Trapped.
Small steps forward, left foot, right foot, then pivoting to the left and spinning around to face her attacker, Emily pounced on the man, pressed against him close enough to smell his sickly sweat, and shoved the shotgun upward blasting off a shot through the ceiling. Splinters and chunks of drywall sprinkled the living room like an early snow dusting of winter in the mountains.
The room echoed from the blast.
SNARE - Author Deborah J Ledford - Excerpt
The crowd cheered, recognizing the title and first notes of her current hit. The reverberating rock tune crashed and fused with the excitement of her fans.
Swaying in front of the microphone, Katina’s words and notes flowed through her and she became more comfortable with each song she performed.
At Petra’s insistence, Katina chose a slow melody for her fourth song. Although Katina thought her manager was wrong at the time, she now realized the tactic was necessary to calm the crowd, a lull before the storm of music to follow. After that, the last nine songs would rise in crescendo with such velocity every fan would surely remain on their feet, screaming for more, long after the limo had whisked her away.
Petra’s words came to Katina’s mind, “Leave them breathless, and they will always remember you.”
A young girl sitting atop her father’s shoulders captured Katina’s sight. She held her gaze on the girl and smiled.
As Cleo played the intro, Katina said to the audience, “We all know about loss. This is about hope.”
Charles sidled up to her, carrying a stool, his acoustic guitar strapped around him. He set the seat down and took the pick from between his teeth. Turning upstage he began to accompany Cleo in the full sound of rich tones from his guitar. After a moment, Larry joined in with a mellow rhythm and brushed on the cymbals, adding an ominous feel to the love song.
Sitting on the stool, one bare foot tucked under her, the other on the bottom rung, she turned the knurled knob on the microphone stand until it lowered to the proper height. At the correct bar, she began to sing the first song she ever wrote, proclaiming the loss for one no longer able to receive, or give, the love needed to evolve as a woman. Eyes closed, hand on the microphone, Katina thought of Petra and the knowledge that of the 955 ticket holders inside the theatre, Petra, alone, knew for whom she sang.
Deafening silence after the final note startled Katina. She glanced down to see men and women moved to tears. Some wiped their eyes and noses with backs of hands and sleeves as others clapped in a somber manner. Katina’s eyes fell on the little girl now standing on the floor, her cheeks glistening.
Katina raised her arms out to them and said, “Hey, didn’t mean to bum you out.”
The crowd chuckled and Katina felt in total command of her situation.
“Here’s a fast one to dance along to,” she shouted, whipping the mic from its stand and sliding off the stool.
Erika rushed onstage, snatched the stool and microphone stand, and ran back to the wings with them.
Again, Katina’s band flayed their instruments. The audience members rocked and bounced in the tight aisles, keeping time with the uplifting rhythm of the rock song. Lights flashed on and off, blazing colors from high above the stage and over the audience.
Katina twirled in the same fashion as earlier in the dressing room, this time only the thought of pleasing the fans in her mind. Her feet were one with the floor as she turned and turned.
Disoriented, dizzy, she didn’t realize how close to the lip of the stage she had traveled. She felt the floor end under her foot. Her toes instinctively curled to grab the edge. She propelled herself back a step. Someone grabbed her ankle. She felt a tug at her dress. She looked down at a three-inch rip near the hem of her costume. A flurry of hands shot up to keep her from falling into the audience.
Her fans, heads bobbing, filled her eyes as she attempted to regain her equilibrium and stumble upstage. A number of people pop onstage and rush toward her. The bouncers grabbed and pushed fans off of the stage, onto the complaining crowd. Furious rants and boos emitted from the seats.
Katina froze, stunned. Her eyes fell to the front row of people, fearful of the little girl’s safety. Instead, she saw the vision of Taima again, wearing a scowl full of menace.
Blind Veil - Author Michael Lorde - Excerpt
He was fortyish, probably married to a woman he ignored. He forced himself to appear decent to people, though he was anything but. He was balding but, instead of a comb-over, he elected to trim the thin wisp of hair on top extra short in order to minimize its contrast. With his ashen complexion, he resembled a vampire Simms saw in a movie once, the skin punctuated here and there with deep acne scars. The man stood at the doorway wheezing softly. He was antsy, waiting while trying to relax at the same time. His oversized forehead sported a unibrow and his dark mustache was almost lost under his large nose. His ears were disproportionately small, like dried peaches. One hand hung at his side, hovering over his weapon, and the other drummed with annoyance on his thigh. He attempted a professional stance, deliberately extending what little chest he had as far out as possible over his belly. No doubt he practiced this before a mirror. In his black suit and starched white shirt, he reminded Lamont of a penguin; a large, odd, unlikeable sort of penguin.
“Do you want to tell me why the hell I’m still handcuffed?” Simms demanded.
This man was uncomfortable to be here and it suddenly occurred to Simms what a threat he posed to the agent. These people didn't know a thing about him. It was time to use this to his advantage. After three days with Byron, he was out of patience.
“I already told you guys I’m a cop!” he shouted. “How long does it take you professionals to call the NYPD and verify that?”
Simms shivered in his wet clothing. The coffee wasn’t helping, and the blanket was cold and just as wet as he was now.
“We’re verifying that right now, Simms.” O’Neal spoke in a rehearsed voice.
Intimidated, he avoided eye contact with his prisoner. Simms sneezed, then sniffed and wiped the drip with his finger.
“You’ll get warmer once the blanket heats up.” The man said, pointing to the cord extending from the blanket to the outlet on the wall. “We’re going to need a full statement from you about what happened on that boat.”
The agent gritted his teeth, causing his jaw to expand back and forth. He continued avoiding eye contact with Simms.
“Obviously,” Lamont replied. He downed the dregs of his coffee and handed the empty cup back to O’Neal.
It didn’t take stealing a furtive glance at it, to confirm what Lamont already suspected. The blanket cord would prove a great strangulation device if need be. The killing would be silent.
Clicking on the book title beside the Novel's photo for the excerpts posted above, will take you to Amazon. There, you can read the Amazon reviews for these books.
Starting on MARCH 5th and running through MARCH 17th, I will be posting the CRIME READER'S EVENT- SHAMROCKS-N-SIRENS, in celebration of St. Patrick's Day. Each day during this time frame, this page will feature a different CRIME THRILLER AUTHOR and BOOK. These novels are clean, smooth reads, so if you are looking for a quality crime novel to read, you'll find it here.
Your pot of gold will be the gold nuggets of information about the Authors that you're sure to find surprising and exciting!... but read on...there is even more...
One of our authors is from the 'Motherland of St. Patrick's Day' and yes,
IRISH TO THE CORE!
WOULDN'T A SET OF THESE MUGS, LOOK 'KILLER' IN YOUR KITCHEN? WHAT BETTER WAY TO READ YOUR NEWEST KILLER THRILLER, THAN BY DRINKING COFFEE OR TEA FROM A CUP DONNING IT'S COVER THE BACK OF EACH MUG HAS THAT BOOKS TITLE/ AUTHOR NAME AND 'KILLER THRILLER'!
We have fun contests during this event that you won't want to miss! You will find that information below. (If there is a tie for contestants, the winner will be determined through a random number drawing). You must be 18 or older to enter, and all family members of the authors are excluded from entering. If your state or country prohibits these types of contests, it is your responsibility to be aware of this, so be sure to check before entering. Good Luck!
Contest 1-
This contest begins on March 5th and ends on March 17th. The reader who leaves the most comments on the blog during this event (please keep them clean) , will win a SET OF FOUR AUTHOR MUGS; each one bearing a different cover of one of the CRIME NOVELS featured during this event. Drink coffee while you're reading?... or maybe tea? We do, and we love these mugs. We thought you would too. Don't hesitate to pop onto this event page and leave your comments for your chance to win this one of a kind set!
Contest 2-
This contest is very reader involved. Are you creative? Do you like to dress up? Do you have a way with costumes and or makeup? Well put your thinking green derby on and come up with your best idea for a leprechaun costume for you OR your pet and send your photo to blindveilbv@gmail.com. The twelve authors involved in this event will select one photo which will be posted as the winner on March 17th. We will be looking for the 'Most Creative' leprechaun. Could it be you or your pet? It could be, so get your creativity flowing and send your photo to us by Midnight on St Patrick's Day, March 17th, 2012 and you will be entered to win. If your photo is selected, you will win a SET OF FOUR AUTHOR MUGS; each one bearing a different cover of one of the CRIME NOVELS featured during this event. This is a one of a kind set!
Contest 3-
PRIZE WINNERS WILL BE ANNOUNCED TODAY!
(Except the LEPRECHAUN PRIZE which will be ANNOUNCED ON MARCH 18TH)
12 mugs...
3 winners
of a 4 mug set...
each mug different!
Happy St Patrick's Day!
Hope to see you
throughout
this exciting event!
Event Authors
Derek Graystone
Helen Hanson
Andy Holloman
Dixon Bennett Rice
Jennifer Chase
Wendy Cartmell
Deborah Ledford
Michael Lorde
Pat Bertram
Kenneth Hoss
Carolyn Arnold
EVER WANTED TO KNOW HOW THE IRISH CELEBRATE ST PATRICK'S DAY?
Check out these photos taken by our own JJ Toner, Author of St Patrick's Day Special!
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