Disconnected (Romantic Suspense Drama book 1) and Reconnected (Romantic Suspense Drama book 2)

Disconnected (Romantic Suspense Drama)

The first book brought me heartache, hope, shock, anger. So many emotions were fighting for purchase in my mind and I couldn't put Disconnected down. I HAD to know what was happening. I knew there would be a cliff hanger and was fine with that because I bought both books at the same time, I wouldn't be hanging long! Reconnected was just as intriguing. I had to keep reading, the emotions again churning inside of me. That words someone else has written, to bring out so many emotions, that is the art of writing. Thank you, L. Calell!

-   RaeAnne Hadley, Author

This is a first book of one of the most promising new authors since Nora Roberts, there are 2 books Disconnected and Reconnected read them in order. These books have great character building,great plot , superb suspense and mystery building as to what made her they way she is now. Katie's past has wrecked her foreseeable future, she has unattached from everyday living, from love, from any genuine feelings, yet Chris her husband persists to love her unquestioningly dreaming for the day she will express her love and even weep for the very first time since he has known her. Read this book and find out why you will cry, smile be excited be scared you will feel every emotion including anger,this book is amazing there is absolutely nothing to not love about this book and it will propel the author to greatness if she can tell us more stories as compelling as this one, keep up the good work. This is a must read of a book so different so fresh so well written cant help buy sell a million copies.

Within two weeks of publication, Disconnected hit #21 in Thrillers and #72 in Romance during an Amazon promotion. More recently Disconnected reached #4 in Kindle and #1 best-seller in Psychological & Suspense and Family Saga.

Reconnected (Disconnected) (Volume 2) 

Reconnecting with her spouse Chris is all Katie actually desires but she understands it will never ever be ideal after everything that has happened. She is attempting to move on and reconstruct her existence without him. Regular guidance consultations are aiding her come to terms with the lonliness she senses each day. Casey's trial is emerging and her concerns increase at the thought of seeing him as well as her alienated husband. Katie has to sustain her sanity so she cascades herself into her writing. Providing the stress of her abusive previous to life in her new bestselling book 'Orphan', Katie is thrust into the spotlight all over the world. Worldwide success means she can no longer escape her own existence. Knowing now where she is, Chris determines to take action and find a way to save their relationship and reestablish trust. Moving ahead can only happen if he comprehends why it all happened in the first place. There is only one person that can answer his questions, but is he geared up for what unfolds.

Every bit as good as book number 1 don't be shy read them both you will never regret it.

                             

Barnes@Noble

Diary of a Wimpy Kid: The Long Haul (coming soon)

Diary of a Wimpy Kid: The Long Haul Hardcover – November 4, 2014

Jeff Kinney is a #1 New York Times bestselling author and four-time Nickelodeon Kids’ Choice Award winner for Favorite Book. Jeff has been named one of Time magazine’s 100 Most Influential People in the World. He is also the creator of Poptropica, which was named one of Time magazine’s 50 Best Websites. He spent his childhood in the Washington, D.C., area and moved to New England in 1995. Jeff lives in southern Massachusetts with his wife and their two sons.Greg Heffley and his family hit the road in author-illustrator Jeff Kinney's latest installment of the phenomenal bestselling Diary of a Wimpy Kid series.

by Jeff Kinney  (Author)

Personal (Jack Reacher) now available/ Lee Childs 19th book starring Jack Reacher

Personal is Lee Childs 19th book starring Jack Reacher, the retired U.S. military cop who puts his collapsable toothbrush in his t-shirt pocket and boards a bus or train as he roams the nation. 
UPDATED 9/22/2014
Jack Reacher returns in the latest fast-moving, action-packed, suspenseful book from Lee Child
Good suspense as usual. Interesting twists to the plot. Jack a larger than life character as he always is but heroic.
In this installment of the highly successful and entertaining series, Jack Reacher continues to evolve as a person. More mature, controlled, sensitive, intuitive and downright talented as an investigator, Reacher still relies on his fists and physical skills in a pinch, but this Reacher teases the reader with his sleuthing skills, his ability to analyze bits and pieces of clues, and a superior talent for figuring it all out in the nick of time. Lee Child's not only keeps you turning the pages but, as he often does, adds a delicious little twist at the end. Watch for the clues; see if you can discover who is behind the plot before Reacher/Childs do it for you.
Another fine addition to the Jack Reacher SERIES.

Personal is a lot of fun, and while it's never quite the grudge match the title and premise seems to suggest, it's still a solidly engaging read, with a surprising story and some fantastic action sequences. Are there parts that strain belief? Sure, but if the story is this much fun, who cares?
Jack Reacher is back in the newest fast-moving, action-packed, suspenseful book from #1 New York Times bestselling writer Lee Child.

You can leave the army, but the army doesn’t leave you. Not always. Not completely, notes Jack Reacher—and sure enough, the retired military cop is soon pulled back into service. This time, for the State Department and the CIA.

Someone has taken a shot at the president of France in the City of Light. The bullet was American. The distance between the gunman and the target was exceptional. How many snipers can shoot from three-quarters of a mile with total confidence? Very few, but John Kott—an American marksman gone bad—is one of them. And after fifteen years in prison, he’s out, unaccounted for, and likely drawing a bead on a G-8 summit packed with enough world leaders to tempt any assassin.

If anyone can stop Kott, it’s the man who beat him before: Reacher. And though he’d rather work alone, Reacher is teamed with Casey Nice, a rookie analyst who keeps her cool with Zoloft. But they’re facing a rough road, full of ruthless mobsters, Serbian thugs, close calls, double-crosses—and no backup if they’re caught. All the while Reacher can’t stop thinking about the woman he once failed to save. But he won’t let that that happen again. Not this time. Not Nice.

Reacher never gets too close. But now a killer is making it personal.


  Chapter one from http://www.leechild.com/books/personal.php

Eight days ago my life was an up and down affair. Some of it good. Some of it not so good. Most of it uneventful. Long slow periods of nothing much, with occasional bursts of something. Like the army itself. Which is how they found me. You can leave the army, but the army doesn’t leave you. Not always. Not completely.

They started looking two days after some guy took a shot at the president of France. I saw it in the paper. A long-range attempt with a rifle. In Paris. Nothing to do with me. I was six thousand miles away, in California, with a girl I met on a bus. She wanted to be an actor. I didn’t. So after forty-eight hours in LA she went one way and I went the other. Back on the bus, first to San Francisco for a couple of days, and then to Portland, Oregon, for three more, and then onward to Seattle. Which took me close to Fort Lewis, where two women in uniform got out of the bus. They left an Army Times behind, one day old, right there on the seat across the aisle.

The Army Times is a strange old paper. It started up before World War Two and is still going strong, every week, full of yesterday’s news and sundry how-to articles, like the headline staring up at me right then: New Rules! Changes for Badges and Insignia! Plus Four More Uniform Changes On The Way! Legend has it the news is yesterday’s because it’s copied secondhand from old AP summaries, but if you read the words sideways you sometimes hear a real sardonic tone between the lines. The editorials are occasionally brave. The obituaries are occasionally interesting.

Which was my sole reason for picking up the paper. Sometimes people die and you’re happy about it. Or not. Either way you need to know. But I never found out. Because right next to the obituaries are the personal ads. Which as always were mostly veterans looking for other veterans. Dozens of ads, all the same.

Including one with my name in it.

Right there, center of the page, a boxed column inch, five words printed bold: Jack Reacher call Rick Shoemaker.

Which had to be Tom O’Day’s work. Which later on made me feel a little lame. Not that O’Day wasn’t a smart guy. He had to be. He had survived a long time. A very long time. He had been around forever. Twenty years ago he already looked a hundred. A tall, thin, gaunt, cadaverous man, who moved like he might collapse at any moment, like a broken stepladder. He was no one's idea of an army general. More like a professor. Or an anthropologist. Certainly his thinking had been sound. Reacher stays under the radar, which means buses and trains and waiting rooms and diners, which, coincidentally or not, is the natural economic habitat for enlisted men and women, who buy theArmy Times ahead of any other publication in the PX, and who can be relied upon to spread the paper around, like birds spread seeds from berries.

And he could rely on me to pick up the paper. Somewhere. Sooner or later. Eventually. Because I needed to know. You can leave the army, but the army doesn’t leave you. Not completely. As a means of communication, as a way of making contact, from what he knew, and from what he could guess, then maybe he would think ten or twelve consecutive weeks of personal ads might generate a small but realistic chance of success.

But it worked the first time out. One day after the paper was printed. Which is why I felt lame later on.

I was predictable.

Rick Shoemaker was Tom O’Day’s boy. Probably his second in command by now. Easy enough to ignore. But I owed Shoemaker a favor. Which O’Day knew about, obviously. Which was why he put Shoemaker’s name in his ad.

And which was why I would have to answer it.

Predictable.

#

Seattle was dry when I got out of the bus. And warm. And wired, in the sense that coffee was being consumed in prodigious quantities, which made it my kind of town, and in the sense that wifi hotspots and handheld devices were everywhere, which didn’t, and which made old fashioned street-corner pay phones hard to find. But there was one down by the fish market, so I stood in the salty breeze and the smell of the sea, and I dialed a toll-free number at the Pentagon. Not a number you’ll find in the phone book. A number learned by heart long ago. A special line, for emergencies only. You don’t always have a quarter in your pocket.

The operator answered and I asked for Shoemaker and I got transferred, maybe elsewhere in the building, or the country, or the world, and after a bunch of clicks and hisses and some long minutes of dead air Shoemaker came on the line and said, “Yes?”

“This is Jack Reacher,” I said.

“Where are you?”

“Don’t you have all kinds of automatic machines to tell you that?”

“Yes,” he said. “You’re in Seattle, on a pay phone down by the fish market. But we prefer it when people volunteer the information themselves. We find that makes the subsequent conversation go better. Because they’re already cooperating. They’re invested.”

“In what?”

“In the conversation.”

“Are we having a conversation?”

“Not really. What do you see directly ahead?”

I looked.

“A street,” I said.

“Left?”

“Places to buy fish.”

“Right?”

“A coffee shop across the light.”

“Name?”

I told him.

He said, “Go in there and wait.”

“For what?”

“For about thirty minutes,” he said, and hung up.

#

No one really knows why coffee is such a big deal in Seattle. It’s a port, so maybe it made sense to roast it close to where it was landed, and then to sell it close to where it was roasted, which created a market, which brought other operators in, the same way the auto makers all ended up in Detroit. Or maybe the water is right. Or the elevation, or the temperature, or the humidity. But whatever, the result is a coffee shop on every block, and a four-figure annual tab for a serious enthusiast. The shop across the light from the pay phone was representative. It had maroon paint and exposed brick and scarred wood, and a chalkboard menu about ninety percent full of things that don’t really belong in coffee, like dairy products of various types and temperatures, and weird nut-based flavorings, and many other assorted pollutants. I got a plain house blend, black, no sugar, in the middle-sized go-cup, not the enormousgrande bucket some folks like, and a slab of lemon pound cake to go with it, and I sat alone on a hard wooden chair at a table for two.

The cake lasted five minutes and the coffee another five, and eighteen minutes after that Shoemaker’s guy showed up. Which made him Navy, because twenty-eight minutes was pretty fast, and the Navy is right there in Seattle. And his car was dark blue. It was a low-spec domestic sedan, not very desirable, but polished to a high shine. The guy himself was nearer forty than twenty, and hard as a nail. He was in civilian clothes. A blue blazer over a blue polo shirt, and khaki chino pants. The blazer was worn thin and the shirt and the pants had been washed a thousand times. A Senior Chief Petty Officer, probably. Special Forces, almost certainly, a SEAL, no doubt part of some shadowy joint operation watched over by Tom O’Day.

He stepped into the coffee shop with a blank-eyed all-in-one scan of the room, like he had a fifth of a second to identify friend or foe before he started shooting. Obviously his briefing must have been basic and verbal, straight out of some old personnel file, but he had me at six-five two-fifty. Everyone else in the shop was Asian, mostly women and very petite. The guy walked straight toward me and said, “Major Reacher?”

I said, “Not anymore.”

He said, “Mr. Reacher, then?”

I said, “Yes.”

“Sir, General Shoemaker requests that you come with me.”

I said, “Where to?”

“Not far.”

“How many stars?”

“Sir, I don’t follow.”

“Does General Shoemaker have?”

“One, sir. Brigadier General Richard Shoemaker, sir.”

“When?”

“When what, sir?”

“Did he get his promotion?”

“Two years ago.”

“Do you find that as extraordinary as I do?”

The guy paused a beat and said, “Sir, I have no opinion.”

“And how is General O’Day?”

The guy paused another beat and said, “Sir, I know of no one named O’Day.”

#

The blue car was a Chevrolet Impala with police hubs and cloth seats. The polish was the freshest thing on it. The guy in the blazer drove me through the downtown streets and got on I-5 heading south. The same way the bus had come in. We drove back past Boeing Field once again, and past the Sea-Tac airport once again, and onward toward Tacoma. The guy in the blazer didn’t talk. Neither did I. We both sat there mute, like we were in a no-talking competition and serious about winning. I watched out the window. All green, hills and sea and trees alike.

We passed Tacoma, and slowed ahead of where the women in uniform had gotten out of the bus, leaving their Army Times behind. We took the same exit. The signs showed nothing ahead except three very small towns and one very large military base. Chances were therefore good we were heading for Fort Lewis. But it turned out we weren’t. Or we were, technically, but we wouldn’t have been back in the day. We were heading for what used to be McChord Air Force Base, and was now the aluminum half of Joint Base Lewis-McChord. Reforms. Politicians will do anything to save a buck.

I was expecting a little back-and-forth at the gate, because the gate belonged jointly to the army and the Air Force, and the car and the driver were both Navy, and I was absolutely nobody. Only the Marine Corps and the United Nations were missing. But such was the power of O’Day we barely had to slow the car. We swept in, and hooked a left, and hooked a right, and were waved through a second gate, and then the car was right out there on the tarmac, dwarfed by huge C-17 transport planes, like a mouse in a forest. We drove under a giant gray wing and headed out over open blacktop straight for a small white airplane standing alone. A corporate thing. A business jet. A Lear, or a Gulfstream, or whatever rich people buy these days. The paint winked in the sun. There was no writing on it, apart from a tail number. No name, no logo. Just white paint. Its engines were turning slowly, and its stairs were down.

The guy in the blazer drove a well-judged part-circle and came to a stop with my door about a yard from the bottom of the airplane steps. Which I took as a hint. I climbed out and stood a moment in the sun. Spring had sprung and the weather was pleasant. Beside me the car drove away. A steward appeared above me, in the little oval mouth of the cabin. He was wearing a uniform. He said, “Sir, please step up.”

The stairs dipped a little under my weight. I ducked into the cabin. The steward backed off to my right, and on my left another guy in uniform squeezed out of the cockpit and said, “Welcome aboard, sir. You have an all-Air Force crew today, and we’ll get you there in no time at all.”

I said, “Get me where?”

“To your destination.” The guy crammed himself back in his seat next to his copilot and they both got busy checking dials. I followed the steward and found a cabin full of butterscotch leather and walnut veneer. I was the only passenger. I picked an armchair at random. The steward hauled the steps up and sealed the door and sat down on a jump seat behind the pilots’ shoulders. Thirty seconds later we were in the air, climbing hard. 

                  Barnes@Noble

Invisible by James Patterson ,David Ellis James Patterson's scariest, most chilling stand-alone thriller yet

Invisible by James Patterson ,David Ellis  James Patterson's scariest, most chilling stand-alone thriller yet,Invisible. Absolutely everyone believes FBI analyst Emmy is insane because she thinks 100s of crimes are linked. What if she's correct.

Absolutely everybody is convinced Emmy Dockery is insane. Preoccupied with obtaining the link between 100s of unsolved cases, Emmy has taken leave from her work as an FBI analyst. Now all she has are the newspaper clippings that wallpaper her room, and her continual nightmares of an all-consuming fire.

Not even Emmy's ex-boyfriend, field agent Harrison "Books" Bookman, will believe her that 100s of kidnappings, rapes, and murders are all linked. That is, until Emmy detects a piece of evidence he can't afford to overlook. More murders are documented by the day--and they're all mysterious. No motives, no murder weapons, no suspects. Could one particular person truly be responsible for these unimaginable crimes?



Excerpt from http://www.jamespatterson.com/books_invisible.php#excerpts

Chapter 1

THIS TIME I know it, I know it with a certainty that chokes my throat with panic, that grips and twists my heart until it’s ripped from its mooring. This time, I’m too late.

This time, it’s too hot. This time, it’s too bright, there’s too much smoke.

The house alarm is screaming out, not the early-warning beep but the piercing you’re-totally-screwed-if-you-don’tmove-now squeal. I don’t know how long it’s been going off, but it’s too late for me now. The searing oven-blast heat within the four corners of my bedroom. The putrid black smoke that singes my nostril hairs and pollutes my lungs. The orange flames rippling across the ceiling above me, dancing around my bed, almost in rhythm, a taunting staccato, popping and crackling, like it’s not a fire but a collection of flames working together; collectively, they want me to know, as they bob up and down and spit and cackle, as they slowly advance, This time it’s too late, Emmy —

The window. Still a chance to jump off the bed to the left and run for the window, the only part of the bedroom still available. The enemy is cornering me, daring me, Go ahead, Emmy, go for the window, Emmy —

This is my last chance, and I know, but don’t want to think about, what happens if I fail —that I have to start preparing myself for the pain. It will just hurt for a few minutes, it will be teeth-gnashing, gut-twisting agony, but then the heat will shrivel off my nerve endings and I’ll feel nothing, or better yet I’ll pass out from carbon monoxide poisoning.

Nothing to lose. No time to waste.

The flames hit my flannel comforter as my legs kick over to the floor, as I bounce up off the mattress and race the one-two-three-four steps to the window. A girlish, panicky squeal escapes my throat, like when Daddy and I used to play chase in the backyard and he was closing in. I lower my shoulder and lunge against the window, a window that was specifically built to not shatter, and ringing out over the alarm’s squeal and the lapping of the flames is a hideous roar, a hungry growl, as I bounce off the window and fall backward into the raging heat. I tell myself, Breathe, Emmy, suck in the toxic pollution, don’t let the flames kill you, BREATHE—

Breathe. Take a breath.

“Damn,” I say to nobody in my dark, fire-free room. My eyes sting from sweat and I wipe them with my T-shirt. I know better than to move right away; I remain still until my pulse returns to human levels, until my breathing evens out.

I look over at the clock radio, where red fluorescent square numbers tell me it’s half past two.

Dreams suck. You think you’ve conquered something, you work on it over and over and tell yourself you’re getting better, you will yourself to get better, you congratulate yourself on getting better. And then you close your eyes at night, you drift off into another world, and suddenly your own brain is tapping you on the shoulder and saying,Guess what? You’re NOT better!

I let out one, conclusive exhale and reach for my bedroom light. When I turn it on, the fire is everywhere. It’s my wallpaper now, the various photographs and case summaries and inspectors’ reports adorning the walls of my bedroom, fires involving deaths in cities throughout the United States: Hawthorne, Florida. Skokie, Illinois. Cedar Rapids, Iowa. Plano, Texas. Piedmont, California.

And, of course, Peoria, Arizona.

Fifty-three of them in all.

I move along the wall and quickly review each one. Then I head to my computer and start opening e-mails.

Fifty-three that I know of. There are undoubtedly more.

This guy isn’t going to stop.

Copyright © 2014 by James Patterson

                  Barnes&Noble

Power Play ( #18 of the FBI Thriller series) by Catherine Coulter ...

#1 New York Times bestselling author Catherine Coulter comes back with the most recent fast paced thriller in the FBI series featuring Dillon Savich and Lacey Sherlock.Natalie Black, a U.S. ambassador, has gone back to Washington, her job in danger. Her fiancé, George McCallum, Viscount Lockenby, has deceased in a car accident, and unexplained speculation begin that she’s responsible commence to surface.

Natalie Black, the U.S. ambassador to the Court of St. James, has come back to Washington, her job in danger. Her fiancé, George McCallum, Viscount Lockenby, has perished in a car accident, and unexplained speculation begin that she’s accountable commence to surface: she broke off the wedding and, heartbroken, he killed him self. Then somebody tries to pressure her off the M-2 outside London. Again, rumors claim it was a empathy ploy. When she returns to the United States, she’s nearly murdered when a car tries to mow her down while she’s out for a jog. No one believes her except FBI Special Agent Davis Sullivan.

At the same time someone is pursuing Sherlock. A stalker? Then someone tries to shoot her from the back of a motorbike, but the attacker gets away. Sherlock next gets a call from an Atlanta mental hospital warning her that Blessed Backman has escaped. This is not good news. Blessed is a proficient psychopath out for revenge against the agents, principally Sherlock, whom his dying mother pleaded him to kill since she and Savich helped bring down her cult.

How to find out who’s trying to kill the ambassador to the U.K.? How can they get their hands on Blessed Backman before he is successful and kills Sherlock? The clock is ticking and the danger intensifies



I have read a few of the F.B.I series by Catherine Coulter all were solid well written books with action romance and some suspense all very solid 3 and half four star books.Power play stands out from the rest of the series as lot more action, suspense and thrills.This book nabbed my attention right from the beginning. Power play moves along rapidly. Power play definitely can be read as a one time read, but I feel once you read it you will want to know Savich and Sherlock’s story. I highly recommend Power play for any individual who really likes a great thriller.This was one thrill after another.Looking  forward to the next sequel and hope she does as well with the next one.

EXCERPT for POWER PLAY by Catherine Coulter from http://www.catherinecoulter.com/books/fbi/power-play

Two Corners Mall
Washington, D.C.
Monday morning

He turned stone cold and his focus narrowed laser-thin on the man who held the woman in a choke hold. A carjacking in the parking lot of a strip mall not a half-mile from his town house on Euclid—the first one he’d ever seen, and here he was in the middle of it. He’d been walking to his Jeep, a large Starbucks coffee in his left hand, when he saw this man grab the woman and jerk her out of the driver’s side of a shiny black Beemer. She screamed once. Davis yelled at the man to let her go and back away, but the man dragged the woman in front of him, whirled around to face him, and pointed a .22 at her temple. A crap gun, but it could do the job.

“Piss off or the bitch is dead!” the man yelled. “I don’t like bitches. I don’t even like my mom. I mean it, dude, walk away!”

The guy was maybe thirty, and higher than Carly from Homeland Security when she’d nabbed a terrorist in Pittsburgh. He was probably on ice, given the way he was jonesing around, his body jerking on puppet strings. Even from fifteen feet away, Davis could see his eyes were jitterbugging, the hand that held the .22 to the woman’s head shaking. Not good.

New tactics. Davis called out, “Dude, I get it. Look, I love my Starbucks fix, too”—he waved his cup—“but you’ve got to let her go.”

“Go away, ass-wipe, or it’s brains-down-the-drain time!” Jitterbug tightened his hold around her neck, pressing the .22 hard against her cheek. The woman’s hands clutched at his forearm, trying to pull it away from her neck to catch a breath. Even from this distance, it looked to Davis like she was more pissed off than afraid.

“Seriously, dude,” Davis called out. “It’s really not a good idea to mess with me. I’m FBI, a walking, talking death machine. You can’t hit me from fifteen feet with that popgun, but I can shoot the gold hoop out of your ear and call my mother at the same time while singing ‘Happy Birthday.’” He pulled his Glock from his holster for Jitterbug to see, then held it down at his side. “You hurt this very nice lady and I’ll personally stuff you in a meat grinder and make a cheap burger out of you. You got me? You need rehab, not this Beemer you’d just wreck, which really would be a shame, about the car, I mean. So put the peashooter down and let the lady go.”

Jitterbug stared at him, as if trying to make sense out of his words. He was shaking his head back and forth, maybe listening to other voices, who knew? His eyes whirled, his mouth worked, his hand shook, and through all his gyrations the woman looked straight at Davis, calm as could be, and gave him a slight nod. Without a pause, she bent her head and took a deep bite out of Jitterbug’s forearm, right through the tatty sweatshirt he was wearing. He yelled, loosened his grip. She pulled back inside the open car door to give herself leverage and sent her fist into his nose, then her elbow into his gut. He jerked up his .22 and fired wildly, not at the woman but at Davis, once, twice, three times. Nowhere close. Davis leaned down, carefully put his coffee cup on the ground and raised his Glock. The woman was pinned between Jitterbug and the car door, and he made another grab for her, jerking the gun up again toward her head.

“I wish you hadn’t done that,” Davis said, and very calmly shot the man in the shoulder. One bullet did the trick. The man lurched back and fell away from the open car door and onto his knees, howling, holding his shoulder, rocking back and forth, the gun skittering away from him. The woman shouted to Davis, “Good shot!” And she gave the guy a kick in the ribs, sending him screaming onto his side. Then she knelt down, agile as a teenager, and picked up the .22.

A good half-dozen shoppers dribbled out of the shops toward the parking lot now that it looked safe and they wouldn’t get caught in anyone’s crosshairs. They were brimming with excitement, chattering nervously. A woman screamed, as if for effect. Davis opened his mouth at the same moment the woman held up her hand, cleared her throat, and said in a booming voice that carried all the way to LaFleur’s Dry Cleaners across the road, “Everything’s okay now, people! You, sir, call nine-one-one. The rest of you, you’ll want to stay and talk to the police when they get here. I mean it, this is important. I’d do it for any one of you, so do it for me, okay?” She gave them all the big stink eye, a nod, and an approving smile.

To his surprise, only two of the bystanders melted away. The others grouped together, comparing notes, still flying high on adrenaline.
Davis holstered his Glock and picked up his Starbucks coffee. He sipped it. Still hot. Good.

The woman started toward him. She was tall, fit, and strong, by the look of the blows she’d dealt Jitterbug. Not a coward, this woman, more a force. In that instant, he realized she reminded him of Sherlock, or Sherlock’s mom, all the way to the red hair bouncing around on her head. It was kind of scary. She was smiling big, showing lovely white teeth, and her red hair seemed to turn redder as the sun suddenly broke through the clouds overhead. She handed him Jitterbug’s .22, butt first, barrel to the ground, smooth and easy. She knew gun safety. Even more scary.

“A meat grinder? Really?” She quirked a dark red eyebrow at him, leaned forward, and kissed him soundly on the cheek.

She smelled like honey. “Well,” he said, “the thing is, my granny always used a meat grinder when I visited her as a kid. I remember she threatened my granddad with it when he smoked his cigar in the kitchen. Why weren’t you scared?”

“Believe me, I was scared to my toes, until I realized he was only a pathetic guy high on drugs,” and she looked back at Jitterbug, lying there holding his shoulder, moaning.



Criminal Apprehension Unit
Hoover Building

An hour later in the CAU, Davis said to the gathered agents, “Metro showed up two minutes later, along with an ambulance that hauled Jitterbug to the hospital. Some of the cops questioned the bystanders, others questioned the woman, and another two questioned me until I wanted to hurl. I even mentioned Savich a couple of times, but all I got for dropping the Big Dog’s name was one guy who rolled his eyes and one big-deal grunt. They kept asking me the same questions over and over as they usually do. The woman finally broke in and said enough was enough and we were in need of a nice strong morning shot of bourbon and I was to follow her back home in case she fainted—not likely—where we’d toast our mutual good luck and competence. She shoved her card into one of their hands and smiled at him. The two cops were so taken aback, they let us both leave, and I followed her home.”

Davis grinned around the room. “So that’s the story of why I’m late, and I’m sticking to it.”

Savich said, “Really? Nah, that can’t be true. You’re actually saying one of the cops rolled his eyes and the other one only grunted when you said my name?”

“Yeah, couldn’t believe it myself. You’d think maybe they’d have some respect.”

Savich grinned, shook his head. “I can confirm that Jitterbug—name’s Paul Jones—is in surgery at Washington Memorial to remove the bullet from his shoulder. Metro’s in charge.”

Special Agent Lucy Carlyle, soon to be Lucy McKnight, was shaking her head. “Davis, listen to me. You could be in the bed next to Mr. Bug at Washington Memorial instead of sitting here trying to make us laugh. I can see it all: you’re moseying to your Jeep, sipping your latte, thinking about who you’ve got a date with tonight, when that idiot grabs the lady.”

“It was not a latte.”

“Yeah, yeah, macho black. One part of your brain is trying out jokes to tell your girlfriend tonight and all of a sudden, your manic brain snaps to figuring out angles and distances, the drugged psychology of Mr. Bug, and calculating probabilities for survival, right?”

Davis said, “Hey, I already know what jokes work.” He paused for a moment. “And my brain isn’t manic. It’s a finely tuned instrument. Do you know, though, I think she’d have taken Jitterbug down herself once she got over her surprise at his popping out of the box like that. I gotta say it’s possible she really didn’t need me. Tough, that one. Lots of red hair, like yours, Sherlock. I bet she’d impress you.

“I did follow her home to this swank gated mansion on a huge lot in Chevy Chase, halfway down Ridgewood Road, through this big secure gate with a guardhouse, cameras, and an intercom. It’s all woods out there, with very few houses. The ones that are there are big and set back and very private. The guardhouse was empty, but she didn’t have to speak to anyone on the intercom. Nope, the gate opened up fast, which means there were cameras inside monitoring. I was right behind her in my plebian Jeep on her big circular driveway. Before we’d even stopped, this big guy comes running out of the house, makes a beeline right at me like he’s going to rip my tonsils out. She climbs out of her BMW and calls out something like ‘Hooley, it’s okay.’

“Since I had to come to work and couldn’t toast her with the bourbon, she patted my face and gave me another kiss. Hooley’s standing only six feet away, his arms crossed over his chest, measuring me for a coffin. He was a bodyguard, I’m sure of it. I’m thinking maybe she’s someone important.”

“Well, what’s her name?” Coop McKnight said.

“Does anyone recognize the name Natalie Black?”

Sherlock stared at him. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

                         Barnes@Noble

Unlucky 13 (Women's Murder Club) Does it again

Been reading the Women’s Murder Club series? you are conscious that writers James Patterson and Maxine Paetro create more than enough action mystery and thrills into each book . UNLUCKY 13, the most recent sequel in the collection, is somewhat unique; there is even a little more action and thrills than normal. Investigator Lindsay Boxer is delighted with her private life, which contains her husband and infant little girl, but her professional life enthralls a grisly homicide case that has just been given to her. A monster is ruining the main offering of a preferred Bay Area burger chain. His initial two victims are crossing the Golden Gate Bridge, enjoyably consuming their meal, when the burgers they have just ingested explode. Mayhem develops, as one can well visualize. Boxer’s friend, Dr. Claire Washburn, San Francisco’s medical examiner, puts Boxer and companion Richie Conklin on the correct course as to the cause of the blast, while good old-fashioned police work remnants the food back to the retail source. That is only part of the situation, nevertheless. Boxer needs to find out who is executing it and how. The killer commences making multiple demands for ransom, successfully holding the whole city or at least the percentage that eats burgers hostage.
n naive looking traffic automobile accident in peak hour San Francisco conceals a horrific and stunning secret. Two youthful Americans are discovered  in pieces on the front seat of an demolished car in the midst of multi-lane HIGHWAY WITH disarray extending the full length of the world's most well-known bridge.

An preliminary investigation by authorities brings them to deduce that both victims had potent bombs horrifically, and possibly  erupted from within their abdomens. In one of the most compellingly authored James Patterson books published for years, the audience will find themselves glued to their kindle screens to find out what takes place next. And this is barely halfway through the beginning!

A extremely hazardous and fatal homicidal blast from her past, one that has been absent for a while, has all of a sudden returned. Mackie Morales, suspected dead after getting out of police custody, now seems to be back to her bank robbing and homicidal tactics also. pursuing Morales’s bloody path as it goes gradually yet precisely across the country. When it gets to be clear that Morales is on course towards the West Coast, Thomas is certain that she is approaching San Francisco to seek revenge on Boxer, daydreaming that she herself might be in Morales’s sights as well. As you can see there are plenty of twist danger points and intrigue in this murder mystery,pick up the book ride the winding road and rough waves to end of . UNLUCKY 13.A great book .This is one of the best James Patterson novels

                         Barnes@Noble

The Target David Baldacci's New Thriller

The Target David Baldacci's  New Thriller

Always said u don't read  BALDACCI NOVEL you live it,this one is no exception.exception. Baldacci who has made his fame and fortune writing action, thrillers is one of my favorite authors.From Zero power ,day of doom to last man standing can't think of a a book written by Baldacci i did not enjoy.

David Baldacci's newest thriller, "The Target," expert assassins Will Robie and his partner,
Jessica Reel, are theoretically offered a clean slate by the federal government on the condition
that they take on a suicide mission.
The us president is aware it could signify his impeachment if they are captured. Evan Tucker,
the head of the CIA, questions they can follow instructions and would like to see them die before
they take the assignment. He tosses them into the Burner Box, a high tech
teaching facility that
is infamous for busting agents, both bodily and psychologically. Tucker tosses the complete
worst at them, and they soon learn that enduring the torture is the easy part of their assignment.
While they are battling to pass the escalating ferocious tests thrown at them, a man in a different
part of the country is waiting for his fate on death row. Even so, he is dying from lung cancer,
and he persuades his doctor to look up his daughter, who was located in witness protection
years before, so he can tell her goodbye.
He has an ulterior objective, and while his doctor contemplates getting in touch with the
authorities, in another part of the world, a North Korean assassin receives a hazardous mission
with worldchanging
implications.
Robie and Reel are intricate heroes, and whatever they do is a enjoyment to follow. However, the
ventures are incredibly short and somewhat patchy from the rest of the story, making it seem
that the operations were short stories that Baldacci tossed in with the rest of the story and
character types. That aside, Baldacci has learned how to get audience to turn the pages, and
he's in prime form here.

Shadow Spell: Book Two of The Cousins O'Dwyer Trilogy

Book Two of The Cousins O’Dwyer Trilogy
Shadow Spell
Nora Roberts is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of more than 200 novels. She is also the
author of the bestselling In Death series written under the pen name J. D. Robb. There are more
than 400 million copies of her books in print.
With the legends and tradition of Ireland going through his blood vessels, falconer Connor
O’Dwyer is very pleased to call County Mayo home. It’s where his sibling, Branna, lives and
works, where his cousin, Iona, has found genuine love, and where his childhood buddies form a
circle that can’t be broken…
A circle that is about to be pulled out of shape—by a long awaited
kiss.
Meara Quinn is Branna’s very best friend, a sister in all but blood. Her and Connor’s tracks cross
practically everyday, as Connor takes travelers on hawk walks and Meara guides them on
horseback throughout the lavish countryside. She has the eyes of a gypsy and the physique of a
goddess…things Connor has often taken for granted—until his brush with death ignites them into
a swift, hot tangle.
A great deal of women have uncovered their way to Connor’s bed, but not one to his heart till
now. Frustratingly, Meara is alright with just the heat, reluctant to eliminate herself—and their
friendship—to anything more. But soon, Connor will see the full force and fury of what runs in his
blood. And he will need his family and friends around him when his past rolls in like the fog,
intimidating an finish to all he loves…
Don’t miss Book One in the Cousins O’Dwyer Trilogy

  Barnes @noble


The book writing machine Nora Roberts has become a bit formulaic in her recent years as
she blue prints all her books with a beginning ,end, high point then writes the in between.The
title greatest female writer of all time is a heavy burden to carry but as a whole Nora Carry's
it well.This is not a great book but it is a very good book with 500 five star reviews out of
seven hundred and amazon's number 77 best selling book how can you not want to read
.Shadow Spell
Shadow Spell centers on the increasing ambiance between Connor and Meara and the eager
methods they have to take to make sure Meara's safety as Cabhan is decided that she is the
best way to deteriorate the power they use against him. But the relationship between the six and
their intense dedication to kill him once and for all will grow even more powerful as each of them
understand that it will take all their personal strengths... of the heart, mind and body, to overcome
the sorcerer before he can eliminate all they hold dear.
Originally we are taken back in time to once again see how the kids of the Dark Witch Sorcha
are faring after her passing away, and this is especially significant since Connor discovers a way
to reach through the generations and meet up with Sorcha's son Eamon thereby revealing
important details and building up their bonds of family. Having Eamon and Connor able to meet
up with and communicate added an extra factor to the story and made it easier for to tie it all
together. The six friends meet regularly to enjoy each others company, make plans and give
each other strength for the coming battle and I found these times when the six are all together
very fulfilling as we get a deeper look at each personality and how they fit into this circle of
friendship and family. The scenarios in Shadow Spell  where they encounter Cabhan keep the
story moving and in the end it's the power of love and their commitment to one another that sees them through, even
when elements are at their worst. The good versus evil theme is powerful with a touching
secondary story about Meara and her mother that gives us a better glance into her character and
the concerns she has as she realizes she is seeing Connor in a whole new way.
If you like Nora Roberts, magic, spells, good versus evil and the power of the strength that love
and relationship can deliver, then Shadow Spell will be a enjoyable read and keep you thinking
how the O'Dwyer cousins and their friends will eventually do away with the evil Cabhan once and
for all and I look ahead to the last book in the trilogy, Blood Magick giving us the responses