Author: Angie

El Jefe The Michael Taylor Series Book 3 by Tiffany Christina Lewis Genre: Crime Fiction

In this third installment of the series, Detective Michael Taylor of the Oakland PD has a decision to make: Should he begin an investigation against his corrupt lieutenant? After being given a file of evidence against him, Michael is expected to act. He knows that after multiple attempts on his own life, opening this investigation would put himself, all of his loved ones and his partner Det. Alex Jamison in danger. As Michael contemplates the case, he and Jamison get a late-night call to the residence of Mia McDowell, who is found assaulted and murdered. Although it initially looks like a breaking and entering, Michael can sense something isn’t right. Just as his momentum rises, Lt. Bruce Vega, the corrupt supervisor in question, arrives on the scene. As the two come head to head, Michael removes himself from the situation only to find that he has fueled Lt. Vega’s fire, and he is now under a month’s suspension. Now Michael has to make some choices: will he investigate Lt. Vega and risk everything or will he do nothing and risk losing himself? Goodreads * Amazon

Stitches The Michael Taylor Series Book 2

Oakland Police Detective Michael Taylor is faced with another gruesome case: a dead man with no eyes and lips sewn shut. After catching a grisly Bay Area serial killer, Michael is hit on all sides by change. He starts his investigation with a rookie detective for a partner, his love life is in turmoil, and the pressure at the PD is mounting as the newly minted partners receive a second case that is being pressed as a priority. Michael, the consummate loner, has to manage all of his new relationships, keep his wits and juggle the demands of the PD as he tries to get justice for his victim. Just as the tag team start to hit a stride, the murder attempts start to pile up and Michael is in the crosshairs. The duo must work fast to defend their victim and save Michael’s life. Goodreads * Amazon

Inside Out The Michael Taylor Series Book 1

Detective Michael Taylor, of the Oakland PD, is the lead on a horrific serial killer case. For six weeks, he has been cleaning up mounds of the killer’s mess. Bodies of men have been found chopped up and left, skin down, for display. Michael, mysterious to many in his department, is desperate to solve this case. Michael’s only form of stress relief, Candy, a stripper employed at a San Francisco club, begins to show genuine interest in him and they form a relationship a midst all the chaos that is Michael’s life. Between interviews and police reports, Michael makes time for her. Candy, more commonly known as Vanessa, gets tangled in Michael’s case as things unfold. A killer’s desire for retribution leaves her a victim of crime. Vanessa has to use her wit and charm to keep a killer at bay as she leaves bread crumbs for Michael to follow. The lovers must survive a serial killers plot for vengeance while practicing trust and loyalty throughout. Goodreads * Amazon

The San Francisco Bay Area has created a dynamic writer with a great love for her home town and a passion for crime fiction, and her name is Tiffany Christina Lewis. Tiffany has been writing since her adolescence and was honored to have work published for the first time in 2011. Since then her work has been featured in many books and online publications. From fiction to nonfiction, murder to relationships, Tiffany’s range as a writer is expansive. Crazy about killing, Tiffany’s favorite genre to write is Crime Fiction. Tiffany writes for readers. “It is my job to satisfy readers. Everything they say about my work is invaluable. I use it to make myself and my writing better.” “My style is a little Patterson and a little King. I love short chapters and grossing people out but the Detectives win at the end of the day. There is lots of gore when I can and I try my damndest to give those vivid details that make you grimace!” Tiffany has received four degrees in Early Education, Business and Communications. Tiffany’s hobbies include reading, gaming with her family, and watching hours of ID Channel shows. Website * Facebook * Twitter * Amazon * Goodreads

El Jefe
Chapter One
The 20-something year old sat straight up. It should have been a hard task, considering
he had just been pummeled in the face repeatedly. He was bleeding from his broken nose and
practically drowning in the waterfall of blood rushing into his panting mouth. What is the first
aid protocol for a bloody nose? Head up? No, head down—to prevent choking on your own
blood.
He was doing great keeping his head down. It was easy because every time he lifted his
head, he was punched. His head bobbed back on his neck and then his chin came back to rest
on his chest. He was still sitting up straight, however. As bad as he wanted to slump over and
roll into a ball, he couldn’t. He was attached to his high-backed chair with rope all the way up to
his shoulders, wrists bound to the arms.
He also couldn’t escape his torture chamber. Lit by nothing more than three hanging
lights, the room he was in was the size of a classroom with a dirt floor and no windows. He had
been brought there blind folded and he couldn’t see a way out of the room to his safety.
This young man of a proud upbringing had been in and out of trouble as he grew up, but
at that moment he felt like he was in the worst trouble of his life. He felt like he was shaming
his mother, again, and maybe for the last time. He felt all of her hard work trying to raise him,

spending all her money to send him to a private, Catholic school, and all her tears meant
nothing now. He had failed her again.
The man beating him was 30 years his senior. Lean and strong, the attacker stood with
no shirt on. His slacks were pressed with a crisp crease, and his dress shoes were clean. His
muscles rippled as he cranked his arm back and slugged his victim again. He shook his hand
after bringing it back from the collision. He was conditioned to take the pain of recoil from his
punch. Nevertheless, he dunked his hand in a large glass bowl full of ice water sitting on a long
banquet table. He left it there for an uncomfortably long time, the blood rinsing from his fist
and slowly turning the water pink. He watched the young man flicker in and out of
consciousness. When their eyes met, the abuser spoke in Spanish.
“When I was your age, I was in America. I was humble, hard-working, and smart.” He
continued to linger near the table, hand in the bowl. The glass was covered in condensation and
the 20-something could imagine how cool and refreshing the water could be, if his blood
weren’t in it.
The water was North Pole cold, but the elder didn’t mind. He looked down the table and
smiled. “I was working my way up in power, thinking on my toes and making connections.” He
removed his hand.
“Why?” the captive croaked.
“Why what?” the elder roared, irritated by the interruption. He clinched his fists to bring
his anger down. “Be specific.”
The young man didn’t respond. The attacker rushed forward and clenched his victims
bruised and swollen face between his cold, wet hands.
“Why what, Carlito?” he asked in a placid tone.
Carlos was terrified as the abuser pulled his head forward. When their foreheads
touched, he grimaced in pain.
“I know what you want to know,” he comforted, “but you will never understand why.”
He stood, releasing his young victims face. He clenched his fists and struck him in the nose
again.
“Because you.”
Punch.
“Are too.”
Punch.
“Stupid to…”
When he noticed his victim was losing consciousness, he stopped and began observing
him.
“I’m in control of your destiny now. Don’t try to die on me.” The elder turned back to
the table and iced his hand. “I have a meeting to get to, so I guess we should finish up.”
He waited for his fist to become numb. Carlos moaned awake and coughed up blood.
“Before I moved to America, I studied boxing. I was born in Mexico City. My mom took
me and my siblings to live in Tepito after my father abandoned us. That fucking coward. When I
was twelve, I met Carlos Zarate. You know, the famous boxer.” He smiled staring off at the
memory, then became stoic. “Well, I won’t lie. I didn’t meet him. He passed us in the streets
during a parade in his honor. I knew I could be a better fighter than him, so I started practicing,

watching bouts on TV in the local cafes and beating the shit out of the neighborhood kids.” He
laughed a little. “I was the best boxer in Tepito at that time.”
He pulled his hand from the water and curled his fingers into a fist.
His victim shuddered.
The elder put his hand back in the water. Still speaking in Spanish, he continued. “I
never went pro. Never had a chance to beat the shit out of Zarate. With his record, though,” he
laughed, “I would have been destroyed. He was the greatest.” He pulled his hand from the ice
bath again and shook off the lingering water. He walked down the table and looked over his
tools.
Gold, silver, platinum, and titanium were just a few of the metals represented. Each
shiny item had the standard four holes needed for the fingers to slide inside. Brass knuckles
were a standard bad guy item, but these were extravagant. From knife to gun attachments and
everything in between, the collection was grim to those who had to face it. His favorite was the
corkscrew model. The silver piece had a single four-loop corkscrew on the plate, and it was
angled perfectly for plunging into soft areas of the face and body. Although it was his favorite,
he had never used it. The ones he used most were those with the gold-plated spikes. He had
them in small, medium, and large and that day, he felt medium would be the best.
He slid on the weapon and turned to his victim. The young man saw his fate. He closed
his eyes and as the spikes entered his face, he prayed for a swift death.
After an uncountable number of punches, he was dead. His face and head were mulch
on the dirt floor and his neck had been shredded. The elder slipped off the knuckles and
dropped them in the bowl. He was covered in blood. He rinsed both of his hands and dried
them on a pristine, white towel from the table. He pulled his phone from his pocket and started
a call.
“Yes, I’m done.” He hung up the phone and a team of four men came into the dank
room. He wiped the blood from his chest and arms as best he could and slipped on his shirt as
the men cleaned the mess, packed the weapons, and removed the dead body as fast and
efficient as a NASCAR team.
“Did you get anything?” one of them stopped to ask him.
The killer slipped on his sports jacket. “Of course not. That kid had no sense and
apparently, no power in the organization.” He headed for the door. “But he was an excellent
warm up.”

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Treasure Fever The Hunt For El Dorado  by James B. McPike  Genre: Action, Adventure, Spy Thriller 

Max Finley is an American spy tasked with tracking down an old flame responsible for the theft of a rare 16th-century manuscript from Spain. Little does he know but she’s hot on the trail of finding the long-lost city of El Dorado. A place of magnificent gold wealth left by the Inca Empire and pursued for centuries by treasure hunters around the world. But it’s also rumored to be cursed after disastrous expeditions were lost and explorers tragically perished. As Finley reluctantly joins her quest, he finds himself mixed up in a deadly game of international espionage and intrigue where the powers that be will do anything to stop him. 
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Treasure Fever is McPike’s sixth novel. He wrote an acclaimed trilogy about an Israeli investigator on a mission to solve biblical mysteries before that. His books have been the recipients of numerous literary awards, including the Pacific Book Award and the Beverly Hills Book Award for The Lost Prophet. He lives near Yosemite, California and is a member of the International Thriller Writers. 
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Hostile Pursuit A Hard Core Justice Thriller Book 1 by Juno Rushdan Genre: Romantic Thriller

When ruthless killers target them,even a safe house isn’t safe. Only twenty-four hours remain until marshal Nick McKenna’s informant, Lori Carpenter, will testify against a powerful drug cartel. Nick has kept her safe for an entire year, but now all hell is breaking loose. With a team of cold-blooded assassins closing in, the by-the-book lawman decides to go rogue. He’ll risk his life for duty…and put it all on the line for his irresistible witness.

“ I’m going to warn you: you will not be able to put this book down.” – Anita, Goodreads reviewer, 5 Stars.

“This edge of your seat romantic thriller had me hooked from the beginning and didn’t let up until the sizzling conclusion.” -David, Goodreads reviewer, 5 Stars

“A suspenseful, jam-packed read!! I couldn’t put the book down because I wanted to know what would happen next-and it was a lot!”-Jewels Book Blog, Goodreads reviewer, 5 StarsAdd to GoodreadsAmazon * Apple * B&N * Kobo * BooksAMillion

Juno is a veteran Air Force Intelligence Officer who writes romantic thrillers with sizzle, pulse-pounding suspense, and plenty of action. Her stories are about strong heroes and gutsy heroines fighting for their lives as well as their happily-ever-after. Expect an intense emotional journey and a thrill ride to keep you turning the pages. A native New Yorker, she currently lives in the Washington, DC area with her patient husband, two vivacious kids, and a spoiled rescue dog. Juno loves hanging out with readers and anyone friendly over a great glass of wine. The Final Hour series features a covert, off-the-books unit sanctioned to operate beyond the black and white constraints of other intelligence agencies. They work in the shadows safeguarding national security. When a horrifying conspiracy hits too close to home, they’re the last line of defense. They’ll do anything to keep their country safe and sacrifice everything for the ones they love. Website * Facebook * Twitter * Instagram * Bookbub * Amazon * Goodreads

Nick had kept Lori safe for three hundred and eighty-six days. What could possibly go wrong
in the next twenty-seven hours?
They reached the women’s clothing store. As they walked inside, a chime dinged from a
motion-activated PIR sensor he spotted.
An employee behind the register, wearing a blazer and sporting a curly bob, made eye contact
and gave a perky smile. One female customer perusing a row of blouses didn’t glance their way.
“Hello,” the young sales associate said, her warm voice rich with enthusiasm. “Let me know if
you need help finding anything.”
“Thank you,” Lori said.
“You’ve got twenty minutes.” Nick looked at his watch while Ted swept the rest of the store.
“We’re in and out, okay?”
Lori went to a rack of suits. “You don’t give a gal much time.”
“One hour away from the property,” he said, reminding her of the US Marshal Service rules
that kept witnesses alive. “Not a minute more.”
Nick’s attention flickered to the other customer.
The woman was in her early forties, petite, olive complexion, coal-black hair pulled in a tight
bun. No jewelry, wore slacks and a blousy top and carried a leather purse. She reached up, taking
a shirt from the upper rack, and the frilly bell sleeve of her blouse dropped an inch, revealing a
tattoo of a black rose on the back of her hand. The ink fit her. Beautiful. Elegant. Dark.
Reflexively, Nick pressed his arm against the Glock 22 in his shoulder rig.
“This is a big deal.” Lori checked the size on a navy suit. “Forgive me for not wanting to
rush.”
Tomorrow she was testifying in federal court against her in-laws’ financial firm for laundering
millions. He could tell she was doing her best to hold it together and not let nerves derail her. If
he could give her more time, he would.
The low chime at the front rang. Another woman entered the store. Bottled-bleach-blonde. Tall
and thin. Jeans and a buttoned shirt. Sneakers that squelched lightly against the tile floor.
“I’m sorry. Eighteen minutes,” Nick said, telegraphing with his tone this was nonnegotiable.
Lori picked a navy two-piece from the rack. “This should work. I better go try it on. Tick-
tock.”

Nick looked to Ted, where his partner stood at the entrance of the dressing rooms. Ted nodded,
signaling the stalls were empty and he’d make sure no one followed Lori inside.
Blondie headed straight to some dresses hanging in the rear of the store, grabbed one almost
mindlessly, or perhaps she’d been in before and knew what she was looking for, flicked a glance
at a tag and made a beeline for the dressing rooms.
Ted lifted a palm, not letting the blonde in after Lori. The woman huffed and protested, raising
a loud stink, but his partner held firm.
Show her your badge, Ted, and be done with it. Flashing the Eagle Top five-pointed star had a
way of shutting down any complaints lickety-split.
“Who do you think you are?” Blondie asked with a fist on her hip.
“A US Deputy Marshal, ma’am,” Ted said. “Sorry for the inconvenience and the wait.”
“Listen, jerk. I need to get in there now.”
Ted laughed in his self-deprecating way. “Sorry. Not going to happen.”
The sales associate went over to the scene unfolding. “Hi,” she said brightly, her sunny
disposition almost disarming. “Is there a problem?”
Nick maintained his position, monitoring the rest of the shop and the entrance.
Black Rose circled silent as a fox around to an ornate display of scarves and ran her fingers
across the silk. Not once since they’d entered had she acknowledged their presence in the
slightest. Until now.
Her gaze lifted, meeting his, her face an expressionless mask, but her sharp eyes were those of
a merciless predator.
Prior experience as an army ranger in Afghanistan before becoming a marshal had taught him
the hard way never to underestimate a woman with a slight build, or even a child for that matter,
and the deep scar under his chin was a testament.
For a chilling instant they stared at one another, sizing the other up. Not from a physical
perspective. It was an assessment of will. And what Nick saw in her was fathomless.
Blondie threw the dress at Ted, dividing Nick’s attention, and stormed out of the store.
The bell chimed. Black Rose’s steely eyes narrowed before she turned and strode unhurriedly
toward the door—as if she had all the time in the world.
Then he saw it. Her low-heeled boots that didn’t make a sound.

His neck prickled the way it did when he was on a hunt for big game with his siblings. Nick
followed. He had no reason to detain or question her, but something about that woman was
wrong. From the tattoo, those rubber-soled shoes, to how she’d looked at him. As if she’d wanted
to slice through him like a hot knife through butter.
None of it was evidence of anything and not cause for more than suspicion, but training and
years of experience had taught him not to dismiss either.
The woman strolled away, lengthening the distance between them with each store she passed.
One, two, three. But the tightening in his gut didn’t ease.
Black Rose glimpsed back at him over her shoulder, caught his fixed stare and stopped in her
tracks. Pivoting, she turned and faced him, leveling her icy gaze his way. The look she sent him
was full of loathing and in a blink it changed. Her lips hitched in an ominous half grin and she
winked. Almost daring him to pursue.
Old ranger instincts urged him to take up the chase, confirm what his gut screamed about the
woman, shake something that made sense out of her, but his training overruled recklessness.
He looked back in the quiet clothing store, checking on things.
Ted no longer stood stationed at the entrance of the dressing rooms.
Nick touched his Bluetooth earpiece. “Ted? What’s your position? Do you have eyes on
Hummingbird?” he asked, using the codename for Lori.
Deafening silence.
Nick’s pulse spiked, but he remained calm—never one to succumb to panic. He stepped past
displays and racks, his gaze scanning, his mind assessing.
No sign of Ted. Or the sales associate.
Drawing his gun, Nick hustled toward the dressing rooms.
Anticipation coiled in his chest, adrenaline roaring through him. The weight of his backup
piece strapped to his ankle was a small comfort. Nick’s fingers tightened on his Glock. He
reached the threshold, scanned left, then right.
Ted lay on the floor beyond the entrance in a corner. Blood soaked his white hair at the base of
his skull.
Son of a— Ted was down.
There was no time to check if his partner was unconscious or dead. A commotion deeper in
the dressing room drew him forward. Two people struggled inside the second stall.

The horror in Lori’s terrified whimper jolted his heart.

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Yet Today by Anthony Caplan Genre: Contemporary Family Thriller

School’s out for summer, and that’s when Gillum Kaosky heads for the exits. Poised somewhere between neediness and nothingness, Kaosky sets out for summer adventures. Gillum is a Spanish teacher. He’s been married for twenty years and has three children with his wife Sibyl. They have raised their family on a farm in central New Hampshire. But this summer, Gillum lands a job that will change everything: wire-tapping the Dominican crime families responsible for bringing heroin and fentanyl into northern New England. Meanwhile, his son, Jonah breaks into the Department of Defense in a hack attempt that lands him in jail. Nothing remains the same, and love does not always conquer all in Yet Today, a thrilling, contemporary family saga from Anthony Caplan. Add to GoodreadsAmazon * B&N

Anthony Caplan is an independent writer, teacher and homesteader in northern New England. He has worked at various times as a shrimp fisherman, environmental activist, journalist, taxi-driver, builder, window-washer, and telemarketer, (the last for only a month, but one week he did win a four tape set of the greatest hits of George Jones for selling the most copies of Time-Life’s The Loggers.) Currently, Caplan is working on restoring a 150 year old farmstead where he and his family tend sheep and chickens, grow most of their own vegetables, and have started a small apple orchard from scratch His road novels, BIRDMAN and FRENCH POND ROAD, trace the meanderings of one Billy Kagan, a footloose soul striving after sanity and love in the last years of the last century. His latest fiction effort, LATITUDES – A Story of Coming Home, to be released on Kindle, Nook and Smashwords and paperback in the summer of 2012, is a young boy’s transformative journey overcoming dysfunction, dislocation and distance. Website * Facebook * Twitter * Instagram * Bookbub * Amazon * Goodreads

Outside, on the streets of the town, there was an odd calm, as if
the panic he felt were truly an illusion. The rest of creation seemed to
be awaiting the further development of nothing extraordinary. He
stopped at a traffic light and checked the faces of the oncoming
motorists. They seemed astonishingly ugly in their cheap, mirrored
sunglasses, their cheesy grimaces protecting against the glaring
noonday sun. Out on the ruined strip, with its line of closed, boarded
up storefronts, was a Dollar Store and several ancient fast food
restaurants. On the corner was the multilevel furniture outlet blaring
deals in some ballooning white lettering from its glassed front. It had
been there forever, surviving downturns and boom times with an
equanimous allegiance to the balloon font, attracting shoppers from
as far afield as Quebec and New York State with its specials on
Chinese futons and designer mattresses. The yearning for a good
night’s sleep was apparently a constant through thick and thin. Next
to it was a new vape shop with the logo of an aquamarine unicorn
that already seemed tawdry and dated, as if that was part of the
appeal. He parked in the lot next to the vape shop. The clientele here
had moved beyond yearning for sleep to hankering after the deep six.
It seemed to Kaosky a logical if somewhat depressing progression.
Next down was the New Hampshire Liquor and Wine outlet. Out the
door of the vape shop stepped a young woman with thin arms and an
illegible tattoo sprawling across one shoulder, barely covered by a

thin spaghetti strap. Her pelvic bones extended above her jeans.
They avoided eye contact, but her tilting step caught Kaosky by
surprise, as he tried and failed to evade her.
“Excuse me,” he said.
“Jesus Lord. I’m sorry,” said the young woman in a raspy, high
voice, like compressed air releasing from a leak.
“That’s okay,” said Kaosky.
“Wouldn’t have a fiver, would you?” she asked. Her head
seemed to wobble for a second as if she was about to fall.
“No, I’m sorry. I don’t carry cash.”
“That’s not great.”
“Sorry.”
“You already said that. You think I didn’t hear you?”
“No. You heard me fine, I’m sure.”
Kaosky stepped by her on the sidewalk and checked himself
mentally. He turned to the girl. She glared at him, but despite her
anger there was something in her look, a weakness that seemed
almost pure in its acceptance of infirmity. She wasn’t hiding her
desperation and lack of recourse to anything beyond her words and
sharp anger.
“You want something to eat?”
“Uh. Why?”
“Well, I’d go into the Burger King there and get you something.”
“That’s across the street. Why didn’t you park there?” She was
disgusted by him.
“I would go there if you were interested. I’m sorry.”
“Holy shit, you really are a creep. I’m looking for some
cigarettes. I’m sure you don’t smoke.”
“I used to.”
“You quit or something. Right? Nothing worse than a quitter.”
“It’s been a long time. What do you smoke?”
“Kools.”
She must have been no more than eighteen or nineteen despite
the lines around her eyes and the sunken cheeks.
Kaosky picked out a six-pack of something called Jackman’s
Victory Ale, a local craft beer with an alcoholic content of seven
percent. At the checkout he asked for a carton of mentholated
cigarettes. He looked to the sliding front door. Two older men walked
in, both wearing Patriots ball caps, plaid flannel shirts and olive green
Dickies despite the weather. He thought he saw the girl, but he wasn’t

sure. She could have gone already. But when he walked out there
she was, waiting around the corner, leaning against one of three
yellow steel bollards installed in front of the parking lot, some
subliminal iteration of state power.
“I got you these,” he said, holding up the pack of cigarettes.
“Sweet,” she said, but stayed leaning against the bollard. Her
frailty had a stink to it.
“But I got a question for you.”
“Anything you want, mister. That’s real nice of you.”
“I want you to do something with these. Not just smoke ‘em.”
“What else you going to do with cigarettes?” she asked
teasingly, her curiosity piqued.
“I don’t know. Go home and talk to your family.”
“I don’t have family. My mother’s dead and my father’s some
shithead I don’t even know. Last I heard he was in the VA hospital
with stage four pancreatic cancer or something. Good riddance.”
“You’ve got a family. Grandparents. Cousins. Somebody who
will take you in somewhere.”
She opened the carton, used her teeth to rip the cellophane off
a pack and knocked it against the flat of her hand to dislodge the first
one.
“You want a smoke?” She held out the pack with the protruding
white tip invitingly.
“No, thanks,” said Kaosky, disgusted, waving it away.
In the car, he started the ignition and fiddled with the radio dial.
His hands were shaking with the pent up nerves of what he’d done.
He watched his hands with a sense of distance, as if they weren’t
really his hands. He’d been acting the part of the philanthropist,
buying the girl the carton of cigarettes and then setting her up with
the promise of grandiose things. It was all such an absurd act,
reading of lines from some ideal prompter. He had no idea from
where the impulse had come to him. Since the day in the woods
watching the children and Sibyl behind the trees, he’d fallen into a
spell, watching his life, observing instead of doing, as if he’d taken a
turn into another reality and he was stuck now watching from the old
space, doing and feeling in ways that were incompatible with his
former self, not able to stop. He should have taken a cigarette; he felt
like he needed one now.

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