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.”
$25 Amazon gift card Follow the tour HERE for special content and a giveaway! a Rafflecopter giveaway
