Thorn

M.C. Logan

Thorn High Resolution

Thorn-High-Resolution

 

Letter from client
(Attached to front of sealed package of journals)

 

I always thought that guiding your children was a parent’s most important duty. I wanted to be able to offer advice to you as you grew, to try and steer you away from the things that would hurt you. It was very important to me that this happen, largely because my own mother never did this for me.

I saw myself at your side, whispering words of wisdom. I pictured you thanking me for warning you about the darker side of life, keeping you away from it, and safe. I wanted so very badly to be a good mother and to do this myself.

My recent diagnosis has made this unlikely.

The doctors have told me that I have between two and four years left on this Earth. I would like to live longer and would love them all to be very wrong in what they say but they all seem to be gloomily in agreement.

Despite the fact that I cannot now be by your side to keep you safe from harm, I am still determined to offer some guidance to you. My own mother never warned me about anything and the end result was that I went on to make almost exactly the same mistakes she made. If I can prevent my own children from following in my footsteps, then I will be content. I want – I need – to know that the circle will finally be broken and that I won’t have to look up from Hell and watch my children do what I did. I pray every night that you will be braver, cleverer or simply luckier than that.

I felt the best way to guide you was to tell you about my life and especially about Sean Tierney, the man I married.

One of the nurses here told me that many people afflicted with cancer try to put their life into perspective. Many will write about their past. For me, this was a very difficult thing to do. When I finally began to walk down the path I ultimately chose, I had to be able to completely cover up what I had done. I have a superb memory and could recollect names and numbers with ease. I never wrote anything down. In the straight world it would have been evidence against me. In my world it would have been a death sentence.

So, it seemed like a strange idea to write down, with complete honesty, the things I have done. At first I didn’t know myself why I was doing it but then I realised that I was writing for you.

Being so honest has been hard. The memories that were brought back have reduced me to tears on several occasions. However, if you are to avoid repeating the same mistakes, then you need the truth, the whole truth, about what I did and why.

You need to know about Sean Tierney.

As time passed, I have noticed that people’s memories can play tricks on them. They only remember the good things about a person, not the bad. I am quite sure that people will tell you about the man I married. His business partners, the ones who fronted the legitimate businesses anyway, will describe a charming man with a roguish sense of humour, a strong man who loved nothing more than his family. These same people are the ones Sean used to laugh at. He called them ‘weaklings’ and ‘maggots’. I doubt many of them even realised there was another side to my husband. Virtually no-one knew the real Sean Tierney. It was one of his gifts. But I did. I knew him completely and I need to pass on what I knew because I can think of no punishment worse than seeing one of my children end up a friend, business associate or, worst of all, wife to such a man.

I do deserve to be punished and have no qualms about accepting some pain in the next life for what I’ve done in this one but I pray every night that my children will be spared that. That is the one thing I could not bear.
In leaving you my journals, I ask for you to understand why I did what I did. I am not asking for your forgiveness. I know that I have done evil things and I know that God will punish me for them. I will endure whatever fate he decrees is mine. I have never gone to confess my sins and, when I am on my deathbed, I will not ask for forgiveness even then because if I have any regrets, it is that I did not act sooner.

I am convinced the cancer in my lung is part of God’s punishment. I was raised a good Christian and I could quote the Beatitudes and the Ten Commandments by heart. The doctors (most of them atheists, I have discovered) tell me that the cancer is caused by heavy smoking from an early age. I know better though. I’ve broken most of the Commandments and this is the result. The strange thing is that I don’t really mind. Don’t misunderstand, I hate the pain and the fear that I have not got long to live but it seems only fair and just. I have done bad things and must accept the consequences. As long as my children do not share my fate, I can endure almost anything.

Read my journals. I’ve tried to include everything I can remember and my memory is still excellent. I hope my words will keep you safe.

I have always and always will love you.
Rosemary

Il Molo

Theresa Nash

Il Molo

Prologue

 

Why was there hardly anyone else on Il Molo? The pier extended out from the concrete walkway that wound down from the eastern edge of the village. The pier’s elongated rectangular shape jutted out fifty meters from Varigotti’s beach, the last village before the tunnel on the Via Aurelia leading to Noli and Spotorno.

About halfway down its length the pier angled forty degrees to the right. It rose up roughly three meters above the Mediterranean and measured about two meters in width. The floor was grey concrete and the pier was bordered with a knee high barrier sixty centimeters in width and covered with reddish square terracotta tiles. The barrier was perfectly suitable for sitting on and gazing out to sea or at the passersby.

Martha walked toward the end of the Molo, unsuccessfully trying to avoid the water being whipped by the wind onto the pier. She had wandered out alone tonight because she was restless. She and her husband were leaving in three days and Martha wanted to look at the sea from the vantage point of the Molo. She wanted to smell the salty air carried by the strong winds and feel the occasional cold droplets of sea water that splashed onto her skin as the waves bashed against the boulders. She shivered a bit. Her light sweater and shorts were not enough protection against the chilly night air.

They had been coming here for almost ten years together and he even longer. This was the ideal place for a summer vacation – the sea, the beach, the people, and of course the Ligurian cuisine. This past year had been complicated and there were some decisions she had to make about the future. Her husband seemed to have not noticed that she had become a bit distant. Or was she just imagining it? Was he too wrapped up in his own world? In his own career? In his own enjoyment?

In the middle of her thoughts, Martha turned around quickly. She just now heard the faint steps behind her. The Molo was empty except for her and the two men coming toward her. She breathed a sigh of relief and looked up at the tall men who now stood before her. One was dark and the other one was blond, but both were well tanned. Martha greeted them, “Oh, you all scared me.  What brings you out here tonight?

 

Field of Glass

Bobbie Barker

2015 05 11 13.54.37 VERSION7

2015-05-11-13.54.37-VERSION7

No one spoke at first, the only sound to be heard was from dripping water which echoed loudly against the otherwise, silence. It was like something from a movie scene, except this was real and, happening to him. No one was likely to be allowed in, so they would miss their shower, big deal, there would be no arguments about it most inmates had enough savvy to steer clear; if only he had done the same.

‘There’s a good lad, get your “North” round that sink and bite down like your life depended on it. Now.’

The young inmate was terrified, the reputation of the man stood in front of him was well known, and he realised now big time that he should have kept out of his business.

He had been arrogant in thinking he wouldn’t be found out, in fact he had been promised as much, and, like the almighty Pratt that he was he had one hundred percent believed it. He had been totally convinced that he could get away with it, plus he was on to a right good little earner; fucking stupid or what? All he had to do was keep his head down, but no he was sucked right in and stitched up like a kipper.

He was out-numbered four against one, but he would have been shitting a brick even if it had just been Cusack – the bloke was a maniac, and he was a fucking tool for ever thinking he could have got away with it.

Six John Jordan Mysteries

Michael Lister

Six John Jordan Mysteries v2 3d box set

Six-John-Jordan-Mysteries-v2-3d-box-set

 

I was walking along the bay, searching for serenity, when the first body was discovered.

It was a cold December day—especially for North Florida, and the breeze blowing in off St. Ann’s Bay stung my face and brought tears to my eyes. The sun was out, and though it was bright enough to make me squint, the day was dull and had a grayish quality I associated with the muted colorlessness of winter.

Taking a break from the demanding duties of prison chaplaincy at a maximum security facility, I had come to the small coastal town of Bridgeport following the second breakup of my marriage, which had come on the heels of two homicide investigations that had taken more out of me than I had realized.

Raised in a law-enforcement household and working as a cop to pay for seminary, I found myself continually getting involved in investigations.
Though chaplaincy was draining enough, it was dealing with crime day after day as an investigator that had left me depleted and depressed, unable to deal with the second death of my marriage.

I had been fighting a losing battle against a powerful undertow, but rather than drown I had washed up on the shores of St. Ann’s Abbey, a secluded retreat center among the ubiquitous slash pines of the Florida Panhandle.
Now, it was no longer just my pride or career or even my marriage, but my very soul I was trying to save.

A crime scene was the last place I needed to go, but from the moment I saw the flashing lights near the marina, I found myself moving toward them—irresistibly drawn, like an addict, to that which threatened to destroy me.

Rude Boy USA

Victoria Bolton

book cover medium

book-cover-medium

 

In the middle of the night in a junky abandoned lot in Harlem, New York, there were four men. Three of them had arrived together as a team. The fourth man, Sammy, was their victim, and they had tied up his arms and legs. Sammy was not associated with the others. He had stolen money from the leader of the group. Sammy would not divulge details of the theft. His silence did not help his situation as each of the three men took turns beating him until they got him to talk. One of the three men turned to the others. “He looks young. He looks really young.”
One of the men responded, “He looks old enough to go to war. Nobody cares how young you look when you are in war.”

 
Sammy continued to verbally taunt them back. “You guys are fucking trash,” Sammy said to the men, and he spat on one of them.

 
The man Sammy spat on told him, “Watch your goddamn mouth!” Sammy ensured them that they would never get information from him and said they could kiss his whole ass. The three men looked at each other. They began torturing and pistol-whipping Sammy in return. Irritated, the man who Sammy spat on got the idea to stuff money in Sammy’s ass and mouth for being greedy and talking too much shit. He had warned the tied-up man to watch his mouth, and this was the consequence of ignoring that warning. Once they were finished with him, they put a plastic bag over his head, tossed him in the trunk of an abandoned car in the lot, and closed the trunk.

 
A fifth man rode up in a car. He got out to see the damage that the three men had produced. They opened the trunk to show him. The fifth man’s face showed his objection. “Was this necessary? Are we wasting money now?” the gentleman said to his three associates.

 
One of them said, “It’s theater.”

 
Another associate added, “He asked for it. He asked us to do this. He said to kiss his ass. He likes money, so…” He shrugged.

 
The last associate added, “It’s only two hundred dollars in singles. It looks like a lot, but it really isn’t.” The fifth man looked down at the body and slammed the trunk shut.

 
“Fine, we will discuss this back at the office,” he said. He and his three associates got in the car and headed back to Midtown Manhattan.

 
***

 
In the middle of a block in busy Midtown Manhattan full of shops and stores stood a silver building just twelve feet wide. Distinctive architecture decked in superior artistic treatments surrounded this place. Professional pedestrians as well as regular shoppers walked up and down the block every day. The noise of cars, police sirens, fire trucks, ambulances, and human voices filled the street twenty-four hours a day. There was no other place like Nineteen West Forty-Sixth Street. This location was noted not only for its unique size but also for its occupants.

 

The Chimera Group consisted of a popular group of men who many residents, as well as law enforcement in the city, speculated were into organized crime, but this was never outright proven. Their involvement in organized crime may have been true on the inside, and to those who knew the inner workings, but the sign on the outside of the building—which bore the Chimera Group’s name and a symbol that consisted of a hybrid animal made with a lion’s head, goat’s middle, and snake’s tail—indicated a high-class and highly successful investment company. The company’s logo confused many people. It represented the people who ran it. It comprised the parts of more than one faction, and the philosophy of such a mixture was wildly imaginative, implausible, and dazzling. Bernie chose the name not only because he found the symbol appealing but also because he wanted to pay tribute to his half-Greek heritage and his obsession with Greek mythology.

 

The multiracial Chimera Group consisted of four main impeccably groomed men who wore the sharpest of mohair Tonik suits. Each one’s background gave him the ability for wide outreach into the city. They were sales representatives, but they were not the typical door-to-door peddlers; they sold futures to the residents of New York City and the surrounding areas. “Give us your money; we will invest it, and you will reap the rewards in due time.” It was hard to believe that many people fell for this line, but they did. The economic environment and future market forecast of the late 1960s did not seem promising. Hardworking, blue-collar residents needed a plan for their future, and these men provided hope, on paper. Wealthier clients had it easier; they were more willing to take risks, as they had more funds to spare.

 
Bernie Banks (born Bernard Rhodos), the founder and CEO of Chimera, prided himself on the company’s layout, which consisted of four main men: him and three associates who did the footwork while he stayed at the office. He saw the company’s logo as a representation of the associates who worked under him. Bernie was a tall man in his sixties with short, thinning hair. He had a salt-and-pepper beard that was medium in length. His face was endearing and pleasant with a slight tan. From looking at him, one could not tell his profession. He wore suits and glasses on occasion, and he was of average weight. Still handsome in his advanced age, he had no problems attracting women.

 

Bernie was a World War II veteran who served honorably until he was court-martialed for assault on an English citizen. The Englishman had physically assaulted a fellow black soldier who served with Bernie in the European Theater of Operations. The two beat the guy to a pulp as a response. The black soldier continued to beat him until the man passed out. The man ended up dying a week later from a brain hemorrhage. The black service member was later convicted of murder and executed at Shepton Mallet. Bernie served two years for assault. He felt that the black soldier had just been defending himself; racism had led to the unjust execution by hanging. He felt that he would have reacted the same if he had been the one attacked.

 
In the early years, he began his business in his apartment with one helper, and it eventually grew into a multimillion-dollar empire for a time. He had spent his entire life working and saving just so he could attain his current situation. He built his reputation on good communication. He was the one in the company who only dealt with the big dogs. The other three men dealt with the general public unless there was a problem. The other men operated as supervisors, with helpers to assist them. Each man was in charge of a borough. One man worked the Bronx and Harlem. Another man worked in Brooklyn, and one other in Queens and sometimes Westchester. Bernie dealt with downtown and Staten Island. All four also made their presence known in Midtown Manhattan if need be.

 
Bernie associated with the other Mafia groups, whom he considered lesser to Chimera in their innovation and style. He also dealt with law enforcement, making sure that he kept in good standing with them by paying off generous sums of money to keep himself and sometimes his associates out of jail. He also made deals with judges and those involved in the courts. Obtaining funds from the public was not an easy feat, so Bernie had to go through other channels to get money.

 

While the other three men kept their trail clean by working with the mostly legal aspects of Chimera, Bernie headed the illegal part, which included forced protection services, labor racketeering, loansharking, extortion, money laundering, illegal gambling, and, in extreme cases, an occasional robbery. Bernie made sure to inform whoever worked for him that robbery was not a tactic to use unless necessary, because it would result in more payoffs to law enforcement for cleanup. That would mean less money for the company. The employees of Bernie’s three junior associates split the robberies and other petty crime. Those guys had nothing to lose if they did not successfully complete the assignments; they were the uninformed scapegoats.

 

Those people consisted of young men in their twenties who had no other direction to go but the military. For many of them, it was a choice of organized crime, jail, or Vietnam. There were no women in Chimera. Bernie and the others felt that this setup was no place for a woman, as the environment was incredibly misogynistic and the guys could be assholes with their daily conversations about the opposite sex. Chimera was a male culture based on power.

 
Due to their unique racial makeup and financial success, Chimera became so successful and popular that after a short time people in the underground began to refer to the group as the Rude Boys. Their style was a tribute to the more sophisticated subculture of the young street gangsters popular in the United Kingdom and Jamaica. The States had seen nothing like them before now. They were clean-shaven and debonair, with their Ray-Ban sunglasses, immaculate loafers, and sometimes porkpie or trilby hats.

 

When trends turned more to longhaired, Afrocentric, and club flashy, they kept their suited style. Visually, Chimera comprised the coolest people in town. In name recognition, they were second only to the Ambrosino family in New York, the highest ranked crime family. The Ambrosinos had thirty crews and over a thousand members. They ran a tight operation. To them, murder was just part of the business and life. To date, it was rumored that the family as a whole had committed over one hundred and fifty murders, all ordered by their boss, Enzo Ambrosino.

Angelica, A Detective Mike Eiser Novel

Clabe Polk

Angelica

Angelica

 

Prologue

 

RAND WALTER WAS ONE of the increasing number of people living in an alternate universe of drugs or alcohol. Rand preferred drugs. He preferred them to alcohol, sex, just about anything.

He hated Mondays. On any given Monday he would be high on anything he could find and on an especially fateful August Monday evening he was high as a kite on methamphetamine, driving an ancient El Camino that wasn’t his, and tearing blindly down Karen Avenue in Las Vegas at more than double the speed limit. Flashing in and out of consciousness, Rand’s last thought registered the red blur of a stoplight at Maryland Parkway a tenth of a second before he T-boned a Cadillac DeVille.

Rand Walter would never know that he had just killed Joseph “Big Joey” Vicetti, chief enforcer for Antonio Scarpone, capo di tutti capi in Las Vegas, who was driving home to meet his wife for dinner. It was their tenth anniversary and he knew that she had cooked a special dinner like she always did. For that, Rand would have been considered a hero by many of the people to whom Big Joey had applied his unique skills over the years; at least those still alive to tell about it. He would never know that, nor would he ever understand that after killing Big Joey, his own instant death was a blessed gift.

Angelica got the call from the Las Vegas police department at home. The candles on the table, the fine china, and the roast in the oven were for the dinner she planned with her husband. He had been transported to University Medical Center on West Charleston Boulevard. No, they had no information about his condition, she should contact the hospital. The candles, like the roast, were forgotten and left to burn.

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