Rhona Hasen says she didn't kill her husband. The police say otherwise. Still, Sheriff's Dep One Dead Cop. Two Dedicated Detectives. Forced to team-up with On the trail of a pedophile and out of time before more victims die, sheriff's deputy Suzie Jensen turns to the only person she knows who can help: Columbus, Ohio's top bounty hunter, Grace deHaviland. On a snowy, winter night, sheriff's deputy, Suzi Who shot a cop to death under the Brooklyn Bridge? What lengths will a fading rap star go to remain on top of his game? Where is a Boston cop's kidnapped daughter being held?
When a young girl is raped, who will see justice is done? Why has a serial kill A thrilling collection of short stories by David DeLee, an exciting new voice in crime fiction and author of Crystal White. Patrolman Dave Powell, an unremarkable man who lives a mediocre life of unfulfilled dreams. Find out what happens when he susp The last house on the left down the desolate road has been there for generations. But what secrets does it hold? Called to investigate, Police Serg Frank Greaves is a cop in mourning.
His wife is dead a year, from cancer. To deputy district attorney J. Deveron a person on the witness stand is like a china doll, one of those decorative dolls that open up to reveal a series of smaller dolls hidden inside, until finally, inside the smallest one, was found a single gra An investigation that took from him everything he cherished, and left Lafferty a broken man. A man with n A fifteen year police veteran, he has little to show for it but a crappy, ranch-style house, an expansive gut and cholesterol levels through the roof.
Yet, the Track down Barry Keegan, an accountant in a white collar But what Bounty hunter, Grace deHaviland and her best friend, sheriff's deputy, Suzie Jensen have often worked together, but when the bail jumper they're after is a school teacher charged with sex crimes, the issues they struggle with and the secrets they unc Expect the unexpected is a mantra bounty hunter Grace deHaviland has lived by for many years, but when she's tasked with tracking down a young bail jumper for a relatively minor assault charge, even she couldn't anticipate the trouble she and her fri Tracking a U.
But when bounty hunter Grace deHaviland and Sheriff's Deputy Suzie Jensen do just that, facing charges isn't their biggest problem: Getting back alive is. A Grace deHaviland bounty hunter short story from crime thriller writer David DeLee, author of Fatal DestinyWhen you're a bounty hunter, making snap judgments about people will often save your life. But what if those first impressions are wrong?
Whose Greater Good? Author Info. Top Authors in Mystery. Our relationship began to suffer. The kinks in the armor of our relationship grew into gashes, as small problems became big problems. But in the end, we were two very different people, and we eventually grew apart through the last two years of our marriage. I was once a man who ignited a room with excitement when I walked in. I was once a man who was motivated. I was once a man who was a professional wrestler and a dream chaser. I was once a man in a beautiful house, with a beautiful child, with a beautiful wife, with a beautiful dog insert Talking Heads song here.
I was once that man. Now I was just a three hundred pound fat-ass, lying in the foyer of my house, crying and drooling like a pathetic fool. Now I was just the angry man I had become in my marriage, with no inner peace, no self-confidence, and no hope. I was just three hundred pounds of excess fat, anger, and a shitty self-esteem to boot. I could only lie there. I knew that the more I walked into my house, the more it would hurt. As I woke up in my new cozy tiled bed, I realized that a new scent had joined that of the rotten food…dog feces…next to my face, in fact.
Fair enough, little ones, and very apropos. Waking up was always very difficult during this time, very similar to when I had lost loved ones in the past and the death was still new. The first few seconds when I awoke were fine, but then I would remember, and a chill would cover my whole body, followed by a seemingly endless flow of tears.
After reflecting on how I used to wake up next to someone I loved in a bed, rather than the floor, I finally stood up and realized I had been asleep for six hours. I then finally let the dogs out. My new nightly routine of chain-smoking and living in my head would then ensue. What a hoot! This time it was different however, as I found I was running out of reasons to keep on living.
Night after night I tried to think of reasons to stay alive, but I was out of hope. I was done. If this was life, what was the point of living? What was the point of getting the courage to face life since everything I loved was taken from me? What was the point? I had achieved so much, only to lose it all or push it away. My marriage was collapsing. My job was following a similar path.
Everything was fucked! I thought there was more to life than this, but if life were to continue along this hopeless path, I was tapping out. I went into my bedroom and got out my shotgun. I cradled it for over an hour, staring off into memories on the edge of the bed where passionate love could once be heard, in a house where once love could be felt, but now I was by myself with gun in hand. Now there was just heavy silence around me, and the noise of painful memories that no longer brought joy to me. Sitting on the bed, I looked down at the gun, and then looked up at the picture of my family, and I put the cold steel barrel in my mouth.
My finger was just on the edge of the trigger. As I gripped the barrel with my teeth I thought that my last sensation in life would be the taste of metal and gun oil. It had actually come to this, Jesus. I had been through so much pain. I had caused so much pain. The happy ending I fantasized about as a child never materialized. Forgiveness, healthiness, true love; it was all bullshit. As I had the barrel in my mouth I saw the picture of Christian. I spat the barrel out of my mouth and turned his picture around. I sat back down and assumed the position.
This time, however, something else happened. Maybe it was because of seeing a picture of Christian. Maybe my subconscious was reaching out to me, but a thought ran across my mind. It was me, as a miserable shocked child, and a promise I had made to a childhood friend that I would have a better life. This is what I allowed myself to become? So far gone from hope that I would do this to my friends and family? I then moved from sadness to anger. This was the gift I had given myself, that traumatized child who wanted a better life?
I had been a man filled with dreams and aspirations. I had suffered so much and my solution to this suffering was now suicide, not becoming better or changing the things around me, or myself. I screamed and screamed. I felt so hopeless, but I made the most important decision of my life by not pulling that trigger and having the resolve to fight and live.
How, though? If I was going to persevere, I decided that I had to live life on my terms. I was going to need a whole new mindset.https://raymarepoltming.cf/map18.php
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I had always had a deep connection to Jesus, or so I thought. I had even done overseas and domestic missionary work. During our wedding, Katelyn and I even made sure the message of Jesus was put in the center of our ceremony. I had tried religion my whole life, so for once I was going to try something different. Viktor Frankl. Dad had originally read the book in college. He told me that it was a great inspiration to him and his mindset, which I greatly admired and envied.
So I picked up the book, took the dogs back outside, and I began to read. Frankl was a psychotherapist and survivor of Auschwitz and other concentration camps in World War II. Through his experience in those camps he founded Logotherapy. This gave me a great deal of comfort. I want to make it clear that my comfort came from the mindset Frankl was revealing, not because he went through something worse than I had. In fact, one of my main concerns when I share my story is that the reader or audience will think I am trying to make them feel better by pointing out that I perhaps have been through tribulations worse than theirs.
Imagine the following situation. Often you hear speakers and authors share horrific stories to comfort others. Pain comes from many sources, but the cause is less relevant than getting to its foundation. Pain itself is the problem. I decided to choose my own way; I went straight ahead. Formerly an actor, stand-up comedian, and involved in the sports-entertainment industry, Carter was a licensed professional wrestler, promoter, and booker.
During this time, Carter struggled a great deal internally. He was diagnosed with chronic depression, PTSD, due to childhood sexual abuse from the hands of a pedophile, and struggled with his weight and anger. He decided he was going to stop living under the oppression of his negative thoughts and emotions, and began a journey to transformation. He now dedicates his time to helping others achieve a true-transformation similar to his own.
Saving his money, he began plans for building a terrorist army when he was only The most powerful man in the world by the time he turns 40, the huge amount of money he amassed through organized crime allows him to finally build his army…the army that will launch an assault upon the U. Or will he and his army overpower the entire population of the earth and rule it under the anarchy of crime? Now in this crime syndicate on Trip City Street of New York, New York, there was an upper silent circle of men who were bosses and who served those who made the money they got a cut from.
They were made men. Guy B knew both who guy A and guy C were and everything coming or going from one to the other up to his boss, who neither guy A nor guy C knew either. The silent circle then kept all protected as long as guy B never talked. In this crime ring the guy B never did. Along with whiskey and Coke to mix it with and pot, acid, cocaine, crack, what have you in the doings of the people of the party there on Trip City Street. Planet Earth, in the solar system where all of that space is. The guests kept thinking about the effects of the drugs as the leader of the group who lived in the rich neighborhood was speaking, keeping the audience spellbound in their thoughts about the glorious subject of crime and drugs.
They fired guns, and believe it or not, on top of that entertainment center where that hole is in that hat is where the bullet that almost got me! No shit! They got the boat and the shit but we managed to escape and I almost bought it. It was a remarkable life he had led to get this together and piece by piece he knew he had many times the amount of lore and guts, life to death closer than anything Craig had ever or would ever have done. He knew it would take a long time to get it all together, what he had done, but he also knew it could come apart at any second in time.
He used to smuggle other things from foreign countries overseas, stolen stuff, foreign guns, diamonds, jewelry, paintings, other art works, and now drugs instead. It brought more money to smuggle the drugs instead of all of the latter, which are less risky. The drugs are more risky but paid well if you dealt in large enough amounts of business and used to have and still had other businesses, stolen cars, chop shops, prostitution, and drug sales in and around Trip City Street.
The carpet in the house was deep plush and there was a linoleum kitchen floor. There was deep brown paneling, dark brown fine furniture, and he even had a pool table at the back of the apartment with a bar in it, and they were all in that room having the party together, and taking the drugs continued for quite some time. Other people told other lore. Some of it was quite good. The stories were silent of other names because that was the silence in which they lived and died by hopefully. It was a better party than Craig ever expected.
There would be no reason for you to run because you would be found. The bosses of the boys were gathered together there. Crime was what was going on. What one man stole another man fenced but it passed from one to another by a boss of a lower or the upper inner silent circle. Drugs were also dealt. Where they came from and where they went was the inner circle of silence.
No one ever told, as it would have been pointless to do so, there was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. The hit man would find you wherever you were, and you would be found where there would be a hit man to find you and you would be on a contract, with your death warrant signed by yourself. Timothy Louis Baker has published five books.
He is a maintenance technician for a machine service shop.
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Timothy resides in Paulding, Ohio. It is just after the funeral, at the cemetery, where Sophia meets the tall, almost angelic man who will play such an unexpected role in her life. A love story. A fantasy. An adventure. How else would you explain why Sophia falls so deeply in love with death? I never really thought that there was much more to life, than what I was already living.
The monotonous day to day, non eventful, flow of things that continued each and every day. Get up, get ready, go to work, deal with day to day problems, listen to family fuss and moan and do it again… Every day. So, my choice of escape and excitement? Horror movies.
I mean, honestly, something had to give… I would hope. I loved my family, friends and work. But, at the end of the day, I still felt empty. How one crack in the thin glass of life, can shatter it entirely. So, we have to choose. Do we mend it or leave the crack there? And, if we leave it there; is it worth letting everything fall apart into a million teeny tiny pieces? One thing I was sure of though, I chose to let my heart mend.
Would it be for good or for bad? Well, only God knew. A dull roar. What was this that I was living? It was all a blur. Clustered together in an array of colors and shapes. The sound, that low roar… it was difficult to make out. My thoughts were focused, not so much on the sound, as they were on the colors. So many people. All different. Some good. Some bad.
Some breathing. Some barely breathing. It was funny what you could see when you stood in the middle of the Emergency Room. Who survived. Who cried. Who laughed. Who mourned. Who celebrated. Yet, all of them, everyone; A soul. A soul for the taking. I remembered… almost…. Before my life… or should I say; my death… changed forever.
It felt like aeons ago. I never asked for it. Why was I not allowed to be like everyone else? I wanted… No! I needed, a change. My vast emptiness had drowned me in a lagoon of unwillingness. In a river of curiosity. In an ocean of questions. Questions, unanswered by the Higher Sources. Questions, that still lingered in the clouds of my emptiness. Why am I? Why do I exist? When if at all would it change? I had a plan. A plan to subtly replace myself once again into this world of colorful souls. To persuasively introduce myself yet again, to THIS my most intriguing temptation.
I believe I am, whom I once was. This, is who I was forced to be. Yet, I fought. I disputed this unwanted persona that had been involuntarily cast upon me. One day! One day, I would be who I once was. This monster would cease to exists. Bed two. The doctors, the running, the yelling. The focus on bringing her back. It was futile. It was sad to say that she was just a child. A baby. Five years of age. Why did FATE find in necessary to take her? She had yet to even start to live. It was not my choice. I only followed orders. Her soul was lovely, just as a little girl should be. A soft pink. Like a princess.
The innocence in her voice was heart breaking. Or would be, if I had a heart. Somewhere that you will never feel pain again. You will be happy there, sweet child. Why do I have to go? The questions that always came up after I had collected them. Your grandmother is there waiting for you. I promise. Before you know it, Mommy and Daddy will be there with you also. She obeyed nonetheless. When she entered, she realized that my words were true and secure. I turned. The mother, yelling. The father, failing at his attempt to be strong. The doctor, saddened. The confusion. The horrified faces.
All of it, ALL too familiar. ALL too real. The last thing Ellie plans on is the relationship outlasting the storm. In love again. Bix was surprised to see Ellie standing in the kitchen when he walked in her house the following Monday. He was hoping to surprise her when she got home from work. She must have left a little early. She wrapped her arms around his neck and began kissing him hard. Getting more aggressive in her kisses, she began pushing him backwards until he was against the wall.
Her hands stroked his chest and went down to his belt buckle. He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall as she kissed down his chest. She slid his jeans down, but left his boxers on.
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Kissing her way back up his chest, she placed her hand at his crotch. He was already getting aroused. Kissing him harder, she began rubbing her hips against him.
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His eyes sprang open and he held her by the shoulders, then looked into her eyes. They were the same shade of blue. The same deep blue outline. He looked from one to the other, then saw it. A green fleck that was never there before. He grabbed her hand before she was successful. He moved away from the wall so she would stop cornering him. The party pooper is home. Bix tried pulling his shirt together the best he could, but it was a useless attempt with his buttons scattered across the floor.
When Abraham Khan releases an e-book condemning radical Islam, the consequences hit him fast and hard — an armed fanatic smashes into his home one evening, trying to kill him. He survives the harrowing attempt. Just barely. But will he survive the next one? Maya Raines is the security operator brought in to protect Abraham. She is tough and committed.
The very best at what she does. Always one step ahead of the threat. But Abraham is no ordinary principal — he will not hide, and he will not stay silent. Samir had decided that tonight would be the night. As he sat in his car with the engine off, he stared at the house across the street. The rain had eased to a trickle, and he could see movement past the windows. The man of the house was helping his wife set the table for dinner. But Samir knew it had to be him. The apostate. The blasphemer.
Samir exhaled, feeling so many things at once. Joy and hate. Faith and doubt. Excitement and fear. Which was which? He could no longer tell. Pain started to bloom in his temples, and he could feel it reaching into his eyeballs, stabbing him in sync with his heartbeat. That damn headache was back. He clenched his jaw, trying to tough it out. But in the end, the migraine proved too crushing, too searing, and he relented.
A bit of pain was good for the spirit, yes, but too much would be a hindrance. Opening his glove box, he pulled out a paracetamol blister pack. The foil packaging crackled and popped as he pressed out two pills. He had no water, so he dry-swallowed them. It took him three tries and a fair bit of retching before they went down.
Breathing through his teeth, he was tempted to lean back against his seat. To close his eyes. To wait for the pain to fade. But he stopped himself. For a week now, he had barely slept and had eaten only a little. The fasting had purified his soul but wrecked his body. Nodding off now would be too easy. Far too easy. So he forced himself to stretch, to straighten.
Yes, tonight would be the night. God had chosen him to be a mujahid. A holy warrior. He knew he had to obey. Unzipping the bag beside him, he pulled out a pistol. It gleamed black, looking like the ugliest thing, its icy metal chilling him through his glove.
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