A while back I pitched a new series similar to Broslin Creek to a publisher, but was told that suspense can't be humorous. Apparently, that's just not what readers expect, so it's impossible to market.

I'd love to hear what you think about that.

I didn't start my Broslin Creek series wanting humor in the books. In fact, the first book DEATHSCAPE is a serial killer suspense. But then the characters just started saying funny stuff. Partially, because that's how they defuse tension in a stressful job (detectives), but also because when I write a hero, I have to fall in love with him a little. And I like guys with a sense of humor.

Honestly, I think having humor in the books saved me in 2020. I really did not feel like writing about murder. There was so much death all around me already. But because of my Broslin Creek characters, writing DEATHMARCH was actually an escape.

It's not slapstick comedy or romantic comedy by any sense. But there's a subtle humor running through the book that really adds to the story, I think. Now I'll just have to hold my breath until Feb. 2nd to see if readers feel the same.

I'd love to hear your opinion about humor in suspense, if you have a second to respond. And, also, if you know any other authors whose suspense stories are a little funny. I'd love to prove that publisher wrong! :-)

What's your favorite first line of a book?

When I read, the first page of a book is a test. If the words click, I think, Okay, I’m in the hands of a good author, he/she will take good care of me. I relax and sink into the rest. For my favorite books, I even remember their opening lines. Do you?

What’s your favorite first line of a book? (I’d love to add a few titles to my reading list, if you wouldn’t mind posting in the comments.)

For my own stories, I agonize over the beginning like you wouldn’t believe. I noticed that I tend to gravitate toward certain types of openings.

Funny and a little shocking:

Luanne Mayfair might have killed her boss a little. Fine, a lot. Pretty much all the way. God, that sounded bad. But he was a sleazebag. Honest. The maids at the Mushroom Mile Motel that Earl Cosgrove managed often prayed for lightning to strike the lecherous bastard. Alas, God had seen fit to send Luanne instead.
(--from BROSLIN BRIDE by Dana Marton)

Something relatable:

Love was blind, people said. But lust was blind, deaf, and reckless. When lust took the reins, people set aside their best judgement and took terrible risks, Broslin PD’s Captain Ethan Bing thought as he strode around the blood-soaked patch of dirt, notebook in hand, scribbling.
(--from DEATHTRAP by Dana Marton)

In the middle of the action, life-and-death opening:

    The worst time for a police cruiser to fly off a bridge was when you were handcuffed in the back. Joe Kessler braced as the Hummer crashed into the cruiser from behind and sent the Crown Victoria over the railing.
    The two Philly cops up front yelled all the way down, “Hang on! Hang on! Oh, hell, dammit!”
    Joe and Gomez, free-flying in the back, swore more colorfully than that as the car hit the river with a bone-rattling crash. Joe smashed into the metal screen that separated him from the scrambling officers, Gomez on top of him, the kid’s pointy elbow slamming into Joe’s cheekbone.
    God, he hated undercover work.
(from DEATHBLOW by Dana Marton)

What the heck is going on?

Kate Bridges thought attending her own funeral would be the hardest part.
(--from DEATHWATCH by Dana Marton)

Of course, if you set up a question with the first line, you’d better answer it. Don’t leave the reader disoriented! So, in DEATHWATCH, that opening line is followed by:
    She barely breathed inside the FBI van as she watched the live footage from a dozen hidden cameras, and listened to the clear notes of “Amazing Grace” floating from the organ.
    Her family and closest friends filled up the first pew. Her mother sat wedged between Kate’s father and sister, clutching her black pashmina scarf around her shoulders. The chapel always stayed cool, although the California sun radiated merciless heat on the Spanish-style church on the outskirts of Los Angeles.
    The images on the FBI monitors were grainy but the audio perfect, catching even the softest sobs of grief. The heartrending sound stabbed Kate in the middle of her chest.
    “This is a mistake.” She sprung from her chair, the sudden movement bringing inevitable pain. “I can’t.” She gritted her teeth. “Nobody should have to go through this. I want to tell them now.”
    The forty-something agent next to her shot her a sharp look, her eyes the color of gunmetal. Everything about the woman was no-nonsense, all business, down to her short black hair and meticulous charcoal suit, paired with black sneakers meant for running. “In a little while.”
    Tension sizzled between them for an interminable moment, then Kate lowered herself back into the chair, but only because the way Cirelli was watching her said the agent would tackle Kate if she tried to leave.
    Inside the chapel, the stout priest behind the coffin was encouraging the grieving family to accept God’s will. “We cannot hope to know the mind of our Heavenly Father, but his mercy is everlasting…”
    Kate believed in that mercy with all her heart. After all, she was alive. She rubbed her fingertips over the uneven rows of her handknit Christmas sweater, not what the average person would pick for a funeral in July, but if she ever needed her lucky sweater, this was the time.
    Between the sweater and the figure-eight brace she wore to stabilize her broken collarbone, she looked a sight. She was in rough shape, but not rough enough, thank God, for a funeral.
--------

What do you think? Do these work for you? I’d love to hear your opinion. And, of course, would love it if you shared your favorite lines.

Thank you!!!
Dana Marton
Next out: DEATHMARCH, Broslin Creek series (Feb. 2, 2021)

Any Questions about Guardian Queen?

AUTHOR INTERVIEW

by Rachel Schneider
--posted with permission--

Tera's journey from a simple island healer, to world crossing non-sorceress extraordinaire is coming to and end, and her loyal fans have questions!

Was it emotional writing Guardian Queen?

In so many ways! First of all: fear. I was just plain scared that I wouldn't be able to do this story justice. Of all my books, this series is my favorite. In my head, this is such a great story. So, I desperately want to be a good enough writer to put that on paper and give the same experience to readers. And then, of course, I'm sad because the story is finished. I loved spending time with Tera and Batumar. I love who they are as people. Following Tera through this journey has been a privilege. She taught me a lot. Never once has she flinched away from a hard question, or backed away from a sacrifice she had to make. I always struggle to describe this story in blurbs (for Amazon etc.) On the surface it's about a healer and a warlord, trying to save their people. But there are so many other layers. It's definitely a full adventure!

2. Several peripheral characters have stories that continue after the end of the book, will we get to see those stories?

Maybe? I have stories in mind for Lord Karnagh, Prince Graho, and even maybe Drav the sorcerer. Should I be a tease? All right. You've already met the woman Prince Graho is going to make his princess. And if I gave you 1,000 guesses, you would not guess who it is!

3. If so, who and when?

I honestly don't know. My publishing schedule depends on a lot of things including contracts from publishers.

4. Who was your favorite character, besides Tera, throughout the Hardstorm Saga series? Why?

Batumar! I couldn't wait to get to the scenes that are told from his point of view. He's a pretty rough and tough warlord, not someone you'd want to meet in battle. But on the other hand, the heart of that man! Swoon. (I'd like Jason Momoa for the motion picture version, please!)

5. What were the hardest scenes for you to write?

Well, the first two chapters were no picnic. Any man who can read those chapters without wincing deserves a prize! I can't wait to hear what readers think about that opening.

6. Do you plan to write more historical and/or paranormal romances in the future?

Yes! I have an Urban Fantasy/PNR series outlined that I'm super excited about, and also another epic fantasy series that even has the first few chapters written.

Never Give Up, Never Surrender

Finishing a series is always bitter-sweet, but reaching the end of Hardstorm Saga is more than that. It’s surreal. I still can’t believe actual readers are reading Tera and Batumar’s story.

I started writing this fantasy tale over a decade ago as a project for college. I sent it out to a few publishers. Amazingly, some even responded. This does not happen to a lot of unpublished writers without an agent, so I was twirling in my office while visions of a contract, actual readers, and rave reviews danced before my eyes. Although, seriously, I would have been happy with someone printing a few hundred copies of the book. I just wanted to hold my book in my hands. If any people at all, beyond my friends and family, ended up reading it, that would have been gravy.

The editor-in-chief at a major NY publishing house told me my story wasn’t exactly what they published, but referred me to other publishers and even let me use her as reference. Another editor at a big publisher read the first three chapters and requested the full manuscript. By the time I sent it, she moved on and the editor who replaced her wasn’t interested. Yet another editor at another major house told me she wasn’t sure how to sell this book to her marketing department, but she loved it too much to reject it. To this day, I still haven’t received a rejection letter from her. Did you pick up on the pattern here? Lots of love—no contract.

In the meanwhile, I wrote other projects and became successfully published in another genre (romantic suspense). But I never forgot Tera and Batumar, and neither did my college friends who read the story. From time to time, I would receive an email, friends telling me they were still thinking about the characters, asking when the book was going to be published.

Then came the self-publishing revolution, and did I jump on that bandwagon! I published Tera’s story, with the original title: THE THIRD SCROLL. And readers flocked to it! … Yeah, NO. Nada. Nope. Nobody cared. Crickets. Tumbleweeds of no interest rolled through the barren landscape of my writerly hopes.

Luckily, a smart person told me that three things sell a book: cover, title, blurb. So, I changed all three. I even rewrote the original ending and took out a scene that was a sidetrack from the main story. I republished the book in its spanking new glory as RELUCTANT CONCUBINE. And readers flocked to it! Yes! For real! Tera’s story spent six weeks as the #1 romantic fantasy at the largest online bookseller’s bestseller list. I’m so not kidding this time.

All of this is my very long way of saying: Hang on to your dreams and don’t give up!

BTW, do you know what the most common feedback is that I get from readers on this book? It goes along the lines of “I love the book, but hate the title. So cheesy! Why didn’t you give the story a proper fantasy title?” Sometimes I say, “Like what? The Third Scroll?” And I get, “Yes! That would be perfect!”

Click Here

I finally have a cover and link for Guardian Queen, the final novel in the Hardstorm Saga trilogy. I'm so excited!!!!

SILENT THREAT -- 1st Chapter

SILENT THREAT

Chapter One

An hour before his death, Mitch Moritz was in as good a mood as he’d ever been. He couldn’t wait to get home. The rehab center in Broslin, Pennsylvania, had been great, everything a recovering army vet needed, but he missed his wife and kids too much.

The weeks spent in rehab were worth it, sure. He’d come in a mess—nightmares, rage, depression, anxiety—and left feeling like a man again. Still, this was definitely the best part: zipping up his suitcase and leaving.

He picked up the remote to turn off the TV, then paused to let the bald little man on the screen finish his spiel. The weatherman was hopping and beaming, trying to sound super hyped about news that was anything but sensational.

“A tropical depression in the western Caribbean was just updated to Tropical Storm Rupert. We’re going to keep a close eye on that for you folks. You know how these things go. Anything could happen.”

Mitch flicked off the TV before the guy could spin a barely there storm into the meteorological end of the world.

He gazed around the room one last time, then pulled his suitcase out into the hallway.

“Hey, good luck!” The greeting came as he turned the corner.

“Thanks.”

The man walking toward him carried two cups of coffee and a pastry bag. He gave a rueful smile. “Can never resist loading up at the cafeteria.” He held out one of the cups to Mitch. “Here. Take it. I shouldn’t drink this much coffee anyway.”

“You sure?” Mitch had a long drive ahead of him, down I- 95, all the way to Florida. He hated flying. The two-day drive didn’t bother him. The weather was supposed to be clear all the way. He’d still be home for his daughter’s second birthday. “If you really don’t want it, I’d be happy to have it.”

“How about a couple of carrot muffins?” the man asked.

“My carrot muffin days are over.” Mitch grinned. He couldn’t wait to be back on his wife’s cooking.

Thirty minutes later, he was on the six-lane highway, crossing into Maryland as he finished the last of his coffee. The brew tasted off, but he’d drunk it anyway, even if he wasn’t a fan of artificial sweeteners.

His eyes blurred. He blinked. His vision cleared.

Fifteen minutes later, a flashback slammed into him. In the car one second, inside a burning tank the next. The hallucination came in full color, complete with the smell and pain of burning flesh. Mitch scrambled to escape, but before he could even unlatch the hatch, the tank exploded.

Then, nothing.

Then, a couple of seconds until Mitch realized he hadn’t been in an exploding tank. He’d hit a tractor trailer head on, on the highway. His bones were broken. His entire body was wet. Blood. People were yelling around him, but he couldn’t make sense of the words.

Five minutes later—long before the ambulance reached him—Mitch Moritz was dead.

Annie

Monday

Do not confront your stalker.

That sounded like a smart rule, the kind of advice the cops—or any sane person—would give.

Annie Murray pivoted on her heels in line inside the gas station and looked her stalker straight in the eyes.

“You can’t keep doing this, Joey.”

She didn’t mean to sound harsh. She didn’t think she did. But Joey Franco’s eyes widened with hurt to the size of portholes through which she could see all the way to where his heart bled.

“Twenty-two fifty,” said Mac from behind the counter. “Hey, Annie.”

Robbie MacMillan and Joey were buddies going way back, so Mac kept a studiously neutral expression, messing with the cash register and pretending he hadn’t heard Annie call Joey on his shit.

Annie swiped her credit card. Her gaze flicked to the TV on the wall behind Mac and the weatherman waxing poetic about a tropical storm named Rupert gaining strength and slowly moving toward the Greater Antilles.

Her transaction was approved. She signed the receipt. “Could I have the key to the bathroom, please?”

She didn’t look at Joey again as she walked out into the gray-skied September morning. He managed to bump into her nearly every day, always with those lost-puppy-dog eyes and that hurt expression. Look what you’ve done to me. And, of course, Annie specialized in lost puppies.

“Could we talk?” The question hooked into the back of her shirt as she was about to turn the corner.

She stopped at the mouth of the narrow alley. The ten-foot strip of concrete between the gas station and a windowless warehouse on the other side was a desiccated wasteland. They should clean up this place and put a couple of potted plants back here, she thought. And then: Shouldn’t have had that second cup of tea with breakfast. If she didn’t have to use the bathroom, she’d be out of there by now.

She needed to be out of there. She had a new patient today, a former navy SEAL.

Behind her, Joey stepped closer, his boots scuffing on the concrete.

“Please stop following me,” Annie said. “It’s making me uncomfortable.”

He had not been violent with her, but he had been violent with others—drunken brawls, mostly. Mostly started by his cousin, Big Jim, who could talk Joey into anything, but chose to talk him into only the immoral and illegal. Big guy, big talker, the oldest of the cousins, Big Jim always had the best stories and the worst ideas.

Actually, the whole family was pretty messy.

“I need to tell you something.” Joey kept coming. “I’m your man. You know I am. Meant to be.”

He was about five feet eleven inches, the beginnings of a beer belly giving him some girth, a country boy who wore Timberlands and Levi’s with a plaid shirt and a red Phillies baseball hat. He was like a puppy who hadn’t taken to training, then grown big and just wanted to do what he wanted.

“I can’t be late for work,” she said.

“You care more about your patients than you care about me.”

She had no intention of justifying herself. Again.

“Listen, when I came back to Broslin last year, I was in love with the idea of coming home. A return to childhood and innocence and a safe place, you know? You were my best friend back in elementary school. So you kind of represented all that for me. But that’s not enough for a romantic relationship.”

Misery drew grooves around Joey’s eyes, a whole set all at once, like drawing in sand with a garden rake. “Can I come over tonight?” He moved forward again, caught himself, stopped. “Just to talk.”

“No. I’m sorry. Goodbye, Joey.” Bathroom key in hand, Annie hurried into the alleyway.

When she finished in the bathroom and turned on the tap, she looked into the cracked mirror over the sink. “Joey is moving on. The new patient will commit to therapy and make amazing progress. I’m going to have a great day today.”

She’d already said her affirmations while combing her hair this morning, but repetition wouldn’t hurt.

She washed her hands, grabbed a paper towel, and kept it in hand as she reached for the doorknob.

OK, Joey, please don’t be waiting.

He wasn’t. But the man not two feet from the door, whirling around with a feral growl, was infinitely worse. Insanely huge. Wide shoulders. Corded muscles. Shaved head. Barbed wire tattoos above his ears.

The man’s skin was a shade or two darker than Annie’s, his nearly black gaze hard and merciless. He wore army boots and fatigues with an olive T-shirt that covered neither the scars nor the ink on his massive arms and neck.

His half-raised hand promised death.

All that took Annie a split second to register as her heart broke into a panicked rush to punch its way out of her chest.

“Don’t.” She braced for impact, the paper towel dropping from her fingers.

She was stuck in the narrow doorway, the door half-closed behind her. She couldn’t make any moves, her self-defense training useless. She had no room to maneuver.

But instead of letting the punch fly, the man stepped back, dropping his frying-pan-size hand. “You startled me.”

His rusty voice gave the impression of a hermit who rarely left his mountain hideaway. The look he gave her was in that vein too—a hard look from a hard man unused to human interaction. Maybe not a hermit, no, nothing that harmless. A bear. A grizzly coming out of hibernation: slow for now, considering, a lethal predator awakening.

Oh, for heaven’s sake. Get a grip.

He had some Pacific Islander heritage: wide jaw, flat nose. He was thirtyish. Not that much older than she. Just a man, not a homicidal maniac. This was Broslin, small-town Pennsylvania. They had maybe one murder a year, and this year’s box had already been checked. Broslin was nothing like the seriously dodgy Philly neighborhoods Annie had lived in during the past decade.

She drew a steadying breath. As the mad banging in her chest quieted, her gaze dropped to the massive hand the man had lowered—the skin battered and bloody, his knuckles busted.

He must be in pain was her first thought, the second being that he might not mean to kill her, but he had killed someone. Recently. With his size, if he’d pummeled anyone hard enough to cause that much damage to his own hand, the other guy had to be dead. Broslin’s murder rate just doubled.

Where was the victim? Her gaze darted to the deserted alley behind him on reflex.

The sky hung low, a heavy dark-gray—a metal coffin lid, trapping the world. The giant billboards that lined the top of the warehouse next door blocked what little light there was, leaving the alley a dim space.

No bodies—dead or alive.

Never mind. The most important question was, could Annie jump back into the single-stall bathroom fast enough to close the door in the killer’s face and lock herself in while she called the police?

As if the man could hear the panicked rush of blood in her veins, he took another step back. “Don’t be scared.” His tone dipped and grew another notch gruffer. “I’m leaving now. All right?”

He grunted with frustration and pulled his neck into his shoulders, hunching, hiding the bloody hand behind him, trying to appear less menacing. His downcast expression said he was used to people being afraid of him. He’d come to expect it.

Annie’s first impression of him had been that of a man who could take a person apart without breaking a sweat, and not be particularly bothered by it either. But he was bothered that he’d scared her.

He half turned to walk away.

“Wait,” she blurted.

Oh cripes. She hadn’t meant to say that. But when his dark eyebrows twitched with surprise, she continued, “You should clean that hand.”

She held the bathroom door open, the sink and paper towels behind her.

He didn’t move toward her, but he didn’t walk away either. He took her measure once again, more carefully this time, like a person who’d opened a box and found something other than what he’d expected.

She squirmed under his scrutiny. Should have let him walk away.

“Who did you fight with?” Again she had spoken without thinking. Thinking people didn’t chat up violent men in abandoned alleys and invite them to incriminate themselves.

A shadow passed over his broad face. Embarrassment? Unlikely. He didn’t seem like a guy who’d be easily embarrassed.

“I punched the bricks.” He jerked his shaved head toward the wall. “Got frustrated.”

“Ever tried meditation?” There she went with the blurting again.

Are you for real? his dark eyes asked. But he withdrew his damaged hand from behind his back, as if deciding that she could handle the sight after all. “I guess washing the blood off wouldn’t hurt.”

Oh God. Blood. Right. Now that she wasn’t in imminent fear for her life, the whole blood thing hit Annie full on the chin and knocked her back.

Don’t throw up. Don’t pass out. She kept her eyes on his face.

She stood aside as he went into the bathroom. She didn’t offer to help with cleaning his wounds. The sight of blood filled her with the acute need to run the other way.

She hurried over to her car and grabbed the first aid kit from the trunk. Running away did feel great. But then she made herself return to the bathroom with the red plastic box.

He had washed off the blood already—thank God—and was now dabbing his busted knuckles with a paper towel. He showed no sign of pain, as if he were made out of the same bricks he had punched earlier.

She stepped closer. “Let me see that.”

“It’s no big deal.” The way he pulled back said he was equally uncomfortable with their proximity.

She balanced the box on the edge of the sink and popped it open, then pulled out the miniscule brown bottle of hydrogen peroxide.

After a moment, the man held out his hand—twice the size of hers—knuckles up. She poured the peroxide, let it fizz, poured more. Then she picked up the first Band-Aid to begin covering up the worst of the damage.

For this, she had to touch him.

His chest was silent, as if he’d stopped breathing. Or maybe she couldn’t hear him because the blood was once again roaring in her ears—a normal response to being in that small space with an enormous man. Who, a minute ago, had been bleeding.

Don’t think about that.

She focused on how fast she could cover his injuries. “You know, there are less self-destructive ways to deal with frustration.”

When he didn’t so much as grunt in acknowledgment, she glanced up. Too big. Too close. Her throat constricted. Swallowing hurt.

The bathroom was tiny and airless. She needed air. But before she could scramble back out, he was past her and outside in a blur, without ever once touching her, which didn’t seem possible.

“Thanks.” That rough voice, a single word. Then he strode away, as fast as if he had a date with another brick wall and he was late.

She stared after him.

“Hey, what’s your name?”

His broad shoulders didn’t turn. He kept walking. Looked like he’d had enough of her.

Annie watched him for a few more seconds before she caught herself. She closed her first aid kit, then picked up the paper towel she’d dropped earlier. As she tossed it into the overflowing garbage can, along with the little white Band-Aid tabs, her fingers trembled.

She shook the tension out of her hands, then tucked the kit under her arm and hurried off to return the bathroom key to Mac inside the gas station.

Joey was nowhere in sight. Yet, as Annie slid behind the wheel, an uncomfortable sensation washed over her, an odd prickling she’d been feeling a lot lately. Had Joey stuck around? Was he watching her from somewhere? Was he developing an unhealthy obsession that she was mistaking for temporary disappointment?

Not a good mistake to make.

She would have to talk to Joey again. And she would have to be firmer next time. She would have to tell him that if he didn’t stop stalking her, she was going to get a restraining order.

First things first. She had to get to work and her new patient.

Annie Murray smiled into the morning. No matter what else was skidding off the rails in her life, her job was great. She loved every single aspect of it. She got to help people. She made a difference.

She pushed everything else out of her mind. Her day was full of possibilities, and she would make the best of them.

Annie looked into the rearview mirror and beamed. She infused her words with the power of belief. “I’m going to have a wonderful day.”

Keep reading...

NEW RELEASE!!!!

I'm so excited about this new release!!! SILENT THREAT

I LOVE Cole and Annie ridiculously much. Cole is a former Navy SEAL, back from a disastrous black ops mission without his best friend, his hearing, or the use of his right arm.

He's definitely the lick my wounds in private type. When his ex–commanding officer assigns him to an undercover mission at a rehab center for vets in Broslin PA to discover who leaked sensitive military information to an enemy, Cole would rather be anywhere but there.

He hates the place even before he's given into the care of a peace-loving ecotherapist whose dream is to open an animal sanctuary out of her home. Cole and Annie have zero in common. He's determined that she's not going to turn him into a freaking tree-hugger. What the hell is 'ecotherapy' anyway?

Here is a quick excerpt for your viewing pleasure, Cole's first visit to Annie's little animal sanctuary that she runs out of her garage and back yard:

“What’s up with the llamas?” He turned so he could read her lips.

She blinked at him. “People moved and left them behind.”

“What was the worst you ever had?”

“A tarantula that lost a leg.” A delicate shiver ran through her. “I hate spiders.”

“Did you save it?”

A tragic look came over her face. “A goat ate him.”

A strangled laugh escaped him. “What happened to the goat?”

“Adopted.”

“Do you ever turn anything away?”

She rubbed the head of one of the baby skunks with the back of her crooked index finger. “Not anything, not ever.”

That people like her lived in the world scared Cole a little. Too soft-hearted, too easy to take advantage of, too vulnerable. Annie Murray needed a keeper. Not that he was volunteering.

He watched as she slid down into the hay, flat on her back, her head on the folded comforter. The orphaned skunks were all over her instantly, like love-smitten kittens, snuggled into every nook, a different baby tucked against every curve.

She closed her eyes, the picture of peaceful bliss.

Cole stood against a nearly irresistible pull to lie next to her and be part of the magic she was weaving.

He never thought he’d be jealous of a skunk, but he wanted to be tucked against her breast. She had generous breasts to go with her generous mouth. She was murmuring something to her little charges that he didn’t catch, a soft half-smile on her lips.

He wanted to sink into Annie Murray’s earth mother goodness, dissolve in her peace.

She was the most wholesome person he’d ever known.

He was the opposite, too damaged in too many ways. He was deaf, and his right arm might never fully function again. He had nightmares . . . He wouldn’t wish waking up next to him on his worst enemy. In his dreams, either he was killing someone, or someone was killing him.

He was a killer. He’d been a damn good sniper before his right arm had been rendered useless. Maybe as punishment for his sins.

He didn’t care about the arm. He didn’t care about his lost hearing. He would gladly give more, give anything, if it brought back Ryan, his spotter, his best friend.

Since Ryan and the others had died, screaming in pain, Cole hadn’t been the same.

So no, he could not have the peace Annie Murray was offering.
--------

OK, so you know what comes next. Me begging to, please, help me get the news out about this book. Here is the Amazon link, if you're willing to copy and paste it over to your Facebook page: https://www.amazon.com/Silent-Threat-Mission-Recovery-Book-ebook/dp/B071VF6YV4/

THANK YOU!!!!!!