Between Good and Evil by R Michael Phillips

Title: Between Good and Evil

Author: R Michael Phillips

Series: Auburn Notch Mystery #1

Genre: Mystery

Release Date: January 24, 2016

Publisher: Sunbury Press

Summary:
With a broad smile and slight wrinkles at the corners of your eyes you snap shut your suitcase and grab the sunscreen without ever entertaining the notion murderers go on vacation too. What adds a chilling dimension to the idea is they look just like any other tourist in plaid shorts and a golf shirt until you catch a glimpse of the terrifying evil hidden behind their Foster Grants. It’s not something you’re likely to forget, especially once they look up over the postcard rack and realize you’re the one that got away.

Promise Flynn was an overly impulsive Metro Detective whose disregard for procedure finally resulted in her being shot and left for dead during an investigation. To repair her bruised ego and splintered confidence she abandons the callous dark alleys of Chicago to patrol the quiet, birch-lined streets of Auburn Notch—a favorite vacation spot of her youth. For two years everything was idyllic, until the body of a young girl found in the abandoned asylum outside of town awakens the insecurities she thought her new life would insulate her from. As the new Sheriff she begins her investigation refusing to accept the similarities between the young woman’s death and her own case, oblivious to being unexpectedly recognized and penciled in at the top of a clever murderer’s To-Do list. Her internal struggle intensifies when a discredited crime reporter from the past suspiciously arrives in town to resurrect his threadbare reputation, along with an FBI agent chasing down a lead in a cold case. Both men quickly become entangled in Flynn's investigation and her attempts to finally put her past to rest. Flynn reluctantly accepts the murder might be the work of the two men responsible for her hasty departure from Chicago, but Agent MacGregor insists the evidence points to a man he’s been chasing. As the rising current of her past threatens to pull her under, Flynn finds herself unprepared for option three.

The festivities in town were slowly petering out as the eleven o’clock hour approached. The earlier-packed sidewalks along the main drag, crowded with assorted craft and food vendors, were opening back up in ten-foot sections at a time as booths were disassembled. The trendy watering holes were still flush with business. The locals shuffled through the crowds grumbling about quieter times, while the newly of-age drinkers were busy testing the waters and carving out a space for themselves at the bar. The clusters gathered around family activities had diminished proportionately with the ages of the children attached to the extended arms of their parents. Cafés and eateries were cleaning up after a long day of serving sandwiches, dinners, sweets, and coffee to an overwhelming flock of locals and out-of-towners in for the festival. The assortment of local college students hired for the event were busy wiping down tables, eagerly anticipating a second wave of good tips. About another thirty minutes they figured, as soon as the parents washed the cotton candy and ice cream off all the little faces and they were nestled snugly beneath their covers. “Promise,” a shrill voice called out from one of the tables on the sidewalk in front of the Auburn Coffee House. “Sheriff Flynn, do you have a minute?” As Sheriff Flynn approached the coffee house, she couldn’t help but notice Mrs. Johnson seated at one of the tables on the sidewalk. Policing the festival activities and the swelling of the population proved a long and tiring three days. Chitchat remained at the bottom of her list of things to do at that moment. She had hoped her hastened step, lowered head, and obvious intention of ignoring any recognition of her would give the impression of being off on police business. She paused, looking over the tops of the crowd, hoping to see some sort of minor criminal activity going on. Nothing major, she thought to herself. Public urination would work. Littering. A dog walker not scooping. Anything? Her thoughts eventually drifted to the possibility of a shootout in front of the bank as not being such a bad option at that moment. It wasn’t to be. She caught a glimpse of Mrs. Johnson out of the corner of her eye still waving. Not a distraction in sight. This town is too damn law abiding. “Sheriff Promise Mary Flynn,” called out Mrs. Johnson, as if addressing a petulant child. “I’ve got a matter we need to discuss.” Sheriff Flynn tucked her hopes of a shootout away and walked over to the table. She took a deep breath and forced a smile. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Johnson, I didn’t see you there. You see, I’m on my way—” “Nonsense,” replied Mrs. Johnson cordially but firmly. “There is always a moment for two civil servants to compare notes. Besides, you have a whole department to handle the day-to-day policing of this fine town.” Mrs. Johnson paused, looked out over her reading glasses at the sheriff, giving the attractive, tall blond the onceover. “You know, it wouldn’t break any laws if you did something with your hair other than stuffing it under that hat.” She gave a petite snort to signal the end of her analyzing glance. “With a little eye shadow, I would imagine some men might even find you attractive.” Sheriff Flynn clenched her teeth into what might be construed as a smile and groaned. Forget the bank, a shootout right here will work just fine. “If this is about the missing money from the swim club account, Hank has been quietly looking into it. I can assure you—” “No. No. No!” Mrs. Johnson replied, looking around and making sure no one was listening. “Please keep your voice down. I don’t want anyone to know I’ve asked you to look into that.” Promise bit her inside cheek, continuing the conversation through clenched teeth. “Is there something else on your mind, Alice?” “Yes. There is something much more urgent I believe we need to discuss,” said Alice Johnson. She pushed out the chair across from her with her foot, giving a nod of direction to the sheriff. “Have a seat, this will only take a minute. It’s the well-being of our citizenry at stake, and I know it’s as much a priority to you as it is to me.” There was no escape. Short of an actual crime being committed at that very moment right in front of them, Flynn had no choice but to sit, smile, and listen to what the councilwoman had on her mind. “Well-being of the citizenry? I’m not sure I understand.” The councilwoman pulled a green folder from her oversized canvas tote, placing it down on the table in front of Flynn. “As you can tell by these photos, I’ve made an extensive investigation of that dangerous curve out by the old asylum. This photo here,” she continued, nudging one of the photos out from the pile, “is of particular interest. You see that guardrail? I kicked it a few times, and it broke clean away from the support going into the ground. It’s that way along the entire length of the curve. It’s a deathtrap. I know this is a highway department matter, but I can’t stand by when a potential hazard to the fine people of this town is being ignored.” Sheriff Flynn picked up the photo, making a careful examination of the evidence. “Those temporary barricades should be just fine.” She pointed to one in particular in the photo. “Like this one you had to move in order to get close enough to kick the guardrail. As long as no one moves them again, these will certainly protect the fine citizens of Auburn Notch.” Promise paused for a moment. “I believe there is also a sign directing people to use the fire access road as an alternative. It’s just up around the bend from that curve.” “Nobody is going to use that narrow, dirt road. I certainly wouldn’t. Besides, most people don’t even know it’s there.” “Well, I’m not sure what else I can do. At this point it’s a matter between you and the highway department.” “Luke Sanders said he has money appropriated to replace the old guardrail in the new budget, but his department has a few other matters higher on his priority list.” Councilwoman Johnson tidied up the pile of photos and slipped them and the folder back into her tote. “Those wooden barricades might be fine to block off a parade route, but a speeding car will go right through them and over that embankment.” Sheriff Flynn rose from her seat, eyeing her deputy coming in her direction at a hastened pace. No matter what he wants, she thought to herself, it was going to be an important matter in need of my immediate attention. “Everyone knows how treacherous that stretch of road is. I can’t image anyone speeding around that curve. If it will make you happy, I’ll talk to Luke and see if we can’t get a few more caution signs posted further down the road in both directions until his men can get out there. In the meantime, try not to kick it anymore.” Councilwoman Johnson’s eyes narrowed at the insinuation. She responded with a grunt and a halfhearted smile. “Thank you, Promise, I knew I could count on your support.” Sheriff Flynn nodded. She felt a light tap on her shoulder. “Sorry to interrupt, ladies.” “What is it, Hank?” replied the sheriff brightly; uncharacteristically appreciating his interruption whether or not it turned out to be his usual bellyaching about something he would have done differently. “It may be nothing, Sheriff,” replied Hank, turning the sheriff away from the table and speaking quietly, “but we got a report there’s a lit candle in a second floor window of the old mental hospital. I’ll take care of it, I just wanted to let you know I’m goin’ up there.” Sheriff Flynn didn’t respond. A quick gasp stole her voice. She glanced passed Hank, her eyes rolling upward following the tree line. There, perched on a granite crag a thousand or so feet in elevation above the town, were the weathered edges of slate gables piercing the silhouette of a tired length of pine trees. Where the spikes and dips clustered together were a fair representation of the past health of such a grand structure, the sharp drop-off to a flat, indigo tree line is deathly expressive of its sudden and tragic end. Little more than the discarded shell of how it once appeared, there remained a slight whisper of evil in its squalid halls. To Promise, this evil had a different voice. A voice she never wanted to hear again. “It’s those damn kids,” moaned Mrs. Johnson, her hearing as acute as rumor had it. “You know, that group that walks around here dressed in black with those God-awful tattoos and piercings. Vampires, that’s what I say they are. Black shirts. Black pants. Black boots. Skulking about at night. Always up to no good. What decent child has coal-black hair with a white streak running down the left side? Up to no good, that’s what I say. I’ve a mind to call their parents in front of the next council meeting . . .” “Are you okay, Sheriff?” Hank whispered under Mrs. Johnson’s rant. Sheriff Flynn’s eyes remained fixed on the asylum. The chill running up her spine muffled any recognition of what her deputy was saying. She could feel a dull ache rising in her left shoulder. Not again. It can’t be. It can’t be. “Did you hear me, Promise?” interrupted Councilwoman Johnson. “It’s those kids. Those vampires. Those damn—” Sheriff Flynn raised her hand, shaking off the panicked look she hoped went unnoticed. She took a deep breath, tempering her response. “We don’t know anything yet, Alice. As for your vampires, I don’t think this town has seen a bit of trouble from any of those kids. They just express themselves a little differently than you and I.” She hesitated, trying to hold the words back. The next remark went off like the snap of a mousetrap. “And if dressing in black was a crime, they’d be sharing a cell with you. If you’ll excuse me, I think I better go out and see what’s going on. I’ll make it a point to find you tomorrow after I speak to Luke. Nice seeing you, Alice.” Mrs. Johnson replied with a carping grunt. Before she could mount her rebuttal, Sheriff Flynn and Hank were in the patrol car heading out of town on Interstate 93 toward the abandoned mental hospital. “What are you looking at?” asked Sheriff Flynn, giving a quick glance over at Hank. “If dressing in black was a crime?” “Yeah, I’m probably gonna regret that.” Hank paused, trying to get a read on the sheriff’s expression. She actually looked spooked. They had been working together for two years. Two irritating years, according to Hank. Auburn Notch certainly isn’t a hub of criminal activity, just the usual share of traffic tickets and the occasional dead body due to a house fire or accident. Nothing ever happened that would warrant the mayor appointing some out-of-town, big-city detective as sheriff instead of him. He had the town council’s ear and wasn’t bashful about letting them know he was suspicious about her past. Hank was convinced it was only a matter of time before he would uncover the information he needed to replace his boss behind the big desk in the sheriff’s office. For the time being, she was sheriff, and he just had to deal with it. Promise Flynn might be some out-of-town detective, but she spent many years vacationing in Auburn Notch with her family. One thing she learned back then, there are no secrets in a small New England town. She was very much aware of Hank’s resentment from her first day on the job and decided to let him dig around all he wanted. Just to make it interesting, she also put him in charge of the swim club investigation. She already had a good read on what transpired, but giving the investigation to Hank would flush out his true character. If he’s half the cop he tells people he is, he should have no problem putting the pieces together. It will also test his loyalty. Flynn had a feeling at least two prominent people might be involved with the missing money, and one of them is a close friend of Hanks. If he comes up empty, writing traffic tickets in a small town is going to be the extent of his law enforcement career. Until then, she’ll just have to continue to ignore him tugging at the rug under her boots. “So why are you tagging along? I said I’d handle it.” Flynn’s mind was elsewhere. By the time she realized he was talking to her, Hank tried another approach to get an answer. “Just kids. That’s all,” Hank huffed. “What is?” “The candle in the window of the asylum. I chase those damn kids outta there once a week. You didn’t have to come along. It’s probably nothing. Just a candle in the window of an old building.” Sheriff Flynn looked over at Hank, her lips drawn tightly closed. She shook her head and looked back through the windshield at the dark road ahead. “It’s never just a candle.”

Author Bio:

Michael is a classically trained artist turned mystery writer. By combining his creative talents with a passion for mysteries he conceived his first series—The Ernie Bisquets Mysteries. It introduced Ernie Bisquets, a retired London pickpocket who decided he was going to assist the London police with there most difficult cases—whether they want his help or not. Michael has completed 3 books in the series, and has plans for at least five additional books.

Michael travels a bit, especially to Great Britain, but also has a fondness for New England. He spent many winters in the shadow of the White Mountains, skiing and enjoying the beautiful countryside. Those fond memories are the backdrop now for the new Auburn Notch Mysteries being published by Sunbury Press. The main character is Sheriff Promise Flynn—an ex-metro detective who left a dark past and her big-city detective shield behind and moved to a small New England town. What follows is anything but therapeutic.

When he’s not painting or writing Michael is an avid antique collector, filling his current home—an 1894 Queen Ann Victorian he, his wife, and son are restoring—with an assortment of antiques from around the world. Michael also enjoys cooking, working in the garden, and playing in the yard with their two rescues, Beau and Pup.

FACEBOOK  /  TWITTER  /  WEBSITE

BLOG  /  AMAZON  /  GOODREADS

AMAZON US  /  AMAZON UK  /  B&N

SUNBURY PRESS  /  GOODREADS TBR

Brought to you by: 

Choice of Enemies by MA Richards

Title: Choice of Enemies

Author: MA Richards

Series: Nathan Monsarrat #1

Genre: Thriller, Espionage

Release Date: January 7, 2016

Publisher: Sunbury Press, Inc

Editor: Janice Rhayem of Sunbury Press

Cover Design: Amber Rendon of Sunbury Press

Summary:
CHOICE OF ENEMIES is the first in a series of espionage novels featuring Nathan Monsarrat, a retired Central Intelligence Agency deep cover operative with an extensive knowledge of black gold and expertise in weapons, women, and Benjamins.

Light sweet crude is the mother’s milk of the Niger Delta.

As the price for each barrel of oil rises on the international markets and the stakes for securing the black gold increase, a consortium of American oil companies and the Central Intelligence Agency plot to secure the flow of the crude.

In Africa, though, plans unravel as quickly as cheap socks, and promises between partners have the lifespan of a mayfly.

Nathan, now a Dean at a small college in Massachusetts, is visited by his former mentor at the Agency, who offers him a blunt choice: either travel to the Dark Continent to lay the groundwork for the coup d'état, or condemn the woman who saved his life to a brutal execution.

Out of options, he returns to Africa, where he discovers that the Agency plans to reward his services with an oil soaked grave.

Assisted by a coterie of new and old allies, including a beautiful vor with a thirst for power and a yeshiva bocher with a fondness for Armani suits, as well as his own sharp intelligence, considerable wit, and substantial charm, Nathan parries the Agency, circumvents the consortium, and exacts his own vengeance.

In doing so, he learns that his choice of friends is as important as his choice of enemies.

I. THE DELTA

IN THE COOL OF THE AFRICAN DAWN

In the cool of the African dawn, six armored Suburbans bulled through the sodden Delta jungle toward Bonny Island. In their wake, whirlwinds of red dirt billowed upward toward the crown canopy. Inside the vehicles, frigid air filtered the jungle stench of rot and decay. Felix Sanhedrin, a twenty-five-year veteran of covert operations in Africa and the Middle East, sat on the rear bench of the convoy’s second Suburban like Allan Quatermain returned to the Dark Continent. White linen slacks, a blue Oxford shirt, a silk ascot, and a freshly pressed, khaki bush jacket adorned his thin frame. A device more computer than chronometer rested on his left wrist. His felt slouch hat boasted a faux leopard-skin band, and his canvas jungle boots gleamed. A Glock 19 nested in a leather holster on his right hip.

Sanhedrin’s new boots rested atop two green, canvas duffel bags stuffed with

Benjamin Franklins, and he carried with him, like a talisman, the blessings of the Mandarins who guided the operations of the Central Intelligence Agency in Langley, Virginia. Despite their stated policy to never negotiate with the enemies of the United States, Sanhedrin had convinced the éminences grises to ransom his assistant, Nathan Monsarrat, from the rebel group called Fighters Against Terror in Africa, or FATA.

He issued orders like a young boy presenting Santa Claus with his Christmas list.

“First rule: I’m in charge, and my word is law. Second rule: we take only Monsarrat with us. Final rule: my money’s bought your silence. Neither you nor your shooters nor your medics will speak of this mission to anyone. Never repeat, never. Capish, my new friend?”

Next to Sanhedrin, Mark Palmer wore funereal black, a shooter’s vest, tee shirt,

tactical pants, jungle boots, baseball cap, Nomex gloves, and sunglasses. Years beneath the African sun had braised his face and arms. He was clean shaven, and his hair was cut in a brown bristle. Military tattoos covered both his forearms, and blue veins latticed his knotted muscles. He carried an M4 rifle, a brace of Heckler and Koch P30 pistols in nylon holsters strapped to his thighs, a combat knife, commo gear, and four P30 magazines looped onto his belt. The shooter’s vest held extra M4 mags.

He spoke with a soft, southern drawl. “Five by five, Mr. Scarnagh. No worries. We were never here.”

Sanhedrin had declared himself to Palmer by his work name, Fineghan Scarnagh. He operated under the letters F and S, keeping with the monograms on his shirt cuffs. Felix and Fineghan. Sanhedrin and Scarnagh. “You should call me Fineghan. After all, we’re in the same line of work.”

“What line of work would that be, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I’m an independent oil consultant. I work with firms in Africa. Occasionally in Russia. Often in the Middle East.”

“Funny we haven’t met before, me being the chief of security for the biggest oil services company in Africa,” Palmer offered.

Sanhedrin prided himself on his light touch. “I’m a traveling oil gun for hire.”

Palmer smiled politely. “Have you worked with my company previously, Fineghan?”

Sanhedrin admitted that he had not experienced the pleasure. “What about you, Mark? How’d you get into the oil business?”

Palmer gestured toward the two men in the front of the Suburban. “We’re specialists—Frank, Joe, and me. We have skill sets that oil companies find attractive.”

“Former army?” Sanhedrin asked, although he had memorized the personal history of every man and woman in the convoy.

Shafts of golden sunlight as thin as reeds cast shadowed patterns on the hardscrabble road. Joe Marinelli drove the Suburban, while Frank Rollins navigated in the shotgun seat. They might have been clones of Palmer. They wore the same clothes and carried the same equipment, save each sported a mustache, closely trimmed beard, and hair plaited into a single braid, blonde for Rollins and brown for Marinelli.

“Afghanistan, Iraq, Yemen, Somalia, Eritrea, South Sudan,” Palmer replied. “You name it, if it’s in the shit, we fought there.”

“Rangers for Joe and me,” Rollins answered.

“Scrolls, not tabs,” Marinelli added. “Mark was a Special Forces light bird. Compared to him, Frank and me are cub scouts.”

Compliments bored Palmer. “Monsarrat also claimed to be an independent oil consultant. Like you, he worked in Africa, Russia, and the Middle East.”

“You know him?” Sanhedrin inquired.

“We met a few times in Abuja and Lagos. Port Harcourt, more often.”

“It’s a small world, isn’t it?”

Palmer recited his sums for Sanhedrin. “In my small world, people who claim to be independent oil consultants are usually CIA spooks. Not that I have anything against spooks, other than they can’t be trusted.”

“I’m sorry for your hard times,” Sanhedrin commiserated, “although I’m not your usual independent oil consultant.”

“Roger that,” Palmer agreed, “you carrying a Glock on your hip.”

“It’s just window dressing,” Sanhedrin answered modestly. “Did you have problem cashing my check?”

“Your payment sailed through the bank.”

“Is it my couture that bothers you?”

Palmer had attempted to trace the background of Fineghan Scarnagh. His head hurt from banging it against the maze of brick walls he had encountered. “Truthfully, I smell Agency all over you.”

Sanhedrin brushed his fingertips across the holster. “My cologne upsets you?”

In the front of the Suburban, Rollins and Marinelli eyed the dirt road for threats while listening hard to the conversation. Each bore scars from prior Langley operations.

“In my experience,” Palmer continued, “when the Agency runs an operation, things usually turn south real fast, and the shit splatters everyone involved, save the boys and girls from Langley. So I’m only asking for confirmation.”

“Confirmation of what, exactly?”

Palmer exuded patience. “Confirmation this is Langley’s operation.”

“Me? An Agency spy? Perish the thought!” Sanhedrin protested.

Palmer’s distrust of the man next to him increased each time he uttered a sentence. “If you say so, Fineghan. What about Monsarrat?”

“I have no clue,” Sanhedrin deadpanned. “We’ve never met.”

In Palmer’s weltanschauung, the most dangerous spooks supplied the glibbest answers. “Yet, you’re here to ransom him from the rebels.”

“Like I said, Mark, I’m a traveling oil gun for hire. I take the shit jobs nobody else wants or can pull off.”

“You’re also a specialist?”

“In my own area of operations.”

Sanhedrin rubbed a smudge of dirt from the toe of his right boot against the driver’s seat. “Tell me about Monsarrat.”

“He’s a big, smart, tough guy.”

“It sounds like you were friends.”

“I wouldn’t say friends,” Palmer corrected. “More like professional associates. I was sorry to hear the rebels took him from the oil rig, but until you called my bosses, I had no brief to go after him.”

Sanhedrin appreciated men with military backgrounds. They accepted their roles without the sturm und drang civilians brought to operations. He prodded the conversation in a new direction. “How many shooters are you holding in reserve?”

“A half dozen with the Blackhawks, a few miles from our destination. If the balloon goes up, they’ll ride to our rescue like Valkyries with rotors.”

“Let’s hope none of us is headed for Valhalla,” Sanhedrin sniffed.

What Others Are Saying:

I adore this book! M. A. Richards is a first-time author, but I rank CHOICE OF ENEMIES with the best novels of Martin Cruz Smith and Daniel Silva. The novel is written with passion, excitement, and knowledge – Richards certainly knows the dirty world of government and espionage. His pacing is taut, and his language is a joy to read. His sense of location is superb; I smelled the stench of oil in the Delta and felt the heat of the desert in Namibia. Most importantly, Nathan Monsarrat is one of the most likeable heroes I’ve met. When the novel ended (I read it in 48 hours), I was sad that the adventure was over but thrilled I had discovered Nathan Monsarrat. Also, Nathan’s antagonist, Felix Sanhedrin, is a delicious villain, a manipulative, dishonest, and neurotic full-bodied character. The relationship between Nathan and Felix is subtly drawn by Richards and is one of the most enjoyable aspects of this excellent novel. I grant it five stars and recommend it 100%! By Y. H. Park on January 19, 2016

Author Bio:

M. A. Richards is the author of the Nathan Monsarrat international espionage novels.

Born in Lowell, Massachusetts, he received his Bachelor of Arts degree in Theater Studies from Connecticut College and his Master of Arts degree in English from the University of Massachusetts at Amherst.

During a career as a Cultural Attaché in the Department of State that spanned more than two decades, he served in Baghdad, Jerusalem, Lagos, Moscow, Seoul, Tel Aviv, and Washington, D.C. He also served at U.S. Pacific Command in Honolulu as the Special Advisor to the Commander. He speaks Arabic, Hebrew, Korean, and Russian.

M. A. divides his time between Palm Beach and Tel Aviv, where he indulges his passions for motorcycles, photography, and archaeology.

FACEBOOK  /  TWITTER  /  FB FRIEND

WEBSITE  /  AMAZON  /  GOODREADS

AMAZON US  /  AMAZON UK  /  GOODREADS TBR

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Brought to you by: