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Romeo's Justice by James Scott Bell is Book 8 in the A Mike Romeo Thriller Series.
Mike Romeo isn't looking for trouble, but if it comes to him, after trying to calm and distill it, he will finally decide to "bring it". In his quest for justice as his friend, attorney, rabbi, and former Mossad Ira Rosen's investigator, nothing is ever simple in their cases. Romeo's attempt to render justice often comes with violence interfering with his hard work. And their present case is no exception.
A grieving mother who can't afford Ira Rosen has been told that her only son (Steven) has committed suicide in his room at a "spiritual" school that is clearly of the "woke" variety, making environmental robots of students with their man-made climate change dogma and other freakish "spiritual" gobbledy-gook theories. Ira insists on taking her case and Romeo sets out in his classic Mustang "Spinoza" to either confirm or deny that the boy killed himself.
His welcome to the school is "interesting" and he asks to see the dorm room where Steven was found. During his inspection he meets the janitor who appears to be handicapped, scared, and nervous. Romeo does his best to put him at ease.
New leads pop up resulting in some more violence and back to Square One, but finally after Ira doing his "thing" with his research, a real lead starts to actually lead somewhere. Perhaps to a kind of justice?
The Romeo Series is labeled a thriller, and there are definitely parts of these stories that are matched with that genre. However, there is yet to have a genre label to fit these amazing stories. Maybe "Sardonic Thrillers" or "Witty Noir Investigative Thrillers". I know: ridiculous. But the absolute wit and intellect of James Scott Bell shines to the max in these books, especially between him and Ira. I've read hundreds of thrillers, mystery, suspense, procedurals, and no author I've read can come close to duplicating their repartee in these novels. Romeo is as unique a character as can be found in any story, any era. And the only fault I can list in these stories is the moment I finish one of them, I can't wait for the next one which can't quite get here soon enough with Jim's multiple other writing diversions.
Highly Recommend. Although each novel is essentially a "stand-alone", to get the ultimate experience of Mike Romeo's story, I do strongly suggest you begin with Book 1. Believe me when I say, they're quick reads and well worth the time it takes.
Father, you've blessed James so incredibly. Please continue to shine your face upon him and fill him up with the stories you have just for him to tell. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.
This is from Chapter 16 of Seeing . . .
Sixteen
Micah had one stop in Spokane and after delivery it seemed the tension in the truck built in the silence. His peripheral vision noticed Bonita repeatedly turning the rings on her fingers. Just before they pulled into the truck stop Micah suggested she climb in the back.
"I don't want you to have to face this guy right off the bat if he's here. Okay?"
She agreed without a sound and got in the sleeper.
She's still scared. Lord, please don't let her see him for a while. And, God, I know I need to forgive him, but I really don't want to see the kid either. I'm not there yet. Help me.
Micah pulled into the lot and found a spot in the back corner between two other semis. He hadn't seen Blaine's rig when he drove in and he'd surveyed the trucks as he drove through them before parking. He turned to Bonita.
"Give me your keys, and I'll take your stuff to your car. Then I'll come back for you."
She dug through her purse and handed the keys to him without protest.
He smiled at her, an attempt to give her confidence. "Sit tight. I'll be right back." He gathered her stuff and packed it out of the truck.
Micah was on the lookout as he approached her dirty Honda but jolted when he saw the word "slut" finger-drawn through the dirt on her driver's side window. A surging rage blasted through him. He wanted to cuss out loud, but he calmed himself, feeling the Lord's attempt to still him. He set Bonita's things on the asphalt and took a deep breath. He used the sleeve of his jacket to wipe the window clean and walked around the car to see if it sported any more graffiti. He returned to his truck after securing her things in the car, watchful for the big green Peterbilt sleeper and its flatbeds.
"Ready to try this?" He gave her another smile, and she smiled back with a nod.
They walked through the lot and went in the back door to the cook's area. Jack gave her a big grin, and Rosie walked back just in time to see her come in, almost diving for her, securing her in a big hug.
"You're lookin' good, sweetheart," the roughhewn waitress said with a catch in her voice.
Jack nodded at Micah and added, "Yeah, looks like you been on vacation, girl."
"I have. In paradise," she responded with a wistful smile and a glance at Micah.
"Well, you go on home now, and if you want, you can start tomorrow. It's up to you." Rosie paused and took a quick look at the floor. "Probably the night shift would be best to begin with if you know what I mean."
"That's fine, Rosie. I don't want to have to deal with him yet either. I'll be here tomorrow night."
Rosie smiled at her and hugged her again. Micah followed her out to her car.
"Why don't you start this thing up before I go? Just to make sure."
Bonita seemed nervous now. She unlocked the door and climbed in, pumping the gas pedal once before turning the key. The old Prelude huffed to a start, a scourge of white smoke exiting its exhaust pipe. Bonita rolled down the window.
"Good," Micah said. "Well . . ." Words didn't come, and he felt drained. Back to normal. Loneliness stuck him like a pin. He backed away as Bonita got out of the car.
"You . . . I . . . I needed you, Micah Jones. Thank you for everything."
He barely heard her hesitant words because he couldn't take his eyes off her pale blues ones. Before he knew it, her lips tenderly pressed against his with a sweetness he hadn't experienced in so, so long. It took all he had to keep from pulling her into himself and allowing that kiss to expand and remain. Delicately she removed her mouth from his, tears apparent. She got back in her car and backed out. He looked down at the scarred and oily asphalt as she chugged away.
He had planned to go inside and have breakfast but instead he walked back to his rig and drove to his next stop.
Father, you give me words, characters, stories. Apart from you, I can do nothing. Thank you is never enough. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.
Top picture is of a 2 yr. old one-eyed filly called Evil Curse ready to go to the paddock. Dutch Holt is paddocking her for me because she was a handful and washed out terribly, but she could run very fast.
Second picture is me with a 2 yr. old colt by the name of Perpetual War, nicknamed "Spooky". He didn't get to a race as a 2 yr. old.
My first year at the now defunct Longacres Racetrack. Loved it. So sad that it's no longer there.
Father, Longacres holds many memories for me, both good and bad, but the best one is when you rescued me from myself and saved my soul. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.
This is Book One in the Kelsie Butler Mystery Series by Karin Kaufman.
Mystery aficionado Kelsie Butler and her friend Gwen decide to stage a murder mystery event open to the public on the evening before Halloween in Gwen's coffee and pastry shop fondly known as Fig's. Kelsie writes the script participants are to follow for their clues to the murder. When a relatively small but diverse group show up to compete for the prize of free coffee for the month of November, one of the group surprises them all - and not in a good way - by her presence.
Before they begin to try to solve the murder, they are encouraged to examine the basement to see the chalk outline drawn on the floor of where the supposed victim had been murdered. Next, they are informed that in 20 minutes the lights will be shut off for 90 seconds with the instruction to be in a safe place when the lights go out.
What occurs when the lights go out produces a real-life mystery with everyone in the shop becoming a suspect.
If you love coffee, tea, scones, and dogs, and you were enthralled with Karin's Juniper Grove Mystery Series, you will be quickly delighted with Karin's new Cozy Mystery series which includes fun friendships, questionable cops, and the not-so-innocent resulting suspects who came to solve a mystery and got more than they bargained for.
Father, you know Karin's every need. Please, bless her, Lord, in every area of her body, soul, and spirit. Give her what she needs to keep writing the stories you have just for her to tell. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.
Uppercut by Mark Dawson is Book 22 in the "A John Milton Novel" Series.
John Milton is back in Dublin searching for clues on the Group 15 agent who betrayed Control and her party of agents plus Milton in Russia, leading to the capture of Control. He's fairly certain he's going to somehow have to find where Control was taken, if she's still alive, and rescue her since he now knows the woman who betrayed them all lied about it and has risen in the ranks of Group 15. Ziggy Penn, computer genius, who's helping John however he can, has found the ex-husband of the agent in order to gain more information about her. Interference with their plans results in a war between Irish mob leaders over two cage-fighters, one of them being the son of one mob leader.
When a dirty cop gets in deep with the mobster whose son is set to fight his rival's choice in the MMA competition, the gangster "Gallagher" wants his son's opponent and the agent that chose him over Gallagher's son dead at the weigh-in, a gala event at the hotel owned by his rivals, the Dillon Brothers. The cop uses blackmail to convince a trying-to-go-straight felon to do the deed.
Milton is once again working under the alias of Eric Blair as a chef and will be pulled from the kitchen on the night of the big event because there are too few waiters to meet the obnoxious needs of the large gathering. As he's tending to impatient customers, he spots the man with a gun, everything goes haywire, and two people wind up dead. In the midst of the craziness, John hustles a young girl away from the chaos and upstairs to the apartment of a woman with whom he works. She agrees to help the girl until they can find out who she is and where she belongs since she can't or won't speak.
In the meantime, Group 15 is searching for John and are closing in on locating him. The dirty cop wants the young girl for Gallagher to use for leverage, but John figures something is off with the cop and spirits the girl away with help from the woman.
There's a lot going on in Uppercut, but it still feels like an interim story which will lead to Mark's next Milton novel Bloodlands. Milton's on the run again along with Ziggy, and now he knows for sure he's being pursued by Group 15 because of the lies told by the traitorous agent. This story sports mobster stereotypes with a twist and some latent justice, a Group Agent who lies to herself about her need to be a traitor, and some less than noble Dublin police.
I'll be looking forward to Bloodlands in hopes of a rescue for Control and real justice for the traitorous agent.
(Some profanity.)
Father, you know all hearts and minds. Nothing surprises or gets past you. Please continue to bless Mark and fill him with stories you have just for him to tell. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.
This is a brief snippet from my WIP, Chapter 20 - mostly told from first person male POV. The tale of a love story . . .
If I ever fantasized about being a teenager again or in my 20s and feeling those sensational attractions and lusty results – which I honestly did not fantasize about ever – these feelings concerning Sara reminded me of them with one difference. Without Savanna Dade in the mix, I relished every lustful contact I made. And, ugly as it is and was, I didn’t care about anyone else’s feelings but my own. I wanted the satisfaction of those sexual romps, experimenting with each female I had the pleasure of seducing. The stark difference I was discovering in my current state of mind? I wanted to treat Sara with a respect she could recognize, which meant something to her, that she could know was definitely not the same as I’d always been or done. I guess I wasn’t really very good at it. Yet.
Father, apart from you, I can do nothing. Thank you for words and characters, stories of love. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.
Many of us teenage girls gave their parents enough anxiety to last them a lifetime - without ever intending to be that girl who did. I loved my parents. In my eyes they were the best parents in the entire world. I still hold them that dear to my heart. They were the best for me. They made mistakes like every parent does but those they made were never without regret, and most of the time I didn't figure out they'd made any for a long, long time.
Just yesterday evening I had to laugh at a memory of my dad and me when he was doing his best to help direct me to wherever it was I needed to go in life. He and mom sent me to the University of Washington where I concluded I'd had enough of school and didn't want any more of it. What I wanted was an adventure, bold and naive, so I talked a friend of mine into going to Europe. We went to work for a year and then left on a nearly 3-month trip to Great Britain and Europe. Indeed the adventure of a lifetime.
So returning home, taking one more class at the UW, then floundering, not wanting to go back to work at retail, the time came where my dad sat me down on the hearth in the kitchen in front of the big brick fireplace and said, "Nicole," (and he only called me "Nicole" when he was dead serious), "What would you be if you could do anything in the world?"
I gave his question about a 3-second evaluation and proudly proclaimed, "I'd be an actress."
My dad, bless his kind heart, did not roll his eyes. Instead, after shedding the astonishment (I'm sure), replied calmly, "What else?"
That right there - that serious but composed father of mine doing his best to maintain, made me laugh out loud at the memory of myself making impossible assertions to a dad who'd endured the depression, lost the tip of one finger in the copper mines, whose Mom left his family after his youngest brother was born, and who somehow through the God-given business-sense and virtually less than a junior high school education, was now an Executive Vice President of a retail chain. Made me laugh at my own incredulity and smug assertion.
But to answer his second question, I said, "I'd work at Longacres."
And that, my friends, is how those over 30 years in horse racing all began. It's a fun memory.
Father, you gave me wonderful parents who I loved deeply. Thank you is never enough. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.
This is the order in which they were published. However, Breath of Life was written after Sweet Release and Destination. It is not available for e-readers. Sweet Release, Destination, and . . . in a love song are not available in print.
Father, thank you for them all. Thank you for all that you do in inspiring these stories and giving me the words to write them. Thank you is never enough. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.
Knowing the ins and outs of correct grammar is essential to authors. To be able to speak and write words appropriately is a dying art, obviously no longer stressed in schools. It's been reduced to text-size communications with abbreviations we've all come to recognize - well, at least some of them. LOL.
"Back in the day" grammar was emphasized and insisted upon. That didn't mean everyone could or would speak it appropriately, but it was correctly taught.
Much of yesterday's grammar was formal - too formal for contemporary fiction in most cases. For authors writing historical novels, some of that formality can be retained.
I have an ongoing argument with some of the rules of the trade pursuant to correct grammar. For example, it seems ridiculous to me to use quotation marks around a particular featured word or name and to include the following punctuation, that being either a comma or a period, inside the final quotation mark. In my opinion, it should be outside the final quotation mark. (I'm not talking about dialogue.)
That's my pet rant for this Monday. If you've got any complaints you'd like to share about grammar, feel free!
Father, apart from you, I can do nothing, write nothing. Thank you for all the stories and words. Help me to honor you with them. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.
This is Chapter 4 of Then . . . you.
Chapter 4
He lay back on his bed, resting his head on his laced fingers. “What the hell am I doing?” he said quietly. He’d known guys like the one she described. Seemingly great dudes on the surface, likeable, fun-loving, attractive to women.
His sister introduced him to one she was dating for a short time in her senior year of high school. Same story, but little did the guy know she’d been taking Krav Maga classes since she was 10 years old. He surprised her the first time he slapped her. Knocked her down. Apologized later for losing it. The next time he tried, he didn’t know what hit him. He laughed at the memory of his sister’s defiant retelling of the incident. She didn’t dare tell their brother or he would’ve put the kid in the hospital.
He did miss his family. Every one of them former military. His sister still served, she being a Navy nurse at Walter Reed. He frowned briefly. He was the only one of the five of them who’d been wounded, his right femur shattered and held together by hardware. At least he didn’t lose his leg. It was touch and go for a few days as the doctors fought against persistent infections.
He sat up, clenched his hands, and stretched his arms above his head. Sleep eluded him, and he hated to admit the reason for it. He needed to get up, let the weights and treadmill take the tension away. If they could.
Father, you give me the inspiration, the ideas, the words, all of it. Apart from you, I can do nothing. Thank you is never enough. In the Name of Jesus.
This little girl is quite serious. I basically stayed that way with a bit of the attitude you see here. Sometimes, this is exactly how I feel and probably with so many years added on can still accomplish that particular stare if things strike me just right. Kind of fun to see the "you" of those young years.
Father, you've watched over me my entire life, and I can never thank you enough for rescuing me from myself. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.
On Monday after getting the morning started in the dark, I looked out to see the beginning of the sunrise. And was mesmerized by the beauty. The brilliance of the colors, so intense, expanded to some spectacular cloud formations in soft pinks, white, lavender blues. Straight out from our deck to the south, wide across my view was a huge billowy white form that looked remarkably like a bird, wingspread taking up much of the sky. Immediately I thought of a dove. For Christians this is how the Holy Spirit appeared on the shoulder of Jesus after His water baptism.
After offering reverential awe and praise for possibly the most beautiful sunrise I have ever seen, this incredible, inexpressible, spell-bounding beauty telegraphed the reminder that the Author of Life and sunrises, the Creator of beauty, is not finished with this world - the contrast to all that we see amidst the tragic conflicts. He is still presenting the supernatural elements that point hearts and minds to Him. He never slumbers or sleeps, His artistry demonstrating hope and a way to share His eternal palette of beauty with Him.
It wasn't just another pretty sunrise. It held the promise of God once again displaying His acute awareness of all whose hearts are set upon Him and a beckoning call for those who ignore the obvious. A reminder of Romans 1:18-20 (NIV)
The wrath of God is being revealed from heaven against all the godlessness and wickedness of men who suppress the truth by their wickedness, since what may be known about God is plain to them. For since the creation of the world God's invisible qualities - His eternal power and divine nature - have been clearly seen, being understood from what has been made, so that men are without excuse.
Father, I am truly in awe of you, how magnificent you are in all that you do. You are too big for me, but that's who you are. Thank you is never enough. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.
What I'd like to talk about is books, specifically novels. What I'd like to do is once again discuss the "stuff" of stories and authors. What I'd like to do is ask readers some questions about their tastes in literature. And finally what I'd like to do is ask certain authors about what other authors' works they read. But those topics will wait for another day.
Instead, this will be a short post. Yes, the world is in chaos. Yes, the majority of "news" is negative and often tragic and worse: just about none of it can be trusted to be factual and truthful.
The United States of America is being manipulated by forces outside this Constitutional Republic, and those forces want to end this last bastion of freedom and independent thought and deeds, to acquire it in all of its grandeur and use it for their own exploits. If you disagree, you simply do not want to believe that's possible. Sadly, it is, and it's happening right in front of you and all of the rest of the world.
The only hope to defend this precious One Nation under God is the Lord God Almighty Himself. If your hope is in a man or a political party, that man or the standards of your party better know Jesus because there is no other who can defeat the enemy ravaging this country.
I know literally millions of Christians are praying, repenting, and calling upon the Lord for our deliverance and healing. Our faith is in Him. Enough said.
Father, you hear all of us asking for you to redeem our nation one more time, to set it straight, to save those who have yet to meet your Son, to grant us mercy, faith, and the grace to continue in a world partially gone mad and within our own boundaries. Only you, Lord. Please. In the Name above all names, the Name of Jesus, Amen.