Get Lost In A History-Inspired Collection Featuring Two New Stories From E.E. Burke

Purchase Today

No city personifies the American experience quite like Kansas City. This year, our local writing organization took on a big project -- to write history-inspired stories about our hometown, weaving fact with fiction and our own unique experiences and outlooks. The result is KANSAS CITY STORY.

This rich collection takes the reader from the muddy banks of the Mighty Mo to the gleaming glass and steel of the Sprint Center. The journey highlights memorable moments in our river city's intriguing history, beginning as a trading settlement in 1821. Written by local authors, this anthology covers 20 decades that reflect not just the story of a city, but also the story of America. 

I loved researching Kansas City and discovering historical gems and seeing what different writers touched on in their stories. This was a collaborative project with local authors who are writing buddies, friends, and mentors. Contributors include USA Today bestselling authors and several authors who are experiencing the thrill of debuting their first published works.

Bobbie (Sunny) Cole, E. E. Burke, Cheryl Rabin, Laura Stapleton, Michelle Grey, Gwen Duzenberry, Madonna Bock, Amy Harden, Darlene Nicholson, D. L. Rogers, Sally Berneathy, Alfie Thompson, G. A. Edwards, Diana Day-Admire

Find out more about the book here, along with purchase links: 
www.midwestromancewriters.com/home/kansas-city-story/

History Inspired

My two stories, which cover two tumultuous decades, are inspired by actual events and historical figures. The Songbird -- set 1863 -- is based on an old newspaper article about an imprisoned singer and a conflicted officer. The Orphan and The Outlaw sees the James/Younger robbery at the Kansas City Exposition in 1872 through the eyes of an orphaned newspaper boy where his chance meeting with an outlaw leads to an unexpected outcome.

Here's an excerpt from The Songbird (1860s)

September 1863, City of Kansas, Union Hotel

Alice Nash put her shoulder against the window frame and tugged with all her might. She’d picked away at the layers of paint until the window sash moved a little. With great effort, she inched it upward. At last a breeze swept in.

On the street three stories below, bluecoats were stationed in front of the hotel and on every corner she could see. If she tried escaping by this route, she’d either be shot or fall to her death which was probably the only reason the window hadn’t been nailed shut.

She straightened and wiped away the perspiration inching down her temple.

It took more ingenuity to get to an itch beneath her bosom. She loosened the strings of her corset and scratched.

Ahhh.

Mama would have a conniption fit if she were here. Thank God, she wasn’t.

She’d been locked in this hot room for three unbearable weeks. She could expire from the heat or strip down to her unmentionables.

Propriety wouldn’t keep her alive.

At least with the window open she had fresh air and a place to sit other than on a smelly cot, the only thing the Yankees had left besides the chamber pot.

She had nothing to read to pass the time, not even an old newspaper.

Her only human contact was with a wizened black cook who acted too scared to speak when she delivered a thin soup once a day. Did the Federals plan to starve her or kill her with boredom?

She’d been charged with treason for nothing more than being loyal to her family. From what little she could find out, a military tribunal would decide her fate.

No justice could be expected from that court.

She swallowed a tight wad of tears. She had only one way to fight this boredom and despair. Thank God the Federals couldn’t confiscate her vocal chords.

Alice leaned against the window frame and began to sing.

“We loved each other then, Lorena, more than we ever dared to tell; and what we might have been, Lorena, had but our loving prospered well….”

The melancholy ballad suited her mood.

Once she’d sung for audiences who’d cheered her. Now she sang to the blue sky and drifting clouds. Singing gave her joy. It was, in a sense, her only way to escape.

The lock clicked.

Alice leapt to her feet and crossed her arms over her exposed chest as the door swung open.

When a soldier stepped inside, she flushed with mortification.

The man’s eyes went wide, registering surprise. Then he performed an immediate about-face. “Beg pardon, miss, I didn’t realize you’d be—

“What did you expect? That I’d be sitting in here knitting to pass the time or lounging, fully dressed, awaiting your pleasure?”

“Miss Nash, forgive me for intruding on your privacy.” The Yankee’s low, smooth baritone seemed intended to be comforting. But she couldn’t help notice he was the only other person in the room, and he’d shut the door.

“I have no privacy here.” She snatched up her satin skirt from across the bed, pulled it over her head and tied it around her waist then fumbled with her jacket. Her hands shook as she did up the buttons.

She was at this man’s mercy. Who would come to her aid if she screamed? Another of his kind?

The intruder stood with his back to her, holding his head and shoulders erect. The auburn hair curling softly from beneath his hat over his collar made him appear youthful and rakish. His dark blue officer’s jacket and light blue trousers hung on his lanky frame. He might’ve filled out the uniform at one time. He still cut an intimidating figure.

Many of the officers stationed in the City of Kansas lived at the Union Hotel. She assumed he was one of them. Seeing as she’d had no contact with him before now, she could only assume why he’d come to her room. Her assumption didn’t provide the slightest reassurance.

“I am…” She refused to say decent. That would imply she had acted improperly, not him. “I am covered.”

When he turned around, she caught her breath with surprise. Handsome wasn’t exactly the right word. Compelling came closer. With his prominent brow, sharp features and golden-brown eyes, he reminded her of the red-tailed hawks that hunted over her family’s fields.

She remained as still and alert as a mouse when a predator’s winged shadow crossed its path. “You have me at a disadvantage, sir. You know my name but I don’t know yours.”

“Lieutenant Cyrus Leyton.” The officer removed his hat and smoothed his hand over his hair, the only thing about him that appeared soft. His keen gaze shifted to the open window behind her. “I hope you aren’t considering exiting that way.”

“If so, I’d need wings.”

“You sing beautifully. It’s easy to imagine that you might turn into a songbird and fly away.”

Flattery. Did he think that would gain her trust? He would be sorely disappointed.

“If only it were that easy, I would be long gone, soaring over you and your comrades, and I’d leave a reminder of my presence not quite as pleasant as a song.”

His fleeting smile told her he’d understood her meaning.

She released her breath slowly. He hadn’t taken offense at the suggestion she’d like to poop on his head. But he still hadn’t stated his purpose in visiting her. She wasn’t out of the woods yet. “Are you here to tell me singing is now a crime?”

“Never. Music is one of the few things we all can agree on.” His ardent assertion plucked some sympathetic string on her heart.

Her mind conjured an image of the lieutenant squatted beside a fire in the dead of night, listening to strains of music drifting from a camp somewhere out in the darkness beyond his line of vision. The sounds might stir a sense of kinship with men he would kill the next day.

Alice turned away, momentarily overcome. She went to the window and looked out at the bright blue sky which defied the drab, dirty, divided town below. Her heart ached for more than freedom. She yearned for peace.

Here's an excerpt from The Orphan and The Outlaw (1870s):

Three men on horseback rode full-tilt into the fairgrounds, waving handguns in the air. Fire and smoke spewed from the barrels, accompanied by more loud bangs. Their faces were covered with dark bandanas and only the shadows of their eyes were visible beneath broad-brimmed hats. 

All over Kansas City, men carried guns. But none would fire them off in a crowded fair. Well, maybe drunk cowboys.

“Clear out,” one of the men shouted. He shot his gun into the air again to make his point. He immediately replaced that gun with another pistol from one of two gun belts crisscrossing his buttoned-up jacket. 

Nope, he wasn’t no rowdy cowboy. An outlaw, maybe.

The mounted attackers rode right up in front of Bran. 

Two ladies nearby hiked their full skirts and ran away screaming. One of the farmers grabbed a little girl, tucked her under his arm and skedaddled. Bran couldn’t make his feet move to follow the others and no one dragged him out of the way. 

The riders reined in their horses. One of the black beasts snorted and flung white spittle into the air. The closest gunman leaped to the ground, dropped the reins and marched to the ticket booth where the old gent, Mr. White, who looked as pale as his name, clutched the metal box to his chest. 

“Give me the money. Now.” The outlaw pointed his gun at Mr. White’s face.

Bran’s stomach shrank to the size of a peach pit. Was he about a witness a murder?

The older gentlemen’s mouth moved but no sound came out. He handed over the box. “H-here,” he stammered. “That’s all there is.”

Cradling the moneybox, the robber swept off his hat and executed a cocky bow. “My thanks to you, sir. We’ll put it to good use.”

He tucked his pistol into his belt and went for his horse. It seemed that he flew into the saddle, he moved so fast. 

The other two men waited, guns at the ready, scanning the crowd. With narrowed eyes, they dared anyone who might take a notion to challenge them. 

Bran glanced around. Nobody was up to the task. Most of the spectators had run or were rooted to the spot, too scared to move. Like him.

Cole Younger

When one of the horses danced in Bran’s direction, he grabbed the leather pouch tucked beneath his shirt. His heart fluttered like cotton drawers on a clothesline. Would this other robber demand his bag of pennies? 

The man’s eyes, visible above the bandana, were clear as a blue sky and twinkled with mirth. “This ought to give your editor something to write about,” he drawled. “Tell him this: The knights ride for Camelot.”

Bran had no idea what the man meant, but he knew for certain the robbery was a bigger story than the fair. After this, nobody would care about schedules or events. He couldn’t give away these papers, unless…

He gripped the remaining sheets in a shaking hand and held up them up. “Want to buy my last three newspapers, mister?”

The man’s eyes registered surprise before they squinted with amusement, deepening the pale lines on either side. “This pup has more grit than any of these mongrels,” he remarked to his companions. “Sure, I’ll buy your newspapers.” 

www.midwestromancewriters.com/home/kansas-city-story/

Proceeds from Kansas City Story will go to Midwest Romance Writers, Inc., a non-profit organization of writers helping other writers.

Kansas City has a fascinating history and I love sharing my hometown with the world. Is there something about your hometown you find particularly interesting or unusual?

Enter the drawing and leave a comment to be entered into a drawing for the eBook Kansas City Story.

a Rafflecopter giveaway

E.E. Burke's Best of the West with Kat Flannery

Purchase Today!

“A wild ride that will rope your heart and reel you in.” 
—Charlene Whitman, best-selling author of The Front Range historical romance series

Poppy Montgomery has always been good with a gun and could fight her way out of anything. Tough as nails and a sharp shooter, her beauty deceives the outlaws she’s after. Hot on the trail of the Clemmons gang, a group of outlaws who rob trains and killed an innocent woman and child a few months before, she is determined to make them pay for the sin’s they’ve committed by bringing them to justice.

Pinkerton, Noah Shaw is investigating a ring of stage robberies and knows the Clemmons gang is behind them. Told to track down the infamous redheaded bounty hunter, Noah gets more than he bargained for when he arrests Poppy for assault.

Handcuffed together the pair must work to stop the robberies, and figure out who is behind them. But what happens when love interferes and thrusts Poppy into discovering emotions she never knew existed?

Will she choose the solitude she’s always known, or Noah’s sweet embrace?

EXCERPT:

CHAPTER ONE

Outside of Dodge City, Kansas 1884

Poppy reloaded the Winchester tucked between her legs. The pale skin beneath the denims winked at her through the frayed hole in the knee. The slacks had seen better days, and right now the rip was the least of her worries.

When she was on the hunt she packed light; it wasn’t wise to carry too many things that could weigh you down. Nope, she’d brought just the essentials. Except, this time she’d made extra room for a hairbrush and the lavender soap her sister, Fern, had given to her when she’d visited.

A bullet whizzed past, and she ducked lower. She yanked the Stetson off her head and checked it for any holes.

“Damn it.” The bullet had nicked the top, tearing the felt.

She crammed the Stetson back on and cocked her rifle. Her fingers tightened around the handle. The cold barrel rested against her cheek, and she shivered. Here we go. She slid to her stomach and inched the butt around the boulder she hid behind.

She’d been tracking the Clemmons gang for two months, and now she finally had them. The lowlifes were wanted clear across the territory for their robbing of the railroad, but Poppy’s debt was personal. The gang had killed Molly Schmidt and her son, Tad.

She closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. She’d never met the girl until the day she’d come across the turned-over stagecoach and found the mother and son sprawled on the dirt ground. Poppy swallowed. The horrid sight was forever etched into her mind. Molly had been alive when she’d found them, but not for long. After Poppy laid the little boy in Molly’s arms, the mother took her last breath. The memory still got to her making her eyes sting and throat work.

Killin’ had never bothered Poppy; she’d done her fair share and seen more than she’d like to admit, but what had her up nights was “Why them?” The thievin’ bastard Lefty Clemmons had murdered the mother and son, and she’d make him pay for what he’d done. The rebel outlaws had taken the lives of others too, but Molly and Tad had stuck with Poppy since the day she’d found them ten miles outside of St. Louis. She didn’t know where the pair was headed, but it’d been clear their deaths were for nothing more than pleasure.

Her eyes watered, and she blinked the wetness away just as another bullet whizzed past her head.

“I ain’t dyin’ today,” she whispered and rolled onto her stomach. Her sister Fern’s lecture on proper etiquette and language rang in her ears. Poppy had always been a bit to the left, as most folks would say. She didn’t take well to rules, and she didn’t take to speaking like a lady. Hell, she had better things to do, like kill the bastards who had her cornered.

She aimed her rifle, seeing two heads pop out of the bushes ahead, and fired. She smiled when she saw one of the outlaws pitch forward and fall to the ground.

“Gotcha.”

The band of men were hunkered behind a stand of pine trees, which made it difficult for Poppy to see them and would aid in their escape if she didn’t get a move on. She needed to push them out of the bush toward her and not in the other direction.

She scanned the field in between them. Aside from a few rocks, including the one she was wedged up against, there was nowhere for her to go. She didn’t want to retreat into the forest a couple of yards behind her until she was sure the gang lay dead.

A bullet hit the rock she was leaning on and ricocheted to the right She peeked around the boulder and saw six riders coming toward her. Damn it. They knew she was alone and figured her stranded. The horse’s hooves pounded onto the ground as they drew closer. Dust billowed above their heads, and she knew without a shadow of a doubt they were coming to kill her.

“Shit,” she breathed. She laid her Winchester down and checked the Colts on either side of her hips. She pulled them from the holsters and gripped the handles with her clammy palms. The forest looked more appealing now, but there was no way she’d make it without being peppered with bullets.

Poppy shook her head.

Nope, ain’t no outlaw was gonna kill her today. She checked the rounds and clicked them back into place. She swiveled to sit on her knees, aimed her guns, and began firing. Another outlaw fell from his horse and rolled to the ground. No time to see where she’d hit him, she continued to shoot.

She had five bullets in each gun and she’d fired six of them already. The men were closing in. She lifted her arm to aim at an outlaw, when a sharp pain penetrated her shoulder, and she fell backward. The pistol she’d been holding flew from her hand and lay two feet from her on the dirt ground. She inched her injured arm closer to the gun. A searing pain raced up to slam into her shoulder, and she hissed from the pain.

A bullet hit the ground beside her hand, throwing up dust. She scrambled backward closer to the rock. Hell and tarnation. She was in trouble. One gun was all she had left. She flipped open the chamber. Two bullets lay nestled inside.

“Damn it. Two shots and a lame arm.”

She hadn’t thought this through when she’d followed the outlaws from town into the blasted prairies. No shelter, and her against six dangerous men did not bode well. But Poppy never shied away from danger, and to hell if she’d do so now.

She glanced around the boulder; four riders came toward her. She leaned against the rock and inhaled—two bullets and four targets. And one damn pistol.

She could hear the horse’s hooves pounding into the ground like a hundred buffalo. Oh, what she’d give for a band of Sioux to crest the hill to her right. At least she could get out of that one. Most of the Indian tribes were friendly with her, since she could speak their language and had sat many nights around their fires.

She looked at the Winchester lying beside her. With the injured arm, she wouldn’t be able to shoot the rifle. All she needed were two extra shots. The outlaws were closing in, and she had no time to load the six-shooter.

Shots pinged off of the rock beside her head, and she shimmied closer to the ground. The guns hadn’t ceased, but instead of hitting her they were flying above her. Thank goodness. Another shot, this one from ahead of her. Had the gang circled around and were now coming for her in both directions?

In her mind’s eye she saw her sisters, Fern and Ivy, standing over her grave, broken and desolate. Nope, she’d not do that to them. She’d come out of this if she was riddled with bullets, but she’d not die.

Another shot flew ahead of her. Whoever was shooting was not aiming at her but instead at the gang. She inhaled, rotated her hips, and rested her bloody shoulder against the rock. If this was help, she’d use it. She peered around to see where the outlaws were. The Clemmons gang had retreated, and she stared at their backsides.

Poppy dropped her six-shooter—the threat of the outlaws now gone—and flexed the fist on her injured arm and almost howled from the pain. Blood dripped from her fingertips and into the dirt, creating a crimson puddle.

A rider cantered toward her from the forest where she’d left Milo. She went for her Colt and remembered she’d dropped the gun, which was now lying too far for her to grab.

The sun caught a piece of the badge he wore on the lapel of his suit. The metal star shone bright. A Pinkerton. A bloody damned Pinkerton. They were the only ones who dressed better than a judge and wore a badge.

Poppy shaded her eyes to get a better look at him when he pulled his horse to a halt right in front of her.

“You all right?” His voice was rough, gritty, and low.

She pressed her back against the rock and shimmied her way to stand.

“I’m fine,” she said and reached for her revolver.

“Looks like you’ve been shot.”

“Nothin’ gets past a Pinkerton.” She holstered her guns, the movement causing her great pain, but she refused to show him how much.

GET THE BOOK:

Amazon

iBooks

Barnes and Noble

Kobo

Playster 

AUTHOR BIO:

Kat Flannery’s love of history shows in her novels. She is an avid reader of historical, suspense, paranormal, and romance. A member of many writing groups, Kat enjoys promoting other authors on her blog. She enjoys teaching writing classes and giving back to other aspiring authors. Kat’s been published in numerous periodicals throughout her career.

Her debut novel CHASING CLOVERS has been an Amazon Top 100 Paid bestseller. LAKOTA HONOR and BLOOD CURSE (Branded Trilogy) are Kat’s two award-winning novels and MONTGOMERY SISTERS is Kat’s first novella series. She is currently hard at work on her next book.

Visit Kat at: www.katflannerybooks.com

Find her on Facebook: Kat Flannery, author

Follow her on Twitter: @KatFlannery1

Get Kat’s Newsletter: http://eepurl.com/cQmCzL

E.E.: How often to you get lost in a story?

Kat: Almost all of the time. I love to read, and I love to write. The best part of both is exactly what you just asked.  

E.E.: What’s the first book you remember reading?  

Kat: Little Women. I still love that book. I could watch and read it over and over again and never tire of it.

E.E.: What’s your favorite “love” word?

Kat: My beloved. When I was writing Lakota Honor I used a lot of Sioux within the dialogue. My beloved was how he expressed his love for her.

E.E.: What’s your favorite fairy tale?

Kat: I grew up watching all of Disney’s fairy tales, and I’d have to say my all-time favorite is Beauty and the Beast, more so for the message than anything.

E.E.: What’s your favorite cartoon character?

Kat: Bugs Bunny. He had wit and charm, and he was kind.

E.E.: What turns you off like nothing else?

Kat: Unkind people. There is no excuse for this kind of behavior, and I am completely put off by it.

E.E.: Can you tell us about a real-life hero you’ve met?

What a great question, and I’d love to tell you. My brother, Joe was a real-life hero. He passed away of cancer three years ago, but for all the crap he was dealt with in his short life he always smiled, never judged, and was the kindest person I’d ever known. Even when he was very ill, he still continued on the same as he’d always been with a great big smile on his face, and empathy for those around him. He never complained, or whined about his situation. He never blamed anyone or got angry…he was the essence of what humanity, humility and great courage is all about.

E.E.: Fairy Tale or Action Adventure?

Kat: I like both. It depends on my mood. How about a Fairy Tale with action and adventure?

E.E.: Is there a playlist you’d recommend for reading your latest release?

Kat: Not really. My playlist is all over the place with the songs I listen to. Most people who look at what is on my playlist are confused as to what genre of music I actually like…because I like them all.

E.E.: Where do you read and how often?

Kat: I do not read while writing a book. I try to read one book in between each new project, sometimes two. I have a comfy chair in my sitting room beside the fireplace…it’s the best place to read.

E.E.: What sound or noise do you love?

Kat: The laughter of my three sons.

What is your favorite love word, and why?

COMMENT AND ENTER THE RAFFLECOPTER FOR A CHANCE TO WIN A COPY OF BOOK 1 IN THE MONTGOMERY SISTERS TRILOGY, AUTHOR SWAG AND A $25 GIFT CARD.

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Trouble in Glamour Town

I've known Sarah (S.R.) Mallery for about four years now, but I've never met her in person. I hope to one day.  Isn't that the power of social media?  We've chatted, plotted and helped each other out over the years and we've yet to see each other face to face.

I'm thrilled Sarah agreed to be interviewed for Get Lost In A Story, and I think you'll love her stories, I sure do.

So, let's get started, shall we?

Sarah, how often do you get lost in a story?

ALL THE TIME. With movies, TV series, and of course, books!...in fact I even get lost in song lyrics while I drive...

What's your favorite thing about your current book hero?

For my Work In Progress, TENDER ENEMIES (not due out until mid November 2018), I like my HEROINE because she's complex. Having been molested as a young girl, she's grown up with a dual personality: strong and sassy on the outside, insecure and vulnerable on the inside.

Do you have a favorite movie of all time? Tell me about it.

There are so many, but just listening to its opening music and how it makes me INSTANTLY cry, I'd have to say, "To Kill A Mockingbird"

What's your perfect day like?

Lots of writing, editing, and good connections with author friends. Then walking as I talked to several close friends/family on the phone, walking outside and listening to Pandora, or going to my Fit Class. Then at night, sitting around with my hubby of 38 years, watching a film that makes both of us either laugh, cry, or sit on the edges of our seats!

Let's do some rapid fire questions.

Okay doke.

Favorite meal?

Steak and salad or Pizza and salad

Name something on your bucket list.

That's a hard one. I hate heights so no sky diving....I had never tried a gun but being a mystery fan, I secretly wanted to at least see what it felt like to shoot. But no go. I was told at the gun range I couldn't (detached retina problem)

Dream vacation?

Going to Tuscany and renting a little cottage. It could also be in England or Ireland.. Just somewhere picturesque and OOZING charm.

Favorite book boyfriend?

I'm such an old lady....Rhett Butler!

Favorite memory.

There have been many, but what immediately pops into my head was the time I gave a stray pregnant cat to a woman who advertised she would take her and not kill her or the kittens afterwards. Then, several weeks later she called to see if I wanted to visit with the cat's litter of seven week olds. My young kids and I went, and apparently this woman had had other pregnant cats at the same time, because when the three of us walked into this small, special room, there were twenty-five little playful kitties. O M G! Such a fun time!

Geek or Jock?

I appreciate jocky guys enormously for their hunkiness, but I also need to be around a good brain. How about a combo? That's what attracted me to my husband years ago. He was so smart but also wore a tool belt. Youza!

The most daring thing you’ve ever done… Care to share?

Oh, boy. When I was a teenager, unbeknownst to my parents, I went up in a little four-seater plane with two male teenagers. The 'pilot' teenager who was taking lessons but wasn't licensed yet (he neglected to tell me this), thought it would be fun to fly upside down and try some aerobatic tricks to see my reaction. After what seemed like hours (it was probably only five minutes), he and his pal did decide to stop and come down––I wouldn't stop moaning and crying...

Anything you want to share about your favorite shoes?

LOL. Actually no. I do not wear particularly fashionable shoes. I've always gone for comfort and lower prices.

Do you have a giveaway? If so, tell me about it.

I will be giving away three Amazon gifted ebook copies of my TROUBLE IN GLAMOUR TOWN.

Please tell me what readers should do to enter?

Follow me on Book Bub, please.  

Winners chosen May 24th.  

Let's look at the blurb for Trouble in Glamour Town.

Murder. Corruption. Romance. Movie stars. A modern day TV shoot ‘em up? No. It’s 1926 Old Hollywood, and a film producer is gunned down in cold blood. In comes Rosie, a pretty bit-player, who, in spite of her stage-mother’s expectations, just longs to be happy. Silent screen idols Clara Bow, Gloria Swanson, Lon Chaney, and Rudolph Valentino float in and out, as Los Angeles’ corruption is exposed, the era described, and a chase to find the killer revs up before there’s another hit.

Enjoy an Excerpt:

“It will take a bit of effort…a bit of sweat and perhaps…

 a bit of blood.”

 –– From the 1922 movie, Nosferatu

IT WAS ANOTHER glorious day in Los Angeles. Sparkling like actress Theda Bara’s bejeweled robe in the 1917 movie, Cleopatra, the Hollywood hills behind the man and his rifle glistened in the midday sun as each ray glanced off the small, jagged rocks. With his 1903 Springfield bolt-action sharpshooter locked tight against his shoulder, the assassin slowly rolled the scope ring around to set the precise distance. He knew from experience that with the wind factor leveled near zero, his chances were good for a clean hit.

January 4, 1926, 1:15 p.m.

   For the third time, he peered through the lens. Fifty yards directly south of his position on the low-lying rooftop was Medford Studio’s back lot. There, on the outdoor set, where a Bell & Howell 35mm camera had been set up on a wooden tripod, an agitated film director was busy barking orders through his giant megaphone, while all the actors remained frozen in their assigned positions.

 Yet to the killer, none of that scenario was important. All he cared about was how his target stood off to one side, in perfect alignment with his scope view.

“Man down,” the shooter said as human screams from below echoed up to him.

“Here we go, here we go,” he muttered. He steadied himself against the roof edge and made sure the bolt was in the forward down position. With one eye pressed against the scope, he curled his index finger around the trigger and squeezed.
On the set, the director was still hollering his directions to the actors and crew when the shot rang out.

  With a quick ‘that’s done’ sigh of relief, the killer, still clutching his rifle, wiggled backward on his belly before he stood up out of sight of the ensuing chaos. A glance down at his shoes assured him the cloth swabs covering them were still in place. Then, his bag tucked under his arm, he hurried over to the outside ladder on the roof’s back edge. From there, he deftly descended, grateful he had practiced this procedure at least once beforehand.

You can read more by picking this book up here:  http://BookShow.me/B077D7T2KC/

A little more about Sarah.

A two-time READERS’ FAVORITE Gold Medal winner, S.R. Mallery has been labeled nothing short of 'eclectic'. She has been a singer, a calligrapher, a quilt designer, and an ESL teacher. As a writer, History is her focus and like in “Forrest Gump,” she weaves her fictional characters together with real people into her stories with a delicate thread. When people talk about the news of the day, or listen to music, her imagination likens the story to a similar kind of news in the past and is conjuring up scenes between characters she has yet to meet.