What follows is a novel Idea I started on and sort of abandoned. It is an interesting beginning, and I love the characters.
If you are interested in seeing this book become a reality, please let me know in the comments 🙂
The house sat at the end of North Avondale Avenue, alone and apparently vacant. It had been abandoned for over twenty years, ever since the previous owner had decided it was all too much for him and eaten the end of a .38 Special. Most folks said it was haunted by his spirit, even if they couldn’t remember his name. The strange noises heard late at night, the muffled screams, the creaking and groaning of old timbers… it was all enough to keep only the most curious from even passing the rickety wrought-iron fence.
Inside, Lisa Weaver watched her life-blood trickle away, knowing there was nothing she could do to stop herself from moving into the darkness. She hung upside down over rust-encrusted bathtub, her throat cut from ear to ear, her long blond hair trailing in the blood like an old mop. She’d been tied in such a way that blood would continue to flow to her brain until the last possible moment, allowing her to feel her limbs cramp and die and her heart stop beating before the last of her life finally trickled away into the blood-caked drain. Soon it became hard for her to concentrate and the young blond squinted at the trickle of blood, her mind calling out for help, for a one in a million chance to live even as the last of her life trickled away…
Special Agent Cheyenne Sommers held her new Glock 20 in a Weaver stance and narrowed her eyes at the distant target. The black silhouette seemed to grin at her as widely as the range officer had when she pulled the massive weapon from its case and began loading the fifteen round magazine. She’d ignored his muttered “you’ll never handle it,” and continued loading until the magazine was full. She’d put on her headphones, jacked a round into the weapon and hefted it, pointing it down range as if the weapon had been born in her hands.
A small part of her admitted that it looked odd, though; the black polymer grip against her tanned skin and non-regulation red-painted nails. Men twice her size had given up the 10MM cartridge when she was still in diapers. They’d switched to the smaller, lighter S&W .40 caliber. But Cheyenne found the “40 short and weak” to be exactly as advertised and she wanted something with a little more oomph now that she was a field agent.
She took a half-breath and squeezed the trigger. The weapon cracked like an elephant gun and punched a hole wide and to the left. The range officer barked laughter and called “maybe you should go back to Quantico, kid! Get a little more training!”
Cheyenne ignored him and adjusted her aim. Her eyes narrowed again and she squeezed the trigger once, twice and then twelve more times. She ejected the spent magazine and watched the weapon smoke for a moment before putting another loaded weapon and slipping it into the Uncle Mike’s shoulder holster beneath the jacket of her skirt-suit. She closed the case and walked back down the range. She pulled off her headgear and winked at the range officer who was staring in surprise at the silhouette target. She’d left behind a perfect smiley face and then cut out the target’s heart like a cardiologist working on a patient.