Espionage Thriller, Political Thriller, Literary Thriller

Date Published: July 1, 2026

Buried within the language of the peace are nineteen words that quietly
abandon the people who believed the bombing meant deliverance.

In Washington, a small policy institute that has spent its life describing the
world decides, for the first time, to act on it, and learns that the line
between analysis and operation, once crossed, cannot be uncrossed.

In Tehran, an air-defense colonel runs the only arithmetic that has ever
governed his life, weighing the family the regime holds against a door that
may not be real. In a blacked-out city, a nurse keeps a count the state
intends to erase, while an organizer discovers that the most dangerous thing a
broken country can do is begin to hope.

As a sixty-day clock counts down to the vote that will make the peace
permanent, three lives on opposite sides of a sealed border move toward a
single decision and toward a question no government can answer for them: What
is owed to the people you cannot save?

The Closing Window is a literary espionage thriller of statecraft,
intelligence, political consequence, and moral responsibility. A novel about
power, responsibility, and the narrowing distance between describing a
catastrophe and becoming part of it.

About the Author

Gregg Roman is a Middle East policy and security analyst who has spent more
than a decade at the center of American debates over Iran, counterterrorism,
and the politics of the region. He serves as Executive Director of the Middle
East Forum, has testified before Congress, and writes and comments widely on
national security and foreign policy. He divides his time between the United
States and Israel. The Closing Window is his first novel.

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Literary Western Fiction

Date Published: 06-13-2026

Publisher: Steinmetz Press

Meanwhile, her father champions Mark Atkins, a local editor who offers Ellar
financial security and a white-picket homestead. But beneath Mark’s
polished facade lies a dark, volatile past. When a stormy night with Joe
leaves Ellar facing a potential pregnancy, the stakes turn deadly. Knowing a
mixed-race child means social ruin for her and a hangman’s noose for
Joe, she sacrifices her happiness and accepts Mark’s marriage proposal
to save the man she loves.

Yet, safety is an illusion. Facing financial ruin and discovering Ellar’s
betrayal, Mark unleashes a brutal act of vengeance. When Ellar is fatally shot
down a long hotel corridor, Joe is immediately accused of the crime.
Orchestrating a ruthless brand of Wild West justice, Joe is burned alive in
his jail cell by a lawless vigilante mob.

“The Notorious Murder of Ellar Day is an untold story that is as compelling as
it is timely and impactful.

~Penny Haw, author of The Invincible Miss Cust and
The Woman and Her Stars.

“There is no easy or clear path for Ellar. Doing the right thing feels wrong
and doing what feels right is forbidden.” 

~Kimberly Burns, author of The Mrs.
Tabor and The Redemption of Mattie Silks

“The political and social backdrop of a bustling Colorado mining town gives
authentic historical flavor to this captivating debut novel.” 

~Sherry Skye
Stuart, author of Forgotten Female Felons Book One.

“Five stars for Marcy S. Wood’s stunning debut! This beautiful reimagining of
history portrays the delicate intersection of romantic tragedy and racial
injustice with the reverence it deserves.”

 ~Jennifer Wyrick, former owner of
the Beaumont Hotel.

Excerpt

I sped down the stairs and out the door. The hag’s vicious laugh haunted
my ears. Across the street stood Joe, speaking with the men with whom he
played cards. They joked and smoked cigarettes. Surely they knew and were
laughing at me. They fell silent as I dashed past. I tossed my mask.

“Missus Woodcock?” he said.

I ran on, too confused to orient myself.

“Excuse me,” I heard him say. To me? To his friends? I continued,
hell-bent on escaping my dreadful embarrassment. I saw Mr. Begole’s
store was closed up tight with the kerosene streetlights reflected in its
windows, and the black night everywhere else. Kicking mud behind me, I rushed
toward the company housing.

When I got to my tent, I hurled Chas’s clothes from the top drawer. I
stomped them into the muck and mire of my life. It dawned on me that my wicked
husband spent my money on whores and sodomites. I spat rancid bile from my
mouth, and it landed just shy of Joseph W. Dixon’s feet.

“You all right?” He held my mask, now tarnished with mud.

I stared at him, wishing to scream. Instead, I kept my voice low and even. I
gnashed my teeth.

“What does the W stand for?” I asked.

“What?”

“The W stands for What?”

“What are you asking me?”

“Your middle name?” He looked confused. “The W in your
middle name. You’re Joseph W. Dixon, right? Oh, never mind. Were you
aware of my husband—of his, all of this—when you met me
today?” I was angry and addled, but my run through the chilly night had
cleared my senses.

“I don’t find it my place to judge a man’s
proclivities.”

About the Author

Marcy S. Wood, MA in Creative Professional Writing, lives in the mountains of
Ouray, CO. She writes at the end of her family’s dining table with a pup
at her feet and a cat on her lap.

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Frontier & Pioneer Western Fiction; US Historical Fiction;
Action/Adventure

Date Published: March 20, 2026

 

With all the swagger of a classic western, a legendary buffalo claims his
rightful place among the genre’s most iconic heroes.

Meet Rathuun. Born in an idyllic canyon, tragedy strikes on his first day. A
grizzly bear scatters the herd, devours his twin, and leaves him to shiver and
die. But the buffalo calf with a white spot on his chin survives.

The plains are changing fast. Wagons roll west in endless streams. Telegraph
wires stretch across the horizon. Locomotives scream down polished rails,
slicing through the earth. Extinction

seems imminent when everyone wants to kill the biggest buffalo on the prairie.
Native people shoot arrows and drive herds over cliffs. Hide hunters slaughter
millions. An obsessed buffalo assassin is determined to wipe them all out and
change the world forever. There’s an army of barking rifles, and they’re all
pointed at Rathuun.

Will the hunters take Rathuun’s head and leave his carcass to rot on the
prairie?

 

This sweeping epic thunders across the American West, taking listeners
to unforgettable western landmarks. If you like classic westerns, thrilling
action, and high-stakes historical adventures, grab your copy by the horns.

 

Welcome to the prairie!

Interview

 

1. Tell us about your current release

Rathuun: King of the Prairie is the story of an American bison, told entirely from his point of view, from birth to death, as he roams the 1800s frontier. Every chapter features an iconic Western landmark. Along the way he runs headlong into danger and a world that’s changing fast. It’s meant to be an immersive experience, and I hope that readers feel like they’re migrating along with the herd.

 

1. When did you first realize you wanted to be a writer?

I enjoyed writing back in high school in the 1970s, but it wasn’t until I got lost in researching my grandfather’s dude ranch, built in the 1960s that I caught the writing bug. Now, ten years later, I’m over twenty novels into this wonderful obsession.

 

1. Have you published any previous books?

Absolutely! Before Rathuun, I published several series including: A Seph Vermillion Western Adventure, Ghosts Along the Oregon Trail, and the Adirondack Spirit Series.

 

1. What can we expect to see from you in the future, any books on the backburner?

I’m hard at work on a new series, The Frontier Adventures of Alvah Nye. It is a spinoff from my Ghosts Along the Oregon Trail, featuring several familiar characters. A prequel novella is out now: Return to Independence. Books one and two are available for preorder and are scheduled for release August 6th and September 17th respectively. 

 

1. What do you like to do when you’re not writing?

It seems like I’m always writing. I also love to travel out west, read, and hike. Strangely, I also enjoy mowing the lawn and washing dishes but not cooking.

 

1. Did you learn anything from writing your book? What was it?

I’d heard about the Great Die-Off but didn’t fully realize how absolutely devastating the winter of 1886-87 truly was. It is seldom mentioned, but had a catastrophic impact on cattle, men, and bison. When I think of it, I picture C.M. Russell’s painting, Waiting on a Chinook (Last of the 5,000). 

 

1. Some writers have something playing in the background, do you and what?

Each weekend, I pick a different artist and they become my writing partner. Mostly, I stick to classic country… Elvis, Dolly, George Strait, Marshall Tucker Band, CCR, and my new favorite, David Lewis. My favorite playlist, which always makes me want to write westerns kicks off with Ray Price’s Don’t Let The Stars Get In Your Eyes, followed by Goldie Hill’s I Let the Stars Get In My Eyes, then Eddy Arnold’s Cattle Call, and Gene Autry’s Home On the Range. There’s 41 songs on this Spotify playlist, and I’m happy to share. https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0L8pC1RtIMedKjeIkpoKp5?si=-ahQ-tNrS52I2c-pVwU_mQ

 

1. Tell us a little about yourself. Perhaps something not many people know about?

Before I became a prolific writer, I enjoyed long-distance hiking. I’ve been to the top of every mountain in the Adirondacks, and one day, May 5, 2018, I reenacted the 1960s fitness craze of walking fifty miles in one day. Maybe that’s why I love writing fiction set along a trail, and especially enjoyed plotting Rathuun’s migrations.

 

1. What do you hope your writing brings to your readers?

I love it when people tell me that they felt like they were there. I hope that readers of Rathuun imagine what it’s like to have hooves and horns, to wallow, scratch, and migrate. Those ancient paths, carved by mammoths and followed by buffalo, are now interstate highways. 

EXCERPT

From Chapter 1, opening scene

Rathuun heard a fierce roar that rattled between his ears.

He had just finished nursing for the first time since he was born a thrum, hours earlier. His mother’s warm breath had tickled his flank just moments ago.

It was a peaceful morning on the prairie, but in a flash, everything had changed.

The thunderous roar boomed again. The entire brum was on the move.

In his haste to lead his followers away from danger, Drumm sounded the alarm and leapt forward. The old bull crashed into Rathuun, sending the thrum sprawling.

Rathuun’s legs wobbled as he tried to stand. It was a miracle that the collision hadn’t broken him. There was an instinctive pull to follow the brum, and it was centered beneath his chin, between his front legs.

He blinked rapidly, whipping his head from side to side, searching for his mother. Moments ago, she had been beside him. “Hathah!” he bleated, searching for the young cow who was his whole world.

But he knew she was gone. Gone with all the others. Why had she left him behind?

He shivered at the realization that he was all alone. His heart throbbed against his ribs. It was a struggle to make sense of what had happened.

Everything turned upside down and sideways. The panicked brum quickly vanished as the plains swallowed the pounding hooves and flashing tails, leaving nothing but a faint echo of their distant bellows.

It was eerily silent in the wake of the wild scatter of the buffalos’ frenzied exodus. Rathuun took a tentative step forward, not knowing what to do or which way to go.

Dust choked the air. His third, translucent eyelid swept sideways across his eye, clearing away the grit kicked up by the fleeing brum. He stood, dazed and completely alone.

Or so he thought. The silence quickly gave way to horrible sounds.

Rathuun turned his head. Twenty feet away, something moved. A dark, hulking monster hunched over something. Rathuun’s blood pounded with fear. There was a heavy thump in his chest. Then he saw the creature.

It was a rumbler.

About the Author

David Fitz-Gerald writes frontier and pioneer western fiction from the
wilds of western Vermont—about as far west as you can get without
slipping into New York.

Though he’s never wrangled beeves to market, Dave was a top hand on his
grandfather’s dude ranch in the Adirondack Mountains… before he
turned ten. He’s lived most of his life on dirt roads. Whenever he gets
the chance, he travels west to recharge his spirit on the windswept prairies.

He’s an Adirondack 46’er which means that he’s hiked to the
top of every mountain in the park. In 2018, Dave completed the 1960s fitness
craze by hiking 50 miles in one day. That’s one heck of a long walk, but
not nearly as grueling as the iconic trails that he chases in his fiction.

Even after all these years, Dave still has his head in the clouds like Ken
from MY FRIEND FLICKA, and a quiet, self-reliant spirit like Sam from THE
TRUMPET OF THE SWAN. That blend of wonder, heart, and spirit runs through the
characters he portrays. His editor states he is “exceptionally good at
creating real moments between characters”—and readers seem to
agree.

Dave’s breakthrough series, Ghosts Along the Oregon Trail won
Chanticleer’s Grand Prize for Book Series. He’s now the author of
nearly twenty novels and counting, and as long as there’s coffee in the
kitchen, Dave will be plotting one adventurous story after another.

Contact Links

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Purchase Link

 

https://mybook.to/RathuunKingofPrairie

 

 

Paranormal Sea Adventure Romance

Date Published: July 17, 2026

First Mate Cade Talbot disobeyed a direct order, sacrificing himself to save
his best friend. Since then, Captain Grant Rowen rules his ship with an iron
fist, demanding strict compliance from all aboard.

Coffers are low, and when a lone woman requests passage to St. Thomas, Captain
Rowen accepts her payment. But the stormy sea crossing holds more than just
nature’s surprises.

Aurora Journade reveals that she not only speaks to spirits, she makes love to
them –and she doesn’t follow orders. With Aurora’s help, Cade has one last
chance to reach out to his captain. Not even death can keep them from seeking
passion’s redemption.

“Yes… no… Oh God, how you touch me, my love. But what if someone should
see us? We shouldn’t do this here.” The female voice coming from the dark
alley quivered, ripe with passion.

Grant couldn’t hear her companion’s murmured reply, but from her enthusiastic
cries it must have been to her liking.

He continued toward the tavern, almost late for a meeting. The repairs to his
ship had taken longer than he’d anticipated. Noise and smoke rolled out into
the street as Grant pushed open the scarred wooden door, spreading over him in
a wave of stinking humanity. Squinting through the smoke and dim light, he
made his way to the busy barkeep.

“I’m looking for a merchant named Crofton. Know him?”

The slight man behind the bar pointed toward the corner where most of the
noise was coming from. “Aye, Linch is over there.”

Grant squared his shoulders and strode toward the merchant. “Crofton? Captain
Rowen of the Venture. Amory Talbot said to find you the next time I was in
port.”

The older, ruddy-faced man fixed his gaze on Grant. “Yes, my cousin has good
things to say about you, Rowen. It’s a pity about his son, though. The boy was
your first mate, wasn’t he? Sit down and we’ll have a drink before we talk
business.” He motioned to the barmaid for another round.

“Thank you, sir. Yes, Cade was my first mate.” Grant took a long pull on the
foaming brew the barmaid set before him. “I’m told you’re looking for a ship
to do some regular cargo runs. The Venture is a fine vessel and I have an
experienced crew. She’s in port now if you’d like to look her over.” He took
another drink and choked back bittersweet memories. He hadn’t visited Cade’s
home port since just after his death, but it had been the closest for needed
repairs.

Breathing in the fresh night air, Grant closed the tavern door behind him. The
promise of a full cargo hold and a regular run starting at the end of the week
lifted his lagging spirits. He walked down the street, dust kicking up under
his boots as he hummed a familiar tune, one that his best friend Cade had
often whistled.

A flash of red silk coming out of the alley was the only warning he received
before he was knocked on his ass by a voluptuous female body. He wrapped his
arms around her instinctively, her bountiful breasts flattening on his chest.
The heady scent of aroused woman rose from her and his cock stiffened
instantly.

“Oh, I beg your pardon, sir! I wasn’t looking where I was going.” She
scrambled up and rushed off, leaving him with an aching cock and the
impression of long, dark passion-rustled hair, haunting gypsy eyes, and a body
made for love.

“My pleasure, miss.” He readjusted his erection and stared after the little
minx. He hadn’t had a woman in a while, but the insistent desire pulsing in
his cock from the unexpected tousle rekindled his interest. As he boarded his
ship and took over the watch, he decided it might be time to see if the
brothel in the next port was still in business.

“Please, I must speak with the captain.” Grant spied the woman rushing up the
wooden gangplank past one of his crewmen, almost tripping in her haste. Though
dressed well, she had no bags and no servants.

“I’m Captain Rowen, miss.” He extended a hand to help her onto the deck and a
thrill of awareness ran through him at the touch of her hand. It was the woman
who had run him over last night. Her beautiful black hair was confined in an
intricate knot, now, and the lush figure that had intrigued him was caged
behind a corseted gown. He much preferred the unrestrained seductress of the
night before.

She glanced up and her eyes widened with recognition and interest. Grant
smiled, sensing sexual adventure in the wind. As any good sailor, he listened
to the wind when it spoke to him.

“I am Miss Journade. I need immediate passage to St. Thomas, captain.” She
fidgeted nervously but didn’t let go of his hand or drop her gaze.

“I’m afraid most of my crew is ashore on leave, miss. You’ll have to wait
until they return before we can set sail.”

“It is important that I depart this afternoon, Captain Rowen. I can pay you
well. I am meeting a… a friend and his time is very limited. Please, sir, I
will give you whatever you want.” She stepped forward and laid her hand on his
chest, her fingers curling against the cloth. Could she feel his heart
pounding with desire?

Grant weighed his options, measuring his empty coffers and skeleton crew
against the delicious temptation of the woman and her money. Normally he would
have refused, as would most captains. Women on ships were considered bad luck,
and a woman without an escort could be nothing but trouble.

Still, the passage to St. Thomas was generally an easy one and they needed
gold after the recent repairs. He’d risk the journey and try to find an
acceptable chaperone in town while he rounded up as much of his crew as he
could find.

“Welcome aboard the Venture, Miss Journade.” He motioned toward a young boy
standing in the shadows. “Remy, please show Miss Journade to the passenger’s
quarters. I’ll be in town rounding up the crew. We set sail on my return.”

About the Author

Cassidy lives in the beautiful state of Washington and is surrounded by
mysterious rain forests, tempestuous oceans and enough gorgeous scenery to
inspire stories for at least another two hundred years.

She’s been reading romances since she was thirteen, and writing them since she
was fifteen. However, the serious writing bug didn’t bite until much later in
life, inspired by her talented husband (who is also a writer!).

Publisher on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok: @changelingpress

Motorcycle Club Romance, Suspense, Age Gap

Date Published: July 17, 2026

Griffin — Veda Garrison should have run from me. Instead, she aimed a gun at
my chest and dared me to betray her. Big mistake, sweetheart. Now she’s
mine to protect, mine to crave, and mine to keep alive. Her evidence could
destroy a trafficking ring, ignite a war with the Steel Serpents, and expose
men powerful enough to own the law. They want Veda? They’ll have to come
through me.

Warning: Adult themes including kidnapping, sex trafficking, and political
corruption, which may trigger some readers. Protective ex-con hero, HEA, and,
as always, no cheating, no cliffhangers.

EXCERPT

Veda

Four months of work fit inside a hollowed-out pen pressed against my sternum.
Ten minutes ago, I decided this was the last night I would ever set foot
inside Enclave Éclipse. The back office held its usual smells. Lemon
furniture polish from the cleaning crew that came through Tuesdays and
Fridays, the dry-paper musk of ledgers stacked four deep on the metal
shelving, and underneath all of it the faint sour note of Carl Pruitt’s
cologne, which he reapplied every afternoon at three like a man trying to mask
his lover’s perfume before he went home to his beautiful wife.

Carl’s desk sat in the middle of the room, the dominant feature.
Oversized, mahogany veneer, the leather chair behind it big enough for a man
twice his size. The bottom drawer was the one I had photographed last, the one
where the master ledger lived under a false bottom that any auditor with a
ruler would have found in nine seconds. Carl was not bright. He’d been
skimming his bosses for a year and change, and that, I suspected, was about to
matter to Carl in a very huge, very permanent way.

I crouched behind the second shelving unit with my knees pressed together,
trying to keep my breathing slow and shallow when I heard the front buzzer go.
Then the hallway door. Then the murmur of voices that did not belong to Carl.

I froze when the office door opened and four men walked in. Carl came first,
walking on his own but not by choice. His collar was already dark with sweat
and his hair stuck to his forehead. Behind him came two men I had never laid
eyes on. But the man who entered last almost made me whimper in fear.

I’d seen Iron twice before, both times here at the club and only from a
distance. He was broader up close. The tattoos that climbed up the side of his
neck disappeared into his short beard and over his shaved head. His gaze swept
the room and stopped at the desk. He noticed the open ledger on top of it that
I hadn’t had time to put away. He noticed the chair. He didn’t
notice me, because I sat very still and I had picked my hiding place in week
two for a reason. Thank God I had a small, wiry frame.

“Sit,” Iron said.

Carl sat. The leather chair sighed under him.

Iron walked to the desk. He looked down at the open ledger. He looked at Carl.
He did not raise his voice. In fact, he used all the inflection he might if he
ordered a cup of coffee. “Someone’s been going through the
books,” Iron said, still not raising his voice. He tapped a thick finger
on the open ledger. “These numbers are wrong.”

Carl’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “I don’t know what
you’re talking about. I keep everything –”

“You’ve been skimming, Carl. That’s fine.” Iron
smiled, a bare flash of teeth. “Everyone’s got their hand in the
cookie jar. But someone else has been keeping their own set of numbers. And
that’s not fine.”

“I don’t — I swear to God, I wouldn’t –”
Carl’s voice cracked.

Iron snatched Carl by the hair and slammed his face into the desk with a wet
crack. Carl’s nose sprayed blood across the ledger pages. Iron hauled
him up by the hair, Carl’s feet barely touching the floor, and slammed
him down again. This time the sound was different, duller, and Carl’s
legs kicked once and then stopped moving entirely. Iron let go. Carl slumped
sideways in the chair, his head lolling, one hand flopping limply against the
desk edge before he slid to the floor.

I pressed my hand flat over my mouth and watched Carl’s hand from my
hiding place. I kind of felt bad but Carl was a swine and he deserved
everything about to happen to him.

Iron turned to one of the other men. “Clear the hallway.”

The man nodded and left the room. Seconds later, I heard the thud of something
heavy hitting the wall, a muffled shout cut short, then the scrape of
something being dragged. The door opened again, and the man returned with two
of the hallway workers, a young man with a sleeve of tats and a woman with her
dark hair in a tight bun. Both had their hands bound behind them with zip
ties, both looked like they’d been smacked around. Terrified
didn’t begin to describe the pair.

“Against the wall,” Iron said.

The two men pushed the workers to the far wall. The woman tried to speak, her
words slurred through what was probably a broken jaw. “Please — we
didn’t –”

The shots came before she could finish. I couldn’t be sure because I
didn’t have a direct line of sight, but I thought they’d both been
shot in the head. Blood spread across the laminate wood flooring in a dark
pool.

Iron’s men began pulling files from the cabinets, sliding hard drives
into a duffel bag one of them had brought in. They worked methodically,
opening each drawer in turn, checking the contents before removing them. One
of them moved to Carl’s desk, opened the bottom drawer, and pulled out
the master ledger. He handed it to Iron, who fanned the pages with his thumb,
then nodded and set it aside.

My pen camera had gotten it all. Every page, every column of numbers, every
name. Four months of surveillance distilled down to what would fit on a micro
SD card.

Iron turned in a slow circle. Again, I couldn’t see everything but I
imagined he gave the room a final once over. Then, without changing his tone,
he said, “They’re still here.” The other men stopped what
they were doing.

“Someone was in this room tonight,” Iron continued. “They
were going through these books when we arrived. They’re still in the
building.” He looked at the two men. “Find them.”

I held my breath. My fingers pressed harder against my lips. One of the men
spoke up. “You want us to check the whole place?”

“I want you to find them,” Iron snarled. “Start with the
offices and work out.”

The men nodded and left the room, moving into the hallway. Iron remained
behind, standing over Carl’s body with his arms crossed. I could see him
now. He looked down at the ledger on the desk. There was no way to miss
Carl’s blood smeared over the cover. He turned his gaze back to the
door, then at the window on the far wall.

One of the men returned. “Garage is clear. Kitchen’s clear.”

“Keep looking,” Iron said.

The man left again. Iron pulled out his phone, sent a text, then put it away.
He paced the length of the room once, then again, his boots leaving prints in
the blood on the floor.

I needed to get out. I needed to move. But Iron was still in the room, and the
two men were searching the building, and if I stepped out from behind this
shelving unit I would be exactly as dead as Carl.

The second man came back. “Rest of the building’s clear. You want
us to check the roof?”

Iron shook his head. “They’re still here.” He looked at the
door. “They’re good at hiding, but they made a mistake. They left
this ledger open when they heard us coming in. They didn’t have time to
put it away.” He tapped his finger on the desk. “They’re
still in this room.”

My heart stopped for a full second, then kicked back into double-time. This
was it. In mere seconds I’d be dead. Or worse.

The men looked around, confused. “There’s nowhere to hide in here
except –”

“Under the desk,” Iron said. “Check under the desk.”

The first man dropped to his knees and shined a flashlight under Carl’s
massive desk. The beam swept in a wide arc, illuminating the empty knee well.
I was still behind the shelving unit, pressed flat against the wall, my knees
pulled tight to my chest.

“Nothing,” the man said.

Iron’s jaw tightened. “Check again.”

The man ducked his head lower, shining the light into every corner of the
space under the desk. “I’m telling you, there’s nobody
there.”

Iron nodded, finally satisfied. “Get the rest of the files. Then we burn
the place.”

The two men returned to the filing cabinets. They worked quickly now, pulling
out folders and stacks of paper, dumping them into the duffel bag. One of them
returned to the hallway and came back with a plastic jug. He unscrewed the cap
and began pouring a clear liquid across the floor. The sharp chemical reek cut
through the air. Smelled like gasoline or something similar.

My eyes started to water. I pressed my sleeve against my nose.

Iron watched his men work, then checked his watch. “Two minutes,”
he said. “Then we’re gone.”

They finished packing the duffel and stepped into the hallway. Iron paused at
the door, took one last look at the office, then pulled it closed behind him.

I waited silently, not daring to move or even breathe too much in case I
coughed on the fumes. I heard the front door of the building open and close. I
heard the rumble of engines starting outside. Then the fire started with a
hollow whomp. Smoke began to push under the office door in a gray curl.

I couldn’t stay behind the shelving unit. Smoke was already thickening
along the ceiling, and the acrid smell burned my nostrils. I needed to get to
the window on the far wall. Surely to God the men had all left before the
building was completely engulfed.

The smoke got thicker, pushing through the office doorway in billowing gray
clouds. Flames licked at the door facing, eating through the wood with hungry
crackles.

I crawled, keeping low beneath the smoke. The heat pressed against my skin. My
eyes stung. I ripped off my jacket and wrapped it around my right forearm,
creating a makeshift pad to protect myself. The window on the far wall was my
only way out. A narrow rectangle set high in the exterior wall, just wide
enough for my shoulders if I turned sideways.

I hurried to the window. Grabbing an ornate wooden paperweight, I hurled it at
the glass. The window shattered with a musical crash. I cleared the jagged
edges as best I could, then hoisted myself up.

Bits of glass from the window frame bit into my palms. I got my upper body
through, then twisted to bring my legs after me. The drop was about ten feet
to asphalt of the alley below. I went through feet first, pushing off from the
window frame with my hands.

The fall seemed to last forever. My stomach lurched. The ground rushed up to
meet me. I hit the pavement, stumbling forward. Pain shot up my legs and I
fell forward, rolling until I hit the brick wall of the building on the other
side of the alley.

Above me, flames licked at the edges of the broken window. The fire had taken
hold of the building’s interior. Smoke filled the alley as more of the
building caught fire and hot wind swirled around me, the fire creating its own
down draft. My eyes watered and stung, and I coughed with every intake of
breath. In minutes, the entire structure would be engulfed and I needed to be
far away from here.

I scrambled to my feet and backed against the wall, putting distance between
myself and the burning building. Embers now swirled in the air like orange
snow. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed.

I hurried to the side of the building where I’d stashed a .38 revolver
I’d purchased at a gun show a few months back. I’d always known
there was a good possibility I’d get caught and had protected myself the
only way I could think of. Didn’t do me a lot of good outside the
building, but they had metal detectors we had to pass through before entering.
I’d stashed the weapon out here knowing that window would be my best way
out in a bad situation. Thankfully, the weapon hadn’t been noticed by
anyone. I pulled it from my hiding place and clutched the weapon to me like a
lifeline.

The alley stretched about fifty yards in either direction. To my right, it
dead-ended at a brick wall. To my left, it opened onto the street that ran
past the front of the Enclave Éclipse. Going that way meant risking
being seen by whoever responded to the fire and I didn’t know if I could
see a threat coming with my eyes burning and stinging.

The sirens grew louder. I couldn’t be here when they arrived. I had no
doubt Iron had killed everyone in the building. If anyone other than me
escaped, they’d be getting as scarce as I wanted to. Everyone who worked
there knew shady shit got done inside that building. Most of them kept their
heads down, collected their cash, and ignored everything else. No one wanted
to get caught up in this mess. On either side of the law.

Halfway to the street, I heard the distinctive rumble of a motorcycle engine,
cutting through the wail of sirens. The sound grew louder. I froze, pressing
myself against the alley wall again. The smoke still hampered my vision and I
couldn’t be certain I headed away from danger rather than straight into
it.

I huddled against the alley wall, gun at the ready, though I doubted the way I
trembled would encourage the guy to keep his distance if he confronted me.
Half blinded by the smoke, I doubt I could have hit anything from any
distance. The pen camera was still tucked into my bra, the micro SD card
secure inside it. I absolutely could not lose that drive.

I took a breath and closed my eyes briefly. Sweat trickled from my hairline,
mixing with the ash and soot on my skin to drip into my eyes. I raised my hand
to swipe at the drops. I saw the blood before I touched my face. My palm must
have caught the edge of the window as I climbed out because a gash split the
meaty part of my palm. I didn’t think it was too deep, but I definitely
needed to clean and bandage it.

I had no car. I’d taken the bus here, like I did every night. I
couldn’t go to the police because two of the names on my list were
Williamson County deputies, and I had no way of knowing how many were dirty. I
couldn’t go home because Iron knew someone had been in that building,
and he would start pulling threads until he found me.

The sirens in the distance weren’t coming for me. They were coming for
the fire, and eventually for the bodies inside. By the time the first
responders arrived, I needed to be gone and the guy on the motorcycle made
that seriously difficult.

I’d gotten myself into this situation because of my sister. Tessa
Garrison. Twenty-one years old. My only family after Mom checked out. She
worked at the Enclave Éclipse for six weeks as a cocktail waitress and
then disappeared. The police finally let me file a missing persons report a
month after she vanished, only to close it two weeks later with a professional
shrug. With no leads and no evidence of foul play, the officer working her
case decided maybe she didn’t want to be found.

So I took matters into my own hands. I got a job as a bookkeeper at a tax
preparation office three blocks from the Éclipse. I made a lifted key
when the night manager left his key ring on the bar during his smoke break.
The guy had two keys for the club on the same ring and, thankfully,
hadn’t noticed one being gone in the bundle of keys he kept. I bought a
hollowed-out pen camera from a guy who sold spy gear out of his van behind the
flea market. I took photos of every ledger, every receipt, every name that
passed through Carl Pruitt’s sweaty fingers I could manage to get my
hands on.

Finally, I found what I searched so hard for. The one transaction that
shouldn’t have been there. Five thousand dollars, cash, entered the same
night Tessa disappeared. I never found Tessa’s phone and her body never
turned up. But I found enough to know she’d likely been taken. And the
people who took her were the same people who owned the Enclave Éclipse,
who paid off deputies to look the other way, who thought they could make
problems disappear with cash and threats. People like Iron.

The fire was fully involved now, visible flames from the window I’d
originally jumped from licked up the wall in an orange glow. I needed to get
out of here. Fast.

Taking a breath, I hurried down the alley, the driving certainty that danger
hunted me nearly throwing me into a panic. As I stumbled out of the alley onto
the sidewalk I collided with a large, solid body. Strong hands gripped my
shoulders, steadying me, or I’d have fallen on my ass.

“Easy there.” I shied back, backing up several steps to stand
against the building. I couldn’t see the guy clearly. His form resembled
a blurry blob, with the occasional glimpse of a person‑shaped blob.
“Hey, I’m not gonna hurt you. Are you OK? Were you in the
building?”

The guy’s question made me grip my gun all the harder. Iron knew someone
was inside the room, or, at least, the building. If this guy was one of
Iron’s men, I’d have no hope of fighting him off. I raised my gun,
tightening my grip. I still didn’t know if I could actually pull the
trigger. I mean, I could, but hesitating would be just as bad as not shooting.
Either way, I’d be dead.

The figure took a step forward, then another, his movements careful and
measured. I raised the gun, pointing at the center of what I hoped was his
chest. My finger settled alongside the trigger. I didn’t trust myself
not to shoot accidentally and hurt someone innocent.

“Don’t come any closer,” I called, my voice steady despite
the fear crawling up my throat. My hand trembled wildly as I held the heavy
firearm. My other hand burned, but I had to bring it up to hold the gun
relatively steady.

The figure stopped. For a long moment, we faced each other in the alley. The
fire cast jumping shadows across the pavement. The sirens wailed, almost on
top of us now.

“You’re bleeding.” He spoke in a calm voice. “And the
cops are thirty seconds out. You want to explain why you’re standing
outside a burning building with a gun, or do you want a ride somewhere that
isn’t here?”

Marteeka Karland is an international bestselling author who leads a double
life as an erotic romance author by evening and a semi-domesticated housewife
by day. Known for her down and dirty MC romances, Marteeka takes pleasure in
spinning tales of tenacious, protective heroes and spirited, vulnerable
heroines. She staunchly advocates that every character deserves a blissful
ending, even, sometimes, the villains in her narratives. Her writings are
speckled with intense, raw elements resulting in page-turning delight entwined
with seductive escapades leading up to gratifying conclusions that elicit a
sigh from her readers.

Away from the pen, Marteeka finds joy in baking and supporting her husband
with their gardening activities. The late summer season is set aside for
preserving the delightful harvest that springs from their combined efforts
(which is mostly his efforts, but you can count it). To stay updated with
Marteeka’s latest adventures and forthcoming books, make sure to visit her
website. Don’t forget to register for her newsletter which will pepper you
with a potpourri of Teeka’s beloved recipes, book suggestions, autograph
events, and a plethora of interesting tidbits.

Author on Instagram & TikTok: @marteekakarland

Author on Facebook

Publisher on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok: @changelingpress

Pre-Order Today

Date Published: April 1, 2026

Publisher: Manhattan Book Group

Finally, a book that actually prepares you for college! Nearly every
first-year college student discovers that college courses are more
academically challenging than high school. Professors expect you not just to
absorb material but to analyze and synthesize it, to consider multiple
perspectives, to evaluate conflicting evidence, and then to apply what you’ve
learned in new contexts.

Drawing on a lifetime of experience teaching and advising students, former
dean of Academic Advising and associate vice provost at Stanford University
Louis E. Newman explains how to do all this, and more. Whatever your background
or academic interest, this book will prepare you for college-level learning.
Thinking Critically in College is the definitive guide, not only for those in
college, but for everyone who needs a refresher on thinking clearly.

“Even students who have taken college-prep and AP courses are unprepared for
the type of learning that will take place in college. Thinking Critically in
College is poised to help all students at all types of institutions develop
the dispositions and skills necessary for success in college.” -LYNN
PASQUERELLA, president of Association of American Colleges and Universities
(AAC&U)

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A Renewed Vision for a Kinder, Gentler World

Coming of Age Memoir

Date Published: May 14, 2026

Publisher: MindStir
Media

Character
Development and Personal Growth

Kindness, Compassion, and Empathy

Family
Values and Faith

Self-Reflection and Emotional Growth

Discipline,
Responsibility, and Resilience

Youth Leadership and Positive Decision-Making

Sportsmanship and Life Lessons from Hockey

Gratitude, Forgiveness, and
Humility

Identity, Purpose, and Self-Discovery

“Kind is more
important than smart. Logic has no moral. We must be nice no matter what.”

“Forgiveness
frees you more than it frees the other person.”

Eddy never started writing
with the intention of publishing a book.

He wrote to understand
himself.

As an ice hockey goalie, Eddy has learned
lessons that extend far beyond the rink.

Eddy wrote A Boy Becoming because he believes growth happens through
ordinary moments.

Character is not built overnight.

Through his writing, Eddy hopes to
inspire readers to:

Children’s Book

Date Published: June 10, 2026

Publisher: MindStir Media

About the Author

 Danny Fanelli is a husband, father, elementary school teacher and coach from
Westchester, New York. He began playing golf and fell in love with the game at
30 years young. One of his biggest fears in life is sinking a hole-in-one
while playing solo (he’s come close). When he is not playing golf or
practicing his form in the living room, Danny takes turns with his wife
chasing his two, wild children.

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Self-Help / Philosophy

Date Published: May 30, 2023

Wars, famine, political corruption, economic depression, social injustice,
civil unrest, all of which leads to the spiritual, personal unrest of the
human soul.

And it makes us wonder… How do I, as a person, and we as human beings, work
together individually yet collectively to make the world a better place for
those who live here today and for those who will be born into this world
tomorrow?

Aspiring author Phillip Anderson, author of The Needs of the Heart, provides
deep insight into the human emotional spectrum as well as giving deep
introspective insight into the emotions and principles he believes people of
all races, religions, ethnicities, and demographic backgrounds need to not
only make themselves better people, but the world a better place.

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