If you're in the mood for thrills and adventure, Grave Secrets is the book for you. From the wilderness of Alaska to a courtroom in Washington DC, survival is the name of the game when a CIA operative decides the rules don't apply to him, divorce isn't the answer, and his ex-wife needs to be buried in an unmarked grave. Join Sarina and Duke as they accept the challenge and raise the stakes. You won't be disappointed!
I know, I know, I already gave you the first couple of chapters in a previous blog, but I thought you might also get a kick out of one of my favorite scenes in the book. Poor Duke Murphy has no idea what's heading his way. To say he is doomed from the start is an understatement.
Duke stared up at the sky, worried about his state of mind. Did what he saw signal the onslaught of another PTSD attack? Or was it the result of too much booze? He hoped it was the latter. Prayed he was right. Damn, how much had he drunk at Whiskey Jack's last night to cause him to see what he was seeing now? And hearing. To say he had overindulged at the bar was putting it mildly. But, how else could he smooth out the edges before heading home to the butler from hell?
His mind snapped back to the present with the woman's screams. They reached fever pitch as she plunged, an out-of-control puppet tethered to a parachute, one she had no power over. She had no helmet, no goggles, and no idea what the hell she was doing — a virgin jumper about to experience a world of pain. Or worse.
His Irish wolfhound barked, gazing at the same spot on the horizon and apparently hearing the same shrieks. The dog did not suffer from PTSD and had not drunk a drop last night, which meant the woman falling from the sky was real.
Shit. Just shit. “It's raining blonds.”
Hefting his pack, Duke shouted the go command. Mooch sprinted into the valley where the woman fell among the trees. He raced after him. A bear roared somewhere nearby, most likely freaked out by her shrieks. It would rip her to shreds if it reached her first. Greet her with teeth and claws wrapped up in a thousand or more pounds of pissed off.
Duke pulled his sidearm, not much good but better than nothing. He fired into the ground on the fly, hoping to startle the bear. Leg muscles pumping, his mind locked onto its military training. Run fast. Be ready to hit the dirt. Watch out for trip wires. Spot the Tango. Kill him before he kills you.
Except, rampaging bears were not on the list. This was Alaska, not some godforsaken desert, and not the same reasons to break out in a sweat. He thought about his teammates' ghosts for a second, until another roar from Smokey broke the sound barrier.