Ride Along With Gun Hording, Harley Riding Leslie Bolt in, BOLT ACTION
I’m author Victoria Roder. I live in central Wisconsin and I’m an average girl that likes to hang out with my family. We enjoy camping, hiking, shooting bow, and motorcycle rides.
Secrets of the past, murder, mystery, revenge, deception, sexual tension, and the “State Quarter Killer”; Bolt Action offers it all. In my Action Thriller, Bolt Action, Detective Leslie Bolt is a tough talking, gun hording, motorcycle riding investigator with as much insecurity as the rest of us. After a childhood of abuse suffered at the hands of her father, Leslie stashes a collection of pistols, revolvers, and even keeps a Browning A-Bolt Stalker Rifle in her broom closet. She is stand-offish and down right rude. Having to work a serial murder case with her handsome ex-lover Detective Lance Kestler doesn’t improve her disposition.
The “State Quarter Killer” is selecting victims that appear to have nothing in common except for the State Quarter placed under their lifeless bodies. As the body count mounts, Leslie Bolt begins to fall for the sexy medical examiner, Jack Donington. Perhaps a couple of Harley’s, paint drumming to music, and a new romance can help Detective Bolt conquer her own demons from the past. When Bolt’s apartment is tossed and her sister goes missing Detective Bolt must overcome her past and capture the serial killer before her sister is the next victim.
Check out the kick-ass video from Goddess Fish Promotions on YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EqcYL_G7h7s
Please check out my website to learn more, or to contact me… www.victoriaroder.com
Bolt Action paperback is available at:
ebook available at: link http://www.omnilit.com/product-boltaction-426568-152.html
Excerpt:
Lying in the dark shadows of my bedroom, I awoke
with a start at a slamming sound. Every hair on my arms
crystallized as I grappled under the pillow for my Ruger
Blackhawk .357 and flashlight. Baby, my cat, scared to near
death, screeched and ran from the bed. My heart lurched in
my chest. In the silence of the night, the sound of the Ruger
cocking ricocheted off the walls.
In an attempt to become undetectable in the
darkness, I inhaled the slowest breaths possible without
passing out. Convinced someone observed, perhaps studied,
my every movement, I summoned my courage with a
prayer. I flipped the flashlight on and scanned my bedroom.
For the third time this week, nothing, no one present.
To ease my mind, I proceeded through my duplex with
stealth-like movements, as if I were responding to an armed
intruder call. Keeping my wrists crossed with my Ruger in my
right hand and the flashlight in my left, I crept from one
room to another, turning on every light available. With my
duplex lit up like a landing strip, I positioned the flashlight on
my oak end table. Confident the twelve-and-a-half inch
barrel of my .357 protected me, I jerked open every closet
door, hoping someone waited inside to be shot. I believed an
apprehended suspect might be my chance at sanity, putting
to rest the repetitive noises and sensation of being watched.
With a predator-like approach toward the bathroom, I
noticed the shower curtain stirring. My pulse throbbed in my
esophagus, threatening to cut off my air supply. Creeping
into my nineteen-fifties Pepto Bismol pink bathroom, with a
trembling hand I grasped and jerked open the curtain. The
sound of the rings scraping against the rod made a deafening
screech.
Still nothing.
Succumbing to mental exhaustion, I leaned my head
against the bathroom door.
“Shit.” In the silence, the sound of my own voice
startled me. I couldn’t keep going like this night after night.
A slamming noise vibrated between the duplexes.
Sprinting to the kitchen, I set the flashlight on the counter
and pressed my face against the kitchen window. I cupped
my left hand around my eyes to peer into the driveway. I
surveyed the driveway I shared with my neighbor Mark, but I
couldn’t detect his car.
If he’s gone, where is the noise coming from?
I thought of one place I hadn’t checked. The thought
of entering the moldy, reeking storage area made my
stomach contents curdle like cottage cheese. With my desire
to find the source of the noises superseding my fear of dark,
damp spaces, I tucked the Ruger in the waistband of my
drawstring sleep pants.
Out of my collection of weapons that I have stashed
around my apartment, I choose my Browning A-Bolt
Stainless Stalker rifle from behind the mop in the broom
closet. I headed in the direction of the enclosed storage area.
Flipping on the porch light in hopes of frightening an
intruder, I exited my front door. As I reached the bottom of
the wooden steps, I could detect an outline of a person in
front of the shadowed storage area door. Male-at least six
feet tall.
Cocking the rifle, I warned, “Stop. I have a rifle.”
“Calm down, Bolt. It’s just me.” Lance Kestler ran his
hand through his thick black hair as he stepped from the
shadows into the glow of the porch light.
“Oh for crying out loud. What the hell are you doing
here?” I released the trigger. “Did you just come out of my
storage area?”
“No, I got out of my car and walked toward your
door.” Kestler placed his hands on his slim hips. “How come
you never wear your hair down during the day?”
I ignored the question. “I heard a door close.”
Kestler shrugged his broad, black Fieora-clothed
shoulders, and wobbled on his feet. “Must’a heard my car
door.”
Headlights from a passing car shined toward me and I
slid the rifle behind my back. “Whatever. It’s like midnight—
what the hell do you want?”
“Well, I remembered you don’t sleep much at night so
I assumed you’d still be up. Or maybe you just didn’t sleep
at night because I kept you up—or should I say you kept me
up?” Kestler took a stumbling step forward.
I blew out a breath in frustration. How did I ever get
involved with this guy in the first place? “Get off it, Kestler.
You’ve been drinking. What do you want?”
“Aren’t you gonna invite me in?” He winked in his
typical cocky manner. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had
your firm body under mine.”
I couldn’t help but roll my eyes and shake my head.
“Are you kidding me?”
“Look, I just want to apologize for how things have
been going between us lately.” Lance stumbled and dragged
his hand across the side of the duplex to stabilize himself.
“Apologize?” The rifle dug into my hand as I tightened
my grip on it. “You can’t even talk in complete sentences.
How come you only show up and want to talk after you’ve
been drinking?”
Kestler advanced two steps toward me. “What’s wrong
with you? I’m trying to rekindle a civil relationship between
us, and you show up acting like Annie Oakley the
sharpshooter.”
“You don’t do apologies, or favors without an ulterior
motive.” I pointed the rifle towards him. “What the hell do
you want? Why don’t you just go home?”
“What? You’re gonna shoot me? ” Lance threw up his
hands, pretending to surrender, and laughed.
His humor was lost on me. I wanted Kestler off my
property and wanted him to know I meant business. Not that
really would have shot him. Probably. “You’ve been
drinking, and you’re trespassing. I believed you were an
intruder and I had to defend myself.” I shrugged my
shoulders. “Sounds convincing. I might be able to get
someone to buy that.”
“You’d miss.”
My finger itched to pull the trigger. “Don’t you
remember my target scores where always better than
yours?”
Lance winked at me. “That’s because I was distracted
by your cute ass.”
I rolled my eyes. “You are an ass.”
“I’m done with trying to be nice to you.”
“When did you start?”
“Screw you.” He turned to stomp back toward his car.
I lowered the rifle and called out, “Kestler, you’ve
been drinking. Should I call you a cab?”
I heard him open his car door. As I walked backward
up the three steps to the front door, it didn’t take detective
skills to realize he didn’t have the ability nor the courtesy to
answer me. Kestler was six feet tall—could he have
consumed more then two drinks an hour? I ran back down
the steps to offer him a ride.
“Kestler!” I pounded on the hood of the car. “Kestler,
wait!”
He jammed the car in reverse, spun it around and
squealed his tires on the usually quiet street. I watched him
drive off and prayed he wouldn’t hit someone on his way
home. Retreating inside my apartment, I locked and dead-
bolted the front door. I returned the A-Bolt rifle to its spot
behind the mop in my closet, and headed for the phone to
call in a tip about a drunk driver. If he was lucky, he’d be
stopped by a friendly cop. If not—if he had to spend the
night in the drunk tank—at least he wouldn’t kill himself or
anyone else. My infuriation with Lance Kestler made my
hands jitter as if I had guzzled three pots of coffee.
Victoria Roder
You can't change the past, but you can choose your future.
www.victoriaroder.com
Bolt Action
Action Thriller
Champagne Books, April 2010
www.champagnebooks.com
You can't change the past, but you can choose your future.
www.victoriaroder.com
Bolt Action
Action Thriller
Champagne Books, April 2010
www.champagnebooks.com
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