Witness Betrayed by Linda Ladd - Book Tour + Giveaway
Witness Betrayed
A Will Novak Novel #3
by Linda Ladd
Genre: Mystery/Thriller
Pub Date: 10/2/18
No Friends
Mardi Gras whips New Orleans’ French Quarter into a whirlpool of excess,
color, booze, noise, motion. So the woman in the sights of Will
Novak’s binoculars stands out. She’s bruised, barefoot, wearing a
man’s raincoat. And she’s looking right at him.
color, booze, noise, motion. So the woman in the sights of Will
Novak’s binoculars stands out. She’s bruised, barefoot, wearing a
man’s raincoat. And she’s looking right at him.
No Faith
In a moment she’s fleeing into the crowd, but Novak knows she’s not
gone for good. When she comes back, it’s with a gun to his head—and
a story about crony politics, a crooked judge, a kidnapped
whistleblower, and children in deadly danger. Novak can’t let this one slide.
gone for good. When she comes back, it’s with a gun to his head—and
a story about crony politics, a crooked judge, a kidnapped
whistleblower, and children in deadly danger. Novak can’t let this one slide.
No Fury
Through the grit of Houston’s underbelly to the grime below Beverly Hills’
glamor, a trickle of rot connects the powerful to the desperate and
corrupts the men and women who are supposed to stand against it.
Deceit is everywhere. If he’s going to do right, Novak is going to
have to do it alone . . .
glamor, a trickle of rot connects the powerful to the desperate and
corrupts the men and women who are supposed to stand against it.
Deceit is everywhere. If he’s going to do right, Novak is going to
have to do it alone . . .
Say Your Goodbyes
A Will Novak Novel #2
SAY YOU’RE DREAMING
When a scream wakes Will Novak in the middle of the night, at first he
puts it down to the nightmares. He's alone on a sailboat in the
Caribbean, miles from land. And his demons never leave him.
SAY YOUR PRAYERS
The screams are real, though, coming from another boat just a rifle’s
night scope away. It only takes seconds for Novak to witness one
murder and stop another. But with the killer on the run and a
beautiful stranger dripping on his deck, Novak has gotten himself
into a new kind of deep water.
BUT DON’T SAY YOUR NAME
The young woman he saved says she doesn't know who she is. But someone
does, and they're burning fuel and cash to chase Novak and his new
acquaintance from one island to the next, across dangerous seas and
right into the wilds of the Yucatan jungle. If either of them is
going to live, Novak is going to need answers, fast—and he's
guessing he won't like what he finds out . . .
When a scream wakes Will Novak in the middle of the night, at first he
puts it down to the nightmares. He's alone on a sailboat in the
Caribbean, miles from land. And his demons never leave him.
SAY YOUR PRAYERS
The screams are real, though, coming from another boat just a rifle’s
night scope away. It only takes seconds for Novak to witness one
murder and stop another. But with the killer on the run and a
beautiful stranger dripping on his deck, Novak has gotten himself
into a new kind of deep water.
BUT DON’T SAY YOUR NAME
The young woman he saved says she doesn't know who she is. But someone
does, and they're burning fuel and cash to chase Novak and his new
acquaintance from one island to the next, across dangerous seas and
right into the wilds of the Yucatan jungle. If either of them is
going to live, Novak is going to need answers, fast—and he's
guessing he won't like what he finds out . . .
Bad Road to Nowhere
A Will Novak Novel #1
BAD MEMORIES
Not many people know their way through the bayous well enough to find
Will Novak’s crumbling mansion outside New Orleans. Not that Novak
wants to talk to anyone. He keeps his guns close and his guard always up.
BAD SISTER
Mariah Murray is one selfish, reckless, manipulative woman, the kind Novak
would never want to get tangled up with. But he can’t say no to his
dead’s wife sister.
BAD VIBES
When Mariah tells him she wants to rescue a childhood friend, another
Aussie girl gone conveniently missing in north Georgia, Novak can’t
turn her down. She’s hiding something. But the pretty little town
she’s targeted screams trouble, too. Novak knows there’s a trap
waiting. But until he springs it, there’s no telling who to trust . . .
Not many people know their way through the bayous well enough to find
Will Novak’s crumbling mansion outside New Orleans. Not that Novak
wants to talk to anyone. He keeps his guns close and his guard always up.
BAD SISTER
Mariah Murray is one selfish, reckless, manipulative woman, the kind Novak
would never want to get tangled up with. But he can’t say no to his
dead’s wife sister.
BAD VIBES
When Mariah tells him she wants to rescue a childhood friend, another
Aussie girl gone conveniently missing in north Georgia, Novak can’t
turn her down. She’s hiding something. But the pretty little town
she’s targeted screams trouble, too. Novak knows there’s a trap
waiting. But until he springs it, there’s no telling who to trust . . .
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Once Novak was satisfied
with his efforts, he hoisted himself back up and straddled the rail. He raised
his face, shut his eyes, and felt the fire of the sun burn hot into his bare skin.
He was already sunburned from his time out on the drink, his skin burnished a
deep, warm bronze. After a few minutes, he shifted his gaze down onto
the slow, rippling bayou
current. It was good to be back home, good to be sober, good to be able to think
clearly. He had wrestled his demons back under control, at least for the
moment. He left his perch, stooped down, and pulled a cold bottle of Dixie beer
from the cooler. He twisted off the cap and took a deep draft, thirsty and
tired from a full day of hard physical labor. That’s when he first heard the
sound of a vehicle, coming closer, turning off the old bayou road and heading
down through the swampy woods to his place.
Grimacing, annoyed as hell,
not pleased about uninvited guests showing up, he lowered the beer bottle,
shielded his eyes with his forearm, and peered up the long grassy field that
stretched between the bayou and the ancient plantation house he’d inherited
from his mother on the day he was born. He had not been expecting company
today. Or any other day. He
did not like company. He did not like people coming around his place, and that
was putting it mildly. He was a serious loner. He liked to be invisible.
Anonymous. He liked his privacy. And he was willing to protect it.
The sun broiled down, the
temperature probably close to ninety, humidity hugging the bayou like a wool
blanket, thick and wet and heavy. Drops of perspiration rolled down his
forehead and burned into his eyes. Novak grabbed a towel and mopped the sweat
off his face and chest. Then he took another long drink of the icy beer. But he
kept his attention focused on the spot where his road emerged from the dense
grove of giant live oaks and cypress trees and magnolias.
The sugar plantation was
ancient and now defunct, but it was a huge property, none of which had ever
been sold out of his family. It took a lot of his effort to keep the place even
in modest repair. The mansion on the knoll above him had stood in the same spot
for over two hundred years. And it looked like it, too, with most of the white
paint peeled off and weathered to gray years ago.
Once upon a time, his
wealthy Creole ancestors, the St. Pierre family, had sold their sugar at top
price and flourished for a century and a half on the bayou plantation they’d
named Bonne Terre. They had been quite the elite in Napoleonic New Orleans, he
had been told. They still were quite the elite, but mostly in France now. The
magnificence with which
they’d endowed the place was long gone and the house in need of serious
renovation. Someday, maybe. Right now, he preferred to live on his boat where
it was cooler and more to his liking.
Minutes passed, and then
the car appeared and proceeded slowly around the circular driveway leading to
his front gallery. It was a late model Taurus, apple-red and shiny clean and
glinting like a fine ruby under the blinding sunlight. Probably a New Orleans
rental. He’d never seen the car before. That meant a stranger, which in Novak’s
experience usually meant trouble. Few visitors found their way this far down
into the bayou. Ever. That’s why he lived there.
Claire Morgan was the
exception and one of the few people who knew where he lived, but he trusted
her. She was a former homicide detective who’d hired him on as a partner in her
new private investigation agency. But it wasn’t Claire who’d come to call
today. She was still on her honeymoon with Nicholas Black, out in the Hawaiian
Islands, living it up on some big estate on the island of Kauai. They’d been
gone around eight weeks now, and that had given Novak plenty of time to do his
own thing. Especially after what had happened on
their wedding day. The
three of them and a couple of other guys had gotten into a particularly hellish
mess and had been lucky to make it out alive. Novak’s shoulder wound had healed
up well enough, but all of them deserved some R & R. Other than Claire,
though, only a handful of people knew where to find him. He didn’t give out his
address, and that had served him well.
Novak wiped his sweaty
palms on his faded khaki shorts and kept his gaze focused on the Taurus. Behind
him, the bayou drifted along in its slow, swirling currents, rippling and
splashing south toward the Gulf of Mexico. As soon as the car left his field of
vision, he headed down the hatch steps into the dim, cool quarters belowdecks.
At the bottom, he stretched
up and reached back into the highest shelf. He pulled out his .45 caliber
service weapon. A nice little Kimber 1911. Fully loaded and ready to go. The
heft of it felt damn good. Back where it belonged. He checked the mag, racked a
round into the chamber, and then wedged the gun down inside his back
waistband. He grabbed a
clean white T-shirt and pulled it over his head as he climbed back up to the
stern deck. Picking up a pair of high-powered binoculars, he scanned the back
gallery of his house and the wide grassy yard surrounding it.
Nothing moved. He walked
down the gangplank and stepped off into the shade thrown by the covered dock.
He moved past the boatlift berths but he kept his attention riveted up on the
house. The long fields he’d mowed the day before stretched about a hundred
yards up from the bayou. The big mansion sat at the far edge, shaded by a
dozen ancient live oaks,
all draped almost to the ground with long and wispy tendrils of the gray Spanish
moss so prevalent in the bayou.
The wide gallery encircled
the first floor, on all four sides, twelve feet wide, with a twelve-feet-high
ceiling. No wind now, all vestiges of the breeze gone, everything still,
everything quiet. He could see the east side of the house. It was deserted. The
guy in the car could be anywhere by now. He could be anybody. He could be good.
He could be bad. He could be there to kill Novak. That was the most likely
scenario. Novak sure as hell had plenty of enemies who wanted him dead, all
over the world. Right up the highway in New Orleans, in fact. Whoever was in
that Taurus, whatever they wanted, Novak wanted them inside his gun sights
first before they spotted him.
Taking off toward the
house, he jogged down the bank and up onto a narrow dirt path hidden by a long
fencerow. Then he headed up the gradual rise, staying well behind the fence
covered with climbing ivy and flowering azalea bushes. He kept his weapon out
in front using both hands, finger alongside the trigger. Guys who were after
him usually just wanted to put a bullet in Novak’s skull. Some had even tried
their luck, but nobody had tried it on his home turf. He didn’t like that.
Wasn’t too savvy on their part, either. When he reached the backyard, he pulled
up under the branches of a huge mimosa tree. He crouched down there and waited,
listening.
No thud of running feet. No
whispered orders to spread out and find him. No nothing, except some stupid
bird chirping its head off somewhere high above him. He searched the trees and
found a mockingbird sitting on the carved balustrade on the second-floor
gallery.
Novak waited a couple more
minutes. Then he ran lightly across the grass and took the wide back steps
three at a time. He crossed the gallery quickly and pressed his back against
the wall. He listened again and heard nothing, so he inched his way around the
corner onto the west gallery and then up the side of the house to the front
corner. That’s when he
heard the loud clang of his century-old iron door knocker. He froze in his
tracks.
Directly in front of him, a
long white wicker swing swayed in a sudden gust of wind. He darted a quick look
around the corner of the house. Three yards down the gallery from him, a woman
stood at his front door, her right side turned to him. She was alone. She was
unarmed, considering how skin-tight her skimpy outfit molded
to her slim body. While he
watched, she lifted the heavy door knocker and let it clang down again. Hard.
Impatient. Annoyed. She was tall, maybe five feet eight or nine inches. Long
black hair curled down around her shoulders. She was slender and her body was
fit, all shown to advantage in her tight white Daisy Dukes and a blackand-
white chevron crop top. She turned slightly, and Novak glimpsed her impressively
toned and suntanned midriff and the lower curve of her breasts. She was not
wearing a bra, and her legs were naked, too,
shapely and also darkly
tanned. White sandals with silver buckles. She looked sexy as hell but
harmless.
On the other hand, Novak had
known a woman or two who’d also looked sexy and harmless, but who had
assassinated more men than Novak had ever thought about gunning down. Keeping
his weapon down alongside his right thigh but ready, he stepped out where she
could see him but also where he’d have a good shot at her, if all was not as it
seemed. The woman apparently had a highly cultivated sense of awareness because
she immediately spun toward him.
That’s when Novak’s knees
almost buckled. He went weak all over, his muscles just going slack. His heart
faltered mid-beat. He stared at her, so completely stunned he could not move or
speak.
Then his dead wife, the
only woman he had ever loved, his beautiful Sarah, smiled at him and said in
her familiar Australian accent,
“How ya goin’, Will. Long
time no see.”
Linda Ladd is the bestselling author of over a dozen novels,
including the Claire Morgan thrillers. She makes her home in
Missouri, where she lives with her husband and old beagle named
Banjo. She loves traveling and spending time with her two adult
children,two grandsons, and granddaughter. In addition to writing,
Linda enjoys target shooting and is a good markswoman with a Glock 19
similar to her fictional detectives. She loves to read good books,
play tennis and board games, and watch fast-paced action movies. She
is currently at work on her next novel.
including the Claire Morgan thrillers. She makes her home in
Missouri, where she lives with her husband and old beagle named
Banjo. She loves traveling and spending time with her two adult
children,two grandsons, and granddaughter. In addition to writing,
Linda enjoys target shooting and is a good markswoman with a Glock 19
similar to her fictional detectives. She loves to read good books,
play tennis and board games, and watch fast-paced action movies. She
is currently at work on her next novel.
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2 Comments
I enjoyed reading the excerpt. Thanks for the opportunity
ReplyDeleteSounds like a good book!
ReplyDeletePlease try not to spam posts with the same comments over and over again. Authors like seeing thoughtful comments about their books, not the same old, "I like the cover" or "sounds good" comments. While that is nice, putting some real thought and effort in is appreciated. Thank you.