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Kurzbeschreibung
No lawyers.
No judges.
No trials.
At last,
Injustice
Is Served.
Seven psychological thrillers to keep you awake at night..
Injustice Is Served is a collection of stand alone short stories where the punishment fits the crime. Albeit, the punishments are served through alternative means other than the legal justice system.
Each book is a bite-sized story. Think of them as appetizers... or a seven course meal if you manage to devour them in one sitting.
Circulatory System ~ A mother takes the love for her daughter to the next level.
Not meant for bedtime reading, children, or the guilty.
Rated M for intense violence, blood and gore, sexual content, strong language, and enough offensive content to make a man clench his knees tightly together.
~Excerpt from Circulatory System (Book 1)~
"Where am I?" The grogginess in my patient's voice tells me he's not quite with me. A few more minutes is all he needs.
I step close, brushing the light brown hair from his forehead, and a silky lock curls around my finger. The Greek would claim him as their own with his sculpted features. And the plastic surgeon in me can't help but admire his jaw line. "I'm Dr. Leyla MacIntosh. I'm going to take care of you."
His blue eyes widen, and recognition flickers in them. He lifts an arm, and the handcuff trapping his wrist clanks against the table bar. He frowns. "What's the deal?"
"I'll be handling your surgery this evening. We should talk first." I turn to my instruments and touch them one by one, ensuring each is perfectly aligned. A quick glance reveals his eyes following my hand movements.
His eyes narrow. "Let me out of this, bitch."
Even helpless as he is, he's defiant. No surprise. His cocky overconfidence was his downfall, making his capture easy for even one as slight as me. All it took was a shot of ketamine in the parking lot, and he was mine.
Not so powerful now. And that's what it's all about: power. At least that's what they say. The psychiatrists think they know it all. Yet they don't have the answers I need. His answers. "Why did you do it?"
"She was the sweetest of all." He smirks.
The grief I thought had died bubbles to the surface. I'm transported to the courtroom, looking into his victorious face all over again. And when he laughs, I know my face has bared my every emotion. I swallow the lump growing in my throat. It hurts like hell, but I manage to push it to the pit of my soul.
Conversing with a cold-hearted killer leads to nothing good. I grab a syringe and fill it with pancuronium. As I push it through his IV, his laughter fades. I tie a mask over my face. It's for my protection, not his. I wear it like an emotional shield. I am the surgeon again. Controlled. Calculated. Precise.
I pluck a blade from the surgical table and position myself between his legs spread wide in the stirrups. His penis lies limp against his thigh, and his testicles rest against the cold steel. I step forward for the first incision. He'll never rape another. Too late for my daughter, but not for other girls. Not for other girls. I refuse to cry.
No judges.
No trials.
At last,
Injustice
Is Served.
Seven psychological thrillers to keep you awake at night..
Injustice Is Served is a collection of stand alone short stories where the punishment fits the crime. Albeit, the punishments are served through alternative means other than the legal justice system.
Each book is a bite-sized story. Think of them as appetizers... or a seven course meal if you manage to devour them in one sitting.
Circulatory System ~ A mother takes the love for her daughter to the next level.
Blind Alley ~ Desperation pushes one man to exchange his dead-end life for another.
NutraLoaf ~ At the top of the food chain, life can get quite cutthroat.
Severed in Blood ~ She wanted nothing more than her husband's love.
Reasonable Risks ~ To earn the biggest payouts, you have to take the biggest risks.
Fallen ~ "Billy fell. That's what they always say in the movies."
My Favorite Color No More ~ The psychology of color. One event can put an entirely different shade on life.
Not meant for bedtime reading, children, or the guilty.
Rated M for intense violence, blood and gore, sexual content, strong language, and enough offensive content to make a man clench his knees tightly together.
~Excerpt from Circulatory System (Book 1)~
"Where am I?" The grogginess in my patient's voice tells me he's not quite with me. A few more minutes is all he needs.
I step close, brushing the light brown hair from his forehead, and a silky lock curls around my finger. The Greek would claim him as their own with his sculpted features. And the plastic surgeon in me can't help but admire his jaw line. "I'm Dr. Leyla MacIntosh. I'm going to take care of you."
His blue eyes widen, and recognition flickers in them. He lifts an arm, and the handcuff trapping his wrist clanks against the table bar. He frowns. "What's the deal?"
"I'll be handling your surgery this evening. We should talk first." I turn to my instruments and touch them one by one, ensuring each is perfectly aligned. A quick glance reveals his eyes following my hand movements.
His eyes narrow. "Let me out of this, bitch."
Even helpless as he is, he's defiant. No surprise. His cocky overconfidence was his downfall, making his capture easy for even one as slight as me. All it took was a shot of ketamine in the parking lot, and he was mine.
Not so powerful now. And that's what it's all about: power. At least that's what they say. The psychiatrists think they know it all. Yet they don't have the answers I need. His answers. "Why did you do it?"
"She was the sweetest of all." He smirks.
The grief I thought had died bubbles to the surface. I'm transported to the courtroom, looking into his victorious face all over again. And when he laughs, I know my face has bared my every emotion. I swallow the lump growing in my throat. It hurts like hell, but I manage to push it to the pit of my soul.
Conversing with a cold-hearted killer leads to nothing good. I grab a syringe and fill it with pancuronium. As I push it through his IV, his laughter fades. I tie a mask over my face. It's for my protection, not his. I wear it like an emotional shield. I am the surgeon again. Controlled. Calculated. Precise.
I pluck a blade from the surgical table and position myself between his legs spread wide in the stirrups. His penis lies limp against his thigh, and his testicles rest against the cold steel. I step forward for the first incision. He'll never rape another. Too late for my daughter, but not for other girls. Not for other girls. I refuse to cry.
