A Ferocious Killer Among Them (Preview)


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Chapter One

Samuel Simms stood behind the Southern Belle’s captain, John Bellows, whose belly seemed to be hovering in front of him. He huffed and clucked, chortled and chuckled to personally great his passengers. Samuel had other things in mind. The Mississippi shipping line had hired him to protect the passengers from one another, and as the century unwound, that was becoming more dangerous.

The guns were getting both smaller and more powerful, and every rogue rascal who came aboard could have dark results on his mind. Any of them could be a cutthroat, a clip, a toss, a bounder.

“Captain John Bellows,” he said, shaking yet another pair of gloved hands.

The customers came in wearing their best, hand-tailored layers of silks crinoline, waistcoats and white gloves. Top hats were tipped, parasols draped over narrow shoulders. They all seemed well-pleased with the captain, and with themselves, and as far as Samuel was concerned, that was just as well. None of them were above his scrutiny, though most were harmless.

“Welcome to the Southern Belle.”

Passengers smiled and shook his hand, some glancing at Samuel and others even offering him a nod. Most introduced themselves to the captain, and Samuel noted the names of anybody who could be a concern.

Two of them, the least concerting among them, were a man with a Latin complexion and graying black hair, wearing a black jacket and white collar, carrying a satchel in one hand and a small, black leather-bound copy of the Holy Bible in the other. Next to him stood a woman in nun’s habit, her complexion lighter and lightly freckled.

“Captain,” he said, his accent confirming Samuel’s suspicions. “Father Pablo Diaz, First Holy Church of the Holy Sacrament.”

“Father Diaz,” the captain said, turning to Samuel. “Samuel Simms, head of security for the Southern Belle.”

“Well, then,” the priest said, “Sister Francesca here and I will feel especially secure.”

“On the contrary,” Capt. Bellows said. “I suspect having the two of you on board is more likely to earn us all a bit of divine intervention should it be necessary.”

“Certainly, it won’t be,” Father Diaz said.

“Perhaps you’d be interested in having dinner at my table,” the captain offered.

Father Diaz smiled, while Sister Francesca kept quiet, eyes cast demurely upon the deck. “Well, it’s a very gracious invitation,” he huffed, clearly a bit nervous about it. “But… we’re Dominicans, Catholics, clergy… we must remain humble.”

“I insist,” the captain said. “I sup promptly at six.”

Father Diaz glanced at his companion, and she back, before he clearly forced a smile, white teeth behind it. “We’ll see you then.”

The two walked on, Samuel and the captain watching them.

“Good omen, I’d say,” Capt. Bellows said. When Samuel offered no answer, the captain asked, “You’re not a God-fearing man, Samuel?”

Samuel turned slowly to look down at the captain, a good foot shorter than he, though possessed of almost fifty pounds of additional weight. “I don’t fear anything.”

The captain seemed to give it some thought; Samuel already had. Twelve years earlier, at just sixteen years old, he’d fought for the Union at Sutherland Station, Sailor’s Creek, Cumberland Church, among others. He’d seen things so horrific—shattered limbs, men screaming in helpless agony, cannonballs that turned a man into a cloud of red mist hovering over a pair of booted feet.

He’d seen his fellow officers rape and pillage their way through the defeated South. He had seen buildings burned, those trapped inside howling with horror and rage. He’d seen things to defile and disgrace anybody’s idea of anything like a god.

He’d seen servants of that God being both victim and criminal; many were low-rent con artists and some were coldblooded killers. It took a special kind of criminal to masquerade as a priest or a nun, but that kind of person wasn’t above anything. Though for the most part, it was a desperate gambit, and it wasn’t one that was going to work on Samuel Simms in any case.

“Captain,” a man said as he walked up the gangplank. Samuel and the captain turned to see the man, shorter than Samuel but much younger and more fit than Capt. Bellows. The fellow extended a gloved hand, taking off his top hat to address them. “Isaac Crane, Crane Publishing.”

Samuel repeated, “Publishing?”

“The best books from around the world,” the fellow Isaac said with a little smile on his face. “Five crates to the finest booksellers in New Orleans. Are you an avid reader, Captain?”

“Little time, I’m afraid.”

Isaac turned to look up at Samuel. “You, sir?”

“Simms, Samuel,” he said.

The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, or perhaps… Treasure Island?

Samuel let a long, slow pause hover between the two men before he finally said, “I don’t read about pirates or madmen, Mr. Crane… I eliminate them.”

“Oh, very good,” Isaac said, clearing his throat, “very good. Perhaps we’ll be able to discuss it at some point during the trip.” Samuel just shrugged. “Or… perhaps not.”

Captain Bellows said to Isaac, “Mister Simms handles security for the Southern Belle.”

“Oh, I see.” Isaac looked over Samuel’s tall, muscular physique.

They were different kinds of men, Samuel could see that straight away. The book publisher from Baton Rouge was smaller, built for conversation more than action. How a man would have accounted for himself on the battlefields of Gettysburg or Five Forks, he could only imagine. Though such men could still be dangerous, deadly with a knife, sneaking around to attack from behind. He wasn’t likely to be dangerous, but it was always possible.

That was always possible.

Five crates, Samuel thought, five crates in the cargo hold.

Despite his position as the chief security officer onboard, he was little more than a hotel detective on the water. The shipping line never informed him who was coming onboard or what they were carrying. It led to too much speculation, too much worry.

He’d taken that trip on the Southern Belle up and down the Mississippi River countless times, but the most dangerous elements were in the cabins, on deck, sometimes even among the crew.

Though Samuel had come to know the crew, the captain as well. The captain was a good man, reliable. He kept his ship moving on schedule and didn’t seem to tolerate sloth on the part of his crew. But that didn’t make them all entirely trustworthy. The guests often complained of theft by maids like Marie Ledeux, but they were more often than not just careless with their possessions. Most of the pickpockets and petty thieves were among the customers, as were all the gamblers.

They were the most dangerous element on the Mississippi River, by Samuel’s estimation. They were men who made their living by chicanery, deceit, charmers and rogues and rascals who would cut a throat if they couldn’t lift a purse. But that put them in Samuel’s sights, and none of them were going to get away with any of their tricks with him, not on his watch, not on his steamship. Most of them were on the stationary riverboat casinos in any case, making the Southern Belle and all her passengers a lot safer, and some of them a lot richer.

The steam whistle blew and the big paddlewheel behind the boat began pushing it away from the dock and slowly southward toward New Orleans. It was a beautiful spring day, a colorful painted bunting singing as it few overhead, the river breeze strong and refreshing. There was little reason to think anything was wrong. But something was off, something was wrong. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but his instincts were on high alert, and they’d remain that way until they pulled into New Orleans—if the ship survived the trip.

The Southern Belle was lighter and less robust than ships made for the open sea, and the Mississippi had high winds and dangerous debris under the surface that could tear through the shallow drafts and rupture the hull. But these weren’t Samuel’s main concern. It wasn’t the river, and it wasn’t the boat—it was the people on it. They were his purview, they were his charge and his challenge. They were his profession and his responsibility.

Chapter Two

Isaac Crane carried his valise to his cabin, one of many lined up along two decks. The cabins were small, not big enough for even one of the five crates he’d had stowed in the cargo hull. And his crates were the only ones. The ship seemed as much a cargo vessel as a modern luxury riverine.

After seeing to his things, Isaac decided to step out and take in a bit of the scenery, the river breeze, perhaps sample the board of fare.

On the deck, facing starboard, he spotted two familiar figures dressed in black. He’d been quite near them as they’d all boarded, and he knew just who he was looking at even at first blush.

“Father,” he said, approaching them to stand with them at the rails, “Sister.”

The priest extended his hand and offered a friendly little nod. “Father Diaz, Sister Francesca.”

“Isaac Crane, Crane Publishing.”


Isaac said, “That doesn’t… offend, Father?”

“Oh, no, not at all,” the priest said, holding up his bible. “But, of course, there’s only the one book.”

Isaac smiled and nodded, too respectful to explain how crucial it was for Isaac that Father Diaz was wrong. Instead, he turned to the nun. He hated himself for thinking it, but she was actually quite attractive. Though he could see nothing of her hair and little of her body, her face was striking in its symmetry. Her green eyes and pale skin, lightly freckled, and her faintly red eyebrows struck Isaac odd for a woman named Francesca, a name he would have associated with a Latin or an Italian complexion, such as that of her associate, the priest. He was older than her by about fifteen years, it struck Isaac. Not likely to be her father, he thought.

“So, what business brings you to New Orleans… if that’s where you’re going?”

“It is,” the priest said. “We will be ministering to the poor there.”

“Surely,” the nun said, “their need is as great as anyone’s.”

“Or greater,” Isaac said. “Have you… have you ever been to New Orleans?” The two shook their heads, and Isaac went on, “It’s a den of thievery and debauchery, a place where nobody is safe.”

“Oh my,” Sister Francesca said, holding her hand up to her lips.

But Father Diaz raised his bible to his chest and glanced upward at God as he said, “He will protect us.”

“Well, Padre, I don’t know if New Orleans is the kind of place He visits often.”

“He’s a miracle worker, sir,” the priest said. “Wherever you turn, He’s there beside you.”

Isaac nodded and glanced around. “Even getting to New Orleans may not be an easy trip. It’s easy to forget, looking around at all this… this modern luxury, but these ships have almost no navigation equipment, little in the way of emergency rescue capabilities. The water’s so muddy, filled with driftwood… our captain had better be on the alert, that’s all I can say.”

The priest and the nun shared a glance, and Isaac said, “I don’t mean to worry you. If you find yourself in any distress whatsoever, please don’t hesitate to reach out to me.”

After another quick glance between the priest and the nun, the priest said, “You’re very kind.” The nun, Sister Francesca, offered him a little smile and curtsy that seemed almost as charmed as it was charming.

Isaac tipped his hat to them both. “Enjoy your trip.”

“God bless,” the priest said as they parted company.

They struck as Isaac as perfectly reasonable, though how such a clearly Celtic girl could be called Francesca was an odd fact. Perhaps a mixed marriage and she favors her mother. I wonder how such a pretty young woman ever became a nun. Many were born and bred of terrible circumstances, the nunnery one of their few options. They often went for solace, for succor, to offer it and to receive it. But they were also very often older, plain-faced women, and often plain was too flattering. Even to call them handsome would be overstating the estimation of their feminine attractiveness.

Still, this Francesca was likely no different than most nuns, probably using a different name to hide from some villain in her past, hoping to remain quiet and safe in a world that was increasingly neither one of those things.

To even think such things about a nun, Isaac thought. Perhaps it’s time I found myself a proper wife! He glanced at the variety of passengers around him, a few of them attractive women who might even be available to a charming, professional man.

The company is finally on its feet, Isaac told himself. It’s true, I’ve had to travel a good deal, but with a minor expansion, I can turn that over to someone else. It would have to be somebody I could trust, of course.

Maybe the nun?

It was all very distracting and very amusing, but there was still the business to consider, always the business. He had to get to New Orleans, then back to Baton Rogue, then consider turning his attention to such a thing.

Always one more thing to get done, he told himself. When’s it ever going to change… until I change it?

Chapter Three

Sister Francesca walked with her friend and mentor, stately and handsome in his priest’s jacket and white collar. She kept her eyes down, not wanting to violate anybody’s privacy onboard.

She knew the kind of people who could be on a ship like that. She wondered if the publisher, or even the big security man, could have any real idea of what kind of danger they could all be facing. Sister Francesca didn’t dare speak anything of it, of course. She knew nobody on the boat would have any true understanding of the things she’d have to say. It was better to say nothing, not to see or be seen.

But the temptation was great to look into every face, to search for a trace of the true nature of evil she was nearly certain lurked in their presence. Whatever his true intention had been, the man calling himself a book publisher was certainly right about the treachery and peril they were all constantly facing.

The man calling himself Isaac Crane. Odd that he would approach us just as he did, us and nobody else. And he’s just the kind of man to present one face but truly wear another! Book publisher? With no business card?

Doubt swirled around her, and within her.

He wouldn’t solicit the business of a priest or a nun in any case! He looked at me, though, with some special interest. In my position, I shudder to think of what that could be! But in his position—and that could be almost anything—I shudder to think of what he could do.

“That fellow back there,” Father Diaz said as if reading her mind, “what did you make of that? His… his warnings. Do you think he was trying to tell us something?”

“Would he have?” They walked on a few steps further. “Book publisher, claims to be transporting books to New Orleans.”

“Yes,” Father Diaz said.

Sister Francesca went on, “That would give him access… to the cargo hold?”

Father Diaz sighed, glancing around, his voice low, whispered. “I don’t believe so.”

After a bit more thought, Sister Francesca said, “I suppose we have to be diligent.”

“Yes, Sister, I suppose we do.”

A man bumped Francesca to the side, big and clumsy, knocking her into the father, who was pushed up against the rail. Francesca’s body braced for worse.

“Oh, please,” he said with a huff, “I’m… I’m terribly sorry. Still getting my sea legs.” He wore a white mustache and a red uniform. “Please forgive me, Father, Sister.”

He extended his hand and the priest took it.

“Father Diaz, Sister Francesca,” the priest said. “Please, there’s no need to be concerned, other than for your own safety.”

“Colonel Travis Kilgore,” the man replied. “I hope you’ll let me make it up to you in some way.”

“No need, my son,” Father Diaz said. Francesca could see that the priest didn’t want to pursue a conversation, and she knew precisely why. She didn’t know the uniform, it seemed like it might have been handed down from the Revolutionary War.

“Thank you for your service,” Francesca said, earning a stern glare from the priest next to her.

But the colonel answered, “It’s all in the past now, I suppose, unless…” He seemed to slip into a reverie, sending a chill up Francesca’s spine. “No, it’s all in the past. But here’s to brighter days ahead, eh?”

“For us all,” Father Diaz said.

“For the whole country,” Col. Kilgore said, tipping his hat and moving on. “God bless.”

“God bless,” Father Diaz answered, turning to Francesca to walk her in the other direction. “What about him?”

Francesca had her instant doubts about him, for any number of reasons. The challenge was that there could be one person or five, or perhaps even none. But if they were on that boat, they were looking for her and for Father Diaz. It was a matter of finding them or being found by them. And if they missed their play and the forces of evil managed to descend upon them, countless innocent lives would be lost.

Francesca had taken an oath not to let that happen, she and Father Diaz both. They more than any other two were tasked with a horrible chore, but they had insight others didn’t—and it would have to be enough to see them all through.

Chapter Four

Isaac was impressed to have been invited to the captain’s table. It was an unexpected honor, and not one he was about to turn down. A businessman like him thrived on a network of friends and associates. Isaac knew he lacked the overwhelming physical presence of a man like Samuel Simms. But he didn’t need it. He had charm, he had intellect, he had education. And that put him at the same table as both the captain and his sturdy chief of security.

“I’m quite a fan of literature,” Capt. Bellows said, chewing on a forkful of roasted chicken, crusted with rosemary and other herbs. “Journey to the Center of the Earth was a favorite of mine some years back.”

“A fine adventure tale,” Isaac said before he took a sip of the chardonnay they had served with dinner. “Readers will always be interested in a thrilling adventure. Some prefer mysteries, but I personally enjoy a good yarn.” He turned to Samuel. “I imagine a mystery would be more along your lines, eh, Samuel?”

After a pause, Isaac asked him, “It strikes me, Mr. Simms… if you’re up here, who is out patrolling the boat, minding the cargo and so on?”

“You’re concerned about the safety of your books, Mr. Crane?”

With a slight shake of his head, Isaac answered, “Just curious.”

Captain Bellows said, “The cargo hold is locked before we head out, and it’s only unlocked during an unloading.”

“At New Orleans,” Isaac asked. This seemed to capture the attention not only of suspicious Samuel Simms, but also of the two honored clergy who were also their guests.

“Twain,” Samuel said, the table going dark.

Isaac leaned forward and turned his head just a bit. “Sorry?”

“Mark Twain.”

A long, stilted silence passed before Isaac said, “Yes, he’s… he’s a writer, also by the name of Samuel, by the way.”

“He wrote a book about it, being a riverboat captain.”

“Yes, he did, actually, just two years ago.”

“You could read that,” Samuel said. “If you were really that interested in how life on a riverboat is.”

“I did read it,” Isaac said. “I don’t recall any passages about it.”

The priest and the nun seemed to be watching with a pitched interest, eyes shifting around the table. It was easy to take it as their lofty, peaceful nature, and he had to admit they were setting a better example than Isaac himself was.

“Excuse me, Captain?”

All turned to see the restaurant’s maître d’, a stout fellow with slicked-down black hair and a tightly trimmed black mustache.

“Monsieur Lumet,” Capt. Bellows said before addressing the rest of the table. “Our esteemed maître d’.” Turning back to face the man standing by him, he said, “What is it, Pierre?”

The maître d’ handed him a small piece of paper, folded in half. The captain unfolded the message and read it. Isaac found it just as intriguing as everybody else at the table seemed to. But Samuel looked on with a special intensity, as he was going to be most closely involved with whatever peril they might be facing.

Reading his guests’ pinched expressions, the captain said, “A message of regret from one of our other guests, Col. Travis Kilgore, no less.” He handed the message back to Lumet, who turned and stepped away without a word.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Lumet said from the stage, “the Southern Belle’s very own Rosie Beloise!”

The crowd clapped as a pretty brunette took the stage next to a piano played by a tall, lean black fellow. A bouncy rhythm began with an eight-bar introduction before the woman started singing into an Edison carbon microphone.

“There is a tavern in the town,” she sang, the perky melody contrasting a story of loss to come. “And there my dear love sits him down. And drinks his wine ‘mid laughter free/and never, never thinks of me.”

Isaac watched with the others, tapping his hand to the rhythm. The priest and his nun companion shared a little glance; Capt. Bellows smiled, tilting his head from one side to the other in time. Only Samuel seemed unimpressed.

“Fare thee well, for I must leave thee, do not let the parting grieve thee, and remember that the best of friends must part/Adieu, adieu, kind friends, adieu/I can no longer stay with you.”

The singer was quite comely, with blonde hair and blue eyes and a cherubic face. She stood with her hands cupped in front of her bosom, clapping lightly along with her accompaniment.

“I’ll hang my harp on a weeping willow tree/and may the world go well with thee,” Rosie sang on. “He left me for a damsel dark/each Friday night, they used to spark/and now, my love, once true to me/takes that damsel on his knee.”

Isaac found her instantly appealing, but of course, that was her purpose. What kind of woman she was to be living as an entertainer of a riverboat would be hard to say, what kind of life she’d lived or wanted to live. But Isaac also knew he often made the same misimpression, of a conman, a traveling salesman, a bookish man with dubious intentions. It was a hard life, exhausting, and he wanted something better. Whether or not Rosie Beloise was that something, that someone, he couldn’t know.

But he was interested in finding out.

The song played on, the pianist accompanying his own solo as if he were playing two instruments at once. Isaac turned his focus from the stage to catch sight of Sister Francesca, who was looking at right him. He offered her a smile and a wink, and she looked down at the table with a little smile on her lips.

She’s not… she’s not interested in me, is she? A nun? No… I mean, maybe? I guess nuns have needs and desires like anybody else… especially this nun. But I’m not going to participate in anything like that. Just in case there is a God, I don’t want to try to steal one of his son’s wives! She’s his daughter-in-law for… for heaven’s sake!

He was very near to asking her to dance, but he thought better of it. What a spectacle that would be! And what would this pretty singer make of that, and of me?

So he let the matter go and went on with dinner. Rosie Beloise and her pianist did a few more tunes before she took another break. Isaac resolved then what he would do, but he still wasn’t sure how.

Chapter Five

The captain’s party broke up after dinner, leaving Isaac to take a breath of fresh air and consider his options. He’d had a bit too much wine with dinner, and a few too many brandies after dinner. The boat seemed unsteady around him, hand clinging tight to the safety rail. The wind off the river was colder at night, the spring air lacking the humidity so common in the region during the upcoming summer season.

Even now, he thought, I’m living in the future. But one trip will be replaced with another, and it’s too easy to see how this could go on forever.

It struck Isaac as ironic that, at such a time in his life, he seemed to be drawn to two classic icons of womanhood, the Madonna and the whore. Maybe it’s always this way, he thought. But there must be some ground between the two extremes!

Though one extreme could still be available to him. And had four days on the river before arriving in New Orleans, with little to investigate the colorful passengers, enjoy the food and the entertainment and the landscape, and maybe even change his life.


The man hit him from out of nowhere, though Isaac knew instantly what had happened and where it had come from. It was a man, big, though that was all Isaac could tell. Night had fallen over the Mississippi, the Southern Belle anchored for the night against the blind dangers of the ever-shifting river.

But the drop was hard and fast, his body flipping over the side and plummeting straight into the water. Even if he survived the drop, he’d be unlikely to survive to the shore. But the fall would probably kill him or stun him badly enough to leave him to drown without anybody having known what had happened.

His hands were quick to reach out and grab the rail. His legs flew over the side, but his hands held tight. The wood was polished and misty with the wet breeze coming off the river. He slipped, barely able to maintain his grip on the rail. He kicked his legs wildly beneath him, finding no foothold. Isaac tried to call out for help, but his instincts told him that even trying to scream might dislodge him from the rail, his own expanding chest to be the tipping point between holding on and letting go forever.

“Help,” he tried to say with as much volume as he could manage. But he couldn’t raise himself any higher on the rail, and even slid farther down as he’d feared, leaving him to cling to the rail, arms straight above him, fingers slipping fast. “Help!”

Isaac looked down at the water, the night current churning in a vast expanse of deadly black, like death itself. One hand slipped, and the other would soon follow. He reached back up, replacing one hand with the other just in time, managing to hold on for just a few precious seconds more.

Then he fell, both hands free, gravity ready to pull him to a watery grave.

But another hand grabbed his wrist at the very last moment, the power of his new and terrible momentum stopped short from above. His heart was pounding, his mind swimming with fear and confusion.

“Grab hold,” the familiar voice above him said. With Samuel’s help, Isaac managed to get a hold of the rail. Samuel used his superior strength to grab both Isaac’s hands, then his arms and chest, pulling him back up and over the rail.

Isaac found his footing on the desk, reaching out to stabilize himself against Samuel’s impressive physique.

Samuel asked, “You okay?” Isaac nodded, but in truth he truly was not sure. “What happened?”

“I… I don’t know. Somebody bumped me from behind… hard.”

“Take it for an accident?”

Isaac reviewed the facts. But his brain was so scrambled and racked with gratitude for simply being alive, deductive reasoning felt beyond him. “I… I guess it was. I can’t think of any reason that somebody would want to push me over the side.”

Samuel seemed to give it some thought, glancing around. “No witnesses, most folks are inside, enjoying the show in their cabins.”

“So… what does that mean?”

“I means we’ve got nobody to give us a firsthand account… not somebody who saw it from some objective perspective, not somebody who saw the face of the guy who bumped you.” Isaac gave it some thought, and Samuel went on to ask, “Are you sure it was a man… not a woman?”

Isaac reviewed his memory. “Well, I… I took it for man, from the size and general, I dunno, the feel of it… power, strength. But I suppose, to be perfectly honest, no, I can’t say for sure. But man or woman, why would somebody want to pitch me over the side?”

“Still have your wallet?” Isaac checked his pockets, feeling both the billfold in one breast pocket and his gold chain in the breast pocket on the other side. “Not a pickpocket then,” Samuel deduced.

“Maybe somebody getting their sea legs, had a little too much to drink.”

Samuel looked him over. “Maybe you.”


“I saw you eating and drinking in there, wine and then brandy. Maybe you just fell over?”

“Well, look, I may have had a drink or two, and the ship’s a bit… wobbly even anchored as we are. But there was no mistaking somebody else bumping into me. And that person didn’t stop to help, unless…”

Samuel’s eyes sank to shrewd slits. “What’re you implying?”

“Well, you were the one nearest to me when I fell. And it did feel like a… a big man, to be honest.”

“A Ferocious Killer Among Them” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!

Isaac Crane is delivering books to New Orleans on the paddle steamer The Southern Belle. But a brutal murder throws his plans into chaos, while a mysterious nun threatens to lead him into uncharted territory. Will he deliver his books, or become inextricably entwined in the young woman’s doings and whatever might lay behind them?

He had every intention to mind his own business but now it’s time to pull the gun…

Sister Francesca travels with a dapper priest, but agents of evil seek their lives on this trip across the Mississippi River. Among dangerous locals and natural perils, they are risking everything to be on that boat. Will the erstwhile book publisher be of any help, or will he bungle them all into certain doom? Perhaps he will prove to be just the hero she needs…

Could this be her darkest moment?

As the unlikely pair make their way along the Mississippi River, a fierce killer is watching them closely. It won’t be long before something much greater than a murder scheme is revealed… While they fight to prevent what could be a tremendous catastrophe, they will find out that danger can be every bit as powerful as the Mighty Mississippi herself!

“A Ferocious Killer Among Them” is a historical adventure novel of approximately 80,000 words. No cliffhangers, only pure unadulterated action.

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3 thoughts on “A Ferocious Killer Among Them (Preview)”

    1. Sounds very interesting. Can’t wait for your notice of the completed book.
      Your best fan.

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