The following article contains the Prologue and Chapter 1 from my new novella "Power In The Blood". Now available at Amazon.com.
If you wish to purchase a copy, please check the Amazon Kindle Link shown at the end of this article.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
PROLOGUE
As
Heather
sauntered
past
his
table,
Martin
Sullivan
allowed
himself
a
moment
to
enjoy
the
scrumptious
nature
of
the
young
woman's
figure.
Her
body
was
slender
and
very
shapely,
having
a
delightful
muscle
tone
that
came
from
working
out
three
times
a
week.
On
this
particular
evening,
Heather's
legs
were
adorned
by
stockings
that
were
very
sheer
and
had
a
shading
that
was
commonly
referred
to
as
"Barely
Black".
This
gave
Martin's
favorite
casino
hostess
a
look
that
was
decidedly
different
from
the
jet
black
ballerina
tights
being
worn
by
every
other
hostess
in
the
establishment.
As
far
as
company
management
was
concerned,
there
was
nothing
improper
about
a
hostess
choosing
to
wear
sheer
hosiery.
Most
of
the
girls
preferred
to
wear
heavy tights
because
there
was
much
less
chance
of
them
having
a
serious
snag
or
run
after
only
one
evening
of
use.
In
Heather's
case,
a minor
bending
of
the
normal
procedure
was
her
way
of
informing
Martin
that
she
was
in
the
mood
for
having
sex
with
him
this
evening.
When
her
hosiery
was
off
black
and
very
sheer,
it
always
meant
that
the
stockings
were
thigh
tops
and
that
she
wasn't
wearing
panties
beneath
her
skirt.
Martin
would
have
another
three
and
a
half
hours
to
ponder
the
knowledge
that
his
lady
friend
was
wearing
absolutely
nothing
under
her
hostess
uniform.
Her
five
hour
shift
on
the
floor
would
end
thirty
minutes
before
his
eight
hours
of
dealing
black
jack.
The
girl
would
be
waiting
for
him
at
his
place
this
evening
when
he
arrived
with
a
pizza
and
a
six
pack
of
soft
drinks.
Not
the
most
romantic
of
dinners
but
each
of
them
planned
on
eating
just
enough
to
prevent hunger
from
getting in the way of
screwing
each
other's
brains
out.
At
the
immediate
moment,
the
only
thing
distracting
Martin's
brain
from
thinking
only
about
Heather
was
the
fact
that
he
was
back
at
the
same
table
with
his
least
favorite
player.
In
his
fourteen
years
of
dealing
Black
Jack,
Martin
Sullivan
had
never
seen
anyone
have
as
much
obscenely
good
luck
as
Arthur
Trice.
This
was
the
man's
fifteenth
or
sixteenth
Monday
evening
of
walking
into
the
Swan
Casino
with
only
one
hundred
dollars
in
cash
and
walking
away
with
more
than
three
thousand.
Trice
clearly
wasn't
counting
cards,
Martin
was
absolutely
certain
of
that.
He'd
helped
catch
his
share
of
cheaters
over
the
years
and
all
of
them
invariable
had
a
handful
of
odd
little
traits
that
started
giving
them
away
within
an
hour
or
two.
"Have
you
ever
noticed
that
no
one
drinks
at
his
table?"
The
previous
Monday's
Pit
Boss
had
asked
Martin,
just
after
Trice
had
left
the
casino.
"People
at
his
table
had
drinks
this
evening,"
Martin
replied.
"There
were
people
who
had
drinks
in
front
of
them
but
no
one
was
downing
what
was
in
their
cup,"
The
Boss
countered.
"As
soon
as
our
friend
Mr.
Trice
put
himself
at
that
table,
anyone
who
had
anything
alcoholic
immediately
stopped
drinking
it.
And
people
who
are
even
the
least
bit
inebriated
tend
to
avoid
sitting
at
a
table
once
he's
there.
Joe
and
Jane
Lush
may
be
going
over
to
check
out
what's
happening
but
they'll
always
turn
and
go
somewhere
else."
"He
must
radiate
a
special
kind
if
Karma,"
Martin
joked,
a
touch
of
exasperation
in
his
voice.
"Not
quite
certain
what
the
little
twerp
is
radiating!"
The
Boss
had
said.
But
if
I
ever
catch
his
smarmy
ass
cheating,
I'm
gonna
make
sure
that
all
ten
of
his
greedy
little
fingers
get
broken."
Martin
was
pretty
sure
this
particular
Pit
Boss
was
merely
venting
his
anger
at
being
taken
for
a
sizable
loss
on
four
different
occasions.
Trice
was
just
plain
lucky.
"Luck
coming
out
the
ears"
as
Martin's
grandmother
had
been
fond
of
saying.
Whenever
Trice
sat
down
at
a
Black
Jack
table,
the
winning
percentages
of
every
single
person
at
that
particular
station
seemed
to
improve
by
well
over
two
hundred
percent.
In
theory,
the
odds
for
Black
Jack
should
be
weighted
towards
the
players.
Having
absolutely
no
discretion
in
what
he
was
doing
as
he
gamed
against
the
people
who
were
seated
around
his
table,
the
Dealer
had
to
keep
drawing
cards
for
himself
until
his
point
total
had
reached
or
exceeded
the
number
seventeen.
That
would
leave
someone
like
Martin
with
only
a
four
point
safety
margin.
At
twenty
two
points
or
higher;
the
Dealer
would
be
busted
and
any
player
who
hadn't
already
gone
over
twenty
one
would
automatically
win,
no
matter
how
low
his
or
her
point
total
might
be.
In
the
real
world,
the
problem
for
the
players
was
that
they
had
absolutely
no
control
over
who
might
be
sitting
at
the
table
with
them.
Any
Sam
or
Sheila
could
plop
down
at
an
empty
space,
put
their
chips
on
the
table
and
start
playing
a
hand.
Which
meant
that
three
or
four
conscientious
individuals
might
be
carefully
watching
each
others
card
patterns
and
doing
a
good
job
of
forcing
the
dealer
into
going
over
his
limit.
Then
one
boozer
who
was
much
too
intoxicated
to
think
anywhere
near
straight
would
plop
his
ass
down
in
a
chair
and
quickly
begin
to
ruin
the
game
for
everyone
else.
Now
that
the
Dealer
rotation
had
put
him
back
at
the
same
table
with
Trice
for
an
hour,
Martin
began
to
take
account
of
the
fact
that
none
of
the
players
would
drink
anything
with
alcohol
in
it.
Even
more
unusual
was
the
fact
that
though
three
people
walked
away
and
four
new
ones
came
in,
the
group
continually
played
in
a
way
that
maximized
the
profits
of
Arthur
Trice.
Each
individual
generally
played
to
win
but
there
would
be
odd
moments
when
a
man
or
woman
would
refuse
to
take
a
card,
even
though
their
hand
really
needed
the
extra
point
value.
In
each
instance
of
a
person
skipping
his
or
her
logical
deal,
Trice
was
provided
a
much
better
chance
of
drawing
a
good
card
or
Martin
was
handed
an
increased
probability
of
going
over
his
limit.
I'm
going
to
be
keeping
a
very
close
eye
on
you
from
now
on,
Mister
Trice.
Martin
thought
to
himself,
as
he
looked
directly
at
the
tall
slender
man
seated
on
the
number
four
chair.
You'll
have
to
turn
your
back
at
some
point,
my
friend!
Martin
could
hear
in
his
mind
as
Trice
looked
up
from
his
cards
and
grinned
directly
at
him.
Martin
Sullivan
was
cited
for
negligence
that
evening
after
suddenly
walking
away
from
his
table
and
leaving
the
casino
without
signaling
the
pit
boss
first.
Fifteen
hours
later,
his
mutilated
body
was
discovered
in
a
restaurant
dumpster
three
blocks
away.
CHAPTER
01
-
Vixen
-
"We
appear
to
be
dealing
with
a
loon
who
thinks
he's
a
Vampire,"
I'd
said
to
the
other
eleven
members
of
my
task
force
on
the
second
Thursday
of
September.
Only
five
of
these
officers
were
individuals
I
was
actually
used
to
working
with.
The
person
in
my
position
will
generally
have
three
or
four
days
to
compile
a
team.
I'd
been
forced
to
cobble
this
one
together
in
less
than
twenty-four
hours.
I'd
also
had
to
miss
my
Wednesday
evening
manicure
and
pedicure
appointment
and
was
not
at
all
happy
that
Carlos
wouldn't
be
able
to
squeeze
me
in
till
this
coming
Tuesday
at
the
earliest.
The
fingernails,
I
could
do
a
better
than
average
job
of
touching
up
on
my
own
but
I
don't
trust
my
little
piggies
to
anyone
other
than
Carlos
Emmanuel.
"During
the
past
eight
weeks,
our
suspect
has
killed
at
least
eleven
people
in
the
greater
Chicago
area."
I
continued."
Four
in
Chicago
proper
and
another
seven
in
the
surrounding
communities.
All
eleven
had
severe
mutilation
marks
on
their
necks
and
all
had
been
drained
of
more
than
two
thirds
of
their
blood."
"Lieutenant
Van
Dyne!"
One
of
the
new
guys
shouted
out
as
his
hand
shot
up
into
the
air
above
his
head.
From
the
corner
of
my
eye,
I
could
see
Tom
Grayson
smirking
and
wincing
at
the
same
time.
"Not
meaning
to
sound
picky,"
I
said
to
him
with
a
soft
smile.
"But
the
title
is
Chief
Investigator.
In
spite
of
the
silver
bar
you
see
on
my
name
tag;
I'm
a
contract
employee
for
the
department,
not
a
career
Police
Officer."
"Chief
Investigator,"
He
corrected
himself,
with
a
slight
smile
of
his
own.
"Has
there
been
any
particular
pattern
to
the
lifestyles
of
the
victims?"
"Not
that
we
can
tell
at
this
time,"
I
answered.
"Three
girls
and
one
guy
were
most
likely
street
hustlers.
After
that
we
have
an
Atlanta
businessman,
an
Episcopal
Priest,
and
a
woman
from
Seattle
who
was
here
for
a
job
interview
with
Sunrise
International
Bank.
One
guy
was
in
town
for
a
horror
movie
festival
and
a
fairly
curvy
blond
had
an
ongoing
gig
as
eye
candy
at
numerous
trade
shows
and
some
of
the
more
heavily
promoted
professional
wrestling
events.
The
most
recent
victim
was
a
Black
Jack
dealer
at
the
casino
in
Lexington."
"Has
there
been
a
blood
draining
pattern
in
any
other
major
city?"
Lieutenant
Grayson
inquired.
"Montreal
had
a
rash
of
similar
killings
about
six
years
ago,"
I
replied.
"London
and
Edinburgh
seemed
to
face
the
same
sort
of
thing
about
four
and
six
years
before
that."
"So
we're
dealing
with
a
guy
who's
jumped
from
Britain
to
Canada
and
then
here."
He
commented.
"Not
necessarily,"
I
responded.
"Correlation
does
not
always
equal
causality."
"Would
you
mind
saying
that
in
everyday
English?"
He
joked
and
I
had
to
wait
for
the
chuckling
to
die
down.
"I'll
try
to
keep
it
to
words
of
two
syllables
or
less
just
for
you
Tom,"
I
countered,
"This
might
not
be
the
same
guy
or
gal.
We're
waiting
to
hear
more
from
Scotland
Yard
and
the
RCMP."
My
relationship
with
Tom
Grayson
would
be
best
described
as
"complicated".
Two
individuals
who
help
each
other
get
the
job
done
but
have
little
desire
to
be
friends
in
even
the
slightest
degree.
The
friction
started
with
me
getting
recruited
by
the
department
to
be
their
newest
Project
Coordinator
when
Grayson
thought
the
job
should
have
been
his
because
he
had
seventeen
years
on
the
force
and
was
good
at
creating
resource
flow
charts
and
writing
incident
reports.
The
man
knows
that
I
didn't
actually
apply
for
the
position,
that
the
department
came
looking
for
me
and
this
prevents
him
from
actually
hating
me
in
any
way.
But
there's
been
this
massive
wall
of
tension
standing
between
the
two
of
us
during
the
past
three
and
a
half
years
and
we've
barely
been
able
to
do
more
than
sand
off
the
rough
edges.
Tom
and
I
do
interact
well
professionally
and
we
look
just
a
bit
too
good
standing
next
to
each
other.
Which
causes
a
few
well
meaning
but
completely
clueless
individuals
to
believe
that
we
should
pair
off
and
produce
absolutely
adorable
babies.
A
significant
minority
of
the
busybodies
in
the
Chicagoland
media
seem
to
have
this
strange
desire
to
see
Tom
and
me
produce
a
batch
of
perfect
little
cubs
and
then
allow
all
of
them
to
draw
lots
for
who
gets
the
pick
of
the
litter.
And
the
more
determined
these
well
meaning
pea
brains
are
to
shove
the
two
of
us
together,
the
more
conviction
Grayson
and
I
seem
to
have
about
putting
the
maximum
possible
amount
of
distance
between
his
body
and
mine.
Almost
impossible
when
that
guy
and
this
girl
are
the
yin
and
yang
of
what
makes
this
unit
function.
I
have
a
natural
talent
for
recognizing
complex
patterns
that
most
people
would
overlook
while
Tom
understands
department
protocol
and
procedure
twice
as
well
as
anyone
else
I've
met.
I
swear
the
man
could
probably
do
a
better
job
of
filling
out
paperwork
in
his
sleep
than
over
half
the
department
manages
to
accomplish
while
awake.
If
it
were
just
a
matter
of
looks,
I'd
be
all
over
Tom
Grayson
before
either
of
us
could
even
blink.
The
man's
in
his
early
forties
and
his
body
fills
out
a
three
piece
suit
just
a
little
too
well.
He's
got
that
"Professional
Boxer
With
A
College
Degree"
look
going
for
him.
Ruggedly
handsome
and
just
a
little
too
aware
of
that
fact.
Which
leads
to
Tom's
major
failing
as
a
potential
relationship
partner.
There's
a
certain
style
of
woman
that
Grayson
is
consistently
drawn
to
and
most
of
their
ilk
seem
too
much
like
the
type
of
call
girl
I
tried
to
pass
myself
off
as
the
couple
of
times
I
was
helping
with
a
sting
operation
in
the
warehouse
district.
Tom
has
an
almost
fatal
weakness
for
females
who
look
much
too
good
in
a
mini
skirt
on
a
bar
stool.
The
ones
who
are
always
a
little
too
eager
to
have
a
few
drinks
with
an
off
duty
cop
or
firefighter.
My
friend
Claire
jokingly
calls
them
"Adoration
Vampires".
I
once
asked
her
what
she
meant
by
the
term
and
she
explained
that
certain
individuals
get
an
emotional
boost
from
hanging
out
with
important
people
and
receiving
attention
from
them.
Made
a
bit
of
sense
after
I'd
thought
about
it
for
a
few
minutes.
Strike
three
for
Tom
and
me
is
that
Project
Coordinators
have
traditionally
been
the
rank
of
Detective
Lieutenant
or
higher
but
I
snuck
in
the
back
door
as
an
Investigator.
Until
I
signed
on
as
the
P.C.O.
for
the
newly
created
Seventh
District,
the
metro
government
had
always
used
the
title
of
Investigator
as
a
way
to
temporarily
bring
in
an
outside
expert
or
two
and
give
them
police
authority
for
a
short
term
period
of
about
thirty
to
ninety
days.
Like
the
time
they
deputized
a
dozen
accountants
to
allow
them
to
help
with
a
massive
insurance
fraud
examination.
But
there's
nothing
in
the
regs
that
say
an
Investigator
appointment
can't
be
long
term
so
they
offered
me
a
one
year
contract
with
the
possibility
of
a
three
year
extension.
Then
they
invented
the
title
of
Chief
Investigator
and
engraved
a
Lieutenant's
bar
on
my
name
tag
so
Detective
Sergeants
would
know
that
I
didn't
have
to
put
up
with
any
of
the
crap
they
might
be
tempted
to
toss
in
my
direction.
In
his
own
strange
way,
Grayson
did
me
a
favor
on
the
job
and
title
situation.
Before
Tom
started
raising
seven
different
kinds
of
ruckus,
the
powers
that
be
were
planning
on
waving
the
shooting
exam
requirement
and
simply
allowing
me
to
serve
as
a
desk
officer.
Like
I
said,
the
man
knows
department
regulations
forward,
backward
and
sideways
and
he
quoted
the
higher
ups
chapter
and
verse
and
made
them
issue
a
statement
that
I
would
have
to
pass
the
firearms
test
or
the
job
offer
would
be
withdrawn.
Having
my
weapons
proficiency
certification
makes
it
a
lot
harder
for
anyone
to
say
that
I
got
this
job
because
strings
were
pulled.
The
few
individuals
who
still
try
to
make
that
complaint
also
tend
to
be
the
types
who
aren't
allowed
within
half
a
mile
of
any
hotel
that's
hosting
an
X-Files
Convention.
The
Northern
Illinois
Certification
Office
field
tested
fifty-seven
other
people
on
the
Saturday
afternoon
when
I
showed
up
to
prove
my
stuff.
Of
the
forty-three
who
passed
the
shooting
exam,
I
scored
in
at
sixth
place.
There's
something
to
be
said
about
being
raised
by
an
uncle
who
enjoyed
putting
meat
on
the
table
the
old-fashioned
way.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I sincerely hope you have enjoyed the sneak peak. To order a copy from Amazon ... Click on the following link.
Or go to the Amazon site for your country and search for ...
Travis Clemmons / Power In The Blood
