Title: 30 Seconds Before
Prequel to 30 Seconds
Genre: Mainstream Thriller
Page Count: 60 (novella)
BLURB:Blake Herro is a cop in the Cleveland Police Force. Ever since he was a child he wanted to do right by the city he loved by cleaning up the streets and protecting its citizens. Red, a notorious mobster, has other plans.
On a bitter December night, ten police officers are drawn into a trap and killed by Red’s followers. Blake wants to bring down the Mob to avenge his fallen brothers and to prevent other cops from being murdered. Except the only way he can do that is by infiltrating the Mob.
Every minute he’s with these mobsters he’s in danger. Around every corner lies the threat of coming face to face with a gun. Will he make it out of the Mob alive or will he be their next victim?
BIO:Chrys Fey is the author of the Disaster Crimes Series (Hurricane Crimes and Seismic Crimes), as well as these releases from The Wild Rose Press: 30 Seconds, Ghost of Death, and Witch of Death. She is an administrator for the Insecure Writer's Support Group and heads their monthly newsletter.
In 30 Seconds Before, there’s a moment when Blake is wakened by his cell phone and almost drops it on his face when he answers it. I haven’t personally done this, but I’d seen memes about it and heard that a few of my friends fell victim to this. I couldn’t pass up the chance for readers to say, “Omg. I’ve done that!”
EXCERPT:One by one, he dropped his gun and taser to the floor. Then he headed straight for the kitchen to the cabinet where he kept a full bottle of bourbon and a highball glass. He grabbed the bottle, left the glass, and twisted the cap off with the goal of draining it. The first swallow burned his throat. He brought the bottle to his lips again and drank
deeply. After kicking off his boots, he lumbered up the stairs. In his bedroom, he sprawled out on his bed and drank until he passed out.
When Blake woke to his blaring cell, golden sunbeams were filtering through the blinds, throwing stripes of light across his bed, imprisoning him. He hadn’t moved an inch since the bourbon drew him down the spiraling abyss of unconsciousness. A groan clawed its way out of his throat. He plucked his phone up and brought it to his ear, nearly dropping it on his face in the process.
The Chief’s voice snapped Blake awake. “Sir?”
“Take a shower, have some coffee, and report in ASAP.”
Blake winced at the sternness in Chief Witten’s voice. He could probably smell the stale bourbon on Blake’s breath through the phone. “Yes, sir.” Blake heaved himself out of bed, showered briskly, took a couple of aspirin, and gulped down a cup of the blackest, bitterest coffee he could brew before strapping himself into his car and driving to the department. Chief Witten waited for Blake in his office with his hands folded on top of his desk and his face expressionless. “Have a seat, Herro.”