So, Barbara's Redemption, Book 2 in my Disarmed & Dangerous series is finished, just waiting on some final comments from my street team before I send it off to my publisher. And as happens every time I write a new book, I found my next hero, Zak. I can't wait to start his story, but I promised myself I wouldn't until I've re-written Kate & Jack's. So, I'm fidgeting, desperate to start a new book - but Zak will just have to wait, although I suspect Book 3 is not going to be long...
If you want a reminder who Barbara is, I featured her in Flynn's Kiss, Disarmed & Dangerous Book 1. Barbara Lynn Perry came to an evening of celebration for one of my book launches (Flight of Her Life) and won a competition for me to name a character after her. She was only supposed to be a walk-on part, but she said, “Oooohh, can I be a cold-hearted killer?” Sure you can, Barbara! And a new heroine was born.
Here's a little snippet from Flynn's Kiss - if you want to buy the Book, here are the links.
The pressure in his head made him think it might just explode as he hung upside down from the ceiling. He cracked open his eyes and gave a vague stare at the pool of crimson blood as it gathered and spread in a glutinous puddle over the broken tiles below him. Strange how some of it trickled away to be sucked in by the thirsty dirt lining the floor.
He strained his neck to get a better view of his surroundings. The scorch of pain in his back throbbed in time with his heartbeat, and his face pulsated from the buildup of blood pressing to escape from wounds inflicted by the sharp laceration of a knife through his left cheek from ear to chin. It burned deep into the tender flesh at the corner of his mouth and sent pulse waves of agony through every nerve in his body. He poked his thickened, dry tongue into the rip and withdrew it with a hiss of pain.
Survival wasn’t as certain as it had been fifteen minutes earlier, before the blood had started to stream from him as he swung, suspended like a stuck pig. The ability to think waned. Fifteen minutes ago, he could still have freed himself, slipped his chains and slit the throats of his three captors before they had a chance to draw breath. But his opportunity had passed. He had to wait for the next one, one that possibly didn’t require the ability to think. He closed his eyes to allow his mind to drift with the rhythmic pendulum swing of his body.
Dim awareness warned him they were back. Silent, they approached and he knew their fear of him made them cautious. The gleam of the knife glinted in his peripheral vision. A vicious gouge tore through his skin from eyebrow to jaw and intersected the first cut to narrowly miss his eye as the lethal slash of it scored deep. The blood splatter thrashed a pattern across the floor beneath him to join the vast puddle of dark red blood and coated the walls that flashed in and out of his line of sight.
His body swung fast and erratic as pain branded his very soul.
Ashamed of the sound of his own low guttural groan, his eyelids fluttered in protest and his parched lips stuck together, the tender skin stretched and torn. The keening sound of an injured animal still escaped them and for the first time gave him reason to hope as the three men made their mistake and laughed like over-excited hyenas, anxiety stretching their voices to fever pitch, which allowed him to pinpoint their positions.
Stark light hammered on his eyelids from the sun blazing through the open window into the bright white room. He made a conscious decision to keep his eyes closed, feigning defeat, not difficult to do under the circumstances and not so far away from reality.
He knew before they did it, they would cut him down, and understood this might be his last opportunity, his final hope. A muffled sound of movement preceded a wild jerk of the rope, followed by the dead weight of his body as it hit the floor like a sack of grain. He was unable to suppress the agonized grunt of pain as his injured face slapped hard into the pool of his own blood. His eyes opened and he peered with dull disinterest through sweat-stuck eyelashes at the gruesome red pattern sprayed around him as the men laughed once more.
His body almost finished, he rallied and called on every last fiber of his being to react. He gathered himself and squinted to focus on the gleam of the knife. He knew the next time it moved, it would be the death thrust.
“Why, hello, boys.”
His head too heavy, he struggled to raise it and just about managed to focus his bleary eyes on the tiny blonde with the oversized breasts. The sun slanted over her hair and made it gleam bright white like a halo as she leaned casually against the open doorway. In any other life, she would have been a mirage, but he knew without a doubt, in this one, she was his savior.
Barbara Lynn Perry stepped inside the arched doorway of the bright white cell, a feral grin plastered across her face and the look of death in her eye.
Three men dropped stone cold dead into the thick spread of blood on the floor. The weight of the third man slapped into him, drawing another deep groan of agony up from his belly through his throat.
“Hey, Barbie.” The breathless grunt should have shamed him, but he was too relieved. “You sure took your time, honey.” He forced his guttural voice out through his parched throat and tried to smile, but the searing pain in his cheek froze it in place.
“Don’t fucking call me Barbie. If you weren’t going to die anyhow, I’d kill you.”
Her smooth Canadian accent sounded like heaven to him, and he felt the thick slime of blood coating his teeth as he grimaced at her.
She rolled the dead body off his with a firm push of her foot. She elicited another grunt from him as she yanked his hair and stared hard into his face, her huge baby blue eyes narrowed for a second. He felt the sear of her stare trace his features before she blew out a disgusted breath and let his head drop with a solid thunk to the ground.
“You’re a fucking mess, Flynn, but you’re going to have to walk out of here, because I’m not fucking carrying you. Haul ass. I’ve done my bit.”
From the vantage point of the cool tiled floor, steeped in his own blood and that of three dead men, Flynn tipped his head, narrowed his eyes, and admired the fast sway of Barbie’s ass as she hightailed it back out of the cell and left him to tend to his own survival.