Sneak peek into Bolt Action by Victoria Roder

Ride Along With Gun Hording, Harley Riding Leslie Bolt in, BOLT ACTION

I’m author Victoria Roder.  I live in central Wisconsin and I’m an average girl that likes to hang out with my family.  We enjoy camping, hiking, shooting bow, and motorcycle rides. 

Secrets of the past, murder, mystery, revenge, deception, sexual tension, and the “State Quarter Killer”; Bolt Action offers it all.  In my Action Thriller, Bolt Action, Detective Leslie Bolt is a tough talking, gun hording, motorcycle riding investigator with as much insecurity as the rest of us.  After a childhood of abuse suffered at the hands of her father, Leslie stashes a collection of pistols, revolvers, and even keeps a Browning A-Bolt Stalker Rifle in her broom closet.  She is stand-offish and down right rude.  Having to work a serial murder case with her handsome ex-lover Detective Lance Kestler doesn’t improve her disposition. 

The “State Quarter Killer” is selecting victims that appear to have nothing in common except for the State Quarter placed under their lifeless bodies.  As the body count mounts, Leslie Bolt begins to fall for the sexy medical examiner, Jack Donington.  Perhaps a couple of Harley’s, paint drumming to music, and a new romance can help Detective Bolt conquer her own demons from the past.  When Bolt’s apartment is tossed and her sister goes missing Detective Bolt must overcome her past and capture the serial killer before her sister is the next victim. 

Check out the kick-ass video from Goddess Fish Promotions on YouTube:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EqcYL_G7h7s

Please check out my website to learn more, or to contact me… www.victoriaroder.com

Bolt Action paperback is available at:  

http://champagnebooks.com/shop/index.php?route=product/category&path=27_49 

ebook available at: link http://www.omnilit.com/product-boltaction-426568-152.html  

 Excerpt: 

 

     Lying in the dark shadows of my bedroom, I awoke

with a start at a slamming sound. Every hair on my arms

crystallized as I grappled under the pillow for my Ruger

Blackhawk .357 and flashlight. Baby, my cat, scared to near

death, screeched and ran from the bed. My heart lurched in

my chest. In the silence of the night, the sound of the Ruger

cocking ricocheted off the walls.

 

     In an attempt to become undetectable in the

darkness, I inhaled the slowest breaths possible without

passing out. Convinced someone observed, perhaps studied,

my every movement, I summoned my courage with a

prayer. I flipped the flashlight on and scanned my bedroom.

For the third time this week, nothing, no one present.

 

     To ease my mind, I proceeded through my duplex with

stealth-like movements, as if I were responding to an armed

intruder call. Keeping my wrists crossed with my Ruger in my

right hand and the flashlight in my left, I crept from one

room to another, turning on every light available. With my

duplex lit up like a landing strip, I positioned the flashlight on

my oak end table. Confident the twelve-and-a-half inch

barrel of my .357 protected me, I jerked open every closet

door, hoping someone waited inside to be shot. I believed an

apprehended suspect might be my chance at sanity, putting

to rest the repetitive noises and sensation of being watched.

 

     With a predator-like approach toward the bathroom, I

noticed the shower curtain stirring. My pulse throbbed in my

esophagus, threatening to cut off my air supply. Creeping

into my nineteen-fifties Pepto Bismol pink bathroom, with a  

trembling hand I grasped and jerked open the curtain. The

sound of the rings scraping against the rod made a deafening

screech.

 

     Still nothing.

 

     Succumbing to mental exhaustion, I leaned my head

against the bathroom door.

 

     “Shit.” In the silence, the sound of my own voice

startled me. I couldn’t keep going like this night after night.

 

     A slamming noise vibrated between the duplexes.

Sprinting to the kitchen, I set the flashlight on the counter

and pressed my face against the kitchen window. I cupped

my left hand around my eyes to peer into the driveway. I

surveyed the driveway I shared with my neighbor Mark, but I

couldn’t detect his car.

 

     If he’s gone, where is the noise coming from?

 

     I thought of one place I hadn’t checked. The thought

of entering the moldy, reeking storage area made my

stomach contents curdle like cottage cheese. With my desire

to find the source of the noises superseding my fear of dark,

damp spaces, I tucked the Ruger in the waistband of my

drawstring sleep pants.

 

     Out of my collection of weapons that I have stashed

around my apartment, I choose my Browning A-Bolt

Stainless Stalker rifle from behind the mop in the broom

closet. I headed in the direction of the enclosed storage area.

Flipping on the porch light in hopes of frightening an

intruder, I exited my front door. As I reached the bottom of

the wooden steps, I could detect an outline of a person in

front of the shadowed storage area door. Male-at least six

feet tall.

 

     Cocking the rifle, I warned, “Stop. I have a rifle.”

 

     “Calm down, Bolt. It’s just me.” Lance Kestler ran his

hand through his thick black hair as he stepped from the

shadows into the glow of the porch light.

 

     “Oh for crying out loud. What the hell are you doing

here?” I released the trigger. “Did you just come out of my

storage area?”

 

     “No, I got out of my car and walked toward your

door.” Kestler placed his hands on his slim hips. “How come

you never wear your hair down during the day?”

 

     I ignored the question. “I heard a door close.”

 

     Kestler shrugged his broad, black Fieora-clothed

shoulders, and wobbled on his feet. “Must’a heard my car

door.”

 

     Headlights from a passing car shined toward me and I

slid the rifle behind my back. “Whatever. It’s like midnight—

what the hell do you want?”

 

     “Well, I remembered you don’t sleep much at night so

I assumed you’d still be up. Or maybe you just didn’t sleep

at night because I kept you up—or should I say you kept me

up?” Kestler took a stumbling step forward.

 

     I blew out a breath in frustration. How did I ever get

involved with this guy in the first place? “Get off it, Kestler.

You’ve been drinking. What do you want?”

 

     “Aren’t you gonna invite me in?” He winked in his

typical cocky manner. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had

your firm body under mine.”

 

     I couldn’t help but roll my eyes and shake my head.

“Are you kidding me?”

 

     “Look, I just want to apologize for how things have

been going between us lately.” Lance stumbled and dragged

his hand across the side of the duplex to stabilize himself.

 

     “Apologize?” The rifle dug into my hand as I tightened

my grip on it. “You can’t even talk in complete sentences.

How come you only show up and want to talk after you’ve

been drinking?”

 

     Kestler advanced two steps toward me. “What’s wrong

with you? I’m trying to rekindle a civil relationship between

us, and you show up acting like Annie Oakley the

sharpshooter.”

 

     “You don’t do apologies, or favors without an ulterior

motive.” I pointed the rifle towards him. “What the hell do

you want? Why don’t you just go home?”

 

     “What? You’re gonna shoot me? ” Lance threw up his

hands, pretending to surrender, and laughed.

 

     His humor was lost on me. I wanted Kestler off my

property and wanted him to know I meant business. Not that

really would have shot him. Probably. “You’ve been

drinking, and you’re trespassing. I believed you were an

intruder and I had to defend myself.” I shrugged my

shoulders. “Sounds convincing. I might be able to get

someone to buy that.”

 

     “You’d miss.”

 

     My finger itched to pull the trigger. “Don’t you

remember my target scores where always better than

yours?”

 

     Lance winked at me. “That’s because I was distracted

by your cute ass.”

 

     I rolled my eyes. “You are an ass.”

 

     “I’m done with trying to be nice to you.”

 

     “When did you start?”

 

     “Screw you.” He turned to stomp back toward his car.

 

     I lowered the rifle and called out, “Kestler, you’ve

been drinking. Should I call you a cab?”

 

     I heard him open his car door. As I walked backward

up the three steps to the front door, it didn’t take detective

skills to realize he didn’t have the ability nor the courtesy to

answer me. Kestler was six feet tall—could he have

consumed more then two drinks an hour? I ran back down

the steps to offer him a ride.

 

     “Kestler!” I pounded on the hood of the car. “Kestler,

wait!”

 

     He jammed the car in reverse, spun it around and

squealed his tires on the usually quiet street. I watched him

drive off and prayed he wouldn’t hit someone on his way

home. Retreating inside my apartment, I locked and dead-

bolted the front door. I returned the A-Bolt rifle to its spot

behind the mop in my closet, and headed for the phone to

call in a tip about a drunk driver. If he was lucky, he’d be

stopped by a friendly cop. If not—if he had to spend the

night in the drunk tank—at least he wouldn’t kill himself or

anyone else. My infuriation with Lance Kestler made my

hands jitter as if I had guzzled three pots of coffee.

 

Victoria Roder
You can't change the past, but you can choose your future. 
www.victoriaroder.com


Bolt Action
Action Thriller
Champagne Books, April 2010
www.champagnebooks.com