Brace yourself, kids! On March 17th, you’ll be able to get your hands and peepers on COLT COLTRANE AND THE STOLEN SKY, the third installment of my independently produced Colt Coltrane series. Pre-order your copy for your Kindles now! It will also be available for pre-order in other digital formats as well as print upon the official release.
For those who live locally to me, I will be debuting print copies at the Gem City Comic Con at the end of March, and I am ecstatic to be able to see this baby in print. I mean, look at that cover:
|Behold the gorgeous art of Justin Wasson!|
For a taste of what it’s about, here is the blurb from Amazon, where you can pre-order!
Ever since Colt and his robot sidekick Petey battled with a monster beneath the city streets, a dark cloud has been hanging over the private detective and the City of Angels at large. Struggling to find steady work and indulging an ever-increasing taste for booze, our titular hero is angling for rock bottom when his best friend, Clutch McIntyre, becomes his next client.
Clutch’s sister and her new husband have been involved in a mysterious plane crash, and dozens of passengers from a DC-4 bound for LAX lie scattered across the desert outside the city. The only problem is the aircraft appears to be missing, along with the pilot and several passengers, Clutch’s sister included. As more incidents of missing planes and passengers raining from the sky soon follow, Colt faces down biggest case of his life, with no clues to help him break it but one: a lone survivor of the original incident, a stewardess who landed in the Salton Sea and came out with a spotty memory. If he can crack the secrets she holds inside her, he could solve the mystery of the stolen sky, but doing so may also shatter everything Colt understands about himself.
As readers of the series likely know, things were pretty low for Colt in the first book. He was in a hate-filled marriage largely of his own making and his investigation of a murder case puts him squarely in the cross-hairs of the mob and the police force he once worked for.
But in STOLEN SKY, he soon finds things can get even lower as the relationship with his best friend is put on the line, and his personal demons really start to take the wheel. And as a hint, a major shift happens in this book that will affect the rest of the series going forward.
Additionally, I’ll soon be writing another mini-episode, “Colt Coltrane and the Real Quick Caper” to tide folks over until I begin the next novel in the series. For awhile, I tinkered with the idea of making this into a three-story arc, but I think I would like to push it to five, with at least as many mini-eps taking place at various points throughout the series timeline to fill in the gaps.
Finally, I’ll end here with the opening monologue and a little bit of the first scene.
I’ll sleep when I’m dead.
It was a personal motto even before my life became one long smear of nightmares. The world doesn’t wait while you give your brain a little shut-eye. Bad guys get away, evidence slips between the cracks, long incubated plans begin to hatch. By the time you wake up, you’re too late to stop any of it. Of course, now I couldn’t sleep if I wanted to, and you’d think a man who hunts clues for a living would be happy about that, but you never know how much you want something until you can’t have it. I manage to steal an hour or two at a time, just enough to keep me sane, but never enough to fill the cracks or heal the wounds. Most nights, when I close my eyes, the ghosts in my head pop to life and play the same movies over and over. Ava, my dead wife, has been the star attraction of late, back from the grave to have her revenge on me. Her hate pours out of her rotting skin along with the rest of her insides, and she plunges her fist into my chest, grabs my still-beating heart, and everything goes cold and dark. Next thing I know I’m a wide-awake sack of earthquakes soaked in moonlit sweat, wondering whether it’s punishment or luck to be alive.
Clutch McIntyre’s bot-run club, The Parts Bin, did fine business during the wee hours for folks who couldn’t lasso the sandman. Most of them were bleary-eyed zombies playing the one-armed bandits and swilling bottom shelf booze while halos of cigarette smoke circled their heads. I didn’t go for the gambling—Clutch got enough of my money replacing all of Petey’s gadgets and gizmos when they broke—but the gin was on the house. Nothing cut through the residue of a nightmare better than a tart gimlet, and I was working on my third double. Oblivion had the scent of my trail, and I would likely finish up the night on Clutch’s shop couch again, which was fine by me.