Thursday, July 16, 2020

This Week's Excerpt - The Gray Men Trilogy

I wrote The Gray Men trilogy in 2015. It's an action-filled thriller with supernatural elements. Today's excerpt is from the first book, Storm Rising. The entire trilogy can be purchased here in one volume. The individual books are also for sale.

Also available at Amazon


Chaos.

Pain. 

Death.

The Gray Men have lived among us for centuries. They exist to cause suffering. Now they’ve gathered to strike again, controlling the minds of ordinary citizens and turning them into vicious killers.

For years, The Guild has resisted the Gray Men. Their agents have been waiting for the Gray Men to appear once again. John Marshall is one of these agents. Armed and trained by the Guild, he discovers the Gray Men are gathering followers and preparing to wipe out anyone not on their side.

An explosion set off by followers of the Gray Men begins a chain of violent attacks in John's hometown. John realizes that nowhere is safe as the Gray Men and their followers spread panic and death like a contagious disease. 

John takes his family and goes on the run. As society begins to break down, John must keep his family safe while carrying out his mission to fight the Gray Men.


Storm Rising

Copyright 2015 Anthony Izzo


They had come to kill her. Trina was sure of that. She stole glances in the rearview mirror. The drive-in speaker blared fuzz in her ear. On screen, Liam Neeson chopped a terrorist in the side of the neck. The last night of the season at one of the last remaining drive-ins in the state. A little relaxation is what she'd hoped for. Now she had to deal with the killers. 

Not that she wasn't ready for them; she had a Sig Sauer P220 in the glove box and a pistol grip shotgun under a blanket in the back seat. Not to mention two K-Bar knives strapped on her person. She reached over, popped the glove box, and took out the Sig. She set it on her lap. On screen, Neeson was blasting two guys to hell; she liked his style. 

They'd trailed her here in a black Ram pick-up. Hadn't done a great job of it, as she'd spotted them a quarter mile back, matching her moves. Now they were parked two cars behind her, at least two of them that she could see sitting in the cab of the Ram. They were Larsen's men, of that she was sure. What she didn't know was how they'd caught her scent; it didn't matter now. She'd have to deal with them.

The bad thing about these fucks was that they didn't care. A public place meant nothing to them. They'd shoot you up in a day care center. It didn't matter as long as they found the target. Larsen wanted her dead. She'd almost caught up to him near Albany, but he'd slipped away. Now he'd set his dogs on her. 
She peeked in the rearview mirror. On the second screen behind her, they were showing some animated flick. There would be a lot of kids. Trina basically thought kids were booger and fart machines, but she didn't want to see any of them dead. When the men came for her, she'd have to draw them away somehow. 

She glanced at the Subaru parked next to her. The young couple inside were locked up in a make-out session. The guy had a hand under his girl's tank top. At least someone was enjoying the drive-in right now. 

She looked in the rearview. They were still watching the movie, both of them wearing sunglasses.
Subtle, fellas. Why not just throw on some black trench coats, too?

It was about to go down. Time to move. 


Trina stepped out of the Acura. She shut the door. Her Sig Sauer was in a shoulder rig under her jacket.

It was warm for early October. Seventy degrees at this time of night. A lukewarm breeze blew across her face. She started down the first row of cars. The snack stand, with its giant neon hamburger sign, stood a few hundred feet from the screens. Beyond that was a white stucco building that housed the restrooms. 

That would be the place to go. 
She glanced sidelong at the truck and saw them step out. There were three in all. A big bald guy with the sleeves cut off his flannel, a lanky guy with motor-oil slick hair and aviator shades, and a woman shaped roughly like a tennis ball on toothpicks. 

She crossed the road that bisected the drive-in and passed the snack stand. The greasy smell of movie popcorn drifted from the stand. It made her stomach rumble. 

They would be about fifty feet behind her. She risked another glance, concerned about giving herself away. The trio walked side-by-side. 

The bathroom was lit by sodium vapor lights. Even in early fall, moths fluttered in the lights.  The crowd had gathered around the snack stand, leaving the bathroom empty. 

Trina went into the ladies room, took out the Sig. She ducked and checked the stalls for feet. It was unoccupied, so she took the first stall and climbed onto the seat, balancing her boots on the seat in a squat.

She waited.





 

Friday, July 03, 2020

The Damage Factory: Excerpt of the Week

This week's excerpt is from The Damage Factory. It's one of my favorite titles I've come up with. If a shadowy criminal organization being hired to ruin people's lives sounds good, then you'll like The Damage Factory. 

It's available on these e-book platforms. Paperback and e-book are also available through Amazon. 

"Don’t write anything down. Don’t tell anyone you talked to me. And for God’s sake, make sure no one follows you." What would you do if a secret criminal organization was hired to destroy your life? Three unsuspecting people tied together by a tragic event are about to find out. John Georges is out for revenge. He meets with a member of The Damage Factory and hires them to seek vengeance.Their goal is to dismantle lives. As John's victims find out, once The Damage Factory is in motion, there is no turning back. The Damage Factory. Business is good.






The Damage Factory

Copyright 2017 Anthony Izzo


Don’t write anything down. Don’t tell anyone you talked to me. And for God’s sake, make sure no one follows you.  

That’s what the rough-sounding voice on the phone had told him. 

John George pulled up to the hulking warehouse, wondering if he should turn back, the man’s words echoing in his mind. He didn’t. Instead, he got out of the car and immediately smelled the dead fish odor coming off the lake.  

He went to the passenger’s side, opened the door, and took out a bulky manila envelope.  

As he approached a steel door, he noticed a security camera mounted overhead. There was a doorbell mounted on the wall. He pressed it and heard a loud bell echo from somewhere in the warehouse. It reminded him of the old fire alarm in his elementary school. 

He waited, used to being patient. Used to being alone these days. In the evening he would heat himself up a frozen entrée, the French bread pizzas being his favorite. His expanding belly was proof of his love of frozen foods. 

There was no need for large meals or extensive grocery lists.  

Occasionally, he would eat Italian at Marcos, sticking with Chicken Parm and a glass of house red. It always felt to John that the waitresses were taking pity on him, calling him sweetie. He must’ve seemed like a sad case.  

After dinner, he would return home and sift through photos on the computer, looking at their trips to Bar Harbor and the Outer Banks. More often than not, the night ended with him in tears. 

The door swung open and a guy in a flannel, work boots, and paint-spattered jeans answered. He was half a head shorter than John but his neck was like a tree trunk. “You John?” 

“That’s me.” 

“Follow me,” the guy said. 

John followed the man to small room at the rear of the warehouse. Inside was a table surrounded by wooden folding chairs.  

“Take a seat,” the man said. 

John pulled out a chair and sat down. The guy took a seat on the other side.  

“Are you sure about this?” the man said. 

“Did I talk you on the phone?” 

“Don’t worry who you talked to. Once we start things in motion, there’s no going back.” 

“I’m sure.” 

“Where’s the money?” 

John slid the envelope across the table. As the man reached for it, his shirt hiked up and John saw a chrome .45 in a holster.  

“You can call me Rex,” the guy said, and dumped the bundles of cash on the table. John had emptied out his 401K for the cash. 

Rex did a quick count of the money. “All here. Good boy.” 

“I’m not a dog,” John said. 

“We’ll go over this again. Like on the phone. No cops. No news. We’ll contact you with updates. You turn on us? We turn on you. Here’s what happened to the last guy that tried it.” 

He took two photos from his breast pocket and slid them across the table. John took a look, saw a headshot of a man lying on some sort of table. Most of the skin was removed from his face. 

“That was done while he was alive,” Rex said. 

“I won’t cross you. I want these people to suffer,” John said. 

“They will. Believe me. It’s what we do.” 

“How will I know when it starts?” 

“We’ll contact you.” 

John said, “I’ll need proof.” 

“Let us worry about that. Someone will be in touch, like I said. However, if you have an emergency. If someone’s on to you, take this,” Rex said, and pulled a crème-colored business card from his pocket. He slid it across the table.  

The Damage Factory was printed on it in small, black letters. Below that was a phone number, most likely a burner phone. 

John put it in his wallet as if it were a sensitive explosive. 

“Don’t fucking lose it. We’ll be in touch. And don’t worry, you came to the right place.” 



Yellow Jackets and Stuff

On Friday, I got stung by a yellow jacket for the second time in three weeks. The first sting resulted in cellulitis in my ankle. Got some a...