Jacob Stearne is forced to infiltrate a Neo-Nazi extremists to thwart their plan to kill thousandsâ¦
By Seeley James
Title: THE MORPHEUS DECISION: A PIA SABEL MYSTERY
Author: Seeley James
Publisher: Machined Media
Genre: Murder Mystery
Who killed Chloe England?
When a friend from her days in international soccer, now a British constable, is murdered, Pia Sabel uncovers an assassination ring catering to the ultra-rich â putting her dead center in their crosshairs.
For most of her life, Pia Sabel worked through the pain of losing her parents, threw herself into her work, and lived with insomnia. Now her doctor warns growing paranoia will soon threaten her mental health. She escapes to rural England to mourn the loss of her friend. On arrival, she is attacked by a mob, dismissed by officials, and ridiculed by high society for inquiring about an English Lord and a British institute. The more people tell her not to ask questions, the more she questions their motives.
Unconquered and unafraid, she investigates the murder and exposes a well-connected web of billionaire suspects. Along the way, she touches a nerve, bringing down an avalanche of killers on top of her. Unable to trust anyone, from the handsome Scot she wants to know better to Britainâs titled class, she must unravel the clues before more victims land in the morgue. Peeling back the layers of deceit, lies and cover-ups, Pia finally discovers the truth about who killed Chloe England. A revelation sure to endanger everyone she loves.
Blood drifted over the curb on its way to the gutter as Chloe England tried to shift her gaze for a better look. Her eyes wouldnât respond. Not even a blink. Her vision was fixed on the chemistâs across the narrow lane. Closed. And for a long time judging by the dirty windows.
Her arms and legs wouldnât move either. The blood felt warm on her cheek. Chloe had the strangest feeling it was her blood. After all, she was lying on her side with her face pressed to the cement, but she wasnât sure why. When she tried to think, all that came to mind was TS Eliot from a boring literature class long ago:
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker;
And in short, I was afraid.
Sheâd rather have been on the pitch playing football than stuck in a classroom reading that drivel.
Chloe sensed a presence lean down over her. Maybe it was a good Samaritan who could help her up. Her muscles werenât responding. Someone reached over her shoulder and plucked the phone out of her hand. The person disconnected her call.
So, not a good Samaritan.
Chloe felt embarrassed. The stalker just cutoff the voicemail to Pia Sabel before sheâd finished. What would Sabel think of the poorly worded message? Rambled on like a fool, she did. To top it off, sheâd blanked before telling Sabel what she wanted. Such bad form. A throbbing pain came from the back of her head. Along with the throb came a dim memory of the previous few seconds. Sheâd been chattering on about the woman in the hospital and her ridiculous story about people who could kill your enemies through their dreams. For a fee. Had she told Sabel that part? Itâs what sheâd intended to say. Now that she thought about it, sheâd prattled on about their rivalry on the soccer pitch. Was that all the further sheâd got?
Hardly a rivalry, though. Chloe did her best to defend for England in every gameâbut who could stop Sabel? Chloe remembered their first encounter. The young phenom was sixteen and out to prove herself in a friendly. Chloe had twenty-five caps by then. Sheâd considered the teenager a trifle. Young Sabel came straight at her, no fear. Charging in like a freight train. But she was ready. She herded the kid to the sidelines, making the only option to go out of bounds. Sabel played into it, dribbling into a rapidly narrowing lane with nowhere to go. Rookie mistake. Then Sabel popped the ball between them, waist high, smacked it with her knee, sending it over Chloeâs head. Using her height advantage, Sabel jumped in the air like a rocket and headed a perfect cross to the American forward flying up the middle. It happened so fast Chloe could only laugh. What the hell was that? Thank god the game didnât count for anything.
Sabel was a thorn in her side for the next four years. The Mexicans called her La Tigresaâthe tigressâfor good reason. And the international press adopted the nickname. But in the privacy of Englandâs locker room, especially among the defenders, she was known as that cunt. When Chloe retired, she rejoiced that her endless nightmares of Sabel hurtling toward her would finally end.
Now they were both out of the beautiful game. Chloe had bounced around until she found her calling: police constable. Who wouldâve thought? All those years leaving your blood, sweat, and tears on the pitch for your country and what career options await you? Sportscaster? A crowded field. Coach? Underpaid profession. Talent scout? Too many rows with desperate parentsâwhose children didnât know the difference between a football and a cheese loafâkept Chloe out of that one. Then Dad suggested she follow him into the Greater Manchester Police, the illustrious GMP. It wasnât the bright lights and big stage sheâd hoped for. It had even caused her some embarrassment when dialing Sabel. How you doing, old frenemy? Running a huge company these days, I hear. Chilling with presidents and prime ministers, are we? Me? Oh, you know, constable. Still. Working on becoming a DI like Dad, though. So, whatâs new?
Yeah. That was a tough call.
She hoped she hadnât botched it. It was important. Sabelâs name was on the nutterâs list. Even if La Tigresa had been hell to defend, she did deserve to know someone had her on a list. It might be nothing, but some of the names on the list were dead. And Chloe hoped Sabel would help her figure it out. Reconnect for some laughs. Maybe.
A warm hand touched Chloeâs neck. Not in a kind way. The person whoâd taken her phone feeling for a pulse? She tried to check her heartbeat, too. She wasnât feeling it. Or was she? Not strong, anyway. Was she dying?
Once, sheâd run to the scene of a man hit by a car. It was obvious to everyone around him that he was a dead man with a few seconds of life left, yet he had no idea. He kept apologizing for being a bother.
Thatâs when Chloe remembered the loud crack. The sound of metal connecting with bone. Big bone. Hollow. Like her skull. Is that where the blood was coming from?
She felt it now. Sliding down the back of her head, into her hair, onto the sidewalk. Someone had smacked her a good one with a baton. They could fix that in casualty, right?
The hand withdrew. Chloe heard someone walk away. The street was empty. Thick dark clouds obscured the remnants of twilight. The heavy sky closed in on her. It would rain soon.
It was her own fault, Chloe realized. Sheâd been so preoccupied with the call to Sabelâtrying not to sound like one of those barking-mad fansâthat she hadnât noticed where she was going. It was a mistake. Sheâd taken the shortcut. A short, dark lane lined with defunct businesses. Now she wouldnât have a chance to save Pia Sabelâs life. She wouldnât be the heroic constable who solved the dreamland-assassins mystery.
Worst of all, there would be no security video of who killed Chloe England.
Amazon â https://amzn.to/2LEBCWe
Seeley Jamesâ near-death experiences range from talking a jealous husband into putting the gun down to spinning out on an icy freeway in heavy traffic without touching anything. His resume ranges from washing dishes to global technology management. His personal life ranges from homeless at 17, adopting a 3-year-old at 19, getting married at 37, fathering his last child at 43, hiking the Grand Canyon Rim-to-Rim at 59, and taking the occasional nap.
His writing career ranges from humble beginnings with short stories in The Battered Suitcase, to being awarded a Medallion from the Book Readers Appreciation Group. Seeley is best known for his Sabel Security series of thrillers featuring athlete and heiress Pia Sabel and her bodyguard, veteran Jacob Stearne. One of them kicks ass and the other talks to the wrong god.
His love of creativity began at an early age, growing up at Frank Lloyd Wrightâs School of Architecture in Arizona and Wisconsin. He carried his imagination first into a successful career in sales and marketing, and then to his real love: fiction.