I am thrilled to (have) been a part of this tour, confession time, there was a little blip (on my side) things didn’t get wrote down and I missed my stop….apologies to all!! So here it is now, I really love the sound of this one and can’t wait to share this book with you all, plus I have an exclusive extract to tempt you with, go and have a look.
The Sky Turned Black
‘HARD-BOILED AND CRACKLING WITH INTENSITY. JOHN STEELE GETS UNDER THE SKIN OF THE NYPD AS WELL AS ANYONE WRITING TODAY’T. J. English
‘DARK, HARD-HITTING AND FAST MOVING’ Thomas Mullen
HIS BIGGEST CASE YET. BUT IT COULD BE HIS LAST…
NYPD officer Callum Burke is on a routine drugs raid when he bursts in on a scene of unimaginable horror – and two killers about to get away.
The men are caught but they won’t talk. All the cops know is that they’re Russian and extremely dangerous which means this could be the start of a savage new gang war.
Callum Burke is tasked with finding out what is going on. It’s Manhattan in 1997 and the city is being cleaned up. The pressure is on.
But when Callum discovers there might be more to the Russian involvement than just criminal gangs, he finds himself in deeper trouble than he’s ever known…
‘Hard and intriguing. Callum Burke is a cop on the edge’ David Albertyn
‘The Sky Turned Black will make your head spin’ T. J. English
‘The Sky Turned Black is a crime saga that combines gritty detail with a global scope’ Thomas Mullen
UK – https://www.amazon.co.uk/Turned-Black-Callum-Burke-NYPD-ebook/dp/B09T6VFQM1/
US – https://www.amazon.com/Turned-Black-Callum-Burke-NYPD-ebook/dp/B09T6VFQM1/
Callum and his crew have just been on a raid and are unwinding – the tension and stress seeping out of them. Georgie Ruiz is Callum’s partner and their relationship is key to the whole story.
Callum lit up a cigarette, tilted his head back to a Brooklyn sky of hammered tin and exhaled. His smoke drifted heavenward like a torn rag of cloud crossing above the Coney Island Wonder Wheel in the distance by the boardwalk.
So close to the water, he thought, and he couldn’t smell any salt in the air.
Just the abbatoir reek of the apartment on the second floor clinging to his nostrils.
Callum stood with his back to the wall of the apartment block. Georgie Ruiz was a couple of yards away at a payphone with her hand over her left ear. The earpiece was clamped over her right and she was firing rapid bursts of Spanish at her husband on the end of the line, shouting to compete with a burping siren as another RMP arrived on the sprawling housing project courtyard. There were Radio Mobile Patrol cars scattered across the space. Tape had been stretched in a large, rough rectangle, sealing off the front entrance to the apartment block from a growing crowd. Uniformed officers stood by the tape keeping the rubberneckers at bay. A couple of technicians walked by Callum carrying black valises for the corpses up in the fouled apartment.
Ruiz yelled, ‘No me estés divariando, respóndeme la pregunta!’
She paused like something caught in her throat then held the phone at arm’s length. After a second she shoved it back on the hook and joined Callum.
‘I kinda asked for that,’ she said. ‘Arthur hates when I use Dominican slang.’
‘Irene used to switch to Cantonese when she was angry,’ said Callum. ‘I couldn’t understand ninety percent but it was her country, you know? And I figured, if I got her that pissed, I must have deserved at least some of whatever I was hearing. It isn’t easy being married to a cop.’
‘You’re so full of shit, Cal.’ Ruiz tossed him a smile seemed to warm the cool April air. ‘I can tell you’re a nightmare to date. One of those soulful Celtic types with your rough hands and your quick temper and your goddamn baggage. No wonder the Irish flooded the Job way back. You don’t know how to live a quiet life: never happy unless you’re miserable.’
He took a drag on his cigarette and tossed it on the concrete.
‘Well, I should be ecstatic right now,’ he said. ‘You know the paperwork we got coming thanks to the two flycatchers bled out on that carpet upstairs?’
‘Hey, not a shot fired. That’s something. And you, baby, cracking that guy with the Mossberg.’ Ruiz looked him up and down like he’d just fed her a line. Some day, he thought.
John Steele was born and raised in Belfast, Northern Ireland. In 1995, at the age of twenty-two he travelled to the United States and has since lived and worked on three continents, including a thirteen-year spell in Japan. Among past jobs he has been a drummer in a rock band, an illustrator, a truck driver and a teacher of English. He now lives in England with his wife and daughter. He began writing short stories, selling them to North American magazines and fiction digests. He has published four previous novels: Ravenhill, Seven Skins, Dry River and Rat Island, the first of which was longlisted for a CWA Debut Dagger award. John’s books have been described as ‘remarkable’ by the Sunday Times, ‘dark and thrilling’ by Claire McGowan, and ‘spectacular’ by Tony Parsons. The Irish Independent called John ‘a writer of huge promise’ and Gary Donnelly appointed him ‘the undisputed champion of the modern metropolitan thriller’.
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