Valor First: Women of Valor

by Judith Lucci

Genres: Mystery; Female Sleuths; Thrillers; Crime Fiction; Medical Thrillers; Military Thrillers; Terrorism & Assassination Thrillers; military; mystery; psychological thriller; strong female protaganist; medical thriller; thriller box set

Synopsis

Meet the Women of Valor

Valor is defined as great courage in the face of danger. These three women exhibit just that.

Chaos
Meet Alexandra Destephano, a nurse attorney in New Orleans who finds more than malpractice and negligence at Crescent City Medical Center.

The Case of Dr. Dude
Retired homicide detective Michaela McPherson and canine companion Angel find retirement impossible when evil, murder and crime knock at their door.

Shatter Proof
Battlefield surgeon and CIA undercover operative, Sonia Amon and beloved war dog, Tessa, display great courage in the face of catastrophic danger as she fights terrorists, one of them her own father, every single day.

In the world of evil, indecision, and death these Women of Valor use their strength of mind and spirit to embrace the true mark of bravery.

Read their stories...

You won’t be disappointed.

Release date: November 10, 2021

Print pages: 844

Sample

From Chaos at Crescent City Medical Center

“The world will not be destroyed by those who do evil, but by those who watch them without doing anything. - Albert Einstein

Prologue

The Voodoo Queen faced the river as she stood at the edge of Congo Square. The weather was typical of the Big Easy in February. It was chilly, soggy, and biting cold. The High Priestess pulled her warm dark cloak around her as a heavy mist engulfed her and shrouded her from peering eyes.

But sometimes you just can’t hide. The evil spirits still saw her. She couldn’t hide from them. She heard them whispering in the wind. Their sound was like the rustling of leaves and the eerie sound of moans and lightly-tapped staccato drums. Every now and then she heard the good spirits respond. Their sound was like a fine violin and the tingling outrage of a triangle. The queen turned back to her worship service. She had called her people together to worship and summon the good spirits. The Voodoo worshipers were committed, focused, and intent. This gathering had purpose. It was not a Voodoo activity to entertain thousands of curious tourists who thronged the French Quarter the week before Mardi Gras. It was a gathering to call upon every Hougan and Mambo she could. She needed every good spirit available. Queen Miriam needed help. She needed every decent priest and priestess in good standing to appeal to the Iwa on her behalf. The Iwa were spirits that made things happen — good things and bad things. She needed the help of the good spirits.

The Queen watched the dancers as they gyrated, swayed, and whirled in the firelight. The women were barefoot, the men shirtless, their bare chests glistened in the firelight. The singing was loud, accompanied by chanting, clapping, and foot-stomping. Tonight she’d allowed drummers to attend the gathering. She needed the drummers to gain the Iwa’s attention. The drummers beat their long instruments so quickly the drumsticks blurred before her eyes as did the women dressed in flowing white dresses with brightly colored headpieces. 

Queen Miriam Charbonnet, the High Priestess needed help. She needed every bit of power, control, and influence she could amass — every attribute, every resource, and every spirit she could summon. The work ahead was too much for her alone.  She needed the Mambos, the Laos, and every Witch Doctor and good spirit she could gather. Bad times were ahead. Evil times. Days of destruction faced them in their New Orleans’ homes.

The sounds of the worshippers reverberated in her ears and deafened her. She lost focus as the drumming and dancing became frenetic. For a moment she was transported to another place where she saw only evil. The Iwa are letting me know my job will be long and hard and my enemies great. Miriam lifted her eyes in gratitude. She knew she had a rough time ahead.

The piercing cold penetrated as she returned to Congo Square. A great fire burned behind the dancers and illuminated them. The q body felt scorched, her skin hot. She remained still until the dancers faded from her vision, and the drumming ended. She was left alone by the fire. High Priestess and Voodoo Queen Miriam Charbonnet prepared for battle. She was the queen, a decedent of generations of Haitian and New World Voodoo Queens. I can do this.

Seconds later a stray cloud covered the moon. It was pitch black. The fire was gone and so were the worshipers. A bitter stillness settled in the icy air. Miriam heard whispers all around her. The spirits were battling each other.

She dropped and sat cross-legged on the cold ground and looked at her weapons of war, the numerous gris-gris she'd amassed. The queen had hand-fashioned them from herbs, powders, feathers, fabric, and bits of nature. Slivers of glass and bits of earth completed her collection. Her amulets were magic. They were gris-gris, and potions were guaranteed to provide healing, protection, and strength — or cause pain, death, and disease. Her magic was strong and powerful. Power that could inflict hurt and destroy enemies at a simple command. Power that could dissolve deception, hurl curses, cast spells, and ruin lives. She would need this power soon. She would need tremendous power.

There was trouble coming. Bad trouble. Evil and malevolent predictions so strong she wasn't sure she or her people could fight them. Danger and deception that could destroy lives of many fine people in New Orleans. People who were her friends. People who had helped her people in years past. People she loved and cared for.

Queen Miriam Charbonnet never forgot those who cared for her. She looked in the distance for the Mambos and Hougans. She prayed they would come. She needed the spirits. She paused and felt for them, listened for their whispers. The queen was wise and commanded the respect of the Voodoo — the good Voodoo that is. Miriam was the only one who could stop the curses and hexes cast by the dark spirits and evil ones.

She couldn’t do it alone. Once again, she turned her ear to the wind to listen for the whispers of the Iwa. There was no sound.

Fear pounded her body and then passed through her heart.

She didn’t know if she would make it.

 

Chapter One

The pungent smell of Cajun spices permeated the February New Orleans air. With only one week before Carnival, the French Quarter blazed with activity. Ornate iron balconies bowed under the weight of dozens of people pressed together tightly for a better look at the street below. Being "up" on a balcony during Mardi Gras was prestigious and gave one an immense sense of power and control over the crowd below. You could get people in the streets to do just about anything for a Mardi Gras throw — a string of plastic beads or an aluminum doubloon.

Raoul Dupree, a waiter at Tujague's Restaurant, smoked outside the door of the European-styled bistro. His eyes were riveted on a half-clothed gorgeous man hanging over a balcony a few doors down. The man was teasing a lovely, but drunken young woman in the street. The man fingered a string of cheap gold beads in front of her and repeated, "show your tits" continuously. The crowd repeated the chant, until it became loud and deafening.

The young woman kept reaching for the gold beads, just to have them snatched from her grasp each time. She looked around and smiled drunkenly at the large crowds gathered nearby and above on the balconies. Other female bodies pressed against her and grabbed for the beads, but the man above had eyes only for the one young woman.

The man smiled at her, taunted her, and lured her to the beads. Crowds on the street were wildly excited. They hollered, clapped, and stamped their feet.

Finally, in the flick of an instant, the young woman pulled up her white T-shirt, exposing her perfectly formed young breasts. The crowd went wild, clapping and shouting with approval. The woman grabbed her beads, held them up for the crowd, and quickly disappeared into an alley.

Raoul smiled and shook his head. Mardi Gras amazed him. After a lifetime of Carnival seasons, he still wasn't used to the heavy partying, drunken and lewd behavior so common during the season. People would do anything for a Mardi Gras trinket. He shrugged his frail shoulders as his eyes again found the handsome man just as a hand reached out and roughly grabbed Raoul’s blond hair. Startled, Raoul looked around quickly and saw the flushed face of the frowning Tujague’s maître d' bouncer.

"Your boys in the private booth are getting anxious, Raoul. Better get your skinny ass up there and keep ‘em happy. We don't want any of those thugs on our bad side," said the burly maître d', gesturing toward the door.

Raoul stamped out his cigarette butt, grimaced, and ran up two flights of stairs to a private dining room, where three men sat in a rear booth smoking after a long lunch. Tujague’s, the oldest restaurant in the French Quarter, had a reputation for privacy and discretion. It was a meeting place for prominent New Orleanians engaged in all sorts of legal and illegal business. Privacy, good food, and excellent service made the restaurant a favorite. 

The men talked quietly as Raoul waited outside the dining room. One glance at the group convinced him not to interrupt. He recognized one man, but he'd never seen the others and wondered how they were connected. From what he'd observed, he didn’t think they knew each other. He doubted they'd met before. They clearly weren’t friends. After cocktails and several bottles of wine, Raoul noted their conversation had moved from strained politeness to menacing anger that seeped out from the doorway before abruptly ceasing as he entered the room.

The man Raoul recognized was mobster, Frederico Petrelli, from Chicago, who'd recently moved to New Orleans to oversee the Dixie Mafia's activities in the riverboat and land gambling operations. Raoul knew Rico because he often dined at Tujague’s and had his special waiter, Matthew. Unfortunately, Matthew was off today due to illness.

Raoul kept his distance as he eyed the group. Frederico terrified him. The mobster was in his mid-fifties, balding, and forty pounds overweight. He had a long irregular scar on his right forearm, and dark beady eyes. He glared at his companions with distrust and impatience. His thick-pursed lips moved back and forth over a wet cigar. Frederico was a classic picture of a vicious mafia boss with no respect for human life. Raoul also noted his large, meaty arms, and powerful hands he kept clenched through most of the conversation.

The second man was distinctive, but differently than the gangster. He was tall, with a swarthy complexion, and dark oiled hair pulled back into a ponytail. His face was long and narrow with an aquiline nose. His thin lips curled in a permanent smirk. His eyes looked dead and empty and were a strange color, a blackish-yellow. The man had a sinister appearance. It was impossible to tell his age. He could be anywhere between thirty and sixty. He was big, well proportioned, and in perfect shape. A feeling of evil hung over him.

Raoul knew the ponytailed man was in perfect shape. He spent most of his time visually undressing men, and he could easily imagine the man’s six-pack abs. His clothes were expensive, as was the gold medallion hanging around his neck. He wore dark trousers and a custom-designed dark shirt opened at the neck. He caressed a leather strap in his lap as if it were a lover as he alternately tapped his well-manicured nails against the shiny walnut table. His dark eyes moved side to side as he followed the conversation between the other men. His strange eyes were unreadable and contributed to his menacing, evil appearance.

The belt-like leather strap captured Raoul’s attention. It was only about two feet long and lay across the man’s lap. The ponytailed stranger said little. He terrified the gentle-natured waiter. Raoul rubbed away chill bumps on his arms. He shuddered, thinking the man looked like the devil.

Their guest looked normal. Raoul wouldn’t have noticed him if his companions weren’t so macabre. The third man looked about forty years old. He had brown hair and an honest face. He spoke with a Midwest accent and seemed normal. The ordinary man was speaking when Frederico called Raoul into the dining room. Frederico interrupted the ordinary man.

"Give us sambukas and a pot of coffee and get outta here,” Frederico barked at Raoul.

Raoul left quickly but overheard something that made him freeze.

The ordinary man spoke, “I want Robert Bonnet ruined and dead. I don't know what your interests are in the Bonnets and the medical center, but I want Bonnet dead. He killed my wife and baby three years ago. Kill him.” The ordinary man’s eyes were crazed with hate.

Raoul's ears picked up at the mention of Robert Bonnet. He knew Dr. Bonnet from the medical center where he worked as a volunteer on the AIDS floor. Dr. Bonnet had operated on his lover last year when other surgeons had declined. Dr. Bonnet didn’t care that Josh had HIV and would probably die anyway. He’d wanted Josh and Raoul to have all the time together they could. Dr. Bonnet was kind. He’d pulled strings to get Josh a new liver and a chance to live. In the end, Josh had died. The threats against Dr. Bonnet troubled Raoul, so he paused for a moment longer and eavesdropped outside the room.

Frederico glared at the third man with a bored expression. "Shut up, Mercier. No time for emotions. Emotions cause mistakes. No mistakes, you hear?" The gangster’s voice had become low and threatening as he glared at the ordinary man. "You make a mistake, you pay."

The ordinary man stared at him.

The evil one with the ponytail nodded his head and said, "Salute," and raised his cup in a toast.

Frederico glared at the ordinary man. "Get it, choir boy, no mistakes. You know what to do."

The ordinary man nodded.

Raoul returned to the serving area as his heart thudded heavily in his chest.