MISDIRECTION
MiSDirection is a Historical Fiction Novel that paints a comprehensive picture of the dark days of WWII where Germany is on the brink of invading Britain and conquering the whole of Europe.
Reinhard Heydrich, who is the Head of Germany's SD and their top security service, is a master of deceit; playing a very integral part in all of Hitler's plans. In May 1941, he secretly flies his country’s new president into Scotland at the same time as Rudolf Hess’s well-known flight. Scheming, Heydrich informs the Duke of Kent that Churchill bombed London in order to find a reason to start terror-bombing Berlin expecting the Germans to mass bomb England in revenge. Heydrich also advises the Duke of Kent to inform America of a planned attack by the Japanese on Pearl Harbour. Is it a legitimate mission to bring long lasting peace or is part of a string of well-worked ploys to swing the advantage to Germany? When Heydrich discovers that a vengeful Churchill has sent Czech hitmen to assassinate him, he begins the greatest conspiracy of his life... Below are some excerpts for you to read: |

The flea-ridden band of raw recruits greedily mopped up the eggs and biscuits they had yesterday liberated from a Romanian farm and, if they did what they were told and survived the day, their platoon leader Rudolf Hess promised they would be treated to chicken and potatoes for dinner. He grabbed his rifle and briefed them to stay close to him and keep their heads down. Crouching low, eyes skinned for booby traps, he led them through woodland where birds were in chorus to welcome the sun. He angrily signalled to his men to stop their nervous chatter, which risked alerting the enemy in a forward trench they were trying to capture. They were halfway now and well within the range of enemy fire but all was quiet and he was confidently urging his men on...he barely heard the shot before a searing pain spread through his chest. As his men returned covering fire, he had crawled back to his own lines, in agony.
Later while recovering his health he had decided to apply to become a fighter pilot. He was delighted when accepted as suitable material. He had shown high aptitude in training and was looking forward to a dashing début as a lieutenant at his allotted airfield in northern France when, barely without warning, the ‘War-to-End-Wars’ was fizzling out before he could fire an airborne shot in anger...read chapters 10 and 11 here.
Later while recovering his health he had decided to apply to become a fighter pilot. He was delighted when accepted as suitable material. He had shown high aptitude in training and was looking forward to a dashing début as a lieutenant at his allotted airfield in northern France when, barely without warning, the ‘War-to-End-Wars’ was fizzling out before he could fire an airborne shot in anger...read chapters 10 and 11 here.
ASSURANCE
Assurance is a mystery suspense novel based in post-war Britain where all and sundry used train as a means of travel.
What could the powerful do when an assurance salesman sitting next to them harmlessly starts a conversation? Some would go for apparently unrelated personal facts and innocent white lies in order to avoid the involvement; only to be lured by his sales patter. After the death of a loved one, the assurance company pays a considerable amount each is not really entitled to, until the white lies come back to haunt them. The year is 1954. Alex Holmes, Foreign Office number two, boards a train for a journey that leads him to discover Britain is on the brink of domination. Setting out to find the perpetrators, he struggles to find who is behind it all. But just when he is on the brink of joining pieces of the clues together, Sally, his mistress, brings his world crumbling down. Would you, just like Alex, go against the evil ploy or would you meekly accept your fate? Below are some excerpts for you to read: |

'Am I? Am I really...really in love with her?'
A few months ago, Carl, the tramp-like figure sitting on a luggage trolley, knew he would not have understood. However, today, just lip reading his target’s mournful words he shared his pain. He could see that the blue-suited man was near the end of his tether. Thirty minutes ago, Carl had found it quite amusing as every arriving taxi interrupted the middle-aged man’s circuit of distress beneath the huge Waterloo station clock. Yet Carl, too, was seething now. All his carefully laid plans were back in the melting pot.
“Give it a few minutes more,” Carl willed him from behind his newspaper, when the troubled man consulted his gold wristwatch yet again. Minutes dragged by. Then, with a telling shake of his head at the departure board, the man woefully hoisted his pigskin case. He was on the verge of leaving – she was not coming. Carl cursed himself for telling his Director that he had things under control. Time was against him now; there was little chance of pushing a more amenable girlfriend his way, even if he could cause a rift.
A movement beneath his broadsheet distracted him and he looked down to see a lame pigeon pecking at his shoelace, “You’re on a hiding to nothing old son,” he muttered, “the same as me.” The desperate bird limped off on its quest for survival among the throng of rush-hour commuters. Carl resumed his observance over the grim headlines proclaiming officially that Russia had already exploded its first Hydrogen bomb.
A shock of long curly auburn hair above porcelain skin clambered out of a weary taxi. As soon as the man saw her, he dropped his case and dashed forward, his torment clearly changing to relief then to anger with each stride. “Where the dickens have you been Sally? I told you five o’clock!”
A few months ago, Carl, the tramp-like figure sitting on a luggage trolley, knew he would not have understood. However, today, just lip reading his target’s mournful words he shared his pain. He could see that the blue-suited man was near the end of his tether. Thirty minutes ago, Carl had found it quite amusing as every arriving taxi interrupted the middle-aged man’s circuit of distress beneath the huge Waterloo station clock. Yet Carl, too, was seething now. All his carefully laid plans were back in the melting pot.
“Give it a few minutes more,” Carl willed him from behind his newspaper, when the troubled man consulted his gold wristwatch yet again. Minutes dragged by. Then, with a telling shake of his head at the departure board, the man woefully hoisted his pigskin case. He was on the verge of leaving – she was not coming. Carl cursed himself for telling his Director that he had things under control. Time was against him now; there was little chance of pushing a more amenable girlfriend his way, even if he could cause a rift.
A movement beneath his broadsheet distracted him and he looked down to see a lame pigeon pecking at his shoelace, “You’re on a hiding to nothing old son,” he muttered, “the same as me.” The desperate bird limped off on its quest for survival among the throng of rush-hour commuters. Carl resumed his observance over the grim headlines proclaiming officially that Russia had already exploded its first Hydrogen bomb.
A shock of long curly auburn hair above porcelain skin clambered out of a weary taxi. As soon as the man saw her, he dropped his case and dashed forward, his torment clearly changing to relief then to anger with each stride. “Where the dickens have you been Sally? I told you five o’clock!”