~ Vonnie Davis
My birthday is tomorrow. I'll be ... old. Don't ask me why turning sixty-nine is weighing heavily on my mind, but it is. I've joked about doing age subtraction since I turned sixty. You see, for each year I gain, I subtract one. Using my red-headed math theory, I'll be turning fifty-one instead. See, if I don't hang onto this creative age computation, I'll be ... well ...
My heroine in my latest release has traveled to Paris to celebrate her fortieth birthday. She has a list of things to do there. Once, of which, is to visit the Mona Lisa painting. While in the Salon Carre, she unwittingly foils a terrorist's bombing attack starting a chain reaction that has her life in danger. To protect her, the French government puts her in the care of Niko Reynard, a younger counterterrorist agent. Let the sparks begin! Birthday or not.
A
grim-faced guard stepped in front of Alyson Moore when she raised her camera to
take a picture. “Madame, in the
Louvre, we do not photograph the Mona Lisa.”
His lips fashioned a thin line of disapproval.
Alyson’s eyes scanned the crowd, for even as
the security guard admonished her, scores of other tourists, their arms
upraised, used cell phones to snap photos. “Am I the only one trying to take a
picture here?” Without waiting for a reply, she pocketed her camera, and the
snippy, tight-assed guard moved on.
She
shouldered her way through the early morning crowd in the Salon Carrẻ to get a closer look at the painting encased in
bullet-proof glass. Seeing Da Vinci’s masterpiece was a dream come true. No
one, not even an overzealous guard, would spoil her time with Mona.
Once
the museum opened its doors at nine sharp, and Alyson passed through security,
she hurried to see this woman of mystery. The throngs of people already crowding
the gallery surprised her.
She slipped
between two men and stepped closer to the leading lady of the gallery. Alyson’s
nose twitched from the sweet and sour blitz of assorted perfumes and various
degrees of hygiene. Murmurings of adulation echoed off the gallery walls as if
the Mona Lisa were a five-hundred-year-old rock star. How had one painting
achieved such stardom?
If
the ever-present guard wouldn’t allow photographs, she’d sketch some of Mona’s
fans standing, spellbound by her enigmatic smile. When she finally tugged her
large sketchpad free from the tight confines of her yellow leather bag, other
items fell and scattered.
Alyson
crouched to retrieve pieces of charcoal, just as the man standing next to her
bent to place a black backpack, the style European men were so fond of
carrying, on the marble tile floor.
Their
eyes locked.
“Excuse
me, you’re standing on my things.” Alyson pointed to his shoe. The man, face
damp with perspiration, scowled, raised his foot and snatched her navy scarf,
hotel keycard and passport, crushing them into a ball. He stuffed the wadded scarf
into her outstretched hand and stood.
Alyson
reached, fingering for the last charcoal pencil that rolled beyond her reach. She
straightened and realized the man in the dark green t-shirt was walking away.
The tattoo of a scorpion on the back of his neck. “Sir? Sir, you’ve forgotten
your bag. Monsieur?”
He
didn’t respond.
She
called after him again.
The
man disappeared into the crowd.
The
museum guard approached. “Is there a problem, Madame?”
“Yes,
that man left his backpack here.” Alyson indicated the black canvas bag on the
floor. “He set it down at the same time I dropped some things.” She held out
her navy scarf to show the guard and suddenly it hit her that her scarf was
empty. She shook it out to make sure. “My hotel key and passport!” Pulling
apart the sides of her shoulder bag, she rummaged through its contents, hoping
against hope she’d shoved them inside without thinking. Still, with her
passport the same shade as her scarf, she assumed it was wrapped in the scarf’s
folds.
“I
don’t believe this. He took my keycard and passport. Why would he take my things and leave his bag behind?”
The
guard’s eyes widened for a second. “Madame,
you are sure the man left this bag?” He pressed a button and spoke into a
speaker attached to the lapel of his uniforme, a scowling gaze intent on
Alyson.
“Yes.
He…he was setting it on the floor at the same time I squatted to retrieve my
fallen items. I asked him to move his foot since he was standing on them.”
Alyson groaned as realization sunk in. She was in a foreign country with no
passport. Oh, hell!
The
guard cautiously unzipped the backpack. Yellow wires. The man stepped back, depressed the comminications button again, and
spoke rapid-fire French. Pandemonium erupted. Armed guards rushed toward the
abandoned black bag. Once the word “bomb” was uttered, visitors screamed as
they stampeded from Mona Lisa’s room.
Suddenly,
Alyson stood in the eerie deafening silence with only the pounding of her heart
and the cocking of guns reverberating in her ears—she and the black bag
containing explosives surrounded by eight armed guards.
Holy effing shit!
by Judy Ann Davis
The founders of our new nation and thirteen colonies considered Independence Day an important occasion for rejoicing. The first Independence Day was observed in Philadelphia on July 8, 1776. The Declaration was read, bells were rung, bands played, and the population rejoiced. In early day, Independence Days were occasions for shows, games, sports, military music, and fireworks. 
