It's official. Book One of Jake Timber Lives will drop on Amazon Kindle Single on Tuesday, September 27th, 2016. So that you'll know exactly what you might be getting into, I have provided an excerpt for you below. It is somewhat NSFW.
Again, this is not my fault.
Jake Timber lost himself in a most delicious daydream.
The naked body pressed to him matched his idea of female perfection, an ideal formed as a child from seeing a sexy silhouette on a truck’s mud flap. Ample breasts, round-ripple ass, shapely legs. He could feel her. Skin on skin. Yes, let the love begin. He touched her everywhere and took her breath with kisses. Her touch caused his manhood to swell and grow to even larger proportions, all while taking on the attributes of a titanium rod. The way she sucked and bounced on him, that sense of completion as he settled in deep inside her and let those velvety sugar walls caress his most vital organ.
His mind snapped his reverie and forced him back to business. He stood at the tree line, looking out over the wilderness like some kind of mighty pagan god. His Kevlar body armor only added to his already massive and muscular frame. Biceps with the density of Pittsburgh steel bulged as he brought the binoculars up to his eyes. Those pale blue orbs watched the bridge over the gorge below, waiting.
It was a perfect morning in Colorado. Cool air settled on what little of Jake’s skin was exposed, a pleasant sensation that kept his virile male metabolism from overheating. Not a single noise could be heard, save for the faint rustle of Ponderosa pine needles and the soothing sound of birdsong. Chipmunks played amid the trees. Snow glinted from the mountains overhead. It was a perfect morning.
Perfect to blow things up.
Word came to Jake Timber via the woodchuck messenger system. In order to avoid detection, the true patriots hiding in the Rockies needed to live completely off the grid. This meant no Internet or radio communication. Instead, the survivalist enclaves sent written messages to each other by taping them to the backs of trained woodchucks. Jake’s last woodchuck bore disturbing news. Two militia woodsmen spotted an armored column of PC (People's Co-defense) troops moving through the mountain passes. No doubt they searched for possible resistance fighters. In doing so, they might even learn the location of the Lodge, the hidden city that Jake and so many other like-minded freedom lovers had worked so hard to build. Yes, the PC would no doubt love to find it.
Instead, they were going to get nothing but Jake.
Duke Goldhammer stayed on his stomach, a detonator in his meaty mitts. He was a burly man, bigger even than Jake. His blue Army Cavalry hat, a memento of his time in the service, seemed to forever stay atop his bald head. An alpha male by personality, one might find it odd that Duke yielded command of the combat unit to Jake. But when Duke first saw Jake arrive at the Lodge, walking tall out of the radioactive wasteland, his hair as long and blond as a 1980s heavy metal rocker and not a scratch on his skin, Duke could not contain the surprising and overwhelming sense of respect he felt well up from his heart and loins.
“Ready?” Jake asked.
“The bridge is wired with enough C4 to blow the bad boy twice,” Duke answered. “Opposite side is lined with Claymores.”
“Weapons?” Jake asked.
“Checked each and every one myself,” Duke said as he took a lollipop from his mouth. “If there’s a damn thing wrong with any of ‘em, I’ll suck a broke dick dog.”
“Must it come to that?” someone asked in a British accent.
It came from Reginald Hastings. He squatted in the brush, wearing his trademark brown bomber jacket. “Reg” as the team called him, was a former agent of MI6, caught in the U.S. after the terrorist strikes. Stocky and mustached, he was a short man…but a decidedly lethal one. He took a moment to look around his wilderness surroundings.
“I simply must undertake a dig here one day,” he said. “The area must be a treasure trove of archeological findings. What with the Ute and the Chemehuevi in the area…”
“Shut up with the fancy book learnin’,” Jake interrupted.
Reginald Hastings fixed Jake with a glance that held no ire, only his typical frozen gloom.
“Of course. How inconsiderate of me to forget your allergy to all things intellectual. I’ve committed an atrocity,” he said.
“Ha!” Jake scoffed. “The joke’s on you! That’s not even a real word!”
Combat boots crunching against the soil, Jake made his way over to Rusty Squarejaw’s position. Rusty was by far the youngest member of the platoon. Though young, his unusual height placed him above most men twice his age. He also possessed the roundest head anyone at the Lodge had ever seen. His few thin strands of hair atop his head only increased its resemblance to a cue ball. Jake put a rough hand on Rusty’s shoulder.
“Rusty, you be ready to put the hammer down with that RPG when I say so,” Jake said.
The young man hoisted the tubular rocket launcher onto his shoulder.
“Hey, I’ll give that a try!” he beamed.
“Good kid,” Jake said, patting the boy’s thick shoulder.
Behind the tree line sat the rest of the platoon. A full 30 men sat poised for battle at Jake’s say-so through the headset mic. A sound echoed out across the chasm, unnatural and mechanical, standing out as an ugly and glaring mar on nature, like a blob of black ink on a gallery painting of beautiful and pastoral landscape. It grew louder. Heavy engines. Thick treads. Jake looked out through the binoculars. He pressed the toggle and zeroed in on the opposite side of the bridge.
“There they are,” he said.
Tanks appeared. A column of updated versions of the M1A1, complete with flame throwers and rocket launchers, rumbled onto the bridge. With their treads concealed by reactive metal plates, the mechanical beasts almost appeared to float above the paved surface.
“Bought by a 50% tax rate,” Jake remarked as he watched. “Liberal tanks.”
“Goddammit, Jake!” Those are the worst kind!” Duke said.
“Stay cool,” Jake cautioned.
He lifted up his personal weapon: an auto shotgun he named it “The Punisher.” Close to the size of a .50 caliber machine gun, it almost looked small in Jake’s hands. Like insects marching along a log, Jake watched the green tanks make their way across the bridge, the drone of their engines growing louder. In particular he eyed the figure clad in typical PC black fatigues, poking himself out of the top of one of the tank turrets as it neared the midpoint of the bridge. Like all of the other PC, the unknown guy looked like somebody in Darth Vader’s army.
“Don’t blow the bridge until I give you the signal,” Jake told Duke.
“What’s the signal?” Duke asked.
“This,” Jake said.
TO FIND OUT MORE, DOWNLOAD BOOK ONE OF JAKE TIMBER LIVES ON TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 27TH, 2016.