In the aftermath of 9-11, New York City is attacked again. Foxley, a code-named detective on the verge of retirement, is sent by the mayor to Europe on one last unofficial assignment. He must track down those responsible for a suicide bombing that destroyed a police stationhouse. In Paris, he meets a beautiful Anglo-Caribbean ad executive and the duo pursue an action-packed quest through the streets of Paris, Bosnia and Marseille. Only when the pair find their target does Foxley learn of a catastrophic terrorist plot against the United States - and the true nature of his mission. The man came up the steps of the precinct stationhouse. He was alone. He walked straight into the lobby without looking around and went up to the plexiglas enclosed reception desk. A uniformed police officer passed him on the way out, and there were two civilians, a woman and her young daughter, seated in the waiting area which was behind a locked door with a large wire-reinforced window pane in the center. The man watched the police officer as he passed and joined a group of other cops standing on the steps outside. It was the beginning of the tour, as luck would have it. Other than the female police aide sitting on the other side of the plexiglas barrier, no one was near him. It was late afternoon and the four-by-twelve tour was going on duty and the daytime eight-by-four had already left, heading home or to their favorite watering hole. The summer sun splayed through the entrance doors and as he approached, the man's shadow suddenly silhouetted the police aide, causing her to look up. When she did, she saw him unzip the front of his blue ski parka and reach inside. Why the hell is he wearing a ski parka in August in downtown Brooklyn, New York City, she wondered. It was the last question of her life and in the micro-second before the blast blew the reception area into rubble, her mind registered this knowledge. Then her eyes were filled with dazzling light followed by complete darkness. The explosion blew in the window, severing the police aide's head and collapsing the ceiling, burying what was left of her and the man in a pile of concrete and plaster rubble. The steel door to the waiting area was hurled completely across the room, landing against the far wall. The woman and her daughter had the misfortune of being in its path. One of the young girl's arms lay on the floor. There was no sight of the rest of her or her mother. Then, as if in slow motion, the steel door slid to the floor and a bright red puddle came into view. The woman and the girl lay in its middle, two pairs of dead unseeing eyes staring up at the ceiling, at nothing in particular. At me. "Rewind the tape," Parcell said. The detective manning the video equipment hit the rewind button on the VCR and we listened to the soft hum as the tape moved backward. Parcell was standing on my right, rubbing his face and stretching. I stayed sitting. The only other detective in the room was Eileen Ryan; the VCR operator was Cutrone. It had been a long night and the conference room stank of sweat and stale coffee. We were all tired but we weren't going anywhere. When the VCR digital counter reached the number where the bombing sequence began, Cutrone hit the stop button. "Ready to roll - again," he said. These were the first words he had spoken since we came into the conference room three hours ago, but then Cutrone was the quiet type anyway, which was good because what we had been watching didn't make for light conversation. Parcell was squeezing the rubber handball he always carried with him, causing the eagle tattoo on his forearm to flap its wings, wishing that he could work the dumbbells he kept in his desk, I figured, but he knew better than to drag them up here to the chief's conference room. I was two weeks short of retirement and I had no idea why I was here. The tape started running again and the man walked up the stationhouse steps while staring strai

BATTLING BOXING STORIES presents 15 of the most intense and hard-hitting stories about the puglisitic arts collected in one place and written by some of the best of today's new crop of exciting writers. The stories in this book highlight all types of boxers and all aspects of the sport, from amateur bouts and illegal street fights, to heavyweight championship events. These are wonderful stories with unforgettable characters who are full of passion and emotion, action and rage--heartfelt tales about real people fighting for their lives, their honor, and sometimes their very souls. Each story captures that rare magic--the combination of violence and magesty that takes place in the boxing ring. Your ears will still be ringing with the sting of these battles long after you finish this book The authors featured include: Wayne D. Dundee, Stan Trybulski, Ron Fortier, Robert S. P. Lee, G. D. McFetridge, Arlette Lees, Terence Butler, Marc Spitzer, C. J. Henderson, Gary Lovisi, Garnett Elliott, Penelope Stanhope, Michael A. Black, Lonni Lees, and William Boyle.

The fourth issue of Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine features Carla Coupe's new Holmes story, "The Adventure of the Elusive Emeralds, ' plus tales by Stan Trybulski, Melville S. Brown, Marc Bilgrey, Hal Charles, William E. Chambers, Jean Paiva, and Roberta Rogow. This issue's classic reprint is "The Adventure of the Resident Patient," by Arthur Conan Doyle. Plus all the regular features, a look at the new Holmes movie, cartoons, and more

In the aftermath of 9-11, New York City is attacked again. Foxley, a code-named detective on the verge of retirement, is sent by the mayor to Europe on one last unofficial assignment. He must track down those responsible for a suicide bombing that destroyed a police stationhouse. In Paris, he meets a beautiful Anglo-Caribbean ad executive and the duo pursue an action-packed quest through the streets of Paris, Bosnia and Marseille. Only when the pair find their target does Foxley learn of a catastrophic terrorist plot against the United States - and the true nature of his mission. The man came up the steps of the precinct stationhouse. He was alone. He walked straight into the lobby without looking around and went up to the plexiglas enclosed reception desk. A uniformed police officer passed him on the way out, and there were two civilians, a woman and her young daughter, seated in the waiting area which was behind a locked door with a large wire-reinforced window pane in the center. The man watched the police officer as he passed and joined a group of other cops standing on the steps outside. It was the beginning of the tour, as luck would have it. Other than the female police aide sitting on the other side of the plexiglas barrier, no one was near him. It was late afternoon and the four-by-twelve tour was going on duty and the daytime eight-by-four had already left, heading home or to their favorite watering hole. The summer sun splayed through the entrance doors and as he approached, the man's shadow suddenly silhouetted the police aide, causing her to look up. When she did, she saw him unzip the front of his blue ski parka and reach inside. Why the hell is he wearing a ski parka in August in downtown Brooklyn, New York City, she wondered. It was the last question of her life and in the micro-second before the blast blew the reception area into rubble, her mind registered this knowledge. Then her eyes were filled with dazzling light followed by complete darkness. The explosion blew in the window, severing the police aide's head and collapsing the ceiling, burying what was left of her and the man in a pile of concrete and plaster rubble. The steel door to the waiting area was hurled completely across the room, landing against the far wall. The woman and her daughter had the misfortune of being in its path. One of the young girl's arms lay on the floor. There was no sight of the rest of her or her mother. Then, as if in slow motion, the steel door slid to the floor and a bright red puddle came into view. The woman and the girl lay in its middle, two pairs of dead unseeing eyes staring up at the ceiling, at nothing in particular. At me. "Rewind the tape," Parcell said. The detective manning the video equipment hit the rewind button on the VCR and we listened to the soft hum as the tape moved backward. Parcell was standing on my right, rubbing his face and stretching. I stayed sitting. The only other detective in the room was Eileen Ryan; the VCR operator was Cutrone. It had been a long night and the conference room stank of sweat and stale coffee. We were all tired but we weren't going anywhere. When the VCR digital counter reached the number where the bombing sequence began, Cutrone hit the stop button. "Ready to roll - again," he said. These were the first words he had spoken since we came into the conference room three hours ago, but then Cutrone was the quiet type anyway, which was good because what we had been watching didn't make for light conversation. Parcell was squeezing the rubber handball he always carried with him, causing the eagle tattoo on his forearm to flap its wings, wishing that he could work the dumbbells he kept in his desk, I figured, but he knew better than to drag them up here to the chief's conference room. I was two weeks short of retirement and I had no idea why I was here. The tape started running again and the man walked up the stationhouse steps while staring strai