Nothing exciting ever happened to Brandon Armsted. And that’s the way he liked it. He was writer, nothing exciting was ever supposed to happen, and he didn’t want anything exciting to ever happen. All he wanted was too be left alone at home, where it was quite, so he could write. The characters in his novels that jumped out of windows and dodged bullets and even chased bad guys in cars travelling just shy of the sound barrier was all the excitement that he wanted in life – it was all the excitement he needed.

But that was all about to change.

Within a few short hours Brandon Armsted would be running for his life, driving down back alley’s at unimaginable speeds, much like the character Alex Harding did in his first novel about a spy in Vienna who uncovered a government cover-up of a high-ranking government official who killed his mistress when he learned she was pregnant. He would also be dodging bullets that whizzed by his head as gas canisters around him exploded, as they are sensitive to bullets.

But Brandon didn’t know that, not yet at least, and if he did why he just might lock himself in his basement. The basement that he was able to lock from the inside with a big steel lock until the afternoon of the next day when it would be safe.

Brandon loved to write about adventure like that, sure, but not live it.