A snip from my next book, Francis Laurent.
According to Raina, the funeral procession took place in late-September, 1922. It was a cold, windy day in Birmingham; the cemetery trees’ twisted fingers lay bare of their brown and orange leaves. Moving slowly among the colorful foliage that littered the grounds were many black veiled mourners. Like the body of a long black centipede, they moved in a steady line through the rows of budding tombstones. Amassing around the gaping mouth of a freshly dug hole, a small crowd had congregated on this dreary day to pay their respects to a fallen comrade and friend, Special Agent August Day.
Pale, white faces hung forward in sheer disbelief, their eyes rested wearily on the polished oak casket that centered the group. Floating just above the hole by a series of straps, the wood lined shell gleamed with the bitter gray sunshine that illuminated the stormy skies.
However, the whole formality of the tense situation was not lost on Raina’s father, Special Agent Francis Laurent. And even though he was a strong, professional man, his downcast stare spoke volumes to the hidden battle of surging emotions inside. Ranging from bitter sadness to flaming anger, Francis Laurent felt himself slowly being consumed by the need for vengeance. As he watched the pill shaped casket descend into its final resting place among the other tablets of stone, he vowed solemnly to himself: No matter what, I’m going to bring those responsible for this to justice…dead or alive.