A Very Merry Hockey Holiday (Assassins, Book 6.5) by Toni Aleo

By Toni Aleo

It’s starting to glance much like Christmas – with 8 tales that includes your such a lot loved characters and their households – it’s time to get secure with a cup of sizzling cocoa and take a sneak peek on the vacations, Assassins’ type.

Join Lucas and Fallon besides Tate and Audrey as they look ahead to life-changing presents; Erik and Piper, and Phillip and Reece who've judgements to make which could bring about intriguing advancements forward of their lives; and Claire as she makes a Christmas want and offerings for her destiny. Spend Christmas morning with the Adler kin and notice what the recent yr has in shop for Karson and Lacey, in addition to Kacey King. The King relations faces major adjustments and resolutions that might go away readers alternately cheering and perhaps a bit heavy-hearted…all wrapped up in a huge bow.

Join in at the vacation cheer and notice who’s been naughty or great in manhattan instances and united states this day Bestselling writer Toni Aleo’s novella – a really Merry Hockey vacation.

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Sample text

Sam fired the ignition. ’ There was something childlike about Sam. It wasn’t always there but just now and again the kid in him would jump out of his head. The exhaust rattled like a tumble-dryer full of spanners. Standish was still trying to get through. ‘Hello? ’ I watched Davy gun his bike towards the last wagon. They’d rested a plank on the back and he just rode up it and on to the flatbed. I checked the link one last time, settled the butt into my shoulder, then made sure I had muzzle clearance over the sandbags and wasn’t about to shoot holes in the engine.

Sam was worried about the sat comms getting damaged. ‘You’d better close that thing down now, boss. ’ There were eight of us bayonets, two in each wagon, and the boss made nine. We had just two GPMGs, one on each flank, so the more hands to the pump the better when this thing kicked off. Standish started to pack the set away as if it was his own idea. The valley opened out below us. It was maybe six or seven kilometres wide, a huge swathe of sand, scrub and dust that shimmered in the heat haze.

Somewhere down in the dead ground in front of us there was an old plantation, abandoned when the Belgian colonials finally did a runner in the sixties, and inside the gated walls a cavalcade of Mercs: it had been heading west to rendezvous somewhere along Zaïre’s thirty-six kilometres of South Atlantic coastline with a fast boat from the American Third Fleet. They’d got this far, but couldn’t go any further. Rebels – nobody knew how many – were blocking the only road out. The int we’d been given was sketchy.

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