Feedback on new cover please

[BookCat]

Apart from the pink I think pdurrant's cover is perfect, it even gives you a proper name for the group: ARF Animal Rescue Feminists. It's very eye-catching with the way the font is set and everything fits perfectly.

[Hitch]

Originally Posted by doubleshuffle

A very rough sketch for a different colour scheme, ideally to be done with more dynamics in the titles:
Attachment 161437

I really think the dark aspect of the humour needs some expression in the cover design, so why not make the background dark?

ARF! (And, yes, I thought it was dark humor, not Lucille Ball...)

There are so many ways you could go with the acronym.

New Age Rescueers eNgendering Independent Action (NARNIA!)
Brave Animal Rescue Knights (BARK!)
Women's Operation Opposed (to) Fur (WOOF!)

I mean, hell, I could do this all DAY.

Hitch

[Gregg Bell]

Originally Posted by Hitch

I certainly don't understand that comment, at ALL. If you've written an "over-the-top whacky read," then...why would you NOT want people to review it that way? Do you want them to review it as if it's a Michener? Or...???

Moreover, that's not how you've pitched the book, here. There's a VAST difference between, for example, Red Skelton's humor and Quentin Tarantino's. Or watching Lucy stuff her mouth full of chocolates, versus watching Travolta accidentally shoot the guy in the car (PF), or revive Uma Thurman with a hypodermic to the heart. Is this "I Love Lucy," or is it something less slapstick-y?

The feel you're projecting, with the goofy fonts, is at best "I Love Lucy." But you pitched it as more of a humorous, black-humor actioner. Which is it? I honestly don't see ILL running around whacking people.



Agreed.



I'm sorry to disagree with BookCat, but please, Mother of All that's Holy, do NOT use Papyrus or a Papyrus knockoff. It's become the Comic Sans of the last 10 years, and it's horribly and grossly overused, even worse. (I blame James Cameron, but...). Anyone in the biz who sees Papyrus on your cover (or "Tempus Sans") will run like there's no tomorrow. And not TO the book. (Sorry, @BookCat!).



I agree with this, and more importantly, you're completely missing a huge opportunity for more "humor." You could have a blast with acronyms, for the Society. You can do things like:

ARF: Animal Rescue Feminists
BARF: Brave Animal Rescue Feminists
WARM: Women Animal Rescue Feminists
ROAR: Rescue Animal Operational Revolt
...and so on.

Why on earth would you pass up the opportunity for branding like that? I damn sure wouldn't. How did you come up with "IWS," which isn't even a word, sans an idea of the name of the group?


Hitch

Hitch, I didn't convey my meaning about the reviews. I didn't want people reading it as serious thriller and finding out it was wacky and writing me a terrible review. And yes, this book is WAY over the top. I guess it's like Tarantino. There's a lot of violence but it's cartoonish. Here's the first scene:

Spoiler:

“Give up, scumbag?” Lainey Tripper said to the thug she had in a headlock. She could feel his warm saliva on her forearm. He was drooling, choking. “Well, do you!”
“You’re dead, Tripper,” the guy sputtered. “When Donovan hears about this, you’re dead meat.”
Donovan again, Lainey thought. She should’ve known. All the evil in this town was tied to Donovan somehow, so it should come as no surprise that he was the evil mastermind behind the dogs disappearing from Chicago. The blind peg-legged dirtbag. Lainey pulled a knife from a pocket in her business suit. She had to open the knife with one hand, and the blade locked in place. “You don’t deserve it, especially since you’re one of Donovan’s scumbags, but I’m giving you one last chance to live.” Lainey was knocked forward, tumbling over the man, into a glass case, the glass shattering, trophies cascading down on top of her. “Wow!”
She could feel the knife whisked from her hand, then a punch caught her solidly in the right breast. She raised up only to get knocked back by a kick to the forehead. She told herself to keep moving, always moving, her mercenary training second nature in a crisis. And now she was getting pissed off—she was going to have a boot mark on her forehead like a fricking advertising logo for God only knew how long. But yeah, she kept moving. It was her only chance. This new guy was refrigerator-huge, and he had her knife. She didn’t have time to see if he had any other weapons. And she still had to help Izzy! She told herself to try appealing to him. “Listen—” A punch caught her in the ear. Scratch appealing. This guy was good. He had no mercy. She rolled across the floor, over the glass, the trophies, adrenaline exploding, feeling no pain.
“Not so tough now, are you, you little slut,” the new guy said—the first guy was gone from Lainey’s field of vision—his voice surprisingly effeminate. When he called out, “Carter, get the silencer,” he looked over his shoulder, and when he did, Lainey grabbed a basketball trophy—a little gold statuette of a basketball player, arm fully extended, holding a basketball up to the sky—and got to her knees. When the man turned back, she rammed the trophy up his nose, the basketball from the trophy jamming straight into his brain. The man staggered back, the trophy dangling from his face like an elephant trunk.
Lainey, forearms bloody from the cut glass, pried her knife from the dead thug’s hand. The first thug meanwhile had left the room and now returned screwing a silencer onto a pistol. Lainey’s only hope was that he had a little more screwing to do, but he turned the gun on her.
“I told you, Tripper, you’re dead.” He fired and the bullet slammed into her shoulder. He laughed. Then he laughed again.
Lainey whipped her knife and hit him in the balls. He stepped back like a stuck pig, taking Frankenstein steps backward until he butted into a wall. “Why you little c…”
Lainey grabbed a shard of glass and threw it, the glass lodging in the guy’s gun arm like an arrow, his pistol dropping to the floor. She walked toward him, stopping to pick up his pistol. “What were you saying?” she said. “What was that? I think it was, ‘You’re dead,’ something like that.” She nodded toward his knife-impaled groin. “I wasn’t aiming there. Sheer luck. But it couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.”
“You are so dead, Tripper, you man-hating slut.”
“Oh, that’s good,” Lainey said. “How long did it take you to think that one up? Man-hating slut. You in MENSA?”
The man spat at her, but Lainey ducked. She said, “It’s funny, but a dead-meat man-hating slut is about to kill you.” She fired three quick shots into his torso, then when he’d fallen, one behind the ear. She unscrewed the silencer from the gun as she walked to a mirror and looked herself over. God, what a mess, Tripper, she thought. She ran her hand through her hair and brushed the splintery glass shards from her business suit. Her shoulder, the blood from the wound darkening the tan suit, but not too badly, was burning.
Now she had to find Izzy.
She was thinking about Donovan again as she opened the door to the hallway. The blind peg-legged dirtbag was an evil mastermind ruining Chicago for women and animals. The hallway was dark, nothing but janitorial staff would be around this late in a big downtown office building. Now what room number did Wanda say Izzy was in? Lainey’s cell phone vibrated in her pocket. She checked the caller ID. Wanda. She put the phone to her ear. “Yeah.”
“Lainey, where the hell were you? I’ve been calling non-stop.”
“Well, I was kind of busy there for a while.” Lainey thought about screwing the silencer back on the pistol. She could feel she wasn’t alone in the hallway. “And this building’s old school. Steel beams. The signal probably didn’t get through. And anyway, like I said, I was kind of busy.”
“Lainey, you didn’t. Not again.”
“Hey, stuff happens, Wanda. What can I tell you. They attacked me.”
“They? How many did you kill this time?”
“Two so far.”
“You definitely have a problem with men.”
“Yeah, yeah, but listen, Wanda, I don’t have time to fend off your guilt. I gotta get to Izzy. Now what room did your mole say she was in?”
“417.”
Lainey could feel goose bumps forming on her arms. Her years in a Buddhist monastery training to be a monk came in handy now—she was picking up on another person’s spirit nearby. She clicked off the phone.
“Hello?” she called down the hallway.
“Can I help you?” came back a male voice, but still no body.
“Oh, I know you might be surprised someone’s here at three in the morning,” Lainey said. “I was just finishing up some paperwork. Heading home now though.” She thought for sure the man, whoever he was, would see her bloody shoulder. Again she thought about screwing the silencer back on the pistol but wasn’t sure she’d have time. No matter what happened she wasn’t leaving without Izzy. She heard faint beeps sounding on a cell phone as if it were being dialed.
“Please,” Lainey said, knowing the man was calling in trouble. “That’s not necessary. I’m just here because I have an important report due in the morning.”
The man jumped from behind a wall, cell phone to his ear, pistol in his other hand. This was no security cop. This was another one of Donovan’s goons. Another one of the men who’d kidnapped Izzy and done God only knows what to her. Lainey gritted her teeth. The guy was a good thirty feet from her. With the distraction of him holding the cell phone and the low light, she figured there was a fifty-fifty chance if he fired, he’d miss. She yanked the pistol from her waistband and fired—and kept firing. She saw the man’s pistol muzzle flash twice but couldn’t hear the gun’s reports as the sound of her shots drowned out everything else, the shrill sounds echoing down the hallway and ringing in her ears. This wasn’t good. No, this wasn’t good at all. The noise was going to draw all kinds of attention. Now where the hell was room 417? She stepped over the dead man’s body, flipped open her cell and hit the speed dial button for Wanda.
“Lainey, why’d you hang up on me?”
“Wanda, plans have changed. I had another little complication here. We’ve got to move everything up. Pull the van right outside the office building’s front door.”
“Did you do what I think you did?”
“Can’t talk. Just do it.” She clicked off, hopped on an elevator and rode to the fourth floor. She was woozy—she must’ve lost a lot of blood. “403,” she said softly as she walked down the hall. “407…415.” She heard a whimpering coming from under 417’s door.
She slipped a jimmy from her sleeve. This is where her days as a cat burglar in New Orleans would come in handy—and this door’s lock was a piece of cake anyway. She knew that Izzy might be riled up at first. Who knew what Donovan and his thugs had done to her since kidnapping her. She might be ready to attack any human being at this point. But she would also pick up quickly on Lainey’s spirit and know that she was there to help. Lainey eased the door open.
A vicious guttural growling grew.
Lainey said, “There, girl. Easy…easy.” Her days as an animal whisperer in Colorado were paying off now. Izzy was calming down, the growl dissipating and gradually being replaced by a welcoming whine and tail wagging. She was safe and sound at last.

And I thought it would be fun if people didn't know what the IWS stood for. (I didn't know writing it and it didn't bother me.) There are no "rules" either. Do I need to come up with those too?

[BookCat]

doubleshuffle: we cross-posted. I think your background combined with pdurrant's text layout would be perfect, provided it looks good in black and white.

[Gregg Bell]

Originally Posted by doubleshuffle

A very rough sketch for a different colour scheme, ideally to be done with more dynamics in the titles:
Attachment 161437

I really think the dark aspect of the humour needs some expression in the cover design, so why not make the background dark?

Thanks double. Hmm. I don't know. I like it but I don't think black with fly with most people. I'm going to play with it though.

[doubleshuffle]

Originally Posted by BookCat

doubleshuffle: we cross-posted. I think your background combined with pdurrant's text layout would be perfect, provided it looks good in black and white.

I agree:

[JSWolf]

You still have yet to try sky blue with clouds. As it is, there's no apparent reason for the cape to be so out there. And the pink is ugly. Black is ugly as well.

[Gregg Bell]

Two new fonts.

#1

#2



I did the purple just to get rid of the pink for now. But this post is just to see what you think of the fonts.

[doubleshuffle]

Originally Posted by Gregg Bell

Hitch, I didn't convey my meaning about the reviews. I didn't want people reading it as serious thriller and finding out it was wacky and writing me a terrible review. And yes, this book is WAY over the top. I guess it's like Tarantino. There's a lot of violence but it's cartoonish. Here's the first scene:

Spoiler:

“Give up, scumbag?” Lainey Tripper said to the thug she had in a headlock. She could feel his warm saliva on her forearm. He was drooling, choking. “Well, do you!”
“You’re dead, Tripper,” the guy sputtered. “When Donovan hears about this, you’re dead meat.”
Donovan again, Lainey thought. She should’ve known. All the evil in this town was tied to Donovan somehow, so it should come as no surprise that he was the evil mastermind behind the dogs disappearing from Chicago. The blind peg-legged dirtbag. Lainey pulled a knife from a pocket in her business suit. She had to open the knife with one hand, and the blade locked in place. “You don’t deserve it, especially since you’re one of Donovan’s scumbags, but I’m giving you one last chance to live.” Lainey was knocked forward, tumbling over the man, into a glass case, the glass shattering, trophies cascading down on top of her. “Wow!”
She could feel the knife whisked from her hand, then a punch caught her solidly in the right breast. She raised up only to get knocked back by a kick to the forehead. She told herself to keep moving, always moving, her mercenary training second nature in a crisis. And now she was getting pissed off—she was going to have a boot mark on her forehead like a fricking advertising logo for God only knew how long. But yeah, she kept moving. It was her only chance. This new guy was refrigerator-huge, and he had her knife. She didn’t have time to see if he had any other weapons. And she still had to help Izzy! She told herself to try appealing to him. “Listen—” A punch caught her in the ear. Scratch appealing. This guy was good. He had no mercy. She rolled across the floor, over the glass, the trophies, adrenaline exploding, feeling no pain.
“Not so tough now, are you, you little slut,” the new guy said—the first guy was gone from Lainey’s field of vision—his voice surprisingly effeminate. When he called out, “Carter, get the silencer,” he looked over his shoulder, and when he did, Lainey grabbed a basketball trophy—a little gold statuette of a basketball player, arm fully extended, holding a basketball up to the sky—and got to her knees. When the man turned back, she rammed the trophy up his nose, the basketball from the trophy jamming straight into his brain. The man staggered back, the trophy dangling from his face like an elephant trunk.
Lainey, forearms bloody from the cut glass, pried her knife from the dead thug’s hand. The first thug meanwhile had left the room and now returned screwing a silencer onto a pistol. Lainey’s only hope was that he had a little more screwing to do, but he turned the gun on her.
“I told you, Tripper, you’re dead.” He fired and the bullet slammed into her shoulder. He laughed. Then he laughed again.
Lainey whipped her knife and hit him in the balls. He stepped back like a stuck pig, taking Frankenstein steps backward until he butted into a wall. “Why you little c…”
Lainey grabbed a shard of glass and threw it, the glass lodging in the guy’s gun arm like an arrow, his pistol dropping to the floor. She walked toward him, stopping to pick up his pistol. “What were you saying?” she said. “What was that? I think it was, ‘You’re dead,’ something like that.” She nodded toward his knife-impaled groin. “I wasn’t aiming there. Sheer luck. But it couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.”
“You are so dead, Tripper, you man-hating slut.”
“Oh, that’s good,” Lainey said. “How long did it take you to think that one up? Man-hating slut. You in MENSA?”
The man spat at her, but Lainey ducked. She said, “It’s funny, but a dead-meat man-hating slut is about to kill you.” She fired three quick shots into his torso, then when he’d fallen, one behind the ear. She unscrewed the silencer from the gun as she walked to a mirror and looked herself over. God, what a mess, Tripper, she thought. She ran her hand through her hair and brushed the splintery glass shards from her business suit. Her shoulder, the blood from the wound darkening the tan suit, but not too badly, was burning.
Now she had to find Izzy.
She was thinking about Donovan again as she opened the door to the hallway. The blind peg-legged dirtbag was an evil mastermind ruining Chicago for women and animals. The hallway was dark, nothing but janitorial staff would be around this late in a big downtown office building. Now what room number did Wanda say Izzy was in? Lainey’s cell phone vibrated in her pocket. She checked the caller ID. Wanda. She put the phone to her ear. “Yeah.”
“Lainey, where the hell were you? I’ve been calling non-stop.”
“Well, I was kind of busy there for a while.” Lainey thought about screwing the silencer back on the pistol. She could feel she wasn’t alone in the hallway. “And this building’s old school. Steel beams. The signal probably didn’t get through. And anyway, like I said, I was kind of busy.”
“Lainey, you didn’t. Not again.”
“Hey, stuff happens, Wanda. What can I tell you. They attacked me.”
“They? How many did you kill this time?”
“Two so far.”
“You definitely have a problem with men.”
“Yeah, yeah, but listen, Wanda, I don’t have time to fend off your guilt. I gotta get to Izzy. Now what room did your mole say she was in?”
“417.”
Lainey could feel goose bumps forming on her arms. Her years in a Buddhist monastery training to be a monk came in handy now—she was picking up on another person’s spirit nearby. She clicked off the phone.
“Hello?” she called down the hallway.
“Can I help you?” came back a male voice, but still no body.
“Oh, I know you might be surprised someone’s here at three in the morning,” Lainey said. “I was just finishing up some paperwork. Heading home now though.” She thought for sure the man, whoever he was, would see her bloody shoulder. Again she thought about screwing the silencer back on the pistol but wasn’t sure she’d have time. No matter what happened she wasn’t leaving without Izzy. She heard faint beeps sounding on a cell phone as if it were being dialed.
“Please,” Lainey said, knowing the man was calling in trouble. “That’s not necessary. I’m just here because I have an important report due in the morning.”
The man jumped from behind a wall, cell phone to his ear, pistol in his other hand. This was no security cop. This was another one of Donovan’s goons. Another one of the men who’d kidnapped Izzy and done God only knows what to her. Lainey gritted her teeth. The guy was a good thirty feet from her. With the distraction of him holding the cell phone and the low light, she figured there was a fifty-fifty chance if he fired, he’d miss. She yanked the pistol from her waistband and fired—and kept firing. She saw the man’s pistol muzzle flash twice but couldn’t hear the gun’s reports as the sound of her shots drowned out everything else, the shrill sounds echoing down the hallway and ringing in her ears. This wasn’t good. No, this wasn’t good at all. The noise was going to draw all kinds of attention. Now where the hell was room 417? She stepped over the dead man’s body, flipped open her cell and hit the speed dial button for Wanda.
“Lainey, why’d you hang up on me?”
“Wanda, plans have changed. I had another little complication here. We’ve got to move everything up. Pull the van right outside the office building’s front door.”
“Did you do what I think you did?”
“Can’t talk. Just do it.” She clicked off, hopped on an elevator and rode to the fourth floor. She was woozy—she must’ve lost a lot of blood. “403,” she said softly as she walked down the hall. “407…415.” She heard a whimpering coming from under 417’s door.
She slipped a jimmy from her sleeve. This is where her days as a cat burglar in New Orleans would come in handy—and this door’s lock was a piece of cake anyway. She knew that Izzy might be riled up at first. Who knew what Donovan and his thugs had done to her since kidnapping her. She might be ready to attack any human being at this point. But she would also pick up quickly on Lainey’s spirit and know that she was there to help. Lainey eased the door open.
A vicious guttural growling grew.
Lainey said, “There, girl. Easy…easy.” Her days as an animal whisperer in Colorado were paying off now. Izzy was calming down, the growl dissipating and gradually being replaced by a welcoming whine and tail wagging. She was safe and sound at last.

And I thought it would be fun if people didn't know what the IWS stood for. (I didn't know writing it and it didn't bother me.) There are no "rules" either. Do I need to come up with those too?

After reading the excerpt I think the drawing is MUCH too nice. The heroine must look much fiercer than that.

[BookCat]

From that extract, it's much darker and more violent than I was expecting. I think I expected something more like Tom Sharpe and less of a blood bath.

The cover needs to reflect this.

[Hitch]

Originally Posted by Gregg Bell

Two new fonts.

I did the purple just to get rid of the pink for now. But this post is just to see what you think of the fonts.

Gregg:

I'm with the others. I think how YOU see the book is absolutely screwing with your design, which you're making somewhat clownish as if this is a "screwball comedy" a la the 1940's, with Carole Lombard, while your extract is DEFINITELY more Tarantino. I think using those goofy or silly or comic fonts is utterly misleading. You said you didn't want bad reviews from people who thought that the book was an Actioner, and then were put off by it being comedic, but...IMHO, you're overcompensating and making people think that it's a Lucille Ball Slapstick, when it's more Reservoir Dogs-meets-Rosie O'Donnell.

Just because your heroine shoves a stupid-looking trophy up some guy's nose doesn't make this Lucy in the Factory with Chocolates. At all. Nor does it read very slaptstick-y to me. Like I said earlier, if there's humor in that passage, it's more like when Travolta whacked the guy in the rear seat, accidentally or revived Uma with the Hypodermic to the sternum.

Lastly, having now read this extract, I would ABSOLUTELY use a tagline on the cover, something like "A Black Comedy," or "A Dark Humor," or whatever. I would not leave it as is, no matter what you do with the fonts.

And the clowny/silly fonts gotta go. Those two you used in your last pink-backgrounded iterations are screaming "madcap comedy!," and that's NOT what you've written.

Offered FWIW.

Hitch

[JSWolf]

Where is the big ARF in a diamond on her chest (aka Superman)? The cape isn't working with the current covers. And as to the fonts, I agree with Hitch.

[Catlady]

Originally Posted by doubleshuffle

A very rough sketch for a different colour scheme, ideally to be done with more dynamics in the titles:
Attachment 161437

I really think the dark aspect of the humour needs some expression in the cover design, so why not make the background dark?

I like this best except there's WAY too much text. The title is long to begin with, and the added lines indicating both the heroine and the series are excessive.

[BookCat]

Again, I totally agree with Hitch. From what you have said about this novel, I thought it would be a great zany read about someone who rescues animals while having problems with men getting in her way. I expected it to be fun and fairly light, especially from the choice of cover design.

If this had been on Amazon for a reasonable price, seeing the cover I would have read the "Look Inside" but not bought it. You are not aiming the cover at the kind of person who would enjoy reading what's inside. Nor does the blurb reflect this.

Imho the cover and blurb need a complete rethink.

[Cinisajoy]

Originally Posted by Gregg Bell

Hitch, I didn't convey my meaning about the reviews. I didn't want people reading it as serious thriller and finding out it was wacky and writing me a terrible review. And yes, this book is WAY over the top. I guess it's like Tarantino. There's a lot of violence but it's cartoonish. Here's the first scene:

Spoiler:

“Give up, scumbag?” Lainey Tripper said to the thug she had in a headlock. She could feel his warm saliva on her forearm. He was drooling, choking. “Well, do you!”
“You’re dead, Tripper,” the guy sputtered. “When Donovan hears about this, you’re dead meat.”
Donovan again, Lainey thought. She should’ve known. All the evil in this town was tied to Donovan somehow, so it should come as no surprise that he was the evil mastermind behind the dogs disappearing from Chicago. The blind peg-legged dirtbag. Lainey pulled a knife from a pocket in her business suit. She had to open the knife with one hand, and the blade locked in place. “You don’t deserve it, especially since you’re one of Donovan’s scumbags, but I’m giving you one last chance to live.” Lainey was knocked forward, tumbling over the man, into a glass case, the glass shattering, trophies cascading down on top of her. “Wow!”
She could feel the knife whisked from her hand, then a punch caught her solidly in the right breast. She raised up only to get knocked back by a kick to the forehead. She told herself to keep moving, always moving, her mercenary training second nature in a crisis. And now she was getting pissed off—she was going to have a boot mark on her forehead like a fricking advertising logo for God only knew how long. But yeah, she kept moving. It was her only chance. This new guy was refrigerator-huge, and he had her knife. She didn’t have time to see if he had any other weapons. And she still had to help Izzy! She told herself to try appealing to him. “Listen—” A punch caught her in the ear. Scratch appealing. This guy was good. He had no mercy. She rolled across the floor, over the glass, the trophies, adrenaline exploding, feeling no pain.
“Not so tough now, are you, you little slut,” the new guy said—the first guy was gone from Lainey’s field of vision—his voice surprisingly effeminate. When he called out, “Carter, get the silencer,” he looked over his shoulder, and when he did, Lainey grabbed a basketball trophy—a little gold statuette of a basketball player, arm fully extended, holding a basketball up to the sky—and got to her knees. When the man turned back, she rammed the trophy up his nose, the basketball from the trophy jamming straight into his brain. The man staggered back, the trophy dangling from his face like an elephant trunk.
Lainey, forearms bloody from the cut glass, pried her knife from the dead thug’s hand. The first thug meanwhile had left the room and now returned screwing a silencer onto a pistol. Lainey’s only hope was that he had a little more screwing to do, but he turned the gun on her.
“I told you, Tripper, you’re dead.” He fired and the bullet slammed into her shoulder. He laughed. Then he laughed again.
Lainey whipped her knife and hit him in the balls. He stepped back like a stuck pig, taking Frankenstein steps backward until he butted into a wall. “Why you little c…”
Lainey grabbed a shard of glass and threw it, the glass lodging in the guy’s gun arm like an arrow, his pistol dropping to the floor. She walked toward him, stopping to pick up his pistol. “What were you saying?” she said. “What was that? I think it was, ‘You’re dead,’ something like that.” She nodded toward his knife-impaled groin. “I wasn’t aiming there. Sheer luck. But it couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.”
“You are so dead, Tripper, you man-hating slut.”
“Oh, that’s good,” Lainey said. “How long did it take you to think that one up? Man-hating slut. You in MENSA?”
The man spat at her, but Lainey ducked. She said, “It’s funny, but a dead-meat man-hating slut is about to kill you.” She fired three quick shots into his torso, then when he’d fallen, one behind the ear. She unscrewed the silencer from the gun as she walked to a mirror and looked herself over. God, what a mess, Tripper, she thought. She ran her hand through her hair and brushed the splintery glass shards from her business suit. Her shoulder, the blood from the wound darkening the tan suit, but not too badly, was burning.
Now she had to find Izzy.
She was thinking about Donovan again as she opened the door to the hallway. The blind peg-legged dirtbag was an evil mastermind ruining Chicago for women and animals. The hallway was dark, nothing but janitorial staff would be around this late in a big downtown office building. Now what room number did Wanda say Izzy was in? Lainey’s cell phone vibrated in her pocket. She checked the caller ID. Wanda. She put the phone to her ear. “Yeah.”
“Lainey, where the hell were you? I’ve been calling non-stop.”
“Well, I was kind of busy there for a while.” Lainey thought about screwing the silencer back on the pistol. She could feel she wasn’t alone in the hallway. “And this building’s old school. Steel beams. The signal probably didn’t get through. And anyway, like I said, I was kind of busy.”
“Lainey, you didn’t. Not again.”
“Hey, stuff happens, Wanda. What can I tell you. They attacked me.”
“They? How many did you kill this time?”
“Two so far.”
“You definitely have a problem with men.”
“Yeah, yeah, but listen, Wanda, I don’t have time to fend off your guilt. I gotta get to Izzy. Now what room did your mole say she was in?”
“417.”
Lainey could feel goose bumps forming on her arms. Her years in a Buddhist monastery training to be a monk came in handy now—she was picking up on another person’s spirit nearby. She clicked off the phone.
“Hello?” she called down the hallway.
“Can I help you?” came back a male voice, but still no body.
“Oh, I know you might be surprised someone’s here at three in the morning,” Lainey said. “I was just finishing up some paperwork. Heading home now though.” She thought for sure the man, whoever he was, would see her bloody shoulder. Again she thought about screwing the silencer back on the pistol but wasn’t sure she’d have time. No matter what happened she wasn’t leaving without Izzy. She heard faint beeps sounding on a cell phone as if it were being dialed.
“Please,” Lainey said, knowing the man was calling in trouble. “That’s not necessary. I’m just here because I have an important report due in the morning.”
The man jumped from behind a wall, cell phone to his ear, pistol in his other hand. This was no security cop. This was another one of Donovan’s goons. Another one of the men who’d kidnapped Izzy and done God only knows what to her. Lainey gritted her teeth. The guy was a good thirty feet from her. With the distraction of him holding the cell phone and the low light, she figured there was a fifty-fifty chance if he fired, he’d miss. She yanked the pistol from her waistband and fired—and kept firing. She saw the man’s pistol muzzle flash twice but couldn’t hear the gun’s reports as the sound of her shots drowned out everything else, the shrill sounds echoing down the hallway and ringing in her ears. This wasn’t good. No, this wasn’t good at all. The noise was going to draw all kinds of attention. Now where the hell was room 417? She stepped over the dead man’s body, flipped open her cell and hit the speed dial button for Wanda.
“Lainey, why’d you hang up on me?”
“Wanda, plans have changed. I had another little complication here. We’ve got to move everything up. Pull the van right outside the office building’s front door.”
“Did you do what I think you did?”
“Can’t talk. Just do it.” She clicked off, hopped on an elevator and rode to the fourth floor. She was woozy—she must’ve lost a lot of blood. “403,” she said softly as she walked down the hall. “407…415.” She heard a whimpering coming from under 417’s door.
She slipped a jimmy from her sleeve. This is where her days as a cat burglar in New Orleans would come in handy—and this door’s lock was a piece of cake anyway. She knew that Izzy might be riled up at first. Who knew what Donovan and his thugs had done to her since kidnapping her. She might be ready to attack any human being at this point. But she would also pick up quickly on Lainey’s spirit and know that she was there to help. Lainey eased the door open.
A vicious guttural growling grew.
Lainey said, “There, girl. Easy…easy.” Her days as an animal whisperer in Colorado were paying off now. Izzy was calming down, the growl dissipating and gradually being replaced by a welcoming whine and tail wagging. She was safe and sound at last.

And I thought it would be fun if people didn't know what the IWS stood for. (I didn't know writing it and it didn't bother me.) There are no "rules" either. Do I need to come up with those too?

Gregg, couple of quick points:
Your cover in no way, shape, form or fashion matches that excerpt.

Now as to the excerpt, you said the knife was whisked out of her hand then a few paragraphs later she whipped her knife.
The second part makes no sense. How did she whip the knife?