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eBook Category: Mystery/Crime
eBook Description: Ex-cop Ellis Browder wrestles with his past, an evolving love, his alcoholism and his sense of duty as he works to clear a woman accused of murdering her repulsive "shock jock" husband. Just when he is questioning his client's veracity, he discovers a link between the cocaine-using victim and the bodies of a drug-dealer and his two body guards found in a dark alleyway across town the same night.

eBook Publisher: The Fiction Works, Published: http://www.fictionworks.com, 2004
Fictionwise Release Date: March 2004

1 Reader Ratings:

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Available eBook Formats [MultiFormat - What's this?]: eReader (PDB) [179 KB] , ePub (EPUB) [151 KB] , Rocket/REB1100 (RB) [148 KB] , Adobe Acrobat (PDF) [515 KB] , Palm Doc (PDB) [165 KB] , Microsoft Reader (LIT) [148 KB] , Franklin eBookMan (FUB) [204 KB] , hiebook (KML) [379 KB] , Sony Reader (LRF) [217 KB] , iSilo (PDB) [135 KB] , Mobipocket (PRC) [169 KB] , Kindle Compatible (MOBI) [205 KB] , OEBFF Format (IMP) [225 KB]
Words: 47959
Reading time: 137-191 min.
Microsoft Reader (LIT) Format: Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud ENABLED
Adobe Acrobat (PDF) Format:  Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud DISABLED
All Other formats: Printing DISABLED, Read-aloud DISABLED

Heart booming, lungs convulsing, thighs threatening to ignite if he forces one more stride, he gropes through the stench and the shadows for a stronghold. A brick wall ... slimy but solid. Spinning, he slams against it, his head rocketing backward and colliding with a thud. The pain is instantaneous. He ignores it.

Air. Must ... have ... more ... air.

Be it God's will or his, he drops to his knees. Without waiting for the command, his arms dart out in front of him, and his hands lunge for and then smack against the ground. He grits his teeth.

No. Not here. Still ... still too visible. Must ... must move.

Legs screaming, he drags himself over battered boxes, shattered glass, and splintered wood to the edge of the wall. Grabbing hold, he flings himself around the corner. The darkness swallows him whole.

Sweat streaming from every pore, surrounded by tattered newspapers, discarded food scraps, and something resembling primordial ooze, he lies there on his back for several moments ... gasping and blinking, gasping and blinking. His mind is livid. It clamors for him to move again, but he can't ... he just can't. His body has already commandeered what little energy he has left and is using it to restore some semblance of physical normalcy. He doesn't have to like it, but he does have to accept it. For the moment, this is the essence of his reality.

The corners of his mouth curl slightly upward.

I did it.

He blinks.

A horrible thought consumes him.

Acting on pure instinct, his hand fumbles its way across his chest and down his side. Latching on to the handle of his Glock 9mm, it whips the weapon to within inches of his face. A frantic flick of thumb and wrist follows. The magazine ejects.

He squints. The alley is pitch black, and he realizes his former comforter is now his adversary. Scrambling, he secures for himself a sliver of illumination and sees what he needs to see: five bullets remaining, and ... and three bullets missing.

He sighs. He relaxes. He collapses.

I was right. It was not a dream.

He closes his eyes. Swallowing hard, he forces what feels like a 2,000-pound invisible weight from his chest and maneuvers himself into a sitting position. Slamming the magazine back in place, he returns the gun to his hip and scoots backward until his shoulders collide with a new set of slimy bricks. Using his thumb and forefinger like a windshield wiper, he whisks the moisture from his brow--up and over the crown of his bald head, down his thick neck, and onto his collar. His eyes adjust.

Cool, man. Keep it cool.

His mind is quieter now. He is no longer a terrified rat in an electrified maze. He is human again, but different. He hears, smells, sees, and documents everything--and he feels nothing.

Car horns. Boom boxes. Snippets of conversation. Noticed, labeled, filed away.

Alcohol. Rotting meat. Urine. Check, check, check.

A piece of trash dancing to the whim of a light wind. A light bulb ... naked, glaring, and defiant. Clouds overhead. Roaches nearby. He hears, smells, sees, and documents everything. And he feels....

He freezes.

A siren ... faint but unmistakable. A mile, maybe a mile and a half away. Fire? Rescue? No. Too tight too specific. It's a police siren.

Cool, man. Keep it cool.

He reaches for his hip and caresses the Glock. His mind clicks like the electronic tracking machine it has now become. He processes the information and then nods. The siren is moving south. He rises. It is time.

The ground glides beneath his feet. He cruises north. In two minutes, he will be there. In three minutes, it will be over.

A green light. He is pleased. He crosses the street, and he notices.

Yellow taxi, one driver and two passengers. Driver is foreign. Couple is young, white, and eager--check.

Red Ford pickup, one passenger. White male, early thirties. Cowboy hat. Smoking. Likes country music--check.

A woman, heading toward him--tall, black, and attractive. Hint of perfume. Small child in need of diaper change, sniveling and clinging to her side--check.

White female, jogging past. Medium-length blond hair in a ponytail, white tank top, blue shorts, black Nikes. Hint of perfume mixed with perspiration--noticed, labeled, filed away. He must remember these people, should the need arise.

The gliding stops. He tastes adrenaline and swallows. His eyes widen.

Cool, man. Keep it cool.

His eyes devour the area. The street is empty, but he knows this is no time for arrogance. He slips through the closest set of box hedges and steals his way around to the back of the building, guided by a light he soon learns is spilling from a first-floor window.

Is it? Yes. It's the Crawleys' window.

Dissolving in the shadows, he creeps closer. He blinks. He retrieves the Glock and checks the clip. He is ready. He is willing.

He hears something. He looks in the window.

What the hell....