36 Hours , livre ebook

Austin Macauley Publishers - B.J. Woster

Découvre YouScribe en t'inscrivant gratuitement

Je m'inscris

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

90 pages

English

Vous pourrez modifier la taille du texte de cet ouvrage

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

A propos
Informations
Extrait

Description

Christian Price is a scientist who suffered a tragedy unsolved by local police. In an effort to right that which he perceives is wrong, he begins to execute experiments in different cities to test the response times of law enforcement agencies. Detective Hardwick is a thirty-year veteran of the Atlanta Police Department. He and his fellow officers, who have always been successful in keeping crime rates low in the precinct, find themselves the latest targets of Christian's experiments, placing innocent civilians in the path of his malevolence. Will more unwilling participants be lost to Christian's brutality or can the detectives follow his perverse directives before time slips away?

Informations

Publié par	Austin Macauley Publishers
Date de parution	30 août 2019
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781528969017
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0210€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

36 Hours
B.J. Woster
Austin Macauley Publishers
2019-08-30
36 Hours About the Author About the Cover Dedication Copyright Information © Acknowledgement Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39
About the Author
B.J. Woster was born in Georgia to a Southern father and British mother. She spent most of her youth reading. Reading led to a love of writing, which she did prolifically; however, as a young adult, rearing children left her little time to put fingers to keyboard. Many years later, when her two oldest children came across a folder of her story ideas, they began to encourage her to start writing again, and that is why she dedicates all of her books to her children. Barbara currently resides in Oregon with her husband, Tim.
About the Cover
Christian Price is a scientist who suffered a tragedy unsolved by local police. In an effort to right that which he perceives is wrong, he begins to execute experiments in different cities to test the response times of law enforcement agencies. Detective Hardwick is a thirty-year veteran of the Atlanta Police Department. He and his fellow officers, who have always been successful in keeping crime rates low in the precinct, find themselves the latest targets of Christian’s experiments, placing innocent civilians in the path of his malevolence.
Will more unwilling participants be lost to Christian’s brutality or can the detectives follow his perverse directives before time slips away?
Dedication
For my family, without whose love and support, I could never have written this book. I love you all very much.
Copyright Information ©
B.J. Woster (2019)
The right of B.J. Woster to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781528969017 (ePub e-book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2019)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LQ
Acknowledgement
Thanks to my daughter, Joanna, for this particular story idea.
.
Chapter 1
October 30, 6:30 p.m.
Brooke Madison watched the numbers on the LED display descend slowly—eight, seven, six—moving closer toward her destination in the lower level of the parking garage. Four, three, two…the closer the elevator got, the more nervous she became. Sweat popped out along her upper lip; her body reacting to the nervous tension, firing throughout every nerve ending. She felt ashamed that she couldn’t control the physical reaction.
The beep sounded, signaling her arrival, and it made her jump. She blinked, and refocused on the LED display. ‘B-3’, it showed. Her level. She blinked again, drawing in deep, shaky breaths, as the doors parted with a gentle whoosh; but she didn’t move. As usual, she couldn’t move. Paralytic fear set in and her shame intensified, for she knew she would move—eventually. She felt absurd and mentally berated herself.
You’re behaving like a dog on the Fourth of July, afraid of the fireworks—quivering and shivering, hiding. You should be more than able to come and go from a parking garage elevator without having a near heart attack. Get a grip, girl! You are strong and capable, so start acting like it!
She should be more than ready to move on—to move out of the elevator without her knees knocking loudly, without her heart pounding as if trying to flee her chest, without her lungs fighting for every breath. She shouldn’t be worried that there was a bogeyman lurking in the shadows—but she was.
The doors began to slide closed and she instinctively reached out to punch the ‘open door’ button. The door quietly obeyed the command and Brooke took a determined step toward the portal, glancing about in a manner that was borderline paranoid. If anyone observed her behavior, she couldn’t care less if they snickered because she felt justified in her abnormal fear of parking garages.
Justified because of Sandra McIntyre.
She’d always been a bit nervous over the dark, dank enclosed levels of parking structures. It was a nervousness bordering on phobia, but she managed to curb it by moving to and from her vehicle at a rapid clip. She chose to continue parking on these levels instead of the open airy levels above because she was determined to conquer her fear.
But that was before Sandra McIntyre. Now she doubted she’d ever feel able to conquer this particular fear. It was the thought of tomorrow, parking on the upper level, which gave her the strength she needed to break her paralysis.
She took another deep breath and stepped tentatively just outside of the elevator, her hands slightly behind her, ready to stop the doors should she find herself unable to continue. Of course, she ’ would’ continue; knew she had to if she was to get to her car and leave this place, a place that no longer represented a mere structure for automobiles, rather invoked an irrational dread and uncertainty. Still, she shouldn’t have to stand at the ready: ready to prevent the elevator doors slipping closed, ready to leap back into the safety offered by that chilly metal box—but she did, all because of Sandra McIntyre.
She just wished her mind would stop inventing illusions of horror. She knew that she had only herself to blame for the paranoia that now gripped her, and her shame turned to anger. She took a tentative step forward, cringing as she finally permitted the doors to slide close behind her.
Perhaps, she thought, the garage would seem less daunting if the lights were all in working order. She was certain that the owner would be eager to replace the bulbs, after what happened to Sandra. She glanced up at the ceiling and counted the number of non-functioning or empty sockets between the elevator, and the space where she knew her car to be: twelve, by her count; twelve out of thirty. That was far too many in her estimation. The dimness leant a sinister air to the cool, pervasive dampness of the garage.
With a deep breath, she took another step away from the elevator, moving toward her parking slot, her stilettos clicking off each rapidly increasing step across the oil-stained concrete flooring.
Breathe and just remember what to do if you are attacked .
She said tacitly, mentally reviewing everything she’d learned in her self-defense classes; classes she’d started taking on the recommendation of Sandra McIntyre.
She stumbled, and her hand shot toward a nearby beam to prevent falling.
“Fat lot of good those classes had done her…” She started cursing aloud, but then stopped. “No! I can’t think like that. I can’t believe that I am defenseless. The classes didn’t fail Sandra; she simply hadn’t been alert. That’s it. She simply hadn’t paid attention to her surroundings. ‘Always know what’s happening around you’ had been the instructor’s first dictate. Well, I haven’t yet made that mistake. I’m as alert as anyone can get.”
She was so alert in fact that every nerve in her body jumped at every single noise, which caused it to tingle in a most uncomfortable fashion; much like the painful tingling feeling when a sleeping foot begins to waken.
She spotted her red Ford Mustang sitting nestled between a gray BMW and a burgundy Hummer. Her breathing eased a bit the closer she got until she was fairly laughing with relief when she reached the front of the car. She sighed deeply. If she didn’t bring her insane irrationality back down to her customary, rational anxiety soon, she’d go completely bonkers.
“I may have to seek out a therapist because my fear is getting out of hand,” she conversed with herself, as she plopped her purse atop the hood and began rooting about in the large interior for her keys. This habit she hadn’t yet changed as the self-defense instructor suggested.
“One of the biggest mistakes people make,” he intoned during class, “is that people assume they will be able to get into their cars quickly, that they will be able to get to their keys and the safety of the car’s interior before an assailant can attack.”
Although she had made a mental decision to heed the instructor’s warning, she had yet to latch her keys to her purse’s exterior as he’d suggested, hadn’t even purchased a carabiner yet. Now, with a sigh of frustration, she yanked the purse open wider, glaring inside, daring her keys to continue hiding beneath her wallet, umbrella, and other sundries.
“I think it’s time to clean this out,” she muttered, as she resorted to pulling out items one at a time, “and it’s also time to downsize this monstrosity.”
“Trick or treat,” a voice whispered near her ear, and she jerked violently, knocking her purse to the ground, scattering the contents across the oily gray surface.
Her hands flailing, she spun and quickly struck a martial arts pose: stance wide to provide balance, and her fists raised and ready to strike. The sight was so comical that the man who’d startled her chuckled. That pissed Brooke off, and she swung a fist and hit him hard in the upper arm and then swung the other fist and hit his shoulder. He backed away, but otherwise showed no outward sign of offense.
“ That wasn’t very nice,” she snapped, bending to start picking up h