The Gamma Sequence
Page 1
PRAISE FOR THE GAMMA SEQUENCE:
“BRILLIANT”
A brilliant medical thriller full of twists, surprises, and ethical nightmares. Fans of Robin Cook and Michael Crichton will love this well-written and suspenseful book. The Gamma Sequence kept me on the edge of my seat until the very satisfying end.
- Jenifer Ruff, USA Today bestselling author of Only Wrong Once and Everett
“GRIPPING”
This is a gripping story - and one that magnetizes our attention to possibilities.
- Grady harp, Hall of Fame Top 100 Reviewer
“5 Stars. SO much to this story”
Enjoyed this all the way through with lots of twists and turns. NOT predictable at all.
Love the ending...
- Jbarr5 Reviews
“medical thriller that will hook you from the very beginning”
Suspenseful, twisted, action packed medical thriller that will hook you from the very beginning of the book…. This book appealed to me as I am a huge fan of medical thrillers and mystery suspense. Both components were intertwined into this book.
- Heidi Lynn's Book Reviews
“5 Stars. Ruthless, Ruinous Science Run Amok”
- Book Review Gal
“This is a great novel!”
I loved the characters and the waterfall scene was very exciting! What's truly fantastic/captivating about the whole story is that it really could happen…
- Anne Marie Andrus, bestselling author of Monsters & Angels
“A solid 5 stars. Great read. Amazing.”
“I really did enjoy it and love a good ending - I assume there will be another book to give us more... Look forward to your next.”
- R G Review
“This book had me jealous of anything that tore me away.”
As a lover of medical thrillers, I tend to be a picky reader, but this book, with its plot filled with terrifying twists and turns and geneticists gone madd had me hooked from sentence one, kept me turning pages and being jealous of anything that tore me away.
- Patty L Fletcher Reviews
THE GAMMA SEQUENCE
a medical thriller
© 2019 Dan Alatorre
© This eBook is licensed for your personal use only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. © No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author. Copyright © 2019 Dan Alatorre. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Edited by Jenifer Ruff and Allison Maruska
Other Thrillers By Dan Alatorre
Rogue Elements, The Gamma Sequence Book 2. Click HERE to PREORDER NOW! Releases January 1, 2020.
Terminal Sequence, The Gamma Sequence Book 3 (coming soon)
Double Blind, an intense murder mystery thriller
An Angel On Her Shoulder, a paranormal thriller
The Navigators, a time travel thriller
Note to Readers
If you have the time, I would deeply appreciate a review on Amazon or Goodreads. I learn a great deal from them, and I’m always grateful for any encouragement. Reviews are a very big deal and help authors like me to sell a few more books. Every review matters, even if it’s only a few words.
Thanks,
Dan Alatorre
Table Of Contents
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
About The Author
Other Thrillers By Dan Alatorre
Chapter 1
The murderer pulled a black ski mask over his face and stared at the ornate entry to his next victim's house.
On TV, cops and angry boyfriends can always kick a door open. In real life, it’s a little more complicated than that.
He hefted the 40-pound battering ram to gage its balance. According to the website that sold them, these heavy steel rams replaced a swift kick for police officers around 1975, and had been reliably opening the entries of stubborn perpetrators ever since.
Hit the knob with it straight on, and it will do the rest.
Taking a deep breath, he rubbed the knot growing in his stomach. He leaned away from the door and peeked through the large bay window, focusing on the fat old man at the dining room table. The overhead chandelier cast a warm yellow glow over the walls, spilling onto the yard outside in a misshapen rectangle.
The man inside carved a tiny slice of something on his plate, gently lifting it to his mouth, the fork upside down like European royalty. Good posture, too. No doubt that was the way Dr. Faustus Braunheiser demanded the students at Wellington Academy to eat, all prim and proper. Students watching from their tables would see the rigid old man operating as any good headmaster should, a perfect example of stuffy grace and tedious dignity.
But tonight, the old man dined alone.
No gawking teenage boys in matching shirts and ties, no suck-up faculty. And best of all, no family members.
That’s no way to celebrate your birthday, Doctor.
A breeze tugged at the killer’s collar and brought the stench of the bay at low tide. He peered at the tall hedges lining the driveway.
Thank goodness for privacy.
He reactively went to wipe his hand on his pants, stopping when he remembered the latex gloves he wore. After patting the butt of the big revolver strapped to his belt, he regripped the 40-pound steel battering ram. Its two handles allowed it to swing like a giant pendulum, and according to the website, the concentrated impact at hand speed was somewhere in the vicinity of 6,000 pounds per square inch.
More than enough to do the trick.
He took another deep breath, straining to guide the tip of the thick black ram to the shiny brass knob, but not touch it. He held it there for a moment, lining up his shot, then he let the ram swing backwards. The momentum of its short, stubby mass wanted to carry him backwards with it, off the elegant front porch and down the majestic home’s marble stairs, but he forced his arms and shoulders to contain the pendulum.
When the battering ram reached the peak of its backwards arc, he brought it forward once again toward the door.
One.
Exhaling hard, he rocked the ram backwards again. A bead of sweat rolled past the bandage and down the side of his face.
He swung it forward again, nearly touching the knob.
Two.
The ram arced backwards one last time. With a grunt, he squeezed the steel handles and gritted his teeth, heaving the ram toward the door knob.
Three.
The impact sent a jolt up his arms and a thunderclap that boomed down the doctor’s long driveway and past the vintage Jaguar parked there, before fading into the night. As the door knob disappeared, a cloud of splinters took its place. The momentum of the ram carried him into the door frame, the ram disappearing up to the handles inside the thick wooden door.
He yanked the heavy steel tool a few times to get it free, then dropped it over the mansion’s stone porch rail and into the manicured bushes. It landed with a thump in the thick mulch. The massive front door stood, cracked in several places and with a big hole where the knob used to be, but it inched open.
The killer raised his foot to do the rest. Kicking the door, it swung open and crashed into the mahogany-paneled wall. The old man at the table was already on his feet, his eyes wide and his mouth half open with the next tiny bite of his elegant birthday dinner. He stormed toward the entrance of his home. “What do you think you’re doing? Who are you? Get out!”
Heart pounding, the intruder pulled his large gun from its holster and pointed it at the old man. “Shut up and sit down, Dr. Braunheiser.”
The headmaster stopped in his tracks, jaw agape. He slowly raised his hands.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” The Greyhound said. A tall, athletic-framed man, he knew he cut an imposing figure. The black ski mask was a nice touch, too. It had a way of keeping the victim slightly terrorized and completely focused. Still, the intruder fought to keep the adrenaline from showing in his voice or making his hand quiver.
“This—this house has an alarm,” Dr. Braunheiser said. “The police. They’re probably already on the way.”
The Greyhound shook his head and crept toward the old man. “I disabled that. Your phone wires run right alongside your electric meter and cable lines, over on the pool side of the house. Besides, when you came in, you didn’t re-arm the system, so let’s not lie to each other, shall we?” He raised the gun to eye level, staring down the barrel to his victim. “Now get on your knees.”
Dr. Braunheiser frowned, lowering his hands. “I’ll do no such thing.”
The Greyhound swallowed hard to quell the knot in his stomach. “Yes, you will.” He inspected the long, carved wooden mirror hanging next to a massive aquarium in the foyer. A very scary man in a black ski mask and blue jeans stared back at him. Cocking his head, he returned his gaze to Braunheiser. The old man was probably used to a stern tone of voice sending fear down the spines of grade schoolers. Not tonight. The Greyhound squeezed the thick handle of his .45 tighter. “You’ll get on your knees and do what I say, or I will catch the next flight to North Carolina and I will kill your daughter Jenifer in the office of her clinic. Then I will track down your wife Sandy at her seminar and kill her in her hotel room.” He narrowed his eyes and growled at the doctor. “Get the picture, birthday boy?”
Braunheiser’s hands trembled as he held them in the air. “There’s no need for any of that. Just . . . just tell me, what do you want? I can—I, I have . . .” His voice trailed off, much quieter now, and not nearly as stern as a moment ago.
The Greyhound advanced and put his gun near Braunheiser’s temple. “I already told you. Get on your knees.”
The doctor lowered himself with a grunt, easing his hands down to the shiny wooden planks and steadying himself as he slid each foot backward. Hands at his sides, he raised himself to a kneeling position, wincing, and faced his intruder.
“The car keys to the Jaguar,” The Greyhound said. “Where are they?”
The doctor glanced toward the entrance. “On the hook. By the door.”
“Okay.”
“Do you . . . do you want money, then? I can get—”
The Greyhound hooked a thumb under his ski mask and slid it up past his face to rest on his forehead. The air was cool on his skin. “So, you don’t remember me?” He glared at his victim. “Well, I was pretty young at the time. It’s not like they took class photos at the facility or anything.”
Braunheiser blinked a few times. “Facility?”
“Angelus Genetics.”
The old man’s face went white.
“Oh, now it’s starting to come back to you.” The Greyhound lifted a finger to the bandage over his eye. He winced, sweat rolling down his neck and along his back. “I’m glad you remember. I like reminiscing. But first, let me tell you how this is going to go.” He slid the mask back down over his face.
“I—I can get you money,” the doctor whispered, his voice quivering. “Drugs. Medicine. Whatever you—”
“Just shut up!” The Greyhound screamed, leaning close to the old man’s head. “You are not running this show, Doctor!” He turned to the mirror, admiring the mask and the way it hid his features while creating an ominous presence. “You know,” he wheeled around to the man kneeling in front of him. “It’s amazing you got as far as you did. You’re just about the worst liar I’ve met from the facility—and I’ve met quite a few of your colleagues over the years.”
The Greyhound pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket.
“Here’s the deal. You’re gonna put a few drops of ether on this handkerchief, and then you’re going to inhale it.”
“I won’t.”
“You will.” He dropped the cloth in front of the doctor. “If you try not to, I’ll put a few rounds into your thighs, and you can lay on the floor kicking in pain while I hold the handkerchief over your face.” He lowered his voice to a whisper and put his mouth close to the doctor’s ear. “Totally your call.”
“Gunshot wounds . . .” Braunheiser swallowed hard, sweat appearing on his brow, “tend to get noticed by detectives.”
“Coroners, too, Doc.” The Greyhound sniffed. The old man’s Clive Christian cologne and aftershave filled the assailant’s nostrils. “But if you think somebody’s going to come poking around in the middle of the Great Cypress Swamp, way out past the Indian reservation, and dig through a bunch of gator dung to find your injuries, well, just remember—those Miami detectives didn’t even bother to get their feet wet when ValueJet flight 592 went down in the Everglades. I doubt the deep swamps are the first place anyone would think to look for you, anyway.”
The old man trembled now, his whole body shaking. “So . . . you, you do need to kill me?”
The Greyhound righted himself. “Oh, without a doubt. Was that not clear?” He strolled down the long hallway toward the Christmas tree, admiring the vases and statues as the dark floor gently creaked under his feet. “You have a few minutes. Use them wisely. Pray, maybe—to whatever you believe in. Science. Money, possibly. Power. But make no mistake, in a few minutes, one of us will be dead.” He swallowed hard. “And since I happen to be holding the gun, I’ll bet it’s going to be you.”
“You’ll never get away with this.” Anger seeped into the doctor’s voice.
“I already have,” The Greyhound said, walking back to the doctor. “Several times. But I’m tired of talking to you. It’s showtime. Three deep breaths ought to do it—and I’ll be able to tell if you’re faking, so don’t.”
With trembling hands, the doctor reached out and lifted the white handkerchief from the floor.
The Greyhound produced a small vial from his other pocket. “Three drops of this. No more, no less. Remember, there are lots of bad ways to die. This doesn’t have to be one.” He held out the bottle, waving it back and forth like a clock pendulum as he stared into the old man’s eyes. “It must be terrible, knowing you’re going to die very soon.”
The doctor gazed at him, the handkerchief in his shaking hand. “If you tell me what you want, maybe I can help you.”
“No! I’ve had all the help I care to endure from you, Doctor Braunheiser! Now, one last time.” He stretched his arm out and leveled the big gun at the old man’s head. “Start sniffing or I swear the walls will be painted with your brain splatter.”
The old man uncapped the plastic bottle, the lid slipping from his trembling fingers. It rolled across the floor. The Greyhound stooped to pick i
t up. “Can’t leave evidence laying around.”
The vial had a tip like an eyedropper. Braunheiser lifted the bottle, squeezing three small drops into the center the handkerchief.
“Over your nose and mouth,” The Greyhound said, waiving the gun at the doctor. “Please breathe through your nose deeply, and count backwards from ten.” He snorted. “Just kidding. You don’t have to do that.”
The old man took a hesitant breath.
“Deeper than that. Gun shots hurt really, really bad, from what I hear. First there is the impact—like getting hit with a baseball bat, wham! Knocks the wind out of you. Then there is this sharp, searing pain that rockets up your body and bashes your brain. Then, there’s the intense burning feeling. Some guys say they can even smell their own flesh smoldering from the hot lead. Then wave after wave of nonstop agony overwhelms your whole system and sends you into shock—after enduring ten or fifteen minutes of dire pain. Probably put an old boy like you straight into coronary arrest. And at close range, this .45 can take a whole leg off as well. Now, if you can’t do it for yourself, think of your poor innocent wife and daughter. Jenifer and Sandy don’t deserve to die, too. Think of the rancid, sticky mess of blood and goo we’ll be leaving for the maid to find on Tuesday. So, please. Do it right.”
The doctor squared his shoulders and inhaled deeply.
“That’s more like it. Better go ahead and count.”
Trembling, the man nodded. His eyes filling with tears, he spoke through the handkerchief he held to his face. “Ten . . .” His voice wavered. “Nine.”
He closed his eyes, tears rolling down his cheeks. “Eight . . .”
Another deep, shaky breath.
“I’ll help you,” The Greyhound said. “Seven.”
The doctor’s shoulders sagged as he inhaled a third time. His hand fell to his side, the cloth floating to the floor. His head bobbed, tipping to the right slightly, and then his body slumped. He crashed face-first onto the polished oak planks.
The Greyhound took a deep breath and released it slowly, rubbing the knot in his belly. “That’s more like it. Now, if you’ll allow my friends to escort you to your car, we’ll start phase two.”