by Sean Lynch
“You offering me a job?”
“Unless you have a better offer.”
“I don’t know the first thing about being a private investigator,” Kearns said truthfully.
“What’s to know? You’re smart, resourceful, good with your fists and a gun, and I could use the help. Besides, we belong together. We’re a team, you and me. Like the Lone Ranger and Tonto, or Holmes and Watson.”
“More like Gilligan and the Skipper,” Kearns said. Farrell rolled his eyes.
“So what do you say?” Farrell asked, gingerly extending his palm.
“The last time we had this conversation I ended up on the FBI’s Most Wanted list.”
“That was different,” Farrell said smoothly. “Besides, what could happen?”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My sincerest thanks go out to my agent, Scott Miller, of Trident Media Group. His support, patience, and relentlessness are deeply appreciated. My heartfelt gratitude also goes out to my superb editor, Emlyn Rees, for his professionalism, patience, and unyielding humanity. He’s forgotten more about writing than I’ll ever know, and was kind enough to wield that skill to make mine better. I am humbled and honored to have Scott and Emlyn at my back.
Lastly, inexpressible thanks to Denise, Brynne, and Owen. Today, tomorrow, and forever. You know the rest.
SEAN LYNCH
THE FOURTH MOTIVE
CHAPTER 1
Paige Callen didn’t see the man until he was upon her.
Her attention had been focused on a flock of seagulls which were grazing on remnants of bait left by beach fishermen the night before.
Not that she would have noticed the man anyway. The most pleasant aspect of her dawn jog along Shoreline Drive each morning was her ability to tune out the rest of the world, if only for a while, and lose herself in the music piping into her head via the earphones of her bright yellow Sony Walkman cassette player. It was Monday morning so she’d chosen something a little more upbeat to jumpstart her mood for the impending workweek Appetite for Destruction, the debut album from a new band called Guns ‘n’ Roses, was recommended to her by a co-worker. Most of the Guns ‘n’ Roses songs on the cassette Paige found a little raucous for her tastes, but ‘Sweet Child o’ Mine’ was beginning to win her over.
At six A.M. the beach was almost always desolate. Paige would rarely encounter another runner. If she did they invariably would plod by, like her, oblivious to the rest of the world.
As usual, Paige was clad in nylon shorts topped by an oversized U.C. Berkeley sweatshirt. Her long, freckled, and muscular legs ended into the tops of her running shoes. She eschewed socks. It was mid-September and she wouldn’t need to wear sweatpants for another month.
Paige ran east along the water’s edge. Even without Axl Rose wailing in her ears the soft, damp shore beneath her feet effectively muffled the sound of approaching footsteps.
Paige felt rather than saw a brief flash of movement over her left shoulder. Before she had time to react she was shoved forward with tremendous force. With the air rushing explosively from her chest she went sprawling to the wet turf and landed on her stomach. Once more, before she could recover, her attacker pounced. He straddled her back, pinning her down. What little breath not torn from her lungs by the initial violent shove was now completely gone.
Choking and struggling, Paige tried to look over her shoulder at the person holding her helplessly to the ground. Her assailant responded by pushing her face savagely into the dirt. As a tide of panic rose within her, Paige realized she was going to be suffocated face-first in the soil. She gasped and thrashed, but was trapped. She tasted the silt of the Alameda beach.
A gloved hand released its hold on the back of Paige’s neck and ripped the stereo headphones from her ears. The same hand grabbed her long blond ponytail and pulled her head back sharply out of the sand. She gasped for air. Both her arms were held against her sides by the weight of the person atop her. Paige’s eyes watered, but not enough to wash away the soggy grit imbedded over her eyelids.
Paige knew she was about to be raped. But in her overwhelming fear for her life, rape seemed strangely insignificant. She tried to convince herself that maybe another jogger had witnessed the assault and phoned the police, but quickly realized this was wishful thinking. She’d been jogging on the beach almost every day at this time for the seclusion it provided. And that’s exactly what she had today; seclusion.
“Hi Paige. Betcha never thought you’d see me again, huh?”
A man’s voice. Deep and raspy; the voice of a heavy smoker. Paige could detect no hint of an accent, and her tortured brain struggled to find something familiar or identifiable in its tone. The assailant’s use of her name, and implication of previous contact, set her into an even deeper panic.
He knows my name. This isn’t random.
Paige felt another sharp pull on her pony tail.
“That’s right, you fucking whore; you know me,” he said, as if reading her mind. “But I didn’t come here for a reunion. I came to make a you a victim. Never been a victim before, have you?”
Suddenly the weight on her back lifted. She instinctively tried to get up. In the same motion, Paige brushed a forearm across her grime-covered eyes to clear her vision.
Before Paige could open her eyes, however, she was struck a sharp blow over her left ear by a hard, heavy object. Though not knocked unconscious, the force of the strike flipped her over and put her flat on her back, dazed. She reflexively touched the place on her head which suffered the impact, and when her eyes finally focused saw blood staining her fingers.
Paige looked up to see her attacker standing over her. He was wearing a grey hooded sweatshirt and pants to match. The hood blended nicely into the ski-mask covering his face. He was Caucasian, by the glimpses of skin she could see around his lips and eyes, and of medium height with a thin build. In one gloved hand was a large, black revolver held loosely at his side. She realized the weapon was the object he’d struck her with.
The man stared down at Paige, chuckling. His laugh was a harsh staccato. Then he stopped grinning, leaned over, and leveled the revolver directly at her forehead. The distance from the end of the barrel to Paige’s skull was no more than a few inches.
The hole at the muzzle gaped at her. Paige tried to look at the man, and away from the black tunnel of the revolver barrel, but couldn’t pry her eyes from the gun. She could feel herself trembling; convulsive shudders she was certain were visible to the ski-masked figure looming over her.
“So long, slut,” the man blurted in his raspy voice.
Paige could see the revolver’s cylinder rotating as the man slowly began pulling the trigger. She knew she was about to die.
Paige squeezed her eyes shut as a sob escaped her lips. The revolver fired.
The Fourth Motive
Whatever it takes…
This second novel in the Farrel & Kearns detective series pits them against a deadly adversary in an illicit pursuit where death stalks the hunters and hunted alike.
Deputy District Attorney Paige Callen is being stalked, and the man stalking her is motivated, methodical, and relentless.
The police aren’t merely one step behind Paige’s stalker; they’re stumped. So Paige’s father, retired Judge ‘Iron Gene’ Callen, instead hires retired San Francisco P.D. Inspector turned private investigator Bob Farrell, to the dismay of the local police.
The cops know all-too-well Farrell’s reputation as a reckless wild card. Judge Callen, however, knows Farrell as a man who never lets the rules get in the way of getting the job done.
Farrell enlists the aid of former Iowa Deputy Kevin Kearns to help him protect Paige, and to stop a madman before she becomes a statistic. But to find her stalker, Farrell and Kearns must first learn why he’s launched his crusade; a journey none of them may survive.
“I just added Farrell and Kearns to my short-list of favorite characters. Think First Blood meets No Country for Old Men.”
Matt
Hilton, author of Joe Hunter series.
Publication details:
Ebook: 24th April 2014
ISBN: 9781909223110
UK Paperback: 1st May 2014
ISBN: 9781909223097
US Paperback: 24th April 2014
ISBN: 9781909223103
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Sean Lynch was born and raised in Iowa, in a Civil War-era brick farmhouse restored by his family. When not outdoors shooting his BB guns, Sean could be found reading crime and science fiction, paranormal and military non-fiction, and trying to persuade his parents to let him stay up past bedtime to watch the late-show creature feature.
After high school Sean obtained a Bachelor of Sciences degree and served in the US Army as an enlisted Infantryman. He migrated to Northern California’s San Francisco Bay Area, where he recently retired after nearly three decades as a municipal police officer. During his Law Enforcement career Sean served as a Sector Patrol Officer, Foot Patrol Officer, Motorcycle Officer, Field Training Officer, SWAT Team Officer, Firearms Instructor, SWAT Team Sniper, Defensive Tactics Instructor, Juvenile/Sexual Assault Detective, and Homicide Detective. Sean concluded his career at the rank of Lieutenant and as Commander of the Detective Division.
A lifelong fitness enthusiast, Sean exercises daily and holds a 1st Dan in Tae Kwon Do. He still watches late-night creature features. Sean is partial to Japanese cars, German pistols, and British beer.
seanlynchbooks.com
twitter.com/seanlynchbooks
EXHIBIT A
An Angry Robot imprint
and a member of Osprey Group
Lace Market House,
54-56 High Pavement,
Nottingham NG1 1HW
UK
43-01 21st Street, Suite 220B
Long Island City
NY 11101
USA
www.exhibitabooks.com
A is for Authentic!
Copyright © Sean Lynch 2013
Cover photo Corbis; design by Argh! Oxford
All rights reserved.
Angry Robot is a registered trademark, and Exhibit A, the Exhibit A icon and
the Angry Robot icon a trademark of Angry Robot Ltd.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and
incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or
localities is entirely coincidental.
Ebook: ISBN 978 1 90922 308 0
UK Paperback: ISBN 978 1 90922 306 6
US Trade Paperback: ISBN 978 1 90922 307 3