by John A. Daly
Blood Trade: A Sean Coleman Thriller
© 2015 John A. Daly. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopying, or recording, except for the inclusion in a review, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Published in the United States by BQB Publishing Company
www.bqbpublishing.com
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN 978-1-939371-69-0 (p)
ISBN 978-1-939371-70-6 (e)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2015937918
Book design by Robin Krauss, www.bookformatters.com
Cover design by Dave Grauel, www.davidgrauel.com
Also in the Sean Coleman Thriller series from John A. Daly
From a Dead Sleep
2015, BQB Publishing
Praise for John A. Daly and From a Dead Sleep
Some writers are thoughtful. Some have style. John Daly has both. When I read his work, it’s time well spent.
—Bernard Goldberg,
New York Times bestselling author of Bias
An epic thriller with a memorable, unorthodox main character . . . a riveting read . . .
—Colorado Country Life Magazine
A fast-reading suspense book that surprised me so much, I had to finish it in one sitting.
—Alice de Sturler
of the American Investigative Society of Cold Cases
A thriller that packs a punch! This was a very exciting debut novel from John A. Daly. This novel packs a lot of jaw-dropping action into its well-structured narrative—a narrative that gives life to the myriad of characters that inhabit its pages and provides plenty of plot twists and turns to keep you glued to the pages.
—Reading, Writing, and Riesling book blog
I loved this book. The suspense had me sitting on the edge of my seat . . . The author did a fabulous job with the setting details—I could picture every touch, smell, sight that the characters went through . . .
—Yawatta Hosby, author of the novel One by One
From a Dead Sleep is a page-turner, an exciting, well-written thriller with a solid back story and more than enough plot twists to keep you guessing.
—Marilyn Armstrong, Serendipity book blog
I totally enjoyed reading John A. Daly’s From a Dead Sleep. The author used creative writing techniques that make this a mystery/suspense that is very different from other books in this genre . . . The author also does a wonderful job of creating characters and scenes that are quirky, yet believable . . . I highly recommend this entertaining story.
—Paige Lovitt, Reader Views
John pens From a Dead Sleep in a well-written plot filled with mystery, suspense and drama. Between his well-developed characters and all the twists and turns within the story line, you will find yourself having a really hard time putting the book down . . . I know I did! Highly recommended for all mystery and suspense fans. I give From a Dead Sleep a five-star rating.
—Susan Peck, My Cozie Corner book blog
[An] exciting murder mystery that keeps the reader wanting more. A well-written novel that shows one man’s flaws and how he redeems himself to the town and ultimately himself. I love a good mystery and this one is one that definitely deserves a read by the mystery lover.
—Kathleen Kelly, Celticlady’s Reviews
I love mysteries and I love thrillers. This book was both of those things for me . . . I highly recommend this book for anyone who loves suspense, thriller, action novels . . . and yes, there is a little bit of romance in it. I am giving it five stars because, honestly, I couldn’t put it down once I picked it up . . . it deserves FIVE STARS.
—Becca Wilson, Manic Mama of 2 book blog
John Daly’s From a Dead Sleep is an engaging page-turner with likable characters . . . Daly delivers a twist and the famous words of Sir Walter Scott will be playing in the background, “Oh, what a tangled web we weave / When first we practice to deceive!” . . . If you’re looking for a good mystery or are trying to break out of a reading slump, I highly recommend John Daly’s From a Dead Sleep. Just a bit of warning: don’t start this right before you go to bed, you won’t be able to put it down.
—Literary, etc. book blog
An unconventional hero that readers come to like if not love. Plenty of twists and turns will keep readers glued to their seats.
—Cayocosta72 book reviews
Wow, this book will keep you on the edge of your seat . . . The story takes twists and turns that you just simply won’t see coming. This is a very exciting mystery and you won’t want to put it down . . . John Daly’s writing style is a refreshing one. And I must say that when I finished reading this book I wanted to read more by this author. I highly recommend this book to anyone who enjoys a well-written mystery, full of suspense and drama.
—Chris Condy, Recent Reads book blog
Dedication
To my wife, Sarah, who’s always been my biggest supporter.
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
July 14th, 2001
Saturday
Chapter 1
He kept his distance from her car, letting up on the gas pedal just long enough to release her rear bumper from the imposing beams of his headlights. The evening had already been awkward enough. The last thing he wanted was for her to think he was following her back to her apartment to begin a new round of arguing.
If the traffic weren’t so sparse, it wouldn’t have been a worry. He would have just faded into a sea of other beams and she never would have even known he was still there. It would have spared him the mental torment of worrying about what might be bouncing off th
e walls of his twenty-year-old daughter’s head as she glanced into her rearview mirror. He’d already caught her doing it twice.
Andrew Carson didn’t have an appetite for more drama. He had no interest in further badgering Katelyn about wasting her time and energy on a loser boyfriend who had no ambition and didn’t treat her right. He certainly hadn’t the stomach to listen to more details of how blissful his ex-wife’s life was with her new husband, either. Katelyn clearly liked her new stepfather, which made the repeated mention of him even harder to swallow.
All Andrew wanted right then was to clear his head and get over to the 24-hour Walmart to pick up some supplies for an accounting conference down in Colorado Springs the next morning: last minute items, like printer paper and binders for his presentation of a new software line. The late night detour to the store had been planned in advance, but he’d failed to mention the side-trip to Katelyn during dinner.
He sat in gratuitous silence that soon grew cumbersome under the intermittent glare of overhead street lamps. The muteness let his mind race with odd thoughts and regret. He learned forward and twisted an illuminated radio knob, then went for the tuner. He found an unfamiliar song that was winding its way through a long, lonely guitar solo. It seemed to fit his mood, so he returned his hand to the steering wheel.
A light drizzle that had been sprinkling down across his windshield began shaping into fine flakes of snow, much like what he’d observed the night before from the upstairs bedroom window of his bare house as he laid awake in bed, unable to sleep.
He lifted his hypnotic gaze from the back of Katelyn’s car and met his own dim reflection in the rearview mirror. He looked as tired as he felt. Above his brows dangled the bangs of his long and wavy dishwater-blond hair. He knew that most men his age would kill for such a dense mane. He mused that it was one of the few things beyond his job that he now had going for him in life.
Quickly approaching the adulthood milestone of a half century, his appearance often led others to speculate that he was younger than he was—perhaps not even a day over forty. He kept himself fairly trim, too, which added to the perception.
He certainly didn’t feel young, however. For the most part, he had physically recovered from the automobile accident that had crushed his leg two years ago, so it wasn’t his health that weighed on him. It was the emotional toll. Though his body was nearly mended, his marriage couldn’t be. For someone once so content with every aspect of his life, the strange new world of solitude and self-doubt felt like a persistent opponent intent on keeping him off a game he had forgotten how to play.
Brake lights flared brightly in front of him, and his attention swept back into focus on the road. Katelyn’s right blinker began pulsating. He smirked at the sight, knowing he needed to make the same turn.
He sighed. “Just another mile or so, sweetie, and then you’ll be rid of me for the evening.”
A years-old memory of how he used to read stories to his daughter before putting her to bed at night flickered through his head. It brought the slightest of curl to his lips, but the expression soon returned to one of sadness. It was good that they drove separate cars to the restaurant. He couldn’t imagine riding back with her in close quarters after how they’d left things. Who knows what else would have been said?
He watched her veer onto the side exit, which led down a mild slope to the waiting interstate below. He was following her maneuver with his gaze when an unexpected sight grabbed his attention. A cloudy cloak of what appeared to be fog suddenly engulfed her automobile.
His eyes absorbed the transformation of her taillights from clearly defined rectangles to a pair of red blurs inside the fog. He found himself pressing his foot down heavier on the brake pedal that he had already been pumping to make the turn.
As best he could tell, Katelyn wasn’t at all fazed by the billow that surrounded her. She even seemed to be picking up speed, prompting Andrew to speculate that she may have decided to use the opportunity as a proverbial smoke screen to put some distance between them.
His car entered the swell, and once inside, an odor of thick exhaust and burnt rubber poured in through his slightly cracked window. He quickly realized that he wasn’t inside a dense fog but rather the product of some form of combustion. The cloud was thicker to his left where plumes of it rose up from the bottom of a steep gully off the shoulder of the road. He sat up in his seat and peered out his window over the edge of the slope to try and determine its source. What he saw was another set of taillights. They pointed upward toward the top of the hill. An automobile had gone over the embankment and crashed front first at its bottom.
“Christ,” he muttered.
He quickly checked his mirrors before veering over to the opposite shoulder of the road, away from the ledge. He came to a stop about thirty yards past where the car had most likely gone over, skidding the last couple of feet along gravelly dirt. He flipped the transmission into park and twisted the ignition off.
Katelyn was already far off in the distance, speeding down the interstate, and most likely feeling relieved that he was no longer trailing her. It seemed that she hadn’t noticed it was a car accident that had caused the cloud.
When Andrew opened his door, the cold and crisp January night air quickly flooded in along the open chest of his leather jacket, making him lift his shoulders in an attempt keep warm. Guided only by a dim dome light, his hand found the brass handle of the wooden walking cane he occasionally used where it was wedged between the passenger seat and the center console. The slope of the road had a more than moderate angle to it, so the cane could be useful.
He knew from the lingering fume in the air that the accident had to have just happened. From the glance he had stolen, the drop-off was steep, but was probably no more than forty feet in depth. He looked around at the ground. It didn’t appear that the car had rolled. It possibly wasn’t even totaled. No flames were present, which made him question if the thinning cloud was even actual smoke or a combination of exhaust, scorned pavement, and possibly steam from under the hood. There was definitely a stench of antifreeze in the air.
Even if the car was spared major damage, there was a decent chance that the driver was injured. Andrew felt obligated to help.
He stepped out of his silver Lexus LS and into the brisk darkness. He clearly remembered the night that he and his family had been in that accident two years ago on a remote road in the mountains where help hadn’t arrived for thirty minutes. It had felt more like an eternity. It was a horrifying experience, especially for his teary-eyed, then teenage daughter, whose inability to pry her father free from the wreckage or wake her mother added to the chaos of the quandary. It was a night none of them would ever forget.
He wouldn’t wish such torment on his worst enemy. If there was a chance he could spare someone else from such suffering and a sense of helplessness, he was at least going to try.
Feeling the tingle of cold moisture brushing across his face, he whisked his way out from under the dull light of a street lamp and walked across the road. Once on the other side, he began making his way back to the incline to the spot where he believed the car had gone over. He could hear no moans or cries for help, only some distant, oblivious traffic from the interstate below and the crinkle of patches of frozen grass that strayed up from cracks in the pavement beneath his feet.
“Don’t go down there!” commanded a loud, unexpected voice from the night.
The abrupt order nearly caused Andrew to drop his cane. It hadn’t come from below, but from above—further up the hill. He halted in his tracks. His head twisted back and forth as he struggled to pinpoint the voice’s source.
A pair of headlights quickly flicked on and off about twenty yards up the road from him. There was another car, a van, hidden in what was left of the diminishing cloud. It was parked along the ledge of the embankment. The flash of the lights acted as a homing beacon, sent to Andrew from the van’s driver.
He glanced down at what he could make out of the wreckage below before turning his gaze back to the parked van. He walked toward the vehicle, intermittently planting the tip of his cane into the gravel-laced shoulder as he did.
The van was a full-sized Chevy, a few years old. It looked to be white, and was possibly a work-van, though there was no company name visible on its side. As Andrew approached the vehicle, he could make out the driver’s hand draped outside of the open window, motioning him to step in closer.
“The guy’s crazy!” said the same voice, now nervous. “He was driving like a madman. The police are on their way.”
Andrew reached the driver’s side door and leaned forward to greet the man inside. Dim, blue light from the dashboard gauges offered little clarity, but enough for him to distinguish the contour of the man’s face and body. He had curly hair under a dark baseball cap and a mustache with a crowded thickness that seemed a bit outdated for the current styles. He wore thick-framed glasses with even thicker lenses and looked to be of average weight and height. He was dressed in a dark sweatshirt and jeans.