Duncan brought his fist around in an arc and slammed it into the side of Ashley’s head. He rained blows on her until he felt her grip on his ankle slacken. He was surprised it took so long, a testament to the pain Ashley was willing to endure to give her daughter a chance to escape. Duncan turned to chase after the girl, feeling as if a simmering pot had been turned back up to full boil.
He’d been stupid and soft and sentimental. He’d taken his eyes off the prize he’d lusted after for ten years. He hadn’t wanted Ashley Wheeler, not since she’d left his car all those years ago. No, what he wanted was to destroy everything important to her. Nothing else would satisfy the pain she’d caused him. His own stupid weakness had nearly cost him that opportunity.
He paused only to grab the shotgun, then chased Lucy into the night.
69
Ashley
Ashley groaned as she pushed herself off the bed. She wasn’t sure how many wounds she’d sustained, but she did know Lucy was alone and afraid, being pursued by a maniac. She’d engineered Lucy’s escape, untying the rope binding her legs while she hugged her. Now she had to help. She fell to the floor, landing hard. She felt lightheaded, and her eyes were heavy. It’d be all too easy to lie there, close her eyes and fall asleep. But she had to move.
Fear and panic at what Duncan might already be doing to Lucy pushed her on. She placed both hands on the side of the bed and pulled herself up, staggering awkwardly but managing to stay upright. Stumbling toward the door, Ashley was careful to keep hold of something as she moved. She was certain if she fell she wouldn’t get back up again.
She picked up the knife and stumbled through the house toward the open front door. With each step she felt herself growing weaker, her injuries making her a desperate mess, but she pushed on into the night. Somewhere out there in the darkness, he was stalking her daughter.
“Lucy!” Ashley screamed as loud as she could.
The boom of the shotgun was her only response. It wasn’t far away. Ashley paused when she heard it, the fading remnants of the blast enough to increase her heart rate, but she couldn’t stop. She gripped the knife and struggled into a strange jog, the movements of a desperate woman with only one thing left to do before she died. She had no idea if she was even moving in the right direction. All she could do was take a gamble and hope it paid off.
It did. After struggling forward for a few minutes, she heard a squeal. It was Lucy. She clenched the knife and continued on in the direction of the squeal and the shouts of Duncan Rowe. The darkness was unrelenting, the chill night air stung her lungs, but she felt no pain. Adrenaline was taking care of that. Yet still Ashley felt her strength draining and her body failing with every step.
Then she saw him. Ten steps away, standing over Lucy. He had the shotgun raised and pointed at her daughter, the person who kept her going, the only thing she cared about or was proud of. Ashley clenched her jaw and felt her mind cloud over with rage. She stalked forward. Duncan was berating Lucy, but Ashley couldn’t hear the words, only the threat in the tone of his voice.
He was a predator. And now, so was she.
The faint sound of sirens off in the distance did nothing to reassure her or slow her actions, because she had no faith they’d get here in time. She needed to do this herself. There was nothing on the whole planet more important to Ashley than protecting her daughter.
“Duncan!” Ashley put all her remaining energy into drawing his attention away from Lucy and toward her. Her voice was hoarse and full of emotion. “You’re a dead man!”
He laughed, turned his back on Lucy and came face to face with Ashley. “This is your doing. I was going to drag Lucy back and dismember her in front of you, but here will do just fine.”
As he began to raise the shotgun, Ashley lunged forward. Both her feet left the ground and she speared the kitchen knife into his chest. Her dead weight was an advantage as her momentum pushed him onto his back. She landed on top of him, hard, forcing the knife in deeper. He grunted and immediately reached up for the blade.
“Lucy! Look away!” Ashley shouted as she plunged the knife into his chest several more times, then collapsed on top of him. “Don’t look baby.”
She lay there, sobbing, spent. Struggling to move, she rolled off of him and Lucy crept up alongside her. The sound of sirens approaching rapidly filled her ears and Lucy stared down at her
Ashley looked up at Lucy and smiled.
The End
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Steve P. Vincent is the USA Today Bestselling Author of the Jack Emery conspiracy thriller series and the Mitch Herron action thriller series. Steve has a degree in political science, a thesis on global terrorism, a decade as a policy advisor and training from the FBI and Australian Army in his conspiracy kit bag. When he’s not writing, Steve enjoys whisky, sports and travel.
Allan Leverone: Mr. Midnight
Mr. Midnight
Allan Leverone
Author’s Rating:
Language: *** Sexuality: * Violence: ***
For your convenience each book in this collection has been rated by the author for language, sexuality and violence, so that you as a reader can make an informed choice.
Our collection includes books that span the intensity range.
Language Intensity:
* - No or mild profanity, if any
** - Stronger profanity, with up to 5 uses of the f-word
*** - Strong language
Sexuality Intensity:
* - Sexual reference or no sexuality
** - Sexual reference which might include some details.
*** - Intense, descriptive sexual scenes
Violence Intensity
* - Violence, but no gory details.
** - Mild violence, fairly detailed with some blood
*** - Detailed violence
Mr. Midnight © 2013 by Allan Leverone
Edited by Greg Gifune
All rights reserved as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. No part of this publication may be used, reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents, some of which may be based in part on actual names, characters, places and incidents, either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is unintended and entirely coincidental.
Originally published 2013 by DarkFuse
Second eBook edition: 2017
Blurb
Given up for adoption just hours after her birth, thirty-year-old Caitlyn Connelly has longed her entire life to uncover her family history. Subject to bizarre and inexplicable visions, Cait is desperate to learn whether her biological mother can provide any insight as to the origin of her unusual ability.
When a local investigator learns Cait was born in a Boston suburb, the Tampa lawyer wastes no time booking a flight to the East Coast. In Boston, with the city under siege by a killer known as "Mr. Midnight," Cait's visions intensify, morphing from merely annoying to graphic and terrifying.
Worse, Cait begins to realize she shares a strange psychic connection with the depraved sociopath; a connection that may just get her killed.
As Cait and the murderer are drawn ine
xorably toward a violent confrontation, unraveling a decades-old mystery might be the only thing that prevents her from becoming the next victim...of Mr. Midnight.
**********
Praise for MR. MIDNIGHT:
"Leverone has penned one of the most chilling villains in modern fiction with 'Mr. Midnight.' Unforgiving, intelligent, and ingenious, this monster is what nightmares are made of." — Suspense Magazine
"Mr. Midnight is what a horror novel should be…a tightly-knit tale that keeps the reader turning the page as quickly as possible" — Examiner
Praise for Allan Leverone:
"...it will keep you up, and on the edge of your chair, long into the night." -- Nashua NH Sunday Telegraph
"...a sure-footed, masterful thriller with a breakneck pace that never lets up...I loved this book!" -- J. Carson Black, New York Times bestselling author of THE SHOP and ICON
"Suspenseful and well-written..." -- Debbi Mack, New York Times bestselling author of IDENTITY CRISIS and LEAST WANTED
"Written with edge-of-your-seat suspense and precise detail...The successor to Michael Crichton has landed. And his name is Allan Leverone." -- Vincent Zandri, bestselling author of the Dick Moonlight series
"Allan Leverone raises the stakes with every turn of the page..." -- Sophie Littlefield, Anthony Award-winning author of A BAD DAY FOR SORRY
"...a high-suspense thrill ride..." -- Derry (NH) News
"...a must have for anyone looking for a great page turner with mystery and mayhem." -- Community Bookstop
"...a spectacular thrill ride...with lots of action, danger, hold-your-breath suspense...this is definitely one you don't want to miss out on!" -- Life in Review
"...sexy, sophisticated...with all the intensity of THE LONELY MILE" -- CJ West, author of THE END OF MARKING TIME
"...a rocking read from start to finish!" -- Ian Graham, author of PATRIOTS AND TYRANTS and VEIL OF CIVILITY
"Allan Leverone delivers a taut crime drama full of twists and conspiracy..." -- Scott Nicholson, Amazon bestselling author of LIQUID FEAR and THE RED CHURCH
"A scorching supernatural thriller - Allan Leverone...is a writer on the rise..." -- Mark Edward Hall, author of APOCALYPSE ISLAND and SERVANTS OF DARKNESS
"A tense, tightly-plotted thriller that will keep you turning pages into the night." -- Christopher Allan Poe, author of THE PORTAL
1
Stalking.
Mr. Midnight was stalking.
He trailed along behind his two targets carefully, keeping to the shadows as much as possible, staying a healthy distance away while being sure to keep them in sight at all times. The girls were college students; that much he knew. Whether they attended B.U., Northeastern, Tufts, or any of the dozens of other schools in the Boston area, the predator didn’t know and didn’t care.
What mattered to Mr. Midnight was that the girls were clearly from out of town, new students still unaware of the lines of demarcation the more experienced students observed automatically, which allowed them to stay safe.
Relatively speaking.
Mr. Midnight had been following the pair for twenty minutes, ever since observing them as they stumbled, drunk, out of a raucous apartment party on Commonwealth Avenue. He had been loitering in the dark recesses of a doorway across the street and gotten a vibe about the girls almost immediately.
Now they were lost, and confused, and just beginning to feel the first tentative twinges of apprehension. Alcohol bravery and the fact that they were together and could count on each other for support had suppressed the panic thus far, but Mr. Midnight knew it was mere minutes away from bubbling to the surface.
He picked up his pace and moved silently closer, now near enough to hear bits and pieces of their conversation. “…think we went in the wrong direction,” the one on the left was saying. She had a nice, shapely ass packed into low-rise jeans. Her crop-top blouse didn’t come close to reaching her waist and the predator thought he could see the hint of a thong peeking out over the jeans. He smiled with approval.
“…don’t recognize anything…” the other one said. She was Asian, a slim, tiny girl poured into a red mini-dress.
“Maybe we should turn around,” the first girl said. Mr. Midnight was close enough to them now that he could hear their voices clearly. Both girls sounded near tears and the predator felt himself becoming aroused.
The area was unfamiliar to them.
The streetlights were dim and spaced far apart.
Pedestrian traffic was minimal.
It was time to move.
Mr. Midnight closed the remaining distance between himself and the girls, still unsure of which one he would take, not that it mattered. They were both young and pretty, and he knew he would be more than satisfied with either.
It was almost too easy. The predator wore Nike cross-trainers and moved with a practiced stealth, and the frightened girls were chattering to each other like magpies in an effort to keep their mounting fear at bay.
They were crossing in front of a Catholic grade school, the Victorian-era stone structure looming in the semidarkness behind a padlocked chain-link fence, when the predator struck. He used the butt of his knife to club the girl on the left—he glanced down and discovered he had been right about the thong—in the temple. She let out a low moan and dropped straight down, unconscious before her body hit the concrete sidewalk with a wet thud.
The second girl, the tiny Asian in the mini-dress, gasped and froze, trying to process in her alcohol-addled brain what had just happened. A half-second later she drew in a breath to scream, but by then it was much too late. Mr. Midnight slapped a hand over her mouth and lifted the knife to her throat, running its razor-sharp point along her silky skin like a lover’s caress. Blood immediately began welling up in the furrow.
The girl stopped struggling, undoubtedly hoping compliance would equate to survival.
She wouldn’t find out until much later how wrong she was.
2
The air inside the Super-K Grocerette felt pleasantly cool to Caitlyn Connelly as she waited in line at the register. A low-pressure system had stalled over Tampa, the moisture in the atmosphere combining with the blazing heat to form a mushy tropical blanket over eastern Florida.
Through the plate-glass windows fronting the store, Caitlyn watched as people trudged across the parking lot. They seemed to move in slow motion, as if bogged down by the weather.
The line dragged, Cait inching forward until eventually she stood behind only an elderly woman who had placed her purchases—roughly a fifty-fifty split between food for herself and food for her pets—on the conveyor belt and now reached into a purse approximately the size of a small European car for her wallet.
Cait felt a sensation of pressure inside her skull, a wave rolling over her brain. She blinked twice and her head rocked back slightly. It was the sort of reaction a person might have if confronted with a completely unexpected sight. The image of a tiny kitchen flashed into her head. The room was shabby but spotlessly clean. On top of faded linoleum tiles that had been out of style for half a century, Cait saw a checkbook that had fallen to the floor and now lay against a leg of an ancient kitchen table.
A pair of sleeping cats sprawled on either side of the checkbook, looking like furry bookends, and Cait knew instantly what had happened. The woman had placed her purse at the edge of the table in preparation for her trip to the store—she shopped twice a week, Monday and Thursday—but she had mistakenly left it unclasped. The checkbook had fallen out of the purse when she picked it up, in a hurry because the taxi arrived sooner than expected, and it would simply be wrong to make the poor driver wait.
Caitlyn wasn’t guessing about any of it. She knew what had happened because she could see it in her mind as clearly as if it were playing on a high-definition television screen in front of her. She didn’t know how she could see it in her mind, only that she could. She had been experiencing these visions—“Flickers,” she called them, due to their short but intense
nature—for as long as she could remember.
The Flickers were, as far as she could tell, completely random occurrences. Sometimes they disappeared for days, the visions going silent for such long stretches of time Cait began to think maybe they had disappeared for good, only to return with a vengeance, dozens of the intense mental movies blasting into her head over the course of a few hours.
More often than not, though, she experienced one or two per day. They seemed normal and natural to Caitlyn because she had been living with them her entire life, but she had years ago given up trying to explain them to anyone else, tired of putting up with the amused smiles or exasperated looks of people who simply did not believe her.
Back in the Super-K, the elderly woman began frantically digging through the gigantic purse, looking for the checkbook she would not find, apologizing for holding up the line. The cashier, a bored teenage girl with purple-dyed hair who demonstrated her annoyance by snapping her bubble gum every few seconds, stood with one hand on her hip. She rolled her eyes at a heavyset woman standing in line behind Cait.
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