PRAISE FOR ALLAN LEVERONE
THE LONELY MILE
“Allan Leverone delivers a taut crime drama full of twists and conspiracy. A serial-killer thriller with a heart.”
—Scott Nicholson, bestselling author of
LIQUID FEAR and DISINTEGRATION
“Thriller fans will enjoy Allan Leverone’s new book, The Lonely Mile, which will carry readers along as a daughter is stolen by a vengeful serial killer and we follow her father’s determined efforts to rescue her at all costs.”
—Dave Zeltserman, author of
PARIAH and BLOOD CRIMES
FINAL VECTOR
“Allan Leverone raises the stakes with every turn of the page in this can’t-put-down tale of ruthless terrorists and cold-blooded betrayal.”
—Sophie Littlefield, author of the Anthony Award-winning novel A BAD DAY FOR SORRY
“Written with edge-of-your-seat suspense and precise detail that can only come from a writer who did his research while on the job, Final Vector kept me, a white-knuckle flier, in awe from the very first sentence. The successor to Michael Crichton has landed. And his name is Allan Leverone.”
—Vincent Zandri, bestselling author of
THE REMAINS and THE INNOCENT
“From page one to the end you will be breathless with the suspense…simply an entertaining and enjoyable and intense story. This is one of the things I love about book blogging—find new authors from smaller presses that are true gems. Final Vector is definitely one of those.”
—My Reading Room
“…a great break from your typical mystery book…and a must have for anyone looking for a great page turner with mystery and mayhem.”
—Community Bookstop
“If you enjoy thrillers…this is a great option. It’s a fast-moving storyline with quite a bit of action. And you’ll find you care about the main characters—even the terrorists are interesting and unique.”
—My Book Retreat
“Final Vector…feels like I am watching an episode of 24. There is not a dull moment, and absolutely no lag time. There is something always going on, and Leverone keeps you on the edge of your seat…The characters are well developed, and I find the plot easily believable and very easy to get absorbed in. If you can get your hands on a copy of this book, do it!”
—Southern Fiber Reads
“Homegrown terrorists you actually relate to, the FBI and a whole lot of conspiracy… An amazing novel!”
—The Belle of Boise
“…a high-suspense thrill ride…”
—Derry (NH) News
“Final Vector by Allan Leverone is a spectacular thrill ride…with lots of action, danger, hold-your-breath suspense, and a storyline that is realistic and relevant…this is definitely one you don’t want to miss out on!”
—Life in Review
“…keeps you on the edge of your seat, reading pages as fast as you can…I highly recommend that you read this book…you will not be disappointed.”
—5 out of 5 stars, Two Ends of the Pen
DARKNESS FALLS
“A dark and creepy chiller!”
—Ron Malfi, author of
SNOW and FLOATING STAIRCASE
“Fast-paced and eerily seductive, Darkness Falls is a well-told and atmospheric tale of loss and obsession, of madness and revenge. Allan Leverone is a terrific writer with a bright future. I hope to see him around for many years to come.”
—Mark Edward Hall, author of THE LOST VILLAGE and SERVANTS OF DARKNESS
OTHER BOOKS BY ALLAN LEVERONE
Final Vector
Darkness Falls
Postcards from the Apocalypse
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
There are plenty of people who contributed to the writing of this book, and in a lot of different ways. First and foremost, my wife, Sue, who has been an unrelenting supporter, cheerleader and proponent of my work from the day I sat down and wrote my first word of fiction. Coming in a close second are my children, Stefanie, Kristin and Craig, who define the term “blind faith,” never doubting I would find an audience even when I was positive it would never happen.
Freelance editor Jodie Renner is everything an editor should be and more: knowledgeable, enthusiastic and ruthless with a red pen. This book is immeasurably better thanks to her hard work.
Aaron Patterson of StoneHouse Ink has identified a vastly under-served market, readers of “edgy Christian fiction,” and I thank him for the opportunity to introduce my work to these readers. Additionally, thanks to the entire StoneHouse/StoneGate family, from the editorial folks to the designer of my very cool cover art. This is a small press that is growing by leaps and bounds, thanks to a clear vision of the future of publishing and an extremely talented and professional staff.
As always, my personal weapons expert, Joe Serafino, answered all my questions—no matter how silly—patiently and fully. Dan Gravelle, my friend and a working EMT, helped me understand how an ambulance team might respond to the bloodbath in the basement of Martin Krall’s home. Thanks also to Jeff Zarella. ‘Nuff said.
Nearly a year ago, StoneHouse/StoneGate author Vincent Zandri very generously agreed to read an advance copy of my first novel, Final Vector, and provided me with such an enthusiastic blurb that my jaw is still hanging open. We became friends, and Vin was so effusive in his praise of his new publisher I became intrigued enough to check them out. Now I feel like I’m home.
Finally, and most importantly, thanks to you, the reader who has forked over your hard-earned cash for a copy of this book. It’s not an exaggeration to say you’re never far from my mind while I’m writing. I will never take you or your support for granted. You’re the best.
CHAPTER 1
May 1
AMANDA LAWTON SAGGED SIDEWAYS, groggy and disoriented, her blonde hair hanging in sweaty strings in front of her eyes. The heavy duct tape attaching her arms and legs to the wooden chair was all that kept her from falling to the cold, cement floor. She shot a pleading look at her captor, trying to focus on him through the disorienting effects of fatigue, hunger, and the drugs he’d forced on her. The thin man swam in and out of focus, moving around in her field of vision like a jittery Casper, although he was not a ghost, and he certainly wasn’t friendly.
This new room he’d moved her to—she thought it might be one of those aluminum-sided rental storage places—yawed and buckled in her watery eyesight. This must be what it feels like to be adrift on a small boat in heavy seas. Her stomach lurched. She thought she might puke. Please don’t let him gag me.
Her captor wrapped a final strip of the reinforced tape around each of her legs until they were completely immobile, then stepped back to admire his handiwork. Amanda knew this was her chance, probably her last chance, to beg for her life and her freedom. Maybe she could play on his sympathies, if he had any, and his humanity—if he was actually human—to plead with him to let her go.
She sat silently, though, trying to focus her gaze on him and failing, attempting to sit up in her chair and failing at that, too. What could she possibly say to him that she hadn’t already said? What pleas could she try? What promises could she make? Over the past week, the nightmarish seven days that had seemed like an eternity, Amanda had begged and reasoned, threatened and cried.
Nothing had worked. Nothing had made a bit of difference. He’d handcuffed her to a filthy little bed in the damp, nasty basement of his crumbling house, taking her when he wanted her in all sorts of different ways, feeding her when he felt like it, making her beg for the bathroom, in general, treating her like an animal or a piece of garbage while lovingly whispering words in her ear that were totally inconsistent with his treatment of her.
Amanda was in despair. Why had she let him grab her
and throw her into his truck? How could she have been so careless? She would never again see her home. She would never again see her boyfriend or her parents or her college roommates. She would never hang out at the pizzeria in her tiny hometown, listening to music on the old-fashioned jukebox and teasing the local boys by wearing tight jeans and tank tops. She would simply disappear.
I guess I already have.
Amanda Lawton began to cry. She hadn’t thought it possible, she thought she had exhausted her tears at least three days ago. She had no words left to plead with her captor, but the tears came of their own accord. She cherished the tears. The tears meant that, somewhere deep inside the terrified shell of her former self, there was a sliver of hope, a dream that she might still escape the fate laid out for her by this awful man.
She was wrong.
Her captor stood and watched her cry, impassive and unmoved. He raised his arm slowly and pointed to one side of the tiny enclosure. Amanda tried to follow his gesture, which required intense concentration thanks to the cocktail of drugs she had been forced to take before he brought her to this new prison. “See the tiles on these walls?” he asked.
Amanda shook her head, trying to clear it. Why would he think she cared about the walls?
“Do you see them?” he repeated, the annoyance clear in his tone.
Amanda nodded, stifling a sob, still confused. “Yes, I see the tiles on the wall.”
“Good. These are professional-grade acoustical tiles, very expensive and very effective at accomplishing their purpose. And do you know what that purpose might be?”
Amanda shook her head again, confused and disoriented, but not so confused that she couldn’t tell he was playing with her, taunting her. Somehow this meaningless little humiliation hurt worse than all the indignities he had forced on her over the past week. It was the last straw.
She closed her eyes and sniffled as the tears came harder. She knew the man well enough by now to know this would only infuriate him, but she couldn’t help it. Of course, she was right.
“Answer me!” he shouted. “What is the purpose of these incredibly expensive tiles?”
“I don’t know.” Amanda sobbed, not wanting to die but wishing that, if his plan was to kill her, he would just hurry up and do it already.
“Thank you,” the man said with exaggerated politeness. “Now, was that so hard?” The swiftness of his mood changes was unpredictable and frightening. “Since you’re now showing an interest, I’ll tell you. Those professional-grade acoustical tiles are so expensive because they are extremely effective at muffling noise and preventing it from leaving this room. Radio stations and music studios use them to preserve the integrity of the recording and broadcasting process, and the people I deal with use them to preserve the integrity of their operation, which, in this case, means not allowing anyone outside of this room know that you are here inside it.
“Now, in case you’re wondering, and undoubtedly you are, this little “office,” as I like to call it, is located in an out-of-the-way area surprisingly free of traffic. Not many people come here at all, either by car or on foot. But in the event someone does pass by while you’re here, you can scream all you want at the loudest volume you can manage, and all you will achieve for your effort will be a set of strained vocal cords.
“My point, sweetheart, in case you are so addled by my drugs you need me to explain it, is that, even though I will be leaving soon, and I’m not sure how exactly long you’ll be here, it will do you no good to call for help. It would be a pointless waste of effort and would only serve to tire you out for no good reason. There is a bright side, however. I know you fear for your life, but you needn’t. My home was merely a waypoint for you, and your stay, as pleasant as it was for both of us, represented no more than a temporary interlude for you before continuing your journey to your new, permanent home.”
Amanda shook her head. “Permanent home?”
“That’s right. I’m not exactly sure where you’re going. It might be the frozen wastelands of Russia or the deserts of the Middle East. It all depends upon who my contacts are currently negotiating with, but I can tell you it won’t be here in the United States, or even on the North American continent. That would be too risky for all involved. Do you understand?”
Amanda nodded. She understood. She wished she didn’t, but she did. She tried again to raise her sagging body and sit upright in the chair. It wasn’t easy, with all four limbs duct-taped to a big, wooden monstrosity that looked like an electric chair—not to mention with the drugs coursing through her body. She strained and worked and eventually managed it, and she felt marginally more comfortable. But the tiny enclosure with no windows felt like an oven.
Her stomach lurched again. Sweat streamed down Amanda’s forehead and into her eyes, stinging them and mixing with her tears, and her vision jumped and blurred. She vaguely registered her scraggly captor turning and walking toward the door.
At least it looked as though there would be no gag stuffed into her mouth—why bother if nobody could hear her scream anyway? When he reached the door and swung it open, taking one last long look back at her, she threw up all over the floor.
Her captor shook his head in silent rebuke and walked out the door into the bright May sunshine. It slanted in through the open door for just a moment like an unfulfilled promise, and Amanda wondered if she would ever see the sun again. He closed and locked the door. She waited to hear the sound of his rattletrap truck starting up, of him driving away, but she didn’t hear a thing. Of course, the incredibly expensive acoustical soundproofing tiles.
She counted to one hundred in her head, nice and slow, and when she was sure he must be gone, she tested his theory about the tiles. Amanda Lawton screamed.
And screamed.
And screamed.
And he must have been right. Because nobody came.
CHAPTER 2
May 22
MARTIN KRALL WAS A ghost. He was a wraith. He was legendary. He haunted Interstate 90, its ribbons of pavement winding their way through the mostly rural towns and thickly forested hills of western Massachusetts and eastern New York. He was invisible, ethereal, terrifying. In the mental movie playing nonstop inside Martin Krall’s head, he saw himself as omnipotent, invincible, taking what he wanted when he wanted it. The mere mortals populating the surrounding areas were powerless to stop him and afraid to try.
Today, what Martin Krall wanted was a girl. A teenage girl, specifically, closer in age to twenty than ten. Someone developed, with curves. Martin was not into the nasty stuff that so many of his contemporaries were hung up on, the guys who took young children and did disgusting things with them. He never understood the urge to enjoy a child in that way and was thankful he was more advanced than that. More evolved.
He pulled his aging, white, cargo truck—it was practically invisible, like a raggedy street person sleeping in a cardboard box, ignored by the passers-by—off I-90 and onto the access ramp leading to the massive parking lot of the interstate rest area. He passed a sign on the right directing the big eighteen-wheel tractor-trailers to “Keep right here.” Those gigantic dinosaurs merited their own special place in the lot. Martin slowed as he drove past and then eased into the second right turn, the one leading to the parking area for normal-sized vehicles.
He cruised the access lane, scanning the rows of parked cars and trucks as he eased past, finally selecting a parking spot three rows from the entrance to the travelers’ plaza and shutting the engine down. It knocked and bucked for a couple of seconds, as if disagreeing with Martin’s decision, and then gave up. Martin made a mental note to get the old piece of crap tuned up soon. He couldn’t really afford the expense, but on the other hand, he didn’t want to risk getting stuck somewhere like this with a vehicle that wouldn’t start. That sort of disaster could land him on death row.
The authorities had been chasing Martin for years, ever since the first kidnapping way back, more than three years ago now, but they had never co
me close to catching him. Martin was confident they never would, despite the fact that he always used the same five-hundred-mile stretch of highway as his hunting ground. He was smart, and, much more importantly, he was careful.
So many of the men who shared his particular predilection made the mistake of getting careless or resorting to boastful, showboating tactics that invariably led to their downfall. Things like taunting the police with cutesy notes or ill-advised telephone calls, or leaving behind little “calling cards” for the media, as if they thrived on the attention and notoriety.
Martin wondered what these idiots were thinking when they did such self-destructive things, virtually ensuring themselves an appointment with a lethal injection, all in the name of notoriety. Of cheap self-promotion.
Martin hated publicity. He would have preferred that the public never learn of his existence, although by now that dream was nothing more than the most baseless sort of wishful thinking. Somewhere around the third kidnapping, a clever television news reporter hung a nickname on Martin, a nickname that stuck to him like vacuum wrap and forever removed his cloak of anonymity.
Martin Krall was “The I-90 Killer.”
He stepped out of the cab onto the parking lot, the searing midday heat softening the pavement and radiating off it, warming his legs beneath his jeans and causing a sheen of sweat to break out on his forehead. Martin slammed the driver’s side door, leaving it unlocked, and turned toward the plaza entrance. It would be foolish to lock the truck; it was a work truck, with no remote control locks, and Martin knew he might be leaving in a hurry, hopefully with a new playmate in tow. Plus, he was a ghost and his truck was as invisible as he—who would pay the least bit of attention to a nondescript, beat-up old box truck adrift in a sea of shiny, much newer vehicles?
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