by Mark Dawson
The John Milton Series: Books 10-12
John Milton Thrillers
Mark Dawson
Contents
Blackout
Prologue
I. Four Days Earlier
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
Part II
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
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Part III
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
The Alamo
I. Sunday
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
II. Monday
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
III. Tuesday
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
IV. Wednesday
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
V. Thursday
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
VI. Friday
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Chapter 112
Chapter 113
VII. Saturday
Chapter 114
Chapter 115
Chapter 116
Chapter 117
Chapter 118
Chapter 119
Epilogue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Redeemer
Prologue
I. The First Day
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
II. The Second Day
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
III. The Third Day
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
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
IV. The Fifth Day
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
> Chapter 51
Chapter 52
V. The Sixth Day
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
VI. The Seventh Day
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
VII. The Eighth Day
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Epilogue
A word from Mark
Also By Mark Dawson
In the John Milton Series
In the Beatrix Rose Series
In the Isabella Rose Series
In the Soho Noir Series
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Blackout
Prologue
JOHN MILTON tried to figure out what had woken him up.
He couldn’t.
He opened his eyes and immediately wished that he hadn’t. Bright light flooded in, exploding little detonations of pain in the front of his head. He squeezed his eyes shut again. The pain remained, reduced to a dull throb that pulsed behind his eyes. He felt awful. His skin was clammy. He felt sick.
Milton tried to remember.
What was it?
What had woken him?
A raised voice.
Yes, that was it. He was sure. Someone had screamed.
He opened his eyes again. He was flat on his back, lying on a bed. His head was turned to the side, and he could see the bedside table a few inches away. Beyond that was a bureau upon which was positioned an old-fashioned television. He tried to push himself upright. The pain flared and he felt an almost overwhelming urge to be sick. He fought it back, propped himself up on his elbows, and raised himself enough that he could look around the room.
It was a plain space, on the small side, and decorated in neutral colours. There were two single beds with a bedside table between them. Milton’s bed was a mess: the sheets were sodden and bunched around his legs, and the pillow was on the floor. The other bed was untouched, save a scattering of banknotes that had been cast across it. Milton saw a bottle on the bedside table. The label said Grasovka Bison Grass vodka. The bottle was almost empty and lying on its side. The neck was over the edge of the table and, as Milton looked down, he saw a puddle on the tiled floor.
He started to feel uneasy.
What had happened here? He couldn’t remember. He tried to recall what he had been doing the previous night, but he couldn’t. It was as if his memories were obscured by a thick shroud and, despite his best efforts, he could not move it aside. He closed his eyes again and furrowed his brow, trying to remember where he was and how he had gotten here. It was hopeless.
He reached further back. He remembered arriving in Manila, checking into a hotel—this one, yes? Yes, he thought it was—and then walking to a bar. He remembered Jessica. She had been there, just as she had promised she would be. He remembered how beautiful she was and how little she had changed in the years since he had last seen her. He remembered that they had talked, but not what about.
And, after that… nothing.
Everything else was hidden behind the shroud.
His heart sank. He knew what must have happened. There was only one explanation, but the thought of it made him sick to the pit of his stomach. He had been drinking. Must have been. After days and then months and then years of sobriety, he’d thrown it all away and gone back to the bottle. He thought of the men and women that he had met in the program, the rooms around the world in which he had listened to their stories and shared some of his, and he felt ashamed.
He had let them down.
He had let himself down.
He needed to find a meeting.
He carefully swung his legs around and over the edge of the bed so that he could put them down and, careful not to step in the vodka, he gingerly pushed himself up to a sitting position. His whole body ached and he thought, again, that he was going to vomit. He steadied himself and, easing himself to a standing position, looked around the room once more. He saw another vodka bottle on the floor in the corner of the room. This one had been broken, the heavier base standing upright while the neck lay horizontally across the tile. There were two glasses near it, both shattered, tiny fragments catching the light that slanted in through a gap in the curtains.
Milton saw that the door had not been closed properly. It was on an automatic mechanism, but it needed to be pulled in order for it to close all the way. He crossed the room and opened the door fully. Heat washed into the room. It was bright and stifling outside. He peered up into the sky; the sun’s position said that dawn had been three or four hours ago. There was an empty parking lot, with weeds forcing their way up between cracks in the asphalt, and beyond a row of parched palm trees loomed the swoop of an overpass. The traffic was loud, and fumes hung over the road in a vapour that Milton could taste against the back of his throat.
He closed the door and turned back into the room again.
Where was he?
