"Chain Reaction" Power Failure Book I

by Andrew Draper

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  The adrenaline charging through his sore muscles, Clark Majors threw the reading lamp with all his rage-enhanced strength. Hitting a gilded mirror hanging on the wall, the horrific impact exploded both lamp and mirror in a shower of flying glass.

  Standing alone in Trish’s hotel room, his rage flowed through him in pounding waves, spilling out in a hailstorm of uncontrollable violence.

  “Casey! You son of a bitch!” He screamed at the ceiling in frustration.

  Releasing a strangled roar, he overturned the small table and chair set previously nestled under the window. Swinging one chair over his head, he crushed the other, reducing it to matchsticks. Blinding fury, still unchecked, ran hot in his veins as he continued to vent his anger like some drug-addled rock star. He slammed his fist into the wall below a small oil painting. The concussion dislodged the canvass and holed the wall in an explosion of plaster chunks, filling the air with fine white dust.

  A fiery shock raced the length of his arm to burst in his shoulder. The pain, now a welcome distraction, popped the expanding cloud of boiling rage like an over-filled balloon.

  Breathing heavily, he noticed Trish’s purse resting on an end table. He stared at the small handbag for several seconds, reliving a nebulous vision of her placing it there before they’d made love. An unexpected sense of loss crawled across his senses, nearly overwhelming him before he battled it back, imprisoning it in the dark recesses of his frenzied mind.

  “She’s gone. Nothing I can do about that now…but he will be sorry.” He quietly vowed to the empty room.

  He shook his bleeding hand, the fiery sting of the wound further focusing his sadistic thoughts on the task before him, the one he must now complete alone.

  I’ve gotta finish the job. I owe Trish that much. But…I’m going to settle the score with that bastard before it’s over.

  His eyes darted around the room, seeing the destruction he’d left in his wake.

  Someone must have heard that. I’ve got to sanitize this room and clear out…Now!

  He dropped Trish’s empty suitcase on the bed, flipping open the lid. Ignoring the throbbing ache of his damaged fingers, he moved to the closet and began to gather her few possessions. He again thought of Casey and his stomach clenched in acidic rage while he carefully laid his fallen partner’s clothes into the open bag.

  As he worked, he visualized his hands closing around his nemesis’ throat, fingers digging into the soft flesh. In his mind’s eye he let the malevolent energy flow, the vise-like grip squeezing harder and harder, until he felt the rewarding snap of breaking vertebra.

  He shook the vision from his head, folding the suitcase shut and lifting it from the bed.

  Casey, you will pay for what you took from me.