Series
Nothing To Lose Part 11
In the middle of the night, two very unexpected visitors will throw Jonas two very different kinds of loops. Part 11 He woke up in bed but felt like he hadn't rested at all. The sound of heavy trucks moving through the area brought him to his feet. Jonas pulled the curtain aside. They were military transport and a flatbed, and then another. Their heavy engines roared as the drivers pushed through the flooded streets, sending waves after waves of storm runoff into the yards and driveways. He could see the waters were now near two feet high. Jonas wondered when the rain was going to stop.
By Jason Mortonabout a month ago in Fiction
Precision of the Hunt
Penn’s grip on Murphy’s shoulder tightened. The cynicism in his eyes vanished, replaced by a flicker of genuine alarm. He stepped back, glancing around the room to ensure no one was listening. "If that ship is running encrypted comms, then Ranegan isn't a mid-level dealer; he's a distraction. A loud, clumsy distraction meant to draw the attention of a detective who likes to work alone."
By Forest Greenabout a month ago in Fiction
Precision of the Hunt
Ranegan finally shifted his gaze, looking at Murphy with a flicker of genuine pity. "You're thinking like a cop, Will. You think this is about a drug deal gone wrong. This wasn't a bust; it was a handover. While you were playing hero on the deck of the Sirocco something far more valuable than a few kilos of powder was being moved right under your boots. You didn't secure the perimeter; you provided the diversion."
By Forest Greenabout a month ago in Fiction
Precision of the Hunt
Sterling finally looked up, his eyes narrowing. "Neutralized. That’s a very clean word for a very messy situation. The harbor patrol is breathing down my neck because you didn't call in a perimeter, and the DA is asking if we’re running a paramilitary operation. You played it fast and loose, Will."
By Forest Greenabout a month ago in Fiction
Precision of the Hunt
As he dried his hand, he caught his reflection in the cracked mirror. His eyes looked sunken, the skin beneath them a bruised purple. He looked like a man who had spent too many years staring into the void of other people's failures. He thought about the "messy" report the captain would demand—the bullet holes in the shipping containers, the terrified expression on the face of the muscle—and felt a sudden, sharp surge of boredom. The thrill of the chase was always fleeting, replaced instantly by the tediousness of the paperwork.
By Forest Greenabout a month ago in Fiction
Precision of the Hunt
Ranegan, however, was not content to stay behind his wall of pallets. As Murphy turned to secure the perimeter, a sudden, frantic scraping sound echoed from the side of the freighter. Ranegan had attempted a desperate pivot, scrambling up a mooring line and leaping toward the gangplank of the ship. He wasn't a fighter or a tactician; he was a man driven by a primal, panicked need to be anywhere else. He stumbled upon the metal deck, his shoes slipping on the oil-slicked surface, and began to scramble toward the bridge.
By Forest Greenabout a month ago in Fiction
Precision of the Hunt
"You know," Ranegan wheezed, his cheek pressed against the rust-pitted paint of the freighter, "most cops would have just waited for the boat to start moving. Better for the report, right? 'Engaged suspect during high-speed maritime pursuit.'"
By Forest Greenabout a month ago in Fiction
Precision of the Hunt
"And do what? Spend my days wondering why the world is so chaotic?" Samuels smiled, a genuine expression that reached his eyes. "I prefer the company of things that can be fixed. Men are far more complicated than mainsprings, Will. You can't just replace a damaged gear in a man's head."
By Forest Greenabout a month ago in Fiction
Precision of the Hunt
Murphy didn't call it in. He knew the response time for backup to reach Pier 14 during a shift change, and he knew that if Ranegan saw a cruiser, the crates would be tossed overboard or the freighter would slip its moorings. He waited until Ranegan stepped away from the crates to light a cigarette, the small flame of the lighter illuminating a face etched with premature stress.
By Forest Greenabout a month ago in Fiction
Precision of the Hunt
"I’m telling you, the trick is in the wrist, not the shoulder," Samuels said, leaning over the table. They were sitting in a small, brightly lit diner that smelled of old grease and burnt coffee. Between them lay a disassembled mechanical watch, its tiny gears and springs spread out on a velvet cloth like the remains of a very small, very precise accident. This was their ritual—the kind of slow, meditative hobby that kept a man sane when his actual job involved chasing people through rainy alleys. William Murphy watched his friend work with a quiet intensity, feeling the tension of the last few weeks slowly leak out of his shoulders.
By Forest Greenabout a month ago in Fiction
