thriller
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 Green29 days 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 Green29 days 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 Green29 days 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 Green29 days 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 Green29 days ago in Fiction
In a Yellow Wood
It’s 3:15 in the afternoon, you check the clock again. Wondering if he’s alright. A gnaw in the pit of your stomach like every weekday afternoon. What if she’s trying to get back in his life again? Would she do that behind your back? You don’t trust her not to, so you set out the pizza rolls on a pan and stick them in the oven. 3:16, he’s late. Then you go to the living room and peek out through the curtains. There he is, standing there talking to the girl from down the street. She’s a cute girl and you notice the way Michael blushes as she twirls her hair around her finger. He’s not on his bike; he’s holding the handles as if he walked it home instead of riding it. Probably to walk alongside her. You look down the sidewalk and see another kid, head down, hands in his hoodie pockets. A loner. You can relate; you didn’t have many friends growing up either. That’s probably what made you so easy for your ex. She wrapped you around all five fingers and some toes. Someone, especially someone that beautiful, gave you attention. That was all it took. The kid with the hoodie looks up, directly at you, making eye contact. You duck back inside. But not before you saw little Suzie or whatever her name is down the street give your son Michael a peck on the cheek. He was bright red. You rush back to the kitchen.
By Raine Fielder29 days 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 Green30 days 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 Green30 days ago in Fiction
Good Neighbours
The carollers come at midnight on June 25. Like every year, the whole town had gone silent, waiting for the familiar thud of heavy boots on pavement. They appeared where they always did, on the Fern Street hill. They marched through town in their signature formation: three rows of three, all clad in black cloaks and heavy hoods.
By Steph Marieabout a month ago in Fiction
