Kevin McManus
Apr 12, 2016 | Crime, 1st pages
Chapter I
Solstice
Wednesday, 21st December 1988
One mile outside Ballinastrad, County Sligo
As it was the shortest day of the year, it was already getting dark when Tom rolled back the sleeve of his jumper to
check the time on his watch.
“Ten past four,” he whispered to himself as he leaned on the grape handle while he took a pull of his fag. He finished off the cigarette with one long, last drag and threw it out the shed door onto the farmyard outside, stamping on it forcefully with the heel of his boot.
Better get on and finish the job, he thought to himself as he raised the grape, arching his strong, tall and wiry frame. He continued to clear the straw bedding and dung from the floor of the shed, placing it on the heap outside in the yard.
Will Patching
Apr 5, 2016 | Crime, 1st pages
Prologue
Peter Leech leaned on the railing and surveyed his kingdom from his vantage point on the top level. His cell was on this floor, the third, and he often stood here as he had no desire to join the sweaty throng in the common ‘association’ area below.
The screws are such lazy bastards, he thought as he watched three of them chatting, huddled, largely ignoring the forty or so inmates socialising around them. The fat slugs, don’t like climbing stairs unless forced to. He snorted, disdainful but grateful that they only ever bugged his floor when they had to.
His green eyes roved through the bodies, hunting his prey. Cochran. The man watched the TV, giggling like a little girl at some pathetic cartoon. Leech squeezed the cast iron railing, knuckles threatening to burst the skin from the force of his grip.
Come to me, you lanky faggot. Come and dance with the Snake. If you dare.
Eventually Cochran glanced up and their eyes locked. Cochran spoke to the two men sitting next to him, and they too looked up.
Leech ignored them, his attention on Cochran, all his venom focussed on the big convict. Cochran lifted his hand, swept his fingers across his Adam’s apple in a chopping motion, and mouthed, You’re dead.
The Snake continued to hold its prey with its eyes, challenging until the man rose and swaggered to the stairs. He took the steps two at a time, his gaze breaking from Leech only to confirm his two mates were behind him. The flunkies followed, but less eager. Reluctant even.
Cowards.
Leech realised Cochran was unaware how tardy his cronies were being as he clambered up the iron stairs, his soft trainers barely making a sound.
Leech’s peripheral vision was excellent, and though he was fixated on Cochran, he was aware that the guards were still engrossed, oblivious to the burgeoning conflict. Some cons sensed a fight was brewing, but only a few of them dared to gaze up at the protagonists.
Cochran reached the flight below, and grinned as he bounded up the last dozen steps, enthusiastic now, clearly confident that Leech was about to take a beating.
Leech was in a zone beyond fear or elation. He was intent only on his prey. His brain computed, calculated and he struck.
Cochran had almost reached the top step, his right leg mid-air, searching for purchase, his rear leg stretched two steps below, powering him upwards. Perfectly unbalanced and moving fast.
The Snake was faster.
Leech leapt towards Cochran, a blur of limbs, connecting with his target at a forty-five degree angle. His electric speed, combined with the weight and power of his athlete’s body, delivered a pile-driving punch so swift Cochran had no chance of avoiding impact. This fearsome mass of energy was concentrated and delivered in a bone-splintering blow that connected with Cochran’s temple.
The force literally sent the big man flying. Leech continued moving past the top of the stairs as his victim flipped over the handrail, bounced off the edge of the suicide netting, and plunged backwards down the stairwell, his body hurtling past his two comrades.
Leech was still in the killing zone, everything around him seemingly in slow motion as he speed-walked away, watching Cochran floating earthward, startled, spread-eagled, face-up, mouthing a garbled scream.
Wendy H. Jones
Mar 31, 2016 | Crime, 1st pages
Lying on the damp earth, listening to the grating of a rusty lock, she knows her life is about to end. She is alone in this prison. Thick darkness, like a shroud, engulfs her body in its muffled tendrils. She bites back a scream and shouts.
“Help. Help Me.”
Ineffectual, her voice fades into the inky night. She shifts her body. No comfort. She cannot move far, chained as she is. Tense muscles strain against the rapidly cooling metal. She feels pain, unimaginable pain. Her breathing quickens as panic takes hold. She forces herself to relax. To think. To take stock. Uses her mind to explore. She uses her fingers and feet to survey her surroundings. Wood, dirt floor. The dank smell of wet earth. A shed? An outhouse? A barn?
Then, a delicate tickle against her skin. Soft, gentle it travels up her bare leg prickling along every tiny nerve end. Creeping, crawling, relentless. She kicks. Tries to push it off with her hands. The chains stop her. She can’t reach. It is still there. There is no escape. Another joins it. Myriad others. Spiders, her worst fear. They are all over her. Shaking, she screams then snaps her mouth shut as she feels them on her face. She is rigid. There is no way out.
She prays for death.
Dewey B. Reynolds
Mar 30, 2016 | Crime, 1st pages
The year was 1977. Saturday Night Fever sizzled on movie screens all over America. People stood in long lines to get inside the Empire Theatre in downtown Kansas City. They yearned to watch John Travolta strut through the streets of Brooklyn with his swinging paint can and platform shoes. The year of 1977 was also a year of unprecedented violence. While Saturday Night Fever played during a 10:00 p.m. showing, four sticks of dynamite fizzled underneath a building less than a mile away. Downtown Kansas City had no clue that it was about to get rocked.
The force of an atrocious blast sent Carlo “The Beast” Binaggio crashing through the thick glass window of his adult movie theater. Severe concussions over his body left him without an ounce of fluid. His blood had splattered around the sidewalk near his demolished X-rated theater. Sinister Mafia plots were hatched throughout Kansas City, Missouri. A bloodbath ensued within the city’s deep dark inner sanctums. Control for sacred turf ran strong through the veins of vicious men like raging nitro fuel.
