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- Herausgeber: Black Cat Weekly
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
Jonathan Lopez, an ex-intelligence officer with deteriorating eyesight, wakes to unsettling noises in his isolated cabin. With his gun ready, he prepares to confront an intruder, fearing for the safety of his partner Beth and their dog Homer. As he stealthily investigates, he discovers not a threat but a terrified, malnourished teenage girl, who has escaped human traffickers. Determined to bring her captors to justice, Jonathan finds a new purpose in tracking down the criminals.
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Seitenzahl: 17
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
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Table of Contents
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
UNDER COVER, by Wil A. Emerson
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Copyright © 2024 by Wil A. Emerson.
Original publication by Black Cat Weekly.
blackcatweekly.com
UNDER COVER,by Wil A. Emerson
I sprang out of bed like a cat on fire. The distinct crackle, tinkle of shattered glass and then the rustle of paper. Not close, but not far, either. The sound came from within my house. Feet on the floor, eyes adjusting to the darkness, I pulled my sidearm from the shelf in the bedside table. Loaded, ready. My heart rate dropped from accelerated, tacking like a race car, to trained, a controlled alert. My senses heightened. I was on the curve, ready for action. Ear to the interior of the house, I heard a shuffle of feet. Soft. Shoeless?
Towering trees, a mix of Colorado blue spruce, massive oaks, and Northern pines surrounded the isolated cabin and left the master bedroom, which I was in, as dark as a mountain tunnel. Exactly what I intended when I built the place. But, if there were only a glimmer of moonlight now, my nerves might not be so edgy. One lone intruder or more?
My diminished night vision and an uncanny eye disorder that had surfaced after the last special assignment had me at an extreme disadvantage. For the life of me, I couldn’t understand why I left my prescription night glasses in my overnight bag. And it was tucked away in a far closet.
Another rustle of papers, tinkle of glass on glass. Not the sound that comes when a window is shattered. No, could be ice on ice. Someone shaking a container? A cocktail. No. Impossible. Teetotaler that I am, there’s not a drop of alcohol to be found in the house nor is there a cocktail shaker to accommodate a thirsty drinker even if one yearned for a mixed beverage. Martinis and I parted ways when I got the damaging diagnosis that my occipital nerves were acting like a kid having a tantrum.
