Earthbound : A gripping crime thriller full of twists and supernatural suspense Fynn Perry (if you liked this book TXT) 📖

so we know they contain heroin and cocaine, but there’s no poppy plant resin or coca leaf derivatives listed. Instead, it’s mainly sugar, molasses, specifically—and tons of it. Neither your lawyer or your accountant could tell us how the process works but they told us where we can see it. The drugs are being made under the supervision of a scientist you kidnapped and who works in a secret basement underneath the fulfillment center. An FBI SWAT team is on its way there right now.”

John watched, paralyzed with fear, as the glow inside El Gordito’s body got brighter until it penetrated the skin, and the spirit’s head emerged like a butterfly from a cocoon. The features were Hispanic but there was no beard, and the hair was short. It isn’t Santiago! Fuck! He looked again at the face of the spirit but didn’t recognize him. For all he knew, this could be the spirit of another of Santiago’s murdered lieutenants from his Miami gang days. Jennifer had shown him photos online from news stories, but there was no way he could remember individual faces. Why wasn’t it Santiago’s spirit? Had this other spirit been paired with El Gordito by the Voids for the purposes of The Game all along? Had he and Jen been wasting their time putting so much energy into trying to take down El Gordito when the failure of his drug business would have zero effect on Santiago?

He thought back to what Nikki had told him the evening she had shown him the Game. He had been so overwhelmed by the amount of information that he hadn’t realized, until now, that she hadn’t actually told him that Santiago’s spirit was possessing El Gordito. Neither had she told him that the narrative Santiago was to execute involved the creation of a new and highly addictive narcotic. He and Jen––pursuing their own assumptions without correction––had reached those conclusions. And since that was so, it began to appear that they were just an amusing sideshow in the Game. He felt a chill run down his invisible spine. For all they knew, Santiago’s spirit may have been charged with a completely different narrative that they knew nothing about. John’s would-be killer might actually be paired with a host that they were yet to meet.

The spirit rose out of El Gordito, causing his host to collapse onto the desk head-first. Taller and with a bigger build than John’s, it towered over Chapman, who was rushing to El Gordito’s body. The spirit stared at the one-way mirror and, for a moment, John thought it knew he was there. John couldn’t help but notice the bullet holes that riddled its chest. Someone had shot this person multiple times to make sure the big man was, in fact, dead.

Chapman tried frantically to revive El Gordito, pausing only to bang on the window and to run to the door to get help.

Seconds later, a medic rushed in with another two FBI agents. All this, including the welcome sight of the spirit walking away from him through the door and out of the interview room, faded into an insignificant blur for John as he was consumed with a terrible realization: he had been following the wrong host the entire time. The fact that he had helped to put a dangerous criminal behind bars gave him little solace––he had failed to ensure not only the safety of his girlfriend and her father, but also his own.

Two hours earlier, La Tarántula had logged off The Path to Paradise website and decided that a quick death was too good for Lazlo. Lazlo had to suffer, he had to feel pain, and the terms of the hit had been changed accordingly. Lazlo was to be maimed and not killed. He was to be left for Tarantula to finish off.

Specifically, Lazlo was to be shot in each kneecap, blindfolded, gagged, and left in an isolated and derelict location, making escape impossible. Masquerading as Shadow Dragon, Cromwell had agreed to the new plan, but had demanded an additional $200K for the additional work and risk involved. Not to do so, he believed, would raise suspicion. He immediately diverted the funds, when they arrived from Tarantula, into an FBI account. Perhaps now there would enough booze at the next Christmas party, he mused.

The final message from Cromwell, posing as Shadow Dragon, to Tarantula included a set of GPS coordinates where Lazlo could be found at 12:00 noon the following day.

A top-of-the-range Mercedes sedan pulled up and stopped outside a derelict factory in the Red Hook neighborhood of Brooklyn, a few minutes before midday. According to the car’s navigation system, the coordinates in the assassin’s message corresponded to a point in the center of one of the buildings. The car door opened, and a man got out. He was alone. He looked up at the side of the building and the building opposite. Both were six stories in height. He scanned the rooftop and broken windows before deciding how to enter.

Broken glass and building debris crunched under his handmade Italian leather shoes. His suit and open-necked shirt were a perfect fit for his tall and muscular frame. His walk had a purpose and confidence that only military training could give. In his left hand, he held a portable GPS device. In the other was a commando knife with a vicious serrated edge on one side, and an uncompromisingly sharp and smooth edge on the other.

The voice was screaming in his head: You’re going to gut him. Gut him like a pig! He has to pay! He clenched the handle of the knife tighter as he felt the anger channeling into his arm. It was 11:59 a.m. He needed to be right on time: too late and the victim might bleed out. Where was the fun in torturing someone who was already dead?

The building’s floors had been designed to form a large, central atrium that was flooded with daylight. On the floor, beneath the opening,