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

he could see a body. The area around it had been swept clean of debris and the head was turned away from him, the white, knotted straps of a blindfold and gag clearly visible. The knees were bandaged with blood-soaked cloth, and the hands were bound behind the figure’s back. All as ordered. Muffled moans confirmed Lazlo was still alive.

There he is! The pig needs to learn his lesson! screamed the voice.

The man cautiously approached the area beneath the atrium where the body lay, and instinctively looked up at all the balustraded walkways above him. A thousand places from which someone could watch him.

He unexpectedly faltered, then stumbled. It felt like his energy had left him, and he had the unfamiliar and disagreeable feeling that he might pass out. The voice in his head was strangely quiet. Then, just when he felt he was about to fall over, what felt like a sudden bolt of electricity re-energized him, and the voice returned.

It’s a trap! It’s a trap! It’s not him! it shouted. Go back! Go back! it cried again.

But he ignored the voice. He had come this far. Was he just going to walk away? He pushed on. Lazlo had to be punished, that’s what he had told himself. That’s what had to be done. Lazlo didn’t only have to die, he had to be so grotesquely mutilated that nobody, not even a cop, could mess with him. He had to send a message.

What are you doing? This is a fucking trap! It’s not him! It’s not him!

He continued to approach, ignoring the voice.

It’s not him! It’s not him! the voice continued.

He dropped the GPS to the floor with a clattering sound that echoed around the building and then he reached behind his back. He pulled out a Heckler & Koch VP9 handgun with his free hand and pointed it at the body while he held the knife at the ready in his other hand as he gave the body a kick in the back. He heard a groan. The voice in his head was still screaming, now in Spanish. But it didn’t matter, nothing mattered at that moment. Searing pain hit his left shoulder, accompanied by a cracking sound. A 5.56mm caliber bullet had torn through his shoulder. The nerve damage caused him to drop the gun, and the force of the bullet spun him into a backward fall.

You’ve been shot, Puta! You’ve been shot! said the voice in his head.

As he fell, he saw men abseil down from the floors above. In an instant, he found that the ends of four M4 Commando assault rifles were pointed at his head. The weapons and the dark olive combat gear were enough to tell him that these guys were FBI SWAT.

Seconds later, agents in blue windbreakers crowded around him.

Putas! the voice screamed.

As he lay in the dirt on the floor, now on his stomach with his wrists cuffed behind him, he watched the body that he had thought had been Lazlo’s being untied and the victim helped to his feet. It wasn’t Lazlo, of course. Lazlo had been somewhere else all along.

The well-dressed man knew then that he’d been set up. The voice inside him was quiet, but he still felt its presence like an energy. An energy of seething anger, now quietly weighing up its options. One of the FBI agents had told him that the paramedics had been called. Medical treatment meant going to the hospital, and hospitals presented opportunities for escape.

Cromwell stepped out of his Crown Vic under a canopy of maple and beech trees at the end of a four-hour drive that had finished on a dirt road that had gradually become narrower and increasingly rough until it was no longer passable by car. The last part of the journey had to take place on foot. There was no cell coverage, which was precisely what helped make the location safe, but it meant that any message to Lazlo could only be delivered in person. The message he was bearing was good news.

He got out of the car and stood still for a moment. It was deathly quiet, uncomfortably so, the only noise to be heard was the sound of his own breathing. He broke the silence by walking. Leaves rustled, and twigs cracked under his shoes. The cabin was located in the deepest part of the forest and had no address, not even a ribbon of a trail leading to it, just GPS coordinates.

After an hour, Cromwell recognized a familiar tree stump, which signaled to him that he was close. A couple of minutes later, he saw the cabin. Built entirely of wood except for a large stone chimney, it blended in effortlessly with its surroundings. The walls were made of thick logs; the roof was covered in timber shingles and the doors, windows, and shutters were all of sanded and varnished timber. It was the perfect retreat and the ideal hiding place.

He walked up to the cabin and noticed the door was ajar. Un-holstering his gun, he pushed against the door slowly. As it creaked open, he felt the cold steel muzzle of a gun press against the back of his neck.

“Drop the gun!”

He immediately recognized the voice as belonging to Lazlo and felt a sense of relief that his friend was safe.

Lowering the gun to the ground, he turned around with his hands up. It was Lazlo but bearded, unkempt, and with a distinctly smoky smell about him.

“Christ, Dan! I nearly crapped myself.”

“Sorry, George. I couldn’t be sure it was you, and you were armed. You understand, right?”

“Sure! But listen, the trap worked, and we got the guy who ordered Victor Sanchez to take the hit out on you,” Cromwell enthused.

“El Gordito?”

“No, we already had El Gordito in custody. This is someone new in the hierarchy. Big, military-looking guy—Caucasian, not Hispanic. He’d requested the assassin leave you alive but unable to move. He showed up alone at our faked scene hoping to finish you