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

she pulled the blade free. David screamed with pain as he watched the white cotton pads around the wound turn crimson and swell with his blood.

“You put Juan away, and he got fucking stabbed to death in prison, Counselor!”

David tried to catch his breath as he looked at her with wild surprise in his eyes. He was sure he hadn’t misheard. How does she know about the Santiago case? “What the hell are you doing?” he shouted.

The nurse ignored him as she replaced the dressings and bandaged them in place. “Make a fist for me, Mr. Miller,” the nurse said calmly and firmly, acting as if he was a difficult patient and she might any moment have to call security.

David did it automatically, without saying anything. His head was spinning with confusion and he just wanted to leave.

“Good! No tendon damage. You don’t need to see a hand specialist.” Her voice was now soft and calm. She turned on her swivel chair to grab a clipboard with some forms.

David wasn’t listening; he wasn’t going to stay another minute. He got up, turned right, and walked up the corridor. There was something wrong, something seriously wrong and odd about this. Devereux—and definitely a random nurse in ER—should know nothing about his involvement in the Santiago case. Maybe there was something wrong with him, like a brain tumor, which was causing him to hallucinate?

“Have a good day Counselor!” the nurse called after him.

When he found his car and got in, David was dizzy from adrenaline, fear, and confusion. Something was happening that he couldn’t explain, and it involved a case that he had tried to put behind him. It was so strange that it seemed almost supernatural.

He switched on the ignition and set off for home. As he drove, he tried to steady his nerves. The Santiago case had traumatized him, that much was certain; during the trial he received countless threats to his life and his family. Maybe, somehow, these traumas were combining in his brain and he was imagining what he had heard. One thing he was sure of—he couldn’t tell Jennifer. She had been through enough.

Jennifer and John had exhausted all the research from her books and articles. The information was so far from the reality that they were experiencing, it didn’t seem to assist them in any way. They had read a lot about spirits but hadn’t found anything that would help either with John’s return to his mortal state or how to deal with the spirit that Jennifer had witnessed emerging from Hardwell.

“Let’s try and find out something about the company names you saw on the invoices in Donovan’s apartment. We might find something to explain his connection in all this.” Jennifer suggested, reaching for her MacBook.

“Good idea. Check ‘Supreme Bars & Clubs.’ That’s the company that owns the pub now.”

Jennifer tapped away at her keyboard. “I’ve got a Supreme Bars & Clubs registered at Suite 1023, 124 East 53rd. Street,” she confirmed.

“That’s the same address,” John recalled. “It was the same for Supreme Security.”

“Yeah, but look. What also comes up is that it is the address of an exclusive nightclub called DNA.” She carried on, typing out more keywords in the search bar. “And the club is owned by…” her voice trailed off as she looked at John with surprise. “It’s the same company, Supreme Bars & Clubs, same address.”

“I don’t understand,” John said.

“Supreme Bars & Clubs is owned by…”

“Supreme Holdings,” John interrupted, remembering the information contained in the footer of the invoices he had seen.

“Yes! A company registered in Delaware at 420D, Park Avenue…Wait . . . There’s a link regarding the sale of the club.” She pulled up an article in the Manhattan Chronicle and read from it. “Six months ago, DNA and another much larger club known as Mayhem were sold. The clubs were purchased, for an undisclosed amount, through several shell companies registered in Delaware, ultimately financed and controlled by a company in the Cayman Islands, the name of which was not disclosed at the time.

She skimmed over the rest of the article before stopping. Her mouth dropped open, and she glanced at John before reading out the last paragraph. “This reporter’s research has confirmed that the company in the Cayman Islands is, in fact, owned by a Miguel Vargas, who is believed to be a major drug baron in New York City and sole importer of wholesale drugs from the Sinaloa Cartel in Mexico, where he is commonly known as ‘El Gordito,’ meaning the ‘the chubby one,’ because of his physique.”

“What the hell has Donovan got himself into?” John stared at Jennifer in disbelief. She could see his jaws clench and his eyes ignite in anger for a moment. “Jim sold the pub to a fucking drug lord!”

“John, listen to this.” Jennifer recited some more of the article. “Vargas, who has been the subject of some drug distribution and related murder charges, but has never been convicted, purports to be a legitimate nightclub business owner. So strong is his apparent commitment to the nightclub business that he is said to hardly ever leave DNA, his favorite club, where private parties—best described as playgrounds of excess for rich, influential and often criminal patrons—have frequently provided him with an alibi and are said to be the venue for meetings regarding all his operations. The NYPD has made several raids on his registered offices, located next to the exclusive VIP lounge in DNA, in an attempt to gather evidence against Vargas, but each time they failed to find any incriminating evidence of drug activity.”

She pulled up several photos of Vargas. Most of the press had adopted his nickname, referring to him as El Gordito in the captions. All the photos had clearly been taken from a safe distance—safe enough to avoid the wrath of several mean-looking bodyguards. Often the shortest figure in a group, he was paunchy, in his forties, with short black hair. His mouth, eyes, and nose appeared to huddle at