A Third Kind- Sample- Chapters 1-9

Chapters 7-9

Chapter 7

       JASON REACHED FOR his phone, already irate. "What?"

       "He's back!"

       Adam. Again. If it was another false alarm, Jason was going to feed him to the vamps. "You sure?"

       "Unless there's more than one guy dragging junkies into back alleys. Over on Woodridge."

       "Go find out. And don't hang up, I want to hear this."

       "There's a bonus for this guy, yeah?"

       "Huge," Jason said, "if it's him."

       Jason listened impatiently as Adam and a few others rushed down the stairs and into the street. This was the third call this week alone. The entire state was on watch—the dealers, the junkies, and even the police, ever since the orders had come down a few months back. Everyone was on edge. Two guys had disappeared in Jacksonville alone, the bloodsuckers home turf, and word was at least three or four more were missing in Orlando and Tampa.

       Footsteps pounded the pavement as Adam huffed on the other end of the line. A chorus of jeers and threats erupted, muffled and dim.

       "What's going on you...fucking...MORON!" Jason yelled, face flushing. Gunshots rang out. Jeers turned to screams. The phone clattered and cut out.

       "Goddammit," Jason cursed. He punched in Val's number. "C'mon, c'mon."

       "Val here."

       "It's Jason. He's back, over by the place on Woodridge. I think he killed Adam and his guys."

       The phone went dead and Jason stared at it. Did Val really hang up on him?Or was it a disconnect? He tossed the phone away and dropped to the couch, not sure what to do. It had to be a hang up. Part of him wanted to run over and see what was going on. Another part said to stay home where it was safe. The guy was a freak, a soul sucker, a vamp. It was a hell of a risk.

       Or a once in a lifetime opportunity.

       He glanced at the clock. Only three minutes since the call.

       Mind made up, Jason bolted for his bedroom and tore open the closet. A rain of junk flew over his shoulders as he dug for the box buried in the back. He flipped the lid up. Metal gleamed. The shotgun was sawed off, the red shells of silver shot and the blue shells wooden slugs.

       He snatched the chain around his neck, drew a silver cross out of his shirt, gave it a good luck kiss, and ran from the room.

Chapter 8

       ANOTHER BULLET BIT into Kaleb's chest. Another shirt ruined. The black hoodie was trashed too. He let his struggling would-be victim fall and charged the men that had chased him into the alley. Three seconds to snap the vertebrae, another three to load the body, a few more and he would have been behind the wheel. The trunk was open. The car was ready to go. And now this.

       He rushed them, the sting of hot metal no more problematic than the drizzling rain. One hard swing crushed a skull and sent the corpse careening into another meatbag. They collided with a crunch and fell in a tangled heap.

       The thunderous booms grew distant, and a blinding wave of electricity ripped through Kaleb's head. It buzzed in his ears, bled the world white, and sent him staggering, searching for someone or something to cling to. With the blindness came panic and a stitch in his chest, a pinpoint of ice. Heart attack? Was that even possible? It spread, down his arms, up his neck, soothing the dozens of holes pocking his flesh and the mangled gray mass in his skull. His vision came back, sharper, brighter, tinged red.