PREORDER: FAIR CHANCE

Looky what popped up yesterday on Amazon!

Fair Chance, the third and final book in the All's Fair Trilogy, is now available for preorder (it comes out next March.)

BLURB:


Elliot Mills comes face-to-face with evil in this follow-up to Fair Game and Fair Chance from bestselling author Josh Lanyon


One final game of cat and mouse...

Ex-FBI agent Elliot Mills thought he was done with the most brutal case of his career. The Sculptor, the serial killer he spent years hunting, is finally in jail. But Elliot's hope dies when he learns the murderer wasn't acting alone. Now everyone is at risk once again--from a madman determined to finish his partner's gruesome mission. 

When the lead agent on the case, Special Agent Tucker Lance, goes missing, Elliot knows it's the killer at work. After all, abducting the love of his life is the quickest way to hurt him. 

The chances of finding Tucker are all but impossible without the help of the Sculptor--but the Sculptor is in no position to talk. Critically injured in a prison fight, he lies comatose and dying while the clock ticks down. Elliot has no choice but to play this killer’s twisted game and hope he can find Tucker in time.

EXCERPT:

The less time he had to think, the better, Elliot told himself on the drive over to Laurelhurst. He should welcome this distraction. Any distraction.

Until Tucker arrived home—or didn’t—that evening, he was merely speculating, and that was a waste of energy. Tucker would either have a reasonable explanation or he wouldn’t. And if he didn’t, Elliot would kill him. That was all.

And if Tucker didn’t arrive home…

That was where Elliot’s thoughts broke off each time. Beyond that point was barren wasteland, for now the forbidden zone.

He parked in the curving drive in front of MacAuley’s place. There was a red Cadillac SRX in front of the garage, but no other cars around.

He got out, pressed the key fob to lock the Nissan, and started up the walk. Despite the patchy sunlight, it was still raining. No longer a full-on rain, but scattered drops, spangling the grass and splattering against the shrubbery. The air smelled wet and clean and earthy.

The flat, hard bang of a gunshot echoing from inside the house stopped him in his tracks—and then he raced the rest of the way up the slick path.

Reaching the boxed overhang of the front entrance without harm, he ducked down behind a short brick planter. Though he didn’t recall pulling his weapon, he was holding his Glock as he watched the front door, waiting.

The door was half-open, but no one stepped outside.

There was no further sound from inside the house.

A couple of very long seconds passed.

What was this? Not an accident, or the front door would not be standing open. Not a firefight, or there would be shots in return.

Suicide? Not with the front door standing wide-open. Or at least…unlikely.

Homicide?

Attempted homicide at least. MacAuley might be fighting for his life, might be injured, might be in a hostage situation. This could be anything. A burglary gone bad, home invasion, attempted kidnapping. But unless that single shot had been a warning shot, things were not looking good for somebody in that house.

Elliot found his phone, thumbed in 911, still observing the front door.

Emergency dispatch came on the line and Elliot gave him the details for a Code 2. No lights or sirens. Urgent. The address, the number of shots, a possible active shooter, his name and the name of the likely victim.

Dispatch was still requesting additional information when Elliot clicked off, put his phone on vibrate, and started for the front door.

Active shooter situations were always unpredictable. They evolved—and ended—quickly, generally with the arrival of law enforcement. Ten to fifteen minutes. Which was fine—except, depending on where you were hit, you could bleed out in a lot less than ten minutes.

He got to the exterior wall, staying beneath the window. The stucco picked at the wool fibers of his blazer as he leaned back, listening hard, pistol at high ready.

There was no sound from inside. No moans, no footsteps, no nothing. Dead silence.

A dog barked down the street.

Elliot craned his head around the corner for a quick look. He could see a slice of the entry hall. Empty.

His pulse was racing, but he felt weirdly calm. He was conscious of his elevated blood pressure, his accelerated heart rate, all the signs of the inevitable fight-or-flight response, but at the same time he felt almost detached. The whole day was unreal and this was just one more dream-like stop on the way.

Using his free hand to steady himself, he rose and stepped across to the opposite wall in the entry.

He listened intently.

Nothing.

He glanced down at the threshold. No shadow. His own was fortunately blocked by the overhang.

Are you doing this?

He didn’t have to. He could—should—wait for backup. Backup? For LEO. Which he was not. Not anymore.

But it was a rhetorical question. Of course he was doing it.

He used his free hand to soundlessly push the door wide and cross the threshold to buttonhook into the room, weapon at ready as he made sure no one was hiding behind the door.

Clear.

He was past the point of entry and now in what was known in tactical training as the “fatal funnel.” If he was careless enough to get shot, Tucker would— No. Christ, don’t think of Tucker.

For the next ten minutes he could not afford to think of anyone or anything but getting through this. It was not the time to start second-guessing himself.

He swept the empty hall with his weapon, then traveled swiftly along the left wall toward the living room, safely reaching the opposite corner.

Clear.

It did not feel clear though. The house did not feel empty. Elliot’s scalp prickled with tension, and his shirt felt damp beneath the arms. He took a couple of deep breaths. Sticking close to the wall, he moved to the living room doorway and risked a quick glance around the frame. The blinds were partially open, but the rainy light was muted and liquid, creating shadows and the illusion of movement.

Trying to do this on his own was a tactical nightmare.

He made himself focus on the room in front of him while trying to stay alert to his peripheral fields. He could make out indistinct, stationary shapes. Furniture. Potted plants. Blinds.

So far so good. Nobody and nobody.

But his instincts were screaming at him to stay alert, stay sharp. It felt like he had been in the building an hour already. In fact, it was probably no more than a couple of minutes.

His nostrils twitched at the scent of gunpowder…something burning…and blood. Yes, there was no missing that sharp, coppery tang. A lot of blood.

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