Alex Barclay - Agent Ren Bryce Thriller Series Books 1-3 - Blood Runs Cold, Time of Death, Blood Loss

Table of Contents

Title Page ALEX BARCLAY AGENT REN BRYCE THRILLER SERIES BOOKS 1-3: Blood Runs Cold, Time of Death, Blood Loss

Blood Runs Cold

Time of Death

Blood Loss

Coming Soon

About the Author

Also by the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

Blood Runs Cold Time of Death Blood Loss Coming Soon About the Author Also by the Author Copyright About the Publisher

For Sue Booth-Forbes

Table of Contents

Title Page ALEX BARCLAY Blood Runs Cold Dedication For Sue Booth-Forbes Prologue Prologue In the lights of the police cruisers, her face was a strobing image of pain and fear. But she was still, to the child in her arms, a haven. She ran as fast as her violated body would allow, pressing his head to her cheek, his hair soaking up their sweat, blood, spit, tears. A terrible, ruined stench rose from them in the damp heat. She staggered on, flinching at the stones and branches underfoot, her shoes long lost, too beautiful for the night. The trees swayed toward them and away, and when they gave enough shelter, she stopped. She prised the tiny hands from around her neck, breaking the dead-man’s grip of a seven-year-old boy. She tried to smile as she lowered him to the ground. Black pinpricks of gravel shone from her lips. ‘Do not make a sound,’ she said. ‘Not a sound.’ Her voice was edged in nicotine. The boy quickly clamped his arms around her legs. She shoved him sharply backwards, away from her wounds. He fell hard. She watched without feeling. He got up and moved toward her again, tears streaming down his face. ‘No,’ she hissed, shaking her head. ‘No.’ She crouched down. ‘You have to hide, OK?’ She pointed to the scrub close by. ‘Go. I’ll be right here.’ She squeezed his hand as she released it. He did as she said. She moved a few steps forward into a clearing, cracking the forest floor. Her face was in darkness. But in the faint glow of a flashlight, relief swept over her features; a picture, flashing like a warning. The man walked from the trees. He looked at his wife – bloodied and soiled, her hand gripping her ripped-open blouse in what dignity she could find. She slumped against him, the sounds she made raw and disturbing. The little boy watched. As I was walking up the stair I met a man who wasn’t there He wasn’t there again today I wish, I wish he’d stay away ‘ Mira , Domenica,’ said the man. Look. Domenica turned to where she had run from. Beyond the trees, a fire raged and smoke filled the sky. She was transfixed. ‘Hellfire,’ she said. But her eyes shone with something more than flames. Part One PART ONE Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Chapter 45 Chapter 46 Part Two Chapter 47 Chapter 48 Chapter 49 Chapter 50 Chapter 51 Chapter 52 Chapter 53 Chapter 54 Chapter 55 Chapter 56 Chapter 57 Chapter 58 Chapter 59 Chapter 60 Chapter 61 Chapter 62 Chapter 63 Chapter 64 Chapter 65 Chapter 66 Chapter 67 Chapter 68 Epilogue Acknowledgments Copyright

Prologue

In the lights of the police cruisers, her face was a strobing image of pain and fear. But she was still, to the child in her arms, a haven. She ran as fast as her violated body would allow, pressing his head to her cheek, his hair soaking up their sweat, blood, spit, tears. A terrible, ruined stench rose from them in the damp heat.

She staggered on, flinching at the stones and branches underfoot, her shoes long lost, too beautiful for the night. The trees swayed toward them and away, and when they gave enough shelter, she stopped. She prised the tiny hands from around her neck, breaking the dead-man’s grip of a seven-year-old boy. She tried to smile as she lowered him to the ground. Black pinpricks of gravel shone from her lips.

‘Do not make a sound,’ she said. ‘Not a sound.’ Her voice was edged in nicotine.

The boy quickly clamped his arms around her legs. She shoved him sharply backwards, away from her wounds. He fell hard. She watched without feeling. He got up and moved toward her again, tears streaming down his face.

‘No,’ she hissed, shaking her head. ‘No.’

She crouched down. ‘You have to hide, OK?’ She pointed to the scrub close by. ‘Go. I’ll be right here.’ She squeezed his hand as she released it.

He did as she said. She moved a few steps forward into a clearing, cracking the forest floor. Her face was in darkness. But in the faint glow of a flashlight, relief swept over her features; a picture, flashing like a warning.

The man walked from the trees. He looked at his wife – bloodied and soiled, her hand gripping her ripped-open blouse in what dignity she could find. She slumped against him, the sounds she made raw and disturbing.

The little boy watched.

As I was walking up the stair

I met a man who wasn’t there

He wasn’t there again today

I wish, I wish he’d stay away

‘ Mira , Domenica,’ said the man. Look.

Domenica turned to where she had run from. Beyond the trees, a fire raged and smoke filled the sky. She was transfixed.

‘Hellfire,’ she said.

But her eyes shone with something more than flames.

PART ONE

Chapter 1

Rifle, Colorado

Jean Transom woke to the glow of her desk lamp and the feeling that someone had laid a trail of explosives under her world while she slept. Two work files lay in front of her – brown manila folders, the pages inside clean, neat and annotated. The top file held no photographs, but was open on a drawing – a basic floor plan, the benign geometry of rectangles and circles and squares coming together on a page to represent a space that had been so malignant. Jean inhaled deeply, but what followed was a broken breath. She pressed her hands on the desk and stood up.

She took a shower, rubbing a bar of soap briskly over her body under the hot jets. She dressed in a white shirt, tan tapered pants and soft leather shoes.

‘Come here, baby,’ she said, smiling as she walked into the kitchen. She hunkered down and reached out a hand. ‘Come here, McGraw, you sweet little boy.’

The shiny black cat stared her down.

‘That’s why it’s called a catwalk, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘You know how to move, don’t you? And you know how to look at me like you are fabulous and I am not. But I can be fabulous, you’d be surprised to hear. Yes I can.’ She laughed as he turned his back, raised his tail, and made his way slowly to his bed in the corner.

‘Lazy, baby,’ said Jean. ‘I have a lazy man living in my house. And if you’re not going to talk to me …’ She reached over and turned on her old black stereo. For a few seconds, Jean Transom sang along to the music, gently and off-key.