Quake: Blind Thrust

Book 4: Quake

by Jack Douglas

Genres: Thrillers

Synopsis

Rescue 9-1-1 In the fourth terrifying installment of Jack Douglas's six-part Quake, a daring rescue in a midtown hospital poses the deadliest risk of all—when the walls come tumbling down. . . Heading northward toward Columbus Circle, U.S. Attorney Nick Dykstra and FBI agent Hector Mendoza have blazed a desperate trail across the hellish ruins of what used to be Manhattan. Now they've reached the west-side hospital where Mendoza's wife Jana works as a nurse. The building appears to be stable. But deep within its darkened halls, chaos reigns. Most of the survivors are in panic mode. And the dedicated Jana refuses to abandon her patients. Her biggest concern: the children's wing. The youngest and most vulnerable of patients must be evacuated from the building immediately—before another wave of aftershocks brings the hospital crashing down around them. But time is running out. And the slightest tremor could bury them all alive. . . In the moment of truth, every man, woman, and child must come together—and conquer their fears—if they hope to survive the QUAKE. 14,600 Words

Release date: July 1, 2014

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 46

Sample

A dead man lay at the bottom of the concrete steps in the Fiftieth Street station. A dead police officer. An African-American man dressed in full NYPD blue.

Assistant U.S. Attorney Nick Dykstra knelt next to the body and ran his hands down the dead man’s shirt front and short sleeves. He felt the officer’s badge, his embroideries. He reached down to the man’s waist and was relieved at the feel of the thick leather belt all officers wore. Attached to that belt was a large flashlight. Nick removed the flashlight and twisted it on. Felt a heavy wave of relief as the light temporarily blinded him.

Quickly, he aimed the light on the officer’s face. The dead man had been young, in his mid to late twenties at most. A deep indentation at the man’s hairline seemed to indicate blunt force trauma, and when Nick shone the light in the surrounding area he immediately discovered the culprit: a football-sized chunk of concrete lying bloodied a few feet from the officer’s head.

Nick heard a noise emanate from deep inside the subway tunnel and swiftly spun the flashlight around but spotted nothing. He then shined the light on the ceiling above him, hoping to find the spot the chunk of concrete had fallen from. But nothing. It could have come from anywhere. Meaning it may not have fallen and struck the officer at all. It looked heavy yet small enough to carry singlehandedly. It was possible some crazed vagrant or junkie had come up on the officer from behind, and struck him dead with the chunk of concrete.

If so, whoever that was might be still be around.

Nick aimed the beam of light on the dead man’s belt again. His service weapon remained in his holster. Nick quickly reached for the holster and popped it open, then slowly removed the gun. A SIG nine millimeter. Nick was familiar with guns because of his job as a federal prosecutor. But his knowledge was entirely academic. He’d never shot one. Had never had the desire to shoot at anyone or anything.

Except maybe at Feroz Saeed Alivi when the bastard threatened my daughter.

Nick released the clip, checked that it was full. Made sure there was a live round in the chamber before double-checking that the safety was on.

He thought about snatching the cop’s holster, but it looked like too much trouble and he needed to move on. He stuffed the gun into his waistband at the small of his back and stood up, shining the light one last time on the dead officer’s face.

So young. Almost as young as Lauren.

He shined the light on the officer’s badge and made a mental note of the badge number. This young man was someone’s son. If Nick made it through this alive, he’d have information on at least one of the dead. One of New York’s Finest.

Nick turned and crossed the subway platform, thinking about the days following September 11, 2001, when there were posters and pictures hanging on every telephone pole and lamppost, in every shop window, on every bar and restaurant door.

The missing.

The word itself implied such hope. And in the early days it was possible to find a loved one who could have otherwise been lost in the attack. Hospitals were filled with nameless faces, people who had survived in and around the World Trade Center. Many were in drug-induced comas and couldn’t speak. Others suffered amnesia. Some had loved ones they simply couldn’t get in touch with for days because of fallen cell towers. Still some seized the opportunity to vanish intentionally.

As he lowered himself from the subway platform onto the rails, Nick remembered the cold process of identifying bodies pulled from the rubble. He wasn’t a religious man and couldn’t quite understand why it was so important to some that their loved ones’ bodies be found. Yet he, too, stood at the fences overlooking Ground Zero. He, too, sat by the phone, waiting for the call to learn that his wife, Sara Baines-Dykstra, had been found and identified.

She never was.

She never would be.

It had upset Lauren, of course. She didn’t talk about it any longer, but Nick could sense what sh. . .