Time to Run

Book 1: Nick of Time

by John Gilstrap

Genres: Action & Adventure; Crime Fiction; Suspense

Synopsis

Part Four of the Suspenseful Five-Part E-Serial Novel! WIN, LOSE, OR DIE In the fourth electrifying installment of John Gilstrap’s five-part novel, a desperate manhunt for two reckless lovers takes a dangerous turn—heading straight for a dead end . . . Nicki Janssen is no longer the innocent little girl her father thinks she is. She’s a wanted criminal on the run—with a convicted killer she thought she could trust . . . Brad Ward knows he can’t outrun the cops forever. But it’s too late to stop now. With Nicki’s life and health at risk, he’s got no time to waste—and nothing left to lose . . . Speeding away from the scene of a brutal robbery-murder, the lovers manage to stay one step ahead of the law. Nicki’s father, Carter Janssen, teams up with Deputy Sheriff Darla Sweet to follow their trail across North Carolina. But when Alex and Nicki hijack a car—and take two hostages with them—all bets are off. All stakes are raised. And all roads lead straight to danger . . . “Grabs hold of you on page one and doesn’t let go.”—Harlan Coben “Gilstrap as a master of jaw-dropping action and heart-squeezing suspense.”—Austin Camacho “If you like Vince Flynn and Brad Thor, you’ll love John Gilstrap.”—Gayle Lynds “Gilstrap is one of the finest thriller writers on the planet.”—Tess Gerritsen Includes a preview chapter from John Gilstrap’s next thriller, Friendly Fire

Release date: March 29, 2016

Publisher: Lyrical Press

Print pages: 97

Sample

Nicolette Janssen’s hands trembled as she struggled back into her clothes. She was getting out of here. To hell with the consequences. She’d had it with the lies and the false hopes. This time she was leaving for real.

But she had to hurry. They’d be coming for her soon, and she’d need every second of a head start she could get. She prayed for a ten-minute lead, but doubted she had a chance for that.

Seven, then. Whatever.

As she fumbled with the button on her shorts, she tried not to see the deep purple bruises on her arms. Ooh, sorry. We’re almost there. You sure have tiny veins. Sure, blame her veins. Forget about the railroad spikes they called needles.

Now there was a favor she’d like to return one day. When they yelled and cussed at her to be careful, she’d be sure to smile and tell them in that soft voice that it was really for their own good. See how they liked it.

Let somebody else be their chemistry set for a while.

With her pants on and fastened, and her T-shirt in place, Nicki slung her purse over her shoulder and moved tentatively to the door, pausing a beat to thumb the TV remote that was part of the call button that was looped around the side rail of her bed. Oprah and the fears of pending Y2K crises disappeared. Nicki opened the door a crack, just to get a peek, and then stepped out into the wide hallway, standing tall and resisting the urge to run. Just make like you belong, she thought. And why not? With all the hours she’d logged, there ought to be a wing named after her. Her flip-flops squeaked on the tile floor as she turned right and started for the bank of elevators.

Jeez, what was she thinking? The elevators opened directly in front of the nurses’ station. “Come on, Nicki, think, will you?” she mumbled. If a nurse or, God help her, her dad saw her out here, there’d be serious hell to pay. Patients weren’t supposed to be up and around on their own. Hell, they weren’t supposed to pee without telling someone. Prisons and hospitals had a lot in common, she imagined.

Oh, shit, there he is! Her dad—the famed prosecutor Carter Janssen—was standing right at the nurses’ station, ranting at the phlebotomist who last dredged her arm. How typical of dear old dad: Better to yell at a stranger than to comfort a daughter.

An exit sign to her right showed the way to the stair well. As Nicki pushed the door open, she prayed that there wouldn’t be an alarm. There wasn’t. Score one for the home team. It would have been a short chase. She smiled at the thought of what it might have looked like: sprint fifty yards, fall down unconscious, wake up, run another fifty yards . . .

It turned out that the stairwell was the primary vertical thoroughfare for everyone who wore a lab coat. All of them moved at three times the speed that she could muster, and they were far too busy to notice her.

She had eight flights to go. That meant sixteen half-flights to the bottom, probably more than the total number of stairs she’d navigated in the last three months combined. See, Dad? she thought. I’m not as fragile as you thought.

If she made it, there’d be no turning back. Maybe now, finally, they would all understand that she meant what she said.

Carter Janssen knew that Priscilla, the phlebotomist, was the wrong target for his rage, but somebody had to answer for this atrocity, and she was the most available hospital employee. Nowhere near her thirtieth birthday, the technician looked close to tears.

“All I do is draw blood,” she whined.

“But you’re part of the team,” Carter growled, leaning on the word he’d heard so often from the transplant crew. “We succeed or fail as a team, don’t you remember?”

“You need to speak to the doctor,” Priscilla said. She moved to step around him. “I have nothing to do with the decisions that are made.”

“I’d love to speak to a doctor,” Carter said, making a broad sweeping motion with both arms. “Do you see one here? All I see are people telling me that the doctors are all too busy to speak with me.”

“Doctor Burkhammer is in surgery. I already told you that.”

“That’s not possible,” Carter snapped. “He can’t possibly be in surgery, because my daughter was next on his dance card, and she got stood up!” He yelled that last phrase, making Priscilla jump, and drawing uncomfortable glances from the nurses behind the glass. One nurse in particular, a broad-shouldered one in the back who carried herself with the posture of a boss, reached for a telephone. Carter had the distinct feeling that she was calling security.

“Can I help you?” a voice asked from behind.

Carter turned to see a chubby redheaded man who must have bought his clothes before going on a diet. He wore woefully out-of-date horn-rimmed glasses with lenses thick enough to start a fire if he looked the wrong way in sunlight. “Who are you?”

“I’m Dr. Cavanaugh,” the man said, extending his hand. “We met a few months ago. I’m from the Heart-Lung Consortium.”

Carter’s jaw dropped. The last time he’d seen Dr. Cavanaugh, the guy had been the size of a boxcar. That he was now only thirty pounds overweight meant that he’d lost over a hundred. “I wouldn’t have recognized you.”

The doctor beamed and patted his stomach. “I decided to start taking some of my own advice. I’m terribly sorry about Nicolette. I don’t mean to sound flippant, but such are the ups and downs of the transplant business.”

“The ups and downs?” Carter repeated. The words tasted bitter on his tongue. “That’s it? That’s all you have to say to me?”

Dr. Cavanaugh gently grasped Carter’s elbow with one hand and gestured to the collection of seats in the hallway. “Perhaps we should sit down and discuss this.”

“No,” Carter said. “I don’t want to sit. I’m waiting for Nicki to get dressed, and I don’t want her to step out and not see me.”

“Well, let’s keep our voices down, then.”

“Let’s keep our voices down? What are we, in fifth grade? What the hell happened?” Carter reached under his suit jacket and pulled a pager from his belt. “We go. . .