They say great themes make great novels. but what these
young writers don't understand is that there is no greater theme than men and
women.
- John O'Hara
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Oracle
Thriller / Suspense
by J. C. Martin
As the countdown begins, the body count rises.
With London gearing up to host the Olympics, the city doesn’t need a serial killer stalking the streets, but they’ve got one anyway.
Leaving a trail of brutal and bizarre murders, the police force is no closer to finding the latest psychopath than Detective Inspector Kurt Lancer is in finding a solution for his daughter’s disability.
Thrust into the pressure cooker of a high profile case, the struggling single parent is wound tight as he tries to balance care of his own family with the safety of a growing population of potential victims.
One of whom could be his own daughter.
Fingers point in every direction as the public relations nightmare grows, and Lancer’s only answer comes in the form of a single oak leaf left at each crime scene.
With London gearing up to host the Olympics, the city doesn’t need a serial killer stalking the streets, but they’ve got one anyway.
Leaving a trail of brutal and bizarre murders, the police force is no closer to finding the latest psychopath than Detective Inspector Kurt Lancer is in finding a solution for his daughter’s disability.
Thrust into the pressure cooker of a high profile case, the struggling single parent is wound tight as he tries to balance care of his own family with the safety of a growing population of potential victims.
One of whom could be his own daughter.
Fingers point in every direction as the public relations nightmare grows, and Lancer’s only answer comes in the form of a single oak leaf left at each crime scene.
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Excerpt:
* The following excerpt is rated R*
The last of the theatregoers had gone, the place locked up for the night, but for Vincent the Magnificent, the entertainment had only just begun.
He stood between the thighs of his lovely assistant, Olga Petrov, his trousers pulled down around his ankles. Still dressed in her too-tight stage gown, her sequined skirt hitched up to her hips, Olga sat atop the dressing table, legs splayed, as Vincent thrust himself repeatedly into her, his face buried in her substantial bosom, intermittent grunts muffled by her yawning cleavage. The rickety old table creaked in rhythm to their clumsy lovemaking, and under the yellow light of the lone naked bulb, Vincent’s thinning, black hair glistened, greasier than usual, slicked with the sweat from his carnal exertions.
Even as his lunges grew faster and deeper, and Olga moaned sexy but unintelligible Russian into his ear, and as his balls ached in anticipation of climactic release, a tiny voice nagged at him from the back of his aroused consciousness—one sounding disturbingly like his wife Debbie with a bad bout of PMT saying ‘Where are you?’, ‘What are you doing?’, and ‘Who’s with you?’.
Not only did wifey force him to replace Linda—his previous assistant, a buxom redhead with morals as loose as her pussy was tight—she’d since imposed a curfew on him which was why he had to be both discreet and quick—especially that night.
It was Debbie’s birthday.
Olga gasped as she raked her fingers down his back, her nails digging into his skin through his sweat-sodden shirt. The sensation pushed him ever closer to the edge.
As he prepared himself for discharge, Vincent lifted his head from the gaping chasm that was Olga’s cleavage.
A reflection in the mirror behind her shimmered.
“What the fuck? Debbie!”
Quickly extricating himself from his assistant, Vincent spun round, hands cupped over his groin. Blood thundered in his temples, and his distended scrotum throbbed in frustration.
The figure in the doorway looked nothing like his middle-aged, overweight wife.
Olga pulled her skirt down, a small scream leaving her mouth, but stopped when the man trained his gun on her.
“H-hang on.” Vincent snatched his trousers up. He extracted his wallet from his back pocket and tossed it at the intruder’s feet. “W-we don’t want t-trouble.” His hands shook so much he had trouble zipping up his fly. “Just take the money. Please.”
The man waved the muzzle of the pistol at the open door. “Out.” No emotion in his tone. Only cool efficiency.
“C-can you wait…” Vincent’s fingers trembled as he continued to fumble with his trousers, his testicles about to burst from unreleased semen. The fact that he still had an erection made zipping up all the more difficult.
God, my nuts hurt.
The gunman jammed the pistol into Vincent’s crotch.
“I said move,” the man growled, every word dripping with malice, “now.”
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Yeah for JC!
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