BREAK MY BONES

A secret never to be shared. A killer seeking vengeance. Is his nightmarish fiction about to become a bloody reality?

Michael Kerrigan is delighted with his success. With his well-received suspense novels putting him on the map, the popular author trades his dark past for meet and greets with adoring fans. But his borrowed peace shatters when a friend he thought he’d buried dead in the ground long ago shows up very much alive… and hellbent on wreaking murderous havoc.

Trapped in a deadly game of cat and mouse, Michael works furiously to uncover the shocking truth while dodging his assailant’s ruthless attacks. And with his sanity splintering as he processes years of suppressed guilt, sacrificing himself may be the only way to protect his loved ones from a crazed enemy’s relentless carnage.

Can Michael undo the sins of yesteryear before he’s the one thrown into a grave?

Break My Bones is a sinister standalone suspense. If you like conflicted heroes, violent plots, and action-packed chases, then you’ll love Michelle Ian’s eerie thriller.

Buy Break My Bones to put an end to a harrowing chapter today!

I Have Published Both an Ebook and a Paperback Copy of Break My Bones...

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The Not-So-Strange Stranger

The Author

The Summer of ‘81’

The Corner Book Stop

The Audience

The Ride

The Gentle Stroke

The Need to Dig

The Great Paul Kerrigan and KT

The Reunion Part I

The Aftermath

The John Doe

The Bigger Fish

The Circus

The Blood Line

The Old Ghost

The Reunion Part II

The Publicist: Little Miss Pistol Whip

The Unexpected Lead

The Latex Man

The Sins of The Father

The Revenge

The Trap

The Burial

The Message

The Wolf

The Last Testament

Prologue

The Black Corridor

The young man came to consciousness in total darkness. He lay exposed as

he struggled to lift his head off the dampened and cold cement. At first, it seemed

as if he were lost in a dream. The black corridor that stretched out before him

appeared to have no end, as it called him, deeper into the abyss. The gentle hum of

a small generator filled his ears while it worked itself into the surrounding space.

His brain instructed his arms and legs to move, but an invisible weight held them

in place, making it impossible for him to command them.

Please, God, don’t let anything be broken. He lowered his eyes and assessed each

limb, feeling the pulsing ache spread itself deep into his body. A sharp tendril of

awareness blossomed, unfolding straight into the center of his mind. And it was

then that he decided that if he were going to make a move, he would need to do it

fast. The person who had put him here would soon come back for him. It was just a

matter of time. His body stuck to the ground beneath him, as if he were anchored

to it. Yet that hallucination, unlike the many he’d been having since he awoke, had

been easy to dismiss. The reality was his arms were pulled tight against his back,

tied in a way that caused the blood flow in his hands to compress and the

numbness to seep in. Hands… the image suddenly crept into his mind as he saw a

hand reaching out for him, caressing him. The touch had started on the side of his

face and then moved across to his lips.

The fingers had been rough but gentle, making their way to his chest and

stroking the base of his neck. His hips and legs, however, pulsed with a dull ache,

as if someone had been sitting on them, pressing against them with their knees and

fists with the intent on holding him down. If he could just get his arms to the front

of his body, he could untie himself. I could do it, he thought, through the haze of his

own conviction. With the dimensions of his body already measured, he figured he

was both limber and fit enough to maneuver his torso in just the right way for it to

work. He stretched his shoulders and then his calves to loosen them up while he

went over the plan once again in his head.

The pain shifted, spiraling out from the center of his back, its grip reaching

well past his hips and straight through into his backside. He slowly twisted his neck

from left to right, flinching from the red-hot cord that stretched across his voice

box. His first instinct was to raise a hand and soothe his raw and aching throat, but

for now, he would just have to ignore it. He told himself that this was the worst of

it, that it wasn’t as bad as it seemed. I just have to wake myself up… please, God, just let

me wake up! He squeezed his eyes shut and counted to ten. When he reopened

them, it was to the same steely, dank blackness as before, beckoning him to come

closer.

How did I get here? He searched his mind, triggering his memory flip switch,

as he forced each moment to go back in reverse. After testing the alarm, he locked

the doors and made his way over to the parking lot. He’d been alone, always

making it a point to send his employees home first before himself. He unlocked his

car, got in, and locked it once more. He put the key into the ignition and then, and

then what? He couldn’t remember. Afraid to wait any longer, he lifted his head and

arched his shoulders back to draw his knees up to his chest. But just as he gathered

the momentum he needed to slide his arms out from under his feet, he was blind-

sided with an explosive round of excruciating pain. Within an instant, a swarm of

razor blade like pinchers worked their way across his wrists and feet, ripping at his

flesh. He bit down hard on the leather strap fastened between his teeth and

instantly froze. To his surprise, the pain mysteriously lessened. It was then that he

realized his restraints were alive only in his disoriented mind. He prodded at the

bindings around his wrists with the tips of his fingers, automatically jerking them

away at the feel of the first bite.

The barbed wire lay attached to something secured alongside his back. It lay

coiled around and across his extremities. Its jagged and penetrating teeth now

wedged inside him from the struggle, permanently embedded in the soft areas of

his flesh. The other miniature cuts created by the friction of his movements

continued to ooze as his wrists and feet stayed tightly cuffed around its pointed

edges. He kept his body still, as he tried not to dwell on why this was happening to

him. After all, he had always been a good person. And he certainly wasn’t the type

who did reckless or irrational things. In fact, he had always considered himself to

be really quite ordinary, nothing special at all. He stopped, picking up the last

thought and then turning it over. That is why this is happening to me, because I won’t be

missed… because I am… nothing special. His eyes filled with tears, stinging him with a

salty realization as he surrendered himself to this newfound awareness.

As his body lay motionless, he noticed a thin, powdery like substance coating

his skin. The film had created a sparse, sticky paste from the mix of his own sweat

and blood. Have to get it off me, he thought, willing himself not to panic. Can’t let it get

to the bone. He fought against the urge to pass out and drew his hands closer

together. The air weighed heavy, each moment a desperate reminder of how

suffocating this world had become.

“Just look at you.” The cruel voice from within him rejoiced as it wove itself

deep inside his mind like a freshly spun web. “When life strikes the first match,

you’d just let yourself burn.”

I don’t want to die. His heart beat like a drum inside his chest, while he fought

to keep his head above water. Tempted to give into the shadows, he imagined the

moment his body finally broke, when something in his mind unraveled. Breathe. He

cast the voice away and opened his mouth, filling his lungs with pure oxygen. He

searched again for even the slightest pinpoint of light. A burnt and minty

undertone of a recently extinguished candle filtered through the air. The fog in his

head abated, but along with his hands and feet, his eyes were useless as tiny shards

of glass slashed at his vision. God, please help me. Clawing through the most visceral

parts of his mind, he grasped onto anything that could help him escape. He found

himself in his car once again, twisting the key in the ignition. He searched the

empty parking lot and froze. Not empty, not alone. The reality of what came next

seized his chest so tight it took his breath away while the images of that night burst

in a series of twisted frames. He gazed upon the face, the malice in its eyes spread

across his consciousness like gasoline ignited by a single spark. He stifled a moan,

knowing that it was not only useless but dangerous as he heard the approaching

footsteps coming from below him. A distant hallucination in his drug-induced

mind that closed in from every direction. But this was not a dream… this was real.

As he looked up at the face that stood hovering above his own, he saw it had

no emotion, only hunger. It stared down at him, grinning at him… grinning at his

terror. Still, if he would die was no longer an uncertainty. To him, it was as certain

as the barbed wire used to incapacitate him. He understood that there was nothing

he could do to save himself, and so he would defy him… to deny the beast until, at

last, the end came. Don’t look at him. He turned away from the figure that knelt

down next to him, whispering softly into his ear. Don’t let him in…

July 23, 2007

White Castle Plaza

Richmond, Virginia

5:53 pm

The Not-So-Strange Stranger

The sun descended over the neighborhood park where both he and the

author had taken their place. The landscape of the area offered a swath of

aesthetically placed benches and berry covered trees. He’d been watching the

author for a long time. However, he awaited this night for far longer. The author,

with time to kill, strolled leisurely through the gates and down past the walkway to

a bench approximately ten yards ahead. He stayed hidden by a couple of bronzed

copper statues and strategically planted bushes, reflecting on that night long ago.

He set his sights on the events about to unfold, as he remembered only pieces of it,

waking up in the ground and realizing in that instant his friend had betrayed him,

leaving him to die alone. How poetic a place to begin again, to set the stage, wager

all bets and let the players, play. The location was good, too good, as he claimed the

perfect spot deep within the shadows. He retrieved the earpiece from his overnight

bag, fastening it in place while he pinpointed the range and distance. The intensity

of the day had long since settled in. Faint bursts of background noise along with

the crisp pops of crackling static filtered through his earpiece.

A hunger kneaded inside his gut, but he pushed the feeling aside. Now was

not the time. He focused on the more enjoyable things yet to come while he

readjusted his baseball cap over the transceiver wires. Reaching into his bag, he

removed the two-inch wide, black, leather strap he kept tucked away at the bottom.

Slowly, he wove it in and out of his fingers as he studied the author’s face. He also

pictured his playroom, surrounded by open space, unfinished walls and abandoned

buildings. And how it was all just a stone’s throw away, from about a mile of

protected woods.

From a stalker’s point of view, it checked off all the right boxes. Though

predominantly ‘run of the mill’, he gathered all the proper tools found on the most

basic predator’s checklist. The surgical instruments he’d taken from the hospital sat

polished at the center of his workbench, while the other more rudimentary pieces

of his collection lay stacked by his feet. On the floor beside the wooden tabletop, a

small, fully charged generator fueling an even smaller refrigerator that kept bottles

of water and rows of fully loaded, 20cc syringes. This drug set aside for his soon to

be special guests. Yet, unlike his other acquirements, this was not so easy to make

disappear. Still, he persevered, for revenge and patience often went hand in hand.

He checked the file that remained dormant inside his phone. And though he had

done so many times before, watching the video still caused an instant surge of

unleaded adrenaline to wreak havoc upon his system.

Focus… you’re stronger now.

With an eager breath, he allowed himself a simple yet salacious fantasy to set

the mood. His friend rose from the bench and stretched his back as the cell phone

in his right-side pocket sang. The tone broke him from his trance and he jerked

back upright, sending the strap falling into his lap. At last, the sign he had been

waiting for. He attached the video file and then selected the number with a few

quick taps. There was no turning back now. He surveyed the author’s right hand,

maneuvering the touch screen and monitoring full view, the message’s send box.

Though unable to hear both sides of the conversation, he had little doubt to who it

was. The replacement mutt–a title more than fitting–had never failed to check in

before a show and tonight proved no different. A moist grin spread across his lips.

The companion would be the last to go. Hell, maybe he would do them both side

by side, but for now, he would use him for the leverage he needed. But when the

deal was done, and the end had come, he would break him wide open and drop

them both kicking into the ground.

Showtime... He released the text, and in an instant, an icy, hot surge coursed

throughout his veins as he lifted his finger off the touch screen. Although the air

was cool, his hands were now covered with a damp and slippery sweat. The phone

slid from beneath his quivering palm as he fumbled to maintain his grip. The

author continued his banter, pacing up and down the path, showing no sign at all

of receiving the text. Meanwhile, the pressure inside him grew, his stomach did

flip-flops and his chest made fit to constrict. Every second that passed a steel toed,

tapping Hell. His jaw ached, its tendons like steel rods pushed to their maximum

tension. Suddenly, he noticed something cool and wet on his lower lip. He ran his

tongue over the bottom of his mouth and hit the sharp indentation of the bite.

With a conscious effort, he released the lock within his jaw, tasting the saltiness of

his own blood upon his now tender and punctured lip.

No matter, he peered down at his cell phone; his eyes blazed with a feverish

stare. A scoff escaped his lips. The sound itself bordered between a hysterical sob

and a deranged bewilderment. The transfer of the file remained highlighted inside

the sent box. So, what the fuck was he waiting for? He bore down on the device,

ignoring the bend in the plastic as he curled his entire hand over the cellphone’s

frame. They were both about ready to snap when he finally heard the words he had

been waiting for.

“Got to go, bud. Pretty sure that Clara just shot me a text, and you know

her, probably ready to reach right through the phone and strangle me by now. I

should make my way over to the bookstore, but I’ll check back in with you later,

alright?” His breath held captive in his throat. His pupils pointed like daggers, at

the same moment a symphony of cannons boomed from inside his head. His

friend watched the video in still silence, viewing the last few moments with one

hand pressed over his mouth. He grinned like the Joker just took down Gotham

city while the author sobbed.

Gotcha…

His hand slipped between his legs, his fingers working furiously to readjust

himself against the mounting pressure that built below his midsection. His mind

got in on the action, the act, shooting like a bullet to the pleasure centers of his

brain. An intense and visceral pleasure then released itself into his groin, followed

by a fierce and rushing force. His core involuntarily convulsed as a warm flow of

liquid heat released into the front of his shorts. A minute later, he changed into a

fresh pair of pants from his overnight bag, dressing quickly in a shaded area of the

park. He zippered his fly, recalling what his father had once told him.

Always be ready with a Plan B, kid. You never want to be caught off guard with just your

dick in your hands. He offered his father a silent regard before hurrying to catch up

with the author. At first, he stuck to the adjacent street behind him, waiting to be

far enough ahead to pass him on the right.

Quick like a bunny, his lips curled in a morose sort of grin, while he increased

his speed, keeping his pace steady until turning into The Corner Book Stop.

Having already scoped out the store in advance, he knew exactly where to go,

bypassing the upstairs and heading straight down into the lower stacks to stake his

position. He set his watch and eyed the makeshift podium. Twenty-two minutes till

go time. He then removed a copy of the author’s latest book from inside his bag,

studying the outside cover with his hands. Satisfied, he glanced at the crowd filling

up inside the room, anxious in their own anticipation.

“Congratulations on the new book, killer.” He flashed a full set of teeth,

making no move to conceal the fact that he stood talking to himself in the center

of the room. It’s been far too long.

There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed. (Ernest Hemingway) And bleed we do... We bleed equal parts of both sanity and soul. Writing is indeed iron fisted, (Harper Lee) sitting down and doing it whether or not we have it in us. It is heartbreaking most of the time. Sleepless nights, dark rooms, imposter syndrome, wondering if we are ready... Every day we struggle to keep those voices that rage inside us at bay. We live our lives and the lives of our characters together as one. To us, our protagonists and antagonists and even our secondary characters are more than just make believe. They’re real... made of our flesh and blood. Their souls are our own. To come back from the so-called land of make believe is never easy. If I had to describe the feeling, I would simply state this. Writing pushes us to the precipice, drains our vital essence, and fractures crucial parts of our soul with each harrowing tale. We hear our character’s voices and see their faces as if they are in the same room with us. We celebrate their triumphs and mourn their injustices and tragedies because they are our own. The fears and doubts we carry are endless and plague our waking hours and dreams. We are heroes. We are monsters. We feel mighty feels. (Joe Hill) We can never defeat our demons. Instead, we must master how we play with them. Have patience and kindness for the writers of the world. For we are literally doing our best. Writing is hard...