“Wallace Stroby’s ‘Nightbound,’ puts his series heroine Crissa Stone through an action-packed woodchopper when her robbery of a Dominican gang money drop goes south. Crime fiction fans will find plenty to like.”
From Publishers Weekly.
Here’s a taste of Wallace’s story:
NIGHTBOUND by Wallace Stroby
“Leave him,” Crissa said. “He’s dead.”
Adler was face down in the alley, not moving, Martinez kneeling beside him. She could see the entry wound in Adler’s back, the blood soaking through his field jacket. From the location of the wound, and the speed he was bleeding out, she knew he was gone already, or would be soon.
They had to keep moving. Back at the stash house, the Dominicans would be recovering from the flashbang she’d thrown on her way out the rear door. The three of them had been halfway down the alley when one of the Dominicans had stumbled out of the vacant brownstone, firing blindly. She’d snapped a shot at him with her Glock, chased him back inside. But Adler had caught a round, gone down hard.
Now Martinez looked up at her, panic in his eyes, all that was visible through the ski mask. She shifted the strap of the gear bag, heavy with money, to her left shoulder, grabbed him by the coat sleeve, pulled him up. “Move!”
Forty feet away was the mouth of the alley, the street beyond. To their left, more empty houses. To the right, a high chain-link fence that bordered a vacant lot. The only way out was ahead.
More shots behind them. She spun, saw two men run out into the alley, guns in their hands. She fired twice without aiming. One round ricocheted off blacktop, the other punched through a plywood-covered window. The men ducked back inside.
She fired another shot to keep them there, shoved Martinez forward. The street ahead was still empty. Where was Lopez? The Dominicans would be going out the front door as well, would try to circle around, block the alley. If they beat Lopez there, she and Martinez would be trapped.
Broken glass and crack vials crunched beneath her feet. She could hear Martinez panting behind her.
A screech of brakes, and the Buick pulled up at the end of the alley, Lopez at the wheel, the rear drivers-side door already open.
She tossed the gear bag into the back seat, threw herself in after it. A shot sounded. Martinez grunted and fell against her.
“Get in!” Lopez said.
She gripped Martinez’s field jacket, pulled him to her, and they fell back onto the bag. His legs were still hanging out of the car when Lopez hit the gas. As the Buick lurched forward, she heard rounds strike the left rear fender. She pulled Martinez all the way in just as the Buick made a hard right turn. The momentum swung the door shut.
Martinez moaned. She rolled him off her onto the floor, sat up. They were in a residential area, dark houses on both sides of the street. The transfer car was still a couple of miles away.
“What happened back there?” Lopez said.
She pulled off her ski mask, had to catch her breath before she could speak. “Too many of them. Seven, maybe. At least. More than we thought.”
Through the rear window, she saw headlights way back there, coming fast. No other cars around.
“They’re on us,” she said.
“Shit.” Lopez gunned the engine. The Buick swung a left, then another right onto a main thoroughfare, sped by darkened storefronts.
She pushed the mask into a jacket pocket. If she had to do a runner from the car, she didn’t want to leave it behind. There would be hair in the material, DNA. Evidence if the cops found it.
Martinez moaned again. She lay a gloved hand atop his. “Steady. You’re going to be all right.”
They’d scouted this area of East New York for weeks, timed the route, and she knew the chances of running into a squad car were slim. It was midnight shift change, the same reason the Dominicans chose that time for their weekly money pickup. Lopez was an ex-cop, knew the area, the players. Martinez was his brother-in-law. The two of them had found the stash house, gathered the intel, then reached out to her through a middleman. She was the one who’d brought in Adler.
Two blocks ahead was the business district, an intersection controlled at this hour by only a blinking yellow light. She looked back at the street behind. A pair of bright headlights swung out onto it, moving fast.
“They’re coming,” she said.
Martinez made a slow sign of the cross. His breath was ragged now, wheezing. Collapsed lung, she thought.
Lopez took the left at the yellow light, cut it too close, the drivers’ side tires bumping hard over the curb. A red light began to blink on the dash, in time with a soft beep.
“Fuck,” he said.
“What?”
“They must have hit the tank. We’re losing gas.”
Behind them, a dark SUV made the turn, staying on their tail. High-beams flashed on, lit the inside of the car. The Buick began to sputter and slow. The next turn was still a block ahead.
“Get down!” Lopez said.
The SUV swept into the left lane, came abreast of them. The front passenger side window slid down, and a shotgun barrel came through…
NIGHTBOUND by Wallace Stroby is one of 17 stellar stories in At Home in the Dark. NB: Ebook and paperback editions are on sale now for immediate delivery. DON’T try to order the hardcover, as it’s sold out at the publisher, and while Amazon is still taking orders they’ll be unable to deliver.
