J. Black - The Survivors Club

Praise for The Survivors Club

An utterly engrossing thriller. The Survivors Club grips us from the very start and simply doesnt let go. The novel seamlessly achieves that rarity in crime fiction: making our palms sweat while bringing the characters and their stories straight into our hearts. Bravo!

Jeffery Deaver, New York Times Bestselling author of The Kill Room

Welcome to The Survivors Club where cheating death just once may not be enough. J. Carson Blacks latest thriller takes you into a whirlpool of conspiracy, blackmail, and betrayal, where no one can be sure who is the hunter and who is the preya game of blood whose outcome may leave no survivors.

Michael Prescott, author of Cold Around the Heart

J. Carson Blacks The Survivors Club is a twisted, diabolical cat and mouse game that will keep you riveted.

CJ Lyons, New York Times Bestselling author of Hollow Bones

Black serves up a breezy thriller with a killer premise: What if people who cheated death once werent so lucky the second time around? By the time the plot snakes through twist after twist, youll be asking yourselfdo you feel lucky?

Brian Freeman, Bestselling Author of Spilled Blood

J. Carson Black delivers desert heat with her latest cool thriller, The Survivors Club. Detective Tess McCrae shows us again why shes the southwests top cop.

Alan Jacobson, National Bestselling Author of No Way Out

To my mother, Mary Falk, and my aunt, Evelyn Ridgway, with all my love. You two always did love a good conspiracy.

SEPTEMBER 2012

The Hilton Atlanta

Alec Sheppard rested his hands on his knees and took a few breaths before turning to walk clockwise around the hotels running track. The late September sun turned sultry, the golden light flaring off the windows of the convention center across the way. It had taken him a long time to come back from the accident, but hed been put together pretty well, and while he wasnt the runner he once was, he could still keep up a good clip. As he walked, he gazed out at the downtown Atlanta skyline. The sun was sinking, an orange ball in the sky. He looked down at the building below hima down-in-the-mouth bar.

His wife had left him. He didnt blame her. She couldnt understand his obsession with skydiving. Didnt understand why a few weeks after he fell into that swamp in Florida he was already thinking about it. She said he was like a kid, and not in a good way. How could they begin to think about having children when he was like a cocked gun, ready to explode in her face at any minute? Annette was not a risk taker. Hed known that when they got married a couple of years ago. What had seemed an interesting conversation piece when she was his girlfriend had turned into reality. He lived, ate, breathed, and slept risk. He was risky in his investments (that didnt turn out too well early on, but he was on the rebound and his presence here in Atlanta was proof of that), and according to Annette he had a risky lifestylehe was an adrenaline junkie.

Two weeks ago shed left, wrestling two suitcases to the front door, her face a cold mask. And then the mask crumpled and she cried in long, jagged sobs. He remembered then the reason hed married her, how much he had loved her, and reached out to steady her by the shoulders, to hold her, to comfort her, as he had done so many times before.

Shed slapped him across the face and said the last words she spoke to him face-to-face. You! she said. You, you And turned and walked out into the sunshine, toward her car and the moving van that would take everything away and leave his house and soul empty.

Yet here he was, the blood pumping through him, every sense alive, reveling in the moment. What a bastard. But he could run. Hed been pounding it out on the oval track running around the edge of the hotel, feeling free again and thinking about another jump. Not for a while yethe had to be in good shapebut he was thinking about it. He even knew where he wanted to go: SkyView Jump Center in Houston. He lived in Houston, so it was the obvious place to start back.

He felt a twinge in his hip. The hairline fracture of the pelvis wasnt back to a hundred percent, and he wouldnt be jumping for a while. But he would.

He couldnt wait to get back in the air.

As Alec walked through the reddening gloom, the sun torching the buildings one more time before going under, he was aware of someone coming at him. A jogger, the rhythmic sound of his running shoes hitting the groundone-two, one-two. Alec nodded to him as they were about to pass each other, and suddenly something slapped his chest.

Stunned, he watched as the guy kept jogging, one-two, one-two, one-two. Already just a figure in the gloom. Had the jogger assaulted him? Slapped him? Hit him? He looked down, half expecting to see blood from a bullet wound. Shock, he thought. Im too shocked to know Im hit. And yes, there was red there, on the center of his chest. But it wasnt blood.

It was a red sticker. The kind you might see on a broken-down cars back window to indicate it needed to be towed.

The only thing on it was a number.

Five.

He peeled the sticker off his T-shirt and looked in the direction of the hotel door. Aware that hed heard the door open and close while he was still feeling his chest for blood. Also aware that his heart was thumping much harder than it ever did before he jumped out of an airplane.

The sticky stuff on the back adhered to his knuckles, and it took him a minute to fold the thing up so it didnt stick to his fingers. Now what?

He started back along the track, feeling a slight chill now as the sun disappeared. Squinting in the gloom. He stopped by the door and peered at the roof. Nobody here now. The jogger was gone.

He left the rooftop and took the elevator down to his floor. Holding the sticker away from his body, his stomach roiling. He didnt know why, but he felt like a marked man.

CHAPTER 1

APRIL 2013

The Ghost Town of Credo, Arizona

Santa Cruz Sheriffs Detective Tess McCrae saw everything.

She saw everything and remembered everything.

Right now she was seeing a sixty-eight-year-old Caucasian male named George Hanley, shot to pieces. Thirty rounds from an AK-47. Brass everywhereshed come close to stepping on one of the casings, which had lodged into the spongy wood porch of the ruined cabin.

Careful not to touch anything, not with hands or feet or body or clothing.

George Hanley had that clumsy inanimate look corpses getcaved to the side like a grain sack that had fallen off a shelf, propped up against the blood-stained interior wall as if someone had pushed him there.

His bloodied DL had been thrown on his stomach like a playing card. The wallet theyd found nearby, tossed into a corner of the cabin.

He wore a flannel shirt, tan chinos, and running shoes.

Tess had to hunker down close and squint hard at the license, had to read it through the dark red stain, read it aloud to her partner.

She took photos of the corpse and the graffiti-covered Sheetrock wall. Although in truth, she didnt need to.

She saw the crime scene in every indelible detail, and she would remember it that way. Every bloody flap of skin, every jagged cratermany of them so close together they made one cavernous, many-chambered wound.

Blood soaked into the floor as if someone in a rage had stomped hard on a crateful of blackberry Popsicles.

His torso had been turned into a sieve. Thirty rounds from an AK-47 will do that. From his crotch to his throat, he was riddled with bullets. Hed been shot through each eye, and the duct tape affixed to his mouth.