Killa City by Mark Dawson (John Milton Book 17)
English | 2020| Mystery/Thriller| ePUB | 3.3 MB
Mark Dawson was born in Lowestoft and grew up in Manchester and Chicago. He has worked as a lawyer and currently works in the London film industry. The John Milton series features a disgruntled special agent who aims to help people to make amends for the terrible things that he has done. Mark, as a child of the 80s, will freely admit that he watched a lot of The Equalizer in his youth. Mark lives in Wiltshire with his family.
A storm is brewing in the heartlands of America and John Milton senses something in the air…
John Milton has a nose for trouble. He can smell it a mile away. And when he witnesses a suspicious altercation between a young man and two thugs in a car auction parking lot, he can’t resist getting involved.
Milton came to Kansas City hoping to find a way out of danger. His recent vendetta against a cartel hitman who killed his friend has made him enemies in high places. Now he needs to find the only man who can get him out of this mess. But, like a moth to a flame, Milton is drawn to anyone who needs his help. And this time, he’s also drawing the attention of money laundering criminals who really mean business.
Driven by a desire to atone for the darkness in his past, Milton is a man on a mission. But, in a city of undercover crime and corruption, what does that mean for his future? With danger all around him, will Milton’s burning conscience finally be the death of him?
The snow started to fall somewhere between Denver and Lincoln. John Milton had decided that he would take advantage of the empty seat next to him to stretch out and get some sleep. The sky had been dark and foreboding as they rolled through Colorado, but now, as he awoke to the never-ending fields of Kansas, fat flakes were piling down from the clouds. The light was almost all gone, and he had to check that it was mid-morning, as he had expected. The bus’s wipers squeaked as they swept back and forth, clearing the windshield so that the driver could peer ahead as far as the high beams would allow.
The Greyhound from Oakland had taken two days to reach Kansas City. Milton could have taken a plane, but had decided against it for two reasons: first, he wanted to limit the number of times that he had to present himself for official inspection. He had reason to suspect that London was looking for him again, and, with that in mind, he preferred the anonymity of the road. Second, going cross-country was a far better way to enjoy America than to look down at it from the air. These so-called flyover states—Utah, Colorado, Missouri—were the heartland of America, and Milton wanted to enjoy them properly.
There were just a handful of other passengers on the bus now. Milton had watched them all get on, and, from force of habit, had remembered their stations of origin and details that he would be able to recall later: the army veteran with the Vietnam patches on his denim jacket who had boarded at Avenal; the single mother and her teenage son who had joined at Salt Lake City and had bickered ever since; the old man on the other side of the aisle from him who had embarked at Cheyenne, Wyoming, ate a single square of Hershey chocolate every half hour, and drank from a dinged-up Thermos.