No Fake by Erik Carter

No Fake

No Fake by Erik Carter (Dale Conley Action Thrillers Series Book 9)
English | 2020 | Mystery & Thriller | ePUB | 2.8 MB

Erik Carter is the author of two bestselling series of thrilling books. He can be found in Florida, either scratching on a notepad at the beach or pounding furiously on a keyboard, all in the effort of crafting exciting, can’t-put-down tales to take you on out-of-this-world adventures.

In Savannah, Georgia, Dale Conley matches wits with a woman who has deceived her way into the upper tier of high society—and whose ultimate goal is much more sinister than it initially seems.

The van sped faster and faster down the two-lane road, which left the motel and headed into a wooded area. It wasn’t a true highway but rather a de facto one, the sort of road that cuts right through the middle of nothingness, posted speed limit be damned.

Dale rolled to his stomach and got his other hand to the opposite side of the trailer, which was about forty inches across. He felt pretty silly, then, all stretched out like he was, eyes squinting with the air rushing over him, hair flapping behind his head. But he was stable now. He wasn’t going to fly off. That was a good thing.

But what the hell was his next move?

The question answered itself. Because the rear door of the van opened. And crouched in the opening, holding onto the ceiling of the van for balance, was the suited white guy. He looked at Dale through the eyeholes of his ski mask. Behind him was the injured, homeless-looking man, on his stomach, bloody shirt in full view. He was now completely motionless.

Yes, something very bad was going on here.

The masked man reached down for the coupler that secured the trailer to the van’s hitch.

Oh, shit.

Dale released one of his precious handholds at the side of the trailer, reached up, fighting the roaring wind, and grasped onto the trailer’s tongue. He pulled himself closer to the van.

The man’s fingers were wrapped around the latch, about to give it a solid pull.

Dale balled his hand, and swung it down, smashing the guy’s fingers into the latch. He screamed.

A small shift in position, getting a punch lined up. Dale pulled the fist back, ready to go for a body blow, when the man suddenly pulled his hand from the latch, put it on the ceiling of the van next to his other hand, and shot a kick right to Dale’s left clavicle.

The impact sent a jolt of pain through Dale’s whole upper body, and both of his hands lost their grip. He slid back on the polyethylene, clawing for something to hold onto once more.

And when he’d grabbed a couple tentative folds of the tarp, he looked up to see that the man had his hand on the latch again. There was a screeching of tires and a sharp curve in the empty road ahead. Just as the van took the curve, the suited man pulled the pin from the trailer.

The van continued around the curve, tires wailing.

But the trailer—and Dale—didn’t follow the curve. The trailer continued going straight.

Across the other lane of the road.

And into the woods.

As soon as the trailer left the road’s surface, there was a steep drop-off.

And Dale got a hold of the railing, clung on even tighter.

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