Calhoun: Sacrifice: Dark God Trilogy, #1

By Joe Mansour

What would you do to save the life of your child?

Anything, everything. 
But what if the price was the life of another? 

James Calhoun, soldier until an I.E.D. ripped his life apart. 
Now divorced and living on benefits in a one room apartment after a downward spiral of anger and bitterness, his one solace is the weekly visit with his daughter. 
The cult of the Dark God demand a sacrifice and she has been chosen. 
James can save her but is the cost more than he can live with? 

"If you like Lee Child, Simon Kernick you'll enjoy this." H Phillips 

A hard-nosed thriller that moves at a break-neck pace.

Grab your copy today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joe Mansour
• Release date: Mar 14, 2016
• ISBN: 9781519974457

Joe Mansour

Joe Mansour writes fast paced action thrillers that have been described as "intense" and "a crazy roller-coaster of a read!". Taut with strong, believable characters that consistently delivers without the padding some authors use to paper over weak or implausible plots.  Reviews are always appreciated but writing a review takes time, so, as a thank you, please email [e-mail] and I will send you a free short story.  Follow on twitter: @JEMansour Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/joewriting

Book preview

1

Robert Hanlon screamed first in fear then in pain as he was thrown out the second floor window, the glass cutting his flesh and shredding his clothes as he was defenestrated. He somersaulted through the air, his arms windmilling, legs flailing, in a vain attempt to prevent the inevitable contact with the ground, a meaty thunk, air smashed from his lungs leaving him gasping on the pavement.

Laying on the rough concrete slabs he shuddered, a whimpered moan becoming a scream as he regained his breath, fading out to a coughing splutter.

He had to get up, get out of there, not just for his sake but to warn Rhonda, tell her he had failed, that she had to take Betty and run.

He had to get up.

It hurt so much though, if he could just lie there for a moment until the pain lessened a little then he would try, maybe a passer-by could help him.

Unless they came down first to check the fall had done its job.

The fear motivated him, he rolled over onto his front and reached up to grab the spiked cast iron railings that surrounded the building he had been ejected from. He grasped them, old paint flaking off as he used the bars to pull up, tried to get his legs under him in order to stand. His right obeyed but his left refused to take his weight, it twisted and he felt the bones shift in it. He screamed again as he gripped onto the bars, his eyes closed, his face contorted in agony. Consciousness fading, he began to slump back down, it was too much, he couldn't take any more. Tears leaked, mingling with blood dripping from a gash on his forehead, he moaned as he thought of Rhonda, of his promise to her that he would sort it, that he would make it right. He thought of little Betty, of what this would mean.

He had failed them both. In the end when it had mattered he had failed them.

No.

He opened his eyes, tried to focus and get a handle on the pain. Hanlon hooked his left arm round the bars, felt for the phone in his jean's back pocket with his right hand, pulled its shattered carcass out and tossed it away in frustration.

He needed to get away from there, get to the car parked down the street, a couple of hundred feet away, not much further than that. It had been difficult to find a spot even at this late hour, he had fumed at the lack of spaces, forced to drive up and down the road until one freed up, conscious of the time, bad enough that they weren’t going to like what he had to say without being late as well. But he hadn't expected them to throw him out of a second storey window to be broken on the pavement, gripping onto railings that he had almost been impaled upon.

Stifling a scream, he pulled up on the bars putting his weight on his right leg, letting the left trail behind as he took a tentative shuffle hop of a step. Teeth gritted he kept an image of Rhonda and Betty in his mind, he had to do it for them, had to warn them to run.

He could do this, he just had to make it to the car, focus on the car, on Rhonda, on getting back to them. He breathed in and took another step.

Just had to get to the car.

A hand pressed onto his shoulder, a head leant in and whispered in his ear.

I thought the fall would have killed you Bobby, I owe my brother a tenner.

Fear washed over him, adrenaline spiking, he tried to shake the grip of his tormentor, concentrated on getting to the car.

Where you going Bobby?

An amused tone, the man stepped back to watch Hanlon slowly moving along the pavement leaving a trail of blood to mark his path.

That's far enough now. He said as he drew a knife from inside a tailored jacket. You've served your purpose, time to die.

Hearing the words Hanlon stopped, he gripped on to the railings, closed his eyes, felt warm liquid stream down his leg as fear loosened his bladder.

I won't talk Mr Dawtry, I promise I won't.

He gasped as the knife stabbed into his lower back cutting deep and twisted as it was pulled out, he let go of the railings and collapsed to the ground.

Mark Dawtry bent to wipe the blade on Hanlon's shirt before returning it to the sheath on his belt. He turned as he heard footsteps and said Give me a hand getting him back into the house.

Why did you throw him out of the window?

We were going to kill him weren’t we?

Yes.

Seemed as good a way as any.

His brother laughed.

I guess it is. He said, bending to grab a leg.

2

The phone blared, a jarring discordant tone that Calhoun now regretted selecting but was unable to change. He reached an arm out from under the duvet scrabbling for it on the bedside table, grabbed it and squinted at the screen, cursing as the time registered, four eleven, swore again as he read the name of the caller, hesitated, his finger hovering over the reject button then answered it.

Not allowing them to speak first he said. Rhonda, is Betty OK?

James, it's Bobby, he's ...

He spoke over her asking again. Is Betty OK?

Yes, she's fine, it's not ...

It's four am Rhonda. She sounded distressed, verging on the hysterical but if it wasn't about his daughter then he wasn't interested.

I know, it's Bobby.

The man you left me for? The man my daughter now calls Dad?

James, this isn't the time, it's Bobby. Her voice broke. He's dead.

He scowled. Well I'm sure that's bad news for you, but it could have waited till the morning.

You heartless bastard.

Goodnight Rhonda. He took the phone from his ear to key it off.

Her voice still audible, tinny from the speaker, shouting. James, wait! It is to do with Betty.

He sighed and put it back. Yes, she will probably take it hard, but I'm her father, she knows she still has me. Perhaps she could come and stay for a while?

Her tone became neutral, devoid of emotion. You know the court judgement, no unsupervised visits.

I am in therapy Rhonda, they have been very positive about my progress. I'm better at controlling my anger now.

This might be the time when we need that rage.

What do you mean? He sat up letting the duvet fall away.

Some men, they, well they, look this is hard to explain, can you come round?

At four in the morning?

It's not as if you have to get up for work.

Thanks Rhonda, always with the dig.

I'm sorry James. Look, please will you come round? This is important. You don't know what's been happening. I know you didn't care for Bobby but he was a decent man.

That fucked my wife behind my back and stole my kid from me.

You're as much to blame for that, for all of it. You know what you were like. I couldn't handle it. I had to speak to someone. To help me get through it.

Speak! Is that what we calling it now are we?

James, please.

He said nothing, shuffled back to lean against the padded headboard and dropped the phone to his lap. The last two years had been hard, for all of them, but he finally felt that he was getting past it, getting over her, reconciled that they would never be a family again. He would have forgiven the affair, he knew what he had been like, what he had done to her and Betty. Not physical abuse, he had always been able to control it, keep the anger bottled up around them. But it had spilled out as cruel words, spiteful actions, sullen and irrational behaviour. When it got too much he had disappeared, for days sometimes, turning back up with no explanation, a fresh set of bruises and money gone from the savings account. He had relied on her weakness; her unwillingness to leave him when he needed her most. He knew that and used it against her, to push and goad her, start a fight so that he could vent his rage. His sessions had made him realise that the infidelity was incidental, a result of their marriage's collapse not a cause. Bobby had been good for Rhonda, and, even though he was loathe to admit it, he was good for Betty as well. He thought that was the worst thing, that he liked Hanlon, would have gone out for a drink with him in another life, chatted about football and complained about work. The usual non talk that gave you an excuse to have a pint and a few laughs, jokes about getting back to the old ball and chain. Except for him another pint always followed the last, then shorts and long brooding silences that became harsh words ending in violence.

James? Her voice muted by the duvet.

He picked up the phone and stared at her caller id displayed on the screen. He had used a photo from their honeymoon, a Greek Taverna, sunset; it lighting her from behind making the white dress she had been wearing translucent. She had been embarrassed when he showed her it, asked him why he hadn't told her, warned her. He said that she was beautiful and they drank there until dark then walked in zigzags back to the hotel. That night they made Betty, or that's what he told himself. She would slap his arm when he mentioned it, ask him if he had deleted the photo. 'Of course' he would say.

James?

OK Rhonda, I will come over.

Thanks James, see you soon. She disconnected, he dropped the phone onto the bed and rubbed at his face debating whether to go or not. He sighed, pushed the duvet off and reached up for the grab rail, pulled up and swung round to drop into the chair set beside the bed and leant down for his legs.

He had been lucky, the surgeon said, smiling as she checked his sutures, the wounds had healed well and he would be walking again in no time. He hadn't felt lucky, and the eleven months of physical therapy hadn't felt like no time. He pushed his stumps into the plastic sockets wincing as the movement caused the shrapnel in his chest to shift. He rubbed at the scars there with the big toe that had replaced his left thumb. Another fortunate event the surgeon had noted, his feet were intact thanks to his steel capped boots, just a shame his shins had been shredded to confetti by the blast. They had used his toes to replace the thumb and first two fingers on his left hand. He thought that was the worst, the strangest, having toes where his fingers used to be. Betty had screamed the first time she saw him, she still didn't like him to touch her with them. He had a prosthetic that made up the rest of the hand to make it look more 'normal', but it was cheap looking, obvious and he generally left it off.

He put on tracksuit bottoms, leaving them mid thigh then completed the action as he stood pulling them up to his waist. He swayed, getting his balance as the ankles articulated, pitching you forwards as if you were always about to fall. He picked a hooded top from the back of the chair and zipped it up over the T-shirt he had been sleeping in. He grabbed his phone from the bed and walked over to the kitchen area of his bedsit for the car keys.

He lived on the ground floor of his block of flats, his car parked out front. Stairs were navigable but still came with jeopardy, something he would avoid if he could. He gripped the back of one of the four chairs around a battered pine kitchen table debating whether to just go back to bed, get a couple of hours and see her in the morning. He looked back at it, cheapest one his landlord could have found if the mattress was anything to go by. It was pushed into the corner of the room to allow a two seater sofa to be squeezed in front of the TV he had balanced on a bookshelf. His phone pinged and he read the message 'Please James', sighed and walked over to the front door. He undid the chain and left the flat making sure to pull the door firmly shut to engage the lock. The advantage of being on street level also the disadvantage of being the easiest place to rob. Not that he had anything in there, the cheap TV being the most valuable of his meagre possessions. He blipped the key fob as he walked down the path, his car flashing in reply, Calhoun opened the driver's door and slid in, lifting his legs up over the sill and round into the footwell. He could drive a normal car if he had to, but it felt tenuous, fraught with danger, no feedback from his feet meant he was never sure if he was pressing the brake or not. He preferred the hand controls in his modified vehicle. The PT had shaken their head, urged him to try and adapt more. But he felt he had done enough to conform to the world. Let it come and meet him part way.

Twenty five minutes to Rhonda's, no traffic this early in the morning meant he could have done it in fifteen if there wasn't a camera on every light. With the key in the ignition he sat with his eyes closed, trying to be calm, knowing this was a mistake, that it would lead to an argument, shouting, perhaps even loss of his visitation rights. Was that the reason? A trick to make him go off the rails? Was Bobby dead? Would he turn up there to find them both laughing?

Would she do that to him?

His phone beeped, the same message as before, he sighed again, started the car and set off.

3

The sun was rising, the birds beginning to stir, by the time Calhoun pulled up outside Rhonda's place, his house before she kicked him out and moved Bobby in. A three bedroom semi-detached in a decent part of town, they had used his redundancy for the deposit and the short time he had worked as a contractor had paid a good chunk off the mortgage. He had forfeited his claim to it in lieu of maintenance for their daughter, the judge's cynical agreement that he was unlikely ever to earn enough to support anyone other than himself. He