Decreed - an action thriller: The Shadowboxer Files

By Chris Lowry

He woke up in a hospital with one memory.

 

They thought he was dead.

 

So the Shadowboxer did what he did best.

 

Disappeared into the underworld as a gun for hire.

 

Until one job.

 

Kill a woman and her child.

 

When he decides to save them instead of completing the mission, it puts him on the radar again.

 

Now everybody wants all three of them gone forever and it's gonna take every skill he has to keep them safe.

 

And escape.

 

Fans of action packed page turners are going to enjoy this installment in the Shadowboxer files.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chris Lowry
• Release date: Mar 9, 2018
• ISBN: 9798215420010

Chris Lowry

Chris Lowry is an author and adventure seeker who has traveled the globe exploring new worlds and writing about his thrilling experiences. With over one hundred thrillers, science fiction, and urban fantasy novels to his name, as well as more than a thousand articles published across various publications, Chris has established himself as a master storyteller and a leading voice in the world of action and adventure. Whether he's fighting off hordes of undead in a post-apocalyptic wasteland or braving the depths of outer space, Chris is always ready for his next thrilling adventure. Follow his journey as he battles against impossible odds and becomes the hero that the world needs.

Book preview

Chris Lowry

Decreed - an action thriller

Copyright © 2023 by Chris Lowry

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

First edition

This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

Find out more at reedsy.com

Contents

DECREED

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY ONE

CHAPTER FORTY TWO

CHAPTER FORTY THREE

CHAPTER FORTY FOUR

CHAPTER FORTY FIVE

CHAPTER FORTY SIX

CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN

CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT

CHAPTER FORTY NINE

CHAPTER FIFTY

CHAPTER FIFTY ONE

CHAPTER FIFTY TWO

CHAPTER FIFTY THREE

CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR

CHAPTER FIFTY FIVE

CHAPTER FIFTY SIX

CHAPTER FIFTY SEVEN

DECREED

He couldn’t remember how he got there. He woke up in a hospital, tubes connected to every part of him. He could hear the steady beep beep beep his heart made on the monitor. He kept his eyes closed and listened for sound.

The EKG told him he was in a hospital, so he sought out voices. English. People were speaking English in the hall outside of his door. America.

His chest hurt, and he remembered being shot.

A nurse bustled in and grabbed his chart.

We’ve been waiting for you to wake up, she said as she scribbled on the clipboard.

He cracked open an eye and winced at the light through the window. He was in a double room, but the other bed was empty. He was right, tubes were everywhere, even his throat.

He fought back a gag reflex.

Let me get that, she said and helped remove it.

He coughed, and she held up a small glass of water with a straw.

Your throat is going to hurt for a while, she said. You’ve been intubated for about two weeks.

He tried to move his legs and arms, test the muscles. His left wrist was handcuffed to the bed.

The nurse heard it jingle.

Yeah, the police want to talk to you. They have to with every gunshot victim we get. Do you remember what happened to you?

He shook his head.

But he did.

Veronika. Ron. Pulled a con to get him back to America and pulled a trigger in the desert outside of San Diego.

He liked her too, which made the con even easier. Now he would have to find her and repay the favor.

I have to call San Diego PD. You just rest. They should be here in a couple of hours.

She pushed the call button into his right hand.

Call if you need anything. The doctor will stop by on his rounds and when he clears you, we can get you some food.

His stomach rumbled as if it heard her. She smiled and patted his arm. He pointed at the water and motioned to his mouth.

She leaned in, so he could sip down a whole cup again.

While she was distracted, he lifted a pen from her pocket and nodded as she left.

He couldn’t hang around for cops. He wasn’t wanted in the U.S., but they would ask a lot of questions.

He didn’t want to answer them.

He began a series of tensing and releasing muscles, starting with his toes.

It was something he had learned a long time ago, a meditative practice. He hadn’t been in the States in over a decade, so he wouldn’t have any contacts here.

Getting around was going to be difficult.

Still it was what he was trained to do, just like the recovery meditation. He couldn’t worry about it, just solve the problems as they happened.

That was the simplest way to approach any obstacle, especially if the odds seemed overwhelming. Break it down into steps, solve the first step, move on. Once you solve enough steps, the obstacle is gone.

He needed to get out of the hospital, figure out where he was, and find food and shelter.

First problem, get out of bed.

He dropped the call button and screwed the top off the pen. He picked the handcuff lock and slid his wrist free.

Then he started pulling tubes, taking his time to make sure nothing was too vital or leaked too much as he slid them free. A few drops of blood from the vein, and painful drips of urine from the catheter.

He pulled himself up in bed, fought the dizziness and reached out to turn off the alarm on the heart monitor.

Brill rolled his legs out of bed and struggled to stand.

It took a minute to remember how to balance as the pins and needles attacked. He stood rock still as his muscles cramped and screamed, and ignored the pain.

He took a tentative step, then another, holding on to the edge of the bed with his hand. His chest ached from the bullet wound, and nausea washed over him. He breathed through his nose, out through his mouth and willed the pain away.

He dragged the cart with him as he checked the small closet. There was a bag with his fake id and no cash in it, but his clothes were gone. All he had was the hospital gown.

Brill limped over to the door and peeked through. The hospital corridor wasn’t very busy, and he couldn’t discern a pattern with the nurses as they moved from the station to check in rooms.

There were three of them, plus the nurse who had checked on him. He waited until the station was empty and they were occupied with a patient and started out into the hall.

The EKG cart hauled him short. It was plugged into the wall.

He held a breath and yanked the leads off his chest. If the alarm went off, the nurses could force him back into the bed, and restrain him until the cops showed up.

The alarm didn’t go off on his monitor, though a beeping began at the nurse’s station. He rolled the machine back into his room with a shove.

He didn’t have time to waste.

He ambled down the hall, one hand trailing along the wall until he hit a corner and turned into another corridor. He spied the stairway exit and hit the door.

He went down one floor and glanced out into the hallway.

He didn’t know the layout, but he needed to find clothes and a way out before the nurses raised too much of an alarm. He needed a distraction.

A fire alarm would do nicely, but he couldn’t see one on the wall. No doubt he wasn’t the first patient with a penchant for mayhem.

He moved up the hallway, getting a little bit faster with each step. He was still weak, and his stomach cramped reminding him he had lived on glucose for a few weeks. He needed food.

He glanced into the first room he found. There was a man sleeping in the bed, hooked up to an EKG machine, just as he had been. Brill padded over to his bed. There was an emergency button on the wall for codes. Brill slammed his hand into them all, grabbed the leads off the man and hurried back into the hall.

Alarms were beeping in the room and at the nurse’s station.

He watched a group of nurses and a doctor run down the hall and into the room.

He limped down the corridor as fast as he could. There was a Doctor’s lounge sign down one hall. He bumped the door open slowly. It was empty.

He grabbed a pair of scrub pants off the shelf and shimmied into them, and a scrub top. There were still no shoes and bare feet would attract attention, but he would deal with that later.

He pawed through the lockers, stopping to yank on a couple of padlocks. One was partially closed and popped open. He tore through the locker and found a wallet. He lifted the cash and a credit card, and held the shoes up to the bottom of his feet.

No luck.

He put the lock back on the locker and clicked it closed.

Brill still had to get out of the hospital and the nurses would have noticed him gone by now. He wasn’t sure of the lockdown protocol, but the place was sure to have security and he didn’t want to kill anyone in his escape if he could avoid it.

He moved into the hallway and marched down to the stairwell on the opposite end of the building. Moving still hurt, but he was used to pain.

He took the stairs slowly, gripping the rail for balance. He made it to the bottom and shoved open the fire door.

The alarm let everyone know someone left by that door.

By the time security investigated all they found was an empty alleyway.

CHAPTER TWO

First things first.

That was the philosophy he was taught so many years ago. He was wounded. He needed a place to hide, a place to rest, and heal. And he needed to stay off radar to do it.

In Africa, he could find a fixer, and in Europe the ghettos were full of refugees that had been medically trained in their home country, but couldn’t get licensed in the Western world.

He tried to remember if it was the same in America.

He trudged down the street, holding his side with one arm across his stomach. Trying to look like a man nursing a hangover instead of bullet wounds.

Brill figured the doctors at the hospital had done the heavy lifting. Removed the slugs. Stitched veins and tucked in whatever else was inside of him that needed tucking.

What he needed was an EMT or someone who could monitor the healing, at least long enough for him to reach ninety percent.

He’d settle for eighty.

First things first. Find a doctor.

Hospitals were out. Clinics were out. Law required them to report gunshot wounds and he was sure they would get an APB out on him sometime.

That meant changing the way he looked too.

Not an easy task, but he took what money he had and trudged into a thrift shop.

A pair of pants, a couple of bulky shirts, and a hat later, he limped out looking like a whole new man.

If not whole, then a holed man. He grinned, and a passerby flinched at the skull like appearance it gave his emaciated face.

Brill nodded to himself. Food.

Something warm to keep his core temperature up. Soup. The liquid could keep him hydrated.

He spotted a homeless man,