Hand Over Fistby Michael Ross
Martin Russell can barely face the future. With dismal life prospects and an estranged family, he is at the end of his rope. When an old friend, Hannah, elbows her way back into his life, Martin’s luck begins to turn around.
Hidden within the shadows of evil, there must be some good…
Ex-policeman Bobby Tanner lost everything one rage-filled night. Now he runs a reading group for alcoholics where he meets a young drug dealer, Zack, who disturbs him in a way that’s hard to define. Bobby soon discovers the teenager is in over his head and has been dealing with a despicable individual known as The Chemist.
The roots of evil run deeper than we imagine…
Martin’s lucky streak begins to unravel when Hannah suddenly goes missing, and he turns to a friend of a friend, Bobby, for help. Thrust into an underworld empire of corruption and half-truths, he learns his friend may not be who he thought she was.
In a shadowed world of deception, stalkers, and despicable drug dealers, Bobby and Martin must uncover the truth, and fast…
Several lives depend on it.
EXCERPTHannah asked questions quicker than she could find answers.Why do things happen? Where do they start? Why hadn’t the cyclist seen that big pothole? Why had the van driver been so slow in reacting? Why did the police leave the diversion in force for three whole days after the accident? Why had she diverted down a side road when she could have stayed in the queue? Whatever made her look to the left when she did? Why had the car immediately caught her attention? Why did the sight of that car bother her all next day? Why had she faithfully retraced that convoluted route? Hadn’t she better things to do? Where had she found the time? Why had she stopped and got out of her car? How did she know it had to be his house? Why was she ringing the front door bell?“Martin.”It came across as a question, a query, an exclamation of astonishment because it was him, yet nothing like him. He had never been good-looking, but his round face had always possessed an undercurrent of charm that flickered through his eyes. Today, he was wearing old fashioned Buddy Holly glasses that hid those eyes…
His chestnut hair used to be carefully groomed but now hung in limp curls bruised by swathes of gray. His face and body hung stringily around his slack frame, and the smart designer clothing of yesteryear had been replaced by second line charity shop wear. His appearance could be summed up by a single word: defeated.
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